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Title: The Female Wits

Author: Anonymous

Editor: Lucyle  Hook

Release Date: September 27, 2011 [EBook #37546]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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    THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY


    THE
    FEMALE
    WITS

    (Anonymous)

    (1704)

    _Introduction by_
    LUCYLE HOOK

    PUBLICATION NUMBER 124

    WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARY

    UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES

    1967


    GENERAL EDITORS

    George Robert Guffey, _University of California, Los Angeles_
    Earl Miner, _University of California, Los Angeles_
    Maximillian E. Novak, _University of California, Los Angeles_
    Robert Vosper, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_

    ADVISORY EDITORS

    Richard C. Boys, _University of Michigan_
    James L. Clifford, _Columbia University_
    Ralph Cohen, _University of California, Los Angeles_
    Vinton A. Dearing, _University of California, Los Angeles_
    Arthur Friedman, _University of Chicago_
    Louis A. Landa, _Princeton University_
    Samuel H. Monk, _University of Minnesota_
    Everett T. Moore, _University of California, Los Angeles_
    Lawrence Clark Powell, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_
    James Sutherland, _University College, London_
    H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., _University of California, Los Angeles_

    CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

    Edna C. Davis, _William Andrews Clark Memorial Library_






INTRODUCTION


_The Female Wits; Or, The Triumvirate of Poets at Rehearsal_, published
anonymously in 1704 with "written by Mr. W. M." on the titlepage, was
played at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane around October, 1696. [1] A
devastating satire in the manner of Buckingham's _The Rehearsal_, it
attacks all plays by women playwrights but Mary de la Riviere Manley's
blood and thunder female tragedy, _The Royal Mischief_ (1696), in
particular. _The Female Wits_ resembles _The Rehearsal_ in that the
satire is directed not only at the subject matter and style of a
particular type of drama but supplies searing portrayals of recognizable
persons--in this case, of Mrs. Manley herself, and to a lesser degree,
of Mary Pix and Catherine Trotter (later Cockburn). It also follows
Buckingham's satire in that the actors play double roles--that of the
characters assigned to them and their own--and in so doing, reveal their
own personalities with astonishing clarity.

Colley Cibber tells the best stories of the chaos that ensued after the
secession of Betterton and most of the veteran actors in 1695 from the
dominance of Christopher Rich at Drury Lane. [2] Since Betterton had
been virtual dictator in London since 1682, he was able to command the
efforts, at least at first, of most of the well-known playwrights who
had written for the company before the establishment of his theatre in
Lincoln's Inn Fields. Young playwrights scrambled to ingratiate
themselves with one or the other of the two London managements. Among
them, there had been three women with four plays in less than a year.

When Mrs. Manley arrived upon the dramatic scene with her first play,
_The Lost Lover; Or, The Jealous Husband_, in March, 1696, she bore the
brunt of a growing criticism against a surfeit of female plays. But when
she protested in the preface of the printed version that "I think my
Treatment much severer than I deserv'd; I am satisfied the bare Name of
being a Woman's Play damn'd it beyond its own want of Merit," she took
upon herself the combined animus of the masculine critics. In the same
preface, she challenged them boldly with "Once more, my Offended Judges,
I am to appear before you, once more in possibility of giving you the
like Damning Satisfaction; there is a Tragedy of mine Rehearsing, which
'tis too late to recall, I consent it meet with the same Fortune." The
other play was _The Royal Mischief_.

One learns from _The Female Wits_ that Mrs. Manley considered herself
privileged at Drury Lane, that _The Royal Mischief_ had gone into
rehearsal, but that her imperious manner had alienated the actors who
laughed at her dramatic pretentions; and that she had stormed out of the
Theatre Royal vowing never again to honor them with her works. After
much bickering among patrons, patentees, players, and playwright, _The
Royal Mischief_ was finally presented by the newly formed Betterton
company at Lincoln's Inn Fields in May, 1696, instead of by the company
of actors led by George Powell at the rival Drury Lane Theatre. At
least, this is what is represented in _The Female Wits_, and although
highly exaggerated, it is essentially true. The time: March or April,
1696.

_The Female Wits_ is correctly compared in its preface to the satiric
masterpiece which had been written as a corrective to the bombastic
tragedy supplied by Dryden, Howard, and others in the early years of the
Restoration. With _The Rehearsal_, Buckingham and his fellow wits had
supposedly succeeded in laughing heroic tragedy into oblivion in the
1670's. By the 1690's, another type of heroic drama, equally unrealistic
but tinged with sentimentality, was enjoying a certain success. The
chief purveyors of this new drama which pleased the Ladies were a group
of women who seemed impervious to masculine criticism. In the 1690's,
therefore, another set of self-appointed critics evidently dedicated
itself to laughing the female authors off the stage. _A Comparison
between the Two Stages_, an anonymous satirical summary of drama from
1695 to 1702, echoes the attitude of the author of _The Female Wits_
toward women playwrights. When _The Lost Lover_, Mrs. Manley's first
play, is brought up for discussion, Critick demands

    What occasion had you to name a Lady in the confounded
    Work you're about?

Sullen: Here's a Play of hers.

Critick: The Devil there is: I wonder in my Heart we are so lost
    to all Sense and Reason: What a Pox have the Women to
    do with the Muses? I grant you the Poets call the Nine
    Muses by the Names of Women, but why so? not because
    the Sex had any thing to do with Poetry, but because in
    the Sex they're much fitter for prostitution.

Rambler: Abusive, now you're abusive, Mr. Critick.

Critick: Sir, I tell you we are abus'd: I hate these Petticoat-Authors;
    'tis false Grammar, there's no Feminine for the
    Latin word, 'tis entirely of the Masculine Gender.... Let
    'em scribble on, till they can serve all the Pastry-cooks
    in Town, the Tobacconists and Grocers with Waste-paper[3].

       *       *       *       *       *

Although _The Royal Mischief_ was the immediate pretext for _The Female
Wits_, the true cause of the attack was the surprising success of the
women playwrights with the Ladies in the boxes who were beginning to
enjoy the "Solace of Tears" and to dominate theatrical taste in the
middle 1690's. After Aphra Behn's death in 1689, a shattering blow to
rising feminism, women had not ventured thus far to write for the stage.
Mrs. Behn, however, was still a powerful influence, and her name was
invoked by every woman who put pen to paper.

Mrs. Manley openly aspired to be a second Astrea. Certainly there are
striking similarities. As in Aphra Behn's case, nothing Mrs. Manley ever
wrote as drama or fiction could equal the events of her own life[4]. Her
father died when she was fourteen, leaving her in the care of a cousin
who took her inheritance, went through a sham marriage with her,
abandoned her before their child was born, and left her to starve before
she was sixteen. She was befriended by Barbara Castlemaine, Duchess of
Cleveland, the notorious former mistress of Charles II, whose character
Mrs. Manley draws as Hillaria in _The Adventures of Rivella_ (1714), and
whose lineaments are certainly to be seen in the character of Homais in
the warmer passages of _The Royal Mischief_. After Mrs. Manley's cruel
dismissal by the Duchess, by her own account she spent two years
wandering unknown from place to place in England, and during this time,
she wrote plays for her diversion.

During the 1690's, despite the supposition of some modern critics that
heroic tragedy was out of style, the great classics of the three
preceding decades continued to be played by the Betterton company in
whose stock repertory they had been since their inception: Lee's _The
Rival Queens_, Banks' _The Unhappy_ _Favourite_, Otway's _Venice
Preserv'd_, and many of Dryden's (_The Indian Emperour_, _The Conquest
of Granada_, _All for Love_). In fact, Dryden was still writing and
pleasing audiences with tragicomedies that contained the ingredients of
the old heroic tragedy. Since the same company of actors was presenting
the old plays (indeed, most of the actors were still playing their
original roles), the histrionic magic of the early tragic hero could
still lift an audience to the empyrean heights reached in the heady
first years of the restoration of Charles II. If there is anything
strange in Mrs. Manley's _The Royal Mischief_ in 1696, it is not that it
was an heroic play but that the leading character was a woman, Homais,
who out-hectors and out-loves all of the Restoration Alexanders,
Montezumas, and Drawcansirs written for and by men.

If her own account of _The Royal Mischief_ is true, Mrs. Manley wrote it
after she left the household of the Duchess of Cleveland, some time
between 1692 and 1694. Since there was only one theatre in London from
1682 to 1695, she wrote for Thomas Betterton, Elizabeth Barry, Anne
Bracegirdle, Edward Kynaston, and other veterans in the Betterton
company, who were the prototypes for the characters in the early heroic
plays. She could have known no others. When Betterton seceded from the
Theatre Royal in 1695 and set up the independent theatre in Lincoln's
Inn Fields, Mrs. Manley, already committed to Drury Lane because of her
first play, gave Drury Lane _The Royal Mischief_ even though it had been
written for the Betterton company. Circumstances, then, dictated that
_The Royal Mischief_ was finally played by the actors for whom it had
been written originally.

It is likely, however, that _The Female Wits_ would never have been
written if Thomas Betterton had not aggravated the situation by
producing _The Royal Mischief_ as quickly as possible after Mrs. Manley
had withdrawn it from Drury Lane under such provocative circumstances.
It was played immediately at Lincoln's Inn Fields in April or May, 1696,
seemingly at the insistence of the Duke of Devonshire to whom Mrs.
Manley dedicated it. When it was published in June, the author was
supported by her sister playwrights in commendatory verses included with
the play. Catherine Trotter possibly earned her inclusion in _The Female
Wits_ when she wrote,

    You were our Champion, and the Glory ours.
    Well you've maintain'd our equal right in Fame,
    To which vain Man had quite engrost the claim:

Mary Pix confirmed her place in the satire with her panegyric:

    You the unequal'd wonder of the Age,
    Pride of our Sex, and Glory of the Age,
    Like Sappho Charming, like Afra Eloquent,
    Like Chast Orinda, sweetly Innocent.

Mrs. Manley minced no words in the printed version in answer to the
flurry of criticism that had greeted _The Royal Mischief_ when it was
played: "I should not have given my self and the Town the trouble of a
Preface if the aspersions of my Enemies had not made it necessary."
According to her, in spite of "ill nature, Envy, and Detraction," _The
Royal Mischief_ was successful (it had a run of six nights) even though
some of the ladies professed to be shocked at "the warmth of it, as they
are pleas'd to call it.... I do not doubt when the Ladies have given
themselves the trouble of reading, and comparing it with others, they'll
find the prejudice against our Sex, and not refuse me the satisfaction
of entertaining them...." Everything Mrs. Manley wrote, however, simply
added to the ridicule that had been mounting against women playwrights,
and _The Female Wits_ is merely the distillation of the general attitude
of the self-appointed critics and wits at the Rose and the Grecian, at
Maynwaring's and at Will's.

In defending _The Royal Mischief_ and its reception, she said of the
actress who played the unbelievably wicked Homais: "... Mrs. Barry, who
by all that saw her, is concluded to have exceeded that perfection which
before she was justly thought to have arrived at; my Obligations to her
were the greater, since against her own approbation, she excell'd and
made the part of an ill Woman, not only entertaining, but admirable."
Years later in _The Adventures of Rivella_, she was to say, "Mrs. Barry
distinguish'd herself as much as in any Part that ever she play'd. I
have since heard Rivella laugh and wonder that a Man of Mr. Betterton's
grave Sense and Judgment should think well enough of the Productions of
a Woman of Eighteen, to bring it upon the Stage in so handsome a Manner
as he did...." [5]

It is easy to believe Mrs. Manley's high commendation of the actress but
difficult to credit Mrs. Barry's objection to playing a part that was a
natural sequel to all the heroic and sometimes wicked women she had
played throughout her career. Her audience identified her with Lee's
Roxana in _The Rival Queens_, Dryden's Cleopatra in _All for Love_, and
his recent Cassandra in _Cleomenes_. Every playwright since 1680 had
written expressly for her: Otway's Monimia in _The Orphan_ was her first
great part in 1680, followed two years later by Belvidera in _Venice
Preserv'd_. Southerne had given her Isabella in _The Fatal Marriage_ in
1694, Congreve was still to write for her his Zara in _The Mourning
Bride_ in 1697, and Rowe his Calista in _The Fair Penitent_ in 1703.
Cibber, in 1740, remembered her "Presence of elevated Dignity ... her
Voice full, clear, and strong, so that no Violence of Passion could be
too much for her." He emphasized that in "Scenes of Anger, Defiance, or
Resentment, while she was impetuous, and terrible, she pour'd out the
Sentiment with an enchanting Harmony." [6]

Mrs. Barry's ability and her strength of voice in expressing the
passions led to the full development of the rant, which was the test of
the dramatic actress as the aria is the test of the opera singer.
Ordinarily in a tragedy, there were two: one, the melodious expression
of unattainable love in the first part of the play, and the second in
the death scene, usually of raving madness. In _The Royal Mischief_,
there are at least six major rants, each more powerful and surprising
than the one preceding it. If Mrs. Barry's ability was ever tested, it
was with Mrs. Manley's Homais.

The story is that of another Messalina. Homais, married to the unloved
Prince of Libardian, had had many lovers in her progress to the throne
of Phasia: among them, Ismael, who had remained her creature and is
willing to kill the Prince for one more night's favors. Even her eunuch
Acmat is more than a mere pander to her desire for her husband's nephew,
Levan Dadian, whom she has never seen but for whom she writhes nightly
upon her bed in erotic desire, stimulated only by his life size picture
and secondhand descriptions of him. She conspires with Acmat to inflame
Levan Dadian with desire for her (her portrait was enough) and to bring
about a meeting even though that prince was bringing home with him his
virtuous bride, Bassima, princess of Colchis. Her proposal to enslave
Levan Dadian might have been difficult if it had not been for the fact
that years before, during a war between Phasia and Colchis, Osman, great
general and now Chief Vizier to the Prince of Libardian, had captured
Bassima, fallen in love with her (and she with him), but without a word
on either side before and after he had freed her, they had remained
platonically true to each other in spite of the passage of years,
Osman's marriage to Selima, sister of his Prince, the offer (and
rejection) of Homais' love, and of Bassima's recent marriage to Levan
Dadian. When Levan Dadian brings Bassima to court, the recognition
between Osman and Bassima is endured in silence, but the trusting Osman
bares his heart to Homais' creature Ismael, who inflames the hitherto
platonic Osman with unholy desire for the pure Bassima. The wily Acmat
insinuates distrust for Bassima into Levan Dadian's heart at the same
time that he inspires lust for Homais and brings about the promised
meeting. Homais immediately sets about disposing of everyone who stands
in her way. The Prince of Libardian is to be dispatched by Ismael. Osman
is to be accused of infidelity with Bassima, who is to be poisoned by
Ismael. Word of this gets to Osman, who urges Bassima to flee with or
without him, but she refuses because her virtue would be called into
question in either case. But plans go awry, the Prince is not
dispatched, and while Levan Dadian is absent, Homais is seized by her
husband and given the choice of drinking poison or submitting to death
by the bow-string. She charms him out of killing her, and he, overcome
by her beauty, weakly believes her promises and sets her free to pursue
her wickedness.

Bassima, however, has been poisoned and is dying when Osman comes to
her, urging the consumation of their passion then and there, before it
is too late. Her gentle refusal to stray from virtue on her deathbed
awakens him from his unplatonic spell, and he begs forgiveness but is
interrupted in the middle of his contrite speech, led away, crammed
alive into a cannon, and shot off. The soldiers, led by Ismael, revolt
in favor of Homais and declare her queen. For a heady moment, she has
attained her every desire as she stands exulting over the dying Bassima,
whose husband is somewhat disturbed by the turn of events but whose
attention is diverted when Homais takes him in her arms. But at the
height of her triumph, the Prince burst in, sword in hand, and runs
Homais through before she can change his mind. Unrepenting to the end,
she goes to her death and into her final rant with defiance on her
lovely lusty lips as she ticks off the men in her life one by one. In
the last three minutes, Osman's faithful but jealous wife gathers his
smoking remains, Levan Dadian falls on his sword, and the Prince of
Libardian ends the play with

                    O horrour, horrour, horrour!
    What Mischief two fair Guilty Eyes have wrought;
    Let Lovers all look here, and shun the Dotage.
    To Heaven my dismal Thoughts shall straight be turn'd,
    And all these sad Dissasters truly mourn'd.

There is no need to point out that _The Royal Mischief_ invited parody.
Everything was in excess. No woman had ever been so lustfully wicked as
Homais (played by Elizabeth Barry), no heroine so pure as Bassima (Anne
Bracegirdle), no hero so faithfully platonic (Thomas Betterton), no
husband so duped as the Prince of Libardian (Edward Kynaston), no wife
so weakly jealous as Selima (Elizabeth Bowman), no man so easily a prey
to lust as Levan Dadian (John Bowman), so much a creature as Ismael
(John Hodgson), so vile a tool as Acmat (John Freeman). Each character
was a stick figure for a single quality. Incidents happened so rapidly
that continual surprise is the predominant emotion if one discounts the
miasma of hot surging sex that hovers over the entire production. But it
must have been effective when played by the greatest actors in London.

After reading both plays, one can believe that immediately after the
presentation of _The Royal Mischief_, someone began putting together the
parodies of obviously over-written scenes and high-flown language,
burlesques of heroic acting by the acknowledged past-masters of the art,
Thomas Betterton and Elizabeth Barry, as well as the mincing pasquinade
of Anne Bracegirdle, who was as virtuous as the pure role she played.
Since _The Royal Mischief_ was played in May, near the end of the
season, there was ample time to gloat over its absurdities during the
summer months and have _The Female Wits_ ready for the delectation of
the Town early the following season. Like all satires, it had its day
while the original was still fresh in the minds of the theatre-going
public but was immediately forgotten because _The Royal Mischief_ did
not become a stock play.

