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 advantageous Passport only.
This humble Offering, which I presume to lay at your Lordships Feet, is of that Critical Nature, that it does not only require the Patronage of a great Title, but of a great Man too, and there is often times a vast difference between those 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 those, 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 ones; 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 fills 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 the 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 Deux, 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 Hero's ) as too debas'd and vulgar 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 Misrepresentings 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, &c. 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 be so happy to give your Lordship one ours Diversion, which is the only Honour and Fame is wish'd to crown all the Endeavours of,
Most humble, and
Spoken by Mr. Jevern.
LOng, and at the vast Expence the industrious Stage|
Has strove to please a dull ungrateful Age:
With Hero's 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 Deux 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 show'd 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 netled, Plague, What do's 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
That he himself, in every gross Lampoon,
Her lewder Secrets spreads about the Town;
Whilst their feign'd Niceness is but cautious Fear,
Their own Intrigues shou'd 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.
After this it sings Sawny, Laughs, crys, God bless the King in order.
Speak lowder Jevern, if you'd have me repeat;
He speaks lowder, it answers indirectly.――Hum――There 'tis again,
Pox of your Echo 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 so hard, but it wou'd 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 meer Machines as they.
Oh! how the City Wife, with her noon Ninny,
Is Charm'd with, Come into my Coach――Mis Jinny, Mis Jinny.
But overturning――Frible crys ―― Adznigs,
The jogling Rogue has murther'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 Sence than some of you.
Scaramouch, his Man.
Pedro, his Boy.
Don Cinthio, Don Charmante, both Nephews to the Vice-Roy and Lovers of Elaria and Bellemante.
|Young Mr. Powel.|
Harlequin, Cinthio's Man.
Officer and Clark
Elaria, Daughter to the Doctor.
Bellemante, Niece to the Doctor.
Mopsophil Governante to the young Ladies.
The Persons in the Moon, are Don Cinthio,
Emperor; Don Charmante, Prince of Thunderland.
Kepler 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.
ACT I. SCENE I.
Enter Elaria and Mopsophil.
A Curse upon that faithless Maid, |
Who first her Sexes 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 Vertue to consist in Rules.
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 fixt to glittering Courts or shady Groves.
Then she that Constancy Profest, |
Was but a well dissembler at the best;
And that imaginary sway
She feigned 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.
This does not divert me:
Nor nothing will, till Scaramouch return,
And bring me News of Cinthio.
Mopsophil. 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.
Elaria. Cinthio came with Musick last Night under my Window, which my Father hearing sallyed 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.
Mopsophil. 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.
Scaramouch. Away and keep the door.
Elaria. Oh dear Scaramouch! hast thou been at the Vice-Roys?
Scaramouch. Yes, yes.—
Elaria. And hast thou delivered my Letter to his Nephew, Don Cinthio?
Scaramouch. Yes, Yes, what should I deliver else?
Elaria. Well—and how does he?
[Fanning himself with his Cap.
Scaramouch. Lord, how shou'd he do? Why, what a Laborious thing it is to be a Pimp?
Elaria. Why, well he shou'd do.
Scaramouch. So he is, as well as a Night adventuring Lover can be,—he has got but one wound, Madam.
Elaria. How! wounded say you? Oh Heavens! 'Tis not Mortal?
Scaramouch. Why, I have no great skill,—but they say it may be Dangerous.
Elaria. I Die with fear; where is he wounded?
Scaramouch. Why, Madam, he is run—quite thorough the—heart,—but the Man may Live, if I please.
Elaria. Thou please! Torment me not with Riddles.
Scaramouch. Why, Madam, there is a certain cordial Balsam, called a fair Lady; which outwardly applyed to his Bosom, will prove a better cure than all your Weapon-Salve, or Sympathetick Powder, meaning your Ladyship.
Elaria. Is Cinthio then not wounded?
Scaramouch. No otherwise than by your fair Eyes, Madam; he got away unseen and unknown.
Elaria. Dost know how precious time is, and dost thou Fool it away thus? what said he to my Letter?
Scaramouch. What should he say?
Elaria. Why a hundred dear, soft things of Love, kiss it as often, and bless me for my goodness.
Scaramouch. Why so he did.
Elaria. Ask thee a thousand questions of my health after my last nights fright.
Scaramouch. So he did.
Elaria. 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.
Scaramouch. All this he did.
Elaria. And for my being confin'd a Prisoner to my Apartment, without the hope or almost possibility of seeing him any more.
Scaramouch. 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 abrewing, not only to bring you together, but with your Fathers consent too; Such a Plot, Madam.
Elaria. Ay that wou'd be worthy of thy Brain; prethee what—
Scaramouch. Such a device!
Elaria. I'm impatient.
Scaramouch. Such a Conundrum,—well if there be wise Men and Conjurers in the World, they are intriguing Lovers.
Elaria. Out with it.
Scaramouch. You must know, Madam, your Father, (my Master, the Doctor,) is a little Whimsical, Romantick, or Don Quick-sottish, or so.—
Elaria. Or rather Mad.
Scaramouch. That were uncivil to be supposed by me; but Lunatick we may call him without breaking the Decorum of good Manners; for he is always travelling to the Moon.
Elaria. 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.
Scaramouch. How came he thus infected first?
Elaria. With reading foolish Books, Lucian's Dialogue of Icaromenippus, who flew up to the Moon, and thence to Heaven; an Heroick business called, 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.
Scaramouch. Ay, this reading of Books is a pernicious thing. I was like to have run Mad once, reading Sir John Mandivel;—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.
Elaria. A Farce.—
Scaramouch. Ay a Farce, which shall be called,—the World in the Moon. Wherein your Father shall be so impos'd on, as shall bring matters most magnificently about.—
Elaria. I cannot conceive thee, but the design must be good since Cinthio and Charmante own it.
Scaramouch. In order to this, Charmante is dressing himself like one of the Caballists of the Rosicrusian 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.
Elaria. But the Farce, where is it to be Acted?
Scaramouch. Here, here, in this very House; I am to order the Decoration, adorn a Stage, and place Scenes proper.
Elaria. How can this be done without my Father's knowledge?
Scaramouch. 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.
Mopsophil. Run, Run Scaramouch, my Masters 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.
Scaramouch. Here, here,—I had almost forgot the Letters; here's one for you, and one for Mrs. Bellemante.
Enter Bellemante with a Book.
Bellemante. Here, take my Prayer Book, Oh Marrois charé.
Elaria. Thy Eyes are always laughing, Bellemante.
Bellemante. And so would yours had they been so well imployed as mine, this Morning. I have been at the Chapel, and seen so many Beaus, such a Number of Plumees, I cou'd not tell which I shou'd look on most, sometimes my heart was charm'd with the gay Blonding, then with the Melancholy Noire, annon 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 au tour.
Elaria. Oh there was then no danger, Cousin.
Bellemante. No, but abundance of Pleasure.
Elaria. Why, this is better than sighing for Charmante.
Bellemante. 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.
Elaria. Oh you had great Devotion to Heaven then!
Bellemante. And so I had; for I did nothing but admire its handywork, but I cou'd not have pray'd heartily if I had been dying; but a deuce on't, who shou'd come in and spoil all but my Lover Charmante, so drest, 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!
Chivalier, a Chevave Blond, |
Plus de Mouche, Plus de Powdre
Pleus de Ribbons et Cannous.
—Oh what a dear ravishing thing is the beginning of an Amour?
Elaria. Thou'rt still in Tune, when wilt thou be tame, Bellemante?
Bellemante. When I am weary of loving, Elaria.
Elaria. To keep up your Humor, here's a Letter from your Charmante.
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.
—Live then Charmante! Live, as long as Love can last!
Elaria. Well, Cousin, Scaramouch tells me of rare designs 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.
Bellemante. Who, if he had no more Honesty, and Conscience, than my Unkle, wou'd let us pine for want of Lovers; but Heaven be prais'd, the Generosity of our Cavaliers has open'd their obdurate Hearts with a Golden key, that let's 'em in at all opportunities. Come, come, let's in, and answer their Billet Deux.
SCENE II. A Garden.
Enter Doctor, with all manner of Mathematical Instruments, hanging at his Girdle; Scaramouch bearing a Telescope twenty (or more) Foot long.
Doctor Baliardo. SET down the Telescope.—Let me see, what Hour is it?
Scaramouch. About six a Clock, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. Then 'tis about the Hour, that the great Monarch of the upper World enters into his Closet; Mount, mount the Telescope.
Scaramouch. What to do, Sir?
Doctor Baliardo. I understand, of certain moments Critical, one may be snatch'd of such a mighty consequence to let the sight into the secret Closet.
Scaramouch. How, Sir, Peep into the Kings Closet; under favour, Sir, that will be something uncivil.
Doctor Baliardo. Uncivil, it were flat Treason if it shou'd be known, but thus unseen, and as wise Politicians shou'd, I take Survey of all: This is the States-man's peeping-hole, thorow which he Steals the secrets of his King, and seems to wink at distance.
Scaramouch. The very key-hole, Sir, thorow with which half an Eye, he sees him even at his Devotion, Sir.
[A knocking at the Garden Gate.
Doctor Baliardo. Take care none enter—
[Scaramouch goes to the Door.
Scaramouch. Oh, Sir, Sir, here's some strange great Man come to wait on you.
Doctor Baliardo. Great Man? from whence?
Scaramouch. Nay, from the Moon World, for ought I know, for he looks not like the People of the lower Orb.
Doctor Baliardo. Ha! and that may be: wait on him in.
Enter Scaramouch bare, bowing before Charmante, drest in a strange Fantastical Habit, with Harlequin Salutes the Doctor.
Charmante. Doctor Baliardo, most learned Sir, all Hail; Hail from the great Caballa—of Eutopia.
Doctor Baliardo. Most Reverend Bard, thrice welcome.
[Salutes him low.
Charmante. The Fame of your great Learning, Sir, and Vertue, is known with Joy to the renown'd Society.
Doctor Baliardo. Fame, Sir, has done me too much Honour, to bear my Name to the renown'd Caballa.
Charmante. 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 Dæmons of the Air inform us all things, past, present, and to come.
Doctor Baliardo. I must confess the Count of Gabalist, renders it plain, from Writ Divine and Humane, there are such friendly and intelligent Dæmons.
Charmante. I hope you do not doubt that Doctrine, Sir, which holds that the Four Elements are Peopl'd 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 Fayries. Those of the Air are Silfs. 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.
Doctor Baliardo. I am of that opinion, Sir, Man was not made for Woman.
Charmante. Most certain, Sir, Man was to have been Immortaliz'd by the Love and Conversation of these charming Silfs and Nymphs, and Woman by the Gnomes and Salamanders, and to have stock'd the World with Demy-Gods, such as at this Day inhabit the Empire of the Moon.
Doctor Baliardo. Most admirable Philosophy and Reason.—But do these Silfs and Nymphs appear in shapes?
Charmante. Of the most Beautiful of all the Sons and Daughters of the Universe: Imagination it self, 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.—
Doctor Baliardo. Ay, Sir, what Vertues or what Merits can accomplish me for that great Honour?
Charmante. An absolute abstinence from carnal thought, devout and pure of Spirit; free from Sin.
Doctor Baliardo. I dare not boast my Vertues, Sir; Is there no way to try my Purity?
Charmante. Are you very secret.
Doctor Baliardo. 'Tis my first Principle, Sir—
Charmante. And one, the most material in our Rosicrusian order.
Charmante. Please you to make a Trial.
Doctor Baliardo. As how, Sir, I beseech you?—
Charmante. If you be throughly purg'd from Vice, the opticks 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.
Doctor Baliardo. Sir, you oblige profoundly.
Charmante. Kneel then, and try your strength of Vertue, Sir.—Keep your Eye fix't 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, shows to the Audience. Goes to the end of the Telescope.
—Can you discern, Sir?
Doctor Baliardo. Methinks I see a kind of Glorious Cloud drawn up—and now—'tis gone again.
Charmante. Saw you no figure?
Doctor Baliardo. None.
Charmante. 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.
Doctor Baliardo. —Astonisht, Ravisht with delight, I see a Beauty young and Angel like, leaning upon a Cloud.—
Charmante. Seems she on a Bed, then she's reposing, and you must not gaze—
Doctor Baliardo. Now a Cloud Veils her from me.
Charmante. She saw you peeping then, and drew the Curtain of the Air between.
Doctor Baliardo. 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?
Charmante. 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 wou'd not make King Philip Jealous, and that famous Philosopher Merlin, was begotten on a Vestal Nun, a certain Kings Daughter, by a most beautiful young Salamander; as indeed all the Heroes, and men of mighty minds are.
