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Emperor of the Moon

<h1 id="id04945" style="margin-top: 6em">THE EMPEROR OF THE MOON.</h1> TO THE LORD MARQUESS OF WORCESTER, &. My Lord It is a common Notion, that gathers as it goes, and is almost become a vulgar Error, That Dedications in our Age, are only the effects of Flattery, a form of Complement, and no more; so that the Great, to whom they are only due, decline those Noble Patronages that were so generally allow’d the Ancient Poets; since the Awful Custom has been so scandaliz’d by mistaken Addresses, and many a worthy piece is lost for want of some Honourable Protection, and sometimes many indifferent ones traverse the World with that advantagious Pasport only. This humble Offering, which I presume to lay at your Lordship’s Feet, is of that Critical Nature, that it does not only require the Patronage of a great Title, but a great Man too, and there is often times a vast difference between these two great things; and amongst all the most Elevated, there are but very few in whom an illustrious Birth and equal Parts compleat the Hero; but among these, your Lordship bears the first Rank, from a just Claim, both of the glories of your Race and Vertues. Nor need we look back into long past Ages, to bring down to ours the Magnanimous deeds of your Ancestors: We need no more than to behold (what we have so often done with wonder) those of the Great Duke of Beauford, your Illustrious Father, whose every single Action is a glorious and lasting President to all the future Great; whose unshaken Loyalty, and all other eminent Vertues, have rendred him to us, something more than Man, and which alone, deserving a whole Volume, wou’d be here but to lessen his Fame, to mix his Grandeurs with those of any other; and while I am addressing to the Son, who is only worthy of that Noble Blood he boasts, and who gives the World a Prospect of those coming Gallantries that will Equal those of his Glorious Father; already, My Lord, all you say and do is admir’d, and every touch of your Pen reverenc’d; the Excellency and Quickness of your Wit, is the Subject that fits the World most agreeably. For my own part, I never presume to contemplate your Lordship, but my Soul bows with a perfect Veneration to your Mighty Mind; and while I have ador’d the delicate Effects of your uncommon Wit, I have wish’d for nothing more than an Opportunity of expressing my infinite Sense of it; and this Ambition, my Lord, was one Motive of my present Presumption in Dedicating this Farce to your Lordship. I am sensible, my Lord, how far the Word Farce might have offended some, whose Titles of Honour, a Knack in dressing, or his Art in writing a Billet Doux, had been his chiefest Talent, and who, without considering the Intent, Character, or Nature of the thing, wou’d have cry’d out upon the Language, and have damn’d it (because the Persons in it did not all talk like Heros) as too debas’d and vulgar as to entertain a Man of Quality; but I am secure from this Censure, when your Lordship shall be its Judge, whose refin’d Sence, and Delicacy of Judgment, will, thro’ all the humble Actions and trivialness of Business, find Nature there, and that Diversion which was not meant for the Numbers, who comprehend nothing beyond the Show and Buffoonry. A very barren and thin hint of the Plot I had from the Italian, and which, even as it was, was acted in France eighty odd times without intermission. ‘Tis now much alter’d, and adapted to our English Theatre and Genius, who cannot find an Entertainment at so cheap a Rate as the French will, who are content with almost any Incoherences, howsoever shuffled together under the Name of a Farce; which I have endeavour’d as much as the thing wou’d bear, to bring within the compass of Possibility and Nature, that I might as little impose upon the Audience as I cou’d; all the Words are wholly new, without one from the Original. ‘Twas calculated for His late Majesty of Sacred Memory, that Great Patron of Noble Poetry, and the Stage, for whom the Muses must for ever mourn, and whose Loss, only the Blessing of so Illustrious a Successor can ever repair; and ‘tis a great Pity to see that best and most useful Diversion of Mankind, whose Magnificence of old, was the most certain sign of a flourishing State, now quite undone by the Misapprehension of the Ignorant, and Mis-representing of the Envious, which evidently shows the World is improv’d in nothing but Pride, Ill Nature, and affected Nicety; and the only Diversion of the Town now, is high Dispute, and publick Controversies in Taverns, Coffee-houses, &. and those things which ought to be the greatest Mysteries in Religion, and so rarely the Business of Discourse, are turn’d into Ridicule, and look but like so many fanatical Stratagems to ruine the Pulpit as well as the Stage. The Defence of the first is left to the Reverend Gown, but the departing Stage can be no otherwise restor’d, but by some leading Spirits, so Generous, so Publick, and so Indefatigable as that of your Lordship, whose Patronages are sufficient to support it, whose Wit and Judgment to defend it, and whose Goodness and Quality to justifie it; such Encouragement wou’d inspire the Poets with new Arts to please, and the Actors with Industry. ‘Twas this that occasion’d so many Admirable Plays heretofore, as Shakespear’s, Fletcher’s_, and Johnson’s, and ‘twas this alone that made the Town able to keep so many Play-houses alive, who now cannot supply one. However, My Lord, I, for my part, will no longer complain, if this Piece find but favour in your Lordship’s Eyes, and that it can be so happy to give your Lordship one hour’s Diversion, which is the only Honour and Fame is wish’d to crown the Endeavours of, My Lord, Your Lordship’s Most Humble, and Most Obedient Servant, A. BEHN. <h2 id="id04970" style="margin-top: 4em">THE EMPEROR OF THE MOON.