_The Female Wits_ is a continuous hilarious romp of scenes from _The
Royal Mischief_ and an entire gallery of burlesqued portraits of the
famous actors who were as much under fire as Mrs. Manley herself.
Elizabeth Barry's histrionic style of acting is held up to derision when
Frances Maria Knight, who was playing the character satirizing Homais as
well as a caricature of Mrs. Barry, is told to "stamp like Queen Statira
does ... that always gets a Clap. No Stamp, and Hug yourself: Oh the
strong Exstasie!" When Homais is stabbed, Marsilia gives the order,
"D'ye hear, Property Man, be sure some red Ink is handsomely convey'd to
Mrs. Knight." Penkethman, a short, slap-stick comedian mimicking
six-foot Betterton as the faithful Osman is told to "Fetch long Strides;
walk thus; your Arms strutting, your voice big, and your Eyes terrible";
and later, "Louder ... strain your Voice: I tell you, Mr. Pinkethman,
this speaking Loud gets the Clap." Mrs. Bracegirdle's famous "pathetic"
style of acting is parodied when Marsilia instructs Miss Cross how to
speak a line: "Give me leave to instruct you in a moving Cry. Oh!
there's a great deal of Art in crying: Hold your Handkerchief thus; let
it meet your Eyes, thus; your Head declin'd, thus; now, in a perfect
whine, crying out these words,

    By these Tears, which never cease to Flow."

Reverse situations are used as comic devices. Possibly the climax of
absurdity is reached when Miss Cross and Penkethman, instead of dying
horrible deaths, find themselves on the roof-top (instead of in the
dungeon) climbing into a celestial chariot that the Prince had been
building for fifty years. They escape their pursuing enemies, thus
making merry with the tragic conclusion of _The Royal Mischief_ and
using the same theatrical machinery that was being employed in _Brutus
of Alba_. Marsilia caps this scene by describing in detail the events
which were played seriously in _The Royal Mischief_:

     You must know, my Lord, at first I design'd this for a Tragedy;
     and they were both taken; She was Poyson'd, and dy'd, like an
     Innocent Lamb, as she was indeed: I was studying a Death for
     him; once I thought Boys shou'd shoot him to Death with
     Pot-Guns; ... and that wou'd have been Disgrace enough, you
     know: But at length I resolv'd to ram him into a great Gun, and
     scatter him o're the sturdy Plain: This, I say, was my first
     resolve. But I consider'd, 'twou'd break the Lady's Heart; so
     there is nothing in their Parts Tragical; but as your Lordship
     shall see miraculously I turn'd it into an Opera.

The continual interruptions in the rehearsal by Marsilia giving orders
to the increasingly irritated actors, their hostile asides as they come
out of their roles to ask bewildered questions, object to her
directions, or attempt to resign their parts keep the stage in an
uproar. The asinine remarks of her sycophantic followers, her own
erratic behavior which culminates in her rage and her stalking out,
vowing to take her play to Lincoln's Inn Fields, while George Powell,
Mrs. Knight, and Miss Cross double up with laughter--all make _The
Female Wits_ an hilarious piece of dramatic satire as well as a valuable
theatrical document.

All but forgotten, as it was when it was published in 1704, the played
version of _The Female Wits_ had its impact on women playwrights in
1696. Mrs. Manley did not produce another play until _Almyna_ was acted
in Lincoln's Inn Fields in 1706, ten years later. As a result of the
unjustified attack upon her, Mrs. Pix thereafter wrote for Lincoln's Inn
Fields, and at the beginning of the 1697-98 season was engaged in a
name-calling dispute with Drury Lane over the flagrant plagiarism of one
of her plays by George Powell, the actor who figures prominently in _The
Female Wits_. Mrs. Trotter gave her plays to the Betterton group until
1700 when a new management regulated affairs at Drury Lane.

Whether Mrs. Manley was driven from the stage for ten years by the jeers
of the Town is a matter of debate. She became one of the leading Tory
pamphleteers, political editors, and literary hacks in London, employed
for years and respected in an odd way by such people as Richard Steele
and Dean Swift. Her most famous work, _The Secret Memoirs and Manners
of Several Persons of Quality ... by the New Atalanta_ (1709) and her
semi-autobiographical _The Adventures of Rivella_ (1714) caused
government inquiries, and she never ceased to be a controversial figure.

Up to the present time, no one has ventured to say who wrote _The Female
Wits_. The titlepage gives "Mr. W. M." as the author, but this
information is immediately refuted by the preface signed "W. M." which
gives most of the facts of composition, performance, and publication.
According to the preface, the satire was written by a friend (now dead),
and the "Quality" had insisted it be played at Drury Lane, where it had
enjoyed a run of six nights and could have continued longer "had the
Company thought fit to oblige the Taste of the Town in General rather
than that of some particular Persons." _The Female Wits_ was published
in 1704 even though "the Town has almost lost the Remembrance of it,"
but unless the taste of the critics today is different from what it was
in 1696, readers cannot fail to have as much satisfaction as the earlier
audience had in seeing it. W. M.'s identification of Mrs. Manley as
Marsilia, Mrs. Pix as Mrs. Wellfed, and Mrs. Trotter as Calista as well
as his commendation of the acting of Mr. and Mrs. Powell, and his praise
of Mrs. Verbruggen (now deceased also) are expressions of nostalgia from
a man whose duty to his dead friend is now accomplished. He ends his
laconic preface with a reference to the reformers led by Jeremy Collier,
"a Fig for their Censures, which can neither affect him that Wrote this
Play, nor him that Publishes it." [7]

It is evident that the anonymous author knew all of the actors at Drury
Lane intimately: "honest" George Powell, who "regards neither Times nor
Seasons in Drinking," Mrs. Lucas, the dancer, and her coffee habit,
hoydenish Letitia Cross with her sassy aside of "now have I such a mind
to kick him i'th'chops" about some show-off fop who wished to kiss the
strap of her shoe in homage, Frances Marie Knight's haughty withdrawal
from any complication with Mrs. Manley or the other playwrights. His
knowledge of Mrs. Manley's colossal arrogance, of Mrs. Pix's easy-going
acceptance of her great bulk and lack of charm, of beautiful Mrs.
Trotter's considerable learning in the classics and her early tendency
toward critical writing--all are sharply etched from observation and
intimate knowledge.

_The Female Wits_ has all the remarks of having been put together by
group effort, and the evidence points to the actors at Drury Lane, a
number of whom had already shown writing ability: Joseph Haynes, Colley
Cibber, Hildebrand Horden, and George Powell. Especially George Powell
had been active with four plays and two operas already to his credit,
one of which, _Brutus of Alba_, must have been running concurrently with
_The Female Wits_ in October, 1696. Because _The Female Wits_ is
episodic in character, loosely strung together with songs and dances, it
may well have come from various sources recognizable to the audience.
For example, Letitia Cross is asked to sing "her dialogue," readily
consents, and Mr. Leveridge, a frequent partner, is called to sing the
second part. It may or may not be a coincidence that _Brutus of Alba_
contains a dialogue between a flirtatious young girl and an impotent old
man featuring Miss Cross [8]. The song achieved a certain notoriety
because of its frankness, was re-issued as a separate piece, and is the
type of entertainment that would have been repeated in a burlesque like
_The Female Wits_. Other members of the company contribute their
specialities: Miss Cross also performs "her dance," Mr. Pate sings an
Italian Song. The only song that can be identified positively is "A
Scotch Song Sung by Mrs. Lucas at the Theatre," the chorus of which one
of the characters sings when he asks her to favor them with her "Last
Dance." [9]

Perhaps Joe Haynes, the famous comedian, best fills the role of chief
author, as Buckingham was credited with the authorship of _The
Rehearsal_, although it was known that every wit in Town had a hand in
it. For over twenty years, Haynes had played the part of Bayes, which
satirized Dryden, and was recognized as the zany of the London
theatrical world with special licence to burlesque any person or
institution that came under his critical eye. The same sort of mad
inventiveness peculiar to his elaborate hoaxes upon the public, the
incisive satire in his written or ad-libbed prologues and epilogues, and
the special touches added to the character parts written for him are
present in _The Female_ _Wits_. He had published a mock heroic tragedy
(no record of performance) in 1692 which significantly enjoyed a second
printing in 1696. Because of his scatological language and outrageous
pranks, he was in and out of trouble with the authorities, both public
and theatrical, throughout his career. He was one of the principal
comedians through the period under consideration, had been in Mrs.
Manley's first play (as indeed had all of the principal players in _The
Female Wits_), and would have been one of the first to resent Mrs.
Manley's haughty manner; since he had nothing to lose, he would have
been the logical ring-leader in satirizing both the playwright and the
veteran actors at Lincoln's Inn Fields.

With so much writing and acting talent among the hungry, ambitious
player-authors at Drury Lane, there is little need to look far afield,
but Haynes does qualify in another special way for authorship. W. M.
states that the author was dead before 1704. Haynes died in June, 1701,
and Tobyas Thomas,[10] the author of _The Life of the Late Famous
Comedian, Jo. Hayns_, a picaresque, jest-book type of biography
published the same year, reveals the interesting information in the
dedicatory epistle to William Mann that Haynes had been a friend and
visitor in Mann's home at Charnham in Kent, and that Mann had encouraged
Thomas to write the biography. Whether William Mann is Mr. W. M. and the
comedian is the friend in the preface to _The Female Wits_ may never be
known, but Joe Haynes, aided and abetted by fellow actors, patrons,
friends, and self-appointed critics, all of them with a reason to
satirize the female writers and the too-successful actors at Lincoln's
Inn Fields, could easily have headed up the group effort that resulted
in the _commedia del arte_ concoction that finally saw print in 1704.

The prologue and epilogue were added at the time of publication. Topical
allusions range from the Collier Controversy, which began in 1698 and
continued actively for more than a decade, to John Tutchin,
controversial editor of _The Observator_ (which began in 1702), to a
mention of the great storm of November 26, 1703, which Collier and his
followers believed to be a punishment for England's wickedness, to the
proclamation early in 1704 by Queen Anne prohibiting the wearing of
masks at the playhouses. More important, however, is the fact that the
tone of the prologue and epilogue is entirely different from that found
in the play. The tempered language of a decade later than the play is
not in keeping with the raucous satire directed at the three women
playwrights and the rival actors at Lincoln's Inn Fields that must have
kept the audience in a roar of laughter.

_The Female Wits_ is an important document to historians of the theatre,
coming as it did at the very end of the Restoration period and just
preceding the changes brought about by Collier's attacks upon the
theatre which accelerated the establishment of sentimental comedy and
tragedy. The play illuminates at least four areas about which we know
very little: the personalities of the three women playwrights at the
beginning of their careers, the excellent portraits of some of the
little known players, the acting techniques that are parodied so broadly
that it is possible to recognize the original practice, and the
rehearsal customs and stage directions employed which give new light or
confirm what is already known. Granted, all are outrageously
exaggerated, but a discerning eye can detect the truth that lurks behind
any satire, parody, or lampoon. That kernel of truth must be there, or
there is nothing to laugh about.


Columbia University

NOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION


[1] See the entry under Unknown Authors, Allardyce Nicoll, _A History of
English Drama, 1660-1900_ (Cambridge, 1955), I, 441. Also see William
van Lennep, _The London Stage, 1660-1800_ (Carbondale, 1965), Part I,
1660-1700, pp. 467-468.

Wing notes a 1697 edition, but an examination of the severely cropped
copy of the 1704 edition at the Huntington Library gives the first clue
for the creation of a ghost: the imprint was sacrificed to the
Kemble-Devonshire insistence on uniformity in size, and a later hand
supplied the conjectured date of presentation, not the date of
publication. Noted as a questioned publication date in Woodward-McManaway,
_Check List_ (no. 374), the date of 1697 was next cautiously recorded
in Nicoll (_Ibidem_) as a possible date for a first edition. It then
entered the Wing Catalogue as the first edition, mistakenly making the
1704 the second edition.

[2] Colley Cibber, _An Apology for the Life_ (London, 1740), chaps.
IV-VII.

[3] _A Comparison between the Two Stages_, ed. Staring B. Wells
(Princeton, 1942), p. 17.

[4] See _DNB_; Paul Bunyan Anderson, "Mistress Manley's Biography,"
_Modern Philology_, XXXIII (1936), 261-278; Gwendolyn B. Needham, "Mary
de la Riviere, Tory Defender," _HLQ_, XII (1948-49), 253-288; Needham,
"Mrs. Manley, an Eighteenth-Century Wife of Bath," _HLQ_, XIV (1950-51),
259-284.

[5] Mary de la Riviere Manley, _The Adventures of Rivella_ (London,
1714), p. 41.

[6] Cibber, p. 95.

[7] There was at least one avid reader of _The Female Wits_. The
Reverend Arthur Bedford of Bristol, one of Collier's followers who spent
his entire career attacking the theatres, mentions it forty times in
_The Evil and Danger of Stage-Plays_ (1706). He used it as an example in
all the categories of wickedness that Collier had set up in _A Short
View of the Prophaneness and Immorality of the English Stage_, the
original attack in 1698.

[8] "Why dost thou fly me, pretty Maid," from _The Single Songs, with
the Dialogue, Sung in ... Brutus of Alba_. Composed by Daniel Purcell
(London, 1696). Henry E. Huntington Library _Devonshire Plays_, vol. 8
(131929-35).

[9] "By Moonlight on the Green," Henry E. Huntington Library _Collection
of Broadsides_, vol. 5 (Huth 81013).

[10] Tobyas Thomas has been thought to be a pen-name for Tom Brown, but
there is no reason to question that he was one of Haynes' fellow-actors
who never rose higher than secondary roles. He played a part in _The
Female Wits_.



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

The text of this edition of _The Female Wits_ is reproduced from a copy
in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library.





    THE

    FEMALE WITS:

    OR, THE

    Triumvirate of Poets
    At _REHEARSAL_.

    A

    COMEDY.

    As it was Acted several Days successively with great Applause

    AT THE

    Theatre-Royal

    In _DRURY-LANE_.

    By Her MAJESTY'S Servants.

    Written by Mr. _W. M._

    _Ita Astutim sibi Arrogat Hominem Ingenia
    Ut Homines credas._  Cic.

    _LONDON_, Printed for _William Turner_, at the _Angel_ at
    _Lincolns-Inn_ Back-Gate, _William Davis_, at the _Black Bull_ in
    _Cornhil_, _Bernard Lintott_, at the _Middle-Temple-Gate_, and _Tho.
    Brown_, at the _Blackamoors Head_ near the _Savoy_. 1704.

    _Price 1s. 6d._



THE PREFACE.


Though the Success of this Play has been such, as to need no Apology for
the Publication of it; it having been Acted six Days running without
intermission; and being likely to have continued much longer, had the
Company thought fit to oblige the Taste of the Town in General, rather
than that of some particular Persons; yet the lateness of its appearance
abroad, after its being Acted some Years since with great Applause,
seems to require that the Reader should be satisfied why it should fall
under his Censure at a time when the Town has almost lost the
Remembrance of it. In order to this, I take it for necessary to Premise,
that the Author of it, a Man of more Modesty than the Generality of our
present Writers, tho' not of less Merit than the best of 'em, was
neither fond of his own Performances, nor desirous others should fall in
love with them. What he writ was for his own Diversion; and he could
hardly be persuaded by the Quality to make it theirs, till his good
Temper got the better of his Aversion to write himself among the List of
the Poets; and he was prevail'd upon to put it into the Hands of the
Gentlemen belonging to the Theatre in _Drury-Lane_, who did him the same
Justice, as was done by him to Dramatick Poetry and the Stage. Among the
rest, Mr. _Powel_ and his Wife excell'd in the Characters they
represented, as did Mrs. _Verbruggen_, who play'd the Chief Character,
and whose Loss we must ever regret, as the Chief Actress in her Kind,
who never had any one that exceeded her, or ever will have one that can
come up to her, unless a Miracle intervenes for the support of the
_English_ Stage. It is written in imitation of the Rehearsal; and though
we must not presume to say it comes up to the Character of the Duke of
_Buckingham_'s Works, yet it does not fall short of it, so much as many
of our Modern Performances, that please more for the sake of their
Patrons than the real Worth of those that Writ 'em. And to let those
that shall give it their Perusal, into the Knowledge of the Female Wits,
who are here hinted at, they are to understand; the Lady whose Play is
rehears'd, personates one Mrs. _M--ly_, a Gentlewoman sufficiently known
for a Correspondence with the Muses some time since, though she has of
late discontinu'd it, (I presume for some more profitable Employ) and
those that go under the Names of Mrs. _Welfed_, and _Calista_, are Mrs.
_P--x_ and Mrs. _T----r_, two Gentlewomen that have made no small
struggle in the World to get into Print; and who are now in such a State
of Wedlock to Pen and Ink, that it will be very difficult for 'em to get
out of it. Whether the Characters are just or no, that is left to the
Reader's determination: But the Auditors thought the Pictures were true,
or they would have condemn'd the Person that drew 'em, in less than six
Days. What remains is, to justifie the Publication of it, and to
acquaint the World, that the Author being deceas'd, I got a Copy of it;
and out of my desire to divert the Publick, I thought it might not be
unacceptable if it saw the Light. In short, if it pleases as much in the
Reading, as it did in the Acting, the Reader cannot fail of his
Satisfaction; if not, the Taste of the Criticks is different from what
it was some Years since: And so, a Fig for their Censures, which can
neither affect him that Wrote this Play, nor him that Publishes it.




THE PROLOGUE.


