Scenes described in (parentheses) are unnumbered.
Roderigo—the natural son of the great Count d’ Olivarez, minister to Philip IV of Spain—was, upon his father’s disgrace, given over when very young to the care of a certain Don Ambrosio, and by him brought up as his own child. Ambrosio has one son, Marcel, and two daughters, Hippolita and Cleonte. Marcel, whilst in Flanders, promised Hippolita to his friend Alonzo. This Alonzo is the son of a lady Octavia and Don Manuel. But Manuel’s rival in Octavia’s love, Alonzo, stole their boy when an infant and brought him up to arms, giving him his own name. Pedro, an old servant, who is cognizant of this, is sworn to secrecy. Alonzo arrives in Madrid purposing to wed Hippolita as he desires to ally himself with so ancient and powerful a family as Ambrosio’s. Hippolita, however, having been betrayed by a German named Antonio, has fled, and now resides in a house of pleasure in the town, having assumed the habit of a Venetian courtezan. Alonzo meeting Euphemia, sister to his friend Lovis, becomes enamoured of her, and the lady grants him a rendezvous at a house where they will be uninterrupted—it happens this house is the bagnio where Hippolita is secreted. Marcel, on his way to visit Clarinda, whom he loves, recognizes Alonzo and follows him to his rendezvous, Olinda, Euphemia’s maid, mistakenly introduces Marcel to her mistress. Euphemia is veiled and Marcel, who has heard that his sister is living in that house, in his turn mistakes the lady for Hippolita, more especially as he meets Antonio there. The two men fight, but Alonzo entering interferes. Antonio escapes, bearing away Hippolita. Euphemia, whom Marcel in a passion of revenge would kill, is soon discovered not to be Hippolita, and the angry brother duly retires from the scene. Alonzo, however, leaving the house is accosted for Marcel by Dormida, Clarinda’s maid, who gives him the key to their house. Alonzo enters followed by Marcel who is close on his heels. They jostle and fight in the darkness of the hall within, and Alonzo departs leaving Marcel wounded. Dormida fearing trouble drags Clarinda forth and meeting Alonzo in the street they throw themselves on his honourable protection. A complete stranger, in his dilemma he escorts them to the mansion of Ambrosio, and they chance on Cleonte’s chamber. She has just had a visit from Silvio (under which name Roderigo passes), who is burning with passion for her but shrinks from his supposed sister. Cleonte offers the two ladies a refuge and Alonzo retires. With the aid of his friend Lovis he assumes the habit of Haunce van Ezel, a Dutch boor who is contracted to Euphemia, and, as Haunce, courts Lovis’ sister with the full approbation of their father Don Carlo. When Haunce himself appears he is greeted with some familiarity as having been at the house before. The Dutch Lover, who has newly arrived, chances on a strife between Antonio and Hippolita and interfering disarms Antonio, wounding him in the face. Cleonte meantime has introduced her guest Clarinda to Silvio, and Marcel seeing them together concludes that his own brother is the man who fought him on the previous night and indeed his favoured rival. At once he challenges him and they arrange to have a duel in a grove near the town. Here, however, comes Hippolita disguised in man’s attire, 218 awaiting Antonio to whom she has sent a billet signed ‘Alonzo’. She retires, whilst Silvio appears, and when he is engaged with Marcel, Alonzo rushes in and parts them. Alonzo avows that it was he who caused the confusion with Clarinda, and arranges to meet Marcel later in another spot. Antonio next arrives and Hippolita, calling herself Alonzo, draws, but Alonzo himself insists on taking up the quarrel. At the clash of steel Marcel returns and all four fight, Marcel with Hippolita, whom he wounds, Alonzo with Antonio, whom he disarms—Hippolita reveals herself, Alonzo claims her, but Antonio declaring that he is bound to her by sacred vows rescues her from Marcel’s vengeance and obtains his forgiveness. All return to Ambrosio’s house where they find Cleonte and Clarinda. Explanations ensue, and Marcel is at Clarinda’s feet. Pedro, however, who attends Alonzo, recognizes his old fellow-servant, Dormida, duenna to Clarinda, and learning Don Manuel is dead, reveals that Alonzo is Clarinda’s brother, also handing over papers left by Don Alonzo the foster-father, which bestow 12,000 crowns a year on his adopted son, Alonzo portions Clarinda and gives her to Marcel. Francisca, woman to Cleonte, informs Silvio that Cleonte will yield to him—Silvio, suddenly revolted, declares he will present himself, but secretly resolves to poinard his sister. Marcel who has overheard the conference, beside himself with rage, dashes on Silvio with dagger drawn and when checked by Ambrosio and the rest who rush in at Francisca’s cries makes known the cause of his wrath. Francisca confesses that Cleonte had sent no such message, but herself purposed to take her mistress’ place that night and receive Silvio. Ambrosio then reveals the secret of Silvio’s birth and gives Cleonte to him, in his joy even taking Hippolita to his arms since Antonio has married her. Alonzo, meanwhile, disguised as Haunce has been united to Euphemia. He is discovered by the arrival on the scene of the real Haunce accompanied by Gload, a foolish tutor. Carlo is soon reconciled to the new bridegroom, whilst Haunce and Gload joining in a masquerade find themselves unexpectedly wedded to Olinda and Dorice, two women attendant on the lady Euphemia.
Mrs. Behn founded the plot of The Dutch Lover upon the stories of Eufemie and Theodore, Don Jame and Frederic, in a pseudo-Spanish novel entitled ‘The History of Don Fenise, a new Romance written in Spanish by Francisco de Las Coveras, And now Englished by a Person of Honour, London, Printed for Humphrey Moseley,’ 8vo, 1651. There is of course no such Spanish author as ‘the ingenious Don Francisco de las Coveras’. The chief merit of the book is purely bibliographical: it is a very rare volume and difficult to meet with. The Bodleian indeed contains a copy, but it is not to be found in the British Museum library. The somewhat morbid theme of overwhelming passion barred by consanguinity eventually discovered to be false, which is here exemplified in the love of Silvio for Cleonte, occurs more than once in the later Jacobean and Carolan drama. In Beaumont and Fletcher’s tragicomedy A King and no King (1611: 4to, 1619), we have Arbaces enamoured of Panthea, his reputed sister; similar motives are to be found in Arthur Wilson’s The Swizzer (1631); but in 219 Middleton’s Women beware Women (circa 1612: 4to, 1657), no contrivance can legitimize the incestuous loves of Hippolito and Isabella, and death is the only solution. In Massinger’s The Unnatural Combat (1621: 4to, 1639), the demoniac Malefort pursues his daughter Theocrine with the same baleful fires as Francesco Cenci looked on Beatrice, but the height of horror, harrowing the soul with pity and anguish, culminates in Ford’s terrible scenes Tis Pity She’s a Whore (4to, 1633), so tenderly tragic, so exquisitely beautiful for all their moral perversity, that they remain unequalled outside Shakespeare.
In the Restoration Theatre the theme of consanguinity was originally dealt with no less than three times by Dryden: comically, in The Spanish Friar (1681), when Lorenzo—after all the love-brokerage of pursy Father Dominic—discovers Elvira to be his sister: tragically, in Don Sebastian (1690), when Sebastian and Almeyda are separated by the disclosures of old Alvarez: sentimentally and romantically, in Love Triumphant (1693-4), when Alphonso wins Victoria whom he has long loved, even whilst she was supposed to be his sister. Otway it will be remembered turns the pathetic catastrophe of The Orphan (1680), upon a deceit which produces similar though unhappy circumstances. In 1679, Oedipus, a joint production of Dryden and Lee, was brought out with great success at the Duke’s Theatre, Dorset Gardens.
Unhallowed and incestuous passions again form the plot of The Fatal Discovery; or, Love in Ruins (4to, 1698), produced at Drury Lane, a play seemingly derived from Bandello, Part II, Novel 35, which coincides with the thirtieth tale of the Heptameron. In various forms, however, this legend is to be found in the literature of all countries, and a cognate tradition is even attached to certain districts. Innocence Distress’d; or, The Royal Penitents, a tragedy by Robert Gould (ob. 1709), never performed but published by subscription (8vo, 1737), for the benefit of his daughter Hannah, is based on the same story. Gould’s work is weak and insipid.
Later in the eighteenth century we have Horace Walpole’s The Mysterious Mother (8vo, 1768), an unacted drama of extraordinary power and undissipated gloom on the same terrible theme; whilst Shelley’s The Centi, published in 1819, which the poet most emphatically intended for the boards, remains a masterpiece of supreme genius.
Wagner in Die Walküre shows the irresistible passion of Siegmund and Sieglinde, brother and sister, from whose union sprang the mighty hero Siegfried; and in Gengangere (Ghosts), 1881, Ibsen threw, by the sickly craving of the fibreless Oswald Alving for Regina, a lurid light across that awesome tragedy of shadows, Nemesis, and blank despair.
The Dutch Lover was produced at the Duke’s Theatre, Dorset Garden, in February, 1673, but owing to the manifold disadvantages under which it was put on the stage it did not meet with that success it certainly deserved. It was indeed, to quote the preface, ‘hugely injured in the acting.’ The performers were anything but word perfect and hopelessly forgot or confused their business, which, more especially in a play of such a type as this romantic comedy so full of busy and complicated detail demanding close and continuous attention, was enough to mystify the 220 audience completely and foredoom the piece to failure. The worst sinner was Haunce himself, who hardly spoke one of his lines but gagged from start to finish. Not unnaturally, Mrs. Behn resented this and avows that she would have trounced him roundly in print except ‘de mortuis...’ Although the original cast is not given, this detail enables us to fix the representative of Haunce as Angel, a leading comedian, who died in the spring of 1673, his name last appearing as de Boastado in Ravenscroft’s Careless Lovers.
In addition to these serious detriments the costumes were very poor, especially the disguise of Alonzo as the Hollander, and Haunce’s own ‘fantastical travelling habit,’ dresses on the aptness of which the probability of the intrigue can be made so largely to depend.
