University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Enter DINARCHUS.
Not a whole life's experience will suffice
A man in love, to learn how many ways
He may be ruin'd—That arithmetick
Venus don't teach us—Venus, who commands
The total sum of all a lover has—
How many ways he may persuaded be
Himself to ruin—Then, what blandishments,
And angry moods, by turns a lover meets with,
What perils must delight him to encounter!
Alas! good Heavens! how must he be forsworn!
An annual stipend too, besides his presents
Must be paid down—And this but her first cast—
For this I gain three nights—Mean while, she'll try
If you're extravagant, or close; and ask
For money, or for corn, or wine, or oil.
Just as a man who throws a casting-net,
Waits till it sinks, then draws it in, and closes it.
If 'tis thrown rightly, then he takes good heed
The fish may not escape—This way, and that
He drags his net; and so confines them, till
He draws them out—E'en so a lover's us'd—
If what she asks he gives, is not close fisted,
Rather extravagant; she adds some favours—
Mean while the hook he greedily devours.
If a deep draught he takes of love unmix'd,
And once the poison mingles with his blood;
His credit, fortune and himself are lost.
Whene'er his mistress takes a pet, he suffers
Doubly, both in his fortune and his mind.
Should any other be the happy man,
He's miserable; if he seldom sees her,
His mind is wretched—if she often
Permits his visits, he indeed is bless'd:
But then his fortune runs to wreck and ruin.
Such is the way and manner of these brothels.
E'er you've oblig'd your mistress with one present,
She is prepar'd to ask an hundred more.
Some trinket's lost, her robe is torn, a maid
Is bought, some brazen or some silver vase,
Some costly couch, a grecian tweezer-case,
Something or other's always lost, or spoil'd;
Which the poor lover must replace—And then
All losses, with one common care, we lovers
Conceal; while we destroy ourselves, our fortune,
Our fame besides, for fear our friends or parents,
Should find us out—Now, if we would but take
A different course, and what we thus conceal,
Impart; they timely would restrain our youth;
And what our parents sav'd, would to our sons
Descend.—This would reduce the swarms of rogues,
And whores, and such pernicious vermin. Now
They are more plenty than are flies at midsummer.—
For, if they no where else are to be found,
About the banker's shops you see them sitting
Daily—And I am sure there are more whores
Ready to take the money without weighing,
Than there are weights to weigh it in the shops.
Nor know I why these pandars haunt those places,
Unless to serve instead of banker's books,
Where their accounts are kept; that you may enter
Rather with them directly your accounts,
Where you can never afterwards revise them.
In fine, in a great city, when at peace
From foreign foes all vanquish'd; and where time
Hangs on men's hands, in love they needs must spend it,
All they whose means afford the price of love.
As to myself, this harlot who lives here,
Phronesium, from my breast has quite expell'd
Her name, and all which her name means, all prudence.
But meeting with a man who could give more,
A man more lavish of his gold; she turn'd me
Out of my post: and yet the jade had call'd him
Troublesome, filthy fellow, her aversion.
He is a Babylonian captain; who,
'Tis said, is coming hither from abroad.
Therefore she has cook'd up this device; for she
Pretends she's lying in, only to shut
The doors 'gainst me, while he and she alone
May live like jovial Greeks—Now she gives out
This captain is the father of her child.
Why wants the slut a substituted one?
What! does she think she can deceive me thus!
Or think it possible, had she been pregnant,
To have conceal'd her pregnancy from me!
For 'tis three days since I arriv'd at Athens
From Lemnos, whither I'd been sent ambassador.
But who's this woman? O! her maid Astaphium.
With her too I have had some intercourse.

[stands apart.

SCENE II.

Enter ASTAPHIUM.
Ast.
Keep at the door good watch, and guard the house,
[speaking to the slaves within.
Let none go out more loaded than they came,
Nor with hands big, which were brought hither barren.
I understand mankind, I know the humours
Of our young rakes—Whene'er a jolly set
Visit our house, they come with a plot form'd.
As soon as e'er they gain admittance, some one
Among the crew, assaults my mistress with
A storm of kisses: while they're both engag'd,
The rest steal, pilfer:—and, if they perceive
They are observ'd, they play some monkey tricks,
With jokes and sport to entertain the spy.
Oft at our cost they eat like sausage-makers.
'Troth, this is fact; and part of the spectators,
By Pollux! know I lie not—Valorous
They think it is to rob the plunderers.
But we, with our marauders, know full well,
Fairly to make reprisals—For they see
Their money brought to us—Nay more, they bring it
Themselves—

Din.
[apart.]
In that the jade hit me a slap:
For I myself have loaded her with presents.