Doctor Baliardo. Most excellent!
Charmante. 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, Aquinas, Albertus Magnus, Socrates and Virgil had their Zilphid, which foolish people call'd their Dæmon or Devil. But you are wise, Sir.—
Doctor Baliardo. But do you imagine Sir, they will fall in Love with an old Mortal?
Charmante. They love not like the Vulgar, 'tis the Immortal Part they doat upon.
Doctor Baliardo. But Sir, I have a Neece and Daughter which I love equally, were it not possible they might be Immortaliz'd?
Charmante. No doubt on't, Sir, if they be Pure and Chast.
Doctor Baliardo. I think they are, and I'll take care to keep 'em so; for I confess Sir, I wou'd fain have a Hero to my Grandson.
Charmante. You never saw the Emperor of the Moon, Sir, the mighty Iredonozar.
Doctor Baliardo. Never Sir; his Court I have, but 'twas confusedly too.
Charmante. Refine your Thoughts Sir, by a moments Prayer, and try again.
[He prays. Charmante claps the Glass with the Emperour on it, he looks in and sees it.
Doctor Baliardo. It is too much, too much for mortal Eyes! I see a Monarch seated on a Throne—But seems most sad and pensive.
Charmante. Forbear then, Sir, for now his Love-Fit's on, and then he wou'd be private.
Doctor Baliardo. His Love-Fit, Sir!
Charmante. Ay Sir, the Emperor's in Love with some fair Mortal.
Doctor Baliardo. And can he not Command her?
Charmante. Yes, but her Quality being too mean, he struggles tho' a King, 'twixt Love and Honour.
Doctor Baliardo. It were too much to know the Mortal, Sir?
Charmante. '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 Vertue, tell you Wonders.
Doctor Baliardo. 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.
Scaramouch. So, so, Don Charmante has plaid his part most exquisitely; I'll in and see how it works in his Pericranium.—Did you call Sir?
Doctor Baliardo. Scaramouch, I have for thy singular Wit and Honesty, always had a Tenderness for thee above that of a Master to a Servant.
Scaramouch. I must confess it, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. Thou hast Vertue and Merit that deserves much.
Scaramouch. Oh Lord, Sir!
Doctor Baliardo. And I may make thee great,—all I require, is, that thou wilt double thy diligent Care of my Daughter and my Neece, for there are mighty things design'd for them, if we can keep 'em from the sight of Man.
Scaramouch. The sight of Man, Sir!
Doctor Baliardo. Ay, and the very Thoughts of Man.
Scaramouch. What Antidote is there to be given to a young Wench, against the Disease of Love and Longing?
Doctor Baliardo. 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.
Scaramouch. Doubt me not, Sir, and I hope your Reverence will reward my faithful Service with Mopsophil, your Daughters Governante, who is Rich, and has long had my Affection, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. Set not thy Heart on Transitories, mortal, there are 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
My Mistress Mopsophil to marry a Farmers 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 himself? 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 sliceing of the Weasand. No, I'll die a Death uncommon, and leave behind me an eternal Fame. I have somewhere read in an Author, either Ancient 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 Shooes..
—And now, farewell the World, fond Love, and mortal Cares.
[He falls to tickle himself, his Head, his Ears, his Arm-pits, Hands, Sides, and Soals of his Feet; making ridiculous Cries and Noises of Laughing several ways, with Antick Leaps and Skips, at last falls down as dead.
Scaramouch. Harlequin was left in the Garden, I'll tell him the News of Mopsophil.
[Going forward, tumbles over him.
Ha, whats here? Harlequin Dead!—
[Heaving him up, he flies into a Rage.
Harlequin. Who is't that thus wou'd rob me of my Honour?
Scaramouch. Honour, why I thought thou'dst been dead.
Harlequin. Why so I was, and the most agreeably dead.—
Scaramouch. I came to bemoan with thee, the mutual loss of our Mistress.
Harlequin. I know it Sir, I know it, and that thou'rt 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.
Scaramouch. What, and spoil all my Cloths? I thank you for that; no, I have a newer way: you know I lodge four pair of Stairs high, let's ascend thither, and after saying our Prayers.—
Harlequin. —Prayers! I never heard of a dying Hero that ever pray'd.
Scaramouch. Well, I'll not stand with you for a Trifle—Being come up, I'll open the Casement, take you by the Heels, and fling you out into the Street,—after which, you have no more to do, but to come up and throw me down in my turn.
Harlequin. The Achievement'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 Gypsie, tho' I venture banging,
To be undeceiv'd, 'tis hardly worth the hanging.
SCENE III. The Chamber of Bellemante.
Enter Scaramouch groping.
Scaramouch. 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 Ladies 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.
Harlequin. 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.
Scaramouch. 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.
What was that?—a Table,—There I may obscure my self.—
[Groping for the Table.
—What a Devil, is it vanish'd?
Scaramouch. Devil,—Vanish'd,—What can this mean? 'Tis a Mans Voice.—If it shou'd 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
Back-side almost touching the Ground, his Mouth stretched wide, and
his Eyes staring. Harlequin groping, thrusts his Hand into his Mouth, he bites him, the other dares not cry out.
Harlequin. Ha, what's this? all Mouth, with twenty Rows of Teeth.—Now dare not I cry out, least 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. Scaramouch feels the Point of it,
and shrinks back, letting go his Hand.
Scaramouch. Who the Devil can this be? I felt a Poniard, and am glad I sav'd my Skin from pinking.
about, finds the Table, on which there is a Carpet, and creeps under
Enter Bellemante, with a Candle in one Hand, and a Book in the other.
Bellemante. 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 Rhime to Resign?—Tell me, said he,—
[She lays down the Tables, 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.
[Writes.]— I blush'd, and veil'd my wishing Eyes.
[Lays down the Book, and walks as before.
[Harlequin Writes as before.
[Harlequin writes.]—And answer'd only with my Sighs.
[She turns and takes the Tablet.
—Ha,—What is this? Witchcraft or some Divinity of Love? some
Cupid sure invisible.—
Once more I'll try the Charm.—
—Cou'd I a better way my Love impart?
[Studies and walks.
[He writes as before.
[Harlequin writes.]—And without speaking, tell him all my Heart.
Bellemante. —'Tis here again, but where's the Hand that writ it?
—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.
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?
Whose is this different Character?
Bellemante. 'Tis yours for ought I know.
Charmante. Away, my Name was put here for a blind. What Rhiming Fop have you been clubbing Wit withal?
Bellemante. Ah, mon Dieu!—Charmante Jealous!
Charmante. Have I not cause?—Who writ these Boremes?
Bellemante. Some kind assisting Deity, for ought I know.
Charmante. Some kind assisting Coxcomb, that I know, The Ink's yet wet, the Spark is near I find.—
Bellemante. Ah, Mal-heureus! How was I mistaken in this Man?
Charmante. Mistaken! What, did you take me for, an easie Fool to be impos'd upon?—One that wou'd be cuckolded by every feather'd Fool; that you shou'd call a—Beau un Gallant Huome. 'sdeath! Who wou'd doat upon a fond She-Fop?—A vain conceited Amorous Cocquet.
[Goes out, she pulls him back.
Enter Scaramouch, running.
Scaramouch. Oh Madam! hide your Lover, or we are all undone.
Charmante. I will not hide, till I know the thing that made the Verses.
[The Doctor calling as on the Stairs.
Doctor Baliardo. Bellemante, Neece,—Bellemante.
Scaramouch. She's coming Sir.—Where, where shall I hide him?—Oh, the Closet's open!
[Thrusts him into the Closet by force.
Doctor Baliardo. Oh Neece! 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's dying. *Here, take my Keys, 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 me.
[*Pulls out his Keys; one falls down.
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.
Enter Mopsophil. Harlequin peeps from under the Table.
Harlequin. Ha! Mopsophil, and alone!
Mopsophil. 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.
Harlequin. Ay, him wou'd I be glad to know.
Mopsophil. But of all my Lovers, I am for the Farmers Son, because he keeps a Calash—and I'll swear a Coach is the most agreeable thing about a man.
Harlequin. Ho, ho!
Mopsophil. Ah me,—What's that?
[He answers in a
Harlequin. The Ghost of a poor Lover, dwindl'd into a Hey-ho.
[He rises from under
the Table and falls at her Feet. Scaramouch enters. She runs off
Scaramouch. Ha, my Rival and my Mistress!—
Is this done like a Man of Honour, Monsieur Harlequin, To take Advantages to injure me?
Harlequin. All advantages are lawful in Love and War.
Scaramouch. 'Twas contrary to our League and Covenant; therefore I defy thee as a Traitor.
Harlequin. I scorn to fight with thee, because I once call'd thee Brother.
Scaramouch. Then thou art a Poltron; that's to say, a Coward.
Harlequin. Coward, nay, then I am provok'd, come on—
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.
[Scaramouch pulls out a
Fleut Deux, and falls to Playing. Harlequin throws down his, and falls a
Dancing; after the Dance, they shake Hands.
Harlequin. He my Bone Ame—Is not this better than Duelling?
Scaramouch. 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.
Elaria. Cousin Bellemante, Cousin.
Scaramouch. 'Slife, let's be gone, lest we be seen in the Ladies Apartment.
[Scaramouch slips Harlequin
behind the Door.
Elaria. How now, how came you here?—
[Signs to Harlequin to go out.
Scaramouch. 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.
Elaria. But what if any one by my Fathers Order, or he himself, shou'd by some chance surprise us?
Scaramouch. 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.
Elaria. I tremble, but know not whether 'tis with Fear or Joy.
Cinthio. My dear Elaria—
[Runs to imbrace her, she starts from him.
—Ha,—shun my Arms, Elaria!
Elaria. Heavens! Why did you come so soon?
Cinthio. Is it too soon, when ere 'tis safe, Elaria?
Elaria. I die with fear—Met you not Scaramouch? He went to bid you wait a while; What shall I do?
Cinthio. Why this Concern? none of the House has seen me. I saw your Father taking Mule.
Elaria. Sure you mistake, methinks I hear his Voice.
Doctor below. —My Key—The Key of my Laboratory.—Why, Knave Scaramouch, where are you?—
Do you hear that, Sir?—Oh, I'm undone! Where shall I hide you?—He approaches—
[She searches where to hide him.
—Ha,—my Cousins 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.
Doctor Baliardo. Here I must have dropt it; a Light, a Light—there—
Enter Cinthio from the Closet, pulls Charmante out, they not knowing each other.
Cinthio. Oh this perfidious Woman! no marvel she was so surpris'd and angry at my Approach to Night.—
Charmante. Who can this be?—but I'll be prepar'd—
[Lays his hand on his Sword.
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 discover'd, 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?
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 easie Cuckold shall be dubb'd a Knight.
Elaria. Oh Heavens! a mad Man, Sir.
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 Block-head, into Your Honour, and Right Worshipful.
Doctor Baliardo. Mad, stark mad! Why Sirrah, Rogue—Scaramouch—How got this mad Man in?
[While the Doctor turns to Scaramouch, Cinthio speaks softly to Elaria.
Cinthio. Oh, thou perfidious Maid! Who hast thou hid in yonder conscious Closet?
[Aside to her.
Scaramouch. Why Sir, he was brought in a Chair for your Advice, but how he rambl'd from the Parlour to this Chamber, I know not.
Upon a winged Horse, Iclyped Pegasus,
Swift as the fiery Racers of the Sun,
—I fly—I fly—
See how I mount, and cut the liquid Sky.
Doctor Baliardo. 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.
Scaramouch. I shall Sir,—and see—here's your key you look'd for.
Doctor Baliardo. That's well; I must be gone—Barr 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.
Charmante. Who the Devil cou'd that be that pull'd me from the Closet? but at last I'm free, and the Doctors gone; I'll to Cinthio, and bring him to pass this Night with our Mistresses.
As he is gone off, enter Cinthio groping.
Cinthio. 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.
Elaria. 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.
Cinthio. Yes Madam, to your shame—Now your Perfidiousness is plain—False Woman, 'Tis well your Lover had the Dexterity of escaping, I'd spoil'd his making Love else.
[Gets from her, she holds him.
Elaria. Prethee hear me.
Cinthio. —But since my Ignorance of his Person saves his Life, live and possess him, till I can discover him.
Elaria. Go peevish Fool—
Whose Jealousie believes me given to Change,
Let thy own Torments be my just Revenge.
The End of the first Act.
ACT II. SCENE I.
An Antick Dance.
