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Cornell University Library 
 PR 1266.H94 1866 
 
 Dramatic works of Wycherley, Congreve, V 
 
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 Library 
 
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 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
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 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013328889 
 
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 DEAMATIC WOEKS 
 
 OF 
 
 WYCHERLEY, CONGREYE, YANBRUGH, 
 
 FARQUHAR. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 BY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 A JTEV EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 UEOEGE EOUTLEDGE AND SONS, 
 
 BROADWAT, LUDGATB HILL. 
 
 NEW YORK: 129, GRAND STREET. 
 
 1866. 
 
LONDON : 
 BBADBDBY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WB ITEFRI ARS. 
 
!(, ;l. II A ii wr 'C i(:i ii'i li l e t 
 
 € r^i T I s scoi , z.f 
 
 iff L'AH Till M JWClrATlUS AB illLJ-O. ¥11 
 
 LOWDOW, OEOHG-B ROITTLBDOK & SONS. 
 BBOADWAY, LtlDOATB HILL. 
 
THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. ^' 
 
 Waiu firition 
 
 THE DEAMATIC WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 WYCHERLEY, CONGEEVE, VANBEUGH, AND FAEaiHAR, 
 
 IS INSOfilBED, 
 
 THE-^ PUBLISHER. 
 
 OoToBEn, 1840. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 WYCHERLEY. 
 
 rAOR 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES . .' . , , , , . i* 
 
 ^ LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK , , 3 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER . 36 
 
 .THE COUNTET -WIFB 69 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER , . . 102 
 
 CONGREVE. 
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES US 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR ... .1*7 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER 173 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE 202 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE . . 236 
 
 THE WAT OF THE WORLD ............ 25S 
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS 288 
 
 SEMBLB • .200 
 
 \ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 VANBRUGH. 
 
 PAay , 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OE, VIRTUE IN DANGER 301 
 
 4tHE provoked wipe . .- 836 
 
 /ESOP . . . 36T 
 
 Part II 388 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND . . , 394 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY Hi 
 
 » 
 
 >HE MISTAKE 440 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE . . 459 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON . . s , , 403 
 
 -. ; 
 
 FARQUHAR. 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE , 485 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE; OR, A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE . . . .518 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR 544) 
 
 THE INCONSTANT; OR, THE WAY TO WIN HIM 661 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS .... .' B85 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER 61? 
 
 ^THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM ' . 641 
 
 \ 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES 
 
 OF 
 
 WTCHERLEY, CONGREYE, YANBRUGH, 
 AND FARQUHAR. 
 
 BY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 WYCHEELEY. 
 
 llT collecting materials for tlie following lives, an eye has been had to the discovery of such 
 . additional facts, however small or even collateral in their interest, as might result from a diligent 
 I perusal of the works of the authors, and a reference to the literature of their age ; and, aceordingly, 
 some have been procured, which it is hoped wiE not be unwelcome to the lovers of genius and 
 I of books. 
 
 The same wish to render the volume as complete as lay in the power of those concerned in it, 
 ■has led also to the selection of such passages from the miscellaneous writings of the authors, as the 
 i editor, in the indulgence of a habit of that kind, felt an impulse to mark with his pen. Critical 
 inotices have been added to the biographical ; and, at the conclusion of the whole, a general estimate 
 has been attempted of their comparative merits, together with some idea of the moral spirit in. 
 which they deserve to be read. 
 
 ■WILLIAM WYCHEELET, the earliest of these chiefs of our Prose Drama, was eldest son of 
 Daniel Wycherley, Esquire, a gentleman of some property at Clive, near Shrewsbury, afterwards one 
 of the tellers of the Exchequer ; and he was bom in that village about the year 1640. His ancestors 
 have been traced, as residents on the spot, as far back as the reign of Henry the Fourth ; but we 
 .Relieve nothing has been known of the family since our Author's time. A correspondent of the- 
 •'Gentleman's Magazine," who in the year 1796 took the drawing of their house, from an engraving 
 •cf which our vignette has been copied, says it had been a handsome structure, but left in great 
 ineasure to go to decay, and ths, remainder clumsily turned into a farm-house. The walnut-tree in 
 the print was said to have been planted by Wycherley, but he could not vouch for the truth of 
 the report.* 
 
 The future dramatist' appears to have received the rudiments of education, either at home or in 
 
 the neighbourhood ; and instead of going to the university at the early period of life then customary,. 
 
 i\ toobably owing to its heterodox condition under Cromwell, was sent at the age of fifteen, or 
 
 thereabouts, to the banks of the Cl*arente in France, where he was introduced to the reigning 
 
 circles of the Eambouillets and Mfintausiers, who converted him to the continental orthodoxy, or 
 
 ■ Gflntlemnn'a MaEazine, vols. Ixxxi., Ixxxii. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTrCES. 
 
 creed of the church of Rome. His theologian on the occasion, s, i;atural one enough to a susceptible 
 youth, is said to have been the Duchess de Montausier, better known to posterity as Julie d'Angenneu, 
 for whom the French poets composed the famous " Garland; " or still better, as the Mademoiselle 
 Rambouillet of the Mgnages and Toitures, the presiding divinity oiiheprecieuse style of wit, which 
 was BO pleasantly overthrown by Molifere. But the Duke her husband, the prototype of Molifere's 
 "Misanthrope," and consequently of Wycherley's own "Plain Dealer," was himself a convert from 
 the Huguenots ; for whose church, while he was only a younger brother, he had been educated ; and 
 as he had that strong turn of Ms own for the didactic, whieli afterwards made him so severe a tutor 
 to the Dauphin, it is not improbable, that although his wife had a singularly staid reputation for a 
 leader of French fashions, and he himself was a most Grandisonian and self-satisfied personage, he 
 would be no uninterested spectator of these enlightenments of the boudoir. 
 
 On his return to England, our Author, at the Restoration, became a fellow-commoner of Queen's 
 College, Oxford ; " but wore not a gown," says Wood ; " only lived in the Provost's lodgings, being 
 entered in the public library under the title of Philosophiae Studiosus, in July 1660 ; " and he 
 departed, the same authority informs us, without being matriculated, or taking a degree ; though 
 not without having been re-converted to the Protestant faith by Dr. afterwards Bishop Barlow, a 
 shrewd casuist of those times, who contrived to keep his fellowship under the Puritans, though he 
 had ba^Jered their university proceedings in a pamphlet. We shall see, however, that this 
 re-conversion was not our Author'^ last. 
 
 On leaving college, he entered himself of the Middle Temple, probably with little or no intention 
 of studying the law ; for according to the dates furnished by Pope, and repeated to him again and 
 again by Wycherley himself, he must have written his first play, " Love in a Wood," the year before 
 he went to Oxford, when he was nineteen, and his second, the " Gentleman Dancing-Master," the 
 year after his arrival ; — proofs of earliness of production, common to dramatists of his class, and no 
 less explanatory of much of their character and defects, than creditable to their natural genius. At 
 twenty-five he wrote the " Plain Dealer," which shows his acquaintance with courts of law ; and 
 two-and-thirty was the date of his concluding play, the " Country Wife ; " by which time he had 
 completed that intimacy with the town, which had weaned him alike from the huffish foppery and ' 
 self-complacency of the " young gentlemen " of his first piece, and the equally mistaken, though 
 sincerer, endeavour to be misanthropic in the second ; leaving him, he thought, a shrewd, solid, and 
 modest superiority to both, in the quiet impudence of the character of Horner. If Wycherley did 
 not speak laxly of these dates to Pope, or imply a completeness in their composition which only 
 resulted from subsequent handling, none of his plays appeared either on the stage or in print till 
 some years after they were written. When finally collected into a volume, or at least in one of the 
 single-volume editions of the booksellers, their chronological order was reversed. The earliest was 
 put last, and the " Country Wife " first; doubtless in consideration of what was held to be most 
 attractive.* 
 
 It is curious to think of the young theological proselyte returning to England, only to plunge 
 into gay company and the playhouses, and write his comedy of " Love in a Wood." He goes in like 
 manner to the university to be made a Protestant, and compose the "lentleman Dancing-Master." 
 
 * " The chronology of Wycherley's plays I am well acquainted with," says Pope, " for he told it me over and 
 over. ' Love in a Wood " he wrote when he was hut nineteen ; ' The Gentleman Dancing-Mauter,' at twenty one; 
 'The Plain Dealer,' at twenty-flve ; and 'The Country Wife,' at one or twn and thirty."— Spence's Anecdotes, 
 (Singer's edit) p. 161. We helieve this to have been the order of the comr: s^ Wycherley, notwithstanding the 
 
 contradictionafforded to it by some of the original dates of their prin)^^-. . d'^ijvX and its apparent refutation in 
 
 one of the scenes uf the "Plain Dealer ;" that is to say, we have made a; sv. . -i \n common with later critics, 
 that the author did actually write his plays in this order, however he ma , f ■ .\o have them acted in another. 
 
 A doubt (which turned out to be true) of the public acceptability of the i •«!• t,s *in?y, in the '• Plain Dealer," 
 
 might easily have kept that comedy back, till the later composition, the ■■ '. SiVii ■>' was performed ; and this 
 
 previous performance would as easily account for the allusion to the "Gih,;,,'^ t>*,Asub8equently added to the 
 " Plain Dealer," when the latter was brought out. In the volume, however, mn i>< ^ to the public, we have 
 
 adopted the printed order, as the one the more consistent with appearanct >al reader can still, if he 
 
 pleases, go through the plays in the order in which we suppose the author to ha> -i. He can also, in the 
 
 questionable matter of dates, and some other disputed facts, consult the passages , cted for that purpuhe 
 
 from an article on this book which appeared in the popular critical journal, the .41. ' > page Ixxxii. 
 
 V 
 
WTCHERLEY. 
 
 And as he aeenis to have beeome a student-at-law for the sole purpose of drawing the character of 
 Widow Bladeacre in the " Plain Dealer/' so the trip to sea which he took, on occasion of one of our 
 fights with the Dutch, appears to hare been for no end but to write some verses denouncing its 
 horrors, and to make his hero the Plain Dealer a sea-captain. This event in his life he has recorded 
 in the title of the verses alluded to* He most probably went as a volunteer, a, circumstance not 
 tiausual with the gentry of that period ; and for a reason we shall give -when we come to apeak of 
 the play, we guess the fight to have been that with Opdam, the same in which his friend Lord 
 Dorset was present, and that occiisioned the gay verses, " To ill you ladies now at land." It is no 
 common evidence of the manliness aoA philosophy of Wycherley's turn of mind at this early period 
 of life, (unless, indeed, it was the wit of a candid effeminacy,) that his presence on so triumphant an 
 occasion gave him no sort of prejudice in favour of the glories of war. It did not even lead him, 
 with the pardonable vanity of youth, to bOast of his own share in them. Indeed he makes no 
 mention of himself at all, except in the title of the poem. He merely seems to have thought both 
 parties engaged in a truly infernal business. 
 
 From the period of this event in his life we know of no other till the appearance of " Love in a 
 Wood," in the year 1672. This brought him acquainted with the Duchess of Cleveland, and it is 
 said, in a very eurious manner. The story is, that this celebrated mistress of Charles the Second, 
 who took publicity so easily that she would lie back asleep in her coach along Hyde Park with her 
 mouth wide open, called out to Wycherley's coach in Pall-Mail from her, own coach-window, soon 
 after his play had been acted, and upon the strength of a compliment which he had paid in it to the 
 wit and spiiit of natural children, saluted him by the plainest title of affiliation with which the 
 illegitimate of the mercenary are wont to be greeted. Wyoherley, agreeably to what was considered 
 "good fortune" in those days, stopped his carriage, and turned, and came up with "the lady" (as 
 Clarendon used to call her), and the dialogue is recorded to have proceeded in the following manner. 
 
 " Madam," said Wycherley, " you have been pleased to bestow a title on me which belongs only 
 to the fortunate. Will your ladyship be at the play to-night % " 
 
 " Well," answerfcd the duchess, " what if I am there t " 
 
 " Why, then," replied Wycherley, " I will be there to wait on your ladyship, thougJi J disappoint 
 a fine woman, who has made me an assignatvm." [0 loving and delicate age of Charles the Second !] 
 
 " So," exclaimed the lady, " you are sure io disappoint a woman who has favoured you, for one 
 who has not ? " 
 
 " Tes," returned he, "if the one who has not favoured me is the finer woman of the two ! But he 
 who can be constant to your ladyship till he can find a finer, is sure to die your captive." 
 
 And so, with this climax of common-place, and a conviction on both sides that there was no heart 
 in the matter, these two poor people were bound to meet at the play, as they did, and to " make as 
 if" they were full of love and tenderness.— Toltaire, in his " Letters on the English Nation," says, 
 that the duchess used to go to Wycherley's chambers in the Temple, dressed like a country maid, in 
 a straw hat, with pattens on, and a box or basket in her hand. 
 
 Pope, according to Spence, related the story of the meeting in a different, and probably truer 
 inanner; for Dennis's version has a faste of the literary cookery of the time. "Wycherley," said 
 Pope, "was a very handsome man. His acquaintance with the fcimous Duchess of Cleveland 
 commenced oddly enough. One day, as he passed that duchess's coach in the Ring, she leaned ouk 
 of the windows, and cried out loud enough to be heard distinctly by him, ' Sir, you 're a rascal ; you re 
 a villain ! ' (Most probably Spence, in one of his fits of dulness, had forgotten the real appellation.) 
 Wycherley from that instant entertained hopes 1 He did not fail waiting on her the next morning ; 
 and, with a very melancholy tone, begged to know how it was possible for him to have so much 
 disobliged her grace V (Upon which, of course, the explanation of the allusion would take place.) 
 « They were very good friends from that time ; yet, after all," concludes the poet with uaivetg, "what 
 
 * hoBtoumouB Works, p. 235.-" On a Sea-Figl-t. whloh tbe Author was in, betwixt the English and Dutch " 
 
BIOGKAPHICAL AND CEITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 djd he get by her 1 " (A very natural question.) " He was to have travelled with the young; Uuke 
 of Richmond. King Charles gave him, now and then, & hundred pounds, not often." \ 
 
 IVycherley, however, was so proud of this intimacy, that an oflfence which Cleveland's cousin the 
 Duke of Buckingham took against him, might be traced to the foppery of his dedication of the play 
 to her, without enlisting in the matter a personal jealousy that might have had no sort of foundation : 
 for, though the duke is said not to have been without his gallantries towards the royal mistress, there 
 was in general little love lost between those two noble personages. Wycherley, in this dedicatiqpl^ 
 repeatedly speaks in strong and exulting language of the " favours " which her grace had shown hiiA; 
 and though he explains these favours to mean her having been to see his play two nights runningy , 
 yet the vanity natural to a young author, the story already in circulation (according to Dennis), and. 
 the equivocal acceptation of the word, might combine to create a suspicion of its being intended to>, , 
 convey a more triumphant meaning; and the fashionable circles might be offended, whatever was the; V 
 case with the lady. Be this as it may, mutual friends succeeded in doing away the offence; and'^ 
 Buckingham, pleased with a wit and conversation which no man knew better how to appreciate, took 
 the startled offender under his patronage. He gave him a commission in his regiment ; made him 
 one of his equerries, as master of the horse ; and helped to bring him into such- intimacy with the 
 king, that besides the bounties above-mentioned, Charles visited him while lying Ul of a fever at his 
 lodgings in Bow-street ; recommended him to try the air of Montpelier for the recovery of his health 
 (which he did) ; and what will astonish those who are acquainted with the exchequer-accounts of that 
 leign, presented him with five hundred pounds to defray the expenses of the journey. But probably 
 it was the fair hand of the duchess that opened the purse-strings on this occasion, grateful for some 
 wit and sincerity of companionship which she could not procure at court ; for Wycherley was a better 
 man than he seemed in his writings ; and his heart, albeit through his vanity, could not help being 
 touched perhaps by such circumstances as Voltaire relates, and which are not at all incompatible 
 •with what is known of the manners of the time. As to the royal third party, he had infidelities 
 enough of his own to warrant him in pardoning those of one of his mistresses, perhaps even to induce 
 lim to desire them, in order to save him from her reproaches. Charles had such an esteem for 
 Wycherley as even to wish him to be tutor to his son the Duke of Richmond, whom he spoke of 
 bringing up like a prince ; but we shall see how this appointment was prevented. What, in all 
 probability, crowned the favour of Wycherley at court, as long as it lasted, was the reputation which «^ | 
 he had acquired for sincerity and manly feeling, and which must have given a very rare character to*5| 
 his homage. 
 
 Meantime, while these events had been growing, our author had produced on the stage, and 
 published, his three other plays,— the "Gentleman Dancing-Master," in 1673, the "Country Wife," 
 in 1675, and the "Plain Dealer," in 1677.* For want of a date for the event we are now about to 
 speak of, we are inclined to put Wycherley's first marriage soon after the appearance of the last of the 
 three; for the "Plain Dealer" was the occasion of it; and the circumstance with which the story 
 commences looks as if the play had been but newly published. The once formidable Dennis, the critic, 
 is again the authority for these amatory matters. It is curious that his importance should now be 
 confined to the exercise of offices so gentle. Dennis informs us, that immediately after Wycherley 
 had received the intimation we have mentioned from Charles the Second, relative to the tutorship of 
 his son, he went down to Tunbridge, most likely for the purpose of refreshing himself with the 
 ordinary attractions of the place; when promenading one day at the Wells with his frieni 
 Mr. Pairbeard, of Gray's Inn, it happened, just as he arrived at the bookseller's shop, that the 
 Countess of Drogheda, a widow, young, handsome, and rich, came into it also, and inquired of the 
 bookseller for the "Plain Dealer." The rest of the story shall be told in the words of its latest and 
 best repeater, Mr. Boll, who, if we venture to think him inclined now and then to be over-thankful 
 
 * These dates are taken from the •• Biogr.-,pl,ia Draniatica," not the very best authority, except where 
 rntr^ei to-hrth™ flrVt!*" "™™'^ ™ ''''" "" ''''" "^' '° '"^ ™'''^"^- "' ^'""•-- ^°^ O-'^' "-' '"='. "" 
 
WYCHEELEY. xin 
 
 for a piece of address in others, in consequence of his own hearty appreciation of whatsoever is graceful 
 towards the sex, has done no more than justice on the present occasion to the happy promptitude of 
 this gentleman with the auspicious name, Mr. Fairbeard, 
 
 " Madam," said Mr. Fairbeard, " since you are for the ' Plain Dealer,' there he is for you," pushing 
 Mr. Wyclierley towards her at the same time. " Yes," observed Wycherley, with his usual promptitude 
 and gallantly, " this lady can bear plain-dealing, for she appears to be so accomplished, that what would 
 be compliment addressed to others, would be plain-dealing addressed to her." The countess replied 
 to this sally, with "Ko truly. Sir, I am not without my faults any more than the rest of my sex; and 
 yet, notwithstanding all my faults, I love plain-dealing, and am never more fond of it than when it 
 tells me of my faults." " Then, Madam," interposed Mr. Fairbeard, who appears to have played his 
 part in the scene with excellent taste and good-humour, "you and the Plain Dealer seem designed 
 by heaven for each other." 
 
 The result of this dramatic exordium was the usual termination of comedy, — matrimony ; and (as 
 Dennis might have said) something not so pleasant afterwards, at the fall of the curtain. Wycherley 
 waited on the lady, first in Tunbridge, and afterwards at her house in Hattotirgarden, and obtaining 
 her affections, is said to have been induced by his father to marry her. in secret, for fear of diverting 
 the intentions in his favour at court ; a piece of craft, which according to the wonted fashion of that 
 kind of wisdom, ended in producing the very evil which it thought to prevent. The discovery made- 
 the ting regard the marriage as an act of contumacy, aggravated by disingenuousness, — a conclusion 
 of the very worst sort for poor "manly Wycherley;" and though it is understood that the royal 
 indignation might have been appeased in time, the Countess completed the apparent contempt of 
 court, by a jealousy which kept the handsome dramatist away from it ; not at all approving a place, 
 of the temptations of which she was not ignorant, and which was still presided over by the fair 
 and voluptuous dedicatee of " Love in a Wood." 
 
 Our author's consort, in fact, had been a " maid of honour " herself in the very honourable and 
 perilous domain of WMtehall. She was one of the "Mademoiselles Eobartes," mentioned in Grammont, 
 daughters of Lord Eobartes, afterwards Earl of Eadnor. She was married to the Earl of Drogheda 
 during her father"? Lord-lieutenancy of Ireland ; and in the course of ten years becoming a widow, 
 now occupied a house in the ever-dramatic but then also fashionable quarter of Bow-street, Covent 
 Garden, where she was the glory, plague, and torment of her beloved husband the Plain Dealer. She 
 might still possibly " like to have her faults told her," rather than not be spoken of at all, especially 
 if they came mended by fond lips into virtues ; but there were faults of Mr. Wycherley's own, in his 
 past life, perhaps in his present, which she could not construe into virtues by any process of 
 imagination ; and the consequence was, that whenever he went to meet his old companions at their 
 favourite tavern in Bow-street, which unfortunately for him was right opposite the house, he was 
 obliged to sit with the windows of the room open, in order that the fair Letitia-Isabella might be 
 assured there was no female in the company ! 
 
 The disasters arising from this unfortunate marriage did not terminate even with the poor 
 woman's death, which took place before long. She seems really to have loved her husband, as 
 vrell as such a temper could ; and accordingly left him the whole of her fortune ; but the title 
 Tinder which he claimed the property was disputed, and the law-expenses resulting threw him into 
 such a series of difficulties, that his father was unable to extricate him, and the luckless dramatist 
 lay in the Fleet prison for seven years ! The Eadnor family by this time were probably not rich. 
 The Earl, her brother, had married the daughter of Sir John Cutler, the miser, who would not 
 give the new countess a dowry. The sister's fortune may have become of proportionate consequence; 
 and, at all events, Wycherley lost it. In his " Posthumous Works " is a poem addressed to Cutler, 
 Ijanteringly exhorting him to stick to his avarice as the summum honum ; whether in spite to his 
 wife's relations, or in the forlorn hope of shaming away the cause of dispute, it is of course 
 impossible to guess. 
 
 It would seem unaccountable that so long a captivity should withhold from the society which he 
 had delighted, an author who was acknowledged to have a good heart, and who was gifted by his 
 
BIOGKAPHICAL AND CiU'WCJAJj JS'OTiCJiri. 
 
 ■iontemporarioswith a title to Bpeoial reputation as a man. But ill-luck, the character of not being 
 worldly Trise, perhaps real improvidence, at all events the difficulty of bringing his troubles to a 
 close by one large sum, may naturally have perplexed such friends as an author is likely to have. 
 And even his titled ones may have not been among his richest, considering the wa»ts of their 
 luxury. He told, however, his first biographer. Pack, that the Earl of Mulgrave (Sheffield, after- 
 wards Duke of Buckinghamshire) once lent him five hundred pounds. Why the king did not assist 
 him, perhaps indeed why he withdrew his countenance 6:0m him in the first instance, may have 
 been accounted for, not ty his marriage, but by the strong partisanship of his attachment to 
 Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, whose side, in the disputes with him at court, even when accused 
 of treason and thrown into the Tower, he took with a fondness of zeal that does credit to both 
 their memories. TVe learn th^s characteristic and engaging circumstance from a poem in his folio 
 volume, addressed to the Duke on the occasion, and beginning with this uncompromising verse :— 
 
 " Your late disgrace was but the court's disgrace." ■ 
 
 " Manly Wycherley " is conspicuous here, and no less so the reason why he was not likely to enjoy a 
 life-long continuation of the king's &your. 
 
 Pack says, that while the author was in the extremest of these troubles, the bookseller, who had 
 profited largely by the sale of the " Plain Dealer," refused to lend him the sum of twenty pounds ; a 
 churlishness which, taking for granted honesty on one side, and pecuniary ability on the other, would 
 certainly not have been shown to such a man now-ardays. But whether these stories were true or 
 false, it seems not unlikely that Wycherley would have ended his days in prison, had not Charles's 
 successor, James, happening to witness the performance of the " Plain Dealer," and being struck , 
 with the supposed virtues of its hero's character, which touched him on the side of his own claims 
 to sincerity, issued orders for the payment of the author's debts in full, and settled a pension on 
 him besides of two hundred a year, so long as he should reside in England. But in matters of 
 pecuniary trouble, "it never rains but it pours," as the proverb says, come what sunshine there may 
 betwixt. Even under this unlooked-for felicity, Wycherley's ill-luck haunted him in the shape of a 
 bashfulness, which, while it deteriorates from our sense of his " wit," gives liim an unexpected 
 addition of good-will in our hearts, at the thought of such childish unworldliness in the " man of 
 the world." He was too modest to state the whole amount of his debts, even to his friend Lord 
 Mulgrave, who was commissioned to learn it ; perhaps the more modest, because of his friendship ; 
 and the consequence was, an unliquidated balance of liabilities, which still weighed on his mind. 
 Even when the death of his father, at a ripe old age, put him in possession of the family estate, — 
 even then, being only a tenant for life, and unable to raise money upon it to a sufficient amount, 
 he obtained but slight relief Land thus the irretrievable difficulty might now be supposed to have 
 reached its climax ; but a sense of dramatic surprise mingles with one's pity, at discovering, that 
 the last desperate measure to which he was about to resort for the purpose of delivering himself, 
 did but bind him in new chains for the short remainder of his life, and leave him freetfrom the 
 others, only to see it hasten its termination. 
 
 Wycherley had a disagreeable nephew (very disagreeable and unworthy, one should suppose, to 
 be able to disconcert the last days of a man rendered philosophic both by good-nature and 
 misfortune.) This nephew he could not bear to think of succeeding him. We do not very well 
 understand the case, as it is variously related in the biographies ; perhaps for want of the due legal 
 knowledge ; but it appears, that by a certain combination of law and matrimony, he thought at 
 once to disappoint this nephew, free himself from his other annoyances, and confer, as he fancied, 
 a benefit on a deserving object. He, therefore, almost in arlieulo mortis, married a young woman 
 whom he supposed possessed of a considerable estate, settled a jointure upon her out of it, and applied 
 a part of the proceeds to his own uses. In vain ! He dies eleven days afterwards, in the December 
 of the year 1716, aged 76 ; and if his spirit were tobe supposed cognizant of what was going forward 
 over his coffin, it has been asserted by some biographers, that he would have found his widow an 
 
WYCHEKLEY. 
 
 impostor, and already in tlie possesoiou of another man. It is said, that by a truly dramatic close 
 of his existence, he summoned his new wife to him the evening before he expired, and haying 
 
 obtained her consent to a request he was about to make, explained it in the following words ; 
 
 " My dear, it is only this, — that you will never marry an old man again." Here was the ruling 
 passion of wit and humour strong in death ; though Pope, adding jest to jest, thinks it hard he. 
 should have debarred her from doubling her jointure "on the same easy terms." It does not 
 appear that she would have baulked herself of twenty such. She went by the name of Jackson ; 
 and the alleged fellow-swindler, wlio subsequently married her, called himself Captain Shrimpton. 
 Bethia Shringston was the name of Wycherley's mother. It was through the Captain and Theobald, 
 that the volume of " Posthumous Works," which Pope had had so uneasy a hand in re-touching, 
 came before the public. 
 
 Wycherley's remains were deposited in the vault of the church in Covent Garden. Pope affirmed 
 to Spence that he died a '' Romanist ; " and that he had owned that religion in his hearing. When 
 people have not the very best ideas of this world, nor, consequently perhaps, of the next, it is 
 natural enough that fear on some occasions, and doubt on all, should make them willing to abide by 
 the church that claims to itself exclusively the power of solving all doubt, and delivering from all 
 fear. — So Madame de Montausier triumphed at last. 
 
 The chain of these melancholy events, so closely linked with one another, has hindered us from 
 speaking till nolv of the curious intercourse that took place, in his latter days, between Wycherley, 
 the oldest wit of the departing age, and Pope, the youngest of the new. Wycherley, in the year 
 1704, which was the sixty-fourth year of his age, not being the everlasting young-old boy that 
 Chancer was, nor of the right faith in things poetical, published a bad volume of poems, full of 
 harsh verses and insipid gallantries ; and Pope giving the world his Pastorals about the same time, 
 and being then sixteen to Wycherley's sixty-five, the two books appear to have brought the old wit 
 and the new together. Pope, with the reverence natural to a young writer, diligently cultivated his 
 new acquaintance, haunting his lodgings in town, (following him about, as he describes it, like a 
 dog) and trying to entice him to come and see him in Windsol' Forest. (Lady W. Montague says 
 he did it for a legacy ; but the charge is manifestly nothing but a bit of the spite and malice, to 
 which her ladyship's fine brain too frequently condescended). Wycherley, on the other hand, always 
 promising to go to the Forest, and always complaining of his irresistible itch of writing, wishes to 
 get up a fresh volume of poems, and compliments his new friend, iiot yet out of his teens, with 
 asking him to correct his verses. A dangerous Compliment.! Pope entered upon his task with 
 more sincerity than comfort, asking, among other cavalier inquiries, whether he was to turn the 
 " worst pieces " into " very good ; " and implying, in that case, that it might be necessary to " re-write " 
 them ! The old man, unable to deny himself the pleasure of seeing his darling verses trimmed 
 up, yet wincing under the approach of so slashing an instrument, compliments the " great mind ' 
 of his critic at the expense of his " little, tender, and crazy body." In short, spleen and impatience 
 break out on both sides in the course of an anxious correspondence, till Pope, with hardly sufficient 
 delicacy of forbearance, testily throws lip his office ; and though strong expressions of esteem 
 afterwards passed between them through the medium of common friends, the intercourse was 
 never renewed. Of the tjro, Wycherley appears to us to have been the less in the wrong ; but then 
 his experience left him the smaller excuse for not foreseeing the result. 
 
 From the letters that passed between Pope and Wycherley, and the recollections of him by the 
 former in Spence, we learn something of the habits and appearance of the dramatist. Pope put 
 him in the list of those who had the " nobleman-look." He did not care for the country; was fond 
 of serious and philosophic authors (Montaigne, Eochefoucault, Seneca, and Gracian), in one of whom 
 he used to " read himself asleep o' nights ; " and was vain of his handsomeness, the departure of which 
 in old age he could so little endure, that he would sigh over the portrait of him at twenty-eight by 
 Sir Peter Lely, and to the engraving made of it in 1703, (from which the one in the present 
 volume is taken) ordered the motto to be put, " Quantum mutatus ab illo," (how changed from 
 1dm!) "which he used to repeat," says Pope, "with a melancholy emphasis." Sir Godfrey Kneller 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 said he would make a very fine head without hia wig ; but he could not bear the portrait when done, 
 and Sir Godfrey was obliged to add the wig. Alas for a Charlcs-the-Seeond old age ! Shakapeare 
 speaks of a man who was " incapable of his owa distress." Here was a man who was unequal to 
 Ma own Tenerableness. He retained however to the last, in spite of the occasional " peevishness " 
 natural to such a decline (unless Pope's own peevishness found it in his associate) the character he 
 Tiad always possessed of good-heartedness and sincerity. His contemporaries have recorded him as 
 •being of an intercourse as modest and gentle as his public satire was bold ; and they all agreed in 
 :giTing him, as an epithet of distinction, the name of his hero in the Plain Dealer, " Manly," — a 
 cognomen, to which perhaps his personal appearance helped to contribute, — ^for Eochester, in his 
 " Session of the Poets," designated him as " brawny Wycherley," though the word was omitted in 
 subsequent editions. Dryden, with his usual good-nature towards young authors, once invited him to 
 join him in writing a comedy ; but he modestly declined the offer in a poem of gratefiil panegyric.* 
 
 It is difficult to say which was the luckier in the failure of this proposal, Dryden or Wycherley ; 
 for the poetical part of Dryden's spirit, especially if he had written in verse, would have borne down 
 the unbelieving prose of a man who had no such poetry in him : while, on the other hand, the 
 ^eater, or at all events purer, dramatic power of Wycherley would not have known what to be at 
 ■with the unseasonable and arbitrary superfluities of Dryden. 
 
 Wycherley has justly been considered as the earliest of our comic prose dramatists, who forsook 
 -the fleeting shapes of custom and manners that were brought to their gayest head in Etherege, for 
 the more lasting wit and humour natural to the prevailing qualities of mankind. Etherege was the 
 ■" dandy " of the prose drama, and Wycherley the first man. Shadwell had glimpses " in his drink ; " 
 "but he was only a gross and hasty sketcher. Sohlegel has missed a general airiness in all our plays 
 of this class, through the whole range of English comedy ; and Wycherley is certainly no exception 
 to the defect. He is somewhat heavy as well as "brawny" in his step ; and when he moves fester, 
 it is seldom from gaiety. He has " wit at will " also ; but then the will to be witty is frequently too 
 obvious. It has too artificial an air of thought and antithesis. His best scenes are those of cross- 
 purposes, mutual exposure, or the contrast of natural with acquired cunning ; those, in short, in 
 which reflection and design have much more to do than animal spirits. His style is pure and 
 unaffected ; and clearness and force are hia characteristics, in preference to what is either engaging 
 or laughable. We can easily believe him to have been a " slow " writer ; not from dulness, but from 
 
 care and consideration. 
 
 " Of all our modem wits, none seem to me 
 Once to have toucVd upon true comedy, 
 But hasty $hadwell and slow Wycherley." 
 
 The truth of the application of this epithet lias been controverted, especially by Lord Lansdowne, 
 ■who knew him, and who implies that he contradicts it from personal knowledge.t But unless the 
 Joss of memory, which he suffered in advanced life, had altered his habits of composition, the 
 question might appear to be settled by the interlined state in which Theobald says his manuscripts 
 were left, and which was so excessive, that a stranger could hardly read them. The failure of his 
 faculties, it is true, in this respect was so great, that Pope says he would copy other authors on 
 ■paper and repeat himself, and forget that he had done either in the course of a few hours. On 
 ■4he other hand, Eochester's triplet has some more lii*es to it, not so often quoted : — 
 
 " Shadwell's unfinishM works do yet Impart 
 Great proofs of nature's force, though none of art ; 
 But Wycherley earns hard whato'er he gains, 
 He wants no judgment, and he spares no pains." 
 
 Perhaps Eochester spoke of his younger efforts, and Lansdowne knew him at a time of life when 
 
 * ** An Epistle to Mr. Dryden, occasioned by liis desiringr to join with liim in writing a Comcdj'."* Poatfwmota 
 WorHs, p. 18, 
 
 t See the passage in Anderson's British Poets, vol. vii. p. 722; 
 
WYCHEULEY. 
 
 practice had made him quicker. And yet, as Wj'cherley was not a writer of impulse, there is some- 
 thing of that kind of simple hardness in his style which looks like a slow growth. Congreve's 
 agglomerations of wit have the same appearance of elaboration, though from another cause. 
 Vanbrugh and Farquhar have more spirits, and a readier air accordingly. But we shall touch upon 
 these comparisons, when we have done speaking of all separately. 
 
 We shall now glance at each play of Wycherley's, in the order of its composition. — The idea of 
 " Love in a Wood, or St. James's Park," (for the Park was the wood,) was evidently suggested by 
 the " Mulberry Garden " of Sir Charles Sedley, — a title suggested by a house of entertainment which 
 stood on the site of Buckingham Palace, and the grounds of which, like the Spring-garden at the 
 opposite corner, were resorted to by the gallants and masked ladies of the time, when they issued 
 forth of a summer's evening like so many gnats, to buzz, sting, and make love. It turns upon a 
 game of hide-and-seek, and other cross-purposes, between some of these " minions of the moon," and 
 is worth little in style or plot ; yet we think, upon the whole, it has been undervalued. It is not 
 unamusing. It gives early evidence of that dislike of backbiting and false friendship, which 
 honourably distinguished Wycherley through life ; and there are the germs of two characters in it, 
 which have been since developed by Hoadley and Sheridan, — that of Falkland in the " Rivals " (the 
 Valentine of this play) and Sanger in the " Suspicious Husband ; " whose name, with a candour that 
 was to be expected from Hoadley's superior nature, was retained by him from the Banger of Wycherley. 
 Compare, in particular, the immense yet pleasant impudence, and reconciling animal spirits, of the 
 •entrance of Hoadley's Banger into the bedroom of 3Trs. Strickland, with its manifest prototype in 
 the second act of " Love in a Wood." The concluding stanza of the song in the first act contains 
 the passage which is said to have been the origin of the writer's acquaintance with the Duchess of 
 Cleveland. 
 
 Either Wycherley's memory must have failed him as to the early period of spme of his com- 
 positions, or vanity helped to mislead it, — for he had manifestly gone to the same sources as Molifere 
 for the improvement of his plots, when he wrote the " Gentleman Dancing-Master." There is a 
 similar amusing intrigue in it to that of the " Ecole des Femmes," carried on through the medium 
 of an unconscious wittol, who hugs himself upon the fool he is making of the favoured lover ; and 
 the author, besides looking back to old English comedy for a Frenchified Englishman, has brought 
 a formalised one from Spain, the favourite store-house of the comedy of the preceding age. The hero 
 of the piece, who is made to personate a dancing-master, and to be always in motion whether he 
 will or no, is very amusing ; so is the suspicious old aunt, who sees through his incompetency : 
 but, above all, there is an exquisite truth to nature in the egotistical effrontery of the father, who, 
 after treating the aunt's suspicions with contempt, takes to himself the credit of making the very 
 discovery, which she has all along been trying to beat into his head. 
 
 The " Plain Dealer," — with the exquisite addition of the litigious Widow Blackacre, a kind of 
 born female barrister, an original which he had doubtless met with in the courts of law, — is an English 
 version, in its principal characteristics, of the " Misanthrope " of Molifere, greatly improved, inasmuch 
 as the hero is less poetically tragic, but equally contrary to nature and to the true spirit of comedy, 
 inasmuch as he is tragical at all ; and in one respect it is shockingly below the original ; for it is 
 ■deformed so as no other age but such a one as that of Charles the Second could suppose manhood 
 to be deformed, and yet remain consistent with itself, by the sort of revenge which he permits 
 himself to take on his mistress, — ^that of a possession of her person under the supposition of his 
 being another man, and while he feels nothing for her disposition but hatred and contempt. Yet 
 in this gusto of desecrated animal passion, fit only for some ferocious sensualist who believed himself 
 as great a rascal as he thought everybody else, the wits of those days saw nothing to deteriorate 
 from a character emphatically christened and thought " Manly," — a name which it imparted, as an 
 epithet of honour, to the Author himself. As to the rest, the wit put into the mouth of this much- 
 injured Captain of the British navy is as forced, and not seldom as common-place, as the violent 
 and solemn coxcombry of his hatred of all other vices but his own is ridiculous. Indeed all misan- 
 thropes, whatever be their pretensions in other respects, nay,ia very proportion to their claims upon 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CKITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 being thought exceptions to the generality of mankind, are, and must be, so far, nothing but 
 stupid and immodest coxcombs, for daring to set up their supposed knowledge of themselves above 
 the whole virtues of the rest of theiJ fellow-creatures. In what has been charged, however, as 
 unnatural in the characters of the two heroes of Wycherley and Molifere, with regard to their 
 believing in the goodness of one select friend and one mistress, this, We confess, appears to us 
 provokingly true to nature ; fbr the same arbitrary will and pleasure that trumps up a man's Own 
 virtues to himself, has only to include the fifst convenient man or woman it meets irith in tlie same 
 spotless category, and' for not a jot better reason. The feelings of the public saw better than, the 
 court-wits, and instinctively revolted against this 'play ill spite of the exquisite scenes of the 
 scandal-mongering fine ladies abd gentlemen, the prototypes of those in Congreve alid Sheridan. 
 It is said, that the gOod-iatured Duke of Dorset, wfi6 tried hard to take his own bilious tempera^ 
 ment fbr a kind of misanthropy, but was too modest aiid good-hearted to succeed, was the first to 
 reconcile the town to an approval of it. If so, perhaps the Duke's having been in ,the great sea^ 
 fight against Opdain, may serve both to account for the profession assigned to the' Author's hero, 
 and to corroborate a guess as to the particular battle that Wycherley hitnself was in. 
 
 In the " Country Wife " there are no such scenes and dialogue of continued excellence as those 
 of Olinna and her visitors in the second act of the "Plain Dealer;" but the principal female 
 character hits a point of more lasting nature, and is an exquisite meeting of the extremes of 
 simplicity and cunning; so that with some alterations, especially of the impudent project of 
 Hofner, which would have been an affi-ont ih any other age to a decent audience, this cojnedy out- 
 lasted the performances of the graver one, and will always be revived whenever such an actress 
 appears as Mrs. Jordan. Those Who remember how that 'delightful' woman seemed made for every 
 trusting enjoyment, — how she could unite boisterpus animal spirits with a Ijrimful sensibility, — 
 how she woUld come dancing on thtf stage i% forty, a girl still in spite of her fat, — What a breath 
 and music there was in her voice, and how the people loved it the moment they heard it, — how she 
 would wear a huge buxom pin-afore, divide sobs of sorrow with the comforts of a. great slice of 
 bread-and-butter, anticipate a world of delight with rubbed hands and huddling shoulders, — and 
 with what a cramming of all the powers of coaxing into one little syllable she would utter the word 
 " hud" while taking her guardian's cheeks in her hands, as though it sprang out of the fulness 
 of her heart, and formed her lips into the very thing it spoke of, — will sigh to think, that 
 circumstances rarely produce creatures made of such cordial human clay ; or that anything could 
 have made a life close in sorrow, which had given to others nothing but happiness. 
 
 We have found nothing in the Letters of Wycherley, either to Pope or Dennis, worth extracting 
 in this place ; bilt from an 'ejrtraordinary heap Of bad and good in the three hundred and eight 
 " Maxims and Eeflections " written by him in his old age, we have selected some not unworthy of 
 
 " The satire, wit, and strength of Manly Wycherley." 
 (So wrote Dryden of him in one of his own strong lines.) 
 
 As wit is too hard for power in council, so power is too hard for wit in action. 
 
 Our hopes, though they never happen, yet are some kind of happiness ; as trees, whilst they are still • 
 growing, pleaee in the prospect, though they bear no fruit. 
 
 Believe your friend honest to make him so, if he be not so : since, if you distrust him, you make his 
 falsehood a piece of justice. 
 
 We increase our losses ourselves, and club with Fortune to undo us, when with them we lose oui 
 patience too ; as infants, that being robbed of some of their baubles, throw away the rest in childish anger. 
 
 Every little club thinks wit confined to it ; as every small sect of godly professors think to monopolise 
 salvation. 
 
 We reprove our friends' faults more out of pride, than love or charity ; not so much to correct tlicm, at 
 to make them believe wo are ourselves without them. 
 
 Lies, artifice, and tricks, are as sure a mark of a low and poor spirit, as the passing of false money :s of i 
 poni, low purse. 
 
COKGEaVE. 
 
 iL IS a very common Ic.iiMg lu us uuvci- to be satisfied with our lonuni-, lud never tliisatiolied wilU o.ir 
 flcnsG and conduct. 
 
 Charity and good-nature give a sanction to the i^iost o&mmon actions ; ai^d pride and ill-nature make our 
 best virtues despicable. 
 
 The silence of a wise man is more v/rong to manUnd than the slwnder.er's speech. 
 
 This last is a noble observatibn, and looks profoundly into the wants of society, feom the rest 
 ■we may gather the amiableness as well as sincerity of the Author's character ; who was so heloved 
 in his time, as to afford a caution to sour, and therefore crude, moralists, how (,hey put the worst 
 construction upon what is not always best in his writings. 
 
 CON(JEE\nE. 
 
 WILLIAM CONGtEETE was the second son of Eichard Congreve, Esq., of Congreve and 
 Stretton, Vho was one of the thirteen Staffordshire gentlemen upon whoin Charles the Second 
 intended to tonfer the order of the Eojal Oak, had the institution taken place. The late Sir 
 Williatn Congreve; Bart., th6 inventor of the fo'ctet syst^tii, was the descendant of a ybunger branch 
 of the family ; but the direct Jine still survives at Aldermans town in Berkshire, on a jiroperty 
 which came to it by inarriage. The Stretton festate, on which the family had resided since tte'time 
 of Edward the Second, was sold by our author's great-grand-nephew, William, who married a 
 "Waller ; and it is now the property of Edward Monqkton, Esq. An oak is still shown there, on a 
 laWn, Under which part of the " Old Bachelor " is said to have be?n written. But wherever such 
 opportunities' boisur, some spot or other i» pretty sure to be identified with, the haunts of genius,— 
 with the flights, and warblings of the human bird. Scriptorum diorus omnis amat nemuk. 
 
 ■ The choir of penmen all delight in trees. 
 
 Our author's mother (a relationship always pleasing to ascertain) was Anne, daughter of Sir 
 Thomas Fitzherbert, and grand-daughter of Sir. Anthony, the celebrated judge, who wrote thg work 
 praised by Blackstone, De Naturd Breviwm. She had a maternal uncle, who possessed a house at 
 Bardsey, near Leeds ; and it was there that the dramatist was born-, in the year 1669, probably, 
 while his father, a- younger brother, and an ofiicer in the army, was cultivating in Ireland the 
 patronage of the Earl of Burlington, on whose estate he subsequently had employment as a 
 land-agent.* 
 
 It is curious to see how unwUling- people were to take Congreve's word that he was born in 
 England, and not in Ireland ; — a dispute which Malone set at rest by the production of a register. 
 Dr. Johnson, among others, seems to Jiave " sullenly " begged the question against Congreve's 
 veracity, purely that he might indulge in the following gratuitous piece of acuteness : — 
 
 " Ifeither the time nor place of hisbirth are certainly known ; if the inscription upon his monument 
 be true, he was bom in 1672. For the place, it was said by himself that he owed his nativity to 
 England, and by everybody else, that he was bom in Ireland. Southern, mentioned him with sharp, 
 censure, as a man that meanly disowned his native country. The biographers assign his nativity to 
 Bardsa, near Leeds, in Yorkshire, from the account given by himself, ts they suppose, to Jacob. - 
 
 " To doubt," continues Johnson, " whether a man of eminence has told the truth about his own 
 birth, is, in appearance, to be very deficient in candour ; yet nobody can live long without knowing 
 that falsehoods of convenience and vanity — falsehoods from which no evil immediately visible ensues^ 
 except the general degradation of human testimony — are very lightly uttered, and once uttered, are 
 
 * For snch of tbe ahove family particnlars as are new to the hioprnphy of Ciingi-eve, wn are indebted t.) n>nkr'3 
 Genealogical and HUiorical Account of the Landed Gentry of England, vol. iii. p. 41?, &c. 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 sullenly snppcrted. Boileau, who desired to be thouglit a vigorous and steady moralist, having told 
 a petty lie to Louis XIV., continued it afterwards by false dates ; thinking himself obliged in honour, 
 says his admirer, to maintain what, when he said it, was so well received."* 
 
 But Johnson, while he was thus detecting one infirmity in mankind, was overlooking another, in 
 which he himself was indulging, viz. — a tendency to prefer accusation to proof. How could 
 " everybody else " but Congreve say that he was born in Ireland, when hia " biographer " said 
 otherwise? And if they took his word for it, why should they not, merely because he might have 
 lied? Southern was himself an Irishman; and in that circumstance the Doctor, had he chosen, 
 might have detected another weakness, — that of wishing to make out as much wit and talent as 
 possible for one's own country. A better ground of suspicion against Congreve would have been 
 found in the general fastidiousness of his character, and in the infirmity of his taking conventional 
 ascendancies for something superior to genius itself. 
 
 Though Congreve was not born in Ireland, he was assuredly educated there ; first at Kilkenny, 
 and afterwards at Trinity College, Dublin : where he had for his tutor St. George Ashe, afterwards 
 bishop of Clogher and Derry, who had been the tutor of Swift. Congreve was but two years younger 
 than Swift; and as the latter had been educated also at Kilkenny, and stuck to his friend through 
 life, though of dififerent politics, it would have been pleasant to fancy them under the same tutor at 
 the same time. But whatever may have been the case with the school, somebody has told us that 
 they were not together under Dr. Ashe. 
 
 On quitting the University, Congreve was entered of the Middle Temple ; but he does not appear 
 to have paid any attention to the law. Having family, as well as wit and scholarship, he was admitted 
 into every kind of good company ; and he probably soon discovered, that he could make way enough 
 in life, without a profession, to suit the views of a man of no great affections, who saw little in the 
 world superior to the union of wit and gentility. His first publication was a novel entitled 
 "Incognita, or Love and Duty Eeconciled;" which was said to have been written at the age of 
 seventeen, but made its appearance at twenty-one. Johnson's convenient criticism upon it was, that 
 he would " rather praise it than read it." Being of a less robust conscience on the reviewing side, it 
 is our lot to have read it, without being able to praise. The author, though fresh from reading romances, 
 already shows himself a man of the world, in the tone of his "love," and his notions of womankind. 
 He was never young in that respect; — nor yet ever attained to years of poetical discretion. He 
 aspires to be poetical nevertheless; and one of his fancies about his heroine is, that Cupid employs a 
 quiU out of his wings in "picking her teeth ! " 
 
 About the same period, at Drury Lane theatre, came out his first dramatic performance, the " Old 
 Bachelor," written, like the novel, " several years before," and, as he said, in his fine-gentleman fashion, 
 to " amuse himself in a slow recovery from a fit of sickness." Diyden, to whom he had addressed a 
 reverential panegyric on the translation of " Persius," declared he had " never seen such a first play;" 
 and he. Southern, and Maynwaring, freed it from some inexperiences, to fit it for the stage. The 
 play was fortunate in every respect. Davies says, that when four of the actresses, Mrs. Bany, 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle, Mrs. Mountford, and Mrs. Bowman, appeared together on the stage in the last act, 
 the audience were so struck with a group so beautiful, that they broke out into a fervour of applause.t 
 The talents of the actors, Betterton, Powel, and others, were on a par with the beauty and vivacity 
 of the women. And fame was followed up by more profits than theatrical ones ; for Montagu, 
 afterwards Earl of Halifax, and then one of the Lords of the Treasury, gave the author a place, — that 
 of a commissioner for licensing hackney-coaches. Johnson says, that he " soon after " gave him 
 another place in the pipe-office, and a third in the customs, of six hundred pounds a-year. These two 
 offices, however, are probably but one and the same, which he did not receive till upwards of twenty 
 years afterwards. Swift says he had but a single appointment for " half his days ;" and with whatever 
 spleen he said it, Swift surely ought to have known. Among minor instances of the new dramatist's 
 luck on this occasion, Southern is suppgsed to allude to this comedy when he says, that on reading it 
 
 * Art Congreve, in tbe Lives of Om Poets. + Dramatic Miscellanies, Vol, Hi. p. 417. 
 
CONGREVE. 
 
 to the players, the author pronounced it so wretchedly, that they had almost rejected it; but that 
 subsequently they became so persuaded of its excellence, and the manager, Thomas Davenant, ivas so 
 pleased -vrith his conversation, that for half a-year before it was acted, he was allowed, upon Southern's 
 recommendation, the privilege of the house ; — no very great indulgence, it should seem, compared 
 with the liberality of managers at present. 
 
 The author of one successful piece is easily persuaded to write another ; but the impulse, though 
 encouraged by the triumph, is apt to be of a less genuine sort, and more critical ; so as to lose mol-e 
 on the side of felicity, than it has gained on that of good luck. The " Double Dealer," which came 
 out at the same house the year following, did not please like the " Old Bachelor." Congreve, in his 
 adulatory dedication to Montagu, pretended not to care ; but he smiled and winced at the critics like 
 Sir Fretful Plagiary. Queen Mary, however, came to see both the plays ; and Dryden addressed 
 him the celebrated epistle, in which he hailed him as the successor of the new stage and the old, and 
 touchingly bequeathed to him the care of his own reputation. On the queen's coming to see the 
 " Old Bachelor," Congreve wrote a new prologue, in which, with no great modesty, nor in any very 
 poetical style, he says, 
 
 " By this repeated act of grace, we see 
 Wit is again the care of majesty;" 
 
 and then he pretty broadly hints a comparison to his advantage with all preceding stages, ancient 
 and modem. The writer of two such plays before he was twenty-six, might be allowed to be vain ; 
 but Shakspeare, and fifty predecessors inferior to Shakspeare, would not have talked thus. Their 
 genius would have been aware of its deficiencies, by reason of its being something which the utmost 
 stretch of Congreve's " wit " was not large enough to discern. 
 
 Drury Lane theatre was at that time the only one ; and as the nuing patentees were men of 
 arbitrary tempers, or were exasperated by coalitions to force them into different conduct, the 
 monopoly tempted them into behaviour so offensive, that Betterton, an i others of its best actors, 
 finally revolted, and obtained a patent for a new one, which was set up within the walls of a tennis- 
 court in Lincolu'a-Inn-Fields. Congreve's wit was in such estimation, notwithstanding the 
 comparative failure of the " Double Dealer," and he appears also to have sympathised so strongly 
 with the revolters, that they bore hioa with them to their new house ; and as he had great sense and 
 judgment, notwithstanding his spleen against critics, he had tacitly profited by the censures on him, 
 and the theatre opened with a new comedy from his pen, " Love for Love," which was as lively and 
 successful as the " Old Bachelor." The success, indeed, was so advantageous to the actors, that 
 besides an author's customary profits, they gave their coadjutor a share in the house itself, on 
 condition of his furnishing them with a play a year, " if his health was good enough." It is to be 
 concluded, that his health was not good enough ; for he was nearly six years in producing his two 
 remaining plays. One of them, however, was the most successful he wrote, and the managers appear 
 to have been satisfied. This most prosperous of his performances was his only serious one, the 
 " Mourning Bride ; " perhaps we should rather say, his only tragic one ; for there is a severity of 
 rascality, as well as an intricacy of plot, in some of his comedies, that produces upon many of their 
 . readers far too grave an impression. The "Mourning Bride " came out in the year 1697 ; and was 
 followed in 1700 by the " Way of the World," which, as the former had been the most successful 
 of his plays, was the least so, and completed that disgust with the stage, which a performer upon it, 
 of a very new complexion, had begun. We allude to the famous Jeremy Collier, who in the interval 
 between the appearances of these two dramas, astonished the play-going public by coming like a crash 
 upon their " houses," and forcing the "men of wit and honour " to fly to the most amazing of all 
 self-defences— that of their morality. We shall notice this battle, sincere on one side, half-confounded 
 on the other, and mistaken on both, when we come to the remarks at the close of our lives. The 
 great success of the " Mourning Bride " was a pleasing instance of the willingness of society at all 
 times to prefer the gravity of the affections to the levity of doubt and sarcasm. Our great modem 
 novelist, Sir Walter Scott, strangely mistook a matter of fact in the tendencies as well as history of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CKITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 humanity, when lie said that mankind at large prefer comedy to tragedy. The stronger sensation, 
 and therefore the more popular, must of necessity be on the side of passion, rather than of the 
 absence of it, and of the elementary feelings which all the world experience, rather than of 
 pleasantries often rendered local and fleeting by circumstances of nation and fashion. None but a 
 Frenchman can thoroughly laugh, even with Molifere ; and to a modern Greek half of Aristophanes . 
 is a jargon ; but';&ll the world can weep and be exalted with Sophocles and with Shakspeare„ Far 
 are we from undervaluing comedies and laughter. We heartily wish there were more of both. It is 
 too often forgotten by the wOuld-be rational as well as the Would-be pious, that heaven iaade laughter 
 as well as tears. But even the height of pleasure becomes serious; and it may be said^that the 
 sweet gravity of the highest kind of poetry is ever on the face of Nature herself. 
 
 There was an iuoredible tradition, that when Congreve found " The Way of the World " not 
 likely to succeed, he came in a passion on the stage, and told the audience thdy need not trouble 
 themselves to show their dislike, for.he intended to write for them no longer, nor ever again submit 
 himself to the judgment of impotent critics. This proceeding has been pronounced not likely in a 
 gentleman of his politeness ! The truth is, it would have been a madness. Cpngreve felt the public 
 censure strongly, no doubt ; and betook himself, as a man of letters and fashion, to his calm airs of 
 superiority and contempt ; but fancy this urbanest of companions, who never said a painful thing to 
 any one, suddenly giving up the habit of a life in order to rush upon the stage, and insult the town 
 to its face, like a mad scene-shifter ! * 
 
 He yet made his appearance however, once more, on a new stage, which was that of the larger 
 theatre erected for Betterton's company, on the site of the present opera-house, by Sir John Vanbrugh, 
 whom the old actors had now detached, as well as Congreve, from the Drury Lane Theatre, and 
 whom they appointed " viceroy over them," in conjunction with his brother wit. Keferring to 
 Vanbrngh's life, who was the more concerned in it, for what farther may be said on this event, we 
 shall only state here, that Congreve did little or nothing for his share of the management but 
 contribute a prologue or so, and one or two miserable bits of operas. He then backed, in fastidious 
 incompetence, out of the concern. 
 
 From this period, till the close of his days, with the exception of publishing his collected works 
 in 1710, he betook himself to a private life, sweetened by a fame which he affected not to care for, 
 and by the approbation of men of all parties, which he secured by occasionally saying a good word 
 for a friend, and a bad one against nobody. What his finances were up to a certain period, or how 
 they enabled him to live among the great, is a mystery. Swift's account of them has been thought 
 a Tory libel : 
 
 " Thus Congreve spent in writing plays, 
 
 And one poor office, half his days ; 
 
 While Montague, who claim'd the station 
 
 To be Maecenas of the nation^ 
 
 For poets open table kept, 
 
 But ne'er consider'd where they slept. 
 
 Himself, as rich as fifty Jews, 
 
 Was easy, though they wanted shoes ; 
 
 And crazy Congreve scarce could spare 
 
 A shilling to discharge his chair ; 
 
 Till prudence taught him to appeal 
 
 From Pagan's fire to party zeal ; 
 
 Not owing to his happy vein 
 
 The fortunes of his latter scene ; 
 
 Took proper principles to thrive ; 
 
 And so might every dunce aUve."— 0» Br. Delany and Lord Carteret. 
 
 * It iiBB struck u«, on reflection, that as the stage itSBlf in those times, during the performance of a play was often 
 intruded upcjn by the reigning fops and critics, Cjngreve might possibly have uttered something of the kind to those 
 gentlemen tn a fit of momentary indignation. 
 
CONOREVE. 
 
 We take Swift to have been in the right, as to the fact of the single office. Congreve's receipts 
 from Ms various places have been usually huddled together, as though Halifax had given them all, 
 and at once. Probably they did all come from him, or through him ; but it is certain our author 
 was not made a Commissioner of Wine Licences till the November of 1714. His richest appointment, 
 that of Secretary for Jamaica, followed in the course of the next month. Halifax died the May 
 ensuing. The whole of Congreve's offices now put him in possession, it is said, of twelve hundred 
 a-year, a very handsome income in those days for a bachelor. Up to this period, he probably lived 
 according to Swift's intimation, in straitened circumstances at home, though magnificently in the 
 houses ^ his noble friends ; not the happiest possible condition for a proud man, or any man ; though 
 •pride csn sooner reconcile itself, than less assuming passions, to vrhatsoever it condescends to be 
 convenienced with. At all events, whether proud or philosophic, Congreve repaid with interest what 
 he received, by the charms of his wit and conversation ; and men of genius, of all parties, would have 
 handed his name down to posterity, had he done nothing else for it himself. Dryden may be said 
 to have eulogised him as long as he survived. Steele dedicated his "Miscellanies" to him, and Pope 
 his " Iliad ; " and he was visited by Voltaire. Occasionally he wrote some verses which were handed 
 about, or a prologue for some friend, or a paper for a periodical work, or epistle to some coffee-house 
 wit. But he lived more like a man of birth than of letters ; and his powers of amusement being equal 
 to his fame, he became celebrated for his bonnes fortunes, and was always in tender connexion with 
 some reigning charmer. At one time, the lady appears to be Mrs. Arabella Hunt, the singer; at 
 another, he is residing in the same house with " Madam Berenger ; " at another, and for a long while, 
 he is the friend of delightful Mrs. Bracegirdle (whose very name sounds like a Venus) ; and during 
 the last years of his life he was the cherished companion of Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough, wife 
 of the Lord Treasurer Godolphin. 
 
 Upon the subject of these two latter connexions it is proper to dilate somewhat, as they not only 
 coloured his life and reputation, but form no inconsiderable portion of the essential history of the 
 man and his nature. The date of his first acquaintance with Mrs. Bracegirdle was doubtless that of 
 his introduction to the stage. It is observable, that she not only acted the heroine in every one of 
 his plays, but always spoke either a prologue or epilogue to it. Her appearance on these occasions 
 is not less certain, than the dedication of the play to some man of quality. Gallantry and fashion 
 always went hand in hand with Congreve. Among the exquisite portraits of stage contemporaries 
 painted by Colley Gibber, — who could become serious, and even feeling, when describing a cordial 
 woman, — the following one of this delightful actress remains ever fresh on the canvas ; — ■ 
 
 " Mrs. Bracegirdle was now just blooming to her maturity ; hor reputation as an actress 
 gradually rising with that of her person ; never any woman was in such general favour of her 
 spectators, which to the last scene of her dramatic life she maintained by not being unguarded in 
 her private character. This discretion contributed not a little to make her the cara, the darling 
 of the theatre : for it will be no extravagant thing to say, scarce an audience saw her that were 
 less than half of them lovers, without a suspected favourite among them ; and though she might 
 be said to have been the universal passion, and under the highest temptations, her constancy in 
 resisting them served but to increase the number of her admirers. And this perhaps ycu will 
 more easily believe, when I extend not encomiums on her person beyond a sincerity that can be 
 suspected ; for she had no greater claim to beauty than what the most desirable brunette might 
 pretend to. But her youth and lively aspect threw out such a glow of health and cheerfulness, 
 that on the stage few spectators that were not past it could behold her without desire. It was 
 even a fashion among the gay and young to have a taste or tendre for Mrs. Bracegirdle She 
 inspired the best authors to write for her ; and two of them, when they gave her a lover in the 
 play, seemed palpably to plead their own passion, and make their private court to her in fictitious 
 dbarai^ters. In all the chief parts she acted, the desirable was so predominant, that no judge 
 could be cold enough to consider from what other particular excellence she became delightful, 
 'i'o speak critically of an actress that was extremely good, were as hazardous as to be positive in 
 cue's opinion of the best opera singer. People often judge by comparisons w'jsre there is no 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL AND CRITICAL N-QTICES. 
 
 similitude in the performance. So that in this case we have only taste to appeal to, and of taste 
 there can be no disputing. I shall, therefore, only say of Mrs. Bracegirdle, that the most eminent 
 authors always chose her for their favourite character, and shall leave that uncontestable proof of 
 her merit to its own value. Yet let me say there were two very different characters in which she 
 acquitted herself with uncommon applause ; if anything could excuse that desperate extravagance 
 of love, that almost frantic passion of Lee's " Alexander the Great," it must have been when 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle was his Statira : as, when she acted Millamant, all the faults, follies, and affectation 
 of that agreeable tyrant were veuially melted down into so many charms and attractions of a conscious 
 beauty." * 
 
 With this charming woman, not only Congreve is understood to have fallen in love, but Eowe ; 
 who, by the way, if he did, left no small proof of the heartlessness of which some have accused him, 
 in a bantering copy of verses upon her, in which Lord Scarsdale is encouraged not to be ashamed to 
 many her, though her father did keep an inn at Northampton. 
 
 " Do not, most fragrant Earl, disclaim 
 Thy bright, thy reputable flame, 
 
 To Bracegirdle the brown; 
 But publicly espouse the dame, 
 And say, G — d — the town," &c. 
 
 It had not been discovered in those days, that a charming actress was worth marrying for her own 
 sake, in proportion to the evidences she had given of genius and a good heart. Eowe, with a spite 
 that would hardly have been found in a greater poet, and that is doubly revolting if he had loved her, 
 compliments her upon the offers of wealth and rank which she had rejected, in the very lines which 
 ridicule her parentage and her profession. Even one of these grounds of objection is said to have 
 been false. A commentator in Nichols's edition of the Tatter (vol. i. p. 215), designates her father 
 as " Justinian Bracegirdle of Northamptonshire, Esquire," who " ruined himself, among other ways, 
 by becoming surety for some friends." Be this as it may, hear Davies's account of the share which 
 Eowe as well as Congreve had in the admiration which she excited : — 
 
 " Mrs. Bracegirdle was the favourite actress of Congreve and of Eowe. In the several lovers they 
 gave her in their plays, they expressed their own passion for her. In ' Tamerlane,' Eowe courted her 
 Selima in the person of Axcdla; in the 'Fair Penitent,' he was the Horatio to her Lavinia; and 
 in ' Ulysses,' the Tdemaclms to Bracegirdle's Semanthe. Congreve insinuated his addresses in his 
 Valentine to her A ngelica, in ' Love for Love ; ' in his Osniyn to her A Imeria, in the ' Mourning Bride ; ' 
 and, lastly, in his Mirabel to her Millamant, in the ' Way of the World.' "+ 
 
 " Honest Tom Davies " proceeds to vindicate his heroine from the scandals of lawless " Tom 
 Brown," who tells us that Congreve " dined with her every day, and visited her in public and 
 private." The deduction thus intended to be implied cannot, argues Davies, be tnie, because 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle was visited to the last moment of her life by " persons of the most unblemished 
 character and the most exalted rank." He admits, at the same time, that Congreve's " assiduous 
 courtship did not pass unnoticed ; that he was constantly in her lodgings, and often rode out with 
 her." Mr. Davies's gentle mystifications may be safely left to the reader's " candour " (to use a 
 favourite word of those times). The toleration of polite life for temptations of the heart on the 
 stage, has not been one of the least redeeming or sincere of its own claims to indulgence. Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle's successor in the public admiration, Mrs. Oldfield, who was counted a model even to 
 the fashionable world on every point but one, was intimate with the people of the " most unblemished 
 character and exalted rank." Mr. Davies subsequently tells us so himself; adding, that the royal 
 family did not disdain to see her at their levees : and he repeats an amusing instance of her address. 
 The princess! of Wales (afterwards queen of George the Second) told her one day that she had heara 
 
 * Cilbor's " yVpology," 12mo, IS2C", p. 102. t " Miscellanies," ut sup., vol. iii.p. 380, 
 
conIjeeve. 
 
 (ihat General Chnrohill and she were married. " So it is said, may it please your highness," said 
 Mrs. Oldfield ; " but we have not owned it yet." 
 
 Prom collateral as well as other circumstances that transpire in the literature of the period, we 
 taie the conclusion respecting Bracegirdle to be, that she was more truly in love with Congreve than 
 be with her ; that it is probable she expected him to marry her ; that her expectations gradually 
 gave way before his worldlier heart, probably to the ultimate consolation of her own, when he went 
 to live with another ; and that sufficient friendship was retained on both sides, to maintain an 
 affectionate interest in one another for life ; — in Congreve, because he was a gentleman and a man 
 of sense ; and in the mistress, because the memory of the very dreams of a real regard is too sweet, 
 to let the bitterness even of its waking turn angry. Congreve visited her to the last, and remembered 
 her in his will, though not generously. And his kinder friend took what care she could of his 
 reputation. " When Curll, whom Dr. Arbuthnot (says Davies) termed one of the new terrors of 
 death, from his constantly printing every eminent person's life and last will, published an advertise- 
 ment of Memoirs of the Life of Congreve, she (Mrs. Bracegirdle) interested herself so far in his 
 reputation, as to demand a sight of the book in manuscript. This was refused. She then asked, 
 by what authority his life was written, and what pieces contained in it were genuine. TTpon being 
 told that there would be several of his letters, essays, &e., she answered, ' Wot one single sheet of 
 paper, I dare say.' And in this (rightly concludes Davies) she was a true prophet ; for in that book 
 there is not a line of Congreve which had not been printed before.* 
 
 Cibber speaks of her in advanced life as retaining her usual agreeable cheerfulness. Some few 
 years before her death, she retired, Davies informs us, to the house of W. Chute, Esq., and died in 
 1748, in the eighty-fifth year of her age, bequeathing " her effects " to a niece, " for whom she 
 expressed great regard." 
 
 What sort of charms the greater lady possessed, for whose society Congreve appears to have 
 forsaken that of Mrs. Bracegirdle, with the exception of her admiration of himself, her rank, and 
 the beauty common to the house of Churchill, we know not. There is nothing to show for her 
 having a grain of the other's sense and goodness. She was daughter and co-heir of the great Duke 
 of Marlborough, and became duchess in her own right, and wife of the Earl of Godolphin. She was 
 at variance with her mother, the famous Duchess ; but so was all the world. Congreve was older 
 than she by eight or nine years. Lord Chesterfield, speaking of her husband on a political occasion, 
 calls him "that cypher ;" and intimates, that what ability he possessed consisted in " sleeping." + 
 Now certainly Congreve was a man for keeping a lady's eyes and ears open, however short he might 
 have come of her heart ; and accordingly, he seems, for many years, to have been as regular at her 
 Grace's table, as the wine. They had a good deal of music at the house. Bononcini, the rival of 
 Handel, was patronised there. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu has a passage on the subject, which 
 reminds us that she too was so intimate an acquaintance of Congreve as to address very Lady-Mary- 
 like verses to him, extremely resembling what in a male writer to a female would have looked like 
 a declaration. J Perhaps this may explain the remainder of the passage : — 
 
 " The reigning Duchess of Marlborough (writes her ladyship to her sister) has entertained the 
 town with concerts of Bononcini's composition very often ; but she and I are not in that degree of 
 friendship to have me often Invited ; we continue to see one another like two people who are resolved 
 to hate with civility."§ ^ 
 
 Congreve however, though not old, was now growing mfirm. He had led a free and luxurious 
 life ; had become gouty ; and was afflicted with cataracts in his eyes, which terminated in blindness. 
 To relieve his gout, he took a journey to Bath, in the summer of 1728, for the benefit of the waters i 
 
 * Ut supra, p. 362.— He alludes to " Memoirs of the Lf/e, Writings, and Amours of William Congreve, Esq.,*' 
 purporting to be written by a Mr. Wilson, but supposed to be the manufacture of Oldmixon. It contains the novel 
 of the " Incognita," and is still to be met with on the book-stalls. Mr. Wilson himself, in his preface, relates the 
 above anecdote of Bracegirdle. 
 
 t Letters to and from Henrietta, Countess of Suffolk, i^c.,— vol. ii. p. 82. 
 
 t See them in her Wtrkt (by Lord Whamoliffe,) vol. iii. p. 401. { Jror»j,vol. ii. p. 13S. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND fiEITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 but had the misfortune to be overturned there in his chariot, which is supposed to have occasioned 
 jome inward bruise ; for returning to London, he complained thenceforward of a pain in his side, and 
 lied the 19th of January following, of a gradual decay, at his house in Surrey-street, in the Strand, 
 and in the fifty-serenth year of his age. 
 
 The Duchess of Marlborough took instant possession of the right of burial. On the Sunday 
 following, the corpse lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber ; and the same evening was borne with 
 great solemnity into Henry the Seventh's Chapel, and interred in the south transept of the Abbey. 
 The pall was supported by the Duke of Bridgewater (whose first wife was the Duchess's sister), Lord 
 Cobham (Pope's friend), the Earl of Wilmington (the dull man, whom Thomson took for a patron), 
 George Berkeley (who married Lady Sufifolk), and General Churchill (above mentioned, the friend of 
 Mrs. Oldileld, and cousin, we believe, of the Duchess). Colonel Congreve, the deceased's relation, 
 followed as chief mourner. In the Suflfolk Correspondence are two short letters to Mr. Bermey, 
 which may be here given as characteristic of the Duchess : — ■ 
 
 "Jem. 22,1728-9. 
 
 " SiE, — I must desire you to be one of the six next Sunday upon this very melancholy occasion. 
 I always used to think you had a respect for him, and I would not have any there that had not. 
 
 I am, &c., Maelbobouqh." 
 
 The next letter appears to have been accompanied with some memorial of Congreve : — 
 
 *■ «/a». 28, 1728-9. 
 
 " SiE, — The last letter I writ to you was upon always having thought that you had a respect, and a 
 kind one, for Mr. Congreve. I dare say you believe I could sooner think of doing the most monstrous 
 thing in the world than sending anything that was his, where I was not persuaded it would be valued. 
 The number of them I think so of, are a mighty few indeed ; therefore I must always be in a particular 
 ™a"ier. Yours, &c., Makieokotjgh." * 
 
 The word " him " in the first of these epistles, without any name specified, is touching. The other 
 letter is slip-slop enough. A monument succeeded the funeral, the following inscription upon which 
 was from her own hand :— "Mr. William Congreve died Jan. the 19th, 1728, aged fifty-six, and was 
 buried near this place ; to whose most valuable memory this monument is set up by Henrietta 
 Duchess of Marlborough, as a mark how deeply she remembers the happiness and honour she enjoyed 
 in the sincere friendship of so worthy and honest a man, whose virtue, candour, and wit, gamed him 
 the love and esteem of the present age, and whose writings will be the admiration of the future." The 
 old Duchess her mother, misquoting one of the words of this epitaph, said, "I know not what 
 Vlea^re she might have in his company, but I am sure it was no honour."t But the most curious 
 evidence of her attachment remains to be told. According to Davies, she had an "automaton, or 
 small statue of ivory, made exactly to resemble him, which every day was brought to table. A glass 
 was put in the hand of the statue, which was supposed to bow to her Grace, and to nod in approbation 
 of what she spoke to it." J 
 
 This is as fantastic though not half so sensible as the whim of the cobbler, mentioned in the 
 " Tatler," who had a lay-figure which reverently bowed and held out one shoe to him, while he was 
 mending its fellow. A more particular account of this folly is given by a correspondent of the 
 " Biographia Britannica :" — 
 
 " This lady (he says), commonly known by the name of the young Duchess oi Marlborough, had 
 a veneration for the memory of Mr. Congreve, which seemed nearly to approach to madness. Common 
 fame reports, that she had his figure made in wax after his death, talked to it as if it had been alive 
 placed it at table with her, took great care to help it to diflferent sorts of food, had an imaginary sore 
 on its leg regularly dressed ; and to complete all, consulted physicians with relation to its health."§ 
 
 * LMirt to and from Henrietta, Counteit<i/' Suffolk, Sic, vol. i. p. 330. 
 
 t Walpole's Reminiscencet. 1819, p. 68. j Dramatic MisceUaniei, vol. Hi. p. 407. 
 
 S Biog. Brit, Second Edit. vol. iv. p. 79. 
 
CONGEEVB. 
 
 As there seems however no better ground for these particulars than " common fame," most likely they 
 are exaggerated. Some of them, from what we have seen of the Duchess's turn of mind, may easily 
 enough be believed Nor were they wholly to be despised. There is something touching, notwith- 
 standing their absurdity, in the poorest whims connected with death and the affections ; though they 
 generally evince a want of imagination, and of faith in the spiritual and exalted. What the spirit 
 has done with, had better be put away; and the thought be contented to wander where the survivor's 
 own spirit must follow. Love is more in company there with what it has loved, unless it has been 
 of the most material description, and is tied and bound to what its companion has forsaken. The 
 probability, we think, considering the characters of both parties, is, that Congreve's wit and conver- 
 sation were necessary to the slow yet sensitive mind and humorous habits of the Duchess, and that 
 she consequently loved him with all the heart she had, and a great deal of obstinacy ; while on the 
 other hand, Congreve was grateful for an attachment that glorified him and was convenient, and felt 
 for her all the real tenderness of which a man of the world was capable, and which vanity would 
 exaggerate. His bequest to her was quite as ridiculous in point of feeling, as her posthumous 
 homage was in respect to the customs of society. With the exception of two hundred pounds to 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle, the like sum to another female of the name of Anne Jellatt, and a few hundreds 
 more to kindred who wanted all he could have given them (for the imprudence of a relation had 
 reduced the family estate), he left her the whole of his property, which amounted to ten thousand 
 pounds, " the accumulation (says Johnson) of attentive parsimony ;" and though the " Biographia 
 Britannica " accuses Gibber of mistake in saying that he made her his sole executrix, the sole executor 
 having been the Earl her husband, yet it strangely overlooks in its authority the fact of a codicil 
 amounting to that effect, and revoking every bequest unless she chose to ratify it, with the exception 
 of the two to " Anne Bracegirdle " and " Anne Jellatt " — fair friends whom, in spite of his dotage or 
 his slavery, (for his conduct, next to vanity, looks very like a regular hen-pecked weakness,) he chose, 
 with the last dying spark of a gentleman in him, not to trust to the tender mercies of the all-grasping 
 Henrietta. Mrs. Bracegirdle, who defended his memory, appears to have been in circumstances to 
 which more than the two hundred would have been welcome. " Congreve," observed Dr. Young, 
 "was very intimate for years with Mrs. Bracegirdle, and lived in the same street, his house very near 
 hers, until his acquaintance with the young Duchess of Marlborough. He then qilitted that house.* 
 The Duchess showed me a diamond necklace (which Lady Di. used afterwards to wear) that cost 
 seven thousand pounds, and was purchased with the money Congreve left her. How much better 
 would it have been to have given it to poor Mrs. Bracegirdle ! "+ 
 
 Bravo, Doctor Young ! With leave of thy very gloomy, mitre-missing, and most erroneous " Night 
 Thoughts," this is the best and most christian thing thou didst ever say. 
 
 Few men, if any, thoroughly surmount those prejudices in favour of rank and title in which they 
 have been bred, and for which indeed, as part of the dispensation and progress of things, and as 
 equally gifts after their kind with ascendancies more noble, a hardy logician could say more than 
 many would suppose. The man the most jealous of his independence, had need watch his nature 
 closely, lest he find himself inclined to be more grateful to a duke than to a commoner, and to a 
 duchess than an ordinary mistress. A great and exquisite musician (Corelli) who had the reputation 
 of being a very amiable man, and whose compositions are of a nature to confirm it, left all his 
 property away from poor relations, to a Cardinal who had patronised him. It should be added, 
 however, that Oorelll looked upon the property as derived from the patronage. In Congreve's case, 
 (unless indeed the bequest was to pay his bill for wine and dinners !) the ten thousand pounds came, 
 not from the Duchess, but from the island of Jamaica, and the office of hackney-coaches ! We are 
 afraid it is not to be defended, except upon the ground of excessive weakness, and of a class of 
 intellect that ended with believing in nothing. 
 
 To judge from his portraits, Congreve was a handsome man, though with a face more smooth and 
 
 * The house which Young alludes to was in Surrey-street, Strand. Mrs. Braoeg.rdle hved in Ho vard-s treet wh ol. 
 turns out of Surrey-street. If Congreve left his house at this juncture, he appears to have returned '» >' " ^is dying 
 moments. But perhaps he retained though he seldom lived in it. + Spence s Anecdotes nt lup. p. 370. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CKITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 regular than expressive of sensibilily. He had high features, and a look between sensuality and 
 foppish vivacity. The foppery, however, may have been added by the painter, and increased by the 
 turn given to the attitude and the flowing peruke. There is a great contempt of coxcombry in his 
 writings ; but this does, not imply exception from the weakness. Sometimes it argues a, greater 
 share of it. No man is so vain, as he who thinks himself free from all vanity. " Mr. Congreve," 
 said Voltaire, " had one defect, which was his entertaining too mean an idea of his first profession, 
 that of a writer, though it was to this he owed his fame and fortune. He spoke of his works as of 
 trifles ihat were beneath him ; and hinted to me in our first conversation, that I should visit him 
 upon no other foot than that of a gentleman, who led a life of plainness and simplicity. I answered, 
 that had he been so unfortunate as to be a mere gentleman, I should never have come to see him ; 
 and I was much disgusted at so unseasonable a piece of vanity."* Various constructions, it is true, 
 have been put upon this intimation of Congreve's. Dr. Johnson pronounces it a " despicable 
 foppery." Gibber characteristically looks upon it as an attempt to " divest himself of human nature." 
 But Mason is of opinion, that it was the "indifference to literary fame," of a man advanced in life. 
 And Dr. Campbell, the first editor of the " Biographia Britannioa," thinks it hard and strange, that 
 an author should be reproved for being so modest as to " undervalue his own works." The religious 
 might discover a more serious exculpation. A Mr. Dingley (probably a friend of Swift's) told 
 Dr. Campbell, upon the authority of Beveru the Quaker, that on a visit to Bevem in company with 
 Pope, Congreve expressed sorrow for the errors of his youth, and " most sincerely wished that it were 
 possible to obliterate all the offensive and impure passages in his works ."+ But setting aside the 
 possibility that the Quaker's story may have been a pious fraud, or become exaggerated in its progress 
 from mouth to mouth, Congreve never expressed any public sorrow for his writings, as a sincere 
 penitent would have seized occasion of doing. Neither did his mode of life announce any feeling of 
 the sort. And some verses which he addressed in his decline to Lord Cobham, show that his morals 
 were of the old epicurean sort, though calmed and philosophised. The climax of his list of the goods 
 of life is — 
 
 " Health, honour, and a lair estate, 
 A table free, and ekgwiUly ruat I " 
 
 " What" (exclaims he, at the crowning inspiration of this line), 
 
 " What can be added more to mortal bliss ? " 
 
 Congreve had not got his gout for nothing. The conclusion respecting the Voltaire question we 
 take to be, that our author, who was both a reader and thinker, and had suffered pain and evil 
 enough to drive his thoughts to their depth, had really come to consider his works as no very 
 wonderful things ; and he felt perhaps, when reminded of them by a young and enthusiastic admirer 
 (as Voltaire then was), some little irritation at finding the sum total of his powers and aspirations 
 rated by no higher standard. There may still have been a vanity in this, but it was at least not a 
 contented Tianity, or one that recognised nothing greater than its own achievements. If, however, 
 he affected to set the " gentleman " above the author, upon some abstract ground of fashion and 
 refinement, thai indeed was being a traitor to wit, and setting the less above the greater with a very 
 madness of foppery ; as though, in some dream of dandyism, he should have clapped a cocked-hat 
 over his crown of bays. 
 
 Congreve's acquisition of the fame which has been deemed so perilous ("when all men speak 
 well of you,") may be accounted for on two opposite principles, and will redound to his praise or 
 dishonour accordingly. It may have been owing to unbounded benevolence, or to a calculating 
 selfishness. But there may also have been mixed motives. Congreve has the solid reputation of 
 never having forgotten any one who did him a service. And he always adhered to the Whigs, 
 prosperous or otherwise. On the other hand, he continued to do this without giving offence to the 
 
 * Letters on the English Nation. t Biographia Britannica, «« repra, p. 79. 
 
CONGEEVB. 
 
 Tories ; and though he never forgot a benefactor, it is not told of Mm, nor does it seem likely from 
 his writings, that he ever risked any thing, or encountered any kind of martyrdom or privation to 
 benefit anybody. The best thing we find recorded of him is, his having given a young author a 
 paper for a new periodical, and his writing it out with his own hand, " bliad as he was " (says Swift). 
 This, by the way, was in the year 1710; which was eighteen years before his death, and shows how 
 early he was threatened with loss of sight.* But again, he bequeathed a pittance to his reduced 
 kindred, and to " poor Mrs. Braoegirdle," and gave thousands where they were not wanted, 
 
 " Adding the sum of more 
 
 To that whidh has too much ; " 
 
 a " testament," as Shakspeare has remarked, characteristic of " worldlings." Congreve therefore 
 might still have been 
 
 " Friendly Congreve, unreproachful man,*' 
 
 as Gay called him ; his company might never have been quitted by anybody with one pang of 
 personal mortification, as Steele has told us ; and even Pope and Tonson, in the fondness of their 
 regret, might say of him, that he. Garth, and Tanbrugh, were the " three most honest-hearted, real 
 good men of the poetical members of the Kit-kat Club ; " and yet the conclusion seems unavoidable, 
 that he was negatively rather than positively amiable, and must be ranked among the agreeably 
 selfish. (What a blessing if all the selfish were equally agreeable !) We can easily understand how 
 a man of his sort might be too good-tempered and sensible to discompose either himself or others, 
 and yet make a rich duchess his heir, and leave a poor relation to sigh over the " Way of the World." 
 If you want truer amiableness and more generous virtues, you must go to the greater world of 
 nature and the beautiful, and not take the little world, miscalled the great, for the planet on which 
 it is but a speck. 
 
 There is one evidence in Congreve, nevertheless, of the love of the highest aspirations, which has 
 always puzzled us, and which, if it had not been for this bequest, would have forced us to give him 
 credit for being superior, at heart, to his worldly tendencies. And indeed it is impossible to say, 
 that such might not have been the case in his healthiest days, which are those in which the entire 
 man is to be estimated. We allude to the power he had to write such verses as those on Lady Gethin, 
 and such papers as the one he contributed to the Tatler, on the character of Lady Elizabeth Hastings, 
 — an effusion so full of enthusiasm for the moral graces, and worded with an appearance of sincerity, 
 so cordial, that we can never read it without thinking it must have come from Steele. It is in this 
 paper that he says one of the most elegant and truly loving things that were ever uttered by an 
 unworldly passion : — " To love hee, is a liberal education." Alas ! why does the faith in good and 
 beauty sometimes light up the human bosom, as if only to show that every heart has a comer capable 
 of reflecting it for a moment, but not strong enough to retain it ! — And yet, let us be glad that even 
 the temporary capability is there. Time, and healthier institutions, and then custom and convention 
 itself, will bring the rest. 
 
 Meantime the plays of Congreve will not help the advancement, except inasmuch as their narrow 
 views contradict worse bigotries, and serve to neutralize both. His love is spare and sorry ; his 
 belief in nothing, abundant ; the whole set but a mass of wit, and sarcasm, and fine writing ; — of 
 brilliant exposures of hoUowness, and of plots so over-ingenious as to become perplexing and tiresome. 
 Speaking for ourselves, indeed, we can never attend sufSciently to the plots of Congreve. They soon 
 puzzle us, and we cease to think of them. We see nothing but a set of heartless fine ladies and 
 gentlemen, coming in and out, saying witty things at each other, and buzzing in some maze of 
 
 * " Congreve gave me a Tatler he had written out, as blind as he is, for little Harrison. 'Tis ahniit a scoimdrel 
 that was grown rich, and went and bought a coat of arms at the Herald's, and a set of ancestors at Fleet Ditch ; it is 
 well enough, anA shall be printed in two or three days." Bv/iWa Journal to Stella. — Seethe paper in the (jctavo 
 edition of the Tatler of 1709, vol. iv. p. 595. It was one of a New Tatler, which was to succeed Steele's. By the 
 *' young Duchess of Marlborough" is meant only juniority in relation to her mother the old Duchess, who was 
 '.itiil alive. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CKITIGAL NOTICES. 
 
 intrigue. Tet incessant activity Is there ; the first demand of life, movement, is supplied; and no 
 human beings are as bad as they sometimes/after themselves they are, or as the gay comic writer 
 amuses his activity by supposing them. 
 
 But above all, we must confess we find the " wit " become tiresome. We love it heartily in its 
 proper places, in Butler, Swift, and Addison, where it is serving some jrarpose greater than itself; 
 and we love it still more, when it issues out of sheer animal spirits, and is happy as a child. But 
 wit for wit's sake becomes a task and »■ trial ; and in Congreve's days it was a cant, like the talk 
 about "sense"' and "reason;" — as if all sense, and reason, and wit, had been comprised in the 
 substitution of the greater faculties of man for the less, and the critical for the unconscious. Everybody 
 was to be " witty." Letters were to be full of " wit," and end in some " witty turn." Coffee-houses 
 were to talk nothing but " wit." Ladies were to have " wit and sweetness," and gentlemen " wit and 
 fire;" not the old "mother-wit" of Shakspeare and his fellows, which was a gift from the whole loving 
 frame of Nature ; but a trick of the fancy and of words, which you might almost acquire from the 
 brother-wits of the tavern, and which dealt chiefly in simile, with a variation of antithesis. Eveiy 
 thing seemed to be of value, only inasmuch as it could be likened or opposed to something else ; till 
 at length simile and metaphor came to be taken for a " reason ; " and " sense " itself was occupied, 
 not in seeing into anything very deeply for its own sake, but in discovering how far it was capable 
 of being split off into a couple of images. The great wits, to be sure, bantered the less, and affected 
 to laugh at the affectation ; but it was only for the purpose of guarding its rank and distinctions. 
 This cant of wit, which affected " manly Wycherley" himself a great deal more than it ought, came 
 to its head in Cougreve, and pretty well ceased with him. Vanbrugh was too robust and straight- 
 forward to care for it, and Parquhar too full of play. . 
 
 From the artificial nature of Congreve's plays, partly owing to this wrong direction of his 
 ingenuity, and partly to the sophisticate excesses of his men and women, and the riddles of his plots, 
 we have scarcely retained an impression of them sufficiently distinct from one another to enable ns 
 to do justice to each, though we have just read them through for the express purpose, and marked 
 them, and made notes besides. The " Old Bachelor " was thought astonishing for its knowledge of 
 life, from an author not out of his teens ; but the critics have long discovered that there was no such 
 " knowledge " in it as a youth so clever might not easily have attained. The wonderful thing was, 
 the use he made of the knowledge, and the freedom from all appearance of immaturity. Dryden 
 and Southeme, it is true, helped to fit it for the stage ; but it is not likely that they made any great 
 ' alteration in the main body and spirit of the thing, or the prevailing amount of its " sense." The 
 characters of Wittol, Bluffe, and Fondlewife, are old stage property, as may be seen by their names ; 
 and the whole play, generally speaking, is but a wittier and less hearty re-fashionment of the style 
 of Wycherley. Yet the reader, who has patience enough to watch the dialogue closely, will be 
 rewarded with perpetual evidences of a quick observant mind, and of that conscious mastery over 
 his pen and his sphere of action, which the new satirist of the circles appears to have felt the 
 moment he entered them. The passage we call to mind with the greatest pleasure is the eighth 
 scene of aot the fourth, where Belinda sets her hair to rights, and describes the two girls from the 
 country, whose dress she adjusted for them, and one of whom in gratitude gave her " two apples, 
 piping hot, out of an under-petticoat pocket." Pereant male qui ante nos, &c. The "fai amber 
 necklace " of the mother is a touch of genius. 
 
 The " Double Dealer," with the solemn reciprocities of Lord and Lady Froth, and the capital 
 character of Lady Plijant, " insolent to her husband, and easy to every pretender," is far superior to 
 the " Old Bachelor." Congreve excels in mixtures of impudence, hypocrisy, and self-delusion. The 
 whole of the fifth scene of the second act, between Lady Plyant and Mellefont, is exquisite for the 
 groBsness of the overtures made under pretence of a delicacy in alarm. But it is no wonder a 
 comedy did not succeed that has so black a villain in it as Maslaoell, and an aunt who has a regularly 
 installed gallant in her nephew. Sir Paul Plyant also says things to his daughter, which no decent 
 person could hear with patience between father and child. The writer's object mio-ht have been a 
 good one; but it is of doubtful and perilous use to attempt to do good by effrontery. It was on 
 
CONGEEVB. 
 
 occasion of this play that Dryden addressed to Congrere his famous epistle, full of strength and 
 good-nature, and almost as full of mistake. The dramatists of Charles the Second's age were 
 described as superior in "skill" to the "giant race" their predecessors. Fletcher could "move," 
 but had no power to "raise;" Ben Jonson doubled Fletcher's "force;" but all and everybody 
 submitted to Congreve, except Shakspeare ; and even he had but " as much " in him ; for Nature 
 " could not give him more ! " But the panegyrics of this age, for want of that highest kind of truth 
 on all sides, whieh only belongs to the highest genius, supplied defect of warmth with extravagance 
 of attribution. There was generally a bargain in the matter ; writers paid each other in kind, and 
 lords paid dedicators in money. A natural excess of feeling on the part of the grateful, must be 
 allowed to have had its share in the exaggeration. Flattery is not always insincere ; and modesty 
 itself may help to beguile gratitude into adulation, out of a doubt of its ability to render what 
 is due. 
 
 "Love for Love" is the most amusing of all Congreve's plays, and the characters the least 
 unpleasant. There are no revolting scoundrels ; and the lovers really have some love. Jeremy is 
 most improbably witty, for a servant ; even though he once " waited on a gentleman at Cambridge." 
 Miss Prue is not so naturally cunning as Wycherley's Country Wife, nor such a hearty bouncer as 
 Tanbrugh's Hoyden; but she is a very good variety of that genus. The detection of one another 
 by Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight — 
 
 « Where did you lose this gold hodkin ? oh, sister, sister ! " — 
 
 " Well, if you come to that, where did you /nd this bodkin ? oh, sister ! sister every way ! " 
 
 is ever fresh and retributive. Mr. Hazlitt has noticed the startling profundity of Valentine's request 
 to his father, to disinherit him, not simply of the family estate, but of the passions and appetites 
 which he begot in him. A less original, but like unconventional intimation, ia noticeable in the 
 claim put in by the servant, to be considered on a level in that respect with gentlemen : — 
 
 " Sir Sampson. 'Oons, whose son are you ! How were you engendered ? 
 
 Jeremy. I am, by my father, the sou of a chairman ; my mother sold oysters in winter, and cucumbers 
 in summer ; and I came upstairs into the world, for I was bom in a cellar. 
 
 Foresight. By your look you should go up stairs out of the world too, friend. 
 
 Sir Sanvpson. And if this rogue were anatomised now, and dissected, he has vessels of digestion and con- 
 coction, and so forth, large enough for the inside of a cardinal, this son of a cucumber. These things are 
 unaccountable and unreasonable.'* • 
 
 " The character of Foresight," says Johnson, " was then common. Dryden calculated nativities ; 
 both Cromwell and King William had their lucky days ; and Shaftesbury himself, though he had no 
 religion, was said to regard prediction. The Sailor is not accounted very natural, but he is very 
 pleasant." We know not why the Sailor should have been accounted unnatural, except that he 
 appears to be a common sailor, and yet is the son of a man of fortune. It used to be said that 
 sailors do not talk like sailors, nor use a sea-jargon; but they do. They talk, as other people do, 
 within the limits of their experience. As to Shaftesbury, it is far from surprising that they who 
 have no religion should yet be liable to superstition. They are often but the more at mercy of it, 
 from the want of any set limits to belief. The demand for books of astrology is considerable at the 
 present moment ; and perhaps has never failed. Mankind cannot get rid of a sense of the unknown 
 world, if it would; and till it takes to it in the widest and most poetical sense, which is also the 
 Healthiest and most natural,— such as a, child instinctively has when it looks at the stars,— it will 
 dabble in the darkest borders of it, with a knowledge less than childish. 
 
 The "Mourning Bride" is not uninteresting in its story, nor so bad in its poetry as one might 
 expect from the want of faith and passion natural to a town-wit of that age. Dr. Johnson, indeed, 
 out of his amazing unacquaintance, or want of sympathy, (not to speak it irreverently) with poetry of 
 the highest order, tells us, that if he were " required to select from the whole mass of English poetry 
 the most poetical paragraph," (observe the instinct of that word !) "he knows not what he could 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 prefer to an exclamation in the " Mourning Bride ;" and then he quotes the passage in the third 
 scene of act the second, where ^Zmeria is so affected by the awful aspect of the interior of a cathedral. 
 The passage indeed is a poetical one, and the best that Congreve wrote. The strong material 
 presence of a cathedral-aisle, aided by the help of those thoughts of death which everybody 
 experiences in looking at tombs, gave him a sufficient knock on the head to stir him to some emotion 
 and attention, notwithstanding the neutralizing levity of his peruke. But a lover of the old poets 
 will laugh as much at Johnson's unique notions of it, as the writer of the English ballad does at the 
 irreparable loss which he supposes to be felt in Scotland at the death of a single hero ; — 
 
 *' I trust I have withiD my realm 
 Five hundred aa good as he.'' 
 
 As the leve of the " Mourning Bride," however, is defaced with the cant and sensuality of 
 gallantry, so the style, for the most part, is poor, underbred (in a poetical sense), and instinctively 
 prosaical ; speaking neither with the richness nor the simplicity of passion, nor above the common- 
 place of conventional metaphor. If the tragedy were revived now, the audience would laugh at the 
 inflated sentences and unconscious prose. The revival of old English literature, and the tone of our 
 best modem poets, have accustomed them to a higher and truer spirit. Yet some of the language 
 of Alineria, as where, for instance, she again meets with Osmyn, is natural and affecting ; and it is 
 pleasing to catch a man of the world at these evidences of sympathy with what is serious. Nor are 
 sensible and striking passages wanting. It is in this play, and the " Way of the World," that are to 
 be found some of those rhyming, sententious couplets which have become proverbial, and which their 
 quoters are often at a loss in what author to find. 
 
 ^^'^eaven has no rage, Hke love to hatred turn'd, 
 Nor hell a fury, like a woman Bcorn'd." 
 
 Mcmming Bride. — Close of Act III. 
 
 \: 
 
 For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, 
 /i.nd though a late, a sure reward succeeds." 
 
 Idem. — Close of the Play. 
 
 f there 's delight in love, 'tis when I see 
 The heart which others bleed for, bleed for me." 
 
 Way oftli£ IFbrZd.— Act III., Scene 12. 
 
 The " Way of the World," though not the most amusing, is assuredly the most complete, piquant, 
 and observant of all the works of Congreve ; full as an egg of some kind of wit or sense in almost 
 every sentence, and a rich treat for the lover of this sort of writing, sitting in his easy-chair. 
 Millamant pushes the confident playfulness of a coquet to the verge of what is pleasing ; but her 
 animal spirits and good-nature secure her. Tou feel that her airs will give way, by-and-by, to a 
 genuine tenderness; and, meanwhile, some of them are exquisite in their affected superiority to 
 circumstances. 
 
 " Mrs. Fainall. You were dressed before I came abroad. 
 
 Millamcmt. Ay, that 's true. — 0, but then I had— Mincimg, what had I! Wliy was I so long ! 
 
 Minci/ng. mem, your laship staid to peruse a pacquet of letters. 
 
 Millamaait. O ay, letters — I had Utters — I am persecuted with letters — I hate letters. — Nobody knows 
 how to write letters ; and yet one has 'em, one doesn't know why. — They seme one to pirn wp cme's hair.^ 
 And again : — • 
 
 " Beauty the lover's gift ! Lord, what is a lover, that it cam, give ! Why, one makes lovers as fest as 
 one pleases, and they live as long aa one pleases, and they die as soon aa one pleases, and then, if one pleases, 
 one makes more." 
 
 Mrs. Mincing, who pins hair up " so pure and cnps," is the most niminy-piminy of attendants.— 
 &.ct the fifth opens with one of Congreve's exquisite descriptions of common life : 
 
CONGREVE. 
 
 " Lady Wishfort. Out of my liouse, out of my houafe, thou viper, thou seifeut, that I have fostered ; thou 
 bosom traitress, that I i^sed from nothing. — Begone, begone, begone, go, go. — That I took from washing of 
 old gauze and weaving of dead hair, with a black-blue nose over a chafing-dish of starved embers, and dining 
 behind a traverse rag, in a shop no bigger than a bird-cage.^' -^ ^ '^ (^ U''-* 
 
 This is certainly the genius loci ; — the poetry of local deacription, and narrow-minded contempt I 
 Very little poetry of any sort ia there in the " Miscellanies " of Congreve, and not much of his 
 accustomed wit. To his scholarship, as Dr. Johnson observed, the public were indebted for the 
 discovery, that Cowley's irregular versification was not Pindaric ; though, in a directly critical sense, 
 he can hardly be said to have first taught the knowledge to " English writers ;" for the example of 
 the true Pindaric (as far as metre goes) had been set with pedantic nicety by Ben Jonson. Congreve 
 professes not to be aware * of the existence of a precursor in this reformation ; and most likely he 
 had forgotten Ben's miscellaneous poetry, though he had well studied the dramas of the old scholar. 
 He retained a better recollection of Spenser ; for in the " Elegy on the Marquis' of Blandford," (the 
 son of his friend the Duchess of Marlborough,) the toiler through its common-places is agreeably 
 surprised at coming upon one or two passages of real fancy and tenderness, evidently suggested by 
 the verses of the great poet on the " Death of Sir Philip Sydney." All his other " Mourning 
 Muses," and serious poems of any sort, with the exception of a passage in his ode upon the singing 
 of Arabella Hunt, (for he had a real feeling for music,) are, for the most part, to use a frank epithet 
 applied to some of them by Johnson, " despicable." He sometimes follows Cowley so ill, that he may 
 be said to imitate Sprat ! — as in the " sigh '' which Silence occupies by way of " throne," and which 
 has been " purposely annihilated " to oblige him with that accommodation ! There is now and then 
 a strenuous couplet in his translations, caught from the tone of Dryden. His art of "Pleasing" 
 consists in a freedom from affectation ; which though a necessary, is hut a negative part of it. In his 
 best songs he is remarkable for the absence of everything that is inverted in words, or superfluous to 
 the thought ; and here also his wit returns ; but he implies, as usual, little cordiality in his gallantry. 
 The following, however, is written in the spirit of a gentleman. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 False though she be to me and love, 
 
 I 'U ne'er pursue revenge ; 
 For still the charmer I approve, 
 
 Though I deplore the change. 
 
 In hours of bliss we oft have met, 
 
 They could not always last ; 
 And though the present I regret, 
 
 I 'm grateful for the past. 
 
 The following is more characteristic of hi? writings in ordinary; as full of wit, and what was 
 thought " sense," as it is deficient in sentiment. It is needless to add, that epicures of this sort are 
 ignorant of half of what they think they know best, the very luxury of the senses. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Tell me no more I am deceived, 
 
 That Chloe 's false and common ; 
 I always knew, at least believed, 
 
 She was a very woman. 
 As such I liked, as such caressM ; 
 She still was constant when possess'd 
 
 She could do more for no man. 
 
 * See the Discovree on ihfi Findarique Ode prefixed to one of Congreve's poeraa on King William ; and, In 
 Ben Jonson'fl worlis, the " Pindaric Ode " to the memory of Sir Lucius Gary and Sir H. Morison. 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 But oh! her thoughts on others ran, 
 
 And that you think a hard thing; 
 Perhaps she fancied you the man, 
 
 And what care I one farthing ? 
 You think she 's false, I 'm sure she 's kind, 
 1 take her body, you her mind ; 
 
 Which has the better bargain ? 
 
 The perplexed heroine of the next has been thought to be " poor Mrs. Bracegirdle." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Pious Belinda goes to prayers. 
 
 If I but ask the favour ; 
 And yet the tender fool 's in tears. 
 
 When she believes I 'II leave her. 
 
 Would I were free from this restraint, 
 
 Or else had hopes to win her ! 
 Would she could make of me a saint, 
 
 Or I of her a sinner ! 
 
 CongrevB had an admiratioa of fair saints ; which indeed is natural to a sinner of his sort. But 
 " Doris " was thought his master-piece. The critics of the age, with good-natured Steele at their 
 head, wanted words to express their admiration of " Doris ; " — Doris, which was the concatenation 
 of everything new, and playful, and profound ; — Doris, the " inimitable Doris," which, for aught that 
 Greece or Eome had to show to the contrary, might have been written by Horace or Menander, or 
 Virgil himself ; nay, by Lord Dorset, or the Earl of Halifax. But we must not jest with a name 
 like Steele, because we happen to lire in an age which has been taught better. " Doris " is, in truth, 
 very acutely and pleasantly written, and, to this day, not a little startling ; though the character was 
 not a new one, even with Congreve. It shall be the last of our extracts in verse : — ■ 
 
 DOEIS. 
 
 Doris, a nymph of riper age, 
 
 Has every graoe and art 
 A wise observer to engage. 
 
 Or wound a heedless heart. 
 Of native blush and rosy dye 
 
 Time has her cheek bereft ; 
 Which mal<res the prudent nymph supply, 
 
 With paint, the injurious theft. 
 Her sparkling eyes she still retains, 
 
 And teeth, in good repair ; 
 And her well furnish'd front disdain 
 
 To grace with borrowed hair. 
 Of size, she is nor short nor tall. 
 
 And does to fat incline 
 No more, than what the Fremh would call 
 
 Aimahle emJxmpomt. 
 Farther her person to disclose 
 
 I leave : let it suffice. 
 
 She has few faults, but what she knows, 
 
 And can with skill disguise. 
 She many lovers has refused. 
 
 With many more complied 
 
CONGHEVE. 
 
 Which, like her clothea, -when little nsed, 
 
 She always lays luide. 
 She's one who looks with great contempt 
 
 On each affected creature, 
 "Whose nicety would seem exempt 
 
 From appetites of nature. 
 She thinks they want or health or sense, 
 
 Who want an inclination ; 
 And therefore never takes offence 
 
 At him wlio pleads his passion. 
 Whom she refuses, she treats still 
 
 With so much sweet hehaviour, 
 That her refusal, through her skill; 
 
 Looks almost like a favour. 
 Since she this softness can express 
 
 To those whom she rejects, 
 She must he very fond, you '11 guess, 
 
 Of such whom she affects. 
 But here our Doris far outgoes * 
 
 All that her sex have done ; 
 She no regard for custom knows. 
 
 Which reason hids her shun. 
 By reason, her own reason's meant. 
 
 Or, if you please, her will ; 
 For when this last is discontent, 
 
 The first is served hut ill. 
 Peculiar, therefore, is her way ; 
 
 Whether by nature taught, 
 I shall not undertake to say, 
 
 Or by experience bought. 
 But who o'er night ohtainM her grace, 
 
 She can next day disown; 
 And stare upon the strange man's face, 
 
 As one she ne'er had known. 
 So well she can the truth disguise. 
 
 Such artful wonder frame, 
 The lover or distrusts his eyes, 
 
 Or thinks ^twas all a dream. 
 - Some, censure this as lewd and loWj 
 
 Who are to bounty blind ; 
 For to forget what we bestow, 
 
 Bespeaks a noble mind. 
 Doris our thanks nor asks nor needs. 
 
 For all her favours done : 
 From her love flows, as light proceeds 
 
 Spontaneous from the sun. 
 On one or other still her fires 
 
 Display their genial force, 
 And she, like Sol, alone retires, 
 
 To shine elsewhere of course. 
 
 Congreve's undramotic prose writings are few and of little importance. Hia answer to Collier is 
 noticed at the conclusion of our lives. He addressed a letter to Dennis (whose name was dropped 
 in the later editions of it,) on the subject of Humour in Comedy; but it contains nothing mora 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 remarkable than the use of the word appearing for apparent, — his- only innovation we believe of the 
 sort, and strange enough for a writer so opposed to pedantry. In the British Museum are soma 
 original letters of his, addressed to Mr. Porter, husband of the celebrated actress, and including ona 
 to herself. She was a neighbour of Mrs. Bracegirdle, and a very high-minded and good-natured 
 woman, as well as an actress of great sensibility. We are not aware that these letters have ever been 
 published, and having had permission to copy them, we lay them before the reader. They show ua 
 an unaffected man, and an easy, good-tempered, enjoying companion ; and there is an occasional 
 glimpse of his wit. We have preserved the irregular initials and the want of stops, to show the 
 progress that lesser wits have since made in these matters by the help of Mr. Dilworth. 
 
 " S' I am forced to Borrow Ladies paper* but I think it will contain all that I can tell you from 
 this place which is so much out of the world that nothing but the last great news could have reacht 
 it. I have a little tried what solitude and retirement can afford, which are here in perfection I am 
 now writing to you from before a black mountain nodding over me and a whole river in cascade 
 falling so near me that even I can distinctly see it. I can only tell you of the situation I am in, 
 which would be better expressed by Mr. Grace if he were here. I hope all our friends are well both 
 at Salisbury and Windsor where I suppose you spent the last week, pray whenever you write to 'em 
 give my humble service. I think to go the next week to Mansfield race where I am told I shall see 
 all the Country if I see any of y' acquaintance I will do you right to them. I hope Mrs. Longuevillea 
 picture has been well finished. I am Dear S' Y' most humble Servt. Will Cohobevb 
 
 " Ham near Ashboum in Derbyshire 
 " Between 6 and 7 in the morning birds singing jolly breezes whistling &e." 
 
 (Oidside.) " To Mr. Edward Porter At his house in Surrey Street i' the Strand, London." 
 
 " New Tear Day. 
 
 " This is to wish you and Mrs. Porter and my friends in Howard-street t a happy new year, and 
 next to condole with you for the damnd weather god knows when the snow will let me stir ; or if a 
 thaw should come upon it when the flouds will be down. I am by a great fire yet my ink freezes so 
 fast I cannot write. The Hautboys who played to us last night had their breath froze in their 
 instruments till it dropt of the ends of 'em in icicles by god this is true my service and sorrow to my 
 friends for not being with 'em. 
 
 " I am y' : most obedient servant, W. Conskevb " 
 
 {Outside.) "For Mr. Porter, at his house in Surrey street, in the Strand Loudon" 
 
 (Post-marks.) " Buckingham. — Frank, E. Temple.* 
 
 The following is to Mrs. Porter : 
 
 " Rotterdam 7br 27 : 1700 
 
 " I leave you to judge whether Holland can be said to be wanting in Gallantry, when it is 
 Customary there to enclose a Billet doux to a Lady in a letter to her husband I have not so much as 
 made mention of this, to yours ; and if you tell first, let the sin fall upon your head instead of his. 
 for my part I keep the Commandment, I love my neighbour as my selfe, and to avoid coveting my 
 neighbour's wife I desire to be coveted by her ; which you know is quite another thing. About 
 
 J weeks since, I wrote a very passionate letter to you from Antwerp which I believe you never 
 
 received, for just now it is found carefully put up by my man, who has been drunk ever since. I 
 understand you have not been in the Country, I am glad of it ; for 1 should very much have 
 apprehended the effect which solitude might have produced. Joined with the regrett which I know 
 you feel for my absence, take it for granted that I sigh extreamly : I would have written by the 
 Alcayd, but that would make me reflect that I was at a distance from her, which is pain I cannot 
 bear. I would have written to your mother but that I have changed my religion twice since I left 
 england, I am at present so unsettled, that I think it fit to fix before I endeavour to convert her to 
 
 * The " ladies* paper" seems to be paper to curt the hair. It is a half-sheet doubled. 
 
 t Mrs. Bracegirdle, and probably her mother. t We cannot make out this hieroglyphic). 
 
CONGEEVE. ^^^^ 
 
 my opinion which I design to do as soon as I know what it is. I have discoursed with friars and 
 monks of all orders, with zealots, enthusiasts and all sectaries of the reformed churches, and I had 
 the benefit to travel 12 leagues together in Guelderland with a mad Phanatick in a waggon, who 
 preached to me all the way things not to be written. Pray take care that Mr. Ebbub has good 'wine 
 for I have much to say to you over a bottle under-ground : and I hope within 3 weeks to satisfie 
 you that no man upon the face of the earth is more dear neighbour 
 
 " your ffaithfuU and aifectionate humble servant - W • C " 
 
 {Outside.) "For Mrs. Porter." 
 
 "Calais: Aug: \\fh: Old: S: 1700 
 "■If any letters are left for me before you receive this pray enclose 'em to be 
 left at the post house in Brussels ; for any that shall come after y'- 
 receipt of this, I will trouble you with some other direction 
 " Here is Admirable Champagn for twelve pence a quart as good Burgundy for 15 pence ; and 
 yet I have virtue enough" to resolve to leave this place to-morrow for St. Omers where the same wine 
 is halfe as dear again and may be not quite so good, (dear Neighbour) Charles and Jacob * and I 
 have never failed drinking y'. healths since we saw you, nor ever will till we see you again, we had 
 a long passage but delicate weather, we set sail from Dover on satturday morning 4 a clock and did 
 not land here till 6 the same evening ; nor had we arrived even in that time, if a french open boat 
 with oars had not been stragling towards us when we were not quite halfe-seas over, and rowd us 
 hither from thence in t hours; for the packet-boat came not till this morning; when I come to 
 Brussels I shall have more to write to you till then I am most humbly and heartily y". 
 
 W : CoHflKEVB. 
 
 "My humble service to my neighbour, your mother, Mrs : Anne J, Mrs : Travers, not forgetting 
 the Alcayde, who I hope in my absence may be reconciled to Punch. 
 
 " Poor Charles is just writing to Mrs. Anne and striving very hard to find something besides the 
 Ballad, to please her much. 
 
 {Outside.) " To Mr. Porter, at his house in Arundel Street, against the blew-ball, London." 
 
 " Aug : 9th : 
 "I am very sorry to hear you are indisposed; tho I believe the season is a great part of y' 
 distemper. I assure you it still keeps me back and I have frequently vapours to that excesse, that 
 if I had not some free intervals, I should think my selfe rather impaird than improved in my health. 
 I dont tell you this by way of Complaint so much as by way of Consolation for if good air, moderate 
 exercise, temperate living perfect ease and plenty— cannot resist the influence of this miserable 
 season ; you may imagine what power it must necessarily have over you in town, upon the remainder 
 of your last years disorder, your Cough is that I am most concerned for because it is most trouble, 
 some to you tho I make no doubt of that being also vapourish or hysterick. I am only glad you 
 have Dr. Kobinson who I make no question will set you quite right, pray let me hear soon that you 
 are better. You must assure y' selfe any way no matter how. I am just now as hot as the Devil in 
 my hands and it is but between six and seven ia the morning and promises to be a fine day. but 
 I can never be again imposed on by the dissimulation of the weather, we live here like good 
 middling sort of friars in a pretty retirement onely we have no Nuns. I fancy a good friar would do 
 you no more harm than a good nun would do me or as Dr. R or Dr. Dunny. I should take it for a 
 prodigious favour if you would let me hear from you and be overjoyed to have you tell me you were 
 belter, if I could send you anything that could do you as much good as such a letter would do me ; 
 you should have very little cause, and very 4ittle time longer to complain." 
 
 {In the same letter.) ' 
 
 " S' — if you see Mr Curtis to night pray know of him if it be possible for me to have a" picture of 
 
 * Frobalily Jacob Tonson. f We c.innot make out the Dumber. J Bracegirdle. 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL AND CEITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 L* Bochester which was Mrs. Barrya. I think it is a head. I think it is not as a painting any yery 
 great matter, however I have a very particular reason why I would have it at any reasonable rate, 
 at least the refusal of it. if this can he don. he will very much oblige his and y'. very humble servant 
 
 " fryday even : " Wm. Conoebvb " 
 
 (Outside.) " To Mr. Porter." 
 
 Mrs. Porter had been the pupil of Mrs. Barry, who was at one time mistress to Lord Eochester. 
 
 VAJSTBEUGH. 
 
 Ts^faiher-land, birth-place, and very name of ViNBKnaH, have been involved in doubts, not 
 uninteresting where men of eminence are concerned. The stock has been derived, not only from the 
 Netherlands, but from Cheshire, and from France. He is generally said to have been bom in the 
 parish of St. Stephen's, 'Walbrook ; but Mr. Disraeli would seem to have discovered, that it was in 
 Paris, in the Bastile ! And Lysons, and others, spell him, not Vanbrugh, but Vanburgh. 
 
 The report of the family's having originated in France, seems to have been owing to nothing 
 more than the popular error which used to take every foreigner for a Frenchman. The Cheshire 
 descent may be disposed of by the circumstance of his father's having once resided at Chester. The 
 birth in the Bastile depends upon whether we are to take the word literally or metaphorically : and 
 that the prevailing mode of spelling the name is the right one, is obvious from the crest of the family 
 coat-of-arms, which is a demi-lion issuing from a bridge, with its arches reversed ; — a symbol, corro- 
 borating the Flemish origin, and most likely recording some achievement of the ancestor on whom 
 it was conferred.* The Low Countries are full of bridges ; and as warriors and architects alike have 
 had to do with them at periods of invasion, perhaps it was some military, perhaps some civil exploit, 
 which obtained for the ancestral Vanbrugh this record of the ruined bridge; and a love of 
 architecture may thus have become hereditary in the race. 
 
 The account, and apparently the only account, which Vanbrugh himself gave of his family, when 
 he applied for a confirmation of this coat-of-arms to the Heralds' College, was, that before the 
 persecution of the protestants by the Duke of Alva, it lived near Ghent in Flanders. We may, 
 therefore, safely follow the biographers in bringing it over to England on that occasion, in the person 
 of his grandfather, Giles Vanbrugh, who settled as a merchant in the parish of St. Stephen's, 
 Walbrook, where he died in the year 16416. His son, another Giles Vanbrugh, is reported to have 
 settled in Chester, as a sugar-baker, and to have acquired such a fortune as appears to have lifted 
 him into the ranks of gentry, since he is styled esquire by a herald of that day, when the title had 
 not become the common property which it now is ; and it is added, that removing to London, he 
 obtained the place of comptroller of the Treasury-Chamber. This Giles, who died in 1715, three 
 years after his wife, (so that they both lived to see the eminence of their son,) married Elizabeth, 
 daughter of Sir Dudley Carleton, of Imbercourt in Surrey, nephew of the celebrated statesman of 
 that name, afterwards Lord Dorchester, who, together with his nephew, bore such a part in the 
 diplomatic relations of England and Holland ; and of the eight sons of this marriage, our author, 
 John, was the second.f The date of his birth is not ascertained, but is supposed to have been in 
 the year 1666, the Annus MiraMlis of Dryden. It is pleasant to think, that if the necessity of 
 the progress of things demanded that this year should fce memorable for purifications by fire and 
 Rword. it should also be secretly producinsr the enjoyments of peace, and the better helps of the 
 
 * See Noble's Hiilory of the College qfArmt, 4lo, 1804, p. 35a. 
 
 t A brother of Giles's (William) married another daughter of Sir Dudley. See Burke's landed Gentry, article 
 Cabikton ; where he is styled " William Vambwg, of London, merchant." Giles is entitled " Sijuire." 
 
VANBKUGH. 
 
 good-nature of comic writers. For Mature, who made laughter, is no ascetic. She does not desire 
 that the rough surgeries of pain should be as lasting as the health of pleasure. 
 
 The passage in Vanbrugh's writings, in which Mr. Disraeli appears to have discovered his birth- 
 place, is one in which, alluding to a chance of being thrown into prison, he says, that he should thus 
 finish his days in an English bastile, as he "began them in a French one."* This, if taken 
 literally, is decisive. On the other hand, the doubt of Mr. Allan Cunningham is worthy of notice, 
 — that Vanbrugh may have spoken, not in a literal sense, but with reference to a story reported by 
 his biographers, which says that he once got shut up in the Bastile for being caught taking a sketch 
 of it ; and that he owed his deliverance to an impression which he made on some influential people 
 by amusing himself with rude sketches of comedies.f This story is not improbable, as it is 
 consistent throughout not only with his genius as writer and architect, but with another profession 
 to be spoken of presently, as well as with the fact of his having been, at all events, some years in 
 France. He might thus have meant, by beginning his days in the Bastile, that he began, so to 
 speak, his public days, — or, in a high and stirring sense, to live ; — ^the days of his " manhood," as 
 Mr. Cunningham says ; or simply, that he was its tenant, as the same writer observes, " early in life." 
 And yet the burden of disproof lies on the side of those who object to the plain and literal 
 meaning of any given words ; nor can it be held at all improbable, that Vanbrugh was actually born 
 in the French prison. The year 1666, among its other marvels, beheld a sudden declaration of war 
 against the restored monarchy of England, by its friend Louis the Fourteenth, originating in the 
 views of the latter upon the Low Countries ; and as the Carleton family were great political agents 
 in those questions, it is not at all unlikely that the future comptroller of the Treasury-Chamber, 
 father of our author, and husband of a Carleton, had some delicate business to transact in Paris, 
 which got him clapped into " durance vile." It is well known that ladies as well as gentlemen were 
 locked up in that most ungallant fortress of our gallant neighbours, sometimes for taking a part 
 themselves in these higher niceties of intrigue. J 
 
 Had Vanbrugh's father a turn for architecture before him ? or for writing comedies ? or both ] 
 agreeably to what is so often seen of the appearance of those germs of ability in parents, which come 
 to a head and reputation in the oifspring. Mr. Disraeli's production of the passage in question has, 
 at all events, served to throw fresh mystery over the Bastile transaction, whatever it was, in our author's 
 life, and to mix up anew the father's history with the son's. 
 
 Of the education of Vanbrugh we are told nothing, except that it was liberal, and that during 
 his teens, like Wycherley, he was sent to France ; probably to complete it ; perhaps to study 
 architecture, or soldiership ; very likely both ; (no unusual, nor unprofitable mixing up of studies in 
 those days ;) for on his return to England, he entered the army as an ensign. He may have studied 
 engineering, in order to include military architecture. It is more clear, that going to France at the 
 age of nineteen, and remaining there some years, the animal spirits of the young dramatist must have 
 received no small encouragement to that freedom of speech and morals, which afterwards ran, like so 
 much claret and burgundy, through his comic vein. 
 
 Where, or when indeed, he accomplished himself for his profession of architect, still remains among 
 the obscurities of his biography ; nor is it known how long he continued in the army. He appears 
 a good while afterwards, to have been styled " Captain," about town ; but in the year 1695, when he 
 is supposed to have been twenty-nine, we find him, as " Mr. Vanbrugh," appointed secretary to the 
 commission for endowing Greenwich Hospital, on the nomination of the celebrated John Evelyn ; 
 and two years afterwards, or less (for the confused state of the calendar at that time renders it 
 diflScult to distinguish between year and year), his first play, the " Kelapse," was brought out at 
 Drury Lane. 
 
 This comedy, however, had been sketched some time before. The tradition is, that he had drawn 
 
 * Curiosities of Literature, ed. 1839, p. 413. 
 
 t Lives of the most Eminent British Painters, Sculptors, and Architects, vol. iv. p. 256. 
 
 % See an autoWography delightful for its candour the Memoirs of Madame de Staal ,■ who was involved in the 
 political schemes of the Duchess du Maine, in the time of the Regency. 
 
xl BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL STOTICES. 
 
 the outlines both of the " Relapse " and the " Provoked Wife," while in the army (the latter first) ; and 
 that having, during winter-quarters somewhere, become acquainted with Sir Thomas Skipwith, who 
 had done him a pecuniary service and was one of the sharers in Drury Lane theatre. Sir Thomas 
 encouraged him to complete the "Relapse" for his stage; upon which Vanbrngh had the good 
 fortune to repay his friend's kindness by a success which the theatre stood much in need of. With 
 profits to the house, reputation flowed in upon the author. His friend, who appears to have been 
 rich, and not exclusively anxious for his own stage, would not balk the new dramatist of the 
 patronage of the Maecenas' of the day, Montague, afterwards Lord Halifax, then on the eve of his 
 greatest honours. Bespeaking his third venture for Drury Lane, Skipwith suffered him at Montague's 
 desire to complete the " Provoked Wife " for the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, at which it came out 
 the following year, and maintained the promise of the " Relapse." The venture for Drury Lane, 
 which was produced the same year, was " Msoy," a moral lecture from the French of Boursault ; 
 which though it had some sprightly additions from the pen of the adapter, (the whole of part second,) 
 must have astonished the gay audiences of the two first pieces, and did not meet with the success 
 that might have been wished for generous Sir Thomas. It was hoped, no doubt, that credit would 
 be given to the author for having the inclination and the power to instruct as well as to amuse, — ^to be 
 grave as well as to be gay ; but prose comic writers seldom appear in earnest enough to be able to make 
 this demand upon the belief of their hearers with safety. There will be thought to be some trick in 
 it, as there is ; and there are more reasons why the piece did not succeed at the time, which will be 
 mentioned when we come to speak of the plays critically. 
 
 In 1700, at the same theatre, Fletcher's comedy of the " Pilgrim " was adapted to the taste of the 
 times by our author, and its third night's benefit given either to Dryden or his son Charles, upon 
 condition of his furnishing those aids of " Prologue " and " Epilogue," &c. which appear in his poems. 
 Dryden was then dying, in the full blaze of his powers; for he, to whom nobody's prologues and 
 epilogues, before or since, ever came near, never wrote two finer ones than he did on this occasion 
 ' — more full of easy mastery and felicitous application ; and the lyrics which accompanied them (the 
 " Secular Masque," &c.) were so brilliant with his old dashing music, that John Buncle, in the full 
 roar of his animal spirits, could find nothing of more potential joviality, wherewith to give vent to 
 the plenitude of hi» satisfaction at having had a good dinner. But we were going to say, that 
 though it is not known whether Dryden hailed the genius of Vanbrugh as he did that of Congreve 
 it is always pleasant to find these links of intimacy between celebrated men. 
 
 The " False Friend," a Spanish love-plot, upon an old and obvious subject, is only worth recording 
 for its having been brought out in the year 1702. Almost all that deserves noting in it, may be here 
 set down in a dozen lines ; but the passage is of the right Vanbrugh sort, and full of an off-hand and 
 pleasant assurance : — ■ 
 
 "Don John. Well, old acquaintance, you are going to be married then .' 'Tis resolved ha! 
 Don Pedro. So saya my star. 
 
 Don John. Tlie foolisJiest star that has said a/nythmg a great while. 
 Don Pedro. Still the same, I see ! or, more than ever, resolved to love nothing. 
 Don John. Love nothing ! why, I 'm in love at this very time. 
 Dim Pedro. With what? 
 Don John. A woman ! 
 Don Pedro. Impossible ! 
 Don John. True. 
 
 Don Pedro. And how came you in love with her ? 
 Don John. Why, I was ordered not to le in love viWi licr." 
 
 In the same year, 1702, Vanbrugh made, we believe, his first architectural design of celebrity, 
 that of Castle Howard in Yorkshire, the seat of Charles, third Earl of Carlisle ; who was so pleased' 
 with it, that being deputy Earl-marshal during the minority of the Duke of Norfolk, and having 
 nothing more appropriate, we suppose, to give him, he presented him with the tabard of'ciarencieuXj 
 
VANBEUGH. xh 
 
 king-at-arms. The appointment greatly offended his new brethren, the heralds, for tiro reasons • 
 first, because he knew nothing of heraldry ; which argued, they thought, a strange moral laxity on 
 the part of the deputy-marshal; and second, because with a reprobacy that rendered the ignorance 
 unpardonable, he laughed at it ! Swift, who disliked Vanbrugh, because he girded at the cloth and 
 was of the Whig party, said that he might now indeed pretend to "build houses." "Vanbrugh 
 laughed at heraldry ; yet we have seen him apply to the college he ridiculed, for the confirmation of 
 a coat-of-arms. Men would fain be above their fellow-creatures on the side of intellect, yet are always 
 restoring the equilibrium on that of vanity and the passions ; — ^let us add, on that of the social 
 affections also ; for every conventional tendency, however sophisticate, has a ground in it of the love 
 of others ; and it is well that it should be so. Charity is secretly ensured by it, as society proceeds ; 
 and it will ultimately secure the improvements, that receive gradual assent. 
 
 Vanbrugh's double success as author and architect, having now, with the help of his agreeable 
 qualities as a man, rendered him popular with all classes, he thought he might at once enrich 
 himself, and help to restore the interests of an old company of actors then declining, by erecting a 
 theatre of nobler dimensions, and getting Congreve to aid him in the production of plays which 
 Betterton was to get performed. He accordingly had interest enough with thirty persons of quality, 
 to procure subscriptions from them for the purpose, at a hundred pounds each ; and the first stone 
 of the theatre was laid on the site of the present opera-house, and inscribed with the words " Little 
 Whig," in honour of the reigning toast of the party, the Countess of Sunderland, one of the 
 daughters of Marlborough ; whose fair hand, we presume, was the first to tap it with the silver 
 trowel. But the architect,- seduced by the opportunity of showing the metropolis the grandeur of 
 his ideas, either forgot the purpose for which his building was erected, or made some venturous 
 miscalculation in his acoustics ; for its huge sides anrt sound-sustaining roofs turned out to be fitter 
 for song than dialogue ; the actors, according to Gibber, were heard gabbling below, as in the aisles 
 of a cathedral, with hollow reverberations ; and as the present west end of the town was at that 
 time more than half made up of fields and meadows, and the frequenters of pit and gallery had to 
 come from such a distance as made coach-hire expensive, the project died, like the poor actors' 
 voices, in its own magnificence. In vain the two wits and joint-proprietors strained their united 
 faculties. In vain, as if by ominous anticipation, they opened their theatre with a sort of compromise 
 between Italian and English, a translated opera with Italian music. In vain our author followed it 
 with one of the liveliest of his productions, the " Confederacy." In vain the more prudent Congreve 
 backed out of the dying concern, and left his colleague to try an infusion of the spirit of Moliere, 
 three of whose liveliest plays, in the same season, he translated and put on the boards, the " Cocu 
 Imaginaire " (Cucjsold in Conceit) ; " Monsieur de Pourceaugnac," as " Squire Trelooby ;" and the 
 " Dgpit Amoureux," as the " Mistake." Vanbrugh was himself forced to give up a speculation 
 which, except on a small scale, and then only with aid from wits of another sort, appears never to 
 have succeeded in the hands of authors. We know not on what occasion, years afterwards, he was 
 induced to translate a farce from the French of D'Ancourt, not worth the trouble, — the " Country 
 House." The "Journey to London" was left unfinished at his death; and here then, as the rest 
 of his life seems to have been devoted to architecture, we may anticipate the chronological termi- 
 nation of his writings. He reversed the fate experienced by Ariosto. The Italian, being reminded 
 of the smaUness of the abode he had built for himself, compared with the magnificence of the palaces 
 in his fiction, said he found it easier to build houses with words than with stone. Vanbrugh found 
 stone more edifying than words ; and he lost no time in repairing his fortunes accordingly. 
 
 Every help was afforded him. No sooner does he appear to have concluded his theatrical 
 struggles, than Queen Anne, in the year 1706, commissioned him to carry the habit and ensigns of 
 the Order of the Garter to the Elector of Hanover ; and in the same year, he built a house for 
 himself at Whitehall, and was occupied in raising the great structure of Blenheim. We know not 
 the dates of his various architectural works, nor are they necessary to the volume before us. But we 
 must not omit the great trouble of his life, the dispute he got into with the Duke and Duchess of 
 Marlborough respecting the Blenheim payments. It appears that Parliament, by no very generous 
 
^ BIOGBAPHICAL AND CBITICA L NOTICES. 
 
 oversight, had voted the building of the mansion, without taking care of supplies for it. The Queen 
 paid them while she lived ; the Duke, who loved money, occasionally doled out a little afterwards, 
 always protesting that he had nothing to do with the matter ; the Duchess, after her lord's decease, 
 tried to make Vanbrugh himself responsible ; and the poor architect, thus driven from pillar to 
 post, out of pocket, ashamed, alarmed, and finally exasperated, had a violent quarrel with that 
 insolent woman, which ended with her taking the work out of his hands, and refusing himself and 
 his wife even a sight of it when finished, though finished after his own design. Vanbrugh had gone 
 thither on purpose, with a party of friends from Castle-Howard ; which must have aggravated the 
 mortification. 
 
 "We staid," says he, " two nights in Woodstock; but there was an order to the servants, under 
 her grace's own hand, not to let me enter Blenheim ; and lest that should not mortify me enough, 
 she having somehow learned that my wife was of the company, sent an express the night before we 
 came there, with orders that if she came with the Ca«tle-Howard ladies, the servants should not 
 suffer her to see either house, garden, or even to enter the park ; so she was forced to sit all day 
 long, and keep me company at the inn." * 
 
 There was a voluminous correspondence on the subject between the Duchess and Vanbrugh, and 
 notices of it, highly characteristic of him, in letters to his friend Tonson, the bookseller. The 
 following dramatic touches are selected from portions of them in Disraeli : — 
 
 " I have the misfortune of losing, for I now see little hopes of ever getting it, near 2000Z., due to 
 me for many years' service, plague, and trouble, at Blenheim, which tJiat wiched woman of Marl, 
 borough is so far from paying me, that the duke being sued by some of the workmen for work done 
 there, she has tried to turn the debt due to them upon me, for which I ffiinJc she ought to be 
 
 And again, after the Duke's death, — 
 
 " He has given his widow {may a Scottish ensign get her) 10,0002. a-year to spoil Blenheim her 
 own way ; 12,0002. to keep herself clean, and go to law," &c. 
 
 And the following "explosion," as Disraeli calls it; in which is to be found the passage that is 
 supposed to have determined his birth-place : — 
 
 "I have been forced into Chancery by thai B. B. B. the duchess of Marlborough, where she has 
 got an injunction upon me by her friend the late good chancellor (earl of Macclesfield),t who 
 declared that I never was employed by the duke, and therefore had no demand upon his estate for 
 my services at Blenheim. Since my hands were thus tied up from trying by law to recover my 
 arrears, I have prevailed with Sir Eobert Walpole to help me in a scheme which I proposed to 
 Mm, by which I got my money in spite of the hussy's teeth. My carrying this point enrages her 
 much, and the more because it is of considerable weight in my small fortune, which she has heartily 
 endeavoured so to destroy as to throw me into an English Bastile, there to finish my days, as I began 
 them, in a French one." 
 
 What the formidable array of B's may portend, at the beginning of this extract, might perhaps 
 be not uncandidly guessed by the philosophic reader, from parallel passages in the remarks of 
 Shakspeare on heaths, and Dr. Johnson on witches, — aided by a serene illustration from the 
 colloquies of Bishop Burnet ; of whose absence of mind Walpole has the following anecdote, in 
 connection with this very duchess. Dining with her one day after the Duke's disgrace, his lordship 
 was comparing him to Belisarius. " But how," said she, "could so great a general (as Belisarius) be 
 80 abandoned ? " " Oh, madam, " said the bishop, "do not you know what a brimstone of a wife he had V'* 
 
 * See the article entitled •' Secret History of the Building of Blenheim," written by Mr. Disraeli with his usual spirit 
 Id the Curiosiiiet of Literature, ul supra, p. 413. ' 
 
 t Impeached and found guilty of corruption in 1726, for Belling the post of Master in Chancery, 
 t Walpole's Reminiicences, 1819. p. 7A. 
 
TANBEUGH. xliii 
 
 Besides Blenheim and Caatle-Howard, Vanbrugli built Oulton-Hall in Cheshire, Easton-Neston 
 in Korthamptonshire, Seaton-Delaval in Northumberland, &c. &c., and doubtless a great variety of 
 mansions, large and small, which must have brought him a considerable quantity of money ; but he 
 ■was probably no stinted liver. In 1714 he was knighted by the new sovereign, George the First, to 
 whom he had taken the Garter when Elector. He was appointed comptroller of the royal works 
 next year, and surveyor of the works at Greenwich Hospital the year after ; and on the death of the 
 then Garter King-at-arms, he was nominated to succeed him ; but Anstis claimed the office on the 
 strength of a promise from Queen Anne, and after long efforts obtained it. The wife mentioned in 
 the extract from his Letters, was Henrietta Maria, daughter of Colonel Yarborough of HasUngton 
 near York, whom, from a passage in the Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, we conjecture 
 him to have married towards the close of the year 1710. He was then five-and-forty, and the lady 
 perhaps ten or fifteen years younger — some say twenty. Lady Mary, in the insolence of eighteen, 
 calls her a "ruin." The following is the passage in her Letters alluded to : — 
 
 "I can't forbear entertaining you with our York lovers (strange monsters, you '11 think, love being 
 as much forced up here as melons). In the first form of these creatures is even Mr. Vanbrugh. 
 Heaven, no doubt, compassionating our dulness, has inspired him with a passion that makes us all 
 ready to die with laughing : 'tis credibly reported that he is endeavouring at the honourable state of 
 matrimony, and vows to lead a single life no more. Whether pure holiness inspires his mind, or 
 dotage turns his brain, is hard to find. 'Tis certain he keeps Monday and Thursday market {assembly- 
 day) constantly ; and for those that don't regard worldly muck, there's extraordinary good choice 
 indeed. I believe last Monday there were two hundred pieces of women's flesh (fat and lean) : but 
 you know Van's taste was always odd : his inclination to ruins has given him a fancy for Mrs. 
 Yarborough : he sighs and ogles so, that it would do your heart good to see him ; and she is not a 
 little pleased, in so small a proportion of men amongst such a number of women, that a whole man 
 rfiould fall to her share, — My dear, adieu. My service to Mr. Congreve. 
 
 " M. P." (Mary Pierrepont.)'* 
 
 This delicate epistle, written in her ladyship's maiden state and twentieth year, was addressed to 
 the sister of her lover and future husband, Mr. Wortley Montague ; but Mr. Wortley Montague was 
 a " bold man," and he suffered for his bravery. Our author's marriage, on the other hand, is said to 
 have been a happy one ; and by the various dwellings he possessed, he must have passed the 
 remainder of his life in a state of affluence. Besides his house in town, he built two at Greenwich, 
 on a spot since called Vanbrugh Fields. He appears, at one time, to have been living in Berkshire, 
 near the residence of his old friend Tonson,+ for whom he had a great regard. In Eowe's parody 
 upon the dialogue between Horace and Lydia, the warm-hearted bookseller (for such he seems to 
 have been, in spite of occasional irritabilities between him and his authors) is thus represented as 
 speaking of Vanbrugh : — 
 
 '' I 'm in with Captain Vanbrugh at the present, 
 A most sweet-natured gentleman, and pleasant ; 
 He writes your comedies, draws schemes, and models. 
 And builds dukes' houses upon very "odd hills ; 
 For him, so much I dote on him, that I 
 (If I was sure to go to heaven) would die." 
 
 It is more than probable, from the masterly nature of the piece which he left unfinished, and which 
 promised to be his best, that Vanbrugh had resumed his stage enjoyments, and was still " writing 
 your comedies," when he died in his sixtieth year, at his house in Scotland Yard, March 26, 1726. 
 His disorder was a quinsey. He was interred in the family vault at St. Stephen's, Walbrook. Lady 
 
 * letters and Works of Lady Mary WorlUy Montague, 1837, vol. i. p. IM. 
 
 t Noble's History of the College of Arms, ut supra ; and Lysons's Berkshire. 
 
 d ii 
 
3^1i'»' BIOGEAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Vanbrugh survived Um for the space of forty years, not dying till April 1Y76. The biographies 
 vary about the number of their children. One says they had three ; another an only son. Two, 
 however, appear to have died in infancy. The son became an ensign in the Guards, and died of the 
 wounds he received at the battle of Fontenoy. 
 
 Vanbrugh had a character in society, such as might be expected from the account given of him hy 
 Eowe. " Garth, Yanbrugh, and Congreve " (says Spence, on the authorities of Tonson and Pope), 
 " were the three most honest-hearted, real good men, of the poetical members of the Kit-kat Club." 
 He was a Whig, whose sincerity and good-nature enabled him to survive party animosity. Swift 
 and Pope, when they published their Miscellanies, openly regretted their raillery against " a man of 
 wit and of honour." He jested upon heraldry when he entered the herald's oifice, probably thinking 
 his colleagues would jest too ; and his only resentment on record is that against the Duchess of 
 Marlborough, who was such a woman as his very love of the sex might have made him disgusted 
 with. But beseems to have been happily constituted in mind and body. He had a " fine, elegant, 
 manly person," says Noble ; and the best engraved portraits of him, after Eneller, give him a face to 
 match it. 
 
 Vanbrugh stands alone in the history of letters for combining the apparently incompatible 
 geniuses of comic writer and architect. Yet surely they are not so, for a secret reason and proportion 
 is at the bottom of all works of art ; and while the men of letters, not unjealonsly perhaps, laughed 
 at his architecture, the public discerned a grandeur in 'it ; and an artist (Sir Joshua Eeynolds) 
 thought that it benefited by the aid of the writer's fancy, and possessed a pictorial and daring 
 origiaality. The passage in his Lectures, in which the architect is vindicated, is so well felt and 
 written, that we cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of repeating it. 
 
 " In the buildings of Vanbrugh, who was a poet as well as an architect, there is a greater display 
 of imagination," he says, " than we shall find, perhaps, in any other ; and this is the ground of the 
 eflFect we feel in many of his works, notwithstanding the faults with which many of them are charged. 
 For this purpose, Vanbrugh appears to have had recourse to some principles of the Gothic architecture, 
 which, though not so ancient as the Grecian, is more so to our imagination, with which the artist is 
 more concerned than with absolute truth." To speak of him, " in the language of a painter, he had 
 originality of invention ; he understood light and shadow, and had great skill in composition. To 
 support his principal object, he produced his second and third groups, or masses. He perfectly 
 understood in his art, what is the most difficult in ours, the conduct of the back-ground, by which 
 the design and invention are set ofi^ to the greatest advantage. What the back-ground is in painting, 
 in architecture is the real ground on which the building is erected ; and no architect took greater 
 care that his work should not appear crude and hard, that is, that it did not abruptly start out of 
 the ground without expectation or preparation." This is a tribute which a painter owes to an 
 architect who composed like a painter, and was defrauded of the due reward of his merit by the 
 wits of the time, who did not understand the principles of composition better than he, and who knew 
 little or nothing of what he understood perfectly, the general ruling principles of architecture and 
 painting. Vanbrugh's fate was that of the great Perrault. Both were the objects of the petulant 
 sarcasms of factious men, and both have left some of the fairest monnments, which to this day 
 decorate their several countries ; ihefofode of the Louvre ; Blenheim, and Castle-Howard. 
 
 We have ourselves never seen any of the great architectural works of Vanbrugh ; to say nothing 
 of our inability to pronounce judgment, if we had. But in common with others, we may state the 
 impression which has been made upon us by pictures of them in books, and which is that of a bold 
 and liberal will, desiring to produce a princely efibct, and doing it.* On the other hand, we cannot 
 help thinking, that in minor buildings, such as fliat, for instance, of the church of St. John's, 
 Westminster, (which we Imve seen,) he is simply heavy and Dutch ; and in his least of all, or the 
 
 * In Kensington there was lately a small but curious structure, wliioh was originally intended to supply the palace 
 with water, and strongly exemplified what may be called the no nonsense style of Vanbrugh ; the ends of which 
 were use, durability, and energetic appearance. The Parish School in the same suburb is also from the hand of 
 Vanbrugh, and presents a similar character. 
 
VANBRUGH xlv 
 
 whims of his fency, we suspect that Swift's j ests about " mouse-traps " and " goose-pies " were hardly 
 unwarranted. Swift describes people looking about Whitehall, to know where Vanbrugh's house 
 was to be found, and making inquiries of the " watermen " and the " Thames :" 
 
 " At length they in the rubbish spy 
 A thing resembling a goose-pie." 
 
 Kow Tanbrugh built another trifle of this sort at Greenwich, which was called, perhaps by himself, 
 the "mince-pie house ; " and another again at the same place, which he dubbed by the undomestie 
 title of " The Bastile," probably in commemoration of the event in his life, whatever it was, which kept 
 the original in his mind. But these whims and their christenings indicate a taste of no very good 
 sort, on the lighter side ; nothing like the magnificent will that " upheaved " Blenheim. Perhaps, 
 by an indulgence of the same will, however, in its unbendings, the comic writer was himself jesting 
 in these instances with brick and mortar, not very happily. As to Walpole, who ridiculed his 
 grander efforts, Walpole really had a solid judgment in most things, hardly to be expected from his 
 effeminate temperament ; but the latter predominated in his own Gothic toys of wood ; and one 
 fancies Vanbrugh, if he had had a mind to build on Strawberry Hill, putting his manly leg upon 
 Horace's little pinnacles, and crushing them as he might have done a house in a toy-shop. There 
 was a heavier though smaller wit in Tanbrugh's days, one Dr. Evans, who in echoing the jokes of the 
 greater ones, had the luck to hit upon a couplet which has survived all his other writings and his 
 very name, and even had the good fortune, in its way down to posterity, of dropping a superfluous 
 fellow couplet ; for the whole jest was originally in four lines, and stood thus : — 
 
 Under this stone, reader, survey 
 Dead Sir John Vanbrugh^s house of clay : 
 lAe heavy on him, earth I for lie 
 Laid many hea/vy loads on thee /"* 
 
 After all, as there is undoubtedly a national as well as family blood in a stock, and the portraits of 
 ancestors who lived centuries ago startle those who see the faces of their posterity, Vanbrugh may 
 have derived the heavy portion of his architecture from the Flemish bridge-masters of his house, 
 while to the daughter of the English diplomatist, assisted by a French education, may be owing the 
 plot and gaiety of his drama 
 
 " Tliere are more things, even in a turn far jesting, 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 
 
 His character as a comic writer is clear and obvious. It is straightforward, cheerful, confident, 
 and robust ; something between Flemish and French ; not over-nice in its decorums, not giving too 
 much credit to conventional virtues, nor yet disbelieving in the virtues that will always remain such, 
 and that are healthy and hearty ; but as his jovial and sincere temperament gave him a thorough 
 dislike of hypocrisy, the licence of the times allowed him to be plain-spoken to an extent which was 
 perilous to his animal spirits ; and an editor in these days is startled, not to say frightened, at sallies 
 of audacity and exposure, which, however loath to call affrontery, he is forced to think such, and is 
 only prevented by belief in the goodness of his heart from concluding to be want of feeling. Of 
 feeling indeed, in the sentimental sense, Vanbrugh shows little or none. He seems to have thought 
 it foreign to the satire and mirth of comedy. His plots are interesting, without having the teasing 
 perplexity of Congreve's; and he is more uniformly strong than Farquhar, and cheerful than 
 Wycherley. What he borrows, he seems to change at one blow into something better, by sleight, or 
 rather force, of hand. He is easy in invention, and true and various in character. His style is 
 
 » For divers immemorabilia of Doctor Erans, tne curious lover of boolts may consult Nichols's Collection ofPoemt, 
 vol. iii. and iv. ; and Dodsley's, vol. i. p 158. Ho was not destitute of humour ; but it was rare in quantity, ratlier 
 than quality. Gray, in a letter to Walpole, saya of him, in reference to his poem in Dodsley, •• Dr. Evans is a furious 
 madman ; and ' Pre-existenee ' is nonsense in all its altitudes." 
 
xlvi BIOGEAPHICAL AND CEITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 so natural and straightforward, that Gibber says the actors preferred it to eTery other, it was so easy 
 to learn by rote. What he wants (except at the bottom of his heart) is every species of refinement, 
 bnt that of a freedom from all cant and nonsense. He has no more poetry in him, in a sense apart 
 from what is common to everything artistic, than a sailor who would see nothing in Shakspeare's 
 " Bennoothes," except the turtle. But in a superiority to circumstances sophisticate, the best-bred 
 of gallants could not beat him, whether from absence of veneration, or presence of good health. 
 His Lord Foppington is the quintessence of nullification, and of the scorn of things which he does 
 not care for ; while Miss Hoyden, without delay or " mistake," is for consolidating everything into 
 the tangible and plenitudinous, for which she does care. In short, if Vanbrugh's father had had 
 wit and perception enough in him to give him a right, he might have said to him, as S%t Anthony 
 Absolute said to the Captain, his son, when he vented the height of his astonished and fatherly 
 satisfaction at his having been a better love-maker than he took him for, — " Jack, you certainly aie 
 an impudent dog." 
 
 It was complained of, with regard to Vanbrugh's first comedy the " Relapse," that he had taken 
 the penitent of Gibber's play (" Love's Last Shift "), and made him fall into his old ways again ; 
 which hurt the moral. But Vanbrugh laughed at the morals of Gibber. He knew that so flimsy 
 and canting a teacher could only teach pretences ; and in undoing his work he left society to find 
 out something better. On the other hand, when Gibber took up the author's unfinished play, the 
 "Journey to London," and fancied that he had improved it with his Lord Townly and Lady Qrace, 
 and his insipid perfect gentleman, Mr. Manly, he made a blunder of such dull vanity and time- 
 serving self-love, as it is melancholy to think of in the sprightly Colley, but much more to read, 
 after reading Vanbrugh's three acts ! It is worth the reader's while to refer to Gibber's play, and 
 compare them. What a poor, pick-thank set of common-place usurpers of attention, — of pretenders 
 to a " clear stage and no favour," — after the heartier moral fair-play of Vanbrugh ! What a half-sided 
 lesson, taking it at its best, and a servile playing into the hands of the stronger sex, as if nothing 
 could be more exemplary or further-sighted ! The very name of Lord " Loverule " instead of 
 " Townly," shows that the " reciprocity " was not to be all on one side in Vanbrugh's play. But 
 everything is miserably washed down in Gibber, even to poor John Moody and the footmen. 
 
 Dick Amlet, Mrs. Amlet, and Brass, in the " Confederacy," are all perfection, after thejrkind, — 
 the unfeeling son, whose legs are doted on by his mother ; the peddling mother, hobbling about, with 
 fine ladies in her debt ; and Brass, exquisite Brass, whom one can hardly help fancying made of the 
 metal that christens him, and with a voice that rings accordingly. We know of no better comic 
 writing in the world than the earlier scenes of Lord Foppington in the " Eelapse," and those between 
 Dick Amlet and his mother, and of Brass securing his bargain with Dick, in the play before us. 
 
 We find we have passed over the " Provoked Wife," which, to say the truth, is a play more true 
 than pleasant ; and it is not so much needed as it was in Vanbrugh's days, when sottishness had not 
 become infamous among decent people. So long do the vices of the stronger sex contrive to have 
 themselves taken, if not for virtues, at least for something like manly privilege ! 
 
 One reason has been given why " Msop " did not succeed. Another we take to be that the French, 
 in their old levity, used to think themselves bound to sit out any gravity that appealed to their good 
 sense ; while the English never pretended to be able to dispense with something strong and stirring. 
 Besides, morality of so very obvious and didactic a sort was too great a contradiction to the taste of the 
 times, and to Vanbrugh's own previous indulgence of it. Eakes scouring the streets at night, and 
 ladies carried off swooning with love from antechambers, had ill prepared the sons and daughters 
 of Charles the Second for the lessons of the sage Grecian, adapting his "wise saws" to "mod°m 
 instances." 
 
 " How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit !" 
 
 says Pope : and it is true. Yet this graceless wit, often far less so than he appears, and covertly 
 implying virtues superior to their common forms, has a passage in one of the coarsest of his plays, 
 that preaches a love truer than any to be found in Pope : — 
 
VANBETJGH. xlvii 
 
 " Constant, Thougli marriage be a lottery, in whicli there are a wondrous many blanks, yet there is one 
 inestimable lot, m which the only heaven on earth is written. Would your kind fate but guide your hand 
 to that, though I were wrapt in all that luxury itself coud clothe me with, I should still envy you. 
 
 " ffeartfree. And justly too ! for to be capable of lowmg Ome, is ietter than to possess a thousand^ 
 
 Provoked Wife, Act v., Scene 4. 
 
 But the old question may here be asked, " What signify one or two passages of this sort, when all 
 the rest is so different !" To which it should long ago have heen answered, everything ; when the 
 difference is more in appearance than reality, and fighting the battles of virtue itself by unmasking 
 the pretenders to it. 
 
 With the exception of a defence of himself against Collier, which will be noticed in its proper 
 place, and the disputes respecting Blenheim with the Duchess of Marlborough, we know not of a 
 single miscellaneous piece of writing of Vanbrugh's, except the following sprightly verses in Nichols's 
 collection. It possesses, we fear, not a little of his usual " face," without his usual good-nature ; but 
 let us hope the lady knew nothing of it. However, if she added "tyranny " to want of beauty, his 
 own willingness to please her, which was not the most ill-natured thing in the world, may be allowed 
 to have had some reason to be discontented, 
 
 TO A LADY MOKE CRUEL THAN PAIR. 
 
 BI ME. AFTBRWAUDS SIK JOHN VAKERUaH. 
 
 Why d'ye with such disdain refuse 
 
 An humble lover's plea ?' 
 Since Heaven denies you power to chuse, 
 
 You ought to value me. 
 Ungrateful mistress of a heart, 
 
 Which I so freely gave, 
 Though weak your bow, though blunt your dart, 
 
 I soon reaign'd, your slave. 
 Nor was I weary of youi' reign, 
 
 Till you a tyrant grew, 
 And seem'd regardless of my pain. 
 
 As Nature seem'd of you. 
 When thousands with unerring eyes 
 
 Your beauty would decry. 
 What graces did my love devise. 
 
 To give their truths the lie ! 
 To every grove I told your charms, 
 
 In you my heaven I placed, 
 Proposing pleasures in your arms. 
 
 Which none but I could taste. 
 
 ("Jack, you certainly are an impudent dog ! ") 
 
 For me t' admire, at such a rate, 
 So damn'd a face (/) will prove 
 
 You have as little cause to hale. 
 As I had cause to love. 
 
xlviii BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 FAEQUHAE. 
 
 Georoe Faequhar, the son of a clergyman, some say of a dean of Armagh, others of a poorer 
 man with a living of a hundred and fifty pounds a-year and seven children, was born in 
 Londonderry, in the year 1678, and received there the rudiments of education. The humbler 
 origin, as is generally the case, is most likely the true one ; for when he was sent to Trinity 
 College, Dublin, under the patronage of Dr. Wiseman, bishop of Dromore, he was entered as a 
 sizer or servitor, the holder of the lowest rank among collegians, and one that used in those 
 days to wait upon the others, after the fashion of a lay-brother in a monastery. To this 
 ungenial position is partly perhaps to be attributed the character for "dulness," and even 
 disagreeableness, with which, according to some of his biographers, he was charged at this period 
 by his fellow-students; for, according to the description of himself, given by his own pen in after 
 life, and of the impression his first appearance made upon strangers, he seems always to have 
 required a congeniality of circumstances to " fetch him out," and set the sprightliness and cordiality 
 of his nature flowing. But those whom he served must have been duller than he, not to have detected 
 the fire and good-nature that was in him, especially as the charge, singularly enough, was accompanied 
 with objections to his having no taste for studies that were serious. Be this as it may, whether from 
 uncomfortableness of position, or the death of his patron (as some say), or from the following ebullition 
 of gracelessuess, he did not remain his full time at the university. We gather from the statements of 
 the biographers, that having had a college exercise given him, upon the subject of Christ's walking 
 upon the water, he was very late with it ; and making an ofler, which was accepted, of contributing 
 something on the spur of the moment, he either produced an audacious epigram, or made a remark 
 before he sat down to write, referring to the proverb about "the man who is bom to be hanged." 
 The story is not very likely, unless those who set him the exercise were of a dulness and natural 
 inferiority to himself, sometimes provoking to wits in the bud ; nor, if the story is to be believed, 
 are we to conclude that he meant any disrespect at heart, to the name which all good hearts must 
 bow to. Wit and boldness are often thought good things for their own sake, especially by a youth ; 
 and great regret is felt afterwards for the pain they may have occasioned. The probability is, that 
 whatever wore the particular overt acts of petulance, or habits of nonconformity, of which Farquhar 
 may have been guilty, he was no very regular student in general, nor fond of the tasks assigned him ; 
 perhaps had already become a lawless haunter of the theatres ; and so, between levity and natural 
 genius, he got an ill name, and a speedier dismissal than he would otherwise have had, into that 
 greater university of the world, which he was fitted to adorn. 
 
 Whether he had already been in the green-room or not, he now rushed into it. He offered 
 himself to the manager as an actor, was accepted (probably as a God-send, being a young gentleman 
 from college), and came out forthwith in the character of Othello. It is touching to observe how 
 fond almost all young actors are of making their first experiments in tragedy. It is not merely 
 ' because tragedy ranks above comedy, and they are vain and ambitious ; but because there is a 
 sincerity and earnestness in all enthusiasm, which of itself is a grave feeling, and naturally enough 
 impels them upon showing how much in earnest they are. Farquhar is said to have had a fair 
 amount of ordinary qualifications for the stage, except voice and confidence. His voice wanted 
 power; he never got over the disease well known by more actors than is supposed, called "stage- 
 fright;" and though the audience always showed him a respectful attention, and his good qualities 
 appear to have speedily widened his popularity with his sphere of action, an awkward circumstance 
 completed the uneasiness of his theatrical endeavours, and, in the eighteenth year of his age, put an 
 end to them for life. He was playing the part of the good lover and brother, Quyomar, in the 
 "Indian Emperor" of Dryden, when having to kill Vasguez, and forgetting that he happened to 
 
FAEQUHAE. xlis 
 
 wear a real sword instead of a foil, he wounded his brother-performer so dangerously, that his life 
 was for Bome time despaired of. Farquhar's tender nature was so shocked, that he Instantly quitted 
 the boards. It is probable, however, that he would have turned out no great actor. No dramatist 
 ever did. He is said to have been a beautiful reader of his plays ; but he arrived at no eminence as 
 one of their performers. Shakspeare, Ben Jonson, Heywood, Lee, Otway, Murphy, all were actors in 
 their time, for a greater or less period, but none have left a reputation as such. Perhaps a better 
 actor-dramatist never appeared, than the author of " Virginius'' and " William Tell ;" and yet his 
 sensible and manly performance on the stage by no means comes up to the height of his pen. Is it 
 that the very sensibility of the poet bafiles him in action 1 Yet how is it, in that case, that Mrs. Kean 
 is not hindered by her tears ; or that Mr. Macready can feel the father so well in " Virginius," and 
 yet act it better than the robust poet himself? Is it that the poet feels too many of the minute 
 shades of the part he is acting, to go well enough to the main points of it 1 Hardly that ; otherwise 
 actors would not be great in proportion to their combination of these minute shades with general 
 effect. Is it (to give one more conjecture) that the poet, being always accustomed to meditation 
 rather than action, and feeling that a double merit is expected of him, is perplexed between habit 
 and self-love 1 Something, perhaps, of that ; and more, in all probability, from the necessary counter- 
 habits of that meditation to the business, and bustle, and practical every-day life, of the rehearsing 
 and reciting actor. Shakspeare might, perhaps, if he had chosen to set his wits that way, have been 
 the greatest actor that ever lived ; but then he could not have found time to be the poet he was. 
 He would have missed the soft and still air in which poetry delights to grow. 
 
 In the Dublin theatre Farquhar is supposed to have first become acquainted with Wilfcs the 
 actor, whose celebrity he was destined to increase ; and who, like himself, was born and educated in 
 a sphere of life not so often found in connexion with the stage as its friends might desire. Wilks 
 about this time was returning to an engagement in London ; Farquhar accompanied him, and is 
 thought by some to have been indebted to his zeal for an introduction to the Earl of Orrery, who 
 gave him a commission in the regiment under his lordship's command in Ireland. Wilks has also 
 the reputation of having made him a writer as well as a soldier. He is said to have never ceased 
 encouraging the literary abilities he discerned in him, till he produced a play. But as nothing is 
 known of this gentleman's connexion with Orrery, and he had no character assigned him in 
 Farquhar's first production, the probability is at least equal, that our author's own family and 
 promising genius procured him the favour of a nobleman, in whose race a congenial spirit was 
 hereditary. Be this as it may, he retained his commission several years, in the course of which he 
 is said to have given various proofs " both of courage and conduct," though how they were called 
 forth during the languid conjuncture of affairs that took place during the period, we are not told ; 
 for Ireland had been lately pacified, and the new officer does not appear to have even looked upon 
 any region of active service, till he went into Holland in the year 1700, where his letters do not 
 imply his having taken part in it. However, it is not in battle alone that an officer may give proofs 
 of spirit and capacity. At all events, Farquhar, no longer a " servitor," doubtless became a pleasant 
 companion and messmate ; and like a proper genius, he turned the lightest of his military experience 
 to account, as we shall by and by have occasion to see. Gibbon himself, as he lets us understand, 
 was not a heavy militia-man for nothing. The " Decline and Fall" felt the steps of his " marching 
 and counter-marching." Captain Farquhar's plume floated over his genius for comedy, and his 
 " reputation about town." It is curious to observe how many of our wits and dramatists of that 
 period were captains. There was Captain Wycherley (for a time), then Captain Yanbrugh, Captain 
 Farquhar, Captain Steele ; with a plentiful minor crop of Captain Eadcliffes and Ayloffs before them ; 
 as in later times we have had Captain Morrises and Tophams. Military service has indeed never 
 been found uncongenial to letters, whether in its most positive or negative degree, from Caesar down 
 to Captain TibuUus, or Cervantes to Frederick of Prussia. The leisure in the intervals of study and 
 enjoyment, contrasted with the idea of peril, as it serves to " make love," stimulates wit to the 
 writing of verses. The French and English campaigns of the late wars have produced an abundance 
 of authors ; and it was probably in the intervals of his military duties, whether in field or in quarters, 
 
I BIOGRAPHICAL A ND CEITIOAL NOTICES. 
 
 that Farquhar wrote half his comedies, beginning with his first, with its gay, officer-like title of 
 " Love and a Bottle." 
 
 The author opens this piece in a way which, in all probability, was characteristic of his condition 
 at the time, as well as of the good-natured sort of genius which the world was to expect of him. 
 His hero enters, full of poverty and animal spirits, with a dramatic quotation in his mouth, an 
 intimation of his wish to turn soldier, and evidence of a tolerating disposition in the midst of his 
 sarcasm. 
 
 " Act I., Scene — Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 
 " Enter Roebuck, m a riding-UaMt, soVms (repeating Ihefollowmg Ime). 
 
 ' Thus far our arms ha/iie with success heen crown' d' 
 
 Heroically spoken, Tfaith, of a fellow that has not one farthing in his pocket. If I have one penny to buy 
 a halter withal, in my present necessitj', may I he hanged : — though I am reduced to a fait way of obtaining 
 one methodically very soon, if robbery or theft will purchase the gallows. But hold — can't I rob honourably 
 by turning soldier ? 
 
 " Eater a Cripple, tegging. 
 
 " Crip. One farthing to the poor old soldier, for the Lord's sake ! 
 
 " Hoe. Ha ! A glimpse of damnation, just as a man is entering into sin, is no great policy of the devil, — 
 But how long did you bear arms, friend ? 
 
 " Orip. Five years, an't please you, sir. 
 
 " Moe, And how long has that honourable crutch borne you ? 
 
 " Crip. Fifteen, sir. 
 
 " Soe. Very pretty ! Five years a soldier, and fifteen a beggar ! This is hell, right ! an age of damna- 
 tion for a momentary offence ! Thy condition, fellow, is preferable to mine. The merciful bullet, more 
 kind than thy ungrateful country, has given thee a debenture in thy broken leg, from which thou canst draw 
 a more plentiful maintenance, than I from all my limbs in perfection. Prithee, friend, why wouldst thou 
 beg of me ? Dost think I am rich ? 
 
 " Crip. No, sir ; and therefore I believe you charitable. Your warm fellows are so much above the 
 sense of our misery, that they vcm't pity us." 
 
 " Love and a Bottle, " which came out at Drury Lane, in the year 1698, was well received. It 
 has been thought strange, that the author's friend, Wilka, had no part in it ; but arrangements of 
 this kind often depend upon circumstances with which friendship, and the wishes of the parties, 
 have nothing to do. We shall give a reason, however, by and by, why we take Wilks, with all his 
 gaiety, to have been a very worldly, prudent man ; and he might not have chosen to risk himself in 
 a part untried. It is one thing to have a good opinion of a man's general abilities, and even to 
 encourage him to adventure them in ». particular direction (aa Wilks is said to have done), and 
 another to commit the adviser's fortunes with the experiments of the poor advisee. Wilks was glad 
 enough, at all events, to appear in the next play of the now successful dramatist. 
 
 Success, wit, and his cheerful good-nature, speedily obtained for Farquhar an influence upon the 
 town ; and we iind, next year, a pleasant instance of it upon the future fortunes of the celebrated 
 Mrs. Oldfield. She was then sixteen, and niece of a Mrs. Voss, who kept the Mitre Tavern in 
 St. James's Market. The story tells ns, that Captain Farquhar, dining there one day, "heard 
 Miss Nanny read a play behind the bar, with so proper an emphasis and such agreeable turns, 
 suitable to each character, that he swore the girl was cut out for the stage, to which she had before 
 expressed an inclination, being very desirous to try her fortune that way. Her mother, (continues 
 the narrator, a quondam servant of Eich's the manager,) the next time she saw Captain Vanbrugh, 
 who had a great respect for the family, told him what was Captain Parquhar's advice ; upon which 
 he desired to know, whether, in the plays she read, her fancy was most pleased with tragedy or 
 comedy. Miss, being called in, said comedy ; she having, at that time, gone through all Beaumont 
 and Fletcher's comedies ; and the play she was reading, when Captain Farquhar dined there, was 
 t.he ' Scornful Lady.' Captain Vanbrugh, shortly after, recommended her to Mr. Christophei' Eich, 
 
PAKQtJHAR. 
 
 wlio took her into the house, at the allowance of but fifteen shillings per week. However her 
 agreeable figure, and the sweetness of her Voice, soon gave her the preference, in the opinion of the 
 whole town, to all the young actresses ; and his grace the late Duke of Bedford being pleased to speak 
 to Mr. Hich in her favour, he instantly raised her allowance to twenty shillings per week. Her 
 fame and salary at length rose to their just merit."* We have made this extract, not only for the 
 pleasant picture it furnishes of the young and afterwards famous beauty, first interesting Farquhar 
 with reading " behind the bar," and then being " called in," and introduced to Vanbrugh, but out 
 of repect to the memory of a generous woman, admirable in her day for her comic genius, and 
 honourable with posterity as the patroness of Savage. It has been supposed that a tenderer 
 reason grew in Parquhar's mind for the interest he took in the young actress ; and that she is the 
 Pendope of the letters which he has left -us. She, at all events, retained a pleasant recollection of 
 him. " I have often heard Mrs. Oldfield mention the many agreeable hours she had spent in 
 Mr. Parquhar's company," says an authority referred to in her "Memoirs." This is a privilege of 
 the amiable, whatever circumstances may have conspired to part them. 
 
 The ensuing year, 1700, produced at the same theatre, the " Constant Couple." — And hereby 
 hangs a little bit of a tale of discovery, which, in default of having anything newer to relate about 
 Farquhar, will not be uninteresting to our brother Columbuses of the book-shops. In one of the 
 thick and abundant catalogues, which Mr. Thorpe, the bookseller, so magnificently gives away, we 
 lately met with the little volume entitled " Adventures of Covent Garden," to which Farquhar is 
 said to have been indebted for some of the incidents in this play, and which had a note appended to 
 it in the catalogue to that effect. Upon looking into it, we found in the fly-leaf the original of this 
 note in the shape of a manuscript remark, under the signature of " Isaac Eeed," to whom the 
 book appears to have belonged ; and upon consulting the article " Constant Couple " in one of the 
 editions of the Biographia Dramaiica, which had the benefit of the co-operation of Mr. Eeed, the 
 following observations made their appearance, being probably the above manuscript remark drawn 
 out into due length : — 
 
 " The early writers of the English drama appear to have made free, without scruple, with any 
 materials for their dramas which fell in their way. The present is a remarkable instance. In the 
 preceding year, 1699, was published a small volume, entitled ' The Adventures of Covent Garden, in 
 Imitation of Scarron's City Romance,' 12mo, a piece witJwut the slightest degree of merit ; yet from 
 thence our author (Farquhar) took the characters of Lady Lurewell and Colonel Standard, and the 
 incidents of Beau Clincher and Tom Errand's change of clothes, with other circumstances. The 
 character of Sir Harry Wildair, however, still remains the property of the author, and he is entitled 
 to the credit of the general conduct of the piece. Perhaps his only fault may have been in not 
 acknowledging the writer, contemptible as he is, to whom he was obliged." 
 
 Kow on reading this book " without the slightest degree of merit," it is clear enough that the 
 author, " contemptible as he is," was Farquhar himself.+ The " character " of Lady Lurewell, 
 properly Breaking, is not in the book, though some of her conduct is ; neither is the production by 
 any means " without the slightest degree of merit," for it possesses .some good, hearty, criticism, in 
 vindication of genius against rules ; and what marks the production as Parquhar's, is not only this 
 criticism (which he afterwards enlarged upon in his " Discourse upon Comedy "), and his mention 
 of the author as " a young gentleman somewhat addicted to poetry and the diversions of the stage," 
 to say nothing of his use of the " change of clothes," &c,, but in this little prose work the poem 
 
 * From " Memoirs of Mrs. Anne Oldfield," quoted in the Biographia Britannica^ art. Farquhar. 
 
 t The whole title of the volume, which consists hut of 58 pages in large type and small duodecimo, .d "The 
 Adventures of Covent Garden, in Imitation of Scarron'a City Romance. Et qvoriim pars magna /ui. London, 
 printed hy H. Hills, for R. Standfast, next door to the Three Tuns Tavern, just within Temple Bar. 1699." Somehody, 
 in the copy before us, has turned 1609 into 1698, with a pen ; and the date of " 16th December " is added in the hand- 
 writing of the time, probably by the same person. By the motto Et quorum pars, &c., it appears that Farquhar had 
 a personal .ind principal share in the " Adventures." The dedication is a whimsical blank, addressed to the author's 
 acquaintance at Will's coffee-house ; and at the close of the address to the reader, he says that nobody knows Ivho the 
 author is but his heroine Emilia, whom he threatens with discovery in turn, if disclosed by her. 
 
ffi BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL K0TICE3. 
 
 first appears, which, with the addition of six lines, he afterwards published in his Miscellanies under 
 the title of the " Lover's Night." In the " Adventures of Covent Garden " it consists of fifty-two 
 lines ; in the " Miscellanies," of fifty-eight. We " hope," as Shatspeare says, "here be proofs." We 
 are far from wishing to undervalue the industry of Isaac Eeed, or the utility of his researches; and 
 mistakes are common to everybody : but we here see what was the amount of his criticism, when 
 taken unawares. Scorn, which is perilous to the pretensions of the greatest men, is ruinous to those 
 of the less. 
 
 It is curious enough, and perhaps was not without design, that the " Lurewell " of the " Constant 
 Couple " and its sequel, whose early history in one respect resembles that of the famous Mrs. Manly, 
 author of the " New Atalantis," is said in the play to have been the daughter of a " Sir Eoger 
 Manly." Mrs. Manly herself, who was making a noise at the time the play was written, was the 
 daughter of a Sir Oliver Manly. She was a Tory, and very hostile to the Revolution, and Farquhar 
 was a friend to it ; but she was also a wit, a play-wright, and a woman of gallantry ; Farquhar may 
 have become acquainted with her in those characters ; and from the result of a mixture of feelings, 
 better guessed than described, might thus have been ultimately led to take a liberty with her name, 
 hardly compatible with his own gallantry and good-nature; unless we are to suppose that he 
 regarded a woman of her scandal-loving and uncompromising partisanship, as putting herself out of 
 the pale of her sex. She herself libelled freely her own quondam admirers, Sir Richard Steele 
 among them. 
 
 In the May of this year (1700), our author, whether by accident or design, — ^most likely the 
 latter, as " everybody " seems to have been there, and a dramatist would probably go as a mourner, 
 — was present at the much-discussed funeral of Dryden, of which he has given what Sir Walter Scott 
 calls a " ludicrous account." The account (which the reader will see at the close of the life) is 
 certainly written under an impression of the ludicrous ; but whatever exaggerations of the business 
 may have been created by such reporters as impudent Tom Brown, and poor gossiping Mrs. Thomas, 
 we cannot but think that the ceremony must have been mixed up with a good deal that was strange 
 and ill-managed, and that precaution had not been taken to give the procession its proper gravity, 
 or guard against the attendance of disrespected and disrespectful persons. Dryden passed his whole 
 life between homage and abuse, between the high life in which he was born, and the shifts to which 
 narrow circumstances reduced him ; and agreeably to this sort of existence, his very corpse seems 
 to have been scrambled into its grave, betwixt anxiety and irreverence. 
 
 In the summer and autumn of the same year, we find our author in Holland, probably with his 
 regiment, awaiting the anti-gallican movements of King William, which, however, came to little or 
 nothing that season ; nor does it appear that Farquhar ever saw any very hot service, whatever 
 proofs he may have given of his aptitude for it. In his sympathy with those around him, and his 
 zeal for the security of the Revolution, he persuaded himself that a knowledge of the Dutch 
 language was necessary to the interests of his countrymen ; and lamented, that young gentlemen 
 preferred going to France instead of Holland, in order to see the world ; opinions that sound oddly 
 enough from the lips of the lively Farquhar, But, like all wits of a high order, he had gravity as 
 well as levity in his composition, and was easily attracted towards whatever he thought of importance 
 to his fellow-creatures. In October, William returned to the Hague, where Farquhar then was, 
 from one of his visits to his retreat at Loo ; and the young dramatist and officer, destined to be one 
 of the honours of his reign, and share a duration with posterity of which the phlegmatic sovereign 
 little dreamt, appears to have come back to England in his train. 
 
 The next year saw a continuation of the " Constant Couple," in a new play entitled " Sir Harry 
 Wildair," in which both Wilks and Mrs. Oldfield performed to admiration ; but, like all sequels, 
 its merits lay chiefly in associations with its precursor. A very small part, however, that of a 
 servant, happening to fall into the hands of Norris, a man of quaint original humour, it fitted him 
 so happily as to bring him into celebrity, and got its very name affixed to him in the bills of other 
 plays. The same man, however, was, on a future occasion, designated " HeigMio Norris," in a play- 
 bill, simply because he uttered a couple of lines, containing that exclamation, in a style of exquisite 
 
FAEQUHAE. m; 
 
 drollery.* So that It waa the actor's humour, quite as much as the author's, that helped the 
 " Sequel " to this odd bit of lustre. 
 
 In 1702 appeared the " Miscellanies," a small collection of letters, poems, and essays, originally 
 called, we believe, " Love and Business," — (for we have only seen it in the collected works). It has 
 little merit, with the exception of an " Essay on Comedy," and was probably got together under 
 some pressure of pecuniary trouble. Mrs. Oldfield is conjectured to have returned some letters, in 
 order to contribute to it ; and she is said to have taken great pleasure afterwards in perusing both 
 them and the essay. Such passages as it contains, not unworthy of the writer, we have selected at 
 the close of this memoir. One of the best pieces Is a portrait of himself, painted with evidences of 
 much candour and modesty, and yet to his advantage ; and we doubt not it was a true one. A man 
 is not obliged to tell falsehoods of himself, in order to obtain a reputation for the very sincerity 
 which such a process must undo. It is enough if, being upon the whole an honest man, he is 
 neither blind to his faults nor sets too great a store by his virtues ; and it Is interesting to think 
 how many of these portraits (the fashion for which originated, we believe, in the social egotism of 
 our pleasant neighbours across the Channel) contain manifest proofs of the same candid moderation 
 as Farquhar's. But animal spirits are too often confounded with an overweening self-estimation. 
 People are more often aware of their own defects, than the world give them credit for being. Only 
 in the ignorant it exhibits itself in a jealous irritability. Wiser men alone know how to reconcile the 
 uneasiness of one part of self-knowledge, with the humanities that help to make up for it in the other. 
 
 The "Inconstant," or "The Way to win him," founded on Fletcher's "Wild Goose Chase," 
 appeared in 1703, but not with as much success as might be supposed from its having kept possession 
 of the stage. It was hurt by the reigning fashion for dancers from the Continent; and the critics 
 appear to have been greatly divided about its merits ; why, it is no longer very clear. The lovers of 
 the old poetic play resented perhaps the author's free and easy way of almost appropriating it to 
 himself in his prose version. 
 
 As this is about the time that Farqnhar married, we are led to glance round upon his previous 
 life, and to wish to know more of it. Little, however, can be collected, and his letters want dates for 
 what there can. One is sent from the Inner Temple, and some are written from Gray's Inn ; probably 
 from coffee-houses ; though anybody may live in an inn of Court. When he was in Holland, he 
 visited the Brill, Leyden, Eotterdam, and the Hague. On his return we find him at one time in 
 Essex, hare-hunting (not in the style of a proficient) ; at another at Eichmond, sick; and at a third, 
 in Shropshire, on a recruiting party, where he was treated with great hospitality, and found the 
 materials for one of the best of his plays. When he was in Holland he appears to have rescued a 
 lady from some villanous design upon her. She was the same with whom he afterwards condoles in 
 one of the letters, upon a suspicious robbery which she said she had undergone. Probably it was the 
 woman he married. 
 
 At what exact time this marriage took place, whether it was before or after the production of the 
 "Inconstant," we cannot say; but the event itself was almost as dramatic as any in his writings ; 
 though, unfortunately, more tragic in its results. A lady had fallen in love with him, and knew of 
 no better way to recommend herself as his wife than by pretending to be in possession of a fortune. 
 The grateful and gallant dramatist took the wife without being so unpolite as to secure the fortune ; 
 and though the lady confessed to him that her love had played him a trick, — or rather perhaps, out 
 of a secret and not unamiable vanity of comfort in the very confession,— Farquhar not only forgave 
 her, but never breathed to her a syllable of reproach. We shall see too well, before long, how deeply 
 this truly gentlemanly forbearance redounded to his honour. 
 
 Our author's dramatic productions now keep a remarkable regularity of pace with the dates of 
 the years. The " Inconstant " came out, as we have seen, in 1 703. 1704 produced the " Stage-Coach ; " 
 a poor copy from the French, written in conjunction with Motteux,— probably on his first awakening 
 from the dream of the lucky marriage. The " Twin Eivals " followed in 1705 ; the " Eecruiting 
 
 * Vaviei'a Dramatic Miscellanies, vol. iii. p. 310. 
 
"^ BIOGEAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 OflSoer," a great advance upon hia previous dramas, in the year following; and the "Beaus 
 Stratagem," his last and best, in 1707. These dates, to be sure, do not correspond throughout with 
 those assigned by the latest authorities to their respective appearances in print ; and in truth it 
 would be difficult, even had we the printed copies before us, to decide upon such matters, unless we 
 possessed thorough information respecting the dates both of representation and publication ; which, 
 perhaps, if desirable, would be impossible, especially considering tlie confusion created by the 
 unsettled calendar of those days, and the tricks played with it by the booksellers. Be this as it may, 
 It is likely enough that Parquhar would produce a play a year, and with an eye to the payment of 
 annual debts. The wonder indeed is, that he did not write oftener, considering his wit and poverty ; 
 but he had also the duties of his regiment to attend to, and his health was not good. It is thought 
 to have declined with the discovery of the deception that had been put upon him, or perhaps we 
 should rather say, with the increase of the anxious tenderness which it caused in him towards 
 a growing family. 
 
 This anxiety unfortunately subjected him to another deception, which is thought to have 
 occasioned his death. Some patron, filling him with hopes of another kind of preferment, which he 
 represented as certain, tempted him to sell out of the army. The poor dramatist, when the proceeds 
 were spent, found the patron without truth, and himself without a prospect or a penny. He took to 
 his sick chair; retained enough of the blissful abstraction of genius to write the " Beaux Stratagem" 
 in six weeks ; and died during the height of its success, before he had attained his thirtieth year. 
 He is supposed to have been buried in the churchyard of St. Martin's-in-the-Field's. A dying 
 anecdote, full of his usual good-temper and pleasantry, shows that he had foreseen his exit. Wilks, 
 during the rehearsal of the play, observing to him that Mrs. Oldfield wished he could have thought 
 of some more legitimate divorce in order to secure the " honour " of Mrs. Svllen, " Oh," said Farquhar, 
 " I will, if she pleases, solve that immediately, by getting a real divorce, marrying her myself, and 
 giving her my bond that she shall be a widow in less than a, fortnight." — Poor, nature-loving, 
 cheerful, melancholy Farquhar ! And so, turning away perhaps with the tears in his eyes at the 
 thought of his real wife and his children, he perished. 
 
 Well, being the man he was, and giving a great deal of pleasure to his fellow-creatures, he must 
 upon the whole have had a far happier life of it, than a, melancholy. Yet a great sorrow remains 
 to be told. We hardly know whether pleasure or grief predominates, when we read his dying 
 thanks to Wilks in his short preface, — reminding us of the more exquisite words on the like 
 occasion, addressed to the Conde de Lemos, by the great Cervantes, and prefixed to his romance 
 of " Persiles and Sigismunda ; " but what are we to think were his feelings, when he wrote the 
 following death-bed letter to Wilks : — 
 
 " Deae Bob, 
 
 " I have not anything to leave thee, to perpetuate my memory, but two helpless girls. 
 Look upon them sometimes, and think of him that was, to the last moment of his life, thine. 
 
 " Geokhe Fabqdhak." 
 
 This simple brevity, and even the gay familiarity of the address, has something in it affecting 
 beyond the ordinary, and, in some measure, self-repaying solemnity of tragical expressions. And our 
 sorrow is heightened, when we hear one of his biographers telling us, that he had often heard 
 Farquhar say he would rather undergo the most violent death than think of his family wanting 
 needful support. 
 
 " But it served him right," — some luckier formalist may exclaim, more comfortable in the vanity 
 of the opinion than in the real feeling of it (for man's heart is generally juster to itself at bottom, as 
 you may know by the uneasy tone in which such opinions are expressed), " He should not have led 
 such a careless life, nor trusted so foolishly to a patron." — Nay, judge him not, thou poor happier, 
 nnhappier man ; his larger and livelier sympathies with his fellow-creatures produced works that 
 delight them still, and that blinded him to the probability of his own early fate, till the truth camie 
 In agony upon him. Kind Nature makes out her case somehow. He was careless and unlucky, and 
 
FAEQUHAK. If 
 
 we profit by It. Thou art carefal and luckier, and profitest by it thyself. Let thy children bless thee; 
 as they trill, if thou art more charitable in thy speech. Good would it have been for those of poor 
 Parquhar, if others had had as great faith in human kindness as he. 
 
 It is said in the biographies, that Wilks, who was a rich man, acted up to the spirit of the 
 compliment paid him. Noble Betterton did, to a compliment exactly similar ; and Betterton was 
 not rich. Wilks's conduct is doubtful. He certainly was not " bound," as the phrase is, to be 
 generous and romantic, if his nature did not induce him ; but when praise is given him for being so, 
 the rest of the story cannot remain unnoticed. AH that is distinctly stated to have been done by 
 Wilks is, that he ultimately procured a benefit for the two daughters, and put them out apprentices 
 to mantua-makers : and yet even in those very biographies, which laud him to the skies for " having 
 paid the most punctual regard to the request of his dying friend," and can find no further proof of 
 it than this benefit and the mantua-making, it is added, that Farquhar's widow " died in circumstances 
 of the utmost indigence ; " that " one of his daughters was married to a low tradesman, and died 
 soon after ;" and that "the other was living in 1764, in mean and indigent circumstances, without 
 any knowledge of refinement either in sentiment or expenses ; " seeming to take " no pride in-her 
 father's fame," and " in every respect fitted to her humble situation." — This humble situation, we 
 believe, was that of a maid-servant. 
 
 Now, it is certainly possible enough, that the woman who could deceive Farquhar, as his wife had 
 done, might have been of such a lax turn of mind altogether, as to tire out or even disgust assistance, 
 and so be reasonably left to her fate ; — as far, that is to say, as any human being reasonably can be 
 so. And it is to be observed, that Farquhar, with all his toleration and his tenderness, does not 
 venture to name her to Wilks in his letter. But how could these children, to any purpose, have been 
 "sometimes looked upon," as the poor dramatist touchingly phrases it, if their education and 
 prospects, as it would seem by the above account, had been totally neglected? Why need the one 
 have married a " low tradesman ;" and the other have become a servant, totally destitute of breeding) 
 and taking no pride in her father's fame ? It may be said, that probably they " took after the mother," 
 tired out their benefactor, and could not end otherwise than they did. But in having no proofs, or 
 even distinct assertions, that he did anything more for them than give them a benefit, and " put 
 them out " as mantua-makers, how are we to take for granted that he ever did anything else, or even 
 so much ; still less, that he gave them the least taste of what the father must have most desired, — 
 something of a decent education, and of the hopes to be founded on it 1 Looking at the accounts of 
 Wilks left us by Gibber, Davies, and others, and making due allowance for theatrical jealousies, the 
 impression, we are bound to say, is not favourable to the refinement of his character. He was 
 vehement, jealous, and fond of power ; — dictatorial himself, and therefore the last man in the world 
 to like whatever he might think dictation in those whom he considered as equals or inferiors 
 Farquhar's very praises of such a man, swelling the amount of adulation too generally bestowed on 
 successful actors, is likely to have done -his vanity no good, nor abated the absurd comparisons he 
 would be inclined to make between poor men of genius and a rich performer. In short, we like not 
 his looks in this matter, nor even his supercilious looks in his portraits ; and before we give him the 
 praise of Betterton, must again call for proofs versus results. 
 
 It is proper, nevertheless, to state (for under no circumstances, and at no distance of time, are 
 men's characters to be conjectured to their prejudice, in the absence of such testimony as can do 
 them service), that Davies in his " Dramatic Miscellanies," vol. iii. p. 486, speaks of the " honest and 
 steady character " of " Robert Wilks " in the maintenance of "everything that was decent, just, and 
 generous." Nor is this general impression of a character (if such it was) to be lightly afi'ected by the 
 charges which Davies, on this occasion, is disputing in the teeth of "two such interested men " (so 
 he calls them) as Gibber and Dogget, whose great complaint against Wilks was his "impetuous 
 and overbearing temper." On the other hand, we do not well see how this character for the main- 
 tenance of everything "decent, just, and generous," is compatible with Davies's own charge against 
 Wilks in another place (p. 266), of his " depriving the inoifensive Harry Garey of the liberty of the 
 scenes, because he had, in common vrith others, made merry with Gibber in a song, on his bemg 
 
M BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 appointed poet-laureat : saying, at the same time, he (Wilks) was surprised at his impertinence, in 
 behaving so improperly to a man of such great merit ; " — that is to say, to a presamptuous brother- 
 actor and a ridiculous laureat. Cibber, it is true, had merit, but not greater than the naive author 
 and composer thus impertinently rebuked ; nor was he so good and kind a man. But let us take 
 the bitter taste of these doubts about Wilks out of our mouths, by repeating, from Davies's book, that 
 there is no doubt about the conduct of the great and good actor Betterton. " The misfortune," says 
 he (p. 416), " which Betterton sustained, by losing the greatest part of his fortune in a venture in 
 the East Indies, is very exactly related in the ' Biographia Britannica.' His behaviour on this 
 memorable occasion reflects honour on the magnanimity of his mind. His talcing into his liouse, 
 and edv/xiting at his own expense, the daughters of his ruined friend who had engaged him in the 
 vmhappy adventure, places him in a rank with Satyrus the Greek comedian, whose generosity to the 
 captive daughters of his dead host I have related in my observations on the second act of ' Hamlet.' 
 The daughter of Betterton's unhappy friend was married to Mr. Bowman, whom I have often had 
 occasion to mention. She was admired as a very fine woman, and a pleasing actor." Let the reader 
 observe, that Dairies, with all his reaard for WUTcs, never thinks on this occasion of bringing up 
 his behaviour to the daughters of Farquliar ; not even though the booh which he corroborates 
 respecting Betterton's conduct, the Biographia Britannica, is one of those in which it is related. 
 Does not this go to prove that he, Davies, himself an actor, and conversant with stage history, had 
 no belief in that proof of Wilks's virtues !* 
 
 In the memoirs of the life of Wilks, quoted in the " Biographia Britannica," a pension of twenty 
 pounds a year is said to have been procured for the daughters of Parquhar by the " worthy friend 
 and patron to whom he dedicated his Miscellanies, Edmund Chaloner, Esq." But nothing certaia 
 seems known, except their ultimate poverty. 
 
 Farquhar, according to his own modest account of himself, had little exterior resemblance to the 
 confident, airy gallants which he is supposed to have painted after his likeness. He says, he had 
 something in his manners which gave strangers a worse opinion of him than he deserved. With all 
 his animal spirits, he was subject to melancholy ; and though greatly inclined to gallantry, was so 
 cautious of giving way to it as to surprise the sex with his apparent inattention. Like a proper 
 " captain," however, he professed not to be able to answer for his constancy. His appearance (if we 
 may judge from the portrait of him in one of the editions) was sickly, with a care-worn face ; and he 
 generally dressed in black. He was an agreeable singer. His studies he appears to have pursued 
 with temperate regularity, devoting to them three hours a day. He was not capricious nor 
 ill-tempered ; hated to give pain ; was easily deceived, but not a second time ; had " many 
 acquaintances, very few intimates, and no friend in the old romantic way," (that is to say, one to 
 whom a man is enthusiastically devoted,) " and the greatest proof of my affection that a lady must 
 expect," he says, " is this : — I would run any hazard to make us both happy, but would not, for any 
 transitory pleasure, make either of us miserable." 
 
 * The case of Satyrus, the Greek player, is so much to the purpose, and so heautiful in itself, that the reader will 
 be glad to see it quoted. It is contained in a passage of Demosthenes, of which Davies has given a version, apparently 
 his own : and was as follows :— " When Philip of Macedon had taken the city of Olynthus, he celebrated the Olympic 
 Games. He invited to the festival all the professors of the flue arts. He entertained them with the choicest banquets, 
 and bestowed cro%vns upon the victors. During the height of the festival, he asked Satyrus the comedian why, of all 
 his guests, he alone had asked for no gift, nor desired any mark of his favour. Did he suppose him to be of a mean 
 and sordid disposition ? or did he conceive that he had entertained any ill-will towards him ?— Satyrus modestly 
 replied, that he stood in no need of those actsof munificence which others demanded. What he should request of 
 the king, could with the greatest facility be granted ; but he had some fears lest his petition should be rejected. 
 Philip encouraged him to urge his demand ; and with a facetious gaiety, assured hiro that he should refuse nothing 
 he should ask. Satyrus then informed the king, that his old acquaintance and host, Apollophanes of Pydna, having 
 been slain through treachery, his relations, terrified at the accident, had for safety conveyed his two daughters to 
 Olynthus ; but as that city had now become subjected to his miijesty's laws, they were in the condition of prisoners 
 and captives. Now, the sole boon I shall beg of you, continued the player, is, that you would give orders for their 
 deliverance into my hands ; not for the sake of gaining any advantage to myself, but that I may bestow on them 
 portions equal to their birth and education, and prevent their falling into any hardithip or disgrace unworthy of me 
 or their father — The whole assembly upon hearing this generous request of Satyrus, broke out into loud and 
 tumultuous applause ; and Philip, with a good grace, immediately complied with his wishes."— Dram. Mitcellaniet, 
 ▼ol' TFil. p- 5fi. The article on Farquhar in the Biographia Britannica was written by Oldys, 
 
FAEQUHAE. ivn 
 
 In short, oui author tras a good-natured, sensitive, reflecting man, of so high an order of what 
 may be called the town class of genius, as to sympathise with mankind at large upon the strength of 
 what he saw of them in little, and to extract from a quintessence of good sense an inspiration just 
 short of the romantic and imaginative ; that is to say, he could turn what he had experienced in 
 common life to the best account, but required in all cases the support of its ordinary associations, 
 and could not project his spirit beyond them. He felt the little world too much, and the universal 
 too little. He saw into all false pretensions, but not into all true ones ; and if he had had a larger 
 sphere of nature to fall back upon in his adversity, would probably not have died of it. The wingn 
 of his fancy were too common, and grown in too artificial an air, to support him in the sudden gulffe 
 and great aching voids of that new region, and enable him to beat his way to their green islands. 
 His genius was so entirely social, that notwithstanding what appeared to the contrary in his personal 
 manners, and what he took for his own superiority to it, it compelled him to assume in his writings 
 all the airs of the most received town ascendancy ; and when it had once warmed itself in this way, 
 it would seem that it had attained the healthiness natural to its best condition, and could have gone 
 on for ever, increasing both in enjoyment and power, had external circumstances been favourable. 
 He was becoming gayer and gayer, when death, in the shape of a so3-3 anxiety, called him away, as 
 if from a pleasant party, and left the house ringing with his jest . 
 
 In looking critically at Farquhar's plays in succession, nothing need be added to what has been 
 said respecting the earliest one, " Love in a Bottle," except that much of the talk is gratuitous, and 
 that in this play, perhaps more than in any of thii rest, is to be seen the "pert low dialogue" which 
 Pope accused him of writing ; that is to say, brisk only, with a pretence of something better, and on 
 that account wanting in an air of good breeding. Nor is Sir Harry Wildair without it in the 
 '' Constant Couple," nor even Archer in his last play, the " Beaux-Stratagem." It was probably 
 ojving to the conflict between the author's habits of personal reserve, and his sympathy in spirit wiih 
 all that was the reverse. Goldsmith, who was a very difiident man, carried the same error into his 
 Toung Marlow in " She Stoops to Conquer ; " or rather he would have carried it, had not the very 
 intensity of his consciousness of the danger ingeniously converted it into a part of his comic 
 intention. And Marlow, who in one of Ms situations is a copy of ArAer, is, after all, really pert, 
 and gives himself airs to the supposed chambermaid, beyond what a thorough-bred gentleman would 
 have done. Sir Harry Wildair, nevertheless, as Steele said, is very entertaining in spite of what 
 that good-natured critic himself thought " low ; " and the part will always interest, as a kind of 
 epitome of youthful spirits and freedom from care, let loose upon the world. The plot of the play is 
 as lively as the character, and, like most of Farquhar's plots, is the author's own ; and, considering 
 the manners of the times, almost everything is natural in it, with the exception of the outrageously 
 farcical notion of the swimming-girdle, which was to carry Clincher to Civita Vecchia. 
 
 Farquhar, who had been so modest in his preface to the " Constant Couple " as to describe 
 himself " below the envy of great wits and above the malice of little ones," had either got so 
 warmed into a better opinion of himself by the time he wrote the " Inconstant," or perhaps was 
 really so unaware of the superiority oi & gieai poetical genius, as to brand those who accused him of 
 spoiling Fletcher's " Wild-goose Chace " with wishing them no other injury than that they " would 
 fay it again I" Spoiling, it certainly could not be called ; any more than it could be called spoiling 
 an eagle's wing to pluck a feather from it, and turn it into a toy. But the wording of the taunt 
 implies something contemptuous of a reverence towards the eagle ; and this betrays a blindness 
 to the height to which the eagle soared. Farquhar's " Inconstant" is a pleasant play (as far as th° 
 chief characters as well as the plot are pleasant ; which we cannot, we own, very well think they 
 are, either in the copy or the original) ; but compared with the " Wild-goose Chace," it is not a 
 whit livelier, nor indeed so lively, nor has it anything of the other's robust and masterly expression 
 or imagination. It is, in truth, with the exception of the highly interesting adventure that is 
 taken from the history of a French gentleman, neither more nor less than Fletcher's play with all 
 the poetry taken out of it ;— the age of the demi-gods of Elizabeth, brought down to the standard 
 of the sprightly parade officers of the times of Captains Yanbrugh and Farquhar. We are not to 
 
Iviii BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, 
 
 irappose that Apollo conld have been less of a " gay fellow about town," if he chuse it, than the 
 wittiest gallant that stuck a bay-leaf in his peruke : only, without question, (if that be " spoiling,") 
 his language would have had ten ideas in it to the other's one. 
 
 The " Twin Rivals " was an attempt to write a comedy in a fit of critical instead of playful 
 inspiration. Critics have spoken well of it accordingly, and thought it the completest of his 
 productions ; but the town did not like it, nor did the author repeat the experiment. Collier, it 
 seems, by Farquhar's own account, had piqued him into an endeavour to show how moral and 
 profoundly satirical he conld be. It is the story of a Hunchback, (very different from Mr. Knowles's,) 
 who in a most impudent manner, as a retaliation upon fortune, tries to deprive his elder brother of 
 a title and estate. Upon looking through it again, while writing this paragraph, we find we have 
 not marked in it a dozen lines. 
 
 In the " Recruiting Officer " Farquhar took his revenge. He threw himself entirely upon his 
 animal spirits, and produced accordingly one of his very best plays. In everything connected with 
 it he was fortunate ; for he went only upon grounds of truth and observation, and his own impulses. 
 The humours were drawn from what he had seen while he was on the recruiting party to which we 
 have alluded ; his hospitable friends " round the Wrekin," to whom it was dedicated, furnished 
 some of the characters ; the play was written on the spot ; his Colonel and his General liked it 
 (Lord Orrery and the Duke of Ormond) ; the principal dramatis persorice were represented by the 
 best reigning performers (Wilks, Gibber, Estcourt, and Mrs. Oldfield) ; and it gained that kind of 
 success from which the author might have foreseen that it would retain possession of the stage. 
 It has been stated by Nichols, on the authority of an old lady who remembered Farquhar and his 
 recruiting party, that Justice Balance was Mr. Berkeley, at that time Warden of Shrewsbury ; that 
 another of the Justices was a Mr. Hill, of that city ; Worthy, a Mr. Owen, of Russason ; Melinda, a 
 Miss Hamage, of Balsadine ; and Sylvia, the Recorder's daughter. Plume was, of course, pro- 
 nounced to be "himself;" but if the play, as it is asserted, and is probable, was written within a 
 year of the " Beaux-Stratagem," the gay Captain could only have been the imaginary Farquhar ; — 
 gay enough, we doubt not, while so imagining, but in his own person, an anxious married man. 
 Steele, who had a grudge against Farquhar, because he thought him wanting in sentiment, 
 attributed the "support " of the play to the admirable performance of his friend Estcourt. " There 
 is not," he says, "in my humble opinion, the humour hit in Serjeant Kite; but it is admirably 
 supplied by his action." Succeeding times have not accorded with this criticism. Every character 
 in the piece, of any prominence, is thought to be a genuine transcript from nature ; and there is a 
 charm of gaiety and good-humour throughout it, that enables us to put the best and least tragical 
 construction upon certain anti-sentimentalities, which Steele perhaps was too much out of his 
 customary good-humour to choose to consider in any light but one. We seem to breathe the clear, 
 fresh, ruddy-making air of a remote country town, neighboured by hospitable elegances. The 
 sturdy male peasants will find their legs in life somehow, as the Serjeant has done; and the 
 females will be taken more care of by the Captain himself, and by the good-natured Sylvia too, than 
 the censor at first sight might suppose. The morals are not the best, we allow; and in the 
 matter of lying (which always gives us a pang), they might be infinitely improved, as we doubt 
 not they will, though not from the austerest quarters. When the best morals arrive, everybody 
 will be as happily taken care of as the " ladies " themselves ; — not the case certainly at prew>nt, nor 
 provided for even by the prospective ethics of dear, excellent Richard Steele. 
 
 The sprightly success of the " Recruiting Officer " had probably the happiest effect upon the 
 composition of our author's best and most successful production, the " Beaux-Stratagem ;" an 
 excellent pla;^, which, like the one just mentioned, and the " Inconstant," is always acted whenever 
 actors can be found. Its plot is new, simple, and interesting; the characters various, without 
 confusing it ; the dialogue sprightly and characteristic ; the moral bold, healthy, admirable, and 
 doubly needed in those times, when sottishness was a fashion. Archer and Aimwett, who set out 
 IS mere intriguers, prove in the end true gentlemen, candid, conscientious, and generous. Scrub 
 and Boniface, though but a servant and an innkeeper, are quotable fellows both, and have made 
 
PARQUHAE. lix 
 
 themselves prominent in theatrical recollection, — the former especially, for his quaint ignorance 
 and sordid cunning. And Mrs. Sullen is the more touching in her distress, from the cheerfulness 
 with which she wipes away her tears. Sullen is an awful brute, yet not thoroughly inhuman ; for 
 he feels, after all, that he has no right to such a wife. The only fault in the termination, is what 
 Mrs. Oldfield objected to, — that the law had provided no sanction for it ; so that it became bu( a 
 higher kind of sale by halter. But what a lesson did not this very want imply ? The footsteps of 
 the gravest ultimate reforms are often found in places where they are least looked for. But Nature 
 speaks there, and there they come. 
 
 Parquhar's Irishmen have been thought not to be truly Irish, especially in regard to the 
 brogue. We cannot speak to this ; but if the objection is well founded with respect to the people 
 in general, might it not be otherwise removable, upon the ground that he drew his Irish from tie 
 northern or semi-Scottish part of the country % 
 
 We conclude this division of our task with some passages from Parquhar's " Letters," and from 
 the sensible " Essay on Comedy." The poems are not worthy of his reputation. His best prologues 
 and epilogues were written by impudent Joe Haines, and a Frenchman — Motteux — remarkable for 
 his mastery of our idiom, and for being the best English translator of " Don Quixote." Parquhar 
 is understood to have left no manuscripts. We could not find any in the British Museum ; and a 
 few hours before he died he is said to have thrown what he had into the fire, observing that he had 
 '•' no remains worth saving." There is a printed poem, however, which we have never seen, and 
 which we sought for in vain at the library of the Museum, both in the catalogue, and by inquiring 
 of the courteous gentlemen there, who did all they could to assist us. It is called " Barcelona," 
 and was written upon the capture of that city by the great preux clievalier, the Earl of Peterborough. 
 In the " Biographia Britannica " is the prose dedication of it to him, written with considerable 
 vigour and elegance, and signed " Margaret Parquhai'," — ^his widow. If really her composition, she 
 must have been a woman of no grdinary understanding, 
 
 A DUTCH SKIPPER. 
 
 A jolly skipper at the stern of his barge, with a furred cap like rays about his head, the helm in his hand, 
 and his pipe in his mouth, with Liberty seated in one whisker, and Property in t'other. 
 
 GENEROUS COMMERCUL POLTCY. 
 
 One d.T.y upon the Exchange at Rotterdam, I casually met a gentleman, who some time ago lived one of 
 the most considerable merchants in Ireland, and about some four years since, by great losses at sea, was forced 
 to fly his country in a very mean condition. I put him in mind of his misfortunes by a favour he once 
 conferred upon me of a bottle of claret and a neat's tongue, at launching of a new ship that he had built in 
 Dubhn ; which vessel (bottom and goods all his own) was unfortunately lost the very first voy.ige. The 
 gentleman seemed very sensible of his misfortunes, but withal told me, that he still had a glass of wine and 
 a tongue at my service, if I would come and see him at his house that evening. I made him a visit, and 
 found, to my no small surprise, a handsome house, neatly furnished, excellent meat, and as good burgundy as 
 ever joyed the heart of man. I took the freedom to ask my merchant, how a bankrupt should come by all 
 this ; in answer to which he gave me the following account of his affairs. 
 
 " The Dutch, sir," said he, " have a law, that whatever merchant in any part of Europe, who has had 
 any considerable traffic with this country, whose honesty is apparent by his former accounts, and can provo 
 by sufficient testimony, that his losses and misfortunes are not chargeable upon his ignorance nor extrava^ 
 gance, but purely those of unfortunate chance, above the reach of human prevention ; that then such a 
 merchant may repair to them, have the freedom of any sea-port in the state, have a supply of whatever 
 money he 's willing to take up out of the public revenue, upon the bare security of his industry and integrity ; 
 and all this upon the current interest, which is seldom above four per cent. 
 
 " Pursuant to this," continued the gentleman, " my qualifications for this credit being sufficiently testified, 
 I took up here two thousand pounds sterling, and in two years have gained fifty per cent. So that by God's 
 assistance, and my own diligent endeavours, I question not but in a few years I shall be able to show my face 
 to my creditors, return to my country, and there live im statu quo." 
 
Ix BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 DRYDEN S FUNERAL. 
 
 I come now from Mr. Dryden's funeral, where we had an Ode in Horace sung, instead of David's Pealms ; 
 whence you may find, that we don't think a poet worth Christian burial. The pomp of the ceremony was a 
 kind of rhapsody, and fitter I think for Hudibraa than him, because the cavalcade was mostly burlesque ; 
 but he was an extraordinary man, and buried after an extraordinary fashion ; for I do believe there was 
 never such another burial seen. The oration indeed was great and ingenious, worthy the subject, and like 
 the author, whose prescriptions can restore the living, and his pen embalm the dead.* And so much for 
 Mr, Dryden, whose burial was the same with his life : variety and not of a piece ; the quality and mob, 
 farce and heroics ; the sublime and ridicule mixt in a piece ; great Cleopatra in a hackney-coach. 
 
 RATIO OP DEMAND FOR LONG SERMONS. 
 
 I have observed in my little travels, that a sermon of three quarters of an hour that might please the 
 congre^tion at St. James's, would never satisfy the meeting-house in the city, where people expect more for 
 their money ; and having more temptations of roguery, must have a larger portion of instruction. 
 
 LAWFUL FREEDOM OF THE DRAMA FROM "CLASSIC RULES." 
 
 The rules of English comedy don't lie in the compass of Aristotle, or his followers, but in the pit, box, 
 and galleiies. And to examine into the humour of an English audience, let us see by what means our own 
 English poets have succeeded in this point. To determine a suit at law we don't look into the archives oi 
 Greece or Rome, but inspect the reports of our lawyers, and the acts and statutes of our Parliaments ; and 
 by the same rule we have nothing to do with the models of Menander or Plautus, but must consult 
 Shakspeare, Jonson, Fletcher, and others, who by methods much diflferent from the ancients have supported 
 the English stage, and made themselves famous to posterity. We shall find that these gentlemen have fairly 
 dispensed with the greatest part of critical formalities ; the decorums of time and place, so much cried up of 
 late, had no force of decorum with them ; the economy of their plays was ad lihUvm, and the extent of their 
 plots only limited by the convenience of action. I would willingly understand the regularities of Hamlet, 
 Macbeth, Henry the Fourth, and of Fletcher's Plays; and yet these have long been the darlings of the 
 English audience, and are like to continue with the same applause, in defiance of all the criticisms that ever 
 were published in Greek and Latin. 
 
 * 4: 3): * 4: 4: 
 
 A play may be vmtten with all the exactness imaginable, in respect of unity in time and place ; but if 
 you inquire its character of any persons, though of the meanest understanding of the whole audience, he will 
 tell you it is intolerable stuff; and upon your demanding his reasons, his answer is, I don't like it: his 
 humour is the only rule that he can judge a comedy by, but you find that mere nature is offended with some 
 irregularities ; and though he be not so learned in the drama, to give you an inventory of the faults, yet I 
 can tell you, that one part of the plot had no dependence upon another, which made this simple man drop his 
 attention and concern for the event; and so disengaging his thoughts from the business of the action, he sat 
 there very uneasy, thought the time very tedious, because he had nothing to do. The characters were so 
 incoherent in themselves, and composed of such variety of absurdities, that in his knowledge of nature, he 
 could find no original for such a copy ; and being therefore unacquainted with any folly they reproved, or 
 any virtue that they recommended, their business was as flat and tiresome to him, as if the actors had talked 
 Arabic. 
 
 * * 3iC * * * 
 
 I am aa little a friend to certain rambling plays as anybody, nor have I ever espoused their party by my 
 ovra practice ; yet I could not forbear saying something in vindication of the great Shakspeare, whom every 
 little fellow that can form an aorisPus primm will presume to condemn for indecorums and absurdities ; 
 sparks that are so spruce upon their Greek and Latin, that, like our fops in travels, they can relish nothing 
 but what is foreign, to let the world know they have been abroad forsooth ! But it must be so, because 
 Aristotle said it ! Now I say it must be otherwise, because Shakspeai-e said it ; and I am sure that Shakspeare 
 was the greater poet of ^*e> two. But you will say that Aristotle was the greater critic. That's a mistakej 
 
 * Garth. 
 
FARQUHAK. ixi 
 
 sir; for criticism in poetry is no more than judgment in poetry ; -which you will find in your Lexicon. Now, 
 if Shatspeare was the better poet, he must have the most judgment in his art ; for everybody knows that 
 judgment is an essential part of poetry, and without it no ■writer is worth a farthing. 
 
 farquhar's portrait of himself. 
 
 To a Lady, 
 In pursuance to your order, madam, I have sent you, here inclosed, my picture ; and I challenge Vandyke 
 or Kneller to draw more to the life. You are the first person that ever had it ; and if I had not some thoughts 
 that the substance would tia,ll to your share, 1 would not part with my likeness. I hope the colours will 
 never tade, though you mr^ *dve me some hints where to mend ^he G»*fcures, having so much power to correct 
 the life. 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 My outside is neither better nor worse than my Creator made it, and the piece being drawn by so great 
 an artist, 'twere presumption to say there were many strokes amiss, I have a body qualified to answer all 
 the ends of its creation, and that 's sufficient. 
 
 As to the mind, which in most men wears as many changes as their body, so in me 'tis generally drest 
 like my person, in black. Melancholy is its every day apparel ; and it has hitherto found few holidays to 
 make it change its clothes. In short, my constitution is very splenetic, and yet very amorous ; both which I 
 endeavour to hide lest the former should offend others^ and that the latter might incommode myself. And 
 my reason is so vigilant in restraining these two failings, that I am taken for an easy natured man with my 
 own sex, and an ill-natured clown by yours. 
 
 'Tis true, I am very sparing in my praises and compliments to a lady, out of a fear that they may affect 
 myself more than her. For the idols that we worship aie generally of our own making; and though at first 
 men may not speak what they think, yet truth may catch them on t' other hand, and make them think what 
 they speak. But most of all am I cautious of promising, especially upon the weighty article of constancy ; 
 because, in the first place, I have never tried the strength of it in my own experience; and, secondly, I suppose 
 a man can no more engage for his constancy ttian for his health, since I believe they both equally depend upon 
 a certain constitution of body ; and how far and how frequently that may be liable to alteration, especially in 
 affairs of love, let the more judicious determine. 
 
 But so far a man may pr6mise, that if he find not his passion grounded on a false foundation, and that lie 
 have a continuance of the same sincerity, truth and love to engage him ; that then his reason, his honour, and 
 his giutitude, may prove too strong for all changes of temper and inclination. 
 
 I am a very great Epicure ; for which reason I hate all pleasure that 's purchased by excess of pain. I am 
 quite different from the opinion of men that value what's dearly bought ; long expectation makes the blessing 
 always less to me ; for by often thinking of the future joy, I make the idea of it familiar to me, and so I lose 
 the great transport of surprise ; 'tis keeping the springs of desire so long upon the rack, till at last they grow 
 loose and enervate : besides, any one of a creative fancy, by a duration of thoughts, will be apt to frame too 
 great an idea of the object, and so make the greater part of his hopes end in a disappointment, 
 
 I am seldom troubled with what the world calls airs and caprices ; and I think it an idiot's excuse for a 
 foolish action, to say 'twas my humour. I hate all little malicious tricks of vexing people, for trifles or 
 teasing them with frightful stories, malicious lies, stealing lap-dogs, tearing fans, breaking china, or the like : 
 I can't relish the jest that vexes another in earnest. In short, if ever I do a wilful injury, it must be a very 
 great one. 
 
 I am often melancholy, but seldom angry; for which reason I can be severe in my resentment, without 
 injuring myself, I think it the worst office to my nature to make myself uneasy for what another should bo 
 punished. 
 
 I am easily deceived, but then I never fail at last to find out the cheat ; my love of pleasure and sedateness 
 makes me very secure, and the same reason makes me very diligent when I am alarmed. 
 
 I have so natural a propensity to ease, that I cannot cheerfully fix to any study, which bears not a pleasure 
 in the application ; which makes me inclinable to poetry above anything else. 
 
 I have very little estate, but what lies under the circumference of my hat; and should I by mischance 
 w>me to lose my head, I should not be worth a groat ; but I ought to thank Providence that I can by three 
 
M BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 liours' study live one-and-twcnty with satisfaction to myself, and contribute to the maintenance of more 
 families than some "who have thousands a year. 
 
 I have something in my outward behaviour, which gives strangers a worse opinion of mo than I deserve ; 
 but I am more than recompensed by the opinion of my acquaintancCj which is as much above my desert, 
 
 I have many acquaintance, very few intimates, but no friend ; I mean, in the old romantic way. I have 
 no secret so weighty, but what I can bear in my own breast ; nor any duels to fight, but what I may engage 
 in without a second ; nor can I love after the old romantic discipline. I would have my passion, if not led, 
 yet at least waited on by my reason ; and the greatest proof of my affection that a lady must expect, is this : 
 I would run any hazard to make us both happy, but would not for any transitory pleasure make either of us 
 miserable. 
 
 Or the four dramatists of whom we have thus endeavoured to give some account, it appears to us 
 that Wycherley was the most reflective for reflection's sake, the most terse with simplicity in his 
 style, the most original in departing from the comedy in vogue, and adding morals to manners, and 
 the least so with regard to plot and character : that Congreve was the wittiest, most scholarly, most 
 highly bred, the most elaborate in his plots and language, and most pungent but least natural in 
 his characters, and that he had the least heart : that Tanbrugh was the readiest and most straight- 
 forward, the least superfluous, the least self-referential, mistrusting, or morbid, and therefore, with 
 more pardon, the least scrupulous,— oaring for nothing but truth (as far as he saw it) and a strong 
 effect : and that Tarquhar had the highest animal spirits, with fits of the deepest sympathy, the 
 greatest wish to please rather than to strike, the most agreeable diversity of character, the best instinct 
 in avoiding revolting extravagances of the time, and the happiest invention in plot and situation ; and, 
 therefore, is to be pronounced, upon the whole, the truest dramatic genius, and the most likely to be 
 of lasting popularity ; as indeed he has hitherto been. He has far surpassed them all, we believe, in 
 the number of editions ; and is certainly ten times acted to their once. The " Confederacy " upon 
 the strength of Brass, and Dich Amwell and his mother, is the only play of Vanbrugh's that can 
 compete, unaltered, with the quadruple duration of the " Constant Couple," the " Inconstant," the 
 " Recruiting Officer," and the " Beaux-Stratagem." His "Relapse " required to be turned into the 
 " Trip to Scarborough," before his exquisite Lord Foppington could again be received into decent 
 company. Astrology helps to pull down Congreve's " Old Bachelor," and .tragic venom and 
 monstrous vices his " Double Dealer." The " Way of the World " is an admirable comedy, it must 
 be confessed, especially for the sovereigu airs and graces of Millamant ; yet it is tiresome in its very 
 ingenuity, for its maze of wit and intrigue ; and it has no heart, therefore wants the very soul of 
 pleasure. There is a bit of heart in " Love for Love," and nature in Miss Pnie ; and Mesdames 
 Frail and Foresight are exquisite. The Sailor also, as Johnson says, " if not very natural, is very 
 amusiiig ; " and in truth he is more natural than he has been thought, except in being the son of a 
 man of fortune. Accordingly, " Love for Love " is the only one of Congreve's plays that can be called 
 popular. Wycherley's " Country Wife " (the " Country Girl " of Garrick) will be immortal in some 
 shape or other, but cannot re-appear as herself, or at least not in her former company ; and even as 
 herself she came from Molifere. The " Constant Couple," " Recruiting Officer," and " Beaux- 
 Stratagem," are, in every respect, all Parquhar's own. 
 
 But all the works of these dramatists are still read, though they are not all acted ; and that they are 
 no longer all acted is not to be wholly attributed either to their vices or to our virtues. Manners alone 
 make some difference. Conventional pleasantries go out and cease to be understood : conventional 
 virtues also change, and are not always converted into others more real. We are not of necessity 
 the better or more moral for thinking the worst we can of freer modes of speech, or even of conduct. 
 Our ancestors may not have been so bad as we suppose them, even upon our own principles. Animal 
 spirits often say more than they mean ; and in that case it is our dulness and want of spirits that 
 misconstrues the speakers. Tanity pretends to more than it performs ; and so does our own when it 
 affects an extreme the other way. The balance is not always settled in our favour merely by our 
 looking grave on the matter, and showing that our '•irtue makes us neither merry nor charitable. 
 
FARQUHAK. Ixiii 
 
 Again, the drama is not a mere copy of nature, — not a fac-simile. It is the free running hand 
 of genius, under the impression of its liveliest wit or most passionate impulses, a thousand times 
 adorning or feeling all as it goes ; and you must read it, as the healthy instinct of audiences almost 
 always does if the critics will let them alone, — with a grain of allowance, — and a tendency to go 
 awaj with as much of it for use as is necessary, and the rest for the luxury of laughter, pity, or 
 poetical admiration. Farquhar's as well as Congreve's rakes, sometimes talk cruelly ; but it is either 
 towards imposture and trickery, or in the mere sting of the gusto of the will. They mean it to the 
 letter as little as anybody ; and we have seen that Farquhar himself died of anxiety for his family. 
 There may have been a vanity in it, in his first productions ; and very painful and startling it always 
 sounds ; but the very love of pleasure, in a heart like his, ended in making him humane, giving him a 
 strong sense of the right of pleasure in others ; and it was doubtless out of a sense of the desire and 
 feasibility of this for all the world, and a suspicion of the world's paining itself overmuch and ' not 
 wisely, that he talked on some subjects as carelessly as he did, and not out of any indifference to the 
 happiness and real virtues of mankind. Eead him, and his still freer spoken brethren, in the liberal 
 spirit of that understanding, and yon are safe in proportion to the goodness and cheerfulness of your 
 own heart. If you feel neither generous nor blithe in the perusal, neither moved to correct the 
 letter of the worst passages by the spirit of the best, nor to feel that the whole has some healthy end 
 beyond itself, thus mistrusting the final purposes and good-nature of Nature herself, as they operate 
 through the medium of a lively art, you may certainly need restraints which these holiday-going 
 dramatists are as certainly not in a condition to supply. And lucky will you be if you get them in 
 mirth-denouncing quarters, without their depriving you of the charity which such writers do not 
 deny to anybody, and thus subjecting you to those hard and melancholy Tiews o'f the world itself, 
 which are the worst results of conduct the most vicious. Every book, it is true, even the noblest, is 
 not a child's book, nor a guide to ordinary conduct ; but a mind, candidly and healthily trained, 
 may be suffered to grow up in almost any library ; and you may put premature fears in it far worse 
 than none. Nature approves of what is gradual, and loves a decent investment ; but she is not fond 
 of mutilated editions. 
 
 On the other hand, we are not to suppose that such a world as that of the very best of these 
 dramatists is the best sort of world, or the cheerfuUest, and the one to be most desired ; much less 
 such a suffocating region of fine heartless ladies and gentlemen as that of Congreve, who, in his 
 passion for wit and a plot, thought of nothing but intrigue and lying, and saying two contrary things 
 at once. It wanted all the poetry of the drama of the preceding ages, and had no fixed belief in 
 any of the philosophy of the future ; though the good nature of the better part of it was a kind ot 
 substitute for both. The best as well as worst of its women, for instance, are only fit to laugh and 
 to perish. Perpetuity disowns them as thorough capable human creatures, such as Desdemona and 
 
 Imogen, ready-made for being finally beautiful and moral, under the best conceivable dispensation : 
 
 and yet the Sylvia and Mrs. Sidlen of Farquhar have links with even women like these, by the 
 force of their sympathy with whatsoever is kind and just ; and Wycherley's Fidelia is an imitation 
 of them. But who that is anything but half a man, ignorant of what such whole books as Shak- 
 speare's can make him, would think of taking to his heart the flimsy creatures, made of ribands and 
 tittle-tattle, out of the rest of the volume before us ? or the hoydens, that come driving out of the 
 pantry, and running down the butler? Wycherley was obliged to go to the former times for his new 
 edition of Viola; and so was Farquhar for his Oriana. And it is not a little curious to see, up to 
 the days of sentimental comedy, what an uncouth tendency there was, whenever a little romance 
 and good faith was to be introduced, to stilt up the dialogue into verse or measured prose ; as though 
 the moment the writers came to anything serious, their own style was felt to be nought, and that 
 of their predecessors the only worthy language of truth and beauty. Tanbrugh himself begins in 
 verse : but is soon obliged to give it up. In fact, English comedy, as it is emphatically understood 
 to be such in these prose dramatists, is the poorer half of the comedy of the preceding age ; or the levity 
 and satire of it, deprived of its poetry. Farquhar's " Inconstant," inasmuch as it is a de-poetization 
 of Fletcher's " Wild-goose Chace," is a type of the whole series. It is a mistake however to suppose 
 
Wt biographical and critical notices. 
 
 that its licence began Tfith the prose-writers. Licence in abundance, far worse than the worst of 
 theirs, was in the prosaioal part of the spirit of the poets of the time of James the First, — ^himself 
 one of the most licentious olprosers; it was already pulling down their genius from the beautiful, 
 believing heights of Shakspearo ; and worthy of reflection is another fact, that it was the prosaieal . 
 excess of the Puritans in denying to whatsoever they thought wrong the least share of beauty and 
 virtue, and the least right of gladness of heart, that helped to undo every species of belief in the 
 identity of the terms, and when reaction came, render it thoroughly dissolute and misbelieving. 
 Puritanism, the best part of which did as much and as lasting good as the worst part did fugitive 
 evil, was preceded (be it obseiTed), as well as followed, by debauchery. Cromwell came between 
 James the First and Charles the Second. The good part of Puritanism reformed the debauchery, 
 but the bad part reproduced it ; and if Etherege and Wycherley, by dint of the very levity and gay- 
 heartedness that made them comic writers, had not been better men than the gloomiest of their 
 revilers, a truly infernal business they would have made of the new reaction^ — nothing but malignant 
 satire, and a denial of those rights of mirth and laughter, which God has created as well as tears. 
 
 This was the mistake of Collier, the non-juring clergj'man who came forward to denounce the 
 " wickedness " of the drama. We mean, he assumed that the writers were so many knaves and 
 fiends, who had positively malignant intentions ; and in so doing, he was not aware that he betrayed 
 a vice in his own spirit, which if they had thought as ill of it as he did of their licence, would have 
 warranted them in denouncing him as the far greater devil of the two. For to believe in such 
 unmitigated wickedness at all, is itself the worst part of the result of vice ; namely, a moral melancholy, 
 and an attribution to the Creator of having made what he never did. It is not necessary at this time 
 of day to enter into the details of this once famous controversy. Collier was a clever, sincere, and 
 vehement but half-witted man, who did good to the stage, inasmuch as he forced the writers to think 
 of decorum ; but he quite overdid his charges on the score both of intention and commission ; and 
 he would have fallen flat in his own fury, if the very weapons of his opponents had not sustained 
 him. Farquhar saw this in his youth, and noticed it in his first publication, — the " Adventures of 
 Covent Garden;" — unless, indeed, his remarks are a report of what was actually said at the club he 
 speaks of. 
 
 " Peregrine " (that is himself, whom he elsewhere designates a " stranger,") " goes next evening 
 
 to the play; where meeting some of his ingenious acquaintance, viz., Mr. W-^ , Mr. H , Mr. M , 
 
 with others of that club, (perhaps Wycherley, Hopkins, and Moyle,) there arose a discourse 
 concerning the battle between the church and the stage, with relation to the champions that 
 maintained the parties. The result upon the matter was this, — that Mr. Collier showed too much 
 malice and rancour for a churchman, and his adversaries too little wit for the character of poets ; — 
 that their faults transversed would show much better, dulness being familiar with those of 
 Mr. Collier's functions, as malice and ill-nature is more adapted to the profession of wit ; — ^that the 
 best way of answering Mr. Collier, was not to have replied at all ; for there was so much fire in hii 
 book, had not his adversaries thrown in fuel, it would have fed upon itself, and so gone out in a 
 
 blaze. As to his respondents, that Captain Va (Vanbrugh) wrote too like a gentleman to be 
 
 esteemed a. good casuist; that Mr. C 's (Congreve's) passion in the business had blinded his 
 
 reason, which had shone so fair in his other writings; (and) that Mr. Settle wanted the wit of 
 Captain Ya as much as he did Mr. Settle's gravity."— P. 29. 
 
 Yanbrugh said well of Collier, that he made " debauches in his piety, as other men did in their 
 drink." On the other hand, conceive the horror of Collier at seeing Vanbrugh saying in print, that 
 he was really not aware of the indecencies imputed to him, and that he could very well fancy a virtuous 
 woman laying his plays by the side of her Bible. It is difficult to believe that there was not something 
 of the Captain's impudence in this; and yet Bishop Earle, in some verses on the death of Beaumont, 
 compliments him and Fletcher on their total freedom from indecency! — The fact was, that 
 " indecency " in those times meant nothing but the plainest kind of speech ; and so common was the 
 habit of it, from the sovereign downwards, that it is one of the proofs of the beautifying effect of 
 poetry on the minds of Beaumont and Fletcher, that they abstained from lavishing this species of 
 
FAKQUHAR. ixv 
 
 intensity upon the putlic. Collier did not suspect that one profession might hare its privileged 
 " indecencies " as well as another, and that a clergyman of those times might be solemnly and furiously 
 vicious, — indecent for want of the decorums of charity, and " wicked" for want of charily itself. Yet 
 we have now lived to see, that if the stage at that time was one half licentious, in the other half it 
 was not only innocent of all evil intention, but had a sort of piety in the Very gaiety of its trust in 
 nature ; while Jeremy Collier, if he was one half of him pious and Tfell-intentibned, was in the other 
 half little better than a violent fool. 
 
 And the case will be similar in future times with regard to the present. They will think us 
 perhaps more honest in some tilings than we suppose we are ; but most certainly they will attribute 
 vices, or at least barbarous follies, to us in others, of which we have no conception. There is an 
 instinct in all ages, very natural and pardonable, of thinking the best of existing manners ; a con. 
 sciousness that times and circumstances and tlie natural progress of events have to do with them, 
 quite as much as ourselves ; and that it is not the most pragmatical denouncers, but the most 
 charitable philosophers, that are likeliest to be in the right as to the best way of improving them'. 
 A whole age has, at least, as much right to think good-naturedly of itself as a single bigot. It is a 
 phase and variety of social nature ; and to think the worst of it, even on that score, is not paying the 
 greatest possible compliment to the Providence'whose cause the bigot impudently takes upon him to 
 advocate with fire and fury, out of the abundance of his bile and vanity. Future agSs will be astonished 
 at the " profligacy " of some of our customs, ivhich a theatrical audience not only tolerates, but 
 respects. Yes ; and by the same token, many things are done this moment, and thought very little 
 
 of nay, reckoned creditable to thewit, and knowledge, and conventional respectability of the doers, — 
 
 which two hundred years hence will be thought as immoral and ridiculous as we now think the 
 immoralities and absurdities of the days of Charles the Second. And if these or some- of them do 
 not immediately present themselves to every intelligent reader's mind, it only shows how fa,r we are 
 gone in them, and how we are blinded in their gulf ;-^fortunate still if we do but know tliis, — that 
 times will improve after us, as well as those that have gone before us ; and that those will see their 
 own way through error best and cheerfuUest,- who think the best and kindest of whatsoever nature 
 has done. The two best sermons we ever heard (and no disparagement either to many a good one from 
 the pulpit), were a sentence of Dr. Whichcote's against the multiplication of things forbidden, and 
 the honest, heart-and-sonl laugh of Dorothy Jordan. 
 
 Upon the spirit in which these dramatists ought to be r^ad, Mr. Lamb has' written an essay, 
 exquisite, like all his essays, for the abundance of the thoughts, the unsuperfluousness of the words, 
 and the subtlety of their expression. We venture ta differ with one or two pbints, and shall state 
 why ; but it is all so mucli to the purpose of the present volume, as well as so beautiful in itself, that 
 we shall first transfer the whole of it to our pages, at the expense of their less relishing contents. 
 
 ON THE ARTIFICIAL COMEDY OF THE LAST CENTUEY. 
 
 The artificial Comedy, or Comedy of manners, is quite extinct on, our, stage. Congreve and Farquhar 
 show their heads once in seven years only, to be exploded and put down instantly., ^The times cannot bear 
 tliem. Is it for a few wild speeches, an occasional licence of dialogue ? I think not altogether. Tlie business 
 of their dramatic characters will not stand the moral test. We screw everything up to that. Idle gallantry in 
 a fiction, a dream, the passing pageant of an evening, startles us in the same way as the alarming indications ot 
 profligacy in a son or ward in real life should startle a parent or guardian. We have no such middle emotions 
 as dramatic interests left. We see a stage libertine playing his loose pranks of two hours' duration, and of no 
 after consequence, with the severe eyes which inspect real vices with their bearings upon two worlds. We are 
 spectators to a plot or intrigue (not reducible in life to the point of strict morality), and take it all for truth. 
 We substitute a real for a dramatic person, and judge him accordingly. We try him in our courts, from whir-Ii 
 there is no appeal to the dramatis persona, his peers. We have been spoiled with— not sentimenLal comedy 
 — but a tyrant far more pernicious to our pleasures which has succeeded to it, the exclusive and all-Jevoiiriii>! 
 drama of common life; where the moral point is everything; where, instead of tlie fictitious half-belicvcd 
 
Ixvi 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CEITICAL XOTICES. 
 
 personages of the stage (the phantoms of old comedy), we recognise onrselves, our brothers, aunts, kinsfolk, 
 allies, patrons, enemjes, — the same as in life, — with an interest in what is going on so hearty and substantial, 
 that we cannot afford our moral judgment, in its deepest and most vital results, to compromise or slumber for 
 a moment. What is th£re transacting, by no modiScation is made to affect us in any other manner than the 
 same events or characters would do in our relationships of life. We carry our fire-side concerns to the theatre 
 with us. We do not go thither, like our ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality, so much as to 
 confirm our experience of it ; to make assurance double, and take a'bond of fate. We must live our toilsome 
 lives twice over, as it was the mournful privilege of Ulysses to descend twice to the shades. All that neutral 
 ground of character, which stood between vice and virtue ; or which in fact was indifferent to neither, where 
 neither properly was called in question ; that happy breathing-place from the burthen of a perpetual moral 
 questioning — the sanctuary and quiet Alsatia of hunted casuistry — is broken up and disfranchised, as injurious 
 to the interests of society. The privileges of the place are taken away by law. We dare not dally with 
 images, or names, of wrong. We bark like foolish dogs at shadows. We dread infection from the scenic 
 representation of disorder, and fear a painted pustule. In our anxiety that our morality should not take cold, 
 we wrap it up in a great blanket surtout of precaution against the breeze and sunshine. 
 
 I confess for myself that (with no great delinquencies to answer for) I am glad for a season to take an 
 airing beyond the diocese of the strict conscience,-^not to live always in the precincts of the law-courts, — but 
 now and then, for a dream-while or so, to imagine a world with no meddling restrictions — to get into recesses, 
 whither the huntei' cannot follow me — 
 
 Secret shades 
 
 Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
 While yet there was no fear of Jove. 
 
 I come back to my cage and my restraint the fresher and more healthy for it. I wear my shackles more 
 contentedly for having respired the breath of an imaginaiy freedom. I do not know how it is with others, but 
 I feel the better always for the perusal of one of Congreve's — nay, why should I not add even of Wycherley'a 
 — comedies. I am the gayer at least for it ; and I could never connect those sports of a wdtty fancy in any 
 shape with any result to be drawn from them to imitation in real life. They are a world of themselves almost 
 as much as fairy-land. Take one of their characters, male or female (vrith few exceptions they are alike), and 
 place it in a modem play, and my virtuous indignation shall rise against the profligate wretch as warmly as the 
 CatoB of the pit could desire; because in a modern play I am to judge of the right and the wrong. The 
 standard o{ police is the measure of political jiistice. The atmosphere will blight it, it cannot live here. It 
 has got into a moral world, where it has no business, from which it must needs fall headlong; as dizzy, and 
 incapable of making a stand, as a Swedenborgian had spirit that has wandered unawares into the sphere of one 
 of bis Good Men, or Angels. But in its own world do we feel the creature is so very had ? — The FainaUs and 
 the Mirabels, the Dorimants and the Lady Touchwoods, in their own sphere, do not offend my moral sense ; 
 in fact they do not appeal to it at all. They seem engaged in their proper element. They break through no 
 laws, or conscientious restraints. They know of none. They have got out of Christendom into the land of — 
 what shall I call it ? — of cuckoldry — the Utopia of gallantry, where pleasure is duty, and the manners perfect 
 freedom. It is altogether a speculative scene of things, which has no reference whatever to the world that is. 
 No good person can be justly offended as a spectator, because no good person suffers on the stage. Judged 
 morally, every character in these plays — the few exceptions only are mistakes — is alike essentially vain and 
 worthless. The great art of Congreve is especially shown in this, that he has entirely excluded from his 
 scenes, — some little generosities in the part of AngeMca perhaps excepted, — not only anything like a faultless 
 character, but any pretensions to goodness or good feelings whatsoever. Whether he did this designedly, or 
 instinctively, the effect is as happy, as the design (if design) was bold. I used to wonder at the strange power 
 which his " Way of the World " in particular possesses of interesting you all along in the purauits of characters, 
 for whom you absolutely care nothing — for you neither hate nor love his personages — and I think it is owing 
 to this very indifference for any, that you endure the whole. He has spread a privation of moral light, I will 
 call it, rather than by the ugly name of palpable darkness, over his creations ; and his shadows flit before you 
 without distinction or preference. Had he introduced a good character, a single gush of moral feeling, a 
 revulsion of the judgment to actual life and actual duties, the impertinent Goshen would have only lighted to 
 the discovery of deformities, which now are none, because we think them none. 
 
 Translated into real life, the characters of his, and his friend Wyeherley's dramas, are profligates anil 
 •trumpets,— the business of their brief existence, the undivided pursuit of lawless gallantry. No other spring 
 
FARQUHAR. ixvh 
 
 of action, or possible motive of conduct, is recognised; principles whicli, univcrsiilly acted upon, must redme 
 this frSme of things to a chaos. But we do them wrong in so translating them. No such effects arc produced 
 in their world. When we are among them, we are amongst a chaotic people. "We are not to judge them by 
 our usages. No reverend institutions are insulted by their proceedings — for they have none among them. No 
 peace of families is violated — ^forno family ties exist among them. No purity of the marriage-bed is stained — 
 for none is supposed to have a being. No deep affections are disquieted, no holy wedlock bands are snapped 
 asunder— for affection's depth and wedded faith are not of the growth of that soil. There is neither right nor 
 ^v^ong, — gratitude or its opposite, — claim or duty, — paternity or sonship. Of what consequence is it to Virtue, 
 or how is she at all concerned about it, whether Sir Simon, or Dapperwit^ steal away Miss Ma/}'thaj or who 
 is the father of Lord FrotTCs or Sir Pa/ul Plianfs children ? 
 
 The whole is a passing pageant, where we should sit as unconcerned at the issues, for life or death, as at a 
 battle of the frogs and mice. But, like Don Quixote, we takp part against the puppets, and quite as 
 impertinently. We dare not contemplate an Atlantis, a scheme, out of which our coxcombical moral sense 
 is for a little transitory ease excluded. We have not the courage to imagine a state of things for which there 
 is neither reward nor punishment. We cling to the painful necessities of shame and blame. We would indict 
 our very dreams. 
 
 Amidst the mortifying circumstances attendant upon growing old, it is something to have seen the " School 
 for Scandal" in its glory. This comedy grew out of Congreve and Wycherley, but gathered some allays of the 
 sentimental comedy which followed theirs. It is impossible that it should be now actedj though it continues, 
 at long intervals, to be announced in the bills. Its hero, when Palmer played it at least, was Joseph Surface. 
 When I remember the gay boldness, the graceful solemn plausibility, the measured step, the insinuating voice 
 — to express it in a word — the downright acted villany of the part, so different from the pressure of conscious 
 actual wickedness, — the hypocritical assumption of hypocrisy, — which made Jack so deservedly a favourite in 
 that character, I must needs conclude the present generation of playgoers more virtuous than myself, or more 
 dense. I freely confess that he divided the palm with me with his better brother ; that, in fact, I liked him 
 qufte as well. Not but there are passages, — like that, for instance, where Joseph is made to refuse a pittance 
 to a poor relation, — ^incongruities which Sheridan was forced upon by the attempt to join the artificial with the 
 sentimental comedy, either of which must destroy the other — but over these obstructions Jack's manner floated 
 him so lightly, that a refusal from him no more shocked you, than the easy compliance of O/borles gave you in 
 reality any pleasure ; you got over the paltry question as quickly as you could, to get back into the regions of 
 pure comedy, where no cold moral reigns. The highly artificial manner of Palmer in this character counteracted 
 every disagreeable impression which you might have received from the contrast, supposing them real, between 
 the two brothers. You did not believe in Joseph with the same faith with which you believed in Charles. 
 The latter was a pleasant reality, the former a no less pleasant poetical foil to it. The comedy, I have said, 
 is incongruous ; a mixture of Congreve with sentimental incompatibilities : the gaiety upon the whole is buoyant ; 
 but it required the consummate art of Palmer to reconcile the discordant elements. 
 
 A player with Jack's talents, if we had one now, would not dare to do the part in the same manner. He 
 would instinctively avoid everything which might tend to unrealise, and so to make the character fascinating. 
 He must take his cue from his spectators, who would expect a bad man and a good man as rigidly opposed to 
 each other as the death-beds of those geniuses are contrasted in the prints, which I am sorry to say have 
 disappeared from the windows of my old friend Carrington Bowles, of St. Paul's Church-yard memory — (an 
 exhibition as venerable as the adjacent cathedral, and almost coeval) of the bad and good man at the hour of 
 death ; where the ghastly apprehensions of the former, — and truly the grim phantom with his reality of a 
 toasting-fork is not to be despised, — so finely contrast mth the meek complacent kissing of the rod, — taking it 
 in like honey and butter, — ^with which the latter submits to the scythe of the gentle bleeder. Time, who wields 
 his lancet with the apprehensive finger of a popular young ladies* surgeon. What flesh, like loving grass, 
 would not covet to meet half-way the stroke of such a delicate mower ? — John Palmer was twice an actor in 
 this exquisite part. He was playing to you all the while that he was playing upon Sir Peter and his lady. 
 You had the first intimation of a sentiment before it was on his lips. His altered voice was meant to you, 
 and you were to suppose that his fictitious co-flutterers on the stage perceived nothing at all of it. What was 
 it to you if that half reality, the husband, was overreached by the puppetry — or the thin thing (Lady Tea/zl^s 
 reputation) was persuaded it was dying of a plethory ? The fortunes of Othello and Desdemona were not 
 concerned in it. Poor Jack has passed from the stage in good time, that he did not live to this our age 
 of seriousness. The pleasant old Teazle^ King, too, is gone in good time. His manner wou' L scarce have 
 
Ixviii BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 passed current in our day. 'W'e must love Or hate — acquit or condemn — censure or pity — exert our 
 detestable coxcombry of moral judgment upon everything. Joseph Surface, to go down now, must bo 
 a downright repotting villain — no compromise — his first appearance must shock and give hoiTor — his 
 specious plausibilities, which the pleasurable faculties of our fathers welcomed with such hearty greetings, 
 knovring that no harm (dramatic harm even) could com'p, or was meant to come, of them, must inspire a 
 cold and killing aversion, Charles (the real canting person of the scene — ^for the hypocrisy of Joseph has 
 its ulterior legitimate ends, hut his brother's professions of a good heart centre in downright self-satisfaction) 
 must be loved and Joseph hated. To balance one disagreeable reality with another. Sir Peter !teazle must 
 be no longer tjie comic idea of a fretful old bachelor bridegroom, wtose teasings (while King acted it) were 
 evidently as much played off at you, as they were meant to concern anybody on the stage, — he must be a real 
 person, capable in law of sustaining an injury — a person towards whom duties are to he acknowledged — the 
 genuine cvim. con. antagonist of the villainous seducer Joseph, To realise him more, his suflferings under his 
 unfortunate match must have the downright pungency of life — must (or should) make you not mirthful hut 
 uncomfortable, just as the same predicament would move you in a neighbour or old friend. The delicious 
 scenes which give the play its name and zest, must affect you in the same serious manner as if you heard the 
 reputation of a dear female friend attacked in your real presence. Crahtree and Sir JBenJamin — those poor 
 snakes that live but in the sunshine of your mirth — must be ripened by this hot-bed process of realization, into 
 asps or amphisbsenas ; and Mrs. Candowr — 6h ! frightful ! — become a liooded serpent. Oh ! who that 
 remembers Parsons and Dotjd — the wasp and butterfly of " The School for Scandal"— in those two characters; 
 and charming natural Miss Pope, the perfect gentlewoman, as distinguished from the fine lady of comedy, in 
 this latter part — would forego the true scenic delight — the escape from life — the oblivion of consequences — 
 the holiday barring out of the pedant Reflection — those Saturnalia of two or three brief hours, well won from 
 the world — to sit instead at one of our modern plays — to, have his coward conscience (that forsooth must not 
 he left for a moment) stimulated with perpetual appeals — dulled rather, and blunted, as a faculty without 
 repose must be — and his moral vanity pampered with images of notionjil justice, notional heneficenfce, lives 
 saved without, the spectators' risk,- and fortunes given away that cost the author nothing? 
 
 No piece was, perhaps, ever so completely cast in all its parts as this manager's comedy. Miss Farren had 
 succeeded to Mrs. Abington in Lady teazle; and Smith, the original Oha^les, had retired when t first saw 
 it. The rest of the cWacters, with very slight exceptiona, remained. I remember it was then the fashion to 
 cry down John Kemble, who took the part of Charles after Smith ; but, I thought, very unjustly. Smith, I 
 fancy, was more airy, and took the eye with «. certain gaiety of petson. He brought with him ho sombre 
 recollections of tragedy. He had not to expiate the fault of having pleased beforehand in lofty declamation. 
 He had no sins of Hamlet or of Richard to atone for. His failure in these parts was a passport to success in 
 one of so opposite a tendency. But, as far as I could judge, the weighty sense of Kemble made up for more 
 personal incapacity than he had to answer for. His harshest tones in this part came steeped and dulcified in 
 good-humour. He made his defects a grace^ His exact declamatory manner, as he managed it, only served 
 to convey the points of his dialogue with more precision. It seemed to head the shafts to carry them deeper. 
 Not one of his sparkling sentences was lost. I remember minutely how he delivered each in succession, and 
 cannot by any eflfort imagine how any of them could be altered for the better. No man could deliver brilliant 
 dialogue — the dialogue of Congreve or of Wycherley — because none understood it — half so well as John 
 Kemble. His Valenti/ne, in " Love for Love," was, to my recollection, faultless. He flagged sometimes in 
 the intervals of tragic passion. He would slumber over the level parts of an heroic character. His Macbeth 
 has been known to nod. But he always seemed to me to be particulio-ly alive to pointed and witty dialogue. 
 The relaxing levities of tragedy liave not been touched by any since him — the playful court-bred spirit in 
 which he condescended to the players in " Hamlet ' — the sportive relief which he threw into the darker shades 
 of Richa/rd — disappeared with him. He had his sluggish moods, his torpors — but they were the halting-stonea 
 and resting-place of his tragedy — politic savings and fetclies of the breath— husbandry of the lungs, where 
 nature pointed him to be an economist- — rather, I think, than errors of the judgment. They were, at worst 
 less painful than the eternal tormenting una/ipeasable vigilance, — the " lidless dragon eyes," of present 
 fashionable tragedy. 
 
 Exquisite as tvcry word here is, (a style pickled and preserved out of the delicatest rarities of the 
 brain,) and well calculated as it is to " give pause " to another writer of any modesty, we confess we 
 cannot agree with the main point of it, any more than with some of the judgments about the actors. 
 
FAEQUHAE. Lxbc 
 
 The main object we heartily agree with ; namely, the vindication of the writers from the whole,9ale 
 charges made against them by some feeble people, of immorality and peruiciousness. Equally 
 profound and good-natured ia Mr. Lamb in whatever he says at all times on the like subjects, as far 
 as regards general spirit and tendency, however we may differ with him as to the conclusions ho 
 sometimes draws respecting a fact of time and place. And we confess we think him mistaken both 
 as to the entire fancifulness of the states of society described by Congreve and others, and to the 
 supposition that the sort of critical spirit he objects to is peculiar to the present day, or indeed 
 existing to the full extent of that peculiarity at any time. Mr. Lamb, though a wide and subtle 
 observer, was a sequestered liver. He was also one of an ultra-sensitive temperament, and so 
 anxious to believe the best of everything, on more scores even than such as were healthy, that 
 admitting as he did the utility and even joviality of some graver-looking perplexities in morals, 
 which he was unable to be blind to, yet whenever he could not find what he thought a healthy or 
 harmonious final reason for anything that was not so exactly within the limits of his experience, he 
 was inclined either to doubt it altogether, or, for want of personal sympathy with the gaiety and 
 robustness mixed up with it, and its possible convertibility into something better, to write as if he 
 did. Perhaps he thought (surely not out of any presumption, but because his wisdom was of th^ 
 best and most child-like sort itself,) that he could even play his readers a child's trick, and persuade 
 them that Congreve's fine ladies and gentlemen, and the rakes of Vanbrugh and Farquhar, were doinf 
 nothing but " making as if." Most assuredly he was mistaken ; and yet, with as equal certaintj, 
 most assuredly he need not have cared if he was. Nor would he, had the fact pressed itself upoa 
 him ; even though he was without the additional comfort of such moralists as see a constant workiig 
 and progression of society towards improvement. He could reconcile himself, some way or other, d 
 anything which Nature in her energies brought about, or chose to go through. He hated to obje t 
 to anything, except to objection ; and to that too, when however passionate, it had a generosity ai 1 
 a health in it. But his idiosyncracies, and the possibilities of knowledge consequent upon then, 
 were confined, though his heart was not ; and even what he knew, he would not always choose p 
 remember. Thus he speaks of a pedantic morality which finds nothing but evil in these plays, ai i 
 which he represents as having come up in our own didactic times, and no longer enabling such pla; s 
 to be acted. But every age has had a measure of the same kind of criticism, with regard to the 013 
 that preceded it. Shakspeare's Jew, Shylock, properly displaced (according to Mr. Lamb himsel) 
 the more malignant Jew of Marlowe. He does not complain that the age had found out the morl 
 objection to the latter, or that a morality, no longer pedantic, made progression through the les 
 inhuman nature of Shylock. Thus Dryden, who saw nothing to blame in Etherege, denounced tli 
 indecencies of Beaumont and Fletcher ; while Steele, who recommended Congreve, thought Ethereg 
 not to be endured. Neither is it a fact that the comedies of the last age are no longer played 
 enjoyed. Whenever an actor comes up who is equal to them, — such as Mr. Farren, for instance.— 
 they are always played and enjoyed ; nor do the present audiences of Covent Garden object to then 
 in the least, in the spirit of a pedantic morality. A critic here and there may do so ; but it is neithei 
 the feeling of the press in general, nor of the play-going public ; and if Congreve would not be likec 
 now, neither was he in his own times, for what would now get him coudemfled. "Love for Love" is 
 always liked when players can be got for it : so was the " Old Bachelor," as far as Munden was 
 concerned, even though astrology is gone out ; but the villainous and tragical vices of some of the 
 other of Congreve's plays hurt them in his own day, and were the cause in fact why he quitted the 
 stage. In a word, there is more sympathy with real gaiety and spirits at all times, and greater 
 instinctive allowance for the free drawing of nature and its healthy tendencies, than Mr. Lamb in 
 this instance supposed ; and unless there is a still more delicate inner doctrine in his essay than we 
 seem warranted in supposing from some of the peremptory and final terms in it, we must believe it to 
 be as unfounded in some conclusions, as it is admirable in every other respect, and useful for the 
 enlargement of the understanding. Perhaps, after all, he intended nothing very different from what 
 we do ourselves, though he took a different road for suggesting it. Certainly he intended nothing 
 less innocent, — nor more so. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL ASD CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 We cannot help thinHng that Mr. Hazlitfs almost equally admirable essay on these writers 
 (almost in point of style, and superior in hearty relish), leaves the far truer impression respecting 
 them, as well as contains the best and most detailed criticism on their individual plays. We did not 
 read either of these essays over again, till we had concluded our own remarks (for what we have here 
 eaid of both is an insertion) ; but as we thought it would be an injustice to the reader to withhold 
 from him what he ha,<i just seen, so we hold that it would be a still greater not to give him the benefit 
 of the masterly criticism of Mr. Hazlitt. After we had again become acquainted with them, we 
 found reason, generally speaking, to think nothing of our own, except inasmuch as we observed a 
 prevailing similarity of opinion. Nor may the reader be sorry to hear a third lover of the drama 
 speak on a subject so agreeable. What we hold ourselves to have contributed to this volume is a 
 more pains-taking set of memoirs than, we believe, has yet appeared. Mr. Hazlitt's essay will 
 complete, amplify, and abundantly enrich the criticism ; and Mr. Lamb's will carry to its height a 
 speculation more exquisitely artificial than its subject, and advantageous, some way or other, to all 
 parties. But Hazlitt, it is to be observed, has none of the misgivings of Lamb, He does not even 
 think it necessary to notice them. He takes the whole tribe, as nature and society (short of the 
 pxaggerations of art) threw them forward during the progress of civilization, neither doubting their 
 reality, nor startled at it, nor forced to reconcile himself to the robustness of its levity. At all 
 ?vents, the reader in these additions to our prefatory matter will hear the opinions of two out of 
 vhe three great critics whom we not long ago had among us. (Ah, Coleridge ! and art thou gone 
 iway into an infinitude hardly wider than thy thoughts ! Ah, dear Hazlitt and Lamb, old tea- 
 irinking friends and teachers ! must he that writes this — ^learn no more from you, in voice as well 
 is ill mute books ? Is it true, as sometimes he can hardly think it is — that neither of you is again 
 loming down the Street to his door, nor he to yours t and that he even can write a little better 
 loetry than he did, and you not be alive to turn these tears in his eyes to pride instead of sorrow ?) 
 
 ON WYCHERLEY, CONGREVE, VANBRUGH, AND FARQUHAR. 
 
 Comedy is a *' graceful ornament to the civil order ; the Corinthian capital of polished society." Like the 
 nirrors which have been added to the sides of one of our theatres, it reflects the images of grace, of gaiety, 
 md pleasure double, and completes the perspective of human life. To read a good comedy is to keep the best 
 :ompany in the world, where the best things are said, and the most amusing happen. Tlie wittiest remarks 
 ire always ready on the tongue, and the luckiest occasions are always at hand to give birth to the happiest 
 jonceptions. Sense makes strange havoc of nonsense. Refinement acts as a foil to affectation, and aifectation 
 M ignorance. Sentence after sentence tells. We don't know which to admire most, the observation, or the 
 answer to it. We would give our fingers to be able to talk so ourselves, or to hear others talk so. In turning 
 over the pages of the best comedies, we are almost transported to another world, and escape fi'om this dull age 
 to one that was all life, a^ whim, and mirth, and humour. The curtain rises, and a gayer scene presents 
 itself, as on the canvas of Watteau. We are admitted behind the scenes like spectators at court, on a levee 
 or birth-day; but it is the court, the gala-day of wit and pleasure, of gallantry and Charles II. ! What an 
 air breathes from the name ! what a rustling of silks and waving of plumes 1 what a sparkling of diamond 
 ear-rings and shoe-buckles ! What bright eyes, (ah, those were Waller's Sacharissa's as she passed !) what 
 killing looks and graceful emotions ! How the faces of the whole ring are dressed in smiles ! how the repartee 
 goes round ! how wit and folly, elegance and awkward imitation of it, set one another off ! Happy, thoughtless 
 age, when kings and nobles led purely ornamental lives; when the utmost stretch of a morning's study went 
 no farther than the choice of a sword-knot, or the adjustment of a side-curl ; when the soul spoke out in all 
 the pleasing eloquence of dress ; and beaux and belles, enamoured of themselves in one another's follies, 
 fluttered like gilded butterflies, iu giddy mazes, through the walks of St. James's Park ! 
 
 The four principal writers of this style of comedy (which I think the best) are undoubtedly Wychcrley, 
 Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar, The dawu was in Etherege, as its latest close was in Sheridan. — It is 
 
■WYCHEELEY, OONGEEVB, TANBRITGH, AND FAKQITHAR. Ixx! 
 
 hard to say which of these four is best, or in what each of them excels, they had so many and such great 
 excellences. 
 
 Congreve is the most distinct from the others, and the most easily defined, hoth from what he possessed, 
 and from what he wanted. He had by farjhe most wit^ and elegance, with less of othei things, of humour, 
 character, incident, &c. His style is inimitable, nay perfect. It is the highest model of comic dialogue. 
 Every sentence is replete with sense and satire, conveyed in the most polished and pointed terms. Every 
 page presents a shower of brilliant conceits, is a tissue of epigrams in prose, is a new triumph of wit, a new 
 conquest over dulness. The fire of artful raillery is nowhere else so well kept up. This style, which ho 
 was almost the first to introduce, and which he carried to the utmost pitch of classical refinement, reminds 
 one exactly ol Oollins's description of wit as opposed to humour, 
 
 " Whose jewels in his crisped liair 
 ' Are placed each other's light to share." 
 
 Sheridan will not oear a comparison with him in the regular antithetical construction of his sentences, and in 
 the mechanical artifices of his style, though so much later, and though style in general has been so much 
 studied, and in the mechanical part so much improved since then. It hears every mark of being what he 
 himself in the dedication of one of his plays tells us that it was, a spirited copy taken off and carefully 
 revised from the most select society of his time, exhibiting all the sprightliness, ease, and animation of familiar 
 conversation, with the correctness and delicacy of the most finished composition. His works are a singular 
 treat to those who have cultivated a taste for the niceties of English style : there is a peculiar flavour in the 
 very words, which is to be found in hardly any other writer. To the mere reader his writings would be an 
 irreparable loss : to the stage they are already become a dead letter, with the exception of one of them, — 
 " Love for Love." This play is as full of character, incident, and stage eflfect, as almost any of those of his 
 contemporaries, and fuller of wit than any of his own, except perhaps " The Way of the World." It still 
 acts, and is still acted well. The effect of it is prodigious on the well-informed spectator. In particular, 
 Munden's FaredgM, if it is not just the thing, is a wonderfully rich and powerful piece of comic acting. His 
 look is planet-struck ; his dress and appearance like one of the signs of the zodiac taken down. Nothing can 
 be more bewildered ; and it only wants a, little more helplessness, a little more of the doting querulous 
 garrulity of age, to be all that one conceives of the superannuated star-gazing original. The gay, unconcerned 
 opening of this play, and the romantic generosity of the conclusion, where Valentijiie, when about to resign 
 his mistress, declares — " I never valued fortune, but as it was subservient to my pleasure ; and my only 
 pleasure was to please this lady," — are alike admirable. The peremptory bluntness and exaggerated description 
 of Bir Sampson Jjegend are in a vein truly oriental, with a Shakspearian cast of language, and form a striking 
 contrast to the quaint credulity and senseless superstitions of Foresiglit. The remonstrance of his son to him, 
 ** to divest him, along with his inheritance, of his reason, thoughts, passions, inclinations, affections, appetites 
 senses, and the huge train of attendants which he brought into the world with him," with his valet's accom- 
 panying comments, is one of the most eloquent and spirited specimens of wit, pathos, and morality, that is 
 to be found. The short scene with TrapUmd, the money-broker, is of the first water. What a picture is 
 here drawn of Tattle t "More misfortunes, sir!" says Jeremy. Valentine: " What, another dun ? " 
 Jeremy : " No, sir : but Mr. Tattle is come to wait upon you." What an introduction to give of an honest 
 gentleman in the shape of a misfortune ! The scenes between him, Miss Prue, and Ben, are of a highly- 
 coloured description. Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight are " sisters every way ; " and the bodkin which 
 Mrs. Foresight brings as a proof of her sister's levity of conduct, and which is so convincingly turned against 
 her as a demonstration of her own — " Nay, if you come to that, where did you find that bodkin .' " — is one of 
 the trophies of the moral justice of the comic drama. "The Old Bachelor" and "Double Dealer" arc 
 inferior to " Love for Love," but one is never tired of reading them. The fault of the last is, that LacLy 
 Touchwood approaches, in the turbulent impetuosity of her character and measured tone of her declamation, 
 too near to the tragedy-queen ; and that MashweU's plots puzzle the brain by their intricacy, as they stagger 
 our belief by their gratuitous villany. Sir PomI and Lady Pliamt, and my Lord and Lady Froth, are also 
 scarcely credible in the extravagant insipidity and romantic vein of their follies, in which they are noiably 
 seconded by the lively Mr. Brisk and " dying Ned Careless.'' 
 ** "The Way of the World " was the author's last and most carefully finished performance. It is an essence 
 
 Lalmqsttoo fine; and the sense of pleasure evaporates in an aspiration after something that seems too exquisite 
 fiver to have been realised. After inhaling the spirit of Congrove's wit, and tasting « love's thrice reputed 
 
'^^cii BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 nectar" in his works, the head grows giddy in turning from the highest point of rapture to the ordinafy 
 business of life ; and we can with difficulty recall the truant Fancy to those objects which we are fain to take 
 up with here,/oj* better^ for worse. What can be more enchanting than Millamant and her morning thoughts, 
 her doux sommeils ? What more provoking than her reproach to her lover, who proposes to rise early, ** Ah ! 
 idle creature ! '* The meeting of these two lovers after the abrupt di«imissal of Sir Wilful is the height of 
 careless arid voluptuous elegance, as if they moved in air, and drank a finer spirit of humauity, 
 
 ** Millamant. Like Phcebus sung the no less amorous bay. 
 MiraheU. Like Daphne she, as lowly and as coy." " 
 
 Milla/mant is the perfect model of the accomplished fine lady, 
 
 "Conje, then, the colours and the ground prepare. 
 Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air ; 
 Choose a firm cloud, before it falls, and in it 
 Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of a minute,.*' 
 
 She i& the ideal heroine «f the comedy of high life, who arrives at the height of indifference to everything 
 from the height of satisfaction ; to whom picture is as familiar as the air she draws ; elegance worn as a 
 part of her dress ; wit the habitual language which she hears and speaks ; love, a matter of course ; and who 
 has nothing to hope or to fear, her own caprice being the only law to herself, and rule to those about her. 
 Her words seem composed of amorous sighs — ^her looks are glanced at prostrate admirers or envious rivals, 
 
 ** If there 's delight in love, 'tis when I see 
 That heart that others bleed for, bleed for me." 
 
 She refines on her pleasures to satiety ; and is almost stifled in the incense that is olfered to her person, her 
 wit, her beauty, and her fortune. Secure of triumph, her slaves tremble at her frown ; her charms are so 
 irresistible, that her conquests give her neither surprise nor concern. "Beauty, the lover*s gift?" she 
 exclaims, in answer to MiraheU — " Dear me, what is a lover that it can give ? Why one makes lovers as 
 fast as one pleases, and they live as long as one pleases, and they die as soon as one pleases ; and then if one 
 pleases, one makes more." We are not sorry to see her tamed down at last, from her pride of love and 
 beauty, into a wife. She is good-natured and generous, with all her temptations to the contrary ; and her 
 behaviour to MiraheU reconciles us to her treatment of Witwoud and Petula/atj and of her country admirer, 
 Sir Wilful. 
 
 Congreve has described all this in his character oi Millamamt, but he has done no more ; and if he had, 
 he would have done wrong. He has given us the finest idea of an artificial character of this kind ; but it is 
 still the reflection of an artificial character. The springs of nature, passion, or imagination are but feebly 
 touched. The impressions appealed to, and with masterly address, are habitual, external, and conventional 
 advantages : the ideas of birth, of fortune, of connexions, of dress, accomplishment, fashion, the opinion of the 
 world, of crowds of admirers, continually come into play, flatter our vanity, bribe our interest, soothe our 
 indolence, fall in with our prejudices ; — it is these that support the goddess of our idolatry, with which she is 
 everything, and without which she would be nothing. The mere fine lUdy of comedy, compared with the 
 heroine of romance or poetry, when stripped of her adventitious ornaments and advantages, is too much like 
 the doll stripped of its finery. In thinking of Millamant^ we think almost as much of her dress aa of her 
 pei-Bon : it is not so with respect to Rosalind or Perdita. Tlie poet has painted them differently; in colours 
 which " nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on," with health, with innocence, with gaiety, " wild wit, 
 invention ever new ; '' with pure red and white, like the wilding's blossoms ; with warbled -wood-notes, like the 
 feathered choir's ; with thoughts fluttering on the wings of imagination, and hearts panting and breathless with 
 eager delight. The interest we feel is in themselves ; the admiration they excite is for themselves. They do 
 not depend upon the drapery of circumstances. Tt is nature that " blazons herself" in them. Imogen is the 
 same in a lonely cave as in a court ; nay more, for she there seems something heavenly — a spirit or a vision ; 
 and, as it were, shames her destiny, brighter for the foil of circumstances. Millamant is nothing but a fine 
 lady ; and all her airs and affectation would be blown away with the first breath of misfortune. Enviable in 
 drawing-rooms, adorable at her toilette, fashion, like a witch, has thrown its spell around her; but if that spell 
 were broken, her power of fascination would be gone. For that reason I think the dira-acter better adapted 
 for the stage: it is more artificial, more theatrical, more meretricious. I would rather have seen Mrs. 
 
^/ 
 
 WTCHEELET, CONGKETE, TANBKUGH, AND PAEQUHAE. Ixxiii 
 
 Abington's MiXlamant, than any Rosalind tbat ever appeared on tlie stage. Some how, this aort of acquired 
 elegance is more a thing of costume, of air and manner ; and in comedy, or on the comic stage, the light and 
 familiar, the trifling, superficial, and agreeable, bears, perhaps, rightful sway over that which touches the 
 affections, or exhausts the fancy. — There is a callousness in the worst characters in the " Way of the World," 
 in Famall, and his wife and Mrs, Marwood, not very pleasant ; and a grossness in the absurd ones, such as 
 Lady Wishfort and Sir Wilful, -which is not a little amusing. Witwov,d wishes to disclaim, as far as ho 
 can, his relationship to this laat character, and says, " he is but his half-brother ; " to which Mirabdl malces 
 answer — " Then, perhaps, he's but half a fool." Peg is an admirable caricature of rustic awkwardness and 
 simplicity, which is carried to excess without any offence, from a sense of contrast to the refinement of the 
 1 chief characters in the play. The description of Lady Wishfort's face is a perfect piece of painting. The 
 force of style in this author at times amounts to poetry, Waitwell, who personates Sir Rowland, and Foible, 
 his accomplice in the matrimonial scheme upon her mistress, hang as a dead weight upon the plot. They are 
 mere tools in the hands of Mirabell, and want life and interest. Congreve's characters can all of them speak 
 well, they are mere machines when they come to act. Our author's superiority deserted him almost entirely 
 with his wit. His serious and tragic poetry is frigid and jejune to an unaccountable degree. His forte was 
 the description of actual manners, whether elegant or absurd ; and when he could not deride the one or 
 embellish the other, his attempts at romantic passion or imaginary enthusiasm are forced, abortive, and ridiculous, 
 or common-place. The description of the ruins of a temple in the beginning of the " Mourning Bride," was 
 a great stretch of his poetic genius. It has, however, been over-rated, particularly by Dr. Johnson, who 
 could have done nearly as well himself for a single passage in the same style of moralising and sentimental 
 description. To justify this general censure, and to show how the lightest and most graceful wit degenerates 
 into the heaviest and most bombastic poetry, I will give one description out of his tragedy, which will be 
 enough. It is the speech which Oomedez addresses to Alrmria : 
 
 " Be every day of your long life like this. 
 The sun, bright, conquest, and your brighter eyes 
 Have all conspired to blaze promiscuous light, 
 And bless this day with most unequal lustre. 
 Your royal father, my victorious lord, 
 Leaden with spoils, and ever-living laurel, 
 Is entering now, in martial pomp, the palace. 
 Five hundred mules precede his solemn march. 
 Which groan beneath the weight of Moorish wealth 
 Chariots of war, adom'd with glittering gems, 
 Succeed ; and next, a hundred neighing ste-sds. 
 White as the fleecy lain on Alpine 'hills j 
 That bound, and foam, and champ the golden bit, 
 As they disdain'd the victory they grace. 
 Prisoners of war in shining fetters follow : 
 And captains of the noblest blood of Afric 
 Sweat by his chariot-wheels, and lick and grind, 
 With gnashing teeth, the dust his triumphs raise. 
 The swarming populace spread every wall, 
 And cling, as if with claws they did enforce 
 Their hold, through clifted stones stretching and staring 
 As if they were all eyes, and every limb 
 Would feed its faculty of admiration, 
 While you alone retire, and shun this sight ; 
 This sight, which is indeed not seen (though twice 
 The multitude should gaze) in absence of your eyes." 
 
 This passage seems, in part, an imitation of Bolingbroke's entry into London. The style is as different from 
 Shakspeare, as it is from that of WitmoiKl and Petidamt. It is plain that the' imagination of the author could 
 not raise itself above the burlesque. His Mask of Semele, Judgment of Paris, and other occasional poems, arc 
 even worse. I would not advise any one to read them, or if I did, they would not. 
 
Ij^av BIOGRAP HICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 Wycherley was before Congrevc ; and his " Country "Wife " -will last longer than anything of Congreye's, 
 as a popular acting play. It is only a pity that it is not entirely his own ; but it is enough so to do 
 him never-ceasing honour, for the best things are his own. His humour is, in general, broader, his 
 characters more natural, and his incidents more striking, than Congreve's. It may be said of Congreve 
 that the workmanship overlays the materials : in Wycherley, the casting of the parts and the fable are alone 
 sufficient to ensure success. We forget Congreve's characters, and only lemember what they say : we 
 remember Wycherley's characters, and the incidents they meet with, just as if they were real, and forget what 
 they say, comparatively spealdng. Miss Peggy (or Mrs. Margery Pinchwife) is a character that will last for 
 ever, I should hope ; and even when the original is no more, if that should ever be, while self-wil), curiosity, 
 art, and ignorance are to be found in the same .person, it will he just as good and as intelligible as ever in the 
 description, because it is built on first principles, and brought out in the fullest and broadest manner. Ag7i£S, 
 in Moliere*'8 play, has a great deal of the same unconscious impulse and heedless naivete, but hers is sentimen- 
 talised and varnished over (in the French fashion) with long-winded apologies and analytical distinctions. It 
 wants the same simple force and home truth. It is not so direct and downright. Miss Peggy is not even a 
 novice in casuistry : she blurts out her meaning before she knows what she is saying, and she speaks her mind 
 by her actions oftener than by her words. The outline of the plot is the same ; but the point-blank hits and 
 master-strokes, the sudden thoughts and delightful expedients, such as her changing the letters, the meeting 
 her husband plump in the Park as she is running away from him as fast as her heels can carry her, her being 
 turned out of doors by her jealous booby of a husband, and sent by him to her lover disguised as Alicia, her 
 sister-in-law — occur first in the modern play. There are scarcely any incidents or situations on the stage, 
 which tell like these for pantomimic effect, which give such tingling to the blood, or so completely take 
 away the breath with expectation and surprise. MissPrue, in " Love for Love,'* is a lively reflection of Miss 
 Peggy f but without the bottom and weight of metal. Hoyden is a match for her in constitution and complete 
 effect, as Corirmai in the " Confederacy," is in mischief, but without the wit. Mrs. Jordan used to play all 
 these characters ; and as she played them, it was hard to know which was best. Pinchwife or Moody, (as he 
 is at present called) is, like others of Wycherley's moral characters, too rustic, abrupt, and cynical. He is a 
 more disagreeable, but less tedious character than the husband of AgneSj and both seem, by all accounts, to 
 have been rightly served. The character of SparJeish is quite new, and admirably hit off. He is an exquisite 
 and suffocating coxcomb ; a pretender to wit and letters, without comnaon understanding, or the use of his 
 senses. The class of character is thoroughly exposed and understood ; but he persists in his absurd conduct 
 so far, that it becomes extravagant and disgusting, if not incredible, from mere weakness and foppery. Yet 
 there is something in him that we are inclined to tolerate at first, as his professing that " with him a wit is the 
 first title to respect ; '" and we regard his unwillingness to he pushed out of the room, and coming back, in 
 spite of their teeth, to keep the company of wits and raillera, as a favourable omen. But he utterly disgraces 
 his pretensions before he has done. With all his faults and absurdities, he is, however, a much less offensive 
 character than Tattle. — ffomer is a stretch of probability in the first concoction of that ambiguous character 
 (for he does not appear at present on the stage as Wycherley made him) ; but notwithstanding the indecency 
 and indirectness of the means he employs to carry his plans into effect, he deserves every sort of consideration 
 and forgiveness, both for the display of his own ingenuity, and the deep insight he discovers into human 
 nature — such as it was in the time of Wycherley. The author has commented on this character, and the 
 double meaning of the name in his " Plain Dealer," borrowing the remarks, and almost the very words of 
 Woliere, who has brought forward and defended his own work against the objections of the precise part of his 
 audience, in bis Critique de VEcole des Femmes. There is no great harm in these occasional plagiarisms, 
 except that they make one uncomfortable at other times, and distrustful of the originality of the whole. — 
 * The Plain Dealer " is Wycherley's next best work ; and is a most severe and poignant moral satire. 
 There is u heaviness about it, indeed, an extravagance, an overdoing both in the style, the plot, and 
 characters ; but the truth of feeling and the force of interest prevail over every objection. The character of 
 Mcmly, the Plain Dealer, is violent, repulsive, and uncouth, which is a fault, though one that seems to 
 have been intended for the sake of contrast ; for the portrait of consummate, artful hypocrisy in Olivia, is, 
 perhaps, rendered more striking by it. The indignation excited against this odious and pernicious quality by 
 the masterly exposure to which it is here subjected, is "a discipline of hymanity." No one can read this 
 play attentively without being the better for it as long as he lives. It penetrates to the core ; it shows the 
 immorality and hateful effects of duplicity, by showing it fixing its harpy fangs in the heart of an honest and 
 worthy man. It is worth ten volumes of sermons. The scenes between Ma/nly after his return, Olivia, 
 Plmmhle, and Novel, are instructive examples of unblushing impudence, of shallow pretensions to principle* 
 
WYCHERLEY, CONGEEYJE, VANBRTJGH, AN D PAEQUHAE. Ixxy 
 
 and of the most mortifying reflections on his own situation, and hitter sense of female injustice and 
 ingratitude, on the part of Manly. The devil of hypocrisy and hardened assurance seems -worked up to tlie 
 highest pitch of conceivable effrontery in Olivia, when, after confiding to her cousin the stoiy of her infamy, 
 she, in a moment, turns round upon her for some sadden pui-pose, and affecting not to know the meaning of 
 the other*s allusions to what she has just told her, reproaches her with forging insinuations to the prejudice of 
 her character, and in violation of their friendship. " Go ! you 're a censorious ill woman." This is more 
 trying to the patience than anything in the Tartuffe. The name of this heroine, and her overtures to Fidelia^ 
 as the page, seem to have been suggested by " Twelfth Night." It is curious to see how the same subject is 
 treated by two such different authors as Shakspeare and Wycherley. The widow BlacTcacre and her son are 
 ■ like her lawsuit — everlasting. A more lively, palpable, bustling, ridiculous picture cannot be drawn. Jerry 
 is a hopeful lad, though undutiful, and gets out of had hands into worse. Goldsmith evidently had an 
 eye to these two precious characters, in " She Stoops to Conquer." Towy I/wmpkhn and his mother are of 
 the same family, and the incident of the theft of the casket of jewels, and the bag of parchments, is nearly 
 the same in both authors. Wycherley's other plays are not so good. " The Gentleman Dancing Master " 
 is a long, foolish farce, in the exaggerated manner of Moliere, but without his spirit or whimsical invention. 
 " Love in a Wood," though not what one would wish it to be for the author's sake or our own, is much 
 better, and abounds in several rich and highly-coloured scenes, particularly those in which Miss Lucy, her 
 mother Crossbite, Dapperwit, and Aldermam Ch'ipe, are concerned. Some of the subordinate characters and 
 intrigues in this comedy are grievously spun out. Wycherley, when he got hold of a good thing, or sometimes 
 even of a bad one, was determined to make the most of it ; and might have said with Dogberry, truly enough, 
 " Had I the tediousness of a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all upon your worships." In reading 
 this author's best works, those which one reads most frequently over, and knows almost by heart, one cannot 
 help thinking of the treatment he received from Pope about Ua verses. It was hardly excusable in a boy of 
 sixteen to an old man of seventy. 
 
 Tanbrugh comes next, and holds his own fully with the best. He is no writer at all, aa to mere author- 
 ship ; but he makes up for it by a prodigious fund of comic invention and ludicrous description, bordering 
 somewhat on caricature. Though he did not borrow from him, he was much more like Molite in genius than 
 Wycherley was, who professedly imitated him. He has none of Oongreve's graceful refinement, and as little 
 of Wycherley's serious manner and studied insight into the springs of character ; but his exhibition of it in 
 dramatic contrast and unlooked-for situations, where the different parties play upon one another's failings, and 
 into one another's hands, keeping up the jest like a game at battledore and shuttlecock, and urging it to the 
 utmost verge of breathless extravagance, in the mere eagerness of the fray, is beyond that of any other of our 
 writers. His fable is not so profoundly laid, nor his characters so well digested as Wycherley's (who, in these 
 respects, bore some resemblance to Fielding). Vanbrugh does not lay the same deliberate train from the 
 outset to the conclusion, so that the whole may hang together, and tend inevitably from the combination of 
 different agents and circumstances to the same decisive point : hut he works out scene after scene, on the spur 
 of the occasion, and from the immediate hold they take of his imaginatipn at the moment, without any previous 
 bias or ultimate purpose, much more powerfully, with more verve, and in a richer vein of original invention. 
 His fancy warms and burnishes out as if he were engaged in the real scene of action, and felt all his faculties 
 suddenly called forth to meet the emergency. He has more nature than art : what he does best, he does 
 because he cannot help it. He has a masterly eye to the advantages which certain accidental situations of 
 character present to him on the spot, and he executes the most difficult and rapid theatrical movements at a 
 moment's wanting. Of this kind are the inimitable scenes in the " Provoked Wife," between Razor and 
 Mademmaelle, where they repeat and act over again the rencontre in the Mulberry-walk between Constant 
 and his mistress, thaa which nothing was ever more happily conceived, or done to more absolute perfection ; 
 that again in the " Relapse,'' where Loveless pushes Serimihia into the closet ; the sudden meeting in the 
 "Confederacy" between Dtcifc and Mrs.Amletj the altercation about the letter between i^ijJ^am^ and 
 Oorirma, in the same play ; and that again where Brass, at the house of Gripe the money-scrivener, threatens 
 to discover his friend and accomplice, and by talking louder and louder to him, as he tries to evade his 
 demands, extorts a grudging submission from liim. This last scene is as follows :— 
 
 "Dick. X wish my old hobbling mother han't been bhibbering something here she should not do. 
 
 Brass. Fear nothing, all's safe on that side yet. But how speaks young mistress's epistle ? soft and tender? 
 
 Dick. As pen can write. 
 
 Brass. So you think all goes well there 
 
ixxvi BIOGKAPHICAIi AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 DicJc. As my heart can wish. 
 Brass. You are sure onH? 
 DicJe. Sure on 't. 
 
 Brass, Why then, ceremony aside — -[Putting onhishaf] — you and I must hare a little talk, Mr. Amlet. 
 D^ich Ah, Brasa, what art thou going to do ? ^o't ruin me ? 
 
 Brass. Look you, Dick, few words ; you are in » smooth way of making your fortune ; I hope all will 
 roll on. But how do you intend matters shall pass Hwixt you and me in this husiness ? 
 
 Dick. Death and furies ! What a time dost take to talk onH ? 
 
 Brass, Good words, or 1 betray you ; they have already heard of one Mr. Amlet in the house. 
 
 Bicle. Here *s a son of a whore. [Aside. 
 
 Brass. In short-, look smooth, and be a good prince. I am your valet, *tis true : your footman, sometimes, 
 which I'm enraged at ; hut you have always had the ascendant, I confess ; when we were schoolfellows, you 
 made me carry your books, make your exercise, own your rogueries, and sometimes take a whipping for you. 
 When we were fellow-'prentices, though I was your senior, you made me open the shop, clean my master's 
 shoes, cut last at dinner, and eat all the crust. In our sins too, I must own you still kept me under ; you 
 soared up to adultery with the mistress, while I was at humble fornication with the maid. Nay, in our 
 punishments you still made good your post ; for when once upon a time I was sentenced but to he whipped, I 
 cannot deny but you were condemned to he hanged. So that in all things, I must confers, your inclinations 
 have heen greater and nobler than mine; however, I cannot consent that you should at once fix fortune for 
 life, and I dwell in my humilities for the rest of my days. 
 
 Dick. Hark thee. Brass, if I do not most nohly by thee, I 'm a dog. 
 
 Brass. And when ? 
 
 Dick. As soon as ever I am married. 
 
 Brass. Ay, the plague take thee. 
 
 Dick. Then you mistrust me ? 
 
 Brass. I do, by my faith. Look you, air, some folks we mistrust, because we don't know them : othei^ we 
 mistrust, because we do know them : and for one of these reasons I desire there may be a bargain beforehand: 
 Jf not — (raisimg his voice) — ^look ye, Dick Amlet — 
 
 Dick. Soft, my dear friend and companion. The dog will ruin me — [J.aic2e]. Say, what ia'twill content 
 thee? 
 
 Brass. ho ! 
 
 Dick. But how canst thou be such a barbarian P 
 
 Brass. I learnt it at Algiers. 
 
 Dick. Come, make thy Turkish demand then. 
 
 Brass. You know you gave me a bank-bill this morning to receive for you, 
 
 Dick. I did so, of fifty pounds ; His thine. So, now thou art satisfied; all is fixed. 
 
 Brass. It is not indeed. There 's a diamond necklace you robbed your mother of e'en now. 
 
 Dick. Ah, you Jew I 
 
 Brass. No words. 
 
 Dick. My dear Brass ! 
 
 Brass. I insist. 
 
 Dick. My old friend 
 
 Brass. Dick Amlet — {raisimg Ms voice) — I insist. 
 
 Dick. Ah, the cormorant — [Aside}. Well, His thine : thou 'It never thrive with it. 
 
 Brass. When I find it begins to do me mischief, I'll give it you again. But I must have awedding tQit« 
 
 Dick. Well. 
 
 Brass. A stock of linen. 
 
 Dick. Enough. 
 
 Brass. Not yet — a silver-hilted sword. 
 
 Dick. Well, thou shalt have that too. Now thou hast e-^irthing. 
 
 Brass. Heaven forgive me, I forgot a ring of remembrance. I would not forget all these favours fcr the 
 world : a sparkling diamond will be always playing in my eye,,and put me in mind of them. 
 
 Dick. This unconscionable rogue! — [Aside"]. Well, I'll bespeak one for thee. 
 
 Brass. Brilliant. 
 
 Dick. It shall. But if the thing don't succeed after all — 
 
WYCHBELEY, CONGEEVB, TANBRUGH, AND FAEQUHAE. Ixxvii 
 
 Brass, I am a man of honour and restore : and bo, the treaty being finished, I strike my flag of defiance, 
 and fall into my respects again." [Takes off his hat. 
 
