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Blunt. Or may I perish whilst I am swearing it.

Enter 'Prentice.

Lieu. How now, Jack?

Care. That is, with myrmidons.-Come, good Anne, no more delay; fall on.

Ruth. Then, before the furious Abel'approaches, with his red-coats, who, perhaps, are now march

'Pren. O, master, undone! Here's Mr Daying under the conduct of that expert captain in the committee-man, and his fierce wife, come into the shop. Mrs Chat brought them in, and they say they will come up:-they know that Mrs Arbella and their daughter Ruth are here. Deny 'em, if you dare, they say.

Lieu. Go down, boy, and tell 'em I am coming to'em. [Exit' Prentice.] This pure jade, my neighbour Chat, has betrayed us. What shall I do? I warrant the rascal has soldiers at his heels.--I think I could help the colonels out at a back-door. Blunt. I'd die rather by my Arbella. Now, you shall see I love you.

you,

Care. Nor will I, Charles, forsake Annice. Ruth. Come, be cheerful; I'll defend you all against the assaults of Captain Day and Major-general Day, his new drawn-up wife. Give me my ammunition,-[ToARBELLA] the papers, woman. So, if I do not rout 'em, fall on; let's all die together, and make no more graves but one.

Blunt. 'Slife! I love her now, for all she has jeer'd me so.

Ruth. Go fetch him in, lieutenant. [Exit Lier. tenant.] Stand you all drawn up as my reserveso-1 for the forlorn hope.

Care. That we had Teague here, to quarrel with the female triumphing Day, whilst I threw the male Day out of the window! Hark, I hear the troop marching; I know the she Day's stamp, among the tramples of a regiment.

Arb. They come, wench; charge 'em bravely; I'll second thee with a volley.

Ruth. They'll not stand the first charge; fear not:-now the Day breaks.

Care. Would 'twere his neck were broke.

Enter Mr DAY and Mrs DAY.

Mrs Day. Ah ha! my fine runaways, have I found you? What, you think my husband's honour lives without intelligence. Marry, come up! Mr Day. My duck tells you how 'tis-WeMrs Day. Why, then, let your duck tell 'em how 'tis.-Yet, as I was saying, you shall perceive we abound in intelligence, else 'twere not for us to go about to keep the nation quiet:-but if you, Mrs. Arbella, will deliver up what you have stolen, and submit, and return with us, and this ungracious Ruth

Ruth. Anne, if you please.

Mrs Day. Who gave you that name, pray? Ruth. My godfathers and godmothers :-on, forsooth; I can answer a leaf farther.

Mr Day. Duck, good duck, a word: I do not ike this name Annice.

Mrs Day. You are ever in a fright, with a shrivell'd heart of your own.-Well, gentlewo

man, you are merry.

Arb. As newly come out of our wardships.-II hope Mr Abel is well.

Mrs Day. Yes, he is well: you shall see him presently; yes, you shall see him.

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weighty matters, know, the articles of our treaty are only these:-this Arbella will keep her estate, and not marry Abel, but this gentleman; and I Anne, daughter to Sir Basil Thoroughgood, and not Ruth, as has been thought, have taken my own estate, together with this gentleman, for better for worse. We were modest, though thieves; only plundered our own.

Mrs Day. Yes, gentlewoman, you took some, thing else, and that my husband can prove it may cost you your necks, if you do not submit. Ruth. Truth on't is, we did take something else.

Mrs Day. Oh ! did you so?

Ruth. Pray give me leave to speak one word in private with my father Day.

Mr Day. Do so, do so: are you going to compound? Oh! 'tis father Day now! Ruth. D'ye hear, sir? how long is it since you have practised physic? [Takes him aside. Mr Day. Physic! what d'ye mean? Ruth. I mean physic.-Look ye, here's a small prescription of yours. D'ye know this hand-writing?

Mr Day. I am undone.