After the Musick has plaid. Enter Elaria to her Bellemante.
Elaria. HEavens Bellemante! Where have you been?
Bellemante. Fatigu'd with the most disagreeable Affair, for a Person of my Humour, in the World. Oh, how I hate Business, which I do no more mind, than a Spark does the Sermon, who is ogling his Mistress at Church all the while: I have been ruffling over twenty Reams of Paper for my Uncles Writings.
Scaramouch. So, so, the Old Gentleman is departed this wicked World, and the House is our own for this Night.—Where are the Sparks? Where are the Sparks?
Elaria. Nay, Heaven knows.
Bellemante. How! I hope not so, I left Charmante confin'd to my Closet, when my Uncle had like to have surpriz'd us together: Is he not here?—
Elaria. No, he's escap'd, but he has made sweet doings.
Bellemante. Heavens Cousin! What?
Elaria. My Father was coming into the Chamber, and had like to have taken Cinthio with me, when, to conceal him, I put him into your Closet, not knowing of Charmante's being there, and which, in the Dark, he took for a Gallant of mine; had not my Fathers Presence hinder'd, I believe there had been Murder committed; how ever, they both escap'd unknown.
Scaramouch. Pshaw, is this all? Lovers Quarrels are soon adjusted; I'll to 'em, unfold the Riddle, and bring 'em back—take no care, but go in and dress you for the Ball; Mopsophil has Habits which your Lovers sent to put on: the Fiddles Treat, and all are prepar'd.—
Mopsophil. Madam, your Cousin Florinda, with a Lady, is come to visit you.
Bellemante. I'm glad on't, 'tis a good Wench, and we'll trust her with our Mirth and Secret.
[They go out.
SCENE Changes to the Street.
Enter Page with a Flambeaux, follow'd by Cinthio; passes over the Stage. Scaramouch follows Cinthio in a Campaign Coat.
'TIs Cinthio—Don Cinthio—
[Calls, he turns.
—Well, what's the Quarrel?—How fell ye out.
Cinthio. You may inform your self I believe, for these close Intrigues cannot be carried on without your Knowledge.
Scaramouch. What Intrigues, Sir? be quick, for I'm in hast.
Cinthio. Who was the Lover I surpris'd i'th' Closet?
Scaramouch. Deceptio visus, Sir; the Error of the Eyes.
Cinthio. Thou Dog,—I felt him too; but since the Rascal escaped me—I'll be Reveng'd on thee—
[Goes to beat him, he running away, runs against Harlequin, who is entering with Charmante, and is like to throw 'em both down.
Charmante. Ha,—What's the matter here?—
Scaramouch. Seignior Don Charmante—
[Then he struts couragiously in with 'em.
Charmante. What, Cinthio in a Rage! Who's the unlucky Object?
Cinthio. All Man and Woman Kind: Elaria's false.
Charmante. Elaria false! take heed, sure her nice Vertue is Proof against the Vices of her Sex.
—Say rather Bellemante.
She who by Nature's light and wavering.
The Town contains not such a false Impertinent.
This Evening I surpris'd her in her Chamber
Writing of Verses, and between her Lines,
Some Spark had newly pen'd his proper Stuff.
Curse of the Jilt, I'll be her Fool no more.
Harlequin. I doubt you are mistaken in that, Sir, for 'twas I was the Spark that writ the proper Stuff. To do you Service—
Scaramouch. Ay, we that spend our Lives and Fortunes here to serve you,—to be us'd like Pimps and Scowndrels.—Come Sir,—satisfie him who 'twas was hid i'th Closet when he came in and found you.
Cinthio. Ha,—is't possible? Was it Charmante?
Charmante. Was it you, Cinthio? Pox on't, what Fools are we, we cou'd not know one another by Instinct?
Scaramouch. Well, well, dispute no more this clear Case, but lets hasten to your Mistresses.
Cinthio. I'm asham'd to appear before Elaria.
Charmante. And I to Bellemante.
Scaramouch. Come, come, take Heart of Grace; pull your Hats down over your Eyes; put your Arms across; sigh and look scurvily; your simple Looks are ever a Token of Repentance; come—come along.
SCENE changes to the inside of the House.
The Front of the Scene is only a Curtain or Hangings to be drawn up at Pleasure.
Enter Elaria, Bellemante, Mopsophil, and Ladies dress'd in Masking Habits.
Elaria. I Am extreamly pleas'd with these Habits, Cousin.
Bellemante. They are A la Gothic and Uncommune.
Lady. Your Lovers have a very good Fancy, Cousin, I long to see 'em.
Elaria. And so do I. I wonder Scaramouch stays so, and what Success he has.
Bellemante. You have no cause to doubt, you can so easily acquit your self; but I, what shall I do? who can no more imagine who shou'd write those Boremes, than who I shall love next, if I break off with Charmante.
Lady. If he be a Man of Honour, Cousin, when a Maid protests her Innocence—
Bellemante. Ay, but he's a Man of Wit too, Cousin, and knows when Women protest most, they likely lye most.
Elaria. Most commonly, for Truth needs no asseveration.
Bellemante. That's according to the Disposition of your Lover, for some believe you most, when you most abuse and cheat 'em; some are so obstinate, they wou'd damn a Woman with protesting, before she can convince 'em.
Elaria. Such a one is not worth convincing, I wou'd not make the World wise at the expence of a Vertue.
Bellemante. Nay, he shall e'en remain as Heaven made him for me, since there are Men enough for all uses.
Enter Charmante and Cinthio, dress'd in their Gothic Habits. Scaramouch, Harlequin and Musick. Charmante and Cinthio kneel.
Cinthio. Can you forgive us?
[Elaria takes him up.
Bellemante. That, Cinthio, you're convinc'd, I do not wonder; but how Charmante's Goodness is inspir'd, I know not.
[Takes him up.
Charmante. Let it suffice, I'm satisfy'd, my Bellemante.
Elaria. Pray know my Cousin Florinda.
[They salute the Lady.
Bellemante. Come let's not lose time, since we are all Friends.
Charmante. The best use we can make of it, is to talk of Love.
Bellemante. Oh! we shall have time enough for that hereafter; besides, you may make Love in Dancing as well as in Sitting; you may gaze, sigh,—and press the Hand, and now and then receive a Kiss, what wou'd you more?
Charmante. Yes, wish a little more.
Bellemante. We were unreasonable to forbid you that cold Joy, nor shall you wish long in vain, if you bring Matters so about, to get us with my Uncle's Consent.
Elaria. Our Fortunes depending solely on his Pleasure, which is too considerable to lose.
Cinthio. All things are order'd as I have written you at large; our Scenes and all our Properties are ready; we have no more to do but to banter the old Gentleman into a little more Faith, which the next Visit of our new Cabbalist Charmante will compleat.
[The Musick plays.
Enter some Anticks and dance. They all sit still the while.
Elaria. Your dancers have perform'd well, but 'twere fit we knew whom we have trusted with this Evenings Intrigue.
Cinthio. Those, Madam, who are to assist us in carrying on a greater Intrigue, the gaining of you. They are our Kinsmen.
Elaria. Then they are doubly welcome.
[Here is a Song in Dialogue, with Fleut Deux and Harpsicals. Shepherd and Shepherdess; which ended, they all dance a Figure Dance.
Cinthio. Hark, what Noise is that? sure 'tis in the next Room.
Doctor, within.] Scaramouch, Scaramouch!
[Scaramouch runs to the Door and holds it fast.
Scaramouch. Ha,—the Devil in the likeness of my old Masters Voice, for 'tis impossible it shou'd be he himself.
Charmante. If it be he, how got he in? did you not secure the Doors?
Elaria. He always has a Key to open 'em; Oh! what shall we do? there's no escaping him; he's in the next Room, through which you are to pass.
Doctor Baliardo.] Scaramouch, Knave, where are you?
Scaramouch. 'Tis he, 'tis he, follow me all—
[He goes with all the Company behind the Front Curtain.
Without Doctor.] I tell you Sirrah, I heard the Noise of Fiddles.
Without Peter. No surely Sir, 'twas a Mistake.
[Knocking at the Door.
[Scaramouch having plac'd them all in the Hanging, in which they make the Figures, where they stand without Motion in Postures. He comes out. He opens the Door with a Candle in his Hand.
Enter the Doctor and Peter with a Light.
Scaramouch. Bless me, Sir! Is it you or your Ghost.
Doctor Baliardo. 'Twere good for you, Sir, if I were a thing of Air; but as I am a substantial Mortal, I will lay it on as substantially—
[Canes him. He cries.
Scaramouch. What d'ye mean, Sir? what d'ye mean?
Doctor Baliardo. Sirrah, must I stand waiting your Leisure, while you are Rogueing here? I will reward ye.
Scaramouch. Ay, and I shall deserve it richly, Sir, when you know all.
Doctor Baliardo. I guess all, Sirrah, and I heard all, and you shall be rewarded for all. Where have you hid the Fiddles you Rogue?
Scaramouch. Fiddles, Sir!—
Doctor Baliardo. Ay, Fiddles, Knave.
Scaramouch. Fiddles, Sir!—Where?
Doctor Baliardo. Here,—here I heard 'em, thou false Steward of thy Masters Treasure.
Scaramouch. Fiddles, Sir! Sure 'twas Wind got into your Head, and whistled in your Ears, riding so late, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. Ay, thou false Varlet, there's another Debt I owe thee, for bringing me so damnable a Lye: My Brother's well—I met his Valet but a League from Town, and found thy Roguery out.
[Beats him. He cries.
Scaramouch. Is this the Reward I have for being so diligent since you went?
Doctor Baliardo. In what, thou Villain? in what?
[The Curtain is drawn up, and discovers the Hangings where all of them stand.
Scaramouch. Why look you, Sir, I have, to surprise you with Pleasure, against you came home, been putting up this Piece of Tapestry, the best in Italy, for the Rareness of the Figures, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. Ha—Hum—It is indeed a stately Piece of Work; how came I by 'em?
Scaramouch. 'Twas sent your Reverence from the Vertuoso, or some of the Cabbalists.
Doctor Baliardo. I must confess, the Workmanship is excellent,—but still I do insist I heard the Musick.
Scaramouch. 'Twas then the tuning of the Spheres, some Serenade, Sir, from the Inhabitants of the Moon.
Doctor Baliardo. Hum,—from the Moon,—and that may be—
Scaramouch. Lord, d'ye think I wou'd deceive your Reverence?
Doctor Baliardo. From the Moon, a Serenade,—I see no signs on't here, indeed it must be so—I'll think on't more at leisure.—
—Prithee what Story's this?
[Looks on the Hangings.
Scaramouch. Why, Sir,—'Tis.—
Doctor Baliardo. Hold up the Candles higher, and nearer.
[Peter and Scaramouch hold Candles near. He takes a Perspective and looks through it; and coming nearer, Harlequin, who is plac'd on a Tree in the Hangings, hits him on the Head with his Trunchion. He starts, and looks about. He sits still.
Doctor Baliardo. What was that struck me?
Scaramouch. Struck you, Sir! Imagination.
Doctor Baliardo. Can my Imagination feel, Sirrah?
Scaramouch. Oh, the most tenderly of any part about one, Sir!
Doctor Baliardo. Hum—That may be—
Scaramouch. Are you a great Philosopher, and know not that, Sir?
Doctor Baliardo. This Fellow has a glimpse of Profundity—
[Aside. Looks again.
—I like the Figures well.
Scaramouch. You will, when you See 'em by Day-light, Sir.
[Harlequin hits him again. The Doctor sees him.
Doctor Baliardo. Ha,—Is that Imagination too—Betray'd, betray'd, undone; run for my Pistols, call up my Servants, Peter, a Plot upon my Daughter and my Neece.
[Runs out with Peter.
[Scaramouch puts out the Candle, they come out of the Hanging, which is drawn away. He places 'em in a Row just at the Entrance.
Scaramouch. Here, here, fear nothing, hold by each other, that when I go out, all may go; that is, slip out, when you hear the Doctor is come in again, which he will certainly do, and all depart to your respective Lodgings.
Cinthio. And leave thee to bear the Brunt?
Scaramouch. Take you no care for that, I'll put it into my Bill of Charges, and be paid all together.
Enter the Doctor with Pistols, and Peter.
Doctor Baliardo. What, by dark? that shall not save you, Villains, Traitors to my Glory and Repose.—Peter, hold fast the Door, let none escape.
[They all slip out.
Peter. I'll warrant you, Sir.
[Doctor gropes about, then stamps and calls.
