But when he came

To urge his flame,

She scratch'd him o'er the face.

With that he went among the bitches, Such as had beauty, wit, and riches, And swore Miss Maulken, to her cost, Should quickly see what she had lost : But the poor unlucky swain Miss'd his shepherdess again; His fate was to miscarry. It was his destiny to find, That cats and dogs are of a mind, When monkeys come to marry.

Beau. 'Tis very well;-'tis very well, old spark; I say 'tis very well. Because I han't a pair of plod shoes and a dirty shirt, you think a woman won't venture upon me for a husband. Why now to show you, old father, how little you philosophers know of the ladies-I'll tell you an adventure of a friend of mine.

A band, a bob-wig, and a feather,
Attack'd a lady's heart together;
The band in a most learned plea,
Made up of deep philosophy,

Told her, if she would please to wed
A reverend beard, and take instead
Of vigorous youth,
Old solemn truth,

With books and morals into bed,
How happy she would be.

The Bob he talk'd of management,
What wondrous blessings heaven sent
On care, and pains, and industry;
And truly he must be so free,
To own he thought your airy beaux,
With powder'd wigs and dancing shoes,
Were good for nothing (mend his soul!)
But prate, and talk, and play the fool.

He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth,
And that to be the dearest wife
Of one who labour'd all his life,
To make a mine of gold his own,
And not spend sixpence when he'd done,
Was heaven upon earth.

When these two blades had done, d'ye see,
The feather (as it might be me)
Steps out, sir, from behind the screen,
With such an air, and such a mien,
Look you, old gentleman, in short,
He quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport.
It proved such sunshine weather,
That you must know, at the first beck
The lady leap'd about his neck,
And off they went together.

There's a tale for your tale, old dad, and so

serviteur !

[Exit.

You dread reformers of an impious age,
You awful cat-a-nine tails to the stage,
This once be just, and in our cause engage.
To gain your favour, we your rules obey,
And treat you with a moral piece to-day;
So moral, we're afraid 'twill damn the play.
For though ye have long been leagued (as people
tell)

To reduce the power exorbitant of hell;
No troops you send, to abate it in this field,
But leave us still exposed, to starve or yield.
Your scouts indeed sometimes come stealing in,
To observe this formidable camp of sin,
And whisper, if we'll piously declare,

What aids you then will send to help us through

the war.

To this we answer, We're a feeble state,
And cannot well afford to love or hate,
So should not meddle much in your debate.

But since your cause is good, thus far we'll

go,

When Portugal declares, we'll do so too.
Our cases, as we think, are much alike,
And on the same conditions we should strike;
Send to their aid a hundred men-of-war,
To ours a hundred squadrons of the fair;

Rig out your wives and daughters all around,
(I mean who are fit for service, tight and sound)
And for a proof our meaning is sincere,
See but the ships are good, and if you fear
A want of equipage, we'll man them here.

These are the terms, on which you may engage
The poet's fire, to batter from the stage.
Useful ally! whose friendship lets you in
Upon the weak and naked side of sin;
Against your old attack, the foe's prepared,
Well fortified, and always on his guard :
The sacred shot you send are flung in vain ;
By impious hands, with insolent disdain,
They're gather'd up, and fired at you again.
Through baffled toils, and unsuccessful cares,
In slaughter, blood, and wounds, and pious snares,
Ye have made a Flanders war these fifteen hundred
years.

Change then your scheme, if you'd your foe annoy,
And the infernal Bajazet destroy :
Our aid accept,

We have gentler stratagems which may succeed;
We'll tickle 'em, where you would make 'em bleed :
In sounds less harsh we'll teach 'em to obey :
In softer strains the evil spirit lay,

And steal their immorality away.

Lop. Your patience, sir, indeed is great; I feel at this time forty proofs on't upon my shoulders. But really, sir, I would advise you to

Don John. Again! I can bear thee no longer. Here, pen and ink, I'll give thee thy discharge. Did I take you for a valet, or a privy-counsellor, sir?

Lop. 'Tis confessed, sir, you took me but for humble employment; but my intention was agreeably to surprise you with some superior gifts of nature, to your faithful slave. I profess, my noble master, a most perfect knowledge of men and manners. Yours, gracious sir, (with all respect I speak it) are not irreprehensible. And I'm afraid in time, sir, I am indeed, they'll wriggle you into some ill-favoured affair, whence with all my understanding I shall be puzzled to bring you off.

