The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Ii Part 73

L. _Gal_. Marry you.

Sir _Char_. When?

L. _Gal_. Nay, that's too much--Hold, hold, I will to morrow--Now you are satisfy'd, you will withdraw?

_Enter Sir_ Anth. _and_ Closet.

Sir _Anth. Charles_, Joy, _Charles_, give you Joy, here's two substantial Witnesses.

_Clos_. I deny it, Sir; I heard no such thing.

Sir _Anth_. What, what, Mrs. Closet, a Waiting-woman of Honour, and flinch from her Evidence! Gad, I'll d.a.m.n thy Soul if thou dar'st swear what thou say'st.

L. _Gal_. How, upon the Catch, Sir! am I betray'd?

Base and unkind, is this your humble Love?

Is all your whining come to this, false Man?

By Heaven, I'll be reveng'd.

[_She goes out in a Rage with_ Closet.

Sir _Char_. Nay, Gad, you're caught, struggle and flounder as you please, Sweetheart, you'll but intangle more; let me alone to tickle your Gills, i'faith. [_Looking after her_.--Uncle, get ye home about your Business; I hope you'll give me the good morrow, as becomes me--I say no more, a Word to the Wise--

Sir _Anth_. By George, thou'rt a brave Fellow; why, I did not think it had been in thee, Man. Well, adieu; I'll give thee such a good morrow, _Charles_--the Devil's in him!--'Bye, Charles--a plaguy Rogue!--'night, Boy--a divine Youth!

[_Going and returning, as not able to leave him. Exit_.

Sir _Char_. Gad, I'll not leave her now, till she is mine; Then keep her so by constant Consummation.

Let Man o' G.o.d do his, I'll do my Part, In spite of all her Fickleness and Art; There's one sure way to fix a Widow's Heart.

[_Exit_.

ACT V.

SCENE I. _Sir_ Timothy's _House_.

_Enter_ Dresswell, Foppington, Laboir, _and five or six more disguised with Wizards and dark Lanthorns_.

_Fop_. Not yet! a plague of this d.a.m.n'd Widow: The Devil ow'd him an unlucky Cast, and has thrown it him to night.

_Enter_ Wild, _in Rapture and Joy_.

--Hah, dear _Tom_, art thou come?

_Wild_. I saw how at her length she lay! I saw her rising Bosom bare!

_Fop_. A Pox of her rising Bosom! My dear, let's dress and about our Business.

_Wild_. Her loose thin Robes, through which appear A Shape design'd for Love and Play!

_Dres_. Sheart, Sir, is this a time for Rapture? 'tis almost day.

_Wild_. Ah, _Frank_, such a dear Night!

_Dress_. A Pox of Nights, Sir, think of this and the Day to come: which I perceive you were too well employ'd to remember.

_Wild_. The Day to come! Death, who cou'd be so dull in such dear Joys, To think of Time to come, or ought beyond 'em! And had I not been interrupted by _Charles Meriwill_, who, getting drunk, had Courage enough to venture on an untimely Visit, I'd had no more power of returning, than committing Treason: But that conjugal Lover, who will needs be my Cuckold, made me then give him way, that he might give it me another time, and so unseen I got off. But come--my Disguise.

[_Dresses_.

_Dres_. All's still and hush, as if Nature meant to favour our Design.

_Wild_. 'Tis well: and hark ye, my Friends, I'll prescribe ye no Bounds, nor Moderation; for I have consider'd, if we modestly take nothing but the Writings,'twill be easy to suspect the Thief.

_Fop_. Right; and since 'tis for the securing our Necks, 'tis lawful Prize--Sirrah, leave the Portmantle here.

[_Exeunt as into the House_.

_After a small time, Enter_ Jervice _undres'd, crying out, pursued by some of the Thieves_.

_Jer_. Murder, Murder! Thieves, Murder!

_Enter_ Wilding _with his Sword drawn_.

_Wild_. A plague upon his Throat; set a Gag in's Mouth and bind him, though he be my Uncle's chief Pimp--so--

[_They bind and gag him_.

_Enter_ Dresswell, _and_ Laboir.

_Dres_. Well, we have bound all within hearing in their Beds, e'er they cou'd alarm their Fellows by crying out.

_Wild_. 'Tis well; come, follow me, like a kind Midnight-Ghost, I will conduct ye to the rich buried Heaps--this Door leads to my Uncle's Apartment; I know each secret Nook conscious of Treasure.

[_All go in, leaving_ Jervice _bound on the Stage_.

_Enter_ Sensure _running half undressed, as from Sir_ Timothy's _Chamber, with his Velvet-Coat on her Shoulders_.

_Sen_. Help, help! Murder! Murder!

[Dres. Lab. _and others pursue her_.

_Dres_. What have we here, a Female bolted from Mr. Alderman's Bed?

[Holding a Lanthorn to his Face.

_Sen_. Ah, mercy, Sir, alas, I am a Virgin.

_Dres_. A Virgin! Gad and that may be, for any great Miracles the old Gentleman can do.

_Sen_. Do! alas, Sir, I am none of the Wicked.