A Chamber.
Enter Elaria and Mopsophil.
I.
A Curse upon that faithless Maid,
Who first her Sex’s Liberty betray’d;
Born free as Man to Love and Range,
Till nobler Nature did to Custom change,
Custom, that dull excuse for Fools,
Who think all Virtue to consist in Rules.
II.
From Love our Fetters never sprung;
That smiling God, all wanton, gay and young,
Shows by his Wings he cannot be
Confined to a restless Slavery;
But here and there at random roves,
Not fix’d to glittering Courts, or shady Groves.
III.
Then she that Constancy profess’d
Was but a well Dissembler at the best;
And that imaginary Sway
She feign’d to give, in seeming to obey,
Was but the height of prudent Art,
To deal with greater liberty her Heart.
[After the Song Elaria gives her Lute to Mopsophil.
Ela. This does not divert me; Nor nothing will, till Scaramouch return, And bring me News of Cinthio.
Mop. Truly I was so sleepy last Night, I know nothing of the Adventure, for which you are kept so close a Prisoner to day, and more strictly guarded than usual.
Ela. Cinthio came with Musick last Night under my Window, which my Father hearing, sallied out with his Mirmidons upon him; and clashing of Swords I heard, but what hurt was done, or whether Cinthio were discovered to him, I know not; but the Billet I sent him now by Scaramouch will occasion me soon Intelligence.
Mop. And see, Madam, where your trusty Roger comes.
Enter Scaramouch, peeping on all sides before he enters.
You may advance, and fear none but your Friends.
Scar. Away, and keep the door.
Ela. Oh, dear Scaramouch! hast thou been at the Vice-Roy’s?
Scar. Yes, yes. [In heat.
Ela. And hast thou delivered my Letter to his Nephew, Don Cinthio?
Scar. Yes, yes, what should I deliver else?
Ela. Well — and how does he?
Scar. Lord, how should he do? Why, what a laborious thing it is to be a Pimp? [Fanning himself with his Cap.
Ela. Why, well he shou’d do.
Scar. So he is, as well as a Night-adventuring Lover can be, — he has got but one Wound, Madam.
Ela. How! wounded say you? Oh Heavens! ’tis not mortal.
Scar. Why, I have no great skill; but they say it may be dangerous.
Ela. I die with Fear, where is he wounded?
Scar. Why, Madam, he is run — quite through the Heart, — but the Man may live, if I please.
Ela. Thou please! torment me not with Riddles.
Scar. Why, Madam, there is a certain cordial Balsam, call’d a Fair Lady; which outwardly applied to his Bosom, will prove a better cure than all your Weapon or sympathetick Powder, meaning your Ladyship.
Ela. Is Cinthio then not wounded?
Scar. No otherwise than by your fair Eyes, Madam; he got away unseen and unknown.
Ela. Dost know how precious time is, and dost thou fool it away thus? What said he to my Letter?
Scar. What should he say?
Ela. Why, a hundred dear soft things of Love, kiss it as often, and bless me for my Goodness.
Scar. Why, so he did.
Ela. Ask thee a thousand Questions of my Health after my last night’s fright.
Scar. So he did.
Ela. Expressing all the kind concern Love cou’d inspire, for the Punishment my Father has inflicted on me, for entertaining him at my Window last night.
Scar. All this he did.
Ela. And for my being confin’d a Prisoner to my Apartment, without the hope or almost possibility of seeing him any more.
Scar. There I think you are a little mistaken; for besides the Plot that I have laid to bring you together all this Night, — there are such Stratagems a brewing, not only to bring you together, but with your Father’s consent too; such a Plot, Madam —
Ela. Ay, that would be worthy of thy Brain; prithee what? —
Scar. Such a Device —
Ela. I’m impatient.
Scar. Such a Conundrum, — Well, if there be wise Men and Conjurers in the World, they are intriguing Lovers.
Ela. Out with it.
Scar. You must know, Madam, your Father (my Master, the Doctor) is a little whimsical, romantick, or Don-Quicksottish, or so.
Ela. Or rather mad.
Scar. That were uncivil to be supposed by me; but lunatic we may call him, without breaking the Decorum of good Manners; for he is always travelling to the Moon.
Ela. And so religiously believes there is a World there, that he Discourses as gravely of the People, their Government, Institutions, Laws, Manners, Religion, and Constitution, as if he had been bred a Machiavel there.
Scar. How came he thus infected first?
Ela. With reading foolish Books, Lucian’s Dialogue of the Lofty Traveller, who flew up to the Moon, and thence to Heaven; an heroick Business, call’d The Man in the Moon, if you’ll believe a Spaniard, who was carried thither, upon an Engine drawn by wild Geese; with another Philosophical Piece, A Discourse of the World in the Moon; with a thousand other ridiculous Volumes, too hard to name.