</h2> <h4 id="id04971" style="margin-top: 2em">PROLOGUE,</h4> Spoken by Mr. Jevern. _Long, and at vast Expence, th’industrious Stage Has strove to please a dull ungrateful Age: With Heroes and with Gods we first began, And thunder’d to you in heroick Strain: Some dying Love-sick Queen each Night you injoy’d, And with Magnificence at last were cloy’d: Our Drums and Trumpets frighted all the Women; Our Fighting scar’d the Beaux and Billet-Doux Men. So Spark in an Intrigue of Quality, Grows weary of his splendid Drudgery; Hates the Fatigue, and cries a Pox upon her, What a damn’d Bustle’s here with Love and Honour? In humbler Comedy we next appear, No Fop or Cuckold, but slap-dash we had him here; We showed you all, but you malicious grown, | Friends Vices to expose, and hide your own; | Cry, damn it—This is such, or such a one. | Yet nettled, Plague, what does the Scribler mean? With his damn’d Characters, and Plot obscene. No Woman without Vizard in the Nation Can see it twice, and keep her reputation— That’s certain, Forgetting— That he himself, in every gross Lampoon, Her leuder Secrets spread about the Town; Whilst their feign’d Niceness is but cautious Fear, Their own Intrigues should be unravel’d here. Our next Recourse was dwindling down to Farce, Then—Zounds, what Stuff’s here? ‘tis all o’er my— Well, Gentlemen, since none of these has sped, Gad, we have bought a Share i’th’ speaking Head. So there you’ll save a Sice, | You love good Husbandry in all but Vice; | Whoring and drinking only bears a Price. |_ [The Head rises upon a twisted Post, on a Bench from under the Stage. After Jevern speaks to its Mouth. Oh!—Oh!—Oh! Stentor. Oh!—Oh!—Oh! [After this it sings Sawny, laughs, crys God bless the King in order. Stentor answers. Speak louder, Jevern, if you’d have me repeat; Plague of this Rogue, he will betray the Cheat. [He speaks louder, it answers indirectly. —Hum—There ‘tis again, Pox of your Eccho with a Northern Strain. Well—This will be but a nine days Wonder too; There’s nothing lasting but the Puppets Show. What Ladies Heart’s so hard, but it would move, To hear Philander and Irene’s Love? Those Sisters too the scandalous Wits do say, Two nameless keeping Beaux have made so gay; But those Amours are perfect Sympathy, Their Gallants being as mere Machines as they. Oh! how the City Wife, with her nown Ninny, Is charm’d with, Come into my Coach,—Miss Jenny, Miss Jenny. But overturning—Frible crys—Adznigs, The jogling Rogue has murder’d all his Kids. The Men of War cry, Pox on’t, this is dull, We are for rough Sports,—Dog Hector, and the Bull. Thus each in his degree, Diversion finds, Your Sports are suited to your mighty Minds; Whilst so much Judgment in your Choice you show, The Puppets have more Sense than some of you. <h3 id="id04982" style="margin-top: 3em">DRAMATIS PERSONAE.</h3> <h4 id="id04983" style="margin-top: 2em">MEN.</h4> Doctor Baliardo, Mr. Underhill. Scaramouch, his Man, Mr. Lee. Pedro, his Boy. Don Cinthio, Don Charmante, both Nephews Young Mr. Powel. to the Vice-Roy, and Lovers of Elaria and Mr. Mumford. Bellemante, Harlequin, Cinthio’s Man, Mr. Jevern. Officer and Clerk. Page. <h5 id="id04985">WOMEN.</h5> Elaria, Daughter to the Doctor, Mrs. Cooke. Bellemante, Niece to the Doctor, Mrs. Mumford. Florinda, Cousin to Elaria and Bellemante. Mopsophil, Governante to the young Ladies, Mrs. Cory. The Persons in the Moon, are Don Cinthio, Emperor; Don Charmante, Prince of Thunderland. Their Attendants, Persons that represent the Court Cards. Keplair and Galileus, two Philosophers. Twelve Persons, representing the Figures of the twelve Signs of the Zodiack. Negroes, and Persons that dance. Musick, Kettle-Drums, and Trumpets. The SCENE, NAPLES. <h2 id="id04988" style="margin-top: 4em">ACT I.</h2> <h5 id="id04989">SCENE I. A Chamber.</h5> Enter Elaria and Mopsophil. <h5 id="id04991"> I.</h5> A Curse upon that faithless Maid, Who first her Sex’s Liberty betray’d; Born free as Man to Love and Range, Till nobler Nature did to Custom change, Custom, that dull excuse for Fools, Who think all Virtue to consist in Rules. <h5 id="id04993"> II.</h5> From Love our Fetters never sprung; That smiling God, all wanton, gay and young, Shows by his Wings he cannot be Confined to a restless Slavery; But here and there at random roves, Not fix’d to glittering Courts, or shady Groves. <h5 id="id04995"> III.