Din. Nor wouldst thou take a blow?
Cler. Not from my friend, though drunk, and from an enemy
I think much less.
Din. There's some hope of thee left then,
Wouldst thou hear me behind my back disgrac'd?
Cler. Do you think I am a rogue? they that should do it
Had better been born dumb.
Din. Or in thy presence
See me o'recharg'd with odds?
Cler. I'd fall my self first.
Din. Would'st thou endure thy Mistris be taken from thee,
And thou sit quiet?
Cler. There you touch my honour,
No French-man can endure that.
Di[n]. Pl– upon thee,
Why dost thou talk of Peace then? that dar'st suffer
Nothing, or in thy self, or in thy friend
That is unmanly?
Cler. That I grant, I cannot:
But I'le not quarrel with this Gentleman
For wearing stammel Breeches, or this Gamester
For playing a thousand pounds, that owes me nothing;
For this mans taking up a common Wench
In raggs, and lowsie, then maintaining her
Caroach'd in cloth of Tissue, nor five hundred
Of such like toyes, that at no part concern me;
Marry, where my honour, or my friend is questioned,
I have a Sword, and I think I may use it
To the cutting of a Rascals throat, or so,
Like a good Christian.
Din. Thou art of a fine Religion,
And rather than we'l make a Schism in friendship
I will be of it: But to be serious,
Thou art acquainted with my tedious love-suit
To fair Lamira?
Cler. Too well Sir, and remember
Your presents, courtship, that's too good a name,
Your slave-like services, your morning musique;
Your walking three hours in the rain at midnight,
To see her at her window, sometimes laugh'd at,
Sometimes admitted, and vouchsaf'd to kiss
Her glove, her skirt, nay, I have heard, her slippers,
How then you triumph'd?
Here was love forsooth.
Din. These follies I deny not,
Such a contemptible thing my dotage made me,
But my reward for this—
Cler. As you deserv'd,
For he that makes a goddess of a Puppet,
Merits no other recompence.
Din. This day friend,
For thou art so—
Cler. I am no flatterer.
Din. This proud, ingratefull she, is married to
Lame Champernel.
Cler. I know him, he has been
As tall a Sea-man, and has thriv'd as well by't,
The loss of a legg and an arm deducted, as any
That ever put from Marseilles: you are tame,
Pl– on't, it mads me; if it were my case,
I should kill all the family.
Din. Yet but now
You did preach patience.
Cler. I then came from confession,
And 'twas enjoyn'd me three hours for a penance,
To be a peaceable man, and to talk like one,
But now, all else being pardon'd, I begin
On a new Tally, Foot do any thing,
I'le second you.
Din. I would not willingly
Make red, my yet white conscience, yet I purpose
In the open street, as they come from the Temple,
(For this way they must pass,) to speak my wrongs,
And do it boldly. [Musick playes.
Cler. Were thy tongue a Cannon,
I would stand by thee, boy, they come, upon 'em.
Din. Observe a little first.
Cler. This is fine fidling.
Enter Vertaign, Champernel, Lamira, Nurse, Beaupre, Verdone. An Epithalamium.
Come away, bring on the Bride
And place her by her Lovers side:
You fair troop of Maids attend her,
Pure and holy thoughts befriend her.
Blush, and wish, you Virgins all,
Many such fair nights may fall.
Hymen, fill the house with joy,
All thy sacred fires employ:
Bless the Bed with holy love,
Now fair orb of Beauty move.
Din. Stand by, for I'le be heard.
Verta. This is strange rudeness.
Din. 'Tis courtship, ballanced with injuries,
You all look pale with guilt, but I will dy
Your cheeks with blushes, if in your sear'd veins
There yet remain so much of honest blood
To make the colour; first to ye my Lord,
The Father of this Bride, whom you have sent
Alive into her grave.
Champ. How? to her grave?
Dina. Be patient Sir, I'le speak of you anon
You that allow'd me liberal access,
To make my way with service, and approv'd of
My birth, my person, years, and no base fortune:
You that are rich, and but in this held wise too,
That as a Father should have look'd upon
Your Daughter in a husband, and aim'd more
At what her youth, and heat of blood requir'd
In lawfull pleasures, than the parting from
Your Crowns to pay her dowr: you that already
Have one foot in the grave, yet study profit,
As if you were assur'd to live here ever;
What poor end had you, in this