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Free. Well, they understand the world.
Man. Which I do not, I confess.
Free. But, sir, pray believe the friendship I
promise you real, whatsoever I have profess'd to
others: try me. at least.

Mun. Why, what would you do for me?
Free. I would fight for you.

Man. That you would do for your own honour,

Free. I would lend you money, if I had it.

Free. Ay, and have him hang or ruin me, when he should come to be a judge, and I be--but what else? fore him. And you would have me tell the new officer, who bought his employment lately, that he is a coward?

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Man. To borrow more of me another time. That were but putting your money to interest: an usurer would be as good a friend. But what other piece of friendship?

Free. I would speak well of you to your enemies. Man. To encourage others to be your friends, by a shew of gratitude-but what else?

Free. Nay, I would not hear you ill spoken of behind your back, by my friend.

Man. Nay, then thou'rt a friend indeed; but it were unreasonable to expect it from thee, as the world goes now, when new friends, like new mistresses, are got by disparaging old ones.

Enter FIDELIA.

But here comes another, will say as much, at least. -Dost not thou love me, devilishly too, my little volunteer, as well as he or any man can?

Fid. Better than any man can love you, my dear captain.

Man. Look you there; I told you so. Fid. As well as you do truth or honour, sir; as well.

Man. Nay, good young gentleman, enough:For shame: thou hast been a page, by thy flattering and lying, to one of those praying ladies who love flattery so well, they are jealous of it, and wert turn'd away for saying the same things to the old house-keeper, for sweet-meats, as you did to your lady; for thou flatterest every thing and every body alike.

Man. Why, first, your promising courtier would keep his word, out of fear of more reproaches; or, at least, would give you no more vain hopes: your lawyer would serve you more faithfully; for he, having no honour but his interest, is truest still to him he knows suspects him: the new officer would provoke thee to make him a coward, and so be cashiered, that thou, or some other honest fellow, who had more courage than money, might get his place: the noble sonneteer would trouble thee no more with his madrigals: the praying lady would leave off Fid. You, dear sir, should not suspect the truth railing at wenching before thee, and not turn of what I say of you, though to you: Fame, the away her chamber-maid, for her own known frail-old liar, is believ'd when she speaks wonders of ty with thee: and I, instead of hating thee, should you: you cannot be flattered, sir; your merit is love thee, for thy plain dealing, and, in lieu of unspeakable. being mortified, am proud that the world and I think not well of one another.

Man. Hold, hold, sir, or I shall suspect worse of you, that you have been a cushion-bearer to some state hypocrite, and turn'd away by the chaplains, for out-flattering their probation-ser

Free. Well, doctors differ. You are for plain dealing, I find; but against your particular notions, I have the practice of the whole world,mons for a benefice. Observe but, any morning, what people do, when they get together on the Exchange, in Westminster-hall, or the galleries in Whitehall.

Man. I must confess, there they seem to rehearse Bayes's grand dance :-here you see a bishop bowing low to a gaudy atheist; a judge to a doorkeeper; a great lord to a fishmonger or a scrivener, with a jack-chain about his neck; a lawyer to a serjeant-at-arms; a velvet physician to a threadbare chymist; and a supple gentlemanusher to a surly beef-eater; and so tread round in a preposterous huddle of ceremony to each

Fid. Suspect me for any thing, sir, but the want of love, faith, and duty to you, the bravest, worthiest of mankind: believe me, I could die for you, sir.

Man. Nay, there you lie, sir:—Did I not see thee more afraid in the fight than the chaplain of the ship, or the purser, that bought his place?

Fid. Can he be said to be afraid that ventures to sea with you?

Man. Fie, fie, no more; I shall hate thy flattery worse than thy cowardice, nay, than thy bragging.

Fid. Well, I own, then, I was afraid, mightily afraid; yet for you I would be afraid again, an hundred times afraid: dying is ceasing to be afraid, and that I could do, sure, for you, and you'll believe me one day. [Weeps. Free. Poor youth! believe his eyes, if not his tongue: he seems to speak truth with them. Man. What! does he cry? A pox on't! a maudlin flatterer is as nauseously troublesome as a naudlin drunkard. No more, you little milksop; do not cry; I'll never make thee afraid again; for of all men, if I had occasion, thou shouldst not be my second; and, when I go to sea again, thou shalt venture thy life no more with me.

not.

