Dap. Faith, I know not any. She is, I warrant you, some fine woman of a term's standing or so in the town; such as seldom appear in public, but in their balconies, where they stand so constantly, one would think they had hired no other part of the house.

Ran. And look like the pictures which painters expose to draw in customers ;-but I must know who she is. Vincent's lodging is hard by, I'll go and inquire of him, and lie with him to-night: but if he will not let me, I'll lie with you, for my lodging is too far off.

Dap. Then I will go before, and expect you at mine. [Exeunt.

Vin. Your mistress, dear Valentine, will not be more glad to see you! but my wonder is no less than my joy, that you would return ere you were informed Clerimont were out of danger. His surgeons themselves have not been assured of his recovery till within these two days.

Val. I feared my mistress, not my life. My life I could trust again with my old enemy fortune; but no longer my mistress in the hands of my greater enemies, her relations.

Vin. Your fear was in the wrong place, then for though my lord Clerimont live, he and his relations may put you in more danger of your life than your mistress's relations can of losing her.

Val. Would any could secure her! I would myself secure my life, for I should value it then.

Vin. Come, come; her relations can do you no hurt. I dare swear, if her mother should but say, Your hat did not cock handsomely, she would never ask her blessing again.

Val. Prithee leave thy fooling, and tell me, if, since my departure, she has given evidences of her love, to clear those doubts I went away with :for as absence is the bane of common and bastard love, 'tis the vindication of that which is true and generous.

Vin. Nay, if you could ever doubt her love, you deserve to doubt on; for there is no punishment great enough for jealousy-but jealousy.

Val. You may remember, I told you before my flight I had quarrelled with the defamer of my mistress, but I thought I had killed my rival.

Vin. But pray give me now the answer, which the suddenness of your flight denied me ;-how could Clerimont hope to subdue her heart by the assault of her honour?

Val. Pish! it might be the stratagem of a rival to make me desist.

Vin. For shame! if 'twere not rather to vindicate her, than satisfy you, I would not tell you how like a Penelope she has behaved herself in your absence.

Val. Let me know.

Vin. Then know, the next day you went she put herself in mourning, and—

Val. That might be for Clerimont, thinking him dead, as all the world besides thought.

Vin. Still turning the dagger's point on yourself! hear me out. I say she put herself into mourning for you-locked herself in her chamber this month for you-shut out her barking relations for you has not seen the sun or the face of man since she saw you-thinks and talks of nothing but you - sends to me daily to hear of you— and, in short, (I think,) is mad for you. All this I can swear; for I am to her so near a neighbour, and so inquisitive a friend for you

Enter Servant.

Serv. Mr. Ranger, sir, is coming up.

Vin. What brings him now? he comes to lie with me.

Val. Who, Ranger?

Vin. Yes. Pray retire a little, till I send him off:-unless you have a mind to have your arrival published to-morrow in the coffee-houses.

[VALENTINE retires to the door behind.

Enter RANGER.

Ran. What! not yet a-bed? your man is laying you to sleep with usquebaugh or brandy; is he not so?

Vin. What punk will not be troubled with you to-night, therefore I am?-is it not so?

Ran. I have been turned out of doors, indeed, just now, by a woman,-but such a woman, Vincent!

Vin. Yes, yes, your women are always such women!

Ran. A neighbour of yours, and I'm sure the finest you have.

Vin. Prithee do not asperse my neighbourhood with your acquaintance; 'twould bring a scandal upon an alley.

Ran. Nay, I do not know her; therefore I come to you.

Vin. 'Twas no wonder she turned you out of doors, then; and if she had known you, 'twould have been a wonder she had let you stay. But where does she live?

Ran. Five doors off, on the right hand.
Vin. Pish! pish!—

Ran. What's the matter?

Vin. Does she live there, do you say?

Ran. Yes; I observed them exactly, that my account from you might be exact. Do you know who lives there?

Vin. Yes, so well, that I know you are mistaken. Ran. Is she not a young lady scarce eighteen, of extraordinary beauty, her stature next to low, and in mourning?

Val. What is this?

[Aside.

Vin. She is; but if you saw her, you broke in at window.

Ran. I chased her home from the Park, indeed,

taking her for another lady who had some claim to my heart, till she showed a better title to 't. Vin. Hah! hah! hah!

Val. Was she at Park, then? and have I a new rival? [Aside.

Vin. From the Park did you follow her, do you say?—I knew you were mistaken.

Ran. I tell you I am not.

Vin. If you are sure it was that house, it might be perhaps her woman stolen to the Park, unknown to her lady.