 The " Confederacy " is a comedy of infinite contrivance and intrigue, with a matchless spirit of impudence. 
 It is a fine careless expos4 of heartless want of principle ; for there is uo anger or severity against vice expressed 
 in it, as in Wycherley. The author's morality in all cases (except his " Provoked Wife," -which was under- 
 taken as a penance for past peccadilloes) sits very loose upon him. It is a little upon the turn ; " it does 
 somewhat smack." Old Palmer, as Dick Amletf asking his mother's blessing on his knee, was the very idea 
 of a graceless son. — His sweetheart Gorwma is a Miss Prm, but nature works in her more powerfully. — 
 Lord Foppinfftorit in the '* Relapse," is a most splendid caricature : he is a personification of the foppery and 
 folly of dress and external appearance in full feather. He blazes out and dazzles sober reason with ridiculous 
 ostentation. Still I think this character is a copy from Etherege's Sir Foiling FlMter, and upon the whole, 
 perhaps. Sir Foiling is the more natural grotesque of the two. His soul is more in his dress ; he is a more 
 disinterested coxcomb. The lord is an ostentatious, strutting, vain-glorious blockhead ; the knight is an 
 unaffected, self-complacent, serious admirer of his equipage and person. For instance, what they severally say 
 on the subject of contemplating themselves in the glass, is a proof of this. Sir Fdpling thinks a looking-glass 
 in the room " the best company in the world ; " it is another self to him : Lord Foppimgton merely considers 
 it as necessary to adjust his appearance, that he may make a figure in company. The finery of the one has an 
 imposing air of grandeur about it, and is studied for effect : the other is really in love with a laced suit, and is 
 hand and glove with the newest-cut fashion. He really thinks his tailor or perukp-maker the greatest man in 
 the world, while his lordship treats them familiarly as necessary appendages of his person. Still this coxcomb- 
 nobleman's effeminacy and mock-heroic vanity are admirably depicted and held up to unrivalled ridicule ; and 
 his courtship of Miss Hoyden is excellent in all its stages, and ends oracularly. 
 
 " L(yrd Foppington. — Now, for my part, I think the wisest thing a man can do with an aching heart, is 
 to put on a serene countenance ; for a philosophical air is the most becoming thing in the world to the face of 
 a person of quality : I will therefore bear my disgrace like a great man, and let the people see I am above an 
 aftont. — [Then turning to his brother.} Dear Tam, since things are thus fallen out, pr'ythee give me leave 
 to wish thee joy : I do it de hon coeur, strike me dumb : you have married a woman beautiful in her person, 
 charming in her airs, prudent in her conduct, conytant in her inclinations, and of a nice morality — stap 
 my vitals ! " 
 
 Poor Hoyden fares ill in his lordship's description of her, though she could expect no better at his hands 
 for her desertion of him. She wants sentiment, to be sure, but she has other qualifications — she is a fine 
 bouncing piece of flesh and blood. Her first announcement is decisive — " Let loose the greyhound, and lock 
 up Hoyden." Her declaration, " It 's well they 've got me a husband, or ecod', I 'd marry the baker," comes 
 from her mouth like a shot from a culverin, and leaves no doubt, by its effect upon the ear, that she would 
 have made it good in the sequel, if she had not been provided for. Her indifference to the man she isto marry, 
 and her attachment to the finery and the title, are justified by an attentive observation of nature in its simplest 
 guise. There is, however, no harm in Hcryden ; she merely wishes to consult her own inclination : she is by 
 no means like C&rvnna in the '* Confederacy," " a devilish girl at the bottom,'' nor is it her great delight to . 
 plague other people. — Sir Tmibelly GVwmsy is the right worshipful and worthy father of so delicate an offspring. 
 He is a coarse, substantial contrast to the fiippant and flimsy Lwd Foppington. If the one is not without 
 reason " proud to be at the head of so prevailing a party " as that of coxcombs, the other may look big and 
 console himself (under some afironts) with being a very competent representative, a knight of the shire, of the 
 once formidable, though now obsolete class of country squires, who had no idea beyond the boundaries of their 
 own estates, or the circumference of their own persons. His unwieldy dulness gives, by the rule of contraries, 
 a lively sense of lightness and grace : his stupidity answers all the purposes of wit. His portly paunch repels 
 a jest like a woolsack : a sarcasm rebounds from him like a ball. His presence is a cure for gravity ; and he 
 is a standing satire upon himself and the class in natural history to which he belonged. — Sir John Brute, in 
 the " Provoked Wife," is an animal of the same English growth, but of a cross-grained breed. He has a spice 
 of ihe demon mixed up with tlie brute ; is mischievous as well as stupid ; has improved his natural parts by a 
 town education and example ; opposes the fine-lady airs and graces of his wife by brawling oaths, impenetrable 
 surliness, and pot-house valour ; overpowers any tendency she might have to vapours or hystejics, by the 
 fumes of tobacco and strong beer ; and thinks to be m.istcr in his own house by roaring in taverns, reeling 
 oome drunk every night, breaking lamps, and beating the watch. He does not, however, find this lordly 
 
i^xTJii BIOQEAPHIOAL AND CEITICAL NOTICES. 
 
 method answer. He turns out to le a coward as well as a bully, and dares not resent the. injuries he has 
 provoked by his unmanly behaviour. This was Gajrick's favourite part; and I have heard that his acting in 
 the drunken scene, in which he was disguised, not as a clergyman, but as a woman of the town, which was an 
 alteration of his own to suit the delicacy of the times, was irresistible. The ironical conversations in this play 
 between Belinda and Lady Brute, as well as those in the " Eelapse," between Amanda and her cousin 
 Berinlhia, v/ill do to compare with Congreve jn the way of wit and studied raillery, tat they will not stand 
 the comparison. Aramit^ta and Clarissa kCpp up the ball between theiii with more spirit, for their conversa- 
 tion is very like that of kept-mistresses'; and the mixture of fashionable slwng and professed want of principle 
 gives a sort of zest and high seasoning to their confidential communicatiofls, which Vanbrugh could supply as 
 well as anybody. But he could not do without thi, taint of grosSnBss and licentiousness. Zady Townly is 
 not the really vicious character, nor quite tie fine lady, which the author would have her to be. Lady Qraxc 
 is so far better : she is what she pretends to be, merely sober and insipid.-^Vanbrugh's forte was not the 
 sentimental or didactic; his genius flags and grows dull when it is not put into action, and wants the stimulus 
 of sudden emergency, or the fortuitous collision of different motives, te call, out all its force and vivacity. His 
 antitheses are hapjy and brilliant contrasts of character ; his donble entendres equivocal situations ; his best 
 jjjkes are practical devices, not epigrammatic cbneeits. His wit is .that which is emphatically called mother-wit. 
 It brings those who possessit, or to whom helendsit, into scrapes by its restlessness, and brings them out of 
 them by its alacrity. Several of his favourite characters aro knavish, adiMit adventurers, who have all the 
 gipsy jargon, the cunning impudence, cool presence of taind, selfishness, and indefatigable industry; all the 
 excuses, lying, dexterity, the intellectual juggling and legerdemain tricks, necessary to fit them for this sort 
 of predatory warfare on the Simplicity, follies, or vices of mankind. He discovers the utmost dramatic 
 generalship in bringing off his characters at a pinch, and bj an instantaueous ruse de guerre, when the case 
 seems hopeless in any other hands. Tlie train of his associations, to express the same thing in metaphysical 
 language, lies in following the suggestions of his fancy into every possible coiinexion of cause and effect, rather 
 than into every possible <'ombination of likeness or differefice. His ablest charaeters show that they are so 
 by displaying their ingenuity, address, and presence of mind in critical junctures, and in their own affairs, 
 rather than their wisdom or their -wit " in intellectual gladiator^hip,^' or in speculating on the affairs and 
 characters of other people. 
 
 Farquhar's chief characters are ■ also adventurers; bat they are adventurers .of a romantic, not a knavish 
 stamp, and succeed no less by their honesty than their boldness. They conquer their difficulties, and effect 
 their " hair-breadth 'scapes " by the impulse of natural enthusiasm and the confidence of high principles of 
 gallantry and honour, as much as by their dexterity aid readiness at expedients. They are real gentlemen, 
 and only pretended impostors. Vanbmgh's upstart heroes are without " any relish of salvation," without 
 generosity, virtue, or any pretensions to it. We have little sympathy for them, and no respect at all. But we 
 'aave every sort of good-will towards Farquhar's heroes, who have as many peccadilloes to answer for, and 
 play as many rogue's trieks, but are honest fellows' at bottom, i know little other difference between these 
 two capital writers and c(^yists of nature, than that Farquhar's nature is the better nature of the two. "We 
 seem to like both the author and his favourites. He has humour, character, and invention, in common with 
 the other, with a more unaffected gaiety and spirit of enjoyttient, which ovei'flows and sparkles in all ho does. 
 .He makes us laugh from pleasure oftener than from malice. He somewhere prides himself in having introduced 
 on the stage the class of comic heroes here spoken of, which has since become a standard character, and which 
 represents the warm-hearted, rattle-brained, thoughtless, high-spirited young fellow, who floats on the back of 
 his misfortunes without repining, who forfeits appearances, but saves his honour — and he gives us to understand 
 that it was his own. He did not need to be ashamed of it. Indeed there is internal evidence that this sort 
 of character is his own, for it pervades his works generally, and is the moving spirit that informs them. His 
 comedies have on this account, probably, a greater appearance of truth and nature than almost any others. His 
 incidents succeed one another with rapidity, but without premeditation ; his wit is easy and spontaneous ; his 
 style animated, unembaiTassed, and flowing; his characters full of life and spirit, and never overstrained so as to 
 "o'crstep the modesty of nature," though they sometimes, from haste and carelessness, seem left in a crude 
 unfinished state. There is a constant ebullition of gay, laughing invention, cordial good-humour, and fine 
 animal spirits, in his writings. 
 
 Of the four writers here classed together, wo should perhaps have courted Congreve's acquaintance-most, 
 for his wit^and the elegance of his manners ; W^ycherley's^ for liis. sense and observation on human nature ; 
 Tanbrugh's, for his power of farcical description and .telBng a story ; Farquhar's, for t he pl ea3ure_of his society, 
 and the love of good TeUowsKlp. His fine gentlemen are not gentlemen of fortune and fashion, like those in 
 
WYCHEKLEY, CONGREVE, VANBEUGH, AND FARQUHAE. Ixxix 
 
 Congreve ; but are rather « God Almighty's gentlemen." His valets are good fello-ws : even his chamber- 
 maids are some of them disinterested and sincere. But his fine ladies, it must be allowed, are not so amiable, 
 80 witty, or accomplished, as those in Congreve. Perhaps they both described women in high life as ih6y found 
 them : Congreve took their conversation, Farquhar their conduct. In the way of fashionable vice and petrifying 
 affectation, there is nothing to come up to his Lady Lurewell, in the " Trip to the Jubilee." She by no means 
 makes good Mr. Burke's courtly and chivalrous observation, that the evil of vice consists principally in its want of 
 refinement; and one benefit of the dramatic exhibition of such characters is, that they overturn false maxims of 
 morality, and settle accounts fairly and satisfactorily between theory and practice. Her lover. Colonel 
 Standard^ is indeed an awkward incumbrance upon so fine a lady : it was a character that the poet did not 
 like ; and he has merely sketched him in, leaving him to answer for himself as well as he could, which is but 
 badly. We have no suspicion^ either from his conduct, or from any hint dropped by accident, that he is the 
 first seducer and the possessor of the virgin afi^ections of Lady Lv/rewell. The double transformation of this 
 virago from vice to virtue, and from virtue to vice again, her plausible pretensions and artful wiles, her violent 
 temper and dissolute passions,, show a thorough, knowledge of the effects both of nature and habit in making 
 up human character. Farquhar's own heedless turn for gallantry would be likely to throw him upon such a 
 character ; and Ms goodness of heart and sincerity of disposition would teach him to expose its wanton 
 duplicity and gilded rottenness. Lv/rewell is almost as abandoned a character as Olvvia, in the ** Plain 
 Dealer ; " but the indignation excited against her is of a less serious and tragic cast. Her peevish disgust and 
 affected horror at everything that comes near her, form a very edifying picture. Her dissatisfaction and ennvji 
 are not mere airs and graces worn for fashion''3 sake ; but are real and tormenting inmates of her breast, 
 aming from a surfeit of pleasure and the consciousness of guilt. All that is hateful in the caprice, ill-humour, 
 spite, hautev/Tj folly, impudence, and affectation, of the complete woman of quality, is contained in the scene 
 between her and her servants in the first act. The depravity would he intolerable, even in imagination, if 
 the weakness were not ludicrous in the extreme. It shows, in the highest degree, the power of circumstances 
 and example to pervert the understanding, the imagination, and even the senses. The manner in which the 
 character of the gay, wild, free-hearted, but not altogether profligate or unfeeling Sir Marry Wildair^ is 
 played off against the designing, vindictive, imperious, uncontrollable, and unreasonable humours of Lv/rewell, 
 in the scene where she tries to convince him of his wife's infidelity, while he stops his ears to her pretended 
 proofs, is not surpassed in modem comedy. I shall give it here : 
 
 " Wildair. Now, dear madam, 1 have secured my brother^ you have disposed of the colonel, and we'll rail 
 at love till we ha'n't a word more to say. 
 
 LwrewelL Ay, sir Harry. Please to sit a little, sir. You must know I'm in a strange humour of asking 
 you some questions. How did you like your lady, pray, sir? 
 
 Wild, Like her ! ha ! ha ! ha ! So very well, faith, that for her sake I'm in love with every woman I 
 meet. 
 
 Lure. And did matrimony please you extremely? 
 
 Wild. So very much, that if polygamy were allowed, I would have a new wife every day, 
 
 Lwe. Oh, sir Harry ! this is raillery. But your serious thoughts upon the matter, pray. 
 
 Wild. Why, then, madam, to give you my true sentiments of wedlock : I had a lady that I married by 
 chance, she was virtuous by chance, and I loved her by great chance. Nature gave her beauty, education an air ; 
 and fortune threw a young fellow of five-and-twenty in her lap, I courted her all day, loved her all night ; . 
 she was my mistress one day, and my wife another : I found in one the variety of a thousand, and the very 
 confinement of marriage gave me the pleasure of change, 
 
 Lwe. And she was very virtuous. 
 
 Wild. Look ye, madam, you know she was beautiful. She had good-nature about her mouth, the smile 
 of beauty in her cheeks, sparkling wit in her forehead, and sprightly love in her eyes. 
 
 Lv/re. Pshaw ! I knew her very well ; the woman was well enough. But you don't answer my 
 question, sir. 
 
 Wild. So, madam, as I told you before, she was young and beautiful, I was rich and vigorous • my estate 
 gave a lustre to my love, and a swing to our enjoyment ; round, like the ring that made us one, our golden 
 pleasures circled without end. 
 
 Lure. Golden pleasures I Golden fiddlesticks. What d'ye tell me of your canting stuff ? Was she 
 virtuous, I say? 
 
 Wild, Ready to hurst with envy ; hut I will torment thee a little, — lAside.] So, madam, I powdered to 
 
Ixxx BIOGRAPHICAL AND CEIT ICAL NOTICtiS. 
 
 please her, she dressed to engage me ; we toyed away the morning in amorous nonsensCj lolled away the 
 evening in the Park or the playhouse, and all the night — hem ! 
 Iai/k. Look ye, sir, answer my question, or I shall take it ill. 
 
 Wild. Then, madam, there never was such a pattern of unity. Her wants were still prevented hy my 
 supplies ; my own heart whispered me her desires, 'cause she herself was there ; no contention ever rose, but 
 the dear strife of who should most oblige : no noise about authority ; for neither would stoop to command, 
 'cause both thought it glory to obey. 
 
 Luiee. Stuff! stuff! stuff! I won't believe a word on 't. 
 
 WM. Ha! ha ! ha ! Then, madam, we never felt the yoke of matrimony, because our inclinations made 
 us one ; a power superior to the forms of wedlock. The marriage torch had lost its weaker light in the bright 
 flame of mutual love that joined our hearts before ; then — 
 
 Lwre. Hold, hold, su>; I cannot bear it ; sir Hairy, I'm affionted. 
 
 WM. Ha! ha! ha! Afironted! 
 
 Lmi. Yes, sir ; 'tis an affront to any woman to hear another commended ; and I will resent it. — In short 
 sir Harry, your wife was a — 
 
 WM. Buz, madam— no detraction. I'll tell you what she was. So much an angel in her conduct, that 
 though I saw another in her arms, I should have thought the devil had raised the phantom, and my more 
 conscious reason had given my eyes the lie. 
 
 Imre. Very well! Then I a'n't to be believed, it seems. But, d'ye hear, sir? 
 
 "WM. Nay, madam, do you hear! I tell you, 'tis not in the power of maHce to cast a blot upon her 
 fame ■ and though the vanity of our sex, and the envy of yours, conspired both against her honour, I would 
 not hear a syllable. {.Stoppimg his tars. 
 
 Lwre. Why then, as I hope to breathe, you shall hear it. The picture 1 the picture ! the picture ! 
 
 \JBawlmg aZoud. 
 
 Wild. Ran, tan, tan. A pistol-bullet from ear to ear. 
 
 Zwre. That picture which you had just now from the French marquis for a thousand pound ; that very 
 picture did your very virtuous wife send to the marquis as a pledge of her very virtuous and dying affection. 
 So that you are both robbed of your honour, and cheated of your money. [Aloud. 
 
 Wild. Iiouder, louder, madam. 
 
 Lm-e. I tell you, sir, your wife was a jilt ; I know it, I'll swear it.— She virtuous! she was a devU ! 
 
 Wild. ISings.'] Tal, al, deral. 
 
 iwe. Was ever the like seen ! He won't hear me. I hurst with malice, and now he won't mind me ! 
 
 Won't you hear me yet ? 
 
 Wild. No, no, madam. 
 
 itwe Nay then, I can't bear it.— IBwsts out a cryvng.-} Sir, I must say that you re an unworthy 
 person to use a woman of quality at this rate, when she has her heart fuU of malice ; I don't know but it- 
 may make me miscarry. Sir, I say again and again, that she was no better than one of us, and I know it ; I 
 have seen it vrith my eyes, so I have. 
 
 Wild. Good heavens deUver me, I beseech thee. How shall I 'scape ! 
 
 iwc. Will you hear me yet ? Dear sir Harry, do but hear me ; I'm longmg to speak. 
 
 WUd. Oh! I have it.— Hush, hush, hush. 
 
 jAi/re. Eh! what's the matter? 
 
 WUd. A mouse ! a mouse 1 a mouse ! 
 
 ZMre. Where ? where ? where ? „,.,-, -.r.i.jiT 
 
 Wm Your petticoats, your petticoats, madam.-[i«re«,e« shneh, and rms.^ my head! I was 
 never worsted by a woman before. But I have heard so much to know the marquis to be a villam. 
 fJTnochiml Nay, then, X must run for't.-[i!ms out, <md returns.} The entry is stopped by a chair 
 comfng iuTand something there is in that chair that I will discover, if I can And a place to hide myself.- 
 TOoesto ^Moset door.] Fast 1 I have keys about me for most locks about St. Jamess. Le me see.- 
 r^ L,l No no- this opens my lady Planthom's back-door.— [2Vies (mother.} Nor th.s; this is 
 
 l^Z'^^7ir^Z:^?^;Z.JTri:a tM.d., Ay, ay, this does it, faith.-[<.o. *«*o .. o^o..]" 
 
 The dialogue between Cherry and Archer, in the " Beaux' Stratagem," in which she repeats her weU- 
 conned love-catechism, is as good as this, but not so fit to be repeated anywhere but on the stage. The 
 «Teaux' Stratagem" is the best of his plays, as a whole ; infinitely lively, bustUng, and tuU of pomt mi 
 
WYCHBRLBY, CONGREVE, TANBEUGH, AND FARQUHAE. Ixxxi 
 
 interest. The assumed disguise of the two principal characters, Archer and Aimwell, is a perpetual amuse- 
 ment to the mind. Sci'ub is an indispensable appendage to a country gentleman's kitchen, and an exquisite 
 confidant for the secrets of young ladies. The " Recruiting Officer " is not one of Farquhar's best comedies, 
 though it is light and entertaining. It contains chiefly sketches and hints of cliarjictei's ; and the conclusion 
 of the plot is rather lame. He informs us, in the dedication to the published play, that it was founded on 
 some local and personal circumstances that happened in Shropshire, where he was himself a recruiting officer ; 
 and it seems not unlikely, that most of the scenes actually took place at the foot of the "Wrekin. The 
 " Inconstant *' is much superior to it. The romantic interest and impressive catastrophe of this play I thought 
 had been borrowed from the more poetical and trjigedy-practiscd muse of Beaumont and Fletclier: but I find 
 they are taken from an actual circumstance which took place in the author's knowledge, at Paris. His other 
 pieces, " Love and a Bottle," and " The Twin Rivals," are not on a par with these ; and ai-e no longer in 
 possession of the stage. The public are, after all, not the worst judges. — Farquhar's Letters, prefixed to the 
 collection of his plays, are lively, good-humoured, and sensible ; and contain, among other things, an admirable 
 e.Ypositioa of the futility of the dramatic unities of time and place. This criticism preceded Dennis's remarks 
 on that subject, in bis Strictures on Kr. Addison's Cato ; and completely anticipates all that Dr. Johnson baa 
 urged so unanswerably ou the subject, in his preface to Shakspeare. 
 
 We may date the decline of English comedy from the time of Farquhar. For this several causes might be 
 assigned in the political and moral changes of the times ; but among other minor ones, Jeremy Collier, in his 
 View of the English Stage, frightened the poets, and did all he could to spoil the stage, by pretending to 
 reform it ; that is, by making it an echo of the pulpit, instead of a reflection of the manners of the world. 
 He complains bitterly of the profaneness of the stage ; and is for fining the actors for every oath they utter, 
 to put an end to the practice ; as if common swearing had been an invention of the poets and stiige-players. 
 He canuot endure that the fine gentlemen drink, and the fine ladies intrigue, in the scenes of Congreve and 
 Wycherley, when things so contrary to law and gospel happened nowhere else. He is vehement against 
 duelling, as a barbarous custom, of which the example is suffered with impunity nowhere but on the stage. 
 He is shocked at the number of fortunes that are iiTeparably ruined by the vice of gaming on the boards of 
 the theatres. He seems to thinlc that every breach of the ten commandments begins and ends there. He 
 complains that the tame husbands of his time are laughed at on the stage, and that the successful gallants 
 triumph, which was without precedent either in the city or the court. He docs not think it enough that the 
 stage " shows vice its own image, scorn its own feature," unless they are damned at tlie same instant, and 
 carried off (hke Don Juan) by real derils to the infernal regions, before the faces of the spectators. It seems 
 that the author would have been contented to be present at a comedy or a farce, like a father Inquisitor, if 
 there was to be an mUodafe at the end, to burn both the actors and the poet. This sour, non-juring 
 critic has a great horror and repugnance at poor human nature, in nearly all its shapes ; of the existence 
 of which he appears only to be aware through the stage : and this he considers as the only exception to the 
 practice of piety, and the performance of the whole duty of man ; and seems fully convinced, that if this 
 
 nuisance were abated, the whole world would be regulated according to the creed and the catechism. 
 
 This is a strange blindness and infatuation ! He forgets, in his over-heated zeal, two things : First, That the 
 stage must be copied from real life, that the manners represented there must exist elsewhere, and " denote a 
 foregone conclusion," to satisfy common sense. — Secondly. That the stage cannot shock common decency, 
 according to the notions that prevail of it in any age or country, because the exhibition is public. If the pulpit, 
 for mstance, had banished all vice and imperfection from the world, as our critic would suppose, we should not 
 have seen the offensive reflection of them on the stage, which he resents as an affront to the cloth, and an 
 outrage on religion. On the contrary, with such a sweeping reformation as this theory implies, the office of 
 the preacher, as well as of the player, would be gone ; and if common peccadilloes of lying, swearing, intriguing 
 fighting, drinking, gaming, and other such obnoxious dramatic common-places, were once fairly got rid of in 
 reality, neither the comic poet would be able to laugh at them on the stage, nor our good-natured author to 
 consign them over to damnation elsewhere. The work is, however, written with ability, and did much 
 mischief: it produced those do-me-good, lack-a-daisical, whining, make-believe comedies in the next age 
 (such as Steele's " Conscious Lovers," and others,) which are enough to set one to sleep, and where the author 
 tries in vain to be merry and wise in the same breath ; in which the utmost stretch of licentiousness goes no 
 farther than the gallant's being suspected of keeping a mistress, and the highest proof of courage is given in his 
 lefusing to accept a challenge. 
 
 In looking into the old editions of the comedies of the last age, I find, the names of the best actors of 
 those times, of whom scarcely any record is left but in Colley Gibber's Life, a.nd the monument to Mis 
 
Ixxxii BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL I^OTICES. 
 
 Oldfield, in Westminater Abbey ; which Voltaire reckons among the proofs of the liberality, wisdom, ajwi 
 politeness of the English nation : — 
 
 " Let no rude hand deface it. 
 And its forlorn hicjaceV 
 
 Authoia after their deaths live in their works ; players only in their epitaphs and the breath of common 
 tradition. They " die and leave the world no copy." Their uncertain popularity is as short-lived a£ ii is 
 dazzling; and in a few years nothing is known of them but that they were. 
 
 PASSAGES FROM THE "ATHENiEUM" OF JANUARY 2, 1841, 
 Referred to at p. x. 
 
 " Some attempts have been made to reduce to chronological order the dramatic works of William Wycherley. 
 ' The chronologj of Wycherley's plays (said Pope to Spence), I was well acquainted with ; for he has told it 
 me over and over. " Love in a Wood" he wrote when he was but nineteen : " The Gentleman Dancing- 
 Master" at twenty-one ; " The Plain Dealer" at twenty-five ; and " The Country Wife" at one or two and 
 thirty.' If this was the case, the dates when they were written would be 1659, 1661, 1665, and J 671, while 
 the presumed years of their appearance on the stage are 1672, 1673, 1677, and 1673, ' The Plain Dealer' 
 being the last. The truth is, that 'Love in a Wood/ if written in 1659, must have been enlarged in after 
 years, for there are two distinct references in Acts Land HI. to the Great Fire of 1666; and hence we 
 presume the propriety of Rochester's epithet of slow Wycherley, which Lord Lansdowne said was untrue, and 
 Pope denied in prose and sanctioned in verse. That it appeared on the stage after May, 1669, when Pepys*s 
 Diary ends, there can he little doubt, for there is no mention of it in Pepys, who seldom missed a new play, 
 and would surely have attended the representation of a piece, had it been acted, which was publicly counte- 
 nanced by the Duchess of Cleveland, about whom he has shown at all times more than usual curiosity. The 
 iate of ' The Gentleman Dancing-Master' may be ascertained, which no one has hitherto observed, from the 
 prologue * addressed to the City newly after the Removal of the Duke's Company from Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 to their new Theatre near Salisbury Court,' which would fix the date shortly after the 9th of November, 1671^ 
 the opening night of the New Theatre. But the puzzle to us has always been with * The Plain Dealer,' which 
 is stated to have been written and acted prior to * The Country Wife,' though, curiously enough, one of the 
 best scenes in ' The Plain Dealer,' is that where Olivia makes an attack on * The Country Wife,' as it was 
 lately acted : — * That filthy play,' as she calls it, * and its beastly author,' which argues a priority of appearance 
 tor * The Country Wife,' or an after-insertion of the whole scene. Mr. Hunt has not alluded to this 
 diflBculty, but it merits remark, and required explanation. Whilst on dates connected with Wycherley, let 
 us mention that his marriage, which Mr. Hunt would assign to the year 1677, we would place a little later 
 than the 18th of June 1679j the day on which the Countess of Drogheda became a widow. At first sio-ht the 
 Earl's death seems a very necessary event, unless the Countess made a queer second mamage, as did Wycherley 
 himself. 
 
 " In the number of our poets on whom fortune has shone more kindly than is her wont, Congi-eve appears 
 to have been among the most fortunate; and to have held not * one poor office,' as Swift has said, but a 
 plurality of offices. Mr. Hunt, however, who has had an eye (not always a clear one) to the discovery of 
 additional truths, 'however small,' ho says, 'or collateral in their interest,' takes Swift *to have been in the 
 right as to the fact of the single office,* for 'Congreve's receipts from his various places,' he writes, * have been 
 'tsually huddled together, as though Halifax had given them all, and at once. Probably they did all come 
 from him, or through him ; hut it is certain our author wag not made a Commissioner of Wine Licences till 
 Ihe November of 1714. His richest appointment, that of Secretary for Jamaica, followed in the course of the 
 next month; Halifax died the May ensuing.' This is incorrect ; forin 1711, he was, as we learn from Bover 
 one of the Commissioners foB Wine Licences, and in November 1734 he was made, as we gathei from the same 
 
WYCHEKLEY, CONGliEVE, VANBEUGH, AND EAEQUHAR. Ixxxiii 
 
 accurate chronicler of passing events, one of the Searchers of the Customs, in the room of Thomas Walker. 
 Dates are necessary landmarks ; and though, as it has been said with truth, they may he left to inferior minds 
 yet it is not for genius to neglect such minute particulars as have heen provided for their adoption by the 
 humble pioneers of biographical history. A trifling error in time may destroy a whole chain of reasoning ■ a 
 difference of a year, suggest a new train of thought ; and if dates are given, they should be given correctly 
 for it is not every work that will stand, like the Lives of Johnson, on the knowledge they exhibit of human 
 life, in spite of all their writer's inaccuracies, and the frequent error and ill taste of his criticism ; oi', like 
 Hume's History, upon its philosophy and language. A few ^ates have overthrown the famous Summary of 
 Sir William Blackstone, in his well-known paper of Addison v. Pope. 
 
 " It is reasonable curiosity that prompts men to inquire into the history of works that afford them pleasure ; 
 to hear what others think of them, and to learn the story of their first reception. We could not know too 
 much of the sale of 'Paradise Lost,' what critics at coffee-houses said, or ladies thought — if they thought at 
 all ; and with what interest should we ponder over a series of newspaper paragraphs^ that told us how * Hamlet ' 
 and * Othello,' *The Tempest' and * Richard IIL,' * The Alcliemist' and ' The Fox,' were received by the 
 gallants that crowded the stage and boxes at Blackfriars, the Globe, the Curtain, or the Rose. Something of 
 this interest extends to the plays before us ; they have stood beyond their century, and are among the classic 
 comedies of our countiy. Irreverence or ignorance alone will affect to slight them, while the true relisher of 
 English wit and native humour will always admire their racy richness. We wish that Mr. Hunt had entered 
 a little more into this subject ; it is of but few of the plays, unfortunately, that there is anything to tell, but 
 what there is should have been told ; and he has missed the history of Congreve's * Double Dealer,' as it is 
 related by a first-rate witness : — ' Congreve's Double Dealer is much censured,' writes Dryden to Walsh, ' by 
 the greater part of the town, and is defended only by the best judges, who, you know, are commonly the 
 fewest. Yet it gains ground daily, and has already been acted eight times. The women think he has exposed 
 
 , and the gentlemen are offended with him for the discovery of their follies, and the way of their 
 
 intrigue under the notions of friendship to their ladies' husbands.' 
 
 " Among the Curiosities of Literature^ D'Israeli has an entertaining chapter on the 'Ignorance of the 
 Learned;' he might have extended his essay to instances illustrative of writers who fly to hidden sources for 
 information, and gather little there, while they overlook the commoner and better books that would have 
 supplied them vrith much of the material they had fruitlessly sought in neglected writers. Every biographer 
 of Vanbrugh gives the history of his house, — 
 
 ' In shape resembling a goose pie,' 
 
 and quotes the caustic and amusing verses of Swift, but all omit to tell us wnat Vanbrugh thought of the 
 
 merriment at bis expense, though told in so common a book as his Journal to Stella, ' I dined to-day,' he 
 
 writes, 7th November, 1710, 'at Sir Richard Temple's, with Congreve, Vanbrugh, &c. Vanbrugh, I believe I 
 
 told you, had a long quarrel with me about those verses on his house, but we were very civil and cold. Lord 
 
 Marlborough used to tcaze him with them, which had made him angry, though he be a good-natured fellow.' 
 
 Had this occurred to Mr. Hunt, we are sure it would have found a place, and received a comment, in his 
 
 memoir. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " Farquhar's plays had been the making of Wilks ; and that Wilks was neglectful of the trust reposed in 
 iiim, is the belief of Mr. Hunt, who is, we think, unjust throughout his work to the memory of that excellent actor. 
 Let us inquire into this : Wilks was in Dublin when Farquhar's first play appeared in Loudon ; he could 
 not, therefore, have acted in it, or by declining to venture in a part untried and of which the success was 
 uncertain, have exhibited any portion of that worldly prudence of which Mr. Hunt accuses him ; and, curious 
 enough, it is pretty well ascertained that JRoebucJc, in 'Love in a Bottle,' was the character in which Wilks 
 made his first appearance before a London audience. Through the intercession of Wilks. a benefit was 
 obtained (25th of May, 1708) for the poet's widow ; and the following document will show that after the lapse 
 uf many years he had not forgotten Farquhar's bequest : 
 
 '"George R. 
 "^Wherrason Our present Establishment of Pensions payable by you, there is inserted one annuity or 
 '■■'^arly pension of Twenty Pounds payable to Edmund Chaloner for Farquhar's Children, which said Edmund 
 Chaloner being lately dead. Our Will and Pleasure is, and AVe do hereby direct, authorfse, and command .\or, 
 
Ixxxiv BIOGRAP HICAL AND CRITICAL KOTICJiS. 
 
 to pay the said annual pension of Twenty Pounds and all arrears thereof unto Robert Wilks, of King-street, 
 Covent-garden, for the use of the said children. And for so doing this shall be your Warrant. Given at our 
 Court at Herenhausen, the 9th of September, 1719, O.S.,in the sixth year of uurRcia;n. 
 
 " ' By His Majesty's Command, 
 
 " * Sunderland. 
 
 I "'J. AlSLABIE. 
 
 " ' I'o our trusty and well-beloved Walter Chetwynd, Esq.' " ' Geo. Baillie.' 
 
 " Their names were Anne Margueritte and Mary. The younger was alive in 1742, the elder in 1764, 
 and in the receipt of her own and her sister's portion of the pension. 
 
 " Farqubar's last play was ' The Stratagem,' or as it is printed ' The Beaux' Stratagem,' of which he did 
 not live to enjoy the full success. The story is a painful one. Farquhar's life had been a. struggle against 
 Fortune ; his marriage increased the struggle, for he was in debt. It was at this time he applied to the Duke 
 of Ormond, whose encouragement of * The Recruiting Officer,' he acknowledges, in his dedication,' as a 
 powerful help to its good fortune on the stage. The Duke advised him to sell his commission in the army, 
 and pay his debts, and promised him a Captaincy then vacant in his own regiment. F.irquhar sold his 
 commission, but the Duke either forgot, or was unable to fulfil his promise. It was in this state of affliction 
 that he was found, after severa' days' absence, by his old friend Wilks. Wilks, it is told, advised him to 
 write, and depend altogether ,^on authorship for subsistence : * Is it possible,' said Farquhar, starting from 
 his chair, ' that a man can write common sense who is heart-broken and without a shilling ? ' Wilks, with 
 the noblest generosity, gave him twenty guineas' from his own pocket. This circumstance has escaped the 
 observation of Mr. Hunt. But to continue : ' The Stratagem ' was the work of six weeks, produced in ill- 
 health — in disappointment — in want. Yet such was his reputation, that Lintot doubled (27th of January, 
 1706-7) the copy-money from 151., his usual price for a play, to 30Z., and paid it in advance. This kindness 
 was to little purpose Farquhar felt the hand of death upon him before he had finished the second act, and 
 spoke of his own life as of shorter duration than the run of his play. Nor was he wrong : ' The Stratagem ' 
 appeared at the Haymarkct on Saturday, 8th of March, 1707, found considerable favour, lived a third night 
 for the author's benefit, and long enough to allow of an extra benefit on Tuesday the 29th of April. But on 
 that day Farquhar died. Wycherley had retired from the stage before Farquhar was born, and yet Wycherley 
 survived him. 
 
 * Oh !, why has worth so short a date ? ' 
 
 will be the exclamation of many who read the memoirs before us. 
 
 " In discovering the details of Farquhar's life, in reconciling datesj and adjusting minute events, 
 Mr. Hunt, as we have said before, has not been successful. He has made, however, an .agreeable addition to 
 our collection of Farquhar's works, and freed him from a charge of plagiarism, made by men who know more 
 of catalogues, title-pages, and editions, than the contents of the books they talk about. But what Mr. Hunt 
 has failed in doing, we have the means before us of assisting to adjust. Farquhar's first play was, as Mr. Hunt 
 says, well received ; but he has omitted to mention what Farquhar himself complains of in a letter to 
 Mrs. Cockbum, that it had been scandalously abused for affronting the ladies. Collier's book was then 
 newly out, and the ladies were alive to find fault with smaller aspersions than they had before endured. ' Tlie 
 Twin Rivals' appeared in 1705, says Mr. Hunt, who follows the received authorities; but how, let us ask, is 
 this to be reconciled with the date attached to the Dedication, 23rd of December, 1702, and with the fiu:t 
 that the Preface speaks of its success on the stage ? But, to pi-oceed, we discover from the papers of the 
 day, that the first night of ' The Recruiting Officer' was Monday the 8th of April, 1706, and from Lintot's 
 account of Copies when Pwchased, we learn the rewards that Farquhar received for his literary labours. 
 On the 3rd of July, 1701, Lintot paid him SI. is. 6d., or three guineas of the then money, for his letters, 
 (the volume entitled 'Love and Business'); on the 22nd of December, 1702 (the day previous to the 
 dedication), he paid him 151. for ' The Twin Riv-als;' and on the 12th of February, 1705-6, fifteen guineas, 
 or 16!. 2s. Gd., for 'The Recruiting Officer.' These, in our opinion, are interesting facts in Farquhar's 
 life ; fifteen guineas was tlien the usual price of plays, though thirty pounds was, as we have seen, the sum 
 paid for 'The Beaux' Stratagem,' and the amount received by Drydcn in 1692, from Tonson, for bis 
 ' Cleoraencs-' " 
 
THE 
 
 DUAMATIC WORKS 
 
 WILLIAM WYCHERLEY. 
 
 As long as men are false and women vain. 
 Whilst gold continues to be virtue's bane. 
 In pointed satii-e Wycherley shall reign. 
 
 EVELTN, 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARX. 
 
 Excludit sanos Helicone poetas 
 
 Democritus. — IIohat. 
 
 TO HER GRACE 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF CLEVELAND. 
 
 Madam, — All authors whatever in their dedication are poets ; but I am now to write to a lady who stands as little 
 in need of flattery, as hei- beauty of art ; otherwise I should prove as ill a poet to her in my dedication, as to my i-eader 
 in my play. I can do your Grace no honour, nor make you more admirers than you have already ; yet I can do myself 
 the honour to let the world know I am the greatest you have. You will pardon me. Madam, for you know it is very hard 
 for a new author, and poet too, to govern his ambition : for poets, let them pass in the world ever so muoh for modest, 
 honest men, but begin praise to others which concludes in themselves ; and are lilce rooks, who lend people money but 
 to win it back again, and so leave them in debt to 'em for nothing ; they offer laurel and incense to their heroes, but 
 wear it themselves, and perfume themselves. This is true, Madam, upon the honest word of an author who never yet 
 writ dedication. Yet though I cannot lie like them, I am as vain as they ; and cannot but publicly give'your Grace my 
 hxmible acknowledgments for the favours I have received from you :— this, I say, is the poet's gratitude, which, in 
 plain English, is only pride and ambition ; and that the world might know your Grace did me the honour to see my 
 play twice together. Yet, perhaps, my enviers of your favour will suggest 'twas in Lent, and therefore for your 
 mortification. Then, as a jealous author, I am concerned not to have your Grace's favours lessened, or rather my 
 reputation ; and to let them know, you were pleased, after that, to command a copy from me of this play ; — the only wny, 
 without beauty and wit, to win a poor poet's heart. 'Tis a sign your Grace understands nothing better than obliging 
 all the world after the best and most proper manner. But, Madam, to be obliging to that excess as you are {pardon 
 me, if I tell you, out of my extreme concern and service for your Grace) is a dangerous quality, and may be very 
 incommode to you ; for civility makes poets as troublesome, as charity makes beggars ; and your Grace will be hereaftej* 
 as much pestered with such scurvy offerings aa this, poems, panegyrics, and the like, as you are now with petitions.: 
 and. Madam, take it from me, no man with papers in 's hand is more dreadful than a poet ; no, not a lawyer with his 
 declarations. Your Grace sure did not well consider what ye did, in sending for my play : you little thought I would 
 have had the confidence to send you a dedication too- But, Madam, you find I am as unreasonable, and have as little 
 conscience, as if I had driven the poetic trade longer than I have, and ne'er consider you had enough of the play. But 
 (having suffered now so severely) I beseech your Grace, have a care for the future ; tal<e my counsel, and be (if you can 
 possible) as proud and ill-natured as other people of quality, since your quiet is so much concerned, and since you 
 have more reason than any to value yourself : — for you have that perfection of beauty (without thinking it so) which 
 others of your sex but think they have ; that generosity in your actions which others of your quality have only in 
 their promises; that spirit, wit and judgment, and all other qualifications which fit heroes to command, and would 
 make any but your Grace proud. I begin now, elevated by my subject, to write with the emotion and fury of a 
 poet, yet the integrity of an historian ; and I could never be weary — ^nay, sure this were my only way to make ni^ 
 readers never weary too, though they were a more impatient generation of people than they are. In fine, speaking 
 thus of yoiir Grace, I should please all the world but you ; therefore I must once observe and obey y(m against my 
 will, and say no more, than that I am. Madam, your Grace's most obliged, and most humble servant, 
 
 WILLIAM WYCHERLEY 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Mr. Ranger, "^ 
 
 Mr. Vincent, s-roung Gentlemen of the Town. 
 
 Mr. Valentine, j 
 
 Alderman Ghipb, seemingly precise, hut a covetous, 
 
 lecherous, old Usurer of the CUy. 
 Sir Simon Addlkplot, a Coxcomb, always in pursuit 
 
 of Women of great Fortunes. 
 Mr. Dapperwit, a brisk, conceited, half-witted Fellow 
 
 of the Town, 
 
 Christina, Vaijsntine's Mistress, 
 liVDiA, Ranobr'6 Mistress. 
 
 My Lady Flippant, Gripe's Sister, an afected Widow 
 in distress for a Husband, though still declaiming 
 against Marriage. 
 
 Mrs, Martha, Gripe's Daughter 
 
 Mrs. Joyner, a Match-maker, or precise City Bavjd. 
 
 Mrs. Crossbite, an old cheating Jilt, and Bawd to her 
 Daughter. 
 
 MiBsliVv-y ,her Daughter. 
 
 Isabel, Christina's Woman, 
 
 Ljeonore, Servant to Lydia. 
 
 Crosrbtte's Landlord, and hts Prentices, St-tvants 
 Waiters, other Attendants. 
 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Custom, which bids the thief from cart harangue 
 All those that come to make and see him hang, 
 Wills the damn'd poet (though he knows he's gone) 
 To greet you ere his execution. 
 Not having fear of critic 'fore his eyes, 
 But still rejecting wholesome, good advice, 
 He e'en is come to suffer here to-day 
 For counterfeiting (as you judge) a play. 
 Which is against dread Phoebus highest treason ; 
 Damn, damning judges, therefore, you have rea- 
 I son : — 
 
 You he does mean who, for the selfsame fault. 
 That damning privilege of yours have bought. 
 So the huge bankers, when they needs must fail. 
 Send the small brothers of their trade to jail ; 
 Whilst they by breaking gentlemen are made. 
 Then, more than any, scorn poor men o' th' trade. 
 You harden'd renegado poets, who 
 Treat rhyming poets worse than Turk would do, 
 
 But vent your heathenish rage, — hang, draw, and 
 
 quarter, — ■ 
 His Muse will die to-day a fleering martyr ; 
 Since for bald jest, dull libel, or lampoon. 
 There are who suffer persecution 
 With the undaunted briskness of buffoon, 
 And strict professors live of raillery. 
 Defying porter's-lodge, or pillory, 
 For those who yet write on our poet's fate. 
 Should as co-sufferers commiserate; 
 But he in vain their pity now would crave, 
 Who for themselves, alas ! no pity have, 
 And their own gasping credit will not save ; 
 And those, much less, our criminal would spare. 
 Who ne'er in rhyme transgress j — if such there 
 
 are. 
 Well then, who nothing hopes, needs nothing fear ; 
 And he, before your cruel votes shall do it, 
 By his despair declares himself no poet. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. ^Gripe's Ho'Me, in, the Evening. 
 Enter my haAy Flippant and Mre. Jovnbr. 
 
 Flip. Not a husband to be had for money ! — 
 Come, come, I might have been a better house- 
 wife for myself, as the world goes now, if I had 
 dealt for an heir with his guardian, uncle, or 
 mother-in-law ; and you are no better than a 
 chouse, a cheat. 
 
 Joyn. I a 'iheat, madam ! 
 
 Flip. 1 Mf out of my money, and patience 
 too. 
 
 Joyn. Do not run out of your patience, what- 
 ever you do ; — 'tis a necessary virtue for a widow 
 without a jointure, in truly. 
 
 Flip. Vile woman ! though my fortune be some- 
 thing wasted, my person's in good i-epair. If I 
 had not depended on you, I had had a husband 
 before this time. When I gave you the last five 
 pounds — 
 
 Joyn. And I had kept my promise if you had 
 co-operatedj 
 
 Flip. Co-operated ! what should I have done ? 
 "Tis well known no woman breathing could use 
 more industry to get her a husband than 1 have. 
 Has not my husband's 'scutcheon walked as much 
 ground as the citizens' signs since the Fire ? — that 
 no quarter of the town might be ignorant of the 
 widow Flippant. 
 
 Joyn. 'Tis well known, madam, indeed. 
 
 Flip. Have I not owned myself (against ray 
 stomach) the relict of a citizen, to credit my 
 fortune ? 
 
 Joyn. 'Tis confessed, madam. 
 
 Flip. Have I not constantly kept Covent-Gar- 
 deu church, St. Martin's, the playhouses, Hyde- 
 park, Mulberry-garden, and all other the public 
 marts where widows and maids are exposed ? 
 
 Joyn. Far be it from me to think you have an 
 aversion to a husband. But why, madam, have 
 you refused so many good offers ? 
 
 Flip. Good offers, Mrs. Joyner I I'll be sworn 
 I never had an offer since my 'late hu.sband's. — If 
 I had an offer, Mrs. Joyner !— there's the thing, 
 Mrs. Joyner. 
 
 Joyn. Then your frequent and public detestation 
 of marriage is thought real ; and if you have had 
 no offer, there's the thing, madam. 
 
 Flip. I cannot deny but I always rail against 
 marriage ; — which is the widow's way to it cer- 
 tainly. 
 
 Joyn. 'Tis the desperate way of the desperate 
 widows, in truly. 
 
 Flip. Would you have us as tractable as the 
 wenches that eat oatmeal, and fooled like them 
 too? 
 
 Joyn. If nobody were wiser than I, I should 
 think, since the widow wants the natural allure- 
 ment which the virgin has, you ought to give men 
 all other encouragements, in truly. 
 
 Flip. Therefore, on the contrary, because the 
 widow's fortune (whether supposed or real) is her 
 chiefest bait, the more chary she seems of it, and 
 the more she withdraws it, the more eagerly the 
 busy g sping fry will bite. With us widows, hus- 
 bands are got like bishopricks, by saying No : and 
 I tell you, a young heir is as shy of a widow as of 
 a rook, to my knowledge. 
 
 Jiiyn. I can allege nothing against your practice 
 — but your ill success ; and indeed you must use 
 another method with sir Simon Addleplot. 
 
 Flip. Will he be at your house at the hour ? 
 
 Joyn. He'll be there by ten: — 'tis now nine. I'll 
 warrant you he will not fail. 
 
 Flip. I'll warrant you then I will not fail : — for 
 'tis more than time I were sped. 
 
 Joyn. Mr. Dapperwit has not been too busy 
 with you, I hope .' — Your experience has taught 
 you to prevent a mischance. 
 
 Flip. No, no, my mischance (as yon call it) is 
 greater than that. I have but three months to 
 reckon, ere I lie down with my port and equipage 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 and must be delivered of a woman, a footman, and 
 a coaohman : — for my coach must down, unless I 
 can get sir Simon to draw with me. 
 
 Joyn. He will pair with you exactly if I Imow 
 all. [Aside. 
 
 Flip. Ah, Mrs. Joyner, nothing grieves me like 
 the putting down my coach ! For the fine clothes, 
 the fine lodgings, — let 'em go ; for a lodging is as 
 unnecessary a thing to a widow that has a coach, 
 as a hat to a man that has a good peruke. For, 
 as you see about town, she is most properly at 
 home in her coach : — she eats, and drinks, and 
 sleeps in her coach ; and for her visits, she receives 
 them in the playhouse. 
 
 Joyn. Ay, ay, let the men keep lodgings, as you 
 say, madam, if they will. 
 
 Enter behind, at one door, Grtpb and Sir Simon Addle- 
 plot, the latter in the dress of a Clerk ; at the other, Mrs. 
 Martha. 
 
 Flip. Do you think if things had been with me 
 as they have been, I would ever have housed with 
 this counter-fashion brother of mine, (who hates a 
 vest as much as a surplice,) to have my patches 
 assaulted every day at dinner, my freedom cen- 
 sured, and my visitants shut out of doors .' — Poor 
 Mr. Dapperwit cannot be admitted. 
 
 Joyn. He knows him too well to keep his 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Flip. He is a censorious rigid fop, and knows 
 nothing. 
 
 Gripe. So, so ! IBehind. 
 
 Joyn. [Aside.'] Is he here ? — [To my Lady 
 Flippant.] Nay, with your pardon, madam, I 
 must contradict you there. He is a prying com- 
 monwealth*s-man, an implacable magistrate, a 
 sturdy piUar of his cause, and — [ To Gripe.] But, 
 oh me, is your worship so near then ? if I had 
 thought you heard me. — 
 
 Gripe. Why, why, Mrs. Joyner, I nave said as 
 much of myself ere now j and without vanity, I 
 yrofess. 
 
 Joyn. I know your virtue is proof against vain- 
 glory ; but the truth to your face looks hke flattery 
 in your worship's servant. 
 
 Gripe. No, no ; say what you will of me in that 
 kind, far be it from me to suspect you of flattery. 
 
 Joyn. In truly, your worship knows yourself, 
 Mid lenows me, for I am none of those — 
 
 .Flip. [Aside.] Now they are in — Mrs. Joyner, 
 I'll go before to your house, you'll be sure to come 
 after me, 
 
 Joyn. Immediately. — [.B.j;i< Flippant.] But as 
 I was saying, I am none of those — 
 
 Gripe. No, Mrs. Joyner, you cannot sew pillows 
 under folks' elbows ; you cannot hold a candle to 
 the devil ; you cannot tickle a trout to take him ; 
 you — 
 
 Joyn. Lord, how well you do know me indeed! 
 — and you shall see I know your worship as well. 
 You cannot backslide from your principles ; you 
 nannot be terrified by the laws ; nor bribed to alle- 
 giance by office or preferment ; you — 
 
 Gripe. Hold, hold, my praise must not interrupt 
 yours. 
 
 Joyn. With your worship's pardon, in truly, I 
 musit own. 
 
 Gripe. I am full of your praise, and it will run 
 over. 
 
 Joyn. Nay, sweet sir, you are — 
 
 Gripe. Nay, sweet Mrs. Joyner, you are — 
 
 Joyn. Nay, good your worship, you are — 
 
 {.Stops her mouth with his handkerchief. 
 
 Gripe. I say you are — 
 
 Joyn. I must not be rude with your worship. 
 
 Gripe. You are a nursing mother to the saints ; 
 through you they gather together ; through you 
 tliey fructify and increase ; and through you the 
 child cries out of the hand-basket. 
 
 Joyn. Through you virgins are married, or pro- 
 vided for as well ; through you the reprobate's wife 
 is made a saint ; and through you the widow is not 
 disconsolate, nor misses her husband. 
 
 Gripe. Through you — 
 
 Joyn. Indeed you will put rae to the blush. 
 
 Gripe. Blushes are badges of imperfection : — 
 saints have no shame. You are — are the flower of 
 matrons, Mrs. Joyner. 
 
 Joyn. You are the pink of courteous aldermen. 
 
 Gripe. You are the muffler of secrecy. 
 
 Joyn. You are the head-band of justice. 
 
 Gripe. Thank you, sweet Mrs. Joyner : do you 
 think so indeed .' You are — you are the bonfire of 
 devotion. 
 
 Joyn. You are the bellows of zeal. 
 
 Gripe. You are the cup-board of charity. 
 
 Joyn. You are the fob of liberality. 
 
 Gripe. You are the rivet of sanctified love or 
 wedlock. 
 
 Joyn. You are the picklock and dark-lantern of 
 policy ; and, in a word, a conventicle of virtues. 
 
 Gripe. Your servant, your servant, sweet Mrs. 
 Joyner ! you have stopped my mouth. 
 
 Joyn. Your servant, your sei-vant, sweet alder- 
 man ! I have nothing to say. 
 
 Sir Sim. The half-pullet will be cold, sir. 
 
 Gripe. Mrs. Joyner, you shall sup with me. 
 
 Joyn. Indeed I am engaged to supper with some 
 of your man's friends ; and I came on purpose to 
 get leave for him too. 
 
 Gripe. I cannot deny you anything. But I have 
 forgot to tell you what a kind of fellow my sister's 
 Dapperwit is ; before a full table of the coflee- 
 liouse sages, he had the impudence to hold an argu- 
 ment against me in the defence of vests and pro- 
 tections ; and therefore I forbid him my house ; 
 besides, when he came I was forced to lock up my 
 daughter for fear of him, nay, I think the poor 
 child herself was afraid of him. — Come hither child, 
 were you not afraid of Dapperwit } 
 
 Mar. Yes indeed, sir, he is a terrible man. — 
 Yet I durst meet with him in a piazza at midnight. 
 
 {.Aside, 
 
 Gripe, He shall never come into my doors again. 
 
 Mar. Shall Mr. Dapperwit never come hither 
 again then ? 
 
 Gripe. No, child. 
 
 Mar. I am afraid he will. 
 
 Gripe. I warrant thee. * 
 
 Mar. [Aside.] I warrant you then I'll go tol 
 him. — I am glad of that, for I hate him as much 
 as a bishop. 
 
 Gripe. Thou art no child of mine, if thou dost 
 not hate bishops and wits. — Well, Mrs. Joyner, I'll 
 keep you no longer. [To Addj.eplot.] Jonas, 
 wait on Mrs. Joyner. 
 
 Joyn. Good night to your worship. 
 
 Gripe. But stay, stay, Mrs. Joyner : have you 
 spoken with the widow Crosabite about her little 
 daughter, as I desired ? 
 
G 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES S PARK. 
 
 ^ICT I. 
 
 Joyn. I will to morrow early; it shall be the 
 first thing I'll do after my prayers. 
 
 Gripe. If Dapperwit should contaminate her — 
 I cannot rest till I have redeemed her from the 
 jaws of that lion. — Good night. 
 
 Joyn. Good gentleman. 
 
 [,Excunt Gripe and Mahtha. 
 
 Sir Sim. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. Joyner. 
 
 Joyn. What's the matter, sir Simon ? 
 
 Sir Sim. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — let us make haste to 
 your house, or I shall burst, faith and troth, to see 
 what fools you and I make of these people. 
 
 Joyn. I will not rob you of any of the credit : — 
 I am but a feeble instrument, you are an engineer. 
 
 Sir Sim. Remember what you say now when 
 things succeed, and do not tell me then, — I must 
 thank your wit for all. 
 
 Joyn. No, in truly, sir Simon. 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, I am sure Dapperwit and I have 
 been partners in many an intrigue, and he uses to 
 serve me so. 
 
 Joyn. He is an ill man to intrigue with, as you 
 call it. 
 
 Sir Sim. Ay, so are all your wits ; a pox 1 if a 
 man's understanding be not so public as theirs, he 
 cannot do a wise action but they go away with the 
 honour of it, if he be of their acquaintance. 
 
 Joyn. Why do you keep such acquaintance then ! 
 
 Sir Sim. 'There is a proverb, Mrs. Joyner, You 
 may know him by his company. 
 
 Joyn. No, no, to be thought a man of parts, 
 jou must always keep company with a man of less 
 wit than yourself. 
 
 Sir Sim. That's the hardest thing in the world 
 for me to do, faith and troth. 
 
 Joyn. What, to find a man of less wit than your- 
 self ? Pardon my raillery, sir Simon. 
 
 Sir Sim. No, no, I cannot keep company with a 
 fool : — 1 wonder how men of parts can do't, there's 
 something in't. 
 
 Joyn. If you could, all your wise actions would 
 be your own, and your money would be your own 
 too. 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, faith and troth, that's true ; for 
 your wits are plaguily given to borrow. They'll 
 borrow of their wench, coachman, or linkboy, their 
 hire, Mrs. Joyner ; Dapperwit has that trick with 
 a vengeance. 
 
 Joyn. Why will you keep company with him 
 then, I say ? for, to be plain with you, you have 
 followed him so long, that you are thought but his 
 cully ; for every wit has his cully, as every squire 
 bis led captain. 
 
 Sir Sim. I his cully, I his cully, Mrs. Joyner ! 
 Lord, that I should be thought a cully to any wit 
 breathing! 
 
 Joyn. Nay, do not take it so to heart, for 
 the best wits of the town are but cullies them- 
 selves. 
 
 Sir Sim. To whom, to whom, to whom, Mrs. 
 Joyner ? 
 
 Joyn. To sempstresses and bawds. 
 
 Air Sim. To your knowledge Mrs. Joyner. — 
 [Aside.'i There I was with her. 
 
 Joyn. To tailors and vintners, hut especially to 
 the French houses. 
 
 Sir Sim. But Dapperwit is a cully to none of 
 them ; for he ticks. 
 I Joyn. I care not, but I wish you were a cully to 
 oone but me ; that's all the hurt I wish you. 
 
 Sir Sim. Thank you, Mrs. Joyner. Well, I will 
 throw oflF Dapperwit's acquaintance when I am 
 married, and will only be a cully to my wife ; and 
 that's no more than the wisest husband of 'em 
 all is. 
 
 Joyn. 1'hen you think you shall carry Mrs. 
 Martha ? 
 
 Sir Sim. Your hundred guineas are as good as 
 in your lap. 
 
 Joyn. But I am afraid this double plot of yours 
 should fail : you would sooner succeed if you only 
 designed upon Mrs. Martha, or only upon my lady 
 Flippant. 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, then, you are no woman of 
 intrigue, faith and troth: 'tis good to have two 
 strings to one's bow. If Mrs. Martha be coy, I tell 
 the vridow I put on my disguise for her ; hut if 
 Mrs. Martha be kind to Jonas, sir Simon Addleplet 
 will be false to the widow : which is no more than 
 widows are used to ; for a promise to a widow is as 
 seldom kept as a vow made at sea, as Dapperwit 
 says. 
 
 Joyn. I am afraid they should discover you. 
 
 Sir Sim. You have nothing to fear ; you have 
 your twenty guineas in your pocket for helping me 
 into my service, and if I get into Mrs. Martha's 
 quarters, you have a hundred more ; if into the 
 widow's, fifty : — happy go lucky ! Will her ladyship 
 be at your house at the hour .' 
 
 Joyn. Yes. 
 
 Sir Sim. Then you shall see when I am sir Simon 
 Addleplot and myself I'll look like myself ; now I 
 ana Jonas, 1 look like an ass. You never thought 
 sir Simon Addleplot could have looked so like 
 an ass by his ingenuity. 
 
 .Joyn. Pardon me, sir Simon. 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, do not flatter, faith and troth. 
 
 Joyn. Come let us go, 'tis time. 
 
 Sir Sim. I will carry the widow to the French- 
 house. 
 
 Joyn. If she will go. 
 
 Sir Sim. If she will go ! why, did you ever 
 know a widow refuse a treat ? no more than a 
 lawyer a fee, faith and troth : yet I know too — 
 No treat, sweet words, good mien, but sly intrigue, 
 That must at length the jilting widow fegue. 
 
 [^ExeuTit. 
 
 SCENE U.— The French-House. A Table, Wine, 
 and Candles. 
 
 Enter Vincent, Rangkb, and Dapperwit. 
 
 Dap. Pray, Mr. Ranger, let's have no drinking 
 to-night. 
 
 Vin. Pray, Mr. Ranger, let's have no Dapper 
 wit to-night. 
 
 Ran. Nay, nay, Vincent. 
 
 Vin. A pox I I hate his impertinent chat more 
 than he does the honest Burgundy. 
 
 Dap. But why should you force wine upon us ? 
 we are not all of your gusto. 
 
 Vin. But why should you force your chawed 
 jests, your damned ends of your mouldy lampoons, 
 and last year's sonnets, upon us ? we are not all of 
 your gusto. 
 
 Dap. The wine makes me sick, let me perish! 
 
 Vin. Thy rhymes make me spew. 
 
 Han. At repartee already! Come. Vincent. Z 
 know you would rather have him pledge you : here. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 LOVE, IN A WOOD; OK, ST. JAMES S PARK. 
 
 Dapperwit — IGives him the glass.'} — But why are 
 you so eager to have him drink always ? 
 
 Fire. Because he is so eager to talk always, and 
 there is no other way to silence him. 
 
 Enter Waiter. 
 
 Wail. Here is a gentleman des.ires to speak with 
 Mr. Vincent. 
 
 Vin. I come. lExit Vincbnt with Waiter. 
 
 Dap. He may drink, because he is obliged to 
 the bottle for all the wit and courage he has ; 'tis 
 not free and natural like yours. 
 
 Ran. He has more courage than wit, but wants 
 neither. 
 
 Oap. As a pump gone dry, if you pour no water 
 down you will get none out, so — 
 
 Ran. Nay, I bar similes too, to-night. 
 
 Dap. Why, is not the thought new ? don't you 
 apprehend it .' 
 
 Ran. Yes, yes, but — 
 
 Dap. Well, well, will you comply with his sot- 
 tishness too, and hate brisk things in complaisance 
 to the ignorant dull age ? I believe shortly 'twill 
 be as hard to find a patient friend to communicate 
 one's wit to, as a. faithful friend to communicate 
 one's secret to. Wit has as few true judges as 
 painting, I see. 
 
 Ran. All people pretend to be judges of both. 
 
 Dap. Ay, they pretend ; but set you aside, and 
 one or two more — 
 
 Ran. But why, has Vincent neither courage nor 
 wit? 
 
 Dap. He has no courage, because he beat his 
 wench for giving me les douces yeux once ; and no 
 wit, because he does not comprehend my thoughts ; 
 and be is a son of a whore for his ignorance. I 
 take ignorance worse from any man than the lie, 
 because 'tis as much as to say I am no wit. 
 
 JZe-en(er Vincent. 
 
 You need not take any notice, though, to Lim what 
 I say. 
 
 Vin. Ranger, there is a woman below in a coach 
 would speak with you. 
 
 Ran. With me ? [Exit Ranoeb. 
 
 Dap. This Ranger, Mr. Vincent, is as false to 
 his friend as his wench. 
 
 Vin. You have no reason to say so, but because 
 he is absent. 
 
 Dap. 'Tis disobliging to tell a man of his 
 faults to his face. If he had but your grave parts 
 and manly wit, I should adore him; but, a 
 pox ! he is a mere buffoon, a jack^pudding, let me 
 perish ! 
 
 Vin. You are an ungrateful fellow. I have heard 
 him maintain you had wit, which was more than 
 e'er you could do for yourself.— I thought you had 
 owned him your Maecenas. 
 
 Dap. A pox I he cannot but esteem me, 'tis for 
 his honour; but I cannot but be just for all that— 
 without favour or afifection. Yet I confess I love 
 him so well, that 1 wish he had but the hundredth 
 part of your courage. 
 
 Vin, He has had the courage to save you from 
 many a beating, to my knowledge. 
 
 Dap. Come, come, I wish the man.well, and, 
 next to you, better than any man ; and, I am sorry 
 to say it, he has not courage to snuff a candle with 
 his fingers. When he is drunk, indeed, he dares 
 get a clap, or so— and swear at a constable. 
 
 Vin. Detracting fop ! when did you see him de- 
 sert his friend.' 
 
 Dap. You have a rough kind of. a raillery, 
 Mr. Vincent ; but since you will have it, (though 
 I love the man heartily, I say,) he deserted me 
 once in breaking of windows, for fear of the 
 constables — 
 
 Ue-Rnter Ranger. 
 
 But you need not take notice to him of what I tell 
 you ; I hate to put a man to the blush. 
 
 Ran. I have had just now a visit from my mis- 
 tress, who is as jealous of me as a wife of her hus- 
 band when she lies in : — my cousin Lydia, you 
 
 have heard me speak of her. 
 
 Vin. But she is more troublesome than a wife 
 that lies in, because she follows you to your haunts. 
 Why do you allow her that privilege beforehertime ? 
 Ran. Faith, I may allow her any privilege, and 
 be too hard for her yet. How do you think I have 
 cheated her to-night .' — Women are poor credulous 
 creatures, easily deceived. 
 
 Vin. We are poor credulous creatures, when we 
 think 'em so. 
 
 Ran. Intending a ramble to St. James's Park 
 to-night, upon some probable hopes of some fresh 
 game I have in chase, I appointed her to stay at 
 home ; with a promise to come to her within this 
 hour, that she might not spoil the scent and prevent 
 my sport. 
 
 Vin. She'll be even with you when you are mar- 
 ried, I warrant you. In the mean time here's her 
 health, Dapperwit. 
 
 Ran. Now had he rather be at the window, 
 writing her anagram in the glass with his diamond, 
 or biting his nails in the corner for a fine thought 
 to come and divert us with at the table. 
 
 Dap. No, a pox ! I have no wit to-night. I am 
 as barren and hide-bound as one of your damned 
 scribbling poets, who are sots in company for all 
 their wit ; as a miser is poor for all his money. 
 How do you like the thought ? 
 Vin. Drink, drink ! 
 
 Dap. Well, I can drink this, because I shall be 
 reprieved presently. 
 
 Vin. Who will be so civil to us } 
 Dap. Sir Simon Addleplot : — I have bespoke 
 him a supper here, for he treats to-night a new rich 
 mistress. 
 
 Ran. That spark, who has his fruitless designs 
 upon the bed-ridden rich widow, down to the suck- 
 ing heiress in her pissing- clout. He was once the 
 sport, but now the public grievance, of all the for- 
 tunes in town; for he watches them like a younger 
 brother that is afraid to be mumped of his snip, 
 and they cannot steal a marriage, nor stay their 
 stomachs, but he must know it. 
 
 Dap. He has now pitched his nets for Gripe's 
 daughter, the rich scrivener, and serves him as a 
 clerk to get admission to her ; which the watchful 
 fop her father denies to all others. 
 
 Ran. I thought you had been nibbling at her 
 once, under pretence of love to her aunt. 
 
 Dap. I confess I have the same design yet, and 
 Addleplot is but my agent whilst he thinks me his. 
 He brings me letters constantly from her, and car- 
 ries mine hack. 
 
 Vin. Still betraying your best friends ! 
 Dap. I cannot in honour but betray him. Let 
 me perish ! the poor young wench is taken with 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 my person, and would scratch through four walls 
 to come to me. 
 
 Vin. 'Tis a sign she is kept up close indeed. 
 
 Dap. Betray him ! I'll not be traitor to love for 
 any man. 
 
 Enter Sir Simon Addleplot with the Waiter. 
 
 Sir Sim. Know 'em ! you are a saucy Jack-straw 
 to question me, faith and troth j I know everybody, 
 and everybody knows me. ', 
 
 All. Sir Simon ! Sir Simon ! Sir Simon ! 
 
 San. And you are a welcome man to every- 
 body. 
 
 Sir Sim. Now, son of a whore, do I know the 
 gentlemen 9 — A dog ! would have had a shilling of 
 me before he would let me come to you ! ' 
 
 Ran. The rogue has been bred at court, sure. — 
 Get you out, sirrah. [,Exit >Vaiier. 
 
 Sir Sim. He has been bred at a French-house, 
 where they are more unreasonable. 
 
 Vin. Here's to you, sir Simon. 
 
 Sir Sim. I cannot drink, for I have a mistress 
 within ; though I would not have the people of the 
 uouse CO know it. 
 
 Ran. You need not be ashamed of yovir mis- 
 tresses, for they are commonly rich. 
 
 Sir Sim. And because she is rich, I would con^ 
 ceal her ; for I never had a rich mistress yet, but 
 one or other got her from me presently, faith and 
 troth. 
 
 Jian. But this is an ill place to conceal a mis- 
 tress in ; every waiter is an intelligencer to your 
 rivals. 
 
 Sir Sim. I have a trick for that : — I'll let no 
 waiters come into the room ; I'll lay the cloth 
 myself rather. 
 
 Han. But who is your mistress .' 
 
 Sir Sim. Your servant, — your servant, Mr. 
 Ranger. 
 
 Vin. Come, will you pledge me ? 
 
 Sir Sim. No, I'll spare your wine, if you 
 will spare me Dapperwit's company ; I came for 
 that. 
 
 Vin. You do us a double favour, to take him and 
 leave the wine. 
 
 Sir Sim. Come, come, Dapperwit. 
 
 Ran. Do not go, unless he will suffer us to see 
 his mistress too. lAside to Dapperwit. 
 
 Sir Sim. Come, come, man. 
 
 Dap. Would you have me so uncivil as to leave 
 my company.' — they'll take it ill. 
 
 Sir Sim. I cannot find her talk without thee. — 
 Pray, gentlemen, persuade Mr. Dapperwit to go 
 with me. 
 
 San. We will not hinder him of better company.' 
 
 Dap. Yours is too good to be left rudely. 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, gentlemen, I would desire your 
 company too, if you knew the lady. 
 
 Dap. They know her as well as I ; you say I 
 know her not. 
 
 Sir Sim. You are not everybody. 
 
 San. Perhaps we do know the lady, sir Simon. 
 
 Sir Sim. You do not, you do not : none of you 
 ever saw her in your lives ; — but if you could be 
 secret, and civil — 
 
 San. We have drunk yet but our bottle a-piece. 
 
 Sir Sim. But will you be civil, Mr. Vincent ? 
 
 San. He dares not look a woman in the face 
 nnder three bottles. 
 
 Sir Sim. Come along then. Bnt can you be 
 
 civil, gentlemen ? will you be civil, gentlemen ? 
 pray be civil if you can, and you shall see her. 
 {ExU, and returns with my Lady Flipp.\nt and 
 
 Mrs. JOYNEB. , 
 
 Dap. How, has he got his jUt here!, lAside. 
 
 San. The widow Flippant ! lAside. 
 
 Vin. Is this the woman that we never saw! LAside. 
 
 Flip, Does he bring us into company I — and 
 Dapperwit one ! Though I had married the fool, 
 I thought to have reserved the wit as well as other 
 ladies. (.Aside. 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, look as long as^ou will, madam, 
 you will find them civil gentlemen, and good com- 
 pany. 
 
 Flip. I am not in doubt of their civility, but 
 yours. 
 
 Joi/n. You'll never leave snubbing your servants ! 
 Did you not promise to use him kindly .' 
 
 [Aside to Flippant. 
 
 Flip. [Jside to Joyner.] 'Tis true. — lAloud.'] 
 We wanted no good company, sir Simon, as long 
 as we had yours. 
 
 Sir Sim. But they wanted good company, there- 
 fore I forced 'em to accept of yours. 
 
 Flip. They will not think the company good 
 they were forced into, certainly. 
 
 Sir Sim. A pox ! I must be using the words in 
 fashion, though I never have any luck with 'em. 
 Mrs. Joyner, help me off. 
 
 Joj/n. I suppose, madam, he means the gentle- 
 men wanted not inclination to your company, but 
 confidence to desire so great an honour ; therefore 
 he forced 'em. 
 
 Dap. What makes this bawd here .' Sure, mis- 
 tress, you bawds should be like the small cards, 
 though at first you make up a pack, yet, when the 
 play begins, you should be put out as useless. 
 
 Joyn. Well, well, gibing companion : you would 
 have the pimps kept in only ? you would so ? 
 
 Vin. What, they are quarrelling I 
 
 San. Pimp and bawd agree now-a-days like 
 doctor and apothecary. 
 
 Sir Sim. Try, madam, if they are not civil gen- 
 tlemen : talk with 'em, while I go lay the cloth — ■ 
 no waiter comes here. — lAside.] My mother used 
 to tell me, I should avoid all occasions of talking 
 before my mistress, because silence is a sign of 
 love as well as prudence. [Lai/s the cloth. 
 
 Flip. Methinks you look a little yellow on't, 
 Mr. Dapperwit. I hope you do not censure me 
 because you find me passing away a night with this 
 fool : — he is not a man to be jealous of, sure. 
 
 Dap. You are not a lady to be jealous of, sure. 
 
 Flip. No, certainly. — But why do you look as if 
 you were jealous then ^ 
 
 Dap. If 1 had met you in Whetstone's-park, 
 with a drunken foot-soldier, I should not have been 
 jealous of you. 
 
 Flip. Fy, fy I now you are jealous, certainly ; 
 for people always, when they grow jealous, grow 
 rude :- — but I can pardon it since it proceeds frora 
 love certainly. 
 
 Dap. I am out of all hopes to be rid of this 
 eternal old acquaintance : when I jeer her, she 
 thinks herself praised ; now I call .her whore in 
 plain English, she thinks I am jealous. [Aside. 
 
 Flip. Sweet Mr. Dapperwit, be not so censo 
 rious, (I speak for your sake, not my own,) for 
 jealousy is a torment, but my honour canuot suf- 
 fer certainly. 
 
LOVE IN A "WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 Dap. No, certainly ; but the greatest torment I 
 have is — your love. 
 
 Flip. Alas ! sweet Mr. Dapperwit, indeed love 
 is a torment: but 'tis a sweet torment; but jealousy 
 is a bitter torment- — I do not go about to cure you 
 of the torment of my love. 
 
 Dap. 'Tis a sign so. 
 
 Flip. Come, come, look up, man ; is that a rival 
 to contest with you ? 
 
 Dap. I will contest with no rival, not with my 
 old rival your coachman ; but they have heartily 
 my resignation ; and, to do you a favour, but myself 
 a greater, I will help tie the knot you are fumbling 
 for now, betwixt your cully here and you. 
 
 Flip. Go, go, I take that kind of jealousy worst 
 of all, to suspect I would be debauched to beastly 
 matrimony. — But who are those gentlemen, pray? 
 are they men of fortunes, Mrs. Joyner \ 
 
 Joyn. I beUeve so. 
 
 Fhp. Do you believe so, indeed? — Gentlemen — 
 S_Adi'ancing towards Ranger and Vincent. 
 
 JFlan. If the civility we owe to ladies had not 
 controlled our envy to Mr. Dapperwit, we had 
 interrupted ere this your private conversation. 
 
 Flip. Your interruption, sir, had been most civil 
 and obliging ; — for our discourse was of marriage. 
 
 Ran. That is a subject, madam, as grateful as 
 common. 
 
 Flip. O fy, fy ! are you of that opinion too ? 
 I cannot suffer any to talk of it in my company. 
 
 Han. Are you married then, madam ? 
 
 Flip. No, certainly. 
 
 Raa. I am sure so much beauty cannot despair 
 of it. 
 
 Flip. Despair of it !— 
 
 Ran. Only those that are married, or cannot be 
 married, hate to hear of marriage. 
 
 Flip. Yet you must know, sir, my aversion to 
 marriage is such, that you, nor no man breathing, 
 shall ever persuade me to it. 
 
 Ran. Cursed be the man should do so rude a 
 thing as to persuade you to anything against your 
 inclination! I would not do it for the world, 
 madam. 
 
 Flip. Come, come, though you seem to be a 
 civil gentleman, I think you no better than your 
 neighbours. I do not know a man of you all that 
 will not thrust a woman up into a corner, and then 
 talk an hour to her impertinently of marriage. 
 
 Ran. You would find me another man in a cor- 
 ner, I assure you, madam ; for you should not have 
 a word of marriage from me, whatsoever you might 
 find in my aclions of it ; I hate talking as much as 
 you. 
 
 Flip. I hate it extremely. 
 
 Ran. 1 am your man then, madam ; for I find 
 jnst the same fault with your sex as you do with 
 ours : — I ne'er could have to do with woman in 
 my life, but still she would be impertinently talking 
 of marriage to me. 
 
 Flip. Observe that, Mrs. Joyner. 
 
 Dap. Pray, Mr. Ranger, let's go; I had rather 
 drink with Mr. Vincent, than stay here with you ; 
 besides 'tis Park-time. 
 
 Ran. [To DAPPfeRwiT.] I come. ^[ To Flip- 
 pant.] Since you are a lady that hate marriage, 
 I'll do you the service to withdraw the company ; 
 tor those that hate marriage hate loss of time. 
 
 Flip. Will you go then, sir ? but before you go, 
 sir, pray tell me is your aversion to marriage real ? 
 
 Ran. As real as yours. 
 
 Flip. If it were no more real than mine — 
 
 \_A8ide. 
 
 Ran. Your servant, madam. [_Turnsiogo. 
 
 Flip. But do you hate marriage certainly ? 
 
 \_Plucks flint back. 
 
 Ran. Certainly. 
 
 Flip. Come, I dannot beUeve it : you dissemble 
 it only because I pretend it. 
 
 Rail. Do you but pretend it then, madam ? 
 
 Flip* [^Asidel I shall discover myself-^[.4^0Mrf] 
 T mean, because I hold against it, you do the same 
 in complaisance : — for I have heard say, cunning 
 men think to bring the coy and untractable women 
 to lameness as they do some mad people — by 
 humouring their frenzies. 
 
 Ran. I am none of those cunning men, yet 
 have too much wit to entertain the presumption 
 of designing upon you. 
 
 Flip. 'Twere no such presumption neither. 
 
 Dap. Come away ; ''sdeath ! don't you see your 
 danger .■• 
 
 Ran. Those aims are for sir Simon. — Good night, 
 madam. 
 
 Flip. "Will you needs go, then? — \_To Sir Simon] 
 The gentlemen are a going, sir Simon; will you 
 let 'em ? 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, madam, if you cannot keep 'em, 
 how should I ? 
 
 Flip. Stay, sir; because you hate marriage, I'll 
 sing you a new song against it. iSings. 
 
 A sptmse I do hate, 
 For either she's false or she's jealous [ 
 
 But give us a mate 
 Who nothing will ask us or tell ua. 
 
 She stands on no terms, 
 Nnr chaffers, by way of indenture, 
 
 Her love for youi- farms; 
 But takes her kind man at a venture. 
 
 If all prove not right, 
 "Without an act, process, or warning'. 
 
 From wife for a night 
 Tou may be divorced in the morning. 
 
 When parents are slaves, 
 Their brats cannot be any otlier ; 
 
 Great wits and great braves 
 Have always a punk to their mother. 
 
 Though it be the fashion for women of quality 
 to sing any song .whatever, because the words 
 are not distinguished, yet I should have blushed 
 to have done it now, but for you, sir. 
 
 Ran. The song is edifying, the voice admirable 
 — and, once more, I am your servant, madam. 
 
 Flip. What, will you go too, Mr. Dapperwit ? 
 
 Sir Sim. PrKy, Mr. Dapperwit, do not you go 
 too. 
 
 Dap. I am engaged. 
 
 Sir Sim. Well, if we cannot have their company, 
 we will not have their room : ours is a private back- 
 room ; they have paid their reckoning, let's go 
 thither again. 
 
 Flip. Eftit pray, sweet Mr. Dapperwit, do not 
 go. Keep him. Sir Simon. 
 
 Sir Sim. I cannot keep him. 
 
 \_Exeunt VrNCENx, Ranger, and Dappeiiwit. 
 
 It is impossible ; (the world is so ;) 
 
 One cannot keep one's friend, and mistress too. 
 
10 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE l.—St. James's Park, at Night. 
 Enter Banqkr, Vincent, and Dappebwit. 
 
 Jian. Hang me, if I am not pleased extremely 
 with this new-fashioned caterwauling, this mid- 
 night coursing in the Park. 
 
 Vin. A man may come after supper with his 
 three bottles in his head, reel himself sober, with- 
 out reproof from his mother, aunt, or grave 
 relation. 
 
 Ran. May bring his bashful wench, and not 
 have her put out of countenance by the impudent 
 honest women of the town. 
 
 Dap. And a man of wit may have the better 
 of the dumb show of well-trimmed • vest or fair 
 peruke : — no man's now is whitest. 
 
 Ran. And now no woman's modest or proud ; 
 for her blushes are hid, and the rubies on her lips 
 are died, and all sleepy and glimmering eyes have 
 lost their attraction. 
 
 Vin. And now a man may carry a bottle under 
 his arm instead of his hat ; — and no observinfr 
 spruce fop will miss the cravat that lies on one's 
 shoulder, or count the pimples on one's face. 
 
 Jiap. And now the brisk repartee ruins the 
 complaisant cringe, or wise grimace. — Something 
 'twas, we men of virtue always loved the uight. 
 
 Ran. O blessed season ! 
 
 Vin. For good-fellows. 
 
 Ran. For lovers. 
 
 Dap. And for the Muses. 
 
 Ran. When I was a boy I loved the night so 
 well, 1 had a strong vocation to be a bellman's 
 apprentice. 
 
 Vin. I, a drawer. 
 
 Dap. And I, to attend the waits of Westmin- 
 ster, let me perish ! 
 
 Ran. But why do we not do the duty of this 
 and such other places ; — walk, censure, and speak 
 ill of all we meet ? 
 
 Dap. 'Tis no fault of mine, let me perish ! 
 
 Vin. Fy, fy ! satirical gentlemen, this is not 
 your time ; you cannot distinguish a friend from a 
 fop. 
 
 Dap. No matter, no matter ; they will deserve 
 amongst 'em the worst we can say. 
 
 Ran. Who comes here, Dapperwit ? 
 
 [People walking slowly over the stage. 
 
 Dap. By the toss of his head, training of his 
 feet, and his elbows playing at bo-peep behind his 
 back, it should be my lord Easy. 
 
 Ran. And who the woman ? 
 
 Dap, My Lord what-d'ye-call's daughter, that 
 had a child by — ' 
 
 Vin. Dapperwit, hold your tongue. 
 
 Jian. How ! are you concerned .' 
 
 Vin, Her brother's an honest fellow, and will 
 drink his glass. 
 
 Ran. Prithee, Vincent, Dapperwit did not hin- 
 der drinking to-night, though he spake against it ; 
 why, then, should you interrupt his sport ? — Now, 
 let him talk of anybody. 
 
 Vin. So he will,— till you cut his throat. 
 
 Ran. Why shbuld you on all occasions thwart 
 him, contemn him, and maliciously look grave at 
 his jests only .' 
 
 Vin. Why does he always rail against my 
 friends, then, and my best friend — a beer-glass ? 
 
 Ran. Dapperwit, be your own advocate : my 
 game, I think, is before me there. {.Exit. 
 
 Dap. This Ranger, I think, has all the ill qua- 
 lities of all your town fops ; — leaving his company 
 for a spruce lord or a wench. 
 
 Vin. Nay, if you must rail at your own best 
 friends, I may forgive you railing at mine. 
 
 Enter Lydia and my Lady Flippant. — They walk over 
 the stage. 
 
 Lyd. False Ranger, shall I find thee here .' 
 
 \_Aside. 
 Vin. Those are women, are they not } 
 
 [To Dapperwit. 
 Dap. The least seems to be my Lucy, sure. 
 
 [Anide. 
 Vin. Faith, I think I dare speak to a woman in 
 the dark ! — let's try. 
 
 Dap. They are persons of quality of my acquaiat- 
 ance ; — hold ! 
 
 Vin. Nay, if they are persons of quality of your 
 acquaintance, I may be the bolder with 'em. 
 
 [The ladies go off, they follow them. 
 
 Re-enter Lydia and my Lady Flippant. 
 
 Lyd. I come hither to make a discovery to-night. 
 
 Flip. Of my lovft to you, certainly ; for nobody 
 but you could have debauched me to the Park, 
 certainly. I would not return another night, if it 
 were to redeem my dear husband from his grave. 
 
 Lpd. i believe you : — but to get another, widow. 
 
 yiip. Another husband, another husband, fob ! 
 
 Lpd, There does not pass, a night here bat 
 many a match is made. 
 
 Flip. That a woman of honour should have the 
 word match in her mouth ! — but I hope, madam, 
 the fellows do not make honourable love here, do 
 they ? 1 abominate honourable love, upon my 
 honour. 
 
 Lyd. If they should make honourable love here, 
 I know you would prevent 'em. 
 
 Re-enter Vincent and Dapperwit. — They walk slowly 
 towards the ladies. 
 
 But here come two men will inform you what to do. 
 
 Flip. Do they come ? — are they men certainly ? 
 
 Lyd. Prepare for an assault, they'll put you to 't. 
 
 Flip. Will they put us to't certainly .' I was 
 never put to't yet. If they should put us to't, I 
 should drop down, down, certainly. 
 
 Lpd. I believe, truly, you would not have power 
 to run away. 
 
 Flip. Therefore I will not stay the push. — They 
 come ! they come ! oh, the fellows come ! 
 
 [Flippant runs away, I^vmA/ollows, and Vincent and 
 Dapperwit after them. 
 
 Re-enter Flippant at the other door, alone. 
 
 Flip. So ! lam got off clear ! I did not run from 
 the men, but my companion. For all their brags, 
 men have hardly courage to set upon us when our 
 number is equal ; now they shall see I defy 'em ; — 
 for we women have always most courage when we 
 are alone. But, a pox ! the lazy rogues come not : 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 n 
 
 or tbey are drunk and cannot run. Oh drink ! 
 abominable drink ! instead of inflaming love, it 
 quenches it ; and for one lover it encourages, it 
 makes a thousand impotent. Curse on all wine ! 
 even Rhenish wine and sugar — 
 
 Enter Addleplot, muffled in a cloak. 
 
 But fortune will not see me want ; here comes a 
 single bully, — I wish he may stand ; — 
 
 For now a-nights the jostling nymph is bolder 
 Than modern satyr with his cloak o'er shoulder. 
 Well met sir. C^'*^ P"'* ^" '"'** "*«^'^- 
 
 Sir Sim. How shall I know that, foi sooth? Who 
 are you ? do you know me ? 
 
 Flip. Who are you ? don't you know me ? 
 Sir Sim. Not I, faith and troth! 
 Flip. I am glad on't ; for no man e'er liked a 
 woman the better for having known her before. 
 
 Sir Sim. Ay, but then one can't be so free v/ith 
 a new acquaintance as with an old one ; she may 
 deny one the civility. 
 
 Flip. Not till you ask her. 
 Sir Sim. Butl am afraid to be denied. 
 Flip. Let me tell you, sir, you cannot iisoblige 
 us women more than in distrusting us. 
 
 Sir Sim. Pish ! what should one ask for, when 
 you know one's meaning.'' — but shall I deal freely 
 with you ? 
 
 Flip. I love, of my life, men should deal freely 
 with me ; there are so few men will deal freely with 
 one — 
 
 Sir Sim. Are you not afireship, a punk, madam ? 
 Flip. Well, sir, I love raillery. 
 Sir Sim. Faith and troth, I do not rally, I deal 
 freely. 
 
 Flip. This is the time and place for freedom, sir. 
 Sir Sim. Are you handsome ? 
 Flip. Joan's as good as my lady in the dark, 
 certainly : but men that deal freely never ask ques- 
 tions, certainly. 
 
 Sir Sim. How then ! I thought to deal freely, 
 and put a woman to the question, had been all one. 
 Flip. But, let me tell you, those that deal freely 
 indeed, take a woman by — 
 
 Sir Sim. What, what, what, what ? 
 Flip. By the hand — and lead her aside. 
 Sir Sim. Now I understand you ; come along 
 then. 
 
 Enter behind Musicians with torches. 
 
 Flip. What unmannerly rascals are those that 
 bring light into the Park ? 'twill not be taken well 
 from 'em by the women, certainly. — [^Aside."] Still 
 disappointed 1 
 
 Sir Sim, Oh, the fiddles, the fiddles ! I sent for 
 them hither to oblige the women, not to offend 'era ; 
 for I intend to serenade the whole Park to-night. 
 But my frolic is not without an intrigue, faith and 
 troth ; for I know the fiddles will call the whole 
 herd of vizard masks together ; and then shall I 
 discover if a strayed mistress of mine be not 
 amongst 'em, whom I treated to-night at the 
 French-house j but as soon as the jilt had eat up 
 my meat and drunk her two bottles, she ran away 
 from me, and left me alone. 
 
 Flip. How 1 is it he ! Addleplot ! — that I could 
 not know him by his faith and troth ! lAside. 
 
 Sir Sim. Now I would understand her tricks ; 
 because I intend to marry her, and should be glad 
 to know what I must trust to. 
 
 Flip. So thou shalt ; — but not yet. lAside. 
 
 Sir Si7ii. Though 1 can give a great guess 
 already ; for if I have any intrigue or sense in me, 
 she is as arrant a jilt as ever pulled pillow from 
 under husband's head, faith and troth. Moreover 
 she is bow-legged, hopper-hipped, and, betwixt 
 pomatum and Spanish red, has a complexion like 
 a Holland cheese, and no more teeth left, than 
 such as give a hant rjout to her breath ; but she is 
 rich, faith and troth. 
 
 Flip. [Aside.'\ Oh rascal 1 he has heard some- 
 body else say all this of me. But 1 must not 
 discover myself, lest I should be disappointed of 
 my revenge ; for I will marry him. 
 
 [77(6 Musicians approaching, exit Flippant. 
 
 Sir Sim. What, gone ! — come then, strike up, 
 my lads. 
 l_Enier Men and women in vizards — a Dance, during 
 
 which Addleplot, for the most part, stands still in a 
 
 cloak and vizard ; but sometimes goes about peeping, 
 
 and examining the women's clothes — the Dance ended, 
 
 all exeunt. 
 
 Re-enter Flippant and LvDrA, after them Vincent and 
 Dapperwit. 
 
 Flip. [To LrriA.] Nay, if you stay any longer, 
 X mufit leave you again. [Flippant ^oinp ojf- 
 
 Vin. We have overtaken them at last again. 
 These are they : they separate too ; and that's but 
 a challenge to us. 
 
 Dap. Let me perish ! ladies — 
 
 Lz/d. Nay good madam, let's unite, now here',s 
 the common enemy upon us. 
 
 Vin. Damn me ! ladies — 
 
 Dap. Hold, a pox ! you are too rough. — Let me 
 parish ! ladies — 
 
 Li/d Not for want of breath, gentlemen : — we'll 
 stay rather. 
 
 Dap. For want of your favour rather, sweet 
 ladies. 
 
 Flip. [Aside.] That's Dapperwit, false villain ! 
 but he must not know I am here. If he should, I 
 should lose his thrice agreeable company, and he 
 would run from me as fast as from the bailifis. 
 TTo Lydia.] What ! you will not talk with 'em, 1 
 hope ? 
 
 Lyd. Yes, but I will. 
 
 Flip. Then you are a Park-woman, certainly; 
 and you will take it kindly if I leave you. 
 
 Lpd. No, you must not leave me. 
 
 Flip. Then you must leave them. 
 
 Lpd. I'll see if they are worse company than you, 
 first. 
 
 Flip. Monstrous impudence '. — will you not 
 come?, IPuUs Lydia. 
 
 Virt. Nay, madam, I never suffer any violence to 
 be used to a woman but what I do myself : she 
 must stay, and you must not go. 
 
 Flip. Unhand me, you rude fellow ! 
 
 Vin. Nay, now I am sure you will stay and be 
 kind ; for coyness in a woman is as little sign of 
 true modesty, as huffing in a man is of true courage. 
 
 Dap. Use her gently, and speak soft things to 
 her. 
 
 Lyd. [Aside.] Now I do guess I know my cox- 
 comb. — [To Dapperwit.] Sir, I am extremely 
 glad I am fallen into the hands of a gentleman that 
 can speak soft things ; and this is so fine a night to 
 hear soft tilings in ; — morning, I should have said. 
 
 Dap. It will not be morning, dear madam, till 
 
12 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 you pull off your mask.— [Aside.] That I think 
 was brisk. 
 
 Lijd. Indeed, dear sir, my face would frighten 
 back the sun. 
 
 Dap. With glories more radiant than his own : 
 — [Aside.] I keep up with her, I think. 
 
 Lyd. But why would you put me to the trouble 
 of lighting the world, when I thought to have gone 
 to sleep ? 
 
 Dap. You only can do it, dear madam, let me 
 perish ! 
 
 Lyd. But why would you (of all men) practise 
 treason against your friend Phoebus, and depose 
 him for a mere stranger ? 
 
 Dap. I think she knows me. [_Asi<le. 
 
 Lyd. But he does not do you justice, I believe ; 
 and you are so positively cock-sure of your wit, 
 you would refer to a mere stranger your plea to the 
 bay-tree. 
 
 Dap. She jeers me, let me perish I [_Aside. 
 
 Vin. Dapperwit, a little of your aid j for my 
 lady's invincibly dumb. 
 
 Dap. Would mine had been so too ! lAside. 
 
 Vin. 1 have used as many arguments to make 
 her speak, as are requisite to make other women 
 hold their tongues. 
 
 Dap. Well, I am ready to change sides. — Yet 
 before I go, madam, since the moon consents now 
 1 should see your face, let me desire you to pull off 
 your mask ; which to a handsome lady is a favour, 
 I'm sure. 
 
 Lyd. Truly, sir, I must not be long in debt to 
 you for the obligation ; pray let me hear you recite 
 some Of your verses ; which to a wit is a favour, 
 I'm sure. 
 
 Dap. Madam, it belongs to your sex to be 
 obliged first ; pull off your mask, and I'll pull out 
 my paper. — [Aside.] Brisk again, of my side. 
 
 Lyd. 'Twould be in vain, for you would want a 
 candle now. 
 
 Dap. [Aside.] I dare not make use again of the 
 lustre of her face. — [To Lydia.] I'll wait upon 
 you home then, madam. 
 
 Lyd. Faith, no ; I believe it will not be much to 
 our advantages to bring my face or your> poetry 
 ti> light: for I hope you have yet a pretty good 
 opinion of my face, and so have I of your wit. 
 But if you are for proving your wit, why do not 
 you write a play .-' 
 
 Dap. Because 'tis now no more reputation to 
 write a play, than it is honour to be a knight. 
 Your true wit despises the title of poet, as much as 
 your true gentleman the title of knight ; for as a 
 man may be a knight and no gentleman, so a man 
 .nay be a poet and no wit, let me perish ! . 
 
 Lyd. Pray, sir, how are you dignified or dis- 
 tinguished amongst the rates of wits ? and how 
 many rates are there ? 
 
 Dap. There are as many degrees of wits as of 
 lawyers : as there is first your solicitor, then your 
 attorney, then your pleading-counsel, then your 
 chamber-counsel, and then your judge ; so there is 
 first your court-wit, your coffee-wit, your poll-wit, 
 or politic-wit, your chamber-wit, or scribble-wit, 
 and last of all, your judge-wit, or critic. 
 
 Lyd. But are there as many wits as lawyers .' 
 Lord, what will become of us ! — What employment 
 can they have ? how are they known .' 
 
 Dap. First, your court-wit is a fashionable, 
 insinuating, flattering, cringing, grimacing fellow 
 
 — and has wife enough to solicit a suit of love ; and 
 if he fail, he has malice enough to ruin the woman 
 with a dull lampoon : — but he rails still at the man 
 that is absent, for you must know all wits rail ; and 
 his wit properly lies in combing perukes, match- 
 ing ribbons, and being severe, as they call it, upon 
 other people's clothes. 
 
 Lyd. Now, what is the coffee -wit ? 
 
 Dap. He is a lying, censorious, gossiping, 
 quibbling wretch, and sets people together by the 
 ears over that sober drink, coffee : he is a wit, as 
 he is a commentator, upon the Gazette ; and he 
 rails at the pirates of Algier, the Grand Signior of 
 Constantinople, and the Christian Grand Signior. 
 
 Ltjd. What kind of wit is your poll-wit ? 
 
 Dap. He is a fidgetting, busy, dogmatical, hot- 
 headed fop, that speaks always in sentences and 
 proverbs, (as other in simiUtudes,) and he rails 
 perpetually against the present government. His 
 wit lies in projects and monopolies, and penning 
 speeches for young parliament men. 
 
 Lyd. But what is your chamber-wit, or scribble 
 wit? 
 
 Dap. He is a poring, melancholy, modest sot, 
 ashamed of the world ; he searches all the records 
 of wit, to compile a breviate of them for the use of 
 players, printers, booksellers, and sometimes cooks, 
 tobacco-men ; he employs his railing against the 
 ignorance of the age, and all that have more money 
 than he. 
 
 Lyd. Now your last. 
 
 Dap^ Your judge-wit, or critic, is all these 
 together, and yet has the wit to be none of them : 
 he can think, speak, write, as well as the rest, 
 but scorns (himself a judge) to be judged by pos- 
 terity : he rails at all the other classes of wits, and 
 his wit lies in damning all but himself : — he is your 
 true wit. 
 
 Lyd. Then, I suspect you are of his form. 
 
 Oap. I cannot d'eny it, madam. 
 
 Vin. Dapperwit, you have been all this time on 
 the wrong side ; for you love to talk all, and here's 
 a lady would not have hindered you. 
 
 Dap. A pox ! I have been talking too long 
 indeed here ; for wit is lost upon a silly weak 
 woman, as well as courage. lAside. 
 
 Vin. I have used all common means to move a 
 woman's tongue and mask ; I called her ugly, old, 
 and old acquaintance, and yet she would not dis- 
 prove me : — but here comes Ranger, let him try what 
 he can do ; for, since my mistress is dogged, I'll go 
 sleep alone. iExit. 
 
 Re-enter Ranger. 
 
 Lyd. [Aside.] Ranger! 'tis he indeed: I am 
 sorry he is here, but glad I discovered him before 
 I went. Yet he must not discover me, lest I 
 should be prevented hereafter in finding hira out. 
 False Ranger I — [To Flippant.] Nay, if they 
 bring fresh force upon us, madam, 'tis time to 
 quit the field. lExeunt Lydia and Flippant. 
 
 Ran. What, play with your quarry till it fiy 
 from you 1 
 
 Dap. You frighten it away. 
 
 Ban. Ha ! is not one of those ladies in mourn 
 ing? 
 
 Dap. All women are so by this light. 
 
 H'ln. But you might easily discern. Don't you 
 know her ? 
 
 J)ap. No. 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 i;s 
 
 Ran. Did you talk with her ? 
 
 Dap. Yes, she is one of your brisk silly baggages. 
 
 Ran. 'Tisshe, 'tis she ! — I was afraid I saw her 
 before ; let us follow 'em : prithee make haste. — 
 lAside.'\ 'Tis Lydia. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Re-enter, at the other door, Lydia and my Lady Flippant 
 — DArPEBWiT and Ranger following them at a distance. 
 
 Lyd. They follow us yet, I fear. 
 
 Flip. You do not fear it, certainly ; otherwise 
 you would not have encouraged them. 
 
 Lyd. For Heaven's sake, madam, waive your 
 quarrel a little, and let us pass by your coach, ami 
 so on foot to your acquaintance in the old Pall-mall ; 
 for I would not be discovered by the man that came 
 up last to us. lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Christina's Lodging, 
 Enter Christina and Isabel. 
 
 Isa. For Heaven's sake, undressyourself, madam ! 
 They'll not return to-night : all people have leit 
 the Park an hour ago. 
 
 Chri. What is't o'clock ? 
 
 Isa. 'Tis past one. 
 
 Chri. It cannot be ! 
 
 Isa. I thought that time had only stolen from 
 happy lovers : — the disconsolate have nothing to 
 do but to tell the clock, 
 
 Chri. 1 can only keep account with my mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 Isa, I am glad they are not innumerable. 
 
 Chri. And, truly, my undergoing so often your 
 impertinency is not the least of them, 
 
 Isa. I am then more glad, madam, for then they 
 cannot be great; and it is in my power, it seems, 
 to make you in part happy, if 1 could but hold 
 this villanous tongue of mine : but then let the 
 people of the town hold their tongues if they will, 
 for I cannot but tell you what they say, 
 
 Chri. What do they say ? 
 
 Isa. Faith, madam, I am afraid to tell you, now 
 I think on't. 
 
 Chri. Is it so ill ? 
 
 Isa. O, such base, unworthy things ! 
 
 Chri. Do they say I was really Clerimont's 
 wench, as he boasted ; and that the ground of the 
 quarrel betwixt Valentine and him was not Valen- 
 tine's vindication of my honour, but Clerimont's 
 jealousy of him ? 
 
 Isa. Worse, worse a thousand times! — such vil- 
 lanous things to the utter ruin of your reputation [ 
 
 Chri. What are they ? 
 
 Isa. Faith, madam, you'll be angry : 'tis the 
 old trick of lovers to hate their informers, after 
 they have made 'em such. 
 
 Chri. I will not be angry. 
 
 Isa. They say then, since Mr. Valentine's flying 
 into France, you are grown mad, have put yourself 
 into mourning, live in a dark room, where you'll 
 see nobody, nor take any rest day or night, but 
 rave and talk to yourself perpetually. 
 
 Chri. Now, what else ? 
 
 Isa. But the surest sign of your madness is, 
 they say, because you are desperately resolved (in 
 case my lord Clerimont- should die of his wounds) 
 to transport yourself and fortune into France to 
 Mr. Valentine : a man that has not a groat to 
 return you in exchange. 
 
 Chri, AU this, hitherto, is true ; now to the 
 rest. 
 
 Isa, Indeed, madam, I have no more to tell 
 you. I was sorry, I'm sure, to hear so much of 
 any lady of mine. 
 
 Cltri. Insupportable insolence ! 
 
 Isa. \_Aside.'\ This is some revenge for my want 
 of sleep to-night. — [Snocking at the door.] So, I 
 hope my old second is come ; 'tis seasonable relief. 
 
 lExit, 
 
 Chri. Unhappy Valentine ! couldst thou but 
 see how soon thy absence and misfortunes have 
 disbanded all thy friends, and turned thy slaves all 
 renegadoes, thou sure wouldst prize my only faith- 
 ful heart I 
 
 Enter my Lady Fi,rppANT, Lydia, and Isabel. 
 
 Flip. Hail, faithful shepherdess ! but, truly, I 
 had not kept my word with you, in coming back 
 to-night, if it had not been for this lady, who 
 has her intrigues too with the fellows as well as 
 you. 
 
 Lyd. Madam, under my lady Flippant's pro- 
 tection, I am confident to beg yours ; being just 
 now pursued out of the Park by a relation of mine, 
 by whom it imports me extremely not to be dis- 
 covered: — \^E7iocking at the door.'] butlfearheis 
 now at the door. — [ To Isabel, who goes out.'] Let 
 me desire you to deny me to him courageously ; — 
 for he will hardly believe he can be mistaken in me. 
 
 Chri. In such an occasion, where impudence is 
 requisite, she will serve you as faithfully as you 
 can wish, madam. 
 
 Ftip. Come, come, madam, do not upbraid her 
 with her assurance, a qualification that only fits 
 her for a lady's service. A fine woman of the 
 town can be no more without a woman that can 
 make an excuse with assurance, than she can be 
 without a glass, certainly. 
 
 Chri, She needs no advocate. 
 
 Flip. How can any one alone manage an 
 amorous intrigue? though the birds are tame, 
 somebody must help draw the net. If 'twere 
 not for a woman that could make an excuse with 
 assurance, how should we wheedle, jilt, trace, dis- 
 cover, countermine, undermine, and blow up the 
 stinking fellows? which is all the pleasure I receive, 
 or design by them ; for I never admitted a man to 
 my conversation, but for his punishment, certainly. 
 
 Chri. Nobody will doubt that, certainly. 
 
 Re-enter Isabel. 
 
 Isa. Madam, the gentleman will not be mis- 
 taken : he says you are here, he saw you come in ; 
 he is your relation, his name 's Ranger, and is 
 come to wait upon you home. X had much ado to 
 keep him from coming up. 
 
 Lyd. [To Christina.] Madam, for Heaven's 
 sake, help me ! 'tis yet in your power ; if but, 
 while I retire into your dining-room, you will 
 please to personate me, and own yourself for her 
 he pursued out of the Park : you are in raourniog 
 too, and your stature so much mine it will not 
 contradict you. 
 
 Chri. I am sorry, madam, I must dispute any 
 command of yours. I have made a resolution to 
 see the face of no man, till an unfortunate friend 
 of mine, now out of the kingdom, return, 
 
 Lyd. By that friend, and by the hopes you 
 have to see him, let me conjure you to keep me 
 
)4 
 
 LOVK IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 from the sight of mine now. Dear madam, let 
 your charity prevail over your superstition. 
 Isa. He comes, he comes, madam ! 
 
 [Lydia withdraws, and stands unseen at the door. 
 
 Enter Rano£r. 
 
 Ran. Ha ! this is no Lydia. lAside, 
 
 Chri. What, unworthy defamer ! has encouraged 
 you to offer this insolence ? 
 
 Han. She is liker Lydia in her style than her 
 face. I see 1 am mistaken ; but to tell her 1 fol- 
 lowed her for another, were an affront rather than 
 an excuse. She 's a glorious creature ! lAside. 
 
 Chri. Tell me, sir, whence had you reason for 
 this your rude pursuit of me, into my lodgings, my 
 chamber ? why should you follow me .' 
 
 Ran. Faith, madam, because you run away from 
 me. 
 
 Chri. That was no sign of an acquaintance. 
 
 Ran. You *11 pardon me, madam. 
 
 Chri. Then, it seems, you mistook me for an- 
 other, and the night is your excuse, which blots 
 out all distinctions. But now you ai'e satisfied in 
 your mistake, I hope you will seek out your woman 
 in another place. 
 
 Ran. Madam, I allow not the excuse you make 
 for me. If I have offended, I will rather be con- 
 demned for my love, than pardoned for my insen- 
 dibiltty. 
 
 Lpd. How 's that ? [Aside. 
 
 Chri. What do you say ? 
 
 Ran. Though the night had been darker, my 
 heart would not have suffered me to follow any 
 one but you : — he has been too long acquainted 
 with you to mistake you. 
 
 Lyd. What means this tenderness .' he mistook 
 me for her sure. \_Aside. 
 
 Chri. What says the gentleman ? did you 
 know me then, sir ? 
 
 Ran. \A3ide.'\ Not T, the devil take me ! but I 
 must on now. — [Aloud. ] Could you imagine, ma- 
 dam, by the innnmerajsle crowd of your admirers, 
 you had left any man free in the town, or ignorant 
 of the power of your beauty ? 
 
 Chri. I never saw your face before, that I re- 
 member. 
 
 Ran. Ah, madam ! you would never regard your 
 humblest slave ; 1 was till now a modest lover. 
 
 Lyd. Falsest of men ! LAside. 
 
 Chri. My woman said, you came to seek a re- 
 lation here, not a mistress. 
 
 Ran. I must confess, madam, I thought you 
 would sooner disprove my dissembled error, than 
 admit my visit, and was resolved to see you. 
 
 Lyd. 'Tis clear ! lAside. 
 
 Ran. Indeed, when I followed you first out of the 
 Park, I was afraid you might have been a certain 
 relation of mine, for your statures and habits are 
 the same ; but when you entered here, I was with 
 joy convinced. Besides, I would not for the world 
 have given her troublesome love so much en- 
 couragement, to have disturbed my future ad- 
 dresses to you ; for the foolish woman does per- 
 petually torment me to make our relation nearer ; 
 but never more in vain than since I have seen you, 
 madam. 
 
 Lyd. How ! shall I suffer this ? 'tis clear he dis- 
 appointed me to-night for her, and made me stay 
 at home, that I might not disappoint him of her 
 company in the Park. \Aside. 
 
 Chri. I am amazed ! but let me tell you, sir, if 
 the lady were here, I would satisfy her the sight 
 of me should never frustrate her ambitious designs 
 upon her cruel kinsman. 
 
 Lyd. I wish you could satisfy me. lAside. 
 
 Ran. If she were here, she would satisfy you 
 she were not capable of the honour to be taken for 
 you :— though in the dark. Faith, my cousin is 
 but a tolerable woman to a man that had not seen 
 you. 
 
 Chri. Sure, to my plague, this is the first time 
 you ever saw me ! 
 
 Ran. Sure, to the plague of my poor heart, 'tis 
 not the hundredth time I have seen you ! For, since 
 the time I saw you first, you have not been at the 
 Park, playhouse. Exchange, or other public place, 
 but I saw you ; for it was my business to watch 
 and follow. 
 
 Chri. Pray, when did you see me last at the 
 Park, playhouse, or Exchange ? 
 
 Ran. Some two, three days, or a week ago. 
 
 Chri. I have not been this month out of this 
 chamber. 
 
 Lyd. That is to delude me. lAside 
 
 Chri. I knew you were mistaken. 
 
 Ran. You'll pardon a lover's memory, madam. 
 — {Aside.^ A pox 1 I have hanged myself in my 
 own line. One would think my perpetual ill, luck 
 in lying should break me of the quality ; but, like 
 a losing gamester, I am still for pushing on. till 
 none will trust me. 
 
 Chri. Come, sir, you run out of one error into 
 a greater : you would excuse the rudeness of your 
 mistake, and intrusion at this hour into my lodg- 
 ings,/with your gallantry to me, — more unseason- 
 able and offensive. 
 
 Ran. Nay, I am in love I see, for I blush and 
 have not a word to say for myself. 
 
 Chri. But, sir, if you will needs play the gal- 
 lant, pray leave my house before morning, lest you 
 should be seen go hence, to the scandal of my 
 honour. Rather than that should be, I'll call up 
 the house and neighbours to bear witness I bid you 
 begone. 
 
 Ran. Since you take a night visit so ill, madam, 
 I will never wait upon you again but by day. I 
 go, that I may hope to return ; and, for once, I wish 
 you a good night without me. 
 
 Chri. Good night, for as long as I live. 
 
 lExit Ranger. 
 
 Lyd. And good night to my love, I'm sure. 
 
 lAside, 
 
 Chri. Though I have done you an inconsider- 
 able service, I assure you, madam, you are not a 
 little obliged to me. — \_Aside.'\ Pardon me, dear 
 Valentine ! 
 
 Lyd. I know not yet whether I am more ob- 
 liged than injured : when I do, I assure you, ma- 
 dam, I shall not be insensible of either. 
 
 Chri. I fear, madam, you are as liable to mis- 
 takes as your kinsman. 
 
 Lyd. I fear I am more subject to 'em : it may 
 be for want of sleep, therefore I'll go home. 
 
 Chri. My lady Flippant, good night. 
 
 Flip. Good night, or rather good morrow, faith 
 ful shepherdess. 
 
 Chri. I'll wait on you down, 
 
 Lyd. Your coach stays yet, I hope. 
 
 Flip. Certainly. ' [Exeun'. 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; 01^, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 16 
 
 SCENE III.- 
 
 -The Street before 
 Lodging. 
 
 Christina's 
 
 Enter Ranger and Dapperwit. 
 
 Dap. I was a faithful sentinel : nobody came 
 out, let me perish ! 
 
 Ran. No, no, I hunted upon a wrong scent ; I 
 thought I had followed a woman, but found her an 
 angel. 
 
 Dap. What is her name ? 
 
 Ran. That you must tell me. What very fine 
 woman is there lives hereabouts .' 
 
 Dap. Faith, I know not any. She is, I warrant 
 you, some fine woman of a term's standing or so in 
 the town ; such as seldom appear in public, but 
 in their balconies, where they stand so constantly, 
 one would think they had hired no other part of 
 the house. 
 
 Ran. A.nd look like the pictures which painters 
 expose to draw in customers ; — but I must know 
 who she is. Vincent's lodging is hard by, I'll go 
 and inquire of him, and lie with him to-night : but 
 if he will not let me, I'll lie with you, for my lodg- 
 ing is too far off. 
 
 Dap. Then I will go before, and expect you at 
 mine. [.Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV Vincent's Lodging. 
 
 Enter Vincent, and Valentine in a riding Jia^itt as 
 newly from a journey. 
 
 Vin. Your mistress, dear Valentine, wiU not b3 
 more glad to see you ! but my wonder is no Igss 
 than my joy, that you would return ere you were 
 informed Clerimont were out of danger. His 
 surgeons themselves have not been assured of his 
 recovery till within these two days. 
 
 Val. I feared my mistress, not my life. My 
 life I could trust again with my old enemy fortune ; 
 but no longer my mistress in the hands of my 
 greater enemies, her relations. 
 
 Vin. Your fear was in the wrong place, 
 then : for though my lord Clerimont live, he 
 and his relations may put you in more danger 
 of your life than your mistress's relations can of 
 losing her. 
 
 Val. Would any could secure her ! I would 
 myself secure my life, for I should value it then. 
 
 Vin. Come, come ; her relations can do you no 
 hurt. I dare swear, if her mother should but say, 
 Your hat did not cock handsomely, she would 
 never ask her blessing again. 
 
 Val. Prithee leave thy fooling, and tell me, if, 
 since my departure, she has given evidences of her 
 love, to clear those doubts I went away with : — 
 for as absence is the bane of common and bastard 
 love, 'tis the vindication of that which is true and 
 generous. 
 
 Fill. Nay, if you could ever doubt her love, you 
 deserve to doubt on ; for there is no punishment 
 great enough for jealousy — but jealousy. 
 
 Val. You may remember, I told you before my 
 flight I had quarrelled with the defamer of my 
 mistress, but I thought I had killed my rival. 
 
 Vin. But pray give me now the answer, which 
 the suddenness of your flight denied me ; — how 
 could Clerimont hope to subdue her heart by the 
 assault of her honour ? 
 
 Val. Pish ! it might be the stratagem of a rival 
 to make me desist. 
 
 Vin. For shame ! if 'twere not rather to vindicate 
 her, than satisfy you, I would not tell you how like 
 a Penelope she has behaved herself in your 
 absence. 
 
 Val. Let me know. 
 
 Vin- Then know, the next day you went she pnt 
 herself in mourning, and — 
 
 Vul. That might be for Clerimont, thinking him 
 dead, as all the world besides thought. 
 
 Vin. Still turning the dagger's point on your- 
 self! hear me out. I say she put herself into 
 mourning for you — locked herself in her chamber 
 this month for you— shut out her barking relations 
 for you — has not seen the sun or the face of man 
 since she saw you— thinks and talks of nothing but 
 you — sends to me daily to hear of you ■ — and, in 
 short, (I think,) is mad for you. All this I can 
 swear ; for I am to her so near a neighbour, and 
 so inquisitive a friend for you — 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Mr. Hanger, sir, is coming up. 
 
 Vin. What brings him now ? he comes to lis 
 with me. 
 
 Val. Who, Ranger ? 
 
 Vin. Yes. Pray retire a little, till I send him 
 off ; — unless you have a mind to have your arrival 
 published to-morrow in the coffee-houses. 
 
 [Valentine retires to the door behind. 
 
 Enter Ranger. 
 
 Ran, What ! not yet a-bed .' your man is laying 
 you to sleep with usquebaugh or brandy ; is he not 
 so .'' 
 
 Vin. What punk will not be troubled with you 
 to-night, therefore I am } — is it not so ? 
 
 Ran. I have been turned out of doors, indeed, 
 just now, by a woman, — but such a woman, Vin- 
 cent ! 
 
 Vin. Yes, yes, your women are always such 
 women ! 
 
 Ran. A neighbour of yours, and I 'm sure the 
 finest you have. 
 
 Vin. Prithee do not asperse my neighbourhood 
 with your acquaintance ; 'twould bring a scandai 
 upon an alley. 
 
 Ran. Nay, I do not know her ; therefore I come 
 to you. 
 
 Vin. 'Twas no wonder she turned you out of 
 doors, then ; and if she had known you, 'twould 
 have been a wonder she had let -you stay. But 
 where does she live ? 
 
 Rart. Five doors off, on the right hand. 
 
 Vin. Pish ! pish ! — 
 
 Ran. What 's the matter ? 
 
 Vin. Does she live there, do you say ? 
 
 Ran. Yes ; I observed them exactly, that my 
 account from you might be exact. Do you know 
 who lives there ? 
 
 Vin. Yes, so well, that I know you are mistaken. 
 
 Man. Is she not a young lady scarce eighteen, 
 of extraordinary beauty, her stature next to low, 
 and in mourning ? 
 
 Val. What is this ? W»'<'«- 
 
 Vin. She is ; but if you saw her, yon broke in at 
 window. 
 
 Ran. I chased her home from the Park, indeed. 
 
16 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES S PARK. 
 
 taking her for another lady who had some claim to 
 my heart, till she showed a better title to 't. 
 
 Vin. Hah ! hah ! hah ! 
 
 Fal. Was she at Park, then ? and have I a new 
 rival ? lAiitle. 
 
 Vin. From the Park did you follow her, do 
 you say ? — I knew you were mistaken. 
 
 Ban. I tell you I am not. 
 
 Vin. If you are sure it was that house, it might 
 be perhaps her woman stolen to the Park, unknown 
 to her lady. 
 
 Ran. My acquaintance does usually begin with 
 the maid first, but now 'twas with the mistress, I 
 assure you. 
 
 Viii. The mistress ! — I tell you she has not 
 Deen out of her doors since Valentine's flight. She 
 is his mistress, — the great heiress Christina. 
 
 Ran. I tell you then again, I followed that 
 Christinafrom the Park home, where I talked with 
 her half an hour, and intend to see her to-morrow 
 again. 
 
 Val. Would she talk with him too ! [^Aside. 
 
 Vin. It cannot be. 
 
 Ran. Christina do you call her.' Faith I am 
 sorry she is an heiress, lest it should bring the 
 scandal of interest, and the design of lucre, upon 
 my love. 
 
 Vin. No, no, her face and virtues will free you 
 from that censure. But, however, 'tis not fairly 
 done to rival your friend Valentine in his absence ; 
 
 and when he is present you know 'twill be danger- 
 ous, by my lord Clerimont's example. Faith, if 
 you have seen her, I would not advise you to 
 attempt it again. 
 
 Ran. You may be merry, sir, you are not in 
 love ; your advice I come not for, nor will I for 
 your assistance. — Good night. lExU. 
 
 Val. Here's your Penelope ! the woman that 
 had not seen the sun, nor face of man, since my 
 departure ! for it seems she goes out in the night, 
 when the sun is absent, and faces are not distin- 
 guished. 
 
 Vin. Why ! do you believe him ? 
 
 Val. Should I believe you .' 
 
 Vin. 'Twere more for your interest, and you 
 would be less deceived. If you believe him, you 
 must doubt the chastity of all the fine women in 
 town, and five miles about, 
 
 Val. His reports of them will little invalidate his 
 testimony with me. 
 
 Vin. He spares not the innocents in bibs and 
 aprons. I'll secure you, he has made (at best) 
 some gross mistake concerning Christina, which 
 to-morrow will discover ; in the mean time let us 
 go to sleep. 
 
 Val. 1 will not hinder you, because I cannot 
 enjoy it myself : — 
 
 Hunger, Revenge, to sleep are petty foes. 
 But only Death the jealous eyes can close. 
 
 iExeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Crossbite's House. 
 Enter Mrs. Joyner and Mrs. Ckosshite. 
 
 Joyn. Good morrow, gossip. 
 
 Cros. Good morrow ; — but why up so eai-ly, 
 good gossip ? 
 
 Joyn. My care and passionate concern for you 
 and yours would not let me rest, in truly. 
 
 Cros. For me and mine ' 
 
 Joyn. You know we have known one another 
 long ; I think it be some nine-and-thirty years 
 jince you were married. 
 
 Cros. Nine-and-thirty years old, mistress ! I'd 
 have you to know, I am no far-born child; and if the 
 register had not been burned in the last great fire, 
 alas 1 — but my face needs no register sure ; nine- 
 and-thirty years old, said you .' 
 
 Joyn. I said .you had been so long married ; but, 
 indeed, you bear your years as well as any she in 
 Pepper- alley. 
 
 Cros. Nine-and-thirty, mistress ! 
 
 Joyn, This it is ; a woman, now-a-days, had 
 rather you should find her faulty with a man, I 
 warrant you, than discover her age, I warrant 
 you. 
 
 Cros. Marry, and 'tis the greatest secret far. 
 Tell a miser he is rich, and a woman she is old, — 
 you will get uo money of him, nor kindness of her. 
 To tell me I was nine-and-thirty — (1 say no more) 
 'twas unneighbourly done of you, mistress. 
 
 Joyn. My memory confesses my age, it seems, 
 as much as my face ; for I thought — 
 
 C'os. Pray talk nor think no more of any one's 
 age ; but say what brought you hither so early. 
 
 Joyn, How does my sweet god-daughter, poor 
 wretch ? 
 
 Cros. Well, very well. 
 
 Joyn. Ah, sweet creature ! Alas ! alas ! — I am 
 sorry for her. 
 
 Cros. Why, what has she done to deserve your 
 sorrow, or my reprehension ? 
 
 Enter Lucy, and stands unseen at the door. 
 
 Lucy. What, are they talking of me ? lAside. 
 
 Joyn. In short, she was seen going into the meet- 
 inghouse of the wicked, otherwise called a playhouse, 
 hand in hand with that vile fellow Dapperwit. 
 
 Cros. Mr. Dapperwit I let me tell you, if 'twere 
 not for master Dapperwit, we might have lived all 
 this vacation upon green cheese, tripe, and ox 
 cheek. If he had it, we should not want it ; but, 
 poor gentleman ! it often goes hard with him, — for 
 he's a wit. 
 
 Joyn. So, then, you are the dog to be fed, 
 while the house is broken up ! 1 say, beware ! 
 The sweet bits you swallow will make your daugh- 
 ter's belly swell, mistress ; and, after all your jun- 
 kets, there will be a bone for you to pick, mistress. 
 
 Cros. Sure, master Dapperwit is no such man- 
 ner of man ! 
 
 Joyn. He is a wit, you say j and what are wits, 
 but contemners of matrons, seducers, or defamers 
 of married women, and deflowerers of helpless vir- 
 gins, even in the streets, upon the very bulks j 
 affronters of midnight magistracy, and breakers uf 
 windows .' in a word — 
 
 Cros. But he is a little wit, a modest wit, and they 
 do no such outrageous things as your great wits do. 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 17 
 
 Joyn. Nay, I dare say, he will not say himself 
 tie is a little wit if you ask him. 
 
 Lucy. Nay, I cannot hear this with patience. — 
 — \_Comes forward.'] With your pardon, mother, 
 you are as much mistaken as my godmother in 
 Mr. Dapperwit ; for he is as great a wit as any, 
 and in what he speaks or writes as happy as any. 
 I can assure you, he contemns all your tearing wits, 
 in comparison of himself. 
 
 Joyn. Alas, poor young wretch ! I cannot blame 
 thee so much as thy mother, for thou art not thyself. 
 His bewitching madrigals have charmed thee into 
 some heathenish imp with a hard name. 
 
 Lucy. Nymph, you mean, godmother. 
 
 Joyn. But you, gossip, know what's what. 
 Yesterday, as I told you, a fine old alderman of 
 the city, seeing your daughter fe so ill hands as 
 Dapperwit's, was zealously, and in pure charity, 
 bent upon her redemption ; and has sent ir.e to 
 tell you, he will take her into his care and relieve 
 your necessities, if you think good. 
 
 Cros. Will he relieve all our necessities ? 
 
 Joyn. All. 
 
 Cros. Mine, as well as my daughter's ? 
 
 Joyn. Yes. 
 
 Cros, Well fare his heart ! — D'ye hear, daugh- 
 ter, Mrs. Joyuer has satisfied me clearly ; Dapper- 
 wit is a vile feUow, and, in short, you must put an 
 end to that scandalous familiarity between you. 
 
 Lucy. Leave sweet Mr. Dapperwit ! — oh furious 
 ingratitude I Was he not the man that gave me 
 my first Farrendon gown, put me out of worsted 
 stockings and plain handkerchiefs, taught me to 
 dress, talk, and move well ? 
 
 Cros. He has taught you to talk indeed ; but, 
 huswife, I will not have my pleasure disputed. 
 
 Joyn. Nay, indeed, you are too tart with her, 
 poor sweet soul. 
 
 Lucy. He taught me to rehearse, too, — would 
 have brought me into the playhouse, where I might 
 have had as good luck as others : T might have had 
 good clothes, plate, jewels, and things so well 
 about me, that my neighbours, the little gentle- 
 men's wives of fifteen hundred or two thousand 
 pounds a-year, should have retired into the country, 
 sick with envy of my prosperity and greatness. 
 
 Joyn. If you follow your mother's counsel, you 
 are like to enjoy all you talk of sooner than by 
 Dapperwit's assistance : — a poor wretch that goes 
 on tick for the paper he writes his lampoons on, 
 and the very ale and coffee that inspire Mm, as 
 they say, 
 
 Cros. I am credibly informed so, indeed, madam 
 Joyner. 
 
 Joyn. Well, I have discharged my conscience ; 
 good morrow to you both, \_Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. — Cbossbite's Dining Room. 
 
 Enter Dapperwit and Ranger. 
 
 Dap. This is the cabinet in which I hide ray 
 jewel ; a small house, in an obscure, little, retired 
 street, too. 
 
 Ran. Vulgarly, an alley. 
 
 Dap. Nay, I hide my mistress with as much 
 care as a spark of the town does his money from 
 his dun after a good hand of play ; and nothing 
 but you could have wrought upon me for a sight 
 of her, let me perish \ 
 
 Ran. My obligation to you is great ; do not 
 lessen it by delays of the favour you promised. 
 
 Dap. But do not censure my honour ; for if 
 you had not been in a desperate condition, — for as 
 one nail must beat out another, one poison expel 
 another, one fire draw out another, one fit of 
 
 drinking cure the sickness of another, so, the 
 
 surfeit you took last night of Christina's eyes shall 
 be cured by Lucy's this morning ; or as — 
 
 Ran. Nay, I bar more similitudes. 
 
 Dap. What, in my mistress's lodging ? that 
 were as hard as to bar a young parson in the pul- 
 pit, the fifth of November, railing at the church of 
 Rome ; or as hard as to put you to bed to Lucy 
 and defend you from touching her ; or as — 
 
 Ran. Or as hard as to make you hold your 
 tongue. — I shall not see your mistress, I see. 
 
 Dap. Miss Lucy I Miss Lucy ! — [Knocks at the 
 door and returns.'] — The devil take me, if good 
 men (I say no more) have not been upon their 
 knees to me, to see her, and you at last must 
 obtain it. 
 
 Ran. I do not believe you. 
 
 Dap. 'Tis such as she; she is beautiful without 
 affectation ; amorous without impertinency ; airy 
 and brisk without impudence ; frolic without rude- 
 ness ; and, in a word, the justest creature breath- 
 ing to her assignation. 
 
 Ran. You praise her as if you had a mind to 
 part with her ; and yet you resolve, I see, to keep 
 her to yourself. 
 
 Dap. Keep her ! poor creature, she cannot 
 leave me ; and rather than leave her, I would leave 
 writing lampoons or sonnets almost. 
 
 Ran. Well, I'll leave you with her then. 
 
 Dap. What, will you go without seeing her ? 
 
 Ran. Rather than stay without seeing her. 
 
 Dap. Yes, yes, you shall see her ; but let me 
 perish if I have not been offered a hundred guineas 
 for a sight of her ; by — I say no more. 
 
 Ran. [^Aside.] lunderstandyounow. — \Aloud.'\ 
 If the favour be to be purchased, then I'll bid all I 
 have about me for't. 
 
 Dap. Fy, fy, Mr. Ranger ! you are pleasant, 
 i'faith. Do you think I would sell the sight of my 
 rarity ? — like those gentlemen who hang out flags 
 at Charing -cross, or like — 
 
 Ran. Nay, then I 'm gone again. 
 
 Dap. What, you take it ill I refuse your money ? 
 rather than that should be, give us it ; but take 
 notice I will borrow it. Now I think on 't, Lucy 
 wants a gown and some knacks. 
 
 Ran. Here. 
 
 Dap. But I must pay it you again : I will not 
 take it unless you engage your honour I shall pay 
 it you again. 
 
 Ran,. You must pardon me ; I will not engage 
 my honour for such a trifle. Go, fetch her 
 out. 
 
 Dap. Well, she's a ravishing creature : such 
 eyes and lips, Mr. Ranger ! 
 
 Ran. Prithee go. 
 
 Dap, Such neck and breasts, Mr. Ranger ! 
 
 Ran. Again, prithee go. 
 
 Dap. Such feet, legs, and thighs, Mr. Ranger ! 
 
 Ran. Prithee let me see 'em. 
 
 Dap. And a mouth no bigger than a ring ! — I 
 need say no more. 
 
 Ran. Would thou wert never to speak again ! 
 
 Dap. And then so neat, so sweet a creature in 
 
JU 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD ; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 bed, that, to my knowledge, she does not change 
 her sheets in half a year. 
 
 Ran. I thank you for that allay to my impatience. 
 
 Dap. Miss Lucy ! Miss Lucy ! Miss ! — ■ 
 
 ^Knocking at the door. 
 
 Ran. Will she not open ? I am afraid my 
 pretty miss is not stirring, and therefore will not 
 admit us. Is she not gone her walk to Lamb's 
 Conduit ? 
 
 Dap. Fy, fy, a quibble next your stomach in 
 a mtirning ! What if she should hear us ? would 
 you lose a mistress for a quibble .' that's more than 
 I could do, let me perish ! — She's within, I hear 
 her. 
 I Ran. But she will not hear you ; she's as deaf 
 as if you were a dun or a constable. 
 
 Dap. Pish ! give her but leave to gape, rub her 
 eyes, aiul put on her day pinner ; the long patch 
 under the left eye; awaken the roses on her cheeks 
 with some Spanish wool, and warrant her breath 
 with some lemon-peel ; the doors fly off the 
 hinges, and she into my arms. She knows there is 
 as much artifice to keep a victory as to gain 
 it ; and 'tis a sign she values the conquest of my 
 heart. 
 
 Ran. I thought her beauty had not stood in 
 need of art. 
 
 Dap. Beauty's a coward stillwithout thehelp of 
 art, and may have the fortune of a conquest but 
 cannot keep it. Beauty and art can no more be 
 asunder than love and honour. 
 
 Ran. Or, to speak more like yourself, wit and 
 judgment. 
 
 Dap. Don't yon hear the door wag yet ? 
 
 Ran. Not a whit. 
 
 Dap. Miss ! miss ! 'tis your slave that calls. 
 Come, all this tricking for him ! — Lend me your 
 comb, Mr. Ranger. 
 
 Ran. No, I am to be preferred to-day, you are 
 to set me off. You are in possession, I will not 
 lend you arms to keep me out. 
 
 Dap. A pox! don't let me be ungrateful ; if she 
 has smugged herself up for me, let me prune and 
 flounce my peruke a little for her. There's ne'er 
 a young fellow in the town but will do as much for 
 a mere stranger in the playhouse. 
 
 Ran. A wit's wig has the privilege of being un- 
 combed in the very playhouse, or in the presence. 
 
 Dap, But not in the presence of his mistress ; 
 'tis a greater neglect of her than himself. Pray 
 lend me your comb. 
 
 Ran. I would not have men of wit and courage 
 make use of every fop's mean arts to keep or gain 
 a mistress. 
 
 Dap. But don't you see every day, though a 
 man have never so much wit and courage, his 
 mistress will revolt to those fops that wear and 
 comb perukes well. I'll break off the bargain, and 
 will not receive you my partner. 
 
 Ran. Therefore you see I am setting up for 
 myself. [Com&« hisperuke. 
 
 Dap, She comes, she comes ! — pray, your comb. 
 [Snatches Hangar's comb. 
 
 Enter Mrs. CiiossB[tb, 
 
 Cros. Bargain ! — what, are you offering us to 
 sale ? 
 
 Dap. A pox ! is't she ? — Here take your comb 
 ajrain tlien. [Returns the comb. 
 
 tyos. Would you sell us ? 'tis like you, y'fads. 
 
 Dap. Sell thee ! — where should we find a chap- 
 man .' Go, prithee, mother, call out my dear Miss 
 Lucy. 
 
 Cros. Your Miss Lucy ! I do not wonder you 
 have the conscience to bargain for us behind our 
 backs, since you have the impudence to claim a 
 propriety in us to my face. 
 
 Ran. How's this, Dapperwit ? 
 
 Dap. Come, come, this gentleman will not think 
 the worse of a woman for my acquaintance with 
 her. He has seen me bring your daughter to the 
 lure with a chiney-orange, from one side of the 
 playhouse to the other. 
 
 Cros. I would have the gentleman and you to 
 know my daughter is a girl of reputation, though 
 she has been seen in your company ; but is now 
 so sensible of her'past danger, that she is resolved 
 never more to venture her pitcher to the well, as 
 they say. 
 
 Dap. How's that, widow ? I wonder at your 
 confidence. 
 
 Cros. I wonder at your old impudence, that 
 where you have had so frequent repulses you 
 should provoke another, and bring your friend 
 here to witness your disgrace. 
 
 Dap. Hark you, widow, a little. 
 
 Cros. What, have you mortgaged my daughter 
 to that gentleman ; and now would offer me a 
 snip to join in the security ! 
 
 Dap. [Aside.] She overheard me talk of a bar- 
 gain ; — 'twas unlucky. — [jiloud.] Your wrath is 
 grounded upon a mistake : Miss Lucy herself shall 
 be judge ; call her out, pray. 
 
 Cros. She shall not ; she will not come to you. 
 
 Dap, Till I hear it from her own mouth, I 
 cannot believe it. 
 
 Cros. You shall hear her say 't through the 
 door. 
 
 Dap. I shall doubt it unless she say it to my 
 face. 
 
 Cros. Shall we be troubled with you no more 
 then? 
 
 Dap, If she command my death, I cannot dis- 
 obey her. 
 
 Cros. Come out, child. 
 
 Enter Lucy, holding down her head. 
 
 Dap. Your servant, dearest miss : can you 
 have — 
 
 Cros. Let me ask her. 
 
 Dap. No, I'll ask her. 
 
 Ran. I'll throw up cross or pile who shall ask 
 her. 
 
 Dap. Can you have the heart to say you will 
 never more break a cheese-cake with me at New 
 Spring-garden, the Neat-house, or Chelsea .' never 
 more sit in my lap at a new play } never more 
 wear a suit of knots of my choice .' and, last of 
 all, never more pass away an afternoon with me 
 again in the Green Garret? — do not forget the 
 Green Garret. 
 
 Lucy. I wish I had never seen the Green Garret. 
 — Damn the Green Garret ! 
 
 Dop. Damn the Green Garret ! — You are 
 strangely altered ! 
 
 Zucy. 'Tis you are altered. 
 
 Dap. You have refused Colby's lyiulberry- 
 garden, the French-houses, for the Green Garret ; 
 and a little something in the Green Garret pleased 
 you more than the best treat the other places could 
 
SCENE m. 
 
 LOVE IN A. "V^^OOD ; OR, ST. JAMES'S I'ARK. 
 
 i!) 
 
 yield ; and can you of a sudden quit the Gieen 
 Garret ? j 
 
 Lucy. Since you have a design to pawn me for 
 the rent, 'tis time to remove my goods. 
 
 Dap. Thou art extremely mistaken. 
 
 Lucy. Besides, I have heard such strange things 
 »f you this morning. 
 
 Dap. What things ? 
 
 Lucy. I blush to speak 'em. 
 
 Dap. 1 know my innocence, therefore take my 
 charge as a favour. What have I done ? 
 
 Lucy. Then know, vile wit, my mother has 
 confessed just now thou wert false to me, to her 
 too certain knowledge ; and hast forced even her 
 to be false to me too. 
 
 Dap. Faults in drink, Lucy, when we are not 
 ourselves, should not condemn us. 
 
 Lucy. And now to let me out to hire like a 
 hackney ! — I tell you my own dear mother shall 
 bargain for me no more ; there are as little as I 
 can bargain for themselves now-a-days, as well as 
 properer women. 
 
 Ci-os. Whispering all this while ! — Beware of his 
 snares again : come away, child. 
 
 Dap. Sweet, dear miss — ■ 
 
 Lucy. Bargain for me! — you have reckoned 
 without your hostess, as they say. Bargain forme ! 
 bargain for me ! {.Exit. 
 
 Dap. I must return, then, to treat with you. 
 
 Cros. Treat me no treatings, but take a word 
 for all. You shall no more dishonour my daughter, 
 nor molest my lodgings, as you have done at all 
 hours. 
 
 Dap. Do you intend to change 'em, then, to 
 Bridewell, or Long's powdering-tub ? 
 
 Cros. No, to a bailifE's house, and then you'll 
 be so civil, I presume, as not to trouble us. 
 
 Ran. Here, will you have my comb again, Dap- 
 perwit ? 
 
 Dap. A pox ! I think women take inconstancy 
 from me worse than from any man breathing. 
 
 Cros. Pray, sir, forget mc before you write your 
 next lampoon. iExit 
 
 Enter Sir Simon ADDLErl.0T in the dress of a Clerk. — 
 KANOiSB retires to the background. 
 
 Sir Sim. Have I found you ? have I found you 
 in your by-walks, faith and troth ? I am almost 
 out of breath in following you. Gentlemen when 
 they get into an alley walk so fast, as if they had 
 more earnest business there than in the broad 
 streets. 
 
 Dap. [Aside.l — How came this sot hither .' 
 Fortune has sent him to ease my choler — You im- 
 pudent rascal, who are you, that dare intrude thus 
 on us ? ^Strikesliim. 
 
 Sir Sim. Don't you know me, Dapperwit ? sure 
 you know me. [Softli/. 
 
 Dap. Wilt thou dishonour me with thyacquaint- 
 
 ance too ? thou rascally insolent, pen-and-ink man, 
 
 {_Strikes him again. 
 
 Sir Sim. Oh ! oh ! sure you know me ! pray know 
 me. VSoAhj. 
 
 Dap. By thy saucy familiarity, thou shouldst 
 be a marker at a tennis-court, a barber, or a slave 
 that fills coffee. 
 
 Sir Sim. Oh! oh I 
 
 Dap. What art thou 1 C»'rt' W™- 
 
 iS'ii' Sim. Nay, I must not discover myself to 
 
 Ranger for a kick or two. Oh, pray hold, sir : by 
 that you will know me. " [Delivers him a letter. 
 
 Dap. How, sir Simon ! 
 
 Sir Sim. Mum, mum, make no excuses, man ; 
 I would not Ranger should have known me for five 
 hundred — kicks. 
 
 Dap. Your disguise is so natural, I protest, it 
 will excuse me. 
 
 Sir Sim. I know that, prithee make no excuses 
 I say. No ceremony between thee and L man: 
 — read the letter. 
 
 Dap. What, you have not opened it ! 
 
 Sir Sim. Prithee, don't be angry, the seal is a 
 httle cracked : for I could not help kissing Mrs. 
 Martha's letter. The word is, now or never. Her 
 father she finds will be abroad all this day, and she 
 longs to see your friend sir Simon Addleplot : — 
 faith 'tis d pretty jest ; while I am witli her, and 
 praising myself to her at no ordinary rate. Let 
 thee and I alone at au intrigue. 
 
 Dap. Tell her I will not fail to meet her at the 
 place and time. Have a care of your charge ; and 
 manage your business like yourself, for yourself. 
 
 Sir Sim. I warrant you. 
 
 Dap. The gaining Gripe's daughter will make 
 me support the loss of this young jilt here. (.Aside- 
 Ran. ICominy forward.] What fellow's that .' 
 
 Dap. A servant to a friend of mine. 
 
 Ran. Methinks he something resembles our 
 acquaintance sir Simon ; but it is no compliment 
 to tell him so : for that knight is the most egre- 
 gious coxcomb that ever played with lady's fan. 
 
 Sir Sim. So ! thanks to my disguise, I know 
 my enemies. {Asitfe. 
 
 Ran. The most incorrigible ass, beyond the 
 reproof of a kicking rival or a frowning misti-ess. 
 But, if it be possible, thou dost use him worse than 
 his mistress or rival can ; thou dost make such a 
 cully of him. 
 
 Sir Sim. Does he think so too ? [Axide. 
 
 Dap. Go, friend, go about your business. — [E-vit 
 Sir Simon.] A pox ! you would spoil all, just in 
 the critical time of projection. He brings me here 
 a summons from his mistress, to meet her i;i the 
 evening ; will you come to my wedding .' 
 
 Ran. Don't speak so loud, you'll break poor 
 Lucy's heart. Poor creature, she cannot leave 
 you ; and, rather than leave her, you would leave 
 writing of lampoons or sonnets — almost. 
 
 Dap. Come, let her go, ungrateful baggage ! 
 — But now you talk of sonnets, I am no living 
 wit if her love has not cost me two thousand 
 couplets at least. 
 
 Ran. But what would you give, now, for a new 
 satire against women, ready made ? — 'Twould be 
 as convenient to buy satires against women ready 
 made, as it is to buy cravats ready tied. 
 
 Dap. Or as — 
 
 Ran. Hey, come away, come away, Mr., or as — 
 
 [ Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. — J Room in CROssBrxE's House. 
 Enter Mrs. Joyner and GarpB. 
 
 Gripe. Peace, plenty, and pastime be within 
 these walls ! 
 
 Joyn. 'Tis a small house, you see, snd. mean 
 furniture ; for no gallants are suffered to come 
 hither. She might have had ere now as good 
 C a 
 
20 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 lodgings as any in town j her Mortlake hangings, 
 great glasses, cabinets, china, embroideved beds, 
 Persia carpets, gold-plate, and the like, if she 
 would have put herself forward. But your wor- 
 ship may please to make 'em remove to a place fit 
 to receive one of your worship's quality j for this 
 is a little scandalous, in truly. 
 
 Gripe. No, no j I like it well enough : — I am 
 not dainty. Besides, privacy, privacy, Mrs. Joyner ! 
 I love privacy in opposition to the wicked, who 
 hate it. ILooks about 
 
 Joyn. What do you look fjor, sir ? 
 
 Gripe. Walls have ears ; but, besides, I look 
 for a private place to retire to, in time of need. 
 1 Oh ! here's one convenient. 
 
 {Turns up a hanging, and discovers the slender 
 provisi07is 0/ the family,'] 
 
 Joyn. But you see, poor innocent souls, to what 
 use they put it ; — not to hide gallants. 
 
 Gripe. Temperance is the nurse of chastity. 
 
 Joyn. But your worship may please to mend 
 their fare ; and, when you come, may make them 
 entertain you better than, you see, they do them- 
 selves. 
 
 Gripe. No, I am not dainty, as I told you. I 
 abominate entertainments; — no entertainments, 
 pray, Mrs. Joyner. 
 
 Joyn. No ! lAside. 
 
 Gripe. There can be no entertainment to me 
 more luscious and savoury than communion with 
 that little gentlewoman. — Will you call her out ? 
 1 fast till I see her. 
 
 Joyn. But, in truly, your worship, we should have 
 brought a bottle or two of Rhenish and some 
 Naples biscuit, to have entertained the young 
 gentlewoman. "lis the mode for lovers to treat their 
 mistresses. 
 
 Gripe. Modes ! I tell you, Mrs. Joyner, I hate 
 modes and forms. 
 
 Joyn. You must send for something to enter- 
 tain her with. 
 
 Gripe. Again entertaining ! — we will be to each 
 other a feast. 
 
 Joyn. I shall be ashamed, in truly, yourworship. 
 — Besides, the young gentlewoman will despise 
 you. 
 
 Gripe. I shall content her, I warrant you; leave 
 it to me. 
 
 Joyn. [Aside.^ I am sure you will not content 
 me, if you will not content her ; 'tis as Impossible 
 for a man to love and be a miser, as to love and be 
 wise, as they say. 
 
 Gripe. While you talk of treats, you starve my 
 eyes ; I long to see the fair one ; fetch her 
 hither. 
 
 Joyn. I am ashamed she should find me so 
 abominable a liar ; I have so praised you to her, 
 and, above all your virtues, your liberality ; which 
 is so great a -virtue, that it often excuses youth, 
 beauty, courage, wit, or anything. 
 
 Gripe. Pish, pish ! 'tis the virtue of fools ; every 
 fool can have it. 
 
 Joyn. And will your worship want it then ? I 
 told her — 
 
 Gripe. Why would you tell her anything of me.' 
 yon know I am a modest manj But come, if you 
 will have me as extravagant as the wicked, take 
 that and fetch us a treat, as you call it. 
 
 Joyn. Upon my life a groat ! what will this 
 purchase ? 
 
 Gripe. Two black pots of ale and a cake, at the 
 cellar. — Come, the wine has arsenic in't. 
 
 Joyn. [Aside.] Well, I am mistaken, and my 
 hopes are abused : I never knew any man so mor- 
 tified a miser, that he would deny his lechery any- 
 thing ; I must be even with thee then another 
 wav. \.£xit. 
 
 Gripe. These useful old women are more ex- 
 orbitant and craving in their desires than the 
 young ones in theirs. These prodigals in white 
 perukes spoil 'em both; and that's the reason, 
 when the squires come unde%my clutches, I make 
 'em pay for their folly and mine, and 'tis but cou- 
 science : — oh, here comes the fair one at last ! 
 
 lie-enter Jovner leading in Luci", who hangs backward as 
 she enters. -^ 
 
 Lucy. Oh Lord, there's a man, godmother ! 
 
 Joyn. Come in, child, thou art so bashful — 
 
 Lucy. My mother is from home too, I dare not. 
 
 Joyn. If she were here, she'd teach you better 
 manners. 
 
 Lucy. I'm afraid she'd be angry. 
 
 Joyn. To see you so much an ass. — Come along, 
 I say. 
 
 Gripe. Nay, speak to her gently ; if you won't, 
 IwiU. 
 
 Lucy. Thank you, sir. 
 
 Gripe. Pretty innocent! there is, I see, one left 
 of her age ; what hap have I ! Sweet, little gentle- 
 woman, come sit down by me. 
 
 Lucy. I am better bred, I hope, sir. 
 
 Gripe. You must sit down by me. 
 
 Lucy. I'd rather stand, if you please. 
 
 Gripe. To please me, you must sit, sweetest. 
 
 Lucy. Not before my godmother, sure. 
 
 Gripe. Wonderment of innocence ! 
 
 Joyn. A poor bashful girl, sir : I'm sorry she 
 is not better taught. 
 
 Gripe. I am glad she is not taught ; I'll 
 teach her myself. 
 
 Luc;/. Are you a dancing-master then, sir? 
 But if I should be dull, and not move as you would 
 have me, you would not beat me, sir, I hope .' 
 
 Gripe. Beat thee, honeysuckle ! I'll use thee 
 thus, and thus, and thus. [Kisses her.] Ah, 
 Mrs. Joyner, prithee go fetch our treat now. 
 
 Joyn. A treat of a groat ! I will not wag. 
 
 Gripe. Why don't you go ? Here, take more 
 money, and fetch what you will ; take here, half-a- 
 crown. 
 
 Joyn. What will half-a-crown do ? 
 
 Gripe. Take a crown then, an angel, a piece ; — 
 .begone ! 
 
 Joyn. A treat only will not serve my turn ; I 
 must buy the poor wretch there some toys. 
 
 Gripe. What toys ? what ? speak quickly. 
 
 Joyn. Pendants, necklaces, fans, ribbons, points, 
 laces, stockings, gloves 
 
 Gripe. Hold, hold ! before it comes to a gown. 
 
 Joyn. Well remembered, sir ; indeed she wants 
 a gown, for she has but that one to her back. For 
 your own sake you should give her a new gown, 
 for variety of dresses rouses desire, and makes 
 an old mistress seem every day a new one. 
 
 Gripe. For that reason she shall have no new 
 gown J for I am naturally constant, and as I am 
 still the same, I love she should be still the same. 
 But here, take half a piece for the other things. 
 
 Joyn. Half a piece ! — 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD ; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 21 
 
 Oripe. Prithee, begone ! — take t'other piece 
 then — two pieces — three pieces — live! here, 'tis all 
 I have. 
 
 Joyn. I must have the broad-seal ring too, or I 
 ,stir not. 
 
 Gripe. Insatiable woman! will you have that too 1 
 Prithee spare me that, 'twas my grandfather's. 
 
 Joyn. That's false, he had ne'er a coat. — So ! 
 now 1 go ; this is fcut a violent fit, and will not 
 hold. lAside. 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! whither do you go, godmother ? 
 will you leave me alone ? 
 
 Joyn. The gentleman will not hurt you ; you 
 may venture yourself with him alone. 
 
 Lucy. I think I may, godmother. — \_P,a;it 
 JoYNER.] What ! will you lock me in, sir ? don't 
 lock me in, sir. 
 
 [Gkiv^, fumbling at the door, locks it. 
 
 Gripe. 'Tis a private lesson, I must teach you, 
 fair. 
 
 Lucy. I don't see your fiddle, sir ; where is 
 your little kit ? 
 
 Gripe. I'll show it thee presently, sweetest. — 
 
 [Sets achair against the door'] Necessity, mother 
 
 of invention ! — Come, my dearest. 
 
 [Takes her in his arms. 
 
 Lucy. What do you mean, sir ? don't hurt me, 
 sir, will you — Oh ! oh ! yon will kill me ! Mur- 
 der ! murder ! — Oh ! oh ! — help ! help ! oh 1 
 
 The door is broken open ; enter Mrs. CROssBitE, and her 
 Landlord, and his 'Prentice, in aprons. 
 
 Cros. What, murder my daughter, villain ! 
 
 Lucy. I wish he had murdered me.-^Oh ! oh ! 
 
 Cros. What has he done ? 
 
 Lucy. Why would you go out, and leave me 
 alone .' unfortunate woman that I am ! 
 
 Gripe. How now, what will this end in ? [^«V!e. 
 
 Cros. Who brought him in ? 
 
 Lucy. That witch, that treacherous false wo- 
 man, my godmother, who has betrayed me, sold me 
 to his lust.— Oh ! oh !— 
 
 Cros. Have you ravished my daughter then, 
 you old goat ? ravished my daughter ! — ravished 
 my daughter ! speak, villain. 
 
 Gripe. By yea and by nay, no such matter. 
 
 Cros. A canting rogue, too ! Take notice, 
 landlord, he has ravished my daughter, you see her 
 all in tears and distraction ; and see there the 
 wicked engine of the filthy execution. — [ Pointing 
 to the chair.l — Jeremy, call up the neighbours, and 
 the constable. — False villain ! thou shalt die for it. 
 
 Gripe. Hold! hold! — [Aside."] Nay, I am 
 caught. 
 
 Cros. Go, go, make haste — 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! oh ! — 
 
 Cros. Poor wretch! — Go quickly. 
 
 Gripe. Hold ! hold ! — Thou young spawn of the 
 old serpent ! wicked, as I thought thee inno- 
 cent ! wilt thou say I would have ravished thee '! 
 
 Lucy. I will swear you did ravish me. 
 
 Gripe. I thought so, treacherous Eve ! — then I 
 am gone, I must shift as well as I can. 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! oh ! — 
 
 Cros. Will none of you call up the neighbours, 
 and the authority of the alley ? 
 
 Gripe. Hold, I'll give you twenty mark among 
 you to let me go. 
 
 Cros. Villain ! nothing shall buy thy life. 
 
 Land. But stay, Mrs. Crossbite, let me tallc with 
 
 Lucy. Oh ! oh ! — 
 
 Lund. Come, sir, 1 am your friend :■ — in a word, 
 1 have appeased her, and she shall be contented 
 with a little sura. 
 
 Gripe. What is it ? what is it ? 
 
 Land. But five hundred pounds. 
 
 Gripe. But fivehundred pounds ! — hang me then, 
 hang me rather. 
 
 Land. You will say I have been your friend. 
 
 Pren. The constable and neighbours are a-com- 
 ing. 
 
 Gripe. How, how ; will you not take a hun- 
 dred .' pray use conscience iu your ways. 
 
 'Jineels to Mrs. Crossbite 
 
 Cros. I scorn your money ! I will not take i 
 thousand. 
 
 Gripe. [^Aside.] My enemies are many, and I 
 shall be a scandal to the faithful, as a laughing- 
 stock to the wicked. — [Aloud.] Go, prepare your 
 engines for my persecution ; I'll give you the 
 best security I can. 
 
 Land. The instruments are drawing in the other 
 room, if you please to go thither. 
 
 Cros. Indeed, now I consider, a portion will do 
 my daughter more good than his death. That 
 would but publish her shame ; money will cover 
 ■ it — probaium est, as they say. Let me tell you, 
 sir, 'tis a charitable thing to give a young maid a 
 portion. lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV Lydia's Lodging. 
 
 Enter Lydia and ray Lady Flippant, attended by Lhonors. 
 
 • Lyd. 'Tis as hard for a woman to conceal her 
 indignation from her apostate lover, as to conceal 
 her love from her faithful servant. 
 
 Flip. Or almost as hard as it is for the prating 
 fellows now-a-days to conceal the favours of ob- 
 liging ladies. 
 
 Lyd. If Ranger should come up, (I saw him 
 just now in the street,) the discovery of my anger 
 to him now would be as mean as the discovery of 
 my love to him before. 
 
 Flip. Though I did so mean a thing as to love a 
 fellow, I would not do so mean a thing as to confess 
 it, certainly, by my trouble to part with him. If i 
 confessed love, it should be before they left me. 
 
 Lyd. So you would deserve to be left, before 
 you were. But could you ever do so mean a thing 
 as to confess love to any .' 
 
 Flip. Yes ; but I never did so mean a thing as 
 really to love any. 
 
 Lyd. You had once a husband. 
 
 Flip. Fy 1 madam, do you think me so ill-bred 
 as to love a husband ? 
 
 Lyd. You had a widow's heart, before you were ■ 
 a widow, I see. 
 
 Flip. I should rather make an adventure of my 
 honour with a gallant for a gown, a new coach, a 
 necklace, than clap my husband's cheeks for them, 
 or sit in his lap. I should be as ashamed to be 
 caught in such a posture with a husband, as a 
 brisk well-bred spark of the town would be to be 
 caught on his knees at prayers— unless to his 
 mistress. 
 
 Enter Ranger and Dapperwit. 
 
 Lyd. Mr. Ranger 'twas obligingly done of yoii. 
 Ran. Indeed, cousin, I had kept my promise 
 with you last night, but this gentleman knows — 
 
22 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD; Oli, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 Lyd. You mistake me ; but you shall not lessen 
 any favour you do to me. Yon are going to excuse 
 your not comiag to me last night, when I take it 
 as a particular obligation, that though you threat- 
 ened me with a visit, upon consideration you were 
 so civil as not to trouble me. 
 
 Dap. This is an unlucky morning vrith me ! 
 here's my eternal persecution, the widow Flippant. 
 
 [^Aside. 
 
 Flip. What, Mr. Dapperwit ! 
 [Dapperw.1T retires to the back of ihe stage^ followed 
 by Flippant. 
 
 Ran. Indeed, cousin, besides my business, an- 
 other cause I did not wait on you was, my appre- 
 hension you were gone to the Park, notwithstanding 
 your promise to the contrary. 
 
 Lyd. Therefore, you went to the Park to visit 
 me there, notwithstanding your promise to the 
 contrary .'' 
 
 Ran. Who, I at the Park! when I had promised 
 to wait upon you at your lodging 1 But were you 
 at the Park, madam ? 
 
 Lyd. Who, I at the Park ! when I had pro- 
 raised to wait for you at home I I was no more at 
 the Park than you were. Were you at the Park ? 
 
 Ran. The Park had been a dismal desert to me, 
 notwithstanding all the good company in it, if I 
 had wanted yours. 
 
 Lyd. lAside.J Because it has been the constant 
 endeavour of men, to keep women ignorant, they 
 think us so ; but 'tis that increases our inquisitive- 
 ness, and makes us know them ignorant, as false. 
 He is as impudent a dissembler as the widow 
 Flippant, who is making her importunate addresses 
 in vain, for aught I see. 
 
 [FLtppANT comes forward, driving Dapperwit from 
 one side of ihe stage t-o the other 
 
 Flip. Dear Mr. Dapperwit 1 merciful Mr. Dap- 
 perwit [ 
 
 Dap. Unmerciful lady Flippant ! 
 
 Flip. Will you be satisfied .' 
 
 Dap. Won't you be satisfied.' 
 
 Flip. That a wit should be jealous ! that a wit 
 should be jealous ! there's never a brisk young 
 fellow in the town, though no wit. Heaven knows, 
 but thinks too well of himself, to think ill of his 
 wife or mistress. Now, that a wit should lessen 
 his opinion of himself ; — for shame ! 
 
 Dap. I promised to bring you off, but I find it 
 enough to shift for myself — 
 
 \_Softly, apart to Ranger. 
 
 Lvd. What ! out of breath, madam ! 
 
 Flip. I have been defending our cause, madam ; 
 I have beat him out of the pit. I do so mumble 
 these prating, censorious fellows they call wits, 
 when 1 meet with them. 
 
 Dap. Her ladyship, indeed, is the only thing in 
 
 ■ petticoats I dread. 'Twas well for me there was 
 
 company in the room ; for I dare no more venture 
 
 myself with her alone, than a cully that has been bit 
 
 dares venture himself in a tavern with an old rook. 
 
 Flip. I am the revenger of our sex, certainly. 
 
 Dap, And the most insatiable one I ever knew, 
 madam ; I dare not stand your fury longer — Mr. 
 Ranger, I will go before and make a new appoint- 
 ment with your friends that expect you at dinner 
 at the French-house : 'tis fit business still wait on 
 love. 
 
 Han. Do so — but now I thiuk on't, sir Thomas 
 goes out of town tliis afternoon, and I shall not see 
 him here again these three months. 
 
 Lyd. Nay, pray take him with you, sir. 
 
 Flip. No, sir, you shall not take the gentleman 
 from his mistress. — [Aside, to DAPi-iSBWiT.] Do 
 not go yet, sweet Mr. Dapperwit. 
 
 Lj/d. Take him with you, sir ; I suppose his 
 business may be there to borrow, or win money, 
 and I ought not to be his hindrance : for when he 
 has none, he has his desperate designs upon that 
 httle I have ; — for want of money makes as devout 
 lovers as Christians. 
 
 Dap. I hope, madam, he offers you no less 
 security than his liberty. 
 
 Lyd. His liberty is as poor a pawn to take up 
 money on as honour. He is like the desperate 
 bankrupts of this age, who, if they can get people's 
 fortunes into their hands, care not though they 
 spend them in jail all their lives. 
 
 Flip. And the poor crediting ladies, when they 
 have parted with their money, must be contented 
 witli a pitiful composition, or starve, for all them. 
 
 Ran. But widows are commonly so wise as to 
 be sure their men are solvable before they trust 'em. 
 
 Flip. Can you blame 'em ! I declare, I will trust 
 no man. Pray, do not take it ill, gentlemen : 
 quacks in their bills, and poets in the titles of their 
 plays, do not more disappoint us, than gallants 
 with their promises ; but I trust none. 
 
 Dap. Nay, she's a very Jew in that particular. 
 To my knowledge, she 'U know her man, over and 
 over again, before she trust him. 
 
 Ran. Well, my dearest cousin, good-morrow. 
 When I stay from you, so long again, blame me to 
 purpose, and be extremely angry ; for nothing can 
 mal^e me amends for the loss of your company, 
 but your reprehension of my absence. I '11 take such 
 a chiding as kindly as Russian wives do beating. 
 
 Lyd. If you were iiiy husband, I could not take 
 your absence more kindly than I do. 
 
 Ran. And if you were my wife, I would trust 
 you as much out of my sight as I could, to show 
 uiy opinion of your virtue. 
 
 Flip. A well-bred gentleman, I warrant. — Will 
 you go then, cruel Mr. Dapperwit .-' 
 
 lExemit Ranoer and Dapperwit, followed by my 
 Lady Flippant. 
 
 Lyd. Have I not dissembled well, Leonore ? 
 
 Leo. But, madam, to what purpose .■* why do. 
 you not put him to his trial, and see what he can 
 say f(K himself .'' 
 
 Lyd. 1 am afraid lest my proofs, and his guilt, 
 should make him desperate, and so contemn that 
 pardon which he could not hope for. 
 
 Leo. 'Tis unjust to condemn hira before you 
 hear him. 
 
 Lyd. I will reprieve him till I have more evi- 
 dence. 
 
 Leo. How will you get it ? 
 
 Lyd. I will write hira a letter in Christina's 
 name, desiring to meet him ; when I shall soon 
 discover if his love to her be of a longer standing 
 than since last night ; and if it be not, I will not 
 longer trust him with the vanity to think she gave 
 him'the occasion to follow her home from the Park ; 
 so will at once disabuse him and myself. 
 
 L,eo. What care the jealous take in making sure 
 of ills which they, but in imagination, cannot 
 undergo ! 
 
 Lyd. Misfortunes are least dreadful when roost 
 near: 
 'Tis less to undergo the ill, than fear 
 
 ^Exeunt 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES S PARK. 
 
 23 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Gripe's House, 
 
 Enter Mrs. Joynkr and Gripe, tke latter in a blue gown 
 and nightcap, 
 
 Joyn, What, not well, your worship 1 This it 
 is, you will be laying out yourself beyond your 
 strength. You have taken a surfeit of the little 
 gentlewoman, I find. Indeed you should not have 
 been so imraoderate in your embraces ; your wor- 
 ship is something in years, in truly. 
 
 Gripe. Graceless, perfidious woman ' what 
 makest thou here .■' art thou not afraid to be used 
 like an informer, since thou hast made me pay thee 
 for betraying me ? 
 
 Joyn, Betray your worship ! what do you 
 mean ? I an informer ! I scorn your words ! 
 
 Gripe. Woman, I say again, thou art as trea- 
 cherous as an informer, and more unreasonable ; 
 for he lets us have something for our money before 
 he disturb us. 
 
 Joyn. Your money, I'm sure, was laid out 
 faithfully ; and I went away because I would not 
 disturb you. 
 
 Gripe. I had not grudged you the money I gave 
 you : — but the five hundred pounds ! the five hun- 
 dred pounds ! Inconscionable, false woman, the 
 five hundred pounds ! — You cheated, trepanned, 
 robbed me, of the five hundred pounds ! 
 
 Joyn. I cheat you ! I rob you ! — well, remember 
 what you say, you shall answer it before Mr. 
 Doublecap and the best of — 
 
 Gripe. Oh, impudent woman, speak softly ! 
 
 Joyn. I wiU not speak softly ; for innocence is 
 loud as well as barefaced. Is this your return, 
 after you have made me a mere drudge to your 
 filthy lusts ! 
 
 Gripe. Speak softly ; my sister, daughter, and 
 servants, will hear. 
 
 Joyn. I would have vritnesses, to take notice 
 that you blast my good name, which was as white 
 as a tulip, and as sweet as the head of your cane, 
 before you wrought me to the carrying on^he 
 work of your fleshly carnal seekings. 
 
 Gripe. Softly! softly! they are coming in. 
 
 Snter Flippant and Martha. 
 
 Flip. What's the matter, brother ? 
 
 Gripe. Nothing, nothing, sister, only the godly 
 woman is fallen into a fit of zeal against the enor- 
 tiious transgressions of the age. Go ! go 1 you do 
 not love to hear vanity reproved ; pray begone ! 
 
 Joyn. Pray stay, madam, that you may know — 
 
 Gripe. [Aside to 3 or t:iEB..'\ Hold! hold! here 
 are five guineas for thee, — pray say nothing. — 
 
 [Aloud.} Sister, pray begone, I say [^xeuni 
 
 J'l.ippANT and Martha.] Would you prejudice 
 your own reputation to injure mine ? 
 
 Joyn. Would you prejudice your own soul to 
 wrong my repute, in truly ? [Pretends to weep. 
 
 Gripe. Pray have me in excuse. Indeed, I 
 thought you had a share of the five hundred pounds, 
 because you took away my seal-ring ; which they 
 made me send, together with a note to my cash- 
 keeper for five hundred pounds. Besides, I thought 
 none but you knew it was my wonted token to 
 send for money by. 
 
 Joyn. 'Tis unlucky I should forget it, and leave 
 it on the table ! — But oh the harlotry ! did she 
 make that use of it then ? 'twas no wonder you did 
 not stay till I came back. 
 
 Gripe. I stayed till the money released me. 
 
 Joyn. Have they the money, then .'' five hundred 
 pounds ! 
 
 Gripe. Too certain. 
 
 Joyn. They told me not a word of it ; and have 
 you no way to retrieve it ? 
 
 Gripe. Not any. 
 
 Joyn. [Aside.] I am glad of it. — [Aloud."} Is 
 there no law but against saints ? 
 
 Gripe. 1 will not for five hundred pounds pub- 
 lish my transgression myself, lest I should be 
 thought to glory in't : though, I must confess, 
 'twould tempt a man to conform to public praying 
 and sinning, since 'tis so chargeable to pray and 
 sin in private. 
 
 Joyn. But are you resolved to give off a loser ? 
 
 Gripe. How shall I help it ? 
 
 Joyn. Nay, I'll see you shall have what the 
 young jade has, for your money: I'll make 'em 
 use some conscience, however. — Take a. man's 
 money for nothing I 
 
 Gripe. Thou sayest honestly, indeed. And 
 shall I have my pennyworths out of the little 
 gentlewoman for all this .'' 
 
 Joyn. I'll be engaged body for body for her, 
 and you shall take the forfeiture on me else. 
 
 Gripe. No, no, I'll rather take your word, Mrs. 
 Joyner. 
 
 Joyn. Go in and dress yourself smug, and leave 
 the rest to me. 
 
 Gripe. No man breathing would give-off a loser, 
 as she says. \_Exeu9<. 
 
 SCENE II. — Another Room in the same. 
 
 Sir Simon Addlbplot discovered sitting at a desk writing 
 as a Clerk, my Latfy Flippaut jogging him. 
 
 Sir Sim.. 'Tis a lord's mortgage, and therefore 
 requires the more haste : — pray do not jog me, 
 madam. 
 
 Flip. Dull rascal! \^Aside. 
 
 Sir Sim. They cannot stay for money as other 
 folks. If you will not let me make an end on't, 
 I shall lose my expedition -fee. 
 
 Flip. There are some clerks would have under- 
 stood me before this. lAside. 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, pray be quiet, madam ; if you 
 squeeze me so to the wall, I cannot write. 
 
 Flip. [Aside."] 'Tis much for the honour of the 
 gentlemen of this age, that we persons of quality 
 are forced to descend to the importuning of a clerk, 
 a butler, coachman, or footman ; while the rogues 
 are as dull of apprehension, too, as an unfledged 
 country squire amongst his mother's maids ! 
 
 [Jogs him again. 
 
 Sir Sim. Again 1 Let me tell you, madam, 
 familiarity breeds contempt : you'll never leave till 
 you have made me saucy. 
 
 Flip. I would I could see that. 
 
 Sir Sim. I vow and swear then, get you gone I 
 or I'll add a black patch or two to those on your 
 
24 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 face.— [^sWe.] I shall have no time to get Mrs. 
 Martha out, for her. 
 
 Flip. Will you, sir, will you ! IJogs Mm again. 
 
 Sir Sim. [/Isirfe.] I must have a plot for her, she 
 is a coy woman. — [Aloud.'] I vow and swear if you 
 pass this crevice, 1 '11 kiss you in plain English. 
 
 Flip. I would I could see that! — do you defy me! 
 [Steps to him — he kisses her. 
 
 Sir Sim. lAside.'] How's this ! I vow and swear, 
 she kisses as tamely as Mrs. Ticklish, and with her 
 mouth open too. 
 
 Flip. I thought you would have been ashamed 
 to have done so to your master's own sister ! 
 
 'Sir Sim. I hope you'll be quiet now, madam ? 
 
 Flip. Nay, I'll be revenged of you sure. 
 
 Sir S'tm. If you come again, I shall do more to 
 you than that.— [Aside.'] I'll pursue my plot and 
 try if she be honest. 
 
 Flip. You do more to me than that! nay, if 
 you'll do more to me than that — 
 
 IShe throws down his ink and runs out, he following her. 
 
 Enter JoYtrsR, 
 
 Joyn. I must visit my young clients in the mean- 
 time. 
 
 Re-enter Sir Simon holding up his hands. 
 Wliat's the matter, sir Simon ? 
 
 Sir Sim. Lord ! who would have thought it i" 
 
 Joyyi. What ails you, sir Simon ? 
 
 S'lr Sim. I have made such a discovery, Mrs. 
 Joyner ! 
 
 Joyn. What is't ? 
 
 Sir Sim. Such a one that makes me at once glad 
 and sorry ; I am sorry my lady Flippant is naught, 
 but I'm glad I know it : — thanks still to my 
 disguise. 
 
 Joyn. Fy ! fy ! 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, this hand can tell — 
 
 Joyn. But how .' 
 
 Sir Sim, She threw down my ink -glass, and ran 
 away into the next room ; I followed her, and, in 
 revenge, threw her down upon the bed i — but, in 
 short, all that I could do to her would not make 
 her squeak, 
 
 Joyn. She was out of breath, man, she was out 
 of breath. 
 
 Sir Sim. Ah, Mrs. Joyner, say no more, say no 
 more of that ! 
 
 Re-enter Flippant. 
 
 Flip. You rude, unmannerly rascal ! 
 
 Joyn. You see she complains now. 
 
 Sir Sim. I know why, Mrs. Joyner, I know 
 why. lAside to Jovnkr. 
 
 Flip. I'll have you turned out of the house ; 
 your are not fit for my brother's service. 
 
 Sir Sim. Not for yours, you mean, madam. 
 
 {Aside. 
 
 Flip. I'll go and acquaint my brother — 
 
 loyn. [Aside to Flippant.] Hold, hold, madam, 
 speak not so loud : — 'tis sir Simon Addleplot, your 
 lover, who has taken this disguise on purpose to be 
 near you, and to watch and supplant his rival. 
 
 Flip. What a beast was I, I could not discover 
 it ! you have undone me ! why would you not tell 
 me sooner of it } [Aside to JovNBn, 
 
 Joyn. I thought he had been discernible enough. 
 
 Flip. I protest, I knew him not ; for I must 
 confess to you, my eyes are none of the best since I 
 liave used the last new wash of mercury-water. — 
 What will he think of me ! 
 
 Joyn. Let me alone with him. — [To Sir Simon.] 
 Come, come, did you think you could disguise 
 yourself from my lady's knowledge ? she knew you 
 man, or else you had ne'er had those liberties. 
 Alas, poor lady, she cannot resist you ! 
 
 Flip. 'Tis my weakness. 
 
 Sir Sim. How's this ! — but here comes my master. 
 
 Enter Gripe and Martha. 
 
 Gripe. Come, Mrs. Joyner, are you ready to go ? 
 
 Joyn. I am ever ready when your worship com- 
 mands. 
 
 Flip. Brother, if you go to t'other end of the 
 town, you'll set me down near the playhouse? 
 
 Gripe. The playhouse ! do you think I will be 
 seen near the playhouse .'' 
 
 Flip. You shall set me down in Lincoln's-inn- 
 
 fields, then ; for I have earnest business there 
 
 [Apart to Sir Simon.] When I come home again, 
 I'll laugh at you soundly, sir Simon. 
 
 Sir Sim. Has Joyner betrayed me then ! 'tis 
 time to look to my hits. [Aside. 
 
 Gripe. Martha, be sure you stay within now. If 
 you go out, you shall never come into my doors 
 again. 
 
 Mar. No, I will not, sir ; I'll ne'er come into 
 your doors again, if once I should go out. 
 
 Gripe. 'Tis well said, girl. 
 
 [Ex^nt GltipB, JovNER, and Flippant. 
 
 Sir Sim. 'Twas prettily said : I understand you, 
 they are dull and have no intrigue in 'em. But 
 dear, sweet Mrs. Martha, 'tis time we were gone ; 
 you have stole away your scarfs and hood from 
 your maid, I hope ? 
 
 Mar. Nay, I am ready, but — 
 
 Sir Sim. Come, come, sir Simon Addleplot, 
 poor gentleman, is an impatient man, to my know- 
 ledge. 
 
 Mar. Well, my venture is great, I'm sure, for 
 amani knownot. But pray, Jonas, do not deceive 
 me ; is he so fine a gentleman, as you say he is ? 
 
 Sir Sim. Pish ! pish ! he is the — ^gentleman of 
 the town, faith and troth. 
 
 Mar. But may I take your word, Jonas ? 
 
 Sir Sim. 'Tis not my word, 'tis the word of all 
 the town. 
 
 Mar. Excuse me, Jonas, for that: — I never 
 heard any speak well of him but Mr. Dapperwit 
 and you. 
 
 Sir Sim. That's because he has been a rival to 
 all men, and a gallant to all ladies. Rivals and 
 deserted mistresses never speak well of a man. 
 
 Mar. Has he been so general in his amours? i 
 his kindness is not to be valued then. ( 
 
 Sir Sim. The more by you ; because 'tis for yov 
 he deserts all the rest, faith and troth. 
 
 Mar. You plead better for him than he cou* ! 
 for himself, I believe ; for, indeed, they say he' iji , 
 no better than an idiot. f 
 
 Sir Sim. Then, believe me, madam — for noteify 
 knows him better than I — he has as mucl|' si. it, 
 courage, and as good a mien to tlie full, as I ' 
 — He an idiot ! , ' 
 
 Mar. The common gull j so perspicuoii' ' '"i. 
 the women find him out: — for none of/s a I'tiii 
 marry him. .' 
 
 Sir Sim, You may see, now, how be ^' ' ■ 
 
 abused. For that he is not married, f 
 his wit ; and for being perspicuous, 'ti' 
 is as mysterious as a new parliame/'. : '■,' i 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 2a 
 
 young statesman newly taken from a coffee-house 
 or tennis-court. 
 
 Mcer. But is it a sign of his wit because he is 
 not married ? 
 
 Sir Sim. Yes, yes ! your women of the town 
 ravish your fops : there's not one about the town 
 unmarried that has anything, 
 
 Mar. It may be then he has spent his estate. 
 
 Sir Sim. [Aside.} How unluckily guessed 1 — 
 [Aloud.} If hehad.hehas ahead can retrieve it again. 
 
 Mar. Besides, they say he has the modish disr 
 temper. 
 
 Sir Sim. He can cure it with the best French 
 chirurgeon in town. 
 
 Mar. Has his practice on himself been so 
 much ? 
 
 Sir Sim, Come, come. — 
 Fame, like deserted jilt, does still belie men. 
 Who doubts her man, must be advised by Hymen ; 
 For he knows best of any how to try men. lExeuni. 
 
 SCENE III.— ne old Pall Mall. 
 Enter Ranger and DAppEhwiT. 
 
 Ran. Now the Lucys have renounced us, hey 
 for the Christinas ! She cannot use me worse than 
 your honourable mistress did you. 
 
 Vap. A pox ! some young heir or another has 
 promised her marriage. There are so many fdols 
 in the world, 'tis impossible for a man of wit to 
 keep his wench from being a lady, let me perish ! 
 
 Ran, But have you no other acquaintance that 
 sticks to her vocation, in spite of temptations of 
 honour or filthy lucre ? I declare, I make honour- 
 able love merely out of necessity, as your rooks 
 play on the square rather than not play at all. 
 
 Enter Leonobb masked^ with a Letter in her hand. 
 
 Dap. Come, the devil will not lose a -gamester : 
 here's ready money for you, push freely. 
 
 Jian. Thou art as well met as if by assignation. 
 
 ITo Lbonorb. 
 
 Leo. And you are as well met as if you were the 
 man I looked for. 
 
 Jftan. Kind rogue ! 
 
 Leo. Sweet sir 1 
 
 Man. Come, I am thy prisoner, (without more 
 words,) show but thy warrant. 
 
 IGoes to pull of her Mask. 
 
 Leo. You mistake, sir ; here is my pass. 
 
 [Gives him the tetter. 
 
 Ran. A. letter ! and directed to me ! 
 
 {Reads.'] I cannot put up the injuries and 
 affronts you did vie last night ; — a challenge, upon 
 my life ! and by such a messenger ! — therefore 
 conjure you by your honour, at eight o'clock pre- 
 cisely, this evening, to send your man to St. 
 Jameses gate^ to wait for me with a chair, to con- 
 duct me to what place you shall think most fit, for 
 the giving of satisfaction to the injured — Chris- 
 tina. 
 
 Christina ! I am amazed ! What is it o'clock, 
 Dapperwlt .' 
 
 Dap. It wants not half an hour of eight. 
 
 Ran. [To Leonobe.] Go then back, my pretty 
 herald, and tell my fair enemy, the service she 
 designs my man is only fit for my friend here ; 
 whose faith and honour she may be secure of. He 
 shall immediately go wait for her at St. James's 
 gate, whilst I go to prepare a place for our rencoun- 
 
 ter, and myself to die at her feet. [£a?e/ Leonore.] 
 Dapperwlt, dear Dapperwit. 
 
 jjap. What lucky surprisal's this ? 
 
 Ran, Prithee ask no questions, till I nave more 
 leisure and less astonishment. I know you will 
 not deny to be an instrument in my happiness.. 
 
 Sap. No, let me perish ! I take as much plea- 
 sure to bring lovers together as an old woman ; 
 or as a bankrupt gamester loves to look on, 
 though he has no advantage by the play ; or as a 
 bully that fights not himself, yet takes pleasure to 
 set people together by the ears, or as — 
 
 Ran, 'Sdeath ! is this a time for similitudes ? 
 
 Dap. You have made me miscarry of a good 
 thought now, let rae perish ! 
 
 Ran. Go presently to St. James.'s gate, where 
 you are to expect the coming of a lady ('tis Chris- 
 tina), accpmpanied by that Woman you saw e'en 
 now. She will permit you to put her into a chair, 
 and then conduct her to my lodging ; while I go 
 before to remove some spies, and prepare it for her 
 reception. 
 
 Dap. Your lodging ? had you not better carry 
 her to Vincent's .' 'tis hard by i and there a vizard 
 mask has as free egress and regress as at the play- 
 house. 
 
 Ran. Faith, though it be not very prudent, yet 
 she shall come thither in my vindication ; for he 
 would not believe I had seen her last night. 
 
 Dap. To have a fine woman, and not tell on't 
 as you say, Mr. Ranger — 
 
 Ran. Go, and bring her to Vincent's lodging ; 
 there I'll expect you. \_Exeunt severallp. 
 
 SCENE IV.—The Street before Vincent's 
 
 Enter Christina and Isabul. 
 
 Isa. This is the door, madam ; here Mr. Vincent 
 todges. 
 
 Chri. 'Tis no matter, we will pass it by ; lest 
 the people of our lodgings should watch us. But 
 if he should not be here now ! 
 
 Isa. Who, Mr. Valentine, madam ? I warrant 
 you my intelligencer dares not fail me. 
 
 Chri. Did he come last night, said he ? 
 
 fsa. Last night late. 
 
 Chri. And not see me yet ! nay, not send tome! 
 »— 'tis false, he is not come, — I wish he were not. 
 I know not which I should take more unkindly 
 from him, exposing his life to his revengeful 
 enemies, or being almost four-and-twenty hours so 
 near me, and not let me know't. 
 
 Isa. A lover's dangers are the only secrets kept 
 from his mistress ; he came not to you because he 
 would not purchase his happiness with your fear 
 and apprehensions. 
 
 Chri. Nay, he is come, I see, since you are 
 come about again of his side. 
 
 Isa. Will you go in, madam, and disprove me, 
 if you can } 'tis better than standing in the street. 
 
 Chri. We'll go a little further first, and return. 
 
 lExcunt. 
 
 SCENE V. — Vincent's Lodging. 
 Enter Vincent and Valentine. 
 
 Vin. I told you I had sent my man to Chris- 
 tina's this morning, to inquire of her maid, (who 
 
26 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 seldom denies hin a secret,) if her lady had been 
 at the Park last night; which she peremptorily 
 answered to the contrary, and assured him she 
 had not stirred out since yonr departure. 
 
 Val. Will not chambermaids lie, Vincent ? 
 
 Yin,. Will not Ranger lie, Valentine ? 
 
 Val. The circun!istance& of his story proved it 
 true. 
 
 Yin. Do you think so old a master in the faculty 
 as he will want the varnish of probability for his 
 lies? 
 
 Val. Do you think a woman, having the advan- 
 tage of her sex, and education under such a mis- 
 tress, will want impudence to disavow a truth that 
 might be prejudicial to that mistress ? 
 
 Vin. Btt if both testinionies are fallible, why 
 will you needs believe his ? we are apter to believe 
 the thihgs we would have, than those we would 
 not. 
 
 Val. My ill luck has taught me to credit my 
 misfortunes and doubt my happiness. 
 
 Vin. But fortune we know inconstant. 
 
 Val. And all of her sex. 
 
 Vin. Will you judge of fortune by your expe- 
 rience, and not do your mistress the same justice ? 
 Go see her, and satisfy yourself and fier ; for if 
 she be innocent, consider how culpable you are, 
 not only in your censures of her, biit in not seeiug 
 her since your coming. 
 
 Val. If she be innocent, I should be afraid to 
 surprise her, for her sake ; if false, I should be 
 afraid to surprise her, for my own. 
 
 Vin. To be jealous and not inquisitive is as 
 hard as to love extremely and not to be something 
 iealous. 
 
 Val. Inquisitiveness as seldom cures jealousy, 
 as drinking in a fever quenches the thirst. 
 
 Vin. If she were at the Park last night, 'tis 
 probable she'll not miss this. Go watch her house, 
 see who goes out, who in; while I, in the mean- 
 time, search out Ranger ; who, I'll pawn my life, 
 upon inore discourse shall avow his mistake. — 
 Here he is ; go in : — how luckily is he come ! 
 
 [Valbntinb retires to the door behind. 
 Enter Ranokr. 
 Ranger, you have prevented me : I was going to 
 look you out, between the scenes at the playhouse, 
 the coffee-house, tennis-court, or Gififord's. 
 
 Han. Do you want a pretence to go to a bawdy- 
 house ?- — but I have other visits to make. 
 
 Vin. I forget. I should rather have sought you 
 in Christina's lodgings, ha! ha! ha ! 
 
 Ran. Well, well, I'm just come to tell you that 
 Christina 
 
 Vin. Proves not, by daylight, the kind lady you 
 followed last night out of tte Park. 
 
 Ran. I have better news for you, to my thinking. 
 
 Vin. What is't ? 
 
 Ran. Not that I have been in Christina's lodg- 
 ing this morning ; but that she'll be presently here 
 ' in your lodging with me. 
 
 Val. How ! \_AsiAe. 
 
 Vin. {Retiring, and sneaking softly to \ ALati- 
 TiNE. ] You see now, his report was a jest, a 
 
 mere jest [_To Ranger.] Well, must my lodging 
 
 be your vaulting-school still ? thou hast appointed 
 a wench to come hither, I find. 
 
 Ran. A wench ! you seemed to have more 
 reverence for Christina last night. 
 
 Vin. Now you talk of Clii-istina, prithee tell me 
 
 what was the meaning of thy last night's romance 
 of Christina. 
 
 Ran. You shall know the meaning of aU when 
 Christina comes ; she'll be here presently. 
 
 Vin. Who will .' Christina ? 
 
 Ran. Yes, Christina. 
 
 Vin. Ha! ha! ha 1 
 
 Ran. Incredulous envy ! thou art as envious as 
 un impotent lecher at a wedding. 
 
 Vin. Thou art either mad, or as vain as a French- 
 man newly returned home from a campaign, or 
 obliging England. 
 
 Ran. Thou art as envious as a rival ; but if 
 thou art mine, there's that will make you desist ; 
 [gives him a letter.] and if you are not my rival, 
 entrusting you wiCh such a secret will, 1 know, 
 oblige you to keep it, and assist me against all 
 other interests. 
 
 Vin. Do yon think I take your secret as an 
 obligation ? don't I know, lovers, travellers, and 
 poets, will give money to be heard ? But what's 
 the paper.' a lampoon upon Christina, hatched 
 last night betwixt squire Dapperwit and you, be- 
 cause her maid used you scurvily ? 
 
 Ran. No, 'tis only a letter from her, to show 
 my company was not so disgustful to her last night, 
 but that she desires it again to-day. 
 
 Val. A letter from her ! lAside. 
 
 Vin. A letter from Christina ! IReads.} — Ha 1 
 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ran. Nay, 'tis pleasant. 
 
 Vin. You mistake, I laugh at you, not the letter. 
 
 Ran. I am like the winning gamester, so pleased 
 with my luck, I will not quarrel with any who calls 
 me a fool for't. 
 
 Vin. Is this the style of a woman of honour ? 
 
 Ran. It may be, for aught you know ; I'm sure 
 'tis well if your female correspondents can read. 
 
 Vin. I must confess I have none of the little 
 letters, half name or title, like your Spanish Epis- 
 tles Dedicatory ; but that a man so frequent inj 
 honourable intrigues as you are, should not know! 
 the summons of an impudent common woman,! 
 from that of a person of honour ! I 
 
 Ran. Christina is so much a person of honour 
 she'll own what she has writ when she comes. 
 
 Vin. But will she come hither indeed .■' 
 
 Ran. Immediately. You'll excuse my liberty 
 with you ; I could not conceal such a happiness 
 from such a friend as you, lest you should have 
 taken it unkindly. 
 
 Vin. Faith, you have obliged me indeed ; for 
 you and others would often have made me believe 
 your honourable intrigues, but never did me the 
 honour to convince me of 'em before. 
 
 Ran. You are merry, I find, yet. 
 
 Vin. When you are happy I cannot be otherwise. 
 
 Ran. lAside.} But I lose time ; I should lay a 
 little person in ambush, that lives hard by, in case 
 Christina should be impatient to be revenged of 
 her friends, as it often happens with a discontented 
 heiress. Women, like old soldiers, more nimbly 
 execute than they resolve. [.Ooing out. 
 
 Via. What now ! you will not disappoint a 
 woman of Christina's quality .' 
 
 Ran. I'll be here before she comes, I warrant 
 you. IBxH. 
 
 Vin. I do believe you truly ! — What think you, 
 Valentine } 
 
 Val. [Coming forward.'] I think, since she has 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD ; OR, St. JAMES'S JPARK. 
 
 27 
 
 the courage tochallenge him, she'll have the honour 
 of beingfirst in the field. 
 
 Kin. Fy, your opinion of her must be as bad, 
 as Ranger's of himself is good, to think she would 
 write to him. I long till his bona-roba comes, that 
 you may be both disabused. 
 
 Val. And 1 have not patierjce to stay her coming, 
 lest you should be disabused. 
 
 Enter Christina and Isabel. 
 
 Vin. Here she is, i'faith; I'm glad she's come. 
 
 Val. And I'm sorry. But I will to my post 
 again, lest sbe should say she came to me. 
 
 [Retires as hefi>re. 
 
 Tin. \_Aside.'\ By heavens, Christina herself! 
 'tis she ! [Christina pulls off her mask. 
 
 Val. 'Tis she : — cursed be these eyes ! more 
 cursed than when they first betrayed me to that 
 false bewitching face. \_Aside. 
 
 Chri. Yon may wonder, sir, to see me here — 
 
 Vin. I must confess I do. 
 
 Chri. But the confidence your friend ha.": in you 
 is the cause of mine ; and yet some blushes it does 
 cost me to come to seek for a man. 
 
 Val. Modest creature ! lAsiite. 
 
 Vin. How am 1 deceived ! lAside. 
 
 Chri. Wliere is he, sir ? why does he not ap- 
 pear, to keep me in countenance .'' pray call him, 
 sir; 'tis something hard if he should know I'm 
 here. 
 
 Vin. I hardly can myself believe you are here, 
 madam. 
 
 Chri. If my visit be troublesome or unseason- 
 able, 'tis your friend's fault ; I designed it not to 
 you, sir. Pray call him out, that he may excuse 
 it, and take it on himself, together with my shame. 
 
 Vin. How impatient she is ! {Aside. 
 
 Chri. Or do you delay the happiness I ask, to 
 make it more welcome J I have stayed too long for 
 it already, and cannot m.ore desire it. Dear sir, call 
 him out. Where is he .' above, or here within ? 
 I'll snatch the favour which you will not give. 
 ■ — [Goes to the door and discovers Valentine.] 
 What ! do you hide yourself for shame .' 
 
 Val. \_Coming forward.'] I must confess I do. 
 
 Chri. To see me come hither 
 
 Val. I acknowledge it. [Valentine offers to go out. 
 
 Chri. Before you came to me .'' But whither do 
 you go .' come, I can forgive you. 
 
 Val. But I cannot forgive you. 
 
 Chri. Whither do you go ? you need not forge 
 a quarrel to prevent mine to you : nor need you 
 try if I would follow yon, you know I will ; — I 
 have, you see. 
 
 Val. That impudence should look so like inno- 
 cence ! [Aside. 
 
 Chri. Whither would you go .' why would you 
 go.' 
 
 Val. To call your servant to you. 
 
 Chri. She is here ; what would you have with 
 her.' 
 
 Fal. I mean your lover,— the man you came to 
 meet. 
 
 Chri. Oh heavens ! what lover.' what man? I 
 came to see no man but you, whom I had too long 
 lost. 
 
 Val. You could not know that I was here. 
 
 Qtri. Ask her ; 'twas she that told me. 
 
 [Points to Isabel. 
 
 Val. How could she know ? 
 
 Chri. That you shall know hereafter. 
 
 Val. No, you thought me too far out of the 
 way to disturb your assignation ; and I assure you, 
 madam, 'twas my ill-fortune, not my design : and 
 that it may appear so, I do withdraw, as in all good 
 breeding and civility I am obliged ; for sure your 
 wished-for lover's coming. 
 
 Chri. What do you mean ? are you a-weary of 
 that title .' 
 
 Val. I am ashamed of it, since it grows com- 
 mon. [Going out. 
 
 Chri. Nay, you will not, shall not go. 
 
 Val. My stay might give him jealousy, and so 
 do you injury, and him the greatest in the World : 
 heavens fbrbid ! I would not make a man jealous ; 
 for though you call a thousand vows, and oaths, 
 and tears to witness (as you safely mayli, that yoU 
 have not the least of love for me, yet if he ever 
 knew how I have loved you, sure he would not, 
 could not believe you. 
 
 Chri. I do confess, your riddle is too hard for 
 me to solve ; therefore you are obliged to do't 
 yourself. 
 
 Val. I wish it were capable of any other inter, 
 pretation than what you know already. 
 
 Chri. Is this that generous good Valentine ? who 
 has disguised him so .' [Weeps. 
 
 Vin. Nay, I must withhold you then. [Stops 
 Valentine going out.'] Methinks she should be 
 innocent ; her tongue, and eyes, together with that 
 flood that swells 'em, do vindicate her heart. 
 
 Val. They show but their long practice of dis- 
 simulation. [Going out. 
 
 Vin. Come back : I hear Ranger coming up : 
 stay but till he comes. 
 
 Val. Do you think I have the patience of an 
 alderman .' 
 
 Vin. You may go out this way, when you will, 
 by the back-stairs ; but stay a little, till- — Oh, here 
 he comes. 
 
 lie-enter 'RAttdETt. Upon his entrance Christina ^Jui* 
 on her mask. 
 
 Val. My revenge will now detain me. 
 
 [Valentine retires again. 
 
 Ran. [Aside.'} — What, come already ! where is 
 Dapperwit? — [Aloud."] The blessing's double that 
 comes quickly; I did not yet .expect you here, other- 
 wise 1 had done myself the injury to be absent. 
 But I hope, madam, I have not made you stay long 
 for me. 
 
 Chri. I have not staid at all for you. 
 
 Ran. I am glad of it, madam. 
 
 Chri. [ To Isabel.] Is not this that troublesome 
 stranger who last night followed the lady into my 
 lodgings ? — [Aside.] 'Tis he. 
 
 [Removing from him to the other side. 
 
 Ran. [Aside.] Why does she remove so disdain- 
 fully from me .' — [Aloud.] I find you take it ill I 
 was not at your coming here, madam. 
 
 Chri. Indeed I do not ; you are mistaken, sir. 
 
 Ran. Confirm me by a smile then, madam ; 
 remove that cloud, which makes me apprehend 
 foul weather. [Goes to take off her mask.] — Mr. 
 Vincent, pray retire ; 'tis you keep on the lady's 
 mask, and no displeasure which she has for me. — 
 Yet, madam, you need not distrust his honour or 
 his faith But do not keep the lady under con- 
 straint ; pray leave us a little, master Vincent. 
 
 Chri. You must not leave us, sir ; would you 
 leave me with a stranger ? 
 
28 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Val. How's that ! lAsiOr. 
 
 Ran. [Aside.} I've done amiss, I find ; to bring 
 her hither. — Madam, I understand you — 
 
 ^^Apart to Christina. 
 
 Chri. Sir. 1 do not understand yon. 
 
 Ran. You would not be known to Mr. Vincent. 
 
 Chri. 'Tis your acquaintance I would avoid. 
 
 Ran. [Aside.] Dull brute that I was, to bring 
 her hither ! — I have found my error, madam ; give 
 me but a new appointment, where I may meet you 
 by and by, and straight I will withdraw as if I 
 knew you not. iSqflly ioher. 
 
 ChH. Why, do you know me ? 
 
 Ran. lAiide.'i I must not own it.-;— No, madam> 
 but — l^itfers to whisper. 
 
 Chri. Whispering, sir, argues an old acquaint- 
 ance ; but I have not the vanity to be thought of 
 yours, and resolve you shall never have the dis- 
 paragement of mine. — Mr. Vincent, pray let us go 
 in here. 
 
 Ran. How's this ! I am undone, I see ; but if I 
 let her go thus, I shall be an eternal laughing-stock 
 to Vincent. [_Asida 
 
 Vin. Do you not know him, madam ? I thought 
 you had come hither on purpose to meet him. 
 
 Chri. To meet him ! 
 
 Vin. By your own appointment. 
 
 Chri. What strange infatuation does delude you 
 all P you know, he said he did not know me. 
 
 Viji. You writ to him ; he has your letter. 
 
 Chri. Then, you know my name sure ? yet you 
 confessed but now you knew me not. 
 
 Ran. I must confess your anger has disguised 
 you more than your mask ; for 1 thought to have 
 met a kinder Christina here. 
 
 Chri. [Aside.} Heavens 1 how could he know 
 me in this place ? he watched me hither sure ; or 
 is there any other of my name. — [Aloud.'] That 
 you may no longer mistake me for your Christina, 
 I'll pull off that which soothes your error. 
 
 [^PuUs off her mask. 
 
 Ran. Take but t'other vizard off too, (I mean 
 your anger,) and I'll swear you are the same, and 
 only Christina which I wished, and thought, to 
 meet here. 
 
 Chri. How could you think to meet me here ? 
 
 Ran. [Gives her the letter.} By Virtue of this 
 your commission ; which now, I see, was meant a 
 real challenge : for you look as if you would fight 
 with me. 
 
 Chri. The paper is a stranger to me ; I never 
 writ it. You are abused. 
 
 Vin. Christina is a person of honour, and will 
 own what she has written, Ranger. 
 
 Ran. [Aside.} So ! the comedy begins ; I shall 
 be laughed at sufficiently if I do not justify myself; 
 I must set my impudence to hers. She is resolved 
 to deny all, I see, and I have lost all hope of her. 
 
 Vin. Come, faith. Ranger — 
 
 Ran. You will deny too, madam, that I followed 
 yon last night from the Park to your lodging, where 
 I staid with you till morning ? you never saw me 
 before, I warrant. 
 
 Chri. That you rudely intruded last night into my 
 lodging, I cannot deny ; but I wonder you have 
 the confidence to brag of it : sure yo«. will not of 
 your reception ? 
 
 Ran. I never was so ill-bred as to brag of my 
 reception in a lady's chamber ; not a word of that, 
 madam. 
 
 Val. [Aside ] How ! if he lies, I revenge Iier ; 
 if it be true, I revenge myself. 
 
 [Valentine draws his swords which YmcEtrr seeinfjt 
 thrusts him backf and shuts the door upon him 
 before he is discovered by Ranger. 
 
 Enter IiYDiA and Lbonore, slopping at the door. 
 
 Lyd. What do I see ! Christina with hiln J a 
 counter-plot to mine, to make me and it ridi- 
 culous. 'Tis true, I find, they have been long 
 acquainted, and I long abused ; but since she 
 intends a triumph, in spite, as well as shame, (not 
 emulation,) I retire. She deserves no envy, who 
 will be shortly in my condition ; his natural incon>. 
 stancy will prove my best revenge on her — on both. 
 {JExeunt LvsiA and Leonore. 
 
 Enter Dapperwit. 
 
 Hap. Christina's going away again ; — what's the 
 matter ? 
 
 Ran. What do yoil mean .' 
 
 Dap. I scarce Had paid the ehairmen, atid ^t& 
 coming up after her, but I met her on the stairs, 
 in as much haste as if she had been frightened. 
 
 Ran. Who do yoU talk of? 
 
 Dap. Christina, whom I took up in a chaii 
 just now at St. James's gate. 
 
 Ran. Thou art mad ! here she is, this is 
 Christina. 
 
 bap. I must confess I did not see her face ; but 
 I am sure the lady is gone that I brought just now. 
 
 Ran. I tell you again this is she i did you bring 
 two? 
 
 Chri. I came in no chair, had no guide but my 
 Woman there. 
 
 Vin, When did you bring your lady, Dapperwit ? 
 
 Dap. Even now, just now. 
 
 Vin. This lady has been here half-an-hour. 
 
 Ran. He knows not what he says, he is mad : 
 you are all so ; I am so too. 
 
 Vin. 'Tis the best excuse you can make for 
 yourself, and by owning your mistake you'll show 
 you are come to yourself. I myself saw your woman 
 at the door, who but looked in, and then imme. 
 diately went down again ; — as your friend Dapper- 
 wit too affirms. 
 
 Chri. You had best follow her that looked foi 
 you ; and I'll go seek out him I came to see. — Mr. 
 Vincent, pray let me in here. 
 
 Ran. 'Tis very fine ! wondrous fine ! 
 
 [Christina goes out a little, and returns. 
 
 Chri. Oh ! he is gone ! Mr. Vincent, follow 
 him ; he were yet more severe to me, in endanger- 
 ing his life, than in his censures against me. You 
 know the power of his enemies is great as theii 
 malice ; —just Heaven preserve him from them, 
 and me from this ill or unlucky man! 
 
 \_Exeunt Christina, Isabel, ond Vincent. 
 
 Ran. 'Tis well — nay, certainly, I shall never 
 be master cf my senses more ; but why dost thou 
 help to distract me too P 
 
 Dap. My astonishment was as great as yours to 
 see her go away again j I would have stayed her if 
 I could. 
 
 Ran. Yet again talking of a woman you met 
 going out, when I talk of Christina 1 
 
 Dap. I talk of Christina too. 
 
 Ran. She went out just now ; the woman yon 
 found me with was she. 
 
 Dap. That was igot the Christina I brought just 
 now. 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMEKS PARK. 
 
 29 
 
 Ran. You brought her almost half an hour ago ; 
 'sdeath, will you give me the lie ? 
 
 Dap. A lady disappointed by her gallant, the 
 night before her journey, could not be more touchy 
 with her maid or husband, than you are with me 
 now after your disappointment ; but if you thank 
 me sOj I'll go serve myself hereafter. For aught 
 I know, I have disappointed Mrs. Martha for you, 
 and may lose thirty thousand pounds by the bar- 
 gain. Farewell ! a raving lover is fit for solitude. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Ban. Lydia, triumph ! I now am thine again. 
 Of intrigues, honourable or dishonourable, and all 
 sorts of rambling, I take my leave ; when we are 
 giddy, 'tis time to. stand still. Why should we be 
 so fond of the by-paths of love, where we are still 
 waylaid with surprises, trepans, dangers, and 
 murdering disappointments } — 
 
 Just as at bljndman's buff we run at all, 
 Whilst those that lead us laugh to see us fall; 
 And when we think we hold the lady fast^ 
 We find it but her scarf, or veil, at last. iSicit. 
 
 ACT V, 
 
 SCENE I.— SU James's Park. 
 
 Enter Dapperwit and Sir Simon Addleplot, the latter 
 leading Mrs. Martha. 
 
 Sir Sim, At length you see I have freed the 
 captive lady for her longing knight, Mr. Dapper- 
 wit : — ^who brings off a plot cleverly now .' 
 
 Dap. I wish our poets were half so good at it. 
 — Mrs. Martha, a thousand welcomes ! 
 
 [Dapperwit kisses and embraces Mrs. Martha. 
 
 Sir Sim. Hold, hold, sir ! your joy is a little too 
 familiar, faith and troth ! 
 
 Dap. Will you not let me salute Mrs. Martha ? 
 
 Mar. What, Jonas, do you think I do not 
 know good breeding ? must I be taught by you ? 
 
 Sir Sim. I would have kept the maidenhead of 
 your lips for your sweet knight, Mrs. Martha, that's 
 all ; I dare swear you never kissed any man before 
 but your father. 
 
 Mar. My sweet knight, if he wiU be knight of 
 mine, must be contented vrith what he finds, as 
 well as other knights. 
 
 Sir Sim. So smart already, faith and troth ! 
 
 Mar. Dear Mr. Dapperwit, I am overjoyed to 
 see you ; but I thank honest Jonas for't. 
 
 iShe hugs Dapperwjt. 
 
 Sir Sim. [Aside.'] How she hugs him ! 
 
 Mar. Poor Mr. Dapperwit, I thought I should 
 never have seen you again ; but I thank honest 
 Jonas there — 
 
 Sir Sim. Do not thank me, Mrs. Martha, any 
 more than I thank you. 
 
 Mar. I would not be ungrateful, Jonas. 
 
 Sir Sim. Then reserve your kindness only for 
 your worthy, noble, brave, heroic knight, who 
 loves you only, and only deserves your kindness. 
 
 Mar. I will show my kindness to my worthy, 
 brave, heroic knight, in being kind to his friend, 
 his dear friend, who helped him to me. 
 
 ' {Hugs Dappkbwit again. 
 
 Sir Sim. But, mistress Martha, he is not to help 
 him always ; though he helps him to be married, 
 he is not to help him when he is married. 
 
 Mar. What, Mr. Dapperwit, vrill you love my 
 worthy knight less after marriage than before ? 
 that were against the custom ; for marriage gets a 
 man friends, instead of losing those he has. 
 
 Dap. I will ever be his servant and yours, dear 
 madam ; do not doubt me. 
 
 Mar. I do not, sweet dear Mr. Dapperwit; but 
 I should not have seen you these two days if it had 
 not been for honest Jonas there — 
 
 [Bhe hisses Dapperwit. 
 
 Sir Sim.. [Apart to. Dapperwit.J For shame ! 
 though she be young and foolish, do not you wrong 
 me to my face. 
 
 Dap. Would you have me so ill bred as to repulse 
 her innocent kindness .' — what a thing it is to want 
 wit ! 
 
 Sir Sim. [Aside.] A pox ! I must make haste 
 to discover myself, or I shall discover what I 
 would not discover ; but if I should discover my- 
 self in this habit, 'twould not be to my advantage. 
 But I'll go, put on my own clothes, and look 
 like a knight.— [^/oad.] Well, Mrs. Martha, I'll 
 go seek out your krught : are you not impatient to 
 see him ? 
 
 Mar. Wives must be obedient ; let him take his 
 own time. 
 
 Sir Sim. Can you trust yourself a turn or two 
 with master Dapperwit .^ 
 
 Mar. Yes, yes, j'onas — as long as you will. 
 
 Sir Sim. [Aside.] But I would not trust yon 
 with him, if I could help it : — 
 
 So married wight sees what he dares not blame ; 
 And cannot budge for fear, nor stay for shame. 
 
 iExit. 
 
 Dap. I am glad he is gone, that I may laugh. 
 *Tis such a miracle of fops, that his conversation 
 should be pleasant to me, even when it hindered 
 me of yours. 
 
 Mar. Indeed I'm glad he is gone too, as plea- 
 sant as he is. 
 
 Dap. I know why, I know why, sweet Mrs. 
 Martha. I warrant you, you had rather have the 
 parson's company than his ?■ — now you are out of 
 your father's house, 'lis time to leave being a 
 hypocrite. 
 
 Mar. Well, for the jest's sake, to disappoint 
 my knight, I would not care if I disappointed my- 
 self of a ladyship. 
 
 Dap. Come, I will not keep you on the tenters ; 
 I know you have a mind to make sure of me : 
 I have a little chaplain (I wish he were a bishop 
 or one of the friars) to perfect our revenge upon 
 that zealous Jew, your father. 
 
 Mar. Do not speak ill of my father ; he has been 
 your friend, I'm sure. 
 
 Dap. My friend ! 
 
 Mar. His hard usage of me conspired with your 
 good mien and wit, and to avoid slavery under him, 
 I stoop to your yoke. 
 
 Dap. I will be obliged to your father for nothing 
 but a portion ; nor to you for your love ; 'twas due 
 to my merit. 
 
yo 
 
 LOVP IN A WOOD ; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Mar. You show yourself sir Simon,'s original ; 
 if 'twere not for tliat vanity 
 
 Daj). I should be no wit — 'tis the badge of ray 
 calling ; for you can no more find a man of wit 
 without vanity than a fine woman without aifer.ta- 
 tion : but let us go before the knight comes 
 again. 
 
 Mar. Let us go before my father comes ; he 
 soon will have the intelligence. 
 
 Dap. Stay, let me think a little. IPames. 
 
 Mar. What are you thinking of ?, you should 
 have thought before this time, or I should have 
 thought rather. 
 
 Dap. Peace ! peace ! 
 
 Mar. What are you thinking of? 
 
 Dap. I am thinking what a wit without vanity is 
 like. He is like — 
 
 Mar. You do not think we are in a public 
 place, and may be surprised and prevented by my 
 father's scouts ! 
 
 Dap. What ! would you have me lose my 
 thought ? 
 
 Mar. You would rather lose your mistress, it 
 seems. 
 
 Dap. He is like — I think I ain a sot to-night, let 
 me perish ! 
 
 Mar. Nay, if you are so in love with your 
 thought — {Offers to go. 
 
 Dap. Are you so impatient to be my wife ? 
 — He is like — he is like — a picture without sha- 
 dows, or — or — a face with out patches — or a diamond 
 without a foil. These are new thoughts now, these 
 are new ! 
 
 Mar. You are wedded already to your thoughts, 
 I see ; — good night- 
 
 Dap. Madam, do not take it ill : — 
 
 For loss of happy thought there's no amends ; 
 
 For his new jest, true wit will lose old friends. 
 
 Thai's new again, — the thought's new. lExeuni. 
 
 SCENE 11.^ — Another part of the same. 
 
 Enter Gripe, leading Lucy ; Joyner and Mrs. Ceossiiite 
 foUowing. 
 
 Gripe. Mrs. Joyner, I can conform to this mode 
 of public walking by moonlight, because one is not 
 known. 
 
 Lucy. Why, are you ashamed of your com- 
 pany .' 
 
 Gripe. No, pretty one ; because in the darK, or 
 as it were in the dark, there is no envy nor scandal. 
 I would neither lose you nor my reputation. 
 
 Joyn. Your reputation ! indeed, your worship, 
 'tis well known there are as grave men as your 
 worship ; nay, men in office too, that adjourn their 
 cares and businesses, to come andunbend themselves 
 at night here. with a httle vizard-mask. 
 
 Gripe. I do believe it, Mrs. Joyner. 
 
 Lucy. Ay, godmother, and carries and treats 
 her at Mulberry-garden. 
 
 Cros. Nay, does not only treat her, but gives 
 lier his whole gleaning of that day. 
 
 Gripe. They may, they may, _Mrs. Crossbite ; 
 they take above six in the hundre'd. 
 
 Cros. Nay, there are those of so much worth 
 and honour and love, that they'll take it from their 
 
 wives and children to give it to their misses ; 
 
 now your worship has no wife, and but one child. 
 
 Gripe. Still for my edification ! [.Aside. 
 
 Joyn,. That's true, indeed ; for I know a great 
 lady that cannot follow her husband abroad to his 
 haunts, because her Ferrandine is so ragged and 
 greasy, whilst his mistress is as fine 'as fi'pence, in 
 embroidered satins. 
 
 Gripe. Politicly done of him indeed ! If the truth 
 were known, heis a statesman by that, umph — 
 
 Cros. Truly, your women of quality are very 
 troublesome to their husbands ; I have heard 'em 
 complain, they will allow them no separate main- 
 tenance, though the honourable jilts themselves 
 will not marry without it. 
 
 Joyn. Come, come, mistress ; sometimes 'tis the 
 craft of those gentlemen to complain of their wives' 
 expenses to excuse their own narrowness to their 
 misses ; but your daughter has a gallant that can 
 make no excuse. 
 
 Gripe. So, Mrs. Joyner! — my friend, Mrs. 
 Joyner — 
 
 Cros. I hope, indeed, he'll give my daughter no 
 cause to dun him ; for, poor wretch ! she is as 
 modest as her mother. 
 
 Gripe. I profess, I believe it. 
 
 Lucy. But I have the boldness to ask him for a 
 treat. — Come, gallant, we must walk towards the 
 Mulberry-garden. 
 
 Gripe. So ! — I am afraid, little mistress, the 
 rooms are all taken up by this time. 
 
 Joyn, Will you shame yourself again ? 
 
 \_Aside to Gripe. 
 
 Lucy. If the rooms be full, we'll have an arbour. 
 
 Gripe. At this time of night! — besides, the 
 waiters will ne'er come near you. 
 
 Lucy. They will be observant of good custom- 
 ers, as we shall be. Come along. 
 
 Gripe. Indeed, and verily, little mistress, I 
 would go, but that I should be foresworn if I did. 
 
 Joyn. That's so pitiful an e.'scuse ! — 
 
 Gripe. In truth, I have foresworn the place ever 
 since I was pawned there for a reckoning. 
 
 Lucy. You have broken many an oath for the 
 good old cause, and will you boggle at one for your 
 poor little miss .■' Come along. 
 
 Enter Lady Flippant heMnd, 
 
 Flip. Unfortunate lady that I am ! I have 
 left the herd on purpose to be chased, and have 
 wandered this hour here ; but the Park aifords not 
 so much as a satyr for me, and (that's strange !) 
 no Burgundy man or drunken scourer will reel my 
 way. The rag-women, and cinder-women, have 
 better luck than I. — But who are these? if this 
 mongrel light does not deceive me, 'tis my brother, 
 — 'tis he : — there's Joyner, too, and two other 
 women. I'll follow 'em. It must be he, for this 
 world hath nothing like him ; — I know not what 
 the devil may be in the other. lExmnt. 
 
 SCENE III.— Another part of the same. 
 
 Enter Sir Simon Addlbpot, injlne clothes, Dapperwit and 
 Mrs. Martha, unseen by him at the door. 
 
 Sir Sim. Well, after all my seeking, I can find 
 those I would not find j I'm sure 'twas old Gripe, 
 and Joyner with him, and the widow followed. 
 He would not have been here, but to have sought 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 81 
 
 Ms daughter, sure ; but vigilant Dapperwit has 
 spied him too, and has, no doubt, secured her from 
 him. 
 
 Dap. And you. 'iAslde. 
 
 Sir Sim. The rogue is as good at hiding, as 1 
 am at stealing, a mistress. 'Tis a vain, conceited 
 fellow, yet I think 'tis an honest fellow: — but, 
 again, he is a damnable whoring fellow ; and what 
 opportunity this air and darkness may incline *em 
 to, heaven knows ; for T have heard the rogue say 
 himself, a lady will no more show her modesty in 
 the dark than a Spaniard his courage. 
 
 Dap, Ha! ha! ha! — 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, if you are there, my true friend, 
 I *11 forgive your hearkening, if you 'U forgive my 
 censures. — I speak to you, dear madam Martha ; 
 dear, dear — behold your worthy knight — 
 
 Mar. That's far from neighbours. 
 
 Sir Sim. Is come to reap the fruit of his labours. 
 
 Mar. I cannot see the knight ; well, but I 'm 
 sure I hear Jonas. 
 
 Sir Sim. I am no Jonas, Mrs. Martha. 
 
 Mar. The night is not so dark, nor the peruke 
 so big, but I can discern Jonas. 
 
 Sir Sim. Faith and troth, I am the very sir 
 Simon Addleplot that is to marry you ; the same 
 Dapperwit solicited you for; ask him else, my 
 name is not Jonas. 
 
 Mar. You think my youth and simplicity 
 capable of this cheat ; but let me tell you, Jonas, 
 'tis not your borrowed clothes and titles shall make 
 me marry my father's man. 
 
 Sir Sim. Borrowed title 1 I '11 be sworn I bought 
 it of my laundress, who was a court -laundress ; 
 but, indeed, my clothes I have not paid for ; there- 
 fore, in that sense, they are borrowed. 
 
 Mar. Prithee, Jonas, let the jest end, or I 
 shall be presently in earnest. 
 
 Sir Sim. Pray, be in earnest, and let us go ; 
 the parson and supper stay for us, and I am a 
 knight in earnest. 
 
 Mar. You a knight ! insolent, saucy fool. 
 
 Sir Sim. The devil take me, Mrs. Martha, if I 
 am not a knight now ! a knight-baron* too ! A 
 man ought, I see, to carry his patent in his pocket 
 when he goes to be married ; 'tis more necessary 
 than a licence. I am a knight indeed and indeed 
 now, Mrs. Martha. 
 
 Mar. Indeed and indeed, the trick will not 
 pass, Jonas. 
 
 Sir Sim. Poor wretch ! she's afrdd she shall 
 not be a lady. — Come, come, discover the intrigue, 
 Dapperwit. 
 
 Mar. You need not discover the intrigue, 'tis 
 apparent already. Unworthy Mr. Dapperwit ! 
 after my confidence reposed in you, could you be 
 so little generous as to betray me to my father's 
 man ? but I '11 be even with you. 
 
 Sir Sim. Do not accuse him, poor man ! before 
 you hear him. — Tell her the intrigue, man. 
 
 Dap. A pox ! she will not believe us. 
 
 Sir Sim. Will you not excuse yourself? but 
 I must not let it rest so. — Know, then, Mrs. 
 Martha — 
 
 Mar, Come, I forgive thee before thy con- 
 fession, Jonas ; you never had had the confidence 
 to have designed this cheat upon me but from Mr. 
 Dapperwit's encouragement — 'twas his plot. 
 
 Sir Sim. Nay, do not do me that wrong, madam. 
 
 Mar. But since he has trepanned me out of my 
 
 father's house, he is like to keep me as long as 1 
 live ; and so good night, Jonas. 
 
 Sir Sim. Hold, hold, what d'ye mean both ? 
 prithee, tell her I am sir Simon, and no Jonas* 
 
 Dap. A pox ! she will not believe us, I tell you. 
 
 Sir Sim. I have provided a parson and supper 
 at Mulberry-garden, and invited all my friends I 
 could meet in the Park. 
 
 Dap. Nay, rather than they shall be disappointed, 
 there shall be a bride and bridegroom to entertain 
 'em ; Mrs. Martha and I will go thither presently. 
 
 Sir Sim. Why, shall she be your brid^ ? 
 
 Dap. You see she will have it so. 
 
 Sir Sim. Will vou make Dapperwit your hus- 
 band .'' 
 
 Mar. Rather than my father's man. 
 
 Sir Sim, Oh, the devil ! 
 
 JMar. Nay, come along, Jonas, you shall make 
 one at the wedding, since you helped to contrive it. 
 
 Sir Sim. Will you cheat yourself, for fear of 
 being cheated .' 
 
 Mar. I am desperate now. 
 
 Sir Sim. Wilt thou let her do so ill a thing, 
 Dapperwit, as to marry thee ? open her eyes, 
 prithee, and tell her I am a true knight. 
 
 Dap, 'Twould be in vain, by my life ! you have 
 carried yourself so like a natural clerk — and so 
 adieu, good Jonas. \_Exeunt Martha and Dapperwit. 
 
 Sir Sim. What ! ruined by my own plot, like 
 Jan old cavalier ! yet like him, too, I will plot on 
 fetill, a plot of prevention. So ! I have it — her 
 lather was here even now, I'm sure ; well — I'll 
 go tell her father of her, that I will ! 
 
 And punish so her folly and his treachery : 
 
 Revenge is sweet, and makes amends for lechery. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Another part of the same. 
 Enter Lydia and Lbonore. 
 
 Lyd, I wish I had not come hither to-night, 
 Leonore. 
 
 Leo. Why did you, madam, if the place be so 
 disagreeable to you ? 
 
 Lyd. We cannot help visiting the place often 
 where we have lost anything we value : I lost 
 Ranger here last night. 
 
 Leo. You thought you had lost him before, a 
 great while ago ; and therefore you ought to be 
 the less troubled. 
 
 Lyd. But 'twas here I missed him first, I'm 
 sure. 
 
 Leo. Come, madam, let not the loss vex you; 
 he is not worth the looking after. 
 
 Lyd. It cannot but vex me yet, if I lost him by 
 my own fault. 
 
 Leo, You had but too much care to keep him. 
 
 Lyd. It often happens, indeed, that too much 
 care is as bad as negligence ; but I had rather be 
 robbed than lose what I have carelessly. 
 
 Leo. But, I believe you would hang the thief 
 if you could, 
 
 Lyd. Not if I could have my own again. 
 
 Leo. I see you would be too merciful. 
 
 Lyd. I wish I were trred. 
 
 Leo. But, madam, if you please, we will waive 
 the discourse ; for people seldom (I suppose) talk 
 with pleasure of their real losses. 
 
32 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 Lyd. 'Tis better than to ruminate on them ; 
 mine, I'm sure, will not out of head nor heart. 
 
 Leo. Grief is so far from retrieving a loss, that 
 it makes it greater; but the way to lessen it is by 
 a comparison with others' losses. Here are ladies 
 in the Park of your acquaintance, I doubt not, can 
 compare with you ; pray, madam, let us walk and 
 find 'em out. 
 
 Ijyi:. 'Tis the resentment, yon say, makes the 
 loss great or little ; and then, I'm sure, there is 
 none like mine : however, go on. lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. — Another part of the same. 
 Enter Vincrnt and Va^-entine. 
 
 Tin. I am glad I have found you, for now I am 
 prepared to lead you out of the dark and all 
 your trouble : I have good news. 
 
 Val, You are as unmerciful as the physician 
 who with new arts keeps his -miserable patient aKve 
 and in hd))es, when he knows the disease is incurs 
 able. 
 
 Vin, And you, like the melancholy patient, 
 mistrust and hate your physician, because he will 
 not comply with your despair : but I'll cure your 
 jealousy now. 
 
 Val. Yon know, all diseases grow worse by 
 relapses. 
 
 Vin. Trust me once more. 
 
 Val. Well, you may try your experiments upon 
 me. 
 
 Vin. Just as I shut the door upon you, the 
 woman Ranger expected came up stairs ; but find- 
 ing another woman in discourse with him, went 
 down again ; I suppose, as jealous of him, as you 
 of Christina. 
 
 Val. How does it appear she came to Ranger ? 
 
 Vin. Thus: Dapperwit came up after he had 
 brought her, just then, in a chair from St. James's 
 by Ranger's appointment ; and it is certain your 
 Christina came to you. 
 
 Val. How can that be .' for she knew not I was 
 in the kingdom. 
 
 Vin. My man confesses, when I sent him to 
 inquire of her woman about her lady's being here 
 in the Park last night, he told her you were come ; 
 and she, it seems, told her mistress. 
 
 Val. [Aside.1 That might ht.— [Aloud. ] But did 
 not Christina confess. Ranger was in her lodging last 
 night ? 
 
 Vin. By intrusion, which she had more particu- 
 larly informed me of, if her apprehensions of your 
 danger had not posted me after you ; she not having 
 yet (as I suppose) heard of Clerimont's recovery. 
 I left her, poor creature ! at home, distracted with 
 a thousand fears for your life and love. 
 
 Val. Her love, I'm sure, has cost me more fears 
 than my life ; yet that little danger is not past (as 
 you think) till the great one be over. 
 
 Vin. Open but your eyes, and the fantastic 
 goblin's vanished, and all your idle fears will turn 
 to shame ; for jealousy is the basest cowardice. 
 
 Val. I had rather, indeed, blush for myself than 
 her. 
 
 Vin. I'm sure you will have more reason. But 
 is not that Ranger there ? 
 
 Enter Ranger, followed by Christina and Isabel ; 
 after them Lydia and Leonokb. 
 
 Val. I think it is. 
 
 Vin. I suppose his friend Dapperwit is not far 
 off; I will examine them both before you, and 
 not leave you so much as the shadow of doubt : 
 Ranger's astonishment at my lodging confessed his 
 mistake. 
 
 Val. His astonishment might proceed from 
 Christina's unexpected strangeness to him. 
 
 Vin. He shall satisfy you now himself to the 
 contrary, I warrant you ; have but patience. 
 
 Val. I had rather, indeed, he should satisfy my 
 doubts than my revenge ; therefore I can have 
 patience. 
 
 Vin. But what women are those that foUow him? 
 
 Val. Stay a little— 
 
 Ran. Lydia, Lydia — poor Lyd'ia ! 
 
 Lyd. If she be my rival, 'tis some comfort yet 
 to see her follow him, rather than he her. 
 
 [To LEONons. 
 
 Leo. But if you follow them a little longer, 
 for your comfort you shall see them go hand in 
 hand. 
 
 Chri. Sir 1 sir ! — [To Rangeb. 
 
 Leo. She calls to him already. 
 
 Lyd. But he does not hear, you see ; let us go 
 a little nearer. 
 
 Vin. Sure it is Ranger ! 
 
 Val. As sure as the woman that follows him 
 closest is Christina. 
 
 Vin. For shame 1 talk not of Christina ; I left 
 her just now at home, surrounded with so many 
 fears and griefs she could not stir. 
 
 Val. She is come, it may be, to divert them 
 here in the Park j I'm sure 'tis she. 
 
 Vin. When the moon, at this instant, scarce 
 affords light enough to distinguish a man from a 
 tree, how can you know her ." 
 
 Val. How can you know Ranger, then ? 
 
 Vin. I heard him speak. 
 
 Val. So you may her too, I'll secure yon, if 
 you will d|^w but a little nearer ; she came, doubt- 
 less, to no other end but to speak with him : 
 observe — 
 
 Chri. [To Ranger.] Sir, I have followed you 
 hitherto ; but now, I must desire you to follow me 
 out lof the company ; for I would not be overheard 
 nor disturbed. 
 
 Ran. Ha 1 is not this Christina's voice ? it is, 
 I am sure ; I cannot be deceived now. — Dear 
 madam — 
 
 Vin. It is she indeed. [Apart to Valentinb. 
 
 Val. Is it so ? 
 
 Chri. Come, sir — [To Rangeh. 
 
 Val. Nay, I'll follow you too, though not in- 
 vited. [Aside. 
 
 Lyd. I must not, cannot stay behind. [Aside. 
 [They all go off together in a huddle hastily. 
 
 Re-enter Christina, Isabel, and Valentine, on the 
 other side. 
 
 Chri. Come along, sir. 
 
 Val. So ! I must stick to her when all is done ; 
 her new servant has lost her in the crowd, she has 
 gone too fast for him ; so much my revenge is 
 swifter than his love. Now shall I not only have 
 the deserted lover's revenge, of disappointing her 
 of her new man, but an opportunity infallibly at 
 once to discover her falseness, and confront her 
 impudence. [As'de 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD ; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 33 
 
 Chri. Pray come along, sir, I am in haste. 
 
 Val. So eager, indeed ! — I wish that cloud may 
 yet withhold the moon, that this false woman may 
 not discover me before I do her. {Aside. 
 
 Chri, Here no one can hear us, and I'm sure 
 we cannot see one another. 
 
 Val. *Sdeath ! wliat have I giddily run myself 
 upon ? 'Tis rather a trial of myself than her ; — 
 I cannot undergo it. i^Aside. 
 
 Chri. Come nearer, sir. 
 
 Val. Hell and vengeance ! I cannot suffer it — 
 I cannot. iAnide. 
 
 Chri. Come, come; yet nearer, — pray come 
 nearer. 
 
 VaL It is impossible 1 I cannot hold ! I must 
 discover myself, rather than her infamy. {Aside. 
 
 Chri. You are conscious, it seems, of the wrong 
 you have done me, and are ashamed, though in the 
 dark. {Speaks, walking slowly. 
 
 Val. How's this ! {Aside. 
 
 Chri. I'm glad to find it so ; for all my busi- 
 ness with you is, to show you your late mistakes, 
 and force a confession from you of those unman- 
 nerly injuries you have done me. 
 
 Val. What 1 I think she's honest ; or does she 
 kn'ow me ? — sure she cannot. {Aside. 
 
 Chri. First, your intrusion, last night, into my 
 lodging ; which, I suppose, has begot your other 
 gross mistakes. 
 
 Val. No, she takes me for Ranger, I see again. 
 
 {Aside. 
 
 Chri. You are to know, then, (since needs you 
 must,) it was not me you followed last night to my 
 lodging from the Park, but some kinswoman of 
 yours, it seems, whose fear of being discovered by 
 you prevailed with me to personate her, while she 
 withdrew, our habits and our statures being much 
 alike ; which I did with as much difl&culty, as she 
 used importunity to make me ; and £ill this my 
 lady Flippant can witness, who was then with 
 your cousin. 
 
 Val. I am glad to hear this. {Aside. 
 
 Chri. Now, what your claim to me, at Mr. 
 Vincent's lodging, meant ; the letter and promises 
 yod unworthily, or erroneously, laid to my charge, 
 you must explain to me and others, or — 
 
 Val. How's this ! I hope I shall discover no 
 guilt but my own : — she would not speak in threats 
 to a lover. {Aside. 
 
 Chri. Was it because you found me in Mr. 
 Vincent's lodgings you took a liberty to use me 
 like one of your common visitants ? but know, I 
 came no more to Mr. Vincent than you. Yet, I 
 confess, my visit was intended to a man — a brave 
 man, till you made him use a woman ill ; worthy 
 the love of a princess, till you made him censure 
 mine ; good as angels, till you made him unjust : — 
 why, in the name of honour, would you do't .'' 
 
 Val. How happily am I disappointed ! — poor, 
 injured Christina ! {Aside. 
 
 Chri. He would have sought me out first, if you 
 had not made him fly from me. Our mutual love, 
 confirmed by a contract, made our hearts inseparable, 
 till you rudely, if not maliciously, thrust in upon us, 
 and broke the close and happy knot : I had lost 
 him before for a month, now for ever. {Weeps, 
 
 Val. My joy and pity makes nie as mute as my 
 shame ; yet 1 must discover myself. iAside. 
 
 Chri. Your silence is a confession of your guilt. 
 
 Vah I own it {Aside. 
 
 Chri. But that will not serve my turn ; for 
 straight you must go clear yourself and me to him 
 you have injured in me ; if he has not made too 
 much haste from me to be found again. You must, 
 I say ; for he is a man that will have satisfaction ; 
 and in satisfying him, you do me. 
 
 Val. Then he is satisfied. 
 
 Chri. How ! is it you ? then I am not satisfied. 
 
 Val. Will you be worse than your word ? 
 
 Chri. I gave it not to you. 
 
 Val. Come, deai Christina, the jealous, like the 
 drunkard, has his punishment with his off"ence. 
 
 Enter Vjkcent. 
 Vin. Valentine ! Mr. Valentine ! 
 Val. Vincent ! — 
 Vin. Where have you been all this while } 
 
 [Valentine holds CHnrsTiNj^by the hand, who 
 seems to struggle to get from him. 
 Val. Here with my injured Christina. 
 Vin. She 's behind with Ranger, who is forced 
 to speak all the tender things himself; for she 
 affords him not a word. 
 
 Val. Pish ! pish [ Vincent ; who is blind now ? 
 who deceived now ? 
 
 Vin. You are ; for I'm sure Christina is with 
 him. Come back and see. 
 
 {Thep go out at one door, and return at the other 
 
 Re-enter Lydia and Leonore, followed hy Ranger. 
 
 Ran. [ToLydia.] Still mocked ! still abused! 
 did you not bid me follow you where we might not 
 be disturbed or overheard .'' — and now not allow 
 me a word ! 
 
 Vin. Did you hear him \ {Apart to Valbntinb. 
 
 Val. Yes, yes, peace. {Apart to Vincent. 
 
 Ran. Disowning your letter and me at Mr. 
 Vincent*s lodging, declaring you came to meet 
 another there, and not me, with a great deal of such 
 affronting unkindness, might be reasonable enough, 
 because you would not entrust Vincent with our 
 love ; but now, when nobody sees us nor hears us, 
 why this unseasonable shyness ? 
 
 Lyd. It seems she did not expect him there, but 
 had appointed to meet another: — I wish it were 
 so. {Aside. 
 
 Ran. I have not patience ! — do you design thus 
 to revenge my intrusion into your lodging last 
 night } sure if you had then been displeased with 
 my company, you would not have invited yourself 
 to't again by a letter ? or is this a punishment for 
 bringing you to a house so near your own, where, 
 it seems, you were known too ? I do confess it 
 was a fault ; but make me suffer any penance but 
 your silence, because it is the certain mark of a 
 mistress's lasting displeasure. 
 
 I>yd. My — is not yet come. {Aside. 
 
 Ran. Not yet a word ! you did not use me so 
 unkindly last night, when you chid me out of your 
 house, and with indignation bid me begone. Now, 
 you bid me follow you, and yet will have nothing 
 to say to me ; and I am more deceived this day 
 and night than I was last night; — when, I must 
 confess, I followed you for another — 
 
 Lyd. I'm glad to hear that. {Aside. 
 
 Ran. One that would have used me better ; 
 vt^hose love I have ungratefully abused for yours ; 
 yet from no other reason but my natural incon- 
 stancy. — {^Aside.'] Poor Lydia ! Lydia ! 
 
 Lyd. He muttered ray name sure-, and with a 
 siffh. n {Aside. 
 
34 
 
 LOVE IN A WOOD ; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 Ran. Butas last night by following (as I thought) 
 her, I fonnd you, so this night, by following you 
 in vain, 1 do resolve, if I can find her again, to keep 
 her for ever. 
 
 Lpd. Now I am obliged, and brought into debt , 
 by his inconstancy : — faith, now cannot I hold out 
 any .longer ; I must discover myself. iAside. 
 
 Ran. But, madaip, because I intend to see you 
 no more, I'll take my leave of you for good and 
 all; since you will not speak, I'll try if you will 
 squeak. IGoes to threw her downy she squeak^-, 
 
 Lyd. Mr. Ranger ! Mr. Ranger ! 
 
 Vin. Fy I Fy 1 you need not ravish Christina 
 sure, that loves you so. 
 
 Ran. Is it she \ Lydia all this while ! — how 
 am I gulled 1 and Vincent in the plot too ! \.Asidi!. 
 
 Lyd. Now, false Ranger ! 
 
 Ran. Now, felse Christina too ! — you thought I 
 did not know you now, because I offered you such 
 an unusual civility. 
 
 Lyd. You knew me ! — I warrant you knew, too, 
 that I was the Christina you followed out of the 
 Park last night ! that I was the Christina that writ 
 the letter too ! 
 
 Ran. Certainly, therefore I would have taken 
 my revenge, you see, for your tricks. 
 
 VaA. Is not this the same woman that took re- 
 fuge in yx)ur house last night, madam ? 
 
 \To CnnisTiNA. 
 
 Chri. The very same. 
 
 Val. What, Mr. Ranger, we have chopped, and 
 changed, and hid our Christinas so long and 
 often, that at last we have drawn each of us x)ur 
 own ? 
 
 Ran. Mr. Valentine in England ! — the truth on't 
 is, you have juggled together, and drawn without 
 my knowledge ; but since she will have it so, she 
 shall swear me for good and all now. 
 
 \Qoes to take her by the hand. 
 
 Lyd. Come not near me. 
 
 Ran. Nay, you need not be afraid I would ra- 
 vish you, now I know you. 
 
 Lyd. And yet, Leonore, I think 'tis but justice 
 to pardon the fault I made him commit ? 
 
 lApart to Leomorb, Ranger listens. 
 
 Ran. You consider it right, cousin ; for indeed 
 you are but merciful to yourself in it. 
 
 L]/d. Yet, if I would be rigorous, though I 
 made a blot, your oversight has lost the game. 
 
 Ran. But 'twas rash woman's play, cousin, and 
 ought not to be played again, let me tell you. 
 
 Enter Dappbrwit. 
 
 Dap. Who's there ? who's there .' 
 
 Ran. Dapperwit. 
 
 Sap. Mr. Ranger, I am glad I have met with 
 you, for I have left my bride just now in the house 
 at Mulberry-garden, to come and pick up some of 
 my friends in the Park here to sup with us. 
 
 Ran. Your bride ! are you maiTied then .' where 
 is you bride ? 
 
 Dap. Here at Mulberry-garden, I say, where 
 you, these ladies and gentlemen, shall all be wel- 
 come, if you will afford me the honour of your 
 company. 
 
 Ran. With all our hearts : — but who have you 
 married .' Lucy ? 
 
 Dap. What ! do you think I would marry a 
 wench .' I have married an heiress worth thiriy 
 thousand pounds, let me perish I 
 
 Vin. An heiress worth thirty thousand pounds ' 
 
 Dap. Mr. Vincent, your servant; you here too ? 
 
 Ran. Nay, we are more of your acquaintance 
 
 here, I think. — Go, we'll follow you, for if you 
 
 have not dismissed your parson, perhaps we may 
 
 make him more work. lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE VI. The Dining-room in Mulberry- 
 garden House. 
 
 Enter Sir Simon Addi.kplot, Gripe, Lady Flippant, 
 Mrs. Martha, Joyner, Mrs. Orossbite, and Lucy. 
 
 Sir Sim. 'Tis as I tcdd you, air, you see. 
 
 Gripe. Oh, graceless babe! married to a wit! 
 an idle, loitering, slandering, foul-mouthed, beg- 
 garly wit ! Oh, that my child should ever live to 
 marry a wit I 
 
 Joyn. Indeed, your worship had better seen 
 her fairly buried, as they say. 
 
 Cros. If my daughter there should have done 
 so, I would not have given her a groat. 
 
 Gripe. Marry a wit 1 
 
 Sir Sim. Mrs. Joyner, do not let me lose the 
 widow too : — for if you do, (tetwixt friends,) I and 
 my small annuity are both blown up : it will follow 
 my estate. [Aside to Jovner. 
 
 Joyn. I warrant you. lAside. 
 
 Flip. Let us make sure of sir Simon to-night, 
 or — lAside to Jovnbr, 
 
 Joyn. You need not fear it. — [-4«i(fe.] Like the 
 lawyers, while my clients endeavour to cheat one 
 another, I in justice cheat 'em both. 
 
 Gripe. Marry a wit ! 
 
 Enter Dawerwit, Hanger, Lvdia, Valentine, Chris- 
 tina, and Vincent. Dapperwit stops them, and they 
 stand aU h&iind. 
 
 Dap. What, is he here ! Lucy and her mother ! 
 
 {_Aside. 
 
 Gripe. Tell me how thou earnest to marry a 
 wit. 
 
 Mar. Pray be not angry, sir, and I'U give you 
 a good reason. 
 
 Gripe, Reason for marrying a vrit ! 
 
 Mar. Indeed, I found myself six months gone 
 with child, and saw no hopes of your getting me a 
 husband, or else I had not married a wit, sir. 
 , Joyn. Then you were the wit. 
 
 Gripe. Had you that reason .' nay, then 
 
 [.Holding up his hands. 
 
 Dap. How's that! lAside. 
 
 Ran. Who would have thought, Dapperwit, you 
 .would have married a wench ? 
 
 Dap. [To Ranger.]— Well, thirty thousand 
 pounds will make me amends ; I have kuownmy bet- 
 ters wink, and fall on for five or six.— [To Grife 
 andU>,e rest.} What ! youareeome, sir, to give me 
 joy .' you Mrs. Lucy, you and you? well, unhid 
 guests are doubly welcome. — Sir Simon, I made 
 bold to invite these ladies and gendemen. — For 
 you must know, Mr. Ranger, this worthy sir 
 Simoo does not only give me my wedding supper, 
 but my mistress tooj and is, as it were, my 
 father. 
 
 Sir Sim. Then I am, as it were, a grandfather to 
 your new wife's ffans en kelderi to which you are 
 but, as it were, a father ! there's for you again, 
 sir — ha, hal 
 
 Ran. Ha! ha! ha! — [To Vincent 
 
 Dap. Fools sometimes say unhappy things, if 
 
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 35 
 
 we would mind 'em ; but — what ! melancholy at 
 jour daughter's wedding, sir ? 
 
 Gripe. How deplorable is my condition ! 
 
 Dap. Nay, if you will rob me of my wench, 
 sir, can you blame me for robbing you of your 
 daughter ? I cannot be without a woman. 
 
 Gripe. My daughter, my reputation, and my 
 money gone !— but the last is dearest to me. Yet 
 at once I may retrieve that, and be revenged for the 
 loss of the other ; and all this by marrying Lucy 
 here ; I shall get my five hundred pounds again, and 
 get heirs to exclude my daughter and frustrate 
 Dapperwit ; besides, 'tis agreed on all hands, 'tis 
 cheaper keeping a wife than a wench. [Aside. 
 
 Dap. If you are so melancholy, sir, we will have 
 the fiddles and a dance to divert you ; come ! 
 
 Gripe. Indeed, you have put me so upon a 
 merry pin, that I resolve to marry too. 
 
 Flip. Nay, if my brother come to marrying 
 once, I may too ; I swore I would, when he did, 
 little thinking — 
 
 Sir Sim, I take you at your word, madam. 
 
 Flip. Well, but if I had thought you would have 
 been so quick with me — 
 
 Gripe. Where is your parson ? 
 
 Dap. What ! you would not revenge yourself 
 upon the parson? 
 
 Gripe. No, I would have the parson revenge 
 me upon you ; he should marry me. 
 
 Dap. I am glad you are SO frolic, sir ; but who 
 would you marry ? 
 
 Gripe. That innocent lady ? IPointing tolAvn^. 
 
 Dap. That innocent lady. 
 
 Gripe. Nay, lam impatient, Mrs. Joyner ; pray 
 fetch him up if he be yet in the house. 
 
 Dap. We were not married here : — ^but you 
 cannot be in earnest. 
 
 Gripe. You'll find it so ; since you have robbed 
 me of my housekeeper, I must get another. 
 
 Dap. Why, she was my wench ! 
 
 Gripe, I'll make her honest then. 
 
 Cros. Upon my repute he never saw her before : 
 — but will your worship marry my daughter then .' 
 
 Gripe. I promise her and you, before all this 
 good company, to-morrow I will make her my wife. 
 
 Dap. How ! 
 
 Ran. Our ladies, sir, I suppose, expect the 
 same promise from us. [To Valbntink. 
 
 Val. They may be sure of us without a promise; 
 but let us (if we can) obtain theirs, to be sure of 
 them. 
 
 Dap. But will you marry her to-morrow ? — ■, 
 
 [To Gbipb. 
 
 Gripe. I will, verily. 
 
 Dap. I am undone then ! ruined, let me perish ! 
 
 Sir Sim. No, you may hire a little room in 
 Covent Garden, and set up a coffee-house : — you 
 and your wife will be sure of the wits* custom. 
 
 Dap. Abused by him I have abused ! — 
 
 Fortune our foe we cannot overwit ; 
 
 By none but thee our projects are cross-bit. 
 
 Val. Come, dear madam, what, yet angry? — 
 jealousy sure is much more pardonable before mar- 
 riage than after it ; but to-morrow, by the help of 
 the parson, you'll put me out of all my fears. 
 
 Chri. I am afraid then you would give me my 
 revenge, and make me jealous of you ; and 1 had 
 rather suspect your faith than you should mine. 
 
 Ran. Cousin Lydia, I had rather suspect your 
 faith too, than you should mine ; therefore let us 
 e'en marry to-morrow, that I may have my turn 
 of watching, dogging, standing under the window, 
 at the door, behind the hanging, or — 
 . Lpd. But if I could be desperate now and give you 
 up my liberty, could you find in your heart to quit 
 all other engagements, and voluntarily turn your- 
 self over to one woman, and she a wife too ? could 
 you away with the insupportable bondage of ma- 
 trimony ? 
 
 Ran. You talk of matrimony as irreverently as 
 my lady Flippant : the bondage of matrimony 1 
 no — 
 
 The end of marriage now is liberty. 
 
 And two are bound — to set each other free. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY DAPPERWITi 
 
 Now, my brisk brothers of the pit, you'll say 
 
 I'm come to speak a good word for the play ; 
 
 But gallants, let me perish ! if I do, 
 
 For I have wit and judgment, just like you ; 
 
 Wit never partial, judgment free and bold. 
 
 For fear or friendship never bought or sold, 
 
 Nor by good-nature e'er to be cajoled. 
 
 Good-nature in a critic were a crime, 
 
 Like mercy in a judge, and renders him 
 
 Guilty of all those faults he does forgive. 
 
 Besides, if thief from gallows you reprieve, 
 
 He'll cut your throat ; so poet saved from shame, 
 
 In damn'd lampoon vrill murder your good name> 
 
 Yet in true spite to him and to his play. 
 
 Good faith, you should not rail at them to-day; 
 
 But to be more his foe, seem most his friend, 
 
 And so maliciously the play commend ; 
 
 That he may be betray'd to writing on, 
 
 -\nd poet let him be, — to be undone. d 2 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 - Non satis est risu diducere rictum 
 
 Auditoris: et est quadam tamen hie quoque virtus. — Horat, 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 , X Toung Gentlemen of the Town, and 
 f Friends. 
 
 Mh. Gerhard, 
 
 Mr. Martin, 
 
 Mr. Paris, or Monsikur De Paris, a vain Coxcomb, 
 and rich City Heir, newly returned from France, 
 and mightily affected with the French Language 
 and Fashions. 
 
 Mr. Jawes Formal, or Don Diego, an old rich Spanish 
 Merchant, newly returned home, as much affected 
 with the Habit and Customs of Spain, and Uncle 
 to Parts. 
 
 A lUtle Blackamoor, Lackey to Formal. 
 
 A Parson. 
 
 A French Scullion. 
 
 Mrs. Hippolita, Formai-'s Daughter. 
 
 Mrjs. Caution, Format's Sistei't an impertinent prmisi 
 
 old Woman. 
 Prue, Hippolita's Maid* 
 A Lady. 
 
 Mrs. Flirt, > ^^^ common Women qfthe Tm»n 
 Mrs. Flounce, ( 
 
 Servants, Waiter, and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO THE CITY. 
 
 NEVTLV AFTBR THE REMOVAL OP THE DUKE'S COMPANY PROM LINCOIN's-INN-FIELDS TO TBEIH NEW THEATRE NEAR 
 
 SALTSBURV-CDURT. 
 
 Odr author (like us) finding 'twould scarce do 
 At t'other end o'th' town, is come to you; 
 And, since 'tis his last tiial, has that wit 
 To throw himself on a substantial pit; 
 "Where needy wit or critic dare not come, 
 Lest neighbour i' the cloak, with looks so grum, 
 Should prove a dun ; 
 
 Where punk in vizor dare not rant and tear 
 To put us out, since Bridewell is so near : 
 In short, we shall be heard, be understood, 
 .If not, shall be admired, and that's as good. 
 'For you to senseless plays have still been kind, 
 Nay, where no sense was, you a jest would find : 
 
 And never was it heard of, that the city 
 Did ever take occasion to be witty 
 Upon dull poet, or stifif player's action, 
 But still with claps opposed the hissing faction. 
 Butif you hiss'd, 'twas at the pit, not stage ; 
 So, with the poet, damn'd the damning age, 
 And still, we know, are ready to engage 
 Against the flouting, ticking gentry, who 
 Citizen, player, poet, would undo : — 
 The poet ! no, unless by commendation, 
 For on the 'Change wits have no reputation: 
 And rather than be branded for a wit. 
 He with you able men would credit get. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — Don Diego's House, in the 
 Evening, 
 
 Enter Hippolita and Prujs. 
 
 Hip. To confine a woman just in her rambling 
 age ! take away her hberty at the very time she 
 Ehould use it ! O barbarous aunt ! O unnatural 
 father ! to shut np a poor girl at fourteen, and 
 hinder her budding ! All things are ripened by the 
 nun :-r-to shut up a poor girl at fourteen ! — 
 
 Prue. 'Tis true, miss, two poor young creatures 
 as we are I 
 
 Hip. Not suffered to see a play in « twelve- 
 month ! — 
 
 Prue. Nor go to Punchinello, nor Paradise ! — 
 Hip. Nor to take a ramble to the Park nor 
 Mulberry-garden 1 — 
 
 Prue. Nor to Totnam-court, nor Islington ! — 
 Hip. Nor to eat a syllabub in New Spring- 
 garden with a cousin I — 
 
SCENE I, 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 87 
 
 Prue. Nor to drink a pint of wine with a friend 
 at the Prince in the Sun \ — • 
 
 Hip. Nor to hear a fiddle in good company! — 
 
 Prue, Nor to hear the organs aad tongs at the 
 Gun in Moorfields ! — 
 
 Hip. Nay, not suffered to go to church, 
 because the men are sometimes there ! — Little 
 did I think I should ever have longed to go to 
 church. 
 
 prue. Or I either ; — but between two maids — 
 
 Hip. Nor see a man ! — 
 
 Prue. Nor come near a man ! — 
 
 Hip. Nor hear of a man ! — * 
 
 Prue. No, miss ; but to be denied a man ! and 
 to have no use at all of a man ! — 
 
 Hip. Hold, hold!— your resentment is as ranch 
 greater than mine, as your experience has been 
 greater. Dut all this while, what do we make of 
 my cousin, my husband elect, as my aunt says ? 
 We have had his company these three days ; is he 
 no man ? 
 
 Prue. No, faith, he's but a monsieur. But 
 you'll resolve yourself that question within these 
 three days ; for by that time he'll be your husband, 
 if your father come to-night — 
 
 Hip. Or if I provide not myself with another 
 in the mean time : for fathers seldom choose well; 
 and I "will no more take my father's choice in a 
 husband, than I would in a gown, or a suit of knots. 
 So that if that cousin of mine were not an ill-con- 
 trived, ugly, freakish fool, in being my father's 
 choice I should hate him. Besides, he has almost 
 made me out of love with mirth andgood-^humour; 
 for he debases it as much as a jack-pudding, and 
 civility and good breeding more than a city dan-- 
 cing master. 
 
 Pnte. What! won't you marry him then^ 
 madam ? 
 
 Hip. Would'st thou have me marry a fool, an 
 idiot ? 
 
 Prue. Lord ! 'tis a sign you ha^e been kept up 
 indeed; and know little of the wwld, to refuse a 
 man for a husband only because he's a fool ! Me- 
 thinks he's a pretty apish kind of a gentlemun, 
 like other gentlemen, and handsome enough to lie 
 with in the dark, when husbands take their privi- 
 leges ; and for the day-times, you may take tlie 
 privilege of a wife. 
 
 Hip. Excellent governess ! you do understand 
 the world, I see. 
 
 Prue. Then you should be guided by me. 
 
 Hip. Art thou in earnest then, damned jade ? 
 — would'st thou have me marry him ? — Well, there 
 are more poor young women undone, and married 
 to filthy fellows by the treachery and evil counsel 
 of chambermaids, than by the obstinacy and 
 covetousness of parents. 
 
 Prue. Does not your father come on purpose out 
 of Spain to marry you to him ? Can you releaseyour- 
 self from your aunt or father any other way } Have 
 . you a mind to be shut up as long as you live? For 
 my part, though you can hold out upon thehme from 
 Ihe walls here, salt, old shoes, and oatmeal, I can- 
 not live so : I must confess my patience is worn 
 out. 
 
 Hip. Alas, alas, poor Prue! your stomach lies 
 another way : I will take pity of you, and get me a 
 husband very suddenly, who may have a servant 
 at your service. But rather than marry my cou- 
 sin, I will be a nun in the new protestant nunnery 
 
 they talk of; where, they say, there will be no 
 hopes of coming near a man. 
 
 Prue, But you can marry nobody but your cou- 
 sin, miss : your father you expect to-night ; and 
 be certain his Spanish policy and wariness, which 
 has kept you up so close ever since you came from 
 Hackney school, will make sure of you within a 
 day or two at farthest. 
 
 Hip. Then 'tis time to think how to prevent 
 him — stay— 
 
 Prue. In vain, vain, miss ! 
 
 Hip. If we knew but any man, any man, though 
 he were but a little handsomer than the devil, so 
 that he were a gentleman ! 
 
 Prue. What if you did know any man ? if you 
 had an opportunity, could you have confidence 
 to speak to a man first ? but if you could, how 
 could you come to him, or he to you? nay, how 
 could you send to him ? for though you could 
 write, which your father in his Spanish prudence 
 would never permit you to learn, who should carry 
 the letter ? — But we need not be concerned for 
 that, since we know not to whom to send it. 
 
 Hip. Stay — ■ it must be so — I'll try how- 
 ever — 
 
 Enter Monsieur jje PARrs. 
 
 Mons. Serviteur! serviteur! la cousine; I com« 
 togive the bon soir, as the French say. 
 
 Hip. O, cousin! you know him ; the fine gen- 
 tleman they talk of so much in town. 
 
 Prue. What !' will you talk to him of any man else ? 
 
 Mons. I know all the beau monde, cousine. 
 
 Hip. Master ■ — ■ 
 
 Mons. Monsieur Taileur, Monsieur Esmit, 
 Monsieur — ■ 
 
 Hip. These are Frenchmen — 
 
 Mons. Non, non ; voud you have me say Mr. 
 Taylor, Mr. Smith .=>- Fi !■ fi ! teste non! — 
 
 Hip. But don't you know the brave gentleman 
 they talk of so much in town ? 
 
 MoThs, Who ? Monsieur Gerrard ? 
 
 Hip. What kind of man is that Mr. Gerrard ? 
 and then I'll tell you. 
 
 Mons. Why — he is truly a pretty man^ a 
 pretty man — a pretty so so — kind of man, for an 
 Englishman, 
 
 Hip. How a pretty man ? 
 
 Mons. Why, he is conveniently tall — but — 
 
 Hip. But what ? 
 
 Mons. And not ill-shaped- — but — 
 
 Hip. But what ? 
 
 Mons. And handsome, as 'tis thought, but — 
 
 Hip But ! what are your exceptions to him % 
 
 Mons. I can't tell you, because they arc innu- 
 merable, innumerable, mon foy ! 
 
 Hip. Has he wit ? 
 
 Mona, Ay, ay, they say, he's witty, brave, and 
 de bel humeur, and well-bred, with all that — 
 but— 
 
 Hip. But what ? does he want judgment ? 
 
 Mons, Non, non : they say he has good sense 
 and judgment ; but it is according to the account 
 Englis^for — 
 
 Hip. For what ? 
 
 Mons. Forjarnie! if i think it. 
 
 Hip. Why? 
 
 Mons. Why ? — why his tailor lives within Lud- 
 gate — his valet de chumbre is no Frenchman — 
 and he has been seen at noon-day to go into an 
 English eating-house — 
 
3U 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 Hip. Say you so, cousin ! 
 
 Mons. Then for being well-bred, you shall 
 judge: — First, he can't dance a step, nor sing a 
 French song, nor swear a French oate, nor use the 
 polite French word in his conversation; and in 
 fine, can't play at hombre — but speaks base good 
 Englis, with the commune home-bred pronuncia- 
 tion ; and in fine, to say no more, he never carries 
 a snuff-box about with him. 
 
 Hip. Indeed ! 
 
 Mons. And yet this man has been abroad as 
 much as any man, and does not make the least 
 show of it, but a little in his mien, not at all in his 
 discour, jarnie ! He never talks so much as of St. 
 Peter's church at Rome, the Escurial, or Madrid ; 
 nay, not so much as of Henry IV.j of Pont-neuf, 
 Paris, and the new Louvre, nor of the Grand Roy. 
 
 Hip. 'Tis for his commendation, if he does not 
 talk of his travels. 
 
 Mons. Auh ! auh ! — cousine— he is conscious 
 to himself of his wants, because he is very envious j 
 for he cannot endure me. 
 
 Hip. lAside. ] He shall be my man then for 
 that. — Ay, ay ! 'tis the same, Prue. — [Aloud.] 
 No, I know he can't endure you, cousin. 
 
 MoTis. How do you know it — who never stir 
 out ? teste non ! 
 
 Hip. Well— ^dear cousin, — if you will pro- 
 mise me never to tell my aunt, I'll tell you. 
 
 Mons. I won't, I won't, jarnie ! 
 
 Hip. Nor to be concerned yourself, so as to 
 make a quarrel of it. 
 
 Mons. Non, non — 
 
 Hip. Upon the word of a gendeman ? 
 
 Mons. Foy de chevalier, I will not quarrd. 
 
 Prue. Lord, miss ! I wonder you won't believe 
 him without more ado. 
 
 Hip. Then he has the hatred of a rival for 
 you. 
 
 Mons. Mai a peste 1 
 
 Hip, You know my chamber is backward, and 
 has a door into the gallery which looks into the 
 back yard of a tavern, whence Mr. Gerrard once 
 spying me at the window, has often since attempted 
 to come in at that window by the help of the leads 
 of a low building adjoining ; and, indeed, 'twas as 
 mach as my maid and I could do to keep him out. 
 
 Mons. Au, le coquin ! — 
 
 Hip. But nothing is stronger than aversion ; 
 for I hate him perfectly, even as much as 1 love 
 ycm — 
 
 Prue. I believe so, faith! — but what design have 
 we now on foot .' \_Aside. 
 
 Hip. This discovery is an argument, sure, of 
 my love to you. 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, say no more, cousin, I doubt not 
 your amour for me, because I doubt not your 
 judgment. But what's to be done with this fan- 
 faron? — I know where he eats to-night — I'll go 
 find him out, ventre bleu ! — 
 
 Hip. O, my dear cousin, you will not make a 
 quarrel of it .' I thought what your promise would 
 come to ! 
 
 Mons. You'd have a man of honour — 
 
 Hip. Keep his promise. 
 
 Mons. And lose his mistress ? — That were not 
 for my honour, ma foy ! 
 
 Hip. Cousin, though you do me the injury to 
 think I could be false, do not do yourself the injury 
 'o think any one could be false to you. Will you 
 
 be afraid of losing your mistress ? To show such 
 a fear to your rival, were for his honour, and not 
 for yours, sure. 
 
 Mons. Nay, cousin, I'd have you know I was 
 never afraid of losing my mistress in earnest — Let 
 me see the man can get my mistress from me, jar- 
 nie ! —But he that lovqs must seem a little jealous. 
 
 Hip. Not to his rival : those that have jealousy 
 hide it from their rivals. 
 
 Mons. But there are some who say, jealousy is 
 no more to be hid than a cough : — but it should 
 never be discovered in me, if I had it, because it is 
 not French at all — ventre bleu ! 
 
 Hip. No, you should rally your rival, and rather 
 make a jest of your quarrel to him ; and that, I 
 suppose, is French too. 
 
 Mons. 'Tis so, 'tis so, cousine; 'tis the veritable 
 French method ; for your Englis, for want of wit, 
 drive every thing to a serious grum quarrel, and 
 then would make a jest on't, when 'tis too late, 
 when they can't laugh, jarnie ' 
 
 Hip. Yes, yes, I would have you rally him 
 soundly : do not spare him a jot. — But shall you 
 see him to-night ? 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay. 
 
 Hip. Yes ; pray be sure to see him for the jest's 
 sake. 
 
 Mons. I will — for I love a jest as well as anj 
 bel esprit of 'em all — da ! 
 
 Hip. Ay, and rally him soundly ; be sure you 
 rally him soundly, and tell him jus"t thus : — that 
 the lady he has so long courted, from the great 
 window of the Ship tavern, is to be your wife to- 
 morrow, unless he come at his wonted hour of six 
 in the morning to her window to forbid the bans j 
 for 'tis the first and last time of asking ; and if he 
 come not, let him for ever hereafter stay away, 
 and hold his tongue. 
 
 Mons. Hal ha! ha! ~ very good jest, teste 
 bleu! 
 
 Hip. And if the fool should come again, I would 
 tell him his own, I warrant you, cousin. My gen- 
 tleman should be satisfied for good and all, I'd 
 secure him. 
 
 Mons. Bon, bon. 
 
 Prue. Well, well, young mistress ; you were not 
 at Hackney school for nothing, I see ; nor taken 
 away for nothing.^A woman may soon be too 
 old, but is never too young to shift for herself. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Mons. Ha ! ha ! ha ! cousine, dou art a merry 
 grig, ma foy ! — I long to be with Gerrard ; and I 
 am the best at improving a jest — I shall have such 
 divertisement to-night, teste bleu ! 
 
 Hip. He'll deny, may be, at first, that he ever 
 courted any such lady. 
 
 Mons. Nay, I am sure he'll be ashamed of it, 
 I shall make him look so sillily, teste non ! — I 
 long to find him out — Adieu, adieUr la cousine. 
 
 Hip. Shall you be sure to find him .' 
 
 Mons. Indubitablement, I'll search the town 
 over, but I'll find him; ha! ha! ha! — [£«(MoN- 
 SIEOB, and returns.] — But I'm afraid, cousine, if 
 I should tell him you are to be my wife to-morrow, 
 he would not come : now, I am for having him come 
 for the jest's sake, ventre ! — 
 
 Hip. So am I, cousin, for having him come too, 
 for the jest's sake. 
 
 Mons. Well, well, leave it to me : — ha ! ha 1 
 ha! 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER, 
 
 39 
 
 Enter Mrs. Caution, 
 
 Mrs. Caul. What's all this giggling here ? 
 
 Mons. Hey I do you tinke we'll tell you ? 
 no, fait, I warrant you, teste non t — ha ! ha ! 
 ha!— 
 
 Hip. My cousin is overjoyed, I suppose, that 
 my father is to come to-night, 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I am afraid he will not come to- 
 night : — hut you'll stay and see, nephew ? 
 
 Mons. Non, non : I am to sup at t'other end of 
 the town to-night — La, la, la — Ra, ra, ra— 
 
 {_ETit singing. 
 
 J^TS. Caut. I wish the French levity of this 
 young man may agree with your father's Spanish 
 gravity. 
 
 Hip. Just as your crabbed old age and my 
 youth agree, 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Well, malapert, I know you hate 
 me, because I have been the guardian of your 
 reputation : bat your husband may thank me one 
 day. 
 
 Hip. If he be not a fool, he would rather be 
 obliged to me for my virtue than to you, since, at 
 long run, he must, wh'ether he will or no. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. So, so ! 
 
 Hip. Nay, now I think on't, I''d have you to 
 know, the poor man, whosoe'er he is, will have 
 little cause to thank you. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. No !— 
 
 Hip. No ; for I never lived so wicked a life as 
 I have done this twelvemonth, since I have not 
 seen a man. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. How, how ! if you have not seen a 
 man, how could you be wicked? how could you do 
 any ill ? 
 
 Hip. No, I have done no ill ; but I have paid 
 it with thinking, 
 
 Mrs. Caut. O that's no hurt ! to think, is no 
 hurt : — the ancient, grave, and godly, cannot help 
 thoughts. 
 
 Hip. I warrant, you have had 'em yourself, 
 aunt? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Yes, yes, when I cannot sleep. 
 
 Hip. Ha ! ha ! — I believe it. But know, I 
 have had those thoughts sleeping and waking ; for 
 I have dreamt of a man. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. No matter, no matter, so that it 
 was but a dream : I have dreamt myself. For you 
 must know, widows are mightily given to dream ; 
 insomuch that a dream is waggishly called the 
 fVidow's Comfort. 
 
 Hip. But I did not only dream in — [Sight. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. How, how ! did you more than 
 dream ? speak, young harlotry ! confess ; did you 
 more than dream ? How could you do more than 
 dream inthis house ? speak, confess ! 
 
 Hip. Well, I will then. Indeed, aunt, I did 
 not only dream, but I was pleased with my dream 
 when I awaked. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Oh, is that all.' — Nay, if a dream only 
 will please you, you are a modest young woman 
 still : but have a care of a vision. 
 
 Hip. Ay ; but to be delighted when we wake 
 with a naughty dream, is a sin, aunt ; and I am so 
 very scrupulous, that I would as soon consent to a 
 naughty man as to a naughty dream, 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I do believe you. 
 
 Hip. I am for going into the throng of tempta- 
 tions. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. There I believe vou a?ain 
 
 Hip. And making myself so familiar with them, 
 that I would not be concerned for 'em a whit. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. There I do not believe you. 
 
 Hip. And would take all the innocent liberty 
 of the town : — to tattle to your men under a vizard 
 in the playhouses, and meet 'em at night in mas- 
 querade. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. There I do believe you again ; I 
 know you would be masquerading : but worse would 
 come on't, as it has done to others who have been 
 in a masqueraae, and are now virgins but in mas- 
 querade, and will not be their own women again as 
 long as they live. The children of this age must 
 be wise children indeed if they know their fathers, 
 since their mothers themselves cannot inform 'em ! 
 O, the fatal liberty of this masquerading age ! when 
 I was a young woman — ■ 
 
 Hip. Come, come, do not blaspheme this mas- 
 querading age, like an ill-bred city-dame, whose 
 husband is half broke by living in Covent-garden, 
 or who has been turned out of the Temple or Lin- 
 Goln's-Inn upon a masquerading night. By what 
 I've heard, 'tis a pleasant, well-bred,' complaisant, 
 free, froUc, good-natured, pretty age ; and if you 
 do not like it, leave it to us that do. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Lord, how impudently you talk, 
 niece ! I'm sure I remember when 1 was a maid — 
 
 Hip. Can you remember it, reverend aunt ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Yes, modest niece, — that a raw 
 young thing, though almost at woman's estate, 
 (that was then at thirty or thirty-five years of age,) 
 would not so much as have looked upon a man — 
 
 Hip. Above her father's butler or coachman. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Still taking me up ! Well, thou 
 art a mad girl ; and so good night. We may go to 
 bed ; for 1 suppose now your father will not come 
 to-night. [Slit. 
 
 Hip. I'm sorry for it ; for I long to see him — 
 [Aside.'] But I lie; I had rather see Gerrardhere; 
 and yet I know not how I shall like him. If he 
 has wit, he will come ; and if he has none, he would 
 not be welcome. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — The French-House. — A Table, 
 Bottles, and Candles. 
 
 Enter Mr. Gebbard, Martin, and Monsieur de Paris. 
 
 Mons. 'Tis ver veritable, jarnie ! what the French 
 say of you Englis : you use the debauch so much, 
 it cannot have with you the French operation ; you 
 are never enjoyee. But come, let us for once be 
 enfinement galliard, and sing a French sonnet. 
 
 {Sings,— ha, boutelle, la lioutelle, glou, glou. 
 
 Mar. ITo Gerrard.] What a melodious fop 
 it is ! 
 
 Mons. Auh ! you have no complaisance. . 
 
 Ger. No, we can't sing ;* but we'll drink to you 
 the lady's health, whom (you say) I have so long 
 courted at her window, 
 
 Mons. Ay, there is your complaisance : a,ll your 
 Enghs complaisance is pledging complaisance, 
 
 ventre ! But if I do you reason here, [takes the 
 
 glass.'] — will you do me reason to a little French 
 chanson k boive I shall begin to you 1—La boutelle, 
 la boutelle, la— t*"'"**' 
 
 Mar. [roGERRARn.j Ihad rather keep company 
 with a set of wide-mouthed, drunken cathedral 
 choristers. 
 
10 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING -MASTER. 
 
 Ger. Corae, sir, drink ; and he shall do you 
 reason to your French song, since you stand upon't > 
 — Sing him Arthur of Bradleij , or, 1 ant the Duke 
 of Norfolk. 
 
 Mons. Auh, teste bleu ! — an Englis catch ! fy! 
 fy ! ventre 1 — 
 
 Ger. He can sing no damned French song. 
 Mons. Nor can I drink the damned Englis 
 If ine. {_Sets down the glass. 
 
 Ger. Yes, to that lady's health, who has com- 
 manded me to wait upon her to-mbrrow at her 
 window, which looks (you say) into the, inward 
 yard of the Ship tavern, near the end of what-d'ye- 
 call't street. 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay ; do you not know her ? not you! 
 vert bleu ! 
 
 Ger. But, pray repeat again what she said. 
 Mons. Why, she said she is to be married to- 
 morrow to a person of honour, a brave gentleman, 
 that shall be nameless, and so, and so forth. — 
 — lAside.] Little does he think who 'tis ! 
 Ger. And what else.^ 
 
 Mons. That if you make not your appearance 
 before her window to-morrowat yourwonted hour of 
 six in tne morning, to forbid the banns, you must for 
 ever hereafter stay away and hold your tongue ; for 
 'tis the first and last time of asking — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Ger. 'Tis all a riddle to me : I should be unwill- 
 ing to be fooled by this coxcomb. lAside. 
 Mons. I won't tell him all she said, lest he 
 should not go : I would fain have him go for the 
 jest's sake — Ha ! ha ! ha ! lAside. 
 Ger. Her name is, you say, Hippolita, daughter 
 to a rich Spanish merchant. 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, you don't know her, not you ! 
 h. d'autre, i d'autre, ma foy !— ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Ger. Well, I will be an easy fool for once. 
 Mar. By all means go. 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, by all means go — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Ger. [^As%de.\ To be caught in a fool's trap — ■ 
 I'll venture it.~\Drinks to him.'] Come, 'tis her 
 health. 
 
 Mons. And to your good reception — teste bleu ! 
 — ha ! ha 1 ha ! 
 
 Ger. Well, Monsieur, I'll say this for thee, 
 thou hast made the best use of three months at 
 Paris as ever English 'squir^did. 
 
 Moris. Considering I was in a dam Englis pension 
 too. 
 
 Mar, Yet you have conversed with some French, 
 I see J footmen, I suppose, at the fencing-school? 
 I judge it by your oaths. 
 
 Mons. French footmen ! well, well, I had rather 
 have the conversation of a French footman than of 
 an Englis 'squire ; there's for you, da — 
 
 Mar. I beg your pardon. Monsieur ; I did not 
 think the French footmen had been so much your 
 friends. 
 
 Ger. Yes, yes, I warrant they have obliged him 
 at Paris much more than any of their masters did. 
 Well, there shall be no more said against the 
 French footmen. 
 
 Mons. Non, de grace ! — you are always turning 
 the nation Francez into ridicule, dat nation so 
 accomplie, dat nation which you imitate so, dat in 
 the conclusion, you butte turn yourself into ridi- 
 cule, ma foy ! If you are for de raillery, abuse 
 the Dutch, why not abuse the Dutch ? les grosses 
 villains, pendards, insolents ; but here in your 
 I'rigland, n\& foy ! you have more honeur, respecte. 
 
 and estimation for the Dushe swabber, who come 
 to cheat your nation, den for de Franch footman, 
 who come to oblige your nation. 
 
 Mar. Our nation ! then yon disown it for 
 yours, it seems. 
 
 Mons. Well! wat of dat? are you the disobIigee_ 
 by dat ? 
 
 Ger. No, Monsieur, far from it ; you could not 
 oblige us, nor your country, any other way than 
 by disowning it. 
 
 Mons. It is de brutal country, which abuse de 
 France, and reverence de Dushe ; I will maintain, 
 sustain, and justifie, dat one little Franch foott^an 
 have more honeur, courage, and generosity, more 
 good blood in his vaines, an mush more good 
 manners an civility den all de State-General toge- 
 ther, jarnie ! — Dey are only wise and valiant wen 
 dey are drunkee. 
 
 Ger. That is, always. 
 
 Mons. But dey are never honest wen dey are 
 drunkee ; dey are de only rogue in de varlde who 
 are not lioneste when dey are drunk — ma foy ! 
 
 Ger. I find you are well acquainted with them, 
 M(Jnsieur. * 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, I have made the toure of Hol- 
 land, but it was en poste, dere was no staying for 
 me, teste non !— for de gentleman can no more 
 live dere den de toad in Ir'land, ma foy ! for I did 
 not see on chevalier in dd whole countree : alway, 
 you know, de rebel hate de gens de quality. Be- 
 sides, I had make sufficient observation of the 
 canaille barbare de first nightee of my arrival at 
 Amsterdamme : I did visit, you must know, one 
 of de principal of de State-General, to whom I had 
 recommendation from England, and did find his 
 excellence weighing soap, jarnie ! — ha 1 ha ! ha t 
 Ger. Weighing soap ! 
 
 Mons. Weighing soap, ma foy! for he was a 
 wholesale chandeleer ; and his lady was taking de 
 tale of chandels wid her own witer hands, ma foy 1 
 and de young lady, his excellence daughter, stiing- 
 ing barring, stringing barring, jarnie! — 
 Ger. So ! — and what were his sons doing? 
 Mons. Augh — his son (for he had but one) was 
 making the tour of France, Espagne, Italy, and 
 Germany, in a coach and six ; or rader, now I 
 tink ou't, gone of an embassy hider to dere master 
 Cromwell, whom they did love and fear, because 
 he was someting de greater rebel. Bute now I talk 
 of de rebelle, none but de rebel can love de rebelle. 
 And so much for you and your friend the Dushe ; 
 I'll say no more, and pray do you say no more of 
 my friend de Franch, not so mush as of my friend 
 de Franch footman — da — 
 
 Ger. No, no ; — but, Monsieur, now give me leave 
 to admire thee, that in three months at Paris 
 you could renounce your language, drinking, and 
 your country, (for which we are not angry with 
 you,) as I said, and corae home so perfect a French- 
 man, that the draymen of your father's own brew- 
 house would be ready to knock thee on the bead. 
 
 Mons.' Vel, vel, my father was a merchant of 
 his own beer, as the noblesse of Franch of their 
 own wine. — But I can forgive you that raillery, 
 that bob, since you say I have the eyre Francez : 
 — but have I the eyre Francez ? 
 
 Ger. As much as any French footman of 'em all. 
 Mons. Anddolspeak agreeable illEnglisenough? 
 Ger, Very ill. 
 Mom. Yeritablement ? 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 41 
 
 Ger, Veritablement. 
 
 Mons. For you must know, 'tis as ill breeding 
 now to speak good Englis as to write good Englis, 
 good sense, or a good hand. 
 
 Ger. But, indeed, methinks you are not slovenly 
 enough for a Frenchman. 
 
 Mons. Slovenly ! you mean negligent ? 
 
 Ger. No, I mean slovenly. 
 
 Mona. Then I will be more slovenly. 
 
 Ger. You know, to be a perfect Frenchman, 
 you must never be silent, never sit still, and never 
 be clean. 
 
 Mar. But you have forgot one main qualification 
 of a true Frenchman, he should never be sound, 
 that is, be very pocky too. 
 
 Mons. Oh ! if dat be all, I am very poeky ; 
 pocky enough, jarnie ! that is the only French 
 qualification may be had without going to Paris, 
 mon foy ! 
 
 Enter Waiter. 
 
 Wait. Here are a couple of ladies coming up to 
 you, sir. 
 
 Ger. To us! — did you appoint any to, come 
 hither, Martin .' 
 
 Mar. Not I. 
 
 Ger. Nor you. Monsieur ? 
 
 Mor.s. Nor I. 
 
 Ger. Sirrah, tell your master, if he cannot pro- 
 tect us from the constable, and these midnight 
 coursers, 'tis not a house for us. 
 
 Mar. Tell 'em you have nobody in the house, 
 and shut the doors. 
 
 Wait. They '11 not be satisfied with that, they '11 
 break open the door. They searched last night 
 all over the house for my lord Fisk, and sir Jeffery 
 Jantee, who were fain to hide themselves in the 
 bar upder my mistress's chair and petticoats. 
 
 Mons. Wat, do the women hunt out the men 
 so now .' 
 
 Mar. Ay, ay, things are altered since you went 
 to Paris ; there's hardly a young man in town 
 dares be known of his lodging for 'em. 
 
 Ger. Bailiff's, pursuivants, or a city constable, 
 are modest people in comparison of them. 
 
 Mar. And we are not so much afraid to be 
 taken up by the watch as by the tearing midnight 
 ramblers, or huzza women. 
 
 Mons. Jarnie! — ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Ger. Where are they ? I hope they are gone 
 again. 
 
 Wait. No, sir, they are below at the stair-foot, 
 only swearing at their coachman. 
 
 Ger. Come, you rogue, they are in fee with you 
 waiters, and no gentleman can come hither, but 
 they have the intelligence straight. 
 
 Wait. Intelligence from us, sir ! they should 
 never come here, if we could help it. I am sure 
 we wish 'em choked when we see them come in ; 
 for they bring such good stomachs from St. James's 
 Park, or rambling about in the streets, that we poor 
 waiters have not a bit left ; 'tis well if we can keep 
 our money in our pockets for 'em. I am sure I 
 have paid seventeen and sixpence in half-crowns 
 for coach-hire at several times for a little damned 
 tearing lady, and when I asked her for it again one 
 morning in her chamber, she bid me pay myself, 
 for she had no money ; but I wanted the courage 
 of a gentleman ; besides, the lord that kept her 
 was a good customer to our house and my friend, 
 and I made a conscience of wronging him. 
 
 Ger. A man of honour ! 
 
 Mons. Vert and bleu ! pleasent, pleasent, ma 
 foy! 
 
 Ger. Go, go, sirrah, shut the door, I hear 'em 
 coming up. 
 
 Wait. Indeed I dare not ; they'll kick me down 
 stairs, if I should. 
 
 Ger. Go, you rascal, I say, 
 
 \The Waiter sliuU the Dotyr, 'tis thrust open again. 
 
 Enter Flounce and Flirt in Vizards, striking the Waiter, 
 and come up to the table. 
 
 Ger. [Aside."] Flounce altd Flirt, upon my life ! 
 ■ — lAloud.'] Ladies, I am sorry you have no volun- 
 teers in your service ; this is mere pressing, and 
 argues a great necessity you have for men. 
 
 Flou. You need not be afraid, sir ; we will use 
 no violence to you ; you are not fit for our service : 
 we know you. 
 
 Flirt. The hot service you have been in formerly 
 makes you unfit for ours now ; besides, you begin 
 to be something too old for us ; we are for the 
 brisk huzzas of seventeen or eighteen. 
 
 Ger. Nay, faith, I am not too old yet ; but an 
 old acquaintance will make any man old ; — besides, 
 to tell you the truth, you are come a little too 
 early for me, for I am not drunk yet. But there 
 are your brisk young men, who are always drunk, 
 and, perhaps, have the happiness not to know you. 
 
 Flou. The happiness not to know us ! 
 
 Flirt. The happiness not to know us ! 
 
 Ger. Be not angry, ladies ; 'tis rather happiness 
 to have pleasure to come than to have it past, and 
 therefore these gentlemen are happy in not knowing 
 you. 
 
 Mar. I'd have you to know, I do know the 
 ladies too, and I will not lose the honour of the 
 ladies' acquaintance for anything. 
 
 Flou. Not for the pleasure of beginning an 
 acquaintance with us, as Mr. Gerrard says : but it 
 is the general vanity of you town fops to lay claim 
 to all good acquaintance and persons of honour ; 
 you cannot let a woman pass in the Mall at mid- 
 night, but, damn you, you know her straight, you 
 know her ; — but you would be damned before you 
 would say so much for one in a mercer's shop. 
 
 Ger. He has spoken it in a French-house, where 
 he has very good credit, and 1 dare swear you may 
 make him eat his words. 
 
 Mons. She does want a gown, indeed ; she is in 
 her dishabillee. This dishabiUee is a great mode 
 in England ; the women love the dishabillee as well 
 as the men, ma foy ! [.Peeping under her scarf. 
 
 Flirt. Well, if we should stay and sup with you, 
 I warrant you would be bragging of it to-morrow 
 amongst your comrades, that you had the company 
 of two women of quality at the French-house, and 
 name us. 
 
 Mar. Pleasant jilts I [Aside. 
 
 Ger. No, upon our honours, we would not brag 
 of your company. 
 
 Flou. Upon your honours .' 
 
 Mar. No, faith. 
 
 Flou. Come, we will venture to sit down then : 
 yet I know the vanity of you men j you could not 
 contain yourselves from bragging. 
 
 Ger. No, no; you women now-a-days have found 
 out the pleasure of bragging, and will allow It the 
 men no longer. 
 
 Mar. Therefore, indeed, we dare not stay 
 
42 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 to sup with you ; for you would be sure to tell 
 oo't. 
 
 Oer. And we are young men who stand upon our 
 reputations. 
 
 Flou. You are very pleasant, gentlemen. 
 
 Mar. For my part I am to be married shortly, 
 and know 'twould quickly come to my mistress's 
 ear, 
 
 Ger. And for my part I must go visit to-morrow 
 morning betimes a new city mistress ; and you know 
 they are as inquisitive as precise in the city. 
 
 Flirt Come, come, pray leave this fooling j sit 
 down again, and let us bespeak supper. 
 
 (ter. No, faith, I dare not. 
 
 Mar. Besides, we have supped. 
 
 Flou. No matter, we only desire you should look 
 on while we eat, and put the glass about, or so. 
 
 [GerAaiU) and Martin qfi:r to go. 
 
 Flirt. Pray, stay. 
 
 Ger. Upon my life I dare not. 
 
 Flou. Upon our honours we will not tell, if you 
 are in earnest. 
 
 Ger. Pshaw! pshaw! — I know the vanity of 
 you women ; you could not contain yourselves from 
 bragging. 
 
 Mons. Ma foy ! is it certain ? ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
 Hark you, madame, can't you fare well but you 
 must cry roast-meat ? 
 
 You spoil your trade by bragging of your gains ; 
 The silent sow (madam) does eat most grains.— 
 da— 
 
 Flirt. Your servant, monsieur fop. 
 
