The Female Wits Part 19

_Mar._ See, my Lord, they are all struck in a Maze.

(_Exit._

L. _Whiff._ 'Tis very amazing!

_L. Whim._ Why, _Fastin_, stare you thus? Is her wickedness such News?

Go, bear her off, and let her die alone.

_La. Lov._ Do, convey me hence; for not gaping Pipes of burning Sulphur, nor grinning hideous Fiends, can jerk my Soul like that old Husband.

Fogh! how he stinks! Set him a fire with all his Chymistry about him, see how he'll blaze on his own Spirits.

_Fast._ Rage not; it wastes thy precious Life.

Mr. _Awd._ Then he loves her still.

_Mar._ Yes; what, you think him hot and cold in a quarter of an hour?

_La. Lov._ _Fastin_, farewel. Oh! thou only Youth, whom I can truly say I lov'd, for thee I'd run this mad Risque agen; for thee I die. Away, away! and let me do the work of Children in the dark. (_Exit led off._

_L. Whim._ Where's my Chariot? my Chariot of the Sun, Slaves! who has remov'd it? if it jogg'd but a Hair awry, may set me backwards ten tedious Years. But it is gone! where can it be? (_Runs up and down to look it._

_Fast._ Defeated Love! approaching Shame! Remorse and deathless Infamy!

they crowd one Breast too much: Here's to give 'em vent. (_Stabs himself._

_L. Whim._ Oh! 'tis gone! 'tis gone! my Chariot! Oh, my Chariot!

_Fast._ See, _Clemene_, see, thy Adorer comes! guiltily fond, and pressing after thee. (_Dies._

_L. Whim._ Have you all lookt below? is there no news of this inestimable Chariot?

_Serv._ No, my Lord; and here your Son is dead.

_L. Whim._ Why dost thou tell me of my Son, the blind work of Chance, the sport of Darkness, which produc'd a Monster? I've lost an Engine, the labour'd care of half a hundred Years. It is gone! _I_ shall go mad.

_Mar._ Good Mr. What-d'-call-'um, this last Speech to the highest pitch of raving.

_L. Whim._ Ha! the Sun has got it; _I_ see the glorious Tract: But _I_ will mount and yet recover it: The covetous Planet shall not dare to keep it for the use of his Paramour. Bear me, ye Winds, upon your bl.u.s.tring Wings; for _I_ am light as Air, and mad as rowling Tempests.

(_Exit_

_Mar_. Is not this pa.s.sion well exprest?

Mr. _Awd._ 'Tis indeed all mad Stuff.

_Mar._ your word neither mends nor mars it, that's one Comfort. Mr.

_Powell_, will you walk off, or be carry'd off?

Mr. _Pow._ I'll make use of my Legs, if you please, Madam. Your most humble Servant.

_Mar._ Mr. _Powell_, yours; I give you ten thousand thanks for your trouble. I hope, Mr. _Powell_, you are convinc'd this Play won't fail.

Mr. _Pow._ O Lord! Madam, impossible! (_Exit._

_Mar._ Well, sure by this Play, the Town will perceive what a woman can do. I must own, my Lord, it stomachs me sometimes, to hear young Fops cry, there's nothing like Mr. Such-a-one's Plays, and Mr. Such-a-ones Plays.

L. _Whiff._ But, Madam, I fear our excellent Entertainment's over; I think all your Actors are kill'd.

_Mar._ True, my Lord, they are most of 'em dispatch'd. But now, my Lord, comes one of my Surprizes; I make an end of my Play in the World in the Moon.

L. _Whiff._ In the World in the Moon!

Mr. _Prais._ Prodigious!

_Mar._ Scene-Men: Where the Devil are these Blockheads? Scene-Men.

_Within._) Here, here.

_Mar._ Come, one of your finest Scenes, and the very best that ye know must be, when the Emperour and Empress appear.

_Scene-Men._ How d'ye like this Madam?

_Mar._ Aye, aye, that will do.

L. _Whim._ 'Tis every thing the Stage, can afford in perfection.

Mr. _Prais._ And which no Stage in the World can equal.

_Mar._ Oh, fie! Mr. _Praisall_, you go often to _Lincoln's-Inn-Fields_.

Mr. _Prais._ I have said it, let t'other House take it how they will.

L. _Whif._ What, are these Men, or Monsters?

_Mar._ My Lord, this is very true, I'll believe the Historian, for he was there, my Lord. The World in the Moon is as fine a place as this represents; but the Inhabitants are a little shallow, and go, as you see, upon all four; now I design _Amorous_ and _Isabella_ shall bring in such a Reformation; then all the Hero's of the Moon-world shall fall in love with _Isabella_, as, you know, in _Aurenzebe_ they are all in love with _Indamora_: Oh! that's a sweet, a pretty Name; but a Duce on't, my Brother Bay's has scarce left a pretty Name for his Successors?

Mr. _Prais._ Dear Madam, are these crawling things to speak, or no?

_Mar._ Patience is a great Vertue, Mr. _Praisall_.

Mr. _Awd._ And your Spectators must exercise it, o'my Conscience.

_Mar._ Pray now, my Lord, be pleas'd to suppose this is the Emperor's Wedding-day. Musick and the Dance.

_Dance upon all Four._

SONG.

What's the whispering for?