PROLOGUE.

----In vitium libertas excidit et vimDignam lege regi: Lex est accepta, chorusqueTurpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi.

Of which he gives you the reason in another place: where, having given the precept,

Neve immunda crepent, ignominiosaque dicta,

He immediately subjoins,

Offenduntur enim quibus est equus, et pater, et res.

But Ben Jonson is to be admired for many excellencies; and can be taxed with fewer failings than any English poet. I know I have been accused as an enemy of his writings; but without any other reason, than that I do not admire him blindly, and without looking into his imperfections. For why should he only be exempted from those frailties, from which Homer and Virgil are not free? Or why should there be anyipse dixitin our poetry, any more than there is in our philosophy? I admire and applaud him where I ought: Those, who do more, do but value themselves in their admiration of him; and, by telling you they extol Ben Jonson's way, would insinuate to you that they can practise it. For my part, I declare that I want judgment to imitate him; and should think it a great impudence in myself to attempt it. To make men appear pleasantly ridiculous on the stage, was, as I have said, his talent; and in this he needed not the acumen of wit, but that of judgment. For the characters and representations of folly are only the effects of observation; and observation is an effect of judgment. Some ingenious men, for whom I have a particular esteem, have thought I have much injured Ben Jonson, when I have not allowed his wit to be extraordinary: But theyconfound the notion of what is witty, with what is pleasant. That Ben Jonson's plays were pleasant, he must want reason who denies: But that pleasantness was not properly wit, or the sharpness of conceit; but the natural imitation of folly: Which I confess to be excellent in its kind, but not to be of that kind which they pretend. Yet if we will believe Quintilian, in his chapterde movendo risu, he gives his opinion of both in these following words:Stulta reprehendere facillimum est; nam per se sunt ridicula, et à derisu non procul abest risus: Sed rem urbanam facit aliqua ex nobis adjectio.

And some perhaps would be apt to say of Jonson, as it was said of Demosthenes,—non displicuisse illi jocos, sed non contigisse. I will not deny, but that I approve most the mixt way of comedy; that which is neither all wit, nor all humour, but the result of both. Neither so little of humour as Fletcher shews, nor so little of love and wit as Jonson; neither all cheat, with which the best plays of the one are filled, nor all adventure, which is the common practice of the other. I would have the characters well chosen, and kept distant from interfering with each other; which is more than Fletcher or Shakespeare did: But I would have more of theurbana, venusta, salsa, faceta, and the rest which Quintilian reckons up as the ornaments of wit; and these are extremely wanting in Ben Jonson. As for repartee, in particular; as it is the very soul of conversation, so it is the greatest grace of comedy, where it is proper to the characters. There may be much of acuteness in a thing well said; but there is more in a quick reply:Sunt enim longè venustiora omnia in respondendo quàm in provocando.Of one thing I am sure, that no man ever will decry wit, but he who despairs of it himself; and who has no other quarrel to it, but thatwhich the fox had to the grapes. Yet, as Mr Cowley (who had a greater portion of it than any man I know) tells us in hisCharacter of Wit,—rather than all wit, let there be none. I think there is no folly so great in any poet of our age, as the superfluity and waste of wit was in some of our predecessors: particularly we may say of Fletcher and of Shakespeare, what was said of Ovid,In omni ejus ingenio, facilius quod rejici, quàm quod adjici potest, invenies: The contrary of which was true in Virgil, and our incomparable Jonson.

Some enemies of repartee have observed to us, that there is a great latitude in their characters, which are made to speak it: and that it is easier to write wit than humour; because, in the characters of humour, the poet is confined to make the person speak what is only proper to it; whereas, all kind of wit is proper in the character of a witty person. But, by their favour, there are as different characters in wit as in folly. Neither is all kind of wit proper in the mouth of every ingenious person. A witty coward, and a witty brave, must speak differently.Falstaffand theLiarspeak not likeDon Johnin the "Chances," andValentinein "Wit without Money." And Jonson'sTruewitin the "Silent Woman," is a character different from all of them. Yet it appears, that this one character of wit was more difficult to the author, than all his images of humour in the play: for those he could describe and manage from his observations of men; this he has taken, at least a part of it, from books; Witness the speeches in the first act, translatedverbatimout of Ovid, "De Arte Amandi." To omit what afterwards he borrowed from the sixth satire of Juvenal against women.