Rath. Here's another, upon the same subject. This young one, I believe, came into this wicked world for want of your preventing dose; it will not be taken now neither. It seems your wenches are wilful; nay, I do not wonder to see 'em have more conscience than you have.

Mr Day. Peace, good Mrs Anne! I am undone, if you betray me.

Enter ABEL; goes to his Father.

Abel. The soldiers are come.

Mr Day. Go and send 'em away, Abel; here's no need, no need, now.

Mrs Day. Are the soldiers come, Abel? Abel. Yes, but my father biddeth me send them away.

Mr Day. No, not without your opinion, duck; but since they have but their own, I think, duck, if we were all friends

Mrs Day. O! are you at your ifs again!—d'you think they shall make a fool of me, though they make an ass of you?-Call 'em up, Abel, if they will not submit; call up the soldiers, Abel.

Ruth. Why, your fierce honour shall know the business that makes the wise Mr Day inclinable to friendship.

Mr Day. Nay, good sweetheart, come, I pray let us be friends.

Mrs Day. How's this! What, am I not fit te be trusted now? Have you built your credit and reputation upon my counsel and labours, and am not fit now to be trusted?

Mr Day. Nay, good sweet duck, I confess I owe all to thy wisdom. Good gentlemen, permy duck that we may be all friends.

suade

Care. Hark you, good Gillian Day, be not so fierce upon the husband of thy bosom :-'twas but a small start of frailty: say it were a wench, or so! Ruth. As I live, he has hit upon't by chance. Now we shall have sport. [Aside. Mrs Day. How, a wench, a wench! out upon the hypocrite. A wench! was not I sufficient? A wench!-I'll be reveng'd; let him be ashamed, if he will.-Call the soldiers, Abel.

Care. Stay, good Abel; march not off so hastily.

Arb. Soft, gentle Abel, or I'll discover you are in bonds; you shall never be releas'd if you move a step.

Ruth. D'ye hear, Mrs Day, be not so furious; hold your peace; you may divulge your husband's shame, if you are so simple, and cast him out of authority, nay, and have him tried for his life :— read this. Remember too, I know of your bribery and cheating, and something else: you guess. Be friends, and forgive one another. Here's a letter counterfeited from the king, to bestow preferment upon Mr Day if he would turn honest; by which means, I suppose, you cozen'd your brother cheats; in which he was to remember his service to you. I believe 'twas your inditing. You are the committee-man. 'Tis your best way (nay, never demur) to kiss, and be friends. Now, if you can contrive handsomely to cozen those that cozen all the world, and get these gentlemen to come by their estates easily, and without taking the covenant, the old sum of five hundred pounds, that I used to talk of, shall be yours yet.

Mrs Day. We will endeavour.

Care. No, good Teague, there's no need of thy message now:-But why dost thou lead Obadiah thus?

Teague. Well, I will hang him presently, that I will. Look you here, Mrs Tay; here's your man Obadiah, do you see? he would not let me make him drunk, so I did take him in this string, and I am going to choke him by the throat. Blunt. Honest Teague, thy master is beholden to thee, in some measure, for his liberty.

Care. Teague, I shall requite thy honesty. Teague. Well, shall I hang him then? It is a rogue, now, who would not be drunk for the king. Ob. I do beseech you, gentlemen, let me not be brought unto death.

Teague. You shall be brought to the gallows, you thief o' the world.

Care. No, poor Teague, 'tis enough; we are all friends. Come, let him go.

Teague. Are you all friends? Then, here, little Obid, take the string, and go and hang yourself. Care. D'ye hear, my friend; [To the Musician] are any of your companions with you? Mus. Yes, sir.

Cure. As I live, we'll all dance; it shall be the celebration of our weddings. Nay, Mr Day, as we hope to continue friends, you and your duck shall trip it too.

Teague. Ay, by my shoul will we: Obadiah shall be my woman too, and you shall dance for the king, that you shall.

Care. Go, and strike up then :-no chiding now, Mrs Day. Come, you must not be refractory for

once.

