Pardon me then, Great Sir, if I presume to present my faithful Soldier, (which no Storms of Fate can ever draw from his Obedience) to so great a General: allow him, Royal Sir, a shelter and protection, who was driven from his Native Country with You, forc'd as You were, to fight for his Bread in a Strange Land, and suffer'd with You all the Ills of Poverty, War and Banishment; and still pursues Your Fortunes; and though he cannot serve Your Highness, he may possibly have the Honour of diverting You a few moments: which tho Your Highness cannot want in a place where all Hearts and Knees are justly bow'd in Adoration, where all conspire, as all the Earth (who have the blessing of Your presence) ought to entertain, serve and please You; yet this humble Tribute of a most Zealous and Devout Heart, may find amongst Your busier hours of greater moment, some one wherein it may have the Glory of Your regard, and be capable in some small degree of unbending Your great mind from Royal Cares, the weightiest Cares of all; which if it be so fortunate as to do, I have my end, and the Glory I design, a sufficient reward for her who does and will eternally pray for the Life, Health and Safety of Your Royal Highness, as in Duty all the World is bound to do, but more especially,
Illustrious Sir,
Your Highnesses most Humble, most Faithful, and most Obedient Servant, A. BEHN.
THE ROVER.
PART II.
PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. _Smith_.
_In vain we labour to reform the Stage, Poets have caught too the Disease o'th' Age, That Pest, _of not being quiet when they're well_, That restless Fever, in the Brethren, _Zeal_; In publick Spirits call'd, _Good o' th' Commonweal_.
Some for this Faction cry, others for that, The pious Mobile fir they know not what: So tho by different ways the Fever seize, In all 'tis one and the same mad Disease.
Our Author too, as all new Zealots do, Full of Conceit and Contradiction too, 'Cause the first Project took, is now so vain, T'attempt to play the old Game o'er again: The Scene is only changed; for who wou'd lay A Plot, so hopeful, just the same dull way?
Poets, like Statesmen, with a little change, Pass off old Politicks for new and strange; Tho the few Men of Sense decry't aloud, The Cheat will pass with the unthinking Croud: The Rabble 'tis we court, those powerful things, Whose Voices can impose even Laws on Kings.
A Pox of Sense and Reason, or dull Rules, Give us an Audience that declares for Fools; Our Play will stand fair: we've Monsters too, Which far exceed your City Pope for Show._ _Almighty Rabble,'tis to you this Day Our humble Author dedicates the Play, From those who in our lofty Tire sit, Down to the dull Stage-Cullies of the Pit, Who have much Money, and but little Wit: Whose useful Purses, and whose empty Skulls To private Int'rest make ye Publick Tools; To work on Projects which the wiser frame, And of fine Men of Business get the Name.
You who have left caballing here of late, Imploy'd in matters of a mightier weight; To you we make our humble Application, You'd spare some time from your dear new Vocation, Of drinking deep, then settling the Nation, To countenance us, whom Commonwealths of old Did the most politick Diversion hold.
Plays were so useful thought to Government, That Laws were made for their Establishment; Howe'er in Schools differing Opinions jar, Yet all agree i' th' crouded Theatre, Which none forsook in any Change or War.
That, like their Gods, unviolated stood, Equally needful to the publick Good.
Throw then, Great Sirs, some vacant hours away, And your Petitioners shall humbly pray. &c._
DRAMATIS PERSONae.
MEN.
_Willmore_, The Rover, in love with _La Nuche_, Mr. _Smith_ _Beaumond_, the _English_ Ambassador's Nephew, in love with _La Nuche_, contracted to _Ariadne_, Mr. _Williams_ _Ned Blunt_, an _English_ Country Gentleman, Mr. _Underhill_ _Nicholas Fetherfool_, an English Squire, his Friend, Mr. _Nokes_ _Shift_, } an English Lieutenant, } Friends and Officers Mr. _Wiltshire_ _Hunt_, an Ensign } to _Willmore_, Mr. _Richards_ _Harlequin_, _Willmore's_ Man.
