Volume I Part 45 (2/2)
_Aria._ As ill as the Man-- I perceive you have taken more care for your Perriwig than your Bride.
_Beau._ And with reason, _Ariadne_, the Bride was never the care of the Lover, but the business of the Parents; 'tis a serious Affair, and ought to be manag'd by the grave and wise: Thy Mother and my Uncle have agreed the Matter, and would it not look very sillily in me now to whine a tedious Tale of Love in your Ear, when the business is at an end? 'tis like saying a Grace when a Man should give Thanks.
_Aria._ Why did you not begin sooner then?
_Beau._ Faith, _Ariadne_, because I know nothing of the Design in hand; had I had civil warning, thou shouldst have had as pretty smart Speeches from me, as any c.o.xcomb Lover of 'em all could have made thee.
_Aria._ I shall never marry like a _Jew_ in my own Tribe; I'll rather be possest by honest old doating Age, than by saucy conceited Youth, whose Inconstancy never leaves a Woman safe or quiet.
_Beau._ You know the Proverb of the half Loaf, _Ariadne_; a Husband that will deal thee some Love is better than one who can give thee none: you would have a blessed time on't with old Father _Carlo_.
_Aria._ No matter, a Woman may with some lawful excuse cuckold him, and 'twould be scarce a Sin.
_Beau._ Not so much as lying with him, whose reverend Age wou'd make it look like Incest.
_Aria._ But to marry thee-- would be a Tyranny from whence there's no Appeal: A drinking whoring Husband! 'tis the Devil--
_Beau._ You are deceiv'd, if you think Don _Carlo_ more chaste than I; only duller, and more a Miser, one that fears his Flesh more, and loves his Money better.-- Then to be condemn'd to lie with him-- oh, who would not rejoice to meet a Woollen-Waistcoat, and knit Night-Cap without a Lining, a s.h.i.+rt so nasty, a cleanly Ghost would not appear in't at the latter Day? then the compound of nasty Smells about him, stinking Breath, Mustachoes stuft with villainous snush, Tobacco, and hollow Teeth: thus prepar'd for Delight, you meet in Bed, where you may lie and sigh whole Nights away, he snores it out till Morning, and then rises to his sordid business.
_Aria._ All this frights me not: 'tis still much better than a keeping Husband, whom neither Beauty nor Honour in a Wife can oblige.
_Beau._ Oh, you know not the good-nature of a Man of Wit, at least I shall bear a Conscience, and do thee reason, which Heaven denies to old _Carlo_, were he willing.
_Aria._ Oh, he talks as high, and thinks as well of himself as any young c.o.xcomb of ye all.
_Beau._ He has reason, for if his Faith were no better than his Works, he'd be d.a.m.n'd.
_Aria._ Death, who wou'd marry, who wou'd be chaffer'd thus, and sold to Slavery? I'd rather buy a Friend at any Price that I could love and trust.
_Beau._ Ay, could we but drive on such a Bargain.
_Aria._ You should not be the Man; You have a Mistress, Sir, that has your Heart, and all your softer Hours: I know't, and if I were so wretched as to marry thee, must see my Fortune lavisht out on her; her Coaches, Dress, and Equipage exceed mine by far: Possess she all the day thy Hours of Mirth, good Humour and Expence, thy Smiles, thy Kisses, and thy Charms of Wit. Oh how you talk and look when in her Presence! but when with me, _A Pox of Love and Woman-kind,_ [Sings.
_And all the Fops adore 'em._
How it's, Cuz-- then slap, on goes the Beaver, which being c.o.c.k'd, you bear up briskly, with the second Part to the same Tune-- Harkye, Sir, let me advise you to pack up your Trumpery and be gone, your honourable Love, your matrimonial Foppery, with your other Trinkets thereunto belonging; or I shall talk aloud, and let your Uncle hear you.
_Beau._ Sure she cannot know I love _La Nuche_. [Aside.] The Devil take me, spoil'd! What Rascal has inveigled thee? What lying fawning Coward has abus'd thee? When fell you into this Leudness? Pox, thou art hardly worth the loving now, that canst be such a Fool, to wish me chaste, or love me for that Virtue; or that wouldst have me a ceremonious Whelp, one that makes handsom Legs to Knights without laughing, or with a sneaking modest Squirish Countenance; a.s.sure you, I have my Maidenhead.
A Curse upon thee, the very thought of Wife has made thee formal.
_Aria._ I must dissemble, or he'll stay all day to make his peace again-- why, have you ne'er-- a Mistress then?
_Beau._ A hundred, by this day, as many as I like, they are my Mirth, the business of my loose and wanton Hours; but thou art my Devotion, the grave, the solemn Pleasure of my Soul-- Pox, would I were handsomly rid of thee too.
[Aside.] --Come, I have business-- send me pleas'd away.
_Aria._ Would to Heaven thou wert gone; [Aside.] You're going to some Woman now.
_Beau._ Oh d.a.m.n the s.e.x, I hate 'em all-- but thee-- farewell, my pretty jealous-sullen-Fool.
[Goes out.
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