Mr. _Prais._ Suppose you lay it in _Holland_, I think we have most of our Oranges, and Lemons from thence.

Mr. _Aw'dw._ Well said Geographer.

_Mar._ No, no, it must be some where in _Italy_. Peace! They are coming.

_Enter_ Fastin, _and_ Isabella _attended_.

Attendance, don't tread upon their Backs, keep at an awful Distance there; so upon my Train! Ah thou Blockhead, thou art as fit for a Throne, as a Stage.

_Fas._ Shall I speak, Madam.

_Mar._ Ay, dear Mr. _Powell_, soon as you please.

_Fas._ Wellcome, dear _Isabella_, to this peaceful Seat of all my Father's Mansions, this is his Choice, this surrounded by these melancholly Groves, it suits his Philosophick Temper best; yet Fame reports, he has so long given his--Studies truce, as to wed a Young and beauteous Bride.

Mr. _Prais._ Why, Madam, had my Lady _Loveall_ never seen this Spark?

_Mar._ No, no; but she had heard of him, and that's all one.--Don't ask a Question just when People are a speaking, good Mr. _Praiseall_.

Mr. _Prais._ I beg your Pardon.

_Mar._ Pish! Come Mrs. _Cross_.

_Isabella._ Close by there, is an Orange Grove dark as my Thoughts, yet in that Darkness lovely; there my Lord, with your leave, I'd walk.

_Fas._ Your Pleasure shall be mine.

_Mar._ Lead her to the side Scene, Mr. _Powell_, now come back again.

_Fas._ To desire and love to walk alone, shews her Thoughts entertain and please her more than I, that's not so well.

_Mar._ Mark! He is beginning to be jealous: Now comes _Betty_, and I dare be bold to say, here's a Scene excells _Jago_, and the _Moor_.

Mr. _Prais._ Come, dear Mrs. _Betty Useful_! Oh! She's my Heart's Delight!

_Enter_ Betty Useful.

_Fas._ What Fair Nymph is this?

_Betty._ From the bright Partner of your Fathers Bed, too sweet a Blossome, ala.s.s, to hang on such a wither'd Tree, whose sapless Trunck affords no Nourishment to keep her Fresh and Fair! From her I come to you, and charming _Isabella_, But where is that Lady? Can you be separate? Can any thing divide her from your fond Eyes.

_Mar._ Now she begins.

_Fas._ By her own desire, she chooses Solitudes, and private Walks, flies these faithful Arms; or if she meets 'em, Cold and Clammy as the Damp of Death her Lips still joyn my Longings.

_Betty._ Cold Sweats, Privacies and lonely Hours, all Signs of strong Aversion: Oh had your Fate but thrown you on my Lady, her very Eyes had rais'd your Pa.s.sion up to Madness.

_Fas._ Thou hast already kindled Madness here; Jealousie that unextinguish'd Fire, that with the smallest Fuel burns, is blazing round my Heart. Oh! Courteous Maid, go on! Inform me if my Love is false.

_Betty._ As yet, I cannot, the Office is ungrateful; but for your sake, I'll undertake it.

_Fas._ Do, and command me ever.

_Betty._ The Fair _Clemene_.

_Fas._ My Mother, do you mean?

_Betty._ Call her not so, unless you break her Heart: A Thousand tender Names all Day and Night she gives you, but you can never scape her Lips, her Curtains by me drawn wide, discover your goodly Figure, each Morn the Idol's brought, eagerly she prints the dead Colours, throws her tawny Arms abroad, and vainly hopes kisses so Divine, wou'd inspire the painted Nothing, and mould into Man.

_Mar._ Is not this moving, Mr. _Powell_?

_Prais._ Ay, and melting too, I Gad, wou'd I was the Picture for her sake.

_Fas._ What's this I hear?

_Prais._ Nay, no harm, Sir.

_Mar._ Fie! Mr. _Praiseall_! Let your ill-tim'd Jests alone.

_Prais._ I ha' done, I ha' done.

_Mars._ Mr. _Powell_, be pleas'd to go on.

_Fas._ What's this I hear?

_Betty._ Her own Picture, which sure she sees by Sympathy, you'll entertain by me, she prays you to accept.

[_Gives the Picture._

_Mar._ Now, dear Mr. _Powell_, let me have the pleasure to hear you rave. Oh_!_ Mr. _Praiseall_, this Speech, I die upon this Speech!

Mr. _Prais._ Wou'd we cou'd hear it, Madam, I am preparing to clap.

_Fas._ What's this thou hast given me? There's more than Necromantick Charms in every bewitching Line, my trembling Nerves are in their Infancy; I am cold as Ice!

_Mar._ Ay, ay, Love comes just like an Ague Fit.

_Fas._ What alteration here? Now I am all on Fire! _Alcides_ Shirt sticks close; Fire, incestious Fire, I blaze! I burn! I Rost! I Fry!

Fire! Fire! [_Exit._

_Betty._ And my Lady will bring Water, Water, ha, ha, ha.

_Mar._ Laugh heartily, Mrs. _Betty_, go off Laughing.

_Betty._ Ha, ha, ha! [_Exit._

_Mar._ So, Mr. _Praiseall_, here's a difficult matter brought about with much ease.

_Prais._ Yes, Faith Madam, so there is; the young Gentleman made no great Scruple to fall in Love with his Mother-in-Law.