 Flou. Nay, faith, do not go, we will no more 
 tell— 
 
 Mons. Than you would of a clap, if you had it ; 
 dat's the only secret you can keep, jarnie 1 
 
 Mar. I am glad we are rid of these jilts. 
 
 Ger. And we have taken a very ridiculous occa- 
 sion. 
 
 Mons. Wat I must we leave the lady then ? dis 
 is dam civility Englis, ma foy ! 
 
 Flirt. Nay, sir, you have too much of the French 
 air, to have so little honour and good breeding. 
 
 {^Pulling him back. 
 
 Mons. Dee you tinke so then, sweet madam, I 
 have mush of de French eyre ? 
 
 Flirt. More than any Frenchman breathing. 
 
 Mons. Auh, you are the curtoise dame ; mor- 
 bleu 1 I shall stay then, if you think so. Monsieur 
 Gerrard, you will be certain to see the lady to-mor- 
 row ? pray not forget, ha ; ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ger. No, no, sir. 
 
 Mar. You will go then ? 
 
 Ger, I will go on a fool's errand for once. 
 
 [Exevni Gehkabd and Martin. 
 
 Flou. What will you eat, sir? 
 
 Mons. Wat you please, madame. 
 
 Flou. D'ye hear, waiter? then some young 
 partridge. 
 
 fVait. What else, madam ! 
 
 Flirt. Some ruffs. 
 
 Wait. What else, madam ? 
 
 Flirt. Some young pheasants. 
 
 Wait. What else, madam ? 
 
 Flirt. Some young rabbits ; 1 love rabbits. 
 
 Wait. What else, madam ? 
 
 Flou. Stay— 
 
 Mons. Dis Englis waiter wit his wat else, rna- 
 iam, will ruin me, teste non ! iAsidi. 
 
 Wait. What else, madam ? 
 
 Mons. Wat else, madam, agen ! — call up the 
 French waiter. 
 
 Wait. What else, madam .» 
 
 Mons. Again ! — call up the French waiter or 
 quisinier, mon-teste! ventre! vite! — Auh, madam, 
 the stupidity of the Englis waiter ! I hate the 
 Englis waiter, ma foy ! C.^**' Waiter. 
 
 Flirt. Be not in passion, dear monsieur. 
 
 Mons: I kiss your hand, obligeante madam. 
 
 Enter a French Scullion, 
 
 Chere Pierot, serviteur, serviteur. — ^Kisses the 
 Scullion.] — Orca k manger ? 
 
 Scull. En vonlez vous de cram schiquin'-' 
 
 Flou. Yes. 
 
 Scull. De partrish, de faysan, de quailles ? 
 
 M<ms. \^Aside.'] This hougre vil ruine me too ; 
 but he speak wit dat bel eyre and grace, I cannot 
 bid him hold his tongue, ventre ! C'est assez, 
 Pierot, vat-en. ^Exit Scullion, and returht. 
 
 Scull. And de litel plate de — 
 
 Mons. Jarnie ! vat-en. 
 
 [Exit SouUion, and returns. 
 
 Scull. And de litel plate de — 
 
 Mons. De grace, go dy way. 
 
 [Exit Scullion, and returns. 
 
 Scull. And de Utel de — 
 
 Mons. De fromage de Brie, vat.en ! — go, go. 
 
 Flou. What's that ? cheese that stinks ? 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, be sure it stinke extremente. 
 Pierot, vat-en ; but stay till I drink dy health : — 
 here's to dat pretty fellow's health, madam. 
 
 Flirt. Must we drink the scullion's health ? 
 
 Mons. Auh, you will not be disobligeante, ma- 
 dam ; he is the quisinier for a king, nay, for a car- 
 dinal French abbot. [Drinks. Exit Scullion. 
 
 Flou. But how shall we divertise ourselves till 
 supper be ready ? 
 
 Flirt. Can we have better divertisement than 
 this gentleman ? 
 
 Flou. But I think we had better carry the gen- 
 tleman home with us, and because it is already late, 
 sup at home, and divertise the gentleman at cards, 
 till it be ready. — D'ye hear, waiter ? let it be 
 brought, when 'tis ready, to my lodging hard by, 
 in Mustard-alley, at the sign of the Crooked- 
 billet. 
 
 Mons. At the Crooked-billet ! 
 
 Flirt. Come, sir, come. 
 
 Mons. Morbleu ! I have take the vow (since my 
 last clap) never to go again to the bourdel. 
 
 Flou. What is the bourdel ? 
 
 Mons. How call you the name of your house ? 
 
 Flirt. The Crooked-billet. 
 
 Mons. No, no, the — bawdy-house, vert auJ 
 bleu! 
 
 Flirt. How, our lodging ! we'd have you to 
 know — 
 
 Mons. Auh, morbleu I I would not know it; de 
 Crooked-billet, ha ! ha 1 
 
 Flirt. Come, sir. 
 
 Mons. Besides, if I go wit you to the bourdel, 
 you will tell, morbleu ! 
 
 Flou. Fy ! fy ! come along. 
 
 Mons. Beside, 1 am to be married within these 
 two days ; if you should tell now — 
 
 Flirt. Come, come along, we will not tell. 
 
 Mons. But will you promise then to have the 
 care of my honour ? pray, good madam, have de 
 care of my honour, pray have de care of my honour . 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 40 
 
 Will you have care of my honour ? pray have de 
 care of my honour, and do not tell if you can help 
 it ; pray, dear madam, do not tell. [.Kneels to 'em. 
 
 Flirt. I would not tell for fear of losing you, my 
 love, for you will make me secret. 
 
 Mons. Why, do you love me ? 
 
 Flirt. Indeed I cannot help telling you now, what 
 ray modesty ought to conceal, hut my eyes would 
 disclose it too ; — I have a passion for you, sir. 
 
 Mons. A passion^or me I 
 
 Flirt. An extreme passion, dear sir; you are so 
 French, so mightily French, so agreeahle French 
 — but I'll tell you more of ray heart at home : 
 come along. 
 
 Mons. But is your pation sincere ? 
 
 Flirt. The truest in the world. 
 
 Mons. Well then, I'll venture my body wit thee 
 for one night. 
 
 Flirt. For one night ! don't you believe that 
 and so you would leave me to-morrow ? but I love 
 you so, 1 cannot part with you, you must keep me 
 for good and all, if you will have me. I can't leave 
 you for my heart. 
 
 Mons. How ! keep, jarnie ! de whore Englis 
 have notinge but keepe, keepe in dere mouths 
 now-a*days, teste non {^Formerly 'twas enoughe 
 to keep de shild, ma foy ! 
 
 Flirt. Nay, I will be kept, else — but, come, we'll 
 talk on't at home. 
 
 Mons. Urah — so, so, ver vel ; de amoure of de 
 whore does alway end in keep, ha ! keep, ma foy ! 
 keep, ha I — 
 
 The punk that entertains you wit her passion. 
 
 Is like kind host who makes the invitation. 
 
 At your own cost, to his fort bon collation. 
 
 lEnceunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — Don Diego's House, m the Morning. 
 Enter Don Diego in the Spanish Hahit, and Mks. Caution. 
 
 Don. Have you had a Spanish care of the 
 honour of my family ? that is to say, have you 
 kept up my daughter close in my absence, as I 
 directed ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I have, sir, but it was as much as I 
 could do. 
 
 Don. I knew that ; for 'twas as much as T could 
 do to keep up her mother ; — I that have been in 
 Spain, look you. 
 
 Mrs. Caul. Nay, 'tis a hard task to keep up an 
 English woman. 
 
 Don. As hard as it is for those who are not kept 
 op to be honest, look you, con licentia, sister. 
 
 Mrs. Caut, How now, brother ! I am sure my 
 husband never kept me up. 
 
 Don. I knew that, therefore I cried con licentia, 
 sister, as the Spaniards have it. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. But you Spaniards are too cen- 
 sorious, brother. 
 
 Don. You English women, sister, give us too 
 much cause, look you ; — but you are sure my 
 daughter has not seen a man since my departure ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. No, not so much as a churchman. 
 
 Don. As a churchman ! voto ! I thank you for 
 that ; not a churchman 1 not a churchman ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. No, not so much as a churchman ; 
 but of any, one would think one might trust a 
 churchman. 
 
 Don. No, we are bold enough in trusting them 
 with our souls, I'll never trust them with the body 
 of my daughter, look you, guarda ! You see what 
 comes of trusting churchmen here in England ; 
 and 'tis because the women govern the families, 
 that chaplains are so much in fashion. Trust a 
 churchman ! — trust a coward with your honour, a 
 fool with your secret, a gamester with your purse, 
 as soon as a priest with your wife or daughter ; 
 look you, guarda ! I ara no fool look you. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Nay, I know you are a wise man, 
 brother. 
 
 Don. Why, sister, I have been fifteen years in 
 .S;iaia for it, at several times, look you : now in 
 
 Spain, he is wise enough that is grave, politic 
 enough that says little, and honourable enough 
 that is jealous ; and though I say it, that should 
 not say it, I am as grave, grum, and jealous, as any 
 Spaniard breathing. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I know you are, brother. 
 
 Don. And I will be a Spaniard in everything 
 still, and will not conform, not I, to their ill- 
 favoured English customs, for I will wear my 
 Spanish habit still, I will stroke my Spanish 
 whiskers still, and I will eat my Spanish olio still ; 
 and my daughter shall go a maid to her husband's 
 bed, let the English custom be what 'twill : I would 
 fain see any finical, cunning, insinuating monsieur 
 of the age, debauch, or steal away my daughter. 
 But, well, has she seen my cousin ? how long has 
 he been in England ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. These three days. 
 
 Don. And she has seen him, has she ? I was 
 contented he should see her, intending him for her 
 husband ; but she has seen nobody else upon your 
 certain knowledge ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. No, no, alas I how should she ? 'tis 
 impossible she should. 
 
 Don. Where is her chamber ? pray let me see 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. You'll find her, poor creature, 
 asleep, I warrant you : or, if awake, thinking no 
 hurt, nor of your coming this morning. 
 
 Don. Let us go to her, 1 long to see her, poor 
 innocent wretch. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE U.—A Room in Don Diego's House. 
 
 Enter HiPPOLrrA, Gerrard, and Pbub at a distance. 
 
 Ger. Am I not come upon your own summons, 
 madam .' and yet receive me so ? 
 
 Hip. My. summons, sir ! no, I assure you ; 
 and if you do not like your reception, 1 cannot 
 help it ! for 1 am not used to receive men, I'd 
 have you to know. 
 
 Ger. She is beautiful beyond all things 1 ever 
 saw ! [Aside. 
 
 Hip. I like him extremely ! C^Asi.lj. 
 
44 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING- MASTER. 
 
 Ger. Come, fairest, why do you frown ? 
 
 Hip. Because I am angry. 
 
 Ger. I am come on purpose to please you, then ; 
 do not receive me so unkindly. 
 
 Hip. I tell you, I do not use to receive men. — 
 There has not been a man in the house before, but 
 my cousin, this twelvemonth, I'd have you to 
 know. 
 
 Ger. Then you ought to bid me the more wel- 
 come, Pd have you to know. 
 
 Hip. What ! do you mock me too .' I know 
 I am but a home-bred simple girl ; but I thought 
 you gallants of the town had been better bred than 
 to mock a poor girl in her father's own house. I 
 have beard, indeed, 'tis a part of good breeding to 
 Clock people behind their backs, but not to their 
 faces. 
 
 Ger. \^Aside.'\ Pretty creature ! she has not only 
 the beauty, but the innocency of an angel. — [ To 
 HippOLiTA.] Mock you, dear miss ! no, I only 
 repeated the words because they were yours, sweet 
 miss ; what we like we imitate. 
 
 Hip, Dear miss ! sweet miss ! how came you 
 and I so well acquainted ? this is one of your con- 
 fident tricks, too, as I have been told; you'll be 
 acquainted with a woman in the time you can help 
 her over a bench in the playhouse, or to her coach. 
 But I need not wonder at your confidence, since 
 you could come in at the great gallery window just 
 now. But, pray, who shall pay for the glass you 
 have broken .' 
 
 Ger. Pretty creature ! your father might have 
 made the window bigger then, since he has so fine 
 a daughter, and will not allow people to come in 
 at the door to her. 
 
 Hip. A pleasant man ! — well, 'tis harder play- 
 ing the hypocrite with him, I see, than with my 
 aunt or father j and if dissimulation were not very 
 natural to a woman, I'm sure I could not use it at 
 this time : but the mask of simplicity and inno- 
 cency is as useful to an intriguing woman as the 
 mask of leligion to a statesman, they say. lAside. 
 
 Ger. Why do you look away, dearest miss ? 
 
 Hip. Because you quarrelled with me just now 
 for frowning upon you, and I cannot help it, if I 
 look upon you. 
 
 Ger. O ! let me see that face at any rate. 
 
 Hip. Would you have me frown upon you } 
 for I shall be sure to do't. 
 
 Ger. Come, I'll stand fair : you have done your 
 worst to my heart already. 
 
 Hip. Now I dare not look upon him, lest I 
 should not be able to keep my word. lAside. 
 
 Ger. Come, I am ready : — [Aside.'] and yet I 
 am afraid of her frowns.^ [ To Hippolita.] Come, 
 look, Ih — am ready, Ih — am ready. 
 
 Hip. But I am not ready. ZAside, 
 
 Ger. Turn, dear miss, come, Ih — am ready. 
 
 Hip. Are you ready then? I'll look. [Turns 
 upon him.'] — No, faith, I cannot frown upon him, 
 if I should be hanged. \A8iclc. 
 
 Ger. Dear miss, I thank you, that look has no 
 terror in't. 
 
 Hip. No, I cannot frown for my neart for 
 blushing, I don't use to look upon men, you must 
 know. 
 
 Ger. If it were possible anything could, those 
 blushes would add to her beauty : well, bashfulness 
 is the only out-uf-fushioned thing that is agreeable. 
 
 [Att^, 
 
 Hip. Ih — h— like this man strangely, I was 
 going to say loved him. Courage then, Hippolita ! 
 make use of the only opportunity thou eanst have 
 to enfranchise thyself. Women formerly (they 
 say) never knew how to make use of their time till 
 it was past ; but let it not be said so of a young 
 woman of this age. — My damned aunt will be stir- 
 ring presently : — well, then, courage, I say, Hip- 
 polita ! thou art full fourteen years old, — shift 
 
 for thyself. . iAside. 
 
 Ger. So 1 I have looked upon her so long, till I 
 am grown bashful too. Love and modesty come 
 together like money and covetousness, and the 
 more we have, the less we can show it. I dare 
 not look her in the face now, nor speak a word. 
 
 lAside. 
 
 Hip What, sir, methinks you look away now I 
 
 Ger. Because you would not look upon me, miss. 
 
 Hip. Nay, I hope you can't look me in the 
 face, since you have done so rude a thing as to 
 come in at the window upon me. Come, come, 
 when ODce we women find the men bashful, then 
 we take heart. Now I can look upon you as long 
 as you will : let's see if you can frown upon ma 
 now. 
 
 Ger. Lovely innocency ! no, you may swear I 
 can't frown upon you, miss. 
 
 Hip. So ! I knew you were ashamed of what 
 you have done. Well, since you are ashamed, and 
 because "you did not come of your own head, but 
 was sent by my cousin, you say — 
 
 Ger. Which I wonder at. iAsidx. 
 
 Hip. For all these reasons, I do forgive you. 
 
 Ger. In token of your forgiveness then, dearest 
 miss, let me have the honour to kiss your hand. 
 
 Hip. Nay, there 'tis ; you men are like our little 
 shock-dogs, if we don't keep you off from us, but 
 use you a little kindly, you grow so fiddling and 
 so troublesome, there is no enduring you. 
 
 Ger. O dear miss ! if 1 am like your shock-dog, 
 let it be in his privileges. 
 
 Hip. Why, I'd have you to know he does not 
 lie with me. 
 
 Ger. 'Tis well guessed, miss, for one so innocent. 
 
 Hip. No, I always kick him off from the bed, 
 and never will let him come near it ; for of late, 
 indeed, (I do not know what's the reason,) I don't 
 much care for my shock-dog, nor my babies. 
 
 Ger. O then, miss, I may have hopes ! for after 
 the shock-dog and the babies, 'tis the man's turn 
 to be beloved. 
 
 Hip. Why, could you be so good-natured as to 
 come after my shock-dog in my love .' it may 
 be, indeed, rather than after one of your brother 
 men. 
 
 Ger, Hah, ha, ha I — poor creature 1 a wonder of 
 innocency ! ZAside. 
 
 Hip. But I see you are humble, because you 
 would kiss my hand. 
 
 Ger. No, I am ambitious therefore. 
 
 Hip. [Aside.] Well, all this fooling but loses 
 time, I must make better use of it. [_To Ggrbakd.] 
 I could let you kiss my hand, but then I'm afraid 
 you would take hold of me and carry me away. 
 
 Ger. Indeed I would not 
 
 Hip. Come, I know you would. 
 
 Ger. Truly I would not. 
 
 Hip. You would ! you would ! I know you 
 would. 
 
 Ger. I'll swear I wo' not — by— 
 
SCENE II, 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 45 
 
 Nip. Nay, don't swear, for you'll be the apter 
 to do it then. ^Aside.} 1 would not have him for- 
 swear it neither ; — he does not like me, sure, well 
 enough to carry me away. 
 
 Ger. Dear miss, let me kiss your hand. 
 
 Hip. I am sure you would carry me away if I 
 should. 
 
 Ger. Be not afraid of it. 
 
 Hip. [Aside.'] Nay, I am afraid of the con- 
 trary. — Either he dislikes me, and therefore will 
 not be troubled witli me, or what is as bad, he 
 loves me and is dull, or fearful to displease me. 
 
 Ger. Trust me, sweetest ! I can use no violence 
 to you. 
 
 Hip. Nay, I am sure you would carry me 
 away ; what should you come in at the window for, 
 if you did not mean to steal me ? 
 
 Ger. If 1 should endeavour it, you might cry 
 out, and I should be prevented. 
 
 Hip. [Aside.] Dull, dull man of the town ! 
 are all like thee ? He is as dull as a country squire 
 atquestions and commands.- — [roGBRRAHD.] No, 
 if I should cry out never so loud, this is quite at 
 the further end of the house, and there nobody 
 could hear me. 
 
 Ger. I will not give you the occasion, dearest. 
 
 Hip. [Aside.] Well, 1 will quicken thy sense, 
 
 if it be possible [7*0 Gerrard.] Nay, I know 
 
 you come to steal me away ; because I am an 
 heiress, and have twelve hundred pounds a year, 
 lately left me by my mother's brother, which my 
 father cannot meddle with , and which is the chiefest 
 reason (I suppose) why he keeps me up so close. 
 
 Ger. Ha! 
 
 Hip. So ! — this has made him consider. O mo- 
 ney ! powerful money ! how the ugly, old, crooked, 
 straight, handsome young women are beholden to 
 thee ! iAside. 
 
 Ger. Twelve hundred pounds a year ! 
 
 Hip. Besides, I have been told my fortune, 
 and the woman said I should be stolen away, be- 
 cause she says 'tis the fate of heiresses to be stolen 
 away. 
 
 Ger. Twelve hundred pounds a-year ! — lAside. 
 
 Hip. Nay, more, she described the man to 
 me that was to do it, and he was as like you as 
 could be. Have you any brothers ? 
 
 Gerf Not any ; 'twas I, I warrant you, sweetest. 
 
 Hip. So, he understands himself now. lAside. 
 
 Ger. Well, madam, since 'twas foretold you, 
 what do you think on't ? 'tis in vain, you know, to 
 resist fate. 
 
 Hip. I do know, indeed, they say, 'tis to no 
 purpose : besides, the woman that told me ray 
 fortune, or you, have bewitched me— Ih — think. 
 
 ISight. 
 
 Ger. My soul! my life! 'tis you have charms 
 powerful as numberless, especially those of your 
 innoceucy irresistible, and do surprise the wariest 
 heart. Such mine was, while I could call it mine, 
 but now 'tis yours for ever. 
 
 Hip. Well, well, get you gone then. I'll keep 
 it safe for your sake. 
 
 Ger. Nay, you must go with me, sweetest. 
 
 Hip. Well, I see you will part with the jewel; 
 but you will have the keeping of the cabinet to 
 which you commit it. 
 
 Ger. Come, come, my dearest, let us be gone : 
 Fortune as well as women must be taken in the 
 humour. 
 
 As they are going out, Pkue runs hastily to then. 
 
 Prue. O miss, miss ! your father, it seems, is 
 just now arrived, and is here coming in upon you. 
 
 Hip. My father I 
 
 Enter Don Di£00 and Mrs. Caution. 
 
 Don. My daughter and a man ! 
 
 Mrs. Cant. A man! a man in the house ! 
 
 Ger. Ha ! what mean these ?■ — a Spaniard ! 
 
 Hip. What shall I do ? Stay — Nay, pray stir 
 not from me ; but lead me about, as if you led me 
 a corant. ILeads her about. 
 
 Don. Is this your government, sister 1 and this 
 your innocent charge, that hath not seen the face 
 of a man this twelvemonth ? en hora tnala ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. O, sure, it is not a man ! it cannot 
 be a man ! [_Puts on her spectacles, 
 
 Don. It cannot be % man! if he be not a man, 
 he's a devil. He has Jier lovingly by the hand too, 
 valga me el cielo ! 
 
 Hip. Do not seem to mind them, but dance 
 on, or lead me about still. 
 
 Ger. What d'ye mean by it.' impart (oHippoirrA. 
 
 Don. Hey, they are frolic, a-dancing ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Indeed, they are dancing, I think, — 
 Why, niece ! 
 
 Don. Nay, hold a little : I'll make 'em dance 
 in the devil's name ; but it shall not be, la gail- 
 liarda. [Draws his sword. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. O niece ! why niece ! 
 
 [Caution liolds him. 
 
 Ger. Do you hear her .' what do you mean .' 
 
 [Apart to HippouTA. 
 
 Hip. Take no notice of them ; but walk about 
 still, and sing a little, sing a corant. 
 
 Ger, I can't sing : but I'll hum, if you will. 
 
 Don. Are you so merry .■* well I'll be with you ; 
 en hora mala ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. O niece, niece ! why niece ! oh — 
 
 Don. Why, daughter, my dainty daughter ! My 
 shame ! my ruin ! my plague ! 
 [Struggling, gets from Caution, goes towards them with 
 his sword drawn. 
 
 Hip. Mind him not, but dance and sing on. 
 
 Ger. A pretty time to dance and sing, indeed, 
 when I have a Spaniard with a naked Toledo at 
 my tail ! No, pray excuse me, miss, from fooling 
 any longer. 
 
 Hip. [Turning ahoul.] O, my father, my fa- 
 ther ! poor father ! you are welcome ; pray give 
 me your blessing. 
 
 Don, My blessing, en hora mala ! 
 
 Hip. What ! am I not your daughter, sir ? 
 
 Don. My daughter ! mi mal muerte ! 
 
 Hip. My name's Hippolita, sir : I don't own 
 your Spanish names. But, pray father, why do 
 you frighten one so .' you know I don't love to see 
 a sword : what do you mean to do with that ugly 
 thing out ! 
 
 Don. I'll show you. Trayidor! ladron! demi 
 houra thou diest. [Ituns at Gbrhard. 
 
 Ger, Not if I can help it, good Don. But by 
 the names you give me, I find you mistake your 
 man : I suppose some Spaniard has affronted you. 
 
 [Draws. 
 
 Don. None but thee, ladron ! and thou diest for 't. 
 
 [Fight. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Oh I oh ! oh !— help ! help ! help ! 
 
 Hip, O — what, will you kill my poor dancing- 
 master ? [Kneels. 
 
 Don. A dancing-master ! he's a fencing-master 
 
46 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 rather, I think. But is he your dancing-master ? 
 umph — 
 
 Gfer. So much wit aad innocency were never 
 together before. [.Aside. 
 
 Dnn. Is he a dancing-master ? iPaustng. 
 
 Mrs. Cnut. Is he a dancing. master ? He does 
 not look like a dancing-master. 
 
 Hip, Pish ! — you don't know a dancing-mas- 
 ter : yott have not seen one these threescore years, 
 I warrant. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. No matter ; but he does not look like 
 a dancing-master. 
 
 Don. Nay, nay, dancing-masters look like gen- 
 tlemen enough, sister : but he's no dancing-master, 
 by drawing a sword so briskly. Those tripping 
 outsides of gentlemen, are like gentlemen enough 
 in everything but in drawing a sword ; and since 
 he is a gentleman, he shall oie by mine. 
 
 \_Fight again. 
 
 Hip. Oh ! hold ! hold ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Hold ! hold !— Pray, brother let's 
 talk with him a little first ; I warrant you I shall 
 trap him ; and if he confesses, you may kill him ; 
 for those that confess, they say, ought to be hanged 
 — Let's see — 
 
 Ger. Poor Hippolita ! I wish I had not had this 
 occasion of admiring thy wit ; I have increased my 
 love, whilst I have lost my hopes j the common 
 fate of poor lover.s. (.Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Come you are guilty, by that hang- 
 ing down of your head. Speak : are you a dancing- 
 master ? Speak, speak ; a dancing master ? 
 
 Ger. Yes, forsooth, I am a dancing .master : ay, 
 ay— 
 
 Don. How does it appear ? 
 
 Hip. Why, there is his fiddle, there upon the 
 table, father. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. No,busybody,but it is not : — that is 
 my nephew's fiddle. 
 
 Bip. Why, he lent it to my cousin : I tell you 
 it is his. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Nay, It may be, indeed ; he might 
 lend it to him for aught 1 know. 
 
 Dnn. Ay, ay : but ask him, sister, if he be a 
 dancing-master, where. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Pray, brother, let me alone with 
 him, I know what to ask him, sure. 
 
 Don. What, will you be wiser than I ? nay, then 
 stand away. Come, if you are a dancing-master, 
 Where's your school ? Adonde ! adonde ! 
 
 Mrs. Caul. Why, he'll say, may be, he has 
 ne'er a one. 
 
 Don. Who asked you, nimble chaps ? So you 
 have put an excuse in his head. 
 
 Ger. Indeed, sir, 'tis no excuse : I have no 
 school. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Well ; but who sent you ? how came 
 you hither .' 
 
 Ger. There I am puzzled indeed. lAside. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. How came you hither, I say ? how — 
 
 Ger. Why, how, how should I come hither ? 
 
 Don. Ay, how should he come hither .' Upon 
 his legs. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. So, so ! now you have put an excuse 
 iu his head too, that you have, so you Tiave ; but 
 stay — 
 
 Don. Nay, with your favour, mistress, I'll ask 
 him now. 
 
 Mrs. Caul. Y'facks, but you shan't I I'll ask 
 him, and ask you no favour, that I will. 
 
 Don. Y'fackins, but you shan't ask him ! if 
 you go there too, look you, you prattle-box yon 
 I'll ask him. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I will ask him, I say ! — come i 
 
 Don. Where .' 
 
 Mrs. Caut. What 1 
 
 Don. Mine's a shrewd question. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Mine's as shrewd as yours. 
 
 Don. Nay, then, we shall have it. — Come, 
 answer me ; where's your lodging ? come, come, 
 sir. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. A shrewd question, indeed ! at the 
 Surgeons'-arms, I warrant you ; for 'tis spring 
 time, you know. 
 
 Don. Must you make lies for him ? 
 
 Mrs. Caul. But come, sir ; what's your name ? 
 — answer me to that ; come. 
 
 Don. His name ! why, 'tis an easy matter to teU 
 you a false name, I hope. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. So ! must you teach him to cheat us ? 
 
 Don. Why did you say my questions were not 
 shrewd questions, then ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. And why would you not let me ask 
 him thequestion,then .' Brother, brother, ever while 
 you live, for all your Spanish wisdom, let an old 
 woman make discoveries : the young fellows cannot 
 cheat us in anything, I'd have you to know. Set 
 your old woman still to grope oat an intrigue, 
 because, you know, the mother found her daughter 
 in the oven. A word to the wise, brother. 
 
 Don. Come, come, leave this tattling-: he has 
 dishonoured my family, debauched my daughter ; 
 and what if he could excuse himself.' The Spanish 
 proverb says, excuses neither satisfy creditors nor 
 the injured. — ^The wounds of honour must have 
 blood and wounds, St. Jago, para mi ! 
 
 iKisies the crosses of his sword, and runs at Gerhard. 
 
 Hip. O hold, dear father ! and I'll confess 
 all. 
 
 Ger. She will not, sure, after all. [Aside. 
 
 Hip. My cousin sent him ; because, as he 
 said, he would have me recover my dancing a little 
 before our wedding, having made a vow he would 
 never marry a wife who could not dance a corant. 
 I am sure I was unwilling ; but he would have him 
 come, saying I was to be his wife as soon as you 
 came, and therefore expected obedience from me. 
 
 Don. Indeed, the venture is most his, and the 
 shame would be most his ; for I know here in 
 England, 'tis not the custom for the father to be 
 much concerned what the daughter does ; but I will 
 be a Spaniard still. 
 
 Hip. Did not you hear him say last night he 
 would send me one this morning ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. No, not I, sure. If I had, he nad 
 never come here. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, aunt, you grow old I see ; your 
 memory fails yon very much. Did not you hear 
 him, Prue, say he would send him to me ? 
 
 Prue. \es, I'll be sworn did I. 
 
 Hip. Look you there, aunt. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I wonder I should not remember it. 
 
 Don. Come, come, you are a doting old fool. 
 Mrs. Caut. So ! So ! the fault will be mine now. 
 But pray, mistress, how did he come in ? I am 
 sure 1 had the keys of the doors, which, till your 
 father came in, were not opened to-day. 
 
 Hip. He came in just after my father, 1 sup- 
 pose. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. It might be, indeed, while the por. 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 47 
 
 ters brought in the things, and I was talking with 
 yoii. 
 
 Don. O, might he so, forsooth I you are a brave 
 governante ! Look you, you a duenna, veto ! — and 
 not know who comes in and out ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. So ! 'tis my fault, I know, 
 
 Don. Your maid was in the room with you ; was 
 she not, child ? 
 
 Hip. Yes, indeed, and indeed, father, all the 
 while. 
 
 Don. Well, child, I am satisfied then.- — But I 
 hope he does not use the dancing-master's tricks, 
 of squeezing your hands, setting your legs and 
 feet, by handling your thighs and seeing your 
 legs. 
 
 Hip. No, indeed, father : I'd give him a box 
 on the ear if he should. 
 
 D(m. Poor innocent !— Well, I am contented 
 you should learn to dance, since, for aught I know, 
 you shall be married to-morrow, or the next day at 
 farthest : by that time you may recover a corant 
 — a saraband I would say. And since your cousin, 
 too, will have a dancing wife, it shall be so ; and 
 I'll see you dance myself. You shall be my charge 
 these two days, and then I dare venture you in the 
 hand of any dancing-master, even a saucy French 
 dancing-master, look you. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Well, have a care, though i for this 
 man is not dressed like a dancing-master. 
 
 Don. Go, go, you dote ; are they not (for the 
 most part) better dressed and prouder than many 
 a good gentleman ? you would be wiser than I, 
 would you, querno ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Well, I say, only look to't, look 
 to't. 
 
 Don. Hey, hey ! Come, friend, to your busi- 
 ness ; teach her her lesson over again ; let's see. 
 
 Hip. Come, master. 
 
 Don. Come, come, let's see your English 
 method ; I understand something of dancing myself 
 — come. 
 
 Hip. Come, master. 
 
 Ger. I shall betray you yet, dearest miss ; for I 
 know not a step : I could never dance. 
 
 lApart to HiPPOUTA. 
 
 Hip. No! 
 
 Don. Come, come, child. 
 
 Hip. Indeed I'm ashamed, father. 
 
 Don. You must not be ashamed, child ; you'll 
 never dance well if you are ashamed. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, I can't help it, father. 
 
 Don. Come, come, I say, go to't. 
 
 Hip. Indeed I can't, father, before you : 'tis 
 my first lesson, and I shall do it so ill. — Pray, good 
 father, go into the next room for this once ; and 
 the next time my master comes, you shall see I 
 shall be confident enough. 
 
 Don. Poor, foolish, innocent creature ! — Well, 
 well, I will, child. Who but a Spanish kind of a 
 father could have so innocent a daughter in Eng- 
 land ? — Well, I would fain see any one steal or 
 debauch my daughter from me. 
 
 Hip. Nay, won't you go, father ? 
 
 Don. Yes, yes, I go, child : we will aH go but 
 your maid. — Yon can dance before your maid ? 
 
 Hip. Yes, yes, father : a maid at most times 
 with her mistress is nobody. 
 
 \_Exeunt Diego and Mrs. Caution. 
 
 Ger. He peeps yet at the door. 
 
 Hip. Nay, father, you peep ; indeed you must 
 
 not see me. When we have done, yon shall come 
 in. iShe pulls the Door to. 
 
 Prue. Indeed, little mistress, like the young kit- 
 ten, you see you played with your prey till you had 
 almost lost it. 
 
 Hip. 'Tis true, a good old mouser like you had 
 taken it up, and run away with it presently. 
 
 Ger. Let me adore you, dearest miss, and give 
 you — [Going to embrace her. 
 
 Hip. No, no embracing, good master 1 that 
 ought to be the last lesson you are to teach me, I 
 have heard. 
 
 Ger. Though an aftergame be the more tedious 
 and dangerous, 'tis won, miss, with the more honour 
 and pleasure : for all that, I repent we were put 
 to't. The coming in of your father, as he did, was 
 the most unlucky thing that ever befel me. 
 
 Hip. What then, you think I would have gone 
 with you ? 
 
 Ger. Yes ; and you will go with me yet, I hope. 
 — Courage, miss! we have yet an opportunity; and 
 the gallery-window is yet open. 
 
 Hip. No, no ; if I went, I would go for good 
 and all : but now my father will soon come in again, 
 and may quickly overtake us. Besides, now I 
 think on't, you are a stranger to me ; I know not 
 where you live, nor whither you might carry me. 
 For aught I know, you might be a spirit, and carry 
 me to Barbadoes. 
 
 Ger. No, dear miss, I would carry you to court, 
 the playhouses, and Hyde-park^- 
 
 Hip. Nay, I know 'tis the trick of all you that 
 spirit women away, to speak 'em mighty fair at 
 first : but when you have got 'em in your clutches, 
 you carry 'em into Yorkshire, Wales, or Cornwall, 
 which is as bad as to Barbadoes ; and rather than 
 be served so, I would be a prisoner in London still 
 as I am. 
 
 Ger. I see the air of this town, without the plea- 
 sures of it, is enough to infect women with an 
 aversion for the country. Well, miss, since it 
 seems you have some diffidence in me, give me 
 leave to visit you as your dancing-master, now you 
 have honoured me with the character ; and under 
 that I may have your father's permission to see 
 you, till you may better know me and my heart, 
 and have a better opportunity to reward it. 
 
 Hip. I am afraid to know your heart would 
 require a great deal of time ; and my father intends 
 to marry me very suddenly to my cousin, who sent 
 you hither. 
 
 Ger. Pray, sweet miss, let us make the better 
 use of our time if it he short. But how shall we 
 do with that cousin of yours in the mean time .' we 
 must needs charm him. 
 
 Hip. Leave that to me. 
 
 Ger. But (what's worse) how shall I be able to 
 act a dancing-master, who ever wanted inclmation 
 and patience to learn myself? 
 
 Hip. A dancing-school in half an hour will 
 furnish you w'ith terms of the art. Besides, Love 
 (as I have heard say) supplies his scholars with all 
 sorts of capacities they have need of, in spite of 
 nature ; — hut what has love to do with you ,-' 
 
 Ger. Love, indeed, has made a grave gouty 
 statesman fight duels, the soldier fly from his 
 colours, " pedant a fine gentleman, nay, and the 
 very lawyer a poet ; and, therefore, may make me 
 a dancing-master. 
 
 Hip. If he were your master. 
 
48 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 ACT m. 
 
 ter. I m sure, dearest miss, there is notliing 
 else which I cannot do for you already; and, there- 
 fore, may hope to succeed in that. 
 
 Reenter Don Diego. 
 
 Don. Come, have you done? 
 
 Hip. O, my father again ! ' 
 
 Don. Come, now let us see you dance. 
 
 Hip. Indeed I am not perfect yet ; pray excuse 
 me till the next time my master comes. But when 
 must he come again, father? 
 
 Don. Let me see — friend, you must needs come 
 after dinner again, and then at night again, and so 
 three times to-morrow too. If she be not married 
 to-morrow, (which I am to consider of,) she will 
 dance a corant in twice or thrice teaching more ; 
 will she not .' for 'tis but a twelvemonth since she 
 came from Hackney-school. 
 
 Ger. We will lose no time, I warrant you, sir, 
 if she be to be married to-morrow. 
 
 Don. True, I think she may be married to-mor- 
 row; therefore, I would not have you lose any 
 time, look you. 
 
 Ger. You need not caution me, I warrant you, 
 sir. — Sweet scholar, your humble servant : I will 
 not fail you immediately after dinner. 
 
 Don. No, no, pray do not ; and I will not fail 
 to satisfy you very well, look you. 
 
 Hip. He does not doubt his reward, father, 
 for bis pains. If you should not, I would make 
 that good to Mm. 
 
 Don. Come, let us go in to your aunt : I must 
 talk with you both together, child. 
 
 Hip. I follow you, sir. 
 
 {_Exeunt Gbrrard and Don Dteoo. 
 
 Prue. Here's the gentlewoman o' th' next house 
 come to see you, mistress* 
 
 Hip, \_Aside.'\ She's come, as if she came 
 
 expressly to sing the new song she sung last night. 
 I must hear it ; for 'tis to my purpose now. — 
 
 Enter Lady. 
 
 Madam, your servant : I dreamt all night of the 
 
 song you sung last ; the new song against delays in 
 
 love. Pray, let's hear it again. 
 
 Lady sings. 
 
 Since we poor slavish women know 
 
 Our men we cannot pick and ciiooae. 
 To liim we like why say we no, 
 
 And both our time and lover lose ? 
 With feign'd repulses and delays 
 
 A lover's appetite we pall ; 
 And if too long the gallant stays, 
 
 His stomaoh's gone for good and all. 
 Or our impatient amorous guest 
 
 Unknown to us away may steal. 
 And rather than stay for a feast. 
 
 Take up with some coarse ready meal. 
 When opportunity is kind, 
 
 Let prudent women be so too ; 
 And if the men be to your mind, 
 
 Till needs you must, ne'er lethira go. 
 The match soon made is happy still. 
 
 For only love has there to do. 
 Let no one marry 'gainst her will, 
 
 But stand off when her parents woo. 
 And only to their suits be coy : 
 
 For she whom jointure can obtain. 
 To let a fop her bed enjoy. 
 
 Is but a lawful wench for gain. 
 Prue. Your father calls for you, miss. 
 
 iSieps to the door. 
 Hip. I come, I come ; I must be obedient as 
 long as I am with him. [Pausing, 
 
 Our parents who restrain our liberty. 
 
 But take the course to make us sooner free. 
 Though all we gain be but new slavery ; 
 We leave our fathers, and to husbands flee. 
 
 ACT III; 
 
 SCENE I.— Don Diego's House. 
 
 Enter Monsi eur dh Paris, HippoLrrA, and Pbue. 
 
 Mons. Serviteur, serviteur, la cousine. Your 
 maid told me she watched at the stair-foot for my 
 coming ; because you had a mind to speak with me 
 before I saw your fader, it seem. 
 
 Hip. I would so, indeed, cousin. 
 
 Mons. Or ca ! or ca ! I know your affair. It is to 
 tell me wat recreation you ade with Monsieur Ger- 
 rard. But did he come ? I was afrait he would 
 not come. 
 
 Hip. Yes, yes, he did come. 
 
 Mons. Ha ! ha ! ha I — and were you not infini- 
 ment divertisee and please .' Confess. 
 
 Hip. I was indeed, cousin, I was very well 
 
 Mons. I do tinke so. I did tinke to come and 
 be divertisee myself this morning with the sight of 
 his reception : but I did rancounter last night wit 
 dam company dat keep me up so late, I could not 
 rise in de morning, malapeste de puteins I — 
 
 Hip. Indeed, we wanted you here mightily, 
 cousin. 
 
 Mans, To elpe you to laugh : for if I adde been 
 
 here, I had made such recreation wid dat coxcomb 
 Gerrard ! 
 
 Hip. Indeed, cousin, you need not have any 
 subject or property to make one laugh, you are so 
 pleasant yourself; and when you are but aloue, 
 you would make one burst. 
 
 Mons. Am I so happy, cousin, then, in the bon 
 quahty of making people laugh .' 
 
 Hip. Mighty happy, cousin. 
 
 Mons. De grace } 
 
 Hip. Indeed. 
 
 Mons. Nay, sansvanitie, I observe, wheresoe'er I 
 come, I make everybody merry; sans vanitie — da— 
 
 Hip. I do believe you do. 
 
 Mons. Nay, as I marche in de street, I can 
 make de dull apprenty laugh and sneer. 
 
 Hip. This fool, I see, is as apt as an ill poet 
 to mistake the contempt and scorn of people for 
 applause and admiration. lAside. 
 
 Mons. Ah, cousin, you see wat it is to have been 
 in France I Before I went into France, I could get 
 nobody to laugh at me, ma foy ! 
 
 Hip. No ? truly, cousin, I think you deserved 
 it before ; but you are improved, indeed, by going 
 into France. 
 
THK GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 •4ft 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, the French education make ns 
 propre k tout. Beside, cousin, you must know, to 
 play the fuol is the science in France, and 1 didde 
 go to the Italian academy at Paris thrice a-week to 
 learn to play de fool of signior Scaramouche, who 
 is the most excellent personage in the world for 
 dat noble science. Angel is a dam English fool to 
 him. 
 
 Hip. Methinks, now, Angel is a very good fool. 
 
 Mons. Nauh, nauh, Nokes is a better fool; but 
 indeed the Englis are not fit to be fools : here are 
 ver few good fools. *Tis true, you have many a 
 young cavalier who go over into France to learn 
 to be de buffoon ; but, for all dat, dey return but 
 mauvais buffoon, jarnie! 
 
 Hip. I'm sure, cousin, you have lost no time 
 there. 
 
 Mons. Auh, le brave Scaramouche ! 
 
 Hip. But is it a science in France, cousin ? and 
 is there an academy for fooling ? sure oone go to it 
 but players. 
 
 Mons. Dey are comedians dat are de matres : 
 but all the beaux monde go to learn, as they do 
 here of Angel and Nokes. For if you did go abroad 
 into company, you would find the best almost of 
 de nation conning in all places the lessons which 
 dey have learned of the fools dere matreSj Nokes 
 and Angel. 
 
 Hip. Indeed ! , 
 
 Mons. Yes, yes, dey are de gens de quality that 
 practise dat science most, and the most ambitieux ; 
 for fools and buffoons have been always most wel- 
 come to courts, and desired in all companies. Auh, 
 to be de fool, de buffoon, is to be de great personage. 
 
 Hip. Fools have fortune, they say, indeed. 
 
 Mons, So say old Sen^que. 
 
 Hip. Well, cousin, not to make you proud, 
 you are the greatest fool in England, I am sure. 
 
 MoTis. Non, non, de grace ; non : Nokes de 
 comedian is a pretty man, a pretty man for a 
 comedian, da — 
 
 Hip. You are modest, cousin, — But lest my 
 father should come in presently, which he will do 
 as soon bs he knows you are here, I must give you 
 a caution, which 'tis fit you should have before you 
 see him. 
 
 Mons, Veil, veil, cousin, vat is dat? 
 
 Hip. You must know, then (as commonly the 
 conclusion of all mirth is sad), after I had a good 
 while pleased myself in jesting, and leading the 
 poor gentleman you sent into a fool's paradise, and 
 almost made him believe I would go away with him, 
 myfather, coming home this morning, came in upon 
 us, and caught him with me. 
 
 Mons. Malapeste ! 
 
 Hip. And drew his sword upon him, and would 
 have killed him ; for you know my father's Spanish 
 fierceness and jealousy. 
 
 Mons, But how did he come off then, teste nan ? 
 
 Hip. In short, I was fain to bring him off by 
 saying he was my dancing -master. 
 
 Mons. Ha ! ha I ha ! ver good jeste. 
 
 Hip. I was unwilling to have the poor man 
 killed, you know, for our foolish frolic vrith him : 
 but then, upon my aunt's and father's inquiry, how 
 he came in, and who sent him, I was forced to say 
 you did, desiring I should be able to dance a 
 corant before our wedding. 
 
 Mons» A ver good jest — da — still better as 
 
 ter. 
 
 Hip. Now, all that T am to desire of you is, to 
 own you sent him, that I may not be caught in a 
 lie. 
 
 Mons. Yes, yes, a ver good jest : Gerrard a 
 mastre de dance ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hip. Nay, the jest is like to be better yet ; for 
 my father himself has obliged him now to come 
 and teach me : so that now he must take the 
 dancing-master upon him, and come three or four 
 times to me before, our wedding, lest my father, if 
 he should come no more, should be suspicious J 
 had told him a lie. And, for aught I know, if he 
 should know, or but guess he were not a dancing- 
 master, in his Spanish strictness and punctilios of 
 honour, he might kill me as the shame and stain of 
 his honour and family, which he talks of so much. 
 Now, you know the jealous cruel fathers in Spain 
 serve their poor innocent daughters often so ; and 
 he is more than a Spaniard. 
 
 Mons. Non, non, fear noting ; I warrant you, 
 he shall come as often as you will to de house ; 
 and your father shall never know who he is till we 
 are married. But then I'll tell him all for the 
 jest's sake. 
 
 Hip. But will you keep my counsel, dear cousin, 
 tiU we are married ? 
 
 Mons. Poor dear fool ! I warrant thee, ma 
 foy! 
 
 Hip. Nay, what a fool am I indeed ! for you 
 would not have me killed. You love me too well, 
 sure, to be an instrument of my death. 
 
 Enter Don Diego, walking gravely, a liiile Black behind 
 him; and Mrs. Caution. 
 
 But here comes my father, remember. 
 
 Mons. I would no more tell him of it than I 
 would tell you if I had been with a wench, jarnie ! 
 \^Aside.^ — She's afraid to be killed, poor wretch, 
 and he's a capricious, jealous fop enough to do't : 
 — but here he comes. — [To Hippolita.] I'll keep 
 thy counsel, I warrant thee, my dear soul, mon 
 petit coeur. 
 
 Hip. Peace ! peace ! my father's coming this 
 way. 
 
 Mons. Ay, but by his march he won't be near 
 enough to hear us this half hour, ha ! ha ! ha I 
 
 [Don Diego walks leisurely round Monsibub, sur- 
 veying him, and shrugging up his shoulders, whilst 
 Monsieur makes legs and faces aside. 
 
 Don. Is that thing my cousin, sister } 
 
 Mrs. Caut. 'Tis he, sir. 
 
 Don. Cousin, I am sorry to see you — 
 
 Mons. Is that a Spanish compliment ? 
 
 Don. So much disguised, cousin. 
 
 Mons. [Aside.'] Oh ! is it out at last, ventre ? 
 — [7^0 Don Diego.] Serviteur, serviteur, h, mon- 
 sieur mon oncle ; and I am glad to see you here 
 within doors, most Spanish oncle, ha ! ha ! ha 1 
 but I should be sorry to see you in the streets, 
 teste non ! 
 
 Don. Why so ? — would you be ashamed of me, 
 hah — voto a St. Jago ! would you ? hauh — 
 
 Mons. Ay ; it may be you would be ashamed 
 yourself, monsieur mon oncle, of the great train 
 you would get to wait upon your Spanish hose, 
 puh — the boys would follow you, and hoot at you 
 — vert and bleu ! pardonne my Franch franchise, 
 monsieur mon oncle. 
 
 Hip. We shall have sport anon, betwixt these 
 two contraries. lAparl to Prvk. 
 
60 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 Don. Dost thou call me monsieur ? voto a St. 
 Jago! 
 
 Mons. No, I did not call you Monsieur Veto a 
 St. Jaijo ! Sir, I know you are my uncle, Mr. 
 James Formal — da — 
 
 Don. But I can hardly know you are my cousin, 
 Mr. Nathaniel Paris. — But call me, sir, Don 
 Diego henceforward, look you, and no monsieur. 
 Call me monsieur ! guarda ! 
 
 Mons. I confess my error, sir ; for none but a 
 blind man would call you monsieur, ha ! ha ! — But, 
 pray, do not call me neder Paris, but de Paris, de 
 Paris, (si tous plait,) monsieur de Paris'. Call me 
 monsieur, .and welcome, da — 
 
 Don. Monsieur de Pantaloons then, voto — 
 
 Mons. Monsieur de Pantaloons ! a pretty name, 
 a pretty name, ma foy ! da — bien trove de Panta- 
 loons I how much better den your de la Fountaines, 
 de la Rivieres, de la Roches, and all the de's in 
 France — da— well ; but have you not the admira- 
 tion for my pantaloon, Don Diego, mon oncle ? 
 
 Don. I am astonished at them, verde deramente, 
 they are wonderfully ridiculous. 
 
 Mons. Redicule ! redicule ! ah — 'tis well you 
 are my uncle, da — redicule ! ha — is dere any ting 
 in the universe so jenti as de pantaloons ? any ting 
 so raviaunt as de pantaloons .-' Auh — I could kneel 
 down and varship a pair of jentl pantaloons. Vat, 
 vat, you would have me have de admiration for dis 
 outward skin of your thigh, which you call Spanish 
 hose, fi ! fi ! fi !— ha I ha ! ha ! 
 
 Don. Dost thou deride my Spanish hose, young 
 man, hauh ? 
 
 Mons. In comparison of pantaloon, I do under- 
 value 'em indeed, Dou Diego, mon oncle, ha ' 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Don. Thou art then a gavanho de malo gusto, 
 look you. 
 
 Mons. You may call me vat you vill, oncle Don 
 Diego ; but I must needs say, your Spanish hose 
 are scurvy hose, ugly hose, lousy hose, and stinking 
 hose. 
 
 Don. Do not provoke me, boracho ! 
 
 {_Puts his hand to his sword. 
 
 Mons. Indeet, as for lousy, I recant dat epithete, 
 for dere is scarce room in 'em for dat little animal, 
 ha ! ha ! ha I but for stinking hose, dat epithete 
 may stand; for how can they choose but stink, 
 since they are so furieusmente close to your Spanish 
 tail, da ? 
 
 Hip. Ha! ha I ridiculous! i/lside. 
 
 Don. Do not provoke me, I say, en hora mala 1 
 
 ISeems to draw. 
 
 Mons. Nay, oncle, I am sorry you are in de 
 pation ; but I must live and die for de pantaloon 
 against de Spanish hose, da. 
 
 Don. You are a rash young man ; and while 
 you wear pantaloons, you are beneath my passion, 
 voto — auh — — they make thee look and waddle 
 (with all those gewgaw ribbons) like a great, old, 
 fat, slovenly water-dog. 
 
 Mons. And your Spanish hose, and your nose 
 in the air, make you look like a great, grizzled, long 
 Irish greyhound reaching a crust off from a high 
 shelf, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Don, Bueno I bueno I 
 
 Mrs. Caul. What, have you a mind to ruin 
 yourself and break off the match ? 
 
 Mons. Pshaw — wat do you tell me of the matche ! 
 <'i;e tinke I will not vindicate pantaloons, morbleu! 
 
 Don. [Aside.] Well, he is a lost young man, I 
 see, and desperately far gone in the epidemic malady 
 of our nation, the affectation of the worst of French 
 vanities ; but I must be wiser than him, as I am 
 a Spaniard. Look you, Don Diego, and endeavour 
 to reclaim him by art and fair means, look you, 
 Don Diego ; if not, he shall never marry my 
 daughter, look yon, Don Diego, though he be my 
 own sister's son, and has two thousand five hun- 
 dred seventy-three pounds sterling, twelve shillings 
 and twopence a year pennyrent, segaramente ! 
 — [To MoNSiEUB..] Come, young man, since you 
 are so obstinate, we will refer our difference to 
 arbitration ; your mistress, my daughter, shall be 
 umpire betwixt us, concerning Spanish hose and 
 pantaloons. 
 
 Mons. Pantaloons and Spanish hose, si vous 
 plait. 
 
 Don. Your mistress is the fittest judge of your 
 dress, sure. 
 
 Mons. I know ver vel dat most of the jeunesse 
 of England will not change de ribband upon de 
 crevat without de consultation of dere matress ; 
 but I am no Anglois, da — nor shall I make de 
 reference of my dress to any in the universe, da — 
 I judge by any in England! teste non ! I would 
 not be judge by any English looking-glass, jarnie ! 
 
 Don. Be not positivo, young man. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Nay, pray refer it, cousin, pray do. 
 
 Mons, Non, non, your servant, your servant, 
 aunt. 
 
 Don. But, pray, be not so positive. Come 
 hither, daughter, tell me which is best. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, father, you have kept me in 
 universal ignorance, I know nothing. 
 
 Mons. And do you tink I shall refer an affair of 
 that consequence to a poor young ting who have 
 not seen the vorld, da ? I am wiser than so, voto ! 
 
 Don, Well, in short, if you will not be wiser, 
 and leave off your French dress, stammering, and 
 tricks, look you, you shall be a fool, and go without 
 daughter, voto I 
 
 Mons. How ! must I leave off my jantee French 
 accoutrements, and speak base Englis too, or not 
 marry my cousin, mon oncle Don Diego ? Do 
 not break off the match, do not ; for know, I will 
 not leave off my pantaloon and French pronuntia- 
 tion for ne'er a cousin in England't, da. 
 
 Don. I lell you again, he that marries my daugh- 
 ter shall at least look like a wise man, for he shall 
 wear the Spanish habit ; I am a Spanish positivo. 
 
 Mons. Ver vel ! ver vel ! and 1 am a French 
 positivo. 
 
 Don. Then I am definitivo ; and if you do not 
 go immediately into your chamber, and put on a 
 Spanish habit, I have brought over\)n purpose for 
 your wedding-clothes, and put oft' all these French 
 fopperies and vanidades, with all your grimaces, 
 agreeables, adorables, ma foys, and jarnies j I 
 swear you shall never marry my daughter (and by 
 an oath by Spaniard never broken) by my whiskers 
 and snuff-box ! 
 
 Mons. O hold ! do not swear, uncle, for I love 
 your daughter furieusment. 
 
 Don, If you love her, you'll obey me. 
 
 Mons, Auh, wat will become of me 1 but have 
 the consideration. Must I leave off all the Franch 
 beautes, graces, and embellisments, bote of my 
 person, and language? 
 
 \_Exeunt Ua'PowTA, Mrs. Cautjon, and PRua, lauohing. 
 
SCUNE ]. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 51 
 
 Don. I will have it so. 
 
 Mons. I am ruinne den, undonne. Have some 
 consideration for me, for dere is not de least ribbon 
 of my garniture but is as dear to me as your 
 daughter, jarnie ! 
 
 Don. Then, you do not deserve her ; and for 
 that reason I will be satisfied you love her better, 
 or you shall not have her, for I am positivo. 
 
 Mons. Vill you break mine arte ? Pray have 
 de consideration for me. 
 
 Don. I say again, you shall be dressed before 
 night from top to toe in the Spanish habit, or you 
 shall never marry my daughter, look yoa. 
 
 Mons. If you will not have de consideration for 
 me, have de consideration for your daughter ; for 
 she have de passionate amour for me, and like me 
 in dis habile bettre den in yours, da. 
 
 Don. What I have said I have said, and I am 
 uno positivo. 
 
 Mons. Will you not so mush as allow me one 
 little French oate ? 
 
 Don. No, you shall look like a Spaniard, but 
 speak and swear like an Englishman, look you. 
 
 Mons. Helas ! helas ! den 1 shall take my leave, 
 mort ! teste ventre ! jarnie ! teste bleu ! ventre 
 bleu ! ma foy ! certes 1 
 
 Don. [Calls at the door.'] Pedro, Sanchez, wait 
 upon this cavaliero into his chamber with those 
 things I ordered you to take out of the trunks. — 
 I would have you a little accustomed to your clothes 
 before your wedding ; for, if you comply with me, 
 you shall marry my daughter to-morrow, look you. 
 
 Mons, Adieu then, dear pantaloon ! dear belte ! 
 dear sword ! dear peruke ! and dear chappeau 
 retrousse, and dear shoe, jarnie ! adieu ! adieu ! 
 ^dieu ! Helas ! helas ! helas ! will you have yet 
 no pity ? 
 
 Don. I am a Spanish positivo, look you. 
 
 MoTis. And more cruel than de Spanish inquisi- 
 tiono, to compel a man to a habit against his 
 conscience ; helas ! helas ! helas ! {Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Pbub with Gkrbabd. 
 
 Prue. Here's the dancing-master, shall I call 
 my mistress, sir ? 
 
 Don. Yes. — [£a?i^PaUE.] O, you are as punc- 
 tual as a Spaniard : I love your punctual men ; 
 nay, I think 'tis before your time something. 
 
 Ger. Nay, I am resolved your daughter, sir, 
 shall lose no time by my fault. 
 
 Don. So, so, 'tis welL 
 
 Ger. I were a very unworthy man, if I should 
 not be punctual with her, sir. 
 
 Don. You speak honestly, very honestly, friend ; 
 and I believe a very honest man, though a dancing- 
 master. 
 
 Ger. I am very glad you think me so, sir. 
 
 Don. What, you are but a young man, are you 
 married yet?- 
 
 Ger. No, sir ; but I hope I shall, sir, very sud- 
 denly, if things hit right. 
 
 Dov. What, the old folks her friends are wary, 
 and cannot agree with you so soon as the daughter 
 can ? 
 
 Ger. Yes, sir, the father hinders it a little at 
 present ; but the daughter, I hope, is resolved, and 
 then we shall do well enough. 
 
 Don. What! you do not steal her, according to 
 the laudable custom of some of your brother dan- 
 cing-masters ? 
 
 Ger. No, no, sir ; steal her, sir ! steal her ! you 
 are pleased to be merry, sir, ha! ha ! ha ! — [^Aside.'\ 
 I cannot but laugh at that question. 
 
 Don. No, sir, methinks you are pleased to be 
 merry , but you say the father does not consent ? 
 
 Ger. Not yet, sir ; but 'twill be no matter whe- 
 ther he does or no. 
 
 Don. Was she one of your scholars:" if she were, 
 'tis a hundred to ten but you steal her. 
 
 Ger. \_Aside.'\ I shall not be able to hold laugh- 
 ing. ILaughs. 
 
 Don. Nay, nay, I find by your laughing you steal 
 her : she was your scholar ; was she not ? 
 
 Ger. Yes, sir, she was the first I ev8r had, and 
 may be the last too ; for she has a fortune (if I can 
 get her) will keep me from teaching to dance any 
 more. j 
 
 Don. So, so, then she is your scholar still it | 
 
 seems, and she has a good portion ; I'm glad on't ; \ 
 
 i^nay, T knew you stole her. ! 
 
 Ger, {^Aside.l My laughing may give him bus- i 
 picions, yet I cannot hold. (_Laughs. ' 
 
 Don. What ! you laugh, I warrant, to think how ; 
 the young baggage and you will mump the poor old I 
 father ! but if all her dependence for a fortune be I 
 upon the father, he may chance to mump you both ! 
 and spoil the jest. 
 
 Ger. 1 hope it will not be in his power, sir, ha! : 
 ha ! ha 1 — [Aside.'] I shall laugh too much anon. 
 — [To Don Diego.] Pray, sir, be pleased to call 
 for your daughter, I am impatient till she comes, 
 for time was never more precious with me, and 
 with her too ; it ought to be so, sure, sinOe you say 
 she is to be married to-morrow. 
 
 Don. She ought to bestir her, as you say, indeed. 
 Wuh, daughter ! daughter ! Prue I Hippolita ! 
 come away, child, why do you stay so long ? 
 
 ICalls at^the door. 
 
 Re-enter Hippolita, Prub, and Sirs. Caution. 
 
 Hip. Your servant, master j indeed I am 
 ashamed you have stayed for me. 
 
 Ger. O, good madam, 'tis my duty ; I know yon 
 came as soon eis you could. 
 
 Hip. I knew my father was with you, therefore 
 I did not make altogether so much haste as I might; 
 but if you had been alone, nothing should have 
 kept me from you. I would not have been so rude 
 as to have made you stay a minute for me, I war- 
 rant you. 
 
 Don. Come, fiddle faddle, what a deal of cere- 
 mony there is betwixt your dancing-master and 
 you, querno ! — 
 
 Hip. Lord, sir ! I hope you'll allow me to 
 show my respect to my master, for I have a great 
 respect for my master. 
 
 Ger. And I am very proud of my scholar, and 
 am a very great honourer of my scholar. 
 
 Don. Come, come, friend, about your business, 
 and honour the king. — [To Mrs. Caution.] Your 
 dancing-masters and barbers are such finical, 
 smooth-tongued, tattling fellows ; and if you set 
 'era once a-talking, they'll ne'er a-done, no more 
 than when you set 'em a-fiddiing : indeed, all that 
 deal with fiddles are given to impertinency. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Well, well, this is an impertinent 
 fellow, without being a dancing-master. He is no 
 more a dancing-master than I am a maid. 
 
 Don. What! will you still be wiser than I? votol 
 — Come, come, about with my daughter, man. 
 
62 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTEE. 
 
 Priie. So he would, I warrant you, if your wor- 
 ship would let him alone. 
 
 Don. How now, Mrs. Nimblechaps ! 
 
 Ger. Well, though I have got a little canting at 
 the dancing-school since I was h'ere, yet I do all 
 so bunglmgly, he'll discover me. \_Aslde to Hipfouta. 
 
 Hip. [Aside.'\ Try. — ^Aloud.'] Come take my 
 hand, master. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Look you, brother, the impudent 
 harlotry gives him her hand. 
 
 Don. Can he dance with her without holding her 
 by the hand ? 
 
 Hip. Here, take my band, master. 
 
 Ger. I v^sh it were for good and all. 
 
 {_Aside to her. 
 
 Hip. You dancing-masters are always so hasty, 
 so nimble. 
 
 Don. Voto a St. Jago ! not that I see ; about 
 with her, man. 
 
 Ger. Indeed, sir, I cannot about with her as I 
 would do, unless you will please to go out a little, 
 sir ; for I see she is bashful still before you, sir. 
 
 Don. Hey, hey, more fooling yet ! come, come, 
 about, about with her. 
 
 Hip. Nay, indeed, father, 1 am ashamed, and 
 cannot help it. 
 
 Don. But you shall help it, for I will not stir. 
 Move her, I say. — Begin, hussy, move when he'll 
 have you. 
 
 Prw.. I cannot but laugh at that, ha 1 ha 1 ha ! 
 
 {Aside. 
 
 Ger. [Apart lo Hippolita.] Come, then, ma- 
 dam, since it must be so, let us try ; but 1 shall 
 discover all One, two, and coupee. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Nay, d'ye see how he squeezes her 
 hand, brother ! O the lewd villain ! 
 
 Don. Come, move, I say, and mind her not. 
 
 Ger. One, two, three, four, and turn round. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. D'ye see again .' he took her by the 
 bare arm. 
 
 Don. Come, move on, she's mad. 
 
 Ger. One, two, and a coupee. 
 
 Don. Come, one, two, and turn out your toes. 
 
 Mi's'. Caut. There, there, he pinched her by the 
 thigh : will you suffer it ? 
 
 Ger. One, two, three, and fall back. 
 
 Don. Fall back, fall back, back j some of you are 
 forward enough to back. 
 
 Ger. Back, madam. 
 
 Don. Fall back, when he bids you, hussy. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. How 1 how ! fall back, fall back ! 
 marry, but she shall not fall back when he bids her. 
 
 Don. I say she shall. — Huswife, come. 
 
 Ger. She will, she will, I warrant you, sir, if 
 you won't be angry with her. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Do you know what he means by 
 that now .' You a Spaniard I 
 
 Don. How's that .' I not a Spaniard ! say such 
 a word again — 
 
 Ger. Come forward, madam, three steps again. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. See, see, she squeezes his hand now : 
 O the debauched harlotry ! 
 
 Don. So, so, mind her not ; she moves forward 
 pretty well ; but you must move as well backward 
 as forward, or you'll never do anything to purpose. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Do you know what you say, brother, 
 yourself, now ? are you at your beastliness before 
 your young daughter ? 
 
 Prue. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Don. How now, mistress, are you so merry ? — 
 
 Is this your staid maid as you call her, sister Im- 
 pertinent ? 
 
 Ger. I have not much to say to you, miss ; 
 but I shall not have an opportunity to do it, unless 
 we can get your father out. lAside to Hippouta. 
 
 Don. Come, about again with her. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Look you there, she squeezes his 
 hand hard again. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, and indeed, father, my aunt puts 
 me quite out ; I cannot dance while she looks on 
 for my heart, she makes me ashamed and afraid 
 together. 
 
 Ger. Indeed, if you would please to take her 
 out, sir, I am sure I should make my scholar do 
 better, than when you are present, sir. Pray, sir, 
 be pleased for this time to take her away ; for the 
 next time, I hope I shall order it so, we shall 
 trouble neither of you. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. No, no, brother, stir not, they have 
 a mind to be left alone. Come, there's a beastly 
 trick in't ; he's no dancing-master, I tell you. 
 
 Ger. Damned jade ! she'll discover us. 
 
 [^side to Hippolita. 
 
 Don. What, will you teach me .' nay, then I will 
 go out, and you shall go out too, look you. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I will not go out, look you. 
 
 Uon. Come, come, thou art a censorious wicked 
 woman, and you shall disturb them no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. What ! will you bawd for your 
 daughter .' 
 
 Hon. Ay, ay ; come go out, out, out. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. 1 will not go out, I will not go out ; 
 my conscience will not suffer me, for I know by 
 experience what will follow. 
 
 Ger. I warrant you, sir, we'll make good use of 
 our time when you are gone. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Do you hear him again .' don't you 
 know what he means ? 
 
 {Exit Don Diego thrusting Mrs. Caution out. 
 
 Hip. 'Tis very well ! — you are a fine gentleman 
 to abuse my poor father so. 
 
 Ger. 'Tis but by your example, miss. 
 
 Hip. Well, I am his daughter, and may make 
 the bolder with him, I hope. 
 
 Ger. And 1 am his son-in-law, that shall be ; 
 and therefore may claim my privilege too of mak- 
 ing bold with him, I hope. 
 
 Hip. Methiaks you should be contented in 
 making bold with his daughter ffor you have made 
 very bold with her) sure. 
 
 Ger. I hope I shall make bolder with her yet. 
 
 Hip, I do not doubt your confidence, for you are 
 a dancing-master. 
 
 Ger. Why, miss, I hope you would not have 
 me a fine, senseless, whining, modest lover ; for 
 modesty in a man is as ill as the want of it in a 
 woman. 
 
 Hip. I thank you for that, sir, now you have 
 made bold with me indeed ; but if I am such a 
 confident piece, I am sure you made me so : if 
 you had not had the confidence to come in at the 
 window, I had not had the confidence to look upon 
 a man : I am sure 1 could not look upon a man 
 before. 
 
 Ger. But that I humbly conceive, sweet miss, 
 was your father's fault, because you had not a man 
 to look upon. But, dearest miss, I do not think 
 you confident, you are only innocent ; for that 
 which would be called confidence, nay impudence, 
 in a woman of years, is called innocency in one of 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-M ASTER. 
 
 53 
 
 your age ; and the more impudent you appear, the 
 more innocent you are thought, 
 
 ffip. Say you so ? has youth such privileges ? 
 I do not wonder then, most women seem impudent, 
 since it is to be thought younger than they are, it 
 seems. But indeed, master, you ai'e as great an 
 encourager of impudence, I see, as if you were a 
 dancing- master in good earnest. 
 
 Ger. Yes, yes, a young thing may do anything ; 
 may leap out of the window and go away with her 
 dancing -master, if she please. 
 
 Hip. So, so, the use follows the doctrine very 
 suddenly. 
 
 Ger. Well, dearest, pray let us make the use 
 we should of it ; lest your father should make too 
 bold with us, and come in before we would have him. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, old relations are apt to take that 
 ill-bred freedom (jf pressing into young company 
 at unseasonable hours. 
 
 Ger. Come, dear miss, let me tell you how I 
 have designed matters ; for in talking of anything 
 else we lose time and opportunity. People abroad 
 indeed say, the English women are the worst in the 
 world in using an opportunity, they love tittle- 
 tattle and ceremony. 
 
 Hip. 'Tis because, I warrant, opportunities are 
 not so scarce here as abroad, they have more here 
 than they can use ; but let people abroad say what 
 they will of English women, because they do not 
 know 'em, but what say people at home ? 
 
 Ger. Pretty innocent! ha! ha! ha! — Well, I 
 say you will not make use of your opportunity. 
 
 Hip. I say, you have no reason to say so yet. 
 
 Ger. Well then, anon at nine of the clock at 
 night I'll try you : for I have already bespoke a 
 parson, and have taken up the three back-rooms of 
 the tavern, which front upon the gallery -window, 
 that nobody may see us escape ; and I have ap- 
 pointed (precisely betwixt eight and nine of the 
 clock when it is dark) a coach and six to wait at 
 the tavern-door for us. 
 
 Hip. A coach and six ! a coach and six, do you 
 say ? nay, then I see you are resolved to carry me 
 away ; itjr a coach and six, though there were not 
 a man but the coachman with it, would carry away 
 any young girl of my age in England : — a coach 
 and six ! 
 
 Ger. Then you will be sure to be ready to go 
 with me ? 
 
 Hip. What young woman of the town could 
 ever say no to a coach and six, unless it were going 
 into the country ? — A coach and six ! 'tis not in 
 the power of fourteen years old to resist it. 
 
 Ger. You will be sure to be ready ? 
 
 Hip. You are sure 'tis a coach and six ? 
 
 Ger. I warrant you, miss. 
 
 Hip. I warrant you then they'll carry us merrily 
 away : — a coach and six ! 
 
 Ger. But have you charmed your cousin the 
 monsieur (as you said you would) that he in the 
 mean time say nothing to prevent us ? 
 
 Hip. I warrant you. 
 
 Re-enter Don Diego ; Mrs. Caution pressing in Qfter him. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I will come in. 
 
 Von. Weil, I hope by this time you have given 
 her full instructions ; you have told her what and 
 how to do, you have done all. 
 
 Ger. We have just done indeed, sir. 
 
 Hip. Ay. sir, we have just done, sir. 
 
 Mrs. Caul. And I fear just undone, sir. 
 
 Ger, D'ye hear that damned witch ? 
 
 ZAside to HippOLiTA. 
 
 Don. Come, leave your censorious prating ; thou 
 hast been a false, right woman thyself in thy youth, 
 I warrant you. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I right ! I right 1 I scorn your 
 words, I'd have you to know, and 'tis well known. 
 I right ! no, 'tis your dainty minx, thatJilfiirt, 
 your daughter here, that is right ; do you see how 
 her handkerchief is ruffled, and what a heat she's 
 in? 
 
 Don. She has been dancing. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Ay, ay, Adam and Eve's dance, or 
 the beginning of the world ; d'ye see how she pants ^ 
 
 Don. She has not been used to motion. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Motion ! motion ! motion d'ye call 
 it ? no indeed, I kept her from motion till now : — 
 motion with a vengeance ! 
 
 Don. You put the poor bashful girl to the blush, 
 you see, hold your peace. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. 'Tis her guilt, not her modesty, 
 marry ! 
 
 Don. Come, come, mind her not, child. — Come, 
 master, let me see her dance now the whole dance 
 roundly together ; come, sing to her. 
 
 Ger. FaiSi, we shall be discovered after all; 
 you know I cannot sing a note, miss. 
 
 lAside to HippoLiTA. 
 
 Don. Come, come, man. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, father, my master's in haste now ; 
 pray let it alone till anon at night, when, you say, 
 he is to come again, and then you shall see me dance 
 it to the violin ; pray stay till then, father. 
 
 Don. I will not be put off so ; come, begin. 
 
 Hip. Pray, father. 
 
 Don. ,Come, sing to her; come, begin. 
 
 Ger. Pray, sir, excuse me till anon, I am in 
 some haste. 
 
 Don. I say, begin, I will not excuse you : come, 
 take her by the hand, and about with her. 
 
 Mi's. Caut. I say, he shall not take her by the 
 hand, he shall touch her no more; while I am here, 
 there shall be nt) more squeezing and tickling her 
 palm. Good Mr. dancing- master, stand off. 
 
 [_TJirusts Gerraed away. 
 
 Don. Get you out, Mrs. Impertinence.' — [To 
 Gerhard.] Take her by the hand, I say. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Stand off, I say. He shall not touch 
 her, he has touched her too much already. 
 
 Don. If patience were not a Spanish \irtue, I 
 would lay it aside now : I say, let 'em dance. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I say, they shall not dance. 
 
 Hip. Pray, father, since you see my aunt's 
 obstinacy, let us alone till anon, when you maj 
 keep her out. 
 
 Don. Well then, friend, do not fail to come. 
 
 Hip. Nay, if he fail me at last — 
 
 Don. Be sure you come, for she's to be married 
 to-morrow : — do you know it ? 
 
 Ger. Yes, yes, sir. — Sweet scholar, your humble 
 servant, till night ; and think in the mean time of 
 the instructions I have given you, that you may be 
 the readier when I come. 
 
 Don. Ay, girl, be sure you do, — and do you be 
 sure to come. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. You need not be so concerned, he'll 
 be sure to come I warrant you ; but if I could help 
 it, be should never set foot again in the house. 
 
 Don. You would frighten the poor dancin*- 
 
u 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 master from tlie house, — but be sure you come for 
 all her. 
 
 Ger. Yes, sir. — lAside.'] But this jade will pay 
 me when I am gone. 
 
 Mrs. Caul. Hold, hold, sir, I must let you out, 
 and I wish I could keep you out. He a dancing- 
 master ! he's a chouce, a cheat, a mere cheat, and 
 that you'll find. 
 
 Don. I find any man a cheat ! I cheated by any 
 man ! I scorn your words. — I that have so much 
 Spanish care, circumspection, and prudence, cheated 
 
 by a man ! Do you think I, who have been in Spain, 
 look you, and have kept up my daughter a twelve- 
 month, for fear of being cheated of her, look you ? 
 I cheated of her ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Well, say no more. 
 [^Exeunt Don Dieoo, Hippolita, Mrs. Caution, and Prub. 
 
 Ger. Well, old Formality, if you had not kept up 
 your daughter, 1 am sure 1 had never cheated yuu 
 of her. 
 
 The wary fool is by his care betray'd. 
 
 As cuckolds by their jealousy are made. iExU. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room m.DoN Diego's House. 
 
 Enter Monsieur de Paris without a peruke, with a 
 Spanish hat, a Spanish doublet, stockings, and 
 shoes, but in pantaloons, a waist-helt, and aSpanish 
 dagger in it, and a cravat about his neck. — Hippo- 
 lita and Prue behind laughing. 
 
 Mans. To see wat a fool love do make of one* 
 j.imie ! It do metamor^jhose de brave man in de 
 heast, de satte, de animal. 
 
 Hip. Ha! ha! ha! ♦ 
 
 Mons. Nay, you may laugh, 'tis ver veil, I am 
 iiecorae as ridicule for you as can be, mort bleu ! 
 1 have deform myself into a ugly Spaniard. 
 
 Hip. Why, do you call this disguising yourself 
 like a Spaniard, while you wear pantaloons still, 
 sjiid the cravat ? 
 
 Mons. But is here not the double doublet, and 
 the Spanish dagger aussy ? 
 
 Hip. But 'tis as long as the French sword, and 
 worn like it. But where's your Spanish beard, the 
 thing of most consequence ? 
 
 Mons. Jamie ! do you tink beards are as easy to 
 be had as in the playhouses .■• non ; but if here be 
 no the ugly long Spanish beard, here are, I am 
 certain, the ugly long Spanish ear. 
 
 Hip. That's very true, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mons. Auh de ingrate, dat de woman is ! wen 
 we poor men are your gallants, you laugh at us 
 yourselves, and wen we are your husband, you 
 make all the world laugh at us, jarnie ! — Love, 
 dam love, it makes the man more ridicule, than 
 jioverty, poetry, or a new title of honour, jarnie ! 
 
 Enter Don Dieoo and Mrs. Caution. 
 
 Don. What ! at your jarnies still ? voto ! 
 
 Mons. Why, oncle, you are at your votos still. 
 
 Don. Nay, I'll allow you - to be at your votos 
 too, but not to make the incongruous match of 
 .Spanish doublet, and French pantaloons. 
 
 IHolding his hat before his pantaloons. 
 
 Morm. Nay, pray, dear oncle, let me unite 
 France and Spain; 'tis the mode of France now, 
 jarnie, voto I 
 
 Don. Well, I see I must pronounce : I told you, 
 if you were not dressed in the Spanish habit to- 
 night, you should not marry my daughter to-morrow, 
 look you. 
 
 Mons. Well! am I not habiliee in de Spanish 
 habit ? my doublet, ear and hat, leg and feet, are 
 Spanish, that dey are. 
 
 Don. I told you I was a Spanish positive, voto ! 
 
 Afons. Will you not spare my pantaloon! begar. 
 
 I will give you one little finger to excuse my 
 pantaloon, da — • 
 
 Don. I have said, look you. 
 
 Mons. Auh, chere pantaloons ! Speak for my 
 pantaloons, cousin. My poor pantaloons are as 
 dear to me as de scarf to de countree capitane, or 
 de new-made officer : therefore have de compassion 
 for my pantaloons, Don Diego, mon oncle. Helas ! 
 helas ! helas ! \_Kneels to Don Diego. 
 
 Don. I have said, look you, your dress must be 
 Spanish, and your language English : I am uno 
 positivo. 
 
 Mons. And must speak base good English too ! 
 Ah ! la pitiee ! helas ! 
 
 Don. It must be done ; and I will see this great 
 change ere it be dark, voto ! — Your time is not 
 long ; look to't, look you. 
 
 Mons. Helas ! helas ! helas ! dat Espagne 
 should conquer la France in England! Helas ! 
 helas ! helas ! lExU. 
 
 Don. You see what pains I take to make him 
 the more agreeable to you, daughter. 
 
 Hip. But indeed, and indeed, father, you wash 
 the blackamoor white, in endeavouring to make a 
 Spaniard of a monsieur, nay, an English monsieur 
 too ; consider that, father : for when once they 
 have taken the French plie (as they call it) they are 
 never to be made so much as Englishmen again, I 
 have heard say. 
 
 Don. What ! I warrant you are like the rest of 
 the young silly baggages of England, that like 
 nothing but what is French ? You would not have 
 him reformed, you would have a monsieur to your 
 husband, would you, querno ? 
 
 Hip. No, indeed, father, I would not have a 
 monsieur to my husband ; not I indeed : and I am 
 sure you'll never make my cousin otherwise. 
 
 Don. I warrant you. 
 
 Hip. You can't, you can't indeed, father : and 
 you have sworn, you know, he shall never have me, 
 if he does not leave off his monsieurship. Now, as 
 I told you, 'tis as hard for him to cease being a mon- 
 sieur, as 'tis for you to break a Spanish oath ; so 
 that I am not in any great danger of having a mon- 
 sieur to my husband. 
 
 Don. Well, but you shall have him for your 
 husband, look you. 
 
 Hip. Then you will break your Spanish oath. 
 
 Don. No, I will break him of his French tricks; 
 and you shall have him for your husband, querno ! 
 
 Hip, Indeed and indeed, father, I shall not 
 have him, 
 
 Don. Indeed you shall, daughter. 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 55 
 
 Hip. Well, you shall see, father. 
 
 Mrs. Cant. No, 1 warrant you, she will not have 
 him, she'll have he-r danciog-master rather : I kaow 
 her meaning, I understand her. 
 
 Don. Thou malicious, foolish woman ! you 
 understand her ! — But I do understand her ; she 
 says, I will not break my oath, nor he his French 
 customs ; so, through our difference, she thinks 
 she shall not have him : but she shall. 
 
 Hip. But 1 shan't. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I know she will not have him, 
 because she hates him. 
 
 Don. I tell you, if she does hate hira, 'tis a sign 
 she will have him forher husband ; for 'tis not one of 
 a thousand that marries the man she loves, look 
 you. Besides, 'tis all one whether she loves him 
 now or not ; for as soon as she's married, she'd 
 .be sure to hate him. That's the reason we wise 
 Spaniards are jealous, and only expect, nay, will 
 be sure our wives shall fear us, look you. 
 
 Hip. Pray, good father and aunt, do not dispute 
 about nothing ; for I am sure he will never be my 
 husband to hate. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I am of your opinion, indeed : I 
 understand you. 1 can see as far as another. 
 
 Don. You ! you cannot see so much as through 
 your spectacles ! — But I understand her : 'tis her 
 mere desire to marriage makes her say she shall 
 not have him ; for your poor young things, when 
 they are once in the teens, think they shall never 
 be married. 
 
 Hip. Well, father, think you what you will; 
 but 1 know what I think. 
 
 Re-enter MottsiBim pe Fakis in Vie Spanishhahit entire, 
 only with a cravat, and followed by the little Black- 
 amoor with a goUlia in his hand. 
 
 Don. Come, did not I tell you, you should have 
 him ? look you there, he has complied with me, 
 and is a perfect Spaniard. 
 
 Mons. Ay ! ay ! I am ugly rogue enough now, 
 sure, for my cousin. But 'tis your father's fault, 
 cousin, that you han't the handsomest, best-dressed 
 man in the nation ; a man bien mise. 
 
 Don. Yet again at your French ! and a cravat 
 on still ! voto a St. Jago ! off, off, with it ! 
 
 Mons. Nay, I will ever hereafter speak clownish 
 good English, do but spare me my cravat. 
 
 Don. I am uno positivo, look you. 
 
 Mons. Let me not put on that Spanish yoke, 
 but spare me my cravat ; for I lone cravat furieus- 
 ment. 
 
 Don. Again at your furieusments I 
 
 Mons. Indeed I have forgot myself : but have 
 some mercy. IKneels. 
 
 Don, Off, off, off -with it, I say ! Come, refuse 
 the ornamento principal of the Spanish habit ! 
 
 ITakes him by the cravat, pulls it off, and the Black 
 ■puts on the golilia. 
 
 Mons. Will you have no mercy, no pity ? alas 1 
 alas ! alas ! Oh ! I had rather put on the EngUsh 
 pillory, than that Spanish golilia, for 'twill be all a 
 case I'm sure : for when I go abroad, I shall soon 
 have a crowd of boys about me, peppering me with 
 rotten eggs and turnips. Helas ! helas ! 
 
 [Don puts on the golilia. 
 
 Don. Helas, again ! 
 
 Mons. Alas ! alas I alas ! 
 
 Hip. I shall die ! 
 
 Prue. I shall burst ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mons. Ay ! ay ! you see what I am come to for 
 your sake, cousin ; and, uncle, pray take notice 
 how ridiculous I am grown to my cousin, that 
 loves me above all the world : she can no more 
 forbear laughing at me, I vow and swear, than if I 
 were as arrant a Spaniard as yourself. 
 
 Don. Be a Spaniard like me, and ne'er think 
 people laugh at you: there was never a Spaniard 
 that thought any one laughed at him. But what ! 
 do you laugh at a golilia, baggage ? — Come, sirrah 
 black, now do you teach him to walk with the verdad- 
 ero gesto, gracia, and gravidad of a true Castilian. 
 
 Mons. Must I have my dancing-master too ? 
 — Come, little master, then, lead on. 
 
 [2'fte Black struts about the stage, Monsievr follows 
 him, imitating awkwardly all he does. 
 
 Don. Malo ! malo ! with your hat on your poll, 
 as if it hung upon a pin ! — the French and English 
 wear their hats as if their horns would not suffer 
 'em to come over their foreheads, voto ! 
 
 Mons. 'Tis true, there are some well-bred gen- 
 tlemen have so much reverence for their peruke, 
 that they would refuse to be grandees of your 
 Spain for fear of putting on their hats, I vow and 
 swear ! 
 
 Don. Come, black, teach him now to make a 
 Spanish le^. 
 
 Mons. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! your Spanish leg is an 
 EngUsh courtesy, I vow and swear, hah ! hah ! hah ! 
 
 Don. Well, the hood does not make the monk ; 
 the ass was an ass stiU, though he had the lion's 
 skin on. This will be a light French fool, in spite 
 of the grave Spanish habit, look you. — But, black, 
 do what you can ; make the most of him ; walk him 
 about. 
 
 Prue. Here are the people, sir, you sent to 
 speak with about provisions for the wedding j 
 and here are your clothes brought home too, 
 mistress. IGoes to the door and returns. 
 
 Don. Well, I come. — Black, do what you can 
 with him ; walk him about. 
 
 Mons. Indeed, uncle, if I were as you, I would 
 not have the grave Spanish habit so travestied : I 
 shall disgrace it, and my little black master too, I 
 vow and swear. 
 
 Don. Learn, learn of him ; improve yourself by 
 him — and do you walk him, walk him about soundly. 
 ■ — Come, sister, and daughter, I must have your 
 judgments, though I shall not need 'em, look you. 
 — Walk him, see you walk him. 
 
 \_Exeunt Don Dijbqo, Hippolita, and Mrs. Caution. 
 
 Mons. Jamie ! he does not only make a Spaniard 
 of me, but a Spanish jennet, in gi-ing me to his 
 lackey to walk. — But come along, little master. 
 [The Black instructs Monsieur on one side of the 
 stage, Prue standing on the other. 
 
 Prue. O the unfortunate condition of us poor 
 chambermaids 1 who have all the carking and 
 cai'ing, the watching and sitting up, the trouble and 
 danger of our mistresses' intrigues, whilst they go 
 away with all the pleasure ! And if they ca« get 
 their man in a corner, 'tis well enough ; they ne'er 
 think of the poor watchful chambermaid, who sits 
 knocking her heels in the cold, for want of better 
 exercise, in some melancholy lobby or entry, when 
 she could employ her time every whit as well as her 
 mistress, for all her quaUty, if she were but put to't. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Slack. Hold up your head, hold up your head, 
 sir : — a stooping Spaniard, malo 1 
 
50 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 Mons. True, a Spaniard scorns to look upon 
 the ground. 
 
 Prue. We can shift for our mistresses, and not 
 for ourselves. Mine has got a handsome proper 
 young man, and is just going to make the most of 
 him ; whilst I must be left in the lurch here with a 
 couple of ugly little blackamoor boys in bonnets, 
 and an old withered Spanish eunuch ; not a servant 
 else in the house, nor have I hopes of any comfort- 
 able society at all. . [Aside. 
 
 Black. Now let me see you make your visit-leg, 
 thus. 
 
 Mons. Auh, teste non ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Black. What ! a Spaniard, and laugh aloud ! 
 No, if you laugh, thus only — so — Now your salu- 
 tation in the street, as you pass by your acquaint- 
 ance ; look you, thus — if to a woman, thus — putting 
 your hat upon your heart ; if to a man, thus, with 
 a nod — so — but frown a little more, frown : — but 
 if to a woman you would be very ceremonious, 
 thus — so— your neck nearer your shoulder— so — 
 Now, if you would speak contemptibly of any man, 
 or thing, do thus with your hand — so — and shrug 
 up your shoulders till they hide your ears. — [Mon- 
 sieur imitating the Black.] Now walk again. 
 
 {The Black and Monsieur walk ojf the stage. 
 
 Prue. All my hopes are in that coxcomb there : 
 I must take up with my mistress's leavings, though 
 ■we chambermaids are wont to be beforehand with 
 them. But he is the dullest, modestest fool, for a 
 frenchified fool, as ever 1 saw ; for nobody could 
 be more coming to him than I have been, though I 
 say it, and yet I am ne'er the nearer. I have 
 stolen away his handkerchief, and told him of it ; 
 and yet he would never so much as struggle with 
 me to get it again : I have pulled off his peruke, 
 untied his ribbons, and have been very bold with 
 him : yet he would never be so with me ; nay, I 
 have pinched him, punched him, and tickled him ; 
 and yet he would never do the like for me. 
 
 Re-enter the Black and Monsieur. 
 
 Black. Nay, thus, thus, sir. 
 
 Prue. And to make my person more acceptable 
 to him, I have used art, as they say; for every 
 night since he came, I have worn the forehead- 
 piece of bees-wax and hog's-grease, and every 
 morning washed with butter-milk and wild tansy ; 
 and have put on every day for his only sake my 
 Sunday's Bowdy stockings, and have new-chalked 
 my shoes, as constantly as the morning came ; nay, 
 I have taken occasion to garter my stockings before 
 him, as if unawares of him ; for a good leg and 
 foot, with good shoes and stockings, are very pro- 
 voking, as they say ; but the devil a bit would he 
 be provoked. — But I must think of a way. lAside. 
 
 Black. Thus, thus. 
 
 Mons. What, so 1 Well, well, I have lessons 
 enough for this time, little master ; I will have no 
 more, lest the multiplicity of them make me for- 
 get them, da. — Prue, art thou there and so pensive .'' 
 what art thou thinking of? 
 
 Prue. Indeed, I am ashamed to tell your wor- 
 ship. 
 
 Mons. What, ashamed ! wert thou thinking then 
 of my beastliness ? ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Prue. Nay, then I am forced to tell your wor- 
 ship in my own vindication. 
 
 Mons. Come then. 
 
 Prue. But indeed, your worship — I 'm ashamed, 
 
 that I am, though it was nothing but of a dream I 
 had of your sweet worship last night. 
 
 Mons. Of my sweet worship ! I warrant it was 
 a sweet dream then : — what was it .' ha ! ha ! ha i 
 
 Prue. Nay, indeed, I have told your worship 
 enough already ; you may guess the rest. 
 
 Mons. I cannot guess ; ha ! ha 1 ha ! What 
 should it be ? prithee let's know the rest. 
 
 Prue. Would you have me so impudent ? 
 
 Mons. Impudent! ha! ha! ha! Nay, prithee 
 tell me ; for I can't guess, da — 
 
 Prue. Nay, 'tis always so, for want of the men's 
 guessing the poor women are forced to be impu- 
 dent : — but I am still ashamed. 
 
 Mons. I will know it ; speak. 
 
 Prue. Why then, methoughts last night you 
 came up into my chamber in your shirt when I was 
 in bed ; and that you might easily do, for I have 
 ne'er a lock to my door. — Now I warrant I am as 
 red as my petticoat. 
 
 Mons. No, thou'rt as yellow as e*er thou wert. 
 
 Prue. Yellow, sir ! 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay : but let's hear the dream out. 
 
 Prue. Why, can't you guess the rest now } 
 
 Mons. No, not I, I vow and swear : come, let's 
 hear. 
 
 Prue. But can't you guess, in earnest .' 
 
 Mons, Not I, the devil eat me ! 
 
 Prue. Not guess yet! why then, methoughts you 
 came to bed to me. — Now am I as red as my pet- 
 ticoat again. 
 
 Mons. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — well, and what then ? 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Prue. Nay, now I know by your worship's 
 laughing you guess what you did. I'm sure I cried 
 out, and waked all in tears, with these words in my 
 mouth — You have undone me ! you have undone 
 me ! your loorship has undone me / 
 
 Mons. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — but you waked, and found 
 it was but a dream. 
 
 Prue. Indeed it was so lively, I know not whe- 
 ther 'twas a dream, or no. — But if you were 
 not there, I'll undertake you may come when you 
 will, and do anything to me you will, I sleep so 
 fast. 
 
 Mons. No, no ; I don't believe .that. 
 
 Prue. Indeed you may, your worship^ 
 
 Mons. It cannot be. 
 
 Prue. Insensible beast ! he will not understand 
 me yet ; and one would think I speak plain enough. 
 
 \^Aside. 
 
 Mons. Well, but, Prue, what art thou thinking 
 of.' 
 
 Prue. Of the dream, whether it wei'e ix dream 
 or no. 
 
 Mons. 'Twas a dream, I warrant thee. 
 
 Prue, Was it ? I am hugeous glad it was a 
 dream. 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, it was a dream : and T am 
 hugeous glad it was a dream too. 
 
 Prue. But now 1 have told your worship my 
 door hath neither lock nor latch to it, if you should 
 be so naughty as to come one night, and prove the 
 dream true — I am so afraid on't. 
 
 Mons, Ne'er fear it : — dreams go by the contra- 
 I'ies. 
 
 Prue. Then, by that I should come into your 
 worship's chamber, and come to bed to your wor- 
 ship.— Now am I as red as my petticoat again, I 
 warrant. 
 
thl: gentleman dancing-masteu. 
 
 57 
 
 Mons. No, thou art no redder than a brick 
 unburnt, Pme. 
 
 Prue. But if I should do such a trick in my 
 sleep, your Worship would not censure a poor 
 harmless maid, I hope ? — for I am apt to walk in 
 my sleep. 
 
 Mons. Well, then, Prue, because thou slialt not 
 shame thyself, poor wench, I'll be sure to lock my 
 door every night fast. 
 
 Prue. \_Aside.'\ So ! so ! this way I find will not 
 do : — I must come roundly and downright to the 
 business, like other women, or — - 
 
 Enter Gerrard. 
 
 Mons. Oj the dancing-master ! 
 
 Prue. Dear sirv I have sometliing to say to 
 you in your ear, which 1 am ashamed to speak aloud. 
 
 MoTis. Another time, another time, Prue. But 
 now go call your mistress to her dancing- master. 
 Go, go. 
 
 Prue. Nay, pray hear me, sir, first. 
 
 JMons. Another time, another time, Prue ; 
 prithee begone. 
 
 Prue. Nay, I beseech your worship h'ear me. 
 
 Mons. No ; prithee begone. 
 
 Prue. \_A'side.'\ Nay, I am e'en well enough 
 served for not speaking my mind when I had an 
 opportunity.-^"\Vell, I must be playing the modest 
 woman, forsooth ! a woman's hypocrisy in this 
 case does only deceive herself. \_Exit. 
 
 Mons. O, the brave dancing-master ! thfe fine 
 dancing- master \ Your servant, your servant. 
 
 Ger. Your servant, sir : 1 protest I did not 
 know you at first.— \_Aside ] I am afraid this fool 
 should spoil all, notwithstanding Hippolita's care 
 and management ; yet I ought to trust her : — but 
 a secret is more safe with a treacherous knive 
 than a talkative fool. 
 
 Mons. Come, sir, you must know a little bro- 
 ther dancing-master of yours — walking-master I 
 should have said ; for he teaches me to walk and 
 make legs, by-the-bye. Pray, know him, sir ; 
 salute him, sir. — You Christian dancing-masters 
 are so proud. 
 
 Ger. But, monsieur, what strange metamorpho- 
 sis is this ? You look like a Spaniard, and talk 
 like an Englishman again, which I thought had 
 been impossible. 
 
 Mons. Nothing impossible to love : I must 
 do't, or lose my mistress, your pretty scholar ; 
 for 'tis I am to have her. You may remember I 
 told you she was to be married to a great man, a 
 man of honour and quality. 
 
 Ger. But does she enjoin you to this severe 
 penance ?-^such I am sure it is to you. 
 
 Mons. No, no : 'tis by the compulsion of the 
 starched fop her father, who is so arrant a Span- 
 iard, he wou^d kill you and his daughter, if he knew 
 who you were : therefore have a special care to dis- 
 semble well. IDraws him aside. 
 
 Ger. I warrant you. 
 
 Mons. Dear Gerrard — Go, little master, and 
 call my cousin : tell her her dancing-master is here. 
 [^Emt Black.] — I say, dear Gerrard, faith, I'm 
 obliged to you for the trouble you have had. When 
 I sent you, I intended a jest indeed ; but did not 
 think it would have been so dangerous a jest : 
 tlierefore pray forgive me. 
 
 Ger. I do, do heartily forgive you. 
 
 Mons. But can you forgive me for sending you 
 
 at first, like a fool as I was ? 'Twas ill done of 
 me : can you forgive me ? 
 
 Ger. Yes, yes, I do forgive voli. 
 
 Mons. Well, thou art a generous man, I vow 
 and swear, to come and take upon you all this 
 trouble, danger, ^ud shame, to be thought a paltry 
 dancing-master; and all this to preserve a lady's 
 honour and life, who intended to abuse you. But 
 I take the obligation upon me. 
 
 Ger. Pish! pish! youarenotobligedtomeatall. 
 
 Mons. Faith, but I am strangely obliged to you. 
 
 Ger. Faith, but you are not. 
 
 Mons. I vow and swear but I am. 
 
 Ger. I swear you are not. 
 
 Mons. Nay, thou art so generous a ' dancing- 
 master, ha ! ha! ha ! 
 
 Re-enter Don Diego, IIippolita, Mrs. Cautioa% and Phub, 
 
 i)o7i. You shall not come in, sister. 
 
 Mrs. Cant. I will come in. 
 
 Don. You will not be civil. 
 
 Mrs. Caui. I'm sure they will not be civil, if I 
 do not come in : — I muSt, 1 wilh 
 
 Don. Well, honest friend, you are very punctual, 
 which is a rare virtue in a dancing-master ; I take 
 notice of it, and will remember it; I will, look you. 
 
 Mons. So, silly, damned, politic Spanish uncle ! 
 —ha ! ha ! ha ! lAside. 
 
 Ger. My fine scholar, sir, there, shall never 
 have reason, as I have told you, sir, to say I am 
 not a punctual man ; fdr I am more her servant 
 than to any scholar I ever had. 
 
 Mons. Well said, i'faith ! — [Aside.'] Thou dost 
 make a pretty fool of him, I vow and swear. But 
 I wonder people can be made such fools of: — ha ! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Hip. Well, master, I thank you ; and I hope 1 
 shall be a grateful, kind scholar to you. 
 
 Mons. Ha ! ha ! ha ! cunning little jilt, what a 
 ibol she makes of him too ! I wonder people can be 
 made such fools of, I vow and swear ;■ — ha! ha! 
 ha ! [_Aside. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, it shall go hard but I'll be a 
 grateful, kind scholar to you. 
 
 Mrs. Cdut. As kind as ever your mother was to 
 your father, I warrant. 
 
 Don. How ! again with your senseless suspicions 
 
 Mons. Pish! pish! aunt. — \_Aside.\ Ha! ha! ha 
 she's a fool another way: she thinks she loves him, 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! Lord ! that people should be such fools ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Come, comej I cannot but speak : I 
 tell you, beware in time ; for he is no dancing- 
 master, but some debauched person, who will 
 mump you of your daughter. 
 
 Don. Will you be wiser than I still ? Mump 
 me of liiy daughter ! I would I could see any one 
 mump me of my daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. And mump you of your mistress 
 too, young Spaniard. 
 
 Mons. Ha! ha! ha! will you be wiser than 
 I too, voto .'' Mump me of my mistress 1 I 
 would I could see any one mump me of my 
 mistress. — [Aside to Gkrrard and IIippolita.] 
 I am afraid this damned old aunt should dis- 
 cover us, I vow and swear : be careful there- 
 fore and resolute. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. He ! he does not go about his 
 businesslike a dancing-master. He'll ne'er teach 
 her to dance ; but he'll teach her no goodness soon 
 enough, I warrant. — He a dancing-master ! 
 
63 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 Mons. Ay, the (le?il eat me if he be not the 
 best dancing-master in England now! — [Aside to 
 Gerrard and Hii'I'olita.] Was not that well 
 said, cousin ? was it not ? for he's a gentleman 
 danciug-master, you know. 
 
 Don. You know him, cousin, very well ? cousin, 
 you sent him to my daughter ? 
 
 Mons. Yes, yes, uncle : — know him! — [Aside.} 
 We'll ne'er be discovered, I warrant, ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. But will you be made a fool of too? 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, aunt, ne'er trouble yourself. 
 
 Don. Come, friend, about your business ; about 
 witli my daughter. 
 
 Hip. Nay, pray, father, be pleased to go out a 
 little, and let us but practise awhile, and then 
 you shall see me dance the whole dance to the 
 violin. 
 
 Don. Tittle tattle ! more fooling still ! — Did 
 not you say, when your master was here last, I 
 should see you dance to the violin when he came 
 again.' 
 
 Hip. So I did, father; but let me practise a 
 little first before, that I may be perfect. Besides, 
 my aunt is here, and she will put me out ; you 
 know I cannot dance before her. 
 
 Don. Fiddle faddle ! 
 
 Mons. [Aside.] They're afraid to be discovered 
 by Gerrard's bungling, I see. — [Aloud.} Come, 
 come, uncle, turn out; let 'em practise. 
 
 Don. I wont, voto a St. Jago ! what a fooling's 
 here ! 
 
 Mons. Come, come, let 'em practise : turn out, 
 turn out, uncle. 
 
 Don. Why can't she practise it before me ? 
 
 Mons. Come, dancers and singers are some- 
 times humoursome ; besides, 'twill be more grate- 
 ful to you to see it danced all at once to the violin. 
 Come, turn out, turn out, I say. 
 
 Don. What a fooling's here still among you, 
 voto ! 
 
 Mons. So, there he is with you, voto !— Turn 
 
 out, turn out ; I vow and swear you shall turn out. 
 
 ITakes him by the shoulder. 
 
 Don. Well, shall I see her dance it to the violin 
 at last ? 
 
 Ger. Yes, yes, sir ; what do you think I teach 
 her for ? 
 
 Mons. Go, go, turn out. — [Exit Don Diego.] 
 And you too, aunt. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Seriously, nephew, I shall not 
 budge ; roy.ally, I shall not. 
 
 Mons. Royally, you must, aunt : come. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Pray hear me, nephew. 
 
 Mons. I will not hear you. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. 'Tis for your sake I stay: I must 
 not suSfer you to be wronged. 
 
 Mons. Come, no wheedling, aunt; come away. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. That slippery fellow will do 't. 
 
 Mons. Let him do 't. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Indeed, he will do 't ; royally, he 
 will. 
 
 Mons. Well, let him do 't, royally. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. He will wrong you. 
 
 Mons. Well, let him, I say ; I have a mind to 
 be wronged: what's that to you? I will be wronged, 
 if you go there too, I vow and swear. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. You shall not be wronged. 
 
 Mons. I will. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. You shall uott 
 
 Re-enter DoH Disoo. 
 
 Don. What's the matter ? won't she be ruled ? 
 — Come, come away : you shall not disturb 'em. 
 [Don Dibgo and Monsieur thrust Mrs, Caution out 
 
 Mrs. Caut. D'ye see how they laugh at you 
 both .' — Well, go to ; the troth-telling Trojan gen- 
 tlewoman of old was ne'er believed till the town was 
 taken, rummaged, and ransacked. Even, even so — > 
 
 Mons. Ha ! ha ! ha ! turn out.' — [Exeunt Mrs. 
 Caution anrf Don DraGo.] — [Aside.] Lord, that 
 people should be such arrant cuddens ! ha ! ha I 
 ha! 
 
 Hip. No, no ; I'd have you go out and hold the 
 door, cousin j or see, my father will come in again 
 before his time. 
 
 Mons. I will, I will then, sweet cousin. — 'Tis 
 well thought on ; that was well thought on, indeed, 
 for me to hold the door. 
 
 Hip. But be sure you keep him out, cousin, till 
 we knock. 
 
 Mons. I warrant you, cousin. — Lord, that peo- 
 ple should be made such fools of ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Ger. So, so : — to make him hold the door, while 
 I steal his mistress, is not unpleasant. 
 
 Hip. Ay, but would you do so ill a thing, so 
 treacherous a thing ? Faith 'tis not well. 
 
 Ger. Faith, I can't help it, since 'tis for your 
 sake. — Come, sweetest, is not this our way into the 
 gallery ? 
 
 Hip. Yes ; but it goes against my conscience to 
 be accessary to so ill a thing. — You say you do it 
 for my sake ? 
 
 Ger. Alas, poor miss ! 'tis not against your 
 conscience, but against your modesty, you think, 
 to do it frankly. 
 
 Hip. Nay, if it be against my modesty, too, 
 I can't do it indeed. 
 
 Ger. Come, come, miss, let us make haste : — 
 all's ready. 
 
 Hip. Nay, faith, I can't satisfy my scruple. 
 
 Ger. Come, dearest, this is not a time for scru- 
 ples nor modesty. — Modesty between lovers is as 
 impertinent as ceremony between friends ; and mo- 
 desty is now as unseasonable as on the wedding 
 night. — Come away, my dearest. 
 
 Hip. Whither? 
 
 Ger. Nay, sure we haire lost too much time 
 already. Is that a proper question now ? If you 
 would know, come along ; for I have all ready. 
 
 Hip. But I am not ready. 
 
 Ger. Truly, miss, we shall have your father 
 come in upon us, and prevent us again, as he did 
 in the morning. 
 
 Hip. 'Twas well for me he did : — for, on my 
 conscience, if he had not come in, I had gone clear 
 away with you when I was in the humour. 
 
 Ger. Come, dearest, you would frighten me, as 
 if you were not yet in the same humour. — Come, 
 come away ; the coach and six is ready. 
 
 Hip. "Tis too late to take the air, and I am not 
 ready. 
 
 Ger. You were ready in the morning. 
 
 Hip, Ay, so I was. 
 
 Ger. Come, come, miss : — indeed the jest begins 
 to be none. 
 
 Hip. What! I warrant you think me in jest 
 then ? 
 
 Ger. In jest, certainly; but it begins to be 
 troublesome. 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 50 
 
 Hip. But, sir, you could believe 1 was in earn- 
 est in the morning, when I but seemed to be ready 
 to go with you ; and why won*t you believe rae now 
 when I declare to the contrary? — I take it un- 
 kindly, that the longer I am acquainted with you, 
 you should have the less confidence in me. 
 
 Ger. For heaven's sake, miss, lose no more time 
 thus ; your father will come in upon us, as he 
 did— 
 
 Hip. Let him if he will. 
 
 Ger. He'll hinder our design. 
 
 Hip. No, he will not ; for mine is to stay here 
 now. 
 
 Ger. Are you in earnest ? 
 
 Hip. You'll find it so. 
 
 Ger. How ! why, you confessed but now yon 
 would have gone with me in the morning. 
 
 Hip. \ was in the humour then. 
 
 Ger. And I hope you are in the same still ; you 
 cannot change so soon. 
 
 Hip. Why, is it not a whole day ago ? 
 
 Ger. What! are you not a day in the same hu- 
 mour ? 
 
 Hip. Lord ! that you who know the town, they 
 say, should think any woman could be a whole day 
 together in a humour 1 — ha ! ha 1 ha ! 
 
 Ger. Hey ! this begins to be pleasant. — ^What ! 
 won't you go with me then after all } 
 
 Hip. No indeed, sir, I desire to be excused. 
 
 Ger. Then you have abused me all this while ? 
 
 Hip. It may be so. 
 
 Ger. Could all that so natural innocency be dis- 
 sembled ? — faith, it could not, dearest miss. 
 
 Hip. Faith, it was, dear master. 
 
 Ger. Was it, faith ? 
 
 Hip. Methinks you might believe me without 
 an oath. You saw I could dissemble with ray fa- 
 ther, why should you think I could not with you ? 
 
 Ger, So young a wheedle ! 
 
 Hip, Ay, a mere damned jade X am 
 
 Ger. And I have been abused, you say } 
 
 Hip. 'Tis well you can believe it at last. 
 
 Ger. And I must never hope for you ? 
 
 Hip. Would you have me abuse you again ? 
 
 Ger. Then you will not go with me ? 
 
 Hip. No : but, for your comfort, your loss will 
 not be great ; and that you may not resent it, for 
 once I'll be ingenuous, and disabuse you. — I am 
 no heiress, as I told you, to twelve hundred pounds 
 a-year ; I was only a lying jade then. — Now will 
 you part with me willingly, I doubt not. 
 
 Ger. I wish I could. [Sighs. 
 
 Hip. Come, now I find 'tis your turn to dis- 
 semble : — but men use to dissemble for money ; 
 will you dissemble for nothing ? 
 
 Ger. 'Tis too late for me to dissemble. 
 
 Hip. Don't you dissemble, faith ? 
 
 Ger. Nay, this is too cruel. 
 
 Hip. What \ would you take me without the 
 twelve hundred pounds a-year ? would you be such 
 a fool as to steal a woman with nothing ? 
 
 Ger. I'll convince you ; for you shall go with 
 
 rae : — and since you are twelve hundred pounds a- 
 
 year the lighter, you'll be the easier carried away. 
 
 \_He lakes her in his arms, she struggles. 
 
 Prue. What ! he takes her away against her 
 will : — I find I must knock for my master then. 
 
 [She knocks. 
 "Re-enter Don Diego and Mrs. Caution. 
 
 Hip' Mv father! my father is here ! 
 
 Ger. Prevented again ! 
 
 [Gerrard sets her down again. 
 
 Don. What, you have done I hope now, friend,' 
 for good and all ? 
 
 Ger. Yes, yes; we have done for good and all 
 indeed. 
 
 Don. How now ! — you seem to be out of hu- 
 mour, friend. 
 
 Ger. Yes, so I am ; I can't help it. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. He's a diss'embler in his very throat, 
 brother. 
 
 Hip. Pray do not carry things so as to dis- 
 cover yourself, if it be but for my sake, good master. 
 [Aside to Gerrard. 
 
 Ger. She is grown impudent. [Aside. 
 
 Mrt. Caut. See, see, they whisper, brother ! — 
 to steal a kiss under a whisper ! — O the harlotry! 
 
 Don. What's the matter, friend ? 
 
 Hip. I say, for my sake be in humour, and do 
 not discover yourself, but be as patient as a dancing- 
 master still. [Aside to Gerrard. 
 
 Don. What, she is whispering to him indeed I 
 What's the matter.^ I will know it, friend, look 
 you. 
 
 Ger. Will you know it ? 
 
 Don, Yes, I will know it. 
 
 Ger. Why, if you will know it then, she would 
 not do as I would have her ; and whispered me 
 to desire me not to discover it to you. 
 
 Don. What, hussy, would you not do as he'd 
 have you ? I'll make you do as he'd have you. 
 
 Ger. \ wish you would. 
 
 Mrs. Caul. 'Tis a lie ; she'll do all he'll have 
 her do, and more too, to my knowledge. 
 
 Don. Come, tell me what 'twas then she would 
 not do — come, do it, hussy, or — Come, take her 
 by the hand, friend. Come, begin : — let's see if 
 she will not do anything now I'm here ! 
 
 Hip. Come, pray be in humour, master 
 
 Ger. I cannot dissemble like you. 
 
 Don. What, she can't dissemble already, can 
 she ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Yes, but she can : but 'tis with you 
 she dissembles : for they are not fallen out, as we 
 think. For I'll be sworn 1 saw her just now give 
 him the languishing eye, as they call it, that is, the 
 whiting's eye, of old called the sheep's eye : — I'll 
 be sworn I saw it with these two eyes ; that I did, 
 
 Hip. You'll betray us ; have a care good mas- 
 ter. [Aside to Gerrard. 
 
 Don. Hold your peace, I say, silly woman ! — 
 But does she dissemble already ? — how do you 
 mean .'' 
 
 Ger. She pretends she can't do what she should 
 do ; and that she is not in humour. — The common 
 excuse of women for not doing what they should do. 
 
 Do7i. Come, I'll put her in humour. — Dance, I 
 say. — Come, about with her, master. 
 
 Ger. [Aiide."] I am in a pretty humour to dance. 
 — [roHiPPOLiTA.] I cannot fool any longer, since 
 you have fooled rae. 
 
 Hip. You would not be so ungenerous as to 
 betray the woman that hated you ! I do not do 
 that yet. For heaven's sake ! for this once be 
 more obedient to my desires than your passion. 
 
 [Aside to Ghrbard. 
 
 Don. What! is she huraoursome still? — but 
 methinks you look yourself as if you were in an 
 ill-humour : — but about with her. 
 
 Ger. I am in no good dancing humour, indeed. 
 
GO 
 
 THE (iENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 Re-enter Monstbub, 
 
 Mons. Well, how goes the dancing forward ? — • 
 What, my aunt here to disturb 'em again? 
 
 Dan. Come ! come ! [Gerhard leads her ahinit 
 
 Mrs. Caul. I say, stand oS':— thou shalt not 
 coQie near. Avoid, Satan ! as they say. 
 
 Don. Nay, then we shall have.it : — nephew, hold 
 her a little, that she may not disturb 'em. — Come, 
 now away with her. 
 
 Ger. One, two, aild a coupee. — lAsiSe. ] Fooled 
 and abused — ■ 
 
 Mrs. Caut, Wilt thou lay violent hands upon 
 thy own natural aunt, wretch ? 
 
 {To Monsieur. 
 
 Don. Come, about with her. 
 
 Ger. One, two, three, four, and turn round — 
 l^A-side-l by such a piece of innocency ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Dost thou see, fool, how he squeezes 
 her hand ? [2*0 MoNsrEUB. 
 
 Mons. That won't do, auAt. 
 
 Hip. Pray, master, have patience, and let's 
 mind our business. 
 
 Don. Why did you anger him then, hussy, look 
 you.' 
 
 Mrs. Caut, Do you see how she smiles in his 
 face, and squeezes his hand now .' {To Wonsieub. 
 
 Mons. Your servant, aunt. — That won't do, I 
 say. 
 
 Hip. Have patience, mister. 
 
 Ger. \^Aside.'] I am become her sport ! — 
 [Aloud.'] One, two, three — Death ! hell ! and the 
 devil ! 
 
 Don. Ay, they are three indeed] — But pray 
 have patience. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Do you see how she leers upon 
 him, and clings to him ? Can you suffer it .' 
 
 [To Mo.vsrEut. 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay. 
 
 Ger. One, two, three, and a slur. — Can you be 
 so unconcerned after all ? 
 
 Don. What! is she unconcerned .' — H ussy, mind 
 your busmess. 
 
 Ger. One, two, three, and turn round ; — one, 
 two, fall back — Hall and damnation ! 
 
 Don. Ay, people fall back indeed into hell and 
 damnation. Heaven knows ! 
 
 Ger. One, two, three, and your honour. — T can 
 fool no longer ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Nor will I be withheld any longer, 
 like a poor hen in her pen, while the kite is carry* 
 ing away her chicken before her face. 
 
 Don. What, have you done .' — Well then, let's 
 see her dance it now to the violin. 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, let's see her dance it to the violin. 
 
 Ger. Another time, another time. 
 
 Don. Don't you believe that, friend : — these 
 dancing-masters make no bones of breaking their 
 words. Did not you promise just now, I should 
 see her dance it to the violin ? and that I will too, 
 before I stir. 
 
 Ger. Let Monsieur play then while I dance with 
 her : — she can't dance alone. 
 
 Mons. I can't play at all ; I'm but a learner : — 
 but if you'll play, I'll dance with her. 
 
 Ger. I can't play neither. 
 
 Don. What ! a dancing-master, and not play ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Ay, you see what a dancing-master 
 be is. 'Tis as I told you, I warrant. — A dancing- 
 master, and not play upon the fiddle ! 
 
 Don. How ! 
 
 Hip. O you have betrayed us all ! If you 
 confess that, you undo u^ for ever. 
 
 \_Apart to Gekrabd. 
 
 Ger. I Cannot play ; — what would you have me 
 gay p \Apart to HIPPOLITA. 
 
 Mons. I vow and swear we are all undone if you 
 tannot play. {Apart to Geebabd. 
 
 Don, What ! are you a dancing-master, and 
 cannot play ? Umph — 
 
 Hip. He is only out of humour, sir. — Here, 
 master, I know you will play for me yet ; — for he 
 has an excellent hand. {She offers GekbaRd the violin, 
 
 Mons. Ay, that he has. — [Aside.'] At giving a 
 box on the ear. • 
 
 Don. Why does he not play, then ? 
 
 Hip. Here, master, pray play for my sake. 
 
 {Gives GERRABD(ftfl vioUn, 
 
 Ger. What would you have me do with it ? — I 
 cannot play a stroke. {Apart to HippoLrrA. 
 
 Hip. No I stay — then seem to tune it, and 
 break the strings. {Apart to Gebbabd. 
 
 Ger, Come then.- — [Aside.] Next to the devil's, 
 the invention of women ! They'll no more want 
 an excuse to cheat a father with, than an opportu- 
 nity to abuse a husband. — [Aloud.] But what do 
 you give me such a damned fiddle with rotten 
 strings, for ? 
 
 [ Winds up the strings till they break, and throws tlie 
 violin on the ground. 
 
 Don, Hey-day ! the dancing-master is frantic. 
 
 Mons, Ha ! ha ! ha ! That people should be 
 made such fools of! {Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. He broke the strings on purpose, 
 because he could not play. — You are blind, brother. 
 
 Don. What 1 will you see fui-ther than I, look 
 you .' 
 
 Hip. But pray, master, why in such haste ? 
 
 [Gerrabd offers to go. 
 
 Ger. Because you have done with me. 
 
 Don. But don't you intend to come to-morrow, 
 again ? 
 
 Ger. Your daughter does not desire it. 
 
 Don. No matter ; I do : I must be your pay- 
 master, I'm sure. I would have you come betimes 
 too ; not only to make her perfect, but since you 
 hlive so good a hand upon the violin, to play your 
 part with half-a-dozen of musicians more, whom I 
 would have you bring with you : for we will have a 
 very merry wedding, though a very private one. — 
 You'll be sure to come ? 
 
 Ger. Your daughter does not desire it. 
 
 Don. Come, come, baggage, you shall desire it 
 of him ; he is your master. 
 
 Hip. My father will have me desire it of you, it 
 seems. 
 
 Ger. But you'll make a fool of me again if I 
 should come ; would you not ? 
 
 flip. If I should tell you so, you'd be sure not 
 to come. 
 
 Don. Come, come, she shall not make a fool of 
 you, upon my word. I'll secure you, she shall do 
 what you will have her. 
 
 Mons. Ha ! ha ! ha ! So, so, silly Don. {Aside, 
 
 Ger. But, madam, will you have me come ? 
 
 Hip. I'd have you to know, for my part, I care 
 not whether you come or no : — there are other 
 dancing-masters to be had ; — it is ray father's re- 
 quest to you. All that I have to say to you is a 
 little good advice, which, because I will not shamo 
 yon, I'll give you in private. {Whispers Gekrahd. 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 01 
 
 Mrs. Caut. What ! will you let her whispei- with 
 him too ? 
 
 Don. Nay, if you find fault with it, they shall 
 whisper, though I did not like it before : — I'll ha' 
 nobody wiser than myself. But do you think, if 
 'twere any hurt, she would whisper it to him before 
 us? 
 
 Mrs. Cant. If it be no hurt, why does she not 
 speak aloud ? 
 
 Boh. Because she says she will not put the man 
 out of countenance. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Hey-day ! put a dancing-master out 
 of countenance ! 
 
 Don. You say he is no dancing-master. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Yes, for his impudence he may be 
 a dancing-master. 
 
 Dan. Well, well, let her whisper before me as 
 much as she will to-night, since she is to be married 
 to-morrow ; — especially since her husband (that 
 shall be) stands by consenting too. 
 
 Mans. Ay, ay, let 'em whisper, as you say, as 
 much as they will before we many. — [Aaide.'] She's 
 making more sport with him, I warrant. — -But I 
 
 wonder how people can be fooled so. — Ha ! ha 1 
 ha! 
 
 Don. Well, a penny for the secret, daughter. 
 Hip. Indeed, father, you shall have it for nothing 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Don. Well, friend, you will not fail to come ? 
 Ger. No,no,sir. — [Jistrfe.] Yet I am a fool if I do. 
 Don. And be sure you bring the fiddlers with 
 you, as I bid you. 
 
 Hip. Yes, be sure you bring the fiddlers with 
 you, as I bid you. 
 
 Mrs. Caut, So, so : he'll fiddle your daughter 
 out of the house. — Must you have fiddles, with a 
 fiddle faddle ? 
 
 Mons. Lord ! that people should be made such 
 fools of! Ha ! ha ! \_Aside, 
 
 lExeunt Don DfEGO, Hippolita, Monsieur, Mrs. 
 Caution, and Prub. 
 Ger. Fortune we sooner may than woman trust : 
 To her confiding gallant she is just ; 
 But falser woman only him deceives. 
 Who to her tongue and eyes most credit 
 gives. lExit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Don Diego's House. 
 
 Enter Monsieur de Paris and Black, stalking over the 
 stages Gerhard following. 
 
 Mons. Good morrow to thee, noble dancing- 
 master : — ^ha ! ha ! ha ! your little black brother 
 here, my master, I see, is the more diligent man of 
 the two. But why dp you come so late ? — What ! 
 you begin to neglect your scholar, do you ? — Little 
 black master, con licentia, pray get you out of the 
 room. — [Exit Black.] What! out of humour, 
 man ! a dancing-master should be like his fiddle, 
 always in tune. Come, my cousin has made an 
 ass of thee ; what then ? I know it. 
 
 Ger. Does he know it ! iAside. 
 
 Mons. But prithee don't be angry : 'twas agreed 
 upon betwixt us, before I sent you, to make a fool 
 of thee ; — ha ! ha 1 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ger. Was it so ? 
 
 Mons. I know you would be apt to entertain 
 vain hopes from the summons of a lady : but, faith, 
 the design was but to make a fool of thee, as you 
 find. 
 
 Ger. 'Tis very well. 
 
 Mons. But indeed I did not think the jest 
 would have lasted so long, and that my cousin 
 would have made a dancing-master of you, ha ! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Ger. The fool has reason, I find, and I am the 
 coxcomb while I thought him so. \_Aside. 
 
 Mons. Come, I see you are uneasy, and the jest 
 of being a dancing-master grows tedious to you : 
 —but have a little patience; the parson is sent for, 
 and when once my cousin and I are married, my 
 uncle may know who you are. 
 
 Ger. I am certainly abused. \_A8ide. 
 
 Mons. [Listening.'] What do you say ? 
 
 Ger. Merely fooled ! iAside. 
 
 Mons. Why Jo you doubt it ? ha i ha ! ha! 
 
 Ger. Can it be? [Aiide. 
 
 Mons. Pish ! pish ! she told me yesterday as 
 soon as you were gone, that she had led you into 
 a fool's paradise, and made you believe she would 
 go away with you — ha ! ha I ha ! • 
 
 Ger. Did she so.^— I am no longer to doubt it 
 then. lAsidc. 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, she makes a mere fool of thee, 
 I vow and swear ; but don't be concerned, there's 
 hardly a man of a thousand but has been made a 
 fool of by some woman or other. — I have been 
 made a fool of myself, man, by the women ; I have, 
 I vow and swear I have. 
 
 Ger. Well, you have, I believe it, for you are a 
 coxcomb. 
 
 Mons. Lord ! you need not be so touchy with 
 one ; I tell you but the truth, for your good ; for 
 though she does, I would not fool you any longer ; 
 but prithee don't be troubled at what can't be 
 helped. Women are made on purpose to fool men : 
 when they are children, they fool their fathers ; and 
 when they have taken their leaves of their, hanging 
 -sleeves, they fool their gallants or dancing-masters, 
 — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ger. Hark you, sir ! to be fooled by a woman, 
 you say, is not to be helped ; but I will not be 
 fooled by a fool. 
 
 Mons. You show your English breeding now ; 
 an English rival is so dull and brutish as not to 
 understand raillery ; but what is spoken in your 
 passion I'll take no notice of, for I am your friend, 
 and would not have you my rival to make yourself 
 ridiculous. — Come, prithee, prithee, don't be so 
 concerned ; for, as I was saying, women first fool 
 their fathers, then their gallants, and then their 
 husbands ; so that it will be my turn to be fooled 
 too ; (for your comfort ;) and when they come to 
 be widows, they would fool the devil, I vow and 
 swear. — Come, come, dear Gerrard, prithee don't 
 be out of humour, and look so siUily. 
 
 Ger. Prithee do not talk so sillily. 
 
62 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 Mans, Nay, faith, 1 am resolved to beat you 
 out of this ill-humour. 
 
 Ger. Faith, I am afraid I shall first beat you 
 into an ill-humour. 
 
 Mons. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! that thou shouldst be 
 gulled so by a little gipsy, who left off her bib but 
 yesterday ! — faith I can't but laugh at thee. 
 
 Ger. Faith, then I shall make your mirth (as 
 being too violent) conclude in some little misfor- 
 tune to you. The fool begins to be tyrannical. 
 
 Mans. Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor angry dancing-mas- 
 ter 1 prithee match my Spanish pumps and legs 
 vfith one of your best and newest sarabands ; ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! come — 
 
 Ger. I will match your Spanish ear, thus, sir, 
 and make you dance thus. iSLrikesand kicks him. 
 
 Mons. How ! sa ! sa ! sa ! then I'll make you 
 dance thus. 
 
 [RIoNsiKOR draws his sword and runs at him^ but 
 Gerrard drawing, he retires. 
 Hold! hold a little! — [Aside.] A desperate disap- 
 pointed lover will cut his own throat, then sure he 
 win make nothing of cutting his rival's throat. 
 
 Ger. Consideration is an enemy to fighting ; if 
 you have a mind to revenge yourself, your sword's 
 in your hand. 
 
 Mons. Pray, sir, hold your peace ; I'll ne'er 
 take my rival's counsel, be't what 'twill. I know 
 what you would be at ; you are disappointed of 
 your mistress, and could hang yourself, and there- 
 fore will not fear hanging. But I am a successful 
 lover, and need neither hang for you nor my mis- 
 tress : nay, if I should kill you, I know I should do 
 you a kindness ;' therefore e'en live, to die daily 
 with envy of my happiness. But if you will needs 
 die, kill yourself, and be damaed for me, I vow 
 and swear. 
 
 Ger. But won't you fight for your mistress ? 
 
 Mons. I tell you, you shall not have the honour 
 to be killed for her j besides, I will not be hit in 
 the teeth by her as long as I live, with the great 
 love you had for her. Women speak well of their 
 dead husbands ; what will they do of their dead 
 gallants ? 
 
 Ger. But if you will not fight for her, you shall 
 dance for her, since you desired me to teach you to 
 dance too : — I'll teach you to dance thus — 
 
 ^Strikes his sword at his tegs, Monsfkur leaps. 
 
 Mons. Nay, if it be for the sake of my mistress, 
 there's nothing I will refuse to do. 
 
 Ger. Nay, you must dance on. 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, for my mistress, and sing too, 
 la, la, la, ra, la. 
 
 Enter Hippolita and Pruk. 
 
 Hip. What ! swords drawn betwixt you two ! 
 what's the matter? 
 
 Mons. [Aside.] Is she here.' — [Aloud.] Come, 
 put up your sword ; you see this is no place for us ; 
 but the devil eat me if you shall not eat my sword, 
 but — 
 
 Hip. What's the matter, cousin .' 
 
 Mons. Nothing, nothing, cousin, but your pre- 
 sence is a sanctuary for my greatest enemy, or else, 
 teste non ! — 
 
 Hip. What, you have not hurt my cousin, sir, I 
 hope ? LTo Gerrabd. 
 
 Ger. How ! she's concerned for him ! nay, then 
 I need not doubt, my fears are true. [_Aside. 
 
 Mons. What was that you said, cousin ? hurt 
 
 me I — ha ! ha ! ha ! hurt me ! — If any man hurt 
 me, he must do it basely ; he shall ne'er do it when 
 my sword's drawn, sa ! sa ! sa ! 
 
 Hip. Because you will ne'er draw your sword, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Mons. [Aside.] Scurvily guessed. — [Aloud.] 
 You ladies may say anything ; but, cousin, pray 
 do not you talk of swords and fighting ; meddle 
 with your guitar, and talk of dancing with your 
 dancing-master there, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hip. But I am afraid you have hurt my master, 
 cousin : — he says nothing ; can he draw his breath ? 
 
 Mons. No, 'tis you have hurt your master, cousin, 
 in the very heart, cousin, and therefore he would 
 hurt me ; for love is a disease makes people as 
 malicious as the plague does. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, poor master, something does ail 
 you. 
 
 Mons. Nay, nay, cousin, faith don't abuse him 
 any longer; he's an honest gentleman, and has 
 been long of my acquaintance, and a man of toler- 
 able sense, to take him out of his love ; but 
 prithee, cousin, don't drive the jest too far for my 
 sake. 
 
 Ger. He counsels you well, pleasant, cunning, 
 jilting miss, for his sake ; for if I am your divertise- 
 ment, it shall be at his cost, since he's your gallant 
 in favour. 
 
 Hip. I don't understand you. 
 
 Mons. But I do, a pox take him ! and the 
 custom that so orders it, forsooth ! that if a lady 
 abuse or affront a man, presently the gallant must 
 be beaten ; nay, what's more unreasonable, if a 
 woman abuse her husband, the poor cuckold must 
 bear the shame as well as the injury. lAside. 
 
 Hip. But what's the matter, master ? what was 
 it you said ? 
 
 Ger. T say, pleasant, cunning, jilting lady, though 
 you make him a cuckold, it will not be revenge 
 enough for me upon him for marrying you. 
 
 Hip. How ! my surly, huffing, jealous, senseless, 
 saucy master ? 
 
 Mons. Nay, nay, faith, give losers leave to speak, 
 losers of mistresses especially, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Besides, your anger is too great a favour for him ; 
 I scorn to honour him with mine you see. 
 
 Hip. I tell you my saucy master, my cousin shall 
 never be made that monstrous thing you mention, 
 by me. 
 
 Mons. Thank you, I vow and swear, cousin ; 
 no, no, I never thought I should. 
 
 Ger. Sure you marry him by the sage maxim of 
 your sex, which is, wittols make the best husbands, 
 that is cuckolds. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, master, whatsoever you think, I 
 would sooner choose you for that purpose than 
 him. 
 
 Mons. Ha 1 ha ! ha ! there she was with him, 
 i'faith : — I thank you for that, cousin, I vow and 
 swear. 
 
 Hip. Nay, he shall thank me for that too : — but 
 how came you two to quarrel } I thought, cousin, 
 you had had more wit than to quarrel, or more 
 kindness for me than to quarrel here. What if my 
 father, hearing the bustle, should have come in ? he 
 would have soon discovered our false dancing- 
 master (for passion unmasks every man), and then 
 the result of your quarrel had been my ruin. 
 
 Mons. Nay, youhad both felt his desperate, deadly, 
 daunting dagger : — there arp vour de's for you ! 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 G;i 
 
 Hip. Go, go presently therefore, and hinder my 
 father from coming in, whilst I put my master into 
 a better humour, that we may not be discoveredj 
 to the prevention of our wedding, or worse when 
 he comes ; go, go. 
 
 Mons. AVell, well, I will, cousin. 
 
 ffip. Be sure you let him not come in this good 
 while. 
 
 Mons. No, no, I warrant you. — [Goes out and 
 return^.'] — But if he should come before 1 would 
 have him, I'll come before him, and cough and 
 hawk soundly, that you may not be surprised. 
 Won't that do well, cousin? 
 
 Hip. Very well, pray begone. — [Ej^it Mon- 
 sieur.] Well, master, since I find you are 
 quarrelsome and melancholy, and would have taken 
 me away without a portion, three infallible signs 
 of a true lover, faith here's my hatid now in earnest, 
 to lead me a dance as long as I live. 
 
 Ger. How's this ! you surprise me as much, as 
 when first 1 found so much beauty and wit in com- 
 pany with so much innoceucy. But, dearest, I 
 would be assured of what you say, and yet dare not 
 
 ask the question. You h do not abuse me 
 
 again ? You h will fool me no more sure .'' 
 
 ffip. Yes, but I will sure. 
 
 Ger. How ? nay, I was afraid on't. 
 
 Hip. For, I say, you are to be my husband, and 
 you say husbands must be wittols, and some strange 
 things to boot. 
 
 Ger. Well, I will take my fortune. 
 
 Hip. But have a care, rash man. 
 
 Ger. I will venture. 
 
 Hip. At your peril ; remember I wished you to 
 have a care : forewarned, fore-armed. 
 
 Prue. Indeed now, that's fair ; for most men 
 are fore-armed before they are warned. 
 
 Hip- Plain deaUng is some kind of honesty 
 however, and few women would have said so 
 much. 
 
 Ger. None but those who would delight in a 
 husband's jealousy, as the proof of his love and her 
 honour. 
 
 Hip. Hold, sir, let us have a good understand- 
 ing betwixt one another at first, that we may be 
 long friends. I difier from you in the point ; for a 
 husband's jealousy, which cunning men would pass 
 upon their wives for a compliment, is the worst can 
 be made 'em ; for indeed it is a compliment to their 
 beauty, but an affront to their honour. 
 
 Ger. But, madam — 
 
 Hip. So that upon the whole matter I conclude, 
 jealousy in a. gallant is humble true love, and the 
 height of respect, and only an undervaluing of 
 himself to overvalue her; but in a husband 'tis 
 arrant sauciness, cowardice, and ill-breeding, and 
 not to be suffered. 
 
 Ger. I stand corrected, gracious miss. 
 
 Hip. Well, but have you brought the gentlemen 
 fidiUers with you, as I desired ? 
 
 Ger. They are below. 
 
 Hip. Are they armed well ? 
 
 Ger. Yes, they have instruments too that are 
 not of wood ; but what will you do with them ? 
 
 Hip. What did you think I intended to do with 
 them ? when I whispered you to bring gentlemen of 
 your acquaintance instead of fiddlers, as my father 
 desired you to bring, pray what did you think I 
 intended r 
 
 Ger. Faith, e'en to make fools of the gentlemen 
 
 fiddlers, as you had done of your gentleman dan- 
 cing-master. 
 
 Hip. I intended 'em for our guard and defence 
 against my father's Spanish and Guinea force, when 
 we were to make our retreat 'from hence; and to 
 help us to take the keys from my aunt, who has 
 been the watchful porter of this house this twelve- 
 month ; and this design (if your heart do not fail 
 you) we will put in execution as soon as you have 
 given your friends below instructions. 
 
 Ger. Are you sure your heart will stand right 
 still ? You flinched last night, when I little 
 expected it, I am sure. 
 
 Hip. The time last night was not so proper 
 for us as now, for reasons 1 will give you. But 
 besides that, I confess I had a mind to try whether 
 your interest did not sway you more than your 
 love ; whether the twelve hundred pounds a-year I 
 told you of had not made a greater impression in 
 your heart than Hippolita : but finding it other- 
 wise — yet hold, perhaps upon consideration you 
 are grown wiser ; can you yet, as 1 said, be so des- 
 perate, so out of fashion, as to steal a woman with 
 nothing ? 
 
 Ger. With you I can want nothing, nor can be 
 made by anything more rich or happy. 
 
 Hip. Think well again ; can you take me with- 
 out the twelve hundred pounds a-year, — the twelve 
 hundred pounds a-year } 
 
 Ger. Indeed, miss, now you begin to be unkind 
 again, and use me worse than e'er you did. 
 
 Hip. Well, though you are so modest a gentle- 
 man as to suffer a wife to be put upon you with 
 nothing, I have more conscience than to do it, I 
 have the twelve hundred pounds a-year out of my 
 father's power, which is yours, and I am sorry it 
 is not the Indies to mend your bargain. 
 
 Ger. Dear miss, you but increase my fears, and 
 not my wealth. Pray let us make haste away ; I 
 desire but to be secure of you : — come, what are 
 you thinking of? 
 
 Hip. I am thinking if some little, filching, 
 inquisitive poet should get my story, and represent 
 it to the stage, what those ladies who are never 
 precise but at a play would say of me now ; — that 
 I were a confideiit, coming piece, I warrant, and 
 they would damn the poor poet for libelling the 
 sex. But sure, though I give myself and fortune 
 away frankly, without the consent of my friends, 
 my confidence is less than theirs who stand off only 
 for separate maintenance. 
 
 Ger. They would be widows before their time, 
 have a husband and no husband : — but let us be- 
 gone, lest fortune should recant my happiness, 
 now you are fixed, my dearest miss. 
 
 IHe kisses her hand. 
 
 Re-enter MovsiEVRt coughing, followed bpDoNDiEuo. 
 
 Hip. Oh, here's my father! 
 
 Don. How now, sir ! — What, kissing her hand ! 
 what means that, friend, ha ? — Daughter, ha ! do 
 you permit this insolence, ha ? voto a mi hora ! 
 
 Ger. We are prevented again. 
 
 lAside to Hippolita. 
 
 Hip. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you are so full of your 
 Spanish jealousy, father ; why, you must know he 
 is a city dancing-master, and they, forsooth, think 
 it fine to kiss the hand at the honour before the 
 corant. 
 
 Mons. Ay, ay, ay, uncle, don't you know tlig*^ "^ 
 
(ii 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 Dm. Go to, go to, you are an easy French fool ; 
 there's more in it than so, look you. 
 
 Mons. I vow and swear there's nothing move 
 in't, if you'll believe one. — \_Aside to Hippoiita 
 and Gerhard.] Did not I cough and hawk ? a 
 jealous, prudent husband could not cough and 
 hawk louder at the approach of his wife's chamber 
 in visiting time, and yet you would not hear me. 
 He'll make now ado about nothing, and you'll be 
 discovered both. 
 
 Don. Umph, umph, — no, no, I see it plain, he 
 is no dancing-master : now I have found it out, 
 and I think I can see as far into matters as another : 
 I have found it now, look you. 
 
 Gcr. My fear was prophetical. 
 
 [Aside to HrppoLiTA. 
 
 nip. What shall we do .' — nay, pray, sir, do not 
 stir yet. [Geiirard o;fers to go out with her. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Caution. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. What's the matter, brother ? what's 
 the matter ? 
 
 Don. I have found it out, sister, I have found 
 it out, sister ; this villain here is no dancing- 
 master — but a dishonourer of my house and daugh- 
 ter : I caught him kissing her band. 
 
 Mons. Pish ! pish 1 you are a strange Spanish 
 kind of an uncle, that you are. — A. dishonourer of 
 your daughter, because he kissed her hand ! pray 
 how could he honour her more ? he kissed her hand, 
 you see, while he was making his honour to 
 her. 
 
 Don. You are an unthinking, sliallow French 
 fop, voto ! — But I tell you, sister, I have thought 
 of it, and have found it out ; he is no dancing- 
 roaster, sister. T>o you remember the whispering 
 last night ? I have found out the meaning of that 
 too ; and I tell you, sister, he's no dancing-master, 
 I have found it out. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. You found it out ! marry come up, 
 did not I tell you always he was no dancing- 
 master ? 
 
 Z)on. You tell me ! you silly woman, what then? 
 what of that ? — You tell me ! d'ye think I heeded 
 what you told me ? but I tell you now I have 
 found it out. 
 
 Mrs, Caut. I say I found it out. 
 
 Don, I say 'tis false, gossip, I found him out. 
 
 J/rs, Caut, I say 1 found him out iirst, say you 
 what you will. 
 
 Don, Sister, mum, not such a word again, 
 guarda ! — You found him out ! 
 
 Mrs, Caut, Nay, I must submit, or dissemble 
 like other prudent women, or — [Aside, 
 
 Don. Come, come, sister, take it from me, he is 
 no dancing-master. 
 
 Mrs, Caut, O yes, he is a dancing-master. 
 
 Don, What ! will you be wiser than I every 
 way ? — remember the whispering, I say. 
 
 Mrs, Caut, [Aside,] So, he thinks I speak in 
 earnest, then I'll fit him still— [To Don Diego.] 
 But what do you talk of their whispering ! they 
 would not whisper any ill before us, sure. 
 
 Don, Will you still be an idiot, a dolt, and see 
 nothing ? 
 
 Mons, Lord! you'll be wiser than all the world, 
 will you ? are we not all against you ? pshaw ! 
 pshaw ! I ne'er saw such a donnissimo as you are, 
 I vow and swear. 
 
 Don, No, sister, he's no dancing-master; fornow 
 1 think on't too, he could not pliiy upon the fiddle. 
 
 Mrs. Caut, Pish ! pish ! what dancing-master 
 can play upon a fiddle without strings ? 
 
 Don. Again, I tell you he broke them on pur- 
 pose, because he could not play ; I have found it 
 out now, sister. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Nay, you see farther than I, brother, 
 [Gkrrard (yffkrs to lead her out. 
 
 Hip. For Heaven's sake stir not yet. 
 
 [Aside to Gerrabd. 
 
 Don. Besides, if you remember, they were per- 
 petually putting me out of the room ; that was, 
 sister, because they had a mind to be alone, I have 
 found that out too : — now, sister, look you, he is 
 no dancing-master. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. But has he not given her a lesson 
 often before you ? 
 
 Don. Ay, but, sister, he did not go about his 
 business like a dancing-master ; but go, go down 
 to the door, somebody rings. [Exit Mrs. Caution. 
 
 Mons. 1 vow and swear, uncle, he is a dancing- 
 master ; pray be appeased. — Lord ! d'ye think I'd 
 tell you a lie ? 
 
 Don. If it prove to be a lie, and you do not 
 confess it, though you are my next heir after my 
 daughter, I will disown thee as much as I do her, 
 for thy folly and treachery to thyself, as well as 
 me. — You may have her, but never my estate, 
 look you. 
 
 Mons. How ! I must look to my hits then. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Don. Look to't, 
 
 Mons. [Aside.] Then I had best confess all, 
 before he discover all, which he will soon do. — 
 
 Enter Parson. 
 O here's the parson too ! he won't be in choler, 
 nor brandish toledo before the parson sure ?— [ 7'o 
 Don Diego.] Well, uncle, I must confess, rather 
 than lose your favour, he is no dancing-master. 
 
 Don. No ! 
 
 Ger. What! has the fool betrayed us then at last? 
 nay, then 'tis time to be gone ; come away, miss. 
 
 [Going out. 
 
 Don. Nay, sir, if you pass this way, my toledo 
 will jiass that way, look you. 
 
 [Thrusts at him with his sword. 
 
 Hip. O hold, Mr. Gerrard !— Hold father ! 
 
 Mons. I tell you, uncle, he's an honest gentle- 
 man, means no hurt, and came hither but upon a 
 frolic of mine and your daughter's. 
 
 [Stops Don Dieqo. 
 
 Don. Ladron! traidor ! 
 
 Mons. I tell you all's but a jest, a mere jest, I 
 vow and swear. 
 
 Don. A jest I — ^jest with my honour, voto ! ha ! 
 no family to dishonour but the grave, wise, noble, 
 honourable, illustrious, puissant, and right wor- 
 shipful family of the Formats ! — Nay, I am con- 
 tented to reprieve you, till you know who you have 
 dishonoured, and convict you of the greatness 
 of your crime before you die. We are descended, 
 look you — 
 
 Mons. Nay, pray, uncle, hear me. 
 
 Don, I say, we are descended — 
 
 Mons. 'Tis no matter for that. 
 
 Don. And my great, great, great-grandfather 
 was — 
 
 Mons. Well, well, I have something to say more 
 to the purpose. 
 
 Don. My great, great, great-grandfather, I 
 say, was — 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 65 
 
 UTons. Well, a pinmaker in — 
 X>on. But he was a gentleman for all that; fop, 
 for he was a sergeant to a company of the train- 
 bands ; and my great-great-grandfather was — 
 
 Mons. Was his son, what then ? won't you let 
 me clear this gentleman ? 
 Don. He was, he was — 
 
 J^Ions. He was a felt-maker, his son a wine- 
 cooper, your father a vintner, and so you came to 
 be a Canary merchant. 
 
 Don. But we were still gentlemen, for our coat 
 was, as the heralds say— was — 
 
 Mans. Was ! your sign was the Three Tuns, 
 and the field Canary ; now let me tell you, this 
 honest gentleman — 
 
 Don. Now, that you should dare to dishonour 
 this family ! — by the graves of my ancestors in 
 Great St. Ellen's church — 
 Mons. Yard. 
 Don. Thou shalt die for't, ladron ! 
 
 IRuns at Gerhard. 
 Mons. Hold, hold, uncle, are you mad .' 
 Hip. Oh! oh!— 
 
 Mons. Nay then, by your own Spanish rules of 
 honour (though he he my rival), I must help him ; 
 l^Draws his sword.'] since 1 brought him into dan- 
 ger. — lAside.'\ Sure he will not show his valour 
 upon his nephew and son-in-law, otherwise I should 
 be afraid of showing mine. — Here, Mr. Gerrard, go 
 in here, nay, you shall go in, Mr. Gerrard, I'll 
 secure you all ; and, parson, do you go in too with 
 'em, for I see you are afraid of a sword and the 
 other world, though you talk of it so familiarly, 
 and make it so fine a place. 
 
 lOpms a door, and thrusts Gerrard, Hippolita, 
 Parson, and Prub in, then shuts it, and yuards it 
 with his sword. 
 Don. Tu quoque, Brute ! 
 
 Mons. Nay, now, uncle, you must understand 
 reason. — What, you are not only a Don, but you 
 are a Don Quixote too, I vow and swear ! 
 
 Don. Thou spot, sploach of my family and blood! 
 I will have his blood, look you. 
 
 Mons. Pray, good Spanish uncle, have but 
 patience to hear me. Suppose — I say, suppose he 
 had done, done, done the feat to your daughter. 
 
 Don. How ! done the feat ! done the feat ! done 
 the feat ! en hora mala ! 
 
 Mons. I say, suppose, suppose — 
 Don. Suppose ! 
 
 Mons. I say, suppose he had, for I do but sup- 
 pose it ; well, I am ready to marry her, however. 
 Now marriage is as good a solder for cracked female 
 honour as blood ; and can't you suffer the shame 
 but for a quarter of an ho.ur, till the parson has 
 married us ? and then if tliere be any shame, it 
 becomes mine ; for here in England, the father 
 has nothing to do with the daughter's business, 
 honour, what d'ye call't, when once she's married, 
 d'ye see. 
 
 Drni. England ! what d'ye tell me of England ? 
 P'U be a Spaniard still, veto a me hora ! and I will 
 be revenged. — Pedro ! Juan ! Sanchez ! 
 
 [Callk at the door. 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Caotion, followed hy Purt and Plooncb, 
 in vizard masks. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. What's the matter, brother? 
 
 Don. Pedro ! Sanchez ! Juan ! — but who are 
 these, sister ? are they not men in women's clothes ? 
 what make they here ? 
 
 Mrs. Cavt. They are relations, they say, of my 
 cousin's, who pressed in when 1 let in the parson ; 
 they say my cousin invited 'em to his wedding. 
 
 Mons. Two of my relations ! — [Aside.] Ha ! 
 they are my cousins indeed of the other night ; a 
 pox take 'em ! — but that's no curse for 'em j a 
 plague take 'em then !— but how came they here ? 
 Don. [Aside.] Now must 1 have witnesses too 
 of the dishonour of my family ; it were Spanish 
 prudence to despatch 'em away out of the house, 
 before I begin my revenge. [To Flirt and 
 Flounce.] What are you ? what make you here ? 
 who would you speak with ? 
 Flirt. With Monsieur. 
 
 Don. Here he is. 
 
 Mons. Now will these jades discredit me, and 
 spoil my match just in the coupling minute. {.Aside, 
 
 Don. Do you know 'em ? 
 
 Mons. Yes, sir, sure, I know 'em. — \^Aside to 
 'em.l Pray, ladies, say as I say, or you will spoil 
 my wedding, for I am just going to be married ; and 
 if my uncle or mistress should know who you are, 
 it might break off the match. 
 
 Flou. We pome on purpose to break the match. 
 
 Mons. How ! 
 
 Flirt. Why, d'ye think to marry, and leave us 
 so in the lurch .'' 
 
 Mons. What do the jades mean ? \_Aside. 
 
 Don. Come, who are they ? what would they 
 have .'' If they come to the wedding, ladies, I 
 assure you there will be none to-day here. 
 
 Mons. They won't trouble you, sir; they are 
 going again.— Ladies, you hear what my uncle 
 says; I know you won't trouble him. — [Aside.] 
 I wish I were well rid of 'em. 
 
 Flou. You shall not think to put us off so. 
 
 {_Aside. 
 
 Don. Who are they ? what are their names ? 
 
 Flirt. We are, sir — 
 
 Mons. Nay, for heaven's sake don't tell who 
 you are, for you will undo me, aud spoil my match 
 infallibly. [Aside to 'em. 
 
 Flou. We care not, 'tis our business to spoil 
 matches. 
 
 Mons. Yon need not, for I believe married men 
 are your best customers, for greedy bachelors take 
 up with their wives. 
 
 Don. Come, pray ladies, if you have no business 
 here, be pleased to retire ; for few of us are in 
 humour to be so civil to you as you may deserve. 
 
 Mons. Ay, prithee, dear jades, get you gone. 
 
 Flirt. We will not stir. 
 
 Don. Who are they, I say, fool ? and why don't 
 they go ? 
 
 Flou. We are, sir — 
 
 Mons. Hold! hold! — They are persons of hon- 
 our and quality, and — 
 
 Flirt. We are no persons of honour and quality, 
 sir, we are — ■ 
 
 Mons. They are modest ladies, and being in a 
 kind of disguise, will not own their quality. 
 
 Flou. We modest ladies ! 
 
 Mons. Why, sometimes you are in the humour 
 to pass for women of honour and quality ; prithee, 
 dear jades, let your modesty and greatness come 
 upon you now. lAside to 'em. 
 
 Flirt. Come, sir, not to delude you, as he 
 would have us, we are — 
 
 Mons. Hold, hold ! — ■ 
 
 Flirt. The other night at the French-house — 
 F 
 
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 Mons. Hold, I say ! — 'Tis even true as Gerrard 
 says, the women will tell, I see. 
 
 Flou. If you would have her silent, stop her 
 mouth with that ring. 
 
 Mons. Will that do't ? here, here— 'Tis worth 
 one hundred and fifty pounds. — [Takes off his 
 ring and gives it her.] But I must not lose my 
 
 match, I must not lose a trout for a fly That 
 
 men should live to hire women to silence ! 
 
 Re-enter Gerrard, Hippolita, Parson, and Prue. 
 
 Don. Oh, are you come again ! 
 
 [Draws Itis sword and runs at 'em. Monsieur holds him. 
 
 Mons. Oh ! hold ! hold ! uncle ! — What, are 
 you mad, Gerrard, to expose yourself to a new 
 danger ? why would you come out yet? 
 
 Ger. Because our danger now is over, I thank 
 the parson there. And now we must beg — 
 
 [Gerraro and Hippolita kneel. 
 
 Mom. Nay, faith, uncle, forgive him now, since 
 he asks you forgiveness upon his knees, and ray 
 poor cousin too. 
 
 Hip. You are mistaken, cousin ; we ask him 
 blessing, and you forgiveness. 
 
 Mons. How, how, how ! what do you talk of 
 blessing ? what do you ask your father blessing, 
 and he ask me forgiveness ? but why should he 
 ask me forgiveness ? 
 
 Hip. Because he asks my father's blessing. 
 
 Mons. Pish! pishl I don't understand you, I 
 vow and swear. 
 
 Hip. The parson will expound it to you, cousin. 
 
 Mons. Hey '. what say you to it, parson i 
 
 Par. They are married, sir. 
 
 Mons. Married! 
 
 Mrs. Caui. Married! so, I told you what 
 twould come to. 
 
 Hon. You told us ! — 
 
 Mons. Nay, she is setting up for the reputation 
 of a witch. 
 
 Don. Married ! — Juan, Sanchez, Pedro, arm ! 
 arm ! arm ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. A witch ! a witch \ 
 
 Hip. Nay, indeed, father, now we are married, 
 you had better call the fiddlers. — Call 'em, Prue, 
 quickly. [.Exit Pbbe. 
 
 Mons. Who do you say, married, man ? 
 
 Par. Was I not sent for on purpose to marry 
 'em ? why should you wonder at it .' 
 
 Mons. No, no, you were to marry me, man, to 
 her ; 1 knew there was a mistake in't somehow ; 
 you were merely mistaken, therefore you must do 
 your business over again for me now. — The parson 
 was mistaken, uncle, it seems, ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. I suppose five or six guineas made 
 him urake the mistake, which will not be rectified 
 now, nephew. They'll marry all that come near 
 'em, and, for a guinea or two, care not what mis- 
 chief they do, nephew. 
 
 Don. Married ! — Pedrol Sanchez ! 
 
 Mons. How ! and must she be his wife then for 
 ever and ever ? have I held the door then for this, 
 like a fool as I was ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Yes, indeed! 
 
 Mom. Have I worn golilia here for this ? little 
 breeches for this ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut, Yes, truly. 
 
 Mons, And put on the Spanish honour with the 
 habit, in defending my rival .' nay then, I'll have 
 another turn of honour iu revenge. Come, uucle, 
 
 I'm of your side now, sa 1 sa ! sa ! but let's stay 
 for our force ; Sanchez, Juan, Pedro, arm ! arm ! 
 
 Enter two Blacks and a Sfs.ms.ri, followed 6y PatiB, 
 Martin, and Jive other gentlemen-like Jiddters. 
 
 Don. Murder the villain ! kill him ! 
 
 {.Running all upon Gubrabs. 
 
 Mar. Hold! hold! sir! 
 
 Don. How now ! who sent for you, friends ? 
 
 Mar. We fiddlers, sir, often come unsent for. 
 
 Don. And you are often kicked down stairs for't 
 too. 
 
 Mar. No, sir, our company was never kicked, 
 I think. 
 
 Don. Fiddlers, and not kicked ! then to preserve 
 your virgin honour, get you down stairs quickly ; 
 for we are not at present disposed much for mirth, 
 voto ! 
 
 Mons. [Peeping. "l A pox ! is it you, is it you, 
 Martin? — Nay, uncle, then 'tis in vain ; for they 
 won't be kicked down stairs,' to my knowledge. 
 They are gentlemen fiddlers, forsooth ! A pox on all 
 gentlemen fiddlers and gentlemen dancing-masters ! 
 say I. 
 
 Don. How ! ha ! {Pausing. 
 
 Mons. Well, Flirt, now I am a match for thee : 
 now I may keep you. — And there's little differ- 
 ence betwixt keeping a wench and marriage ; only 
 marriage is a little the cheaper ; but the other is 
 the more honourable now, vert and bleu ! Nay, 
 now I may swear a French oath too. Come, come, 
 I am thine j let us strike up the bargain : thine, 
 according to the honourable institution of keeping. 
 — Come. 
 
 Flirt. Nay, hold, sir; two words to the bargain; 
 first, I have ne'er a lawyer here to draw articles 
 and settlements. 
 
 Mons. How ! is the world come to that ? A 
 man cannot keep a wench without articles and set- 
 tlements ! Nay, then 'tis e'en as bad as marriage, 
 indeed, and there's no difference betwixt a wife and 
 a wencb. 
 
 Flirt. Only in cohabitation ; for the first article 
 shallbe against cohabitation : — we mistresses suffer 
 no cohabitation. 
 
 Mons. Nor wives neither now. 
 
 Flirt. Then separate maintenance, in case you 
 should take a wife, or I a new friend. 
 
 Mons. How ! that too ! then you are every whit 
 as bad as a wife. 
 
 Flirt. Then my house in town and yours in the 
 country, if you wUl. 
 
 Mons. A mere wife ! 
 
 Flirt. Then my coach apart, as well as my bed 
 apart. 
 
 Mons. As bad as a wife still ! 
 
 FlUrt. But take notice, I will have no little, 
 dirty, second-hand chariot new furbished, but a 
 large, sociable, well-painted coach ; nor will I keep 
 it till it be as well known as myself, and it come 
 to be called Flirt-coach ; nor will I have such pitiful 
 horses as cannot carry me every night to the Park ; 
 for I will not miss a night in the Park, I'd have 
 you to know. 
 
 Mons. 'Tis very well ; you must have your great, 
 gilt, fine painted coaches. I'm sure they are grown 
 so common already amongst you, that ladies of 
 quality begin to take up wiUi hackneys again, 
 jarnie ! — But what else ? 
 
8CEKE 1. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 or 
 
 Flirt. Then, that you do not think I will be 
 served by a little dirty boy in a bonnet, but a couple 
 of handsome, lusty, cleanly footraen, fit to serve 
 ladies of quality, and do their business as they 
 should do. 
 
 Mons. What then ? 
 
 Flirt. Then, that you never grow jealous of 
 them. 
 
 Mons., Why, will you make so much of them ? 
 
 Flirt. I delight to be kind to my servants. 
 
 Mons. Well, is this all ? 
 
 Flirt. No. — Then, that when you come to my 
 house, you never presume to touch a key, lift up a 
 latch, or thrust a door, without knocking before- 
 hand : and that you ask no questions, if you see a 
 stray piece of plate, cabinet, or looking-glass, in my 
 house. 
 
 Mons. Just a wife in everything But what else ? 
 
 Flirt. Then, that you take no acquaintance with 
 me abroad, nor bring me home any when you are 
 drunk, whom you will not be willing to see there 
 when you are sober. 
 
 Mons. But what allowance ? let's come to the 
 main business ; the money. 
 
 Flirt. Stay, let me think : first for advance- 
 money, five hundred pounds for pins. 
 
 Mons. A very wife ! 
 
 Flirt. Then you must take the lease of my house, 
 and furnish it as becomes one of my quality ; for 
 don't you think we'll take up with your old Queen 
 Elizabeth furniture, as your wives do. 
 
 Mons. Indeed there she is least like a wife, as 
 she says. 
 
 Flirt. Then for house-keeping, servants' wages, 
 clothes, and the rest, I'll be contented with a 
 thousand pounds a year present maintenance, and 
 but three hundred pounds a year separate mainte- 
 nance for my life, when your love grows cold. But 
 I am contented with a thousand pounds a year, 
 because for pendants, neck-laces, and all sorts of 
 jewels, and such trifles, nay, and some plate, I will 
 shift myself as I can ; make shifts, which you shall 
 not take any notice of. 
 
 Mons. A thousand pounds a year ! what will 
 wenching come to ? Time was a man might have 
 fared as well at a much cheaper rate, and a lady of 
 one's aft'ections, instead of a house, would have 
 been contented with a little chamber, three pair of 
 stairs backward, with a little closet or ladder to't ; 
 and instead of variety of new gowns and rich petti- 
 coats, with her dishabillie, or flame-colour gown 
 called Indian, and slippers of the same, would have 
 been contented for a twelvemonth ; and instead of 
 visits and gadding to plays, would have entertained 
 herself at home with St. George for Enr/land, The 
 Knight oj the Sun, or, The Practice of Piety ; and 
 instead of sending her wine and meat from the 
 French -houses, would have been contented, if you 
 had given her, poor wretch, but credit at the next 
 chandler's and chequered cellar ; and then, instead 
 of a coach, would have been well satisfied to have 
 gone out and taken the air for three or four 
 hours in the evening in the balcony, poor sou-l. 
 Well, Flirt, however, we'll agree: — 'tis but three 
 hundred pounds a year separate maintenance, 
 you say, when I am weary of thee and the 
 charge. 
 
 Don. [Aside.l — Robbed of my honour, my 
 daughter, and my revenge too ! O my dear honour ! 
 Nothing vexes me, but that the world should say I 
 
 had not Spanish policy enough to keep my daughter 
 from being debauched from me. But methinks ray 
 Spanish policy might help me yet. I have it— so 
 — I will cheat 'em all; for I will declare I under- 
 stood the whole plot and contrivance, and connived 
 at it, finding my cousin a fool, and not answering 
 my expectation. Well, but then if I approve of 
 the match, I must give this mock-dancing-master 
 my estate, especially since half he would have in 
 right of my daughter, and in spite of me. Well, I 
 am resolved to turn the cheat upon themselves, and 
 give them my consent and estate. 
 
 Mons. Come, come, ne'er be troubled, uncle : 
 'twas a combination, you see, of all these heads and 
 your daughter's, you know what I mean, uncle, not 
 to be thwarted or governed by all the Spanish 
 policy in Christendom, I'm sure my French policy 
 would not have governed her : so since I have 
 'scaped her, I am glad I have 'scaped her, 
 jarnie ! 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Come, brother, you are wiser than 
 I, you see : ay, ay. 
 
 Don. No, you think you are wiser than I now, 
 in earnest : but know, while I was thought a gull, 
 I gulled you all, and made them and you think 1 
 knew nothing of the contrivance. Confess, did not 
 you think verily that I knew nothing of it, and that 
 I was a gull ? 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Yes indeed, brother, I did think 
 verily you were a guU. 
 
 Hip. How's this ? [Listening. 
 
 Don. Alas, alas ! all the sputter I made was but 
 to make this young man, my cousin, believe, when 
 the thing should be eflfected, that it was not with 
 my connivance or consent : but since he is so well 
 satisfied, I own it. For do you think I would ever 
 have suffered her to marry a monsieur, a monsieur ? 
 guarda! — besides, it had been but a beastly inces- 
 tuous kind of a match, voto ! — 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Nay, then I see, brother, you are 
 wiser than I indeed. 
 
 Ger. So, so. 
 
 Mrs. Caut. Nay, young man, you have danced a 
 fair dance for yourself, royally ; and now you may 
 go jig it together till you are both weary. And 
 though you were so eager to have him, Mrs. Minx, 
 you'll soon have your bellyfull of him, let me tell 
 you, mistress. 
 
 Prue. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mons. How, uncle ! what was't you said ? Nay, 
 if I had your Spanish policy against me, it was no 
 wonder I missed of my aim, mon foy I 
 
 Don, I was resolved too my daughter should not 
 marry a coward, therefore made the more ado to 
 try you, sir. But I find you are a brisk man of 
 honour, firm stiff Spanish honour : and that you 
 may see I deceived you all along, and you not me, 
 ay, and am able to deceive you still, for I know 
 now you think that I will give you little or nothing 
 with my daughter, like other fathers, since you 
 have married her without my consent — but, I say, 
 I'll deceive you now ; for you shall have the most 
 part of my estate in present, and the rest at my 
 death.' — There's for you : I think I have deceived 
 you now, look you. 
 
 Ger. No, indeed, sir, you have not deceived me; 
 for I never suspected your love to your daughter, 
 nor your generosity, 
 
 Don. How, sir ! have a care of saying I have nut 
 deceived you, lest I deceive you another way, 
 
 F 2 
 
68 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER. 
 
 guarda! — Pray, gentlemen, do not think any 
 man could deceive me, look you ; that any man 
 could steal my daughter, look you, without my 
 connivance : — 
 
 The less we apeak, the more we think ; 
 
 And he sees most, that seems to wink. 
 
 Hip. So, so, now I could give you my blessing, 
 father ; now you are a good complaisant father, 
 indeed : — 
 
 When children marry, parents should obey. 
 Since love claims more obedience far than they. 
 lExeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 8P0KEN BY FLIRT. 
 
 The ladies first I am to compliment, 
 Whom (if he could) the poet would content. 
 But to their pleasure then they must consent. 
 Most spoil their sport still by their modesty, 
 ■ And when they should be pleased, cry out, O 
 
 And the least smutty jest will ne'er pass by. 
 But city damsel ne*er had confidence 
 At smutty play to take the least offence. 
 But mercy shows, to show her innocence. 
 Yet lest the merchants' daughters should to-day 
 Be scandalised, not at our harmless play 
 But our Hippolita, since she's like one 
 Of us bold flirts of t'other end o'th' town ; 
 Onr poet sending to you (though unknown) 
 His best respects by me, does frankly own 
 The character to be unnatural ; 
 Hippolita is not like you at all; 
 You, while your lovers court you, still look griim, 
 And far from wooing, when they woo, cry mum ; 
 And if some of you e'er were stolen away. 
 Your portion's fault 'twas only, I dare say. 
 
 Thus much for him the poet bid me speak ; 
 Now to the men I my own mind will break. 
 You good men o'th' Exchange, on whom alone 
 We must depend, when sparks to sea are gone ; 
 Into the pit already you are come, 
 'Tis but a step more to our tiring room j 
 Where none of us but will be wondrous sweet 
 Upon an able love of Lombard-street. 
 You we had rather see between our scenes. 
 Than spendthrift fops with better clothes and miens; 
 Instead of laced ooats, belts, and pantaloons. 
 Your velvet jumps, gold chains, and grave fur gowns; 
 Instead of periwigs, and broad cock'd hats, 
 Your satin caps, small cuiTs, and vast cravats. 
 For you are fair and square in all your dealings. 
 You never cheat your doxies with gilt shillings ; 
 You ne'er will break our windows j then you are 
 Fit to make love, while our huzzas make war ; 
 And since all gentlemen must pack to sea. 
 Our gallants and our judges you must be : 
 We, therefore, and our poet, do submit, 
 To aU the camlet cloaks now i'tbe pit. 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 Indignor quidquam reprehend!, non quia crasae 
 Compositum illepideve putetur, sad quia nuper: 
 Neo veniam antiquis, sed honorem et prsemia posci.— Horat. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Mr. Horner. 
 
 Mr. Harcourt. 
 Mr. Dorilant. 
 Mr. Pinch wife, 
 Mr. Sparkish. 
 Sir Jasfbr Fedoet. 
 A Boy. 
 A Quack. 
 
 Mrs. Margery Pikchwipr 
 
 Mrs. Alithea. 
 
 My Lady Fidget. 
 
 Mrs. Dainty Fidget, 
 
 Mrs. Squeamish. 
 
 Old Lady Squeamish. 
 
 Lucy, Alithba's Maid. 
 
 Waiters, SeryantSi and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. HART. 
 
 Poets, like cudgell'd bullies, never do 
 
 At first or second blow submit to you ; 
 
 But will provoke you still, and ne'er have done, 
 
 Till you are weary first with laying on. 
 
 The late so baflled scribbler of this day, 
 
 Though he stands trembling, bids me boldly say, 
 
 What we before most plays are used to do. 
 
 For poets out of fear first draw on you ; 
 
 In a fierce prologue the still pit defy. 
 
 And, ere you speak, like Castril give the lie. 
 
 But though our Bays's battles oft I've fought. 
 
 And with bruised knuckles their dear conquests 
 
 bought ; 
 Nay, never yet fear'd odds upon the stage, 
 In prologue dare not hector with the age ; 
 
 But would take quarter from your saving hands, 
 Though Bays within all yielding countermands. 
 Says, you confederate wits no quarter give, 
 Therefore his play shan't ask your leave to live. 
 Well, let the vain rash fop, by hufiing so, 
 Think to obtain the better terms of you ; 
 But we, the actors, humbly will submit, 
 Now, and at any time, to a full pit ; 
 Nay, often we anticipate your rage, 
 And murder poets for you on our stage : 
 We set no guards upon our tiring-room, 
 But when with flying colours there you come. 
 We patiently, you see, give up to you 
 Our poets, virgins, nay, our matrons too. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — Horner's Lodging. 
 Enter Horner, and Qnackfotlowing him at a distance. 
 
 Horn. {Aside."] A. quack is as fit for a pimp, as 
 a midwife for a bawd ; tliey are still but in their 
 way, both helpers of natare.— [Aloud.'] Well, my 
 dear doctor, hast thou done what I desired ? 
 
 Quack. I have undone you for ever with the 
 women, and reported you throughout the whole 
 I own as bad as a eunuch, with as much trouble as 
 it I had made you one in earnest. 
 
 Horn. But have you told all the midwives yon 
 know, the orange wenches at the playhouses, the 
 city husbands, and old fumbling keepers of this 
 end of the town ? for they'll be the readiest to 
 report it. 
 
 Quack. I have told all the chambermaids, wait- 
 ing-women, tire-women, and old women of my 
 acquaintance ; nay, and whispered it as a secret to 
 'em, and to the whisperers of Whitehall ; so that 
 you need not doubt 'twill spread, and you will be 
 as odious to the handsome young women, as — 
 
70 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 Horn. As the small-pox. Well — 
 
 Quack. And to the married women of this end 
 of the town, as — 
 
 Horn. As the great ones ; nay, as their own 
 husbands. 
 
 Quack. And to the city dames, as aniseed Robin, 
 of filthy and contemptible memory ; and they will 
 frighten their children with your name, especially 
 their females. 
 
 Horn. And cry, Horner's coming to carry you 
 away. I am only afraid 'twill not be believed. 
 You told 'em it was by an English-French disas- 
 ter, and an English-French chirurgeon, who has 
 given me at once not only a cure, but an antidote 
 for the future against that damned malady, and 
 that worse distemper, love, and all other women's 
 evils? 
 
 Quack. Your late journey into France has made 
 it the more credible, and your being here a fort- 
 night before yon appeared in public, looks as if you 
 apprehended the shame, which I wonder ybu do 
 not Well, I have been hired by young gallants to 
 belie 'em t'other way ; but you are the first would 
 be thought a man unfit for women. 
 
 Horn. Dear Mr. doctor, let vain rogues be con- 
 tented only to be thought abler men than they are, 
 generally 'tis all the pleasure they have ; but mine 
 Ues another way. i 
 
 Quack. You take, methinks, a very preposterous 
 way to it, and as ridiculous as if we operators in 
 physic should put forth bills to disparage our medi- 
 caments, with hopes to gain customers. 
 
 Horn. Doctor, there are quacks in love as well 
 as physic, who get but the fewer and worse patients 
 for their boasting; a good name is seldom got by 
 giving it one's self; and women, no more than 
 honour, are compassed by bragging. Come, come, 
 doctor, the wisest lawyer never discovers the merits 
 of his cause tiU the trial ; the wealthiest man con- 
 ceals his riches, and the cunning gamester his play. 
 Shy husbands and keepers, like old rooks, are not 
 to be cheated but by a new unpractised trick : 
 false friendship will now no more than false dice 
 upon 'em ; no, not in the city. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Boi/. There are two ladies and a gentleman 
 coming up. [_Ejeit. 
 
 Horn. A pox ! some unbelieving sisters of my 
 former acquaintance, who, I am afraid, expect their 
 sense should be satisfied of the falsity of the report. 
 No — this formal fool and women ! 
 
 Enter Sir Jaspeh Fidget, Lady Fidget, and 
 Mrs, Dainty Fidget, 
 
 Quack. His wife and sister. 
 
 Sir Jasp. My coach breaking just now before 
 vour door, sir, I look upon as an occasional repri- 
 mand to me, sir, for not kissing your hands, sir, 
 since your coming out of France, sir ; and so my 
 disaster, sir, has been my good fortune, sir ; and 
 this is my wife and sister, sir. 
 
 Horn. What then, sir .'* 
 
 Sir Jasp. My lady, and sister, sir. — Wife, t'.iis 
 is master Horner. 
 
 Lady Fidff. Master Horner, husband ! 
 
 Sir Jasp. My lady, my lady Fidget, sir. 
 
 Horn. So, sir. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Won't you be acquainted with her, 
 sir}— [Aside.'] So, the report is true, I find, by 
 
 his coldness or aversion to the sex ; but I'll play 
 the wag with him, — [Aloud.] Pray salute my wife, 
 my lady, sir. 
 
 Horn. I will kiss no man's wife, sir, for him, 
 sir ; I have taken my eternal leave, sir, of the sex 
 already, sir, 
 
 Sir_ Jasp. [Aside.] Ha ! ha ! ha ! I'll plague 
 him yet, — [Aloud.] Not know my wife, sir? 
 
 Horn,. I do know your wife, sir ; she's a woman, 
 sir, and consequently a monster, sir, a greater 
 monster than a husband, sir. 
 
 Sir Jasp. A husband ! how, sir ? 
 
 Horn. So, sir ; but I make no more cuckolds, 
 sir, [Makes horns. 
 
 Sir ./asp. Ha I ha ! ha ! Mercury ! Mercury ! 
 
 Lad;/ Fidg. Pray, sir Jasper, let us be goae from 
 this rude fellow, 
 
 Dain. Who, by his breeding, would think he 
 had ever been in France ? 
 
 Lady Fidg. Foh ! he's hut too much a French 
 fellow, such as hate women of quality and virtue 
 for their love to their husbands. Sir Jasper, a 
 woman is hated by 'em as much for loving her 
 husband as for loving their money. But pray let's 
 be gone. 
 
 Horn. You do well, madam ; for I have nothing 
 that you came for. I have brought over not so 
 much as a bawdy picture, no new postures, nor the 
 second part of the Ecole des Filles ; nor — 
 
 Quack. Hold, for shame, sir ! what d'ye mean ? 
 you'll ruin yourself for ever with the sex — 
 
 \_Apart to Horner, 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ha ! ha ! ha ! he hates women per- 
 fectly, I find. 
 
 Dain. What pity 'tis he should ! 
 
 Lady Fidg. Ay, he's a base rude fellow for't. 
 But affectation makes not a woman more odious to 
 them than virtue, 
 
 Horn. Because your virtue is your greatest affec- 
 tation, madam. 
 
 Lady Fidg. How, you saucy ffellow ! would you 
 wrong my honour ? 
 
 Horn. If I could. 
 
 Lady Fidg. How d'ye mean, sir ? 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ha ! ha ! ha ! no, he can't wrong 
 your ladyship's honour, upon my honour. He, 
 poor man — hark you in your ear — a mere eunuch. 
 
 [Whispers. 
 
 Lady Fidg. O filthy French beast ! foh ! foh ! 
 why do we stay ? let's be gone : I can't endure 
 the sight of him. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Stay but till the chairs come ; they'll 
 be here presently. 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, no. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Nor can I stay longer. 'Tis, let me 
 see, a quarter and half quarter of a minute past 
 eleven. The council will be set ; I must away. 
 Business must be preferred always before love and 
 ceremony with the wise, Mr. Horner. 
 
 Horn. And the impotent, sir Jasper. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ay, ay, the impotent, master Horner; 
 hah 1 hah ! hah ! 
 
 Lady Fidg. What, leave us with a filthy man 
 alone in his lodgings'? 
 
 Sir Jasp. He's an innocent man now, you know. 
 Pray stay, I'll hasten the chairs to you. — Mr, 
 Horner, your servant ; I should be glad to see you 
 at my house. Pray come and dine with me, and 
 play at cards with my wife after dinner ; you aie 
 fit for women at that game yet, ha! ha! — 
 
THE COUNTRy WIFE. 
 
 71 
 
 [Aside.'] 'Tis as much a husband's prudence to 
 provide innocent diversion for a wife as to hinder 
 her unlawful pleasures ; and he had better employ 
 her than let her employ herself. — [Aloud.] Fare- 
 well. 
 
 Horn. Your servant, sir Jasper. {.Exit Sir Jasper. 
 
 Lady Fidg. I will not stay with him, fob ! — 
 
 Horn. Nay, madam, I beseech you stay, if it be 
 but to see I can be as civil to ladies yet as they 
 would desire. 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, no, fob ! you cannot be civil to 
 ladies. 
 
 Dain. You as civil as ladies would desire .' 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, no, no, fob ! fob ! fob I 
 
 [Exeunt Lady Fidget and Mrs. Dainty Pidoet.' 
 
 Quads. Now, 1 think, I, or you yourself rather, 
 have done your business with the women. 
 
 Horn. Thou art an ass. Don't you see already, 
 upon the report and my carriage, this grave man 
 of business leaves his wife in my lodgings, invites 
 me to his bouse and wife, who before would not be 
 acquainted with me out of jealousy ? 
 
 Quack. Nay, by this means you may be the 
 more acquainted with the husbands, but the less 
 with the wives. 
 
 Horn. Let me alone ; if I can but abuse the 
 husbandfi, I'll soon disabuse the wives. Stay — I'll 
 reckon you up the advantages I am like to have by 
 my stratagem. First, I shall be rid of all my old 
 acquaintances, the most insatiable sort of duns, that 
 invade our lodgings in a morning ; and next to the 
 pleasure of making a new mistress is that of being 
 rid of an old one, and of all old debts. Love, 
 when it comes to be so, is paid the most unwillingly. 
 
 Quack. "Well, you may be so rid of your old 
 acquaintances ; but how will you get any new ones ? 
 
 Horn. Doctor, thou wilt never make a good 
 chemist, thou art so incredulous and impatient. 
 Ask but all the young fellows of the town if they 
 do not lose more time, like huntsmen, in starting 
 the game, than in running it down. One knows 
 not where to find 'em ; who will or will not. 
 Women of quality are so civil, you can hardly dis- 
 tinguish love from good breeding, and a man is 
 often mistaken : but now 1 can be sure she that 
 shows an aversion to me loves the sport, as those 
 women that are gone, whom I warrant to be right. 
 And then the next thing is, your women of honour, 
 as you call 'em, are only chary of their reputations, 
 not their persons ; and 'tis scandal they would 
 avoid, not men. Now may I have, by the reputa- 
 tion of a eunuch, the privileges of one, and be seen 
 in a lady's chamber in a morning as early as her 
 husband ; kiss virgins before their parents or lovers ; 
 and may be, in short, the pars-par-touf of the 
 town. Now, doctor. 
 
 Quack. Nay, now you shall be the doctor ; and 
 your process is so new that we do not know but it 
 may succeed. 
 
 Horn. Not so new neither ; probatum est, 
 doctor. 
 
 Quack. Well, 1 wish you luck, and many patients, 
 whilst I go to mine. . lExit. 
 
 Enter Harcouht and Dobilant. 
 
 Har. Come, your appearance at the play yester- 
 day has, I hope, hardened you for the futur^ against 
 the women's contempt and the men's raillery ; and 
 now you'll abroad as you were wont. 
 
 Horn. Did I not bear it bravely ? 
 
 Dor. With a most theatrical impudence, nay, 
 more than the orange-wenches show there, or a 
 drunken vizard-mask, or a great-bellied actress ; 
 nay, or the most impudent of creatures, an ill poet; 
 or what is yet more impudent, a second-hand critic. 
 
 Horn. But what say the ladies ? have they no 
 pity? 
 
 Har. What ladies? The vizard-masks, you 
 know, never pity a man when all's gone, though in 
 their service. 
 
 Dor. And for the women in the boxes, you'd 
 never pity them when 'twas in your power. 
 
 Har. They say 'tis pity but all that deal with 
 common women should be served so. 
 
 Dor. Nay, I dare swear they won't admit you to 
 play at cards with them, go to plays with 'em, or 
 do the little duties which other shadows of men are 
 wont to do for 'em. 
 
 Horn. Who do you call shadows of men ? 
 
 Dor. Half-men. 
 
 Horn. What, boys ? 
 
 Dor. Ay, your old boys, old beaux gargons, 
 who, like superannuated stallions, are suifered to 
 run, feed, and whinny with the mares as long as 
 they live, though they can do nothing else. 
 
 Horn. Well, a pox on love and wenching ! 
 Women serve but to keep a man from better com- 
 pany. Though I can't enjoy them, I shall you the 
 more. Good fellowship and friendship are lasting, 
 rational, and manly pleasures. 
 
 Har. For all that, give me some of those plea- 
 sures you call effeminate too ; they help to relish 
 one another. 
 
 Horn. They disturb one another. 
 
 Har. No, mistresses are like books. If you 
 pore upon them too much, they doze you, and make 
 you unfit for company ; but if used discreetly, you 
 are the fitter for conversation by 'em. 
 
 Dor. A mistress should be like a little country 
 retreat near the town ; not to dwell in constantly, 
 but only for a night and away, to taste the town 
 the better when a man returns. 
 
 Horn. I tell you, 'tis as hard to be a good fel- 
 low, a good friend, and a lover of women, as 'tis 
 to be a good fellow, a good friend, and a lover of 
 money. You cannot follow both, then choose your 
 side. Wine gives you liberty, love takes it away. 
 
 Dor. Gad, he's in the right on't. 
 
 Horn. Wine gives you joy ; love, grief and tor- 
 tures, besides surgeons. Wine makes us witty ; 
 love, only sots. Wine makes us sleep ; love breaks 
 it. 
 
 Dor. By the world he has reason, Harcourt. 
 
 Horn. Wine makes — 
 
 Dor. Ay, wine makes "us — makes us princes; 
 love makes us beggars, poor rogues, egad — and 
 wine — 
 
 Horn. So, there's one converted. — No, no, love 
 and wine, oil and vinegar. 
 
 Har. 1 grant it ; love will still be uppermost. 
 
 Horn. Come, for my part, I will have only those 
 glorious manly pleasures of being very drunk and 
 very slovenly. 
 
 Enter B(iy. 
 
 Boy. Mr. Sparkish is below, sir. lExit- 
 
 Har. What, my dear friend ! a rogue that is 
 fond of me only, I think, for abusing him. 
 
 Dor. No, he can no more think the men laugh 
 at him than that women jilt him ; his opinion of 
 himself is so good. 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 Horn. Well, there's another pleasure by drink, 
 ing I thought not of, — I shall lose his acquaintance, 
 because he cannot drink : and you know 'tis a very 
 hard thing to be rid of him ; for he's one of those 
 nauseous offerers at wit, who, like the worst 
 fiddlers, run themselves into all companies. 
 
 Har. One that, by being in the company of men 
 of sense, would pass for one. 
 
 Morn. And may so to the short-sighted world ; 
 as a false jewel amongst true ones is not discerned 
 at a distance. His company is as troublesome to 
 us as a cuckold's when you have a mind to his 
 wife's, 
 
 Har. No, the rogue will not let us enjoy one 
 another, but ravishes our conversation ; though he 
 signifies no more to't than sir Martin Marall's 
 gaping, and awkward thrumming upon the lute, 
 does to his man's voice and music. 
 
 Dor. And to i)ass for a wit in town shows him- 
 self a fool every night to us, that are guilty of the 
 plot. 
 
 Horn. Such wits as he are, to a company of 
 reasonable men, like rooks to the gamesters j who 
 only fill a room at the table, but are so far from 
 contributing to the play, that they only serve to 
 spoil the fancy of those that do. 
 
 Dor. Nay, they are used like rooks too, snubbed, 
 checked, and abused; yet the rogues will hang on. 
 
 Horn. A pox on 'em, and all that force nature, 
 and would be still what she forbids 'em ! Affecta- 
 tion is her greatest monster. 
 
 Har. Most men are the contraries to that they 
 would seem. Your bully, you see, is a, coward 
 with a long sword ; the little humbly-fawning 
 physician, with his ebony cane, is he that; destr(\ys 
 men. < 
 
 Dor. The usurer, a poor rogue, pMsessed of 
 mouldy bonds and mortgages ; and we they call 
 spendthrifts, are only wealthy, who lay out his 
 money upon daily new purchases of pleasure. 
 
 Horn. Ay, your arrantest cheat is your trustee 
 or executor ; your .jealous man, the greatest 
 cuckold ; your churchman the greatest atheist; and 
 your noisy pert rogue of a wit, the greatest fop, 
 dullest ass, and worst company, as you shall see ; 
 for here he comes. 
 
 Enter SPARKtsH. 
 
 Spark. How is't, sparks ? how is't ? Well, faith, 
 Harry, I must rally thee a little, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 upon the report in town of thee, ha ! ha ! ha ! I 
 can't hold i'failh ; shall 1 speak ? 
 
 Horn. Yes ; but you'll be so bitter then. 
 
 Spark. Honest Dick and Frank here shall 
 answer for me ; I will not be extreme bitter, by the 
 universe. 
 
 Har. We will be bound in a ten thousand pound 
 bond, he shall not be bitter at all. 
 
 Dor. Nor sharp, nor sweet. 
 
 Horn. What, not downright insipid .' 
 
 Spark. Nay then, since you are so brisk, and 
 provoke me, take what follows. You must know, 
 I was discoursing and rallying with some ladies 
 yesterday, and they happened to talk of the fine 
 new signs in town — 
 
 Horn, Very fine ladies, I believe. 
 
 Spark. Said I, I know where the best new sign 
 
 is. Where ? says one of the ladies.— In Covent- 
 
 Garden, I replied. — Said another, In what street ?— 
 In Russel-Btreet, answered I.— Lord, says another, 
 
 I'm sure there was never a fine new sign there 
 
 yesterday Yes, but there was, said I again ; and 
 
 it came out of France, and has been there a fort- 
 night. 
 
 Dor. A pox I I can hear no more, prithee. 
 
 Horn. No, hear him out ; let him tune his crowd 
 a while. 
 
 Har. The worst music, the greatest preparation. 
 
 Spark. Nay, faith, I'll make you laugh. — Jt 
 cannot be, says a third lady. — Yes, yes, quoth I 
 again. — Says a fourth lady — 
 
 Horn. Look to't, we'll have no more ladies. 
 
 Spark. No — then mark, mark, now. Said I to 
 the fourth, Did you never see Mr. Horner? he 
 lodges in Russel-street, and he's a sign of a man, 
 you know, since he came out of France ; ha I ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Horn. But the devil take me if thine be the sign 
 of a jest. 
 
 Spark. With that Siey all fell a-laughing, till 
 they bepissed themselves. What, but it does not 
 move you, methinks .'' Well, I see one had as 
 good go to law without a witness, as break a jest 
 without a laughter on one's side.— Come, come, 
 sparks, but where do we dine .' I have left at 
 Whitehall an earl, to dine with you. 
 
 Dor, Why, I thought thou hadst loved a man 
 with a title, better than a suit with a French trim- 
 ming to't. 
 
 Har. Go la him again. 
 
 Spark. No, sir, a wit to me is the greatest title 
 in the world. 
 
 Horn. But go dine with your earl, sir ; he may 
 be exceptions. We are your friends, and will not 
 take it ill to be left, I do assure you. 
 
 Har. Nay, faith, he shall go to him. 
 
 Spark. Nay, pray, gentlemen. 
 
 Dor. We'll thrust you out, if you won't ; what, 
 disappoint anybody for us ? 
 
 Spark. Nay, dear gentlemen, hear me. 
 
 Horn. No, no, sir, by no means ; pray go, sir. 
 
 Spark, Why, dear rogues — 
 
 Dor. No, no. IThey all tlirust him out of the room. 
 
 ^K. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Re-enter Sparkish. 
 
 Spark. But, sparks, pray hear me. What, d'ye 
 think I'll eat then with gay shallow fops and 
 silent coxcombs ? I think wit as necessary at 
 dinner, as a glass of good wine ; and that's the 
 reason 1 never have any stomach when 1 eat alone. 
 - — Come, but where do we dine ? 
 
 Horn. Even where you will. 
 
 Spark. At Chateline's ? 
 
 Dor. Yes, if you will. 
 
 Spark. Or at the Cock ? 
 
 Dor. Yes, if you please. 
 
 Spark. Or at the Dog and Partridge ? 
 
 Horn. Ay, if you have a mind to't ; for we shall 
 dine at neither. 
 
 Spark. Pshaw ! with your fooling we shall lose 
 the new play ; and I would no more miss seeing a 
 new play t!\e first day, than I would miss sitting in 
 the wits' row. Therefore I'll go fetch my mistress, 
 and away. lExit. 
 
 Enter Mr. Pinchwipe. 
 
 Horn. Who have we here ? Pinchwife } 
 Pinch. Gentlemen, your humble servant. 
 Horn. Well, Jack, by thy long absence from the 
 
town, the grumnesa of thy countenance, and the 
 slovenliness of thy habit, 1 should give thee joy, 
 should I not, of marriage ? 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.'] Death 1 does he know I'm 
 married too ? I thought to have concealed it from 
 him at least. — lAloud.'] My long stay in the country 
 will excuse my dress ; and I have a suit of law that 
 brings me up to town, that puts me out of humour. 
 Besides, I must give Sparkish to-'morrow five 
 thousand pounds to lie with my sister. 
 
 Horn. Nay, you country gentlemen, rather than 
 not purchase, will buy anything ; and he is a 
 cracked titlC) if we may quibble. Well, but am I 
 to give thee joy ? I heard thou wert married. 
 
 Pinch. What then? 
 
 Horn. Why, the next thing that is to be heard, 
 is, thou'rt a cuckold. 
 
 Pinch. Insupportable name ! iAside. 
 
 Horn. But I did not expect marriage frdm such 
 a whoremaster as you ; one that knew the town so 
 much, and women so well. 
 
 Pinch. Why, I have married no London 
 wife. 
 
 Horn. Pshaw ! that's all one. That grave cir- 
 cumspection in marrying a country wife, is like 
 refusing a deceitful pampered Smithfield jade, to 
 go and be cheated by a friend in the country. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] A pox on him and his simile ! — 
 [Aioud.] At least we are a little surer of the breed 
 there, know what her keeping has been, whether 
 foiled or unsound. 
 
 Horn. Come, come, I have known a clap gotten 
 in Wales ; and there are cousins, justices' clerks, 
 and chaplains in the country, I won't say coach- 
 men. But she's handsome and young ? 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] I'll answer as I should do. — 
 [Aland.] No, no ; she has no beauty but her 
 youth, no attraction but her modesty : wholesome, 
 homely, and huswifely ; that's all. 
 
 2}or. He talks as like a grazier as he looks. 
 
 Pinch. She's too awkward, ill-favoured, and 
 silly to bring to town. 
 
 Har. Then methinks you should bring her to be 
 taught breeding. 
 
 Pinch. To be taught ! no, sir, I' thank you. 
 Good wives and private soldiers should be ignorant 
 — I'll keep her from your instructions, I warrant 
 you. 
 
 Har, The rogue is as jealous as if his wife were 
 not ignorant. IAside. 
 
 Horn. Why, if she be ill-favoured, there will be 
 less danger here for you than by leaving her in the 
 country. We have such variety of dainties that 
 we are seldom hungry. 
 
 Dor. But they have always coarse, constant, 
 swingeing stomachs in the country. 
 
 Har. Foul feeders indeed ! 
 
 Dor. And your hospitality is great there. 
 
 Har. Open house ; every man's welcome. 
 
 Pinch. So, so, gentlemen. 
 
 Horn. But prithee, why shouldst thou marry 
 her ? If she be ugly, ill-bred, and silly, she must 
 be rich then. 
 
 Pinch. As rich as if she brought me twenty 
 thousand pound out of this town ; for she'll be as 
 sure not to spend her moderateportion, as a London 
 baggage would be to spend hers, let it be what it 
 would : so 'tis all one. Then, because she's ugly, 
 she's the likelier to be my own ; and being ill-bred, 
 she'll hate conversation ; and since silly and inno- 
 
 cent, will not know the difference betwixt a man of 
 one-and-twenty and one of forty. 
 
 Horn. Nine — to my knowledge. But if she be 
 silly, she'll expect as much from a man of forty- 
 nine, as from him of one-and-twenty. But me- 
 thinks wit is more necessary than beauty ; and I 
 think no young woman ugly that has it, and no 
 handsome woman agreeable without it. 
 
 Pinch. 'Tis my maxim, he's a fool that marries ; 
 but he's a greater that does not marry a fooL 
 What is wit in a wife good for, but to make a man 
 a cuckold ? 
 
 Horn. Yes, to keep it from his knowledge. 
 
 Pinch. A fool cannot contrive to make her hus- 
 band a cuckold. 
 
 Horn. No j but she'll club with a man that can : 
 and what is worse, if she cannot make her husband 
 a cuckold, she'll make him jealous, and pass for 
 one : and then 'tis all one. 
 
 Pinch. Well, well, I'll take care for one. My 
 wife shall make me no cuckold, though she had your 
 help, Mr. Horner. I understand the town, sir. 
 
 Dor. His help ! {_Aside. 
 
 Har. He's come newly to town, it seems, and 
 has not heard how things are with him. IAside. 
 
 Horn. But tell me, has marriage cured thee of 
 whoring, which it seldom does ? 
 
 Har. 'Tis more than age can do. 
 
 Horn. No, the word is, I '11 marry and live honest: 
 but a marriage vow is like a penitent gamester's 
 oath, and entering into bonds and penalties to stint 
 himself to such a particular small sum at play for 
 the future, which makes him but the more eager ; 
 and not being able to hold out, loses his money 
 again, and his forfeit to boot. 
 
 Dor. Ay, ay, a gamester will be a gamester whilst 
 his money lasts, and a whoremaster whilst his 
 vigour. 
 
 Har. Nay, I have known ^era, when they are 
 broke, and can lose no more, keep a fumbling with 
 the box in their hands to fool with only, and hinder 
 other gamesters. 
 
 Dor. That had wherewithal to make lusty stakes. 
 
 Pinch. Well, gentlemen, you may laugh at me ; 
 but you shall never lie with my wife : I know the 
 town. 
 
 Horn. But prithee,' was not the way you were 
 in better ? is not keeping better than marriage .-• 
 
 Pinch. A pox on't ! the jades would jilt me, I 
 could never keep a whore to myself. 
 
 Horn. So, then you only married to keep a whore 
 to yourself. Well, but let me tell you, women, as 
 you say, are like soldiers, made constant and loyal 
 by good pay, rather than by oaths and covenants. 
 Therefore I'd advise my friends to keep rather than 
 marry, since too I find, by your example, it" does 
 not serve one's turn ; for I saw you yesterday in 
 the eighten-penny place with a pretty country- 
 wench. 
 
 Pinch. How the devil ! did he see my wife then ? 
 I sat there that she might not be seen. But she 
 shall never go to a play again. IAside. 
 
 Horn. What ! dost thou blush, at nine-and-forty, 
 for having been seen with a wench ?- 
 
 Dor. No, faith, I warrant 'twas his wife, which 
 he seated there out of sight ; for he's a cunning 
 rogue, and understands the town. 
 
 Har. He blushes. Then 'twas his wife ; for 
 men are now more ashamed to be seen with them 
 in public than with a wench. 
 
74 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 Pinch. Hell and damnation ! I'm undone, since 
 Horner lias seen her, and they know 'twas she. 
 
 lAside. 
 
 Horn. But prithee, was it thy wife ? She was 
 exceeding pretty : I was in love with her at that 
 distance. 
 
 Pinch. You are like never to be nearer to her. 
 Your servant, gentlemen. lOffert to go. 
 
 Horn. Nay, prithee stay. 
 
 Pinch. I cannot ; I will not. 
 
 Horn. Come, you shall dine with us. 
 
 Pinch. I have dined already. 
 
 Horn. Come, I know thou hast not : I'll treat 
 thee, dear rogue ; thou sha't spend none of thy 
 Hampshire money to-day. 
 
 Pinch. Treat me ! So, he uses me already like 
 his cuckold. iAside. 
 
 Horn. Nay, you shall not go. 
 
 Pinch. I must ; I have business at home. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Har. To beat his vpife. He's as jealous of 
 her, as a Cheapside husband of a Covent-garden 
 wife. 
 
 Horn. Why, 'tis as hard to find an old whore- 
 master without jealousy and the gout, as a young 
 one without fear, or the pox : — 
 
 As gout in age from pox in youth proceeds. 
 
 So wenching past, then jealousy succeeds ; 
 
 The worst disease that love and wenching 
 breeds. \,Exeunt. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Pinohwife's House. 
 
 Mrs. Margery Pinchwifb and Alithba. Mr. PiNCHwrFB 
 peeping behind at the door. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Pray, sister, where are the best 
 fields and woods to walk in, in London ? 
 
 Alith. [Aside.} A pretty question! — [Aloud] 
 Why, sister, Mulberry-garden and St. James's- 
 park ; and, for close walks, the New Exchange. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Pray, sister, tell me why my hus- 
 band looks so grum here in town, and keeps me up 
 so close, and will not let me go a-walking, nor let 
 me wear my best gown yesterday. 
 
 Alith. O, he's jealous, sister. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Jealous ! what's that ? 
 
 Alith. He's afraid you should love another man. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch, How should he be afraid of my 
 loving another man, when he will not let me see 
 any but himself? 
 
 Alith. Did he not carry you yesterday to a play .' 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Ay ; but we sat amongst ugly peo- 
 ple. He would not let rae come near the gentry, 
 who sat under us, so that I could not see 'em. He 
 told me, none but naughty women sat there, whom 
 they toused and moused. But I would have ven- 
 tured, for all that. 
 
 Alith But how did you like the play ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Indeed I was weary of the play ; but 
 I liked hugeously the actors. They are the good- 
 liest, properest men, sister! 
 
 Alith. O, but you must not like the actors, 
 sisrter. 
 
 Mm. Pinch. Ay, how should I help it, sister ? 
 Pi-ay,, sister, when my husband comes in, will you 
 ask leave for me to go a-walking ? 
 
 Alith. A-walking ! ha ! ha ! Lord, a country- 
 gentlewoman's pleasure is the drudgery of a foot- 
 post ; and she requires as much airing as her 
 husband's horses. — [Aside.] But here comes your 
 husband : I'll ask, though I'm sure he'll not 
 grant it. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. He says he won't let me go abroad 
 for fear of catching the pox. 
 
 Alith. Fy ! the small-pox you should say. 
 
 Enter Pinchwifb. 
 Mrs. Pinch. O my dear, dear bud, welcome 
 home ! Why dost thou look so fropish ? who has 
 liangered thee ? 
 
 Pinch. You're a fool. 
 
 [Mrs. PrNCHWiFE goes aside, and cries 
 
 Alith. Faith, so she is, for crying for no fault, 
 poor tender creature ! 
 
 Pinch. What, you would have her as impudent 
 as yourself, as arrant a jilfiirt, a gadder, a magpie ; 
 and to say all, a mere notorious town-woman ? 
 
 Alith. Brother, yon are my only censurer ; and 
 the honour of your family will sooner suffer in your 
 wife there than in me, though I take the 'innocent 
 liberty of the town. 
 
 Pinch. Hark you, mistress, do not talk so before 
 my wife. — The innocent liberty of the town ! 
 
 Alith. Why, pray, who boasts of any intrigue 
 with me .' what lampoon has made my name noto- 
 rious ? what ill women frequent my lodgings.' I 
 keep no company with any women of scandalous 
 reputations. 
 
 Pinch. No, you keep the men of scandalous 
 reputations company. 
 
 Alith. Where .' would you not have me civil ? 
 answer 'em in a box at the plays, in the drawing- 
 x'oom at Whitehall, in St. James's-park, Mulberry- 
 garden, or — 
 
 Pinch. Hold, hold ! do not teach my wife where 
 the men are to be found : I believe she's the worse 
 for your town-documents already. I bid you keep 
 her in ignorance, as I do. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Indeed, be not angry with her, bud, 
 she will tell me nothing of the town, though 1 ask 
 her a thousand times a day. 
 
 Pinch. Then you are very inquisitive to know, 
 I find? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Not Iindeed,dear; Ihate London. 
 Our place-house in the country is worth a thousand 
 oft : would I were there again ! 
 
 Pinch, So you shall, I warrant. But were you 
 not talking of plays and players when I came in ? 
 — [To Alithea.] You are her encourager insuch 
 discourses. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. No, indeed, dear ; she chid me 
 just now for liking the playermen. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] Nay, if she be so innocent as 
 to own to me her liking them, there is no hurt 
 ia't..— [Aloud.] Come, my poor rogue, but thou 
 likest none better th^n me ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Yes, indeed, but I do. The player- 
 men are finer folks. 
 
 Pinch, But you love none better than me ? 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 75 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. You are my own dear bud, and I 
 know you. 1 hate a stranger. 
 
 Pinch, Ay, my dear, you must love me only ; 
 and not be like the naughty town-women, who only 
 hate their husbands, and love every man else ; love 
 plays, visits, fine coaches, fine clothes, fiddles, 
 balls, treats, and so lead a wicked town-life. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Nay, if to enjoy-ail these things 
 be a town-life, London is not so bad a place, 
 dear. 
 
 Pinch. How V if you love me, you must hate 
 London. 
 
 Alith. The fool has forbid me discovering to her 
 the pleasures of the town, and he is now setting 
 her agog upon them himself^ \^Aside. 
 
 Mrs. pinch. But, husband, do the town-women 
 love the playermen too ? 
 
 Pinch. Yes, I warrant you. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch, Ay, I warrant you. 
 
 Pinch. Why, you do not, I hope ? ** 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. No, no, bud. But why have we 
 no playermen in the country ,-' 
 
 Pinch. Ha ! — Mrs. Minx, ask me no more to go 
 to a play. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Nay, why, love ? I did not care 
 for going : but when you forbid me, you make me, 
 as 'twere, desire it. 
 
 Alith. So 'twill be in other things, I warrant. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Pray let me go to a play, dear. 
 
 pinch. Hold your peace, I wo' not. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Why, love .'' 
 
 Finch. Why, I'll tell you. 
 
 Alith. Nay, if he tell her, she'll give him more 
 cause to forbid her that place. \_Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Pray why, dear ? 
 
 Pinch. First, you like the actors ; and the gal- 
 lants may like you. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. What, a homely country girl ! 
 No, bud, nobody will like me. 
 
 Pinch. I tell you yes, they may. 
 
 Mrs. Finch. No, no, you jest — I won't believe 
 you : I will go. 
 
 Pinch. I tell you then, that one of the lewdest 
 fellows in town, who saw you there, told me he was 
 in love with you. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Indeed! who, who, pray who 
 was't.'* 
 
 Pinch. I've gone too far, and slipped before I 
 was aware ; how overjoyed she is ! \_Aside. 
 
 Mis. Pinch. Was it any Hampshire gallant, 
 any of our neighbours 1 I promise you, I am be- 
 holden to him. 
 
 Pinch. I I'.romise you, you lie ; for he would 
 but ruin you, as he has done hundreds. He has 
 no other love for women but that; such as he 
 look upon women, like basilisks, only to destroy 
 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Ay, but if he loves me, why should 
 he ruin me ? answer me to that. Methinks he 
 should not, I would do him no harm. 
 
 Alith. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Pinch. 'Tis very well ; but I'll keep him from 
 doing you any harm, or me either. But here 
 comes company; get you in, get you in. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. But pray, husband, is he a pretty 
 gentleman that loves me ? 
 
 Pinch. In, baggage, in. 
 
 {Thrusts her in, andshuts the door. 
 
 ^ Enter Sparkish and Harcourt. 
 
 "\^hat, all the lewd libertines of the town brought 
 to my lodging by this easy coxcomb ! 'sdeath, I'll 
 not suffer it. 
 
 Spark. Here, Harcourt, do you approve my 
 choice? — \_To Alithea.J Dear little rogue, I 
 told you I'd bring you acquainted with all my 
 friends, the wits and — [II aucovrt salutes her 
 
 Pinch. Ay, they shall know her, as well as you 
 yourself will, 1 warrant you. 
 
 Spark. This is one of those, my pretty rogue, 
 that are to dance at your wedding to-morrow ; and 
 him you must bid welcome ever, to what you and I 
 have. 
 
 Pinch. Monstrous ! \_Aside. 
 
 Spark. Harcourt, how dost thou like her, faith ? 
 Nay, dear, do not look down ; I should hate to 
 have a wife of mine out of countenance at any- 
 thing. 
 
 Pinch. Wonderful ! \,Aside. 
 
 Spq.rk. Tell me, I say, Harcourt, how dost thou 
 like her ? Thou hast stared upon her enough, to 
 resolve me. 
 
 Har. So infinitely well, that I could wish I had 
 a mistress too, that misht differ from her in nothing 
 but her love and engagement to you. 
 
 Alith. Sir, master Sparkish has often told me 
 that his acquaintance were all wits and raillieurs 
 and now I find it. 
 
 Spark. No, by the universe, madam, he does 
 not rally now ; you may believe him. I do assure 
 you, he is the honestest, worthiest, true-hearted 
 gentlemen — a man of such perfect honour, he 
 would say nothing to a lady he does not mean. 
 
 Pinch. Praising another man to his mistress I 
 
 S^jlside. 
 
 liar. Sir, you are so beyond expectation oblig- 
 ing, that — 
 
 Spark. Nay, egad, I am sure you do admire her 
 extremely ; I see't in your eyes. — He does ad- 
 mire you, madam. — By the world, don't you ? 
 
 Har. Yes, above the world, or the most glorious 
 part of it, her whole sex: and till now I never 
 thought I should have envied you, or any man y 
 about CO marry, but you have the best excuse forC 
 marriage I ever knew. ^ 
 
 Alith. Nay, now, sir, I'm satisfied you are of the 
 society of the wits and raillieurs, since you cannot 
 spare your friend, even when he is but too civil to 
 you ; but the surest sign is, since you are an enemy 
 to marriage, — for that 1 hear you hate as much as 
 business or bad wine. 
 
 Har. Truly, madam, I was never an enemy to 
 marriage till now, because marriage was never an 
 enemy to me before 
 
 'Alith. But why, sir, is marriage an enemy to 
 you now ? because it robs you of your friend here.'' 
 for you look upon a friend married, as one gone 
 into a monastery, tliat is, dead to tlie world. 
 
 Har. 'Tis indeed, because you marry him ; l^^ee, 
 madam, you can guess my meaning. I do confess 
 heartily and openly, I wish it were in my power lo 
 break tlie match ; by heavens I would. 
 
 Spark. Poor Frank ! 
 
 Alith. Would you be so unUind to me .■* 
 
 Har. No, no, 'tis not because I would be unkind 
 to you. 
 
 Spark. Poor Frank ! no gad, 'tis only his kind- 
 ness to me. 
 
76 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 Pinch. Great kindness to you indeed !"'vlnsen- 
 sible fop, let a man make love to his wife to his 
 face ! lAsiOs^ 
 
 Spark. Come, dear Frank, for all my wife there, ^ 
 *hat shall be, thou shalt enjoy me sometimes, dear 
 rogue. By my honour, we men of wit condole for 
 our deceased brother in marriage, as much as for 
 one dead in earnest : I think that was prettily said 
 of me, ha, Harcourt? — But come, Frank, be not 
 melancholy for me. 
 
 Har. No, I assure you, I am not melancholy 
 for you. 
 
 Spark. Prithee, Frank, dost think my wife that 
 shall be there, a fine person ? 
 
 Har. I could gaze upon her till I became as 
 blind as you are. 
 
 Spark. How as I am ? how ? 
 
 Har. Because you are a lover, and true lovers 
 are blind, stock blind. 
 
 Spark. True, true ; but by the world she has 
 wit too, as well as beauty : go, go with her into a 
 corner, and try if she has wit ; talk to her anything, 
 she's bashful before me. 
 
 Har. Indeed if a woman wants wit in a corner, 
 she has it nowhere. 
 
 Alith. Sir, you dispose of me a little before your 
 time — [_AmiU to Sparkish. 
 
 Spark. Nay, nay, madam, let me have an ear- 
 nest of your obedience, or — go, go, madam — • 
 
 [Harcourt courts Alithea aside. 
 
 Pinch. How, sir ! if you are not concerned for 
 the honour of a wife, I am for that of a sister ; he 
 shall not debauch her. Be a pander to your own 
 wife ! bring men to her ! let 'em make love before 
 your face ! thrust 'em into a corner together, then 
 leave 'em in private 1 Is this your town wit and 
 conduct ? 
 
 Spark. Ha ! ha ! ha ! a silly wise rogue would 
 make one laugh more than a stark fool, ha I ha ! I 
 shall burst. Nay, you shall not disturb 'em j I'll 
 vex thee, by the world. 
 
 [Struggles with Pinchwife to ket'p him/rom Harcourt 
 and Alithea. 
 
 .Alith, The writings are drawn, sir, settlements 
 made ; 'tis too late, sir, and past all revocation. 
 
 Har. Then so is my death. 
 
 Jilith. I would not be unjust to him, 
 
 Har. Then why to me so .' 
 
 Alith. I have no obligation to you. 
 
 Har. My love. 
 
 Alith. I had his before. 
 
 Har. You never had it ; he wants, you see, jea- 
 lousy, the only infallible sign of it. 
 
 Alith. Love proceeds from esteem ; he cannot 
 distrust my virtue : besides, he loves me, or he 
 would not marry me. 
 
 Har. Marrying you is no more sign of his love 
 than bribing your woman, that he may marry you, 
 is a sign of his generosity. Marriage is rather a 
 sign of interest than love ; and he that marries a 
 fortune covets a mistress, not loves her. But if you 
 take marriage for a sign of love, take it from me 
 immediately. 
 
 Alith. No, now you havfe put a scruple in my 
 head ; but in short, sir, to end our dispute, I must 
 marry him, my reputation would suffer in the world 
 else. 
 
 Har. No ; if you do marry him, with your par- 
 Jon, madam, your reputation suffers in the world, 
 and you would be thought in necessity for a cloak. I 
 
 Alith. Nay, now you are rude, sir. — Mr. Spark- 
 ish, pray come hither, your friend here is very 
 troublesome, and very loving. 
 
 Har. Hold ! hold ! — iAside to Alithea. 
 
 Pinch. D'ye hear that ? 
 
 Spark. Why, d'ye think I'll seem to be jealous, 
 like a country bumpkin.' 
 
 Pinch. No, railjjr be a cuckold, like a credulous 
 cit. ^■ 
 
 Har. Madam, you would not have been so little 
 generous as to have told him. 
 
 Alith. Yes, since you could be so little generous 
 as to wrong him. 
 
 Har. Wrong him I no man can do't, he's be- 
 neath an injury : a bubble, a coward, a senseless 
 idiot, a wretch so contemptible to all the world but 
 you, that — 
 
 Alith. Hold, do not rail at him, for since he is 
 like to be my husband, I am resolved to like him : 
 nay, I thAik I am obliged to tell him you are not 
 his friend. — Master Sparkish, Master Sparkish ! 
 
 Spark. What, what ? — [ To HAacouRT.] Now, 
 dear rogue, has not she wit.' 
 
 Har. Not so much as I thought, and hoped she 
 had. ISpeaks svrlily. 
 
 Alith. Mr. Sparkish, do you bring people to rail 
 at you ? 
 
 Har. Madam — 
 
 Spark. How ! no ; but if he does rail at me, 'tis 
 but in jest, I warrant : what we wits do for one 
 another, and never take any notice of it. 
 
 Alith. He spoke so scurrilously of you, I had no 
 patience to hear him ; besides, he has been making 
 love to me. 
 
 Har. True, damned tell-tale woman ! [Aside. 
 
 Spark. Pshaw 1 to show his parts — we wits rail 
 and make love often, but to show our parts : 
 as we have no affections, so we have no m&lice, 
 we — 
 
 Alith. He said you were a wretch below an 
 injury— 
 
 Spark. Pshaw ! 
 
 Har. Damned, senseless, impudent, virtuous 
 jade ! Well, since she won't let me have her, 
 she'll do as good, she'll make me hate her. IAside. 
 
 Alith. A common bubble — 
 
 Spark. Pshaw ! 
 
 Alith. A coward — 
 
 Spark. Pshaw, pshaw ! 
 
 Alith. A senseless, drivelling idiot — 
 
 Spark. How I did he disparage my parts ? Nay, 
 then, my,honour's concerned, I can't put up that, 
 sir, by the world — brother, help me to kill him. — 
 [y4s»dc] I may draw now, since we have the odds 
 of him : — 'tis a good occasion, too, before my mis- 
 tress — IQffii's to draw. 
 
 Alith. Hold, hold ! 
 
 Spark. What, what ? 
 
 Alith. [Aside.] I must not let 'em kill the gen. 
 tleman neither, for his kindness to me : I am so 
 far from hating him, that I wish my gallant 
 had his person and understanding. Nay, if my 
 honour — ■ 
 
 Spark. I'll be thy death. 
 
 Alith. Hold, hold ! Indeed, to tell the truth, 
 the gentleman said after all, that what he spoke 
 was but out of friendship to you. 
 
 Spark. How ! say, I am, I am a fool, that is, no 
 wit, out of friendship to me .' 
 
 Alith. Yes, to try whether I was concerned 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 enough for you ; and made love to me only to be 
 satisfied of my virtue, for your sake. 
 
 Har. Kind, however. {.Aside. 
 
 Spark. Nay, if it were so, my dear rogue, I ask 
 thee pardon ; but why would not you tell me so, 
 faith ? 
 
 Har. Because I did not think on't, faith. 
 
 Spark, Conje, Homer does not come ; Harcourt, 
 let's be gone tothe new flay. — Come, madam. 
 
 Alith. I will not go, if you intend to leave me 
 alone in the box, and run into the pit, as you use 
 to do. 
 
 Spark. Pshaw ! I'll leave Harcourt with you in 
 
 the box to entertain you, and that's as good ; if 1 
 
 sat in the box, I should be thought no judge but of 
 
 trimmings. — Come away, Harcourt, lead her down. 
 
 [.Exeunt Sparrish, Haacourt, and Alithba. 
 
 Pinch. Well, go thy ways, for the flower of the 
 true town fops, such as spend their estates before 
 they come to 'em, and are cuckolds before they're 
 married. But let me go look to my own freehold. 
 —How! 
 
 Enter my Lady Fidget, Mrs. Dainty Fidget, and Mi'B. 
 Squeamish. 
 
 LadyFidg. Your servant, sir : where is your lady.' 
 We are come to wait upon her to the Bew play. 
 
 Pinch. New play ! 
 
 Lady Fidg. And my husband will wait upon 
 you presently. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.'] Damn your civility. — lAloud] 
 Madam, by no means ; I will not see sir Jasper 
 here, till I have waited upon him at home ; 
 nor shall my wife see you till she has waited upon 
 your ladyship at your lodgings. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Now we are here, sir ? 
 
 Pinch. No, madam. 
 
 Dain. Pray, let us see her. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. We will not stir till we see her. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside."] A pox on you all ! — [Goes to 
 the door, and returns.] She has locked the door, 
 and is gone abroad. 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, you have locked the door, and 
 she's within. 
 
 Dain. They told us below she was here. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] Will nothing do? — [Aloud.] 
 Well, it must out then. To tell you the truth, 
 ladies, which I was afraid to let you know before, 
 lest it might endanger your lives, my wife has just 
 now the smaU-pox come out upon her , do not be 
 frightened ; but pray be gone, ladies ; you shall not 
 stay here in danger of your lives ; pray get you 
 gone, ladies. 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, no, we have all had 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Alack, alack ! 
 
 Dain. Come, come, we must see how it goes with 
 her ; I understand the disease. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Come ! 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] Well, there is no being too hard 
 for women at their own weapon, lying, therefore 
 I'll quit the field. L^rit. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Here's an example of jealousy 1 
 
 Lady Fidg. Indeed, as the world goes, I wonder 
 there are no more jealous, since wives are so ne- 
 glected. 
 
 Dain. Pshaw ! as the world goes, to what end 
 should they be jealous ? 
 
 Lady Fidg, Foh ! 'tis a nasty world. 
 
 Mrs, Squeam. That men of parts, great acquaint- 
 ance, and quality, should take up with and spend 
 
 themselves and fortunes in keeping little playhouse 
 creatures, foh ! 
 
 Lady Fidg. Nay, that women of understanding, 
 great acquaintance, and good quality, should fall 
 a-keeping too of little creatures, foh I 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Why, 'tis the men of quality's 
 fault ; they never visit women of honour and 
 reputation as they used to do j and have not so 
 much as common civility for ladies of our rank, 
 but use us with the same indifferency and ill-breed- 
 ing as if we were all married to 'em. 
 
 Lady Fidg. She says true ; 'tis an arrant shame 
 women of quality should be so slighted ; methinks 
 birth — birth should go for something; I have 
 known men admired, courted, and followed for their 
 titles only. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Ay, one would think men of 
 honour should not love, no more than marry, out 
 of their own rank. 
 
 Dain. Py, fy upon 'em ! they are come to think 
 cross breeding for themselves best, as well as for 
 their dogs and horses. 
 
 Lady Fidg. They are dogs and horses for't. 
 
 Mrs, Squeam. One would think, if not for love, 
 for vanity a little. 
 
 Dain. Nay, they do satisfy their vanity upon us 
 sometimes ; and are kind to us in their report, tell 
 all the world they lie with us. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Damned rascals, that we should be 
 only wronged by 'em ! To report a man has had a 
 person, when he has not had' a person, is the 
 greatest wrong in the whole world that can be done 
 to a person. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Well, 'tis an arrant shame noble 
 persons should be so wronged and neglected. 
 
 Lady Fidg. But still 'tis an arranter shame for 
 a noble person to neglect her own honour, and 
 defame her own noble person with little inconsider- 
 able fellows, foh ! 
 
 Dain. I suppose the crime against our honour 
 is the same with a man of quality as with another. 
 
 Lady Fidg. How ! no sure, the man of quality 
 is likest one's husband, and therefore the fault 
 should be the less. 
 
 Dain. But then the pleasure should be the less. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Fy, fy, fy, for shame, sister ! whither 
 shall we ramble ? Be continent in your discourse, 
 or I shall hate you. 
 
 Dain. Besides, an intrigue is so much the more 
 notorious for the man's quality. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. 'Tis true nobody takes notice of a 
 private man, and therefore with liim 'tis more secret ; 
 and the crime's the less when 'tis not known. 
 
 Lady Fidg. You say true ; i'faith, I think yon 
 are in the right on't : 'tis not an injury to a hus- 
 band, till it be an injury to our honours ; so that 
 a woman of honour loses no honour with a private 
 person ; and to say truth — 
 
 Dain. So, the little fellow is grown a private 
 person — with her — [Apart to Mrs. SauKAMisH. 
 
 LadyFidg. But still my dear, dear honour — 
 
 Enter Sir Jasper Fidget, Horner, and Dorilant. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ay, my dear, dear of honour, thou 
 hast still so much honour in thy mouth — 
 
 Horn. That she has none elsewhere. [Aside. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Oh, what d'ye mean to bring in 
 these upon us ? 
 
 Daiyi, Foh ! these are as bad as wits. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Foh ! 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 Lady Fidff. Let ns leave the room. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Stay, stay ; faith, to tell you the nated 
 truth — 
 
 Lady Fidg. Fy, Sir Tasper ! do not use that word 
 naked. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Well, well, in short I have business 
 at Whitehall, and cannot go to the play with you, 
 therefore would have you go — 
 
 Lady Fidg. With those two to a play ? 
 
 Sir Jasp. No, not with t.'other, but with Mr. 
 Horner ; there can be no more scandal to go with 
 him than with Mr. Tatttle, or master Limberham. 
 
 Ladfi Fidg. With that nasty fellow ! no — no. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Nay, prithee, dear, hear me. 
 
 [ Whispers to Lady Fidget. 
 
 Horn. Ladies — 
 £HoRNER and Dorilant draw near Mrs. Squeamish and 
 Mrs. Dainty Fidget. 
 
 Dain. Stand off. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Do not approach us. 
 
 Dain, You herd v^ith the wits, you are obscenity 
 all over. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. And I would as soon look upon 
 a picture of Adam and Eve, without fig-leaves, as 
 any of you, if I could help it ; therefore keep off, 
 and do not make us sick. 
 
 Dor. What a devil are these ? 
 
 Horn. Why, these are pretenders to honour, as 
 critics to wit, only by censuring others j and as 
 every raw, peevish, out-of-humoured, affected, dull, 
 tea-drinking, arithmetical fop, sets up for a wit by 
 railing at men of sense, so these for honour, by 
 railing at the court, and ladies of as great honour as 
 quality. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Come, Mr. Horner, I must desire you 
 to go with these ladies to the play, sir. 
 
 Horn. I, sir f 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ay, ay, come, sir. 
 
 Horn. I must beg your pardon, sir, and theirs ; 
 I will not be seen In women's company in public 
 again for the world. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ha, ha, strange aversion ! 
 
 Mrs Squeam. No, he's for women's cotqpany 
 in private. 
 
 Sir Jasp. He — poor man — he — ha ! ha ! ha I 
 
 Dain. 'Tis a greater shame amongst lewd fel- 
 lows to be seen in virtuous women's company, than 
 for the women to be seen with them. 
 
 Horn. Indeed, madam, the time was I only 
 hated virtuous women, but now I hate the other 
 too ; I beg your pardon, ladies. 
 
 Lady Fidg. You are vei-y obliging, sir, because 
 we would not be troubled with you. 
 
 Sir Jasp. In sober sadness, he sltall go. 
 
 Dor. Nay, if he wo' not, I am ready to wait upon 
 the ladies, and I think I am the fitter man. 
 
 Sir Jasp. You, sir ! no, 1 thank you for that. 
 Master Horner is a privileged man amongst the 
 virtuous ladies, 'tvrill be a great while before you 
 are so ; he ! he ! he ! he's my wife's gallant ; 
 he ! he ! he ! No, pray withdraw, sir, for as 1 take 
 it, the virtuous ladies have no business with you. 
 
 Dor. And I am sure he can have none with 
 them. 'Tis strange a man can't come amongst vir- 
 tuous women now, but upon the same terms as 
 men are admitted into the Great Turk's seraglio. 
 But heavens keep me from being an ombre player 
 with 'em ! — But where is Pinchwife .' iExit, 
 
 Sir Jasp. Come, come, man ; what, avoid the 
 Bweet society of womankind ? that sweet, soft, gen- 
 
 tle, tame, noble creature, woman, made for man's 
 companion — 
 
 Horn. So is that soft, gentle, tame, and more 
 noble creature a spaniel, and has all their tricks ; 
 cau fawn, lie down, suffer beating, and fawn the 
 more ; barks at your friends when they come to 
 see you, snakes your bed hard, gives you fleas, and 
 the mange sometimes. And all the difference is, 
 the spaniel's the more faithful animal, and fawns 
 but upon one master. 
 
 Sir Jasp. He I he ! he ! 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. O the rude beast I 
 
 Dain. Insolent brute ! 
 
 Lady Fidg. Brute ! stinking, mortified, rotten 
 French wether, to dare — 
 
 Sir Jasp. Hold, an't please your ladyship. — For 
 shame, master Horner ! your mother was a 
 woman — [Aside."] Now shall I never reconcile 'em. 
 • — [Aside to Lady Fidget.] Hark you, madam, 
 take my advice in your anger. You know you 
 often want one to make up your drolling pack of 
 ombre players, and you may cheat him easily ; 
 for he's an ill gamester, and consequently loves 
 play. Besides, you know you have but two old 
 civil gentlemen (with stinking breaths too) to wait 
 upon you abroad j take in the third into your ser- 
 vice. The other are but crazy ; and a lady should 
 have a supernumerary gentleman-usher as a super- 
 numerary coach-horse, lest sometimes you should 
 be forced to stay at home. 
 
 Lady Fidg. But are you sure he loves play, and 
 has money 1 
 
 Sir Jasp. He loves play as much as you, and 
 has money as much as I. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Then I am contented to make him 
 pay for his scurrility. Money makes up in a 
 
 measure all other wants in men Those whom we 
 
 cannot make hold for gallants, we make fine. 
 
 lAside. 
 
 Sir Jasp [Aside] So, so ; now to mollify, to 
 wheedle him. — [Aside to Hoknek.] Master 
 Horner, will you never keep civil company? 
 methinks 'tis time now, since you are only fit for 
 them. Come, come, man, you must e'en fall to 
 visiting our wives, eating at our tables, drinking 
 tea with our virtuous relations after dinner, dealing 
 cards to 'em, reading plays and gazettes to 'em, 
 picking fleas out of their smocks for 'em, collecting 
 receipts, new songs, women, pages, and footmen 
 for 'em. 
 - Horn. I hope they'll afford me better employ- 
 ment, sir. 
 
 Sir Jasp. He 1 he ! he ! 'tis fit you know your 
 work before you come into your place. And since 
 you are unprovided of a lady to flatter, and a good 
 house to eat at, pray frequent mine, and call my 
 wife mistress, and she shall call you gallant, 
 according to the custom. 
 
 Horn. Who, I .> 
 
 Sir Jasp. Faith, thou sha't for my sake ; come, 
 for my sake only. 
 
 Horn. For your sake — 
 
 Sir Jasp. Come, come, here's a gamester for 
 you ; let him be a little familiar sometimes ; nay, 
 what if a little rude ? Gamesters may be rude with 
 ladies, you know. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Yes ; losing gamesters have a privi- 
 lege with women. 
 
 Horn. 1 always thought the contrary, that the 
 winning gamester had most privilege with women ; 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 79 
 
 for when you have lost your money to a man, you'll 
 lose anything you have, all you have, they say, and 
 he may use you as he pleases. 
 
 Sir Jasp. He ! he ! he! well, vfin or lose, you 
 shall have your liherty with her. 
 
 LadyFidg. As he behaves himself j and for your 
 sake I'll give him admittance and freedom. 
 Horn. All sorts of freedom, madam ? 
 Sir Jasp, Ay, ay, ay, all sorts of freedom thou 
 canst take. And so go to her, begin thy new em- 
 ployment ; wheedle her, jest with her, and be better 
 acquainted one with another. 
 
 Horn. [Aside.'] I think I know her already ; 
 therefore may venture with her my secret for hers. 
 [HoRNBR and Lady Fidget whisper. 
 Sir Jasp. Sister cuz, I have provided an inno- 
 cent playfellow for you there, 
 Dain. Who, he? 
 
 Mrs. Squeam, There's a playfellow, indeed ! 
 Sir Jasp. Yes sure. — ^What, he is good enough 
 to play at cards, blindman's-bufiF, or the fool with, 
 sometimes ! 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Foh ! we'll have no such play- 
 fellows. 
 
 Dain. No, sir; you shan't choose playfellows 
 for us, we thank you. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Nay, pray hear me. 
 
 [Whispering to them. 
 Lady Fidg. But, poor gentleman, could you be 
 so generous, so truly a man of honour, as for the 
 sakes of us women of honour, to cause yourself to 
 be reported no man ? No man ! and to suffer 
 yourself the greatest shame that could fall upon a 
 man, that none might fall upon us women by your 
 conversation .' but, indeed, sir, as perfectly, per- 
 fectly the same man as before your going into 
 France, sir ? as perfectly, perfectly, sir .' 
 
 Horn. As perfectly, perfectly, madam. Nay, 
 I scorn you should take my word ; I desire to be 
 tried only, madam. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Well, that's spoken again like a 
 man of honour : all men of honour desire to come 
 to the test. But, indeed, generally you men report 
 such things of yourselves, one does not know how 
 or whom to believe ; and it is come to that pass, 
 we dare not take your words no more than your 
 tailor's, without some staid servant of yours be 
 
 bound with you. But I have so strong a faith in 
 your honour, dear, dear, noble sir, that I'd forfeit 
 mine for yours at any time, dear sir. 
 
 Horn. No, madam, you should not need to for- 
 feit it for me ; I have given you security already 
 to save you harmless, my late reputation being so 
 well known in the world, madam. 
 
 Lady Fidg. But if upon any future falling-out, 
 or upon a suspicion of my taking the trust out of 
 your hands, to employ some other, you yourself 
 should betray your trust, dear sir J I mean, if 
 you'll give me leave to speak obscenely, you might 
 tell, dear sir. 
 
 Horn. If I did, nobody would believe me. The 
 reputation of impotency is as hardly " recovered 
 again in the world as that of cowardice, dear 
 madam. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Nay, then, as one may say, you may 
 do your worst, dear, dear sir. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Come, is your ladyship reconciled to 
 him yet ? have you agreed on matters ? for I must 
 be gone to Whitehall. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Why, indeed, sir Jasper, master 
 Horner is a thousand, thousand times a better man 
 than I thought him. Cousin Squeamish, sister 
 Dainty, I can name him now. Truly, not long 
 ago, you know, I thought his very name obscenity ; 
 and 1 would as soon have lain with him as have 
 named him. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Very likely, poor madam. 
 
 Dain. I believe it. 
 
 Mrs. Squearh. No doubt on't. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Well, well — that your ladyship is as 
 virtuous as any she, I know, and him all the town 
 knows — he ! he 1 he ! therefore, now you like him, 
 get you gone to your business together, go, go to 
 your business, I say, pleasure, whilst I go to my 
 pleasure, business. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Come, then, dear gallant. 
 
 Horn. Come away, my dearest mistress. 
 
 Sir Jasp. So, so ; why, 'tis as I'd have it. 
 
 lExii. 
 
 Horn. And as I'd have it. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Who for his business from his wife 
 will run, 
 
 Takes the best care to have her business done. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Pinchwife's House. 
 Enter Ai,itbea and Mrs. Pinchwife. 
 
 Alith. Sister, what ails you ? you are grown 
 melancholy. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Would it not make any one melan- 
 choly to see you go every day fluttering about 
 abroad, whilst I must stay at home like a poor, 
 lonely, sullen bird in a cage % 
 
 Alith. Ay, sister ; but you came young, and just 
 from the nest to your cage : so that I thought you 
 liked It, and could be as cheerful in't as others that 
 took their flight themselves early, and are hopping 
 abroad in the open air. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Nay, I confess I was quiet enough 
 till my husband told me what pure lives the London 
 kuies life abroad, with their dancing, meetings, 
 
 and junketings, and dressed every day in their 
 best gowns ; and 1 warrant you, play at nine-pin3 
 every day of the week, so they do. 
 
 Enter Mr. Pinchwife. 
 
 Pinch. Come, what's here to do ? you are put- 
 ting the town-pleasures in her head, and setting 
 her a-longing. 
 
 Alith. Yes, after nine-pins. You suffer none 
 to give her those longings you mean but yourself. 
 
 ■ Pinch. I tell her of the vanities of the town like 
 a confessor. 
 
 Alith. A confessor ! just such a confessor as he 
 that, by forbidding a silly hostler to grease the 
 horse's teeth, taught him to do't. 
 
 Pinch. Come, Mrs. Flippant, good precepts are 
 lost when bad examples are still before us : the 
 
80 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 liberty you take abroad makes her hanker after it, 
 and oiit of humour at home. Poor wretch ! she 
 desired not to come to London ; I would bring her. 
 
 j4lilh. Very well. 
 
 Pinch. She has been this week in town, and 
 never desired till this afternoon to go abroad. 
 
 Alith. Was she not at a play yesterday? 
 
 Pinch, Yes ; but she ne'er asked me ; I was 
 myself the cause of her going. 
 
 Alith. Then if she ask you again, you are the 
 cause of her asking, and not my example. 
 
 Pinch. Well, to-morrow night 1 shall be rid of 
 you ; and the next day, before 'tis light, she and I'll 
 be rid of t^e town, and my dreadful apprehensions. 
 — Come, be not melancholy ; for thou sha't go into 
 the country after to-moraow, dearest. 
 
 Alith. Great comfort ! 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Pish! what d'ye tell me of the 
 country for ? 
 
 Pinch. How's this 1 what, pish at the country ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Let me alone ; I am not well. 
 
 Pinch. O, if that be all — what ails my dearest? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Truly, I don't know : but I have 
 not been well since you told me there was a gallant 
 it the play in love with me. 
 
 Pinch. Ha!. — 
 
 Alith. That's by my example too ! 
 
 Pinch. Nay, if you are not well, but are so con- 
 cerned, because a lewd fellow chanced to lie, and 
 say he liked you, you'll make me sick too. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Of what sickness ? 
 
 Pinch. O, of that which' is worse than the 
 plague, jealousy. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Pish, you jeer ! I'm sure there's 
 no such disease in our receipt-book at home. 
 
 Pinch. No, thou never met'st with it, poor inno- 
 cent Well, if thou cuckold me, 'twill be my own 
 
 fault — for cuckolds and bastards are generally 
 makers of their own fortune. iAside. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Well, but pray, bud, let's go to a 
 play to-night. 
 
 Pinch. 'Tis just done, she comes from it. But 
 why are you so eager to see a play ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Faith, dear, not that I care one 
 pin for their talk there ; but I like to look upon 
 the player-men, and would see, if I could, the gal- 
 lant you say loves me : that's all, dear bud. 
 
 Pinch. Is that all, dear bud? 
 
 Alith. This proceeds from my example I 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. But if the play be done, let's go 
 abroad, however, dear bud. 
 
 Pinch. Come, have a little patience, and thou 
 shalt go into the country on Friday. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Therefore I would see first some 
 sights to tell my neighbours of. Nay, I will go 
 abroad, that's once. 
 
 Alith. I'm the cause of this desire too ! 
 
 Pinch. But now I think on't, who, who was the 
 cause of Horner's coming to my lodging to-day .' 
 That was you. 
 
 Alith. No, you, because you would not let him 
 see your handsome wife out of your' lodging. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Why, O Lord ! did the gentleman 
 come hither to see me indeed ? 
 
 Pinch. No, no. — You are not the cause of that 
 
 nip his love in the bud ; lest he should follow us 
 into the country, and break his chariot-wheel near 
 
 our house, on purpose for an excuse to come to't. 
 But I think I know the town. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Come, pray, bud, let's go abroad 
 before 'tis late ; for I will go, that's flat and plain. 
 
 Pinch. \Aside.'\ So ! the obstinacy already 
 of the town-wife ; and I must, whilst she's 
 here, humour her like one. — lAloud.^ Sister, 
 how shall we do, that she may not be seen, or 
 known .' 
 
 Alith. Let her put on her mask. 
 
 Pinch. Pshaw ! a mask makes people but the 
 more inquisitive, and is as ridiculous a disguise as 
 a stage-beard : her shape, stature, habit, will bt 
 known. And if we should meet with Horner, he 
 would be sure to take acquaintance with us, must 
 wish her joy, kiss her, talk to her, leer upon her, 
 and the devil and all. No, I'll not use her to a 
 mask, 'tis dangerous ; for masks have made more 
 cuckolds than the best faces that ever were known 
 
 Alith. How will you do then .' 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Nay, shall we go ? The Exchange 
 will be shut, and I have a mind to see that. 
 
 Pinch. So — I have it — I'll dress her up in the 
 suit we are to carry down to her brother, little sii 
 James ; nay, I understand the town-tricks. Come, 
 let's go dress her. A mask! no — a woman masked, 
 like a covered dish, gives a man curiosity and 
 appetite ; when, it may be, uncovered, 'twould turn 
 his stomach : no, no. 
 
 Alith. Indeed your comparison is something a 
 greasy one : but I had a gentle gallant used to say, 
 A beauty masked, like the sun in eclipse, gathers 
 together more gazers than if it shined out. 
 
 lExeunl. 
 
 SCENE II.— The New Eatchange. 
 Enter Hobner, HARCoimx, and Dorilant. 
 
 Dor. Engaged to women, and not sup with us ! 
 
 Horn. Ay, a pox on 'em all! 
 
 Har. You were much a more reasonable man in 
 the morning, and had as noble resolutions against 
 'em, as a widower of a week's liberty. 
 
 Dor. Did I ever think to see you keep company 
 with women in vain ? 
 
 Horn. In vain 1 no— 'tis since I can't love 'em, 
 to be revenged on 'em. 
 
 Har. Now your sting is gone, you looked in the 
 box amongst all those women- like a drone in the 
 hive j all upon you, shoved and iU-used by 'em all, 
 and thrust from one side to t'other. 
 
 Dor. Yet he must be buzzing amongst 'em still, 
 like other beetle-headed hquorish drones. Avoid 
 'em, and hate 'em, as they hate you. 
 
 Horn. Because I do hate 'em, and would hate 
 'em yet more, I'll frequent 'em. You may see by 
 marriage, nothing makes a man hate a woman 
 more than her constant conversation. In short, I 
 converse with 'em, as you do with rich fools, to 
 laugh at 'em and use 'em ill. 
 
 Dor, But I would no more sup with women, 
 unless I could lie with 'em, than sup with a rich 
 coxcomb, unless I could cheat him. 
 
 Horn, Yes, I have known thee sup vrith a fool 
 for his drinking; if he could set out your hand that 
 way only, you were satisfied, and if he were a wine- 
 swallowing mouth, 'twas enough. 
 
 Har. 'Yes, a man drinks often witn a fool, a» he 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 Bl 
 
 tosses with a marker, only to keep his hand in use. 
 But do the ladies drink ? 
 
 Horn. Yes, sir ; and I shall have the pleasure at 
 least of laying 'em flat with a bottle, and bring 
 as much scandal that way upon 'em as formerly 
 t'other. 
 
 Har. Perhaps you may prove as weak a brother 
 among 'em that way as t'other. 
 
 Dor. Foh! drinking with women is as unnatural 
 as scolding with 'em. But 'tis a pleasure of de- 
 cayed fornicators, and the basest way <if quenching 
 \o\t. 
 
 Har. Nay, 'tis drowning love, instead of quench- 
 ing it. But leave us for civil women too ! 
 
 Dor. Ay, when he can't be the hetter for 'em. 
 We hardly pardon a man that'leaves his friend for 
 a wench, and that's a pretty lawful,call. 
 
 Horn. Faith, I would not Ifeave you for 'em, if 
 they would not drink. 
 
 Dor. Who would disappoint his company at 
 Lewis's for a gossiping.'' 
 
 Har. Foh ! Wine and women, good apart, toge- 
 ther are as nauseous as sack and sugar. But hark 
 you, sir, before you go, a little of your advice ; an 
 old maimed general, when unfit for action, is fittest 
 for counsel. I have other designs upon women 
 than eating and drinking with them ; I am in love 
 with Sparkish's mistress, whom he is to marry to- 
 morrow : now how shall I get her .'' 
 
 Enter Spabkish, looking about. 
 
 Horn. Why here comes one will help you to 
 her. 
 
 Har. He ! he, I tell you, is my rival, and will 
 hinder my love. 
 
 Horn. No ; a foolish rival and a jealous husband 
 assist their rival's designs ; for they are sure to 
 make their women hate them, which is the first 
 step to their love for another man. 
 
 Har. But I cannot come pear his mistress but 
 in his company. 
 
 Horn. Still the better for you ; for fools are 
 most easily cheated when they themselves are 
 accessaries ; and he is to be bubbled of his mistress 
 as of his money, the common mistress, by keeping 
 him company. 
 
 Spark. Who is that that is to be bubbled ? 
 Faith, let me snack ; I han't met with a bubble 
 since Christmas. 'Gad, I think bubbles are like 
 their brother woodcocks, go out with the cold 
 weather. 
 
 Har. A pox ! he did not hear all I hope. 
 
 lApart to Horner. 
 
 Spark. Come, you bubbling rogues you, where 
 do we sup ? — Oh, Harcourt, ray mistress tells me 
 you have been making fierce love to her all the play 
 long : ha ! ha ! — But I — 
 
 Har. I make love to her I 
 
 Spark. Nay, I forgive thee, for I think I know 
 thee, and I know her ; J?ut I am sure I know myself. 
 
 Har. Did she tell you so ? I see all women are 
 like these of the Exchange ; who, to enhance the 
 prize of their commodities, report to their fond 
 customers offers which were never made 'em. 
 
 Horn. Ay, women are apt to tell before the 
 intrigue, as men after it, and so show themselves 
 the vainer se.?. But hast thou a mistress, Sparkish .' 
 'Tis as hard for me to believe it, as that thou ever 
 hadst a bubble, as you bragged just now. 
 
 Spark. O, your servant, sir : are you at your 
 
 raillery, sir ? But we are some of us beforehand 
 with you to-day at the play. The wits were some- 
 thing bold with you, sir ; did you not hear us 
 laugh ? 
 
 Ham. Yes ; but I thought you had gone to 
 plays, to laugh at the poet's wit, not at your own. 
 
 Spark. Your servant, sir : no, I than'ic you, 
 'Gad I go to a play as to a country treat ; I carry 
 my own wine to one, and my own wit to t'other, 
 or else I'm sure I should not be merry at either. 
 And the reason why we are so often louder than 
 the players, is, because we think we speak more 
 wit, and so become the poet's rivals in his audience ; 
 for to tell you the truth, we hate the silly rogues ; 
 nay, so much, that we find fault even with their 
 bawdy upon the stage, whilst we talk nothing else 
 in the pit as loud. 
 
 Horn. But why shonldst thou hate the silly 
 poets .' Thou hast too much wit to be one ; and 
 they, like whores, are only hated by each other : 
 and thou dost scorn writing, I'm sure. 
 
 Spark. Yes ; I'd have you to know I scorn 
 writing : but women, women, that make men do 
 all foolish things, make 'em write songs too. 
 Everybody does it. 'Tis even as common with 
 lovers, as playing with fans ; and you can no more 
 help rhyming to your Phillis, than drinking to your 
 Phillis. 
 
 Har. Nay, poetry in love is no more to be 
 avoided than jealousy. 
 
 Dor. But the poets damned your songs, did they ? 
 
 Spark. Damn the poets ! they have turned 'em 
 into burlesque, as they call it. That burjesque is 
 a hocus-pocus trick they have got, which, .by the 
 virtue of Hictius doctius topsy turvy, they make a 
 wise and witty man in the world, a fcol upon the 
 stage you know not how : and 'tis therefore I hate 
 'em too, for I know not but it may be my own 
 case ; for they'll put a man into a play for looking 
 asquint. Their predecessors were contented to 
 make serving-men only their stage-fools : but these 
 rogues must have gentlemen, with a pox to 'em, 
 nay, knights ; and, indeed, you shall hardly see a 
 fool upon the stage but he's a knight. And to tell 
 you the truth, they have kept me these six years 
 from being a knight in earnest, for fear of being 
 knighted in a play, and dubbed a fool. 
 
 Dor. Blame 'em not, they must follow their 
 copy, the age. 
 
 Har. But why shouldst thou be afraid of being 
 in a play, who expose yourself every day in the play- 
 houses, and at public places ? 
 
 Horn. 'Tis but being on the stage, instead of 
 standing on a bench in the pit. 
 
 Dor. Don't you give money to painters to draw 
 you Mke .' and are you afraid of your pictures at 
 length in a playhouse, where all your mistresses 
 may see you ? 
 
 Spark. A pox! painters don't draw the small- 
 pox or pimples in one's face. Come, damn all 
 your silly authors whatever, all books and book- 
 sellers, by the world ; and all readers, courteous or 
 uncourteous ! 
 
 Har. But who comes here, Sparkish ? 
 
 Enter Mr. Pinchwii'E and Mrs. Finchwife inman't 
 clothes, Alithba and Lucy. 
 
 Snarh. Oh, hide me ! There's my mistress too. 
 [Si'ABiiis:! liidcs htmsci/ behind Harcourt 
 Har. She sees )ou. ^ 
 
ii'2 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 Spark. But I will not see her. 'Tis time to go 
 to Whitehall, and I must not fail the drawiag- 
 room. 
 I Har. Pray, first carry me, and reconcile me to 
 lier. 
 
 Spark. Another time. Faith, the king will have 
 supped. 
 
 Har, Not with the worse stomach for thy absence. 
 Thou art one of those fools that think their attend- 
 ance at the king's meals as neoessai-y as his phy- 
 sicians, when you are more troublesome to him than 
 his doctors or his dogs. 
 
 Spark. Pshaw ! I know my interest, sir. Prithee 
 hide me. 
 
 Horn. Your servant, Pinchwife. — What, he 
 knows us not ! 
 
 Pinch. Come along. [.To his wife aside. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Pray, have you any ballads .' give 
 me sixpenny worth. 
 
 Clasp. We have no ballads. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Then give me Covent-Garden 
 Drolkry, and a play or two — Oh, here's Tarugo^s 
 fViles, and the Slighted Maiden ; I'll have them. 
 
 Pinch. No ; plays are not for your reading. 
 Come along ; will you discover yourself ? 
 
 [Apart to her. 
 
 Horn. Who is that pretty youth with him, 
 Sparkish ? 
 
 Spark. I believe his wife's brother, because he's 
 something like her : but I never saw her but once. 
 
 Horn. Extremely handsome ; I have seen a face 
 like it too. Let us follow 'em. 
 
 [ExeuntMr. Pinchw-ife, Mrs. Pinchwife, Alithba, 
 and Lucy ; Horner and DoRiLAsr following them. 
 
 Har. Come, Sparkish, your mistress saw you, 
 and will be angry you go not to her. Besides, I 
 ^vould fain be reconciled to her, which none but you 
 can do, dear friend. 
 
 Spark. Well, that's a better reason, dear friend. 
 I would not go near her now for her's or my own 
 sake ; but I can deny you nothing : for though I 
 have known thee a great while, never go, if I do 
 not love thee as well as a new acquaintance. 
 
 Har. I am obliged to you indeed, dear friend. 
 I would be well with her, only to be well with thee 
 still ; for these ties to wives usually dissolve all ties 
 to friends. I would be contented she should enjoy 
 you a-nights, but I would have you to myself a- 
 days as I have had, dear friend. 
 
 Spark. And thou shalt enjoy me a-days. dear, 
 dear friend, never stir : and I'll be divorced from 
 her, sooner than from thee. Come along. 
 
 Har. \_Aside.\ So, we are hard put to't, when we 
 make our rival our procurer ; but neither she nor 
 her brother would let me come near her now. When 
 all's done, a rival is the best cloak to steal to a 
 mistress under, without suspicion ; and when we 
 have once got to her as we desire, we throw him off 
 like other cloaks. 
 
 [Exit Sparkish, JIarcourt following Mm. 
 
 Re-enter Mr. Pinchwife and Mrs. Pinchwife. 
 Pinch. [To Alithea.] Sister, if you will not 
 ■0, we must leave you.— [.4side.] The fool her 
 gallant and she will muster up all the young saun- 
 terers of this place, and they will leave their dear 
 sempstresses to follow us. What a swarm of cuck- 
 olds and cuckold-makers are here ! — Come, let's be 
 gone, mistress Margery. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Don't you believe that; I han't 
 half my bellyfuU of sights yet. 
 
 Pinch. Then walk this way. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Lord, what a power of brave signs 
 are here ! stay — the BuU's-Headj the Ram's-Head, 
 and the Stag's Head, dear — 
 
 Pinch. Nay, if every husband's proper sign here 
 were visible, they would be all alike. 
 
 Mrs. Pinrh. What d'ye mean by that, bud ? 
 
 Pinch. 'Tis no matter — no matter, bud. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Pray tell me : nay, I will know. 
 
 Pinch. They would be all Bulls, Stags, and 
 Rams-heads. 
 
 [Exeunt Mr. Pinchwife and Mrs. Pinchwife 
 
 Re-enter Sparkish, Harcourt, Alithea, and Lucy, 
 at the other door. 
 
 Spark. Come, dear madam, for my sake you shall 
 be reconciled to him. 
 
 Alith. For your sake I hate him. 
 
 Har. That's somethingtoo cruel, madam, to hate 
 me for his sake. 
 
 Spark. Ay indeed, madam, too, too cruel to me, 
 to hate my friend for my sake. 
 
 Alith. I hate him because he is your ^neray ; 
 and you ought to hate him too, for making love to 
 me, if you love me. 
 
 Spark. That's a good one ! I hate a man for 
 loving you 1 If he did love you, 'tis but what he 
 can't help ; and 'tis your fault, not his, if he admires 
 you. I hate a man for being of my opinion ! I'll 
 ne'er do't, by the world. 
 
 Alith. Is it for your honour, or mine, to suffer 
 a man to make love to me, who am to marry you 
 to-morrow } 
 
 Spark. Is it for your honour, or mine, to have 
 me jealous ? That he makes love to you, is a sign 
 you are handsome ; and that I am not jealous, is a 
 sign you are virtuous. That I think is for your 
 honour. 
 
 Alith. But 'tis your honour too I am concerned 
 for. 
 
 Har. But why, dearest madam, will you be more 
 concerned for his honour than he is himself ? Let 
 his honour alone, for my sake and his. He ! he 
 has no honour — 
 
 Spark. How's that ? 
 
 Har. But what my dear friend can guard him- 
 self. 
 
 Spark. O ho — that's right again. 
 
 Har. Your care of his honour argues his neglect 
 of it, which is no honour to my dear friend here. 
 Therefore once more, let his honour go which way 
 it win, dear madam. 
 
 Spark. Ay, ay ; were it for my honour to marry 
 a woman whose virtue I suspected, and could«not 
 trust her in a friend's hands i 
 
 Alith. Are you not afraid to lose me .' 
 
 Har. He afraid to lose you, madam ! No', no — 
 you may see how the most estimable and most 
 glorious creature in the world is valued by him. 
 Will you not see it? * 
 
 Spark. Right, honest Frank, I have that 
 noble value for her that I cannot be jealous of 
 her. 
 
 Alith. You mistake him. He means, you care 
 not for me, nor who has me. 
 
 Spark. Lord, madam,' I se§ you are jealous ! 
 Will you wrest a poor man's meaning from his 
 words .' 
 
 Alith. You astonish me, sir, with your want of 
 jealousy. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 m 
 
 Spark. And you make me giddy, madam, with 
 your jealousy and fears, and virtue and honour. 
 Gad, I see wtue makes a woman as troublesome 
 as a little reading or learning. 
 
 Alilh. Monstrous ! 
 
 Luci/. Well, to see what easy husbands these 
 women of quahty can meet with ! a poor chamber- 
 maid can never have such ladylike luck. Besides, 
 he's thrown away upon her. She'll make no use 
 of her fortune, her blessing, none to a gentleman, 
 for a pure cuckold ; for it requires good breeding to 
 be a cuckold. [_Asitie. 
 
 Alith, I tell you then plainly, he pursues me to 
 marry me. 
 
 Spark. Pshaw ! 
 
 Har. Come, madam, you see you strive in vain 
 to make him jealous of me. My dear friend is the 
 kindest creature in the world to me. 
 
 Sparks Poor fellow ! 
 
 liar. But his kindness only is not enough for 
 me, without your favour, your good opinion, dear 
 madam : 'tis that must perfect my happiness. 
 Good gentleman, he believes all I say : would you 
 would do so ! Jealous of me ! I would not wrong 
 him nor you for the world. 
 
 Spark. Look you there. Hear him, hear him, 
 and do not walk away so. 
 
 CAuTHBA walks carelessly to and fro. 
 
 Har. I love you, madam, so — 
 
 Spark. How's that ? Nay, now you begin to go 
 too far indeed. 
 
 Har. So much, I confess, I say, I love you, that 
 I would not have you miserable, and cast yourself 
 away upon so unworthy and inconsiderable a thing 
 as what you see here. 
 
 [Clapping his hand on his breast^ points at Spahkish. 
 
 Spark. No, faith, I believe thou wouldst not : 
 now his meaning is plain ; but I knew before thou 
 wouldst not wrong me, nor her. 
 
 Har. No, no, Heavens forbid the glory of her 
 sex should fall so low, as into the embraces of such 
 a contemptible wretch, the least of mankind — my 
 dear friend here — I injure him ! 
 
 [^Embracing Spahkish. 
 
 Alith. Very well. 
 
 Spark. No, no, dear friend,! knew it. — Madam, 
 you see he will rather wrong himself than me, in 
 giving himself such names, 
 
 Alilh. Do not you understand him yet ? 
 
 Spark. Yes : how modestly he speaks of himself, 
 poor fellow ! 
 
 Alith. Methinks he speaks Impudently of your- 
 self, since — before yourself too ; insomuch that I 
 can no longer suffer his scurrilous abusiveness to 
 you, no more than his love to me. [Offers to go. 
 
 Spark. Nay, nay, madam, pray stay — his love 
 to you ! Lord, madam, has he not spoke yet plain 
 enough .' 
 
 Alith. Yes, indeed, I should thhik so. 
 
 Spark. Well then, by the world, a man can't 
 speak civilly to a woman now, but presently she 
 says, he makes love to her. Nay, madam, you shall 
 stay, with your pardon, since you have not yet un- 
 derstood him, till he has made an eclaircissement 
 of his love to you, that is, what kind of love it is. 
 Answer to thy catechism, friend ; do you love my 
 mistress here .' 
 
 Har. Yes, I wish she would not doubt it 
 
 Spark. But how do you love her .' 
 
 Har. With aU my soul. 
 
 Alith. I thank him, methinks he speaks plain 
 enough now. 
 
 Spark. [To Alithea.] You are out still. — But 
 with what kind of love, Haroourt } 
 
 Har. With the best and the truest love in the 
 world. 
 
 Spark. Look you there then, that is with no 
 matrimonial love, I'm sure. 
 
 Alith. How's that? do you say matrimonial love 
 is not best ? 
 
 Spark. 'Gad, I went too far ere I was aware. 
 But speak for thyself, Harcourt, you said you 
 would not wrong me nor her. 
 
 Har. No, no, madam, e'en take him for Hea- 
 ven's sake. 
 
 Spark. Look you there, madam. 
 
 Har. Who should in all justice be yours, he 
 that loves you most. [Claps his hand on his breast. 
 
 Alith. Look you there, Mr. Sparkish, who's that.' 
 
 Spark. Who should it be ? — Go on, Harcourt. 
 
 Har. Who loves you more than women titles, 
 or fortune fools. [Points at Sparkish. 
 
 Spark. Look you there, he means me still, for 
 he points at me. 
 
 Alith. Ridiculous ! 
 
 Har. Who can only match your faith and con- 
 stancy in love. 
 
 Spark. Ay. 
 
 Har. Who knows, if it be possible, how to value 
 so much beauty and virtue. 
 
 Spark. Ay. 
 
 Har. Whose love can no more be equalled in 
 the world, than that heavenly form of yours. 
 
 Spark. No. 
 
 Har. Who could no more suffer a rival, than 
 your absence, and yet could no more suspect your 
 virtue, than his own constancy in his love to you. 
 
 Spark. No. 
 
 Har. Who, in fine, loves you better than his 
 eyes, that first made him love you. 
 
 Spark. Ay — Nay, madam, faith, you shan't go, 
 till— 
 
 Atith. Have a care, lest you make me stay too 
 long. 
 
 Spark. But till he has saluted you ; that I may 
 be assured you are friends, after his honest advice 
 and declaration. Come, pray, madam, be friends 
 with him. 
 
 Re-enter Mr. Pinchwifje and Mrs. Pinchwife. 
 
 Alith. You; must pardon me, sir, that I am not 
 yet so obedient to you. 
 
 Pinch. What, invite your wife to kiss men .■' 
 Monstrous ! are you not ashamed ? I will never 
 forgive you. 
 
 Spark. Are you not ashamed, that I should have 
 more confidence in the chastity of your family than 
 you have .' You must not teach me, I am a man 
 of honour, sir, though I am frank and free ; I am 
 frank, sir — 
 
 Pinch. Very frank, sir, to share your wife with 
 your friends. 
 
 Spark. He is an humble, menial friend, such as 
 reconciles the differences of the marrjage bed ; you 
 know man and wife do not always agree ; I design 
 him for that use, therefore would have him well 
 with my wife. 
 
 Pinch. A menial friend ! — you will get a great 
 many menial friends, by showing your wife as you 
 
 do. 
 
 02 
 
fU 
 
 THE COUNTRY- WIFE. 
 
 Spark. What then ? It may he I have a plea- 
 sure in't, as I have to show fine clothes at a play- 
 house, the first day, and count money before poor 
 rogues. 
 
 Pinch. He that shows his wife or money, will 
 be in danger of having them borrowed sometimes. 
 
 Spark. I love to be envied, and would not marry 
 a wife that I alone could love ; loving alone is as 
 dull as eating alone. Is it not a frank age ? and I 
 ara a frank person ; and to tell you the truth, it 
 may be, I love to have rivals in a wife, they make 
 her seem to a man still but as a kept mistress ; and 
 so good night, for I must to Whitehall. — Madam, 
 I hope you are now reconciled to my friend ; and 
 so I wish you a good night, madam, and sleep if 
 you can ; for to-morrow you know I must visit you 
 early with a canonical gentleman. — Good night, 
 dear Harcourt. lExU. 
 
 Har. Madam, I hope you will not refuse my 
 visit to-morrow, if it should be earlier with a canon- 
 ical gentleman than Mr. Sparkish's. 
 
 Pinch. This gentlewoman is yet under my care, 
 therefore you must yet forbear your freedom with 
 her, sir. looming between Alithea and Harcoubt. 
 
 Har. Must, sir } 
 
 Pinch. Yes, sir, she is my sister. 
 
 Har. 'Tis well she is, sir — for I must be her 
 servant, sir Madam — 
 
 Pinch. Come away, sister, we had been gone, if 
 it had not been for you, and so avoided these lewd 
 rake-hells, who seem to haunt us. 
 
 lie-enter Horner and Dorilant. 
 
 Horn. How now, Pinchwife ! 
 
 Pinch. Your servant. 
 
 Horn. What ! I see a little time in the country 
 makes a man turn wild and unsociable, and only 
 fit to converse with his horses, dogs, and his 
 herds. 
 
 Pinch. I have business, sir, and must mind it ; 
 your business is pleasure, therefore you and I must 
 go different ways. 
 
 Horn. Well, you may go on, but this pretty 
 young gentleman — [Takes hold of Mi-s. Pinchwife. 
 
 Har. The lady— 
 
 Hot. And the maid — 
 
 Horn. Shall stay with us ; for I suppose their 
 business is the same with ours, pleasure. 
 
 Pinch. 'Sdeath, he knows her, she carries it so 
 sillily I yet if he does not, I should be more silly 
 to discover it first. \_Asi^e. 
 
 Alith. Pray, let us go, sir. 
 
 Pinch. Come, come — 
 
 Horn. [To Mrs. Pinchwife.] Had you not 
 rather stay with us ? — Prithee, Pinchwife, who is 
 this pretty young gentleman ? 
 
 Pinch. One to whom I'm a guardian.^ — [Aside.'] 
 I V ish I could keep her out of your hands. 
 
 Horn. Who is he .' I never saw anything so 
 pretty in all my life. 
 
 Pinch. Pshaw ! do not look upon him so much, 
 he's a poor bashful youth, you'll put him out of 
 countenance. — Come away, brother. 
 
 [P.fers to take her away. 
 
 Horn. O, your brother ! 
 
 Pinch. Yes, my wife's brother. — Come, come, 
 she'll stay supper for us. 
 
 Horn. I thought so, for he is very like her I saw 
 you at the play with, whom I told you I was in 
 
 ve with. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. [Aside."] O jeminy! is that he that 
 was in love with me ? I am glad on't, I vow, for 
 he's a curious fine gentleman, and I love him al- 
 ready too.— [To Mr. Pinchwife.] Is this he, 
 bud.' 
 
 Pinch. Come away, come away. {To Ms wife. 
 
 Horn. Why, what haste are you in .' why won't 
 you let me talk with him .' 
 
 Pinch. Because you'll debauch him ; he's yet 
 young and innocent, and I would not have him de- 
 bauched for anything in the world.— [Aside."] How 
 she gazes on him ! the devil ! 
 
 Horn. Harcourt, Dorilant, look you here, this 
 is the likeness of that dowdy he told us of, his wife ; 
 did you ever see a lovelier creature ? The rogue 
 has reason to be jealous of his wife, since slie is 
 like him, for she would make all .that see her in 
 love with her. 
 
 Har. And, as I remember now, she is as like 
 him here as can be. 
 
 Dor. She is indeed very pretty, if she be like 
 him. 
 
 Horn. Very pretty .' ■- very pretty commenda- 
 tion ! — she is a glorious creature, beautiful beyond 
 all things I ever beheld. 
 
 Pinch. So, so. 
 
 Har. More beautiful than a poet's first mistress 
 of imagination. 
 
 Horn. Or another man's last mistress of flesh 
 and blood, 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Nay, now you jeer, sir; pray don't 
 jeer me. 
 
 Pinch. Come, come. — [Aside.] By Heavens, 
 she'll discover herself 1 
 
 Horn. I speak of your sister, sir. 
 
 Pinch. Ay, but saying she was handsome, if 
 like him, made him blush. — [Aside.] I am upon a 
 rack ! 
 
 Horn. Methinks he is so handsome he should 
 not be a man. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] O, there 'tis out ! he has dis- 
 covered her ! I am not able to suffer any longer. 
 ■ — [To his wife.] Come, come away, I say. 
 
 Horn. Nay, by your leave, sir, he shaU not go 
 yet — [Aside to them.] Harcourt, DorUant, let us 
 torment this jealous rogue a little. 
 
 Horn. I'll show you. 
 
 Pinch. Come, pray let him go, I cannot stay 
 fooling any longer ; I tell you his sister stays sup- 
 per for us. 
 
 Horn. Does she ? Come then, we'll all go sup 
 with her and thee. 
 
 Pinch. No, now I think on't, having stayed so 
 long for us, I warrant she's gone to bed. — [Aside.\ 
 I wish she and I were well out of their hands. — 
 [To his wife.] Come, I must rise early to-morrow, 
 come. 
 
 Horn. Well then, if she be gone to bed, I wish 
 her and you a good night. But pray, young 
 gentleman, present my humble service to her. 
 
 ^Irs. Pinch. Thank you heartily, sir. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] 'Sdeath, she will discover her- 
 self yet in spite of me. — [Aloud.] He is something 
 more civil to you, for -your kindness to his sister, 
 than I am, it seems. 
 
 Horn. Tell her, dear sweet little gentleman, for 
 all your brother there, that you have revived the 
 love I had for her at first sight in the playhousn 
 .JtJ '. 
 
SCKNE II. 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. But did you love her indeed, and 
 indeed ? 
 
 Pinch. {Aside.\ So, so.^-\_ Aloud.'] Away, I say. 
 
 Horn. Nay, stay. — Yes, indeed, and indeed, pray 
 do you tell her so, and give her this kiss from me. 
 
 \_Kisses her. 
 
 Pinch. \^Aside^'\ O heavens ! what do I suffer ? 
 Now 'tis too plain he knows her, and yet — 
 
 Horn. And this, and this — [Kisses her again. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. What do you kiss me for ? I am 
 no woman. 
 
 Pinch. [^Aside.l So, there, 'tis out. — [Aloud.] 
 Come, I cannot, nor will stay any longer. 
 
 Horn. Nay, they shall send your lady a kiss 
 too. Here, Harcourt, Dorilant, will you not ? 
 
 IThep kiss her. 
 
 Pinch. lAside.'] How ! do I suffer this ? Was 
 I not accusing another just now for this rascally 
 patience, in permitting his wife to be kissed before 
 his face ? Ten thousand ulcers gnaw away their 
 lips. — [Aloud.] Come, come. 
 
 Horn. Goodnight, dear little gentleman; ma- 
 dam, good night; farewell^ Pinchwife. — [Apart to 
 Harcourt and Dorilant.] Did not I tell you I 
 would raise his jealous gall ? 
 
 [Exeunt Horner, Harcourt, and Dorilant. 
 
 Pinch. So, they are gone at last ; stay, let me 
 see first if the coach be at this door. [Exit_ 
 
 Re-enter Horner, Harcourt, and Dorilan*. 
 
 •Horn. What, not gone yet ? Will you be sure to 
 do as I desired you, sweet sir? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Sweet sir, but what will you give 
 me then ? 
 
 Horn, Anything. Come away into the next 
 walk. [Exit, hating away Mrs. Pinchwife. 
 
 Alith. Hold ! hold ! what d'ye do ? 
 
 Lucy. Stay, stay, hold — 
 
 Har. Hold, madam, hold, let him present him — 
 he'll come presently ; nay, I will never let you go 
 till you answer my question. 
 
 Lucy. For God's sake, sir, I must follow 'em, 
 
 [Alithea and Lucy, struggling with Harcourt 
 and Dorilant. 
 
 Dor. No, I have something to present you with 
 tcjo, you shan't follow them. 
 
 Re-enter Pinch wife- 
 
 Pinch. Where ? — how — what's become of ? — 
 gone ! — whither ? 
 
 Lucy. He's only gone with the gentleman, who 
 will give him something, an't please your worship. 
 
 Pinch. Something ! — give him something, with 
 a pox ! — where are they ? 
 
 Alith. In the next walk only, brother. 
 
 Pinch. Only, only ! where, where ? 
 
 [Exit, and returns presently, then goes out again. 
 
 Har. What's the matter with him } why so 
 much concerned ? But, dearest madam — 
 
 Alith. Pray let rae go, sir ; I have said and 
 suffered enough already. 
 
 Har. Then you will not look upon, nor pity, my 
 sufferings ? 
 
 Alith. To look upon 'em, when I cannot help 
 'em, were cruelty, not pity ; therefore, 1 will never 
 see you more. 
 
 Har. Let me then, madam, have ray privilege 
 of a banished lover, complaining or railing, and 
 giving you but a farewell reason why, if you can- 
 not condescend to marry me, you should not take 
 that wretch, my rival. • 
 
 Alith. He only, not you, since my honour is 
 engaged so far to him, can give me a reason why 1 
 should not marry him ; but if he be true, and 
 what I think him to me, I must be so to him. 
 Your servant, sir. 
 
 Har. Have women only constancy when 'tis a 
 vice, and are, like Fortune, only true to fools ? 
 
 Dor. Thou sha't not stir, thou robust creature ; 
 you see I can deal with you, therefore you should 
 stay the rather, and be kind. 
 
 [To Lucy, who struggles to get from him. 
 
 Re-enter PrNCHwiFE. 
 
 Pinch. Gone, gone, not to be found ! quite 
 gone ! ten thousand plagues go with 'em ! Which 
 way went they ? 
 
 Alith. But into t'other walk, brother. 
 
 Lucy. Their business will be done presently 
 sure, an't please your worship ; it can't be long in 
 doitig, I'm sure on't. 
 
 Alith. Are they not there ? 
 
 Pinch. No, you know where they are, you 
 infamous wretch, eternal shame of your family, 
 which you do not dishonour enough yourself you 
 think, but you must help her to do it top, thou 
 legion of bawds 1 
 
 Alith. Good brother — 
 
 Pinch. Damned, damned sister I 
 
 Alith, Look you here, she's coming. 
 
 Re-ent6v. Mrs. Pinchwife, running with her hat under her 
 arm, full of oranges and dried fruit, JlonNEK following. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. O dear bud, look you here what i 
 have got, see ! 
 
 Pinch. And what I have got here too, which 
 you can't see. [Aside, rubbing his forehead. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. The fine gentleman has given me 
 better things yet. 
 
 Pinch. Has he so ? — [Aside.'] Out of breath 
 and coloured ! — I must hold yet. 
 
 Horn. I have only given your litCle brother an 
 orange, sir. 
 
 Pinch. [ To Horner."] Thank you, sir.^ — 
 [Aside.] You have only squeezed my orange, I 
 suppose, and given it me again ; yet 1 must have 
 a city patience. — [To his wife.] Come, come away. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Stay, till I have put up my fine 
 things, bud. 
 
 Enter Sir Jasper Fidget. 
 
 Sir Jasp. O, master Horner, cotue, come, the 
 ladies stay for you ; your mistress, my wife, won- 
 ders you make not more haste to her. 
 
 Horn. I have stayed this half hour for you here, 
 and 'tis your fault 1 am not now with your wife. 
 
 Sir Jasp. But, pray, don't let her know so much ; 
 the truth on't is, Iwas advancing a certain project 
 to his majesty about — I'll tell you. 
 
 Horn. Noj let's go, and hear it at your house. 
 Good night, sweet little gentleman ; one kiss more, 
 you'll remember me now, 1 hope. [Kisses her. 
 
 Dor. What, sir Jasper, will you separate friends? 
 He promised to sup with us, and if you take him 
 to your house, you'll be in danger of our company 
 too. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Alas ! gentlemen, my house is not fit 
 for you ; there are none but civil women there, 
 which are not for your turn. He, you know, can 
 bear with the society of civil women now, ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! besides, he's one of my family — he's — he ! 
 he ! he ! 
 
80 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 Dor. What is he ? 
 
 Sir Jasp. Faith, my eunucli, since you'll have 
 it ; he ! he ! he ! 
 
 ^Exeunt Sir Jasper FfDGET and Horner. 
 
 Dor. I rather wish thou wert his or my cuckold. 
 Harcourt, what a good cuckold is lost there for 
 want of a man to make him one ? Thee and I cannot 
 have Horner's privilege, who can make use of it. 
 
 liar. Ay, to poor Horner 'tis like coming to an 
 estate at threescore, when a, man can't be the 
 better for't. , 
 
 Pinch. Come. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Presently, bud. 
 
 Dor. Come, let us go too. — [To Alithea.] 
 
 Madam, your servant. — [To LocY.] Goodnight, 
 strapper. 
 
 Har. Madam, though you will not let me haife 
 a good day or night, I wish you one ; but dare not 
 name the other half of my wish. 
 
 Aliih. Good night, sir, for ever. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. I don't know where to put this 
 here, dear bud , you shall eat it ; nay, you shall have 
 part of the fine gentleman's good things, or treat, 
 as you call it, when we come home. 
 
 Pinch. Indeed I deserve it, since I famished 
 the best part of it. iStrtkes away the orange. 
 
 The gallant treats presents, and gives the ball ; 
 
 But 'tis the absent cuckold pays for all. lExeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — Pinchwife's House in the Morning. 
 Enter Authba dressed in new Clothes, and Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. Well — madam, now have I dressed you, 
 and set you out with so many ornaments, and 
 spent upon yon ounces of essence and pulvillio ; 
 and all this for no other purpose but as people 
 adorn and perfume a corpse for a stinking second- 
 hand grave : such, or as bad, I think master 
 Sparkish's bed. 
 
 Alith. Hold your peace. 
 
 Lvcy. Nay, madam, I will ask you the reason 
 why you would banish poor master Harcourt for 
 ever from your sight ; how could you be so hard- 
 hearted ? 
 
 Alith. 'Twas because I was not hard-hearted. 
 
 Lucy. No, no ; 'twas stark love and kindness, 
 I warrant. 
 
 Alith. It was so ; I would see him no more 
 because I love him. 
 
 Lucy. Hey day, a very pretty reason ! 
 
 Alith. You do not understand me. 
 
 Lucy. I wish you may yourself. 
 
 Alith. I was engaged to marry, you see, another 
 man, whom my justice will not suffer me to deceive 
 or injure. 
 
 Lucy. Can there be a greater cheat or wrong 
 done to a man than to give him your person with- 
 out your heart ? I should make a conscience of it. 
 
 Alith. I'll retrieve it for him after I am married 
 a while. 
 
 Lucy. The woman that marries to love better, 
 will be as much mistaken as the wencher that 
 marries to live better. No, madam, marrying to 
 increase love is like gaming to become rich ; 
 alas ! you only lose what little stock you had before. 
 
 Alith. I find by your rhetoric you have been 
 bribed to betray me. 
 
 Lucy. Only by his merit, that has bribed your 
 heart, you see, against your word and rigid honour. 
 But what a devil is this honour ! 'tis sure a disease 
 in the head, like the megrim or falling-sickness, 
 that always hurries people away to do themselves 
 mischief. Men lose their lives by it ; women, 
 what's dearer to 'em, their love, the life of life. 
 
 Alith. Come, pray talk you no more of honour, 
 nor master Harcourt ; I wish the other would 
 come to secure my fidelity to him and his right 
 in me. '' 
 
 Y 
 
 Lucy. You will marry him then .^ 
 
 Alith. Certainly, I have given him already my 
 word, and will my hand too, to make it good, when 
 he comes. 
 
 Lucy. Well, I wish I may never stick pin more, 
 if he be not an arrant natural, to t'other fine gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Alith. I own he wants the wit of Harcourt, 
 which I will dispense withal for another want he 
 has, which is want of jealousy, which men of wit 
 seldom want. 
 
 Lucy. Lord, madam, what should you do with 
 a fool to your husband ? You intend to be honest, 
 don't you ? then that husbandly virtue, credulity, 
 is thrown away upon you. 
 
 Alith. He only that could suspect my virtue 
 should have cause to do it ; 'tis Sparkish's confi- 
 dence in my truth that obliges me to be so faithful 
 to him. 
 
 Lucy. You are not sure his opinion may last. 
 
 Alith. I am satisfied, 'tis impossible for him to 
 be jealous after the proofs I have had of him. 
 Jealousy in a husband — Heaven defend me from 
 it ! it begets a thousand plagues to a poor woman, 
 the loss of her honour, her quiet, and her — 
 
 Lucy. . And her pleasure. 
 
 Alith. What d'ye mean, impertinent .' 
 
 Lucy. Liberty is a great pleasure, madam. 
 
 Alith. I say, loss of her honour, her quiet, nay, 
 her life sometimes ; and what's as bad almost, the 
 loss of this town ; that is, she is sent into the 
 country, which is the last ill-usage of a aasband to 
 a wife, I think. 
 
 Lucy. [Aside."] O, does the wind lie there ? — 
 [Aloud.] Then of necessity, madam, you think a 
 man must carry his wife into the country, if he be 
 wise. The country is as terrible, I find, to our 
 young English ladies, as a monastery to those 
 abroad ; and on my virginity, I think they would 
 rather marry a London jailer, than a high sheriif 
 of a county, since neither can stir from his employ- 
 ment. Formerly women of wit married fools for a 
 great estate, a fine seat, or the like ; but now 'tis 
 for a pretty seat only in Lincolu's-Inn-Fields, St. 
 James's-Fields, or the Pali-Mall. 
 
 Enter Sparktsh, and Harcourt dressed like a paj-son. 
 
 Spark. Madam, your humble servant, a happy 
 day to you, and to us all. 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 Har. Amen. 
 
 Alith. Who have we here ? 
 Spark. My chaplain, faith — O madam, poor 
 Harcourt remembers his humble service to you ; 
 and, in obedience to your last commands, refrains 
 coming into your sight. ^ 
 
 Alith. Is not that he ? 
 
 Spark. No, fy, no ; but to show that he ne'er 
 intended to hinder our match, has sent his brother 
 here to join our hands. When I get me a wife, I 
 must get her a chaplain, according to the custom ; 
 this is his brother, and my chaplain. 
 
 Alith. His brother ! 
 
 Lucy. And your chaplain, to preach in your pul- 
 pit then — lAside. 
 
 Alith. His brother ! 
 
 Spark. Nay, I knew you would not believe it. 
 — I told you, sir, she would take, you for your 
 brother Frank. 
 
 Alith. Believe it ! 
 
 Lucy. His brother ! ha ! ha ! he ! he has a 
 trick left still, it seems, ^Aside. 
 
 Spark. Come, my dearest, pray let us go to 
 church before the canonical hour is past. 
 
 Alith. For shame, you are abused still. 
 
 Spark. By the world, 'tis strange now you are 
 so incredulous. 
 
 Alith. 'Tis strange you are so credulous. 
 
 Spark. Dearest of my life, hear me. I tell you 
 this is Ned Harcourt of Cambridge, by the world ; 
 you see he has a sneaking college look. 'Tis true 
 he's something like his brother Frank ; and they 
 differ from each other no more than in their age, 
 for they were twins. 
 
 Lucy. Ha ! ha ! he ! 
 
 Alith. Your servant, sir ; I cannot be so 
 deceived, though you are. But come, let's hear, 
 how do you know what you affirm so confidently .' 
 
 Spark. Why, I'll tell you all. Frank Har- 
 court coming to me this morning to wish me joy, 
 and present his service to you, I asked him if he 
 could help me to a parson. Whereupon he told 
 me, he had a brother in town vpho was in orders ; 
 and he went straight away, and sent him, you see 
 there, to me. 
 
 Alith. Yes, Frank goes and puts on a black 
 coat, then tells you he is Ned ; that's all you have 
 for't. 
 
 Spark. Pshaw ! pshaw ! I tell you, by the same 
 token, the midwife put her garter about Frank's 
 neck, to know 'em asunder, they were so like. 
 
 Alith. Frank tells you this too ? 
 
 Spark. Ay, and Ned there too : nay, they are 
 both in a story. 
 
 Alith. So, so ; very foolish. 
 
 Spark. Lord, if you won't believe one, you had 
 best try him by your chambermaid there ; for 
 chambermaids must needs know chaplains from 
 other men, they are so used to 'em. 
 
 Lvcy. Let's see : nay, I'll be sworn he has the 
 canonical smirk, and the filthy clammy palm of a 
 chaplain. 
 
 Alith. Well, most reverend doctor, pray let us 
 make an end of this fooling. 
 
 Har. With all my soul, divine heavenly creature, 
 when you please. 
 
 Alith. He speaks like a chaplain indeed. 
 
 Spark. Why, was there not soul, divine, 
 heavenly, in what he said ? 
 
 Alith. 'Once more, most impertinent black coat, 
 
 cease your persecution, and let us have a conclu- 
 sion of this ridiculous love. 
 
 Har. I had forgot, I must suit my style to my 
 coat, or I wear it in vain. \_Aside. 
 
 Alith. I have no more patience left ; let us make 
 once an end of this troublesome love, I say. 
 
 Har. So be it, seraphic lady, when your honour 
 shall think it meet and convenient so to do. 
 
 Spark. 'Gad I'm sure none but a chaplain could 
 speak so, I think. 
 
 Alith. Let me tell you, sir, this dull trick will 
 not serve your turn ; though you delay our mar- 
 riage, you shall not hinder it. 
 
 Har. Far be it from me, munificent patroness, 
 to delay your marriage ; I desire nothing more 
 than to marry you presently, which I might do, if 
 you yourself would ; for my noble, good-natured, 
 and thrice generous patron here would not hinder it. 
 
 Spark. No, poor man, not I, faith. 
 
 Har. And now, madam, let me tell you plainly 
 nobody else shall marry you; by heavens, I'll die 
 first, for I'm sure I should die after it. 
 
 Lucy. How his love has made him forget his 
 function, as I have seen it in real parsons ! 
 
 Alith. That was spoken like a chaplain too .' now 
 you understand him, I hope. 
 
 Spark. Poor man, he takes it heinously to be 
 refused ; I can't blame him, 'tis putting an indignity 
 upon him, not to be suffered ; but you'll pardon 
 me, madam, it shan't be j he shall marry us : come 
 away, pray madam. 
 
 Lucy. Ha! ha! he! more ado ! 'tis late. 
 
 Alith. Invincible stupidity ! I tell you, he would 
 marry me as your rival, not as your chaplain. 
 
 Spark. Come, come, madam. IPulHng her away. 
 
 Lucy. I pray, madam, do not refuse this 
 reverend divine the honour and satisfaction of 
 marrying you ; for I dare say, he has set his heart 
 upon't, good doctor. 
 
 Alith. What can you hope or design by this ? 
 
 Har. I could answer her, a reprieve for a day 
 only, often revokes a hasty doom. At worst, if she 
 will not take mercy on me, and let me marry her, 
 I have at least the lover's second pleasure, hindering 
 my rival's enjoyment, though but for a time. 
 
 ^Aside. 
 
 Spark. Come, madam, 'tis e'en twelve o'clock, 
 and my mother charged me never to be married 
 out of the canonical hours. Come, come ; Lord, 
 here's such a deal of modesty, I warrant, the first 
 day. 
 
 Lucy. Yes, an't please your worship, married 
 women show all their modesty the first day, 
 because married men show all their love the first 
 day. {^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II A Bedchamber in Mr. Pinch- 
 
 wifk's House. 
 
 Mr. Pjnchwife and Mrs. Pinchwife discovered. 
 
 Pinch. Come, tell me, I say. 
 
 Mrs. Finch. Lord ! han't I told it a hundred 
 times over } 
 
 Pinch. lAside.] I would try, if in the repeti- 
 tion of the ungrateful tale, I coula find her alteriog 
 it in the least circumstance ; for if her story be 
 false, she is so too. — [Aloud.] Come, how was't, 
 
THE COUNTKY WIFE. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Lord, what pleasure you take to 
 hear it sure ! 
 
 Pinch. No, you take more in telling it I find j 
 but speak, how was't ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. He carried me up into the house 
 next to the Exchange. 
 
