Now tell me, when you saw the lady die,
Were you not puzzled for a reason why?
A buxom damsel, and of play-house race,
Not to out-live th' enjoyment of a brace!
Were that the only marriage curse in store,
How many would compound to suffer more,
And yet live on, with comfort, to threescore.
But on our Exits there is no relying,
We women are so whimsical in dying.
Some pine away for loss of ogling fellows:
Nay some have died for love, as stories tell us.
Some, say our histories, though long ago,
For having undergone a rape, or so,
Plung'd the fell dagger, without more ado.

But time has laugh'd those follies out of

fashion,

And sure they'll never gain the approbation
Of ladies who consult their reputation.
For if a rape must be esteemed a curse,
Grim death and publication make it worse.

Should the opinion of the world be try'd, They'll scarce give judgment on the plaintiff's side;

For all must own, 'tis most egregious nonsense, To die for being pleas'd with a safe conscience. Nay, look not on your fans, nor turn away, For tell me, ladies, why d'you marry, pray, But to enjoy your wishes as you may?

BY

As when, in hostile times, two neighbouring states
Strive by themselves, and their confederates;
The war at first is made with awkward skill,
And soldiers clumsily each other kill,
Till time, at length, their untaught fury tames,
And into rules their heedless rage reclaims;
Then every science by degrees is made
Subservient to the man-destroying trade;
Wit, wisdom, reading, observation, art ;
A well-turn'd head to guide a generous heart:
So it may prove with our contending stages,
If you will kindly but supply their wages;
Which

you with ease may furnish, by retrenching Your superfluities of wine and wenching. Who'd grudge to spare, from riot and hard drinking,

To lay it out on means to mend his thinking? To follow such advice you should have leisure, Since what refines your sense, refines your plea

sure:

Women, grown tame by use, each fool can get, But cuckolds are all made by men of wit.

To virgin favours, fools have no pretence;
For maidenheads were made for men of sense.
'Tis not enough to have a horse well bred,
To shew his mettle, he must be well fel:
Nor is it all in provender and breed;
He must be try'd, and strain'd to mend is speed:
A favour'd poet, like a pamper'd horse,
Will strain his eye-balls out to win the course.
Do you but in your wisdoms vote it
To yield due succours to this war of wit,
The buskin with more grace should tread the
stage,

Love sigh in softer strains, heroes less rage:
Satire shall show a triple row of teeth,
And comedy shall laugh your fops to death:
Wit shall refine, and Pegasus shall foam,
And soar in search of ancient Greece and Rome.
And, since the nation's in the conquering fit,
As you by arms, we'll vanquish France in wit:
The work were over, could our poets write
With half the spirit that our soldiers fight.

SCENE I.

Enter WELLDON following LUCY. Lucy. What will this come to? What can it end in? You have persuaded me to leave dear England, and dearer London, the place of the world most worth living in, to follow you a husband-hunting into America: I thought husbands grew in these plantations.

Well. Why, so they do, as thick as oranges, ripening one under another. Week after week they drop into some woman's mouth: 'Tis but a little patience, spreading your apron in expectation, and one of 'em will fall into your lap at

last.

Lucy. Ay, so you say, indeed.

Well. But you have left dear London, you say: Pray, what have you left in London that was very dear to you, that had not left you before?

Lucy. Speak for yourself, sister.

Well. Nay, I'll keep you in countenance. The young fellows, you know, the dearest part of the town, and without whom London had been a wilderness to you and me, had forsaken us a great while.

Lucy. Forsaken us! I don't know that they ever had us.

Well. Forsaken us the worst way, child; that is, did not think us worth having; they neglected us, no longer designed upon us, they were tired of us. Women in London are like the rich silks, they are out of fashion a great while before they

wear out.

Lucy. The devil take the fashion, I say.

Well. You may tumble 'em over and over at their first coming up, and never disparage their price; but they fall upon wearing immediately, lower and lower in their value, till they come to the broker at last.