    _While Sinners took upon 'em to reform,
    And on the Stage laid the late dreadful Storm,
    Occasionally coming from the Crimes
    Of us, whose Drama's would instruct the Times.
    We wonder'd Rebels who against the Crown,
    Justly draw all these heavy Judgments down,
    Should pass uncensur'd, unmolested stand,
    And be a heavy Judgment to the Land.
    But they, Heav'ns bless 'em for their daily care,
    Have reconcil'd us now to Ale and Air:
    For Wine we know not, while the luckless Hit,
    Has taught us want of Laugh, and want of Wit.
    But when the Observator's Wrath withdraws,
    And wanting Law instructs us in the Laws;
    How happy are we made, who well agree,
    To be laugh'd at by such a Fool as he.
    Thanks to the Strumpets that would mask'd appear,
    We now in their True Colours see 'em here:
    False, I should say, for who e're saw before,
    A Woman in True Colours and a Whore?_

    _But it is not our Business to be rude
    With Woman for the sake of Muffled Hood;
    We lik'd 'em not with Masks or with their Paints,
    Nor ever thought to baulk informing Saints.
    They're welcome to us, when we're Peccant found,
    Their Understanding's safe as well as sound.
    All that we strive to please are Good and Just;
    For Goodness ever we have ta'ne on Trust:
    But when we to true Virtue would appear,
    The Real Saints and not the False are here.
    We're Regulary true to Royal Laws,
    We admire th' Effect and we adore the Cause.
    All that we're proud of is, that we have seen,_
    _Our_ Reformation _center in the Queen._




THE EPILOGUE.


    _The Sermon ended, 'tis the Preacher's way
    For Blessings on the Auditors to pray,
    And Supplicate what Doctrines have been said,
    May thro' their Ears into their Hearts be laid.
    So does our Poet in this sinful Age,
    (Not that the Pulpit's likened to the Stage)
    Fall to Petition after Application,
    And beg that he may work a Reformation;
    May turn the side of Follies now in Course,
    And touch the guilty Scribe with due Remorse:
    That every Fool his Errors may reclaim,
    And take the Road of Pen and Ink to Fame._

    _What here he writes to quash the Womens Pride,
    May to the Men with Justice be apply'd.
    Each Sex is now so self-conceited grown,
    None can digest a Treat that's not their own.
    So_ AEsop'_s Monkey that his Off-spring brought,
    It's own the fairest of the Rivals thought;
    As it preferr'd deformity of Face
    To all the Beauties of the Bestial Race._

    _But Manners might have hinder'd him, you'll say,
    From Ridiculing Women in his Play,
    When his own Sex so very open lay.
    Troth so he might, but as I said before,
    Wits do themselves, as Beaux, themselves adore;
    Your Man of Dress, your Dressing Female Apes,
    And doats upon their several Aires and Shapes:
    Fearful that what upon the Sex is cast,
    May on themselves stick scandalously fast._

    _Not that the Good he'd with the Bad abuse,
    Or lessen the true value of a Muse;
    Since every Soul with Rapture must admire
    The tuneful Motions of the skilful Lyre.
    But as the Shade adds Beauty to the Light,
    And helps to make it strike upon the Sight:
    So those whom he has made his Present Theme,
    Assist to make us Poetry esteem,
    As we from what they are, distinctly see,
    And learn, what other Poets ought to be._




DRAMATIS PERSONAE.


    Mr. _Awdwell_, A Gentleman of Sense                }  Mr Mills.
      and Education, in Love with _Marsilia_,          }

    Mr. _Praiseall_, A conceited, cowardly Coxcomb;    }
      a Pretender likewise to _Marsilia_'s             }  Mr. Cibber.
      Affections,                                      }

    _Fastin_, Son to Lord _Whimsical_, Husband         }
      to _Isabella_, and in Love with his Father's     }  Mr. Powell.
      Wife,                                            }

    _Amorous_, Steward to Lord _Whimsical_, and        }
      in Love with _Isabella_,                         }  Mr. Pinkethman.

    Lord _Whiffle_, An empty Piece of Noise,           }
      that always shews himself at Rehearsals          }  Mr. Thomas.
      and in publick Places,                           }

    Lord _Whimsicall_, Husband to Lady _Loveall_, Mr. Verbruggen.


WOMEN

    _Marsilia_, A Poetess, that admires her own        }
    Works, and a great Lover of Flattery,              } Mrs. Verbruggen.

    _Patience_, her Maid,                              } Mrs. Essex.

    Mrs. _Wellfed_, One that represents a fat Female   }
    Author, a good sociable well-natur'd               }
    Companion, that will not suffer                    } Mrs. Powell.
    Martyrdom rather than take off three               }
    Bumpers in a Hand,                                 }

    _Calista_, A Lady that pretends to the learned     }
    Languages, and assumes to her self                 } Mrs. Temple.
    the Name of a Critick,                             }

    _Isabella_, Wife to Fastin, and in Love with       }
    _Amorous_,                                         } Mrs. Cross.

    Lady _Loveall_, Wife to Lord _Whimsical_,          }
    and in Love with _Fastin_,                         } Mrs. Knight.

    _Betty Useful_, A necessary Convenience of         }
    a Maid to Lady _Loveall_,                          } Mrs. Kent.




ACT I.


SCENE a Dressing-Room, Table and Toylet Furnish'd, &c.

_Enter_ Marsilia _in a Night-Gown, followed by_ Patience.

_Mar._ Why, thou thoughtless inconsiderable Animal! Thou driv'ling
dreaming Lump! Is it not past Nine o'Clock? Must not I be at the
Rehearsal by Ten, Brainless? And here's a Toylet scarce half furnish'd!

_Pat._ I am about it, Madam.

_Mar._ Yes, like a Snail!----. Mount, my aspiring Spirit! Mount! Hit yon
azure Roof, and justle Gods! [_Repeats._

_Pat._ Madam, your things are ready.

_Mar._ Abominable! Intollerable! past enduring! [_Stamps._ Speak to me
whilst I'm Repeating! Interrupting Wretch! What, a Thought more worth
Than worlds of thee!----what a Thought have I lost!--Ay, ay, 'tis gone,
'tis gone beyond the Clouds. [_Cries._ Whither now, Mischievous? Do I
use to Dress without Attendance? So, finely prepar'd, Mrs. Negligence! I
never wear any Patches!

_Pat._ Madam.

_Mar._ I ask you if ever you saw me wear any Patches? Whose Cook maid
wert thou prithee? The Barbarous Noise of thy Heels is enough to put the
Melody of the Muses out of ones Head.----Almond Milk for my
Hands.----Sower! By Heav'n this Monster designs to Poyson me.

_Pat._ Indeed, Madam; 'tis but just made; I wou'd not offer such an
affront to those charming Hands for the World.

_Mar._ Commended by thee! I shall grow sick of 'em.----Well, but
_Patty_, are not you vain enough to hope from the fragments of my
Discourse you may pick up a Play? Come, be diligent, it might pass
amongst a Crowd, And do as well as some of its Predecessors.

_Pat._ Nothing but flattery brings my Lady into a good humour. [_Aside._
With your Ladyship's directions I might aim at something.

_Mar._ My Necklace.

_Pat._ Here's a Neck! such a Shape! such a Skin!----[_Tying it on._ Oh!
if I were a Man, I shoud run Mad!

_Mar._ Humph! The Girl has more Sense than I imagin'd, She finds out
those Perfections all the Beau-mond have admired.--Well, _Patty_, after
my Third day I'll give you this Gown and Pettycoat.

_Pat._ Your Ladyship will make one of Velvet, I suppose.

_Mar._ I guess I may; see who knocks. [_Goes out, and returns._

_Pat._ Madam, 'tis Mrs. _Wellfed_.

_Mar._ That ill-bred, ill shap'd Creature! Let her come up, she's
foolish and open-hearted, I shall pick something out of her that may do
her Mischief, or serve me to Laugh at.

_Pat._ Madam, you invited her to the Rehearsal this Morning.

_Mar._ What if I did? she might have attended me at the
Play-house.----Go, fetch her up.

_Enter Mrs._ Wellfed _and_ Patty.

Mrs. _Wellfed_. Good morrow, Madam.

_Mar._ Your Servant, dear Mrs. _Wellfed_, I have been longing for you
this Half-hour.

Mrs. _Wellf._ 'Tis near Ten.

_Mar._ Ay, my Impertinence is such a Trifle--But, Madam, are we not to
expect some more of your Works?

Mrs. _Wellf._ Yes; I am playing the Fool again.----The story is----

_Mar._ Nay, for a Story, Madam, you must give me leave to say, there's
none like mine; The turns are so surprizing, the Love so passionate, the
Lines so strong. 'Gad I'm afraid there's not a Female Actress in
_England_ can reach 'em.

Mrs. _Wellf._ My Language!

_Mar._ Now you talk of Language, what do you think a Lord said to me
t'other day? That he had heard I was a Traveller, and he believ'd my
Voyage had been to the Poets Elyzium, for mortal Fires cou'd never
inspire such words! Was not this fine?

Mrs. _Wellf._ Extravagantly fine! But, as I was saying----

_Mar._ Mark but these two Lines.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Madam, I have heard 'em already; you know you repeated
every word of your Play last Night.

_Mar._ I hope, Mrs. _Wellfed_, the Lines will bear the being heard twice
and twice, else 'twou'd be bad for the Sparks who are never absent from
the Play-house, and must hear 'em Seventeen or Eighteen Nights together.

Mrs. _Wellf._ How Madam_!_ that's Three or Four more than the _Old
Batchelour_ held out.

_Mar._ Madam, I dare affirm there's not two such Lines in the Play you
nam'd: Madam, I'm sorry I am forc'd to tell you, Interruption is the
rudest thing in the World.

Mrs. _Wellf._ I am dumb. Pray proceed.

_Mar._ Pray observe.----

    _My Scorching Raptures make a Boy of Jove,
    That Ramping God shall learn of me to Love._

_My Scorching_----

Mrs. _Wellf._ Won't the Ladies think some of those Expressions indecent?

_Mar._ Interrupting again, by Heav'n!----Sure, Madam, I understand the
Ladies better than you. To my knowledge they love words that have
warmth, and fire, _&c._ in 'em.--Here, _Patty_, give me a Glass of
_Sherry_; my Spirits are gone.----No Manchet Sot! Ah! the Glass [_Brings
a Glass._ not clean! She takes this opportunity, because she knows I
never fret before Company, I! do I use to Drink a Thimble full at a
time?--Take that to wash your Face. [_Throws it in her Face._

_Pat._ These are Poetical Ladies with a Pox to 'em. (_Aside._

_Mar._ My Service to you Madam, I think you drink in a Morning.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Yes, else I had never come to this bigness, Madam, to the
encreasing that inexhausted spring of Poetry: that it may swell,
o'erflow, and bless the barren Land.

_Mar._ Incomparable, I protest_!_

_Pat._ Madam _Calista_ to wait upon your Ladyship.

_Mar._ Do you know her Child?

Mrs. _Wellf._ No.

_Mar._ Oh! 'Tis the vainest; proudest, senseless Thing, she pretends
to Grammar, writes in Mood and Figure; does every thing
methodically.----Poor Creature! She shews me her Works first; I always
commend 'em, with a Design she shou'd expose 'em, and the Town be so
kind to laugh her out of her Follies.

Mr. _Wellf._ That's hard in a Friend.

_Mar._ But 'tis very usual.----Dunce! Why do you let her stay so long?
[_Exit Pat. Re-enter with_ Calista. My best _Calista_! The charming'st
Nymph of all _Apollo_'s Train, let me Embrace thee!

Mr. _Wellf._ So, I suppose my Reception was preceeded like this.
[_Aside._]

_Mar._ Pray know this Lady, she is a Sister of ours.

_Calista._ She's big enough to be the Mother of the Muses. [_Aside._
Madam, your Servant.

Mrs. _Wellf_. Madam, yours. [_Salute._

_Mar._ Now here's the Female Triumvirate; methinks 'twou'd be but civil
of the Men to lay down their Pens for one Year, and let us divert the
Town, but if we shou'd, they'd certainly be asham'd ever to take 'em up
again.

_Calis._ From yours we expect Wonders.

_Mar._ Has any Celebrated Poet of the Age been lately to look over any
of your Scenes, Madam?

_Calis._ Yes, yes, one that you know, and who makes that his pretence
for daily Visits.

_Mar._ But I had rather see one dear Player than all the Poets in the
Kingdom.

_Calis._ Good Gad! That you shou'd be in Love with an Old Man!

_Mar._ He is so with me; and you'll grant 'tis a harder Task to
Re-kindle dying Coals, than set Tinder on a Blaze.

Mr. _Wellf._ I guess the Spark. But why then is your Play at this House?

_Mar._ I thought you had known 't had been an _Opera_; and such an
_Opera_! But I wont talk on't, 'till you see it. Mrs. _Wellfed_, is not
your Lodgings often fill'd with the Cabals of Poets and Judges?

Mr. _Wellf._ Faith, Madam, I'll not tell a Lye for the matter; they
never do me the Honour.

_Mar._ I thought so, when I ask'd her. [_Aside to_ Calista.

Mr. _Wellf._ My Brats are forc'd to appear of my own raising.

_Mar._ Nay, Mrs. _Wellfed_, they don't come to others to assist, but
admire.

_Pat._ Madam, Mr. _Aw'dwell_ and Mr. _Praiseall_ are below.

_Mar._ Dear Ladies, step in with me, whilst I put on my Mantua: Bring
'em up, and then come to me.----What does that _Aw'dwell_ here again to
Day? Did not I do him the Honour to go abroad with him yesterday? Sure
that's enough for his Trifle of a Scarf. Come Ladies. _That Ramping God
shall learn of me to Love._ [Exeunt.

_Enter Mr._ Aw'dwell _and Mr._ Praiseall.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ So, Mr. _Praiseall_, you are come, I suppose, to pay your
Tribute of Encomiums to the Fair Lady and her Works.

Mr. _Prais._ The Lady sometimes does me the Honour to Communicate; my
poor Abilities are at her Service, tho' I own my self weak.

_Aw'dw._ Then you are not fit for the Ladies Service, to my Knowledge.

_Prais._ Why, Sir? I was long an _Oxonion_, 'till a good Estate and the
Practice of the Law, tempted me from my studies.

_Aw'dw._ Sir, I'll tell you my Opinion of the University Students: They
are commonly as dull as they are dirty, and their Conversation is as
wretched as their Feeding; yet every Man thinks his Parts
unquestionable, if he has been at _Oxford_.----Now all the Observation I
have made of _Oxford_, is, it's a good Place to improve Beggars, and to
spoil Gentlemen, to make young Master vain, and think no Body has Wit
but himself.

_Prais._ While the Lady has more complaisant Sentiments, yours shan't
disturb me, Sir, I assure you.

_Aw'dw._ What is't bewitches me to _Marsilia_! I know her a Coquet; I
know her vain and ungrateful; yet, wise as _Almanzor_, knowing all this,
I still love on! [_Aside._

_Prais._ I wish _Marsilia_ wou'd come! That fellow looks as if he had a
Mind to quarrel. I hate the sight of a bent Brow in a Morning; I am
always unlucky the whole Day after.

_Aw'dw._ Oh, one thing more of your Darling _Oxford_. You know, if you
get Learning, it robs Man of his noblest Part, Courage. This your mighty
Bard, by Experience owns, the Learned are Cowards by Profession. Do you
feel any of your Martial Heat returns?

_Prais._ Ay, he will quarrel, I find.----[_Aside._ Sir, I was never
taught to practice Feats of Arms in a Lady's Anti-Chamber.

_Aw'dw._ The Fool's afraid: Yet shall I have the Pleasure to see
_Marsilia_ prefer this Fop to me before my Face. [_Exit._

_Enter_ Marsilia, Calista, _and Mrs._ Wellfed.

_Mars._ I must beg your Learned Ladyship's Pardon. _Aristotle_ never
said such a Word, upon my Credit.----_Patty_, What an Air these Pinners
have_?_ Pull 'em more behind.----Oh my Stars, she has pull'd my
Head-cloaths off!

_Calist._ I cannot but re-mind you, Madam, you are mistaken; for I read
_Aristotle_ in his own Language: The Translation may alter the
Expression.

_Aw'dw._ Oh that I cou'd but Conjure up the Old Philosopher, to hear
these Women pull him in pieces!

_Mar._ Nay, Madam, if you are resolv'd to have the last Word, I ha'
done; for I am no lover of Words, upon my Credit.

_Prais._ I am glad to hear her say sh'as done, for I dare not interrupt
her.--Madam, your Ladyship's most humble.----

_Mars._ Mr. _Praiseall_, Yours.

_Prais._ Charming _Calista_, I kiss those enchanting Fingers.

_Mars._ Humph! That might ha' been said to me more properly. [_Aside._

_Prais._ Mrs. _Wellfed_, tho' last, not least.

Mrs. _Wellf._ That's right, Mr. _Praiseall_.

_Prais._ In Love, I meant, Mrs. _Wellfed_.

Mr. _Wellf._ Prethee, add _Good Tribonus_, don't steal by halves, Mr.
_Praiseall_.

_Prais._ Lord, you are so quick!

_Mar._ Well, you are come to go with us to the Rehearsal.

_Prais._ 'Tis a pleasing Duty, Madam, to wait on your Ladyship: But then
to hear the wondrous Product of your Brain, is such a Happiness, I only
want some of _Marsilia_'s Eloquence to express it.

_Aw'dw._ How this Flattery transports her! Swells her Pride almost to
bursting. [_Aside._

_Mars._ I do avow, Mr. _Praiseall_, you are the most complaisant Man of
the Age.

_Aw'dw._ Are you yet at Leisure, Madam, to tell me how you do?

