_Gal_. By this good Light, a noble glorious Whore.
_Fil_. Oh, stay, I must not let such Beauty fall, --A Whore--consider yet the Charms of Reputation, The Ease, the Quiet, and Content of Innocence, The awful Reverence all good Men will pay thee, Who, as thou art, will gaze without respect, --And cry--what pity 'tis she is--a Whore--
_Mar_. O, you may give it what coarse name you please, But all this Youth and Beauty ne'er was given, Like Gold to Misers, to be kept from use.
[_Going out_.
_Fil_. Lost, lost--past all Redemption.
_Gal_. Nay, Gad, thou shalt not lose her so--I'll fetch her back, and thou shalt ask her pardon.
[_Runs out after her_.
_Fil_. By Heaven, it was all a Dream! an airy Dream!
The visionary Pleasure disappears,--and I'm myself again, --I'll fly before the drousy Fit o'ertake me.
[_Going out, Enter_ Gal. _and then_ Marcella.
_Gal_. Turn back--she yields, she yields to pardon thee.
Gone! nay, hang me if ye part.
[_Runs after him, still his Pistol in his hand_.
_Mar_. Gone! I have no leisure now for more dissembling.
[_Takes the Candle, and goes in_.
_Enter_ Petro, _leading in Mr_. Tickletext, _as by dark_.
_Pet_. Remain here, Signior, whilst I step and fetch a light.
_Tick_. Do so, do so, honest _Barberacho_.--Well, my escape even now from Sir _Signal_ was miraculous, thanks to my Prudence and Prowess; had he discover'd me, my Dominion had ended, and my Authority been of none effect, _certo_.
[Philippa _at the door puts in Sir_ Signal.
_Phil_. Now, Signior, you're out of danger, I'll fetch a Candle, and let my Lady know of your being here.
[_Exit_ Phil. _Sir_ Sig. _advances a little_.
_Enter_ Petro _with a light, goes between 'em, and starts_.
_Tick_. Sir _Signal_!--
Sir _Sig_. My Governour!
_Pet_. The two Fools met! a pox of all ill luck! Now shall I lose my Credit with both my wise Patrons; my Knight I cou'd have put off with a small Harlot of my own, but my Levite having seen my Lady _Cornelia_, that is, _La Silvianetta_,--none but that _Susanna_ wou'd satisfy his Eldership. But now they both sav'd me the labour of a farther invention to dispatch 'em.
Sir _Sig_. I perceive my Governour's as much confounded as my self;--I'll take advantage by the forelock, be very impudent, and put it upon him, faith--Ah, Governour, will you never leave your whoring? never be staid, sober and discreet, as I am?
_Tick_. So, so, undone, undone! just my Documents to him.-- [_Walks about, Sir_ Sig. _follows_.
Sir _Sig_. And must I neglect my precious studies, to follow you, in pure zeal and tender care of your Person? Will you never consider where you are? In a leud Papish Country, amongst the Romish Heathens! And for you, a Governour, a Tutor, a Director of unbridled Youth, a Gownman, a Politician; for you, I say, to be taken at this unrighteous time of the Night, in a flaunting Cavaliero Dress, an unlawful Weapon by your side, going the high way to Satan, to a Curtezan; and to a Romish Curtezan! Oh Abomination! Oh _scandalum infinitum_!
_Tick_. Paid in my own Coin.
_Pet_. So, I'll leave the Devil to rebuke Sin: and to my young Lady, for a little of her assistance in the management of this Affair.
[_Exit_ Pet.
_Tick_. I do confess, I grant ye I am in the house of a Curtezan, and that I came to visit a Curtezan, and do intend to visit each Night a several Curtezan, till I have finished my work--
Sir _Sig_. Every night one! Oh Glutton!
_Tick_. My great work of Convertion, upon the whole Nation, Generation, and Vocation of this wicked provoking sort of Womankind call'd Curtezans.
I will turn 'em; I will turn 'em, for 'tis a shame that Man shou'd bow down to those that worship Idols. And now I think, Sir, I have sufficiently explain'd the business in hand,--as honest _Barberacho_ is my witness;--And for you--to--scandalize--me--with so naughty an Interpretation--afflicteth me wonderfully.-- [_Pulls out his handkerchief, and weeps_.
Sir _Sig_.--Alas, poor Mr. _Tickletext_, now as I hope to be sav'd, it grieves my heart to see thee weep; faith and troth now, I thought thou hadst some carnal Assignation:--but ne'er stir, I beg thy pardon, and think thee as innocent as my self, that I do--but see, the Lady's here-- s'life, dry your Eyes, man.
[_Enter Cornelia, Phil, and Pet_.
_Cor_. I cou'd beat thee for being thus mistaken, and am resolv'd to flatter him into some Mischief, to be reveng'd on 'em for this disappointment; go you, and watch for my Cavalier the while.
_Tick_. Is she come? Nay, then turn me loose to her.
_Cor_. My Cavalier!
[_Addressing to Sir Sig_. Tick. _pulls him by, and speaks_.
_Tick_.--Lady--
Sir _Sig_. You, Sir! why, who the Devil made you a Cavalier? most _Potentissima Signiora_, I am the man of Title, by name Sir _Signal Buffoon_, sole Son and Heir to Eight Thousand Pound a year.--
_Tick_. Oh, Sir, are you the Man she looks for?
Sir _Sig_. I, Sir? no, Sir: I'd have ye know, Sir, I scorn any Woman, be she never so fair, unless her design be honest and honourable.
_Cor_. The Man of all the World I've chosen out, from all the Wits and Beauties I have seen,--to have most finely beaten. [_Aside_.
Sir _Sig_. How! In love with me already,--she's damnable handsome too: now wou'd my Tutor were hang'd a little for an hour or two, out of the way. [_Aside_.
_Cor_. Why fly you not into my Arms, [_She approaching, he shunning_.
These Arms that were design'd for soft Embraces?
Sir _Sig_. Ay, and if my Tutor were not here, the Devil take him that wou'd hinder 'em--and I think that's civil, egad.
_Tick_. Why, how now, _Barberacho_, what, am I cozen'd then, and is Sir _Signal_ the Man in favour? [_Aside to_ Petro.
_Pet_. Lord, Signior, that so wise a man as you cannot perceive her meaning,--for the Devil take me if I can. [_Aside_.--Why this is done to take off all suspicion from you--and lay it on him;--don't you conceive it, Signior?
_Tick_. Yes, honest Rogue,--Oh the witty Wag-tail,--I have a part to play too, that shall confirm it--young Gentlewoman.--
_Cor_. Ah, Belle ingrate, is't thus you recompense my suffering Love? to fly this Beauty so ador'd by all, that slight the ready Conquest of the World, to trust a Heart with you?--Ah--_Traditor Cruella_.
Sir _Sig_. Poor Heart, it goes to the very soul of me to be so coy and scornful to her, that it does; but a pox on't, her over-fondness will discover all.