Ast.
I recollect, if he's at home, I am
To bring him with me—

Din.
Ho! Astaphium, stop—
A word before you go—

Ast.
Who calls me back?

Din.
Look here, and you will know.

Ast.
Who is't?

Din.
A man
Who wishes you much good.

Ast.
Then give it me,
If that's your wish.

Din.
Look back, and you shall have it.

Ast.
Psha! you, whoe'er you are, teaze me to death.

Din.
Thou worst of women, stay then.

Ast.
My good man,
You're troublesome—But is it not Dinarchus?
'Tis he indeed;—he's coming to our house.

Din.
Give me your hand, and let us walk together.

Ast.
I am your slave, and must obey your orders.

Din.
How fares it?

Ast.
I'm in health, and so are you.
Now you're arriv'd, why you must have a supper—

Din.
Civilly said—

Ast.
Now, suffer me to go
Where I am sent, I beg you would.

Din.
Go then.
What was you saying?—

Ast.
About what?—What mean you?

Din.
Where are you going? Who is it you're sent for?

Ast.
The midwife Archiva.

Din.
You naughty hussey!

Ast.
As usual—'tis a part of our profession.

Din.
You jade, I've caught you in a downright lye.

Ast.
How so?

Din.
Because you said just now, you was
To bring him with you, you did not say her.
You've metamorphos'd now your man, and made
A woman of him—A vile slut you are.

Ast.
A conjurer!

Din.
But tell me now, Astaphium,
Who the man is—Is he some new gallant?

Ast.
Go, go: I tell you, you're an idle rogue.

Din.
Idle! How so?

Ast.
You look for food and cloaths
From other's pockets—

Din.
'Tis not so: my idleness
Is owing all to you.

Ast.
Ay; prithee how?

Din.
That I'll explain immediately—I've spent
My fortune in your service, and you've robb'd me
Both of my money, and my business too.
Had I preserv'd my means, I ne'er had been
An idle man.

Ast.
And can you thus conceive
The affairs of love, and the affairs of state
Are under different laws? A man engag'd
In either, must not be a man of business.

Din.
Phronesium is the publican, not I:—
You misinterpret me—She has, 'gainst law,
Receiv'd large sums of money, and ta'en in
Cattle, where I've sole right of pasturage.

Ast.
And others too who cannot pay their rents,
And manage matters ill, are just like you.
They blame the financiers.

Din.
Your pasture farm
Has turn'd out ill, I've now a mind to try
Some arable—

Ast.
Our land is pasture all,
If you want arable, apply to those
Who let it; ours is for publick use.
But there are other financiers enough.

Din.
I know them both full well—

Ast.
By Pollux! you
Have idle time enough—Which like you best?

Din.
You are more saucy, they more often perjur'd.
What you give them is lost and sunk at once;
With what you get, you eat and drink at least.
In short, they wicked are, and you are vain:
Fraudulent too; nay more, are good for nothing.

Ast.
All you have said 'gainst us and them, you've said
Against yourself, and turns out in our favour.

Din.
How can that be?

Ast.
I'll give my reason for't.
Because those who twit others with their faults,
Should look at home—Now you, who think yourself
So mighty wise, gain nought from us: but we
Great fools, have had our pennyworth of you.

Din.
You did not use to treat me thus, Astaphium:
But courteously, when what you now enjoy
Was mine—

Ast.
Ay, while a man's alive, we take
Some notice of him:—but when he's departed,
We let him rest—We took some note of you
While you was living.

Din.
What! D'ye think me dead?

Ast.
Can any thing be clearer?—What! her gallant
In chief, bring nothing now but lamentations!

Din.
'Tis your own faults, by Hercules!—You've been
Too hasty; for had you not been so rapid
In plundering, I might have held out long.

Ast.
A lover's like the fortress of an enemy.

Din.
How prove you that?