_Mars._ You see my Engagements, and have chosen a very busie Time to ask
such an insignificant Question.

_Aw'dw._ What, it wants a Courtly Phrase?

_Mars._ Must I meet with nothing but interruption? Mr. _Praiseall_!

_Prais._ Madam?

_Mars._ I think I have not seen you these two Days.

_Prais._ So long I've liv'd in _Greenland_, seen no Sun, not felt no
warmth.

_Mars._ Heav'ns! Mr. _Praiseall_, why don't you write? Words like those
ought to be preserv'd in Characters indelible, not lost in Air.

_Aw'dw._ 'Tis pity your Ladyship does not carry a Commonplace Book.

_Mars._ For your self 'twou'd be more useful.----But, as I was going to
tell you, Mr. _Praiseall_, since I saw you, I have laid a Design to
alter _Cateline's Conspiracy_.

_Prais._ An Undertaking fit for so great a Hand.

_Mars._ Nay, I intend to make use only of the first Speech.

_Aw'dw._ That will be an Alteration indeed!

_Mars._ Your Opinion was not ask'd. Nor wou'd I meddle with that, but to
let the World, that is so partial to those old Fellows, see the
difference of a modern Genius.----You know that Speech, Mr. _Praiseall_,
and the Ladies too, I presume.

_Calista._ I know it so well, as to have turn'd it into _Latin_.

_Prais._ That was extraordinary. But let me tell you, Madam _Calista_,
'tis a harder Task to mend it in _English_.

_Mars._ True, true, Mr. _Praiseall_; That all the Universe must
own.----Patty. Give me another Glass of Sherry, that I may speak loud
and clear.----Mr. _Praiseall_, my Service to you.

_Prais._ I kiss your unequall'd Hand.

Mrs. _Wellfed._ This drinking is the best part of the Entertainment in
my Opinion. [_Aside._

_Mars._ Now, Mr. _Praiseall_.

_Prais._ I am all Ear.

_Mars._ I wou'd you were----I was just beginning to speak.

_Prais._ Mum, I ha' done a Fault.

_Aw'dw._ Sure this Scene will chace her from my Soul. [_Aside._

_Mars._ Thy Head! Thy Head! Proud City!--I'll say no more of his; I
don't love to repeat other Peoples Works;--now my own.--Thy solid
Stones, and thy cemented Walls, this Arm shall scatter into Atoms; then
on thy Ruins will I mount! Mount my aspiring Spirit mount! Hit yon Azure
Roof, and justle Gods;--[_Ex._ Patty. My Fan, my Fan, _Patty_.--[_All
clap._

_Prais._ Ah! Poor _Ben_! Poor _Ben_! You know, Madam, there was a famous
Poet pick'd many a Hole in his Coat in several Prefaces.--He found
fault, but never mended the Matter--Your Ladyship has lay'd his Honour
in the Dust.--Poor _Ben_! 'Tis well thou art dead; this News had broke
thy Heart.

_Mars._ Then in the _Conspiracy_, I make _Fulvia_ a Woman of the nicest
Honour; and such Scenes!

Mrs. _Wellf._ Madam, you forget the Rehearsal.

_Mars._ Oh Gods! That I could live in a Cave! Ecchoes wou'd repeat, but
not interrupt me; Madam, if you are beholden to those Creatures, I am
not; let 'em wait, let 'em wait, or live without me if they can.

_Enter_ Patty.

_Pat._ Madam, your Chair Men are come.

_Mars._ Let them wait, they are paid for't.

_Pat._ Not yet to my Knowledge, what ever they be after the third Day;
there's a long Bill I'm sure.--[_Aside._

_Mars._ How do you think to go Mrs. _Wellfed_? Shall _Pat._ call you
another Chair?

Mrs. _Wellf._ I have no Inclination to break poor Mens Backs; I thank
you, Madam, I'll go a Foot.

_Calist._ A Foot!

Mrs. _Wellf._ Ay, a Foot, 'tis not far, 'twill make me leaner. Your
Servant Ladies. [_Exit._

_Mars._ Your Servant.

_Prais._ A bouncing Dame! But she has done some things well enough.

_Mars._ Fye, Mr. _Praiseall_! That you shou'd wrong your Judgment thus!
Don't do it, because you think her my Friend: I profess, I can't forbear
saying, her Heroicks want Beautiful Uniformity as much as her Person;
and her Comedies are as void of Jests as her Conversation.

_Prais._ I submit to your Ladyship.

_Aw'dw._ Madam, shall I crave leave to speak a few Words with you before
you go?

_Mars._ I must gratify you, tho' 'tis to my Prejudice.--My Dear
_Calista_, be pleas'd to take my Chair to the Play-House, and I'll
follow you presently.

_Calist._ I will; but make haste.

_Mars._ Fear not, yours waits below, I suppose, Sir.

_Prais._ Yes Madam.

_Mars._ Pray take Care of the Lady 'till I come.

_Prais._ Most willingly. [_Exit._

_Mars._ What a ridiculous conceited thing it is!--A witty Woman
conceited, looks like a handsome Woman set out with Frippery:

_Aw'dw._ Railing shou'd be my part: But, _Marsilia_, I'll give it a
genteeler Name, and call it complaining.

_Mars._ Pshaw! You are always a complaining I think. Don't put me out of
Humour, now I am just going to the Rehearsal.

_Aw'dw._ Why are you so ungrateful? Is it from your Lands water'd by
_Helicon_, or my honest dirty Acres, your maintenance proceeds? Yet I
must stand like a Foot-boy, unregarded, whilst a noisy Fool takes up
your Eyes, your Ears, your every Sense.

_Mars._ Now, Mr. _Aw'dwell_, I'll tell you a strange thing: The
difference between you and I, shall create a Peace.--As thus: You have a
mind to quarrel, I have not; so that there must be a Peace, or only War
on your side. Then again, you have a mind to stay here, I have a mind to
go, which will be a Truce at least.--[_Is going._

_Aw'dw._ Hold, Madam, do not teaze me thus; tho' you know my Follies and
your Power, yet the ill-us'd Slave may break his Chain.

_Mars._ What wou'd the Man have? If you'll be good humour'd, and go to
the Play-house, do; if not, stay here. Ask my Maid Questions, increase
your Jealousie, be dogged and be damn'd.

_Aw'dw._ Obliging? If I shou'd go, I know my Fate; 'twou'd be like
standing on the Rack.

_Mars._ While my Play's Rehearsing! That's an Affront I shall never
forgive whilst I breath.

_Aw'dw._ Tho' I thought not of your Play?

_Mars._ That's worse.

_Aw'dw._ Your Carriage, your cruel Carriage, was the thing I meant. If
there shou'd be a Man of Quality, as you call 'em, I must not dare to
own I know you.

_Mars._ And well remembred. My Lord Duke promis'd he'd be there.--Oh
Heav'ns! I wou'd not stay another moment, No, not to finish a Speech in
_Catiline_. What a Monster was I to forget it! Oh Jehu! My Lord Duke,
and Sir _Thomas_! _Pat._ another Chair, Sir _Thomas_ and my Lord Duke
both stay.--[_Exit running._

_Aw'dw._ Follow, follow. Fool, be gorg'd and glutted with Abuses, then
throw up them and Love together.--[_Exit._


SCENE the Play-House.

_Enter Mr._ Johnson, _Mr._ Pinkethman, _Mrs._ Lucas, _and Miss_ Cross.

Mrs. _Cross_. Good morrow Mrs. _Lucas_; why what's the Whim, that we
must be all dress'd at Rehearsal, as if we play'd?

Mrs. _Lucas_, 'Tis by the Desire of Madam _Maggot_ the Poetess, I
suppose.

Mrs. _Cross_. She is a little whimsical, I think, indeed; for this is
the most incomprehensible Part I ever had in my Life; and when I
complain, all the Answer I get is, 'tis New, and 'tis odd; and nothing
but new things and odd things will do--Where's Mr. _Powell_, that we may
try a little before she comes.

Mr. _Johnson_. At the Tavern, Madam.

Mrs. _Cross_. At the Tavern in a Morning?

Mr. _Johns._ Why, how long have you been a Member of this Congregation,
pretty _Miss_, and not know honest _George_ regards neither Times nor
Seasons in Drinking?

_Enter Mrs._ Wellfed.

Mrs. _Cross_. O! Here comes Mrs. _Wellfed_. Your Servant Madam.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Your Servant Gentlemen and Ladies.

Mrs. _Lucas_. Sit down, Mrs. _Wellfed_, you are out of Breath.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Walking a Pace, and this ugly Cough--[_Coughs._ Well the
Lady's a coming, and a couple of Beaus, but I perceive you need not care
who comes, you are all dress'd.

Mrs. _Cross_. So it seems. I think they talk she expects a Duke.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Here's two of the Company.

_Enter Mr._ Praiseall _and_ Calista.

_Prais._ Dear Mrs. _Cross_, your Beauties Slave.

Mrs. _Cross_. Upon Condition, 'tis then, if I have no Beauty, you are no
Slave; and the matter is just as 'twas.

_Prais._ Sharp, Sharp.--Charming _Isabella_, let me kiss the Strap of
your Shoe, or the Tongue of your Buckle.

Mrs. _Cross_. Now have I such a mind to kick him i'th' Chops.--
[_Aside._ Oh fye, Sir, What d'ye mean?

_Calista._ So, now he's got among the Players, I may hang my self for a
Spark.

Mr. _Pink._ Prithee _Johnson_, who is that?

Mr. _Johns._ He belongs to one of the Inns of Chancery.

Mr. _Pink._ A Lawyer?

Mr. _Johns._ I can't say that of the Man neither, tho' he sweats hard in
Term-time, and always is as much at _Westminster_, as he that has most
to do.

Mr. _Pink._ Does he practice?

Mr. _Johns._ Walking there, much.

Mr. _Pink._ But I mean, the Laws?

Mr. _Johns._ How to avoid its Penalty only. The Men are quite tir'd with
him, for you shall generally see him oagling after the Women. He makes a
shift to saunter away his Hours till the Play begins; after you shall be
sure to behold his ill-favour'd Phyz, peeping out behind the Scenes, at
both Houses.

Mr. _Pink._ What, at one time?

Mr. _Johns._ No, Faith, 'tis his moving from one House to 'tother takes
up his time, which is the Commodity sticks of his Hands, for he has
neither Sense nor Patience to hear a Play out.

Mr. _Pink._ I have enough of him, I thank you Sir.

_Calista._ How d'ye Madam? [_To Mrs._ Wellfed.

Mrs. _Wellf._ At your Service, Madam.

_Calista._ _Marsilia_ committed me to the Care of Mr. _Praiseall_; but
more powerful Charms have robb'd me of my Gallant.

Mrs. _Wellf._ I thank Heav'n, I'm big enough to take care of myself.
Indeed to neglect a young pretty Lady, expose her unmask'd amongst a
Company of wild Players, is very dangerous.

_Calist._ Unmask'd! Humph! I'll be ev'n with you for that. [_Aside._
Madam, I have read all your excellent Works, and I dare say, by the
regular Correction, you are a Latinist, tho' _Marsilia_ laught at it.

Mrs. _Wellf._ _Marsilia_ shews her Folly, in laughing at what she don't
understand. Faith, Madam, I must own my ignorance, I can go no further
than the eight Parts of Speech.

_Calist._ Then I cannot but take the Freedom to say, you, or whoever
writes, imposes upon the Town.

Mrs. _Wellf._ 'Tis no imposition, Madam, when ev'ry Body's inclination's
free to like, or dislike a thing.

_Calist._ Your Pardon, Madam.

_Prais._ How's this? Whilst I am making Love, I shall have my two
Heroines wage War. Ladies, what's your Dispute?

Mrs. _Wellf._ Not worth appealing to a Judge, in my Opinion.

_Calista._ I'll maintain it with my Life. Learning is absolutely
necessary to all who pretend to Poetry.

Mrs. _Wellf._ We'll adjourn the Argument, _Marsilia_ shall hear the
Cause.

_Prais._ Ay, if you can perswade her to hold her Tongue so long.

Mrs. _Wellf._ I wish I cou'd engage you two in a _Latin_ Dispute, Mr.
_Praiseall_, and you shou'd tell how often the Lady breaks
_Pris_--_Pris_--What's his Name? His Head, you know.

_Prais._ _Priscian_, you mean; Hush! Hush!

Mrs. _Wellf._ He cares not for entring the Lists neither. Come, Mr.
_Praiseall_, I'll put you upon a more pleasing Task. Try to prevail with
that Fair Lady, to give us her New Dialogue.

_Prais._ What, my Angel?

Mrs. _Wellf._ Mrs. _Cross_, I mean.

_Prais._ There is no other She, Madam.

Mrs. _Cross_. Sir!

_Prais._ Will you be so good, to charm our Ears, and feast our Eyes; let
us see and hear you in Perfection.

Mrs. _Cross_. This Complement is a Note above _Ela_. If _Marsilia_
shou'd catch me anticipating her Song, she'd chide sadly.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Oh, we'll watch. I'll call Mr. _Leveridge_.

_Song by Mrs._ Cross.----_A Dialogue._

_Prais._ Thank you Ten thousand times, my Dear.

_Calista._ I'm almost weary of this illiterate Company.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Now, Mr. _Praiseall_, get but Mrs. _Lucas_'s New Dance, by
that time sure the Lady will come.

_Prais._ I'll warrant ye my little _Lucas_.

SINGS.

    With a Trip and a Gim,
    And a Whey and a Jerk at Parting.

Where art thou, my little Girl?

_Little Boy._ She is but drinking a Dish of Coffee, and will come
presently.

_Prais._ Pshaw! Coffee! What does she drink Coffee for? She's lean
enough without drinking Coffee.

Mr. _Pink._ Ay, but 'tis good to dry up Humours.

_Prais._ That's well, I Faith! Players dry up their Humours_!_ Why what
are they good for then? Let her exert her Humours in Dancing, that will
do her most good, and become her best.----Oh, here she comes!----You
little Rogue, what do you drink Coffee for?

Mrs. _Lucas_. For the same Reason you drink Claret; because I love it.

_Prais._ Ha, Pert_!_ Come, your last Dance, I will not be deny'd.

_Lucas._ I don't intend you shall; I love to Dance, as well as you do to
see me.

_Prais._ Say'st thou so? Come on then; and when thou hast done, I'll
treat you all in the Green Room with Chocolate; Chocolate, Huzzy; that's
better by half than Coffee. _All_ agreed.

_A Dance by Mrs._ Lucas.

_Prais._ Titely done, I Faith, little Girl.

_Enter Mrs._ Knight.

Mrs. _Cross_. Good morrow Mrs. _Knight_. Pray, dear Mrs. _Knight_, tell
me your Opinion of this Play; you read much, and are a Judge.

Mrs. _Knight_. Oh your Servant, Madam! Why truly, my Understanding is so
very small, I can't find the Ladies meaning out.

Mrs. _Cross_. Why, the Masters admire it.

Mrs. _Knight_. So much the worse. What they censure, most times
prospers; and commonly, what they admire, miscarries: Pshaw! They know
nothing. They have Power, and are positive; but have no more a right
Notion of things, Mrs. _Cross_, than you can have of the Pleasures of
Wedlock, that are unmarry'd.

Mrs. _Cross_. I submit to better Judgment in that, Madam. I am sure the
Authoress is very proud and impertinent, as indeed most Authors
are.----She's a Favourite, and has put 'em to a world of Expence in
Cloaths. A Play well-dress'd, you know, is half in half, as a great
Writer says; The _Morocco_ Dresses, when new formerly for _Sebastian_,
they say enliven'd the Play as much as the Pudding and Dumpling Song
did _Merlin_.

Mrs. _Knight_. This Play must be dress'd if there's any Credit remains,
tho' they are so cursedly in debt already.

Mrs. _Cross_. It wants it, Madam, it wants it.

Mr. _Wellf._ Well, Ladies, after this Play's over, I hope you'll think
of mine; I have two excellent Parts for ye.

_But_, We are at your Service.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Mr. _Pinkethman_! Mr. _Pinkethman_! What, d'ye run away
from a Body?

Mr. _Pink._ Who!? I beg your Pardon, Madam.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Well, Mr. _Pinkethman_, you shall see what I have done for
you in my next.

Mr. _Pink._ Thank ye, Madam; I'll do my best for you too.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Mr. _Johnson_!

Mr. _Pink._ So, now she's going her Rounds.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Mr. _Johnson_!--Duce on him, he's gone! Well, I shall see
him by and by.

_Enter Mr._ Praiseall.

_Prais._ Ladies, the Chocolate is ready, and longs to be conducted by
your white Hands to your Rosie Lips!

Mrs. _Wellf._ Rarely express'd! Come, Ladies.

[_Exeunt._

_Manent Mrs._ Knight _and Mrs._ Wellfed.

Mrs _Knight_. I believe our People wou'd dance after any Tom-Dingle for
a pen'orth of Sugar-plums.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Come Mrs. _Knight_, let you and I have a Bottle of
Sherry.

Mrs. _Knight_. No, I thank you, I never drink Wine in a Morning.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Then you'll never write Plays, I promise you.

Mrs. _Knight_. I don't desire it.

Mrs. _Wellf._ If you please, Madam, to pass the time away, I'll repeat
one of my best Scenes.

Mrs. _Knight_. Oh Heav'ns! No Rest!----[_Aside._ Madam, I doubt the
Company will take it amiss. I am your very humble Servant. [_Exit
hastily._

Mrs. _Wellf._ What! Fled so hastily! I find Poets had need be a little
conceited, for they meet with many a Bauk. However, scribling brings
this Satisfaction, that like our Children, we are generally pleas'd with
it our selves.

