The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Iii Part 60

Sir _Feeb_. You honour us too highly now, Madam.

[_Presents his Wife, who salutes her_.

L. _Ful_. Give you Joy, my dear _Leticia_! I find, Sir, you were resolved for Youth, Wit and Beauty.

Sir _Feeb_. Ay, ay, Madam, to the Comfort of many a hoping c.o.xcomb: but _Lette_,--Rogue _Lette_--thou wo't not make me free o'th' City a second time, wo't thou entice the Rogues with the Twire and the wanton Leer --the amorous Simper that cries, come, kiss me--then the pretty round Lips are pouted out--he, Rogue, how I long to be at 'em!--well, she shall never go to Church more, that she shall not.

L. _Ful_. How, Sir, not to Church, the chiefest Recreation of a City Lady?

Sir _Feeb_. That's all one, Madam, that tricking and dressing, and prinking and patching, is not your Devotion to Heaven, but to the young Knaves that are lick'd and comb'd and are minding you more than the Parson--ods bobs, there are more Cuckolds destin'd in the Church, than are made out of it.

Sir _Cau_. Hah, ha, ha, he tickles ye, i'faith, Ladies. [_To his Lady_.

_Bel_. Not one chance look this way--and yet I can forgive her lovely Eyes, Because they look not pleas'd with all this Ceremony; And yet methinks some sympathy in Love Might this way glance their Beams--I cannot hold-- Sir, is this fair Lady my Aunt?

Sir _Feeb_. Oh, _Francis_! Come hither, _Francis_.

_Lette_, here's a young Rogue has a mind to kiss thee.

[_Puts them together, she starts back_.

--Nay, start not, he's my own Flesh and Blood, My Nephew--Baby--look, look how the young Rogues stare at one another; like will to like, I see that.

_Let_. There's something in his Face so like my _Bellmour_, it calls my Blushes up, and leaves my Heart defenceless.

_Enter_ Ralph.

_Ralph_. Sir, Dinner's on the Table.

Sir _Feeb_. Come, come--let's in then--Gentlemen and Ladies, And share to day my Pleasures and Delight, But-- Adds bobs, they must be all mine own at Night.

[_Exeunt_.

ACT II.

SCENE I. Gayman's _Lodging_.

_Enter _Gayman_ in a Night-Cap, and an old Campaign Coat tied about him, very melancholy_.

_Gay_. Curse on my Birth! Curse on my faithless Fortune!

Curse on my Stars, and curst be all--but Love!

That dear, that charming Sin, though t'have pull'd Innumerable Mischiefs on my head, I have not, nor I cannot find Repentance for.

Nor let me die despis'd, upbraided, poor: Let Fortune, Friends and all abandon me-- But let me hold thee, thou soft smiling G.o.d, Close to my heart while Life continues there.

Till the last pantings of my vital Blood, Nay, the last spark of Life and Fire be Love's!

_Enter_ Rag.

--How now, _Rag_, what's a Clock?

_Rag_. My Belly can inform you better than my Tongue.

_Gay_. Why, you gormandizing Vermin you, what have you done with the Three pence I gave you a fortnight ago.

_Rag_. Alas, Sir, that's all gone long since.

_Gay_. You gutling Rascal, you are enough to breed a Famine in a Land. I have known some industrious Footmen, that have not only gotten their own Livings, but a pretty Livelihood for their Masters too.

_Rag_. Ay, till they came to the Gallows, Sir.

_Gay_. Very well, Sirrah, they died in an honourable Calling--but hark ye, _Rag_,--I have business, very earnest business abroad this Evening; now were you a Rascal of Docity, you wou'd invent a way to get home my last Suit that was laid in Lavender--with the Appurtenances thereunto belonging, as Perriwig, Cravat, and so forth.

_Rag_. Faith, Master, I must deal in the black Art then, for no human means will do't--and now I talk of the black Art, Master, try your Power once more with my Landlady.

_Gay_. Oh! name her not, the thought on't turns my Stomach--a sight of her is a Vomit; but he's a bold Hero that dares venture on her for a kiss, and all beyond that sure is h.e.l.l it self--yet there's my last, last Refuge--and I must to this Wedding--I know not what,--but something whispers me,--this Night I shall be happy--and without _Julia_ 'tis impossible!

_Rag. Julia_, who's that? my Lady _Fulbank_, Sir?

_Gay_. Peace, Sirrah--and call--a--no--Pox on't, come back--and yet--yes--call my fulsome Landlady.

[_Exit_ Rag.

Sir _Cautious_ knows me not by Name or Person.

And I will to this Wedding, I'm sure of seeing _Julia_ there.

And what may come of that--but here's old Nasty coming.

I smell her up--hah, my dear Landlady.

_Enter _Rag_ and _Landlady.

Quite out of breath--a Chair there for my Landlady.

_Rag_. Here's ne'er a one, Sir.

_Land_. More of your Money and less of your Civility, good Mr.

_Wasteall_.

_Gay_. Dear Landlady--

_Land_. Dear me no Dears, Sir, but let me have my Money--Eight Weeks Rent last Friday; besides Taverns, Ale-houses, Chandlers, Landresses'

Scores, and ready Money out of my Purse; you know it, Sir.

_Gay_. Ay, but your Husband don't; speak softly.

_Land_. My Husband! what, do you think to fright me with my Husband?-- I'd have you to know I'm an honest Woman, and care not this--for my Husband. Is this all the thanks I have for my kindness, for patching, borrowing and s.h.i.+fting for you; 'twas but last Week I p.a.w.n'd my best Petticoat, as I hope to wear it again, it cost me six and twenty s.h.i.+llings besides Making; then this Morning my new _Norwich_ Mantua followed, and two postle Spoons, I had the whole dozen when you came first; but they dropt, and dropt, till I had only _Judas_ left for my Husband.

_Gay_. Hear me, good Landlady.

_Land_. Then I've past my word at the _George Tavern_, for forty s.h.i.+llings for you, ten s.h.i.+llings at my Neighbour _Squabs_ for Ale, besides seven s.h.i.+llings to Mother _Suds_ for Was.h.i.+ng; and do you fob me off with my Husband?