BELL. O brute, the drudgery of loving!

HEART. Ay! Why, to come to love through all these inc.u.mbrances is like coming to an estate overcharged with debts, which, by the time you have paid, yields no further profit than what the bare tillage and manuring of the land will produce at the expense of your own sweat.

BELL. Prithee, how dost thou love?

SHARP. He! He hates the s.e.x.

HEART. So I hate physic too--yet I may love to take it for my health.

BELL. Well come off, George, if at any time you should be taken straying.

SHARP. He has need of such an excuse, considering the present state of his body.

HEART. How d'ye mean?

SHARP. Why, if whoring be purging, as you call it, then, I may say, marriage is entering into a course of physic.

BELL. How, George! Does the wind blow there?

HEART. It will as soon blow north and by south--marry, quotha! I hope in heaven I have a greater portion of grace, and I think I have baited too many of those traps to be caught in one myself.

BELL. Who the devil would have thee? unless 'twere an oysterwoman to propagate young fry for Billingsgate--thy talent will never recommend thee to anything of better quality.

HEART. My talent is chiefly that of speaking truth, which I don't expect should ever recommend me to people of quality. I thank heaven I have very honestly purchased the hatred of all the great families in town.

SHARP. And you in return of spleen hate them. But could you hope to be received into the alliance of a n.o.ble family--

HEART. No; I hope I shall never merit that affliction, to be punished with a wife of birth, be a stag of the first head and bear my horns aloft, like one of the supporters of my wife's coat. S'death I would not be a Cuckold to e'er an ill.u.s.trious wh.o.r.e in England.

BELL. What, not to make your family, man and provide for your children?

SHARP. For her children, you mean.

HEART. Ay, there you've nicked it. There's the devil upon devil. Oh, the pride and joy of heart 'twould be to me to have my son and heir resemble such a duke; to have a fleering c.o.xcomb scoff and cry, 'Mr. your son's mighty like his Grace, has just his smile and air of's face.' Then replies another, 'Methinks he has more of the Marquess of such a place about his nose and eyes, though he has my Lord what-d'ye-call's mouth to a t.i.ttle.' Then I, to put it off as unconcerned, come chuck the infant under the chin, force a smile, and cry, 'Ay, the boy takes after his mother's relations,' when the devil and she knows 'tis a little compound of the whole body of n.o.bility.

BELL+SHARP. Ha, ha, ha!

BELL. Well, but, George, I have one question to ask you--

HEART. Pshaw, I have prattled away my time. I hope you are in no haste for an answer, for I shan't stay now. [_Looking on his watch_.]

BELL. Nay, prithee, George--

HEART. No; besides my business, I see a fool coming this way. Adieu.

SCENE V.

SHARPER, BELLMOUR.

BELL. What does he mean? Oh, 'tis Sir Joseph Wittoll with his friend; but I see he has turned the corner and goes another way.

SHARP. What in the name of wonder is it?

BELL. Why, a fool.

SHARP. 'Tis a tawdry outside.

BELL. And a very beggarly lining--yet he may be worth your acquaintance; a little of thy chymistry, Tom, may extract gold from that dirt.

SHARP. Say you so? 'Faith I am as poor as a chymist, and would be as industrious. But what was he that followed him? Is not he a dragon that watches those golden pippins?

BELL. Hang him, no, he a dragon! If he be, 'tis a very peaceful one. I can ensure his anger dormant; or should he seem to rouse, 'tis but well lashing him, and he will sleep like a top.

SHARP. Ay, is he of that kidney?

BELL. Yet is adored by that bigot, Sir Joseph Wittoll, as the image of valour. He calls him his back, and indeed they are never asunder--yet, last night, I know not by what mischance, the knight was alone, and had fallen into the hands of some night-walkers, who, I suppose, would have pillaged him. But I chanced to come by and rescued him, though I believe he was heartily frightened; for as soon as ever he was loose, he ran away without staying to see who had helped him.

SHARP. Is that bully of his in the army?

BELL. No; but is a pretender, and wears the habit of a soldier, which nowadays as often cloaks cowardice, as a black gown does atheism. You must know he has been abroad--went purely to run away from a campaign; enriched himself with the plunder of a few oaths, and here vents them against the general, who, slighting men of merit, and preferring only those of interest, has made him quit the service.

SHARP. Wherein no doubt he magnifies his own performance.

BELL. Speaks miracles, is the drum to his own praise--the only implement of a soldier he resembles, like that, being full of bl.u.s.tering noise and emptiness--

SHARP. And like that, of no use but to be beaten.

BELL. Right; but then the comparison breaks, for he will take a drubbing with as little noise as a pulpit cushion.

SHARP. His name, and I have done?

BELL. Why, that, to pa.s.s it current too, he has gilded with a t.i.tle: he is called Capt. Bluffe.

SHARP. Well, I'll endeavour his acquaintance--you steer another course, are bound--

For love's island: I, for the golden coast.

May each succeed in what he wishes most.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SIR JOSEPH WITTOLL, SHARPER _following_.