</h5> Then she that Constancy profess’d Was but a well Dissembler at the best; And that imaginary Sway She feign’d to give, in seeming to obey, Was but the height of prudent Art, To deal with greater liberty her Heart. [After the Song Elaria gives her Lute to Mopsophil. Ela. This does not divert me; Nor nothing will, till Scaramouch return, And bring me News of Cinthio. Mop. Truly I was so sleepy last Night, I know nothing of the Adventure, for which you are kept so close a Prisoner to day, and more strictly guarded than usual. Ela. Cinthio came with Musick last Night under my Window, which my Father hearing, sallied out with his Mirmidons upon him; and clashing of Swords I heard, but what hurt was done, or whether Cinthio were discovered to him, I know not; but the Billet I sent him now by Scaramouch will occasion me soon Intelligence. Mop. And see, Madam, where your trusty Roger comes. Enter Scaramouch, peeping on all sides before he enters. You may advance, and fear none but your Friends. Scar. Away, and keep the door. Ela. Oh, dear Scaramouch! hast thou been at the Vice-Roy’s? Scar. Yes, yes. [In heat. Ela. And hast thou delivered my Letter to his Nephew, Don Cinthio? Scar. Yes, yes, what should I deliver else? Ela. Well—and how does he? Scar. Lord, how should he do? Why, what a laborious thing it is to be a Pimp? [Fanning himself with his Cap. Ela. Why, well he shou’d do. Scar. So he is, as well as a Night-adventuring Lover can be,—he has got but one Wound, Madam. Ela. How! wounded say you? Oh Heavens! ‘tis not mortal. Scar. Why, I have no great skill; but they say it may be dangerous. Ela. I die with Fear, where is he wounded? Scar. Why, Madam, he is run—quite through the Heart,—but the Man may live, if I please. Ela. Thou please! torment me not with Riddles. Scar. Why, Madam, there is a certain cordial Balsam, call’d a Fair Lady; which outwardly applied to his Bosom, will prove a better cure than all your Weapon or sympathetick Powder, meaning your Ladyship. Ela. Is Cinthio then not wounded? Scar. No otherwise than by your fair Eyes, Madam; he got away unseen and unknown. Ela. Dost know how precious time is, and dost thou fool it away thus? What said he to my Letter? Scar. What should he say? Ela. Why, a hundred dear soft things of Love, kiss it as often, and bless me for my Goodness. Scar. Why, so he did. Ela. Ask thee a thousand Questions of my Health after my last night’s fright. Scar. So he did. Ela. Expressing all the kind concern Love cou’d inspire, for the Punishment my Father has inflicted on me, for entertaining him at my Window last night. Scar. All this he did. Ela. And for my being confin’d a Prisoner to my Apartment, without the hope or almost possibility of seeing him any more. Scar. There I think you are a little mistaken; for besides the Plot that I have laid to bring you together all this Night,—there are such Stratagems a brewing, not only to bring you together, but with your Father’s consent too; such a Plot, Madam— Ela. Ay, that would be worthy of thy Brain; prithee what?— Scar. Such a Device— Ela. I’m impatient. Scar. Such a Conundrum,—Well, if there be wise Men and Conjurers in the World, they are intriguing Lovers. Ela. Out with it. Scar. You must know, Madam, your Father (my Master, the Doctor) is a little whimsical, romantick, or Don-Quicksottish, or so. Ela. Or rather mad. Scar. That were uncivil to be supposed by me; but lunatic we may call him, without breaking the Decorum of good Manners; for he is always travelling to the Moon. Ela. And so religiously believes there is a World there, that he Discourses as gravely of the People, their Government, Institutions, Laws, Manners, Religion, and Constitution, as if he had been bred a Machiavel there. Scar. How came he thus infected first? Ela. With reading foolish Books, Lucian’s Dialogue of the Lofty Traveller, who flew up to the Moon, and thence to Heaven; an heroick Business, call’d The Man in the Moon, if you’ll believe a Spaniard, who was carried thither, upon an Engine drawn by wild Geese; with another Philosophical Piece, A Discourse of the World in the Moon; with a thousand other ridiculous Volumes, too hard to name. Scar. Ay, this reading of Books is a pernicious thing. I was like to have run mad once, reading Sir John Mandevil;—but to the business,—I went, as you know, to Don Cinthio’s Lodgings, where I found him with his dear Friend Charmante, laying their Heads together for a Farce. Ela. Farce! Scar. Ay, a Farce, which shall be call’d,—The World in the Moon: Wherein your Father shall be so impos’d on, as shall bring matters most magnificently about. Ela. I cannot conceive thee, but the Design must be good, since Cinthio and Charmante own it. Scar. In order to this, Charmante is dressing himself like one of the Caballists of the Rosycrusian Order, and is coming to prepare my credulous Master for the greater Imposition. I have his Trinkets here to play upon him, which shall be ready. Ela. But the Farce, where is it to be acted? Scar. Here, here, in this very House; I am to order the Decorations, adorn a Stage, and place Scenes proper. Ela. How can this be done without my Father’s Knowledge? Scar. You know the old Apartment next the great Orchard, and the Worm-eaten Gallery that opens to the River; which place for several Years no body has frequented; there all things shall be acted proper for our purpose. Enter Mopsophil running. Mop. Run, run, Scaramouch, my Master’s conjuring for you like mad below, he calls up all his little Devils with horrid Names, his Microscope, his Horoscope, his Telescope, and all his Scopes. Scar. Here, here,—I had almost forgot the Letters; here’s one for you, and one for Mrs. Bellemante. [Runs out. Enter Bellemante with a Book. Bell. Here, take my Prayer-Book, Oh Ma tres chère. [Embraces