Yet another mishap occurred. The epilogue, which had been promised by a friend, did not come to hand, and accordingly the present epilogue was hastily composed. Though containing nothing notably witty or pointed it does not fall below the generality of these productions. Of the prologue we have no means of judging as it was unfortunately lost before it could find its way into print.
Had The Dutch Lover received fair treatment from the actors it should surely have commanded no small success in its day. Technically it is well contrived, and exhibits the skill and clever stage-craft of its authoress in a high degree, qualities which have often given a long lease of life to plays of infinitely less merit.
Good, Sweet, Honey, Sugar-Candied Reader,
Which I think is more than anyone has called you yet, I must have a word or two with you before you do advance into the Treatise; but ’tis not to beg your pardon for diverting you from your affairs, by such an idle Pamphlet as this is, for I presume you have not much to do and therefore are to be obliged to me for keeping you from worse employment, and if you have a better you may get you gone about your business: but if you will misspend your Time, pray lay the fault upon yourself; for I have dealt pretty fairly in the matter, told you in the Title Page what you are to expect within. Indeed, had I hung a sign of the Immortality of the Soul, of the Mystery of Godliness, or of Ecclesiastical Policie, and then had treated you with Indiscerpibility and Essential Spissitude (words, which though I am no competent Judge of, for want of Languages, yet I fancy strongly ought to mean just nothing) with a company of Apocryphal midnight Tales cull’d out of the choicest Insignificant Authors; If I had only proved in Folio that Apollonius was a naughty knave, or had presented you with two or three of the worst principles transcrib’d out of the peremptory and ill-natur’d (though prettily ingenious) Doctor of Malmsbury undigested and ill-manag’d by a silly, saucy, ignorant, impertinent, ill educated Chaplain I were then indeed sufficiently in fault; but having inscrib’d Comedy on the beginning of my Book, you may guess pretty near what penny-worths you are like to have, and ware your money and your time accordingly. I would not yet be understood to lessen the dignity of Playes, for surely they deserve a place among the middle if not the better sort of Books; for I have heard the most of that which bears the name of Learning, and which has abused such quantities of Ink and Paper, and continually employs so many ignorant, unhappy souls for ten, twelve, twenty years in the University (who yet poor wretches think they are doing something all the while) as Logick etc. and several other things (that shall be nameless lest I misspell them) are much more absolutely nothing than the errantest Play that e’er was writ. Take notice, Reader, I do not assert this purely upon my own knowledge, but I think I have known it very fully prov’d, both sides being fairly heard, and even some ingenious opposers of it most abominably baffl’d in the Argument: Some of which I have got so perfectly by rote, that if this were a proper place for it, I am apt to think myself could almost make it clear; and as I would not undervalue Poetry, so neither am I altogether of their judgement who believe no wisdom in the world beyond it. I have often heard indeed 222 (and read) how much the World was anciently oblig’d to it for most of that which they call’d Science, which my want of letters makes me less assured of than others happily may be: but I have heard some wise men say that no considerable part of useful knowledge was this way communicated, and on the other way, that it hath serv’d to propogate so many idle superstitions, as all the benefits it hath or can be guilty of, can never make sufficient amends for; which unaided by the unlucky charms of Poetry, could never have possest a thinking Creature such as man. However true this is, I am myself well able to affirm that none of all our English Poets, and least the Dramatique (so I think you call them) can be justly charg’d with too great reformation of men’s minds or manners, and for that I may appeal to general experiment, if those who are the most assiduous Disciples of the Stage, do not make the fondest and the lewdest Crew about this Town; for if you should unhappily converse them through the year, you will not find one Dram of sense amongst a Club of them, unless you will allow for such a little Link-Boy’s Ribaldry thick larded with unseasonable oaths & impudent defiance of God, and all things serious; and that at such a senseless damn’d unthinking rate, as, if ’twere well distributed, would spoil near half the Apothecaries trade, and save the sober people of the Town the charge of Vomits; And it was smartly said (how prudently I cannot tell) by a late learned Doctor, who, though himself no great asserter of a Deity, (as you’ll believe by that which follows) yet was observed to be continually persuading of this sort of men (if I for once may call them so) of the necessity and truth of our Religion; and being ask’d how he came to bestir himself so much this way, made answer that it was because their ignorance and indiscreet debauch made them a scandal to the profession of Atheism. And for their wisdom and design I never knew it reach beyond the invention of some notable expedient, for the speedier ridding them of their Estate, (a devilish clog to Wit and Parts), than other grouling Mortals know, or battering half-a-dozen fair new Windows in a Morning after their debauch, whilst the dull unjantee Rascal they belong to is fast asleep. But I’ll proceed no farther in their character, because that miracle of Wit (in spite of Academick frippery) the mighty Echard hath already done it to my satisfaction; and whoever undertakes a Supplement to anything he hath discourst, had better for their reputation be doing nothing.
Besides this Theam is worn too thread-bare by the whiffling would-be Wits of the Town, and of both the stone-blind-eyes of the Kingdom. And therefore to return to that which I before was speaking of, I will have leave to say that in my judgement the increasing number of our latter Plays have not done much more towards the amending of men’s Morals, or their Wit, than hath the frequent Preaching, which this last age hath been pester’d with, (indeed without all Controversie they have done less harm) nor can I 223 once imagine what temptation anyone can have to expect it from them; for sure I am no Play was ever writ with that design. If you consider Tragedy, you’ll find their best of Characters unlikely patterns for a wise man to pursue: For he that is the Knight of the Play, no sublunary feats must serve his Dulcinea; for if he can’t bestrid the Moon, he’ll ne’er make good his business to the end, and if he chance to be offended, he must without considering right or wrong confound all things he meets, and put you half-a-score likely tall fellows into each pocket; and truly if he come not something near this Pitch I think the Tragedy’s not worth a farthing; for Playes were certainly intended for the exercising of men’s passions not their understandings, and he is infinitely far from wise that will bestow one moment’s meditation on such things: And as for Comedie, the finest folks you meet with there are still unfitter for your imitation, for though within a leaf or two of the Prologue, you are told that they are people of Wit, good Humour, good Manners, and all that: yet if the Authors did not kindly add their proper names, you’d never know them by their Characters; for whatsoe’er’s the matter, it hath happen’d so spightfully in several Playes, which have been prettie well received of late, that even those persons that were meant to be the ingenious Censors of the Play, have either prov’d the most debauch’d, or most unwittie people in the Company: nor is this error very lamentable, since as I take it Comedie was never meant, either for a converting or a conforming Ordinance: In short, I think a Play the best divertisement that wise men have: but I do also think them nothing so who do discourse as formallie about the rules of it, as if ’twere the grand affair of humane life. This being my opinion of Plays, I studied only to make this as entertaining as I could, which whether I have been successful in, my gentle Reader, you may for your shilling judge. To tell you my thoughts of it, were to little purpose, for were they very ill, you may be sure I would not have expos’d it; nor did I so till I had first consulted most of those who have a reputation for judgement of this kind; who were at least so civil (if not kind) to it as did encourage me to venture it upon the Stage, and in the Press: Nor did I take their single word for it, but us’d their reasons as a confirmation of my own.
Indeed that day ’twas Acted first, there comes me into the Pit, a long, lither, phlegmatick, white, ill-favour’d, wretched Fop, an Officer in Masquerade newly transported with a Scarf & Feather out of France, a sorry Animal that has nought else to shield it from the uttermost contempt of all mankind, but that respect which we afford to Rats and Toads, which though we do not well allow to live, yet when considered as a part of God’s Creation, we make honourable mention of them. A thing, Reader—but no more of such a Smelt: This thing, I tell ye, opening that which serves it for a mouth, out issued such a noise as this to those that sate about it, that 224 they were to expect a woful Play, God damn him, for it was a woman’s. Now how this came about I am not sure, but I suppose he brought it piping hot from some who had with him the reputation of a villanous Wit: for Creatures of his size of sense talk without all imagination, such scraps as they pick up from other folks. I would not for a world be taken arguing with such a propertie as this; but if I thought there were a man of any tolerable parts, who could upon mature deliberation distinguish well his right hand from his left, and justly state the difference between the number of sixteen and two, yet had this prejudice upon him; I would take a little pains to make him know how much he errs. For waving the examination why women having equal education with men, were not as capable of knowledge, of whatsoever sort as well as they: I’ll only say as I have touch’d before, that Plays have no great room for that which is men’s great advantage over women, that is Learning; We all well know that the immortal Shakespeare’s Plays (who was not guilty of much more of this than often falls to women’s share) have better pleas’d the World than Johnson’s works, though by the way ’tis said that Benjamin was no such Rabbi neither, for I am inform’d that his Learning was but Grammar high; (sufficient indeed to rob poor Salust of his best orations) and it hath been observ’d that they are apt to admire him most confoundedly, who have just such a scantling of it as he had; and I have seen a man the most severe of Johnson’s Sect, sit with his Hat remov’d less than a hair’s breadth from one sullen posture for almost three hours at The Alchymist; who at that excellent Play of Harry the Fourth (which yet I hope is far enough from Farce) hath very hardly kept his Doublet whole; but affectation hath always had a greater share both in the action and discourse of men than truth and judgement have; and for our Modern ones, except our most unimitable Laureat, I dare to say I know of none that write at such a formidable rate, but that a woman may well hope to reach their greatest heights. Then for their musty rules of Unity, and God knows what besides, if they meant anything, they are enough intelligible and as practible by a woman; but really methinks they that disturb their heads with any other rule of Playes besides the making them pleasant, and avoiding of scurrility, might much better be employed in studying how to improve men’s too imperfect knowledge of that ancient English Game which hight long Laurence: And if Comedy should be the picture of ridiculous mankind I wonder anyone should think it such a sturdy task, whilst we are furnish’d with such precious Originals as him I lately told you of; if at least that Character do not dwindle into Farce, and so become too mean an entertainment for those persons who are us’d to think. Reader, I have a complaint or two to make to you and I have done; Know then that this Play was hugely injur’d in the Acting, for ’twas done so imperfectly as never any was 225 before, which did more harm to this than it could have done to any of another sort; the Plot being busie (though I think not intricate) and so requiring a continual attention, which being interrupted by the intolerable negligence of some that acted in it, must needs much spoil the beauty on’t. My Dutch Lover spoke but little of what I intended for him, but supplied it with a great deal of idle stuff, which I was wholly unacquainted with until I had heard it first from him; so that Jack-pudding ever us’d to do: which though I knew before, I gave him yet the Part, because I knew him so acceptable to most o’th’ lighter Periwigs about the Town, and he indeed did vex me so, I could almost be angry: Yet, but Reader, you remember, I suppose, a fusty piece of Latine that has past from hand to hand this thousand years they say (and how much longer I can’t tell) in favour of the dead. I intended him a habit much more notably ridiculous, which if ever it be important was so here, for many of the Scenes in the three last Acts depended upon the mistakes of the Colonel for Haunce, which the ill-favour’d likeness of their Habits is suppos’d to cause. Lastly my Epilogue was promis’d me by a Person who had surely made it good, if any, but he failing of his word, deput’d one, who has made it as you see, and to make out your penyworth you have it here. The Prologue is by misfortune lost. Now, Reader, I have eas’d my mind of all I had to say, and so sans farther complyment, Adieu.