Lucy. Ay, ay, that's the merchant they deal with. The men would have us at their own scandalous rates their plenty makes them wanton, and in a little time, I suppose, they won't know what they would have of the women themselves. Well. O yes, they know what they would have. They would have a woman give the town a pattern of her person and beauty, and not stay in it so long to have the whole piece worn out. They would have the good face only discover'd, and not the folly that commonly goes along with it. They say there is a vast stock of beauty in the nation, but a great part of it lies in unprofitable hands; therefore, for the good of the public, they would have a draught made once a quarter, send the decaying beauties for breeders into the country, to make room for new faces to appear, to countenance the pleasures of the town.

Lucy. 'Tis very hard, the men must be young

as long as they live, and poor women be thought decaying and unfit for the town at one or two and twenty. I'm sure we were not seven years in London.

Well. Not half the time taken notice of, sister. The two or three last years we could make nothing of it, even in a vizard mask; not in a vizard mark, that has cheated many a man into an old acquaintance. Our faces began to be as familiar to the men of intrigue, as their duns, and as much avoided. We durst not appear in public places, and were almost grudged a gallery in the churches: Even there they had their jests upon us, and cried,—she's in the right on't, good gentlewoman! since no man considers her body, she does very well indeed to take care of her soul. Lucy. Such unmannerly fellows there will always be.

Well. Then you may remember, we were reduced to the last necessity, the necessity of ma king silly visits to our civil acquaintance, to bring us into tolerable company. Nay, the young innsof-court beaux, of but one term's standing in the fashion, who knew nobody, but as they were shewn 'em by the orange-women, had nicknames for us: How often have they laughed out,―There goes my landlady; is not she come to let lodgings yet?

Lucy. Young coxcombs, that knew no better. Well. And that we must have come to. For your part, what trade could you set up in? You would never arrive at the trust and credit of a guinea-bawd: You would have too much busi ness of your own, ever to mind other people's. Lucy. That is true, indeed.

Well. Then, as a certain sign that there was nothing more to be hoped for, the maids at the chocolate houses found us out, and laugh'd st us: our billets-dour lay there neglected for wastepaper: we were cry'd down so low, we could not pass upon the city; and became so notorious in our galloping way, from one end of the town to t'other, that at last we could hardly compass a competent change of petticoats to disguise us to the hackney-coachmen: and then it was near walking afoot indeed..

Lucy. Nay, that I began to be afraid of.

Well. To prevent which, with what youth and beauty was left, some experience, and the small remainder of fifteen hundred pounds a-piece, which amounted to bare two hundred between us both, I persuaded you to bring your person for a venture to the Indies. Every thing has suc ceeded in our voyage: I pass for your brother: One of the richest planters here happening to die just as we landed, I have claimed kindred with him: So, without making his will, he has left us the credit of his relation to trade upon: We pass for his cousins, coming here to Surinam chiefly

upon his invitation: We live in reputation; have the best acquaintance of the place; and we shall see our account in't, I warrant you. Lucy. I must rely upon you.

Enter Widow LACKITT.

Wid. Mr Welldon, your servant. Your servant, Mrs Lucy. I am an ill visitor, but 'tis not too late, I hope, to bid you welcome to this side of the world. [Salutes LUCY. Well. Gad so, I beg your pardon, widow, I should have done the civilities of my house before: But, as you say, 'tis not too late I hope. [Going to kiss her. Wid. What! You think now this was a civil way of begging a kiss? and, by my troth, if it were, I see no harm in't; 'tis a pitiful favour indeed that is not worth asking for: though I have known women speak plainer before now, and not understood neither.

Well. Not under my roof. Have at you, widow!

Wid. Why, that's well said; spoke like a younger brother, that deserves to have a widow. [He kisses her.] You're a younger brother, I know, by your kissing.

Well. How so, pray?

Wid. Why, you kiss as if you expected to be paid for't; you have birdlime upon your lips. You stick so close, there's no getting rid of you.