her. Ela. Thy Eyes are always laughing, Bellemante. Bell. And so would yours, had they been so well employ’d as mine, this morning. I have been at the Chapel, and seen so many Beaus, such a number of Plumeys, I cou’d not tell which I should look on most; sometimes my Heart was charm’d with the gay Blonding, then with the melancholy Noire, anon the amiable Brunet; sometimes the bashful, then again the bold; the little now, anon the lovely tall: In fine, my Dear, I was embarass’d on all sides, I did nothing but deal my Heart tout autour. Ela. Oh, there was then no danger, Cousin. Bell. No, but abundance of pleasure. Ela. Why, this is better than sighing for Charmante. Bell. That’s when he’s present only, and makes his Court to me; I can sigh to a Lover, but will never sigh after him:—but Oh, the Beaus, the Beaus, Cousin, that I saw at Church. Ela. Oh, you had great devotion to Heaven then! Bell. And so I had; for I did nothing but admire its Handy-work, but I cou’d not have pray’d heartily, if I had been dying; but a duce on’t, who shou’d come in and spoil all but my Lover Charmante, so dress’d, so gallant, that he drew together all the scatter’d fragments of my Heart, confin’d my wandering Thoughts, and fixt ‘em all on him: Oh, how he look’d, how he was dress’d! <h5 id="id05064"> SINGS.</h5> Chevalier à Cheveux blonds, Plus de Mouche, plus de Poudre, Plus de Ribons et Cannons. —Oh, what a dear ravishing thing is the beginning of an Amour! Ela. Thou’rt still in Tune, when wilt thou be tame, Bellemante? Bell. When I am weary of loving, Elaria. Ela. To keep up your Humour, here’s a Letter from your Charmante. Bellemante reads. _Malicious Creature, when wilt thou cease to torment me, and either appear less charming, or more kind? I languish when from you, and am wounded when I see you, and yet I am eternally courting my Pain. Cinthio and I, are contriving how we shall see you to Night. Let us not toil in vain; we ask but your consent; the Pleasure will be all ours, ‘tis therefore fit we suffer all the Fatigue. Grant this, and love me, if you will save the Life of_ Your Charmante. —Live then, Charmante! Live as long as Love can last! Ela. Well, Cousin, Scaramouch tells me of a rare design’s a hatching, to relieve us from this Captivity; here are we mew’d up to be espous’d to two Moon-calfs for ought I know; for the Devil of any human thing is suffer’d to come near us without our Governante and Keeper, Mr. Scaramouch. Bell. Who, if he had no more Honesty and Conscience than my Uncle, wou’d let us pine for want of Lovers: but thanks be prais’d, the Generosity of our Cavaliers has open’d their obdurate Hearts with a Golden Key, that lets ‘em in at all Opportunities. Come, come, let’s in, and answer their Billet-Doux. [Exeunt. <h3 id="id05076" style="margin-top: 3em">SCENE II. A Garden.</h3> Enter Doctor, with all manner of Mathematical Instruments hanging at his Girdle; Scaramouch bearing a Telescope twenty (or more) Foot long. Doct. Set down the Telescope.—Let me see, what Hour is it? Scar. About six a Clock, Sir. Doct. Then ‘tis about the Hour that the great Monarch of the Upper World enters into his Closet; Mount, mount the Telescope. Scar. What to do, Sir? Doct. I understand, at certain moments critical, one may be snatch’d of such a mighty consequence, to let the Sight into the Secret Closet. Scar. How, Sir, peep into the King’s Closet! under favour, Sir, that will be something uncivil. Doct. Uncivil! it were flat Treason if it should be known; but thus unseen, and as wise Politicians shou’d, I take survey of all: This is the Statesman’s Peeping-hole, thorow which he steals the Secrets of his King, and seems to wink at distance. Scar. The very Key-hole, Sir, thorow which, with half an Eye, he sees him even at his Devotion, Sir. [A knocking at the Garden-gate. Doct. Take care none enter. [Scar. goes to the Door. Scar. Oh, Sir, Sir, here’s some strange great Man come to wait on you. Doct. Great Man! from whence? Scar. Nay, from the Moon-World, for ought I know, for he looks not like the People of the lower Orb. Doct. Ha! and that may be; wait on him in. [Exit Scar. Enter Scaramouch bare, bowing before Charmante, dress’d in a strange fantastical Habit, with Harlequin; salutes the Doctor. Char. Doctor Baliardo, most learned Sir, all Hail! Hail from the great Caballa of Eutopia. Doct. Most reverend Bard, thrice welcome. [Salutes him low. Char. The Fame of your great Learning, Sir, and Virtue is known with Joy to the renown’d Society. Doct. Fame, Sir, has done me too much Honour, to bear my Name to the renown’d Caballa. Char. You must not attribute it all to Fame, Sir, they are too learned and wise to take up things from Fame, Sir: our Intelligence is by ways more secret and sublime, the Stars, and little Daemons of the Air inform us all things, past, present, and to come. Doct. I must confess the Count of Gabalis renders it plain, from Writ divine and humane, there are such friendly and intelligent Daemons. Char. I hope you do not doubt that Doctrine, Sir, which holds that the Four Elements are peopled with Persons of a Form and Species more divine than vulgar Mortals—those of the fiery Regions we call the Salamanders, they beget Kings and Heroes, with Spirits like their Deietical Sires; the lovely Inhabitants of the Water, we call Nymphs; those of the Earth are Gnomes or Fairies; those of the Air are Sylphs. These, Sir, when in Conjunction with Mortals, beget immortal Races; such as the first-born Man, which had continu’d so, had the first Man ne’er doated on a Woman. Doct. I am of that opinion, Sir; Man was not made for Woman. Char. Most certain, Sir, Man was to have been immortaliz’d by the Love and Conversation of these charming Sylphs and Nymphs, and Women by the Gnomes and Salamanders, and to have stock’d the World with Demi-Gods, such as at this Day inhabit the Empire of the Moon. Doct. Most admirable Philosophy and Reason!