The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Ii Part 64

Sir _Char_. Who, you! yes, you.

Why are those Eyes drest in inviting Love?

Those soft bewitching Smiles, those rising b.r.e.a.s.t.s, And all those Charms that make you so adorable, Is't not to draw Fools into Matrimony?

Sir _Anth_. How's that, how's that! _Charles_ at his Adorables and Charms! He must have t'other Health, he'll fall to his old Dog-trot again else. Come, come, every man his Gla.s.s; Sir Timothy, you are six behind: Come, come, _Charles_, name 'em all.

[_Each take a Gla.s.s, and force Sir_ Tim. _on his knees_.

Sir _Char_.--Not bate ye an Ace, Sir. Come, his Majesty's Health, and Confusion to his Enemies.

[_They go to force his Mouth open to drink_.

Sir _Tim_. Hold, Sir, hold, if I must drink, I must; but this is very arbitrary, methinks.

[_Drinks_.

Sir _Anth_. And now, Sir, to the Royal Duke of Albany. Musick, play a Scotch Jig.

[_Music plays, they drink_.

Sir _Tim_. This is mere Tyranny.

_Enter_ Jervice.

_Jer_. Sir, there is alighted at the Gate a Person of Quality, as appears by his Train, who give him the t.i.tle of a Lord.

Sir _Tim_. How, a strange Lord! Conduct him up with Ceremony, _Jervice_-- 'Ods so, he's here!

_Enter_ Wilding _in disguise_, Dresswell, _and Footmen and Pages_.

_Wild_. Sir, by your Reverend Aspect, you shou'd be the renown'd Mester de Hotel.

Sir _Tim_. Mater de Otell! I have not the Honour to know any of that Name, I am call'd Sir _Timothy Treat-all_.

[_Bowing_.

_Wild_. The same, Sir; I have been bred abroad, and thought all Persons of Quality had spoke French.

Sir _Tim_. Not City Persons of Quality, my Lord.

_Wild_. I'm glad on't, Sir; for 'tis a Nation I hate, as indeed I do all Monarchies.

Sir _Tim_. Hum! hate Monarchy! Your Lords.h.i.+p is most welcome.

[_Bows_.

_Wild_. Unless Elective Monarchies, which so resemble a Commonwealth.

Sir _Tim_. Right, my Lord; where every Man may hope to take his turn-- Your Lords.h.i.+p is most singularly welcome.

[_Bows low_.

_Wild_. And though I am a Stranger to your Person, I am not to your Fame, amongst the sober Party of the Amsterdamians, all the French Hugonots throughout Geneva; even to Hungary and Poland, Fame's Trumpet sounds your Praise, making the Pope to fear, the rest admire you.

Sir _Anth_. I'm much oblig'd to the renowned Mobile.

_Wild_. So you will say, when you shall hear my Emba.s.sy. The Polanders by me salute you, Sir, and have in this next new Election p.r.i.c.k'd ye down for their succeeding King.

Sir _Tim_. How, my Lord, p.r.i.c.k'd me down for a King! Why, this is wonderful! p.r.i.c.k'd me, unworthy me down for a King! How cou'd I merit this amazing Glory!

_Wild_. They know, he that can be so great a Patriot to his Native Country, where but a private Person, what must he be when Power is on his side?

Sir _Tim_. Ay, my Lord, my Country, my bleeding Country! there's the stop to all my rising Greatness. Shall I be so ungrateful to disappoint this big expecting Nation? defeat the sober Party, and my Neighbours, for any Polish Crown? But yet, my Lord, I will consider on't: Mean time my House is yours.

_Wild_. I've brought you, Sir, the Measure of the Crown: Ha, it fits you to a Hair.

[_Pulls out a Ribband, measures his Head_.

You were by Heav'n and Nature fram'd that Monarch.

Sir _Anth_. Hah, at it again!

[_Sir_ Charles _making sober Love_.

Come, we grow dull, _Charles_; where stands the Gla.s.s?

What, balk my Lady _Galliard's_ Health!

[_They go to drink_.

_Wild_. Hah, _Galliard_--and so sweet on Meriwill! [_Aside_.

L. _Gal_. If it be your business, Sir, to drink, I'll withdraw.

Sir _Char_. Gad, and I'll withdraw with you, Widow. Hark ye, Lady _Galliard_, I am d.a.m.nably afraid you cannot bear Liquor well, you are so forward to leave good Company and a Bottle.

Sir _Tim_. Well, Gentlemen, since I have done what I never do, to oblige you, I hope you will not refuse a Health of my Denomination.

Sir _Anth_. We scorn to be so uncivil.

[_All take the Gla.s.ses_.

Sir _Tim_. Why then here's a conceal'd Health that shall be nameless, to his Grace the King of Poland.

Sir _Char_. King of Poland! Lord, Lord, how your Thoughts ramble!

Sir _Tim_. Not so far as you imagine; I know what I say, Sir.

Sir _Char_. Away with it. [_Drink all_.

_Wild_. I see, Sir, you still keep up that English Hospitality that so renowned our Ancestors in History.

[_Looking on L_. Gal.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, my Lord, my n.o.ble Guests are my Wife and Children.

_Wild_. Are you not married, then? Death, she smiles on him.

[_Aside_.

Sir _Tim_. I had a Wife, but rest her Soul, she's dead; and I have no Plague left now but an ungracious Nephew, perverted with ill Customs, Tantivy Opinions, and Court-Notions.

_Wild_. Cannot your pious Examples convert him? By Heaven, she's fond of him! [_Aside_.

Sir _Tim_. Alas, I have try'd all ways, fair and foul; nay, had settled t'other Day my whole Estate upon him, and just as I had sign'd the Writings, out comes me a d.a.m.n'd Libel, call'd, A Warning to all good Christians against the City-Magistrates; and I doubt he had a Hand in Absalom and Achitophel, a Rogue. But some of our sober Party have claw'd him home, i' faith, and given him Rhyme for his Reason.