Well. I am a-kin to a younger brother. Wid. So much the better: we widows are commonly the better for younger brothers. Lucy. Better, or worse, most of you. But you won't be much better for him, I can tell you.

[Aside. Well. I was a younger brother; but an uncle of my mother's has maliciously left me an estate, and, I'm afraid, spoiled my fortune.

Wid. No, no; an estate will never spoil your fortune. I have a good estate myself, thank Heav'n, and a kind husband that left it behind him. Well. Thank Heav'n, that took him away from it, widow, and left you behind him.

Wid. Nay, Heav'n's will must be done; he's in a better place.

Well. A better place for you, no doubt on't: now you may look about you; chuse for yourself. Mrs Lackitt, that's your business; for I know you design to marry again.

Wid. O dear! Not I, I protest and swear; I don't design it: but I won't swear neither; one does not know what may happen to tempt one.

Well. Why, a lusty young fellow may happen to tempt you.

Wid. Nay, I'll do nothing rashly: I'll resolve against nothing. The devil, they say, is very busy upon these occasions, especially with the widows. But, if I am to be tempted, it must be with a young man, I promise you.-Mrs Lucy, your brother is a very pleasant gentleman: I came about business to him, but he turns every thing in merriment.

Well. Business, Mrs Lackitt? Then, I know, you would have me to yourself. Pray leave us

together, sister. [Exit LUCY.] What am I drawing upon myself here? [Aside. Wid. You have taken a very pretty house here; every thing so neat about you already. I hear you are laying out for a plantation.

Well. Why, yes truly, I like the country, and would buy a plantation, if I could reasonably. Wid. Ŏ! by all means, reasonably.

Well. If I could have one to my mind, I would think of settling among you.

Wid. O! you can't do better. Indeed we can't pretend to have so good company for you, as you had in England; but we shall make very much of you. For my own part, I assure you, I shall think myself very happy to be more particularly known to you.

Well. Dear Mrs Lackitt, you do me too much honour.

Wid. Then, as to a plantation, Mr Welldon, you know I have several to dispose of. Mr Lackitt, I thank him, has left, though I say it, the richest widow upon the place: therefore I may afford to use you better than other people can. You shall have one upon any reasonable terms. Well. That's a fair offer indeed.

Wid. You shall find me as easy as any body you can have to do with, I assure you. Pray try me, I would have you try me, Mr Welldon. Well, I like that name of yours exceedingly, Mr

Welldon.

Well. My name?

Wid. O exceedingly! if any thing could persuade me to alter my own name, I verily believe nothing in the world would do it so soon, as to

be called Mrs Welldon.

Well. Why, indeed, Welldon does sound something better than Lackitt.

Wid. O! a great deal better. Not that there is so much in a name neither. But I don't know, there is something: I should like mightily to be called Mrs Welldon.

Well. I'm glad you like my name.

Wid. Of all things. But then, there's the misfortune; one can't change one's name, without changing one's condition.

Well. You'll hardly think it worth that, I believe.

Wid. Think it worth what, sir? Changing my condition? Indeed, sir, I think it worth every thing. But, alas! Mr Welldon, I have been a widow but six weeks; 'tis too soon to think of changing one's condition yet; indeed it is: Pray don't desire it of me: Not but that you may persuade me to any thing, sooner than any per

son in the world

Well. Who, I, Mrs Lackitt?

Wid. Indeed you may, Mr Welldon, sooner than any man living. Lord, there's a great deal in saving a decency: I never minded it before: Well, I am glad you spoke first, to excuse my modesty. But what! modesty means nothing, and is the virtue of a girl, that does not know what she would be at; a widow should be wiser. Now I will own to you-but I won't confess neither I have had a great respect for you a great

while I beg your pardon, sir, and I must declare to you, indeed I must, if you desire to dis pose of all have in the world, in an honourable way, which I don't pretend to be any way deserving your consideration, my fortune and person, if you won't understand me without telling you so, are both at your service. Gad so! another time

Enter STANMORE to them.