—But do these Sylphs and Nymphs appear in Shapes? Char. The most beautiful of all the Sons and Daughters of the Universe: Fancy, Imagination is not half so charming: And then so soft, so kind! but none but the Caballa and their Families are blest with their divine Addresses. Were you but once admitted to that Society— Doct. Ay, Sir, what Virtues or what Merits can accomplish me for that great Honour? Char. An absolute abstinence from carnal thought, devout and pure of Spirit; free from Sin. Doct. I dare not boast my Virtues, Sir; Is there no way to try my Purity? Char. Are you very secret? Doct. ‘Tis my first Principle, Sir. Char. And one, the most material in our Rosycrusian order.—Please you to make a Tryal? Doct. As how, Sir, I beseech you? Char. If you be thorowly purg’d from Vice, the Opticles of your Sight will be so illuminated, that glancing through this Telescope, you may behold one of these lovely Creatures, that people the vast Region of the Air. Doct. Sir, you oblige profoundly. Char. Kneel then, and try your strength of Virtue. Sir,—Keep your Eye fix’d and open. [He looks in the Telescope. [While he is looking, Charmante goes to the Door to Scaramouch, who waited on purpose without, and takes a Glass with a Picture of a Nymph on it, and a Light behind it; that as he brings it, it shews to the Audience. Goes to the end of the Telescope. —Can you discern, Sir? Doct. Methinks, I see a kind of glorious Cloud drawn up—and now, ‘tis gone again. Char. Saw you no Fuger? Doct. None. Char. Then make a short Prayer to Alikin, the Spirit of the East; shake off all earthly Thoughts, and look again. [He prays. Charmante puts the Glass into the Mouth of the Telescope. Doct.—Astonish’d, ravish’d with Delight, I see a Beauty young and Angel-like, leaning upon a Cloud. Char. Seems she on a Bed? then she’s reposing, and you must not gaze. Doct. Now a Cloud veils her from me. Char. She saw you peeping then, and drew the Curtain of the Air between. Doct. I am all Rapture, Sir, at this rare Vision—is’t possible, Sir, that I may ever hope the Conversation of so divine a Beauty? Char. Most possible, Sir; they will court you, their whole delight is to immortalize—Alexander was begot by a Salamander, that visited his Mother in the form of a Serpent, because he would not make King Philip jealous; and that famous Philosopher Merlin was begotten on a Vestal Nun, a certain King’s Daughter, by a most beautiful young Salamander; as indeed all the Heroes, and Men of mighty Minds are. Doct. Most excellent! Char. The Nymph Egeria, inamour’d on Numa Pompilius, came to him invisible to all Eyes else, and gave him all his Wisdom and Philosophy. Zoroaster, Trismegistus, Apuleius, Aquinius, Albertus Magnus, Socrates and Virgil had their Zilphid, which the Foolish call’d their Daemon or Devil. But you are wise, Sir. Doct. But do you imagine, Sir, they will fall in love with an old Mortal? Char. They love not like the Vulgar, ‘tis the immortal Part they doat upon. Doct. But, Sir, I have a Niece and Daughter which I love equally, were it not possible they might be immortaliz’d? Char. No doubt on’t, Sir, if they be pure and chaste. Doct. I think they are, and I’ll take care to keep ‘em so; for I confess, Sir, I would fain have a Hero to my Grandson. Char. You never saw the Emperor of the Moon, Sir, the mighty Iredonozar? Doct. Never, Sir; his Court I have, but ‘twas confusedly too. Char. Refine your Thoughts, Sir, by a Moment’s Prayer, and try again. [He prays. Char. claps the Glass with the Emperor on it, he looks in and sees it. Doct. It is too much, too much for mortal Eyes! I see a Monarch seated on a Throne—but seems most sad and pensive. Char. Forbear then, Sir; for now his Love-Fit’s on, and then he wou’d be private. Doct. His Love-Fit, Sir! Char. Ay, Sir, the Emperor’s in love with some fair Mortal. Doct. And can he not command her? Char. Yes, but her Quality being too mean, he struggles, though a King, ‘twixt Love and Honour. Doct. It were too much to know the Mortal, Sir? Char. ‘Tis yet unknown, Sir, to the Caballists, who now are using all their Arts to find her, and serve his Majesty; but now my great Affair deprives me of you: To morrow, Sir, I’ll wait on you again; and now I’ve try’d your Virtue, tell you Wonders. Doct. I humbly kiss your Hands, most learned Sir. [Charmante goes out. Doctor waits on him to the Door, and returns: to him Scaramouch. All this while Harlequin was hid in the Hedges, peeping now and then, and when his Master went out he was left behind. Scar. So, so, Don Charmante has played his Part most exquisitely; I’ll in and see how it works in his Pericranium. —Did you call, Sir? Doct. Scaramouch, I have, for thy singular Wit and Honesty, always had a Tenderness for thee above that of a Master to a Servant. Scar. I must