 Pinch. So, and you two were only in the room ! 
 
 Mrs. Phich. Yes, for he sent away a youth 
 that was there, for some dried fruit, and China 
 oranges. 
 
 Pinch. Did he so? Damn him for it — and 
 for- 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. But presently came up the gentle- 
 woman of the house. 
 
 Pinch. O, 'twas well she did ; but what did he 
 do whilst the fruit came ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. He kissed me a hundred times, 
 and told me he fancied he kissed my fine sister, 
 meaning me, you know, whom he said he loved 
 with all his soul, and bid me be sure to tell her 
 so, and to desire her to be at her window, by 
 eleven of the clock this morning, and he would 
 walk under it at that time. 
 
 Pinch, And he was as good as his word, very 
 punctual ; a pox reward him for^t ! \_Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Well, and he said if you were not 
 within, he would come up to her, meaning me, you 
 know, bud, still. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.'] So — he knew her certainly ; but 
 for this confession, I am obliged to her simplicity. 
 — [ Aloud.] But what, you stood very still when he 
 kissed you? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Yes, I warrant you ; would you 
 have had me discovered myself? 
 
 Pinch. Butyow told me he did some beastliness 
 to you, as you call it ; what was't ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Why, he put — 
 
 Pinch. What? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Why, he put the tip of his tongue 
 between my lips, and so mousled me — and I said, 
 I'd bite it. 
 
 Pinch. An eternal canker seize it, for a dog ! 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Nay, you need not be so angry 
 with him neither, for to say the truth, he has 
 the sweetest breath I ever knew. 
 
 Pinch. The devil 1 you were satisfied with it 
 then , and would do it again ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Not unless he should force me. 
 
 Pinch. Force you, changeling 1 I tell you, no 
 woman can be forced. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Yes, but she may sure, by such a 
 one as he, for he's a proper, goodly, strong man ; 
 'tis hard, let me tell you, to resist him. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] So, 'tis plain she loves him, yet 
 she has not love enough to make her concejil it 
 from me ; but the sight of him will increase her 
 aversion for me and love for him ; and that love 
 instruct her how to deceive me and satisfy him, all 
 idiot as she is. Love ! 'twas he gave women first 
 their craft, their art of deluding. Out of Nature's 
 hands they came plain, Open, silly, and fit for slaves, 
 as she and heaven intended 'em ; but damned Love 
 — well— I must strangle that little monster whilst 
 I can deal with him. — [Aloud.] Go fetch pen, ink, 
 and paper out of the next room. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Yes, bud. C.B**<- 
 
 Pinch. Why should women have more invention 
 in love than men ? It can only be, because they 
 have more desires, more soliciting passions, more 
 lust, and more of the devil. 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Pinchwifb 
 
 Come, minx, sit down and write. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Ay, dear bud, but I can't do't 
 very well. 
 
 Pinch. I wish you could not at all, 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. But what should I write for ? 
 
 Pinch. I'll have you write a letter to your lover. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. O Lord, to the fine gentleman a 
 letter ! 
 
 Pinch. Yes, to the fine gentleman. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Lord, you do but jeer ; sure you 
 jest. 
 
 Pinch. I am not so merry : come, write as I 
 bid you. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. What, do you think I am a fool ? 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] She's afraid I would not dic- 
 tate any love ^o him, therefore she's unwiUing. — 
 [Aloud.] But you had best begin, 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Indeed, and indeed, but I won't, 
 so I won't; 
 
 Pinch. Why ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Because he's in town ; you may 
 send for him if you will. 
 
 Pinch. Very well, you would have him brought 
 to you ; is it come to this ? I say, take the pen 
 and write, or you'll provoke me. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Lord, what d'ye make a fool ot 
 me for ? Don't I know that letters are never writ 
 but from the country to London, and from London 
 into the country ? Now he's in town, and I am 
 in town too ; therefore I can't write to him, you 
 know. 
 
 Pinch, [Aside.] So, I am glad it is no worse ; 
 she is innocent enough yet. — [Aloud.] Yes, you 
 may, when your husband bids you. write letters 
 to people that are in town. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch, O, may I so ? then I'm satisfied. 
 
 Pinch. Come, begin : — Sir — [Dictates, 
 
 Mrs, Pinch. Shan't I say, Dear Sir?— \oa 
 know one says always something more than bare 
 sir. 
 
 Pinch. Write as I bid you, or I will write whore 
 with this penknife in your face. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Nay, good hnd—Sir — [Wrilet. 
 
 Pinch. Though I suffered last night your 
 nauseous, loathed kisses and embraces — Write ! 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Nay, why should I say so ? You 
 know I told you he had a sweet breath. 
 
 Pinch. Write ! 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Let me but put out loathed. 
 
 Pinch. Write, I say ! 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Well then. IWrites. 
 
 Pinch. Let's see, what have you writ? — [Takes 
 the paper and reads.] Though I suffered last 
 night your kisses and embraces — Thou impudent 
 creature ! where is nauseous and loathed? 
 
 Mrs Pinch. I can't abide to write such filthy 
 words. 
 
 Pinch. Once more write as I'd have you, and 
 
 question it not, or I will spoil thy writing with this. 
 
 1 will stab out those eyes that cause my mischief. 
 
 [Holds up the penknife, 
 
 Mrs, Pinch. O Lord ! I will. 
 
 Pinch, So — so — let's see now. — [Reads,] Though 
 I suffered last night your nauseous, loathed kisses 
 and embraces — go on — yet I would not have you 
 presume that you shall ever repeat them — so — 
 
 [Hhe writes 
 
 Mrs, Finch. T have writ it. 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 89 
 
 Pinch. On, then — I then concealed my sdf from 
 
 your knowledge, to avoid your insolencies 
 
 [S/iC io.riies. 
 
 Mrs, Pinch. So — 
 
 Pinch. The same reason, now I am out of your 
 hands — {.She tvrlies. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. So — 
 
 Pinch. Makes me own to you my unfortunatef 
 though innocent frolic, of being in man's clothes — 
 
 \_She icriics. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. So — 
 
 Pinch. Thatyou may for evermore cease to pur- 
 sue her, who hates and detests you— LShe ivriiex on, 
 
 Mrs, Pinch. So. Heigh ! LSif/hs. 
 
 Pinch. What, do you sigh ? — detests you — as 
 much as she loves her husband and her honour — 
 
 l\frs. Pinch, I vow, husband, he'll ne'er believe 
 I should write such a letter. 
 
 Pinch. What, he'd expect a kinder from you ? 
 Come, now your name only. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. What, shan't I say Your most 
 faithful humble servant till death ? 
 
 Pinch. No, tormenting fiend! — [Aside.] Her 
 style, I find, would be very soft. — [Aloud."] Come, 
 wrap it up now, whilst I go fetch wax and a candle ; 
 and write on the backside, For Mr. Horner. iBxit. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. For Mr. Horner, — So, I am glad 
 he has told me his name. Dear Mr. Horner 1 but 
 why should I send thee such a letter that will vex 
 thee, and make thee angry with me ?— Well, I will 
 not send it. — Ay, but then my husband will kill 
 me — for I see plainly he won't let me love Mr. 
 Horner — but what care I for my husband ? — I 
 won't, so I won't, send poor Mr. Horner such a 
 letter — But then my husband — but oh, what if I 
 writ at bottom my husband made me write it ? — ■ 
 Ay, but then my husband would see't. — Can one 
 have no shift ? ah, a London woman would have 
 had a hundred presently. Stay — what if I should 
 write a letter, and wrap it up like this, and write 
 upon't too ? Ay, but then my husband would see't 
 — I don't know what to do. — But yet evads I'll 
 try, 50 I will — for I will not send this letter to 
 poor Mr. Horner, come what will on't. 
 
 Dear, siceet Mr. Horner — [ Writes, and 
 repeats what she writes. ] — so — my husbajid would 
 have me send you a base, rude, unmannerly letter ; 
 but I won't — so — and would have me forbid 
 you loving me; but I won't — so — and would 
 have me say to you, I hate you, poor Mr, Horner ; 
 but I won't tell a lie for him — there — for Pm 
 sure if you and I were in the country at cards 
 together — so — / could not help treading on your 
 toe under the table — so — or rubbing knees with 
 you, and staring in your face, till you saw me — 
 very well — and then looking down, and blushing 
 for an hour together—so — but I must make haste 
 before my husband comes : and now he has taught 
 me to write letters, you shall have longer ones from 
 me, who am, dear, dear, poor, dear Mr. Horner, 
 your most humtle friend, and servant to command 
 till death, — Margery Pinchwife. 
 
 Stay, I must give him a hint at bottom — so — 
 now wrap it up just like t'other — so— now write 
 For Mr. Horner — But oh now, what shall I do 
 with it ? for here comes my husband. 
 
 B.e-p.n',er Pinghwxfe. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] I have been detained by a 
 sparkisli coxcomb, who pretended a visit to me ; 
 
 but I feai^ 'twas to my wife— [^/oarf.] What, have 
 you done? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Ay, ay, bud, just now. 
 
 Pinch. Let's see't : what d'ye tremble for? what, 
 yon would not have it go ? 
 
 Mrs. Piiich. Here — [Aside.] No, I must not 
 give him that : so I had been served if I had given 
 him this. [He opens and reads ihejirst letter. 
 
 Pinch. Come, where's the wax and seal? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. [Aside.] Lord, what shall I do 
 now? Nay, then 1 have it — [Aloud.] Pray let me 
 see't. Lord, you think me so arrant a fool, I can- 
 not seal a letter ; T will do't, so I will. 
 
 [Snatches the letter from him, changes it for the other, 
 scfls it, and delivers it to him. 
 
 Pinch. Nay, I believe you will learn that, and 
 other things too, which I would not have you. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. So, han't 1 done it curiously ? — 
 [Aside.] I think I have; there's my letter going 
 to Mr. Horner, since he**!! needs have me send 
 letters to folks. 
 
 Pinch. 'Tis very well ; but I warrant, you would 
 not have it go now? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Yes, indeed, but 1 would, bud, 
 now. 
 
 Pinch. Well, you are a good girl then. Come, 
 let me lock you up in your chamber, till I come 
 back ; and be sure you come not within three 
 strides of the window when I am gone, for I have 
 a spy in the street. — [Exit Mrs. Pinchwife, 
 PiNCHwiFE locks the door.] At least 'tis fit she 
 thinks so. ]f we do not cheat women, they'll cheat 
 us, and fraud may be justly used widi secret ene- 
 mies, of which a wife is the most dangerous ; and 
 he that has a handsome one to keep, and a frontier 
 town, must provide against treachery, rather than 
 open force. Now. I have secured all within, I'Ji 
 deal with the fofe without, with false intelligence. 
 [HoMs up the letter. Exit. 
 
 SCENE III.— Horner's Lodging. 
 Enter Horneb and Quack. 
 
 Quack. Well, sir, how fadges the new design ? 
 have you not the luck of all your brother projectors, 
 to deceive only yourself at last ? 
 
 Horn, No, good domine doctor, I deceive you, 
 it seems, and others too ; for the grave matrons, 
 and old rigid husbands think me as unfit for love, 
 as they are ; but their wives, sisters, and daughters 
 know, some of 'em, better things already. 
 
 Quack. Already ! 
 
 Horn. Already, I say. Last night I was drunk 
 with half-a-dozen of your civil persons, as you call 
 'em, and people of honour, and so was made free 
 of their society and dressing-rooms for ever here- 
 after ; and am already come to the privileges of 
 sleeping upon their pallets, warming smocks, tying 
 shoes and garters, and the like, doctor, already, 
 already, doctor. 
 
 Quack. You have made good use of your time, 
 sir. 
 
 Horn. I tell thee, I am now no more interrup- 
 tion to 'em, when they sing, or talk bawdy, than a 
 little squab French page who speaks no English. 
 
 Quack. But do civil persons and women of 
 honour drink, anti sing bawdy songs ? 
 
 Horn. O, amongst friends, amongst friends 
 
0(» 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 For your bigots in honour are just like those in 
 religion ; they fear the eye of the world more than 
 the eye of Heaven ; and think there is no virtue, 
 but railing at vice, and no sin, but giving scandal. 
 They rail at a poor, little, kept player, and keep 
 themselves some young, modest pulpit comedian to 
 be privy to their sins in their closets, not to tell 
 'cm of them in their chapels. 
 
 Quack. Nay, the trutii on't is, priests, amongst 
 the women now, have quite got tlie better of us lay- 
 confessors, physicians. 
 
 Horn. And they are rather their patients ; but — 
 
 Enter my Lady Fidget, looking about her. 
 
 Now we talk of women of honour, here coKies one. 
 Step behind the screen there, and but observe, if I 
 have not particular privileges with the women of 
 reputation already, doctor, already, [ftnack retiru. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Well, Horner, am not I a woman 
 of honour ? you see, I'm as good as my word. 
 
 Horn. And you shall see, madam, I'll not be 
 behiiid-hand with you in honour ; and I'U be as 
 good as my word too, if you please but to withdraw 
 into the next room. 
 
 Lady Fidg. But first, my dear sir, you must 
 promise to have a care of my dear honour, 
 
 Horn. If you talk a word more of your hon- 
 our, you'll make me incapable to wrong it. To 
 talk of honour in the mysteries of love, is like 
 talking of Heaven or the Deity, in an operation of 
 witchcraft, just when you are employing the devil : 
 it makes the charm impotent. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Nay, fy ! let us not be smutty. 
 But you talk of mysteries and bewitching to me ; I 
 don't understand you. • 
 
 Horn. I tell you, madam, the word money in a 
 mistress's mouth, at such a nick of time, is not a 
 more disheartening sound to a younger brother, 
 than that of honour to an eager lover like myself. 
 
 Lady Fidg. But you can't blame a lady of my 
 reputation to be chary. 
 
 Horn. Chary ! I have been chary of it already, 
 Dy the report I have caused of myself. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Ay, but if you should ever let other 
 women know that dear secret, it would come out. 
 Nay, you must have a great care of your conduct ; 
 for my acquaintance are so censorious, (oh, 'tis a 
 wicked, censorious world, Mr. Horner !) I say, are 
 so censorious, and detracting, that perhaps they'll 
 talk to the prejudice of my honour, though you 
 should not let them know the dear secret. 
 
 Horn. Nay, madam, rather than they shall pre- 
 judice your honour, I'll prejudice theirs ; and, to 
 serve you, I'll lie with 'em all, make the secret 
 their own, and then they'll keep it. I am a 
 Machiavel in love, madam. 
 
 Lady Fidg. O, no sir, not that way. 
 
 Horn, Nay, the devil take me, if censorious 
 women are to be silenced any other way. 
 
 Lady Fidg. A secret is better kept, I hope, by 
 a single person than a multitude ; therefore pray 
 do not trust anybody else with it, dear, dear Mr. 
 Horner. 
 
 Enter Sir Jasper F*doet. 
 
 Sir Jasp. How now ! 
 
 LadijFidg. \_Aside.'\ O my husband!— prevented 
 — and what's almost as bad, found with my arms 
 about another man— that will appear too much — 
 what shall I say ? — {Aloud.'] Sir Jasper, come 
 
 hither : I am trying if Mr. Homer were ticklish, 
 and he's as ticklish as can be. I love to torment 
 the confounded toad ; let you and I tickle him. 
 
 Sir Jasp. No, your ladyship will tickle him 
 better without me, I suppose. But is this your 
 buying china? I thought you had been at the 
 china-house. 
 
 Horn. [Aside.] China-house ! that's my cue, 
 I must take it. — [Aloud.] A pox ! can't you keep 
 your impertinent wives at home ^ Some men are 
 troubled with the husbands, but I with the wives ; 
 but I'd have you to know, since I cannot be your 
 journeyman by night, I will not be your drudge by 
 day, to squire your wife about, and be your man of 
 straw, or scarecrow only to pies and jays, that 
 would be nibbling at your forbiddeu fruit ; I shall 
 be shortly the hackney gentleman-usher of the 
 town. 
 
 Sir Jasp. [Aside,] He ■ he ! he ! poor fellow, 
 he's in the right on't, faith. To squire women 
 about for other folks, is as ungrateful an employ- 
 ment, as to tell money for other folks.— [^fo»d.] 
 He ! he 1 he ! be'n't angry, Horner. 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, 'tis I have more reason to be 
 angry, who ara left by you, to go abroad indecently 
 alone ; or, what is more indecent, to pin myself 
 upon such ill-bred people of your acquaintance as 
 this is. . 
 
 Sir Jasp. Nay, prithee, what has he done ? 
 
 Lady Fidg. Nay, he has done nothing. 
 
 Sir Jasp. But what d'ye take ill, if he has done 
 nothing? 
 
 Lady Fidg. Ha ! ha \ ha ! faith, I can't but 
 laugh however ; why, d'ye think the unmannerly 
 toad would come down to me to the coach ? I was 
 fain to come up to fetch him, or go without him, 
 which I was resolved not to do ; for he knows 
 china very well, and has himself very good, bat 
 wiU not let me see it, lest I should beg some ; but 
 I will find it out, and have what I came for yet. 
 
 Horn. [Apart to Lady Fidget, as he follows her 
 
 to the door.] Lock the door, madam [Exith&Aj 
 
 Fidget, and locks the door.]— [Aloud.] So, she 
 has got into my chamber and locked me out. Oh 
 the impertinency of woman-kind ! Well, sir Jas- 
 per, plain-dealing is a jewel ; if ever you suffer your 
 wife to trouble me again here, she shall carry you 
 home a pair of horns ; by my lord mayor she shall ; 
 though I cannot furnish you myself, you are sure, 
 yet I'll find a way. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ha ! ha ! he ! — [Aside.] At my first 
 comiug in, and finding her arm* about him, tick- 
 ling him it seems, I was half jealous, but now T see 
 my folly. — .[Aloud.] He ! he ! he ! poor Horner. 
 
 Horn. Nay, though you laugh now, 'twill be my 
 turn ere long. Oh women, more impertinent, 
 more cunning, and more mischievous than their 
 monkeys, and to me almost as ugly ! — Now is she 
 throwing my things about, and rifling all I have ; 
 but I'll get into her the back way, and so rifle her 
 for it. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor angry Homer. 
 
 Horn. Stay here a little, I'll ferret her out to 
 you presently, I waiTant. lExU at the other door. 
 
 [Sir Jasper talks through Vie door to his wife, she answers 
 from within. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Wife ! my lady Fidget ! wife ! he is 
 coming in to you the back way. 
 
 Lady Fidg . Let him come, and welcome, which 
 way he will. 
 
SOENB JII. 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 91 
 
 Sir Jasp. He'll catch you, and use you roughly, 
 and be. too strong for you. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Don't you trouble yourself, let him 
 if he can. 
 
 Quack. \_Aside.'\ This indeed I could not have 
 believed from him, nor any but my own eyes. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Squeamish. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Where's this woman-hater, this 
 toad, this ugly, greasy, dirty sloven ? 
 
 Sir Jasp. [Aside.'\ So, the women all will have 
 him ugly : methinks he is a comely person, but 
 his wants malte his form contemptible to 'em ; 
 and 'tis e'en as my wife said yesterday, talking of 
 him, that a proper handsome eunuch was as ridi- 
 culous a thing as a gigantic coward. 
 
 Mrs. Sgueam. Sir Jasper, your servant : where 
 is the odious beast ? 
 
 Sir Jrnsp. He's within in his chamber, with my 
 wife ; she's playing the wag with him. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Is she so ? and he's a clownish 
 beast, he'll give her no quarter, he'll play the wag 
 with her again, let me tell you : come, let's go 
 help her. — What, the door's locked ? 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ay, my wife locked it. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Did she so ? let's break it open 
 then. 
 
 Sir Jasp. No, no, he'll do her no hurt. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. No. — ^Aside."] But is there no 
 other way to get in to 'em .-• whither goes this ? I 
 will disturb 'em. lExit at another door. 
 
 Enter Old Lady Squeamish. 
 
 Lady Squeam. Where is this harlotry, this impii- 
 dent baggage, this rambling Tomrigg .'' O Sir Jas- 
 per, I'm glad to see you here ; did you not see my 
 vile grandchild come in hither just now ? 
 
 Sir Jasp. Yes. 
 
 Lady Squeam. Ay, but where is she then ? 
 where is she .' Lord, sir Jasper, I have e'en rattled 
 myself to pieces in pursuit of her : but can you tell 
 what makes she here .' they say below, no wotnan 
 lodges here. 
 
 Sir Jasp. No. 
 
 Lady Squeam. No ! what does she here then .' 
 say, if it be not a woman's lodging, what makes 
 she here ? But are you sure no woman lodges 
 here ? 
 
 Sir Jasp. No, nor no man neither, this is Mr. 
 Homer's lodging. 
 
 iMdy Squeam. Is it so, are you sure ? 
 
 Sir Jasp. Yes, yes. 
 
 Lady Squeam. So ; then there's no hurt in't, I 
 hope. But where is he ? 
 
 Sir Jasp. He's in the next room with my wife. 
 
 Lady Squeam. Nay, if you trust him with your 
 wife, I may with my Biddy. They say, he's a merry 
 harmless man now, e'en as harmless a man as ever 
 came out of Italy with a good voice, and as pfetty, 
 harmless company for a lady, as a snake without his 
 teeth. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ay, ay, poor man. 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Squeamish. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. I can't find 'em. — Oh, are you 
 here, grandmother ? I followed, you must know, 
 my lady Pidget hither ; 'tis the prettiest lodging, 
 and I have been staring on the prettiest pictures — 
 
 Re-enter Lady FiDOEt wiiU a piece of cJiina in her hand, 
 ami HoRNEtt following. 
 
 Lady Fidg. And I have been toiling and moiling 
 for the prettiest piece of china, my dear. 
 
 Horn. Nay, she has been too hard for me, do 
 what I could. ^ 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Oh, lord, I '11 have some china 
 too. Good Mr. Horner, don't think to give other 
 people china, and me none ; come in with me too. 
 
 Horn. Upon my honour, I have none left now 
 
 Mrs. Squeam, Nay, nay, I have known you 
 deny your china before now, but you shan't put me 
 off so. Come. 
 
 Horn, This lady had the last there. 
 
 Lady Fidg, Yes indeed, madam, to my certain 
 knowledge, he has no more left. 
 
 Mrs, Squeam, O, but it may be he may have 
 some you could not find. 
 
 Lady Fidg. What, d'ye think if he had had any 
 left, I would not have had it too r for we women of 
 quality never think we have china enough. 
 
 Horn. Do not take it ill, I cannot make china 
 for you all, but I will have a roll-waggon for you 
 too, another time. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Thank you, dear toad. 
 
 Lady Fidg. What do you mean by that promise ? 
 \^Aside to HoRNEit. 
 
 Horn. Alas, she has an innocent, literal under- 
 standing. ^Aside to Lady Fidget. 
 
 Lady Squeam, Poor Mr. Horner ! he has enough 
 to do to please you all, I see. 
 
 Horn. Ay, madam, you see how they use me. 
 
 Lady Squeam. Poor gentleman, I pity you. 
 
 Horn. 1 thank you, niadam ; I could never find 
 pity, but from such reverend ladies as you are ; the 
 young ones will never spare a man. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Come, come, beast, and go dine 
 with us ; for we shall want a man at ombre after 
 dinner. 
 
 Horn. That's all their use of me, madam, you 
 see. 
 
 Mrs, Squeam, Come,sloven, I'll lead you, to be 
 sure of you, IPulls him by the eravat. 
 
 Lady Squeam, Alas, poor man, how she tugs 
 him I Kiss, kiss her ; that's the way to make such 
 nice women quiet. 
 
 Horn. No, madam, that remedy is worse than 
 the torment; they know I dare suffer anything 
 rather than do it. 
 
 Lady Squeam, Prithee kiss her, and I'll give 
 you her picture in little, that you admired so last 
 night ; prithee do. 
 
 Horn, Well, nothing but that could bribe me : 
 I love a woman only in effigy, and good painting 
 
 as much as I hate them I'll do't, for I could 
 
 adore the devil well painted. {.Kisses Mrs. Soueamish. 
 
 Mrs, Squeam! Fob, you filthy toad ! nay, now 
 I've done jesting. 
 
 Lady Squeam, Ha ! ha ! ha ! I told you so. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam, Foh ! a kiss of his — 
 
 Sir Jasp, Has no more hurt in't, than one of 
 tny spaniel's. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam,. Nor no more good neither. 
 
 Quack. I will now behave anything he tells me. 
 
 {.Aside 
 
 Enter Mr. Pinchwifb. 
 
 Lady Fidg. O Lord, here's a man ! Sir Jasper, 
 my mask, my mask ! I would not be seen here fo-' 
 the world. 
 
92 
 
 THE COUNTRY AV'IFE. 
 
 Sir Jasp. What, not when I am with you ? 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, no, my honour — let's be gone. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Oh grandmother, let's be gone ; 
 make haste, make haste, 1 know not how he iliay 
 censure us. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Be found in the lodging of anything 
 like a man ! — Away. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Jasper Ftdget, Lady Fidget, Old Lady 
 SqubamtsB',' and Mrs. Squsaiuish. 
 
 Quack. What's here ? another cuckold ? he looks 
 like one, and none else sure have any business with 
 him. [Aside. 
 
 Horn. Well, what brings my dear friend hither .' 
 
 Pinch. Your impertinenoy. 
 
 Horn. My impertinenoy !^why, you gentle- 
 men that have got handsome wives, think you have 
 a privilege of saying anything to your friends, and 
 are as brutish as if you were our creditors. 
 
 Pinch. No, sir, I'll ne'er trust you any way. 
 
 Horn. But why not, dear Jack ? why diflide in 
 me thou kno*'st so well ? 
 
 Pinch. Because I do know you so well. 
 
 Horn. Han't I been always thy friend, honest 
 Jack, always ready to serve thee, in love or battle, 
 before thou wert married, and am so still ? 
 
 Pinch. I believe so, you would be my second 
 now, indeed. 
 
 Horti. Well then, dear Jack, why so unkind, so 
 gram, so strange to me .-' CGme, prithee kiss me, 
 dear rogue : gad I was always, I say, and am still 
 as much thy servant as — 
 
 Pinch. As I am yours, sir. What, you would 
 send a kiss to hiy wife, is that it .' 
 
 Horn. So, there 'tis — a man can't Show his 
 friendship to a married man, but preseotly he talks 
 of his wife to you. Prithee, let thy wife alone, and 
 let thee and I be all one, as we were wont. What, 
 thou art as shy of my kindness, as a Lombard- 
 street alderman of a courtier's civility at Locket's ! 
 
 Pinch. But you are over-kind to me, as kind as 
 if I were your cuckold already ; yet I must confess 
 you ought to be kind and civil to me, since I am 
 so kind, so civil to you, as to bring you this : look 
 you there, sir. [Delivers him a letter. 
 
 Horn. What is't ? 
 
 Pinch. Only a love-letter, sir. 
 
 Horn. From whom ?— how ! this is from your 
 wife — hum — and hum — [Reais. 
 
 Pinch. Even from my wife, sir : am I not won- 
 drous kind and civil to you now too? — \_Aside.'\ 
 But you'll not think her so. 
 
 Horn. Ha! is this a trick of his or hers? 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Pinch. The gentleman's surprised I find. — 
 What, you expected a kinder letter ? 
 
 Horn,. No faitli, not I, how could I ? 
 
 Pinch. Yes, yes, I'm sure you did. A man so 
 well made as you are, must needs be disappointed, 
 if the women declare not their passion at first sight 
 or opportunity. 
 
 Horn. [Aside.'] But what should this mean ? 
 Stay, the postscript. — [Reads aside.'] Be sure 
 you love me, whatsoever my husband says to the 
 contrary, and let him not see this, lest he should 
 come home and pinch me, or kill my squirrel.— 
 It seems he knows not what the letter contains. 
 
 Pinch. Come, ne'er wonder at it so much. 
 
 Horn. Faith, I can't help it. 
 
 Pinch. Now, I think I have deserved your 
 infinite friendship and kindness, and have showed 
 
 myself sufficiently an obliging kind friend and hus- 
 band ; am I not so, to bring a letter from my wife 
 to her gallant ? 
 
 Horn. Ay, the devil take me, art thou, the most 
 obliging, kind friend and husband in the world, 
 ha! ha,! 
 
 Pinch. Well, you may be merry, sir; but in 
 short I must tell you, sir, my honour will suffer no 
 jesting. 
 
 Horn. What dost thou mean ? 
 
 Pinch. Does the letter want a comment? Then, 
 know, sir, though I have been so civil a husband, 
 as to bring you a letter from my wife, to let you 
 kiss and court her to my face, I will not be a cuck- 
 old, sir, I will not. 
 
 Horn. Thou art mad with jealousy. I never 
 saw thy wife in my life but at the play yesterday, 
 and I know not if it were she or no. I court her, 
 kiss her ! 
 
 Pinch. I will not be a cuckold, I say ; there will 
 be danger in making me a cuckold. 
 
 Horn. Why, wert thou not well cured of thy last 
 cla() ? 
 
 Pinch. I wear a sword. 
 
 Horn. It should be taken from thee, lest thou 
 shouldst do thyself a mischief with it i thou art 
 mad, man. 
 
 Pinch. As mad as I am, and as merry as you 
 are, I must have more reason from you ere we 
 part. I say again, though you kissed and courted 
 last night my wife in man's clothes, as she confesses 
 in her letter— 
 
 Horn. Ha ! [Aside. 
 
 Pinch. Both she and I say, you must not design, 
 it again, for you have mistaken your woman, as you 
 have done your man. 
 
 Horn. [Aside] O — I understand something 
 nov— [Aloud.] Was that thy wife ! Why wouldst 
 tliou not tell me 'twas she ? Faith, my freedom 
 with her was your fault, not m'ne. 
 
 Pinch. Faith, so 'twas. [Aside. 
 
 Horn. Fy ! I'd never do't to a woman before 
 her husband's face, sure. 
 
 Pinch. But I had rather you should do't to my 
 wife before myface, than behind my back ; and that 
 you shall never do. 
 
 Horn. No — ^you will hinder me. 
 
 Pinch. If I would not hinder you, you see by 
 her letter she would. 
 
 Horn. Well, I must e'en acquiesce then, and be 
 contented with what she writes. 
 
 Pinch. I'll assure you 'twas valuutarily writ ; I 
 had no hand in't you may believe me. 
 
 Horn. I do believe thee, faith. 
 
 Pinch. And believe her too, for she*s an inno- 
 cent creature, has no dissembling in her : and so 
 fare you well, sir. 
 
 Horn. Pray, however, present my humhle ser- 
 vice to her, and tell her, I will obey her letter to a 
 tittle, and fulfil her desires, be what they will, 
 or with what difficulty soever I do't ; and you 
 shall be no more jealous of me, I warrant her, and 
 you. 
 
 Pinch. Well then, fare you well ; and play with 
 any man's honour but mine, kiss" any man's wife 
 but mine, and welcome. [Exit, 
 
 Horn. Ha! ha! ha! doctor. 
 
 Quack. It seems, he has not heard the report of 
 you, or does not believe it. 
 
 Horn. Ha ! ha ! — now, doctor, what think you ' 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 M 
 
 Quack. Pray let's see the letter — hum— /or — 
 dear — lave you — ISeads Ihe letter. 
 
 Horn. 1 wonder how she could contrive it ! 
 What say'st thou to't ? 'tis an original. 
 
 Quack. So are your cuckolds too originals : for 
 they are like no other common cuckolds, and I will 
 henceforth believe it not impossible for you to 
 cuckold the Grand Signior amidst his guards of 
 eunuchs, that I say. 
 
 Horn. And I say for the letter, 'tis the first 
 love-letter that ever was without flames, darts, 
 fates, destinies, lying and dissembling in't. 
 
 Enter Spabkish pulling in Mr. Pinchwife. 
 
 Spark. Come back, you are a pretty brother-in- 
 law, neither go to church nor to dinner with your 
 sister bride ! 
 
 Finch. My sister denies her marriage, and you 
 see is gone away from you dissatisfied. 
 
 Spark. Pshaw ! upon a foolish scruple, that oixr 
 parson was not in lawful orders, and did not say all 
 the common-prayer ; but 'tis her modesty only, I 
 believe. But let women be never so modest the 
 first day, they'll be sure to come to themselves by 
 night, and I shall have enough of her then. In the 
 mean time, Harry Homer, you must dine with me : 
 I keep my wedding at my aunt's in the Piazza. 
 
 Horn. Thy wedding ! what stale maid has lived 
 to despair of a husband, or what young one of a 
 gallant ? 
 
 Spark. O, your servant, sir — this gentleman's 
 sister then, — no stale maid. 
 
 Horn. I'm sorry for't. 
 
 Pinch. How comes he so concerned for her } 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Spark. You sorry for't } why, do you know any 
 ill by her ? 
 
 Horn. No, I know none but by thee ; 'tis for 
 her sake, not yours, and another man's sake that 
 might have hoped, I thought. 
 
 Spark. Another man ! another man ! what is 
 his name ? 
 
 Horn. Nay, since 'tis past, he shall be nameless. 
 — [Aside.1 Poor Harcourt ! I am sorry thou hast 
 missed her. 
 
 Pinch. He seems to be much troubled at the 
 match. [_Aside. 
 
 Spark. Prithee, tell me — Nay, you shan't go, 
 brother. 
 
 Pinch. I must of necessity, but I'll come to you 
 to dinner. iExit 
 
 Spark. But, Harry, what, have I a rival in my 
 wife already .' But with all my heart, for he may 
 be of use to me hereafter ; for though my hunger 
 is now my sauce, and 1 can fall on heartily without, 
 the time will come, when a rival will be as good 
 sauce for a married man to a wife, as an orange to 
 veal. 
 
 Horn. O thou damned rogue ! thou hast set my 
 teeth on edge with thy orange. 
 
 Spark. Then let's to dinner — there I was with 
 you again. Come. 
 
 Horn. But who dines with thee .' 
 
 Spark. My friends and relations, my brother 
 Pinchwife, yon see, of your acquaintance. 
 
 Horn. And his wife ? 
 
 Spark. No, 'gad, he'll ne'er let her come 
 amongst us good fellows ; your stingy country 
 coxcomb keeps his wife from his friends, as he 
 does his little firkin of ale, for his own drinking, 
 
 and a gentleman can't get a smack on't ; but his 
 servants, when his back is turned, broach it at 
 their pleasures, and dust it away, ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
 'Gad, I am witty, I think, considering I was mar- 
 ried to-day, by the world; but come — 
 
 Horn. No, I will not dine with you, unless you 
 can fetch her too. 
 
 Spwrk. Pshaw ! what pleasure canst thou have 
 with women now, Harry ? 
 
 Horn. My eyes are not gone ; I love a good 
 prospect yet, and will not dine with you unless she 
 does too ; go fetch her, therefore, but do not tell 
 her husband 'tis for my sake. 
 
 Spark. Well, I'll go try what I can do ; in the 
 meantime, come away to my aunt's lodging, 'tis 
 in the way to Pinchwife's. 
 
 Horn. The poor woman has called for aid, and 
 stretched forth her hand, doctor ; I cannot but 
 help her over the pale out of the briars. \^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. — A Room in Pinchwife's House. 
 
 Mrs. PiNCHwiFB alone, leaning on her elbow A Table, 
 
 Ten, Ink, and Paper. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Well, 'tis e'en so, I have got the 
 London disease they call love ; I am sick of my 
 husband, and for my gallant. I have heard this 
 distemper called a fever, but methinks 'tis like an 
 ague ; for when I think of my husband, I tremble, 
 and am in a cold sweat, and have inclinations to 
 vomit ; but when I think of my gallant, dear Mr. 
 Horner, my hot fit comes, and I am all in a fever 
 indeed ; and, as in other fevers, my own chamber 
 is tedious to me, and I would fain be removed to 
 his, and then methinks I should be well. Ah, poor 
 Mr. Horner ! Well, I cannot, will not stay here : 
 therefore I'll make an end of my letter to him, 
 which shall be a finer letter than my last, because 
 I have studied it like anything. Oh sick, sick ! 
 
 {Takes ihe pen and writes 
 
 Enter Mr. Pinchwife, who seeing her writing, steals 
 softly behind her and looking overher shoulder, snatches 
 the paper from her. 
 
 Pinch. What, writing more letters ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. O Lord, bud, why d'ye fright me 
 so } IShe offers to run out ; he stops her, and reads. 
 
 Pinch, How's this .' nay, you shall not stir, 
 madam; — Dear, dear, dear Mr. Horner — very 
 well — I have taught you to write letters to good 
 purpose — but let us see't. 
 
 First, I am to heg your pardon for my boldness 
 in writing to you, which Fd haiie you to know I 
 would not have done, had not you said first ycu 
 loved me so extremely, which if you do, you will 
 never suffer me to lie in the arm6 of another man 
 whom I loathe, nauseate, and detest. — Now youcan't 
 write these filthy words ? But what follows ? — 
 Therefore, I hope you will speedily find some 
 way to free me frmn this unfortunate match, 
 which was never, I assicre you, of my choice, 
 but Fm afraid 'tis already too far gone ; however, 
 if you love me, as I do you, you will try what 
 you can do : but you mnst help me away before to- 
 morrow, or else, alas ! I shall be for ever out of 
 your reach, for I ean defer no longer our — our — 
 what is to follow our ? — speak, what- — our jour- 
 ney into the country, I suppose — Oh woman ' 
 
94 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 damned woman ! and Love, damned Love, their 
 old tempter ! for this is one of his miracles ; in a 
 moment he can make those blind that could see, 
 and those see that vpere blind, those dumb that 
 could speak, and those prattle who were dumb 
 before ; nay, virhat is more than all, make these 
 dough-baked, senseless, indocile animals, women, 
 too hard for us their politic lords and rulers, in a 
 moment. But make an end of your letter, and then 
 I'll make an end of you thus, and all my plagues 
 together. IDraws his sword. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. O Lord, O Lord, you are such 
 a passionate man, bud I 
 
 Enter Spabkish. 
 
 Spark. How now, what's here to.do ? 
 
 Pinch. This fool here now ! 
 
 Spark. What ! drawn upon your wife ? You 
 should never do that, but at night in the dark, 
 when you can't hurt her. This is mysister-in-law, 
 is it not ? ay, faith, e'en our country Margery ; 
 [Pulls aside her handkerchief] one may know her. 
 Come, she and you must go dine with me ; dinner's 
 ready, come. But where's my wife? is she not 
 come home yet ? where is she ? 
 
 Pinch. Making you a cuckold ; 'tis that they 
 all do, as soon as they can. 
 
 Spark. What, the wedding-day ? no, a wife that 
 designs to make a cully of her husband will be sure 
 to let him win the first stake of love, by the world. 
 
 But come, they stay dinner for us : come, I'll lead 
 down our Margery. 
 
 Pinch. No — sir, go, we'll follow you. 
 
 Spark. I will not wag without you. 
 
 Pinch. This coxcomb is a sensible torment 
 to me amidst the greatest in the world. lAside. 
 
 Spark. Come, come, madam Margery. 
 
 Pinch. No ; I'll lead her my way : what, 
 would vou treat your friends with mine, for want 
 of your" own wife.^ — \_Leads her to the other door, 
 and locks her in and returns.'] I am contented my 
 rage should take breath — lAsiie. 
 
 Spark. I told Horner this. 
 
 Pinch. Come now. 
 
 Spark. Lord, how shy you are of your wife ! 
 but let me tell you, brother, we men of wit have 
 amongst us a saying, that cuckolding, like the 
 small-pox, comes with a fear ; and you may keep 
 your wife as much as you will out of danger of 
 infection, but if her constitution incline her to't, 
 she'll have it sooner or later, by the world, say they. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] What a thing is a cuckold, that 
 everyfoolcanmakehimridioulous! — [Aloud.] Well, 
 sir — but let me advise you, now you are come to 
 be concerned, because you suspect the danger, not 
 to neglect the means to prevent it, especially 
 when the greatest share of the malady will light 
 upon your own head, for 
 
 Hows'e'er the kind wife's belly comes to swell, 
 
 The husband breeds for her, and first is ill. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— Mr. Pinchwife's House. 
 
 ^nier Mr. PiNCHWiFB and Mrs. Pinchwifb. — A Tails 
 and Candle. 
 
 Pinch. Come, take the pen and make an end 
 of the letter, just as you intended; if you are 
 false in a tittle, I shall soon perceive it, and punish 
 you with this as you deserve. — [Lays his hand on 
 his sword.] Write what was to follow — let's see — 
 You must make haste, and help me away before 
 to-morrow, or else I shall be for ever out of your 
 reach, for I can defer no longer our — What follows 
 oiir ? 
 
 Mrs. PincA. Must all out, then,bud? — Look you 
 there, then. [Mrs. Pimchwife takes the pen and writes. 
 
 Pinch. Let's see — For I can defer no longer 
 our - wedding — Your slighted Alithe a. — What's 
 the meaning of this .' my sister's name to't. .' speak, 
 unriddle. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Yes, indeed, bud. 
 
 Pinch. But why her name to't? speak — speak, 
 I say. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Ay, but you'll tell her then again. 
 If you would not tell her again — 
 
 Pinch. I will not : — I am stunned, my head turns 
 round. — Speak. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Won't you tell her, indeed, and 
 indeed .' 
 
 Pinch. No ; speak, I say. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. She'll be angry with me ; but I 
 had rather she should be angry with mp than you, 
 
 bud. And, to tell you the truth, 'twas she made 
 me wrfle the letter, and taught me what I should 
 write. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] Ha ! — I thought the style was 
 somewhat better than her own. — [Alond] Could 
 she come to you to teach you, since I had locked 
 you up alone .'' 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. O, through the key-hole, bud. 
 
 Pinch. But why should she make you write a 
 letter for her to him, since she can write herself ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Why, she said because — for I was 
 unwilling to do it. 
 
 Pinch. Because what — because ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Because, lest Mr. Horner should 
 be cruel, and refuse her ; or be vain afterwards, 
 and show the letter, she might disown it, the hand 
 not being hers. 
 
 Pinch. [Aside.] How's this ? Ha I — then I 
 think I shall come to myself again. — This change- 
 ling could not invent this lie : but if she could, 
 why should she ? she might think I should soon 
 discover it. — Stay — now I think on't too, Horner 
 said he was sorry she had married Sparkish j and 
 her disowning her marriage to me makes me think 
 she has evaded it for Horner's sake : yet why 
 should she take this course ? But men in love 
 are fools j women may well be so. — [Aloud.] But 
 hark you, madam-, your sister went out in the 
 morning, and I have not seen her within since. 
 
 Mrs. 'Pinch. Alack-a-day, she has been crying 
 all day above, it seems, in a corner. 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 05 
 
 Pinch. Where is she ? let me speak with her. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. [^sWe.] O Lord, then she'll 
 discover all! — [Aloud.'] Pray hold, bud; what, 
 d'ye mean to discover me ? she'll know I have 
 told you then. Pray, bud, let me talk with her 
 first. 
 
 Pinch. I must speak with hfer, to know whether 
 Horner ever made her any promise, .and whether 
 she be married to Sparkish or no. 
 
 J\frs. Pinch. Pray, dear bud, don't, till I have 
 spoken with her, and told her that I have told you 
 all ; for she'll kill me else. 
 
 Pinch. Go then, and bid her come out to me. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Yes, yes, bud. 
 
 Pinch. Let me see— [Pausing. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. [Aside."] I'll go, but she is not 
 within to come to him : I have just got time to 
 know of Lucy her maid, who first set me on work, 
 what lie I shall tell next ; for I am e'en at my 
 wit's end. \_Exit. 
 
 Pinch. Well, I resolve it, Horner shall have 
 her ; I'd rather give him my sister than lend him 
 my wife ; and such an alliance will prevent his 
 pretensions to my wife, sure-. I'll make him of 
 kin to her, and then he won't care for her. 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Pinchwife. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. O Lord, bud ! I told you what 
 anger you would make me with my sister. . 
 
 Pinch. Won't she come hither ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. No, no. Lack-a-day, she's 
 nshamed to look you in the face ; and she says, if 
 you go in to her, she'll run away down stairs, and 
 shamefully go herself to Mr. Horner, who has pro- 
 mised her marriage, she says ; and she will have 
 no other, so she won't. 
 
 Pinch. Did he so.^ — promise her marriage! — 
 then she shall have no other. Go tell her so ; and 
 if she will come and discourse with me a little con- 
 cerning the means, I will about it immi|^iately. 
 Go. — [Eoeit Mrs. Pinchwifb.] His estMe is 
 equal to Sparkish's, and his extraction as miich 
 better than his, as his parts are ; but my chief 
 reason is, I'd rather be akin to him by the name 
 of brother-in-law than that of cuckold. 
 
 lie-enter Mrs. Pinchwifb. 
 
 Well, what says she now ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Why, she says, she would only 
 have you lead her to Horner's lodging ; with whom 
 she first will discourse the matter before she talks 
 with you, which yet she cannot do ; for alack, 
 poor creature, she says she can't so much as look 
 you in the face, therefore she'll come to you in a 
 mask. And you must excuse her, if she make you 
 no answer to any question of yours, till you have 
 brought her to Mr. Horner ; and if you will not 
 chide her, nor question her, she'll come out to you 
 immediately. 
 
 Pinch. Let her come : I will not speak a word 
 to her, nor require a word from her. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Oh, I forgot : besides, she says, 
 she cannot look you in the face, though through a 
 mask ; therefore would de§ire you to put out the 
 candle. 
 
 Pinch. I agree to all. Let her make haste. — 
 There, 'tis out — [Piits out the candle. Exit Mrs. 
 Pinchwifb.] My case is something better: I'd 
 rather fight with Homer for not lying with my 
 sister, than for lying with my wife ; and of the 
 
 two, I had rather find my sister too forward than 
 my wife. I expected no other from her free edu- 
 cation, as she calls it, and her passion for the 
 town. Well, wife and sister are names which 
 make us expect love and duty, pleasure and com- 
 fort ; but we find 'em plagues and torments, and 
 are equally, though differently, troublesome to their 
 keeper j for we have as much ado to get people to 
 lie with our sisters as to keep 'em from lying with 
 our wives. 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Pinchwifb masked, and in hoods and 
 scarfs, and a night-gown and petticoat of Alithba's. 
 
 Whatj are you come, sister ? let us go then. — 
 But first, let me lock up my wife. Mrs. Margery, 
 where are you ? 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Here, bud. 
 
 Pinch. Come hither, that I may lock you up : 
 get you in. — [Locks the door.] Come, sister, where 
 are you now ? 
 
 [Mrs. Pinchwifb gives Mm her hand ; but when he 
 lets her go, she steals softly on Vdther side of him, 
 and is led away iy him for his sister Alithba. 
 
 SCENE II.— Horner's Lodging. 
 Horner and Quack. 
 
 Quack. What, all alone ? not so much as one of 
 your cuckolds here, nor one of their wives ! They 
 use to take their turns with you, as if they were to 
 watch you. 
 
 Horn. Yes, it often happens that a cuckold is 
 but his wife's spy, and is more upon family duty 
 when he is with her gallant abroad, hindering his 
 pleasure, than when he is at home with her playing 
 the gallant. But the hardest duty a married 
 woman imposes upon a lover is keeping her hus- 
 band company always. 
 
 Quack. And bis fondness weai'ies you almost as 
 soon as hers. 
 
 Horn. A pox ! keeping a cuckold company, 
 after you have had his wife, is as tiresome as the 
 company of a country squire to a witty fellow of 
 the town, when he has got all his money. 
 
 Quack. And as at first a man makes a friend of 
 the husband to get the wife, so at last you are fain 
 to fall out with the wife to be rid of the husband. 
 
 Horn. Ay, most cuckold-makers are true cour- 
 tiers ; when once a poor man has cracked his 
 credit for 'em, they can't abide to come near him. 
 
 Quack. But at first, to draw him in, are so 
 sweet, so kind, so dearl just as you are to Pinch- 
 wife. But what becomes of that intrigue with his 
 wife ? 
 
 Horn. A pox ! he's as surly as an alderman 
 that has been bit ; and since he's so coy, his wife's 
 kindness is in vain, for she's a silly innocent. 
 
 Quack. Did she not send you a letter by him ? 
 
 Horn. Yes ; but that's a riddle I have not yet 
 solved. Allow the poor creature to be willing, 
 she is silly too, and he keeps her up so close — 
 
 Quack. Yes, so close, that he makes her but the 
 more willing, and adds but revenge to her love ; 
 which two, when met, seldom fail of satisfying each 
 other one way or other. 
 
 Horn. What ! here's the man we are talking of, 
 I think. 
 
oc 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 E /.'. rMr. Pinohwipk, lemlins in his Wifemasked, mvffied, 
 
 and in h>.r Sister's gown. 
 Pshaw 1 
 
 Quack. Bringing his wife to you is the next 
 thing to bringing a love-letter from her. 
 
 Horn. What means this ? 
 
 Pinch. The last time, you know, sir, I brought 
 you a love-letter ; now, you see, a mistress ; 1 
 think you'll say I am a civil man to you. 
 
 Horn. Ay, the devil take me, will I say I thou 
 art the civilest man I ever met with ; and I have 
 known some. I fancy I understand thee now better 
 than 1 did the letter. But, hark thee, in thy ear — 
 
 Pinch. What? 
 
 Horn. Nothing but the usual ci lestion, man : is 
 she sound, on thy word ? 
 
 Pinch. What, you take her for a wench, and me 
 for a pimp ? 
 
 Horn. Pshaw ! wench and pimp, paw words ; 
 I know thou art an honest fellow, and hast a great 
 acquaintance among the ladies, and perhaps hast 
 made love for me, rather than let me make love to 
 thy wife. 
 
 Pinch. Come, sir, in short, I am for no fooling. 
 
 Horn. Nor I neither : therefore prithee, let's see 
 her face presently. Make her show, man : art 
 thou sure I don't know her ? 
 
 Pinch. I am sure you do know her. 
 
 Horn. A pox ! why dost thou bring her to me 
 then .' 
 
 Pinch. Because she's a relation of mine — 
 
 Horn. Is she, faith, man ? then thou art still 
 more civil and obliging, dear rogue. 
 
 Pinch. Who desired me to bring her to you. 
 
 Horn. Then she is obliging, dear rogue. 
 
 Pinch. You'll make her welcome for my sake, I 
 hope. 
 
 Horn. I hope she is handsome enough to make 
 herself welcome. Prithee let her unmask. 
 
 Pinch. Do you speak to her ; she would never 
 be ruled by me. 
 
 Horn. Madam — [Mrs. Pinchwife whispers to 
 KoRNER.] She says she must speak with me in 
 private. Withdraw, prithee. 
 
 Pinch. \_Aside.'\ She's unwilling, it seems, I 
 should know all her undecent conduct in this 
 business — lAloud.] Well then, I'll leave you 
 together, and hope when I am gone, you'U agree ; 
 if not, you and 1 shan't agree, sir. 
 
 Horn. What means the fool ? If she and I agree 
 'tis no matter what you and I do. 
 
 [^Whispers to Mrs. Pinchwifk, who makes signs with 
 her hand for him to be gone. 
 
 Pinch: In the mean time I'll fetch a parson, 
 and find out Sparkish, and disabuse him. You 
 would have me fetch a parson, would you not.' 
 Well then — now I think I am rid of her, and shall 
 have no more trouble with her — our sisters and 
 daughters, like usurers' money, are safest when put 
 out ; but our wives, like their writings, never safe, 
 but in our closets under lock and key. [.Exit. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Soy. Sir Jasper Fidget, sir, is coming up. iExit. 
 
 Horn. Here's the trouble of a cuckold now we 
 are talking of. A pox on him I has he not enough 
 to do to hinder his wife's sport, but he must other 
 women's too .' — Step in here, madam. 
 
 \Exit Mrs. PlNCHWlFB. 
 
 Enter Sir Jaspbr FmGBT. 
 
 Sir Jasp. My best and dearest friend. 
 
 Horn. [.Aside to Quack.] The old style, doctor. 
 — [Aloud.] Well, be short, for I am busy. What 
 would your impertinent wife have now ? 
 
 Sir Jasp. Well guessed, i'faith ; for I do come 
 from her. 
 
 Horn. To invite me to supper ? Tell her, I can't 
 come : go. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Nay, now you are out, faith ; for my 
 lady, and the whole knot of the virtuous gang, as 
 they call themselves, are resolved upon a frolic of 
 coming to you to-night in masquerade, and are all 
 dressed already. 
 
 Horn. I shan't be at home. 
 
 Sir Jasp. [Aside.] Lord, how churlish he is to 
 women ! — [Aloud.] Nay, prithee don't disappoint 
 'em ; they'll think 'tis my fault : prithee don't. 
 I'll send in the banquet and the fiddles. But make 
 no noise on't ; for the poor virtuous rogues would 
 not have it known, for the world, that they go a- 
 masquerading ; and they would come to no man's 
 ball but yours. 
 
 Horn. Well, well— get you gone; and tell 'em, 
 if they come, 'twill be at the peril of their honour 
 and yours. 
 
 Sir Jasp. He ! he ! he ! — we'll trust you for 
 that : farewell. ijixit. 
 
 Horn. Doctor, anon you too shall he my guest. 
 But now I'm going to a private feast. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— TAe Piazza of CoventGardeii, 
 
 Enter Sparkish with a letter in his handy 
 Mr. Pinchwife following. 
 
 Spark. But who would have thought a woman 
 could have been false to me .' By the world, I could 
 not have thought it. 
 
 Pinch. You were for giving and taking liberty : 
 she has taken it only, sir, now you find in that 
 letter. You are a frank person, and so is she, you 
 see there. 
 
 Spark. Nay, if this be her hand — for I never 
 saw it. 
 
 Pinch. 'Tis no matter whether that be her hand 
 or no ; I am sure this hand, at her desire, led her 
 to Mr. Horner, with whom I left her just now, to 
 go fetch a parson to 'em at their desire too, to 
 deprive you of her for ever ; for H seems yours was 
 but a mock marriage. 
 
 Spark. Indeed, she would needs have it that 
 'twas Harcouvt himself, in a parson's habit, that 
 married us ; but I'm sure he told me 'twas his 
 brother Ned. 
 
 Pinch. O, there 'tis out ; and you were deceived, 
 not she : for you are such a frank person. But I 
 must be gone. — You'll find her at Mr. Horner's. 
 Go, and believe your eyes. [Exit. 
 
 Spark. Nay, I'll to )ier, and call her as many 
 crocodiles, sirens, harpies, and other heathenish 
 names, as a poet would do ^ mistress who had 
 refused to hear his suit, nay more, his verses on 
 her. — But stay, is not that she following a torch at 
 t'other end of the Piazza ? and from Horner's 
 certainly — 'tis so. 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 07 
 
 Enter Alithea foLoKing a torchj and Lucy behind. 
 
 You are well met, madam, though you don't think 
 so. What, you have made a short visit to Mr. 
 Horner ' but I sv^pose you'll return to him 
 presently, by that time the parson can be with 
 him. 
 
 Alith. Mr. Horner and the parson, sir ! 
 
 Spark. Come, madam, no more dissembling, no 
 more jilting ; for I am no more a frank person. 
 
 Alith. How's this ? 
 
 Lucy. So, 'twill work, I see. lAside. 
 
 Spark. Could you find out no easy country fool 
 to abuse ? none but me, a gentleman of wit and 
 pleasure about the town ? But it was your pride to 
 be too hard for a man of parts, unworthy false 
 woman ! false as a friend that lends a man money 
 to lose ; false as dice, who undo those that trust all 
 they have to 'em. 
 
 Lucy. He has been a great bubble, by his similes, 
 as they say. lAside. 
 
 Alith. ifou have been too merry, sir, at your 
 wedding-dinner, sure. 
 
 Spark. What, d'ye mock me too ? 
 
 Alith. Or you have been deluded. 
 
 Spark. By jou. 
 
 Alith. Let me understand you. 
 
 Spark. Have you the confidence, (I should call it 
 something else, since you know your guilt,) to stand 
 my just reproaches ? you did not write an impudent 
 letter to Mr. Horner ? who I find now has clubbed 
 with you in deluding me with his aversion for 
 women, that 1 might not, forsooth, suspect him for 
 my rival. 
 
 Lucy. D'ye think the gentleman can be jealous 
 now, madam ? [_Aside. 
 
 Alith. 1 write a letter to Mr. Homer ! 
 
 Spark. Nay, madam, do not deny it. Your 
 brother showed it me just now ; and told me like- 
 wise, he left you at Horner's lodging to fetch a 
 parson to marry you to him : and I wish you joy, 
 madam, joy, joy ; and to him too, much joy ; and 
 to myself more joy, for not marrying you. 
 
 Alith. [Aside.] So, I find my brother would 
 break off the match ; and I can consent to't, since 
 I see this gentleman can be made jealous.- — [Aloud.J 
 
 Lucy, by his rude usage and jealousy, he makes 
 me almost afraid I am married to him. Art thou 
 sure 'twas Harcourt himself, and no parson, that 
 married us ? 
 
 Spark. No, madam, I thank you. I suppose, 
 that was a contrivance too ■ of Mr. Horner's and 
 yours, to make Harcourt play the parson ; bnt I 
 would as little as you have him one now, no, not 
 for the world. For, shall I tell you another truth .' 
 
 1 never had any passion for you till now, for now 
 I hate you. 'Tis true, I might have married your 
 portion, as other men of parts of the town do some- 
 times : and so, your servant. And to show my un- 
 concernedness, I'U come to your wedding, and 
 resign you with as much joy, as I would a stale 
 wench to a new cully ;. nay, with as much joy as I 
 would after the first night, if I had been married to 
 you. There's for you ; and so your servant, 
 servant. lExit. 
 
 Alith. How was I deceived in a man ! 
 
 Lucy. You'll believe then a fool may be made 
 jealous now .' for that easiness in him that suffers 
 him to be led by a wife, will hkewise permit him 
 to be pertiuaded against her by others. 
 
 Alith. But marry Mr. Horner ! my brothel 
 does not intend it, sure : if I thought he did, I 
 would take thy advice, and Mr. Harcourt for my 
 husband. And now I wish, that if there be any 
 over-wise woman of the town, who, like me, would 
 marry a fool for fortune, Uberty, or title, first, that 
 her husband may love play, and be a cully to all 
 the town but her, and suffer none but Fortune to 
 be mistress of his purse ; then, if for liberty, that 
 he may send her into the country, under the con- 
 duct of some huswifely mother-in-law ; and if for 
 title, may the world give 'em none but that of 
 cuckold. 
 
 Lucy. And for her' greater curse, madam, may 
 he not deserve it. 
 
 Alith. Away, impertinent ! Is not this my old 
 lady, Lanterlu's ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, madam. — [Aside.'] And here I hope 
 we shall find Mr. Harcourt. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV.— Horner's Lodging. A Table, 
 Banquet^ and Bottles. 
 
 .Enter Horner, Lady Fidget, Jtrs. Dainty Fidget, and 
 Mrs. Squeamish. 
 
 Horn. A pox ! they are come too soon — before 
 I have sent back my new mistress. All that I have 
 now to do is to lock her in, that they may not see 
 her. lAside. 
 
 Lady Fidg. That we may be sure of our welcome, 
 we have brought our entertainment with uSj and 
 are resolved to treat thee, dear toad. 
 
 Dain. And that we may be merry to purpose, 
 have left sir Jasper and my old lady Squeamish, 
 quarrelling at home at backgammon. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Therefore let us make use of our 
 time, lest they should chance to interrupt us. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Let us sit then. 
 
 Horn. Pirst, that you may be private, let me 
 lock this door and that, and I'll wait upon you 
 presently. 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, sir, shut 'em only, and your 
 lips for ever ; for we must trust you as much as 
 our women. 
 
 Horn. You know all vanity's killed in me ; I 
 have no occasion for talking. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Now, ladies, supposing we had drank 
 each of us our two bottles, let us speak the truth 
 of our hearts. 
 
 Dain. and Mrs. Squeam. Agreed. 
 
 Lady Fidg. By this brimmer, for truth is no- 
 where else to be found — [Aside to Horner.] not 
 in thy heart, false man ! 
 
 Horn. You have found me a true man, I'm 
 sure. [Aside to Lady Fidget. 
 
 Lady Fidg. [Aside to Horner.] Not every 
 way.-— But let us sit and be merry. [Sings 
 
 Why should our damn'd tyrants oblige us to I've 
 On the pittance of pleasure which they only give ? 
 
 We must not rejoice 
 
 With wine and with noise ; 
 In vain we must wake in a dull bed alone. 
 Whilst to our wai-m rival the bottle they're gonft 
 
 Then hiy aside charms, 
 
 And take up these arms '. 
 
 H ^ 't'hc fiUisaed. 
 
9« 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 'Tia wine only gives 'em their courage and wit. 
 Because we live sober, to men we submit. 
 
 If for beauties you'd pass. 
 
 Take a lick of the glass. 
 Twill mend your complexions, and when they are gone. 
 The best red we have is the red of the grape : 
 
 Then, sisters, lay't on. 
 
 And damn a good shape. 
 
 Dain. Dear brimmer ! Well, in token of our 
 openness and plain-dealing, let us throw our masks 
 over our heads. 
 
 Horn. So, 'twill come to the glasses anon, 
 
 {_Aside. 
 
 Mrs, Squeam. Lovely brimmer! let me enjoy Mm 
 first. 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, I never part with a gallant till 
 I've tried him. Dear brimmer ! that makest our 
 husbands short-sighted. 
 
 Dain. And our bashful gallants bold. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. And, for want of a gallant, the 
 butler lovely in o'ar eyes. — Drink, eunuch. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Drink, thou representative of a hus- 
 band. — Damn a husband ! 
 
 Dain. And, as it were a husband, an old keeper. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. And an old grandmother. 
 
 Horn. And an English bawd, and a French 
 surgeon. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Ay, we have all reason to curse 'em, 
 
 Horn. For my sake, ladies ." 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, for our own; for the first spoils 
 all young gallants' industry. 
 
 Dain. And the other's art makes 'em bold only 
 with common women. 
 
 Mrs. Sqveam. And rather run the hazard of th% 
 vile distemper amongst them, than of a denial 
 amongst us. 
 
 Dain. The filthy toads choose mistresses now as 
 they do stuffs, for having been fancied and worn 
 by others. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. For being common and cheap. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Whilst women of quality, like the 
 richest stuSs, lie untumbled, and unasked for. 
 
 Horn. Ay, neat, and cBfeap, and new, often they 
 think best. 
 
 Dain. No, sir, the beasts will be known by a 
 mistress longer than by a suit. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. And 'tis not for cheapness neither. 
 
 Lady Fidg. No ; for the vain fops will take up 
 druggets, and embroider 'em. But I wonder at 
 the depraved appetites of witty men ; they use to 
 be out of the common road, and hate imitation. 
 Pray tell me, beast, when you were a man, why 
 you rather chose to club with a multitude in a 
 common house for an entertainment, than to be the 
 only guest at a good table. 
 
 Horn. Why, faith, ceremony and expectation 
 are unsufFerable to those that are sharp bent. 
 People always eat with the best stomach at an 
 ordinary, where every man is snatching for the best 
 bit. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Though he get a cut over the fingers. 
 — But I have heard, that people eat most heartily 
 of another man's meat, that is, what they do not 
 pay for. 
 
 Horn. When they are sure of their welcome and 
 freedom ; for ceremony in love and eating is as ridi- 
 culous as in fighting : falling on briskly is all should 
 be done on those occasions. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Well then, let me tell you, sir, there 
 is no where more freedom than in our houses ; and 
 
 we take freedom from a young person as a sign of 
 good breeding j and a person may be as free as he 
 pleases with us, as frolic, as gamesome, as wild as 
 he will. 
 
 Horn. Han't I heard you all declaim against 
 wild men ? 
 
 Lady Fidg. Yes ; but for all that, we think 
 wildness in a man as desirable a quality as in a 
 duck or rabbit : a tame man ! foh I 
 
 Horn. I know not, but your reputations fright- 
 ened me as much as your faces invited me. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Our reputation ! Lord, why should 
 you not think that we women make use of our 
 reputation, as you men of yours, only to deceive 
 the world with less suspicion .' Our virtue is like 
 the statesman's religion, the quaker's word, the 
 gamester's oath, and the great man's honour ; but 
 to cheat those that trust us. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam, And that demureness, coyness, 
 and modesty, that you see in our faces in the boxes 
 at plays, is as much a sign of a kind woman, as a 
 vizard-mask in the pit. 
 
 Dain. For, I assure you, women are least masked 
 when they have the velvet vizard on. 
 
 Lady Fidg. You would have found us modest 
 women in our denials only. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Our bashfulness is only the reflec- 
 tion of the men's. 
 
 Dain. We blush when they are shamefaced. 
 
 Horn, I beg your pardon, ladies, I was deceived 
 in you devilishly. But why that mighty pretence 
 to honour .' 
 
 Lady Fidg. We have told you ; but sometimes 
 'twas for the same reason you men pretend busi- 
 ness often, to avoid ill company, to enjoy the better 
 and more privately those you love. 
 
 Horn. But why would you ne'er give a friend a 
 wink then ? 
 
 Lady Fidg. Faith, your reputationfrightenedus,as 
 much as ours did you, you were so notoriously lewd. 
 
 Horn. And you so seemingly honest. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Was that all that deterred you ? 
 
 Horn. And so expensive — you allow freedom, 
 you say. 
 
 Lady Fidg, Ay, ay. 
 
 Horn. That I was afraid of losing my little 
 money, as well as my little time, both which my 
 other pleasures required. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Money ! foh ! you talk like a little 
 fellow now : do such as we expect money .' 
 
 Horn, I beg your pardon, madam, I must con- 
 fess, 1 have heard that great ladies, like great mer- 
 chants, set but the higher prizes upon what they 
 have, because they are not in necessity of taking the 
 first offer. 
 
 Dairi, Such as we make sale of our hearts i" 
 
 Mrs, Squeam. We bribed for our love ? foh ! 
 
 Horn. With your pardon, ladies, I know, like 
 great men in offices, you seem to exact flattery and 
 attendance only from your followers ; but you have 
 receivers about you, and such fees to pay, a man is 
 afraid to pass your grants. Besides, we must let 
 you win at cards, or we lose your hearts ; and if 
 you make an assignation, 'tis at a goldsmith's, jew- 
 eller's, or china-house ; where for your honour you 
 deposit to him, he must pawn his to the punctual 
 cit, and so paying for what you take up, pays for 
 what he takes up. 
 
 Dain, Would you not have ua assured of our 
 gallants' love .' 
 
THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 !j!) 
 
 Mn. Squeam. For love is better known by 
 liberality than by jealousy. 
 
 Lady Fidg. For one may be dissembled, the 
 
 other not [Aside.] But my jealousy can be no 
 
 longer dissembled, and they are telling ripe. — 
 [Aloud.] — Come, here's to our gallants in waiting, 
 whom we must name, and I'll begin. This is ray 
 false rogue. letups him on tJie back. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. How ! 
 
 Horn. So, all will out now. \_AsidR. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Did you not tell me, 'twas for 
 my sake only you reported yourself no man ? 
 
 \_Astde to Horner. 
 
 Dain. Oh, wretch ! did you not swear to me, 
 'twas for my love and honour you passed for that 
 thing you do ? \Aside to Horner. 
 
 Horn. So, so. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Come, speak, ladies : this is ijny false 
 villain. 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. And mine too. 
 
 Dain. And mine. 
 
 Horn. Well then, you are all three my false 
 rogues too, and there's an end on't. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Well then, there's no remedy ; sis- 
 ter sharers, let us not fall out, but have a care of 
 our honour. Though we get no presents, no jewels 
 of him, we are savers of our honour, the jewel of 
 most value and use, which shines yet to the world 
 unsuspected, though it be counterfeit. 
 
 Horn. Nay, and is e'en as good as if it were 
 true, provided the world think so ; for honour, 
 like beauty now, only depends on the opinion of 
 others. 
 
 Lady Fidg. "Well, Harry Conimon, I hope you 
 can be true to three. Swear ; but 'tis to no purpose 
 to require your oath, for you are as often forsworn 
 as you swear to new women. 
 
 Horn. Come, faith, madam, let us e'en pardon 
 one another ; for all the difference I find betwixt we 
 men and you women, we forswear ourselves at the 
 beginning of an amour, you as long as it lasts. 
 
 Enter Sir Jasper Fidget, and Old Lady Squeamish. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Oh, my lady Fidget, wa^ this your 
 cunning, to come to Mr. Horner without me ? but 
 you have been nowhere else, I hope. 
 
 Lady Fidg. No, sir Jasper. 
 
 Lady Squeam. And you came straight hither, 
 Biddy f 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Yes, indeed, lady grandmother. 
 
 Sir Jasp. 'Tis well, 'tis well ; I knew when once 
 they were thoroughly acquainted with poor Horner, 
 they'd ne'er be from him : you may let her mas- 
 querade it with my wife and Horner, and I war- 
 rant her reputation safe. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Boy. 0, sir, here's the gentleman come, whom 
 you bid me not suffer to come up, without giving you 
 notice, with a lady too, and other gentlemen. 
 
 ■Horn. Do you all go in there, whilst I send 'em 
 away ; and, boy, do you desire 'em to stay below 
 till I come, which shall be immediately. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Jasper FmoBT, Lady Fidget, Lady 
 ■Squeamish, Mrs. Squeamish, and Mra. Dainty 
 Fidget. 
 
 Boy. Yes, sir. [Exit. 
 
 [Exit HoRWBR at the other door, and retit^ns with 
 
 Mrs. PiNCHWIFB. 
 
 Horn. You would not take ray advice, to be 
 gone home before your husband came back, he'll 
 
 now discover all; yet pray, my dearest, be per- 
 suaded to go home, and leave the rest to my 
 management ; I'll let you down tlie back way. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch, I don't know the way home, so I 
 don't. 
 
 Horn. My man shall wait upon you. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. No, don't you believe that I'll go 
 at all ; what, are you weary of me already ? 
 
 Horn. No, my life, 'tis that I may love you long, 
 'tis to secure my love, and your reputation with 
 your liusband ; he'll never receive you again else. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. What care I ? d'ye think to 
 frighten me with that .' I don't intend to go to him 
 again ; you shall be my husband now. 
 
 Horn. I cannot be your husband, dearest, since 
 you are married to him. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. O, would you make me believe 
 that? Don't I see every day at London here, 
 women leave their first husbands, and go and live 
 with other men as their wives ? pish, pshaw ! 
 you'd make me angry, but that 1 love you so 
 mainly. 
 
 Horn. So, they are coming up — In again, in, I 
 hear 'em. — [Exit Mrs. Pinchwife.] Well, a 
 silly mistress is like a weak place, soon got, soon 
 lost, a man has scarce time for plunder ; she betrays 
 her husband first to her gallant, and then her gal- 
 lant to her husband. 
 
 Enter Mr. Pinchwife, Alithea, Harcourt, Sparkish, 
 Lucy, and a Parson. 
 
 Pinch. Come, madam, 'tis not the sudden 
 change of your dress, the confidence of your asse- 
 verations, and your' false witness there, shall per- 
 suade me I did not bring you liither just now; 
 here's my witness, who cannot deny it, since you 
 must be confronted. — Mr. Horner, did not I bring 
 this lady to you just'now ? 
 
 Horn. Now must I wrong one woman for 
 another's sake, — but that's no new thing with me, 
 for in these cases I am still on the criminal's side 
 against the innocent. lAside. 
 
 Alith. Pray speak, sir. 
 
 Horn._ It must be so. I must be impudent,and 
 try my luck ; impudence uses to be too hard for 
 truth. lAside. 
 
 Pinch. What, you are studying an evasion or 
 excuse for her ! Speak, sir. 
 
 Horn. No, faith, I am something backward only 
 to speak in women's affairs or disputes. 
 
 Pinch. She bids you speak. 
 
 Alith. Ay, pray, sir, do, pray satisfy him. 
 
 Horn. Then truly, you did bring that lady to 
 me just now. 
 
 Pinch. O ho ! 
 
 Alith. How, sir ? 
 
 Har. How, Horner ? 
 
 Alith. What mean you, sir ? I always took you 
 for a man of honour. 
 
 Har. Ay, so much a man of honour, that I 
 must save my mistress, I thank you, come what 
 will on't. iAside. 
 
 Spark. So, if I had had her, she'd have made 
 me believe the moon had been made of a Christmas 
 pie. 
 
 Lucy. Now could I speak, if I durst, and solve 
 the riddle, who am the author of it. [Aeide. 
 
 Alith. O unfortunate woman ! A combination 
 against my honour! which most concerns me now, 
 because you share in my disgrace, sir, and it is 
 
100 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 your censure, which I must now suffer, that trouhles 
 me, not theirs. 
 
 Har. Madam, then have no trouble, you shall 
 now see 'tis possible for me to love too, without 
 being jealous ; I will not only believe your innocence 
 myself, but make all the world believe it. — [Aside 
 to Horner.] Horner, I must now be concerned for 
 his lady's honour. 
 
 Horn. And I must be concerned for a lady's 
 honour too. 
 
 liar. This lady has her honour, and I will 
 protect it. 
 
 Horn. My lady has not her honour, but has 
 given it me to keep, and I will preserve it. 
 
 Hai: I understand you not. 
 
 Horn. I would not have you. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. What's the matter with 'em all ? 
 
 [Peeping in behind. 
 
 Pinch. Come, come, Mr. Horner, no more dis- 
 puting ; here's the parson, I brought him not in 
 vain. 
 
 Horn. No, sir, I'll employ him, if this lady 
 please. 
 
 Pinch. How ! what d'ye mean ? 
 
 Spark. Ay, what does he mean ? 
 
 Horn. Why, I have resigned your sister to him, 
 he has my consent. 
 
 Pinch. But he has not mine, sir ; a woman's 
 injured honour, no more than a man's, can be 
 repaired or satisfied by any but him that first 
 wronged it ; and you shall marry her presently, 
 or — [_Lai/s his hand on his sword. 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Pinchwife. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. O Lord , they'll kill poor Mr. 
 Horner ! besides, he shan't marry her whilst I 
 stand by, and look on ; I'll not lose my second 
 husband so. 
 
 Pinch. What do I see ? 
 
 Alith. My sister in my clothes ! 
 
 Spark. Ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Nay, pray now don't quarrel about 
 finding work for the parson, he shall marry me to 
 Mr. Horner ; for now, I believe, you have enough 
 of me. LTo Mr. Pinchwife. 
 
 Horn. Damned, damned loving changeling ! 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Pray, sister, pardon me for telling 
 so many lies of you. 
 
 ■Horn. I suppose the riddle is plain now. 
 
 Lucy. No, that must be my work. — Good sir, 
 hear me. 
 
 [Kneels to Mr. Pi.nchwife, who stands doggedly with 
 his hat over his eyes. 
 
 Pinch. I will never hear woman again, but make 
 'em all silent thus [.Offers to draw upon his wife. 
 
 Horn. No, that must not be. 
 
 Pinch. You then shall go first, 'tis all one to 
 me. [Offers to draw on Hobneb, stopped by Habcoubt. 
 
 Har. Hold! 
 
 Re-enter Sir Jasper Fidget, Lady Fidget, Lady Squeam- 
 ish, Mrs. Dainty Fidget, and Mrs. Squeamish. 
 
 SirJasp. What's the matter? what's the matter? 
 pray, what's the matter, sir ? I beseech you com- 
 municate, sir. 
 
 Pinch. Why, my wife has communicated, sir, 
 as your wife may have done too, sir, if she knows 
 him, sir. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Pshaw, with him ! ha I ha! he ! 
 
 Pinch. D'ye mock me, sir.' a cuckold is a kind 
 of a wild beast ; have a care, sir. 
 
 Sir Jasp. No, sure, you mock me, sir. He 
 cuckold you ! it can't be, ha ! ha ! he ! why, I'll 
 tell you, sir [Ciffers to whisper. 
 
 Pinch. I tell you again, he has whored my wife, 
 and yours too, if he knows her, and all the women 
 he comes near ; 'tis not his dissembling, his 
 hypocrisy, can wheedle me. 
 
 Sir Jasp. How ! does he dissemble ? is he a 
 hypocrite ? Nay, then — how — wife — sister, is he 
 a hypocrite ? 
 
 Lady Squeam. A hypocrite ! a dissembler ! 
 Speak, young harlotry, speak, how ." 
 
 Sir Jasp. Nay, then — O my head too ! — O thou 
 libidinous lady 1 
 
 Lady Squeokm. O thou narloting harlotry i has* 
 thou done't then 1 
 
 Sir Jasp. Speak, good Horner, art thou n dis 
 sembler, a rogue ? hast thou — 
 
 Horn. So ! 
 
 Lucy. I'll fetch you oflr, and her too, if she will 
 but hold her tongue. [Apart to Hobner. 
 
 Horn. Canst thou ? I'll give thee — 
 
 [Apart to Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. [To Mr. Pinchwife.] Pray have but 
 patience to hear me, sir, who am the unfortunate 
 cause of all this confusion. Your wife is innocent, 
 I only culpable ; for I put her upon telling you all 
 these lies concerning my mistress, in order to 
 the breaking off the match beween Mr. Sparkish 
 and her, to make way for Mr. Harcourt. 
 
 Spark. Did you so, eternal rotten tooth ? Then, 
 it seems, my mistress was not false to me, I was 
 only deceived by you. Brother, that should have 
 been, now man of conduct, who is a frank person 
 now, to bring your wife to her lover, ha ? 
 
 Lucy. I assure you, sir, she came not to Mr. 
 Horner out of love, for she loves him no more — 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Hold, I told lies for you, but you 
 shall tell none for me, for I do love Mr. Horner 
 with all my soul, and nobody shall say me nay ; 
 pray, don't you go to make poor Mr. Horner 
 believe to the contrary j 'tis spitefully done of you, 
 I'm sure. 
 
 Horn. Peace, dear idiot. [Aside toMi-s.PiNCHwieE. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. Nay, I will not peace. 
 
 Pinch. Not till I make you. 
 
 Enter Dobilant and Quack. 
 
 Dor. Horner, your servant ; I am the doctor's 
 guest, he must excuse our intrusion. 
 
 Quack. But what's the matter, gentlemen.' for 
 heaven's sake, what's the matter? 
 
 Horn. Oh, 'tis well you are come. 'Tis a cen- 
 sorious world we live in ; you may have brought 
 me a reprieve, or else I had died for a crime I 
 never committed, and these innocent ladies had 
 suffered with me j therefore, pray satisfy these 
 worthy, honourable, jealous gentlemen — that — 
 
 [ Whispers. 
 
 Quack. O, I understand you, is that all ,' — Sir 
 Jasper, by heavens, and upon the word of a physi- 
 cian, sir — [ Whispers to Sii- Jaspeb. 
 
 Sir Jasp. Nay, I do believe you truly. — Pardon 
 me, my virtuous lady, and dear of honout. 
 
 Lady Squeam. What, then all's right again ,' 
 
 Sir Jasp. Ay, ay, and now let us satisfy him too. 
 [They whisper with Mr. Pinchwife, 
 
 Pinch. A eunuch ! Pray, no fooling with me. 
 
SCKNE IV. 
 
 THE COUNTRY WIFE. 
 
 101 
 
 Quack. I'll bring half the chirurgeons in town 
 to swear it. * 
 
 Pinch. They ! — they'll swear a man that bled to 
 death through his wounds, died of an apoplexy. 
 
 Quack. Pray, hear me, sir — why, all the town 
 has heard the report of him. 
 
 Pinch. But does all the town believe it ? 
 
 Quack. Pray, inquire a little, and first of all 
 these. 
 
 Pinch. I'm sure when I left the town, he was 
 the lewdest fellow in't. 
 
 Quack. I tell you, sir, he has been in France 
 since ; pray, ask but these ladies and gentlemen, 
 your friend 'Mr. Dorilant. Gentlemen and ladies, 
 han't you all heard the late sad report of poor Mr. 
 Homer ? 
 
 All Ladies. Ay, ay, ay. 
 
 Dor. Why, thou jealous fool, dost thou doubt 
 it .' he's an arrant French capon. 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. 'Tis false, sir, you shall not dis- 
 parage poor Mr. Horner, for to my certain know- 
 ledge — 
 
 Lucy. O, hold ! 
 
 Mrs. Sqiieam. Stop her mouth ! [Agiie (oLvcy. 
 
 Lady Fidg. Upon my honour, sir, 'tis as true — 
 [To Mr. Pjnchwife. 
 
 Dain. D'ye think we would have been seen in 
 his company ? 
 
 Mrs. Squeam. Trust our unspotted reputations 
 with him ? 
 
 Lady Fidg. This you get, and we too, by trust- 
 ing your secret to a fool. lAside to Horner. 
 
 Horn. Peace, madam. — \_Aside to Quack.] 
 Well, doctor, is not this a good design, that carries 
 a man on unsuspected, and brings him off safe ? 
 
 Pinch. Well, if this were true — but my wife — 
 
 [Aside. 
 [Dorilant whispers with Mrs. P/nchwife. 
 
 AUth. Come, brother, your wife is yet innocent, 
 you see ; but have a care of too strong an imagina- 
 tion, lest, like an over-concerned timorous gamester, 
 by fancying an unlucky cast, it should come. 
 Women and fortune are truest still to those that 
 trust 'em. 
 
 Lucy. And any-wild thing grows but the more 
 fierce and hungry for being kept up, and more 
 dangerous to the keeper. 
 
 Alith. There's doctrine for all husbands, Mr. 
 Harcourt. 
 
 Har. I edify, madam, so much, that I am impa- 
 tient till I am one. 
 
 Dor. And I edify so much by exam^)le, I will 
 never be one. 
 
 Spark. And because I will not disparage my 
 parts, I'll ne'er be one. 
 
 Horn. And I, alas ! can't be one. 
 
 Pinch. But I must be one— against my will to 
 a country wife, with a country murrain to me ! 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. And I must be a country wife still 
 too, I find ; for I can't, like a city one, he rid of 
 my musty husband, and do what I Ust. [Aside. 
 
 Horn. Now, sir, I must pronounce your wife 
 innocent, though I blush whilst I do it ; and I am 
 the only man by her now exposed to shame, which 
 I will straight drown in wine, as you shall your 
 suspicion; and the ladies' troubles we'll divert 
 with a ballad. — Doctor, where are your maskers ? 
 
 lyucy. Indeed, she's innocent, sir, I am her wit- 
 ness ; and her end of coming out was but to see 
 her sister's wedding ; and what she has said to your 
 face of her love to Mr. Horner, was but the usual 
 innocent revenge on a husband's jealousy ; — was it 
 not, madam, speak .' 
 
 Mrs. Pinch. \_Aside to Lucy and Horner.] 
 Since you'll have me tell more lies — [Aloud.J Yes, 
 indeed, bud. 
 
 Pinch. For my own sake fain I would all believe ; 
 Cuckolds, like lovers, should themselves deceive. 
 But — [Sighs. 
 
 His honour is least safe (too late I find) 
 Who trusts it with a foohsh wife or friend. 
 A Dance of Cuc/eolds. 
 
 Horn, Vain fops but court and dress, and keep 
 a pother. 
 To pass for women's men with one another ; 
 But he who aims by women to be prized. 
 First by the men, you see, must be despised. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. KNEP. 
 
 Now you the vigorotis, who daily here 
 
 O'er vizard-mask in public domineer. 
 
 And what you'd do to her, if in place where ; 
 
 Nay, have the confidence to cry, Come out ! 
 
 Yet when she says. Lead on ! you are not stout ; 
 
 But to yonrwell-dress'd brother straight turn round, 
 
 _A.nd cry, Pox on her, Ned, she can't be sound ! 
 
 Then slink away, a fresh one to engage. 
 
 With so much seeming heat and loving rage. 
 
 You'd frighten listening actress on the stage ; 
 
 Till she at last has seen you huffing come. 
 
 And talk of keeping in the tiring-room. 
 
 Yet cannot be provoked to lead her home. 
 
 Next, you Falstaffs of fifty, who beset 
 
 Your buckram maidenheads, which your friends get; 
 
 And whilst to them you of achievements boast, 
 
 They share the booty, and laugh at your cost 
 
 In fine, you essenced boys, both old and young, 
 Who would be thought so eager, brisk, and strong, 
 Yet do the ladies, not their husbands wrong ; 
 Whose purses for your manhood make excuse. 
 And keep your Flanders mares for show not use ; 
 Encouraged by our woman's man to-day, 
 A Horner's part may vainly think to play ; 
 And may intrigues so bashfully disown, 
 That they may doubted be by few or none ; 
 May kiss the cards at picquet, ombre, loo. 
 And so be taught to kiss the lady too ; 
 But, gallants, have a care, faith, what you do. 
 The world, which to no man his due will givSy 
 You by experience know you can deceive, 
 And men may still believe you vigorous. 
 But then we women — there's no cozening u». 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER 
 
 - Ridlculum acri 
 
 Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res. — Bobat. 
 
 TO MY LADY B * *. 
 
 Madam,— Thougli I never had the honour to receive a favour from you, nay, or be known to you, I take the 
 confidence of an author to write to you a billet-doux dedicatory ;— which is no new thing. For by most dedications it 
 appears that authors, though they praise their patrons from top to toe, and seem to turn 'em inside out, know 'em 
 as little as sometimes their patrons their books, though they read them out; and if the poetical daubers did not write 
 the name of the man or woman on top of the picture, 'twere impossible to guess whose it were. But you> Madam, 
 without the help of a poet, have made yourself known and famous in the world ; and because you do not want it, are 
 therefore most worthy of an epistle dedicatory. And this play claims naturally your protection, since it has lost its 
 reputation with the ladies of stricter lives in the playhouse; and, you know, when men's endeavours are dis- 
 countenanced and refused by the nice coy women of honour, they come to you : — to you, the great and noble patroness 
 "*f rejected and bashful men (of which number I ptofess myself to be one, though a poet, a dedicating poet), to you, 
 L say. Madam, who have as discerning a judgment, in what's obscene or not, as any quick -sighted civil person of 'em 
 all, and can make as much of a double-meaning saying as the best of 'em ; yet would not, as some do, m.ake nonsense 
 of a poet's jest, rather than not make it bawdy ; by which they show, they as little value wit in a play as in a lover, 
 provided they can bring t'other thing about. Their sense, indeed, lies all one way, and therefore are only for that in a 
 poet, which is moving, as they say. But what do they mean by that word moving ? Well, I must not put 'em to the 
 blush, since I find I can do't. In short, Madam, you would not be one of those who ravish a poet's innocent words, and 
 make 'em guilty of their own naughtiness (as 'tis termed} in spite of his teeth. Nay, nothing is secure from the power 
 of their imaginations, no, not their husbands, whom they cuckold with themselves, by thinking of other men ; and so 
 make the lawful matrimonial embraces adultery, wrong husbands and poets in thought and word, to keep their own 
 reputations. But your ladyship's justice, I know, would think a woman's arraigning and damning a poet for her own 
 obscenity like her crying out a rape, and hanging a man for giving her pleasure, only that she might be thought not to 
 consent to't ; and so to vindicate her honour, forfeits her modesty. But you, Madam, have too much modesty to pretend 
 to't, though you have as much to say for your modesty as many a nicer she : for you never were seen at this play, no, 
 not the first day ; and 'tis no matter what people's lives have been, they are unquestionably modest who frequent not 
 this play. For, as Mr, Bayes says of his. That it is the only touchstone of men's wit and understanding ; mine is, it 
 seems, the only touchstone of women's virtue and modesty. But hold, that touchstone is equivocal, and, by the 
 strength of a lady's imagination, may become something that is not civil : but your ladyship, I know, scorns to misapply 
 a touchstone. And, Madam, though you have not seen this play, I hope (like other nice ladies) you will the rather read 
 it. Yet, lest the chambermaid or page should not he trusted, and their indulgence could gain no further admittances 
 for it than to their ladies* lobbies or outward rooms, take it Into your care and protection ; for by your recommendation 
 and procurement, it may have the honour to get into their closets ; for what they renounce in public, often entertains 
 'em there, with your help especially. In fine, Madam, for these and many other reasons, you are the fittest patroness 
 or judge of this play ; for you show no partiality to this or that author. For from some many ladies will take a broad 
 jest as cheerfully as from the watermen, and sit at some downright filthy plays (as they call 'em) n*j well satisfied, and 
 as still, as a poet could wish 'em elsewhere. Therefore it must be the doubtful obscenity of my play alone they take 
 exceptions at, because it is too bashful for 'em : and, indeed, most women hate men for attempting by halves on their 
 chastity ; and bawdy, I find, like satire, should he home, not to have it taken notice of. But, now I mention satire, 
 some there are who say, 'Tis the plain-dealing of the play, not the obscenity ; 'tis taking ofi* the ladies' masks, not 
 ofl'ering at their petticoats, which ofi'ends 'em : — and generally they are not tho handsomest, or most innocent, who are 
 the most angry at their being discovered : — 
 
 Nihil est audacius illis 
 
 Deprensis ; iram atque animos a crimine sumunt. 
 
 Pardon, Madam, the quotation; for a dedication can no more be without ends of Latin, than flattery: and 'tis no 
 matter whom it is writ to ; for an author can as easily, I hope, suppose people to have more understanding and languages 
 than they have, as well as more virtues. But why, the devil, should any of the few modest and handsome be alarmed ?— 
 for some there are, who, as well as any, deserve those attributes, yet refrain not from seeing this play, nor think it any 
 addition to their virtue to set up for it in a playhouse, lest there it should look too much like acting — but why, I say, 
 should any at all of the truly virl uous he concerned, if those who are not so are distinguished from 'em ? for by that 
 mask of modesty which women wear promiscuously in public, they ax-e all alike ; and you can no more know a kept 
 wench from a woman of honour hy her looks than by her dress. For those who are of quality without honom* (if any 
 such there are) they have their quality to set off their false modesty, as well as theii' false jewels ; and you must no more 
 suspect their countenances for counterfeit than their pendants, though as the plain dealer Mimtaigne says, Els envoy 
 leur conscience au bordel, et tiennent leur continence en rdgle. But those who act as they look, ought not to be scandalised 
 at the reprehension of others' faults, lest thoy tax thomselvcH with *em, and by too delicate and quick an apprehension 
 not only make that obscene which I meant innocent, but that satire on all. which was intended only on those wlio 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 108 
 
 deserved it. But, Madaln, I beg yotii- pai-ddn for this digression to civil women and ladies of honoui-, since you and I 
 shall never be tbe better for 'em : for a comic poet and a lady of yom- profession make most of the other sort ■ and the 
 stage and your houses, like our plantations, ai'e propagated by the least nice women ; and, as with the ministers of 
 justice, the vices of the age are our best business. But now I mention public persons, I can no longer defer doing you 
 the justice of a dedication, and telling you your own, who are, of all public-spiiited people, the most necessary, most 
 communicative, most geilerous and hospitable. Your house has been the house of the people ; your sleep still disturbed 
 for the public ; and when you arose, 'twas that others might lie down ; and you waked that otliers might rest : the good 
 you have done is unspeakable. How many young inexperienced heirs have you kept from rash foolish mari-iages, and 
 from being jilted for their lives by the worst sort of jilts, wives! How many unbewitcbed widowers' children have you 
 preserved from the tyranny of stepmothers ! How many old doters from cuckoldom, and keeping other men's wenches 
 and children! How many adulteries and unnatural sins have you prevented! In rine, you have been a constant 
 scourge to the old lecher, and often a terror to the young : you have made concupiscence its own punishment, and 
 extinguished lust with lust, like blowing up of houses to stop the fii"e. 
 
 Nimirum propter continentiam, incontinentia 
 
 Necessai'ia est, Incendium. ignibus extinguitur. 
 
 There's Latin for you again, Madam : I protest -to you, as I am an author, I cannot help it ; nay, I can hardly keep 
 myself from quoting Aristotle and Horace, and talking to you of the rules of writing, (like the French authors), to show 
 you and my reader I understand 'em, in my epistle, lest neither of you should find it out by the play. And according 
 to the rules of dedications, 'tis no matter whether you understand or no what I quote or say to you of ^\Titing ; for an 
 author can as easily make any one a judge or critic in an epistle, as a hero in his play. But, Madam, that this may 
 prove to the end a true epistle dedicatoi'y, I'd have you know 'tis not without a design lipon you, which is in the behalf 
 of the fraternity of Parnassus ; that songs and sonnets may go at yoiu" houses, and in your liberties, for guineas and 
 half-guineas; and that wit, at least with yoU, as of old, maybe the price of beauty, and so you will prove a true 
 encourager of poetry ; for love is a better help to it than .wine ; and poets, like painters, draw better after the life than 
 by fancy. Nay, in justice, Madam, I think a poet ought to be as free of your houses, as of the playhouses; since he 
 contributes to the support of both, and is as necessary to such as you, as a ballad-singer to a pick-purse, in convening 
 the cullies at the theatres, to be picked up and carried to supper and bed at your houses. And, Madam, the reason of 
 this motion of mine is, because poor poets can get no favour in the tiring-rooms, for they are no keepers, you know ; 
 and folly and money, the old enemies of wit, are even too hard for it on its own dunghill : and for other ladies, a poet 
 can least go to the price of them. Besides, his wit, which ought to recommend him to 'em, is as much an obstruction 
 to his love, as to his wealth or prefei-ment ; for most women now-a-days apprehend wit in a lover, as much as in a 
 husband ; they hate a man that knows *em, they must have a blind easy fool, whom they can lead by the nose ; and, as 
 the Scythian women of old, must baffle a mau, and put out bis eyes, ere they will lie with him ; and then too like 
 thieves, when they have plundered and stripped a man, leave him. But if there should be one of a hundred of those 
 ladies generous enough to give herself to a man that has more wit than moneyj {all things considered,) he would think 
 it cheaper coming to you for a mistress, though you made him pay his guinea; as a man in a journey (out of good 
 husbandry), had better pay for what he has at an inn, than lie on free-cost at a gentleman's house. 
 
 In fine, Madam, like a faithful dedicator, I hope I have done myself right in the first place ; then you, and your 
 profession, which in the wisest and most religious government in the world is honoured with the public allowance; 
 and in those that are thought the most uncivilised and barbarous is protected and supported by the ministers of justice. 
 And of you. Madam, I ought to say no more here, for your virtues deserve a poem rather than an epistle, or a volume ■ 
 entire to givethe world your memoirs, or life at large ; and which {upon the word of an author that has a mind to make 
 an end of his dedication) I promise to do, when I write the annals of our British love, which shall be dedicated to the 
 ladies concerned, if they will not think them something too obfecene too ; when your life, compared with many that are 
 thought innocent, I doubt not, may vindicate you, and me, to the world, for the confidence I have taken in this address 
 to you; which then may be thought neither impertinent nor immodest; and, whatsoever your amorous misfortunes 
 have been,, none can charge you with that heinous, and worst of women's crimes, hypocrisy ; nay, in spite of misfortunes 
 or age, you are the same woman still ; though most oi your sex grow Magclalens at fifty, and as a solid .French author 
 has it — 
 
 Apr^s le plaisir, vient la peine; 
 Apres la peine, la vertu. 
 
 But. sure an old sinner's continency is much like a gamester's forswearing play, when he had lost all his money; and 
 modesty is a kind of a youthful dress, which, as it makes a young woman more amiable, makes an old one more 
 nauseous : a bashful old woman is like a hopeful old man ; and the affected chastity of antiquated beauties is rather a 
 reproach than an honour to 'em ; for it shows the men's virtue only, not theirs. But you, in fine. Madam, are no more 
 a hypocrite than I am when I praise you ; therefore I doubt not will be thought (even by yours and the play's enemies, 
 the nicest ladies) to be the fittest patroness for, Madam, your ladychip's most obedient, faithful, himible servant, and 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 DRAMATLS PERSONS. 
 
 Manly, of an honest, surly, nice Humour, supposed 
 
 Jirst, in the Time of the Butch War, to have procured 
 
 the Command of a Ship, out (if Honour, not Interest ; 
 
 and choosing a Sea-li/e only to avoid the World. 
 Freeman, Manlv's Lieutenant, a Gentleman well 
 
 educated, but of a broken Fortune, a Compiler with 
 
 the Age. 
 Vernish, MANLTf's hosom and only Friend. 
 Novel, a pert railing Coxcom,h, and an Admirer of 
 
 Novelties, makes love to Olivia. 
 BIajob Oldfox, an old impertinent Fop, given to 
 
 scribbling, makes Love to the Widow Blackacre. 
 Loud Plausible, a ceremonious, supple^ commending 
 
 Coxcomb, in love with Olivia. 
 
 Jerry Blackacre, a true raw Squire, under Age, 
 and hi's Mother's Government, bred, to the Law. 
 
 Olivia, Manly's Mistress. 
 
 Fidelia, in love with Manly, and followed him to Sea 
 
 in Man's Clothes. 
 Eliza, Cousin to Olivia. 
 LErriCE, Olivia's Woman. 
 Widow Blackacre, a petulant, litigious WidmOf 
 
 always in Law, and Mother to Squire Jerry. 
 
 Lawyers, ICnights of the Post, Bailiffs and Aldermen, 
 a Bookseller's Apprentice, a Foot-boy, SaUors, 
 "Waiters, and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
104 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 I THE Plain Dealer am to act to-day, 
 And my rough part begins before the play. 
 First, you who scribble, yet hate all that write, 
 And keep each other company in spite. 
 As rivals in your common mistress, fame, 
 And with faint praises one another damn ; 
 'Tis a good play, we know, you can't forgive. 
 But grudge yourselves the pleasure you receive : 
 Our scribbler therefore bluntly bid me say. 
 He would not have the wits pleased here to-day. 
 Next, you, the fine, loud gentlemen o' th' pit, 
 Who damn all plays, yet, if y'ave any wit, 
 'Tis but what here you spunge and daily get ; 
 Poets, like friends to whom you are in debt. 
 You hate ; and so rooks laugh, to see undone 
 Those pushing gamesters whom they live upon. 
 Well, you are sparks, and still will be i'th' fashion ; 
 Rail then at .plays, to hide your obligation. 
 Now, you shrewd judges, who the boxes sway, 
 Leading the ladies' hearts and sense astray, 
 And, for their sakes, see all, and 'hear no play ; 
 Correct your cravats, foretops, lock behind ; 
 The dress and breeding of the play ne'er mind ; 
 Plain dealing is, you'll say, quite out of fashion ; 
 Yoa'll hate it here, as in a dedication : 
 
 And your fair neighbours, in a limning poet 
 
 No more than iii a painter will allow it. 
 
 Pictures too like the ladies will not please ; 
 
 They must be drawn too here like goddesses. 
 
 You, as at Lely's too, would truncheon wield, 
 
 And look like heroes in a painted field. 
 
 But the coarse dauber of the coming scenes. 
 
 To follow life and nature only means. 
 
 Displays you as you are, makes his fine woman 
 
 A mercenary jilt, and true to no inan : 
 
 His men of wit and pleasure of the age 
 
 Are as dull rogues as ever cumber'd stage : 
 
 He draws a friend only to custom just. 
 
 And makes him naturally break his trust. 
 
 I only act n part, like none of you, 
 
 And yet you'll say, it is a fool's part too : 
 
 An honest man who, like you, never winks 
 
 At faults ; but, unlike you, speaks what he thinks : 
 
 The only fool who ne'er found patron yet. 
 
 For truth is now a fault as well as wit. 
 
 And where else, but on stages, do we see 
 
 Truth pleasing, or rewarded honesty ? 
 
 W^bich our bold poet does this day in me. 
 
 If not to th' honest, be to th' prosperous kind. 
 
 Some friends at court let the Plain Dealer find. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE L— Manly's Lodging. 
 
 Enter Manlt, surlify, my Lord Plausible /oKowin^ Mm; 
 and two Sailors behind. 
 
 Man. Tell not me, my good lord Plausible, of 
 your decorums, supercilious forms, and slavish 
 ceremonies ! your little tricks, which you, the 
 spaniels of the world, do daily over and over, for 
 and to one another ; not out of love or duty, but 
 your servile fear. 
 
 Plans. Nay, i'faith, i'faith, you are too pas- 
 sionate ; and I must humbly beg your pardon 
 and leave to tell you, they are the arts and rules 
 the prudent of the world walk by. 
 
 Man. Let'em. But I'll have no leading-strings; 
 1 can walk alone : I hate a harness, and will not 
 tug on in a faction, kissing my leader behind, that 
 another slave may do the like to me. 
 
 Plans. What, will you be singular then, like 
 nobody? follow, love, and esteem nobody ? 
 
 Man. Rather than be general, like you, follow 
 everybody ; court and kiss everybody ; though 
 perhaps at the same time you hate everybody. 
 
 Plans. Why, seriously, with your pardon, my 
 dear friend — 
 
 Man. With your pardon, my no friend, I will 
 not, as you do, whisper my hatred or my scorn ; call 
 a man fool or knave by signs or mouths over his 
 shoulder, whilst you have him in your arms. — For 
 such as yon, like common whores and pickpockets, 
 are only dangerous to those you embrace. 
 
 Plans. Such as I ! Heavens defend me ! — upon 
 my honour — 
 
 Man. Upon your title, my lord, if you'd liave 
 me believe you. 
 
 Plans. Well, then, as I am a person of honour, 
 I never attempted to abuse or lessen any person in 
 my life. 
 
 Man. What, you were afraid ? 
 
 Plans. No ; biit seriously, I hate to do a rude 
 thing : no, faith, I speak well of all mankind. 
 
 Man. I thought so : but know, that speaking 
 well of all mankind is the worst kind of detraction ; 
 for it takes away the reputation of the few good men 
 in the world, by making all alike. Now, I speak 
 ill of most men, because they deserve it ; I that 
 can do a rude thing, rather than an unjust thing. 
 
 Plans. Well, tell not me, my dear friend, what 
 people deserve ; I ne'er mind that. I, like an 
 author in a dedication, never speak well of a man 
 for his sake, but my own ; I will not disparage 
 any man, to disparage myself : for to speak ill of 
 people behind their backs, is not like a person of 
 honour; and, truly, to speak ill of 'em to their 
 faces, is not like a complaisant person. But if I 
 did say or do an ill thing to anybody, it should be 
 sure to be behind their backs, out of pure good 
 manners. 
 
 Man. Very well ; but I, that am an unmannerly 
 sea-fellow, if I ever speak well of people, (which 
 is very seldom indeed,) it should be sure to be 
 bejjind their backs ; and if I would say or do ill to 
 any, it should be to their faces. I jvould jostle 
 a proud, strutting, overlooking coxcomb, at the 
 head of his sycophants, rather than put out my 
 tongue at him when he were past me ; would frown 
 
THE PLAIN DEALEIi 
 
 105 
 
 in the arrogant^ big, dull face of an overgrown 
 knave of business, rather than vent my spleen 
 against him when his back were turned ; would 
 give fawning slaves the lie whilst they embrace or 
 commend me ; cowards whilst they brag ; call a 
 rascal by no other title, though his father had left 
 him a duke's ; laugh at fools aloud before their 
 mistresses; and must desire people to leave me^ 
 when their visits grow at last as troublesome as 
 they were at first impertinent. 
 
 Plans. I would not have my visits troublesome. 
 
 Man. The only way to be sure not to have 'em 
 troublesome, is to make 'em when people are not 
 at home j for your visits, like other gdod turns, are 
 most obliging when made or done to a man in his 
 absence. A pox 1 why should any one, because 
 he has nothing to do, go and disturb another man's 
 business ? 
 
 1 Plami I beg your pardon, my dear friend. — 
 What, you have business .' 
 
 Man. If you have any, I would not detain^yoi 
 lordship. 
 
 Plaus: Detain me, dear sir ! — I can never have 
 enough of your company. 
 
 Man. I'm afraid I should be tiresome : I know 
 not what you think, 
 
 Plaus. Well, dear sir, I see you'd have me gone. 
 
 Man. But I see you won't. {Aside. 
 
 Plaus. Your most faithful — 
 
 Man. God be w'ye, my lord. 
 
 Plaus. Tour most humble — 
 
 Man. Farewell. 
 
 Plaus. And eternally — 
 
 Man. And eternally ceremony' — {Aside."] Then 
 the devil take thee eternally. 
 
 Plaus. You shall use no ceremony, by my life. 
 
 Man. I do not intend it. 
 
 Plaus. Why do you stir then ? 
 
 Man. Only to see you out of doors, that I may 
 shut 'em against more welcomes. 
 
 Plaus. Nay, faith, that shall not pass upon your 
 most faithful humble servant. 
 
 Man. Nor this any more upon me. \.Aside. 
 
 Plaus. Well, you are too strong for me. 
 
 Man. [Aside.1 I'd sooner be visited by the 
 plague ; for that only would keep a man from 
 visits, and his doors shut. >/ 
 
 \_Exit, thrusting out my Lord Pi/Ausible.. 
 
 1 Sail. Here's a finical fellow. Jack ! Wh^t 
 a brave fair-weather captain of a ship he would 
 make! 
 
 2 Sail. He a captain of a ship ! it must be when 
 she's in the dock then ; for he looks like one of 
 those that get the king's commissions for hulls to 
 sell a king's ship, when a brave fellow has fought 
 her almost to a long-boat. 
 
 1 Sail. On my conscience then. Jack, that's the 
 reason our bully tar sunk our ship ; not only that 
 the Dutch might not have her, but that the cour- 
 tiers, who laugh at wooden legs, might not make 
 her prize. 
 
 2 Sail. A pox of his sinking, Tom ! we have 
 made a base, broken, short voyage of it. 
 
 1 Sail. Ay, your brisk dealers in honour always 
 make quick returns with their ships to the dock, 
 and their men to the hospitals. "lis, let me see, 
 just a month since we set out of the river, and the 
 wind was almost as cross to us as the Dutch. 
 
 2 Sail. Well, I forgive him sinking my own 
 poor truck, if he would but have given me time 
 
 and leave to have saved blao'ii Kate of Wapping's 
 small venture. 
 
 1 Sail. Faith, I forgive him, since, as thepurser 
 told me, he sunk the value of five or six thousand 
 pound of his own, with which he was to settle him- 
 self somewhere in the Indies; for our merry lieu- 
 tenant was to succeed him in his commission for 
 the ship back ; for he was resolved never to return 
 again for England. 
 
 2 Sail. So it seemed, by his fighting. 
 
 1 Sail. No ; but he was a-weary of this side of 
 the world here, they say. 
 
 2 Sail. Ay, or else he would not have bid so fair 
 for a passage into t'other. 
 
 1 Sail. Jack, thou thinkest thyself in the fore- 
 castle, thou'rt so waggish. But I tell you, then, 
 he had a mind to go live and bask himself on the 
 sunny side of the globe. 
 
 2 Saik What, out of any discontent ? for he's 
 always as dogged as an old tarpaulin, when hin- 
 dered of a voyage by a young pantaloon captain. 
 
 1 Sail. 'Tis true I never saw him pleased but in 
 the fight ; and then he looked like one of Us com- 
 ing from the pay- table, with a new lining to our 
 hats under our arms. 
 
 2 Sail. A pox ! he's like the bay of Biscay, 
 rough and angry, let the wind blow where 'twill. 
 
 1 Sail. Nay, there's no more dealing with him, 
 than with the land in a storm, no near — 
 
 2 Sa.il. 'Tis a hurry-durry blade. Dost thou 
 remember after we had tugged hard the old leaky 
 long-boat to save his life, when I welcomed him 
 ashore, he gave me a box on the ear, and called me 
 fawning water-dog ? 
 
 Jle-enter Mani.v with Freehian. 
 
 1 Sail. Hold thy peace. Jack, and stand by ; 
 the foul weather's coming. 
 
 Man. You rascals ! dogs ! how could this tame 
 thing get through you ? 
 
 1 Sail. Faith, to tell your honour the truth, we 
 were at hob in the hall, and whilst my brother and 
 I were quarrelling about a cast, he slunk by us. 
 
 2 Sail. He's a sneaking fellow I warrant for't. 
 Man. Have more care for the future, you slaves. 
 
 Go, and with drawn cutlasses stand at the stair- 
 foot, and keep all that ask for me from coming 
 up ; suppose you were guarding the scuttle to the 
 powder-room. Let none *nter here, at your and 
 their peril. 
 
 1 Sail. No, for the danger would be the same : 
 you would blow them and us up, if we should. 
 
 2 Sail. Must no one come to you, sir .' 
 Man. No man, sir. 
 
 1 Sail. No man, sir ; but a woman then, an't 
 like your honour — ■ 
 
 Man. No woman neither, you impertinent dog! 
 Would you be pimping ? a sea-pimp is the strangest 
 monster she has. 
 
 2 Sail. Indeed, an't like your honour, 'twill be 
 hard for us to deny a woman anything, since we are 
 so newly come on shore. 
 
 1 Sail. We'll let no old woman come up, though 
 it were our trusting landlady at Wapping. 
 
 Man. Would you be witty, you brandy casks 
 you ? you become a jest as ill as you do a horse. 
 Begone, you dogs ! I hear a noise on the stairs. 
 
 lExeunt Sailors. 
 
 Free. Faith, I am sorry you would let the fop 
 go, I intended to have had some sport with him. 
 
106 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 Man. Sport with him ! A pox 1 then, why did 
 you not stay ? You should have enjoyed your 
 coxcomb, and had him to yourself for me. 
 
 Free. No, I should nbt have cared for him with- 
 out you neither j for the pleasure which fops af- 
 ford is like that of drinking, dnly good when 'tis 
 shared ; and a fool, like a bottle, which would make 
 you merry in company, will make you dull alone. 
 But how the devU could you turn a man of his 
 quality down stairs ? You use a lord with very 
 little ceremony, it seems. 
 
 Man. A lord ! What, thou art one of those who 
 esteem men only by the marks and value fortune 
 has set upon 'em, and never consider intrinsic 
 worth ! but counterfeit honour will not be current 
 with me : I weigh the man, not his title ; 'tis 
 not the king's stamp can make the metal better or 
 heavier. Your lord is a leaden shilling, which yott 
 bend every way, and debases the stamp he bears, 
 instead of being reused by it. — Here again, you 
 slaves ! 
 
 iieenter Sailors. 
 
 1 Sail. Only to receive farther instructions, an't 
 like your honour. — What if a man should bring 
 you money, should we turn him back .■* 
 
 Man. All men, X say : must I be pestered with 
 you too ? — You dogs, away 1 
 
 2 Sail. Nay, I know one man your honour would 
 not have us hinder coming to you, I'm sure. 
 
 Man. Who's that .' sjpeak quickly, slaves. 
 
 2 Sail. Why, a man that should bring you a 
 challenge. For though you refuse money, I'm 
 sure you love fighting too well to refuse that. 
 
 Man. Rogue ! rascal ! dog ! 
 
 [^Kicks the Sailors out. 
 
 Free. Niy, let the poor rogues have their fore- 
 castle jests : they cannot help 'em in a fight, 
 scarce when a ship's sinking. 
 
 Man. Damn their untimely jests ! a servant's 
 jest is more sauciness than his counsels 
 
 Free. But what, will you see nobody ? not your 
 friends ? 
 
 Man. Friends ! — 1 have but one, and he, I hear, 
 is not in town ; nay, can have but one friend, for a 
 true heart admits but of one friendship', as of one 
 love. But in having that friend, I have athousandj 
 for he has the courage of men in despair, yet the 
 diffidency and caution of cowards ; thesecrecy of the 
 revengeful, and the constancy of martyrs ; one fit to 
 advise, to keep a secret, to fight and die for his 
 friend. Such I think him ; for I have trusted him 
 with my mistress in my absence : and the trust of 
 beauty is sure the greatest we can show. 
 
 Free. Well, but all your good thoughts are not 
 for him alone, I hope .' Pray what d'ye think of 
 me for a friend ? 
 
 Man. Of thee ! Why, thou art a latitudinarian 
 in friendship, that is, no friend ; thou dost side 
 with all . mkind, but wilt sufier for none. Thou 
 art indeed like your lord Plausible, the pink of 
 courtesy, therefore hast no friendship: for cere- 
 mony and great professing renders friendship as 
 much suspected as it does- religion. 
 ' Free. And no professing, no ceremony at all in. 
 friendship, were as unnatural and as undeoent as 
 in religion : and there is hardly such a thing as an 
 honest hypocrite, who professes himself to be worse 
 than he is, unless it be yourself ; for though I could 
 never get you to say you were my friend, I know 
 you'll prove so. 
 
 Man. I must confess, I am so much your friend, 
 I would not deceive you ; therefore must tell you, 
 not only because my heart is taken upi but accord- 
 ing to your rules of ifriendship, I cannot be your . 
 friend. 
 
 Free. Why, pray ? 
 
 Mah. Because he that is, you'll say, a true 
 friend to a man, is a friend to all his friends. But 
 you must pardon me, I cannot wish well to pimps, 
 flatterers, detractors, and cowards, stiff-nodding 
 knavesj and supple^ pliant, kissing fools. Now, all 
 these I have seen you use like the dearest friends 
 in the world. 
 
 Free. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — What, you observed me, 
 I warrant, in the galleries at Whitehall, doing the 
 business of the place .' Pshaw ! Court-profes- 
 sions, like court promises, go for nothing, man. 
 But, faith, could you think I was a friend to all 
 those I hugged,kissed, flattered, boWed to.' Ha ! 
 ha!— 
 
 Man. You told 'em so, and swore it too , I 
 heard you. 
 
 Free. Ay, but when their backs were turned, 
 did not I tell you they were rogues, villains, rascals, 
 whom I despised and hated ? 
 
 Man. Very fine ! But what reason had I to be- 
 lieve you spoke your heart to me, since you pro- 
 fessed deceiving so many ? 
 
 Free. Why, don't you knowj good captain, that 
 telhng truth is a quality as prejudicial to a man that 
 would thrive in the world, as square play to a 
 cheat, or true love to a whore .' Would you have 
 a man speak truth to his ruin ? You are severer 
 than the law, which requires no man to swear against 
 himself. You would have me speak truth against 
 myself I warrant, and tell my promising friend the 
 courtier, he has a bad memory. 
 
 Man. Yes. 
 
 Free. And so make him reineinber to forget my 
 business ? And I should tell the great lawyer too, 
 that he takes oftener fees to hold his tongue, than 
 to speak ^ 
 
 Man. No doubt on't. 
 
 Free, Ay, and have him hang or ruin me, when 
 he should come to be a JHdge, and I before him ? 
 And you would have me tell the new officer, who 
 bought his employment lately, that he is a coward? 
 
 Man. Ay. 
 
 Free. And so get myself cashiered, not him, he 
 having the better friends, though I the better 
 sword .' And I should tell the scribbler of honour, 
 that heraldry were a prettier and fitter study for so 
 fine a gentleman than poetry.' 
 
 Man. Certainly. 
 
 Free. And so find myself mauled in his next 
 hired lampoon ? And you would have me tell the 
 holy lady, too, she lies with her chaplain ? 
 
 Man. No doubt on't. 
 
 Free. And so draw the clergy upon my back, 
 and want a good table to dine at sometimes ? And 
 by the same reason too, I should tell you that the 
 world thinks you a mad man, a brutal, and have you 
 cut my throat, or worse, hate me. What other 
 good success of all my plain-dealing could I have, 
 than what I've mentioned .' 
 
 Man. Why, first, your promising courtier would 
 keep his word out of fear of more reproaches, or at 
 least would give you no more vain hopes : your law- 
 yer would serve you more faithfully ; for he, having 
 no honour but his interest, is truest still to him he 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 107 
 
 knows suspects him : tlie new officer would pro- 
 voke thee to make him a coward, and so be 
 cashiered, that thou, or some other honest fellow, 
 who had more courage than money, might get his 
 place : the noble sonnetteer would trouble thee no 
 more with his madrigals : the praying lady would 
 leave off railing at wenching before thee, and not 
 turn away her chambermaid for her owit known 
 frailty with thee : and I, instead of hating thee, 
 should love thee for thy plain dealing ; and in lieu 
 of being mortified, am proud that the world and 
 I think not well of one another. 
 
 Free, Well, doctors differ. You are for plain 
 dealing, I find : but against your particular notions, 
 I have the practice of the whole world. Observe 
 but any morning what people do when they get 
 together on the Exchange, in Westminster-hall, or 
 the galleries in Whitehall. 
 
 Man. 1 must confess, there they seem to rehearse 
 Bayes^s grand dance. Here you see a bishop bow- 
 ing low to a gaudy atheist ; a judge to a door- 
 keeper ; a great lord to a fishmonger, or scrivener 
 with a jack-chain about his neck ; a lawyer to a 
 sergeant-at-arms ; a velvet physician to a thread- 
 bare chemist ; and a supple gentleman-usher to a 
 surly beefeater : and so tread round in a preposte- 
 rous huddle of ceremony to each other, whilst they 
 can hardly hold their solemn falsB counteiiances. 
 
 Free. Well, they understand the world. 
 
 Man. Which I do not, I confess. 
 
 Free. But, sir, pray believe the friendship I 
 promise you real, whatsoever I have professed to 
 others : try me, at least. 
 
 Man. Why, what would you do for m.e ? 
 
 Free. I would fight for you. 
 
 Man. That you would do for ybur OTvn honour. 
 
 But what else ? 
 
 Free. I would lend you money, if I had it. 
 
 Man. To borrow more of me anothei: time. 
 That were putting your money to interest ; a usurer 
 would be as good a friend* — But what other piece 
 of friendship ? 
 
 Free. I would speak well of you to your enemies. 
 
 Man. To encourage others to be your friends, 
 by a show of gratitude. — But what else? 
 
 Free. Nay, I would not hear you ill spoken of 
 behind your back by my friend. 
 
 Man. Nay, then, thou'rt a friend, indeed. — But 
 it were unreasonable to expect it from thee, as the 
 world goes now, when new friends, like new mis- 
 tresses, are got by disparaging old ones^ 
 
 Enter Fidelia. 
 
 But here comes another, will say as much at least. 
 — Dost thou not love me devilishly too, my little 
 volunteer, as well as he or any man can ? 
 
 Fid. Better than any man can love you, my dear 
 captain. 
 
 Man. Look you there, I told you so. 
 
 Fid. As well as you do trath or honour, sir, as 
 well. 
 
 Man. Nay, good young gentleman, enough, for 
 shame ! Thou hast been a page, by thy flattering 
 and lying, to one of those praying ladies who love* 
 flattery so well they are jealous of it ; and wert 
 turned away for saying the same things to the old 
 housekeeper for sweetmeats, as you did to your lady ; 
 for thou flatterest everything and everybody alike. 
 
 Fid. You, dear sir, should not suspect the truth 
 of what I say of you, though to you. Fame, the 
 
 old liar, is believed when she speaks wonders of 
 you : you cannot be flattered, sir, your merit is 
 unspeakable. 
 
 Man. Holdj hold, sir, or I shall suspect worse 
 of you, that you have been a fcushi on -bearer to some 
 state-hypocrite, and turned away by the chaplains, 
 for out-flattering their probation-sermons for a 
 benefice. 
 
 Fid. Suspect me for anything, sir. hut the want 
 of love, faith, and duty to you, the bravest, wor. 
 thiest of mankind ; beheve me, I could die for you, 
 sir. 
 
 Man. Nay, there you lie, sir ; did not I see thee 
 more afraid in the fight than the chaplain of the 
 ship, or the purser that bought his place ? 
 
 Fid. Can he be said to be afraid, that ventures 
 to sea with you ? 
 
 Man. Fy ! fy ! no more ; I shall hate thy flat- 
 tery worse than thy cowardice, nay, than thy 
 bragging. 
 
 Fid. Well, I ov^rn then I was afraid, mightily 
 afraid : yet for you I would be afraid again, a hun- 
 dred times afraid. Dying is ceasing to be afraid, 
 and that I could do sure for you, and you'll believe 
 me one day. IWeeps. 
 
 Free. Poor youth ! believe his eyes, if not his 
 tongue : he seems to speak truth with them. 
 
 Man. What, does he cry ? A pox on't ! a 
 maudlin flatterer is as nauseously troublesome as a 
 maudlin drunkard. — No more, you little milksop, 
 do not cry, I'll never make thee afraid again ; for 
 of all men, if I had occasion, thou shouldst not be 
 my second ; and when I go to sea again, thou shalt 
 venture thy life no more with me. 
 
 Fid. Why, will you leave me behind then ? — 
 lAside.'] If you would preserve my life, I'm sure 
 you should not. 
 
 Man. Leave thee behind ! ay, ay, thou art a 
 hopeful youth for the shore only. Here thou wilt 
 live to be cherished by fortune and the great ones ; 
 for thou mayst easily come to out-flatter a dull 
 poet, outlie a coffee-house or gazette-writer, out- 
 swear a knight of the post, outwatch a pimp, out- 
 fawn a rook, outpromise a lover, outrail a wit, and 
 outbrag a sea-captain : — all this thou canst do, 
 because thou'rt a coward, a thing I hate ; therefore 
 thou'lt do better with the world than with me, and 
 these are the good courses you must take in the 
 world. There s good advice, at least, at parting ; 
 go, and be happy with't. 
 
 Fid. Parting, sir ! O let me not hear that dis- 
 mal word. 
 
 Man. If my words frighten thee, begone the 
 sooner ; for to be plain with thee, cowardice and 1 
 cannot dwell together. 
 
 Fid. Aod cruelty and courage never dwelt toge- 
 ther surej sir. Do not turn me off to shame and 
 misery, for I am helpless and friendless- 
 
 Man. Friendless ! there are half a WJora friends 
 for thee then. — [Offers her gold.] i leave myself 
 no more : they'll help thee a little. Begone, go, 
 1 must be cruel to thee (if thou callest it so) out of 
 pity. 
 
 Fid. If you would be cruelly pitiful, sir, let it 
 be with your sword, not gold. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter first Sailor. 
 1 Sail. We have, with much ado, turned away 
 two gentlemen, who told us, forty times over, their 
 nam^s were Mr. Novel and Major Oldfox. 
 
lOU 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 Mail. Well; to your post again. — [Exil Sailor.] 
 Bat how come those puppies coupled always 
 together ? 
 
 Free. O, the coxcombs keep each other com- 
 pany, to show each other, as Novel calls it; or, as 
 Oldfox saysj like two knives, to whet one anothec. 
 
 Man. And set other people's teeth on 6dge. 
 
 Ite-enter second Sailor. 
 
 2 Saii. Here is a woman, an't like your honour, 
 scolds and bustles with us, to come in, as much as 
 a seaman's widow at the Is'avy office : her name is 
 Mrs. Blackacre. 
 
 Man. That fiend too 1 
 
 Free. The widow Blackacre, is it not? that 
 litigious she petty-fogger, who is at law and differ- 
 ence with all the world ; but I wish I could make 
 her agree with me in the church. They say she 
 has fifteen hundred pounds a year jointure, and the 
 care of iter son, that is, the destruction of his 
 estate. 
 
 Man. Her lawyers; attorneys, arid solicitors, 
 have fifteen hundred pounds a year, whilst she is 
 contented to be poor, to make other people so. 
 b'ot she is as vexatious as her father was, the great 
 attorneys nay, as a dozen Norfolk attorneys, and 
 as implacable an adversary as a vnfe suing for ali- 
 mony, or a parson for his tithes ; and she loves an 
 Easter term, or any term, not as other country 
 ladies do, to come up to be fine, cuckold their hus- 
 bands, and take their pleasure ; for she has no 
 pleasure but in vexing others, and is usually clothed 
 and daggled like a bawd in disguise, pursued 
 through alleys by sergeants. When she is in town, 
 she lodges in one of the inns of Chancery, where 
 she breeds her son, and is herself his tutoress in 
 law French ; and for her country abode, though 
 she has no estate there, she chooses Norfolk. — 
 But, bid her come in, with a pox to her ! she is 
 Olivia's kinswoman, and may make me amends for 
 her visit, by some discourse of that dear woman. 
 
 lExit Sailor. 
 
 Enter Widow Blackacre with a mantle^ and a green bag^ 
 and several papers in the other hand : Jeiiry Black- 
 acre, in a gown, laden with green hags, following 
 her. 
 
 Wid. I never had so much to do with a judge's 
 doorkeeper, as with yours ; but — 
 
 Ma7i. But the incomparable Olivia, how does 
 she since I went 3 
 
 fVid. Since you went, my suit — 
 
 Man. Olivia, I say, is she well ? 
 
 Wid. My suit, if you had not returned — 
 
 Man. X)amn your suit ! how does your cousin 
 Olivia ? 
 
 Wid. My suit, I say, had been quite lost ; but 
 now — 
 
 Man. But now, where is Olivia .' in town ? 
 for— 
 
 Wid. For to-morrow we are to have a hearing. 
 
 Man. Would you would let me have a hearing 
 io-day ! 
 
 Wid. But why won't you hear me ? 
 
 Man. I am no judge, and you talk of nothing 
 but suits; but, pray tell me, when did you see 
 Olivia ? 
 
 Wid. I am no visiter, but a woman of business ; 
 or if I ever visit, 'tis only the Chancery-lane 
 ladies, ladies towards the law ; and not any of your 
 lazy good-for-nothing flirts, who cannot read law- 
 
 French, though a gallant writ it. But, as I was 
 telling you, my suit — 
 
 Man. Damn these impertinent vexatious people 
 of business, of all sexes ! they are still troubling the 
 world with the tedious recitals of their lawsuits : 
 and one can no more stop their mouths than a 
 wit's when he talks of himself, or an intelli- 
 gencer's when he talks of other people. 
 
 Wid. And a pox of all vexatious, impertinent 
 lovers! they are still perplexing the world with 
 the tedious narrations of their love-suits, and dis- 
 courses of their mistresses 1 You are as trouble* 
 some to a poor widow of business, as a young 
 coxcombly rhyming lover. 
 
 Man. And thou art as troutjlesome to me, as a 
 rook to a losing gamester, or a young putter of 
 cases to his mistress or sempstress, who has love in 
 her head for another. 
 
 Wid. Nay, since you talk of putting of cases, 
 and will not hear me speak, hear our Jerry a 
 little ; let him put oiir case to you, for the trial's 
 to-morrow : and since you are my chief witness, I 
 would have your memory refreshed and your 
 judgment informed, that you may not give your 
 evidence improperly.— ^Speak out, child. 
 
 jer. Yes, forsooth. Hem ! hem ! John-a- 
 Stiles— 
 
 Man. You may talk, young lawyer, but I shall 
 no more mind you, than a hungry judge does a 
 cause after the clock has struck one. 
 
 Free. Nay, you'll find him as peevish too. 
 
 Wid. No matter. .Terry, go on. — Do you 
 observe it then, sir ; for I think I have seen you in 
 a gown once. Lord, I could hear our Jerry put 
 cases all day long. — Mark him, sir. 
 
 Jer. John-a-Stiles — no — there are first, Fitz, 
 Pere, and Ayle, — no, no, Ayle, Pere, and Fitz; Ayle 
 is seised in fee of Blackacre ; John- a-Stiles disseises 
 Ayle ; Ayle makes claim, and the disseisor dies ; 
 then the Ayle — no, the Fitz — 
 
 Wid. No, the Pere, sirrah. 
 
 Jer. Oh, the Pere ! ay, the Pere, sir, and the 
 Fitz — no, the Ayle, — no, the Pere and the Fitz, 
 sir, and — 
 
 Man. Damn Pere, Mere, and Fitz, sir ! 
 
 Wid. No, you are out, child. — Hear me, cap- 
 tain, then. 'There are Ayle, Pere, and Fitz ; Ayle 
 is seised in fee of Blackacre ; and, being so seised, 
 John-a-Stiles disseises the Ayle, Ayle makes claim, 
 and the disseisor dies ; and then the Pere re-enters, 
 the Pere, sirrah, the Pere — [to Je rky. ] and the Fitz 
 enters upon the Pere, and the Ayle brings his writ 
 of disseisin in the post ; and the Pere brings his 
 writ of disseisin in the Pere, and — 
 
 Man. Canst thou hear this stuff, Freeman ? I 
 could as soon suffer a whole noise of flatterers at a 
 great man's levee in a morning ; but thou hast ser- 
 vile complacency enough to listen to a quibbling 
 statesman in disgrace, nay, and be beforehand with 
 him, in laughing at his dull no-jest; but I — 
 
 {Offering to go out. 
 
 Wid. Nay, sir, hold ! Where's the subpoena, 
 Jerry ? I must serve you, sir. You are required 
 by this, to give your testimony — , 
 
 Man. I'll be forsworn to be revenged on thee. 
 {Exit, throwing away the subptxna. 
 
 Wid. Get you gone, for a lawless companion ! 
 — Come, Jerry, I had almost forgot, we were to 
 meet at the master's at three ; let ub mind our 
 business still, child. 
 
SCENB 1. 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 W.f 
 
 Jer. Ay, forsooth, e*en so let's. 
 
 Free. Nay, madam, dow I would beg you to 
 hear me a little, a little of my business. 
 
 Wid. I have business of my own calls me away, 
 sir. 
 
 Free. My business would prove yours too, dear 
 madam. 
 
 W\d^. Yours would be some sweet business, I 
 warraut. What, *tis no Westminster-hall busi- 
 ness ? would you have my advice ? 
 
 Free, No, faith, *tis a little Westminster Abbey 
 business ; I would have your consent. 
 
 Wid, O fy, fy, sir \ to me such discourse, 
 before my dear minor there ! 
 
 Jer. Ay, ay, mother, he would be taking 
 livery and seisin of your j-ointure, by digging the 
 turf; but 111 watch your waters, bully, i'fac. — 
 Come away, mother. 
 
 \,Exit, haling away his mother. 
 
 Re-enter Fidelia. 
 
 Fid. Dear sir, you have pity; beget but some 
 in our captain for me. 
 
 Free. Where is he ? 
 
 Fid. Within ; swearing as much as he did in the 
 great storm, and cursing you, and sometimes sinks 
 into calms and sighs, and talks of his Olivia. 
 
 Free. He would never trust me to see her. — Is 
 she handsome .'* 
 
 Fid. No, if you'U take my word : but I am not 
 a proper judge. 
 
 Free, What is she ? 
 
 Fid. A gentlewoman, I suppose, but of as mean 
 a fortune as beauty ; but her relations would not 
 suffer her to go with him to the Indies : and his 
 aversion to this side of the world, together with the 
 late opportunity of commanding the convoy, would 
 not let him stay here longer, though to enjoy her. 
 
 Free. He loves her mightily then ' 
 
 Fid. Yes, so well, that the remainder of his for- 
 tune (I hear about five or six thousand pounds) he 
 has left her, in case he had died by the way, or 
 before she could prevail with her friends to follow 
 him ; which he expected she should do, and has 
 left behind him his great bosom friend to be her 
 convoy to him. 
 
 Free. What charms has she for him, if she be 
 I not handsome ? 
 
 ; Fid. He fancies her, I suppose, the only woman 
 j of truth and sincerity in the world. 
 I Free. No common beauty, I confess. 
 i Fid. Or else sure he would not have trusted her 
 with so great a share of his fortune, in his absence, 
 I suppose (since his late loss) all he has. 
 
 Free. Why, has he left it in her own custody ? 
 
 Fid. I am told so. 
 
 Free. Then he has showed love to her indeed, 
 in leaving her, like an old husband that dies as soon 
 as he has made his wife a good jointure. — But I'll 
 go in to him, and speak for you, and know more 
 from him of his Olivia. lExit. 
 
 Fid. His Olivia, indeed, his happy Olivia ! 
 Yet she was left behind, when I was with him : 
 But she was ne'er out of his mind or heart. 
 She has told him she loved him ; I have show'd it. 
 And durst not tell him so, till I had done, 
 Under this habit, such convincing acts 
 Of loving friendship for him, that through it 
 He first might find out both my sex and love ; 
 And, when I'd had him from his fair Olivia, 
 
 And this bright world of artful beauties here, 
 Might then have hoped, he would have look'd on 
 Amongst the sooty Indians ; and I could, [me. 
 To choose, there live his wife, where wives are 
 
 forced 
 To live no longer, when their husbands die ; 
 Nay, what's yet worse, tq share 'era whilst they 
 
 live 
 With many rival wives. But here he comes, 
 And I must yet keep out of his sight, not 
 To lose it for ever. 'LExit. 
 
 Re-enter Manly and Freeman. 
 
 Free. But pray what strange charms has she 
 that could make you love ? 
 
 Man. Strange charms indeed J she has beauty 
 enough to call in question her wit or virtue, and 
 her form would make a starved hermit a ravisher ; 
 yet her virtue and conduct would preserve her from 
 the subtle lust of a pampered prelate. She is so per- 
 fect a beauty, that art could not better it, nor affec- 
 tation deform it. Yet all this is nothing. Her 
 tongue as well as face ne'er knew artifice ; nor ever 
 did her words or looks contradict her heart. She 
 is all truth, and hates the lying, masking, daubing 
 world, as I do : for which I love her, and for which 
 I think she dislikes not me. For she has often 
 shut out of her conversation for mine, the gaudy 
 fluttering parrots of the town, apes and echoes 
 of men only, and refused their common-place 
 pert chat, flattery and submissions, to be enter- 
 tained with my sullen bluntness, and honest love : 
 and, last of all, swore to me, since her parents 
 would not suffer her to go with me, she would stay 
 behind for no other man ; but follow me without 
 their leave, if not to be obtained. Which oath — 
 
 Free. Did you think she would keep ? 
 
 Man. Yes ; for she is not (I tell you) like other 
 women, but can keep her promise, though she has 
 sworn to keep it. But, that she might the better 
 keep it, I left her the value of five or six thousand 
 pounds : for women's wants are generally the most 
 importunate solicitors to love or marriage. 
 
 Free. And money summons lovers more than 
 beauty, and augments but their importunity, and 
 their number ; so makes it the harder for a woman 
 to deny 'em. For my part, I am for the French 
 maxim: — If you would have your female subjects 
 loyal, keep 'em poor. — But, in short, that your 
 mistress may not marry, you have given her a por- 
 tion. 
 
 Man. She had given me her heart first, and I 
 am satisfied with the security ; I can never doubt 
 her truth and constancy. 
 
 Free. It seems you do, since you are fain to bribe 
 it with money. But how come you to be so diffi- 
 dent of the man -that says he loves you, and not 
 doubt the woman that says it .-' 
 
 Man. I should, I confess, doubt the love of any 
 other woman but her, as I do the friendship of any 
 other man but him I have trusted ; but I have 
 such proofs of their faith as cannot deceive me. 
 
 Free. Cannot ! 
 
 Man. Not but I know that generally no man 
 can be a great enemy but under the name of friend ; 
 and if you are a cuckold, it is your friend only that 
 makes you so, for your enemy is not admitted to 
 your house : if you are cheated in your fortune, 
 'tis your friend that does it, for your enemy is 
 not made your trustee : if your honour or good 
 
no 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 nam? bp injured, 'tis your friend that does it still, 
 because your enemy is not believed against yon. 
 Therefore, I rather choose to go where honest, 
 downright barbarity is professed, where men 
 devour one another like generous hungry lions and 
 tigers, not like crocodiles ; where they think the 
 devil white, of our complexion ; and I am already 
 so far an Indian. But if your weak faith doubts 
 
 this miracle of a woman, come along with me, and 
 believe ; and thou wilt find her so handsome, that 
 thou, who art so much my friend, wilt haye a mind 
 to lie with her, and so wilt not fail to discover what 
 her faith and thine is to me. 
 
 When we're in love, the great adversity. 
 Our friends and mistresses at oi^ce we. try. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — Olivia's Lodging. 
 Enter Olivia, Eli^a, and LuTnCE. 
 
 OHv. Ah, cousin, what a world 'tis we live in ! I 
 am so weary of it. 
 
 Eliza. Ti*uly, cousin, I can find no fault with it, 
 but that we cannot always live in't, for I can never 
 be weary of it. 
 
 Oliv. O hideous ! yon cannot be in earnest sure, 
 when you say you like the filthy world. 
 
 Eliza. You cannot be in earnest sure, when you 
 say you dislike it. 
 
 Oliv. You are a very censorious creature, I find. 
 
 Eliza. I must confess, I think we women as 
 often discover where we love by railing, as men 
 when they lie by their swearing ; and the world is 
 but a constant keeping gallant, whom we fail not 
 to quarrel with when anything crosses us, yet can- 
 not part with't for our hearts. 
 
 JLet. A gallant indeed, madam, whom ladies first 
 make jealous, and then quarrel with it for being so ; 
 for if, by her indiscretion, a lady be talked of for a 
 man, she cries presently, ' Tis a censorious world! 
 if by her vanity the intrigue be found out, ' Tis a 
 prying malicious world ! if by her over-fondness 
 the gallant proves unconstant, ^Tis a false world ! 
 and if by her niggardliness the chambermaid tells, 
 'Tis a perfidious world 1 But that, I'm sure, your 
 ladyship cannot say of the world yet, as bad as 'tis. 
 
 Oliv. But I may say, ' Tis a very impertinent 
 world! — Hold your peace. — And, cousin, if the 
 world be a gallant, 'tis such a one as is my aversion. 
 Pray name it no more. 
 
 Eliza, But is it possible the world, which has 
 such variety of charms for other women, can have 
 none for you ? Let's see — first, what dy'e think of 
 dressing and fine clothes ? 
 
 Oliv. Dressing 1 J?y, fy, 'tis my aversion. — \To 
 Lktticb.] But come hither, you dowdy; methiuks 
 you might have opened this toure better ; O hide- 
 ous ! I cannot suffer it I D'ye see how't sits ? 
 
 Eliza. Well enough, cousin, if dressing be your 
 aversion. 
 
 Oliv. 'Tis so : and for variety of rich clothes, 
 they are more my aversion. 
 
 Let. Ay, 'tis because your ladyship wears 'em 
 too long i for indeed a gown, like a gallant, grows 
 one's aversion by having too much of it. 
 
 Oliv. Insatiable creature ! I'll be sworn I have 
 had this not above three days, cousin, and within 
 this month have made some six more. 
 
 Eliza. Then your aversion to 'em is not altogether 
 so great. 
 
 Oliv. Alas 1 'tis for my woman only I wear 'em, 
 cousin. 
 
 Let. If it be for me only, madam, pray do not 
 wear 'em. 
 
 Eliza. But what d'ye think of visits — balls ? 
 
 Oliv. O, 1 detest 'em ! 
 
 Eliza. Of plays ? 
 
 Oliv. I abominate 'em ; filthy, obscene, hideous 
 things. 
 
 Eliza. What say you to masquerading in the 
 winter, and Hyde-park in the summer ? 
 
 Oliv. Insipid pleasures I taste not. 
 
 Eliza. Nay, if you are for more solid pleasures, 
 what think you of a rich young husband ' 
 
 Oliv. O horrid ! marriage ! what a pleasure you 
 have found out ! I nauseate it of all things. 
 
 Let. But what does your ladyship think then of 
 a liberal handsome young lover ? 
 
 Oliv. A handsome young fellow, you impudent ! 
 begone out of my sight. Name a handsome young 
 fellow to me ! fob, a hideous handsome young, 
 fellow I abominate 1 ^Spila. 
 
 Eliza. Indeed ! But let's see — will nothing please 
 you ? what d'ye think of the court ? 
 
 Oliv. How, the court ! the court, cousin ! my 
 aversion, my aversion, my aversion of all aver- 
 sions ! 
 
 Eliza. How, the court ! where — 
 
 Oliv. Where sincerity is a quality as much out 
 of fashion and as unprosperous as bashfulness : I 
 could not laugh at a quibble, though it were a fat 
 privy-counsellor's ; nor praise a lord's ill verses, 
 though I were myself the subject ; nor an old 
 lady's young looks, though I were her woman ; nor 
 sit to a vain young smile-maker, though he flattered 
 me. In short, I could not glout upon a man when 
 he comes into a room, and laugh at him when he 
 goes out : I cannot rail at the absent to flatter the 
 standers-by ; I — 
 
 Eliza. Well, but railing now is so common, that 
 'tis no more malice, but the fashion ; and the 
 absent think they are no more the worse for being 
 railed at, than the present think they're the better 
 for being flattered. And for the court — 
 
 Oliv. Nay, do not defend the court ; for you'll 
 make me rail at it like a trusting citizen's widow. 
 
 Eliza. Or like a Holborn lady, who could not get 
 in to the last ball, or was out of countenance in the 
 drawing-room the last Sunday of her appearance 
 there. For none rail at the court but those who 
 cannot get into it, or else who are ridiculous when 
 they are there ; and I shall suspect you were 
 laughed at when you were last there, or would be a 
 maid of honour. 
 
 Oliv. I a maid of honour 1 To be a maid vi 
 honour, were yet of all things my aversion. 
 
 Eliza. In what sense am I to understand you ? 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 1U 
 
 But in fine, by the word averaioD, I'vq sure you 
 dissemble ; tor 1 never knew woman yet used it 
 who did not. Come, our tongues belie cur hearts 
 more than our pocket-glasses do our fac«s. But 
 methinks we ought to leave off dissembling, since 
 'tis grown of no use to us ; for all wise observers 
 understand us now-a-days, as they do dreams, 
 almanacs, and Dutch gazettes, by the contrary : 
 and a man no more believes a woman, when she 
 says she has an aversion for him, than when she 
 says she'll cry out. 
 
 Oliv. O filthy ! hideous! Peace, cousin, or your 
 discourse will be my aversion : and you may believe 
 me. 
 
 JEliza. Yes ; for if anything be a woman's aver- 
 sion, 'tis plain dealing from another woman : and 
 perhaps that's your quarrel to the world ; for that 
 will talk, as your woman says. 
 
 Oliv. Talk ? not of me sure ; for what men do I 
 converse with .'' what Tisits do I admit? 
 
 EnUr Boy. 
 
 Boy. Here's the gentleman to wait upon you, 
 madam. 
 
 Oliv. On me ! you little unthinking fop ; d'ye 
 know what yoa say ? 
 
 Boy. Yes, madam, tis the gentleman that comes 
 every day to you, who--^ 
 
 Oliv. Hold your peace, you heedless little animal, 
 and get you gone. — \_Exit Boy.] This country 
 boy, cousin, takes my dancing-master, tailor, or 
 the spruce milliner, for visitors. 
 
 Let. No, madam ; 'tis Mr. Novel, I'm sure, by 
 his talking so loud : I know his voice too, madam. 
 
 Oliv. You know nothing, you buffle-headed 
 stupid creature you : you would make my cousin 
 believe I receive visits. But if it be Mr. — what 
 did you call him ? 
 
 Let. Mr. Novel, madam ; he that — 
 
 Oliv. Hold your peace ; I'll hear no more of 
 him. But if it be your Mr. — (I cannot think 
 of his name again) I suppose he has followed my 
 cousin hither. 
 
 Eliza. No, cousin, I will not rob you of the 
 honour of the visit;: 'tis to you, cousin ; for 1 know 
 him not. 
 
 Oliv. Nor did I ever hear of him before, upon 
 my honour, cousin, besides, han't I told you, that 
 visits, and the business of visits, flattery and detrac- 
 tion, are my aversion? D'ye think then 1 would 
 admit such a coxcomb as he is .'' who rather than 
 not rail, will rail at the dead, whom none speak ill 
 of ; rather than not flatter, will flatter the poets of 
 the age, whom none will flatter; who affects 
 novelty as much as the fashion, and is as fantastical 
 as changeable, and as well known as the fashion ; 
 who likes nothing but what is new, nay, would 
 choose to have his friend or his title a new 6ne. In 
 fine, he is my aversion. 
 
 Eliza. I find you do know him, cousin ; at least, 
 have heard of him. 
 
 Oliv. Yes, now I remember, I have heard of 
 him. 
 
 Eliza. Well ; but since he is such a coxcomb, 
 for heaven's sake, let him not come up. Tell him, 
 Mrs. Lettice, your lady is not within. 
 
 Oliv. No, Lettice, tell him my cousin is here, 
 and that he may come up. For notwithstanding I 
 detest the sight of him, you may like his conversa- 
 tion ; and though I would use Imp scurvily, I will 
 
 not be rude to you in my own lodging : since he 
 has followed you hither, let him come up, I say. 
 
 Eliza. Very fine ! pray let him go to the devil, I 
 say, for me : I know him not, nor desire it. Send 
 him away, Mrs. Lettice. 
 
 Oliv. Upon my word, she shan't : I must disobey 
 your commands, to comply with your desires. Call 
 him up, Lettice. 
 
 Eliza. Nay, I'U swear she shall not stir on that 
 errand. \_Holdx Lbtticb. 
 
 Oliv. Well then, I'll call him myself for you, 
 since you will have it so. — [Calls out at the door.\ 
 Mr. Novel, sir, sir 1 
 
 Enter NovEl.. 
 
 JVot), Madam, I beg your pard^on ; perhaps you 
 werebusy: I didnotthinkyouhadcompany with you. 
 
 Eliza. Yet he comes to me, cousin ! 
 
 iAside to Olivia. 
 
 Oliv. Chairs there. IThei/ lit. 
 
 Nov. Well ; but, madam, d'ye know whence I 
 come now ? 
 
 Oliv. From some melancholy place, I warrant, 
 sir, since they have lost your good company. 
 
 Eliza. So ! 
 
 Nov. From a place where they have treated me 
 at dinner with so much civility and kindness, a pox 
 on them ! that I could hardly get away to you, 
 dear madam. 
 
 Oliv. You have a way with you so new and 
 obliging, sir 1 
 
 Eliza. You hate flattery, cousin ! 
 
 lApart to Olivia. 
 
 Nov. Nay, faith, madam, d'ye think my way 
 new ? Then you are obliging, madam. I must 
 confess, I hate imitation, to do anything like other 
 people. All that know me do me the honour to 
 say, I am an original, faith. But, as I was saying, 
 madam, I have been treated to-day with all the 
 ceremony and kindness imaginable at my lady Au- 
 tumn's. But, the nauseous old woman at the upper 
 end of her table — 
 
 Oliv. Revives the old Grecian custom, of serving 
 in a death's head with their banquets. 
 
 Nov. Ha ! ha ! fine, just, i'faith, nay, and new. 
 'Tis like eating with the ghost in the Libertine : 
 she would frighten a man from her dinner with her 
 hollow invitation, and spoil one's stomach — 
 
 Oliv. To meat or women. I detest her hollow 
 cherry cheeks : she looks like an old coach^ new 
 painted ; afi'ecting an unseemly smugness, whilst 
 she is ready to drop in pieces. 
 
 Eliza. You hate detraction, I see, cousin. 
 
 lApart to Olivia. 
 
 Nov. But the silly old fury, whilst she aifects to 
 look like a woman of this age, talks — 
 
 Oliv. Like one of the last j and as passionately 
 as an old courtier who has outlived his ofiice, 
 
 Nov. Yes, madam ; but pray let me give you her 
 character. Then she never counts her age by the 
 years, but — 
 
 Oliv. By the masques she has lived to see. 
 Nov. Nay then, madam, I see you think a little 
 harmless railing too great a pleasure for any but 
 yourself; and therefore I've done. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, faith, you shall tell me who you had 
 there at dinner. 
 
 Nov. If you would hear me, madam. 
 
 Oliv. Most patiently ; speak, sir. 
 Nov. Then, we had her daughter — 
 
112 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 OHi'. Ay, her daughter j the very disgrace to 
 good clothes, which she always wears buttoheighten 
 her deformity, not mend it : for she is still most 
 splendidly, gallantly ugly, and looks like an ill piece 
 of daubing in a rich frame. 
 
 ^ov. So '. But have you done with her, ma- 
 dam ? and can you spare her to me a little now .' 
 
 Ohv. Ay, ay, sir. 
 
 A'ot). Thpn, she is like — 
 
 bliv. She is, you'd say, like a city bride ; the 
 greal^er fortune, but not the greater beauty, for her 
 dress. 
 
 Nov. Well; yet have you done, madam.' Then 
 she — 
 
 Oliv, Then she bestows as unfortunately on her 
 face all the graces in fashion, as the languishing 
 eye, the hanging or pouting lip. But as the fool 
 is never more provoking than when he aims at wit, 
 the ill-favoured of our sex are never more nauseous 
 than when they would be beauties, adding to their 
 natural deformity the artificial ugUness of aifec- 
 tation. 
 
 Eliza. So, cousin, I find one may have a col- 
 lection of all one's acquaintance's pictures as well 
 at your house as at Mr. Lely's. Only the differ- 
 ence is, there we find 'em much handsomer than 
 they are, and like ; here much uglier, and like : 
 aud you are the first of the profession of picture- 
 drawing I ever knew without flattery. 
 
 Oliv. 1 draw after the life ; do nobody wrong, 
 cousin. 
 
 Eliza. No, you hate flattery and detraction. 
 
 Oliv. But, Mr. Novel, who had you besides at 
 dinner? 
 
 Nov. Nay, the devil take me if I tell you, unless 
 you will allow me the privilege of railing in my 
 turn. — But, now I think on't, the women ought to 
 be your province, as the men are mine : and you 
 must know we had him whom — 
 
 Oliv. Him, whom — 
 
 Nov. "What, invading me already .' and giving 
 the character before you know the man ? 
 
 Eliza. No, that is not fair, though it be usual. 
 
 Oliv. I beg your pardon, Mr. Novel ; pray go on. 
 
 Nov. Then, I say, we had that familiar cox- 
 comb who is at home wheresoe'er he comes. 
 
 Oliv. Ay, that fool — 
 
 Nov. Nay then, madam, your servant ; I'm 
 gone. Taking the fool out of one^s mouth is 
 worse than taking the bread out of one's mouth. 
 
 Oliv. I've done; your pardon, Mr. Novel: pray 
 proceed. 
 
 Nov. I say, the rogue, that he may be the only 
 wit in company, will let nobody else talk, and — 
 
 Oliv. Ay, those fops who love to talk aU them- 
 selves are of all things my aversion. 
 
 Nov. Then you'll let me speak, madam, sure. 
 The rogue, I say, will force his jest upon you j 
 and I hate a jest that's forced upon a man, as much 
 as a glass. 
 
 Eliza. Why, I hope, sir, he does not expect a 
 man of your temperance in jesting should do him 
 reason .' . , , 
 
 Nov. What ! interruption from this side too ? 
 I must then— lOffers to rise. Olivia holds Dim. 
 
 Oliv. No, sir. — Youmustknow,cousin, that fop 
 lie means, though he talks only to be commended, 
 will not give you leave to do't. 
 
 Nov. But, naadam— 
 
 Oliv. He a '»it ! Hang him ; he's only an 
 
 adopter of straggling jests and fatherless lampoons : 
 by the credit of which he eats at good tables, and 
 so, like the barren beggar-woman, lives by bor- 
 rowed children. 
 
 Nov. Madam — 
 
 Oliv. And never was author of anything but his 
 news : but that is still all his own. 
 
 Nov. Madam, pray — 
 
 Oliv. An eternal babbler ; and makes no more use 
 of his ears, than a man that sits at a play by his 
 mistress, or in Fop-corner. He's, in fine, a base 
 detracting fellow, and is my aversion.-;— But who 
 else, prithee Mr. Novel, was there with you ? Nay, 
 you shan't stir. 
 
 Nov. I beg your pardon, madam ; I cannot stay 
 in any place where I'm not allowed a little chris- 
 tian liberty of railing. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, prithee Mr. Novel, stay : and though 
 you should rail at me, I would hear you with pa- 
 tience. Prithee, who else was there with you .' 
 
 Nov. Your servant, madam. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, prithee tell us, Mr. Novel, prithee do. 
 
 Nov. We had nobody else. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, faith, I know you had. Come, my 
 lord Plausible was there too ; who is, cousin, a — 
 
 Eliza. You need not tell me what he is, cousin ; 
 for I know him to be a civil, good-natured, harmless 
 gentleman, that speaks well of all the world, and 
 is always in good-humour ; and — 
 
 Oliv. Hold, cousin, hold ; I hate detraction. 
 But I must tell yon, cousin, his civility is cow- 
 ardice, his good-nature want of wit ; and he has 
 neither courage nor sense to rail : and for his 
 being always in humour, 'tis because he is never 
 dissatisfied with himself. In fine, he is my aver- 
 sion ; and I never admit his visits beyond my hall. 
 
 Nov. No, he visit you ! Damn him, cringing 
 grinning rogue ! if I should see him coming up to 
 you, I would make bold to kick him down again. 
 —Ha! 
 
 Enter my Lord Plausible. 
 My dear lord, your most humble servant. 
 
 IRises and salutes Pla usible, and kisses Mm. 
 
 Eliza. So, I find kissing and railing succeed 
 each other with the angry men as well as with the 
 angry women ; and their quarrels are lilce love- 
 quarrels, since absence is the only cause of them ; 
 for as soon as the man appears again, they are 
 over. [,Aside. 
 
 J^lauSt Your most faithful humble servant, gene- 
 rous Mr. Novel. And, madam, I am your eternal 
 slave, and kiss your fair hands ; which I had done 
 sooner, according to your commands, but — 
 
 Oliv. No excuses, my lord. 
 
 Eliza. What, you sent for him then, cousin ? 
 
 [Apart to Olivia. 
 
 Nov. Ha ! invited ! [Aside. 
 
 Oliv. I know you must divide yourself ; for your 
 good company is too general a good to be engrossed 
 by any particular friend. 
 
 Plans. O lord, madam, my company ! your 
 most obUged, faithful, humble servant. But I could 
 have brought you good company indeed ; for I 
 parted at your door with two of the worthiest, 
 bravest men — 
 
 Oliv. Who were they, my lord? 
 
 Nov, Who do you call the worthiest bravest 
 men, pray ? 
 
 Plaus. O, the wisest bravest gentlemen I men of 
 suchhonour and virtue ! of such good qualities ! ah — 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 113 
 
 Eliza. This is a coxcomb that speaks ill of all 
 people a different way, and libels everybody with 
 dull praise, and commonly in the wrong place ; so 
 makes his panegyrics abusive lampoons. lAside. 
 
 Oliv. But pray let me know who they were ? 
 
 Plans. Ah i such patterns of heroic virtue I 
 such — 
 
 N'ov. Well ; but who the devil were they ? 
 
 Plans. Th^ honour of our nation ! the glory of 
 our age ! Ah, 1 could dwell a twelvemonth on their 
 praise ; which indeed I might spare by telling their 
 names ; sir John Current and sir Richard Court- 
 Title. 
 
 Nov. Court-Title ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Oliv. And sir John Current ! Why will you 
 keep such a wretch company, my lord ? 
 
 Plans. O madam, seriously you are a little too 
 severe ; for he is a man of unquestioned reputation 
 in everything. 
 
 Oliv. Yes, because he endeavours only with 
 the women to pass for a man of courage, and with 
 the buUies for a wit ; with the wits for a man of 
 business, and with the men of business for a favour- 
 ite at court ; and at court for city- security. 
 
 JVov. And for sir Richard, he — 
 
 Plans. He loves your choice picked company, 
 persons that — 
 
 Oliv. He loves a lord indeed ; but — 
 
 Nov. Pray, dear madam, let me have but a bold 
 stroke or two at his picture. He loves a lord, as 
 you say, though — 
 
 Oliv. Though he borrowed his money, and ne'er 
 paid him again. # 
 
 Nov. And would bespeak a place three days 
 before at the back-end of a lord's coach to Hyde- 
 park. 
 
 Plans. Nay, i'faith, i'faith, you are both too 
 severe. 
 
 Oliv. Then to show yet more his passion for 
 quality, he makes love to that fulsome coach-load 
 of honour, my lady Goodly, for he's always at her 
 lodging. 
 
 Plans. Because it is the conventicle -gallant, the 
 meeting-house of all the fair ladies, and glorious 
 superfine beauties of the town. 
 
 Nov. Very fine ladies ! there's first — 
 
 Oliv. Her honour, as fat as an hostess. 
 
 Plans. She is something plump indeed, a goodly, 
 comeiyj graceful person. 
 
 Nov. Then there's my lady Frances — what d'ye 
 call her ? as ugly — 
 
 Oliv. As a citizen's lawfully begotten daughter. 
 
 Plans. She has wit in abundance, and the hand- 
 somest heelj elbow, and tip of an ear, you ever saw. 
 
 Nov, Heel and elbow ! ha ! ha ! And there's 
 my lady Betty, you know— 
 
 Oliv, As sluttish and slatternly as an Irish 
 woman bred in France. 
 
 Plans. Ah ! all she has hangs with a loose air, 
 indeed, and becoming negligence. 
 
 Eliza. You see all faults with lovers' eyes, I 
 find, my lord. 
 
 Plans. Ah, madam, your most obliged, faithful, 
 humble servant to command ! But you can say 
 nothing sure against the superfine mistress — 
 
 Oliv. I know who you mean. She is as censo- 
 rious and detracting a jade as a superannuated 
 sinner. 
 
 Plans. She has a smart way of raillery, 'tis 
 confessed. 
 
 Nov. And then for Mrs. Grideline — 
 
 Plans. She, I'm sure, is — 
 
 Oliv. One that never spoke ill of anybody, 'tis 
 confessed. For she is as silent in conversation as 
 a country lover, and no better company than a 
 clock, or a weather-glass ; for if she sounds, 'tis 
 but once an hour to put you in mind of the time 
 of day, or to tell you 'twill be cold or hot, rain or 
 snow. 
 
 Plans. Ah, poor creature ! she's extremely good 
 and modest. 
 
 Nov. And for Mrs. Bridlechin, she's — 
 
 Oliv^ As proud as a churchman's wife. 
 
 Plans. She's a woman of great spirit and honour, 
 and will not make herself cheap, 'tis true. 
 
 Nov. Then Mrs. Hoyden, that calls all people 
 by their surnames, and is — 
 
 Oliv, As familiar a duck — . 
 
 Nov. As an actress in the tiring-room. There 
 I was once beforehand with you, madam. 
 
 Plans. Mrs. Hoyden ! a poor, affable, good- 
 natured soul. But the divine Mrs. Trifle comes 
 thither too. Sure her beauty, virtue, and conduct, 
 you can say nothing to. 
 
 Oliv. No ! 
 
 Nov. No ! — Pray let me speak, madam. 
 
 Oliv. First, can any one be called beautiful that 
 squints ? 
 
 Plans. Her eyes languish a little, I own. 
 
 Nov. Languish i ha ! ha ! 
 
 Oliv. Languish ! — Then, for her conduct, she 
 was seen at the Country Wife after the first day. 
 There's for you, my lord. 
 
 Plans. But, madam, she was not seen to use her 
 fan all the play long, turn aside her head, or by a 
 conscious blush discover more guilt than modesty. 
 
 Oliv. Very fine ! Then you think a woman 
 modest that sees the hideous Country /^(fe without 
 blushing, or publishing her detestation of it } D'ye 
 hear him, cousin ? 
 
 Eliza. Yes, and am, I must confess, something 
 of his opinion ; and think, that as an over-conscious 
 fool at a play, by endeavouring to show the author's 
 want of wit, exposes his own to more censure, so 
 may a lady call her own modesty in question, by 
 publicly cavilling with the poet's. For all those 
 grimaces of honour and artificial modesty disparage 
 a woman's real virtue, as much as the use of white 
 and red does the natural complexion : and you 
 must use very, very little, if you would have it 
 thought your own. 
 
 Oliv. Then you would have a woman of honour 
 with passive looks, ears, and tongue, undergo all 
 the hideous obscenity she hears at nasty plays. 
 
 Eliza. Truly, I think a woman bstrays her want 
 of modesty, by showing it publicly in a playhouse, 
 as much as a man does his want of courage by a 
 quarrel there ; for the truly modest and stout say 
 least, and are least exceptious, especially in public. 
 
 OUv. O hideous, cousin ! this cannot be your 
 opinion. But you are one of those who have the 
 confidence to pardon the filthy play. 
 
 Eliza, Why, what is there of ill in't, say you? 
 
 Oliv. O f y ! f y ! f y ! would you put me to the 
 blush anew ? call all the blood into my face again ? 
 But to satisfy you then ; first, the clandestine obsce- 
 nity in the very name of Horner. 
 
 Eliza. Truly, 'tis so hidden, X cannot find it 
 out, I confess. 
 
 Oliv. O horrid ! Does it not give you the rank 
 
J 14 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 conception or image of a goat, or town-bull, or a 
 satyr ? nay, what is yet a filthier image than all 
 the rest, that of a eunuch ? 
 
 Etixa. What then ? I can think of a goat, a 
 bull, or a satyr, without any hurt. 
 
 Cliv. Ay ; but cousin, one cannot stop there. 
 
 Eliza. I can, cousin. 
 
 Oliv. O no ; for when you have those filthy 
 creatures in your head once, the next thing you 
 think, is what they do ; as their defiling of honest 
 men's beds and couches, rapes upon sleeping and 
 waking country virgins under hedges, and on hay- 
 cocks. Nay, further — 
 
 Eliza. Nay, no farther, cousin. We have 
 enough of your comment on the play, which will 
 make me more ashamed than the play itself. 
 
 Olio. O, believe me, 'tis a filthy play ! and 
 you may take my word for a filthy play as soon 
 as another's. But the filthiest thing in that play, 
 or any other play, is — 
 
 Eliza. Pray keep it to yourself, if It be so. 
 
 Oliv. No, faith, you shall know it ; I'm resolved 
 to make you out of love with .the play. I say, the 
 lewdest, filthiest thing is his china ; nay, 1 will 
 never forgive the beastly author his china. He 
 has quite taken away the reputation of poor china 
 itself, and sullied the most innocent and pretty 
 furniture of a lady's chamber j insomuch that I 
 was fain to break all my defiled vessels. You see 
 I have none left ; nor you, I hope. 
 
 Eliza. You'll pardon me, I cannot think the 
 worse of my china for that of the playhouse. 
 
 Oliv. "Why, you will not keep any now, sure ! 
 'Tis now as unfit an ornament for a lady's cham- 
 ber as the pictures that come from Italy and other 
 hot countries j as appears by their nudities, which 
 I always cover, or scratch out, wheresoe'er I find 
 'em. But china! out upon't, filthy china! nasty, 
 debauched china ! 
 
 Eliza. All this will not put me out of conceit 
 with china, nor the play, which is acted to-day, or 
 another of the same beastly author's, as you call 
 him, which I'll go see. 
 
 Olic. You will not, sure ! nay, you sha' not 
 venture your reputation by going, and mine by 
 leaving me alone with two men here : nay, you'll 
 disoblige me for ever, if— IPulli her back. 
 
 Eliza. I stay ! — your servant. {Exit. 
 
 Oliv. Well — but, my lord, though you justify 
 everybody, you cannot in earnest uphold so beastly 
 » writer, whose ink is so smutty, as one may 
 say. 
 
 Plaus. Faith, I dare swear the poor man did 
 not think to disoblige the ladies, by any amorous, 
 soft, passionate, luscious saying in his play. 
 
 Oliu. Fy, my lord! But what think you, Mr. 
 Novel, of the play ? though I know you are a 
 friend to all that are new. 
 
 Nov. Faith, madam, i must confess, the new 
 plays would not be the worse for my advice, but I 
 could never get the silly rogues, the poets, to mind 
 what I say ; but I'll tell you what counsel I gave 
 the surly fool you spake of. 
 
 Oliv. What was't ? 
 
 Nov. Faith, to put his play into rhyme-, for 
 rhyme, you know, often makes mystical nonsense 
 pass with the critics for wit, and a double-meaning 
 saying with the ladies, for soft, tender, and moving 
 passion. But now I talk of passion, I saw your 
 old lover this morning— Captain— i X WhUjieri. 
 
 Enter Manly, Free.man, and FroELrA jitanditjgieMnd. 
 
 Oliv. Whom .'—nay, you need not whisper. 
 
 Man. We are luckily got hither unobserved. — 
 How ! in a close conversation with these supple 
 rascals, the outcasts of sempstresses' shops ! 
 
 Free. Faith, pardon her, captain, that, since 
 she could no longer be entertained with your manly 
 bluntness and honest love, she takfe up with the 
 pert chat and common-place flattery of these flut- 
 tering parrots of the town, apes and echoes of men 
 only. 
 
 Man. Do not you, sir, play the echo too, mock 
 me, dally with my own words, and show yourself 
 as impertinent as they are. 
 
 Free. Nay, captain — 
 
 Fid. Nay, lieutenant, do not excuse her ; me- 
 thinks she looks very kindly upon 'em both, and 
 seems to be pleased with what that fool there says 
 to her. 
 
 Man. You lie, sir ! and hold your peace, that I 
 may not be provoked to give you a worse reply. 
 
 Oiiv. Manly returned, d'ye say ! and is he safe ? 
 
 Nov. My lord saw him too. — Hark you, my 
 lord. ^Whispers to Plausible. 
 
 Man. She yet seems concerned for my safety, 
 and perhaps they are admitted now here but for 
 their news of me : for intelligence indeed is the 
 common passport of nauseous fools, when they go 
 their round of gdod tables and houses. lAside. 
 
 Oliv. I heard of his fighting only, without par- 
 ticulars, and confess I always loved his brutal 
 courage, because*t made me hope it might rid me 
 of his more brutal love. • 
 
 Man. What's that .' [.Aside. 
 
 Oliv. But is he at last returned, d'ye say, unhurt? 
 
 Nov. Ay, faith, without doing his business ; 
 for the rogue has been these two years pretending 
 to a wooden leg, which he would take from fortune, 
 as kindly as the stafifof a marshal of France, and 
 rather read his name in a gazette — 
 
 Oliv. Than in the entail of a good estate. 
 
 Man. So ! [Aside. 
 
 Nov. I have an ambition, I must confess, of 
 losing my heart before such a fair enemy as your- 
 self, madam ; but that silly rogues should be 
 ambitious of losing their arms, and — 
 
 Oliv. Looking like a pair of compasses. 
 
 Nov. But he has no use of his arms but to set 
 'em on kimbow, for he never pulls off his hat, at 
 least not to. me, I'm sure; for you must know, 
 madam, he has a fanatical hatred to good company : 
 he can't abide me. 
 
 Plaus. O, be not so severe to him, as to say he 
 hates good company : for I assure you he has a 
 great respect, esteem and kindness for me. 
 
 Man. That kind, civil rogue has spoken yet ten 
 thousand times worse of me than t'other. [Aside. 
 
 Oliv. Well, if he be returned, Mr. Novel, then 
 shall I be pestered again with his boisterous sea- 
 love J have my alcove smell like a cabin, my 
 chamber perfumed with his tarpaulin Branden- 
 burgh ; and hear volleys of brandy-sighs, enough 
 to make a fog in one's room. Fob 1 I hate a lover 
 that smells like Thames-street ! 
 
 Man. lAside.'] I can bear no longer, and need 
 hear no more. — [To Olivia.] But since you have 
 these two pulvillio boxes, these essence-bottles, 
 this pair of musk-cats here, I hope I may venture 
 to come yet nearer you. 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 115 
 
 OHv. Overheard us then ! 
 
 iVoiJ. I hope he heard me not. lAside. 
 
 Plans. Most noble and heroic captain, your 
 most obliged, faithful, humble servant. 
 
 Mov. Dear tar, thy humble servant. 
 
 Man. Away! — IThrusts Novel and Plau- 
 sible on each side.] Madara — 
 
 Oliv. Nay, I think I have fitted you for listening. 
 
 Man. You have fitted me for believing you 
 could nof be fickle, though you were young ; could 
 not dissemble love, though 'twas your interest; 
 nor be vain, though you were handsome ; nor 
 break your promise, though to a parting lover ; 
 nor abuse your best friend, though you had wit : 
 but I take not your contempt of me worse than 
 your esteem, or civility for these things here, 
 though you know 'em. 
 
 N'ov, Things ! 
 
 Plans. Let the captain rally a little. 
 
 Man. YeSj things ! Canst thou be angry, thou 
 thing ? IComing up to Novei,. 
 
 I^ov. No, since my lord says you speak in rail- 
 lery ; for though your sea-raillery be something 
 rough, yet, I confess, we use one another too as 
 bad every day at Locket's, and never quarrel for 
 the matter. 
 
 Plans. Nay, noble captain, be not angry with 
 him. — A word with you, I beseech you — ■ 
 
 [ Whispers to Manly. 
 
 Oliv. Well, we women, like the rest of the 
 cheats of the world, when our cullies or creditors 
 have found us out, and will or can trust no longer, 
 pay debts and satisfy obligations with a quarrel, 
 the kindest present a man can make to his mis- 
 tress, when he can make no more presents. For 
 oftentimes in love, as at cards, we are forced to 
 play foul, only to give over the game ; and use our 
 lovers like the cards, when we can get no more by 
 them, throw 'em up in a pet upon the first dispute. 
 
 [_Aside. 
 
 Man. My lord, all that you have made me 
 know by your whispering, which I knew not be- 
 fore, is, that you have a stinking breath ; there's a 
 secret for your secret. 
 
 Plans. Pshaw ! pshaw ! 
 
 Man. But, madam, tell me, pray, what was't 
 about this spark could take you ? Was it the merit 
 of his fashionable impudence ; the briskness of his 
 noise, the wit of his laugh, his judgment, or fancy 
 in his garniture ? or was it a well-trimmed glove, 
 or the scent of it, that charmed you .'' 
 
 Nov. Very well, sir : 'gad these sea-captains 
 make nothing of dressing. But let me tell you, 
 sir, a man by his dress, ^s much as by anything, 
 shows his wit and judgment ; nay, and his courage 
 too. 
 
 Free. How, his courage, Mr. Novel ? 
 
 Nov. Why, for example, by red breeches, tucked- 
 up hair or peruke, a greasy broad belt, and now- 
 a-days a short sword. 
 
 Man, Thy courage will appear more by thy belt 
 than thy sword, I dare swear. — Then, madam, for 
 this gentle piece of courtesy, this man of tame 
 honour, what could you find in him ? Was it his 
 languishing affected tone ? his mannerly look ? his 
 second-hand flattery ? the refuse of the playhouse 
 tiring-rooms ? or his slavish obsequiousness in 
 watching at the door of your box at the playhouse, 
 for your hand to your chair? or his janty way of 
 playing with your fan? or was it the gunpowder 
 
 spot on his hand, or the jewel in his ear, that pur- 
 chased your heart ? 
 
 Oliv. Good jealous captain, no more of your— - 
 
 Plans. No, let him go on, madam, for perhaps 
 he may make you laugh : and I would contribute 
 to your pleasure any way. 
 
 Man. Gentle rogue ! 
 
 Oliv. No, noble captain, you cannot sure think 
 anything could take me more than that heroic title 
 of yours, captain ; for you know we women love 
 honour inordinately. 
 
 Nov. Ha ! ha ! faith, she is with thee, bully, for 
 thy raillery. 
 
 Man. Faith, so shall I be with you, no bully, 
 for your grinning. [Aside to Novel. 
 
 Oliv. Then that noble lion-like mien of yours, 
 that soldier-like, weather-beaten complexion, and 
 that manly roughness of your voice ; how can they 
 otherwise than charm us women, who hate ef- 
 feminacy ! 
 
 Nov. Hal ha! faith I can't hold from laughing. 
 
 Man. Nor shall I from kicking anon. 
 
 \_Aside to Novel. 
 
 Oliv. And then, that captain-like carelessness in 
 your dress, but especially your scarf; 'twas just 
 such another, only a little higher tied, made 
 me in love with my tailor as he passed by my win- 
 dow the last training-day ; for we women adore a 
 martial man, and you have nothing wanting to 
 make you more one, or more agreeable, but a 
 wooden leg. 
 
 Plans. Nay, i'faith, there your ladyship was a 
 wag, and it was fine, just, and well rallied. 
 
 Nov. Ay, ay, madam, with you ladies too, mar- 
 tial men must needs be very killing. 
 
 Man. Peace, you Bartholomew-fair buffoons ! 
 And be not you vain that these laugh on your side, 
 for they will laugh at their own dull jests ; but no 
 more of 'em, for I will only suffer now this lady to 
 be witty and merry. 
 
 Oliv. You would not have your panegyric inter- 
 rupted. I go on then to your humour. Is there 
 anything more agreeable than the pretty suUenness 
 of that .'' than the greatness of your courage, 
 which most of all appears in your spirit of contra- 
 diction } for you dare give all mankind the lie ; 
 and your opinion is your only mistress, for you re- 
 nounce that too, when it becomes another man's. 
 
 Nov. Ha ! ha ! I cannot hold, I must laugh at 
 thee, tar, faith ! 
 
 Plans. And i'faith, dear captain, I beg your 
 pardon, and leave to laugh at you too, though I 
 protest I mean you no hurt ; but when a lady ral- 
 lies, a stander-by must be complaisant, and do hei 
 reason in laughing : ha ! ha ! 
 
 Man. Why, you impudent, pitiful wretches, you 
 presume sure upon your effeminacy to urge me ; 
 for you are in all things so like women, that you 
 may think it in me a kind of cowardice to beat you. 
 
 Oliv. No hectoring, good captain. 
 
 Man, Or, perhaps, you think this lady's pre- 
 sence secures you ; but have a care, she has talked 
 herself out of all the respect I had for her ; and 
 by using me ill before you, has given me a privilege 
 of using you so before her : but if you would pre- 
 serve your respect to her, and not be beaten beforei 
 her, go, begone immediately. 
 
 Nov. Begone ! what? 
 
 Plans. Nay, worthy, noble, generous, captain — 
 
 Man. Begone, I say ! . 
 
116 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 Nov. Begone again ! to us begone ! 
 
 Man, No chattering, baboons, instantly begone, 
 or — 
 
 iPuts them out of th£ room : Novel HrutSt Plau- 
 sible cringes. 
 
 Nov. Well, madam, we'll go make the cards 
 ready in your bedchamber : sure you will not stay 
 long with him. \_Ex6unt Plausible and Nov-el. 
 
 Oliv. Turn hither your rage, good captain Swag- 
 gerhuif, and be saucy with your mistress, like a true 
 captain ; but be civil to your rivals and betters, 
 and do not threaten anything but me here j no, not 
 so much as my windows ; nor do not think your- 
 self in the lodgings of one of your suburb mis- 
 tresses beyond the Tower. 
 
 Man. Donotgivemecausetothlnk so; for those 
 less infamous women part with their lovers, just as 
 you did from me, with unforced vows of constancy 
 and floods of willing tears ; but the same winds 
 bear away their lovers and their vows : and for 
 their grief, if the credulous unexpected fools re- 
 turn, they find new comforters, fresh cullies, such 
 as I found here. The mercenary love of those 
 women too suffers shipwreck with their gal- 
 lants' fortunes ; now you have hBa,rd chance has 
 used me scurvily, therefore you do too. Well, 
 persevere in your ingratitude, falsehood, and dis- 
 dain ; have constancy in something, and I promise 
 you to be as just to your real scorn as -I was to your 
 feigned love ; and henceforward will despise, con- 
 temn, hate, loathe, and detest you most faithfully. 
 JEnter Lettjcb, 
 
 Oliv. Get the ombre-cards ready in the next 
 room, LetticBj and — 
 
 C Whispers to Lettice, viho goes out. 
 
 Free. Bravely resolved, captain ! 
 
 Fid. And you'll be sure to keep your word, I 
 hope, sir ? 
 
 Man. I hope so too. 
 
 Fid. Do you but hope it, sir .' If you are not as 
 good as your word, 'twill be the first time you ever 
 bragged, sure. 
 
 Man. She has restored my reason with my heart. 
 
 Free. But now you talk of restoring, captain, 
 there are other things, which next to one's heart 
 one would not part with ; I mean your jewels and 
 money, which it seems she has, sir. 
 
 Man. What's that to you, sir } 
 
 Free. Pardon me, whatsoever is yours I have a 
 share in't I'm sure, which I will not lose for asking, 
 though you may be too generous or too angry now 
 to do't yourself. 
 
 Fid. Nay, then I'll make bold to make my claim 
 too, [Both going towards Olivia. 
 
 Man. Hold, you impertinent, officious fops — 
 [Aside."] How have I been deceived ! 
 
 Free. Madam, there are certain appurtenances 
 to a lover's heart, called jewels, which always go 
 along with it. 
 
 Fid. And which, with lovers, have no value in 
 themselves, but from the heart they com& with. 
 Our captain's, madam, it seems you scorn to keep, 
 and much more vrill those worthless things without 
 it, I am confident. 
 
 Oliv. A gentleman so well made as you are, may 
 be confident — us easy women could not deny you 
 anything you ask, if 'twere for yourself; but, since 
 'tis for another, I beg your leave to give him my 
 answer. — [Aside.l An agreeable young fellow this 
 —and would not be my aversion. — [Aloud.'] 
 
 Captain, your young friend here has a very per- 
 suading face, I confess ; yet you might have asked 
 me yourself for those trifles you left with me, 
 which (hark you a little, for I dare trust you with 
 the secret ; you are a man of so much honour, I'm 
 sure) I say then, not expecting your return, or 
 hoping ever to see you again, I have delivered j-bui 
 jewels to — 
 
 Man. Whom ? 
 
 Oliv. My husband. 
 
 Man. Your husband \ 
 
 Oliv. Ay, my husband. For since you could leave 
 me, 1 am lately and privately married to one, who 
 is a man of so much honour and experience in the 
 world, that I dare not ask him for your jewels again 
 to restore 'em to you ; lest he should conclude you 
 never would have parted with 'era to me on any other 
 score but the exchange of my honour : which rather 
 than you'd let me lose, you'd lose I'm sure your- 
 self, those trifies of yours. 
 
 Man. Triumphant impudence ! but married 
 too! 
 
 Oliv, O, speak not so loud, my servants know it 
 not : 1 am married ; there's no resisting one's 
 destiny or love, you know. 
 
 Man. Why, did you love him too ? 
 
 Oliv. Most passionately-; nay, love him now, 
 though I have married him, and he me : which 
 mutual love I hope you are too good, too generous 
 a man to disturb, by any future olaim, or visits to 
 me. 'Tis true, he is now absent in the country, but 
 returns shortly ; therefore I beg of you, for your 
 own ease and quiet, and my honour, you will never 
 see me more. 
 
 Man. I wish I had never seen you. 
 
 Oliv. But if you should ever have anything to 
 say to me hereafter, let that young gentleman there 
 be your messenger. 
 
 Man. You would be kinder to him ; I find he 
 should be welcome. 
 
 OUv. Alas J his youth would keep my husband 
 from suspicions, and his visits from scandal ; for 
 we women may have pity for such as he, but no 
 love : and I already think you do not well to spirit 
 him away to sea ; and the sea is already but too 
 rich with the spoils of the shore. 
 
 Man, True perfect woman ! If I could say any- 
 thing more injurious to her now, I would ; for I 
 could out-rail a bilked whore, or a kicked coward ; 
 but now I think on't, that were rather to discover 
 my love than hatred ; and I must not talk, for 
 something I must-do. [Aside. 
 
 Oliv. I think I have given him enough of me 
 now, never to be troubled with him again. 
 
 lAside, 
 He-enter Lettice. 
 
 Well, Lettice, are the cards and all ready within ? I 
 come then. — Captain, I beg your pardon : you will 
 not make one at ombrei' 
 
 Man. No, madam, but I'll wish you a little good 
 luck before you go. 
 
 Oliv. No, if you would have me thrive, curse me: 
 for that you'll do heartily, I suppose. 
 
 Man. Then if you will have it so, may all the 
 curses light upon you, women ought to fear, and 
 you deserve ! — First, may the curse of loving play 
 attend your sordid covetousnesfi, and fortune cheat 
 you, by trusting to her, as you have cheated me ; 
 the curse of pride, or a good reputation, fall on your 
 lust ; tlie curse of afiectation on your beauty ; the 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 117 
 
 curse of your husband's company on your pleasures ;■ 
 and the curse of your gallant's disappointments in 
 his absence ; and the curse of scorn, jealousy, or 
 despair on your love ; and then the curse of 
 loving on ! 
 
 Oiiv, And to requite all your curses, I will only 
 return you your last j may the curse of loving me 
 still fall upon your proud hard heart, that could be 
 so cruel to me in these horrid curses ! but heaven 
 forgive you t [Exit. 
 
 Man. Hell' and the devil reward thee ! 
 
 Free. Well, you see now,.mistresses> hke friends, 
 are lost by letting 'em handle your money ; and 
 most women are such kind of witches, who can 
 have no power over a man^ unless you give 'em 
 money : but when onee they have got any from 
 you, they itever leave you till they have all. There- 
 fore I never dare give a woman a farthing. 
 
 Man. Well, there is yet this comfort by losing 
 one's money with one's mistress, a man Is out of 
 danger of getting another ; of being made prize 
 again by love, who^ like a pirate, takes you by 
 spreading false colours : but when once you have 
 run your ship a-ground, the treacherous picaroon 
 loofs ; so by your ruin you save yourself from 
 slaveiy at leasL 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 JBoi/. Mrs^ Lettice, here's madam Blackacre 
 come to wait upon her honour. 
 
 [Exeunt Lettice and Boy. 
 
 Man. D'ye hear that .' Let us begone before she 
 
 comes : for henceforward I'll avoid the whole 
 
 damned sex for ever,, and woman as a sinking ship. 
 
 [Exeunt Manly antf Fidelia. 
 
 Free. And I'll stay, to revenge on her yoar 
 quarrel to the sex : for out of love to her jointure, 
 and hatred to business,. I would marry her, to make 
 an end of her thousand suits^and my thousand en- 
 gagements, to the comfort of two unfortunate sort 
 of people, my plaintiffs and her defendants, my 
 creditors and her adversaries. 
 
 Enter Widow Bbackacre, led in fey- Major Oldfox, and 
 
 Jerry Blackacre following^ laden with, green bags. 
 
 Wid. 'Tis an arrant sea-ruffian ; but I am glad 
 I met with him at last, to serve him again,^ major ; 
 for the last service was not good in law. Boy, 
 duck, Jerry, where is my paper of memorandums ? 
 Give me, child : so; Where is my cousin Olivia 
 now, my kind relation .' 
 
 Free. Here is one that would be your kind rela- 
 tion, madam. 
 
 Wid. What mean you, sir .' 
 
 Free. Why, faith, (to be short,) to marry yon,, 
 widow. 
 
 Wid. Is not this the wild rode person we saw 
 at captain Manly's ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, forsooth, an'l please. 
 
 Wid. Whatwould you? what areyou? Marryme! 
 
 Free. Ay, faith ; for I am a younger brother, 
 and you are a widow. 
 
 Wid, You are an impertinent person ; and go 
 about your business. 
 
 Free. I have none, but to marry thee, widow. 
 
 Wid. But I have other business, I'd have you 
 to know. 
 
 Free. But you have no business a-nights, widow ; 
 and I'll make you pleasanter business than any you 
 have. For a-nights, I assure you, I am a man of 
 great business ; for the business — 
 
 Wid. Go, I'm sure you're an idle fellow. 
 Free: Try me but, widow, and employ me as 
 you find my abilities and industry. 
 
 Old. Pray be civil to the lady, Mr. she is a 
 
 person of quality, a person that is no person — 
 
 Free. Yes, but she's a person that is a widow 
 Be you mannerly to her, because you are to pretend 
 only to be her squire, to arm her to her lawyer's 
 chambers : but I will be impudent and bawdy ; for 
 she must love and marry me. 
 
 Wid. Marry come up, you saucy familiar Jack ! 
 You think, with us widows, 'tis no more than up, 
 and ride; Gad forgive me ! now-a-days, every 
 idle, young, hectoring, roaring companion, with a 
 pair of turned red breeches, and a broad back, 
 thinks to carry away any widow of the best degree. 
 But I'd have you to know, sir, all widows are not 
 got, like p]f ces at court, by impudence and impor- 
 tunity only. 
 
 Old. No, no, soft, soft, you are a- young man, 
 and not fit — 
 
 Free. For a widow ? yes sure, old man, the 
 fitter. 
 
 Old. Go to, go to ; if others had not laid in 
 their claims before you — 
 
 Free. Not you, I hope. 
 
 Old. Why not I, sir ? sure I am a much more 
 proportionable match for her than you, sir ; I, who 
 am an elder bi"other, of a eomfortable fortune, and 
 of equal years with her. 
 
 Wid. How's that, yoli unmannerly person ? I'd 
 have you to know, I was born in Ann^ ■undee' 
 Caroli prim'. 
 
 Old. Your pardon, ladjr, your pardon : be not 
 offended with your very humble servant — But, I 
 say, sir, you are abeggarlyyounger brother, twenty 
 years younger than her, without any land or stock, 
 but your great stock of impudence : therefore v/hat 
 pretension can you have to her ? 
 
 Free. You have made it for me : first, because 
 I am a younger brother. 
 
 Wid. Why, is that a sufficient plea to a rehct ? 
 how appears it, sir ? by what foolish custom ? 
 
 Free. By custom time out of mind only. Then, 
 sir, because I have nothing to keep me after her 
 death, I am the likelier to take care of her life. 
 And for my being twenty years younger than her, 
 and having a sufficient stock of impudence, I leave 
 it to her whether they will be valid exceptions to 
 me in her widow's law or equity. 
 
 Old. Well, she has been so long in Chancery, 
 that I'll stand to her equity and decree between us. 
 Come, lady, pray snap up this young snap at first, 
 or we shall be troubled with him. Give him a city- 
 widow's answer, that is, with all the ill-breeding 
 imaginable. — [Aside (a the Widow.] Come, 
 madam. 
 
 Wid. Well then, to make an end of this foolish 
 wooing, for nothing interrupts business more : first, 
 for you, major — ■ 
 
 Old. You declare in my favour, then ? 
 
 Free. What, direct the court ! come, young 
 lawyer, thou shalt be a council for me. iTo Jerry. 
 
 Jer. Gad, I shall betray your cause then, as well 
 as an older lawyer ; never stir. 
 
 Wid. First, I say, for you, major, my walking 
 hospital of an ancient foundation ; thou bag of 
 mummy, that wouldst fall asunder, if twerenot for 
 cerecloths — 
 
 Old. How, lady ! 
 
118 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 Free. Ha ! ha ! — 
 
 Jer. Hey, brave mother ! use all suitors thus, 
 for my sake. 
 
 Wid. Thou withered, hobbling, distorted crip- 
 ple ; nay, thou art a cripple all over : wouldst thoa 
 make me the staff of thy age, the crutch of thy 
 decrepidness ? me — 
 
 Free. Well said, widow ! Faith, thou wouldst 
 make a man love thee now, without dissembling. 
 
 Wid. Thou senseless. Impertinent, quibbling, 
 drivelling, feeble, paralytic, impotent, fumbling, 
 frigid nincompoop ! 
 
 Jer. Hey, brave mother, for calling of names, 
 i'fac ! 
 
 Wid. Wouldst thou make a candle-maker, a 
 nurse of me ? can't you be bedrid without a bed- 
 fellow ? won't your swan-skins, furs, flannels, 
 and the scorched trencher, keep you w^rm there ? 
 would you have me your Scotch warming-pan, 
 with a pox to you ! me — 
 
 Old. O heavens ! 
 
 Free. I told you I should be thought the fitter 
 man, major. 
 
 Jer. Ay, you old fobus, and you would have 
 been my guardian, would you, to have taken care 
 of my estate, that half ot't should never come to 
 me, by letting long leases at pepper-corn rents ? 
 
 Wid. If I would have married an old man, 'tis 
 well known I might have married an earl, nay, 
 what's more, a judge, and been covered the winter 
 nights with the lamb-skins, which I prefer to the 
 ermines of nobles. And dost thou think I would 
 wrong my poor minor there for you ? 
 
 Free. Your minor is a chopping minor, God 
 bless him ! \&trokis Jerry an the head. 
 
 Old. Your minor may he a major of horse or 
 foot, for his bigness ; and it seems you will have 
 the cheating of your minor to yourself. 
 
 Wid. Pray, sir, bear witness : — cheat my minor ! 
 I'll bring my action of the case for the slander. 
 
 Free. Nay, I would bear false witness for thee 
 now, widow, since you have done me justice, and 
 have thought me the fitter man for you. 
 
 Wid. Fair and softly, sir, 'tis my minor's case, 
 more than my own ; and I must do him justice 
 now on you. 
 
 Free. How 1 
 
 Old. So then. 
 
 Wid. You are, first, (I warrant,) some renegado 
 from the inns of court and the law ; and thou'it 
 come to suffer for't by the law, that is, he hanged. 
 
 Jer. Not about your neck, forsooth, I hope. 
 
 Free. But, madam — 
 
 Old. Hear the court. 
 
 Wid. Thou art some debauched, drunken, lewd, 
 hectoring, gaming companion, and wantest some 
 widow's old gold to nick upon ; but I thank you, 
 sir, that's for my lawyers. 
 
 Free. Faith, we should ne'er quarrel about that; 
 for guineas would serve my turn. But, widow — 
 
 Wid. Thou art a foul-mouthed boaster of thy 
 lust, a mere bragadochio of thy strength for wine 
 and women, and wilt belie thyself more than thou 
 dost women, and art every way a base deceiver of 
 women ; and would deceive me too, would you ? 
 
 Free. Nay, faith, widow, this is judging without 
 seeing the evidence. 
 
 Wid. I say, you are a worn-out whoremaster at 
 five-and-twenty, both in body and fortune ; and 
 cannot oe trubted by the common wenches of the 
 
 town, lest you should not pay 'em ; nor by the 
 wives of the town lest you should pay 'em : so you 
 want women, and would have me your bawd to 
 procure 'em for you. 
 
 Free. Faith, if you had any good acquaintance, 
 widow, 'twould be civilly done of thee ; for I am ^ 
 just come from sea. 
 
 Wid. I mean, you would have me keep you, that 
 you might turn keeper ; for poor widows are only 
 used like bawds by you : you go to church with us, 
 but to get other women to lie with. In fine, you are 
 a cheating, cozening spendthrift ; and having sold 
 your own annuity, would waste my jointure. 
 
 Jer. And make havoc of our estate personal,, 
 and all our gilt plate ; I should soon be picking up 
 all our mortgaged apostle-spoons, bowls, and 
 beakers, out of most of the ale-houses betwixt 
 Hercules-pillars and the Boatswain in Wapping; 
 nay, and you'd be scouring amongst my trees, and 
 make 'em knock down one another, like routed 
 reeling watchmen at r«idnight ; would you so, bully? 
 
 Fri-e. Nay, prithee, widow, hear me. 
 
 Wid, No. sir ; I'd have you to know, thou piti- 
 ful, paltry, lath-backed fellow, if I would have 
 married a young man, 'tis well known I could have 
 had any young heir in Norfolk, nay, the hopefullest 
 young man this day at the King's-bench bar ; I that 
 am a relict and executrix of known plentiful assets 
 and parts, who understand myself and the law. And 
 would you have me under covert-baron again ? No, 
 sir, no covert-baron for ms. 
 
 Free. But, dear widow, hear me. I value you 
 only, not your jointure. 
 
 Wid. Nay, sir, hold there ; 1 know your love to 
 a widow is covetousness of her jointure : and a 
 widow, a little stricken in years, with a good joint- 
 ure, is like an old mansion-house in a good pur- 
 chase, never valued, but take one, take t'other : 
 and perhaps, when you are in possession, you'd 
 neglect it, let it drop to the ground, for want of 
 necessary repairs or expenses upon't. 
 
 Free. No, widow, one would be sure to keep all 
 tight, when one is to forfeit one's lease by dilapida- 
 tion. 
 
 Wid. Fy ! fy ! I neglect my business with this 
 foolish discourse of love. Jerry, child, let me see 
 the list of the jury ; I'm sure my cousin Olivia has 
 some relations amongst them. But where is she i 
 
 Free. Nay, widow, but hear me one word only. 
 
 Wid. Nay, sir, no more, pray. I will no more 
 hearken to your foolish love-motions, than to offers 
 of arbitration. lExeunt Widow and Jerry. 
 
 Free. Well, I'll follow thee yet ; for he that has 
 a pretension at court, or to a widow, must never 
 give over for a little ill-usage. 
 
 Old. Therefore, I'll get her by assiduity, patience, 
 and long sufferings, which you will not undergo ; 
 for you idle young fellows leave off love when it 
 comes to be business ; and industry gets more 
 women than love. 
 
 Free. Ay, industry, the fool's and old man's 
 merit. — But I'll be industrious too, and make a 
 business on't, and get her by law, wrangling, and 
 contests, and not by sufferings ; and, because you are 
 no dangerous rival, I'll give thee counsel, major: — 
 
 If you litigious widow e'er would gain. 
 
 Sigh not to her, but by the law complain; 
 
 To her, as to a bawd, defendant sue 
 
 With statutes, and make justice pimp for you. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 119 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— Westminster-Hall. 
 
 Enter Manly and Freeman, two Sailors behind, 
 
 Man. I hate this place worse than a man that 
 has inherited a chancery suit : I wish I were well 
 out on't a^ain. 
 
 Free. Why, you need not be afraid of this place : 
 for a man without money needs no mox'e fear « 
 crowd of lawyers than a crowd of pickpockets. 
 
 Man. This, the reverend of the law would have 
 thought the palace or residence of Justice ; but, if 
 it be, she liws here with the state of a Turkish 
 emperor, rarely seen ; and besieged rather than 
 defended by her numerous black-guard here. 
 
 Free. Methinks 'tis like one of their own halls 
 in Christmas time, whither from all parts fools 
 bring their money, to try bj the dice (not the 
 worst judges) whether it shall be their own or no : 
 but after a tedious fretting and wrangling, they 
 drop away all their money on both sides ; and, 
 finding neither the better, at last go emptily and 
 lovingly away together to the tavern, joining their 
 curses against the young lawyer's box, that sweeps 
 all, like the old ones. 
 
 Man. Spoken like a revelling Christmas lawyer. 
 
 Free. Yes, I was one, I confess, but was fain 
 to leave the law, out of conscience, and fall to 
 making false musters : rather choose to cheat the 
 king than his subjects ; plunder rather than take 
 fees. 
 
 Man. Well, a plague and a purse-famine light 
 on the law ; and that female limb of it who dragged 
 me hither to-day ! But prithee go see if, in that 
 crowd of daggled gowns there, [pointing to a 
 crowd of Lawyers at the end of the stnge^\ thou 
 canst find her. [Sjrii Fbjcemaw. 
 
 How hard it is to be a hypocrite ! 
 
 At least to me, who am bat newly so, 
 
 I thought it once a kind of knavery. 
 
 Nay, cowardice, to hide one's fault ; hut now 
 
 The common frailty, love, becomes my shame. 
 
 He must not know 1 love the ungrateful still. 
 
 Lest he^contemn me more than she ; for I, 
 
 It seems, can undergo a woman's scorn, 
 
 But not a man's — 
 
 Enter Fidelia. 
 
 Fid. Sir, good sir, generous captain. 
 
 Man. Prithee, kind impertinence, leave me. 
 Why shouldst thou follow me, flatter my gene- 
 rosity now, since thou knowest I have no money 
 left ? if I had it, I'd give it thee, to buy my quiet. I 
 
 Fid. I never followed yet, sir, reward or fame, 
 but you alone ; nor do T now beg anything but 
 leave to share your miseries. You should not be 
 a niggard of 'em, since, methinks, you have enough 
 to spare. Let me follow you now, because you 
 hate me, as you have often said. 
 
 Man. I ever hated a coward's company, T rausfe 
 confess. 
 
 Fid. Let me follow you till I am none, then ; 
 for you, I'm sure, will go through such worlds 
 of dangers, that, 1 shall be inured to 'em ; nay, 1 
 shall be afraid of your anger more than danger, 
 and so turn valiant out of fear. Dear captain, do 
 not cast me otF till you have tried me once more : 
 do not, do not go to sea again without me. 
 
 Man, Thou to sea! to court, thou fool; remem- 
 ber the advice I gave thee : thou art a handsome 
 spaniel, and canst fawn naturally : go, busk about 
 and run thyself into the next great man's lobby ; 
 first fawn upon the slaves without, and then run 
 into the lady's bedchamber; thou mayst be ad- 
 mitted at last to tumble her bed. Go seek, I say, 
 and lose me ; for I am not able to keep thee; I 
 have not bread for myself. 
 
 Fid. Therefore I will not go, because then I 
 may help and serve you. 
 
 Man. Thou ! 
 
 Fid. I warrant you, sir ; for, at vporst« I could 
 beg or steal for you. 
 
 Man. Nay, more bragging ! Dost thou not 
 know there's venturing your life in stealing ? Go, 
 prithee, away : thou art as hard to shake off as 
 that flattering, effeminating mischief, love. 
 
 Fid. Love did you name ? Why, you are not 
 so miserable as to be yet in love, sure ? 
 
 Man. No, no, prithee away, begone, or — [Aside."] 
 I had almost discovered my love and shame ; well, 
 if I had, that thing could not think the worse of 
 me — or if he did — no — yes, he shall know it — he 
 shall — but then I must never leave him, for they 
 are such secrets, that make parasites and pimps 
 lords of their masters ; for any slavery or tyranny 
 is easier than love's. — [Aloud] Come hither, 
 since thou art so forward to serve me : hast thou 
 but resolution enough to endure the torture of a 
 secret ? for such to some is insupportable. 
 
 Fid. 1 would keep it as safe as if your dear, 
 precious life depended on't. 
 
 Man. Damn your dearness ! ' It concerns more 
 than my life, — my honour. 
 
 Fid. Doubt it not, sir- 
 
 Man. And do not discover it, by too much fear 
 of discovering it ; but have a great care you let not 
 Freeman find it out. 
 
 Fid. I warrant you, sir, I am already all joy 
 with the hopes of your commands ; and shall be all 
 wings in the execution of 'em : speak quickly, sir 
 
 Man. You said you'd beg for me. 
 
 Fid. I did, sir. 
 
 Man. Then you shall beg for me. 
 
 Fid. With all my heart, sir. 
 
 Man. That is, pimp for me. 
 
 Fid. How, sir } 
 
 Man. D'ye start ! Thinkest thou, thou couldst 
 do me any other service ? Come, no dissembling 
 honour : I know you can do it handsomely, thou 
 wert made for't. You have lost your time with 
 me at sea, you must recover it. 
 
 Fid. Do not, sir, beget yourself more reasons for 
 your aversion to me, and make my obedience to 
 you a fault ; I am the unfittest in the world to do 
 you such a service. 
 
 Man. Your cunning arguing against it shows 
 but how fit you are for it. No more dissembling ■ 
 here, (I say,) you must go use it for me to Olivia. 
 
 Fid. To her, sir ? 
 
 Man. Go flatter, lie, kneel, promise, anything 
 to get her for me : I cannot live unless I have her. 
 Didit thou not say thou wouldst do anything to 
 save my lite "i and she said you had a persuading 
 face. 
 
120 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 , ACT III. 
 
 Fid. But did not you say, sir, your honour was 
 dearer to you than your life ? and would you have 
 me contribute to the loss of that, and carry love 
 from you to the most infamous, most false, and — 
 
 Man. And most beautiful ! — iSighs aside. 
 
 Fid. Most ungrateful woman that ever lived ; 
 for sure she must he so, that could desert you so 
 soon, use you so basely, and so lately too : do not, 
 do not forget it, sir, and think — 
 
 Man. No, I will not forget it, hut think of 
 revenge ; I will lie with her out of revenge. Go, 
 begone, and prevail for me, or never see me more. 
 
 Fid. You scorned her last night. 
 
 Man. I know not what I did last night ; I dis- 
 sembled last night. 
 
 Fid. Heavens ! 
 
 Man. Begone, I say, and bring me love or com- 
 pliance hack, or hopes at least, or I'll never see 
 thy face again, by — 
 
 Fid. O, do not swear, sir ! first hear me. 
 
 Man. I'm impatient, away ! you'll find me 
 here till twelve. ITums away. 
 
 Fid. Sir— 
 
 Man, Not one word, no insinuating argument 
 more, or soothing persuasion ; you'll have need of 
 all your rhetoric with her : go strive to alter her, not 
 me ; begone. [Retires to the end of the stage, and exit 
 
 Fid. Should I discover to him now my sex. 
 And lay before him his strange cruelty, 
 'Twould hut incense it more. — No, 'tis not time. 
 For his love must I then betray my own ? 
 Were ever love or chance till now severe .-' 
 Or shifting woman posed with such a task ? 
 Forced to beg that which kills her, if obtain'd, 
 A.nd give away her lover not to lose him ! {Exit. 
 
 ^Enter Widow Blackacrb, in the middle ofhalf-a-doxen 
 Lawyers, whispered to &y a fellow in black, Jbbry 
 SijACKActtE following the crowd. 
 
 Wid. Offer me a reference, you saucy companion 
 you ! d'ye know who you speak to ? Art thou a 
 solicitor in chancery, and offer a reference r A 
 pretty fellow ! Mr. Seijeant Ploddon, here's a 
 fellow has the impudence to offer me a reference I 
 
 Serj. Plod. Who's that has the impudence to 
 offer a reference within these walls .' 
 
 Wid. Nay, for a splitter of causes to do't ! 
 
 Serj. Plod. No, madam ; to a lady learned in 
 the law, as you are, the offer of a reference were to 
 impose upon you. 
 
 Wid. Noj no, never fear me for a reference, 
 Mr. Serjeant. But come, have you not forgot 
 your brief.' Are you sure you shan't make the 
 mistake of — hark you — [ Whispers."] Go then, go 
 to your court of Common Pleas, and say one thing 
 over and over again : you do it so naturally, you'll 
 never be suspected for protracting time. 
 
 Serj Plod. Come, I know the course of the 
 court, and your business. [Exit. 
 
 Wid. Let's see, Jerry, where are my minutes ? 
 Come, Mr. Quaint, pray go talk a great deal for me 
 in chancery, let your words be easy, and your 
 sense hard ; my cause requires it ; branch it 
 bravely, and deck my cause with flowers, that the 
 suake may lie hidden. Go, go, and be sure you 
 remember the decree of my Lord Chancellor, Tri- 
 cesimo quart* of the queen. 
 
 Quaint. I will, as I see cause, extenuate or 
 exemplify matter of fact j baffle truth with impu- 
 dence ; answer exceptions with questions, though 
 
 never so impertinent ; for reasons give 'em words ; 
 for law and equity, tropes and figures ; and so 
 relax and enervate the sinews of their argument 
 with the oil of my eloquence. But when my lungs 
 can reason no longer, and not being able to say any- 
 thing more for our cause, say everything of our 
 adversary; whose reputation, though never so clear 
 and evident in the eye of the world, yet with sharp 
 invectives — 
 
 Wid. Alias, Billingsgate. 
 
 Quaint. With poignant and sour invectives, 
 I say, I will deface, wipe out, and obliterate his 
 fair reputation, even as a record with the juice 
 of lemons ; and tell such a story, (for t^'! truth on't 
 is, all that we can do for our client is jhancery, is 
 telling a story,) a fine story, a long^tory, such a 
 story — 
 
 Wid. Go, save thy breath for the cause ; talk 
 at the bar, Mr. Quaint : you are so copiously fluent, 
 you can weary any one*s ears sooner than your 
 own tongue. Go, weary our adversaries' counsel, 
 and the court ; go, thou art a fine-spoken person : 
 adad, I shall make thy wife jealous of me, if you 
 can but court the court into a decree for us. 
 Go, get you gone, and remember — [ Whispers."] 
 
 lExit Quaint.] — Come, Mr. Blunder, pray 
 
 bawl soundly for me, at the King's-bench, bluster, 
 sputter, question, cavil ; but be sure your argument 
 be intricate enough to confound the court ; aud 
 then you do my business. Talk what you will, but 
 be sure your tongue never stand still ; for your 
 own noise will secure your sense from censure : 
 'tis like coughing or hemming when one has got the 
 belly-ache, which stifles the unmannerly noise. 
 Go, dear rogue, and succeed ; and I'll invite thee, 
 ere it be long, to more soused venison. 
 
 Blun. I'll warrant you, after your verdict, your 
 judgment shall not be arrested upon it's and and's. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Wid. Come, Mr. Petulant, let me give you 
 some new instructions for our cause in the Exche- 
 quer. Are the barons sate ? 
 
 Pet. Yes, no ; may be they are, may he they 
 are not : what know I ? what care I ? 
 
 Wid. Heyday ! I wish you would but snap up 
 the counsel on t'other side anon at the bar as 
 much ; aud have a little more patience with me, 
 that I might instruct you a little better. 
 
 Pet. You instruct me ! what is my brief for, 
 mistress % 
 
 Wid. Ay, hut you seldom read your brief but 
 at the bar, if you do it then. 
 
 Pet. Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't, and perhaps 
 'tis time enough : pray hold yourself contented, 
 mistress. 
 
 Wid' Nay, if you go there too, I will not be con- 
 tented, sir ; though you, I see, will lose my cause 
 for want of speaking, I wo' not : you shall hear 
 me, and shall be instructed. Let's see your brief. 
 
 Pet, Send your solicitor to me. Instructed by 
 a woman ! I'd have you to know, I do not wear a 
 bar-gown — 
 
 Wid. By a woman ! and I'd have you to know, I 
 am no common woman ; but a woman conversant 
 in the laws of the land, as well as yourself, though 
 I have no bar-gown. 
 
 Pet. Go to, go to, mistress, you are impertinent, 
 and there's your brief for you : instruct me ! 
 
 {Flings her breviate at her. 
 
 Wid. Impertinent to me, you saucy Jack, you ' 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 121 
 
 you return my breviate, but where's my fee ? 
 you'll be sure to keep that, and scan that so weU, 
 that if there chance to he but a brass half-crown 
 in*t, one's sure to hear on't again : would you 
 would but look on your breviate half so narrowly ! 
 But pray gwe me my fee too, as well as my brief. 
 
 Pet. Mistress, that's without precedent. When 
 did a counsel ever return his fee, pray ? and you 
 are impertinent and ignorant to demand it. 
 
 Wid. Impertinent again, and ignorant, to me I 
 Gadsbodikins, you puny upstart in the law, to use 
 me so ! you green-bag carrier, you murderer of 
 unfortunate causes, the clerk's ink is scarce off of 
 your fingers, — ^you that newly come from lamp- 
 blacking the judges' shoes, and are not fit to wipe 
 mine ; you call me impertinent and ignorant ! I would 
 give thee a cuff on the ear, sitting the courts, if I 
 were ignorant, Marry-gep, if it had not been for 
 me, thou hadst been yet but a hearing counsel at the 
 bar, lExit Petulant. 
 
 Enter Mr. Bdttongown, crossing the stage in haste. 
 Mr. Buttongown, Mr. ButtoDgown, whither so 
 fast .'' what, won't you stay tiU we are heard? 
 
 But. I cannot, Mrs. Blackacre, I must be at the 
 councU, my lord's cause stays there for me. 
 
 Wid. And mine suffers here. 
 
 But. I cannot help it. 
 
 Wid. I'm undone. 
 
 But. What's that to me ? 
 
 Wid. Consider the five-pound fee, if not my 
 cause : that was something to you. 
 
 But. Away, away ! pray be not so troublesome, 
 mistress : I must be gone. 
 
 Wid. Nay, but consider a little : I am your old 
 client, my lord but a new one ; or let him be what 
 lie will, he will hardly be a better client to you 
 than myself : I hope you believe I shall be in law 
 as long as I live ; therefore am no despicable client. 
 Well, but go to your lord ; I know you expect he 
 should make you a judge one day ; but I hope his 
 promise to you -will prove a true lord's promise. 
 But that he might be sure to fail you, I wish you 
 had his bond for't. 
 
 But. Bat what, will you yet be thus impertinent, 
 mistress ? 
 
 Wid. Nay, I beseech you, sir, stay ; if it be but 
 to tell me my lord's case : come, in short — 
 
 Bui Nay, then — lExit 
 
 Wid. Well, Jerry, observe child, and lay it up 
 for hereafter. These are those lawyers who, by 
 being in all causes, are in none : therefore if you 
 would bave 'em for you, let your adversary fee 'em ; 
 for he may chance to depend upon them ; and so, 
 in being against thee, they'll be for thee, 
 
 Jer. Ay, mother ; they put rae in mind of the 
 unconscionable wooers of widows, who undertake 
 briskly their matrimonial business for their money; 
 but when they have got it once, let who's will 
 drudge for them. Therefore have a care of 'em, 
 forsooth. There's advice for your advice, 
 
 Wid. Well said, boy — Come, Mr. Splitcause, 
 pray go see when my cause in Chancery oomes on ; 
 and go speak with Mr. Quillit in the King's-bench, 
 and Mr. Quirk in the Common Pleas, and see how 
 our matters go there. 
 
 Enter Major Oldfox. 
 
 Old. Lady, a good and propitious morning to 
 you ; and may aU your causes go as well as if I 
 oiyself were judge of 'em I 
 
 Wid. Sir, excuse me ; I am busy, and cannot 
 answer compliments in Westminster-hall. — Go, 
 Mr. Splitcause, and come to me again to that 
 bookseller's ; there I'll stay for you, that you may 
 be sure to find me. 
 
 Old. No, sir, come to the other bookseller's ■ 
 I'll attend your ladyship thither, [Exit Splitcausb. 
 
 Wid. Why to the other ? 
 
 Old. Because he is my bookseller, lady. 
 
 Wid. What, to sell you lozenges for your 
 catarrh ? or medicines for your corns .'' What else 
 can a major deal with a bookseller for ? 
 
 Old. Latly, he prints for me. 
 
 Wid. Why, are you an author ? 
 
 Old. Of some few essays ; deign you, lady, to 
 peruse 'em.- — [Aside.} She is a woman of parts ; 
 and 1 must win her by showing mine. 
 
 Bookseller's Boy. Will you see Culpepper, mis- 
 tress ? Aristotle's Problems .'' The Complete 
 Midwife ? 
 
 Wid. No ; let's see Dalton, Hughs, Shepherd, 
 Win gate. 
 
 B. Boy. We have no law books. 
 
 Wid. No ! you are a pretty bookseller then. 
 
 Old. Come, have you e'er a one of my essays 
 left? 
 
 B. Boy. Yes, sir, we have enough, and shall 
 always have 'em. 
 
 Old. How so? 
 
 B. Boy. Why, they are good, steady, lasting 
 ware. 
 
 Old. Nay, I hope they will live ; let's see. — Be 
 
 pleased, madam, to peruse the poor endeavours of 
 
 my pen : for I have a pen, though I say it, that — 
 
 {Gives her a book. 
 
 Jer. Pray let me see St. George for Christen- 
 dom, or, The Seven Champions of England. 
 
 Wid. No, no ; give him the Young Clerk's 
 Guide. — ^What, we shall have you read yourself into 
 a humour of rambling and fighting, and studying 
 military discipline, and wearing red breeches. 
 
 Old. Nay, if you talk of military discipline, show 
 him my Treatise of the Art Military. 
 
 Wid. Hold ; I would as willingly he should read 
 a play. 
 
 Jer. O, pray forsooth, mother, let me have a 
 play, 
 
 Wid. No, sirrah ; there are young students of 
 the law enough spoiled already by plays. They 
 would make you in love with your laundress, or, 
 what's worse, some queen of the' stage that was a 
 laundress ; and so turn keeper before you are of 
 age, [Several crossing the stage.} But stay, Jerry, 
 is not that Mr. What d'ye-call-him, that goes there, 
 he that offered to sell me a suit in chancery for 
 five hundred pounds, for a hundred down, and only 
 paying the clerk's fees ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, forsooth, 'tis he. 
 
 fnd. Then stay here, and have a care of the 
 bags, whilst I follow him. — Have a care of the 
 bags, I say. 
 
 Jer, And do you have a care, forsooth, of the 
 statute against champarty, I say. Exit Widow. 
 
 Re-enter Freeman. 
 
 Free. [Aside.'] So, there's a limb of my widow, 
 which was wont to be inseparable from her : she 
 can't be far. — [Aloud.] How now, my pretty son- 
 in-law that shall be, where's my widow ? 
 
122 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 Jer. My mother, but not your widow, will be 
 forthcoming presently. 
 
 Free. Your servant, major. What, are you 
 buying furniture for a little sleeping closet, which 
 you miscal a study ? For you do only by your 
 books, as by your wenches, bind 'em up neatly 
 and make *em fine, for other people to use 'em. 
 And your bookseller is properly your upholsterer, 
 for he furnishes your room, rather than your head. 
 
 Old. Well, well, good sea-lieutenant, study you 
 your compass ; that'-e more than your head can 
 deal with. — [Aside.'] I will go find out the wi- 
 dow, to keep her out of his sight, or he'll board 
 her, whilst I am treating a peace. \_ExU. 
 
 Jer. Nay, prithee, friend, now let me have but 
 the Seven Champions. You shall trust me no 
 longer than till my mother's Mr. Splitcause comes ; 
 for I hope he'll lend me wherewithal to pay for't 
 
 Free- Lend thee ! here, I'll pay him. Do you 
 want money, squire ^ I'm sorry a man of your 
 estate should want money. 
 
 Jer, Nay, my mother will ne'er let me be at 
 age : and till then, she says — 
 
 Free. At age ! why, you are at age already to 
 have spent an estate, man. There are younger 
 than you have kept their women these three years, 
 have had half a dozen claps, and lost as mauy 
 thousand pounds at play. 
 
 Jer. Ay, they are happy sparks ! Nay, I know 
 some of my schoolfellows, who, when we were at 
 school, were two years younger than me; but now, 
 I know not how, are grown men before me, and go 
 where they will, and look to themselves. But my 
 curmudgeonly mother won't allow me wherewithal 
 to be a man of myself with. 
 
 Free. Why, there 'tis ; I knew your mother 
 was in fault. Ask hut your schoolt'ellows what 
 they did to be men of themselves. 
 
 Jer. Why, I know they went to law with their 
 mothers : for they say, there's no good to be done 
 upon a widow mother, till one goes to law with her ; 
 but mine is as plaguy a lawyer as any's of our inn. 
 Then would she marry too, and cut down my trees. 
 Now, I should hate, man, to have my father's wife 
 kissed and slapped, and t'other thing too, (you know 
 what I mean,) by another man : and our trees are 
 the purest, tall, even, shady twigs, by my fa — 
 
 Free. Come, squire, let yonr mother and your 
 trees fall as she pleases, rather than wear this gown 
 and carry green bags all thy life, and be pointed 
 at for a Tony. But you shall be able to deal with 
 her yet the common way. Thou shalt make false 
 love to some lawyer's daughter, whose father, upon 
 the hopes of thy marrying her, shall lend thee 
 money and law to preserve thy estate and trees : 
 and thy mother is so ugly nobody will have her, if 
 she cannot cut down thy trees. 
 
 Jer. Nay, if 1 had but anybody to stand by me, 
 I am as stomachful as another. 
 
 Free. That will I : I'll not see any hopeful young 
 gentleman abused. 
 
 B. Boy. By any but yourself. lAside. 
 
 Jer. The truth on't is, mine's as arrant a widow- 
 mother to her poor child as any's in England. She 
 won't so much as let one have sixpence in one's 
 pocket to see a motion, or the dancing of the 
 ropes, or — 
 
 Free. Come, you shan't want money j there's 
 gold for you- 
 
 ■ier. O lord, sir, two guineas 1 D'ye lend me 
 
 this .' Is" there no trick in't ? Well, sir, I'll give 
 you my bond for security. 
 
 Free. No, no ; thou hast given me thy face for 
 security : anybody would swear thou dost not look 
 like a cheat. You shall have what you will of me ; 
 and if your mother will not be kinder to you, come 
 to me, who will. 
 
 Jer. [Aside.] By my fa — ^he's a curious fine 
 gentleman ! — \_Aloitd.'] But will you stand by 
 one? 
 
 Free. If you can be resolute. 
 
 Jer. Can be resolved ! Gad, if she gives me but 
 a cross word, I'll leave her to-night, and come to 
 you. But now I have got money, I'll go to Jack- 
 of-all-Trades, at t'other end of the Hall, and buy 
 the neatest purest things — 
 
 Free. [Aside.] And I'll follow the great hoy, 
 and my blow at his mother. Steal away the calf, 
 and the cow will follow you. 
 
 [Ea^it Jkrrv, followed by Pbeeman. 
 
 Re-enter, on the other side. Manly, Widow Bl&ckacre, 
 and Oldfox. 
 
 Man. Damn your cause, can't you lose it with- 
 out me } which you are like enough to do, if it be, 
 as you say, an honest one : I will suffer no longer 
 for't. 
 
 Wid. Nay, captain, I tell you, you are my prime 
 witness ; and the cause is just now coming on, Mr, 
 Splitcause tells me. Lord, methinks you should 
 take a pleasure in walking here, as half you see 
 now do ; for they have no business here, 1 assure 
 you. 
 
 Man. Yes ; but I'll assure you then, their busi- 
 ness is to persecute me. But d'ye think I'll stay 
 any longer, to have a rogue, because he knows my 
 name, pluck me aside and whisper a news-hook 
 secret to me with a stinking breath .■' a second come 
 piping angry from the court, and sputter in my 
 face his tedious complaints against it ? a third law- 
 coxcomb, because he saw me once at a reader's 
 dinner, come and put me a long law case, to make 
 a discovery of his indefatigable dulness and my 
 wearied patience ? a fourth, a most barbarous civil 
 rogue, who will keep a man half an hour in the 
 crowd with a bowed body, and a hat off, acting the 
 reformed sign of the Salutation tavern, to hear his 
 bountiful professions of service and friendship, 
 whilst he cares not if 1 were damned, and I am 
 wishing him hanged out of my way .'* — I'd as soon 
 run the gauntlet, as walk t'other turn. 
 
 Re-enter Jsrhy Blackacrb, without his Bags, but laden 
 with Trinkets, which he endeavours to hide from his 
 Mother, and followed at a distance by Freeman. 
 
 Wid. O, are you come, sir.' but where have 
 you been, you ass ?■ and how came you thus laden .' 
 
 Jer. Look here, forsooth, mother ; now here's 
 a duck, here's a boar- cat, and here's an owl. 
 
 [^Making a noise with catcalls and other such like 
 instruments. 
 
 Wid. Yes, there is an owl, sir. 
 
 Old. He's an ungracious bird indeed. 
 
 Wid. But go, thou trangame, and carry back 
 those trangames, which thou hast stolen or pur- 
 loined ; for nobody would trust a minor in West- 
 minster-hall, sure. 
 
 Jer, Hold yourself contented, forsooth : I have 
 these commodities by a fair bargain and sale ; and 
 there stands my witness and creditor. 
 
 Wid, How's that? What, sir, d'ye think to get 
 
SCENE 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 123 
 
 the mother by giving the child a rattle ? — But where 
 are my Dags, my writings, you rascal ? 
 
 Jer. O, la I where are they, indeed ! iAside. 
 
 Wid. How, sirrah ? speak, come — 
 
 Man. You can teU her, Freeman, I suppose. 
 
 \^Apart to Kim. 
 
 Free. 'Tis true, I made one of your salt-water 
 sharks steal 'em whilst he was eagerly choosing 
 his commodities, as he calls 'em, in order to my 
 design upon his mother. \.Apart to Mm. 
 
 Wid. Won't you speak ? Where were you, I 
 say, you son of a — an unfortunate woman ? — O, 
 major, I'm undone ! They are all that concern 
 my estate, my jointure, my husband's deed of gift, 
 my evidences for all my suits now depending ! 
 What will become of them ? 
 
 Free. [Aside.\ I'm glad to hear this. — 
 [Aloud.'\ They'll be all safe, 1 warrant you, 
 madam. 
 
 Wid. O where .'' where ? Come, you villain, 
 along with me, and show me where. 
 
 \_Exeunt Widow, Jerry, and Oldfox. 
 
 Man. Thou hast taken, the right way to get a 
 widow, by making her great boy rebel ; for when 
 nothing will make a widow marry, she'll do it to 
 cross her children. But canst thou in earnest 
 marry this harpy, this volume of shrivelled blurred 
 parchments and law, this attorney's desk ? 
 ^ Free. Ay, ay ; I'U marry and live honestly, that 
 IS, give my creditors, not her, due benevolence, — 
 pay my debts. 
 
 Man. Thy creditors, you see, are not so barba- 
 rous as to put thee in prison ; and wilt thou com- 
 mit (thyself to a noisome dungeon for thy life .■* 
 which is the only satisfaction thou canst give thy 
 creditors by this match. 
 
 Free. Why, is not she rich } 
 
 Man. Ay ; but he that marries a widow for her 
 money, will find himself as much mistaken as the 
 widow that marries a young fellow for due benevo- 
 lence, as you call it. 
 
 Free, Why, d'ye think I shan't deserve wages ? 
 I'll drudge faithfully. 
 
 Man. I tell thee again, he that is the slave in 
 the mine has the least propriety in the ore. You 
 may dig, and dig ; but if thou wouldst have her 
 money, rather get to be her trustee than her hus- 
 band ; for a true widow will make over her estate 
 to anybody, and cheat herself rather than be 
 cheated by her children or a second husband. 
 
 Re-enter Jekbv, running in a fright. 
 
 Jer. O la, I'm undone I I'm undone ! my 
 mother will kill me : — you said you'd stand by one. 
 
 Free. So I will, my brave squire, I warrant thee. 
 
 Jer. Ay, but I dare not stay till she comes ; for 
 she's as furious, now she has lost her writings, as 
 a bitch when she has lost her puppies. 
 
 Man. The comparison's handsome ! 
 
 Jer. O, she's here ! 
 
 Free. \_To the Sailor.] Take him, Jack, and 
 make haste with him to your master's lodging ; 
 and be sure you keep him up till I come. :• 
 
 \Exeunt .Jerry and Sajlor. 
 
 Re-enter Widow Blackacre and Oldfox. 
 
 Wid. O my dear writings ! Where's this heathen 
 rogue, my minor ? 
 
 Free. Gone to drown or hang himself. 
 
 Wid. No, I know him too well ; he'll ne'er be 
 
 felo de se that way ; but he may go and choose a 
 guardian of his own head, and so be felo de ses 
 biens ; for he has not yet chosen one. 
 
 Free. Say you so .' And be shan't want one. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Wid. But, now I think ou't, 'tis you, sir, have 
 put this cheat upon me ; for there is a saying, 
 Take hold of a maid by her smock, and a widow 
 by her writings, and they cannot get from you. 
 But I'll play fast and loose with you yet, if there 
 be law, and my minor and writings are not forth- 
 coming ; I'll bring my action of detinue or trover. 
 But first, I'll try to find out this guardianless, 
 graceless villain. — Will you jog, major ? 
 
 Man. If you have lost your evidence, I hope 
 your causes cannot go on, and I may be gone ? 
 
 Wid. O no ; stay but a making-water while (as 
 one may say) and I'll be with you again. 
 
 [Exeunt "Widow and Oldfox. 
 
 Free. Well ; sure I am the first man that ever 
 began a love-intrigue in Westminster-Hall. 
 
 Man. No, sure ; for the love to a widow gene- 
 rally begins here : and as the widow's cause goes 
 against the heir or executors, the jointure-rivals 
 commence their suit to the widow. 
 
 Free. Well ; but how, pray, have you passed your 
 time here, since I was forced to leave you alone .^ 
 You have had a great deal of patience. 
 
 Man. Is this a place to be alone, or have 
 patience in .' But I have had pa'tience, indeed ; 
 for I have drawn upon me, since I came, but 
 three quarrels and two lawsuits. 
 
 Free. Nay, faith, you are too curst to be let 
 loose in the world : you should be tied up again 
 in your sea-kennel, called a ship. But how could 
 you quarrel here ? 
 
 Man. How could I refrain .' A lawyer talked 
 peremptorily and saucily to me, and as good as 
 gave me the lie. 
 
 Free. They do it so often to one another at the 
 bar, that they make no bones on't elsewhere. 
 
 Man. However, I gave him a cuff on the ear ; 
 whereupon he jogs two men, whose backs were 
 turned to us, (for they were reading at a book- 
 seller's,) to witness I struck him, sitting the courts ; 
 which office they so readily promised, that I called 
 'em rascals and knights of the post. One of 'em 
 presently calls two other absent witnesses, who were 
 coming towards us at a distance; whilst the other, 
 with a whisper, desires to know my name, that he 
 might have satisfaction by way of challenge, as 
 t'other by way of writ ; but if it were not rather 
 to direct his brother's writ, than his own challenge. 
 — There, yoii see, is one of my quarrels, and two 
 of my lawsuits. 
 
 Free. So ! — and the other two ? 
 
 Man. For advising a poet to leave off writing, 
 and turn lawyer, because he is dull and impudent, 
 and says or writes nothing now but by precedent. 
 
 Free. And the third quarrel ? 
 
 Man. For giving more sincere advice to a hand- 
 some, well-dressed young fellow, (who asked it 
 too,) not to marry a wench that he loved, and I 
 had lain with. 
 
 Free. Nay, if you will be giving your sincere 
 advice to lovers and poets, you will not fail of 
 quarrels. 
 
 Man. Or if I stay in this place ; for I see more 
 quarrels crowding upon me. Let's be gone, and 
 avoid 'em. 
 
J 24 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 Enter Novbl at a distance, coming towards them, 
 
 A plague on him, that sneer is ominous to us ; he 
 is coming upon us, and we shall not be rid of 
 him. 
 
 N'ov. Dear bully, don't look so gram upon me ; 
 you told me just now, you had forgiven me a little 
 harmless raillery upon wooden legs last night. 
 
 Man. Yes, yes, pray begone, I am talking of 
 business. 
 
 N'ov. Can't I hear it ? I love thee, and will be 
 faithful, and always — 
 
 Man.. Impertinent. 'Tis business that concerns 
 Freeman only. 
 
 Nov. Well, I love Freeman too, and would not 
 divulge his secret. — Prithee speak, prithee, I 
 must — 
 
 Man. Prithee let me be rid of thee, I must be 
 rid of thee. 
 
 Nov. Faith, thou canst hardly, I love thee so. 
 Come, I must know the business. 
 
 Man. lAside.] So, I have it now. — [Aloud.] 
 Why, if you needs will know it, ^ he has a 
 quarrel, and his adversary bids him bring two 
 friends with him : now, I am one, and we are 
 thinking who we shall have for a third. 
 
 , {^Several crossing the stage. 
 
 Nov. A pox, there goes a fellow owes me a 
 hundred pounds, and goes out of town to-morrow : 
 I'll speak with him, and come to you presently. 
 
 IBxtt. 
 
 Man. No, but you won't. 
 
 Free. You are dexterously rid of him. 
 
 Re-enter Oldfox, 
 
 Man. To what purpose, since here comes an- 
 other as impertinent.' I know by his grin he is 
 bound hither. 
 
 Old. Your servant, worthy, noble captain. Well, 
 I have left the widow, because she carried me from 
 your company : for, faith, captain, I must needs 
 tell thee thou art the only oflScer in England, who 
 was not an Edgehill officer, that I care for. 
 
 Man. I'm sorry for't. 
 
 Old. Why, wouldst thou have me love them .■' 
 
 Man. Anybody rather than me. 
 
 Old. What ! you are modest, I see ; therefore, 
 too, I love thee. 
 
 Man. No, I am not modest ; but love to brag 
 myself, and can't patiently hear you fight over the 
 last civil war. Therefore, go look out the fellow I 
 saw just now here, that walks with his sword and 
 stockings out at heels, and let him tell you the 
 history of that scar on his cheek, to give you occa- 
 sion to show yours got in the field at Bloomsbury, 
 not that of Edgehill. Go to him, poor fellow; he 
 is fasting, and has not yet the happiness this 
 morning to stink of brandy and tobacco: go, give 
 him some to hear you ; 1 am busy. 
 
 Old. Well, egad, I love thee now, boy, for thy 
 surliness. Thou art no tame captain, I see, that 
 will suffer — 
 
 Man. An old fox. 
 
 Old. All that shan't make me angry : I con- 
 sider that thou art peevish, and fretting at some ill 
 success at law. Prithee, teU me what ill luck you 
 have met with here. 
 
 Man. You. 
 
 Old. Do I look like the picture of ill luck ? 
 gadsnouns, I love thee more and more. And shall 
 I tell thee what made me love thee first ? 
 
 Man. Do ; that I may be rid of that damned 
 quality and thee. 
 
 Old. 'Twas thy wearing that broad sword there. 
 
 Man. Here, Freeman, let's change ; I'll never 
 wear it more. 
 
 Old. How! you won't, sure. Prithee, don't 
 look like one of our holiday captains now-a-days, 
 with a bodkin by your side, you martinet rogue. 
 
 Man. [Aside!] O, then, there's hopes.— 
 [Aloud.] What, d'ye find fault with martinet ? 
 Let me tell you, sir, 'tis the best exercise in the 
 world ; the most ready, most easy, most graceful 
 exercise that ever was used, and the most — 
 
 Old. Nay, nay, sir, no more ; sir, your servant : 
 if you praise martinet once, I have done with you, 
 sir. — Martinet ! martinet ! — iExii. 
 
 Free. Nay, you have made him leave you as 
 willingly as ever he did an enemy ; for he was truly 
 for the icing and parliament : for the parliament in 
 their list ; and for the king in cheating 'ein of 
 their pay, and never hurting the king's party in 
 the field. 
 
 Enter a Lawyer towards them. 
 
 Man. A pox ! this way : — here's a lawyer I 
 know threatening us with another greeting. 
 
 Law. Sir, sir, your very servant j I was afraid 
 you had forgotten me. 
 
 Man. I was not afraid you had forgotten me. # 
 
 Law. No, sir; we lawyers have pretty good 
 memories. 
 
 Man. You ought to have by your wits. 
 
 Law. O, you are a merry gentleman, sir : I re- 
 member you were merry when I was last in your 
 company. 
 
 Man. I was never merry in thy company, Mr. 
 Lawyer, sure. 
 
 Law. Why, I'm sure you joked upon me, and 
 shammed me all night long. 
 
 Man. Shammed ! prithee what barbarous law- 
 term is that .' 
 
 Law. Shamming ! why, don't you know that ? 
 'tis all our way of wit, sir. 
 
 Man. I am glad I do not know it then. Sham- 
 ming ! what does he mean by't. Freeman ! 
 
 Free. Shamming is telling you an insipid dull 
 lie with a dull face, which the sly wag the author 
 only laughs at himself; and making himself believe 
 'tis a good jest, puts the sham only upon himself. 
 
 Man. So, your lawyer's jest, I find, like his 
 practice, has more knavery than wit in't. I should 
 make the worst shammer in England : I must 
 always deal ingenuously, as I will with you, Mr. 
 Lawyer, and advise you to be seen rather with 
 attorneys and soUcitors, than such fellows as I am : 
 they will credit your practice more. 
 
 Law. No, sir, your company's an honour to 
 me. 
 
 Man. No, faith ; go this way, there goes an 
 attorney ; leave me for him ; let it never be said a 
 lawyer's civility did him hurt. 
 
 Law, No, worthy, honoured sir j I'll not leave 
 you for any attorney, sure. 
 
 Man. Unless he had a fee in his hand. 
 
 Law. Have you any business here, sir ? Try 
 me : I'd serve you sooner than any attorney breath- 
 ing. 
 
 Man. Business— [.i^sJrfe.] So, I have thought 
 of a sure way. — [Aloud.l Yes, faith, I have a 
 little business. 
 
THK PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 125 
 
 Law, Have you so, sir ? in what court, sir ? 
 what is't, sir ? Tell me but how I may serve you, 
 and I'll do't, sir, and take it for as great an 
 honour — 
 
 Man. Faith, 'tis for a poor orphan of a sea 
 officer of mine, that has no money. But if it could 
 be followed in forma pauperis, and when the 
 legacy's recovered — 
 
 Law, Forma pauperis, sir ! 
 
 Man, Ay, sir. \_Several crossing the stage. 
 
 Law. Mr. Bumblecase, Mr. Bumblecase ! a 
 word with -you. — Sir, I beg your pardon at present ; 
 I have a little business — 
 
 Man. Which is not in forma pauperis. 
 
 \^ExU Lawyer. 
 
 Free, So, you have now found a way to be rid of 
 people without quarrelling ^ 
 
 Enter Alderman. 
 
 Man, But here's a city-rogue will stick as hard 
 upon us, as if I owed him money. 
 
 Aid, Captain, noble sir, I am yours heartily, 
 d'ye see ; why should you avoid your old friends ? 
 
 Man. And why should you follow me .■' I owe 
 you nothing. 
 
 Aid, Out of my hearty respects to you : for 
 there is not a man in England — 
 
 Man, Thou would st save from hanging with 
 the expense of a shilling only. 
 
 Aid, Nay, nay, but, captain, you are like enough 
 to tell me — 
 
 Man, Truth, which you won't care to hear ; 
 therefore you had better go talk with somebody 
 else. 
 
 Aid. No, I know nobody can inform me better 
 of some young wit, or spendthrift, that has a good 
 dipped seat and estate in Middlesex, Hertfordshire, 
 Essex, or Kent ; any of these would serve my 
 turn : now, if you knew o' such a one, and would 
 but help — 
 
 Man, You to finish his ruin. 
 
 Aid, I'faith, you should have a snip — 
 
 Man Of your nose, you thirty-in-the-hundred 
 rascal ; would you make me your squire setter, 
 your bawd for manors } {Takes him by the nose. 
 
 Aid. Oh! 
 
 Free. Hold, or here will be your third law- 
 suit. 
 
 Aid. Gads-precious, you hectoring person you, 
 are you wild ? I meant yon no hurt, sir : I begin 
 to think, as things go, land-security best, and have 
 for a convenient mortgage, some ten, fifteen or 
 twenty thousand pound by me. 
 
 Man. Then go lay it out upon an hospital, and 
 take a mortgage of Heaven, according to your city 
 custom ; for you think by laying out a little money 
 to hook in that too hereafter. Do, I say, and keep 
 I the poor you've made by taking forfeitures, that 
 Heaven may not take yours. 
 
 Aid. No, to keep the cripples you make this 
 war. This war spoils our trade. 
 
 Man. Damn your trade I 'tis the better for't. 
 
 Aid. What, will you speak against our trade ? 
 
 Man. And dare you speak against the war, our 
 trade > 
 
 Aid. [Aside.'] Well, he may be a convoy of 
 ships 1 am concerned in. — [Aloud.] Come, captain, 
 I will have a fair correspondence with you, say what 
 you will. 
 
 Man. Then prithee be gone. 
 
 Aid. No, faith j prithee, captain, let's go drink a 
 dish of laced coffee, and talk of the times. Come, 
 I'll treat you : nay, you shall go, for I have no 
 business here. 
 
 Man. But I have. 
 
 Aid. To pick up a man to give thee a dinner. 
 Come I'll do thy business for thee. 
 
 Man. Faith, now I think on't, so you may, as 
 well as any man ; for 'tis to pick up a man td be 
 bound with me, to one who expects city security 
 for— 
 
 Aid. Nay, then your servant, captain ; business 
 must be done. 
 
 Man. Ay, if it can. But hark you, alderman ; 
 without you — 
 
 Aid. Business, sir, I say, must be done ; and 
 there's an officer of the treasury [Several crossing 
 the stage] I have an affair with — {Exit. 
 
 Man. You see now what the mighty friendship 
 of the world is ; what all ceremony, embraces, and 
 plentiful professions come to ! You are no more 
 to believe a professing friend than a threatening 
 enemy ; and as no man hurts you, that tells you 
 he'll do you a mischief, no man, you see, is your 
 servant who says he is so. Why the devil, then, 
 should a man be troubled with the flattery of knaves 
 if he be not a fool or cully ; or with the fondness of 
 fools, if he be not a knave or cheat .' 
 
 Free. Only for his pleasure : for there is 
 some in laughing at fools, and disappointing 
 knaves. 
 
 Man. That's a pleasure, I think, would cost you 
 too dear, as well as marrying your widow to disap- 
 point her. But, for my part, I have no pleasure 
 by 'em but in despising 'em, wheresoe'er I meet 
 'em ; and then the pleasure of hoping so to be rid 
 of 'em. But now my comfort is, I am not worth 
 a shilling in the world, which all the world shall 
 know ; and then I'm sure I shall have none of 'em 
 come near me. 
 
 Free. A very pretty comfort, which I think you 
 pay too dear for. — But is the twenty pound gone 
 since the morning ? 
 
 Man. To my boat's crew. — Would you have the 
 poor, honest, brave fellows want ? 
 
 Free. Rather than you or I. 
 
 Man. Why, art thou without money ? thou who 
 art a friend to everybody ? 
 
 Free. I ventured my last stake upon the squire 
 to nick him of his mother ; and cannot help you to 
 a dinner, unless you will go dine with my lord — ■ 
 
 Man. No, no ; the ordinary is too dear for me, 
 where flattery must pay for my dinner : I am no 
 herald or poet. 
 
 Free. We'll go then to the bishop's — 
 
 Man. There you must flatter the old philosophy ; 
 I cannot renounce my reason for a dinner. 
 
 Free. Why, then let's go to your alderman's. 
 
 Man. Hang him, rogue ! that were not to dine ; 
 for he makes you drunk with lees of sack before 
 dinner, to take away your stomach : and there you 
 must call usury and extortion God's blessing, or 
 the honest turning of the penny ; hear him brag 
 of the leather breeches in which he trotted' first 
 to town, and make a greater noise with his money 
 in his parlour, than his cashiers do in his counting- 
 house, without hopes of borrowing a shilling. 
 
 Fi'ee. Ay, a pox on't ! 'tis like dining with the 
 great gamesters ; and when they faTl to their com- 
 
126 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 mon dessert, to see the heaps of gold drawn on all 
 hands, without going to twelve. Let us go to my 
 lady Goodly's. 
 
 Man. There to flatter her looks. You must 
 mistake her grandchildren for her own ; praise her 
 cook, that she may rail at him ; and feed her dogs, 
 not yourself. 
 
 Free. What d'ye think of eating with your law- 
 yer then ? 
 
 Man. Eat with him 1 damn him ! To hear him 
 employ his barharous eloquence in a reading upon 
 the two-and-thirty good bits in a shoulder of veal, 
 and be forced yourself to praise the cold bribe-pie 
 
 that stinks, and drink law-French wine as rough 
 and harsh as his law-French. A pox on him ! I'd 
 rather dine in the Temple-rounds or walks, with 
 the knights without noses, or the knights of, the 
 post, who are honester fellows and better compauy. 
 But let us home and try our fortune ; for I'll stay 
 no longer here for yonr damned widow. 
 
 Free. Well, let us go home then j for I must go 
 for my damned widow, and look after my new 
 damned charge. Three or four hundred years ago 
 a man might have dined in this hall. 
 Man. But now the lawyer only here is fed ; 
 
 And, bully-like, by quarrels gets his bread. 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE ].— Manly's Lodging. 
 Enter Manly and Fidelia. 
 
 Man. Well, there's success in thy face. Hast 
 thou prevailed ? say. 
 
 Fid. As I could wish sir. 
 
 Man. So ; I told thee what thou vpert fit for, and 
 thou wouldst not believe me. Come, thank me for 
 cringing thee acquainted with thy genius. Well, 
 thou hast mollified her heart for me.' 
 
 Fid. No, sir, not so ; but what's better. 
 
 Man. How, what's better? 
 
 Fid. I shall harden your heart against her. 
 
 Man. Have a care, sir ; my heart is too much 
 in earnest to he fooled with, and my desire at height, 
 and needs no delays to incite it. What, you are 
 too good a pimp already, and know how to endear 
 pleasure by withholding it ? But leave off your 
 page's bawdy-house tricks, sir, and tell me, will 
 she be kind ? 
 
 Fid, Kinder than you could wish, sir. 
 
 Man. So, then : well, prithee, what said she .' 
 
 Fid. She said — 
 
 Man. What? thou'rt so tedious : speak comfort 
 to me ; what ? 
 
 Fid. That of all things you are her aversion. 
 
 Man. How! 
 
 Fid. That she would sooner take a bedfellow 
 out of an hospital, and diseases into her arms, 
 than you. 
 
 Man. What? 
 
 Fid. That she would rather trust her honour 
 with a dissolute debauched hector, nay worse, with 
 a finical baffled coward, aU over loathsome with 
 afi'ectation of the fine gentleman. 
 
 Man. What's all this you say ? 
 
 Fid. Nay, that my offers of your love to her 
 were more offensive, than when parents woo their 
 virgin-daughters to the enjoyment of riches only ; 
 and that you were in all circumstances as nauseous 
 to her as a husband on compulsion. 
 
 Man. Hold ! I understand you not. 
 
 Fid. So, 'twill work, I see. ' lAside. 
 
 Man. Did you not tell me — 
 
 Fid. She called you ten thousand rufSans. 
 
 Man. Hold, I say. 
 
 Fid. Brutes — 
 
 Man. Hold. 
 
 Fid. Sea-monsters — 
 
 Man. Damn your intelligence ! Hear me a little 
 now. 
 
 Fid. Nay, surly coward she called you too. 
 
 Man. Won't you hold yet ? Hold, or — 
 
 Fid. Nay, sir, pardon me ; I could not but tell 
 you she had the baseness, the injustice, to call you 
 coward, sir ; coward, coward, sir. 
 
 Man. Not yet — 
 
 Fid. I've done : — coward, sir. 
 
 Mail, Did not you say, she was kinder than I 
 could wish her ? 
 
 Fid. Yes, sir. 
 
 Man. How then ? — O — I understand you now. 
 At first she appeared in rage and disdain; the truest 
 sign of a coming woman : but at last you prevailed, 
 it seems ; did you not ? 
 
 Fid. Yes, sir. 
 
 Man. So then ; let's know that only : come, 
 prithee, without delays. I'll kiss thee for that news 
 beforehand. 
 
 Fid. So ; the kiss I'm sure is welcome to me, 
 whatsoe'er the news will be to you. lAside. 
 
 Man. Come, speak, my dear volunteer. 
 
 Fid. How welcome were that kind word too, if 
 it were not for another woman's sake ! {.Aside 
 
 Man. What, won't you speak ? You prevailed 
 for me at last, you say ? 
 
 Fid. No, sir. 
 
 Man. No more of your fooling, sir ; it will not 
 agree with my impatience or temper. 
 
 Fid. Then not to fool you, sir, I spoke to her 
 for you, but prevailed for myself ; she would not 
 hear me when I spoke in your behalf, but bid me 
 say what I would in my own, though she gave me 
 no occasion, she was so coming, and so was kinder, 
 sir, than you could wish ; which I was only afraid 
 to let you know, without some warning. 
 
 Man. How's this? Young man, you are of - 
 lying age ; but I must hear you out, and if — 
 
 Fid. I would not abuse you, and cannot wrong 
 her by any report of her, she is so wicked. 
 
 Man. How, wicked ! had she the -impudence, at 
 the second sight of you only — 
 
 Fid. Impudence, sir I oh, she has impudence 
 enough to put a court out of countenance, and 
 debauch a stews. 
 
 Man. Why, what said she ? 
 
 Fid. Her tongue, I confess, was silent ; but her 
 speaking eyes gloated such things, more immodest 
 and lascivious than ravishers can act, or women 
 under a confinement think. 
 
 Man. I know there are those whose eyes reflect 
 more obscenity than the glasses in alcoves ; but 
 
smaxK I. 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 127 
 
 there are others too who use a little art with their 
 looks, to make 'em seem more beautiful, not more 
 loving ; which vain young fellows like you are apt 
 to interpret in their own favour, and to the lady's 
 wrong. 
 
 Fid. Seldom, sir. Pray, have you a care of 
 gloating eyes ; for he that loves to ga2e upon 'em, 
 will find at last a thousand fools and cuckolds in 
 'em instead of Cupids. 
 
 Man. Very well, sir. — But what, you had only 
 eye-kindness from Olivia? 
 
 Fid, I tell you again, sir, no woman sticks there ; 
 eye-promises of love they only keep ; nay, they 
 are contracts which make you sure of 'em. In 
 short, sir, she seeing me, with shame and amaze- 
 ment dumb, unactive, and resistless, threw her 
 twisting arms about my neck, and smothered me 
 with a thousand tasteless kisses. Believe me, sir, 
 they were so to me. 
 
 Man. "Why did you not avoid 'em then ? 
 
 Fid. I fenced with her eager arms, as you did 
 with the grapples of the enemy's iireship ; and 
 nothing but cutting 'em off could have freed 
 me. 
 
 Man. Damned, damned woman, that could be 
 so false and infamous 1 and damned, damned heart 
 of mine, that cannot yet be false, though so infa- 
 moDS ! what easy, tame suffering trampled things 
 does that little god of talking cowards make of us ! 
 but— 
 
 Fid. So ; it works. I find, as I expected. 
 
 lAside. 
 
 Man. But she was false to me before, she told 
 me so herself, and yet I could not quite believe it ; 
 but she was, so that her second falseness is a favour 
 to me, not an injury, in revenging me upon the 
 man that wronged me first of her love. Her love ! 
 — a whore's, a witch's love ! — But what, did she 
 not kiss well, sir ? I'm sure I thought her lips — 
 but I must not think of 'em more — but yet they 
 are such I could still kiss — grow to — and then tear 
 off with my teeth, grind 'em into mammocks, and 
 spit 'em into her cuckold's face. 
 
 Fid, Poor man, how uneasy he is ! I have 
 hardly the heart to give so much pain, though 
 withal I give him a cure, and to myself new life. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Man. But what, her kisses sure could not but 
 warm you into desire at last, or a compliance with 
 hers at least } 
 
 Fid. Nay, more, I confess — 
 
 Man. What more? speak. 
 
 Fid. All you could fear had passed between us, 
 if I could have been made to wrong you, sin in that 
 nature. 
 
 Man. Could nave oeen made \ you lie, you did. 
 
 Fid. Indeed, sir, 'twas impossible for me ; 
 besides, we were interrupted by a visit ; but I con- 
 fess, she would not let me stir, till I promised to 
 return to her again within this hour, as soon as it 
 should be dark ; by which time she would dispose 
 of her visit, and her servants, and herself, for my 
 reception. Which I was fain to promise, to get 
 from her. 
 
 Man. Ha ! 
 
 Fid. But if ever I go near her again, may you, 
 sir, think me as false to you, as she is ; hate and 
 renounce me, as you ought to do her, and, I hope, 
 will do now. 
 
 Man. Well, but now I think on't, you shall keep 
 
 your word with your lady. What, a young fellow, 
 and fail the first, nay, so tempting, an assignation ! 
 
 Fid. How, sir ? 
 
 Man. I say, you shall go to her when 'tis dark, 
 and shall not disappoint her. 
 
 Fid. I, sir! I should disappoint her more by 
 going, for — 
 
 Man. How so ? 
 
 Fid. Her impudence and injustice to you will 
 make me disappoint her love, loathe her. 
 
 Man. Come, you have my leave ; and if you 
 disgust her, I'll go with you, and act love, whilst 
 you shall talk it only. 
 
 Fid. You, sir ! nay, then I'll never go near her. 
 You act love, sir ! You must but act it indeed, 
 after ail I have said to you. Think of your honour, 
 sir : love ! — 
 
 Man. Well, call it revenge, and that is honour- 
 able : ril be revenged on her ; and thou shalt be 
 my second. 
 
 Fid. Not in a base action, sir, when you are 
 your own enemy. O go not near her, sir ; for 
 Heaven's sake, for your own, think not of it ! 
 
 Man. How concerned you are ! I thought I 
 should catch you. What, you are my rival at last, 
 and are in love vrith her yourself ; and have spoken 
 ill of her out of your love to her, not me : and 
 therefore would not have me go to her ! 
 
 Fid. Heaven witness for me, 'tis because I love 
 you only, I would not have you go to her. 
 
 Man. Come, come, the more I think on't, the 
 more I'm satisfied you do love her. Those kisses, 
 young man, I knew were irresistible ; 'tis certain. 
 
 Fid. There is nothing certain in the world, sir, 
 but my truth and your courage. 
 
 Man. Your servant, sir. Besides, false and 
 ungrateful as she has been to me, and though I 
 may believe her hatred to me great as you report 
 it, yet I cannot think you are so soon and at that 
 rate beloved by her, though you may endeavour it. 
 
 Fid. Nay, if that be all, and you doubt it still, 
 sir, I will conduct you to her; and, unseen, your 
 ears shall judge of her falseness, and my truth to 
 you, if that will satisfy you. 
 
 Man. Yes, there is some satisfaction in being 
 quite out of doubt ; because 'tis that alone with- 
 holds us from the pleasure of revenge. 
 
 Fid. Revenge ! What revenge can you have, 
 sir ? Disdain is best revenged by scorn ; and faith- 
 less love, by loving another, and making her happy 
 with the other's losings. Which, if I might 
 advise — 
 
 Enter Freeman. 
 
 Man. Not a word more. 
 
 Free. What, are you talking of love yet, cap- 
 tain .•* I thought you had done with't. 
 
 Man. Why, what did you hear me say ? 
 
 Free. Something imperfectly of love, I think. 
 
 Man. I was only wondering why fools, rascals, 
 and desertless wretches, should still have the better 
 of men of merit with all women, as much as with 
 their own common mistress. Fortune. 
 
 Free. Because most women, like Fortune, are 
 blind, seem to do all things in jest, and take plea- 
 sure in extravagant actions. Their love deserves 
 neither thanks, or blame, for they cannot help it: 
 *tis all sympathy; therefore, the noisy, the finical, 
 the talkative, the cowardly, and efl'eminate, have 
 the better of the brave, the reasonable, and man of 
 
128 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 ACT TV, 
 
 honour ; for they have no more reason in their 
 love, or kindness, than Fortune herself. 
 
 Man. Yes, t^ey have their reason. First, 
 honoxir in a man they fear too much to love ; and 
 sense in a lover uphraids their want of it ; and 
 they hate anything that disturbs their admiration of 
 themselves ; but they are of that vain number, 
 who had rather show their false generosity, in giv- 
 ing away profusely to worthless flatterers, than in 
 payingjust debts. And, in short, all women, like 
 fortune (as you say) and rewards, are lost by too 
 much meriting. 
 
 Fid. All women, sir ! sure there are some 
 who have no other quarrel to a lover's merit, but 
 that it begets their despair of him. 
 
 Man. Thou art young enough to be credulous ; 
 but we — 
 
 Enter Sailor. 
 
 Sail. Here are now below, the scolding, dag- 
 gled gentlewoman, and that Major Old — Old — 
 Fop, I think you call him. 
 
 Free. Oldfox : — prithee bid 'em come up, with 
 your leave, captain, for now I can talk with her 
 upon the square, if I shall not disturb you. 
 
 {_Exit Sailor. 
 
 Man. No ; for I'll begone. Come, volunteer. 
 
 Free. Nay, pray stay ; the scene between us 
 will not be so tedious to you as you think. Besides, 
 you shall see how I rigged my 'squire out, with the 
 remains of my shipwrecked wardrobe ; he is under 
 your sea valet-de-chambre's hands, and by this 
 time dressed, and will be worth your seeing. Stay, 
 and I'll fetch my fool. 
 
 Man. No ; you know I cannot easily laugh : 
 besides, my volunteer and I have business abroad. 
 {_Exeunt Manly and FmELTA on one sides Free- 
 man on the other. 
 
 Enter Major Oldfox and Widow Blaqcacre. 
 
 Pfid. What, nobody here ! did not the fellow 
 say he was within ? 
 
 Old. Yes, lady ; and he may be perhaps a little 
 busy at present ; but if you think the time long 
 till he comes, [unfolding papers'] I'll read you 
 here some of the fruits of my leisure, the over- 
 flowings of my fancy and pen. — [Aside. ] To value 
 me right, she must know my parts. — \_Aloud.'\ 
 Come— 
 
 Wid. No, no ; I have reading work enough of 
 my own in my bag, I thank you. 
 
 Old. Ay, law, madam ; but nere's a poem, in 
 blank verse, which I think a handsome declaration 
 of one's passion. 
 
 Wid. 0, if you talk of declarations, I'll show 
 you one of the prettiest penned things, which I 
 mended too myself, you must know. 
 
 Old. Nay, lady, if you have used yourself so 
 much to the reading harsh law, that you hate 
 smooth poetry, here is a character for you, of — 
 
 Wid. A character ! nay, then I'll show you 
 my bill in chancery here, that gives you such 
 a character of my adversary, makes him as 
 black — 
 
 Old. Pshaw ! away, away, lady ! But if you 
 think the character too long, here is an epigram, 
 not above twenty lines, upon a cruel lady, who 
 decreed her servant should hang himself, to demon- 
 strate his passion. 
 
 Wid. Decreed ! if you talk of decreeing, I have 
 such a decree here, drawn by the finest clerk — 
 
 Old. O lady, lady, all interruption, and no sense 
 between us, as if we were lawyers at the bar ! but 
 I had forgot, Apollo and Littleton never lodge 
 in a head together. If you hate verses, I'll give 
 you a cast of my politics in prose. 'Tis a Letter 
 to a Friend in the Country ; which is now the way 
 of all such sober solid persons as myself, when they 
 have a mind to publish their disgust to the times ; 
 though perhaps, between you and I, they have no 
 friend in the country. And sure a politic, serious 
 person may as well have a feigned friend in the 
 country to write to, as an idle poet a feigned mis- 
 tress to write to. And so here's my letter to a 
 friend, or no friend, in the country, concerningthe 
 late conjuncture of affairs, in relation to coffee- 
 houses ; or. The Coffee-maiCs Case. 
 
 Wid. Nay, if your letter have a case in't, 'tis 
 something ; but first I'll read you a letter of mine 
 to a friend in the country, called a letter of 
 attorney. 
 
 Re-enter Freeman, with Jerry Blackacre in an oldgaudy 
 suit and red breeches q^Fbbeman's. 
 
 Old. What, interruption still ! O the plague of 
 interruption ! worse to an author than the plague 
 of critics. iAside. 
 
 Wid. What's this I see .' Jerry Blackacre, my 
 minor, in red breeches ! What, hast thou left 
 the modest seemly garb of gown and cap for this ? 
 and have I lost all my good inns-of-chancery 
 breeding upon thee then ? and thou wilt go a breed- 
 ing thyself from our inn of chancery and Westmin- 
 ster-hall, at coffee-houses, and ordinaries, play- 
 houses, tennis-courts, and bawdy-houses ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, ay, what then ? perhaps I will ; but 
 what's that to you.' Here's my guardian and 
 tutor now, forsooth, that I am out of your huck- 
 ster's hands. 
 
 Wid. How ! thou hast not chosen him for thy 
 guardian yet .' 
 
 Jer. No, but he has' chosen me for his charge, 
 and that's all one ; and I'll do anything he'll have 
 me, and go all the world over with him ; to ordina 
 ries, and bawdy-houses, or anywhere else. 
 
 fVid. To ordinaries and bawdy-houses ! have a 
 care, minor, thou wilt enfeeble there thy estate and 
 body : do not go to ordinaries and bawdy-houses, 
 good Jerry. 
 
 Jer. Why, how come you to know any ill by 
 bawdy-houses ? you never had any hurt by 'em, 
 had you, forsooth ? Pray hold yourself contented ; 
 if I do go where money and wenches are to be had, 
 you may thank yourself j for you used me so unna- 
 turally, you would never let me have a penny to go 
 abroad with ; nor so much as come near the garret 
 where your maidens lay ; nay, you would not so 
 much as let me play at hotcockles with 'em, nor 
 have any recreation with 'em, though one should 
 have kissed you behind, you were so unnatural a 
 mother, so you were. 
 
 Free. Ay, a very unnatural mother, faith, 
 squire. 
 
 Wid. But, Jerry, consider thou art yet but a 
 minor j however, if thou wilt go home with me 
 again, and be a good child, thou shalt see — 
 
 Free. Madam, I must have a better care of my 
 heir under age, than so ; I would sooner trust him 
 alone with a stale waiting-woman and a parson, 
 than with his widow-mother and her lover or 
 lawyer. 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 129 
 
 Wid. Why, thou villain, part mother and minor ! 
 rob me of my child and my writings ! but thou 
 shalt find tliere's law ; and as in the case of ravish- 
 ment of guard — Westminster the Second. 
 
 Old. Young gentleman squire, pray be ruled by 
 your mother and your friends. 
 
 Jer. Yes, I'll be ruled by my friends, therefore 
 not by my mother, so I won't : I '11 choose him for 
 my guardian till I am of age ; nay, maybe, for as 
 long as I live. 
 
 Wid. Wilt thou so, thou wretch? and when 
 thou'rt of age, thou wilt sign, seal and deliver too, 
 wilt thou ? 
 
 Jer. Yes, marry will I, if you go there too. 
 
 Wid. do not squeeze wax, son ; rather go to 
 ordinaries and bawdy-houses, than squeeze wax. 
 If thou dost that, farewell the goodly manor of 
 Blaokacre, with all its. woods, underwoods, and 
 appurtenances whatever ! Oh, oh ! IWeeps. 
 
 Free. Come, madam, in short, you see I am re- 
 solved to have a share in the estate, yours or your 
 son's ; if I cannot get you, I '11 keep him, who is 
 less coy, you find ; but if you would have your son 
 again, you must take me too. Peace or war? 
 love, or law ? You see my hostage is in my hand : 
 I'm in possession. 
 
 Wid. Nay, if one of us must be ruined, e'en let 
 it be him. By my body, a good one ! Did you 
 ever know yet a widow marry or not marry for the 
 sake of her child ? I'd have you to know, sir, I 
 shall be hard enough for you both yet, without 
 marrying you, if Jerry wont be ruled by me. 
 What say you, booby, will you be ruled? speak. 
 
 Jer. Let one alone, can't you ? 
 
 Wid. Wilt thou choose him for guardian, \diom 
 I refuse for husband ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, to choose, I thank you. 
 
 Wid. And are all my hopes frustrated ? Shall I 
 never hear thee put cases again to John the butler, 
 or our vicar? never see thee amble the circuit 
 with the judges ; and hear thee, in our town-hall, 
 louder than the crier ? 
 
 Jer. No ; for I have taken my leave of lawyering 
 and pettifogging. 
 
 Wid. Pettifogging ! thou profane villain, hast 
 thou so ? Pettifogging ! — then you shall take your 
 leave of me, and your estate too ; thou shalt be an 
 alien to me and it for ever. Pettifogging ! 
 
 Jer. 0, but if you go there too, mother, we have 
 the deeds and settlements, I thank you. Would 
 you cheat me of my estate, i'fac ? 
 
 Wid. No, no, I will not chea* your little brother 
 Bob ; for thou wert not bom in wedlock. 
 
 Free. How 's that ? 
 
 Jer. How ? what quirk has she got in her head 
 now? 
 
 Wid. I say, thou canst not, shalt not inherit the 
 Blackacres' estate. 
 
 Jer. Why? why, forsooth ? What d'ye mean, if 
 you go there too I 
 
 Wid. Thou art but my base child ; and accord- 
 ing to the law, canst not inherit it. Nay, thou art 
 not so much as bastard eigne. 
 
 Jer. What, what, am I then the son of a whore, 
 mother ? 
 
 Wid. The law says — 
 
 Free. Madam, we know what the law says ; but 
 have a care what you say. Do not let your passion, 
 to ruin your son, ruin your reputation. 
 
 Wid. Hang reputation, sir ! am not I a widow ! 
 
 have no husband, nor intend to have any ? Nor 
 would you, I suppose, now have me for a wife. So 
 I think now I'm revenged on my son and you, 
 without marrying, as I told yiu. 
 
 Free. But consider, madam. 
 
 Jer. What, have you no shame left in you, 
 mother ? 
 
 Wid. Wonder not at it, major. 'Tis often the 
 poor pressed widow's case, to give up her honour 
 to save her jointure ; and seem to be a hght woman, 
 rather than marry : as some young men, they say, 
 pretend to have the filthy disease, and lose their 
 credit with most women, to avoid the importunities 
 of some. \_Aside to Oldpox, 
 
 Free. But one word with you, madam. 
 
 Wid. No, no, sir. Come, major, let us make 
 haste now to the Prerogative Court. 
 
 Old. But, lady, if what you say be true, will you 
 stigmatise your reputation on record ? and if it be 
 not true, how will you prove it ? 
 
 Wid. Pshaw ! I can prove anything : and for 
 my reputation, know, major, a wise woman will 
 no more value her reputation, in disinheriting a 
 rebellious son of a good estate, than she would in 
 getting him, to inherit an estate. 
 
 [_Exeunt Widow and Oldfox. 
 
 Free. Madam — We must not let her go so, squire. 
 
 Jer. Nay, the devil can't stop her though, if she 
 has a mind to't, But come, bullyrguardian, we'll 
 go and advise with three attorneys, two proctors, 
 two solicitors, and a shrewd man of Wliitefriars, 
 neither attorney, proctor, or solicitor, but as pure 
 a pimp to the law as any of 'em : and sure all they 
 will be hard enough for her, for I fear, bully- 
 guardian, you are too good a joker to have anj' 
 law in your head. 
 
 Free. Thou'rt in the right on't, squire, I under- 
 stand no law ; especially that against bastards, 
 since I 'm sure the custom is against that law, and 
 more people get estates by being so, than lose 'em. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II.— Olivia's Lodging. 
 
 Enter Lord Plausible, and Boy with a Candle. 
 
 Flams. Little gentleman, your most obedient, 
 faithful, humble servant. Where, I beseech you, 
 is that divine person, your noble lady ? 
 
 Boy. Gone out, my lord ; but commanded me to 
 give you this letter. [Gives him a letter. 
 
 Enter Novkl, 
 
 PloMS. Which he must not observe. 
 
 [Aside. Puts it up. 
 
 Nov. Hey, boy, where is thy lady 1 
 
 Boy. Gone out, sir ; but I must beg a word with 
 you. [Oives Mm a letter t and exit. 
 
 Nov. For me? So. — {Piita wp the Letter.'] 
 Servant, servant, my lord ; you see the lady Imew 
 of your coming, for she is gone out. 
 
 Plcms. Sir, I humbly beseech you not to censure 
 the lady's good breeding : she has reason to use 
 more liberty with me than with any other man. 
 
 Nov. How, viscount, how ? 
 
 Plans. Nay, I humbly beseech you, be not in 
 choler ; where there is most love, there may be 
 most freedom. 
 
 Nm. Nay, then 'tis time to come to an ec/air 
 
130 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 cissement with you, and to tell you, you must think 
 no more of this lady's love. 
 
 Plans. Why, under correction, dear sir ? 
 
 Nov. There are reasons, reasons, viscount. 
 
 Plans. What, I beseech you, noble sir ? 
 
 Nov. Prithee, prithee, be not impertinent, my 
 lord ; some of you lords are such conceited, well- 
 assured, impertinent rogues. 
 
 Plaus. And you noble wits are so full of sham- 
 ming and drolling, one knows not where to have 
 you seriously. 
 
 Nov. Well, you shall find me in bed with this 
 lady one of these days. 
 
 Plaus. Nay, I beseech you, spare the lady's 
 honour ; for hers and mine will be all one shortly. 
 
 Nov. Prithee, my lord, be not an ass. Dost 
 thou think to get her from me ? I have had such 
 encouragements — 
 
 Plana. I have not been thought unworthy of 'em. 
 
 Nov. What, not like mine ! Come to an eclair- 
 dssement, as I said, 
 
 Plaus. Why, seriously then, she has told me 
 viscountess sounded prettily. 
 
 Nov. And me, that Novel was a name she would 
 sooner change hers for than for any title in Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Plaits. She has commended the softness and 
 respectfulness of my behaviour. 
 
 Nov. She has praised the briskness of my rail- 
 lery, of all things, man. 
 
 Plans. The sleepiness of my eyes she liked. 
 
 Nov. Sleepiness ! dulness, dulness. But the 
 fierceness of mine she adored. 
 
 Plans. The brightness of my hair she hked. 
 
 Nov. The brightness ! no, the greasiness, 1 
 warrant. But the blackness and lustre of mine 
 she admires. 
 
 Plaus. The gentleness of my smile. 
 
 JVoti. The subtilty of my leer. 
 
 Plaus. The clearness of my complexion. 
 
 Nov. The redness of my lips. 
 
 Plans. The whiteness of my teeth. 
 
 Nov. My janty way of picking them. 
 
 Plaus. "The sweetness of my breath. 
 
 Nov. Ha ! ha I nay, then she abused yon, 'tis 
 plain ; for you know what Manly said : — the sweet- 
 ness of your pulvillio she might mean ; but for 
 your breath ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Your breath is such, 
 man, that nothing but tobacco can perfume ; and 
 your complexion nothing could mend but the 
 small-pox. 
 
 Plaus. Well, sir, you may please to be merry ; 
 but, to put you out of all doubt, sir, she has 
 received some jewels from me of value. 
 
 Nov. And presents from me ; besides what I 
 presented her jantily, by way of ombre, of three or 
 four hundred pounds value, which I'm sure are the 
 earnest-pence for our love-bargain. 
 
 Plaus. Nay, then, sir, with your favour, and to 
 make an end of all your hopes, look you there, sir, 
 she has writ to me — 
 
 Nov. How 1 how ! well, well, and so she has 
 to me ; look you there — 
 
 ^Deliver to each other their letters. 
 
 Plaus. What's here ? 
 
 Nov. How's this ? 
 [jReads out.'] — Mp dear Lord,— You'll excuse me 
 for breaking my word with you, since Hwas to 
 oblige, not offend you ; for J am only gone abroad 
 but to disavvoint Novel, and meet you in the 
 
 drawing-room ; where I expect you with as much 
 impatience as when I used to suffer Novel's 
 visits — the most impertinent fop that ever affected 
 the name of a wit, therefore not capable, I hope, 
 to give yon jealousy ; for, for your sake alone, 
 you saw I renounced an old lover, and will do all 
 the world. Burn the letter, but lay up the kind, 
 ness of it in your heart, with your — Olivia. 
 Very fine ! but pray let's see mine. 
 
 Plaus. I understand it not ; but sure she cannot 
 think so of me. 
 
 Nov. [Reads the other letter.'] Hum ! ha !— 
 meet — for your sake — hum — quitted an old lover 
 world — burn — in your heart — with your — 
 
 O IVIA. 
 
 Jl t the same, the names only altered. 
 
 Plaus. Surely there must be some mistake, or 
 somebody has abused her and us. 
 
 Nov. Yes, you are abused, no doubt on't, my 
 lord ; but I'll to Whitehall, and see. 
 
 Plans. And I, where I shall find you are abused. 
 
 Nov. Where, if it be so, for our comfort, we 
 cannot fail of meeting with fellow-sufferers enough ; 
 for, as Freeman said of another, she stands in the 
 drawing-room, like the glass, ready for all comers, 
 to set their gallantry by her : and, like the glass 
 too, lets no man go from her unsatisfied with him> 
 self. lExeuta. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Boy. 
 
 Oliv. Both here, and just gone? 
 
 JBoy. Yes, madam. 
 
 Oliv. But are you sure neither saw you deliver 
 the other a letter ? 
 
 Boy. Yes, yes, madam, I am very sure. 
 
 Oliv. Go then to the Old Exchange, to West- 
 minster, Holborn, and all the other places I told 
 you of ; I shall not need you these two hours : 
 begone, and take the candle with you, and be sure 
 you leave word again below, I am gone out, to all 
 that ask. 
 
 Boy. Yes, madam. iExlt. 
 
 Oliv. And my new lover will not ask, I'm sure; 
 he has bis lesson, and cannot miss me here, though 
 in the dark : which I have purposely designed, aa 
 a remedy against my blushing gallant's modesty ; 
 for young lovers, like game- cocks, are made bolder 
 by being kept without light. 
 
 Enter Vbrnish, as from a journey. 
 
 Ver. Where is she i Darkness everywhere ? 
 
 Oliv. What ! come before your time .' My 
 soul 1 ray life ! your haste has augmented your 
 kindness ; and let me thank you for it thus, and thus. 
 — {^Embracing and kissing him.'] And though, 
 my soul, the little time since you left me has 
 seemed an age to my impatience, sure it is yet but 
 seven — 
 
 Ver. How 1 who's that you expected after 
 seven? 
 
 Oliv. Ha 1 my husband returned ! and have I 
 been throwing away so many kind kisses on my 
 husband, nnd wrqnged my lover already ? iAside. 
 
 Ver, Speak, I say, who was't you expected 
 after seven ? 
 
 ■)««. iAside."] WhatshaUI say?— oh— [/J/ourf.] 
 Why 'tis but seven days, is it, dearest, since you 
 went out of town ? and 1 expected you not so soon. 
 
 Ver. No, sure, 'tis but five days since Ileft you 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 131 
 
 Oliv. Pardon my impatience, dearest, 1 thought 
 'em seven at least 
 
 Ver. Nay, then — 
 
 Oliv. Bat, my life, you shall never stay half so 
 long from me again; you shan't indeed, by this 
 kiss you shan't. 
 
 Ver. No, no ; but why alone in tho dark ? 
 
 Oliv. Blame not my melancholy in your absence. 
 — But, my soul, since you went, I have strange 
 news to tell you : Manly is returned. 
 
 Ver. Manly returned ! Fortime forbid I 
 
 Oliv. Met with the Dutch in the channel, fought, 
 sunk his ship, and all he carried with him. He 
 was here with me yesterday. 
 
 Ver. And did you own cm- marriage to him ! 
 
 Oliv. I told him I was married to put an end to 
 his love and my trouble ; but to whom, is yet a 
 secret kept from him and all the world. And I 
 have used him so scurvily, his great spirit will 
 ne'er return to reason it farther with me : I have 
 sent him to sea again, I warrant. 
 
 Ver. 'Twas bravely done. And sure he will 
 now hate the shore more than ever, after so great 
 a disappointment. Be you sure only to keep a while 
 our great secret, till he be gone. In the mean time, 
 I '11 lead the easy, honest fool by the nose, as I 
 used to do ; and whilst he stays, rail with him at 
 thee ; and when he 's gone, laugh with thee at him. 
 But have you his cabinet of jewels safe ? part not 
 with a seed-pearl to him, to keep him from starving. 
 
 Oliv. Nor from hanging. 
 
 Ver. He cannot recover 'em; and, I think, 
 will scorn to beg 'em again. 
 
 Oliv. But, my life, have yon taken the thousand 
 guineas he left in my name out of the goldsmith's 
 hands ? 
 
 Ver. Ay, ay ; they are removed to another 
 goldsmith's. 
 
 Oliv. Ay, but, my soul, you had best have a 
 care he find not where the money is ; for his present 
 wants, as I'm informed, are such as will make him 
 inquisitive enough. 
 
 Ver. You say true, and he knows the man too ; 
 but I'll remove it to-morrow. 
 
 Oliv. To-morrow ! O do not stay till to- 
 morrow ; go to-night, immediately. 
 
 Ver. Now I think on't, you advise well, and I 
 will go presently. 
 
 Oliv. Presently ! instantly ! I will not let you 
 stay a jot 
 
 Ver. I will then, though I return not home till 
 twelve. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, though not till morning, with all my 
 heart. Go, dearest ; I am impatient till you are 
 gone. — [2%njste Mm out. ] So, I have at once now 
 brought about those two gratefiil businesses, which 
 all prudent women do together, secured money and 
 pleasure ; and now all interruptions of the last ane 
 removed. Go, husband, and come up, friend ; juSt 
 the buckets in the well ; the absence of one brings 
 the other. But I hope, like them too, they will 
 not meet in the way, jostle, and clash together. 
 
 Enter Fidbua, and Manly treading softly and staying 
 behind at some distance. 
 
 So, are you come ? (but not the husband-bucket, I 
 hope, again.) — Who's there 2 my dearest? ISofUy. 
 
 Fid. My life— 
 
 01m. Eight, right. — Where are thy lips ! Here, 
 
 take the dumb and best welcomes, kisses and em- 
 braces ; 'tis not a time for idle words. In a duel 
 of love, as in others, parleying shows basely. Come, 
 we are alone ; and now the word is only satisfac- 
 tion, and defend not thyself. 
 
 Mam. How 's this ? Why, she makes love like a 
 devil in a play ; and in this darkness, which con- 
 ceals her angel's face, if I were apt to be afraid, I 
 should think her a devil. \.Aside. 
 
 Olio. What, you traverse ground, young gentle- 
 man ! [Fidbua avoiding her. 
 
 Fid. I take breath only. 
 
 Mom. Good heavens 1 how was I deceived ! 
 
 l^Aside. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, you are a coward ; what, are you 
 afraid of the fierceness of my love ? 
 
 Fid. Yes, madam, lest its violence might presage 
 its change ; and I must needs be afraid you would 
 leave me quickly, who could desert so brave a gen- 
 tleman as Manly. 
 
 Oli/o. 0, name not his name ! for in a time of 
 stolen joys, as this is, the filthy name of husband 
 were not a more allaying sound. 
 
 Man. There 's some comfort yet. {Aside. 
 
 Fid. But did you not love him ? 
 
 Oliv. Never. How could you think it \ 
 
 Fid. Because he thought it ; who is a man of that 
 sense, nice discerning, and diffidency, that I should 
 think it hard to deceive him. 
 
 Oliv. No ; he that distrusts most the world, 
 trusts most to himself, and is but the more easily 
 deceived, because he thinks he can't be deceived. 
 His cunning is hke the coward's sword, by which 
 he is oftener worsted than defended. 
 
 Fid. Yet, sure, you used no common art to 
 deceive him. 
 
 Oliv. I knew he loved his own singular morose- 
 ness so well, as to dote upon any copy of it ; 
 wherefore I feigned a hatred to the world too, that 
 he might love me in earnest : but, if it had been 
 hard to deceive him, I'm sure 'twere much harder 
 to love him. A dogged, ill-mannered — 
 
 Fid. D'ye hear, sir ? pray, hear her. 
 
 \_Aside to IVIanly. 
 
 Olvi). Surly, imtractable, snarling brute ! He ! 
 a mastiff dog were as fit a thing to make a gallant 
 of. 
 
 Mom. Ay, a goat, or monkey, were fitter for thee. 
 
 {Aside. 
 
 Fid. I must confess, for my part, though my 
 rival, I cannot but say he has a manly handsome- 
 ness in's face and mien. 
 
 Oliv. So has a Saracen in the sign. 
 
 Fid. Is proper, and well made. 
 
 Olvo. As a drayman. 
 
 Fid. Has wit. 
 
 Oliv. He rails at all mankind. 
 
 Fid. And undoubted courage. 
 
 OU/i). Like the hangman's ; can murder a man 
 when his hands are tied. He has cruelty indeed ; 
 which is no more courage, than his railing is 
 wit. 
 
 Man. Thus women, and men like women, are 
 too hard for us, when they think we do not hear 
 'em : and reputation, like other mistresses, is never 
 true to a man in his absence. {Aside. 
 
 Fid. He is — 
 
 Oliv. Prithee, no more of him : I thought I had 
 satisfied you enough before, that he could never be 
 a rival for you to apprehend. And you need not 
 K2 
 
132 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 be more assured of my aversion to him, than by 
 the last testimony of my love to you ; which I am 
 ready to give you. Come, my soul, this way. 
 
 [_PUUS FiDELTA. 
 
 Fid. But, madam, what could make you dissem- 
 ble love to him, when 'twas so hard a thing for 
 you; and flatter his love to you ? 
 
 OHv. That which makes all the world flatter 
 and dissemble, 'twas his money : I had a real pas- 
 sion for that. Yet I loved not that so well, as for 
 it to take him ; for as soon as I had his money I 
 hastened his departure like a wife, who when she 
 has made the most of a dying husband's breath, 
 pulls away his pillow. 
 
 Mar.. Damned money ! its master's potent rival 
 still ; and like a saucy pimp, corrupts itself; the 
 mistress it procures for us. C-^'jidc. 
 
 Oliv. But I did not think with you, my life, to 
 pass my time in talking. Come hither, come ; 
 yet stay, till I have locked a door in the other 
 room, that may chance to let us in some interrup- 
 tion ; whict reciting poets or losing gamesters 
 fear not more than I at this time do. [Exa. 
 
 Fid. Well, 1 hope you are now satisfled, sir, and 
 will be gone to think of your revenge .' 
 
 Man. No, I am not satisfied, and must stay to 
 be revenged. 
 
 Fid. How, sir ? You'll use no violence to her, 
 I hope, and forfeit your own life, to take away 
 hers ? that were no revenge. 
 
 Man. No, no, you need not fear : my revenge 
 shall only be upon her honour, not her life. 
 
 Fid. How, sir ? her honour .' O heavens ! con- 
 sider, sir, she has no honour. D'ye call that re- 
 venge ? can you think of suc'n a thing ? But 
 reflect, sir, how she hates and loathes you. 
 
 Man. Yes, so much she hates me, that it would 
 be a revenge sufficient to make her accessary to 
 my pleasure, and then let her know it. 
 
 Fid. No, sir, no ; to be revenged on her now, 
 were to disappoint her. Pray, sir, let us begone. 
 
 IPulls Manlv. 
 
 Man. Hold off ! What, you are my rival then ! 
 and therefore you shall stay, and keep the door for 
 me, whilst I go in for you ; but when I'm gone, if 
 you dare to stir off from this very board, or breathe 
 the least murmuring accent, I'll cut her throat 
 first ; and if you love her, you will not venture her 
 life. — Nay, then I'll cut your throat too ; and I 
 know you love your own life at least. 
 
 Fid. But, sir ; good sir. 
 
 Man. Not a word more, lest I begin my re- 
 venge on her by killing you. 
 
 Fid. But are you sure 'tis revenge that makes you 
 do this ? how can it be ? 
 
 Man. Whist ! 
 
 Fid. 'Tis a strange revenge, indeed. 
 
 Man. If you make me stay, I shall keep my 
 word, and begin with you. No more. 
 
 lExit at the same door Olivia went out by. 
 
 Fid. Oheavens ! is there not punishment enough 
 In loving well, if you will have't a crime, 
 But you must add fresh torments daily to't, 
 And punish us like peevish rivals still, 
 Because we fain would find a heaven here ? 
 But did there never any love tike me, 
 That untried tortures you must find me out .' 
 Others at worst, you force to kill themselves ; 
 But I must be self-murderess of my love. 
 Yet will not grant me power to end my life, 
 
 My cruel life ; for when a lover's hopes 
 Are dead and gone, hfe is unmerciful. 
 
 IBiti down and uieepg^ 
 
 Re-enter Manly. 
 
 Man. I have thought better pn't : I must not 
 discover myself now I am without witnesses ; for 
 if I barely should publish it, she would deny it 
 with as much impudence, as she would act it again 
 with this young fellow here. — Where are you .' 
 
 Fid. Here — oh- — now I suppose we may be gone. 
 
 Man. I will ; but not you. You must stay and 
 act the second part of a lover, that is, talk kind- 
 ness to her. 
 