Ast.
Take him by storm as soon
As possible, 'twill be the better for
His mistress—

Din.
Well, I grant you that: but still
There's a wide difference between a friend
And a gallant—The oldest friend, I'm sure,
Is always thought the best—By Hercules!
My lands and tenements are not all gone

Ast.
For heaven's sake, why stand you thus before
Our doors, as if you was an alien, and
A stranger?—Pray go in; you're an old friend.
By Castor! in her heart and soul, she loves
You best of all mankind— [aside.]
since you have land
And houses left—

Din.
Your tongues drop milk and honey,
Your hearts are steep'd in gall and vinegar.
You give us sugar'd words; but then gallants,
When sparing of their purse, do bitter deeds.

Ast.
I have not learn'd the art of flattery yet.

Din.
My bounty taught you not to say such things:
But those same pinching, niggard rogues, who fight
Their inclinations—You're a cunning one,
Just what you us'd to be, an artful coaxer.

Ast.
How have we wish'd for your return? For on
My word, my mistress was quite wild to see you.

Din.
How so?

Ast.
You are the man of all mankind
She truly loves—

Din.
[aside.]
Well done! my lands and tenements!
You've help'd me at a pinch indeed— [to her.]
What say you?

Ast.
Your meaning?

Din.
Is Phronesium now at home?

Ast.
To you she is.

Din.
And well?

Ast.
She would be better,
If I mistake not, at the sight of you.

Din.
This is our greatest fault; when we're too much
In love, we're sure to be undone—For if
They tell us what we wish, fools as we are,
The most notorious falshood we believe.
How by the force of love are we transform'd!

Ast.
O fye! that can't be true.

Din.
Say you she loves me?

Ast.
Yes, only you.

Din.
I hear she's brought to bed.

Ast.
Ah! speak not of't, Dinarchus, I beseech you.

Din.
What now?

Ast.
I tremble when I hear it mention'd,
Phronesium was so near being lost to you.
Pray, in and visit her. Wait there a little;
She's coming from the bath: she's bath'd already.

Din.
What say you?—Is it possible she can
Be brought to bed, who never was with child?
I'm sure I ne'er perceiv'd that she was breeding.

Ast.
In truth, she did conceal her pregnancy,
For fear you should persuade her to destroy
The child, or after, or before its birth.

Din.
By Pollux! who's the father of the child?

Ast.
A Babylonian captain, whom she now
Expects: 'tis said he will be here directly.
I wonder he's not come.

Din.
Shall I go in?

Ast.
Why not? As freely as to your own house.
Dinarchus, you are now one of the family.

Din.
How soon shall you return?

Ast.
Why, in an instant.
'Tis but just by, I'm going.

Din.
Pray return
Immediately. I'll wait for you within.
[Exit Dinarchus.

SCENE III.

ASTAPHIUM alone.
Ast.
[laughing.]
My teizing importunity's gone in,
My heart's at ease, at last I am alone.
Now I may freely speak my mind, say what
I wish to say, and in what way I please.
I've heard my mistress take her final leave
Of this gallant's estate—His houses and
His lands are mortgag'd for his treats to us.
But he's become the confidant of all
Her secrets, and a friend to advise us, more
Than help to maintain us—While he had to give,
He gave us—Now, to give he has nothing left.
For what was his is ours: and what was ours
Is his—It is the common course of things.
Men's fortunes unawares are wont to change
One with another—Human life is checquered.
Him we remember'd rich, and he us poor.
'Tis now just the reverse—And he's a fool
Who wonders at it. What! tho' he's in want,
It is but just he suffer us to live.
'Twould be a sin in us, to have compassion
Upon a spendthrift—Skilful bawds should have
Sharp teeth; but smile on all their customers:
Should fair bespeak them, but contrive their ruin.
A courtezan, in short, should be a briar,
And rend and tear whate'er comes in her way.
She ne'er should hear a lover's plea; but when
His purse is clos'd, dismiss him from her service.
He's a deserter—No gallant's worth hanging,
Who han't a total disregard for money.
If he, when he has just one present made,
Don't please to give another, 'tis meer trifling—
He is the man for us, who what he gives
Forgets—As long then as his money lasts,
Let him indulge in love—And when 'tis gone
Contentedly seek out some other business,
And to a fuller purse resign his place.
Who disregards his own affairs, and spends
His fortune, he is a gallant of worth.
The men are apt to say 'mong one another,
We treat them ill; and are insatiable.
But when all is done, how do we treat them ill?
No lover ever gave, by Castor's temple!
Enough, nor have we e'er receiv'd enough,
Nor ask'd enough—What, than an empty purse
Is worse?—The lover who denies to give,
Must sleep alone—We can't receive enough
From him, who ha'nt enough to give—We should
Be on the hunt to find fresh parties out,
Who from unbroken heaps can take, and give
Like this young country gull, who lives in here.
[pointing to the house.
'Troth, he's a merry mortal, and a generous.
To-night, unknown to his father, he will leap
The wall, and through the garden come to us.
'Tis him I want to meet with.—But there is
A roaring, boisterous fellow of a slave,
When he spies one of us come near the door,
Comes out, and hoots and halloo's us away,
Just as he scares the geese from off his corn.
He too's a country chuff—But come what may,
I'll rap—Who keeps the door?—Who is't comes out? [knocks.]