    _So the fond Mother's rapt with her pratling Boys,
    Whilst the free Stranger flies th' ungrateful Noise._

[_Exit._


_The End of the First ACT._




ACT II.

_Enter_ Calista _and Mrs._ Wellfed.


_Calista._ I Think _Marsillia_ is very tedious.

Mrs. _Wellf._ I think so too. 'Tis well 'tis _Marsillia_, else the
Players wou'd never have Patience.

_Calis._ Why, do they love her?

Mrs. _Wellf._ No, but they fear her, that's all one.----Oh! yonder's Mr.
_Powell_, I want to speak with him.

_Calis._ So do I.

_Enter Mr._ Powell.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Your Servant Mr. _Powell_.

_Calis._ Sir, I am your humble Servant.

Mr. _Powell_. Ounds! What am I fell into the Hands of two Female Poets?
There's nothing under the Sun, but two Bailiffs, I'd have gone so far to
have avoided.

_Calis._ I believe, Mr. _Powell_, I shall trouble you quickly.

Mr. _Pow._ When you please Madam.

_Calis._ Pray, Mr. _Powell_, don't speak so carelesly: I hope you will
find the Characters to your Satisfaction; I make you equally in Love
with two very fine Ladies.

Mr. _Pow._ Oh, never stint me Madam, let it be two Douzen, I beseech
you.

_Calis._ The Thought's new I am sure.

Mr. _Pow._ The Practice is old, I am sure.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Now, Mr. _Powell_, hear mine: I make two very fine Ladies
in Love with you, is not that better? Ha!

_Calis._ Why, so are my Ladies.

Mrs. _Wellf._ But, my Ladies.----

_Calis._ Nay, if you go to that, Madam, I defie any Ladies, in the Pale,
or out of the Pale, to love beyond my Ladies.

Mrs. _Wellf._ I'll stand up for the Violence of my Passion, whilst I
have a bit of Flesh left on my Back, Mr. _Powell_!

_Calis._ Lord! Madam, you won't give one leave to speak.

Mr. _Pow._ O Gad! I am Deaf, I am Deaf, or else wou'd I were.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Well, Mr. _Powell_, when shall mine be done?

_Calis._ Sure I have Mr. _Powell's_ Promise.

Mrs. _Wellf._ That I am glad on, then I believe mine will come first.

_Calis._ D'ye hear that, Mr. _Powell_! Come pray Name a Time.

Mrs. _Wellf._ Then I'll have time set too.

Mr. _Pow._ O Heav'ns! Let me go! Yours shall be done to day, and yours
to morrow; farewell for a Couple of Teazers! Oh the Devil! [_Flinging
from 'em._

Marsillia _Entring, meets him_.

_Mars._ What in a Heat, and a Passion, and all that, Mr. _Powell_? Lord!
I'll tell you, Mr. _Powell_, I have been in a Heat, and Fret, and all
that, Mr. _Powell_! I met two or three idle People of Quality, who
thinking I had no more to do than themselves, stop'd my Chair, and
teaz'd me with a Thousand foolish Questions.

Mr. _Pow._ Ay, Madam, I ha' been plagu'd with Questions too.

_Mars._ There's nothing gives me greater Fatigue than any one that talks
much; Oh! 'Tis the superlative Plague of the Universe. Ump! This foolish
Patch won't stick: Oh Lord! Don't go Mr. _Powell_, I have a World of
things to say to you. [_Patching at her Glass._

Mr. _Pow._ The more's my Sorrow.

_Enter Mr._ Praiseall _and Mrs._ Knight.

_Mar._ How do you like my Play, Mr. _Powell_?

Mr. _Pow._ Extraordinary, Madam, 'tis like your Ladyship, at Miracle.

_Calis._ How civilly he treats her.

Mrs. _Wellf._ He treats her with what ought to be dispis'd, Flattery.

_Mars._ What was that you said? Some fine thing I dare swear? Well, I
beg your Pardon a Thousand times: My Head was got to _Cataline_: Oh, Mr.
_Powell_, you shall be _Catiline_, not _Ben Johnson_'s Fool, but my
_Cataline_, Mr. _Powell_.

Mr. _Pow._ I'd be a Dog to serve your Ladyship, as a Learned Author has
it.

_Mar._ Oh my Jehu! What, no Body come?

Mrs. _Knight_. No Body, Madam! Why here's all the Players.

_Mar._ Granted, Mrs. _Knight_ and I have great Value for all the
Players, and your self in particular; but give me leave to say, Mrs.
_Knight_, when I appear, I expect all that have any Concerns in the
Play-house, shou'd give their Attendance, Knights, Squires, or however
dignified, or distinguished.

Mrs. _Knight_. I beg your Pardon, Madam, if we poor Folks, without
Titles, cou'd have serv'd you, we are ready.

_Mar._ Mr. _Powell_! Mr. _Powell_! Pray stay by my Elbow. Lord! I don't
use to ask a Man twice to stand by me.

Mr. _Pow._ Madam, I am here.

Mr. _Prais._ Ha! A rising Favourite, that may Eclipse my Glory; Madam, I
have been taking true Pains to keep your Princes and Princesses together
here.

_Mar._ Pray don't interrupt me, Mr. _Praiseall_, at this time. Mr.
_Powell_, I suppose you observe, throughout my Play, I make the Heroes,
and Heroines in Love with those they shou'd not be.

Mr. _Pow._ Yes, Madam.

_Mar._ For look ye, if every Woman had lov'd her own Husband, there had
been no Business for a Play.

Mr. _Pow._ But, Madam, won't the Critticks say, the Guilt of their
Passion takes off the Pity_?_

_Mar._ Oh, Mr. _Powell_, trouble not your self about the Criticks, I am
provided for them, my Prologue cools their Courage I warrant 'em; han't
you heard the Humour?

Mr. _Pow._ No, Madam.

_Mar._ I have two of your stoutest Men enter with long Truncheons.

Mr. _Pow._ Truncheons! Why Truncheons?

_Mar._ Because a Truncheon's like a Quarter-staff, has a mischievous
Look with it, and a Critick is cursedly afraid of any thing that looks
terrible.

Mr. _Prais._ Why, Madam, there are abundance of Critticks, and witty Men
that are Soldiers.

_Mar._ Not one upon my Word, they are more Gentlemen, than to pretend to
either, a Witty Man and a Soldier; you may as well say a modest Man, and
a Courtier; Wit is always in the Civil Power, take my Word for it;
Courage, and Honesty work hard for their Bread; Wit and Flattery feeds
on Fools, and if they are counted Wise, who keep out of Harm's way,
there's scarce a Fool now in the Kingdom.

Mr. _Prais._ Why, Madam, I have always took care to keep my self out of
Harms Way, not that it is my Pretence to Wit, for I dare look Thunder in
the Face, and if you think no Wit has Courage, what made you send for
me?

Mr. _Pow._ Here's good Sport towards.

_Mar._ Because I have Occasion for nothing but Wit: I sent for you to
vouch for mine, and not fight for your own. Mr. _Powell_, let us mind
our Cause.

Mr. _Prais._ Damme, I dare fight!

_Mar._ Not with me, I hope: This is all Interruption by Heav'n!

Mr. _Prais._ 'Tis well there's not a Man asserts your Cause. [_Walks
about._

_Mar._ How Sir! Not a Man assert my Cause?

_Prais._ No, if there were, this Instant you should behold him weltring
at your Feet.

Mr. _Pow._ Sir!

Mr. _Prais._ Hold! Honest _George_; I'll not do the Town such an Injury,
to whip thee thro' the Guts.

_Mar._ Barbarous, not to endure the Jest the whole Audience must hear
with patience.

_Enter Mr._ Aw'dwell.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ What's here Quarrelling? Come on; I thank Heav'n, I never
was more inclin'd to Bloodshed in my Life.

Mr. _Prais._ This is my Evil Genius: I said I should have no Luck to
Day----Mr. _Aw'dwell_, your very humble Servant, did you hear a Noise,
as you came in? 'Twas I made the Noise, Mr. _Aw'dwell_, I'll tell you
how 'twas.

_Aw'dw._ Do, for I am resolv'd to justifie the Lady.

Mr. _Prais._ Then you must know, I was trying to act one of
_Marsillia's_ Heroes, a horrible blustring Fellow_!_ That made me so
loud, Sir; now, says Mr. _Powell_, you do it awkerdly; whip says I, in
answer like a Chollerick Fool, and out comes Poker, whether _George_ was
out so soon I can't say.

Mr. _Pow._ How Sir_!_ my Sword in the Scabbard, and your's drawn!

Mr. _Prais._ Nay, nay, may be it was _George_, but now we are as good
Friends as ever, witness this hearty Hug! (to _Mars._) Madam, I invented
this Story to prevent your Rehearsals being interrupted.

_Mar._ I thank you Sir, your Cowardize has kept Quietness.

Mr. _Prais._ Your Servant Madam, I shall find a time.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ So shall I!

Mr. _Prais._ 'Tis hard tho' one can't speak a Word to a Lady without
being over-heard.

_Mar._ Come Mr. _Aw'dwell_, sit down, I am oblig'd to you for what you
have done, but this Fellow may make a Party for me at the Coffee-house;
therefore prithee let him alone, tho' I believe my Play won't want
it.--Now clear the Stage; Prompter give me the Book! Oh, Mr. _Powell_,
you must stay, I shall want your Advice; I'll tell ye time enough for
your Entrance.

Mr. _Pow._ Madam, give me leave to take a Glass of Sack, I am qualmish.

_Mars._ Oh! Fie, Mr. _Powell_, we'll have Sack here; d'ye see Ladies,
you have teaz'd Mr. _Powell_ sick: Well, Impertinence, in a Woman is the
Devil!

Mrs. _Wellf._ Shall we stay to be affronted?

_Calista._ Prithee let's stay, and laugh at her _Opera_, as she calls
it, for I hear 'tis a very foolish one.

_Mar._ Come Prologue-Speakers! Prologue Speakers! Where are you? I shall
want Sack my self, by and by, I believe.

_Enter Two Men with Whiskers, large Truncheons, Drest strangely._

_Mar._ Lord, Mr. _Powell_, these Men are not half tall enough, nor half
big enough! What shall I do for a larger sort of Men?

Mr. _Pow._ Faith, Madam, I can't tell, they say the Race diminishes
every Day.

_Mar._ Ay, so they do with a witness, Mr. _Powell_. Oh, these puny
Fellows will spoil the Design of my Prologue! Hark ye! Mr. _Powell_, you
know the huge tall Monster, that comes in one Play, which was taken
Originally from _Bartholomew-fair_ Against this, is spoke Publickly;
cou'd not we contrive to dress up two such things, twou'd set the
Upper-Gallery a Clapping like mad? And let me tell you, Mr. _Powell_,
that's a Clapping not to be despis'd.

Mr. _Pow._ We'll see what may be done; But, Madam, you had as good hear
these speak it now.

_Mar._ Well, Sheep-biters, begin!

_1st._----Well, Brother Monster, what do you do here!

_Mars._ Ah! And t'other looks no more like a Monster than I do; speak it
fuller in the Mouth Dunce. Well, Brother Monster, what do you do here?

_1st._----Well, Brother Monster, what do you do here?

_2d._----I come to put the Criticks in a mortal Fear.

_Mars._ O Heav'ns! You shou'd have every thing that is terrible in that
Line! You shou'd speak it like a Ghost, like a Giant, like a Mandrake,
and you speak it like a Mouse.

Mr. _Pow._ Madam, if you won't let 'em proceed, we shan't do the first
Act this Morning.

_Mar._ I have no Patience! I wish you wou'd be a Monster, Mr. _Powell_,
for once, but then I cou'd not match you neither.

Mr. _Pow._ I thank you Madam, come, these will mend with Practice.

_Mar._----Come begin then, and go thro' with it roundly.

_1st._----Well, Brother Monster, what do you do here_?_

_2d._----I come to put the Critticks in a mortal Fear.

_1st._----I'm also sent upon the same Design.

_2d._----Then let's our heavy Trunchions shake and joyn.

_Mar._ Ah! The Devil take thee, for a squeaking Treble_!_ D'ye mention
shaking your Trunchions, and not so much as stir 'em, Block! By my hopes
of _Cataline_, you shall never speak it, give me the Papers quickly.

[_Throws their Trunchions down._

_1st._----Here's mine.

_2d._----And mine, and I'm glad on't.

_Mar._ Out of my Sight, begone I say! [_Pushes 'em off._ Lord! Lord! I
shan't recover my Humour again, this half Hour!

Mr. _Pow._ Why do you vex your self, so much, Madam?

Mr. _Aw'dw._ Poetry ought to be for the use of the Mind, and for the
Diversion of the Writer, as well as the Spectator; but to you, sure
Madam, it proves only a Fatigue and Toyl.

_Mar._ Pray, Mr. _Aw'dwell_, don't come here to make your Remarks; what,
I shan't have the Priviledge to be in a Passion for you! Shall I; how
dare you contradict me?

Mr. _Prais._ But you shall be in a Passion, if you have a mind to it, by
the Clubb of _Hercules_. Ah! Madam, if we had but _Hercules_, _Hercules_
and his Clubb wou'd ha' done rarely: Dear Madam! Let 'em have Clubbs
next time, do Madam, let 'em ha' Clubbs; let it be my Thought.

_Mar._ What, for you to brag on't all the Town over! No, they shan't
have Clubbs, tho' I like Clubbs better my self too.

Mr. _Prais._ I ha' done, I ha' done.

_Mar._ O Heav'ns! Now I have lost Mr. _Powell_, with your Nonsensical
Clubbs, wou'd there was a lusty one about your empty Pate.

Mr. _Prais._ I ha' done, I ha' done, Madam.

_Mar._ Mr. _Powell_! Mr. _Powell_!

_Scene-Keeper_--He's gone out of the House, Madam.

_Mar._ Oh the Devil! Sure I shall go distracted! Where's this Book? Come
we'll begin the Play: Call my Lady _Loveall_, and _Betty Useful_ her
Maid: Pray keep a clear Stage. Now look you, Mr. _Praiseall_, 'thas been
the receiv'd Opinion, and Practice in all your late _Operas_ to take
care of the Songish part, as I may call it, after a great Man; and for
the Play, it might be the History of _Tom Thumb_; no matter how, I have
done just contrary, took care of the Language and Plot; and for the
Musick, they that don't like it, may go whistle.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ Why wou'd you chuse to call it an _Opera_ then?

_Mar._ Lord! Mr. _Aw'dwell_, I han't time to answer every impertinent
Question.

Mr. _Prais._ No Sir! We han't time, it was the Ladys Will, and that's
Allmighty Reason.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ I shall have an Opportunity to Kick that Fellow.

_Mar._ I wonder my Lord Duke's not come, nor Sir _Thomas_. Bless me!
What a Disorder my dress is in? Oh! These People will give me the Spleen
intollerablly! Do they design ever to enter or no? My Spirits are quite
gone! They may do e'en what they will.

Mrs. _Wellf._ They are entring, Madam.

_Mars._ Mrs. _Wellfed_, you know where to get good Wine; pray speak for
some, then perhaps we shall keep Mr. _Powell_.

Mrs. _Wellf._ I'll take care of it, I warrant you.

_Mars._ I knew 'twas a pleasing Errand.

_Enter Lady_ Loveall, _and_ Betty Useful.

_Mar._ Come Child, speak handsomly, this Part will do you a Kindness.

_Betty._ Why do those Eyes, Loves Tapers, that on whomsoe'er they are
fixt, kindle straight Desire, now seem to Nod, and Wink, and hardly
Glimmer in their Sockets?

_Mar._ Mr. _Praiseall_, is not that Simile well carried on?

Mr. _Prais._ To an Extreamity of Thought, Madam, But I think 'tis stole.
[_Aside._

La. _Lov._ Art thou the Key to all my Secrets, privy to every rambling
Wish, and canst not guess my Sorrows!

_Betty._ No! For what Lover have ye mist, honest _Betty Useful_ has been
the Contriver, Guide and close Concealer of your Pleasures: _Amorous_
the Steward, you know, is yours; the Butler too bows beneath your
Conquering Charms, and you have vow'd your Wishes in your own Family
shou'd be confin'd, who then of Worth remains?

La. _Lov._--Oh _Betty_! _Betty!_

_Mar._ Good Mrs. _Knight_ speak that as passionately as you can, because
you are going to Swoon, you know; and I hate Women shou'd go into a
Swoon, as some of our Authors make 'em, without so much as altering
their Face, or Voice.

La. _Lov._----Madam, I never knew _Betty_ sound well in Heroick.

_Mar._ Why, no Mrs _Knight_, therefore in that lies the Art, for you to
make it sound well; I think I may say, without a Blush, I am the first
that made Heroick natural.

La. _Lov._ I'll do my best. Oh! _Betty_! _Betty!_ Fear and Love, like
meeting Tides, o'erwhelm me, the rowling Waves beat sinking Nature down,
and Ebbbing Life retires! [_Swoons._

_Mar._ What d'ye think of that, Mr. _Praiseall_? There's a Clap for a
Guinea: 'Gad if there is not, I shall scarce forbear telling the
Audience they are uncivil.

_Prais._ Nor, Gad, I shall scarce forbear Fighting 'em one by one. But
hush! Now let's hear what _Betty_ says.

_Betty._ Oh! My poor Lady! Look up, fair Saint! Oh close not those
bright Eyes! If 'tis in _Betty's_ Power, they shall still be feasted
with the Object of their Wishes.

_Prais._ Well said, honest _Betty_.

_Mar._ Nay, She is so throughout the whole Play, to the very last, I
assure you.

La. _Lov._ Yes, he shall be mine! Let Law, and Rules, confine the
creeping Stoick, the cold lifeless Hermit, or the Dissembling Brethren
of Broad Hats, and narrow Bands; I am a Libertine, and being so, I love
my Husband's Son, and will enjoy him.