 Fid. Not I, sir. 
 
 Man. No disputing, sir, you must.; tis neces- 
 sary to my design of coming again to-morrow 
 night. 
 
 Fid. What, can you come again then hither .' 
 
 Man. Yes ; and you must make the appoint- 
 ment, and an apology for your leaving her so soon ; 
 for I have said not a word to her ; but have kept 
 your counsel, as I expect you should do mine. Do 
 this faithfully, and I promise you here, you shall 
 run my fortune still, and we will never part as long 
 as we live ; but if you do not do it, expect not to 
 live. 
 
 Fid. 'Tis hard, sir; but such a consideration 
 will make it feasier. You won't forget your pro- 
 mise, sir ? 
 
 Man. No, by heavens. But I hear her coming. 
 
 [Exit. 
 He-enter Olivia. 
 
 Oliv. Where Is my life ? Run from me already ! 
 You do not love me, dearest ; nay, you are angry 
 with me, for you would not so much as speak a 
 kind word to me within : what was the reason ? 
 
 Fid. I was transported too much. 
 
 Olio. That's kind. — But come, my soul, what 
 make you here? Let us go in again; we may 
 be surprised in this room, 'tis so near the stairs. 
 
 Fid. No, we shall hear the better here, if any- 
 body should come up. 
 
 Oliv. Nay, I assure you, we shall be secure 
 enough within : come, come — 
 
 Fid. I am sick, and troubled with a sudden 
 dizziness ; and cannot stir yet. 
 
 Olio. Come, I have spirits within. 
 
 Fid. O ! don't you hear a noise, madam ? 
 
 Oliv. No, no ; there is none : come, come. 
 
 \Pull8 her. 
 
 Fid. Indeed there is ; and I love yon so much, I 
 must have a care of your honour, if you won't, 
 and go ; but to come to yon to-morrow night, if 
 you please. 
 
 Oliv. With all my soul. But you must not go 
 yet ; come, prithee. 
 
 ' Fid. Oh ! — I'm now sicker, and am afraid of 
 one of my fits. 
 
 Oliv. What fits ? 
 
 Fid. Of the falling sickness ; and I lie gene- 
 rally an hour in a trance : therefore pray consider 
 your honour for the sake of my love, and let me 
 go, that I may return to you often. 
 
 Oliv. But will you be sure then to come to- 
 morrow night ? 
 
 Fid. Yes. 
 
 Oliv. Swear. 
 
 Fid. By our past kindness ! 
 
 Oliv. Well, go your ways then, if you will, you , 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 1S3 
 
 naughty creature you. — lEmi Fidelia.] These 
 young lovers, with their fears and modesty, make 
 themselves as bad as old ones to us ; and I appre- 
 hend their bashfulness more than their tattling. 
 
 Re-enter Fidelia. 
 
 Fid. O madam, we're undone ! There was a 
 gentleman upon the stairs, coming upwith acandle, 
 which made me retire. Look you, here he comes ! 
 
 Re-enter Vernish, and his Servant with a tight. 
 
 Oliv. How, my husband ! Oh, undone in- 
 deed ! This way. ZBxit. 
 
 Ver, Ha! "5fou shall not escape me so, sir. 
 
 IStops Fidelia. 
 
 Fid. O heavens ! more fears, plagues, and tor- 
 ments yet in store ! lAside. 
 
 Ver. Come, sir, I guess what your business was 
 here, but this must be your business now. Draw. 
 
 \_Draws. 
 
 Fid. Sir— 
 
 Ver. No expostulations; I shall not care to hear 
 oft. Draw. 
 
 Fid. Good sir ! 
 
 Ver. How, you rascal ! not courage to draw ; 
 yet durst do me the greatest injury in the world .' 
 Thy cowardice shall not save thy life. 
 
 {^Offers to run at Fidelia. 
 
 Fid. O hold, sir, and send but your servant down, 
 and I'U satisfy you, sir, I could not injure you as 
 you imagine. 
 
 Ver. Leave the light and begone. — [Exit Ser- 
 vant.] Now, quickly, sir, what have you to say, 
 or — 
 
 Fid. I am a woman, sir, a very unfortunate 
 woman. 
 
 Ver. How ! a very handsome woman, I'm sure 
 then : here are witnesses oft too, I confess — 
 
 \_Pulh off her peruke and feels her breasts, 
 [Aside."] Well, I'm glad to find the tables turned ; 
 my wife is in more danger of cuckolding than I 
 was. 
 
 Fid. Now, sir, I hope you are so much a man 
 of honour, as to let me go, now I have satisfied 
 you, sir. 
 
 Ver. When you have satisfied me, madam, I 
 wUl. 
 
 Fid. I hope, sir, you are too much a gentleman 
 to urge those secrets from a woman which concern 
 her honour. You may guess my misfortune to be 
 love by my disguise : but a pair of breeches could 
 not wrong you, sir. 
 
 Ver. I may believe love has changed your out- 
 side, which could not wrong me ; but why did my 
 wife run away ? 
 
 Fid. I know not, sir ; perhaps because she 
 
 would not be forced to discover me to you, or to 
 guide me from your suspicions, that you might not 
 discover me yourself ; which ungentlemanlike cu- 
 riosity I hope you will cease to have, and let me 
 go. 
 
 Ver, Well, madam, if I must not know who you 
 are, 'twill suffice for me only to know certainly 
 what you are ; which you must not deny me. 
 Come, there is a bed within, the proper rack for 
 lovers ; and if you are a woman, there you can 
 keep no secrets ; you'll teU me there all unasked. 
 Come. [Pulls her. 
 
 Fid. Oh ! what d'ye mean ? Help ! oh ! 
 
 Ver, I'll show you : but 'tis in vain to cry out : 
 no one dares help you ; for I am lord here. 
 
 Fid. Tyrant here ! — But if you are master of 
 this house, which I have taken for a sanctuary, do 
 not violate it yourself. 
 
 Ver. No, I'll preserve you here, and nothing 
 shall hurt you, and will be as true to you as your 
 disguise ; but you must trust me then. Come, 
 come. [Pulls her. 
 
 Fid. Oh ! oh ! rather than you should drag me 
 to a death so horrid and so shameful, I'll die here 
 » thousand deaths. — But you do not look like a 
 ravisher, sir. 
 
 Ver. Nor you like one would put me to't : but 
 if you will — 
 
 Fid, Oh ! oh ! help ! help ! 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Ver, You saucy rascal, how durst you come in ? 
 When you heard a woman squeak, that should have 
 been your cue to shut the door. 
 
 Serv. I come, sir, to let you know, the alder- 
 man coming home immediately after you were at 
 his house, has sent his cashier with the moneyj 
 according to your note. 
 
 Ver. Damn his money I Money never came to 
 any, sure, unseasonably till now. Bid him stay. 
 
 Serv. He says, he cannot a moment. 
 
 Ver. Receive it you then. * 
 
 Serv. He says he must have your receipt for it ; 
 — he is in haste, for I hear him coming up, sir. 
 
 Ver. Damn him ! Help me in here then with 
 this dishonourer of my family. 
 
 Fid. Oh ! oh ! 
 
 Serv. You say she is a woman, sir. 
 
 Ver. No matter, sir : must you prate ? 
 
 Fid. Oh heavens ! is there — 
 
 [They thrust her in, and lock the door. 
 
 Ver. Stay there, my prisoner ; you have a short 
 reprieve. 
 
 I'll fetch the gold, and that she can't resist. 
 
 For with a full hand 'tis we ravish best. 
 
 [Exeui\t. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — Eliza's Lodgings, 
 Enter Olivia and Eliza. 
 Oliv. Ah, cousin ! nothing troubles me but that 
 
 I have given the malicious world its revenge, and 
 reason now to talk as freely of me as I used to do 
 of it. 
 
 Eliza. Faith, then, let not that trouble you ; for. 
 
 to be plain, cousin, the world cannot talk worse 
 of you than it did before. 
 
 Oliv. How, cousin ! I'd have you to know, before 
 this faux pas, this trip of mine, the world could 
 not talk of me. 
 
 Eliza. Only that you mind other people's actions 
 so much that you take no care of your own, but to 
 hide 'em; that, like » thief, because you know 
 
1S4 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 yourself most guilty, you impeach your fellow- 
 criminals first, to clear yourself. 
 
 OHv. O wicked world ! 
 
 Eliza. That you pretendan aversion to all man- 
 kind in public, only that their wives and mistresses 
 may not be jealous, and hinder you of their con- 
 versation in private. 
 
 OHv. Base world ! 
 
 Eliza. That abroad you fasten quarrels upon 
 innocent men for talking of you, only to bring 'em 
 to ask your pardon at home, and to become dear 
 fiends with them, who were hardly your acquaint- 
 ance before. 
 
 OHv. Abominable world ! 
 
 Eliza. That you condemn the obscenity of 
 modern plays, only that you may not be censured 
 for never missing the most obscene of the old ones. 
 
 OHv. Damned world ! 
 
 Eliza. That you deface the nudities of pictures, 
 and little statues, only because they are not real. 
 
 Oliv. O, fy ! fy ! fy ! hideous, hideous ! Cousin, 
 the obscenity of their censures makes me blush ! 
 
 Eliza. The truth of 'em, the naughty world 
 would say now. 
 
 Enter Lettice hastily. 
 
 Let. O, madam ! here is that gentleman coming 
 up who now you say is my master. 
 
 'Oliv. O, cousin ! whither shall I run ? pro- 
 tect me, or — 
 
 [Olivia runs away, and stands at a distance. 
 
 Enter Vebn[sh. 
 
 Ver. Nay, nay, come — ' 
 
 OHv. O, sir, forgive me ! 
 
 Ver. Yes, yes, I can forgive you being sdone in 
 the dark with a woman in man's clothes : but have 
 a care of a man in women's clothes. 
 
 OHv. What does he mean ? he dissembles only 
 to get me into his power : or has my dear friend 
 made him believe he was a woman ? My husband 
 may be deceived by him, but I'm sure I was not. 
 
 ^Aside. 
 
 Ver. Come, come, you need not have lain out of 
 your house for this ; but perhaps you were afraid, 
 when 1 was warm with suspicions, you must have 
 discovered who she was. — And, prithee, may I not 
 know it? 
 
 Oliv. She was ! — [Asidel I hope he has been 
 deceived : and since my lover has played the card, 
 I must not renounce. 
 
 Ver. Come, what's the matter with thee ? If I 
 must not know who she is, I'm satisfied without. 
 Come hither. 
 
 Oliv. Sure you do know her ; she has told you 
 herself, I suppose. 
 
 Ver. No, I might have known her better but 
 that I was interrupted by the goldsmith, you know, 
 and was forced to lock her into your chamber, to 
 keep her from his sight ; but, when I returned, I 
 found she was got away by tying the window-cur- 
 tains to the balcony, by which she slid down into 
 the street. For, you must know, I jested with her, 
 and made her believe I'd ravish herj which she 
 apprehended, it seems, in earnest. 
 
 Oliv. Then she got from you ? 
 
 Ver. Yes. 
 
 OHv. And is quite gone ? 
 
 Ver. Yes. 
 
 Olii' Vm alad on't — otherwise you had ravished 
 
 her, sir .' But how durst you go so far, as to make 
 her believe you would ravish her ? let me under, 
 stand that, sir. What ! there's guilt in your face, . 
 you blush too : nay, then you did ravish her, you 
 did, you base fellow ! What, ravish a woman in 
 the first month of our marriage ! 'tis a double 
 injury to me, thou base, ungrateful man 1 wrong 
 my bed already, villain ! I could tear out those 
 false eyes, barbarous, unworthy wretch ! 
 
 Eliza. So, so ! — 
 
 Ver. Prithee hear, my dear. 
 
 Oliv. I will never hear you, my plague, my 
 torment ! 
 
 Ver. I swear — prithee, hear me. 
 
 Oliv. I have heard already too many of your 
 false oaths and vows, especially your last in the 
 church. O wicked man ! and wretched woman 
 that I was ! I wish I had then sunk down into a 
 grave, rather than to have given you my hand, to 
 ^ led to your loathsome bed. Oh — oh — 
 
 [Pretends to weep- 
 
 Ver. So, very fine! just a marriage-quarrel! 
 which though it generally begins by the wife's 
 fault, yet, in the conclusion, it becomes the hus- 
 band's ; and whosoever offends at first, he only is 
 sure to ask pardon at last. My dear — 
 
 Oliv. My devil ! — 
 
 Ver. Come, prithee be appeased, and go home ; 
 I have bespoken our supper betimes : for 1 could 
 not eat till I found you. Go, I'll give you all kind 
 of satisfactions; and one, which uses to be a recon- 
 ciling one, two hundred of those guineas I received 
 last night, to do what you will with. 
 
 Oliv. What, would you pay me for being your 
 bawd? 
 
 Ver. Nay, prithee no more ; go, and I'll 
 thoroughly satisfy you when I corae, home ; and 
 then, too, we will have a fit of laughter at Manly, 
 whom I am going to find at the Cock in Bow- 
 street, where I hear he dined. Go, dearest, go 
 home. 
 
 Eliza, A very pretty turn, indeed, this ! iAside. 
 
 Ver. Now, cousin, since by my wife I have that 
 honour and privilege of calling you so, I have 
 something to beg of you too ; which is not to take 
 notice of our marriage to any whatever yet a while, 
 for some reasons very important to me. And, next, 
 that you will do my wife the honour to go home 
 with her ; and me the favour, to use that power 
 you have with her, in our reconcilement. 
 
 Eliza. That I dare promise, sir, will be no hard 
 
 matter. Your servant [Exit Vkrnish.] — Well, 
 
 cousin, this, I confess, was reasonable hypocrisy ; 
 you were the better for't. 
 
 Oliv, What hypocrisy ? 
 
 Eliza. Why, this last deceit of your husband 
 was lawful, since in your own defence. 
 
 Oliv. What deceit ? I'd have you to know I 
 never deceived my husband. 
 
 Eliza. You do not understand me, sure ; I say, 
 this was an honest come-off, and a good one. But 
 'twas a sign your gallant had had enough of your 
 conversation, since he could so dexterously cheat 
 your husband in passing for a woman. 
 
 Oliv. What d'ye mean, once more, with my gal- 
 lant, and passing for a woman ? 
 
 Eliza. What do you mean ? you see your hus- 
 band took him for a woman. 
 
 OHv. Whom ? 
 
 Eliza. Heyday I why, the man he found you wHh 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 135 
 
 for whom last night you were so much afraid j and 
 who you told me — 
 
 Oliv. Lord, you rave sure ! 
 
 Eliza. Why, did not you tell me last night — : 
 
 Oliv. I know not what I might tell you last 
 night, in a fright, 
 
 Eliasa. Ay, what was that fright for ? for a wo- 
 man ? besides, were you not afraid to see your 
 husband just now ? I warrant only for having been 
 found with a woman ! Nay, did you not just now, 
 too, own your false step, or trip, as you called it ? 
 which was with a woman too ! fj, this fooling is so 
 insipid, 'tis offensive ! 
 
 Oliv. And fooling with my honour will be more 
 offensive. Did you not hear my husband say he 
 found me with a woman in man's clothes ?. and d'ye 
 think he does not know a man from a woman ? 
 
 Eliza. Not so well, I'm sure, as you do ; there- 
 fore I'd rather take your word. 
 
 Oliv. What, you grow scurrilous, and are, I find, 
 more censorious than the world ! 1 must have a 
 care of you, I see. 
 
 Eliza. No, you need not fear yet, I'll keep your 
 secret. 
 
 Oliv. My secret ! I'd have you to know, I have 
 no ne;ed of confidants, though you value yourself 
 upon being a good one. 
 
 Eliza. O admirable confidence ! you show more 
 in denying your wickedness, than other people in 
 glorying in't. 
 
 Oliv. Confidence, to me ! to me such language ! 
 
 nay, then I'll never see your face again \_Aside.'\ 
 
 I'll quarrel with her, that people may never believe 
 I was in her power ; but take for malice all the 
 truth she may speak against me. — \_Aloud.'\ Lettice, 
 where are you ? Let us be gone from this censori- 
 ous ill woman. 
 
 Eliza. [Aside.'\ Nay, thou shalt stay a little, to 
 
 damn thyself quite [Aloud.'] One word first, 
 
 pray, madam ; can you swear that whom your 
 husband found you with — 
 
 Oliv. Swear ! ay, that whosoever 'twas that stole 
 up, unknown, into my room, when 'twas dark, I 
 know not, whether man or woman, by heavens, by 
 all that's good ; or, may I never more have joys 
 here, or in the other world! Nay, may I eternally — 
 
 Eliza. Be damned. So, so, you are damned 
 enough already by your oaths ; and I enough con- 
 firmed, and now you may please to be gone. Yet 
 take this advice with you, in this plain-dealing 
 age, to leave off forswearing yourself; for when 
 people hardly think the better of a woman for her 
 real modesty, why should you put that great con- 
 straint upon yourself to feign it ? 
 
 Oliv. O hideous, hideous advice ! let us go out 
 of the hearing of it. She will spoil us, Lettice. 
 
 [Exeunt Olivia and Lbttice at one dooTt EuzA at the 
 other. 
 
 SCENE 11.— The Cock in Jioui-street.— A Table 
 
 and Bottles, 
 
 Enter Manly and Fidelia. 
 
 Man. How ! saved her honour by making her 
 husband believe you were a woman 1 'Twas well, 
 but hard enough to do, sure. 
 
 Fid. We were interrupted before he could con- 
 tradict me. 
 
 Man. But can't you tell me, d'ye say, what kind 
 of man he was ? 
 
 Fid. I was so frightened, I confess, I can give 
 no other account of him, but that he was pretty tall, 
 round-faced, and one, I'm sure, I ne'er had seen 
 before. 
 
 Man. But she, you say, made you swear to re- 
 turn to-night .' 
 
 Fid. But I have since sworn, never to go near 
 her again ; for the husband would murder me, or 
 worse, if he caught me again. 
 
 Man. No, I will go with you, and defend you 
 to-night, and then I'll swear, too, never to go near 
 her again. 
 
 Fid. Nay, indeed, sir, I will not go, to be acces- 
 sary to your death too. Besides, what should you 
 go again, sir, for .' 
 
 Man. No dispating, or advice, sir, you have 
 reason to know I am unalterable. Go therefore 
 presently, and write her a note, to inquire if her 
 assignation with you holds ; and if not to be at her 
 own house, where else ; and he importunate to gain 
 admittance to her to-night. Let your messenger, 
 ere he deliver your letter, inquire first if her hus- 
 band be gone out. Go, 'tis now almost six of the 
 clock ; 1 expect you back here before seven, with 
 leave to see her then. Go, do this dextrously, and 
 expect the performance of my last night's promise, 
 never to part with you. 
 
 Fid. Ay, sir ; but will you be sure to remember 
 that .' 
 
 Man. Did I ever break my word ? Go, no 
 more replies, or doubts. [Exit Fidelia. 
 
 Enter Freeman. 
 Where hast thou been .' 
 
 Free. In the next room with my lord Plausible 
 and Novel. 
 
 Man. Ay, we came hither, because 'twas a pri- 
 vate house ; but with thee indeed no house can be 
 private, for thou hast that pretty quality of the 
 familiar fops of the town, who, in an eating-house, 
 always keep company with all people in't but 
 those they came with. 
 
 Free. I went into their room, but to keep them, 
 and my own fool the squire, out of your room ; but 
 you shall be peevish now, because you have no 
 money. But why the devil won't you write to 
 those we were speaking of .' Since your modesty, 
 or your spirit, will not suffer you to speak to 'em, 
 to lend you money, why won't you try 'em at last 
 that way ? 
 
 Man. Because I know 'em already, and can bear 
 want better than denials, nay, than obligations. 
 
 Free. Deny you ! they cannot. All of 'em have 
 been your intimate friends. 
 
 Man. No, they have been people only I have 
 obliged particularly. 
 
 Free. Very well ; therefore you ought to go to 
 'em the rather, sure. 
 
 Man. No, no. Those yon have obliged most, 
 most certainly avoid you, when you can oblige 'em 
 no longer ; and they take your visits like so many 
 duns. Friends, like mistresses, are avoided for 
 obligations past. 
 
 Free. Pshaw! but most of 'em are your rela- 
 tions J men of great fortune and honour. 
 
 Man. Yes ; but relations have so much honour 
 as to think poverty taints the blood, and disown 
 their wanting kindred ; believing, I suppose, that 
 as riches at first make a gentleman, the want of 
 'em degrades him. But damn 'em ! now I am 
 
136 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 ACT V, 
 
 poor, I'll anticipate their contempt, and disown 
 tliem. 
 
 Free. But you liave many a female acquaintance 
 wliom you have been liberal to, who may have a 
 heart to refund to yon a little, if you would ask it : 
 they are not all Olivias. 
 
 Man. Damn thee ! how couldst thou think of 
 such a thing ? I would as soon rob my footman of 
 his wages. Besides, 'twere in vain too : for a 
 wench is like a box in an ordinary, receives all 
 people's money easily) but there is no getting, nay, 
 shaking any out again ; and he that fills it is sure 
 never to keep the key. 
 
 F,ree. Well, but noble captain, would you make 
 me believe that you, who know half the town, have 
 BO many friends, and have obliged so many, can't 
 borrow fifty or a hundred pounds ? 
 
 Man. Why, noble lieutenant, you who know all 
 the town, and call all you know friends, methinks 
 should not wonder at it ; since you find ingratitude 
 too. For how many lords' families (though de- 
 scended from blacksmiths or tinkers; hast thou 
 called great and illustrious ? how many ill tables 
 called good eating ? how many noisy coxcombs 
 wits ? how many pert eoaching cowards stout ? how 
 many tawdry affected rogues well-dressed ? how 
 many perukes admired .■' and how many ill verses 
 applauded .' and yet canst not borrow a shilling. 
 Dost thou expect I, who always spoke truth, 
 should .' 
 
 Free. Nay, now you think you have paid me ; 
 but hark you, captain, I have heard of a thing 
 called grinning honour, but never of starving hon- 
 our. 
 
 Man. Well, but it ha? been the fate of some 
 brave men : and if they won't give me a ship again, 
 I can go starve anywhere with a musket on my 
 shoulder. 
 
 Free. Give you a ship! why, you will not solicit 
 it. 
 
 Man. If I have not solicited it by my services, 
 I know no other way. 
 
 Free. Your servant, sir ; nay, then I'm satisfied, 
 I must solicit my widow the closer, and run the 
 desperate fortune of matrimony on shore. i,Exit. 
 
 Ertter Vbrnish. 
 
 Man. How ! — Nay, here is a friend indeed ; and 
 he that has him in his arms ean know no wants. 
 
 [_Embraces Vernish. 
 
 Ver. Dear sir ! and he that is in your arms is 
 secure from all fears whatever ; nay, our nation is 
 secure by your defeat at sea, and the Dutch that 
 fought against you have proved enemies to them- 
 selves only in bringing you back to us. 
 
 Man. Fy I fy ! this from a friend .' and yet 
 from any other 'twere insufferable : I thought I 
 should never have taken anything ill from you. 
 
 Ver. A friend's privilege is to speak his mind, 
 though it be taken ill. 
 
 Man. But your tongue need not tell me you 
 think too well of me ; I have found it from your 
 heart, which spoke in actions, your unalterable 
 heart. But Olivia is false, my friend, which I 
 suppose is no news to you. 
 
 Ver. He's in the right on't. lAside. 
 
 Man, But couldst thou not keep her true to me.' 
 
 Ver. Not for my heart, sir. 
 
 Man, But could you not perceive it at all before 
 I went ? could she so deceive us both .' 
 
 Ver. 1 must confess, the first time I knew it was 
 three days after your departure, when she received 
 the money you had left in Lombard-street in her 
 name ; and her tears did not hinder her, it seems, 
 from counting that. You would trust her with all, 
 like a true generous lover. 
 
 Man. A^d she like a mean jilting^ 
 
 Ver. Traitorous — 
 
 Man. Base — 
 
 Ver. Damned — 
 
 Man. Covetous — 
 
 Ver. Mercenary whore. — \_Aside.'\ I can hardly 
 hold from laughing. 
 
 Man. Ay, a mercenary whore indeed ; for she 
 made me pay her before I lay with her. 
 
 Ver. How ! — Why, have you lain with her ? 
 
 Man. Ay, ay. 
 
 Ver. Nay, she deserves you should report it at 
 least, though you have not. 
 
 Man. Report it 1 by Heaven, 'tis true ! 
 
 Ver. How ! sure not. 
 
 Man. I do not use to lie, nor you to doubt me. 
 
 Ver. When.' 
 
 Man. Last night, about seven or eight of the 
 ■clock. 
 
 Ver. Ha ! — {Aside.'] Now I remember, I thongbt 
 she spake as if she expected some other rather than 
 me. A confounded whore, indeed 1 
 
 Man. But what, thou wonderest at itl nay, 
 you seem to be angry too. 
 
 Ver. I cannot but be enraged against her, for 
 her usage of you : damned infamous, common jade ! 
 
 Man. Nay, her cuckold, who first cuckolded me 
 in my money, shall not laugh all himself ; we will 
 do him reason, shan't we ? 
 
 Ver. Ay, ay. 
 
 Man. But thou dost not, for so great a friend, 
 take pleasure enough in your friend's revenge, me- 
 thinks. 
 
 Ver. Yes, yes ; I'm glad to know it, since you 
 have lain with lier. 
 
 Man. Thou canst not tell who that rascal, her 
 cuckold, is .' 
 
 Ver. No. 
 
 Man. She would keep it from you, I suppose. 
 
 Ver. Yes, yes. 
 
 Man. Thou wouldst laugh, if thon knewest but 
 all the circumstances of my having her. Come, 
 I'll tell thee. 
 
 Ver. Damn her ! I care not to hear any more 
 of her. 
 
 Man. Faith, thou shalt. You must know — 
 
 Re-enter Frbbman hackwards. endeavouring to kerp out 
 Novel, Lord Plausible, Jerry, and Oldfox, who all 
 press upon him. 
 
 Free, I tell you he has a wench with him, and 
 would be private. 
 
 Man. Damn 'era ! a man can't open a bottle in 
 these eating-houses, but presently you have these 
 impudent, intruding, buzzing files and insects in 
 your glass, — Well, I'll tell thee all anon. In the 
 mean time prithee go to her, but not from me, and 
 try if you can get her to lend me but a hundred 
 pounds of my money, to supply my present wants ; 
 for I suppose there is no recovering any of it by 
 law. 
 
 Ver. Not any: think not of it. Nor" by this 
 way neither. 
 
 Man. Go try, at least. 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 137 
 
 Ver. I'll go j bvft I can satisfy you beforehand 
 it will be to no purpose. You'll no more find a 
 refunding wench — 
 
 Man. Than a refunding lawyer; indeed theii 
 fees alike scarce ever return. However, try her ; 
 put it to her. 
 
 Ver. Ay, ay, I'll try her ; put it to her home 
 with a vengeance. lExU, 
 
 Nov. Nay, you shall be our judge, Manly. — 
 Come, major, I'll speak it to your teeth ; if people 
 provoke me to say bitter things to their faces, they 
 must take what follows ; though, like my lord 
 Plausible, I'd rather do't civilly behind their backs. 
 
 Man. Nay, thou art a dangerous rogue, I've 
 heard, behind a man's back. 
 
 Plans. You wrong him sure, noble captain ; he 
 would do a man no more hai'm behind his back 
 than to his face. 
 
 Free. I am of my lord's mind. 
 
 Man. Yes, a fool, like a coward, is the more to 
 be feared behind a man's back more than a witty 
 man ; for, as a coward is more bloody than a brave 
 man, a fool is more malicious than a man of wit. 
 
 Nov. A fool, tar, — a fool ! nay, thou art a brave 
 sea-judge of wit ! a fool ! Prithee when did you 
 ever find me want something to say, as you do 
 often ? 
 
 Man, Nay, I confess thou art always talking, 
 roaring, or making a noise ; that I'll say for thee. 
 
 Nm. Well, and is talking a sign of a fool ? 
 
 Man. Yes, always talking, especially too if it be 
 loud and fast, is the sign of a fool. 
 
 Nov. Pshaw ! talking is hke fencing, the quicker 
 the better ; run 'em down, run 'em down, no matter 
 for parrying ; push on still, sa, sa, sa ! No matter 
 whether you argue in form, push in guard or no. 
 
 Man. Or hit or no ; I think thou always talkest 
 without thinking, Novel. 
 
 Nov. Ay, ay ; studied play's the worse, to follow 
 the allegory, as the old pedant says. 
 
 Oid. A young fop ! 
 
 Man. I ever thought the man of most wit had 
 been like him of most money, who has no vanity 
 in showing it everywhere, whilst the beggarly pusher 
 of his fortune has all he has about him still only to 
 show. 
 
 Nov. Well, sir, and make a very prefty show in 
 the world, let me tell you ; nay, a better than your 
 close hunks. A pox, give me ready money in play ! 
 what care I for a man's reputation ? what are we 
 the better for your substantial thrifty curmudgeon 
 in wit, sir ? 
 
 Ola. Thou art a profuse young rogue mdeed. 
 
 Nov. So much for talking, which, I think, I 
 have proved a mark of wit ; and so is railing, roar- 
 ing, and making a noise ; for railing is satire, you 
 know ; and roaring and making a noise, humour. 
 
 Re-enter Fidelia ; ghe takes Manly asidSf and shows 
 him a paper. 
 
 Fid. The hour is betwixt seven and eight exactly : 
 'tis now half an hour after six. 
 
 Man. Well, go then to the Piazza, and wait for 
 me : as soon as it is quite dark, I'll be with you. 
 I must stay here yet a while for my friend. — [_Exit 
 Fidelia.] But is railing satire, Novel .' 
 
 Free. And roaring and making a noise, humour ? 
 
 Nov, What, won't you confess there's humour 
 in roaring and making a noise ? 
 
 Free. No. 
 
 Nov, Nor in cutting napkins and hangings ? 
 
 Man. No, sure. 
 
 Nov. DuU fops ! 
 
 Old. O rogue, rogue, insipid rogue !-^Nay, gen- 
 tlemen, allow him those things for wit | for his 
 parts lie only that way. 
 
 Nov. Peace, old fool ! I wonder not at thee ; 
 but that young fellows should be so dull, as to say 
 there's no humour in making a noise, and breaking 
 windows ! I tell you there's wit and humour too in 
 both j and a wit is as well known by his frolic as by 
 his smile. 
 
 Old. Pure rogue ! there's your modern wit for 
 you ! Wit and humour in breaking of windows ! 
 there's mischief, if you will, but no wit or hu- 
 mour. 
 
 Nov. Prithee, prithee, peace, old fool ! I tell 
 you, where there's mischief, there's wit. Don't 
 we esteem the monkey a wit amongst beasts, only 
 because he's mischievous ? and, let me tell you, 
 as good-nature is a sign of a fool, being mischievous 
 is a sign of a wit. 
 
 Old. O rogue, rogue ! pretend to be a wit, by 
 doing mischief and railing ! 
 
 Nov. Why, thou, old fool, hast no other pre- 
 tence to the name of a wit, but by railing at new 
 plays ! 
 
 Old. Thou, by railing at that facetious noble way 
 of wit, quibbling ? 
 
 Nov. Thou callest thy dulness gravity j and 
 thy dozing, thinking. 
 
 Old, You, sir, your dulness, spleen ; and you 
 talk much and say nothing. 
 
 Nov, Thou readest much, and understandest 
 nothing, sir. 
 
 Old, You laugh loud, and break no jest. 
 
 Nov. You rail, and nobody hangs himself j and 
 thou hast nothing of the satire but in thy face. 
 
 Old. And you have no jest, but your face, sir. 
 
 Nov. Thou art an illiterate pedant. 
 
 Old. Thou art a fool with a bad memory. 
 
 Man. Come, a pox on you botli ! you have done 
 like wits now : for you wits, when you quarrel, 
 never give over till ye prove one another fools. 
 
 Nov. And you fools have never any occasion of 
 laughing at us wits but when we quarrel. There- 
 fore let us be friends, Oldfox. 
 
 Man. They are such wits as thou art, who make 
 the name of a wit as scandalous as that of bully ; 
 and signify a loud- laughing, talking, incorrigible 
 coxcomb, as bully a roaring hardened coward. 
 
 Free, And would have his noise and laughter 
 pass for wit, as t'other his huffing and blustering 
 for courage. 
 
 Re-enter A^ernish. 
 
 Man. Gentlemen, with your leave, here is one I 
 
 would speak with ; and 1 have nothing to say to you. 
 
 \^Puts all out of the room except Vbrnjsh. 
 
 Ver. I told you 'twas in vain to think of getting 
 money out of her. She says, if a shilling would 
 do't, she would not save you from starving or 
 hanging, or what you would think worse, begging 
 or flattering ; and rails so at you, one would net 
 think you had lain with her. 
 
 Man. O, friend, never trust for that matter a 
 woman's railing ; for she is no less a dissembler in 
 her hatred than her love j and as her fondness of 
 her husband is a sign he's a cuckold, her railing at 
 another man is a sign she lies with him. 
 
138 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 Ver. He's in the right on't : I know not what to 
 trust to. iAtide. 
 
 Man. But you did not take any notice of it to 
 her, I hope ? 
 
 Ver. So ! — Sure he is afraid I should have dis- 
 proved him hy an inquiry of her : all may be well 
 yet. ' [_A8ide. 
 
 Man. What hast thou in thy head that makes 
 thee seem so unquiet ? 
 
 Ver. Only this base impudent woman's false- 
 ness ; I cannot put her out of my head, 
 
 Man. O, my dear friend, be not you too sensi- 
 ble of my wrongs ; for then I shall feel 'em too 
 with more pain, and think 'em unsufFerable. 
 Damn her, her money, and that ill-natured whore 
 too, Fortune herself ! But if thou wouldst ease a 
 little my present trouble, prithee go borrow me 
 somewhere else some money. I can trouble thee. 
 
 Ver. You trouble me. indeed, most sensibly, 
 when you command me anything I cannot do. I 
 have lately lost a great deal of money at play, more 
 than I can yet pay ; so that not only my money, 
 but my credit too is gone, and know not where to 
 borrow ; but could rob a church for you. — [Aside.l 
 Yet would rather end your wants by cutting your 
 throat. 
 
 Man. Nay, then I doubly feel my poverty, smce 
 I'm incapable of supplying thee. iEmiraces Mm. 
 
 Ver. But, methinks, she that granted you the 
 last favour, (as they call it,) should not deny yoii 
 anything — 
 
 Nov. [Looking in.] Hey, tarpaulin, have you 
 done ? [^Retires again. 
 
 Ver. I understand not tliat point of kindness, \ 
 confess. 
 
 Man. No, thou dost not understand it, and 1 
 have not time to let you know all now ; for these 
 fools, you see, will interupt us : but anon, at 
 supper, we'll laugh at leisure together at Olivia's 
 cuckold, who took a young fellow, that goes between 
 his wife and me, for a woman. 
 
 Ver. Ha! 
 
 Man. Senseless easy rascal! 'twas no wonder 
 she chose him for a husband ; but she thought 
 him, I thank her, fitter than me, for that blind 
 bearing office. 
 
 Ver. I could not be deceived in that long 
 woman's hair tied up behind, nor those infallible 
 proofs, her pouting swelling breasts i 1 have 
 handled too many sure not to know 'era. iAside. 
 
 Man. What, you wonder the fellow oduld be 
 such a blind coxcomb ? 
 
 Ver. Yes, yes — 
 
 Nov. [Looking in again.'] Nay, prithee, come 
 to us, Manly. Gad, all the fine things one says in 
 their company, are lost without thee. 
 
 Man. Away, fop ! I'mbusy yet. [Novel rertj^s.] 
 You see we cannot talk here at our ease ; beside?, 
 I must be gone immediately, in order to meeting 
 with Olivia again to-night. 
 
 Ver. To-night ! it cannot be, sure— 
 
 Man. I had an appointment just now from her. 
 
 Ver. For what time .' 
 
 Man. At half an hour after seven precisely. 
 
 Ver. Don'tyou apprehend the husband ? 
 
 Man. He ! sniveling gull ! he a thing to be 
 feared ! a husband ! the tamest of creatures ! 
 
 Ver. Very fine ! [Aside. 
 
 Man. But, prithee, in t'ne mean time, go try to 
 get me some money. Tliough thou art too modest 
 
 to borrow for thyself, thou canst do anything for 
 me, I know. Go ; for I must be gone to Olivia. 
 Go, and meet me here anon. — Freeman, where are 
 you } [Exit. 
 
 Ver. Ay, I'll meet with you, I warrant ; but it 
 shall be at Olivia's. Sure, it cannot be : she denies 
 it so calmly, and with that honest modest assurance, 
 it cannot be true — and he does not use to lie — but 
 belying a woman when she won't be kind, is the 
 only lie a brave man will least scruple. But then 
 the woman in man's clothes, whom he calls a man 
 — well, but by her breasts I know her to beawoman 
 
 but then again, his appointment from her, to 
 
 meet with him to-night ! I am distracted more 
 with doubt than jealousy. Well, I have no way to 
 disabuse or revenge myself, but by going home im- 
 mediately, putting on a riding-suit, and pretending 
 to my wife the same business which carried me out 
 of town last, requires me again to go post to Oxford 
 to-night. Then, if the appointment he boasts of 
 be ,true, it's sure to hold, and I shall have an oppor- 
 tunity either of clearing her, or revenging myself on 
 both. Perhaps she is his wench, of an old date, 
 and I am his cully, whilst I think him mine ; and 
 he has seemed to make his wench rich, only that 
 I might take her off his hands. Or if he has but 
 lately lain with her, he must needs discover by her 
 my treachery to him ; which I'm sure he will re- 
 venge with my death, and which I must prevent 
 with his, if it were only but for fear of his too just 
 reproaches ; for I must confess, I never had till 
 now any excuse but that of interest, for doing ill to 
 him. lExH. 
 
 Jte-enter Manlv atul Frebman. 
 
 Man. Come hither ; only, I say, he sure you 
 mistake not the time. You know the house exactly 
 where Olivia lodges, 'tis just hard by. 
 
 Free. Yes, yes. 
 
 Man. Well then, bring 'em all, I say, thither, 
 and all you know that may be then in the house ; 
 for the more witnesses I have of her infamy, the 
 greater will be my revenge : and be sure you cume 
 straight up to her chamber without more ado. Here, 
 take the watch ; you see 'tis above a quarter past 
 Seven ; be there in half an hour exactly. 
 
 Free. You need not doubt my diligence or dex- 
 terity ; I ajn an old Scourer, and can naturally beat 
 Up a wench's quarters that won't be civil. Shan't 
 we break her windows too ? 
 
 Ma?i. No, no ; be punctual only, [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE III. — A Boom in the same. 
 
 Enter Widow Blackacre, a«d two Knights of the Post, 
 a Waiter fallowing viith uHne. 
 
 Wid. Sweetheart, are you sure the door was 
 shut close, that none of those roysters saw us 
 come ? 
 
 Wait. Yes, mistress ; and you shall have apri- 
 vater room above, instantly. [.Exit. 
 
 Wid. You are safe enough, gentlemen ; for I 
 have been private in this house ere now, upon 
 other occasions, when I was something younger. 
 Come, gentlemen, in short, I leave my business to 
 your care and fidelity : and so, here's to you. 
 
 1 Knight. We are ungrateful rogues if we should 
 not be honest to you ; for we have had a great deal 
 of your money. 
 
SCENi; III. 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 13l> 
 
 Wid. And you have done me many a good job 
 for't ; and so, here's to you again. 
 
 2 Knight. Why, we have been perjured but six 
 times for you. 
 
 1 Knight. Forged but four deeds, with your hus- 
 band's last deed of gift. 
 
 2 Knight. And but tliree wills. 
 
 1 Knight. And counterfeited hands and seals to 
 some six bonds ; I thinlj that's all, brother ? 
 
 Wa. Ay, that's aU, gentlemen ; and so, here's 
 to you again. 
 
 2 Knight. Nay, 'twould do one's heart good to 
 be forsworn for you. You have a conscience in 
 your ways, and pay us well, 
 
 1 Knight. You are in the right on't, brother ; 
 one would be damned for her with all one's heart. 
 
 2 Knight. But there are rogues, who make us 
 forsworn for 'era ; and when we come to be paid, 
 they'll be forsworn too, and not pay us our wages, 
 which they promised with oaths sufficient. 
 
 1 Knight. Ay, a great lawyer that shall be name- 
 less bilked me too. 
 
 Wid. That was hard, methinks, that a lawyer 
 should use gentlemen witnesses no better. 
 
 2 Kmght. A lawyer ! d'ye wonder 3, lawyer 
 should do't 1 I was bilked by a reverend divine, 
 that preaches twice on Sundays, and prays half an 
 hour still before dinner. 
 
 Wid. How ! a conscientious divine and not pay 
 people for damning themselves ! sure then, for all 
 his talking, he does not believe damnation. But, 
 come, to our business. Pray be sure to imitate 
 exactly the flourish at the end of this name. 
 
 [Pulls out a deed or two, 
 
 1 Knight. 0, he's the best in England at un- 
 tangling a flourish, madam. 
 
 Wid. And let not the seal be a jot bigger. Ob- 
 serve well the dash too, at the end of this name. 
 
 2 Knight. I warrant you, madam. 
 
 Wid. Well, these and many other shifts, poor 
 widows are put to sometimes ; for everybody would 
 be riding a widow, as they say, and breaking into 
 her jointure. They think marrying a widow an 
 easy business, like leaping the hedge where another 
 has gone over before. A widow is a mere gap, a 
 gap with them. 
 
 Enter Major Oldfox, wU% two Waiters. The ICnights of 
 the Post huddle up the writings. 
 
 What, he here ! Go then, go my hearts, you have 
 your instructions. [Exeunt Knights of the Post. 
 
 Old. Come, madam, to he plain with you, I'll be 
 fobbed off no longer. — [Aside,'] I'll bind her and 
 gag her but she shall hear me. — [To the Waiters.] 
 Look you, friends, there's the money I promised 
 you ; and now do you what you promised me : here 
 my garters, and here's a gagr. — [To the Widow.] 
 You shall be aci^uainted with my parts, lady, you 
 shall. 
 
 Wid. Acquainted with your parts ! A rape I a 
 rape ! — what, will you ravish me \ 
 
 [The Waiters tie her to the chair^gag her.and exeunt. 
 
 Old. Yes, lady, I will ravish you ; but it shall 
 be through the ear,lady, the ear only, with my well- 
 penned acrostics. 
 
 Enter Frbbman, Jerry Blackacris, three Bailiffs, a Con- 
 stable, and his Assistants,2{'^£A the two Knights of the 
 Post. 
 
 What, shall I never read my things undisturbed 
 again! 
 
 Jer. O la! my mother bound hand and foot, 
 and gaping as if she rose before her time to-day ! 
 
 Free. What means this, Oldfox ! But I'll re- 
 lease you from him ; you shall be no man's pri- 
 soner but mine, Bailliffs, execute your writ. 
 
 iUnties her. 
 Old. Nay, then, I'll be gone, for fear of being 
 bail, and paying her debts without being her hus- 
 band. [Exit. 
 1 SaiJ: We arrest you in the king's name, at the 
 suit of Mr. Freeman, guardian to Jeremiah Black- 
 acre, Esquire, in an action of ten thousand pounds. 
 Wid. How, how, in a choke-bail action ! What, 
 and the pen-and-ink gentlemen taken too ! — Have 
 you confessed, you rogues ? 
 
 I Knight. We needed not to confess ; for the 
 hailifl's have dogged us hither to the very door, 
 and overheard all that you and we said. 
 
 Wid. Undone,- undone then ! no man was ever 
 too hard for me till now. Jerry, child, wilt thou 
 vex again the womb that bore thee ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, for bearing me before wedlock, as you 
 say. But I'll teach you to'call a Blackacre bastard, 
 though you were never so much my mother. 
 
 Wid. [Aside.] Well, I'm undone ! not one 
 trick left ? no law-mesh imaginable ? — [To Pbee- 
 MAN.] Cruel sir, a word with you, I pray. 
 
 Free. In vain, madam ; for you have no other 
 way to release yourself, but by the bonds of matri- 
 mony. 
 
 Wid. How, sir, how ! that were but to sue out 
 a habeas-corpus, for a removal from one prison to 
 another. — Matrimony ! 
 
 Free. Well, bailiffs, away with her. 
 Wid. stay, sir ! can you be so cruel as to bring 
 me under Covert-Baron a'gain, and put it out of 
 my power to sue in my own name I Matrimony 
 to a woman is worse than excommunication, in 
 depriving her of the benefit of the law ; and I 
 would rather be deprived of life. But hark you, 
 sir, I am contented you should hold and enjoy my 
 person by lease or patent, but not by the spiritual 
 patent called a licence ; that is, to have the privi- 
 leges of a husband, without the dominion ; that is, 
 Ikvrcmte beneplacito. In consideration of which, 
 I will out of my jointure secure you an annuity of 
 three hundred pounds a year, and pay your debts ; 
 and that's all you younger brothers desire to marry 
 a widow for, I'm sure. 
 Free. Well, widow, if — 
 
 Jer. What ! I hope, bully-guardian, you are not 
 making agreements without me 1 
 
 Free. No, no. First, widow, you must say no 
 more that he is a son of a whore ; have a care of 
 that. And, then, he must have a settled exhibi- 
 tion of forty pounds a year, and a nag of assizes, 
 kept by you, but not upon the common ; and have 
 free ingress, egress, and regress, to and from your 
 maids' garret 
 
 Wid. Well, I can grant all that too. 
 Jer. Ay, ay, fair words butter no cabbage : but, 
 guardian, make her sign, sign and seal ; for other 
 wise, if you knew her as well as I, you would not 
 trust her word for a farthing. 
 
 Free. I warrant thee, squire. — Well, widow, 
 since thou art so generous, I will be generous too ; 
 and if you'll secure me four hundred pounds a year, 
 but during your life, and pay my debts, not above 
 a thousand pounds, I'll bate you your person, to 
 dispose of as you please. 
 
140 
 
 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 Wid. Have a care, sir, a settlement without a 
 consideration is void in law ; you must do some- 
 thing for't. 
 
 Free. Prithee, then let the settlement on me be 
 called alimony ; and the consideration, our separa- 
 tion. Come ; my lawyer, with writings ready drawn, 
 is within, and in haste. Come. 
 
 TVid, But, what, no other kind of consideration, 
 Mr. Freeman ? Well, a widow, I see, is a kind of 
 sinecure, by custom of which the unconscionable 
 incumbent enjoys the profits, without any duty, but 
 does that still elsewhere. lEjceunJt. 
 
 SCENE IV.— Olivia's Lodging. 
 Enter Olivia with a candle in her hand. 
 
 Oliv. So, I am now prepared once more for my 
 timorous young lover's reception. My husband is 
 gone ; and go thou out too, thou next interrupter of 
 love. — [_Puts ont the candle.'] Kind darkness, that 
 frees us lovers from scandal and bashfulness, from 
 the censure of our gallants and the world ! — So, are 
 you there .' 
 
 Enter Fidelia, followed softly iy Manly. 
 
 Come, my dear punctual lover, there is not such 
 another in the world ; thou hast beauty and youth 
 to please a wife ; address and wit, to amuse and 
 fool a husband ; nay, thou hast all things to be 
 wished in a lover, but your fits. I hope, my dear, 
 you won't have one to-night ; and that you may 
 not, I'll lock the door, though there be no need of 
 it, but to lock out your fits : for my husband is 
 just gone out of town again. Come, where are you? 
 \_Goef to the door and locks it. 
 
 Man. Well, thou hast impudence enough to give 
 me fits too, and make revenge itself impotent ; hin- 
 der me- from making thee yet more infamous, if it 
 can be. lAside. 
 
 Oliv. Come, come, my soul, come. 
 
 Fid. Presently, my dear, we have time enough 
 sure. J 
 
 Otiv. How, time-^effough ! True lovers can no 
 more think they ever have time enough, than love 
 enough. You shall stay with me all night ; but 
 that is but a lover's moment. Come. 
 
 Fid. But won't you let me give you and myself 
 the satisfaction of telling you how I abused your 
 husband last night ? 
 
 Oliv. Not when you can give me, and yourself 
 too, the satisfaction of abusing him again to-night. 
 Come. 
 
 Fid. Let me hut tell you how your husband — 
 
 Oliv. O name not his, or Manly 's more loath- 
 some name, if you love me ! I forbid 'em last 
 night : and you know I mentioned my husband 
 but once, and he came. No talking, pray, 'twas 
 ominous to us. — [_A noise at the door.] You make 
 me fancy a noise at the door already, bat I'm 
 resolved not to be interrupted. Where are you ? 
 Come, forr *her than lose my dear expectation now, 
 though my 1, sband were at the door, and the bloody 
 ruifiau Manly here in the room, with all his awful 
 insolence, I would give myself to this dear hand, to 
 be led away to heavens of joys, which none but thou 
 canst give. — [The noise at the door increases.] 
 But what's this noise at the door ? So, I told you 
 what talking would come to. Ha ! — O heavens, my 
 husband's voice ! — [.Littem at the door. 
 
 Man. I J side.'] Freeman is come too soon. 
 
 Oliv. O, 'tis he !— Then here's the happiest 
 minute lost that ever bashful boy or trifling wo- 
 man fooled away ! I'm undone ! my husband's 
 reconcilement too was false, as my joy all delusion. 
 But come this way, here's a back door. — [Exiti 
 and returns.] The officious jade has locked us in, 
 instead of locking others out ; but let us then 
 escape your way, by the balcony ; and whilst you 
 pull down the curtains, I'll fetch from my closet 
 what next will best secure our escape. I have left 
 my key in the door, and 'twill not suddenly be 
 broken open. lExit, 
 
 lA noise as it were people forcing the door 
 
 Man. Stir not yet, fearing nothing. 
 
 Fid. Nothing but your life, sir. 
 
 Man. We shall know this happy man she calls 
 husband. 
 
 Ee-enter Olivia. 
 
 Oliv. Oh, where are you ? What, idle with 
 fear ? Come, I'll tie the curtains, if you will hold. 
 Here take this cabinet and purse, for it is thine, if 
 we escape ;^[Manly takes them from her] — 
 therefore let us make haste. {_Exit. 
 
 Man. 'Tis mine indeed now again, and it shall 
 never escape more from me, to you at least. 
 
 [The door broke open, enter Vbrnish with a dark- 
 laniirn and a sword.running at Manly, who draws, 
 putsbythe thrust, and defendsMmself,whilstFiDELiA 
 runs at Verni^iH behind. 
 
 Ver. So, there I'm right, sure — Un a low voice. 
 
 Man. [iSo/rfj'.] Sword and dark-lantern, villain, 
 are some odds ; but — 
 
 Ver. Odds ! I'm sure I find more odds than I 
 expected. What, has my insatiable two seconds 
 at once ? but — Lin a tow voice. 
 
 IWhilst they fight, Olivia re-enters, tying two curtains 
 together. 
 
 Oliv. Where are you now ?— What, is he entered 
 then, and are they fighting ? O do not kill one 
 that can make no defence ! — [Manly throws Ver- 
 njsn down and disarms him,] How! but I think 
 he has the better on't. Here's his scarf, 'tis he. 
 So, keep him down still : I hope thou hast no 
 hurt, my dearest .' lEmbracing Manly. 
 
 Enter Freeman, Lord Plausible, Novel, Jerry Black- 
 acre, and the Widow Blackacrb, lighted by Ike two 
 Sailors with torches. 
 
 Ha ! — what !— Manly ! and have I been thus con- 
 cerned for him ! embracing him ! and has he his 
 jewels again too ! What means this .' O, 'tis too 
 sure, as well as my shame ! which I'll go hide for 
 ever. [Offers to go out. Manly stops her. 
 
 Man. Nn, my dearest; after so much kindness aa 
 has passed between us, I cannot part with you yet, 
 — Freeman, let nobody stir out of the room ; for 
 notwithstanding your lights, we are yet in the dark, 
 till this gentleman please to turn his face — [Pulls 
 Vebnish bp the sleeve.^ How, Vernish I art 
 thou the happy man then .' thou ! thou ! speak, 
 I say; but thy guilty silence tells me all. — Well, I 
 shall not upbraid thee ; for my wonder is striking 
 me as dumb as thy shame has made thee. But 
 what ? my little volunteer hurt, and fainting ! 
 
 Fid, My wound, sir, is but a slight one in my 
 arm ; tis only my fear of your danger, sir, not yet 
 well over. 
 
 Man. But what's here ? more strange things ' 
 
THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 141 
 
 — [Observing Fidelia's hair untied behind, and 
 without a peruke, which she lost in the scuffle,'] 
 What means this long woman's hair, and face ! 
 now all of it appears too beautiful for a man ; which 
 I still thought womanish indeed ! What, you have 
 not deceived me too, my little volunteer ? 
 
 Oliv. Me she has, I'm sure. {Aside. 
 
 Man. Speak ! 
 
 Enter Eliza and LErricfi, 
 
 Eliza. What, cousin, I am brought hither by 
 your woman, I suppose, to be a witness of the 
 second vindicatioa of your honour .' 
 
 Oliv. Insulting is not generous. You might 
 spare me, I have you. 
 
 Eliza. Have a care, cousin, you'U confess anon 
 too much ; and I would not have your secrets. 
 
 Man. Come, your blushes answer me sufficiently, 
 and you have been my volunteer in love. 
 
 [To Fidelia. 
 
 Fid. I must confess I needed no compulsion to 
 follow you all the world over ; which I attempted 
 in this habit, partly out of shame to own my love 
 to you, and fear of a greater shame, your refusal of 
 it : for I knew of your engagement to this lady, 
 and the constancy of your nature ; which nothing 
 could have altered but herself. 
 
 Man. Dear madam, I desired you to bring me 
 out of confusion, and you have given me more. 1 
 know not what to speak to you, or how to look 
 upon you ; the sense of my rough, hard, and ill 
 usage of you, (though chiefly your own fault,) gives 
 me more pain now 'tis over, than you had when 
 you suffered it : and if my heart, the refusal of such 
 a woman — [Pointing to Olivia] — were not a 
 sacrifice to profane your love, and a greater wrong 
 to you than ever yet I did you ; I would beg of you 
 to receive it, though you used it as she had done ; 
 for though it deserved not from her the treatment 
 she gave it, it does from you. 
 
 Fid. Then it has had punishment sufficient from 
 her already, and needs no more from me ; and, I 
 must confess, I would not be the only cause of 
 making you break your last night's oath to me, of 
 never parting with me ; if you do not forget or 
 repent it. 
 
 Man. Then take for ever my heart, and this 
 with it ; — {gives her the cabinet) for 'twas given 
 to you before, and my heart was before your due : 
 I only beg leave to dispose of these few — Here, 
 madam, I never yet left my wench unpaid. 
 
 {_Take8 some oftlie jewels, and offers them to Olivia ; 
 she strikes them down : Plausible and Novel take 
 them zip, 
 
 Oliv. So it seems, by giving her the cabinet. 
 
 Plans. These pendants appertain to your most 
 faithful humble servant. 
 
 JVov. And this locket is mine ; my earnest for 
 love, which she sever paid : therefore my own 
 again. 
 
 ■ IVid. By what law, sir, pray ? — Cousin Olivia, 
 a word. What, do they make a seizure on your 
 
 goods and chattels, vi et armis ? Make your rte- 
 mand, I say, and bring your trover, bring your 
 trover. I'll follow the law for you. 
 
 Oliv. And I my revenge. IBxit. 
 
 Man. [To Vebnish.] But 'tis, my friend, in 
 your consideration most, that 1 would have returned 
 part of your wife's portion ; for 'twere hard to take 
 all from thee, since thou hast paid so dear for't, in 
 being such a rascal. Yet thy wife is a fortune 
 without a portion ; and thou art a man of that 
 extraordinary merit in villany, the world and fortune 
 can never desert thee, though I do ; therefore be 
 
 not melancholy. Fare you well, sir [Exii 
 
 Vernish doggedly.] Now, madam, I beg your 
 pardon [turning to Fidelia] for lessening the 
 present I made you ; but my heart can never be 
 lessened. This, I confess, was too small for you 
 before ; for you deserve the Indian world ; and I 
 would now go thither, out of covetousness for your 
 sake only. 
 
 Fid. Your heart, sir, is a present of that value, 
 I can never make any return to't. — [Pulling 
 Manly /tow the company.] But I can give you 
 back such a present as this, which I got by the loss 
 of my father, a gentleman of the north, of no mean 
 extraction, whose only child I was, therefore left 
 me in the present possession of two thousand 
 pounds a-year ; which I left, with multitudes of 
 pretenders, to follow you, sir ; having in several 
 public places seen you, and observed your actions 
 thoroughly, with admiration, when you were too 
 much in love to take notice of mine, which yet was 
 but too visible. The name of my family is Grey, 
 my other Fidelia. The rest of my story you shall 
 know when 1 have fewer auditors. 
 
 Man. Nay, now, madam, you have taken from 
 me all power of making you any compliment on my 
 part ; for I was going to tell you, that for your 
 sake only I would quit the unknown pleasure of a 
 retirement ; and rather stay in this ill world of 
 ours still, though odious to me, than give you 
 more frights again at sea, and make again too great 
 a venture there, in you alone. But if I should tell 
 you now all this, and that your virtue (since greater 
 than I thought any was in the world) had now re- 
 conciled me to't, my friend here would say, 'tis 
 your estate that has made me friends with the 
 world. 
 
 Free. I must confess I should ; for I think most 
 of our quarrels to the world are just such as we 
 have to a handsome woman ; only because we can- 
 not enjoy her as we would do. 
 
 Man. Nay, if thou art a plain dealer too, give 
 me thy hand ; for now I '11 say, I am thy friend 
 indeed ; and for your two sakes, though I have 
 been so lately deceived in friends of both sexes, — 
 
 I will believe there are now in the world 
 
 Good-natured friends, who are not prostitutes, 
 
 And handsome women worthy to be friends ; 
 
 Yet, for my sake, let no one e'er confide 
 
 In tear?, or oaths, in love, or friend untried. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
142 THE PLAIN DEALER. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOICEN BY THE WIDOW BLACKACRE. 
 
 To you the judges learned in stage-laws, 
 
 Our poet now, by me, submits his cause ; 
 
 For with young judges, such as most of you, 
 
 The men by women best their business do : 
 
 And, truth on't is, if you did not sit here. 
 
 To keep for us a term throughout the yeai-. 
 
 We could not live by'r tongues ; nay, but for you. 
 
 Our chamber-practice would be little too. 
 
 And 'tis not only the stage-practiser 
 
 Who by your meeting gets her living here : 
 
 For as in Hall of Westminster 
 
 Sleek sempstress vents amidst the courts her ware ; 
 
 So, while we bawl, and you in judgment sit. 
 
 The visor-mask sells linen too i' th' pit. 
 
 0, many of your friends, besides us here. 
 
 Do live by putting off their several ware. 
 
 Here's daily done the great affairs o' th' nation ; 
 
 Let love and us then ne'er have long vacation. 
 
 But hold ; like other pleaders I have done 
 
 Not my poor client's business, but my own. 
 
 Spare me a word then now for him. First know. 
 
 Squires of the long robe, he does humbly show. 
 
 He has a just right in abusing you. 
 
 Because he is a Brother-Templar too : 
 
 For at the bar you rally one another ; 
 
 Nay, fool and knave, is swallow'd from a brother : 
 
 If not the poet hei-e, the Templar spare. 
 
 And maul him when you catch him at the bar. 
 
 From you, our common modish censurers, 
 
 Your favom", not your judgment, 'tis he fears : 
 
 Of all love begs you then to rail, find fault ; 
 
 For plays, like women, by the world are thought. 
 
 When you speak kindly of 'em, very naught. 
 
 END OF WXCHEHLEY. 
 
THE 
 
 DEAMATIC WOEKS 
 
 WILLIAM CONGEEYE, 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 To Mr. CONGBEVE. 
 
 On " The Old Bachelor." 
 When virtue in pursuit of fame appears, 
 And forward shoots the growth beyond the years, 
 We timely court the rising hero's cause, 
 And on his side the poet wisely draws ; 
 Bespeaking him hereafter by applause. 
 The days will come when we shall all receive 
 Returning interest from what now we give ; 
 Instructed and supported by that praise 
 And reputation which we strife to raise. 
 Nature so coy, so hardly to be woo'd. 
 Flies like a mistress, but to be pursued. 
 O Con greve ! boldly follow on the chase ; 
 She looks behind, and wants thy strong embrace ; 
 She yields, she yields, surrenders all her charms. 
 Do you but force her gently to your arms : 
 Such nerves, such graces, in your lines appear. 
 As you were made to be her ravisher. 
 Dryden has long extended his command. 
 By right divine, quite through the Muses' land 
 Absolute lord ; and holding now from none. 
 But great Apollo, his undoubted crown ; 
 (That empire settled, and grown old in power) 
 Can wish for nothing but a successor : 
 Not to enlarge his limits, but maintain 
 Those provinces which he alone could gain. 
 His eldest Wycherley, in wise retreat, 
 Thought it not worth his quiet to be great. 
 Loose, wandering Etherege, in wild pleasures tost 
 And foreign interests, to his hopes long lost : 
 Poor Lee and Otway dead ! Congreve appears, 
 The darling and last comfort of his years. 
 Mayst thou Uve long in thy great Master's smiles. 
 And growing under him, adorn these isles : 
 But when — when part of him (be that but late) 
 His body yielding must submit to fate. 
 Leaving his deathless works and thee behind, 
 (The natural successor of his mind,) 
 Then mayst thou finish what he has begun ; 
 Heir to his merit, be in fame his son. 
 What thou hast done shows all is in thy power ; 
 And to write better, only must write more. 
 'Tis something to be willing to commend ; 
 But my best praise is, that I am your friend. 
 
 THO. SOUTHERNE. 
 
 To Mr. Congreve. 
 On " The OU Bachelor." 
 The danger's great in these censorious days, 
 When critics are so rife, to venture praise : 
 When the infectious and ill-natured brood 
 Behold and damn the work because 'tis good ; 
 Amd with a proud, ungenerous spirit, try 
 To pass an ostracism on poetry. 
 
 But you, my friend, your worth does safely bunr 
 Above their spleen ; you have no cause for fear 
 Like a well-mettled hawk you took your flight 
 Quite out of reach, and almost out of sight. 
 As the strong sun, in a fair summer's day. 
 You rise, and drive the mists and clouds away. 
 The owls and bats, and all the birds of prey. 
 Each line of yours like polish'd steel's so hard, 
 In beauty safe it wants no other guard : 
 Nature herself s beholden to your dress. 
 Which though still like, much fairer you express. 
 Some vainly striving honour to obtain, 
 Leave to their heirs the traflic of their brain. 
 Like china under ground, the ripening ware. 
 In a long time, perhaps grows worth our care. 
 But you now reap the fame, so well you've sown ; 
 The planter tastes his fruit to ripeness grown. 
 As a fair orange-tree at once is seen 
 Big with what's ripe, yet springing still with green, 
 So at one time my worthy friend appears. 
 With all the sap of youth, and weight of years. 
 Accept my pious love, as forward zeal. 
 Which, though it ruins me, I can't conceal : 
 Exposed to censure for my weak applause, 
 I'm pleased to suffer in so just a cause : 
 And though my offering may unworthy prove, 
 Take, as a friend, the wishes of my love. 
 
 J. MARStr. 
 
 To Mr. Congreve. 
 On his Play called " The Old Bachelor." 
 Wit, like true gold refined from all allay, 
 Immortal is, and never can decay; 
 'Tis in all times and languages the same. 
 Nor can an ill translation quench the flame : 
 For though the form and fashion don't remain, 
 The intrinsic value still it will retain. 
 Then let each studied scene be writ with art ; 
 And judgment sweat to form the labour'd part ; 
 Each character be just, and Nature seem ; 
 Without the ingredient, wit, 'tis all but phlegm ; 
 For that's the soul which all the mass must move, 
 And wake our passions into grief, or love. 
 But you, too bounteous, sow your wit so thick, 
 We are surprised, and know not where to pick : 
 And while with clapping we are just to you. 
 Ourselves we injure, and lose something new. 
 What mayn't we then, great youth, of thee presage, 
 Whose art and wit so much transcend thy age ? 
 How wilt thou shine at thy meridian height, 
 Who, at thy rising, givest so vast a light ! 
 When Dryden dying shall the world deceive. 
 Whom we immortal, as his works, believe j 
 Thou shalt succeed, the glory of the stage, 
 Adorn and entertain the coming age. 
 
 bevil higgons. 
 
146 
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 To my dear Friend Mr. Congreve, on his Comedy 
 
 called " The Dovile-Sealer." 
 Well, then, the promised hour is come at last ; 
 The present age of wit obscures the past : 
 Strong were our su'os, and as they fought they writ, 
 Conquering with force of arms and dint of wit ; 
 Theii-s was the giant race before the flood ; 
 And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood. 
 Like Janus he the stubborn soil manured, 
 With rules of husbandry the ranloiess cured : 
 Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude ; 
 And boisterous Enghsh wit with art endued. 
 Our age was cultivated thus at length ; 
 But what we gain'd m skill we lost in strength. 
 Our builders were with want of genius curst ; 
 The second temple was not like the first : 
 'Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length, 
 Om' beauties equal, but excel our strength. 
 Firm Doric pilhirs found your solid base. 
 The fair Corintliian crowns the higher space ; 
 Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. 
 In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise ; 
 He moved the mind, but had not power to raise. 
 Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please ; 
 Yet doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease. 
 In differing talents both adorn'd their age ; 
 One for the study, t'other for the stage. 
 But both to Congreve justly shall submit, 
 One match'd in judgment, both o'ermatch'd in wit. 
 In him all beauties of this Age we see, 
 Etherege his courtship, Southeme's purity ; 
 The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherley, 
 All this in blooming youth you have achieved ; 
 Nor are your foil'd contemporaries grieved ; 
 So much the sweetness of your manners move, 
 We cannot envy you, because we love. 
 Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw 
 A beardless consul made against the law, 
 And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome ; 
 Though he with Hannibal was overcome. 
 Thus old Komano bow'd to Raphael's fame ; 
 And scholar to the youth he taught became. 
 
 Oh ! that your brows my laurel had sustain'd. 
 Well had I been deposed if you had reign'd ! 
 The father had descended for the son ; 
 For only you are lineal to the throne. 
 Thus when the state one Edward did depose, 
 A greater Edward in his room arose. 
 But now, not I, but poetry is curst ; 
 For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first. 
 But let 'em not mistake my patron's part. 
 Nor call his charity their own desert. 
 Yet I this prophesy : Thou shalt be seen, 
 (Though with some short parenthesis between,) 
 High on the throne of wit ; and seated there. 
 Not mine (that's Uttle) but thy laurel wear. 
 Thy first attempt an early promise made. 
 That early promise this has more than paid ; 
 So bold, yet so judiciously you dare. 
 That your least praise is to be regular. 
 Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought. 
 But genius must be bom, and never can be taught. 
 This is your portion, this your native store ; 
 Heaven, that but once was prodigal before. 
 To Shakspeare gave as much ; she could not give 
 him more. 
 
 Maintain your post: that's all the fame you 
 need ; 
 For 'tis impossible you should proceed. 
 
 Already I am worn with cares and age. 
 And just abandoning the ungrateful stage : 
 Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, 
 I live a rent-charge on his providence. 
 But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn, 
 Whom I foresee to better fortune born. 
 Be kind to my remains ; and, oh defend. 
 Against your judgment, your departed friend ! 
 Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue. 
 But shade those laurels which descend to you : 
 And take for tribute what these lines express ; 
 You merit more, nor could my love do less. 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 To Mr. Congreve, occasioned hy his Comedy 
 
 called " The Wa/y of the World." 
 When pleasure's falling to the low delight. 
 In the vain joys of the uncertain sight ; 
 No sense of wit when rude spectators Imow, 
 But in distorted gesture, farce and show ; 
 How could, great author, your aspiring mind 
 Dare to write only to the few refined ? 
 Yet though that nice ambition you pursue, 
 'Tis not in Congreve's power to please but fewi 
 Implicitly devoted to his fame, 
 Well-dress'd barbarians know his awful name. 
 Though senseless they're of mirth, but when they 
 
 laugh. 
 As they feel wine, but when, till drunk, they quail'. 
 
 On you from fate a lavish portion fell 
 In every way of writing to excel. 
 Your muse applause to Arabella brings. 
 In notes as sweet as Arabella sings. 
 Whene'er you draw an undissembled woe. 
 With sweet distress your rural numbers flow : 
 Pastora's the complaint of every swain, 
 Pastora still the echo of the plain ! 
 Or if your muse describe, with wai-ming force, 
 The wounded Frenchman falling from his horse ; 
 And her own William glorious in the strife. 
 Bestowing on the prostrate foe his life : 
 You the great act as generously rehearse. 
 And all the English fury's in your verse. 
 By your selected scenes and handsome choice. 
 Ennobled Comedy exalts her voice ; 
 You check unjust esteem and fond desire. 
 And teach to scorn what else we should admire : 
 The just impression taught by you we bear. 
 The player acts the world, the world the player ; 
 Whom still that world unjustly disesteems. 
 Though he alone professes what" he seems. 
 But when your muse assumes her tragic part, 
 She conquers and she reigns in every heart : 
 To mom-n with her men cheat their private woe. 
 And generous pity's all the grief they know. 
 The widow, who, impatient of delay. 
 From the town joys must mask it to the play. 
 Joins with your Mourning Bride's resistless moan, 
 And weeps a loss she slighted when her own : 
 You give us torment, and you give us ease. 
 And vary our afilictious as you please. 
 Is not a heart so kind as yours in pain. 
 To load your friends with cares you only feign ; 
 Your friends in grief, composed yourself, to leave ! 
 But 'tis the only way you'll e'er deceive. 
 Then still, great sir, your moving power employ, 
 To lull our sorrow, and correct our joy. 
 
 RICHARD STEELE. 
 
THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 Quern tulit ad scenam ventoso gloria curru, 
 Exanimat lentus spectator, seclulus inflat. 
 Sic leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarum 
 Subruit, aut reficit.— Horat. Lib. ii. Bpist. 1. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 CHARLES LORD CLIFFORD, OF LANESBOROUGH, &c. 
 
 My Lord, — ^It is with a great deal of pleasure that I lay hold on this first occasion, which the accidents of my life 
 have given me, of writing to your Lordship : for since, at the same time, I write to all the world, it will be a means of 
 publishing (what I would have everybody know) the respect and duty which I owe and pay to you. I have so much 
 inclination to be yours, that I need no other engagement : but the particular ties by which I am bound to your Lordship 
 and family, have put it ont of ray power to make you any compliment ; since all oflFers of myself will amount to no 
 more than an honest acknowledgment, and only show a willingness in me to be grateful. 
 
 I am very near wishing that it were not so much ray interest to be your Lordship's servant, that it might be more my 
 merit ; not that I would avoid being obliged to you, but I would have my own choice to rim ma into the debt ; that 
 T might have it to boast 1 had distinguished a man to whom I would be glad to be obliged, even without the hopes of 
 having it in my puwer ever to make him a return. 
 
 It is impossible for me to come near your Lordship, in any kind, and not to receive some favour ; and while in 
 appearance I am only making an acknowledgment, (with the usual underhand dealing of the world,) I am, at the same 
 time, insinuating my own interest. I cannot give your Lordship your due, without tacking a bill of my own privileges. 
 It is true, if a man never committed a folly, he would never stand in need of a protection : but then power would have 
 nothing to do, and good-nature no occasion to show itself; and where those qualities are, it is pity they should want 
 objects to shine upon. I must confess this is no reason why a raan should do an idle thing, nor indeed any good excuse 
 for it, when done ; yet it reconciles the uses of such authority and goodness to the necessities of our follies ; and is a 
 sort of poetical logic, which at this time I would make use of, to argue your Lordship into a protection of this play. 
 It is the first ofTence I have committed in this kind, or indeed in any kind of poetry, though not the first made public ; 
 and therefore, I hope, will the more easily be pardoned : but had it been acted when it was first written, more 
 might have been said in its behalf ; ignorance of the town and stage would then have been excuses in a young writer, 
 which now almost four years* experience will scarce allow of. Yet I must declare myself sensible of the good-nature 
 of the town, in receiving this play so kindly, with all its faults, which I must own were, for the most part, very 
 industriously covered by the care of the players ; for I think, scarce a character but received all the advantage it would 
 admit of, from thejustnessof the action. 
 
 As for the critics, my Lord, I have nothing to say to or against any of them of any kind ; from those who make just 
 exceptions, to those who find fault in the wrong place. I will only make this general answer in behalf of my play, (an 
 answer which Epictetus advises every man to make for himself to his censurers,) viz. — That if they who find some faults 
 in it were as intimate with it as I am, they would find a great many more. This is a confession which I needed not tc 
 have made ; but however I can draw this use from it, to my own advantage, that I think there are no faults in it bui 
 what I do know ; which, as I take it, is the first step to an amendment. 
 
 Thus I may live in hopes (some time or other) of making the town amends ; but you, my Lord, I never can, though I 
 am ever your Lordship's most obedient, and most humble servant, WILL. CONGRBVE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Hbariwell, a surly old Bachelor, pretending to 
 slight Women, secretly in love with Silvia, 
 
 Bbllaiour, in love toiih BELrNOA. 
 
 Vainlovjb, capricious in his lovp ,■ in love with 
 Araminta. 
 
 Sharper. 
 
 StB Joseph Wiitol. 
 
 Captain Blupfb. 
 
 FoNDLEWiFK, a Banker. 
 
 Setter, a Pimp, 
 
 Gavot, a Music-master. 
 
 Vacs, Footman to Ajiaminta. 
 
 Barnaby, Servant to Fondlbwife. 
 -4 Boy. 
 
 Araminta, in love with Vainijove. 
 
 BrI/Inda, her Cousin, an affected Lady, in love vjtfi 
 
 Bellmour. 
 LjBtitia, Wife to Fondlbwife. 
 Silvia, VAiNUiVFi'B forsaken Mistress- 
 Lucy, Jier Maid. 
 Betty, Maid to Abaminta. 
 
 Dancers, and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
 L2 
 
148 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 INTENDED FOR THE " OLD BACHELOR." — WRITTEN BY THE LORD FALKLAND. 
 
 Most authors on the stage at first appear 
 
 Like widows' bridegrooms, full of doubt and fear ! 
 
 They judge, from the experience of the dame. 
 
 How hard a task it is to quench her flame : 
 
 And who falls short of furnishing a course, 
 
 t/p to his brawny predecessor's force, 
 
 With utmost rage from her embraces thrown, 
 
 Remains convicted, as an empty drone. 
 
 Thus often, to his -shame, a pert beginner 
 
 Proves, in the end, a miserable sinner. 
 
 As for our youngster, I am apt to doubt him. 
 With all the vigour of his youth about him. 
 But he, more sanguine, trusts in one-and-twenty. 
 And impudently hopes he shall content you ; 
 For though his Bachelor be worn and cold, 
 He thinks the young may club to help the old ; 
 
 And what alone can be achieved by neither. 
 Is often brought about by both together. 
 The briskest of you all have felt alarms. 
 Finding the fair one prostitute her charms. 
 With broken sighs, in her old fumbler's arms. 
 But for our spark, he swears he'll ne'er be jealous 
 Of any rivals, but young lusty fellows. 
 Faith, let him try his chance, and if the slave. 
 After his bragging, prove a washy knave. 
 May he be banish'd to some lonely den. 
 And never more have leave to dip his pen : 
 But if he be the champion he pretends. 
 Both sexes sure will join to be his friends ; 
 For all agree, where all can have their ends. 
 And you must own him for a man of might. 
 If he holds out to please you the third night. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 How this vile world is changed ! in former days 
 Prologues were serious speeches before plays ; 
 Grave solemn things, as graces are to feasts. 
 Where poets begg'd a blessing from their 
 
 guests. 
 But now, no more like suppliants we come ; 
 A play makes war, and prologue is the drum : 
 ;%.Arm'd with keen satire, and with pointed vrit. 
 We threaten you who do for judges sit. 
 To save our plays, or else we'll damn your pit. 
 But for your comfort, it falls out to-day, 
 We've a young author, and his first-born play ; 
 So, standing only on his good behaviour. 
 He's very civil, and entreats your favour. 
 
 Not but the man has malice, would he show it, 
 But, on my conscience, he's a bashful poet ; 
 Youthinkthat strange — no matter, he'll out-growit. 
 Well, I'm his advocate — by me he prays you, 
 (I don't know whether I shall speak to please you) 
 He prays — O bless me ! what shall I do now ! 
 Hang me, if I know what he prays, or how ! 
 And 'twas the prettiest prologue as he wrote it ! 
 Well the deuse take me, if I han't forgot it I 
 
 Lord, for heaven's sake excuse the play. 
 Because, you know, if it be damn'd to-day, 
 
 1 shall be hang'd for wanting what to say. 
 For my sake then — ^but I'm in such confosion, 
 
 I cannot stay to hear your resolution. IRuns qf. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE 1.— The Street. 
 Bbllmour and VAiirLOVB meeting. 
 
 Bell. Vainlove, and abroad so early ! good mor- 
 row. 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, oasts off the bias, and 
 leaves us wide and short of the intended mark. 
 
 Vain. Pleasure, I guess, you mean. 
 
 Sell. Ay, what else has meaning ? 
 
 Vain. Oh, the wise will tell you — 
 
 Bell. More than they believe — or understand. 
 
 wise man say more 
 
 Vain. How, how, Ned, 
 than he understands ? 
 
 Bell. Ay, ay ; wisdom's nothing but a pretend- 
 ing 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 roU 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 flyer as 
 you are, I have a lure may make you stoop. 
 
 [_Flings a letter. 
 
 Bell. Ay, marry, sir, I have a hawk's eye at a 
 woman's hand. — There's more elegancy in the 
 
THE OLD BACHKLOK. 
 
 14S) 
 
 false spelling of this superscription — [^TaJees vip 
 th& letierl than in all Cicero. — Let me see — ■ 
 How now ! Dear perfidious Vainlove. iReads, 
 
 Vain. Hold ! hold ! 'slifej that 's the wrong. 
 
 Sell. Nay, let 's see the name — Silvia ! How 
 canst thou be ungi'ateful to that creature ? She 's 
 extremely pretty, and loves thee entirely. I have 
 heard her breathe such raptures about thee. 
 
 Vaim. Ay, or anybody tiiat she 's about. 
 
 Sell. No, faith, Frank, you wrong her : she has 
 been just to you. 
 
 Vain. That's pleasant, by my troth, from thee, 
 who hast had her. 
 
 Sell. Never — her affections. ' 'Tis true, by hea- 
 ven, she owned it to my face ; and blushing like 
 the virgin morn when it disclosed the cheat, which 
 that trusty bawd of nature. Night, had hid, con- 
 fessed her soul was true to you ; though I by 
 treachery had stolen the bliss. 
 
 Vain. So was true as turtle — ^in imagination, 
 Ned, ha S Preach this doctrine to husbands, and 
 the married women will adore thee. 
 
 Sell. Why, faith, I think it will do well enough, 
 if the husband be out of the way, for the wife to 
 show her fondness and impatience of his absence 
 by choosing a lover as like him as she can ; and 
 what is u^ke, she may help out with her own 
 fancy. 
 
 Vaim. But is it not an abuse to the lover to be 
 made a blind of ^ 
 
 Sell. As you say, the abuse is to the lover, not 
 the husband : for 'tis an argument of her great 
 zeal towards him, that she will enjoy him in effigy. 
 
 Vaim. It must be a very superstitious country, 
 where such zeal passes for true devotion. I doubt 
 it will be damned by all our protestant husbands 
 for flat idolatry. — But if you can make alderman 
 Fondlewife of your persuasion, this letter will be 
 needless. 
 
 Sell. What, the old banker with the handsome 
 wife ? 
 
 Vain. Ay. 
 
 Sell. Let me see, Laetitia ! oh, 'tis a dehcious 
 morsel ! — Dear Frank, thou art the truest friend 
 In the world. 
 
 Vain. Ay, am I not ? to be continually starting 
 of hares for you to course. We were certainly cut 
 out for one another ; for my temper quits an amour 
 just where thine takes it up. — But read that, it is 
 an appointment for me this evening, when Fondle- 
 wife will be gone out of town, to meet the master 
 of a ship, about the return of a venture which he 's 
 in danger of losing. Read, read. 
 
 Sell. [Eeads.Ji Hum, hum — Chit of town this 
 evening, amd talks of sendJimg far Mr. Spintext to 
 keep me compam/ ; hit I ^11 take ca/re he shall not 
 he at home. Good ! Spintext I oh, the fanatic 
 one-eyed parson I 
 
 Vain. Ay. • 
 
 Sell. [Reads.'] Hum, hum — That yow conversa- 
 tion will be maeh more agreeable, if you cam, coiun- 
 terfeit his hoMt to blind the servants. Very good ! 
 Then I must be disguised ? — With all my heart— 
 Tt adds a gusto to an amour, gives it the greater 
 resemblance of theft, and, among us lewd mortals, 
 the deeper the sin the sweeter. Frank, I 'm 
 amazed at thy good-nature. 
 
 Vain. Faith, I hate love when 'tis forced upon 
 a man, as I do wine : and this business is none of 
 my seeking. I only happened to be once or twice 
 
 where Lsetitia was the handsomest woman in com- 
 pany, so consequently applied myself to her ; and 
 it seems she has taken me at my word. Had you 
 been there, or anybody, 't had been the same. 
 
 Sell. I wish I may succeed as the same. 
 
 Vain. Never doubt it ; for if the spirit of cuck- 
 oldom be once raised up in a woman, the devil 
 can't lay it, 'till she has done 't. 
 
 Sell. Prithee, what sort of fellow is Fondle- 
 wife ! 
 
 Vain. A kind of mongrel zealot, sometimes very 
 precise and peevish ; but I have seen him pleasant 
 enough in his way ; much addicted to jealousy, but 
 more to fondness: so that as he 's often jealous with- 
 out a cause, he's as often satisfied without reason. 
 
 Sell. A very even temper, and fit for my pur- 
 pose. I must get your man Setter to provide my 
 disguise. 
 
 Vain. Ay, you may take him for good-and-all 
 if you will, for you have made him fit for nobody 
 else. — Well — 
 
 Sell. You 're going to visit in return of Silvia's 
 letter — poor rogue ! Any hour of the day or night 
 will serve her, — But do you know nothing of a 
 new rival there ? 
 
 Vain. Yes, Heartwell, that surly, old, pretended 
 woman-hater, thinks her virtuous ; that 's one rea^ 
 son why I fail her : I would have her fret herself 
 out of conceit with me, that she may entertain 
 some thoughts of him. I know he visits her every 
 day. 
 
 Sell. Yet rails on still, and thinks his love un- 
 known to us. A little time will swell him so, he 
 must be forced to give it birth ; and the discovery 
 must needs be very pleasant from himself, to see 
 what pains he will take, and how he will strain to 
 be delivered of a secret when he has miscarried of 
 it already. 
 
 Vain. Well, good morrow, let 's dine together ; 
 I '11 meet at the old place. 
 
 Sdl. With all my heart ; it lies convenient for 
 us to pay our afternoon services to our mistresses. 
 I find I am damnably in love, I 'm so uneasy for 
 not having seen Behnda yesterday. 
 
 Vain, But I saw my Araminta, yet am as im- 
 patient. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Bellmour. 
 Why, what a cormorant in love am I ! who, not 
 contented with the slavery of honourable love in 
 one place, and the pleasure of enjoying some half 
 a score mistresses of my own acquiring, must yet 
 take Vainlove's business upon my hands, because 
 it lay too heavy upon his : so am not only forced 
 to lie with other men's wives for 'em, but must also 
 undertake the harder task of obliging their mis- 
 tresses. — I must tako up, or I shaU never hold cut; 
 flesh and blood cannot bear it always. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Bellmour and SMARPBrf. 
 I 'm sorry to see this, Ned ; once a ma»^ 
 comes to his soliloquies I give him for gone. 
 Sell, Sharper, I 'm gjad to see thee. 
 
160 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 Sharp. What, is Belinda cruel, that you are so 
 thoughtful ? 
 
 Sell. No, faith, not for that.— But there's a 
 business of consequence fallen out to-day, that 
 requires some consideration. 
 
 Sharp. Prithee, what mighty business of conse- 
 quence canst thou have ? 
 
 Bell. Why, you must know 'tis a piece of work 
 toward the finishing of an alderman ; it seems I must 
 put the last hand to it, and dub him cuckold, that 
 he may be of equal dignity with the rest of his 
 brethren ; so I must beg Belinda's pardon. 
 
 Sharp. Faith, e'en give her over for good-andr 
 all ; you can have no hopes of getting her for a 
 mistress ; and she is too proud, too inconstant, too 
 affected and too witty, and too handsome for a 
 wife. 
 
 Bell. But she can't have too much money. — 
 There's twelve thousand pounds, Tom. — 'Tis true 
 she is excessively foppish and affected ; but, in my 
 conscience, I believe the baggage loves me ; for she 
 never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers anybody 
 else to rail at me. Then, as I told you, there's 
 twelve thousand pounds— hum — Why, faith, upon 
 second thoughts, she does not appear to be so very 
 affected neither. — Give her her due, 1 think the 
 woman's a woman, and that's all. As such I am 
 sure I shall like her, for the deyil take me if I don't 
 love all the sex ! 
 
 Sharp. And here comes one who swears as hear- 
 tily he hates all the sex. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Bellmour, Sharper, and HeartWbll. 
 
 Sell. Who .' Heartwell .' ay, but he knows 
 better things. — How now, George, where hast thou 
 been snarling odious truths, and entertaining com- 
 pany like a physician, with discourse of their 
 diseases and infirmities.' What fine lady hast thou 
 been putting out of conceit with herself, and per- 
 suading that the face she had been making all the 
 morning was none of her own ? for I know thou 
 art as unmannerly and as unwelcome to a woman 
 as a looking-glass after the small-pox. 
 
 Heart. I confess I have not been sneering ful- 
 some lies and nauseous flattery, fawning upon a 
 little tawdry whore that will fawn upon me again, 
 and entertain any puppy that comes, like a tumbler, 
 with the same tricks over and over. For such I 
 guess may have been your late employment. 
 
 Bell. Would thou hadst come a little sooner ! 
 Vainlove would have wrought thy conversion, and 
 been a champion for the cause. 
 
 Heart. What, has he been here ? That's one 
 of love's April-fools, is always upon some errand 
 that's to no purpose, ever embarking in adventures, 
 yet never comes to harbour. 
 
 Sharp. That's because he always sets out in foul 
 weather, loves to buffet with the winds, meet the 
 tide, and sail in the teeth of opposition. 
 
 Heart. What, has he not dropped anchor at 
 Araminta ? 
 
 Bell. Truth on't is, she fits his temper best, is 
 a kind of floating-island; sometimes seems in reach, 
 then vanishes, and keeps him busied in the search. 
 
 Sharp. She had need have a good share of sense 
 to manage so capricious a lover. 
 
 Bell. Faith, I don't know j he's of a temper the 
 most easy to himself in the world : he takes as 
 much always of an amour as he cares for, and quits 
 it when it grows stale or unpleasant. 
 
 Sharp. An argument of very little passion, very 
 good understanding, and very ill-nature. 
 
 Heart. And proves that Vainlove plays the fool 
 with discretion. 
 
 Sharp. You, Bellmour, are bound in gratitudie 
 to stickle for him ; you with pleasure reap that 
 fruit, which he takes pains to sow ; he does the 
 drudgery in the mine, and you stamp your image 
 on the gold. 
 
 Bell. He's of another opinion, and says I do the 
 drudgery in the mine. Well, we have each our 
 share of sport, and each that which he likes best ; 
 *tis his diversion to set, 'tis mine to cover the 
 partridge. 
 
 Heart. And it should be mine to let 'em go 
 again. 
 
 Sharp. Not till you had mouthed a little, George 
 I think that's all thou art fit for now. 
 
 Heart. Good Mr. Young-fellow, you're mista- 
 ken ; as able as yourself, and as nimble too, though 
 I mayn't have so much mercury in my limbs. 
 'Tis true, indeed, I don't force appetite, but wait 
 the natural call of my lust, and think it time enough 
 to be lewd, after I have had the temptation. 
 
 Bell. Time enough ! ay too soon, I should rather 
 have expected, from a person of your gravity. 
 
 Heart. Yet it is oftentimes too late with some 
 of you young, termagant flashy sinners : you have 
 all the guilt of the intention, and none of the plea- 
 sure of the practice. 'Tis true you are so eager in 
 pursuit of the temptation, that you save the devil 
 the trouble of leading you into it : nor is it out of 
 discretion that yon ddn't swallow that very hook 
 yourselves have baited, but you are cloyed with 
 the preparative, and what you mean for a whet, 
 turns the edge of your puny stomachs. Your love 
 is like your courage, which you show for the first 
 year or two upon all occasions ; till in a little time, 
 being disabled or disarmed, you abate of your 
 vigour, and that daring blade which was so often 
 drawn is bound to the peace for ever after. 
 
 Bell. Thou art an old fornicator of a singular 
 good principle indeed ! and art for encouraging 
 youth, that they may be as wicked as thou art at 
 thy years. 
 
 Heart. I am for having everybody be what they 
 pretend to be ; a whoremaster be a whoremaster, 
 and not like Vainlove, kiss a lapdog with passion, 
 when it would disgust him from the lady's own lips. 
 
 Bell. That only happens sometimes, where the 
 dog has the sweeter breath, for the more cleanly 
 conveyance. But, George, you must not quarrel 
 with little gallantries of this nature : women are 
 often won by 'em. Who would refuse to kiss a 
 lef dog, if it were preliminary to the lips of his 
 lady ? 
 
 Sharp. Or omit playing with her fan, and cool- 
 ing her if she were hot, when it might entitle him 
 to the oflice of warming her when she should be 
 cold? 
 
 Bell. What is it to read a play in a rainy day, 
 though you should be now and then interrupted 
 in a witty scene, and she perhaps preserve her 
 laughter,' till the jest were over ! even that may be 
 borne with, considering the reward in prospect. 
 
 Heart. I confess, you that are women's asses 
 
THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 161 
 
 bear greater burdens ; are forced to undergo dress- 
 ing, dancing, singing, sigbing, whining, rhyming, 
 flattering, lying, grinning, cringing, and the drud- 
 gery of loving to boot. 
 
 JBeU. O brute ! the drudgery of loving ! 
 
 Heart. Ay, vphy to come to love through all 
 these encumbrances, is like coming to an estate 
 overcharged with debts ; which, by the time you 
 have paid, yields no further profit than what the 
 bare tillage and manuring of the land will produce 
 at the expense of your own sweat. 
 
 Sell. Prithee, how dost thou love ? 
 
 Sharp. He ! he hates the sex. 
 
 Heart. So I hate physic too— yet I may love to 
 take it for my health. 
 
 Bell. Well come off, George, if at any time you 
 should be taken straying. 
 
 Sharp. He has need of such an excuse, consi- 
 dering the present state of his body. 
 
 Heart. How d'ye mean? 
 
 Sharp. "Why, if whoring be purging (as you call 
 it), then, I may say, marriage is entering into a 
 course of physic. 
 
 JBell. How, George, does the wind blow there ? 
 
 Heart, It will as soon blow north and by south. 
 — Marry, quotha ! I hope, in heaven, I have a 
 greater portion of grace, and I think I have baited 
 too many of those traps to be caught in one 
 myself. 
 
 Bell. Who the devil would have thee ? unless 
 'twere an oyster-woman, to propagate young fry 
 for Billingsgate : — thy talent will never recommend 
 thee to anything of better quality. 
 
 Heart. My talent is chiefly that of speaking 
 truth, which I don't expect should ever recommend 
 me to people of quality. I thank heaven, I have 
 very honestly purchased the hatred of all the great 
 families ip. town. 
 
 Sharp. And you, in return of spleen, hate them. 
 But could you hope to be received into the alliance 
 of a noble family — 
 
 Heart. No, I hope I shall never merit that 
 affliction — to be punished with a wife of birth — be 
 a stag of the first head, and bear my horns aloft, 
 like one Of the supporters of my wife's coat. 
 'Sdeath, I would not be a cuckold to e'er an illus- 
 trious whore in England I 
 
 Bell. What, not to make your family, man ! 
 and provide for your children ? 
 
 Sharp. For her children, you mean. 
 
 Heart. Ay, there you've nicked it — ^there's the 
 devil upon devil. — O the pride and joy of heart 
 'twould be to me, to have my son and heir resem- 
 ble such a duke ! — to have a fleering coxcomb scoff 
 and cry, Mr., your son's mighty like his Grace, 
 has just his smile and air of's face. Then replies 
 another, Methinks he has more of the Marquis of 
 such a place about his nose and eyes, though he 
 has my Lord What-d'ye-call's mouth to a tittle. — 
 Then I, to put it off as unconcerned, come chuck 
 the infant under the chin, force a smile, and cry, 
 Ay, the boy takes after his mother's relations : 
 when the devil and she knows, 'tis a little compound 
 of the whole body of nobility. 
 
 Bell and Sharp. Ha I ha I ha ! 
 
 Bell. Well, but, George, I have one question to 
 ask you — 
 
 Heart. Pshaw ! I have prattled away my time , 
 I hope you are in no haste for an answer — for I 
 shan't stay now. ILooking on his watch. 
 
 Bell. Nay, prithee, George — 
 
 Heart. No : besides my business, I see a fool 
 coming this way. Adieu. 
 
 SCENE V, 
 BsiiLMOUB and Sharpbfu 
 
 Bell. What does he mean ? Oh, 'tis sir Joseph 
 Wittol with his friend ; but I see he has turned the 
 corner, and goes another way- 
 
 Sharp. What in the name of wonder is it? 
 
 Bell. Why, a fool. 
 
 Sharp. 'Tis a tawdry outside. 
 
 Bell. And a very beggarly lining — yet he may 
 be worth your acquaintance. A little of thy che- 
 mistry, Tom, may extract gold from that dirt. 
 
 Sharp, Say you so ? faith, I am as poor as a 
 chemist, and would be as industrious. But what 
 was he that followed him ? Is not he a dragon 
 that watches those golden pippins ? 
 
 Bell. Hang him, no, he a dragon ! if he be, 'tis 
 a very peaceful one ; I can ensure his anger dor- 
 I mant ; or should he seem to rouse, 'tis but well 
 lashing him, and he will sleep like a top. 
 
 Sharp. Ay, is he of that kidney ? 
 
 Bell. Yet is adored by that bigot sir Joseph 
 Wittol, as the image of valour : he calls him his 
 back, and indeed they are never asunder — yet last 
 night, I know not by what mischance, the knight 
 was alone, and had fallen into the hands of some 
 night-walkers, who I suppose would have pillaged 
 him ; but I chanced to come by, and rescued him : 
 though I believe he was heartily frightened, for as 
 soon as ever he was loose he ran away, without 
 staying to see who had helped him. 
 
 Sharp. Is that bully of his in the army ? 
 
 Bell. No, but is a pretender, and wears the habit 
 of a soldier ; which now-a-days as often cloaks 
 cowardice, as a black gown does atheism. You 
 must know, he has been abroad — went purely to 
 run away from a campaign ; enriched himself with 
 the plunder of a few oaths — and here vents 'em 
 against the general; who slighting men of merit, and 
 preferring only those of interest, has made him quit 
 the service. 
 
 Sharp. Wherein, no doubt, he magnifies his own 
 performance. 
 
 Bell. Speaks miracles, is the drum to his own 
 praise — the only implement of a soldier he resem- 
 bles ; like that, being full of blustering noise and 
 emptiness. 
 
 Sharp. And like that, of no use but to be beaten. 
 
 Bell. Right ; but then the comparison breaks, 
 for he will take a drubbing with as little noise as a 
 pulpit- cushion. 
 
 Sharp. His name, and I have done ? 
 
 Bell. Why, that, to pass it current too, he has 
 gilded with a title : he is called Captain Bluffe. 
 
 Sharp, Well, I'll endeavour his acquaintance ; 
 you steer another course, are bound 
 
 For Love's Island ; I for the golden coast : 
 
 May each succeed in what he wishes most ! 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
153 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCEJSTE I.— The Street. 
 Sir Joseph WrrroL, B^&bpeu following. 
 
 Sharp. [Aside."] Sure that's he, and alone. 
 
 Sir Jo. \.Not perceiving Sbkb.v^b..'] Um — ay, 
 this, this is the very damned place ; the inhuman 
 cannibals, the bloody-minded villains would have 
 butchered me last night : no doubt they would have 
 flayed me alive, have sold my skin, and devoured 
 &c. 
 
 Sharp. How's this ? 
 
 Sir Jo. An it hadn't been for a civil gentleman 
 as came by and frighted 'em away — ^but, agad, I 
 durst not stay to give him thanks. 
 
 Sharp. This must be Bellmour he means. — Ha ! 
 I have a thought — 
 
 Sir Jo. Zooks, would the captain would come ! 
 the very remembrance makes me quake ; agad, 1 
 shall never be reconciled to this place heartily. 
 
 Sharp. 'Tis but trying, and being where I am 
 at worst. Now luck! — lAloud.'] Cursed fortune ! 
 this must be the place, this damned unlucky place ! 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside.} Agad, and so it is. Why, here 
 has been more mischief done, I perceive. 
 
 Sharp. No, 'tis gone, 'tis lost, — ten thousand 
 devils on that chance which drew me hitherl Ay, 
 here, just here, this spot to me is hell ; nothing to 
 be found but the despair of what I've lost. 
 
 [Looking about as in search. 
 
 Sir Jo, Poor gentleman ! — By the lord Harry 
 I'll stay no longer, for I have found too — 
 
 Sharp. Ha ! who's that has found ? what have 
 you found ? restore it quickly, or by — 
 
 Sir Jo. Not I, sir, not I, as I've a soul to be 
 saved, I have found nothing but what has been to 
 my loss, as I may say, and as you were saying, 
 sir. 
 
 Sharp. O your servant, sir, you are safe then it 
 seems ; 'tis an ill wind that blows nobody good. 
 Well, you may rejoice over my ill fortune, since it 
 paid the price of your ransom. 
 
 Sir .Jo. I rejoice I agad, not I, sir ; I'm very sorry 
 for your loss, with all my heart, blood and guts, 
 sir; and if you did but know me, you'd ne'er say 
 I were so ill-natured. 
 
 Sharp. Know you ! why, can you be so ungrate- 
 ful to forget me .'' 
 
 Sir Jo, [Aside.] O lord, forget him '.—[Aloud.] 
 No, no, sir, I don't forget you — because I never 
 saw your face before, agad ;■ — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sharp. How ! \_Angrily. 
 
 Sir Jo. Stay, stay, sir, let me recollect. — 
 [Aside.] He's a damned angry fellow — I believe 
 I had better remember him, tilt I can get out of 
 his sight ; but out o'sight, out o'mind, agad. 
 
 Sharp. Methought the service I did you last 
 night, sir, in preserving you from those ruffians, 
 might have taken better root in your shallow me- 
 mory. 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside.] Gads-daggers-belts-blades and 
 scabbards, this is the very gentleman ! How shall 
 I make him a return suitable to the greatness of 
 his merit ? I had a pretty thing to that purpose, if 
 he ha'n't frighted it out of mymemory. — [Aloud. ] 
 Hem, hem, sir, I most submissively implore your 
 
 pardon for my transgression of ingratitude and 
 omission ; having my entire dependence, sir, upon 
 the superfluity of your goodness, which, like an 
 inundation, will, I hope, totally immerge the re- 
 collection of my error, and leave me floating in 
 your sight upon the full-blown bladders of repent- 
 ance, by the help of which I shall once more hope 
 to swim into your favour. [Bows. 
 
 Sharp. So ! — O, sir, I'm easily pacified, the 
 acknowledgment of a gentleman — 
 
 Sir Jo. Acknowledgment ! sir, I'm all over 
 acknowledgment, and wUl not stick to show it in 
 the greatest extremity, by night or by day, in sick- 
 ness or in health, winter or summer ; all seasons 
 and occasions shall testify the reality and gratitude 
 of your super-abundant humble servant, sir Joseph 
 Wittol, knight. — Hem, hem. 
 
 Sharp. Sir Joseph Wittol ! 
 
 Sir Jo. The same, sir, of Wittol Hall, in comi- 
 tatu Bucks. 
 
 Sharp. Is it possible ! then I am happy, to have 
 obliged the mirror of knighthood, and pink of cour- 
 tesy in the age. Let me embrace you. 
 
 Sir Jo. O Lord, sir ! 
 
 Sharp. My loss I esteem as a trifle repaid with 
 interest, since it has purchased me the friendship 
 and acquaintance of the person in the world whose 
 character I admire. 
 
 Sir Jo. You are only pleased to say so. — But 
 pray, if I may be so bold, what is that loss you 
 mention ? 
 
 Sharp. O, term it no longer so, sir. In the 
 scuffle, last night, I only dropped a bill of a hun- 
 dred pounds, which, I confess, I came half despair- 
 ing to recover, but thanks to my better fortune — 
 
 Sir Jo. You have found it, sir, then it seems ; I 
 profess I'm heartily glad. 
 
 Sharp. Sir, your humble servant — I don't 
 question but you are ; that you have so cheap an 
 opportunity of expi'essing your gratitude and gene- 
 rosity ; since the paying so trivial a sum will wholly 
 acquit you and doubly engage me. 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside.] What, a dickens, does he mean 
 by a trivial sum ? — [Aloud.] But ha'n't you found 
 it, sir ? 
 
 Sharp. No otherwise, I vow toghd, but in my 
 
 pes in you, sir. 
 
 Sir Jo. Humph. 
 
 Sharp. But that's sufficient — 'twere injustice to 
 doubt the honour of sir Joseph Wittol. 
 
 Sir Jo. O Lord, sir ! 
 
 Sharp, You are above (I'm sure) a thought so 
 low, to suff'er me to lose what was ventured in your 
 service ; nay 'twas, in a manner, paid down for 
 your deliverance ; 'twas so much lent you ; and 
 you scorn, I'll say that for you — 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, I'll say that for myself, (with youi 
 leave, sir,) I do scorn a dirty thing ; but, agad, I'm 
 a little out of pocket at present. 
 
 Sharp. Pshaw ! you can't want a hundred pounds 
 Your word is sufficient anywhere j 'tis but borrow- 
 ing so much dirt, you have large acres and can 
 soon repay it. Money is but dirt, sir Joseph, mere 
 dirt. 
 
 Sir Jo, But I profess 'tis a dirt I have washed 
 
THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 163 
 
 my hands of at present ; I have laid it all out upon 
 my back. 
 
 Sharp. Are you so extravagant in clothes, sir 
 Joseph ? 
 
 Sir Jot Ha I ha ! ha ! a very good jest 1 profess, 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! a very good jest, and I did not know 
 that I had said it, and that's a better jest than 
 t'other. 'Tis a sign you and I ha'n't been long 
 acquainted j you have lost a good jest for want of 
 knowing me. I only mean a friend of mine whom 
 I call my back ; he sticks as close to me, and fol- 
 lows me through all dangers : he is indeed back, 
 breast, and head-piece as it were to me. Agad, he's 
 a brave fellow — pauh! I am quite another thing 
 when I am with him ; I don't fear the devil 
 (bless us ! ) almost, if he be by. Ah, had he been 
 with me last night — 
 
 Sharp. If he had, sir, what then ? he could have 
 done no more, nor perhaps have suffered so much. 
 Had he a hundred pounds to lose ? {Angrily. 
 
 Sir Jo. O Lord, sir, by no means ! — but I might 
 have saved a hundred pounds — -I meant innocently, 
 as I hope to be saved, sir. — A damu'd hot fellow ! 
 — Only, as I was saying, I let him have all my 
 ready money to redeem his great sword from limbo. 
 But, sir, I have a letter of credit to alderman Fon- 
 dlewife, as far as two hundred pounds, and this after- 
 noon you shall see I am a person, such a one as 
 you would wish to have met with. 
 
 Sharp. [Aside.'] That you are, I'll be sworn. — 
 [Aloud.'] Why that's great, and like yourself. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Sir Joseph Wittol, Shaeper, and Captain Bluffe. 
 
 Sir Jo. O, here a'comes. — Ah, my Hector of 
 Troy, welcome my bully, my back ! agad, my heart 
 has gone a pit-pat for thee. 
 
 Bluffe. How now, my young knight ! not for fear 
 I hope ; he that knows me must be a stranger to 
 fear. 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, agad^ I hate fear ever since I had 
 like to have died of a fright — but — 
 
 Bluffe. But ! look you here, boy, here's your 
 antidote, here's your Jesuit's powder for a shaking 
 fit. — But who hast thou got with thee ? is he of 
 mettle .■' '^ \Laying his hand on his sword. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, bully, a devilish smart fellow ; a' 
 will fight like a cock. 
 
 Bluffe. Say you so ? then I honour him.^— But 
 has he been abroad .' for every cock will fight upon 
 his own dunghill. 
 
 Sir Jo. I don't know, but I'll present you. 
 
 Bluffe. I'll recommend myself. — Sir, I honour 
 you ; 1 understand you love fighting, I reverence a 
 man that loves fighting, sir, I kiss your hilts. 
 
 Sharp. Sir, your servant, but you are misin- 
 formed ; for unless it be to serve my particular 
 friend, as sir Joseph here, my country, or my re- 
 ligion, or in some very justifiable cause, I'm not 
 for it, 
 
 Bluffe. O Lord, I beg your pardon, sir ! I find 
 you are not of my palate, you can't relish a dish 
 of fighting without sweet sauce. Now I think — 
 
 Fighting, for fighting sake's sufficient cause ; 
 Fighting, to me's religion and the laws. 
 
 Str Jo, Ah, well said, my hero ! — ^Was not that 
 great, sir ? By the Lord Harry he says true, 
 
 fighting is meat, drink, and cloth to him.— But, 
 back, this gentleman is one of the best friends I 
 have in the world, and saved my life last night, 
 you know I told you. 
 
 Bluffe. Ay, then I honour him again.^Sir, may 
 I crave your name ? 
 
 Sharp. Ay, sii*, my name's Sharper. 
 
 Sir Jo. Pray, Mr. Sharper, embrace my back — 
 very well. By the Lord Harry, Mr. Sharper, he's 
 as brave a fellow as Cannibal : are not you bully ■ 
 back ? 
 
 Sharpt Hannibal, I believe you mean, sir Joseph 
 
 Bluffe. Undoubtedly he did, sir. — Faith, Han- 
 nibal was a very pretty fellow ; but, sir Joseph, 
 comparisons are odious ; Hannibal was a very 
 pretty fellow in those days, it must be granted ; 
 but alas, sir, were he alive now, he would be no- 
 thing, nothing in the earth. 
 
 Sharp. How, sir ! I make a doubt if there be 
 at this day a greater general breathing. 
 
 Bluffe. Oh, excuse me, sir ; have you served 
 abroad, sir ? 
 
 Sharp. Not I really, sir. 
 
 Bluffe. Oh, I thought so. — Why, then, you can 
 know nothing, sir ; I am afraid you scarce know 
 the history of the late war in Flanders, with all its 
 particulars. 
 
 Sharp. Not I, sir, no more than public letters 
 or gazettes tell us. 
 
 Bluffe. Gazette ! why there again now — why, 
 sir, there are not three words of truth the year 
 round put into the gazette^I'll tell you a strange 
 thing now as to that. — You must know, sir, I was 
 resident in Flanders the last campaign, had a small 
 post there, but no matter for that. Perhaps, sir, 
 there was scarce anything of moment done but an 
 humble servant of yours, that shall be nameless 
 was an eye-witness of — I won't say had the greatest 
 share in't ; though I might say that too, since I 
 name nobody, you know. — Well, Mr. Sharper, 
 would you think it .' in all this time, as I hope for 
 a truncheon, this rascally gazette- writer never so 
 much as once mentioned me — not once, by the 
 wars ! — took no more notice than as if Nol. Bluffe 
 had not been in the land of the living 1 
 
 Sharp. Strange! 
 
 Sir Jo. Yet, by the Lord Harry, 'tis true, Mr. 
 Sharper, for I went every day to coffee-houses to 
 read the gazette myself. 
 
 Bluffe. Ay, ay, no matter. — You see, Mr. 
 Sharper^ after all I am content to retire — live a 
 private person — Scipio and others have done it. 
 
 Sharp. Impudent rogue ! lAside. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, this damned modesty of yours — 
 agad, if he would put in for't he might be made 
 general himself yet. 
 
 Bluffe. O fy, no, sir Joseph ! — you know I hate 
 this. 
 
 Sir Jo. Let me but tell Mr. Sharper a little, 
 how you eat fire once out of the mouth of a cannon. 
 — Agad he did ; those impenetrable whiskers of 
 his have confronted flames. 
 
 Bluffe. Death, what do you mean, sir Joseph ? 
 
 Sir Jo. Look you now, I tell you he's so modest 
 he'll own nothing. 
 
 Bluffe. Pish 1 you have put me out, I have 
 forgot what I was about. Pray hold your tongue, 
 and give me leave. ^Angrily 
 
 Sir Jo. I am dumb. 
 
 Bluffe. This sword, I think, I was telling you of 
 
THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 Mr. Sharper,— this sword I'll maintain to be the 
 best divine, anatomist, lawyer, or casuist in Europe; 
 it shall decide a controversy or split a cause. 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, now I must speak ; it will split 
 a hair, by the Lord Harry, I have seen it. 
 
 Bluffe. Zounds, sir, it's a lie ! you have not 
 seen it, nor shan't see it ; sir, I say you can't see ; 
 what d'ye say to that now .' 
 
 Sir Jo. I am blind. 
 
 Bluffe. Death, had any other man interrupted 
 me — 
 
 Sir Jo. Good Mr. Sharper, speak to him, I 
 dare not look that way. 
 
 Sharp. Captain, sir Joseph's penitent. 
 
 Bluffe. O I am oalm, sir, calm as a discharged 
 culverin — but 'twas indiscreet, when you know 
 what will provoke me.— Nay, come, sir Joseph, 
 you know my heat's soon over. 
 
 Sir Jo. Well, I am a fool sometimes — but I'm 
 sorry. 
 
 Bluffe. Enough. 
 
 Sir Jo. Come, we'll go take a glass to drown 
 animosities'. — Mr. Sharper, will you partake .'' 
 
 Sharp. I wait on you, sir ; nay, pray captain, 
 — you are sir Joseph's back. 
 
 SCENE III Araminta's Apartment. 
 
 Araminta, Belinda, and BErrv. 
 
 Belin. Ah, nay, dear — prithee good, dear, sweet 
 cousin, no more. Oh gad, I swear you'd make 
 one sick to hear you ! 
 
 Aram. Bless me, what have I said to move you 
 thus? 
 
 Belin. Oh, you have raved, talked idly, and 
 all in commendation of that filthy, awkward, two- 
 legged creature man! You don't know what you've 
 said, your fever has transported you. 
 
 Aram. If love be the fever which you mean, 
 kind heaven avert the cure ! IjCt me have oil to 
 feed that flame, and never let it be extinct, till I 
 myself am ashes ! 
 
 Belin. There was a whine ! — O gad, I hate your 
 horrid fancy ! This love is the devil, and sure to 
 be in love is to be possessed. — 'Tis in the head, 
 the heart, the blood, the — all over. — O gad, you 
 are quite spoiled! — I shall loathe the sight of man- 
 kind for your sake. 
 
 Jrarn. Fy, this is gross affectation ! A little of 
 Bellmour's company would change the scene. 
 
 Belin. Filthy fellow ! I wonder, cousin — 
 
 Aram. I wonder, cousin, you should imagine 1 
 don't perceive you love him. 
 
 Belin. Oh, I love your hideous fancy ! Ha I 
 ha ' ha ! love a man ! 
 
 Aram. Love a man 1 yes, you would not love a 
 beast? 
 
 Belin. Of all beasts not an ass — which is so like 
 your Vainlove I — Lard, I have seen an ass look so 
 chagrin, ha I ha ! ha ! (you must pardon me, I 
 can't help laughing) that ail absolute lover would 
 have concluded the poor creature to have had darts, 
 and flames, and altars, and all that,, in his breast. 
 Araminta, come, I'll talk seriously to yon now ; 
 could you but see with my eyes, the buffoonery of 
 one scene of address, a lover, set out with all his 
 equipage and appurtenances ;. O gad ! sure you 
 would — But you play the game, and consequently 
 
 can't see the miscarriages obvious to every stander 
 
 Aram. Yes, yea, I can see something near it, 
 when you and Bellmour meet. You don't know 
 that you dreamed of Bellmour last night, and 
 called him aloud in your sleep. 
 
 Belin. Pish ! I can't help dreaming of the devil 
 sometimes; v^ould you from thence infer I love 
 him? 
 
 Aram. But that's not all; you caught me in 
 your arms when you named him, and pressed me 
 to your bosom. — Sure, if I had not pinched you till 
 you awaked, you had stifled me with kisses. 
 
 Belin. O barbarous aspersion ! 
 
 Aram. No aspersion, cousin, we are alone.— 
 Nay, I can tell you more. 
 
 Belin. I deny it all. 
 
 Aram. What, before you hear it ? 
 
 Belin. My denial is premeditated like your 
 malice. — Lard, cousin, you talk oddly ! — What- 
 ever the matter is, O my Sol, I'm afraid you'll 
 follow evil courses. 
 
 Aram. Ha ! ha ! ha ! this is pleasant. 
 
 Belin. You may laugh, but — 
 
 Aram. Ha ! ha I ha ! 
 
 Belin. You may think the malicious grin be- 
 Comes you. — The devil take Bellmour ! why do you 
 tell me of him ? 
 
 Aram. Oh is it come out! — now you are angry, 
 I am sure you love him. I tell nobody else, cousin ; 
 I have not betrayed you yet. 
 
 Belin. Prithee, bell it sill the world ; it's false. 
 
 Aram. Come, then, kiss and friends. 
 
 Belin. Pish! 
 
 Aram. Prithee, don't be so peevish. 
 
 Belin. Prithee, don't be so impertinent. — Betty 1 
 
 Aram. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Betty. Did your ladyship call, madam ? 
 
 Belin. Get my hoods and tippet, and bid the 
 footman call a chair. [.Exit BEiry. 
 
 Aram. I hope you are not going out in dudgeon, 
 cousin ? 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Araminta, Belinda^ and Pack. 
 
 Pace. Madam, there are — 
 
 Belin. Is there a chair ? 
 
 Pace. No, madam, there are Mr. Bellmour and 
 Mr. Vainlove to wait upon your ladyship. 
 
 Aram. Are they below ? 
 
 Pace. No, madam, they sent before, to know if 
 you were at home. 
 
 Belin. The visit's to you, cousin ; I suppose 1 
 am at my liberty. 
 
 Aram. [To Pace.] Be ready to show 'em up. 
 
 SCENE V 
 Araminta, Belinda, and Betty. 
 
 Aram. I can't tell, cousin, I believe we are 
 equally concerned j but if you continue your 
 humour, it won't be very entertaining.— [^sWe.] 
 I know she'd fain be persuaded to stay. 
 
 Belin. I shall oblige you in leaving you to the 
 full and free enjoyment of that conversation you 
 
THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 166 
 
 admire. — Let me see : hold the glass. — Lard, I 
 look wretchedly to-day 1 
 
 Aram. Betty, why don't you help my cousin ? 
 
 [Pntimg on her hoods'. 
 
 Belin. Hold off your fists ! and see that he gets 
 a chair with a high roof, or a very low seat. — Stay, 
 come back here, you Mrs. Fidget^ — you are so 
 ready to go to the footmSh. Here, take-'em all again; 
 my mind's changed, 1 won't go. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Araminta and Belinda. 
 
 Aram. {^Aside.l So, this I expected.— [^/owrf.] 
 You won't oblige me then, cousin, and let me 
 have all the company to myself? 
 
 Belin. No ; upon deliberation, I have too 
 much charity to trust you to yourself. The devil 
 watches all opportunities ; and, in this favourable 
 disposition of your mind, heaven knows how far 
 you may be tempted : I am tender of your reputa- 
 tion. 
 
 Aram. I am obliged to you. But who's mali- 
 cious now, Belinda ? 
 
 Be/ill. Not 1 ; witness my heart, I stay out of 
 pure affection. 
 
 Aram. In my conscience, I believe you. 
 
 SCENE YIL 
 Araminta, Belinda, Vainlove, Bbllmoub, and Pace. 
 
 Sell. So, fortune be praised ! — To find you 
 both within, ladies, is — 
 
 Aram. No miracle, I hope. 
 
 Bell. Not o'your side, madam, I confess. — But 
 my tyrant there and I are two buckets that can 
 never come together. 
 
 Belin. Nor are ever like. — Yet we often meet 
 and clash. 
 
 Bell. How, never like ! marry, Hymen forbid ! 
 Bui this it is to run so extravagantly in debt ; I 
 have laid out such a world of love in your service, 
 that you think you can never be able to pay me all ; 
 so shun me for the same reason that you would 
 a dun. 
 
 Belin. Ay, on my conscience, and the most im- 
 pertinent and troublesome of duns. — A dun for 
 money will be quiet, when he sees his debtor has 
 not wherewithal ; but a dun for love is an eternal 
 torment that never rests. 
 
 Bell. Till he has created love where there was 
 none, and then gets it for his pains. — For impor- 
 tunity in love, like importunity at court, first 
 creates its own interest, and then pursues it for the 
 favour. 
 
 Aram. Favours that are got by impudence and 
 importunity, are like discoveries from the rack, 
 when the aiflicted person, for his ease, sometimes 
 confesses secrets his heart knows nothing of. 
 
 Vain. I should rather think favours, so gained, 
 to be due rewards to indefatigable devotion. — For 
 as Love is a deity, he must be served by prayer. 
 
 Belin. O gad, would you would all pray to Love 
 then, and let us alone ! 
 
 Vain. You are the temples of Love, and 'tis 
 throue;h vou our devotion must be conveved. 
 
 Aram. Rather poor silly idols of your own 
 making, which, upon the least displeasure, you 
 forsake, and set up new. — Every man, now, changes 
 his mistress and his religion as his humour varies 
 or his interest. 
 
 Vain. O madam ! — 
 
 Aram. Nay, come, I find we are growing serious, 
 and then we are in great danger of being dull. — 
 If my musicmaster be not gone, I'll entertain you 
 with a new song, which comes pretty near my own 
 opinion of love and your sex. — -Who's there ? Is 
 Mr, Gavot gone ? [Calls. 
 
 Pace, Only to the next door, madam ; I'll call 
 him. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Araminta, Belinda, Vainlove, and Bellmour. 
 
 ^ell. Why, you won't hear me with patience. 
 
 Aram. What's the matter, cousin ? 
 
 Bell. Nothing, mad'am, only — 
 
 Belin. Prithee, hold thy tongue ! — Lard, he has 
 so pestered me with flames and stuff, I think T 
 Shan't endure the sight of a fire this twelvemonth! 
 
 Bell. Yet all can't mfelt that cruel frozen heart. 
 
 Belin. O gad, I hate your hideous fancy ! you 
 said that once before. — If you must talk imperti- 
 nently, for heaven's sake let it be with variety ; 
 don't come always, like the devil, wrapped in flames. 
 — I'll not hear a sentence more, that begins with 
 an J burn — or an I beseech you, madam. 
 
 Belt. But tell me how you would be adored ; 1 
 am very tractable. 
 
 Belin. Then knowj I would be adored in silence. 
 
 Bell. Humph ! I thought so, that you might 
 have all the talk to yourself. You had better let me 
 speak ; for if my thoughts fly to any pitch, I shall 
 make villanous signs, 
 
 Belin. What will you get by that ? to make such 
 signs as I won't understand. 
 
 Bell. Ay, but if I am tongue-tied, I must have 
 all my actions free to — quicken your ajiprehen- 
 sion-:— and, egad, let me tell you, my most prevail- 
 ing argument is expressed in dumb show. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Araminta, Belinda, Vainlove, Bellmour, and Gavot. 
 Aram. O I am glad, we shall have a song to 
 divert the discourse. — [To Gavot.] Pray oblige 
 us with the last new song. 
 
 oavot sings. 
 Thus, to a ripe consenting maid, 
 Poor, old, repenting Delia said : — 
 Would you long preserve your lover ? 
 
 Would you still his goddess reign ? 
 Never let him all discover, 
 
 Never let him much obtain. 
 
 Men will admire, adore, and die, 
 While wishing at your feet they lie : 
 But admitting their embraces 
 
 Wakes 'em from the golden dream ; 
 Nothing's new besides our faces. 
 
 Every woman is the same. 
 
 Aram. So, how d'ye like the song, gentlemen ? 
 Bell. O, very well performed ; but I don't much 
 admire the words. 
 
1S6 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 Aram. [ expected it — there's too much truth in 
 'em. If Mr. Gavot will walk with us in the gar- 
 den, we'll have it once again ; yon may like it better 
 at second hearing. You'll bring my cousin % 
 
 Bell. Faith, madam, I dare not apeak to her, 
 but I'll make signs. 
 
 {,Addresses Belinda in dumb show. 
 
 Bdin. foh ! your dumb rhetoric is more 
 ridiculous than your talking impertinence ; as 
 an ape is a much more troublesome animal than a 
 parrot. 
 
 Aram. Ay, cousin, and 'tis a sign the creatures 
 
 mimic nature well ; for there are few men but do 
 more silly things than they say. 
 
 Bell. Well, I find my apishness has paid the 
 ransom for my speech, and set it at Uberty ; 
 though I confess I could be well enough pleased to 
 drive on a love-bargain in that silent manner : 
 'twould save a man a world of lying and swearing 
 at the year's end. Besides, I have had a little ex- 
 perience, that brings to mind — 
 
 When wit and reason both haVe fail'd to move ; 
 
 Kind looks and actions (from success) do prove, 
 
 Even silence may be eloquent in love, iExeunt. 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 SCENE I. — The St/reet before Siltia*» Lodrjmg. 
 Silvia and Lucv. 
 
 Silv. Will he not come th'en I 
 
 Imcy. Yes, yes ; come ! I warrant him, if you 
 will go in and be ready to receive him. 
 
 SHv. Why, did you not tell me ? — who mean 
 you ? 
 
 Imcy. Whom you should mean, Heartwell. 
 
 BU/o. Senseless creature ! I meant my Vainlove. 
 
 I/iicy. You may as soon hope to recover your 
 own maidenhead as his love. Therefore, e'en set 
 your heart at rest ; and in the name of opportunity 
 mind your own business. Strike Heartwell home, 
 before the bait's worn off the hook. Age will come. 
 He nibbled fairly yesterday, and no doubt will be 
 eager enough to-day to swallow the temptation. 
 
 Sih). Well, since there's no remedy — Yet tell 
 me, for I would know, though to the anguish of 
 my soul, how did he refuse \ Tell me — how did 
 he receive my letter 3 in anger or in scorn ? 
 
 Lwyy. Neither ; but what was ten times worse, 
 with damned senseless indifference. By this light, 
 I could have spit in his face ! Received it ! why 
 he received it as I would one of your lovers that 
 should some empty-handed ; as a court lord does 
 his mercer's bUl, or a begging dedication^— he re- 
 ceived it as if 't had been a letter from his wife. 
 
 SUv. What, did he not read it ? 
 
 .Lucy. Hum'd it over, gave you his respects, 
 and said he would take time to peruse it — but then 
 he was in haste. 
 
 Silv. Respects, and peruse it ! He's gone, and 
 Araminta has bewitched hira from me ! how 
 the name of rival fires my blood \ I could curse 
 'em both ; eternal jealoasy attend her love, and 
 disappointment meet his ! Oh that I could revenge 
 the torment he has caused ! Methinks I feel the 
 woman strong within me, and vengeance kindles in 
 the room of love. 
 
 LMy. I have that in my head may make mis- 
 chief. 
 
 Silv. How, dear Lucy ? 
 
 I/acy. You know Araminta's dissembled coyness 
 has won, and keeps him hers — 
 
 Silv. Could we persuade him that she loves 
 another — 
 
 Lacy. No, you're out ; could we persuade him 
 that she dotes on him, himself — contrive a kind 
 letter as from her, 'twould disgust his nicety, and 
 take away his stomach. 
 
 Silv. Impossible, 'twill never take. 
 
 Imcyi Trouble not your head. Let me alone. 
 I will inform myself of what passed between 'era 
 to-day, and about it straight. — Hold, I'm mistaken 
 or that's Heartwell who stands talking at the cor- 
 ner — 'tis he. Go, get you in, madam, receive him 
 pleasantly, dress up your face in innocence and 
 smiles, and dissemble the very want of dissimula^ 
 tion. — You know what will take him. 
 
 Sih. 'Tis as hard to counterfeit love as it is to 
 conceal it ; but I'll do my weak endeavour, though 
 I fear I have not art. 
 
 Imcy. Hang art, madam 1 and trust to nature 
 for dissembling. 
 
 Man was by nature woman's cully made ; 
 We never are but by ourselves betray'd. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Heartwell, Vainlove and BELLwouR/oZioiotn^. 
 
 Bell. Hist, hist, is not that Heartwell going to 
 Silvia ! 
 
 Vavn. He's talking to himself, I think : prithee 
 let's try if we can hear him. 
 
 Hemt. Why, whither m the devil's name am I 
 a-going now 1 Hum — let me think — is not this 
 Silvia's house, the cave of that enchantress, and 
 which consequently I ought to shun as I would 
 infection \ To enter here, is to put on the en- 
 venomed-shirt, to run into the embraces of a fever, 
 and in some raving fit be led to plunge myself into 
 that more consuming fire, a woman's arms. Ha ! 
 well recollected, I will recover my reason, and be 
 gone. 
 
 Bell. Now, Venus forbid ! 
 
 Yaim. Hush ! 
 
 JSeart. Well, why do you not move ! Feet, do 
 your office — ^not one inch ; no, foregad, I'm caught ! 
 There stands my north, and thither my needle 
 poipts. — Now could I curse myself, yet cannot 
 repent. thou deUcious, damned, dear, destruc- 
 tive woman ! 'Sdeath, how the young fellows will 
 hoot me ! I shall be the jest of the town. Nay 
 in two days I expect to be chronicled in ditty, and 
 sung in woeful ballad, to the tune of the Swperom- 
 rmated Mmdcm's Oomfort, or the Baclielor's Fall; 
 and upon the third, I shall be hanged in effigy, 
 pasted up for the exemplary ornament of necessary- 
 houses and cobblers' stalls. Death, I can't think 
 on't ! — I'll run into the danger to lose the appre- 
 hension. 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 167 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Bbllmour and Vainlovk. 
 
 Bell, A very certain remedy, probatum est. — 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor George, thou art i' th' right, 
 thou hast sold thyself to laughter ; the ill-natured 
 town will find the jest just where thou hast lost it. 
 Ha ! ha ! how a' struggled, like an old lawyer 
 between two fees ! 
 
 Vain. Or a young wench, between pleasure and 
 reputation. 
 
 Bell. Or as you did to-day, when half afraid you 
 snatohed a kiss from Araminta. 
 
 Vain. She has made a quarrel on't. 
 
 Bell. Pauh ! women are only angry at such 
 offences, to have the pleasure of forgiving 'em. 
 
 Vain. And I love to have the pleasure of making 
 my peace. — I should not esteem a pardon if too 
 easily won. 
 
 Bell. Thou dost not know what thou wouldst 
 be at ; whether thou wouldst have her angry or 
 pleased. Couldst thou be content to marry Ara- 
 minta ? 
 
 Vain. Could you be content to go to heaven ? 
 
 Bell. Hum, not immediately, in my conscience 
 not heartily. I'd do a little more good in my gene- 
 ration first, in order to deserve it. 
 
 Vain. Nor I to marry Araminta till I merit her. 
 
 Bell. But how the devil dost thou expect to get 
 her if she never yield ? 
 
 Vain. That's true ; but I would — 
 
 Bell. Marry her without her consent ; thou'rt a 
 riddle beyond woman. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 BELI.MOUR, Tatnlove, and Setter. 
 
 Bell. Trusty Setter, what tidings? how goes the 
 project ? 
 
 Set. As all lewd projects do, sir, where the devil 
 prevents our endeavours with success. 
 
 Bell. A good hearing. Setter. 
 
 Vain. Well, I'll leave you with your engineer. 
 
 Bell. And hast thou provided necessaries ? 
 
 Set. All, all, sir ; the large sanctified hat, and 
 the little precise band, with a swinging long-spiri- 
 tual cloak, to cover carnal knavery — not forgetting 
 the black patch, which Tribulation Spintext wears, 
 as I'm informed, upon one eye, as a penal mourn- 
 ing for the ogling offences of his youth ; and some 
 say, with that eye he first discovered the frailty of 
 his wife. 
 
 Bell. Well, in this fanatic father's habit will I 
 confess Leetitia. 
 
 Set. Rather prepare her for confession, sir, by 
 helping her to sin. 
 
 Bell. Be at your master's lodging jn the evening, 
 
 I shall use the robes. ' 
 
 * 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 SErTBR. 
 
 I shall, sir. — I wonder to which of these two gen- 
 tlemen I do most properly appertain ? — ^The one 
 OSes me as his attendant, the other (being the bet- 
 
 ter acquainted with my parts) employs me as a 
 pimp ; why that's much the more honourable em- 
 ployment — by all means. I follow one as my 
 master, t'other follows me as his conductor. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Setter and Lucv. 
 
 Lucp. Inside.'] There's the hang-dog his man. 
 I had a power over him in the reign of my mis- 
 tress ; but he is too true a valet-de-chambre not to 
 affect his master's faults ; and consequently is re- 
 volted from his allegiance. 
 
 Set. (^Hot perceiving Lticy.] Undoubtedly 'tis 
 impossible to be a pimp and not a man of parts. 
 That is, without being politic, diligent, secret, wary 
 and so forth : — and to all this, valiant as Hercules 
 • — -that is, passively valiant and actively obedient. 
 Ah, Setter, what a treasure is here lost for want of 
 being known ! 
 
 Lucy. \_Aside.'] Here's some villany a-foot, he's 
 so thoughtful ; maybe I may discover something 
 in my mask. — [Aloud.1 Worthy sir, a word with 
 ypu. IPuts on her mask. 
 
 Set. Why, if I were known, I might come to be 
 a great man — 
 
 Lucy. Not to interrupt your meditation — 
 
 Set. And I should not be the first that has pro- 
 cured his greatness by pimping, 
 
 Lucy. Now poverty and the pox light upon thee, 
 for a contemplative pimp ! 
 
 Set. Ha ! what art, who thus maliciously hast 
 awakened me from my dream of glory ? Speak, 
 thou vile disturber — 
 
 Lucy. Of thy most vile cogitations. — Thou poor, 
 conceited wretch, how wert thou valuing thyself 
 upon thy master's employment ? For ,he's the 
 head-pimp to Mr. Bellmour. 
 
 Set. Good words, damsel, or I shall — but how 
 dost thou know my master or me .'' 
 
 Lucy. Yes, I know both master and man to be — 
 
 Set. To be men perhaps ; nay, faith, like 
 enough : I often march in the rear of my master, 
 and enter the breaches which he has made. 
 
 Lucy. Ay, the breach of faith, which he has 
 begun : thou traitor to thy lawful princess ! 
 
 Set. Why, how now ! prithee, who art .' Lay 
 by that worldly face, and produce your natural 
 vizor. 
 
 Lucy. No, sirrah, I'll keep it on to abuse thee, 
 and leave thee without hopes of revenge. 
 
 Set. Oh ! I begin to smoke ye : thou art some 
 forsaken Abigail we have dallied with heretofore, 
 and art come to tickle thy imagination with remem- 
 brance of iniquity past. 
 
 Lucy. No, thou pitiful flatterer of thy master's 
 imperfections 1 thou maukin, made up of the shreds 
 and parings of his superfluous fopperies I 
 
 Set. Thou art thy mistress's foul self, composed 
 of her sullied iniquities and clothing. 
 
 Lucy. Hang thee, beggar's cur 1 — Thy master is 
 but a mumper in love ; lies canting at the gate, but 
 never dares presume to enter the house. 
 
 Set. Thou art the wicket to thy mistress's gate, 
 to be opened for all comers. In fine, thou art the 
 high-road to thy mistress. 
 
 Lucy. Beast I filthy toad! I can hold no longer: 
 look and tremble. lUnmaski. 
 
168 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 Set. How, Mrs. Lucy ! 
 
 iMcy. I wonder thou hast the impudence to look 
 me in the face. 
 
 Set. Adsbud, \vho's in fault, mistress of mine ? 
 who ilung the first stone? who undervalued my 
 function } and who the devil could know you by 
 instinct ? 
 
 Lucy. You could know my office by instinct, 
 and be hanged ! which you have slandered most 
 abominably. It vexes me not what you said of my 
 person ; but that my innocent calling should be 
 exposed and scandalised — I cannot bear it. 
 
 [^Pretends to cry. 
 
 Set. Nay, faith, Lucy, I'm sorry ; I'll own myself 
 to blame, though we were both in fault as to our 
 offices.— Come, I'll make you anyreparation. 
 
 Lucy. Swear. 
 
 Set. I do swear to the utmost of my power. 
 
 Lucy. To be brief then : — What is the reason 
 vour master did not appear to-day according to the 
 summons I brought him ? 
 
 Set. To answer you as briefly : — He has a cause 
 to be tried in another court. 
 
 Lucy. Come, tell me in plain terms, how for- 
 ward he is witli Araminta. 
 
 Set. Too forward to be turned back ; though 
 he's a little in disgrace at present about a kiss 
 which he forced. You and I can kiss, Lucy, 
 without all that. 
 
 Lucy. Stand off ! — He's a precious jewel ! 
 
 Set. And therefore you'd have hira to set in 
 your lady's locket. 
 
 Lucy. Where is he now } 
 
 Set. He'll be in the Piazza presently. 
 
 Lucy. Remember to-day's behaviour — let me 
 see you with a penitent face. 
 
 Set. What, no token of amity, Lucy ? you and 
 I don't use to part with dry lips. 
 
 Lucy. .l^fo, no, avaunt ! — I'll not be slabbered 
 and kissed now — I'm not i'th' humour. 
 
 Set. I'll not quit you so : — I'll follow and put 
 you into the humour. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Sir Joseph Wittoi- and Bluffb. 
 
 Bluffe. And sooutofyourunwonted generosity — 
 
 Svr Jo. And good-nature, back ; 1 am good- 
 natured, and I can't help it. 
 
 Bluffe. You have given him a note upon Fondle- 
 wife for a hundred pounds. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, ay, poor fellow, he ventured fair 
 for't. 
 
 Bluffe. You have disobliged me in it, for I have 
 occasion for the money, and if you would look me 
 in the face again and live, go, and force him to 
 redeliver you the note. Go, and bring it me hither : 
 I'll stay here for you. 
 
 Sir Jo. You may stay 'till the day of judgment 
 then: by the Lord Harry, I know better thini^s 
 than to be run through the guts for a hundred 
 pounds. — Why, I gave that hundred pounds for 
 being saved, and d'ye think, an there were no 
 danger, I'll l3e so ungrateful to take it from the 
 gentleman again .' 
 
 Bluffe. Well,go to him fromme. — Tell him, I say 
 he must refund, or Bilbo's the word, and slaughter 
 will ensue :— if he refuse, tell him— but whisper 
 
 that — tell him — I'll pink his soul — but whisper 
 that softly to him. 
 
 Sir Jo. So softly that he shall never hear on't, 
 I warrant you. — Why, what a devil's the matter, 
 bully, are you mad .' or d'ye think I'm mad ? 
 Agad, for my part, I don't love to be the messen- 
 ger of ill news ; 'tis an ungrateful office — so tell 
 hira yourself. 
 
 Bluffe. By these hilts, I believe he frightened you 
 into this composition ! I believe you gave it him 
 out of fear, pure, paltry fear — confess. 
 
 Sir Jo. No, no, hang't I was not afraid neither 
 — though I confess he did in a manner snap me 
 up — yet I can't say that it was altogether out of 
 fear, but partly to prevent mischief — for he was a 
 devilish choleric fellow : and if my choler had 
 been up too, agad, there would have been mischief 
 done, that's flat. And yet I believe if you had 
 been by, I would as soon have let him a' had a 
 hundred of my teeth. Adsheart, if he should come 
 just now when I'm angry, I'd tell him — mum. 
 
 SCENE vin. 
 
 Sir Joseph Wittol, Bluffe, Bellmour, and Sharper. 
 
 Bell. Thou'rt a lucky rogue ; there's your bene- 
 factor ; you ought to return him thanks now you 
 have received the favour. 
 
 Sharp. Sir Joseph, your note was accepted, and 
 the money paid at sight : I'm come to return my 
 thanks. 
 
 Sir Jo. They won't be accepted so readily as the 
 bill, sir. 
 
 Bell. I doubt the knight repents, Tom. He 
 looks like the Knight of the Sorrowful Face. 
 
 Sharp. This is a double generosity: — do me a 
 kindness, and refuse my thanks. — But I hope you 
 are not offended that I offered 'em } 
 
 Sir Jo. Maybe I am, sir, maybe I am not, sir, 
 maybe I am both, sir ; what then .' I hope I may 
 be offended, without any offence to you, sir ? 
 
 Sharp. Heyday ! Captain, what's the matter ? 
 you can tell. 
 
 Bluffe. Mr. Sharper, the matter is plain ; sir 
 Joseph has found out your trick, and does not 
 care to be put upon, being a man of honour. 
 
 Sharp. Trick, sir .' 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, trick, sir, and won't be put upon, 
 sir, being a man of honour, sir, and so, sir — 
 
 Sharp. Harkee, sir Joseph, a word with ye. — 
 In consideration of some favours lately received, I 
 would not have you draw yourself into a premu- 
 nire, by trusting to that sign of a man there — that 
 potgun charged with wind. 
 
 Sir Jo. O Lord, O Lord, captain, come justify 
 yourself ! — I'll give him the lie if you'll stand to it. 
 
 Sharp. Nay, then, I'll be beforehand with you; 
 take that, oaf. iCuffs him. 
 
 Sir Jo. Captain, will you see this? won't you 
 pink his soul ? • 
 
 Bluffe. Hush ! 'tis not so convenient now — I 
 shall find a time. 
 
 Sharp, What, do you mutter about a time, 
 rascal? — You were the incendiary: — there's to 
 put you in mind of your time — a memorandum. 
 
 \_Kicks him-, 
 
 Bluffe. Oh, this is your time, sir, you had best 
 make use on't. 
 
SOENE X. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 169 
 
 Sharp. Egad, and so I will : there's again for 
 you. [Kicks him. 
 
 Jiluffe. You are obliging, sir, but this is too 
 public a place to thank you in : but, in your ear, 
 you are to be seen again. 
 
 Sharp. Ay, thou inimitable coward, and to be 
 felt : — as for example. [Kicks him. 
 
 Bell. Ha ! ha ! ha ! prithee come away ; 'tis 
 scandalous to kick this puppy, unless a man were 
 cold, and had no other way to get himself a heat. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Sir Joseph Wittol and Bi vpfb. 
 
 Bhtffe. Very well — very fine — but 'tisno matter. 
 •^Is not this fine, sir Joseph? 
 
 Sir Jo. Indifferent, agad, in my opinion very 
 indifferent. — I'd rather go plain all my life than 
 wear such finery. 
 
 Bluffe. Death and hell ! to be affronted thus ! 
 I'll die before I'll suffer it. [Draws. 
 
 Sir Jo. [^Aside.'j O Lord, his anger was not 
 raised before ! — lAloud.'] Nay, dear captain, don't 
 be in a passion now he's gone. — Put up, put up, 
 dear back, 'tis your sir Joseph begs ; come, let me 
 kiss thee ; so, so, put up, put up. 
 
 Bluffe. By heaven, 'tis not to be put up ! 
 
 Sir Jo. What, bully ? 
 
 Bluffe. The affront. 
 
 Sir Jo. No, agad, no more 'tis, for that's put 
 up already : — thy sword I mean. 
 
 Bluffe. Well, sir Joseph, at your entreaty. — 
 [Puts up his sword.l But were not you, my friend, 
 abused and cuffed and kicked ? 
 
 Sir Jo, Ay, ay, so were you too ; no matter, 'tis 
 past. 
 
 Bhiffe. By the immortal thunder of great guns, 
 'tis false ! — he sucks not vital air who dares affirm 
 it to this face. [Looks big. 
 
 Sir Jo. To that face I grant you, captain : no, 
 no, I grant you, not to that face, by the Lord 
 Harry, if you had put on your fighting face before, 
 you had done his business ; he durst as soon have 
 kissed you, as kicked you to your face ; but a man 
 can no more help what's done behind his back, 
 than what's said. Come, we'll think no more of 
 what's past. 
 
 Bluffe. I'll call a council of war within to con- 
 sider of my revenge to come. 
 
 SCENE X. — Silvia's Apartment. 
 
 Hbartwell and Silvia. 
 
 SONG. 
 A& Amoret and Thyrsis lay 
 Melting the hours in gentle play, 
 Joining faces, mingling kisses, 
 And exchanging harmless blisses ; 
 He trembling cried with eager haute ; — > 
 ' * O, let me feed, as well as taste ; 
 I die, if I'm not wholly blest !" 
 
 A/Ur the song a Dance of Antics, 
 
 Sllv. Indeed, it is very fine, I could loo* upon 
 'em all day. 
 
 Heart. Wellj has this prevailed for me, and will 
 you look upon me ? 
 
 Silv. If you could sing and dance so, I should 
 love to look upon you too. 
 
 Heart. Why 'twas I sung and danced ; I gave 
 
 music to the voice, and life to their measures 
 
 Look you here, Silvia, [Pulling out a purse and 
 chinking W] here are songs and dances, poetry 
 and music. Hark! how sweetly one guinea rhymes 
 to another, and how they dance to the music of 
 their own chink. This buys all the t'other, and 
 this thou shalt have ; this, and all that I am worth, 
 for the purchase of thy love. — Say, is it mine then, 
 ha? Speak, siren ! — [Aside.'] Cons, why do I 
 look on her ? Yet I must. — [Aloud.] Speak, 
 dear angel ! devil ! saint ! witch I do not rack me 
 with suspense. 
 
 Silv. Nay, don't stare at me so ; you make me 
 blush, I cannot look. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.] O manhood ! where art 
 thou ? What am I come to ? a woman's toy, at 
 these years ! Death, a bearded baby for a girl to 
 dandle ! O dotage, dotage ! That ever that noble 
 passion, lust, should ebb to this degree! — No reflux 
 of vigorous blood ; but milky love supplies the 
 empty channels, and prompts me to the softness of 
 a child — a mere infant, and would suck. — [Aloud.] 
 Can you love me, Silvia ? speak. 
 
 Silv. I dare not speak till I believe you, and 
 indeed I'm afraid to believe you yet. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.] Death, how her innocence 
 torments and pleases me I — [Aloud.] Lying, 
 child, is indeed the art of love ; and men are gene- 
 rally masters in it : but I'm so newly entered, 
 you cannot distrust me of any skill in the treache- 
 rous mystery. Now, by my soul, I cannot lie, 
 though it were to serve a friend or gain a mistress. 
 
 Silv. 'Must you lie then, if you say you love me,-' 
 
 Heart. No, no, dear ignorance ! thou beauteous 
 changeling ! I tell thee I do love thee, and tell it 
 for a truth, a naked truth, which I am ashamed to 
 discover. 
 
 Silv. But love, they say, is a tender thing, that 
 will smooth frowns, and make caiman angry face ; 
 will soften a rugged temper, and make ill-humoured 
 people good : you look ready to fright one, and talk 
 as if your passion were not love, but anger. 
 
 Heart. *Tis both, for I am angry with myself 
 when I am pleased with you. And a pox upon me 
 for loving thee so well ! — yet I must on. 'Tis a 
 bearded arrow, and will more easily be thrust for- 
 ward than drawn back. 
 
 Silv. Indeed if I were well assured you loved ; 
 but how can I be well assured ? 
 
 Heart. Take the symptoms, and ask all the 
 tyrants of thy sex, if their fools are not known by 
 this party-coloured livery. — 1 am melancholic when 
 thou art absent, look like an ass when thou art pre- 
 sent, wake for thee when I should sleep ; and even 
 dream of thee when I am awake ; sigh much, drink 
 little, eat less, court solitude, am grown very enter- 
 taining to myself, and (as I am informed ) vry 
 troublesome to everybody else. If this be not love, 
 it is madness, and then it is pardonable. Nay, yet 
 a more certain sign than all this, I give thee my 
 money. 
 
 Silv. Ay, but that is no sign ; for they say gen- 
 tlemen will give money to any naughty woman to 
 come to bed to them. O gemini ! 1 hope you 
 don't mean so, for I won't be a whore. 
 
IfiO 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR, 
 
 Heart. The more is the pity. lAsidi. 
 
 Silv. Nay, if you would maWy me, you should 
 not come to bed to me, you have such a, beard, 
 and would so prickle one. But you do intend to 
 marry me ? 
 
 Meart. [Aside.] That a fool should ask such a 
 malicious question ! Death, I shall be drawn in 
 before I know where I am ! — However, I find I am 
 pretty sure of her consent, if 1 am put to it. — 
 [Alovd.'] Marry you ! no, no, I'll love you. 
 
 Silv. Nay, but if you love me, you must marry 
 me ; what, don't I know my father loved my 
 mother, and was married to her ! 
 
 Heart. Ay, ay, in old days people married 
 where they loved ; but that fashion is changed, 
 child. 
 
 SUv. Never tell me that, I know it is not 
 changed by myself ; for I love you and would 
 mari'y you. 
 
 Heart. I'll have my beard shaved, it shan't hurt 
 thee, and we 'U go to bed. 
 
 Silv. No, no, I 'm not such a fool neither but I 
 can keep myself honest. Here, I won't keep any- 
 thing that 's yours ; I hate you now, [Throws the 
 purse] and I '11 never see you again, 'cause you 'd 
 have me be naught. lOoing. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.] Damn her ! let her go, and a 
 good riddance ; yet so much tenderness and beauty 
 and honesty together is a jewel. — [Aloud.] Stay, 
 Silvia! — [Aside.] But then to marry — why, every 
 man plays the fool once in his life ; but to marry 
 is playing the fool all one's life long. 
 
 Silv. What did you call me for ! 
 
 Heart. I '11 give thee all I have ; and thou shalt 
 live with me in everything so like my wife, the 
 world shall believe it ; nay, thou shalt think so 
 thyself, only let me not think so, 
 
 Silv. No, I '11 die before I '11 be your whore, as 
 well as I love you ! 
 
 Heart. [Aside.] A woman, and ignorant, may 
 be honest, when 'tis out of obstinacy and contra- 
 diction; but, 'sdeath ! it is but a may-be, and upon 
 scurvy terms. — [Aloud.] Well, farewell then ; if 
 
 I can get out of sight, I may get the better of 
 myself 
 
 Silv. Well, good bye. IPretmds to weep. 
 
 Heart. Ha ! nay come, we '11 kiss at parting. — 
 [Amle.] By heaven, her kiss is sweeter than 
 liberty!^ — [Almid.] I will marry thee; there 
 thou hast done 't. All my resolves melted in tliat 
 kiss — one more. 
 
 Sih. But when ! 
 
 Hea/rt. I 'm impatient till it be done ; I will not 
 give myself liberty to think, lest I should cool. — I 
 will about a licence straight ; in the evem'ng 
 expect me, — One kiss more to confirm me mad ; 
 so. [Exit. 
 
 Silv. Ha ! ha ! ha ! an old fox trapped ! 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Silvia and Lucy. 
 
 Sih. Bless me ! you frighten me, I thought he 
 had been come again, and had heard me. 
 
 iMcy. Lord, madam, I met your lover in as 
 much haste as if he had been going for a midwife ! 
 
 Silv. He's going for a parson, girl, the fore- 
 runner of a midwife, some nine months hence. — 
 Well, I find dissembling to our sex is as natural as 
 swimming to a negro ; we may depend upon our 
 skill to save us at a plunge, though till then we 
 never make the experiment, — But how hast thou 
 succeeded ? 
 
 Luqj. As you would wish ; since there is no 
 reclaiming Vainlove. I have found out a pique 
 she has taken at him, and have framed a letter 
 that makes her sue for reconciliation first. I know 
 that will do — walk in and I '11 show it you. Come, 
 madam, you 're like to have a happy time on 't ; 
 both your love and anger satisfied ! all that can 
 charm our sex conspire to please you. 
 
 That woman sure enjoys a blessed night, 
 
 Whom love and vengeance both at once delight. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Street before Fondlewife's House. 
 
 Bellmour in fanatic habits and Better. 
 
 Bdl. 'Tis pretty near the hour. — [ZoohiMff on 
 his watch.] Well, and how. Setter, ha ? does 
 my hypocrisy fit me, faa i does it sit easy on 
 me? 
 
 Set. most religiously well, sir. 
 
 Sell. I wonder why all our young fellows should 
 glory in an opinion of atheism, when they may be 
 so much more conveniently lewd under the coverlet 
 of religion. 
 
 Set. Sbud, sir, away quickly ! there 's Fondle- 
 wife just turned the corner, and 's coming this 
 way. 
 
 liell. Gads so, there he is, he must not see me. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 FoNDLEWiFE and Baknaby, 
 
 Fond. I say I will tajry at home. 
 
 Sar. But, sir — 
 
 Fond. Good lack ! I profess the spirit of con- 
 tradiction hath ^possessed the lad — I say I will 
 tarry at home, varlet ! 
 
 Sar. I have done, sir ; then farewell five hun- 
 dred pounds ! 
 
 Fond. Ha, how's that! Stay, stay, did you leave 
 word, say you, with his wife! with Comfort herself 1 
 
 Bar. I did ; and Comfort will send Tribulation 
 
 hither as soon as ever he comes home I could 
 
 have brought young Mr. Prig to have kept my 
 mistress company in the mean time ; but you 
 say — 
 
 Fond. How, how, say, varlet ? I say let him not 
 come near my doors ; I say he is a wanton young 
 Levite,and pampereth himself up with dainties, tha' 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOIl. 
 
 101 
 
 he may look lovely in the eyes of women. — Sin- 
 cerely I am afraid he hath already defiled the ta- 
 bernacle of our sister Comfoi-t ; while her good 
 husband is deluded by his godly appearance. I say, 
 that even lust doth sparkle ia his eyes, and glow 
 u-pon his cheeks, and that I would as soon trust my 
 wife with a lord's high-fed chaplain. 
 
 Bar. Sir, the hour draws nigh, and nothing will 
 be done there till you come. 
 
 Fond. And nothing can be done here till I go, 
 so that I'll tarry, d'ye see. 
 
 Bar, And run the hazard to lose your affair, sir } 
 
 Fond. Goodlack, good lack 1 — 1 profess 'tis a very 
 sufGciei^ vexation, for a maa to have a handsome 
 wife. 
 
 Bar. Never, sir, but when the man is an insuffi- 
 cient husband. 'Tis then, indeed, like the vanity 
 of taking a fine house, and yet be forced to let 
 ' lodgings, to help pay the rent. 
 
 Fond. I profess, a very apt comparison, varlet. 
 Go and bid my Cocky come out to me. I will give 
 her some instructions, I will reason with her, be- 
 fore I go. 
 
 — » — 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 FONDI.,EWIFE, 
 
 And, in the mean time, I will reason with myself. — 
 Tell me, Isaac, why art thee jealous ? why art thee 
 distrustful of the wife of thy bosom ? — because she 
 is young aud vigorous, and I am old and impotent. 
 Then why didst thee marry, Isaac ? — because she 
 was beautiful and tempting, and because I was ob- 
 stinate and doting; so that my inclination was, 
 and is still, greater than my power. And will not 
 that which tempted thee, also tempt others, who will 
 tempt her, Isaac ? — I fear it much. But does not 
 thy wife love thee, nay, dote upon thee ? — yes — 
 "Why then ! — Ay, but to say truth, she's fonder of 
 me than she has reason to be ; and, in the way of 
 trade, we still suspect the smoothest dealers of the 
 deepest designs — and that she has some designs 
 deeper than thou canst reach, th'hast experimented, 
 Isaac — but, mum. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 FoNDLBW(FB and Lx.Tnix. 
 
 LcBt. I hope my dearest jewel is not going to leave 
 me, are you, Nykin ? 
 
 Fond. Wife, have you thoroughly considered 
 how detestable, how heinous, and how crying a sin, 
 the sin of adultery is ? have you weighed it, I say ? 
 for it is a very weighty sin ; and although it may 
 lie heavy upon thee, yet thy husband must also 
 bear his part; for thy iniquity will fall upon his 
 head. 
 
 IjCBt. Bless me, what means my dear ! 
 
 Fond. \_Aside.^ I profess she has an alluring 
 eye; I am doubtful whether I shall trust her, even 
 with Tribulation himself. — [Aloud.'] Speak, I say, 
 have you considered what it is to cuckold your 
 husband ? 
 
 LcbI. \ Aside.'] I'm amazed; sure he has dis- 
 Cijvcrud nothing ! — [Aloud.'] Who has wronged 
 me tO my dearest? I hope my jewel does not 
 think that ever I had any such thing in my head, 
 or ever will have. 
 
 Fond. No, nOj I tell you I shall have it in my 
 head. 
 
 Lcei. [Aside.] I know not what to think ; but 
 I'm resolved to find the meaning of it. — [Aloud.] 
 Unkind dear ! was it for this you sent to call me ? 
 is it not affliction enough that you are to leave me, 
 but you must study to increase it by unjust suspi- 
 cions ? — [Crying.] Well — well — you know my 
 fondness, and you love to tyrannise.— Go on, cruel 
 man! do, triumph over my poor heart, while it 
 holds ; which cannot be long, with this usage of 
 yours. — But that's what you want. — Well, you 
 will have your ends soon — you will — you will. — 
 Yes, it will break to oblige you. [Sighs. 
 
 Fond. [Aside.] Verily I fear I have carried the 
 jest too far. Nay, look you now if she does not 
 weep! — 'Tis the fondest fool! — [Aloud.] Nay, 
 Cocky, Cocky, nay, dear Cocky, don't cry, I was 
 but in jest, I was not i'feck. 
 
 Leet. [Aside.] Oh then all's safe. I was terribly 
 frighted. — [Aloud.] My affliction is always your 
 jest, barbarous man ! — Oh that I should love to 
 this degree ! yet — - 
 
 Fond. Nay, Cocky — 
 
 List. No, no, you are weary of me, that's it ; — 
 that's all. You would get another wife, another 
 fond fool, to break her heart. — Well, be as cruel as 
 you can to me, I'll pray for you ; and when I am 
 dead with grief, may you have one that will love 
 you as well as I have Hone : I shall be contented to 
 lie at peace in my cold grave — since it will please 
 you. {_Sii?}is. 
 
 Fond. [Aside.] Good lack ! good lack ! she 
 would melt a heart of oak. — I profess I can hold 
 no longer. — [jiloud.] Nay, dear Cocky — I'feck 
 you'll break my heart — I'feck you will. See, yoa 
 have made me weep — made poor Nykin weep ! — 
 Nay, come kiss, buss poor Nykin — and I won't 
 leave thee — I'll lose all first. 
 
 Leet. [Aside.] How! Heaven forbid ! that will 
 be carrying the jest too far indeed. 
 
 Fond. Won't you kiss Nykin ? 
 
 I,£Bt. Go, naughty Nykin, you don't love ine. 
 
 Fond. Kiss, kiss, i'feck I do. 
 . Lcet. No, you don't. [.She kisses him. 
 
 Fond. What, not love Cocky I 
 
 L^t. No — h., ISiijJis. 
 
 Fond. I profess I do love thee better than five 
 hundred pounds ; — and so thou shalt say, for I'll 
 leave it to stay with thee. 
 
 Lai. No, you shan't neglect your business for 
 me — no indeed you san't, Nykin. — If you don't go, 
 I'll think you been dealous of me still. 
 
 Fond. He ! he ! he ! wilt thou, poor fool ? then 
 I will go, I won't be dealous. — Poor Cocky, kiss 
 Nykin, kiss Nykin ; ee ! ee ! ee ! — Here will be the 
 good man anon, to talk to Cocky, and teach her 
 how a wife ought to behave herself. 
 
 LiBt. [Aside.] I hope to have one that will show 
 me how a husband ought to behave himself. — 
 [Aloud.] I shall be glad to learn to please my 
 jewel. lEiss. 
 
 Fond. That's my good dear ! — Come, kiss 
 Nykin once more, and then get you in — so — get 
 you in, get you in. Bye ! bye 1 
 
 Lest. Bye, Nykin ! 
 
 Fond. Bye, Cocky ! * 
 
 Lcsi. Bye, Nykin ! 
 
 Fond. Bye, Cocky ! bye. ' bye 1 
 
1C2 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 VAiNLOvfi and Sharper. 
 
 Sharp. How, Araminta lost ! 
 
 Vain. To confirm what I have said, read this — 
 
 IGives a letter. 
 
 Sharp. IReads.l Hum, hum. — And what then 
 appeared a fault, upon reflection seems only an 
 effect of a too powerful passion. I 'm afraid J 
 give too great a proof of my own at this time. — / 
 am in disorder for what I have written. Sut some- 
 thing, I know not what, forced me. I only leg a 
 favourable censure of this and your — Araminta. 
 
 Sharp. Lost ! Pray Heaven thou hast not lost 
 thy wits ! Here, here, she's thy own, man, signed 
 and sealed too. To her, man ! — a delicious melon, 
 pure and consenting ripe, and only waits thy cut- 
 ting up ! — She has been breeding love to thee all 
 this while, and just now she's delivered of it. 
 
 Vain. 'Tis an untimely fruit, and she has mis- 
 carried of her love. 
 
 Sharp. Never leave this damned,- ill-natured 
 whimsy, Frank ? Thou hast a sickly, peevish 
 appetite ; only chew love, and cannot digest it. 
 
 Vain. Yes, when I feed myself— but I hate to 
 be crammed. — By Heaven, there's not a woman 
 will give a man the pleasure of a chase ! my sport 
 is always balked, or cut short ; I stumble over the 
 game I would pursue. 'Tis dull and unnatural to 
 have a hare run full in the hound's mouth, and 
 would distaste the keenest hunter : I would have 
 overtaken, not have met, my game. 
 
 Sharp. However, I hope you don't mean to 
 forsake it ; that will be but a kind of a mongrel 
 cur's trick. — ^Well, are you for the Mall ? 
 
 Vain. No, she will be there this evening. — Yes, 
 I win go too — and she shall see her error in — 
 
 Sharp. In her choice, egad ! — But thou canst 
 mot be so great a brute as to slight her ? 
 
 Vain. I should disappoint her if I did not. By 
 her management I should think she expects it. 
 
 All naturally iiy what does pursue ; 
 
 'Tis fit men should be coy, when women woo. 
 
 SCENE VI. — A Room in Fondlewife's House. 
 
 j4 Servant introducing Bbllmouh in a fanatic habit, with 
 a patch upon one eye, and a book in Ms hand. 
 
 Serv. Here's a chair, sir, if you please to repose 
 yourself. My mistress is coming, sir. {,Exit. 
 
 Bell. Secure in my disguise, I have outfaced 
 suspicion, and even dared discovery, this cloak my 
 -sanctity, and trusty Scarron's novels my prayer- 
 book. Methinks 1 am the very picture of Mon- 
 tufar in the Hypocrites — Oh, she comes ! 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 ' Bellmo'jr and Ljetitja. 
 
 Sell. " So breaks Aurora through the veil of 
 night, 
 Thtis fly the clouds, divided by her light, 
 And every eye receives a new-born sight." 
 
 [_Throtoinf/ qiffhis cloak, patch, ^c. 
 Lxt. " Thus strewed with blushes, like" — iDis- 
 
 covering Jam, starts.'] Ah! Heaven defend me! 
 who's this .' 
 
 Bell. Your lover. 
 
 LiBt. Vainlove's friend ! I know his face, and 
 he has betrayed me to him. iAside. 
 
 Bell. You are surprised. Did you not expect a 
 lover, madam ? Those eyes shone kindly ou my 
 first appearance, though now they are o'ercast. 
 
 Liet. I may well be surprised at your person and 
 impudence ; they are both new to me. You are 
 not what your first appearance promised ; the piety 
 of your habit was welcome, but not the hypocrisy. 
 
 Bell. Rather the hypocrisy was welcome, but 
 not the hypocrite. f 
 
 Ltet. Who are you, sir ." you have mistaken the 
 house sure. 
 
 Bell. I have directions in my pocket, which agree 
 with everything but your unkindness. 
 
 \Pull8 out the letter. 
 
 Lcet. [Aside."] My letter ! Base Vainlove t 
 Then 'tis too late to dissemble. — [Aloud.] 'Tis 
 plain then you have mistaken the person. {GoinQ. 
 
 Bell. \_Aside.] If we part so I'm mistaken. — 
 [Aloud.] Hold, hold, madam ! I confess I have 
 run into an error : I beg your pardon a thousand 
 times. — What an eternal blockhead am I ! Can 
 you forgive me the disorder I have put you into ? 
 — But it is a mistake which anybody might have 
 made. 
 
 Last. [Aside.] What can this mean ? 'Tis im- 
 possible he should be mistaken after all this. — A 
 handsome fellow if he had not surprised me : me- 
 thinks, now I look on him again, I would not have 
 him mistaken. — [Aloud.] We are all liable to mis- 
 takes, sir ; if you own it to be so, there needs no 
 further apology. 
 
 Bell. Nay, 'faith, madam, 'tis a pleasant one, 
 and worth your hearing. Expecting a friend, last 
 night, at his lodgings, till 'twas late, my intimacy 
 with him gave me the freedom of his bed ; he not 
 coming home all night, a letter was delivered to 
 me by a servant in the morning ; upon the perusal 
 I found the contents so charming, that I could 
 think of nothing all day but putting 'em in prac- 
 tice — till just now, (the first time I ever looked 
 upon the superscription,) I am the most surprised 
 in the world to find it directed to Mr. Vainlove. 
 Gad, madam, I ask you a million of pardons, and 
 will make you any satisfaction. 
 
 Ltet. I am discovered ! and either Vainlove is 
 not guilty, or he has handsomely excused him. 
 
 l^Aside. 
 
 Bell. You appear concerned, madam. 
 
 LtBt, I hope you are a gentleman ; — and since 
 you are privy to a weak woman's failing, won't 
 turn it to the prejudice of her reputation. You 
 look as if you had more honour — 
 
 Bell. And more love, or my face is a fslse wit- 
 ness, and deserves to be pilloried. No, by Heaven 
 I swear— 
 
 List. Nay, don't swear if you'd have me believe 
 you ; but promise — 
 
 Bell. Well, I promise. — A promise is so cold ! 
 — give me leave to swear — by those eyes, those 
 
 killing eyes ; by those healing lips Oh ! press the 
 
 soft charm close to mine — and seal 'em up for 
 ever 
 
 Lwt. Upon that condition. {.Uc Msses her 
 
 Bell. Eternity was in that moment 1 — One more, 
 upon any condition. 
 
THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 163 
 
 LcBt. Nay, now — [Aside.'\ 1 never saw anything 
 so agreeably impudent ! — [Alorid,'] Won't you 
 censure me for this, now ? — ^but 'tis to buy your 
 silence. — [ Jm.] Oh, but what am I doing ! 
 
 Bell. Doing ! no tongue can express it — not thy 
 own ! nor anything but thy lips ! I am faint with 
 excess of bliss : Oh, for love's sake, lead me any 
 whither where I may lie down I — quickly, for I'm 
 afraid I shall have a fit. 
 
 Liet. Bless me ! what fit .' 
 
 Bell. Oh, a convulsion ! — I feel the symptoms. 
 
 LoBt. Does it hold you long ? I'm afraid to carry 
 you into my chamber. 
 
 Bell. Oh, no ! let me lie down upon the bed ; — 
 the fit will be soon over. 
 
 SCENE VIII.— «. James's Park. 
 ARA.MINTA and Belinda meeting. 
 
 Belin. Lard, my dear, I am glad I have met 
 you ! — I have been at the Exchange since, and am 
 so tired. 
 
 Aram. Why, what's the matter ? 
 
 Belin. Oh, the most inhuman barbarous hack- 
 ney-coach ! I am jolted to a jelly 1^ — Am I not 
 horridly toused ? {Pulls out a pocket-glass. 
 
 Aram, Your head's a little out of order. 
 
 Belin. A little! O frightful ! what a furious phiz 
 I have ! O most rueful ! ha ! ha 1 ha ! O gad, I 
 hope nobody will come this way, till I have put 
 myself a little in repair. — Ah, my dear, I have seen 
 such unhewn creatures since ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! 1 
 can't for my soul help thinking that I look just 
 
 like one of 'em Good dear, pin this, and I'U tell 
 
 you. — ^Very well — so, thank you, my dear. — But 
 as I was telling you — pish! this is the unto- 
 wardest lock I — So, as I was telling you — How 
 d'ye like me now ? hideous, ha ? frightful still ? 
 or how? 
 
 Aram. No, no ; you're very well as can be. 
 
 Belin. And so — but where did I leave off, my 
 dear ? I was telling yoU — 
 
 Aram. You were about to tell me something, 
 chiM — but you left off before you began. 
 
 Belin. Oh ; a most comical sight : a country 
 squire, with the equipage of a wife and two 
 daughters, came to Mrs. Snipwell's shop while 
 I was there. — But, oh gad ! two such unlicked 
 cubs! 
 
 Aram. I warrant, plump, cherry-cheeked coun- 
 try girls. 
 
 Belin, Ay, o' my conscience, fat as barn-door 
 fowl ; but so bedecked, you would have taken 'em 
 for Priesland hens, with their feathers growing the 
 wrong way. — O, such outlandish creatures ! Such 
 tramontanse, and foreigners to the fashion, or any- 
 thing in practice ! I had not patience to behold — 
 I undertook the modelling of one of their fronts, 
 the more modern structure. 
 
 Aram. Bless me, cousin, why would you affront 
 anybody so ? They might be gentlewomen of a 
 very good family. 
 
 Belin. Of a very ancient one, I dare swear, by 
 their dress. — Affront 1 pshaw, how you're mistaken ! 
 The poor creature, I warrant, was as fall of curtsies 
 as if I had been her godmother : the tmth on't is, 
 I did endeavour to make her look like a Christian, 
 
 and she was sensible of it ; for she thanked me. 
 and gave me two apples, piping hot, out of her 
 under-petticoat-pocket — ha ! ha ! ha ! And t'other 
 did so stare and gape ! I fancied her like the front 
 of her father's hall ; her eyes were the two jut- 
 windows, and her mouth the great door, most 
 hospitably kept open for the entertainment of tra- 
 velling flies. 
 
 Aram. So then, you have been diverted. What 
 did they buy .' 
 
 Belin. Why, the father bought a powder-horn, 
 and an almanac, and a comb-case ; the mother, a 
 great fruz-tower, and a fat amber-necklace ; the 
 daughters only tore two pair of kid-leather gloves, 
 
 with trying 'em on Oh gad 1 here comes the fool 
 
 that dined at my lady Preelove's t'other day. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Abaminta, Belinda, Sir Joseph "Wjitol, and Eluffe. 
 
 Aram. May be he may not know us again. 
 
 Belin. We'll put on our masks to secure his 
 ignorance. {.The^f put on their masks. 
 
 Sir Jo, Nay, gad, I'll pick up ! I'm resolved to 
 make a night on't. I'U go to alderman Fondlewife 
 by and by, and get fifty pieces more from him. Ad- 
 slidikins, bully, we'U wallow in wine and women I 
 Why, this same Madeira wine has made me as 
 light as a grasshopper. — Hist! hist! bully; dost 
 thou see those tearers .'' — [S'in^^.] Look you what 
 here is — Zook you what here is — Toll — loll — dera 
 — toll — loll. Agad, t'other glass of Madeira, and 
 I durst have attacked 'em in my own proper per- 
 son, without your help. 
 
 Bluffe. Come on then, knight. — But d'ye know 
 what to say to 'em ' 
 
 Sir Jo. Say .' pooh ! pox ! I've enough to say ; 
 never fear it— that is, if I can but think on't : 
 truth is, I have but a treacherous memory. 
 
 Belin. O frightful ! cousin, what shall we do ? 
 these things come towards us. 
 
 Aram. No matter — I see Vainlove coming this 
 way ; and, to confess my failing, I am willing to 
 give him an opportunity of making his peace with 
 me ; and to rid me of those coxcombs when I 
 seem oppressed with 'em, will be a fair one. 
 
 Bluffe. Ladies, by these hilts you are well met. 
 
 Aram. We are afraid not. 
 
 Bluffe. What says my pretty little knapsack 
 carrier ? [To Belinda. 
 
 Belin. O monstrous filthy fellow ! Good slo- 
 venly captain Huffe, Bluffe, (what is your hideous 
 name ?) begone : you stink of brandy and tobacco, 
 most soldier-like. Foh ! [Spits. 
 
 Bluffe. Now am I slap dash down in the mouth, 
 and have not one word to say ! [Aside, 
 
 Aram. I hope my fool has not confidence enough 
 to be troublesome. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Jo. Hem ! — Pray, madam, which way's the 
 wind ? 
 
 Aram, A pithy question ! — Have you sent your 
 wits for a venture, sir, that you inquire .' 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, now I'm in, I can prattle like a 
 magpie, [Aside 
 
 M 2 
 
1(14 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 ARAjnNTA, Belinda, Sir Joseph Wittol, Bldffe, 
 Sharper and Va[nlove at scmie distance. 
 
 Belin. Dear Araminta, I'm tired. 
 
 Aram. [Apart to Belinda.] 'Tis but pulling 
 off our masks, and obliging Vainlove to Icnow us. 
 I'll be rid of my fool by fair means. — [Aloud.] 
 Well, sir Joseph, you shall see my face ; but be 
 gone immediately. — I see one that will be jealous, 
 to find me in discourse with you. Be discreet — 
 no reply ; but. away. lUnmaslcg, 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside.} The great fortune, that dined 
 at my lady Freelove's ! Sir Joseph, thou art a 
 made man. Agad, I'm in love up to the ears. But 
 I'll be discreet and hushed. 
 
 Blvffe. Nay, by the world, I'll see your face. 
 
 Belin. You shall. lUnmasks. 
 
 Sharp. Ladies, your .humble servant. — We 
 were afraid you would not have given us leave to 
 know you. 
 
 Aram. We thought to have been private, but we 
 find fools have the same advantage over a face in 
 a mask, that a coward has while the sword is in 
 'he scabbard ; so were forced to draw in our own 
 defence. 
 
 Blvff'e. My blood rises at that fellow ; I can't 
 stay where he is ; and I must not draw in the Park. 
 
 [To Sir Joseph. 
 
 Sir Jo. I wish I durst stay to let her know my 
 lodging— 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Araaunta, Belinda, Vajnlovk, and Sharper. 
 
 Sharp. There is in true beauty, as in courage, 
 somewhat which narrow souls cannot dare to 
 admire. — And see, the owls are fled, as at the break 
 of day ! 
 
 Belin. "Very courtly ! — I believe Mr. Vainlove 
 has not rubbed his eyes since break of day neither : 
 he looks as if he durst not approach. — Nay, come, 
 cousin, be friends with him. — I swear he looks so 
 very simply, ha! ha ! ha ! — Well, a lover in the 
 state of separation from his mistress is like a body 
 without a soul. — Mr. Vainlove, shall I be bound 
 for your good behaviour for the future ? 
 
 Vain, [Aside. ] Now must I pretend ignorance 
 equal to hers, of what she knows as well as I. — 
 [Aloud."] Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where 
 they find most goodness to forgive ; but, madam, I 
 hops I shall prove of a temper not to abuse mercy 
 by committing new offences. 
 
 Aram. So cold. [Aside. 
 
 Belin. I have broke the ice for you, Mr. Vain- 
 love, and so I leave you. — Come, Mr. Sharper, you 
 and I will take a turn, and laugh at the vulgar ; 
 both the great vulgar and the small. — Oh gad ! I 
 have a great passion for Cowley — don't you admire 
 him .' 
 
 Sharp. Oh, madam, he was our English Horace I 
 
 Belin. Ah, so fine ! so extremely fine ! so every- 
 thing in the world that I like. — Oh Lord, walk 
 this way ! — I see a couple, I'll give you their 
 history. 
 
 SCENE XXL 
 Araminta and Vainlove. 
 
 Vain. Ifind,madam, the formality of the law must 
 be observfed, though tlie penalty of it be dispensed 
 with ; and an offender must plead to his arraign- 
 ment, though he has his pardon in his packet. 
 
 Aram. I'm amazed ! This insolence exceeds 
 t'other ; — whoever has encouraged you to this 
 assurance, presuming upon the easiness of my tem- 
 per, has much deceived you, and so you shall find. 
 
 Vain. Heyday! which way now .■* here's fine 
 doubling. [Aside. 
 
 Aram. Base man ! was it not enough to affront 
 me with your saucy passion ! 
 
 Vain. You have given that passion a much 
 kinder epithet than saucy in another place. 
 
 Aram. .Another place ! Some villanous design 
 to blast my honour. But though thou hadst all 
 the treachery and malice of thy sex, thou canst not 
 lay a blemish on my fame ; no, I have not erred in 
 one favourable thought of mankind. How time 
 might have deceived me in you I know not ; my 
 opinion was but young, and your early baseness has 
 prevented its growing to a wrong belief. Unworthy 
 and ungrateful ! begone, and never see me more I 
 
 Vain. Did I dream ! or do I dream ! shall I believe 
 my eyes or ears ! the vision is here still. — Your pas- 
 sion, madam, will admit of no farther reasoning ; but 
 here's a silent witness of your acquaintance. 
 
 [Takes out the letter, and offers it : she snatches it, 
 and throws it away. 
 
 Aram. There's poison in everything you touch ! 
 — blisters will follow — 
 
 Vain. That tongue, which denies what the hands 
 have done. 
 
 Aram. Still mystically senseless and impudent. 
 I find I must leave the place. 
 
 Vain. No, madam, I'm gone. — [Aside."] She 
 knows her name's to it, which she will be unwilling 
 to expose to the censure of the first finder. [Exit 
 
 Aram. Woman's obstinacy made me blind to 
 what woman's curiosity now tempts me to see. 
 
 £Takes up the letter. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 Belinda and Sharper. 
 
 Belin. Nay, we have spared nobody, I swear. 
 Mr. Sharper, you're a pure man ; where did you 
 get this excellent talent of railing ? 
 
 Sharp. Faith, madam, the talent was born with 
 me ; — 1 confess, I have taken care to improve it, 
 to qualify me for the society of ladies. 
 
 Belin. Nay, sure railing is the best qualification 
 in a woman's man. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 Belinda, Sharper, and Pace. 
 Sharp. The second best, indeed, I think. 
 Belin. How now, Pace .'' where's my cousin ? 
 Pace. She's not very well, madam, and has sent 
 to know if your ladyship would have the coach come 
 again for you ? 
 
 Belin. O Lord, no, I'll go along with hp;-.— 
 Come, Mr. Sharper. 
 
THE OLD BACHELOIl. 
 
 Ifc5 
 
 SCENE XV.- 
 
 A Chamber in Fondlewife's 
 House. 
 
 Ljetitia and Bellmour, Ms cloak, hat, ^c. lying loose 
 about the chamber. 
 
 Bell. Here's nobody, nor no noise ; 'twas no- 
 thing but your fears. 
 
 Lcet. I durst have sworn I had heard ray 
 monster's Toice. — I swear I was heartily fright- 
 ened. — Feel how my heart beats. 
 
 Bell. 'Tis an alarm to love. — Come in again, 
 and let us — • 
 
 Fond. [ Witiiout.'] Cocky ! Cocky ! where are you, 
 Cocky ? I'm come home. 
 
 LcbL Ah ! there he is. Make haste, gather up 
 your things. 
 
 Fond. Cocky ! Cocky ! open the door. 
 
 Bell. Pox choke him ! would his horns were in 
 his throat ! — My patch, my patch. 
 
 \Looking about, and gathering up his things. 
 
 Lest. My jewel, art thou there ? — No matter for 
 your patch. —You s'an't turn in^ Nykin. — Run into 
 my chamber, quickly, quickly You s'an't turn in. 
 
 Fond. Nay, prithee, dear, i'feck Tm in haste. 
 
 L^t. Then I'll let you in. lOpens the door. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 JjjKrniA, Fondle wiFB, and Sir Joseph Wittol. 
 
 Fond. Kiss, dear. — I met the master of the ship 
 by the way — and I must have my papers of accounts 
 out of your cabinet. 
 
 Lat. Oh, I'm undone ! lAside. 
 
 Sir Jo. Pray, first Jet me have fifty pounds, 
 good alderman, for I'm in haste. 
 
 Fond. A hundred has already been paid, by your 
 order. Fifty ? I have the sum ready in gold in my 
 closet. 
 
 SCENE XVII. 
 L^TiTiA and Sir Joseph Wittol. 
 
 Sir Jo. {Aside."] Agad, it's a curious, fine, 
 pretty rogue ; I'll speak to her. — [Aloud.] Pray, 
 madam, what news d'ye hear.'' 
 
 Lts£. Sir, I seldom stir abroad. 
 
 [Walks about in disorder. 
 
 Sir Jo. I wonder at that, madam, for 'tis most 
 curious fine weather. 
 
 LceI. Methinks 'thas been very ill weather. 
 
 Sir Jo. As you say, madam, 'tis pretty bad 
 weather, and has been so a great while. 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 
 Ij^T[tia, Sir Joseph Wittol, and Fondlbwife. 
 
 Fond. Here are fifty pieces in this purse, sir 
 Joseph : if you will tarry a moment till I fetch my 
 papers, I'll wait upon you down stairs. 
 
 Leel. [Aside.] Ruined, past redemption I What 
 shall I do ? — Ha ! this fool may be of use.— [^5 
 FoNDLEwiFE is goiuQ into the chamber, she runs 
 to Sir Joseph, almost pushes him down, and cries 
 out,] Stand ofiT, rude ruffian ! Help me, my dear 
 
 — O bless me ! why will you laave me alone with 
 such a satyr? 
 
 Fond. Bless us ! what's the matter? what's the 
 matter ? 
 
 LtBt, Your back was no sooner turned, but like 
 a lion, he came open-mouthed upon me, and would 
 have ravished a kiss from me by main force. 
 
 Sir Jo. Oh Lord! Oh terrible 1 ha! ha! ha! 
 is your wife mad, alderman ? 
 
 Lest. Oh ! I'm sick with the fright; won't you 
 take him out of my sight ? 
 
 Fond. Oh traitor ! I'm astonished, Oh bloody- 
 minded traitor ! 
 
 Sir Jo. Heyday 1 Traitor yourself — by the Lord 
 Harry, I was in most danger of being ravished, if 
 you go to that. 
 
 Fond. Oh how the blasphemous wretch swears ! 
 out of my house, thou son of the whore of Baby- 
 lon ! offspring of Bel and the Dragon ! — Bless us ! 
 ravish my wife ! my Dinah ! Oh Shechemite ! 
 begone, I say ! " 
 
 Sir Jo. Why, the devil's in the people, I thinlc! 
 
 SCENE XIX. 
 L^TiTiA and Fondlewife, 
 
 Lcet. Oh! won't you follow, and see him out of 
 doors, my dear ? 
 
 Fond. I'll shut the door, to secure him from 
 coming back. — Give me the key of your cabinet, 
 Cocky. — Ravish my wife before my face ! I war- 
 rant he's a papist in his heart, at least, if not a 
 Frenchman. 
 
 Lcet. [Aside.] What can I do now ! — [Aloud.] 
 Oh, my dear I I have been in such a fright, that I 
 forgot to tell you poor Mr. Spintext has a sad tit 
 of the cholic, and is forced to lie down upon our 
 bed. — You'll disturb him? I can tread softlier. 
 
 Fond. Alack, poor man ! — no, no — you don't 
 know the papers. — I won't disturb him ; give me 
 the key. 
 
 [She gives him the key, goes to the chamber-door, and 
 speaks aloud. 
 
 Lcet. 'Tis nobody but Mr. Fondlewife ; Mr. 
 Spintext, lie still on your stomach ; lying on your 
 stomach will ease you of the cholic. 
 
 Fond. Ay, ay, lie still, lie still ; don't let mo 
 disturb you. 
 
 SCENE XX- 
 
 L^TJTIA, 
 
 Sure, when he does not see his face, he won't 
 discover him. Dear Fortune, help me but this 
 once, and I'll never run into thy debt again ! — But 
 this opportunity is the devil. 
 
 SCENE XXI. 
 
 li^TITIA and FONDLBWXFB, 
 
 Fo7id. Good lack ! good lack I T profess-, the 
 poor man is in great torment^ he lies as flat — dear, 
 you should heat a trencher or a napkin — where's 
 Deborah? let her clap some warm thing to his sto-* 
 
ICO 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 mach, or chafe it with a warm hand, rather than 
 fail. — What book's this ? 
 
 ISecs the book that BELLMouR/or^oi. 
 
 Lat. Mr.Spiutext's prayer-book, ieas.— [Aside.} 
 Pray Heaven it be a prayer-book ! 
 
 Fond. Good man ! I warrant he dropped it on 
 purpose, that you might take it up and read some 
 of the pious ejaculations [Taking up the book.'\ 
 
 bless me ! O monstrous I A prayer-book ! 
 Ay this is the devil's pater-noster : hold, let me 
 see, The Innocent Adultery. 
 
 Lai. Misfortune ! now all's mined again. 
 
 lAside. 
 
 Bell. [Peeping,'] Damned chance ! if I had gone 
 
 a whoring with the Practice of Piety in my pocket, 
 
 1 had never been discovered. 
 
 Fond. Adultery and innocent ! O Lord ! here's 
 doctrine ! ay, here's discipline ! 
 
 LtBt. Dear husband, I'm amazed. — Sure it is a 
 good book, and only tends to the speculation of sin. 
 
 Fond. Speculation ! no, no ; something went 
 farther than speculation when I was not to be let 
 in. — Where is this apocryphal elder ? I'll ferret him. 
 
 Lest. I'm so distracted, I can't think of a lie. 
 
 lAside. 
 
 SCENE XXII. 
 L-ETITIA, and FoNDLEWiFE, haling out Bellmoub. 
 
 Fond. Come out here, thou Ananias incarnate ! 
 Who, — how now, — who have we here .' 
 
 Lai. Ha ! IShriekst as surprised. 
 
 Fond, Oh, thou salacious woman ! am I then 
 brutified ? Ay, I feel it here ; I sprout ! I bud ! I 
 blossom ! I am ripe-hom-mad ! — But who, in the 
 ilevil's name, are you ? mercy on me for swearing ! 
 But— 
 
 Lcet. Oh, goodness keep us ! who's this ? — ^Who 
 are you ? what are you ? 
 
 Sell. So! 
 
 Lait. In the name of the— O ! good, my dear 
 don't come near it, I'm afraid 'tis the devil ; in- 
 deed it has hoofs, dear. 
 
 Fond. Indeed, and I have horns, dear. The 
 devil 1 no, I am afraid, 'tis the flesh, thou harlot ! 
 Dear, with the pox ! — Come, siren, speak, confess, 
 v,ho is this reverend, brawny pastor ? 
 
 LcBt. Indeed, and indeed, now my dear Nykin, 
 I never saw this wicked man before. 
 
 Fond. Oh, it is a man then, it seems ! 
 
 Lat. Rather, sure, it is a wolf in the clothing of 
 a sheep. 
 
 Fond. Thou art a devil in his proper clothing, 
 woman's flesh. What, you know nothing of him, 
 but his fleece here ! You don't love mutton ! you 
 M^dalen unconverted .' 
 
 Sell. Well, now I know my cue— that is, very 
 honourably to excuse her, and very impudently 
 accuse myself. {.Aside. 
 
 Lcet. Why then, I wish I may never enter into 
 the heaven of your embraces again, my dear, if 
 ever I saw his face before. 
 
 Fond. O Lord ! O strange ! I am in admira- 
 tion of your impudence. Look at him a little bet- 
 ter ; he is more modest, I warrant you, than to 
 
 deny it Come, were you two never face to face 
 
 before ? Speak. 
 
 Bell, Since all artifice is vain, and I think myself 
 obliged to speak the truth injustice to your wile, no. 
 
 Fond, Humph. 
 
 Lat. No indeed, dear. 
 
 Fond. Nay, I find you are both in a story ; that 
 I must confess. But, what — not to be cured of 
 the colic .' dbn't you know your patient, Mrs. 
 Quack ? Oh, lie upon your stomach ; lying upon 
 your stomach will cure you of the colic. Ah ! 
 answer me, Jezebel ! 
 
 Lmt. Let the wicked man answer for hiaiself : 
 does he think tliat I have nothing to do but excuse 
 him .' 'tis enough, if I can clear my own innocence 
 to my own dear. 
 
 Bell. By my troth, and so 'tis ; I have been a 
 little too backward, that's the truth on't. 
 
 Fond. ComCjsir, who are you, in the first place? 
 and what are you ? 
 
 Bell. A. whore-master. 
 
 Fond. Very concise. 
 
 Last. O beastly, impudent creature ! 
 
 Fond. Well, sir, and what came you hither for ? 
 
 Bell. To lie with your wife. 
 
 Fond. Good again. — A very civil person this, 
 and I believe speaks truth. 
 
 Last. Oh, insupportable impudence ! 
 
 Fond. Well, sir — pray be covered — and you have 
 — heh ! you have finished the matter, heh ? and I 
 am, as I should be, a sort of a civil perquisite to a 
 whore-master, called a cuckold, heh ? Is it not so ? 
 come, I'm inclining to believe every word you say. 
 
 Bell. Why, faith, I must confess, so I designed 
 you : but you were a little unlucky in coming so 
 soon, and hindered the making of your own for- 
 tune. 
 
 Fond. Humph. Nay, if you mince the matter 
 once, and go back of your word, you are not the 
 person I took you for : come, come, go on boldly. — 
 What, don't be ashamed of your profession ! — 
 Confess, confess, I shall love thee the better 
 for't— I shall, i'feck !— What, dost think I don't 
 know how to behave myself in the employment of 
 a cuckold, and have been three years apprentice to 
 matrimony ? come, come, plain-dealing is a jewel. 
 
 Bell. Well, since I see thou art a good honest 
 fellow, I'll confess the whole matter to thee. 
 
 Fond. Oh, I am a very honest fellow ! — you 
 never lay with an honester man's wife in your life. 
 
 L<et. How my heart aches ! All my comfort 
 lies in his impudence, and, heaven be praised, he 
 has a considerable portion. {Aside. 
 
 Bell. In short then, I was informed of the op- 
 portunity of your absence by my spy (for faith, 
 honest Isaac, I have a long time designed thee this 
 favour) : I knew Spintext was to come by your 
 ilirection. — But I laid a trap for him, and procured 
 his habit ; in which I passed upon your servants, 
 and was conducted hither. I pretended a fit of 
 the colic to excuse my lying down upon your bed ; 
 hoping that when she heard of it her good-nature 
 would bring her to administer remedies for my dis- 
 temper. — You know what might have followed. — 
 But like an uncivil person, you knocked at the door 
 before your wife was come to rae. 
 
 Fond. Ha, this is apocryphal \ I may choose 
 whether I will believe it or no. 
 
 Bell, That you may, faith, and I hope you won't 
 believe a word on't ; but I can't help telling the 
 truth, for my life. 
 
 Fond, How ! would not you have me believe 
 you, say you .' 
 
 hell. No ; for then you must of consequence 
 
SCENE in. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 167 
 
 part with your wife, and there will be some hopes 
 of having her upon the public s then the encou- 
 ragement of a separate maintenance — 
 
 Fond. No, no, for that matter, when she and I 
 part, she'll carry her separate maintenance about 
 her. 
 
 List. Ah, cruel dear, how can you be so barba- 
 rous ? You'll break my heart if you talk of parting. 
 
 ICries. 
 
 Fond. Ah, dissembling vermin ! 
 
 Bell. How canst thou be so cruel, Isaac ? thou 
 hast the heart of a mountain-tiger. By the faith 
 of a sincere sinner, she's innocent for me. — Go to 
 him, madam, fling your snowy arms about his 
 stubborn neck ; bathe his relentless face in your 
 salt trickhng tears. 
 
 [SAfl goes and liangs upon his neckt and kisses him s 
 
 Belliuour kisses her hand behind Fondlewipe's 
 
 back. 
 
 So, a few soft words, and a kiss, and the good man 
 
 melts. See how kind nature works, and boils over 
 
 in him ! 
 
 Ltet. Indeed, my dear, I was but just come down 
 stairs when you knocked at the door, and the maid 
 told me Mr. Spintext was ill of the colic upon our 
 bed. And won't you speak to me, cruel Nykin ? 
 indeed, I'll die if you don't. 
 
 Fond. Ah, no, no, I cannot speak, my heart's 
 so full ! I have been a tender husband, a tender 
 yoke-fellow ; you know I have. — But thou hast 
 been a faithless Dalilah, and the Philistines — heh ! 
 art thou not vile and unclean ? — heh ! speak i 
 
 IWeepinff. 
 
 List. No — h. iSighing. 
 
 Fond. Oh, that I could believe thee ! 
 
 List. Oh, my heart will break ! [Pretends to faint. 
 
 Fond. Heh ! how ! no, stay, stay, I will believe 
 thee, I will. — Pray bend her forward, sir. 
 
 List. Oh ! oh ! where is my dear ? 
 
 Fond. Here, here, I do believe thee. — I won't 
 believe my own eyes. 
 
 Bell. For my part, I am so charmed with the 
 love of your turtle to you, that I'll go and solicit 
 matrimony with all my might and main. 
 
 Fond. Well, well, sir ; as long as I believe it, 'tis 
 well enough. No thanks to you, sir, for her virtue. 
 — But I'H show you the way out of my house, if 
 you please. — Come, my dear. Nay, I will believe 
 thee, I do, i'feck. 
 
 Bell. See the great blessing of an easy faith ! 
 opinion cannot err : — 
 
 No husband by his wife can be deceived ; 
 
 She still is virtuous, if slie's so believed. [Examt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Street. 
 
 ' Bellaioua in a fanatic habit. Setter, Heartwell, and 
 Lucy. 
 
 Bell. Setter ! well encountered. 
 
 Set. Joy of your return, sir. Have you made a 
 good voyage ? or have you brought your own lading 
 back ? 
 
 Bell. No, I have brought nothing but ballast 
 back — made a delicious voyage, Setter ; and might 
 have rode at anchor in the port 'till this time, but 
 the enemy surprised us. — I would unrig. 
 
 Set. I attend you, sir. 
 
 Bell. Ha ! is not that Heartwell at Silvia's door ? 
 Be gone quickly, I'll follow yon : — I would not be 
 known. — Pox take 'em ! they stand just in my way. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Bellmoub, Heartwell, and Lucy. 
 
 Heart. I'm impatient till it be done. 
 
 Lucy. That may Ke, without troubling yourself 
 to go again for your brother's chaplain. Don't 
 you see that stalking form of godliness ^ 
 
 Heart. O ay, he's a fanatic. 
 
 Lucy. An executioner quahfied to do your busi- 
 ness ; he has been lawfully ordained. 
 
 Heart. I'll pay him well if you'll break the mat- 
 ter to him. 
 
 Lucy. I warrant you ; do you go and prepare 
 vour bride. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Bellmour and Lucv. 
 
 Bell. Humph, sits the wind there ? — ^Wlat a 
 lucky rogue am 1 1 Oh, what sport will be here, if 
 I can persuade this wench to secrecy .' 
 
 Lucy. Sir, reverend sir. 
 
 Bell. Madam. [Discovers himself. 
 
 Lucy. Now, goodness have mercy upon mel 
 Mr. Bellmour ? is it you ? 
 
 Bell. Even I : what dost think ? 
 
 Lucy. Think ! that I should not believe my eyes, 
 and that you are not what you seem to be. 
 
 Bell. True. But to convince thee who I am, 
 thou kaowest my old token. {Kisses her. 
 
 Lucy. Nay, Mr. Bellmour : O Lard ! I believe 
 you are a parson in good earnest, you kiss so 
 devoutly. 
 
 Bell. Well, your business with me, Lucy ? 
 
 Lucy. I had none, but through mistake. 
 
 Bell. Which mis'take you must go through 
 with, Lucy. — Come, I know the intrigue between 
 Heartwell and your mistress ; and you mistook me 
 for Tribulation Spintext, to marry 'em — ha ? are 
 not matters in this posture .' — Confess ; come, I'll 
 be faithful, I will i'faith. — What, diffide in me, 
 Lucy? 
 
 Lucy. Alas-a-day ; you and Mr. Vainlove, 
 between you, have ruined my poor mistress ; you 
 have made a gap in her reputation ; and can you 
 blame her if she make it up with a husband ? 
 
 Bell. Well, is it as I say ? 
 
 Lucy. 'Weil, it is then ; but you'll bo secret ? 
 
 Bell. Phuh ! secret ! ay : — and to be out of 
 thy debt, I'll trust thee with another secret. Your 
 mistress must not marry Heartwell, Lucy. 
 
1G8 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 Lucy. How ! O Lord ! 
 
 Betl. Nay, don't be in a passion, Lucy ; — I'll 
 provide a fitter husband for her. — Gome, here's 
 earnest of my good intentions for thee too ; let this 
 mollify. — ^[Gifjes her money.'] Look you, Heart- 
 well is my friend ; and though he be blind, I must 
 not see him fall into the snare, and unwittingly 
 marry a whore. 
 
 Lucij. Whore ! I'd have you to know my mis- 
 tress scorns — 
 
 Bell. Nay, nay ; look you, Lucy, there are 
 whores of as good quality. — But to the purpose, if 
 you will give me leave to acquaint you with it. — Do 
 you carry on the mistake of me : I'll marry 'em. 
 — Nay, don't pause ; if you do, I'll spoil all. I have 
 some private reasons for what I do, which I'll tell 
 you within. — In the mean time, I promise, and 
 rely upon me, to help your mistress to a husband : 
 nay, and thee too, Lucy.— Here's my hand, I will, 
 with a fresh assurance. {(iiva her more money. 
 
 Lucy. Ah, the devil is not so cunning !— you 
 know my easy nature. Well, for once I'll venture 
 to serve you ; but if you deceive me, the curse of 
 all kind, tender-hearted women light upon you I 
 
 Bell. That's as much as to say. The poo: take 
 me ! — Well, lead on. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 VAlNLoyE, Sharper, and Setter. 
 
 Sharp. Just now, say you, gone in with Lacy ' 
 
 Set. I saw him, sir, and stood at the corner 
 where you found me, and overheard all they said : 
 Mr. Bellmour is to marry 'em. 
 
 Sharp. Ha ! ha ! 'twill be « pleasant cheat. 
 I'll plague Heartwell when 1 see him. — Prithee, 
 Frank, let's tease hira ; make him fret till he 
 foam at the mouth, and disgorge his matrimonial 
 oath with interest. — Come, tUou'rt musty. 
 
 Set. [To Sharper.] Sir, a word with you. 
 
 [ W\iapers him. 
 
 Vain. Sharper swears she has forsworn the 
 letter. — I'm sure he tells me truth ; — but I am 
 not sure she told him truth. — Yet she was unaf- 
 fectedly concerned, he says, and often blushed 
 with anger and surprise : — and so I remember in 
 the Park. She had reason, if I wrong her. — I be- 
 gin to doubt. 
 
 Sharp. Say'st thou so ? 
 
 Set. This afternoon, sir, about an hour before 
 my master received the letter. 
 
 Sharp. In my conscience, like enough. 
 
 Set. Ay, I know her, sir ; at least, I'm sure I 
 can fish it out of her : she's the very sluice to her 
 lady's secrets : 'tis but setting her mill a-going, and 
 1 ran drain her of 'em all. 
 
 Sharp. Here, Frank, your blood-hound has 
 made out the fault : this letter, that so sticks in 
 thy maw, is counterfeit ; only a trick of Silvia in 
 revenge, contrived by Lucy. 
 
 Vain. Ha ! it has a colour. — But how do you 
 know it, sirrah ? 
 
 Set. I do suspect as much ; — because why, sir — 
 She was pumping me about how your worship's 
 afi'airs stood towards madam Araminta ; as when 
 you had seen her last .' when you were to see her 
 next .' and where you were to be found at that time .' 
 and such like. 
 
 Vain. And where did you tell her ? 
 
 Set. In the Piazza. 
 
 Vain. T.here I received the letter. — It must be 
 
 so. And why did you not find me out, to tell me 
 
 this before, sot ? 
 
 SeJ. Sir, I was pimping for Mr. Bellmour. 
 
 Sharp. You were well employed : — I think there 
 is no objection to the excuse. 
 
 Vain. Pox o' my saucy credulity ! If I have 
 lost her. I deserve it. But if confession and rejient- 
 ance be of force, I'll win her, or weary her into 
 a forgiveness. [Exit. 
 
 Sharp. Methinks I long to see Bfellmour come 
 forth. 
 
 Scene v. 
 
 Sharper, BELLUotrn, and Sbttjer* 
 
 Sel. Talk of the devil — see where he comes ! 
 
 Sharp. Hugging himself on his prosperous mis- 
 chief. — No real fanatic can look better pleased after 
 a successful sermon of sedition. 
 
 Bell. Sharper ! fortify thy spleen : such a jest ! 
 Speak when thou art ready. 
 
 Sharp. Now, were I ill-nattired, would I utterly 
 disappoint thy mirth : hear thee tell thy mighty 
 jest with as much gravity as a bishop hears venereal 
 causes in the spiritual court : not so much as 
 wrinkle my face with one smile j but let thee look 
 simply, and laugh by thyself. 
 
 Bell. Pshaw ! no ; I have a better opinion of 
 thy wit. — Gad, I defy thee — 
 
 Sharp. Were it not loss of time, you should 
 make the experiment. But honest Setter, here, 
 overheard you witii Lucy, and has told me all. 
 
 Bell. Nay, then, I thank thee for not putting me 
 out of countenance. But, to tell you something you 
 don't know, I got an opportunity (after I had mar- 
 ried 'em) of discovering the cheat to Silvia. She 
 took it, at first, as another woman would the like 
 disappointment : but my promise to make her 
 amends quickly with another husband somewhat 
 pacified her. 
 
 Sharp. But how the devil do you think to acquit 
 yourself of your promise ? will you marry her 
 yourself ? 
 
 Bell. I have no such intentions at present. — 
 Prithee, wilt thou think a little for me ? I am sure 
 the ingenious Mr. Setter will assist. 
 
 SeL O Lord, sir. 
 
 Bell. I'll leave him with you^ and go shift my 
 habit. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Sharper, Setter, Sir Joseph WittoIj, and Bluffk. 
 
 Sharp. Heh ! sure, Fortune has sent this fool 
 hither on purpose. Setter, stand close ; seem not 
 to observe 'em, and hark ye — iiVhispers, 
 
 Bluffe. Fear him not; I am prepared for him 
 now ; and he shall tind he might have safer roused 
 a sleeping lion. 
 
 Sir Jo. Hush, hush ! don't you see him ? 
 
 Bluffe. Show him to me : where is he } 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, don't speak so loud — I don't jest, 
 as 1 did a little while ago. — Look yonder. — Agad, 
 if he should hear the lion roar, he'd cudgel him 
 
scEN'K vni. 
 
 THli: OLD UACflELOk. 
 
 ICt) 
 
 into an ass, and his))rinailivfe braying. Don't you 
 remember the story in ^sop's Fables, bully ? Agtid, 
 there are good morals to be picked out of jiEsop's 
 Fables, let me tell you that ; and Reynord the Fox, 
 too. 
 
 Bluffe. Damn your morals ! 
 
 Sir Jo. Prithee, don't speak so loud. 
 
 Bluffe. Damn your morals ! — I must revenge the 
 affront doue to my honour. U" o. low voice. 
 
 Sir jb. Ay; do, do, captain, if you think fitting; 
 — you may dispose of your own fleSli as you think 
 fitting, d'ye see. — But, by the Lord Harry, I'll 
 leave you. ISlealing away upon his tiptoes. 
 
 Bluffe. Prodigious 1 what, will you forsake your 
 friend in extremity ! You can't in honour refuse 
 to carry him a challenge. 
 
 ^Almost whispering, and treading softly afteY Jiim. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ptithee, what do you see in my face 
 that looks as if I would carry a challenge ? Ho- 
 nour is your province, captain : take it — All the 
 world know me to be a knight, and a man of wor- 
 ship. 
 
 Set. I wairant you, sir, I'm instructed.. 
 
 [_Apart to Sharpjer. 
 
 Sharp. [Aloud.^ Impossible ! Araminta take a 
 liking to a fool ! 
 
 Set. Her head runs on nothing else, nor she can 
 talk of nothing else. 
 
 Sharp. I know she commended him all the while 
 we were in the Park ; b'ut I thought it had been only 
 to make Vainlove jealous. 
 
 Sir Jo. How's this? Good bully, hold your 
 breath,, and let's hearken. Agad, this must be I. 
 
 Sharp. Death, it can't be ! — an oaf, an idiot, a 
 wittol ! 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, now it's out : 'tis I, my own indi- 
 vidual person. 
 
 JXarp. A wretch, that has flown for shelter to 
 the lowest shrub of mankind, and seeks protection 
 from a blasted coward. 
 
 ts'ir Jo. That's you, bully back. 
 
 [BhVFVE frowns upon Sir Joseph. 
 
 S}tarp. She has gi^en Vainlove her promise to 
 marry him before to-morrow morning — has she not.^ 
 
 [To SBrTKR, 
 
 Set. She has, sir ; and I have it in charge to 
 attend her all this evening, in order to conduct her 
 to the place appointed. 
 
 Sharp. Well, I'll go and inform your master ; 
 and do you press her to make all the haste imiigin- 
 able. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Setter, Sir Joseph Wittol, and Bltjfpe. ^ 
 
 Set. Were I a rogue now, what a noble prize 
 could 1 dispose of 1 A goodly pinnace, richly 
 laden, and to launch forth under my auspicious 
 convoy. Twelve thousand pounds, and all her rig- 
 ging ; besides what lies concealed under hatches. — 
 Ha! all this committed to my care! — Avaunt 
 temptation ! — Setter, show thyself a person of 
 worth ; be true to thy trust, and be reputed honest. 
 Reputed honest ! Hum : is that all ? — ay : for to 
 be honest is nothing ; the reputation of it is all. 
 Reputation ! what have such poor rogues as I to 
 do with reputation } 'tis above us ; and for men of 
 quality, they are above it ; so that reputation is 
 e'en as foolish a thing as honesty. And for my 
 
 part, if I meet sir Joseph with a purse of gold in 
 his hahd, I'll dispose of mine to the best advantage. 
 
 Sir Jo. Heh ! heh ! heh ! here 'tis for you, 
 i'faithj Mr. Setter. Nay, I'll take you at your 
 word ! IChinking a purse. 
 
 Set. Sir Joseph and the captain too ! undone, 
 undone ! I'm undone, my master's undone, my 
 lady's undone, and all the business is undone I 
 
 Sir Jo. No, ho, never fear, man, the lady's 
 business shall be done. What ! — Cotne, Mr. Set- 
 ter, I have overheard all, and to speak is but loss 
 of time ; but if there be occasion, let these worthy 
 gentlemen intercede foi: me. [JGiveshimgold. 
 
 Set. O Lord, sir, what d'ye mean ? corrupt 
 my honesty ! — They have indeed very persuading 
 faces ; but — 
 
 Sir Jo. 'Tis too little. — There's mbre, man ; — 
 there take all. — Now — 
 
 Set. Weil, sir Joseph, you have such a winning 
 way with y'ou — 
 
 Sir Jo. And how, and how, good Setter, did the 
 little rogue look, when she talked of sir Joseph? 
 Did not her eyes twinkle, and her mouth water? 
 did not she pull up her little bubbles ? and — agad, 
 I'm so overjoyed ! — aud stroke down her belly ? 
 and then step aside to tie her garter, when she was 
 thinking of her love? heh, Setter ! 
 
 Set. Oh, yes, sir. 
 
 Sir Jo. How now, bully ? What, melancholy, 
 because I'm in the lady's favour ? — No matter, I'll 
 make your peace — I know they were a little smart 
 upon you. — j6ut I wal-r'aiiti I'll bring you into the 
 lady's good graces. 
 
 Biuffe. PshaW ! I have petitions to show from 
 other-guess toys than she. Look here ; these were 
 sent me this morning. There, read. {_Shozvs let- 
 ters.] That — that's a scrawl of quality. Here, 
 here's from a countess too. Hum — no. hold — 
 that's from a knight's wife, she sent it me by her 
 husband. — But here, both these are from persons 
 of great quality. 
 
 Sir Jo. They are either from persons of great 
 quality, or no quality at all, 'tis such a damned 
 ugly hand. 
 
 [ While Sir Joseph r^ads, Bluffe whispers Sktter. 
 
 Set. Captain, 1 would do anything to serve you ; 
 but this is so difficult — 
 
 Bluffe. Not at all ; don't I know him ? 
 
 Set. You'll remember the conditions ? 
 
 Bluffe. I'll give it you under nly hand. — In the 
 mean time, here's earnest.— =-[Giups him money.'\ 
 Come, knight ; I'm capitulating with Mr. Setter 
 for you. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ah, honest Setter ; sirrah; I'll give thee 
 anything but a night's lodging. 
 
 SCENE vni. 
 
 Sharper tugging in Heartvvell. 
 
 Sharp. Nay, prithee leave railing, and come 
 along with me ; may be she mayn't be within. 'Tis 
 but to Yond' corner house. 
 
 Heart. Whither r whither? which corner house? 
 
 Sharp. Why, there : the two white posts. 
 
 Heart. And who would you visit there, say you ? 
 [^i'ir/e.] Oons, how my heart aches ! 
 
 Sharp. Pshaw, thou'rt so troublesome and in- 
 quisitive ! Why, I'll tell you, 'tis a young crea- 
 
170 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOll. 
 
 ture tliat Vainlove debauched, and has forsalcen. 
 Did you never hear Belltnour chide him about 
 Silvia ? 
 
 Heart. lAside.1 Death and hell and marriage 1 
 my wife ! 
 
 Sharp. Why thou art as musty as a new married 
 man, that had found his wife knowing the first 
 night. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.} Hell and the devil ! does he 
 know it ? But hold — if he should not, I were a 
 fool to discover it. — I'll dissemble, and try him. — 
 lAloud.} Ha! ha! ha! why, Tom, Is that such 
 an occasion of melancholy .' Is it such an uncom- 
 mon mischief ? 
 
 Sharp. No, faith ; I believe not. Few women 
 but have their year of probation, before they are 
 cloistered in the narrow joys of wedlock. But, 
 prithee come along with me, or I'll go and have 
 the lady to myself. B'w'y George. lOoing. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.'\ O torture ! how he racks and 
 tears me ! — Death ! shall I own my shame, or wit- 
 tingly let him go and whore my wife ? no, that's 
 insupportable. — [Aloud.'] Oh, Sharper! 
 
 sharp. How now ? 
 
 Heart. Oh, I am — married. 
 
 Sharp. [Aside.] Now hold spleen. — [Aloud.] 
 Married ! 
 
 Heart. Certainly, irrecoverably married. 
 
 Sharp. Heaven forbid, man ! how long ? 
 
 Heart. Oh, an age, an age ! I have been married 
 these two hours. 
 
 Sharp. My old bachelor married ! that were a 
 jest ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Heart. Death ! d'ye mock me ! Hark ye, if 
 either you esteem my friendship or your own safety, 
 come not near that house — that corner house — that 
 hot brothel : ask no questions. lExil. 
 
 Sharp. Mad, by this light ! 
 Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure j 
 Married in haste, we may repent at leisure. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Sharper and SKvrEn. 
 
 Set, Some by experience find .those words mis- 
 placed : 
 At leisure married, they repent in haste. 
 As, I suppose, my master Heartwell. 
 
 Sharp. Here again, my Mercury ? 
 
 Set. Sublimate, if you please, sir : I think my 
 achievements do deserve the epithet. — Mercury 
 was a pimp too ; but though I blush to own it, at 
 this time, I must confess I am somewhat fallen 
 from the dignity of my function, and do condescend 
 to be scandalously employed in the promotion of 
 vulgar matrimony. 
 
 Sharp. As how, dear dexterous pimp .' 
 
 Set. Why, to be brief, for I have weighty affairs 
 depending, — our stratagem succeeded as you in- 
 tended. Bluffe turns arrant traitor : bribes me to 
 make a private conveyance of the lady to him, and 
 put a sham settlement upon Sir Joseph. 
 
 Sharp. O rogue ! well, but I hope — 
 
 Set. No, no; never fear me, sir. — I privately in- 
 formed the knight of the treachery ; who has 
 agreed, seemingly to be cheated, that the captain 
 may be so in reality. 
 
 Sharp. Where's the bride ? 
 
 Set. Shifting clothes for the purpose at a friend's 
 house of mine. Here's company coming ; if you'll 
 walk this way, sir, I'll tell you. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Bbllmoub, BKiiNDA, Araminta, atid Vainlove. 
 
 Vain. Oh, 'twas frenzy all ! cannot you forgive 
 it > — men in madness have a title to your pity. 
 
 [To Arasiinta. 
 
 Aram. Which they forfeit, when they are re- 
 stored to their senses. 
 
 Vain. I am not presuming beyond a pardon. 
 
 Aram. You who could reproach me with one 
 counterfeit, how insolent would a real pardon make 
 you ! but there's no need to forgive what is not 
 worth my anger. 
 
 Belin. [To Bellmour.] O my conscience, I 
 could find in my heart to marry thee, purely to be 
 rid of thee : at least thou art so troublesome a 
 lover, there's hopes thou'lt maks a more than 
 ordinary quiet husband. 
 
 Hell. Say you so .' is that a maxim among you ? 
 
 Belin. Yes ; you fluttering men of the mode 
 have made marriage a mere French dish. 
 
 Sell. I hope there's no French sauce. lAside. 
 
 Belin. You are so curious in the preparation ; 
 that is, your courtship, one would think you meant 
 a noble entertainment ; but when we come to feed, 
 'tis all froth, and poor, but in show ; nay, often 
 only remains which have been I know not how 
 many times warmed for other company, and at last 
 served up cold to the wife. 
 
 Bell. That were a miserable wretch indeed, who 
 could not afford one warm dish for the wife of his 
 bosom. — But you timorous virgins form a dreadful 
 chimera of a husband, as of a creature contrary to 
 that soft, humble, pliant, easy thing, a lover ; so 
 guess at plagues in matrimony, in opposition to the 
 pleasures of courtship. Alas ! courtship to mar- 
 riage, is but as the music in the playhouse till the 
 curtain's drawn ; but that once up, then opens the 
 scene of pleasure. 
 
 Belin. Oh, fob ! no ; rather courtship to mar- 
 riage, is as a very witty prologue to a very dull 
 play. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Bbllmouh, Belinda, Araminta, Vainlove, and Sharper. 
 
 Sharp. Hist, Bellmour ; if you'll bring the la- 
 dies, make haste to Silvia's lodgings, before Heart- 
 well has fretted himself out of breath. 
 
 Bell. You have an opportunity now, madam, to 
 revenge yourself upon Heartwell, for affronting 
 your squirrel. l^'o Belinda 
 
 Belin. O, the filthy rude beast ! 
 
 Aram. 'Tis a lasting quarrel ; I think he has 
 never been at our house since. 
 
 Bell. But give yourselves the trouble to walk to 
 that corner-house, and I'll tell youly the way what 
 may divert and surprise you. 
 
THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 171 
 
 SCENE XII. — Silvia's Lodgings. 
 Heartwell and Boy. 
 
 Heart. Gone forth, say you, with her maid ! 
 Boy. There was a man too that fetched 'em 
 ' out ; Setter I think they called him. lExit, 
 
 I Heart. So — that precious pimp too. — Damned, 
 ; damned strumpet 1 could she not contain herself 
 I on her ivedding day ! not hold out till night. O 
 cursed state ! how wide we err, when apprehensive 
 , of the load of life, — 
 
 We hope to find 
 i That help which Nature meant in womankind, 
 I To man that supplemental self design' d ; 
 
 But proves a burning caustic when applied ; 
 j And Adam, sure, could with more ease abide 
 j The bone when broken, than when made a bride. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 Heartweli,, Bellaiour, Belinda, Vainlove, and Ara- 
 
 fill.NTA. 
 
 Bell. Now, George, what, rhyming ! I thought 
 the chimes of verse were passed, when once the 
 doleful marriage-knell was rung. 
 
 Heart. Shame and confusion, I am exposed ! 
 
 [Vainlovb and ARAsirNTA talk apart. 
 
 Belin, Joy, joy, Mr. Bridegroom ! I give you 
 joy, sir ! 
 
 Heart. 'Tis not in thy nature to give me joy : 
 a woman can as soon give immortality. 
 
 Belin. Ha ! ha ! ha ! O gad, men grow such 
 clowns when they are married 1 
 
 Bell. That they are fit for no company but their 
 wives. 
 
 Belin. Nor for them neither, in a little time. — 
 I swear, at the month's end, you shall hardly find 
 a married man that will do a civil thing to his 
 wife, or say a civil thing to anybody else. — How he 
 looks already ! ha 1 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bell. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Heart. Death, am I made your laughing-stock .' 
 — For you, sir, I shall find a time ; but take off 
 your wasp here, or the clown may grow boisterous ; 
 1 have a fly-flap. 
 
 Belin. You have occasion for't, your wife has 
 been blown upon. 
 
 Bell. That's home. 
 
 Heart. Not fiends or furies could have added to 
 ray vexation, or anything but another woman ! — 
 you've racked my patience; begone, or by — ■ 
 
 Bell. Hold, hold ; what the devil, thou wilt not 
 draw upon a woman ! 
 
 Vain. What's the matter .'. 
 
 Aram. Bless me ! what have you done to him ! 
 
 Belin. Only touched a galled beast till he 
 winced. 
 
 Vain. Bellmour, give it over ; you vex him too 
 much ; 'tis all serious to him. 
 
 Belin. Nay, I swear, I begin to pity him myself. 
 
 Heart. Damn your pity ! — Bat let me be calm a 
 little. — How iTave I deserved this of you ? any o£ 
 yc' — Sir, have I impaired the honour of your 
 house, promised your sister marriage, and whored 
 her ? Wherein have I injured you ? Did I bring 
 a physician to your father when he lay expiring, 
 and endeavour to prolong his life, and you one-and- 
 
 twenty .' — Madam, have I had an opportunity with 
 you and balked it } — did you ever offer me the 
 favour that I refused it ? Or — 
 
 Belin. Oh, foh ! what does the filthy fellow 
 mean .' lard, let me begone ! 
 
 Aram. Hang me, if I pity you ; you are right 
 enough served. 
 
 Bell. This is a little scurrilous though. 
 
 Vain. Nay, 'tis a sore of your own scratching. 
 — [To Heartwell.] Well, George — 
 
 Heart. You are the principal cause of all my 
 present ills. If Silvia had not been your mistress, 
 my wife might have been honest. 
 
 Vain. And if Silvia had not been your vrife, my 
 mistress might have been just : — there we are even. 
 — But have a good heart, I heard of your misfor- 
 tune, and come to your relief. 
 
 Heart. When execution's over, you offer a re- 
 prieve. 
 
 Vain. What would you give ? 
 
 Heart. Oh ! anything, everything, a leg or two, 
 or an arm ; nay, I would be divorred from my 
 virility, to be divorced from my wife. 
 
 SCENE XIV 
 
 Heartwell, Bellhiour, Belinda, "Vainlove, Aramikta, 
 and Sharper. 
 
 Vain. Faith, that's a sure way — but here's one 
 can sell your freedom better cheap. 
 
 Sharp. Vainlove, I have been a kind of a god- 
 father to you, yonder ; I have promised and vowed 
 some things in your name, which I think you are 
 bound to perform. 
 
 Vain. No signing to a blank, friend. 
 
 Sharp. No, I'll deal fairly with you : — 'tis a 
 full and free discharge to sir Joseph Wittol and 
 captain Bluffe, for all injuries whatsoever, done 
 unto you by them, until the present date hereof. — 
 How say you ? 
 
 Vain. Agreed. 
 
 Sharp. 'Fhen let me beg these ladies to wear 
 their masks a moment. — Come in, gentlemen and 
 ladies. 
 
 Heart. What the devil's all this to me .' 
 
 Vain. Patience. 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 
 Heartwell, Bellmour, Belinda, Vainlove, Arawinta, 
 Sharper, Sir Joseph "Wittol, Bluffe, Silvia, Lucy, 
 and Setter. 
 
 Bluffe. All injuries, whatsoever, Mr. Sharper. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, ay, whatsoever, captain, stick to 
 that ; whatsoever. 
 
 Sharp. 'Tis done, these gentlemen are witnesses 
 to the general release. 
 
 Vain. Ay, ay, to this instant moment ; I have 
 passed an act of oblivion. 
 
 Bluffe. 'Tis very generous, sir, since I needs 
 must own — 
 
 Sir Jo. No, no, captain, you need not own, heh ! 
 heh ! heh ! 'tis I must own — 
 
 Bluffe, That you are overreached too, ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! only a little art-military used — only under- 
 mined, or so, as shall appear by the fair Araminta, 
 my wife's permission. — [Ldcy wnmashs.J Ob, 
 the devil, cheated at last ! 
 
J72 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 Sir Jo. Only a Uttle artmilitary trick, captain, 
 only countermined, or so. — Mr. Vainlove, I sup- 
 pose you know whom I have got now ? But all's 
 forgiven-. 
 
 Vain. I know whom you have not got ; pray, 
 ladies, convince him. ... 
 
 [ Aram[Mta and Belinda unmask. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ah ! O Lord, my heart aches ! — Ah, 
 Setter, a rogue of all sides ! 
 
 Sharp. SiriJosepii, you had better have pre- 
 engaged this gentleman's pardon ; for though Vain- 
 love be so generous to forgive the loss of bis mis- 
 tress, I know not how Heartwell may take the loss 
 of his wife. [Silvia unmasks. 
 
 Heart. My wife! by this light 'tis she, the very 
 cockatrice ! — Oh, Sharper, let me embrace thee ! 
 But art thou sure she is really married to him ? 
 
 Set. Really and lawfully married, I jim witness. 
 
 Sharp. Bellmour will unriddle to you. 
 
 [IlEARTW ELL goes to Bbllmoub. 
 
 Sir Jo. Pray, madam, who are you ? for I find 
 you and J are like to be better acquainted. 
 
 Sih. The worst of me is, that I am your .wife. 
 
 Sharp. Come, sir Joseph, your fortune is not 
 so bad as you fear : — a fine lady, and a lady of very 
 good quality. 
 
 Sir Jo. Thanks to my knighthood, she's a lady. 
 
 Vain. That deserves a fool with a better title. -^ 
 Pray use her as my relation, or you shall hear 
 oo't. 
 
 Bluffe. What ! are you a woman of quality too, 
 spouse '^ 
 
 Set. And my relation : pray let her be respected 
 accordingly. — Well, honest Lucy, fare thee well. 
 1 think you and I have been playfellows off and on 
 any time this seven years. . 
 
 Lucy. Hold your prating ! — I'm thinking what 
 vocation I shall follow while my spouse is planting 
 laurels in the wars. 
 
 Bluffe. No more wars^ spouse, no more wars ! — 
 while I plant laurels for my head abroad, I may 
 find the branches sprout at home. 
 
 Heart. Bellmour, I approve thy mirth, and 
 thank thee ; and I cannot in gratitude (for I see 
 which way thou art going) see thee fall into the 
 same snare out of which thou hast delivered me. 
 
 Bell I thank thee, George, for thy good inten- 
 tion ; but. there is a fatality in marriage — for I find 
 I'm resolute. 
 
 Heart. Then good counsel will be thrown away 
 upon yoii. — For my part, I have once escaped, and 
 when I wed again, may she be ugly as an old 
 bawd. 
 
 Vain. Ill-natured as an old maid — 
 
 Bell. Wanton as a young widow— 
 
 Sharp. And jealous as a barren wife. 
 
 Heart. Agreed. 
 
 Bell. Well, 'midstof thesedreadfuldenunciations, 
 and notwithstanding the warning and example be- 
 fore me, I commit myself to lasting durance. 
 
 Belin. Prisoner, make much of your fetters. 
 
 [Giving her hand. 
 
 Bell. Frank, will you keep us in countenance ? 
 
 Vain. May I presume to hope so great a bless- 
 ing? 
 
 Aram. We had better take the advantage of a 
 little of our friends' experience first. 
 
 Bell. \^Aside.'] O' my conscience she dares not 
 consent, for fear he should recant. — [Aloud. ] Well , 
 we shall have your company to church in the 
 morning ; may be it may get you an appetite to 
 see us fall to before ye. — Setter, did not you tell 
 me — 
 
 Set. They're at the door, I'll call 'em in. 
 
 A Dance. 
 
 Bell. Now set we forward on a journey for life. 
 — Come, take your fellbw-travellers. — -Old George, 
 I'm sorry to see thee still plod on alone. 
 
 Heart, With gaudy plumes and gingling bells 
 made proud. 
 
 The youthfill beast sets forth, and neighs aloud. 
 
 A morning sun his tinsell'd harness gilds. 
 
 And the first stage a down-hill green-sward yields. 
 
 But oh — 
 
 What rugged ways attend the noon of life ! 
 
 0\lr sun declines, and with what anxious strife, 
 
 What pain we tug that galling load, a wife ! 
 
 All coursers the first heat with vigour run ; 
 
 But 'tis with whip and spur the race is won. 
 
 ^Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BAKRY. 
 
 As a rash girl, who will all hazards run, 
 
 And be enjoy'd, though sure to be undone ; 
 
 Soon as her curiosity is over, 
 
 Would give the world she could her toy recover ; 
 
 So faresit with our poet, and I'm sent 
 
 To tell you he already does repent : 
 
 Would you were all as forward to keep Lent ! 
 
 Now the deed's done, the giddy thing has leisure 
 
 To think o' th' sting that's in the tail of pleasure. 
 
 Methinks I hear him in consideration : — 
 
 " What will the world say ? where's my reputation ? 
 
 Now that's at stake" — No, fool, 'tis out of fashion. 
 
 If loss of that should follow want of wit. 
 
 How many undone men were in the pit ! 
 
 Why, that's some comfort to an author's fears, 
 
 If he's an ass, he will be tried by's peers. 
 
 But hold — I am exceeding my commission : 
 My business here was humbly to petition ; 
 But we're so used to rail on these occasions, 
 I could not help one trial of your patience : 
 For 'tis our way (you know) for fear o' th' worst, 
 To be beforehand still, and cry fool first. 
 How say you, sparks ? how do you stand affected ? 
 I swear, young Bays within is so dejected, 
 'Twould grieve your hearts to see him ; shall I call 
 
 him? 
 But then you cruel critics would so maul him ! 
 Yet, may be you'll encourage a beginner ; 
 But how ? — ^Just as' the devil does a sinner. 
 Women and wits are used e'en much at one. 
 You gain your end, and damn 'em when you've 
 
 done. 
 
THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 Interdam tamen, et vocem Comcedia tollit— Horat. Ars Poet. 
 
 Spnis. Huic eqiiidem consilio palmam do : hie me magnifice effero. 
 Qui Tim tantam in me, et potestatem babeam tantae astutiK, 
 Vera dicendo ut eos ambos fallam. — Terent, Ueauton. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 CHARLES MONTAGUE, 
 
 ON E OF THE LORDS OF THE TREASURY. 
 
 Sir, — ^I heartily wish that this play were is perfect as I intended it, that it might be more worthy your acceptance, 
 and that my dedication of it to you might' a more becoming that honour and esteem which I, with everybody who is 
 60 fortunate as to know you, have for you- It had your countenance when yet unknown ; and now it is made public, 
 it wants your protection, 
 
 I would not have anybody imagine that l think this play ■without its faults, for I am conscious of several. I confess 
 I designed (whatever vanity or ambition occasioned that design) to have written a true and regular comedy : hut I found 
 it an undertaking which put me in mindof— Swdei multiim,/rustraque lahoret ausus idem. And now, to make amends 
 for the vanity of such a design, I do confess both the attempt, and the imperfect performance. Yet I must take the 
 boldness to say, I have not miscarried in the whole ; for the raLechanical part of it is regular. That I may say with as 
 little vanity, as a builder may say he has built a house according to the model laid down before him ; or a gardener 
 that he has set his flowers in a knot of such or such a figure. I designed the moral first, and to that moral I invented 
 the fable, and do not know that I have borrowed one hint of it anywhere. I made the plot as strong as I could, because 
 it was single; and I made it single, because I would avoid confusion, and was resolved to preserve the three unities of 
 the drama. Sir, this discour.'"' is very impertinent to you, whose judgment much better can discern the faults, than I 
 can excuse them ; and whose "•ood-nature, like that of a lover, will find out those hidden beauties (if there are any such) 
 which it would be great immodesty for me to discover, I think I do not speak improperly when I call you a lover of 
 poetry ; for it is very well kno\vn she has been a very kind mistress to you : she has not denied you the last favour ; 
 and she lias been fruitful to you in a most beautiful issue. — If I break oflF abruptly here, I hope everybody will under- 
 stand that it is to avoid a commendation, which, as it is your due, would be most easy for me to pay, and too trouble- 
 some for you to receive. 
 
 I have, since the acting of this play, hearkened after the objections which have been made to it ; for T was cnnscinus 
 where a true critic might have put me upon my defence. I was prepared for the attack ; and am pretty confident 1 
 could have vindicated some parts, and excused others; and where there were any plain miscarriages, I would most 
 ingenuously have confessed them. But I have not heard anything said sufficient to provoke an answer. That whicU 
 looks most like an objection, does not relate in particular to this play, but to all or most that ever have been written ; 
 and that is, soliloquy. Therefore I will answer it, not only for my own sake, but to save others the trouble, to whom it 
 may hereafter be objected. 
 
 I grant, that for a man to talk to himself appears absurd and unnatural ; and indeed it is so in most cases ■« but the 
 circumstances which may attend the occasion make great alteration. It oftentimes happens to a man to have designs 
 which require him to himself, and in their nature cannot admit of a confidant. Such, for certain, is all villany ; and 
 other less miBchievous intentions may be vepy improper to be communicated to a second person. In such a case, there- 
 fore, the audieuce must observe, whether the person upon the stage takes any notice of them at all, or no. For if be 
 supposes any one to be by when he talks to himself, it is monstrous and ridiculous to the lasl degree. Nay, not only in 
 this case, hut in any part of a play, if thei-e is expressed anyknowledgeof an audience, it is insufiferable. But otherwise, 
 when a man in soliloquy reasons with himfeelf, and pro's and con's, and weifths all his detiigns, we ought not to imagine 
 that this man either talks to us, or to himself ; he is only thinking, and thinking such matter as were inexcusable folly 
 in him to speak. But because we are concealed spectators of the plot in agitation, and the poet finds it neces^^ary to let 
 us know the whole mystery of his contrivance, he is willing to inform us of this person's thoughts ; and to that end is 
 forced to make use of the expedient of speech, no other better way being yet invented for the communicatiun of 
 thought 
 
 Another very wrong objection has been made by some, who have not taken leisure to distingnish the characters 
 The hero of the play, as they are pleased to call him, (meaning Mellefont.) is a gull, and made a fool, and cheated. Is 
 every man a guU and a fool that is deceived ? At that rate I am afraid the two classes of men will be reduced to one, 
 and the knaves themselvrai be at a loss to justify their title : but if an open-hearted honest man, who has an entire 
 confidence in one wh<im he takes to be his friend, and whom he has obliged to he so ; and who (to confirm him in his 
 opinion; in all appearance, and upon several trials has been so ; if this man be deceived by the treachery of the other, 
 must he of necessity commence fool immediately, only because the otliur has proved a villain ? Ay, but there w;is 
 caution (riven to Mellefont in the fii'St Act by his fiiend Careless. Of what nature was that caution ? Only to give tlie 
 
174 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 audience some light into the character of Maekwell, before his appearance ; and not to convince Mellefont of his 
 treachery ; for that was more than Careless was then able to do ; he never knew Masljwell guilty of any villany ; he 
 was only a sort of man which he did not like. As for his suspecting his familiarity with my Lady Touchwood ; let 
 them examine the answer that Mellefont makes him, and compare it with the conduct of Maskwell's character through 
 the play. 
 
 I would beg them again to look into the character of Maskwell, before they accuse Mellefont of weakness for being 
 deceived by him. For upon summing up the inquiry into this objection, it may be found they have mistaken cunning 
 in one character, for folly in another. 
 
 But there is one thing at which I am more concerned than all the false criticisms that are made upon me ; and that 
 is, some of the ladies are offended. I am heartily sorry for it, for I declare I would rather disoblige all the critics in 
 the world, than one of the fair sex. They are concerned that I have represented some women vicious and affected : 
 how can I help it ? It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of humankind ; and tliere are but 
 two sexes, male and female, men and women, which have a title to humanity : and if 1 leave one half of them out, the 
 work will be imperfect. I should be very glad of an opportunity to make my compliment to those ladies who are 
 offended ; but they can no more expect it in a comedy, than to he tickled by a surgeon when he is letting tliem blood. 
 They who arc virtuous or discreet should not be offended ; for such characters as these distinguish them^ and make their 
 beauties more shining and observed ; and they who are of the other kind, may nevertheless pass for such, by seeming 
 not to be displeased, or touched with the satire of this comedy. Thus have they also wrongfully accused me of doing 
 them a prejudice, when I have in reality done them a service. 
 
 You will pardon me. Sir, for the freedom I take of making answers to other people, in an epistle which ought wholly 
 to be sacred to you : but since 1 intend the play to be so too, 1 hope 1 may take the more liberty of justifying it, where 
 it is in the right. 
 
 I must now, Sir, declare to the world how kind you have been to my endeavours ; for in regard of what was well 
 meant, you have excused what was ill performed. I beg you would continue the same method in your acceptance of 
 this dedication. I know no other way of making a return to that humanity you showed, in protecting an infant, hut by 
 enrolling it in your service, now that it is of age and come into the world. Therefore be pleased to accept of this as an 
 acknowledgment of the favour you have shown me, and an earnest of the real service and gratitude of, Sir, your most 
 obliged, humble servant, WILLIAM CONGRBVE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 
 
 Maskwell, a Villain ; pretended Friend to Melle- 
 font, Gallant to Lady Touchwood, aHd in love with 
 Cynthia. 
 
 Lord Touchwood, Uncle to Mellefont. 
 
 Mellefont, promised to and in love ivith Cynthia. 
 
 Careless, his Friend, 
 
 Lord Froth, a solemn Coxcomb. 
 
 Brisk, a pert Coxcomb. 
 
 Sir PaulPlyant, an nxorions, foolish, old Knight; 
 brother to Lady Touchwood, and Father to 
 Cynthia. 
 
 &AVGRACE, Chajilain to Lord Touchwood. 
 
 Lady Touchwood, in love with Mellefont. 
 Cynthia, Daughter to Sir Paul bp a former Wife, 
 
 promised to Mellefont. 
 Lady Froth, a great Coquette ; pretender to poetry^ 
 
 wit, and learning. 
 Lady Plyant, insolent to her Husband, and easy to 
 
 any pretender. 
 
 Boy, Footmen, and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE, — A Gallery in Lokd Touchwood's House, with Chambers adjoining. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BT MRS. BEACEGIRDLE. 
 
 Moors have this way (as story tells) to know 
 Whether their hrats are truly got or no ; 
 Into the sea the new-bom babe is thrown. 
 There, as instinct directs, to swim or drown. 
 A barbarous device to try if spouse 
 Has kept religiously her nuptial vows. 
 
 Such are the trials poets make of plays : 
 Only they trust to more inconstant seas ; 
 So does our author this his child commit 
 To the tempestuous mercy of the pit, 
 To know if it be truly born of wit. 
 
 Critics, avaunt ! for you are fish of prey, 
 And feed, like sharks, upon an.infant play. 
 Be every monster of the deep away ; 
 Let's a fair trial have, and a clear sea. 
 
 Let Nature work, and do not damn too soon, 
 For life will struggle long ere it sink down ; 
 And ,will at least rise thrice before it drown. 
 
 Let us consider, had it been our fate, 
 
 Thus hardly to be proved legitimate ! 
 
 I will not say, we'd all in danger been. 
 
 Were each to suffer for his mother's sin ; 
 
 Bat, by my troth, I cannot avoid thinking 
 
 How nearly some good men might have 'scaped 
 
 sinldng. 
 But Heaven be praised this custom is confined 
 Alone to the offspring of the Muses' kind : 
 Our clxristian cuckolds are more bent to pity ; 
 I know not one Moor husband in the city. 
 r th' good man's arms the chopping bastard thrives; 
 For he thinks all his own that is his wife's. 
 Whatever fate is for this play design'd. 
 The poet's sure he shall some comfort find : 
 For if his muse has play'd him false, the worst 
 That can befal him, is to be divorced ; 
 You husbands judge, if that be to bo cursed. 
 
THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 176 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Gallery in Lord Touchwood's 
 House, with Chambers adjoining. 
 
 Enter Careless, crossing the stage, with his hat, gloves, 
 and sword, in his hands ; as just risen from table ,- 
 Mellkfont following him, 
 
 Mel. Ned, Ned, whither so fast ? what, turned 
 fiincher ? why, you won't leave us ? 
 
 Care. Where are the women ? I'm weary of 
 guzzling, and begin to think them the better com- 
 pany. 
 
 Mel. Then thy reason staggers, and thou'rt 
 almost drunk. 
 
 Care. No, faith, but your fools grow noisy ; and 
 if a man must endure the noise of words without 
 sense, I think the women have more musical voices, 
 iud become nonsense better. 
 
 Mel. Why, they are at the end of the gallery, 
 retired to their tea and scandal, according to their 
 ancient custom, after dinner ; but I made a pre- 
 tence to follow you, because I had something t6 
 say to you in private, and I am not like to have 
 many opportunities this evening. 
 
 Care. And here's this coxcomb most critically 
 come to interrupt you. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Careless, Mellefont, and Brisk. 
 
 Brisk. Boys, boys, lads, where are you ? What, 
 do you give ground ! mortgage for a bottle, ha ? 
 Careless, this is your trick ; you're always spoiling 
 company by leaving it. 
 
 Care. And thou art always spoiling company by 
 coming into't. 
 
 Brisk. Pooh ! ha ! ha ! ha ! I know you envy 
 me : spite, proud spite, by the gods ! and burning 
 envy. — I'll be judged by Mellefont here, who 
 gives and takes raillery better, you or I. Pshaw, 
 man ! when I say you spoil company by leaving 
 .t, I mean you leave nobody for the company to 
 laugh at. I think there I was with you, ha? 
 Mellefont. 
 
 Mel. O' my word. Brisk, that was a home- 
 trust : you have silenced him. 
 
 Brisk. Oh, my dear Mellefont, let me perish, if 
 thou art not the soul of conversation, the very 
 essence of wit, and spirit of wine ! — The dense take 
 me, if there were three good things said, or one 
 understood, since thy amputation from the body of 
 our society. — He ! I tliin£ that's pretty and me- 
 taphorical enough : egad I could not have said it 
 out of thy company : — Careless, ha ? 
 
 Care. Hum, ay, what is't ? 
 
 Brisk. O, more eosurl what is't? Nay gad I'll 
 punish yon for want of apprehension : the dense 
 take me if I tell you. 
 
 Mel. No, no, hang him, he has no taste. — But, 
 dear Brisk, excuse me, I have a little business. 
 
 Care. Prithee get thee gone ; thou seest we are 
 serious. 
 
 Mel. We'll come immediately, if you'll but go 
 in, and keep up good-humour and sense in the 
 company : prithee do, they'll fall asleep else- 
 
 Brisk. Egad, so they will !— Well I will, I will, 
 gad, you shall command me from the zenith to the 
 nadir.— But the deusetake meif I say a good thing 
 till you come. — But prithee, dear rogue, make 
 haste, prithee make haste, I shall burst else. — And 
 yonder's your uncle, my lord Touchwood, swears 
 he'll disinherit you, and sir Paul Plyant threatens 
 to disclaim you for a son-in-law, and my lord 
 Froth won't dance at your wedding to-morrow 
 nor, the dense take me, I won't write your epithala- 
 mium — and see what a condition you're like to be 
 brought to. 
 
 Mel. Well, I'll speak but three words, and 
 follow you. 
 
 Brisk. Enough, enough. — Careless, bring your 
 apprehension along with you. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Mellefont and Careless. 
 
 Care. Pert coxcomb ! 
 
 Mel. Faith, 'tis a good-natured coxcomb, and 
 has very entertaining follies : you must be more 
 humane to him ; at this juncture, it will do me 
 service. I'll tell you, 1 would have mirth con- 
 tinued this day at any rate ; though patience pur- 
 chase folly, and attention be paid with noise : there 
 are times when sense may be unseasonable, as well 
 as truth. Prithee, do thou wear none to-day ; but 
 allow Brisk to have wit, that thou mayst seem a 
 fool. 
 
 Care. Why, how now ! why this extravagant 
 proposition ? 
 
 Mel. O, I would have no room for serious design^ 
 for I am jealous of a plot. I would have noise and 
 impertinence keep my lady Touchwood's head 
 from working ; for heU is not more busy than her 
 brain, nor contains more devils than that imagina- 
 tions. 
 
 Care. I thought your fear of her had been over. 
 Is not to-morrow appointed for your marriage with 
 Cynthia ; and her father, sir Paul Plyant, come to 
 settle the writings this day, on purpose ? 
 
 Mel. True ; but you shall judge whether I have 
 not reason to be alarmed. None besides you and 
 Maskwell are acquainted with the secret of my 
 aunt Touchwood's violent passion for me. Since 
 my first refusal of her addresses, she has endea- 
 voured to do me all ill offices with my uncle ; 
 yet has managed 'em with that subtlety, that to him 
 they have borne the face of kindnesS ; while her 
 malice, like a dark lantern, only shone upon me 
 where it was directed. Still it gave me less per- 
 plexity to prevent the success of her displeasure, 
 than to avoid the importunities of her love ; and of 
 two evils, I thought myself favoured in her aver- 
 sion : but whether urged by her despair, and the 
 short prospect of the time she saw to accomplish 
 her designs ; whether the hopes of revenge, or of 
 her love, tertoinated in the view of this my marriage 
 with Cynthia, I know not ; but this morning she 
 surprised me in my bed. 
 
 Care. Was there ever such a fury I 'tis well 
 
176 
 
 THE DOUi?LE-PEALER. 
 
 Nature has not put it into her sex's power to ravish. 
 —Well, bless us ! proceed. What followed ? 
 
 Mel. What at first amazed me : for 1 looked to 
 have seen her in all the transports of a slighted 
 and revengeful woman : but when I e.\pected 
 thunder from her voice, and lightning in her eyes ; 
 I saw her melted into tears and hushed into a sigh. 
 It was long before either of us spoke ; passion had 
 tied her tongue, and amazement mine. — In short, 
 the consequence was thus, she omitted nothing that 
 the most violent love could urge, or tender words 
 express ; whioh when she saw had no effect, but 
 still I pleaded honour and nearness of blood to my 
 uncle, then came the storm I feared at first : for 
 starting from my bed-side like a fury, she flew to 
 my sword, and with much ado I prevented her 
 doing me or herself a mischief. Having disarmed 
 her, in a gust of passion she left me, and in a reso- 
 lution, contirmed by a thousand curses, not to close 
 her eyes till they had seen my ruin. 
 
 Care. Exquisite woman ! but what the devil, 
 does she think thou hast no more sense, than to get 
 an heir upon her body to disinherit thyself ? for, as 
 1 take it, this settlement upon you is with a 
 proviso, that your uncle have no children. 
 
 Mel. It is so. Well, the service you are to do 
 me, will be a pleasure to yourself; I must get you 
 to engage my lady Plyant all this evening, that 
 my pious aunt may not work her to her interest. 
 And if you chance to secure her to yourself, you 
 may incline her to mine. She's handsome, and 
 knows it ; is very silly, and thinks she has sense, 
 and has an old fond husband. 
 
 Care. I confess, a very fair foundation for a 
 lover to build upon. 
 
 Mel. For rey lord Froth, he and his wife will be 
 sufficiently taken up with adminng one another, 
 and Brisk's gallantry, as they call it. I'll observe 
 my imcle myself : and Jack Maskwell has pro- 
 mised me to watch my aunt narrowly, and give me 
 notice upon any suspicion. As for sir Paul, my 
 wife's father-in-law that is to be, my dear Cynthia 
 has such a share in his fatherly fondness, he would 
 scarce make her a moment uneasy, to have her 
 happy hereafter. 
 
 Care. So, you have manned your works : but I 
 wish you may not have the weakest guard where 
 the enemy is strongest. 
 
 Mel. Maskwell you mean ; prithee, why sliould 
 you suspect him .'' 
 
 Care. Faith, I cannot help it, you know I never 
 liked him ; I am a little superstitious in physiog- 
 nomy. 
 
 Md. He has obligations of gratitude to bind 
 him to me ; his dependence upon my uncle is 
 through my means. 
 
 Care. Upon your aunt you mean. 
 
 Mel. My aunt ? 
 
 Care. I'm mistaken if there be not a fiimi- 
 liarity between them you do not suspect, notwith- 
 standing her passion for you. 
 
 Mel. Pooh, pooh, nothing in the world but his 
 design to do me service ; and he endeavours to be 
 well in her esteem, that he may be able to effect it. 
 
 Care. Well, I shall be glad to be mistaken ; but 
 your aunt's aversion in her revenge cannot be any 
 way so effectually shown as in bringing forth a 
 child to disinherit you. She is handsome and 
 cunning, and naturally wanton : Maskwell is flesh 
 nnd blood at best, and opportunities between them 
 
 are frequent. His affection to you, you have con- 
 fessed, is grounded uppn his interest ; that you 
 have transplanted ; and should it take root in my 
 lady, I don't see what you can expect from the 
 fruit 
 
 Mel. I confess the consequen,ce is visible, were 
 your suspicions just.— But see, the company is 
 broke up, let's meet 'em. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Careless, Mellefont, lAird Touchwood, Lord Froth, 
 Sii- Paul Plvant, and Brisk. 
 
 Lord Touchy Out upon't, nephew ! — leave your 
 father-in-law and me to maintain our ground 
 against young people ! 
 
 Mel. I beg your lordship's pardon ; we were just 
 returning. 
 
 Sir Paul. Were you, son.' gadsbnd, much 
 better as it is. — Good, strange ! I swear I'm almost 
 tipsy — t'other bottle would have been too powereful 
 for me, — as sure as can be it would. — We wanted 
 your company ; but Mr. Brisk — where is he ? I 
 swear and vow he's a most facetious person, — and 
 the best company. — And, my lord Froth, your 
 lordship is so merry a man, he ! he ! he ! 
 
 Lord Froth. O foy, sir Paul ! what do you 
 mean ? Merry ! O barbarous I I'd as lieve you 
 caird me fool. 
 
 Sir Paul. Nay, I protest and vow now, 'tis 
 true ; when Mr. Brisk jokes, your lordship's laugh 
 does so become you, he 1 he ! he ! 
 
 Lord Froth. Ridiculous ! sir Paul, you're 
 strangely mistaken, I find champagne is powerful. 
 I assure you, sir Paul, I laugh at nobody's jest but 
 my own or a lady's ; I assure you, sir Paul. 
 
 Brisk. How ? how, my lord .' what, affront my 
 wit I let me perish, do I never say anything worthy 
 to be laushed at ? 
 
 Lord Froth. O foy I don't misapprehend me, I 
 don't say so, for I often smile at your conceptions. 
 But there is nothing more unbecoming a man of 
 quality than to laugh ; 'tis such a vulgar expression 
 of the passion I everybody can laugh. Then, espe- 
 cially to laugh at the jest of an inferior person, or 
 when anybody else of the same quality does not 
 laugh with one ; ridiculous ! To be pleased with 
 what pleases the crowd I Now when 1 laugh, I 
 always laugh alone. 
 
 Brisk. 1 suppose, that's because you laugh at 
 your own jests, egad, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lord Froth. He ! he ! 1 swear, though, your 
 raillery provokes me to a smile. 
 
 Brisk. Ay, my lord, 'lis a sign I hit you in the 
 teeth if you show 'era. 
 
 Lord Froth. He I he ! he ! I swear that's so very 
 pretty, I can't forbear. 
 
 Care. I find a quibble bears more sway in your 
 lordship's face than a jest. 
 
 Lord Touch. Sir Paul, if you please we'll retire 
 to the ladies, and drink a dish of tea, to settle our 
 heads. 
 
 Sir Paul. With all my heart. — Mr. Brisk, you'll 
 come to us, — or call me when you joke ; I'll be 
 ready to laugh iucontinently. 
 
THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 in 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Mellkfont, Careless, Lord Froth, and Brisk. 
 
 Mel. But does your lordship never see come- 
 dies? 
 
 Lord Froth. O yes, sometimes ; — but I never 
 laugh. 
 
 Mel. No ! 
 
 Lord Froth. O no ; — never laugh indeed, sir. 
 
 Care. No ! vrhy, what d'ye go there for ? 
 
 Lord Froth. To distinguish myself from the 
 commonalty, and mortify the poets : the fellows 
 grow so conceited when any of their foolish wit 
 prevails upon the side-boxes, — I swear — he! he ! Ije! 
 I have often constrained my inclinations to laugh, 
 — he ! he ! he 1 to avoid giving them encourage- 
 ment. 
 
 Mel. You are cruel to yourself, my lord, as well 
 as malicious to them. 
 
 Lord Froth. I confess I did myself some violence 
 at first ; but now I think I have conquered it. 
 
 Brisk. Let me perish, my lord, but there is 
 something very particular in the humour ! 'Tis 
 true, it makes against wit, and I'm sorry for some 
 friends of mine that write, but, egad, I love to be 
 malicious. Nay, dense take me, there's wit in't 
 too ; and wit must be foiled by wit ; cut a diamond 
 with a diamond ; no other way, egad ! 
 
 Lord Froth. Oh, I thought you would not be 
 long before you found out the wit. 
 
 Care. Wit ! in what ? where the devil's the 
 wit in not laughing when a man has a mind to't ^ 
 
 Brisk. O Lord, why, can't you find it out ? — 
 Why, there 'tis, in the not laughing ; — don't you 
 apprehend me ? — [Aside to Frqth.] My lord, 
 Careless is a very honest fellow, but harkee, — you 
 understand me, somewhat heavy, a little shallow, 
 or so. — \_Aloud.'] Why, I'll tell you now. Suppose 
 now you come up to me — nay, prithee, Careless, 
 be instructed- — ^suppose, as I was saying, you 
 come up to me holding your sides, and laughing, 
 as if you would — -Well — I look grave, and ask the 
 cause of this immoderate mirth — you laugh on still, 
 
 and are not able to tell me Still I look grave, not 
 
 so much as smile. 
 
 Care. Smile 1 no ; what the devil should you 
 smile at, when you suppose I can't tell you .'' 
 
 Brisk. Pshaw ! pshaw ! prithee, don't interrupt 
 me. — But I tell you, you shall tell me — at last- 
 but it shall be a great while first. 
 
 Care. Well, but prithee don't let it be a great 
 while, because I long to have it over. 
 
 Brisk. Well, then, you tell me some good jest, 
 or very witty thing, laughing all the while as if 
 you were ready to die, and I hear it, and look 
 thus. — Would not you be disappointed .' 
 
 Care. No ; for if it were a witty thing, I should 
 not expect you to understand it. 
 
 Lord Froth. O foy, Mr. Careless '. all the world 
 allows Mr. Brisk to have wit, my wife says he has 
 a great deal. I hope you think her a judge. 
 
 Brisk. Pooh, my lord, his voice goes for nothing ! 
 I can't tell how to make him apprehend.: — [To 
 Careless.] Take it t'other way : — suppose I say 
 a witty thing to you ? 
 
 Care. Then I shall be disappointed indeed. 
 
 Mel. Let him alone. Brisk, he is obstinately 
 oent not to be instructed. 
 
 Brule. I'm sorry for him, the deuse take me ! 
 
 Mel. Shall we go to the ladies, my lord ? 
 
 Lord Froth. With all my heart, methinks we 
 are a solitude without 'em. 
 
 Mel. Or, what say you to another bottle of 
 champagne ? 
 
 Lord Froth. O, for the universe, not a drop 
 more I beseech you ! — Oh intemperate ! I have a 
 flushing in my face already. 
 
 {_Takes out a pocket-glass, and looks in it. 
 
 Brisk. Let me see, let me see, my lord ! I broke 
 my glass that was in the lid of my snuff-box. 
 Hum ! deuse take me, I have encouraged a pimple 
 here too. [Takes the cjlass, and looks. 
 
 Lord Froth. Then you must mortify him with a 
 patch ; my wife shall supply you. Come, gentle- 
 men, allons, here is company coming. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Lady Touchwood and Maskwbll. 
 
 Lady Touch. I'll hear no more! y'are false and 
 ungrateful. Come, I know you false. 
 
 Mask. I have been frail, I confess, madam, for 
 your ladyship's service. 
 
 Lady Touch. That I should trust a man whom 
 I had known betray his friend ! 
 
 Mask. What friend have I betrayed? or to 
 whom ^ 
 
 Lady Touch. Your fond friend MeUefont, and 
 to me ; can you deny it .•* 
 
 Mask. I do not. 
 
 Lady Touch. Have you not wronged my lord, 
 who has been a father to you in your wants, and 
 given you being i Have you not wronged him in 
 the highest manner, in his bed .'' 
 
 Mask. With your ladyship's help, and for your 
 service, as I told you before. I can't deny that 
 neither.— Anything more, madam ? 
 
 Lady Touch. More ! audacious villain ! O, 
 what's more, is most my shame !.:— Have you not 
 dishonoured me ? 
 
 Mask. No, that I deny ; for I never told in all 
 my life : so that accusation's answered ; on to the 
 next. 
 
 Lady Touch. Death, do you dally with my pas- 
 sion .' Insolent devil ! But have a care ; — pro- 
 voke me not ; for, by the eternal fire, you shall not 
 'scape my vengeance ! — Calm villain ! How un- 
 concerned he stands, confessing treachery and 
 ingratitude ! Is there a vice more black ! — O, I 
 have excuses, thousands for my faults I fire in my 
 temper, passions in my soul, apt to every provoca- 
 tion ; oppressed at once with love and with despair. 
 But a sedate, a thinking villain, whose black blood 
 runs temperately bad, what excuse can clear? 
 
 Mask. Will you be in temper, madam ? I would 
 not talk not to be heard. I have been — [She walks 
 about disordered"] a very great rogue for your 
 sake, and you reproach me with it ; I am ready to 
 be a rogue still to do you service ; and you are 
 flinging conscience and honour in my face to rebate 
 my inclinations. How am I to behave myself? 
 You know I am your creature, my life and fortune 
 in your power ; to disoblige you brings me certain 
 ruin. Allow it, I would betray you, I would not 
 be a traitor to myself: I don't pretend to honesty, 
 because you know I am a rascal : but I would con- 
 'viuceyoufromthenecessitvof inv being firm to you. 
 
178 
 
 TRE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 Lady Touch. Necessity, impudence ! Can no 
 gratitude incline you, no obligations touch you ? 
 Have not my fortune and my person been subjected 
 to your pleasure ? Were you not in the nature of 
 a servant, and have not I in effect made you lord 
 of all, of me, and of my lord ? Where is that 
 humble love, the languishing, that adoration, 
 which once was paid me, and everlastingly en- 
 gaged? 
 
 Mask. Fixed, rooted in my heart, whence no- 
 thing can remove 'em, yet you — 
 
 Ladi/ Touch. Yet ! what yet ? 
 
 Mask. Nay, misconceive me not, madam, when 
 I say I have had a generous and a faithful passion, 
 which you had never favoured, but through revenge 
 and policy. 
 
 Lady Touch. Ha! 
 
 Mask. Look you, madam, we are alone : pray 
 contain yourself, and hear me. You know you 
 loved your nephew, when I first sighed for you ; I 
 quickly found it ; an argument that I loved ; for 
 vrith that art you veiled your passion, 'twas imper- 
 ceptible to all but jealous eyes. 'This discovery 
 made me bold : I confess it ; for by it I thought 
 you in my power. Your nephew's scorn of you 
 added to my hopes ; I watched the occasion and 
 took you, just repulsed by him, warm at once with 
 love and indignation ; your disposition, my argu- 
 ments, and happy opportunity, accomplished my 
 design; I pressed the yielding minute, and was 
 blessed. How I have loved you since words have 
 not shown, then how should words express .' 
 
 Lady Touch. Well, mollifying devil ! — and have 
 I not met your love with forward fire ? 
 
 Mask. Your zeal, I grant, was ardent, but mis- 
 placed ; there was revenge in view : that woman's 
 idol had defiled the temple of the god, and love was 
 made a mock-worship. — A son and heir would 
 have edged young Mellefont upon the brink of 
 ruin, and left him none but you to catch at for 
 prevention. 
 
 Lady Touch. Again, provoke me ! Do you 
 wind me like a 'larum, only to rouse my own stilled 
 soul for your diversion ? Confusion 1 
 
 Mask. Nay, madam, I'm gone, if you relapse. — 
 What needs this? I say nothing but what you 
 yourself, in open hours of love, have told me. 
 Why should you deny it ? nay, how can you ? Is 
 not all this present heat owing to the same fire ? 
 Do you not love him still ? How have I this day 
 offended you, but in not breaking off his match 
 with Cynthia ? which ere to-morrow shall be done, 
 — had you but patience. 
 
 Lady Touch. How, what said you, Maskwell? — 
 Another caprice to unwind my temper ? 
 
 Mask. By Heaven, no ! I am your slave, the 
 slave'of all your pleasures; and will not rest till I 
 have given you peace, would you suffer me. 
 
 <Lady Touch. O, Maskwell, in vain I do disguise 
 me from thee ! thou knowest me, knowest the very 
 inmost windings and recesses of my soul. — Oh 
 Mellefont ! I bum. — Married to-morrow ! — De- 
 spair strikes me. Yet my soul knows I hate him 
 too : let him but once be mine, and next imme- 
 diate ruin seize him. 
 
 Mask. Compose yourself, you shall possess and 
 ruin him too. — Will that please you ? 
 
 Lady Touch. How, how ? thou dear, thou pre- 
 cious villain, how ? 
 
 Mask. You have already been tampering with 
 my lady Ply ant ? 
 
 Lady Touch. 1 have : she is ready for any im- 
 pression 1 think fit. 
 
 Mask. She must be thoroughly persuaded that 
 Mellefont loves her. 
 
 Lady Touch. She is so credulous that way na- 
 turally, and likes him so well, that she will believe 
 it faster than I can persuade her. But I don't see 
 what you can propose from such a trifling design ; 
 for her first conversing with Mellefont vrill con- 
 vince her of the contrary. 
 
 Mask. I know it. — I don't depend upon it — 
 But it will prepare something else ; and gain us 
 leisure to lay a stronger plot : if I gain a little time 
 I shall not want contrivance. 
 
 One minute gives invention to destroy ; 
 
 What to rebuild, will a whole age employ. 
 
 {BxeunL. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — The GaUeryin Lord Touchwood's 
 House. 
 
 Lady Froth and Cynthia. 
 
 Cyn, Indeed, madam ! Is it possible your lady- 
 ship could have been so much in love ? 
 
 Lady Froth. I could not sleep ; 1 did not sleep 
 one wink for three weeks together. 
 
 Cyn. Prodigious ! I wonder want of sleep, and 
 so much love, and so much wit as your ladyship 
 has, did not turn your brain. 
 
 Lady Froth. O my dear Cynthia, you must 
 not rally your friend. — But really, as you say, I 
 wonder too ; — but then I had a way : for between 
 you and I, I had whimsies and vapours, but I gave 
 them vent. 
 
 Cyn. How pray, madam ? 
 
 Lady Froth. O I writ, writ abundantly ; — do 
 you never write ? 
 
 Cyn. Write what ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Songs, elegies, satires, encomiums, 
 panegyrics, lampoons, plays, or heroic poems. 
 
 Cyn. O Lord, not I, madam; I'm content to be 
 a courteous reader. 
 
 Lady Froth. O inconsistent I in love, and not 
 write ! if my lord and I had been both of your 
 temper, we had never come together. — O bless 
 me ! what a sad thing would that have been, if my 
 lord and I should never have met ! 
 
 Cyn. Then neither my lord nor you would ever 
 have met with your match, on my conscience. 
 
 Lady Froth. O' my conscience, no more we 
 should ; thou sayest right : for sure my lord Froth 
 is as fine a gentleman and as much a man of qua- 
 lity ! Ah, nothing at all of the common air ! — I 
 think I may say he wants nothing but a blue rib- 
 bon and a star to make him shine, the very phos- 
 phorus of our hemisphere. Do you understand 
 
eoGNt: III. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 179 
 
 those two hard words ? if you don't, I'll explain 
 'em to you. 
 
 Cyn. Yes, yes, madam, I'm not so ignorant. — 
 [Aside.'] At least I won't own it, to he troubled 
 with your instructions. 
 
 Lady Froth. Nay, I heg your pardon ; but being 
 derived from the Gjeek, I thought you might have 
 escaped the etymology. — But I'm the more amazed 
 to find yon a woman of letters, and not write ! 
 bless me ! how can Mellefont believe you love him ? 
 
 Cyn. Why faith, madam, he that won't take 
 my word, shall never have it under my hand. 
 
 Lady Froth. I vow Mellefont's a pretty gentle- 
 man, but methinks he wants a manner. 
 
 Cyn. A manner ! what's that, madam ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Some distinguishing quality, as for 
 example, the bel air or brillant of Mr. Brisk ; the 
 solemnity, yet complaisance of my lord, or some- 
 thing of his own that should look a little je tie sai 
 quoi ; he is too much a mediocrity, in my mind. 
 
 Cyn. He does not indeed affect either pertness 
 or formality, for which I like him. Here he comes. 
 
 Lad^ Froth, And my lord with him; pray, 
 observe the difference. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Lady Fhoth, Cynthia, Lord Froth, Mellefont, and 
 Brisk. 
 
 Cyn. Impertinent creature ! I could almost be 
 angry with her now. lAside. 
 
 Lady Froth. My lord, I have been telling Cyn- 
 thia how much I have been in love with you, I 
 swear I have ; I'm not ashamed to own it now. 
 Ah, it makes my heart leap ! I vow, I sigh when I 
 think on't ; my dear lord, ha ! ha ! ha 1 do you 
 remember, my lord .' 
 
 [Squeezes Tiim hy the hand, looks kindly on him, sighs, 
 and then laughs out. 
 
 Lord Froth. Pleasant creature I perfectly well. 
 — Ah, that look ! ay, there it is ! who could resist ? 
 ' twas so my heart was made a captive first, and ever 
 since 't has been in love with happy slavery. 
 
 Lady Froth. O that tongue ! that dear deceitful 
 tongue ! that charming softness in your mien and 
 your expression ! and then your bow ! Good, my 
 lord, bow as you did when I gave you my picture : 
 here, suppose this my picture. — [Gives him a 
 pocket-glas3.2 Pray mind, my lord ; ah, he bows 
 charmingly ! — Nay, my lord, you shan't kiss it so 
 much, I shall grow jealous, I vow now. 
 
 {_He bows profoundly low, then kisses the glass. 
 
 liOrd Froth. I saw myself there, and kissed it 
 for your sake. 
 
 Lady Froth. Ah, gallantry to the last degree ! — 
 Mr. Brisk, you're a judge ; was ever anything so 
 well bred as my lord ? 
 
 Brisk. Never anything but your ladyship, let 
 me perish ! 
 
 Lady Froth. Oh, prettily turned again ! let me 
 die, but yott have a great deal of wit ! — Mr. Melle- 
 font, don't you think Mr. Brisk has a world of 
 wit? 
 
 Mel. O yes, madam ! 
 
 Brisk. O dear, madam! — 
 
 Lady Froth. An infinite deal .' 
 
 Brisk. O heavens, madam 1 — 
 
 f,ady Froth. More wit than anybody .' 
 
 Brisk. I'm everlastingly your humble servant, 
 dense tiike me, madam. 
 
 Lord Froth. [To Cyktbia.] Don't you think 
 us a happy couple ? 
 • Cyn. I vow, my lord, I think you the happiest 
 couple in the world ; for you're not only happy in 
 one another and when you are together, but happy 
 in yourselves, and by yourselves. 
 
 Lord Froth. I hope Mellefont will make a good 
 husband too. 
 
 Cyn. 'Tis my interest to believe he will, my lord. 
 
 Lord Froth. D'ye think he'll love you as well 
 as I do my wife ? I'm afraid not. 
 
 Cyn. I believe he'll love me better. 
 
 Lord Froth. Heavens! that can never be; but 
 why do you think so ? 
 
 Cyn. Because he has not so much reason to be 
 fond of himself 
 
 Lord Froth. Oh, your humble servant for that, 
 dear madam. — ^Well, Mellefont, you'll be a happy 
 creature. 
 
 Mel. Ay, my lord, I shall have the same reason 
 for my happiness that your lordship has, I shall 
 think myself happy. 
 
 Lord Froth. Ah, that's all. 
 
 Brisk. [To Lady Froth.] Your ladyship's in 
 the right ; hut, egad, I'm wholly turned into 
 satire. I confess I write but seldom, but when I 
 do — keen iambics, egad ! But my lord was telling 
 me, your ladyship has made an essay toward an 
 heroic poem. 
 
 Lady Froth. Did my lord tell you ? yes, I vow, 
 and the subject is my lord's love to me. And 
 what do you think I call it.' I dare swear you 
 won't guess — The Sillabub; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Brisk. Because my lord's title's Froth, egad ; 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! dense take me, very a propos and 
 surprising, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lady Froth. He ! ay, is not it ? — And then I 
 call my lord Spumoso, and myself — what d'ye 
 think I call myself 1 
 
 Brisk. LactiUa, maybe : — 'gad, I cannot tell. 
 
 Lady Froth. Biddy, that's all ; just my own 
 name. 
 
 Brisk. Biddy ! egad, very pretty ! — Dense take 
 me, if your ladyship has not the art of surprising 
 the most naturally in the world I — I hope you'll 
 make me happy in communicating the poem. 
 
 Lady Froth. O you must be my confidant, I 
 must ask your advice. 
 
 Brisk. I'm your humble servant, let me perish! 
 — I presume your ladyship has read Bossu ? 
 
 Lady Froth. O yes, and Rapin, and Dacier upon 
 Aristotle and Horace. — My lord, you must not he 
 jealous, I'm communicating all to Mr. Brisk. 
 
 Lord Froth. No, no, I'll allow Mr. Brisk, 
 have you nothing about you to show him, my 
 dear .' 
 
 Lady Froth. Yes, I believe I have. — Mr. Brisk, 
 come, will you go into the next room, and there I'll 
 show you what I have. 
 
 Lord Froth. I'll walk a turn in the garden, and 
 come to you. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Mellefont and Cvntula. 
 '^fel. You're thoughtful, Cynthia .■* 
 Cyn. I'm thinking, though marriage makes man 
 
l&L 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 and wife one liesh, it leaves them still two fools ; 
 and they become more conspicuous by setting off 
 one another. 
 
 Mel. That's only when two fools meet, and 
 their follies are opposed. • 
 
 Cyn. Nay, I have known two wits meet, and by 
 the opposition of their wit, render themselves as 
 ridiculous as fools. 'Tis an odd game we're going 
 to play at ; what think you of'drawing stakes, and 
 giving over in time ? 
 
 Mel. No, hang't, that's not endeavouring to 
 win, because it's .possible we may lose ; since we 
 have shuffled and cut, let's e'en turn up trump 
 now. 
 
 Cj/n. Then I find it's like cards : if either of us 
 have a good hand, it is an accident of fortune. 
 
 Mel. No, marriage is rather like a game at 
 bowls ; Fortune indeed makes the match, and the 
 two nearest, and sometimes the two farthest, are 
 together; but the game depends entirely upon 
 judgment. 
 
 Cyn. Still it is a game, and consequently one of 
 us must be a loser. « 
 
 Mel. Not at all ; only a friendly trial of skill, 
 and the winnings to be laid out in an entertain- 
 ment. -.- What's here, the music ! — [Musicians 
 crossing the stage.'] Oh, my lord has promised the 
 company a new song ; we'll get 'em to give it us by 
 
 the way Pray let us have the favour of you, to 
 
 practise the song before the company hear it. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Cynthia fTOwns whene'er I woo her, 
 Yet she's vex'd if I give over ; 
 Much she fears I should undo her, 
 But much more to lose her lover : 
 Thus in douhting she refuses ; 
 And not winning, thus she loses. 
 
 Prithee, Cynthia, look behind you. 
 Age and wrinkles will o'ertake you ; 
 Then, too late, desire will iind you, 
 When the power must forsake you : 
 Think, O think, o' th' sad condition, 
 To he past, yet wish fruition ! 
 
 Mel. You shall have my thanks below. 
 
 [To the Aliusicians, who go out. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Mbllefont, Cynthia, Sir Paul Piyant, and 
 Lady Plvant. 
 
 Sir Paul. [Aside to Lady Ply ant.] Gadsbud ! 
 I am provoked into a fermentation, as my Lady 
 Froth says ; was ever the like read of in story r 
 
 Lady Ply. [Aside to Sir Paul.] Sir Paul, have 
 patience ; let me alone to rattle him up. 
 
 Sir Paul. Pray your ladyship, give me leave to 
 be angry. — I'll rattle him up, I warrant you, I'll 
 firk him with a certiorari ! 
 
 Lady Ply. You firk him ! I'll firk him myself ; 
 pray, sir Paul, hold you contented. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside to Mellefont.] Bless me, what 
 makes my father in such a passion ! I never saw 
 him thus before. 
 
 Sir Paul. Hold yourself contented, my lady 
 Plyant : I find passion coming upon me by infla- 
 tion, and I cannot submit as formerly, therefore 
 give way. 
 
 Lady Ply. How now ! will you be pleased to 
 retire, and — 
 
 Sir Paul. No, marry, will I not be pleased ! I am 
 pleased to be angry, that's my pleasure at this time. 
 
 Mel. What can this mean .' \_Aside to Cynthia. 
 
 Lady Ply. Gad's my life, the man's distracted ! 
 Why, how now ! who are you ? what am I ? Slidi- 
 kins, can't I govern you .' what did 1 marry you 
 for ?* Am I not to be absolute and uncontrollable ? 
 Is it fit a woman of my spirit and conduct should 
 be contradicted in a matter of this concern .' 
 
 Sir Paul. It concerns me, and only me ; — 
 besides, I'm not to be governed at all times. When 
 I am in tranquillity, my lady Plyant shall command 
 sir Paul ; but when I am provoked to fury, I can- 
 not incorporate with patience and reason ; — as 
 soon may tigers match with tigers, lambs with 
 lambs, and every creature couple with its foe, as 
 the poet says. 
 
 Lady Ply. He's hot-headed still ! — -'Tis in vain 
 to talk to you ; but remember I have a curtain 
 lecture for you, you disobedient, headstrong brute ! 
 
 Sir Paul. No ; 'tis because I won't be headstrong, 
 because I won't be a brute, and have my head for- 
 tified, that I am thus exasperated. But I will 
 protect my honour, and yonder is the violator of 
 my fame. 
 
 Lady Ply. 'Tis my honour that is concerned ; 
 and the violation was intended to me. Your honour ! 
 you have none but what is in my keeping, and 1 
 can dispose of it when I please ; — therefore don't 
 provoke me. 
 
 Sir Paul. [Aside."] Hum, gadsbud, she says 
 true ! — [Aloud.] Well, my lady, march on^ I will 
 fight under you, then ; I am convinced, as far as 
 passion will permit. 
 
 [Lady Plyant and Sir Paul come up to Mellefont. 
 
 Lady Ply. Inhuman and treacherous — 
 
 Sir Paul. Thou serpent and first tempter of 
 womankind ! 
 
 Cyn. Bless me, sir ! — madam, what mean you } 
 
 -Sir Paul. Thy, Thy, come away Thy ! touch 
 him not. Come hither, girl, go not near him, 
 there's nothing but deceit about him ; snakes are 
 in his peruke, and the crocodile of Nilus in his 
 belly ; he will eat thee up alive. 
 
 Lady Ply. Dishonourable, impudent creature ! 
 
 Mel. For Heaven's sake, madam, to whom do 
 you direct this language ! 
 
 Lady Ply. Have I behaved myself with all the 
 decorum and nicety befitting the person of Sir 
 Paul's wife ? have I preserved my honour as it 
 were in a snow-house for these three years past ? 
 have I been white and unsullied even by Sir Paul 
 himself .' 
 
 Sir Paul. Nay, she has been an invincible wife, 
 even to mej that's the truth on't. 
 
 Lady Ply. Have I, I say, preserved myself 
 like a fair sheet of paper, for you to make a blot 
 upon .'' 
 
 Sir Paul. And she shall make a simile with 
 any woman in England. 
 
 Mel. I am so amazed, I know not what to say. 
 
 Sir Paul. Do you think, my daughter, this 
 pretty creature — gadsbud ; she's a wife for a 
 cherubim ! — do you think her fit for nothing but 
 to be a stalking-horse to stand before you, while 
 you take aim at my wife .' Gadsbud, I was never 
 angry before in my life, and I'll never be appeased 
 again I 
 
THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 181 
 
 Mel. [Aside,] Hell and damnation ! this is 
 my aunt ; such malice can be engendered nowhere 
 else. 
 
 Lady Fly. Sir Paul, take Cynthia from his 
 bight ; leave me to strike him with the remorse of 
 his intended crime. 
 
 Cyn. Pray, sir, stay, hear him ; I dare affirm 
 he's innocent. 
 
 Sir Paul. Innocent ! why hark'ye, come hither 
 Thy, hark'ye, I had it from his aunt, my sister 
 Touchwood. — Gadsbud, he does not care a farthing 
 for anything of thee but thy portion : why, he's in 
 love with my wife ; he would have tantalised thee, 
 and made a cuckold of thy poor father ; and that 
 would certainly have broken my heart. — I'm sure 
 if ever 1 should have horns, they would kill me ; 
 they would never come kindly, I should die of 
 'em, like a child that was cutting his teeth ; I 
 should indeed. Thy ; — therefore come away ; but 
 Providence has prevented all, therefore come away 
 when I bid you. 
 
 Cyn. I must obey. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Lady Plyant and Mbllefont. 
 
 Lady Ply. O, such a thing ! the impiety of it 
 startles me ! To wrong so good, so fair a creature, 
 and one that loves you tenderly ; 'tis a barbarity of 
 barbarities, and nothing could be guilty of it — 
 
 Mel. But the greatest villain imagination can 
 form. 1 grant it ; and next to the viUany of such 
 a fact is the villany of aspersing me with the guilt. 
 How ? which way was I to wrong her ? for yet I 
 understand you not. 
 
 Lady Ply. Why, gads my life, cousin Melle- 
 font, you cannot be so peremptory as to deny it, 
 when I tax you with it to your face 1 for, now sir 
 Paul's gone, you are corum nohus. 
 
 Mel. By Heaven, I love her more than life, 
 or — 
 
 Lady Ply. Fiddle, faddle, don't tell me of this 
 and that, and everything in the world, but give me 
 mathemacular demonstration, answer me directly. 
 — But I have not patience — Oh, the impiety of it '. 
 as I was saying, and the unparalleled wickedness ! 
 O merciful Father ! how could you think to reverse 
 nature so, — to make the daughter the means of 
 procuring the mother ? 
 
 Mel. The daughter to procure the mother I 
 
 Lady Ply, Ay, for though I am not Cynthia's 
 own mother, I am her father's wife, and that's near 
 enough to make it incest. 
 
 Mel. [Aside.'] Incest ! O my precious aunt, and 
 the devil in conjunction ! 
 
 Lady Ply. O reflect upon the horror of that, 
 and then the guilt of deceiving everybody ; marry- 
 ing the daughter, only to make a cuckold of the 
 father ; and then seducing me, debauching my 
 purity, and perverting me from the road of virtue, 
 in which I have trod thus long, and never made 
 one trip, not one faux pas; O consider it, what 
 would you have to answer for, if you should pro- 
 voke me to frailty.' A.Ias! humanity is feeble. 
 Heaven knows I very feeble, and unable to support 
 itself. 
 
 Md. Where am I? is it day.' and am I awake.' 
 — MaJam — 
 
 Lady Ply. And nobody knows how circum- 
 stances may happen together To my thinking, 
 
 now, I could resist the strongest temptation. — But 
 yet I know, 'tis impossible for me to know whether 
 I could or not j there's no certainty in the things 
 of this life. 
 
 Mel. Madam, pray give, me leave to ask you 
 one question. 
 
 Lady Ply. O Lord, ask me the question ! I'll 
 swear I'll refuse it! I swear I'll deny it ! — there- 
 fore don't ask me ; — nay, you shan't ask me ; I 
 swear I'll deny it. O gemini, you have brought 
 all the blood into my face ! I warrant I am as red 
 as a turkey-cook ; O fy, cousin IMellefont ■ 
 
 Mel. Nay, madam, hear me ; I mean — 
 
 Lady Ply. Hear you ! no, no ; I'll deny you 
 first, and hear you afterward. For one does not 
 know how one's mind may change upon hearing. 
 — Hearing is one of the senses, and all the senses 
 are fallible j I won't trust my honour, I assure you ; 
 my honour is infallible and uncome-at-able. 
 
 Mel. For Heaven's sake, madam — 
 
 Lady Ply. O name it no more ! — Bless me, 
 how can you talk of heaven ! and have so much 
 wickedness in your heart ? Maybe you don't 
 think it a sin, — They say some of you gentlemen 
 don't think it a sin. — Maybe it is no sin to them 
 that don't think it so ; indeed, if I did not think 
 it a sin — but still my honour, if it were no sin. — 
 But then, to marry my daughter, for the conve- 
 niency of frequent opportunities, I'll never consent 
 to that ; as sure as can be, I'll break the match. 
 
 Mel. Death and amazement ! — Madam, upon 
 my knees — ■ 
 
 Lady Ply. Nay, nay, rise up ; come, you shall 
 see my good-nature. I know love is powerful, 
 and nobody can help his passion : 'tis not your 
 fault, nor 1 swear it is not mine. — How can I help 
 it, if I have charms ? and how can you help it if 
 you are made a captive .' I swear it is pity it should 
 be a fault. — But my honour, — well, but your honour 
 too — but the sin I — well, but the necessity — O 
 Lord, here's somebody coming, I dare not stay. 
 Well, you must consider of your crime ; and strive 
 as much as can be against it, — strive, be sure — . 
 but don't be melancholic, don't despair. — But never 
 think that I'U grant you anything ; O Lord, no. 
 — But be sure you lay aside all thoughts of the 
 marriage : for though I know you don't love Cyn- 
 thia, only as a blind to your passion for me, yet 
 it will make me jealous.— O Lord, what did I say? 
 jealous ! no, no, I can't be jealous, for I must not 
 love you — therefore don't hope, — but don't despair 
 neither. — O, they're coming ! 1 must fly. 
 
 SCENE VL 
 Mbllefont, after a pause. 
 
 So then, spite of my care and foresight, I am 
 caught, caught in my security. — Yet this was but 
 a shallow artifice, unworthy of my Machiavelian 
 aunt : there must be more behind, this is but the 
 first flash, the priming of her engine ; destruction 
 follows hard, if not most presently prevented. 
 
182 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 SCENE vn. 
 
 Mellefont and Maskwell. 
 
 Mel. Maskwell, welcome ! thy presence is a 
 view of land, appearing to my shipwrecked hopes ; 
 the witch has raised the storm, and her ministers 
 have done their work ; you see the vessels are 
 parted. 
 
 Mask, I know it j I met sir Paul towing away 
 Cynthia. Come, trouhle not your head, I'll join 
 you together ere to-morrow morning, or drown 
 between you in the attempt. 
 
 Mel. There's comfort in a hand stretched out, 
 to one that's sinking, though ne'er so far off. 
 
 Mask. No sinking, nor no danger. Come, cheer 
 up ; why, you don't know, that while I plead for 
 you, your aunt has given me a retaining fee ? — 
 Nay, I am your greatest enemy, and she does but 
 journey-work under me. 
 
 Mel. Ha ! how's this ? 
 
 Mask. What d'ye think of my being employed 
 in the execution of all her plots ? Ha ! ha I ha ! 
 by heaven it's true ! I have undertaken to break 
 the match, I have undertaken to make your uncle 
 disinherit you, to get you turned out of doors ; 
 and to — ha! ha! ha! I can't tell you for laughing. 
 — Oh she has opened her heart to me, — I am to 
 turn you a grazing, and to — ha ! ha ! ha ! marry 
 Cynthia myself; there's a plot for you ! 
 
 Mel. Ha! Oh I see, I see, my rising sun! light 
 breaks through clouds upon me, and I shall live in 
 day ! — O my Maskwell ! how shall I thank or 
 praise thee .'' thou hast outwitted woman — But tell 
 me, how couldst thou thus get into her confidence ? 
 ha ! how ? — But was it her contrivance to persuade 
 my lady Plyant to this extravagant belief ? 
 
 Mask. It was ; and, to tell you the truth, I 
 encouraged it for your diversion : though it made 
 you a little uneasy for the present, yet the reflec- 
 tion of it inust needs be entertaining. — I warrant 
 she was very violent at first. 
 
 Mel. Ha ! ha ! ha I ay, a very fury ; but I was 
 most afraid of her violence at last. — If you had 
 not come as you did, I don't know what she might 
 have attempted. 
 