However, if I should grant, that there were a greater latitude in characters of wit, than in those of humour; yet thatlatitude would be of small advantage to such poets, who have too narrow an imagination to write it. And to entertain an audience perpetually with humour, is to carry them from the conversation of gentlemen, and treat them with the follies and extravagancies of Bedlam.

I find I have launched out farther than I intended in the beginning of this preface; and that, in the heat of writing, I have touched at something, which I thought to have avoided. It is time now to draw homeward; and to think rather of defending myself, than assaulting others. I have already acknowledged, that this play is far from perfect: But I do not think myself obliged to discover the imperfections of it to my adversaries, any more than a guilty person is bound to accuse himself before his judges. It is charged upon me that I make debauched persons (such as, they say, my Astrologer and Gamester are) my protagonists, or the chief persons of the drama; and that I make them happy in the conclusion of my play; against the law of comedy, which is to reward virtue, and punish vice. I answer, first, that I know no such law to have been constantly observed in comedy, either by the ancient or modern poets.Chæreais made happy in the "Eunuch," after having deflowered a virgin; and Terence generally does the same through all his plays, where you perpetually see, not only debauched young men enjoy their mistresses, but even the courtezans themselves rewarded and honoured in the catastrophe. The same may be observed in Plautus almost everywhere. Ben Jonson himself, after whom I may be proud to err, has given me more than once the example of it. That in "The Alchemist" is notorious, whereFace, after having contrived and carried on the great cozenage of the play, and continued in it without repentance to the last,is not only forgiven by his master, but enriched, by his consent, with the spoils of those whom he had cheated. And, which is more, his master himself, a grave man, and a widower, is introduced taking his man's counsel, debauching the widow first, in hope to marry her afterward. In the "Silent Woman,"Dauphine(who, with the other two gentlemen, is of the same character with myCeladonin the "Maiden Queen," and withWildbloodin this) professes himself in love with all the collegiate ladies: and they likewise are all of the same character with each other, excepting onlyMadam Otter, who has something singular: Yet this naughtyDauphineis crowned in the end with the possession of his uncle's estate, and with the hopes of enjoying all his mistresses; and his friend,Mr Truewit, (the best character of a gentleman which Ben Jonson ever made) is not ashamed to pimp for him. As for Beaumont and Fletcher, I need not allege examples out of them; for that were to quote almost all their comedies. But now it will be objected, that I patronise vice by the authority of former poets, and extenuate my own faults by recrimination. I answer, that as I defend myself by their example, so that example I defend by reason, and by the end of all dramatic poesy. In the first place, therefore, give me leave to shew you their mistake, who have accused me. They have not distinguished, as they ought, betwixt the rules of tragedy and comedy. In tragedy, where the actions and persons are great, and the crimes horrid, the laws of justice are more strictly observed; and examples of punishment to be made, to deter mankind from the pursuit of vice. Faults of this kind have been rare amongst the ancient poets: for they have punished inOedipus, and in his posterity, the sin which he knew not he had committed.Medeais the only example I remember at present, who escapes from punishment after murder. Thus tragedy fulfils one great part of its institution; which is, by example, to instruct. But in comedy it is not so; for the chief end of it is divertisement and delight: and that so much, that it is disputed, I think, by Heinsius, before Horace's "Art of Poetry," whether instruction be any part of its employment. At least I am sure it can be but its secondary end: for the business of the poet is to make you laugh: when he writes humour, he makes folly ridiculous; when wit, he moves you, if not always to laughter, yet to a pleasure that is more noble. And if he works a cure on folly, and the small imperfections in mankind, by exposing them to public view, that cure is not performed by an immediate operation: For it works first on the ill-nature of the audience; they are moved to laugh by the representation of deformity; and the shame of that laughter teaches us to amend what is ridiculous in our manners. This being then established, that the first end of comedy is delight, and instruction only the second; it may reasonably be inferred, that comedy is not so much obliged to the punishment of faults which it represents, as tragedy. For the persons in comedy are of a lower quality, the action is little, and the faults and vices are but the sallies of youth, and the frailties of human nature, and not premeditated crimes: such to which all men are obnoxious; not such as are attempted only by few, and those abandoned to all sense of virtue: such as move pity and commiseration; not detestation and horror: such, in short, as may be forgiven; not such as must of necessity be punished. But, lest any man should think that I write this to make libertinism amiable, or that I cared not to debase the end and institution of comedy, so I might therebymaintain my own errors, and those of better poets, I must further declare, both for them and for myself, that we make not vicious persons happy, but only as Heaven makes sinners so; that is, by reclaiming them first from vice. For so it is to be supposed they are, when they resolve to marry; for then, enjoying what they desire in one, they cease to pursue the love of many. SoChæreais made happy by Terence, in marrying her whom he had deflowered: and so areWildbloodand theAstrologerin this play.