Mrs Day. Well, husband, since these gentleRuth. Come, Mrs Arbella, pray let's all be men will have it so, and that they may perceive friends.

Arb. With all my heart.

we are friends, dance.

Blunt. Now, Mr Day, to your business; get Ruth. Brother Abel, the bird is flown; but you it done as soon as you will, the five hundred shall be released from your bonds.

Abel. I bear my afflictions as I may. Enter TEAGUE, leading OBADIAH in a Halter, and a Musician.

Teague. What is this now? Who are you? Well, are not you Mrs Tay? Well, I will tell her what I should say now! Shall I then? I will try if I cannot laugh too, as I did, or think of the mustard-pot.

pounds shall be ready.

Care. So, friends:-thanks, honest Teague; thou shalt flourish in a new livery for this. Now, Mrs Annice, I hope you and I may agree about kissing, and compound every way. Now, Mr Day,

If you will have good luck in every thing, Turn cavalier, and cry, God bless the king. [Exeunt omnes.

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THE

REHEARSAL.

BY

GEORGE, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

PROLOGUE.

WE might well call this short mock-play of ours,
A posie made of weeds instead of flowers;
Yet such have been presented to your noses,
And there are such, I fear, who thought 'em roses.
Would some of 'em were here, to see, this night,
What stuff it is in which they took delight.
Here brisk, insipid rogues, for wit, let fall
Sometimes dull sense, but oft'ner none at all:
There strutting heroes, with a grim-fac'd train,
Shall brave the gods, in King Cambyses vein.
For (changing rules, of late, as if men writ
In spite of reason, nature, art, and wit,)
Our poets make us laugh at tragedy,
And with their comedies they make us cry.

If

Now, critics, do your worst, that here are met;
For, like a rook, I have hedg❜d in my bet :
you approve, I shall assume the state
Of those high-flyers whom I imitate ;
And justly too; for I will teach you more
Than ever they would let you know before :
I will not only shew the feats they do,
But give you all their reasons for 'em too.
Some honour may to me from hence arise:
But if, by my endeavours, you grow wise,
And what you once so prais'd, shall now despise,
Then I'll cry out, swell'd with poetic rage,
'Tis I, John Lacy, have reform'd your stage.

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SCENE I.

JOHNSON and SMITH.

ACT I.

John. Honest Frank! I am glad to see thee with all my heart. How long hast thou been in town?

Smi. Faith, not above an hour: and, if I had not met you here, I had gone to look you out; for I long to talk with you freely, of all the strange new things we have heard in the country.

John. And, by my troth, I have long'd as much to laugh with you, at all the impertinent, dull, fantastical things, we are tir'd out with here.

Smi. Dull and fantastic! that's an excellent composition.-Pray, what are our men of business doing?

John. I ne'er enquire after 'em. Thou knowest my humour lies another way. I love to please myself as much, and to trouble others as little as I can; and therefore do naturally avoid the company of those solemn fops, who, being incapable of reason, and insensible of wit and pleasure, are always looking grave, and troubling one another, in hopes to be thought men of business.

Smi. Indeed I have ever observ'd that your grave lookers are the dullest of men. John. Ay, and of birds and beasts too: Your gravest bird is an owl, and your gravest beast is

an ass.

John. Gad so! this is an author: I'll go fetch him to you.

Smi. No, pr'ythee let him alone.

John. Nay, by the Lord, I'll have him.— [Goes after him. Here he is; I have caught him.-Pray, sir, now, for my sake, will you do a favour to this friend of mine?

Bayes. Sir, it is not within my small capacity to do favours, but receive 'em, especially from a person that does wear the honourable title you are pleas'd to impose, sir, upon this- Sweet sir, your servant.

Smi. Your humble servant, sir.

John. But wilt thou do me a favour, now?
Bayes. Ay, sir: What is't?

John. Why, to tell him the meaning of thy last

play.