Scar. Ay, this reading of Books is a pernicious thing. I was like to have run mad once, reading Sir John Mandevil; — but to the business, — I went, as you know, to Don Cinthio’s Lodgings, where I found him with his dear Friend Charmante, laying their Heads together for a Farce.
Ela. Farce!
Scar. Ay, a Farce, which shall be call’d, — The World in the Moon: Wherein your Father shall be so impos’d on, as shall bring matters most magnificently about.
Ela. I cannot conceive thee, but the Design must be good, since Cinthio and Charmante own it.
Scar. In order to this, Charmante is dressing himself like one of the Caballists of the Rosycrusian Order, and is coming to prepare my credulous Master for the greater Imposition. I have his Trinkets here to play upon him, which shall be ready.
Ela. But the Farce, where is it to be acted?
Scar. Here, here, in this very House; I am to order the Decorations, adorn a Stage, and place Scenes proper.
Ela. How can this be done without my Father’s Knowledge?
Scar. You know the old Apartment next the great Orchard, and the Worm-eaten Gallery that opens to the River; which place for several Years no body has frequented; there all things shall be acted proper for our purpose.
Enter Mopsophil running.
Mop. Run, run, Scaramouch, my Master’s conjuring for you like mad below, he calls up all his little Devils with horrid Names, his Microscope, his Horoscope, his Telescope, and all his Scopes.
Scar. Here, here, — I had almost forgot the Letters; here’s one for you, and one for Mrs. Bellemante. [Runs out.
Enter Bellemante with a Book.
Bell. Here, take my Prayer-Book, Oh Ma tres chère. [Embraces her.
Ela. Thy Eyes are always laughing, Bellemante.
Bell. And so would yours, had they been so well employ’d as mine, this morning. I have been at the Chapel, and seen so many Beaus, such a number of Plumeys, I cou’d not tell which I should look on most; sometimes my Heart was charm’d with the gay Blonding, then with the melancholy Noire, anon the amiable Brunet; sometimes the bashful, then again the bold; the little now, anon the lovely tall: In fine, my Dear, I was embarass’d on all sides, I did nothing but deal my Heart tout autour.
Ela. Oh, there was then no danger, Cousin.
Bell. No, but abundance of pleasure.
Ela. Why, this is better than sighing for Charmante.
Bell. That’s when he’s present only, and makes his Court to me; I can sigh to a Lover, but will never sigh after him: — but Oh, the Beaus, the Beaus, Cousin, that I saw at Church.
Ela. Oh, you had great devotion to Heaven then!
Bell. And so I had; for I did nothing but admire its Handy-work, but I cou’d not have pray’d heartily, if I had been dying; but a duce on’t, who shou’d come in and spoil all but my Lover Charmante, so dress’d, so gallant, that he drew together all the scatter’d fragments of my Heart, confin’d my wandering Thoughts, and fixt ‘em all on him: Oh, how he look’d, how he was dress’d!
SINGS.
Chevalier à Cheveux blonds, Plus de Mouche, plus de Poudre, Plus de Ribons et Cannons.
— Oh, what a dear ravishing thing is the beginning of an Amour!
Ela. Thou’rt still in Tune, when wilt thou be tame, Bellemante?
Bell. When I am weary of loving, Elaria.
Ela. To keep up your Humour, here’s a Letter from your Charmante.
Bellemante reads.
Malicious Creature, when wilt thou cease to torment
me, and either appear less charming, or more kind? I languish
when from you, and am wounded when I see you, and yet I am
eternally courting my Pain. Cinthio and I, are contriving
how we shall see you to Night. Let us not toil in vain; we
ask but your consent; the Pleasure will be all ours, ’tis therefore
fit we suffer all the Fatigue. Grant this, and love me, if you
will save the Life of
Your Charmante.
— Live then, Charmante! Live as long as Love can last!
Ela. Well, Cousin, Scaramouch tells me of a rare design’s a hatching, to relieve us from this Captivity; here are we mew’d up to be espous’d to two Moon-calfs for ought I know; for the Devil of any human thing is suffer’d to come near us without our Governante and Keeper, Mr. Scaramouch.
Bell. Who, if he had no more Honesty and Conscience than my Uncle, wou’d let us pine for want of Lovers: but thanks be prais’d, the Generosity of our Cavaliers has open’d their obdurate Hearts with a Golden Key, that lets ‘em in at all Opportunities. Come, come, let’s in, and answer their Billet-Doux.
[Exeunt.