| MEN. | |
Ambrosio, A Nobleman of Spain. |
|
Marcel, His Son. |
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Silvio, Supposed Bastard Son to Ambrosio. |
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Antonio, A German that has debauch’d Hippolyta. |
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Alonzo, A Flanders Colonel contracted to Hippolyta and newly arriv’d at Madrid. |
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Lovis, His Friend. |
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Carlo, Father to Lovis and Euphemia. |
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Haunce van Ezel, A Dutch Fop contracted to Euphemia, newly arriv’d at Madrid. |
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Gload, His Cash-keeper. |
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Pedro, An old Servant to Alonzo. |
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| WOMEN. | |
Euphemia, In love with Alonzo. |
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Hippolyta, In love with Antonio, |
Daughters to Ambrosio. |
Cleonte, In love with Silvio, |
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Clarinda, Sister unknown to Alonzo, in love with Marcel. |
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Dormida, Her Governess. |
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Francisca, Woman to Cleonte. |
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| Olinda, | Two Maids to Euphemia. |
| Dorice, | |
Swains, Four Shepherds, Four Nymphs, Dutch Men and Dutch Women. |
|
The Scene, Madrid.
Enter Alonzo and Lovis in travelling Habits, attended by Pedro and Gload.
Lo. Dear Alonzo! I shall love a Church the better this Month for giving me a sight of thee, whom I so little expected in this part of the World, and less in so sanctifi’d a Place. What Affair could be powerful enough to draw thee from the kind obliging Ladies of Brabant?
Alon. First the sudden Orders of my Prince Don John, and next a fair Lady.
Lo. A Lady! Can any of this Country relish with a Man that has been us’d to the Freedom of those of Bruxels, from whence I suppose you are now arriv’d?
Alon. This morning I landed, from such a Storm, as set us all to making Vows of Conversion, (upon good Conditions) and that indeed brought me to Church.
Lo. In that very Storm I landed too, but with less Sense of Danger than you, being diverted with a pleasant Fellow that came along with me, and who is design’d to marry a Sister of mine against my Will—And now I think of him, Gload, where hast thou left this Master of thine?
Glo. At the Inn, Sir, in as lamentable a Pickle, as if he were still in the Storm; recruiting his emptyed Stomach with Brandy, and railing against all Women-kind for your Sister’s sake, who has made him undertake this Voyage.
Lo. Well, I’ll come to him, go home before. [Ex. Gload.
Alon. Prithee what thing is this?
228Lo. Why, ’tis the Cashier to this Squire I spoke of, a Man of Business, and as wise as his Master, but the graver Coxcomb of the two. But this Lady, Alonzo, who is this Lady thou speak’st of? shall not I know her? We were wont to divide the Spoils of Beauty, as well as those of War between us.
Alon. O but this is no such Prize, thou wouldst hardly share this with the Danger, there’s Matrimony in the Case.
Lo. Nay, then keep her to thy self, only let me know who ’tis that can debauch thee to that scandalous way of Life; is she fair? will she recompense the Folly?
Alon. Faith, I know not, I never saw her yet, but ’tis the Sister of Marcel, whom we both knew last Summer in Flanders, and where he and I contracted such a Friendship, that without other Consideration he promis’d me Hippolyta, for that’s his Sister’s Name.
Lo. But wo’t thou really marry her?
Alon. I consider my Advantage in being allied to so considerable a Man as Ambrosio, her Father; I being now so unhappy as not to know my Birth or Parents.
Lo. I have often heard of some such thing, but durst not ask the Truth of it.
Alon. ’Tis so, all that I know of my self is, that a Spanish Souldier, who brought me up in the Army, dying, confest I was not his Son, (which till then I believ’d) and at the Age of twelve left me to shift for my self: the Fortune he inrich’d me with, was his Horse and Arms, with a few Documents how to use them, as I had seen him do with good success: This Servant, [Points to Pedro] and a Crucifix of Value. And from one Degree to another, I arriv’d to what you knew me, Colonel of the Prince’s Regiment, and the Glory of his Favour.
Lo. Honour is the Child of Virtue, and finds an Owner every where.
Alon. Oh, Sir, you are a Courtier, and have much the odds of a Souldier in Parleys of this nature: but hither I am come—
229Lo. To be undone—Faith, thou look’st ill upon’t.
Alon. I confess I am not altogether so brisk as I should have been upon another Occasion; you know, Lovis, I have been us’d to Christian Liberty, and hate this formal Courtship. Pox on’t, wou’d ’twere over.
Lo. Where all Parties are agreed, there’s little need of that; and the Ladies of Spain, whatever Gravity they assume, are as ready as any you ever met withal.
Alon. But there’s a damn’d Custom that does not at all agree with Men so frank and gay as thou and I; there’s a deal of Danger in the Atchievement, which some say heightens the Pleasure, but I am of another Opinion.
Ped. Sir, there is a Female in a Veil has follow’d us ever since we came from Church.
Alon. Some amorous Adventure: See [Enter Olinda.] she advances: Prithee retire, there may be danger in it. [Puts Lovis back.
Lo. Oh then, I must by no means leave you. [Lovis advances.
Olin. Which of these two shall I chuse? [She looks on both.
Sir, you appear a Stranger. [To Lovis.
Alon. We are both so, Lady.
Olin. I shall spoil all, and bring [She looks again on both.] the wrong. Sir, you should be a Cavalier, that—
Alon. Would gladly obey your Orders.
Lo. Nay, I find ’tis all one to you which you chuse, so you have one of us: but would not both do better?
Olin. No, Sir, my Commission’s but to one.
Alon. Fix and proceed then, let me be the Man.
Olin. What shall I do? they are both well: [Aside.
but I’ll e’en chuse, as ’twere, for my self; and hang me if I know which that shall be, [looks on both.] Sir, there is a Lady of Quality and Beauty, who guessing you to be Men of Honour, has sent me to one of you.
Alon. Me, I am sure.
Lo. Me, me, he’s engag’d already.
230Alon. That’s foul Play, Lovis.
Alon. Well, I must have but one, and therefore I’ll wink and chuse.
Lo. I’ll not trust blind Fortune.
Alon. Prithee, Lovis, let thee and I agree upon the matter, and I find the Lady will be reasonable; cross or pile who shall go.
Lo. Go, Sir, whither?
Alon. To the Lady that—
Lo. Sent for neither of us that I can hear of yet.
Alon. You will not hear me out, but I’ll end the Difference by chusing you, Sir; and if you’ll follow me [To Alonzo.] at a Distance, I will conduct you where this Lady is.
Alon. Fair Guide, march on, I’ll follow thee. [Offers to go.
Lo. You are not mad, Sir, ’tis some abuse, and dangerous. [Pulls him back.
Alon. Be not envious of my Happiness: Forbear a Wench, for fear of Danger!
Lo. Have a care, ’tis some Plot. [Holds him.] Where did this Lady see us? we are both Strangers in the City.
Alon. No matter where.
Olin. At Church, Sir, just now.
Alon. Ay, ay, at Church, at Church, enough.
Lo. What’s her Name?
Alon. Away, thou art fuller of Questions than a Fortune-teller: Come, let’s be gone.
Lo. Sure you do not mean to keep your Word, Sir?
Alon. Not keep my Word, Lovis? What wicked Life hast thou known me lead, should make thee suspect I should not? When I have made an Interest in her, and find her worth communicating, I will be just upon Honour—Go, go.
Lo. Well, go your ways; if Marriage do not tame you, you are past all Hopes: but pray, Sir, let me see you at my Lodgings, the Golden Fleece here at the Gate.
231Alon. I’ll attend thee here, and tell thee my Adventure: Farewel. [Exit Lovis.] Pedro, go you and inquire for the House of Don Ambrosio, and tell him I will wait on him in the Evening, by that time I shall get my self in Order.
[Ex. Alonzo and Olinda; Pedro the other way.
Enter Silvio, melancholy.
Silv. I must remove Marcel, for his nice Honour
Will ne’er permit that I should court my Sister;
My Passion will admit of no Restraint,
’Tis grown so violent; and fair Cleonte’s Charms
Each Day increase to such a killing Number,
That I must speak or die.
Enter Francisca.
Franc. What, still with folded Arms and down-cast looks?
Silv. Oh Francisca!
My Brother’s Presence now afflicts me more
Than all my Fears of Cruelty from Cleonte;
She is the best, the sweetest, kindest Sister—
Franc. Ay, Sir, but she will never make the kindest Mistress.
Silv. At least she should permit me to adore her,
Were but Marcel away.
Hast thou no Stratagem to get him absent?
For I can think of nothing but my Sister. [Sighs.
Franc. I know of one, nor other Remedy for you than loving less.
