L. _Kno._ Oh, how I hate the impertinence of Women, who for the generality have no other knowledge than that of dressing; I am uneasy with the unthinking Creatures.
_Lucr._ Indeed 'tis much better to be entertaining a young Lover alone; but I'll prevent her, if possible.
[Aside.
L. _Kno._ No, I am for the substantial pleasure of an Author.
_Philosophemur!_ is my Motto,--I'm strangely fond of you, Mr. _Fancy_, for being a Scholar.
_Lean._ Who, Madam, I a Scholar? the greatest Dunce in Nature--Malicious Creatures, will you leave me to her mercy?
[To them aside.
_Lucr._ Prithee assist him in his misery, for I am Mudd, and can do nothing towards it.
[Aside.
_Isab._ Who, my Cousin _Leander_ a Scholar, Madam?
_Lucr._ Sure he's too much a Gentleman to be a Scholar.
_Isab._ I vow, Madam, he spells worse than a Country Farrier when he prescribes a Drench.
_Lean._ Then, Madam, I write the leudest hand.
_Isab._ Worse than a Politician or a States-man.
_Lucr._ He cannot read it himself when he has done.
_Lean._ Not a word on't, Madam.
_L. Kno._ This agreement to abuse him, I understand-- [Aside.
--Well, then, Mr. _Fancy_, let's to my Cabinet--your hand.
_Lean._ Now shall I be teas'd unmercifully,--I'll wait on you, Madam.
[Exit Lady.
--Find some means to redeem me, or I shall be mad.
[Exit _Lean._
Enter _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ Hah, my dear Isabella here, and without a Spy! what a blessed opportunity must I be forc'd to lose, for there is just now arriv'd my Sister's Lover, whom I am oblig'd to receive: but if you have a mind to laugh a little--
_Isab._ Laugh! why, are you turn'd Buffoon, Tumbler, or Presbyterian Preacher?
_Lod._ No, but there's a Creature below more ridiculous than either of these.
_Lucr._ For love's sake, what sort of Beast is that?
_Lod._ Sir _Credulous Easy_, your new Lover just come to town Bag and Baggage, and I was going to acquaint my Mother with it.
_Isab._ You'll find her well employ'd with my Cousin _Leander_.
_Lucr._ A happy opportunity to free him: but what shall I do now, Brother?
_Lod._ Oh, let me alone to ruin him with my Mother: get you gone, I think I hear him coming, and this Apartment is appointed for him.
_Lucr._ Prithee haste then, and free _Leander_, we'll into the Garden.
[Exeunt _Luc._ and _Isab._
A Chair and a Table. Enter Sir_ Credulous _in a riding habit.
_Curry_ his Groom carrying a Portmantle._
_Lod._ Yes--'tis the Right Worshipful, I'll to my Mother with the News.
[Ex. _Lod._
Sir _Cred._ Come undo my Portmantle, and equip me, that I may look like some body before I see the Ladies--_Curry_, thou shalt e'en remove now, _Curry_, from Groom to Footman; for I'll ne'er keep Horse more, no, nor Mare neither, since my poor _Gillian's_ departed this Life.
_Cur._ 'Ds diggers, Sir, you have griev'd enough for your Mare in all Conscience; think of your Mistress now, Sir, and think of her no more.
Sir _Cred._ Not think of her! I shall think of her whilst I live, poor Fool, that I shall, though I had forty Mistresses.
_Cur._ Nay, to say truth, Sir, 'twas a good-natur'd civil beast, and so she remain'd to her last gasp, for she cou'd never have left this World in a better time, as the saying is, so near her Journey's End.
Sir _Cred._ A civil Beast! Why, was it civilly done of her, thinkest thou, to die at _Branford_, when had she liv'd till to morrow, she had been converted into Money and have been in my Pocket? for now I am to marry and live in Town, I'll sell off all my Pads; poor Fool, I think she e'en died for grief I wou'd have sold her.
_Cur._ 'Twas unlucky to refuse Parson _Cuffet's_ Wife's Money for her, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ Ay, and to refuse her another kindness too, that shall be nameless which she offer'd me, and which wou'd have given me good luck in Horse-flesh too; Zoz, I was a modest fool, that's truth on't.
_Cur._ Well, well, Sir, her time was come you must think, and we are all Mortal as the saying is.
Sir _Cred._ Well, 'twas the lovingst Tit:--but Grass and Hay, she's gone--where be her Shoes, _Curry_?
_Cur._ Here, Sir, her Skin went for good Ale at _Branford_.
[Gives him the Shoes.
Sir _Cred._ Ah, how often has she carry'd me upon these Shoes to Mother _Jumbles_; thou remember'st her handsome Daughter, and what pure Ale she brew'd; between one and t'other my Rent came short home there; but let that pass too, and hang sorrow, as thou sayst, I have something else to think on.
[Takes his things out, lays them upon the Table.
And, _Curry_, as soon as I am drest, go you away to St. _Clement's Church-yard_, to _Jackson_ the Cobler there.
_Cur._ What, your Dog-tutor, Sir?
Sir _Cred._ Yes, and see how my Whelp proves, I put to him last Parliament.
_Cur._ Yes, Sir.
Enter _Leander_, and starts back seeing Sir _Cred._
Sir _Cred._ And ask him what Gamesters come to the Ponds now adays, and what good Dogs.