Sir Feeb. Oh, Francis! Come
Lette, here’s a young Rogue has a mind to kiss thee.
[Puts them together, she starts back.
—Nay, start not, he’s my own Flesh and Blood,
My Nephew—Baby—look, look how the young
Rogues stare at one another; like will to like, I see that.
Let. There’s something in his Face so like my Bellmour, it calls my Blushes up, and leaves my Heart defenceless.
Ralph. Sir, Dinner’s on the Table.
Sir Feeb. Come, come—let’s
in then—Gentlemen and Ladies,
And share to day my Pleasures and Delight,
Adds bobs, they must be all mine own at Night.
SCENE I. Gayman’s Lodging.
Enter Gayman_ in a Night-Cap,
and an old Campaign Coat
tied about him, very melancholy_.
Gay. Curse on my Birth! Curse on
my faithless Fortune!
Curse on my Stars, and curst be all—but Love!
That dear, that charming Sin, though t’have pull’d
Innumerable Mischiefs on my head,
I have not, nor I cannot find Repentance for.
Nor let me die despis’d, upbraided, poor:
Let Fortune, Friends and all abandon me—
But let me hold thee, thou soft smiling God,
Close to my heart while Life continues there.
Till the last pantings of my vital Blood,
Nay, the last spark of Life and Fire be Love’s!
—How now, Rag, what’s a Clock?
Rag. My Belly can inform you better than my Tongue.
Gay. Why, you gormandizing Vermin you, what have you done with the Three pence I gave you a fortnight ago.
Rag. Alas, Sir, that’s all gone long since.
Gay. You gutling Rascal, you are enough to breed a Famine in a Land. I have known some industrious Footmen, that have not only gotten their own Livings, but a pretty Livelihood for their Masters too.
Rag. Ay, till they came to the Gallows, Sir.
Gay. Very well, Sirrah, they died in an honourable Calling—but hark ye, Rag,—I have business, very earnest business abroad this Evening; now were you a Rascal of Docity, you wou’d invent a way to get home my last Suit that was laid in Lavender—with the Appurtenances thereunto belonging, as Perriwig, Cravat, and so forth.
Rag. Faith, Master, I must deal in the black Art then, for no human means will do’t—and now I talk of the black Art, Master, try your Power once more with my Landlady.
Gay. Oh! name her not, the thought on’t turns my Stomach—a sight of her is a Vomit; but he’s a bold Hero that dares venture on her for a kiss, and all beyond that sure is Hell it self—yet there’s my last, last Refuge—and I must to this Wedding—I know not what,—but something whispers me,—this Night I shall be happy—and without Julia ’tis impossible!