The Works of Aphra Behn Volume I Part 40

_Feth._ Few Ladies have I seen at a Sheriff's Feast have better Faces, or worn so good Clothes; and by the Lord _Harry_, if these be of the gentle Craft, I'd not give a Real for an honest Women for my use.

_Will._ Come follow me into the Church, for thither I am sure they're gone: And I will let you see what a wretched thing you had been had you lived seven Years longer in _Surrey_, stew'd in Ale and Beef-broth.

_Feth._ O dear _Willmore_, name not those savory things, there's no jesting with my Stomach; it sleeps now, but if it wakes, wo be to your Shares at the Ordinary.

_Blunt._ I'll say that for _Fetherfool_, if his Heart were but half so good as his Stomach, he were a brave Fellow.

[Aside, Exeunt.

_Aria._ I am resolv'd to follow-- and learn, if possible, who 'tis has made this sudden Conquest o'er me.

[All go off.

[Scene draws, and discovers a Church, a great many People at Devotion, soft Musick playing. Enter _La Nuche_, _Aurelia_, _Petron._ and _Sancho_: To them _Willmore_, _Feth._ _Blunt_; then _Ariadne_, _Lucia_; _Feth._ bows to _La Nuche_ and _Petronella_.

_Feth._ Now as I hope to be sav'd, _Blunt_, she's a most melodious Lady.

Would I were worthy to purchase a Sin or so with her. Would not such a Beauty reconcile thy Quarrel to the s.e.x?

_Blunt._ No, were she an Angel in that Shape.

_Feth._ Why, what a pox couldst not lie with her if she'd let thee? By the Lord _Harry_, as errant a Dog as I am, I'd fain see any of _Cupid's_ Cook-maids put me out of countenance with such a Shoulder of Mutton.

_Aria._ See how he gazes on her-- _Lucia_, go nearer, and o'er-hear 'em.

[_Lucia_ listens.

_Will._ Death, how the charming Hypocrite looks to day, with such a soft Devotion in her Eyes, as if even now she were praising Heav'n for all the Advantages it has blest her with.

_Blunt._ Look how _Willmore_ eyes her, the Rogue's smitten heart deep-- Wh.o.r.es--

_Feth._ Only a Trick to keep her to himself-- he thought the Name of a _Spanish_ Harlot would fright us from attempting-- I must divert him-- how is't, Captain-- Prithee mind this Musick-- Is it not most Seraphical?

_Will._ Pox, let the Fidlers mind and tune their Pipes, I've higher Pleasures now.

_Feth._ Oh, have ye so; what, with Wh.o.r.es, Captain?-- 'Tis a most delicious Gentlewoman.

[Aside.

_Pet._ Pray, Madam, mind that Cavalier, who takes such pains to recommend himself to you.

_La Nu._ Yes, for a fine conceited Fool--

_Pet._ Catso, a Fool, what else?

_La Nu._ Right, they are our n.o.blest Chapmen; a Fool, and a rich Fool, and an _English_ rich Fool--

_Feth._ 'Sbud, she eyes me, _Ned_, I'll set my self in order, it may take-- hah-- [Sets himself.

_Pet._ Let me alone to manage him, I'll to him--

_La Nu._ Or to the Devil, so I had one Minute's time to speak to _Willmore_.

_Pet._ And accosting him thus-- tell him--

_La Nu._ [in a hasty Tone.] --I am desperately in love with him, and am Daughter, Wife, or Mistress to some Grandee-- bemoan the Condition of Women of Quality in _Spain_, who by too much Constraint are oblig'd to speak first-- but were we blest like other Nations where Men and Women meet-- [Speaking so fast, she offering to put in her word, is still prevented by t'other's running on.

_Pet._ What Herds of Cuckolds would _Spain_ breed-- 'Slife, I could find in my Heart to forswear your Service: Have I taught ye your Trade, to become my Instructor, how to cozen a dull phlegmatick greasy-brain'd Englishman?-- go and expect your Wishes.

_Will._ So, she has sent her Matron to our c.o.xcomb; she saw he was a Cully fit for Game-- who would not be a Rascal to be rich, a Dog, an a.s.s, a beaten, harden'd Coward-- by Heaven, I will possess this gay Insensible, to make me hate her-- most extremely curse her-- See if she be not fallen to Pray'r again, from thence to Flattery, Jilting and Purse-taking, to make the Proverb good-- My fair false _Sybil_, what Inspirations are you waiting for from Heaven, new Arts to cheat Mankind!-- Tell me, with what Face canst thou be devout, or ask any thing from thence, who hast made so leud a use of what it has already lavish'd on thee?