confess it, Sir. Doct. Thou hast Virtue and Merit that deserves much. Scar. Oh Lord, Sir! Doct. And I may make thee great;—all I require, is, that thou wilt double thy diligent Care of my Daughter and my Niece; for there are mighty things design’d for them, if we can keep ‘em from the sight of Man. Scar. The sight of Man, Sir! Doct. Ay, and the very Thoughts of Man. Scar. What Antidote is there to be given to a young Wench, against the Disease of Love and Longing? Doct. Do you your Part, and because I know thee discreet and very secret, I will hereafter discover Wonders to thee. On pain of Life, look to the Girls; that’s your Charge. Scar. Doubt me not, Sir, and I hope your Reverence will reward my faithful Services with Mopsophil, your Daughter’s Governante, who is rich, and has long had my Affection, Sir. [Harlequin peeping, cries Oh Traitor! Doct. Set not thy Heart on transitory Mortal, there’s better things in store—besides, I have promis’d her to a Farmer for his Son.—Come in with me, and bring the Telescope. [Ex. Doctor and Scaramouch. Harlequin comes out on the Stage. Har. My Mistress Mopsophil to marry a Farmer’s Son! What, am I then forsaken, abandon’d by the false fair One? If I have Honour, I must die with Rage; Reproaching gently, and complaining madly. It is resolv’d, I’ll hang my self—No, when did I ever hear of a Hero that hang’d him self?—No, ‘tis the Death of Rogues. What if I drown my self?—No, Useless Dogs and Puppies are drown’d; a Pistol or a Caper on my own Sword wou’d look more nobly, but that I have a natural Aversion to Pain. Besides, it is as vulgar as Rats-bane, or the slicing of the Weasand. No, I’ll die a Death uncommon, and leave behind me an eternal Fame. I have somewhere read an Author, either antient or modern, of a Man that laugh’d to death.—I am very ticklish, and am resolv’d to die that Death.—Oh, Mopsophil, my cruel Mopsophil! [Pulls off his Hat, Sword and Shoes. And now, farewel the World, fond Love, and mortal Cares. [_He falls to tickle himself, his Head, his Ears, his Armpits, Hands, Sides, and Soles of his Feet; making ridiculous Cries and Noises of Laughing several ways, with Antick Leaps and Skips, at last falls down as dead. Enter_ Scaramouch. Scar. Harlequin was left in the Garden, I’ll tell him the News of Mopsophil. [Going forward, tumbles over him. Ha, what’s here? Harlequin dead! [Heaving him up, he flies into a Rage. Har. Who is’t that thus wou’d rob me of my Honour? Scar. Honour, why I thought thou’dst been dead. Ha. Why, so I was, and the most agreeably dead. Scar. I came to bemoan with thee the mutual loss of our Mistress. Har. I know it, Sir, I know it, and that thou art as false as she: Was’t not a Covenant between us, that neither shou’d take advantage of the other, but both shou’d have fair play, and yet you basely went to undermine me, and ask her of the Doctor; but since she’s gone, I scorn to quarrel for her—But let’s like loving Brothers, hand in hand, leap from some Precipice into the Sea. Scar. What, and spoil all my Clothes? I thank you for that; no, I have a newer way: you know I lodge four pair of Stairs high, let’s ascend hither, and after saying our Prayers— Har. Prayers! I never heard of a dying Hero that ever pray’d. Scar. Well, I’ll not stand with you for a Trifle—Being come up, I’ll open the Casement, take you by the Heels, and sling you out into the Street; after which, you have no more to do, but to come up and throw me down in my turn. Har. The Atchievement’s great and new; but now I think on’t, I’m resolv’d to hear my Sentence from the Mouth of the perfidious Trollop, for yet I cannot credit it. I’ll to the Gipsy, though I venture banging, To be undeceiv’d, ‘tis hardly worth the hanging. [Exeunt. <h3 id="id05180" style="margin-top: 3em">SCENE III. The Chamber of Bellemante.</h3> Enter Scaramouch groping. Scar. So, I have got rid of my Rival, and shall here get an Opportunity to speak with Mopsophil; for hither she must come anon, to lay the young Lady’s Night-things in order; I’ll hide my self in some Corner till she come. [Goes on to the further side of the Stage. Enter Harlequin groping. Har. So, I made my Rival believe I was gone, and hid my self till I got this Opportunity to steal to Mopsophil’s Apartment, which must be hereabouts; for from these Windows she us’d to entertain my Love. [Advances. Scar. Ha, I hear a soft Tread,—if it were Mopsophil’s, she wou’d not come by dark. [Harlequin advancing runs against a Table, and almost strikes himself backwards. Har. What was that?—a Table, there I may obscure my self. [Groping for the Table. What a Devil, is it vanish’d? Scar. Devil,—vanish’d! What can this mean? ‘Tis a Man’s Voice.—If it should be my Master the Doctor now, I were a dead Man;—he can’t see me; and I’ll put my self into such a Posture, that if he feel me, he shall as soon take me for a Church Spout as a Man. [He puts himself into a Posture ridiculous, his Arms a-kimbo, his Knees wide open, his Backside almost touching the Ground, his Mouth stretched wide, and Eyes staring. Har. groping thrusts his Hand into his Mouth, he bites him, the other dares not cry out. Har. Ha, what’s this? all Mouth, with twenty rows of Teeth.