_Mar._ There's a Rant for you! Oh Lord! Mr. _Praiseall_, look how Mrs.
_Betty_'s surpriz'd: Well, she doth a silent Surprize the best i'th'
World; I must kiss her, I cannot help it, 'tis incomparable! Now speak
Mrs _Betty_, now speak.

_Betty._ My Master's Son just Married to a Celebrated Beauty, with which
he comes slowly on, and beneath this Courteous Roof rests this Night his
wearied Head.

La. _Lov._----Let me have Musick then, to melt him down; he comes and
meets this Face to charm him. 'Tis done! 'Tis done! By Heav'n, I cannot
bear the reflected Glories of those Eyes, all other Beauties fly before
me.

_Betty._ But _Isabella_ is----

_Mar._ Now _Betty_'s doubting----Dear Mrs _Knight_, in this Speech,
stamp as Queen _Statira_ does, that always gets a Clap; and when you
have ended, run off, thus, as fast as you can drive. O Gad! Duce take
your confounded Stumbling Stage. [_Stumbles._

Mr. _Prais._ Oh! Madam!

_Mar._ Hush! Hush! 'Tis nothing! Come Madam.

La. _Lov._ No more, he is mine, I have him fast: Oh! The Extasie!

_Mar._ Now Stamp, and Hug your self, Mrs. _Knight_: Oh! The strong
Extasie!

La. _Lov._ Mine! Forever mine! [_Exit._

_Betty._ But you must ask me leave first; yes, I will assist her, for
she is nobly generous, and pays for Pleasure, as dear as a Chambermaids
Avarice requires! Then, my old Master, why, I fear not him, he is an old
Book-worm, never out of his Study; and whilst he finds out a way to the
Moon, my Lady and I'll tread another beaten Road much pleasanter: My
next Task must be to tempt Fasting, with my Lady's Beauty, this
_Isabella_.----

_Enter_ Amourous _the Steward_.

_Am._ Did I not hear the Name of _Isabella_? _Isabella_, Charming as
_Venus_ rising from the Sea, or _Diana_ descening on _Latmus_ Top too
like _Diana_ much I fear; Oh _Isabella_! Where art thou! I loose my way
in Tears, and cannot find my Feet. [_Exit._

_Mar._ D'ye mark! This was Mr. _Amorous_ the Steward, and he was
transported, he never saw _Betty_. Look _Betty_'s surpris'd again.

Mr. _Prais._ 'Tis amazingly fine!

_Betty._ What's this I have heard? It makes for us; Mischief and Scandal
are a Feast for them who have past the Line of Shame: _Amorous_ has a
Wife, and _Isabella_ _Faustins_, work on together, work, work, on
together work.

_Mar._ Now make haste off, Mrs. _Betty_, as if you were so full of
Thought, you did not know what you did. Gentlemen and Ladies, how d'ye
like the first Scene?

[_Exit_ Betty.

Mr. _Prais._ If your Ladyship swore, you might justly use _Ben
Johnson_'s Expressions; _By Gad 'tis Good_!

_Mar._ What say you, _Calista_?

_Calis._ 'Tis beyond imitation. I never heard such stuff in my Life.
[_Aside._

_Mar._ Did you observe _Betty_ said her Master was finding out a new way
to the Moon?

Mr. _Prais._ Yes marry did I, and I was thinking to ask if I might not
go with him, for I have a great mind to see the Moon World.

_Mar._ And you shall see it all, and how they live in't, before the
Play's done, here they have talked of the Emperour of the Moon, and the
World in the Moon, but discovered nothing of the Matter; Now, again, I
go just contrary; for I say nothing, and shew all.

Mr. _Prais._ And that's kindly done to surprize us with such a Sight.

_Mar._ Observe, and you'll be satisfied. Call _Fastin_, and _Isabella_,
attended; that is to say, call Mr. _Powell_, and Mistress _Cross_, and
the Mob; for their Attendants look much like the Mob. Mr. _Praiseall_,
do you know where the Scene of this Play lies?

Mr. _Prais._ Gad forgive me for a Sot; Faith I han't minded it.

_Mar._ Why, to tell you the Truth, 'tis not yet resolv'd; but it must be
in some warm Climate, where the Sun has power, and where there's Orange
Groves; for _Isabella_, you'll find, Loves walking in Orange Groves.

Mr. _Prais._ Suppose you lay it in _Holland_, I think we have most of
our Oranges, and Lemons from thence.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ Well said Geographer.

_Mar._ No, no, it must be some where in _Italy_. Peace! They are coming.

_Enter_ Fastin, _and_ Isabella _attended_.

Attendance, don't tread upon their Backs, keep at an awful Distance
there; so upon my Train! Ah thou Blockhead, thou art as fit for a
Throne, as a Stage.

_Fas._ Shall I speak, Madam.

_Mar._ Ay, dear Mr. _Powell_, soon as you please.

_Fas._ Wellcome, dear _Isabella_, to this peaceful Seat of all my
Father's Mansions, this is his Choice, this surrounded by these
melancholly Groves, it suits his Philosophick Temper best; yet Fame
reports, he has so long given his--Studies truce, as to wed a Young and
beauteous Bride.

Mr. _Prais._ Why, Madam, had my Lady _Loveall_ never seen this Spark?

_Mar._ No, no; but she had heard of him, and that's all one.--Don't ask
a Question just when People are a speaking, good Mr. _Praiseall_.

Mr. _Prais._ I beg your Pardon.

_Mar._ Pish! Come Mrs. _Cross_.

_Isabella._ Close by there, is an Orange Grove dark as my Thoughts, yet
in that Darkness lovely; there my Lord, with your leave, I'd walk.

_Fas._ Your Pleasure shall be mine.

_Mar._ Lead her to the side Scene, Mr. _Powell_, now come back again.

_Fas._ To desire and love to walk alone, shews her Thoughts entertain
and please her more than I, that's not so well.

_Mar._ Mark! He is beginning to be jealous: Now comes _Betty_, and I
dare be bold to say, here's a Scene excells _Jago_, and the _Moor_.

Mr. _Prais._ Come, dear Mrs. _Betty Useful_! Oh! She's my Heart's
Delight!

_Enter_ Betty Useful.

_Fas._ What Fair Nymph is this?

_Betty._ From the bright Partner of your Fathers Bed, too sweet a
Blossome, alass, to hang on such a wither'd Tree, whose sapless Trunck
affords no Nourishment to keep her Fresh and Fair! From her I come to
you, and charming _Isabella_, But where is that Lady? Can you be
separate? Can any thing divide her from your fond Eyes.

_Mar._ Now she begins.

_Fas._ By her own desire, she chooses Solitudes, and private Walks,
flies these faithful Arms; or if she meets 'em, Cold and Clammy as the
Damp of Death her Lips still joyn my Longings.

_Betty._ Cold Sweats, Privacies and lonely Hours, all Signs of strong
Aversion: Oh had your Fate but thrown you on my Lady, her very Eyes had
rais'd your Passion up to Madness.

_Fas._ Thou hast already kindled Madness here; Jealousie that
unextinguish'd Fire, that with the smallest Fuel burns, is blazing round
my Heart. Oh! Courteous Maid, go on! Inform me if my Love is false.

_Betty._ As yet, I cannot, the Office is ungrateful; but for your sake,
I'll undertake it.

_Fas._ Do, and command me ever.

_Betty._ The Fair _Clemene_.

_Fas._ My Mother, do you mean?

_Betty._ Call her not so, unless you break her Heart: A Thousand tender
Names all Day and Night she gives you, but you can never scape her Lips,
her Curtains by me drawn wide, discover your goodly Figure, each Morn
the Idol's brought, eagerly she prints the dead Colours, throws her
tawny Arms abroad, and vainly hopes kisses so Divine, wou'd inspire the
painted Nothing, and mould into Man.

_Mar._ Is not this moving, Mr. _Powell_?

_Prais._ Ay, and melting too, I Gad, wou'd I was the Picture for her
sake.

_Fas._ What's this I hear?

_Prais._ Nay, no harm, Sir.

_Mar._ Fie! Mr. _Praiseall_! Let your ill-tim'd Jests alone.

_Prais._ I ha' done, I ha' done.

_Mars._ Mr. _Powell_, be pleas'd to go on.

_Fas._ What's this I hear?

_Betty._ Her own Picture, which sure she sees by Sympathy, you'll
entertain by me, she prays you to accept.

[_Gives the Picture._

_Mar._ Now, dear Mr. _Powell_, let me have the pleasure to hear you
rave. Oh_!_ Mr. _Praiseall_, this Speech, I die upon this Speech!

Mr. _Prais._ Wou'd we cou'd hear it, Madam, I am preparing to clap.

_Fas._ What's this thou hast given me? There's more than Necromantick
Charms in every bewitching Line, my trembling Nerves are in their
Infancy; I am cold as Ice!

_Mar._ Ay, ay, Love comes just like an Ague Fit.

_Fas._ What alteration here? Now I am all on Fire! _Alcides_ Shirt
sticks close; Fire, incestious Fire, I blaze! I burn! I Rost! I Fry!
Fire! Fire! [_Exit._

_Betty._ And my Lady will bring Water, Water, ha, ha, ha.

_Mar._ Laugh heartily, Mrs. _Betty_, go off Laughing.

_Betty._ Ha, ha, ha! [_Exit._

_Mar._ So, Mr. _Praiseall_, here's a difficult matter brought about with
much ease.

_Prais._ Yes, Faith Madam, so there is; the young Gentleman made no
great Scruple to fall in Love with his Mother-in-Law.

_Mar._ O fie, Mr. _Praiseall_, 'twas the Struglings of his Virtue put
him in such a Passion.

_Prais._ Ah! Madam! When once Virtue comes to strugle, either in Male or
Female, it commonly yields.

_Mars._ You are waggish----Now for my Dance----Mrs.-----Mrs. _Cross_,
Mrs. _Cross_, come you little Cherubim, your Dance.

A _DANCE_.

_Aw'dwell._ Pray, Madam, who is this Dance to entertain?

_Mar._ What, do you sit an Hour to study a cross Question? Why, to
satisfie you, Sir, you are to suppose _Fastin_, in passing towards his
Mothers Lodgings, may, out of some Gallery, see it; now you are
answered.

_Aw'dw._ I am.

Mr. _Prais._ Ay, and sufficiently too: A Gallery Balcony, twenty
Peepholes.

_Enter Mrs._ Cross

Mrs. _Cross_. Madam, I cou'd wish you wou'd not be disoblig'd if I gave
up this Part, I shall get my self, nor you, no Credit by it.

_Mar._ How, Mrs. _Cross_! Disoblig'd! Assure your self, I shall resent
it ill to the last Degree, what throw up my Heroine! my _Isabella_! Was
there ever a Character more Chaste, more Noble, or more Pitiful?

Mrs. _Cross_. Yes, very Chaste, when I am in Love with my
Father-in-Law's Steward, I know not why, nor wherefore.

_Mar._ Mrs. _Cross_, I maintain, no Woman in the Play-House, nor out of
the Play-house, can be chaster than I ma'e _Isabella_, but trouble your
Head no further, I'll do the Part my self.

Mrs. _Cross_. With all my Heart.

_Mar._ And let me tell you Mistress _Cross_, I shall command whatever is
in the Wardrobe, I assure you!

Mrs _Cross_. Any of my Gowns are at your Service, if they'll fit you,
Madam.

_Mar._ Nay, they shall be; perhaps, without boasting, I command them,
that command you.

Mrs. _Cross_. Perhaps 'tis not worth boasting on; there's your part.
[_Exit._

_Mar._ A little inconsiderable Creature! Well, she shall see how much
better 'twill be done, and for meer madness, hang her self in her own
Garters. Mrs. _Wellfed_, I'll wear a white Feather, That, I believe,
will become me best. _Patty_, is _Patty_ there?

_Pat._ Yes, Madam.

_Mar._ _Patty_, run to the Exchange, bring me a Dozen yards of Scarlet
Ribbon; and d'ye hear _Patty_? Some shining Patches, some Pulvil and
Essence, my Lord Duke shall help me to Jewels, throw up her part! I'll
fit her, let her see how the Town will receive her, after I have trode
the Stage.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ Why, Madam, you are not in earnest!

_Mar._ By my hopes of _Catiline_, I am.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ For Heav'ns sake, don't make your self so irrecoverably
rediculous.

Mr. _Prais._ Do, Madam, I say, 'Gad, I'll make such a Party_!_ Gad, I'll
do nothing but clap, from the time I come into the House, 'till I go
out; Ouns, I'll be hang'd if it don't bring a Swindging Audience, on the
third day.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ To dance naked on the third Day, wou'd bring a bigger
Audience; Why don't you perswade the Lady to that? [_Speaking loud to_
Marsillia.

Do, _Marsillia_, be rul'd by your Vanity, and that good Friend, Mr.
_Praiseall_; but rest assur'd, after such a weakness, I will never see
your Face again.

_Mar._ Ha! I must not loose him. (_aside_) Why, Mr. _Aw'dwell_, wou'd
you have such a hopeful Play lost? Can you be so unreasonable to desire
it? And that Part ruins all.

Mr. _Aw'dwell_. Give me the Part, and I'll try to perswade Mrs. _Cross_.

_Mar._ Do, that's a good Boy; and I won't disoblige him this two days.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ Is't possible! Will you dine at your own Lodgings to day?
I'll give Order for some Dishes of Meat there?

_Mar._ Yes, yes.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ Don't serve me now, as you did when I provided a handsome
Dinner for you at my own House; and you whiskt to _Chelsy_, in a Coach,
with the Lord knows who.

_Mar._ No, I scorn it. [_Exit Mr._ Aw'dwell.

_Prais._ You was talking of Wine, there is some within; pray take a
Recruit before you proceed.

_Mar._ A good Motion, wait upon these two Ladies in, and I'll follow; I
must practice a little, least Mrs. _Cross_ shou'd prove stubborn, and
then, not my Father's Ghost shou'd hinder me.

_Calista._ We'll begin your health.

[_Exeunt._

_Mar._ Do. Whom shall I Curse, my Birth, My Fate, or Stars! All are my
Foes! All bent to ruine Innocence!

_Enter_ Patty, _with Patches_, _Powder_, _Looking-glass_, &c.

_Pat._ Oh, Madam!

_Mar._ How now, Impertinence! was not you told of Interrupting once to
Day? Look how she stands now! How long must I expect what you have to
say?

_Pat._ My Lord _Whiffle_ is come to wait on your Ladyship, and sends to
know, whether you are at leisure.

_Mar._ Ay, he understands Breeding, and Decorum. Is my Dress in great
disorder?

_Pat._ You Look all Charming, Madam.

_Mar._ Hold the Glass; give me some Patches; my Box is done; I am much
oblig'd to his Lordship for this Honour. Some Powder. (_Pulls the Box
out of her Pocket._ Put my Gown to rights, and shake my Tail. The
unmannerly Blockheads have made a Road over it, and left the vile
Impression of their Nauseous Feet. Well, how do I look now, _Patty_?

_Pat._ Like one of the Graces, drest for a Ball at the Court of
_Orleans_.

_Mar._ Ha, ha, ha; well said, _Patty_; now for my dear dear Lord
_Whiffle_.

_Mr._ Awdwell _meeting her_.

Mr. _Awd._ How!

_Mar._ And how too! why, look ye, Mr. _Awdwell_, my Lord is come to pay
his Respects to me; and I will pay my Respects again to my Lord, in
spight of your Tyrannical Pretensions. And so, your humble Servant.

(_Exit_

    Mr. Awd. _Who wou'd a kind and certain Mistress choose,
    Let him, like me, take one that loves a Muse._

(Exit.


_The End of the Second_ ACT.




ACT III.

_Enter my Lord_ Whiffle, Marsilia, _Mr._ Awdwell, _Mr._ Praisall, _Mrs._
Wellfed _and_ Calista.


Mrs. _Well._ For my part I am quite tir'd, and have a great mind to
steal home to Dinner; will you please to go with me, Madam?

_Cal._ With all my Heart: _Marsilia_'s so taken up with my Lord, they'll
never miss us.

Mrs. _Well._ Come then. (_Exeunt._

[Marsilia _and my Lord_ Whiffle _talk, both looking in a great Glass_.

_Mar._ Thus I have told your Lordship the First part, which is past.

L. _Whif._ I conceive you, Madam, I have the whole Story in a Corner of
my head intire, where no other Thought shall presume to interpose.
Confound me, if my damn'd Barber has not made me look like a Mountebank:
This Wigg I shall never endure, that's certain.

_Mar._ Now I must beg your Lordship to suppose _Fastin_ having seen his
Mother-in-Law, is wholly captivated with her Charms, and _Betty_ and
she have both foresworn the Consummation of her Marriage with _Fastin's_
Father; so he takes her to an adjacent Castle of his; she having cast
the old Philosopher in a deep sleep. I'm forc't to tell your Lordship
this, because the Play does not mention it.

Mr. _Awd._ I am afraid your Ladyship will be wanted, like the _Chorus_
of Old, to enlighten the understanding of the Audience.

_Mar._ Meer Malice, Spight, and burning Malice, by the Gods!

L. _Whiff._ Very good, my Coat is as full of wrinkles as an Old Woman's
Face, by _Jove_.

Mr. _Prais._ Madam, han't they took _Betty_ with 'em to his Castle?

_Mar._ Yes, yes; But, Mr. _Praisall_, you must keep your Distance a
little now, and not interrupt me, when I am talking to my Lord.

Mr. _Prais._ I am dumb as a fish.