SCENE IV.

Enter STRATILAX.
Stra.
Who a plague's this batters our doors so saucily?
Who are you?

Ast.
I. Why do but look upon me.

Stra.
What I?—Why daun't I zee ye? Ah! wae warth thee,
What to our house dost come var?—What dost knock
At our door var?

Ast.
I wish you health—

Stra.
I ha'
Too much of thy health; I daun't care vor't, I—
I'm zick—Plague! I'd be rather zick than well
By thy good wishes—Now, I vain would know
What's owing to thee here—

Ast.
Keep close—

Stra.
I do,
I hopes, to my 'nown wife: let him who us'd
Keep close to thee—Would'st impudence, invagle
One from the country, to be nauty with thee.

Ast.
Keep close your tongue, I would have said.

Stra.
And zo
I would, hads't thou thy fellow on the yerth.

Ast.
You are too churlish, too ill-manner'd, friend.

Stra.
Dost thou go on to rag me, woman, ha!

Ast.
What have I said?

Stra.
Thou call'dst me churlish, didst'nt,
Ill-manner'd too—If quickly thou daun't tell me
What 'tis thou want'st, and tramp about thy business,
By Arculus! I'll trample thee to death,
Like as I ha'zeen our zow trample her pigs.

Ast.
Country, and with a vengeance this!

Stra.
Is that
A shame, thou monkey—Com'st thou here, adzooks!
Thou dress'd out skeleton, to shew thyself,
Because thou'st dyed thy cloak a smoaky yellow,
And bracelets hast, dost think thyself a beauty?
Hussey, come here.

Ast.
Nay, now you are agreeable.

Stra.
You lye—My question answer then—

Ast.
I'd rather
Answer your master, friend, than answer you.

Stra.
Do'st wear these brass rings to draw in some slave?

Ast.
They who deserve them best will have them of me.

Stra.
And an't the trinkums counterfeit?

[looking nearer.
Ast.
Don't touch me.

Stra.
Touch thee, forsooth! And may my spade so help me,
I'd rather at our farm be yok'd wi' an ox,
And pig with him on straw, than sleep with thee
An hundred nights vree cost, and ha'to boot
An hundred zuppers—Do'st twit me wi' living
I'the country, just an' thou hadst found a man
Who is asham'd of some dishonest prank?
But woman, what's thy business at our house?
Why do'st run here, whene'er we come to town?

Ast.
I want to see your women.

Stra.
What do'st talk
To me of women vor? we han't within
The hoos a vemale vlie.

Ast.
Is there no woman
Lives with you then?

Stra.
They're gone into the country.
I zay, begone—

Ast.
Why do'st roar so, bedlam?

Stra.
If thou do'st not run off from hence as vast
As e'er thy legs can bear thee, I'll root out
Those greas'd, valse, vormal, vrizzled locks of thine.

Ast.
And why?

Stra.
Vor daring to come nigh our doors
With your perfumes, and with your cheeks all purple.

Ast.
I only blush'd to hear you clamour.

Stra.
Blush'd!
As tho'f thou'st left thy skin the power to change
Its colour, thou has ruddled zo thy cheeks,
And zo all o'er bedaa'd thy vlesh wi' paint.
You're most abominable jades?