Ran. My acquaintance does usually begin with the maid first, but now 'twas with the mistress, I assure you.

Vin. The mistress ! - I tell you she has not been out of her doors since Valentine's flight. She is his mistress,-the great heiress Christina.

Ran. I tell you then again, I followed that Christina from the Park home, where I talked with her half an hour, and intend to see her to-morrow again.

Val. Would she talk with him too!
Vin. It cannot be.

[Aside.

Ran. Christina do you call her? Faith I am sorry she is an heiress, lest it should bring the scandal of interest, and the design of lucre, upon my love.

Vin. No, no, her face and virtues will free you from that censure. But, however, 'tis not fairly done to rival your friend Valentine in his absence;

and when he is present you know 'twill be dangerous, by my lord Clerimont's example. Faith, if you have seen her, I would not advise you to attempt it again.

Ran. You may be merry, sir, you are not in love; your advice I come not for, nor will I for your assistance.-Good night. [Exit.

Val. Here's your Penelope! the woman that had not seen the sun, nor face of man, since my departure for it seems she goes out in the night, when the sun is absent, and faces are not distinguished.

Vin. Why ! do you believe him ?
Val. Should I believe you?

Vin. 'Twere more for your interest, and you would be less deceived. If you believe him, you must doubt the chastity of all the fine women in town, and five miles about.

Val. His reports of them will little invalidate his testimony with me.

Vin. He spares not the innocents in bibs and aprons. I'll secure you, he has made (at best) some gross mistake concerning Christina, which to-morrow will discover; in the mean time let us go to sleep.

Val. I will not hinder you, because I cannot enjoy it myself :

Hunger, Revenge, to sleep are petty foes,
But only Death the jealous eyes can close.
[Exeunt.

SCENE I.-A Room in CROSSBITE'S House.

Enter Mrs. JOYNER and Mrs. CROSSBITE. Joyn. Good morrow, gossip. Cros. Good morrow;-but why up so early, good gossip?

Joyn. My care and passionate concern for you and yours would not let me rest, in truly.

Cros. For me and mine?

Joyn. You know we have known one another long; I think it be some nine-and-thirty years since you were married.

Cros. Nine-and-thirty years old, mistress! I'd have you to know, I am no far-born child; and if the register had not been burned in the last great fire, alas-but my face needs no register sure: nineand-thirty years old, said you?

Joyn. I said you had been so long married; but, indeed, you bear your years as well as any she in Pepper-alley.

Cros. Nine-and-thirty, mistress !

Joyn. This it is; a woman, now-a-days, had rather you should find her faulty with a man, I warrant you, than discover her age, I warrant you.

Cros. Marry, and 'tis the greatest secret far. Tell a miser he is rich, and a woman she is old,you will get no money of him, nor kindness of her. To tell me I was nine-and-thirty-(I say no more) 'twas unneighbourly done of you, mistress.

Joyn. My memory confesses my age, it seems, as much as my face; for I thought

Cros. Pray talk nor think no more of any one's age; but say what brought you hither so early.

[Aside.

Enter Lucy, and stands unseen at the door. Lucy. What, are they talking of me? Joyn. In short, she was seen going into the meetinghouse of the wicked, otherwise called a playhouse, hand in hand with that vile fellow Dapperwit.

Cros. Mr. Dapperwit! let me tell you, if 'twere not for master Dapperwit, we might have lived all this vacation upon green cheese, tripe, and ox cheek. If he had it, we should not want it; but, poor gentleman! it often goes hard with him,-for he's a wit.

Joyn. So, then, you are the dog to be fed, while the house is broken up! I say, beware ! The sweet bits you swallow will make your daughter's belly swell, mistress; and, after all your jun kets, there will be a bone for you to pick, mistress. Cros. Sure, master Dapperwit is no such manner of man!

Joyn. He is a wit, you say; and what are wits, but contemners of matrons, seducers, or defamers of married women, and deflowerers of helpless virgins, even in the streets, upon the very bulks; affronters of midnight magistracy, and breakers of windows? in a word

Cros. But he is a little wit, a modest wit, and they do no such outrageous things as your great wits do.

Joyn. Nay, I dare say, he will not say himself he is a little wit if you ask him.

Lucy. Nay, I cannot hear this with patience.-[Comes forward.] With your pardon, mother, you are as much mistaken as my godmother in Mr. Dapperwit; for he is as great a wit as any, and in what he speaks or writes as happy as any. I can assure you, he contemns all your tearing wits, in comparison of himself.

