LITMIR.BIZ

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your worship may please to make 'em remove to a place fit to receive one of your worship's quality; for this is a little scandalous, in truly.

      Gripe. No, no; I like it well enough:—I am not dainty. Besides, privacy, privacy, Mrs. Joyner! I love privacy in opposition to the wicked, who hate it. [Looks about.

      Mrs. Joyn. What do you look for, sir?

      Gripe. Walls have ears; but, besides, I look for a private place to retire to, in time of need. Oh! here's one convenient. [Turns up a hanging, and discovers the slender provisions of the family.]

      Mrs. Joyn. But you see, poor innocent souls, to what use they put it;—not to hide gallants.

      Gripe. Temperance is the nurse of chastity.

      Mrs. Joyn. But your worship may please to mend their fare; and, when you come, may make them entertain you better than, you see, they do themselves.

      Gripe. No, I am not dainty, as I told you. I abominate entertainments;—no entertainments, pray, Mrs. Joyner.

      Mrs. Joyn. No! [Aside.

      Gripe. There can be no entertainment to me more luscious and savoury than communion with that little gentlewoman.—Will you call her out? I fast till I see her.

      Mrs. Joyn. But, in truly, your worship, we should have brought a bottle or two of Rhenish and some Naples biscuit, to have entertained the young gentlewoman. 'Tis the mode for lovers to treat their mistresses.

      Gripe. Modes! I tell you, Mrs. Joyner, I hate modes and forms.

      Mrs. Joyn. You must send for something to entertain her with.

      Gripe. Again entertaining!—we will be to each other a feast.

      Mrs. Joyn. I shall be ashamed, in truly, your worship.—Besides, the young gentlewoman will despise you.

      Gripe. I shall content her, I warrant you; leave it to me.

      Mrs. Joyn. [Aside.] I am sure you will not content me, if you will not content her; 'tis as impossible for a man to love and be a miser, as to love and be wise, as they say.

      Gripe. While you talk of treats, you starve my eyes; I long to see the fair one; fetch her hither.

      Mrs. Joyn. I am ashamed she should find me so abominable a liar; I have so praised you to her, and, above all your virtues, your liberality; which is so great a virtue, that it often excuses youth, beauty, courage, wit, or anything.

      Gripe. Pish, pish! 'tis the virtue of fools; every fool can have it.

      Mrs. Joyn. And will your worship want it, then? I told her—

      Gripe. Why would you tell her anything of me? you know I am a modest man. But come, if you will have me as extravagant as the wicked, take that and fetch us a treat, as you call it.

      Mrs. Joyn. Upon my life a groat! what will this purchase?

      Gripe. Two black pots of ale and a cake, at the cellar.—Come, the wine has arsenic in't.

      Mrs. Joyn. [Aside.] Well, I am mistaken, and my hopes are abused: I never knew any man so mortified a miser, that he would deny his lechery anything; I must be even with thee then another way. [Exit.

      Gripe. These useful old women are more exorbitant and craving in their desires than the young ones in theirs. These prodigals in white perukes spoil 'em both; and that's the reason, when the squires come under my clutches, I make 'em pay for their folly and mine, and 'tis but conscience:—oh, here comes the fair one at last!

      Re-enter Mrs. Joyner leading in Lucy, who hangs backwards as she enters.

      Lucy. Oh Lord, there's a man, godmother!

      Mrs. Joyn. Come in, child, thou art so bashful—

      Lucy. My mother is from home too, I dare not.

      Mrs. Joyn. If she were here, she'd teach you better manners.

      Lucy. I'm afraid she'd be angry.

      Mrs. Joyn. To see you so much an ass.—Come along, I say.

      Gripe. Nay, speak to her gently; if you won't, I will.

      Lucy. Thank you, sir.

      Gripe. Pretty innocent! there is, I see, one left of her age; what hap have I! Sweet little gentlewoman, come sit down by me.

      Lucy. I am better bred, I hope, sir.

      Gripe. You must sit down by me.

      Lucy. I'd rather stand, if you please.

      Gripe. To please me, you must sit, sweetest.

      Lucy. Not before my godmother, sure.

      Gripe. Wonderment of innocence!

      Mrs. Joyn. A poor bashful girl, sir: I'm sorry she is not better taught.

      Gripe. I am glad she is not taught; I'll teach her myself.

      Lucy. Are you a dancing-master then, sir? But if I should be dull, and not move as you would have me, you would not beat me, sir, I hope?

      Gripe. Beat thee, honeysuckle! I'll use thee thus, and thus, and thus. [Kisses her.] Ah, Mrs. Joyner, prithee go fetch our treat now.

      Mrs. Joyn. A treat of a groat! I will not wag.

      Gripe. Why don't you go? Here, take more money, and fetch what you will; take here, half-a-crown.

      Mrs. Joyn. What will half-a-crown do?

      Gripe. Take a crown then, an angel, a piece;[43]—begone!

      Mrs. Joyn. A treat only will not serve my turn; I must buy the poor wretch there some toys.

      Gripe. What toys? what? speak quickly.

      Mrs. Joyn. Pendants, necklaces, fans, ribbons, points, laces, stockings, gloves—

      Gripe. Hold, hold! before it comes to a gown.

      Mrs. Joyn. Well remembered, sir; indeed she wants a gown, for she has but that one to her back. For your own sake you should give her a new gown, for variety of dresses rouses desire, and makes an old mistress seem every day a new one.

      Gripe. For that reason she shall have no new gown; for I am naturally constant, and as I am still the same, I love she should be still the same. But here, take half a piece for the other things.

      Mrs. Joyn. Half a piece!—

      Gripe. Prithee, begone!—take t'other piece then—two pieces—three pieces—five! here, 'tis all I have.

      Mrs. Joyn. I must have the broad-seal ring too, or I stir not.

      Gripe. Insatiable woman! will you have that too! Prithee spare me that, 'twas my grandfather's.

      Mrs. Joyn. That's false, he had ne'er a coat.—So! now I go; this is but a violent fit, and will not hold. [Aside.

      Lucy. Oh! whither do you go, godmother? will you leave me alone?

      Mrs. Joyn. The gentleman will not hurt you; you may venture yourself with him alone.

      Lucy. I think I may, godmother.—[Exit Mrs. Joyner.] What! will you lock me in, sir? don't lock me in, sir. [Gripe, fumbling at the door, locks it.

      Gripe. 'Tis a private lesson, I must teach you, fair.

      Lucy. I don't see your fiddle, sir; where is your little kit?

      Gripe.

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