Ast.
How is it
You're pleas'd with these abominable jades?

Stra.
I knows more than thou thinks vor.

Ast.
And pray now
What is't you know?

Stra.
How my old measter's son
Strabax is ruining himself, and how
You draws him in, how cheat, and plunder him.

Ast.
Was your head quite right, I should call this scandal.
None at our house are e'er destroy'd; they spend
Their fortunes with us; and when that is done,
They may go naked thence whene'er they please.
I know not your young man—

Stra.
Indeed!

Ast.
Ay, seriously.

Stra.
Our garden wall, which loses every night
A brick or two, zays plain enough which way
He travels to his ruin.

Ast.
The wall's old—
What wonder then the bricks should tumble down?

Stra.
Is this your talking, hussy? Old walls tumble!
Zooks! may no mortal man believe me more,
If I daun't tell old measter of your tricks!

Ast.
And, is he boisterous too?

Stra.
He did not get
His money by maintaining harlots, but
By living hard—And, hildings, now 'tis all
Borne off to you, to you, ye six claw'd harpies.
'Tis a bad life you lead—'Midst o'zuch doings
D'ye think I'll hold my tongue?—No, I'll to Vorum,
Tell our ould measter what 'tis you're a'about:
An if I daun't, my back will be examin'd.

[Exit.
Ast.
By Castor! if this fellow liv'd on mustard,
I should not think 'twould have the power to make him
So snappish—But in troth, he seems to have
His master's interest at heart; and tho'
He's so outrageous, yet I trust he may
By coaxing, and our other harlot's arts,
Be made a convert—Horses I have seen,
And other beasts made tame—Now to my mistress—
But hold! For see where my aversion comes.
How soure he looks! He has not yet, I find,
Met with Phronesium—

SCENE V.

Enter DINARCHUS, from Phronesium's house.
Din.
Fishes, I believe,
Who spend their lives in water, do not bathe
As this girl does—Were women to be lov'd
Proportionably to the time they spend
In bathing, why all lovers would keep bagnios—

Ast.
What, can't you bear to wait a little then?

Din.
By Hercules! I'm tir'd to death with waiting.

Ast.
Why, I'm so tir'd, I want to bathe myself.

Din.
Go in, Astaphium; tell her I am here—
Make hast; persuade her she has bath'd enough.

Ast.
I will—

Din.
But hark ye?

Ast.
Say, what is your pleasure?

Din.
Confound me, Gods! how could I call you back!
I said nought to you—Go—

Ast.
You foolish simpleton—
Why call me back? I might have been from hence
A mile—

[Exit.
Din.
Why stood she at the door so long?
Some one she must have waited for, I fancy.
The captain—Ay, as sure as I'm alive.
They're just the same as vulturs; they foresee
Three days beforehand, where will fall a carcase;
They all gape for him; towards him is the mind
Of all; and when he's come, they'll pay no more
Regard to me, than if I had been dead
Two hundred years—Ah me! how sweet it is
To keep one's money—I am punish'd now,
Because I've wasted what I had before.
Should fortune send an ample fair estate,
As long as I the bitter and the sweet
Of riches know, I would so hoard it, and
Would live so frugally, there should not be
In a few days, a single sesterce lost.
I would confute to purpose those who blame me.
But hold! I prate too much—Those greedy doors,
Which suck up all that comes within their bolts,
I do perceive are opening.—

SCENE VI.

Enter PHRONESIUM.
Phro.
Pray, my love,
D'ye think my doors will bite, that you're afraid
To enter?—

Din.
See the spring! 'tis in full bloom.
How sweet it smells! how fair and bright it shines!

Phro.
But, my Dinarchus, why so ungallant!
What! do you not at your return from Lemnos,
Salute your mistress?

Din.
Out upon't! By Hercules!
[aside.
I shall be lost again most wretchedly.

Phro.
Why turn you from me?

Din.
Save you, my Phronesium.

Phro.
You're welcome home—Since you are safe arriv'd,
You'll sup with me to-day?

Din.
I am engag'd.

Phro.
Where will you sup?

Din.
Where you command me, here.

Phro.
You'll give me pleasure.

Din.
I shall give myself
Much more; for you'll be with me all the day,
Phronesium—

Phro.
If 'tis possible, I will.