_Abevile_, Page to _Beaumond_.
Don _Carlo_ an old Grandee, in love with _La Nuche_, Mr. _Norris_ _Sancho_, Bravo to _La Nuche_ An old _Jew_, Guardian to the two Monsters, Mr. _Freeman_ _Porter_ at the English Ambassador's.
_Rag_, Boy to Willmore.
Scaramouche.
WOMEN.
_Ariadne_, the English Ambassador's Daughter-in-law, in love with _Willmore_, Mrs. _Corror_ _Lucia_, her Kinswoman, a Girl, Mrs. _Norris_ _La Nuche_, a _Spanish_ Curtezan, in love with the _Rover_, Mrs. _Barry_ _Petronella Elenora_, her Baud, Mrs. _Norris_ _Aurelia_, her Woman, Mrs. _Crofts_ A Woman Giant.
A Dwarf, her Sister.
Footmen, Servants, Musicians, Operators and Spectators.
SCENE, _Madrid_.
ACT I.
SCENE I. _A Street._
Enter _Willmore_, _Blunt_, _Fetherfool_, and _Hunt_, two more in Campain Dresses, _Rag_ the Captain's Boy.
_Will._ Stay, this is the _English_ Ambassador's. I'll inquire if _Beaumond_ be return'd from _Paris_.
_Feth._ Prithee, dear Captain, no more Delays, unless thou thinkest he will invite us to Dinner; for this fine thin sharp Air of _Madrid_ has a most notable Faculty of provoking an Appetite: Prithee let's to the Ordinary.
_Will._ I will not stay-- [Knocks, enter a Porter.
--Friend, is the Ambassador's Nephew, Mr. _Beaumond_, return'd to _Madrid_ yet? If he be, I would speak with him.
_Port._ I'll let him know so much. [Goes in, shuts the door.
_Blunt._ Why, how now, what's the Door shut upon us?
_Feth._ And reason, _Ned_, 'tis Dinner-time in the Ambassador's Kitchen, and should they let the savoury Steam out, what a world of _Castilians_ would there be at the Door feeding upon't.-- Oh there's no living in _Spain_ when the Pot's uncover'd.
_Blunt._ Nay, 'tis a Nation of the finest clean Teeth--
_Feth._ Teeth! Gad an they use their Swords no oftner, a Scabbard will last an Age.
Enter _Shift_ from the House.
_Will._ Honest Lieutenant--
_Shift._ My noble Captain-- Welcome to Madrid. What Mr. _Blunt_, and my honoured Friend _Nicholas Fetherfool_ Esq.
_Feth._ Thy Hand, honest _Shift_-- [They embrace him.
_Will._ And how, Lieutenant, how stand Affairs in this unsanctify'd Town?-- How does Love's great Artillery, the fair La Nuche, from whose bright Eyes the little wanton God throws Darts to wound Mankind?
_Shift._ Faith, she carries all before her still; undoes her Fellow-traders in Love's Art: and amongst the Number, old _Carlo de Minalta Segosa_ pays high for two Nights in a Week.
_Will._ Hah-- Carlo! Death, what a greeting's here! Carlo, the happy Man! a Dog! a Rascal, gain the bright La Nuche! Oh Fortune! Cursed blind mistaken Fortune! eternal Friend to Fools! Fortune! that takes the noble Rate from Man, to place it on her Idol Interest.
_Shift._ Why Faith, Captain, I should think her Heart might stand as fair for you as any, could you be less satirical-- but by this Light, Captain, you return her Raillery a little too roughly.
_Will._ Her Raillery! By this Hand I had rather be handsomly abus'd than dully flatter'd; but when she touches on my Poverty, my honourable Poverty, she presses me too sensibly-- for nothing is so nice as Poverty-- But damn her, I'll think of her no more: for she's a Devil, tho her Form be Angel. Is Beaumond come from Paris yet?