Doctor Baliardo. Lights there—Lights—I'm sure they cou'd not scape.
Peter. Impossible, Sir.
Enter Scaramouch undress'd in his Shirt, with a Light. Starts.
Scaramouch. Bless me!—what's here?
Doctor Baliardo. Ha,—Who art thou?
[Amaz'd to see him enter so.
Scaramouch. I, who the Devil are you, and you go to that?
[Rubs his Eyes, and brings the Candle nearer. Looks on him.
—Mercy upon us!—Why what is't you, Sir, return'd so soon?
Doctor Baliardo. Return'd!
[Looking sometimes on him, sometimes about.
Scaramouch. Ay Sir, Did you not go out of Town last night, to your Brother the Advocate?
Doctor Baliardo. Thou Villain, thou question'st me, as if thou knew'st not that I was return'd.
Scaramouch. I know, Sir! how shou'd I know? I'm sure I am but just wak'd from the sweetest Dream—
Doctor Baliardo. You dream still, Sirrah, but I shall wake your Rogueship.—Were you not here but now, shewing me a piece of Tapestry, you Villain?—
[Mopsophil listning all the while.
Doctor Baliardo. Yes, Rogue, yes, for which I'll have thy Life—
[Offering a Pistol.
Scaramouch. Are you stark mad, Sir? or do I dream still?
Doctor Baliardo. Tell me, and tell me quickly, Rogue, who were those Traytors that were hid but now in the Disguise of a piece of Hangings.
[Holds the Pistol to his Breast.
Scaramouch. Bless me! you amaze me, Sir. What conformity has every Word you say, to my rare Dream: Pray let me fell you, Sir,—Are you Humane?
Doctor Baliardo. You shall feel I am, Sirrah, if thou confess not.
Scaramouch. Confess, Sir! What shou'd I confess?—I understand not your Cabbalistical Language; but in mine, I confess that you have wak'd me from the rarest Dream—Where methought the Emperor of the Moon World was in our House, Dancing and Revelling; and methoughts his Grace was fallen desperately in Love with Mistress Elaria, and that his Brother, the Prince, Sir, of Thunderland, was also in Love with Mistress Bellemante; and methoughts they descended to court 'em in your Absence.—And that at last you surpris'd 'em, and that they transform'd themselves into a Suit of Hangings to deceive you. But at last, methought you grew angry at something, and they all fled to Heaven again; and after a deal of Thunder and Lightning, I wak'd, Sir, and hearing Humane Voices here, came to see what the Matter was.
[This while the Doctor lessens his signs of Rage by degrees, and at last stands in deep Contemplation.
Doctor Baliardo. May I credit this?
Scaramouch. Credit it! By all the Honour of your House, by my unseparable Veneration for the Mathematicks, 'tis true, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. —That famous Rosicrusian, who yesterday visited me, told me—the Emperor of the Moon was in Love with a fair Mortal—This Dream is Inspiration in this Fellow—He must have wonderous Vertue in him, to be worthy of these Divine Intelligences.
—But if that Mortal shou'd be Elaria! but no more, I dare not yet suppose it—perhaps the thing was real and no Dream, for oftentimes the grosser part is hurried away in Sleep, by the force of Imagination, and is wonderfully agitated—This Fellow might be present in his Sleep,—of this we've frequent Instances—I'll to my Daughter and my Neece, and hear what knowledge they may have of this.
Mopsophil. Will you so? I'll secure you, the Frolick shall go round.
Doctor Baliardo. Scaramouch, If you have not deceiv'd me in this Matter, time will convince me farther; if it rest here, I shall believe you false—
Scaramouch. Good Sir, suspend your Judgment and your Anger then.
Doctor Baliardo. I'll do't, go back to Bed—
[Ex. Doctor and Peter.
Scaramouch. No, Sir, 'tis Morning now—and I'm up for all day.—This Madness is a pretty sort of a pleasant Disease, when it tickles but in one Vein—Why here's my Master now, as great a Scholar, as grave and wise a Man, in all Argument and Discourse, as can be met with, yet name but the Moon, and he runs into Ridicule, and grows as mad as the Wind.
Well Doctor, if thou can'st be madder yet,
We'll find a Medicine that shall cure your Fit.
—Better than all Galenists.
SCENE Draws off. Discovers Elaria, Bellemante, and Mopsophil in Night-Gowns.
Mopsophil. YOu have your Lessons, stand to it bravely, and the Town's our own, Madam.
[They put themselves in Postures of Sleeping, leaning on the Table, Mopsophil lying at their Feet.
Enter Doctor, softly.
Doctor Baliardo. Ha, not in Bed! this gives me mortal Fears.
Bellemante. Ah, Prince—
[She speaks as in her Sleep.
Doctor Baliardo. Ha, Prince!
[Goes nearer and listens.
Bellemante. How little Faith I give to all your Courtship, who leaves our Orb so soon.
[In a feign'd Voice.
Doctor Baliardo. Ha, said she Orb?
But since you are of a Coelestial Race,
And easily can penetrate
Into the utmost limits of the Thought,
Why shou'd I fear to tell you of your Conquest?
—And thus implore your Aid.
[Rises and runs to the Doctor. Kneels, and holds him fast. He shews signs of Joy.
Doctor Baliardo. I am Ravish'd!
Bellemante. Ah, Prince Divine, take Pity on a Mortal—
Doctor Baliardo. I am rapt!
Bellemante. And take me with you to the World above.
Doctor Baliardo. The Moon, the Moon she means, I am Transported, Over-joy'd, and Ecstasy'd.
[Leaping and jumping from her Hands, she seems to wake.
Bellemante. Ha, my Uncle come again to interrupt us!
Doctor Baliardo. Hide nothing from me, my dear Bellemante, since all already is discover'd to me—and more.—
Elaria. Oh, why have you wak'd me from the softest Dream that ever Maid was blest with?
Doctor Baliardo. What—what my best Elaria?
Elaria. Methought I entertain'd a Demi-God, one of the gay Inhabitants of the Moon.
Bellemante. I'm sure mine was no Dream—I wak'd, I heard, I saw, I spoke—and danc'd to the Musick of the Spheres, and methought my glorious Lover ty'd a Diamond Chain about my Arm—and see 'tis all substantial.
[Shows her Arm.
Elaria. And mine a Ring, of more than mortal Lustre.
Doctor Baliardo. Heaven keep me moderate! least excess of Joy shou'd make my Vertue less.
[Stifling his Joy.
—There is a wonderous Mystery in this.
A mighty Blessing does attend your Fates.
Go in, and pray to the chast Powers above
To give you Vertue fit for such Rewards.
[They go in.
—How this agrees with what the learned Cabbalist inform'd me of last Night! He said, that great Iredonozor, the Emperor of the Moon, was inamour'd on a fair Mortal. It must be so—and either he descended to Court my Daughter Personally, which, for the Rareness of the Novelty, she takes to be a Dream; or else, what they and I beheld, was Visionary, by way of a sublime Intelligence.—and possibly —'tis only thus—the People of that World converse with Mortals.—I must be satisfy'd in this main Point of deep Philosophy.
I'll to my Study,—for I cannot rest,
Till I this weighty Mystery have discuss'd.
[Ex. very gravely.
SCENE. The Garden.
Enter Scaramouch with a Ladder.
Scaramouch. THo' I am come off en Cavalier with my Master, I am not with my Mistress, whom I promised to console this Night, and is but just I shou'd make good this Morning; 'twill be rude to surprize her Sleeping, and more Gallant to wake her with a Serinade at her Window.
[Sets the Ladder, to her Window, fetches his Lute, and goes up the Ladder.
He Plays and Sings this Song.
When Maidens are young and in their Spring
Enter Mopsophil above.
What woful Ditty-making Mortal's this?
That ere the Lark her early Note has sung,
Does doleful Love beneath my Casement thrum.—
—Ah, Senior Scaramouch, is it you?
Scaramouch. Who shou'd it be, that takes such pains to sue?
Mopsophil. Ah, Lover most true Blew!
Enter Harlequin in Womens Cloths.
Harlequin. If I can now but get admittance, I shall not only deliver the young Ladies their Letters from their Lovers, but get some opportunity, in this Disguise, to slip this Billet Deux into Mopsophil's Hand, and bob my Comrade Scaramouch.—Ha,—What do I see?—My Mistress at the Window, courting my Rival! Ah Gypsie!—
Scaramouch. —But we lose precious time, since you design me a kind Hour in your Chamber.
Harlequin. Ah Traytor!—
Mopsophil. You'll be sure to keep it from Harlequin.
Harlequin. Ah yes, he, hang him Fool, he takes you for a Saint.
Scaramouch. Harlequin!—Hang him, shotten Herring.
Harlequin. Ay, a Cully, a Noddy.
Mopsophil. A meer Zany.
Harlequin. Ah, hard hearted Turk.
Mopsophil. Fit for nothing but a Cuckold.
Harlequin. Monster of Ingratitude! How shall I be reveng'd;
[Scaramouch going over the Balcony.
—Hold, hold, thou perjur'd Traytor.
[Cryes out in a Womans Voice.
Mopsophil. Ha,—Discover'd!—A Woman in the Garden!
Harlequin. Come down, come down, thou false perfidious Wretch.
Who, in the Devils Name, art thou?
And to whom dost thou speak?
Harlequin. To thee, thou false Deceiver, that hast broke thy Vows, thy Lawful Vows of Wedlock—
Oh, oh, that I shou'd live to see the Day!—
Scaramouch. Who mean you, Woman?
Harlequin. Whom shou'd I mean, but thou—my lawful Spouse?
Mopsophil. Oh Villain!—Lawful Spouse!—Let me come to her.
[Scaramouch comes down, as Mopsophil flings out of the Balcony.
Scaramouch. The Woman's mad—hark ye Jade—how long have you been thus distracted?
E're since I lov'd and trusted thee, false Varlot.
—See here,—the Witness of my Love and Shame.
[Bawls, and points to her Belly.
Just then Mopsophil enters.
Mopsophil. How! with Child!—Out Villain, was I made a Property?
Scaramouch. Hear me.
Harlequin. Oh, thou Heathen Christian!—Was not one Woman enough?
Mopsophil. Ay, Sirrah, answer to that.
Scaramouch. I shall be sacrific'd.
Mopsophil. I am resolv'd to marry to morrow—either to the Apothecary or the Farmer, men I never saw, to be reveng'd on thee, thou tarmagant Infidel.
Enter the Doctor.
Doctor Baliardo. What Noise, what Out-cry, what Tumult's this?
Harlequin. Ha,—the Doctor!—What shall I do?—
[Gets to the Door, Scaramouch pulls her in.
Doctor Baliardo. A Woman!—some Bawd I am sure—Woman, what's your Business here?—ha—
Harlequin. I came, an't like your Seigniorship, to Madam the Governante here, to serve her in the Quality of a Fille de Chambre, to the young Ladies.
Doctor Baliardo. A Fille de Chambre! 'tis so, a she-Pimp,—
Harlequin. Ah, Seignior—
[Makes his little dapper Leg instead of a Courtsie.
Doctor Baliardo. How now, what do you mock me?
Harlequin. Oh Seignior!—
[Gets nearer the Door.
Mopsophil. Stay, stay, Mistriss, and what Service are you able to do the Seigniors Daughters?
Harlequin. Is this Seignior Doctor Baliardo, Madam?
Harlequin. Oh! He's a very handsome Gentleman—indeed—
Doctor Baliardo. Ay, ay, what Service can you do, Mistriss?
Harlequin. Why Seignior, I can tye a Cravat the best of any Person in Naples, and I can comb a Periwig—and I can—
Doctor Baliardo. Very proper Service for young Ladies; you, I believe, have been Fille de Chambre to some young Cavaliers.
Harlequin. Most true, Seignior, why shou'd not the Cavaliers keep Filles de Chambre, as well as great Ladies Vallets de Chambre?
Doctor Baliardo. Indeed 'tis equally reasonable.—'Tis a Bawd.—
—But have you never serv'd Ladies?
Harlequin. Oh yes! I serv'd a Parsons Wife.
Doctor Baliardo. Is that a great Lady?
Harlequin. Ay surely, Sir, what is she else? for she wore her Mantoes of Brokad de or, Petticoats lac'd up to the Gathers, her Points, her Patches, Paints and Perfumes, and sate in the uppermost Place in the Church too.
Mopsophil. But have you never serv'd Countesses and Dutchesses?
Harlequin. Oh, yes, Madam! the last I serv'd, was an Aldermans Wife in the City.
Mopsophil. Was that a Countess or a Dutchess?