Jogn. Alas, poor young wretch! I cannot blame thee so much as thy mother, for thou art not thyself. His bewitching madrigals have charmed thee into some heathenish imp with a hard name.

Lucy. Nymph, you mean, godmother.

Joyn. But you, gossip, know what's what. Yesterday, as I told you, a fine old alderman of the city, seeing your daughter in so ill hands as Dapperwit's, was zealously, and in pure charity, bent upon her redemption; and has sent me to tell you, he will take her into his care and relieve your necessities, if you think good.

Cros. Will he relieve all our necessities?
Joyn. All.

Cros. Mine, as well as my daughter's?
Joyn. Yes.

Cros. Well fare his heart!-D'ye hear, daughter, Mrs. Joyner has satisfied me clearly; Dapperwit is a vile fellow, and, in short, you must put an end to that scandalous familiarity between you.

Lucy. Leave sweet Mr. Dapperwit !-oh furious ingratitude! Was he not the man that gave me my first Farrendon gown, put me out of worsted stockings and plain handkerchiefs, taught me to dress, talk, and move well?

Cros. He has taught you to talk indeed; but, huswife, I will not have my pleasure disputed. Joyn. Nay, indeed, you are too tart with her, poor sweet soul.

Lucy. He taught me to rehearse, too,-would have brought me into the playhouse, where I might have had as good luck as others: I might have had good clothes, plate, jewels, and things so well about me, that my neighbours, the little gentlemen's wives of fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds a-year, should have retired into the country, sick with envy of my prosperity and greatness.

Joyn. If you follow your mother's counsel, you are like to enjoy all you talk of sooner than by Dapperwit's assistance :-a poor wretch that goes on tick for the paper he writes his lampoons on, and the very ale and coffee that inspire him, as they say.

Cros. I am credibly informed so, indeed, madam Joyner.

Joyn. Well, I have discharged my conscience; good morrow to you both. [Exeunt severally.

Ran. My obligation to you is great; do not lessen it by delays of the favour you promised.

Dap. But do not censure my honour; for if you had not been in a desperate condition,-for as one nail must beat out another, one poison expel another, one fire draw out another, one fit of drinking cure the sickness of another,-so, the surfeit you took last night of Christina's eyes shall be cured by Lucy's this morning; or as

Ran. Nay, I bar more similitudes.

Dap. What, in my mistress's lodging? that were as hard as to bar a young parson in the pulpit, the fifth of November, railing at the church of Rome; or as hard as to put you to bed to Lucy and defend you from touching her; or as

Ran. Or as hard as to make you hold your tongue. I shall not see your mistress, I see.

Dap. Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy!-[Knocks at the door and returns.]-The devil take me, if good men (I say no more) have not been upon their knees to me, to see her, and you at last must obtain it.

Ran. I do not believe you.

Dap. 'Tis such as she; she is beautiful without affectation; amorous without impertinency; airy and brisk without impudence; frolic without rudeness; and, in a word, the justest creature breathing to her assignation.

Ran. You praise her as if you had a mind to part with her; and yet you resolve, I see, to keep her to yourself.

Dap. Keep her! poor creature, she cannot leave me ; and rather than leave her, I would leave writing lampoons or sonnets almost.

Ran. Well, I'll leave you with her then. Dap. What, will you go without seeing her? Ran. Rather than stay without seeing her. Dap. Yes, yes, you shall see her; but let me perish if I have not been offered a hundred guineas for a sight of her; by-I say no more.

-[Aloud.]

Ran. [Aside.] I understand you now.— If the favour be to be purchased, then I'll bid all I have about me for't.

Dap. Fy, fy, Mr. Ranger! you are pleasant, i'faith. Do you think I would sell the sight of my rarity?-like those gentlemen who hang out flags at Charing-cross, or like

Ran. Nay, then I'm gone again.

Dap. What, you take it ill I refuse your money? rather than that should be, give us it; but take notice I will borrow it. Now I think on 't, Lucy wants a gown and some knacks.

Ran. Here.

bed, that, to my knowledge, she does not change her sheets in half a year.

Ran. I thank you for that allay to my impatience. Dap. Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy! Miss![Knocking at the door. Ran. Will she not open ? I am afraid my pretty miss is not stirring, and therefore will not admit us. Is she not gone her walk to Lamb's Conduit?

Dap. Fy, fy, a quibble next your stomach in a morning! What if she should hear us? would you lose a mistress for a quibble? that's more than I could do, let me perish-She's within, I hear her.

Ran. But she will not hear you; she's as deaf as if you were a dun or a constable.