Silv. Oh, ’tis impossible:
Thou know’st I’ve tried all ways, made my Addresses
To all the fairest Virgins in Madrid;
Nay, and at last fell to the worst Debauchery,
That of frequenting every common House:
232But Souls that feed so high on Love as mine,
Must nauseate coarser Diet.
No, I must still love on, and tell her so,
Or I must live no longer.
Franc. That methinks you might do even in the Presence of Marcel. A Brother is allow’d to love a Sister.
Silv. But I shall do’t in such a way, Francisca,
Be so transported, and so passionate,
I shall betray what he will ne’er indure.
And since our other Sister, loose Hippolyta, was lost,
He does so guard and watch the fair Cleonte—
Franc. Why, quarrel with him, Sir: you know you are so much dearer to my Lord your Father than he is, that should he perceive a Difference between ye, he would soon dismiss him the House; and ’twere but Reason, Sir, for I am sure Don Marcel loves you not.
Silv. That I excuse, since he the lawful Heir to all my Father’s Fortunes, sees it every Day ready to be sacrific’d to me, who can pretend no Title to’t, but the unaccountable Love my Father bears me.
Franc. Can you dissemble, Sir?
Silv. The worst of any Man, but would endeavour it, If it could any ways advance my Love.
Franc. Which I must find some way to ruin. [Aside.
Then court his Mistress.
Silv. The rich Flavia?
Franc. That would not incense him, for her he is to marry; But ’tis the fair Clarinda has his Heart.
Silv. To act a feigned Love, and hide a real one,
Is what I have already try’d in vain.
Even fair Clarinda I have courted too,
In hope that way to banish from my Soul
The hopeless Flame Cleonte kindled there;
But ’twas a Shame to see how ill I did dissemble.
Franc. Stay, Sir, here comes Marcel. I’ll leave you.
[Exit Francisca.
233Enter Marcel, with a Letter open in his Hand, which he kisses.
Mar. Kind Messenger of Love! Thus, thus a thousand times
I bid thee welcome from my fair Clarinda.
Thus joyful Bridegrooms, after long Despairs,
Possess the yielding Treasure in their Arms:
Only thus much the happier Lover I,
Who gather all the Sweets of this fair Maid
Without the ceremonious Tie of Marriage;
That tie that does but nauseate the Delight,
Be far from happy Lovers; we’ll embrace
And unconfin’d and free as whispering Air,
That mingles wantonly with spreading Flowers.
Silv. What’s all this?
Mar. Silvio, the Victory’s won.
The Heart that nicely stood it out so long,
Now yields upon Conditions.
Silv. What Victory? or what Heart?
Mar. I am all Rapture, cannot speak it out;
My Senses have carous’d too much of Joy;
And like young Drunkards, proud of their new try’d Strength,
Have made my Pleasure less by the excess.
Silv. This is wondrous.
Impart some of your over-charge to me,
The Burden lightned will be more supportable.
Mar.
Read here, and change thy Wonder, when
thou knowst
How happy Man can be.
[Gives him a Letter.
[Silvio reads.
Marcel,
Dormida will have me tell you what Effects your Vows have made, and how easily they have drawn from me a Consent to see you, as you desir’d, this Night in my Chamber: you have 234 sworn to marry me, and Love will have me credit you, and then methinks I ought not to deny you any thing, nor question your Virtue. Dormida will wait to throw you down the Key, when all are in Bed, that will conduct you to Your Clarinda.
Silv. Damn her for a Dissembler!
Is this the chaste, the excellent Clarinda,
Who whilst I courted, was as cold and nice,
As a young Nun the day she is invested?
Mar. How now, Brother! what, displeased with it? [Takes the Letter.
Silv. A little, Sir, to see another’s Happiness,
Whilst I, where e’er I pay my Vows and Sighs,
Get nothing but Disdain; and yet this Shape
And Face I never thought unhandsom.
Mar. These be the least approaches to a Heart;
’Tis not dull looking well will do the feat,
There is a Knack in Love, a critical Minute:
And Women must be watcht as Witches are,
E’er they confess, and then they yield apace.
Enter a Boy.
Boy. Sir, there’s without a Servant of Don Alonzo’s, who says his Master will be here to Night. [Marcel is surprized.
Mar. Alonzo! now I begin to wake
From Love, like one from some delightful Dream,
To reassume my wonted Cares and Shame.
—I will not speak with him. [Exit Boy.
Oh Hippolyta! thou poor lost thing, Hippolyta!
How art thou fallen from Honour, and from Virtue,
And liv’st in Whoredom with an impious Villain,
Who in revenge to me has thus betray’d thee.
Keep thy self closer than thou’st done thy Sin;
For if I find thee out, by all that’s good,
Thou hadst more Mercy on thy slaughter’d Honour,
Than I will have for thee.
And thou, Antonio, that hast betray’d her,
235Who till profan’d by thee, was chaste as Shrines,
And pure as are the Vows are offer’d there,
That Rape which thou’st committed on her Innocence,
I will revenge as shall become her Brother. [Offers to go out in rage.
Silv.
Stay, Marcel,
I can inform you where these Lovers are.
Mar. Oh tell me quickly then,
That I may take them in their foul Embraces,
And send their Souls to Hell.
Silv. Last Night I made a youthful Sally to
One of those Houses where Love and Pleasure
Are sold at dearest Rates.
Mar. A Bordello; forwards pray.
Silv. Yes, at the Corner of St. Jerom’s; where after seeing many Faces which pleas’d me not, I would have took my leave; but the Matron of the House, a kind obliging Lady, seeing me so nice, and of Quality, (tho disguis’d) told me she had a Beauty, such an one as had Count d’ Olivarez in his height of Power seen, he would have purchas’d at any rate. I grew impatient to see this fine thing, and promis’d largely: then leading me into a Room as gay, and as perfum’d as an Altar upon a Holy-day, I saw seated upon a Couch of State—
Mar. Hippolyta!
Silv. Hippolyta our Sister, drest like a Venice Curtezan,
With all the Charms of a loose Wanton,
Singing and playing to her ravisht Lover,
Who I perceiv’d assisted to expose her.
Mar. Well, Sir, what follow’d?
Silv. Surpriz’d at sight of this, I did withdraw,
And left them laughing at my little Confidence.
Mar. How! left them? and left them living too?
Silv.
If a young Wench will be gadding,
Who can help it?
Mar. ’Sdeath you should, were you that half her Brother, 236 Which my Father too doatingly believes you. [Inrag’d.
Silv. How! do you question his Belief, Marcel?
Mar. I ne’er consider’d it; be gone and leave me.
Silv. Am I a Dog that thus you bid me vanish?
What mean you by this Language? [Comes up to him.
And how dare you upbraid me with my Birth,
Which know, Marcel, is more illustrious far
Than thine, being got when Love was in his reign,
With all his Youth and Heat about him?
I, like the Birds of bravest kind, was hatcht
In the hot Sun-shine of Delight; whilst
Thou, Marcel, wer’t poorly brooded
In the cold Nest of Wedlock.
Mar. Thy Mother was some base notorious Strumpet,
And by her Witchcraft reduc’d my Father’s Soul,
And in return she paid him with a Bastard,
Which was thou.
Silv. Marcel, thou ly’st. [Strikes him.
Mar.
Tho ’twere no point of Valour, but of Rashness
To fight thee, yet I’ll do’t.
Silv. By Heaven, I will not put this Injury up.
[They fight, Silvio is wounded.
[Fight again. Enter Ambrosio, and Cleonte between; Silvio falls into the Arms of Cleonte.
Amb.
Hold! I command you hold;
Ah, Traitor to my Blood, what hast thou done?
[To Marcel, who kneels and lays his Sword at his Feet.
Silv. In fair Cleonte’s Arms!
O I could kiss the Hand that gives me Death,
So I might thus expire.
Mar. Pray hear me, Sir, before you do condemn me.
Amb. I will hear nothing but thy Death pronounc’d,
Since thou hast wounded him, if it be mortal.
Have I not charg’d thee on thy Life, Marcel,
Thou shouldst not hold Discourse with him of any kind?
Mar. I did foresee my Fate, but could not shun it.
[Takes his Sword and goes out.
237Amb. What ho! Biscay, a Surgeon; on your Lives a Surgeon; where be the Rascals? [Goes out.
Silv. I would not have a Surgeon search my Wound
With rude and heavy Hands:
Yours, fair Cleonte, can apply the Balsam
Far more successfully,
For they are soft and white as Down of Swans,
And every Touch is sovereign.
Cleo. But I shall die with looking on your Wounds.
Silv. And I shall die unless you cure them, Sister.
Cleo. With the expence of mine to save your Life,
Is both my Wish and Duty.
Silv. I thank you, pretty Innocence. [Leads him in.
Discovers Euphemia veil’d, walking alone.
Euph. Olinda stays long; I hope she has overtook the Cavalier. Lord, how I am concern’d; if this should be Love now, I were in fine condition, at least if he be married, or a Lover: Oh that I fear: hang me, if it has not disorder’d me all over. But see, where she comes with him too.
Enter Olinda and Alonzo.
Olin. Here he is, Madam, I hope ’tis the right Man.
Alon. Madam, you see what haste I make to obey your kind Commands.
Euph. ’Twas as kindly done, Sir; but I fear when you know to what end ’tis, you’ll repent your Haste.
Alon. ’Tis very likely; but if I do, you are not the first of your Sex that has put me to Repentance: But lift up your Veil, and if your Face be good— [Offers to lift up her Veil.
Euph. Stay, you’re too hasty.
Alon. Nay, let’s have fair Play on both sides, I’ll hide nothing from you. [Offers again.
Euph. I have a Question or two to ask you first.
238Alon. I can promise nothing till I see my Reward. I am a base Barterer, here’s one for t’other; you saw your Man and lik’d him, and if I like you when I see you— [Offers again.
Euph. But if you do not, must all my liking be castaway?
Alon. As for that, trust to my good Nature; a frank Wench has hitherto taken me as much as Beauty. And one Proof you have already given of that, in this kind Invitation: come, come, do not lose my little new-gotten good Opinion of thee, by being coy and peevish. [Offers again.