There is another crime with which I am charged, at which I am yet much less concerned, because it does not relate to my manners, as the former did, but only to my reputation as a poet: a name of which I assure the reader I am nothing proud; and therefore cannot be very solicitous to defend it. I am taxed with stealing all my plays, and that by some, who should be the last men from whom I would steal any part of them. There is one answer which I will not make; but it has been made for me, by him to whose grace and patronage I owe all things,

Et spes et ratio studiorum in Cæsare tantum—

and without whose command they should no longer be troubled with any thing of mine;—that he only desired, that they, who accused me of theft, would always steal him plays like mine. But though I have reason to be proud of this defence, yet I should wave it, because I have a worse opinion of my own comedies than any of my enemies can have. It is true, that wherever I have liked any story in a romance, novel, or foreign play, I have made no difficulty, nor ever shall, to take the foundation of it, to build it up, and to make it proper for theEnglish stage. And I will be so vain to say, it has lost nothing in my hands: But it always cost me so much trouble to heighten it for our theatre, (which is incomparably more curious in all the ornaments of dramatic poesy than the French or Spanish,) that when I had finished my play, it was like the hulk of Sir Francis Drake, so strangely altered, that there scarcely remained any plank of the timber which first built it. To witness this, I need go no farther than this play: it was first Spanish, and called "El Astrologo Fingido;" then made French by the younger Corneille; and is now translated into English, and in print, under the name of "The Feigned Astrologer." What I have performed in this will best appear by comparing it with those: You will see that I have rejected some adventures which I judged were not divertising; that I have heightened those which I have chosen; and that I have added others, which were neither in the French nor Spanish. And, besides, you will easily discover, that the walk of theAstrologeris the least considerable in my play: For the design of it turns more on the parts ofWildbloodandJacinta, who are the chief persons in it. I have farther to add, that I seldom use the wit and language of any romance or play, which I undertake to alter: because my own invention (as bad as it is) can furnish me with nothing so dull as what is there. Those who have called Virgil, Terence, and Tasso, plagiaries, (though they much injured them) had yet a better colour for their accusation; for Virgil has evidently translated Theocritus, Hesiod, and Homer, in many places; besides what he has taken from Ennius in his own language. Terence was not only known to translate Menander, (which he avows also in his prologues) but was said also to be helped in those translations byScipio the African, and Lælius. And Tasso, the most excellent of modern poets, and whom I reverence next to Virgil, has taken both from Homer many admirable things, which were left untouched by Virgil, and from Virgil himself, where Homer could not furnish him. Yet the bodies of Virgil's and Tasso's poems were their own; and so are all the ornaments of language and elocution in them. The same (if there were any thing commendable in this play) I could say for it. But I will come nearer to our own countrymen. Most of Shakespeare's plays, I mean the stories of them, are to be found in the "Hecatomithi," or "Hundred Novels" of Cinthio. I have myself read in his Italian, that of "Romeo and Juliet," the "Moor of Venice," and many others of them. Beaumont and Fletcher had most of theirs from Spanish novels: Witness "The Chances," "The Spanish Curate," "Rule a Wife and have a Wife," "The Little French Lawyer," and so many others of them as compose the greatest part of their volume in folio. Ben Jonson, indeed, has designed his plots himself; but no man has borrowed so much from the ancients as he has done: and he did well in it, for he has thereby beautified our language.

