The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Ii Part 100

[_In a soft Tone_.

Join all your aids to make my _Silvia_ kind; For I am fill'd with the expecting Bliss, [Tick, _thrusts his Head out to listen_.

And much Delay or Disappointment kills me.

_Tick_. Disappointment kills me,--and me too, _certo_--'tis she-- [_Gropes about_.

_Gal_. Oh, haste, my Fair, haste to my longing Arms, Where are you, dear and loveliest of your s.e.x?

_Tick_. That's I, that's I, _my Alma! mea Core, mea Vita!_ [_Groping and speaking low_.

_Gal_. Hah--art thou come, my Life! my Soul! my Joy!

[_Goes to embrace_ Tick, _they meet and kiss_.

'Sdeath, what's this, a bearded Mistress! Lights, Lights there, quickly, Lights! nay, curse me if thou scap'st me.

[Tick. _struggles to get away, he holds him by the Crevat and Perriwig_; _Enter_ Petro _with a Candle_.

_Gal_. _Barberacho_--confound him, 'tis the Fool whom I found this Evening about the House, hovering to roost him here!--Ha--what the Devil have I caught--a _Tartar_? escap'd again! the Devil's his Confederate.--

[Pet. _puts out the Candle, comes to_ Tick, _unties his Crevat behind, and he slips his head out of the Perriwig, and gets away, leaving both in_ Gal's _hands_.

_Pet_. Give me your Hand, I'll lead you a back-pair of stairs through the Garden.

_Tick_. Oh, any way to save my Reputation--oh--

_Gal_. Let me but once more grasp thee, and thou shalt find more safety in the Devil's Clutches: none but my Mistress serve ye!

[_Gropes out after him_.

[Pet. _with_ Tick, _running over the Stage_, Gal. _after 'em, with the Crevat and Perriwig in one Hand, his Pistol in t'other_.

_Enter_ Philippa _with a Light_.

_Phil_. Mercy upon us! what's the matter? what Noise is this--hah, a Pistol! what can this mean?

[_A Pistol goes off_.

_Enter Sir_ Signal _running_.

Sir _Sig_. Oh, save me, gentle Devil, save me, the stairs are fortify'd with Cannons and double Culverins; I'm pursu'd by a whole Regiment of arm'd Men! here's Gold, Gold in abundance, save me.--

_Phil_. What Cannons? what armed Men?

Sir _Sig_. Finding my self pursu'd as I was groping my way through the Hall, and not being able to find the Door, I made towards the stairs again, at the foot of which I was saluted with a great Gun--a pox of the Courtesy.

_Gal_. [_Without_.] Where are ye, Knight, Buffoon, Dog of _Egypt_?

Sir _Sig_. Thunder and Lightning! 'tis _Gallaird's_ Voice.

_Phil_. Here, step behind this Hanging--there's a Chimney which may shelter ye till the Storm be over,--if you be not smother'd before.

[_Puts him behind the Arras_.

_Enter_ Gal. _as before, and_ Corn, _at the other door_.

_Cor_. Heavens! What rude noise is this?

_Gal_. Where have you hid this Fool, this lucky Fool?

He whom blind Chance, and more ill-judging Woman, Has rais'd to that Degree of Happiness, That witty Men must sigh and toil in vain for?

_Cor_. What Fool, what Happiness?

_Gal_. Cease, cunning false one, to excuse thy self, See here the Trophies of your shameful Choice, And of my Ruin, cruel--fair Deceiver!

_Cor_. Deceiver, Sir, of whom? in what despairing minute did I swear to be a constant Mistress? to what dull whining Lover did I vow, and had the heart to break it?

_Gal_. Or if thou hadst, I know of no such Dog as wou'd believe thee: No, thou art false to thy own Charms, and hast betray'd them To the possession of the vilest Wretch That ever Fortune curst with Happiness; False to thy Joys, false to thy Wit and Youth: All which thou'st d.a.m.n'd with so much careful Industry To an eternal Fool, That all the Arts of Love can ne'er redeem thee.

Sir _Sig_. Meaning me, meaning me.

[_Peeping out of the Chimney, his Face blackt_.

_Cor_. A Fool! what Indiscretion have you seen in me, shou'd make ye think I would choose a Witty man for a Lover, who perhaps loves out his Month in pure good Husbandry, and in that time does more Mischief than a hundred Fools. You conquer without Resistance, you treat without Pity, and triumph without Mercy: and when you are gone, the World crys--she had not Wit enough to keep him, when indeed you are not Fool enough to be kept! Thus we forfeit both our Liberties and Discretion with you villanous witty Men: for Wisdom is but good Success in things, and those that fail are Fools.

_Gal_. Most gloriously disputed!

You're grown a Machivellian in your Art.

_Cor_. Oh, necessary Maxims only, and the first Politicks we learn from Observation--I have known a Curtezan grown infamous, despis'd, decay'd, and ruin'd, in the Possession of you witty Men, who when she had the luck to break her Chains, and cast her Net for Fools, has liv'd in state, finer than Brides upon their Wedding-day, and more profuse than the young amorous c.o.xcomb that set her up an Idol.

Sir _Sig_. Well argued of my side, I see the Baggage loves me!

[_Peeping out with a Face more s.m.u.tted_.

_Gal_. And hast thou? Oh, but prithee jilt me on, And say thou hast not destin'd all thy Charms To such a wicked Use.

Is that dear Face and Mouth for Slaves to kiss?

Shall those bright Eyes be gaz'd upon, and serve But to reflect the Images of Fools?

Sir _Sig_. That's I still. [_Peeping more black_.

_Gal_. Shall that soft tender Bosom be approacht By one who wants a Soul, to breathe in languishment At every Kiss that presses it?

Sir _Sig_. Soul! what a pox care I for Soul--as long as my Person is so amiable?

_Gal_. No, renounce that dull Discretion that undoes thee, Cunning is cheaply to be wise; leave it to those that have No other Powers to gain a Conquest by, It is below thy Charms.

--Come swear, and be foresworn most d.a.m.nably, Thou hast not yielded yet; say 'twas intended only, And though thou ly'st, by Heaven, I must believe thee; --Say,--hast thou--given him--all?

_Cor_. I've done as bad, we have discours'd th' Affair, And 'tis concluded on.--

Gal. As bad! by Heaven, much worse! discours'd with him!

Wert thou so wretched, so depriv'd of Sense, To hold Discourse with such an Animal?

d.a.m.n it; the Sin is ne'er to be forgiven.

--Hadst thou been wanton to that leud degree, By dark he might have been conducted to thee; Where silently he might have serv'd thy purpose, And thou hadst had some poor excuse for that: But bartering words with Fools admits of none.

_Cor_. I grant ye,--had I talk'd sense to him, which had been enough to have lost him for ever.