Fid. Why, will you leave me behind then? If you would preserve my life, I'm sure you should [Aside. Man. Leave thee behind! Ay, ay, thou art a hopeful youth for the shore only: here thou wilt live to be cherish'd by fortune and the great ones; for thou may'st easily come to out-flatter a dull poet, out-lie a coffee-house or gazette-writer, out-swear a knight of the post, out-watch a pimp, out-fawn a rook, out-promise a lover, out-rail a wit, and out-brag a sea captain: All this thou canst do, because thou'rt a coward, a thing I hate; therefore thou'lt do better with the world than with me; and these are the good courses you must take in the world. There's good advice, at least, at parting go, and be happy with't.

Fid. Parting, sir! O! let me not hear that dismal word.

Man. If my words frighten thee, be gone the sooner; for, to be plain with thee, cowardice and I cannot d well together.

Fid. And cruelty and courage never dwell together, sure, sir. Do not turn me off to shame and misery'; for I am helpless and friendless.

Man. Friendless! there are half a score friends for thee then; [Offers her gold] I leave myself no more; they'll help thee a little. Be gone; go; I must be cruel to thee, (if thou call'st it so,) out of pity.

Fid. If you would be cruelly pitiful, sir, let it be with your sword, and not gold. [Exit.

Enter First Sailor.

1st Sail. We have, with much ado, turn'd away two gentlenen, who told us, forty times over, their names were Mr Novel and Major Oldfox.

Man. Well, to your post again. [Exit Sailor.] But how come those puppies coupled always together?

Free. O, the coxcombs keep each other company, to show each other, as Novel calls it; or, as Öldfox says, like two knives, to whet one another.

Man. And set other people's teeth an edge. Enter Second Sailor.

2 Sail. Here is a woman, an't like your honour, scolds and bustles with us, to come in, as much as a seaman's widow at the Navy-Office: her name is Mrs Blackacre.

Man. That fiend, too!

Free. The widow Blackacre, is it not? that litigious she petty-fogger, who is at law and difference with all the world; but I wish I could make her agree with me in the church: they say she has fifteen hundred pounds a-year jointure, and the care of her son, that is, the destruction of his

estate.

Man. Herlawyers, attorneys, and solicitors have fifteen hundred pound a-year, whilst she is contented to be poor, to make other people so; for she is as vexatious as her father was, the great attorney, nay, as a dozen Norfolk attorneys, and as implacable an adversary, as a wife suing for alimony, or a parson for his tithes; and she loves an Easter-term, or any term, not, as other country ladies do, to come up to be fine, cuckold their husbands, and take their pleasure; for she has no pleasure but in vexing others, and is usually cloth'd and daggled like a bawd in disguise, pursued through alleys by serjeants. When she is in town, she lodges in one of the inns of Chancery, where she breeds her son, and is herself his tutoress in law French; and for her country abode, though she has no estate there, she chuses Norfolk. But bid her come in, with a pox to her: she is Olivia's kinswoman, and may make me amends for her visit, by some discourse of that dear woman. [Exit Sailor.

Enter Widow BLACKACRE, with a mantle, and a

green bag and several papers in the other hand; JERRY BLACKACRE, her son, in a gown, laden with green bags, following her.

Wid. I never had so much to do with a judge's Hoor-keeper as with yours; but

Man. But the incomparable Olivia, how does she since I went?

Wid. Since you went, my suitMan. Olivia, I say, is she well? Wid. My suit, if you had not returnedMan. Damn your suit!-How does your cousin Olivia?

Wid. My suit, I say, had been quite lost; but

now

Man. But now where is Olivia? in town? for

Wid. For to-morrow we are to have a hearing. Man. Would you'd let me have a hearing to-day. Wid. But why won't you hear me?

Man. I am no judge, and you talk of nothing but suits; but, pray tell me, when did you see Olivia?

Wid. I am no visitor, but a woman of business; or if I ever visit, 'tis only the Chancery-Lane ladies,-ladies towards the law, and not any of your lazy, good-for-nothing flirts, who cannot read law French, though a gallant writ it. But, as I was telling you, my suit

Man. Damn these impertinent, vexatious people of business, of all sexes; they are still troubling the world with the tedious recitals of their law-suits; and one can no more stop their mouths, than a wit's, when he talks of himself, or an intelligencer's, when he talks of other people.

Wid. And a pox of all vexatious, impertinent

lovers; they are still perplexing the world with the tedious narrations of their love suits, and discourses of their mistresses: you are as troublesome to a poor widow of business, as a young, coxcomb, rhyming lover.

Man. And thou art as troublesome to me as a rook to a losing gamester, or a young putter of cases to his mistress and semptress, who has love in her head for another.

Wid. Nay, since you talk of putting of cases, and will not hear me speak, hear our Jerry a little; let him put our case to you, for the trial's to-morrow; and since you are my chief witness, I would have your memory refresh'd, and your judgment inform'd, that you may not give your evidence improperly. Speak out, child.