Euph. You’re strangely impatient, Sir.
Alon. O you should like me the better for that, ’tis a sign of Youth and Fire.
Euph. But, Sir, before I let you see my Face—
Alon. I hope I must not promise you to like it.
Euph. No, that were too unreasonable, but I must know whether you are a Lover.
Alon. What an idle Question’s that to a brisk young Fellow? A Lover! yes, and that as often as I see a new Face.
Euph. That I’ll allow.
Alon. That’s kindly said; and now do I find I shall be in love with thine as soon as I see’t, for I am half so with thy Humour already.
Euph. Are you not married, Sir?
Alon. Married!
Euph. Now I dread his Answer. [Aside.] Yes, married.
Alon. Why, I hope you make no Scruple of Conscience, to be kind to a married Man.
Euph. Now do I find, you hope I am a Curtezan that come to bargain for a Night or two; but if I possess you, it must be for ever.
Alon. For ever let it be then. Come, let’s begin on any Terms.
Euph. I cannot blame you, Sir, for this mistake, since what I’ve rashly done, has given you cause to think I am not virtuous.
239Alon. Faith, Madam, Man is a strange ungovern’d thing; yet I in the whole course of my Life have taken the best care I could, to make as few Mistakes as possible: and treating all Women-kind alike, we seldom err; for where we find one as you profess to be, we happily light on a hundred of the sociable and reasonable sort.
Euph. But sure you are so much a Gentleman, that you may be convinc’d?
Alon. Faith, if I be mistaken, I cannot devise what other use you can make of me.
Euph. In short this; I must leave you instantly; and will only tell you I am the sole Daughter of a rich Parent, young, and as I am told not unhandsom; I am contracted to a Man I never saw, nor I am sure shall not like when I do see, he having more Vice and Folly than his Fortune will excuse, tho a great one; and I had rather die than marry him.
Alon. I understand you, and you would have me dispatch this Man.
Euph. I am not yet so wicked. The Church is the only place I am allowed to go to, and till now could never see the Man that was perfectly agreeable to me: Thus veil’d, I’ll venture to tell you so.
Alon. What the Devil will this come to? her Mien and Shape are strangely graceful, and her Discourse is free and natural. What a damn’d Defeat is this, that she should be honest now! [Aside.
Euph. Well, Sir, what Answer? I see he is uneasy.[Aside.
Alon. Why, as I was saying, Madam, I am a Stranger.
Euph. I like you the better for that.
Alon. But, Madam, I am a Man unknown, unown’d in the World; and much unworthy the Honour you do me—Would I were well rid of her, and yet I find a damnable Inclination to stay too. [Aside.
Will nothing but Matrimony serve your turn, Madam? Pray use a young Lover as kindly as you can.
240Euph. Nothing but that will do, and that must be done.
Alon. Must! ’slife this is the first of her Sex that ever was before-hand with me, and yet that I should be forc’d to deny her too. [Aside.
Euph. I fear his Answer, Olinda. [Aside.
Olin. At least ’tis but making a Discovery of your Beauty, and then you have him sure.
Alon. Madam, ’tis a matter of Moment, and requires Deliberation; besides I have made a kind of Promise—
Euph. Never to marry?
Alon. No, faith, ’tis not so well: But since now I find we are both in haste, I am to be marry’d.
Euph. This I am sure is an Excuse; but I’ll fit him for’t. [Aside.
To be marry’d said you?
That Word has kill’d me, Oh I feel it drill
Through the deep Wound his Eyes have lately made:
’Twas much unkind to make me hope so long.
[She leans on Olinda, as if she swooned, who pulls off her Veil: he stands gazing at a Distance.
Olin. Sure she does but counterfeit, and now I’ll play my Part. Madam, Madam!
Alon. What wondrous thing is that! I should not look upon’t, it changes Nature in me.
Olin. Have you no pity, Sir? Come nearer pray.
Alon. Sure there’s Witchcraft in that Face, it never could have seiz’d me thus else, I have lov’d a thousand times, yet never felt such joyful Pains before.
Olin. She does it rarely. What mean you, Sir?
Alon. I never was a Captive to this Hour.
If in her Death such certain Wounds she give,
What Mischiefs she would do, if she should live!
Yet she must live, and live that I may prove
Whether this strange Disorder here be Love. [To his heart.
Divine, divinest Maid. [Kneels.
Olin. Come nearer, Sir, you’ll do a Lady no good at that Distance. Speak to her, Sir. [He rises and comes to her, gazing still.
Alon. I know not what to say,
I am unus’d to this soft kind of Language:
But if there be a Charm in Words, and such
As may conjure her to return again;
Prithee instruct me in them, I’ll say any thing,
Do any thing, and suffer all the Wounds
Her Eyes can give.
Euph. Sure he is real. [Aside.
Alas! I am discover’d; how came my Veil off? [She pretends to recover, and wonder that her Veil is off.
Alon. That you have let me see that lovely Face,
May move your Pity, not your Anger, Madam;
Pity the Wounds ’t has made, pity the Slave,
Who till this Moment boasted of his Freedom.
Euph. May I believe all this? for that we easily do in things we wish.
Alon. Command me things impossible to all
Sense but a Lover’s, I will do’t: to shew
The Truth of this, I could even give you
The last Proof of it, and take you at your Word,
To marry you.
Euph. O wondrous Reformation! marry me! [Laughs.
Alon. How, do you mock my Grief?
Euph. What a strange dissembling thing is Man! To put me off too, you were to be married.
Alon. Hah, I had forgotten Hippolyta. [He starts.
Euph. See, Olinda, the Miracle increases, he can be serious too. How do you, Sir?
Alon. ’Tis you have robb’d me of my native Humour,
I ne’er could think till now.
Euph. And to what purpose was it now?
Alon. Why, Love and Honour were at odds within me,
And I was making Peace between them.
Euph. How fell that out, Sir?
Alon. About a Pair of Beauties; Women,
That set the whole World at odds.
She that is Honour’s Choice I never saw,
And love has taught me new Obedience here.
Euph. What means he? I fear he is in earnest. [Aside.
Olin. ’Tis nothing but his Aversion to Marriage, which most young Men dread now-a-days.
Euph. I must have this Stranger, or I must die; for whatever Face I put upon’t, I am far gone in Love, but I must hide it. [Aside.
Well, since I have mist my Aim, you shall never boast my Death; I’ll cast my self away upon the next handsom young Fellow I meet, tho I die for’t; and so farewel to you, loving Sir. [Offers to go.
Alon. Stay, do not marry, as you esteem the Life of him that shall possess you.
Euph. Sure you will not kill him.
Alon. By Heaven, I will.
Euph. O I’ll trust you, Sir: Farewel, farewel.
Alon. You shall not go in triumph thus,
Unless you take me with you.
Euph. Well, since you are so resolv’d (and so in love) I’ll give you leave to see me once more at a House at the Corner of St. Jerom’s, where this Maid shall give you Entrance.
Alon. Why, that’s generously said.
Euph. As soon ’tis dark you may venture.
Alon. Till then will be an Age, farewel, fair Saint,
To thee and all my quiet till we meet. [Exeunt.
Enter Marcel in a Cloak alone.
Mar. The Night comes on, and offers me two Pleasures,
The least of which would make another blest,
Love and Revenge: but I, whilst I dispute
243Which Happiness to chuse, neglect them both.
The greatest Bliss that Mankind can possess,
Persuades me this way, to my fair Clarinda:
But tyrannick Honour
Presents the Credit of my House before me,
And bids me first redeem its fading Glory,
By sacrificing that false Woman’s Heart
That has undone its Fame.
But stay, Oh Conscience, when I look within,
And lay my Anger by, I find that Sin
Which I would punish in Antonio’s Soul,
Lie nourish’d up in mine without Controul.
To fair Clarinda such a Siege I lay,
As did that Traitor to Hippolyta;
Only Hippolyta a Brother has,
Clarinda, none to punish her Disgrace:
And ’tis more Glory the defenc’d to win,
Than ’tis to take unguarded Virtue in.
I either must my shameful Love resign,
Or my more brave and just Revenge decline.
[Enter Alonzo drest, with Lovis. Marcel stays.
Alon. But to be thus in love, is’t not a Wonder, Lovis?
Lov. No, Sir, it had been much a greater, if you had stay’d a Night in Town without being so; and I shall see this Wonder as often as you see a new Face of a pretty Woman.
Alon. I do not say that I shall lose all Passion for the fair Sex hereafter; but on my Conscience, this amiable Stranger has given me a deeper Wound than ever I received from any before.
Lov. Well, you remember the Bargain.
Alon. What Bargain?
Lov. To communicate; you understand.
Alon. There’s the Devil on’t, she is not such a Prize: Oh, were she not honest, Friend! [Hugs him.
244Lov. Is it so to do? What, you pretend to be a Lover, and she honest, now only to deprive me of my Part: remember this, Alonzo.
Mar. Did not I hear Alonzo nam’d? [Aside.
Alon. By all that’s good I am in earnest, Friend;
Nay thy own Eyes shall convince thee
Of the Power of hers.
Her Veil fell off, and she appear’d to me,
Like unexpected Day, from out a Cloud;
The lost benighted Traveller
Sees not th’ Approach of the next Morning’s Sun
With more transported Joy,
Than I this ravishing and unknown Beauty.
Lov. Hey day! What Stuff’s here? Nay, now I see thou art quite gone indeed.
Alon. I fear it. Oh, had she not been honest!
What Joy, what Heaven of Joys she would distribute!
With such a Face, and Shape, a Wit, and Mein—
But as she is, I know not what to do.
Lov. You cannot marry her.
Alon. I would not willingly, tho I think I’m free: For Pedro went to Marcel to tell him I was arriv’d, and would wait on him; but was treated more like a Spy, than a Messenger of Love: They sent no Answer back, which I tell you, Lovis, angers me: ’twas not the Entertainment I expected from my brave Friend Marcel. But now I am for the fair Stranger who by this expects me.
Mar. ’Tis Alonzo. O how he animates my Rage, and turns me over to Revenge, upon Hippolyta and her false Lover! [Aside.