But these little critics do not well consider what is the work of a poet, and what the graces of a poem: the story is the least part of either: I mean the foundation of it, before it is modelled by the art of him who writes it; who forms it with more care, by exposing only the beautiful parts of it to view, than a skilful lapidary sets a jewel. On this foundation of the story, the characters are raised: and, since no story can afford characters enough for the variety of the English stage, it follows, that it is to be altered and enlarged with new persons, accidents, and designs, which will almost make it new. When this isdone, the forming it into acts and scenes, disposing of actions and passions into their proper places, and beautifying both with descriptions, similitudes, and propriety of language, is the principal employment of the poet; as being the largest field of fancy, which is the principal quality required in him: for so much the word [Greek: poiêtês] implies. Judgment, indeed, is necessary in him; but it is fancy that gives the life-touches, and the secret graces to it; especially in serious plays, which depend not much on observation. For, to write humour in comedy, (which is the theft of poets from mankind) little of fancy is required; the poet observes only what is ridiculous and pleasant folly, and by judging exactly what is so, he pleases in the representation of it.

But, in general, the employment of a poet is like that of a curious gunsmith, or watchmaker: the iron or silver is not his own; but they are the least part of that which gives the value: the price lies wholly in the workmanship. And he who works dully on a story, without moving laughter in a comedy, or raising concernment in a serious play, is no more to be accounted a good poet, than a gunsmith of the Minories is to be compared with the best workman of the town.

But I have said more of this than I intended; and more, perhaps, than I needed to have done: I shall but laugh at them hereafter, who accuse me with so little reason; and withal contemn their dulness, who, if they could ruin that little reputation I have got, and which I value not, yet would want both wit and learning to establish their own; or to be remembered in after ages for any thing, but only that which makes them ridiculous in this.

When first our poet set himself to write,Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night;He laid about him, and did so bestir him,His muse could never lie in quiet for him:But now his honey-moon is gone and past,Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last:And he is bound, as civil husbands do,To strain himself, in complaisance to you:To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss,Like the faint smacking of an after-kiss.But you, like wives ill pleased, supply his want;Each writing monsieur is a fresh gallant:And though, perhaps, 'twas done as well before,Yet still there's something in a new amour.Your several poets work with several tools,One gets you wits, another gets you fools:This pleases you with some by-stroke of wit,This finds some cranny that was never hit.But should these janty lovers daily comeTo do your work, like your good man at home,Their fine small-timbered wits would soon decay;These are gallants but for a holiday.Others you had, who oftner have appeared,Whom, for mere impotence, you have cashiered:Such as at first came on with pomp and glory,But, overstraining, soon fell flat before ye.Their useless weight, with patience, long was born,But at the last you threw them off with scorn.As for the poet of this present night,}Though now he claims in you a husband's right,}He will not hinder you of fresh delight.}He, like a seaman, seldom will appear;And means to trouble home but thrice a-year:That only time from your gallants he'll borrow;Be kind to-day, and cuckold him to-morrow.

Wildblood,}}Two young English gentlemen.Bellamy,}

Maskall,their servant.

DonAlonzo de Ribera,an old Spanish gentleman.

DonLopez de Gamboa,a young noble Spaniard.

DonMelchor de Guzman,a gentleman of a great family; but of a decayed fortune.

DonnaTheodosia, }}Daughters to DonAlonzo.DonnaJacintha,}

DonnaAurelia,their cousin.

Beatrix,woman and confident to the two Sisters.

Camilla,woman toAurelia.

Servants to DonLopezand DonAlonzo.

SCENE—Madrid, in the Year 1665.

The Time, the last Evening of the Carnival.

OR, THE

DonLopez,and a Servant walking over the stage. Enter another Servant, and follows him.

Serv.Don Lopez.

Lop.Any new business?

Serv.My master had forgot this letter,Which he conjures you, as you are his friend,To give Aurelia from him.Lop.Tell Don Melchor,'Tis a hard task which he enjoins me:He knows I love her, and much more than he;For I love her alone, but he dividesHis passion betwixt two. Did he considerHow great a pain 'tis to dissemble love,He would never practise it.

Serv.He knows his fault, but cannot mend it.