Don John. Very well, sir.

Lop. And therefore, sir, it is, that I (poor Lopez as I am) sometimes take leave to moralise.

Don John. Go, go, moralise in the market-place; I'm quite worn out. Once more, march. Lop. Is the sentence definitive?

Don John. Positive.

Lop. Then pray let us come to account, and see what wages are due.

Don John. Wages! Refund what you have had, you rascal you, for the plague you have given me.

Lop. Nay, if I must lose my money, then let me claim another right; losers have leave to speak. Therefore advance, my tongue, and say thy pleasure; tell this master of mine, he should die with shame at the life he leads: so much unworthy of a man of honour. Tell him

Don John. I'll hear no more.
Lop. You shall indeed, sir.

Don John. Here, take thy money and begone. Lop. Counters all; adieu you glistering spangles of the world! farewell ye tempters of the great;

not me! Tell him

Don John. Stay.

Lop. Go on. Tell him he's worse among the women than a ferret among the rabbits; at one and all, from the princess to the tripe-woman; handsome, ugly, old women and children, all go down. Don John. Very well.

Lop. It is indeed, sir, and so are the stories you tell them to bring them to your matters. The handsome, she's all divinity to be sure; the ugly, she's so agreeable, were it not for her virtue, she'd be overrun with lovers; the light airy flipflap, she kills him with her motions; the dull heavy-tailed maukin melts him down with her modesty; the scragged lean pale face has a shape for destruction; the fat overgrown sow has an air of importance; the tall awkward trapes with her majesty wounds; the little short trundle-tail shoots a je-ne-sais-quoi: in a word, they have all something for him-and he has something for 'em all.

Don John. And thus, you fool, by a general attack, I keep my heart my own; lie with them that like me, and care not sixpence for them that don't.

Lop. Well said, well said, a very pretty amusement truly! But pray, sir, by your leave (ceremony aside) since you are pleased to clear up into conversation, what mighty matters do you expect from boarding a woman you know is already heart and soul engaged to another?

Don John. Why I expect her heart and soul

should disengage in a week. If you live a little longer with me, sirrah, you'll know how to instruct your next master to the purpose: and therefore that I may charitably equip you for a new service, now I'm turning you out of my own, I'll let you know, that when a woman loves a man best, she's in the most hopeful way of betraying him; for love, like fortune, turns upon a wheel, and is very much given to rising and falling.

Lop. Like enough. But as much upon the weathercock as the ladies are, there are some the wind must blow hard to fetch them about. When such a sturdy hussy falls in your honour's way, what account may things turn to then, an't please ye?

Don John. They turn to a bottle, you puppy. Lop. I find they'll always turn to something; but when you pursue a poor woman only to make her lover jealous, what pleasure can you take in that?

Don John. That pleasure.

Lop. Look you there again!

Don John. Why, sirrah, d'you think there's no pleasure in spoiling their sport, when I can't make my own?

Lop. Oh! to a good-natured man, be sure there must; but suppose, instead of fending and proving with his mistress, he should come to-a-parrying and thrusting with you; what becomes of your joy then, my noble master?

Don John. Why do you think I'm afraid to fight, you rascal ?

Lop. I thought we were talking of what we loved, not what we feared, sir.

Don John. Sir, I love everything that leads to what I love most.

Lop. I know, sir, you have often fought upon these occasions.

Don John. Therefore that has been no stop to my pleasures.

Lop. But you have never been killed once, sir; and when that happens, you will for ever lose the pleasure of—

Don John. [Striking him.] Breaking your head, you rascal, which will afflict me heartily. -[Knocking at the door.] See who knocks so hard.

Lop. Somebody that thinks I can hear no better than you think I can feel.

Enter DON GUZMAN.

Don Guz. Don John de Alvarada, is he here? Lop. There's the man.-[Aside.] Show me such another if you can find him. Don Guz. Don John, I desire to speak with you alone.

Don John. You may speak before this fellow, sir; he's trusty.

Don Guz. 'Tis an affair of honour, sir.
Don John. Withdraw, Lopez.

Lop. [Aside.] Behind the door I will, and no farther. This fellow looks as if he came to save me a broken head. [Retires.

Don Guz. I call myself Don Guzman de Torrellas, you know what blood I spring from; I am a cadet, and by consequence not rich; but I am esteemed by men of honour: I have been forward to expose myself in battles abroad, and I have met with applause in our feasts at home.

Lop. So much by way of introduction.

