PROLOGUE,
Written by a Person of Quality.
_Wits, like Physicians, never can agree, When of a different Society; And _Rabel's_ Drops were never more cry'd down By all the Learned Doctors of the Town, Than a new Play, whose Author is unknown: Nor can those Doctors with more Malice sue (And powerful Purses) the dissenting Few, Than those with an insulting Pride do rail At all who are not of their own Cabal._
_If a Young Poet hit your Humour right, You judge him then out of Revenge and Spite; So amongst Men there are ridiculous Elves, Who Monkeys hate for being too like themselves: So that the Reason of the Grand Debate, Why Wit so oft is damn'd, when good Plays take, Is, that you censure as you love or hate.
Thus, like a learned Conclave, Poets sit Catholick Judges both of Sense and Wit, And damn or save, as they themselves think fit.
Yet those who to others Faults are so severe, Are not so perfect, but themselves may err.
Some write correct indeed, but then the whole (Bating their own dull Stuff i'th' Play) is stole: As Bees do suck from Flowers their Honey-dew, So they rob others, striving to please you._
_Some write their Characters genteel and fine, But then they do so toil for every Line, That what to you does easy seem, and plain, Is the hard issue of their labouring Brain.
And some th' Effects of all their Pains we see, Is but to mimick good Extempore.
Others by long Converse about the Town, Have Wit enough to write a leud Lampoon, But their chief Skill lies in a Baudy Song.
In short, the only Wit that's now in Fashion Is but the Gleanings of good Conversation.
As for the Author of this coming Play, I ask'd him what he thought fit I should say, In thanks for your good Company to day: He call'd me Fool, and said it was well known, You came not here for our sakes, but your own.
New Plays are stuff'd with Wits, and with Debauches, That croud and sweat like Cits in _May_-day Coaches._
DRAMATIS PERSONae.
MEN.
Don _Antonio_, the Vice-Roy's Son, Mr. _Jevorne_.
Don _Pedro_, a Noble _Spaniard_, his Friend, Mr. _Medburne_.
_Belvile_, an _English_ Colonel in love with _Florinda_, Mr. _Betterton_.
_Willmore_, the _ROVER_, Mr. _Smith_.
_Frederick_, an _English_ Gentleman, and Friend to _Belvile_ and _Blunt_, Mr. _Crosbie_.
_Blunt_, an _English_ Country Gentleman, Mr. _Underhill_.
_Stephano_, Servant to Don _Pedro_, Mr. _Richards_.
_Philippo_, _Lucetta's_ Gallant, Mr. _Percival_.
_Sancho_, Pimp to _Lucetta_, Mr. _John Lee_.
_Risky_ and _Sebastian_, two Bravoes to _Angelica_.
_Diego_, Page to Don _Antonio_.
Page to _Hellena_.
Boy, Page to _Belvile_.
_Blunt's_ Man.
Officers and Soldiers.
WOMEN.
_Florinda_, Sister to Don _Pedro_, Mrs. _Betterton_.
_Hellena_, a gay young Woman design'd for a Nun, and Sister to _Florinda_, Mrs. _Barrey_.
_Valeria_, a Kinswoman to _Florinda_, Mrs. _Hughes_.
_Angelica Bianca_, a famous Curtezan, Mrs. _Gwin_.
_Moretta_, her Woman, Mrs. _Leigh_.
_Callis_, Governess to _Florinda_ and _Hellena_, Mrs. _Norris_.
_Lucetta_, a jilting Wench, Mrs. _Gillow_.
Servants, other Masqueraders, Men and Women.
SCENE _Naples_, in Carnival-time.
ACT I.
SCENE I. _A chamber._
Enter _Florinda_ and _Hellena_.
_Flor._ What an impertinent thing is a young Girl bred in a Nunnery! How full of Questions! Prithee no more, _Hellena_; I have told thee more than thou understand'st already.
_Hell._ The more's my Grief; I wou'd fain know as much as you, which makes me so inquisitive; nor is't enough to know you're a Lover, unless you tell me too, who 'tis you sigh for.
_Flor._ When you are a Lover, I'll think you fit for a Secret of that nature.
_Hell._ 'Tis true, I was never a Lover yet-- but I begin to have a shreud Guess, what 'tis to be so, and fancy it very pretty to sigh, and sing, and blush and wish, and dream and wish, and long and wish to see the Man; and when I do, look pale and tremble; just as you did when my Brother brought home the fine _English_ Colonel to see you-- what do you call him? Don _Belvile_.
_Flor._ Fie, _Hellena_.
_Hell._ That Blush betrays you-- I am sure 'tis so-- or is it Don _Antonio_ the Vice-Roy's Son?-- or perhaps the rich old Don _Vincentio_, whom my father designs for your Husband?-- Why do you blush again?
_Flor._ With Indignation; and how near soever my Father thinks I am to marrying that hated Object, I shall let him see I understand better what's due to my Beauty, Birth and Fortune, and more to my Soul, than to obey those unjust Commands.
_Hell._ Now hang me, if I don't love thee for that dear Disobedience.
I love Mischief strangely, as most of our Sex do, who are come to love nothing else-- But tell me, dear _Florinda_, don't you love that fine _Anglese_?-- for I vow next to loving him my self, 'twill please me most that you do so, for he is so gay and so handsom.
_Flor._ _Hellena_, a Maid design'd for a Nun ought not to be so curious in a Discourse of Love.
_Hell._ And dost thou think that ever I'll be a Nun? Or at least till I'm so old, I'm fit for nothing else. Faith no, Sister; and that which makes me long to know whether you love _Belvile_, is because I hope he has some mad Companion or other, that will spoil my Devotion; nay I'm resolv'd to provide my self this Carnival, if there be e'er a handsom Fellow of my Humour above Ground, tho I ask first.
_Flor._ Prithee be not so wild.
_Hell._ Now you have provided your self with a Man, you take no Care for poor me-- Prithee tell me, what dost thou see about me that is unfit for Love-- have not I a world of Youth? a Humour gay? a Beauty passable?
a Vigour desirable? well shap'd? clean limb'd? sweet breath'd? and Sense enough to know how all these ought to be employ'd to the best Advantage: yes, I do and will. Therefore lay aside your Hopes of my Fortune, by my being a Devotee, and tell me how you came acquainted with this _Belvile_; for I perceive you knew him before he came to _Naples_.