The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Iv Part 21

_Rog._ Truly nay, Sir, for Mr. _Gogle_ has taken too much of the Creature this Morning, and is not in case, Sir.

Sir _Pat._ How mean you, Sirrah, that Mr. _Gogle_ is overtaken with Drink?

_Rog._ Nay, Sir, he hath over-eaten himself at Breakfast only.

Sir _Pat._ Alas, and that's soon done, for he hath a sickly Stomach as well as I, poor Man. Where is _Bartholomew_ the Clerk? he must hold forth then to day.

_Rog._ Verily he is also disabled: for going forth last Night by your Commandment to smite the Wicked, he received a blow over the _Pericranium_.--

Sir _Pat._ Why, how now, Sirrah, Latin! the Language of the Beast!

hah--and what then, Sir?

_Rog._ Which Blow, I doubt, Sir, hath spoil'd both his Praying and his Eating.

Sir _Pat._ Hah! What a Family's here? no Prayer to day!

Enter _Nurse_ and _f.a.n.n.y_.

_Nurs._ Nay verily it shall all out, I will be no more the dark Lanthorn to the deeds of Darkness.

Sir _Pat._ What's the matter here? [Exit _Roger_.

_Nurs._ Sir, this young Sinner has long been privy to all the daily and nightly meetings between Mr. _Lodwick_ and _Isabella_; and just now I took her tying a Letter to a String in the Garden, which he drew up to his Window: and I have born it till my Conscience will bear it no longer.

Sir _Pat._ Hah, so young a Baud!--Tell me, Minion--private meeting! tell me truth, I charge ye, when? where? how? and how often? Oh, she's debauch'd!--her Reputation ruin'd, and she'll need a double Portion.

Come, tell me truth, for this little Finger here has told me all.

_Fan._ Oh Geminy, Sir, then that little Finger's the hougesest great Lyer as ever was.

Sir _Pat._ Huzzy, huzzy--I will have thee whip'd most unmercifully: Nurse, fetch me the Rod.

_Fan._ Oh, pardon me, Sir, this one time, and I'll tell all.

[Kneels.

--Sir--I have seen him in the Garden, but not very often.

Sir _Pat._ Often! Oh, my Family's dishonoured. Tell me truly what he us'd to do there, or I will have thee whipt without cessation. Oh, I'm in a cold Sweat; there's my fine Maid, was he with her long?

_Fan._ Long enough.

Sir _Pat._ Long enough!--oh, 'tis so, long enough,--for what, hah? my dainty Miss, tell me, and didst thou leave 'em?

_Fan._ They us'd to send me to gather Flowers to make Nosegays, Sir.

Sir _Pat._ Ah, Demonstration; 'tis evident if they were left alone that they were naught, I know't.--And where were they the while? in the close Arbour?--Ay, ay--I will have it cut down, it is the Pent-house of Iniquity, the very Coverlid of Sin.

_Fan._ No, Sir, they sat on the Primrose Bank.

Sir _Pat._ What, did they sit all the while, or stand--or--lie--or--oh, how was't?

_Fan._ They only sat indeed, Sir Father.

Sir _Pat._ And thou didst not hear a Word they said all the while?

_Fan._ Yes, I did, Sir, and the Man talk'd a great deal of this, and of that, and of t'other, and all the while threw Jessamine in her Bosom.

Sir _Pat._ Well said, and did he nothing else?

_Fan._ No, indeed, Sir Father, nothing.

Sir _Pat._ But what did she say to the Man again?

_Fan._ She said, let me see.--Ay, she said, Lord, you'll forget your self, and stay till somebody catch us.

Sir _Pat._ Ah, very fine,--then what said he?

_Fan._ Then he said, Well if I must be gone, let me leave thee with this hearty Curse, A Pox take thee all over for making me love thee so confoundedly.

Sir _Pat._ Oh horrible!

_Fan._ --Oh, I cou'd live here for ever,--that was when he kist her--her Hand only. Are you not a d.a.m.n'd Woman for making so fond a Puppy of me?

Sir _Pat._ Oh unheard-of Wickedness!

_Fan._ Wou'd the Devil had thee, and all thy Family, e'er I had seen thy cursed Face.

Sir _Pat._ Oh, I'll hear no more, I'll hear no more!--why, what a blasphemous Wretch is this?

_Fan._ Pray, Sir Father, do not tell my Sister of this, she'll be horribly angry with me.

Sir _Pat._ No, no, get you gone.--Oh, I am Heart-sick--I'll up and consult with my Lady what's fit to be done in this Affair. Oh, never was the like heard of.-- [Goes out, _f.a.n.n.y_ and _Nurse_ go the other way.

SCENE IV. _The Lady _Fancy's_ Bed-Chamber; she's discover'd with _Wittmore_ in disorder. A Table, Sword, and Hat._

_Maun._ [Entering.] O Madam, Sir _Patient's_ coming up.

L. _Fan._ Coming up, say you!

_Maun._ He's almost on the top of the Stairs, Madam.

_Wit._ What shall I do?

L. _Fan._ Oh, d.a.m.n him, I know not; if he see thee here after my pretended Illness, he must needs discover why I feign'd.--I have no excuse ready,--this Chamber's unlucky, there's no avoiding him; here--step behind the Bed; perhaps he has only forgot his Psalm-Book and will not stay long.

[_Wittmore_ runs behind the Bed.

Enter Sir _Patient_.

Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh, pardon this Interruption, my Lady _Fancy_--Oh, I am half killed, my Daughter, my Honour--my Daughter, my Reputation.