_Mar._ Now, if your Lordship pleases to sit down, you will see my
_Opera_ begin; for tho' some of the Play is over, there has been no
Scene Operaish yet.

Mr. _Awd._ Operaish! Thats' a word of your own, I suppose, Madam.

Mr. _Prais._ Ne're the worse for that, I hope, Sir; why mayn't the
Ladies make a word as well as the Men?

L. _Whiff._ The Lady shall make what words she pleases; and I will
justifie her in't.

Mr. _Awd._ And I will laugh at her for it.

_Mar._ Well, Mr. _Awdwell_, these Affronts, are not so soon forgot as
given.

Mr. _Awd._ Use your Pleasure, Madam, the Fool's almost weary.

_Mar._ He nettles me; but I think I have him in my power: Is your
Lordship ready to observe?

L. _Whiff._ Madam, I am all Attention.

_Mar._ Come, the Night Scene there, a Dark Grove made Glorious by a
Thousand burning Lights: By Heav'ns my words run of themselves into
Heroick! Now Let em' enter.

_Enter_ Fastin, _Lady_ Loveall.

_Fast._ Cou'd Age expect to hold thee! Oh thou Heav'nly Charmer! was
there such an Impudence in Impotence; if the old Dotard has liv'd past
his Reason, he must be taught it; yes, it shall dazle in his Eyes.

Mr. _Awd._ A very Dutiful Son, this.

_Mar._ Sir, I desire your Absence, if you won't let the Players go on:
His Father has done a very foolish thing; and must be call'd to an
account for it.

L. _Whif._ Right Madam; all old Men do foolish things when they marry
young Wives, and ought to meet with exemplary Punishments.

_Mar._ Aye, your Lordship understands the Justice of the thing----Mrs.
_Knight_, if you please.

La. _Lov._ Whilst my Ears devour your protested Love, my Heart dances to
the Musick of your Vows. But is there no Falshood in a Form so lovely!
if there is, these Eyes that let the Object in, must weep for ever!

_Fast._ By Honour and by Glory, I love thee more than Mortal can express
or bear.

_Mar._ Now, Mr. _Powel_, my Rhime with a Boon Grace.

    Fast. _My scorching Raptures make a Boy of Jove;
    That ramping God shall learn of me to love._

_Mar._ How does your Lordship like these Lines_?_

L. _Whiff._ Madam, they exceed any of our modern Flights, as far as a
Description of _Homer_'s does Mr. _Settle_'s, Poet in Ordinary for my
Lord Mayor's Show.

Mr. _Prais._ After what my Lord has said, I dare not speak, but I am all
Admiration,

_Mar._ to Mrs. _Knight_.) Madam I beg your pardon for this Interruption;
my Friends here will treat me with Flattery.

La. _Lov._ to _Fastin_.) And you will be so vain to believe it none.
(_aside._) Nor _Isabella_ shall not----

_Fast._ Be nam'd only for Punishment, her Adultery with _Amorous_ is
plain, therefore she shall be disgrac'd, and dye.

Mr. _Awd._ Who had told him this?

_Mar._ Why _Betty_ had told him, tho' _Isabella_' was Innocent as to the
matter of Fact. Indeed Fate over-rul'd her Inclination: I will not
answer you another Question, I protest: find it out as the rest of the
World does.

_Fastin_ to his Attendants.) Guard the Orange Grove; there let
_Isabella_ remain a Prisoner, whilst I entertain the fair _Clemene_ with
a Song and Dances here.

(_Italian Song by Mr._ Pate.)

_Mar._ This Song's my own; and I think soft and moving.

L. _Whiff._ My slacken'd Fibres!----My Soul's dissolv'd.

(_Repeats._

_Mar._ Now the Grotesque Entertainment; I have mine perform'd by women,
because it should differ from t'other House: if it has done em' any
Injury I am sorry; but it cou'd not be hop'd, the Play must not be
absolutely without Ornament. Pray take care, Gentlewomen, as we Poets
are fain to do, that we may excell the Men, who first led the way.


DANCE.

_After the Dance, a Drum beats._

_Enter_ Betty.

_Prais._ Oh, Mrs. _Betty_!

_Mar._ Hold your peace, Mrs. _Betty_'s in haste.

_Bet._ Fly, Sir, fly; old _Whimsical_ is waked by another wretch, a
Fornicator, who has liv'd past the Pleasure and the Sin. These wither'd
Cuffs come on, follow'd by a monstrous Rabble, to seize the Lady.

Lady _Lo._ Alas, I fear.

_Fast._ Talk not of fear, my Love, while I am by; thou art as safe as if
ten thousand Legions were thy Guard. First to the Castle I will take my
way, and leave thee there secure; in the mean time my Men fall on upon
his mobbish Soldiers, but spare the stubborn old Man, because he is my
Father. (_Exeunt._

_Mar._ Now there's his Duty, there's his Duty! D'ye hear that, Mr.
_Quarelsom_!

Mr. _Awd._ Wondrous Duty! sets the Rabble about his Father's Ears, and
bids 'em not hurt him.

_Mar._ Now, my Lord, and Gentlemen, and Ladies, where are the Ladies?

Mr. _Prais._ I have miss'd 'em a great while, Madam: But I wou'd not
interrupt you to tell you of't.

_Mar._ Ill-bred Things! who do they expect shou'd have Patience with
their dull stuff? But, as I was saying, I must beg you once again to
suppose old Lord _Whimsical Loveall_, is attacking his Son's Castle, and
beaten back: Now they are behind the Scenes; found a Storm again, three
times; now we'll suppose 'em repuls'd. And from the Castle let the
Trumpets and Violins join in a Tune of Victory. So, there's a Battle
well over.

L. _Whiff._ With a very little trouble. But, Madam had not the storming
the Castle been as good a Scene as the taking of _Jerusalem_.

_Mar._ Granted, my Lord. But I have a Castle taken upon the Stage; and
twice, you know, had been Repetition.

Mr. _Prais._ True; your Ladiship was never in the wrong in your Life,
unless it was when you said, I had no Courage.

_Mar._ Change the Scene to the Orange Grove.

_Enter_ Isabella.

Your Servant Mrs. _Cross_, I am glad to see you again.

Mrs. _Cross_. Truly the Gentleman would not be deny'd; tho' really,
Madam, 'twas only fear I shou'd not serve you in't, made me backward.

_Mar._ All's well, and I'm pleas'd. Will you give your self the trouble
to enter again? because that will make you look more alone.

Mrs. _Cross_. Yes, Madam. (_Goes out, and Re-enters._

_Isab._ Methought I heard the sound of War pierce the hollow Groves:
Else 'twas my melancholly Fancy chim'd to my sick Brain. Yet it cannot
be Delusion; for I am a Prisoner. A surly Fellow, who lookt as if Pity
was his Foe, told me, I here must wait my Lord's Commands. Oh, _Fastin_!
if thou art cruel or unkind, thou art justly so: For I came to thy Arms
without a Heart, without Love's Flames, or desire to kindle 'em. Oh!
why was _Amorous_ sent to my Fathers Castle, to begin the Parly? 'Tis
true, he's in the vale of Years; yet Oh! such Charms remain! He found
the way to my unguarded Heart; nor need he storm, I could not the least
Opposition make; he streight was Lord of all within; yet, Chaste as
Fires, which consume in Urns, and vainly warm the Dead, so Useless is my
Flame!

_Mar._ My Lord! wou'd your Lordship imagine Mrs. _Cross_ shou'd dislike
the part, when I defie all the Virgins in _Europe_ to make so cold a
Simile as that?

L. _Wh._ Thou'st turn'd me into Marble; I am a Statue upon the Tomb
where the Urn's inclos'd.

Mr. _Prais._ My Teeth chatter in my head.

Mr. _Awd._ Oh for a Couple of good Cudgels to warm the Coxcombs.
(_aside._

_Mar._ Well, dear _Isabella_, proceed.

_Isab._ Thou Mother Earth, bear thy wretched Daughter: Open thy all
receiving Womb, and take thy groaning burthen in!

_Mar._ Now You'll see this Act, very full of Business. Come, Lord
_Whimsicall_, and _Amorous_, hastily.

_Enter Lord_ Whimsicall _and_ Amorous.

L. _Whim._ Raise thee from Earth, thou most unhappy Wife of my most
wicked Son! fly, whilst faithful _Amorous_ and I Protect thee from what
his Savage rage has doom'd.

_Isab._ What has he doom'd? alas, I dare not fly with you and
_Amorous_.

_Amo._ Then leave me here to Death; follow your Father, and shun
approaching Danger.

_Is._ What Death! what Danger! make me understand you.

_Mar._ Ay, Poor Lady! she's unwilling _Amorous_ shou'd dye too.

L. _Whim._ Your Husband loudly proclaims you an Adultress, and means to
make War on that fair work of Heav'n, your Face; And Noseless send you
back to your own Father.

_Amo._ Oh, horrid! hasten, Madam, from the brutal Tyrant.

_Isa._ I must consult my Immortal Honour; that's a Beauty to me, more
valued than Nature's Out-work's, a Face. Let me consider, tis my
Husband's Father; to retire till I am justifi'd, cannot be a Crime, Sir.
I have resolv'd to go.

    My Innocence is white as _Alpine_ Snow,
    By these Tears, which never cease to flow.

_Mar._ Your pardon, Mrs. give me leave to instruct you in a moving Cry.
Oh! there's a great deal of Art in crying: Hold your Handkerchief thus;
let it meet your Eyes, thus; your Head declin'd, thus; now, in a perfect
whine, crying out these words,

_By these Tears, which never cease to Flow._

Is not that right my Lord?

L. _Whim._ Oh gad! feelingly Passionate, Madam; were your Ladyship to do
it, the whole House wou'd catch the Infection; and as in _France_ they
are all in a Tune, they'd here be all in Tears.

_Awdwell._ Now I fancy 'twou'd have just the contrary effect on me.

_Mar._ Oh Jehu! how am I tortur'd with your Nonsence! Proceed, for
Heav'ns sake; let my Ears be diverted with my own words; for your's
grate 'em beyond induring.

_Isab._ Must I repeat this stuff agen?

_Mar._ Stuff! my Spirit rises at her: But 'tis in vain to resent it. The
truth on't is, Poets are so increas'd, Players value 'em no more
than----

_Awd._ Ballad-singers.

_Awd._ Spiteful Devils. Well, Mrs. _Cross_, I'll not trouble you agen;
_Amorous_ shall suppose you are going. Come, Mr. _Pinkethman_.

_Amo._ Then with this Flaming Sword I'll clear the way, And hunt for
Danger in the Face of Day.

_Mar._ Well, Mr. _Pinkethman_, I think you are oblig'd to me for
choosing you for a Heroe; Pray do it well, that the Town may see, I was
not mistaken in my Judgment: Fetch large Strides; walk thus; your Arms
strutting; your Voice big, and your Eyes terrible.

Then with this Flaming Sword I'll clear the way.

_Amo._ Then thus I'll clear your way, (_Draws._ And hunt for Danger in
the Face of Day.

_Isa._ Alas, does any oppose us?

L. _Whim._ Only some stragling fellows, which _Amorous_ will scour; and
in the Corner of the Grove the Chariot waits. (_Exeunt._

_Mar._ Now will your Ladyship please to conceive these three are got
into my Lord _Whimsicall's_ Castle? Whither _Fastin_, mad with Jealousie
and Love, pursues: Now your Lordship shall see the storming of a Fort,
not like your _Jerusalem_, but the modern way; my Men shall go all up
thro' a trap door, and ever now and then one drop polt down dead.
(_talking eagerly, she throws my Lords Snuff-box down._

L. _Whim._ Like my Snuff-box, Madam. 'Ouns my Snuff cost two Guineas.

_Mar._ I beg your Lordship's pardon.

Mr. _Prais._ Two Guineas, it shan't be all lost then.

                      (_Picks up the Snuff._
_Mar._ Are you ready? (_goes to the Scenes._
_Within._) Yes, yes, Madam.


_SCENE A Castle Storming._

_Mar._ My Lord, my Lord, this will make you amends for your Snuff! Drums
beat; mount, ye Lumpish Dogs: what are you afraid of? you know the
Stones are only Wool: Faster, with more Spirit? Brutes. Oh _Jehu_! I am
sorry I had not this Castle taken by women, then t'had been done like my
Grotesque Dance there: mount, mount, Rascals.

(Marcilia _bustling among 'em, loses her Head-Cloathes_.

_Patty_, _Patty_, my Head, my Head, the Brutes will trample it to
Pieces. Now, Mr. _Powel_, enter like a Lyon.

_Enter_ Fastin, _Followers_, _Lady_ Loveall, Betty, &c.

_Fast._ By Heav'n, I'll tear her from her Lover's Arms, my Father only
Spare.

_La. Lov._ Spare him not: hear my Charge. Aim every arrow, at his
Destin'd Head, There is no Peace, 'till that Curst Villain's Dead.

_Mar._ Look, look my Lord, where Mr. _Powell_ 's got.

_La. Lov._ Oh, the rash young Man; save him, Gods!

_Betty._ Protect him, _Venus_!

Mr. _Prais._ How heartily _Betty_ prays, and to her own Deity, I dare
swear.

_Fast._ They fly! they fly! sound Trumpets, Sound! let _Clemene's_
Musick joyn confine my Father to yon distant Tower: I'll not see him
'till I have punish'd the Adultress: Set wide the Gates, and let
_Clemenes_ know she's Mistress here.

_La. Lov._ Where is he; Let me fly and bind his Wounds up with my Hair,
lull him upon my own Bosom, and sing him into softest ease.

    To Feast, and Revels Dedicate the Day.
    Let the old Misers stores be all expos'd, and made the Soldiers Prey!
    D' ye hear, let the Butler dye, least he tell Tales.

_Betty._ Madam, he shall then, no body will dare contradict us in the
Cellar neither. (_Exeunt._

Mr. _Prais._ Well said, Mrs. _Betty_; she loves a Cup, I like her the
better for't.

Mr. _Awd._ A hopeful Wife, this! do's she go on thus Triumphant?

_Mar._ I have sworn to answer you no more Questions.

L. _Whiff._ Indeed, Madam, you have made her very wicked.

_Mar._ The woman is a little Mischievous; but your Lordship shall see
I'll bring her to Condign Punnishment. My Lord, I will be bold to say,
here is a Scene a coming, wherein there is the greatest Distress that
ever was seen in a Play: 'tis poor _Amorous_, and _Isabella_. Mr.
_Praisall_, do you remember that old _Whimsicall_ was all along a
Philosopher_?_ Come let down the Chariot.

Mr. _Prais._ Lord Madam, do you think I don't, why was not he and I a
going to the Moon together?

_Mar._ Right! you must keep a steady, and a solid Thought to find the
Depths of this plot out. Now, my Lord, be pleas'd once again to
conceive these poor Lovers hunted above the Castle, at last taking
Sanctuary in a high pair of Leads, which adjoyns to the old Man's study;
conceive also their Enemies at their Heels; how then can these lost
Creatures 'scape?

Mr. _Awd._ May be they both leapt over the Leads, and broke their Necks.

L. _Whiff._ That's one way; but pray lets hear the Ladies.

_Mar._ You must know, my Lord, at first I design'd this for Tragedy; and
they were both taken; She was Poyson'd, and dy'd, like an Innocent Lamb,
as she was indeed: I was studying a Death for him; once I thought Boys
shou'd shoot him to Death with Pot-Guns: for your Lordship may be
pleas'd to understand, _Amorous_ had been a Soldier, tho' now he was a
Steward of the Family; and that wou'd have been Disgrace enough, you
know: But at length I resolv'd to ram him into a great Gun, and scatter
him o're the sturdy Plain: This, I say, was my first resolve. But I
consider'd, 'twould break the Lady's Heart; so there is nothing in their
Parts Tragical but as your Lordship shall see miraculously I turn'd it
into an Opera.

L. _Whif._ Your Ladyship's Wit is Almighty, and produces nothing but
Wonders.

Mr. _Prais._ The Devil take his Lordship, he is always before hand with
me, and goes so confounded high, there's no coming after him.

_Mar._ Your Lordship shall see what, I think, their Opera's have not yet
had.


_SCENE The Leads of a Castle._

_The Sun seen a little beyond: A Chariot stands upon the Leads._

_Enter_ Isabella, _follow'd by_ Amorous.

_Isab._ Now Death's in view, methinks I fear the Monster. Is there no
God that Pities Innocence? Oh! thou All-seeing Sun, contract thy
Glorious Beam's, hide me, in Darkness hide me!

Mr. _Awd._ I am sorry to find your Heroine Shrink.

_Mar._ Oh! 'tis more natural for a woman than bold; as an Imprison'd
Cat, to fly Death i th Face, as 'twere. Humph, was it you I took pains
to convince? Pray no more Interruption of this Scene.

_Amor._ Ten Massy Doors, all barr'd with wondrous strength impede their
Passage: Rest then, thou Milk-white hunted Hind, forget the near
Approach of fear, and hear the Story of my Love.

Mr. _Awd._ Hey boy, little _Amorous_! He'll loose no opportunity.

Mr. _Prais._ He is not like to have many; he was a fool, if he did not
improve 'em.

_Isab._ We soon shall mount yon Blisful Seats! Let us be rob'd with
Innocence, least we want admittance there.

_Amor._ All Dreams! meer Dreams! bred from the Fumes of Crabbed
Education, and must we for this lose true Substantial Pleasure? By
Heav'n, 'twould be a noble Justice to defeat their Malice: they hunt us
for imaginary Crimes; and we must dye like Fools for doing nothing.

Mr. _Prais._ Well urg'd, _Amorous_.

L. _Whiff._ Bold, I vow.

_Mar._ A Lover shou'd be so, my Lord.