Bayes. How, sir, the meaning? Do you mean the plot?

John. Ay, ay; any thing.

Bayes. Faith, sir, the intrigo's now quite out of my head; but I have a new one in my pocket, that I may say is a virgin; 't has never yet been blown upon. I must tell you one thing. 'Tis all new wit, and, though I say it, a better than my last; and you know well enough how that took. In fine, it shall read, and write, and act, and plot, and shew, ay, and pit, box, and gallery, 'egad, with any play in Europe. This morning is its Smi. Well; but how dost thou pass thy time? last rehearsal, in their habits, and all that, as it John. Why, as I use to do; eat, drink as well is to be acted; and if you and your friend will do as I can, have a she-friend to be private with in it but the honour to see it in its virgin attire, the afternoon, and sometimes see a play; where though, perhaps, it may blush, I shall not be there are such things, Frank! such hideous, mon-asham'd to discover its nakedness unto you-I strous things, that it has almost made me forswear think it is in this pocket. the stage, and resolve to apply myself to the solid nonsense of your men of business, as the more ingenious pastime.

Smi. I have heard, indeed, you have had lately many new plays; and our country wits commend

'em.

John. Ay, so do some of our city wits too; but they are of the new kind of wits.

Smi. New kind! what kind is that?

John. Why, your virtuosi, your civil persons, your drolls; fellows that scorn to imitate nature, but are given altogether to elevate and surprise. Smi. Elevate and surprise! pr'ythee muke me understand the meaning of that.

John. Nay, by my troth; that's a hard matter; I don't understand that myself:-'Tis a phrase they have got among them, to express their no meaning by. I'll tell you, as near as I can, what it is. Let me see:-'tis fighting, loving, sleeping, rhyming, dying, dancing, singing, crying, and every thing, but thinking and sense.

Mr BAYES passes over the Stage. Bayes. Your most obsequious and most observant very humble servant, sir.

[Puts his hand in his pocket. John. Sir, I confess I am not able to answer you in this new way; but if you please to lead, I shall be glad to follow you; and I hope my friend will do so too.

Smi. Sir, I have no business so considerable as should keep me from your company.

Bayes. Yes, here it is. No, cry you mercy! This is my book of Drama Common-places; the mother of many other plays.

John. Drama Common-places! Pray what's that?

Bayes. Why, sir, some certain helps, that we men of art have found it convenient to make use of.

Smi. How, sir, helps for wit?

Bayes. Ay, sir, that's my position. And I do here aver, that no man yet the sun e'er shone upon has parts sufficient to furnish out a stage, except it were by the help of these my rules.

John. What are those rules, I pray?

Bayes. Why, sir, my first rule is the rule of transversion, or regula dupler; changing verse into prose, or prose into verse, alternative, as you please.

Smi. Well; but how is this done by rule, sir? Bayes. Why, thus, sir; nothing so easy, when understood! I take a book in my hand, either at home or elsewhere, for that's all one; if there be any wit in't, as there is no book but has some, I transverse it; that is, if it be prose, put it into verse, (but that takes up some time,) and if it be verse, put it into prose.

John. Methinks, Mr Bayes, that putting verse into prose should be call'd transprosing.

Bayes. By my troth, sir, 'tis a very good notion, and hereafter it shall be so.

Smi. Well, sir, and what d'ye do with it then? Bayes. Make it my own. 'Tis so chang'd that no man can know it.-My next rule is the rule of record, by way of table-book. Pray observe. John. We hear you, sir; go on.

Bayes. As thus:-I come into a coffee-house, or some other place where witty men resort; I make as if I minded nothing; (do you mark?) but as soon as any one speaks, pop I slap it down, and make that, too, my own.

John. But, Mr Bayes, are you not some time in danger of their making you restore, by force, what you have gotten thus by art?

Bayes. No, sir; the world's unmindful: they never take notice of these things.

