LITMIR.BIZ

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I have used all common means to move a woman's tongue and mask; I called her ugly, old, and old acquaintance, and yet she would not disprove me:—but here comes Ranger, let him try what he can do; for, since my mistress is dogged, I'll go sleep alone. [Exit.

      Re-enter Ranger.

      Lyd. [Aside.] Ranger! 'tis he indeed: I am sorry he is here, but glad I discovered him before I went. Yet he must not discover me, lest I should be prevented hereafter in finding him out. False Ranger!—[To Lady Flippant.] Nay, if they bring fresh force upon us, madam, 'tis time to quit the field. [Exeunt Lydia and Lady Flippant.

      Ran. What, play with your quarry till it fly from you!

      Dap. You frighten it away.

      Ran. Ha! is not one of those ladies in mourning?

      Dap. All women are so by this light.

      Ran. But you might easily discern. Don't you know her?

      Dap. No.

      Ran. Did you talk with her?

      Dap. Yes, she is one of your brisk silly baggages.

      Ran. 'Tis she, 'tis she!—I was afraid I saw her before; let us follow 'em: prithee make haste.—[Aside.] 'Tis Lydia. [Exeunt.

      Re-enter, on the other side, Lydia and Lady Flippant—Dapperwit and Ranger following them at a distance.

      Lyd. They follow us yet, I fear.

      L. Flip. You do not fear it certainly; otherwise you would not have encouraged them.

      Lyd. For Heaven's sake, madam, waive your quarrel a little, and let us pass by your coach, and so on foot to your acquaintance in the old Pall-mall[33]: for I would not be discovered by the man that came up last to us. [Exeunt.

      SCENE II.—Christina's Lodging.

      Enter Christina and Isabel.

      Isa. For Heaven's sake, undress yourself, madam! They'll not return to-night: all people have left the Park an hour ago.

      Chris. What is't o'clock?

      Isa. 'Tis past one.

      Chris. It cannot be!

      Isa. I thought that time had only stolen from happy lovers:—the disconsolate have nothing to do but to tell the clock.

      Chris. I can only keep account with my misfortunes.

      Isa. I am glad they are not innumerable.

      Chris. And, truly, my undergoing so often your impertinency is not the least of them.

      Isa. I am then more glad, madam, for then they cannot be great; and it is in my power, it seems, to make you in part happy, if I could but hold this villainous tongue of mine: but then let the people of the town hold their tongues if they will, for I cannot but tell you what they say.

      Chris. What do they say?

      Isa. Faith, madam, I am afraid to tell you, now I think on't.

      Chris. Is it so ill?

      Isa. O, such base, unworthy things!

      Chris. Do they say I was really Clerimont's wench, as he boasted; and that the ground of the quarrel betwixt Valentine and him was not Valentine's vindication of my honour, but Clerimont's jealousy of him?

      Isa. Worse, worse a thousand times! such villainous things to the utter ruin of your reputation!

      Chris. What are they?

      Isa. Faith, madam, you'll be angry: 'tis the old trick of lovers to hate their informers, after they have made 'em such.

      Chris. I will not be angry.

      Isa. They say then, since Mr. Valentine's flying into France you are grown mad, have put yourself into mourning, live in a dark room, where you'll see nobody, nor take any rest day or night, but rave and talk to yourself perpetually.

      Chris. Now, what else?

      Isa. But the surest sign of your madness is, they say, because you are desperately resolved (in case my Lord Clerimont should die of his wounds) to transport yourself and fortune into France to Mr. Valentine, a man that has not a groat to return you in exchange.

      Chris. All this, hitherto, is true; now to the rest.

      Isa. Indeed, madam, I have no more to tell you. I was sorry, I'm sure, to hear so much of any lady of mine.

      Chris. Insupportable insolence!

      Isa. [Aside.] This is some revenge for my want of sleep to-night.—[Knocking at the door.] So, I hope my old second is come; 'tis seasonable relief. [Exit.

      Chris. Unhappy Valentine! couldst thou but see how soon thy absence and misfortunes have disbanded all thy friends, and turned thy slaves all renegadoes, thou sure wouldst prize my only faithful heart!

      Enter Lady Flippant, Lydia, and Isabel.

      L. Flip. Hail, faithful shepherdess! but, truly, I had not kept my word with you, in coming back to-night, if it had not been for this lady, who has her intrigues too with the fellows as well as you.

      Lyd. Madam, under my Lady Flippant's protection, I am confident to beg yours; being just now pursued out of the Park by a relation of mine, by whom it imports me extremely not to be discovered:—[Knocking at the door.] but I fear he is now at the door.—[To Isabel, who goes out.] Let me desire you to deny me to him courageously;—for he will hardly believe he can be mistaken in me.

      Chris. In such an occasion, where impudence is requisite, she will serve you as faithfully as you can wish, madam.

      L. Flip. Come, come, madam, do not upbraid her with her assurance, a qualification that only fits her for a lady's service. A fine woman of the town can be no more without a woman that can make an excuse with assurance, than she can be without a glass, certainly.

      Chris. She needs no advocate.

      L. Flip. How can any one alone manage an amorous intrigue? though the birds are tame, somebody must help draw the net. If 'twere not for a woman that could make an excuse with assurance, how should we wheedle, jilt, trace, discover, countermine, undermine, and blow up the stinking fellows? which is all the pleasure I receive, or design by them; for I never admitted a man to my conversation, but for his punishment, certainly.

      Chris. Nobody will doubt that, certainly.

      Re-enter Isabel.

      Isa. Madam, the gentleman will not be mistaken: he says you are here, he saw you come in; he is your relation, his name's Ranger, and is come to wait upon you home. I had much ado to keep him from coming up.

      Lyd. [To Christina.] Madam, for Heaven's sake, help me! 'tis yet in your power; if but, while I retire into your dining-room, you will please to personate me, and own yourself for her he pursued out of the Park: you are in mourning too, and your stature so much mine it will not contradict you.

      Chris. I am sorry, madam, I must dispute any command of yours. I have made a resolution to see the face of no man, till an unfortunate friend of mine, now out of the kingdom, return.

      Lyd. By that friend, and by the hopes you have to see him, let me conjure you to keep me from the sight of mine now. Dear madam, let your charity prevail over you superstition.

      Isa. He comes, he comes, madam! [Lydia withdraws, and stands unseen at the door.

      Enter

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