Dap. Pish give her but leave to gape, rub her eyes, and put on her day pinner; the long patch under the left eye; awaken the roses on her cheeks with some Spanish wool, and warrant her breath with some lemon-peel; the doors fly off the hinges, and she into my arms. She knows there is as much artifice to keep a victory as to gain it; and 'tis a sign she values the conquest of my heart.

Ran. I thought her beauty had not stood in need of art.

Dap. Beauty's a coward still without the help of art, and may have the fortune of a conquest but cannot keep it. Beauty and art can no more be asunder than love and honour.

Ran. Or, to speak more like yourself, wit and judgment.

Dap. Don't you hear the door wag yet?
Ran. Not a whit.

Dap. Miss! miss! 'tis your slave that calls. Come, all this tricking for him!-Lend me your comb, Mr. Ranger.

Ran. No, I am to be preferred to-day, you are to set me off. You are in possession, I will not lend you arms to keep me out.

Dap. A pox! don't let me be ungrateful; if she has smugged herself up for me, let me prune and flounce my peruke a little for her. There's ne'er a young fellow in the town but will do as much for a mere stranger in the playhouse.

Ran. A wit's wig has the privilege of being uncombed in the very playhouse, or in the presence. Dap. But not in the presence of his mistress ; 'tis a greater neglect of her than himself. Pray lend me your comb.

Ran. I would not have men of wit and courage make use of every fop's mean arts to keep or gain a mistress.

Dap. But don't you see every day, though a man have never so much wit and courage, his mistress will revolt to those fops that wear and comb perukes well. I'll break off the bargain, and will not receive you my partner.

Ran. Therefore you see I am setting up for myself. [Combs his peruke. Dap. She comes, she comes !-pray, your comb. [Snatches RANGER'S comb.

Enter Mrs. CROSSBITE.

Cros. Bargain!-what, are you offering us to sale?

Dap. A pox! is't she?-Here take your comb again then. [Returns the comb. Cros. Would you sell us? 'tis like you, y'fads.

Dap. Sell thee !-where should we find a chapman? Go, prithee, mother, call out my dear Miss Lucy.

Cros. Your Miss Lucy! I do not wonder you have the conscience to bargain for us behind our backs, since you have the impudence to claim a propriety in us to my face.

Ran. How's this, Dapperwit?

Dap. Come, come, this gentleman will not think the worse of a woman for my acquaintance with her. He has seen me bring your daughter to the lure with a chiney-orange, from one side of the playhouse to the other.

Cros. I would have the gentleman and you to know my daughter is a girl of reputation, though she has been seen in your company; but is now so sensible of her past danger, that she is resolved never more to venture her pitcher to the well, as they say.

Dap. How's that, widow? I wonder at your confidence.

Cros. I wonder at your old impudence, that where you have had so frequent repulses you should provoke another, and bring your friend here to witness your disgrace.

Dap. Hark you, widow, a little.

Cros. What, have you mortgaged my daughter to that gentleman; and now would offer me a snip to join in the security!

Dap. [Aside.] She overheard me talk of a bargain; 'twas unlucky.-[Aloud.] Your wrath is grounded upon a mistake: Miss Lucy herself shall be judge; call her out, pray.

Cros. She shall not; she will not come to you. Dap. Till I hear it from her own mouth, I cannot believe it.

Cros. You shall hear her say 't through the door.

Dap. I shall doubt it unless she say it to my face.

Cros. Shall we be troubled with you no more then ?

Dap. If she command my death, I cannot disobey her.

Cros. Come out, child.

Enter Lucy, holding down her head.

Dap. Your servant, dearest miss: can you have

Cros. Let me ask her.

Dap. No, I'll ask her.

Ran. I'll throw up cross or pile who shall ask her.

Dap. Can you have the heart to say you will never more break a cheese-cake with me at New Spring-garden, the Neat-house, or Chelsea? never more sit in my lap at a new play? never more wear a suit of knots of my choice? and, last of all, never more pass away an afternoon with me again in the Green Garret ?-do not forget the Green Garret.

Lucy. I wish I had never seen the Green Garret. -Damn the Green Garret !

Dap. Damn the Green Garret ! You are strangely altered!

Lucy. 'Tis you are altered.

Dap. You have refused Colby's Mulberrygarden, the French-houses, for the Green Garret ; and a little something in the Green Garret pleased you more than the best treat the other places could

yield; and can you of a sudden quit the Green Garret ?

Lucy. Since you have a design to pawn me for the rent, 'tis time to remove my goods.

Dap. Thou art extremely mistaken.

Lucy. Besides, I have heard such strange things of you this morning.