[Aside.

Don John. I understand your merit, sir, and should be glad to do as much by your business.

Don Guz. Give attention, and you'll be instructed. I love Leonora, and from my youth have done so. Long she rejected my sighs, and despised my tears, but my constancy at last has vanquished. I have found the way to her heart, and nothing is wanting to complete my joy but the consent of her father, whom I cannot yet convince that the wants in my fortune are recompensed by the merits of my person.

Lop. He's a very dull fellow indeed. [Aside. Don Guz. In the meanwhile the object of my vows is a sharer in my grief, and the only cordial we have is the pleasure of a secret conversation, through a small breach I have made in a thin partition that divides our lodgings. I trust you, Don John, with this important secret; friend or enemy, you are noble, therefore keep it, I charge your honour with it.

Lop. You could not put it in better hands.

Don Guz. But what's still farther, you take the liberty to copy me; my words, my actions, every motion is no sooner mine, but yours. In short, you ape me, Don; and to that point, I once designed to stab myself, and try if you would follow me in that too.

Lop. No, there the monkey would have left you. [Aside.

Don Guz. But to conclude.
Don John. 'Tis time.

Don Guz. My patience, Don, is now no more; and I pronounce, that if henceforth I find you under Leonora's window, who never wished, fond man, to see you there, I by the ways of honour shall fix you in another station. I leave you to consider on't. Farewell. [Exit.

Don John. Hold, sir, we had e'en as good do this honourable deed now.

Re-enter Lopez.

Lop. No, pray, sir, let him go, and may be you mayn't have occasion to do it at all.

Don John. I thought at first the coxcomb came upon another subject, which would have embarrassed me much more.

Lop. Now this was a subject would have embarrassed me enough in all conscience.

Don John. I was afraid he came to forbid me seeing his sister Isabella, with whom I'm upon very good terms.

Lop. Why now that's a hard case, when you have got a man's sister, you can't leave him his mistress.

Don John. No, changeling, I hate him enough, to love every woman that belongs to him: and the fool has so provoked me by his threatening, that I believe I shall have a stroke at his mother before I think myself even with him.

Lop. A most admirable way to make up accounts truly!

Don John. A son of a whore! 'sdeath, I did not care sixpence for the slut before, but now I'll have her maidenhead in a week, for fear the rogue should marry her in ten days.

Lop. Mum; here's her father: I'll warrant this old spark comes to correct our way of living

too.

Enter DON FELIX.

Don Fel. Don John

Don John. Don Felix, do I see you in my poor dwelling? Pray, to what lucky accident do I owe this honour?

Don Fel. That I may speak to you without constraint, pray send away your servant.

Lop. [Aside.] What the pox have I done to them, they are all so uneasy at my company!

Don John. Give us chairs, and leave the room. Lop. [Aside.] If this old fellow comes to quarrel with us too, he'll at least do us less harm. Don Fel. Won't you retire, friend?

[Looking behind.

Don John. Begone, sirrah!
Lop. [Aside.] Pox take ye, you old prig you!
But I shall be even with you! [Hides himself.

Don Fel. You know me, sir?
Don John. I do, sir.

Don Fel. That I call myself-
Don John. Don Felix.

Don Fel. That I am of the house of-
Don John. Cabrera, one of the first of Valencia.
Don Fel. That my estate is

Don John. Great.

Don Fel. You know that I have some reputation in the world.

Don John. I know your reputation equals your birth.

Don Fel. And you are not ignorant, that heaven for the consolation of my grey hairs has given me an only daughter, who is not deformed. Don John. Beauteous as light.

Don Fel. Well shaped, witty, and endowed with

Don John. All the good qualities of mind and body.

Don Fel. Since you are satisfied with all this, hearken, I pray, with attention, to the business that brings me hither.

Don John. I shall.

Don Fel. We all know, Don John, some by their own experience, some by that of others, how nice a gentleman's honour is, and how easily tarnished; an éclaircissement managed with prudence, often prevents misfortunes that perhaps might be upon the point of attending us. I have thought it my duty to acquaint you, that I have seen your designs upon my daughter. You pass nights entire under her window, as if you were searching an oppor

tunity to get into my house; there is nobody in the town but has taken notice of your proceedings; you give the public a subject for disadvantageous discourse; and though in reality Leonora's virtue receives no prejudice by it, her reputation daily runs some risk. My years have taught me to judge right of things: and yet I have not been able to decide what your end can be; you can't regard my daughter on a foot of gallantry, you know her virtue and my birth too well; and for a wife you seem to have no thought, since you have yet made no demand to me: what then is your intention? You have heard perhaps, I have hearkened to a gentleman of Toledo, a man of merit. I own I have, and I expect him daily here; but, Don John, if 'tis that which hinders you from declaring in form, I'll ease you of a great deal of trouble, which the customs of the world impose upon these occasions, and in a word, I'll break with him, and give you Leonora.