Harlequin. Ay, certainly—for they have all the Money; and then for Cloaths, Jewels, and rich Furniture, and eating, they outdo the very Vice-Reigne her self.
Doctor Baliardo. This is a very ignorant running Bawd,—therefore first search her for Billets Deux, and then have her Pump'd.
Harlequin. Ah, Seignior,—Seignior.—
[Scaramouch searches him, finds Letters.
Scaramouch. —Ha,—to Elaria—and Bellemante?—
[Reads the Outside, pops 'em into his Bosom.
—These are from their Lovers—
—Ha,—a Note to Mopsophil,—Oh, Rogue! have I found you?
Harlequin. If you have, 'tis but Trick for your Trick, Seignior Scaramouch, and you may spare the Pumping.
Scaramouch. For once, Sirrah, I'll bring you off, and deliver your Letters.—Sir, do you not know who this is?—Why 'tis a Rival of mine, who put on this Disguise to cheat me of Mistriss Mopsophil.—See hear's a Billet to her.—
Doctor Baliardo. What is he?
Scaramouch. A Mungrel Dancing-Master; therefore, Sir, since all the Injury's mine, I'll pardon him for a Dance, and let the Agility of his Heels save his Bones, with your Permission, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. With all my Heart, and am glad he comes off so comically.
[A knocking at the Gate. Scaramouch goes and returns.
Scaramouch. Sir, Sir, here's the rare Philosopher who was here yesterday.
Doctor Baliardo. Give him Entrance, and all depart.
Blest be those Stars, that first Conducted me to so much Worth and
Vertue, you are their Darling, Sir, for whom they wear their brightest
Your Fortune is establish'd, you are made, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. Let me contain my Joy—
[Keeping in an impatient Joy.
—May I be worthy, Sir, to apprehend you?
Charmante. After long Searching, Watching, Fasting, Praying, and using all the vertuous means in Nature, whereby we solely do attain the highest Knowledge in Philosophy; it was resolv'd, by strong Intelligence—you were the happy Sire of that Bright Nymph, that had effascinated, charm'd and conquer'd the mighty Emperor Iredonozor—the Monarch of the Moon.
Doctor Baliardo. I am—undone with Joy! ruin'd with Transport—
—Can it—can it, Sir,—be possible—
[Stifling his Joy, which breaks out.
Charmante. Receive the Blessing, Sir, with moderation.
Doctor Baliardo. I do, Sir, I do.
This very Night, by their great Art, they find
He will descend, and show himself in Glory.
An Honour, Sir, no Mortal has receiv'd
This sixty hundred years.
Doctor Baliardo. Hum—Say you so, Sir? no Emperor ever descend this sixty hundred years?
—Was I deceiv'd last night?
Charmante. Oh! Yes, Sir, often in disguise, in several Shapes and Forms, which did of old occasion so many Fabulous Tales of all the Shapes of Jupiter—but never in their proper Glory, Sir, as Emperors. This is an Honour only design'd to you.
Doctor Baliardo. And will his Grace—be here in Person, Sir?
Charmante. In Person—and with him, a Man of mighty Quality, Sir,—'tis thought—the Prince of Thunderland—but that's but whisper'd, Sir, in the Cabbal, and that he loves your Neece.
Doctor Baliardo. Miraculous? how this agrees with all I've seen and heard—To Night, say you, Sir?
Charmante. So 'tis conjectur'd, Sir,—some of the Cabbalist—are of opinion—that last night there was some Sally from the Moon.
Doctor Baliardo. About what hour, Sir?
Charmante. The Meridian of the Night, Sir, about the hours of twelve or one, but who descended, or in what Shape, is yet uncertain.
Doctor Baliardo. This I believe, Sir.
Charmante. Why, Sir?
Doctor Baliardo. May I communicate a Secret of that Nature?
Charmante. To any of the Cabbalist, but none else.
Doctor Baliardo. Then know—last night, my Daughter and my Neece were entertain'd by those illustrious Heroes.
Charmante. Who Sir? the Emperor and Prince his Cousin?
Doctor Baliardo. Most certain, Sir. But whether they appear'd in solid Bodies, or Fantomical, is yet a Question, for at my unlucky approach, they all transform'd themselves into a Piece of Hangings.
Charmante. 'Tis frequent, Sir, their Shapes are numerous, and 'tis also in their Power to transform all they touch, by virtue of a certain Stone—they call the Ebula.
Doctor Baliardo. That wondrous Ebula, which Gonzales had?
Charmante. The same—by Virtue of which, all weight was taken from him, and then with ease the lofty Traveller flew from Parnassus Hill, and from Hymettus Mount, and high Gerania, and Acrocorinthus, thence to Taygetus, so to Olympus Top, from whence he had but one step to the Moon. Dizzy he grants he was.
Doctor Baliardo. No wonder, Sir, Oh happy great Gonzales!
Charmante. Your Vertue, Sir, will render you as happy—but I must hast—this Night prepare your Daughter and your Neece, and let your House be Dress'd, Perfum'd, and Clean.
Doctor Baliardo. It shall be all perform'd, Sir.
Charmante. Be modest, Sir, and humble in your Elevation, for nothing shews the Wit so poor, as Wonder, nor Birth so mean; a Pride.
Doctor Baliardo. I humbly thank your Admonition, Sir, and shall, in all I can, struggle with Humane Frailty.
[Brings Charmante to the Door bare. Ex.
Enter Scaramouch peeping at the other Door.
Scaramouch. So, so, all things go gloriously forward, but my own Amour, and there is no convincing this obstinate Woman, that 'twas that Rogue Harlequin in Disguise, that claim'd me; so that I cannot so much as come to deliver the young Ladies their Letters from their Lovers. I must get in with this damn'd Mistress of mine, or all our Plot will be spoil'd for want of Intelligence.
—Hum,—The Devil does not use to fail me at a dead Lift. I must deliver these Letters, and I must have this Wench—tho' but to be reveng'd on her for abusing me.—Let me see—she is resolv'd for the Apothecary or the Farmer. Well, say no more honest Scaramouch, thou shalt find a Friend at need of me—and if I do not fit you with a Spouse, say that a Woman has out-witted me.
The End of the Second Act.
ACT III. SCENE I.
The Street, with the Town Gate, where an Officer stands with a Staff like a London Constable.
Enter Harlequin riding in a Calash, comes through the Gate towards the Stage, dress'd like a Gentleman sitting in it. The Officer lays hold on his Horse.
Officer. HOld, hold, Sir, you, I suppose know the Customs that are due to this City of Naples, from all Persons that pass the Gates in Coach, Chariot, Calash, or Siege Voglant.
Harlequin. I am not ignorant of the Custom, Sir, but what's that to me?
Officer. Not to you, Sir! why, what Privilege have you above the rest?
Harlequin. Privilege, for what, Sir?
Officer. Why for passing, Sir, with any of the before named Carriages.
Harlequin. Ar't mad?—Dost not see I am a plain Baker, and this my Cart, that comes to carry Bread for the Vice-Roy's, and the Cities Use?—ha—
Officer. Are you mad, Sir, to think I cannot see a Gentleman Farmer and a Calash, from a Baker and a Cart?
Harlequin. Drunk by this Day—and so early too? Oh you're a special Officer; unhand my Horse, Sirrah, or you shall pay for all the Damage you do me.
Hey day! here's a fine Cheat upon the Vice-Roy; Sir, pay me, or
I'll seize your Horse.—
[Harlequin strikes him. They scuffle a little.
—Nay, and you be so brisk, I'll call the Clerk from his Office.
Calls.—Mr. Clerk, Mr. Clerk. [Goes to the Entrance to call the Clerk, the mean time Harlequin whips a Frock over himself, and puts down the bind part of the Chariot, and then 'tis a Cart.
Clerk. What's the matter here?—
Officer. Here's a Fellow, Sir, will perswade me, his Calash is a Cart, and refuses the Customs for passing the Gate.
Clerk. A Calash—Where?—I see only a Carter and his Cart.
[The Officer looks on him.
Officer. Ha,—What a Devil, was I blind?
Harlequin. Mr. Clerk, I am a Baker, that come with Bread to sell, and this Fellow here has stopt me this hour, and made me lose the Sale of my Ware—and being Drunk, will out-face me I am a Farmer, and this Cart a Calash.—
Clerk. He's in an Error Friend, pass on—
Harlequin. No Sir, I'll have satisfaction first, or the Vice-Roy, shall know how he's serv'd by Drunken Officers, that Nuisance to a Civil Government.
Clerk. What do you demand, Friend?
Harlequin. Demand,—I demand a Crown, Sir.
Officer. This is very hard—Mr. Clerk—If ever I saw in my Life, I thought I saw a Gentleman and a Calash.
Clerk. Come, come, gratifie him, and see better hereafter.
Officer. Here Sir,—If I must, I must—
[Gives him a Crown.
Clerk. Pass on, Friend—
[Ex. Clerk. Harlequin, unseen, puts up the Back of his Calash, and whips off his Frock, and goes to drive on. The Officer looks on him, and stops him again.
Officer. Hum, I'll swear it is a Calash—Mr. Clerk, Mr. Clerk, come back, come back—
[Runs out to call him. He changes as before.
Enter Officer and Clerk.
—Come Sir, let your own Eyes convince you, Sir.—
Clerk. Convince me, of what, you Sott?
Officer. That this is a Gentleman, and that a—ha,—
[Looks about on Harlequin.
Clerk. Stark Drunk, Sirrah! if you trouble me at every Mistake of yours thus, you shall quit your Office.—
Officer. I beg your Pardon, Sir, I am a little in Drink I confess, a little Blind and Mad—Sir,—This must be the Devil, that's certain.
[The Clerk goes out, Harlequin puts up his Calash again, and pulls off his Frock and drives out.
—Well, now to my thinking, 'tis as plain a Calash again, as ever I saw in my Life, and yet I'm satisfy'd 'tis nothing but a Cart.
SCENE changes to the Doctors House.
Enter Scaramouch in a Chair, which set down and open'd, on all sides, and on the top represents an Apothecaries Shop, the Inside being painted with Shelves and Rows of Pots and Bottles; Scaramouch sitting in it dress'd in Black, with a short black Cloak, a Ruff, and little Hat.
Scaramouch. THe Devil's in't, if either the Doctor, my Master, or Mopsophil, know me in this Disguise—And thus I may not only gain my Mistress, and out-wit Harlequin, but deliver the Ladies those Letters from their Lovers, which I took out of his Pocket this Morning, and who wou'd suspect an Apothecary for a Pimp?—Nor can the Jade Mopsophil, in Honour, refuse a Person of my Gravity, and so well set up.—
[Pointing to his Shop.
—Hum, the Doctor here first, this is not so well, but I'm prepar'd with Impudence for all Encounters.
Enter the Doctor. Scaramouch Salutes him gravely.
—Most Reverend Doctor Baliardo.—
Doctor Baliardo. Seignior—
Scaramouch. I might, through great Pusillanimity, blush—to give you this Anxiety, did I not opine you were as Gracious as Communitive and Eminent; and tho' you have no Cognisance of me, your Humble Servant,—yet I have of you,—you being so greatly fam'd for your Admirable Skill, both in Galenical and Paracelsian Phænomena's, and other approv'd Felicities in Vulnerary, Emeticks, and purgative Experiences.
Doctor Baliardo. Seignior,—your Opinion honors me—a rare Man this.
Scaramouch. And though I am at present busied in writing—those few Observations I have accumulated in my Peregrinations, Sir, yet the Ambition I aspir'd to, of being an Ocular and Aurial Witness of your Singularity, made me trespass on your sublimer Affairs.
Doctor Baliardo. Seignior.—
Scaramouch. —Besides a violent Inclination, Sir, of being initiated into the Denomination of your Learned Family, by the Conjugal Circumference of a Matrimonial Tye, with that singularly accomplish'd Person—Madam, the Governante of your Hostel.
Doctor Baliardo. Hum—A sweet-heart for Mopsophil!
Scaramouch. And if I may obtain your Condescension to my Hymenæal Propositions, I doubt not my Operation with the Fair One.
Seignior, she is much honour'd in the Overture, and my Abilities
shall not be wanting to fix the Concord.
—But have you been a Traveller, Sir?
Scaramouch. Without Circumlocutions, Sir, I have seen all the Regions beneath the Sun and Moon.
Doctor Baliardo. Moon, Sir! You never travell'd thither, Sir?
Scaramouch. Not in Propria Persona, Seignior, but by speculation, I have, and made most considerable Remarques on that incomparable Terra Firma, of which I have the compleatest Map in Christendom—and which Gonzales himself omitted in his Cosmographia of the Lunar Mundus.