_Amor._ But give me up the Heav'n my ravenous Love requires: Let me fill
my Sences with thy Sweetness; then let 'em pour upon me, I cou'd laugh
at all their idle Tortures, every pleas'd Limb shou'd dance upon the
Wheel.

_Mar._ Dance upon the Wheel! that's a new thought, I am sure, my Lord.

L. _Whiff._ Your Tract is all new, and must be uncommon, because others
can never find it.

_Prais._ A Pox on him! he has out-done me agen.

_Mar._ I am your Lordship's very humble Servant: My Lord, How _Amorous_
gazes on her!

L. _Whiff._ Piercing Eyes, I confess.

_Prais._ An irresistible Lere----I got in a word.

_Isab._ Take off your Eyes; mine shou'd be fix'd above; but Love draws
'em downwards, and almost pulls my Heart along.

_Amo._ Give me your Heart! your Arms! Oh! give me all! see at your Feet
the wretched _Amorous_ falls! Be not more cruel than our Foes. Behold me
on the Torture! _Fastin_ cannot Punish me with half the Racks denying
Beauty lays on longing Love.

_Isab._ I recover strength: rise, and begone; Alas, thou can'st not go;
then at awful distance, cold as Ice, not dare to let thy hot Breath agen
offend my chaste Ears! If thou hast, a Dagger rams thy Passion down thy
Throat.

_Mar._ Won't this be a Surprize, my Lord, to see her have such an Icy
Fit?

L. _Whiff._ When I thought she was just going to melt.

_Amor._ See, you are obey'd; shivering your er'e-while raging Lover
stands; your Words and Looks, like Frost on Flowers, have nipt my Hopes
and fierce Desires!

Mr. _Prais._ Alas, poor _Amorous_! (_A Noise without._

_Mar._ Do you hear, my Lord? do's not your Heart ake for the poor
Lovers?

L. _Whif._ I am ready to swoon, Madam.

Mr. _Prais._ Wou'd I had some Cordial-water.

Mr. _Awd._ Art thou _Marsilia_? wilt thou confess it? so weak to believe
these Coxcombs?

_Mar._ I always choose to believe what pleases me best. If a School-Boy
had been told so often of a Fault, as you have been, of Interruption, he
had certainly left it. Make a Noise agen without.

_Isab._ Alas my fears return; what shall I do? I dare not dye.

_Amor._ Oh Let not Monstrous Fear deform the Beauties of thy Soul, but
brave thy Fate.

_Mar._ Louder; but brave thy Fate; strain your Voice: I tell you, Mr.
_Pinkethman_, this speaking Loud gets the Clap.

_Amo._ Pox of this Heroick; I shall tear my Lungs. (_Aside._ But brave
thy Fate.

_Mar._ Aye, that goes to ones very Heart.

_Awd._ And rends ones Head.

_Isab._ I cannot, I dare not; Oh, they come! where shall I hide me?
(_Gets into the Chariot._

_Amo._ For Heav'n's sake, Madam, come from hence: This will expose us to
all their scorn. (_goes in after._

_Mar._ Now, now, up with it. Here, my Lord, here's the wonder; this very
Chariot _Whimsical_ had been making fifty Years, contriv'd beyond all
humane Art, for the Sun to draw up to the Moon; at this very Critical
minute the Matter's affected. Is not your Lordship surpriz'd_?_

L. _Whif._ I know not where I am!

_Prais._ Oh! this is a plain case; so while the old Cuckold was watching
his Chariot, his Wife had Opportunity to make him one.

_Mar._ Right, right, Mr. _Praisall_: Now _Amorous_ finds it move.

_Amor._ Ha! the Chariot moves; a Miracle is known in our Preservation.

_Isab._ Oh! I dye with fear!

_Mar._ Now she falls in a Swoon, and never wakes 'till they come into
another world.

Mr. _Prais._ E gad, 'tis well I am not in the Chariot with her.

_Mar._ You may open the Door, they are out of sight.

_Enter_ Fastin, _Lady_ Loveall _and_ Betty.

_Fast._ Where is the Hellish Pair? Let my Eyes be fasten'd on 'em, that
I may look 'em dead.

_Mar._ Look dreadfully, sweet Mr. _Powell_, look dreadfully.

Mr. _Awd._ Hark'e, Madam, only one thing; did you never hear an old
Proverb; _He that has a House of Glass shou'd never throw Stones at his
Neighbours_? I think this young Gentleman is guilty of much the same
fault.

_Mar._ Lord! Lord! I told ye once before, he did not know his Father was
marry'd to her, he took her for a pure Virgin. Come, Mr. _Powell_, go
on.

_Fast._ Where are you hid? in what Lustful Corner?

L. _Lov._ Alas, I fear they have escap'd, and I have such a Detestation
for ill Women, 'twould grieve me much to have 'em go unpunish'd.

_Betty._ I am sure they took the Stairs that led this way, and must be
here; let me ferret 'em.

Mr. _Prais._ God-a-Mercy, _Betty_! Let _Betty_ alone.

_Bett._ A-dad I can't set Eyes on 'em high nor low.

Mr. _Prais._ No, they are too high for thee, indeed, little _Betty_.

_Mar._ Pray, Mr. _Praisall_, be quiet; here's a great Scene a coming.

Mr. _Prais._ I am silent as the Grave.

_Fast._ In vain they think to 'scape my Rage, by thus evading it; for if
the Earth holds 'em, they shall be found.

_Betty._ Why, where's my old Master's Conjuring Chariot, I wonder, that
he alway's told us wou'd carry him to Heaven, when we little thought
on't? It us'd to stand here.

L. _Lov._ It did so.

_Betty._ Perhaps they are gone to _Elyzium_ in it.

L. _Lov._ No, Fool, _Elyzium_ has no room for Lawless Lovers.

_Betty._ Then you must never come there, I'm sure. (_aside._

_Mar._ That's the first ill word _Betty_ has given her Mistress; and
that was to her self too.

_Fast._ Let my Chariots be prepar'd, we'll leave this hated place, and
in my Castle unlade our Cares. Love shall crown our Hours, and Wine and
Musick rob 'em of 'em with delight.

    L. _Lov._ Whilst I weave flowry Chaplets for your Hair,
    Revels and Masks to please your Sight prepare:
    Feed on your Presence, on your absence grieve,
    Love you alone, for you alone I'll live.

_Mar._ Now quick, quick, get behind her, Mr. least she shou'd resist;
the rest disarm Mr. _Powell_.

_Enter Lord_ Whimsicall _and others_.

L. _Whim._ Not fit to live, nor dye! but Death thou best deserv'st.
(_stabs her._

L. _Lov._ Oh! thou Impotence, only strong in mischief: That feeble aged
Arm has reach'd my youthful Heart.

_Fast._ Slaves, unhand me! Oh! _Clemene_, Oh!

L. _Lov._ Let me come at the Dotard, let me cover the Blood-thirsty Man
with Livid Gore.

_Mar._ D'ye hear, Property-Man, be sure some red Ink is handsomely
convey'd to Mrs. _Knight_.

_Fast._ Move, Dogs; bear her to me, that I may press her close, and keep
in Life.

_Mar._ Strive and struggle now, Mr. _Powell_; Lord, you scarce stir;
hold me, hold me, some of you. Observe, that I may press her close, and
keep in Life:, ye see my Breath's almost gone. Oh! if we Poets did but
act, as well as write, the Plays wou'd never miscarry.

_Fast._ Why, there's enow of you, both Males and Females; entertain the
Town when you will, I'll resign the Stage with all my Heart.

_Mar._ And by my hopes of _Cataline_ I'll propose it. But now pray go
on.

_Fast._ I say, lose your _Plebeian_ Goals, and let me reach my Love.

_Mar._ Well, that's your own; but 'twill do. You may speak it, Mr.
_Powell_.

L. _Whim._ What, the Sorceress! thy Father's Wife, rash Boy!

_Fast._ Ha, ha, ha, ha! Your Wife: I have heard indeed of old Men that
wanted Virgins, when vital warmth was gone.

_L. Whim._ To that Title do's _Clemene_'s Impudence pretend. Speak, lewd
Adultress.

_La. Lov._ Yes, I will speak, and own it all: Why shou'd I mince the
matter, now I've lost my hopes of him? For the old Skeleton, sign alone,
and shadow of a Man, I might have yet been pure: But whilst gay Youths
adorn'd thy Family _Clemene_ wou'd not sigh in vain.

_Fast._ What's this I hear?

_Bet._ My Lady dying! I am not yet prepared to bear her Company: I'll
e'en shift for one. I wou'd not willingly leave this wicked World,
before I have tasted a little more on't.

Mr. _Prais._ True, Mrs. _Betty_; slip behind me, and thou art gone.

_Mar._ See, my Lord, they are all struck in a Maze.

(_Exit._

L. _Whiff._ 'Tis very amazing!

_L. Whim._ Why, _Fastin_, stare you thus? Is her wickedness such News?
Go, bear her off, and let her die alone.

_La. Lov._ Do, convey me hence; for not gaping Pipes of burning Sulphur,
nor grinning hideous Fiends, can jerk my Soul like that old Husband.
Fogh! how he stinks! Set him a fire with all his Chymistry about him,
see how he'll blaze on his own Spirits.

_Fast._ Rage not; it wastes thy precious Life.

Mr. _Awd._ Then he loves her still.

_Mar._ Yes; what, you think him hot and cold in a quarter of an hour?

_La. Lov._ _Fastin_, farewel. Oh! thou only Youth, whom I can truly say
I lov'd, for thee I'd run this mad Risque agen; for thee I die. Away,
away! and let me do the work of Children in the dark. (_Exit led off._

_L. Whim._ Where's my Chariot? my Chariot of the Sun, Slaves! who has
remov'd it? if it jogg'd but a Hair awry, may set me backwards ten
tedious Years. But it is gone! where can it be? (_Runs up and down to
look it._

_Fast._ Defeated Love! approaching Shame! Remorse and deathless Infamy!
they crowd one Breast too much: Here's to give 'em vent. (_Stabs
himself._

_L. Whim._ Oh! 'tis gone! 'tis gone! my Chariot! Oh, my Chariot!

_Fast._ See, _Clemene_, see, thy Adorer comes! guiltily fond, and
pressing after thee. (_Dies._

_L. Whim._ Have you all lookt below? is there no news of this
inestimable Chariot?

_Serv._ No, my Lord; and here your Son is dead.

_L. Whim._ Why dost thou tell me of my Son, the blind work of Chance,
the sport of Darkness, which produc'd a Monster? I've lost an Engine,
the labour'd care of half a hundred Years. It is gone! _I_ shall go mad.

_Mar._ Good Mr. What-d'-call-'um, this last Speech to the highest pitch
of raving.

_L. Whim._ Ha! the Sun has got it; _I_ see the glorious Tract: But _I_
will mount and yet recover it: The covetous Planet shall not dare to
keep it for the use of his Paramour. Bear me, ye Winds, upon your
blustring Wings; for _I_ am light as Air, and mad as rowling Tempests.

(_Exit_

_Mar_. Is not this passion well exprest?

Mr. _Awd._ 'Tis indeed all mad Stuff.

_Mar._ your word neither mends nor mars it, that's one Comfort. Mr.
_Powell_, will you walk off, or be carry'd off?

Mr. _Pow._ I'll make use of my Legs, if you please, Madam. Your most
humble Servant.

_Mar._ Mr. _Powell_, yours; I give you ten thousand thanks for your
trouble. I hope, Mr. _Powell_, you are convinc'd this Play won't fail.

Mr. _Pow._ O Lord! Madam, impossible! (_Exit._

_Mar._ Well, sure by this Play, the Town will perceive what a woman can
do. I must own, my Lord, it stomachs me sometimes, to hear young Fops
cry, there's nothing like Mr. Such-a-one's Plays, and Mr. Such-a-ones
Plays.

L. _Whiff._ But, Madam, I fear our excellent Entertainment's over; I
think all your Actors are kill'd.

_Mar._ True, my Lord, they are most of 'em dispatch'd. But now, my Lord,
comes one of my Surprizes; I make an end of my Play in the World in the
Moon.

L. _Whiff._ In the World in the Moon!

Mr. _Prais._ Prodigious!

_Mar._ Scene-Men: Where the Devil are these Blockheads? Scene-Men.

_Within._) Here, here.

_Mar._ Come, one of your finest Scenes, and the very best that ye know
must be, when the Emperour and Empress appear.

_Scene-Men._ How d'ye like this Madam?

_Mar._ Aye, aye, that will do.

L. _Whim._ 'Tis every thing the Stage, can afford in perfection.

Mr. _Prais._ And which no Stage in the World can equal.

_Mar._ Oh, fie! Mr. _Praisall_, you go often to _Lincoln's-Inn-Fields_.

Mr. _Prais._ I have said it, let t'other House take it how they will.

L. _Whif._ What, are these Men, or Monsters?

_Mar._ My Lord, this is very true, I'll believe the Historian, for he
was there, my Lord. The World in the Moon is as fine a place as this
represents; but the Inhabitants are a little shallow, and go, as you
see, upon all four; now I design _Amorous_ and _Isabella_ shall bring in
such a Reformation; then all the Hero's of the Moon-world shall fall in
love with _Isabella_, as, you know, in _Aurenzebe_ they are all in love
with _Indamora_: Oh! that's a sweet, a pretty Name; but a Duce on't, my
Brother Bay's has scarce left a pretty Name for his Successors?

Mr. _Prais._ Dear Madam, are these crawling things to speak, or no?

_Mar._ Patience is a great Vertue, Mr. _Praisall_.

Mr. _Awd._ And your Spectators must exercise it, o'my Conscience.

_Mar._ Pray now, my Lord, be pleas'd to suppose this is the Emperor's
Wedding-day. Musick and the Dance.

_Dance upon all Four._

SONG.

What's the whispering for?

_One of the Men._) Why, Madam, to tell you the truth, in short, we are
not able to continue in this Posture any longer, without we break our
Backs; so we have unanimously resolv'd to stand upright.

(_All the Men and Women stand up, when they're come forward._

Mr. _Prais._ Hey! heres another Surprize!

_Mar._ Oh! the Devil; you have spoilt my Plot! you have ruin'd my play,
ye Blockheads! ye Villains, I'll kill you all, burn the Book, and hang
my self! (_Throws down the Book, and stamps upon it._

L. _Whiff._ _Taking up the Book._) Hold, Madam! Don't let Passion
provoke you, like the Knight of old, to destroy what After-ages cannot
equal.

_Mar._ Why, my Lord _Amorous_, and _Isabella_ was to come in, and their
wou'd have been such a Scene! Asses! Ideots! Jolts! But they shall never
speak a Line of mine, if it wou'd save 'em from in evitable ruine; I'll
carry it to t'other House this very Moment.

Mr. _Awd._ Won't ye go home to Dinner first?

_Mar._ Dinner be damn'd! I'll never eat more. See too! if any of their
impudent People come to beg my Pardon! or appease me! Well, I will go,
that's resolv'd.

Mr. _Prais._ Madam, consider; cou'd they not stoop agen, when
_Isabella's_ come in; I'll try how 'tis. (_stoops_ Oun's 'tis Devillish
painful.

_Mar._ Don't tell me, 'tis painful; if they'll do nothing for their
Livings, let 'em starve and be hang'd. My Chair there.

L. _Whiff._ Madam, my Coach is at your Service, it waits without.

_Mar._ To be seen in my Lord's Coach is some Consolation (_aside_ My
Lord, I desire to go directly into _Lincoln's-Inn-Fields_.

L. _Whiff._ Where you please, Madam.

_Mar._ I'll never set my Foot agen upon this confounded Stage. My Opera
shall be first, and my _Catiline_ next; which I'd have these to know,
shall absolutely break 'em. They may shut up their Doors; strole or
starve, or do what ever the Devil puts in their heads; no more of
_Marsilias_ Works, I assure 'em. Come, my Lord.

Mr. _Awd._ You won't go, Madam?

_Mar._ By my Soul, I will; your damn'd ill Humour began my Misfortunes.
Farewel, _Momus_; farewel, Ideots: Hoarse be your Voices, rotten your
Lungs, want of Wit and Humour continue upon your damn'd Poets, and
Poverty consume you all. (_Exit._

_Prais._ What, ner'e a word to me! or did she put me among the Ideots?
Sir, the Lady's gone.

_Awd._ And you may go after; there's something to help you forward.
(_kicks him._

_Prais._ I intend, Sir, I intend it. (_Exit._

_Enter Mr._ Powell, _Mrs._ Knight, _Mrs._ Cross, _&c._ _Laughing_

_Awd._ So, what's the news now?

Mr. _Pow._ Oh, my Sides! my Sides! the wrathful Lady has run over a
Chair, shatter'd the Glasses to pieces: The Chair-Men, to save it, fell
pell-mell in with her. She has lost part of her Tail, broke her Fan,
tore her Ruffles, and pull'd off half my Lord _Whiffle's_ Wigg, with
trying to rise by it: So they are, with a Shagreen Air, and tatter'd
Dress, gone into the Coach: Mr. _Praisall_ thrust in after 'em, with the
bundle of Fragments, his Care had pick'd up from under the Fellows Feet.
Come, to make some Atonement, Entertain this Gentleman with the Dance
you are practising for the next new Play.

A DANCE.

Mr. _Awd._ Mr. _Powell_, if you'll do me the favour to dine with me.
I'll prevent the Dinner I bespoke going to _Marsilia's_ Lodgings, and
we'll eat it here.

Mr. _Pow._ With all my heart: I am at your Service.

    _Awd._ _Thus warn'd,
    I'll leave the Scribler to her Fops, and Fate;
    I find she's neither worth my Love or Hate._


_FINIS._




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