Lop. [Aside.] Good.

Don Fel. You don't answer me! what is't that troubles you?

Don John. That I have been such a sot, old gentleman, to hear you with so much patience.

[Rising.

Don Fel. How, Don! I'm more astonished at your answer than I was with your silence.

Don John. Astonished! why han't you talked to me of marriage? He asks me to marry, and wonders what I complain of!

Don Fel. 'Tis well-'tis well, Don John, the outrage is violent! You insult me in your own house. But know, sir[Rising.

Don John. But know, sir, there needs no quarrel, if you please, sir; I like your daughter very well; but for marrying her-serviteur.

Don Fel. Don Guzman de Torrellas has not less merit than you, Don.

Don John. Agreed; what then?

Don Fel. And yet I have refused him my daughter.

Don John. Why then you have used him better than you have done me, which I take very unkindly.

Don Fel. I have used you, sir

Don John. Used me, sir! you have used me very ill, to come into my own house to seduce

[Aside.

Lop. Egad my master shines to-day. Don Fel. Know, Don, that I can bear no more. Lop. If he could, I think there's no more to lay upon him. [Aside. Don Fel. If I find you continue to importune Leonora, I shall find a way to satisfy my offended honour, and punish your presumption.

Don John. You shall do what you please to me provided you don't marry me.

Don Fel. Know, Alvarada, there are ways to revenge such outrageous affronts as these.

Don John. I won't marry.

Don Fel. 'Tis enough.

[Exit.

Don John. What dost think? he would have married me!

Lop. Yes, he had found his man. But you have been even with him.

Don John. What, thou hast heard us then?

Lop. Or I were no valet. But pray what does your honour intend to do now? Will you continue the siege of a place, where 'tis probable they will daily augment the fortifications, when there are so many open towns you may march into without the trouble of opening the trenches?

Don John. I am going, Lopez, to double my attacks: I'll beat up her quarters six times a-night, I am now downright in love; the difficulties pique me to the attempt, and I'll conquer or I'll die.

Lop. Why to confess the truth, sir, I find you much upon my taste in this matter; difficulties are the rocambole of love, I never valued an easy conquest in my life. To rouse my fire, the lady must cry out (as softly as ever she can) Have a care my dear, my mother has seen us; my brothers suspect me; my husband may surprise us: oh, dear heart, have a care, I pray! Then I play the devil: but when I come to a fair-one, where I may hang up my cloak upon a peg, get into my gown and slippers

Don John. Impudent rogue!

[Aside.

Lop. See her stretched upon the couch in great security, with-My dear, come kiss me, we have nothing to fear; I droop, I yawn, I sleep.

Don John. Well, sir, whatever you do with your fair-one, I am going to be very busy with mine; I was e'en almost weary of her, but Guzman and this old fellow have revived my dying fire; and so have at her.

Lop. 'Tis all mighty well, sir, mighty well, sir, as can be in the world. But if you would have the goodness to consider en passant, or so, a little now and then, about swords and daggers, and rivals and old fellows, and pistols and great guns, and such-like baubles, only now and then at leisure, sir, not to interrupt things of more con

sequence.

Don John. Thou art a cowardly rascal, I have

often considered that.

Lop. Ay, that's true, sir, and yet a blunderbuss is presently discharged out of a garret window. Don John. Come, no more words; but follow me.-How now! what impertinence have we here now to stop me?

Enter DON PEDRO.

Lop. 'Tis Don Pedro, or I'm a dog.

Don John. Impossible! Don Pedro returned ! Don Ped. 'Tis I, my dearest friend; I'm come to forget all the miseries of a long absence, in one happy embrace. [They embrace.

Don John. I'm overjoyed to see you. Don Ped. Mine's not to be expressed.-What, friend Lopez here still! how dost do, Lopez ? What, dost not know me?

Lop. As well as my father's seal, sir, when he sends me a bill of exchange.

Don Ped. Just as he was, I find galliard still.