 Mask. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I know her temper. — 
 Well, you must know, then, that all my contri- 
 vances were but bubbles ; till at last I pretended to 
 have been long secretly in love with Cynthia ; that 
 did my business ; that convinced your aunt I might 
 be trusted, since "it was as much my interest as 
 hers to break the match : then, she thought my 
 
 jealousy might qualify me to assist her in her 
 revenge ; and, in short, in that belief, told me the 
 secrets of her heart. .4.t length we made this 
 agreement, if I accomplish her designs (as I told 
 you before) she has engaged to put Cynthia with 
 all her fortune into my power. 
 
 Mel. She is most gracious in her favour ! — ^Well, 
 and dear Jack, how hast thou contrived .' 
 
 Mask. I would not have you stay to hear it 
 now; for I don't know but she may come this 
 way ; I am to meet her anon ; after that, I'll tell 
 you the whole matter ; be here in this gallery an 
 hour hence, by that time I imagine our consulta- 
 tion may be over. 
 
 Mel. I wiH ; till then success attend thee. 
 
 SCENE vin. 
 
 Maskwell. 
 Till then, success will attend me ; for when 1 meet 
 you, I meet the only obstacle to my fortune. — 
 Cynthia, let thy beauty gild my crimes ; and what- 
 soever I commit of treachery or deceit, shall be 
 imputed to me as a merit. — Treachery ! what 
 treachery ? love cancels all the bonds of friendship, 
 and sets men right upon their first foundations. — 
 Duty to kings, piety to parents, gratitude to bene- 
 factors, and fidelity to friends, are different and 
 particular ties : but the name of rival cuts 'em all 
 asunder, and is a general acquittance. Rival is 
 equal, and love like death, a universal leveller of 
 mankind. Ha ! but is there not such a thing as 
 honesty ? Yes, and whosoever has it shout him 
 bears an enemy in his breast : for your honest man, 
 as I take it, is that nice scrupulous conscientious 
 person, who will cheat nobody but himself ; such 
 another coxcomb as your vrise man, who is too 
 hard for all the world, and will be made a fool of 
 by nobody but himself: ha! ha ! ha ! well, for 
 wisdom and honesty, give me cunning and hypo- 
 crisy ; oh, 'tis such a pleasure to angle for fair- 
 faced fools ! Then that hungry gudgeon credulity 
 will bite at anything. — Why, let me see, I have the 
 same face, the same words and accents, when I 
 speak what I do think, and when I speak what I 
 do not think — the very same — and dear dissimula- 
 tion is the only art not to be known from nature. 
 
 Why will mankind be fools, and be deceived ? 
 
 And why are friends and lovers' oaths believed? 
 
 When each, who searches strictly his own mind, 
 
 May so much fraud and power of baseness find. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Gallery in Lord Touchwood's 
 Iloiite, 
 
 Lord Touchwood and Lady Touchwood. 
 
 Lady Touch. My lord, can you blame my bro- 
 ther Plyant, if he refuse his daughter upon this 
 provocation ? the contract's void by this unheard- 
 of impiety. 
 j Lord Touch. I don't believe it true; he hjis 
 j better principles — Pho, 'tis nonsense ! Come, 
 I come, I know my lady Plyant has a large eye, and 
 
 would centre 'everything in her own circle. 'Tis 
 not the first time she has mistaken respect for love, 
 and made Sir Paul jealous of the civility of an un- 
 designing person, the better to bespeak his security 
 in her unfeigned pleasures. 
 
 Ladp Touch. You censure hardly, my lord ; my 
 sister's honour is very well known. 
 
 Lord Touch. Yes, I believe I know some that 
 have been familiarly acquainted with it. This is a 
 little trick wrought by some pitiful contriver, en- 
 vious of my nephew's merit. 
 
THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 183 
 
 Lady Touch. Nay, my lord, it may be so, and 
 I hope it will be found so : but that will require 
 some time ; for In such a case as this, demonstra- 
 tion is necessary. 
 
 Lord Touch. There should have been demon- 
 stration of the contrary too, before it had been 
 believed. 
 
 Lady Touch. So I suppose there was. 
 
 Lord Touch. How .> where ? when ? 
 
 Lady Touch. That I can't tell; nay, I don't say 
 there was. I am willing to believe as favourably 
 of my nephew as I can. 
 
 Jiord Touch. I don't know that. [Half aside. 
 
 Lady Touch. How ? don't you believe that, say 
 you, my lord } 
 
 Lord Touch. No, I don't say so. — I confess I 
 am troubled to find you so cold in his defence. 
 
 Lady Touch. His defence ! bless me, would you 
 have me defend an ill thing .' 
 
 Lord Touch. You believe it then ? 
 
 Lady Touch. I ddn't know ; I am very unwilling 
 to speak my thoughts in anything that may be to my 
 cousin's disadvantage ; besides, I find, my lord, 
 you are prepared to receive an ill impression from 
 any opinion of mine which is not consenting with 
 your own ; but since I am like to be suspected in 
 the end, and 'tis a pain any longer to dissemble, I 
 own it to you ; in short, I do believe it, nay, and 
 can believe anything worse, if it were laid to his 
 charge. — Don't ask me my reasons, my lord ; .for 
 they are not fit to be told you. 
 
 Lord Touch. [Aside.'] I'm amazed, here must be 
 Eomething more than ordinary in this. — [Aloud.] 
 Not fit to be told me, madam ? you can have no 
 interests wherein I am not concerned, and conse- 
 quently the same reasons ought to be convincing 
 to me which create your satisfaction or disquiet. 
 
 Lady Touch. But those which cause my disquiet, 
 I am willing to have remote from your hearing. 
 Good my lord, don't press me. 
 
 Lord Touch. Don't oblige me to press you. 
 
 Lady Touch. Whatever it was, 'tis past j and 
 that is better to be unknown which cannot be pre- 
 vented ; therefore let me beg you to rest satisfied. 
 
 Lord Touch. When you have told me, I will. 
 
 Lady Touch. You won't. 
 
 Lord Touch. By my life, my dear, I vrilL 
 
 Lady Touch. What if you can't ? 
 
 Lord Touch. How } then I must know, nay I 
 will : no more trifling. — 1 charge you tell me ! — 
 by all our mutual peace to come ! upon your 
 duty !— 
 
 Lady Touch. Nay, my lord, you need say no 
 more, to make me lay my heart before you : but 
 don't be thus transported ; compose yourself ; it is 
 not of concern, to make you lose one minute's 
 temper. 'Tis not indeed, my dear. Nay, by this 
 kiss, you shan't be angry. O Lord, I wish I had 
 not told you anything ! — Indeed, my lord, you have 
 frighted me. Nay, look pleased, I'll tell you. 
 
 Lord Touch. Well, well. 
 
 Lady Touch. Nay, but will you be calm ?— in- 
 deed it's nothing but — 
 
 Lord Touch. But what .' 
 
 Lady Touch. But will you promise me not to be 
 angry.' — nay, you must, — not to be angry with 
 Mellefont ? — 1 dare swear he's sorry ; and were it 
 to do again, would not — 
 
 Lord Touch. Sony, for what ? death, you rack 
 me with delav ! 
 
 Lady Touch. Nay, no great mauer, only — well, 
 I have yonr promise — pho, why nothing, only your 
 nephew had a mind to amuse himself sometimes 
 with a little gallantry towards me. Nay, I can't 
 think he meant anything seriously, but methought 
 it looked oddly. 
 
 Lord Touch. Confusion and hell, what do I 
 hear! 
 
 Lady Touch. Or, maybe, he thought he was 
 not enough akin to me, upon your account, and 
 had a mind to create a nearer relation on his own ; 
 a lover, you know, my lord — ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, 
 but that's all — Now, you have it ; well, remember 
 your promise, my lord, and don't take any notice 
 of it to him. 
 
 Lord Touch. No, no, no — damnation ! 
 . Lady Touch. Nay, I swear you must not ! — A 
 little harmless mirth — only misplaced, that's all; 
 but if it were more, 'tis over now, and all's well. 
 For ray part, I have forgot it ; and so has he, I hope ; 
 for I have not heard anything from him these two 
 days. 
 
 Lord Touch. These two days ! is it so fresh ? 
 Unnatural villain! Death, I'll have him stripped 
 and turned naked out of my doors this moment, 
 and let him rot and perish, incestuous brute ! 
 
 Lady Touch. O for Heaven's sake, my lord '. 
 you'll ruin me if you take such public notice of it, 
 it will be a town-talk : consider your own and my 
 honour — nay, I told you, you would not be satisfied 
 when you knew it. 
 
 Lord Touch. Before I've done I will be satisfied. 
 Ungrateful monster, how long — 
 
 Lady Touch. Lord, I don't know ! I wish my 
 
 lips had grown together when I told you Almost 
 
 a twelvemonth. — Nay, I won't tell you any more, 
 till you are yourself. Pray, my lord, don't let the 
 company see you in this disorder. — Yet, I confess 
 I can't blame you ; for I think I was never so 
 surprised in my life. — Who would have thought my 
 nephew could have so misconstrued my kindness ? 
 But vrill you go into your closet, and recover your 
 temper .' I'll make an excuse of sudden business to 
 the company, and come to you. Pray, good dear 
 my lord, let me beg you do now : I'll come imme- 
 diately, and tell you all ; will you, my lord .' 
 
 Lord Touch. I will — I am mute with wonder. 
 
 Lady Touch. Well, but go now, here's some- 
 body coming. 
 
 Lord Touch. Well, I go. — You won't stay ? for 
 I would hear more of this. 
 
 Lady Touch. I follow instantly. — So. 
 
 SCENC II. 
 Lady Touchwood and Maskweli.. 
 
 Mask. This was a masterpiece, and did not need 
 my help ; — though I stood ready for a cue to come 
 in and confirm all, had there been occasion. 
 
 Lady Touch. Have you seen Mellefont ? 
 
 Mask. I have ; and am to meet him here about 
 this time. 
 
 Lady Touch. How does he bear his disappoint- 
 ment ? 
 
 Mask. Secure in my assistance, he seemed not 
 much afiiicted, but rather laughed at the shallow 
 artifice, which so little time must of necessity dis- 
 rover. Yet he is anorehensive of some farther 
 
184 
 
 THK DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 design of yours, and has engaged me to watch you. 
 I believe he will hardly he able to prevent your 
 plot, yet I would have you use caution and expedi- 
 tion. 
 
 Lady Touch. Expedition indeed ; for all we do, 
 must be performed in the remaining part of this 
 evening, and before the company break up ; lest 
 my lord should cool, and have an opportunity to 
 talk with him privately. — My lord must not see 
 him again. 
 
 Mask. By no means ; therefore you must aggra- 
 vate my lord's displeasure to a degree that will 
 admit of no conference with him. — What think you 
 of mentioning me ? 
 
 Lady Touch. How ? 
 
 Mask. To my lord, as having been privy to 
 Mellefout's design upon you, but still using my 
 utmost endeavours to dissuade him, though my 
 friendship and love to him has made me conceal it ; 
 yet you may say, I threatened the next time he 
 attempted anything of that kind, to discover it to 
 my lord. 
 
 La<iy Touch. To what end is this ? 
 
 Mask. It will confirm my lord's opinion of my 
 honour and honesty, and create in him a new con- 
 fidence in me, which (should this design miscarry) 
 will be necessary to the forming another plot that 
 I have in my head. — [Aside.'} To cheat you as well 
 as the rest. 
 
 Lady Touch. I'll do it — I'll tell him you hindered 
 him once from forcing me. 
 
 Mask. Excellent ! yom' ladyship has a most 
 improving fancy. You had best go to my lordj 
 keep him as long as you can in his closet, and I 
 doubt not but you will mould him to what you 
 please ; your guests are so engaged in their own 
 follies and intrigues, they'll miss neither of you. 
 
 Lady Touch. When shall we meet ? — At eight 
 this evening in my chamber ; there rejoice at our 
 success, and toy away an hour in mirth. 
 
 Mask. I will not fail. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Maskwell. 
 
 I know what she means by toying away an hour 
 well enough. Pox! 1 have lost all appetite to her ; 
 yet she's a fine woman, and I loved her once. But 
 I don't know, since I have been in a great measure 
 kept by her, the case is altered ; what was my 
 pleasure is become my duty : and I have as little 
 stomach to her now as if I were her husband. 
 Should she smoke my design upon Cynthia, I were 
 in a fine pickle. She has a damned penetrating 
 head, and knows how to interpret a coldness the 
 right way ; therefore I must dissemble ardour and 
 ecstacy, that's resolved : how easily and pleasantly 
 is that dissembled before fruition ! Pox on't ! that 
 a man can't drink without quenching his thirst. 
 Ha ! yonder comes Mellefont thoughtful.- — Let me 
 think : meet her at eight — hum — ha — by heaven, I 
 have it — if I can speak to my lord before. — 'Was it 
 my brain or Providence ? No matter which. — I 
 will deceive 'em all, and yet secure myself : 'twas 
 a lucky thought ! Well, this double-dealing is a 
 jewel. Here he comes, now for me. 
 
 [Mabkwell pretending not to see himj walks by hinif 
 and speaks, as it were, to himse^. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Maskwell and Mbllbfont. 
 
 Mask. Mercy on us ! what will the wickedness 
 of this world come to ? 
 
 Mel. How now. Jack ? what, so full of contem- 
 plation that you run over ! 
 
 Mask. I'm glad you're come, for I could not 
 contain myself any longer ; and was just going to 
 give vent to a secret, which nobody but you oughc 
 to drink down. — Your aunt's just gone from 
 hence. 
 
 Mel. And having trusted thee with the secrets 
 of her soul, thou art villanously bent to discover 
 'em all to me, ha ! 
 
 Mask. I'm afraid my frailty leans that way. — 
 But I don't know whether I can in honour discover 
 'em all. 
 
 Mel. All, all, man ; what ! you may in honour 
 betray her as far as she betrays 'herself. No tragical 
 design upon my person, I hope ? 
 
 Mask. No, but it's a comical design upon mine. 
 
 Mel. What dost thou mean ? 
 
 Mask. Listen and be dumb, we have been bar- 
 gaining about the rate of your ruin. 
 
 Mel. Like any two guardians to an orphan 
 heiress. — Well. 
 
 Mask. And, whereas pleasure is generally paid 
 with mischief, what mischief I do is to be paid with 
 pleasure. 
 
 Mel. So when you've swallowed the potion, you 
 sweeten your mouth with a plum. 
 
 Mask. You are merry, sir, but I shall probe 
 your constitution. In short, the price of your 
 banishment is to be paid with the person of — 
 
 Mel. Of Cynthia, and her fortune. — Why, you 
 forget you told me this before. 
 
 Mask. No, no. — So far you are right ; and I am, 
 as an earnest of that bargain, to have full and free 
 possession of the person of your — aunt. 
 
 Mel. Ha !— Pho, you trifle ! 
 
 Mask. By this light, I'm serious ; all raillery 
 apart — I knew 'twould stun you : this evening at 
 eight she will receive me in her bedchamber. 
 
 Mel. Hell and the devil ! is she abandoned of 
 all grace ? — why, the woman is possessed ! 
 
 Mask. Well, will you go in my stead ? 
 
 Mel. By Heaven into a hot furnace sooner I 
 
 Mask. No, you would not. — It would not be so 
 convenient as I can order matters. 
 
 Mel. What d'ye mean ? 
 
 Mask. Mean 1 not to disappoint the lady, I 
 assure you. — [Aside.'] Ha! ha! ha! how gravely 
 he looks ! — [Aloud.^ Come, come, I won't perplex 
 you. 'Tis the only thing that Providence could 
 have contrived to make me capable of serving you, 
 either to my inclination or your own necessity. 
 
 Mel. How, how, for Heaven's sake, dear Mask- 
 well? 
 
 Mask. Why thus : I'll go according to appoint- 
 ment ; you shall have notice at the critical minute 
 to come and surprise your aunt and me together ; 
 counterfeit a rage against me, and I'll make my 
 escape through the private passage from her cham- 
 ber, which I'll take care to leave open : 'twill be 
 hard if then you can't bring her to any conditions. 
 For this discovery will disarm her of all defence, 
 and leave her entirely at your mercy : nay, she 
 must ever after be in awe of you. 
 
THE DOUBLE-DEALER; 
 
 1H6 
 
 Mel. Let me adore thee, my better genius ! by 
 Heaven I think it is not in the pdwer of fate to 
 disappoint ray hopes ! — My hopes ! my certainty ! 
 
 Mask. Well, I'll meet you here within a quarter 
 of eight, and give you notice. 
 
 Mel, Good fortune ever go along "With thee 1 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 M£LLKFONT and CARBLBSa. 
 
 Cate. Mellefont, get out o' th' ,way, my lady 
 Hyant's coming, and I shall never succeed while 
 thou art in sight, — though she begins to tack about ; 
 but I made love a great while to no purpose. 
 
 Met. Why, what's the matter? she's convinced 
 that I don't care for her. 
 
 Care. I can't get an answer from her that does 
 not begin with her honour, or her virtue, her reli- 
 gion, or some such cant. Then she has told me 
 the whole history of sir Paul's nine years' court- 
 ship ; how he has lain for whole nights together 
 upon the stairs before her chamber door ; and that 
 the first favour he received frbm hfer was a piece of 
 an old scarlet petticoat for a stomacher, which 
 since the day of his marriage he has, out of a piece 
 of gallantry, converted into a ilightcap, and wears 
 it still with much solemnity on his anniversary 
 wedding-night. 
 
 Mel. That I have seen, with the ceremony 
 thereunto belonging : for on that night he creeps 
 in at the bed's feet, Uke a gulled bassa that has 
 married a relation of the Grand Signior, and that 
 night he has his arms at liberty. Did not she tell 
 you at what a distance she keeps him? He has 
 confessed to me that but at some certain times, 
 that is, 1 suppose, when she apprehends being with 
 child, he never has the privilege of using the fa- 
 miliarity of a husband with a wife. He was once 
 given to scrambling with his hands and sprawling 
 in his sleep ; and ever since she has him swaddled 
 up in blankets, and his hands and feet swathed 
 down, and so put to bed ; and there he lies with a 
 great beard, like a Russian bear upon a drift of 
 snow. You are very great with him, I wonder he 
 never told you his grievances : he will, I warrant you. 
 
 Care. Excessively foolish 1 — But that which 
 gives me most hopes of her is her telling me of the 
 many temptations she has resisted. 
 
 Mel. Nay, then you have her ; for a woman's 
 bragging to a man that she has overcome tempta- 
 tions, is an argument that they were weakly offered, 
 and a challenge to him to engage her more irresist- 
 ibly. 'Tis only an enhancing the price of the 
 commodity by telling you how many customers 
 have underbid her. 
 
 Care. Nay, I don't despair : but still she has a 
 grudging to you. I talked to her t'other night at 
 my lord Froth's masquerade, when I'm satisfied 
 she knew me, and I had no reason to complain of 
 my reception ; but I find women are not the same 
 barefaced and in masks ; and a vizor disguises 
 their inclinations as much as their faces. 
 
 Mel. 'Tis a mistake, for women may most pro- 
 perly be said to be unmasked when they wear 
 vizors ; for that secures them from blushing, and 
 being out of countenance ; and next to being in the 
 dark, or alone, they are most truly themselves in 
 a vizor-mask. — Here they come, I'U leave you. — 
 
 Ply her close, and by-and-by clap a billet-doux into 
 her hand ; for a woman never thinks a man truly 
 in love witii her till he has been fool enough to 
 think of her out of her sight, and to lose so much 
 time as to write to hen 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Careless, Sir PauL and Lady Pi-vANT. 
 
 Sir PauL Shan't we disturb your meditation, 
 Mr. Careless ? you would be private ? 
 
 Care. You bring that along with you, sir Paul, 
 that sshall be aiways welcome to my privacy. 
 
 Sir Paul. O sweet sir, you load your humble 
 servants, both me and my wife, with continual 
 favours. 
 
 Lady Ply. Sir Paul, what a phrase was there ! 
 Yc?a will be making answers, and taking that upon 
 you which ought to lie upon me ! — That you should 
 have so httle breeding to think Mr. Careless did 
 not apply himself to me ! Pray what have you to 
 entertain anybody's privacy ? I swear, and declare 
 in the face of the world, I'm ready to blush for 
 your ignorance I 
 
 Sir Paul. [Aside ioLadyPtYANT.] I acquiesce, 
 my lady ; but don't snub so loud. 
 
 Lady Ply. Mr. Careless, if a person that is 
 wholly iUiterate might be supposed to be capable 
 of being qualified to make a suitable return to those 
 obhgations which you are pleased to confer upon 
 one that is wholly incapable of being qualified in 
 all those circumstances^ I'm sure I should rather 
 attempt it than anything in the world ; [Curtsies.^ 
 for I'm sure there's nothing in the world that I 
 would rather. \^Curtsies.'\ But I know Mr. Careless 
 is so great a critic and so fine a gentleman, that it 
 is impossible for me — 
 
 Care. O heavens^ madam, you confound me ! 
 
 Sir Paul. Gadsbud, she's a fine persou. 
 
 Lady Ply. O Lord, sir, pardon me, we women 
 have not those advantages. I know my own im- 
 perfections. — But at the same time you must give 
 me leave to declare in the face of the world, that 
 nobody is more sensible of favours and things ; for, 
 with the reserve of my honour, I assure you, Mr. 
 Careless, I don't know anything in the world I 
 would refuse to a person so meritorious. — You'll 
 pardon my want of expression. 
 
 Care. O, your ladyship is abounding in all ex- 
 cellence, particularly that of phrase. 
 
 Lady Ply. You are so obliging, sir. 
 
 Care. Your ladyship is so charming. 
 
 Sir Paul. So, now, now ; now, my lady^ 
 
 Lady Ply. So well bred. 
 
 Care. So surprising. 
 
 Lady Ply. So well dressed, so bonne mine, so 
 eloquent, so unaffected, so easy, so free, so par- 
 ticular, so agreeable — 
 
 Sir Paul. Ay, so, so, there. 
 
 Care. O Lord, I beseech you, madam ! don't— ^ 
 
 Lady Ply. So gay, so graceful, so good teeth, 
 so fine shape, so fine limbs, so fine linen, and I 
 don't doubt but you have a very good skin, sir. 
 
 Care. For Heaven's sake, madam! — I'm quite 
 out of countenance. 
 
 Sir Paul. And my lady's quite out of breath : 
 or else you should hear — Gadsbud, you may talk 
 of my lady Froth I 
 
I8n 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DKALER. 
 
 Care. O, fy ! fy ! not to be named of a day. — 
 My lady Froth is very well in her accomplish- 
 ments ; — but it is when my lady Plyant is not 
 thon^lit of; — if that can ever be. 
 
 l,a<fy Ply. O you overcome me ! — that is so ex- 
 cessive. 
 
 Sir Paul, Nay, I swear and vow, that was 
 pretty. 
 
 Care. O, sir Paul, you are the happiest man 
 alive ! Such a lady ! that is the envy of her own 
 sex, and the admiration of ours. 
 
 Sir Paul. Your humble servant. I am, I thank 
 heaven, in a fine way of living, as 1 may say, 
 peacefully and happily, and I think need not envy 
 any of my neighbours, blessed be Providence ! — 
 Ay, truly, Mr. Careless, my lady is a great blessing, 
 a iine, discreet, well-spoken woman as you shedl 
 see, if it becomes me to say so, and we live very 
 comfortably together ; she is a little hasty some- 
 times, and so am I ; but mine's soon over, and then 
 I'm so sorry. — O Mr. Careless, if it were not for 
 one thing — 
 
 — ♦ — ■ 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 C'ARELKsa, Sir Paul, Lady Plyant, and Boy with a letter. 
 
 Lady Ply. How often have yon been told of that, 
 you jackanapes I 
 
 Sir Paul. Gad so, gadsbud ! — Tim, carry it to 
 my lady ; you should have carried it to my lady 
 first. 
 
 JBop. 'Tis directed to your worship. 
 
 Sir Paul. Well, well, my lady reads all letters 
 first. — Child, do so no more ; d'ye hear, Tim P 
 
 Boy. No, and't please you. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Garrless, Sir Paul and Lady PlYant. 
 
 Sir Paul. A humour of my wife's ; you know 
 women have little fancies. — But, as I was telling 
 you, Mr. Careless, if it were not for one thing, I 
 should think myself the happiest man in the world ; 
 indeed that touches me near, very near. 
 
 Care. What can that be, sir Paul ? 
 
 Sir Paul. Why, I have, I thank heaven, a 
 very plentiful fortune, a good estate in- the coim- 
 try, some houses in town, and some money, a 
 pretty tolerable personal estate ; and it is a great 
 grief to me, indeed it is, Mr. Careless, that I have 
 not a son to inherit this. — 'Tis true, I have a 
 daughter, and a fine dutiful child she is, though I 
 say it, blessed be Providence ! I may say ; for 
 indeed, Mr. Careless, I am mightily beholden to 
 Providence : — a poor unworthy sinner. — But if I 
 had a son, — ah, that's ray aflSiction, and my only 
 affliction I indeed I cannot refrain tears when it 
 comes in my mind. ICries. 
 
 Care. Why, methinks, that might be easily 
 remedied : — my lady is a fine, likely woman. 
 
 Sir Paul. Oh, a fine, likely woman as you shall 
 see in a summer's day ! indeed she is, Mr, Care- 
 less, in all respects. 
 
 Care. And I should not have taken you to have 
 been so old — 
 
 Sir Paul. Alas ! that's not it, Mr. Careless ; 
 ah ! that's not it ; no, no, you shoot wide of the 
 
 mark a mile ; indeed you do ; that's not it, Mr. 
 Careless ; no, no, that's not it. 
 
 Care. No ! what can be the matter then ? 
 
 Sir Paul. You'll scarcely believe me, when I 
 shall tell you. My lady is so nice— it's very strange, 
 but it's true — too true — she's so very nice, that I 
 don't believe she would touch a man for the world ; 
 — at least not above once a year. I'm sure I have 
 found it so j and, alas ! what's once a year to an 
 old man, who would do good in his generation ? 
 Indeed it's true, Mr. Careless, it breaks my heart. 
 — I am her husband, as I may say ; though far 
 unworthy of that honour, yet I am her husband ; 
 but, alas-a-day ! I have no more familiarity with 
 her person, as to that matter, than with my own 
 mother ;— no indeed. 
 
 Care. Alas-a-day, this is a lamentable story ! 
 my lady must be told on't ; she must i'faith, sir 
 Paul ; 'tis an injury to the world. 
 
 Sir Paul. Ay, would to heaven you would, Mr. 
 Careless ! you are mightily in her favour. 
 
 Care. I warrant you. — What, we must have a 
 son some way or other ! 
 
 Sir Paul. Indeed, I should be mightily bound to 
 you, if you could bring it about, Mr. Careless. 
 
 Lady Ply. Here, sir Paul, it's from your 
 steward ; here's a return of six hundred pounds ; 
 you may take fifty of it for the next half year. 
 
 [^Gives him the letter. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Careless, Sir Paul, Lady Plyant, Lord Fboth, and 
 Cynthia. 
 
 Sir Paul. How does my girl ? come hither to 
 thy father, poor lamb, thou'rt melancholic. 
 
 Lord Froth. Heaven, sir Paul, you amaze me 
 of all things in the world I — You are never pleased 
 but when we are all upon the broad grin ; all laugh 
 and no company ; ah, then 'tis such a sight to see 
 some teeth ! — Sure, you're a great admirer of my 
 lady Whifler, Mr. Sneer, and sir Laurence Loud, 
 and that gang. 
 
 Sir Paul. I vow and swear she's a very meny 
 woman, but I think she laughs a little too much. 
 
 Lord Froth. Merry ! O Lord, what a character 
 that is of a woman of quality I — You have been at 
 my lady Whifler's upon her day, madam ? 
 
 Cyn. Yes, my lord. — [Aside.^ I must humour 
 this fool. 
 
 Lord Froth. Well, and how ? hee ! what is your 
 sense of the conversation ? 
 
 Cyn. O, most ridiculous ! a perpetual consort of 
 laughing without any harmony ; for sure, my lord, 
 to laugh out of time is as disagreeable as to sing 
 out of time or out of tune. 
 
 Lord Froth. Hee ! hee ! hee I right. And then, 
 my lady Whifler is so ready j — she always comes in 
 three bars too soon. — And then, what do they laugh 
 at ? for you know langhing without a jest is as 
 impertinent ; hee ! as, as — 
 
 Cyn. As dancing without a fiddle. 
 
 Lord Froth. Just, i'faith ! that was at my 
 tongue's end. 
 
 Cyn. But that cannot be properly said of them, 
 for I think they are all in good-nature with the 
 world, and only laugh at one another; and yoc 
 must allow they have all jests in their persons, 
 though they have none in their conversation. 
 
SCENE X. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 187 
 
 Lord Froth. True, as I'm a person of honour. — 
 For heaven's sake let us sacrifice 'em to mirth a 
 little. 
 
 Enter Boy, and whispers Sir Paul. 
 
 Sir Paul. Gads so — Wife ! wife ! my lady Ply- 
 aut ! I have a word. 
 
 Lady Ply. I'm busy, sir Paul, I wonder at your 
 impertinence ! 
 
 Care. [Aside to Sir Paul.] Sir Paul, hark ye, 
 I'm reasoning the matter you know. — [Aloud.\ 
 Madam, if your ladyship please, we'll discourse of 
 this in the next room. 
 
 Sir Paul. O ho ! I wish you good success, I 
 wish you good success. — Boy, tell my lady, when 
 she lias. done I would speak with her below. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 CvNTHiA, Lord Froth, Lady Froth, and Brisk. 
 Lady Froth. Then you think that episode be- 
 tween Susan, the dairy-maid, and our coachman, 
 is not amiss ; you know I may suppose the dairy 
 in town as well as in the country. 
 
 Brisk. Incomparable, let me perish ! — ^But then 
 being an heroic poem, had not you better call him 
 a charioteer ? charioteer sounds great ; besides, 
 your ladyship's coachman having a red face, and 
 you comparing him to the sun ; and you know the 
 sun is called heaven's charioteer. 
 
 Lady Froth. Oh, infinitely better ! I am ex- 
 tremely beholden to you for the hint ; stay, we'll 
 read over those half a score lines again. [Pulls out 
 a paper. 1 Let me see here, you know what goes 
 before, — the comparison, you know. [_Reads. 
 
 For as the sun shines every day^ 
 So, of our coachman I may say — ■ 
 Brisk. I'm afraid that simile won't do in wet 
 weather ; — because you say the sun shines every 
 day. 
 
 Lady Froth. No, for the sun it won't, but it 
 will do for the coachman ; for you know there's 
 most occasion for a coach in wet weather. 
 Brisk. Right, right, that saves all. 
 Lady Froth. Then, I don't say the sun shines 
 all the day, but that he peeps now and then ; yet 
 he does shine all the day too, you know, though 
 we don't see him. 
 
 Brisk. Right, but the vulgar will never compre- 
 hend that. 
 
 Lady Froth. Well, you shall hear. — Let me 
 see. \^Reads. 
 
 For as the sun nhines every day. 
 So, of our coachman I map say, 
 He shows his drunken fiery face, 
 Just as the sun does, more or less. 
 Brisk. That's right, all's well, all's well ! — More 
 or less. 
 
 I.ady Froth. [Reads.] And when at night his 
 labour's done. 
 Then too, like heaven's charioteer the sun — 
 Ay, charioteer does better. 
 
 Into the dairy he descends. 
 And there his whipping and his driving ends; 
 There he's secure from danger of a bilk, 
 His fare is paid him, and he sets i» milk. 
 For Susan, you know, is "Thetis, and so — •" 
 
 Brisk. Incomparably well and proper, egad ! — 
 But I have one excention to make : — don't you 
 
 think bilk (I know it's good rhyme), but don't you 
 think bilk and fare too like a hackney-coachman .' 
 
 Lady Froth. I swear and vow, I am afraid so. 
 — And yet our Jehu was a hackney-coachman 
 when my lord took him. 
 
 Brisk. Was he ? I'm answered, if Jehu was a 
 hackney-coachman. — You may put that in the 
 marginal notes though, to prevent criticism. — Only 
 mark it with a small asterism, and say, Jehu was 
 formerly a hackney-coachman. 
 
 Lady Froth. I will ; you'd oblige me extremely 
 to write notes to the whole poem. 
 
 Brisk. With all my heart and soul, and proud 
 of the vast honour, let me perish ! 
 
 Lord Froth. Hee ! hee ! hee ! my dear, have you 
 done ? — won't you join with us ? we were laughing 
 at my lady Whifler and Mr. Sneer. 
 
 Lady Froth. Ay, my dear. — Were you ? O 
 filthy Mr. Sneer ! he's a nauseous figure, a most 
 fulsamic fop, foh ! — He spent two days together in 
 going about Covent-Garden, to suit the lining of 
 his coach with his complexion. 
 
 Lord Froth. O silly ! yet his aunt is as fond of 
 him, as if she had brought the ape into the world 
 herself. 
 
 Brisk. Who, my lady Toothless ! O, she's a 
 mortifying spectacle ; she's always chewing the cud 
 like an old ewe. . 
 
 Cyn. Fy, Mr. Brisk ! eringos for her cough. 
 
 Lady Froth. I have seen her take 'em half 
 chewed out of her mouth, to laugh, and then put 
 them in again — foh ! 
 
 Lord Froth. Foh ! 
 
 Lady Froth. Then she's always ready to laugh 
 when Sneer offers to speak, and sits in expectation 
 of his no jest, with her gums bare, and her mouth 
 open — 
 
 Brisk. Like an oyster at low ebb, egad — Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Cyn. [Aside."] Well, I find there are no fools 
 so inconsiderable in themselves, but they can ren- 
 der other people contemptible by exposifig their 
 infirmities. 
 
 Lady Froth. Then that t'other great strapping 
 lady — 1 can't hit of her name — the old fat fool that 
 paints so exorbitantly. 
 
 Brisk. I know whom you mean — but, dense take 
 me ! I can't hit of her name neither.— ^Paints, d'ye 
 say ? why she lays it on with a trowel. — Then she 
 has a great beard that bristles through it, and 
 makes her look as if she were plastered with lime 
 and hair, let me perish ! 
 
 Lady Froth. Oh, you made a song upon her, 
 Mr. Brisk. 
 
 Brisk. He! egad, so I did: — my lord can 
 sing it. 
 
 Cyn. O, good my lord, let's hear it. 
 
 Brisk. 'Tis not a song neither ; — it's a sort of 
 an epigram, or rather an epigrammatic sonnet ; I 
 don't know what to call it, but it's satire.^Sing 
 it, my lord. 
 
 Lord Froth sings. 
 Ancient Phillis has young graces, 
 'lis a strange thing, but a true one; 
 
 Shall 1 tell you how ? 
 She herself makes her own faees. 
 And eaeh morning wears a new one ; 
 Where's the wonder now ? 
 
 Brisk. Short, hut there's salt in't ; my way oi 
 writing;, egad ! 
 
188 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 OvNTHiA, Lord Froth, Lady Froth, Brisk, and Footmam. 
 
 fiodt/ Froth. How now ? 
 
 Foot. Your ladyship's chair is come. 
 
 Ladf/ Froth. Is nurse and the child In it ? 
 
 Foot. Yes, madam. 
 
 Lady Froth. O the dear creature ! let's go see it. 
 
 Lord Froth. I swear, my dear, you'll spoil that 
 child, with sending it to and again so often : this is 
 the seventh time the chair has gone for her to-day. 
 
 Ladi/ Froth. O la ! I Swear it's but the sixth — 
 and I han't seen her these two hours. — The poor 
 dear creature ! — I swear, my lord, you don't love 
 
 poor little Sappho Come, my dear Cynthia, Mr. 
 
 Brisk, we'll go see Sappho, though my lord won't. 
 
 Cyn. I'll wait upon yoilr ladyship. 
 
 Brisk. Pray, madam, how old is lady Sappho ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Three quarters ; but I swear she 
 has » world of wit, and can Sing a tune already. 
 
 — My lord, won't yoil go ? won't you.' what, not' 
 to see Saph ? pray, my \oii, come see little Saph. 
 I knew you could not stay. 
 
 SCENE XI f. 
 
 CVNTHFA, 
 
 'TiS not so hard to counterfeit joy in the depth of 
 affliction, as to dissetiible mirth in company of 
 fools. — Why should I call 'em fools? the world 
 thinks better of 'lem ; for these have quality and 
 educatidn, wit and fine conversation are received 
 and admired by the world ; — if not^ they like and 
 admire themselves. — And why is not that true 
 wisdom, for 'tis happiness .' and for aught I know, 
 we have misapplied the name all this while, and 
 mistaken the thing; since — 
 
 If happiness in self-content is placed, 
 
 l.'he wise are wretchedj and fools dnly bless'd. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Gallery m Lord Touchwood's 
 House, 
 
 Mellkfont and Cynthfa. 
 
 Cyn. I heard him loud as I came by the closet 
 door, and my lady with him, but she seemed to 
 moderate his passion. 
 
 Mel. Ay, hell thank her, as gentle breezes mo- 
 derate a fire : but I shall counterwork her spells, 
 and ride the witch in her own bridle. 
 
 Cyn. It's impossible ; she'll cast beyond you 
 still. — I'll lay my life it will never come to be a 
 match. 
 
 Mel. What? 
 
 Cyn. Between you and me. 
 
 Mel. Why so ? 
 
 Cyn. My mind gives me it won't — because we 
 are both willing ; we each of us strive to reach the 
 goal, and hinder one another in the race ; I swear 
 it never does well when the parties are so agreed. 
 — For when people walk hand in hand, there's nei- 
 ther overtaking nor meeting : we hunt in couples, 
 where we both pursue the same game, but forget 
 one another ; and 'tis because we are so near that 
 ■ we don't think of coming together. 
 
 Mel. Hum, 'gad I believe there's something 
 in't ; — marriage is the game that we hunt, and 
 while we think that we only have it in view, I don't 
 see but we have it in our power. 
 
 Cyn,. Within reach ; for example, give me your 
 hand ; you have looked through the wrong end of 
 the perspective all this while ; for nothing has been 
 between us but our fears. 
 
 Mel. I don't know why v«e should not steal out 
 of the house this very moment, and marry one 
 another, without consideration, or the fear of 
 repentance. Pox o' fortune, portion, settlements, 
 and jointures 1 
 
 Cyn. Ay, ay, what have we to do with 'em .' — 
 you know we ruirry for love. 
 
 Mel. Love, love^ downright, very villanous love. 
 
 Cyn. And he that can't live upon love deserves 
 to die in a ditch. Here, then, 1 give you my 
 promise, in spite of duty, any temptation of wealth, 
 your inconstancy, or my own inclination to 
 change — 
 
 Mel. To run most wilfully and unreasonably 
 away with me this moment, and be married. 
 
 Cyn. Hold ! — never to marry anybody else. 
 
 Mel. That's but a kind of negative consent. — 
 Why, you won't balk the frolic ? 
 
 Cyn. If you had not been so assured of your 
 own conduct I would not j — but 'tis but reasonable 
 that since I consent to like a man without the vile 
 consideration of money, he should give me a very 
 evident demonstration of his wit ; therefore let me 
 see you undermine my lady Touchwood, as you 
 boasted, and force her to give her consent, and 
 then — 
 
 Mel. I'll do't. 
 
 Cyn. And I'll do't. 
 
 Mel. This very next ensuing hour of eight 
 o'clock is the last minute of her reign, unless the 
 devil assist her in propria persona. 
 
 Cyn. Well, if the devil should assist her, and 
 your plot miscarry ? 
 
 Mel. Ay, what am I to trust to then .' 
 
 Cyn. Why, if you give me very clear demon- 
 stration that it was the devil, I'll allow for irre- 
 sistible odds. But if I find it to be only chance, 
 or destiny, or unlucky stars, or anything but the 
 very devil, I am inexorable ; only still I'll keep my 
 word, and live a maid for your sake. 
 
 Mel. And you won't die one for your own ; so 
 still there's hope. 
 
 Cyn. Here's my mother-in-law, and your friend 
 Careless j I would not have 'em see us together 
 yet. 
 
THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 189 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Carkless and Lady Plyant. 
 
 Lady Fly. I swear, Mr. Careless, you are very 
 
 alluriDg, and say so many fine things, and nothing 
 is so moving to me as a fin.e thing. Well, I must 
 do you this justice, and declare in the face of the 
 world, never anybody gained so far upou me as 
 yourself; with blushes I must owu it, you have 
 shaken, as I may say, the very foundation of my 
 honour. — Well, sure if I escape your importunities, 
 I shall value myself as long as I live; I swear. 
 
 Care. And despise me. [Sighing. 
 
 Lady Ply. The last of any man in the world, by 
 my purity ! now you make me swear. — O gratitude 
 forbid, that I should ever be wanting in a respect- 
 ful acknowledgment of an entire resignation of all 
 my best wishes, for the person and parts of so 
 accomplished a person, whose merit challenges 
 much more, I'm sure, than my illiterate praises 
 can description — 
 
 Care. \_Jn a whining tone,'] Ah Heavens, ma- 
 dam, you ruin me with kindness ! — 
 
 Your charming tongue pursues the victory of 
 your eyes. 
 
 While at your feet your poor adorei dies. 
 
 Lady Ply. Ah, very fine ! 
 
 Care. [Siill whining.'] Ah ! why are you so 
 fair, so bewitching fair ? O let me grow to the 
 ground here, and feast upon that hand ! O let me 
 press it to my heart, my trembling heart '. the 
 nimble movement shall instruct your pulse, and 
 teach it to alarm desire. — [Aside.] Zoons ! I'm 
 almost at the end of my cant if she does not yield 
 quickly. * 
 
 Lady Ply. O that's so passionate and fine I 
 cannot hear it : — I am not safe if I stay, and must 
 leave you. 
 
 Care. And must you leave me ! rather let me 
 languish out a wi'etched life, and breathe my soul 
 beneath your feet ! — [Aside.] I must say the same 
 thing over again, and can't help it. 
 
 Lady Ply. 1 swear I'm ready to languish too. — 
 O my honour J whither is it going ? I protest you 
 have given me the palpitation of the heart. 
 
 Care, Can you be so cruel ? 
 
 Lady Ply. O rise, I beseech you ! say no more 
 till you rise. — Why did you kneel so long ? I 
 swear I was so transported I did not see it. — Well, 
 to show you how far you have gained upon me, I 
 assure you, if sir Paul should die, of all mankind 
 there's none I'd sooner make my second choice. 
 
 Care. O Heaven! I can't outlive this night 
 without your favour ! — 1 feel my spirits faint, a 
 general dampness overspreads my face, a cold 
 deadly dew already vents through all my pores, 
 and will to-morrow wash me for ever from your 
 sight, and drown me in my tomb. 
 
 Lady Ply. O you have conquered, sweet, melt- 
 ing, moving sir, you have conquered !— What heart 
 of marble can refrain to weep, and yield to such 
 sad sayings ! ICries. 
 
 Care. I thank Heaven they are the saddest 
 that I ever said. — Oh 1 — [Aside.] I shall never 
 contain laughter. 
 
 Lady Ply. Oh, I yield myself all up to your 
 uncontrollable embraces ! — Say, thou dear, dying 
 man, when, where, and how.^ — Ah, there's sir 
 Paul! 
 
 Care. 'Slife, yonder's sir Patil; but if he were 
 not come, I'm ^o transported 1 cannot speak. — 
 This note will inform you. [Gz'we* her a note- 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Lady Plyant, Sir Paul, and Cynthia. 
 
 Sir Paul. Thou art my tender lambkin, and 
 shalt do what thou wilt. — But endeavour to forget 
 this Mellefont. 
 
 Cyn. I would obey you to my power, sir ; but if 
 I have not him, I have sworn never to marry. 
 
 Sir Paul. Never to marry ! Heavens forbid 1 
 must I neither have sons nor grandsons ? must the 
 family of the Plyants be utterly extinct for want of 
 issue male ? Oh, impiety ! But did you swear ? 
 did that sweet creature swear ? ha ! how durst you 
 swear without my consent ; ah, gadsbud, who 
 am I ? 
 
 Cyu. Pray, don't be angry, sir ; when I swore, 
 I had your consent ; and therefore I swore. 
 
 Sir Paul. Why, then, the revoking my consent 
 does annul, or make of non-effect, your oath ; so 
 you may unswear it again ; — the law will allow it. 
 
 Cyn. Ay, but my conscience never will. 
 
 Sir Paul. Gadsbud, no matter for that, con- 
 science and law never go together, you must not 
 expect that. 
 
 Cady Ply. Ay, but sir Paul, I conceive if she 
 has sworn, d'ye mark me, if she has once sworn, 
 it is most unchristian, inhuman, and obscene, that 
 she should break it. — [Aside.] I'll make up 
 the match again, because Mr. Careless said it would 
 oblige him. 
 
 Sir Paul. Does your ladyship conceive so ? — 
 Why, I was of that opinion once too. — Nay, if 
 your ladyship, conceive so, I'm of that opinion 
 again ; but I can neither find my lord nor my lady, 
 to know what they intend. 
 
 Lady Ply. I'm satisfied that my cousin Melle- 
 font has been much wronged. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside.] I'm amazed to find her of our 
 side, for I'm sure she loved him. 
 
 Lady Ply. I know my lady Touchwood has no 
 kindness for him ; and besides I have been informed 
 by Mr. Careless, that Mellefont had never any- 
 thing more than a profound respect. — That he has 
 owned himself to be my admirer, 'tis true ; but he 
 was never so presumptuous to entertain any dis- 
 honourable notions of things ; so that if this be 
 made plain, I don't see how my daughter can in 
 conscience or honour, or anything in the world — 
 
 Sir Paul. Indeed if this be made plain, as my 
 lady your mother says, child — 
 
 Lady Ply. Plain ! I was informed of it by Mr. 
 Careless ; — and I assure you, Mr. Careless is a 
 person — that has a most extraordinary respect and 
 honour for you, sir Paul. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside.] And for your ladyship too, I 
 believe, or else you had not changed sides so soon; 
 — now I begin to find it. 
 
 Sir Paul. I am much obliged to Mr. Careless 
 really, he is a person that I have a great value for, 
 not only for that, but because he has a great vene- 
 ration for your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Ply. O las ! no indeed, sir Paul ; 'tis upon 
 your account. 
 
 Sir Paul. No, I protest and vow, I have no title 
 
190 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 to his esteem, but in having the honour to apper- 
 tain in some measure to your ladyship, that's 
 all. 
 
 Lady Ply. O la now ! I swear and declare, it 
 shan't be so ; jou're too modest, sir Paul. 
 
 Sir Paul. It becomes me, when there is any 
 comparison made between — 
 
 Lady Ply. O fy, fy, sir Paul ! you'll put me 
 out of countenance — your very obedient and aifec 
 tionate wife ; that's all — and highly honoured in 
 that title. 
 
 Sir Paul. Gadsbud, I'm transported ! give me 
 leave to kiss your ladyship's hand. 
 
 Cyn. That my poor father should be so very 
 siljy. {Aside. 
 
 Lady Ply. My lip, indeed, sir Paul, I swear 
 you shall. [JTe kisses her, and bows very low. 
 
 Sir Paul. I humbly thank your ladyship 
 
 [Astde.l I don't know whether I fly on ground, 
 or walk in air. — Gadsbud ! she was never thus 
 before. — Well, I must own myself the most be- 
 holden to Mr. Careless. — As sure as can be this is 
 all his doing — something that he has said — well, 
 'tis a rare thing to have an ingenious friend. — 
 [Almid.'] Well, your ladyship is of opinion that 
 the match may go forward ? 
 
 Lady Ply. By all means ; Mr. Careless has 
 satisfied me of the matter. 
 
 Sir Paul. Well, why then, lamb, you may keep 
 your oath, but have a care of making rash vows ; 
 come hither to me, and kiss papa. 
 
 Lady Ply. [^Aside.'] I swear and declare, I'm 
 in such a twitter to read Mr. Careless's letter, that 
 
 I can't forbear any longer But though I may 
 
 read all letters first by prerogative, yet I'll be sure 
 to be unsuspected this time. — [Aloud.'] Sir Paul ! 
 
 Sir Paul. Did your ladyship call ? 
 . Lady Ply. Nay, not to interrupt you, my dear 
 ^only lend me your letter, which you had from 
 your steward to-day ; I would look upon the account 
 again, and maybe increase your allowance. 
 
 Sir Paul. "There it is, madam ; do you want a 
 pen apd ink ? {Bows and gives the letter. 
 
 Lady Ply. No, no, nothing else, I thank you, 
 sir Paul. — [Aside."] So, now I can read my own 
 letter under the cover of his. 
 
 Sir Paul. [ To Cynthia.] He ! and wilt thou 
 bring a grandson at nine months' end, he ! — a brave 
 ehopping boy ? I'U settle a thousand pound a 
 year upon the rogue, as soon as ever he looks me 
 in the face ; I will, gadsbud ! I'm overjoyed to 
 think I have any of my family that will bring chil- 
 dren into the world. For I would fain have some 
 resemblance of myself in my posterity, hey. Thy ? 
 Can't you contrive that affair, girl ? do, gadsbud, 
 think on thy old father, he ? make the young rogue 
 as like as you can. 
 
 Cyn. I'm glad to see you so merry, sir. 
 
 Sir Paul. Merry 1 gadsbud, I'm serious ; I'll 
 give thee five hundred pounds for every inch of 
 him that resembles me ; ah this eye, this left eye ! 
 a thousand pound for this left eye. This has done 
 execution in its time, girl ; why thou hast my leer, 
 hussy, just thy father's leer : — let it be transmitted 
 to the young rogue by the help of imagination ; 
 why 'tis the mark of our family. Thy ; our house 
 is distinguished by a languishing eye, as the house 
 
 of Austria is by a thick lip Ah 1 when I was of 
 
 your age, hussy, I would have held fifty to one I 
 could have drawn my own picture. — Gadsbud ! I 
 
 could have done — iiot so much as you neither, — 
 but — nay, don't blush — 
 
 Cyn. I don't blush, sir, for I vow I don't under- 
 stand — 
 
 Sir Paul. Pshaw ! pshaw '. you fib, you bag- 
 gage ; you do understand,, and you shall under- 
 stand. Come, don't be so nice ; gadsbud, don't 
 learn after your mother-in-law my lady here : 
 marry. Heaven forbid that you should follow her 
 example ! that would spoil all indeed. Bless us, if 
 you should take a vagary and make a rash resolu- 
 tion on your wedding night to die a maid, as she 
 did, all were mined, all my hopes lost ! — My heart 
 would break, and my estate would be left to the 
 wide world, he .' I hope you are a better Christian 
 than to think of living a nun ; he ? Answer me. 
 
 Cyn. I'm all obedience, sir, to your commands. 
 
 Lady Ply. [Aside.] O dear Mr. Careless! I 
 swear he writes charmingly, and he looks charm- 
 ingly, and he has charmed me, as much as I have 
 charmed him ; and so I'll tell him in the wardrobe 
 when 'tis dark. O crimine ! I hope sir Paul has not 
 seen both letters. — [Puts the wrong letter hastily 
 up, and gives him her own.] Sir Paul, here's your 
 letter ; to-morrow morning I'll settle accounts to 
 your advantage. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Lady Plyant, Sir Paul, Cynthia, and Brisk. 
 
 Brisk. Sir Paul, gadsbud, you're an uncivil per- 
 son, let me tell you, and all that ; and I did not 
 think it had been in you. ^ 
 
 Sir Paul. O la ! what's the matter now ? I 
 hope you are not angry, Mr. Brisk. 
 
 Brisk. Dense take me, I believe you intend to 
 marry your daughter yourself! you're always 
 brooding over her like an old hen, as if she were 
 not well hatched, egad, he ? 
 
 Sir Paul. Good, strange ! Mr. Brisk is such a 
 merry facetious person, he ! he ! he ! — No, no, I 
 have done with her, I have done with her now. 
 
 Brisk. The fiddlers have stayed this hour in the 
 hall, and my lord Froth wants a partner, we can 
 never begin without her. 
 
 Sir Paul. Go, go, child, go, get you gone and 
 dance and be merry, I'U come and look at you by 
 and by. — Where's my son Mellefont ? 
 
 Lady Ply. I'll send him to them, 1 know where 
 he is, 
 
 Brisk. Sir Paul, wiU you send Careless into the 
 hall if you meet him ? 
 
 Sir Paul. I will, I will ; I'll go and look for him 
 on purpose. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Brisk, 
 
 So, now they are all gone, and I have an opportu- 
 nity to practise. — All ! my dear lady Froth ! she's 
 a most engaging creature, if she were not so fond 
 of that damned coxcombly lord of hers ; and yet I 
 am forced to allow him wit too, to keep in with 
 him. — No matter, she's a woman of parts, and 
 egad parts will carry her. She said she would fol- 
 low me into the gallery. — Now to make my ap- 
 
SrKNB IX. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 J.U 
 
 preaches. — Hem, hem ! — [jBotos.] Ah, madam ! — 
 — Pox on't, why should I disparage my parts by 
 thinking what to say .' None but dull rogues think j 
 witty men, like rich fellows, are always ready for 
 all expenses ; while your blockheads, like poor 
 needy scoundrels, are forced to examine their stock, 
 and forecast the charges of the day.— Here she 
 comes, I'll seem not to see her, and try to win her 
 with a new airy invention of my own, hem ! 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Briss and Lady Fhotu. 
 
 Brisk. {Walks about, singing.'] I'm sick with 
 love, — ha ! ha I ha I — prithee come cure me. 
 Vm sick with, tSj^c. 
 
 ye powers ! O my lady Froth ! my lady Froth ! 
 my lady Froth ! Helgho ! Break heart ! Gods, 
 
 1 thank you ! ^Stands musing with his arms across. 
 
 Lady Froth. O heavens, Mr. Brisk ! what's 
 the matter ? 
 
 Brisk. My lady Froth ! your ladyship's most 
 humble servant. — The matter, madam ? nothing, 
 madam, nothing at all egad. I was fallen into the 
 most agreeable amusement in the whole province 
 of contemplation : that's all. — [Aside-I I'll seem 
 to conceal my passion, and that will look like 
 respect. 
 
 Lady Froth. Bless me ! why did you call out 
 upon me so loud .'' 
 
 Brisk. O Lord, I, madam ? 1 beseech your 
 ladyship — when ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Just now as I came in : bless me ! 
 why don't you know it ? 
 
 Brisk. Not I, let me perish! — But did I.' 
 Strange I I confess your ladyship was in my 
 thoughts ; and I was in a sort of dream that did in 
 a manner present a very pleasing object to my ima- 
 gination, but — but did I indeed ? — To see how love 
 and murder will out ! But did 1 really name my 
 lady Froth ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Three times aloud, as I love let- 
 ters ! — But did you talk of love ? O Parnassus ! 
 who would have thought Mr. Brisk could have been 
 in love, ha ! ha ! ha ! O heavens, I thought you 
 could have no mistress but the nine Muses. 
 
 Brisk. No more I have, egad, for I adore 'em 
 all in your ladyship. — Let me perish, I don't 
 know whether to be splenetic or airy upon't ; the 
 deuse take me if I can tell whether I am glad or 
 sorry that your ladyship has made the discovery. 
 
 Ladii Froth. O be merry by all means. — Prince 
 Volscius in love ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Brisk. O barbarous, to turn me into ridicule ! 
 Yet, ha ! ha ! ha ! — the deuse take me, I can't 
 help laughing myself, ha 1 ha ! ha ! — ^yet by hea- 
 vens ! I have a violent passion for your ladyship, 
 seriously. 
 
 Lady Froth. Seriously .' ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Brisk. Seriously, ha ! ha ! ha ! Gad I have, 
 for all I laugh. 
 
 Lady Froth. Ha ! ha ! ha !— What d'ye think 
 I laugh at ? ha ! ha I ha 1 
 
 Brisk. Me, egad, ha! ha ! 
 
 Lady Froth. No, the deuse take me if I don't 
 laugh at myself; for hang me ! if I have not a 
 violent passion for Mr. Brisk, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Brisk. Seriously ? 
 
 La'iif Froth. Seriously, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Brisk. That's well enough ; let me perish, ha ! 
 ha I ha ! O miraculous ! what a happy discovery ; 
 ah, my dear charming lady Froth ! 
 
 Lady Froth. O my adored Mr. Brisk ! {.Embrace. 
 
 SCENE VI r. 
 
 Brisk, Lady Froth, and Lord Froth. 
 
 Lord Froth. The company are all ready. — 
 {Aside.~\ How now ! 
 
 Brisk. [Aside to Lady Froth.] Zoons, ma- 
 dam, there's my lord ! 
 
 Lady Froth. [Aside to Brisk.] Take no notice 
 — but observe me — [Aloud."] Now cast off, and 
 meet me at the lower end of the room, and then 
 join hands again; I could teach my lord this 
 dance purely, but I vow, Mr. Brisk, I Can't tell 
 how to come so near any other man. — {They pre • 
 tend to practise part of a country dance.'] Oh, 
 here's my lord, now you shall see me do it with him. 
 
 Lord Froth. Oh, I see there's no harm yet: — 
 but I don't like this familiarity. {Aside. 
 
 Lady Froth. Shall you and I do our close dance, 
 to show Mr. Brisk ? 
 
 Lord Froth. No, my dear, do it with him. 
 
 Lady Froth. I'll do it with him, my lord, when 
 you are out of the way. 
 
 Brisk. [Aside.] That's good, egad, that's good ! 
 deuse take me, I can hardly hold laughing in his face ! 
 
 Lord Froth. Any other time, my dear, or we'll 
 dance it below. 
 
 Lady Froth. With all my heart. 
 
 Brisk. Come, my lord, I'll wait on you — 
 [Aside to Lady Froth] My charming witty angel ! 
 
 Lady Froth. [Aside to Brisk.] We shall 
 have whispering time enough, you know, since we 
 are partners. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Lady Plyant, and Careless. 
 
 Lady Phi. O Mr. Careless ! Mr. Careless! I'm 
 ruined ! I'm undone ! 
 
 Care. What's the matter, madam ? 
 
 Lady Plit. O the unlackiest accident! I'm 
 afraid I shau' t live to tell it you. 
 
 Care. Heaven forbid ! what is it ? 
 
 Lady Ply. I'm in such a fright ! the strangest 
 quandary and preraunire I I'm all over in a uni- 
 versal agitation, I dare swear every circumstance 
 of me trembles. — O your letter, your letter ! — by 
 an unfortunate mistake, I have given Sir Paul 
 your letter instead of his own. 
 
 Care. That was unlucky. 
 
 Lady Ply. O yonder he comes reading of it! 
 for heaven's sake step in here and advise me 
 quickly oefore he sees ! 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Sir Paui. with a Utter. 
 Sir Paul. O providence ! what a conspiracy 
 have I discovered 1 — But let me see to make an 
 
102 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 ACT IT. 
 
 end on't. — [Reads,"] Hum — After supper in the 
 wardrobe by the gallery, if sir Paul should sur- 
 prise us, I have a commission from him to treat 
 with you about the very matter of fact. Matter 
 of fact ! very pretty ; it seems then I am conducing 
 to my own cuckoldom ; why this is the very trai- 
 torous position of taking up arms by my authority, 
 against my person. Well, let me see — Till theni 
 languish in expectation of my adored charmer. — 
 Dying Ned Careless. Gad.sbud, would that 
 were matter of fact too ! Die and be damned ! 
 for a Judas Maccabeus, and Iscariot both ! O 
 friendship ! what art thou but a name ! Hence- 
 forward let no man make a friend that would not 
 be a cuckold ! for whomsoever he receives into his 
 bosom, will find the way to his bed, and there 
 return his caresses with interest to his wife. Have 
 I for this been pinioned night afcer night for three 
 years past ? have 1 been swathed in blankets till I 
 have been even deprived of motion ? have I ap- 
 proached the marriage-bed with reverence as to a 
 sacred shrine, and denied myself the enjoyment of 
 lawful domestic pleasures to preserve its purity, 
 and must I now find it polluted by foreign iniquity ? 
 O my lady Plyant, you were chaste as ice, but you 
 are melted now, and false as water !— But Provi- 
 dence has been constant to me in discovering this 
 conspiracy ; still I am beholden to Providence j if 
 it were not for Providence, sure, poor sir Paul, thy 
 heart would break. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Sir PAUL-and Lady Pi-yant, 
 
 Lady Ply. So, sir, I see you have read the 
 letter. — Well now, sir Paul, what do you think of 
 your friend Careless ? has he been treacherous, or 
 did you give his insolence a licence to make trial of 
 your wife's suspected virtue ? D'ye see here .' 
 [Snatches the letter as in anger.] Look, read it ? 
 Gads my life, if I thought it were so, I would this 
 moment renounce all communication with you ! 
 Ungrateful monster ! he ? is it so .' ay, I see it, a 
 plot upon my honour; your guilty cheeks confess 
 it. Oh where shall wronged virtue fly for repara- 
 tion ! I'll be divorced this instant ! 
 
 Sir Paul. Gadsbud ! what shall I say ? this is 
 the strangest surprise ! Why I don't know any- 
 thing at all, nor I don't know whether there be 
 anything at all in the world or no. 
 
 Lady Ply. I thought I should try you, false 
 man ! I that never dissembled in my life, yet to 
 make trial of you, pretended to like that monster 
 of iniquity, Careless, and found out that contriv- 
 ance to let you see this letter ; which now J find 
 was of your own inditing ; — I do, heathen, I do ! — 
 See my face no more, I'll be divorced presently ! 
 
 Sir Paul. O strange, what will become of me !— 
 I'm so amazed, and so overjoyed, so afraid, and so 
 sorry, — But did you give me this letter on purpose, 
 he .' did you .' 
 
 Lady Ply. Did I ! do you doubt me, Turk, 
 Saracen ? I have a cousin that's a proctor in the 
 Commons, I'll go to him instantly. 
 
 Sir Paul. Hold ! stay ! I beseech your lady- 
 ship ! I'm so overjoyed, stay, I'll confess all. 
 
 I,"dr/ ply. What will you confess, Jew ? 
 
 Sir Paul. Why now, as I hope to be saved, I 
 had no hand in this letter. — Nay hear me, I beseech 
 your ladyship : the devil take me now if he did not 
 go beyond my commission. — If I desired him to do 
 any more than speak a good word only just for 
 me ; gadsbud, only for poor sir Paul, I'm an 
 anabaptist, or a Jew, or what you please to call 
 me. , 
 
 Lady Ply. Why, is not Jiere matter of fact? 
 
 Sir Paul. Ay, but, by your own virtue and con- 
 
 tinency, that matter of fact is all his own doing 
 
 I confess I had a great desire to have some honours 
 conferred upon me, which lie all in your ladyship's 
 breast, and he being a well-spoken man, I desired 
 him to intercede for me. 
 
 Lady Ply. Did you so, presumption ! — Oh, 
 he comes ! the Tarquin comes ! I cannot bear his 
 sight. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 CAaELESs and Sir Paul. 
 
 Care. Sir Paul, I'm glad I've met with yon : 
 'gad I have said all I could, but can't prevail. — 
 Then my friendship to you has carried me a little 
 fartiier in tl:is matter — 
 
 Sir Paul. Indeed ! —Well, sir.— [Jside.] I'll 
 dissemble with him a little. 
 
 Care. Why, faith, I have in my time known 
 honest gentlemen abused by a pretended coyness in 
 their wives, and I had a mind to try my lady's 
 virtue : — and when I could not prevail for you, 
 'gad I pretended to be in love myself. — But all in 
 vain ; she would not hear a word upon that subject ; 
 then I writ a letter to her ; I don't know what 
 effects that will have, but I'll be sure to tell you 
 when I do ; though, by this light, I believe her virtue 
 is impregnable. 
 
 Sir Paul. O Providence ! Providence ! what dis- 
 coveries are here made ? why, this is. better and 
 more miraculous than the rest. 
 
 Care. What do you mean ? 
 
 Sir Paul. I can't tell you, I'm so overjoyed ; 
 come along wiLh me to ray lady, I can't contain 
 myself; come, my dear friend. 
 
 Care. So, so, so, this difficulty's over. lAside. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 Mellefont, MASKWEij.,^-(;7n drffei'ent doors. 
 
 Mel. Maskwell ! I have been looking for you 
 — 'tis within a quarter of eight. 
 
 Mask. My lady is just gone into my lord's closet, 
 you had best steal into her chamber before she 
 comes, and lie concealed there, otherwise she may 
 lock the door when we are together, and you not 
 easily get in to surprise us. 
 
 Mel. He ! you say true. 
 
 Mask, You had best make haste ; for after she 
 has made some apology to the company for her 
 own and my lord's absence all this while, she'll 
 retire to her chamber instantly. 
 
 Mel. I go this moment. Now Fortune, I defy 
 thecl 
 
SCENE XVII. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 1&5 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 Maskwell. 
 
 I confess you may be allowed to be secure in your 
 own opinion ; the appearance is very fair, but I 
 have an after game to play that shall turn the ta- 
 bles ; and here comes the man that I must manage. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 Maskwbll and Lord ToucmvooD. 
 
 Lord Touch, Maskwell, you are the man I wished 
 to meet. 
 
 Mask. I am happy to be in the way of your 
 lordship's commands. 
 
 Lord Touch. I have always found you prudent 
 and careful in anything that has concerned me or 
 my family. 
 
 Mask. I were a villain else ! — I am bound by 
 duty and gratitude, and my own inclination, to be 
 ever your lordship's servant. 
 
 1 nrd Touch. Enough — you are my friend ; I 
 know it. Yet there has been a thing in your 
 knowledge which has concerned me nearly, that 
 you have concealed from me. 
 
 Mask. My lord ! 
 
 Lord Touch. Nay, I excuse your friendship to 
 my unnatural nephew thus far ; — but 1 know you 
 have been privy to his impious designs upon my 
 wife. This evening she has told me all ; her good- 
 nature concealed it as long as was possible ; but he 
 perseveres so in villany that she has told me even 
 you were weary of dissuading him, though you 
 have once actually hindered him from forcing her. 
 
 Mask. I am sorry, my lord, I can't make you an 
 answer ; this is an occasion in which I would 
 willingly be silent. 
 
 Lord Touch. I know you would excuse him ; 
 and I know as well that you can't. 
 
 Mask. Indeed I was in hopes 't had been a 
 youthful heat that might have soon boiled over ; 
 but— 
 
 Lord Touch. Say on. 
 
 Mask. I have nothing more to say, my lord — 
 but to express my concern ; for I think his frenzy 
 increases daily. 
 
 Lord Touch. How ! give me but proof of it, 
 ocular proof, that I may justify my dealing with 
 him to the world, and share my fortunes. 
 
 Mask. O my lord ! consider that is hard ; be- 
 sides, time may work upon him : then, for me to 
 do it ! I have professed an everlasting friendship 
 to him. 
 
 Lord Touch. He is your friend, and wnat am I ? 
 
 Mask. I am answered. 
 
 Lord Touch. Fear not his displeasure ; I will 
 put you out of his and Fortune's power ; and for 
 that thou art scrupulously honest, I will secure thy 
 fidelity to liim, and give my honour never to own 
 any discovery that you shall make me. Can you 
 give me a demonstrative proof ? speak. 
 
 Mask. I wish I could not 1 — 'To be plain, my 
 lord, I intended this evening to have tried all ar- 
 guments to dissuade him from a design which I 
 suspect ; and if I had not succeeded, to have in- 
 formed your lordship of what I knew. 
 
 Lord Touch. I thank you. What is the villain's 
 purpose ? 
 
 Mask. He has owned nothing to me of late, and 
 what I mean now is only a bare suspicion of my 
 own. If your lordship will meet me a quarter of an 
 hour hence there, in that lobby by my lady's bed- 
 chamber, T shall be able to tell you more. 
 
 Lord Touch. I will. 
 
 Mask. My duty to your lordship makes me do 
 a severe piece of justice. 
 
 Lord Touch. I will be secret, and reward your 
 honesty beyond your hopes. 
 
 SCENE XV.— Lady Touchwood's Chamber. 
 
 Mellefont. 
 
 Pray heaven my aunt keep touch with her assigna- 
 tion 1 — Oh that her lord were but sweating behind 
 this hanging, with the expectation of wliat I shall 
 see !^ — Hist ! she comes. — Little does she think 
 what a mine is just ready to spring under her feet. 
 But to my post. 
 
 [^Conceals himself behind the hangings. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 
 Lady Touchwood. 
 
 'Tis eight o'clock : methinks I should have found 
 him here. Who does not prevent the hour of love 
 outstays the time ; for to be dully punctual, is too 
 slow. — [To Maskwbll, entering.] I was accu- 
 ing you of neglect. 
 
 SCENE XVII. 
 Lady Touchwood and Maskwell. 
 
 Mask. I confess you do reproach me when I see' 
 you here before me ; but 'tis fit I should be stiU 
 behind-hand, still to be more and more indebted 
 to your goodness. 
 
 Ladi/ Touch. You can excuse a fault too well, 
 not to have been to blame. — A ready answer shows 
 you were prepared. 
 
 Mask. Guilt is ever at a loss, and confusion 
 waits upon it ; when innocence and bold truth are 
 always ready for expression — 
 
 Lady Touch. Not in love ; words are the weak 
 support of cold indifference ; love has no language 
 to be heard. 
 
 Mask. Excess of joy has made me stupid I Thus 
 may my lips be ever closed. — \_Eisses her."] And 
 thus — Oh, who would not lose his speech, upon 
 condition to have joys above it? 
 
 Lady Touch. Hold, let me lock the door first. 
 \_Goes to the door. 
 
 Mask. lA.nde.'] That I believed; 'twas well I 
 left the private passage open. 
 
 Ladif Touch. So, that's safe. 
 
 Mask. And so may all your pleasures be, and 
 secret as this kiss. 
 
 Mel. [Leaping out.] .\nd may all treachery be 
 thus discovered ! 
 
 Ladi/ Touch. Ah ! iSliricks. 
 
 Mel. Villain ! ^Offers to draw 
 
 Mask. Nay, then, there's but one way. 
 
1?4 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 Lady Touchwood and Mbllbfont. 
 
 Mel. Say you so, were you provided for an 
 escape ? — Hold, madam, you have no more holes to 
 your burrow, I'll stand between you and this sally- 
 port. 
 
 Lady Touch. Thunder strike thee dead for this 
 deceit ! immediate lightning blast thee, me, and 
 the whole world ! — Oh ! I could rack myself, play 
 the vulture to my own heart, and gnaw it piece- 
 meal, for not boding to me this misfortune ! 
 
 Mel. Be patient. 
 
 Ladt/ Touch. Be damned ! 
 
 Mel. Consider I have you on the hook ; you 
 will but flounder yourself a-weary, and be never- 
 theless my prisoner. 
 
 Ladt/ Touch. I'll hold my breath and die, but 
 I'll be free. 
 
 Mel. O madam, hav« a care of dying unprepared. 
 I doubt you have some unrepented sins that may 
 hang heavy, and retard your flight. 
 
 Lady Touch. Oh, what shall I do ? say ? whither 
 shall I turn ? Has hell no remedy ? 
 
 Mel. None, hell has served you even as heaven 
 has done, left you to yourself.— You're in a kind 
 of Erasmus' paradise ; yet, if you please, you may 
 make it a purgatory ; and with a.lictte penance and 
 my absolution, all this may turn to good account. 
 
 Lody Touch. [Aside.'] Hold in, my passion ! 
 and fall, fall a little, thou swelling heart ! let me 
 have some intermission of this rage, and one 
 minute's coolness to dissemble. IShe weeps. 
 
 Mel. You have been to blame — I like those 
 tears, and hope they are of the purest kind — peni- 
 tential tears. 
 
 Lady Touch. O the scene was shifted quick be- 
 fore me ! — I had not time to think — I was surprised 
 to see a monster in the glass, and now I find 'tis 
 myself. Can you have mercy to forgive the faults I 
 have imagined, but never put in practice .' — O con- 
 sider, consider how fatal you have been to me ! you 
 have already killed the quiet of this life. The love 
 of you was the first wandering fire that e'er misled 
 my steps, and while I had only that in view, I was 
 betrayed into unthought-of ways of ruin. 
 
 Mel. May I believe this true ? 
 
 Lady Touch. O be not cruelly incredulous ! — 
 How can you doubt these streaming eyes ? Keep 
 the severest eye o'er all my future conduct j and 
 if I once relapse, let me not hope forgiveness, 
 'twill ever be in your power to ruin me. — My lord 
 shall sign to your desires ; I will myself create 
 your happiness, and Cynthia shall be this night 
 your bride. — Do but conceal my failings, and 
 forgive. 
 
 Mel. Upon such terms, I will be ever yours in 
 every honest way. 
 
 SCENE XIX. 
 
 SlASKWELL softly introduces Lord Touchwood, and retires. 
 
 Mask. I have kept my word, he's here, but I 
 must not be seen. 
 
 SCENE XX. 
 Lady Touchwood, Lord Touchwood, and Mellefont. 
 
 Lord Touch. [Aside.'] Hell and amazement ! 
 she's in tears. 
 
 Lady Touch. [Kneeling.] Eternal blessings 
 thank you ! — [Aside.] Ha ! my lord listening ! 
 O Fortune has o'erpaid me all, all ! all's my 
 own ! 
 
 Mel. Nay, 1 beseech you rise. 
 
 Lady Touch. Never, never ! I'll grow to the 
 ground, be buried quick beneath it, ere I'll be 
 consenting to so damned a sin as incest! unnatural 
 incest ! 
 
 Mel. Ha! 
 
 Lady Touch. O cruel man ! will yon not let me 
 go ? — I'll forgive all that's past — O heaven, you 
 will not ravish me ! 
 
 Mel. Daoanation ! 
 
 Lord Touch. Monster ! dog ! your life shall 
 answer this — 
 
 \_BrawSt and runs at Meli-bfont, is held by Lady 
 Touchwood. 
 
 Lady Touch. O heavens, my lord ! Hold, hold, 
 for heaven's sake ! 
 
 Mel. Confusion, my uncle ! O the damned 
 sorceress ! [_Aside 
 
 Lady Touch. Moderate your rage, good my 
 lord ! he's mad, alas, he's mad ! — Indeed he is, my 
 lord, and knows not what he does. — See, how wild 
 he looks ! 
 
 Mel. By heaven 'twere senseless not to be mad, 
 and see such witchcraft ! 
 
 Lady Touch. My lord, you hear him, he talks 
 idly. 
 
 Lord Touch. Hence from my sight, thou living 
 infamy to my name I when next I see that face I'll 
 write villain in't with my sword's point. 
 
 Mel. Now, by my soul, I will not go till I have 
 made known my wrongs ! — nay, till I have made 
 known yours, which (if possible) are greater — 
 though she has all the host of hell her ser- 
 vants. 
 
 Lady Touch. Alas, he raves ! talks very poetry ! 
 For heaven's sake, away, my lord ! he'll either 
 tempt you to extravagance, or commit some him- 
 self. 
 
 Mel. Death and furies ! will you not hear me .' 
 
 Why by heaven she laughs, grins, points to your 
 
 back ! she forks out cuckoldom with her fingers, 
 
 and you're running horn-mad after your fortune ! 
 
 lAs Lady Touchwood retires she turns tack and 
 
 smiles at him. 
 
 Lord Touch, I fear he's mad indeed : — let's send 
 Maskwell to him. 
 . Mel. Send him to her. 
 
 Lady Touch. Come, come, good my lord, my 
 heart aches so, I shall faint if I stay. 
 
 SCENE XXI. 
 
 Mellbfont. 
 
 O I could curse my stars ! fate and chance 1 all 
 causes and accidents of fortune in this life ! But 
 to what purpose ? Yet 'sdeath ! for a man to have 
 the frijit of all his industry grow full and ripe, 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 195 
 
 ready to drop into his mouth, and just when he holds 
 out his hand to gather it, to have a sudden whirl- 
 wind come, tear up tree and all, and bear away the 
 very root and foundation of his hopes ; what tem- 
 per can contain ? They talk of sending Maskwell 
 to me ; I never had more need of him — But what 
 can he do 1 Imagination cannot form a tairer and 
 
 more plausible design than this of his which has 
 miscarried. — O my precious aunt ! I shall never 
 thrive without I deal with the devil, or another 
 woman. 
 
 Women, like flames, have a destroying power, 
 Ne'er to be quench'd, 'till they themselves de- 
 vour. iBxit, 
 
 ACT V 
 
 SCENE I. — The Galhry in Lord Touchwood's 
 House. 
 
 Lady Touchwood and SIaskwell. 
 
 * 
 
 Lady Touch. Was't not lucky? 
 
 Mask. Lucky ! Fortune is your own, and 'tis 
 her interest so to be. By heaven, 1 believe you can 
 control her power ! and she fears it ; though chance 
 brought my lord, 'twas your own art that turned 
 it to advantage. 
 
 Lady Touch. 'Tis true, it might have been my 
 ruin — But yonder's my lord, I believe he's coming 
 to find you. I'll not be seen. 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 Maskwell. 
 
 So ; I durst not own my introducing my lord, 
 though" it succeeded well for her, for she would have 
 suspected a design which I should have been puz- 
 zled to excuse. My lord is thoughtful — I'll be so 
 too ; yet he shall know my thoughts ; or think he 
 does. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Maskwell and Lord Touchwood. 
 
 Mask. What have I done ? 
 
 Lord Touch. Talking to himself ! lAside. 
 
 Mash. 'Twas honest — and shall I be rewarded 
 for it ! No, 'twas honest, therefore I shan't. — 
 Nay, rather therefore I ought not ; for it rewards 
 itself. 
 
 Lord Touch. Unequalled virtue ! [_Aside. 
 
 Mask. But should it be known ! then I have lost 
 a friend. He was an ill-man, and I have gained : 
 for half myself I lent him, and that I have recalled ; 
 so I have served myself, and what is yet better, I 
 lave served a worthy lord, to whom I owe myself 
 
 Lord Touch. Excellent man ! [.Aside. 
 
 Musk. Yet I am wretched. — O there is a secret 
 burns within this breast, which should it once blaze 
 forth, would ruin all, consume my honest character, 
 and brand me with the name of villain ! 
 
 Lord Touch. Ha ! [Aside, 
 
 Mask. Why do I love ! Yet heaven and my 
 waking conscience are my witnesses, I never gave 
 one working thought a vent, which might discover 
 that I loved, nor ever must ; no, let it prey upon 
 
 my heart ; for I would rather die, than seem once, 
 barely seem dishonest — O, should it once be known 
 I love fair Cynthia, all this that I have done would 
 look like rival's malice, false friendship to my lord, 
 and base self-interest. Let me perish first, and 
 from this hour avoid all sight and speech, and, if I 
 can, all thought of that pernicious beauty. Ha ! 
 but what is my distraction doing ! I am wildly 
 talking to myself, and some ill chance might have 
 directed malicious ears this way. 
 
 [Seems to start, seeing Lord Touchwood, 
 
 Lord Touch. Start not — let guilty and dishonest 
 souls start at the revelation of their thoughts, but 
 be thou fixed as is thy virtue. 
 
 Mask. I am confounded, and beg your lordship's 
 pardon for those free discourses which I have had 
 with myself. 
 
 Lord Touch. Come, I beg your pardon that I 
 overheard you, and yet it shall not need. Honest 
 Maskwell ! thy and my good genius led me hither : 
 mine, in that I have discovered so much manly 
 virtue ; thine, in that thou shalt have due reward of 
 all thy worth. Give me thy hand — my nephew is 
 the alone remaining branch of all our ancient 
 family ; him I thus blow away, and constitute thee 
 in his room to be my heir. 
 
 Mask. Now, heaven forbid — 
 
 Lord Touch. No more — I have resolved. — The 
 writings are ready drawn, and wanted nothing but 
 to be signed, and have his name inserted : — yours 
 will fill the blank as well. — I will have no reply. — 
 Let me command this time ; for 'tis the last in 
 which I will assume authority — hereafter you shall 
 rule where I have power. 
 
 Mask. I humbly would petition — 
 
 Lord Touch. Is't for yourself? — [Maskwell 
 pauses.^ I'll hear of nought for anybody, else. 
 
 Mask, Then, witness heaven for me, this wealth 
 and honour was not of my seeking, nor would I 
 build my fortune on another's ruin : I had but one 
 desire — 
 
 Lord Touch. Thou shalt enjoy it. — If all I'm 
 worth in wealth or interest can purchase Cynthia, 
 she is thine. — I'm -sure sir Paul's consent will fol- 
 low fortune ; I'll quickly show him which way that 
 is going. 
 
 Mask. You oppress me with bounty ; my gra- 
 titude is weak, and shrinks beneath the weight, and 
 cannot rise to thank you. — What, enjoy my love ! — 
 Forgive the transports of a blessing so unexpected, 
 BO unhoped for, so unthought of ! 
 
 fjord Touch, I will confirm it, and rejoice 
 thee. n *> 
 
196 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Maskwell. 
 
 This is prosperous indeed! — ^Why, let him find 
 me out a villain, settled in possession of a fair 
 estate, and nil fruition of my love, I'll bear the 
 railings of a losing gamester. — But should he find 
 me out before ! 'tis dangerous to delay. — Let me 
 think — should my lord proceed to treat openly of 
 my marriage with Cynthia, all must be discovered, 
 and Mellefont can be no longer blinded. — It must 
 not be ; nay, should my lady know it — ay, then 
 were fine work indeed I Her fury would spare no- 
 thing, though she involved herself in ruin. No, it 
 must be by stratagem — I must deceive Mellefont 
 once more, and get my lord to consent to my pri- 
 vate management. He comes opportunely. — Now 
 will I, in my old way, discover the whole and real 
 truth of the matter to him, that he may not sus- 
 pect one word on't. 
 
 No mask like open truth to cover lies, 
 As to go naked is the best disguise. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Maskwell and Mellefont. 
 
 Mel. O Maskwell, what hopes ? I am con- 
 founded in a maze of thoughts, each leading into 
 one another, and all ending in perplexity. My 
 uncle will not see nor hear me. 
 
 Mask. No matter, sir, don't trouble your head, 
 all's in my power, 
 
 Mel. How ? for heaven's sake ? 
 
 Mask. Little do you think that your aunt has 
 kept her word ! — How the devil she wrought my 
 lord into this dotage, I know not ; but he's gone to 
 sir Paul about my marriage with Cynthia, and has 
 appointed me his heir. 
 
 Mel. The devil he has ! What's to be done ? 
 
 Mask. I have it ! — it must be by stratagem ; for 
 it's in vain to make application to him. I think 
 I have that in my head that cannot fail. — "Where's 
 Cynthia .' 
 
 Mel. In the garden. 
 
 Mask. Let us go and consult her : my life for 
 yours, I cheat my lord ! 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Lord Touchwood and Lady Touchwood. 
 
 Lady Touch. Maskwell your heir, and marry 
 Cynthia ! 
 
 Lord Touch. I cannot do too much for so much 
 merit. 
 
 Ladff Touch. But this is a thing of too great 
 moment to be so suddenly resolved. Why Cynthia ? 
 why must he be married ? Is there not reward 
 enough in raising his low fortune, but he must mix 
 his blood vrith mine, and wed my niece ? How 
 know you that my brother will consent, or she ? nay, 
 he himself perhaps may have affections otherwhere. 
 
 Lord Touch. No, I am convinced he loves her. 
 
 Lady Touch. Maskwell love Cynthia! impos- 
 sible I 
 
 Lord Touch. I tell you he confessed it to me. 
 
 Lady Touch. Confusion ! how's this ! lAside. 
 
 Lord Touch. His humility long stifled his pas- 
 sion ; and his love of Mellefont would have made 
 him still conceal it. — But by encouragement, I 
 wrung the secret from him ; and know he's no way 
 to be rewarded but in her. I '11 defer my farther 
 proceedings in it till you have considered it ; but 
 remember how we are both indebted to him. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Lady Touchwood. 
 
 Both indebted to him ! Yes, we are both indebted 
 to him, if you knew all. Villain I Oh, I am vrild 
 with this surprise of treachery ! It is impossible, it 
 cannot be !— He love Cynthia I What, have I been 
 bawd to his designs, his property only, a baiting 
 pl^e ! Now I see what made him false to Melle- 
 font. — Shame and distraction ! I cannot bear it. 
 Oh ! what woman can bear to be a property ? To 
 be kindled to a flame, only to light him to another's 
 arms ! Oh, that I were fire indeed, that I might 
 burn the vile traitor ! What shall I do ? how shall 
 I think ? I cannot think. — All my designs are lost, 
 my love unsated, my revenge unfinished, and fresh 
 cause of fury from unthought-of plagues. 
 
 SCENE VIIL 
 Lady Touchwood and Sir Paul. 
 
 iS'ir Paul. Madam ! sister ! my lady sister ! did 
 you see my lady, my wife -^ 
 
 Lady Touch. Oh, torture ! lArtde. 
 
 Sir Paul. Gadshud, I can't find her high nor 
 low ; where can she be, think you ? 
 
 Lady Touch. Where she's serving you, as all 
 your sex ought to be served ; making you a beast. 
 Don't you know that you're a fool, brother ? 
 
 Sir Paul. A fool ! he ! he ! he ! you're merry.— 
 No, no, not I, I know no such matter. 
 
 Lady Tofich. Why, then, you don't know half 
 your happiness. 
 
 Sir Paul. That's a jest with all my heart, faith 
 and troth ! — But hark ye, my lord told me some- 
 thing of a revolution of things ; I don't know what 
 to make on't. — Gadshud, I must consult my wife. 
 — He talks of disinheriting his nephew, and I don't 
 know what. — Look you, sister, I must know what 
 my girl has to trust to ; or not a syllable of a wed- 
 ding, gadsbud — to show you that 1 am not a fool. 
 
 Lady Touch. Heai- me ; consent to the breaking 
 off this marriage, and the promoting any other, 
 without consulting me, and Til renounce all blood, 
 all relation ani concern with you for ever ; — nay, 
 I'll be your enemy, and pursue you to destruction; 
 I'll tear your eyes out, and tread you under my 
 feet. 
 
 Sir Paul. Why, what's the matter now ? Good 
 Lord, what's all this for ? Pooh, here's a joke, 
 indeed ! — Why, where's my wife ? 
 
 Lady Touch. With Careless, in the close arbour ; 
 he may want you by this time, as much as you 
 want her. 
 
 Sir Paul. O, if she be with Mr. Careless, 'tis 
 well enough. 
 
SCBNl!: XII. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 197 
 
 Lady Touch. Fool ! sot ! insensible ox ! But 
 remember what I said to you, or you had better 
 eat your own horns ; by this light you had. 
 
 Tir Paul. You're a passionate woman, gadsbud ! 
 — But to say truth, all our family are choleric j I 
 ■xm the only peaceable person amongst 'em. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 MRLliEFONT, Maskwell, aud Cynthia. 
 
 Mel. I know no other way but this he has pro- 
 posed ; if you have love enough to run the venture. 
 
 Cyn. I don't know whether I have love enough 
 — ^but I find I have obstinacy enough to pursue 
 whatever 1 have once resolved j and a true female 
 courage to oppose anything that resists my will, 
 though 'twere reason itself- 
 
 Mask. That's right. — Well, I'll secure the 
 writings, and run the hazard along with you. 
 
 Cyn. But how can the coach and six horses be 
 got ready without suspicion ? 
 
 Mash. Leave it to my care ; that shall.be so far 
 from being suspected, that it shall be got ready 
 by my lord's own order. 
 
 Mel. How ? 
 
 Mask. Why, I intend to tell my lord the whole 
 matter of our contrivance, that's my way. 
 
 Mel. I dou't understand you. 
 
 Mask. Why, I'll tell my lord I laid this plot 
 with you on purpose to betray you ; and that which 
 put me upon it was the finding it impossible to gain 
 the lady any other way, but in the hopes of her 
 marrying vou. 
 
 Mel. So— 
 
 Mash. So, why so, while you're busied in mak- 
 ing yourself ready, I'll wheedle her into the coach ; 
 and instead of you, borrow my lord's chaplain, and 
 so run away with her myself. 
 
 Mel. O, I conceive you ; you'll tell him so ? 
 
 Mask. Tell him so ! ay ; why, you don't think 
 I mean to do so ? 
 
 Mel. No, no ; ha ! ha ! I dare swear thou wilt not. 
 
 Mask. Therefore, for our farther security, I 
 would have you disguised like a parson, that if my 
 lord should have curiosity to peep, he may not 
 discover yon in the coach, but think the cheat is 
 carried on as he would have it. 
 
 Mel. Excellent Maskwell ! thou wert certainly 
 meant for a statesman or a .Tesuit — but that thou 
 art too honest for one, and too pious for the other. 
 
 Mask. Well, get yourselves ready, and meet me 
 in half an hour, yonder in my lady's dressing-room ; 
 go by the back stairs, and so we may slip down 
 without being observed.— I'll send the chaplain to 
 you with his robes ; I have made him my own, and 
 ordered him to meet us to-morrow morning at St. 
 Alban's ; there we will sum up this account, to all 
 our satisfactions. 
 
 Mel. Should I begin to thank oi; praise thee, I 
 should waste the little time we have. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 CvNTHiA and Maskwrll. 
 Mask, Madam, you will be ready? 
 Cyn. I will be punctual to the minute. \Going. 
 
 Mask. Stay, I have a doubt. — Upon second 
 thoughts we had better meet in the chaplain's 
 chamber here, the corner chamber at this end of 
 the gallery : there is a back way into it, so that you 
 need not come through this door — and a pair of 
 private stairs leading down to the stables. — It will 
 be more convenient. 
 
 Cyn, I am guided by you, — but Mellefont will 
 mistake. 
 
 Mask. No, no, I'll after him immediately, and 
 tell him. 
 
 Cyn. I will not fail. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 Haskwbll. 
 
 Why, qui vult decipi decipiatur. — 'Tis no fault of 
 mine : I have told 'em, in plain terms, how easy 'tis 
 for me to cheat 'em ; and, if they will not hear the 
 serpent's hiss, they must be stung into experience, 
 and future caution. — Now to prepare my lord to 
 consent to this. — But first I must instruct my little 
 Levite ; there is no plot, public or private, that 
 can expect to prosper without one of them has c 
 finger in't : he promised me to be within at this 
 hour. — Mr. Saygrace ! Mr. Saygrace ! 
 
 \,Goes to the chamljer dooVj anti knocks. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Maskwell and Saygrace, 
 
 Say. \_Looking (yitt.'\ Sweet sir, I will but pen 
 the last line of an acrostic, and be with you in the 
 twinkling of an ejaculation, in the pronouncing of 
 an amen, or before you can — 
 
 Mask. Nay, good Mr. Saygrace, do not prolong 
 the time, by describing to me the shortness of your 
 stay ; rather, if you please, defer the finishing of 
 your wit, and let us talk about our business : it shall 
 be tithes in your way. 
 
 Say. [Enters.'\ You shall prevail: I would 
 break off in the middle of a sermon to do you a 
 pleasure. 
 
 Mask. You could not do me a greater, — except 
 — the business in hand. — Have you provided a 
 habit for Mellefont .' 
 
 Say. I have ; they are ready in my chamber, toge- 
 ther with a clean starched band and cuffs. 
 
 Mask. Good, let them be carried to him. — -Have 
 you stitched the gown sleeve, that fce may be puz- 
 zled, and waste time in putting it on ? 
 
 Say. I have ; the gown will not be indued 
 without perplexity. 
 
 Mask. Meet me in half an hour here in your 
 own chamber. When Cynthia comes let there be 
 no light, and do not speak, that slie may not dis- 
 tinguish you from Mellefont. I'll urge haste to 
 excuse your silence. 
 
 Say. You have no more commands ? 
 
 Mask. None ; your text is short. 
 
 Say. But pithy, and I will handle it with discre- 
 tion. C^■^''• 
 
 Mask. It will be the first you have so served. 
 
198 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 Lord Touchwood and Maskwelu 
 
 Lord Touch. Sure I was born to be controlled 
 Ijy those I should command : my very slaves will 
 ahortly give me rules how I shall govern them. 
 
 Mask. I dm concerned to see your lordship dis- 
 composed. 
 
 Lord Touch. Have you seen my wife lately, or 
 disobliged her ? 
 
 Mask. No, my lord. — [Aside.'] What can this 
 meaB ? 
 
 Lord Touch. Then Mellefont has urged some- 
 body to incense her. — Something she has heard 
 of you which carries her beyond the bounds of 
 patience. 
 
 Mask. [Aside.'] This I feared —[^/owd.] Did 
 not your lordship tell her of the honours you de- 
 signed me ? 
 
 Lord Touch. Yes. 
 
 Mask. 'Tis that j you know my lady has a high 
 spirit, she thinks I am unworthy. 
 
 Lord Touch. Unworthy ! 'tis an ignorant pride 
 in her to think so : — ^honesty to me is true nobility. 
 However, 'tis my will it shall be so, and that should 
 be convincing to her as much as reason. — By 
 heaven, I'U not be wife-ridden! were it possible, 
 it should be done this night. 
 
 Mask. [Aside.] By heaven he meets my wishes ! 
 — [Aloud.] Few things are impossible to willing 
 minds. 
 
 Lord Touch. Instruct me how this may be 
 done, you shall see I want no inclination. 
 
 Mask. I had laid a small design for to-morrow 
 (as love will be inventing) which I thought to com- 
 municate to your lordship ; but it may be as well 
 done to-night. 
 
 Lord Touch. Here's company. — Come this way, 
 and tell me. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 Careless and CYNxarA, 
 
 Care. Is not that he now gone out with my lord? 
 
 Cyn. Yes. 
 
 Care. By heaven, there's treachery ! — The con- 
 fusion that I saw your father in, my lady Touch- 
 wood's passion, with what imperfectly I overheard 
 between my lord and her, confirm me in my fears. 
 Where's Mellefont ? 
 
 Ct/n. Here he comes. 
 
 l: 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 Careless, Cynthia, and Mellefont. 
 
 Ct/n. Did Maskwell tell you anything of the 
 chaplain's chamber ? 
 
 Mel. No ; my dear, will you get ready ? — the 
 things are all in my chamber ; I want nothing but 
 the habit. 
 
 Care. You are betrayed, and Maskwell is the 
 villain I always thought him. 
 
 Cyn. When you were gone, he said his mind was 
 changed, and bid me meet him in the chaplain's 
 
 room, pretending immediately to follow you, and 
 give you notice. 
 
 MeL How ! 
 
 Care. There's Saygrace tripping by with a bundle 
 under his arm. — He cannot be ignorant that Mask- 
 well means to use his chamber ; let's follow and 
 examine him. * 
 
 MeL 'Tis loss of time — I cannot think him 
 false. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 Cynthia and Lord Touchwood. 
 
 Cpn. My lord musing ! lAside. 
 
 Lord Touch. [Not perceiving Cynthia.] He 
 has a quick invention, if this were suddenly de- 
 signed : — yet he says he had prepared my chaplain 
 already. 
 
 Cyn. How's this ! now I fear indeed. ZAside. 
 
 Lord Touch. Cynthia here 1 — Alone, fair cousin, 
 and melancholy ? 
 
 Cyn. Your lordship was thoughtful. 
 
 Lord Touch. My thoughts were on serious 
 business, not worth your hearing. 
 
 Cyn. Mine were on treachery concerning you, 
 and may be worth your hearing. 
 
 Lord Touch. Treachery concerning me ! pray 
 be plain. — Hark ! what noise ! 
 
 Mask. [fVithin] Will you not hear me ? 
 
 Lady Touch. [Within.] No, monster ! traitor! 
 no. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside.] My lady and Maskwell ! this 
 may be lucky. — [Aloud.] My lord, let me entreat 
 you to stand behind this screen, and listen ; per- 
 haps this chance may give you proof of what you 
 ne'er could have believed from my suspicions. 
 
 {They retire behind a screen. 
 
 SCENE XVII. 
 Lady ToucawoDD with, a dagger, and Maskwell, 
 
 Lady Touch. You want but leisure to invent 
 fresh falsehood, and soothe me to a fond belief of 
 all your fictions ; but I will stab the lie that's 
 forming in your heart, and save a sin, In pity to 
 your soul. 
 
 Mask. Strike then !— since you will have it so. 
 
 Lady Touch. Ha ! A. steady villain to the last ! 
 
 Mask. Come, why do you dally with me thus .' 
 
 Lady Touch. Thy stubborn temper shocks me, 
 and you knew it would. — This is cunning all, and 
 not courage ; no, I know thee well : but thou shalt 
 miss thy aim. 
 
 Mask. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lady Touch. Ha ! do you mock my rage ? then 
 this shall punish your fond, rash contempt! — [Goes 
 to strike.] — Again smile ! — and such a smile as 
 speaks in ambiguity ! — Ten thousand meanings 
 lurk in each corner of that various face. O ! that 
 they were written in thy heart ! that I, with this, 
 might lay thee open to ray sight I — But then 'twill 
 be too late to know. — Thou hast, thou hast found 
 the only way to turn my rage j too well thou 
 knowest my jealous soul could never bear uncer- 
 tainty. Speak then, and tell me. — Yet are yoM 
 
SCENE XX. 
 
 THE DOUBLE DEALER. 
 
 199 
 
 silent ? Oh, I am bewildered in all passions I but 
 thus my anger melts. — [ XVeeps."] — Here, take this 
 poniard, for my very spirits faint, and I want 
 strength to hold it ; thou hast disarmed my soul. 
 
 [_Oives the dagger. 
 
 Lord Touch. \_Aside.'\ Amazement shakes me — 
 where will this end ? 
 
 Mask. So, 'tis well — let your wild fury have a 
 vent ; and when you have temper, tell me. 
 
 Lady Touch. Now, now, now I am calm, and 
 can hear you. 
 
 Mask. [Aside.] Thanks, my invention ; and 
 now I have it for you. — [Aloud.] First tell me 
 what urged you to this violence ? for your passion 
 broke in such imperfect terms, that yet I am to 
 learn the cause. 
 
 Lady Touch. My lord himself surprised me 
 with the news you were to marry Cynthia : — that 
 you had owned your love to him, and his indul- 
 gence would assist you to attain your ends. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside to Lord Touchwood.] How, my 
 lord! 
 
 Lord Touch. [Aside to Cynthia.] Pray forbear 
 all resentments for a while, and let us hear the 
 rest. 
 
 Mask. I grant you in appearance all is true j I 
 seemed consenting to my lord ; nay, transported 
 with the blessing. — But could you think that I, 
 who had been happy in your loved embraces, could 
 e'er be fond of an inferior slavery. 
 
 Lord Touch. [Aside.] Ha! O poison to jny 
 ears ! what do I hear ! 
 
 Cyn. Nay, good my lord, forbear resentment, 
 let us hear it out. 
 
 Lord Touch. Yes, I will contain, though I could 
 burst. 
 
 Mask. I that had wantoned in the rich circle of 
 your world of love, could I be conlined within the 
 puny province of a girl ! No — yet though I dote 
 on ea^h last favour more than all the rest ; though 
 I would give a limb for every look you cheaply 
 throw away on any other object of your love ; yet 
 so far I prize your pleasures o'er my own, that all 
 this seeming plot that I have laid has been to 
 gratify your taste, and cheat the world, to prove a 
 faithful rogue to you. 
 
 Lady Touch. If this were true ! — but how can 
 it be .' 
 
 Mask. I have so contrived that Mellefont will 
 presently, in the chaplain's habit, wait for Cynthia 
 in your dressing-room : but I have put the change 
 upon her that she may be otherwhere employed. — 
 Do you procure her night-gown, and, with your 
 hoods tied over your face, meet him in her stead ; 
 you may go privately by the back stairs, and, un- 
 perceived, there you may propose to reinstate him 
 in his uncle's favour, if he'll comply with your 
 desires ; his case is desperate, and I believe he'll 
 yield to any conditions. — If not, here take this ; 
 you may employ it better than in the heart of one 
 who is nothing when not yours, ICfives the dopger. 
 
 Lady Touch. Thou canst deceive everybody, — 
 nay, thou hast deceived me ; but 'tis as I would 
 wish. — Trusty villain I I could worship thee ! 
 
 Mask. No m'ore. — There wants but a few minutes 
 of the time ; and Mellefont's love will carry him 
 there before his hour. 
 
 Lady Touch. I go, I fly, incomparable Mask- 
 well! 
 
 I 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 Maskwell. 
 
 So, this wasa pinch indeed ; my invention was upon 
 the rack, and made discovery of her last plot : 1 
 hope Cynthia and my chaplain will be ready, I'll 
 prepare for the expedition. 
 
 SCENE XIX. 
 Cynthia and Lord Touchwood. 
 
 Cyn. Now, my lord. 
 
 Lord Touch. Astonishment binds up my rage ! 
 Villany upon villany ! Heavens, what a long track 
 of dark deceit has this discovered ! I am confounded 
 when I look back, and want a clue to guide me 
 through the various mazes of unheard-of treachery. 
 My wife ! damnation ! my hell I 
 
 Cyn. My lord, have patience, and be sensible 
 how great our happiness is that this discov«ry was 
 not made too late. 
 
 Lord Touch. I thank you, yet it may be still 
 too late, if we don't presently prevent the execu- 
 tion of their plots. — Ha, I'll do't. Where's 
 Mellefont, my poor injured nephew ? — How shall I 
 make him ample satisfaction ? — 
 
 Cyn. I dare answer for him. 
 
 Lord Touch. I do him fresh wrong to question 
 his forgiveness ; for I know him to be all goodness. 
 — Yet my wife ! damn her ! — She'll think to meet 
 him in that dressing-room ; — was't not so ? and 
 Maskwell will expect you in the chaplain's cham- 
 ber. — For once, I'll add my plot too. — Let us 
 haste to find out, and inform my nephew ; and 
 do you quickly as you can bring all the company 
 into this gallery. — I'll expose the strumpet and 
 the villain. 
 
 SCENE XX. 
 Lord Fboth and Sir Paul. 
 
 Lord Froth. By heavens, I have slept an age '- 
 — Sir Paul, what o'clock is't ? Past eight, on my 
 conscience ! ray lady's is the most inviting couch; 
 and a slumber there is the prettiest amusement ! 
 But Where's all the company .' — 
 
 Sir Paul. The company, gadsbud, I don't 
 know, my lord, but here's the strangest revolution, 
 all turned topsy-turvy ; as I hope for Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 Lord Froth. O heavens, what's the matter? 
 Where's my wife ? 
 
 Sir Paul. All turned topsy-turvy, as sure as a 
 gun. 
 
 Lord Froth. How do you mean ? my wife ! 
 
 Sir Paul. The strangest posture of affairs ! 
 
 Lord Froth. What, my wife ^ 
 
 Sir Paul. No, no, I mean the family. — Your 
 lady's affairs may be in a very good posture ; I 
 saw her go into the garden with Mr. Brisk. 
 
 Lord Froth. How ? where ? when ? what to do? 
 
 Sir Paul. I suppose they have been laying their 
 heads together. 
 
 Lord Froth. How ? 
 
200 
 
 THB DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Sir Paul. Nay, only about poetry, 
 my lord ; making couplets. 
 Lord Froth. Couplets ! 
 Sir Paul. 0, here they come. 
 
 suppose, 
 
 SCENE XXI. 
 Lord Froth, Sir Paul, Lady Fboth, and Brisk. 
 
 Brisk. My lord, your humble servant: — sir Paul, 
 yours. — The finest night ! 
 
 Ladt/ Froth. My dear, Mr. Brisk and I have 
 been star-gazing, I don't know how long. 
 
 Sir Paul. Does it not tire your ladyship ; are 
 not you weary with looking up ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Oh, no, 1 love it violently. — My 
 dear, you're melancholy. 
 
 Lord Froth. No, my dear ; I'm but just awake. 
 
 Lady Froth. Snuff some of my spirit of harts- 
 horn. 
 
 Lord Froth. I've some of my o?pn, thank you, 
 my de^. 
 
 Lady Froth. Well, I swear, Mr. Brisk, you 
 understood astronomy like an old Egyptian. 
 
 Brisk. Not comparably to your ladyship; you 
 are the very Cynthia of the skies, and queen of 
 stars. 
 
 Lady Froth. That's because I have no light 
 but what's by reflection from you, who are the 
 sun. 
 
 Brisk. Madam, you have eclipsed me quite, let 
 me perish I — I can't answer that. 
 
 Lady Froth. No matter. — Harkee, shall you 
 and I make an almanac together ? 
 
 Brisk. With all my soul. — Your ladyship has 
 made me the man iu't already, I'm so full of the 
 wounds which you have given. 
 
 Lady Froth. O finely taken ! I swear now you 
 are even with me. O Parnassus ! you have an 
 infinite deal of wit. 
 
 .Sir Paul. So he has, gadsbud, and so has your 
 ladyship. 
 
 Lady Froth. Mr. Brisk, my coach shall set you 
 down. [.4 great shriek from the corner of the stage. 
 
 All. What's the matter ? 
 
 SCENE XXII. 
 
 Lord Froth, Sir Paul, Lady Froth, Brisk, Lady Plyaht, 
 Carjbless, and Cynthia, 
 
 Lady Pig. You tell me most surprising things ; 
 bless me, who would ever trust a man ! O my 
 heart aches for fear they should be all deceitful 
 alike. 
 
 Care. You need not fear, madam, you have 
 charms to fix inconstancy itself. 
 
 Lady Ply. O dear, you make me blush ! 
 
 Lord Froth, Come, my dear, shall we take leave 
 of my lord and lady .' 
 
 Cyn, They'll wait upon your lordship pre- 
 sently. 
 
 SCENE XXllI. 
 
 Lord Froth, Sir Paul, Lady Froth, Brisk, Lady PLVANtt 
 Careless, Cynthia ; Lady Touchwood runs out 
 affrighted. Lord Touchwood after her, disguised in a 
 parson's habit. 
 
 Lady Touch. O, I'm betrayed! — Save me! 
 help me ! 
 
 Lord Touch. Now, what evasion, strumpet ? 
 
 Lady Touch. Stand off! let me go. 
 
 Lord Touch. Go, and thy own infamy pursue 
 thee. — [Exit Lady Touchwood.]— You stare as 
 you were all amazed. — I don't wonder at it — but 
 too soon you'll know mine, and that woman's 
 shame. 
 
 SCENE XXIV. 
 
 Lord Touchwood, Lord Froth, Lady Froth, Sir Paul, 
 Lady Plyant, CyNTHiA, Brisk, Careless ; Mellekont 
 disguised in a parson's habit, and pulling in Maskweli.. 
 Servants. 
 
 Mel. Nay, by heaven, you shall be seen ! — Care- 
 less, your hand. — [To Maskwell.] Do you hold 
 down your head ? Yes, I am your chaplain ; look 
 in the face of your injured friend, thou wonder of 
 all falsehood I 
 
 Lord Touch. Are you silent, monster ? 
 
 Mel. Good heavens ! how I believed and loved 
 this man ! — Take him hence, for he's a disease to 
 my sight. 
 
 Lord Touch. Secure that manifold villain. 
 
 [Servants seixe him. 
 
 Care. Miracle of ingratitude ! 
 
 Brisk. This is aU very surprising, let me perish ! 
 
 Lady Froth. You know I told you Saturn looked 
 a little more angry than usual. 
 
 Lord Touch. We'll think of punishment at 
 leisure, but let me hasten to do justice, in reward- 
 ing virtue and wronged innocence. — Nephew, I 
 I hope I have your pardon, and Cynthia's. 
 
 Mel. We are your lordship's creatures. 
 
 Lord Touch. And be each other's comfort. — Let 
 me join your hands. — Unwearied nights and wish- 
 ing days attend you both; mutual love, lasting 
 health, and circling joys, tread round each happy 
 year of your long lives. 
 
 Let secret villany from hence be warn'd ; 
 
 Howe'er in private mischiefs are conceived, 
 
 Torture and shame attend their open birth ; 
 
 Like vipers in the womb, base treachery lies, 
 
 Still gnawing that whence first it did arise ; 
 
 No sooner born, but the vile parent dies. 
 
 {Eteunt omnea. 
 
THE DOUBLE-DEALER, 201 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MHS. MOUNTFOKD. 
 
 Could poets but foresee how plays would take, 
 Then they could tell what epilogues to make ; 
 Whether to thank or blame their audience most : 
 But that late knowledge does much hazard cost : 
 'Till dice are thrown, there's nothing won nor lost. 
 So, till the thief has stdlen, he cannot know 
 Whether he shall escape the law or no. 
 But poets run much greater hazards far, 
 Than they who stand their trials at the bar. 
 The law provides a curb for its own fury, 
 And suffers judges to direct the jury : 
 But in this court, what difference does appear ! 
 For every one's both judge and jury here ; 
 Nay, and what's worse, an executioner. 
 All have a right and title to some part. 
 Each choosing that in which he has most art. 
 The dreadful men of learning all confound. 
 Unless the fable's good, and moral sound. 
 The vizor-masks that are in pit and gallery. 
 Approve or damn the repartee and raillery. 
 The lady critics, who are better read, 
 Inquire if characters are nicely bred ; 
 If the soft things are penn'd and spoke with grace: 
 They judge of action, too, and time, and place ; 
 In which we do not doubt but they're discerning, 
 For that's a kind of assignation learning. 
 Beaux judge of dress ; the witlings judge of songs 5 
 The cuckoldom, of ancient right, to cits belongs. 
 Poor poets thus the favour are denied 
 Even to make exceptions, when they're tried. 
 'Tis hard that they must every one admit ; 
 Methinks I see some faces in the pit 
 Which must of consequence be foes to wit. 
 You who can judge, to sentence may proceed ; 
 But though he cannot write, let him be freed 
 At least from their contempt who cannot read 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 Nudua agris, nudus nummis patemis, 
 * * * a 
 
 Insanire parat certa rationo modoque.— Horat. Lib. ii. Sat. 3: 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET AND MIDDLESEX, 
 
 LOnD CHAMBERLAIN OF HIS MAJESTV'S HOUSEHOLD, AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLK OKDER OW THE GAUTER, &C. 
 
 My Lord,— a young poet is liable to the same vanity and indiscretion with a young lover ; and the great man who 
 eniiles upon one, and the fine woman who looks kindly upon t'other, are both of them in danger of having the favour 
 published with the first opportunity. 
 
 But there may be a diff'erent motive, which will a little distinguish the oflFenders. For though one should have a 
 vanity in ruining another's reputation, yet the other may only have an ambition to advance his own. And I beg leave, 
 my Lord, that I may plead the latter, both as the cause and excuse of this dedication. 
 
 Whoever is king, is also the father of his country ; and as nobody can dispute your Lordship's monarchy in poetry ; 
 so all that are concerned ought to acknowledge your universal patronage ; and it is only presuming on the privilege of 
 a loyal subject, that-I have ventured to make this my address of thanks to your Lordship ; which, at the same time, 
 includes a prayerfor your protection. 
 
 I am not ignorant of the common form of poetical dedications, which are generally made up of panegj-rics, where the 
 authors enderevour to distinguish their patrons by the shining characters they give them above other men. But that, 
 my Lord, is not my business at this time, nor is your Lordship now to be distinguished. I am contented with the 
 honour I do myself in this epistle, without the vanity of attempting to add to or explain your Lordship's character. 
 
 I confess it is not without some struggling that I beha;ve myself in this case as I ought; for it is very hard to be 
 pleased with a subject, and yet forbear it. But I choose rather to follow Pliny's precept, than his example, when in 
 his panegyric to the Emperor Trajan he says—" Nee minus considerabo quid am"es ejus pati possint, quam quid 
 virtutibus debeatur." 
 
 I hope I may be excused the pedantry of a quotation, when it is so justly applied. Here are some lines in the print 
 (and which your Lordship read before this play was acted) that wore omitted on the stage, and particularly one whole 
 scene in the third Act, which not only helps the design forward with less pi-ecipitation, but also heightens the ridiculous 
 character of Foresight, which indeed seems to be maimed without it But I found myself in great danger of a long 
 play, and was glad to help it where I could. Though notwithstanding my care, and the Irind reception it had from the 
 town, I could hcai'tily wish it yet shorter ; but the number of different chai-acters represented in it would have been too 
 much crowded in less room. 
 
 This reflection on prolixity (a fault for which scarce any one beauty will atone) warns me not to be tedious now, and 
 detain ^our Lordship any longer with the trifles of, my Lord, your Lordship's most obedient, and most humble servant, 
 
 WILL. CONGRBVE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 SiK Sampson Legrnd, Father to Valentine and Ben. 
 
 Valentine, fallen under Ms Father's displeasure hy 
 his expensive way o/Uvinpi in love with Angelica. 
 
 Scandal, his Friend, a free speaker. 
 
 Tattle, a half-witted Beau, vain af his amours, yet 
 valuing himself for secrecy. 
 
 Ben, Sir Sampson's younger Son, half home-bred, and 
 half sea-bri d, designed to marry Miss Prue. 
 
 Foresight, an illiterate old fellow, peevish and posi- 
 tive, superstitious, and pretending to understand 
 ^Astrology, Palmistry, Physiognomy, Omens, Dreams, 
 Sje. Uncle to Angelica. 
 
 Jeremy, Servnnt to Valentinb. 
 
 Trapland, a Scrivener, 
 
 Buckram, a Lawyer. 
 Snap, a Bailiff. 
 
 Angelica, Niece to Foresight, of a considerable For- 
 
 tune in her oivn haniis. 
 Mrs. Foresight, second Wife to Foresight. 
 Miis. Frail, Sister to Mrs. Foresight, a Woman of 
 
 the Town. 
 Miss Pruk, Daughter to Foresight by a former Wifi, 
 
 a silly awkward country Qirl. 
 Nurse to Miss Prue. 
 Jenny, Maid to Angelica, 
 
 Steward, Sailors, and Servants. 
 
 SCENE.— London 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 203 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN, AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW HOUSE, BY MR. BETTERTON. 
 
 The hnsbandman in vain reuuws his toil. 
 
 To cultivate each year a hungry soil ; 
 
 And fondly hopes for rich and generous fruit, 
 
 When vphat should feed the tree devours the root ; 
 
 The unladen boughs, he sees, bode certain dearth. 
 
 Unless transplanted to more kindly earth. 
 
 So, the poor husbands of the stage, who found 
 
 Their labours lost upon ungrateful ground, 
 
 This last and only remedy have proved ; 
 
 And hope new fruit from'ancieut stocks removed. 
 
 Well may they hope, when you so kindly aid, 
 
 Well plant a soil which yon so rich have made. 
 
 As Nature gave the world to man's first age. 
 
 So from your bounty "we receive this stage ; 
 
 The freedom man was born to you've restored. 
 
 And to our world such plenty you afford, 
 
 It seems like Eden, fruitful of its own accord. 
 
 But since in Paradise frail flesh gave way. 
 
 And when but two were made, both went astray ; 
 
 Forbear your wonder and the fault forgive, 
 
 If in our larger family we grieve 
 
 One falling Adam, and one tempted Eve. 
 
 We who remain would gratefully repay 
 
 What our endeavours can, and bring, this day. 
 
 The first-fruit offering of a virgin play. 
 
 We hope there's something that may please each 
 
 taste. 
 And though of homely fare we make the feast. 
 Yet you will find variety at least. 
 There's humour, which for cheerful friends we got, 
 And for the thinking party there's a plot. 
 We've something too, to gratify iU-nature, 
 (If there be any here,) and that is satire ; 
 Though satire scarce dares grin, 'tis grown so mild. 
 Or only shows its teeth as if it smiled. 
 As asses thistles, poets mumble wit. 
 And dare not bite, for fear of being bit. 
 They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools, 
 And are afraid to use their own edge-tools. 
 Since the Plain Dealer's scenes of manly r^e, 
 Not one has dared to lash this crying age. • 
 This time the poet owns the bold essay. 
 Yet hopes there's no ill-manners in his play : 
 And he declares by me, he has design'd 
 Affront to none, but frankly speaks his mind. 
 And should the ensuing scenes not chance to hit, 
 He offers but this one excuse, 'twas writ 
 Before your late encouragement of wit. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — Valentine's Lodging. 
 
 Valentjne discovered reading, Jeremy waiting : several 
 books vpon the table. 
 
 "^ Val. Jeremy ! 
 
 Jer. Sir? 
 V Val. Here, take away; I'll walk a turn, and 
 digest what I have read. 
 
 Jer. lAside.] You'll grow devilish fat upon this 
 paper diet. ITakes away the books. 
 
 Val. And d'ye hear, go you to breakfast. — 
 There's a page doubled down in Epictetus that is 
 a feast for an emperor. 
 
 Jer. Was Epictetus a real cook, or did he only 
 write receipts .'' 
 
 Val. Read, read, sirrah ! and refine your appe- 
 tite ; learn to live upon instruction ; feast your 
 mind, and mortify your flesh ; read, and take your 
 nourishment in at your eyes ; shut up your mouth, 
 and chew the cud of understanding ; so Epictetus 
 advises. 
 
 Jer. O Lord ! I have heard much of him, when 
 I waited upon a gentleman at Cambridge. Pray 
 what was that Epictetus ? a 
 
 Val. A very rich man — not worth a groat. 
 
 Jer. Humph, and so he has made a very fine 
 feast where there is nothing to be eaten ? 
 
 Val. Yes. 
 
 Jer. Sir, you're a gentleman, and probably 
 understand this fine feeding ; but if you please, I 
 had rather be at board-wages. Does your Epictetus, 
 ur your Seneca here, or any of these poor rich 
 
 rogues, teach you how to pay your debts without 
 money .' Will they shut up the mouths of your 
 creditors ? Will Plato be bail for you ? or Diogenes, 
 because he understands confinement, and lived in a 
 tub, go to prison for you ? 'Slife, sir, what do 
 you mean ? to mew yourself up here with three or 
 four musty books, in commendation of starving 
 and poverty ? 
 
 Val. Why, sirrah, I have no money, you know 
 it ; and therefore resolve to rail at all that have ; 
 and in that I but follow the examples of the wisest 
 and wittiest men in all ages ; these poets and 
 philosophers whom you naturally hate, for just 
 such another reason, because they abound in sense, 
 and you are a fool. 
 
 Jer. Ay, sir, I am a fool, 1 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 
 expenses 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 prosperity ; and keeping 
 company with wits that cared for nothing but your 
 prosperity, and now, when you are poor, hate yon 
 as much as they do one another. 
 
 Val. Well, and now I am poor I hove an oppor- 
 tunity to be revenged on 'era all ; I'll pursue 
 Angelica with more love than ever, and appear 
 more notoriously her admirer in this restraint, 
 than when I openly rivalled the rich fops that made 
 court to her ; so shall my poverty be a mortification 
 to her pride, and perhaps make her compassionate 
 
204 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 the love, which has principally reduced me to this 
 lowness of fortune. And for the wits, I'm sure I 
 am ir. a condition to be even with them. 
 
 Jer. Nay, your condition is pretty even with 
 theirs, that's the truth on't. 
 
 Val. I'll take some of their trade oat of their 
 hands. 
 
 Jer. Now heaven, of mercy, continue the tax 
 ■upon paper ! you don't mean to write ! 
 
 V(d. Yes, I do ; I'll write a play. 
 
 Jer. Hem ! — Sir, if you please to give me a 
 small certificate of three lines ; — only to certify 
 those whom it may concern, that the bearer hereof, 
 Jeremy Fetch by name, has for the space of seven 
 years, truly and faithfully served Valentine Legend, 
 Esq. ! and that he is not now turned away for any 
 misdemeanour, but does voluntarily dismiss his 
 master from any future authority over him. 
 
 Val. No, sirrahj you shall live with me still, 
 
 Jer. Sir, it's impossible : — I may die with you, 
 starve with you, or be damned with your works ; 
 but to live, even three days, the life of a play, I no 
 more expect itj than to be canonised for a Muse 
 after my decease. 
 
 Val. Yott are witty, you rogue ! I shall want 
 your help ; I'll have you learn to make icouplets, 
 to tag the ends of acts ; d'ye hear, get the maids to 
 crambo in an evening, and learn the Inack of 
 rhyming : you may arrive at the height of a song 
 sent by an unknown hand, or a chocolate-liouse 
 lampoon. 
 
 Jer. But, sir, is this the way to recover your 
 father's favour ? why, sir Sampson will be irrecon- 
 cilable. 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 
 men than the Royal Oak lottery ; — nothing thrives 
 that belongs to't. The man of the house would 
 have been an alderman by this time with half the 
 trade, if he had set up in the city. For my part, 
 I never sit at the door that I don't get double the 
 stomach that 1 do at a horse-race : — the air upon 
 Banstead downs is nothing to it for a whetter. 
 Yet I never see it, but the spirit of famine appears 
 to me, sometimes like a decayed-porter, worn out 
 with pimping, and carrying billets-doux and songs ; 
 not like otherporters forhire,but for the jest's sake : 
 — now like a thin chairman, melted down to half 
 his proportion with carrying a poet upon tick, to 
 visit some great fortune, and his fare to he paid 
 him, like the wages of sin, either at the day of 
 marriage, or the day of death. 
 
 Val. Very well, sir j can you proceed ? 
 
 Jer. Sometimes like a bilked bookseller, with a 
 meagre terrified countenance, that looks as if he 
 had written for himself, or were resolved to turn 
 author, and bring the rest of his brethren into the 
 same condition :■ — and lastly^in the form of a worn- 
 out punk, with verses in her hand, which her 
 vanity had preferred to settlements, without a 
 whole tatter to her tail, but as ragged as one of the 
 Muses ; or as if she were carrying her linen to tlie 
 paper-mill, to be converted into folio books, of 
 warning to all young maids, not to prefer poetry to 
 good sense, or lying in the arms of a needy wit, 
 before the embraces of a wealthy fool, y 
 
 SCENE IL 
 Valentine, Scandal, and Jeremv. 
 
 Sean. What, Jeremy holding forth .' 
 
 Val. The rogue has (with all the wit he could 
 muster up) been declaiming against wit. 
 
 Soan,. Ay .> why then I'm afraid Jeremy has wit : 
 forwherever it is, it's always contriving its own ruin. 
 
 Jer, Why, so I have been telling my master, sir ; 
 Mr. Scandal, for heaven's sake, sir, try if you can 
 dissuade him from turning poet. 
 
 Soan. Poet ! he shall turn soldier first, and 
 rather depend upon the outside of his head, than 
 the lining. Why, what the devil ! has not your 
 poverty made you enemies enough ? mustytiu needs 
 show your wit to get more ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, more indeed ; for who cares for any 
 body that has more wit than himself ? 
 
 Scan, Jeremy speaks like an oracle. Don't you 
 see hoi^ worthless great men, and dull rich rogues, 
 avoid a witty man of small fortune ? Why, he 
 looks like a writ of inquiry into their titles and 
 estates; and seems commissioned by heaven to 
 seize the better half. 
 
 Val. Therefore I would rail in my writings, and 
 be revenged. 
 
 Scan. Biail ? at whom ? the whole world ? Im- 
 potent and vain ! who would die a martyr to sense 
 in a country wher« the religion is folly ? you may 
 stand at bay for a while ; but when the full cry is 
 against you, you shan't have fair play for your Ufe. 
 If you can't be fairly run down by the hounds, you 
 will be treacherously shot by the huntsmen. No, 
 turn pimp, flatterer, quack, lawyer, parson, be 
 chaplain to an atheist, or stallion to an old woman, 
 anything but poet ; a modern poet is worse, more 
 servile, timorous and fawning, than any I have 
 named : without you could retrieve the ancient 
 honours of the name, recal the stage of Athens, 
 and be allowed the force of open, honest satire. 
 
 Val. You are as inveterate against our poets as 
 if your character had been lately exposed upon the 
 stage. — Nay, I am not violently bent upon the 
 trade. — {Knocking at the doorJ\ Jeremy, see who's 
 there. — \_E!eit Jeremy.] But tell me what you 
 would have me do } What does the world say of 
 me, and my forced confinement .' 
 
 Scan. The world behaves itself as it uses to do 
 on such occasions { some pity you and condemn 
 your father ; others excuse him and blame you ; 
 only the ladies are merciful, and wish you well ; 
 since love and pleasurable expense have been your 
 greatest faults. 
 
 JZe-£nf€r Jeremy. 
 
 Val. How now ? 
 
 Jer. Nothing, new, sir ; I have despatched 
 some half-a-dozen duns with as much dexterity as 
 a hungry judge does causes at dinner time. 
 
 Val. What answer have you given 'em ? 
 
 Scan. Patience, I suppose .' the old receipt. 
 
 Jer. No, faith, sir ; I have put 'em off so long 
 with patience and forbearance, and other fair words, 
 that I was forced now to tell 'em in plain down- 
 right English — 
 
 Val. What? 
 
 Jer. That they should be paid. 
 
 Val. When.' 
 
 Jer. To-morrow. 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 205 
 
 Val. And how the devil do you mean to keep 
 your word ? 
 
 Jer. Keep it ! not at all ; it has been so very 
 much stretched that I reckon it will break of course 
 by to-morrow, and nobody be surprised at the 
 
 matter [Knocking.'] Again ! — Sir, if you don't 
 
 like my negotiation, will you be pleased to answer 
 these yourself? 
 
 Val. See who they are. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Talentinb and Scandal, 
 
 Val. By this. Scandal, you may see what it is 
 to be great ; secretaries of state, presidents of the 
 council, and generals of an army, lead just such a 
 life as I do ; have just sueh crowds of visitants in 
 a morning, all soliciting of past promises ; which 
 are but a civiler sort of duns, that lay claim to 
 voluntary debts. 
 
 Scan. And you, like a true great man, having 
 engaged their attendance, and promised more than 
 ever you intend to perform, are more perplexed 
 to find evasions than you would be to invent the 
 honest means of keeping your word, and gratifying 
 your creditors. 
 
 Val. Scandal, leara to spare your friends, and 
 do not provoke your enemies : this liberty of your 
 tongue will one day bring a confinement on your 
 body, my friend. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 VAtENTiNE, Scandal, and Jeremy. 
 
 Jer. O sir, there's Trapland the scrivener, with 
 two suspicious fellows like lawful pads, that would 
 knock a man down with pocket-tipstaves ; — and 
 there's your father's steward, and the nurse with 
 one of your children from Twitnam. 
 
 Val. Pox on her ! could she find no other time 
 to fling my sins in my face? Here, give her this, 
 IGives money^ and bid her trouble me no more ; 
 — a thoughtless, two-handed whore ! she knows 
 my condition well enough, and might have over- 
 laid the child a fortnight ago, if she had had any 
 forecast in her. 
 
 Scan. What, is it bouncing Margery witi. aiy 
 godson ? 
 
 Jer. Yes, sir. 
 
 Scan. My blessing to the boy, with this token 
 of my love. — [Gives money.'] And, d'ye hear, bid 
 Margery put more flocks in her bed, shift twice 
 a-week, and not work so hard, that she may not 
 smell so vigorously. I shall take the air shortly. 
 
 Val. Scandal, don't spoil my boy's milk. — [ To 
 Jeremy.] Bid Trapland come in. [Exit Jeremy.] 
 If I can give that Cerberus a sop, I shall be at rest 
 for one day. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Valentine, Scandal, Trapland, and Jeremy. 
 Val. O Mr. Trapland, my old friend, welcome 1 
 — Jeremy, a chair quickly ; a bottle of sack and a 
 toast ! — fly — a chair first. 
 
 Trap. A good morning to you, Mr. Valentine, 
 and to you, Mr. Scandal. 
 
 Scan. The morning's a very good morning, if 
 you don't spoil it. 
 
 Val. Come sit you down, you know his way. 
 
 Trap. [Sils.] There is a debt, Mr. Valentine, 
 of fifteen hundred pounds of pretty long standing — 
 
 Val. I cannot talk about business with a thirsty 
 palate [To Jeremy.] Sirrah, the sack. 
 
 Trap. And I desire to know what course you 
 have taken for the payment ? 
 
 Val. Faith and troth, I am heartily glad to see 
 you : — my service to you. [Drinks.] Fill, flu, to 
 honest Mr. Trapland, fuller. 
 
 Trap. Hold, sweetheart ; — this is not to our busi- 
 ness. My service to you, Mr. Scandal. [Drinks.'] 
 I have forborne as long — 
 
 Val. T'other glass, and then we'll talk. — Fill, 
 Jeremy. 
 
 Trap. No more, in truth. — I have forborne, I 
 say — 
 
 Val. [ To Jeremy.] Sirrah, fill when I bid you. 
 — [ To Trapland.] Aud how does your handsome 
 daughter .' Come, a good husband to her. 
 
 [_Drinkg. 
 
 Trap. Thank you. — I have been out of this 
 money — 
 
 Val. Drink first. — Scandal, why do you not 
 drink ? [.They drink. 
 
 Trap. And in short, I can be put off no longer. 
 
 Val. I was much obliged to you for your supply: 
 it did me signal service in my necessity. But you 
 delight in doing good. — Scandal, drink to me my 
 friend Trapland's health. An honester man lives 
 not, nor one more ready to serve his friend in dis- 
 tress, though I say it to his face. Come, fill each 
 man his glass. 
 
 Scan. What, I know Trapland has been a whore- 
 master, and loves a wench still. You never knew 
 a whoremaster that was not an honest fellow. 
 
 Trap. Fy, Mr. Scandal 1 you never knew — 
 
 Scan. What, don't I know ? — I know the buxom 
 black widow in the Poultry — eight hundred pounds 
 a-year, jointure, and twenty thousand pounds in 
 money. Aha, old Trap ! 
 
 Val. Say yon so, i'faith ? come, we'll remember 
 the widow ; I know whereabouts you are ; come, 
 to the widow — 
 
 Trap. No more, indeed. 
 
 Val. What, the widow's health. — [To Je-remv.] 
 Give it him. — Off with it. [They drink.] A lovely 
 girl, i'faith, black sparkling eyes, soft pouting ruby 
 lips ; better sealing there than a bond for a mil- 
 lion, ha ! 
 
 Trap. No, no, there's no such thing, we'd 
 better mind our business ; — you're a wag. 
 
 Val. No, faith, we'll mind the widow's business ; 
 fill again. — Pretty round heaving breasts, a Barbary 
 shape, and a jut with her bum would stir an 
 anchorite, and the prettiest foot I Oh, if a man 
 could but fasten his eyes to her feet, as they steal 
 in and out, and play at bo-peep under her petti- 
 coats ! ah, Mr. Trapland ? 
 
 Trap. Verily, give me a glass — you're a wag — 
 and here's to the widow. [_Drinks, 
 
 Scan. [Aside to Valentine.] He begins to 
 chuckle ; ply him close, or he'll relapse into a 
 dun. 
 
200 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Valentine, Scandal, Jkresiy, Tbapland, and Snap. 
 
 Snap. By your leave, gentlemen Mr. Trap- 
 land, If we must do our office, tell us : we have 
 half-a-dozen gentlemen to arrest ia Pall-mall and 
 Covent-garden ; and if we don't make haste, the 
 chairmen will be abroad, and block up the choco- 
 late-bouses, and then our labour's lost. 
 
 Trap. Udso, that's true. — Mr. Valentine, I love 
 tnirth, but business must be done ; are you ready 
 to-— 
 
 Jer. Sir, your father's steward says he comes to 
 make proposals concerning your debts. 
 
 Val. Bid him come in. — Mr, Trapland, send 
 away your officer ; you shall have an answer pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Trap. Mr. Snap, stay within call. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Valentine, Scandal, Trapland, Jeremy, and Steward, 
 wlw whispers Valentine. 
 
 Sean. Here's a dog now, a traitor in his wine ; 
 — sirrah, refund the sack. — Jeremy, fetch him some 
 warm water, or I'll rip up his stomach, and go the 
 shortest way to his conscience. 
 
 Trap. Mr. Scandal, you are uncivil ; I did not 
 value your sack ; but you cannot expect it again, 
 when I have drunk it. 
 
 Scan. And how do you expect to have your 
 money again, when a gentleman has spent it ? 
 
 Val. [To Steward.] You need say no more, I 
 understand the conditions, they are very hard, but 
 my necessity is very pressing ; I agree to 'em. 
 Take Mr. Trapland with you, and let him draw 
 the writing. — Mr. Trapland, you know this man, 
 he shall satisfy you. 
 
 Trap. Sincerely, I am loath to be thus pressing, 
 but my necessity — 
 
 Val. No apology, good Mr. Scrivener, you shall 
 be paid. 
 
 Trap. I hope you ibrgive me, my business 
 requires — 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Valentine and Scandal. 
 
 Scan. He begs pardon like a hangman at an 
 execution. 
 
 Val. But I have got a reprieve. 
 
 Scan. I am surprised ; what, does youi father 
 relent ? 
 
 Val. No J he has sent me the hardest conditions 
 in the world. You have heard of a booby brother 
 of mine that was sent to sea three years ago? this 
 brother my father hears is landed ; whereupon he 
 very affectionately sends me word, if I will make a 
 deed of conveyance of my right to his estate after 
 his death to my younger brother, he will imme- 
 diately furnish me with four thousand pounds to 
 pay my debts, and make my fortune. This was 
 once proposed before, and I refused it ; but the 
 present impatience of my creditors for their money, 
 and my own impatience of confinement, and absence 
 from Angelica, force me to consent. 
 
 Scan. A very desperate demonstration of your 
 love to Angelica ; and I think she has never given 
 you any assurance of hers. 
 
 Val. You know her temper, she never gave me 
 any great reason either for hope or despair. 
 
 Scan. Women of her airy temper, as they seldom 
 think before they act, so they rarely give us any 
 light to guess at what they mean ; but you have 
 little reason to believe that a woman of this age, who 
 has had an indifference for you in your prosperity, 
 will fall in love with your ill-fortune; besides, 
 Angelica has a great fortune of her own; and 
 great fortunes either expect another great fortune, 
 or a fool. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Valentine, Scandal, and Jeremy. 
 
 Jer. More misfortune's, sir. 
 
 Val. What, another dun ? 
 
 Jer. No, sir, but Mr. Tattle is come to irait 
 upon you. 
 
 Val. Well, I can't help it ; — you must bring 
 him up ; he knows I don't go abroad. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Valentine and Scandal. 
 
 Scan. Pox on him ! I'll be gone. 
 
 VaL No, prithee stay: Tattle and you should 
 never be asunder ; you are light and shadow, and 
 show one another ; he is perfectly thy reverse 
 both in humour and understanding; and, as you 
 set up for defamation, he is a mender of reputa- 
 tions. 
 
 Scan. A mender of reputations ! ay, just as he 
 is a keeper of secrets, another virtue that he sets 
 up for in the same manner. For the rogue will 
 speak aloud in the posture of a whisper ; and deny 
 a woman's name, while he gives you the marks of 
 her person : he will forswear receiving a letter 
 from her, and at the same time show you her hand 
 in the superscription ; and yet perhaps he has 
 counterfeited the hand too, and sworn to a truth ; 
 but he hopes not to be believed ; and refuses the 
 reputation of a lady's favour, as a doctor says No 
 to a bishopric, only that it may he granted him. — 
 In short, he is a public professor of secrecy, and 
 makes proclamation that he holds private intelli- 
 gence. — He's here. .■ 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Valentine, Scandal, and Tattle. 
 
 Tat. Valentine, good morrow ; Scandal, I am 
 yours, — that is, when you speak well of me. 
 
 .Scare. That is, when I am yours ; for while I 
 am my own, or anybody's else, that will never 
 happen. 
 
 Tat. How inhuman ! 
 
 Val. Why, Tattle, you need not be much con- 
 cerned at anything that he says : for to converse 
 with Scandal, is to play at Losing Loadum ; you 
 must lose a good name to him, before you can 
 win it for yourself. 
 
SQGNE xrii. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 207 
 
 Tat. But how barbarous that is, and how unfor- 
 tunate for him, that the world should think the 
 better of any person for his calumniation ! — I 
 thank heaven, it has always been a part of my cha- 
 racter to handle the reputation of others very ten- 
 derly indeed. 
 
 Scan. Ay, such rotten reputations as you have 
 to deal with, are to be bandied tenderly indeed. 
 
 Tat. Nay, but why rotten ? why should you say 
 rotten, when you know not the persons of whom 
 you speak ? how cruel that is ! 
 
 Scan. Not know 'em .' why, thou never hadst to 
 do with anybody that did not stink to all the town. 
 
 Tat. Ha! ha! ha! nay, now you make a jest of 
 it indeed ; for there is nothing more known, than 
 that nobody knows anything of that nature of 
 me. — As 1 hope to be saved, Valentine, I never 
 exposed a woman since I knew what woman was- 
 
 Val, And yet you have conversed with several. 
 
 Tat. To be free with you, I have ; — I don't 
 care if I own that ; — nay more (I'm going to say a 
 bold word now), I never could meddle with a 
 woman that had to do with anybody else. 
 
 Sean. How ! 
 
 Vol. Nay, faith, I'm apt to believe him. — 
 Except her husband. Tattle. 
 
 Tat. Oh, that — 
 
 Scan. What think you of that noble commoner 
 Mrs. Drab ? 
 
 Tat. Pooh, I know Madam Drab has made her 
 brags in three or four places, that I said this 
 and that, and writ to her, and did I know not what ; 
 — but upon my reputation she did me wrong. — ■ 
 Well, well, that was malice : — but I know the 
 bottom of it. She was bribed to that by one 
 we all know ; — a man too — only to bring me into 
 disgrace with a certain woman of quality — 
 
 Scan. Whom we all know. 
 
 Tat. No matter for that. — Yes, yes, everybody 
 knows — no doubt on't, everybody knows my 
 secrets, — But I soon satisfied the lady of my inno- 
 cence ; for I told her — Madam, says I, there are 
 some persons who make it their business to tell 
 stones, and say this and that of one and t'other, 
 and everything in the world ; and, says I, if your 
 grace — 
 
 Sean. Grace I 
 
 Tat. O Lord ! what have I said ? my unlucky 
 tongue ! 
 
 Val. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Scan. Why, Tattle, thou hast more impudence 
 than one can in reason expect : I shall have an 
 esteem for thee. Well, and ha ! ha ! ha ! well, go 
 on : and what did you say to her grace ? 
 
 Val. I confess this is something extraordinary. 
 
 Tat. Not a word, as I hope to be saved ; an 
 arrant lapsus HngiuB. — Come, let's talk of some- 
 thing else. 
 
 Val. Well, but how did you acquit yourself ? 
 
 Tat. Pooh ! pooh ! nothing at all, I only rallied 
 with you — a woman of ordinary rank was a little 
 jealous of me, and I told her something or other, 
 faith — I know not what. — Come, let's talk of some- 
 thing else. IHums a smg. 
 
 Scan. Hang him, let him alone, he has a mind 
 we should inquire. 
 
 Tat. Valentine, I supped last night with your 
 mistress, and her uncle old Foresight ; I think 
 your father lies at Foresight's. 
 
 Vol. Yes. 
 
 Tat. Upon my soul, Angelica's a fine woman. — 
 And so is Mrs. Foresight, and her sister Mrs. 
 Frail. 
 
 Scan. Yes, Mrs. Frail is c very fine woman ; 
 we all know her. 
 
 Tat. Oh, that is not fair! 
 
 Scan. What } 
 
 Tat. To tell. 
 
 Scan. To tell what ? why, what do you know of 
 Mrs. Frail ? 
 
 Tat, Who, I ? upon honour I don't know 
 whether she be man or woman ; but, by the 
 smoothness of her chin, and roundness of her hips. 
 
 Scan. No ! 
 
 Tat. No. 
 
 Scan. She says otherwise. 
 
 Tat. Impossible ! 
 
 Scan. Yes, faith. Ask Valentine else. 
 
 Tat. Why then, as I hope to be saved,. I believe 
 a woman only obliges a man to secrecy, that she 
 may have the pleasure of telling herself. 
 
 Scan. No doubt on't. Well, but has she done 
 you wrong, or no .'* yoxi have had her ? ha ,'' 
 
 Tat. Though I have more honour than to tell 
 first, I have more manners than to contradict what 
 a lady has declared. 
 
 Scan. Well, you own it ? 
 
 Tat. I am strangely surprised ! — Yes, yes, I 
 can't deny't, if she taxes me with it. 
 
 Scan. She'll be here by-and-by, she sees Valen- 
 tine every morning. 
 
 Tat. How? 
 
 Val. She does me the favour, I mean, of a visit 
 sometimes. I did not think she had granted more 
 to anybody. 
 
 Scan. Nor I, faith ; but Tattle does not use to 
 belie a lady ; it is contrary to his character. — How 
 one may be deceived in a woman, Valentine ! 
 
 Tat. Nay, what do you mean, gentlemen ? 
 
 Scan. I'm resolved I'll ask her. 
 
 Tat. O barbarous ! why, did yon not tell me — 
 
 Scan. No, you told us. 
 
 Tat. And bid me ask Valentine .' 
 
 Val. What did 1 say } I hope you won't bring 
 me to confess an answer, when yon never asked me 
 the question .'' 
 
 Tat. But, gentlemen, this is the most inhuman 
 proceeding- 
 Fa/. Nay, if you have known Scandal thus long, 
 and cannot avoid such a palpable decoy as this was, 
 the ladies have a fine time whose reputations are 
 in your keeping. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Valbnt^ne, Scandal, Tattle, and Jeremv. 
 
 Jer. Sir, Mrs. Frail has sent to know if yon are 
 stirring. 
 
 Val. Show her up when she comes. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 Valentine, Scandal, and Tattlb. 
 
 Tat. I'll be gone. 
 
 Val. You'll meet her, 
 
 Tut. Is there not a back way ? 
 
208 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 VaL If there were, you have more discretion 
 than to give Scandal such an advantage ; why, your 
 running away will prove all that he can tell her. 
 
 Tat. Scandal, you will not be so ungenerous ? — 
 Oh, I shall lose my reputation of secrecy for ever ! 
 — I shall never be received bat upon public days ; 
 and my visits will never be admitted beyond a 
 drawing-room : I shall never see a bedchamber 
 again, never be locked in a closet, nor run behind 
 a screen, or under a .table ; never be distinguished 
 among the waiting-women by the name of trusty 
 Mr. Tattle more. — You will not be so cruel. 
 
 Vol. Scandal, have pity on him ; he'll yield to 
 any conditions. 
 
 Tat. Any, any terms. 
 
 Scan. Come, then, sacrifice half-a-dozen women 
 of good reputation to me presently. — Come, where 
 are you familiar ? — and see that they are women of 
 quality too, the first quality. 
 
 Tat. 'Tis very hard. — Won't a baronet's lady 
 pass ? 
 
 Sean. No, nothing under a right honourable. 
 
 Tat. O inhuman I you don't expect their names ? 
 
 Sean. No, their titles shall serve. 
 
 Tat. Alas ! that's the same thing : pray spare 
 me their titles ; I'll describe their persons. 
 
 Scan. Well, begin then : but take notice, if you 
 are so ill a painter, that I cannot know the person 
 by your picture of her, you m ust be condemned, like 
 other bad painters, to write the name at the bottom. 
 
 Tat. Well, first then— 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 Valentine, Scandal, Tattle, and Mrs. Frail. 
 
 Tal. O unfortunate I she's come already ; will 
 you have patience till another time ; — I'll double 
 the number. 
 
 Scan. Well, on that condition. — Take heed you 
 don't fail me. 
 
 Frail. I shall get a fine reputation by coming 
 to see fellows in a morning. — Scandal, you devil, 
 are you here too ? — Oh, Mr. Tattle, everything is 
 safe with you, we know. 
 
 Scan. Tattle ! 
 
 Tut. Mum. — O madam, you do me too much 
 honour. 
 
 Val. Well, lady galloper, how does Angelica ? 
 
 Frail. Angelica .' manners ! 
 
 Val. What, you will allow an absent lover — 
 
 Frail. No, I'll allow a lover present with 
 his mistress to he particular ; — hut otherwise I 
 think his passion ought to give place to his 
 manners. 
 
 Val. But what if he has more passion than 
 manners ? 
 
 Frail. Then let him marry and reform. 
 
 Val. Marriage indeed may qualify the fury of 
 his passion, but it very rarely mends a man's 
 manners. 
 
 Frail. You are the most mistaken in the world ; 
 there is no creature perfectly civil but a husband. 
 For in a little time he grows only rude to his wife, 
 and that is the highest good breeding, for it begets 
 his civility to other people. — Well, I'll tell you 
 news ; but I suppose you hear your brother Ben- 
 jamin is landed. And my brother Foresight's 
 daughter is come out of the country — I assure you 
 
 there's a match talked of by the old people. — 
 Well, if he be but as great a sea-beast as she 
 is a land-monster, we shall have a most amphibious 
 breed. — The progeny will be all otters ; he has 
 been bred at sea, and she has never been out of 
 the country. 
 
 Val. Vox take 'em I their conjunction bodes me 
 no good, I'm sure. 
 
 Frail. Now you talk of conjunction, my brother 
 Foresight has cast both their nativities, and prog- 
 nosticates an admiral and an eminent justice of the 
 peace to be the issue male of their two bodies. — *T\s 
 the most superstitious old fool ! he would have 
 persuaded me, that this was an unlucky day, and 
 would not let me come abroad ; but I invented a 
 dream, and sent him to Artemidorus for interpre- 
 tation, and so stole out to see you. Well, and 
 what will you give me now .'' come, I must have 
 something, 
 
 Val. Step into the next room — and I'll give you 
 something. 
 
 Scan. Ay, we'll all give you something. 
 
 Frail. Well, what will you all give me ? 
 
 Val. Mine's a secret. 
 
 Frail. I thought you would give me something 
 that would be a trouble to you to keep. 
 
 Val. And Scandal shall give you a good name. 
 
 Frail. That's more than he has for himself. — 
 And what will you give me, Mr. Tattle ? 
 
 Tat. I .' my soul, madam. 
 
 Frail. Pooh, no, I thank you, I have enough to 
 do to take care of my own. Well ; but I'll come 
 and see you one of these mornings : I hear yon 
 have a great many pictures. 
 
 Tal. I have a pretty good collection at your 
 service, some originals. 
 
 Scan. Hang him, he has nothing but the Seasons 
 and the Twelve Caesars, paltry copies ; and the 
 Five Senses, as ill represented as they are in him- 
 self ; and he himself is the only original you will 
 see there. 
 
 Frail. Ay, but I hear he has a closet of beauties. 
 
 Scan. Yes, all that have done him favours, if 
 you will believe him. 
 
 Frail. Ay, let me see those, Mr. Tattle. 
 
 Tat. Oh, madam, those are sacred to love and 
 contemplation. No man but the painter and 
 myself was ever blest with the sight. 
 
 Frail. Well, but a woman — 
 
 Tat. Nor woman, 'till she consented to have 
 her picture there too ; — for then she's obliged to 
 keep the secret. 
 
 Scan. No, no; come to me if you'd see pictures. 
 
 Frail. You? 
 
 Scan. Yes, faith, I can show you your own 
 picture, and most of your acquaintance to the 
 life, and as like as at Kneller's. 
 
 Frail. O lying creature ! — Valentine, does not 
 he lie ? — I can't believe a word he says. 
 
 Val. No, indeed, he speaks truth now ; for as 
 Tattle has pictures of all that have granted him 
 favours, he has the pictures of all that have refused 
 him ; if satires, descriptions, chai'acters, Eind lam- 
 poons are pictures. 
 
 Scan. Yes, mine are most in black and white ; 
 — and yet there are some set out in their true 
 colours, both men and women. I can show you 
 pride, folly, affectation, wantonness, inconstancy, 
 covetousness, dissimulation, malice, and ignorance, 
 all in one piece. Then I can show you lying. 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 209 
 
 foppery, vanity, cowardice, bragging, lechery, 
 impotence and ugliness in another piece j and yet 
 one of these is a celebrated beauty, and t'other a 
 professed beau. I have paintings too, some 
 pleasant enough. 
 
 Frail. Come, let's hear 'em. 
 
 Scan. Why, I have a beau in a bagnio, cupping 
 for a complexion, and sweating for a shape. 
 
 Frail. So. 
 
 Sran. Then I have a lady burning brandy in a 
 cellar with a hackney coachman. 
 
 Frail. O devil ! Well, but that story is not true. 
 
 Scan. I have some hieroglyphics too ; I have a 
 lawyer with a hundred hands, two heads, and but 
 one face ; a divine with two faces, and one head ; 
 and 1 have a soldier with his brains in his belly, 
 and his heart where his head should be. 
 
 Frail. And no head .' 
 
 Scan. No head. 
 
 Frail. Pooh, this is all invention. Have you 
 ne'er a poet ? 
 
 Scan. Yes, I have a poet weighing words, and 
 selling praise for praise, and a critic picking his 
 pocket. I have another large piece too, repre- 
 senting a school ; where there are huge-propor- 
 tioned critics, with long wigs, laced coats, Steenkirk 
 cravats, and terrible faces ; with catcalls in their 
 hands, and horn-books about their necks. I have 
 many more of this kind, very well painted as you 
 ^hall see. 
 
 Frail. Well, I'll come, if it be but to disprove you. 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 
 Valentine, Scandal, Tattle, Mrs. Frail, and 
 Jkremy. 
 
 Jer. Sir, here's the steward again from your 
 father. 
 
 Val. I'll come to him Will you give me 
 
 leave ? I'll wait on you again presently. 
 
 Frail. No, I'll be gone. Come, who squires me 
 to the Exchange ? I must call my sister Foresight 
 there. 
 
 Scan. I will : I have a mind to your sister. 
 
 Frail. Civil! 
 
 Tat. I will, because I have a tendre for your 
 ladyship. 
 
 Frail. That's somewhat the better reason, to 
 my opinion. 
 
 Scan. Well, if Tattle entertains you, I have 
 the better opportunity to engage your sister. 
 
 Val. Tell Angelica, I am about making hard 
 conditions to come abroad, and be at liberty to 
 see her. 
 
 Scan. I'U give an account of you and your 
 proceedings. If indiscretion be a sign of love, 
 you are the most a lover of anybody that I know : 
 you fancy that parting with your estate will help 
 you to yonr mistress. — In my mind he is a thought- 
 less adventurer. 
 
 Who hopes to purchase wealth by selling land, 
 
 Or win a mistress with a losing hand. iExeunt, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Pokesight's House. 
 Foresight and Servant. 
 
 Fore. Heyday ! what are all the women of my 
 family abroad ? Is not my wife come home, nor 
 my sister, nor my daughter ? 
 
 Ser. No, sir. 
 
 Fore. Mercy on us, what can be the meaning of 
 it? sure the moon is in all her fortitudes. Is my 
 niece Angelica at home .' 
 
 Ser. Yes, sir. 
 
 Fore. I believe you lie, sir. 
 
 Ser. Sir? 
 
 Fore. I say you lie, sir. It is impossible that 
 anything should be as I would have it ; for I was 
 bom, sir, when the Crab was ascending, and all my 
 affairs go backward. 
 
 Ser. I can't tell, indeed, sir. 
 
 Fore. No, I know you can't, sir ; but I can tell, 
 sir, and foretell, sir. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 Foresight, Servant, and Nurse. 
 
 Fore. Nurse, where' s your young mistress ? 
 
 Nurse. Wee'st heart, I know not, they're none 
 of 'em come home yet. Poor child I I warrant 
 she's fond o' seeing the town ; — marry, pray heaven, 
 they ha' given her any dinner. — Good lack-a-day, 
 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! O strange ! I'll vow and swear now,— 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! marry, and did you ever see the like ! 
 
 Fore. Why, how now, what's the matter ? 
 
 Nurse. Pray heaven send your worship good 
 luck ! marry and amen with all my heart ; for you 
 have put on one stocking with the wrong side out- 
 ward. 
 
 Fore. Ha, how ? faith and troth I'm glad of it ! — 
 And so 1 have ; that may be good luck in troth, in 
 troth it may, very good luck : nay, I have had some 
 omens : I got out of bed backwards too this morn- 
 ing, without premeditation ; pretty good that too ; 
 but then I stumbled coming down stairs, and met 
 a weasel ; bad omens those : some bad, some good, 
 our lives are chequered : mirth and sorrow, want 
 and plenty, night and day, make up our time. — 
 But in troth I am pleased at my stocking ; very 
 well pleased at my stocking. — Oh, here's my niece ! 
 — Sirrah, go tell sir Sampson Legend I'll wait on 
 him if he's at leisure ; — 'tis now three o'clock, a 
 very good hour for business. Mercury governs this 
 hour. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Angelica, F.^^uesight, and Kuree. 
 
 Ang. Is it not a good hour for pleasure too, 
 uncle ? pray lend me your coach, mine's out of 
 order. p 
 
210 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Fore. What, would you be gadding too ? sure 
 all females are mad to-day. — It is of evil portent, 
 and bodes mischief to the master of a family. — I 
 remember an old prophecy written by Messahalah 
 the Arabian, and thus translated by a reverend 
 Buckinghamshire bard. 
 
 " When housewifes all the house forsake, 
 And leave goodman to brew and bake, 
 Withoaten guile then be it said, 
 That house doth stond upon its head ; 
 And when the head is set in grond, 
 Ne marl if it be froitfol fond." 
 
 Fruitful, the head fruitful ; — that bodes horns ; the 
 
 fruit of the head is horns Dear niece, stay at home; 
 
 for by the head of the house is meant the husband ; 
 the prophecy needs no explanation. 
 
 Ang. Well, but I can neither make you a cuckold, 
 uncie, by going abroad ; nor secure you from being 
 one, by staying at home. 
 
 Fore. Yes, yes ; while there's one woman left, 
 the prophecy is not in fuU force. 
 
 Ang. But my inclinations are in force ; I have 
 a mind to go abroad ; and if you won^t lend me 
 your coach, I'll take a hackney, or a chair, and 
 leave you to erect a scheme, and find who's in con- 
 junction with your wife. Why don't you keep her 
 at home, if you're jealous of her when she's abroad .' 
 You know my aunt is a little retrograde (as you call 
 it) in her nature. Uncle, I'm afraid you are not 
 lord of the ascendant, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Fore. Well, JiU-flirt, you are very pert — and 
 always ridiculing that celestial science. 
 
 Artg. Nay, uncle, don't be angry ; — if you are, 
 I'll rip up all your false prophecies, ridiculous 
 dreams, and idle divinations : I'll swear you are a 
 nuisance to the neighbourhood. — ^What a bustle 
 did you keep against the last invisible echpse, lay- 
 ing in provision, as 'twere for a siege ! What a 
 world of fire and candle, matches and tinder-boxes 
 did you purchase ! One would have thought we 
 were ever after to live under groimd, or at least 
 making a voyage to Greenland, to inhabit there all 
 the dark seeison. 
 
 Fore. Why, you malapert slut ! 
 
 Ang. Will you lend me your coach, or I'll go on .' 
 — Nay, I'll declare how you prophesied popery was 
 coming, only because the butler had mislaid some 
 of the apostle spoons, and thought they were lost. 
 Away went religion and spoonmeat together. — 
 Indeed, uncle, I'll indict you for a wizard. 
 
 Fore. How, hussy ! was there ever such a pro- 
 voking minx ! 
 
 Nv/rse. O merciful father, how she talks 1 
 
 Ang. Yes, I can make oath of your unlawful 
 midnight practices ; you and the old nurse there — 
 
 Nurse. Marry, heaven defend ! — I at midnight 
 practices ! — O Lord, what's here to do !— 7I in un- 
 lawful doings with my master's worship ! — Why, 
 did you ever hear the like now? — Sir, did ever I do 
 anything of your midnight concerns — but warm 
 your bed, and tuck you up, and set the candle and 
 your tobacco-box and your urinal by you, and now 
 and then rub the soles of your feet.' — O Lord, 
 I?— 
 
 Ang. Yes, I saw you together, through the key- 
 hole of the closet, one night, like Saul and tlie 
 witch of Endor, turning the sieve and shears, and 
 pricking your thumbs, to write poor innocent ser- 
 vants' names in blood, about a little nutmeg-grater, 
 
 which she had forgot in the caudle-cup — ^Nay, I 
 know something worse, if I would speak of it. 
 
 Fore. I defy you, hussy ! but I'll remember this, 
 I'll be revenged on you, cockatrice ; I'll hamper 
 you. — You have your fortune in your own hands, 
 — but I'll find a way to make your lover, your pro- 
 digal spendthrift gallant, Valentine, pay for all, I 
 wiU. 
 
 Ang. Will you ? I care not, but all shall out then. 
 — Look to't, nurse ; I can bring witness that you 
 have a great unnatural teat under your left arm, 
 and he another ; and that you suckle a young devil 
 in the shape of a tabby-cat, by turns, I can. 
 
 Nurse. A teat I a teat ! I an unnatural teat ! 
 O the false slanderous thing ; feel, feel here, if I 
 have anything but like another Christian. [Crying. 
 
 Fore. I will have patience, since it is the wiU of 
 the stars I should be thus tormented. — This is the 
 effect of the malicious conjunctions and oppositions 
 in the third house of my nativity ; there the curse 
 of kindred was foretold. — But I will have my doors 
 locked up — I'll punish you, not a man shall enter 
 my house. 
 
 Ang. Do, uncle, lock 'em up quickly before my 
 aunt comes home ; — you'll have a letter for alimony 
 to-morrow morning. — But let me he gone first, 
 and then let no mankind come near the house, but 
 converse with spirits and the celestial signs, the 
 Bull, and the Ram, and the Goat. Bless me I there 
 are a great many horned beasts among the Twelve 
 Signs, uncle ; — but cuckolds go to heaven. 
 
 Fore. But there's but one virgin among the 
 twelve signs, spitfire, but one virgin. 
 
 Ang. Nor there had not been that one, if she 
 had had to do with anythinp; But astrologers, uncle. 
 That makes my aunt go abroad. 
 
 Fore. How ? how ? is that the reason ? Come, 
 you know something ; tell me, and I'll forgive you ; 
 do, good niece. — Come, you shaU have my coach 
 and horses; — faith and troth, you shall. — Does 
 my wife complain ? come, I know women tell 
 one another. — She is young and sanguine, has a 
 wanton hazel eye, and was born under Gemini, 
 which may incline her to society ; she has a mole 
 upon her lip, with a moist palm, and an open 
 liberality on the mount of Venus. 
 
 Ang. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Fore. Do you laugh ? — ^Well, gentlewoman, I'll 
 — but come, be a good girl, don't perplex your 
 poor uncle, tell me ; wont you speak ? — Odd, I'll — 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Anoielica, F0R5SIOHT, Nutse, and Servant 
 
 Serv. Sir Sampson is coming down to wait upon 
 you. 
 
 Ang. Good b'w'ye, uncle. — Call me a chair. — 
 [Exit Servant.] I'll find out my aunt, and tell 
 her, she must not come home. {.Exit. 
 
 Fore. I'm so perplexed and vexed, I am not fit to 
 receive him ; I shall scarce recover myself before 
 the hour be past — Go, nurse, tell sir Sampson I'm 
 ready to wait on him. 
 
 Nurse. Yes, sir. ^ExtU 
 
 Fore. Well — why, if I was bom to be a cuckold, 
 there's no more to be said — he's here already. 
 
SCENE VII. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 Jill 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Foresight and Sir Sampson urWi a paper. 
 Sir Samp. Nor no more to be done, old boy I 
 that's plain. — Here 'tis, I have it in my hand, old 
 Ptolomee ; I'll make the ungracious prodigal know 
 who begat Mm ; I will, old Nostrodamus. What, 
 I warrant my son thought nothing belonged to a 
 father but forgiveness and affection ; no authority, 
 no correction, no arbitrary power ; nothing to be 
 done, but for him to offend, and me to pardon. 
 I warrant you, if he danced till doomsday, he 
 thought I was to pay the piper. Well, but here it 
 is under black and white, sigjialum, sigillatum, 
 and deliberatum ; that as soon as my son Benjamin 
 is arrived, he is to make over to him his right of 
 inheritance. Where's my daughter that is to be — 
 ha ! old Merlin ! body o'me, I'm so glad I'm 
 revenged on this undutiful rogue. 
 
 Fore. Odso, let me see ; let me see the paper. — 
 Ay, faith and troth, here 'tis, if it will hut hold. 
 1 wish things were done, and the conveyance made. 
 When was this signed, what hour ? Odso, you 
 should have consulted me for the time. Well, hut 
 we'll make haste. 
 
 Sir Samp. Haste, ay, ay; haste enough, my 
 son Ben will be in town to night.^1 have ordered 
 my lawyer to draw up writings of settlement and 
 jointure : — all shall be done to-night. No matter 
 for the time : prithee, brother Foresight, leave 
 superstition. Pox o'th' time ! there's no time but 
 the time present, there's no more to be said of 
 what's past, and all that is to come will happen. 
 If the sun shine by day, and the stars by night, 
 why, we shall know one another's faces without 
 the help of a candle, and that's all the stars are 
 good for. 
 
 Fore. How, how, Sir Sampson ? that all ? Give 
 me leave to contradict you, and tell you, you are 
 ignorant. 
 
 Sir Samp. I tell you I am vrise ; and sapiejis 
 domirtabitur qslris ; there's Latin for you to prove 
 it, and an argument to confonnd your ephemeris. — 
 Ignorant ! — I tell you, I have travelled, old Fircu, 
 and know the globe. I have seen the antipodes, 
 where the sun rises at midnight, and sets at noon- 
 day. 
 
 Fore. But I tell yon, I have travelled, and 
 travelled in the celestial spheres, know the signs 
 and the planets, and their houses. Can judge of 
 motions direct and retrograde, of seztiles, quad- 
 rates, trines and oppositions, fiery trigons and 
 axjuatical trigons. Know whether life shall he long 
 or short, happy or unhappy, whether diseases are 
 curable or incurable. If journeys shall he pros- 
 perous, undertakings successful ; or goods stolen 
 recovered, I know — 
 
 Sir Samp. I know the length of the emperor 
 of China's foot ; have kissed the Great Mogul's 
 slipper, and rid a hunting upon an elephant with 
 the Cham of Tartary. — Body o'me, I have made 
 a cuckold of a king, and the present majesty of 
 Bantam is the issue of these loins. 
 
 Fore. I know when travellers lie or speak truth, 
 when they don't know it themselves. 
 
 Sir Samp. I have known an astrologer made a 
 cuckold in the twinkling of a star ; and seen a 
 conjurer that could not keep the devil out of his 
 wife's circle. 
 
 Fore. [Asicle.'i What, does he twit me with mv 
 wife too ? I must be better informed of this.— 
 [Alojtd.J Do you mean my wife, sir Sampson ? 
 Though you made a cuckold of the king of Bantam, 
 yet by the body of the sun — 
 
 Sir Samp. By the horns of the moon, you 
 would say, brother Capricorn. 
 
 Fore. Capricorn in your teeth, thou modem 
 Mandeville ! Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a 
 type of thee, thou liar of the first magnitude ! Take 
 hack your paper of inheritance ; send your son to 
 sea again. I'll wed my daughter to an Egyptian 
 mummy, ere she shall incorporate with a contemner 
 of sciences, and a defamer of virtue. 
 
 Sir Samp. {Aside.] Body o'me, I have gone too 
 far ; — I must not provoke honest Albumazar. — 
 [Aloud.'] An Egyptian mummy is an illustrious 
 creature, my trusly hieroglyphic ; and may have 
 significations of futurity about him ; odsbud, I 
 would my son were an Egyptian mummy for thy 
 sake. What, thou art not angry for a jest, my good 
 Haly .' — 1 reverence the sun, moon and stars with 
 all my heart. What, I'll make thee a present of a 
 mummy : now I think on't, body o'me, I have a 
 shoulder of an Egyptian king, that I purloined 
 from one of the pyramids, powdered vrith hierogly- 
 phics ; thou shalt have it brought home to thy 
 house, and make an entertainment for all the phi- 
 lomaths, and students in physic and astrology, in 
 and about London, 
 
 Fore. But what do you know of my wife, sir 
 Sampson ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Thy wife is a constellation of virtues ; 
 she's the moon, and thou art the man in the moon: 
 nay, she is more illustrious than the moon ; for she 
 has her chastity without her inconstancy ; 'sbud I 
 was but in jest. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 FoRBSFGHT, Sir Sampson, and Jkbemv. 
 Sir Samp. How now, who sent for you ? ha I 
 what would you have ? 
 
 [Jereuv whispers Sir Saupson. 
 Fore. Nay, if you were but in jest — Who's that 
 fellow ? 1 don't like his physiognomy. 
 
 Sir Samp. [ To Jeremy.] My son, sir ; what 
 son, sir ? my son Benjamin, hob ? 
 
 Jer. No, sir ; Mr. Valentine, my master. — 'Tis 
 the first time he has been abroad since his confine- 
 ment, and he comes to pay his duty to you. 
 Sir Samp. WeU, sir. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Foresight, Sir Sampson, Valentine, and Jebjemv. 
 
 Jer. He is here, sir. 
 
 Val. Your blessing, sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. You've had it already, sir. I 
 think I sent it you to-day in a bill of four 
 thousand pounds. — A great deal of money, brother 
 Foresight. 
 
 Fore. Ay, indeed, sir Sampson, a great deal of 
 money for a young man ; I wonder what he can do 
 with it. 
 
 .Sir Samp. Body o'me, so do I. — Hark ye, Valen- 
 tine, if there be too much, refund the superfluity ; 
 dost hear, boy ? p o 
 
212 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 Vol. Superfluity, sir ! it will scarce pay my 
 debts. I hope you will have more indulgence, than 
 to oblige me to those hard conditions which my 
 necessity signed to. 
 
 Sir Samp. Sir, how, I beseech you, what were 
 you. pleased to intimate concerning indulgence ? 
 
 Val. Why, sir, that you would not go to the 
 extremity of the conditions, but release me at least 
 from some part. 
 
 Sir Samp. Oh, sir, I understand you — that's 
 all, ha? 
 
 Val. Yes, sir, all that I presume to ask ; — but 
 what you, out of fatherly fondness, will be pleased 
 to add shall be doubly welcome. 
 
 ■Sir Samp. No doubt of it, sweet sir : but your 
 iilial piety and my fatherly fondness would fit like 
 two tallies. — Here's a rogue, brother Foresight, 
 makes a bargain under hand and seal in the morn- 
 ing, and would be released from it in the afternoon ; 
 here's a rogue, dog, here's conscience and honesty ; 
 this is your wit now, this is the morality of your 
 wits ! You are a wit, and have been a beau, and 
 may be a — why, sirrah, is it not here under hand 
 and seal ? — can you deny it ? 
 
 Val. Sir, I don't deny it. 
 
 Sir Samp. Sirrah, you'll be hanged ; I shall 
 live to see you go up Holbom-hill. — Has he not a 
 rogue's face ? — Speak, brother, you understand 
 physiognomy, a hanging look to me ; — of all my 
 boys the most unlike me ; he has a damned Tyburn- 
 face, without the benefit o' the clergy. 
 
 Fore. Hum — truly I don't care to discourage a 
 young man. He has a violent death in his face ; 
 but I hope no danger of hanging. 
 
 Val. Sir, is this usage for your son ? — for that 
 old weather-headed fool, I know how to laugh at 
 him ; but you, sir — 
 
 Sir Samp. You, sir ; and you, sir ; — why, who 
 are you, sir ? 
 
 Val. Your son, sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. That's more than I know, sir, and I 
 believe not. 
 
 Val. Faith, 1 hope not. 
 
 Sir Samp. What, would you have your mother 
 a whore ! — Did you ever hear the like ! did you 
 ever hear the like ! Body o'me — 
 
 Val. I would have an excuse for your barbarity 
 and unnatural usage. 
 
 Sir Samp. Excuse ! impudence ! Why, sirrah, 
 mayn't I do what I please .' are not you my slave.' 
 did not I beget you ? and might not I have chosen 
 whether I would have begot you or no .' 'Oons ! 
 who are you ' whence came you ? what brought 
 you into the world ? how came you here, sir ? 
 here, to stand here, upon those two legs, and look 
 erect with that audacious face, hah .' answer me 
 that ? Did you come a volunteer into the world ? 
 or did I, with the lawful authority of » parent, 
 press you to the service ? 
 
 Val. I know no more why I came than you do 
 why you called me. But here I am, and if you 
 don't mean to provide for me, I desire you would 
 leave me as you found me. 
 
 Sir Samp. With all my heart : come, uncase, 
 strip, and go naked out of the world as you came 
 into't. 
 
 Val. My clothes are soon put off; — but you 
 must also divest me of reason, thought, passions, in- 
 clinations, affections, appetites, senses, and the huge 
 train of attendants that yoa begot along with me. 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o'me, what a many-headed 
 monster have I propagated ! 
 
 Val. I am of myself a plain, easy, simple crea- 
 ture, and to be kept at small expense ; but the 
 retinue that you gave me are craving and invin 
 cible ; they are so many devils that you have raised, 
 and will have employment. 
 
 Sir Samp. 'Oons, what had I to do to get chil- 
 dren ! — can't a private man be born without all 
 these followers ? — Why, nothing under an emperor 
 should be born with appetites. — Why, at this rate, 
 a fellow that has but a groat in his pocket, may 
 have a stomach capable of a ten-shilling ordinary. 
 
 Jer. Nay, that's as clear as the sun ; I'll make 
 oath of it before any justice in Middlesex. 
 
 Sir Samp. Here's a cormorant too. — 'S'heart, 
 this fellow was not born with you.' — I did not 
 beget him, did I ? 
 
 Jer. By the provision that's made for me, you 
 might have begot me too : — nay, and to tell your 
 worship another truth, I believe you did, for I find 
 I was bom with those same whoreson appetites 
 too that my master speaks of. 
 
 Sir Samp. Why, look you there now — I'll main- 
 tain it, that by the rule of right reason, this fellow 
 ought to have been born without a palate — 'S'heart, 
 what should he do with a distinguishing taste .' — 
 I warrant now he'd rather eat a pheasant than a 
 piece of poor John : and smell now— why, I war- 
 rant he can smell, and loves perfumes above a 
 
 stink Why, there's it ; and music — don't you 
 
 love music, scoundrel ? 
 
 Jer. Yes, I have a reasonable good ear, sir, as 
 to jigs and country dances, and the like ; I don't 
 much matter your solos or sonatas ; they give mc 
 the spleen. 
 
 Sir Samp. The spleen, ha I ha ! ha ! a pox 
 confound you ! — solos or sonatas ? 'Oons, whose 
 son are you .' how were you engendered, muck- 
 worm ? 
 
 Jer. I am by my father the son of a chairman ; 
 my mother sold oysters in winter and cucumbers 
 in summer ; and I came up stairs into the world ; 
 for I was bom in a cellar 
 
 Fore. By your looks, you should go up stairs 
 out of the world too, friend. 
 
 Sir Samp. And if this rogue were anatomised 
 now, and dissected, he has his vessels of digestion 
 and concoction, and so forth, large enough for the 
 inside of a cardinal, this son of a cucumber ! — These 
 things are unaccountable and unreasonable. — Body 
 o'me, why was not I a bear .' that my cubs might 
 have lived upon sucking their paws. Nature has 
 been provident only to bears and spiders ; the one 
 has its nutriment in his own hands, and t'other 
 spins his habitation out of his own entrails. 
 
 Val. Fortune was provident enough to supply 
 all the necessities of my nature, if I had my right 
 of inheritance. 
 
 Sir Samp. Again ! 'Oons, han't you four thou- 
 sand pounds — if I had it again, I would not give 
 thee a groat. — What, wouldst thou have me turn 
 pelican, and feed thee out of my own vitals.' — 
 'S'heart, live by your wits, — you weVe always fond 
 of the wits : — now let's see if you have wit enough 
 to keep yourself. — Your brother will be in town 
 to-night or to-morrow morning, and then look you 
 perform covenants, and so your friend and servant. 
 — Come, brother Foresight. 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 21.'? 
 
 SCENE Till. 
 
 Valkntdtb and Jereht. 
 
 Jer. I told yon what your visit would come to. 
 
 Vol. 'Tis as much as I expected. — I did not 
 
 come to see him : I came to Angelica ; but since 
 
 she was gone abroad it was easily turned another 
 
 way; and at least looked well on my side. — What's 
 
 here .' Mrs. Foresight and Mrs. Frail ; they are 
 
 eamest.^ — 111 avoid 'em. — Come this way, and go 
 
 and inquire when Angelica will return. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Airs. FoBESiGHT and Mrs. Frao.. 
 
 Frail. VTbat have you to do to watch me .' 'slife, 
 111 do what 1 please. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. You will ? 
 
 Frail. "5fes, marry will I. — A great piece of 
 business to go to Covent-Garden square in a hack- 
 ney-coach, and take a turn with one's friend ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Nay, two or three turns, I'll take 
 my oath. 
 
 Frail. Well, what if I took twenty? — I warrant 
 if you had been there, it had been only innocent 
 recreation. — Lord, where's the comfort of this lire, 
 if we can't have the happiness of conversing where 
 we like ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. But can't you converse at home ?^— 
 I own it, I think there's no happiness like con- 
 versing with an agreeable man ; I don't quarrel at 
 that, nor I don't think but your conversation was 
 very innocent ; but the place is public, and to be 
 seen with a man in ahaekney-eoach is scandalous : 
 what if anybody else should have seen you alight, 
 as I did ? — How can anybody be happy, while 
 they're in perpetual fear of being seen and cen- 
 sured ? — Besides, it would not only reflect upon 
 you, sister, but me. 
 
 Frail. Pooh, here's a clutter ! — Why should it 
 reflect upon you ? — I don't doubt but you have 
 thonght yourself happy in a hackney-coach before 
 now. — If I had gone to Knightsbridge,or to Chelsea, 
 or to Spring-Garden, or Bam Elms, with a man 
 alone — something might have been said. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Why, was I ever in any of those 
 places ? what do you mean, sister ? 
 
 Frail. Was I ? what do you mean ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. You have been at a worse place. 
 
 Frail. I at a worse place, and with a man I 
 
 Mrs. Fore. I suppose you would not go alone to 
 the World's- End. 
 
 Frail. Tlie world's-end ! what, do you mean to 
 banter me ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Poor innocent ! you don't know 
 that there's a place called the World's-End ? I'll 
 swear you can keep your countenance purely, you'd 
 make an admirable player. 
 
 Frail. I'll swear you have a great deal of confi- 
 dence, and in my mind too much for the stage. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Very well, that will appear who has 
 most ; yon never were at the World's-Eod ' 
 
 Frail. No. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. You deny it positively to my face ? 
 
 Frail. Your face ! what's your face .' 
 
 Mrs. Fore. No matter for that, it's as good a 
 face as yours. 
 
 Frail. Not by a dozen years' wearing. — But I do 
 deny it positively to your face then. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. I'll allow you now to find fault with 
 my face ; — for I'll swear your impudence has put 
 me out of countenance : — but look you here now, 
 — where did you lose this gold bodkin ? — O sister, 
 sister! 
 
 Frail. My bodkin .' 
 
 Mrs. Fere. Nay, 'tis yours, look at it. 
 
 Frail. Well, if you go to that, where did you 
 find this bodkin ? — O, sister, sister ! — sister every 
 way. 
 
 jl/rs. Fore. {Aside.'] O devil on't, that I could 
 not discover her without betraying myself ! 
 
 Frail. I have heard gentlemen say, sister, that 
 one should take great care, when one makes a thrust 
 in fencing, not to lie open one's self 
 
 Mrs. Fore. It's very true, sister ; well, since 
 all's out, and as you say, since we are both wounded, 
 let us do what is often done in duels, take care of 
 one another, and grow better friends than before. 
 
 Frail. With all my heart : ours are bat slight 
 flesh wounds, and if we keep 'em from air, not at 
 all dangerous : well, give me your hand in token 
 of sisterly secrecy and affection. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Here 'tis with all my heart. 
 
 Frail. Well, as an earnest of friendship and con- 
 fidence, I'll acquaint you with a design that I have. 
 To tell truth, and speak openly one to another, 
 I'm afraid the world have observed us more than 
 we have observed one another. You have a rich 
 husband, and are provided for ; I am at a loss, and 
 have no great stock either of fortune or reputation ; 
 and therefore must look sharply about me. Sir 
 Sampson has a son that is expected to-night ; and 
 by the account I have heard of his education, can 
 be no conjurer ; the estate you know is to be made 
 over to him ; — now if I could wheedle him, sister, 
 ha ? you understand me ? . 
 
 Mrs. Fore. I do ; and will help you to the 
 utmost ot my power. — And I can tell you one thing 
 that falls out luckily enough ; my awkward daughter- 
 in-law, who you know is designed to be his wife, is 
 grown fond of Mr. Tattle ; now if we can improve 
 that, and make her have ao aversion for the booby, 
 it may go a great way towards his liking you. 
 Here they come together ; and let us contrive some 
 way or other to leave 'em together. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Mrs. Foresight, Mrs. Fraii,, Tattle, and Miss Prue, 
 
 Prue. Mother, mother, mother, look you here ! 
 
 jl/r.S'. Fore. Fy, fy, miss ! how you bawl. — 
 Besides, I have told you, you must not call me 
 niotlier. 
 
 Pme. What must I call you then ? are you not 
 my father's wife ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Madam ; you must say madam. — ■ 
 By my soul, I shall fancy myself old indeed, to 
 have this great girl call me mother ! — Well, but, 
 miss, what are you so overjoyed at ? 
 
 Prue. Look you here, madam, then, what Mr. 
 Tattle has given me. — Look you here, cousin, here's 
 a snuff'-box ; nay, there's snuff in't ; — here, will 
 you have any .' — Oh good ! how sweet it is. — Mr. 
 Tattle is ail over sweet, his peruke is sweet, and his 
 gloves are sweet, and his handkerchief is sweet. 
 
214 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 pure sweet, sweeter than roses. — Smell him, 
 mother, madam, I mean. — He gave me this ring 
 for a kiss. 
 
 Tat. O fy, miss ! you must not kiss and tell. 
 
 Prue. Yes ; I may tell my mother. — And he 
 says he'll give me something to make me smell so. 
 — [To Tattle.] Oh pray lend me your handker- 
 chief. — Smell, cousin j he says, he'll give me some- 
 thing that will make my smocks smell this way. — 
 Is not it pure ? — It's better than lavender, mun — 
 I'm resolved I wont let nurse put any more lavender 
 among my smocks — ha, cousin .' 
 
 Frail. Fy, miss ! amongst your linen, you must 
 say ; — you must never say smock. 
 
 Prue. Why, it is not bawdy, is it, cousin ? 
 
 Tat. Oh, madam, you are too severe upon miss ; 
 you must not find fault with her pretty simplicity, 
 it becomes her strangely. — Pretty miss, don't let 
 'em persuade you out of your innocency. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Oh, demm you, toad 1 — I wish you 
 don't persuade her out of her innocency. 
 
 Tat. Who I, madam .' — Oh Lord, how can your 
 ladyship have such a thought — sure you don't 
 know me ? 
 
 Frail. Ah, devil ! sly devil! — He's as close, 
 sister, as a confessor. — He thinks we don't observe 
 Mm. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. A cunning cur 1 how soon he could 
 find out a fresh harmless creature ! and left us, 
 sister, presently. 
 
 Tat. Upon reputation — 
 
 Mrs. Fore. They're all so, sister, these men : — 
 they love to have the spoiling of a young thing, 
 they are as fond of it, as of being first in the 
 fashion, or of seeing a new play the first day. — I 
 warrant it would break Mr. Tatde's heart, to think 
 that anybody else should be beforehand with him. 
 
 Tat, Oh Lord, I swear I would not for the 
 world — 
 
 Frail, O hang you 1 who'll believe you ? — 
 You'd be hanged before you'd confess— we know 
 you — she's very pretty 1— Lord, what pure red and 
 white ! — she looks so wholesome ;— ne'er stir, I 
 don't know, but I fancy, if T were a man — 
 
 Prue. How you love to jeer one, cousin ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Hark ye, sister. — By my soul the 
 girl is spoiled already— d'ye think she'll ever endure 
 a great lubberly tarpaulin 1 — gad, I warrant you, 
 she won't let him come near her, after Mr. Tattle, 
 
 Frail. O' my soul, I'm afraid not— eh ! — filthy 
 creature, that smells all of pitch and tar. — [To 
 Tattle.] Devil take you, you confounded toad I 
 — why did you see her before she was married ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Nay, why did we let him? — My 
 husband will hang us ; — he'll think we brought 
 'em acquainted. 
 
 Frail. Come, faith, let us be gone. — If my bro- 
 ther Foresight should find us with them, he'd 
 think so, sure enough. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. So he would — but then leaving 'em 
 together is as bad. — And he's such a sly devil, 
 he'll never miss an opportunity. 
 
 Frail. I don't care ; I won't be seen in't. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Well, if you should, Mr. Tattle, 
 you'll have a world to answer for j — remember I 
 wash my hands of it — I'm throughly innocent. 
 
 SCENE XL 
 Tattle and Miss Pbub. 
 
 Prue. What makes 'em go away, Mr. Tattle .' 
 what do they mean, do you know .' 
 
 Tat. Yes, my dear, — I think I can guess ; — 
 but hang me if I know the reason of it. 
 
 Prue. Come, must not we go too .' 
 
 Tat. No, no, they don't mean that. 
 
 Prue. No ! what then .' what shall you and I 
 do together ? 
 
 Tat. I must make love to you, pretty miss; 
 will you let me make love to you ? 
 
 Prue. Yes, if you please. 
 
 Tat. [Aside.'] Frank, egad, at least. What a 
 pox does Mrs. Foresight mean by this civility ? Is 
 it to make a fool of me ? or does she leave us 
 together out of good morality, and do as she would 
 be done by ? — Gad, I'll understand it so. 
 
 Prue. Well ; and how will you make love to 
 me ? come, I long to have you begin. Must I 
 make love too .' you must tell me how. 
 
 Tat. You must let me speak, miss, you must 
 not speak first ; I must ask you questions, and 
 you must answer 
 
 Prue. What, is it like the catechism .'^come 
 then, ask me. 
 
 Tat. D'ye think you can love me ? 
 
 Prue. Yes. 
 
 Tat. Pooh ! pox ! you must not say yes 
 already ; I shan't care a farthing for you then in 
 a twinkling. 
 
 Prue. What must I say then ? 
 
 Tat. Why, you must say no, or you believe not, 
 or you can't tell. 
 
 Prue. Why, must I tell a lie then ? 
 
 Tat, Yes, if you'd be well-bred ; — all well-bred 
 persons lie. — Besides, you are a woman, you 
 must never speak what you think : your words 
 must contradict your thoughts ; but your actions 
 may contradict your words. So, when I ask you, 
 if you can love me, you must say no, but you must 
 Iqve me too. If 1 tell you you are handsome, 
 you must deny it, and say I flatter you. But 
 you must think yourself more charming than I 
 speak you : and like me, for the beauty which 
 1 say you have, as much as if I had it myself. 
 If I ask you to kiss me, you must be angry, but 
 you must not refuse me. If I ask you for more, 
 you must be more angry, — but more complying ; 
 and as soon as ever I make you say you'll cry out, 
 you must be sure to hold your tongue. 
 
 Prue. O Lord, I swear this is pure ! — I like it 
 better than our old-fashioned country way of 
 speaking one's mind j — and must not you lie 
 too? 
 
 Tat. Hum ! — ^Yes ; but you must believe I speak 
 truth. 
 
 Prue. O Gemini ! well, I always had a great 
 mind to tell lies ; but they frighted me. and said it 
 was a sin. 
 
 Tat. Well, my pretty creature ; will you make 
 me happy by giving me a kiss ? 
 
 Prue. No, indeed ; I'm angry at you. 
 
 [Runs and kisses him. 
 
 Tat. Hold, hold, that's pretty well; — but you 
 should not have given it me, but have suffered me 
 to have taken it. 
 
 Prue. Well, we'll do't aijain. 
 
SOBNE lit. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 216 
 
 Tat. With all my heart. — Now, then, my little 
 angel ! [Kisses Acr. 
 
 Prue. Pish! 
 
 Tat. That's right — again, my charmer ! 
 
 [Kisses again. 
 
 Prue. O fy ! nay, now I can't abide you. 
 
 Tat. Admirable ! that was as well as if you 
 had been born and bred in Covent-garden. And 
 won't you show me, pretty miss, where your bed- 
 chamber 'is ? 
 
 Prue. No, indeed won't I ; but I'll run there 
 and hide myself from you behind the curtains. 
 
 Tat. I'll follow you. 
 
 Prue. Ah, but I'll hold the door with both 
 
 hands, and be angry ; — and you shall push me 
 down before you come in. 
 
 Tat. No, I'll come in first, and push you down 
 afterwards. 
 
 Prue. Will you .' then I'll be more angry, and 
 more complying. 
 
 Tat. Then I'll make you cry out. 
 
 Prue. Oh, but you shan't ; for I'll hold my 
 tongue. 
 
 Tat. Oh, my dear apt scholar I 
 
 Prue. Well, now I'll run, and make more hastt 
 than you. 
 
 Tat. You shall not fly so fast as I'll pursue. 
 
 [kxeuni. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE J.— The Gallery adjoining Prue's 
 Bedchamber. 
 
 Miss ! miss ! miss Prue ! — mercy on me, marry and 
 amen ! — Why, what's become of the child ? why 
 miss ! Miss Foresight ! — Sure, she has locked her- 
 self up in her chamber, and gone to sleep, or to 
 
 prayers Miss ! miss ! I hear her ; — come to your 
 
 father, child ; open the door — open the door, miss ! 
 — I hear you cry Hush 1 — O Lord, who's there ?— 
 [Peeps through the keyhole.'] — What's here to do ? 
 — O the father ! a man with her ! — Why, miss, I 
 say ! God's my life, here's fine doings towards ! — ■ 
 O Lord, we're all undone ! — O you young har- 
 lotry ! — [Knocks.] Od's my life I won't you open 
 the door ? — I'll come in the back-way. . 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Tattle and Miss Prue. 
 
 Prue. O Lord, she's coming! — and she'll tell 
 my father ; what shall I do now I 
 
 Tat. Pox take her ! — if she had stayed two 
 minutes longer, I should have wished for her 
 coming. 
 
 Prue. O dear, what shall I say ? tell me, Mr. 
 Tattle, tell me a lie. 
 
 Tat. There's no occasion for a lie ; I could 
 never tell a lie to no purpose ; — but since we have 
 done nothing, we must say nothing, I think. I 
 hear her ; I'll leave you together, and come off as 
 you can. [Thrusts her in, and shuts the door. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Tattle, Valentine, Scandal, and Angelica. 
 Ang. You can't accuse me of inconstancy; I 
 never told you that I loved you. 
 
 Vol. But I can accuse you of uncertainty, for 
 not telling me whether you did or not. 
 Ang. You mistake jndifiference for uncertainty ; 
 
 I never had concern enough to ask myself the 
 question. 
 
 Scan. Nor good-nature enough to answer him 
 that did ask you ; I'll say that for you, madam. 
 
 Ang. What, are you setting up for good-nature? 
 
 Scan. Only for the affectation of it, as the 
 women do for ill-nature. 
 
 Ang. Persuade your friend that it is all affec- 
 tation. 
 
 Scan. I shall receive no benefit from the opinion ; 
 for I know no effectual difference between continued 
 affectation and reality. 
 
 Tat. [ Coming up.] Scandal, are you in private 
 discourse .' anything of secrecy ? [Aside to Scandal. 
 
 Scan. Yes, but I dare trust you ; we were talk- 
 ing of Angelica's love for Valentine ; you won't 
 speak of it ? 
 
 Tat. No, no, not a syllable ; — I know that's a 
 secret, for it's whispered everywhere. 
 
 Scan. Ha 1 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ang. What is, Mr. Tattle ? I heard you say 
 something was whispered everywhere. 
 
 Scan. Your love of Valentine. 
 
 Ang. How ! 
 
 Tat. No, madam, his love for your ladyship. — 
 Gad take me, I beg your pardon ; — for I never 
 heard a word of your ladyship's passion till this 
 instant. 
 
 Ang. My passion ! and who told you of my 
 passion, pray, sir ? 
 
 Scan. [Aside to Tattle. ] Why, is the devil in 
 you .' did not I tell it you for a secret ? 
 
 Tat. [Aside to Scandal.] Gad so, but I 
 thought she might have been trusted with her own 
 affairs. 
 
 Scan. Is that your discretion ? trust a woman 
 with herself .' 
 
 Tat. You say true, I beg your pardon; — I'll 
 bring all off. — [Aloud.] It was impossible, madam, 
 for me to imagine, that a person of your ladyship's 
 wit and gallantry could have so long received the 
 passionate addresses of the accomplished Valentine, 
 and yet remain insensible ; therefore you will par- 
 don me, if, from a just weight of his merit, with 
 your ladyship's good judgment, I formed the 
 balance of a reciprocal affection. 
 
 Val. O the devil ! what damned costive poet 
 
illG 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 has given thee this lesson of fustian to get by 
 rote? 
 
 Ang, I dare swear you wrong him, it is his own ; 
 and Mr. Tattle only judges of the success of others 
 from the effects of his own merit. For certainly 
 Mr. Tattle was never denied anything in his 
 life. 
 
 Tat. O Lord! yes, indeed, madam, several 
 times. 
 
 Ang, I swear I don't think 'tis possible. 
 
 Tat, Yes, I vow and swear I have : Lord, 
 madam, I'm the most unfortunate man in the 
 world, and the most cruelly used by the ladies, 
 
 Ang. Nay, now you are ungrateful. 
 
 Tat. No, I hope not : — 'tis as much ingratitude 
 to own some favours as to conceal others. 
 
 Val. There, now it's out. 
 
 Ang. 1 don't understand you now: I thought 
 you had never asked anything but what a lady might 
 modestly grant, and you confess. 
 
 Scan. So, faith, your business is done here ; now 
 you may go brag somewhere else. 
 
 Tat. Brag ! O heavens ! why, did I name any- 
 body ? 
 
 Ang. No, I suppose that is not in your pow,er : 
 but you would if you could, no doubt on't. 
 
 Tat. Not in my power, madam ! what, doej 
 your ladyship mean that I have no woman's repu- 
 tation in my power .'' 
 
 Scan, l.-lside to Tattle.] 'Oons, why, you 
 won't owD it, will you ? 
 
 Tat. Faith, madam, you're in the right: no 
 more I have, as I hope to be saved ; I never had it 
 in my power to say anything to a lady's prejudice 
 in my life. For, as I was telling you, madam, I 
 have been the most unsuccessful creature living, in 
 things of that nature ; and never had the good for- 
 tune to be trusted once with a lady's secret, not 
 once. 
 
 Ang. No 1 
 
 Val. Not once, I dare answer for him. 
 
 Scan. And I'll answer for him ; for I'm sure if 
 he had, he would have told me. — I find, madam, 
 you don't know Mr. Tattle. 
 
 Tat. No, indeed, madam, you don't know me 
 at all, I find. For sure my intimate friends would 
 have known — 
 
 Ang. Then it seems you would have told, if you 
 had been trusted. 
 
 Tat. O pox, Scandal ! that was too far put — 
 Never have told particulars, madam. Perhaps I 
 might have talked as of >i third person, or have 
 introduced an amour of my own, in conversation, 
 by way of novel ; but never have explained parti- 
 culars. 
 
 Ang. But whence comes the reputation of Mr. 
 Tattle's secrecy, if he was never trusted ? 
 
 Sean. Why thence it arises ; the thing is pro- 
 verbially spoken ; but may be applied to him. — As 
 if we should say in general terms, He only is secret 
 who never was trusted; a satirical proverb upon 
 our sex. — There's another upon yours, as She is 
 chaste who was never asked the question. That's 
 all. 
 
 Val. A couple of very civil proverbs truly ; 'tis 
 hard to tell whether the lady or Mr. Tattle be the 
 more obliged to you. For you found her virtue 
 upon the backwardness of the men, and his secrecy 
 upon the mistrust of the women. 
 
 Tat. Gad, it'n verv true, madam, I think we 
 
 are obliged to acquit ourselves ; and for my part — 
 but youlr ladyship is to speak first. 
 
 Ang. Am I ? well, I freely confess I have resisted 
 a great deal of temptation. 
 
 Tat. And, egad, I have given some temptation 
 that has not been resisted. 
 Val. Good ! 
 
 Ang. I cite Valentine here, to declare to the 
 
 court how fruitless he has found his endeavours, 
 
 and to confess all his solicitations and my denials. 
 
 Val. I am ready to plead not guilty for you, and 
 
 guilty for myself. 
 
 Scan. So, why tWs is fair, here's demonstration 
 with a witness ! 
 
 Tat. Well, my witnesses are not present. But 
 I confess I have had favours from persons — but as 
 the favours are numberless, so the persons are 
 nameless. 
 
 Scan. Pooh, this proves nothing. 
 Tat. No ? I can show letters, lockets, pictures, 
 and rings ; and if there be occasion for witnesses, 
 I can summon the maids at the chocolate-houses, 
 all the porters at Pail-Mall and Covent-Garden, 
 the door-keepers at the play-house, the drawers at 
 Locket's, Pontac's, the Rummer, Spring-Garden ; 
 my own landlady, and valet-de-chambre ; all who 
 shall make oath, that I receive more letters than 
 the Secretary's Office ; and that I have more vizor- 
 masks to inquire for me than ever went to see the 
 Hermaphrodite, or the Naked Prince. And it is 
 notorious, that in a country church, once, an inquiry 
 being made who I was, it was answered, I was 
 the famous Tattle, who had ruined so many 
 women. 
 
 Val. It was there, I suppose, you got the nick- 
 name of the Great Turk. 
 
 Tat. True, I was called Turk-Tattle all over 
 the parish. — The next Sunday all the old women 
 kept their daughters at home, and the parson had 
 not half his congregation. He would have brought 
 me into the spiritual court, but I was revenged 
 upon him, for he had a handsome daughter, whom 
 I initiated into the science. But I repented it 
 afterwards, for it was talked of in town j and a lady 
 of quality, that shall be nameless, in a raging fit of 
 jealousy, came down in her coach and six horsey, 
 and exposed herself upon my account ; gad I was 
 sorry for it with all my heart. — You know whom 
 I mean — you know where we raffled — 
 Scan. Mum, Tattle. 
 Val. 'Sdeath, are not you ashamed? 
 Ang. O barbarous ! I never heard so insolent a 
 
 piece of vanity Fy, Mr. Tattle! — I'll swear I 
 
 could not have believed it. — Is this your secrecy ? 
 Tat. Gad so, the heat of my story carried me 
 beyond my discretion, as the heat of the lady's 
 passion hurried her beyond her reputation. — But 
 I hope you don't know whom I mean ; for there 
 were a great many ladies raffled. — Pox on't ! now 
 could I bite off my tongue. 
 
 Scan. No, don't ; for then you'll tell us no 
 more. — Come, I'll recommend a song to you upon 
 the hint of my two proverbs, and I see one in the 
 next room that will sing it. lExit. 
 
 Tat. For Heaven's sake if you do guess, say 
 nothing ; gad, I'm very unfortunate. 
 
 Re-tnter Scandal with one to sing. 
 Scan. Pray sing the first song in the last new 
 plav. 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 217 
 
 BONO. 
 
 A nympli and a swain to Apollo once pray'd, 
 
 The swain had heen jilted, the nymph heen betray'd : 
 
 Their intent was to try if his oracle knew 
 
 E'er a nymph that was chaste, or a swain that was true. 
 
 Apollo was mute, and had like t'have been posed. 
 But sagely at length he this secret disclosed : 
 • He alone wont betray in whom none will confide : 
 And the nymph may be chaste that hoB never heen tried/ 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Angelica, Valentine, Scanhal, Tattle, Sir Samfsok, 
 Mrs. Frail, Miss Prue, and Servant. 
 
 Sir Samp. Is Ben come ? odso, my son Ben 
 come ? odd I'm glad on't : where is he ? I long to 
 see him. — Now, Mrs. Frail, you shall see my son 
 Ben. — Body o'me, he's the hopes of my family. — 
 I han't seen him these three years. — I warrant he's 
 grown.- — Call him in, bid him make haste. — {^Exii 
 Servant.] I'm ready to cry for joy. 
 
 Frail. Now, miss, you shall see your husband. 
 
 Prue. [Aside to Mrs. Frail,] Pish, he shall 
 De none of my husband. 
 
 Frail. [.<4sirfe ^o Prue.] Hush : well he shan't, 
 leave that to me. — I'll beckon Mr. Tattle to us. 
 
 Aug. "Won't you stay and see your brother .' 
 
 Vol. We are tl^e twin-stars, and cannot shine 
 in one sphere ; when he rises I must set. — Besides, 
 if I should stay, I don't know but my father in 
 good-nature may press me to the immediate signing 
 5ie deed of conveyance of my estate; and I'll 
 defer it as long as I can. — Wefl, you'll come to a 
 resolution ? 
 
 .^471^. I can't. Resolution must come to me, or 
 I shall never have one. 
 
 Scan. Come, Valentine, I'll go with you ; I've 
 something in my head to communicate to you. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Angelica, Sir Sampson, Tattle, Mrs. Frail, and Miss 
 Prue. 
 
 Sir Samp. What, is my son Valentine gone ? 
 what, is he sneaked off, and would not see his 
 brother ? There's an unnatural whelp ! there's an 
 ill-natured dog ! — What, were you here too, madam, 
 and could not keep him ? could neither love, nor 
 duty, nor natural affection, oblige him ? Odsbud, 
 madam, have no more to say to him ; he is not 
 worth your consideration. The rogue has not a 
 drachm of generous love about him : all interest, all 
 interest ; he's an undone scoundrel, and courts 
 your estate : body o'me, he does not care a doit for 
 your person. 
 
 Ang. I'm pretty even with him, sir Sampson ; 
 for if ever I could have liked anything in him, it 
 should have been his estate too : but since that's 
 gone, the bait's off, and the naked hook appears. 
 
 Sir Samp. Odsbud, well spoken ; and you are a 
 wiser woman than I thought you were : for most 
 young women now-a-days are to be tempted with 
 a naked hook. 
 
 Ang. If I marry, sir Sampson, I'm for a good 
 estate with any man, and for any man with a good 
 estate : therefore if I were obliged to make a choice, 
 I declare I'd rather have you than your son. 
 
 Sir Samp. Faith and troth, you're a wise woman, 
 and I'm glad to hear you say so ; I was afraid you 
 were in love with the reprobate ; odd, I was sorry 
 for you with all my heart : hang him, mongrel ; 
 cast him off ; you shall see the rogue show himself, 
 and make love to some des^ponding Cadua of four- 
 score for sustenance. Odd, I love to see a young 
 spendthrift forced to cling to an old woman for 
 support, like ivy round a dead oak : faith I do ; I 
 love to see 'em hug and cotton together, like down 
 upon a thistle. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Angelica, Sir Sampson, Tattle, Mrs. Frail, Miss Frub, 
 Ben, and Servant. 
 
 Ben. Where's father ? 
 
 Serv. There, sir, his back's toward you. 
 
 Sir Samp. My son Ben ! bless thee, my dear 
 boy ; body o'me, thou art heartily welcome. 
 
 Sen. T'hank you, father, and I'm glad to see 
 yon.- 
 
 Sir Samp. Odsbud, and I am glad to see thee j 
 kiss me, boy, kiss me again and again, dear Ben. 
 
 [_Eisses him. 
 
 Ben. So, so, enough, father. — Mess, I'd rather 
 kiss these gentlewomen. 
 
 Sir Samp. And so thou shalt. — Mrs. Angelica, 
 my son Ben. 
 
 Ben. Forsooth, if you please. — ISalutes her. J 
 Nay, mistress, I'm not for dropping anchor here ; 
 about ship i'faith. — [Kisses Mrs. Frail.] Nay, 
 and you, too, my little cock-boat — so. 
 
 IKisses Miss Prub. 
 
 Tai. Sir, you're welcome ashore. 
 
 Ben. Thank you, thank you, friend. 
 
 Sir Samp. Thou hast been many a weary league, 
 Ben, since I saw thee. 
 
 Ben. Ey, ey, been ! been far enough, an that 
 be all. — ^Well, father, and how do all at home .'' 
 how does brother Dick, and brother Val ? 
 
 Sir Samp, Dick ! body o'me, Dick has been dead 
 these two years ! I writ you word when you were 
 at Leghorn. 
 
 Ben. Mess, that's true ; marry, I had forgot. 
 Dick's dead, as you say. — Well, and how .' I have 
 many questions to ask you. Well, you ben't married 
 again, father, be you ? 
 
 Sir Samp. No, I intend you shall marry, Ben ; 
 I would not marry for thy sake. 
 
 Ben. Nay, what does that signify .' — ^An you 
 marry again — why, then, I'll go to sea again, so 
 
 there's one for t'other, an that be all Pray don't 
 
 let me be your hindrance ; e en marry a* God's 
 name, an the wind sit that way. As for my part, 
 mayhap I have no mind to marry. 
 
 Frail. That would be a pity, such a handsome 
 young gentleman. 
 
 Ben. Handsome ! he ! he! he ! nay, forsooth, an 
 you be for joking, I'll joke with you ; for I love 
 my jest, an the ship were sinking, as we say'n at 
 sea. But I'll tell you why I don't much stand 
 toward matrimony. I love to roam about from 
 port to port, and from land to land : I could never 
 
SIS 
 
 LOVli FOR LOVE. 
 
 abide to be port-bound, as we call it ; now, a man 
 that is married has, as it were, d'ye see, his feet in 
 the bilboes, and mayhap mayn't get 'em out again 
 when he would. 
 
 Sir Samp. Ben's a wag. 
 
 Ben. A man that is married, d'ye see, is no more 
 like another man than a galley-slave is like one of 
 us free sailors ; he is chained to an oar all his life ; 
 and mayhap forced to tug a leaky vessel into the 
 bargain. 
 
 Sir Samp. A very wag ! Ben's a very wag ! only 
 a little rough, he wants a little polishing. 
 
 Frail. Not at all ; I like his humour mightily, 
 it's plain and honest ; I should like such a humour 
 in a husband extremely. 
 
 •Ben. Say'n you so, forsooth ? Marry, and I 
 should like such a handsome gentlewoman for a 
 bedfellow hugely ; how say you, mistress, would 
 you like going to sea ? Mess, you're a tight vessel ! 
 and well rigged, an you were but as well manned. 
 
 Frail. I should not doubt that, if you were 
 master of me. 
 
 Ben. But I'll tell you one thing, an you come 
 to sea in a high wind, or that lady-^you mayn't 
 carry so much sail o' your head. — Top and top- 
 gallant, by the mess. 
 
 Pnail. No, why so .' 
 
 Ben. Why, an you do you may run the risk to 
 be overset, and then you'll carry your keels above 
 water, he i he ! he ! 
 
 Ang. I swear, Mr. Benjamin is tlie veriest wag 
 in nature ; an absolute sea-wit. 
 
 Sir Samp. Nay, Ben has parts, but, as I told 
 you before, they want a little polishing : you must 
 not take anything ill, madam. 
 
 Ben. No, I hope the gentleworaaii is not angry; 
 I mean all in good part ; for if I give a jest I'll 
 take a jest : and so, forsooth, you rnay be as free 
 with me. 
 
 Ang. I thank you, sir, I am not at all offended. 
 ^But methinks, sir Sampson, you should leave 
 him alone with his mistress. — Mr. Tattle, we must 
 not hinder lovers. 
 
 Tat. [Aside la Miss Prue.] Well, miss, I have 
 your promise. 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o me, madam, you say true — 
 Look you, Ben, this is your mistress. — Come, miss, 
 you must not be shamefaced •, we'll leave you to- 
 gether. 
 
 Prue. I can't abide to be left alone, mayn't my 
 cousin stay with me ? 
 
 Sir Samp. No, no. — Come, let's away. 
 
 Ben. Look you, father, mayhap the young 
 woman mayn't take a liking to me. 
 
 Sir Samp. X warrant thee, boy ; come, come, 
 we'll be gone ; I'll venture that 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Ben and Miss Prce. 
 
 Ben. Come, mistress, will you please to sit 
 down .' for an you stand astern a that'n , we shall 
 never grapple together.— Come, I'll haul a chair ; 
 there, an you please to sit I'll sit by you. 
 
 Prue. You need not sit so near one ; if you 
 have anything to say I can hear you farther off, I 
 an't deaf. 
 
 Ben. Why, that's true, as you say; nor I an't 
 ilumb ; I can be heard as far as another;— I'll heave 
 
 off to please you. — \Sits farther off.'\ An we were 
 a Ifeague asunder, I'd undertake to hold discourse 
 with you, an 'twere not a main high wind indeed, 
 and full in my teeth. Look you, forsooth, I am, 
 as it were, bound for the land of matrimony ; 'tis a 
 voyage, d'ye see, that was none of my seeking, I 
 was commanded by father, and if you like of it 
 mayhap I may steer into your harbour. How say 
 you, mistress ? The short of the thing is, that if 
 you like me, and I like you, we may chance to 
 swing in a hammock together. 
 
 Prue. I don't know what to say to you, nor I 
 don't care to speak with you at all. 
 
 Ben. No ? I'm sorry for that. — But pray, why 
 are you so scornful ? 
 
 Prue. As long as one must not speak one's 
 mind, one had better not speak at all, I think, and 
 truly I won't tell a lie for the matter. 
 
 Ben. Nay, you say true in that, 'tis but a folly 
 to lie : for to speak one thing, and to think just 
 the contrary way, is, as it were, to look one way 
 and row another. Now, for ray part, d'ye see, I'm 
 for carrying things above board, I'm not for keep- 
 ing anything under hatches, — so that if you ben't 
 as willing as I, say so a' God's name, there's no 
 harm done. Mayhap you may be shamefaced.' 
 some maidens, tho'f they love a man well enough, 
 yet they don't care to tell'n so to's face : if that's 
 the case, why silence gives consent. 
 
 Prue. But I'm sure it is not so, for I'll speak 
 sooner than you should believe that ; and I'll speak 
 truth, though one should always tell a lie to a man ; 
 and I don't care, let my father do what he will ; 
 I'm too big to be whipped, so I'll tell you plainly 
 I don't like yon, nor love you at all, nor never will, 
 that's more : so, there's your answer for you; and 
 don't trouble me no more, you ugly thing ! 
 
 Ben. Look you, young woman, you may learn 
 to give good words however. I spoke you fair, 
 d'ye see, and civil. — .4.S for your love or your lik- 
 ing, I don't value it of a rope's end ; — and mayhap 
 I like you as little as you do me — ^What I said was 
 in obedience to father ; gad I fear a whipping no ' 
 more than you do. But I tell you one thing, if 
 you should give such language at sea you'd have a 
 cat 6' nine-tails laid cross your shoulders. Flesh ! 
 who are you ? You heard t'other handsome young 
 woman speak civilly to me, of her own accord : 
 whatever you think of yourself, gad I don't think 
 you are any more to compare to her than a can of 
 small beer to a bowl of punch. 
 
 Prue. Well, and there's a handsome gentleman, 
 and a fine gentleman, and a sweet gentleman, that 
 was here, that loves me, and I love him ; and if he 
 sees you speak to me any more he'll thrash your 
 jacket for you, he will, you great sea-calf! 
 
 Ben. What, do you mean that fair-weather spark 
 that was here just now ? will he thrash my jacket .' 
 — let'n — let'n. But an he comes near me, may- 
 hap I may giv'n a salt eel for's supper, for all 
 that. What does father mean to leave me alone 
 as soon as I come home, with such a dirty dowdy .' 
 Sea-calf ! I an't calf enough to lick your chalked 
 face, you cheese-curd you ! — Marry thee ! 'oons, 
 I'll marry a Lapland witch as soon, and live upon 
 selling contrary winds and wrecked vessels. 
 
 Prue. I won't be called names, nor I won't be 
 abused thus, so I won't. — If I were a man [CHes'\, 
 you durst not talk at this rate ; — no, yon durst not, 
 you stinking tar-barrel ! 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 219 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Ben, Miss Paue, Mrs. Foresight, and Mrs. I-'ratl. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. [Aside to Mi'S. Frail.] They have 
 quarrelled just as we could wish. 
 
 Ben. ' Tar-barrel ? let your sweetheart there call 
 me so if he'll take your part, your Tom Essence, 
 and I'll say something to him ; gad, I'll lace his 
 musk doublet for him !• I'll make him stink ! ■ he 
 shall smell more like a weasel than a civet cat afore 
 1 ha' done with 'en. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Bless me, what's the matter, miss? 
 What, does she cry ?— Mr. Benjamin, what have 
 you done to her ? 
 
 Ben. Let her cry : the more she cries, the less 
 she'll — she has been gathering foul weather in 
 her mouth, and now it rains out at her eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Come, miss, come along with me, 
 and tell me, poor child. 
 
 Frail. Lord, what shall we do ? there's my 
 brother Foresight and sir Sampson coming.. — ■ 
 Sister, do you take miss down into the parlour, 
 and I'll carry Mr. Benjamin into my chamber, for 
 they must not know that they are fallen out. — 
 Come, sir, will you venture yourself with me .■* 
 
 ILooking kindly on him. 
 
 Ben. Venture, mess, and that I will, though 
 'twere to sea in a storm. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Sir Sampson and Foresight. 
 
 Sir Samp, I left 'em together here ; what, are 
 they gone ? Ben's a brisk boy ; he has got her 
 into a corner ; father's own son, faith, he'll touzle 
 her, and mouzle her ; the rogue's sharp set, com- 
 ing from sea ; if he should not stay for saying 
 grace, old Foresight, but fall too without the help 
 of a parson, ha ? Odd, if he should, I could not be 
 angry with him ; 'twould be but like me, a chip of 
 the old block. Ha ! thou'rt melanchoHc, old prog- 
 nostication ; as melancholic as if thou hadst spilt 
 the salt, or pared thy nails on a Sunday. — Come, 
 cheer up, look about thee : lookup, old star-gazer. 
 — [Aside.'} Now is he poring upon the ground 
 for a crooked pin, or an old horse-nail, with the 
 head towards him. 
 
 Fore. Sir SamDson, we'll have the wedding to- 
 morrow morning. 
 
 Sir Samp. With all my heart. 
 
 Fore. At ten o'clock, punctually at ten. 
 
 Sir Samp. To a minute, to a second ; thou shalt 
 set thy watch, and the bridegroom shall observe its 
 motions ; they shall be married to a minute ; go to 
 bed to a minute ; and when the alarm strikes, they 
 shall keep time like the figures of St. Dunstan's 
 clock, and consummatum est shall ring all over the 
 parish. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Sir Sampson, Foresight, and Scandal. 
 Scan. Sir Sampson, sad news ! 
 Fore. Bless us ! 
 
 Sir Samp. Why, what's the matter ? 
 ^nan. Can't you guess at what ought to afflict 
 
 you and him, and all of us, more than anything 
 else ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o'me, I don't know any 
 universal grievance but a new tax, or the loss of the 
 Canary fleet. Unless popery should be landed in 
 the west, 'or the French fleet were at anchor at 
 Black wall. 
 
 Scan. No ! undoubtedly Mr. Foresight knew all 
 this, and might have prevented it. 
 
 Fore. 'Tis no earthquake ! 
 
 Scan. No, not yet ; nor whirlwind. But we 
 don't know what it may come to. — But it has had 
 a consequence already that touches us all. 
 
 Sir Samp, Why, body o'me, out with't. 
 
 Scan. Something has appeared to your son 
 Valentine. — He's gone to bed upon't, and very ill. 
 — He speaks little, yet says 'he has a world to 
 say. Asks for his father and the wise Foresight j 
 talks of Raymond Lully, and the ghost of Lilly. 
 He has secrets to impart I suppose to you two. I 
 can get nothing out of him but sighs. He desires 
 he may see you in the morning, but would not be 
 disturbed to-night, because he has some business 
 to do in a dream. 
 
 Sir Samp. Hoity, toity, what have I to 40 with 
 his dreams or his divinations .' — Body o'me. this is 
 a trick to defer signing the conveyance. 1 warrant, 
 the devil will tell him in a dream, that he must not 
 part with his estate ; but I'll bring him a parson, 
 to tell him that the devil's a liar ; or, if that won't 
 do, I'll bring a lawyer that shall outlie the devil. 
 And so I'll try 'whether my blackguard or his shall 
 get the better of the day. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Scandal and Foresight. 
 
 Scan. Alas, Mr. Foresight ! I'm afraid all is 
 not right. — You are a wise man, and a con?/)ien- 
 tious man ; a searcher into obscurity and futurity ; 
 and if you commit an error, it is with a great deal 
 of consideration and discretion and caution. 
 
 Fore. Ah, good Mr. Scandal — 
 
 Scan. Nay, nay, 'tis manifest ; I do not flatter 
 you. — But Sir Sampson is hasty, very hasty ; — I'm 
 afraid he is not scrupulous enough, Mr. Foresight. 
 — He has been wicked, and heaven grant he may 
 mean well in his affair with you. — But my mind 
 gives me, these things cannot be wholly insignificant. 
 You are wise, and should not be over-reached, me- 
 thinks you should not. 
 
 Fore. Alas, Mr Scandal! — JIumanumesterrare, 
 
 Scan. You say true, man will err ; mere man 
 will err — but you are something more. — There have 
 been wise men ; but they were such as you ; — men 
 who consulted the stars, and were observers of 
 omens. — Solomon was wise, but how ? — by his 
 judgment in astrology -.—so says Pineda in his 
 third book and eighth chapter. 
 
 Fore. You are learned, Mr. Scandal ! 
 
 Scan. A trifler — but a lover of art. — And the 
 wise men of the East owed their instruction to a 
 star, which is rightly observed by Gregory the 
 Great in favour of astrology I And Albertus 
 Magnus makes it the most valuable science : 
 because (says he) it teaches us to consider the 
 causation of causes, in the causes of things. 
 
 Fore. I protest I honour you, Mr. Scandal ;— 
 
220 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 I did not think you had been read in these mattere. 
 — Few young men are inclined — 
 
 Scan. I thank my stars that have inclined me. 
 — But I fear this marriage, and making over this 
 estate, this transferring of a rightful inheritance, 
 will bring judgments upon us. I prophesy it, and 
 I would not have the fate of Cassandra, not to be 
 believed. Valentine is disturbed, what can be the 
 cause of that ? and sir Sampson is hurried on by 
 an unusual violence. — I fear he does not act wholly 
 from himself ; methinks he does not look as he 
 used to do. 
 
 Fore. He was always of an impetuous nature. — 
 But as to this marriage, I have consulted the 
 stars, and all appearances are prosperous. 
 
 Scan. Come, come, Mr, Foresight, let not the 
 prospect of worldly lucre carry you beyond your 
 judgment, nor against your conscience :— you are 
 not satisfied that you act jusdy. 
 
 Fore. How ? 
 
 Scan. You are not satisfied, 1 say. — I am loath 
 to discourage you — but it is palpable that you are 
 not satisfied. 
 
 ■ Fore. How does it appear, Mr. Scandal .■* I 
 think I am very well satisfied. 
 
 Scan. Either you suffer yourself to deceive 
 yourself ; or you do not know yourself. 
 
 Fore. Pray explain yourself. 
 
 Scan. Do you sleep well o'nights? 
 
 Fore. Very well. 
 
 Scan. Are you certain ? you do not look so. 
 
 Fore. I am in health, I think. 
 
 Scan. So was Valentine this morning ; a&d 
 looked just so. 
 
 Fore. How ! am I altered any way ? I don't 
 perceive it. 
 
 Scan. That may be, but your beard is loliger 
 llian it was two hours ago. 
 
 Fore, Indeed 1 bless me 1 
 
 SCENE XTI. 
 ScANBAi., Foresight, and Mrs. Fouesight. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Husband, will you go to bed.' it's 
 ten o'clock — Mr. Scandal, your servant. 
 
 Scan. [Asiiie.'] Pox on her ! she has inter- 
 rupted my design : — but I must work her into 
 
 the project lAloud.] You keep early hours, 
 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Mr. Foresight is punctual, we sit 
 up after him. 
 
 Fore. My dear, pray tend me your glass, y<>ur 
 little looking-glass. 
 
 Scan. Pray, lend it him, madam — I'll till you 
 the reason — {_She gives him the glass : Scandal 
 and she talk aside.} My passion for you is grown 
 so violent, that I am no longer master of myself. 
 — I was interrupted in the morning, when you had 
 charity enough to give me your attention, and I 
 had hopes of finding another opportunity of 
 explaining myself to you; — but was disappointed 
 all this day ; and the uneasiness that has attended 
 me ever since, biings ine now hither at this unsea- 
 sonable hour. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Was there ever such impudence ! 
 to make love to me before my husband's face ! I'll 
 swear I'll tell him. 
 
 Scan. Do i I'll die a martyr, rather than dis- 
 
 claim my -passion. But come a little farther this 
 way, and I'll tell you what project I had to get him 
 out of the way, that I might have an opportunity 
 of waiting upon you. 
 
 Fore. [Looking in the glass."] I do not see any 
 revolution here ; — methinks I look with a serene 
 and benign aspect— pale, a little pale — but the 
 roses of these cheeks have been gathered many 
 years. — Ha ! I do not like that sudden flushing ; — 
 gone already 1 — hem, hem, hem ! faintish. My 
 heart is pretty good ; yet it beats ; and my pulses, 
 ha I — I have none — mercy on me 1 — hum — yes, 
 here they are — gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, 
 gallop, hey 1 whither wiU they hurry me ? — Now 
 they're gone again — and now I'm faint again ; and 
 pale again, and, hem ! and my, hem ! — breath, 
 hem ! — grows short ; hem ! hem ! he, he, hem ! 
 
 Scan. [Aside to Mrs. Foresight.] It takes ; 
 pursue it, in the name of love and pleasure 1 
 
 Mrs. Fore. How do you do, Mr. Foresight ? 
 
 Fore. Hum, not so well as I thought I was. 
 Lend me your hand. 
 
 Scan. Look you there now — your lady says your 
 sleep has been unquiet of late. 
 
 Fore. Very likely. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. O mighty restless ; but I was afraid ^ 
 to tell him so. — He has been subject to talking and 
 starting. 
 
 Scan. And did not use to be so ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Never, never, till within these three 
 nights ; I cannot say that he has once broken my ' 
 rest since we have b^eu married. 
 
 Fore. I will go to bed. 
 
 Scan. Do so, Mr. Foresight, and say your 
 prayers He looks better than he did. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Nurse, nurse ! ^Calls, 
 
 Fore. Do you think so, Mr. Scandal ? 
 
 Scan. Yes, yes ; 1 hope this will be gone by 
 morning, taking it in time. 
 
 Fore. I hope so. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 ScANDAi., Fdrbsight, Mrs. FORGS[OHT, and Nursa. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Nurse, your master is not well ; put 
 him to bed. 
 
 Scan. I hope you will be able to see Valentine 
 in the morning. You had best take a little diaco- 
 dion and cowslip-water, and lie upon your back, 
 may be you may dream. 
 
 Fore. I thank you, Mr. Scandal, I will. — Nurse, 
 let me have a watch-light, and lay the Crumis of 
 Comfort by me. 
 
 Nurse. Yes, sir. 
 
 Fore. And — hem, hem ! I am very faint. 
 
 Scan. No, no ; you look much better.' 
 
 Fore. Do I.' — [To Nurse.] And, d'ye hear, 
 bring me, let me see — within a quarter of twelve — 
 hem — he, hem I — ^just upon the turning of the tide, 
 bring me the urinal. And I hope, neither the lord 
 of my ascendant, nor the moon^ will be combust j 
 and then I may do well. 
 
 Scan. I hope so. Leave that to me ; I will 
 erect a scheme ; and I hope I shall find both Sol 
 and Venus in the sixth house. 
 
 Fore. I thank you, Mr. Scandal ; indeed that 
 would be a great comfort to me. Hem, hem ! 
 good night. 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 221 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 Scandal and Mrs. Fokesight, 
 
 Scan. Good night, good Mr. Foresight ; and I 
 hope Mars and Venus will be in conjunction, while 
 your wife and I are together. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Well, and what use do you hope to 
 make of this project .' you don't think that you are 
 ever like to succeed in your design upon me ? 
 
 Scan. Yes, faith, I do ; I have a better opinion 
 both of you and myself than to despair. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Did you ever hear such a toad ? 
 Hark ye, devil ! do you think any woman honest ? 
 
 Scan. Yes, several very honest ; they'll cheat a 
 little at cards, sometimes j but that's nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Pshaw ! but virtuous, I mean. 
 
 Scan. Yes, faith ; I believe some women are 
 virtuous too ; but 'tis' as I believe some men are 
 valiant, through fear. For why should a man court 
 danger, or a woman shun pleasure .' 
 
 Mrs. Fore. O monstrous ! what are conscience 
 and honour ? 
 
 .Scan. Why, honour is a public enemy ; and con- 
 science a domestic thief ; and he that would secure 
 his pleasure, must pay a tribute to one, and go 
 halves with t'other. As for honour, that you have 
 secured ; for you have purchased a perpetual oppor- 
 tunity for pleasure. 
 
 iVrs. Fore. An opportunity for pleasure ! 
 
 Scan. Ay, your husband ; a husband is an oppor- 
 tunity for pleasure ; so you have taken care of 
 honour, and 'tis the least I can do to take care of 
 conscience. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. And so you think we are free for 
 one another. 
 
 Scan. Yes, faith, I think so ; I love to speak' my 
 mind. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Why, then I'll speak my mind. 
 Now, as to this affair between you and me. Here 
 you make love to me ; why, I'll confess, it does not 
 displease me. Your person is well enough, and 
 your understanding is not amiss. 
 
 Scan. I have no great opinion of myself ; but I 
 think I'm neither deformed nor a fool. 
 
 Mrs, Fore. But you have avillanous character; 
 you are a libertine in speech as well as practice. 
 
 Scan. Come, I know what you would say ; you 
 think it more dangerous to be seen in conversation 
 with me, than to allow some other men the last 
 favour. You mistake ; the hberty I take in talk- 
 ing is purely affected, for the service of your sex. 
 He that first cries out. Stop thief! is often he that 
 has stolen the treasure. I am a juggler, that act 
 by confederacy ; and, if you please, we'll put a 
 trick upon the world. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Ay j but you are such a universal 
 juggler, that I'm afraid you have a great many 
 confederates. 
 
 Scan. Faith, I'm sound. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. O, fy ! — I'll swear you're impudent. 
 
 Scan. I'll swear you're handsome. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Pish 1 you'd tell me so, though you 
 did not think so. 
 
 Scan. And you'd think so, though I should not 
 tell you so. And now I think we know one another 
 pretty well. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. O Lord, who's here ? 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 
 Scandal, Mra Forksight, Mrs. Frail, and Ben. 
 
 Sen. Mess, I love to speak my mind ; father 
 has nothing to do with me. Nay, I can't say that 
 neither ; he has something to do with me. But 
 what does that signify ? if so be, that I be'n't 
 minded to be steered by him, 'tis as tho'f be 
 should strive against wind and tide. 
 
 Frail. Ay, but, my dear, we must keep it secret 
 till the estate be settled ; for you know marrying 
 without an estate is like sailing in a ship without 
 ballast. 
 
 Sen. He ! he ! he ! why, that's true ; just so 
 for all the world it is indeed, as like as two cable- 
 ropes. 
 
 Frail. And though I have a good portion, you 
 know one would not venture all in one bottom. 
 
 Ben. Why, that's true again ; for mayliap one 
 bottom may spring a leak. You have hit it indeed, 
 mess, you've nicked the channel. 
 
 Frail. Well, but if you should forsake me after 
 all, you'd break my heart. 
 
 Ben. Break your heart ! I'd rather the Mary- 
 gold should break her cable in a storm, as well as 
 I love her. Flesh, yon don't think I'm false- 
 hearted Uke a landman ! A sailor will be honest, 
 tho'f mayhap he has never a penny of money in his 
 pocket. — Mayhap I may not have so fair a face as 
 a citizen or a courtier ; but for all that, I've as 
 good blood in my veins, and a heart as sound as a 
 biscuit. 
 
 Frail. And will you love me always ? 
 
 Ben. Nay, an I love once, I'U stick like pitch ; 
 I'll tell you that. Come, I'll sing you a song of a 
 sailor. 
 
 Frail. Hold, there's my sister ; I'll call her to 
 hear it. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Well, I won't go to bed to my 
 husband to-night ; because I'll retire to my own 
 chamber, and think of what you have said. 
 
 Scan. Well ; you'll give me leave to wait upon 
 you to your chamber door, and leave you my last 
 instructions ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Hold, here's my sister coming 
 towards us.' 
 
 Frail. If it won't Interrupt you, I'll entertain 
 you vrith a song, 
 
 Ben. The song was made upon one of our 
 ship's crew's wife ; our boatswain made the 
 song J mayhap you may know her, sir. Before 
 she was married, she was called buxom Joan of 
 Deptford. 
 
 Scan. I have heard of her. 
 
 Ben sings. 
 
 A soldier and a sailor, 
 
 A tinker and a tailor. 
 
 Had once a doubtful strife, sir. 
 
 To make a maid a wife, sir. 
 
 Whose nanae was buxom Joan, 
 For now the time was ended, 
 "When she no more intended 
 To lick her lips at men, sir, 
 And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir. 
 
 And lie o' nights alone. 
 
 The soldier swore like thunder, 
 Jle loved her more than plunacr; 
 
2?2 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 And ebow'd her many a sear, sir, 
 Tliat he had brought from fai-, sir. 
 
 With fighting for her sake. 
 The tailor thought to please her. 
 With offering her his measure. 
 The tinker too with mettle, 
 Said he could mend her kettle. 
 
 And stop up every lealo 
 
 But while these three were prating, 
 The sailor slily waiting. 
 Thought if it came about, sir, 
 That they should all fall out, sir. 
 
 He then might play his part. 
 And j'Ust e'en as he meant, sir, 
 To loggerheads they went, sir. 
 And then he let fly at her 
 A shot 'twixt wind and water. 
 
 That won this fair maid's heart. 
 
 If some of our crew that came to see me are not 
 gone, you shall see that we sailors can dance some- 
 times as well as other folks. — ^Whistles.] I 
 warrant that brings 'em, an they be within hearing. 
 
 Enter Sailors. 
 
 Oh, here they be ! — and fiddles along with 'em. 
 Come, my lads, let's have a round, and V\l make 
 one. 
 
 A Dance. 
 
 Ben. We're merry folks, we sailors, we han't 
 much to care for. Thus we live at sea ; eat biscuit, 
 and di'ink flip ; put on a clean shirt once a quarter 
 — come home and lie with our landladies once a 
 year, get rid of a little money ; and then put off 
 with the next fair wind. How d'ye like us ? 
 
 Frail. O you are the happiest, merriest men 
 alive ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. We're beholden to Mr. Benjamin 
 for this entertainment — I believe it's late, 
 
 Ben. Why, forsooth, an you think so, you had 
 best go to be^. For my part, I mean to toss a 
 can, and remember my sweetbeart, afore I turn in; 
 mayhap I may dream of her. 
 
 Mrs. Fore, Mr. Scandal, you bad best go to 
 bed and dream too. 
 
 Scan. Why faith, I have a good lively imagina- 
 tion ; and can dream as mucb to the purpose as 
 another, if I set about it; but dreaming is the 
 poor retreat of a lazy, hopeless, and imperfect 
 lover; *tis the last glimpse of love to worn-out 
 sinners, and the faint dawning of a bliss to wishing 
 girls and growing boys. 
 
 There's nought but willing, waking love that can 
 
 Make blest the ripen'd maid and finisb'd man. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I Valentine's Lodging. 
 
 Scandal and Jbremy. 
 
 Scan. Well, is your master ready ? does he look 
 madly, and talk madly ? 
 
 Jer. Yes, sir ; you need make no great doubt of 
 that ; he that was so near turning poet yesterday 
 morning, can't be much to seek in playing the 
 madman to-day. 
 
 Scan. Would he have Angelica acquainted with 
 the reason of his design ? 
 
 t/ef. No, sir, not yet ; — he has a mind to try, 
 whether his playing the madman won't make her 
 play the fool, and fall in love with him ; or at least 
 own, that she has loved him all this while and con- 
 cealed it. 
 
 Scan. I saw her take coach just now with her 
 maid ; and think I heard her bid the coachman 
 drive hither. 
 
 Jer. Like enough, sir, for I told her maid this 
 morning my master was run stark mad only for love 
 of her mistress. I hear a coach stop ; if it should 
 be she, sir, I believe he would not see her, till he 
 hears how she takes it. 
 
 Scan. Well, I'll try her : — 'tis she, here she 
 comes. 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 Scandal, Jeremy, Anqeltca, and Jenny. 
 
 Ang. Mr. Scandal, I suppose you don't think it 
 a novelty to see a woman visit a man at his own 
 lodgings in a morning ? 
 
 Scan. Not upon a kind occasion, madam. But 
 when a lady comes tyrannically to insult a ruined 
 lover, and make manifest the cruel triumphs of her 
 beauty ; the barbarity of it something surprises 
 me. 
 
 Ang. I don't like raillery from a serious face.— 
 Pray tell me what is the matter .' 
 
 Jer. No strange matter, madam ; my master's 
 mad, that's all : I suppose your ladyship has 
 thought him (SO a great while. 
 
 Ang. How d'ye mean, mad ? 
 
 Jer. Why, faith, madam, he's mad for want of 
 his wits, just as he was poor for want of money ; 
 his head is e'en as light as his pockets ; and any- 
 body that has a mind to a bad bargain, can't do 
 better than to beg him for his estate. 
 
 Ang. If you speak truth, your endeavouring at 
 wit is very unseasonable. 
 
 Scan. [Aiide.^ She's concerned, and loves him. 
 
 Ang. Mr. Scandal, you cannot think me guilty 
 of so much inhumanity, as not to be concerned for 
 a man I must own myself obliged to ; pray tell me 
 the truth. 
 
 Scan. Faith, madam, I wish telling a lie would 
 mend the matter. But this is no new effect of an 
 unsuccessful passion. 
 
 Ang. [Aside.] I know not what to think. — Yet 
 I should be vexed to have a trick put upon me. — 
 lAloud.'] May I not see him .' 
 
 Scan. I'm aft-aid the physician is notwilKng 
 you should see him yet. — Jeremy, go in and 
 inquire. 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 223 
 
 SCENE III; 
 Scandal, Angelica, anc2 Jbnnv. 
 
 Ang, [Aside-I Ha ! I saw him wink and smile 
 — I fancy 'tis a trick — I'll try. — [Aloud.'] I would 
 disguise to all the world a failing which I must own 
 to you. — I fear my happiness depends upon the 
 recovery of Valentine. Therefor.e I conjure you, 
 as you are his friend, and as you have compassion 
 upon one fearful of affliction, to tell me what I am 
 to hope for. — I cannot speak — hut you may tell 
 me, for you know what I would ask. 
 
 Scan. [Aside.] So, this is pretty plain. — 
 [Aloud.] Be not too much concerned, madam, I 
 hope his condition is not desperate : an acknow- 
 ledgment of love from you, perhaps, may work a 
 cure ; as the fear of your aversion occasioned his 
 distemper. 
 
 Ang. [Aside.] Say you so ? nay, then I'm con- 
 vinced ; and if I don't play trick for trick, may I 
 never taste the pleasure of revenge ! — [Aloud.] 
 Acknowledgment of love ! I find you have mistaken 
 my compassion, and think me guilty of a weakness 
 I'm a stranger to. But I have too much sincerity 
 to deceive you, and too much charity to suffer him 
 to be deluded with vain hopes. Good-nature and 
 humanity oblige me to be concerned for him ; but 
 to love is neither in my power nor inclination ; and 
 if he can't be cured without I suck the poison 
 from his wounds, I'm afraid he won't recover his 
 senses till I lose mine. 
 
 Scan. [Aside.] Hey, crave woman, i'faith! — 
 [Aloud.] Won't you see him then, if he desire it? 
 
 Ang. What signify a madman's desires ? besides, 
 'twould make me uneasy. If I don't see him, 
 perhaps my concern for him may lessen. If I 
 forget him, 'tis no more than he has done by him- 
 self ; and now the surprise is over, methinks I am 
 not half so sorry as I was. 
 
 Scan. So, faith, good-nature works apace ; you 
 were confessing just now an obligation to his love. 
 
 Ang. But I have considered that passions are 
 unreasonable and involuntary ; if he loves, he can't 
 help it ; and if I don't love, I can't help it ; no 
 more than he can help his being a man, or I my 
 being a woman ; or no more than I can help my 
 want of inclination to stay longer here. — Come, 
 Jenny. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Scandal and Jeremv. 
 
 Scan. Humph ! — An admirable composition, 
 faith, this same womankind I 
 
 Jer. What, is she gone, sir ? 
 
 Scan. Gone .' why she was never here ; nor 
 anywhere else ; nor I don't know her if I see her ; 
 nor you neither. 
 
 Jer. Good lack ! what's the matter now ? are 
 any more of us to be mad ? Why, sir, my master 
 longs to see her; and is almost mad in good earnest 
 with the jnyful news of her being here. 
 
 Scan. We are all under a mistake. Ask no 
 questions, for I can't resolve you ; but I'll inform 
 your master. In the mean time, if our project 
 succeed no better with his father than it does 
 
 with his mistress, he may descend from his exal- 
 tation of madness into the road of common sense, 
 and be content only to be made a fool with other 
 reasonable people. — I hear sir Sampson. You know 
 your cue [ I'll to your master. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Jeremy, Sir Sampson, and Bucxsram. 
 
 Sir Samp. D'ye see, Mr. Buckram, here's the 
 paper signed with his own hand. 
 
 Buck. Good, sir. And the conveyance is ready 
 drawn in this box, if he be ready to sign and seal. 
 
 Sir Samp. Ready, body o' me, he must be 
 ready! his sham-sickness shan't excuse him. — Oj 
 here's his scoundrel.— Sirrah, where's your master.' 
 
 Jer. Ah, sir, he's quite gone. 
 
 Sir Samp. Gone ! what, he is not dead ? 
 
 Jer. No, sir, not dead. 
 
 Sir Samp. What, is he gone out of town ." run 
 away, ha 1 has he tricked me ? speak, varlet. 
 
 Jer. No, no, sir, he's safe enough, sir, an he 
 were but as sound, poor gentleman. He is, indeed, 
 here, sir, and not here, sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. Heyday, rascal, do you banter me? 
 sirrah, d'ye banter me ? — Speak, sirrah, where is 
 he ? for I will find him. 
 
 Jer. Would you could, sir ! for he has lost him- 
 self. Indeed, sir, I have almost broke my heart 
 about him — I can't refrain tears when I think of 
 him, sir : I'm as melancholy for him as a passing- 
 bell, sir ; or a horse in a pound. 
 
 Sir Samp. A pox confound your similitudes, 
 sir 1 — Speak to be understood, and tell me in plain 
 terms what the matter is with him, or I'll crack 
 your fool's scull. 
 
 Jer. Ah, you've hit it, sir ! that's the matter 
 with him, sir ; his scull's cracked, poor gentleman ! 
 he's stark mad, sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. Mad ! 
 
 Buck. What, is he non compos ? 
 
 Jer, Quite non compos, sir. 
 
 Buck. Why, then all's obliterated, sir Sampson; 
 if he be non compos mentis, his act and deed will 
 be of no effect, it is not good in law. 
 
 Sir Samp. 'Oons, I won't believe it ! let me see 
 him, sir. — Mad ! I'll make him find his senses. 
 
 Jer. Mr. Scandal is with him, sir ; I'll knock at 
 the door. [Goes to the Scene, which opens. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Sir Sampson, Valentine, Scandal, Jeremy, and Buck- 
 ram. Vai-kntine upon a couch, disorderly dressed. 
 
 Sir Samp. How now I what's here to do ? 
 
 Val. Ha ! who's that ? 
 
 Scan. For heaven's sake softly, sir, and gently ! 
 don't provoke him. 
 
 Val. Answer me, who is that, and that ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Gadsbobs, does he not know me ? 
 Is he mischievous ? I'll speak gently. — Val, Val, 
 dost thou not know me, boy ? not know thy own 
 father, Val ? I am thy own father, and this is 
 honest Brief Buckram the lawyer. 
 
 Val. It may be so — I did not know you — the 
 world Is full. — There are people that wo do know. 
 
224 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 Aor IV. 
 
 and people that we do not know ; and. yet the sun 
 shines upop all alike. — There are fathers that have 
 many children ; and there are children that have 
 many fathers. — 'Tis strange ! but I am Truth, and 
 come to give the world the lie. 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o'me, I know not what to say 
 to him ! 
 
 Val. Why does that lawyer wear Hack ? — does 
 he carry his conscience withoutside ? — Lawyer, 
 what art thou .' dost thou know me .' 
 
 Suck. O Lord ! what must I say .' — Yes, sir. 
 
 Val. Thou liest, for I am Truth. 'Tis hard I 
 cannot get a livelihood amongst you. I have been 
 sworn out of Westminster-hall the first day of 
 every term — let me see — no matter how long — but 
 I'll tell you one thing ; it's a question that would 
 puzzle an arithmetician, if you should ask him, 
 whether the Bible saves more souls in Westminster- 
 Abbey, or damns more in Westminster- Hall ; for 
 my part, I am Truth, and can't teli ; I have very 
 few acqi^aintance. 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o'me, he talks sensibly in his 
 madness ! has he no intervals ? 
 
 Jer. Very short, sir. 
 
 Buck. Sir, I can do you no service while he's in this 
 condition ; here's your paper, sir — he may do me a 
 mischief if I stay — 'the conveyance is ready, sir, if 
 he recover his senses. 
 
 SCENE TIL 
 Sir Sampson, Vai-enttnii, Scandal, and Jeremy. 
 
 Sir Samp. Hold, hold, hold, don't you go yet. 
 
 Scan. You'd better let him go. sir ; and send 
 for him if there be occasion ; for I fancy his pre- 
 sence provokes him more. 
 
 Val. Is the lawyer gone ? 'tis well ; then we 
 may drink about without going together by the 
 ears^ — heigh-ho ! What o'clock is 't ? — My father 
 here ! your blessing, sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. He recovers Bless thee, Val, — how 
 
 dost thou do, boy ? 
 
 Val. Thank you, sir, pretty well — I have been a 
 little out of order — won't you please to sit, sir .' 
 
 Sir Samp. Ay, boy, — Come, thou shalt sit down 
 by me. 
 
 Val. Sir, 'tis my duty to wait. 
 
 Sir Samp. No, no, come, come, sit thee down, 
 honest Val ; how dost thou do ? let me feel thy 
 
 pulse Oh, pretty well now, Val ; body o' me, I 
 
 was sorry to see thee indisposed I but I'm glad 
 thou art better, honest Val. 
 
 Val. I thank you, sir. 
 
 Scan. Miracle ! the monster grows loving. 
 
 [^Jside. 
 
 Sir Samp. Let me feel thy hand again, Val; 
 it d&es not shake — I believe thou canst write, Val; 
 ha, boy, thou canst write thy name, Val ? — Jeremy, 
 step and overtake Mr. Buckram, bid him make 
 haste back with the conveyance ; quick ! quick ! 
 
 IWhispers Jeremy, who goes out. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Sir Sampson, Valentine, and Scandal. 
 Scon. That ever I should suspect such a heathen 
 of any remorse ! \.Aside. 
 
 Sir Samp. Dost thou know this paper, Val ? I 
 know thou'rt honest, and wilt perform articles. 
 
 IShows him the paper, but holds it out of his reach. 
 
 Val. Pray, let me see it, sir. You hold it so far 
 off, that I can't tell whether I know it or no. 
 
 Sir Samp. See it, boy ? ay, ay, why thou dost 
 see it — 'tis thy own hand, Vally. Why, let me 
 see, I can read it as plain as can be ; look you 
 here — IReads."] , The condition of this obligation 
 — look you, as plain as can be, so it begins — and 
 then at the bottom — As witness my hand, VALEN- 
 TINE LEGEND, in great letters ; why, 'tis as plain 
 as the nose in one's face ; what, are my eyes better 
 than thine .' I believe I can read it farther off yet 
 — let me see. [Stretches his arm as far as he can. 
 
 Val. Will you please to let me hold it, sir ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Let thee hold it, sayest thou ? — ay, 
 with all my heart. — What matter is it who holds 
 it ? what need anybody hold it ? — I'll put it np in 
 
 my pocket, Val, and then nobody need hold it 
 
 iPuts the paper in his pocket.'\ There, Val, it's 
 safe enough, boy — but thou shalt have it as soon 
 as thou hast set thy hand to another paper, little 
 Val. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Sir Sampson, Valentine, Scandal, Jeremy, and 
 
 IIUCKRAM. 
 
 Val. What, is my bad genius here again ! Oh 
 no, it IS the lawyer with an itching palm ; and he's 
 come to be scratched— my nails are not long enough 
 — let me have a pair of red-hot tongs, quickly \ 
 quickly ! and you shall see me act St. Dunstan, 
 and lead the devil by the nose. 
 
 Buck. O Lord, let me be gone ! I'll not venture 
 myself with a madman. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Sir Sampson, Valentine, Scandal, and Jbrkmy. 
 
 Val. Ha ! ha ! ha I you need not run so fast, 
 honesty will not overtake you. — Ha ! ha I ha ! 
 the rogue found me out to be in forma pauperis 
 presently. 
 
 Sir Samp. Oons ! what a vexation is here ! I 
 know not what to do or say, or which way to go. 
 
 Val. Who's that, that's out of his way ! I am 
 Truth, and can set him right. — Hark ye, friend, 
 the straight road is the worst way you can go : — 
 he that follows his nose always, will very often be 
 led into a stink. — Probatum est. — But what are 
 yon for, religion or politics .' There's a couple of 
 topics for you, no more like one another than oil 
 and vinegar ; and yet those two beaten together by 
 a state-coolc, make sauce for the whole nation. 
 
 Sir Samp. What the devil had I to do, ever to 
 beget sons ? why did I ever marry ? 
 
 Val. Because thou wert a monster, old boy ; 
 the two greatest monsters in the world are a man 
 and a woman ; what's thy opinion .' 
 
 Sir Samp. Why, my opinion is that those two 
 monsters joined together, make yet a greater, that's 
 a man and his wife. 
 
 Val. Aha, old truepenny I sayest thou so ? thou 
 hast nicked it. — But, it's wonderful strange^ 
 Jeremy. 
 
SCENE XIII. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 225 
 
 Jer. What is, sir i 
 
 V'al. That grey hairs should cover a green head, 
 and 1 make a fool of my father. — What's here ! 
 Erra Pater, or a bearded Sibyl ? If Prophecy 
 comes. Truth must give place. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 Sir Sampson, Scandal, Foresiuiit, Mrs. Foresigbt, and 
 Mrs. Frail. 
 
 Fore. What says he? what, did he prophesy?— 
 Ha, sir Sampson, bless us ! how are we ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Are we ! a pox o' your prognostica- 
 tion — why, w'e are fools as we use to be. — Oons, 
 that you could not foresee that the moon would 
 predominate, and my son be mad ! — Where's your 
 oppositions, your trines, and your quadrates ? — 
 What did your Cardan and your Ptolemy tell you ? 
 your Messahalah and your Longoraontanus, your 
 harmony of chiromancy with astrology ? Ah ! 
 pox on't, that I that know the world, and men and 
 manners, that don't believe a syllable in the sky 
 and stars, and sun and almanacs, and trash, should 
 be directed by a dreamer, an omen-hunter, and 
 defer business in expectation of a lucky hour ! 
 when, body o' me, there never was a lucky hour 
 after the first opportunity. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 ScA-vDAL, Foresight, Mrs. Foresight, and Mrs. Frail. 
 
 Fore. Ah, sir Sampson, Heaven help your head! 
 This is none of your lucky hour ; Nemo omnibus 
 horis sapit. What, is he gone, and in contempt 
 of science ? Ill stars and unconvertible ignorance 
 attend him ! 
 
 Scan. You must excuse his passion, Mr. Fore- 
 sight ; for he has been heartily vexed. — His son is 
 non compos mentis, and thereby incapable of making 
 any conveyance in law ; so that all his measures 
 are disappointed. 
 
 Fore. Ha ! say you so ? 
 
 Frail. What, has my sea-lover lost his anchor 
 of hope then ? {^Aside to Mrs. Foresight. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Oh, sister, what will you do with 
 him ? 
 
 Frail. Do with him ! send him to sea again in 
 the next foul weather.— -He's used to an incon- 
 stant element, and won't be surprised to see the 
 tide turned. 
 
 Fore. Wherein was I mistaken, not to foresee 
 this ? IConsfders. 
 
 Scan. Madam, you and I can tell him something 
 else that he did not foresee, and more particularly 
 relating to his own fortune. 
 
 [Aaide to Mrs. Foresight. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. What do you mean ? I don't un- 
 derstand you. 
 
 Scan. Hush, softly — the pleasures of last night, 
 my dear ; too considerable to be forgot so soon. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Last night ! and what would your 
 impudence infer from last night! last night was 
 like the night before, I think. 
 
 Scan. 'Sdeath, do you make no difference be- 
 tween me and your husband > 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Not much ; — he's superstitious, and 
 you are mad, in my opinion. 
 
 Scan. You make me mad. — You are net 
 serious ; — pray, recollect yourself. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. O yes, now I remember, you were 
 very impertinent and impudent, — and would have 
 come to bed to me. 
 
 Scan. And did not ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Did. not ' with what face can you 
 ask the question ? 
 
 Scan. [Aside.] This I have heard oi' before, but 
 never beheved. I have been told she had that ad- 
 mirable quality of forgetting to a man's face in the 
 morning that she had lain with him all night, and 
 denying that she had done favours with more im- 
 pudence than she could grant 'era. — Madam, I'm 
 your humble servant, and honour you. — [Aloud.] 
 You look pretty well, Mr. Foresight. — How did 
 you rest last night ? 
 
 Fore. Truly, Mr. Scandal, I was so taken up 
 with broken dreams and distracted visions, that I 
 remember little. 
 
 Scan. 'Twas a very forgetting night. — But would 
 you not talk with Valentine, perhaps you may un- 
 derstand him ? I'm apt to believe there is some- 
 thing mysterious in his discourses, and sometimes 
 rather think him inspired than mad. 
 
 Fore. You speak with singular good judgment, 
 Mr. Scandal, truly. — I am inclining to your 
 Turkish opinion in this matter, and do reverence 
 a man whom the vulgar think mad. Let us go to 
 him. 
 
 Frail. Sister, do you stay with them ; I'll find 
 out my lover, and give him his discharge, and come 
 to you. — O' my conscience here he comes. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 Mrs. Frail and Ben. 
 
 Ben. All mad, I think. — Flesh, I believe all the 
 calentures of the sea are come ashore, tor my part! 
 
 Frail. Mr. Benjamin in choler ! 
 
 Jlen. No, I'm pleased well enough now I have 
 found you. — Mess, 1 have had such a hurricane 
 upon your account yonder ! 
 
 Frail. My account ! pray what's the matter ? 
 
 Ben. Why, father came and found me squabbling 
 with yon chitty-faced thing as he would have me 
 marry, — so he asked what was the matter. — He 
 asked in a surly sort of a way. — It seems brother 
 Val is gone mad, and so that put'n into a passion ; 
 but what did I know that, what's that to me ? — So 
 he asked in a surly sort of manner, — and gad I 
 answered 'en as surlily ; what tho'f he be my 
 father ? I an't bound prentice to 'en : — so faith I 
 told'n in plain terms, if I were minded to marry 
 I'd marry to please myself, not him : and for the 
 young woman that he provided for me, I thought 
 it more fitting for her to learn her sampler, and 
 make dirt-pies, than to look after a hushand ;' for 
 my part I was none of her man. — 1 had another 
 voyage to make, let him take it as he will. 
 
 Frail. So then, you intend to go to sea again ? 
 
 Ben. Nay, nay, my mind run upon you, — but I 
 would not tell him so much.— So he said he'd make 
 my heart ache ; and if so be that he could get a 
 woman to his mind, he'd marry himself. G.id, 
 says I, an you plav the fool and marry at tbes 
 
226 
 
 LOVB FOR LOVE. 
 
 lears, there's more danger of your head's aching 
 than my heart. — He was woundy angry when I gav'n 
 that wipe. — He hadn't a word to say , and so I left'n 
 and the green girl together ; mayhap the bee 
 may bite, and he'll marry her himself ; with all my 
 heart. 
 
 Frail. And were you this undutiful and grace- 
 less wretch to your father .' 
 
 Sen. Then why was he graceless first .' — If I am 
 nndutiful and graceless, why did he beget me so } 
 I did not get myself. 
 
 Frail. O impiety ! how haire I been mistaken 1 
 what an inhuman merciless creature have I set my 
 heart upon 1 O I am happy to have discovered 
 the shelves and quicksands that lurk beneath that 
 faithless smiling face ! 
 
 Ben. Hey toss ! what's the matter now .' why, 
 you ben't angry, be you ? 
 
 Frail. O see me no more ! ^for thou wert 
 born amongst rocks, suckled by whales, cradled in 
 a tempest, and whistled to by winds ; and thou art 
 come forth with fins and scales, and three rows of 
 teeth, a most outrageous fish of prey. 
 
 Ben. O Lord, O Lord, she's mad ! poor young 
 woman ; love has turned her senses, her brain is 
 quite overset ! Well-a-day, how shall I do to set 
 her to rights ? 
 
 Frail. No, no, I am not mad, monster, I am 
 wise enough to find you out. Hadst thou the 
 impudence to aspire at being a husband with that 
 stubborn and disobedient temper ? — You that know 
 not how to submit to a father, presume to have a 
 sufficient stock of duty to undergo a wife ? I should 
 have been finely fobbed indeed, very finely fobbed. 
 
 Ben. Hark ye, forsooth ; if so be that you are in 
 your right senses, d'ye see ; for aught as I perceive 
 I'm like to be finely fobbed,— if I have got anger 
 here upon your account, and you are tacked about 
 already. — What d'ye mean, after all your fair 
 speeches and stroking my cheeks, and kissing and 
 hugging, what, would you sheer off so ? would you, 
 and leave me aground ? 
 
 Frail. No, I'll leave you adrift, and go which 
 way you will. 
 
 Ben. What, are you false-hearted, then ? 
 
 Frail. Only the wind's changed. 
 
 Ben. More shame for you :— the wind's changed ! 
 It's an ill wind blows nobody good, — mayhap I 
 have a good riddance on you, if these be your 
 tricks. What did you mean all this while, to 
 mal<e a fool of me ? 
 
 Frail. Any fool but a husband. 
 
 Ben. Husband ! gad, I would not be your hus- 
 band, if you would have me, now 1 know your 
 mind, tlio'f you had your weight in gold and jewels, 
 and tho'f I loved you never so well. 
 
 Frail. Why, canst thou love, porpoise ? 
 
 Ben. No matter what I can do j don't call 
 names, — I don't love you so well as to bear that, 
 whatever I did. I'm glad you show yourself, 
 !i)istress. — Let them marry you, as don't know 
 /joa : — gad, I know you too well, by sad experi- 
 'cnce ; I believe he that marries you will go to sea 
 ji a hen-pecked frigate— I believe that, young wo- 
 man — and mayhap may come to an anchor at 
 Cuckold's-point ; so there's a dash for you, take 
 it as you will, mayhap you may holla after me 
 when I won't come to. lExil. 
 
 Frail. Ha ! ha ! ha ! no doubt on't ; — 
 
 My true love is gone to sea — ISings. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Forbsioht. 
 
 Frail. O sister, had you come a minute sooner, 
 you would have seen the resolution of a lover. — 
 Honest Tar and I are parted, — and with the same 
 indifference that we met. — O' my life I am half 
 vexed at the insensibility of a brute that I de- 
 spised. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. What, then, he bore it most he- 
 roically ? 
 
 Frail. Most tyrannically, — for you see he has 
 got the start of me ; and I the poor forsaken maid 
 am left complaining on the shore. But I'll tell 
 you a hint that he has given me ; sir Sampson is 
 enraged, and talks desperately of committing ma- 
 trimony himself; — if he has a mind to throw 
 himself away, he can't do it more effectually than 
 *upon me, if we could bring it about. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Oh, hang him, old fox ! he's too 
 cunning ; besides he hates both you and me. But 
 I have a project in my head for you, and I have 
 gone a good way towards it. 1 have almost made 
 a bargain with Jeremy, Valentine's man, to sell his 
 master to us. 
 
 Frail. Sell him ! how ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Valentine raves upon Angelica, and 
 took me for her, and Jeremy says will take any- 
 body for her that he imposes on him. Now I have 
 promised him mountains, if in one of his mad fits 
 he will bring you to him in her stead, and get you 
 married together, and put to bed together ; and 
 after consummation, girl, there's no revoking. 
 And if he should recover his senses, he'll be glad 
 at least to make you a good settlement. — Here they 
 come : stand aside a little, and tell me how you 
 like the design. 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 
 Mrs. Foresight, Mrs. Frail, Valentine, Scandal, 
 Foresight, and Jekemy. 
 
 Scan. And have you given your master a hint 
 of their plot npon him ? [To Jeremv. 
 
 Jer. Yes, sir ; he says he'll favour it, and mis- 
 take her for Angelica. 
 
 Scan. It may make us sport. 
 
 Fore. Mercy on us ! 
 
 Vol. Hush! — interrupt me not : I'll whisper 
 prediction to thee, and thou shalt prophesy. I am 
 Truth, and can teach thy tongue a new trick ; — I 
 have told thee what's past — now I'll tell what's to 
 come. Dost thou know what will nappen to-mor- 
 row? answer me not — for I will tell thee. To- 
 morrow, knaves will thrive through craft, and fools 
 through fortune, and honesty will go as it did, 
 frost-nipped in a summer suit. Ask me questioius 
 concerning to-morrow. 
 
 Scan. Ask him, Mr. Foresight. 
 
 Fore. Pray, what will be done at court ? 
 
 Vol. Scandal will tell you : — I am Truth, I never 
 come there. 
 
 Fore. In the city 1 
 
 Vol. Oh, prayers will be said. in empty cliurches, 
 at the usual hours. Yet you will see such zealous 
 faces behind counters, as if religion were to be. sold 
 in every shop. Oh, things will go methodically in 
 
SOBNE XVI. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 227 
 
 the city; the docks will strike twelve at noon, and 
 the burned herd buzz in the Exchange at two. 
 Husbands and wives will drive distinct trades, and 
 care and pleasure separately occupy the family.- 
 Coffee-houses will be full of smoke and stratagem. 
 And the crwpt prentice, that sweeps his master's 
 shop in the morning, may, ten to one, dirty his 
 sheets before night. But there are two things that 
 you will see very strange ; which are wanton wives 
 with their legs at liberty, and tame cuckolds with 
 chains about their necks. — But hold, I must examine 
 you before I go further ; you look suspiciously. 
 Are you a husband ? 
 
 Fore. I am married. 
 
 Val. Poor creature ! is your wife of Covent- 
 gardeu parish ? 
 
 Fore. No ; St. Martin's-in-the-fields. 
 
 Val. Alas, poor man ! his eyes are sunk, and his 
 hands shrivelled ; his legs dwindled, and his back 
 bowed ; pray, pray, for a metamorphosis. Change 
 thy shape, and shake off age ; get thee Medea's 
 kettle, and be boiled anew ; come forth with la- 
 bouring callous hands, a chine of steel, and 
 Atlas shoulders. Let Taliacotius trim tlie calves 
 of twenty chairmen, and make thee pedestals to 
 stand erect upon, and look matrimony in the face. 
 Ha ! hi ! ha ! that a man should have a stomach 
 to a wedding supper, when the pigeons ought 
 rather to be laid to his feet, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Fore. His frenzy is very high now, Mr. Scandal- 
 Scan. I believe it is a spring-tide. 
 
 Fore. Very likely, truly ; you understand these 
 matters; — Mr. Scandal, I shall be very glad to 
 confer with you about these things which he has 
 uttered — his sayings are very mysterious and hiero- 
 glyphical. 
 
 Val. Oh, why would Angelica be absent from 
 my eyes so long ? 
 
 Jer. She's here, sir ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Now, sister. 
 
 Frail. O Lord, what must I say .' 
 
 Scan. Humour him, madam, by all means. 
 
 Val. Where is she ? oh, I see her ; — she comes 
 like riches, health, and liberty at once, to a despair- 
 ing, starving, and abandoned wretch. Oh welcome, 
 welcome. 
 
 Frail. How d'ye, sir ? can I serve yon ? 
 
 Val. Hark ye — I have a secret to tell you — 
 Endymion and the moon shall nr eet us upon mount 
 Latmos, and we'll be married in the dead of night 
 — but say not a word. Hymen shall put his torch 
 into a dark lantern, that it may be secret ; and 
 Juno shall give her peacock poppy-water, that he 
 may fold his ogling tail, and Argus's hundred eyes 
 be shut, ha ! N^ody shall know but Jeremy. 
 
 Frail. No, no, we'll keep it secret, it shall be 
 done presently. 
 
 Val. The sooner the better. — Jeremy, come 
 hither — closer — that none may overhear us — Je- 
 remy, I can tell you news ; Angelica is turned nun, 
 and 1 am turning friar, and yet we'll marry one 
 another in spite of the pope. Get me a cowl and 
 beads, that 1 may play my part ; for she'll meet me 
 two hours hence in black and white, and a long 
 veil to cover the project, and we won't see one 
 another's faces, till we have done something to be 
 ashamed of, and then we'll blush once for all. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 Mrs. Foresight, Mrs. Frail, Valentinh, Scahdaj., 
 
 PORGSIOHT, JeREMYj TaTTLE, and A-NOBUCA. 
 
 Jer. I'll take care, and — 
 
 Val. Whisper. 
 
 Aug. Nay, Mr. Tattle, if you make love to me, 
 you spoil my design, for I intend to make you my 
 confidant. 
 
 Tat. But, madam, to throw away your person, 
 sucli a person, and such a fortune, on a madman ? 
 
 Ang. I never loved him till he was mad ; but 
 don't tell anybody so. 
 
 Scan. lAside.] How's this !- Tattle making love 
 to Angelica ? 
 
 Tat. Tell, madam! alas, you don't know me — I 
 have much ado to tell your ladyship how long I 
 have been in love with you ; but encouraged by 
 the impossibility of Valentine's making any more 
 addresses to you, I have ventured to declare the 
 very inmost passion of my heart. Oh, madam, 
 look upon us botli ; there you see the ruins of a 
 poor decayed creature, — here & complete and Hvely 
 figure, with youth and health, and all his five senses 
 in perfection, madam ; and to all this, the most 
 passionate lover — 
 
 Ang. O fy, for shame ! hold your tongue ; a 
 passionate lover and five senses in perfection ! 
 when you are as mad as Valentine, I'll believe you 
 love me, and the maddest shall take me. 
 
 Val. It is enough. — Ha, who's here? 
 
 Frail. O Lord, her coming will spoil all ! 
 
 lAside to Jeremy. 
 
 Jer. [Aside to Mrs. Frail.] No, no, madam, 
 he won't know her; if he should, I can persuade 
 him. 
 
 Val. Scandal, who are these ? foreigners ? If 
 they are, I'll tell you what I think. — [ Whispers.^ 
 Get away all the company but Angelica, that I may 
 discover my design to her. 
 
 Scan. [ Whispers.^ I will ; I have discovered 
 something of Tattle that is of a piece with Mrs. 
 Frail. He courts Angelica ; if we could contrive 
 to couple 'em together ; hark ye. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. He won't know you, cousin, he 
 knows nobody. 
 
 Fore. But he knows more than anybody. Oh, 
 niece, he knows things past and to come, and all 
 the profound secrets of time. 
 
 7'at. Look you, Mr. Foresight, it is not my way 
 to make many words of matters, and so I shan't 
 say much ; but, in short, d'ye see, I will hold you 
 a hundred pounds now, that I know more secrets 
 than he. 
 
 Fore. How! I cannot read that knowledge in 
 your face, Mr. Tattle. Pray, what do you know ? 
 
 Tat. Why, d'ye think I'll tell you, sir? Read 
 it in my face ! no, sir, 'tis written in my heart ; 
 and safer there, sir, than letters writ in juice of 
 lemon j for no fire can fetch it out. I am no blab, 
 sir. 
 
 Val. lAside to Scandal.] Acquaint Jeremy 
 with it, he may easily bring it about. — [Aloud.] 
 They are welcome, and I'll tell 'em so myself. 
 What, do you look strange upon me ? then I must 
 
 be plain [Coming up to them.'] I am Truth, and 
 
 , hate an old acquaintance with a new face. 
 
 [ScANDAl, goes aside u-Uh Jerbmt. 
 
 Tat. Do you know me, Valentine? 
 
228 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 Val. You ? who are you ? no, I hope not. 
 
 Tat. I am Jack Tattle, your friend. 
 
 Val. My friend ? what to do ? I am no married 
 man, and thou canst not lie with my wife ; I am 
 very poor, and thou canst bot borrow money of 
 me ; then wliat employment have I for a friend .'' 
 
 Tat. Ha ! a good open speaker, and not to be 
 trusted with a secret. 
 
 Aug. Do you know me, Valentine ? 
 
 Val. Oh,, very well. 
 
 Ang. Who am I .' 
 
 Val. You're « woman, — one to whom heaven 
 gave beaut.y, when it grafted roses on a briar. You 
 are the reflection of heaven in a pond, and he that 
 leaps at you is sunk. Yo.u are all white, a sheet 
 of lovely, spotless paper, when you first are born ; 
 but you are to be scrawled and blotted by every 
 goose's quill. I know you; for I loved a woman, 
 and loved her so long, that I found out a strange 
 thing ; I found out what a woman was good for. 
 
 Tal. Ay, prithee, what's that.' 
 
 Val. "Why, to keep a secret. 
 
 Tat. O Lord ! 
 
 Val. O, exceeding good to keep a secret: for 
 though she should tell, yet she is not to be believed. 
 
 Tat. Ha ! good again, faith. 
 
 Val. I would have music. — Sing me the song 
 that I like. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I tell thee, Charmion, could I time retrieve. 
 And could again begin to love and live, 
 To you I should my earliest offering give ; 
 
 I know, my eyes would lead my heart to you. 
 And I should all my vows and oaths renew ; 
 But, to be plain, I never would he true. 
 
 For by our weak and weary truth I find, 
 Love hates to centre in a point assign'd ; 
 But runs with joy the circle of the mind : 
 Then never let us chain what should be free. 
 But for relief of either sex agree : 
 Since women love to change, and so do we. 
 
 No more, for I am melancholy. [ Walks musing. 
 
 Jer. I'll do't, sir. lAside to Scandai.. 
 
 Scan. Mr. Foresight, we had best leave him. 
 He may grow outrageous, and do mischief. 
 
 Fore. I will be directed by you. 
 
 Jer. [Aside to Mrs. Frail.] You'll meet, 
 madam ? I'll take care everything shall be ready. 
 
 Frail. Thou shalt do what thou wilt j in short, 
 I will deny thee nothing. 
 
 Tat. Madam, shall I wait upon yon ;' 
 
 ITo Angelica. 
 
 Anff. No, I'll stay with him ; Mr. Scandal will 
 protect me. — Aunt, Mr. Tattle desires you would 
 give him leave to wait on you. 
 
 Tat. [Aside.] Pox on't ! there's no coming off, 
 now she has said that. — [Aloud.] Madam, will 
 you do me the honour .' 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Mr. Tattle might have used less 
 ceremony. 
 
 Scan. Jeremy, follow Tattle. 
 
 SCENE XVII. 
 Angelica, Valentine, and Scandal. 
 
 Ang. Mr. Scandal, I oaly stay till my maid 
 comes, and because I had a mind to be rid of Mr. 
 Tattle. 
 
 Scan. Madam, I am very glad that I overheard 
 a better reason, which you gave to Mr. Tattle ; 
 for his impertinence forced you to acknowledge a 
 kindness for Valentine which you denied to al! his 
 sufferings and my solicitations. So I'll leave him 
 to make use of the discovery, and your ladyship to 
 the free confession of your iuclinations. 
 
 Ang. Oh heavens ! you won't leave me alone 
 with a madman.'' 
 
 Scan. No, madam, I only leave a madman to his 
 remedy. 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 Angelica and Valentine. 
 
 Val. Madam, you need not be very much afraid, 
 for I fancy I begin to come to myself. 
 
 Ang. [Aside.'] Ay, but if I don't fit you, I'll be 
 hauged. 
 
 Vat. You see what disguises love makes us put 
 on : gods have been in counterfeited shapes for the 
 same reason ; and the divine part of me, my mind, 
 has worn this mask of madness, and this motley 
 livery, only as the slave of love, and menial crea- 
 ture of your beauty. 
 
 Ang. Mercy on me, how he talks I poor Valen- 
 tine ! 
 
 Val. Nay, faith, now let us understand one 
 another, hypocrisy apart. — The comedy draws 
 toward an end, and let us think of leaving acting, 
 and be ourselves ; and since you have loved me, 
 you must own, I have at length deserved you 
 should confess it. 
 
 Ang. [Sighs.] I would I had loved you ! — for 
 Heaven knows I pity you ; and could I have fore- 
 seen the bad effects, I would have striven ; but 
 that's too late. lSig?it. 
 
 Val. What bad effects ? — what's too late ? My 
 seeming madness has deceived my father, and pro- 
 cured me time to think of means to reconcile me ta 
 him, and preserve the right of my inheritance to 
 his estate ; which otherwise by articles I must this 
 morning have resigned : and this I had informed 
 you of to-day, but you were gone, before I knew 
 you had been here. 
 
 Ang. How ! I thought your love of me had 
 caused this transport in your soul ; which it seems 
 you only counterfeited, for mercenary ends and 
 sordid interest ! 
 
 Val. Nay, now you do . me wrong ; for if any 
 interest was considered it was yours ; since I 
 thought I wanted more than love to make me worthy 
 of you. 
 
 Ang. Then you thought me mercenary. — But 
 how am I deluded by this interval of sense, to reason 
 with a madman ! 
 
 Val. Oh, 'tis barbarons to misunderstand me 
 longer ! 
 
 SCENE XIX. 
 Valentine, Angelica, and Jbreiwy. 
 
 Ang. Oh, here's a reasonable creature — sure he 
 will not have the impudence to persevere. — Come, 
 Jeremy, acknowledge your trick, and confess your 
 master's madness counterfeit. 
 
 Jer. Counterfeit, madam ! I'll maintain him to 
 be as absolutely and substantiallv mad as anv free- 
 
LOVE FOR. LOVE. 
 
 22g 
 
 holder in Bethlehem ; nay, he's as mad as any 
 projector, fanatic, chemist, lover, or poet in 
 Europe, 
 
 Val. Sirrah, you lie ! I am not mad. 
 
 Ang. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you see he denies it. 
 
 Jer. O Lord, madam, did you ever know any 
 tnariman mad enough to own it ? 
 
 Val. Sot, can't you apprehend ? 
 
 Ang. "Why, he talked very sensible just now. 
 
 Jer. Yes, madam, he has intervals ; but you see 
 he begins to look wild a°;ain now. 
 
 Val. Why, you thick-skulled rascal, I tell you 
 the farce is done, and I will be mad no longer. 
 
 [Beats him. 
 
 Ang. Ha ! ha ! ha ! is he mad or no, Jeremy .' 
 
 Jer. Partly I think — for he does not know his 
 own mind two hours. — I'm sure I left him just 
 now in the humour to be mad ; and I think I have 
 not found him very quiet at this present I — 
 [Knocking at the door,'] Who's there ? 
 
 Val. Go see, you sot. — lExit Jekemy.] I'm 
 very glad that I can move your mirth, though not 
 your compassion. 
 
 Ang. I did not think you had apprehension 
 enough to be exceptions : but madmen show them- 
 selves most, by over-pretending to a sound under- 
 standing ; as drunken men do by over-acting 
 sobriety. I was half-inclining to .believe you, till 
 I accidentally touched upon your tender part ; hut 
 now you have restored me to my former opinion 
 and compassion. 
 
 Re-enter Jekbmy. 
 
 Jer. Sir, your father has sent to know if you are 
 any better yet.. — ^Will you please to be mad, sir, or 
 how ? 
 
 Val. Stupidity ! you know the penalty of all 
 I'm worth must pay for the confession of my senses ; 
 I'm mad, and will be mad to everybody but this 
 lady. 
 
 jer. So ; — Just the very backside of truth. — 
 But lying/is a figure in speech, that interlards the 
 greatest part of my conversation. — Madam, your 
 ladyship's woman. 
 
 SCENE XX. 
 Angelica, Valentine, and Jenny. 
 
 A7iff. Well, have you been there ? — Come hither. 
 
 Jen. [Aside to Angelica.] Yes, madam, sir 
 SampsoD will wait upon you presently. 
 
 Val. You are not leaviog me in this uncertainty ? 
 
 Ang. Would anything but a madman complain 
 of uncertainty ? Uncertainty and expectation are. 
 the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing, and 
 the overtaking and possessing of a wish, discovers 
 the folly of the chase. Never let us know one 
 another better : for the pleasure of a masquerade 
 is done, when we come to show our faces ; but 111 
 telL you two things before I leave you ; I am not 
 the fool you take me for ; and you are mad, and 
 don't know it. 
 
 SCENE XXI. 
 Valentine and Jeremy. 
 
 Val. From a riddle you can expect nothing but 
 a riddle. There's my instruction, and the moral of 
 my lesson. 
 
 Jer, What, is the lady gone again, sir ? T hope 
 you understood one another before she went ? 
 
 Val. Understood ! she is harder to be under- 
 stood than a piece of Egyptian antiquity, or an 
 Irish manuscript ; you may pore till you spoil 
 your eyes, and not improve your knowledge. 
 
 Jer. I have heard 'em say, sir, they read hard 
 Hebrew books backwards ; may be you begia to 
 read at the wrong end. 
 
 Val. They say so of a witch's prayer : and 
 dreams and Dutch almanacs are to be understood 
 by contraries. But there's regularity and method 
 in that ; she is a medal without a reverse or inscrip- 
 tion, for indifference has both sides alike. Yet 
 while she does not seem to hate me, I will pursue 
 her, and know her if it be possible, in spite of the 
 opinion of my satirical friend. Scandal, who says, 
 
 That women are like tricks by sleight of hand. 
 
 Which, to admire, we should not understand. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Foresight's House. 
 Angelica and Jenny. 
 
 Ang. Where is sir Sampson ? did you not tell me 
 he would be here before me ? 
 
 Jeri. He's at the great glass in the dining-room, 
 madam, setting his cravat and wig. 
 
 Ang. How ! I'm glad on't. — If he has a mind I 
 should like him, it's a sign he likes me ; and that's 
 more than half my design. 
 
 Jen. I hear him, madam. 
 
 Ang. Leave me ; and d'ye hear, if Valentine 
 should come or send, I am not to be spoken with. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Angelica and Sir Sampson. 
 
 Sir Samp. I have not been honoured with the 
 commands of a fair lady, a great while : — odd, 
 madam, you have revived me 1 — not since I was 
 five-and-thirty. 
 
 Ang. Why, you have no great reason to com- 
 plain, sir Sampson, that is not long ago. 
 
 Sir Samp. Zooks, but it is, madam, a very great 
 while, to a man that admires a fine woman as much 
 as I do. 
 
 Ang. You're an absolute courtier, sir Sampson. 
 
 Sir Samp. Not at all, madam ; odsbud you 
 wrong me ; I am not so old neither to be a ban 
 
230 
 
 T,OVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 Acr V. 
 
 courtier, only a man of words : odd, I have warm 
 blood about me yet, and can serve a lady any way. 
 — Come, come, let me tell you, you women think 
 
 a man old too soon, faith and troth, you do ! 
 
 Come, don't despise fifty; odd, fifty, in a hale 
 constitution, is no such contemptible age. 
 
 Anff. Fifty a contemptible age 1 not at all, a 
 very fashionable age, I think. — 1 assure yon, I know 
 very considerable beaux that set a good face upon 
 fifty : — fifty ! I have seen fifty in a side-box, by 
 candle-light, out-blossom five-and-twenty. 
 
 Sir Samp. Outsides, outsides ; a pize take *em, 
 mere outsides ! hang your side-box beaux ! no, I'm 
 none of those, none of your forced trees, that 
 pretend to blossom in the fall, and bud when they 
 should bring forth fruit ; I am of a long-lived race, 
 and inherit vigour : none of my ancestors married 
 till fifty ; yet they begot sons and daughters till 
 fourscore ; I am of your patriarchs, I, a branch of 
 one of your antediluvian families, fellows that the 
 flood could not wash away. Well, madam, what 
 are your commands ? has any young rogue affronted 
 you, and shall I cut his throat ? or — 
 
 Ang: No, sir Sampson, I have no quarrel upon 
 my hands — I have more occasion for your conduct 
 than your courage at this time. To tell you the 
 truth, I'm weary of living single, and want a 
 husband. 
 
 Sir Samp. Odsbud, and 'tis pity you should ! — 
 [Aside.] Odd, would she would like me, then I 
 should hamper my young rogues : odd, would she 
 would ; faith and troth she's devilish handsome ! — 
 [Aloud.'] Madam, you deserve a good husband, 
 and 'twere pity you should be thrown away upon 
 any of these young idle rogues about the town. 
 Odd, there's ne'er a young fellow worth hanging ! 
 — that is a very young fellow. — Pize on 'em ! they 
 never think beforehand of anything ; — and if they 
 commit matrimony, 'tis as they commit murder ; 
 out of a frolic, and are ready to hang themselves, 
 or to be hanged by the law, the next morning : — 
 odso, have a care, madam. 
 
 Ang. Therefore I ask your advice, sir Sampson : 
 I have fortune enough to make any man easy that 
 I can like ; if there were such a thing as a young 
 agreeable man with a reasonable stock of good- 
 nature and sense. — For I would neither have an 
 absolute wit nor a fool. 
 
 Sir Samp. Odd, you are hard to please, madam ; 
 to find a young fellow that is neither a wit in his 
 own eye, nor a fool in the eye of the world, is a 
 very hard task. But, faith and troth, you speak 
 very discreetly ; for I hate both a wit and a 
 fool. 
 
 Ang. She that marries a fool, sir Sampson, 
 forfeits the reputation of her honesty or under- 
 standing : and she that marries a very witty man is 
 a slave to the severity and insolent conduct of hor 
 husband. I should like a man o' wit for a lover, 
 because I would have such a one in my power ; but 
 I would no more be his wife than his enemy. For 
 his malice is not a more terrible consequence of 
 his aversion than his jealousy is of his love. 
 
 Sir Samp. None of old Foresight's Sibyls ever 
 uttered such a truth. Odsbud, you have won my 
 heart ! I hate a wit ; I had a son that was spoiled 
 among 'em ; a good hopeful lad, till he learned to 
 be a wit — and might have risen in the state. — But 
 a pox on't ! his wit run him oiit of his money, and 
 now his poverty has run him out of his wits. 
 
 Ang. Sir Sampson, as yonr friend, I must tell 
 you, you are very much abused in that matter : 
 he's no more mad than you are. 
 
 Sir Samp. How, madam ! would I could prove it ! 
 
 Ang. 1 can tell you how that may be done. — 
 But it is a thing that would make me appear to be 
 too much concerned in your affairs. 
 
 Sir Samp. [Aside.] Odsbud, 1 believe she likea 
 me I— [Aloud.] Ah, madam, all my affairs are 
 scarce worthy to be laid at your feet ; and I wish, 
 madam, they were in a better posture, that I might 
 make a more becoming offer to a lady of your 
 incomparable beauty and merit. — If I had Peru in 
 one hand, and Mexico in t'other, and the eastern 
 empire under my feet, it would make me only a 
 more glorious victim to be offered at the shrine oi 
 your beauty. 
 
 Ang. Bless me, sir Sampson, what's the matter .' 
 
 Sir Samp. Odd, madam, I love you ! — and if 
 you would take my advice in a husband — 
 
 Ang. Hold, hold, sir Sampson. I asked your 
 advice for a husband, and you are giving me your 
 consent. — I was indeed thinking to propose some- 
 thiiig like it in jest, to satisfy you about Valentine : 
 for if a match were seemingly carried on between 
 you and me, it would oblige him to throw off his 
 disguise of madness, in apprehension of losing me : 
 for you know he has long pretended a passion for 
 me. 
 
 Sir Samp. Gadzooks, a most ingenious contriv- 
 ance ! — if we were to go through with it. But 
 why must the match only be seemingly carried on ? 
 — Odd, let it be a real contract. 
 
 Ang. O fy, sir Sampson I what would the world 
 say.' 
 
 Sir Samp. Say ! they would say you were a wise 
 woman and I a happy mail. Odd, madam, I'll 
 love you as long as 1 live, and leave you a good 
 jointure when I die. 
 
 Ang. Ay ; but that is not in your power, sir 
 Sampson ; for when Valentine confesses himself in 
 his senses, he must make over his inheritance to 
 his younger brother. 
 
 Sir Samp. Odd, you're cunning, a wary bag- 
 gage ! faith and troth, I like you the better. — 
 But, I warrant you, I have a proviso in the 
 obligation in favour of myself. — Body o'me, I have 
 a trick to turn the settlement upon the issue male 
 of our two bodies begotten. Odsbud, let us find 
 children, and I'll find an estate. 
 
 Ang. Will you .' well do you find the estate, and 
 leave the other to me. 
 
 Sir Samp. O rogue ! but I'll trust you. And 
 will you consent ! is it a match then ? 
 
 Ang. Let me consult my lawyer concerning this 
 obligation ; and if I find what you propose praor 
 ticable, I'll give you my answer. 
 
 Sir Samp. With all my heart ; corne in with me. 
 
 and I'll lend you the bond You shall consult 
 
 vour lawyer, and I'll consult a parson. Odzooks 
 I'm a joung man : odzooks, I'm a young mau, 
 and I'll make it appear. Odd, you're devilish 
 handsome : faith and troth, you're very handsome ; 
 and I'm very young, and very lusty. Odsbul, 
 hussy, you know how tochoose, and so do I ; — odd, 
 I think we are very well met. Give me your hand, 
 odd, let me kiss it ; 'tis as warm and as soft — as 
 what .' — Odd, as t'other hand ; give me t'other 
 hand, and I'll mumble 'em and kiss 'em till they 
 melt in my mouth. 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 23i 
 
 Ang. Hold, sir Sampson : you're profuse of 
 your vigour before your time : you'll spend your 
 estate before you come to it. 
 
 Sir Samp. No, no, only give you a rent-roll of 
 my possessions, — ha ! baggage I — I warrant you 
 for little Sampson : odd, Sampson's » very good 
 name for au able fellow : your Sampsons were 
 strong dogs from the beginning. 
 
