security for thee, and bear thee harmless for hereafter; that's all.

Beau. Faith, and cheap enough of all conscience. Cour. This is the honestest acquaintance I ever met withal, Beaugard.

Beau. Oh, a very honest fellow, very honest.

Cour. Pr'ythee then, Daredevil, if that be thy title, since we have so happily met this evening, let us grow more intimate, and eat and drink together.

Dare. Faith and troth, with all my heart: pox on me, boy, but I love drinking mightily; and to tell ye the truth on't, I am never so well satisfied in my out-of-the-way principles, as when I am drunk, very drunk. Drunkenness is a great quieter of the mind, a great soother of the spirit.

Beau. And shall we be very free, my little atheistical disbelieving dog? Wilt thou open thy heart, and speak very frankly of matters that shall be nameless?

Dare. Much may be done; I seldom hide my talent; I am no niggard of my parts that way.

Beau. To tell thee a secret then, Daredevil, we two are this night, for some weighty considerations, to give a treat to the people of the Duke's theatre, after the play is done, upon their stage; we are to have the music too; and the ladies, it is hoped, will not deny us the favour of their fair company. Now, my dear Iniquity, shall we not, thinkest thou, if we give our minds to it, pass an evening pleasantly enough?

Dare. Rot me, with all my heart: I love the project of treating upon the stage extremely too. But will there, will there be none of the poets there? Some of the poets are pretty fellows, very pretty fellows; they are most of them my disciples in their hearts, and now and then stand up for the truth, manfully.

Beau. Much may happen: but in the next place, after supper we have resolved to storm a certain enchanted castle, where I apprehend a fair lady, newly entered into league with an honest friend of thine, called myself, is kept a prisoner, by an old, ill-natured, snarling dog in a manger, her guardian. Thou wilt make one at it, wilt thou not, my little Daredevil?

Dare. Dam'me, we'll burn the house.

Cour. Dam'me, sir? Do you know what you say? You believe no such thing.

Dare. Words of course, child; mere words of course we use an hundred of them in conversation, which are indeed but in the nature of expletives, and signify nothing; as, dam'me, sir; rot me sir, confound me, sir; which purport no more than, so, sir; and, sir; or, then, sir, at the worst: for my part, I always speak what I think; no man can help thinking what he does think: so if I speak not well, the fault is not mine.

Beau. Distinguished like a learned school-divine. Cour. When meet we at the play-house then? Dare. Before the clock strike nine.

Beau. Where we'll have music, women, mirth. Dare. And very much good wine.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

[Exeunt.

Enter BEAUGARD, COURTINE, and DAREDEVIL. Beau. Is not this living now? Who that knew the sweets of liberty, the uncontrolled delights the freeman tastes of, lord of his own hours, king of his own pleasures, just as nature meant him first;

Courted each minute by all his appetites,
Which he indulges like a bounteous master,
That's still supplied with various full enjoyments;
And no intruding cares make one thought bitter.
Dare. Very well this; this is all but very well.
Cour. Nay, not one rub to interrupt the course
Of a long rolling, gay, and wanton life.
Methinks the image of it's like a lawn
In a rich flowery vale, its measure long,
Beateous its prospect, and at the end

A shady peaceful glade, where, when the pleasant race is over,

We glide away, and are at rest for ever.

Beau. Who, that knew this, would let himself be a slave

To the vile customs the world's debauched in ? Who'd interrupt his needful hours of rest, to rise and yawn in a shop in Cornhill? or, what's as bad, make a sneaking figure in a great man's chamber, at his rising in a morning? Who would play the rogue, cheat, lie, flatter, bribe, or pimp, to raise an estate for a blockhead of his own begetting, as he thinks, that shall waste it as scandalously as his father got it? or who, Courtine, would marry, to beget such a blockhead.

Cour. No body, but such a blockhead as myself, Beaugard, that's certain; but I will, if possible, atone for that sin of mine in the future course of my life, and grow as zealous a libertine as thou would wish thy friend to be.

Dare. These are rogues that pretend to be of a religion now! Well, all that I say is, honest atheism for my money.

Beau. No, grant me while I live the easy being I am at present possessed of; a kind fair she, to cool my blood, and pamper my imagination withal; an honest friend or two, like thee, Courtine, that I

dare trust my thoughts to; generous wine, health, liberty, and no dishonour; and when I ask more of fortune, let her e'en make a beggar of me. What say'st thou to this, Daredevil? Is not this coming as near thy doctrine as a younger sinner can conveniently.

Dare, Nay, I have very great hopes of you, that's my comfort.

Cour. But why did we part with the women so soon?

Beau. Oh, Courtine, reputation, reputation! I am a young spark, and must stand upon my credit, friend; the rogues that cheat all the week, and go to church in clean bands on Sunday, will advance no necessary sums upon my revenues else, when there may be an occasion: besides I have a father in town; a grave, sober, serious old gentleman, called a father.

Dare. One that will drink, rant, whore, and game, and is as full of religion as his worshipful son here.

Beau. Ha!

Enter FATHER.

Father. Very well, very noble, truly, son! This is the care you are pleased to take of my family! Sit up all night, drink, whore, spend your estate, and give your soul to the Devil! a very fineHickupThis aquamirabilis and the old hock does not agree with my stomach.

Beau. Daredevil, stick to me now, and help me out at a dead lift, or I am lost for ever.Sir, I hope my being here has not done you, nor any friend of yours, an injury.

Father. Injury! No sir, it is no injury for you to take your swill in plenty and voluptuousness Hickup while your poor father, sirrah, must be

contented to drink paltry sack, with dry-boned, old, battered rogues, and be thankful. You must have your fine, jolly, young fellows, and bonny, buxom, brawny-bumm'd whores, you dog, to revel with, and be hanged to you, must you? Sirrah, you rogue, I have lost all my money.

Beau. I am sorry for it, sir.

Father. Sorry for it, sir!-Hickup-Is that all?

Dare. If thou art very poor, old fellow, take a swinging dose of opium and sleep upon it; it is the best thing in the world for old gentlemen that have no money. Or wilt thou be good company? Wilt thou sit down and crack a bottle, old boy? Hah? Father. Heh! crack a bottle!

Dare. Ay, crack a bottle: What say'st thou to that comfortable proposition.

Cour. Come, sir, here's your good health, and to your better fortune.

Father. A very honest fellow, Jack: These are very honest fellows. What is your name, friend?

Dare. My name is Daredevil, friend; of the ancient family of the Daredevils in the North, that have not had a church in their parish, chaplain in their house, prayers publick or private, or graces at meals, since the Conquest.

Father. Sir, I have heard much of your family; it is a very ancient honourable family: And I am glad to find my son has made choice of such a noble acquaintance.-Sir, my service to you.-I protest, a cup of pretty claret, very pretty claret.

Cour. And he has toped it off as prettily, I'll say that for him.

Father. Jack, I have lost all my money, Jack.
Beau. Have you been robbed, sir?

Father. Robbed, sir; no, Mr. Saucy-face, I have not been robbed, sir, but I have been nicked, sir,