Jer. Yes, forsooth. Hem! Hem! John-aStiles

Man. You may talk, young lawyer, but I shall no more mind you, than a hungry judge does a cause after the clock has struck one.

Free. Nay, you'll find him as peevish too. Wid. No matter. Jerry, go on. Do you observe it then, sir; for I think I have seen you in a gown once. Lord, I could hear our Jerry put cases all day long! Mark him, sir.

Jer. John-a-Stiles- -No-There are, first, Fitz, Pere, and Ayle-No, no; Ayle, Pere, and Fitz Ayle is seized in fee of Blackacre; John-a-Stiles disseises Ayle; Ayle makes claim, and the disseisor dies; then the Aylethe Fitz.

Wid. No, the Pere, sirrah.

No,

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Man. Damn Pere, Mere, and Fitz, sir. Wid. No, you are out, child.-Hear me, captain, then. There are Ayle, Pere, and Fitz: Ayle is seized in fee of Blackacre; and being so seized, John-a-Stiles disseises the Ayle; Ayle makes claim, and the disseisor dies; and then the Pere re-enters the Pere, sirrah, the Pere-[To JERRY] and the Fitz enters upon the Pere; and the Ayle brings his writ of disseizen in the Post; and the Pere brings his writ of disseizen in the Pere; and

Man. Canst thou bear this stuff, Freeman? I could as soon suffer a whole noise of flatterers, at a great man's levee in the morning; but thou hast servile complacency enough to listen to a quibbling statesman in disgrace, nay, and be before-hand with him, in laughing at his dull nojest; but I[Offering to go out. Wid. Nay, sir, hold. Where's the subpoena, Jerry? I must serve you, sir. You are requir'd, by this, to give your testimony

Man. I'll be foresworn to be reveng❜d on thee. [Exit MANLEY, throwing away the subpæna. Wid. Get you gone, for a lawless companion! Come, Jerry, I had almost forgot we were to meet at the master's at three: let us mind our business still, child.

Jer. Ay, forsooth, e'en so let's. Free. Nay, madam, now I would beg you to hear me a little, a little of my business.

Wid. I have business of my own calls me away, sir.

Free. My business would prove yours too, dear madam.

Wid. Yours would be some sweet business, I warrant :-What, 'tis no Westminster-hal! business? Would you have my advice?

Free. No, faith; 'tis a little Westminster-abbey business:-I would have your consent. Wid. O fie, fie, sir; to me such discourse, before my dear minor there!

Jer. Ay, ay, mother, he would be taking livery and seizen of your jointure, by digging the turf; but I'll watch your waters, bully, i'fack. Come away, mother.

[Exit JERRY, hauling away his mother. Manet FREEMAN: Enter to him FIDELIA. Fid. Dear sir, you have pity; beget but some in your captain for me.

Free. Where is he?

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Fid. A gentlewoman, I suppose, but of as mean a fortune as beauty; but her relations would not suffer her to go with him to the Indies: and his aversion to this side of the world, together with the late opportunity of commanding the convoy, would not let him stay here longer, though to enjoy her.

Free. He loves her mightily then.

Fid. Yes, so well, that the remainder of his fortune (I hear, about five or six thousand pounds) he has left her, in case he had died by the way, or before she could prevail with her friends to follow him, which he expected she should do; and has left behind him his great bosom-friend, to be her convoy to him.

Free. What charms has she for him, if she be not handsome?

Fid. He fancies her, I suppose, the only woman of truth and sincerity in the world.

Free. No common beauty, I confess.

Fid. Or else, sure, he would not have trusted her with so great a share of his fortune in his absence; I suppose, (since his late loss,) all he has. Free. Why, has he left it in her own custody? Fid. I am told so.

Free. Then he has shewed love to her indeed, in leaving her like an old husband, that dies as soon as he has made his wife a good jointure: but I'll go in to him, and speak for you, and know more from him of his Olivia. [Exit.

Manet FIDELIA, sola.

Fid. His Olivia, indeed, his happy Olivia; Yet she was left behind, when I was with him; But she was ne'er out of his mind or heart. She has told him she lov'd him; I have shew'd it,

And durst not tell him so, till I had done,
Under this habit, such convincing acts

Of loving friendship for him, that, through it,
He first might find out both my sex and love;
And. when I'd have him from his fair Olivia,
And this bright world of artful beauties here,
Might then have hop'd he would have look'don me,
Amongst the sooty Indians: and I could
To choose there live his wife, where wives are forc'd
To live no longer when their husbands die,
Nay, what's yet worse, to share 'em, whilst they live,
With many rival wives. But here he comes,
And I must yet keep out of his sight, not
To lose it for ever.