Lop.To make the poor Aurelia believeHe's gone for Flanders, whilst he lies concealed,And every night makes visits to her cousin—When will he leave this strange extravagance?

Serv.When he can love one more, or t'other less.

Lop.Before I loved myself, I promised himTo serve him in his love; and I'll perform it,Howe'er repugnant to my own concernments.Serv.You are a noble cavalier.[Exit Servant.

EnterBellamy,Wildblood,andMaskall.

2 Serv.Sir, your guests, of the English ambassador's retinue.

Lop.Cavaliers, will you please to command my coach to take the air this evening?

Bel.We have not yet resolved how to dispose of ourselves; but, however, we are highly acknowledging to you for your civility.

Lop.You cannot more oblige me, than by laying your commands on me.

Wild.We kiss your hand.[ExeuntLopezand Serv.

Bel.Give the Don his due, he entertained us nobly this carnival.

Wild.Give the devil the Don, for any thing I liked in his entertainment.

Bel.I hope we had variety enough.

Wild.Ay, it looked like variety, till we came to taste it; there were twenty several dishes to the eye, but in the palate, nothing but spices. I had a mind to eat of a pheasant, and as soon as I got it into my mouth, I found I was chewing a limb of cinnamon; then I went to cut a piece of kid, and no sooner it had touched my lips, but it turned to red pepper: At last I began to think myself another kind of Midas, that every thing I touched should be turned to spice.

Bel.And, for my part, I imagined his Catholic majesty had invited us to eat his Indies. But pr'ythee, let's leave the discourse of it, and contrive together how we may spend the evening; for in this hot country, 'tis as in the creation, the evening and the morning make the day.

Wild.I have a little serious business.

Bel.Put it off till a fitter season: For the truth is, business is then only tolerable, when the world and the flesh have no baits to set before us for the day.

Wild.But mine, perhaps, is public business.

Bel.Why, is any business more public than drinking and wenching? Look on those grave plodding fellows, that pass by us as though they were meditating the reconquest of Flanders: Fly them to a mark, and I'll undertake three parts of four are going to their courtezans. I tell thee, Jack, the whisking of a silk gown, and the rush of a tabby petticoat, are as comfortable sounds to one of these rich citizens, as the chink of their pieces of eight.

Wild.This being granted to be the common design of human kind, it is more than probable it is yours; therefore I'll leave you to the prosecution of it.

Bel.Nay, good Jack, mine is but a mistress in embryo; the possession of her is at least some days off; and till that time, thy company willbepleasant, and may be profitable to carry on the work. I would use thee like an under kind of chemist, to blow coals; it will be time enough for me to be alone, when I come to projection.

Wild.You must excuse me, Frank; I have made an appointment at the gaming-house.

Bel.What to do there, I pr'ythee? To mis-spend that money, which kind fortune intended for a mistress? Or to learn new oaths and curses to carry into England? That is not it—I heard you were to marry when you left home: Perhaps that may be stillrunning in your head, and keep you virtuous.

Wild.Marriage, quotha! what, dost thou think I have been bred in the deserts of Africa, or among the savages of America? Nay, if I had, I must needs have known better things than so; the light of nature would not have let me go so far astray.

Bel.Well, what think you of the Prado this evening?

Wild.Pox upon't, 'tis worse than our contemplative Hyde-Park.

Bel.Oh, but we must submit to the custom of the country for courtship: Whatever the means are, we are sure the end is still the same in all places. But who are these?

EnterDon Alonzo de Ribera,with his two Daughters,TheodosiaandJacintha,andBeatrix,their Woman, passing by.

Theo.Do you see those strangers, sister, that eye us so earnestly?

Jac.Yes, and I guess them to be feathers of the English ambassador's train; for I think I saw them at the grand audience—and have the strongest temptation in the world to talk to them: A mischief on this modesty!

Beat.A mischief of this father of yours, that haunts you so.

Jac.'Tis very true, Beatrix; for though I am the younger sister, I should have the grace to lay modesty first aside: However, sister, let us pull up our veils, and give them an essay of our faces.[They pull up their veils, and pull them down again.

Wild.Ah, Bellamy! undone, undone! Dost thou see those beauties?