 Aug. Have a care, and don't overact your part. 
 If you remember, Sampson, the strongest of the 
 name, pulled an old house over his head at last. 
 
 Sir Samp. Say you so, hussy ." Come, let's go 
 then ; odd, I long to be pulling too, come away. — 
 Odso, here's somebody coming. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Tattle and Jeremy. 
 
 Tai. Is not that she, gone out just now ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, sir, she's just going to the place of 
 appointment. Ah, sir, if you are not very faithful 
 and close in this business, you'll certainly be the 
 death of a person that has a most extraordinary 
 passion for your honour's service. 
 
 Tat. Ay, who's that .' 
 
 Jer. Even my unworthy self, sir. Sir, 1 have had 
 an appetite to be fed with your commands a great 
 while ; and now, sir, my former master having 
 much troubled the fountain of his understanding, 
 it is a very plausible occasion for me to quench my 
 thirst at the spring of your bounty. 1 thought I 
 could not recommend myself better to you, sir, than 
 by the delivery of a great beauty and fortune into 
 your arms, whom I have heard you sigh for. 
 
 Tat, I'll make thy fortune ; say no more. Thou 
 art a pretty fellow, and canst carry a message to a 
 lady, in a pretty soft kind of phrase, and with » 
 good persuading accent. 
 
 t/er. Sir, I have the seeds of rhetoric and oratory 
 in my head ; I have been at Cambridge- 
 
 Tat. Ay ! 'tis well enough for a servant to be 
 bred at a university : but the education is a little 
 too pedantic for a gentleman. I hope you are secret 
 in your nature, private, close, ha ? 
 
 Jer. O sir, for that, sir, 'tis my chief talent : I'm 
 as secret as the head of Nilus. 
 
 Tat. Ay ! who is he, though ? a privy counsel- 
 lor .' 
 
 Jer. lAside.'] O ignorance ! — [Alotid.l A cun- 
 ning Egyptian, sir, that with his arms would 
 overrun the country; yet nobody could ever find 
 out his head-quarters. 
 
 Tat. Close dog ! a good whoremaster, I warrant 
 him. The time draws nigh, Jeremy. Angelica 
 will be veiled like a nun ; anjl I must be hooded 
 like a friar ; ha, Jeremy .' 
 
 Jer. Ay, sir, hooded like a hawk, to seize at first 
 sight upon the quarry. It is the whim of my mas- 
 ter's madness to be so dressed ; and she is so in love 
 with him, she'll comply with anything to please him. 
 Poor lady, I'm sure she'll have reason to pray for 
 me, when she finds what a happy exchange she has 
 made, between a madman and so accomplished a 
 gentleman. 
 
 Tat. Ay, faith, so she will, Jeremy ; you're a 
 good friend to her, poor creature. I swear I do it 
 hardly so much in consideration of myself as com- 
 passion to ber. 
 
 Jer. 'Tis an act of charity, sir, to save a fine 
 woman with thirty thousand pounds, from throwing 
 herself away. 
 
 Tat. So 'tis, faith. I might have saved several 
 others in my time ; but egad 1 could never find in 
 my heart to marry anybody befoie. 
 
 Jer. Well, sir, I'll go and tell her my master's 
 coming ; and meet you in half a quarter of an hour, 
 with your disguise, at your own lodgings. You 
 must talk a little madly, she won't distinguish the 
 tone of your voice. 
 
 Tat. No, no, let me alone for a counterfeit i 
 I'll be ready for you. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Tattle and Miss Pbub. 
 
 Prue. O Mr. Tattle, are you here I I'm glad I 
 have found you ; I have been looking up and down 
 for you like anything, 'till I am as tired as any- 
 thing in the world. 
 
 Tat. O pox, how shall I get rid of this foolish 
 girl ! lAside. 
 
 Prue. O I have pure news, I can tell you pure 
 news. I must not marry the seaman now — my 
 father says so. Why won't you be my husband ? 
 you say you love me, and you won't be my hus- 
 band. And I know you may be my husband now 
 if you please. 
 
 7'at. O fy, miss ! who told you so, child ? 
 
 Prue. Why, my father. I told him that you 
 loved me. 
 
 Tat. O fy, miss ! why did you do so ? and who 
 told you so, child ? 
 
 Prue. Who ! why you did ; did not you .' 
 
 Tai. O pox ! that was yesterday, miss, that was 
 a great while ago, child. I have been asleep since ; 
 slept a whole night, and did not so much as dream 
 of the matter. 
 
 Prue. Pshaw ! O but I dreamt that it was so 
 though. 
 
 Tat. Ay, but your father will tell you that dreams 
 come by contraries, child. O fy ! what, we must 
 not love one another now — pshaw, that would be a 
 foolish thing indeed ! Fy ! fy ! you're a woman 
 now, and must think of a new man every morning, 
 and forget him every night. — No, no, to ma'rry is 
 to be a child again, and play with the same rattle 
 always ; O fy ! marrying is a paw thing. 
 
 Prue. Well, but don't you love me as well as 
 you did last night then .' 
 
 Tat. No, no, child, you would not have me. 
 
 Prue. No ! yes, but I would though. 
 
 Tat. Pshaw ! but I tell you, you would not — 
 You forget you're a woman, and don't know youi 
 own mind. 
 
 Prve. But here's my father, and he knows my 
 mind. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Tattle, Miss Prue, and Foresight. 
 
 Fore. O, Mr. Tattle, your servant, you are a 
 close man ; but methinks your love to my daughter 
 was a secret I might have been trusted with ; or 
 had you a mind to try if I could discover it by my 
 art> Hum, ha! I think there is something ir 
 
A32 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 your physiognomy that has a resemblance of her ; 
 and the girl is like me. 
 
 Tal. And so you would infer, that you and I 
 are alike }—\_Aside'\ What does the old prig mean ? 
 I'll banter him, and laugh at him, and leave him. 
 — [Aloud.J I fancy you have a wrong nation of 
 faces. 
 
 Fore. How .' what ? a wrong notion ! how so .' 
 
 Tat. In the way of art : I have some taking fea- 
 tures, not obvious to vulgar eyes ; that are indica- 
 tions of a sudden tarn of good fortune in the lottery 
 of wives ; and promise a great beauty and great 
 fortune reserved alone for me, by a private intrieue 
 of destiny, kept secret from the piercing eye of per- 
 spicuity j from all astrologers and the stars them- 
 selves. 
 
 Fore. How ? I will make it appear that what 
 yon say is impossible. 
 
 Tat. Sir, I beg your pardon, I'm in haste — ■ 
 
 Fore. For what ? 
 
 Tat. To be married, sir, married. 
 
 Fos:e. Ay, but pray take me along with you, sir — 
 
 Tdl: No, sir ; 'tis to be done privately. I never 
 make confidants. 
 
 Fore. Well, but my consent I mean — You won't 
 marry my daughter without my consent ? 
 
 Tat. Who, I, sir? I'm an absolute stranger to 
 you and your daughter, sir. 
 
 Fore. Heyday ! what time of the moon is this ? 
 
 Tat. Very true, sir, and desire to continue so. 
 I have no more love for your daughter than 1 have 
 likeness of yOu ; and I have a secret in my heart, 
 which you would he glad to know, and shan't know ; 
 and yet you shall know it too, and be sorry for it 
 afterwards. I'd have yon to know, sir, that I am 
 as knowing as the stars, and as secret as the night. 
 And I'm going to be married just now, yet did not 
 know of it half an hour ago ; and the lady stays 
 for me, and does not know of it yet. There's a 
 mystery for you ! — I know you love to untie diffi- 
 culties — or if you can't solve this, stay here a 
 quarter of an hour, and I'll come and explain it to 
 you. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Foresight and MissPftUE. 
 
 Prve. O father, why will you let him go ? won't 
 you make him to be my husband r 
 
 Fore. Mercy on us ! what do these lunacies 
 portend .' — Alas ! he's mad, child, stark wild. 
 
 Prue. What, and must not I have e'er a hus- 
 band then ? What, must I go to bed to nurse 
 again, and be a child as long as she's an old woman .' 
 Indeed but I won't ; for now my mind is set upon 
 a man, I will have a man some way or other. Oh! 
 methinks I'm sick when I think of a man ; and if 
 I can't have one, I would go to sleep all my life : 
 for when I'm awake it makes me wish and long, 
 and I don't know for what:— and I'd rather be 
 always asleep, than sick with thinking. 
 
 Fore. O fearful ! I think the girl's influenced 
 too. — Hussy, you shall have a rod. 
 
 Prne. A fiddle of a rod 1 I'll have a husband : 
 and if you won't get me one. I'll get one for myself, 
 ril marry our Robin the butler : he says he loves 
 me, and he's a handsome man, and shall be my 
 husband : I warrant he'll be my husband, and 
 ibank me too, for he told me so. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 FoaEsrQHT, Miss Prue, Scandal, Mrs. Foresight, antt 
 Nurse. 
 
 Fore. Did he so .' I'll despatch him for it pre- 
 sently ; rogue ! — Oh, nurse, come hither. 
 
 Nurse. What is your worship's pleasure? 
 
 Fore. Here take your young mistress, and lock 
 her up presently, till farther orders from me. — Not 
 a word, hussy. Do what I bid you ; no reply ; 
 away 1 And bid Robin make ready to give an 
 account of his plate and linen, d'ye hear : begone 
 when I bid you. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. What is the matter, husband .' 
 
 Fore. 'Tis not convenient to tell you now. — Mr. 
 Scandal, heaven keep us all in our senses ! — I fear 
 there is a contagious frenzy abroad. How doea 
 Valentine ? 
 
 Scan. O, I hope he will do well again : — I have 
 a message from him to your niece Angelica. 
 
 Fore. I think she has not returned since she- 
 went abroad with Sir Sampson. — Nurse, why are 
 you not gone ? 
 
 •SCENE VIII. 
 Foresight, Scanpal, Mrs. Foresight, and Bbn, 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Here's Mr. Benjamin ; he can tell 
 us if his father be come home. 
 
 Ben. Who, father } ay, he's come home with a 
 vengeance. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Why, what's the matter ? 
 
 JSert. Matter ! why, he's mad. 
 
 Fore. Mercy on us ! I was afraid of this. 
 
 Ben. And there's the handsome young woman, 
 she, as they say, brother Val went mad for, she's 
 mad too, I think. 
 
 Fore. O my poor niece, my poor niece, is she 
 gone too ? Well, I shall run mad next. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Well, but how mad.' how d'ye 
 mean .' 
 
 Ben. Nay, I'll give you leave to guess : — I'll 
 undertake to make a voyage to Antegoa — no, hold, 
 I mayn't say so neither — but I'll sail as far as Leg- 
 horn, and back again, before you shall guess at 
 the matter, and do nothing else ; mess, you may 
 take in all the points of the compass, and not hit 
 right. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Your experiment will take up a little 
 too much time. 
 
 Ben, Why then I'll tell you ; there's a new 
 wedding upon the stocks, and they two are a-going 
 to be married to night. 
 
 Scan. Who.= 
 
 Ben. Why, father, and — the young woman. 1 
 can't hit of her name. 
 
 Scan. Angelica? 
 
 Ben. Ay, the same. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Sir Sampson and Angelica? im- 
 possible ! 
 
 Ben. That may be — but I'm sure it is as I telj 
 you. 
 
 Scan. 'Sdeath, it's a jest ! I can't believe it. 
 
 Ben. Look you, friend, it's nothing to me 
 whether you believe it or no. What 1 say is true, 
 d'ye see ; they are married, or just going to be 
 married, 1 know not which. 
 
LOVE FOR LOVK. 
 
 2S.« 
 
 Fore. Well, but they are not mad, that is, not 
 lunatic ? 
 
 Tien. I don't know what you may call madness t 
 but she's mad for a husband, and he's horn mad, 
 I think, or they'd ne'er make a match together.— 
 Here they come. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 FoHBSiGHi, Scandal, Mrs. Foresight, Ben, Sir Sampson, 
 Angelica, and. Buckram. 
 
 Sir Samp. Where is this old soothsayer .' this 
 uncle of mine elecc ? — Aha ! old Foresight, uncle 
 Foresight, wish me joy, uncle Foresight, double 
 joy, both as uncle and astrologer ; here's a con- 
 junction that was not foretold in all your Ephe- 
 meris. The brightest star in the blue firmament — 
 is shot from above in a jelly of love, and so forth ; 
 and I'm lord of the ascendant. Odd, you're an 
 old fellow, Foresight, uncle I mean ; a very old 
 fellow, uncle Foresight ; and yet you shall live to 
 dance at my wedding, faith and troth you shall. 
 Odd, we'll have the music of the spheres for thee, 
 old Lilly, that we will, and thou shalt lead up a 
 dance in via lacteal 
 
 Fore. I'm thunderstruck ! — Youarenot married 
 to ray niece ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Not absolutely married, uncle ; but 
 very near it, within a kiss of the matter, as you see. 
 
 \_Kisics Angelica. 
 
 Ang. 'Tis very true, indeed, uncle ; I hope you'll 
 be my father, and give me. 
 
 Sir Samp. That he shall, or I'll burn his globes. 
 Body o'me, he shall be thy father, I'll make him 
 thy father, and thou shalt make me a father, and 
 I'll make thee a mother, and we'll beget sons and 
 daughters enough to put the weekly bills out of 
 countenance. 
 
 Scan. Death and hell ! where's Valentine ? 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Sir Sampson, Angelica, Foresight, Mrs. Foresight, 
 Ben, and Buckram. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. This is so surprising — • 
 
 Sir Samp. How ! what does my aunt say ? 
 Surprising, aunt ! not at all, for a young couple to 
 make a match in winter : not at all. — It's a plot to 
 undermine cold weather, and destroy that usurper 
 of a bed called a warming-pan. 
 
 Mre. Fore. I'm glad to hear you have so much 
 hre in you, sir Sampson. 
 
 Ben. Mess, I fear his fire's little better than 
 tinder : mayhap it will only serve to light up a 
 match for somebody else. The young woman's 
 a handsome young woman, I can't deny it; but 
 father, if I might be your pilot in this case, you 
 should not marry her. It's just the same thing, 
 as if so be you should sail so far as the Straits 
 without provision. 
 
 Sir Samp. Who gave you authority to speak, 
 sirrah ? To your element, fish ! be mute, fish, and 
 to sea ! rule your helm, sirrah, don't direct me. 
 
 Iten. Well, well, take you care of your own helm, 
 or you mayn't keep your new vessel steady. 
 
 Sir Samp. Why, you impudent tarpaulin! sirrah. 
 
 do you bring your forecastle jests upon your father .' 
 but I shall be even with you, I won't give you a 
 groat. — Mr. Buckram, is the conveyance so worded 
 that nothing canpossibly descend to this scoundrel ? 
 I would not so much as have him have the pro- 
 spect of an estate ; though there were no way to 
 come to it but by the north-east passage. 
 
 Buck. Sir, it is drawn according to your direc- 
 tions, there is not the least cranny of the law 
 unstopped. 
 
 Ben. Lawyer, I believe there's many a cranny 
 and leak unstopped in your conscience.^ — If so be 
 that one had a pump to your bosom, I believe we 
 should discover a foul hold. They say a witch will 
 sail in a sieve, — but 1 believe the devil would not 
 venture aboard o'your conscience. And that's for 
 you. 
 
 Sir Samp. Hold your tongue, sirrah I — How 
 now } who's here .' 
 
 SCENE XL 
 
 Sir Sampson, Angelica, Foresight, Mrs. Foresight, 
 Ben, Buckram, 'Iattle, and Mrs. Frail. 
 
 Frail O sister, the most unlucky accident ! 
 
 A'frs. Fore. What''S the matter ? 
 
 Tat. Oh, the two most unfortunite poorcreatures 
 in The world we are ! 
 
 Fore. Bless us ! how so ? 
 
 Frail. Ah, Mr. Tattle and I, poor Mr. Tattle 
 and I are — I can't speak it out. ^ 
 
 Tat. Nor I— but poor Mrs. Frail and I are — • 
 
 Frail. Married. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Married ! How ? 
 
 Tat. Suddenly — before we knew where we were 
 .—-that villain Jeremy; by the help of disguises, 
 tricked us into one anotiier. i 
 
 Fore. Why, you told me just now, you went 
 hence in haste to be married. 
 
 Ang;. But I believe Mr. Tattle meant the favour 
 to me : I thank him. 
 
 Tat. I did, as I hope to he saved, madam ; my 
 intentions were good.— ^But this is the most cruel 
 thing, to marry one does not know how, nor why, 
 nor wherefore. — The devil take me if ever I was 
 so much concerned at anything in my life ! 
 
 Ang. 'Tis very unhappy, if you don't care for 
 one another. 
 
 Tat. The least in the' world; — that is, for my 
 part ; I speak for myself. Gad, I never had the 
 least thought of serious kindness : — I never liked 
 anybody less in my life. Poor woman ! gad, I'm 
 sorry for her, too ; for I have no reason to hate 
 her neither ; but 1 believe I shall lead her a damned 
 sort of a life. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. [Aside to Mrs. Frail.] He's 
 better than no h,usband at all — though he's a 
 coxcomb. 
 
 Frail. [Aside to Mrs. Foresight.] Ay, ay, 
 it's well it's no worse. — [Aloud.] Nay, for my 
 part I always despised Mr. Tattle of all things ; 
 nothing but his being my husbaud could have made 
 me like him less. 
 
 Tat. Look you there, I thought as much I — I'ox 
 on't, I wish we could keep it secret ! why I don't 
 believe any of this company would speak of it. 
 
 Frail. But, my dear, that's impossible ; the 
 parson and that rogue Jeremy will publish it. 
 
234 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 Tat. Ay, my dear, so they will, as you say. 
 
 Aiiff. O you'll agree very well in a little time ; 
 custom will make it easy to you. 
 
 Tut. Easy J pojp on't ! I don't believe I shall 
 sleep to-night, 
 
 Sir Samp. Sleep, quotha I no ; why you would 
 not sleep o' your wedding night ! I'm an older 
 fellow than you, and don't mean to sleep, 
 
 Jieti. Why, there's another match now, as tho'f 
 a couple of privateers were looking for a prize, and 
 should fall foul of one another. I'm sorry for the 
 young man with all my heart. Look you, friend, 
 if I may advise you, when she's going, for that 
 you must expect, I have experience of her, when 
 she's going, let her go. For no matrimony is 
 tough enough to hold her, and if she can't drag 
 her anchor along with her, she'll break her cable, 
 I can tell you th*t. — ^Who's here ? the madman .' 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Valentine, Scandal, Sir Sampson, Angelica, Fdrf- 
 sioHT, Mrs. Foresight, Tattle, Mrs. Fbail, Bkn, 
 Jeremy, and Buckram. 
 
 Val. No ; here's the fool ; and, if occasion be, 
 I'll give it under my hand. 
 
 Sir Samp. How now ! 
 
 Val. Sir, I'm come to acknowledge my errors, 
 and ask your pardon. 
 
 Sir Samp. What, have you found your senses at 
 last then ? in good time, sir. 
 
 Val. You were abused, sir, I never was dis- 
 tracted. 
 
 Fore. How, not mad ! Mr. Scandal ? 
 
 Scan. No, really, sir ; I'm his witness, it was 
 all counterfeit. 
 
 Val. I thought I had reasons ^But it was a 
 
 poor contrivance ; the effect has shown it such. 
 
 Sir Samp. Contrivance ! what, to cheat me ? to 
 cheat your father ,'' sirrah, could you hope to 
 prosper ? 
 
 Val. Indeed, I thought, sir, when the father 
 endeavoured to undo the son, it was a reasonable 
 return of nature. 
 
 Sir Samp. Very good, sir ! — Mr. Buckram, are 
 you ready? — [To Valentine.] Come, sir, will 
 you sign and seal ? 
 
 Val. If you please, sir ; but first I would ask 
 this lady one question. 
 
 Sir Samp. Sir, you must ask me leave first 
 
 That lady ! no, sir ; you shall ask that lady no 
 questions, till you have asked her blessing, sir ; 
 that lady is to be my wife. 
 
 Val. I have heard as much, sir ; but I would 
 have it from her own mouth. 
 
 Sir Samp. That's as much as to say, I lie, sir, 
 and you don't believe what I say. 
 
 Val. Pardon me, sir. But 1 reflect that I very 
 lately counterfeited madness j I don't know but the 
 frolic may go round. 
 
 Sir Samp. Come, chuck, satisfy him, answer 
 him. — Come, come, Mr. Buckram, the pen and ink. 
 
 liuek. Here it is, sir, with the deed ; all is ready. 
 [Valbntine yocs to Angelica. 
 
 Ang. 'Tis true, you have a great while pretended 
 love to me ; nay, what if you were sincere ; still 
 you must pardon me, if 1 think my own incliua- 
 
 tions have a better right to dispose of my person, 
 
 than yours. 
 
 . Sir Samp. Are you answered now, sir? 
 
 Val. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. Where's your plot, sir ? and your 
 contrivance now, sir / Will you sign, sir .' come, 
 will you sign and seal .' 
 
 Val. With all my heartl sir. 
 
 Scan. 'Sdeath, you are not mad indeed, to ruin 
 yourself? 
 
 Val. I have been disappointed of my only hope j 
 and he that loses hope may part with anything. 
 I never valued fortune, but as it was subservient to 
 my pleasure ; and my only pleasure was to please 
 this lady ; I have made many vain attempts, and 
 find at last that nothing but my ruin can effect it ; 
 which, for that reason, I will sign to. — Give me the 
 paper. 
 
 Ang. Generous Valentine ! lAside. 
 
 Buck. Here is the deed, sir. 
 
 Val. But where is the bond, by which I am 
 obliged to sign this ? 
 
 Bucle, Sir Sampson, you have it. 
 
 Ang. No, I have it ; and I'll use it, as I would 
 everything that is an enemy to Valentine 
 
 [Tears ike paper. 
 
 Sir Samp. How now ! 
 
 Val. Ha! 
 
 Ang. [To Valentine.] Had I the world to 
 give you, it could not make me worthy of so gene- 
 rous and faithful a passion ; here's my hand, my 
 heart was always yours, and struggled very hard 
 to make this utmost trial of your virtue. 
 
 Val. Between pleasure and amazement, I am 
 lost. — But on my knees I take the blessing. 
 
 Sir Samp. Oons, what is the meaning of this ? 
 
 Ben. Mess, here's the wind changed again I 
 Father, you and I may make a voyage together 
 now. 
 
 Ang. Well, sir Sampson, since I have played 
 you a trick, I'll advise you how you may avoii- 
 such another. Learn to be a good father, or you'll 
 never get a second wife. I always loved your son, 
 and hated your unforgiving nature. I was resolved 
 to try him to the utmost ; I have tried you too, 
 and know you both. You have not more faults 
 than he has virtues ; and 'tis hardly more pleasure 
 to me, that I can make him and myself happy, 
 than that I can punish you. 
 
 Val. If my happiness could receive addition, this 
 kind surprise would make it double. 
 
 Sir Samp. Oons, you're a crocodile ! 
 
 Fore. Really, sir Sampson, this is a sudden 
 eclipse. 
 
 Sir Samp. You're an illiterate old fool, and I'm 
 another ! [Bjrii. 
 
 Tat. If the gentleman is in disorder for wane of 
 a wife, I can spare him mine. — [ToJeremy.] Oh, 
 are you there, sir ? I'm indebted to you for my 
 happiness. 
 
 Jer. Sir, I ask you ten thousand pardons ; 'twaf 
 an arrant mistake. — You see, sir, my master wa, 
 never mad, or anything like it : — then how could 
 it be otherwise ? 
 
 Val. Tattle, I thank you, you would have inter- 
 posed between me and heaven ; but Providence 
 laid purgatory in your way : — you have but 
 justice. 
 
 Scan. I hear the fiddles that sir Sampson ])ro~ 
 vided for Ms own wedding ; methinks 'tis [li'-y thej 
 
LOVE FOR LOVS. 
 
 2.Tfi 
 
 should not be employed when the match is so 
 much mended. — Valentine, though it be morning, 
 we may have a dance. 
 
 l''al. Anything, my friend, everything that looks 
 like joy and transport. 
 
 Scan. Call 'em, Jeremy. • 
 
 Ang, I have done dissembling now, Valentine ; 
 and if that coldness which 1 have always worn 
 before you, should turn to an extreme fondness, 
 you must not suspect it. 
 
 V'al. I'll prevent that suspicion : — for I intend 
 to dote to that immoderate degree, that your 
 fondness shall never distinguish itself enough 
 to be taken notice of. i( ever you seem to 
 love too much, it must be only when 1 can't love 
 enough. 
 
 Anff. Have a care of promises ; you know you 
 are apt to run more in debt than you are able to 
 pay. 
 
 fal. Therefore I yield my body as your prisoner, 
 and make your best on't. 
 
 Jer. The music stays for you. 
 
 A Dance, 
 
 Scan. Well, madam, you have done exemplary 
 justice, in punishing an inhuman father, and re- 
 warding a faithful lover : but there is a third good 
 work, which I, in particular, must thank you for ; 
 I was an infidel to yoiir sex, and you have converted 
 me. — For now I am convinced that all women are 
 not like Fortune, blind in bestowing favours, either 
 on those who do not merit, or who do not want 'em. 
 
 Ang. 'Tis an unreasonable accusation, that you 
 lay upon our sex : you tax us with injustice, oijy 
 to cover your own want of merit. You would aU 
 have the reward of love ; but few have the con- 
 stancy to stay till it becomes your due. Men are 
 generally hypocrites and infidels, they pretend to 
 worship, but have neither zeal nor faith ; how few, 
 like Valentine, would persevere even to martyrdom, 
 and sacrifice their interest to their constancy ! Ip 
 admiring me you misplace the novelty :^ 
 
 The miracle to-day is, that we find 
 
 A lover true : not that a woman's kind. 
 
 ^Exeunt ortrnet. 
 
 EPILOGUK 
 
 SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE NE"W HOUSE EV MRS. BRACEGTRDLE. 
 
 Sure Providence at first design'd this place 
 To be the player's refuge in distress ; 
 For still in every storm they all run hither. 
 As to a shed that shields 'em from the weather. 
 But thinking of this change which last befel us, 
 It's like what I have heard our poets tell us : 
 For when behind our scenes their suits are pleading, 
 To help their love sometimes they show their read- 
 ing! 
 And wanting ready cash to pay for hearts, 
 They top their learning on us and their parts. 
 Once of philosophers they told us stories. 
 Whom, as I think, they call'd — Py — Pythagories; — 
 I'm sure 'tis some such Latin name they give 'em. 
 And we, who know no better, must believe 'em. 
 Now to these men (say they) such souls were given, 
 That after death ne'er went to hell nor heaven. 
 But lived, I know not how, in beasts ; and then, 
 When many years were pass'd, in men again. 
 Methinks, ve players resemble such a soul ; 
 That, does from bodies, we from houses stroll. 
 Thus Aristotle's soul, of old that was. 
 May DOW be damn'd to animate an ass ; 
 
 Or in this very house, for aught we know, 
 
 Is doing painful penance in some beau : 
 
 And thus, our audience, which did once resoit 
 
 To shining theatres to see our sport. 
 
 Now find us toss'd into a tennis-court. 
 
 These walls but t'other day were filVd with noise 
 
 Of roaring gamesters, and your dcmme boys ; 
 
 Then bounding balls and rackets they encompa.sf. 
 
 And now they're fill'd with jests, and flights, and 
 
 bombast ! 
 I vow, I don't much like this transmigration. 
 Strolling from place to place by circulation; 
 Grant, Heaven, we don't return to our first station ! 
 I know not what these think, but, for my part, 
 I can't reflect without an aching heart. 
 How we should end in our original, a cart. 
 But we can't fear, since you're so good to save us. 
 That you have only set us up, — to leave us. 
 Thus from the past, we hope for future grace, 
 
 I beg it 
 
 And some here know I have a begging face. 
 Then pray continue this your kind behaviour, 
 For a clear stage won't do, without your favour. 
 
THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 Xeque enim lex sequior uUa, 
 Q,u<im necis artifices arte perire sua. — OViD. de Arte Amandi 
 
 TO HER ROYAL HIGHN,ESS, 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Madam,— That high staticHi which by your birth you hold above the people, exacts from every one, as a duty, 
 whatever honours they are capable of paying to your Royal Hifrhnesa : but that more exalted place to which your 
 virtues have raised you above the rest of princes> makes the tribute of our admiration and praise rather a choice 
 more immediately preventing that dutj'. 
 
 The public gratitu'le is ever founded on a public benefit ; and what is universally blessed, is always a universal blessing. 
 Thus from yourself we derive the offerings which we bring ; and that incense which arises to your name, only returns 
 to its original, and but naturally requites the parent of its being. 
 
 From hence it is that this poem, constituted on a moral whose end is to recommend and to encourage virtue, ct 
 consequence has recoiu-se to your Royal Highness's patronage; aspiringtocastitself beneath your feet, and declining 
 approbation, till you shall condescend to own it, and vouchsafe to shine upon it as on a creature of your infiuence. 
 
 It is fyom the example of "princes that virtue becomes a fashion in the people; for even they who are averse to 
 instruction will yet be fond of imitation. 
 
 But there are multitudes who never can have means nor opportunities of so near an access, as to partake of the 
 benefit of such examples. And to these Tragedy, which distinguishes itself from the vulgar poetry by the dignity 
 of its characters, may be of use and information. For they who are at that distance from original greatness as to 
 be deprived of the happiness of pontempluting the perfections and real excellences of your Royal Highness's person 
 in your com-t, may yet behold some small sketches and imagings of the virtues of your mind, abstracted and 
 represented on the theatra 
 
 Thus poets are instructed, and instruct; not alone by precepts which persuade, but also by examples which 
 illustrate. Thus is delight interwoven with instruction ; when not only virtue is prescribed, but also represented. 
 
 But if we are delighted with the liveliness of a feigned representation of great and good persons and their actions, 
 how must we be charmed with beholding the persons themselves ! If one or two excelling qualities, barely touched 
 in the single action and small compass of a play, can warm an audience, with a concern and regard even for the 
 seeming success and prosperity of the actor: with what zeal must the hearts of all be filled for the continued and 
 increasing happiness of those who are the true and living instances of elevated and persisting virtue ! Even the vicious 
 themselves must have a secret veneration for those peculiar graces and endowments which are daily so eminently 
 conspicuous in your Royal Highness ; and, though repining, feel a pleasure which, in spite of envy, they perforce 
 appi-ove. 
 
 If in this piece, humbly offered to your Royal Highness, there shall appear the resemblance of any of those many 
 excellences which you so promiscuously possess, to be drawn so as to merit your least approbation, it hag the end and 
 accomplishment of its design. And however imperfect it may be in the whole, through the inexperience or incapacity of 
 the author, yet, if there is so much as to convince your Royal Highness, that a play may be with industry so disposed 
 (in spite of the licentious practice of the modern theatre) as to become sometimes an innocent, and not unprofitable 
 entertainment ; it will abundantly gratify the ambition, and recompense the endeavours of your Royal Highness's most 
 obedient, and most humbly devoted servant, ■ WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Manubl, the King o/Qranada. 
 GoNSALBZ, Tiii Favourite. 
 Garcia, Son to Gonsalez. 
 Perkz, Captain of the Guards. 
 Ai-oN7», an Officer, creature to GoNbAtet 
 OswYN, a noble Vrisoner. 
 Heli, a prisoner, his Friend. 
 BsuK, a Eunuch 
 
 Almeria, the Princess of Granada. 
 
 Zara, a captive Queen. 
 
 Lkonora, chief Attendant on the Princess. 
 
 A lmkrta's "Women, Eunuchs and Mutes 
 attending Zara, Guards, Prisoners, and 
 
 Attendants. 
 SCENE,— Granada 
 
THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 2S7 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. BETTEUTON. 
 
 The time has been when plays were not so plenty, 
 And a less number new would well content ye. 
 New plays did then like almanacs appear j 
 And one was thought sufficient for a year : 
 Though they are more like almanacs of late ; 
 For in one year, I think, they're out of date. 
 Nor were they without reason join'd together; 
 For just as one prognosticates the weather. 
 How plentiful the crop, or scarce the grain, 
 What peals of thunder, and what showers of rain j 
 So t'otlier can foretell, by certain rules, 
 "What crops of coxcombs, or what floods of fools. 
 Jn such like prophecies were poets skill'd. 
 Which now they find in their own tribe fulfill'd : 
 The dearth of wit they did so long presage. 
 Is fallen on us, and almost starves the stage. 
 Were you not grieved as often as you saw 
 Poor actors thrash such empty sheafs of straw .■* 
 Toiling and labouring at their lungs' expense. 
 To start a jest, or force a little sense. 
 Hard fate for us ! still harder in the event ; 
 Our authors sin, but we alone repent. 
 
 Still they proceed, and, at our charge, write worse; 
 'Twere some amends if they could reimburse ; 
 But there's the devil, though their cause is lost, 
 There's no recovering damages or cost. 
 
 Good wits, forgive this liberty we take, ^ 
 Since custom gives the losers leave to speak. 
 But if provoked, your dreadful wrath remains, 
 Take your revenge upon the coming scenes : 
 For that damn'd poet's spared who damns a brother, 
 As one thief 'scapes that executes another. 
 Thus far alone does to the wits relate; 
 But from the rest we hope a better fate. 
 To please and move has been our poet's theme. 
 Art may direct, but nature is his aim ; 
 And nature miss'd, in vain he boasts his art. 
 For only nature can affect the heart. 
 Then freely judge the scenes that shall ensue ; 
 But as with freedom, judge with candour too. 
 He would not lose through prejudice his cause. 
 Nor would obtain precariously applause ; 
 Impartial censure he requests from all. 
 Prepared by just decrees to stand or fall. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room of State in the Palace. 
 
 The curtain rising slowly to soft music, discovers 
 ALMERIA in mourning, Lkonora waiting in mourning. 
 After the music, Almeria rises from her chair and 
 comes forward. 
 
 Aim. Music has charms to soothe a savage 
 breast. 
 To softer! rocks, or bend a knotted oak. 
 I've read that things inanimate have moved, 
 And, as with living souls, have been inform'd. 
 By magic numbers and persuasive sound. 
 What then am I .' Am I more senseless grown 
 Than trees or flint ? O force of constant woe ! 
 'Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs. 
 Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace ; last night 
 The silent tomb received the good old king ; 
 He and his sorrows now are safely lodged 
 Within its cold but hospitable bosom. 
 Why am not X at peace .' 
 
 Leon. Dear madam, cease, 
 
 Or moderate your griefs ; there is no cause — 
 
 Aim. No cause ! peace, peace ; there is eternal 
 cause, 
 And misery eternal will succeed. 
 Thou canst not tell — thou hast indeed no cause. 
 
 Leon. Believe me, madam, I lament Anselmo, 
 And always did compassionate his fortune : 
 Have often wept to see bow cruelly 
 Your father kept in chains his fellow-king : 
 And oft at night when all have been retired. 
 Have stolen from bed, and to his prison crept ; 
 Where, while his jailor slept, I through the grate 
 
 Have softly whisper'd, and inquired his health ; 
 Sent in my sighs and prayers for his deliverance ; 
 For sighs and prayers were all that I could offer. 
 
 Aim. Indeed thou hast a soft and gentle nature, 
 That thus couldst melt to see a stranger's wrongs. 
 O Leonora, hadst thou known Anselmo, 
 How would thy heart have bled to see his sufferings ! 
 Thou hadst no cause, but general compassion. 
 
 Leon. Love of my royal mistress gave me cause, 
 My love of you begot my grief for him ; 
 For I had heard that when the chance of war 
 Had bless'd Anselmo's arms with victory. 
 And the rich spoil of all the field, and you. 
 The glory of the whole, were made the prey 
 Of his success ; that then, in spite of hate, 
 Revenge, and that hereditary feud 
 Between Valentia's and Granada's kings. 
 He did endear himself to your affection. 
 By all the worthy and indulgent ways 
 His most industrious goodness could invent ; 
 Proposing by a match between Alphonso 
 His son, the brave Valentia prince, and you. 
 To end the long dissension, and unite i 
 The jarring crowns. 
 
 Aim. Alphonso ! O Alphonso I 
 
 Thou too art quiet — long hast been at peace — 
 Both, both — father and son are now no more. 
 Then why am I .^ O when shall I have rest ? 
 M^hy do I live to say you are no more ? 
 Why are all these things thus ? — Is it of force .' 
 Is there necessity I must be miserable ? 
 Is it of moment to the peace of heaven 
 That I should be afflicted thus ?— If not. 
 Why is it thus contrived ! Why are things laid 
 
£38 
 
 THE MOURNING BRiDfi. 
 
 Aiir I. 
 
 By some unseen hand so, as of sure consequence, 
 They must to me bring curses, grief of heart. 
 The last distress of life, and sure despair ? 
 
 Leon. Alas, you search too far, and think too 
 deeply ! 
 
 Aim. Why was I carried to Anselmo's court ? 
 Or there, why was I used so tenderly i 
 Why not ill treated like an enemy ? 
 For so my father would have used his child. 
 
 Alphonso ! Alphonso ! 
 
 Devouring seas have washed thee from my sight. 
 
 No time shall rase thee from my memory j 
 
 No, I will live to be thy monument ; 
 
 The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb : 
 
 But in my heart thou art interr'd ; there, there, 
 
 Thy dear resemblance is for ever fix'd j 
 
 My love, my lord, my husband still, though lost. 
 
 Leon. Husband ! O heavens ! 
 
 Aim. Alas ! what have I said ? 
 
 My grief has hurried me beyond all thought : 
 
 1 would have kept that secret ; though I know 
 Thy lo?e and faith to me deserve all confidence. 
 But 'tis the wretch's comfort still to have 
 Some small reserve of near and inward woe. 
 Some unsuspected hoard of darling grief, 
 "Which they unseen may wail, and weep and mourn. 
 And, glutton-like, alone devour. 
 
 Leon. Indeed 
 
 I knew not this. 
 
 Aim. O no, thou know'st not half, 
 
 Know'st nothing of my sorrows. — If thou didst — 
 If I should tell thee, wouldst thou pity me ? 
 Tell me ; I know thou wouldst, thou art com- 
 passionate. 
 
 Leon. Witness these tears ! 
 
 Aim, I thank thee, Leonora, 
 
 Indeed I do, for pitying thy sad mistress ; 
 For 'tis, alas 1 the poor prerogative 
 Of greatness, to be wretched and unpitied. 
 But I did promise I would tell thee — whnt ? 
 My miseries ? thou dost already know 'em ; 
 And when I told thee thou didst nothing know. 
 It was because thou didst not know Alphonso : 
 For to have known my loss, thou must have 
 
 known 
 His worth, his truth, and tenderness of love. 
 
 Leon. "The memory of that brave prince stands 
 fair 
 In all report — 
 
 And I have heard imperfectly his loss I 
 But fearful to renew your troubles past, 
 I never did jiresume to ask the story. 
 
 Aim. If for my swelling heart I can, I'll tell thee. 
 I was a welcome captive in Valentia, 
 Even on the day when Manuel my father 
 Led on bis conquering troops, high as the gates 
 Of king Anselmo's palace ; which in rage. 
 And heat of war, and dire revenge, he fired. 
 The good king flying to avoid the flames, 
 Started amidst his foes, and made captivity 
 His fatal refuge.— Would that I hud fallen 
 Amid those flames ! — but 'twas not so decreed 
 Alphonso, who foresaw my fatlier's cruelty. 
 Had borne the queen and me on board a ship 
 Ready to sail ; and when this news was brought, 
 We put to sea ; but being betray'd by some 
 Who knew our flight, we closely were pursued, 
 And almost taken ; when a sudden storm 
 Drove us, and those that follow'd, on the coast 
 Of Afric ; there our vessel struck the shoi!;, 
 
 And bulging 'gainst a rock was lash'd in pieces ! 
 But Heaven spared me for yet mu;h more affliction ! 
 Conducting them who follow'd i s to shun 
 The shoal, and save me floating m the waves. 
 While the good queen and my Abhonso perish'd. 
 
 J-eon. Alas ! were you then wedded to Alphonso ? 
 
 Aim, That day, that fatal day our hands were 
 join'd. 
 For when my lofd teheld the ship pursuing. 
 And saw her rate so far exceeding ours ; 
 He came to me, and begged me by my love, 
 I would consent the priest should make us one ; 
 That whether death or victory ensied, 
 I might be his beyond the power of fate : 
 The queen too did assist his suit— I granted ; 
 And in one day, was wedded and a Tidow. 
 
 Lron, Indeed 'twas mournful. 
 
 Aim. 'Twas as I have told thee ; 
 
 For which I mourn, and will for eVe • mourn ; 
 Nor will I change these black and diimal robes, 
 Or ever dry these swollen and watery eyes ; 
 Or ever taste content, or peace of heirt, 
 While I have life, and thought of ray Alphonso. 
 
 Leon, Look down, good Heaven, with pity on 
 her sorrows. 
 And grant that time may bring her some relief, 
 
 Aim. O no, time gives increase to my afflictions. 
 The circling hours, that gather all the woes. 
 Which are difiused through the revolvi \g year. 
 Come, heavy-laden with the oppressing weight, 
 To me : with me, successively, they lea to 
 The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares, 
 And all the damps of grief, that did itard their 
 
 flight i 
 They shake their downy wings, and seal er all 
 The dire collected dews on my poor head ; 
 Then fly with joy and swiftness from me . 
 
 Leon. Hark ! 
 
 The distant shouts proclaim your father' triumph. 
 
 \^Shouls at a distance. 
 
 cease, for heaven's sake, assuage a litt e 
 This torrent of your grief; for much I fe \r 
 'Twill urge his wrath to see you drown'd n tears, 
 When joy appears in every other face. 
 
 Aim. And joy he brings to every other lisart. 
 But double, double weight of woe to mine ; 
 For with him Garcia comes — Garcia, to whim 
 
 1 must be sacrificed, and all the vows 
 
 i gave my dear Alphonso basely broken. 
 No, it shall never be j for I will die ; 
 First, die ten thousand deaths 1 — Look down, look 
 down, IKneels 
 
 Alphonso, hear the sacred vow I make ; 
 One moment cease to gaze on perfect bliss, 
 And bend tliy glorious eyes to earth and me ; 
 And thou, Anselmo, if yet thou art arrived, 
 Through all impediments of purging tire. 
 To that bright heaven, where my Alphonso reigi s. 
 Behold thou also, and attend my vow. 
 If ever I do yield, or give consent. 
 By any action, word, or thought, to wed 
 Another lord, may then just Heaven shower down 
 Unheard-of curses on me, greater far 
 (If such there be in angry Heaven's vengeance) 
 Than any I have yet endured. — And now [iiitinff. 
 My heart has some relief ; having so well 
 Discharged this debt, incumbent on my love. 
 Yet one tiling more I would engage from thee. 
 Leon, My heart, my life, and will, ore orly 
 yours. 
 
«;KNE IV. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 230 
 
 Aim. I thank thee. 'Tis but this ; anon, when all 
 Are wrapp'd and busied in the general joy, 
 Thou wilt withdraw, and privately with me 
 Steal forth, to visit good Ansclmo's tomb. 
 
 Leon, Alas ! I fear some fatal resolution. 
 
 Ahi. No, on my life, my faith, I mean no ill, 
 Nor violence. I feel myself more light. 
 And more at large, since I have made tliis vow. 
 Perhaps I would repeat it there more solemnly. 
 Tis tiiat, or some such melancholy thought. 
 Upon my word, no more. 
 
 Lean. I wiU attend you. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Aliueeeia, Leonora, and Alonzo. 
 
 Alon. The lord Gonsalez comes to tell your 
 The king is just arrived. [ highness 
 
 Aim. Conduct him in. iExU Alonzo. 
 
 That's his pretence ; his errand is, I know, 
 To fill my ears with Garcia's valiant deeds, 
 And gild and magnify his son's exploits. 
 But I am arm'd with ice around my heart. 
 Not to be warm'd with words, or idle eloquence. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Gonsalez, Almeria, and Leonora. 
 
 Gon. Be every day of your long life like this ! 
 The sun, bright conquest, and your brighter eyes, 
 Have all conspired to blaze promiscuous light, 
 And bless this day with most unequall'd lustre. 
 Your royal father, my victorious lord, 
 Loaden with spoils, and ever-living laurel. 
 Is entering now in martial pomp the palace. 
 Five hundred mules precede his solemn march. 
 Which groan beneath -the weight of Moorish wealth. 
 Chariots of war, adorn'd with glittering gems 
 Succeed ; and next, a hundred neighing steeds, 
 White as the fleecy rain on Alpine hills. 
 That bound and foam, and champ the golden bit. 
 As they disdain'd the victory they grace. 
 Prisoners of war in shining fetters toUow ; 
 And captains, of the noblest blood of Afric, 
 Sweat by his chariot wheel, and lick and grind, 
 With gnashing teeth, the dust his triumphs raise. 
 The swarming populace spread every wall. 
 And cling, as if with claws they did enforce 
 Their hold through clifted stones, stretching and 
 As if they were all eyes, and every limb [staring. 
 Would feed its faculty of admiration : 
 While you alone retire, and shun this sig.'it ; 
 This sight, which is indeed not seen (though twice 
 The multitude should gaze) in absence of your eyes. 
 
 Aim. My lord, ray eyes ungratefully behold 
 The gilded trophies of exterior honours. 
 Nor will my ears be charm'd with sounding words. 
 Or pompous phrase ; the pageantry of souls. 
 But that my father is return'd in safety, 
 I bend to Heaven with thanks. 
 
 Gon. Excellent princess ! 
 
 But 'tis a task unfit for ray weak age, 
 With dying words, to offer at your praise. 
 Garcia, my son, your beauty's lowest slave. 
 Has better done, in proving with his sword 
 The force and influence of your matchless charms. 
 
 Aim. I doubt not of the worth of Garcia's deeds, 
 
 Which had been brave, though I had ne'er hi** 
 
 born. 
 
 Leon. Madam, the king. ^FUmrui. 
 
 Aim. My women. I would m'eet him, 
 
 [Attendants to Almeria enter in mourning. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Symphony of warlike music. Enter Kanuel, attended 
 by Garcia and leceral Officers. Files of Prisoners 
 in chains, and Guards, who are ranged in order 
 round the stage. ALMEitrA meets Manuel, and 
 kneels ; afterwards Gonsalez kneels, and kisses 
 Manuel's hand, while Garcia does the same to 
 Almeria. 
 
 Man. Almeria, rise ! — My best Gonsalez, rise ! 
 What, tears ! my good old fnend ! 
 
 Gon. But tears of joy. 
 
 Believe me, sir, to see you thus has fiU'd 
 My eyes with more delight than they can hold. 
 
 Man. By heaven, thou lovest me, and I'm 
 pleased thou dost ! 
 Take it for thanks, old man, that I rejoice 
 
 To see thee weep on this occasion Sorae 
 
 Here are, who seem to mourn at our success ! 
 Why is't, Almeria, that you meet our eyes. 
 Upon this solemn day, in these sad weeds % 
 In opposition to my brightness, you 
 And yours are all like daughters of affliction. 
 
 Aim. Forgive me, sir, if I in this offend. 
 The year, which I have vow'd to pay to Heaven 
 In mourning and strict life for my deliverance 
 From wreck and death, wants yet to be expired. 
 
 Man. Your zeal to Heaven is great, so is your 
 Yet something too is due to me, who gave [debt : 
 That life which Heaven preserved. A day bestow'd 
 In filial duty, had atoned and given 
 A dispensatign to your vow — No more. 
 'Twas weak and wilful — and a woman's error. 
 Yet — upon thought, it doubly wounds my sight, 
 To see that sable worn upon the day 
 .Sudceeding that, in which our deadliest foe. 
 Hated AnsiJmo, was interr'd. — By heaven. 
 It looks as thou didst mourn for him ! just so. 
 Thy senseless vow appear'd to bear its date, 
 Not from that hour wherein thou wert preserved. 
 But that wherein the cursed Alphonso perish'd. 
 Ha ! what I thou dost not weep to think of that ? 
 
 Gon. Have patience, royal sir ; the princess weeps 
 To have offended you. If fate decreed 
 One pointed hour should be Alphonso's loss. 
 And her deliverance ; is she to blame ? 
 
 Man. I tell thee she's to blame not to have feasted 
 When my first foe was laid in earth, such enmity. 
 Such detestation, bears my blood to his ; 
 My daughter should have revell'd at his death, 
 She should have made these palace-walls to shake. 
 And all this high and ample roof to ring 
 With her rejoicings. What, to mourn, and weep ; 
 Then, then to weep, and pray, and grieve ! iiy 
 
 heaven, 
 There's not a slave, a shackled slave of mine. 
 But should have smiled that hour, through all his 
 
 care. 
 And shook his chains in transport and rude har- 
 mony ! 
 
 Gon. What she has done was in excess of 
 goodness ; 
 
tV} 
 
 THK MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 L-stiiy'd by too much piety, to seem 
 As if she had offended. — Sure, no more. 
 
 Man, To seem is to commit at thiy conjuncture. 
 I wo' not have a seeming sorrow seen 
 To-day. — Retire, divest yourself with speed 
 Of that offensive black \ on me be all 
 The violation of your vow : for you. 
 It shall be your excuse, that I command it 
 
 Gar. IKneeling-l Your pardon, sir, if I presume 
 so far, 
 ^ i to remind you of your gracious promise. 
 
 Man. Rise, Garcia — I forgot. Yet stay, Almeria. 
 
 Aim. My boding heart! — ^What is your pleasure, 
 sir ? 
 
 Man. Draw near, and give your hand ; and, 
 Garcia, yours : 
 leceive this lord, as one ^hom I have found 
 ,Vorthy to be your husband, and my son- 
 
 Gor. Thus let me kneel to take — O not to take — 
 But to devote, and yield myself for ever 
 The slave and creature of my royal mistress ! 
 
 Gon. O let me prostrate pay my worthless 
 thanks — 
 
 Man. No more ; my promise long since pass'd, 
 thy services. 
 And Garcia's well-tried valour, all oblige me. 
 This day we triumph ; but to-morrow's sun, 
 Garcia, shall shine to grace thy nuptials. 
 
 Aim. Oh! IFaints. 
 
 Gar. She faints ! help to support her. 
 
 Gon. She recovers. 
 
 Man. A fit of bridal fear; how is't, Almeria.' 
 
 /Ilm. A sudden chillness seizes on my spirits. 
 Your leave, sir, to retire. 
 
 Man. Garcia, conduct her. 
 
 [Garcta leads Alaikria to the door and yetniiis. 
 This idle vow hangs on her woman's fears. 
 I'll have a priest shall preach her from her faith. 
 And make it sin not to renounce that vow 
 Which I'd have broken. — Now, what vjould Alonzo ? 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Manuel, Gonsalrz, Garcia, Axonzo, and Attendants. 
 
 Alon, Your beauteous captive, Zara, is arrived, 
 And with a train as ii she still were wife 
 To Abucacim, and the Moor had conquer'd. 
 
 Man. It is our will she should be so attended. 
 Bear hence these prisoners. Garcia, which is he. 
 Of whose mute valour you relate such wonders .' 
 
 [Prisoners led (iff. 
 
 Gar. Osmyn, who led the Moorish horse ; but he. 
 Great sir, at her request, attends on Zara. 
 
 Man. He is your prisoner ; as you please dispose 
 him. 
 
 Gar. 1 would oblige him, but he shuns ray 
 kindness ; 
 And with a haughty mien, and stern civility. 
 Dumbly declines all offers : if he speak, 
 'Tis scarce above a word ; as he were born 
 Alone to do, and did disdain to talk ; 
 At least, to talk where he must not command. 
 
 Man. Such sullenness, and in a man so brave. 
 Must have some other cause than his captivity. 
 Did Zara, then, request he might attend her .' 
 
 Gar. My lord, she did. 
 
 Man. That, join'd with his behaviour. 
 
 Begets a doubt. I'd have 'em watched ; perhaps 
 Her chains hang heavier on him tlian his own. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Mani-kl, Gon"saijiz, Garcia, Alonto, Zara and Osmv.s 
 bottnd, conducted by Pkrgs and a Guajd, and attended 
 1/1/ Si^Li.M and several .Muto^ and Kunuchs in a train. 
 
 Man. What welcome and what honours, beau- 
 teous Zara, 
 A king and conqueior « aE give, are yours. 
 A conqueror imieed, where you are won ; 
 Who with such lustre strike admiring eyes. 
 That had our pomp been with your presence graced. 
 The expecting crowd had been deceived ; and seen 
 Their monarch enter not triumphant, but 
 In pleasing triumph led ; your beauty's slave. 
 
 Zara. If I on any terms could condescend 
 To like captivity, or think those honours 
 Which conqueroi-s in courtesy bestow. 
 Of equal value with unborrow'd rule. 
 And native right to arbitrary sway ; 
 I might be pleased, when I behold this train 
 With usual homage wait. But when I feci 
 These bonds, I look with loathing on myself; 
 And scorn vile slavery, though doubly hid 
 Beneath mock-pi'aises, and dissembled state. 
 
 Man. Those bonds ! 'twas my command yon 
 should be free. 
 How durst you, Perez, disobey ? 
 
 Per. Great sir, 
 
 Your order was, she should not wait your triumph ; 
 But at some distance follow, thus attended. 
 
 Man. 'Tis false ! 'twas more ; I bid she should 
 be free : 
 If not in words, I bid it by my eyes. 
 Her eyes did more than bid. — Free her and hers 
 With speed — yet stay — my hands alone can make 
 Pit restitution here. — ^Thus I release you, 
 And by releasing you, enslave myself. 
 
 Zara. Such favours so conferr'd, though when 
 unsought. 
 Deserve acknowledgment from noble minds. 
 Such thanks, as one hating to be obliged. 
 Yet hating more ingratitude, can pay, 
 I offer. 
 
 Man. Born to excel, and to command ! 
 As by transcendent beauty to attract 
 All eyes, so by pre-eminence of so^I 
 To rule all hearts. 
 Garcia, what's he, who with contracted brow 
 
 [^Beholding Osiuyn as tAey tinbind him. 
 And sullen port, glooms downward with his eyes ; 
 At once regardless of his chains, or liberty ? 
 
 Gar, That, sir, is he of whom I spoke ; that's 
 Osmyn. 
 
 Man. He answers well the oharacteryou gave him 
 Whence comes it, valiant Osmyn, that a man 
 So great in arms, as thou art said to be. 
 So hardly can endure captivity, 
 The common chance of war .' 
 
 Osm. Because captivity 
 
 Has robb'd me of a dear and just revenge. 
 
 Man. I understand not that. 
 
 Osm. I would not have you. 
 
 Zara. That gallant Moor in battle lost a friend. 
 Whom more than life he loved j and the regret 
 Of not revenging on his foes that loss 
 Has caused this melancholy and despair. 
 
 Jfan. She does excuse him ; 'tis as I suspected. 
 
 ITo Go.\salkb. 
 
 Gon. That friend may be herself; seem not to heed 
 His arrogMit reply ; she looks concern'd. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 241 
 
 Man, I'll have inquiry made ; perhaps his friend 
 Yet lives, and is a prisoner. His name ? 
 
 Zara. Heli. 
 
 Man. Garcia, that search shall be your care : 
 It shall be mine to pay devotion here j 
 At this fair shrine to lay my laurels down, 
 And raise Love's altar on the spoils of war. 
 
 Conquest and triumph, now, are mine no more : 
 
 Nor will 1 victory in camps adore : 
 
 For, lingering there, in long suspense she stands. 
 Shifting the prize in unresolving hands : 
 Unused to wait, I brolte through her delay, 
 Fix'd her by force, and snatch'd the doubtful day. 
 Now late I find that war is but her sport ; 
 In love the goddess keeps her awful court : 
 Fickle In fields, unsteadily she flies. 
 But rules with settled sway in Zara's eyes. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Aisle of a Temple. 
 Garcia, Heli, and Perez. 
 
 Gar, This way, we're told, Osmyn was seen to 
 walk; 
 Chaosing this lonely mansion of the dead, 
 To mourn, brave Heli, thy mistaken fate. 
 
 Heli, Let Heaven with thunder to the centre 
 strike me. 
 If to arise in very deed from death, 
 And to revisit with my long-closed eyes 
 This living light, could to my soul, or sense, 
 Afford a thought, or show a glimpse of joy. 
 In least proportion to the vast delight 
 I feel, to hear of Osmyn's name ; to hear 
 That Osmyn lives, and I again shall see him ! 
 
 Gar, I've heard, with admiration, of your 
 friendship. 
 
 Per, Yonder, my lord, behold the noble Moor. 
 
 Heli, Where ? where ? 
 
 Gar, I saw him not, nor any like him. 
 
 Per, I saw him, when I spoke, thwarting my 
 view. 
 And striding with distemper'd haste j his eyes 
 Seem'd flame, and flash'd upon me with a glance ; 
 Then forward shot their fires, which he pursued. 
 As to some object frightful, yet not fear d. 
 
 Gar. Let's haste to follow him, and know the 
 cause. 
 
 Heli, My lord, let me entreat you to forbear : 
 Leave me alone to find, and cure the cause. 
 I know his melancholy, and such starts 
 Are usual to his temper. It might raise him 
 To act some violence upon himself, 
 So to be caught in an unguarded hour, 
 And when his soul gives all her passions way 
 Secure and loose in friendly solitude. 
 I know his noble heart would burst with shame. 
 To be surprised by strangers in its frailty. 
 
 Gar, Go, generous Heli, and relieve your friend. 
 Far be it from me, oflSciously to pry 
 Or press upon the privacies of others. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 . Garcia and Perez. 
 
 Gar, Perez, the king expects from our return 
 To have his jealousy co'nfirm'd or clear'd. 
 Of that appearing love which Zara bears 
 To Osmyn ; but some other opportunity 
 Must make that plain. 
 
 Per, To me 'twas long since plain, 
 
 And every look from him and her confirms it. 
 
 Gar, If so, unhappiness attends their love. 
 And I could pity 'em. I hear some coming. 
 The friends perhaps, are met ; let us avoid 'em. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Almeria and Leonora. 
 
 Aim, It was a fancied noise, for all is hush'd. 
 
 Leon, It bore the accent of a human voice. 
 
 Aim, It was thy fear, or else some transient 
 wind 
 Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle. 
 We'll listen. 
 
 Leon. Hark ! 
 
 Aim, No, all is hush'd, and still as death. — 'Tis 
 dreadful ! 
 How reverend is the face of this tall pile, 
 Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads. 
 To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof. 
 By its own weight made steadfast and immove- 
 able. 
 Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe 
 And terror on my aching sight j the tombs 
 And monumental caves of death look cold. 
 And shoot a chlUness to my trembling heart. 
 Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; 
 Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear 
 Thy voice — my own afi'rights me with its echoes. 
 
 Leon, Let us return ; the horror of this 
 place. 
 And silence, will increase your melancholy. 
 
 Aim, It may my fears, but cannot add to 
 that. 
 No, I will on ; show me Anselmo's tomb. 
 Lead me o'er bones and sculls and mouldering 
 
 earth 
 Of human bodies ; for I'll mix with them. 
 Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corse 
 Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride 
 Of Garcia's more detested bed : that thought 
 Exerts my spirits ; and my present fears 
 Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me. 
 Lead me, for I am bolder grown : lead on 
 Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again 
 To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul. 
 
 Leon, I go : but Heaven can tell with what 
 regret. 
 
242 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 The Scene opening discovers a place of tomis. One monu- 
 ment fronting the mcui greater than the rest. 
 
 Heli. 
 I wander through this maze of monuments, 
 Yet cannot find him. — Hark ! sure 'tis the voice 
 Of one complaining — There it sounds : I '11 follow it. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 AxMERTA and Leonora. 
 
 Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose 
 
 womb 
 The poor remains of good Anselmo rest ; 
 Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms ! 
 What do I see ? O Heaven ! either my eyes 
 Are false, or still the marble door remains 
 Unclosed : the iron gates that lead to death 
 Beneath, are still wide-stretch'd upon their hinge, 
 And staring on us with unfolded leaves. 
 
 Aim. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for 
 
 me ; 
 And that dumb mouth, significant in show. 
 Invites me to the bed where I alone 
 Shall rest; shows me the grave, where nature, 
 
 weary ' 
 And long oppress'd with woes and bending cares. 
 May lay the burden down, and sink in slumbers 
 Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold 
 Me in his leaden arms, and press me close 
 To his cold clayey breast ; my father then 
 Will cease his tyranny ; and Garcia too 
 Will fly my pale deformity with loathiog. 
 My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount. 
 And range the stan-y orbs, and milky ways, 
 Of that refulgent world, where I shall swim 
 In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss 
 To my Alphonso's soul. O joy too great ! 
 O ecstacy of thought ! Help me, Anselmo ; 
 Help me, Alphonso : take me, reach thy hand ; 
 To thee, to thee I call, to thee, Alphonso : 
 O Alphonso ! 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 AI-MKR7A, Leonora ; Osmyn ascending from the fomb. 
 
 Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was 
 
 Alphonso } 
 Aim. Angels, and all the host of heaven, sup- 
 port me 1 
 Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, 
 from the grave. 
 And growing to his father's shroud, roots up 
 Alphonso ? 
 
 Aim. Mercy ! providence ! O speak ! 
 
 Speak to it quickly, quickly ! speak to me. 
 Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide me, 
 Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light, 
 And from my eyes ! 
 
 Osm. Amazement and illusion ! 
 
 Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers j 
 
 [.Coming forward. 
 That motionless I may be still deceived. 
 Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve 
 
 That tender, lovely form of painted air, 
 So like Almeria. Ha ! it sinks, it falls ; 
 I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade. 
 'Tis life ! 'tis warm ! 'tis she ! 'tis she herself ! 
 Nor dead nor shade, but breathing and alive I 
 It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife ! 
 
 SCENE VIL 
 Almeria, Leonora, Osmyn, and Heli. 
 
 Leon. Alas, she stirs not yet, nor lifts her eyes ! 
 He too is fainting. — Help me, help me, stranger, 
 Whoe'er thou art, and lend thy hand to raise 
 These bodies. 
 
 Heli. Ha ! 'tis he ! and with Almeria ! 
 
 miracle of happiness I O joy 
 Unhoped for ! does Almeria live ! 
 
 Osm. Where is she ? 
 
 Let me behold and touch her, and be sure 
 'Tis she ; show me her face, and let me feel 
 Her lips with mine. — 'Tis she, I'm not deceived ; 
 
 1 taste her breath, I warm'd her and am warm d. 
 Look up, Almeria, bless me with thy eyes ; 
 Look on thy love, thy lover, and thy husband. 
 
 Aim. I've sworn I'll not wed Garcia ; why d'ye 
 Is this a father ? [force me ? 
 
 Osm. Look on thy Alphonso. 
 
 Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia : 
 Nor am I what I seem, but thy Alphonso. 
 Wilt thou not know me ? Hast thou then forgot 
 
 me? 
 Hast thou thy eyes, yet canst not see Alphonso ? 
 Am I so alter'd, or art thou so changed. 
 That seeing my disguise, thou seest not me ? 
 
 Aim. It is, it is Alphonso ! 'tis his face. 
 His voice ! I know him now, I know him all. 
 O take me to thy arms, and bear me hence. 
 Back to the bottom of the boundless deep. 
 To seas beneath, where thou so long hast dwelt. 
 
 how hast thou return'd } how hast thou charm'd 
 The wildness of the waves and rocks to this .' 
 That thus relenting, they have given thee back 
 To earth, to light and life, to love and me. 
 
 Osm. Oh I'll not ask, nor answer how, or why 
 We both have backward trod the paths of fate, 
 To meet again in life j to know I have thee. 
 Is knowing more than any circumstance 
 Or means by which I have thee. 
 To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips. 
 And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much joy, 
 
 1 have not leisure to reflect, or know. 
 Or trifle time in thinking. 
 
 Aim. Stay a while — 
 
 Let me look on thee, yet a little more. 
 
 Osm. What wouldst thou.' thou dost put me 
 
 from thee. 
 Aim. Yes. 
 
 Osm. And why ? what dost thou mean ? why 
 
 dost thou gaze so ? 
 Aim. I know not ; 'tis to see thy face, I think — 
 It is too much ! too much to bear and live ! 
 To see him thus again is such profusion 
 Of joy, of bliss — I cannot bear — I must 
 Be mad — I cannot be transported thus. 
 Osm. Thou excellence, thou joy, thou heaven ol 
 
 love! 
 Aim. Where hast thou been ? and how art thou 
 alive ? 
 
SCENE VIII. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 243 
 
 How is all this ? All-powerful Heaven, what are we ! 
 
 my strain'd heart ! — let me again behold thee, 
 For I weep to see thee. — Art thou not paler ? 
 Much, much ; how thou art changed ! 
 
 Oxm. Not in my love. 
 
 Aim. No, no, thy griefs, I know, have done this 
 to thee. 
 Thou hast wept much, Alphonso ; and, I fear, 
 Too much, too tenderly lamented me. 
 
 Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly. 
 No more, my life ; talk not of tears or grief j 
 Affliction is no more, now thou art found. 
 Why dost thou weep, and hold thee from my arms ; 
 My arms which ache to fold thee fast, and grow 
 To thee with twining ? Come, come to my heart. 
 
 Aim. I will, for I should never look enough. 
 They would have married me ; but I had sworn 
 To Heaven and thee, and sooner would have died. 
 
 Osm. Perfection of all faithfulness and love ! 
 
 Aim. Indeed I would. — Nay, I would tell thee all, 
 If I could speak ; how I have mourn'd and pray'd ; 
 For I have pray'd to thee as to a saint : 
 And thou hast heard my prayer ; for thou art come 
 To my distress, to my despair, which Heaven 
 Could only by restoring thee have cured. 
 
 Osm. Grant me but life, good Heaven, but length 
 of days. 
 To pay some part, some little of this debt. 
 This countless sum of tenderness and love. 
 For which I stand engaged to this all-excellence : 
 Then bear me in a whirlwind to my fate. 
 Snatch me from life, and cut me short unwarn'd ; 
 Then, then 'twill be enough ! — I shall be old, 
 
 1 shall have lived beyond all eras then 
 
 Of yet unmeasured time ; when I have made 
 This exquisite, this most amazing goodness. 
 Some recompense of love and maitchless truth. 
 
 Aim. 'Tis more than recompense to see thy 
 face; 
 If heaven is greater joy, it is no happiness, 
 For 'tis not to be borne. — What sliall I say .' 
 I have a thousand things to know, and ask, 
 And speak. — That thou art here, beyond all hope. 
 All thought ; that all at once thou art before me. 
 And vrith such suddenness hast hit my sight. 
 Is such surprise, such mystery, such ecstacy ; 
 It hurries all my soul, and stuns my sense. 
 Sure from thy father's tomb thou didst arise. 
 
 Osm. 1 did ; and thou, my love, didst call me ; 
 thou. 
 
 Aim. True ; but how camest thou there ? wert 
 thou alone ? 
 
 Osm. I was, and lying on my father's lead, 
 When broken echoes of a distant voice 
 Disturb'd the sacred silence of the vault. 
 In murmurs round my head. I rose and listen'd, 
 And thought I. heard thy spirit call Alphonso ; 
 I thought I saw thee too ; but Oh, I thought not 
 That I indeed should be so blest to see thee ! 
 
 Aim. But still, how camest thou hither ? how 
 thus ?— Ha ! 
 What's he, who like thyself is started here 
 Ere seen? 
 
 Osm. Where .' ha ! what do I see ? Antonio .' 
 I'm fortunate indeed ! — my friend too, safe ! 
 
 Heli. Most happily, in finding you thus bless'd. 
 
 Aim. More miracles ! Antonio too escaped ! 
 
 Osm. And twice escaped, both from the rage of 
 seas 
 And war : for in the fight I saw him fall. 
 
 ffeli. But fell unhurt, a prisoner as yourself. 
 And as yourself made free ; hither I came 
 Impatiently to seek you, where I knew 
 Your grief would lead you, to lament Anselmo. 
 
 Osm. There are no wonders, or else all is 
 wonder. 
 
 Heli. I saw you on the ground, and raised you 
 up: 
 When with astonishment I saw Almeria. 
 
 Osm. I saw her too, and therefore saw not 
 thee. 
 
 Aim. Nor I; nor could I, for my eyes were 
 yours. 
 
 Osm. What means the bounty of all-gracious 
 Heaven, 
 That persevering still, with open hand, 
 It scatters good, as in a waste of mercy ! 
 Where will this end ! but Heaven is infinite 
 In all, and can continue to bestow. 
 When scanty number shall be spent in telling. 
 
 Leon. Or I'm deceived, or I beheld the glimpse 
 Of two in shining habits cross the aisle ; 
 Who by their pointing seem to mark this place. 
 
 Aim. Sure I have dreamt, if we must part so 
 soon. 
 
 Osm. I wish, at least, our parting were a dream. 
 Or we could sleep till we again were met. 
 
 ffeli. Zara with Selim, sir ; I saw and know 
 'em ; 
 You must be quick, for love will lend her wings. 
 
 Aim. What love ? who is she .' why are you 
 alarm'd .'' 
 
 Osm. She's the reverse of thee ; she's my 
 unhappiness. 
 Harbour no thought that may disturb thy peace ; 
 But gently take thyself away, lest she 
 Should come, and see the straining of my eyes 
 To follow thee. I'll think how we may meet 
 To part no more. My friend will tell thee all ; 
 How I escaped, how I am here, and thus ; 
 How I'm not call'd Alphonso, now, but Osmyn ; 
 And he Heli. All, all he will unfold, 
 Ere next we meet. 
 
 Aim. Sure, we shall meet again — 
 
 Osm. We shall : we part not but to meet again. 
 Gladness and warmth of ever-kindling love 
 Dwell with thee, and revive thy heart in absence. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 OsMVN. 
 
 Yet I behold her — yet — and now no more. 
 
 Turn your lights inward, eyes, and view my thought. 
 
 So shall you still behold her — 'twill not be. 
 
 O impotence of sight! mechanic sense. 
 
 Which to exterior objects owest thy faculty, 
 
 Not seeing of election, but necessity. 
 
 Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors, 
 
 Successively reflect succeeding images ; 
 
 Not what they would, but must ; a star, or toad : 
 
 Just as the hand of chance administers. 
 
 Not so the mind, whose undetermin'd view 
 
 Revolves, and to the present adds the past : 
 
 Essaying further to futurity ; 
 
 But that in vain. I have Almeria here — 
 
 At once, as I before have seen her often— 
 
244 
 
 THK MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Zara, Sblim, and Osmyn, 
 
 Zara. See where he stands, folded and fix'd to 
 earth, 
 Stiffening in thought a statue among statues ! 
 Why, cruel Osmyn, dost thou fly me thus ? 
 Is it well done ? Is this then the return 
 For fame, for honour, and for empire lost ? 
 But what is loss of honour, fame and empire ! 
 Is this the recompense reserved for love ; 
 Why dost thou leave uy eyes, and fly my arms. 
 To find this place of horror and obscurity ? 
 Am I more loathsome to thee than the grave. 
 That thou dost seek to shield thee there, and shun 
 
 My love ? But to the grave I'll follow thee 
 
 He looks not, minds not, hears not. — Barbarous 
 
 man, 
 Am I neglected thus ? am I despised } 
 Not heard ? ungrateful Osmyn ! 
 
 Osm. Ha, 'tis Zara ! 
 
 Zara. Yes, traitor ! Zara, lost, abandon'd Zara, 
 Is a regardless suppliant, now, to Osmyn. 
 The slave, the wretch that she redeem'd from 
 
 death, 
 Disdains to listen. now, or look on Zara. 
 
 Osm. Far be the guilt of such reproaches from 
 me ; 
 Lost in myself, and blinded by my thoughts, 
 I saw you not, till now. 
 
 Zara. Now then you sec me — 
 
 But with such dumb and thankless eyes you look. 
 Better I was unseen, than seen thus coldly. 
 
 Osm. What would you from a wretch who came 
 to mourn, 
 And only for his sorrows chose this solitude ? 
 Look round ; joy is not here, nor cheerfulness. 
 You have pursued misfortune to its dwelling. 
 Yet look for gaiety and gladness there. 
 
 Zara. Inhuman ! why, why dost thou rack me 
 thus? 
 And with perverseness from the purpose answer ? 
 What.is't to me, this house of misery ? 
 What joy do I require ? If thou dost mourn, 
 I come to mourn with thee ; to share thy griefs, 
 And give thee, for 'em, in exchange my love. 
 
 Osm. O that's the greatest grief ! — I am so poor, 
 I have not wherewithal to give again. 
 
 Zara. Thou hast a heart, though 'tis a savage 
 one ; 
 Give it me as it is ; I ask no more 
 For all I've done, and all I have endured ; 
 For saving thee, when I beheld thee first, 
 Driven by the tide upon my country's coast. 
 Pale and expiring, drench'd in briny waves, 
 Thou and thy friend, till my compassion found 
 
 thee ; 
 Compassion ! scarce will't own that name, so soon, 
 So quickly was it love ; for thou wert godlike 
 Even then. Kneeling on earth, I loosed my hair. 
 And with it dried thy wat'ry cheeks ; then chafed 
 Thy temples, till reviving blood arose. 
 And like the morn vermilion'd o'er thy face. 
 O Heaven ! how did my heart rejoice and ache. 
 When I beheld the day-break of thy eyes, 
 And felt the balm of thy respiring lips ! 
 
 Osm. O call not to my mind what you have done ; 
 It sets a debt of that account before me. 
 Which shows me poor, and bankrupt even in hopes. 
 
 Zara. The faithful Selim and my women know 
 The dangers which I tempted to conceal you. 
 You know how I abused the credulous king ; 
 What arts I used to make you pass on him. 
 When he received you as the Prince of Fez ; 
 And as my kinsman, honour'd and advanced you. 
 Oh, why do I relate what I have done ? 
 What did I not ? Was't not for you this war 
 Commenced ? not knowing who you were, nor why 
 You hated Manuel, I urged my husband 
 To this invasion ; where he late was lost, 
 Where all is lost, and I am made a slave. 
 Look on me now, from empire fallen to slavery ; 
 Think on my sufferings first, then look on me ; 
 Think on the cause of all, then view thyself : 
 Reflect on Osmyn, and then look on Zara, 
 The fallen, the lost, and now the captive Zara, 
 And now abandon'd — say, what then is Osmyn ? 
 
 Osm. A fatal wretch — a huge stupendous ruin, 
 That tumbling on its prop, crush'd all beneath. 
 And bore contiguous palaces to earth. 
 
 Zara. Yet thus, thus fallen, thus levell'd with 
 the vilest. 
 If I have gain'd thy love, 'tis glorious ruin j 
 Ruin I 'tis still to reign, and to be more 
 A queen ; for what are riches, empire, power. 
 But larger means to gratify the will ? 
 The steps on which we tread, to rise, and reach 
 Our wish ; and that obtain'd, down with the 
 
 scaffolding 
 Of sceptres, crowns, and thrones ! they've served 
 
 their end. 
 And are, like lumber, to be left and scorn'd. 
 
 Osm, Why was I made the instrument to throw 
 In bonds the frame of this exalted mind ? 
 
 Zara. We may be free ; the conqueror is mine; 
 In chains unseen X hold hiin by the heart, 
 And can unwind or strain him as I please. 
 Give me thy love, I'll give thee liberty. 
 
 Osm. In vain you offer, and in vain require 
 What neither can bestow : set free yourself. 
 And leave a slave the wretch that would be so. 
 
 Zara. Thou canst not mean so poorly as thou 
 talk'st. 
 
 Osm. Alas ! you know me not. 
 
 Zara. Not who thon art : 
 
 But what this last ingratitude declares. 
 This grovelling baseness — Thou say'st true, I know 
 Thee not, for what thou art yet wants a name : 
 But something so unworthy, and so vile. 
 That to have loved thee makes me yet more lost, 
 Than all the malice of my other fate. 
 Traitor ! monster ! cold and perfidious slave ! 
 A slave, not daring to be free ! nor dares 
 To love above him, for 'tis dangerous : 
 'Tis that I know ; for thou dost look, with eyes 
 Sparkling desire, and tremblibg to possess. 
 I know my charms have reach'd thy very soul, 
 And thrill'd thee through with darted fires ; but 
 
 thou 
 Dost fear so much, thou darest not wish. The 
 
 king ! 
 There, there's the dreadful sound, the king's thy 
 rival ! 
 
 Sel. Madam, the king is here, and entering now, 
 
 Zara. As I could wish ; by Heaven I'll be 
 revenged I 
 
THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 245 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Zara, OsmyNj Sblim, Manuel, Pjibbz, and Attendanta 
 Man. Why does the fairest of her kind with- 
 draw 
 Her shining from the day, to gild this scene 
 Of death and night ? Hal what disorder's this ? 
 Somewhat I heard of king and rival mention'd. 
 What's he that dares be rival to the king ? 
 Or lift his eyes to like, where I adore ? 
 
 Zara. There, he ; your prisoner, and that was 
 
 my slave. 
 Man. How ? Better than my hopes ! does she 
 accuse him ? iAside. 
 
 Zara. Am I become so low by my captivity, 
 And do your arms so lessen what they conquer, 
 That Zara must be made the sport of slaves ? 
 And shall the wretch, whom yester sun beheld 
 Waiting my nod, the creature of my power, 
 Presume to-day to plead audacious love. 
 And build bold hopes on my dejected fate ? 
 
 Man. Better for him to tempt the rage of 
 Heaven, 
 And wrench the bolt red-hissing from the hand 
 
 Of him that thunders, than but think that insolence. 
 'Tis daring for a god. Hence, to the wheel 
 With that Ixion, who aspires to hold 
 Divinity embraced ! to whips and prisons 
 Drag him with speed, and rid me of his face. 
 
 [Guards seize Osmyn. 
 Zara. Compassion led me to bemoan his state, 
 Whose former faith had merited much more ; 
 And through my hopes in you, I undertook 
 He should be set at large ; thence sprung his 
 
 insolence. 
 And what was charity he construed love. 
 
 Man. Enough ; his punishment be what you 
 please. 
 But let me lead you from this place of sorrow, 
 To one, where young delights attend ; and joys 
 Yet new, unborn, and blooming in the bud, 
 Which wait to be full-blown at your approach, 
 And spread like roses to the morning sun : 
 Where every hour shall roll in circling joys. 
 And love shall wing the tedious-wasting day : 
 Life without love is load ; and time stands still : 
 What we refuse to him, to death we give ; 
 And then, then only, when we love, we live. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Prison. 
 
 Osmyn alone, with a paper. 
 
 But now, and I was closed within the tomb 
 That holds my father's ashes ; and but now, 
 Where he was prisoner, I am too imprison' d. 
 Sure 'tis the hand of Heaven that leads me thus. 
 And for some purpose points out these remem- 
 brances. 
 In a dark corner of my cell I found 
 This paper, what it is this light will show. 
 Ifmp Alphonso—ha I llieading. 
 
 If my Alphonso live, restore him, Heaven ; 
 Give me more weight, crush my declining years 
 With bolts, with chains, imprisonment and want ; 
 But bless my son, visit not him for me. 
 It is his hand ; this was his prayer— yet more : 
 Let every hair, which sorrow by the roots ilieading. 
 Tears from my hoary and devoted head, 
 Be doubled in thy mercies to my son : 
 Not for myself, but him, hear me, all gracious-^ 
 'Tis wanting what should foMo'w— Heaven should 
 
 follow, 
 But 'tis torn off— Why should that word alone 
 Be torn from his petition .' 'Twas to Heaven, 
 But Heaven was deaf, Heaven heard him not ; but 
 
 thus, 
 Thus as the name of Heaven from this is torn, 
 So did it tear the ears of mercy from 
 His voice, shutting the gates of prayer against him. 
 If piety be thus debarr'd access 
 On high, and of good men the very best 
 Is singled out to bleed, and bear the scourge, 
 What is reward ? or what is punishment ? 
 But who shall dare to tax eternal justice .' 
 Yet I may think— I may, I must ; for thought 
 Precedes the will to think, and error lives 
 
 Ere reason can be bom. Reason, the power 
 To guess at right and wrong, the twinkling lamp 
 Of wandering life, that winks and wakes by turns, 
 Fooling the follower, betwixt shade and shining. 
 What noise ! Who's there ? My friend ! how 
 camest thou hither ? 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Osmyn and Heli. 
 
 Heli. The time's too precious to be spent in 
 telling ; 
 The captain, influenced by Almeria's power, 
 Gave order to the guards for my admittance. 
 
 Osm. How does Almeria ? But I know she is 
 As I am. Tell me, may I hope to see her ? 
 
 Heli. You may : anon, at midnight when the 
 king 
 Is gone to rest, and Garcia is retired, 
 (Who takes the privilege to visit late, 
 Presuming on a bridegroom's right,) she'll come. 
 
 Osym. She'll come ! 'tis what I wish, yet what 
 I fear. 
 She'll come ; but whither, and to whom ? O 
 
 Heaven ! 
 To a vile prison, and a captived wretch ; 
 To one, whom had she never known, she had 
 Been happy. Why, why was that heavenly creature 
 Abandon'd o'er to love what Heaven forsakes? 
 Why does she follow, with unwearied steps, 
 One who has tired misfortune with pursuing! 
 One, driven about the world like blasted leaves 
 And chaff, the sport of adverse winds ; till late 
 At length, imprison'd in some cleft of rock, 
 Or earth, it rests, and rots to silent dust. 
 
246 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 Heli. Have hopes, and hear the voice of better 
 
 fate. 
 I've learn' d there are disorders ripe for mutiny 
 Among the troops, who thought to share the 
 
 plunder, 
 Which Manuel to his own use and avarice 
 Converts. This news has reach'd Valentia's 
 
 frontiers ; 
 Where many of your subjects, long oppress'd 
 With tyranny and grievous impositions, 
 Are risen in arms, and call for chiefs to head 
 And lead 'em to regain their rights and liberty. 
 Osni. By Heaven thou'st roused me from my 
 
 lethargy ! 
 The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs, 
 And the loud cries of my dead father's blood ; 
 Deaf to revenge — ^nay, which refused to hear 
 The piercing sighs and murmurs of my love 
 Yet unenjoy'd ; what not Almeria could 
 Revive, or raise, my people's voice has waken'd. 
 
 my Antonio, I am all on fire, 
 
 My soul is up in arms, ready to charge 
 
 And bear amidst the foe, with conquering troops. 
 
 1 hear 'em call to lead 'em on to liberty, 
 To victory ; their shouts and clamours rend 
 
 My ears, and reach the Heavens ; Where is the 
 
 king? 
 Where is Alphonso ?— Ha ! Where, where indeed ! 
 Oh I could tear and burst the strings of Ufe, 
 To break these chains ! Off, off, ye stains of 
 
 royalty ! 
 Off, slavery ! O curse I that I alone 
 Can beat and flutter in my cage, when I 
 Would soar and stoop at victory beneath. 
 
 Heli. Our posture of affairs, and scanty time. 
 My lord, require you should compose yourself, 
 And think OQ what we may reduce to practice. 
 Zara, the cause of your restraint, may be 
 The means of liberty restored. That gain'd. 
 Occasion will not fail to point out ways 
 For your escape. Meantime, I've thought already 
 With speed and safety to convey myself 
 Where not far off some malcontents hold council 
 Nightly ; who hate this tyrant ; some, who love 
 Anselmo's memory, and will, for certain. 
 When they shall know you live, assist your cause. 
 
 Osm. My friend and counsellor, as thou think'st 
 fit, 
 So do. I will with patience wait my fortune. 
 
 Heli. When Zara comes, abate of your aversion. 
 
 Osm. I hate her not, nor can dissemble love : 
 But as I may, I'll do. I have a paper 
 Which I would show thee, friend, bat that the 
 
 Would hold thee here, and clog thy expedition. 
 Within X found it, by my father's hand 
 'Twas writ ; a prayer for me, wherein appears 
 Paternal love prevailing o'er his sorrows ; 
 Snch sanctity, such tenderness so mix'd 
 With grief as would draw tears from inhumanity. 
 
 Heli. The care of Providence sure left it there, 
 To arm your mind with hope. Such piety 
 Was never heard in vain : Heaven has in store 
 For you those blessings it withheld from him. 
 In that assurance live ; which time, I hope, 
 And our next meeting will confirm. 
 
 Osm. Farewell, 
 
 My friend ; the good thou dost deserve attend 
 thee. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 OSMVN. 
 
 I've been to blame, and question'd with impiety 
 The care of Heaven. Not so my father bore 
 More anxious grief. This should have better taught 
 
 me; 
 This lesson, in some hour of inspiration. 
 By him set down ; when his pure thoughts were 
 
 borne, 
 Like fumes of sacred incense, o'er the clouds. 
 And wafted thence on angels' wings, through 
 
 ways 
 Of light, to the bright Source of all. For there 
 He in the book of prescience saw this day ; 
 And waking, to the world, and mortal sense, 
 Left this example of his resignation. 
 This his last legacy to me, which, here, 
 I'll treasure as more worth than diadems, 
 Or all extended rule of regal power. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 OsMVN, Zaaa veiled, 
 
 Osm. What brightness breaks upon me thus 
 through shades, 
 And promises a day to this dark dwelling ? 
 Is it my love ? — 
 
 Zara. O that thy heart had taught 
 
 Thy tongue that saying. ILi/iing up her veil. 
 
 0am. Zara I I am betray'd 
 
 By my surprise. iAside. 
 
 Zara. What, does my face displease thee ? 
 
 That having seen it, thou dOst turn thy eyes 
 Away, as from deformity and horror. 
 If so, this sable curtain shall again 
 Be drawn, and I will stand before thee seeing, 
 And unseen. Is it my love? ask again 
 That question, speak again in that soft voice, 
 And look again with wishes in thy eyes. 
 
 no, thou canst not, for thou seest me now, 
 As she whose savage breast has been the cause 
 Of these thy wrongs; as she whose barbarous 
 
 rage 
 Has loaden thee with chains and galling irons : 
 Well dost thou scorn me, and upbraid my false- 
 ness; 
 Could one who loved, thus torture whom she 
 
 loved .' 
 No, no, it must be hatred, dire revenge, 
 And detestation, that could use thee thus. 
 So thou dost think ; then do but tell me so ; 
 Tell me, and thou shalt see how I'll revenge 
 Thee on this false one, how I'll stab and tear 
 This heart of flint till it shall bleed ; and thou 
 Shalt weep for mine, forgetting thy own miseries. 
 Osm. You wrong me, beauteous Zara, to believe 
 
 1 bear my fortunes witli so low a mind, 
 As still to meditate revenge on all 
 
 Whom chance, or fate, working by secret causes, 
 Has made perforce subservient to that end 
 The heavenly powers allot me ; no, not you, 
 But destiny and inauspicious stars 
 Have cast me down to this low being : or. 
 Granting you had, from you I have deserved it 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 247 
 
 Zara. Canst thou forgive me then ? wilt tliou 
 believe 
 So kindly of my fault, to call it madness ? 
 O, give that madness yet a milder name, 
 And call it passion ; then, be still more kind, 
 And call that passion love. 
 
 Osm^ Give it a name, 
 
 Or being 08 you please, such I will think it. 
 
 Zara^ O thou dost wound me more with this 
 thy goodness. 
 Than e'er thou couldst with bitterest reproaches ! 
 Thy anger could not pierce thus to my heart. 
 
 Osm. Yet I could wish — 
 
 Zara. Haste me to know it : what ? 
 
 Osm. That at this time I had not been this 
 thing. 
 
 Zara. What thing ? 
 
 Osm. This slave. 
 
 Zara. O Heaven ! my fears Interpret 
 
 This thy silence : somewhat of high concern. 
 Long fashioning within thy labouring mind. 
 And now just ripe for birth, my rage has ruin'd. 
 Have I done this .' Tell me, am I so cursed ? 
 
 Osm. Time may have still one fated hour to 
 come. 
 Which, wing'd with liberty, might overtake 
 Occasion past. 
 
 Zara. Swift as occasion, I 
 
 Myself will iiy ; and earlier than the morn 
 Wake thee to freedom. Now 'tis late ; and yet 
 Some news few minutes past arrived which seem'd 
 To shake the temper of the king. — Who knows 
 What racking cares disease a monarch's bed ? 
 Or love, that late at night still lights his lamp. 
 And strikes his rays through dusk, and folded 
 
 lids. 
 Forbidding rest, may stretch his eyes awake, 
 And force their balls abroad at this dead hour. 
 I'U try. 
 
 Osm. I have not merited this grace ; 
 Nor, should my secret purpose take effect. 
 Can I repay, as you require, such beneiits. 
 
 Zara. Thou canst not owe me more, nor have I 
 more 
 To give, than I've already lost. But now. 
 So does the form of our engagements rest, 
 Thou hast the wrong, tiU I redeem thee hence ; 
 That done, I leave thy justice to return 
 My love. Adieu. 
 
 SCENE V, 
 
 This woman has a soul 
 Of godlike mould, intrepid and commanding, 
 And challenges, in spite of me, my best 
 Esteem ; to this she's fair, few more can boast 
 Of personal charms, or with less vanity 
 Might hope to captivate the hearts of kings. 
 But she has passions which outstrip the wind, 
 And tear her virtues up, as tempests root 
 The sea. I fear when she shall know the truth. 
 Some swift and dire event of her blind rage 
 Will make all fatal. But behold she comes 
 For whom I fear, to shield me from my fears. 
 The cause and comfort of my boding heart. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Almeria and Osmyn. 
 
 Osm. My life, my health, my liberty, my all ! 
 How shall I welcome thee to this sad place ? 
 How speak to thee the words of joy and transport .> 
 How run into thy arms, withheld by fetters ; 
 Or take thee into mine, while I'm thus manacled 
 And pinion'd like a thief or murderer ? 
 Shall I not hurt and bruise thy tender body. 
 And stain thy bosom with the rust of these 
 Kude irons ? Must 1 meet thee thus, Almeria ? 
 
 Aim. Thus, thus ; we parted, thus to meet again. 
 Thou told'st me thou wouldst thinic how we might 
 
 meet 
 To part no more. — Now we will part no more ; 
 For these thy chains, or death, shall join us ever. 
 
 Osm. Hard means to ratify that word ! — O 
 cruelty ! 
 That ever I should think beholding thee 
 A torture ! — Yet, such is the bleeding anguish 
 Of my heart, to see thy sufferings. — O Heaven ! 
 That I could almost turn my eyes away. 
 Or wish thee from my sight. 
 
 Aim. O, say not so ! 
 
 Though 'tis because thou lovest me. Do not say, 
 On any terms, that thou dost wish me from thee. 
 No, uo, 'tis better thus, that we together 
 Feed on each other's heart, devour our woes 
 With mutual appetite ; and mingling in 
 One cup the common stream of both our eyes. 
 Drink bitter draughts, with never-slaking thirst. 
 Thus better, than for any cause to part. 
 What dost thou think ? Look not so tenderly 
 Upon me — speak, and take me in thy arms,— 
 Thou canst not 1 thy poor arms are bound, and 
 
 strive 
 In vain with the remorseless chains which gnaw 
 And eat into thy flesh, festering thy limbs 
 With rankling rust. 
 
 Osm. Oh! Oh! 
 
 Aim. Give me that sigh. 
 
 Why dost thou heave, and stifie in thy griefs ? 
 Thy heart wiU burst, thy eyes look red and start ; 
 Give thy soul way, and tell me thy dark thought. 
 Osm. For this world's rule I would not wound 
 thy breast 
 With such a dagger as then stuck my heart. 
 
 Aim'. Why ? why ? to know it cannot wound me 
 more. 
 Than knowing thou hast felt it. Tell it me. 
 Thou givest me pain with too much tenderness. 
 Osm. And thy excessive love distracts my sense ! 
 
 wouldst thou be less killing, soft or kind, 
 Grief could not double thus his darts against me. 
 
 Aim. Thou dost me wrong, and grief too robs 
 my heart. 
 If there he shoot not every other shaft j 
 Thy second self should feel each other wound. 
 And woe should be in equal portions dealt. 
 
 1 am thy wife — 
 
 Osm. O thou hast search'd too deep ! 
 
 There, there I bleed ! there pull the cruel cords, 
 That strain my cracking nerves ; engines and 
 
 wheels, 
 That piece-meal grind, are beds of down and balm 
 To that soul-racking thought. 
 
 Aim. Then I am cursed 
 
 Indeed, if that be so ; if I'm thy torment. 
 
24E 
 
 TPIE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 AOT m. 
 
 Kill me, then kill me ; dash me with thy chains, 
 Tread on me ! What ! am I the bosom-snake, 
 That sucks thy warm life-blood, and gnaws thy 
 
 heart ? 
 that thy words had force to break those 
 
 bonds, 
 As they have strength to tear this heart in sunder ! 
 So shouldst thou be at large from all oppression. 
 Am I, am I of all thy woes the worst ? 
 
 Osm. My all of bliss, my everlasting life. 
 Soul of my soul, and end of all my wishes, 
 Why dost thou thus unman me with thy words. 
 And melt me down to mingle with thy weepings ? 
 Why dost thou ask? why dost thou talk thus 
 
 piercingly ? 
 Thy sorrows have disturb'd thy peace of mind, 
 And thou dost speak of miseries impossible. 
 Aim. Didst thou not say that racks and wheels 
 
 were balm. 
 And beds of ease, to thinking me thy wife ? 
 
 Osm. No, no ; nor should the subtlest pains 
 
 that hell. 
 Or hell-born malice can invent, extort 
 A wish or thought from me, to have thee other. 
 But thou wilt know what harrows up my heart : 
 Thou art my wife-*-nay, thou art yet my bride 1 
 The sacred union of connubial love 
 Yet unaccomplish'd ; his mysterious rites 
 Delay'd ; nor has our hymeneal torch 
 Yet Ughted up his last most grateful sacrifice ; 
 But dashM with rain from eyes, and swaled with 
 
 sighs, 
 Burns dim, and glimmers with expiring light. 
 Is this dark cell a temple for that god ? 
 Or this vile earth an altar for such offerings ? 
 This den for slaves, this dungeon damp'd with woes ; 
 Is this our marriage-bed .' Are these our joys ? 
 Is this to call thee mine ? Oh, hold my heart I 
 To call thee mine ? Yes ; thus, even thus to call 
 Thee mine, were comfort, joy, extremest ecstacy. 
 But O, thou art not mine, not even in misery ! 
 And 'tis denied to me to be so bless'd. 
 As to be wretched with thee. 
 
 AItiu No ; not that 
 
 The extremest malice of our fate can hinder : 
 That still is left us, and on that we'll feed, 
 As on the leavings of calamity. 
 There we will feast, and smile on .past distress. 
 And hug, in scorn of it, our mutual ruin. 
 
 Osm. O thou dost talk, my love, as one resolved 
 Because not knowing danger. But look forward j 
 Think on to-morrow, when thou shalt be torn 
 From these weak, struggling, unextended arms ; 
 Think how my heart will heave, find eyes will strain, 
 To grasp and reach what is denied my hands ; 
 Think how the blood will start, and tears will gush 
 To follow thee, my separating soul ! 
 Think how I am when thou shalt wed with Garcia ! 
 Then will I smear these walls with blood, disfigure 
 And dash my face, and rive my clotted hair. 
 Break on the flinty floor my throbbing breast, 
 And grovel with gash'd hands to scratch a grave. 
 Stripping my nails, to tear this pavement up. 
 And bury me alive. 
 Ahn. Heart-breaking horror ! 
 
 Osm. Then Garcia shall lie panting on thy 
 
 bosom. 
 Luxurious revelling amidst thy charms ; 
 And thou perforce must yield, and aid his trans- 
 port. 
 
 Hell ! hell ! have I not cause to rage and rave ? 
 What are all racks, and wheels, and whips to 
 
 this? 
 Are they not soothing softness, sinking ease, 
 And wafting air to this ! O my Almeria ! 
 What do the damn'd endure, but to despair, 
 But knowing heaven, to know it lost for ever ? 
 Aim. O, I am struck; thy words are bolts of 
 
 ice, 
 Which shot into my breast, now melt and chill me. 
 I chatter, shake, and faint, with thrilling fears. 
 No, hold me not — O let us not support, 
 But sink each other, deeper yet, down, down. 
 Where levell'd low, no more we'll lift our eyes. 
 But prone, and dumb, rot the firm face of earth 
 With rivers of incessant scalding rain. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Zara, Perez, Sslim, Osmyn, and Aliu£ria, 
 
 Zara. Somewhat of weight to me requires his 
 freedom. 
 Dare you dispute the king's command ? Behold 
 The royal signet. 
 
 Per. I obey ; yet beg 
 
 Your majesty one moment to defer 
 Your entering, till the princess is retum'd 
 From visiting the noble prisoner. 
 
 Zara. Ha ! 
 
 What say'st thou ? 
 
 Osm, We are lost 1 undone ! discover'd ! 
 
 Retire, my life, with speed. — Alas, we're seen ! 
 Speak of compassion, let her hear you speak 
 Of interceding for me with the king ! 
 Say somewhat quickly to conceal our loves, 
 If possible — 
 
 Aim. I cannot speak. 
 
 Osm. Let me 
 
 Conduct you forth, as not perceiving her. 
 But till she's gone, then bless me thus again. 
 
 Zara. Trembling and weeping as he leads her 
 forth ! 
 Confusion in his face, and grief in hers ! 
 'Tis plain I've been abused — Death and destruc- 
 tion ! 
 How shall I search into this mystery ? 
 The bluest blast of pestilential air 
 Strike, damp, deaden her charms, and kill his eyes ! 
 Perdition catch 'em both, and ruin part 'em ! 
 
 Osm. This charity to one unknown, and thus 
 
 {_Aloud to Almeria as she goes out, 
 Distress'd, Heaven will repay ; all thanks are poor. 
 
 SCENE vin. 
 
 Zara, Sblim, and Osmvn, 
 
 Zara. Damn'd, damn'd dissembler ! yet I will 
 be calm, 
 Choke in my rage, and know the utmost depth 
 Of this deceiver. — ^You seem much surprised. 
 
 Osm. At your return so soon and unexpected ! 
 
 Zara. And so unwish'd, unwanted too it seems, 
 Confusion ! yet I will contain myself. 
 You're grown a favourite since last we parted ; 
 Perhaps I'm saucy and intruding — 
 
THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 249 
 
 0am. Madam ! 
 
 Zara. I did not know the princess' favourite ; 
 Your pardon, sir — mistake me not ; you think 
 I'm angry ; you're deceived. I came to set 
 You free : but shall return much better pleased, 
 To find you have an interest superior. 
 
 Osm. You do not come to mock my miseries ? 
 
 Zara. I do. 
 
 Osm. I could at this time spare your mirth. 
 
 Zara. I knovr thou couldst : but I'm not often 
 pleased. 
 And will indulge it now. What miseries ? 
 Who would not be thus happily confined, 
 To be the care of weeping majesty .' 
 To have contending queens, at dead of night, 
 Forsake their down, to wake with wat'ry eyes. 
 And watch like tapers o'er your hours of rest ? 
 O curse ! I cannot hold — 
 
 Osm. Come, 'tis too much. 
 
 Zara. Villain ! 
 
 Osm. How, madam ! 
 
 Zara. Thou shalt die. 
 
 Osm. I thank you. 
 
 Zara. Thou liest! for now I know for whom 
 thou'dst live. 
 
 Osm. Then you m-ay know for whom I'd die. 
 
 Zara. Hell! hell!— 
 
 Yet m be calm — Dark and unknown betrayer ! 
 But now the dawn begins, and the slow hand 
 Of Fate is stretch'd to draw the veil, and leave 
 Thee bare, the naked mark of public view. 
 
 Osm. You may be still deceived, 'tis in my power — ■ 
 
 Zara. Who waits there ? As you'll answer it, 
 look this slave [To the Guard, 
 
 Attempt no means to make himself away. 
 I've been deceived. The public safety now 
 Requires he should be more confined, and none, 
 No, not the princess, suffer'd or to see 
 Or speak with him : I'll quit you to the king. 
 Vile and ingrate ! too late thou shalt repent 
 The base injustice thou hast done my love : 
 Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past distress. 
 
 And all those ills which thou so long hast 
 moum'd ; 
 
 Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turn'd. 
 
 Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE \.—A Room of State in the Palace. 
 Zara and Sblim. 
 
 Zara. Thou hast already rack'd me with thy 
 stay, 
 Therefore require me not to ask thee twice ; 
 Reply at once to all. What is concluded ? 
 
 Sel. Your accusation highly has incensed 
 The king, and were alone enough to urge 
 The fate of Osmyn ; but to that, fresh news 
 Is since arrived of more revolted troops. 
 'Tis certain Heli too is fled, and with him 
 (Which breeds amazement and distraction) some 
 Who bore high ofiices of weight and trust, 
 Both in the state and army. This confirms 
 The king, in full belief of all you told him, 
 Concerning Osmyn and his correspondence 
 With them who first began the mutiny. 
 Wherefore a warrant for his death is sign'd, 
 And order given for public execution. 
 
 Zara. Ha ! haste thee ! fly ! prevent his fate 
 and mine ; 
 Find out the king, tell him I have of weight 
 More than his crown to impart ere Osmyn die. 
 
 Sel. It needs not, for the king will straight be 
 here ; 
 And as to your revenge, not his own interest. 
 Pretend to sacrifice the life of Osmyn. 
 
 Zara. What shall I say? Invent, contrive, 
 advise, 
 Somewhat to blind the king, and save his life 
 In whom I live. Spite of my rage and pride, 
 I am a woman, and a lover still. 
 O, 'tis more grief but to suppose his death, 
 Than still to meet the rigour of his scorn. 
 F'om my despair my anger had its source ; 
 
 When he is dead I must despair for ever. 
 For ever ! that's despair — it was distrust 
 Before ; distrust vrill ever be in love, 
 And anger in distrust, both short-lived pains. 
 But in despair, and ever-during death. 
 No term, no bound, but infinite of woe. 
 
 torment, but to think ! what then to bear ! 
 Not to be borne. — Devise the means to shun it, ^ 
 Quick, or by Heaven this dagger drinks thy 
 
 blood ! 
 
 Sel. My life is yours, nor wish I to preserve it. 
 But to serve you. I have already thought. 
 
 Zara. Forgive my rage ; I know thy love aoi 
 truth. 
 But say, what's to be done .' or when, or how. 
 Shall I prevent, or stop the approaching danger ? 
 
 Sel. You must still seem more resolute and 
 fix'd 
 On Osmyn's death j too quick a change of 
 
 mercy 
 Might breed suspicion of the cause. Advise 
 That execution may be done in private. 
 
 Zara. On what pretence ? 
 
 Sel. Your own request's enough. 
 
 However, for a colour, tell him, you 
 Have cause to fear his guards may be corrupted. 
 And some of them bought ofl' to Osmyn's interest. 
 Who, at the place of execution, will 
 Attempt to force his way for an escape. 
 The state of things will countenance all suspicions. 
 Then offer to the king to have him strangled 
 In secret by your mutes, and get an order. 
 That none but mutes may have admittance to 
 him. 
 
 1 can no more, the king is here. Obtain 
 
 This grant — and I'll acquaint you with the rest. 
 
250 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Manuel, Gonsalez, Perez, Zara, and Seltm. 
 
 Man. Bear to the dungeon those rebellious slaves, 
 The ignoble curs, that yelp to fill the cry, 
 And spend their mouths in harking tyranny. 
 But for their leaders, Sancho and Ramirez, 
 Let 'em be led away to present death. — 
 Perez, see it perform'd. 
 
 Gon. Might I presume, 
 
 Their execution better were deferr'd, 
 Till Osmyn die. Meantime we may leam more 
 Of this conspiracy. 
 
 Man. Then he it so. 
 
 Stay, soldier ; they shall suffer with the Moor. 
 Are none return'd of those who follow'd Heli ? 
 
 Gon. None, sir. Some papers have been since 
 discover'd 
 In Roderigo's house, who iled with him, 
 Which seem to intimate, as if Alphonso 
 Were still alive, and arming in Valentia : 
 Which wears indeed this colour of a truth. 
 They who are fled have that vraybent their course. 
 Of the same nature divers notes have been 
 Dispersed to amuse the people ; whereupon 
 Some ready of belief have raised this rumour ; 
 That being saved upon the coast of Afric, 
 He there disclosed himself to Albucacim, 
 And by a secret compact made with him, 
 Open'd and urged the way to this invasion ; 
 While he himself, returning to Valentia 
 In private, undertook to raise this tumult. 
 
 Zara. [Aside.'] Ha ! hear'st thou that ? Is 
 Osmyn then Alphonso ! 
 O Heaven 1 a thousand things occur at once 
 To my remembrance now, that make it plain. 
 
 certain death for him, as sure despair 
 For me, if it be known ! — if not, what hope 
 Have I ? Yet 'twere the lowest baseness, now 
 To yield him up,— No, I will still conceal him, 
 And try the force of yet more obligations. 
 
 Gon. 'Tis not impossible. Yet, it may be 
 That some impostor has usurp'd his name. 
 Your beauteous captive Zara can inform, 
 If such a one, so 'scaping, was received 
 At any time, in Albucacim's court. 
 
 Man. Pardon, fair excellence, this long neglect : 
 An unforeseen, unwelcome hour of business. 
 Has thrust between us and our while of love ; 
 But wearing now apace -with ebbing sand, 
 Will quickly waste, and give again the day. 
 
 Zara. You're too secure ; the danger is more 
 imminent 
 Than your high courage suffers you to see ; 
 While Osmyn lives, you are not safe. 
 
 Man. His doom 
 
 Is pass'd J if you revoke it not, he dies. 
 
 Zara. 'Tis well. By what I heard upon your 
 
 1 find I can unfold what yet concerns [entrance, 
 You more. One who did call himself Alphonso 
 Was cast upon my coast, as is reported. 
 
 And oft had private conference with the king ; 
 To what effect I knew not then : hut he, 
 Alphonso, secretly departed, just 
 About the time our arms embark'd for Spain. 
 What I know more is, that a triple league 
 Of strictest friendship was profess'd between 
 Alphonso, Heli, and the traitor Osmyn. 
 Man. Public report is ratified in this. 
 
 Zara. And Osmyn's death required of strong 
 
 necessity. 
 Man. Give order straight that all the prisoners 
 
 die. 
 Zara. Forbear a moment ; somewhat more I have 
 Worthy your private ear, and this your minister. 
 Man. Let aU except Gonsalez leave the room. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Manuel, Gonsalez, Zara, and Seltm. 
 
 Zara. I am your captive, and you've used me 
 nobly ; 
 And in return of that, though otherwise 
 Your enemy, I have discover'd Osmyn 
 His private practice and conspiracy 
 Against your state : and fully to discharge 
 Myself of what I've undertaken, now 
 I think it fit to tell you, that your guards 
 Are tainted : some among 'em have resolved 
 To rescue Osmyn at the place of death. 
 
 Man. Is treason then so near us as our guards ! 
 
 Zara. Most certain ; though my knowledge is 
 So ripe, to point at the particular men. [not yet 
 
 Man. What's to be done ? 
 
 Zara. That too I will advise. 
 
 I have remaining in my train some mutes, 
 A present once from the Sultana queen, 
 In the Grand Signior's court. These from their 
 
 infancy 
 Are practised in the trade of death ; and shall 
 (As there the custom is) in private strangle Osmyn. 
 
 Gon. My lord, the queen advises well. 
 
 Man. What offering or what recompense remains 
 In me, that can be worthy so great services .' 
 To cast beneath your feet the crown you've saved, 
 Though on the head that wears it, were too little. 
 
 Zara. Of that hereafter ; but, meantime, 'tis fit 
 You give strict charge, that none may be admitted 
 To see the prisoner, but such mutes as I 
 Shall send. 
 
 Man. Who waits there ? 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Manuel, Gonsalez, Zara, Selim, and Perez. 
 Man. On your life take heed, 
 
 That only Zara's mutes, or snch who bring 
 Her warrant, have admittance to the Moor. 
 
 Zara. They and no other, not the princess' self. 
 
 Per. Your majesty shall be obey'd. 
 
 Man. Retire. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Manuel, Gonsalez, Zara, and Selim. 
 Gon. [Aside.] That interdiction so particular. 
 Pronounced with vehemence against the princess. 
 Should have more meaning than appears barefaced : 
 The king is blinded by his love, and heeds 
 It not. — [To Zara.] Your majesty sure might 
 
 have spared 
 That last restraint ; you hardly can suspect 
 The princess is confederate with the Moor. 
 
SCENE VIl. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 251 
 
 Zara, I've heard her charity did oflce extend 
 So far, to visit him, at his request. 
 
 Gan. Ha! 
 
 Man. How .' she visit Osmyn ! What, my 
 daughter ? 
 
 Sel. Madam, take heed ; or you have ruin'd all. — 
 
 \_A»ide to Zara. 
 
 Zara. And after did solicit you on his 
 Behalf. 
 
 Man. Never. Tfou have been misinform'd. 
 
 Zara, Indeed ? Then 'twas a whisper spread by 
 some. 
 Who wish'd it so ; a common art in courts. 
 I will retire, and instantly prepare 
 Instruction for my minsters of death. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Manuel and Gonsalez. 
 
 Gon. There's somewhat yet of mystery in this ; 
 Her words and actions are obscure and double, 
 Sometimes concur, and sometimes disagree ; 
 1 like it not. 
 
 Man. What dost thou think, Gon salez ; 
 
 Are we not much indebted to this fair one ? 
 
 Gon. I am a little slow of credit, sir, 
 In the sincerity of women's actions. 
 Methinks this lady's hatred to the Moor 
 Disquiets her too much ; which makes it seem 
 As if she'd rather that she did not hate him. 
 I wish her mutes are meant to be employ'd 
 As she pretends — I doubt it now — Your guards 
 Corrupted ! how ? by whom ? who told her so } 
 I'th' evening Osmyn was to die ; at midnight 
 She begg'd the royal signet to release him ; 
 I'th' morning he must die again ; ere noon 
 Her mutes alone must strangle him, or he'll 
 Escape. This put together suits not well. 
 
 Man. Yet, that there's truth in what she has 
 Is manifest from every circumstance, [discover'd, 
 This tumult, and the lords who fled with Heli, 
 Are confirmation : — that Alphonso lives. 
 Agrees expressly too with her report. 
 
 Gon. I grant it, sir ; and doubt not, but in rage 
 Of jealousy, she has discover'd what 
 She now repents. It may be I'm deceived. 
 But why that needless caution of the princess ? 
 What if she had seen Osmyn .' though 'twere strange. 
 But if she had, what was't to her .' unless 
 She fear'd her stronger charms might cause the 
 Affection to revolt. [Moor's 
 
 Man. I thank thee, friend. 
 
 There's reason in thy doubt, and I am warn'd. 
 But think'st thou that my daughter saw this Moor .' 
 
 Gon. If Osmyn be, as Zara has related, 
 Alphonso's friend ; 'tis not impossible, 
 But she might wish on his account to see him. 
 
 Man. Say'st thou ? by Heaven thou hast roused 
 a thought. 
 That like a sudden earthquake shakes my frame : 
 Confusion ! then my daughter's an accomplice. 
 And plots in private with this hellish Moor. 
 
 Gon. That were too hard a thought — but see she 
 'Twere not amiss to question her a little, [comes : 
 And try, howe'er, if I've divined aright. 
 If what I fear be true, she'll be concern'd 
 For Osmyn's death, as he's Alphonso's friend. 
 Urge that, to try if she'll solicit for him. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Manuel, Gonsalez, Ai^meria, and Leonora. 
 
 Man. Your coming has prevented me, Almeria; 
 I had determined to have sent for you. 
 Let your attendant be dismiss'd ; I have 
 
 \_Exit Leohora. 
 To talk with you. Come near j why dost thou 
 
 shake ? 
 What mean those swollen and red-ileck'd eyes, 
 
 that look 
 As they had wept in blood, and worn the night 
 In waking anguish ? Why this, on the day 
 Which was design'd to celebrate thy nuptials j 
 But that the beams of light are to he stain'd 
 With reeking gore, from traitors on the rack ? 
 Wherefore I have deferr'd the marriage rites ; 
 Nor shall the guilty horrors of this day 
 Profane that jubUee. 
 
 Aim. All days to me 
 
 Henceforth are equal ; this the day of death, 
 To-morrow, and the next, and each that follows, 
 Will undistinguish'd roll, and but prolong 
 One hated line of more extended woe. 
 
 Man. Whence is thy grief .'' give me to know 
 the cause, 
 And look thou answer me with truth ; for know, 
 I am not unacquainted with thy falsehood. 
 Why art thou mute .'* base and degenerate maid ! 
 
 Gon. Dear madam, speak, or you'll incense the 
 king. 
 
 Aim. What is't to speak .' or wherefore should 
 I speak ? 
 What mean these tears, but grief unutterable ! 
 
 Man. They are the dumb confessions of thy 
 mind. 
 They mean thy guilt ; and say thou wert confederate 
 With damn'd conspirators to take my life. 
 
 impious parricide ! now canst thou speak ? 
 Aim. O earth, behold, I kneel upon thy bosom ! 
 
 And bend ray flowing eyes, to stream upon 
 
 Thy face, imploring thee that thou wilt yield ; 
 
 Open thy bowels of compassion, take 
 
 Into thy womb the last and most forlorn 
 
 Of all thy race. Hear me, thou common parent I 
 
 1 have no parent else — be thou a mother, 
 And step between me and the curse of him 
 Who was — who was, but is no more a father. 
 But brands my innocence with horrid crimes ; 
 And for the tender names of child and daughter, 
 Now calls me murderer and parricide. 
 
 Man. Rise, I command thee rise — and if thou 
 wouldst 
 Acquit thyself of those detested names. 
 Swear thou hast never seen that foreign dog. 
 Now doom'd to die, that most accursed Osmyn. 
 
 Aim. Never, but as with innocence I might, 
 And free of all bad purposes. So Heaven's 
 My witness. 
 
 Man. Vile equivocating wretch ! 
 
 With innocence ! O patience ! hear — she owns it! 
 Confesses it ! by Heaven I'll have him rack'd ! 
 Torn, mangled, flay'd, impaled t — all pains and 
 
 tortures 
 That wit of man and dire revenge can think. 
 Shall he accumulated under-bear. 
 
 Aim. Oh, lam lost ! — there fate begins to wound. 
 
 Man. Hear me, then ; if thou canst, reply : 
 know, traitress, 
 
252 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 I'm not to learn that cursed Alphonso lives ; 
 Nor am I ignorant what Osmyn is. 
 
 Aim. Then all is ended, and we hoth must die. 
 Since thou'rt reveal'd, alone thou shalt not die. 
 And yet alone would I have died, Heaven Itnows, 
 Repeated deaths, rather than have reveal'd thee. 
 Yes, all my father's wounding wrath, though each 
 Reproach cuts deeper than the keenest sword, 
 And cleaves my heart ; I would have borne it all, 
 Nay, all the pains that are prepared for thee : 
 To the remorseless rack I would have given 
 This weak and tender flesh, to have been bruised 
 And torn, rather than have reveal'd thy being. 
 
 Man. Hell, hell ! do I hear this, and yet endure 1 
 What, darest thou to my face avow thy guilt;? 
 Hence, ere I curse! — fly my just rage with speed ; 
 Lest I forget us both, and spurn thee from me. 
 
 Aim. And yet a father ! think I am your child. 
 Turn not your eyes away — look on me kneeling ; 
 Now curse me if you can, now spurn me off. 
 Did ever father curse his kneeling child ? 
 Never : for always blessings crown that posture. 
 Nature inclines, and half-way meets that duty, 
 Stooping to raise from earth the filial reverence ; 
 For bended knees returning folding arms. 
 With prayers, and blessings, and paternal love. 
 O hear me then, thus crawling on the earth — 
 
 Man. Be thou advised, and let me go, while yet 
 The light impression thou hast made remains. 
 
 Aim. No, never will I rise, nor loose this hold, 
 Till you are moved, and grant that he may live. 
 
 Man. Ha ! who may live ? take heed, no more 
 of that ; 
 For on my soul he dies, though thou and I, 
 And all should follow to partake his doom. 
 Away, off^, let me go. — Call her attendants. 
 
 [Leonora goes out and returns with Attendants. 
 
 Aim. Drag me ! harrow the earth with my bate 
 bosom ! 
 I'll not let go tiH you have spared my husband. 
 
 Man. Ha ! what say'st thou ? husband ! hus- 
 band ! damnation ! 
 What husband ? which ? who ! 
 
 Aim. He, he is my husband. 
 
 Man. Poison and daggers ! who ? 
 
 Aim. Oh ! [Faints. 
 
 Gon. Help, support her. 
 
 Aim. Let me go, let me fall, sink deep — I'll dig, 
 I'll dig a grave, and tear up death ; I wi'll; 
 I'U scrape till I collect his rotten bones. 
 And clothe their nakedness with my own flesh : 
 Yes, I will strip off life, and we will change : 
 J will be death ; then though you kill my husbiEnd, 
 He shall be mine, still and for ever mine. 
 
 Man. What husband ? who ? whom dost thott 
 mean ? 
 
 Gon, She raves ! 
 
 Aim. O that I did. Osmyn, he is my husband. 
 
 Man. Osmyn ? 
 
 Aim, Not Osmyn, but Alphonso is my dear 
 And wedded husband. — Heaven, and air, and seas. 
 Ye winds and waves, I call ye all to witness I 
 
 Man. Wilder than winds or waves thyself dost 
 rave. 
 Should X hear more, T too should catch thy madness. 
 Yet somewhat she must mean of dire import. 
 Which I'll not hear, till I am more at peace. 
 Watch her returning sense, and bring me word ; 
 And look that sh? attempt not on her life. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Almeria, G0NSA1.EZ, Leonora, and Attendants. 
 
 Aim. O stay, yet stay 1 hear me, I am not 
 
 mad. 
 I would to Heaven I were ! — He's gone. 
 
 Gon. Have comfort. 
 
 Aim. Cursed be that tongue that bids me be of 
 
 comfort ! 
 Cursed my own tongue, that could not move his 
 
 pity ! 
 Cursed these weak hands, that could not hold him 
 
 herel 
 For he is gone to doom Alphonso's death. 
 
 Gon. Your too excessive grief works on your 
 
 fancy. 
 And deludes your sense. Alphonso, if living. 
 Is far from hence, beyond your father's power. 
 
 Aim. Hence, thou detested, ill-timed flatterer! 
 Source of my woes ! thou and thy race be 
 
 cursed ! 
 But doubly thou, who could alone have policy 
 And fraud, to find the fatal secret out, 
 And know that Osmyn was Alphonso ! 
 
 Gon. Ha ! 
 
 Aim. Why dost thou start ? what dost thou see 
 
 or hear ? 
 Was it the doleful bell, tolling for death ? 
 Or dying groans from my Alphonso's breast ? 
 See, see, look yonder ! where a grizzled, pale. 
 And ghastly head glares by, all smear'd with 
 
 blood. 
 Gasping as it would speak ; and after, see ! 
 Behold a damp, dead hand has dropp'd a dagger ; 
 I'll catch it— Hark ! a voice cries murder ! ah ! 
 My father's voice ! hollow it sounds, and calls 
 Me from the tomb — I'll follow it ; for there 
 I shall again behold my dear Alphonso. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 GONSALRZ. 
 
 She's greatly grieved ; nor am I less surprised. 
 
 Osmyn Alphonso 1 no ; she over-rates 
 
 My policy : I ne'er suspected it : 
 
 Nor now had known it, but from her mistake. 
 
 Her husband too ! ha ! where is Garcia then } 
 
 And where the crown that should descend on 
 
 him, 
 To grace the line of my posterity ? 
 Hold, let me think — if I should tell the king — 
 Things come to this extremity ; his daughter 
 Wedded already — what if he should yield .' 
 Knowing no remedy for what is past ; 
 And urged by nature pleading for his child, 
 With which he seems to be already shaken. 
 And though I know he hates beyond the grave 
 AnseXmo's race ; yet if — that if concludes me. 
 To doubt, when 1 may be assured, is folly. 
 But how prevent the captive queen, who means 
 To set him free ? Ay, now 'tis plain ; O well 
 Invented tale ! He was Alphonso's friend; 
 This subtle woman will amuse the king 
 If I delay. — 'Twill do— or better so. — 
 One to my wish. — Alonzo, thou art welcome. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 253 
 
 SCENE X. 
 GoNSALEz and Alonzo. 
 jllon. The king expects your lordship. 
 Gon. 'Tis no matter. 
 
 I'm not i' the way at present, good Alonzo. 
 Alon. If't please your lordship, I'll return, 
 and say 
 I have not seen you. 
 
 Gon. Do, my best Alonzo. 
 
 Yet stay, I would — but go ; anon will serve — 
 Yet I have that requires thy speedy help. 
 I think thou wouldst not stop to do me service. 
 yllon. I am your creature. 
 Gon. Say thou art my friend. 
 
 I've seen thy sword do noble execution. 
 
 Alon. All that it can your lordship shall com- 
 mand. 
 Gon. Thanks ; and I take thee at thy word ; 
 thou'st seen 
 
 Among the followers of the captive queen, 
 Dumb men, who make their meaning known by 
 signs .' 
 Alon. I have, my lord. 
 
 Gon. Couldst thou procure with speed 
 
 And privacy, the wearing garb of one 
 Of those, though purchased by his death, I'd 
 
 give 
 Thee such reward as should exceed thy wish. 
 Alon. Conclude it done. Where shall I wait 
 
 your lordship ? 
 Gon. At my apartment. Use thy utmost 
 diligence ; 
 And say I've not been seen — haste, good Alonzo. 
 
 lExU Alonzo. 
 So, this can hardly fail. Alphonso slain, 
 The greatest obstacle is then removed. 
 
 Almeria widow' d, yet again may wed j 
 
 And I yet fix the crown on Garcia's head. lExit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room of State in the Palace. 
 Manuel, Perez, and Alonzo. 
 
 Man. Not to be found .' in an ill hour he's 
 absent. 
 None, say you, none? what, not the favourite 
 
 eunuch ? 
 Nor she herself, nor any of her mutes, 
 Have yet required admittance ? 
 
 Per. None, my lord. 
 
 Man. Is Osmyn so disposed as I commanded ? 
 Per. Fast bound in doable chains, and at full 
 length, 
 He lies supine on earth ; with as much ease 
 She might remove the centre of this earth, 
 As loose the rivets of his bonds. 
 
 Man. 'Tis weU. 
 
 \^A Mute appears, and seeing the King retires. 
 Ha ! stop, and seize that mute ; Alonzo, follow 
 
 him. 
 Entering he met my eyes, and started back. 
 Frighted, and fumbling one hand in his busom. 
 As to conceal the importance of his errand. 
 
 [AiX)Nzo follows him, and returns with a paper. 
 Alon. O bloody proof of obstinate fidelity ! 
 Man. What dost thou mean ? 
 Alon. Soon as I seized the man. 
 
 He snatch'd from out his bosom tbis — and strove 
 With rash and greedy haste, at once to cram 
 The morsel down his throat. I catch'd his 
 
 arm, 
 And hardly wrench'd his hand to wring it from 
 
 him ; 
 Which done, he drew his poniard from his side, 
 And on the instant plunged it in his breast. 
 Man. Remove the body thence ere Zara 
 
 see it. 
 Alon. [Aside.'\ I'll be so bold to borrow his 
 attire ; 
 ' Twill quit me of my promise to Gonsalez. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Manuel and Perez. 
 
 Per. Whate'er it is, the king's complexion turns. 
 
 ^Aside. 
 
 Man. How's this .' ray mortal foe beneath my 
 roof? IHaving read the letter. 
 
 O give me patience, all ye powers ! no, rather 
 Give me new rage, implacable revenge. 
 And trebled fury. — Ha ! who's there ? 
 
 Per. My lord ! 
 
 Man. Hence, slave ! how darest thou 'bide, to 
 watch and pry 
 Into how poor a thing a king descends ? 
 How like thyself, when passion treads him down ! 
 Ha ! stir not, on thy life ! for thou wert fix'd 
 And planted here to see me gorge this bait. 
 And lash against the hook. — By Heaven, you're all 
 Rank traitors ! thou art with the rest combined ; 
 Thou knew'st that Osmyn was Alphonso, knew'st 
 My daughter privately with him conferr'd ; 
 And wert the spy and pander to their meeting. 
 
 Per. By all that's holy, I'm amazed — 
 
 Ma7t. Thou liest ! 
 
 Thou art accomplice too with Zara : here 
 Where she sets down — Still will I set thee free — 
 
 [^Reading. 
 That somewhere is repeated — / have power 
 
 O'er them that are thy guards Mark that, thou 
 
 traitor ! 
 
 Per. It was your majesty's command, I should 
 Obey her order — 
 
 Man. [Reading.] And still will I set 
 
 Thee free, Alphonso Hell ! cursed, cursed 
 
 Alphonso 1 
 False and perfidious Zara ! Strumpet daughter ! 
 Away, begone, thou feeble boy, fond love ! 
 All nature, softness, pity and compassion ! 
 This hour I throw ye off, and entertain ' 
 
 Fell hate within my breast, revenge and gall. 
 By Heaven, I'll meet, and counterwork this treacheryl 
 Hark thee, villain, traitor — answer me, slave ! 
 
2S'l 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 Per. My service has not merited those titles. 
 
 Man. Barest thou reply? take that — thy ser- 
 vice ? thine ? \_8lrikis him. 
 What's thy whole life, thy sonl, thy all, to my 
 One moment's ease ? Hear my command ; and 
 
 look 
 That thou obey, or horror on thy head. 
 Drench me thy dagger in Alphonso's heart : 
 Why dost thou start? Resolve, or 
 
 Per. Sir, I will. 
 
 Man. 'Tis well — that when she comes to set 
 him free. 
 His teeth may grin, and mock at her remorse. 
 
 [Pkrez going. 
 Stay thee — I've farther thought— I'll add to this, 
 And give her eyes yet greater disappointment : 
 When thou hast ended him, bring me his robe ; 
 And let the cell where she'll expect to see him 
 be darken'd so as to amuse the sight. 
 I'll be conducted thither — mark me well — 
 There with his turbant, and his robe array'd. 
 And laid along as he now lies supine, 
 I shall convict her to her face of falsehood. 
 When for Alphonso's she shall take my hand, 
 And breathe her sighs upon my lips for his. 
 Sudden I'll start, and dash her with her guilt. 
 But see she comes ; I'll shun the encounter ; thou. 
 Follow me, and give heed to my direction. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Zkra and Seltm. 
 
 Zara. The mute not yet return'd ! — ha, 'twas 
 the king! 
 The king that parted hence ! frowning he went ; 
 His eyes like meteors iOU'd, then darted dovra 
 Their red and angry beams ; as if his sight 
 Would, like the raging dog-star, scorch the earth, 
 And kindle ruin in its course. Dost think 
 He saw me ? 
 
 Sel. Yes : but then, as if he thought 
 
 His eyes had err'd, he hastily recall'd 
 The imperfect look, and sternly turn'd away. 
 
 Zara. Shun me when seen ! I fear thou hast 
 undone me. 
 Thy shallow artifice begets suspicion, 
 And like a cobweb veil, but thinly shades 
 The face of thy design ; alone disguising 
 What should have ne'er been seen ; imperfect 
 
 mischief ! 
 Thou, like the adder, venomous and deaf, 
 Hast stung the traveller ; and after hear'st 
 Not his pursuing voice ; even where thou think'st 
 To hide, the rustling leaves and bended grass 
 Confess, and point the path which thou hast crept. 
 
 fate of fools ! officious in contriving j 
 In executing puzzled, lame and lost. 
 
 Sel. Avert it, Heaven, that you should ever 
 suffer 
 For my defect ! or that the means which I 
 Devised to serve should ruin your design ! 
 Prescience is Heaven's alone, not given to man. 
 If I have fail'd in what, as being man, 
 
 1 needs must fail ; impute not as a crime 
 My nature's want, but punish nature in me : 
 I plead not for a pardon, and to live. 
 
 But to be punish'd and forgiven. Here, strike 1 
 I bare my breast to meet your just revenge. 
 
 Zara. I have not leisure now to take so poor 
 A forfeit as thy life : somewhat of high 
 And more important fate requires my thought. 
 When I'veconcluded on myself, if I 
 Think fit, I'll leave thee my command to die. 
 Kegard me well ; and dare not to reply 
 To what I give in charge ; for I'm resolved. 
 Give order that the two remaining mutes 
 Attend me instantly, with each a bowl 
 Of such ingredients mix'd, as will with speed 
 Benumb the living faculties, and give 
 Most easy and inevitable death. 
 Yes, Osmyn, yes ; be Osmyn or Alphonso, 
 I'll give thee freedom, if thou darest be free : 
 Such liberty as I embrace myself, 
 Thou shalt partake. Since fates no more afford, 
 I can but die with thee to keep my word. 
 
 SCENE Vf.— The Prison. 
 GoNBALEz alone, disguised like a Mute, with a dagger. 
 
 Nor sentinel, nor guard ! the doors unbarr'd 1 
 And all as still as at the noon of night ! 
 Sure death already has been busy here. 
 There lies my way, that door too is unlock'd. 
 
 ILooks in, 
 Hal sure he sleeps — all's dark within, save what 
 A lamp, that feebly lifts a sickly flame. 
 
 By fits reveals His face seems turn'd, to favour 
 
 The attempt. I'll steal, and do it unperceived. 
 What noise ! Somebody coming ? 'st, Alonzo ? 
 Nobody? Sure he'll wait without — I would 
 'Twere done — I'll crawl, and sting him to the heart : 
 Then cast my skin, and leave it there to answer it. 
 
 [Goes in. 
 
 SCENE V. . , 
 
 G4BCIA and Alonzo. 
 
 Gar. Where ? where, Alonzo? where's my father? 
 where 
 The king! Confusion ! all is on the rout ! 
 All's lost, all ruin'd by surprise and treachery. 
 Where, where is, he ? why dost thou thus mislead 
 me ? 
 /ilon. My lord, he enter'd but a moment since. 
 And could not pass me unperceived — What, ho ! 
 My lord, my lord ! what, ho ! my lord Gonsalez ! 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Garcia, Alonzo, Gonsalez bloody. 
 
 Gon. Perdition choke your clamours I — whence 
 this rudeness ? 
 Garcia ! 
 
 Gar. Perdition, slavery and death, 
 Are entering now our doors. Where is the king ? 
 What means this blood ? and why this face of 
 horror ? 
 
 Gan. No matter — give me first to know the cause 
 Of these your rash and ill-timed exclamations. 
 
 Gar. 'The eastern gate is to the foe betray'd, 
 Who, but for heaps of slain that choke the passage, 
 Had enter'd long ere now, and borne down all 
 Before 'em, to the palace walls. Unless 
 
SCENE VIII. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 256 
 
 The king in person animate our men, 
 Granada's lost : and to confirm this fear, 
 The traitor Perez, and the captive Moor, 
 Are through a postern iied, and join the foe. 
 
 Gon, Would all were false as that ; for whom 
 you call 
 The Moor, is dead. That Osmyn was Alphonso ; 
 In whose heart's blood this poniard yet is warm. 
 
 Gar. Impossible, for Osmy;i was, while flying. 
 Pronounced aloud by Perez for Alphonso. 
 
 Gon, Enter that chamber, and convince your 
 eyes. 
 How much report has wrong'd your easy faith. 
 
 [Garcia goes in. 
 
 Alon. My lord, for certain truth, Perez is fled ; 
 And has declared the cause of his revolt, 
 Was to revenge a blow the king had given him. 
 
 Ee-enter Garcia. 
 
 Gar. Ruin and horror ! O heart-wounding sight 1 
 
 Gon. What says my son ? what ruin .' ha, what 
 horror ? 
 
 Gar. Blasted my eyes, and speechless be my 
 tongue ! 
 Rather than or to see, or to relate 
 This deed. — O dire mistake ! O fatal blow ! 
 The king— 
 
 Gem. Alon. The king ! 
 
 Gar. Dead, weltering, drown'd in blood. 
 
 See, see, attired like Osmyn, where he lies ! 
 
 [They look in. 
 O whence, or how, or wherefore was this done ? 
 But what imports the manner, or the cause .' 
 Nothing remains to do, or to require. 
 But that we all should turn our swords against 
 Ourselves, and expiate with our own his blood. 
 
 G(m. O wretch ! O cursed, and rash, deluded 
 fool! 
 On me, on me, turn your avenging sword ! 
 I, who have spilt my royal master's blood, 
 Should make atonement by a death as horrid ; 
 And fall beneath the hand of my own son. 
 
 Gar. Ha ! what ? atone this murder with a 
 greater ? 
 The horror of that thought has damp'd my rage. 
 The earth already groans to bear this deed ; 
 Oppress her not, nor think to stain her face 
 With more unnatural blood. Murder my father ! 
 Better with this to rip up my own bowels. 
 And bathe it to the hilt, in far less damnable 
 Self-murder. 
 
 Gon. O my son ! from the blind dotage 
 
 Of a father's fondness these ills arose ; 
 For thee I've been ambitious, base, and bloody : 
 For thee I've plunged into this sea of sin ; 
 Stemming the tide with only one weak hand. 
 While t'other bore the crown, (to wreath thy 
 
 brow,) 
 Wliose weight has sunk me ere I reach 'd the shore. 
 
 Gar. Fatal ambition ! Hark ! the foe is en- 
 ter'd. [^Shout. 
 
 The shrillness of that shout speaks 'em at hand. 
 We have no time to search into the cause 
 Of this surprising and most fatal error. 
 What's to be done ? the king*s death known, will 
 
 strike 
 The few remaining soldiers with despair, 
 And make 'em yield to mercy of the conqueror. 
 
 Alon. My lord, I've thought how to conceal the 
 body; 
 
 Require me not to tell the means till done. 
 Lest you forbid what then you may approve. 
 
 [Qoes in. Shout. 
 
 Gon. They shout again ! Whate'er he means to do, 
 'Twere fit the soldiers were amused with hopes ; 
 And in the mean time fed with expectation 
 To see the king in person at their head. 
 
 Gar. Were it a truth, I fear 'tis now too late, 
 But I'll omit no care, nor haste ; to try 
 Or to repel their force, or bravely die. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 GoNSALEz and Alonzo. 
 
 Gon. What hast thou done, Alonzo ? 
 
 Alon. Such a deed 
 
 As but an hour ago I'd not have done. 
 Though for the crown of universal empire. 
 But what are kings reduced to common clay ? 
 Or who can wound the dead ? I've from the body 
 Sever'd the head, and in an obscure corner 
 Disposed it, muffled in the mute's attire. 
 Leaving to view of them that enter next, 
 Alone the undistinguish'd trunk : 
 Which' may be still mistaken by the guards 
 For Osmyn, if in seeking for the king 
 They chance to find it. 
 
 Gon. 'Twas an act of horror : 
 
 And of a piece with this day's dire misdeeds. 
 But 'tis no time to ponder or repent. 
 Haste thee, Alonzo, haste thee hence with speed, 
 To aid my son. I'll follow with the last 
 Reserve to re-enforce his arms : at least, 
 I shall make good, and shelter bis retreat. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Zara, followed by Selim, and two Mutes hearing the hotels, 
 
 Zara. Silence and solitude are everywhere ! 
 Through all the gloomy ways and iron doors 
 That hither lead, nor human face nor voice 
 Is seen or heard. A dreadful din was wont 
 To grate the sense, when enter'd here ; from 
 
 groans 
 And howls of slaves condemn'd, from clink of 
 
 chains. 
 And crash of rusty bars and creeking hinges : 
 And ever and anon the sight was dash'd 
 With frightful faces, and the meagre looks 
 Of grim and ghastly executioners. 
 Yet more this stillness terrifies my soul, 
 Than did that scene of complicated horrors. 
 It may be, that the cause of this my errand 
 And purpose, being changed from life to death. 
 Has also wrought this chilling change of temper. 
 Or does my heart bode more? what can it more 
 Than death .' 
 
 Let 'em set down the bowls, and warn Alphonso 
 That I am here — so. You return and find 
 
 [Mutes go m. 
 The king ; tell him, what he required I've done. 
 And wait his coming to approve the deed. 
 
256 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Zara and Mutes. 
 
 Zara. What have you seen ? Ha ! wherefore 
 stare you thus 
 
 [The Mutes return, and look affrighted' 
 With haggard eyes ? why are your arms a-cross ? 
 Your heavy and desponding heads hung down ? 
 Why is't you more than speak in these sad signs ? 
 Give me more ample knowledge of this mourning. 
 [Tftci/ go to the Scene, which opening, she perceives the 
 iody. 
 Ha ! prostrate ! bloody ! headless ! O — I'm lost ! 
 
 Osmyn ! O Alphonso ! Cruel fate ! 
 Cruel, cruel, O more than killing object 1 
 
 1 came prepared to die, and see thee die — 
 Nay, came prepared myself to give thee death — 
 But cannot bear to find thee thus, my Osmyn — 
 O this accursed, this base, this treacherous king ! 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Zara, Seum, and Mutes. 
 
 Sel. I've sought in vain, for nowhere can the 
 king 
 Be f'mnd. 
 
 Zara. Get thee to hell, and seek him there ! 
 
 [_Stahs him. 
 His hellish rage had wanted means to act. 
 But for thy fatal and pernicious counsel. 
 
 Sel. You thought it better then — but I'm re- 
 warded : 
 The mute you sent by some mischance was seen. 
 And forced to yield your letter with his life : 
 1 found the dead and bloody body stripp'd — 
 My tongue falters, and my voice fails — I sink — 
 Drink not the poison — for Alphonso is — [.Dies. 
 
 Zara. As thou art now — and I shall quickly be. 
 'Tis not that he is dead : for 'twas decreed 
 We both should die. Nor is't that I survive ; 
 I have a certain remedy for that. 
 But oh, he died unknowing in my heart ! 
 He knew I loved, but knew not to what height : 
 Nor that I meant to fall before his eyes, 
 A martyr and a victim to my vows : 
 Insensible of this last proof he's gone. 
 Yet fate alone can rob his mortal part 
 Of sense; his soul still sees, and knows each purpose, 
 And fix'd event of my persisting faith. 
 Then, wherefore do I pause ? give me the bowl. 
 
 [A Mute kneels and gives one of the howls. 
 Hover a moment, yet, thou gentle spirit. 
 Soul of my love, and I will wait thy flight ! 
 This to our mutual bliss when join d above. 
 
 [Sriiiks. 
 
 friendly draught, already in my heart ! 
 Cold, cold ! my veins are icicles and frost. 
 I'll creep into his bosom, lay me there ; 
 Cover us close — or I shall chill his breast, 
 
 And fright him from my arms — See, see, he slides 
 Still further from me I look, he hides his face ! 
 
 1 cannot feel il^quite beyond my reach— 
 
 O now he's gone, and all is dark— [BicJ- 
 
 [The Mutes kneel and mourn over her. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Almbria, Leonora, and Mutes. 
 
 Aim. O let me seek him in this horrid cell ; 
 For in the tomb, or prison, I alone 
 Must hope to find him. 
 
 Leon. Heavens ! what dismal scene 
 
 Of death is this ? The eunuch Selim slain ! 
 
 Aim, Show me, for I am come in search of 
 death ; 
 But want a guide ; for tears have dimm'd my 
 sight. 
 
 Leon. Alas, a little farther, and behold 
 Zara all pale and dead ! two frightful men, 
 Who seem the murderers, kneel weeping by, 
 FeeUng remorse too late for what they've done. 
 But O forbear — lift up your eyes no more ; 
 But haste away, fly from this fatal place ! 
 Where miseries are multiplied ; return, 
 Keturn ! and look not on ; for there's a dagger 
 Ready to stab the sight, and make your eyes 
 Rain blood — 
 
 Aim. Oh I foreknow, foresee that object. 
 
 Is it at last then so .' is he then dead .' 
 What, dead at last ! quite, quite, for ever dead I 
 There, there I see him ! there he lies, the blood 
 Yet bubbling from his wounds — O more than 
 
 savage 
 
 Had they or hearts or eyes, that did this deed ! 
 
 Could eyes endure to guide such cruel hands .^ 
 
 Are not my eyes guilty alike with theirs. 
 
 That thus can gaze, and yet not turn to stone ? 
 
 I do not weep I The springs of tears are dried 
 
 And of a sudden I am calm, as if 
 
 AH things .were well : and yet my husband's mur- 
 
 der'd ! 
 Yes, yes, I know to mourn ! I'll sluice this heart, 
 The source of woe, and let the torrent loose. 
 Those men have left to weep ! they look on me ! 
 I hope they murder all on whom they look. 
 Behold me well ; your bloody hands have err'd, 
 And wrongfully have slain those innocents ; 
 I am the sacrifice design'd to bleed ; 
 And come prepared to yield my throat — they 
 
 shake 
 Their heads, in sign of grief and innocence ! 
 
 [The iJlvAsBpoint at the iowl on the ground. 
 And' point — what mean they.'' Ha ! a cup. O well 
 I understand what medicine has been here. 
 O noble thirst ! yet greedy to drink all — 
 Oh for another draught of death. — What mean they ? 
 [The Mutes j7ofn£ at the other cup. 
 Ha ! point again ? 'tis there, and full, I hope. 
 Thanks to the liberal band that fill'd thee thus ; 
 I'll drink my glad acknowledgment — 
 
 Lean. O hold, 
 
 For mercy's sake ! upon my knee I beg — 
 
 Aim. With thee the kneeling world should beg 
 in vain. 
 Seest thou not there ? behold who prostrate lies. 
 And pleads against thee ? who shall then prevail ? 
 Yet I will take a cold and parting leave, 
 From his pale lips ; I'll kiss him, ere I drink. 
 Lest the rank juice should blister on my mouth, 
 And stain the colour of my last adieu. 
 Horror 1 a headless trunk I nor lips nor face, 
 
 [Coniing nearer the body, starts and lets fall the cup. 
 But spouting veins, and mangled flesh 1 Oh, oh 1 
 
SCKNB XII, 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 2:^7 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 d.i.M£K:A, Leonora, A i.pHo.vso, Helt, Peree, unth Garcia 
 pHsoner, Guards and Attendants. 
 
 Alph. Away, stand off ! where is she ? let me fly, 
 Sdve her from death, and snatch her to my heart. 
 
 4m. Oh ! 
 
 Alph. Forbear ; my arms alone shall hold 
 her u]i, 
 Warm her to life, and wake her into gladness. 
 O let me talk to thy reviving sense, 
 The words of joy and- peace ! warm thy cold, beauties, 
 With the new-flushing ardour of my cheek! 
 Into thy lips pour the soft trickling balm 
 Of cordial sighs ! and re-inspire thy bosom 
 With the breath of love ! Shine, awake, Almeria !- 
 Give a new birth to thy long-shaded eyes, 
 Then double on the day reflected light ! 
 
 Aim. Where am I ? Heaven! what does this 
 dream intend ? 
 
 Alph. O mayst thou never dream of less delight, 
 Nor ever wake to less substantial joys \ 
 
 Aim. Given me again from death ! O all ye 
 powers 
 Confirm this miracle ! Can I believe 
 My sight, against my sight ? and shall I trust 
 That sense, which in one instant shows him dead 
 4.nd living ? Yes, I will ; I've been abused 
 
 With apparitions and afTrighting phantoms : 
 This is my lord, my life, my only husband : 
 I have him now, and we no more will part. 
 My father too shall have compassion — 
 
 Alph. O my heart's comfort ! 'tis not given to 
 this 
 Frail life, to be entirely bless'd. Even now. 
 In this extremest joy my soul can taste, 
 Yet am I dash'd to think that thou must weep ; 
 Thy father fell, where he design'd my death. 
 Gonsalez and Alonzo, both of wounds 
 Expiring, have with their last breath confessed 
 The just decrees of Heaven, which on themselves 
 Has turn'd their own most bloody purposes. 
 Nay, I must grant, 'tis fit you should be thus — 
 
 [AxMERiA weeps. 
 Let 'em remove the body from her sight. 
 Ill-fated Zara ! Ha ! a cup ? Alas ! 
 Thy error then is plain ; but I were flint 
 Not to o'erflow in tribute to thy memory. 
 O Garcia ! 
 
 Whose virtue has renounced thy father's crimes ; 
 Seest thou, how just the hand of Heaven has been ? 
 Let us, who through our innocence survive, 
 Stili in the paths of honour persevere. 
 And not from past or present ills despair : 
 For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds ; 
 And though a late, a sure reward succeeds. 
 
 {Exeunt omnee. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 The tragedy thus done, I am, you know. 
 
 No more a princess, but in statu quo : 
 
 And now as unconcern'd this mourning wear, 
 
 As if indeed a widow or an heir, 
 
 I've leisure now to mark your several faces. 
 
 And know each critic by his sour grimaces. 
 
 To poison plays, I see some where they sit, 
 
 Scatter'd, like ratsbane, up and down the pit ; 
 
 While others watch like parish -searchers, hired 
 
 To tell of what disease the play expired. 
 
 Oh with what joy they run to spread the news 
 
 Of a damn'd poet, and departed muse ! 
 
 But if he 'scape, with what regret they're seized ! 
 
 And how they're disappointed when they're pleased ! 
 
 Critics to plays for the same end resort. 
 
 That surgeons wait on trials in a court ; 
 
 For innocence condemned they've no respect, 
 
 Provided they've a body to dissect. 
 
 As Sussex-men, that dwell upon the shore. 
 
 Look out when storms arise, and billows roar 
 
 Devoutly praying, with upUfted hands. 
 
 That some well-laden ship may strike the sands ; 
 
 To whose rich cargo they may make pretence, 
 
 And fatten on the spoils of Providence : 
 
 So critics throng to see a new play split. 
 
 And thrive and prosper on the wrecks of wit. 
 
 Small hope our poet from these prospects draws ; 
 
 And therefore to the fair commends his cause. 
 
 Your tender hearts to mercy are inclined, 
 
 With whom, he hopes, this play will favour find, 
 
 Which was an oflfering to the sex design'd. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WOKLl?. 
 
 Auaire est operse pretium, procedere recte 
 Qui mccchis non vultis. — Horat. Lib. i. Sat. 2. 
 
 Mctuat, doti deprensa. Ibid. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 RALPH, EARL OF MONTAGUE, &c. 
 
 My Lokd, — ^Whether the world will arraign me of vanity or not, that I have presumed to dedicate this comedy to 
 your Lordship, I am yet in doubt ; though, it may be. it is some degree of vanity even to doubt Of it. One who has .it 
 any time had the honour of your Lordship's conversation, cannot be supposed to think very meanly of that which he 
 would prefer to your perusal ; yet it were to incur the imputation of too much sufficiency, to pretend to such a merit 
 as might abide the test of your Lordship's censm-e. 
 
 Whatever value may be wanting to this play while yet it is mine, will be sufficiently made up to it when it is once 
 become your Lfirdship's ; aud it is my secui-ity, that I cannot have overrated it more by my dedication, than your 
 Lordship will dignify it by your patronage. 
 
 That it succeeded on the stage, was almost beyond my expectation ; for but little of it was prepared for that general 
 taste which seems now to be predominant in the palates of our audience. 
 
 Those characters which are meant to be ridiculed in most of our comedies, are of fools so gross, that, in my humble 
 opinion, they should rather disturb than divert the well-natured and reflecting part of an audience ; they are rather 
 objects of charity than contempt ; and instead of moving our mirth, they ought very often to excite our compassion. 
 
 This reflection moved me to design some characters which should appear ridiculous, not so much through a natural 
 folly (which is incorrigible, and therefore not proper for the stage) as through an affected wit ; a wit, which at the 
 same time that it is affected, is also false. As there is some difficulty in the formation of a character of this nature, so 
 there is some hazard which attends the progress of its success upon the stage ; for many come to a play so overchai-ped 
 with criticism, that they vei-y often let fly their censure, when through their rashness they have mistalcen their aim. 
 This I had occasion lately to observe ; for this play had been acted two or three days, before some of the«e hasty judges 
 could find the leisure to distinguish betwixt the character of a Witwoud and a Truewit. 
 
 I must beg your Lordship's pardon for this digression from the true course of this epistle ; but that it may not seem 
 altogether impertinent, I beg that I may plead the occasion of it, in part of that excuse of which I stand in need, for 
 recommending this comedy to your protection. It isonlyby the countenance of your Lordship, and the /eio so qualified, 
 that such who write with care and pains can hope to be distinguished ; for the prostituted name of poet promiscuously 
 levels all that bear it. 
 
 Terence, the most correct writer in the world, had a Scipio and a Lffilius, if not to assist him, at least to support him 
 in his reputation ; and notwithstanding his extraordinary merit, it may be their countenance was not more than 
 necessary. 
 
 The purity of his style, the delicacy of his turns, and the justness of his characters, were all of them beauties wliich 
 the greater part of his audience were incapable of tasting ; some of the coarsest strokes of Plautus, so severely censured 
 by Horace, were more likely to affect the multitude ; such who come with expectation to laugh at the last act of a 
 play, and are better entertained with two or three unseasonable jests, than with the artful solution of the/able. 
 
 As Terence excelled in his performances, so had he great advantages to encourage his undertakings ; for he built most 
 on the foundations of Menander ; his plots were generally modelled, and his characters ready drawn to his hand. He 
 copied Menander, and Menander had no less light in the formation of his characters from the observations of 
 Thcophraatus, of whom he was a disciple ; and Theophrastus, it is kno'wn, was not only the disciple, but the immediate 
 successor of Aristotle, the first and greatest judge of poetry. These were great models to design by; and the further 
 advantage which Terence possessed, towards giving his plays the due ornaments of purity of style and justness of 
 manners, was not less considerable, from the freedom of conversation which was permitted him with Lielius and 
 Scipio, two of the greatest and most polite men of his ago. And indeed the privilege of such a conversation is the 
 only certain means of attaining to the perfection of dialogue. 
 
 If it has happened in any part of this comedy, that I have gained a turn of style or expression more correct, or at 
 least aiore corrigible, than in those which I have f9rmerly written, I must, with equal pride and gratitude, ascribe it to 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 2m 
 
 the honour of your Lordship's admitting me into your conversation, and that of a society where everybody else was so 
 well worthy of you. in your retirement last summer from the town; for it was immediately after th<at this comody was 
 written. If I have failed ip my performance, it is only to he regretted, where there were so many, not inferior either to 
 a Scipio or a Laelius, that there should be one wanting equal in capacity to a Terence. 
 
 If I am not mistaken, poetry is almost the only art wh ich has not yet laid claim to your Lordship's patronage. 
 Architectui;e and painting, to the great honour of our coimtry, have flourished under your influence and protection. 
 In the mean time, poetry, the eldest sister of all arts, and parent of most, seems to have resigned her birthright, by 
 having neglected to pay her duty to your Lordship, and by permitting others of a later extraction, to prepossess that 
 place in yoiu' esteem to which aone can pretend a better title. Poetry, in its nature, is sacred to the good and great ; 
 the relation between them is reciprocal, and they are ever propitious to it. It is the privilege of poetry to address 
 to them, and it is their prerogative alone to give it protection. 
 
 This received mas:im^ is a general apology for all writers who consecrate their labours to great men ; but I could wish 
 at this time, that -this address were exempted from the common pretence of all dedications ; and that as I can distinguish 
 your Lordship even among the most deserving, so this ofFering.might become remarkable by some particular instance 
 of respect, which should assure your Lordship, that I am,, with all duo sense of your extreme worthiness imd humanity, 
 my Lord, your Lordship's most obedient, an,d most obliged, humble servant, 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Fainall, in love with Mrs. Marwood. 
 MiRABELi,, in love with Mrs. Millamant. 
 
 WiTO»oiiD, 1 Polluters o/Mks. Millamant. 
 
 Petulant, * 
 
 Sir WiLFl-LL WiTWOUD, JiaJ/Brother to Witwoud, and 
 
 Sepliew to Lady Wishfort. 
 Waitwell, Servant to Mirabell. 
 
 Lady Wishfort, Enemy to Mibabell, for having 
 falsely pretended love to her. 
 
 Mrs. Millamant, a fine Lady, Niece to Lady Wish- 
 fort, and loves Mirabex-l.,. 
 
 Mrs. Marwood, Friend to Mr. Fainall, and likes 
 
 MiRAEELL. 
 
 Mrs.Fainall, Daughter to Lady Wishfort, and Wife 
 
 toFAifjALL,formerli/ Friend to Mirabell. 
 Foible, Woman to Lady Wisui'ort. 
 MliVCiNG, Woman io Mrs. Millamant. 
 Betty, Waiting-maid at a Chocolate-house. 
 Peg, Maid to Lady Wishfort. 
 
 Coachmen, Dancers, Footmen, and Attendants. 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
 The time equal to that of the representation, 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON. 
 
 ()F those few fools who with ill stars aie curst, 
 Sure scribbling fools, call'd poets, fare the worst : 
 For they're a sort of fools which Fortune makes, 
 And after she has made 'em fools, forsakes. 
 With Nature's oafs 'tis quite a different case, 
 For Fortune favours all her idiot-race. 
 In her own nest the cuckoo-eggs we find, 
 O'er which she broods to hatch the changeling-kind. 
 No portion for her own she has to spare, 
 So much she dotes on her adopted care. 
 
 Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in, 
 Suffer'd at first some trifling stakes to win ; 
 But what unequal hazards do they run ! 
 Each time they write they venture all they've won : 
 The squire that's butter'd still, is sure to be undone. 
 This author heretofore has found your favour ; 
 But pleads no merit from his past behaviour. 
 To build on that might prove a vain presumption, 
 Should grants, to poets made, admit resumption : 
 And in Parnassus he must lose his seat, 
 II that be found a forfeited estate. 
 
 He owns with toil he wrought the following 
 scenes ; 
 But, if they're naught, ne'er spare him for his 
 
 pains : 
 Damn him the more ; have no commiseration 
 For dulness on mature deliberation. 
 He swears he'll not resent one hiss'd-off scene. 
 Nor, like those peevish wits, his play maintain, 
 "Who, to assert their sense, your taste arraign. 
 Some plot we think he has, and some new thought ; 
 Some humour too, no farce ; but that's a fault. 
 Satire, he thinks, you ought not to expect; 
 For so reform'd a town who dares correct .' 
 To please, this time, has been his sole pretence. 
 He'll not instruct, lest it should give offence. 
 Should he by chance a knave or fool expose. 
 That hurts none here, sure here are none of those : 
 In short, our play shall (vrith your leave to show it) 
 Give you one instance of a passive poet, 
 Who to your judgments yields all resignation ; 
 So save or damn, after your own discretion. 
 
36C 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 SCENE I A Chocolate.House. 
 
 MiRABELL and Fainall, rising from cards, Bktty 
 waiting. 
 
 Mir. You are a fortunate man, Mr. Fainall ! 
 
 Fain. Have we done ? 
 
 Mir. What you please: I'll play on to enter- 
 tain you. 
 
 ] Fain. No, I'll give you your revenge another 
 
 time, when you are not so indifferent ; you are 
 
 thinking of something else now, and play too 
 
 negligently ; the coldness of a losing gamester 
 
 f lessens the pleasure of the winner. l!4-JW.JS£i'e 
 
 1 play with a man that slighted his ill fortun e than 
 
 I I'*cP5R[tte~love^iTr^" woman who undervalued the 
 
 I loss of her reputation. 
 
 Mir. You have a taste extremely delicate, and 
 are for refining on your pleasures. 
 
 Fain. Prithee, why so reserved ? Something 
 has put you out of humour. 
 
 Mir. Not at all : I happen to be grave to-day, 
 and you are gay ; that's all. 
 
 Fain. Confess, Millamant and you quarrelled 
 last night after I left you ; my fair cousin has some 
 humours that would tempt the patience of a Stoic. 
 What, some coxcomb came in, and was well 
 received by her, while you were by ? 
 
 Mir. Witwoud and Petulant ; and what was 
 worse, her aunt, your wife's mother, my evil genius ; 
 or to sum Up all in her own name, my old Lady 
 Wishfort came in.- 
 
 Fain. O there it is then 1 She has a lasting 
 passion for you, and with reason. — What, then my 
 wife was there ? 
 
 Mir. Yes, and Mrs. Marwood, and three or 
 ^four more, whom I never saw before. Seeing me, 
 they all put on their grave faces, wfhispered one 
 another ; then complained aloud of the vapours, 
 and after fell into a profound silence. 
 
 Fain. They had a mind to be rid of you. 
 
 Mir. For which reason I resolved not to stir. 
 At last the good old lady broke through her pain- 
 ful taciturnity with an invective against long 
 visits. I would not have understood her, but Mil- 
 lamant joining in the argument, I rose, and, with 
 a constrained smile, told her, 1 thought nothing 
 was so easy as to know when a visit began to be 
 troublesome. She reddened, and I withdrew, with- 
 iout expecting her reply. 
 
 Fain, You were to blame to resent what she 
 spoke only in compliance with her aunt. 
 
 Mir. She is more mistress of herself than to be 
 under the necessity of such a resignation. 
 
 Fain. What ! though half her fortune depends 
 upon her marrying with my lady's approbation ? 
 
 Mir. I was then in such a humour, that I should 
 have been better pleased if she had been less dis- 
 creet. 
 
 Fain. Now, I remember, I wonder not they 
 were weary of you ; last night was one of their 
 cabal nights ; they have 'em three times a-week, 
 and meet by turns at one another's apartments, 
 where they come together like the coroner's 
 irujuesL, to sil upon the murdered reputations of 
 
 the week. You and I are excluded; and it vvas 
 once proposed that all the male sex should be 
 excepted ; but somebody moved that, to avoid 
 scandal, there might be one man of the commu- 
 nity ; upon which motion Witwoud and Petulant 
 were enrolled members. 
 
 Mir. And who may have been the foundress of 
 this sect ? My lady Wishfort, I warrant, who 
 publishes her detestation of mankind ; and full oi 
 the vigour of fifty-five, declares for a friend and 
 ratafia ; and let posterity shift for itself, she'll breed 
 no more. 
 
 Fain. The discovery of your sham addresses to 
 her, to conceal your love to her niece, has provoked 
 this separation ; had you dissembled better, things 
 might have continued in the state of nature. 
 
 Mir. I did as much as man could, with any 
 reasonable conscience ; I proceeded to the very 
 last act of flattery with her, and was guilty of a 
 song in her commendation. Nay, I got a friend to 
 put her into a lampoon, and compliment her with 
 the imputation of an affair with a young fellow, 
 which I carried so far, that 1 told her the ma- 
 licious town took notice that she was grown fat 
 of » sudden ; and when she lay in of a dropsy, 
 persuaded her she was reported to be in labour. 
 The devil's in't, if an old woman is to be flattered 
 further, unless a man should endeavour downright 
 personally to debauch her ; and that my virtue 
 forbade me. But for the discovery of this amour 
 I am indebted to your friend, or your wife's friend, 
 Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Fain. What should provoke her to be your 
 enemy, unless she has made you advances which 
 you have slighted ? Women do not easily forgive 
 omissions of that nature. 
 
 Mir. She was always civil to me till of late. — 
 I confess I am not one of those coxcombs who are 
 apt to interpret a woman's good manners to her 
 prejudice, and think that she who does not refuse 
 'em everything, can refuse 'em nothing. 
 
 Fain. You are a gallant man, Mirabell ; and 
 though you may have cruelty enough not to satisfy 
 a lady's longing, you have too much generosity not 
 to be tender of "her honour. Yet you speak with 
 an indifference which seems to be affected, and 
 confesses you are conscious of a negligence. 
 
 Mir. You pursue the argument with a dis- 
 trust that seems to be unaffected, and confesses 
 you are conscious of a concern for which the lady 
 is more indebted to you than is your wife. 
 
 Fain. Fy, fy, friend ! if you grow censorious I 
 must leave you. — I'll look upon the gamesters in 
 the next room. 
 
 Mir. Who are they ? 
 
 Fain. Petulant "and Witwoud. — [To Betty.] 
 Bring me some chocolate. lExit. 
 
 Mir. Betty, what says your clock ? 
 
 Bei. Turned of the last canonical hour, sir. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Mir. How pertinently tlie jade answers me ! 
 — [Looking on his watch.} — Hal almost one 
 o'clock ! — O, y'are come I 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 261 
 
 SCENE II. 
 MiRABELL and Footman. 
 
 Mir. Well, is the grand affair over ? You tave 
 been something tedious. 
 
 Fool. Sir, there's such coupling at Pancras, fhajb 
 they stand behind one another, as 'twere in a coun- 
 try dance. Ours was the last couple to lead up ; 
 and no hopes appearing of despatch ; besides* the 
 parson growing hoarse, we were afraid his lungs . 
 would have failed before it came to our turn ; so 
 we drove round to Duke's-place ; and there they 
 were rivetted in a trice. 
 
 Mir. So, so, you are sure they are married. 
 
 Foot. Married and bedded, sir ; I am witness. 
 
 Mir. Have you the certificate ? 
 
 Foot. Here it is, sir. 
 
 Mir. Has the tailor brought Waitwell's clothes 
 home, and the new liveries ? 
 
 Foot. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mir. That's well. Do you go home again, d'ye 
 hear, and adjourn the consummatipn till further 
 orders. Bid Waitwell shake his ears, and dams 
 Partlet rustle up her feathers, and meet me at one 
 o'clock by Rosamond's Pond, that I may see her 
 before she returns to her lady ; and as you tender 
 your ears be secret. 
 
 SCENE III. ^ , 
 
 MiRABELL, Fainall, and BjsrrY. 
 
 Fain. Joy of your success, Mirabell ; you look 
 pleased. 
 
 Mir. Ay ; I have been engaged in a matter of 
 some sort of mirth, which is not yet ripe for dis- 
 covery. I am glad this is not a cabal night. I 
 wonder, Fainall, that you who are married, and of 
 consequence should be discreet, will suffer your 
 wife to be of such a party.,. 
 
 Fain. Faith, I am not jealous. Besides, most 
 who are engaged are women and relations ; and 
 for the men, they are of a kind too contemp- 
 tible to give scandal. 
 
 Mir. I am of another opinion. The greater 
 the coxcomb, always the more the scandal : for a 
 woman, who is not a fool, can have but one reason 
 for associating with a man who is one. 
 
 Fain. Are you jealous as often as you see Wit- 
 woud entertained by Millamant ? 
 
 Mir. Of her understanding I am, if not of her 
 person. 
 
 Fain. You do her wrong ; for, to give her her 
 due, she has wit. 
 
 Mir. She has beauty enough to make any man 
 think so ; and complaisance enough not to contra- 
 dict him who shall tell her so. 
 
 Fain. For a passionate lover, methinks you are 
 a man somewhat too discerning in the failings of 
 your mistress. 
 
 Mir. And for a discerning man, somewhat too 
 passionate a lover ; for I like her with all her 
 faults ; nay, like her for her faults. Her follies 
 are so natural, or so artful, that they become her ; 
 and those affectations which in another woman 
 would be odious, serve but to make her more 
 agreeable. I'll tell thee, Fainall, she once used 
 me with that insolence, that in revenge I took her 
 
 to pieces ; sifted her, and separated her failings ; I 
 studied 'em, and got 'em byrote. The catalogue 
 was so large, that 1 was not without hopes one day 
 or other to hate her heartily : to which end I so 
 used myself to think of 'em, that at length, con- 
 trary to my design and expectation, they gave me 
 every, hour less and less disturbance ; till in a few 
 days it became habitual to me to remember 'em 
 without being displeased. They are now grown as 
 familiar to me as my own frailties ; and in all pro- 
 bability, in a little time longer, I shall like 'cm as 
 well. 
 
 Fain. Marry her, marry her ! be half as well 
 acquainted with her charms, as you are with 
 her defects, and my life on't, you are your own man 
 agaiii. 
 
 Mir. Say you so ? 
 
 Fain. Ay, ay, I have experience : I have a wife, 
 and so forth. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 MiRABELL, Fainall, Bettv, and Messenger. 
 
 Mes. -Is one squire Witwoud here ? 
 
 JBet. Yes, what's your business ? 
 
 Mes. I have a letter for him, from his brotber 
 sir WilfuU, which I am charged to deliver into his 
 own hands.* 
 
 JUet. He's in the next room, friend — thatway. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 MiRABELL, Fainall, and Betty. 
 
 Mir. What, is the chief of that noble family in 
 town, sir Wilful! Witwoud .'' 
 
 Fain. He is expected to-day. Do you know 
 him .' 
 
 Mir. I have seen him. He promises to be an 
 extraordinary person ; 1 think you have the honour 
 to be related to him. 
 
 Fain. Yes ; he is half brother to this Witwoud 
 by a former wife, who was sister to my lady 
 Wishfort, my wife's mother. If you marry Milla- 
 mant, you must call cousins too. 
 
 Mir. I had rather be his relation than his 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Fain, He comes to town in order to equip him- 
 self for travel. 
 
 Mir. For travel ! why, the man that I mean is 
 above forty. 
 
 Fain. No matter for that; 'tis for the honour 
 of England, that all Europe should know we have 
 blockheads of all ages. 
 
 Mir. I wonder there is not an act of parliament 
 to save the credit of the nation, and prohibit the 
 exportation of fools. 
 
 Fain, By no means ; 'tis better as 'tis. 'Tii 
 better to trade with a little loss, than to be quite 
 eaten up with being overstocked. 
 
 Mir. Pray, are the folUes of this knight-errant, 
 and those of the squire, his brother, anything 
 related ? 
 
 Fain. Not atall; Witwoud grows by the knight, 
 like a medlar grafted on a crab. One wii 
 melt in your mouth, and t'other set your teeih 
 on edge ; one is all pulp, and the other all core. 
 
262 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Mir. So one will be rotten before he be ripe, and 
 the otherwill be rotten without ever being ripe at all. 
 
 Fai?t. Sir Wilful! is an odd mixture of bash- 
 fulness and obstinacy. — Bat when he's drunk he's 
 as loving as the monster in the Tempest, and 
 much after the same manner. To give t'other his 
 due, he has something of good-nature, and does not 
 always want wit. 
 
 Mir. Not always : but as often as his memory 
 fails him, and his common-place of comparisons. 
 He is a fool with a good memory, and some few scraps 
 of other folks' wit. He is one whose conversation 
 can never be approved, yet it is now and then to be 
 endured. He has indeed one good quality, he is 
 not exceptious ; for he so passionately affects the 
 reputation of understanding raillery, that he will 
 construe an affront into a jest ; and call downright 
 rudeness and ill language, satire and fire 
 
 Fain. If you have a mind to finish his picture, 
 you have an opportunity to do it at full length, 
 Behold the original ! 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 MiRABELz,, Fainall, Betty, and Wrrwoub. 
 
 Wit. Afford me your compassion, my dears ! 
 pity me, Fainall ! Mirabell, pity me ! 
 
 Mir. I do from my soul. 
 
 Fain. Why, what's the matter ? 
 
 Wit. No letters for me, Betty ? 
 
 Bel. Did not a messenger bring you one but 
 now, sir ? 
 
 Wit. Ay, but no other ? 
 
 £et. No, sir. 
 
 Wit. That's hard, that's Tery hard. — A mes- 
 senger ! a mule, a beast of burden ! he has brought 
 me a letter from the fool my brother, as heavy as 
 a panegyric in a funeral sermon, or a copy of 
 commendatory verses from one poet to another : 
 and what's worse, 'tis as sure a forerunner of the 
 author, as an epistle dedicatory. 
 
 Mir. A fool, and your brother, Witwoud! 
 
 Wil. Ay, ay, my half brother. My half brother 
 he is, no nearer upon honour. 
 
 Mir. Then 'lis possible he may bebut half afool. 
 
 Wit. Good, good, Mirabell, le drole ! good, 
 good ; hang him, don't let's talk of him. — Fainall, 
 how does your lady ? Gad, I say anything in the 
 world to get this fellow out of my head. I beg 
 pardon that I should ask a man of pleasure, and 
 the town, a question at once so foreign and 
 domestic. But I talk like an old maid at a mar- 
 riage ; I don't know what I say : but she's the best 
 woman in the world. 
 
 Fain. 'Tis well you don't know what you say, 
 or else your commendation would go near to make 
 me either vain or jealous. 
 
 Wit. No man in town lives well with a wife but 
 Fainall. — Your judgment, Mirabell. 
 
 Mir. You had better step and ask his wife, if 
 you would be credibly informed. 
 
 Wit. Mirabell? 
 
 Mir. Ay. 
 
 tVit. My dear, I ask ten thousand pardons ; — 
 gad, I have forgot what I was going to say to you! 
 
 Mir. 1 thank you heartily, heartily. 
 
 Wit. No, but prithee excuse me : — my memory 
 is such a memory. 
 
 Mir. Have a care of such apologies, Witwoud; 
 
 for I never knew a fool but he affected to complain, 
 either of the spleen or his memory. 
 
 Fain. What have you done with Petulant ? 
 
 Wil. He's reckoning his money — my money it 
 was. — I have no luck to-day. 
 
 Fain. You may allow him to win of yOu at 
 play : tor you are sure to be too hard for him at re- 
 partee; since you monopolise the wit that is betweert 
 you, the fortune must be his of course. 
 
 Mir. I don't find that Petulant confesses thB 
 superiority of wit to be your talent, Witwoud. 
 
 Wit. Come, come, you are malicious now; and 
 would breed debates. — Petulant's my friend, and a 
 very honest fellow, and a very pretty fellow, and has 
 a smattering — faith and troth, a pretty deal of ab 
 odd sort of a small wit : nay, I'll do him justice. 
 I'm his friend, 1 won't wroifg him neither. — And 
 if he had any judgment in the world, he would not 
 be altogether contemptible. Come, come, don t 
 detract from the nierits of my friend. 
 
 Fain. You don't take your friend to be ovier. 
 nicely bred ? 
 
 Wit. No, no, hanghim, the rogue has no manners 
 at all, that I must own :-^no more breeding than 
 a bum-bailiff, that I grant you : — 'tis pity, faith ; 
 the fellow has fire and life. 
 
 Mir. What, courage ? 
 
 Wit. Hum, faith I don't know as to that, 1 
 can't say as to that — Yes, faith, in a controversy, 
 he'll contradict anybody. 
 
 Mir. Though 'twere a man whom he feared, or 
 a woman whom he loved. 
 
 Wit. Well, well, he does not always think before 
 he speaks ;— we have all our failings : you are too 
 hard upon him, you are, faith. Let me excuse 
 him — I can defend most of his faults, except one 
 or two : one he has, that's the truth on't ; if he 
 were my brother, I could not acquit him ; — that, 
 indeed, I could wish were otherwise. 
 
 Mir. Ay marry, what's that, Witwoud ? 
 
 Wit. O pardon, me ! — expose the infirmities 
 of my friend ! — No, my dear, excuse me there. 
 
 Fain. What, I warrant he's unsincere, or 'tis 
 some such trifle. 
 
 Wit. No, no ; what if he be ? 'tis no matter for 
 that, his wit will excuse that : a wit should no 
 more be sincere, than a woman constant ; one 
 argues a decay of parts, as t'other of beaaty. 
 
 Mir. Maybe you think him too positive ? 
 
 Wit. No, no, his being positive is an incentive 
 to argument, and keeps up conversation. 
 
 Fain. Too illiterate .' 
 
 Wit. That ! that's his happiness : — his want of 
 learning gives him the more opportunities to show 
 his natural parts. 
 
 Mir. He wants words ? 
 
 Wit. Ay : but I like him for that now ■. for his 
 want of wtjrds gives me the pleasure very often to 
 explain his meaning. 
 
 Fain. He's impudent ? 
 
 Wit. No, that's not it. 
 
 Mir. Vain ? 
 
 Wit. No. 
 
 Mir, What ! he speaks unseasonable truths 
 sometimes, because he has not wit enough to invent 
 an evasion ? 
 
 Wit. Truths ! ha ! ha ! ha ! no, no ; since you 
 will have it, — I mean, he never speaks truth at all, 
 — that's all. He will lie like a chambermaid, or a 
 woman of quality's porter. Now that is a fault. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 263 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 MiRABELL, Fainall, WiTWOUD, Bktty, and Coachman. 
 
 Coach. Is master Petulant here, mistress ? 
 
 Bet. Yes. 
 
 Coach. Three gentlewomen in a coach would 
 speak with him. 
 
 Fain. O brave Petulant ! three ! 
 
 Bet. I'll tell him. 
 
 Coach, You must bring two dishes of chocolate 
 and a glass of cinnamon-water. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 MiRABBLL, Fainall, and Witwoud. 
 
 Wit. That should be for two fasting strumpets, 
 and a bawd troubled with the wind. Now you may 
 know what the three are. 
 
 Mir. You are very free with your friend's 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Wit. Ay, ay, friendship without freedom is as 
 dull as love without enjoyment, or wine without 
 toasting. But to tell you a secret, these are trulls 
 whom he allows coach-hire, and something more, 
 by the week, to call on him once a-day at public 
 places. 
 
 Mir. How ! 
 
 Wit. You shall see he won't go to 'em, because 
 there's no more company here to take notice of 
 him. — Why this is nothing to what he used to do : 
 — before he found out this way, I have known hind 
 call for himself. 
 
 Fain. Call for himself ! what dost thou mean "i 
 
 Wit. Mean ! why he would sUp you out of this 
 chocolate-house, just when you had been talking to 
 him — as soon as your back was turned — whip he 
 was gone ! — then trip to his lodging, clap on a 
 hood and scarf, and a mask, slap into a hackney- 
 coach, and drive hither to the door again in a trice, 
 where he would send in for himself ; that I mean, 
 call for himself, wait for himself; nay, and what's 
 more, not tinding himself, sometimes leave a letter 
 for himself. 
 
 Mir. I confess this is something extraordinary. 
 — I believe he waits for himself now, he is so long 
 a-coming : Oh ! I ask his pardon. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Petulant, Mibabkll, Fainall, Witwood, and Bbttv. 
 
 Bet. Sir, the coach stays. 
 
 Pet. Well, well; — 1 come. — 'Sbud, a man had 
 as good be a professed midwife, as a professed 
 whoreraaster, at this rate ! to be knocked up and 
 raised at all hours, and in all places. Pox on 'em, 
 I won't come ! — D'ye hear, tell 'em I won't come: 
 — let 'em snivel and cry their hearts out. 
 
 Fain. You are very cruel, Petulant. 
 
 Pet. All's one, let it pass : — I have a humour to 
 be cruel. 
 
 Mir. I hope they are not persons of condition 
 that you use at this rate. 
 
 Pet. Condition ! condition's a dried fig, if I am 
 not in humour ! — By this hand, if they were your 
 
 — a — a — your what d'ye-call-'ems themselves, they 
 must wait or rub off, if I want appetite. 
 
 Mir. What d'ye-call-'ems ! what are they, Wit- 
 woud ? 
 
 Wit. Empresses, my dear : — by your what-d'ye- 
 call-'eras he means sultana queens. 
 
 Pet. Ay, Koxolanas. 
 
 Mir. Cry you mercy ! 
 
 Fain. Witwoud says they are — 
 
 Pet. What does he say th'are ? 
 
 Wit. I ? fine ladies, I say. 
 
 Pet. Pass on, Witwoud. — Hark'ee, by this light, 
 his relations : — two co-heiresses his cousins, and 
 an old aunt, who loves caterwauling better than a 
 conventicle. 
 
 Wit. Ha ! ha ! ha I I had a mind to see how the 
 rogue would come off. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! gad, I can't 
 be angry with him, if he had said they were my 
 mother and my sisters. 
 
 Mir. No ! 
 
 Wit. No ; the rogue's wit and readiness of 
 invention charm me, dear Petulant. 
 
 Bet. They are gone, sir, in great anger. 
 
 Pet. Enough, let 'em trundle. Anger helps 
 complexion, saves paint. 
 
 Fain. This continence is all dissembled ; this is 
 in order to have something to brag of the next 
 time he makes court to Millamant, and swear he 
 has abandoned the whole sex for her sake. 
 
 Mir. Have you not left off your impudent pre- 
 tensions there yet ? I shall cut your throat some 
 time or other, Petulantj about that business. 
 
 Pet. Ay, ay, let that pass — there are other throats 
 to be cut. 
 
 Mir. Meaning mine, sir ? 
 
 Pet. Not I — I mean nobody — I know nothing : 
 — but there are uncles and nephews in the world — 
 and they may be rivals — what then ! all's one for 
 that. 
 
 Mir. How ! hark'ee. Petulant, come hither : — 
 explain, or I shall call your interpreter. 
 
 Pet. Explain ! I know nothing. — Why, you 
 have an uncle, have you not, lately come to town, 
 and lodges by my lady Wishfort's .' 
 
 Mir. True. 
 
 Pet. Why, that's enough — you and he are not 
 friends ; and if he should marry and have a child, 
 you may be disinherited, ha ? 
 
 Mir. Where hast thou stumbled upon all this 
 truth ? 
 
 Pet. All's one for that ; why then say I know 
 something. 
 
 Mtr. Come, thou art an honest fellow. Petulant, 
 and shalt make love to my mistress, thou sha't, 
 faith. What hast thou heard of my uncle ? 
 
 Pet. I? nothing, I. If throats are to be cut, let 
 swords clash 1 snug's the word, I shrug and am silent. 
 
 Mir. Oh, raillery, raillery ! Come, I know thou 
 art in the women's secrets. — What, you're a 
 cabalist ; I know you stayed at Millamant's last 
 night, after I went. Was there any mention made 
 of my uncle or me .' tell me. If thou hadst but 
 good-njture equal to thy wit, Petulant, Tony Wit- 
 woud, who is now thy competitor in fame, would 
 show as dim by thee as a dead whiting's eye by a 
 pearl of orient ; he would no more be seen by thee, 
 than Mercury is by the sun. Come, I'm sure thou 
 wo't tell me. 
 
 Pet. If I do, will you grant me common ssnsi 
 then for the future ? 
 
ifil 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 Jfir. Faith, I'll do what I can for thee, and I'll 
 pray that Heaven may grant it thee in the mean- 
 time. 
 
 Pet. Well, hark'ee. 
 
 [MiRAEBLL and Petulant talk apart. 
 
 Fain. Petulant and you hoth will find Mirabell 
 as warm a rival as a lover. 
 
 Wit. Pshaw ! pshaw ! that she laughs at Petu- 
 lant is plain. And for my part, but that it is almost 
 a fashion to admire her, I should — hark'ee — to tell 
 you a secret, but let it go no further — between 
 friends, 1 shall never break, my heart for her. 
 
 Fain, How ! 
 
 Wit. She's handsome ; but she's a sort of an 
 uncertain woman. 
 
 Fain. I thought you had died for her. 
 
 Wit. Umh— no— 
 
 Fain. She has wit. 
 
 ^Vit. 'Tis what she will hardly allow anybody 
 else : — now, dem«ie, I should hate that, if she were 
 as handsome as Cleopatra. Mirabell is not so sure 
 of her as he thinks for. 
 
 Fain. Why do you think so ? 
 
 Wit. We stayed pretty late there last night, and 
 heard something of an uncle to Mirabell, who is 
 lately come to town — and is between him and the 
 best part of his estate. Mirabell and he are at some 
 distance, as my lady Wishfort has been told ; and 
 you know she hates Mirabell worse than a quaker 
 hates a parrot, or than a fishmonger hates a hard 
 frost. Whether this uncle has seen Mrs. Millamant 
 or not, I cannot say, but there were items of such a 
 treaty being in embryo 5 and if it should come to 
 life, poor Mirabell would be in some sort unfortu- 
 nately fobbed, i'faith. 
 
 Fain. 'Tis impossible Millamant should hearken 
 to it. 
 
 Wit. Faith, my dear, I can't tell; she's a woman, 
 . and a kind of humourist. 
 
 Mir. And this is the sum of what you could 
 collect last night ? 
 
 Pet. The quintessence. Maybe Witwoud knows 
 more, he staid longer : — besides, they never mind 
 him : they say anything before him. 
 
 Alir. I thought you had been the greatest 
 favourite. 
 
 Pet. Ay, tSle-a-tete, but not in public, because 
 I make remarks. 
 
 Mir. Yon do .' 
 
 Pet. Ay, ay j pox, I'lri malicious, man 1 Now 
 he's'spft you know ; they are not in awe of him — 
 the fellow's well-bred ; he's what you call a— what- 
 d'ye-call-'em, a fine gentleman ; but he's silly 
 withal. 
 
 Mir. I thank you, I know as much as my 
 curiosity requires. — Fainall, are you for the Mall .' 
 
 Fain. Ay, I'll take a turn before dinner. ,, 
 
 Wit. Ay, we'll all walk in the Park ; the ladibs 
 talked of being there. 
 
 Mir. I thought you were obliged to watch for 
 your brother sir WilfuU's arrival. 
 
 Wit. No, no J he comes to his aunt's, my lady 
 Wishfort. Pox on him ! J shall be troubled with 
 him too -, what shall J do with the fool ? 
 
 Pet. Beg him for his estate, that I may beg you 
 afterwards ; and so have bat one trouble with you 
 both. 
 
 Wit. O rare Petulant ! thou art as quick as fire 
 m a frosty morning ; thou shalt to the Mall with us, 
 and we'll be very severe. 
 
 Pet. Enough, I'm in a humour to be severe. 
 
 Mir. Are ydu ? pray then walk by yourselves i 
 let not us be accessary to your putting the ladies 
 but of countenarice with your senseless ribaldry. 
 Which you roar out aloud as often as they pass by 
 you ; and when you have made a handsome woman 
 blush, then you think you have been severe. 
 
 Pet. What, what ! then let 'em either show their 
 innocence by not understanding. what they hear, or 
 else show their discretion by riot hearing what they 
 would not be thought to understand. 
 
 Mir. But hast not thou then sense enough to 
 know that thou oughtest to be most ashamed thy- 
 self, when thou hast put another out of countenance? 
 
 Pet. Not I, by this hand! — I always take 
 blushing either for a sign of guilt, or ill-breeding. 
 
 Mir. I confess you ought to think so. You are 
 in the right, that you may plead the errot of your 
 judgment in defence of your practice. 
 
 Where modesty's ill-manners, 'tis but fit 
 
 That impudence and malifce pass for wit. 
 
 *■ lExeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I St. James's Park. 
 
 Mrs. Fai.vall and Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Jllrs. Fain. Ay, ay, dear Marwood, if we will 
 be happy, we must find the means in ourselves, and 
 among ourselves. Men are ever in extremes ; either 
 doating or averse. While they are lovers, if they 
 have fire and sense, their jealousies are insupport- 
 able ; and when they cease to love, (we ouglit to 
 think at least) they loathe ; they look upon us with 
 horror and distaste ; they meet us like the ghosts 
 of what we were, and as such, fly from us. 
 
 Mar. True, 'tis an unhappy circumstance of life, 
 that love should ever die befqre us ; and that the 
 man so often should outlive the lover. But say 
 what you will, 'tis better to be left, than never to 
 
 have been loved. To pass our youth in dull indif- 
 ference, to refuse the sweets of life because they 
 once must leave us, is as preposterous as to wish 
 to have been born old, because we one day must be 
 old. For my part, my youth may wear and waste, 
 but it shall never rust in my possession. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Then it seems you dissemble an 
 aversion to mankind, only in compliance to my 
 mother's humour ? 
 
 Mar. Certainly. To be free ; I have no taste 
 of those insipid dry discourses, with which our sex 
 of force must entertain themselves, apart from men. 
 We may affect endearments to each other, profess 
 eternal friendships, and seem to doat like lovers ; 
 but 'tis not in our natures long to persevere. Love 
 will resume his empire in our breasts ; and every 
 
SCENE 111. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 265 
 
 heart, or soon or late, receive and re-admit him as 
 its lawful tyrant. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Bless me, how have I been deceived! 
 why you profess a libertine. 
 
 Mar. Y'oa see my friendship by my freedom. 
 Copie, be as sincere, acknowledge that your senti- 
 ments agree with mine. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ne» n ' - . 
 
 Mar. You hate mankind ? 
 
 il/rs. Fain. Heartily, inveterately. 
 
 Mar. Your husband ? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Most trSinseendently ; ay, though I 
 say it, meritoriously. 
 
 Mar. Give me your hand upon it. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. There. 
 
 Mar. I join with you ; what I havfe said has been 
 to try you. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Is it possible ? dost thOu hate those 
 vipers, men? 
 
 Mar. I have done hating 'em, and am now come 
 to -despise 'em ; the next thing I have to do, is 
 eternally to forget 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. There spoke the spirit of an Ama- 
 zon, a Penthesilea ! 
 
 Mar. And yet 1 am thinking sometimes to carry 
 my aversion further. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. How ? 
 
 Mar. Faith, by marrying; if I could but find 
 one that loved me very well, and would be 
 throughly sensible of ill usage, I think I should do 
 myself the violence of undergoing the qeremony. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You would not make him a, cuckold ? 
 
 Mar. No i bat I'd make him believe I did, and 
 that's as bad. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Whyj had not yon a^ good do it? 
 
 Mar. Oh! if he should ever discover it, he would 
 then know the worst, and be out of his pain ; but I 
 wouM have him ever to continue upon the rack of 
 fear and jealousy. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ingenious mischief! would thou 
 wert married to Mirabell. 
 
 Mar. .Would I were ! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You change colour. 
 
 Mar. Because I hate him. 
 
 Mrs. Fain.^ So do I ; but I can hear him named. 
 But what reason have you to hate him in particular? 
 
 Mar. I never loved him j he is, and always was, 
 insufferably proud. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. By the reason you give for your 
 aversion, one would think it dissembled ; for you 
 have laid a fault to his charge, of which his enemies 
 must acquit him. 
 
 Mar. Oh then, it seems, you are one of his 
 favourable enemies! Methinks you look a little 
 pale, and now you flush again. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Do I ? I think I am a little sick 
 n' the sudden. 
 
 Mar. What ails you ? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. My husband. Don't you see him ? 
 He turned short upon me unawares, and has almost 
 overcome me. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Mrs. Fatnali,, JIis. Marwood, Faiwai-l, and Mikahell. 
 
 Mar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! he comes opportunely for 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. For jon, for he has brought Mira- 
 bell with him. 
 
 Fain.. My dear ! 
 
 Mrs. Fail. My soul ! 
 
 Fain. Y'ou don't look well to-day, child. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. D'ye think so .' . 
 
 Mir. He is the only man that doeis, madam. 
 
 Mis. Fain. The only tnan that vvouldtell me so 
 at least j and the only man from whom 1 could hear 
 it without mortification. 
 
 Fain. my dear, I am Satisfied of yolir. tender- 
 ness ; I know you cannot resent anything from me; 
 especially what is an efi'ect of my concern. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Mr. MirabelJ, my mother interrupted 
 you in a pleasant relation last night ; I would fain 
 hear it out. 
 
 Mir. The persons concerned in that affair have 
 yet a tolerable reputation. — I am afraid Mr. Fain- 
 all will be. censorious. 
 
 Mrs. F<iin. He has a humour more prevailing 
 than his curiosity, and will willingly dispense with 
 the hearing of one. scandalous story, to avoid giving 
 an occasion to make another by being seen to wall^ 
 with his wife. This way, Mr, Mirabell, and I dare 
 promise you will oblige us both. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Fainall and Mrs. IMarwood. 
 
 Fain. Excellent creature ! Well, sure if t should 
 live to be rid of my wife, I should be a miserable 
 man. 
 
 Mar. Ay ! 
 
 Fain. For having .only that one hope, the ac- 
 complishment of it, of consequence, must j)ut au 
 end to all my hopes ; and what a wretch is he who 
 must survive his hopes ! Nothing remains when 
 that day comes, but to sit down and weep like 
 Alexander, when he wanted other worlds tq 
 conquer. 
 
 Mar. Will you not follow 'em ? 
 
 Fain. Faith, I thinlt not. 
 
 Mar. Pray let us ; 1 have a reason. 
 
 Fain. You are not jealous .■* 
 
 Mar. Of whom,? 
 
 Fain. Of Mirabell. 
 
 Mar. If I am, is it inconsistent wifh toy love to 
 you, that I am tender of your honour.' ; 
 
 Fain, you would intimate then, as if there were 
 a fellow-feeling between my wife and him. 
 
 Mar. I think she does, not hate him to that de- 
 gree she would be thought. 
 
 Jfain. But he, I fear, is too in§ensible. 
 
 Mar. It may be you are deceived. 
 
 Fain. It may be so. I do now begin to appre^ 
 hend it. 
 
 'Mar. What? 
 
 Fain. That I have been deceived, madam, ani 
 you, are falise. 
 
 Mar. That 1 am false ! what mean you.' 
 
 Fain. To let you know I see through all your 
 little arts.-^Come, you both love him ; and both 
 have equally dissembled your aversion. Y'our 
 mutual jealousies of one another have made you 
 clash till you have both struck fire. I liave seen 
 tlie warm confession reddening on your cheeks, and 
 sparkling from your eyes. 
 
 Mar. You do me wrong. 
 
 Fain. I do not. 'Twas for my ease to oversee 
 and wilfully neglect the gross advances made him 
 
2G6 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 by my wife ^ that by permitting her to be engaged i 
 I might continue unsuspected in my pleasures ; 
 and take you oftener to my arms in fall security. 
 But could you think, because the nodding husband 
 would not wake, that e'er the watchful iover slept ? 
 
 Mar. And wherewithal can you reproach me ? 
 
 Fain. With infidelity, with loving another, with 
 love of Mirab^ll. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis false ! I challenge you to show an 
 instance that can confirm youir groundless accusa- 
 tion. I hate him. 
 
 Fain. And wherefore do you hate him .' he is 
 insensible, and your resentment follows his neglect. 
 An instance ! the injuries you have done him are a 
 proof : your interposing in his love. What cause 
 had you to make discoveries of his pretended 
 passion ? to undeceive the credulous aunt, and be 
 the officious obstacle of his match with IVlillamant ? 
 
 Mar. My obhgations to my lady urged me ; I 
 had professed a friendship to her ; and could not 
 see her easy nature so abused by that dissembler. 
 
 Fain. What, was it conscience then .' Professed 
 a friendship ! O the pious friendships of the 
 female sex 1 
 
 Mar. More, tender, more sincere, and' more en- 
 during, than all the vain and empty vows of men, 
 whether professing love to us, or mutual faith to 
 one another. 
 
 Fain. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you are my wife's friend 
 too. 
 
 Mar. Shame and ingratitude ! do you reproach 
 me .■* you, you upbraid me } Have I been false to 
 her, through strict fidelity to you, and sacrificed 
 my friendship to keep my love inviolate .** And 
 have you the baseness to charge me with the guilt, 
 unmindful of the merit ? To you it shoyld be 
 meritorious, that I have been vicious : and do you 
 reflect that guilt upon me, which should lie buried 
 in your bosom ? 
 
 Fain. You misinterpret my reproof. I meant 
 but to remind you of the slight account you once 
 could make of strictest ties, when sec in competition 
 with your love to me. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis false, you urged it with deliberate 
 malice ! 'twas spoken in scorn^ and I never will 
 forgive it. 
 
 Fain. Your guilt, not your resentment, begets 
 your rage. If yet you loved, you could forgive a 
 jealousy : but you are stung to find you are dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Mar. It shall be all discovered. You too shall 
 be discovered ; be sure you shall. I can but be 
 
 exposed If I do it myself I shall preVent yout 
 
 baseness. 
 
 Fain. Why, what will you do ? 
 
 Mar. Disclose it to your wife ; own what has 
 passed between us. 
 
 Fain. Frenzy ! 
 
 Mar. By all my wrongs I'll do't ! — I'll publish 
 to the world the injuries you have done me, both 
 in my fame and fortune 1 With both I trusted 
 you, you bankrupt in honour, as indigent of wealth. 
 
 Fain. Your fame I have preserved : your fortune 
 has been bestowed as the prodigality of your love 
 would have it, in pleasures which we both have 
 shared. Yet, had not you been false, I had ere 
 this repaid it — 'tis true — had you permitted Mira- 
 bell with Millaraant to have stolen their marriage, 
 my lady had been incensed beyond all means of 
 reconcilement: Millamant had forfeited the moiety 
 
 of her fortune ; which then Would have descended 
 to my wife ; — and wherefore did I marry, but to 
 make lawful prize of a rich widow's wealth, and 
 squEinder it on love and you ? 
 
 Mar. Deceit and frivolous pretence 1 
 
 Fain. Death, am I not married ? What's pre- 
 tence .' Am I not imprisbned, fettered ? Have I 
 not a wife } nay a wife that was a widow, a young 
 widow, a handsoole widow ; and would be again a 
 widow, but that I have a heart of proof, and some- 
 thing of a constitution to bustle through 'the ways 
 of wedlock and this world ! Will you fet be re- 
 conciled to truth and me .' 
 
 Mar. Impossible. Truth and you are incon- 
 sistent : I hate you, and shill for ever. 
 
 Fain. For loving you .' 
 
 Mar. I loathe the liame of love after such usage; 
 and next to the guilt with which you would Asperse 
 me, I scorn yoh most. Farewell ! 
 
 Fain. Nay, we must not part thus. 
 
 Mar. Let me go. 
 
 Fain. Come, I'm sorry. 
 
 Afar. I care not — let me go — break my hands, 
 do — I'd leave 'em to get loose. 
 
 Fain. I would not hurt y6u for the world. Have 
 I no other hold. to keep you here ? 
 
 Atar. Well, I have deserved it all. 
 
 Fain, You know I love you. 
 
 Mar. Poor dissembling ! — O that — well, it is 
 not yet-^ 
 
 Fain. What ? what is it hot ? what iS it not yet ? 
 It is, not yet too late — ■ 
 
 Mar. No, it is not yet too late ;-^I have that 
 comfort. 
 
 Fain,. It is, to love another. 
 
 Mar. But not to loathe, detest, abhor mankind, 
 myself, and the whole treacherous world. 
 
 Fain. Nay, this is extravagance. — Come, I ask 
 your pardon — no tears — I was to blame, E could 
 not love you and be easy in my doubts. Pray for- 
 bear — I believe you ; I'm convinced I've done you 
 wrong; and anyway, every way will make amends. 
 I'll hate my wife yet more, damn her ! I'll part 
 with her, rob her of all she's worth, and we'll retire 
 fibmewhere, anywhere, to another world. I'll 
 marry thee — be pacified. — 'Sdeath, they come, hide 
 your face, your tears ; — yoa have a mask, wear it 
 a moment. This way, this way — be persuaded. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 MiRABELL and Mrs. Fainall. 
 
 Mrs, Fain. They are here yet. 
 
 Mir. They are turning into the other walk. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. While I only hated my husband, I 
 could bear to see him ; but since I have despised 
 him, he's too offensive. 
 
 Mir. O you should hate with prudence. 
 
 Mrs. Fain, Yes, for I have loved with indis- 
 cretion. 
 
 Mir, You should have just so much disgust for 
 your husband, as may be sufficient to make you 
 relish your lover. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You have been the cause that I have 
 loved without bounds, and would you set limits to 
 that aversion of which you have been the occasioni f 
 why did you make me marry this man ? 
 
THE WAY OF TttE WORLD. 
 
 207 
 
 Mir. Why do we daily commit disagreeable and 
 dangerous abtions ? to save that idol, reputation. 
 If the familiarities of our loves had produced that 
 consequence of which you were apprehensive, 
 where could you have fixed a father's name with 
 credit, but on a husbatid ? I knew Fainall to be a 
 man lavish of his morals, an interested and pro- 
 fessing friend, a false and a designing lover ; yet one 
 whose wit and outward fair behaviour have gained 
 a reputation with the toft-n enough to make that 
 woman stand excused who has suffered herself to be 
 won by his addresses. A better man ought not to 
 have been sacrificed to the occasion ; a worse had 
 not answered to the purpose. "When you are weary 
 of him, you know your remedy. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I ought to stand in some degree of 
 credit with you, Mii-abell. 
 
 M^. In justice to you, I have made you privy 
 to my whole design^ and put it in your power to 
 ruin or advance my fortune. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Whom have you instructed to repre- 
 sent your pretended uncle ? 
 
 Mir. Waitwell, my servant. 
 
 Mr^. Fain. He is an humble servant to Foible 
 my mother's woman, and may win her to your 
 inierest. 
 
 Alir. Care is taken for that — she is won and 
 worn by this time. They wete married this 
 morning. 
 
 Mrs. Fiin, Who ? 
 
 Mir. Waitwell and Foible. I would not tempt 
 my servant to betray me by trusting him too far. 
 If your mother, in hopes to ruin me, should con- 
 sent to marry my pretended uncle, he might, like 
 Mosca in the Fox, stand Upon tetms ; sO I made 
 him sure beforehand; 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So, if my pobr mother is caught in 
 a contract, you will disbover the imposture be- 
 times ; and release her by producing a certificate 
 of her gallant's former mariiage? 
 
 Mir. Yes, Upon condition that she consent to 
 my marriage with her niece, and surrender the 
 moiety of her fortune in her possession. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. She talked last night of endea- 
 vouring at a match between Millamaut and your 
 uncle. 
 
 Mir, That was by Foible's direCtiOUj and my 
 instruction, that she might seem to carry it more 
 privately. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Well, I have an opinion of your 
 success ; for I believe my lady will do anything to 
 get a husband ; ajid when she has this, which you 
 have provided for her, I suppose she will submit to 
 anything to get rid of him. 
 
 Mir. Yes, I think the good lady would marry 
 anything that resembled a man, though 'twere 
 no more than what a butler could pinch out of a 
 napkin. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Female frailty 1 we must all comig 
 to it, if we live to be old, and feel the craving of a 
 false appetite when the true is decayed. 
 
 Mir. An old woman's appetite is depraved like 
 that of a girl — 'tis the green sickness of a second 
 childhood; and, like the faint offer of a latter 
 spring, serves but to usher in the fall, and withers 
 in an affected bloom. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Here's your mistress. 
 
 SCENE T. 
 
 Mihabell, Mrs. Painall, Mrs. MriiLAMAiiT, 'VVitwoud, 
 and Mincing. 
 
 Mir. Here she comes, i'faith, full sail, with her 
 fan spread and har streamers out, and a shoal of 
 fools for tenders ; ha, no, I cry her mercy ! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I see but one poor empty sculler; 
 and he tows her woman after him. 
 
 Mir. [^0 MiLLAMA-NT.] You seem to be 
 unattended, madam^you used to have the beau 
 monde throng after you ; and a flock of gay fine 
 perukes hovering round you. 
 
 Wit. Like moths about a candle. — I had like 
 to have lost my coinparison for want of breetth. 
 
 Mil. O I have denied myself airs to-day^ I have 
 walked as fast through the crowd. 
 
 Wit. As a favourite just disgraced ; and with as 
 few followers. 
 
 Mil. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your 
 similitudes ; for lam as sick of 'em— 
 
 W'A. As a physician of a good air. — I cannot 
 help it, madam, though 'tis against myself. 
 
 Mil. Yet, again ! — Mincing, stand between nie 
 and his wit. 
 
 Wit. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a 
 
 great fire I confess 1 do blaze to-day, I am too 
 
 bright. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. But, dear Millamant, why were you 
 so long ? 
 
 Mil. Long ! Lord, have I not made violent 
 haste ; 1 have asked every living thing I met for 
 you ; I have inquired after yOu, as after a new 
 fashion. 
 
 Wit. Madam, truce with your similitudes.— No, 
 you met her husband, and did not ask him for her. 
 
 Mil. By your leave, Witwoud', that were like 
 inquiring after an old fashion^ to ask a husband for 
 his wife. 
 
 Wit. Hum, a hit ! a hit ! a palpable hit ! I con- 
 fess it. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You wei-e dressed before I camte 
 abroad. 
 
 Mil Ay, that's true. — O but then I had — Min- 
 cing, what had I ? why was I so long ? 
 
 Min. O mem, your laship Stayed to peruse a 
 packet of letters. 
 
 Mil. O ay, Ietters-^1 had letters — I am perse- 
 cuted with letters — I hate letters — Nobody knows 
 how to write letters, and yet one has 'em, one does 
 hot know whyi They serve one to pin up one's hair. 
 
 Wit. Is that the way ? Pray, madam, do you 
 J)in up your hair with all your letters } I find I 
 must keep copies. 
 
 Mil. Only with those in verse, Mr. Witwoud, 
 
 I never pin up my hair wjth. prose 1 think I tried 
 
 once. Mincing. 
 
 Min. O miem; 1 shall never forget it. 
 
 Mil. Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the 
 morning. 
 
 Min. Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I'll 
 vow, mem : and all to no purpose. But when 
 youi* laship pins it up with poetry, it sits so plea- 
 sant the next day afl anything^ and is so pure and 
 so crips. 
 
 Wit. Indeed, so crips } 
 
 Min. You're such a critic, Mr. Witwoud. 
 
 Mil. Mirabell, did you take exceptions last 
 night? O ay, and went awity. — Now I think on't, 
 
208 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 I'ra angry — no, now I think on't I'm pleased — 
 for I believe I gave, you some -pain. 
 
 Mir. Does that please you ? 
 
 MiL Infinitely'; I love to give pain- - 
 
 Mir, You would affect a druelty which is not in 
 your nature ; your true vanity is in the poWfer of 
 pleasing. , ^ 
 
 Mil. Oh I ask you pardoli for that— one's 
 cruelty is one's power; and^.wlien one parts 
 with one's cruelty, ,one parts with one's .power; 
 and when one has parted with that, I fancy one's 
 old and ugly. ., ., 
 
 Mir, Ay, ay, suffer your cruelty to ruin the 
 object of your power, to destroy your lover — and 
 then how vain, hoyr lost a thing you^U be ! Nay, 
 'tis true : you are.no longer handsome whenyou've 
 lost your lover; your beauty dies upon the instant; 
 for beauty is tlie lover's gift ; 'tis he bestows youy 
 charms — your glass is all ,a cljeat. The ugly, and 
 the old, whom the looking-glass mortifies, yet after 
 commendation can be flattered by it, and discover 
 beauties in it; for that reflects our praises, rather 
 than your face. , . ^ 
 
 MIL O the vanity. of these men ! — Fainall, d'ye 
 hear him ? If they did not commend us, we were 
 not handsome ! Now you must know they could 
 not commend pne, if one was not handsome. 
 Beauty the loyer's gift !-— Lord, what is a lover, 
 that it can give ? Why, one makes lovers as fast 
 as one pleases, and, they liye as long as one pleases, 
 and they die as soon as one pleases ; and then, if 
 one pleases, one makes ijiorek 
 ' IVit. Very pretty. Why, you make no more of 
 making of lovers, madam, than of making so many 
 card- matches. 
 
 Mil. One no more owes one's beauty to a loyer, 
 than one's wit to an echo. They can but reflecf 
 what we look arid say^ vain empty things if we 
 are silent or unseen, and want a being. * , 
 
 Mir. Yet to those two vain empty things you 
 owe two the greatest pleasures of your life. 
 
 Mil. How so ? 
 
 Mir. To your loyer you owe the, pleasure of 
 hearing yourselves praised ; and to an echo the 
 pleasure of hearing yourselves talk. 
 
 fVil. But I know a lady that loves talking so 
 incessantly, she won't give an echo fair play ; she 
 has that everlasting rotation of tongue, that an 
 echo must wait till she dies, before it can catch 
 her last words. 
 
 Mil. O fiction ! — -Fainall, let us leave these 
 men. 
 
 Mir. Draw off Witwoufi. {.Aside to Urs. Faxsall. 
 
 Mrs. FaiU' Immediately. — I have a word or 
 two for Mr- Witwoud. 
 
 sc1i:ne VI. 
 
 Mrs. MiLLAMANT, MiRABELL, and, Mincing, 
 
 Mir. I would beg a little private audience too. — 
 You had the tyranny to deny me last night ; though 
 you knew I came to impart a secret to you that 
 concerned ray love. 
 
 Mil. You saw 1 was engaged. 
 
 Mir. Unkind ! You had the leisure to enter- 
 tain a herd of fools ; things who visit you from 
 their excessive idleness ; bestowing on your easiness 
 that time which is the incumbrance of their lives. 
 
 How can you find delight ih such society ? It is 
 impossible they should admire you, they are not 
 capable : or if they were, it , should be to you as 
 a mortification ; for sure to please a fool is some 
 degree of folly. ., , . , 
 
 . Mil. I please jaiyself^ — ^besides, sometimes to 
 converse with fools is for my health. 
 
 Mir. Your health ! is there a worse disease 
 than the conversation of fools R 
 
 Mil. Yes, the vapours ; foOls are physic for it> 
 next to assafcetida. 
 
 Mir, You are not in a course of fools ? ,. 
 
 Mil. Mirabell, if you persist in this offensive 
 freedom, you'll displease m^.^I think I must 
 resolve, after all, not to have you : — we shan't 
 agrae. 
 
 Mir. Not in our physic, it may be. 
 
 Mil. And yet our distemper, in all Jikelihood, 
 will be the same ; for we shall be sick of one 
 another. I shan't endure to be reprimanded. nor 
 instn;icted ; 'tis so dull to act always by advice, 
 and so tedious to be told of one's faults—-! can't 
 bear it. Well, I won't have you, Mirabell— I'm 
 resolved. — I think-r^you may go. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 what would you give, that you could help loving 
 me ? 
 
 Mir. I .would give something that you did not 
 kn9w I could not help it.. 
 
 Mil. Come, don't look grave then. Well, 
 what do you say to me ? 
 
 i Mir.- I say that a man may as soon make a 
 friend by his wit, or a fortune by his honesty, as 
 win a woman with plain-dealing and sincerity. 
 
 Mil. Sententious Mirabel!! — Prithee, ion 't look 
 with that violent and inflexible wise face, like 
 Solomon at the dividing of the child in an old 
 tapestry hanging. 
 
 Mir, You are merry, madam, but I would 
 pers,uade.you for a moment to be serious. 
 
 Mil. Wliat, with that face ? no, if you keep 
 your countenance, 'tis impossible 1 should hold 
 mine. Well, after all, there is something very 
 moving in a love-sick face. Ha! ha! ha! — well, 
 I won't laugh, don't be peevish — Heigho ! now 
 I'll be rnelancholy, as melancholy as a watch-light. 
 Well, Mirabell, if ever you will win me woo me 
 now. — N^y, if yoik are so tedious, fare you well ; — I 
 see, they are walking away. 
 
 Mir. Can you not find in the variety of your 
 disposition one moment — 
 
 Mil. To hear you tell me Foible's married, and 
 your plot like to speed ; — no. 
 
 M\r, But how you came to know it ? 
 
 Mil. Without the help of the devil, you can't 
 imagine ; unless she should tell me herself. Which 
 of the two it may have been I will leave you to con- 
 sider ; and when you have done thinking of that, 
 think of me. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Mirabell. 
 
 I have something more. — Gone ! — Think of you ? 
 to think of a whirlwind, though*t were inawhirlwind, 
 were a case of more steady contemplation ; a very 
 tranquillity of mind and mansiorii. A fellow that 
 lives in a windmill, has not a more whimsical 
 dwelling than the heart of a man that is lodged in 
 a woman. There is no point of the compass to 
 
THK WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Sflii 
 
 ■which they cannot turn, and by which they are 
 not turned ; and by one as well as another ; for 
 motion, not method, is their occupation. To know 
 this, and yet continue to be in love, is to be 
 made wise from the dictates of reason, and yet per- 
 severe to play the fool by the force of instinct. — 
 Oh, here come my pair of turtles ! — What, billing 
 so sweetly ! is not Valentine's day over with you 
 yet? 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 MlBABELIi, WAITWEtL, and EOIBLB. 
 
 Mir. Sirrah, Waitwell, why sure you think you 
 were married for your own recreation, and not for 
 my conveniency. 
 
 Wait. Your pardon, sir. With submission, 
 we have indeed been solacing in lawful delights ; 
 but still with an eye to business, sir. I have 
 instructed her as well as I could. If she can take 
 your directions as readily as my instructions, sir, 
 your affairs are in a prosperous way. 
 
 Mir. Give you joy, Mrs: Foible. 
 
 Foib. O las, sir, I'm so ashamed !^I'm afraid 
 my lady has been in a thousand inquietudes for 
 me. But I protest, sir, I made as much haste as 
 I could. 
 
 Wait. That she did indeed, sir. It was my 
 fault that she did not make more. 
 
 yiir. That I believe. 
 
 Foib. But I told my lady as yon instructed me, 
 sir, that I had a prospect of seeing sir Rowland 
 your uncle ; and that I would put her ladyship's 
 picture in my pocket to show him ; which I'll be 
 sure to say has made him so enamoured of her 
 beauty, that he burns with impatience to lie at her 
 ladyship's feet, and worship the original. 
 
 ' Mir. Excellent Foible 1 matrimony has made 
 yon eloquent in love. 
 
 Wait. I think she has profited, sir, I think so. 
 
 Foib. You have seen madam Millamant, sir .' 
 
 Mir. Yes. 
 
 Foib. I told her, sir, because I did not know 
 that you might find an opportunity j she had so 
 mucli company last night. ■ 
 
 Mir. Your diligence will merit more — in the 
 mean time^ — \_G,ive8 money. 
 
 Foib. O dear sir, your humble servant ! 
 
 Wait. Spouse. 
 
 Mir, Stand off, sir, not a penny ! — Gp on and 
 prosper, Foible : — the lease shall be made good, 
 and the farm stocked, if we succeed. 
 
 Foib. I don't question your generosity, sir : and 
 you need not doubt of success. If yon have no 
 more commands, sir, I'll be gone ; I'm sure my 
 lady is at her toilet, and can't dress till I come. — 
 O dear, I'ln sure that [Looking out] was Mrs. 
 Marwood that went by in a mask ! If she has 
 seen me with you I'm sure she'll tell my lady. 
 I'll make hE^ste home and prevent her. Your 
 servant, sir. — B'w'y, Waitwell. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 MiBABELL and AVaitwell. 
 
 Wait. Sir Rowland, if you please.— ^The jade's 
 so pert upon her preferment she forgets herself. 
 
 Mir. Come, sir, wilt you endeavour to forget 
 yourself, and transform into sir Rowland ? 
 
 Wait. Why, sir, it will be impossible I should 
 remember myself. — Married, knighted, and at- 
 tended all in one day ! 'tis enough to make any 
 man forget himself. The diflSculty will be how to 
 recover my acquaintance and familiarity with my 
 former self, and fall from my transformation to a 
 reformation into Waitwell. Nay, I shan't be quite 
 the same Waitwell neither ; for now, I remember 
 me, I'm married, and can't be my own man again. 
 
 Ay there's my grief ; that's the sad change of life. 
 
 To lose my title, and yet keep my wife. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.- 
 
 -A Hoom in Lady Wishfort's 
 House. 
 
 Lady Wiskfort at her ioil.'t. Peg waiting. 
 
 Lady Wish. Merciful ! no news of Foible yet ? 
 
 Feff. No, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. I have no more patience. — If I 
 have not fretted myself till I am pale again, 
 there's no veracity in me ! Fetch me the red — 
 the red, do you hearj sweetheart ? — An arrant ash- 
 colour, as I am a person ! Look you how this 
 wench stirs ! Why dost thou not fetch me a little 
 red .' didst thou not hear me, Mopus.' 
 
 Peg. The red ratafia does your ladyship mean , 
 or the cherry-brandy.^ 
 
 Lady Wish. Ratafia, fool ! no, fool. Not- the 
 ratafia, fool — grant me patience ! — I mean the 
 Spanish paper, idiot — complexion, darling. Paint, 
 paint, paint, dost thou understand that, change- 
 ling, dangling thy hands like bobbins before thee .' 
 
 Why dost thou not stir, puppet ? thou wooden 
 thing upon wires \ 
 
 Peg. Lord, madam, your ladyship is so impa- 
 tient ! — I cannot come at the paint, madam ; Mrs. 
 Foible has locked it up, and carried the key with 
 her. 
 
 Lady Wish. A pox take yon both ! — fetch me 
 the cherry-brandy then. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Lady Wishfort. 
 
 I'm as pale and as faint, I look like Mrs. Qualm- 
 sick, tlie curate's wife, that's always breeding. — 
 Wench, come, come, wench, what art thou doing ? 
 sipping, tasting ? — Save thee, dost thou not know 
 the bottle ? 
 
27l>. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 I^a^y WiSHBORT, Peg tpitft, a bottle ct,nd china cup. 
 
 Peg. Madam, I was looking for a cup. 
 
 Lcidp Wish- A cup, save thee ! and what a cup 
 hast thou brought ! — Dost thou take me for a fairy, 
 to drink o(it of an acorn ; Why didst thou not 
 bring thy thimble ? Hast thou ne'er a brass 
 thimble clinking in thy pocket with a bit of nut- 
 meg ? — I warrant thee. Come, fill, fill ! — So — 
 
 again ^Knocking at thg door.^ — See who that 
 
 is Set down thp bottle first — here, here, under 
 
 the table. — What, wouldst thou go with the bottle 
 in thy hand, lilje a tapster ? As I am a person, 
 this wench has lived in an inn upon the road, 
 before she came to me, like Maritornes the Astu- 
 rian in Don Quixote !^-No Foible yet ? 
 
 Peg. No, madam ; Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, Marwood ; let her come in. — 
 Come in, good Marwood. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Lady "Wishfort, Mrs. Marwood, and Peg. 
 
 Mar. I'm sui-prised to find your ladyship in 
 lishabille at this time of day. 
 
 Lady Wish. Foible's a lost thing ; has been 
 abroad since morning, and never heard of since. 
 
 Mar. I saw her but now, as I came masked 
 through the park, in conference with Mirabell. 
 
 Lady Wish. With Mirabell! — You call my 
 blood into my face, with mentioning that traitor. 
 She durst not have the confidence ! I sent her to 
 negotiate an affair, in which, if I'm detected, I'm 
 undone. If that wheedling villain has wrought 
 upon Foible to detect me, I'm ruined. O my dear 
 friend, I'm a wretch of wretches if I'm detected. 
 
 Mar. O madam, you cannot suspect Mrs. Foible's 
 integrity ! 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, he carries poison in his tongue 
 Ihat would corrupt integrity . itself ! If she has 
 given him an opportunity, she has as good as put 
 her integrity into his hands. Ah, dear MarwoodT 
 what's integrity to an opportunity ?— Hark ! I hear 
 her ! — dear friend, retire into my closet, that I may 
 examine her with more freedom. — You'll pardon 
 me, dear friend ; I can make bold with you.— 
 There are books over the chimney. — Quarles and 
 Prynne, and The Short View of the Stage, with 
 Bunyan's works, to entertain you. — [To Peg.]— 
 Go, you thing, and send her in. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Lady Wishkokt and Foible. 
 
 I,ady Wish. O Foible, where hast thou been .' 
 what hast thou been doing ? 
 
 Foih. Madam, I have seen the party. 
 
 Lady Wish. But what hast thou done ? 
 
 Foih. Nay, 'tis your ladyship has done, and are 
 to do ; I have only promised. But a man so ena- 
 moured — 80 transported ! — Well, here it is, all that 
 is left ; all that is not kiss'd away.— Well, if wor- 
 shipping of pictures be a sin poor sir Rowland, 
 
 1 say. 
 
 Lady Wish. The miniature has been counted 
 like ; — but hast thou not betrayed me. Foible .' 
 hast thou not detected me to that faithless Mira- 
 bell ? — What hadst thou to do with him in the 
 park ? Answer me, has he got nothing out of thee ? 
 
 Foih. [Aside.} So the devil has been before- 
 hand with me. What shall I say? — {Aloud.']— 
 Alas, madam, could I help it, if 1 met that confi- 
 dent thing .' was I in fault ? If you ha,d heard how 
 he used me, and all upon your ladyship's account, 
 I'm sure you would not suspect my fidelity. Nay, 
 if that had been the worst, I coul4 have borne ; 
 but he had a fling at your ladyship too ; and then 
 I could not hold ; but i'faith I gave him his awn. 
 
 Lady Wish. Me ? what did the filthy fellow say ? 
 
 Foib. O madam ! 'tis a, shame to say what he 
 said — with his taunts and his fleers, tossing up his 
 nose- Humph ! (says he), what, you are a hatch- 
 ing some plot (says he), you are so early abroad, 
 or catering (says he), ferreting for some disbanded 
 officer, I warrant. — Half-pay is but thin subsist- 
 ence (says he) ; — well, what pension does your 
 lady propose.' Let me see (says he), what, she 
 must come down pretty deep now, she's super- 
 annuated (says he) and— 
 
 Lady Wish. Odds my life, I'll have him, I'll 
 have him murdered ! I'U have him poisoned ! 
 Where does he eat ? — I'll marry a drawer to have 
 him poisoned in his wine, I'll send for Robin 
 from Locket's immediately. 
 
 Fcnb. Poison him 1 poisoning's too good for him. 
 Stsfve him, madam, starve him ; marry sir Row- 
 land, and get him disinherited. Oh you would bless 
 yourself to hear what he said ! 
 
 Lady Wish. A villain ! superannuated ! 
 
 Foib. Humph (says he), I hear you are laying 
 designs against me too (says he), and Mrs. Mil- 
 lamant is to marry my uncle (he does not suspect 
 a word of your ladyship) j but (says he) I'll fit 
 you for that. I warrant you (says he) I'U hamper 
 you for that (says he) ; you and your old frippery 
 too (says he) ; I'll handle you — 
 
 Lady Wish. Audacious villain ! handle me 1 
 would he durst! — Frippery! old frippery! was 
 there ever such a foul-mouthed fellow ? I'll be 
 married to-morrow, I'll be contracted to-night. 
 
 Foib. The sooner the better, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. Will sir Rowland be here, sayest 
 thou ? when, Foible ? 
 
 Foib. Incontinently, madam. No new sheriff 's 
 wife expects the return of her husband after knight- 
 hood with that impatience in -which sir Rowland 
 burns for the dear hour of kissing your ladyship's 
 hand after dinner. 
 
 Lndy Wish. Frippery ! superannuated frippery ! 
 I'll frippery the villain; I'll reduce him to frip- 
 pery and rags ! a tatterdemalion ! I hope to see 
 him hung with tatters, like a Long-lane pent-house 
 or a gibbet thief. A slander-mouthed railer ! I 
 warrant the spendthrift prodigaPs in debt as much 
 us the million lottery, or the whole court upon a 
 birthday. I'll spoil his credit with his tailor. Yes, 
 he shall have my niece with her fortune, he shall. 
 
 Foib. He I I hope to see him lodge in Ludgate 
 first, and angle into Blackfriars for brass farthings 
 with an old mitten. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, dear Foible ; thank thee for 
 that, dear Foible. He has put me . out of all 
 patience. I shall never recompose my features to 
 receive sir Rowland with any economy of face. 
 
SCENE VUI, 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLP. 
 
 271 
 
 This wretch has fretted me that I am absolutely 
 decayed. Look, Foible. 
 
 J^oib. Your ladyship has frowned a little too 
 rashly, indeed, madam. There are some cracks 
 discernible in the white varuisK. 
 
 Lady Wish. Let me see the glass. — Cracks, 
 sayest thou ? —why, I am errantly flayed — I look 
 like an old peeled wall. Thou must repair me. 
 Foible, before sir Rowland comes, or I shall never 
 keep up to ray picture. 
 
 Foib, I warrant you, madam, a little art once 
 made your picture like you ; and now a little of 
 the same art must make you like your picture. 
 Your picture must sit for you, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish, But art thou sure sir Rowland will 
 not fail to come ? or will he not fail when he does 
 come ? Will he be importunate, Foible, and push ? 
 For if he should not be importunate, I shall never 
 break decorums: — I shall die with confusion, if 
 I am forced to advance. — Oh no, I can never ad- 
 vance ! — I shall swoon if he should expect advances. 
 No, I hope sir Rowland is better bred than to put 
 a lady to the necessity of breaking her forms. I 
 vpon't be too coy, neither. — I won't give him 
 despair — but a little disdain is not amiss ; a little 
 scorn is alluring. 
 
 Foib. A little scorn becomes your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Wish, Yes, but tenderness becomes me 
 best — a sort of dyingness — you see that picture has 
 a sort of a — ha. Foible ! a swimmingness in the 
 eye — yes, I'll look so — my niece affects it ; but she 
 wants features. Is sir Rowland handsome ? Let 
 my toilet be removed — I'll dress above. I'll re- 
 ceive sir Rowland here. Is he handsome ? Don't 
 answer me. I won't know: I'll be surprised, I'll 
 be taken by surprise. 
 
 Foib. By stormj madam, sir Rowland's a brisk 
 man. 
 
 Lady Wish. Is he ! O then he'll importune, 
 if he's a brisk man. I shall save decorums if sir 
 Rowland importunes. I have a mortal terror at 
 the apprehension of ofiending against decorums. 
 O, I'm glad he's a brisk man. Let my things be 
 removed, good Foible. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Mrs. Fainall and Foible. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. O Foible, I have been in a fright, 
 lest I should come too late! That devil Marwood 
 saw you in the Park with Mirabell, and I'm afraid 
 will discover it to my lady. 
 
 Foib. Discover what, madam ! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Nay, nay, put not on that strange 
 face, I am privy to the whole design, and know 
 (hat Waitwell, to whom thou wert this morning 
 married, is to personate Mirabell's uncle, and as 
 such, winning my lady, to involve her in those 
 difficulties from which Mirabell only must release 
 her, by his making his conditions to have my 
 cousin and her fortune left to her own disposal, 
 
 Foib. O dear madam, I beg your pardon. It 
 was not my confidence iu your ladyship that was 
 deficient; but I thought the former good corre- 
 spondence between your ladyship and Mr. Mira- 
 bell might have hindered his communicating this 
 flecret. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Dear Foible, forget that. 
 
 Foib. O dear madam, Mr. Mirabell is such a 
 sweet, wmiung gentleman — but your ladyship is 
 the pattern of generosity. — Sweet lady, to be so 
 good ! Mr. Mirabell cannot choose but be grate- 
 ful. I find your ladyship has his heart still. Now, 
 madam, I can safely tell your ladyship our success ; 
 Mrs. Marwood had told my lady ;. but I warrant 
 I managed myself ; I turned it all for the better. 
 I told my lady that Mr. Mirabell railed at her ; I 
 laid horrid things to his charge, I'll vow ; and my 
 lady is so incensed that she'll be contracted to sir 
 Rowland to-night, she says ; I warrant I worked 
 her up, that he may have her for asking for, as 
 they say of a Welsh maidenhead. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. O rare Foible ! 
 
 Foib. Madam, I beg your ladyship to acquaint 
 Mr. Mirabell of his success. I would be seen as 
 little as possible to speak to him :^besides, I be- 
 lieve madam Marwood watches, me. — She has a 
 month's mind ; but I know Mr. Mirabell can't 
 abide her. — John!' — [^Calls^'] remove my lady's 
 toilet, — Madam, your servant: my lady is so im- 
 patient, I fear she'll come for me if I stay. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I'll go with you up the back-stairs, 
 lest I should meet her. 
 
 SCENE VIL 
 
 Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Indeed, Mrs. Engine, is it thus with you ? are you 
 become a go-between of this importance ? yes, I 
 shall watch you. Why this wench is the passe- 
 partout, a very master-key to everybody's strong- 
 box. My friend Fainall, have you carried it so 
 swimmingly? I thought there was something in 
 it ; but it seems 'tis over with you. Your loathing 
 is not from a want of appetite, then, but from a 
 surfeit. Else you could never be so cool to fall 
 from a principal to be an assistant ; to procure for 
 him ! a pattern of generosity that, I confess. Well, 
 Mr. Fainall, you have met with your match. — O 
 man, man ! woman, woman ! the devil's an ass : 
 if I were a painter, I would draw him like an idiot, 
 a driveller with a bib and bells : man should 
 have his head and horns, and woman the rest of 
 him. Poor simple fiend \ — Madam Marwood has 
 a month's mind, but he can't abide her. — 'Twere 
 better for him you had not beea his confessor in 
 that affair, without you could have kept his counsel 
 closer. I shall not prove another pattern of gene- 
 rosity : he has not obliged me to that with those 
 excesses of himself ; and now I'll have none of 
 him. Here comes the good lady, panting ripe ; 
 with a heart full of hope, and a head full of care, 
 like any chemist upon the day of projection. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Mrs. Marwood and Lady Wish fort. 
 
 Lady Wish. O dear, Marwood, what shall I say 
 for this rude forgetfulness ? — but my dear friend is 
 all goodness. 
 
 Mar. No apologies, dear madam, I have been 
 very well entertained. 
 
 Lady Wish. As I'm a person, I ara in a very 
 chaos to think I should so forget myself: — but 
 
272 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 I liave suet an olio of affairs, really I know not 
 what to do. — Foible! — [Calls.'] I expect my 
 nephew, sir Wilfull, every 'moment too. — Why, 
 Foible ! — He means to travel for improvement. 
 
 Mar. Methinks sir Wilfull should rather think 
 of marrying than travelling at his years'. I hear 
 he is turned of forty. 
 
 Lady Wish. he's in less danger of being spoiled 
 by his travels— 7 am against my nephew's marry- 
 ing too young. It will be time enough when he 
 comes back, and has acquired discretion to choose 
 for himself. 
 
 UTar. Methinks Mrs. Millamant and he would 
 make a very fit match. He may travel afterwards. 
 'Tis a thing very usual with young gentlemen. 
 
 Ladp IVisH. I promise you t have thought on't 
 — and since 'tis your judgment, I'll think on't again. 
 I assure you I will; I value your judgment ex- 
 tremely. On my word, I'll propose it- " 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Mrs. Marwood, Lady Wishfort, and Foible. 
 
 Lady Wisb. Come, come, Foible — I had forgot 
 my nephew will be here before dinner : — I must 
 make haste. 
 
 Fnib. Mr. Witwoud and Mr. Petulant are come 
 to dine with your ladyship. 
 
 Lndi/ Wish. O dear, I can't appear till I'm 
 dressed. — Dear Marwood, shall I be free with you 
 again, and beg you to entertain 'era ? I'll make all 
 imaginable haste. Dear friend, excuse me. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Mrs. Marwood, Mrs. Millamant, and Mincino. 
 
 Mil. Sure never anything was so unbred as that 
 odious man ! — Marwood, your servant. 
 
 Mar. You have a colour ; what's the matter ? 
 
 Mil. That horrid fellow, Petulant, has provoked 
 
 me into a flame : — I have broken my fan Mincing, 
 
 lend me yours ; is not all the powder out of my 
 hair ? 
 
 Mar. No. What has he done ? 
 
 Mil. Nay, he has done nothing ; he has only 
 talked — nay, he has said nothing neither ; hut he 
 has contradicted everything that has been said. For 
 my part, I thought Witwoud and he would have 
 quarrelled. 
 
 Min. I vow, mem, I thought once they would 
 have fit. 
 
 Mil. Well, 'tis a lamentable thing, I swear, that 
 one has not the liberty of choosing one's acquaint- 
 ance as one does one's clothes. 
 
 Mar. If we had that liberty, we should be as 
 weary of one set of acquaintance, though never so 
 good, as we are of one suit though never so fine. 
 A fool and a doily stuff would now and then find 
 days of grace, and be worn for variety. 
 
 Mil. I could consent to wear 'em, if they would 
 wear alike ; but fools never wear out — they are 
 such drop de Berri things ! without one could give 
 'em to one's chambermaid after a day or two. 
 
 Mar. 'Twere better so indeed. Or what think 
 you of the playhouse ? A fine gay glossy fool 
 should be given there, like a new masking habit, 
 after the masquerade is over, and we have done with 
 
 the disguise. For a fool's visitis always a disguise ; 
 and never admitted by a woman of wit, but to blind 
 her affair with a lover of sense. If you would but 
 appear barefaced now, and ownMirahell, you might 
 as easily put off Petulant and Witwoud as your hood 
 and scarf. And indeed, 'tis time, for the town has 
 found it ; the secret is grown too big for the pre- 
 tence. 'Tis like Mrs. Primly's great belly ; she 
 may lace it down before, but it burnishes on her 
 hips. Indeed, Millamant, you caa no more conceal 
 it, than my lady Strammel can her face ; that goodly 
 face, which in defiance of her Rhenish wine tea, 
 will not be comprehended in a mask. 
 
 Mil. I'll take my death, Marwood, you are more 
 censorious than a decayed beauty, or a discarded 
 toast. — Mincing, tell the men they may come up. 
 — My aunt is not dressing hpre ; their foUy is less 
 provoking than your malice. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Millamant and Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Mil. The town has found it ! what has it found ? 
 That Mirabejl loves me is no more a secret, than it 
 is a secret that you discovered it to my aunt, or 
 than the reason why you discovered it is a secret. 
 
 Mar. You are nettled. 
 
 Mil. You're mistaken. Ridiculous ! 
 
 Mar. Indeed, my dear, you'll tear another fan, 
 if you don't mitigate those violent airs. 
 
 Mil. O silly ! ha ! ha ! ha ! I could laugh im- 
 moderately. Poor Mirabell ! his constancy to me 
 has quite destroyed his complaisance for all the 
 world beside. I swear, I never enjoined it him to 
 be so coy — If I had the vanity to think he would 
 obey me, I would command him to show more gal- 
 lantry — 'tis hardly well-bred to be so particular on 
 one hand, and so insensible on the other. But I 
 despair to prevail, and so let him follow his own 
 way. Ha ! ha ! ha ! pardon me, dear creature, I 
 must laugh, ha ! ha ! ha ! though I grant you 'tis 
 a little barbarous, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mar. What pity 'tis so much fine raillery, and 
 delivered with so significant gesture, should be so 
 unhappily directed to miscarry ! 
 
 Mil. Ha ! dear creature, I ask your pardon — I 
 swear I did not mind you. 
 
 Mar. Mr. Mirabell and you both may think it a 
 thing impossible, when 1 shall tell him by telling 
 you — 
 
 Mil. O dear, what ? for it is the same thing if I 
 hear it — ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Mar. That I detest him, hate him, madam. 
 
 Mil. O madam, why so do I — and yet the crea- 
 ture loves me, ha ! ha ! ha ! how can one forbear 
 laughing to think of it, — I am a sibyl if I am not 
 amazed to think what he can see in me. I'll take 
 my death, I think you are handsomer — and within 
 a year or two as young — if you could but stay for 
 me, I should overtake you — but that cannot be. — - 
 Well, that thought makes me melancholic. — Now, 
 I'll be sad. 
 
 Mar. Your merry note may be changed sooner 
 than you think. 
 
 Mil. D'ye say so ? Then I'm resolved I'll have 
 a song to keep up my spirits. 
 
SCENE XV. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 273 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 MiLLflmANT, Mrs. Marw'ood, and Mincing. 
 
 Min. The gentlemen stay but to comb, madam, 
 and will wait on you. 
 
 Mtl. Desire Mrs. — that is in the next room to 
 dng the song I would have learned yesterday. — 
 Tfou shall hear it, madam — not that there's any 
 great matter in it — but 'tis agreeable to my humour. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Love's but the frailty of the mind. 
 
 When 'tis not with ambition join'd ; 
 A siclily flame, whieli, if not fed, expires, 
 And feeding, wastes in self-consuming iires. 
 
 'Tis not to wound a wanton hoy 
 Or amorous youth, that gives the joy ; 
 But 'tis the glory to have pierced a swain. 
 For whom inferior beauties sigh'd in vain. 
 
 Then I alone the conquest prize, 
 
 When I insult a rival's eyes : 
 If there's delight in love, 'tis when I see 
 Jhat heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 MiLLAMANT, Mrs. MARwoon, Mincing, Petulant, and 
 
 WlTWOUD. 
 
 JlTil. Is your animosity composed, gentlemen ? 
 Wit. Raillery, raillery, madam ; we have no 
 animosity — we hit off a little wit now and then, 
 but no animosity. — The falling-out of wits is like 
 the falling-out of lovers : — we agree in the main, 
 like treble and bass. — Ha, Petulant ? 
 
 Pet. Ay, in the main — but when I have a 
 humour to contradict — ■ 
 
 IV'it. Ay, when he has a humour to contradict, 
 then I contradict too. What, I know ray cue. 
 Then we contradict one another like two battle- 
 dores ; for contradictions beget one another like 
 Jews. 
 
 Pet. If he says black's black — if I have a 
 humour to -say 'tis blue — let that pass — all's one 
 for that. If I have a humour to prove it, it must 
 be granted. 
 
 Wit. Not positively must — but it may — it may. 
 
 Pet. Yes, it positively must, upon proof posi- 
 tive. 
 
 Wit. Ay, upon proof positive it must ; but upon 
 proof presumptive it only may. — That's a logical 
 distinction now, madam. 
 
 Mar. I perceive your debates are of importance, 
 and very learnedly bandied. 
 
 Pet. Importance is one thing, and learning's 
 another ; but a debate's a debate, that I assert. 
 
 Wit. Petulant's an enemy to learning; he relies 
 altogether on his parts. 
 
 Pet. No, I'm no enemy to learning; it hurts 
 not me. 
 
 Mar. That's a sign indeed it's no enemy to you. 
 
 Pet. No, no, it's no enemy to anybody but 
 them that have it. 
 
 Mil. Well, an illiterate man's my aversion : I 
 ivonder at the impudence of any illiterate man to 
 offer to make love. 
 
 Wit. That I confess I wonder at too. 
 
 Mil. Ah ! to marry an ignorant that can hardly 
 read or write ! 
 
 Pet. Why should a man be any further from 
 being married, though he can't read, than he is 
 from being hanged ? The ordinary's paid for setting 
 the psalm, and the parish-priest for reading the 
 ceremony. And for the rest which is to follow in 
 both cases, a man may do it without book — so all's 
 one for that. 
 
 Mil. D'ye hear the creature? — Lord, here's 
 company, I'll be gone. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 
 Sir WiLFULL WiTwouD in a riding dress, Mrs. MARwoon, 
 Petulant, Witwoud, and Footman. 
 
 Wit. In the name of Bartlemew and his fair, 
 what have we here ? 
 
 Mar. 'Tis your brother, I fancy. Don't you 
 know him ? 
 
 Wit. Not 1. — Yes, I think it is he- — I've almost 
 forgot him ; I have not seen him since the Revo- 
 lution. 
 
 Foot. [ To Sir WiLFDLL.] Sir, my lady's dress- 
 ing. Here's company ; if you please to walk in, 
 in the mean time. 
 
 Sir Wil. Dressing ! what, it's but morning here, 
 I warrant, with you in London ; we should count 
 it towards afternoon in our parts, down in Shrop- 
 shire. — Why then, belike, my aunt han't dined yet, 
 ha, friend ? 
 
 Foot. Your aunt, sir ? 
 
 Sir Wil. My aunt, sir ! yes, my aunt, sir, and 
 your lady, sir ; your lady is my aunt, sir. — Why, 
 what dost thou not know me, friend ? why then 
 send somebody hither that does. How long hast 
 thou lived with thy lady, fellow, ha ? 
 
 Foot. A week, sir ; longer than anybody in the 
 house, except my lady's woman. 
 
 Sir Wil. Why then belike thou dost not know 
 thy lady, if thou seest her, ha, friend ? 
 
 Foot. Why truly, sir, I cannot safely swear to 
 her face in a morning, before she is dressed. 'Tis 
 like I may give a shrewd guess at her by this time. 
 
 Sir Wil. Well, prithee try what thou canst do ; 
 if thou canst not guess, inquire her out, dost hear, 
 fellow ? and tell her, her nephew, sir Wilfuli Wit- 
 woud, is in the house. 
 
 Foot. I shall, sir. 
 
 Sir Wil. Hold ye, hear me, friend ; a word with 
 you in your ear ; prithee who are these gallants ? 
 
 Foot. Really, sir, I can't tell ; here come so 
 many here, 'tis hard to know 'em all. 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 
 Sir WfLFULL 'WmvouD, Petulant, Witwoud, and Sin, 
 Maewood. 
 
 Sir Wil. Oons, this fellow knows less than a 
 starling ; I don't think a' knows his own name. 
 
 3far. Mr. Witwoud, your brother is not behind- 
 hand in forgetfulness — I fancy he has forgot you 
 too. 
 
 Wit. I hope so — the devil take him that remem- 
 bers first, I say. 
 
 Sir Wil. Save you, gentlemen and lady t 
 
 Mar. For shame, Mr. Witwoud ; why won It 
 you speak to him .' — And you, sir. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Wit. Petulant, spealc. 
 
 Pf.t. And you, sir. 
 
 Sii tVil. No offence, I hope. 
 
 iSalutcs Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Mar. No sure, sir. 
 
 Wit. Tliis is a Tile dog, I see that already. No 
 offence ! ha ! ha ! ha ! To him ; to him. Petulant, 
 smoke him. 
 
 Pet. It seems as if you had come a journey, sir ; 
 hem, hem. ISurveyinf) him roimd. 
 
 Sir TVil. Very likely, sir, that it may seem so. 
 
 Pet. No offence, 1 hope, sir. 
 
 Wit. Smoke the boots, the boots ; Petulant, the 
 boots : ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sir Wil. • May be not, sir ; thereafter, as 'tis 
 meant, sir. 
 
 Pet. Sir, I presume upon the information of 
 your boots. 
 
 Sir Wil. Why, 'tis like you may, sir : if you 
 are not satisfied with the information of my boots, 
 sir, if you -will step to the stable, you may inquire 
 further of my horse, sir. 
 
 Pet. Your horse, sir ! your horse is an ass, sir 1 
 
 Sir Wil. Do you speak by way of offence, sir .' 
 
 Mar, The gentleman's merry, that's all, sir. — 
 [Aside."] S'life, we shall have a quarrel betwixt an 
 horse and an ass before they find one another out. — 
 [Aloud.l You must not take anything amiss from 
 your friends, sir. You are among your friends 
 iere, though it may be you don't know it. — If I am 
 not mistaken, you are sir Wilfull Witwoud. 
 
 Sir Wil. Right, lady ; I am sir Wilfull Wit- 
 woud, so I write myself ; no offence to anybody, I 
 hope ; and nephew to the lady Wishfort of this 
 mansion. 
 
 Mar. Don't you know this gentleman, sir ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Hum ! what, sure 'tis not — yea by'r 
 Lady, but 'tis — s'heart, I know not whether 'tis or 
 no — yea, but 'tis, by the Wrekin. Brother Anthony I 
 what Tony, i'faith ! what, dost thou not know me .' 
 By'r Lady, nor I thee, thou art so becravated, and 
 so beperiwigged. — S'heart, why dost not speak ? 
 art thou overjoyed ? 
 
 Wit. Odso, brother, is it you ? your servant, 
 brother. 
 
 Sir Wil. Your servant ! why yours, sir. Your 
 servant again — s'heart, and your friend and servant 
 to that — and a — and a — flap-dragon for your ser- 
 vice, sir ! and a hare's foot and a hare's scut for 
 jour service, sir ! an you be so cold and so courtly. 
 
 Wit. No offence, I hope, brother. 
 
 Sir Wil. S'heart, sir, but there is, and much 
 offence ! — A pox, is this your inns' o' court breed- 
 ing, not to know your friends and your relations, 
 your elders and your betters ? 
 
 Wit. Why, brother Wilfull of Salop, you may 
 he as short "as a Shrewsbury-cake, if you please. 
 But I tell you 'tis not modish to know relations in 
 town : you think you're in the country, where great 
 lubberly brothers slabber and kiss one another 
 when they meet, like a call of Serjeants — 'tis not 
 the fashion here ; 'tis not indeed, dear brother. 
 
 Sir Wil. The fashion's a fool ; and you're a fop, 
 dear brother. S'heart, I've suspected this — by'r 
 Lady, I conjectured you were a fop, since you 
 began to change the style of your letters, and 
 ■write on a scrap of paper gilt round the edges, no 
 bigger than a subpeen'a. I might expect this when 
 you left off, " Honoured brother i" and "hoping 
 you are in good health," and so forth — to begin 
 
 with a " Rat me, knight, I'm so sick of a last 
 night's debauch" — 'ods heart, and then tell a 
 familiar tale of a cock and a bull, and a whore and 
 a bottle, and so conclude. — You could write news 
 before you were out of your time, when yon lived 
 with honest Pimple Nose the attorney of Furnival's 
 Inn — you could entreat to be remerirbered then to 
 your friends round the Wrekin. We could have 
 gazettes, then, and Dawks's Letter, and the Weekly 
 Bill, till of late days. 
 
 Pet. S'life, Witwoud, were you ever an attorney's 
 clerk.' of the family of the Furnivals? Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Wit. Ay, ay, but that was but for a while ; not 
 long, not long. Pshaw ! I was not in my own 
 power then ; — an orphan, and this fellow was my 
 guardian ; ay, ay, I was glad to consent to that, 
 man, to come to London : he had the disposal of 
 me then. If I had not agreed to that, I might have 
 been bound 'prentice to afelt-maker in Shrewsbury ; 
 this fellow would have bound me to a maker of felcs. 
 
 Sir Wil. S'heart, and better than to be bound to 
 a maker of fops ; where, I suppose, you have served 
 your time ; and now you may set up for yourself. 
 
 Mar. You intend to travel, sir, as I'm informed. 
 
 Sir Wil. Belike I may, madam. I may chance 
 'to sail upon the salt seas, if my mind hold. 
 
 Pet. And the wind serve. 
 
 Sir Wil. Serve or not serve, I shan't ask licence 
 of you, sir ; nor the weathercock your companion : 
 
 I direct my discourse to the lady, sir 'Tislike my 
 
 aunt may have told you, madam — yes, 1 have 
 settled my concerns, I may say now, and am minded 
 to see foreign parts. If an how that the peace 
 holds, whereby that is, taxes abate. 
 
 Mar. I thought you had designed for France at 
 all adventures. 
 
 Sir Wil. I can't tell that ; 'tis like I may, and 
 'tis like I may not. I am somewhat dainty in 
 making a resolution — because when I make it I 
 keep it. I don't stand shill I, shall I, then ; if I 
 say't, I'll do't ; but I have thoughts to tarry a smalt 
 matter in town, to learn somewhat of your lingo 
 first, before I cross the seas. I'd gladly have a spice 
 of your French as they say, whereby to hold dis- 
 course in foreign countries. 
 
 Mar. Here's an academy in town for that use. 
 
 Sir Wil. There is ? 'Tis like there may. 
 
 Mar. No doubt you will return very much im- 
 proved. 
 
 Wit. Yes, refined, like a Dutch skipper from a 
 whale-fishing. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 
 Sir "WlLFULT. Witwoud, Petulant, "Witwoud, Mrs. Mar. 
 WOOD, Lady "VVisHroRT, and Fainall. 
 
 LadyWish. Nephew, you are welcome. 
 
 Sir Wil. Aunt, your servant. 
 
 Fain. Sir Wilfull, your most faithful servant. 
 
 Sir Wil. Cousin Fainall, give me your hand. 
 
 Lady Wish. Cousin Witwoud, your servant ; 
 Mr. Petulant, your servant — nephew, you are wel- 
 come again. Will you drink anything after youi 
 journey, nephew j before you eat? dinner's almost 
 ready. 
 
 Sir Wil. I'm very well, I thank you, aunt — 
 however, I thank you for your courteous offer. 
 S'heart, I was afraid you would have been in the 
 fashion too, and have remembered to have forgot 
 
SCENE XVIII. 
 
 THE WAY Oil' THE ^VORLT). 
 
 275 
 
 your relations. Here's your cousin Tony, belike, I 
 mayn't call him brother for fear of offence. 
 
 Lady Wish. O, he's a railleur, nephew — my cou- 
 sin's a wit : and your great wits always rally their 
 best friends to choose. When you have been abroad, 
 nephew, you'll understand raillery better. 
 
 [Fainall and 3Irs. Mahwood talk apart. 
 
 Sir JVil. Why then let him hold his tongue in 
 the mean time ; and rail when that day comes. 
 
 SCENE XVII. 
 
 Sir "WiLFULL WrrwouD, Petulant, Witwoud, Lady 
 ■\VjsHFORT, Mrs. Marwood, Fainall, and Mincino. 
 
 Min. Mem, I am come to acquaint your laship 
 that dinner is impatient. 
 
 Sir Wil. Impatient ! why then belike it won't 
 stay till I pull off my boots. — Sweetheart, can you 
 help me to a pair of slippers ? — My man's with his 
 horses, I warrant. 
 
 Lady Wish. Fy, fy, nephew ! you would not 
 pull off your boots here ? — Go down into the hall 
 
 dinner shall stay for you. — My nephew's a little 
 
 unbred, you'll pardon him, madam. — Gentlemen, 
 will you walk ? — Marwood — 
 
 Mar. I'll follow you, madam — before sir Wil- 
 fiill is ready. 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 Mi'S. Marwood and FainA'LL, 
 
 Fain. Why then. Foible's a bawd, an arrant, rank, 
 match-making bawd : and I, it seems, am a hus- 
 band, a rank husband ; and my wife a very arrant, 
 rank wife — all in the way of the world. 'Sdeath, 
 to be a cuckold by anticipation, a cuckold in em- 
 bryo ! sure I was bom with budding antlers, like a 
 young satyr, or a citizen's child. 'Sdeath ! to be out- 
 witted, to be out-jilted — out-matrimony'd ! — If I 
 had kept my speed like a stag, 'twere somewhat, — 
 but to crawl after, with my horns, like a snail, and 
 be outstripped by my wife — 'tis scurvy wedlock. 
 
 Mar. Then shake it off ; you have often wished 
 for an opportunity to part — and now you have it. 
 But first prevent their plot — the half of Millamant's 
 fortune is too considerable to be parted with, to a 
 foe, to MirabeU. 
 
 Fain. Damn him ! that had been mine — had you 
 not made that fond discovery — that had been for- 
 feited, bad they been married. My wife had added 
 lustre to my horns by that increase of fortune ; I 
 could have worn 'em tipped with gold, though my 
 forehead had been furnished like a deputy-lieute- 
 nant's hall. 
 
 Mar. They may prove a cap of maintenance to 
 you still, if you can away with your wife. And 
 she's no worse than when you had her — I dare swear 
 she had given up her game before she was married. 
 
 Fain. Hum I that may be. 
 
 Mar. You married her to keep you ; and if you 
 can contrive to have her keep yon better than you 
 expected, why should you not keep her longer than 
 you intended .' 
 
 Fain. The means, the means. 
 
 Mar. Discover to my lady your wife's conduct ; 
 threaten to part with her ; — my lady loves her, and 
 will come to any composition to save her reputa- 
 
 tion. Take the opportunity of breaking it, just 
 upon the discovery of this imposture. My lady 
 will be enraged beyond bounds, and sacrifice niece, 
 and fortune, and all, at that conjuncture. And let 
 me alone to keep her warm ; if she should flag in 
 her part, I will not fail to prompt her. 
 
 Fain. Faith, this has an appearance. 
 
 Mar. I'm sorry I hinted to ray lady to endea- 
 vour a match between Millamant and sir Wilfull : 
 that may be an obstacle. 
 
 Fain. Oh, for that matter, leave me to manage 
 him : I'll disable him for that ; he will drink like 
 a Dane ; after dinner, I'll set his hand in. 
 
 Mar. Well, how do you stand affected towards 
 your lady ? 
 
 Fain. Why, faith, I'm thinking of it. — Let me 
 see~-I am married already, so that's over : — my 
 wife has played the jade with me — ^well, that's over 
 too : — I never loved her, or if I had, why that 
 would have been over too by this time : — jealous of 
 her I cannot be, for I am certain ; so there's an 
 end of jealousy : — weary of her I am, and shall be 
 — no, there's no end of that — no, no, that were too 
 much to hope. Thus far concerning my repose ; 
 now for my reputation. As to my own, I married 
 not for it, so that's out of the question ; — and as 
 to my part in my wife's — why, she had parted with 
 her's before ; so bringing none to me, she can take 
 none from me ; 'tis against all rule of play, that I 
 should lose to one who has not wherewithal to stake. 
 
 Mar. Besides, you forget, marriage is honourable. 
 
 Fain. Hum, faith, and that's well thought on ; 
 marriage is honourable as you say; and if so, 
 wherefore should cuckoldom be a discredit, being 
 derived from so honourable a root ? 
 
 Mar. Nay, I knojw not ; if the root be honour- 
 able, why not the branches ? 
 
 Fain. So, so, why this point's clear — well, how 
 do we proceed ? 
 
 Mar. I will contrive a letter which shall be de- 
 livered to my lady at the time when that rascal who 
 is to act sir Rowland is with her. It shall come 
 as from an unknown hand — for the less I appear to 
 know of the truth, the better I can play the incen- 
 diary. Besides, I would not have Foible provoked 
 if I could help it — because yon know she knows 
 some passages — nay, I expect all will come out — 
 but let the<nine be sprung first, and then I care 
 not if I am discovered. 
 
 Fain. If the worst come to the worst — I'll turn 
 my wife to grass — I have already a deed of settle- 
 ment of the best part of her estate ; which I 
 wheedled out of her ; and that you shall partake 
 at least. 
 
 Mar. I hope you are convinced that I hate Mira- 
 beU now ; you'll be no more jealous ? 
 
 Fain. Jealous ! no — by this kiss — let husbands 
 be jealous ; but let the lover still believe ; or if he 
 doubt, let it be only to endear his pleasure, and 
 prepare the joy that follows, when he proves his 
 mistress true. But let husbands' doubts convert 
 to endless jealousy ; or if they have belief, let it 
 corrupt to superstition and blind credulity. I am 
 single, and will herd no more with 'em. True, I 
 wear the badge, but I'll disown the order. And 
 since I take my leave of 'em, I care not if I leave 
 'em a common motto to their common crest : — 
 
 All husbands must or pain or shame endure ; 
 
 The wise too jealous are, fools too secure. 
 
 Q, 2 lExmnt, 
 
276 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 JOT iVi 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Lady Wishfort's 
 House. 
 
 Lady Wishfort and Foible. 
 
 Lady Wish. Is sir Rowland coming, sayesttbou, 
 Foible ? and are things in order ? 
 
 Foib. Yes, madam. I have put wax lights in the 
 sconces, and placed the footmen in a row in the 
 hall, in their best liveries, with the coachman and 
 postilion to fill up the equipage. 
 
 Ladp Wish. Have you pulvilled the coachman 
 and postilion, that they may not stink of the stable 
 when sir Rowland comes by ? 
 
 Poil). Yes, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. And are the dancers unA the music 
 ready, that he may be entertained in all points 
 with correspondence to his passion ? 
 
 Foib. All is ready, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. And — well — and how do I look, 
 Foible ? 
 
 Foib. Most killing well, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, and how shall I receive him .' 
 in what figure shall I give his heart the first im- 
 pression ? there is a great deal in the first impres- 
 sion. Shall I sit ?■ — no, I won't sit — I'll walk — 
 ay, I'll walk from the door upon his entrance ; and 
 then turn full upon him — no, that will be too 
 sudden. I'll lie — ay, I'll lie down — I'll receive 
 him in my little dressing-room, there's a couch — 
 yes, yes, I'll give the first impression on a couch. 
 — I won't lie neither, but loll and lean upon one 
 elbow : with one foot a little dangling off, jogging 
 in a thoughtful way — yes — and then as soon as he 
 ajipears, start, ay, start and be surprised, and rise 
 to meet him in a pretty disorder — yes — O, nothing 
 is more alluring than a levee from a couch, in some 
 confusion : — it shows the foot to advantage, and 
 famishes with blushes, and recomposing airs 
 beyond comparison. Hark ! there's a coach. 
 
 Foib. 'Tis he, madam. , 
 
 Lndy Wish. O dear ! — Has my nephew made 
 his addresses to Millamant ? I ordered him. 
 
 Foib. Sir WilfuU is set in to drinking, madam, 
 in the parlour. 
 
 Lady Wish. Odds my life, I'll send him to her. 
 Call her down. Foible ; bring her hither. I'll send 
 him as I go — when they are together, then come to 
 me. Foible, that I may not be too long alone with 
 sir Rowland. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Mrs, Millamant, Mrs. Fainall, and Foible. 
 
 Foib. Madam, I stayed here, to tell your lady- 
 ship that Mr. Mirabell has waited this half hour 
 for an opportunity to talk with you ; though my 
 lady's orders were to leave you and sir WilfuU 
 together. Shall I tell Mr. Mirabell that you are at 
 leisure ? 
 
 Mil. No, — what would the dear man have? I 
 
 am thoughtful, and would amuse myself — ^bid him 
 come another time. 
 
 There never yet was woman made. 
 Nor shall but to be cursed. 
 
 {Repeating, and walking about. 
 That's hard ! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You are very fond of sir John Suck- 
 ling to-day, Millamant, and the poets. 
 Mil. He ! Ay, and filthy verses — so I am. 
 Foib. Sir Wilful! is coming, madam. Shall I 
 send Mr. Mirabell away ? 
 
 Mil. Ay, if you please. Foible, send him away 
 — or send him hither — just as you will, dear Foible. 
 — I think I'll see him — shall I ? ay, let che wretch 
 come. 
 
 Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train. 
 
 {Repeating. 
 Dear Fainall, entertain sir WilfuU — thou hast 
 philosophy to undergo a fool, thou art married 
 and hast patience — I would confer with my own 
 thoughts. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I am obliged to you, that you 
 would make me your proxy in this affair j but I 
 have business of my own. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 M1LI.AMANT, Mrs. Fainall, and Sir Wilfull. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. O sir Wilfull, you are come at the 
 critical instant. There's your mistress up to the 
 ears in love and contemplation ; pursue your point 
 now or never. 
 
 Sir Wil. Yes ; my aunt will have it so — I 
 would gladly have been encouraged with a bottle or 
 two, because I'm somewhat wary at first before I 
 am acquainted. — [ This lohile Millamant walks 
 about repeating to herself.'] — But I hope, after a 
 time, I shall break my mind — that is, upon further 
 acquaintance — so for the present, cousin, I'll take 
 my leave— if so be you'll be so kind to make my 
 excuse, I'll return to my company — 
 
 Mrs. Fain. O fy, sir WilfuU ! what, you must 
 not be daunted. 
 
 Sir Wil. Daunted ! no, that's not it, it is not so 
 much for that — for if so be that I set on't, I'll 
 do't. But only for the present, 'tis sufficient till 
 further acquaintance, that's all — your servant. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Nay, I'll swear you shall never lose 
 so favourable an opportunity, if I can help it. I'U 
 leave you together, and lock the door. 
 
 SCENE IV. -■ 
 
 Sir Wilfull and Millamant, 
 
 Sir Wil. Nay, nay, consin — I have forgot my 
 gloves — what d'ye do ? — S'heart, a'has locked the 
 door indeed, I think — nay, cousin Fainall, open 
 the door — pshaw, what a vixen trick is this ? — Nay, 
 now a'has seen me too.- — Cousin, I made bold to 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 277 
 
 pass through as it were — I think this door's en- 
 chanted ! 
 
 Mil. [RepeaHnff.'] 
 
 I prithee spare me, gentle hoy^ 
 Pi-ess me no more for that slight tog. 
 
 Sir Wil. Anan ? Cousin, your servant. 
 
 Mil. [Repeating.'] 
 
 That foolish trifle of a heart 
 Sir Wilful! ! 
 
 Sir JVil. Yes — your servant. No offence, I 
 hope, cousin. 
 
 Mil. [Repeating.'] 
 
 I swear it will not do its part. 
 Though thou dost thine, employest thy power 
 and art. 
 Natural, easy Suckling ! ^ 
 
 Sir Wil. Anan ? Suckling ! no such suckling 
 neither, cousin^ nor stripling : I thank heaven, I'm 
 no minor. 
 
 Mil. Ah, rustic, ruder than Gothic .' 
 
 Sir 'Wil. Well, well, I shall understand your 
 lingo one of these days, cousin ; in the mean while 
 I must answer in plain English. 
 
 M'll. Have yoii any business with me, sir 
 Wilfull ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin — yes, T make 
 bold to see, to come and know if that how you 
 were disposed to fetch a walk this evening, if sp 
 be that I might not be troublesome, I would have 
 sought a walk with you. 
 
 Mil. A walk 1 what then ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Nay, nothing — bnly for the walk's 
 sake, that's all. 
 
 Mil. I nauseate walking ; 'tis a country diver- 
 sion ; I loathe the country, and everything tha£ 
 relates to it. 
 
 Sir Wil. Indeed ! ha ! look ye, look ye, you 
 do.^ Nay, 'tis like you may — here are choice of 
 pastimes here in town, as plays, and the like ; that 
 must be confessed indeed. 
 
 Mit. Ah, Vetourdi I I hate the town too. 
 
 Sir Wil. Dear heart, that's much— ha ! that you 
 should hate 'em both ! ha! 'tis like you may ; there 
 are some can't relish the town, and others can't 
 away with the country — 'tis like you may be one 
 of those, cousin. 
 
 Mil. Ha ! ha I ha ! yes, 'tis like I may You 
 
 have nothing farther to say to me .'' 
 
 Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin. — 'Tis like 
 when I have an opportunity to be more private — I 
 may break my mind in some measure— I con- 
 jecture you partly guess — however, that's as time 
 shall try — but spare to speak and spare to speed, 
 as they say. 
 
 Mil. If it is of no great importance, sir Wilfull, 
 you will oblige me to leave me ; I have just now 
 a little business — 
 
 Sir Wil. Enough, enough, cousin : yes, yes, 
 all a case — when you're disposed : now's As well 
 as another time ; and another time as well as now. 
 All's one for that — yes, yes, if your concerns call 
 you, there's no haste ; it will keep cold, as they 
 aay, — Cousin; your servant — I think this door's 
 locked. 
 
 MM. You may go this way, sir. 
 
 Sir Wil. Your servant ; then with your leave 
 I'll return to my company. {.Exit. 
 
 Mil. Ay, ay ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 hike Phozbus nung tl. e no less amorous boy. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 MiLLAMANT and MiRABELL. 
 
 Mir. Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy. 
 Do you lock yourself up from me, to make my 
 search more curious ? or is this pretty artifice 
 contrived to signify that here the chase must end, 
 and my pursuits be crowned ? For you can fly no 
 further. 
 
 Mil. Vanity ! no — I'll fly, and be followed to 
 the last moment. Though I am lipon the very 
 verge of matrimony, I expect you should solicit 
 me as much as if I were wavering at the grate of 
 a monastery, with one foot over the threshold. 
 I'll be solicited to the very last, nay, and after- 
 wards. 
 
 Mir. What, after the last ? 
 
 Mil. Oh, I should think I was poor and had 
 nothing to bestow, if I were reduced to an 
 inglorious ease, and freed from the agreeable 
 fatigues of solicitation. 
 
 Mir. But do not you know, that when favours 
 are conferred upon instant and tedious solicitation, 
 that they diminish in their value, and that both 
 the giver loses the grace, and the receiver lessens 
 his pleasure \ 
 
 Mil. It may be in things of common applica- 
 tion ; but never sure in love. Oh, I hate a lover 
 that can dare to think he draws a moment's air, 
 independent on the bounty of his mistress. There 
 is not so impudent a thing in nature, as the saucy 
 look of an assured man, confident of success. The 
 pedantic arrogance of a very husband has not so 
 pragmatical an air. Ah ! I'll never marry, unless 
 1 am flrst made sure of niy will and pleasure. 
 
 Mir. Would you have 'em both before marriage ? 
 or will you be .contented with the first now, and 
 stay for the other till after grace ? 
 
 Mil. Ah ! don't be impertinent. — My dear 
 liberty, shall I leave thee } my faithful solitude, 
 my darling contemplation, must I bid you then 
 adieu ? Ay-h adieu — my morning thoughts, 
 agreeable wakings, indolent slumbers, all ye dou- 
 ceurs, ye somrtie'ils du matin, adieu ? — I can't do't, 
 'tis more than impossible — positively, Mirabell, 
 I'll lie abed in a morning as long as I please. 
 
 Mir. Then I'll get up in a morning as early as 
 I please. 
 
 Mil. Ah ! idle creature, get up when you will — 
 and d'ye hear, I won't be called names after I'm 
 married ; positively I won't be called names. 
 
 Mir. Names ! 
 
 Mil. Ay, as wife, spouse, my dear, joy, jewel, 
 love, sweetheart, and the rest of that nauseous 
 cant, in which men and their wives are so fulsomely 
 familiar — I shall never bear that— good Mirabell, 
 don't let us be familiar or fond, nor kiss before 
 folks, like my lady 'Fadler, and sir Francis : nor 
 go to Hyde-park together the first Sunday in a 
 new chariot, to provoke eyes and whispers, and 
 then never to be seen there together again ; as if 
 we were proud of one another the first week, and 
 ashamed of one another ever after. Let us never 
 visit together, nor go to a play together ; but let 
 us be very strange and well-bred : let us be as 
 strange as if we had been married a great while ; 
 and as well bred as if we were not married at all. 
 
 Mir. Have you any more conditions to off'er'' 
 Hitherto vour demands are nrettv reasonable 
 
278 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Mil. Trifles ! — As liberty to pay and receive 
 ■visits to and from whom I please ; to write and 
 receive letters, without interrogatories or wry 
 faces on your part ; to wear what I please ; and 
 choose conversation with regard only to my own 
 taste ; to have no obligation upon me to converse 
 with wits that I don't like, because they are your 
 acquaintance ; or to be intimate with fools, because 
 they may be your relations. Come to dinner 
 when I please ; dine in my dressing-room when 
 I'm out of humour, without giving a reason. To 
 have my closet inviolate ; to be sole empress of 
 my tea-table, which you must never presume to 
 approach without first asking leave. And, lastly, 
 wherever I am, you shall always knock at the 
 door before you come in. These articles sub- 
 scribed, if I continue to endure you a little longer, 
 I may by degrees dwindle into a wife. 
 
 Mir. Your bill of fare is something advanced 
 in this latter account. — ^Well, have 1 liberty to 
 offer conditions — that when you are dwindled into 
 a wife, I may not be beyond measure enlarged into 
 a-husband ? 
 
 Mil. You have free leave ; propose your utmost, 
 speak and spare not. 
 
 Mir, I thank you. — Imprimis then, I covenant, 
 that your acquaintance be general ; that you admit 
 no sworn confidant, or intimate of your own sex ; 
 no she friend to screen her affairs under your 
 countenance,- and tempt you to make trial of a 
 mutual secrecy. No decoy duck to wheedle you 
 a fop-scrambling to the play in a mask — then 
 bring you home in a pretended fright, when you 
 think yott shall be found out — and rail at me for 
 missing the play, and disappointing the frolic 
 which you had to pick me up, and prove my con- 
 stancy. 
 
 Mil. Detestable imprimis ! I go to the play in 
 a mask ! 
 
 Mir. Item, I article, that you continue to like 
 
 your own face, as long as I shall : and while it 
 
 passes current with me, that you endeavour not to 
 
 new-coin it. To which end, together with all 
 
 vizards for the day, I prohibit all masks for the 
 
 night, made of oiled-skins, and I know not what — 
 
 hogs' bones, hares' gall, pig-water, and the marrow 
 
 of a roasted cat. In short, I forbid all commerce 
 
 with the gentlewoman in what d'ye call it court. 
 
 Hem, I shut my doors against all bawds with 
 
 j baskets, and penny-worths of muslin, china, fans, 
 
 ] atlasses etc. — Hem, when you shall be breeding — 
 
 j Mil. Ah ! name it not. 
 
 Mir. Whicli may be presumed with a blessing 
 on our endeavours — 
 
 Mil. Odious endeavours ! 
 Mir. I denounce against all strait lacing, squeez- 
 ing for a shape, till you mould my boy's head like 
 a sugar-loaf, and instead of a man-child, make me 
 father to a crooked billet. Lastly, to the dominion 
 of the tea-table I submit — but with proviso, that 
 you exceed not in your province ; but restrain 
 yourself to native and simple tea-table drinks, as 
 tea, chocolate, and coffee : as likewise to genuine 
 and authorised tea-table talk — such as mending of 
 fashions, spoiling reputations, railing at absent 
 friends, and so forth — but that on no account you 
 encroach upon the men's prerogative, and presume 
 to drink healths, or toast fellows; for prevention 
 of which I banish all foreign forces, all auxiliaries 
 to the tea-table, as orange-brandy, all aniseed, 
 
 cinnamon, citron and Barbadoes-waters, together 
 with ratafia, and the most noble spirit of clary — 
 but for cowslip wine, poppy water, and all dormi- 
 tives, those T allow. — These provisos admitted, in 
 other things I may prove a tractable and comply- 
 ing husband. 
 
 Mil. O horrid provisos ! filthy strong-waters ! 
 I toast fellows ! odious men ! I hate your odious 
 provisos. 
 
 Mir, Then we are agreed! shall I kiss your 
 hand upon the contract ? And here comes one to 
 be a witness to the sealing of the deed. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 MXL£.AAIANT, MlRABELL, and MfS. FaINALL. 
 
 Mil. Fainall, what shall I do ? shall I have him ? 
 I think I must have him. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ay, ay, take him, take him, what 
 should you do ? 
 
 Mil. WeU then — I'll take my death I'm in a 
 horrid fright — Fainall, I shall never say it — well 
 — I think — I'll endure you. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Fy ! fy ! have him, have him, and 
 tell him so in plain terms : for I am sure you have 
 a mind to him. 
 
 Mil. Are you ? I think I have— and the horrid 
 man looks as if he thought so too — well, you 
 ridiculous thing you, I'll have you — I won't be 
 kissed, nor I won't be thanked — here kiss my 
 hand though. — So, hold your tongue now, don't say 
 a word. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Mirabell, there's a necessity for 
 your obedience ; — you have neither time to talk 
 nor stay. My mother is coining ; and in my con- 
 science if she should see you, would fall into fits, 
 and maybe not recover time enough to return to 
 sir Rowland, who, as Foible tells me, is in a fair 
 way to succeed. Therefore spare your ecstacies for 
 another occasion, and slip down the back-stairs, 
 where Foible waits to consult you. 
 
 Mil. Ay, go, go. In the rSean time I suppose 
 you have said something to please me. 
 
 Mir, I am all obedience. 
 
 SCENE VII. ^ 
 
 MiLLAMANT and Mrs. Fainall. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Yonder sir WilfuU's drunk, and so 
 noisy that my mother has been forced to leave sir 
 Rowland to appease him s but he answers her only 
 with singing and drinking — what they may have 
 done by this time I know not ; but Petulant and he 
 were upon quarrelling as I came by. 
 
 Mil. Well, if Mirabell should not make a good 
 husband, I am a lost thing — for I find I love him 
 violently. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So it seems ; for yon mind not 
 what's said to you.— If you doubt him, you had 
 best take up with sir Wilfull. 
 
 Mil. How can you name that supperannuated 
 lubber ? fob ! 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 279 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 MiLLAMANT, Mrs. Fainall, and 'VViTHroun. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So, is tlie fray made up, that you 
 have left 'em ? 
 
 Wil. Left 'em ? I could stay no longer — I have 
 laughed like ten christnings — I am tipsy with 
 laughing — if I had stayed any longer I should have 
 
 burst, I must have been let out and pieced in the 
 
 sides like an unsized camlet. — Yes, yes, the fray is 
 composed ; my lady came in like a noli prosequi, 
 and stopped the proceedings. 
 
 JMil. What was the dispute ? 
 
 Wit. That's the jest ; there was no dispute. 
 They could neither of 'em speak for rage, and so 
 fell a sputtering at one another like two roasting 
 apples. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 MiLLAMANT, Mrs. Fainall, Witwoud, and Petulant 
 drunk. 
 
 Wit. Now, PetAlant, all's over, all's well. Gad 
 my head begins to whim it about — why dost thou 
 not speak ? thou art both as drunk and as mute as 
 a jish. 
 
 Pet. Look you, Mrs. Millaraant — if you can 
 love me, dear nymph — say it — and that's the con- 
 clusion — pass on, or pass off — that's all. 
 
 Wit. 'Thou hast uttered volumes, folios, in less 
 than liecimo sexto, my dear Lacedemonian. Sirrah, 
 Petulant, thou art an epitomiser of words. 
 
 Pet. Witwoud — you are an annihilator of 
 sense. 
 
 Wit. Thou art a retailer of phrases ; and dost 
 deal in remnants of remnants, like a maker of pin- 
 cushions — thou art in truth (metaphorically speak- 
 ing) a speaker of short-hand. 
 
 Pet. Thou art (without a figure) just one half of 
 an ass, and Baldwin yonder, thy half-brother, is the 
 rest. — A Gemini ok asses split would make just 
 four of you. 
 
 Wit. Thou dost bite, my dear mustard-seed ; 
 kiss me for that. 
 
 Pet. Stand off! — I'll kiss no more males — I 
 have kissed your twin yonder in a humour of re- 
 conciUation, till he \_Hiccups'] rises upon my 
 ,^tomach like a radish. 
 
 Mil. Eh ! filthy creature ! — what was the 
 quarrel ,'' 
 
 Pet. There was no quarrel — there might have 
 been a quarrel. 
 
 Wit, If there had been words enow between 'em 
 to have expressed provocation, they had gone 
 together by the ears like a pair of castanets. 
 
 Pet. You were the quarrel. 
 
 Mil. Me! 
 
 Pet. If I have a humour to quarrel, I can make 
 less matters conclude premises. — If you are not 
 handsome, what then, if I have a humour to 
 prove it ? If I shall have my rew{ird, say so ; if 
 not, fight for your face the next time yourself — 
 I'll go sleep. 
 
 Wit, Do, wrapthyself uplike a wood-louse, and 
 dream revenge — and hear me, if thou canst learn 
 to write by to-morrow morning, pen me a challenge 
 — I'll carry it for thee. 
 
 Pet. Carry your mistress's monkey a spider ! — 
 Go flea dogs, and read romances ! — I'll go to bed 
 to my maid. \_Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. He's horridly drunk. — How came 
 you all ia this pickle .' 
 
 Wit. A plot ! a plot ! to get rid of the night — 
 your husband's advice ; but he sneaked off. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Sir WiLFULT. drunk, Lady Wishfort, WiTWoyD, 
 , Millamant, and Mrs. Fainall. 
 
 Lady Wish. Out upon't, out upon't ! At years 
 of discretion, and comport yourself at this rantl- 
 pole rate ! 
 
 Sir Wil. No offence, aunt. 
 Lady Wish. Offence ! as I'm a person, I'm 
 ashamed of you— fob ! how you stink of wine ! 
 D'ye think my niece will ever endure such a 
 Borachio ! you're an absolute Borachio. 
 Sir Wil. Borachio ? 
 
 Lady Wish. At a time when you should com- 
 mence an amour, and put your best foot foremost — 
 Sir Wil. S'heart, an you grutch me your liquor, 
 make a bill — give me more drink, and take my 
 purse — ISings. 
 
 Prithee fill me the glass, 
 Till it laugh in my face, 
 With ale that is potent and mellow ; 
 He that whines for a lass. 
 Is an ignorant ass, 
 For a bumper has not its fellow. 
 
 But if you would have me marry my cousin — say 
 the word, and I'll do't—VrtlfuU will do't, that's the 
 word — Wilful! will do't, that's my crest — my motto 
 I have forgot. 
 
 Lady Wish, My nephew's a little overtaken, 
 cousin — but lis with drinking your health. — O* 
 my word you are obliged to him . 
 
 Sir Wil. In vino Veritas, aunt. — If I drunk 
 your health to-day, cousin — I am a Borachio. But 
 if you have a mind to be married, say the word, 
 and send for the piper ; WilfuU will do't. If not, 
 dust it away, and let's have t'other round. — 
 Tony ! — Odds heart, where's Tony ! — Tony's an 
 honest fellow ; but he spits after a bumper, and 
 that's a fault. — \_Sings. 
 
 We'll drink and we'll never ha' done, boj'S, 
 
 Put the glass then around with the sun, boys. 
 Let Apollo's example invite us ; 
 
 For he's drunk every night. 
 
 And that makes him so bright, 
 Tliat he's able next moraing to light ug. 
 
 The sun's a good pimple, an honest soaker ; he 
 has a cellar at your Antipodes. If I travel, 
 aunt, I touch at your Antipodes. — Your Antipodes 
 are a good, rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows : if 
 I had a bumper, I'd stand upon my head and 
 drink a health to 'em. — A match or no match, 
 cousin, with the hard name .' — Aunt, WilfuU will 
 do't. If she has her maidenhead, let her look 
 to't ; if she has not, let her keep her own counsel 
 in the mean time, and cry out at the nine months' 
 end. 
 
 Mil. Your pardon, madam, I can stay no longer 
 — sir WilfuU grows very powerful. Eh ! how he 
 smells ! I shall be overcome, if I stay — Come, 
 cousin. 
 
 1 
 
280 
 
 THE WAY OF 1 HE WORLD. 
 
 A(r jy. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Lady WisHFoaT, Sir Wilpull, Witwoud, and Foible. 
 
 Lady Wish. Smells ! he would poison a tallow- 
 chandler and his family ! Beastly creature, I know 
 not what to do with him ! — Travel, quotha ! ay, 
 travel, travel, get thee gone, get thee gone, get thee 
 but far enough, to the Saracens, or the Tartars, or 
 the Turks ! — for thou art not fit to live in a Chris- 
 tian commonwealth, thou beastly Pagan ! 
 
 Sir Wil. Turks, no ; no Turks, aunt : your 
 Turks are infidels, and believe not in the grape. 
 Your Mahometan, your Mussulman, is a dry 
 stinkard — no offence, aunt. My map says that 
 your Turk is not so honest a man as your Chris- 
 tian. I cannot find by the map that your Mufti 
 is orthodox — whereby it is a plain case, that ortho- 
 dox is a hard word, aunt, and ^Hiccups] Greek 
 for claret. — ISings. 
 
 To drink is a Christian diversion, 
 Unknown to the Turk or the Persian : 
 
 Let Mahometan fools 
 
 Live by heathenish rules, 
 And be damn'd over tea-cups and co^ee. 
 
 But let British lads sing, 
 
 Crown a health to the king, 
 And a fig for your sultan and sophy ! 
 
 Ah Tony ! [Foible whispers Lady Wishfort, 
 
 Lady Wish. [Aside to Foible.] — Sir Rowland 
 impatient ? Good lack ! what shall I do with this 
 beastly tumbril ? — {Aloud.'] Go lie down and 
 sleep, you sot ! — ^or, as I'm a person, I'll have 
 you bastinadoed with broomsticks. — Call up the 
 wenches. 
 
 Sir Wil. Ahey ! wenches, where are the wenches ! 
 
 Lady Wish. Dear cousin Witwoud, get him 
 away, and you will bind me to you inviolably. I 
 have an affair of moment that invades me with 
 some precipitation — you will oblige me to all 
 futurity. 
 
 Wit. Oome, knight. — Pox on him, I don't 
 know what to say to him. — Will you go to a cock- 
 match ? 
 
 Sir Wit. With a wench, Tony ! Is she a shake- 
 bag, sirrah ? Let me bite your cheek for that. 
 
 Wit. Horrible ! he has a breath like a bag- 
 pipe ! — Ay, ay ; come, will you march, my Salo- 
 pian ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Lead on, little Tony— I'll follow thee, 
 my Anthony, my Tantony, sirrah, thou shalt be 
 my Tantony, and I'll be thy pig. ISings, 
 
 And a fig for your sultan and sophy. 
 
 [_Exeunt Sir Wilfull and WlTWO'jD. 
 
 Lady Wish. This will never do. It will never 
 make a match — at least before he has been abroad. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Lady "WiSHKonr andWAiTWELL, disguised as 
 Sir Rowland. 
 
 Lady Wish. Dear sir Rowland, I am con- 
 founded with confusion at the retrospection of my 
 own rudeness ! — I have more pardons to ask than 
 the pope distributes in the year of jubilee. But I 
 hope, where there is likely to be so near an alliance. 
 
 we may unbend the severity of decorums, arid 
 dispense with a little ceremonj^. 
 
 Wait. My impatience, madam, is the effect of 
 my traiiSport ; and till I have the possession of 
 your adorable person'^ I am tantalised on the rack ; 
 and do but hang, madam, on the tenter of expec- 
 tation: 
 
 Lady Wish. You have excess of gallantry, sii 
 Rowland, and press things to a conclusion with a 
 most prevailing vehemence. — But a day or two for 
 decency of marriage — 
 
 Wait. For decency of funeral, madain ! The 
 delay will break my heart — or, if that should fail, 
 I shall "be poisoned. My nephew will get an ink- 
 ling of my designs, and poison me — and I would 
 willingly starve him before I die — I would gladly 
 go out of the World with that satisfaction. — That 
 would be some comfort to me, if I could but 
 live so long as to be revenged on that unnatural 
 viper ! 
 
 Lady Wish. Is he so unnatural, say you .' 
 Truly I would contribute much both to the saving 
 of your life, and the accomplishment of your 
 revenge. — Not that I respect myself, though he has 
 been a perfidious wretch to me. 
 
 Wait. Perfidious to you ! 
 
 Lady Wish. O sir Rowland, the hours that h6 
 has died away at my feet, the tears that he has 
 shed, the oaths that he has sworn, the palpitation^ 
 that he has felt, the trances and the tremblings, the 
 ardours and the ecstacies, the kneelings and the 
 risings, the heart-heavings and the hand-gripings^ 
 the pangs and the pathetic regards of bis protest- 
 ing eyes I — Oh, no memory can register ! 
 
 Wait. What, my rival ! is the rebel my rival ? 
 — a'dies. 
 
 Lady Wish. No, don't kill him at once, sir 
 Rowland, starve-him gradually, inch by inch. 
 
 Wait. I'll do'ti In three weeks he shall be bare- 
 foot; in a month out at knees With begging an alms, 
 — He shall starve upward and upward, till he ha9 
 nothing living but his head, and then go out in a 
 stink like a candle's end upon a save-all. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, sir Rowland, you have the 
 way — you are no novice in the labyrinth of iove^— 
 
 you have the clue But as I am a person, sir 
 
 Rowland, you must not attribute my yielding to 
 any sinister appetite, or indigestion of widowhood ; 
 nor impute my complacency to any lethargy of 
 continence — I hope you do not think me prone to 
 any iteration of nuptials — 
 
 Wait. Far be it from me — 
 
 Lady Wish. If you do, I protest I must recede 
 — or think that I have made a prostitution of 
 decorums ; but in the vehemence of compassion, 
 and to save the life of a person of so much im- 
 portance — 
 
 Wait, I esteem it so. 
 
 Lady Wish. Or else you wrong my condescen- 
 sion. 
 