[Exit.

Enter MANLY and FREEMAN. Free. But what strange charms has she, that could make you love?

Man. Strange charms indeed! She has beauty enough to call in question her wit or virtue, and her form would make a starved hermit a ravisher, yet her virtue and conduct would preserve her from the subtle lust of a pampered prelate. She is so perfect a beauty, that art could not better it, nor affectation deform it; yet all this is nothing. Her tongue, as well as face, ne'er knew artifice; nor ever did her words or looks contradict her heart: She is all truth, and hates the lying, masking, daubing world, as I do; for which I love her, and for which I think she dislikes not me; for she has often shut out of her conversation, for mine, the gaudy, fluttering parrots of the town, apes and echoes of men only, and refused their common-place, pert chat, flattery, and submissions, to be entertained with my sullen bluntness and honest love; and, last of all, swore to me, since her parents would not suffer her to go with me, she would stay behind for no other man, but follow me, without their leave, if not to be obtained: Which oathFree. Did you think she would keep? Man. Yes; for she is not, I tell you, like other women, but can keep her promise, though she has sworn to keep it; but, that she might the better keep it, I left her the value of five or six thousand pounds; for women's wants are gene

rally their most importunate solicitors to love or marriage.

Free. And money summons lovers, more than beauty, and augments but their importunity and their number, so makes it the harder for a woman to deny 'em. For my part, I am for the French maxim; if you would have your female subjects loyal, keep 'em poor; but, in short, that your mistress may not marry, you have given her a portion.

Man. She had given me her heart first, and I am satisfied with the security: I can never doubt her truth and constancy.

Free. It seems you do, since you are fain to bribe it with money. But how come you to be so diffident of the man that says he loves you, and not doubt the woman that says it?

Man. I should, I confess, doubt the love of any other woman but her, as I do the friendship of any other man but him I have trusted; but I have such proofs of their faith as cannot deceive me. Free. Cannot !

Man. Not but I know, that, generally, no man can be a great enemy but under the name of friend; and if you are a cuckold, it is your friend only that makes you so; for your enemy is not admitted to your house: if you are cheated in your fortune, 'tis your friend that does it; for your enemy is not made your trustee : if your honour or good name be injured, 'tis your friend that does it still, because your enemy is not believed against you: therefore, I rather chuse to go where honest, downright barbarity is profess'd, where men devour one another like generous, hungry lions and tigers, not like crocodiles; where they think the devil white, of our complexion, and I am already so far an Indian: but if your weak faith doubts this miracle of a woman, come along with me, and believe, and thou wilt find her so handsome, that thou, who art so much my friend, wilt have a mind to lie with her, and so wilt not fail to discover what her faith and thine is to me.

When we're in love, the great adversity, Our friends and mistresses at once we try. [Exeunt.

SCENE I-OLIVIA's Lodgings.

Enter OLIVIA, ELIZA, LETTICE.

ACT II.

Oliv. Ah, cousin, what a world 'tis we live in I am so weary of it.

Eliz. Truly, cousin, I can find no fault with it, but that we cannot always live in't; for I can never be weary of it.

Oliv. O, hideous! you cannot be in earnest, sure, when you say you like the filthy world.

Eliz. You cannot be in carnest, sure, when you say you dislike it.

Oliv. You are a very censorious creature, I find. Eliz. I must confess, I think we women as of

ten discover where we love by railing, as men

when they lie, by their swearing; and the world

!

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is but a constant keeping gallant, whom we fail not to quarrel with, when any thing crosses us, yet cannot part with't for our hearts.

Let. A gallant, indeed, madam, whom ladies first make jealous, and then quarrel with it for being so; for if, by her discretion, a lady be talked of for a man, she cries presently, 'Tis a censorious world; if, by her vanity, the intrigue be found out, 'Tis a prying, malicious world; and if, by her

over-fondness, the gallant proves inconstant, 'Tis a false world; and if, by her niggardliness, the chamber-maid tells, 'Tis a perfidious world: but that, I'm sure, your ladyship cannot say of the world yet, as bad as 'tis.

Oliv. But I may say, "Tis a very impertinent world.-Hold your peace. And, cousin, if the world be a gallant, 'tis such an one as is my aversion; pray name it no more.

Eliz. But is it possible the world, which has such variety of charms for other women, can have none for you? Let's see first, what d'ye think of dressing and fine clothes?

