The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Iii Part 119

_Enter_ Bellemante, _with a Candle in one Hand, and a Book in the other_.

_Bell_. I am in a _Belle_ Humor for Poetry to-night; I'll make some Boremes on Love. [_She writes and studies_.

_Out of a great Curiosity,--A Shepherd did demand of me_.-- No, no,--_A Shepherd this implor'd of me_.

[_Scratches out, and writes a-new_.

Ay, ay, so it shall go.--_Tell me, said he, can you resign?-- Resign_, ay, what shall rhyme to _Resign?--Tell me, said he_.-- [_She lays down the Tablets, and walks about_.

[Harlequin _peeps from under the Table, takes the Book, writes in it, and lays it up before she can turn_.

[_Reads_.] Ay, ay, so it shall be,--_Tell me, said he, my_ Bellemante; _Will you be kind to your_ Charmante?

[_Reads those two lines, and is amaz'd_.

Ha, Heav'ns! What's this? I am amaz'd!

--And yet I'll venture once more. [_Writes and studies_.

--_I blushed and veil'd my wishing Eyes_.

[_Lays down the Book, and walks as before_.

--_Wishing Eyes_! [Har. _writes as before_.

[_She turns and takes the Tablet_.

--_And answer'd only with my Sighs_.

Ha! What is this? Witchcraft, or some Divinity of Love?

Some Cupid sure invisible.

Once more I'll try the Charm. [_Writes_.

--Cou'd I a better way my Love impart?

[_Studies and walks_.

--_Impart_-- [_He writes as before_.

--_And without speaking, tell him all my Heart_.

--'Tis here again, but where's the Hand that writ it?

[_Looks about_.

--The little Deity that will be seen But only in his Miracles. It cannot be a Devil, For here's no Sin nor Mischief in all this.

_Enter_ Charmante. _She hides the Tablet, he steps to her, and s.n.a.t.c.hes it from her and reads_.

_Char_. reads.

_Out of a great Curiosity, A Shepherd this implor'd of me.

Tell me, said he, my_ Bellemante, _Will you be kind to your_ Charmante?

_I blush'd, and veil'd my wishing Eyes, And answer'd only with my Sighs.

Cou'd I a better way my Love impart?

And without speaking, tell him all my Heart_.

_Char_. Whose is this different Character? [_Looks angry_.

_Bell_. 'Tis yours for ought I know.

_Char_. Away, my Name was put here for a blind.

What Rhiming Fop have you been clubbing Wit withal?

_Bell_. Ah! _mon Dieu!--Charmante_ jealous?

_Char_. Have I not cause?--Who writ these Boremes?

_Bell_. Some kind a.s.sisting Deity, for ought I know.

_Char_. Some kind a.s.sisting c.o.xcomb, that I know.

The Ink's yet wet, the Spark is near I find.--

_Bell_. Ah, _Malheureuse_! How was I mistaken in this Man?

_Char_. Mistaken! What, did you take me for an easy Fool to be impos'd upon?--One that wou'd be cuckolded by every feather'd Fool; that you'd call a _Beau un Gallant Homme_. 'Sdeath! Who wou'd doat upon a fond She-Fop?--a vain conceited amorous Coquette.

[_Goes out, she pulls him back_.

_Enter_ Scaramouch _running_.

_Sea_. Oh Madam! hide your Lover, or we are all undone.

_Char_. I will not hide, till I know the thing that made the Verses.

[_The Doctor calling as on the Stairs_.

_Doct. Bellemante_, Niece,--_Bellemante_.

_Scar_. She's coming, Sir.--Where, where shall I hide him?

--Oh, the Closet's open!

[_Thrusts him into the Closet by force_.

_Enter_ Doctor.

_Doct_. Oh Niece! Ill Luck, Ill Luck, I must leave you to night; my Brother the Advocate is sick, and has sent for me; 'tis three long Leagues, and dark as 'tis, I must go.--They say he is dying. Here, take my Keys, [_Pulls out his Keys, one falls down_.

and go into my Study, and look over all my Papers, and bring me all those mark'd with a Cross and figure of Three, they concern my Brother and I.

[_She looks on_ Scaramouch, _and makes pitiful Signs, and goes out_.

--Come, _Scaramouch_, and get me ready for my Journey; and on your Life, let not a Door be open'd till my Return.

[_Exeunt_.

_Enter_ Mopsophil. Har. _peeps from under the Table_.

_Har_. Ha! _Mopsophil_, and alone!

_Mop_. Well, 'tis a delicious thing to be rich; what a world of Lovers it invites: I have one for every Hand, and the Favorite for my Lips.

_Har_. Ay, him wou'd I be glad to know. [_Peeping_.

_Mop_. But of all my Lovers, I am for the Farmer's Son, because he keeps a Calash--and I'll swear a Coach is the most agreeable thing about a Man.

_Har_. Ho, ho!

_Mop_. Ah, me,--What's that?

[_He answers in a shrill Voice_.