The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Iii Part 18

_Jenny_. Mrs. _Driver_, why shou'd you send for us where _Flaunt.i.t_ is?

a stinking proud Flirt, who because she has a tawdry Petticoat, I warrant you, will think her self so much above us, when if she were set out in her own natural Colours, and her original Garments, wou'd be much below us in Beauty.

Mrs. _Driv_. Look ye, Mrs. _Jenny_, I know you, and I know Mrs.

_Flaunt.i.t_; but 'tis not Beauty or Wit that takes now-a-days; the Age is altered since I took upon me this genteel Occupation: but 'tis a fine Petticoat, right Points, and clean Garnitures, that does me Credit, and takes the Gallant, though on a stale Woman. And again, Mrs. _Jenny_, she's kept, and Men love as much for Malice, as for Lechery, as they call it. Oh, 'tis a great Mover to Joy, as they say, to have a Woman that's kept.

_Jen_. Well! Be it so, we may arrive to that excellent Degree of Cracking, to be kept too one day.

Mrs. _Driv_. Well, well, get your selves in order to go up to the Gentlemen.

_Flaunt_. _Driver_, what art thou talking to those poor Creatures?

Lord, how they stink of Paint and Pox, faugh--

Mrs. _Driv_. They were only complaining that you that were kept, shou'd intrude upon the Privileges of the Commoners.

_Flaunt_. Lord, they think there are such Joys in Keeping, when I vow, _Driver_, after a while, a Miss has as painful a Life as a Wife; our Men drink, stay out late, and wh.o.r.e, like any Husbands.

_Driv_. But I hope in the Lord, Mrs. _Flaunt.i.t_, yours is no such Man; I never saw him, but I have heard he's under decent Correction.

_Flaunt_. Thou art mistaken, _Driver_, I can keep him within no moderate Bounds without Blows; but for his filthy Custom of Wenching, I have almost broke him of that--but prithee, _Driver_, who are these Gentlemen?

_Driv_. Truly, I know not; but they are young, and fine as Princes: two of 'em were disguis'd in masking Habits last Night, but they have sent 'em away this Morning, and they are free as Emperors--One of 'em has lost a Thousand Pound at Play, and never repin'd at it; one's a Knight, and I believe his Courage is cool'd, for he has ferreted my Maids over and over to Night--But 'tis the fine, young, handsom Squire that I design you for.

_Flaunt_. No matter for his Handsomness, let me have him that has most Money.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE III. _Another Chamber in the Brothel, a Table with Box and Dice_.

_Enter_ Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham _and_ Sharp.

_Bel_. d.a.m.n it, give us more Wine. [_Drinks_.

Where stands the Box and Dice?--Why, _Sham_.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, Your Luck's so bad, I han't the Conscience to play longer--Sir _Timothy_ and you play off a hundred Guineas, and see if Luck will turn.

_Bel_. Do you take me for a Country Squire, whose Reputation will be crackt at the loss of a petty Thousand? You have my Note for it to my Goldsmith.

_Sham_. 'Tis sufficient if it were for ten thousand.

_Bel_. Why, Sir _Timothy_--Pox on't, thou'rt dull, we are not half debauch'd and leud enough, give us more Wine.

Sir _Tim_. Faith, _Frank_, I'm a little maukish with sitting up all Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning--Did we not send for Wh.o.r.es?

_Bel_. No, I am not in humour for a Wench-- By Heaven, I hate the s.e.x.

All but divine _Celinda_, Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts.

Sir _Tim_. What, art Italianiz'd, and lovest thy own s.e.x?

_Bel_. I'm for any thing that's out of the common Road of Sin; I love a Man that will be d.a.m.n'd for something: to creep by slow degrees to h.e.l.l, as if he were afraid the World shou'd see which way he went, I scorn it, 'tis like a Conventicler--No, give me a Man, who to be certain of's d.a.m.nation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid.

Sir _Tim_. Ha, ha, ha, I thought thou would'st have said at least--had murder'd his Father, or ravish'd his Mother--Break a Vow, quoth ye--by Fortune, I have broke a thousand.

_Bel_. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene'er the Devil calls for thee--So--ho--more Wine, more Wine, and Dice.

_Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine_.

Come, Sir, let me-- [_Throws and loses_.

Sir _Tim_. What will you set me, Sir?

_Bel_. Cater-tray--a hundred Guineas--oh, d.a.m.n the Dice--'tis mine--come, a full Gla.s.s--d.a.m.nation to my Uncle.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, I'll do thee reason--give me the Gla.s.s, and, _Sham_, to thee--Confusion to the musty Lord.

_Bel_. So--now I'm like my self, profanely wicked.

A little room for Life--but such a Life As h.e.l.l it self shall wonder at--I'll have a care To do no one good deed in the whole course on't, Lest that shou'd save my Soul in spite of Vow-breach.

--I will not die--that Peace my Sins deserve not.

I'll live and let my Tyrant Uncle see The sad effects of Perjury, and forc'd Marriage.

--Surely the Pow'rs above envy'd my Bliss; Marrying _Celinda_, I had been an Angel, So truly blest, and good. [_Weeps_.

Sir _Tim_. Why, how now, _Frank_--by Fortune, the Rogue is Maudlin--So, ho, ho, so ho.

_Bel_. The matter?

Sir _Tim_. Oh, art awake--What a Devil ail'st thou, _Frank_?

_Bel_. A Wench, or any thing--come, let's drink a round.

_Sham_. They're come as wisht for.

_Enter_ Flaunt.i.t, Driver, Doll _and_ Jenny _mask'd_.

_Bel_. Oh, d.a.m.n 'em! What shall I do?

Yet it would look like Virtue to avoid 'em.

No, I must venture on--Ladies, y'are welcome.

Sir _Tim_. How, the Women?--Hold, hold, _Bellmour_, let me choose too-- Come, come, unmask, and shew your pretty Faces.

_Flaunt_. How, Sir _Timothy_! What Devil ow'd me a spite. [_Aside_.

Sir _Tim_. Come, unmask, I say: a willing Wench would have shew'd all in half this time.

_Flaunt_. Wou'd she so, Impudence!

[_Pulls off her Mask_.