Bel.Pr'ythee, Wildblood, hold thy tongue, anddo not spoil my contemplation: I am undoing myself as fast as ever I can, too.

Wild.I must go to them.

Bel.Hold, madman! Dost thou not see their father? Hast thou a mind to have our throats cut?

Wild.By a Hector of fourscore? Hang our throats: What! a lover, and cautious?[Is going towards them.

Alon.Come away, daughters; we shall be late else.

Bel.Look you, they are on the wing already.

Wild.Pr'ythee, dear Frank, let's follow them: I long to know who they are.

Mask.Let me alone, I'll dog them for you.

Bel.I am glad on't; for my shoes so pinch me, I can scarce go a step farther.

Wild.Cross the way there lives a shoemaker: Away quickly, that we may not spoil our design.[ExeuntBel.andWild.

Alon.[offers to go off.] Now, friend! what's your business to follow us?

Mask.Noble Don, 'tis only to recommend my service to you: A certain violent passion I have had for your worship, since the first moment that I saw you.

Alon.I never saw thee before, to my remembrance.

Mask.No matter, sir; true love never stands upon ceremony.

Alon.Pr'ythee be gone, my saucy companion, or I'll clap an alguazil upon thy heels: I tell thee I have no need of thy service.

Mask.Having no servant of your own, I cannot, in good manners, leave you destitute.

Alon.I'll beat thee, if thou followest me.

Mask.I am your spaniel, sir; the more you beat me, the better I'll wait on you.

Alon.Let me entreat thee to be gone; the boys will hoot at me to see me followed thus against my will.

Mask.Shall you and I concern ourselves for what the boys do, sir? Pray do you hear the news at court?

Alon.Pr'ythee, what's the news to thee or me?

Mask.Will you be at the nextjuego de cannas?

Alon.If I think good.

Mask.Pray go on, sir; we can discourse as we walk together: And whither were you now a-going, sir?

Alon.To the devil, I think.

Mask.O, not this year or two, sir, by your age.

Jac.My father was never so matched for talking in all his life before; he who loves to hear nothing but himself: Pr'ythee, Beatrix, stay behind, and see what this impudent Englishman would have.

Beat.Sir, if you'll let my master go, I'll be his pawn.

Mask.Well, sir, I kiss your hand, in hope to wait on you another time.

Alon.Let us mend our pace, to get clear of him.

Theo.If you do not, he'll be with you again, like Atalanta in the fable, and make you drop another of your golden apples.[ExeuntAlon. Theo.andJacintha.[MaskallwhispersBeatrixthe while.

Beat.How much good language is here thrown away, to make me betray my ladies?

Mask.If you will discover nothing of them, let me discourse with you a little.

Beat.As little as you please.

Mask.They are rich, I suppose?

Beat.Now you are talking of them again: But they are as rich, as they are fair.

Mask.Then they have the Indies: Well, but their names, my sweet mistress.

Beat.Sweet servant, their names are——

Mask.Their names are—out with it boldly—

Beat.A secret—not to be disclosed.

Mask.A secret, say you? Nay, then, I conjure you, as you are a woman, tell it me.

Beat.Not a syllable.

Mask.Why, then, as you are a waiting-woman; as you are the sieve of all your lady's secrets, tell it me.

Beat.You lose your labour; nothing will strain through me.

Mask.Are you so well stopped in the bottom?

Beat.It was enjoined me strictly as a secret.

Mask.Was it enjoined thee strictly, and canst thou hold it? Nay, then, thou art invincible: But, by that face, that more than ugly face, which I suspect to be under thy veil, disclose it to me.

Beat.By that face of thine, which is a natural visor, I will not tell thee.

Mask.By thy——

Beat.No more swearing, I beseech you.

Mask.That woman's worth little, that is not worth an oath: Well, get thee gone; now I think on't, thou shalt not tell me.

Beat.Shall I not? Who shall hinder me? They are Don Alonzo de Ribera's daughters.

Mask.Out, out: I'll stop my ears.

Beat.They live hard by, in theCalle maior.

Mask.O, infernal tongue—

Beat.And are going to the next chapel with their father.

Mask.Wilt thou never have done tormenting me? In my conscience, anon thou wilt blab out their names too.