_La Nu._ Oh my careless Rover! I perceive all your hot Shot is not yet spent in Battel, you have a Volley in reserve for me still-- Faith, Officer, the Town has wanted Mirth in your Absence.

_Will._ And so might all the wiser part for thee, who hast no Mirth, no Gaiety about thee, and when thou wouldst design some c.o.xcomb's ruin; to all the rest, a Soul thou hast so dull, that neither Love nor Mirth, nor Wit or Wine can wake it to good Nature-- thou'rt one who lazily work'st in thy Trade, and sell'st for ready Mony so much Kindness; a tame cold Sufferer only, and no more.

_La Nu._ What, you would have a Mistress like a Squirrel in a Cage, always in Action-- one who is as free of her Favours as I am sparing of mine-- Well, Captain, I have known the time when _La Nuche_ was such a Wit, such a Humour, such a Shape, and such a Voice, (tho to say Truth I sing but scurvily) 'twas Comedy to see and hear me.

_Will._ Why, yes Faith for once thou wert, and for once mayst be again, till thou know'st thy Man, and knowest him to be poor. At first you lik'd me too, you saw me gay, no marks of Poverty dwelt in my Face or Dress, and then I was the dearest loveliest Man-- all this was to my outside; Death, you made love to my Breeches, caress'd my Garniture and Feather, an _English_ Fool of Quality you thought me-- 'Sheart, I have known a Woman doat on Quality, tho he has stunk thro all his Perfumes; one who never went all to Bed to her, but left his Teeth, an Eye, false Back and Breast, sometimes his Palate too upon her Toilet, whilst her fair Arms hug'd the dismember'd Carcase, and swore him all Perfection, because of Quality.

_La Nu._ But he was rich, good Captain, was he not?

_Will._ Oh most d.a.m.nably, and a confounded Blockhead, two certain Remedies against your Pride and Scorn.

_La Nu._ Have you done, Sir?

_Will._ With thee and all thy s.e.x, of which I've try'd an hundred, and found none true or honest.

_La Nu._ Oh, I doubt not the number: for you are one of those healthy-stomacht Lovers, that can digest a Mistress in a Night, and hunger again next Morning: a Pox of your whining consumptive Const.i.tution, who are only constant for want of Appet.i.te: you have a swinging Stomach to Variety, and Want having set an edge upon your Invention, (with which you cut thro all Difficulties) you grow more impudent by Success.

_Will._ I am not always scorn'd then.

_La Nu._ I have known you as confidently put your Hands into your Pockets for Money in a Morning, as if the Devil had been your Banker, when you knew you put 'em off at Night as empty as your Gloves.

_Will._ And it may be found Money there too.

_La Nu._ Then with this Poverty so proud you are, you will not give the Wall to the Catholick King, unless his Picture hung upon't. No Servants, no Money, no Meat, always on foot, and yet undaunted still.

_Will._ Allow me that, Child.

_La Nu._ I wonder what the Devil makes you so termagant on our s.e.x, 'tis not your high feeding, for your Grandees only dine, and that but when Fortune pleases-- For your parts, who are the poor dependent, brown Bread and old _Adam's_ Ale is only current amongst ye; yet if little _Eve_ walk in the Garden, the starv'd lean Rogues neigh after her, as if they were in Paradise.

_Will._ Still true to Love you see-- -

_La Nu._ I heard an _English_ Capuchin swear, that if the King's Followers could be brought to pray as well as fast, there would be more Saints among 'em than the Church has ever canoniz'd.

_Will._ All this with Pride I own, since 'tis a royal Cause I suffer for; go pursue your Business your own way, insnare the Fool-- I saw the Toils you set, and how that Face was ordered for the Conquest, your Eyes brimful of dying lying Love; and now and then a wishing Glance or Sigh thrown as by chance; which when the happy c.o.xcomb caught-- you feign'd a Blush, as angry and asham'd of the Discovery: and all this Cunning's for a little mercenary Gain-- fine Clothes, perhaps some Jewels too, whilst all the Finery cannot hide the Wh.o.r.e!

_La Nu._ There's your eternal Quarrel to our s.e.x, 'twere a fine Trade indeed to keep a Shop and give your Ware for Love: would it turn to account think ye, Captain, to trick and dress, to receive all wou'd enter? faith, Captain, try the Trade.

_Pet._ What in Discourse with this Railer!-- come away; Poverty's catching.

[Returns from Discourse with _Feth._ speaks to _San._