from the sight of mine now. Dear madam, let your charity prevail over your superstition.

Isa. He comes, he comes, madam !

[LYDIA withdraws, and stands unseen at the door.

Enter RANGER.

Ran. Ha! this is no Lydia.

[Aside. Chri. What, unworthy defamer! has encouraged you to offer this insolence?

Ran. She is liker Lydia in her style than her face. I see I am mistaken; but to tell her I followed her for another, were an affront rather than an excuse. She's a glorious creature! [Aside.

Chri. Tell me, sir, whence had you reason for this your rude pursuit of me, into my lodgings, my chamber ? why should you follow me ?

me.

Ran. Faith, madam, because you run away from

Chri. That was no sign of an acquaintance.
Ran. You'll pardon me, madam.

Chri. Then, it seems, you mistook me for another, and the night is your excuse, which blots out all distinctions. But now you are satisfied in your mistake, I hope you will seek out your woman in another place.

Ran. Madam, I allow not the excuse you make for me. If I have offended, I will rather be condemned for my iove, than pardoned for my insensibility.

Lyd. How's that?

Chri. What do you say?

[Aside.

[Aside.

Ran. Ah, madam! you would never regard your humblest slave; I was till now a modest lover. Lyd. Falsest of men! Chri. My woman said, you came to seek a relation here, not a mistress.

Ran. I must confess, madam, I thought you would sooner disprove my dissembled error, than admit my visit, and was resolved to see you. Lyd. 'Tis clear !

[Aside. Ran. Indeed, when I followed you first out of the Park, I was afraid you might have been a certain relation of mine, for your statures and habits are the same; but when you entered here, I was with joy convinced. Besides, I would not for the world have given her troublesome love so much encouragement, to have disturbed my future addresses to you; for the foolish woman does perpetually torment me to make our relation nearer ; but never more in vain than since I have seen you, madam.

Lyd. How! shall I suffer this? 'tis clear he disappointed me to-night for her, and made me stay at home, that I might not disappoint him of her company in the Park. [Aside.

Chri. I am amazed! but let me tell you, sir, if the lady were here, I would satisfy her the sight of me should never frustrate her ambitious designs upon her cruel kinsman.

[Aside.

Lyd. I wish you could satisfy me. Ran. If she were here, she would satisfy you she were not capable of the honour to be taken for you:-though in the dark. Faith, my cousin is but a tolerable woman to a man that had not seen you.

Chri. Sure, to my plague, this is the first time you ever saw me!

Ran. Sure, to the plague of my poor heart, 'tis not the hundredth time I have seen you! For, since the time I saw you first, you have not been at the Park, playhouse, Exchange, or other public place, but I saw you; for it was my business to watch and follow.

Chri. Pray, when did you see me last at the Park, playhouse, or Exchange?

Ran. Some two, three days, or a week ago. Chri. I have not been this month out of this chamber.

Lyd. That is to delude me.
Chri. I knew you were mistaken.

(Aside

Ran. You'll pardon a lover's memory, madam. -[Aside.] A pox! I have hanged myself in my own line. One would think my perpetual ill-luck in lying should break me of the quality; but, like a losing gamester, I am still for pushing on. till

none will trust me.

Chri. Come, sir, you run out of one error into a greater you would excuse the rudeness of your mistake, and intrusion at this hour into my lodgings, with your gallantry to me,-more unseasonable and offensive.

Ran. Nay, I am in love I see, for I blush and have not a word to say for myself.

Chri. But, sir, if you will needs play the gallant, pray leave my house before morning, lest you should be seen go hence, to the scandal of my honour. Rather than that should be, I'll call up the house and neighbours to bear witness I bid you begone.

Ran. Since you take a night visit so ill, madam, I will never wait upon you again but by day. go, that I may hope to return; and, for once, I wish you a good night without me.

Chri. Good night, for as long as I live.

[Exit RANGER. Lyd. And good night to my love, I'm sure.

LAside.

Lyd. I know not yet whether I am more obliged than injured: when I do, I assure you, madam, I shall not be insensible of either.

Chri. I fear, madam, you are as liable to mistakes as your kinsman.

Lyd. I fear I am more subject to 'em : it may be for want of sleep, therefore I'll go home. Chri. My lady Flippant, good night.

Flip. Good night, or rather good norrow, faith ful shepherdess.

Chri. I'll wait on you down.
Lyd. Your coach stays yet, I hope.
Flip. Certainly.

[Exeun

Enter RANGER and Dapperwit.

Dap. I was a faithful sentinel: nobody came out, let me perish !

Ran. No, no, I hunted upon a wrong scent; I thought I had followed a woman, but found her an angel.

Dap. What is her name? Ran. That you must tell me. woman is there lives hereabouts?

What very fine

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.

SCENE IV.-VINCENT'S Lodging.

Enter VINCENT, and VALENTINE in a riding habit, as newly from a journey.

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

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 scanda. 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.

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

Joyn. You know we have known one another long ; I think it be some nine-and-thirty years ince 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, 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.

Joyn. How does my sweet god-daughter, poor wretch?

Cros. Well, very well.
Joyn. Ah, sweet creature!

sorry for her.

Alas! alas!-I am

Cros. Why, what has she done to deserve your sorrow, or my reprehension ?

Enter Lucy, and stands unscen at the door. Lucy. What, are they talking of me? [Aside. 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 junkets, 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 ne 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.

Joyn. 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 sounets 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.

Ran. [Aside.] I understand you now.- -[Aloud.] 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.

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. CROSSEITE.

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

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