Doctor Baliardo. A Map of the Lunar Mundus, Sir! May I crave the Honour of seeing it?
Scaramouch. You shall, Sir, together with a Map of Terra Incognita, a great Rarity, indeed, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. Jewels, Sir, worth a Kings Ransome.
Bellemante. Ha,—What Figure of a Thing have we here—Bantering my Credulous Uncle?—This must be some Scout sent from our Forlorn Hope, to discover the Enemy, and bring in fresh Intelligence.—Hum,—That Wink tipt me some Tidings, and she deserves not a good Look, who understands not the Language of the Eyes.—Sir, Dinner's on the Table.
Doctor Baliardo. Let it wait, I am imploy'd—
[She creeps to the other side of Scaramouch, who makes Signs with his Hand to her.Doctor
Bellemante. Ha,—'tis so,—This fellow has some Novel for us, some Letters or Instructions, but how to get it—
[As Scaramouch talks to the Doctor, he takes the Letters by degrees out of his Pocket, and unseen gives 'em to Bellemante behind him.
Doctor Baliardo. But this Map, Seignior; I protest you have fill'd me with Curiosity. Has it signify'd all things so exactly, say you?
Scaramouch. Omitted nothing, Seignior, no City, Town, Village or Villa; no Castle, River, Bridge, Lake, Spring or Mineral.
Doctor Baliardo. Are any, Sir, of those admirable Mineral Waters there, so frequent in our World?
Scaramouch. In abundance, Sir, the Famous Garamanteen, a young Italian, Sir, lately come from thence, gives us an account of an excellent Scaturigo, that has lately made an Ebulation there, in great Reputation with the Lunary Ladies.
Doctor Baliardo. Indeed, Sir! be pleas'd, Seignior, to 'solve me some Queries that may enode some apparences of the Virtue of the Water you speak of.
Scaramouch. Pox upon him, what Questions he asks—but I must on—Why Sir, you must know,—the Tincture of this Water upon Stagnation, Ceruberates, and the Crocus upon the Stones Flaveces; this he observes—to be, Sir, the Indication of a Generous Water.
Doctor Baliardo. Hum—
Scaramouch. Now, Sir, be pleas'd to observe the three Regions, if they be bright, without doubt Mars is powerful; if the middle Region or Camera be pallid, Filia Solis is breeding.
Doctor Baliardo. Hum—
Scaramouch. And then the third Region, if the Fæces be volatil, the Birth will soon come in Balneo. This I observed also in the Laboratory of that Ingenious Chymist Lysidono, and with much Pleasure animadverted that Mineral of the same Zenith and Nader, of that now so famous Water in England, near that famous Metropolis, call'd Islington.
Doctor Baliardo. Seignior—
Scaramouch. For, Sir, upon the Infusion, the Crows Head immediately procures the Seal of Hermes, and had not Lac Virginis been too soon suck'd up, I believe we might have seen the Consummation of Amalgena.
[Bellemante having got her Letters, goes off. She makes Signs to him to stay a little. He Nods.
Doctor Baliardo. Most likely, Sir.
Scaramouch. But, Sir, this Garamanteen relates the strangest Operation of a Mineral in the Lunar World, that ever I heard of.
Doctor Baliardo. As how, I pray, Sir?
Scaramouch. Why, Sir, a Water impregnated to a Circulation with Fema Materia; upon my Honour, Sir, the strongest I ever drank of.
Doctor Baliardo. How, Sir! did you drink of it?
I only speak the words of Garamanteen, Sir.
—Pox on him, I shall be trapt.
Doctor Baliardo. Cry Mercy, Sir.—
Scaramouch. The Lunary Physicians, Sir, call it Urinam Vulcani, it Calibrates every ones Excrements more or less according to the Gradus of the Natural Calor.—To my Knowledge, Sir, a Smith of a very fiery Constitution, is grown very Opulent by drinking these Waters.
Doctor Baliardo. How, Sir, grown Rich by drinking the Waters, and to your Knowledge?
Scaramouch. The Devil's in my Tongue, to my Knowledge, Sir, for what a man of Honour relates, I may safely affirm.
Doctor Baliardo. Excuse me, Seignior—
[Puts off his Hat again gravely.
Scaramouch. For, Sir, conceive me how he grew Rich, since he drank those Waters he never buys any Iron, but hammers it out of Stercus Proprius.
Enter Bellemante with a Billet.
Bellemante. Sir, 'tis three a Clock, and Dinner will be cold.—
[Goes behind Scaramouch, and gives him the Note, and goes out.
Doctor Baliardo. I come Sweet-heart; but this is wonderful.
Scaramouch. Ay, Sir, and if at any time Nature be too infirm, and he prove Costive, he has no more to do, but to apply a Loadstone ad Anum.
Doctor Baliardo. Is't possible?
Scaramouch. Most true, Sir, and that facilitates the Journey per Viscera.—But I detain you, Sir, another time—Sir,—I will now only beg the Honor of a Word or two with the Governante, before I go.—
Doctor Baliardo. Sir, she shall wait on you, and I shall be proud of the Honour of your Conversation.—
[They bow. Exit Doctor.
Enter to him Harlequin, dress'd like a Farmer, as before.
Harlequin. Hum—What have we here, a Taylor or a Tumbler?
Scaramouch. Ha—Who's this?—Hum—What if it shou'd be the Farmer that the Doctor has promis'd Mopsophil to? My Heart misgives me.
[They look at each other a while.
Who wou'd you speak with, Friend?
Harlequin. This is, perhaps, my Rival, the Apothecary.—Speak with, Sir, why, what's that to you?
Scaramouch. Have you Affairs with Seignior Doctor, Sir?
Harlequin. It may be I have, it may be I have not. What then, Sir?—
While they seem in angry Dispute, Enter Mopsophil.
Mopsophil. Seignior Doctor tells me I have a Lover waits me, sure it must be the Farmer or the Apothecary. No matter which, so a Lover, that welcomest man alive. I am resolv'd to take the first good Offer, tho' but in Revenge of Harlequin and Scaramouch, for putting Tricks upon me.—Ha,—Two of 'em!
Scaramouch. My Mistress here!
[They both Bow and Advance, both putting each other by.
Hold Gentlemen,—do not worry me.
Which of you wou'd speak with me?
I, I, I, Madam—
Mopsophil. Both of you?
Both. No, Madam, I, I.
Mopsophil. If both Lovers, you are both welcome, but let's have fair Play, and take your turns to speak.
Harlequin. Ay, Seignior, 'tis most uncivil to interrupt me.
Scaramouch. And disingenious, Sir, to intrude on me.
[Putting one another by.
Mopsophil. Let me then speak first.
Harlequin. I'm Dumb.
Scaramouch. I Acquiesce.
Mopsophil. I was inform'd there was a Person here had Propositions of Marriage to make me.
Harlequin. That's I, that's I—
[Shoves Scaramouch away.
Scaramouch. And I attend to that consequential Finis.
[Shoves Harlequin away.
Harlequin. I know not what you mean by your Finis, Seignior, but I am come to offer my self this Gentlewomans Servant, her Lover, her Husband, her Dog in a Halter, or any thing.
Scaramouch. Him I pronounce a Poltroon, and an Ignominious Utensil, that dares lay claim to the Renowned Lady of my Primum Mobile; that is, my best Affections.—
Harlequin. I fear not your hard Words, Sir, but dare aloud pronounce, if Donna Mopsophil like me, the Farmer, as well as I like her, 'tis a Match, and my Chariot is ready at the Gate to bear her off, d'ye see.—
Mopsophil. Ah, how that Chariot pleads.—
Scaramouch. And I pronounce, that being intoxicated with the sweet Eyes of this refulgent Lady, I come to tender her my noblest Particulars, being already most advantageously set up with the circumstantial Implements of my Occupation.
[Points to the Shop.
Mopsophil. A City Apothecary, a most Gentile Calling—Which shall I chuse?—Seignior Apothecary, I'll not expostulate the Circumstantial Reasons that have occasion'd me this Honour.—
Scaramouch. Incomparable Lady, the Elegancy of your Repertees most excellently denote the Profundity of your Capacity.
Harlequin. What the Devil's all this? Good Mr. Conjurer stand by—and don't fright the Gentlewoman with your Elegant Profondities.
[Puts him by.
Scaramouch. How, a Conjurer! I will chastise thy vulgar Ignorance, that yclips a Philosopher a Conjurer.
Harlequin. Losophers!—Prethee, if thou bee'st a Man, speak like a Man—then
Scaramouch. Why, what do I speak like? What do I speak like?
Harlequin. What do you speak like—why you speak like a Wheel-Barrow.
Harlequin. And how.
[They come up close together at half Sword. Parry; stare on each other for a while, then put up and bow to each other civilly.
Mopsophil. Thats well Gentlemen, let's have all Peace, while I survey you both, and see which likes me best.
[She goes between 'em, and surveys 'em both, they making ridiculous Bows on both sides, and Grimaces the while.
—ha,—now on my Conscience, my two foolish Lovers,— Harlequin and Scaramouch; how are my Hopes defeated?—but Faith I'll fit you both.
[She views 'em both.
Scaramouch. So she's considering still, I shall be the happy Dog.
Harlequin. She's taking aim, she cannot chuse but like me best.
Scaramouch. Well, Madam, how does my Person propagate.
[Bowing and Smiling.
Mopsophil. Faith Seignior, now I look better on you, I do not like your Phisnomy so well as your Intellects; you discovering some Circumstantial Symptoms that ever denote a Villainous Inconstancy.
Scaramouch. Ah, you are pleas'd, Madam.—
Mopsophil. You are mistaken, Seignior, I am displeas'd at your Grey Eyes, and Black Eye-brows and Beard, I never knew a Man with those Signs, true to his Mistriss or his Friend. And I wou'd sooner wed that Scoundrel Scaramouch, that very civil Pimp, that meer pair of Chymical Bellows that blow the Doctors projecting Fires, that Deputy-Urinal Shaker, that very Guzman of Salamanca, than a Fellow of your infallible Signum Mallis.
Harlequin. Ha, ha, ha,—you have your Answer, Seignior Friskin—and may shut up your Shop and be gone.—Ha, ha, ha.—
Scaramouch. Hum, sure the Jade knows me—
Mopsophil. And as for you, Seignior.
Harlequin. Ha, Madam—
[Bowing and Smiling.
Mopsophil. Those Lanthorn Jaws of yours, with that most villainous Sneer and Grin, and a certain fierce Air of your Eyes, looks altogether most Fanatically—which with your notorious Whey Beard, are certain Signs of Knavery and Cowardice; therefore I'd rather wed that Spider Harlequin, that Sceleton Buffoon, that Ape of Man, that Jack of Lent, that very Top, that's of no use, but when 'tis whipt and lasht, that pitious Property I'd rather wed than thee.
Harlequin. A very fair Declaration.
Mopsophil. You understand me—and so adieu sweet Glister-pipe, and Seignior dirty Boots, Ha, ha, ha.—
[They stand looking simply on each other, without speaking a while.
Scaramouch. That I shou'd not know that Rogue Harlequin.
Harlequin. That I shou'd take this Fool for a Physician.
—How long have you commenc'd Apothecary, Seignior?
Scaramouch. Ever since you turn'd Farmer.—Are not you a damn'd Rogue to put these Tricks upon me, and most dishonourably break all Articles between us?
Harlequin. Are not you a damn'd Son of a—something—to break Articles with me?
Scaramouch. No more Words, Sir, no more words, I find it must come to Action,—Draw.—
Harlequin. Draw, so I can draw, Sir.—
They make a ridiculous cowardly Fight. Enter the Doctor, which they seeing, come on with more Courage. He runs between, and with his Cane beats the Swords down.
Doctor Baliardo. Hold—hold—What mean you Gentlemen?
Scaramouch. Let me go, Sir, I am provok'd beyond measure, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. You must excuse me, Seignior—
[Parlies with Harlequin.
Scaramouch. I dare not discover the Fool for his Masters Sake, and it may spoil our Intrigue anon; besides, he'll then discover me, and I shall be discarded for bantering the Doctor.
—A Man of Honour to be so basely affronted here.—
[The Doctor comes to appease Scaramouch.
Harlequin. Shou'd I discover this Rascal, he wou'd tell the Old Gentleman I was the same that attempted his House to day in Womens Cloths, and I shou'd be kick'd and beaten most unsatiably.
