The Works of Aphra Behn - LightNovelsOnl.com
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_Maun._ Lord, how he's swoln! see how his Stomach struts.
Sir _Pat._ Ah, 'tis true, though I perceive it not.
_Maun._ Not perceive it, Sir! put on your Clothes and be convinc'd,--try 'em, Sir.
[She pulls off his Gown, and puts on his Doublet and Coat, which come not near by a handful or more.
Sir _Pat._ Ah, it needs not,--mercy upon me!-- [Falls back.
I'm lost, I'm gone! Oh Man, what art thou but a Flower? I am poison'd, this talking Lady's Breath's infectious; methought I felt the Contagion steal into my Heart; send for my Physicians, and if I die I'll swear she's my Murderer: oh, see, see, how my trembling increases, oh, hold my Limbs, I die.--
Enter _Roger_ with a magnifying Gla.s.s, shews him the Gla.s.s; he looks in it.
_Rog._ I'll warrant I'll shew his Face as big as a Bushel. [Aside.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh,--I'm a dead Man, have me to Bed, I die away, undress me instantly, send for my Physicians, I'm poison'd, my Bowels burn, I have within an _aetna_, my Brains run round, Nature within me reels.
[They carry him out in a Chair.
_Wit._ And all the drunken Universe does run on Wheels, ha, ha, ha.
Ah, my dear Creature, how finely thou hast brought him to his Journy's end!
L. _Fan._ There was no other way but this to have secur'd my Happiness with thee; there needs no more than that you come anon to the Garden Back-gate, where you shall find admittance;--Sir _Patient_ is like to lie alone to night.
_Wit._ Till then 'twill be a thousand Ages.
L. _Fan._ At Games of Love Husbands to cheat is fair, 'Tis the Gallant we play with on the square.
[Exeunt severally.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
_Scene draws off to a room in Sir _Patient Fancy's_ house, and discovers Lady _Knowell_, _Isabella_, _Lucretia_, _Lodwick_, _Leander_, _Wittmore_, Sir _Credulous_, other Men and Women, as going to dance._
L. _Kno._ Come, one Dance more, and then I think we shall have sufficiently teaz'd the Alderman, and 'twill be time to part.--Sir _Credulous_, where's your Mistress?
Sir _Cred._ Within a Mile of an Oak, dear Madam, I'll warrant you.--Well, I protest and vow, sweet Lady, you dance most n.o.bly,--Why, you dance--like--like a--like a hasty Pudding, before _Jove_.
[They dance some Antick, or Rustick Antick. _Lodwick_ speaking to _Isabella_.
SONG made by a Gentleman.
_Sitting by yonder River side, _Parthenia_ thus to _Cloe_ cry'd, Whilst from the fair Nymph's Eyes apace Another Stream o'er-flow'd her beauteous Face; Ah happy Nymph, said she, that can So little value that false Creature, Man._
_Oft the perfidious things will cry, Alas they burn, they bleed, they die; But if they're absent half a Day, Nay, let 'em be but one poor Hour away, No more they die, no more complain, But like unconstant Wretches live again._
_Lod._ Well, have you consider'd of that Business yet, _Isabella_?
_Isab._ What business?
_Lod._ Of giving me admittance to night.
_Isab._ And may I trust your honesty?
_Lod._ Oh, doubt me not, my mother's resolv'd it shall be a match between you and I, and that very consideration will secure thee: besides, who would first sully the Linen they mean to put on?
_Isab._ Away, here's my Mother.
Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Maundy_.
L. _Fan._ Madam, I beg your pardon for my absence, the effects of my Obedience, not Will; but Sir _Patient_ is taken very ill o'th' sudden, and I must humbly intreat your Ladys.h.i.+p to retire, for Rest is only essential to his Recovery.
L. _Kno._ Congruously spoken, upon my Honour. Oh, the impudence of this Fellow your Ladys.h.i.+p's Husband, to espouse so fair a Person only to make a Nurse of!
L. _Fan._ Alas, Madam!--
L. _Kno._ A Slave, a very Houshold Drudge.--Oh, faugh, come never grieve;--for, Madam, his Disease is nothing but Imagination, a Melancholy which arises from the Liver, Spleen, and Membrane call'd _Mesenterium_; the _Arabians_ name the Distemper _Myrathial_, and we here in _England_, _Hypochondriacal Melancholy_; I cou'd prescribe a most potent Remedy, but that I am loth to stir the Envy of the College.
L. _Fan._ Really, Madam, I believe--
L. _Kno._ But as you say, Madam, we'll leave him to his Repose; pray do not grieve too much.
_Lod._ Death! wou'd I had the consoling her, 'tis a charming Woman!
L. _Kno._ Mr. _Fancy_, your Hand; Madam, your most faithful Servant.--_Lucretia_, come, _Lucretia_.--Your Servant, Ladies and Gentleman.
L. _Fan._ A Devil on her, wou'd the Nimbleness of her Ladys.h.i.+p's Tongue were in her Heels, she wou'd make more haste away: oh, I long for the blest minute.
_Lod._ _Isabella_, shall I find admittance anon?
_Isab._ On fair Conditions.
_Lod._ Trust my Generosity.--Madam, your Slave. [Ex.
[To L. _Fan._ gazing on her, goes out.
Sir _Cred._ Madam, I wou'd say something of your Charms and celestial Graces, but that all Praises are as far below you, as the Moon in her Opposition is below the Sun;--and so, luscious Lady, I am yours: Now for my Serenade--
[Ex. all but L. _Fan._ and _Maundy_.
L. _Fan._ _Maundy_, have you commanded all the Servants to bed?
_Maun._ Yes, Madam, not a Mouse shall stir, and I have made ready the Chamber next the Garden for your Ladys.h.i.+p.
L. _Fan._ Then there needs no more but that you wait for _Wittmore's_ coming to the Garden-Gate, and take care no Lights be in the House for fear of Eyes.