Din.
Give me my sandals—Quick—Bear off the table.

Phro.
What's now the matter?—Are you in your senses?

Din.
In troth I cannot drink, I'm sick at heart.

Phro.
Stay, something must be done—You must not go—

Din.
My love, you've thrown cold water on me now;
My fit is over, take my sandals off.
Give me a bowl of wine.

Phro.
You're now yourself:
But have you had a safe and pleasant voyage?

Din.
By Herc'les yes, since I've the pleasure now
Of seeing you.

Phro.
Embrace me, love.

Din.
Most willingly.
Ah! what sweet honey is so sweet as this?
[embracing her.
In this I'm happier than is Jove himself.

Phro.
What! not a kiss to give?

Din.
Ay, ten.

Phro.
You are
Not poor in them—more than I ask, you promise.

Din.
Would from the first, I had been of my money
As frugal, as you're generous of your kisses.

Phro.
Could I but help you save, in truth I would.

Din.
Have you done bathing?—

Phro.
For myself I have;
In my own eyes, I'm clean enough—To you
Do I seem dirty?—

Din.
By no means to me.
But I remember that there was a time
When for each other we had no regard.
But what is this I hear since I'm come home?
What in my absence have you been about?
But I rejoice you have escap'd the danger.

Phro.
I've ever made a confidant of you.
I have no child, nor ever been with child.
'Tis true I feign'd I was—

Din.
Why so, my life?

Phro.
By reason of a Babylonian captain,
Who here a year resided, and liv'd with me
In some sort as his wife.

Din.
That I found out.
But why? What was your scheme in this pretence?

Phro.
To have some bait, some lure to draw him back.
Now he has lately sent me here a letter,
That it will prove to what degree I lov'd him,
If I preserve and educate the child;
I'm then to have his all.

Din.
That's no bad news.
What did you then?

Phro.
Because the tenth month now
Draws on, my mother here has sent her maids
Out several ways to find a boy or girl,
Which might be pass'd for mine. In short, you know
Sura our tire-woman, who lives hard by?

Din.
I know her well.

Phro.
At once, she went thro' all
The neighbourhood, and hunted for a child. She said
'Twas given her.

Din.
A pretty business this!
So she that bore the child, is not the mother.
But you, it seems, have borne it after her—

Phro.
You take it right—The captain, as he sent
Me word, will very soon be here—

Din.
Mean while
You'll manage your affairs, as if you'd just
Lain in.

Phro.
Why should I not?—There will be no
Great trouble in't; and, as to the deceit,
'Tis right each use his cunning at his trade.

Din.
What, when the captain comes, will be my fate?
Ah me! Can I forsaken live without you?

Phro.
When I have gain'd my ends, I shall with ease
Between us raise a quarrel, and procure
A separation—After that, my love!
I'll wholly pass my days with you—

Din.
I'd rather
You'd pass your nights—

Phro.
But I must sacrifice
To-day; 'tis necessary to be done.
The child is five days old.

Din.
I think you should.

Phro.
Dare you not make me some small trifling present?

Din.
Whate'er you ask me, love, I count a gain.

Phro.
And so do I, my love—when I've receiv'd it.

Din.
You'll have it presently—I'll send my page.

Phro.
Pray do—

Din.
Be't what it will, receive it kindly.

Phro.
I know you'll send me, what I need not blush
To take—

Din.
Well! Have you any more commands?

Phro.
Only, when you have any leizure, visit me
Again—

Din.
Farewell.

Phro.
Farewell to you, my love.
[Exit Phron.

Din.
Immortal gods!—What she has just now done,
Shews not the foolish fondness of a girl,
But th'open, unreserved confidence,
And trust, of a most dear and faithful friend.
What even one sister would not tell another,
She has disclos'd to me, that she has palm'd
A child upon the world—Now she has open'd
Her very heart and soul to me; and prov'd
She never can be faithless while she lives.
Shall I not love her then? Not be her friend?
Rather than not love her, I would not love
Myself—And, after this, shall I not send her
A present?—Yes, I'll order her five minæ
From hence directly—And a mina more
To buy provisions—She's so kind to me,
I'll do much more for her than for myself;
Since to myself I nothing do but ill.

[Exit.