Beat.Their names are Theodosia and Jacintha.

Mask.And where's your great secret now?

Beat.Now, I think, I am revenged on you, for running down my poor old master.

Mask.Thou art not fully revenged, till thou hast told me thy own name too.

Beat.'Tis Beatrix, at your service, sir; pray remember I wait on them.

Mask.Now I have enough, I must be going.

Beat.I perceive you are just like other men; when you have got your ends, you care not how soon you are going. Farewell:—you'll be constant to me?

Mask.If thy face, when I see it, do not give me occasion to be otherwise.

Beat.You shall take a sample, that you may praise it, when you see it next.[She pulls up her veil.

EnterWildbloodandBellamy.

Wild.Look, there's your dog with a duck in's mouth.—Oh, she's got loose, and dived again.[ExitBeatrix.

Beat.Well, Maskall, what news of the ladies of the lake?

Mask.I have learned enough to embark you in an adventure. They are daughters to one Don Alonzo de Ribera, in theCalle maior, their names Theodosia and Jacintha, and they are going to their devotions in the next chapel.

Wild.Away then, let us lose no time. I thank heaven, I never found myself better inclined to godliness, than at this present.[Exeunt.

EnterAlonzo,Theodosia,Jacintha,Beatrix,other Ladies, and Cavaliers at their devotions.

Alon.By that time you have told your beads, I'll be again with you.[Exit.

Jac.Do you think the Englishmen will come after us?

Beat.Do you think they can stay from you?

Jac.For my part, I feel a certain qualm upon my heart, which makes me believe I am breeding love to one of them.

Theo.How, love, Jacintha! in so short a time? Cupid's arrow was well feathered, to reach you so suddenly.

Jac.Faith, as good at first as at last, sister; 'tis a thing that must be done, and therefore 'tis best dispatching it out o'the way.

Theo.But you do not mean to tell him so, whom you love?

Jac.Why should I keep myself and servant in pain, for that which may be cured at a day's warning?

Beat.My lady tells you true, madam; long tedious courtship may be proper for cold countries, where their frosts are long a thawing; but, heaven be praised, we live in a warm climate.

Theo.The truth is, in other countries they have opportunities of courtship, which we have not; they are not mewed up with double locks and grated windows; but may receive addresses at their leisure.

Jac.But our love here is like our grass; if it be not mowed quickly, 'tis burnt up.

EnterBellamy,Wildblood, andMaskall:They look about them.

Theo.Yonder are your gallants; send you comfort of them: I am for my devotions.

Jac.Now for my heart can I think of no other prayer, but only that they may not mistake us. Why, sister, sister, will you pray? What injury have I ever done you, that you should pray in my company? If your servant Don Melchor were here, we should have you mind heaven as little as the best of us.

Beat.They are at a loss, madam; shall I put up my veil, that they may take aim?

Jac.No, let them take their fortune in the dark: We shall see what archers these English are.

Bel.Which are they, think'st thou?

Wild.There's no knowing them, they are all children of darkness.

Bel.I'll be sworn they have one sign of godliness among them, there's no distinction of persons here.

Wild.Pox o'this blind-man's-buff; they may be ashamed to provoke a man thus, by their keeping themselves so close.

Bel.You are for the youngest, you say; 'tis the eldest has smitten me. And here I fix; if I am right, happy man be his dole.[ByTheodosia.

Wild.I'll take my fortune here.[ByJacintha.Madam, I hope a stranger may take the liberty, without offence, to offer his devotions by you?

Jac.That, sir, would interrupt mine, without being any advantage to your own.

Wild.My advantage, madam, is very evident; for the kind saint, to whom you pray, may, by the neighbourhood, mistake my devotions for yours.

Jac.O, sir! our saints can better distinguish between the prayersof a Catholic and a Lutheran.

Wild.I beseech you, madam, trouble not yourself for my religion; for, though I am a heretic to the men of your country, to your ladies I am a very zealous Catholic; and for fornication and adultery, I assure you I hold with both churches.

Theo. to Bel.Sir, if you will not be more devout, be at least more civil; you see you are observed.

Bel.And pray, madam, what do you think the lookers on imagine I am employed about?

Theo.I will not trouble myself to guess.