Scaramouch. What, Seignior, for a man of Parts to be impos'd upon,—and whipt through the Lungs here—like a Mountebanks Zany for sham Cures—Mr. Doctor, I must tell you 'tis not Civil.
Doctor Baliardo. I am extreamly sorry for it, Sir,—and you shall see how I will have this Fellow handled for the Affront to a Person of your Gravity, and in my House—Here Pedro,—
—Take this Intruder, or bring some of your Fellows hither, and toss him in a Blanket—
[Ex. Pedro. Harlequin going to creep away, Scaramouch holds him.
Harlequin. Hark ye,—bring me off, or I'll discover all your Intrigue.
[Aside to him.
Scaramouch. Let me alone—
Doctor Baliardo. I'll warrant you some Rogue that has some Plot on my Neece and Daughter.—
Scaramouch. No, no, Sir, he comes to impose the grossest Lye upon you, that ever was heard of.
Enter Pedro with others, with a Blanket. They put Harlequin into it, and toss him.
Harlequin. Hold, hold,—I'll confess all, rather than indure it.
Doctor Baliardo. Hold,—What will you confess, Sir.
[He comes out. Makes sick Faces.
Scaramouch. —That he's the greatest Impostor in Nature. Wou'd you think it, Sir? he pretends to be no less than an Ambassador from the Emperor of the Moon, Sir—
Doctor Baliardo. Ha,—Ambassador from the Emperor of the Moon—
[Pulls off his Hat.
Scaramouch. Ay, Sir, thereupon I laugh'd, thereupon he grew angry,—I laugh'd at his Resentment, and thereupon we drew—and this was the high Quarrel, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. Hum,—Ambassador from the Moon.
Scaramouch. I have brought you off, manage him as well as you can.
Harlequin. Brought me off, yes, out of the Frying-Pan into the Fire. Why, how the Devil shall I act an Ambassador?
It must be so, for how shou'd either of these know I expected that
[He addresses him with profound Civility to Harlequin.
Sir, if the Figure you make, approaching so near ours of this World, have made us commit any indecent Indignity to your high Character, you ought to pardon the Frailty of our Mortal Education and Ignorance, having never before been blest with the Descention of any from your World.—
Harlequin. What the Devil shall I say now?
—I confess, I am as you see by my Garb, Sir, a little Incognito, because the Publick Message I bring, is very private —which is, that the mighty Iredonozor, Emperor of the Moon—with his most worthy Brother, the Prince of Thunderland, intend to Sup with you to Night—Therefore be sure you get good Wine.—Tho' by the way let me tell you, 'tis for the Sake of your Fair Daughter.
Scaramouch. I'll leave the Rogue to his own Management.—I presume, by your whispering, Sir, you wou'd be private, and humbly begging Pardon, take my Leave.
Harlequin. You have it Friend. Does your Neece and Daughter Drink, Sir?
Doctor Baliardo. Drink, Sir?
Harlequin. Ay, Sir, Drink hard.
Doctor Baliardo. Do the Women of your World drink hard, Sir?
Harlequin. According to their Quality, Sir, more or less; the greater the Quality, the more Profuse the Quantity.
Doctor Baliardo. Why that's just as 'tis here; but your Men of Quality, your States-men, Sir, I presume they are Sober, Learned and Wise.
Harlequin. Faith, no, Sir, but they are, for the most part, what's as good, very Proud, and promising, Sir, most liberal of their Word to every fauning Suiter, to purchase the state of long Attendance, and cringing as they pass; but the Devil of a Performance, without you get the Knack of bribing in the right Place and Time; but yet they all defy it, Sir.—
Just, just as 'tis here.
—But pray Sir, How do these Great Men live with their Wives.
Harlequin. Most Nobly, Sir, my Lord keeps his Coach, my Lady, hers; my Lord his Bed, my Lady hers; and very rarely see one another, unless they chance to meet in a Visit, in the Park, the Mall, the Tour, or at the Basset-Table, where they civilly Salute and part, he to his Mistress, she to play.
Doctor Baliardo. Good lack! just as 'tis here.
Harlequin. —Where, if she chance to lose her Money, rather than give out, she borrows of the next Amorous Coxcomb, who, from that Minute, hopes, and is sure to be paid again one way or other, the next kind Opportunity.
Doctor Baliardo. —Just as 'tis here.
Harlequin. As for the young Fellows that have Money, they have no Mercy upon their own Persons, but wearing Nature off as fast as they can, Swear, and Whore and Drink, and Borrow as long any Rooking Citizen will lend, till having dearly purchased the Heroick Title of a Bully or a Sharper, they live pity'd of their Friends, and despis'd by their Whores, and depart this Transitory World, diverse and sundry ways.
Doctor Baliardo. Just, just, as 'tis here.
Harlequin. As for the Citizen, Sir, the Courtier lies with his Wife, he, in revenge, Cheats him of his Estate, till Rich enough to marry his Daughter to a Courtier, again give him all—unless his Wives Over-Gallantry break him; and thus the World runs round.—
Doctor Baliardo. The very same 'tis here.—Is there no preferment, Sir, for Men of Parts and Merit?
Harlequin. Parts and Merit! What's that? a Livery, or the handsome tying a Crevat, for the great Men prefer none but their Foot-men and Vallets.
By my Troth, just as 'tis here.
—Sir, I find you are a Person of most profound Intelligence—under Favour, Sir,—Are you a Native of the Moon or this World?—
The Devils in him for hard Questions.
—I am a Neapolitan, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. Sir, I Honour you; good luck, my Countryman, How got you to the Region of the Moon, Sir?
—A plaguy inquisitive old Fool—
—Why, Sir,—Pox on't, what shall I say?—I being—one day in a musing Melancholy, walking by the Sea-side—there arose, Sir, a great Mist, by the Suns exhaling of the Vapours of the Earth, Sir.
Doctor Baliardo. Right, Sir.
Harlequin. In this Fog or Mist, Sir, I was exhal'd.
Doctor Baliardo. The Exhalations of the Sun, draw you to the Moon, Sir?
Harlequin. I am condemn'd to the Blanket again.—I say, Sir, I was exhal'd up, but in my way—being too heavy, was dropt into the Sea.
Doctor Baliardo. How, Sir, into the Sea?
Harlequin. The Sea, Sir, where the Emperors Fisher-man casting his Nets, drew me up, and took me for a strange and monstrous Fish, Sir,—and as such, presented me to his Mightiness,—who going to have me Spitchcock'd for his own eating.—
Doctor Baliardo. How, Sir, eating?—
Harlequin. What did me I, Sir, (Life being sweet) but fall on my Knees, and besought his Gloriousness not to eat me, for I was no Fish but a Man; he ask'd me of what Country, I told him of Naples; whereupon the Emperor overjoy'd ask'd me if I knew that most Reverend and most Learned Doctor Baliardo, and his fair Daughter. I told him I did: whereupon he made me his Bed-fellow, and the Confident to his Amour to Seigniora Elaria.
Doctor Baliardo. Bless me, Sir! how came the Emperor to know my Daughter?
Harlequin. —There he is again with his damn'd hard Questions.—Knew her, Sir,—Why—you were walking abroad one day.—
Doctor Baliardo. My Daughter never goes abroad, Sir, farther than our Garden.—
Harlequin. Ay, there it was indeed, Sir,—and as his Highness was taking a Survey of this lower World—through a long Perspective, Sir,—he saw you and your Daughter and Neece, and from that very moment, fell most desperately in Love.—But hark—the sound of Timbrils, Kettle-Drums and Trumpets.—The Emperor, Sir, is on his Way,—prepare for his Reception.
[A strange Noise is heard of Brass Kettles, and Pans, and Bells, and many tinkling things.
Doctor Baliardo. I'm in a Rapture—How shall I pay my Gratitude for this great Negotiation?—but as I may, I humbly offer, Sir.—
[Presents him with a Rich Ring and a Purse of Gold.
Harlequin. Sir, as an Honour done the Emperor, I take your Ring and Gold. I must go meet his Highness.—
Enter to him Scaramouch, as himself.
Scaramouch. Oh, Sir! we are astonish'd with the dreadful sound of the sweetest Musick that ever Mortal heard, but know not whence it comes. Have you not heard it, Sir?
Doctor Baliardo. Heard it, yes, Fool,—'Tis the Musick of the Spheres, the Emperor of the Moon World is descending.
Scaramouch. How, Sir, no marvel then, that looking towards the South, I saw such splendid Glories in the Air.
Doctor Baliardo. Ha,—saw'st thou ought descending in the Air?
Scaramouch. Oh, yes, Sir, Wonders! hast to the old Gallery, whence, with the help of your Telescope, you may discover all.—
Doctor Baliardo. I wou'd not lose a moment for the lower Universe.
Enter Elaria, Bellemante, Mopsophil, dress'd in rich Antick Habits.
Elaria. Sir, we are dress'd as you commanded us, What is your farther Pleasure?
Doctor Baliardo. —It well becomes the Honour you're design'd for, this Night to wed two Princes—come with me and know your happy Fates.
[Ex. Doctor and Scaramouch.
Elaria. Bless me! My Father, in all the rest of his Discourse, shows so much Sense and Reason, I cannot think him mad, but feigns all this to try us.
Bellemante. Not Mad! Marry Heaven forbid, thou art always creating Fears to startle one; why, if he be not mad his want of Sleep this eight and forty hours, the Noise of strange unheard of Instruments, with the Fantastick Splendor of the unusual Sight, will so turn his Brain and dazle him, that in Grace of Goodness, he may be Mad: If he be not;—come, let's after him to the Gallery, for I long to see in what showing Equipage our Princely Lovers will address to us.
SCENE The Last.
The Gallery richly adorn'd with Scenes and Lights.
Enter Doctor, Elaria, Bellemante, and Mopsophil. Soft Musick is heard.
Bellemante. HA—Heavens! what's here?—what Palace is this?—No part of our House, I'm sure.—
Elaria. 'Tis rather the Apartment of some Monarch.
Doctor Baliardo. I'm all amazement too, but must not show my Ignorance.—Yes, Elaria, this is prepar'd to entertain two Princes.
Bellemante. Are you sure on't, Sir? are we not, think you, in that World above, I often heard you speak of? in the Moon, Sir?
Doctor Baliardo. How shall I resolve her?—For ought I know, we are.
Elaria. Sure, Sir, 'tis some Inchantment.
Doctor Baliardo. Let not thy Female Ignorance prophane the highest Mysteries of Natural Philosophy: To Fools it seems Inchantment—but I've a Sense can reach it,—sit and expect the Event.—Hark—I am amaz'd, but must conceal my Wonder—that Joy of Fools—and appear wise in Gravity.
Bellemante. Whence comes this charming Sound, Sir?
Doctor Baliardo. From the Spheres—it is familiar to me.
The Scene in the Front draws off, and shews the Hill of Parnassus; a noble large Walk of Trees leading to it, with eight or ten Negroes upon Pedestals, rang'd on each side of the Walks. Next Kepler and Galileus descend on each side, opposite to each other, in Chariots, with Perspectives in their Hands, as viewing the Machine of the Zodiack. Soft Musick plays still.
Doctor Baliardo. Methought I saw the Figure of two Men descend from yonder Cloud, on yonder Hill.
Elaria. I thought so too, but they are disappear'd, and the wing'd Chariot's fled.
Enter Kepler and Galileus.
Bellemante. See, Sir, they approach.—
[The Doctor rises, and Bows.
Kepler. Most Reverend Sir, we, from the upper World, thus low salute you.— Kepler and Galileus we are call'd, sent as Interpreters to Great Iredonozor, the Emperor of the Moon, who is descending.
Doctor Baliardo. Most Reverend Bards—profound Philosophers—thus low I bow to pay my humble Gratitude.
Kepler. The Emperor, Sir, salutes you, and your fair Daughter.
Galileus. And, Sir, the Prince of Thunderland salutes you, and your fair Neece.
Doctor Baliardo. Thus low I fall to thank their Royal Goodness.
[Kneels. They take him up.
Bellemante. Came you, most Reverend Bards, from the Moon World?
Kepler. Most Lovely Maid, we did.
Doctor Baliardo. May I presume to ask the manner how?
Kepler. By Cloud, Sir, through the Regions of the Air, down to the fam'd Parnassus; thence by Water, along the River Helicon, the rest by Post, upon two wing'd Eagles.
Doctor Baliardo. Sir, are there store of our World inhabiting the Moon?
Kepler. Oh, of all Nations, Sir, that lie beneath it in the Emperors Train! Sir, you will behold abundance; look up and see the Orbal World descending; observe the Zodiack, Sir, with her twelve Signs.