—Now dare not I cry out, lest the Doctor shou’d come, find me here, and kill me—I’ll try if it be mortal. [Making damnable Faces and signs of Pain, he draws a Dagger. Scar. feels the Point of it, and shrinks back, letting go his Hand. Scar. Who the Devil can this be? I felt a Poniard, and am glad I sav’d my Skin from pinking. [Steals out. [Harlequin groping about, finds the Table, on which there is a Carpet, and creeps under it, listening. Enter Bellemante, with a Candle in one Hand, and a Book in the other. Bell. I am in a Belle Humor for Poetry to-night; I’ll make some Boremes on Love. [She writes and studies. Out of a great Curiosity,—A Shepherd did demand of me.— No, no,—A Shepherd this implor’d of me. [Scratches out, and writes a-new. Ay, ay, so it shall go.—Tell me, said he, can you resign?— Resign, ay, what shall rhyme to Resign?—Tell me, said he.— [She lays down the Tablets, and walks about. [Harlequin peeps from under the Table, takes the Book, writes in it, and lays it up before she can turn. [Reads.] Ay, ay, so it shall be,—Tell me, said he, my Bellemante; Will you be kind to your Charmante? [Reads those two lines, and is amaz’d. Ha, Heav’ns! What’s this? I am amaz’d! —And yet I’ll venture once more. [Writes and studies. —I blushed and veil’d my wishing Eyes. [Lays down the Book, and walks as before. —Wishing Eyes! [Har. writes as before. [She turns and takes the Tablet. —And answer’d only with my Sighs. Ha! What is this? Witchcraft, or some Divinity of Love? Some Cupid sure invisible. Once more I’ll try the Charm. [Writes. —Cou’d I a better way my Love impart? [Studies and walks. —Impart— [He writes as before. —And without speaking, tell him all my Heart. —’Tis here again, but where’s the Hand that writ it? [Looks about. —The little Deity that will be seen But only in his Miracles. It cannot be a Devil, For here’s no Sin nor Mischief in all this. Enter Charmante. She hides the Tablet, he steps to her, and snatches it from her and reads. Char. reads. Out of a great Curiosity, A Shepherd this implor’d of me. Tell me, said he, my Bellemante, Will you be kind to your Charmante? I blush’d, and veil’d my wishing Eyes, And answer’d only with my Sighs. Cou’d I a better way my Love impart? And without speaking, tell him all my Heart. Char. Whose is this different Character? [Looks angry. Bell. ‘Tis yours for ought I know. Char. Away, my Name was put here for a blind. What Rhiming Fop have you been clubbing Wit withal? Bell. Ah! mon Dieu!—Charmante jealous? Char. Have I not cause?—Who writ these Boremes? Bell. Some kind assisting Deity, for ought I know. Char. Some kind assisting Coxcomb, that I know. The Ink’s yet wet, the Spark is near I find.— Bell. Ah, Malheureuse! How was I mistaken in this Man? Char. Mistaken! What, did you take me for an easy Fool to be impos’d upon?—One that wou’d be cuckolded by every feather’d Fool; that you’d call a Beau un Gallant Homme. ‘Sdeath! Who wou’d doat upon a fond She-Fop?—a vain conceited amorous Coquette. [Goes out, she pulls him back. Enter Scaramouch running. Sea. Oh Madam! hide your Lover, or we are all undone. Char. I will not hide, till I know the thing that made the Verses. [The Doctor calling as on the Stairs. Doct. Bellemante, Niece,—Bellemante. Scar. She’s coming, Sir.—Where, where shall I hide him? —Oh, the Closet’s open! [Thrusts him into the Closet by force. Enter Doctor. Doct. Oh Niece! Ill Luck, Ill Luck, I must leave you to night; my Brother the Advocate is sick, and has sent for me; ‘tis three long Leagues, and dark as ‘tis, I must go.—They say he is dying. Here, take my Keys, [Pulls out his Keys, one falls down. and go into my Study, and look over all my Papers, and bring me all those mark’d with a Cross and figure of Three, they concern my Brother and I. [She looks on Scaramouch, and makes pitiful Signs, and goes out. —Come, Scaramouch, and get me ready for my Journey; and on your Life, let not a Door be open’d till my Return. [Exeunt. Enter Mopsophil. Har. peeps from under the Table. Har. Ha! Mopsophil, and alone! Mop. Well, ‘tis a delicious thing to be rich; what a world of Lovers it invites: I have one for every Hand, and the Favorite for my Lips. Har. Ay, him wou’d I be glad to know. [Peeping. Mop. But of all my Lovers, I am for the Farmer’s Son, because he keeps a Calash—and I’ll swear a Coach is the most agreeable thing about a Man. Har. Ho, ho! Mop. Ah, me,—What’s that? [He answers in a shrill Voice. Har. The Ghost of a poor Lover, dwindled into a Heyho. [He rises from under the Table, and falls at her Feet. Scaramouch enters. She runs off squeaking. Scar. Ha, My Rival and my Mistress!—Is this done like a Man of Honour, Monsieur Harlequin, to take advantages to injure me? [Draws. Har. Advantages are lawful in Love and War. Scar. ‘Twas contrary to our League and Covenant; therefore I defy thee as a Traytor. Har. I scorn to fight with thee, because I once call’d thee Brother. Scar. Then thou art a Poltroon, that’s to say, a Coward. Har. Coward! nay, then I am provok’d, come on. Scar. Pardon me, Sir, I gave the Coward, and you ought to strike. [They go to fight ridiculously, and ever as Scaramouch passes, Harlequin leaps aside, and skips so nimbly about, he cannot touch him for his Life; which after a while endeavouring in vain, he lays down his Sword. —If you be for dancing, Sir, I have my Weapons for all occasions. [Scar. pulls out a Flute Doux, and falls to playing. Har. throws down his, and falls a dancing; after the Dance, they shake hands. Har. Ha mon bon ami.