Sni. But pray, Mr. Bayes, among all your other rules, have you no one rule for invention? Bayes. Yes, sir, that's my third rule, that I have here in my pocket.

Smi. What rule can that be, I wonder!

Bayes. Why, sir, when I have any thing to invent, I never trouble my head about it, as other men do, but presently turn over this book, and there I have, at one view, all that Persius, Montaigne, Seneca's Tragedies, Horace, Juvenal, Claudian, Pliny, Plutarch's Lives, and the rest, have ever thought upon this subject: and so, in a trice, by leaving out a few words, or putting in others of my own, the business is done.

John. Indeed, Mr Bayes, this is as sure and compendious a way of wit as ever I heard of.

Bayes. Sirs, if you make the least scruple of the efficacy of these my rules, do but come to the play-house, and you shall judge of 'em by the effects.

Si. We'll follow you, sir.

[Exeunt.

Enter three Players upon the Stage. 1st Play. Have you your part perfect? 2d Play. Yes, I have it without book; but I don't understand how it is to be spoken.

3d Play. And mine is such a one, as cann't guess, for my life, what humour I'm to be in; whether angry, melancholy, merry, or in love. don't know what to make on't.

1st Play. Pho! the author will be here presently, and he'll tell us all. You must know, this is the new way of writing; and these hard things please forty times better than the old plain way; for, look you, sir, the grand design upon the stage is, to keep the auditors in suspense; for to guess presently at the plot and the sense, tires

them before the end of the first act: now, here, every line surprises you, and brings in matter. And then, for scenes, clothes, and dances, we put 'em quite down, all that ever went before us: and those are the things, you know, that are essential to a play.

2d Play. Well, I am not of thy mind; but, so it gets us money, 'tis no great matter.

Enter BAYES, JOHNSON, and SMITH. Bayes. Come, come in, gentlemen. Y'are very welcome. Mr -a ha' you your part ready?" 1st Play. Yes, sir.

Bayes. But do you understand the true humour of it?

1st Play. Ay, sir, pretty well.

Bayes. And Amarillis, how does she do? Does not her armour become her?

3d Play. O, admirably!

Bayes. I'll tell you, now, a pretty conceit. What do you think I'll make 'em call her anon, in this play?

Smi. What, I pray y?

Bayes. Why, I make 'em call her Armarillis, because of her armour; ha, ha, ha!

John. That will be very well, indeed.

Bayes. Ay, it's a pretty little rogue; I knew her face would set off armour extremely; and, to tell you true, I writ that part only for her.. You must know she is my mistress.

John. Then I know another thing, little Bayes, -that thou hast had her, 'egad.

Bayes. No, 'egad, not yet; but I am sure I shall; for I have talk'd bawdy to her already. John. Hast thou, faith? Pr'ythee how was that?

Bayes. Why, sir, there is, in the French tongue, a certain criticism, which, by the variation of the masculine adjective instead of the feminine, makes a quite different signification of the word; as, for example, ma vie is my life; but if, before vie you put mon instead of ma, you make it bawdy. John. Very true.

Bayes. Now, sir, I, having observ'd this, set a trap for her, the other day, in the tyring-room; for this said I: Adieu, bel esperansa de ma vie ; (which, 'egad, is very pretty;) to which she answer'd, I vow, almost as prettily every jot; for said she, Songez a ma vie, monsieur; whereupon I presently snapp'd this upon her:-Non, non, madam-Songez vous a mon, by gad; and nam'd the thing directly to her.

Smi. This is one of the richest stories, Mr Bayes, that ever I heard of.

Bayes. Ay, let me alone, 'egad, when I get to I'em; I'll nick 'em, I warrant you: But I'm a lit tle nice; for you must know, at this time, I amı kept by another woman, in the city.

Smi. How kept? for what?

Bayes. Why, for a beau garçon: I am, i'fackins. Smi. Nay, then we shall never have done. Bayes. And the rogue is so fond of me, Mr Johnson, that I vow to gad, I know not what to do with myself.

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