Lov. Who’s this that walks before us? [They go out.
Alon. No matter who.
Mar. I am follow’d. [They enter again.
Lov. See, he stops. [Marcel looks back.
Alon. Let him do what he please, we will out-go him. [They go out.
245Lov. This Man whoe’er he be still follows us.
Alon. I care not, nothing shall hinder my Design, I’ll go tho I make my passage thro his Heart. [They enter at another Door, he follows.
Lov. See, he advances, pray stand by a little. [They stand by.
Mar. Sure there’s some Trick in this, but I’ll not fear it. This is the Street, and hereabout’s the House. [Looks about.
This must be it, if I can get admittance now. [Knocks.
Enter Olinda with a Light.
Olin. O, Sir, are you come? my Lady grew impatient. [They go in.
Mar. She takes me for some other: This is happy. [Aside.
Alon. Gods! is not that the Maid that first conducted me to the fair thing that rob’d me of my Heart?
Lov. I think it is.
Alon.
She gives admittance to another Man.
All Women-kind are false, I’ll in and tell her so.
[Offers to go.
Lov. You are too rash, ’tis dangerous.
Alan. I do despise thy Counsel, let me go.
Lov. If you are resolv’d, I’ll run the Hazard with you. [They both go in.
Scene II. The Scene changes to a Chamber.
Enter from one side Olinda, lighting in Marcel muffled as before in his Cloke, from the other Antonio leading in Euphemia veil’d.
Mar. By Heaven’s, ’tis she: Vile Strumpet! [Throws off his Cloke, and snatches her from him.
Euph. Alas, this is not he whom I expected.
Anto. Marcel! I had rather have encounter’d my evil Angel than thee. [Draws.
246Mar. I do believe thee, base ungenerous Coward. [Draws.
[They fight, Marcel disarms Antonio, by wounding his Hand. Enter Alonzo, goes betwixt them, and with his Sword drawn opposes Marcel, who is going to kill Antonio; Lovis follows him.
Alon. Take Courage, Sir. [To Antonio, who goes out mad.
Mar. Prevented! whoe’er thou be’st.
It was unjustly done,
To save his Life who merits Death,
By a more shameful way.
But thank the Gods she still remains to meet
That Punishment that’s due to her foul Lust. [Offers to run at her, Alonzo goes between.
Alon. ’Tis this way you must make your Passage then.
Mar. What art thou, that thus a second time
Dar’st interpose between Revenge and me?
Alon. ’Tis Marcel! What can this mean? [Aside.
Dost not thou know me, Friend? look on me well.
Mar. Alonzo here! Ah I shall die with Shame. [Aside.
As thou art my Friend, remove from that bad Woman,
Whose Sins deserve no sanctuary.
Euph. What can he mean? I dare not shew my Face. [Aside.
Alon. I do believe this Woman is a false one,
But still she is a Woman, and a fair one:
I would not suffer thee to injure her,
Tho I believe she has undone thy quiet,
As she has lately mine.
Mar. Why, dost thou know it then?
Stand by, I shall forget thou art my Friend else,
And thro thy Heart reach hers.
Alon. Nothing but Love could animate him thus,
He is my Rival. [Aside.
Marcel, I will not quit one inch of Ground;
Do what thou dar’st, for know I do adore her,
247And thus am bound by Love to her Defence. [Offers to fight Marcel, who retires in wonder.
Euph. Hold, noble Stranger, hold.
Mar. Have you such Pity on your Lover there? [Offers to kill her, Alonzo stays him.
Euph. Help, help. [Her Veil falls off.
Enter Hippolyta drest like a Curtezan: Sees Marcel.
Hip. Oh Gods, my Brother! in pity, Sir, defend me
From the just Rage of that incensed Man. [Runs behind Lovis, whilst Marcel stands gazing on both with wonder.
Lov. I know not the meaning of all this, but
However I’ll help the Lady in Distress.
Madam, you’re safe, whilst I am your Protector. [Leads her out.
Mar. I’ve lost the Power of striking where I ought,
Since my misguided Hand so lately err’d.
Oh Rage, dull senseless Rage, how blind and rude
It makes us.
Pardon, fair Creature, my unruly Passion,
And only blame that Veil which hid that Face,
Whose Innocence and Beauty had disarm’d it:
I took you for the most perfidious Woman,
The falsest loosest thing.
Alon. How! are you a Stranger to her?
Mar. Yes I am. Have you forgiven me, Madam?
Euph. Sir, I have. [Marcel bows and offers to go out.
Alon. Stay, Friend, and let me know your Quarrel.
Mar. Not for the World, Alonzo.
Alon. This is unfriendly, Sir.
Mar. Thou dost delay me from the noblest Deed,
On which the Honour of my House depends,
A Deed which thou wilt curse thy self for hindring
Farewel. [Goes out.
Alon. What can the meaning of this be?
248Euph. Oh do not ask, but let us quickly leave this dangerous Place.
Alon. Does it not belong to you?
Euph. No, but you would like me the better if it did: for, Sir, it is a—
Alon. Upon my Life, a Baudy-house.
Euph. So they call it.
Alon. You do amaze me.
Euph. Truth is, not daring to trust my Friends or Relations with a Secret that so nearly concern’d me as the meeting you, and hearing of a new come Curtezan living in this House, I sent her word I would make her a Visit, knowing she would gladly receive it from a Maid of my Quality: When I came, I told her my Business, and very frankly she offer’d me her House and Service—Perhaps you’ll like me the worse for this bold Venture, but when you consider my promis’d Husband is every day expected, you will think it but just to secure my self any way.
Alon. You could not give me a greater Proof than this of what you say you bless me with, your Love.
Euph. I will not question but you are in earnest; at least if any doubt remain, these will resolve it. [Gives him Letters.
Alon. What are these, Madam?
Euph. Letters, Sir, intercepted from the Father of my design’d Husband out of Flanders to mine.
Alon. What use can I make of them?
Euph. Only this: Put your self into an Equipage very ridiculous, and pretend you are my foolish Lover arriv’d from Flanders, call your self Haunce van Ezel, and give my Father these, as for the rest I’ll trust your Wit.
Alon. What shall I say or do now? [Aside.
Euph. Come, come, no study, Sir; this must be done,
And quickly too, or you will lose me.
Alon. Two great Evils! if I had but the Grace to chuse the least now, that is, lose her. [Aside.
249Euph. I’ll give you but to night to consider it.
Alon. Short warning this: but I am damnably in love, and cannot withstand Temptation. [Kisses her Hand.
Euph. I had forgot to tell you my Name’s Euphemia, my Father’s you’ll find on the Letters, and pray show your Love in your haste. Farewel.
Alon. Stay, fair Euphemia, and let me pay my Thanks, and tell you that I must obey you.
Euph. I give a Credit where I give a Heart.
Go inquire my Birth and Fortune: as for you,
I am content with what I see about you.
Alon. That’s bravely said, nor will I ask one Question about you, not only to return the Bounty, but to avoid all things that look like the Approaches to a married Life. If Fortune will put us together, let her e’en provide for us.
Euph. I must be gone: Farewel, and pray make haste. [Looks kindly on him.
Alon. There’s no resisting those Looks, Euphemia: One more to fortify me well; for I shall have need of every Aid in this Case. [Look at one another and go.
Enter Antonio in haste with Hippolyta; weeping as passing over the Stage.
Ant. Come, let us haste, I fear we are pursu’d.
Hip. Ah, whither shall we fly?
Ant. We are near the Gate, and must secure our selves with the Darkness of the Night in St. Peter’s Grove, we dare not venture into any House. [Exeunt.
Enter Clarinda and Dormida above in the Balcony.
Clar. Can’st thou not see him yet?
Dorm. Good lack a-day, what an impatient thing is a young Girl in love!
Clar. Nay, good Dormida, let not want of Sleep make thee testy.
250Dorm. In good time—are you my Governess, or I yours, that you are giving me Instructions? Go get you in, or I shall lay down my Office.
Clar. Nay, wait a little longer, I’m sure he will come.
Dorm. You sure! you have wondrous Skill indeed in the Humours of Men: how came you to be so well acquainted with them? you scarce ever saw any but Don Marcel, and him too but thro a Grate or Window, or at Church; and yet you are sure. I am a little the elder of the two, and have manag’d as many Intrigues of this kind as any Woman, and never found a constant just Man, as they say, of a thousand; and yet you are sure.
Clar. Why, is it possible Marcel should be false?
Dorm. Marcel! No, no, Sweet-heart, he is that Man of a thousand.
Clar. But if he should, you have undone me, by telling me so many pretty things of him.
Dorm. Still you question my Ability, which by no means I can indure; get you in I say.
Clar. Do not speak so loud, you will wake my Mother.
Dorm. At your Instructions again; do you question my Conduct and Management of this Affair? Go watch for him your self: I’ll have no more to do with you back nor edge. [Offers to go.
Clar. Will you be so barbarous to leave me to my self, after having made it your Business this three Months to sollicit a Heart which was but too ready to yield before; after having sworn to me how honourable all his Intents were; nay, made me write to him to come to night? And now when I have done this, and am all trembling with fear and shame (and yet an infinite Desire to see him too) [Sighs] thou wilt abandon me: go, when such as you oblige, ’tis but to be insolent with the more freedom.
Dorm. What, you are angry I’ll warrant. [Smiles.
Clar. I will punish my self to pay thee back, and will not see Marcel.
251Dorm. What a pettish Fool is a Maid in love at fifteen! how unmanageable! But I’ll forgive all—go get you in, I’ll watch for your Lover; I would not have you disoblige a Man of his Pretensions and Quality for all the World. [Clarinda goes in.
Enter Alonzo below.
Alon. Now do I want Lovis extremely, to consult with him about this Business: For I am afraid the Devil, or Love, or both are so great with me, that I must marry this fair Inchantress, which is very unlucky; but, since Ambrosio and Marcel refuse to see me, I hold my self no longer ingag’d in Honour to Hippolyta.