Stan. So, Mrs Lackitt, your widowhood is waning apace. I see which way 'tis going. Welldon, you're a happy man. The women and their favours come home to you.

Wid. A fiddle of favour, Mr Stanmore: I am a lone woman, you know it, left in a great deal of business, and business must be followed or lost. I have several stocks and plantations upon my hands, and other things to dispose of, which Mr Welldon may have occasion for.

Well. We were just upon the brink of a bargain, as you came in.

Stan. Let me drive it on for you.

Well. So you must, I believe, you or somebody for me.

Stan. I'll stand by you: I understand more of this business than they can pretend to.

Well. I don't pretend to't; 'tis quite out of my way indeed.

Stan If the widow gets you to herself, she will certainly be too hard for you: I know her of old: she has no conscience in a corner; a very Jew in a bargain, and would circumcise you to get more of you.

Well. Is this true, widow?

Wid. Speak as you find, Mr Welldon: I have offered you very fair: think upon't, and let me hear of you: the sooner the better, Mr Welldon. [Exit. Stan. I assure you, my friend, she'll cheat you, if she can.

Well, I don't know that; but I can cheat her, if I will.

Stan. Cheat her? How?

devil for you. She'll cheat her son of a good estate for you; that's a perquisite of a widow's portion always.

Well. I have a design, and will follow her at least, till I have a pennyworth of the plantation. Stan. I speak as a friend, when I advise you to marry her. For 'tis directly against the inte rest of my own family. My cousin Jack has be laboured her a good while that way.

Well. What! honest Jack! I'll not hinder him. I'll give over the thoughts of her.

Stan. He'll make nothing on't; she does not care for him. I'm glad you have her in your power. Well. I may be able to serve him.

Stan. Here's a ship come into the river; I was in hopes it had been from England. Well. From England!

Stan. No, I was disappointed; I long to see this handsome cousin of yours: the picture you gave me of her has charmed me.

Well. You'll see whether it has flattered her or no, in a little time, if she be recovered of that illness, that was the reason of her staying behind I know she will come with the first oppor tunity. We shall see her, or hear of her death. San. We'll hope the best. The ships from England are expected every day.

us.

Well. What ship is this?

Stan. A rover, a buccaneer, a trader in slaves: that's the commodity we deal in, you know. If you have a curiosity to see our manner of marketting, I'll wait upon you.

Well. We'll take my sister with us. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.-An open Place.

Enter Lieutenant-Governor and BLANDFORD. Gov. There's no resisting your fortune, Blandford; you draw all the prizes.

Blan. I draw for our lord governor, you know; his fortune favours me.

Gov. I grudge him nothing this time; but if fortune had favoured me in the last sale, the fair slave had been mine; Clemene had been

Stan. Can you marry her?

Well. Yes, faith, so she says: her pretty person and fortune (which, one with the other, you know, are not contemptible) are both at my service.

Stan. Contemptible! very considerable, egad; very desirable: Why, she's worth ten thousand pounds, man, a clear estate: no charge upon't, but a boobily son: he indeed was to have half; but his father begot him, and she breeds him up, not to know or have more than she has a mind to and she has a mind to something else, it

Blan. Are you still in love with her?
Gov. Every day more in love with her.

Enter Captain DRIVER, teazed and pulled about by Widow LACKITT and several planters. Es ter at another door, WELLDON, LUCY, STAN

MORE.

Wid. Here have I six slaves in my lot, and not a man among 'em; all women and children! what can I do with 'em, captain? Pray consider; I am a woman myself, and can't get my own slaves, as some of my neighbours do.

1 Plan. I have all men in mine: pray, captain, let the men and women be mingled toge ther, for procreation's sake, and the good of the plantation.

2 Plan. Ay, ay, a man and woman, captain, for the good of the plantation.

Capt. Let 'em mingle together and be damned, what care I? would you have me pimp for the good of the plantation!