_Enter_ Phillis _in the Balcony, throws 'em Money_.
_Rise_, Cloris, _charming Maid, arise!
And baffle breaking Day, Shew the adoring World thy Eyes Are more surprizing gay;
The Gods of Love are smiling round, And lead the Bridegroom on, And_ Hymen _has the Altar crown'd.
While all thy sighing Lovers are undone.
To see thee pass they throng the Plain; The Groves with Flowers are strown, And every young and envying Swain Wishes the hour his own.
Rise then, and let the God of Day, When thou dost to the Lover yield, Behold more Treasure given away Than he in his vast Circle e'er beheld_.
_Bel_. Hah, _Phillis, Leticia's_ Woman!
_Ging_. Fie, Mrs. _Phillis_, do you take us for Fiddlers that play for Hire? I came to compliment Mrs. _Leticia_ on her Wedding-Morning because she is my Scholar.
_Phil_. She sends it only to drink her Health.
_Ging_. Come, Lads, let's to the Tavern then-- [_Ex. Musick_.
_Bel_. Hah! said he _Leticia_? Sure, I shall turn to Marble at this News: I harden, and cold Damps pass through my senseless Pores.--Hah, who's here?
_Enter_ Gayman _wrapt in his Cloke_.
_Gay_. 'Tis yet too early, but my Soul's impatient, And I must see _Leticia_.
[_Goes to the door_.
_Bel_. Death and the Devil--the Bridegroom! Stay, Sir, by Heaven, you pass not this way.
[_Goes to the door as he is knocking, pushes him away, and draws_.
_Gay_. Hah! what art thou that durst forbid me Entrance?--Stand off.
[_They fight a little, and closing view each other_.
_Bel_. _Gayman_!
_Gay_. My dearest _Bellmour_!
_Bel_. Oh thou false Friend, thou treacherous base Deceiver!
_Gay_. Hah, this to me, dear _Harry_?
_Bel_. Whither is Honour, Truth and Friendship fled?
_Gay_. Why, there ne'er was such a Virtue, 'Tis all a Poet's Dream.
_Bel_. I thank you, Sir.
_Gay_. I'm sorry for't, or that ever I did any thing that could deserve it: put up your Sword--an honest man wou'd say how he's offended, before he rashly draws.
_Bel_. Are not you going to be married, Sir?
_Gay_. No, Sir, as long as any Man in _London_ is so, that has but a handsom Wife, Sir.
_Bel_. Are you not in love, Sir?
_Gay_. Most damnably,--and wou'd fain lie with the dear jilting Gipsy.
_Bel_. Hah, who would you lie with, Sir?
_Gay_. You catechise me roundly--'tis not fair to name, but I am no Starter, _Harry_; just as you left me, you find me. I am for the faithless _Julia_ still, the old Alderman's Wife.--'Twas high time the City should lose their Charter, when their Wives turn honest: But pray, Sir, answer me a Question or two.
_Bel_. Answer me first, what makes you here this Morning?
_Gay_. Faith, to do you service. Your damn'd little Jade of a Mistress has learned of her Neighbours the Art of Swearing and Lying in abundance, and is--
_Bel_. To be married! [Sighing.
_Gay_. Even so, God save the Mark; and she'll be a fair one for many an Arrow besides her Husband's, though he an old _Finsbury_ Hero this threescore Years.
_Bel_. Who mean you?
_Gay_. Why, thy Cuckold that shall be, if thou be'st wise.
_Bel_. Away; Who is this Man? thou dalliest with me.
_Gay_. Why, an old Knight, and Alderman here o'th' City, Sir _Feeble Fainwou'd_, a jolly old Fellow, whose Activity is all got into his Tongue, a very excellent Teazer; but neither Youth nor Beauty can grind his Dudgeon to an Edge.
_Bel_. Fie, what Stuff's here!
_Gay_. Very excellent Stuff, if you have but the Grace to improve it.
_Bel_. You banter me--but in plain _English_, tell me, What made you here thus early, Entring yon House with such Authority?
_Gay_. Why, your Mistress _Leticia_, your contracted Wife, is this Morning to be married to old Sir _Feeble Fainwou'd_, induc'd to't I suppose by the great Jointure he makes her, and the improbability of your ever gaining your Pardon for your high Duel--Do I speak _English_ now, Sir?
_Bel_. Too well, would I had never heard thee.
_Gay_. Now I being the Confident in your Amours, the Jack-go-between-- the civil Pimp or so--you left her in charge with me at your Departure.
_Bel_. I did so.
_Gay_. I saw her every day; and every day she paid the Tribute of a shower of Tears, to the dear Lord of all her Vows, young _Bellmour_: Till faith at last, for Reasons manifold, I slackt my daily Visits.
_Bel_. And left her to Temptation--was that well done?
_Gay_. Now must I afflict you and my self with a long tale of Causes why; Or be charg'd with want of Friendship.
_Bel_. You will do well to clear that Point to me.