Dap. What things?

Lucy. I blush to speak 'em.

Dap. I know my innocence, therefore take my charge as a favour. What have I done?

Lucy. Then know, vile wit, my mother has confessed just now thou wert false to me, to her too certain knowledge; and hast forced even her to be false to me too.

Dap. Faults in drink, Lucy, when we are not ourselves, should not condemn us.

Lucy. And now to let me out to hire like a hackney!-I tell you my own dear mother shall bargain for me no more; there are as little as I can bargain for themselves now-a-days, as well as properer women.

Cros. Whispering all this while !-Beware of his snares again come away, child.

Dap. Sweet, dear miss

Lucy. Bargain for me!-you have reckoned without your hostess, as they say. Bargain for me! bargain for me! [Exit.

Dap. I must return, then, to treat with you. Cros. Treat me no treatings, but take a word for all. You shall no more dishonour my daughter, nor molest my lodgings, as you have done at all hours.

Dap. Do you intend to change 'em, then, to Bridewell, or Long's powdering-tub?

Cros. No, to a bailiff's house, and then you'll be so civil, I presume, as not to trouble us.

Ran. Here, will you have my comb again, Dapperwit?

Dap. A pox! I think women take inconstancy from me worse than from any man breathing.

Cros. Pray, sir, forget me before you write your next lampoon. [Exit.

Enter Sir SIMON ADDLEPLOT in the dress of a Clerk. — RANGER retires to the background.

Sir Sim. Have I found you? have I found you in your by-walks, faith and troth? I am almost out of breath in following you. Gentlemen when they get into an alley walk so fast, as if they had more earnest business there than in the broad streets.

Dap. [Aside.]-How came this sot hither? Fortune has sent him to ease my choler.-You impudent rascal, who are you, that dare intrude thus on us? [Strikes him. Sir Sim. Don't you know me, Dapperwit? sure you know me. [Softly. Dap. Wilt thou dishonour me with thy acquaintance too? thou rascally insolent, pen-and-ink man. [Strikes him again.

Sir Sim. Mum, mum, make no excuses, man; I would not Ranger should have known me for five hundred-kicks.

Dap. Your disguise is so natural, I protest, it will excuse me.

Sir Sim. I know that, prithee make no excuses, I say. No ceremony between thee and I, man: -read the letter.

Dap. What, you have not opened it!

Sir Sim. Prithee, don't be angry, the seal is a little cracked: for I could not help kissing Mrs. Martha's letter. The word is, now or never. Her father she finds will be abroad all this day, and she longs to see your friend sir Simon Addleplot :faith 'tis a pretty jest; while I am with her, and praising myself to her at no ordinary rate. Let thee and I alone at an intrigue.

Dap. Tell her I will not fail to meet her at the place and time. Have a care of your charge; and manage your business like yourself, for yourself. Sir Sim. I warrant you.

Dap. The gaining Gripe's daughter will make me support the loss of this young jilt here. [Aside. Ran. [Coming forward.] What fellow's that? Dap. A servant to a friend of mine.

Ran. Methinks he something resembles our acquaintance sir Simon; but it is no compliment to tell him so: for that knight is the most egregious coxcomb that ever played with lady's fan.

Sir Sim. So! thanks to my disguise, I know my enemies.

[Aside.

Ran. The most incorrigible ass, beyond the reproof of a kicking rival or a frowning mistress. But, if it be possible, thou dost use him worse than his mistress or rival can; thou dost make such a cully of him.

[Aside.

Sir Sim. Does he think so too? Dap. Go, friend, go about your business.-[Exit Sir SIMON.] A pox! you would spoil all, just in the critical time of projection. He brings me here a summons from his mistress, to meet her in the evening; will you come to my wedding?

Ran. Don't speak so loud, you'll break poor Lucy's heart. Poor creature, she cannot leave you; and, rather than leave her, you would leave writing of lampoons or sonnets-almost.

Dap. Come, let her go, ungrateful baggage! -But now you talk of sonnets, I am no living wit if her love has not cost me two thousand couplets at least.

Ran. But what would you give, now, for a new satire against women, ready made?-'Twould be as convenient to buy satires against women ready made, as it is to buy cravats ready tied.

Dap. Or as

Ran. Hey, come away, come away, Mr., or as[Exeunt.

SCENE III. A Room in CROSSBITE'S House.
Enter Mrs. JOYNER and GRIPE.
Gripe. Peace, plenty, and pastime be within
these walls!

Joyn. 'Tis a small house, you see, and mean furniture; for no gallants are suffered to come hither. She might have had ere now as good