The Female Wits Part 16

_Amo._ Oh, horrid! hasten, Madam, from the brutal Tyrant.

_Isa._ I must consult my Immortal Honour; that's a Beauty to me, more valued than Nature's Out-work's, a Face. Let me consider, tis my Husband's Father; to retire till I am justifi'd, cannot be a Crime, Sir.

I have resolv'd to go.

My Innocence is white as _Alpine_ Snow, By these Tears, which never cease to flow.

_Mar._ Your pardon, Mrs. give me leave to instruct you in a moving Cry.

Oh! there's a great deal of Art in crying: Hold your Handkerchief thus; let it meet your Eyes, thus; your Head declin'd, thus; now, in a perfect whine, crying out these words,

_By these Tears, which never cease to Flow._

Is not that right my Lord?

L. _Whim._ Oh gad! feelingly Pa.s.sionate, Madam; were your Ladyship to do it, the whole House wou'd catch the Infection; and as in _France_ they are all in a Tune, they'd here be all in Tears.

_Awdwell._ Now I fancy 'twou'd have just the contrary effect on me.

_Mar._ Oh Jehu! how am I tortur'd with your Nonsence! Proceed, for Heav'ns sake; let my Ears be diverted with my own words; for your's grate 'em beyond induring.

_Isab._ Must I repeat this stuff agen?

_Mar._ Stuff! my Spirit rises at her: But 'tis in vain to resent it. The truth on't is, Poets are so increas'd, Players value 'em no more than----

_Awd._ Ballad-singers.

_Awd._ Spiteful Devils. Well, Mrs. _Cross_, I'll not trouble you agen; _Amorous_ shall suppose you are going. Come, Mr. _Pinkethman_.

_Amo._ Then with this Flaming Sword I'll clear the way, And hunt for Danger in the Face of Day.

_Mar._ Well, Mr. _Pinkethman_, I think you are oblig'd to me for choosing you for a Heroe; Pray do it well, that the Town may see, I was not mistaken in my Judgment: Fetch large Strides; walk thus; your Arms strutting; your Voice big, and your Eyes terrible.

Then with this Flaming Sword I'll clear the way.

_Amo._ Then thus I'll clear your way, (_Draws._ And hunt for Danger in the Face of Day.

_Isa._ Alas, does any oppose us?

L. _Whim._ Only some stragling fellows, which _Amorous_ will scour; and in the Corner of the Grove the Chariot waits. (_Exeunt._

_Mar._ Now will your Ladyship please to conceive these three are got into my Lord _Whimsicall's_ Castle? Whither _Fastin_, mad with Jealousie and Love, pursues: Now your Lordship shall see the storming of a Fort, not like your _Jerusalem_, but the modern way; my Men shall go all up thro' a trap door, and ever now and then one drop polt down dead.

(_talking eagerly, she throws my Lords Snuff-box down._

L. _Whim._ Like my Snuff-box, Madam. 'Ouns my Snuff cost two Guineas.

_Mar._ I beg your Lordship's pardon.

Mr. _Prais._ Two Guineas, it shan't be all lost then.

(_Picks up the Snuff._ _Mar._ Are you ready? (_goes to the Scenes._ _Within._) Yes, yes, Madam.

_SCENE A Castle Storming._

_Mar._ My Lord, my Lord, this will make you amends for your Snuff! Drums beat; mount, ye Lumpish Dogs: what are you afraid of? you know the Stones are only Wool: Faster, with more Spirit? Brutes. Oh _Jehu_! I am sorry I had not this Castle taken by women, then t'had been done like my Grotesque Dance there: mount, mount, Rascals.

(Marcilia _bustling among 'em, loses her Head-Cloathes_.

_Patty_, _Patty_, my Head, my Head, the Brutes will trample it to Pieces. Now, Mr. _Powel_, enter like a Lyon.

_Enter_ Fastin, _Followers_, _Lady_ Loveall, Betty, &c.

_Fast._ By Heav'n, I'll tear her from her Lover's Arms, my Father only Spare.

_La. Lov._ Spare him not: hear my Charge. Aim every arrow, at his Destin'd Head, There is no Peace, 'till that Curst Villain's Dead.

_Mar._ Look, look my Lord, where Mr. _Powell_ 's got.

_La. Lov._ Oh, the rash young Man; save him, G.o.ds!

_Betty._ Protect him, _Venus_!

Mr. _Prais._ How heartily _Betty_ prays, and to her own Deity, I dare swear.

_Fast._ They fly! they fly! sound Trumpets, Sound! let _Clemene's_ Musick joyn confine my Father to yon distant Tower: I'll not see him 'till I have punish'd the Adultress: Set wide the Gates, and let _Clemenes_ know she's Mistress here.

_La. Lov._ Where is he; Let me fly and bind his Wounds up with my Hair, lull him upon my own Bosom, and sing him into softest ease.

To Feast, and Revels Dedicate the Day.

Let the old Misers stores be all expos'd, and made the Soldiers Prey!

D' ye hear, let the Butler dye, least he tell Tales.

_Betty._ Madam, he shall then, no body will dare contradict us in the Cellar neither. (_Exeunt._

Mr. _Prais._ Well said, Mrs. _Betty_; she loves a Cup, I like her the better for't.

Mr. _Awd._ A hopeful Wife, this! do's she go on thus Triumphant?

_Mar._ I have sworn to answer you no more Questions.

L. _Whiff._ Indeed, Madam, you have made her very wicked.

_Mar._ The woman is a little Mischievous; but your Lordship shall see I'll bring her to Condign Punnishment. My Lord, I will be bold to say, here is a Scene a coming, wherein there is the greatest Distress that ever was seen in a Play: 'tis poor _Amorous_, and _Isabella_. Mr.

_Praisall_, do you remember that old _Whimsicall_ was all along a Philosopher_?_ Come let down the Chariot.

Mr. _Prais._ Lord Madam, do you think I don't, why was not he and I a going to the Moon together?

_Mar._ Right! you must keep a steady, and a solid Thought to find the Depths of this plot out. Now, my Lord, be pleas'd once again to conceive these poor Lovers hunted above the Castle, at last taking Sanctuary in a high pair of Leads, which adjoyns to the old Man's study; conceive also their Enemies at their Heels; how then can these lost Creatures 'scape?

Mr. _Awd._ May be they both leapt over the Leads, and broke their Necks.