Bel.Why, by all circumstances, they must conclude that I am making love to you; and, methinks, it were scarce civil to give the opinion of so much good company the lie.

Theo.If this were true, you would have little reason to thank them for their divination.

Bel.Meaning, I should not be loved again?

Theo.You have interpreted my riddle, and may take it for your pains.

EnterAlonzo,and goes apart to his devotion.

Beat.Madam, your father is returned.

Bel.She has nettled me; would, I could be revenged on her!

Wild.Do you see their father? Let us make as though we talked to one another, that we may not be suspected.

Beat.You have lost your Englishmen.

Jac.No, no, 'tis but design, I warrant you: You shall see these island cocks wheel about immediately.[The English gather up close to them.

Beat.Perhaps they thought they were observed.

Wild. to Bel.Talk not of our country ladies: I declare myself for the Spanish beauties.

Bel.Pr'ythee, tell me what thou canst find to doat on in these Castilians?

Wild.Their wit and beauty.

Theo.Now for our champion, St Jago, for Spain.

Bel.Faith, I can speak no such miracles of either; for their beauty, 'tis much as the Moors left it; not altogether so deep a black as the true Ethiopian; a kind of beauty that is too civil to the lookers-on to do them any mischief.

Jac.This was your frowardness, that provoked him, sister.

Theo.But they shall not carry it off so.

Bel.As for their wit, you may judge it by their breeding, which is commonly in a nunnery; where the want of mankind, while they are there, makes them value the blessing ever after.

Theo.Pr'ythee, dear Jacintha, tell me, what kind of creatures were those we saw yesterday at the audience? Those, I mean, that looked so like Frenchmen in their habits, but only became their apishness so much worse.

Jac.Englishmen, I think, they called them.

Theo.Cry you mercy; they were of your wild English, indeed; that is, a kind of northern beast, that is taught its feats of activity in Monsieurland; and, for doing them too lubberly, is laughed at all the world over.

Bel.Wildblood, I perceive the women understand little of discourse; their gallants do not use them to it: They get upon their jennets, and prance before their ladies' windows; there the palfrey curvets and bounds, and, in short, entertains them for his master.

Wild.And this horseplay they call making love.

Beat.Your father, madam——

Alon.Daughters! what cavaliers are those which were talking by you?

Jac.Englishmen, I believe, sir, at their devotions.—Cavalier, would you would try to pray a little better than you have rallied.[Aside toWild.

Wild.Hang me if I put all my devotions out of order for you: I remember I prayed but on Tuesday last, and my time comes not till Tuesday next.

Mask.You had as good pray, sir: she will not stir till you have: Say any thing.

Wild.Fair lady, though I am not worthy of the least of your favours, yet give me the happiness this evening to see you at your father's door, that I may acquaint you with part of my sufferings.[Aside toJac.

Alon.Come, daughters, have you done?

Jac.Immediately, sir.—Cavalier, I will not fail to be there at the time appointed, if it be but to teach you more wit, henceforward, than to engage your heart so lightly.[Aside toWild.

Wild.I have engaged my heart with so much zeal and true devotion to your divine beauty, that——

Alon.What means this cavalier?

Jac.Some zealous ejaculation.

Alan.May the saint hear him!

Jac.I'll answer for her.[Exeunt Father and Daughters.

Wild.Now, Bellamy, what success?

Bel.I prayed to a more marble saint than that was in the shrine; but you, it seems, have been successful.

Wild.And so shalt thou; let me alone for both.

Bel.If you'll undertake it, I'll make bold to indulge my love, and within these two hours be a desperate inamorato. I feel I am coming apace to it.

Wild.Faith, I can love at any time with a wish, at my rate: I give my heart according to the old law of pawns, to be returned me before sunset.

Bel.I love only that I may keep my heart warm; for a man's a pool, if love stir him not; and to bring it to that pass, I first resolve whom to love, and presently after imagine I am in love: for a strong imagination is required in a lover as much as in a witch.

Wild.And is this all your receipt?

Bel.These are my principal ingredients; as for piques, jealousies, duels, daggers, and halters, I let them alone to the vulgar.

Wild.Pr'ythee, let's round the street a little; till Maskall watches for their woman.

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