Then bounding Balls and Rackets they encompast; And now they're fill'd with Jefts, and Flights, and Bombaft! How we should end in, our Original, a Cart. And fome here know I have a begging Face. M E N. COVENT-GARDEN. Sir Samfon Legend, Father to Va-Mr. DUNSTALL. lentine and Ben, Valentine, fallen under his Father's Difpleafure by his expenfive Mr. LEW15. Angelica, Scandal, his Friend, a free Speaker, Mr. HULL. his Amours, yet valuing himself > Mr. WOODWARD. for Secrecy, Ben, Sir Samplon's younger Son, half home-bred, and half fea-bred, Mr. SHUTER. defigned to marry Mifs Prue, Forefight, an illiterate old Fellow, peevish and pofitive, fuperftitious, and pretending to underftand Aftrology, Palmistry, Phyfiognomy, Oinens, Dieains, &c. Uncle to Angelica, Jeremy, Servant to Valentine, Trapland, a Scrivener, Mr. CUSHING. Mr. LEWES. Mr. QUICK. Buckram, a Lawyer. WOMEN. Angelica, Niece to Forefight, of a confiderable Fortune in her Mi's SHERMAN. Forefight, Mrs. BAKER, Mrs. Frail, Sifter to Mrs. Forefight, Mifs BARS ANTI. a Woman of the Town, Mifs Prue, Daughter to Forefight by a former Wife, a filly, aukward Mrs. MATTOCKS. Country Girl, Nurfe to Mifs, Jenny. Mrs. PITT. A Steward, Officers, Sailors, and feveral Servants. K K K K K K K K K K * * * LOVE FOR LO V E. ACT I. SCENE I. Valent. VALENTINE, in his Chamber, reading; Several Books upon the Table.. EREMY! J Fer. Sir. Valent. Here, take away; I'll walk a Turn, and digest what I have read— Fer. You'll grow devilish fat upon this Paperdiet! [Afide, and taking away the Books. Valent. And, d'ye hear, go you to BreakfastThere's a Page doubled down in Epictetus, that is a Feast for an Emperor. Fer. Was Epictetus a real Cook, or did he only write Receipts? Valent. Read, read, Sirrah, and refine your Appetite; learn to live upon Inftruction; feast your Mind, and mortify your Flesh. Read, and take your Nourishment in at your Eyes; fhut up your Mouth, and chew the Cud of Understanding. So Epictetus advises. Fer. O Lord! I have heard much of him, when I waited upon a Gentleman at Cambridge. Pray what was that Epictetus ? 7 K. 6 alent Valent. A very rich Man-not worth a Groat. fer. Humph! and fo he has made a very fine Feat, where there is nothing to be eaten. Valent. Yes. Fer. Sir, you're a Gentleman, and probably understand this fine Feeding: but, if you pleafe, I had rather be at Board-wages. Does your Epictetus, or your Seneca here, or any of thele poor rich Rogues, teach you how to pay your Debts without Money? will they fhut up the Mouths of your Creditors? will Plato be Bail for you? or Diogenes, because he underftands Confinement, and lived in a Tub, go to Prifon for you? 'Slife, Sir, what do you mean, to mew yourfelf up here with three or four musty Books, in Commendation of Starving and Poverty? Valent. Why, Sirrah, I have no Money, you know it; and therefore refolve to rail at all that have: And in that I but follow the Examples of the wifeft and wittiest Men in all Ages-thele Poets and Philofophers, whom you naturally hate, for just fuch another Reason; because they abound in Senfe, and you are a Fool. Jer. Ay, Sir, I am a Fool, I know it: and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a Wit.-But I was always a Fool, when I told you what your Expences would bring you to; your Coaches and your Liveries; your Treats and your Balls; your being in Love with a Lady that did not care a Farthing for you in your Profperity; and keeping Company with Wits, that cared for nothing but your Profperity, and now, when you are poor, hate you as much as they do one another. Valent. Well; and now I am poor, I have an Opportunity to be revenged on them all; I'll purfue Angelica with more Love than ever, and appear more notoriously her Admirer in this Restraint, than when I openly rivaled the rich Fops that made Court to her. So fhall my Poverty be a Mortification to her Pride, and perhaps make her compaffionate the Love, which has has principally reduced me to this Lownefs of Fortune. And for the Wits, I'm fure I am in a Condition to be even with them. fer. Nay, your Condition is pretty even with theirs, that's the Truth on't. Valent. I'll take fome of their Trade out of their Hands. fer. Now Heaven of Mercy continue the Tax upon Paper!-You don't mean to write? Valent. Yes, I do; I'll write a Play. Fer. Hem!-Sir, if you pleafe to give me a fmall Certificate of three Lines-only to certify thʊfe" whom it may concern, That the Bearer hereof, Jeremy Fetch by Name, has for the Space of seven Years truly and faithfully ferved Valentine Legend, Efquire; and that he is not now turned away for any Mildemeanour; but does voluntarily difmifs his Mafter from any future Authority over him Valent. No, Sirrah; you fhall live with me ftill. Fer. Sir, it's impoffible-I may die with you, ftarve with you, or be damned with your Works: But to live, even three Days, the Life of a Play, I no more expect it, than to be canonized for a Mufe after my Decease. Valent. You are witty, you Rogue, I fhall want your Help I'll have you learn to make Couplets, to tag the Ends of Acts. D'ye hear? get the Maids to cambo in an Evening, and learn the Knack of Rhiming; you may arrive at the Height of a Song fent by an unknown Hand, or a Chocolate-house Lampoon. Fer. But, Sir, is this the Way to recover your Father's Favour? Why Sir Samplon will be irreconcileable. If your younger Brother should come from Sea, he'd never look upon you again. You're undone, Sir; you're ruined; you won't have a Friend left in the World, if you turn Poet.-Ah, Pox confound that Will's Coffee-house, it has ruined more young |