[_Shews her the Writings_.
And this I hop'd, when all my Vows and Love, When all my Languishments cou'd nought avail, Had made ye mine for ever.
[_Aloud_.
_Enter Sir_ Anthony, _pulling in Sir_ Tim. _and_ Diana.
Sir _Anth_. Morrow, _Charles_; Morrow to your Ladyship: _Charles_, bid Sir _Timothy_ welcome; I met him luckily at the Door, and am resolv'd none of my Friends shall pass this joyful Day without giving thee Joy, _Charles_, and drinking my Lady's Health.
_Wild_. Hah, my Uncle here so early? [_Aside_.
Sir _Tim_. What, has your Ladyship serv'd me so? How finely I had been mump'd now, if I had not took Heart of Grace, and shew'd your Ladyship Trick for Trick? for I have been this Morning about some such Business of Life too, Gentlemen: I am married to this fair Lady, the Daughter and Heiress of Sir _Nicholas Gett-all_, Knight and Alderman.
_Wild_. Ha, married to _Diana_! How fickle is the Faith of common Women!
[_Aside_.
Sir _Tim_. Hum, who's here, my Lord? What, I see your Lordship has found the way already to the fair Ladies; but I hope your Lordship will do my Wedding-dinner the Honour to grace it with your Presence.
_Wild_. I shall not fail, Sir. A Pox upon him, he'll discover all.
[_Aside_.
L. _Gal_. I must own, Sir Timothy, you have made the better Choice.
Sir _Tim_. I cou'd not help my Destiny; Marriages are made in Heaven, you know.
_Enter_ Charlot _weeping, and_ Clacket.
_Charl_. Stand off, and let me loose as are my Griefs, Which can no more be bounded: Oh, let me face The perjur'd, false, forsworn!
L. _Gal_. Fair Creature, who is't that you seek with so much Sorrow?
_Charl_. Thou, thou fatally fair Inchantress.
[_Weeps_.
_Wild. Charlot_! Nay, then I am discover'd.
L. _Gal_. Alas, what wou'dst thou?
_Charl_. That which I cannot have, thy faithless Husband.
Be Judge, ye everlasting Powers of Love, Whether he more belongs to her or me.
Sir _Anth_. How, my Nephew claim'd! Why, how now, Sirrah, have you been dabling here?
Sir _Char_. By Heaven, I know her not.--Hark ye, Widow, this is some Trick of yours, and 'twas well laid: and Gad, she's so pretty, I cou'd find in my Heart to take her at her word.
L. _Gal_. Vile Man, this will not pass your Falshood off.
Sure, 'tis some Art to make me jealous of him, To find how much I value him.
Sir _Char_. Death, I'll have the Forgery out;--Tell me, thou pretty weeping Hypocrite, who was it set thee on to lay a Claim to me?
_Charl_. To you! Alas, who are you? for till this moment I never saw your Face.
L. _Gal_. Mad as the Seas when all the Winds are raging.
Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, Madam, stark mad! Poor Soul--Neighbour, pray let her lie i'th' dark, d'ye hear.
Sir _Char_. How came you, pretty one, to lose your Wits thus?
_Charl_. With loving, Sir, strongly, with too much loving.
--Will you not let me see the lovely false one? [_To L_. Gal.
For I am told you have his Heart in keeping.
L. Gal_. Who is he? pray describe him.
_Charl_. A thing just like a Man, or rather Angel!
He speaks, and looks, and loves, like any God!
All fine and gay, all manly, and all sweet: And when he swears he loves, you wou'd swear too That all his Oaths were true.
Sir _Anth_. Who is she? some one who knows her and is wiser, speak--you, Mistress. [_To_ Clacket.
Mrs. _Clack_. Since I must speak, there comes the Man of Mischief: 'Tis you, I mean, for all your Leering, Sir. [_To_ Wild.
_Wild_. So.
Sir _Tim_. What, my Lord?
Mrs. _Clack_. I never knew your Nephew was a Lord: Has his Honour made him forget his Honesty?
[Charlot. _runs, and catches him in her Arms_.
_Charl_. I have thee, and I'll die thus grasping thee; Thou art my own, no Power shall take thee from me.
_Wild_. Never; thou truest of thy Sex, and dearest, Thou soft, thou kind, thou constant Sufferer, This moment end thy Fears; for I am thine.
_Charl_. May I believe thou art not married then?
_Wild_. How can I, when I'm yours?
How cou'd I, when I love thee more than Life?
Now, Madam, I am reveng'd on all your Scorn, [_To L_. Galliard.
--And, Uncle, all your Cruelty.
Sir _Tim_. Why, what, are you indeed my Nephew Thomas?
_Wild_. I am _Tom Wilding_, Sir, that once bore some such Title, till you discarded me, and left me to live upon my Wits.
Sir _Tim_. What, and are you no Polish Embassador then incognito?
_Wild_. No, Sir, nor you no King Elect, but must e'en remain as you were ever, Sir, a most seditious pestilent old Knave; one that deludes the Rabble with your Politicks, then leaves 'em to be hang'd, as they deserve, for silly mutinous Rebels.
Sir _Tim_. I'll peach the Rogue, and then he'll be hang'd in course, because he's a Tory. One comfort is, I have cozen'd him of his rich Heiress; for I'm married, Sir, to Mrs. _Charlot_.