[Next the Zodiack descends, a Symphony playing all the while; when it is landed, it delivers the twelve Signs: Then the Song, the Persons of the Zodiack being the Singers. After which, the Negroes Dance and mingle in the Chorus.
|A Song for the Zodiack.|
LET murmuring Lovers no longer Repine, |
But their Hearts and their Voices advance;
Let the Nymphs and the Swains in the kind Chorus joyn,
And the Satyrs and Fauns in a Dance.
Let nature put on her Beauty of May,
And the Fields and the Meadows adorn;
Let the Woods and the Mountains resound with the Joy,
And the Echoes their Triumph return.
For since Love wore his Darts, |
And Virgins grew Coy;
Since these wounded Hearts,
And those cou'd destroy,
There ne'er was more Cause for your Triumphs and Joy.
Hark, hark, the Musick of the Spheres,
Some Wonder approaching declares;
Such, such, as has not blest your Eyes and Ears
This thousand, thousand, thousand years.
See, see what the Force of Love can make,
Who rules in Heaven, in Earth and Sea;
Behold how he commands the Zodiack,
While the fixt Signs unhinging all obey.
Not one of which, but represents
The Attributes of Love,
Who governs all the Elements
In Harmony above.
For since Love wore his Darts, |
And Virgins grew Coy;
Since these wounded Hearts,
And those cou'd destroy,
There ne'er was more Cause for your Triumphs and Joy.
The wanton Aries first descends,
To show the Vigor and the Play,
Beginning Love, beginning Love attends,
When the young Passion is all over Joy,
He bleats his soft Pain to the fair curled Throng,
And he leaps, and he bounds, and Loves all the day long.
At once Loves Courage and his Slavery
In Taurus is express'd,
Tho' o're the Plains he Conqueror be,
The Generous Beast
Does to the Yoke submit his Noble Breast,
While Gemini smiling and twining of Arms,
Shows Loves soft Indearments and Charms.
And Cancer's slow Motion the degrees do express,
Respectful Love arrives to Happiness.
Leo his Strength and Majesty,
Virgo his blushing Modesty,
And Libra all his Equity.
His Subtilty does Scorpio show,
And Sagittarius all his loose desire,
By Capricorn his forward Humour know,
And Aqua. Lovers Tears that raise his Fire,
While Pisces, which intwin'd do move,
Show the soft Play, and wanton Arts of Love.
For since Love wore his Darts, |
And Virgins grew Coy;
Since these wounded Hearts,
And those cou'd destroy,
There ne'er was more Cause for your Triumphs and Joy.
—See how she turns, and sends her Signs to Earth.—Behold the Ram—Aries—see Taurus next descends; then Gemini —see how the Boys embrace.—Next Cancer, then Leo, then the Virgin; next to her Libra— Scorpio, Sagittary, Capricorn, Aquarius,—Pisces. This eight thousand years no Emperor has descended, but Incognito, but when he does, to make his Journey more Magnificent, the Zodiack, Sir, attends him.
Doctor Baliardo. 'Tis all amazing, Sir.
Kepler. Now, Sir, behold, the Globick World descends two thousand Leagues below its wonted Station, to show Obedience to its proper Monarch.
[After which, the Globe of the Moon appears, first, like a new Moon; as it moves forward it increases , till it comes to the Full. When it is descended, it opens, and shews the Emperor and the Prince. They come forth with all their Train, the Flutes playing a Symphony before him, which prepares the Song. Which ended, the Dancers mingle as before.
ALL Joy to Mortals, Joy and Mirth |
Eternal IO'S sing;
The Gods of Love descend to Earth,
Their Darts have lost the Sting.
The Youth shall now complain no more
On Silvia's needless Scorn,
But she shall love, if he adore,
And melt when he shall burn.
The Nymph no longer shall be shy,
But leave the jilting Road;
And Daphne now no more shall fly
The wounded panting God;
But all shall be serene and fair,
No sad Complaints of Love
Shall fill the Gentle whispering Air,
No echoing Sighs the Grove.
Beneath the Shades young Strephon lies,
Of all his Wish possess'd;
Gazing on Silvia's charming Eyes,
Whose Soul is there confess'd.
All soft and sweet the Maid appears,
With Looks that know no Art,
And though she yields with trembling Fears,
She yields with all her Heart.
—See, Sir, the Cloud of Foreigners appears, French, English, Spaniards, Danes, Turks, Russians, Indians, and the nearer Climes of Christendom; and lastly, Sir, behold the mighty Emperor.—
[A Chariot appears, made like a Half Moon, in which is Cinthio for the Emperor, richly dress'd and Charmante for the Prince, rich, with a good many Heroes attending. Cinthio's Train born by four Cupids. The Song continues while they descend and land. They address themselves to Elaria and Bellemante. —Doctor falls on his Face, the rest bow very low as they pass. They make signs to Kepler.
Kepler. The Emperor wou'd have you rise, Sir, he will expect no Ceremony from the Father of his Mistriss.
[Takes him up.
Doctor Baliardo. I cannot, Sir, behold his Mightiness—the Splendor of his Majesty confounds me—
Kepler. You must be moderate, Sir, it is expected.
[The two Lovers make
all the Signs of Love in dumb show to the Ladies, while the soft
Musick plays again from the End of the Song.
Doctor Baliardo. Shall I not have the Joy to hear their Heavenly Voices, Sir?
Kepler. They never speak to any Subject, Sir, when they appear in Royalty, but by Interpreters, and that by way of Stentraphon, in manner of the Delphick Oracles.
Doctor Baliardo. Any way, so I may hear the Sence of what they wou'd say.
Kepler. No doubt you will—But see the Emperor commands by signs his Foreigners to dance—
[Soft Musick changes.
[A very Antick Dance. The Dance ended, the Front Scene draws off, and shows a Temple, with an Altar, one speaking thorough a Stentraphon from behind it. Soft Musick plays the while.
Kepler. Most Learned Sir, the Emperor now is going to declare himself, according to his Custom, to his Subjects. Listen.—
Most Reverend Sir, whose Vertue did incite us,
Whose Daughters Charms did more invite us;
We come to grace her with that Honour,
That never Mortal yet had done her,
Once only Jove was known in Story,
To visit Semele in Glory.
But fatal 'twas, he so enjoy'd her,
Her own ambitious Flame destroy'd her.
His Charms too fierce for Flesh and Blood,
She dy'd embracing of her God.
We gentler marks of Passion give,
The Maid we love, shall love and live;
Whom visibly we thus will grace,
Above the rest of human Race.
Say, is't your Will that we shou'd Wed her,
And nightly in Disguises Bed her.
Doctor Baliardo. The Glory is too great for Mortal Wife.
[Kneels with Transport.
What then remains, but that we consummate
This happy Marriage in our splendid State?
Doctor Baliardo. Thus low I kneel, in thanks for this great Blessing.
[Cinthio takes Elaria by the Hand; Charmante, Bellemante; two of the Singers in white being Priests, they lead 'em to the Altar, the whole Company dividing on either side. Where, while a Hymeneal Song is sung, the Priest joins their Hands. The Song ended, and they Marry'd, they come forth; but before they come forward,—two Chariots descend, one on one side above, and the other on the other side; in which, is Harlequin dress'd like a Mock Hero, with others, and Scaramouch in the other, dress'd so in Helmets.
Scaramouch. Stay mighty Emperor, and vouchsafe to be the Umpire of our Difference.
[Cinthio makes signs to Kepler.
Kepler. What are you?
Scaramouch. Two neighbouring Princes to your vast Dominion.
Knights of the Sun, our Honourable Titles.
And fight for that fair Mortal, Mopsophil.
Mopsophil. Bless us!—my two precious Lovers, I'll warrant; well, I had better take up with one of them, than lie alone to Night.
Long as two Rivals we have Lov'd and Hop'd,
Both equally endeavour'd, and both fail'd.
At last by joint Consent, we both agreed
To try our Titles by the Dint of Lance,
And chose your Mightiness for Arbitrator.
Kepler. The Emperor gives Consent.—
[They both, all arm'd with gilded Lances and Shields of Black, with Golden Suns painted. The Musick plays a fighting Tune. They fight at Barriers, to the Tune.—Harlequin is often Foil'd, but advances still; at last Scaramouch throws him, and is Conqueror; all give Judgment for him.
Kepler. The Emperor pronounces you are Victor.—
Doctor Baliardo. Receive your Mistress, Sir, as the Reward of your undoubted Valour—
Scaramouch. Your humble Servant, Sir, and Scaramouch, returns you humble thanks.—
[Puts off his Helmet.
Doctor Baliardo. Ha,—Scaramouch—
[Bawls out, and falls in a Chair. They all go to him.
My Heart misgives me—Oh, I am undone and cheated every way.—
Be patient, Sir, and call up all your Vertue,
You're only cur'd, Sir, of a Disease
That long has raign'd over your Nobler Faculties.
Sir, I am your Physician, Friend and Counsellor;
It was not in the Power of Herbs or Minerals,
Of Reason, common Sense, and right Religion,
To draw you from an Error that unmann'd you.
I will be Patient, Gentlemen, and hear you.
—Are not you Ferdinand?
I am,—and these are Gentlemen of Quality,
That long have lov'd your Daughter and your Neece.
Don Cinthio this, and this Don Charmante,
The Vice-Roys Nephews, both.—
Who found, as men—'twas impossible to enjoy 'em,
And therefore try'd this Stratagem.—
Sir, I beseech you, mitigate your Grief,
Altho' indeed we are but mortal men,
Yet we shall Love you,—Serve you, and obey you—
Are not you then the Emperor of the Moon?
And you the Prince of Thunderland?
There's no such Person, Sir.
These Stories are the Fantoms of mad Brains,
To puzzle Fools withal—the Wise laugh at 'em,—
—Come Sir, you shall no longer be impos'd upon.
Doctor Baliardo. No Emperor of the Moon,—and no Moon World!
If we'd not lov'd you, you'd been still impos'd on;
We had brought a Scandal on your Learned Name,
And all succeeding Ages had despis'd it.
[He leaps up.
Burn all my Books, and let my Study Blaze,
Burn all to Ashes, and be sure the Wind
Scatter the vile Contageous Monstrous Lyes.
—Most Noble Youths—you've honour'd me with your Alliance, and you, and all your Friends, Assistances in this Glorious Miracle, I invite to Night to revel with me.—Come all and see my happy Recantation of all the Follies Fables have inspir'd till now. Be pleasant to repeat your Story, to tell me by what kind degrees you Cozen'd me—
I see there's nothing in Philosophy—
[Gravely to himself.
Of all that writ, he was the wisest Bard, who spoke this mighty Truth.—
"He that knew all that ever Learning writ, |
"Knew only this—that he knew nothing yet.
To be spoken by Mrs. Cook.
WIth our old Plays, as with dull Wife it fares,|
To whom you have been marry'd tedious years.
You Cry――She's wonderous good, it is confess'd,
But still 'tis Chapon Boüillé at the best;
That constant Dish can never make a Feast:
Yet the pall'd Pleasure you must still pursue,
You give so small encouragement for new;
And who wou'd drudge for such a wretched Age,
Who want the Bravery, to support one Stage?
The wiser Wits have now new Measures set,
And taken up new Trades, that they may Eat,
No more your nice fantastick pleasures serve,
Your Pimps you pay, but let your Poets starve.
They long in vain for better Usage hop'd,
Till quite undone and tir'd, they dropt and dropt;
Not one is left will write for thin third day,
Like desperate Pickeroons, no Prize no Pay;
And when they've done their best, the Recompence,
Is, Dam the Sot, his Play wants common Sence.
Ill natur'd Wits, who can so ill requite
The Drudging Slaves, who for your Pleasure write.
Look back on flourishing Rome, ye proud Ingrates,
And see how she her thriving Poets treats:
Wisely she priz'd 'em at the noblest Rate,
As necessary Ministers of State,
And contributions rais'd to make 'em great.
They from the publick Bank she did maintain,
And freed from want, they only writ for Fame;
And were as useful in a City held,
As formidable Armies in the Field.
They but a Conquest over men pursu'd,
While these by gentler force the Soul subdu'd.
Not Rome in all her happiest Pomp cou'd show
A greater Cæsar than we boast of now;
Augustus Reigns, but Poets still are low.
May Cæsar live, and while his Mighty Hand
Is Scattering Plenty over all the Land;
With God-like Bounty recompencing all,
Some fruitful drops may on the Muses fall;
Since honest Pens do his just cause afford
Equal Advantage with the useful Sword.