MEN. HEARTWELL, a surly old bachelor, pretending to _Mr. Betterton._ slight women, secretly in love with Silvia BELLMOUR, in love with Belinda _Mr. Powell_ VAINLOVE, capricious in his love; in love with _Mr. Williams_ Araminta SHARPER _Mr. Verbruggen_ SIR JOSEPH WITTOL _Mr. Bowen_ CAPTAIN BLUFFE _Mr. Haines._ FONDLEWIFE, a banker _Mr. Dogget_ SETTER, a pimp _Mr. Underhill_ SERVANT to Fondlewife. WOMEN. ARAMINTA, in love with Vainlove _Mrs. Bracegirdle_ BELINDA, her cousin, an affected lady, in love _Mrs. Mountfort_ with Bellmour LÆTITIA, wife to Fondlewife _Mrs. Barry_ SYLVIA, Vainlove’s forsaken mistress _Mrs. Bowman_ LUCY, her maid _Mrs. Leigh_ BETTY. BOY and FOOTMEN. SCENE: London. ACT I. SCENE I. SCENE: _The Street_. BELLMOUR _and_ VAINLOVE _meeting_. BELL. Vainlove, and abroad so early! Good-morrow; I thought a contemplative lover could no more have parted with his bed in a morning than he could have slept in’t. VAIN. Bellmour, good-morrow. Why, truth on’t is, these early sallies are not usual to me; but business, as you see, sir—[_Showing Letters_.] And business must be followed, or be lost. BELL. Business! And so must time, my friend, be close pursued, or lost. Business is the rub of life, perverts our aim, casts off the bias, and leaves us wide and short of the intended mark. VAIN. Pleasure, I guess you mean. BELL. Ay; what else has meaning? VAIN. Oh, the wise will tell you— BELL. More than they believe—or understand. VAIN. How, how, Ned! A wise man say more than he understands? BELL. Ay, ay! Wisdom’s nothing but a pretending to know and believe more than we really do. You read of but one wise man, and all that he knew was, that he knew nothing. Come, come, leave business to idlers and wisdom to fools; they have need of ’em. Wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation; and let Father Time shake his glass. Let low and earthly souls grovel till they have worked themselves six foot deep into a grave. Business is not my element—I roll in a higher orb, and dwell— VAIN. In castles i’ th’ air of thy own building. That’s thy element, Ned. Well, as high a flier as you are, I have a lure may make you stoop. [_Flings a Letter_.] BELL. I, marry, sir, I have a hawk’s eye at a woman’s hand. There’s more elegancy in the false spelling of this superscription [_takes up the Letter_] than in all Cicero. Let me see.—How now!—Dear _perfidious Vainlove_. [_Reads_.] VAIN. Hold, hold, ’slife, that’s the wrong.