Dorm. [above.] Whist, whist, Sir, Sir.
Alon. Who’s there?
Dorm. ’Tis I, your Servant, Sir; oh you are a fine Spark, are you not, to make so fair a Creature wait so long for you? there, there’s the Key, open the Door softly and come in. [Throws him down a Key in a Handkerchief.
Alon. What’s this? But I’ll ask no Questions, so fair a Creature, said she? Now if ’twere to save my Life cannot I forbear, I must go in: Shou’d Euphemia know this, she would call it Levity and Inconstancy; but I plead Necessity, and will be judg’d by the amorous Men, and not the jealous Women: For certain this Lady, whoe’er she be, designs me a more speedy Favour than I can hope from Euphemia, and on easier Terms too. This is the Door that must conduct to the languishing Venus. [Opens the Door and goes in, leaving it unshut.
Enter Marcel with his Sword drawn.
Mar. Thus far I have pursu’d the Fugitives,
Who by the help of hasty Fear and Night,
Are got beyond my Power; unlucky Accident!
Had I but kill’d Antonio, or Hippolyta,
Either had made my Shame supportable.
But tho I have mist the Pleasure of Revenge,
252I will not that of Love.
One Look from fair Clarinda will appease
The Madness which this Disappointment rais’d. [Walks looking towards the Window.
None appears yet: Dormida was to throw me down the Key. The Door is open, left so to give me entrance. [Goes to the Door.
Scene IV. Changes to a dark Hall.
Discovers Alonzo groping about in the Hall.
Alon. Now am I in a worse Condition than before, can neither advance nor retreat: I do not like this groping alone in the Dark thus. Whereabouts am I? I dare not call: were this fair thing she spoke of but now half so impatient as I, she would bring a Light, and conduct me.
Enter Marcel.
Mar. ’Tis wondrous dark.
Alon. Hah, a Man’s Voice that way; that’s not so well: it may be some Lover, Husband, or Brother; none of which are to be trusted in this Case, therefore I’ll stand upon my Guard. [Draws: Marcel coming towards him jostles him.
Mar. Who’s there?
Alon. A Man.
Mar. A Man! none such inhabit here. [Draws.
Thy Business?
Alon. This shall answer you, since there’s no other way.
[They fight, Alonzo wounds Marcel, who fights him to the Door; Alonzo goes out, Marcel gropes to follow.
Mar. This is not just, ye Gods, to punish me, and let the Traytor ’scape unknown too: Methought ’twas Silvio’s Voice, or else a sudden thought of Jealousy come into my Head would make me think so.
Enter Clarinda and Dormida with Light.
Clar. I tell you I did hear the noise of fighting.
253Dorm. Why, between whom should it be? I’ll be sworn Marcel came in alone.
Clar. Marcel! and wounded too! oh I’m lost. [Sees him, weeps.
Mar.
Keep your false Tears to bathe your Lover’s Wounds.
For I perhaps have given him
some—Thou old Assistant to her Lust, whose greatest Sin is
wishing, tell me who ’twas thou didst procure for her.
[In rage to Dormida.
Dorm. Alas! I cannot imagine who it should be, unless Don Silvio, who has sometimes made Addresses to her: But oh the House is up, Madam, we are undone; let’s fly for Heavens sake.
Clar. Oh Marcel, can you believe— [A Noise.
Dorm. Come, come, I’ll not be undone for your Fiddle-faddles; I’ll lay it all on you, if I be taken. [Pulls out Clarinda.
Mar. Sot that I was, I could not guess at this to day, by his Anger at the Letter I foolishly shew’d him; he is my Rival, and ’tis with him she’s fled; and I’ll endeavour to pursue them. [Offers to go.
But oh my Strength complies with their Design, [Leaning on his Sword.] and shamefully retires to give them leave to play their amorous Game out. [Goes faintly out.
Scene V. Changes to the Street. Discovers Alonzo alone.
Alon. This Act of mine was rash and ill-natur’d,
And I cannot leave the Street with a good Conscience,
Till I know what mischief I have done.
Enter Dormida and Clarinda.
Hah, Ladies from the same House! these are Birds that I have frighted from their Nests I am sure: I’ll proffer my Service to them.
Dorm. Why do not you make more haste?
254Clar. How can she go, whose Life is left behind?
Besides, I know not whither we should go.
Ye Powers that guard the Innocent, protect us.
Alon.
These must be some whom I have injur’d.
Ladies—you seem as in distress.
Dorm. Oh, Sir, as you are a Gentleman, assist a pair of Virgins.
Alon. What’s this, a mumping Matron? I hope the other’s young, or I have offer’d my Service to little purpose.
Clar. Sir, if you will have the Charity to assist us,
Do it speedily, we shall be very grateful to you.
Alon. Madam, I will, but know not where to carry ye; my Lodging is in an Inn, and is neither safe nor honourable: but Fortune dares no less than protect the Fair, and I’ll venture my Life in your Protection and Service. [Exeunt.
Enter Marcel faintly.
Mar. Stay, Traytor, stay—oh they are out of sight,
But may my Curse o’ertake them in their flight. [Exit.
She is discover’d in her Night-Gown, at a Table, as undressing, Francisca by her.
Cleo. Francisca, thou art dull to Night. [Sighs.
Fran. You will not give me leave to talk.
Cleo. Not thy way indeed, hast thou no Stories but of Love, and of my Brother Silvio?
Fran. None that you wish to hear: But I’ll do what you please, so you will not oblige me to sigh for you.
Cleo. Then prithee sing to me.
Fran. What Song, a merry, or a sad?
Cleo. Please thy own Humour, for then thou’lt sing best.
Fran. Well, Madam, I’ll obey you, and please my self.
255Amyntas led me to a Grove,
Where all the Trees did shade us;
The Sun it self, tho it had strove,
Yet could not have betrayed us.
The place secure from human Eyes,
No other fear allows,
But when the Winds that gently rise
Do kiss the yielding Boughs.
Down there we sat upon the Moss,
And did begin to play
A thousand wanton Tricks, to pass
The Heat of all the Day.
A many Kisses he did give,
And I return’d the same:
Which made me willing to receive
That which I dare not name.
His charming Eyes no aid requir’d,
To tell their amorous Tale;
On her that was already fir’d,
’Twas easy to prevail.
He did but kiss, and clasp me round,
Whilst they his thoughts exprest,
And laid me gently on the Ground;
Oh! —who can guess the rest?
After the Song, enter Silvio all undrest, gazing wildly on Cleonte; his Arm ty’d up.
Cleo. My Brother Silvio, at this late hour, and in my Lodgings too! How do you, Sir? are you not well?
Silv. Oh, why did Nature give me being?
Or why create me Brother to Cleonte? [Aside.
Or give her Charms, and me the sense to adore ’em?
Cleo. Dear Brother— [Goes to him.
Silv. Ah, Cleonte— [Takes her by the Hand and gazes.
256Cleo. What would you, Sir?
Silv. I am not—well—
Cleo. Sleep, Sir, will give you ease.
Silv. I cannot sleep, my Wounds do rage and burn so, as they put me past all power of rest.
Cleo. We’ll call your Surgeon, Sir.
Silv. He can contribute nothing to my Cure,
But I must owe it all to thee, Cleonte.
Cleo. Instruct me in the way, give me your Arm,
And I will bathe it in a thousand Tears, [Goes to untie his Arm.
And breathe so many Sighs into your Wound—
Silv. Let that slight hurt alone, and search this—here. [To his Heart.
Cleo. How! are you wounded there,
And would not let us know it all this while?
Silv. I durst not tell you, but design’d to suffer,
Rather than trouble you with my Complaints:
But now my Pain is greater than my Courage.
Fran. Oh, he will tell her, that he loves her sure. [Aside.
Cleo. Sit down and let me see’t. [He sits down, she puts her Hand into his Bosom.
Fran. Oh foolish Innocence— [Aside.
Cleo. You have deceiv’d me, Brother, here’s no Wound.
Silv. Oh take away your Hand—
It does increase my Pain, and wounds me deeper.
Cleo. No, surely, Sir, my Hand is very gentle.
Silv. Therefore it hurts me, Sister; the very thoughts
Of Touches by so soft and fair a Hand,
Playing about my Heart, are not to be indur’d with Life. [Rises in passion.
Cleo. Alas, what means my Brother?
Silv. Can you not guess, fair Sister? have my Eyes
So ill exprest my Soul? or has your Innocence
Not suffer’d you to understand my Sighs?
Have then a thousand Tales, which I have told you,
257Of Broken Hearts, and Lovers Languishments,
Not serv’d to tell you, that I did adore you?
Cleo. Oh let me still remain in Innocence,
Rather than sin so much to understand you.
Fran. I can endure no more— [Goes out.
Silv. Can you believe it Sin to love a Brother? it is not so in Nature.
Cleo. Not as a Brother, Sir; but otherwise,
It is, by all the Laws of Men and Heaven.
Silv. Sister, so ’tis that we should do no Murder,
And yet you daily kill, and I, among the number
Of your Victims, must charge you with the sin
Of killing me, a Lover, and a Brother.
Cleo. What wou’d you have me do?
Silv. Why—I would have thee—do—I know not what—
Still to be with me—yet that will not satisfy;
To let me look—upon thee—still that’s not enough.
I dare not say to kiss thee, and imbrace thee;
That were to make me wish—I dare not tell thee what—
Cleo. I must not hear this Language from a Brother. [She offers to go.
Silv. What a vile thing’s a Brother?
Stay, take this Dagger, and add one Wound more [He kneels and offers her a Dagger, and holds her by the Coat.
To those your Eyes have given, and after that
You’ll find no trouble from my Sighs and Tears.
Enter Francisca.
Fran. By this she understands him, curse on her Innocence, ’Tis fuel to his flame— [Aside.] Madam, there is below a Lady, who desires to speak with the Mistress of the House.
Cleo. At this hour a Lady! who can it be?
Fran. I know not, but she seems of Quality.
Cleo. Is she alone?
Fran. Attended by a Gentleman and an old Woman.
