The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Iii Part 61

_Gay_. Here, _Rag_, run and fetch her a Pint of Sack--there's no other way of quenching the Fire in her flabber Chops.

[_Exit_ Rag.

--But, my dear Landlady, have a little Patience.

_Land_. Patience! I scorn your Words, Sir--is this a place to trust in?

tell me of Patience, that us'd to have my money before hand; come, come, pay me quickly--or old _Gregory Grimes_ house shall be too hot to hold you.

_Gay_. Is't come to this, can I not be heard?

_Land_. No, Sir, you had good Clothes when you came first, but they dwindled daily, till they dwindled to this old Campaign--with tan'd coloured Lining--once red--but now all Colours of the Rain-bow, a Cloke to sculk in a Nights, and a pair of p.i.s.s-burn'd shammy Breeches. Nay, your very Badge of Manhood's gone too.

_Gay_. How, Landlady! nay then, i'faith, no wonder if you rail so.

_Land_. Your Silver Sword I mean--transmogrified to this two-handed Basket Hilt--this old Sir _Guy_ of _Warwick_--which will sell for nothing but old Iron. In fine, I'll have my money, Sir, or i'faith, _Alsatia_ shall not shelter you.

_Enter_ Rag.

_Gay_. Well, Landlady--if we must part--let's drink at parting; here, Landlady, here's to the Fool--that shall love you better than I have done. [_Sighing, drinks_.

_Land_. Rot your Wine--dy'e think to pacify me with Wine, Sir?

[_She refusing to drink, he holds open her Jaws_, Rag _throws a Gla.s.s of Wine into her Mouth_.

--What, will you force me?--no--give me another Gla.s.s, I scorn to be so uncivil to be forced, my service to you, Sir--this shan't do, Sir.

[_She drinks, he, embracing her, sings_.

_Ah_, Cloris, _'tis in vain you scold, Whilst your Eyes kindle such a Fire.

Tour Railing cannot make me cold, So fast as they a Warmth inspire_.

_Land_. Well, Sir, you have no reason to complain of my Eyes nor my Tongue neither, if rightly understood. [_Weeps_.

_Gay_. I know you are the best of Landladies, As such I drink your Health-- [_Drinks_.

But to upbraid a Man in Tribulation--fie--'tis not done like a Woman of Honour, a Man that loves you too.

[She drinks.

_Land_. I am a little hasty sometimes, but you know my good Nature.

_Gay_. I do, and therefore trust my little wants with you. I shall be rich again--and then, my dearest Landlady--

_Land_. Wou'd this Wine might ne'er go through me, if I wou'd not go, as they say, through Fire and Water--by Night or by Day for you.

[_She drinks_.

_Gay_. And as this is Wine I do believe thee. [_He drinks_.

_Land_. Well--you have no money in your Pocket now, I'll warrant you-- here--here's ten s.h.i.+llings for you old _Greg'ry_ knows not of.

[_Opens a great greasy purse_.

_Gay_. I cannot in Conscience take it, good Faith, I cannot--besides, the next Quarrel you'll hit me in the Teeth with it.

_Land_. Nay, pray no more of that; forget it, forget it. I own I was to blame--here, Sir, you shall take it.

_Gay_. Ay,--but what shou'd I do with Money in these d.a.m.n'd Breeches?

--No, put it up--I can't appear abroad thus--no, I'll stay at home, and lose my business.

_Land_. Why, is there no way to redeem one of your Suits?

_Gay_. None--none--I'll e'en lay me down and die.

_Land_. Die--marry, Heavens forbid--I would not for the World--let me see--hum--what does it lie for?

_Gay_. Alas! dear Landlady, a Sum--a Sum.

_Land_. Well, say no more, I'll lay about me.

_Gay_. By this kiss but you shall not--_a.s.safetida_, by this Light.

_Land_. Shall not? that's a good one, i'faith: shall you rule, or I?

_Gay_. But shou'd your Husband know it?--

_Land_. Husband--marry come up, Husbands know Wives secrets? No, sure, the World's not so bad yet--where do your things lie? and for what?

_Gay_. Five Pounds equips me--_Rag_ can conduct you--but I say you shall not go, I've sworn.

_Land_. Meddle with your matters--let me see, the Caudle Cup that _Molly's_ Grandmother left her, will p.a.w.n for about that sum--I'll sneak it out--well, Sir, you shall have your things presently--trouble not your head, but expect me.

[_Ex_. Landlady _and_ Rag.

_Gay_. Was ever man put to such beastly s.h.i.+fts? 'Sdeath, how she stunk-- my senses are most luxuriously regal'd--there's my perpetual Musick too--

[_Knocking of Hammers on a Anvil_.

The ringing of Bells is an a.s.s to't.

_Enter_ Rag.

_Rag_. Sir, there's one in a Coach below wou'd speak to you.

_Gay_. With me, and in a Coach! who can it be?

_Rag_. The Devil, I think, for he has a strange Countenance.

_Gay_. The Devil! shew your self a Rascal of Parts, Sirrah, and wait on him up with Ceremony.

_Rag_. Who, the Devil, Sir?