Oliv. Dressing! Fie, fie, 'tis my aversion. But come hither, you dowdy; methinks you might have opened this toure better. O, hideous! I cannot suffer it? D'ye see how't sits?

Eliz. Well enough, cousin, if dressing be your

aversion.

Oliv. 'Tis so: and for variety of rich clothes, they are more my aversion.

Let. Ay, 'tis because your ladyship wears 'em too long; for indeed a gown, like a gallant, grows one's aversion by having too much of it.

Oliv. Insatiable creature! I'll be sworn I have had this not above three days, cousin, and within this month have made some six more.

Eliz. Then your aversion to 'em is not altogether so great.

Oliv. Alas! 'tis for my woman only I wear 'em,

cousin.

Let. If it be for me only, madam, pray do not wear 'em.

Eliz. But what d'ye think of visits-balls—
Oliv. O, I detest 'em.

Eliz. Of plays?

Oliv. I abominate 'em: filthy, obscene, hideous things.

Eliz. What say you to masquerading in the winter, and Hyde Park in the summer?

Oliv. Insipid pleasures I taste not.

Eliz. Nay, if you are for more solid pleasures, what think you of a rich young husband?

Oliv. O, horrid! Marriage! What a pleasure you have found out! I nauseate it of all things. Let. But what does your ladyship think then of a liberal, handsome, young lover?"

Oliv. A handsome, young fellow, you impudent! Be gone out of my sight. Name a handsome young fellow to me! Foh! a hideous, handSome, young fellow'I abominate. [Spits. Eliz. Indeed! But let's see will nothing please you? What d'ye think of the court? Oliv. How? the court! the court, cousin! tay aversion, my aversion, my aversion of all aversions.

Eliz. How? the court! where

Ohio. Where sincerity is a quality as out of fashion and as unprosperous as bashfulness. I could not laugh at a quibble, though it were a fat privy-counsellor's, nor praise a lord's ill verses, though I were myself the subject, nor an old lady's young looks, though I were her woman, nor sit to a vain young simile-maker, though he flattered me; in short, I could not glote upon a man when he comes into a room, and laugh at VOL. III.

him when he goes out; I cannot rail at the absent, to flatter the standers-by; I

Eliz. Well, but railing now is so common, that 'tis no more malice, but the fashion; and the ab sent think they are no more the worse for being rail'd at, than the present think they're the bet ter for being flattered: and for the courtOliv. Nay, do not defend the court; for you'll make me rail at it, like a trusting citizen's widow. Eliz. Or like a Holborn lady, who could not get into the last ball, or was out of countenance in the drawing-room, the last Sunday of her appearance there; for none rail at the court but those who cannot get into it, or else who are ridiculous when they are there; and I shall suspect you were laughed at when you were last there, or would be a maid of honour.

Ouv. I a maid of honour! To be a maid of honour were yet of all things my aversion.

Eliz. In what sense am I to understand you? But, in fine, by the word aversion, I'm sure you dissemble; for I never knew woman yet that us'd it who did not. Come, our tongues belie our hearts, more than our pocket-glasses do our faces: But methinks we ought to leave off dissembling, since 'tis grown of no use to us; for all wise observers understand us now-a-days, as they do dreams, álmanacks, and Dutch gazettes, by the contrary: And a man no more believes a woman, when she says she has an aversion for him, than when she says she'll cry out.

Oliv. O, filthy, hideous! Peace, cousin, or your discourse will be my aversion; and you may be lieve me.

Eliz. Yes; for if any thing be a woman's aversion, 'tis plain dealing from another woman: and perhaps that's your quarrel to the world; for that will talk, as your woman says.

Oliv. Talk? not of me, sure; for what men do I converse with? what visits do I admit ?

Enter Bay.

Boy. Here's the gentleman to wait upon you, madam.

Oliv. On me! You little, unthinking fop, d'ye know what you say? Boy. Yes, madam, 'tis the gentleman that comes every day to you, who

Oliv. Hold your peace, you heedless little animal, and get you gone. This country boy, cousin, takes my dancing-master, tailor, or the spruce milliner, for visitors. [Exit Boy.

Let.'No, madam, 'tis Mr Novel, I'm sure, by his talking so loud: I know his voice too, madam,

Oliv. You know nothing, you buffle-headed, stupid creature you; you would make my cousin believe I receive visits. But if it be Mr-what did you call him?

Tet, Mr Novel, madam, he that

Oliv. Hold your peace; I'll hear no more of him; but if it be your Mr- -(I cann't think of his name again,) I suppose he has followed my cousin hither.

Eliz. No, cousin, I will not rob you of the honour of the visit: 'tis to you, cousin, for I know him not.

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