—Is not this better than duelling? Scar. But not altogether so heroick, Sir. Well, for the future, let us have fair play; no Tricks to undermine each other, but which of us is chosen to be the happy Man, the other shall be content. Ela. [Within.] Cousin Bellemante, Cousin. Scar. ‘Slife, let’s be gone, lest we be seen in the Ladies Apartment. [Scar. slips Harlequin behind the Door. Enter Elaria. Ela. How now, how came you here?— Scar. [Signs to Har. to go out.] I came to tell you, Madam, my Master’s just taking Mule to go his Journey to Night, and that Don Cinthio is in the Street, for a lucky moment to enter in. Ela. But what if any one by my Father’s Order, or he himself should by some chance surprize us? Scar. If we be, I have taken order against a Discovery. I’ll go see if the old Gentleman be gone, and return with your Lover. [Goes out. Ela. I tremble, but know not whether ‘tis with Fear or Joy. Enter Cinthio. Cin. My dear Elaria— [Runs to imbrace her, She starts from him. —Ha,—shun my Arms, Elaria! Ela. Heavens! Why did you come so soon? Cin. Is it too soon, whene’er ‘tis safe, Elaria? Ela. I die with Fear—Met you not Scaramouch? He went to bid you wait a while; what shall I do? Cin. Why this Concern? none of the House has seen me. I saw your Father taking Horse. Ela. Sure you mistake, methinks I hear his Voice. Doct. [Below.]—My Key—The Key of my Laboratory. Why, Knave Scaramouch, where are you? Ela. Do you hear that, Sir?—Oh, I’m undone! Where shall I hide you?—He approaches. [She searches where to hide him. Ha! my Cousin’s Closet’s open,—step in a little. [He goes in, she puts out the Candle. Enter the Doctor. She gets round the Chamber to the Door, and as he advances in, she steals out. Doct. Here I must have dropt it; a Light, a Light there. Enter Cinthio, from the Closet, pulls Charmante out, they not knowing each other. Cin. Oh, this perfidious Woman! No marvel she was so surpriz’d and angry at my Approach to Night. Cha. Who can this be?—but I’ll be prepar’d. [Lays his Hand on his Sword. Doct. Why, Scaramouch, Knave, a Light! [Turns to the Door to call. Enter Scaramouch with a Light, and seeing the two Lovers there, runs against his Master, puts out the Candle, and flings him down and falls over him. At the entrance of the Candle, Charmante slipt from Cinthio into the Closet. Cinthio gropes to find him; when Mopsophil and Elaria, hearing a great Noise, enter with a Light. Cinthio _finding he was discovered falls to acting a Mad-man, _Scaramouch helps up the Doctor, and bows. Ha,—a Man,—and in my House,—Oh dire Misfortune! —Who are you, Sir? Cin. Men call me Gog Magog, the Spirit of Power; My Right-hand Riches holds, my Left-hand Honour. Is there a City Wife wou’d be a Lady?—Bring her to me, Her easy Cuckold shall be dubb’d a Knight. Ela. Oh Heavens! a Mad-man, Sir. Cin. Is there a tawdry Fop wou’d have a Title? A rich Mechanick that wou’d be an Alderman? Bring ‘em to me, And I’ll convert that Coxcomb, and that Blockhead, into Your Honour and Right-Worshipful. Doct. Mad, stark mad! Why, Sirrah, Rogue—Scaramouch —How got this Mad-man in? [While the Doctor turns to Scaramouch, Cinthio speaks softly to Elaria. Cin. Oh, thou perfidious Maid! Who hast thou hid in yonder conscious Closet? [Aside to her. Scar. Why, Sir, he was brought in a Chair for your Advice; but how he rambled from the Parlour to this Chamber, I know not. Cin. Upon a winged Horse, ycleped Pegasus, Swift as the fiery Racers of the Sun,—I fly—I fly—See how I mount, and cut the liquid Sky. [Runs out. Doct. Alas, poor Gentleman, he’s past all Cure.—But, Sirrah, for the future, take you care that no young mad Patients be brought into my House. Scar. I shall, Sir,—and see,—here’s your Key you look’d for. Doct. That’s well; I must be gone—Bar up the Doors, and upon Life or Death let no man enter. [Exit Doctor, and all with him, with the Light. Charmante peeps out—and by degrees comes all out, listning every step. Char. Who the Devil cou’d that be that pull’d me from the Closet? but at last I’m free, and the Doctor’s gone; I’ll to Cinthio, and bring him to pass this Night with our Mistresses. [Exit. As he is gone off, enter Cinthio groping. Cin. Now for this lucky Rival, if his Stars will make this last part of his Adventure such. I hid my self in the next Chamber, till I heard the Doctor go, only to return to be reveng’d. [He gropes his way into the Closet, with his Sword drawn. Enter Elaria with a Light. Ela. Scaramouch tells me Charmante is conceal’d in the Closet, whom Cinthio surely has mistaken for some Lover of mine, and is jealous; but I’ll send Charmante after him, to make my peace and undeceive him. [Goes to the Door. —Sir, Sir, where are you? they are all gone, you may adventure out. [Cinthio comes out. Ha,—Cinthio here? Cin. Yes, Madam, to your shame: Now your Perfidiousness is plain, false Woman, ’.is well your Lover had the dexterity of escaping, I’ad spoil’d his making Love else. [Goes from her, she holds him. Ela. Prithee hear me. Cin. But since my Ignorance of his Person saves his Life, live and possess him, till I can discover him. [Goes out. Ela. Go, peevish Fool— Whose Jealousy believes me given to change, Let thy own Torments be my just Revenge. [Exit. The End of the First Act. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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