258Cleo. Perhaps some one that needs a kind Assistance; my Father is in Bed, and I’ll venture to know their Business; bring her up.
Fran. ’Twere good you should retire, Sir. [To Silvio, and Exit.
Silv. I will, but have a care of me, Cleonte,
I fear I shall grow mad, and so undo thee:
Love me—but do not let me know’t too much. [Goes out.
Enter Francisca with Lights; follow’d by Alonzo, Clarinda, and Dormida: Alonzo gazes on Cleonte a while.
Cleo. Is’t me you would command?
Clar. I know not what to say, I am so disorder’d. [Aside.
Alon. What Troops of Beauties she has! sufficient to take whole Cities in—Madam, I beg— [Takes Clarinda by the Hand, and approaches Cleonte.
Cleo. What, Sir?
Alon. That you would receive into Protection—
Cleo. What pray, Sir?
Alon. Would you would give me leave to say, a Heart
That your fair Eyes have lately made unfit
For its old Quarters.
Cleo. I rather think you mean this Lady, Sir. [Alonzo looks with wonder on Clarinda.
Alon. She’s heavenly fair too, and has surpriz’d my Heart,
Just as ’twas going to the other’s Bosom,
And rob’d her at least of one half of it. [Aside.
Clar. Madam, I am a Virgin in distress,
And by misfortune forc’d to seek a Sanctuary,
And humbly beg it here.
Cleo. Intreaties were not made for that fair Mouth;
Command and be obey’d.
But, Sir, to whom do you belong?
Alon. I belong to a very fair Person,
But do not know her Name.
Cleo. But what are you, pray, Sir?
259Alon. Madam, a Wanderer; a poor lost thing,
That none will own or pity.
Cleo. That’s sad indeed; but whoe’er you are, since you belong to this fair Maid, you’ll find a Welcome every where.
Alon. And if I do not, I am cashier’d. [Aside.
Madam, if telling you I am her Brother,
Can make me more acceptable,
I shall be yet more proud of the Alliance.
Cleo. What must I call your Sister, Sir, when I would pay my Duty?
Alon. There I am routed again with another hard Question. [Aside.
Clar. Madam, my Name’s Clarinda.
Alon. Madam, I’ll take my leave, and wish the Heart I leave with you to night, may persuade you to suffer my Visits to morrow, till when I shall do nothing but languish.
Cleo. I know not what loss you have suffer’d to night; but since your fair Sister’s Presence with us allows it, you need not doubt a welcome.
Alon. I humbly thank you, Madam. [Kisses her Hand, and looks amorously on Clarinda.
Fran. Madam, pray retire, for Don Marcel is come into the House all bloody, inrag’d against somebody.
Clar. I’m troubled at his Hurt, but cannot fear his Rage. Good night, Sir. [They go out.
Alon. They are gone; now had I as much mind to have kist the other’s Hand, but that ’twas not a Ceremony due to a Sister—What the Devil came into my Head, to say she was so? nothing but the natural itch of talking and lying: they are very fair; but what’s that to me? Euphemia surpasses both: But a Pox of her terms of Marriage, I’ll set that to her Beauty, and then these get the Day, as far as natural Necessity goes: But I’ll home and sleep upon’t, and yield to what’s most powerful in the Morning.
To night these Strangers do my Heart possess,
But which the greatest share, I cannot guess:
260My Fate in Love resembles that in War,
When the rich Spoil falls to the common share. [Goes out.
Enter Alonzo, as out of the House, gazing upon it.
Alon. Sure I shall know this House again to morrow. [To him Lovis.
Lov. I wonder what should be become of Alonzo, I do do not like these Night-works of his— Who’s there?
Alon. Lovis!
Lov. Alonzo?
Alon. The same, where hast thou been?
Lov. In search of you this two Hours.
Alon. O, I have been taken up with new Adventures, since I saw thee; but prithee what became of thine? for methought it was a likely Woman.
Lov. Faith, Sir, I thought I had got a Prize; but a Pox on’t, when I came into the Street, e’er she had recover’d Breath to tell me who she was, the Cavalier you rescu’d from Marcel, laid claim to her; thank’d me for her Preservation, and vanisht. I hope you had better luck with your Female, whose Face I had not the good fortune to see.
Alon. Not so good as I could have wisht, for she stands still on her honourable terms.
Lov. Of Matrimony, ha, ha, a very Jilt, I’ll warrant her; Come, come, you shall see her no more.
Alon. Faith, I fear I must.
Lov. To what purpose?
Alon. To persuade her to Reason.
Lov. That you’ll soon do, when she finds you will not bite at t’other Bait.
Alon. The worst is, if I see her again, it must be at her Father’s House; and so transform’d from Man to Beast—I must appear like a ridiculous Lover she expects out of Flanders.
261Lov. A very Cheat, a trick to draw thee in: be wise in time.
Alon. No, on my Conscience she’s in earnest, she told me her Name, and his I am to represent.
Lov. What is’t, I pray?
Alon. Haunce van Ezel.
Lov. Hah! her Name too, I beseech you? [Impatiently.
Alon. Euphemia: And such a Creature ’tis—
Lov. ’Sdeath, my Sister all this while: This has call’d up all that’s Spaniard in me, and makes me raging mad. [Aside.] But do you love her, Sir?
Alon. Most desperately, beyond all Sense or Reason.
Lov. And could you be content to marry her?
Alon. Any thing but that —But thou know’st my ingagement elsewhere; and I have hopes that yet she’ll be wise, and yield on more pleasant terms.
Lov. I could be angry now; but ’twere unreasonable to blame him for this. [Aside.] Sir, I believe by your Treatment from Ambrosio and Marcel, you may come off there easily.
Alon. That will not satisfy my Honour, tho ’twill my Love; that I have not Hippolyta, I will owe to my own Inconstancy, not theirs: besides, this may be a Cheat, as you say.
Lov. But does Euphemia love you?
Alon. Faith, I think she has too much Wit to dissemble, and too much Beauty to need that Art.
Lov. Then you must marry her.
Alon. Not if I can avoid it.
Lov. I know this Lady, Sir, and know her to be worth your Love: I have it in my Power too, to serve you, if you proceed suddenly, which you must do, or lose her; for this Flandrian Boor your Rival is already arriv’d, and designs to morrow to make his first Address to Euphemia.
Alon. Oh, he must not, shall not see her.
Lov. How will you hinder him?
Alon. With this. [To his Sword.] Where is this Rival? 262 tell me: Conduct me to him strait; I find my Love above the common rate, and cannot brook this Rival.
Lov. So, this blows the flame—His Life will be no hindrance to you in this Affair, if you design to love on.
Alon. Do’st know him?
Lov. Yes, he is a pleasant Original for you to be copy’d by: It is the same Fop, I told you was to marry my Sister, and who came along with me to Madrid.
Alon. How! Euphemia thy Sister?
Lov. Yes, indeed is she, and whom my Father designs to cast away upon this half Man, half Fool; but I find she has Wit to make a better Choice: she yet knows nothing of my Arrival, and till you resolve what to do, shall not; and my Dutchman does nothing without me.
Alon. If thou hast the management of him, he’s likely to thrive.
Lov. But not in his Amour, if you please: In short, Sir, if you do really love my Sister, I am content to be so ungracious a Child to contribute to the cheating my Father of this same hopeful Son he expects, and put you upon him; but what you do, must be speedily then.
Alon. I am oblig’d to thee for this frank Offer, and will be instructed by thee.
Lov. If you’re resolv’d, I’ll warrant you Success.
Alon. I think I am resolv’d in spite of all my Inclinations to Libertinism.
Lov. Well, Sir, I’ll get you such a Suit then, as that our Hero makes his first approach in, as ridiculously gay as his Humour, which you must assume too.
Alon. Content.
Lov. To night I must pay my Duty to my Father, and will prepare your way, and acquaint my Sister with it; ’tis but a Frolick if we succeed not.
Alon. God-a-mercy, Lad, let’s about it then e’er we sleep, lest I change my Resolution before Morning. [Exeunt.
263Enter Alonzo drest ridiculously, meeting Lovis, they laugh at each other.
Lov. Very Haunce all over, the Taylor has play’d his part, play but yours as well, and I’ll warrant you the Wench.
Alon. But prithee, why need I act the Fool thus, since Haunce was never seen here?
Lov. To make good the Character I always gave of him to my Father; but here he comes, pray be very rude, and very impertinent.
Alon. Lord, Lord, how shall I look thus damnably set out, and thus in love!
Enter Don Carlo.
Lov. This, Sir, is Monsieur Haunce, your Son that must be.
Alon. Beso los manos, signor: Is your Name Don Carlo? and are you the Gravity of this House? and the Father of Donna Euphemia? and are you—
Car. Sir, I guess by all these your Demands at once, your Name to be Myn heer Haunce van Ezel.
Alon. Your Judgment’s good; but to my Questions.
Car. In truth I have forgot them, there were so many.
Alon. Are you he who is to be my Father?
Car. ’Tis so negotiated—and if all Circumstances concur—For, Sir, you must conceive, the Consequence of so grand a Conjunction—
Alon. Less of your Compliments, Sir, and more of your Daughter, I beseech you. ’Sheart, what a formal Coxcomb ’tis. [Aside.
Lov. Prithee give him way. [Aside.
Alon. By this Light I’ll lose thy Sister first; Why, who can indure the grave approaches to the Matter? ’Dslife, I would have it as I would my Fate, sudden and unexpected.
264Car. Pray, how long have you been landed?
Alon. So, now shall I be plagu’d with nothing but wise Questions, to which I am able to make no Answer. [Aside.] Sir, it is your Daughter that I desire to see impatiently.
Car. Have you no Letters from my very good Friend your Father?
Alon. What if I have not? cannot I be admitted to your Daughter without a Pass?
Car. O lack, Sir—
Alon. But to let you see I come with full Power (tho I am old enough to recommend my self) here is my Commission for what I do. [Gives him Letters.
Car. I remember amongst his other Faults, my Son writ me word he had Courage: If so, I shall