 Wait. I do not, I do not ! 
 
 Lady Wish. Indeed you do. 
 
 Wait. I do not, fair shrine of virtue ! 
 
 Lady Wish. If you think the least scruple of 
 carnality was an ingredient — 
 
 Wait. Dear madam, no. You are all camphor 
 and frankincense, all chastity and odour. 
 
 Lady Wish. Or that — 
 
SCEKE XV. 
 
 tHE WAY DF THE WORLD. 
 
 281 
 
 SCENE XIlI. 
 Lady Wishfort, Wajtwell, and Foiblk. 
 
 Foib. Madam, the dancers are ready; and there's 
 one with a letter, who must deliver it into your 
 owp hands. 
 
 Lady Wish^ Sir Rowland, will you give me 
 leave ? Think favourably, judge candidly, and 
 conclude you have found a person who would suffer 
 racks in honour's cause, dear sir Rowland, and 
 will wait on you incessantly. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 Waitwell and Folble. 
 
 Wait. Fy, fy ! — What a slavery have I undergone ! 
 Spouse, hast tliou any cordial ? I watit spirits. 
 
 Foib. What a washy rogue art thou, to pant thus 
 for a quarter of an hour's lying and swearing to a 
 fine lady ! 
 
 Wait. Oh, she is the antidote to desire! Spouse, 
 thou wilt fare the worse for't — I shall have no 
 appetite to iteration of nuptials this eight^and- 
 forty hdut-s. — -By this hand I'd rather be a chairman 
 in the dog-days — than act sir Rowland till this 
 time to-morrow ! 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 
 Waitwell, Foible, and Lady Wishfort, with a letter. 
 
 Lady Wish. Call in the danc6rs. — Sir Rowland, 
 we'll sit, if you please, and see the entertainment. 
 
 A Dance. 
 
 Now, with your permission, sir Rowland, I will 
 peruse my letter. — I would open it in your presence, 
 because I would not make you uneasy. If it should 
 make you uneasy, I would burn it. — Speak, if it 
 does — but you may see the supersfcription is like a 
 woman's hdnd. 
 
 Foib. [Aside to Waitwell.] By Heaven I 
 Mrs. Marwood's, 1 know it. — My heart aches — 
 get it from her. 
 
 Wait. A woman's hand ! no, madam, that's no 
 woman's hand, I see that already. That's somebody 
 whose throat must be cut. 
 
 Lady Wish. Nay, sir Rowland, since you give 
 me a proof of your passion by your jealousy, I pro- 
 mise you I'll make a return, hy a frank communi- 
 cation. — You shall see it — we'll Open it together — 
 look you here. — {^Reads.l — Madam, though un- 
 known to you — Look you there, -'tis from nobody 
 that 1 know — Ihavethat honour for yourcharaeter, 
 that I think myself obliged to let you know you are 
 abused. He who pretends to be sir Rowland^ is 
 a cheat and a rascal Oh heavens ! what's this .' 
 
 Foib. [Aside."] Unfortunate ! all's ruined 1 
 
 Wait. How, how, let me see, let me see ! — 
 [Reads.] A rascal, and disguised and suborned 
 
 for that imposture, — O villany ! O villany ! — by 
 the contrivance of — 
 
 Lady Wish. I shall faint, I shall die, oh ! 
 
 Foib. [Aside to Waitwell.] Say 'tis your 
 nephew's hand — quickly, his plot, swear it, swear it ! 
 
 Wait. Here's a villain ! madam, don't you per- 
 ceive it, don't you see it ? 
 
 Lady Wish. Too well, too well ! I have seen too 
 much. 
 
 Wait. I told you at first I knew the hand. — A 
 woman's hand ! The rascal writes a sort of a large 
 hand ; your Roman hand— I saw thiere was a throat 
 to be cut presently. If he were my son, as he is 
 lily nephew, I'd pistol him ! 
 
 Foib. O treachery ! — But are yousurfe, sir Row- 
 land, it is his writing ? 
 
 Wait. Sure 1 am I here .' do I live .' do I love 
 this pearl of India ? I have twenty letters in my 
 pocket from him in the same character. 
 
 Lady Wish. How ! 
 
 Foih. O'. what luck it is, sir Rowland^ that yon 
 were present at this juncture !— This was the busi- 
 ness that brdughtMr. Mirabell disguised to madam 
 MiUamant this afternoon. I thought something 
 was contriving, when he stole by me and would 
 have hid his face. 
 
 Lady Wish. How, how !^I heard the villairi 
 was in the house indeed ; and nbw I remember, my 
 niece went away abruptly, when sir WilfuU was to 
 have made his addresses. 
 
 ; Foib. Then, theh, madam, Mr. Mirabell waited 
 for her in her chamber ! but I would not tell your 
 ladyship to discompose you when you were to 
 receive sir Rowland. 
 
 Wait. Enough, his date is short. 
 
 Foib. Noj good sir Rowland, don't incur the law. 
 
 Wait. Law ! I care not foe law. . I can but die, 
 and 'tis in a good cause. — My lady shall be satisfied 
 of my truth and innocence,, though it cos't me my 
 life. '. 1 
 
 Lady Wish. No, dear sir Rowland, don't fight; 
 if you should be killed I must never show my face ; 
 or hanged — O, consider ihy reputation^ sir Row- 
 land ! — No^y^ou shan't fight — I'll go in and examine 
 my niece ; I'll make her confess. I conjure youj 
 sir Rowland, by all your love, not to fight. i 
 
 Wait. I am charmed, madam, I obey. But 
 some proof you must let me give you ; I'll go for a 
 black box, which contains the writings of my whole 
 estate, and deliver that into your hands. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, dear sir Rowland, that will be 
 some comfort, bring the black box. 
 
 Wait. And may I presume to bring a contract 
 to be signed this night ? may I hope so far ? 
 
 Lady Wish. Bring what you will; but come alive^ 
 pray come alive. Oh, this iS a happy discovery I 
 
 Wait. Dead or alive I'll come — and married we 
 will be in spite of treachery ; ay, and get an heir 
 that shall defeat the last remaining glimpse of hope 
 in ,my abandoned nephew. Come, my buxoni 
 widow : — • 
 
 Ere long you shall substantial proof receive. 
 
 That I'm.An.ei'rant knight — 
 
 Foib, [Aside.] Or errant knave. 
 
 [ Exeunt. 
 
282 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Boom in Lady AVishfort's 
 House. 
 
 Lady WisHFOiiT and Foible. 
 
 LadyWish. Out of my house, out of ray house, 
 thou griper! thou serpent, that I have fostered! 
 thou bosom traitress, that I raised from nothing ! 
 — Begone ! begone ! begone ! — go I' go ! — That I 
 took from washing of old gauze and weaving of dead 
 hair, with a bleak blue nose over a chafing-dish of 
 starved embers, and dining behind a traverse rag, 
 in a shop no bigger than a birdcage ! — Go, go 1 
 starve again, do, do ! 
 
 Foib. Dear madam, I'll beg pardon on my 
 knees. 
 
 Lady Wish. Away ! out ! out ! — Go, set up for 
 yourself again ! — Do, drive a trade, do, with your 
 three-pennyworth of small ware, flaunting upon a 
 packthread, under a brandy- seller's bulk, or against 
 a dead wall by a ballad-monger ! Go, hang out an 
 old Frisoneer gorget, with a yard of yellow, colber- 
 teen again ! Do ; an old gnawed mask, two rows 
 of pins, arid a child's fiddle ; a glass necklace with 
 the beads broken, and a quilted nightcap with one 
 ear ! Go, go, drive a trade ! — These were your 
 commodities, you treacherous trull ! this was the 
 merchandise you dealt in when I took you into my 
 house, placed you next myself, and made you 
 govemante of my whole family ! You have forgot 
 this, have you, now you have feathered your 
 nest ? 
 
 Foih. No, no, dear madam. Do but hear me, 
 have but a moment's patience, I'll confess all. 
 ' Mr. Mirabell seduced me ; I am not the first that 
 he has wheedled with his dissembling tongue ; your 
 ladyship's own wisdom has been deluded by him ; 
 then how should I, a poor ignorant, defend myself .' 
 O madam, if you knew but what he promised me, 
 and how he assured me your ladyship should come 
 to no damage ! — Or else the wealth of the Indies 
 should not have bribed me to conspire against so 
 good, so sweet, so kind a lady as you have been 
 to me. 
 
 Lady Wish. No damage ! What, to betray me, 
 and marry me to a cast-servingman ! to make me a 
 receptacle, an hospital for a decayed pimp ! No 
 damage! O thou frontless impudence, more than 
 a big-bellied actress ! 
 
 Foib. Pray, do but hear me, madam ; he could 
 not marry your ladyship, madam. — No, indeed, his 
 marriage was to have been void in law, for he was 
 married to me first, to secure your ladyship. He 
 could not have bedded your ladyship ; for if he had 
 consummated with your ladyship, he must have run 
 the risk of the law, and been put upon his clergy. 
 — Yes, indeed, I inquired of the law in that case 
 before I would meddle or make. 
 
 Lady Wish. What then, I have been your pro- 
 perty, have I I I have been convenient to you, it 
 seems !— While you were catering for Mirabell, I 
 have been broker for you ! What, have you made 
 a passive bawd of me ? — This exceeds all prece- 
 dent ; I am brouglit to fine uses, to become a 
 
 botcher of second-hand marriages between Abigails 
 and Andrews ! — I'll couple you ! — Yes, I'll baste 
 you together, you and your Philander ! I'll Duke's- 
 place you, as I am a person ! Your turtle is in 
 custody already : you shall coo in the same cage, 
 if there be a constable or warrant in the parish. 
 
 \_Emt. 
 Foib. Oh that ever I was born ! Oh that I was 
 ever married ! — A bride ! — ay, I shall be a Bride- 
 well-bride. — Oh ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Mrs. Fainall and Foiblk. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Poor Foible, what's the matter ? 
 
 Foib. O madam, my lady 's gone for a constable 
 I shall be had to a justice, and put to Bridewell 
 to beat hemp. Poor Waitwell's gone to prison 
 already, 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Have a good heart, Foible ; Mira- 
 bell's gone to give security for him. This is all 
 Marwood's and my husband's doing. 
 
 Foib. Yes, yes ; I know it, madam : she was in 
 my lady's closet, and overheard all that you said 
 to me before dinner. She sent the letter to my 
 lady ; and that missing effect, Mr. Fainall laid this 
 plot to arrest Waitwell, when he pretended to go 
 for the papers ; and in the mean time Mrs. Marwood 
 declared all to my lady. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Was there no mention made of me 
 in the letter .' My mother does not suspect my 
 being in the confederacy ? I fancy Marwood has 
 not told her, though she has told my husband. 
 
 Foib. Yes, madam ; but my lady did not see that 
 part ; we stifled the letter before she read so far.— 
 Has that mischievous devil told Mr. Fainall of yqur 
 ladyship then .' 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ay, all's out — my affair with Mira- 
 bell — everything discovered. This is the last day 
 of our living together, that's my comfort. 
 
 Foib. Indeed, madam ; and so 'tis a comfort if 
 you knew all ; — he has been even with your lady- 
 ship, which I could have told you long enough 
 since, but I love to keep peace and quietness by 
 my goodwill. I had rather bring friends together, 
 than set 'em at distance : but Mrs. Marwood and 
 he are nearer related than ever their parents thought 
 for, 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Sayest thou so, Foible .' canst thou 
 prove this .' 
 
 Foib. I can take my oath of it, madam ; so can 
 Mrs. Mincing. We have had many a fair word 
 from Madam Marwood, to conceal something that 
 passed in our chamber one evening when you were 
 at Hyde-park ; and we were thought to have gone 
 a-vralking, but we went up unawares ; — though we 
 were sworn to secrecy too. Madam Marwood took 
 a book and swore us upon it, but it was but a book 
 of poems. So long as it was not a bible-oath, we 
 may break it with a safe conscience. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. This discovery is the most oppor- 
 tune thing I could T^ish. — Now, IMincing! 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 283 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Mrs. Fainai.l, Foiblb, ami Mincixg. 
 
 Min. Mylady would speak with Mrs.Foible, mem. 
 Mr. Mirabell is with her ; he has set your spouse 
 at liberty, Mrs. Foible, and would have you hide 
 yourself in my lady's closet till my old lady's anger 
 is abated. Oh, my old lady is in a perilous passion 
 at something Mr. Fainall has said ! he swears, and 
 my old lady cries. There's a fearful hurricane, I 
 vow. He says, mem, how that he'll have my lady's 
 fortune made over to him, or he'll be divorced. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Does your lady or Mirabell know 
 that ? 
 
 Min. Yes, mem ; they have sent me to see if sir 
 Wilful! be sober, and to bring him to them. My 
 lady is resolved to have him, I think, rather than 
 lose such a vast sum as six thousand pounds. — O 
 come, Mrs. Foible, I hear my old lady. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Foible, you must tell Mincing that 
 she must prepare to vouch when 1 call her. 
 
 Foib. Yes, yes, madam, 
 
 Min. O yes, mem, I'll vouch anything for your 
 ladyship's service, be what it will. 
 
 SCENE TV. 
 Mrs. Fainall, Lady AVjshfort, and Mrs. Makwooi?. 
 
 Lndp Wit-h. O my dear friend, how can 1 enu- 
 merate the benefits that I have received from your 
 goodness I To you I owe the timely discovery of 
 the false vows of Mirabell ; to you I owe the 
 detection of the impostor sir Rowland. And now 
 you are become an intercessor with my son-in-law, 
 to save the honour of my house, and compound for 
 the frailties of my daughter. Well, friend, you are 
 enough to reconcile me to the bad world, or else I 
 would retire to deserts and solitudes, and feed harm- 
 less sheep by groves and purling streams. Dear 
 Marwood, let us leave the world, and retire by our- 
 selves and be shepherdesses. 
 
 Mar. Let us first despatch the affair in hand, 
 madam. We shall have leisure to think of retire- 
 ment afterwards. Here is one who is concerned 
 in the treaty. 
 
 Lady Wish. O daughter, daughter ! is it pos- 
 sibie^thou shouldst be my child, bone of my bone, 
 and flesh of my flesh, and, as I may say, another 
 me, and yet transgress the most minute particle of 
 severe virtue? Is it possible you should lean aside 
 to iniquity, who have been cast in the direct mould 
 of virtue ? I have not only been a mould but a 
 pattern for you, and a model for you, after you were 
 brought into the world. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I don't understand your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Wish. Not understand ! Why, have you 
 not been naught ? have you not been sophisticated ? 
 Not understand! here I am ruined to compound 
 for your caprices and your cuckoldoms. I must 
 pawn ray plate and ray jewels, and ruin my niece, 
 and all little enough' — 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I am wronged and abused, and so 
 are you. 'Tis a false accusation, as false as hell, 
 as false as your friend there, ay, or your friend's 
 friend, my false husband. 
 
 Mar. My friend, Mrs. Fainall I your husband 
 my friend ! what do you mean ? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I know what I mean, madam, and 
 
 50 do you; and so ehall ilie woiid at a time con- 
 venient. 
 
 Mar. I am sorry to see you so passionate, 
 madam. More temper would look more like inno- 
 cence. But I have done. I am sorry my zeal to 
 serve your ladyship and family should admit oi 
 misconstruction, or make me liable to affronts. You 
 will pardon me, madam, if I meddle no more with 
 an affair in which I am not personally concerned. 
 
 Lady Wish. O dear friend, I am so ashamed 
 that you should meet with such returns ! — [7^0 
 Mrs. Fainall.] You ought to ask pardon on your 
 knees, ungrateful creature ! she deserves more 
 from you than all your life can accomplish. — [^To 
 Mrs. Marwood.] Oh, don't leave me destitute 
 in this perplexity! — no, stick to me, my good 
 genius. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I tell you, madam, you are abused. 
 — Stick to you ! ay, like a leech, to suck your best 
 blood — she'll drop off when she's full. Madam, 
 you shan't pawn a bodkin, nor part with a brass 
 counter, in composition for me. I defy 'em all. 
 Let'em prove their aspersions; I know my own 
 innocence, and dare stand a trial. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Lady Wishfort and Jlrs. RlARWOOD. 
 
 Lady Wish. Why, if she should be innocent, if 
 she should be wronged after all, ha ? — I don't know 
 what to think ; — and I promise you lier educa- 
 tion has been unexceptionable — I may say it ; 
 for I chiefly raade it my own care to initiate her 
 very infancy in the rudiments of virtue, and to im- 
 press upon her tender years a young odium and 
 aversion to the very sight of men ; — ay, friend, she 
 would ha' shrieked if she had but seen a man, till 
 she was in her teens. As I am a person 'tis true ; 
 — she was never suffered to play with a male child, 
 though but in coats; nay, her very babies were of 
 the feminine gender. Oh, she never looked a 
 man in the face but her own father, or the chap- 
 lain, and him we made a shift to put upon her for 
 a woman, by the help of his long garments, and 
 his sleek face, till she was going in her fifteen. 
 
 Mar, 'Twas much she should be deceived so 
 long. 
 
 Ladi/ Wish. I warrant you, or she would never 
 have borne to have been catechised by him ; and 
 have heard his long lectures against singing and 
 dancing, and such debaucheries ; and going to filthy 
 plays, and profane music-meetings, where the lewd 
 trebles squeak nothing but bawdy, and the basses 
 roar blasphemy. Oh, she would have swooned at the 
 sight or name of an obscene play-book 1 — and can 
 I think, after all this, that my daughter can be 
 naught ? What, a whore ? and thought it excom- 
 munication to set her foot within the door of a play- 
 house ! O dear friend, I can't believe it, no, no ! 
 as she says, let him prove it, let him prove it. 
 
 Mar. Prove it, madam ! What, and have your 
 name prostituted in a public court ! yours and 
 your daughter's reputation worried at the bar by a 
 pack of bawling lawyers ! To be xishered in with 
 an O yes of scandal ; and have your case opened 
 by an old fumbUng lecher in a quoif like a man- 
 midwife ; to bring your daughter's infamy to li^ht; 
 to be a theme for legal punsters and quibblcrs by 
 the statute ; and become a jest against a rule of 
 
284 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 court, where there is no precedent for a jest in any 
 record — not even ia doomsday-book ; to discom- 
 pose the gravity of the bench, and provokp naughty 
 interrogatories in more naughty law Latin ; while 
 the good judge, tickled with the proceeding,, sim- 
 pers under a grey beard, and fidges off and on his 
 cushion as if he had swallowed cantharides, or sat 
 upon cow-itch ! — 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, 'tis very hard ! 
 
 Mar. And then to have my young, revellers of 
 the Temple take notes, like 'prentices at a conven- 
 ticle ; and after talk it over again in commons, or 
 before drawers in an eating-house. 
 
 Lady Wish. Worse and worse ! 
 
 Mar. Nay, this is nothing ; if it would end here 
 'twere well. But it must, after this, be consigned 
 by the short-hand writers to the public press ; and 
 from thence be transferred to the hands,, nay into 
 the throats and lungs of hawkers, with voices more 
 licentious than the loud flounder-man's : and this 
 you must hear till you are stunned ; nay, you must 
 hear nothing else for, some days. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, 'tis insupportable ! No, no, 
 dear friend, make it up, make it up ; ayj ay, I'll 
 compound. I'll give up all, myself and my all, 
 my niece and her all-^anything, everything for 
 composition. 
 
 Mar. Nay, madam, I advise nothing, I only lay 
 before youj as. a friend, the inconvenienees which 
 perhaps you have overseen. Here comes Mr. 
 Fainall ; if he will be satisfied to huddle up all in 
 silence, I shall be glad. You must think I would 
 rather congratulate than condole with you. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Lady Wishfort, Mrs. Mahwood, and Fainall. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, ay, I do not doubt it, dear 
 Marwood : no, no, I do not doubt it. 
 
 Fain. Well, madam ; I have suffered myself to 
 be overcome by the importunity of this lady your 
 friend ; and am content you shall enjoy your own 
 proper estate during life, on condition you oblige 
 yourself never to marry, under such penalty as I 
 think convenient. 
 
 Lady Wish. Never to marry ! . . , 
 
 Fain. No more sir Rowlands ; — the next Impos- 
 ture .may not be so timely detected. 
 
 Mar. That condition, I dare answer, my lady 
 will consent to without difiBculty ; she has already 
 but too much experienced the perfidiousness of 
 men. — Besides, madam, when we retire to our pas- 
 toral solitude we shall bid adieu to all other thoughts. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, that's true ; but in case of 
 necessity, as of health, or some .such emergency — 
 
 Fain. Oh, if you are prescribed marriage, you 
 shall be considered; I will only .reserve to myself 
 the power to choose for you. If your physic be 
 wholesome, it matters not who is your apothfecary. 
 Next, my wife shall settle on me the remainder of 
 her fortune, not made over already ; and for her 
 maintenance depend entirely on my discretion. 
 
 Lady Wish. This is most inhumanly savage; 
 exceeding the barbarity of a Muscovite husband. 
 
 Fain. I learned it from his Czarish majesty's 
 retinue, in a winter evening's conference over 
 brandy and pepper, amongst other secrets of matri- 
 mony and policy, as they are at present practised 
 in the northern hemisphere. But this must be 
 
 agreed unto, and that positively. Lastly, I will be 
 endowed, in right of iay wife, with that six thou- 
 sand pounds, which is th.e moiety of Mrs. Milla- 
 mant's fortune in your possession ; and which she 
 has forfeited (as will appear by the last will and 
 testament of your deceased husband, sir Jonathan 
 Wishfort) byher disobedience in contracting herself 
 against your consent or knowledge ; and by refus- 
 ing the offered match with sir Wilfull Witwoud, 
 which you, like a careful aunt, had provided for her. 
 
 Lady Wish. My nephew was non compos, ^nd 
 coiild not make his addresses. 
 
 Fain. I come to rSake demands — I'll hear no 
 objections. 
 
 Lady Wish. You will grant me time to con- 
 sider ? 
 
 Pain. Yes, while the instrument is drawing, to 
 which you must set your hand till more sufficient 
 deeds can be peirfected : which 1 will take care 
 shall be done with ajl possible speed. In the mean- 
 while I'll go for the said instrument, and till my 
 return you may balance this matter in your own 
 discretion. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Lady Wishfort and Mrs, Marwood. 
 
 Lady Wish. This insolence is beyond all prece- 
 dent, all parallel ; must I be subject to this merci- 
 less villain ? 
 
 Mar. 'Tis severe indeed, madam, that you should 
 Smart for your daughter's wantonness. 
 
 Lady Wish. 'Twas against my consent that she 
 married this barbarian, but she would have him, 
 though her year was not out. — Ah ! her first hus- 
 band, my son Languish, would not have carried it 
 thus. Well, that was my choice, this is hers ; she 
 is matched now with a witness. — I shall be mad ! — 
 Dear friend, is there no comfort for me ? must I 
 live to be confiscated at this rebel-rate .'—Here 
 come two more of my Egyptian plagues too. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Lady Wishfort, Mrs. Marwood, Millamant, and Sir 
 Wilfull Witwoud. 
 
 Sir Wil. Aunt, your servant. 
 
 Lady Wish. Out caterpillar, call not me aunt ! 
 I know thee not! 
 
 Sir Wil. I confess I have been a little in dis- 
 guise, as they say. — S'heart ! and I'm sorry for't. 
 What would you have ? I hope I have committed 
 no offence, aunt — and if I did I am willing to make 
 satisfaction ; and what can a man say fairer ? If I 
 have broke anything I'll pay for't, an it cost a 
 pound. And so let that content for what's past, 
 and make no more words. For what's to come, to 
 pleasure you I'm willing to marry my cousin. So 
 pray let's all be friends, she and I are agreed upon 
 the matter before a witness. 
 
 Lady Wish. How's this, dear niece ? have I any 
 comfort ? can this be true ? 
 
 Mil. I am content to be a sacrifice to your 
 repose, madam ; and to convince you that I had no 
 hand in the plot, as you were misinformed, I have 
 laid my commands on Mirabell to come in person, 
 and be a witness that I give my hand to this flower 
 of knighthood; and fur the contract that passed 
 
8CEN£ X. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 28fl 
 
 between Mirabell and me, I have obliged him to 
 make a resignation of it in your ladyship's pre- 
 sence ; — he is without, and waits yonr leave for 
 admittance. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, I '11 swear I am something 
 revived at this testimony of your obedience ; but I 
 cannot admit that traitor. — I fear I cannot fortify 
 myself to support his appearance. He is as terrible 
 to me as a gorgon ; if I see him I fear I shall turn, 
 to stone, and petrify incessantly. 
 
 M%L If you disoblige him, he may resent your 
 refusal, and insist upon the contract still. Then 
 'tis the last time he will be offensive to you. 
 
 Lady Wish. Are you sure it will be the last 
 time ? — If I were sure of that — shall I never see 
 him again ? 
 
 Mil. Sir WilfuU, you and he are to travel 
 together, are you not ? 
 
 Sir Wil. S'heart, the gentleman's a civil gentle- 
 man, aunt, let him come in ; why, we are sworn 
 brothers and fellow-travellers. — We are to be 
 Pylades and Orestes, he and I. — ^He is to be my 
 interpreter in foreign parts. He has been over- 
 seas orioe already ; and with proviso that I marry 
 my cousin, will cross 'em once again, only to bear 
 me company. — S'heart, I'll call him in, — an I set 
 on't once, he shall come in ; and see who'll hinder 
 him. {Goes to the (Loot andUems. 
 
 Mar. This is precious fooling, if it would pass ; 
 but I'll know the bottojn of it. 
 
 Lady Wish. O dear Marwood, you are not 
 going ? 
 
 Mar. Not far, madam ; I'll return immediately. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Lady Wishfort, Millamant, Sir Wilfull, and, 
 
 Mirabell. 
 
 Sir Wil. Look up, man, I'll stand by you; 
 'sbud an she do frown, she can't kill you ; — besides 
 — harkee, she dare not frown desperately, because 
 her face is none of her own. S'heart, an she 
 should, her forehead would wrinkle like the coat of 
 a cream-cheese ; but mum for that, fellow-traveller. 
 
 Mir. If a deep sense of the many injuries I have 
 offered to so good a lady, with a sincere remorse, 
 and a hearty contrition, can but obtain the least 
 glance of compassion, lam toohappy. — ^Ah, madam, 
 there was a time ! — but let it be forgotten — I con- 
 fess I have deservedly forfeited the high place I 
 once held of sighing at your feet. Nay, kill me 
 not, by turning from me in disdain. — I come not 
 to plead for favour ; — nay, not for pardon ; I am a 
 suppliant only for pity — I am going where I never 
 shall behold you more — 
 
 Sir Wil. How, fellow-traveller ! you shall go by 
 yourself then. • 
 
 Mir. Let me be pitied first, and afterwards for- 
 gotten. — I ask no more. 
 
 Sir Wil. By'r Lady, a very reasonable request, 
 and will cost you nothing, aunt! Come, come, 
 forgive and forget, aunt ; why you must an you are 
 a Christian. 
 
 Mir. Consider, madam, in reality, you could not 
 receive much prejudice j it was an innocent device ; 
 though I confess it had a face of guiltiness, — it was 
 at most an artifice which love contrived ; — and 
 errors which love produces have ever been accounted 
 venial. At least think it is punishment enough, 
 that I have lost what in my heart I hold most dear. 
 
 that to your cruel indignation I ha,ve offered up this 
 beauty, and with her my peace and quiet ; nay, all 
 my hopes of future comfort. 
 
 Sir Wil. An he does not move me, would I may 
 never be o' the quorum ! — ^an it were not as good a 
 deed as to drink, to give, her to him again, I would 
 I might never take shipping ! — Aunt, if you don't 
 forgive quicklyj I shall melt, I can tell you that. 
 My contract went no farther than a little mouth- 
 glue, and that's hardly dry ; — one doleful sigh 
 more from my fellow-traveller, and 'tis dissolved. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, nephew, upon your account 
 — Ah, he hasa false insinuating tonguel^^Well, sir, 
 I will stifle my just resentment at my nephew's 
 request. — I will endeavour what I can to forget, — 
 but on proviso that you resign the contract with 
 my niece immediately. 
 
 Mir. It is in writing, and with papers of concern ; 
 but I have sent my servant for it, and will deliver 
 it to you, with all acknowledgments for your trans- 
 cendent goodness. 
 
 Lady Wish.— [Aside.'] Oh, he has witchcraft 
 in his eyes and tongue ! — When I did not see him, 
 I could have Tjribed a villain to his assassination ; 
 but his appearance rakes the embers which have 
 so long lain smothered in my breast. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Lady Wishfort, Millamant, Sir Wilfull, Mirabell, 
 Fainall, artd Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Fain. Your date of deliberation, madam, is 
 expired. Here is the instrument ; are you pre- 
 pared to sign ? 
 
 Lady Wish. If I were prepared, I am not im- 
 powered. My niece exerts a lawful claim, having 
 matched herself by my direction to sir Wilfull. 
 
 Fain. That sham is too gross to pass on me — 
 though 'tis imposed on you, madam. 
 
 Mil. Sir, I have given my consent. 
 
 Mir. And, sir, I have resigned my pretensions. 
 
 Sir Wil. And, sir, I assert my right ; and wall 
 maintain it in defiance of you, sir, and of your 
 instrument. S'heart, an you talk of an instru- 
 ment, sir, I have an old fox by my thigh shall hack 
 your instrument of rara vellum to shreds, sir ! — it 
 shall not be sufficient for a mittimus or a tailor's 
 measure. Therefore withdraw your instrument, 
 sir, or, by'r Lady, I shall draw mine. 
 
 Lady Wish. Hold, nephew, hold ! 
 
 Mil. Good sir Wilfull, respite your valour. 
 
 Fain. Indeed ! Are you provided of your 
 guard, with your single beef-eater there ? but I'm 
 prepared for you, and insist upon my first pro- 
 posal. You shall submit your own estate to my 
 management, and absolutely make over my wife's 
 to my sole use, as pursuant to the purport and 
 tenor of this other covenant. — I suppose, madam, 
 your consent is not requisite in this case ; nor, 
 Mr. Mirabell, your resignation ; nor, sir Wilfull, 
 your right. — You may draw your fox if you please, 
 sir, and make a bear-garden flourish somewhere 
 else ; for here it will not avail. This, my lady Wish- 
 fort, must be subscribed, or your darling daugh- 
 ter's turned adrift, like a leaky hulk, to sink or 
 swim, as she and the current of this lewd town can 
 agree. 
 
 Lady Wish. Is there no means, no remedy to 
 stop my ruin ? Ungrateful wretch ! dost thou 
 
2sr, 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 not owe thy being, thy subsistence, to my daughter's 
 fortune ? 
 
 Fain. I'll answer you when I have the rest of it 
 in my possession. 
 
 Mir. But that you would not accept of a remedy 
 from my hands— I own I have not deserved you 
 should owe any obhgation to me ; or else perhaps 
 1 could advise — 
 
 Lady Wish. what ? what? to save me and 
 my child from ruin, from want, I'll forgive all that's 
 past; nay, I'll consent to anything to come, to be 
 delivered from this tyranny. 
 
 Mir. Ay, madam ; but that is too late, my 
 reward is intercepted. You have disposed of her 
 who only could have made me a compensation lor 
 all my services ; but be it as it may, I am resolved 
 I'll serve you ; you shall not be wronged in this 
 savage manner. 
 
 Ladi/ Wish. How ! dear Mr. Mirabell, can you 
 be so generous at last ! But it is not possible. 
 Harkee, I'll break my nephew's match ; you shall 
 have my niece yet, and all her fortune, if you can 
 but save me from this imminent danger. 
 
 Mir. Will you ? I'll take you at your word. I 
 ask no more. I must have leave for two criminals 
 to appear. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, ay, anybody, anybody ! 
 
 Mir. Foible is one, and a penitent. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Larly ■\VisHFORT, Millamant, Sir "Wilfull, Miu/Vbei,l, 
 
 Fainall, Mrs, Marwood, Mrs. Fainall, Foible, ami 
 
 Mincing. 
 
 Mar. O my shame ! [Mikabell and Lady 
 WisHFORT go to Mrs. Fainall and Foible.] 
 These corrupt things are brought hither to expose 
 me. [2*0 Fai.vall. 
 
 Fain. If it must all come out, why let 'em 
 know it ; 'tis but the way of the world. That 
 shall not urge me to relinquish or abate one tittle 
 of my terras ; no, I will insist the more. 
 
 Foib. Yes indeed, madam. 111 take my bible 
 oath of it. 
 
 Min. And so will I, mem. 
 
 Lady Wish. O Marwood, Mavwood, art thou 
 false ? my friend deceive me ! hast thou been a 
 wicked accomplice with that profligate man ? 
 
 Mar. Have you so much ingratitude and 
 injustice to give credit against year friend, to the 
 aspersions of two such mercenary trulls .' 
 
 Min. Mercenary, mem ? I scorn your words. 
 'Tis true we found you and Mr. Fainall in the blue 
 garret ; by the same token, you swore us to secrecy 
 upon Messalina's poems. Mercenary ! No, if we 
 would have been mercenary, we should have held 
 our tongues; you would have bribed us sufficiently. 
 
 Fain. Go, you are an insignificant thing ! — 
 Well, what are you the better for this ? is this 
 Mr. Mirabell's expedient .' I'll be put off no lon- 
 ger. — You thing, that was a wife, shall smart for 
 this ! I will not leave thee wherewithal to hide 
 thy shame ; your body shall be naked as your 
 reputation. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I despise you, and defy your malice! 
 
 you have aspersed me wrongfully — I have proved 
 
 jour falsehood — go you and your treacherous — I 
 will not name it, but starve together — perish ! 
 
 Fain. Not while you are worth a groat, indeed, 
 my dear.—Madam, I'll be fooled no longer. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ah, Mr. Mirabell, this is small 
 comfort, the detection of this affair. 
 
 Mir. Oh, in good time — your leave for the 
 other offender and penitent to appear, madam. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Lady "Wishfort, Millamant, Sir "Wilfull, Mihabbll, 
 Fainall, Mrs. Fainall, Mrs. Mauwood, Foible, Min- 
 cing, and Waitwbll, with a box of writings. 
 
 Lady Wish. O sir Rowland ! — Well, rascal ! 
 
 Wait. What your ladyship pleases. I have 
 brought the black box at last, madam. 
 
 Mir. Give it me. — Madam, you remember your 
 promise. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, dear sir. 
 
 Mir. Where are the gentlemen 1 
 
 Wait. At hand, sir, rubbing their eyes — ^just 
 risen from sleep. 
 
 Fain. 'Sdeath, what's this to me ? I'll not wait 
 your private concerns. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 Lady WrsiiFORT, Millamant, Sir Wilfull, M.'RAbellj 
 Fainall, Mrs. Marwood. Mi-s. Fainall, Foible, Min- 
 cing, Waitwell, Petulant, and WiTWOUD. 
 
 Pet. How now? What's the matter? whose 
 hand's out ? 
 
 IVit. Heyday ! what, are you all got together, 
 like players at the end of the last act ? 
 
 Mir. You may remember, gentlemen, I once 
 requested your hands as witnesses to a certain 
 parchment. 
 
 Wit. Ay, I do, my hand 1 remember — Petulant 
 set his mark. 
 
 Mir. You wrong him, his name is fairly writ- 
 ten, as shall appear You do not remember, 
 
 gentlemen, anything of what that parchment 
 contained ? — \Undoing the box. 
 
 Wit. No. 
 
 Pet. Not I ; I writ, I read nothing. 
 
 Mir. Very well, now you shall know. — Madam, 
 your promise. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, ay, sir, upon my honour. 
 
 Mir, Mr. Fainall, it is now time that you should 
 know, that your lady, while she was at her own 
 disposal, and before you had by your insinuations 
 wheedled her out of a pretended settlement of the 
 greatest part of her fortune — 
 
 Fain. Sir ! pretended ! 
 
 Mir. Yes, sir. I say that this lady while a 
 widow, having it seems received some cautions 
 respecting your inconstancy and tyranny of tenlper, 
 which from her own partial opinion and fondness 
 of you she could never have suspected — she did, I 
 say, by the wholesome advice of friends, and of 
 sages learned in the laws of this land, deliver this 
 same as her act and deed to me in trust, and to the 
 uses within mentioned. You may read if you 
 please — [Holding out the parchment] though per- 
 haps what is written on the back may serve your 
 occasions. 
 
 Fain. Very likely, sir. What's here ? — Damna- 
 tion ! — [Reads.] A deedof conveyance of the whole 
 estate real of Arabella Languish, toidow, t» trust 
 to Edward Mirabell. — Confusion ! 
 
 Mir. Even so, sir ; 'tis the Way of the World, _ 
 
SCENE XIV. 
 
 THE A\ AY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 2i)7 
 
 sir; of file widovs of the world. I s'jppc=e this 
 de«i may l>ear an elder date than ^liat you have 
 obtaioed from yonr lady. 
 
 Fain, Perfidums fiend! then tlius I'll be re- 
 Tcnaied. [Qi^n to run at ?lr=. Fainali- 
 
 Sir Wil. Hold, sir ! now you may make your 
 bear-garden floaiish somewhere ehe. sir. 
 
 Fain. Mirabell, yon sball hear of tl;i=, sir, be 
 sure you shall. — Let me pa==, oaf ! [Ex/f. 
 
 Mrs. Fain, ililadam, yoa seem to stifie your re- ■ 
 seritment : you bad better give it Tent. 
 
 Mar. Ye^. it shall hare vent — and to yrcr con- ) 
 fusion ; or I^U perish in the attempt | 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 
 Lady WiSHFOBT, Mitxamavt, '^Iirabexjl, Mr? Falvall, 
 Sir "Welfcix, Peixlaxt, Witttcid, Foible, M.-nxixg, 
 and WAUirEhL, 
 
 T^y Wish. O daughter, daughter! 'tis plain 
 tlion hast inherited thy mother's prudence. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Thank Mr. Mirabell, a cautions 
 friend, to whose advice all is owing. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, Mr. Mirabell, you have kept 
 yonr promise — and I must perform mine. — ^First, I 
 pardon, for yonr sake, sir Rowland there, and 
 Foible ; the next thin^ is to break the matter to 
 my nephew — and Lo^ to do that — 
 
 Jlir. For that, madam, give yourself no tronble; 
 let me have your consent. Sir Wiifull is my friend ; 
 be has had compassion upon lovers, and generously 
 engaged a volunteer in this action, for our service ; 
 and now designs to prosernte his travels. 
 
 Sir Wil. S'beart, aunt, I have no mind to marry, 
 ily cousin's a fine lady, and the gentleman loves 
 her, and she lores him, and they deserve one an- 
 other; my resolution is to see foreign parts — I have 
 set on't — ^and when I'm set on't I must do*t. And 
 if these t-:7o gentlemen would travel too, I think 
 they may be spared. 
 
 Pel. For iry part, I say li;tle— I tliink thing? 
 are best off nr on. 
 
 Wii. I'gad, I understand nothing of the matter; 
 I'm in a maze yet. like a Co^ in a dancing-school. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, sir, take her, and with her 
 all the joy I can give you. 
 
 MU. Why does not the man take me ? would 
 you have me give myself to you over o^^in ? 
 
 Mir. Ay, and over and over again ; [Kisses her 
 hand.'} I would have you as often as possibly I can. 
 Well, heaven grant I love you not too well, that's 
 all my fear, 
 
 5(rll i/. S'beart, you'll have ^;me enough to tcv 
 after you're married ; or if yon will toy now, let us 
 have a dance in the mean time, that we who are not 
 lovers may have some other employment besides 
 looking on. 
 
 Mir. With all my heart, dear sir Wilfull. What 
 shall we do for music ? 
 
 Foib. O sir, some that were provided for sir 
 Rowland's entertainment are yet within calL 
 A Dance. 
 
 Lady WUh. As I am a person, I can hold oot 
 no longer; — I have wasted my spirits so to-day 
 already, that I am ready to sink under the fatigue; 
 and I cannot but have some fears upon me vet, 
 that my son Fainall will pursue some desperate 
 course. 
 
 M'lr. Madam, disquiet not yourself on that ac- 
 count ; to my knowledge his circumstances .are 
 such he must of force comply. For my part, I wi^i 
 contribute all that in me lies to a reunion ; in tlis 
 mean time, madam,— [To Mrs. Faixall.] let me 
 before these witnesses restore to yoa this deed oi 
 trust ; it may be a means, well-managed, to make 
 yoa live easily together- 
 
 Fromhence let those be warn'd.whomeantowed ; 
 
 Lest mutual falsehood stain the bridal bed ; 
 
 For each deceiver to his cost may find. 
 
 That marriage-frauds too oft are paid in kind. 
 
 \_Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MKS. BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 ! After, our Epilogue this crowd dijinisses, 
 
 I'm thinkii^ how this play'll be puU'd tD pieces. 
 j But pray consider, ere you doom its fall. 
 
 How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all. 
 ! There are some critics so with spleen diieased, 
 
 They scarcely come inclining to be pleased : 
 . And sure he must have more than mortal skill, 
 I Who pleases any one agzunst his will. 
 ' Then all bad poets we are sure are foes. 
 
 And how th^ number's swelled, the town well kn c^s : 
 
 In shoals I've mark'd 'em judging in the pit : 
 ( Though they're, on no pretence, for judgment fit, 
 
 But that they have been damn'd for want of wit. 
 I Since when, they by their own offences taught, 
 
 Set up for spies on plays, and finding fault. 
 
 Others there are whose malice we'd prevent ; 
 1 Such who watch plays with scurrilous intent 
 ; To ciazk oit who by characters are meant. 
 
 And though no perfect likeness they can trace, 
 
 Yet each pretends to know the copied fice. 
 
 These with false glosses feed their own iU nature. 
 
 And turn to libel what was meant a satire. 
 
 i^Iay such malicious fops this fortune find. 
 
 To think themselves alone the fools design'd : 
 
 If any are so arrogantly vain. 
 
 To think they singly can support a scene. 
 
 And furnish fool enough to entertain. 
 
 For well the leam'd and the judicious know 
 
 That satire scorns to stoop so meanly low. 
 
 As any one abstracted fop to show. 
 
 For, as when painters form a matchless face. 
 
 They from each fair one catch some different grace; 
 
 And shining features in one portrait blend, 
 
 To which no single beauty must pretend; 
 
 So poets oft do in one piece expose 
 
 Whole belles- assemblees of cccjuettes and ocaux. 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS. 
 
 - Vincis utiramque Venus. 
 
 Ovid, de Arte.Amandi. lib, i 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Goddess ort)iscord, at the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, conveys a GoWen Apple among the Goddesses, with 
 this inscription on It, To the Fairest. Juno, Pallas, and Venus lay claim to it, and each demands it as her due 
 Jupiter sends them, tinder the condtjct of Mercury, to Paris, a shepherd on Mount Ida, to be judge in this contest 
 Each Goddess pleads her right, but Paris decrees in favour of Venus, and gives her the Apple. 
 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 
 Paris. 
 Mercury. 
 Juno. 
 Pallas. 
 
 
 
 Vevus. 
 Cupids. 
 Graces. 
 Hours. 
 
 
 SCENE,— Mount Ida. 
 
 
 The scene is a landscape of a beautiful pasture 
 supposed on Mount Ida. The Shepherd Paris 
 is seen seated under a tree, and playing on his 
 pipe ; his crook and scrip ^c, lying by him. 
 H'hile a symphony is playing, Mercury rfe- 
 scends with his caduceus in one hand, and an 
 apple of gold in the other ; after the symphony 
 he sings. 
 
 Mercury. From high Olympus, and the realms 
 above, 
 Behold I come the messenger of Jove ; 
 His dread commands I bear : 
 Shepherd, arise and hear ; 
 Arise, and leave a while thy rural care ; 
 Forbear thy woolly flock to feed, 
 And lay aside ti"/ tuneful reed ; 
 For thou to greatek Itonours art decreed, 
 Paris. O Hermes, I thy godhead know. 
 By thy winged heels and head. 
 By thy rod that wakes the dead, 
 And guides the shades below. 
 Say wherefore dost thou seek this humble plain, 
 
 To greet a lowly swain ? 
 What does the mighty thunderer ordain ? 
 
 Mer. This radiant fruit behold, 
 More bright than burnish'd gold ; 
 Three Goddesses for this contend ; 
 See now they descend, 
 And this way they bend. 
 Shepherd, take the golden prize. 
 Yield it to the brightest eyes. 
 [JcNO, Pallas, and Venub, are seen at a distance 
 descending in several machines. 
 
 Par. O ravishing delight ! 
 What mortal can support the sight ? 
 
 Alas 1 too weak is human brain, 
 
 So much rapture to sustain. 
 I faint, I fall ! O take me hence, 
 Ere ecstacy invades my aching sense. 
 
 Help me, Hermes, or I die, 
 
 Save me from excess of joy. 
 Mer. Fear not, mortal, none shall harm thee , 
 With my sacred rod I'll charm thee. 
 
 Freely gaze and view all over. 
 
 Thou mayst every grace discover. 
 Though a thousand darts fly round thee. 
 Fear not, mortal, none shall wound thee. 
 
 Duett. 
 
 Mer. Happy thou of human race, 
 
 Gods with thee would change their place ! 
 Par. With no god I'd change my place, 
 
 Happy I of human race. [Mkrcury ascends 
 i_While a symphony is playina, JifNo descends from tier 
 
 machine ; after Vie symphony she sings. 
 Juno. Saturnia, wife of thundering Jove am I, 
 Beloved by him, and empress of the sky ; 
 Shepherd, fix on me thy wondering sight, 
 Beware, and view me well, and judge aright. 
 
 ISymphonyfor Pallas. 
 Pallas. This way, mortal, bend thy eyes, 
 Pallas claims the golden prize : 
 A virgin goddess free from stain. 
 And queen of arts and arms I reign. 
 
 {.Symphony for V.->n:». 
 Venus. Hither turn thee, gentle swain. 
 Let not Venns sue In vain ; 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS. 
 
 2ii9 
 
 Venus rules the gods above, 
 Love riiles them, and she rules Love. 
 Hither turn thee, gentle swain. 
 Pal. Hither turn to me again. 
 Juno. Turn to me, for I am she. 
 All three. To me, to me, for T am she. 
 Ven. Hither turn thee, gentle swain. 
 Juuo and Pah She will deceive thee. 
 Ven. They will deceive thee, I'll nevef leave thee. 
 Chorus ofQic three Goddesses. 
 Hither turn to me again. 
 To me, to me, for I am she ; 
 Hither turn thee, gentle swain. 
 Par. Distracted I turn, but I cannot decide ; 
 So equafa title sure never was tried. 
 United, your beauties so dazzle the sight, 
 That lost in amaze, 
 I giddily gaze', 
 Confused and o'erwhelm'd with a torrent of light. 
 
 Apart let me view then each heavenly fair. 
 For three at a time there's no mortal can bear^ 
 And since a gay robe an ill shape may disguise. 
 When each is undrest, -' 
 I'll judge of the best. 
 For 'tis not aYace that must carry the prize. 
 Juno sings. 
 Let ambition fire thy mind, 
 
 Thou wert born o'er men to reign, 
 Not to follow fioclfs design'd ; 
 
 Scorn thy crook, and leave the plain. 
 
 Crowns I'll throw beneath thy feet. 
 Thou on necks of kings s'liall tread, 
 
 Joys in circles joys shall meet, 
 Which way e'er thy fancies lead. 
 
 Let not toils of empire fright, 
 
 Toils of empire pleasures are ; 
 Thou shalt only know delight, 
 
 All the joy, but not the care. 
 
 Shepherd, if thou*lt yield the pi-ize 
 
 For the blessings I bestow. 
 Joyful ru ascend the skies, 
 
 Happy thou shalt reign below. 
 
 Choriis. 
 Let ambition fire thy mind, 
 
 Thou wert bom o'er men to reign, 
 Not to follow flocks design'd ; 
 
 Scorn thy crook, and leave the plain. 
 Fallas sings. 
 Awake, awake, thy spirits raise. 
 Waste not thus thy youthful days, 
 Piping, toying, 
 — Nymphs decoying. 
 Lost in wanton and inglorious ease ! 
 
 Hark, hark ! the glorious voice of war 
 Calls aloud, for arms prepare : 
 
 Drums are beating. 
 
 Rocks repeating, 
 Martial music charms the joyful air. [.Symphony, 
 
 Pallas si7igs. 
 O what joys does conquest yield I 
 When returning from the field, 
 
 O how glorious 'tis to see 
 The grodlike hero crown'd with victory ! 
 
 Laurel wreaths his bead surrounding, 
 Banners waving in the wind, 
 
 Fame her golden trumpet sounding. 
 Every voice in chorus join'd. 
 
 To me, kind swain, the prize resign. 
 
 And fame and conquest shall be thine. 
 
 Chorus, 
 
 O hoT^ glorious 'tis to see 
 The godlike hero crown'd with victory ! {.Syttyphony, 
 
 Venus sings. 
 
 Stay, lovely youth, delay thy choice; 
 
 Take heed lest empty names enthral thee ; 
 Attend to Cytherea's voice ; 
 'Lo ! I who am Love's mother call thee. 
 Far from thee be anxious care. 
 
 And racking thoughts that vex the great : 
 Empire's but a gilded snare. 
 And fickle is the warrior's fate , 
 One only joy mankind can know. 
 And love alone can that bestow. 
 
 CJiorus. 
 One only joy, &c. 
 
 Venus siings. 
 
 Nature framed thee sure for loving. 
 
 Thus adorn'd with every grace ; 
 Venus' self thy form approving, 
 
 Looks with pleasure on thy face. 
 
 Happy nymph who shall enfold thee, 
 
 Circled in her yielding arms I 
 ^hould bright Helen once behold thee, 
 
 She'd surrender all her charms. 
 
 'Fairest she, all nymphs transcending. 
 
 That the sun himself has seen. 
 Were she for the crown contendiDg, 
 
 Thou wouldst own her beauty's queen. 
 
 Gentle shepherd, if my pleading 
 
 Can from thee the prize obtain. 
 Love himself thy conquest aiding. 
 
 Thou that matchless fair shalt gain. 
 
 Far. I yield, I yield, O take the prize, 
 
 And cease, O cease the enchanting song I 
 All Love's darts are in thy eyes, 
 
 And harmony falls from thy tongue ! 
 Forbear, O goddess of desire. 
 
 Thus my ravish'd soul to move ; 
 Forbear to fan the raging fire, 
 And be propitious to my love. 
 {Here Paris gives to Venus the Golden Apple. Several 
 Cupids descend^ the three Graces alight from the 
 chariot o/yENus, they call the Hours, who assemble, 
 with all the attendants on Venus. Alljoin ina circle 
 round her, and sing the last grand chorus^ while 
 Juno and Fallas ascend. 
 
 Grand Chorus, 
 Hither all ye Graces, all ye Loves, 
 
 Hither all ye Hours resort ; 
 Billing sparrows, cooing doves ; 
 
 Come all the train of Venus' court 1 
 Sing all great Cytherea's name ; 
 Over empire, over fame, 
 Her victory proclaim. 
 Sing, sing and spread the joyful news around, 
 The queen of love is queen of beauty crown'd. 
 
 lEjreunt omnes- 
 
S E M E L E. 
 
 gin ©pera. 
 
 A natura discedimns ; populo nos damus, nuUiuB rei Isono auctori, et in hao le, sicut in omnibus, inconetan- 
 tissimo. — iSbnbca, Epist. 99. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 After Jupiter's amour with Buropa, the daughter of Agenor king of Phoenicia, he again incenses Juno by a new 
 affair in the same family ; viz. with Semele, niece to Europa, and daughter to Cadmus king of Thebes. Semele is on 
 the point of marriage with Athamas ; which marriage is about to be solemnised in the temple of Juno goddess of 
 marriages, when Jupiter .by ill omens interrupts the ceremony ; and afterwards transports Semele to a private abode 
 prepared for her. Juno, after many contrivances, at length assumes the shape and voice of Ino, sister to Semele ; by the 
 help of which disguise and artful insinuations she prevails with her to make a request to Jupiter, which being granted 
 must end in her utter ruin. 
 
 This fable is related in Ovid; (Metam. 1. iii.) but there Juno is said to impose on Semele in the shape of an old 
 woman, her nurse. It is hoped, the liberty taken in substituting Ino instead of the old woman will be excused : it was 
 done, because Ino is interwoven in the design by her love of Athamas ; to whom she was married, according to Ovid ; 
 and, because her character bears a proportion with the dignity of the other persons represented. This reason, it is 
 presumed, may be allftwed in a thing entirely fictitious ; and more especially being represented under the title of an 
 opera, where greater absurdities are every day excused. 
 
 It was not thought requisite to have any regard either to rhyme or equality of measure, in the lines of that part of 
 the dialogue which was designed for the recitative style in music. For as that style in music is not confined to the strict 
 observation of time and measure, which is required in the composition of airs and sonatas, so neither is it necessary 
 that the same exactness in numbers, rhymes, or measure, should be observed in words designed to be set in that 
 manner, which must ever be observed in the formation of odes and sonnets. For what they call recitative in music, 
 is only a more tuneable speaking, it is a kind of prose in music ; its beauty consists in coming near nature, and in 
 improving the natural accents of words by more pathetic or emphatical tones. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Jltpiter. * 
 
 Cadmus, King of Thebes. 
 Athamas, a Prince o/Baotia. in love tuiih and 
 designed to marri/ Semele. 
 
 SOMNUS. 
 
 Apoilo. 
 
 CuprD. 
 
 Zephyre. 
 
 Loves. 
 
 Shepherds. 
 
 Satyrs. 
 
 Juno. 
 
 Ibis. 
 
 Semele, Daughter to CAnMus, beloved by and 
 
 in love with Jupiter, 
 Ino, Sister to Semele, in love with Athamas. 
 Shepherdesses. 
 
 Chief Priest ofS^o, other Priests and Augurs. 
 
 SCENE,— BffiOTiA. 
 
SEMELE. 
 
 291 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Temple of Juno : near the 
 altar is a golden image of the goddess. Priests 
 are in their solemnities, as after a sacrifice 
 newly offered : flames arise from the altar, and 
 the ilatue 0/ Juno is seen to bow, 
 
 Cadmus, Athamas, Sbmele, Ino, and AttendantSt 
 1 Priest. Behold ! auspicious flashes rise ; 
 Juno accepts our sacrifice; 
 The grateful odour swift ascends, 
 And see, the golden image bends. 
 I & 2 Priest. Lucky omens bless our rites, 
 And sure success shall crown your loves ; 
 
 Peaceful days and fruitful nights 
 Atteud the pair that she approves. 
 Cad. Daughter, obey, 
 Hear, and obey, 
 With kind consenting 
 Ease a parent's care ; 
 Inveiit no new delay. 
 Alh. Oh, hear a faithful lover's prayer ! 
 On this auspicious day 
 Invent no new delay. 
 Cad. Ath. Hear, and obey ; 
 Invent no new delay 
 On this auspicious day. 
 Sem. \Apart.^ Ah me ! 
 
 What refuge now is left me ? 
 How various, how tormenting, 
 Are my miseries ! 
 
 Jove, assist me ! 
 
 Can Semele forego thy love, 
 And to a mortal's passion yield .' 
 Thy vengeance will o'ertake 
 Such perfidy. 
 If I deny, my father's wrath I fear. 
 O Jove, in pity teach me which to choose, 
 Incline me to comply, or help me to refuse. 
 Ath. See, she blushing turns her eyes ; 
 See, with sighs her bosom panting I 
 
 If from love those sighs arise, 
 Nothing to my bliss is wanting. 
 Hymen haste, thy torch prepare, 
 Love already his has lighted, 
 
 One soft sigh has cured despair. 
 And more than my past pains requited. 
 Ino. Alas ! she yields. 
 
 And has undone me : 
 
 1 can no longer hide my passion ; 
 It must have vent — 
 
 Or inward burning 
 Will consume me. 
 
 Athamas — 
 
 1 cannot utter it — 
 Ath. On me fair Ino calls 
 
 With mournful accent, 
 
 Her colour fading, 
 
 And her eyes o'erflowing ! 
 Ino. O Semele ! 
 Sem. On me she calls, 
 
 Yet seems to shun me ! 
 
 What would my sister ? 
 
 Speak ! 
 Ino. Thou hast undone me. 
 
 Cad. Why dost thou thus untimely grieve. 
 And all our solemn rites profane ? 
 Can he, or she, thy woes relieve ? 
 Or I ? of whom dost thou complain ! 
 
 Ino. Of all ; but all, I fear, in vain. 
 
 Ath. Can I thy woes relieve ? 
 
 Sem. Can I assuage thy pain .' 
 
 Cad, Ath. Sem. Of whom dost thou complain? 
 
 Ino. Of all ; but all, I fear, in vain. 
 
 lit lightens, and thunder is heard at a distance ; then a 
 noise of rain; the fire is suddenly/ extinguished on 
 the altar ; the Chief Priest comes forward. 
 
 1 Priest. Avert these omens, all ye powers ! 
 Some god averse our holy rites controls ; 
 
 O'erwhelm'd with sudden night, the day expires 1 
 
 Ill-boding thunder on the right hand rolls, 
 And Jove himself descends in showers. 
 To quench our late propitious fires. 
 Chorus 0/ Priests. 
 Avert these omens, all ye powers ! 
 
 2 Priest. Again auspicious flashes rise, 
 
 Juno accepts our sacrifice. 
 iFtames are again kindled on the altar, and the Statue 
 nods. 
 
 3 Priest, "Again the sickly flame decaying dies : 
 Juno assents, but angry Jove denies. 
 
 ITheJire is again extinguished. 
 
 Ath. lApart.] Thy aid, pronubial Juno, Atha- 
 mas implores. 
 
 Sem. [Apart.^ Thee Jove, and thee alone, thy 
 Semele adores. 
 
 ZA loud clap of thunder ; the attar sinks. 
 
 1 Priest. Cease, cease your vows, 'tis impious 
 to proceed ; 
 
 Begone, and fly this holy place with speed: 
 
 This dreadful conflict is of dire presage ; 
 
 Begone, and fly from Jove's impending rage. 
 
 \_All &«( the Priests come forward. The scene closes on 
 the Priests, and shows to view the front and outside of 
 the Temple ; Cadmus leads off Semele, Attendants 
 follow. Athamas and Ino remain. 
 
 SCENE IL 
 Athamas and Inc. 
 
 Ath. O Athamas, what torture hast thou borne 1 
 
 And oh, what hast thou yet to beat ! 
 From love, from hope, from near possession torn, 
 
 And plunged at once in deep despair. 
 Ino. Turn, hopeless lover, turn thy eyes. 
 And see a maid bemoan, 
 In flowing tears and aching sighs, 
 Thy woes too like her own. 
 Alh. She weeps ! 
 
 The gentle maid, in tender pity. 
 Weeps to behold my miserv 1 
 So Semele would melt 
 To see another mourn. 
 Such unavailing mercy is in beauty found, 
 Each nymph bemoans the smart 
 ■ Of every bleeding heart. 
 But that where she lierself inflicts the wound. 
 
2i>2 SEMELE. act u. 
 
 Ino. Ah me, too much afflicted I 
 
 The sharpest pangs that e'er were borne : 
 
 Ath. Can pity for another's pain 
 
 Prepare with me our common loss to mourn . 
 
 Cause such anxiety ! 
 
 Ath. Can fate, or Semele invent 
 
 Ino. Couldst thou but guess 
 
 Another, yet another punishment ? 
 
 What I endure ! 
 
 Cad. Wing'd with our fears, and pious haste. 
 
 Or could I tell thee— 
 
 From Juno's fane we fled ; 
 
 Thou, Athamas, 
 
 Scarce we'the brazen gates had pass'd. 
 
 Wouldst for a while 
 
 When Semele around her head 
 
 Thy sorrows cease, a little cease, 
 
 , With azure flames was graced. 
 
 And listen for a while 
 
 Whose lambent glories in her tresses play'd 
 
 To my lamenting. 
 
 ' While this we saw, with dread surprise. 
 
 jith. Of grief too sensible 
 
 Swifter than lightning dowiiwards tending 
 
 I know your tender nature. 
 
 An eagle stooped, of mighty size, 
 
 Well I remember, 
 
 On purple vrings descending ; 
 
 When I oft have sued 
 
 Like gold his beak, like stars shone forth his eyes, 
 
 To cold, disdainful Semele, 
 
 His silvor plumy breast with snow contending : 
 
 When I with scorn have been rejected. 
 
 Sudden he snatch'd the trembling maid. 
 
 Your tuneful voice my tale would, tell, 
 
 And soaring from our sight convey'd ; 
 
 In pity of my sad despair ; 
 
 Diffusing ever, as he lessening flew. 
 
 And with sweet melody, compel 
 
 Celestial odour and ambrosial dew. 
 
 Attention from the flying fair. 
 
 Ath. O prodigy, to me of dire portent ! 
 
 Ino. Too well I see 
 
 Ino. To me, I hope, of fortunate event. 
 
 Thou wilt not understand me. 
 
 
 Whence could proceed such tenderness ? 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 Whence such compassion ? 
 
 
 Insensible ! Ingrate ! 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Ah no, I cannot blame thee : 
 
 
 For by effects unknown before, 
 
 Athajub, Ino, Cahmus, »e Chief-Priest, Augurs, and 
 
 Who could the hidden cause explore ? 
 
 other Priests. 
 
 Or think that love could act so strange a part, 
 
 Cad. See, see Jove's priests, and holy augurs 
 
 To plead for pity in a rival's heart ? 
 
 come : — 
 
 Ath. Ah me, what have I heard ! 
 
 Speak, speak, of Semele and me declare the doom : 
 
 She does her passion own. 
 
 1 Aitg. Hail, Cadmus, hail 1 Jove salutes the 
 
 Ino. What, had I not despaired, 
 
 Theban king. 
 
 You never should have known. 
 
 Cease your mourning. 
 
 You've undone me ; 
 
 Joys returning. 
 
 Look not on me 
 
 Songs of mirth and triumph sing. 
 
 Guilt upbraiding ; 
 
 2 Aug. Endless pleasure, endless love 
 
 Shame invading ; 
 
 Semele enjoys above. 
 
 Look not on me ; 
 
 On her bosom Jove reclining. 
 
 You've undone me ! 
 
 Useless now his thunder lies ; 
 
 Ath. M'ith my life I would atone 
 
 To her arms his bolts resigning. 
 
 Pains you've borne, to me unknown. 
 
 And his lightning to her eyes. 
 
 Cease, cease to slxun me. 
 
 Endless pleasure, endless love 
 
 Ino. Look not on me. 
 
 Semele enjoys above. 
 
 You've undone me. 
 
 1 Priest. Haste, haste,haste ! to sacrifice prepare. 
 
 Ach. Cease, cease to shun me ; 
 
 Once to the thunderer, once to the fair. 
 
 Love, love alone 
 
 Jove and Semele implore : 
 
 Has both undone. 
 
 Jove and Semele like honours share ; 
 
 Ino, Ath. Love, love alone 
 
 Whom gods admire, let men adore. 
 
 Has both undone. 
 
 Haste, haste, haste ! to sacrifice prepare. 
 
 
 Chorus of Priests and Augurs. 
 
 • 
 
 SCENE IIL 
 
 Hail, Cadmus, hail ! Jove salutes the Theban king. 
 
 
 Cease your mourning, 
 
 Athamas, Ino, and Cadmus, attended. 
 
 Joys returning, 
 
 Cad. Ah wretched prince, doom'd to disastrous 
 
 Songs of mirth and triumph sing. iExeunl. 
 
 A-h me, of parents most forlorn ! [love ! 
 
 
 Prepare, Athamas, to prove 
 
 ^ 
 
8CKNE III. 
 
 SEMELE. 
 
 2iK( 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I A pleasant country; the prospect is 
 
 terminated hy a bedutijul mountain, adorned 
 with woods and waterfalls. Juno and Iris 
 descend in different machines. JuNo in a 
 chariot drawn by peacocks ; Iris on a rainbow ; 
 they alight and meet, 
 
 Juno. Iris ! impatient of thy stay, 
 From Samos have I wing'd my way, 
 To meet thy slow return ; 
 Thou know'st what cares infest 
 My anxious breast. 
 And how with rage and jealousy I bum : 
 Then why this long delay ? 
 Iris. With all his speed, not yet the sun 
 Through half his race has run. 
 Since I to execute thy dread command 
 Have thrice encompass'd seas and land, 
 Juno. Say, where is Semele's abode ? 
 Till that I know, 
 Though thou hadst on Hghtning rode. 
 Still thou tedious art, and slow. 
 Iris. Look where Citheron proudly stands, 
 Bceotia parting from Cecropian lands : 
 High on the summit of that hill, 
 Beyond the reach of mortal eyes. 
 By Jove's command, and Vulcan's skill, 
 Behold a new-erected palace rise. 
 
 There from mortal cares retiring, 
 
 She resides in sweet retreat ; 
 On her pleasure, Jove requiring, 
 All the Loves and Graces wait. 
 
 Thither Flora the fair 
 
 With her train must repair, 
 Her amorous Zephyr attending, 
 
 All her sweets she must bring 
 
 To continue the spring, 
 Which never must there know an ending. 
 
 Bright Aurora, 'tis said. 
 
 From her old lover's bed 
 No more the grey orient adorning. 
 
 For the future must rise 
 
 From fair Semele's eyes. 
 And wait till she wakes for the morning. 
 
 Juno. No more — I'll hear no more. 
 
 How long must I endure ? — 
 
 How long must indignation burning, 
 
 From impious mortals 
 
 Bear this insolence ! 
 
 Awake, Saturnia, from thy lethargy ; 
 
 Seize, destroy the curst adultress. 
 
 Scale proud Citheron's top j' 
 
 Snatch her, tear her in thy fury, 
 
 And down, down to the flood of Acheron 
 
 Let her fall, let her fall, fall, fall ! 
 
 Rolling down the depths of night. 
 
 Never more to behold the light. 
 If I am own'd above, 
 Sister and wife of Jove ; 
 (Sister at least I sure may claim, 
 Though wife be a neglected name ;) 
 
 If I the impbrial sceptre sway — I swear 
 By hell- 
 Tremble, thou universe, this oath to hear, 
 Not one of curst Agenor's race to spare. 
 Iris. Hear, mighty queen, while I recount 
 What obstacles you must surmount. 
 With adamant the gates are barr'd, 
 Whose entrance two iierce dragons guard; 
 At each approach they lash their forky stings. 
 And clap their brazen wings : 
 And as their scaly horrors rise, 
 They all at once disclose 
 A thousand iiery eyes. 
 Which never know repose. 
 Juno. Hence, Iris, hence away, 
 
 Far from the reklms of day ! 
 O'er Scythian hills to the Moeotian lake 
 A speedy flight we'll take : 
 There Somnus I'll compel 
 His downy bed to leave and silent cell : 
 With noise and light I will his peace molest, 
 Nor shall he sink again to pleasing rest. 
 Till to my vow'd revenge he-grants supplies. 
 And seals with sleep the wakeful dragons' eyes. 
 
 \^They ascend. 
 
 SCENE II. — An Apartment in the Palace of 
 Semele ; she is sleeping ; Cupid, with Loves 
 and Zephyrs, waiting. 
 
 Cup. See,'^after the toils of an amorous fight. 
 Where weary and pleased, still panting she lies • 
 While yet in her mind she repeats the delight. 
 How sweet is the slumber that steals on her eyes 1 
 Come Zephyrs, come, while Cupid sings, 
 Fan her with your silky wings ; 
 New desire 
 I'll inspire, 
 And revive the dying flames ; 
 Dance around her 
 While I wound her. 
 And with pleasure fill her dreams. 
 
 A Vance of Zephyrs, after which Semele awakes, and 
 rises. 
 
 Sem. O Sleep, why dost thou leave me ? 
 Why thy visionary joys remove.' 
 O Sleep, again deceive me. 
 To my arms restore my wandering love. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Two Loves lead in Jupiter. While he meets and embraces 
 Semele, Cupid sings. 
 
 Cup, Sleep forsaking. 
 
 Seize him waking ; 
 Love has sought him, 
 Back has brought him 
 
294 
 
 SEMELE, ACT III. 
 
 
 Wighty Jove though he be, 
 
 Jup. Thy sex of Jove's the masterpiece. 
 
 
 ind though Love cannot see, 
 
 Thou of thy sex art most excelling. 
 
 
 Yet by feeling about 
 
 Frailty in thee is ornament, 
 
 
 He has found him out, 
 
 In thee perfection* 
 
 
 And has caught him. 
 
 Griven to aigitate the mind, 
 
 Sent. 
 
 Let me not another moment 
 
 And keep awake men's passions ; 
 
 
 Bear the pangs of absence. 
 
 To banish indolence. 
 
 
 Since you have form'd my soul for loviflgf 
 
 And dull repose. 
 
 
 No more afflict me 
 
 The foes of transpiort 
 
 
 With doubts and fears, and cruel jealousy. 
 
 And of pleasure. 
 
 Jup, 
 
 Lay your doubts and fears aside, 
 
 Sem, Still I am mortal, 
 
 
 And for joys alone provide j 
 
 Still a woman ; 
 
 
 Though this human form I wear. 
 
 And ever when yoAi leave me, 
 
 
 Think not I man's falsehood bean 
 
 Though compass'd round with deities 
 
 
 You are mortal, and require 
 
 Of Loves and Graces, 
 
 
 Time to rest and to respire. 
 
 A fear invades me ; 
 
 
 Nor was I absent. 
 
 And conscious of a nature 
 
 
 Though a while withdrawn, 
 
 Far inferior. 
 
 
 To take petitions 
 
 I seek for solitude, 
 
 
 From the needy world. 
 
 And shun society. 
 
 
 While love was with thee 
 
 jup. [Apart] Too well I resd her meaning, 
 
 
 I was present ; 
 
 But must not understand her. 
 
 
 Love and I are one. 
 
 Aiming at immortality 
 
 Sem. 
 
 If cheerful hopes 
 
 With dangerous ambition. 
 
 
 And chilling fear$, 
 
 She would dethrone Satnrnia j 
 
 
 Alternate smiles. 
 
 And reigning in my heart 
 
 
 Alternate tears. 
 
 Would reign in heaven. 
 
 
 Eager panting, 
 
 Lest she too much explain, 
 
 
 Fond desiring. 
 
 I must with speed amuse her ; 
 
 
 With grief now fainting. 
 
 It gives the lover double pain, 
 
 
 Now with bliss expiring ; 
 
 Who hears his nymph complain, 
 
 
 If this be love, not you alOBe, 
 
 And hearing must refuse her. 
 
 
 But love and 1 are one. 
 
 Sem. Why do you cease to gaze upon me ? 
 
 Jup. 
 
 Sem. If this be love, not you atone/ 
 
 Why musing turn away ? 
 
 
 But love and I are one. 
 
 Some other object 
 
 Sem. 
 
 Ahmer 
 
 Seems more pleasing. 
 
 Jup. 
 
 Why sighs my Semele ? 
 
 Jup. Thy needless fears remove. 
 
 
 What gentle sorrow 
 
 My fairest, latest, only love. 
 
 
 Swells thy soft bosom ? 
 
 By my command. 
 
 
 Why tremble those fair eyes 
 
 Now at this instant, 
 
 
 With interrupted light .' 
 
 Tifo wingid Zephyrs 
 
 
 Where hovering for a vent. 
 
 From her downy bed 
 
 
 Amidst their humid iires, 
 
 Thy much4oved Ino bear ; 
 
 
 Some new-form'd wish appears : 
 
 And both together 
 
 
 Speak, and obtain. 
 
 Waft her hither 
 
 Sem. 
 
 At my own happiness 
 
 Through the balmy air. 
 
 
 I sigh and tremble ; 
 
 Sam. Shall I my sister see ! 
 
 
 Mortals whom gods affect 
 
 The dear companion 
 
 
 Have narrow limits set to life. 
 
 Of my tender years. 
 
 
 And cannot long be bless'd. 
 
 Jup. See, she appears, 
 
 
 Or if they could — 
 
 But sees not me ; 
 
 
 A god may prove inconstant. 
 
 For I am visible 
 
 Jup. 
 
 Beware of jealousy ! 
 
 Alone to thee. 
 
 
 Had Juno not been jealous. 
 
 While I retire, rise and meet her. 
 
 
 I ne'er had left Olympus, 
 
 And with welcomes greet her. 
 
 
 Nor wandered in my love. 
 
 Now all this scene shaU to Arcadia turn, 
 
 Sem. 
 
 With my frailty don't upbraid me. 
 
 The seat of happy nymphs and swains ; 
 
 
 I am woman as you made me, 
 
 There without the rage of jealousy they burn. 
 
 
 Causeless doubting or despairing. 
 
 And taste the sweets of love without its pains. 
 
 
 Rashly trusting, idly fearing. 
 
 
 
 If obtaining, 
 
 _ 
 
 
 
 StiU complaining ; 
 
 
 
 If consenting, 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 
 Still repenting ; 
 
 
 
 Most complying, 
 When denying. 
 And to be follow'd only flying. 
 With my frailty don't upbraid me. 
 
 Jupiter retlrei. Skmbib and I»o meet and embrace. 
 
 
 The Scene is totally changed, and shorn an open country. 
 
 
 Several Shepherds anrf Shepherdesses enter. Semblb 
 and Ino having entertained each other in dumb show, sit 
 
 
 and observe the rural sports, which end the second Act. 
 
 
 1 am woman as you made me. 
 
 
SEMELE. 
 
 '^96 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE \.— The Cave of SomnuS. the god of 
 sleep lying on his bed. A soft symphony is 
 heard. Then the music changed to a different 
 movements 
 
 Juno and tRiB. 
 
 Junn. Somnns, awake ! 
 
 Kaise thy reclining hBad. 
 Iris. Thyself forsake, 
 
 And lift np thy heavy lids of lead. 
 Som. [^Waking.] Leave me,' loathsome light ! 
 Receive me, silent night. 
 Lethe, why does thy lingering current cease ? 
 O murmur, murmur me again to peace. 
 
 {_Sinkg down again. 
 Tris. Dull god, canst thou attend the waters' fall. 
 
 And not hear Saturnia call ! 
 Juno. Peace, Iris, peace ! I know how to charm 
 him : 
 Pasithea's name alone can warm him. 
 Juno, Iris. Only love on sleep has power j 
 O'er gods and men 
 Though Somnus reign, 
 Love alternate has his hour. 
 Juno. Somnus, arise. 
 
 Disclose thy tender eyes ; 
 For Pasithea's sight 
 Endure the light : 
 Somnus, arise ! 
 Som. [Rising.'] More sweet is that name 
 Than a soft purling stream ; 
 With pleasure repose I'll forsake. 
 If you'll grant me but her to soothe me 
 j7/no. My will obey, [awake. 
 
 She shall be thine. 
 Thou with thy softer powers. 
 First Jove shalt captivate : 
 • To Morpheus then give order, 
 Thy various minister. 
 That with a dream in shape of Semele, 
 But far more beautiful, 
 And more alluring. 
 He may invade the sleeping deity ; 
 And more to agitate 
 His kindling fire. 
 Still let the phantom seem 
 To fly before him, 
 That he may wake impetuous, 
 Furious in desire ; 
 Unable to refuse whatever boon 
 Her coyness shall require. 
 Ynm. I tremble to comply. 
 ./«/«». To me thy leaden rod resign, 
 To charni the sentinels 
 On mount Citheron ; 
 Then cast a sleep on mortal Ino, 
 That I may seem her form to wear 
 When I to Semele appear. 
 Obey my will, thy rod resign, 
 And Pasithea shall be thine. 
 .Som. All I must grant, for all is due 
 
 To Pasithea, love, and you. 
 /lino. Away let us haste. 
 
 Let neither have rest, 
 
 Till the sweetest of pleasures we prove ; 
 Till of vengeance possess'd 
 I doubly am bless'd. 
 And thou art made happy in love. 
 
 lExeunt Juno and Iris, 
 [SOHNDS retires within his Cave, the scene changes 
 to Sbmele's Apartment, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Bbmele. 
 
 1 love, and am loved, yet more I desire ; 
 
 Ah, how foolish a thing is fruition 1 
 As one passion cools, some other takes fire. 
 And I'm still in a longing condition. 
 
 Whate'er I possess 
 
 Soon seems an excess, 
 For something untried I petition j 
 
 Though daily I prove 
 
 The pleasures of love, 
 I die for the joys of ambition. 
 
 SCENE IIL 
 SEMBtB, and Juno as Ino, with a mirror in her ha»d. 
 Juno. \_ Apart.] Thus, shaped like Ino, 
 With ease I shall deceive her, 
 And in this mirror she shall see 
 Herself as much transform'd as me. — 
 Do I some goddess see ? 
 Or is it Semele ? 
 Sent. Dear sister, speak, 
 
 Whence this astonishment ? 
 Juno. Your charms improving 
 To divine perfection. 
 Show you were late admitted 
 Among celestial beauties. 
 Has Jove consented ? 
 And are you made immortal ? 
 Sem. Ah no, I still am mortal ; 
 Nor am I sensible 
 Of any change or new perfection. 
 Juno. [Giving her the glass.] Behold in cuis 
 mirror 
 Whence comes my surprise ; 
 Such lustre and terror 
 Unite in your eyes. 
 That mine cannot fix on a radiance so bright ; 
 'Tis unsafe for the sense, and too slippery for sight. 
 Sem. [Looking in the glass.] O ecstacy of hap- 
 piness 1 
 Celestial graces 
 I discover in each feature ! 
 Myself I shall adore. 
 
 If I persist in gazing ; 
 No object Sure before 
 
 Was ever half so pleasing. 
 How Ji.3 that glance become me ! 
 But tane this flattering mirror from me. 
 Yet once again let me view me : 
 Ah, charming all o'er ! 
 [Pfferinp the glass, withdraws her hand again 
 
2CC 
 
 SEMELE, 
 
 Here — hold, I'll have one look more. 
 Though that look I were sure would undo me. 
 Juno. [ Taking the glass from hef.'] Be wise as 
 you are beautiful, 
 Nor lose this opportunity. 
 When Jove appears, 
 All ardent with desire. 
 Refuse his proffer'd ilamei 
 Till you obtain a boon without a; name. 
 Sem, Can that avail me ? 
 Juno. Unknowing your inteht, 
 And eager for possessing. 
 He unawares will graii^t 
 The nameless blessing. 
 But bind him by the Stygian lake. 
 Lest lover-like his word he break, 
 Sem. But how shall I attain 
 
 To immortality ? 
 Juno. Conjure him by his oath . 
 Not to approach your bedt 
 In likeness of a mortal, 
 But like himself the mighty ttunderer, 
 In pomp of majesty, 
 And heavenly attire ; 
 As when he proud Saturnia charms. 
 And with ineffable delights 
 Fills her encircling arms, 
 And p4ys the nuptial rites. 
 By this conjunction 
 With entire divinity 
 You shall partake qf heavenly essence, 
 And thenceforth leive this mortal state 
 To reign above. 
 Adored by Jove, ■■ 
 In spite of jealous Juno's hate. 
 Sem. Thus let my thanks be paid. 
 
 Thus let ray arms embrace thee ; 
 And when I'm a goddess made, 
 With charms like niineril ^race thee. 
 Juno. Rich odours iill the fragrant air,' 
 And Jove's approach declare. 
 I must retire — 
 Sem. Adieu l^Your counsel I'll pursue. 
 Juno. [Apart.'] And sure destruction will ensue. 
 Vain, wretched fool !-^[ To Semei-e} Adieu ! 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 .TuprrER enterg, offers to embrace SembLe ; she looks kUldly 
 on hiitit but retires a little from him. 
 
 Jup. Come to my arms, my lovely fair, 
 Soothe my uneasy care ; 
 In my dream late I woo'd thee, 
 And in vain I pursued thee, 
 
 For you fled from my prayer, 
 And bid me despair. 
 Come to my arms, my lovely fair. 
 Sem. Though 'tis easy to please ye, 
 And hard to deny ; 
 Though possessing's a blessing 
 
 For which I could die, 
 I dare not, I cannot comply. 
 Jup. When I languish with anguish. 
 And tenderly sigh, 
 Can you leave me, deceive me. 
 
 And scornfully fly ? 
 Ah, fear not ; you must not deny. 
 
 Sem. Jup. I dare not, I cannot comply. 
 
 Ah, fear not ; you must not deny. 
 Jilp. O Semele,- 
 
 Why art thou thus insensible .' 
 Were I a mortal, 
 Thy barbarous disdaining 
 Would fureiy^nd pie, . 
 And death at ifiy complairii'n^ 
 In pity would befriend me. 
 Sem, I ever am granting. 
 
 You always complain ; 
 I always am wSntirig, 
 Yet never obtain. . ■ . 
 Jup. Speak, speak your desire, 
 I'm all over fire. 
 Say what you require, 
 I. ■ I'll grant 'it — now let us retire. 
 Sem. Swear by the Stygian lake. 
 Jup. By that tremendous flood I swe*r : 
 Ye Stygian waters, hear, 
 And tliou Olympus, shake, 
 In witness to the oath I take." 
 iThuiidtr heard at a distance, arid underneath. 
 Sem. You'll graiit what J require ? 
 Jup. I'll grant what you require. 
 Sem: Then cast off this human shape which you 
 wear, 
 And Jove since you are, like Jove too 
 
 appear ; 
 When next you desire I should charm ye. 
 As when Juno you bless. 
 So you me must caress. 
 And with all your omnipotence arm ye. 
 Jup. Ah ! take heed what you press. 
 
 For beyond all redress, 
 Shctald I grant what you wish, I shall harm ye. 
 Sem. I'll be pleased with no less 
 Than my wish in excess : 
 Let the oath'you have taken alarm ye • 
 Haste, haste, and prepare, 
 For I'll know what you are ; 
 So with all jrour omnipotence arm ye. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 She withdraws, Jupites remains pensive arid d^ected, 
 
 JupXTEil. 
 
 Ah! whither ip she gone ? unhappy fair! 
 Why did she wish ? — Why did I rashly swew ? 
 'Tis past, 'tis past recall. 
 She must a victim fall. 
 Anon, when I appear, 
 I'he mighty thunderer, 
 Arm'd with inevitable fire. 
 She needs must instantly expire. 
 'Tis past, 'tis past recall. 
 She must a victim fall. 
 My softest lightning yet I'll try. 
 And mildest melting bolt apply : 
 In vain — for she was framed to prove 
 None but the lambent flames of love. 
 'Tis past, 'tis past recall. 
 She must a victim fall. 
 
SCENE IX. 
 
 SEMELE. 
 
 297 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 JiiNO appears in her chariot ascending. 
 Juno. 
 Above measure 
 is the pleasure 
 Which my revenge supplies. 
 Love's a bubble, 
 Gaio'd with trouble, 
 And in possession dies. 
 With what joy shall I mount to my heaven again, 
 
 At once from my rival and jealousy freed I 
 The sweets of revenge make it worth while to reign, 
 And heaven will hereafter be heaven indeed. 
 
 [^She ascends. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 The Scene opening discovers Semele li/ing under a canopy, 
 leaning pensively. While a mournful symphony is play- 
 ing, she looks up and sees JuprTER descending in a lildck 
 cloud ; the motion of the cloud is Slow. Flashes of light- 
 ning issue from either side, and thunder is heard grum- 
 bling in the air. 
 
 Semelb. 
 Ah me ! too late I now repent 
 My pride and impious vanity. 
 He comes ! far off his lightnings scorch me. — 
 I feel my life consuming : 
 
 I bum, I burn ! — I faint ! — for pity I implore — 
 O help ! O help ! — I can no more. {,Dies. 
 
 {As the cloud which contains Jupiter is arrived just 
 over the canopy of SemeL's, a sudden and great flash 
 of lightning breaks forth, and a clap of loud ihxinder 
 is heard ; when at one instant Semele, with the 
 palace and the whole present scene disappears, and 
 Jupiter reascends swiftly. The'scene,'totally changed, 
 represents apleasant country, MountCitheron closing 
 the prospect. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Cadmus, Athamas, and INO. 
 Ino. Of my ill-boding dream 
 Behold the dire event. 
 Cad. Ath. O terror and astonishment ! 
 Jno. How I was hence removed, 
 
 Or hither how retum'd, I know jiot : 
 
 So long a trance withheld me. 
 But Hermes in a vision told me 
 (As I have now related) 
 The fate of Semele ; 
 And added, as from me he Hed, 
 That Jove ordain'd I Athamas should Wed. 
 Cad, Be Jove in everything obey'd. ■ 
 
 {Joins their hands 
 Alh. Unworthy of your charms, myself I yield ; 
 Be Jove's commands and yours fulfiU'd. 
 Cad. See, from above the bellying clouds de- 
 scend. 
 And big with some new wonder this way 
 tend. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 A bright cloud descends and rests on Mount Cither on, 
 which opening, discovers Apollo seated in it as the 
 god of prophecy. 
 
 Cadmus, Athamas, Ii7o, and Apollo. 
 
 Apol. Apollo comes to relieve your care. 
 And future happiness declare. 
 From tyrannous love all your sorrows proceed, 
 From tyrannous love you shall quickly be freed. 
 From -Semele's ashes a phoenix shall rise, 
 ■The joy of this earth, and delight of the skies : 
 A god he shall prove 
 More mighty than Love ; 
 And a sovereign juice shall invent, 
 Which antidote pure 
 The sick lover shall cure, 
 And sighing and sorrow for ever prevent. 
 Then mortals be merry, and scorn the blind boy ; 
 Your hearts from his arrows strong wine shall 
 
 defend ; 
 Each day and each night you shall revel in joy, 
 For when Bacchus is born, Love's reign 's at an end 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then mortals be merry, &c. 
 
 Dance of Satyrs. 
 
 \Exemnt omucs. 
 
tm 
 
 DEAMATIC moUt^ 
 
 SIE JOHN VANBKIJGH 
 
THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGEl^. 
 
 BEING THE SEQUEL OF " THE FOOL IN FASHION." 
 
 THE PREFACE. 
 
 To go about to excuse half the defects this abortive brat is come into the world with, would be to provoke the town 
 with a long useless preface, when 'tis, I doubt, sufficiently soured already by a tedious play. 
 
 I do therefore (with all the humility of a repenting sinner) confess, it wants everything— but length j and in that, 
 I hope, the severest critic will be pleased to acknowledge I have not been wanting. But my modesty will sure atone 
 for everything, when the world shallknow it is so great, I am even to this day insensible of those two shining graces in 
 the play (which some part of the town is pleased to compliment me with)— blasphemy and bawdy. 
 
 For my part, I cannot find tbem out. If there were any obscene expressions upon the stage, here they are in the 
 print ; for I have dealt fairly, I have not sunk a sylhible that could (though by racking of mysteries) be ranged under 
 that head ■ and yet I believe with a steady faith, there is not one woman of a real reputation in town, but when she has 
 read it impartially over in her clos.et, will find it so innocent, she'll think it no affront to her prayer-book, to lay it upon 
 the same shelf. So to them (with ail manner of deference) I entirely refer my cause'; and I'm confident they'll justify 
 me against those pretenders to good manners, who, at the same time, have so little respect for the ladies, they would 
 extract a bawdy jest from an ejaculation, to put 'em out of countenance. But I expect to have these well-bred persons 
 always my enemies, since I'm sure I shall never write anything Ifcwd enough to make 'em my friends. 
 
 As for the saints (your thorough-paced ones, I mean, with screwed faces an^ wry mouths) I despair of them, for they 
 are friends to nobody. They love nothing but their altars and themselves. They have too much zeal to have any 
 charitv ; they make debauches in piety, as sinners do in wine ; and are as quarrelsome in their religion, as other people 
 are in their drink : so I hope nobody will mind what they say. But if any man (with flat plod shoes, a little band, 
 greasy hair, and a dirty face, who is wiser than I, at the expense Of being forty years older) happens to be offended at 
 a story of a cock- and a bull, and a priest and a bull-dog, I beg his pai-don with all my heart ; which, I hope, I shall 
 obtain, by eating my words, and making this public recantation. I do therefore, for his satisfaction, acknowledge I 
 lied when I said, they never quit their hold ; for in that little time I have lived in the world, 1 thank God I have seen 
 'em forced to it more than once: but next time I'll speak with more caution and truth, and only say, they have very 
 good teeth. 
 
 If i have offended any honest gentlemen of the town, whose friendship or good word is worth the having, I am very 
 sorry for it ; I hope they'll correct me as gently as they can, when they consider I have had no other design, in running 
 a very great risk, than to divert (if possible) some part of their spleen, in spite of their wives and their taxes. 
 
 One word more about the bawdy, and I have done. I own the first night this thing was acted, some indecencies had 
 like to have happened, but 'twas not my fault. 
 
 The fine gentleman of the play, drinking his mistress's health in Nantes brandy, from six in the morning to the time 
 he waddled on upon the stage in the evening, had toasted himself up to such a pitch of vigour, I confess I once gave 
 Amanda for gone, and am since (with all due respect to Sirs. Rogers) very sorry she scaped ; for I am confident a certain 
 lady (let no one take it to herself that's handsome) who highly blames the play, for the barrenness of the conclusion, 
 would then have allowed it a very natural close. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 FoRETOP, a Periwig-maker. 
 Tua, a Waterman. 
 
 SirNovelty Fashion, «CMJ/ycrra(edLoEDFopprMOTON, 
 
 Tom Fashion, hit Brother. 
 
 Loveless, Husband to Amanda. 
 
 Worthy, a Gentleman of the Town. 
 
 Sir Tunbelly Clvhisey, a Country Gentleman. 
 
 BiR John Friendly, his Neighbour. 
 
 Coupler, a Match-maker. 
 
 Bull, Chaplain to Sir Tunbelly 
 
 Syringe, a Surgeon. 
 
 Lory, Servant to Tom Fashion 
 
 La Vbrolb, Valet to Lord Foppington. 
 
 MjBndlegs, a Hosier. 
 
 SCENE, — SOMKTIMES IN LoNDON, SOMETIMES IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Amanda, Wife to Loveless. 
 Berinthia, her Cousin, a young Widow. 
 Miss Hoyden, a great Fortune, Daughter to Sib Tun- 
 belly. 
 Nurse, her Governanfe. 
 Mrs. Calico, a Sejnpstress. 
 Abigail, Maid to Berinthia. 
 
 Shoemaker, Tailor, Constable, Clerk, Porter, Page, 
 Musicians, Dancers, &c. 
 
302 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 FIRST PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BT MISS CROSS. 
 
 Ladies, this Play in too much haste was writ, 
 
 To be o'ercharged with either plot or wit ; 
 
 'Twas got, conceived, and born in six weeks' 
 
 space. 
 And wit, yoa know, 's as slow in growth as— 
 
 ' grace. 
 Sure it can ne'er be ripen'd to your taste ; 
 I doubt 'twill prove, our author bred too fast : 
 For mark 'em well, who with the Muses marry, 
 They rarely do conceive, but they miscarry. 
 'Tis the hard fate of those who are big with rhyme. 
 Still to be brought to bed before their time. 
 Of our late poets Nature few has made ; 
 The greatest part are — only so by trade, 
 Still want of something brings the scribbling fit ; 
 For want of money some of 'em have writ, 
 And others do't, you see, for-^want of wit. 
 Honour, they fancy, summons 'em to write. 
 
 So out they lug in wresty Nature's spite. 
 
 As some of you spruce beaux do — when you fight. 
 
 Yet let the ebb of wit be ne'er so low, 
 
 Some glimpse of it a man may hope to show, 
 
 Upon a theme so ample as — a beau. 
 
 So, howsoe'er true courage may decay. 
 
 Perhaps there's not one smock-face here to-day, 
 
 But's bold as Csesar-^to attack a play. 
 
 Nay, what's yet more, with an undaunted face, 
 
 To do the thing with more heroic grace, 
 
 'Tis six to four ye attack the strongest place. 
 
 You are such Hotspurs in this kind of venture. 
 
 Where there's no breach, just there you needs must 
 
 enter : 
 But be advised.^- 
 
 E'en give the hero and the critic o'er, 
 For Nature sent you on another score ;— 
 She form'd her beau, for nothing but her whore. 
 
 PROLOGUE ON THE THIRD DAY. 
 
 SPOKEN BY Mas. VEBBBUGGEN, 
 
 Apologies for Plays, experience shows. 
 Are things almost as useless as — the beaux. 
 Whate'er we say (like them) we neither move 
 Your friendship, pity, anger, nor your love. 
 'Tis interest turns the globe ; let us but find 
 The way to please you, and you'll soon be kind . 
 But to expect, you'd for our sakes approve, 
 Is just as though you for their sakes should love j 
 And that, we do confess, we think a task 
 Which (though they may impose) we never ought 
 to ask. 
 This is an age, where all things we improve 
 But, most of all, the art of making love. 
 la former days, women were only won 
 By merit, truth, and constant service done ; 
 But lovers now are much more expert grown ; 
 They seldom wait, to approach by tedious foi ra ; 
 They're for despatch, for taking you by storm . ' 
 Quick are their sieges, furious are their fires. 
 Fierce their attacks, and boundless their desires. 
 Before the Play's half ended, I'll engage 
 To show you beaux come crowding on the stage. 
 Who with so little pains have always sped, 
 They'll undertake to look a lady dead. 
 
 How have I shook, and trembling stood with 
 
 awe. 
 When here, behind the scenes, I've seen 'em 
 
 draw 
 — A comb ; that dead-doing weapon to the heart. 
 And turn each powder'd hair into a dart ! 
 When I have seen 'em sally on the stage. 
 Dress' d to the war, and ready to engage, 
 I've mourn'd your destiny — yet more their fate. 
 To think, that after victories so great, 
 It should so often prove their hard mishap 
 To sneak into a lane, and get — a clap. 
 But, hush '. they're here already j I'll retire. 
 And leave 'em to the ladies to admire. 
 They'll show you twenty thousand arts and graces, 
 They'll entertain you with their soft grimaces. 
 Their snuffbox, awkward bows, and — ugly faces. 
 In short, they're after all so much your friends. 
 That lest the Play should fail, the author ends ; 
 They have resolved to make you some amends. 
 Between each act (perform'd by nicest rules) 
 They'll treat you with — an Interlude of fools : 
 Of which that you may have the deeper sense. 
 The entertainment's— at their own expense. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE l.—A Room in Loveless's Country. 
 House. 
 
 Enter Loveless, reading. 
 Love. How true is that philosophy, which says 
 Our heaven is seated in our minds ! 
 Through all the roving pleasures of my youth, 
 (Where nights and days seem all consumed in joy. 
 Where the false face of luxury 
 Display'd such charms, 
 
 As might have shaken the most holy hermit. 
 
 And made him totter at his altar,) 
 
 I never knew one moment's peace like this. 
 
 Here, in this little soft retreat. 
 
 My thoughts unbent from all the cares of life, 
 
 Content with fortune. 
 
 Eased from the grating duties of dependence, 
 
 From envy ftee, ambition under foot, 
 
 The raging flame of wild destructive lust 
 
 Reduced to a warm pleasing fire of lawful love, 
 
 My life glides on, and all is well within. 
 
THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 303 
 
 Enter Amanda. 
 
 How does the happy cause of my content, 
 
 ^Meeting her kindly. 
 My dear Amanda ? 
 
 You find me musing on my happy state, 
 And full of grateful thoughts to Heaven, and you. 
 
 Aman. Those grateful offerings Deaven can't 
 receive 
 With more delight than I do : 
 Would 1 could share with It as well 
 The dispensations of its bliss ! 
 That I might search its choicest favours out, 
 And shower 'em on your head for ever. 
 
 Love. The largest boons that Heaven thinks fit 
 to grant, 
 To things it has decreed shall crawl on earth. 
 Are in the gift of woman form'd like you. 
 Perhaps when time shall be no more. 
 When the aspiring soul shall take its flight, 
 And drop this ponderous lump of clay behind it, 
 It may have appetites we know not of. 
 And pleasures as refined as its desires — 
 But till that day of knowledge shall instruct me, 
 The utmost blessing that my thought can reach, 
 
 ^Taking her in his arms. 
 Is folded in my arms, and rooted in my heart, 
 
 Aman. There let it grow for ever ! 
 
 Love. Well said, Amanda — let it be for ever— 
 Would Heaven grant that — 
 
 Aman. 'Twere all the heaven I'd ask. 
 
 But we are clad in black mortality, 
 And the dark curtain of eternal night 
 At last must drop between us. 
 
 Love. It must. 
 
 That mournful separation we must see, 
 A bitter pill it is to all ; but doubles its ungrateful 
 
 taste, 
 When lovers are to swallow it. 
 
 Aman. Perhaps that pain may only be my lot, 
 You possibly may be exempted from it. 
 Men find out softer ways to quench their fires. 
 
 Love. Can you then doubt my constancy, 
 Amanda ? 
 You'U find 'tis built upon a steady basis — 
 The rock of reason now supports my love, 
 On which it stands so fix'd. 
 The rudest hurricane of wild desire 
 Would, like the breath of a soft slumbering babe, 
 Pass by, and never shake it. 
 
 Aman. Yet still 'tis safer to avoid the storm ; 
 The strongest vessels, if they put to sea. 
 May possibly be lost. 
 Would I could keep you here in this calm port for 
 
 ever I 
 Forgive the weakness of a woman, 
 I am uneasy at your going to stay so long in town ; 
 I know its false insinuating pleasures ; 
 I know the force of its delusions ; 
 I know the strength of its attacks ; 
 I know the weak defence of nature ; 
 I know you are a man — and I — a wife. 
 
 Love. You know then all that needs to give you 
 rest. 
 For wife's the strongest claim that you can urge. 
 When you would plead your title to my heart, 
 On this you may depend. Therefore be calm, 
 Banish your fears, for they 
 Are traitors to your peace • beware of them, 
 They are insinuating busy things 
 
 That gossip to and fro, 
 
 And do a world of mischief where they come. 
 
 But you shall soon be mistress of 'em all ; 
 
 I'll aid you with such arms for their destruction. 
 
 They never shall erect their heads again. 
 
 You know the business is indispensable, that obliges 
 
 me to go for London; and you have no reason, 
 
 that I know of, to believe that I'm glad of the 
 
 occasion. For my honest conscience is my witness, 
 
 I have found a due succession of such charms 
 
 In my retirement here with you, 
 
 I have never thrown one roving thought that way. 
 
 But since, against my will, I'm dragg'd once more 
 
 To that uneasy theatre of noise, 
 
 I am resolved to make such use on't, 
 
 As shall convince you 'tis an old cast mistress. 
 
 Who has been so lavish of her favours, 
 
 She's now grown bankrupt of her charms. 
 
 And has not one allurement left to move me. 
 
 Aman. Her bow, I do believe, is grown so weak 
 Her arrows (at this distance) cannot hurt you ; 
 But in approaching 'em, you give 'em strength. 
 The dart that has not far to fly, will put 
 The best of armour to a dangerous trial. 
 
 Love. That trial past, and you're at ease for ever; 
 When you have seen the helmet proved. 
 You'll apprehend no more for him that wears it. 
 Therefore, to put a lasting period to your fears, 
 I am resolved, this once, to launch into temptation : 
 I'll give you an essay of all my virtues. 
 My former boon companions of the bottle 
 Shall fairly try what charms are left in wine : 
 I'll take my place amongst them, 
 They shall hem me in. 
 
 Sing praises to their god, and drink his glory : 
 Turn wild enthusiasts for his sake, 
 And beasts to do him honour : 
 Whilst I, a stubborn atheist, 
 Sullenly look on, 
 
 Without one reverend glass to his divinity. 
 That for my temperance, 
 Then for my constancy — 
 
 Aman. Ay, there take heed. 
 
 Love. Indeed the danger's small, 
 
 Aman. And yet my fears are great. 
 
 Love. Why are you so timorous ? 
 
 Aman. Because you are so bold. 
 
 Love. My courage should disperse your appre- 
 hension, 
 
 Aman. My apprehensions should alarm your 
 courage. 
 
 Love. Fy, fy, Amanda ! it is not kind thus to 
 distrust me. 
 
 Aman. And yet my fears are foundied on my 
 love. 
 
 Love. Your love then is not founded as it ought ; 
 For if you can believe 'tis possible 
 I should again relapse to my past follies, 
 I must appear to you a thing 
 Of such an undigested composition. 
 That but to think of me with inclination, 
 Would be a weakness in your taste 
 Yofir virtue scarce could answer. 
 
 Aman. 'Twould be a weakness in my tongue ; 
 My prudence could not answer. 
 If I should press you farther with my fears ; 
 I'll therefore trouble you no longer with 'em. 
 
 Love. Nor shall they trouble you much longer, 
 A little time shall show you they were groundless: 
 This winter shall be the fiery trial of my virtue : 
 
Which, when it once has pass'dj 
 You'll be convinced 'twas of no false allay, 
 • There all your cares will end. 
 
 ^mari, ^ray Heaven they may. 
 
 ^Exeunt, hifaid in haild,i 
 
 304 
 
 '^'HE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 SCENE U.— Whitehall. 
 Enter Tom Fashion, Lorv, and Too. 
 
 Fa^h. Come, pay the waterman, and take the 
 jportmantle. 
 
 Lort/. Faith, sir, I think the waterman had as 
 good take the ^qrtmantle, and pay himself. 
 
 Fash. Why, sure there's' something left in't 1 
 
 Lon/. But a solitary old waistcoat, upon my 
 honour, sir. 
 
 Fash. Why, what's become of the blue coal^ 
 sirrah .? 
 
 Lor^. Sir, 'twas eaten at Gravesend ; the reck- 
 oning came to thirty shillings,' and your privy purse 
 was worth but two half-crowns. 
 
 Fash. "Tis very well. 
 
 Tug^ Pray; master, wiU, yon please to despatch 
 me ? ,1 / 
 
 Fash. Ay, here a — canst thou change me a 
 guinea .' 
 
 Lory. [Aside. J Good ! 
 
 Tug. Change a guinea, master ! Ha ! ha 1 your 
 honour's pleased to compliment. 
 
 Fash. Egad, I don't know how I shall pay thee 
 then, for I have nothing but gold about me. 
 
 Lory. lAside.] Hum, hum ! 
 
 F^ash. What dost thou expect, friend .' 
 
 Tug. Why, master, so far againstwind and tide 
 is richly worth half a piece. 
 
 Fash. Why, faith, I think thou art a good con- 
 scionable fellow. . Egad, I begin to have so good 
 an opinion of thy honesty, I care not if I leave my 
 portmantle with thee, till I send thee thy money. 
 
 Tug. Ha ! God bless your honour ; I should be 
 as willing to trust you, master, but that you are, as 
 a man may say, a stranger to me, and these are 
 nimble times ; there are a great many sharpers stir- 
 ring. — [Taking up the porimanUe.'] Well, master, 
 when your worship sends the money, your port- 
 mantle shall be forthcoming ; my name's Tug, my 
 wife keeps a brandy-shop in Drab- Alley , at Wapping. 
 
 Fash. Very well ; I'll send for't to-morrow. 
 
 [_ExU Two. 
 
 Lory. So. — Now, sir, I hope you'll own your- 
 self 3 happy man, you have outlived all your cares. 
 
 Fash. How so, sir? 
 
 Lory, Why you have nothing left to take care of. 
 
 Fash. Yes, sirrah, I have myself and you to take 
 care of still. 
 
 Lmg. Sir, if you could but prevail with some- 
 body else to do that for you, I fancy we might both 
 fare the better for't. 
 
 Fash. Why, if thou canst tell me where to apply 
 myself, I have at present so little money, and so 
 much humility about me, I don't know but I may 
 follow a fool's advice. 
 
 Lory. Why then, sir, your fool advises you to 
 lay aside all animosity, and apply to sir Novelty, 
 your elder brother. 
 
 Fash. Damn my elder brother ! 
 
 Lory. With all my heart ; but get him to redeem 
 vour annuity however. 
 
 Fash. My annuity !. 'Sdeath, he's such a dog, 
 he would not give his powder-puff to redeem ray 
 soul. 
 
 lior//. Loot you, sir, you must wheedle him, or 
 you must starve. 
 
 Fash. Look you, sir, I will neither whpedle him, 
 nor starve. 
 
 J^ory. Why, what will you do then.' 
 
 Fash. I'll go into the army. 
 
 Lory. You can't take the oaths ; ^ou are a 
 Jacobite. i :_-.''■ 
 
 Fash. Thou mayst as well say I can't tajf e orders 
 because I'm an atheist. '■' 
 
 Lory. Sir, I asK your pardon ; I find, I did not 
 know the strength, of your .conscience so w£U as I 
 did the weakness of your purse. 
 
 Fa^. Methinks, sir, • a person of ysur experi- 
 ence should have ^-hown that the strength of the 
 conscience proceeds from the weakness of the 
 purse. 
 
 Lory. Sir, I am ypry glad to find you have a 
 conscience able tp take care of us, let it proceed 
 from what it will ; but I desire you'll please to con- 
 sider, that the army alone will b.^ but a scanty 
 maintenance for a person of your generosity (at 
 least as rents pow are paid). I shall see you stand 
 in damnable need of some auxiliary guineas for 
 your menus ploisirs ; I will therefore turn fool 
 once more for .your service, and advise you to go 
 directly to your brother. 
 
 Fash. Art thou then so impregnable a block- 
 head, to believe he'll help me w-ith a farthing ? 
 
 Lory. Not. if you treat him de haul en bas, as 
 you use to do. 
 
 Fash. Why, how wouldst have me treat him ? 
 
 Lory. Like a trout^-^tickle bim.. 
 
 Fask. I can't €atter. 
 
 Lory. Can you starve ? 
 
 Fash. Yes. 
 
 Lory. I can't-rGood-by t'ye, sir — IGoing. 
 
 Fash, Stay ; thou wilt distract me ! What 
 wouldst thou have me say to him ? 
 
 Lorff. Say nothing to him, apply yourself to his 
 favourites, speak to his periwig, his cravat, his 
 feather, his snuff box, and when you are well with 
 them, desire him to lend you a thousand pounds. 
 I'll engage you prosper. 
 
 Fash. 'Sdeath and furies ! why was that cox- 
 comb thrust into the world before me ? O Fortune ! 
 Fortune !— thou art a bitch by Gad ! iExeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. — A Room in Lord Foppington's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lord Foppington in his nightgown. 
 
 Lord Fop. Page ! 
 
 Enter Page. 
 
 Page. Sir ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir ! — Pray, sir, do me the favour to 
 teach your tongue the title the king has thought fit 
 to honour me with. 
 
 Page. I ask your lordship's pardon, my lord. 
 
 Lord Fop. O, you can pronounce the word then ? 
 I thought it would have choked you. — D'ye hear .' 
 
 Page. My lord ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Call La Verole ; I would dress. — 
 [Ejeit Page.] — Well, 'tis an unspeakable pleasure 
 to be a man of quality, strike me dumb ! — My lord, 
 
THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 30-5 
 
 —your lordship ! My lord Foppington ! — Ah ! c'est 
 qnelque chose de beau, que le diable m^emporte ! — 
 Why the ladies were ready to puke at me whilst I 
 had nothing but sir Navelty to recommend me to 
 'em. — Sure, whilst I was but a knight, I was a very 
 nauseous fellow. — Well, 'tis ten thousand pawnd 
 well given, stap my vitals ! — 
 
 Enter La Verolb. 
 
 La Ver. Me lord, de shoemaker, de tailor, de 
 hosier, de. semstress, de barber, be all ready, if your 
 lordship please to dress. 
 
 Lord Fop. 'Tis well, admit 'em. 
 
 La Ver. Hey, messieurs, entrez. 
 
 Enter Tailor, Shoemaker, Mendlegs, Forbtop, and 
 Mrs. Calico. 
 
 Lord Fop. So, gentlemen, I hope you have all 
 taken pains to show yourselves masters in your 
 professions. 
 
 Tailor. I think I may presume to say, sir — 
 
 La Ver. My lord — you clawn, you ! 
 
 Tailor. Why, is he made a lord ? — My lord, I 
 ask your lordship's pardon, my lord ; I hope, ray 
 lord, your lordship will please to own I have 
 brought your lordship as accomplished a suit of 
 clothes as ever peer of England trod the stas^e in, 
 my lord. Will your lordship please to try 'em 
 now ? 
 . Lord Fop. Ay ; but let my people dispose the 
 glasses so that I may see myself before and behind, 
 for 1 love to see myself all raund. 
 
 Whilst lie puis on his clothes, Tom Fashiok and Lory 
 enter and converse apart. 
 
 Fash Heyday, what the devil have we here .' 
 Sure my gentleman's grown a favourite at court, he 
 has got so many people at his levee. 
 
 Lory, Sir, these people come in order to make 
 him a favourite at court ; they are to establish him 
 with the ladies. 
 
 Fash. Good God ! to what an ebb of taste are 
 women fallen, that it should be in the power of a 
 laced coat to recommend a gallant to 'em ! 
 
 Lory. Sir, tailors and periwig-makers are now 
 become the bawds of the nation ; 'tis they debauch 
 all the women. 
 
 Fash. Thou sayest true ; for there's that fop 
 now has not by nature wherewithal to move a 
 cook-maid, and by that time these fellows have 
 done with him, egad he shall melt down a coun- 
 tess ! — But now for my reception ; I'll engage it 
 shall be as cold a one as a courtier's to his friend, 
 who comes to put him in mind of his promise. 
 
 Lord Pop. [To Ai« Tailor.] Death and eternal 
 tartures ! — Sir, I say the packet's too high by a foot. 
 
 Tailor. My lord, if it had been an inch lower, it 
 would not have held your lordship's pocket-hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 Lord Fop. Rat my pocket-handkerchief ! have 
 not I a page to caiTy it ? You may make him a 
 packet up to his chin a purpose for it ; but I will 
 not have mine come so near my face. 
 
 Tailor. 'Tis not for me to dispute your lord- 
 ship's fancy. 
 
 Fash. [ To LoBY.] His lordship ! Lory, did 
 you observe *hat ' 
 
 Lory. Yes, sir ; I always thought 'twould end 
 there. Now, I hope, you'll have a little more 
 respect for him. 
 
 Fash. Respect ! — Damn him for a coxcomb 1 
 
 now has he ruined his estate to buy a title, that he 
 may be a fool of the first rate ; — but let's accost 
 
 him [To Lord Foppington.] Brother. I'mvour 
 
 humble servant. 
 
 Lord Fop. O Lard, Tarn ! I did not expect you 
 in England. — Brother, 1 am glad to see you. — 
 [ Turning to his Tailor ] Look you, sir ; I shall 
 never be reconciled to this nauseous packet ; there- 
 fore pray get me another suit, with all manner of 
 expedition, for this is my eternal aversion. — Mrs. 
 Calico, are not you of my mind } 
 
 Mrs. Cal. O, directly, my lord ! it can never be 
 too low. 
 
 Lord Fop. You are passitively in the right on't, 
 
 for the packet becomes no part of the body but the 
 
 knee. IBxit Tailor. 
 
 Mrs. Cal. I hope your lordship is pleased with 
 
 your steenkirk. 
 
 Lord Fop. In love with it, stap my vitals ! — 
 Bring your bill, you shall be paid to-marrow. 
 Mrs. Cal. I humbly thank your honour. [.Rxi:. 
 Lord Fop. Hark thee, shoemaker ! these shoes 
 an't ugly, but they don't fit me. 
 
 Shoemaker. My lord, my thinks they fit you very 
 well. 
 
 Lord Fop. They hurt me just below the instep. 
 Shoe. [Feeling his foot,} My lord, they don't 
 hurt you there. 
 
 Lord Fop. I tell thee, they pinch me execrably. 
 Shoe. My lord, if they pinch you, I'll be bound 
 to be hanged, that's all. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, wilt thou undertake to persuaoe 
 me I cannot feel ? 
 
 Shoe. Your lordship may please to feel what you 
 think fit ; but that shoe does not hurt you — I 
 think I understand my trade. 
 
 Lord Fop. Now by all that's great and powerful, 
 thou art an incomprehensible coxcomb ! but thou 
 makest good shoes, and so I'll bear with thee. 
 
 Shoe. My lord, I have worked for half the people 
 of quality in town these twenty years ; and 'twere 
 very hard I should not know when a shoe hurts, 
 and when it don't. 
 
 Lord Fop. Well, prithee be gone about thy 
 business. — lExit Shoemaker.] Mr. Mendlegs, a 
 word with you : the calves of these stockings are 
 thickened a little too much. They make my legs 
 look like a chairman's — 
 
 Mend. My lord, my thinks they look mighty well. 
 
 Lord Fop. Ay, but you are not so good a judge 
 
 of those, things as I am, I have studied 'em all my 
 
 life ; therefore pray let the next be the thickness 
 
 of a crawn-piece less lAside.] If the town takes 
 
 notice my legs are fallen away, 'twill he attributed 
 to the violence of some new intrigue. — [Exit 
 Mendlegs.] Come,Mr.Foretop, let meseewhat 
 you have done, and then the fatigue of the morning 
 will be over. 
 
 Fore. My lord, I have done what I defy any 
 prince in Europe to outdo ; I .have made you a 
 periwig so long, and so full of hair, it will serve 
 you for a hat and cloak in all weathers. 
 
 Lord Fop. Then thou hast made me thy friend 
 to eternity. Come, comb it out. 
 
 Fash. [Aside to Loby.] Well, Lory, what dost 
 think on't ? A very friendly reception from a 
 brother after three years' absence ! 
 
 J ory. Why, sir, 'tis your own fault ; we seldom 
 care for those that don't love what we love : if 
 you would creep into his heart, you must entef 
 
30G 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 into his pleasures. — Here you have stood ever 
 since you came in, and have not commended any 
 one thing that belongs to him. 
 
 Fash. Nor never shall, while they belong to a 
 coxcomb. 
 
 Lory. Then, sir, you must be content to pick a 
 hungry bone. 
 
 Fash. No, sir, I'll crack it, and get to the 
 marrow before I have done. 
 
 Lord Fop. Gad's curse, Mr. Foretop ! you don't 
 intend to put this upon me for a full periwig ? 
 
 Fore. Not a full one, my lord ? I don't know 
 what your lordship may please to call a full 
 one, but I' have crammed twenty ounces of hair 
 into it. 
 
 Lord Fop. What it may be by weight, sir, I 
 shall not dispute ; but by tale, there are not nine 
 hairs of a side. 
 
 Fore. O lord ! O lord ! O lord ! Why, as Gad 
 shall judge me, your honour's side-face is reduced 
 to the tip of your nose ! 
 
 Lord Fop. My side-face may be in an eclipse 
 for aught I know ; but I'm .sure my full-face is 
 like the full-moon. 
 
 Fore. Heaven bless my eye-sight — ^Rubbing 
 his eyes.2 Sure I look through the wrong end of 
 the perspective ; for by my faith, an't please your 
 honour, the broadest place I see in your face does 
 not seem to me to be two inches diameter. 
 
 Lord Fop. If it did it would just be two inches 
 too broad ; for a periwig to a man should be like 
 a mask to a woman, nothing should be seen but 
 his eyes. 
 
 Fore, My lord, I have done ; if you please to 
 have more hair in your wig, I'll put it in. 
 
 Lord Fop. Passitively, yes. 
 
 Fore. Shall I take it back now, my lord ! 
 
 Lord Fop. No : I'll wear it to-day, though it 
 show such a manstrous pair of cheeks, stap my 
 vitals, 1 shall be taken for a trumpeter ! 
 
 lExit FORBTOP. 
 
 Fash. Now your people of business are gone, 
 brother, I hope I may obtain a quarter of an hour's 
 audience of you. 
 
 Lord Fop. Faith, Tam, I must beg you'll ex- 
 cuse me at this time, for I must away to the House 
 of Lai^s immediately ; my lady Teaser's case is to 
 come on to-day, and I would not be absent for 
 the salvation of mankind. — Hey, page 1 
 
 Enter Page. 
 
 Is the coach at the door .' 
 
 Page. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Lord Fop. You'll excuse me, brother. \_Gomg. 
 
 Fash. Shall you be back at dipner.' 
 
 Lord Fop. As Gad shall jidge me, I can't tell ; 
 for 'tis passible I may dine with some of aur House 
 at Lacket's. 
 
 Fash. Shall I meet you there ? For I must needs 
 talk with you. 
 
 Lord Fop. That I'm afraid mayn't be so praper ; 
 far the lards I commonly eat with, are people of 
 a nice conversation ; and you know, Tam, your 
 education has been a little at large ; but, if you'll 
 stay here, you'll find a family dinner. — [To Page.] 
 Hey, fellow ! What is there for dinner ? There's 
 beef : I suppose my brother will eat beef. — Dear 
 Tam, I'm glad to see thee in England, stap my 
 Yij;als r \_Exlt with La Vjeroi.b and Page. 
 
 Fash. Hell and furies ! is this to be borne ? 
 
 Lory. Faith, sir, I could almost have given him 
 a knock o'th' pate myself. 
 
 Fash. 'Tis enough ; I will now show thee the 
 excess of my passion by being very calm. Come, 
 Lory, lay your loggerhead to mine, and in cool 
 blood let us contrive his destruction. 
 
 Lory. Here comes a bead, sir, would contrive it 
 better than us both, if he would but join in the 
 confederacy. 
 
 Enter Coupler. 
 
 Fash. By this light, old Coupler alive still ! — 
 Why, how now, matchmaker, art thou here still to 
 plague the world vrith matrimony .' You old bawd, 
 how have you the impudence to be hobbling out of 
 your grave twenty years after you are rotten ! 
 
 Coup. When you begin to rot, sirrah, you'll go 
 off like a pippin ; one winter will send you to the 
 devil. What mischief brings you home again ? 
 Ha ! you young lascivious rogue you. Let me put 
 my hand into your bosom, sirrah. 
 
 Fash. Stand off, old Sodom ! 
 
 Coup. Nay, prithee now, don't be so coy. 
 
 Fash. Keep your hands to yourself, you old dog 
 you, or I'll wring your nose off. 
 
 Coup. Hast thou then been a year in Italy, and 
 brought home a fool at last ? By my conscience, 
 the young fellows of this age profit no more by 
 their going abroad than they do by their going to 
 church. Sirrah, sirrah, if you are not hanged 
 before you come to my years, — you'll know a coct 
 from a hen. But, come, I'm still a friend to thy 
 person, though I have a contempt of thy under- 
 standing ; and therefore I would willingly know 
 thy condition, that I may see whether thou standest 
 in need of my assistance : for widows swarm, my 
 boy, the town's infected with *em. 
 
 Fash. I stand in need of anybody's assistance, 
 that will help me to cut my elder brother's throat, 
 without the risk of being hanged for him. 
 
 Coup. Egad, sirrah, I could help thee to do him 
 almost as good a turn, without the danger of being 
 burned in the hand for't. 
 
 Fash. Sayest thou so, old Satan ? Show me hut 
 that, and my soul is thine. 
 
 Coup. Pox o'thy soul ! give me thy warm body, 
 sirrah ; I shall have a substantial title to't when 1 
 tell thee my project. 
 
 Fash. Out with it then, dear dad, and take 
 possession as soon as thou wilt. 
 
 Coup, Sayest thou so, my Hephestion ? Why, 
 then, thus lies the scene — But hold ; who's that ? 
 if we are heard we are undone. 
 
 Fash, What, have you forgot. Lory ? 
 
 Coup. Who, trusty Lory, is it thee .' 
 
 Lory. At your service, sir. 
 
 Coup. Give me thy hand, old boy. Egad, I did 
 not know thee again ; but I remember thy honesty 
 though I did not thy face ; I think thou hadst like 
 to have been hanged once or twice for thy master. 
 
 Lory. Sir, I was very near once having that 
 honour. 
 
 Coup, Well, live and hope ; don't be discou- 
 raged; eat with him, and drink with him, and 
 do what he bids thee, and it may be thy reward at 
 last, as well as another's. — [To Tom Fashion.] 
 Well, sir, you must know I have done you the 
 kindness to make up a match for your brother. 
 
 Fash, Sir, 1 am very much beholden to you truly I 
 
 Coup, You may be, sirrah, before the wedding- 
 day yet. The lady is a great heiress ; fifteen 
 
THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 3or 
 
 hundred pound a year, and a great bag of money ; 
 the match is concluded, the writings are drawn, and 
 the piplcin's to be cracked in a fortniglit. Now you 
 must know, stripling (with respect to your mother), 
 your brotlier's the son of a whore. 
 
 Fash. Good! 
 
 Coup. He has given me a bond of a thou- 
 sand pounds for helping him to this fortune, and 
 has promised me as much more in ready .money 
 upon the day of marriage, which, I understand by 
 a friend, he ne*er designs to pay me. If therefore 
 you will be a generous young dog, and secure me 
 five thousand pounds, I'll be a covetous old rogue, 
 and help you to the lady. 
 
 Fash. Egad, if thou canst bring this about, I'll 
 have thy statue cast in brass. But don't you dote, 
 you old pander you, when you talk at this rate ? 
 
 Coup. That your youthful parts shall judge 
 of. This plump partridge, that I tell you of, lives 
 in the country, fifty miles oflF, with her honoured 
 parents, in a lonely old house which nobody comes 
 near ; she never goes abroad, nor sees company at 
 home. To prevent all misfortunes, slie has her 
 breeding within doors ; the parson of the parish 
 teaches her to play on the bass-viol, the 'clerk to 
 sing, her nurse to dress, and her father to dance. 
 In short, nobody can give you admittance there but 
 I ; nor can I do it any other way than by making 
 you pass for your brothec. 
 
 Fash. And how the devil wilt thou do that ? 
 
 Coup. Without the devil's aid, I warrant thee. 
 Thy brother's face not one of the family ever 
 saw, the whole business has been managed by me, 
 and all the letters go through my hands. The 
 last that was writ to Sir Tunbelly Clumsey (for 
 that's the old gentleman's name), was to tell 
 him, his lordship would be down in a fortnight to 
 consummate. Now, you shall go away imme- 
 diately, pretend you writ that letter only to have 
 the romantic pleasure of surprising your mistress ; 
 fall desperately in love, as soon as you see her ; 
 make that your plea for marrying her immediately, 
 and, when the fatigue of the wedding-night's over, 
 you shall send me a. swinging purse of gold, you 
 dog you. 
 
 Fash. Egad, old dad, I'll put my hand in thy 
 bosom now. 
 
 Coup. Ah, you young hot lusty thief, let me 
 muzzle you ! — [Kisses him.'} Sirrah, let me muz- 
 zle you. 
 
 Fash. [Aside-I Psha, the old lecher ! 
 
 Coup, Well ; I'll warrant thou hast not a far- 
 
 thing of money in thy pocket now ; no, one may 
 see it in thy face. 
 
 Fash. Not a souse, by Jupiter! 
 
 Coup. Must I advance then ? — Well, sirrah, be 
 at my lodgings in half an hour, and I'll see what 
 may be done ; we'll sign, and seal, and eat a pul- 
 let, and when I have given thee some farther 
 
 instructions, thou shalt hoist sail and be gone. 
 
 [Kisses him.] T'other buss, and so adieu. 
 
 Fash. Um ! psha ! 
 
 Coup. Ah, you young warm dog you, what a 
 delicious night will the bride have on't ! [Ejcit. 
 
 Fash. So, Lory ; Providence| thou seest at last, 
 takes care of men of merit : we are in a fair way 
 to be great people. 
 
 Lory. Ay, sir, if the devil don't step between the 
 cup and the lip, as he uses to do. 
 
 Fash. Why, faith, he has played me many a 
 damned trick to spoil my fortune, and egad I'm 
 almost afraid he's at work about it again now ; but 
 if I should tell thee how, thou'dst wonder at me. 
 
 Lory. Indeed, sir, I should not. 
 
 Fash. How dost know ? 
 
 Lory. Because, sir, I have wondered at you so 
 often, I can wonder at you no more. 
 
 Fash. No ! what wouldst thou say if a qualm of 
 Conscience should spoil my design ? 
 
 Lory. I would eat my words, and wonder more 
 than ever. 
 
 Fash. Why, faith. Lory, though I am a young 
 rake-hell, and have played many a roguish trick ; 
 this is so full-grown a cheat, I find I must take 
 pains to come up to't, I have scruples — 
 
 Lory. They are strong symptoms of death ; if 
 you find they increase, pray, sir, make your will. 
 
 Fash. No, my conscience shan't starve me nei- 
 ther. But thus far I'll hearken to it ; before I 
 execute this project, I'll try my brother to the 
 bottom, I'll speak to him with the temper of a 
 philosopher ; my reasons (though they press him 
 home) shall yet he clothed with so much modesty, 
 not one of all the truths they urge shall be so naked 
 to offend his sight. If he has yet so much humanity 
 about him as to assist me (though with a moderate 
 aid), I'll drop my project at his feet, and show him 
 how I can do for him much more than what I ask 
 he'd do for me. iTiis one conclusive trial of him 
 I resolve to make — 
 
 Succeed or no, still victory's my lot ; 
 
 If I subdue his heart, 'tis well ; if not, 
 
 I shall subdue my conscience to my plot. 
 
 [_Exeunt, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Lovex-ess's Town- 
 House. 
 
 Enter Loveless and Amanda- 
 
 Love. How do you like these lodgings, my dear? 
 For my part, I am so well pleased with them, I 
 shall hardly remove whilst we stay in town, if you 
 are satisfied. 
 
 Aman. I am satisfied with eveiything that 
 pleases you, else I had not come to town at all. 
 
 Lme. Oh ! a little of the noise and bustle of the 
 world sweetens the pleasures of retreat. We shall 
 
 find the charms of our retirement doubled, when 
 we return to it. 
 
 Aman. That pleasing prospect will be my chief- 
 est entertainment, whilst (much against my will) I 
 am obliged to stand surrounded with these empty 
 pleasures, which 'tis so much the fashion to be fond 
 of. 
 
 L&ve. I own most of them are indeed but empty; 
 nay, so empty, that one would wonder by wliat 
 magic power they aet, when they induce us to be 
 vicious for their sakes. Yet some tliere are we 
 may speak kindlier of. There are delights (of 
 
.■:o8 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 which a private life is destitute) which may divert 
 an honest man, and be a harmless entertainment 
 to a virtuous woman. The conversation of the 
 town is one; and truly (with some small allowances), 
 the plays, I think, may be esteemed another. 
 
 Aman. The plays, I must confess, have some 
 small charms ; and would have more, would they 
 restrain that loose obscene encouragement to vice, 
 which shocks, if not the virtue of some women, at 
 least the modesty of all. 
 
 Love. But till that reformation can be made, 
 I would not leave ,the wholesome corn for some 
 intruding tares that grow amongst us, Doubtless 
 the moral of a well-wrought scene is of prevailing 
 force — Last night there happened one that moved 
 me strangely. 
 
 Jtman. Pray, what was that ? 
 
 Love. Why 'twas about — but 'tis not worth re- 
 peating. 
 
 Aman. Yes, p' ay let me know it. 
 
 Love. No ; I think 'tis as well let alone. 
 
 Aman. Nay, now you make me have a mind to 
 know. 
 
 Loiie. 'Twas a foolish thing. You'd perhaps 
 grow jealous should I tell it you, though without a 
 cause. Heaven knows. 
 
 Aman. I shall begin to think I have cause, if 
 you persist in making it a secret. 
 
 Love. I'll then convince you you have none, by 
 making it no longer so. Know then, I happened 
 in the play to find my very character, only with 
 the addition of a relapse ; which struck me so, I 
 put a sudden stop to a most harmless entertain- 
 ment, which till then diverted me between the acts. 
 'Twas to admire the workmanship of nature, in the 
 face of a young lady that sat some distance from 
 me, she was so exquisitely handsome ! — 
 
 Aman. So exquisitely handsome ! 
 
 Love. Why do you repeat my words, my dear ? 
 
 Aman. Because you seemed to speak them with 
 such pleasure, I thought I might oblige you with 
 their echo. 
 
 Love. Then you are alarmed, Amanda ? 
 
 Aman. It is my duty to be so, when you are in 
 danger. 
 
 Love. You are too quick in apprehending for 
 me ; all will be well when you have heard me out. 
 I do confess I gazed upon her, nay, eagerly I gazed 
 upon her. 
 
 Aman. Eagerly ! that's with desire. 
 , Love. No, I desired her not : I viewed her 
 with a world of admiration, but not one glance 
 of love. 
 
 Aman. Take heed of trusting to such nice dis- 
 tinctions. 
 
 Love. I did take heed ; for observing in the play, 
 that he who seemed to represent me there was, by 
 an accident like this, unwarily surprised into a net, 
 in which he lay a poor entangled slave, and brought 
 a train of mischiefs on his head, I snatched my eyes 
 away j they pleaded hard for leave to look again, 
 but I grew absolute, and they obeyed. 
 
 Aman. Were they the only thir^gs that were in- 
 quisitive ? Had I been in your place, my tongue, 
 I fancy, had been curious too s I should have asked 
 her name, and where she lived (yet still without 
 design :) — Who was she, pray ? 
 
 Love. Indeed I cannot tell. 
 
 Aman. You will not tell. 
 
 Love. By all that's sacred then, I did not ask. 
 
 Aman. Nor do you know what company was 
 with her.° 
 
 Love. I do not. 
 
 Aman. Then I am calm again. 
 
 Love. Why were you disturbed .' 
 
 Aman. Had I then no cause ? 
 
 Love. None, certainly. 
 
 Aman. I thought I had. 
 
 Love. But you thought wrong, Amanda : for 
 turn the case, and let it be your story ; should you 
 come home, and tell me you had seen a handsome 
 man, should I grow jealous because you had eyes .' 
 
 Aman. But should I tell you he were exquisitely 
 so ; that I had gazed on him with admiration ; that 
 I had looked with eager eyes upon him ; should- 
 you not think 'twere possible I might go one step 
 further, and inquire his name ? 
 
 Love. \_Aside.'\ She has reason on her side, I 
 have talked too much ; hut I must turn it off an- 
 other way. — [Aloud.^ Will you then make no 
 difference, Amanda, between the language of our 
 sex and yours ? There is a modesty restrains your 
 tongues, which makes yon speak by halves when you 
 commend ; but roving flattery gives a loose to ours, 
 which makes us still speak double what we think. 
 You should not, therefore, in so strict a sense, take 
 what I said to her advantage. 
 
 Aman. Those flights of flattery, sir, are to our 
 faces only : when women ^nce are out of hearing, ■ 
 you are as modest iu ybur commendations as we 
 are. But I shan't put you to the trouble of farther ■ 
 excuses, if you please this business shall rest here. 
 Only give me leave to wish, both for your peace 
 and mine, that you may never meet this miracle of 
 beauty more. 
 
 Love. I am content. 
 
 Enter Servant. ; 
 
 Ser. Madam, there's a young lady at the door ' 
 in a chair, desires to know whether your ladyship " 
 sees company. I think her name is Berinthia. 
 
 Aman. O dear ! 'tis a relation I have not seen 
 this five years. Pray her to walk in. — \_Esnt Ser- 
 vant.] Here's another beauty for yo,U. She was 
 young when I saw her last ; but I hear she's 
 grown extremely handsome. 
 
 Love. Don't you be jealous now ; for I shall 
 gaze upon her too. 
 
 Enter Berinthia. 
 — Ha ! by Heavens the very woman ! \_Aside. 
 
 Ber. [Saluting Amanoa.] Dear Amanda, I did 
 not expect to meet with you in town, 
 
 Aman. Sweet cousin, I'm overjoyed to see you. 
 — Mr. Loveless, here's a relation, and a friend of 
 mine, I desire you'll be better acquainted with. 
 
 Love, [Saluting Berinthia] If my wife never 
 desires a harder thing, madam, her request will be 
 easily granted. 
 
 Ber. I think, madam, I ought to wish you joy. 
 
 Aman. Joy I Upon what ? 
 
 Ber. Upon your marriage ; you were a widovir 
 when I saw you last. ' 
 
 Lone. You ought rather, manam, to wish me 
 joy upon that, since I am the only gainer. 
 
 Ber. If she has got so good a husband as the 
 world reports, she has gained enough to expect the 
 compliments of her friends upon it. 
 
 Love. If the world is so favourable to me, to 
 allow I deserve that title, I hope 'tis so just to my 
 wife to own I derive it from her. 
 
SCKNE I. 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 309 
 
 Ber^ Sir, it is so just to you both, to own you 
 are (and deserve to be) the happiest pair that 
 live in it. 
 
 Love* I'm afraid we shall lose that character, 
 madara, whenever you happen to change your 
 coDdition. 
 
 Re-eiiter Servant. 
 
 Ser, Sir, my lord Foppington presents his hum- 
 ble service to you, and desires to know how you 
 do. He but just now heard you were in town. 
 He's at the next door; and if it be not inconve- 
 nient, he'll come and wait upon you. 
 
 Love. Lord Foppington ! — I know him not. 
 
 Ber* Not his dignity, perhaps, but you do his 
 person. 'Tis sir Novelty ; he has bought a barony, 
 in order to marry a great fortune. His patent has 
 not been passed above eight- and-forty hours, and 
 he has already sent bow-do-ye's to all the town, 
 to make 'em acquainted with his title. 
 
 Love. Give my service to his lordship, and let 
 him know I am proud of the honour he intends 
 me. — [Ej^it Servant.] Sure this addition of qua- 
 lity must have so improved his coxcomb, he can't 
 but be very good company for a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Aman. Now .it moves my pity more than my 
 mirth, to see a man whom nature has made no fool, 
 be so very industrious to pass for an ass. 
 
 Love. No, there you are wrong, Amanda ; you 
 should never bestow your pity upon those who 
 take pains for your contempt. Pity those whom 
 nature abuses, but never those who abuse nature. 
 
 Ber. Besides, the town would be robbed of one 
 ■of its chiefest diversions, if it should become a 
 crime to laugh at a fool. 
 
 Aman. \ could never yet perceive the town 
 inclined to part with any of its diversions, for the 
 sake of their being crimes ; but I have seen it very 
 fond of some I think had little else to recom- 
 mend 'em. 
 
 - Ber. I doubt, Amanda, you are grown its 
 enemy, you speak with so much warmth against it. 
 
 Aman. I must confess I am not much its friend. 
 
 Ber. Then give me leave to make you mine, by 
 QOt engaging in its quarrel. 
 
 Aman, You have many stronger claims than 
 that, Berintbia, whenever you think fit to plead 
 your title. 
 
 Love. You have done well to engag& a second, 
 my dear ; for here comes one will be apt to call 
 you to an account for your country principles. 
 
 Enter Lord Foppington. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I am-your most humble servant. 
 
 Love. I wish you joy, my lord. 
 
 Lord Fop. O Lard, sir! — Madam, your lady- 
 ship's welcome to tawn. 
 
 Aman, I wish your lordship joy. 
 
 Lord Fop, O Heavens, madam— 
 
 Love. My lord, this young lady is a relation of 
 my wife's. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Saluting Berinthia.] The beau- 
 tifullest race of people upon earth, rat me 1 Dear 
 Loveless, I am overjoyed to see you have brought 
 your family to tawn again; I am, stapmy vitals ! 
 [Aside.^ For I design to lie with your wife. — 
 \_To Amanda.] Far Gad's sake, madam, haw has 
 your ladyship been able to subsist thus long, under 
 the fatigue of a Country life '^ 
 
 Aman. My Ijte has been very far from that, my 
 lord ; it has b^n a very quiet one. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, that's the fatigue I speak of, 
 madam. For 'tis impassible to be quiet without 
 thinking; now thinking is to me the greatest 
 fatigue in the world. 
 
 Aman. Does not your lordship love reading then.' 
 
 Lord Fop. Oh, passionately, madam But I 
 
 never think of what I read. 
 
 Ber. Why, can your loroship read without 
 thinking ? 
 
 Lord Fop, O Lard ! — can your ladyship pray 
 without devotion, madam? 
 
 Aman. Well, I must own I think books the best 
 entertainment in the world. 
 
 Lord Fop. I am so much of your ladyship's 
 mind, madam, that I have a private gallery, where 
 I walk sometimes, is furnished with nothing but 
 books and looking-glasses. Madam, I have gilded 
 'em, and ranged 'em, so prettily, before Gad, it is 
 the most entertaining thing in the world to walk 
 and look upon 'em. 
 
 Aman. Nay, I love a neat library too ; but 'tis, 
 I think, the inside of a book should recommend it 
 most to us. 
 
 T^ord Fop. That, I must confess, I am not 
 altogether so fand of. Far to mind the inside of a 
 book, is to entertain one's self with the forced pro- 
 duct of another man's brain. Naw I think a man of 
 quality and breeding may be much better diverted 
 with the natural sprauts of his own. But to say the 
 truth, madam, let a man love reading never so well, 
 when once he comes to know this tawn, he finds so 
 many better ways of passing away the four-and- 
 twenty hours, that 'twere ten thousand pities he 
 should consume his time in that. Far e:sample, 
 madam, my life; my life, madam, is a perpetual 
 stream of pleasure, that glides through such a 
 variety of entertainments, I believe the wisest of 
 our ancestors never had the least conception of any 
 of 'em. I rise, madam, about ten a-clack. I don't 
 rise sooner, because 'tis the worst thing in the 
 world for the complexion ; nat that I pretend to be 
 a beau ; but a man must endeavour to look whole- 
 some, lest he make so nauseous a figure in the side- 
 bax, the ladies should be compelled to turn their 
 eyes upon the play. So at ten a-clack, I say, I 
 rise. Naw, if I find it a good day, I resalve to 
 take a turn in the Park, and see the fine women ; 
 so huddle on my clothes, and get dressed by one. 
 If it be nasty weather, I take a turn in the choco- 
 late-hause: where as you walk, madam, you have 
 the prettiest prospect in the world ; you have look- 
 ing-glasses all round you. — But I'm afraid I tire 
 the company. 
 
 Ber, Not at all. Pray go on. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why then, ladies, from thence I go 
 to dinner at Lacket's, where you are so nicely 
 and delicately served, that, stap my vitals ! they 
 shall compose you a dish no bigger than a saucer, 
 shall come to fifty shillings. Between eating my 
 dinner (and washing my mouth, ladies) I spend my 
 time, till I go to the play ; where, till nine a-clack, 
 I entertain myself with looking upou the company ; 
 and usually dispose of one hour more in leadini^ 
 them aut. So there's twelve of the four-and- 
 twenty pretty well over. The other twelve, madan?, 
 are disposed of in two articles : in the first four I . 
 toast myself drunk, and in t'other eight I sleep 
 myself sober again. Thus, ladies, you see my life 
 is an eternal raund O of delights. 
 Love. 'Tis a heavenly one, indeed. 
 
310 
 
 THE RELAPSE: OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 Aman. But I thought, my lord, you beaux spent 
 a great deal of your time in intrigues : you have 
 given us no account of 'em yet. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.) Soh ; she would inquire 
 into my amours — That's jealousy : — she begins to 
 he in love with me. — [To Amanda] Why, madam, 
 as to time for my intrigues, I usually make detach- 
 ments of it from my other pleasures, according to 
 the exigency. Far your ladyship may please to 
 take notice, that those who intrigue with women of 
 quality, have rarely occasion for above half an hour 
 at a time : people of that rank being under those 
 decorums, they can seldom give you a langer view 
 than will just serve to shoot 'em flying. So that 
 the course of my other pleasures is not very much 
 interrupted by my amours. 
 
 Love. But your lordship is now become a pillar 
 of the state ; you must attend the weighty affairs 
 of the nation. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, — as to weighty affairs — I leave 
 them to weighty heads. I never intend mine shall 
 be a burden to my body. 
 
 Love. O but you'll find the house will expect 
 your attendance. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, you'll find the house vriU com- 
 pound for my appearance. 
 
 Love. But your friends will take it ill if you 
 don't attend their particular causes. 
 
 Lord Fop, Not, sir, if I come time enough to 
 give 'em my particular vote. 
 
 Ber. But pray, my lord, how do you dispose of 
 yourself on Sundays ? for that, methinks, should 
 hang wretchedly on your hands. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why faith, madam — Sunday — ^is a 
 vile day, I must confess. I intend to move for 
 leave to bring in a bill, that players may work upon 
 it, as well as the hackney coaches. Though this I 
 must say for the government, it leaves us the 
 churches to entertain us. — But then again, they 
 begin so abominable early, a man must rise by 
 candle-light to get dressed by the psalm. 
 
 Ser. Pray which church does your lordship most 
 oblige with your presence ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Oh, St. James's, madam : — there's 
 much the best company. 
 
 Aman. Is there good preaching too ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Why faith, madam — I can't tell. A 
 man must have very little to do there that can give 
 an account of the sermon. 
 
 Ber. You can give us an account of the ladies 
 at least. 
 
 Lord Fop. Or 1 deserve to be excommunicated. 
 — There is my lady Tattle, my lady Prate, my lady 
 Titter, my lady Leer, my lady Giggle, and my lady 
 Grin. These sit in the front of the boxes, and all 
 church-time are the prettiest company in the world, 
 stap my vitals [ — [To Amanda.] Mayn't we hope 
 for the honour to see your ladyship added to our 
 society, madam ? 
 
 Aman. Alas, my lord ! I am the worst company 
 in the world at church : I'm apt to mind the 
 prayers, or the sermon, or — 
 
 Lord Fop. One is indeed strangely apt at church 
 to mind what one should not do. But I hope, 
 madam, at one time or other, I shall have the 
 honour to lead your ladyship to your coach there. — 
 [Aside.] Methinks she seems strangely pleased 
 with everything I say to her. — 'Tis a vast pleasure 
 to receive encouragement from a woman before her 
 husband's face. — I have a good mind to pursue my 
 
 conquest, and speak the thing plainly to her at once. 
 Egad I'll do't, and that in so cavalier a manner, 
 she shall be surprised at it. — [Aloud.1 Ladies, I'll 
 take my leave ; I'm afraid I begin to grow trouble- 
 some with the length of my visit. 
 
 Aman. Your lordship's too entertaining to grow 
 troublesome anywhere. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.l That now was as much as if 
 she had said — pray lie with me. I'll let her see I'm 
 quick of apprehension. — [To Amanda.] O Lard, 
 madam ! 1 had like to have forgot a secret, I most 
 needs tell your ladyship. — [To Loveless.] Ned, 
 you must not be so jealous now as to listen. 
 
 Love. Not I, my lord ; I'm too fashionable a 
 husband to pry into the secrets of my wife- 
 
 Lord Fop. [ To Amanda, squeezing her hand. ] 
 I am in love with you to desperation, strike me 
 speechless ! 
 
 Aman. [Giving him a box on the ear.) Then, 
 thus I return your passion. — .An impudent fool ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Gads curse, madam, I'm a peer of the 
 realm ! 
 
 Love. Hey ; what the devil do you affront my 
 wife, sir ? Nay then— 
 
 [^They draw andJighL The ladies run shrieking 
 for help. 
 
 Aman. Ah ! What has my folly done ! Help ! 
 murder ! help ! part 'em for Heaven's sake. 
 
 Lord Fop, [Falling back, and leaning upon his 
 sword.'\ Ah — quite through the body ! — stap my 
 vitals ! 
 
 Enier ServantB. 
 
 Love. [Running to him.) I hope I han't killed the 
 fool however. — Bearhim up. — Where's your wound ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Just through the guts. . 
 
 Love. Call a surgeon there. — Unbutton him 
 quickly. 
 
 Lord Fop, Ay, pray make haste. \iExU Servant. 
 
 Love. This mischief you may thank yourself for. 
 
 Lord Fop. I may so— love's the devil indeed, 
 Ned. 
 
 Re-enter Servant tcith SvRraGB. 
 
 Ser. Here's Mr. Syringe, sir, was just going by 
 the door. 
 
 Lord Fop. He's the welcomest man alive. 
 
 Syr. Stand by, stand by, stand by ! Pray, 
 gentlemen, stand by. Lord have mercy upon us ! 
 did you never see a man run through the body 
 before .■' pray, stand by. 
 
 Lord Fop. Ah, Mr. Syringe — I'm a dead man ! 
 
 St/r. A dead man and I by ! — I should laugh to 
 see that, egad! 
 
 Love. Prithee don't stand prating, but look upon 
 his wound. 
 
 Syr. Why, what if I won't look upon his wound 
 this hour, sir ? 
 
 Love. Why then he'll bleed to death, sir. 
 
 Si/r. Why, then I'll fetch him to life again, sir. 
 
 Love. 'Slife, he's run through the guts, I tell 
 thee. 
 
 St/r, Would he were run through the heart, I 
 should get the more credit by his cure. Now I 
 hope you are satisfied ?— Come, now let me come 
 at him ; now let me come at him. — [ Viewing his 
 wound.) Oons, what a gash is here ! — Why, sir, a 
 man may drive a coach and six horses into your 
 body 
 
 Lord Fop, Ho ! 
 
 Syr, Why, what the devil, have you run the 
 
THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 311 
 
 gentleman through with a scythe? — [jlside.'i A 
 little prick between the skin and the ribs, that's all. 
 
 L(we. Let me see his wound. 
 
 Syr. Then you shall dress it, sir ; for if anybody 
 looks upon it, I won't. 
 
 Love. Why, thou art the veriest coxcomb I ever 
 saw. 
 
 Syr. Sir, I am not master of my trade for 
 nothing. 
 
 Lord Fop. Surgeon ! 
 
 Syr. Well, sir. 
 
 Lord Fop. Is there any hopes ? 
 
 Syr. Hopes ! — I can't tell. — What are you will- 
 ing to give for your cure ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Five hundred paunds with pleasure. 
 
 Syr, Why then perhaps there may be hopes. 
 But we must avoid further delay. — Here ; help the 
 gentleman into a chair, and carry him to my house 
 presently, that's the properest place — lAside'] to 
 bubble him out of his money. — [Aloud.] Come, a 
 chair, a chair quickly — there, in with him. 
 
 [_Tliey put liim into a chair. 
 
 Lord Fop. Dear Loveless— adieu ! If I die — I 
 forgive thee ; and if I live — I hope thou wilt do as 
 much by me. I am very sorry you and I should 
 quarrel ; but I hope here's an end on't, for if you 
 are satisfied — I am. 
 
 Love. I shall hardly think it worth my prosecut- 
 ing any further, so you may be at rest, sir. 
 
 Lord Fop. Thou art a generous fellow, strike 
 me dumb I — [Aside."] But thou hast an impertinent 
 wife, stap my vitals ! 
 
 Syr. So, carry him off ! carry him oflF ! we shall 
 have him prate himself into a fever by-and-by ; 
 carry him off. \_Ejcit with Lord Foppington, 
 
 Aman. Now on my knees, my dear, let me ask 
 your pardon for my indiscretion, my own I never 
 shall obtain. 
 
 Love. Oh, there's no harm done : you served 
 him well. 
 
 Aman. He did indeed deserve it. But I trem- 
 ble to think how dear my indiscreet resentment 
 might have cost you. 
 
 Love. Oh, no matter, never trouble yourself 
 about that. 
 
 Ber. For Heaven's sake, what was't he did to 
 you .> 
 
 Aman. nothing ; he only squeezed me kindly 
 by the hand, and frankly offered me a coxcomb's 
 heart. I know I was to blame to resent it as I did, 
 since nothing but a quarrel could ensue. But tlie 
 fool so surprised me with his insolence, I was not 
 mistress of my fingers. 
 
 Ber, Now, I dare swear, he thinks you had 'em 
 at great command, they obeyed you so readily. 
 
 Enter Worthy. 
 
 JVor, Save you, save you, good people : I'm 
 glad to find you all alive ; I met a wounded peer 
 carrying off. For Heaven's sake, what was the 
 matter. 
 
 Love. Oh, a trifle ! He would have lain with 
 my wife before my face, so she obliged him with a 
 box o'th' ear, and I run him through the body : 
 that was all. 
 
 Wor. Bagatelle on all sides. But, pray madam, 
 bow long has this noble lord been a humble servant 
 of yours ? 
 
 Aman. This is the first I have heard on't. So, 
 I suppose,' 'tis his quality more than his love has 
 
 brought him into this adventure. He thinks his 
 title an authentic passport to every woman's heart 
 below the degree of a peeress. 
 
 Wor, He's coxcomb enough to think anything. 
 But I would not have you brought into trouble for 
 him : I hope there's no danger of his life .' 
 
 Love. None at all. He's fallen into the hands 
 of a roguish surgeon, who I perceive designs to 
 frighten a little money out of him. But I saw his 
 wound, 'tis nothing ; he may go to the play to-night, 
 if he pleases. 
 
 Wor. I am glad you have corrected him with- 
 out farther mischief. And now, sir, if these ladies 
 have no farther service for you, you'll oblige me if 
 you can go to the place I spoke to you of t'other 
 day. 
 
 Love. With all my heart. — [Aside.] Though I 
 could wish, methinks, to stay and gaze a little 
 longer on that creature. Good gods, how beau- 
 tiful she is ! — But what have I to do with beauty .' 
 I have already had my portion, and must not covet 
 more. — [Aloud.] Come, sir, when you please. 
 
 Wor. Ladies, your servant. 
 
 Aman. Mr. Loveless, pray one word with you 
 before you go. 
 
 Love. [To Worthy.] I'll overtake you, sir. — 
 [Fxit Worthy.] What would my dear ? 
 
 Aman. Only a woman's foolish question, — how 
 do you like ray cousin here ? 
 
 Love. Jealous already, Amanda ? 
 
 Aman. Not at all, I ask you for another reason. 
 
 Love. [Aside.] Whate'er her reason be, I must 
 not tell her true. — [To Amanda.] Why, I confess 
 she's handsome. But you must not think 1 slight 
 your kinswoman, if I own to you, of all the women 
 who may claim that character, she is the last would 
 triumph in ray heart. 
 
 Aman. I'm satisfied. 
 
 Love. Now tell me why you asked ? 
 
 Aman. At night I will. Adieu. 
 
 Love, I'm yours. IKisses her and exit. 
 
 Aman. [Aside.] I'm glad to find he does not 
 like her ; for 1 have a great mind to persuade her 
 to come and live with me. — [Aloud.] Now, dear 
 Berinthia, let me inquire a little into your aff'airs : 
 for I do assure you I am enough your friend to 
 interest myself in everything that concerns you. 
 
 Ber. You formerly ha,ve given me such proofs 
 on't I should be very much to blame to doubt it ; 
 I am sorry I have no secrets to trust you with, that 
 I might convince you how entire a confidence I 
 durst repose in you. 
 
 Aman. Why, is it possible that one so young 
 and beautiful as you should live and have no 
 secrets. 
 
 Ber. What secrets do you mean .' 
 
 Aman. Lovers. 
 
 Ber, Oh, twenty! butnot one secret one amongst 
 'em. Lovers in this age have too much honour to 
 do anything underhand ; they do all aboveboard. 
 
 Aman, That now, methinks, would make me 
 hate a man. 
 
 Ber. But the women of the town are of another 
 mind : for by this means a lady may (with the 
 expense of a few coquette glances) lead twenty fools 
 about in a string for two or three years together. 
 Whereas, if she should allow 'em grAter favours, 
 and oblige 'em to secrecy, she would not keep one 
 of 'em a fortnight. 
 
 Aman. There's something indeed in that to 
 
312 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 satisfy the vanity of a woman, but I can't compre- 
 liend how the men find their account in it. 
 
 Ber. Their entertainment, I must confess, is a 
 riddle to nie. For there's very few of them ever 
 get farther than a bow and an ogle. I have half a 
 score for my share, who follow me all over the 
 town J and at the play, the Park, and the church, 
 do (with their eyes) say the violentest things to 
 me. — But 1 never hear any more of 'em. 
 
 Aman. What can be the reason of that ? 
 
 Ber. One reason is, they don't know how to go 
 farther. They have had so little practice, they don't 
 understand the trade. But, besides their igno- 
 rance, you must know there is not one of my half 
 score lovers but what follows half a score mistresses. 
 Now, their affections being divided amongst so 
 many, are not strong enough for any one to make 
 'em pursue her to the purpose. Like a young 
 puppy in a warren, they have a flirt at all, and 
 catch none. 
 
 Aman. Yet they seem to have a torrent of love 
 to dispose of. 
 
 Ber. They have so. But 'tis like the river of a 
 modem philosopher, (whose works, though a 
 woman, I have read,) it sets out with a violent 
 stream, splits in a thousand branches, and is all 
 lost in the sands. 
 
 Aman. But do you think this river of love runs 
 all its course without doing any mischief.' I)o 
 you think it overflows nothing ? 
 
 Ber. O yes ; 'tis true, it never breaks into any- 
 body's ground that has the least fence about it ; 
 but it overflows all the commons that lie in its 
 way. And this is the utmost achievement of those 
 dreadful champions in the fleld of love — the beaux. 
 
 Aman. But prithee, Berinthia, instruct me a 
 little farther ; for I am so great a novice I'm 
 almost ashamed on't. My husband's leaving me 
 whilst J was young and fond threw me into that 
 depth of discontent, that ever since 1 have led so 
 private, and recluse a life, my ignorance is scarce 
 conceivable. I therefore fain would be instructed. 
 Not (Heaven knows) that what you call intrigues 
 have any charms for me ; my love and principles 
 are too well fixed. The practic part of all unlaw- 
 ful love is — 
 
 Ber. Oh, 'tis abominable I But for the specu- 
 lative ; that we must all confess is entertaining. 
 The conversation of all Che virtuous women in the 
 town turns upon that and new clothes. 
 
 Aman. Pray be so just then to me to believe, 
 'tis with a world of innocency I would inquire, 
 whether you think those women we call women of 
 reputation, do really 'scape all other men, as they 
 do those shadows of 'em, the beaux. 
 
 Ber. O no, Amanda ; there are a sort of men 
 make dreadful work amongst 'em : men that may 
 be called the beaux antipathy ; for they agree in 
 nothuig but walking upon two legs. — These have 
 brains, the beau has none. These are in love with 
 their mistress, the beau with himself. They take 
 care of her reputation, he's industrious to destroy 
 it. They are decent, he's a fop. They are sound, 
 he's rotten. They are men, he's an ass. 
 
 Aman. If this be their character, I fancy we 
 had here e'en now a pattern of 'em both. 
 
 Ber. His lordship and Mr. Worthy ? 
 
 Aman. The same. 
 
 Ber. As for the lord, he's eminently so ; and 
 for the other, I can assure you, there's not a man 
 
 in town who has a better interest with the women, 
 that are worth having an interest with. But 'tis 
 all private : he's like a back-stair minister at 
 court, whq, whilst the reputed favourites are 
 sauntering in the bedchamber, is ruling the roast 
 in the closet. 
 
 Aman. He answers then the opinion I had 
 ever of him. Heavens!; What a difference there 
 is between a man like him, and that vain nauseous 
 fop, sir Novelty. — \_TaMng, her hand.'] I must - 
 acquaint you with a secret, cousin. 'Tis not that 
 fool alone has talked to me of love. Worthy has 
 been tampering too, 'Tis true, he has done it in 
 vain : not all his charms or art have power to 
 shake me. My love, my duty, and my virtue, are 
 such faithful guards, I need not fear my heart 
 should e'er betray me. But what I wonder at is 
 this : I find I did not start ift his proposal, as whe^ 
 it came from one whom I contemned. 1 therefore 
 mention this attempt, that I may learn from you 
 whence it proceeds ; that vice (which cannc^t 
 change its nature) should so far change at least its 
 shape, as that the self-same crime proposed from 
 one shall seem a monster gaping at your ruin;; 
 when from another it shall look so kind, as though 
 it were your friend, and never meant to harm you. 
 Whence, think you, can this difference proceed } 
 For 'tis not love. Heaven knows. 
 
 Ber. O no i I would not for the world believe 
 it were. But possibly, should there a dreadful 
 sentence pass upon you, to undergo the rage of 
 both their passions ; the pain you apprehend from 
 one might seem so trivial to the other, the danger 
 would not quite so much alarm you. 
 
 Ama?t. Py, fy, Berinthia ! you would indeed 
 alarm me, could you incline me to a thought, that 
 all the merit of mankind combined could shake 
 that tender love I bear my husband. No, he sits 
 triumphant in my. heart, and nothing can dethrone 
 him. 
 
 Ber. But should he abdicate again, do you 
 think you should preserve the vacant throne ten 
 tedious winters more in hopes of his return ? 
 
 Aman. Indeed I think I should. Though I 
 confess, after those obligations he has to me, 
 should he abandon me once more, my heart would 
 grow extremely urgent with me to root him thence, 
 and cast him out for ever. 
 
 Ber. Were I that thing they call a slighted wife, 
 somebody should run the risk of being that thing 
 they call — a husband. 
 
 Aman. O fy, Berinthia ! no revenge should 
 ever be taken against a husband. But to wrong 
 his bed is a vengeance, which of all vengeance — 
 
 Ber. Is the sweetest, ha ' ha f ha 1 Don't I 
 talk madly ? 
 
 Aman. Madly indeed. 
 
 Ber. Yet I'm very innocent. 
 
 Aman. That I dare swear you are. I know 
 how to make allowances for your humour : vou 
 were always very entertaining company j but I 
 find since marriage and widowhood have shown 
 you the world a little, you are very much improved. 
 
 Ber. lAside.] Alack a-day, there has gone 
 more than that to improve me, if she knew all ! 
 
 Aman. For Heaven's sake, Berinthia, tell me 
 what way I shall take to persuade you to come 
 and live with me ? 
 
 Ber. Why, one way in the world there is — and 
 but one. 
 
SCSNS ). 
 
 THE RKLAPSK; QR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 313 
 
 Aman. Pray which is that ! 
 
 Ber. It is to assure me — I shall be very wel- 
 come. 
 
 Aman. If that be all, you shall e'en lie here tp- 
 night. 
 
 Ber. To-night ! 
 
 Aman. Yes, to-night. 
 
 Ber. Why, the people where I lodge will think 
 me mad. . I 
 
 Aman. Let 'em think what they please. 
 
 Ber . Say you so, Amanda ? Why then they 
 shall think what they please : for I'm a young 
 widow, and I care not what anybody thinks. Ah, 
 Amanda, it's a delicious thing to be a young widow ! 
 
 Aman. You'll hardly make me think so. 
 
 Ber. Phu 1 because you are in love with your hus- 
 band : but that is rot every woman's case. 
 
 Aman. I hope 'twas yours at least. 
 
 Ber. Mine, say ye ? Now I have a great mind 
 to tell you a lie, but I should do it so awkwardly 
 you'd tind me out. 
 
 Aman. Then e'e.i speak the truth. 
 
 £er,'ShaUI?— Then after all I did love him, 
 Amanda — as a nun does penance. 
 
 Aman. Why did not you refuse to marry him, 
 then 
 
 Ber. Because my mother wouldhave vvhippedme. 
 
 Aman, How did you live together ? 
 
 Ber, Like man and wife, asunder. — He loved 
 the country, I the town. He hawks apd hounds, 
 I coaches and equipage. He eating and drinking, 
 I carding and playing. He the sound of a horn, I 
 the squeak of a iiddle. We were dull company at 
 table, worse a-bed. Whenever we met, we gave 
 one another the spleen ; an^ never agreed but once, 
 which was about lying aloiie. 
 
 Aman. But tell me one thing truly and sincerely. 
 
 Ber, What's that .' , - 
 
 Aman, Notwithstanding all these jars, did not 
 his death at last extremely trouble you ? 
 
 Ber, O yes. Not that my present paiigs were 
 
 so very violent, but the after-pains were intolerable. 
 I was forced to wear a beastly widow's band a 
 twelvemonth for't. 
 
 Aman,, Women, I find, have different inclina- 
 tions. ' ' 
 
 Ber. Women, I iind, keep different company. 
 When your husband ran away from you, if you had 
 fallen into some of my acquaintance, 'twould have 
 saveu you many a tear. But you go and live with 
 a grandmother, a bishop, and an old nurse ; which 
 was enough to make any woman break her heart 
 for her husband. Pray, Amanda, if ever you are a 
 widow again, keep yourself so, as I do. 
 
 Ajnan. Why ! do you then resolve you'll never 
 marry ? 
 
 Ber, O, no ; I resolve I will. 
 
 Aman. Hgw so ? 
 
 Ber. That I never may. 
 
 Aman. Yon banter me. 
 
 Ber. Indeed I don't. But I consider I'm a 
 woman, and form niy resolutions accordingly. 
 
 Aman, Well, my opinion is, form what resolu- 
 tion you will, matrimony will be the end on't. 
 
 Ber, Faith it \.on't. 
 
 Aman. Rbw do ypu know? 
 
 Ber. I am sure on't. 
 
 Aman. Why, do you think 'tis impossible for 
 you tu fall in love ? 
 
 Ber. No. 
 
 Aman. Nay, hut to. grow so passionately fond, 
 that nothing butthe man you love can give you rest. 
 
 Ber. Well, what then ? 
 
 j^man. Why then you'll marry him. 
 
 Ber. How do you know that ? 
 
 Aman. Why, what can you do else? 
 
 l^er. Nothing-irbut pit and cry. 
 
 Aman. Psha ! 
 
 Ber. Ah, poor Amanda ! you have led a country 
 life : but if you'll consult the widows of this town, 
 they'll tell you, you should never take a lease of a 
 house you can hire for a quarter's warning. iSxeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A RQom in Lord Foppingtpn's 
 Hou.se, 
 
 Enter Lord Foepington and Servant. 
 
 Lord Fop. Hey, fellow, let the coach come to 
 the door. 
 
 Ser. Will your lordship venture so soon to expose 
 yourself to the weather .' 
 
 Lord Fop, Sir, I will venture as soon as I can, 
 to expose myself to the ladies ; though give me my 
 cloak, however ; for in that side-box, what between 
 the air that comes in at the door on one side, and 
 thfe intolerable warmth of the masks on t'other, 
 a man gets so many heats and colds, 'twould destroy 
 the canstitution of a harse. 
 
 Ser, \_PuUing on his cloak. y I wish your lord- 
 ship would please to keep house a little longer ; I'm 
 afraid your honour does not well consider your 
 wound. 
 
 Lord Fop. My wound ! — I would not be in 
 eclipse another day, though I had as many wounds 
 in my guts as I have had in my heart. \.Ea:ii Servant. 
 
 Enter Tom Fashion. 
 
 Fash. Brother, your servant. How do you find 
 yourself to-day ? 
 
 Lord Fop. So well, that I have ardered my 
 coach to the door : so there's no great danger of 
 death this baut, Tam. - ' 
 
 Fash. I'm very glad of it. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.'\ That I believe's a lie.— 
 [Aluud.J Prithee, Tam, tell me one thing : did not 
 your heart cut a caper up to your mauth, when you 
 heard I was run through the bady ? 
 
 i^asA. Why do you thinMt should ? ' 
 
 Lord Fop. Because I^i'eniember mine did so; 
 when I heard my faj^h'er was' s'hat through the 
 head. 
 
 Fash. It then did very ill. 
 
 Lord Fop. Prithee, why so ? ' 
 
 Fa'sh. Because he used you very well. 
 
 Lord Fop. Well ? — naw, strike me dumb ! he 
 starved me. He has let me want a thausand wo- 
 men for want of a thausand paund. 
 
 Fash, Then he hindered you from making a 
 
314 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OB, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 great many ill bargains, for I think ro woman is 
 worth money that will take money. 
 
 Lord Fop. If I were a younger brother, I should 
 think so too. 
 
 Fash. Why, is it possible you can value a wo- 
 man that's to be bought ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Prithee, why not as well as a pad- 
 nag.' 
 
 Fash. Because a woman has a heart to dispose 
 of; a horse has none. 
 
 Lord Fop. Look you, Tam, of all things that 
 belang to a woman, I have an aversion to her heart. 
 Far when once a woman has given you her heart — 
 yon can never get rid of the rest of her bady. 
 
 Fash. This is strange doctrine. But pray in 
 your amours how is it with your own heart ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, my heart in my amours^s 
 like — my heart aut of my amours ; a la glace. My 
 bady, Tam, is n watch ; and my heart is the pen- 
 dulum to it ; whilst the finger runs raund to 
 every hour in the circle, that still beats the same 
 time. 
 
 Fash. Then you are seldom much in love ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Never, stap my vitals ! 
 
 Fash. Why then did you make all this bustle 
 about Amanda ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Because she was a woman of an inso- 
 lent virtue, and I thought myself piqued in hoDour 
 to debauch her. 
 
 Fash. Very well. — [Aside.'] Here's a rare fellow 
 for you, to have the spending of five thousand 
 pounds a year ! But now for ray business with 
 him. — \_Aloud.'\ Brother, though I know to talk 
 to you of business (especially of money) is a theme 
 not quite so entertaining to you as that of the 
 ladies ; my necessities are such, I hope you'll have 
 patience to hear me. 
 
 Lord Fop. The greatness of your necessities, 
 Tarn, is the worst argument in the world for your 
 being patiently heard; I do believe you are going 
 to make me a very good speech, but, strike me 
 dumb ! it has the worst beginning of any speech 
 I have heard this twelvemonth. 
 
 Fash. 1 'm very sorry you think so. 
 
 Lord Fop. I do believe thou art. But come, 
 let's know thy affair quickly ; far 'tis a new play, 
 and I shall be so rum.pled and squeezed with 
 pressing through the crawd, to get to my servant, 
 the women will think I have lain all night in my 
 clothes. 
 
 Fash. Why then (that I may not be the author 
 of so great a misfortune) my case in a word is this. 
 The necessary expenses of my travels have so 
 much exceeded the wretched Income of my annuity, 
 that I have been forced to mortgage it for five 
 hundred pounds, which is spent ; so that unless 
 you are so kind to assist me in redeeming it, I 
 know no remedy but to take a purse. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, faith, Tam — to give you my 
 sense of the thing, I do think taking a purse the 
 best remedy in the world : for if you succeed, you 
 are relieved that way ; if you are taken — you are 
 relieved t'other. 
 
 Fash. I'm glad to see you are in so pleasant a 
 humour, I hope 1 shall find the effects on't. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, do you then really think it a 
 reasonable thing I should give you five hundred 
 paunds ? 
 
 Fash. I do not ask it as a due, brother, I am 
 willing to receive it as a favour. 
 
 Lord Fop. Thau art willing to receive it any 
 haw, strike me speechless ! But these are damned 
 times to give money in, taxes are so great, repairs 
 so exorbitant, tenants such rogues, and periwigs 
 so dear, that the devil take me, I am reduced to 
 that extremity in my cash, I have been farced to 
 retrench in that one article of sweet pawder, till 
 I have braught it dawn to five guineas a manth. 
 Naw judge, Tam, whether I can spare you five 
 hundred paunds. 
 
 Fash. If you can't I must starve, that's all. — 
 lAside.1 Damn him 1 
 
 Lord Fop. All I can say is, yon should have 
 been a better husband. 
 
 Fash. Oons, if you can't live upon five thou- 
 sand a year, how do you think I should do't upon 
 two hundred ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Don't be in a passion, Tam, far 
 passion Is the most unbecoming thing in the 
 world — to the face. Look you, I don't love to 
 say anything to you to make you malancholy ; 
 but upon this occasion I must take leave to put 
 you in mind, that a running horse does require 
 more attendance than a coach-horse. Nature has 
 made some difference 'twixt you and I. 
 
 Fash. Yes, she has made you older. — [Aside.l 
 Pox take her ! 
 
 lord Fop. That is nat all, Tam. 
 
 Fash. Why, what is there else .' 
 
 Lord Fop. {Looking first upon himself ^ then 
 upon his brother. 1 Ask the ladies. 
 
 Fash. Why, thou essence-bottle ! thou musk 
 cat I dost thou then think thou hast any advantage 
 over me, but what Fortune has given thee ! 
 
 Lord Fop. I do — stap my vitals 1 
 
 Fash. Now, by all that's great and powerful, 
 thou art the prince of coxcombs ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir — I am praud of being at the 
 head of so prevailing 4 party. 
 
 Fash. Will nothing then provoke thee ? Draw, 
 coward ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Look you, Tam, you know I have 
 always taken you for a mighty dull fellow, and 
 here is one of the foolishest plats broke out that 
 I have seen a long time. Your paverty makes 
 your life so burdensome to you, you would pro- 
 voke me to a quarrel, in hopes either to slip 
 throngh my lungs into my estate, or to get your- 
 self run through the guts, to put an end to your 
 pain. But I will disappoint you in both your 
 designs ; far, with the temper of a philasapher, and 
 the discretion of a statesman — 1 will go to the play 
 with my sword in my scabbard. lExit. 
 
 Fash. So ! Farewell, snuff-box ! and now, 
 conscience, I defy thee. — Lory ! 
 
 Enter Lory. 
 
 Lort/. Sir ! 
 
 Fash. Here's rare news. Lory ; his lordship has 
 given me a pill has purged off all my scruples. 
 
 Lory. Then my heart's at ease again. For I 
 have been in a lamentable fright, sir, ever since 
 your conscience had the impudence to intrude into 
 yonr company. 
 
 FasA. Be at peace, it will come there no more : 
 my brother has given it a wring by the nose, and 
 I have kicked it down stairs. So run away to 
 the inn ; get the horses ready quickly, and 
 bring 'em to old Coupler's, without a moment's 
 delay. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 815 
 
 I,ory. Then, sir, you are going straight ahout 
 the fortune ? 
 
 Fash. I am. Away I fly, Lory I 
 
 Lory. The happiest day I ever saw. I'm upon 
 the wing already. [Eoieunl severally. 
 
 SCENE IL — A Garden adjoining Lovn.ngs's 
 Lodijinys. 
 
 Enter Loveless and Servant. 
 
 Love. Is my wife within ? 
 
 Ser. No, sir, she has been gone out this half 
 hour. 
 
 Love, 'Tis well, leave me. \_Exit Servant.] 
 Sure fate has yet some business to be done, 
 Before Amanda's heart and mine must rest ; 
 Else, why amongst those legions of her sex. 
 Which throng the world, 
 Should she pick oat for her companion 
 The only one on earth 
 
 Whom nature has endow'd for her undoing ? 
 Undoing, was't, I said ! — who shall undo her .' 
 Is not her empire fix'd ? am I not hers .' 
 Did she not rescue me, a grovelling slave. 
 When chain'd and bound by that black tyrant vije, 
 I labour'd in his vilest drudgery .' 
 Did she not ransom me, and set ine free ? 
 Nay more : when by my follies sunk 
 To a poor tatter'd despicable beggar. 
 Did she not lift me up to envied fortune ! 
 Give me herself, and all that she possess'd ? 
 Without a thought of more return. 
 Than what a poor repenting heart might make her. 
 Han't she done this ? And if she has. 
 Am I not strongly bound to love her for it ? 
 To love her ! — why do I not love her then .'' 
 By earth and heaven I do ! 
 Nay, I have demonstration that I do : 
 For I would sacrifice my life to serve her. 
 Yet hold — if laying down my life 
 Be demonstration of my love. 
 What is't I feel in favour of Berinthia .' 
 For should she be in danger, methinks I could 
 incline to risk it for her service too ; and yet I 
 do not love her. How then subsists my proof r — 
 Oh, I have found it out ! What I would do for 
 one, is demonstration of my love ; and if I'd do as 
 much for t'other : it there is demonstration of my 
 friendship. — Ay — it must be so. I find I'm very 
 much her friend. Yet let me ask myself one puz- 
 zling question more : Whence springs this mighty 
 friendship all at once ? For our a{-c|uaintance is of 
 later date. Now friendship's said to be a plant of 
 tedious growth, its root composed of tender fibres, 
 nice in their taste, cautious in spreading, 
 Check'd with the least corruption in the soil : ' 
 Long ere it take. 
 
 And longer still ere it appear to do so : • 
 Whilst mine is in a moment shot so high, 
 And fix'd so fast. 
 
 It seems beyond the power of storms to shake it. 
 1 doubt it thrives too fast. IMuting. 
 
 Enter Bbrinthia. 
 
 Ah, she here ! — Nay, then take heed my heart, 
 for there are dangers towards. 
 
 Ber. What makes you look so thoughtful, sir ? 
 I hope you are not ill. 
 
 Love. I was debating, madam, whether I was 
 so or not ; and that was it wliioh made me look 
 so thoughtful. 
 
 Ber. Is it then so hard a matter to decide ? I 
 thought all people had been acquainted with their 
 own bodies, though few people know their own 
 minds. 
 
 Love. What if the distemper, I suspect, be in 
 the mind ? 
 
 Ber. Why then I'll undertake to prescribe you 
 a cure. 
 
 Love. Alas! you undertake you know not what. 
 
 Ber. So far at least then allow me to be a 
 physician. 
 
 Love. Nay, I'll allow you so yet further : for I 
 have reason to believe, should I put myself into 
 your hands, you would increase my distemper. 
 
 Ber. Perhaps I might have reasons from the 
 college not to be too quick in your cure ; but 'tis 
 possible I might find ways to give you often ease, 
 sif. ■ 
 
 Love. Were I but sure of that, I'd quickly lay 
 my case before you. 
 
 Ber. Whether you are sure of it or no, what 
 rislc do you run in trying ? 
 
 Li'Ve. Oh ! a very great one. 
 
 Ber, How .' 
 
 Love, You might betray my distemper to my 
 wif^. 
 
 Ber. And so lose all my practice. 
 
 Love. Will you then keep my secret ? 
 
 Ber. I will, if it don't burst me. 
 
 Love. Swear. ' 
 
 Ber. I do. 
 
 Love. By what ? 
 
 Bi'r. By woman. 
 
 Love. That's swearing by my deity. Do it by 
 your own, or I shan't believe you. 
 
 Ber, By man then. 
 
 Love. I'm satisfied. Now hear my symptoms, . 
 and give me your advice. The first were these : 
 When 'twas my chance to see you at the play, 
 A random glance you threw at first alarm'd me, 
 I could not turn my eyes from whence the danger 
 
 came : 
 I gazed upon you till you shot again. 
 And then my fears came on me. 
 My heart began to pant, my limbs to tremble. 
 My blood grew thin, my pulse beat quick, my eyes 
 Grew hot and dim, and all the frame of nature 
 Shook with apprehension. 
 'Tis true, some small recruits of resolution 
 My manhood brought to my assistance ; 
 And by their help I made a stand a while. 
 But found at last your arrows flew so thick. 
 They could not fail to pierce me ; so left tlie field. 
 And fled for shelter to Amanda's arms. 
 What think you of these symptoms, pray .' 
 
 Ber. Feverish every one of 'em. 
 But what relief pray did your wife aiford you? 
 
 Lovf. Why, instantly she let me blood ; 
 Which for the present much assuaged my fl'ame. 
 But when I saw you, out it burst again. 
 And raged with greater fury than before. 
 Nay, since you now appear, 'tis so increased, 
 That in a moment, if you do not help me, 
 I shall, whilst you look on, consume to ashes. 
 
 [TaHes hold of her hand. 
 
31G 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Ber. ^Breaking from Aim.] O Lard, let me go ? 
 'Tis the plague, and we shall all be infected. 
 
 Love. ICatehing her in his arms, and kissing 
 Aer.] Then we'll die together, my charming angel ! 
 
 Ber. O Ged— the devil's in you ! — Lord, let 
 me go, here's somebody coming. 
 
 EnUr Servant 
 
 Ser. Sir, my lady's come home, and desires to 
 speak with you : she's in her chamber. 
 
 Love. Tell her I'm coming. — [£ji< Servant.] 
 Eat before I go, one glass of nectar more to drink 
 her health. 
 
 Ber. Stand off, or I shall hate you, by Heavens ! 
 
 Love. [Kissing her.'\ In matters of love, a wo- 
 man's oath is no more to be minded than a man's. 
 
 Ber. Um— 
 
 Enter Worthy. 
 
 Wor. [^Aside.'] Ha ! ivhat's here ? my old mis- 
 tress, and so close, i' faith ! I would not spoil her 
 sport for the universe. lExU. 
 
 Ber. O Ged! — Now do I pray to Heaven, — 
 ^Exit Loveless running] with all my heart and 
 soul, that the devil in hell may take me, if ever — I 
 was better pleased in my life ! — ^This man has 
 bewitched me, that's certain. — \_Sighing.1 Well, I 
 am condemned ; but, thanks to Heaven, I feel 
 myself each moment more and more prepared for 
 my execution. Nay, to that degree, I don't per- 
 ceive I have the least fear of dying. No, I find, 
 let the executioner be but a man, and there'^ 
 nothing will suffer with more resolution than a 
 woman. Well, I never had but one intrigue yet — 
 but I confess I lon^ to have another. Pray Heaven 
 it end as the first did though, that we may both 
 grow weary at a time ; for 'tis a melancholy thing 
 for lovers to outlive one another. 
 
 Be-enter ■Worthy. 
 
 War. [Aside."] This discovery's a lucky one, I 
 hope to make a happy use on't. That gentlewo- 
 man there is no fool ; so I shall be able to make 
 her understand her interest. — [Aloud.] Your ser- 
 vant, madam ; I need not ask you how you do, you 
 have got so good a colour. 
 
 Ber. No better than I used to have, I suppose. 
 
 Wor. A little more blood in your cheeks. 
 
 Ber. The weather's hot. 
 
 Wor. If it were not, a woman may have a colour. 
 
 Ber. What do you mean by that ? 
 
 Wor. Nothing. 
 
 Ber. Why do you smile then r 
 
 Wor. Because the weather's hot. 
 
 Ber. You'll never leave roguing, I see that. 
 
 Wor. [Putting his finger to his nose.] You'll 
 never leave — I see that. 
 
 Ber. Well, I can't imagine what you drive at. 
 Pray tell me what you mean ? 
 
 Wor, Do you tell me ; it's the same thing. 
 
 Ber. I can't. 
 
 Wor. Guess ! 
 
 Ber. I shall guess wrong. 
 
 Wor. Indeed you won't. 
 
 Ber. Psha ! either tell, or let it alone. 
 
 Wor. Nay, rather than let it alone, I will tell. 
 But first I must put you in mind, that after what 
 has passed 'twixt you and I, very few things ought 
 to be secrets between us. 
 
 Ber. Why, what secrets do we hide ? I know of 
 aone. 
 
 Wor. Yes, there are two ; one I have hid from 
 you, and t'other you would hide from me. You 
 are fond of Loveless, which I have discovered ; and 
 I am fond of his wife-^ 
 
 Ber. Which I have discovered, 
 
 Wor. Very well, now I confess your discovery 
 to be true : what do you say to mine ? 
 
 Ber. Why, I confess — I would swear 'twere 
 false, if I thought you were fool enough, to believe 
 me. 
 
 Wor. Now am I almost in love with you again. 
 Nay, I don't know but I might be quite so, had I 
 made one short campaign with Amanda. There- 
 fore, if you find 'twould tickle your vanity to bring 
 me down once more to your lure, e'en help me 
 quickly to despatch her business, that I may have 
 nothing else to do, but to apply myself to yours. 
 
 Ber. Do you then think, sir, 1 am old enough 
 to be a bawd ? 
 
 Wor. No, but I think you are wise enough to — 
 
 Ber. To do what ? 
 
 Wor. To hoodwink Amanda with a gallant, that 
 she mayn't see who is her husband's mistress. 
 
 Ber. [Aside.] He has reason : the hint's a good 
 one. 
 
 Wor. Well, madam, what think you on't ? 
 
 Ber. I think you are so much a deeper politician 
 in these affairs than I am, that I ought to have a 
 very threat regard to your advice. 
 
 Wor. Then give me leave to put you in mind, 
 that the most easy, safe, and pleasant situation for 
 your own amour, is the house in which you now 
 are, provided you keep Amanda from any sort of 
 suspicion. That the way to do that, is to engage 
 her in an intrigue of her own, making yourself her 
 confidant. And the way to bring her to intrigue, 
 is to make her jealous of her husband in a wrong 
 place ; which the more you foment, the less you'll 
 be suspected. This is my scheme, in short ; which 
 if you follow as you should do, my dear Berinthia, 
 we may all four pass the winter very pleasantly. 
 
 Ber. Well, I could be glad to have nobody's sins 
 to answer for but my own. But where there is a 
 necessity — 
 
 Wor, Right : as you say, where there is a neces- 
 sity, a Christian is bound to help his neighbour. 
 So, good Berinthia, lose no time, bnt let us begin 
 the dance as fast as we can. 
 
 Ber. Not till the fiddles are in tune, pray sir. 
 Your lady's strings will be very apt to fly, I can 
 tell you that, if they are wound up too hastily. 
 But if you'll have patience to screw 'em to the pitch 
 by degrees, I don't doubt but she may endure to 
 be played upon. 
 
 Wor. Ay, and will make admirable music too, 
 or I'm mistaken. But have you had no private 
 closet discourse with her yet about males and 
 females, and so forth, which may give you hopes 
 in her constitution ? for I know her morals are the 
 devil against us. 
 
 Ber. I have had so much discourse with her, that 
 I believe, were she once cured of her fondness to 
 her husband, the fortress of her virtue would not 
 be so impregnable as she fancies. 
 
 Wor. What ! she runs, I'll warrant you, into 
 that common mistake of fond wives, who conclude 
 themselves virtuous, because they can refuse a man 
 they don't like, when they have got one they do. 
 
 Ber. True ; and therefore I think 'tis a presump- 
 tuous thing in a woman to assume the name of 
 
THE RELAPSK; OU, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 517 
 
 virtuous, till she lias heartily hated her husband, 
 and been soundly in love with somebody else. 
 Whom, if she has withstood — then — much good 
 may it do her. 
 
 Wor. Well, so much for her virtue. Now, one 
 word of her inclinations, and every one to their 
 post. What opinion do you find she has of me ? 
 
 Ber. What you could wish ; she thinks you hand- 
 some and discreet- 
 
 iVor. Good ; that's thinking half-seas over. One 
 tide more brings us into port. 
 
 Ser. Perhaps it may, though still remember, 
 there's a difficult bar to pass. 
 
 Wor. I know there is, but I don't question I 
 shall get well over it, by the help of such a pilot. 
 
 Ber. You may depend upon your pilot, she'll do 
 the best she can ; so weigh anchor and begone as 
 soon as you please. 
 
 Wor. I'm under sail already. Adieu ! 
 
 Ber. Bon voyage! — [Exit Worthy.'] So, here's 
 fine work ! What a business have I undertaken ! 
 I'm a very pretty gentlewoman truly I But there 
 was no avoiding it : he'd have ruin'd me, if I had 
 refused him. Besides, faith, I begin to fancy there 
 may be as much pleasure in carrying on another 
 body's intrigue as one's own. This at least is 
 certain, it exercises almost all the entertaining 
 faculties of a woman : for there's employment for 
 hypocrisy, invention, deceit, flattery, mischief, and 
 lying. 
 
 Enter Amanda, her MmA following her. 
 
 Maid. If you please, madam, only to say, whe- 
 ther you'll have me buy 'em or not. 
 
 Atnan. Yes, no, go fiddle ! I care not what you 
 do. Prithee leave me. 
 
 jMaid. I have done. lExit. 
 
 Ber. What in the name of Jove's the matter 
 with you ? 
 
 Aman. The matter, Berinthia ! I'm almost mad, 
 I'm plagued to death. 
 
 Ber. Who is it that plagues you ? 
 
 Aman. Who do you think should plague a wife, 
 but her husband ? 
 
 Ber. O ho, is it come to that ? We shall have 
 you wish yourself a widow by and by. 
 
 Aman. Would I were anything but what I am ! 
 A base ungrateful man, after what I have done for 
 him, to use me thus ! 
 
 Ber. What, he has been ogling now, I'll warrant 
 yon? 
 
 Aman. Yes, he has been ogling. 
 
 Ber. And so you are jealous ? is that all ? 
 
 Aman. That all ! is jealousy then nothing ? 
 
 Ber. It should be nothing, if I were in your case. 
 
 Aman. Why, what would you do ? 
 
 Ber. I'd cure myself. 
 
 Aman. How ? 
 
 Ber. Let blood in the fond vein : care as little 
 for my husband as he did for me. 
 
 Amcm. That would not stop his course. 
 
 Ber. Nor nothing else, when the wind's in the 
 warm comer. Look you, Amanda, you may build 
 castles in the air, and fume, and fret, and grow 
 thin and lean, and pale and ugly, if you please. 
 But I tell you, no man worth having is true to his 
 wife, or can be true to his wife, or ever was, or 
 ever will be so. 
 
 Aman. Do you then really think he's false to me .' 
 for I did but suspect him. 
 
 Ber. Think so ! I know he's so. 
 
 Aman. Is it possible ? Pray tell me what you 
 knnvr, 
 
 Ber. Don't press me then to name names, for 
 that I have sworn I won't do. 
 
 Aman, Well, I won't ; but let me know all you. 
 can without perjury. 
 
 Ber. I'll let you know enough to prevent any 
 wise woman's dying of the pip ; and I hope you'll 
 pluck up your spirits, and show upon occasion you 
 Can be as good a wife as the best of 'em. 
 
 Aman. Well, what a woman can do I'll endea- 
 vour. 
 
 Ber. Oh, a woman can do a grfeat deal, if once she 
 sets her mind to it. Therefore pray don't stand 
 trifling any longer, and teasing yourself with this 
 and that, and yOur love and your virtue, and I 
 know not what : but resolve to hold up your head, 
 get a-tiptoe, and look over 'em all ; for to my cer- 
 tain knowledge your husband is a pickeering else- 
 where. 
 
 Aman. You are sure on't ? 
 
 Ber. Positively he fell in love at the play. 
 
 Aman. Right, the very same. Do you know 
 the ugly thing ? 
 
 Ber. Yes, I know her well enough ; but she's ' 
 no such ugly thing neither. 
 
 Aman. Is she very handsome ? 
 
 Ber. Truly I think so. 
 
 Aman. Hey ho ! 
 
 Ber. What do you sigh for now ? 
 
 Aman. Oh, my heart I 
 
 Ber. lAside."] Only the pangs of nature ; she's 
 in labour of her love ; Heaven send her a quick 
 delivery, Vm sure she has a good midwife. 
 
 Aman. I'm very ill, I must go to my chamber. 
 Dear Berinthia, don't leave me a moment. 
 
 Ber. No, don't fear. — {^Aside.^ I'll see you 
 safe brought to bed, I'll warrant you. 
 
 [_Ea:eunt, Amanda leaning upon Berinthia. 
 
 SCENE III Sir Tunbelly Clumsey's 
 
 Country-House. 
 
 Enter Tom Fashion and Lobv. 
 
 Fash. So, here's our inheritance, Lory, if we 
 ran but get into possession. But methinks the seat 
 of our family looks like Noah's ark, as if the chief 
 part on't were designed for the fowls of the air, 
 and the beasts of the field. 
 
 Lory, Pray, sir, don't let your head run upon 
 the orders of building here ; get but the heiress, 
 let the devil take the house. 
 
 Fash. Get but the house, let the devil take the 
 heiress, I say ; at least if she be as old Coupler 
 describes her. But come, we have no time to 
 squander. Knock at the door. — [Lory knocks 
 two or three Hmes.'\ What the devil, have they 
 got no ears in this house ? Knock harder. 
 
 Lorp, Egad, sir, this will prove some enchanted 
 castle ; we shall have the giant come out by and 
 by with his club, and beat our brains out. 
 
 IKnockg again. 
 
 Fash. Hush ; they come. 
 
 Servant. [ Within.'] Who is there ? 
 
 Lori/, Open the door and see. Is that your 
 country breeding ? 
 
 Ser. Ay, but two words to a bargain, — Tummus. 
 is the blunderbuss primed ? 
 
Sl8 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER, 
 
 Fash. Oons, give 'em good words, Lory; we 
 shall be shot here a fortune-catching. 
 
 Lory. Egad, sir, I think y'are in the right on't. 
 —Ho ! Mr. 'What-d'ye-oallum. 
 
 , [Servant appears at the window with a blunderbuss. 
 
 Ser, "Weall naw, what's yare busine&s ? 
 
 Fash. Nothing, sir, but to wait upon sir Tun- 
 belly, with your leave. 
 
 Ser. To weat upon sir Tunbelly ! Why, you'll 
 find that's just as sir Tuubelly pleases. 
 
 Fash. But will you do me the favour, sir, to 
 know whether sir Tunbelly pleases or not ? 
 
 Ser, Why, look you, do you see, with good 
 words much may be done. — Ralph, go thy weas, 
 and ask sir Tunbelly if he pleases to be waited 
 Upon. And dost hear? call to nurse that she 
 may lock up Miss Hoyden before the geat's open. 
 
 Fash. D ye hear that, Lory .' 
 
 Lort/. Ay, sir, I'm afraid we shall find a difficult 
 job on't. Pray Heaven that old rogue Coupler 
 han't sent us to fetch milk out of the guni-oom. 
 
 Fash. I'll warrant thee all will go well. See, 
 the door opens. 
 
 Enter Sir TOneslly, with his Servants armed with guns, 
 clubs, pitchforks, scythes, S[c. 
 
 Lory. [^Running behind his master.'] O Lord ! 
 O Lord ! O Lord ! we are both dead men ! 
 
 Fash. Take heed, fool ! thy fear will ruin us. 
 
 Lory. My fear, sir ! 'sdeath, sir, I fear 
 nothing. — [^Aside.'\ Would I were well up to the 
 chin in a horsepond ! 
 
 Sir Tun, Who is it here has any business with 
 me? 
 
 Fash. Sir, 'tis I, if your name be sir Tunbelly 
 Clumsey. 
 
 Sir Tun. Sir, my name is sir Tunbelly Clum- 
 sey, whether you have any business with me or 
 not. So you see I am not ashamed of my name 
 — nor my face — neither. 
 
 Fash. Sir, you have no cause, that I know of. 
 
 Sir Tun. Sir, if you have no cause neither, I 
 desire to know who you are ; for till I know your 
 name, I shall not ask you to come into my house ; 
 and when I know your name — 'tis six to four I 
 don't ask you neither. 
 
 Fash. [^Giving him a letter.'] Sir, I hope you'll 
 find this letter an authentic passport. 
 
 Sir Tun. Cod's. my life 1 I ask your lordship's 
 pardon ten thousand times. — [ To a Servant. ] Here, 
 run in a-doors quickly. Get a Scotch-coal fire in 
 the great parlour ; set all the Turkey-wor.k chairs 
 in their places ; get the great brass candlesticks 
 out, and be sure stick the sockets full of laurel, 
 run 1 — [E.vit Servant.^ My lord, I ask your 
 lordship's pardon. — [ To other Servants.] And do 
 you hear, run away to nurse, bid her let Miss 
 Hoyden loose again, and if it was not shifting 
 day, let her put on a clean tucker, quick I — J^Ex- 
 eunt Servants confusedly.] I hope your honour 
 will excuse the disorder of my family ; we are not 
 used to receive men of your lordship's great quality 
 every day. Pray where are your coaches, and 
 servants, my lord? 
 
 Fash. Sir, that I might give you and your fair 
 daughter a proof how impatient I am to be nearer 
 akin to you, I left my equipage to follow me, and 
 came away post with only one servant. 
 
 Sir Tun. Your lordship does me too much 
 honour. It was exposing your person to too much 
 
 fatigue and danger, I protest it Was. But my 
 daughter shall endeavour to make you what amends 
 she can ; and though I say it that should not say 
 it— Hoyden has charms. 
 
 Fash. Sir, I am not a stranger to them, though 
 I am to her. Common fame has done her justice. 
 
 Sir Tun. My lord, I am common fame's very 
 grateful humble servant. My lofd — my girl's 
 young. Hoyden is young, my lord ; but this J must 
 say for her, what she wants in art, she has by 
 nature ; what she wants in experience, she has in 
 breeding ! and what's wanting in hei- age, is made 
 good in her constitution. So pray, my lord, walk 
 in : pray, my lord, walk in. 
 
 Fash. Sir, I wait upon you. iEMunt. 
 
 SCENE IV.— ^ Room in the same. 
 Miss Hoyden discovered alone. 
 
 Hoyd. Sure never nobody was used as I am. I 
 know well enough what other girls do, for all they 
 think to make a fool of me. It's well I have a 
 husband a-coming, or, ecod, I'd marry the baker, 
 I would so ! Nobody can knock at the gate, but 
 presently I must be locked up ; and here's the 
 young greyhound bitch can run loose about the 
 house all the day long, she can ; 'tis very well. 
 
 Nurse. [Without.'] Miss Hoyden! miss! miss! 
 miss ! Miss Hoyden ! 
 
 Enter Nurse. 
 
 Hoyd. Well, what do you make such a noise for, 
 ha ? what do yon din a body's ears for ? Can't 
 one be at quiet for you .' 
 
 Nurse. What do I din your ears for ! Here's 
 one come will din your ears for you. 
 
 Hoyd, What care I who's come ? I care not a 
 fig who comes, nor who goes, as long as I must be 
 locked up like the ale-cellar. 
 
 Nurse. That, miss, is for fear you should be 
 drunk before you are ripe. 
 
 Hoyd. Oh, don't you trouble your head about 
 that ; I'm as ripe as you, though not so mellow. 
 
 Nurse. Very well ; now have I a good mind to 
 lock you up again, and not let you see my lord to- 
 night. 
 
 Hoyd. My lord ! why, is my husband come ? 
 
 Nurse. Yes, marry is he, and a goodly person 
 too. 
 
 Hoyd, [Hugging Nurse.] O my dear nurse ! 
 forgive me this once, and I'll never misuse you 
 again ; no, if I do you shall give me three thumps 
 on the back, and a great pinch by the cheek. 
 
 Nurse. Ah, the poor thing, see how it melts ! 
 It's as full of good-nature as an egg's full of meat. 
 
 Hoyd. But, my dear nurse, don't lie now ; is 
 he come by your troth ? 
 
 Nurse. Yes, by my truly, is he. 
 
 Hoyd. Lord ! I'll go put on my laced smock, 
 though I'm whipped till the blood run down my 
 heels for't. \JSxit running. 
 
 Nurse. Eh — the Lord succour thee ! How 
 thou art delighted 1 lExil afler hei: 
 
THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGEH. 
 
 319 
 
 SCENE V. — Another Room in the same. 
 
 Ent<yrS\x Tunbelly an*/ Tow F.ashion. SoryajitfoUoxoing 
 with toine. 
 
 Sir Tun, My lord, I'm proud of the honour to 
 see your lordship within my doors ; and I humbly 
 crave leave to bid you welcome la a cup of sack 
 ■wine. 
 
 Fash. Sir, to your daughter's health. iDrinkt. 
 
 Sir Tun. Ah, poor girl, she'll be scared out of 
 her wits on her wedding-night ; for, honestly speak- 
 ing, she does not know a man from a woman but 
 by his beard and his breeches. 
 
 Fash. Sir, I don*t doubt but she has a virtuous 
 education, which with the rest of her merit makes 
 me long to see her mine. I wish you would dis- 
 pense with the canonical hour, and let it be this 
 very night. 
 
 Sir Tun. Oh, not so soon neither ! that's shoot- 
 ing my girl before you bid her stand. No, give 
 her fair warning, we'll sign and seal to-night, if you 
 please ; and this day seven-night — let the jade look 
 to her quarters. 
 
 Fash. This day se'nnight ! — why, whaf; do 
 you take me for a ghost, sir ? 'Slife, sir, I'm made 
 of flesh and blood, and bones and sinews, and can 
 no more live a week without your daughter — 
 [Aside} than I can live a month with her. 
 
 Sir Tun. Oh, I'll warrant you, my hero j young 
 men are hot, I knowj but they don't boil over at 
 that rate, neither. Besides, my wench's wedding- 
 gown is not come home yet. 
 
 Fash. Oh, no matter, sir, I*ll take her in her 
 shih.— [Aside.] A pox of this old fellow! he'll 
 delay the business till my damned star finds me 
 out and discovers me. — [Aloud.] Pray, sir, let it 
 be done without ceremony, 'twill save money. 
 
 Sir Tun. Money ! — save money when Hoyden's 
 to be married ! Udswoons I'll give my wench a 
 wedding-dinner, though I go to grass with the king 
 of Assyria for't ; and such a dinner it shall be, as is 
 not to be cooked in the poaching of an egg. There- 
 fore, my noble lord, have a little patience, we'll go 
 and look over our deeds and settlements imme- 
 diately; and as for your bride, though you may be 
 sharp-set before she*s quite ready, I'll engage for 
 my girl she stays your stomach at last. lExeunt, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Sir Tunbelly Cldm- 
 sey's Country-House. 
 
 Enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 
 
 Nurse. Well, miss, how do you like your hus- 
 band that is to be ? 
 
 Hoyd. O Lord, nurse ! I'm so overjoyed I can 
 scarce coataia myself. 
 
 Nurse. Oh, but you must have a care of being 
 too fond ; for men now-a-days hate a woman that 
 loves 'em. 
 
 Hoyd. Love him ! why do you think I love him, 
 nurse ? ecod I would not care if he were hanged, 
 so I were but once married to him ! — No — ^that 
 which pleases me, is to think what work I'll make 
 when I get to London ; for when I am a wife and 
 a lady both, nurse, ecod I'll flaunt it with the best 
 of 'em. 
 
 Nurse. Look, look, if his honour be not a-com- 
 ing again to you ! Now, if I were sure you would 
 behave yourself handsomely, and not disgrace me 
 that have brought you up, I'd leave you alone to- 
 gether. 
 
 Hoyd. That's my best nurse, do as you would 
 be done by ; trust us together this once, and if I 
 don't show my breeding from the head to the foot 
 of me, may I be twice married, and die a maid. 
 
 Nurse. Well this once I'll venture you ; but if 
 you disparage me — 
 
 Hoyd. Never fear, I'll show him my parts, I'll 
 warrant him. — [Exit Nurse.] These old women 
 are so wise when they get a poor girl in their 
 clutches ! but ere it be long, I shall know what's 
 what, as well as the best of 'em. 
 
 Enter Tom FAsHroN. 
 Fash. Your servant, madam ; I'm glad to find 
 you alone, for I have something of importance to 
 speak to you about. 
 
 Hoyd. Sir (my lord, I meant), you may speak to 
 me about what you please, I shall give you a civil 
 answer. 
 
 Fash. You give me so obliging a one, it encou- 
 rages me to teil you in few words what I think both 
 for your interest and mine. Your father, I sup- 
 pose you know, has resolved to make me happy in 
 being your husband, and I hope I may depend upon 
 your consent, to perform what he desires. 
 
 Hoyd. Sir, I never disobey my father in anything 
 but eating of green gooseberries. 
 
 Fash. So good a daughter must needs be an 
 admirable wife j I am therefore impatient till you 
 are mine, and hope you will so far consider the 
 violence of my love, that you won't have the cruelty 
 to defer my happiness so long as your father 
 designs it. 
 
 Hoyd. Pray, my lord, how long is that .' 
 
 Fash. Madam, a thousand year — a whole week. 
 
 Hoyd. A week ! — why I shall be an old woman 
 by that time. 
 
 Fash. And I an old man, which you'll find a 
 greater misfortune than t'other. 
 
 Hoyd. Why I thought it was to be to-morrow 
 morning, as soon as I was up ; I'm sure nurse told 
 me so. 
 
 Fash. And it shall be to-morrow morning still, 
 if you'll consent. 
 
 Hoyd. If I'll consent ! Why I thought I was to 
 obey you as my husband. 
 
 Fash. That's when we are married ; till then, I 
 am to obey you. 
 
 Hoyd. Why then if we are to take it by turns, 
 it's the same thing ; I'll obey you now, and when 
 we are married, you shali obey me. 
 
 Fash. With aU my heart ; but I doubt we must 
 get nurse on our side, or we shall hardly prevail 
 with the chaplain. 
 
 Hoyd. No more we shan't indeed, for he lovss 
 
S20 
 
 THE RELaPSE; OR, VIRTUE IIST DANGER. 
 
 her better than he loves his pulpit, and would 
 always be a preaching to her by his good will. 
 
 Fash. Wliy then, Boy dear little bedfellow, if 
 you'll call her hither, we'll try to persuade her 
 presently. 
 
 Hoyd. O Lord, I can tell you a way how to per- 
 suade her to anything. 
 
 Fash. How's that ? 
 
 Hoyd. Why tell her she's a wholesome comely 
 woman — and give her half-a-crown. 
 
 Fash. Nay, if that will do she shall have half a 
 score of 'em. 
 
 Hoyd, O gemini 1 for half that, she'd marry you 
 herself. I'll run and call her. [Emt. 
 
 Fash. So, tnatters go swimminglyi This is a 
 rare girl, i' faith ; I shall have a fine time on't with 
 her at London. I'm tnuch mistaken if she don't 
 prove a March hare all the year round. What a 
 scampering chase will she make on't, when she 
 finds the whole kennel of beaux at her tail ! hey to 
 the park, and the play, and the church, and the 
 devil ; she'll show them sport, I'll warrant 'em. 
 But no matter, she brings an estate will afford me 
 a separate maintenance. 
 
 Se-enter Miss Hovdbn and Nurse. 
 How do you do, good mistress nurse ? I desired 
 your young lady would give me leave to see you, 
 that I might thank you for your extraordinary care 
 and conduct in her education ; pray accept of this 
 small acknowledgment for it at present, and depend 
 upon my farther kindness, when I shall be that 
 happy thing her husband. 
 
 Nurse. \Aside.'\ Gold by maokings ! — \_Alond.1 
 Your honour's goodness is too great ; alas ! all I 
 can boast of is, I gave her pure good milk, and so 
 your honour would have said, an you had seen how 
 the poor thing sucked it. — Eh, God's blessing on 
 the sweet face on't ! how it used to hang at this 
 poor teat, and suck and squeeze, and kick and 
 sprawl it would, till the belly on't was so full, it 
 would drop off like a leech. 
 
 Hoyd. [Aside to Nurse angrily.^ Pray one 
 word with you. Prithee nurse don't stand ripping 
 up old stories, to make one ashamed before one's 
 love. Do you think such a fine proper gentleman 
 as he cares for a fiddlecome tale of a draggle- 
 tailed girl .' If you have a mind to make him have 
 a good opinion of a woman, don't tell him what 
 one did then, tell him what one can do now. — [ To 
 Tom F.\shion.] I hope your honour will excuse 
 my mismanners to whisper before you ; it was only 
 to give some orders about the family. 
 
 Fash. O everything, madam, is to give way to 
 business ! Besides, good housewifery is a very com- 
 mendable quality in a young lady. 
 
 Hoyd. Pray, sir, are the young ladies good house- 
 wives at I,ondon town ? Do they darn their own 
 linen ? 
 
 Fash. O no, they study how to spend money, 
 not to save it. 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, I don't know nut that may be 
 better sport than t'other ; ha, nurse ? 
 
 Fash. Well, you shall have your choice when 
 you come there. 
 
 Hoyd. Shall I !— then by my troth I'll get there 
 
 as fast as I can.— [To Nurse.] His honour desires 
 
 vou'll be so kind as to let us be married to-morrow 
 
 Nurse. To-morrow, my dear madam ? 
 
 Fash. Yes, to-morrow, sweet nurse, privately ; 
 
 young folks, you know, are impatient, and sir 
 Tunbelly would make us stay a week for a wedding 
 dinner. Now all things being signed and sealed, 
 and agreed, I fancy there could be no great harm 
 in practising a scene or two of matrimony in private, 
 if it were only to give us the better assurance when 
 we come to play it in public. 
 
 Nurse. Nay, I must confess stolen pleasures are 
 sweet ; but if you should be married now, what 
 will you do when sir Tunbelly calls for you to be 
 wedded ? 
 
 Hoyd. Why then we'll be married again. 
 Nurse. What, twice, my child ? 
 Hoyd. Ecod, I don't care how often I'm married, 
 not I. 
 
 Fash. Pray, nurse, don't you be against your 
 young lady's good, for by this means she'll have the 
 pleasure of t*o wedding-days. 
 
 Hoyd. [To Nurse sq/i/j.] And of two wedding- 
 nights too, nurse. 
 
 Nurse. Well, I'm such a tender-hearted fool, I 
 find I can refuse nothing ; so you shall e'en follow 
 your own inventions. 
 
 Hoyd. Shall 1 \—\_Aside.'\ O Lord, I could leap 
 over the moon ! 
 
 Fash. Dear nurse, this goodness of yours shan't 
 go unrewarded ; but now you must employ your 
 power with Mr. Bull the chaplain, that he may do 
 us his friendly office too, and then we shall all be 
 happy : do you think you can prevail with him ? 
 
 Nurse. Prevail with him ! — or he shall never 
 prevail with me, I can tell him that. 
 
 Hoyd. My lord, she has had him upon the hip 
 this seven year. 
 
 Fash. I'm glad to hear it ; nowever to strengthen 
 your interest with him, you may let him know I 
 have several fat livings in my gift, and that the 
 first that falls shall be in your disposal. 
 
 Nurse. Nay, then I'll make him marry more 
 folks than one, I'll promise him. 
 
 Hoyd. Faith do, nurse, make him marry you 
 too, I'm sure he'll do't for a fat living: for he loves 
 eating more than he loves his Bible ; and I have 
 often heard him say, a fat living was the best meat 
 in the world. 
 
 Nurse. Ay, and I'll make him commend the 
 sauce too, or I'll bring his gown to a cassock, I 
 will so. 
 
 Fash. Well, nurse, whilst you go and settle 
 matters with him, then your lady and I will go and 
 take a walk in the garden. 
 
 Nurse. I'll do your honour's business in the 
 catching up of a garter. [Exit. 
 
 Fash. [Giving her his hand.'] Come, madam, 
 dare you venture yourself along with me ? 
 
 Hoyd. O dear, yes, sir, I don't think you'll do 
 anything to me I need be afraid on. lExetmi.. 
 
 SCENE II. — LovELESs's Lodgingt. 
 Enter Amanda and Berinthia. 
 SONG. 
 I smile at Love and all its arts, 
 
 The charming Cynthia cried : 
 Take heed, for Love has piercing ddZts, 
 
 A wounded swain replied. 
 Once free and blest as you are now, 
 
 I trifled with his charms, 
 1 pointed at his little bow, 
 
 And sported with his arms ; 
 
'J:HE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 321 
 
 Till urged too far, Revenge ! he cries, 
 
 A feit^isliaf t he drew, 
 It took it^ passage through your eyes^ 
 
 And to my heart it flew. 
 To tear it thence I tried in vain. 
 
 To strive I quickly found 
 ^'as only to increase ^he paiij. 
 
 And to enlarge the wound. 
 Ah ! much too Well, I fear, you know 
 " What pain I'm to Endure, 
 Since what your eyes alone could do. 
 
 Your heart alone can cure. _ 
 Aud that (grant Heaven I may mistake 1} 
 
 1 doiibt is doom'd to bear 
 A burden for another's sake, 
 
 \Mio ill rewards its care. 
 
 Aman. Well, now, Berinthia, I'm at leisure to 
 hear what 'twas you had to say to me. 
 
 Ber. What I had to say was only to echo the 
 sighs and groans of a dying lover. 
 
 Aman. Phu \ will yoa never learn to talk in 
 earnest of anything J 
 
 Ber. Why this shall he in earnest, if you please : 
 for my part, I only tell you matter of fact, you 
 may take it which way you like best ; but if you'll 
 follow the women of the town, you'll take it both 
 ways ; for when a man offers himself to one of 
 them, first she takes him in jest, and then she takes 
 him in earnest. 
 
 Aman I'm sure there's so much jest and earnest 
 in what you say to me, I scarce know how to take 
 it ; but 1 think you have bewitched me, for I don't 
 find it possible to be angry with you, say what you 
 will. 
 
 Ber. I'm very glad to hear it, for I haye no 
 mind to quarrel with you, for some reasons that 
 I'll brag of; but quarreler not, smile or frown, I 
 must teli you what I have suffered upon your 
 account. 
 
 Aman. Upon my account ! 
 
 Ber. Yes, upon yours ; I have been forced to 
 sit still and hear you commended for two hours 
 together, without one compliment to myself; now 
 don't you think a woman had a blessed time of 
 that? 
 
 Aman. Alas ! I should have been unconcerned 
 at it ; I never knew where the pleasure lay of 
 being praised by the men. But pray who was this 
 that commended me so .■* 
 
 Ber. One you have a mortal aversion to, Mr. 
 Worthy ; he used you like a text, he took you all 
 to pieces, but spoke so learnedly upon every point, 
 one might see the spirit of the church was in him. 
 If you are a woman, you'd have been in an ecstacy 
 to have heard how feelingly he handled your 
 hair, your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your 
 teeth, your tongue, your chin, your neck, and 
 so forth. Thus he preached for an hour, but when 
 he came to use an application, he observed that all 
 these without a gallant were nothing. — Now con- 
 sider of what has been said, and Heaven give you 
 grace to put it in practice. 
 
 Aman. Alas ! Berinthia, did I incline to a gal- 
 lant (which you know I do not,) do you think a 
 man so nice as he could have the least concern for 
 such a plain unpolished thing as I am .' it is 
 impossible ! 
 
 Ber. Now have you a great mind to put me 
 upon commending you. 
 
 Aman. Indeed that was not my design. 
 
 Ber. Nay, if it were, it's all one, for I won't do't, 
 
 I'll leave that to your looking-glass. But to show 
 you I have some good-nature left, I'll commend 
 him, and may be that may do as well. 
 
 Aman. You have a great mind to persuade me 
 I am in love with him. 
 
 Ber. I have a great mind to persuade you, you 
 don't know what you are in love with. 
 
 Aman. I am sure I am not in love with him, nor 
 never shall be, so let that pass. But you were 
 saying something you would commend him for. 
 
 Ber. Oh ! you'd be glad to hear a good character 
 of him, however. 
 
 Aman. Psha ! 
 
 Ber. Psha ! — Well 'tis a foolish undertaking for 
 women in theSe kind of matters to pretend to 
 deceive one another. — Have not 1 been bred a 
 woman as well as you ? 
 
 Aman. What then ! 
 
 Ber. Why then I understand my trade so well, 
 that whenever I am told of a man I like, I cry, 
 psha ! But that I may spare you the pains of 
 putting me a second time in mini to commend 
 him, I'll proceed, and give you this account of him : 
 That though 'tis possible he may have had women 
 with as good faces as your ladyship's, (no discredit 
 to it neitljer,) yet you must know your cautious 
 behaviour, with that reserve in your humour, has 
 given him his death's wound ; he mortally hates a 
 coquette. He says 'tis impossible to love where 
 we cannot esteem ; and that no woman can be 
 esteemed by a man who has sense, if she makes 
 herself cheap in the eye of a fool ; that pride to a 
 woman is as necessary as humility to a divine ; 
 and that far-fetched, and dear-bought, is meat for 
 gentlemen as well as for ladies ; — in short, that 
 every woman who has beauty may set a price upon 
 herself, and that by under-selling the market, they 
 ruin the trade. 'This is hjs doctrine, how do you 
 like it .> ' 
 
 Aman. So well, that since I never intend to have 
 a gallant for mysplf, if I were to recommend one to 
 a friend he should be the man. 
 
 Enter Wokthy. 
 
 Bless me ! he's here, pray Heaven he did not hear 
 me. 
 
 Ber. If he did, it won't hurt your reputation ; 
 your thoughts are as safe in his heart as in your 
 own. 
 
 War. I venture in at an unseasonable time of 
 night, ladies ; I hope, if I am troublesome, you'U 
 use the same freedom in turning me out again. 
 
 Aman. I believe it can't be late, for Mr. Loveless 
 is not come home yet, and he usually keeps good 
 hours. 
 
 Wor. Madam, I'm afraid he'll transgress a little 
 to-night ; for he told me about half an hour ago he 
 was going to sup with some company he doubted 
 would keep him out till three or four o'clock in the 
 morning, and desired I would let my servant 
 acquaint you with it, that you might not expect 
 him : but my fellow's a blunder-head ; so lest he 
 should make some mistake, I thought it my duty 
 to deliver the message myself. 
 
 Aman. I'm very sorry he should give you that 
 trouble, sir : but — 
 
 Ber. But since he has, will you give me leave, 
 madam, to keep hira to play at ombre with us ? 
 
 Aman. Cousin, you know you command my 
 house. V 
 
322 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Wor. [To Berinthia.] And, madam, you 
 know you command me, though I am a very 
 wretched gamester. 
 
 Ber. Oh ! you play well enough to lose your 
 money, and that's all the ladies require ; so with- 
 out any more ceremony, let us go into the next 
 room and call for the cards. 
 
 Aman. With all my heart. 
 
 {_Exit Worthy, leading Amanda. 
 
 Ber. Well, how this business will end Heaven 
 tnows ; but she seems to me to be in as fair a way 
 — as a boy is to be a rogue, when he's put clerk to 
 an attorney. lExit. 
 
 SCENE III. — Bekinthia's Apartment. 
 Enter Loveless cautiously in the dark. 
 Love. So, thus far all's well. I'm got into her 
 bedchamber, and I think nobody has perceived me 
 steal into the house ; my wife don't expect me 
 home till four o'clock ; so, if Berinthia comes to 
 bed by eleven, I shall have a chase of five hours. 
 Let me see, where shall I hide myself ? Under her 
 bed ? No ; we shall have her maid searching there 
 for something or other ; her closet's a better place, 
 and I have a master-key will open it. I'll e'en in 
 there, and attack her just when she comes to her 
 prayers, that's the most like to prove her critical 
 minute, for then the devil will be there to assist 
 me. [^Retires into Vie closet^ shutting the door after him. 
 
 Enter BERiNTHfA, with a candle in her hand. 
 Ber. Well, sure I am the best-natured woman 
 in the world, I that love cards so well (there is but' 
 one thing upon the earth I love better), have pre- 
 tend-ed letters to write, to give my friends a tSte-a- 
 tile: however, I'm innocent, for picquet is the 
 game I set 'em to : at her own peril be it, if she 
 ventures to play with him at any other. But now 
 what shall I do with myself? I don't know how 
 in the world to pass my time ; would Loveless were 
 here to badiner a little 1 Well, he's a charming 
 fellow ; I don't wonder his wife's so fond of him. 
 What if I should sit down and think of him till I 
 fall asleep, and dream of the Lord knows what? 
 Oh, but then if I should dream we were married, I 
 should be frighted out of my wits ! — [Seeing a book.'] 
 What's this book ? I think I had best go read. O 
 splenetic! it's a sermon. Well, I'll go into my 
 closet and read the Plotting Sisters. — [She opens 
 Ihe closet, sees Loveless, and shrieks out,'] O 
 Lord, a ghost ! a ghost ! a ghost ! a ghost ! 
 
 Re-enter Loveless, running to her. 
 Love. Peace, my dear, it's no ghost ; take it in 
 your arms, you'll find 'tis worth a hundred of 'em. 
 Ber, Fiun in again ; here's somebody coming. 
 
 [Loveless retires as hefore. 
 
 Enter Abigail. 
 
 Abig. O Lord, madam ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Ber. O Heavens ! I'm almost frighted out 
 of my wits j I thought verily I had seen a ghost, 
 and 'twas nothing but the white curtain, with a 
 black hood pinned up against it : you may begone 
 again ; I am the fearfullest fool ! \JExlt Abigail. 
 Re-enter Loveless. 
 
 Love. Is the coast clear ? 
 
 Ber. The coast clear ! I suppose you are clear, 
 you'd never play such a trick as this else. 
 
 Love. I am very well pleased with my trick thus 
 far, and shall be so till I have played it out, if it 
 ben't your fault. Where's my wife ? 
 
 Ber. At cards. 
 
 Love. With whom ? 
 
 Ber. With Worthy. 
 
 Love. Then we are safe enough. 
 
 Ber. You are so ! Some husbands would be 
 of another mind, if he were at cards with their 
 wives. 
 
 Love. And they'd be in the right on't, too ; but 
 I dare trust mine. — Besides, I know he's in love 
 in another place, and he's not one of those who 
 court half-a-dozen at a time. 
 
 Ber. Nay, the truth on't is, you'd pity him if 
 you saw how uneasy he is at being engaged with 
 us ; but 'twas my malice, I fancied he was to meet 
 his mistress somewhere else, so did it to have the 
 pleasure of seeing him fret. 
 
 Love. What says Amanda to my staying abroad 
 so late ? 
 
 Ber. Why, she's as much out of humour as he ; 
 I believe they wish one another at the devil. 
 
 Love. Then I'm afraid they'll quarrel at play, 
 and soon throw up the cards. — [Offering to pull 
 her into the closet.] Therefore, my dear, charming 
 angel, let us make good use of our time. 
 
 Ber. Heavens ! what do you mean ? 
 
 Love. Pray what do you think I mean ? 
 
 Ber. I don't know. 
 
 Love. I'll show you. 
 
 Ber. You may as well tell me. 
 
 Love. No, that would make you blush worse 
 than t'other. 
 
 Ber. Why, do you intend to make me blush ? 
 
 Love. Faith I can't tell that ; but if I do, it 
 shall be in the dark. IPuUing her. 
 
 Ber. O Heavens ! I would not be in the dark 
 with you for all the world ! 
 
 Love, I'll try that. IPuts out the candle. 
 
 Ber. O Lord ! are you mad .' What shall I do 
 for light ? 
 
 Love. You'll do as well without it. 
 
 Ber. Why, one can't find a chair to sit down. 
 
 Love. Come into the closet, madam, there's 
 moonshine upon the couch. 
 
 Ber. Nay, never pull, for I will not go. 
 
 Love. Then you must be carried. 
 
 ITakes her in his arms. 
 
 Ber. [ Very softly.] Help '. help ! I'm ravished . 
 ruined ! undone ! O Lord, I shall never be able 
 to bear it ! \^Exit Loveless, carrying Berinthia. 
 
 SCENE IV. —.^ Room in Sir Tunbelly 
 Clumsey's House. 
 
 Enter Miss Hoydbn, Nurse, Toai Fashion, and Bull. 
 
 Fash. This quick despatch of yours, Mr. Bull, 
 I take so kindly, it shall give you a claim to my 
 favour as long as I live, I do assure yon. 
 
 Hoyd. And to mine, too, I promise you. 
 
 Bull. I most humbly thank your honours ; and 
 I hope, since it has been my lot to join you in the 
 holy bands of wedlock, you will so well cultivate 
 the soil, which I have craved a blessing on, that 
 your children may swarm about you like bees about 
 a honeycomb. 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, with all my heart j the more the 
 merrier, I say ; ha, nurse ! 
 
THE RELAPSE J OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 323 
 
 Enter Lory ; he takes his master Tiastily aside. 
 
 Lory. One word with you, for Heaven's sake ! 
 
 Fash. What the devil's the matter ? 
 
 Lory. Sir, your fortune's rained ; and I don't 
 think your life's worth a quarter of an hour's 
 purchase. Tender's your brother arrived with two 
 coaches and six horses, twenty footmen and pages, 
 a coat worth four-score pound, and a periwigdown 
 to his knees : so judge what will become of your 
 lady's heart. 
 
 Fash. Death and furies ! 'tis impossible ! 
 
 Lory. Fiends and spectres '. sir, 'tis true. 
 
 Fash. Is he in the house yet ? 
 
 I^orij. No, they are capitulating with him at the 
 gate. The porter tells him he's come to run away 
 with Miss Hoyden, and has cocked the blunderbuss 
 at him ; your brother swears Gad damme, they 
 are a parcel of clawns, and he has a good mind to 
 break off the match ; but they have given the word 
 for sir Tunbelly, so I doubt all will come out pre- 
 sently. Pray, sir, resolve what you'll do this 
 moment, for egad they'll maul you. 
 
 Fash. Stay a little. — [To Miss Hoyden.] My 
 dear, here's a troublesome business my man tells 
 me of, but don't be frightened, we shall be too hard 
 for the rogue. Here's an impudent fellow at the 
 gate (not knowing I was come hither inoognito) has 
 taken my name upon him, in hopes to run away 
 with you. 
 
 Hoyd. O the brazen-faced varlet, it's well we 
 are married, or maybe we might never have been 
 so. ■ 
 
 Fash. \^Aiide.'\ Egad, like enough ! — [Aloud.1 
 Prithee, dear doctor, run to sir Tunbelly, and stop 
 him from going to the gate before I speak with 
 him. 
 
 Bull. I fly, my good lord. lExit. 
 
 Nurse. An't please your honour, my lady and I 
 had best lock ourselves up till the danger be over. 
 
 Fash. Ay, by all means. 
 
 Hoyd. Not so fast, I won't be locked up any 
 more. I'm married. 
 
 Fash. Yes, pray my dear do, till we have seized 
 this rascal. 
 
 Hoyd. Nay, if you pray me, I'll do anything. 
 
 \_Exeunt Misa Hoyden and Nurse. 
 
 Fash. Oh ! here's Sir Tunbelly coming. — Hark 
 you, sirrah, things are better than you imagine ; 
 the wedding's over. 
 
 Lory. The devil it is, sir 1 
 
 Fash. Not a word, all's safe : but sir Tunbelly 
 don't know it, nor must not yet ; so I am resolved 
 to brazen the business out, and have the pleasure 
 of taming the impostor upon his lordship, which I 
 believe may easily be done. 
 
 Enter Sir Tuwbellv, Bull, and Servants, armed. 
 
 Fash. Did you ever hear, sir, of so impudent an 
 undertaking ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Never, by the mass ! But we'll tickle 
 him, I'll warrant him. 
 
 Fash. They tell me, sir, he has a great many 
 people with him disguised like servants. 
 
 Sir Tun. Ay, ay, rogues enough ; but I'll soon 
 raise the posse upon 'em. 
 
 Fash. Sir, if you'll take my advice, we'll go a 
 shorter way to work. I find whoever this spark is, 
 he knows nothing of my being privately here ; so if 
 you pretend to receive him civilly, he'll enter with- 
 out suspicion ; and as soon as he is within the gate, 
 
 we'll whip up the drawbridge upon his back, let fly 
 the blunderbuss to disperse his crew, and so com- 
 mit him to jail. 
 
 Sir Tun. 'Egad, your lordship is an ingenious 
 person, and a very great general ; but shall we kill 
 any of 'em or not ? 
 
 Fash. No, no ; fire over their heads only to fright 
 'em ; I'll warrant the regiment scours when the 
 colonel's a prisoner. 
 
 Sir Tun. Then come along, my boys, and let 
 your courage be great — for your danger is but small. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE v.— The Gate before Sir Tunbellt 
 Clumsey's House. 
 
 £n(er Lord FoppiNQToN, with LaA'erole and Servants. 
 
 Lord Fop. A pax of these bumkinly people ! will 
 they open the gate, or do they desire I should grow 
 at their moat-side like a willow ? — [ To the Porter.] 
 Hey, fellow — prithee do me the favour, in as few 
 words as thou canst find to express thyself, to tell 
 me whether thy master will admit me or not, that 
 I may turn about my coach, and be gone. 
 
 Porter. Here's my master himself now at hand, 
 he's of age, he'll give you his answer. 
 
 Enter Sir Tunbelly and Servants. 
 
 Sir Tun. My most noble lord, I crave your par- 
 don for making your honour wait so long; but my 
 orders to my servants have been to admit nobody 
 without my knowledge, for fear of some attempts 
 upon my daughter, the times being full of plots 
 and roguery. 
 
 Lord Fop. Much caution, I must confess, is a 
 sign of great wisdom : but stap my vitals, I have 
 got a cold enough to destroy a porter ! — He, hem — 
 
 Sir Tun. I am very sorry for't, indeed, my lord ; 
 but if your lordship please to walk in, we'll help 
 you to some brown sugar-candy. My lord, I'll 
 show you the way. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I follow you with pleasure. 
 
 lExit with Sir Tunbelly Clumsey. As La Verole and 
 the rest are about to follow him in, the Servants 
 within clap the door against them. 
 
 Servants, [ Within,] Nay, hold you me, there sir. 
 
 La Ver. Jemie, qu'est-ce que veut dire 5a ? 
 
 Sir Tun. IWiikin.'} Fire, porter. 
 
 Porter. [Fires.} Have among you, my masters. 
 
 La Ver, Ah, je suis mort ! — 
 
 IRuns off with the rest. 
 
 Porter. Not one soldier left by the mass ! 
 
 SCENE VI.— .4 Hall in the same. 
 
 Enter Sir Tunbelly Clumsey, Bull, Constable, Clerk, 
 and Servants, with Lord Foppjngton, disarmed. 
 
 Sir Tun. Come, bring him along, bring him 
 along ! 
 
 Lord Fop. What the pax do you mean, gentle- 
 men ! Is it fair-time, that you are all drunk before 
 dinner .' 
 
 Sir Tun. Drunk, sirrah ! — Here's an impudent 
 rogue for you ! — Drunk or sober, bully, I'm a jus- 
 tice of the peace, and know how to deal with 
 strollers. 
 
 Lord Fop. Strollers ! 
 
 Sir Tun. Ay, strollers. Come, give an account 
 
324 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 of yourself ; what's your name, where do you live ? 
 do you pay scot and lot ? are you a Williamite, or a 
 Jacobite ? Come. 
 
 Lord Fop. And why dost thou ask me so many 
 impertinent questions ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Because I'll make you answer 'em 
 before I have done with you, you rascal, you ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Before Gad, all the answer I can 
 make thee to 'em, is, that thou art a very extraor. 
 dinary old fellow ; stap my vitals ! 
 
 Sir Tun. Nay, if you are for joking with deputy 
 lieutenants, we know how to deal with you. — \_To 
 Clerk.] Here, draw a warrant for him immediately. 
 
 Lord Fop. A warrant! — What the devil is't thou 
 wouldst be at, old gentleman? 
 
 Sir Tun. I would be at you, sirrah, (if my hands 
 were not tied as a magistrate,) and with these two 
 double fists beat your teeth down your throatj you 
 dog yo'u ! 
 
 Lord Fop. And why wouldst tiiou spoil my face 
 at that rate ? 
 
 Sir Tun. For your design to rob me of my 
 daughter, villain. 
 
 Lord Fop. Eab thee of thy daughter l^Now I 
 do begin to believe I am a-bed and a-sleep, and 
 that all this is but a dream. — If it be, 'twill be an 
 agreeable surprise enough, to waken by and by j 
 arid instead of the impertinent company of a nasty 
 country justice, find myself perhaps in the arms of 
 a woman of quality — [To Sir Tunbelly.] Pri- 
 thee, old father, wilt thou give me leave to ask thee 
 one question ? 
 
 Sir Tun. I can't tell whether I will or not, till 
 I know what it is. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, then it is, whether thou didst 
 not write to my Lord FoppingtOii to come down 
 and marry thy daughter ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Yes, marry did I : and my Lord Fop- 
 pington is come down, and shall marry my daughter 
 before she's a day older. 
 
 Lord Fop. Now give me thy hand, dear dad ; I 
 tiiought we should understand one another at last. 
 
 Sir Tun. This fellow's mad. — Here, bind him 
 hand and foot. [Servants bind him down. 
 
 Lord Fop. Nay, prithee, knight, leave fooling ; 
 thy jest begins to grow dull. 
 
 Sir Tun. Bind him, I say, he's mad. — Bread 
 and water, a dark room and a whip may bring him 
 to his senses again. 
 
 Lord Fop. lAside.] Egad I if I don't waken 
 quickly, by all I can see, this is like to prove one 
 of the most impertinent dreams that ev^r -I 
 4reamt in my life. 
 
 Enter Miss Hoyden and Nurs& 
 
 Hoyd. \Going up to him.'\ Is this he that would 
 have run away with me } Fo ! how he stinks of 
 sweets ! — Pray, father, let him be dragged through 
 the horse-pond. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.'] This must be my wife by 
 her natural inclination to her husband. 
 
 Hoyd. Pray, father, what do you intend to do 
 with him ? hang him ? 
 
 Sir Tun. That at least, child. 
 
 Ifurse. Ay, and it's e'en too good for him too. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside ] Madame la governante, I 
 
 presume. Hitherto this appears to me to be one 
 
 «if the most extraordinary families that ever man 
 
 I of quality matched into. 
 
 I Sir Tun, What's become of my lord, daughter ? 
 
 Hoyd. He's just coming, sir. 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.'] My lord ! what does he 
 mean by that now } 
 
 ^nter Tom Fashion and Lory. 
 
 [Aloud,] Stap my vitais, Tam ! now the dream's 
 out. 
 
 Fash. Is tljiis the fellow^ sir, that designed to 
 trick tne of your daughter ? 
 
 Sir Tun. This is he, my lord, how do you like 
 him ? Isnot he a pretty fellow to get a fortune ? 
 
 Fash, 1 find by his dress he tiiought your daugh- 
 ter might be taken with a beau. 
 
 Hoyd. O gemini 1 Is this a beau ? let me sea 
 
 him again Hal I find a beau's no £uch ugly 
 
 thing neither. 
 
 Fash. [Aside.'] Egad, she'll be in love with him 
 presently; I'll e'en have him sent away to jail. — ■ 
 [To Lord FoppiNGTON,] Sir, though your under 
 taking shows you are a person of no extraordinary 
 modesty, I suppose you han't confidence enough 
 to expect much favour from me .' 
 
 Lord Fop. Strike me dumb, Tam, thou art a 
 very impudent fellow ! 
 
 Nurse, Look, if the varlet has not the frontery 
 to call his lordship plain Thomas ! 
 
 Bull. The business is, he would feign himself 
 mad, to avoid going to jail. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.] That must bo the chaplain 
 by his unfolding of mysteries. 
 
 Sir Tun. Come, is the warrant writ ? 
 
 Clerk. Yes, sir. . 
 
 ■Sir Tun. Give me the pen, I'll sign it. — So, 
 now, constable, away with him. 
 
 Lord Fop. Hold one moment, pray, gentlemen. 
 — My Lord Foppington, shall I beg one word with 
 your lordship ? 
 
 N'urse. O ho, is't my lord with him now ? See 
 how afflictions will humble folks. 
 
 Hoyd. Pray, my lord, don't let him whisper too 
 close, lest he bite your ear off. 
 
 Lord Fop. I am not altogether so hungry as 
 your ladyship is pleased to imagine.- — [Aside to 
 Tom Fashion.] Look you, Tam, I am sensible 
 1 have not been so kind to you as I ought, but I 
 hope you'll forget what's past, and accrpt of the 
 five thousand pounds I offer; thou raayst live in 
 extreme splendour with it, stap my vitals ! 
 
 Fash, It's a much easier matter to prevent a 
 disease than to cure it ; a quarter of that sum 
 would have secured your mistress; twice as much 
 won't redeem her. iLeavinghim. 
 
 Sir Tun. Well, what says he ? 
 
 Fash. Only the rascal offered me a bribe to let 
 him go. 
 
 Sir Tun. Ay, he shall go, with a pox to him ! — 
 Lead on, constable. 
 
 Lord Fop. One word more, and I have done. 
 
 Sir Tun. Before Gad I thou art an impudent 
 fellow, to trouble the court at this rate after thou 
 art condemned ; but speak once for all. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, tlien, once for all ; I have at 
 last luckily callea to mind that there is a gentle- 
 man of this country, who I believe cannot live far 
 from this place, if he were here, would satisfy you. 
 I am Navelty, baron of Fopi)ington, with five 
 thousand pounds a year, and that fellow there a 
 rascal, not worth a groat. 
 
 Sir Tun. Very well ; now, who is this honest 
 gentleman you are so well acquainted with? — 
 
THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 325 
 
 [7*0 Tom Fashion. J Come, sir, we shall hamper 
 lira. 
 
 Lord Fop. 'Tis sir John Friendly. 
 
 Sir Tun. So; he lives within half a mile, and 
 came down into the country but last night j this 
 bold-faced ■ fellow thought he had been at Lon- 
 don still, and so quoted him ; now we shall display 
 him in his colours : I'll send for Sir John imme- 
 diately. — [To a Servant.] Here, fellow, away pre- 
 sently, and desire my neighbour he'll do me the 
 favour to step over, apon an extraordinary occa- 
 sion. — [Exil Servant.] And in the meanwhile you 
 had best secure tliis sharper in the gate-house. 
 
 Constable. An't please your worship, he may 
 chance to give u'9 the slip theriee. If I were 
 worthy to advise, I think the dog-kennel's a surer 
 place. 
 
 Sir Tun. With all my heart ; anywhere. 
 
 Lord Fop. Nay, for Heaven's sake, sir ! do me 
 the favour to put me in a clean room^ that I mayn't 
 daub my clothes'. f ■ ' ' 
 
 Sir Tun. O, when you have married my daugh- 
 ter, her estate will afford you new ones — Away 
 with him ! 
 
 Lord Fop. A dirty country justice is a barbarous 
 magistrate, stap my vitals ! 
 
 lExit Constable with Lord FopprNoxow. 
 
 Fash. [Aside.'] Egad, I must prevent this 
 knight's coming, or the houSe will grow soon too 
 hot to hold me. — [ To Sir Tunbelly.] Sir, I fancy 
 'tis not worth while to trouble sir John- upon this 
 impertinent fellow's desire: I'll send and call the 
 messenger back. 
 
 Sir Tun. Nay, with all my heart; for, to be 
 sure, he thought he, was far ' ertotfgh off, or the 
 rogue would never have named him. 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir, I met sir John just' lighting at the 
 gate ; he's come to wait upon you. 
 
 Sir Tun. Nay, then, it happens as one could 
 wish. 
 
 FasA. [Aside.] The devil it does ! — Lory, /ou 
 see how things are, here .will be a discovery pre- 
 sently, and we shall ha*e bur brains beat out; for 
 my brother will be sure to swear he don't know me: 
 therefore, run into the stable, take the two first 
 horses you can light on, I'll slip out at the back 
 door, and we'll away immediately. 
 
 Lorp. What, and leave your lady, sir .' 
 
 Fash. There's no danger in that as long as I 
 
 have taken possession ; I shall know how to treat 
 
 with 'em well enough, if once I am out of their 
 
 veach. Away I I'll steal after thee. 
 
 {_Exit LoRV ; hig master follows him out at one door as 
 
 Sir John Fhiendly is entering at the other. 
 
 Enter Sir John Friendly. 
 
 Sir Tun, Sir John, you are the welcomest man 
 alive ; I had just sent a messenger to desire you'd 
 step over, upon a very extraordinary occasion. 
 We are all in arms here. 
 
 Sir John. How so ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Why, you must know, a finical sort of 
 a tawdry fellow here (I don't know who the devil 
 he is, not I) hearing, I suppose, that the match 
 was concluded between my Lord Foppington and 
 my girl Hoyden, comes impudently to the gate, 
 and with a whole pack of rogues in liveries, and 
 would have passed upon me for his lordship : but 
 »hat does I .' I comes up to him boldly at the 
 
 heSd bf his guafds, takes him by the throat, strikes 
 up his heels, binds him hand and foot, despatches 
 a wari^nt, and commits hira prisoner to the dog- 
 kennel. 
 
 iS'i7' ,/ohn. So ; but how do you know but this 
 was my lord ? for I was told he set out from Lon- 
 don the day befbre me, with a very fine retinue, 
 and intended to come directly hither. 
 
 Sir Tun. Why, now to show you how many 
 lies people raise in that damned town, he came 
 two nights ago post, with only one servant, and is 
 now in the hbuse with me:. But you don't know 
 the cream of the jest yet ; this same rogue, (that 
 lies yonder neck arid heels among the hounds,) 
 thinking you, were out of the country, quotes you 
 for his acquaintance; and said if you were here, 
 you'd justify him to be Lord Foppington, and I 
 know not what. 
 
 Sir John. Pray will you let me see him? 
 
 Sir Tun. Ay, that you shall presently. — [To ffl 
 Servant.] Here, fetch the prisoner. 
 
 ' lExit Servant. 
 
 Sir John. 1 wish there ben't some mistake in 
 the business. — Where's my lord .' I know him very 
 well. 
 
 Sir Tun, He was here just now. — .[To Bull.] 
 See for him, doctor, tell him Sir John is here to 
 wait upon him. IBxit Bull. 
 
 Sir John. I hope, sir Tiinbelly, the young lady 
 is not married'yet. ' 
 
 Sir Tun. No, things won't be ready this week. 
 Btft why ^o you say you hope she is not married ? 
 
 Sir John. Some foolish fancies only, perhaps 
 I'm mistaken. 
 
 Re-enter Bull. 
 
 iuU. Sir, his lordship is just rid out to take the 
 air. 
 
 Sir Tun. To take the air ! Is that his London 
 breeding, to go take the air when gentlemen come 
 to visit him ? 
 
 Sir John. 'Tis possible he might want it, he 
 mih;ht not be well, some sudden qualm perhaps. 
 
 Re-enter Constable, with Lord Foppington. 
 
 Lord Fop, Stap my vitals, I'll have satisfaction! 
 
 Sir John, [Running to him,'] My dear lord 
 Foppington! 
 
 Lord Fop. Dear Friendly, thou art come in the 
 critical minute, strike me dumb ! 
 
 Sir John. Why, I little thought to have found 
 you in fetters. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why truly the world must do me 
 the justice to confess, I do use to appear a little 
 more d^gag^ : but this old gentleman, not liking 
 the freedom of my air, has been pleased to skewer 
 down my arms like a rabbit. 
 
 Sir Tun. Is it then possible that this should bS 
 the true Lord Foppington at last ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, what do you see in his face to 
 make you doubt of it ? Sir, without presuming to 
 have any extraordinary opinion of my figure, give 
 me leave to tell you, if you had seen as many lords 
 as I have done, you would not think it impossible 
 a person of a worse taille than mine might be a 
 modern man of quality. 
 
 Sir Tun. Unbind him, slaves. — My lord, I'm 
 struck dumb, I can only beg pardon by signs ; but 
 if a sacrifice will appease you, you shall have it. — 
 Here, pursue this Tartar, bring hira back. — Away, 
 I say !. — A dog I Oons, I'll cut off his ears and 
 
326 
 
 I'HE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 ACT T. 
 
 his tail, I'll draw out all his teeth, pull his sMn 
 over his head — and — and what shall I do more ? 
 
 Sir John. He does indeed deserve to be made 
 an example of. 
 
 Lord Fop. He does deserve to be chartre, stap 
 my vitals ! 
 
 Sir Tun. May I then hope I have your honour's 
 pardon ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, we courtiers do nothing without 
 a bribe : that fair young lady might do miracles. 
 
 Sir Tun. Hoyden ! come hither, Hoyden. 
 
 Lord Fop. Hoyden is her name, sir ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Lord Fop, The prettiest name for a song I ever 
 heard. 
 
 Sir Tun. My lord — ^here's my girl, she's yours, 
 she has a wholesome body, and a virtuous mind ; 
 she's a woman complete, both in flesh and in spirit ; 
 she has a bag of milled crowns, as scarce as they 
 are, and fifteen hundred a year stitched fast to her 
 tail. — So, go thy ways, Hoyden. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I do receive her like a gentleman. 
 
 Sir Tun. Then,I'mahappyman. IblessHeaven, 
 and if your lordship will give me leave, I will, like a 
 good Christian at Christmas, be very drunk byway of 
 thanksgiving. Come, my noble peer, I believe din- 
 ner's ready ; if your honour pleases to foUowme, I'll 
 lead you on to the attack of a venison-pasty. lExit. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I wait upon you. — ^Will your 
 ladyship do me the favour of your little finger, 
 madam ? 
 
 Hoyd. My lord, I'll follow you presently, I have 
 a little business with my nurse. 
 
 Lord Fop. Your ladyship's most humble ser- 
 vant. — Come, sir John ; the ladies have des affaires. 
 [Sxit witli Sir John Fkiendlv. 
 
 Hoyd. So, nurse, we are finely brought to bed! 
 what shall we do now ? 
 
 Nurse. Ah, dear miss, we are all undone ! Mr. 
 Bull, you were used to help a woman to a remedy. 
 
 iCrping. 
 
 Bull. A lack-a-day ! but it's past my skill now, 
 I can do nothing. 
 
 Nurse. Who would have thought that ever your 
 invention should have been drained so dry ? 
 
 Hoyd. Well, I have often thought old folks fools, 
 and now I'm sure they are so ; I have found a way 
 myself to secure us all. 
 
 Nurse. Dear lady, what's that ? 
 
 Hoyd. Why, if you two will be sure to hold your 
 tongues, and not say a word of what's past, I'll e'en 
 marry this lord too. 
 
 Nurse. What ! two husbands, my dear ? 
 
 Hoyd. Why you had three, good nurse, you may 
 hold your tongue. 
 
 Nurse. Ay, but not altogether, sweet child. 
 
 Hoyd. Psha! if you had, you'd ne'er a thought 
 much on't. 
 
 Nurse. Oh, but 'tis a sin, sweeting ! 
 
 Bull. Nay, that's my business to speak to, 
 nurse. — I do confess, to take two husbands for the 
 satisfaction of the flesh, is to commit the sin of 
 exorbitancy; but to do It for the peace of the 
 spirit, isnomorethantobe drunk by way of physic. 
 Besides, to prevent a parent's wrath, is to avoid 
 the sin of disobedience ; for when the parent 's 
 angry, the child is froward. So that upon the 
 whole matter, I do think, though miss should marry 
 again, she may be saved. 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, and I will marry again then ! and 
 so there is an end of the story. ZExmnt, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— Tom Fashion's Lodgings. 
 Enter Coupleb, Tom Fashion, and Lory. 
 
 Coup. Well, and so sir John coming in — 
 
 Fash. And so sir John coming in, I thought it 
 might be manners in me to go out, which I did, 
 and getting on horseback as fast as I could, rid 
 away as if the devil had been at the rear of me. 
 What has happened since, Heaven knows. 
 
 Coup. Egad, sirrah, I know as well as Heaven, 
 
 Fash. What do you know ? 
 
 Coup. That you are a cuckold. 
 
 Fash. The devil I am ! By who ? 
 
 Coup. By your brother. 
 
 Fash. My brother ! which way ? 
 
 Coup. The old way ; he has lain with your wife. 
 
 Fash. Hell and furies ! what dost thou mean .' 
 
 Coup. I mean plainly i I speak no parable. 
 
 Fash. Plainly 1 thou dost not speak common 
 sense, I cannot understand one word thou sayest. 
 
 Coup. You will do soon, youngster. In short, 
 you left your wife a widow, and she married again. 
 
 Fash. It's a lie. 
 
 Coup. Ecod, it I were a young fellow, I'd break 
 your head, sirrah. 
 
 Fash. Dear dad, don't be angry, for I m as mad 
 as Tom of Bedlam. 
 
 Coup. When I had fitted you with a wife, you 
 should have kept her. 
 
 Fash. But is it possible the young strumpet 
 could play me such a trick ? 
 
 Coup. A young strumpet, sir, can play twenty 
 tricks. 
 
 Fash. But prithee instruct me a little farther ; 
 whence comes thy intelligence ? 
 
 Coup. From your brother, in this letter ; there, 
 you may read it. 
 
 Fash. [Reads.'] 
 
 Dear Couplisr, — / have only time to tell thee 
 in three lines, or thereabouts, that here has been 
 the devil. That rascal Tarn, having stole the 
 letter thou hadst formerly writ for me to bring to 
 sir Tunbelly, formed a damnahle design upon my 
 mistress, and was in a fair way of success when I 
 arrived. But after having suffered some indigni- 
 ties (in which I have all daubed my embroidered 
 coat) I put him to flight. I sent out a parly of 
 horse after him, in hopes to have made him my 
 prisoner, which if I had done I would have quali- 
 fied him for the seraglio, stap my vitals ' 
 
 The danger I have thus narrowly escaped, has 
 
 made me fortify myself against further attempts, 
 
 ' by entering immediately into an association with 
 
THE RELAPSE; OU, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 327 
 
 Ihe young lady, by which we engage to stand liy 
 one another as long as we both shall live. 
 
 In short, the papers are sealed, and the contract 
 s signed, so the business of the lawyer is acheve. ; 
 but I defer the divine part of the thing till I arrive 
 at London, not being willing to consummate in 
 any other bed but my own. 
 
 Postscript, 
 'Tis possible I may be in the tawn as soon as 
 this letter, far I find the lady is so violently in 
 love with me, I have determined to make her 
 happy with all the despatch that is practicable, 
 without disardering my coach-harses. 
 
 So, here's rare work, i'faith ! 
 
 Lory. Egad, Miss Hoydea has laid about her 
 bravely ! 
 
 Coup. I think my country-girl has played her 
 part as well as if she had been born and bred in 
 St. James's parish. 
 
 Fash. That rogue the chaplain ! 
 
 Lory. And then that jade the nurse, sir ! 
 
 Fash. And then that drunken sot Lory, sir ! that 
 could not keep himself sober to be a witness to the 
 marriage. 
 
 Lory. Sir — with respect — I know very few 
 drunken sots that do keep themselves sober. 
 
 Fash. Hold your prating, sirrah, or I'll break 
 your head 1 — Dear Coupler, what's to be done ? 
 
 Coup. Nothing's to be done till the bride and 
 bridegroom come to town. 
 
 Fash. Bride and bridegroom ! death and furies ! 
 I can't bear that thou shouldst call 'em so. 
 
 Coup. Why,whatshalllcall'em, dog and cat? 
 
 Fash, Not for the world, that sounds more like 
 man and wife than t'pther: 
 
 Coup. "Well, if you'U hear of 'em in no lan- 
 guage, we'll leave 'em for the nurse and the 
 chaplain. 
 
 Fash, The devil and the witch ! 
 
 Coup. When they come to town — 
 
 Lory. We shall have stormy weather. 
 
 Coup. Will you hold your tongues, gentlemen, 
 or not .' 
 
 Lory. Mum ! 
 
 Coup. I say when they come, we must find 
 what stuff they are made of, whether the church- 
 man be chiefly composed of the flesh, or the spirit ; 
 I presume the former. For as chaplains now go, 'tis 
 probable be eats three pound of beef to the reading 
 of one chapter. — This gives him carnal desires, he 
 wants money, preferment, wine, a whore ; therefore 
 we must invite him to supper, give him fat capons, 
 sack and sugar, a purse of gold, and a plump sister. 
 Let this be done, and I'll warrant thee, my boy, 
 he speaks truth like an oracle. 
 
 Fash. Thou are a profound statesman I allow it ; 
 but how shall we gain the nurse ? 
 
 Cotip. Oh ! never fear the nurse, if once you have 
 got the priest ; for the devil always rides the hag. 
 Well, there's nothing more to be said of the matter 
 at this time, that I know of ; so let us go and 
 inquire if there's any news of our people yet, 
 perhaps they may be come. But let me tell you 
 one thing by the way, sirrah, I doubt you have 
 been an idle fellow ; if thou hadst behaved thyself 
 as thou shouldst have done, the girl would never 
 have left thee. iExeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Bekinthia's Apartment. 
 Snter Abigail, crossing the stage, fnlloioed hy Wouthv. 
 
 Wor. Hem, Mrs. Abigail ! is your mistress to be 
 spoken with .' 
 
 Abig. By you, sir, I believe she may. 
 
 Wor<. Why 'tis by me I would have her spokes 
 with. 
 
 Abig. I'll acquaint her, sir. iExit. 
 
 Wor. One lift more I must persuade her to givft 
 me, and then I'm mounted. Well, a young bawd, 
 and a handsome one for my money ; 'tis they do 
 the execution ; I'll never go to an old one, but 
 when I have occasion for a witch. Lewdness looks 
 heavenly to a woman, when an angel appears in. 
 its cause ; but when a hag is advocate, she thinks 
 it comes from the devil. An old woman has 
 something so terrible in her looks, that whilst she 
 is persuading your mistress to forget she has a 
 soul, she stares hell and damnation full in her face. 
 
 Enter Bebinthia. 
 
 Ber. Well, sir, what news bring you ? 
 
 Wor. No news, madam ; there's a woman going 
 to cuckold her husband. 
 
 Ber. Amanda ! 
 
 Wor. I hope so. 
 
 Ber. Speed her well ! 
 
 Wor. Ay, but there must be more than a God- 
 speed, or your charity won't be worth a farthing. 
 
 Ber. Why, han't I done enough already ? 
 
 Wor. Not quite. 
 
 Ber. What's the matter ? 
 
 Wor. The lady has a scruple still, which yoa 
 must remove. 
 
 Ber. What's that ? 
 
 Wor. Her virtue — she says. 
 
 Ber. And do you believe her ? 
 
 Wor. No, but I believe it's what she takes for 
 her virtue ; it's some relics of lawful love. She is 
 not yet fully satisfied her husband has got another- 
 mistress ; which unless I can convince her of, I 
 have opened the trenches in vain ; for the breach 
 must be wider, before I dare storm the town. 
 
 Ber. And so I'm to be your engineer ? 
 
 Wor. I'm sure you know best how to manage 
 the battery. 
 
 Ber. What think you of springing a mine .' I have 
 a thought just now come into my head, how to 
 blow her up at once. 
 
 Wor. That would be a thought indeed. 
 
 Ber. Faith, I'll do't j and thus the execution of 
 it shall be. We are all invited to my lord Fopping- 
 ton's to-night to supper ; he's come to town with 
 his bride, and maketh a ball, with an entertainment 
 of music. Now, you must know, my undoer here. 
 Loveless, says he must needs meet me about some 
 private business (I don't know what 'tis) before 
 we go to the company. To which end he has told 
 his wife one lie, and I have told her another. But 
 to make her amends, I'll go immediately, and tell 
 her a solemn truth. 
 
 Wor. What's that ? 
 
 Ber. Why, I'll tell her, that to my certain know- 
 ledge her husband has a rendezvous with his 
 mistress this afternoon ; and that if she'll give me 
 her word, she will be satisfied with the discovery, 
 without making any violent inquiry after the woman, 
 I'll direct her to a place where she shall see 'em 
 
n28 
 
 THE RELAPSE; Oil, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 meet. Now, friend, this I fancy may help you to 
 a critical minute. For home slie must go agJLiu to 
 dress. You (with your good breeding) come to 
 wait upoji us to the ball, find her all alone, her 
 spirit inflamed against her husband for his treason, 
 and her flesh in a heat from some contemplations 
 upon the treachery, her blood on a fire, her con- 
 science in ice ; a lover to draw, and the devil to 
 drive. — Ah, poor Amanda ! 
 
 Wor. IKneeling.l Thou angel of light, let me 
 fall dovra and adore thee ! 
 
 Ber. Thou minister of darkness, get up again, 
 for I hate to see the devil at his devotions. 
 
 Wor. Well, my incomparable Berinthiaj how 
 shall I requite you ! 
 
 Ber. Oh, ne'er trouble yourself about that : 
 virtue is its own reward. There's a pleasure in 
 doinff good, which sufficiently pays itself. Adieu ! 
 
 IVor. Farewelli thou best of women ! 
 
 iExeunt severally. 
 
 Enter Amanda meeting Berinthia. 
 
 Aman. Who was that went from you ? 
 Ber. A friend of yours, 
 .'iman.. What does he want ? 
 
 Ber. Something you might spare him, and be 
 ne'er the poorer. 
 
 Aman. I can spare him iiothing but my friend- 
 ship ; ray love already's all disposed of : though, I 
 confess, to one ungrateful to my bounty. 
 
 Ber. Why, there's the mystery ! You have been 
 so bountiful, you have cloyed him- Fond wives do 
 by their husbands, as barren wives do by their 
 iapdogs ; cram 'em with sweetmeats till they spoil 
 their stomachs. 
 
 Aman. Alas ! had you but seen how passionately 
 fond he has been since our last reconciliation, you 
 would have thought it were impossible he ever 
 should have breathed an hour without me. 
 
 Ber. Ay, but there you thought wrong again, 
 Amanda ; you should consider, that in matters of 
 love men's eyes are always bigger than their 
 bellies. They have violent appetites, 'tis true, 
 bat they have soon dined. 
 
 Aman. Well ; there's iiothing upon earth 
 astonishes me more than men's inconstancy; 
 
 Ber. Now there's nothing upon earth astonishes 
 me less, when I consider what they and we are 
 composed of: for nature has made them children, 
 .ind us babies. Now, Amanda, how we used our 
 babies you may remember. We were mad to 
 have them as soon as we saw them ; kissed them 
 to pieces as soon as we got them ; then pulled off 
 their clothes, saw them naked, and so threw them 
 away. 
 
 Aman. But do you think all men are of this 
 temper? 
 
 Ber. All but one. 
 
 Aman. Who's that? 
 
 Ber. Worthy. 
 
 Aman. Why, he's weary of his wife too, you see. 
 
 Ber. Ay, that's no proof 
 
 Aman. What can be a greater ? 
 
 Ber. Being weary of his mistress. 
 
 Aman. Don't you think 'twere possible he 
 might give you that too ? 
 
 Ber. Perhaps he might, if he were my gallant j 
 oot if he were yours. 
 
 Aman. Why do you think he should be more 
 
 constant to me than be would to yoti ? I'm sure 
 I'm not so handsome. 
 
 Ber. Kisshig goes by favour j he likes you best. 
 
 Aman. Suppose he does : that's no demonstra- 
 tion he would be cohstant to nie. 
 
 Ber. No, that- I'll grant you : but there are 
 other reasons to expect it.- For you must know 
 after all, Amanda, the inconstancy we compionly 
 see in men. of brains, does not so much proceed 
 from the ilncertainty of their temper^ as frorn the 
 misfortunes of their love. A man iees pethaps a 
 hundred women he likes Vvell finough for an 
 intrigue, and away ; but possibly, through the 
 whole course of* his life, does not find above one 
 who is exactly what he could .wish her : now her^ 
 'tis a thousand to one; he never'gets.. Either She 
 is not to be had at all (though that seldom happens? 
 you'n say), or hd wants those opportunities that 
 are necessary -to gain her ; either she likes .some^ 
 body else much better than him, or uses him like 
 a dog, because he likes nobody so well as her. 
 Still something or other Fate, claps in the :way 
 between them and the women they aVe capable, of 
 being fond of; and, this. makes th'emwaiider about 
 from mistress to mistress, like a pilgrim from town 
 to town, who evei'y night must-' have afresh lodg- 
 ing, and's in haste to be gone in the morning. 
 
 Arhan. 'Tis possible there may be somethin'g in 
 what you say ; but what do ,you infer from ic as 
 to the man we are talking of? 
 
 Ber. Why, I infer, that yon being the woman 
 in the world the most to his humour, 'tis hot 
 likely he would quit you for one that is less, 
 
 Aman. That is not to be depended upon, for 
 you'see Mr. Loveless does so. 
 
 Ber. What does Mr. Loveless do ? 
 
 Aman.. Why, .-he-i runs afte^ something for 
 variety I'm sure he does not like so well as he 
 does me. 
 
 Ber. That's more than you know, madam. 
 
 Aman. No,- I'm sure on't. I am not-very vain, 
 Berinthia, and yet I'll lay my life, Jf I could look 
 into his heart, he thinks I deserve to be preferred 
 to a thousand of her. 
 
 Ber. Don't be too positive in that neither ; a 
 million -to one but she haB the same opinion of 
 you. What vfould you give to see her ? 
 
 Aman. Hang her, dirty trull ! — Though I really 
 believe she's so ugly she'd cure me of my jealousy. 
 
 Ber. All the men of sense about town say she's 
 handsome. 
 
 Aman. They are as often out in those things as 
 any people. 
 
 Ber. Then I'll give you further proof..— all the 
 women about town say she's a fool. Now I hope 
 you're convinced ? 
 
 Aman. Whate'et she bCj I'm satisfied he does 
 not like her well enough to bestow anything more 
 than a little outward gallantry upon her. 
 
 Ber. Outward gallantry ! — [Aside.'] I can't 
 bear this. — [Aloud.'] Dou't you think she's a 
 woman to be fobbed off so. Come, I'm too much 
 your friend to suffer you should be thus grossly 
 imposed upon by a man who does not deserve the 
 least part about you, unless he knew how to set a 
 greater value upon it. Therefore, in one word, to 
 jny certain knowledge, he is to meet her now, 
 within a quarter of an hour, somewhere about that 
 Babylon of wickedness, Whitehall. And if you'll 
 give m^ your word, that you'll be content with 
 
SOENb) III. 
 
 THE RELAPSE J OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 329 
 
 seeing her masked in his hand, without pulling.her 
 headclothes off, I'll step immediately to the person 
 from whom 1 have my intelligence, and send you 
 word whereabouts you may stand to see 'em meet. 
 My friend and I'll watch 'em from another place, 
 and dodge 'em to their private lodging; but don't 
 you offer to follow 'em, lest you do it awkwardly, 
 and spoil all. I'll come home to you again as 
 soon as I hate earthed 'em, and give you an account 
 in what corner of the house the scene of their 
 lewdness lies. : . ■ 
 
 Aman. If you can do this, Berinthia, he's a 
 villain. 
 
 Ber^ I can't help that ; men will be so. ; 
 
 Aman. Well, I'll follow your directions, for I 
 shall never rest till I know the worst of this 
 matter. . ■ - 
 
 Ber. Pray, . go immediately and get yourself 
 ready then. Put on some of your woman's clotheg, 
 a great scsrf and a n^ask, and you shall presently 
 receive orders. — [Calls.^ Here, who's there ? get 
 me a chair quickly. 
 
 Enter Servant. - 
 
 Ser. There are chairs at the door, madam. 
 
 Ber. 'Tis well ; I'm coming. iExit Servant. 
 
 Aman. But pray, Berinthia, before you go, tell 
 me how I may know this filthy thing, if she should 
 be so forward -(as- 1. suppose she will), to oorae to 
 the rendezvous first ; for methinks I would fain 
 view her a little. 
 
 Ser. Why, she's about my height ; and very 
 well shaped. ' '■ 
 
 Aman. I thought sh&had been a little crooked ? 
 
 Ber. O no, she's as straight as I am. But we 
 lose time ; come away. '_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III,— Tom Fashion's Lodgings, 
 Enter Tom Fashion, meeting Lory. 
 
 Fash. Well; will the doctor come .' 
 
 L&n/. Sir, 1 sent a porter to him as you ordered 
 me. He found him with a pipe of tobacco and a 
 great tankatd of ale, which-he said he would de- 
 spatch while I could tell three, and be here. 
 
 Fash. He does not suspect 'twas I that sent for 
 him ? 
 
 Lorj/. Not a jot, sir ; he divines as little for 
 himself as he ddes for other folks. 
 
 Fash. Will he bring nurse with him ? 
 
 Lori/. Yes. 
 
 i^avA. That's well ; where's Coupler .' 
 
 Lorff, He's half way up the stairs taking breath ; 
 he must play his bellows a little, before he can get 
 to the top. 
 
 Enter Coupler. , , ■ 
 
 Fask. Oh here he is.— Wellj Old Phthisic; the 
 doctor's coming. 
 
 Coup. Would the pox had the doctor ! — I'm 
 
 quite out of wind [7'o IjOry.] Set me a chair, 
 
 sirrah. Ah! — [Sits down.]— [To Tom Fashion.] 
 Why the plague caust not thou lodge upon the 
 ground-floor? 
 
 Fash. Because I love to lie as near heaven as I 
 can. 
 
 Coup. Prithee, let heaven alone ; ne'er affect 
 t'^jiding that way : thy centre's downwards. 
 
 Fask. That's impossible ! I have too much 
 ill luck in this world to be damned in the next. 
 
 Coup, Thou art out in thy logic. Thy major is 
 
 true, but thy minor is false : for thou art the luck- 
 iest fellow in the universe. 
 
 Fash. Make out thatj. 
 
 Coup. I'll do't: last night the devil ran away 
 with the parson of Fatgoose living. 
 
 F.f]sh. Jf .he ha4 run away with the parish too, 
 what's that to me ? ( 
 
 Conp. I'll tell thee. -what it's to thee.v— This 
 living is worth five hundred pounds a-year, and 
 the presentation of it is thine, if thou canst prove 
 thyself a lawful husband to Miss Hoyden.j 
 
 Fash. . Sayest ,thou sOj my protector 2. Then, 
 egad, I shall have a brace of evidences here pre- 
 sently. ■ ■ . . •^ 
 
 Coup. The nurse and the doctor? 
 
 Fash. The same. The devil himself won't have 
 interesl^ enough to m^ke 'em withstapd it. 
 
 Coup. That we shall see presently. — Here they 
 come;. ■'■ .; :',-.. 
 
 Enter Nurse and Bull ; thty utart feacfrj seeing Toik 
 
 ; PASHrON. 
 
 ^urse. ^h, goodness, Roger, we are betrayed ! 
 
 Fash. [Laying hold of them,'] Nay, nay, ne'er 
 flinch for the matter, for i haveyou safe. — Come 
 to your trials immediately ; I have no time, to give 
 you copies of" your indictment. There sits your 
 judge. - .. , _ ■ . _ 
 
 Both. [Kneeling.l Pray, sir, have compassion 
 on us. r -, 
 
 Nurse. I hope^ sir, my years will move your 
 pity ) 1 am an aged woman. : .e . ■» 
 
 Coup. That .is « moving argument indeed.-*- 
 [ To Bull. ] Are not you a rogue of sanctity J 
 
 Bull. Sir (with, respect to my function), I do 
 wear a gown. I hope, sir, my character will be 
 considered ; I am Heaven's ambassador.- 
 
 C^iip. Did not you marry this vigorous young 
 fellow to a plump yi)ung buxom wench ^' . --7 ■ ' 
 
 Nurse. [Aside to Bull.] Don't confess, Roger, 
 unless you are hard put tO;it indeed. : ,.".-. 
 
 Coup. Come, out with!t ! — Now is he chewing 
 the cud of his rogueryj and grinding a lie between 
 his teeth. ,- 
 
 Bull. Sir, . I cannot positively say — I say, sir, • 
 positively I cannot say — ■ j , , , ^ 
 
 . Coup. Qome, no equivocation, no Rom,ah./t9rns 
 upon us. Consider thou standest upon protestant 
 ground, which will slip from under thep like a 
 Tyburn cart; for in this country we have always 
 ten hangmen for one Jesuit. 
 
 Bull. [ To Tom FasSion.] Pray, sir, then will 
 you but permit me to speak one word in private 
 with nurse ? , ; . 
 
 Fash. Thou art always for doing something in 
 private with nurse. , , 
 
 Coiip. But pray let hi^ betters be served before 
 him for once : I would do something in private 
 with her myseif.^Lory, take care of this reverend 
 gownman in the:nexl; room a little. — Retire, priest. 
 — [Exit Lory ioith Bull.] Now, virgin, I must 
 put the matter home to you a little : do you think 
 it might not be possible to make you speak truth ? 
 
 Nurse. Alas, sir I I don't know what you mean 
 by truth. 
 
 Coup. Nay, 'tis possible thou mayest be a 
 stranger to it. 
 
 Fash. Come, nurse, you and I were bettet 
 friends when we saw one another last ; and I still 
 believe you are a very good woman in the bottom 
 I did deceive you and your young lady, 'tis true. 
 
330 
 
 THE RKLAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 but I always designed to make a very good husband 
 to her, and to be a very good friend to you. And 
 'tis possible, in the end, she might have found her- 
 self happier, and you richer, than ever my brother 
 will make you. 
 
 Nurse. Brother ! vfhy is your worship then his 
 lordship's brother ? 
 
 Fash. I am ; which you should have known, if 
 I durst have stayed to have told you j but I was 
 forced to take horse a little in haste, you know. 
 
 Nurse. You were indeed, sir : poor young man, 
 how he was bound to scaure for't ! Now won't 
 your worship be angry, if I confess the truth to 
 you ? — ^When I found you were a cheat (with 
 respect be 'it spoken), I verily believed miss had 
 got some pitiful skip-jack varlet or other to her 
 husband, or I had ne'er let her think of marrying 
 again. 
 
 Coup. But where was your conscience all this 
 while, woman ? did not that stare you in the face 
 with buge saucer- eyes, and a great horn upon the 
 forehead ? Did not you think you should be 
 damned for such a sin ? — Ha ! 
 
 Fash. Well said, divinity ! press that home 
 upon her. 
 
 Nurse. Why, in good truly, sir, I had some 
 fearful thoughts on't, and could never be brought 
 to consent, till Mr. Bull said it was a peckadilla, 
 and he'd secure my soul for a tithe-pig. 
 
 Fash. There was a rogue for you ! 
 
 Coup. And he shall thrive accordingly ; he shall 
 have a good living. — Come, honest nurse, I see 
 you have butter in your compound ; you can melt. 
 Some compassion you can have of this handsome 
 young fellow. 
 
 Nurse. I have, indeed, sir. 
 
 Fash. Why, then I'll tell you what you shall do 
 for me. You know what a warm living here is 
 fallen ; and that it must be in the disposal of him 
 who has the disposal of miss. Now if you and the 
 doctor will agree to prove my marriage, I'll pre- 
 sent him to it, upon condition he makes you his 
 bride. 
 
 Nurse. Naw the blessing of the Lord follow 
 your good worship both by night and by day ! — 
 Let him be fetched in by the ears ; I'll soon bring 
 his nose to the grindstone. 
 
 Coup. lAside.'] Well said, old white-leather ! 
 —[Alovd.] Hey, bring in the prisoner there ! 
 
 He-enter Lonv with Bull. 
 
 Coup. Come, advance, holy man. Here's your 
 duck does not think fit to retire with you into the 
 chancel at this time ; but she has a proposal to 
 make to you in the face of the congregation. — 
 Come, nurse, speak for yourself, you are of 
 age. 
 
 Nurse. Roger, are not you a wicked man, Roger, 
 to set your strength against a weak woman, and 
 persuade her it was no sin to conceal miss's nup- 
 tials ? My conscience flies in my face for it, thou 
 priest of Baal ! and I find by woful experience thy 
 absolution is not worth an old cassock ; therefore I 
 am resolved to confess the truth to the whole world, 
 though I die a beggar for it. But his worship over- 
 flows with his mercy and his bounty ; he is not only 
 pleased to forgive us our sins, but designs thou 
 sha't squat thee down in Fatgoose living; and 
 which is more than all, has prevailed with me to 
 become the wife of thy bosom. 
 
 Fash. All this I intend for you, doctor. What 
 you are to do for me I need not tell ye. 
 
 Sull. Your worship's goodness is unspeakable. 
 Yet there is one thing seems a point of conscience ; 
 and conscience is a tender babe. If I should bind 
 myself, for the sake of this living, to marry nurse, 
 and maintain her afterwards, I doubt it might be 
 looked on as a kind of simony. 
 
 Coup. IRising up.^ If it were sacrilege, the 
 living's worth it : therefore no more words, good 
 doctor; but with the parish — IGiving Nwrse to 
 Am] here — take the parsonage-house. 'Tis true, 
 'tis a little out of repair ; some dilapidations there 
 are to be made good ; the windows are broke, the 
 "wainscot is warped, the ceilings are peeled, and the 
 walls are cracked ; but a little glazing, painting, 
 whitewash, and plaster, will make it last thy time. 
 
 Bull. Well, sir, if it must be so, I shan't con- 
 tend. What Providence orders, I submit to. 
 
 Nurse. And so do I, with all humility. 
 
 Coup. Why, that now was spoke like good 
 people. Come, my turtle-doves, let us go help this 
 poor pigeon to his wandering mate again ; and after 
 institution and induction, yon shall all go a-cooing 
 together, iExeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. — LovELESs's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Amanda in a scar/, Sfc, as just returned, her Maid 
 following her. 
 
 Aman. Prithee what care I who has been here ? 
 
 Maid. Madam, 'twas my lady Bridle and my 
 Lady Tiptoe. 
 
 Aman. My lady Fiddle and my lady Faddle ! 
 What dost stand troubling me with the visits of a 
 parcel of impertinent women ! When they are well 
 seamed with the small-pox, they won't be so fond 
 of showing their faces. — There are more coquettes 
 about this town — 
 
 Maid. Madam, I suppose they only came to 
 return your ladyship's visit, according to the cus- 
 tom of the world. 
 
 Aman. Would the world were on fire, and you 
 in the middle on't ! Begone ! leave me ! — [Exit 
 Maid.] At last I am convinced. My eyes are 
 testimonies of his falsehood. The base, imgrateful, 
 perjured villain ! — 
 
 Good gods ! what slippery stuff are men com- 
 posed of ! 
 Sure the account of their creation's false, 
 And 'twas the woman's rib that they were form'd of. 
 But why am I thus angry ? 
 This poor relapse should only move my scorn. 
 'Tis true. 
 
 The roving flights of his nnfinish'd youth 
 Had strong excuses from the plea of nature ; 
 Reason had thrown the reins loose on his neck, 
 And slipp'd him to unlimited desire. 
 If therefore he went wrong, he had a claim 
 To my forgiveness, and I did him right. 
 But since the years of manhood rein him in. 
 And reason, well digested into thought, 
 Has pointed out the course he ought to run ; 
 If now he strays, 
 
 'Twould be as weak and mean in me to pardon. 
 As it has been in him to offend. But hold : 
 'Tis an ill cause indeed, where nothing's to be said 
 
 for't. 
 My beauty possibly is in the wane ; 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 331 
 
 Perhaps sixteen has greater charms for him : 
 Yes, there's the secret. But let him know, 
 My quiver's not entirely emptied yet, 
 I still have darts, and I can shoot 'em too ; 
 They're not so hlunt, but they can enter still : 
 The want's not in my power, but in my will. 
 Virtue's his friend ; or, through another's heart, 
 I yet could find the way to make his smart. 
 
 {Going off, she meets Worthy, 
 Ha ! he here !" 
 Protect me, Heaven ! for this looks ominous. 
 
 Enter Worthy. 
 
 Wor. You seem disorder'd, madam, 
 I hope there's no misfortune happen'd to you .'' 
 
 Aman. None that will long disorder me, I hope. 
 
 Wor. Whate'er it be disturbs you, would to 
 'Twere in my power to bear the pain, [heaven ! 
 Till I were able to remove the cause. 
 
 Aman. I hope ere long it will remove itself. 
 At least, I have given it warning to be gone. 
 
 Wor. Would I durst ask, where 'tis the thorn 
 torments you ! 
 Forgive me, if I grow inquisitive ; 
 'Tis only with desire to give you ease. 
 
 Aman. Alas ! 'tis in a tender part. 
 It can't be drawn without a world of pain : 
 Yet out it must ; 
 For it begins to fester in my heart. 
 
 Wor. If 'tis the sting of unrequited love. 
 Remove it instantly : 
 I have a balm will quickly heal the wound. 
 
 Aman-t You'll find the undertaking difficult : 
 The surgeon, who already has attempted it. 
 Has much tormented me. 
 
 Wor. I'll aid him with a gentler hand. 
 If you will give me leave. 
 
 Aman. How soft soe'er the hand may be. 
 There still is terror in the operation. 
 
 Wor. Some few preparatives would make it easy, 
 Could I persuade you to apply 'em. 
 Make homereflections,madam, on your slighted love: 
 Weigh well the strength and beauty of your charms : 
 Rouse up that spirit women ought to bear, 
 And slight your god, if he neglects his angel. 
 With arms of ice receive his cold embraces, 
 And keep your fire for those who come in flames. 
 Behold a burning lover at your feet. 
 His fever raging in his veins ! 
 See how he trembles, how he pants ! 
 See how he glows, how he consumes ! 
 Extend the arms of mercy to his aid ; 
 His zeal may give him title to your pity. 
 Although his merit cannot claim your love. 
 
 Aman. Of all my feeble sex, sure I must be the 
 weakest. 
 Should I again presume to think on love. ISighing, 
 Alas ! my heart has been too roughly treated. 
 
 Wor. 'Twill find the greater bliss in softer usage. 
 
 Aman. But where's that usage to be found ? 
 
 Wor. 'Tis here, 
 
 Within this faithful breast ; which if you doubt, 
 I'll rip it up before your eyes ; 
 Lay all its secrets open to your view ; 
 And then, you'll see 'twas sound. 
 
 Aman. With just such words, 
 
 Honest as these, the worst of men deceived me. 
 
 Wor. He therefore merits all revenge can do ; 
 His fault is such. 
 The extent and stretch of vengeance cannotreach it. 
 
 Oh ! make me but your instrument of justice j 
 You'll find me execute it with such zeal, 
 As shall convince you I abhor the crime. 
 
 Aman. The rigour of an executioner. 
 Has more the face of cruelty than justice : 
 And he who puts the cord about the wretch's neck, 
 Is seldom known to exceed him in his morals. 
 
 Wor. What proof then can I give you of my 
 
 Aman. There is on earth but one. [truth .' 
 
 Wor. And is that in my power ? 
 
 Aman. It is : 
 
 And one that would so thoroughly convince me, 
 I should be apt to rate your heart so high, 
 I possibly might purchase't with a part of mine. 
 
 Wor. Then heaven thou art my friend, and I 
 am blest ; 
 For if 'tis in my power, my will I'm sure 
 Will reach it. No matter what the terms 
 May be, when such a recompense is offer'd. 
 Oh ! tell me quickly what this proof must be ! 
 What is it will convince you of my love } 
 
 Aman. I shall beUeve you love me as you ought, 
 If from this moment you forbear to ask 
 Whatever is unfit for me to grant. — 
 You pause upon it, sir. — I doubt, on such hard 
 
 terms, 
 A woman's heart is scarcely worth the having. 
 
 Wor. A heart, like yours, on any terms is 
 worth it ; 
 'Twas not on that I paused. But I was thinking 
 {Drawing nearer to her. 
 Whether some things there may not be. 
 Which women cannot grant without a blush. 
 And yet which men may take without ofiTence. 
 
 {Taking her hand. 
 Your hand, I fancy, may be of the number : 
 Oh, pardon me ! if I commit a rape 
 
 {Kissing it eagerly. 
 Upon't ; and thus devour it with my kisses. 
 
 Aman. O heavens ! let me go. 
 
 Wor. Never, whilst I have strength to hold you 
 here. {Forcing her to sit down on a couch. 
 My life, my soul,my goddess— Oh, forgive me ! 
 
 Aman. O whither am I going ? Help, heaven, 
 or I am lost. 
 
 Wor. Stand neuter, gods, this once, I do invoke 
 you. 
 
 Aman. Then, save me, virtue, and the glory's 
 
 Wor. Nay, never strive. [thine. 
 
 Aman. I will and conquer too. 
 
 My forces rally bravely to my aid. 
 
 {Breaking from him. 
 And thus I gain the day, 
 
 Wor. Then mine as bravely double their attack ; 
 {Seizing her again. 
 And thus I wrest it from you. Nay, struggle not ; 
 For all's in vain : or death or victory ; 
 I am determined. 
 
 Aman. And so am I : 
 
 {Rushing from him. 
 Now keep your distance, or we part for ever. 
 
 Wor. [Offering again.'] For Heaven's sake !— 
 
 Aman. [Going.] Nay then, farewelH 
 
 Wor. Oh stay ! and see the magic force of love. 
 {Kneeling, and holding hy her clothes. 
 Behold this raging lion at your feet, 
 Strurk dead with fear, and tame as charms can 
 
 make him. 
 What must I do to be forgiven by you .' 
 
 Aman. Repent^and never more offend. 
 
3^2 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 irwr.RepeittRnce for past crimes is just amlesiSj'; 
 But sin no,raore's a ta^k too hard for' mortals. 
 
 Aman, Yet those who hope for heaven. 
 Must use their best endearours to; perform it. '. 
 
 Wort Endeavours we may use, but flesh arid 
 \ '\ ' ■ blood are got 
 In t'other scale ; and they are ponderous things. 
 
 Aman. Whate'er they are, there is 4 weight in 
 resolution ^ \ 
 
 Sufficient fpr their balance. The soul, I do confess, 
 Is usually so careless of its charee, 
 So: soft, and so indulgent to deSiret 
 It leaves the reins in the wild hand of nature, 
 ^hp like a Phaeton, drives the fiery chariot. 
 And sets the world, on flame. 
 Yet still the sovereignty is in the raindj 
 Whene'er it pleasds to exert its force. : 
 Perhaps yon may not think it woVth your while. 
 To .take such mighty pains for my esteem ; 
 Bnt that T leave to you. 
 You see the price I set upon my heart j 
 (Perhaps 'tis dear : but, spite of all your art. 
 You'll find on cheaper terms we ne'er shall part'. 
 
 . : IVvr. Sure therefs divinity $bout her ! 
 
 And sh'as dispensed some portion on't to me. 
 
 For what but now was the wild flame of love. 
 
 Or (to dissect .-tljat speciou^ term) the vile, 
 
 The gross desires of flesh and blood, 
 
 Is in a moment turn'd to adoration. i 
 
 The coarser appetite of nature's gone, and 'tis, 
 
 Methinks, the food of angels T require. 
 
 How long this influence may last, tjeaven )tno*s ; 
 
 But in this moment of my purity* 
 
 I could on her own terms accept her heart. 
 
 Y'^es, lovely woman ! I can accep): it., 
 
 For now 'tis doubly worth my care. , ■ .-, •' 
 
 Your charms are much increased, since thus 
 
 adoru'd. 
 When truth's extorted from us, then we owa 
 The robe of viftue is a graceful habit. 
 Could women but our secret counsels scan, 
 Could tbey but reach the deep reserves of rain, 
 They'd wear it on, that that of love might, last ; 
 For when they thro'.w off oncj we soon the other 
 Their sympathy is such — ^ [cast. 
 
 The fate of one, the other scarce can fly ; 
 They live together, and together die. lExit. 
 
 SCENE V. — A Room 5ra Lord Foppington's 
 Hoti^e,. 
 Fnter Miss Hovden and Nurse. : 
 
 Hoyd. But is it sure and certain, say you, he's 
 my lord's own brother ? • , 
 
 Nurse. As sure as he's you^* lawful husband. 
 
 Hoyd, Ecod, if I had known that in time, I 
 don't know but I tnight have kept hipi i for, 
 between you and 1, nurse, he'd have made a hus- 
 band worth two of this 1 have. But which do you 
 think you should fancy most, nurse .' 
 
 Nurse. Why, truly, in my poor fancy, madam, 
 your first husband is the prettier gentleman. 
 
 Hoyd. I don't like my lord's shapes, nurse. 
 
 Nurse. Why, in good truly, as a body may say, 
 be is but a slam. 
 
 Hoyd. WhaD do you think now he puts me in 
 mind of? Don't you remember a long, loose, 
 shambling sort of a horse my father call'd Washy ? 
 
 Nurse. As like as two twin-brothers ! 
 
 Hoyd\ Ecod, I have thought so a hundred 
 times : faith, I'm tired of him. . 
 
 Nurse. Indeed, madam, I think yon had e'en 
 as sood stand to your first bargain. 
 
 Hoyd. Oh but, nurse, we haii't considered the 
 main thing yet. If I leave my lord, I must leave 
 my lady too ; and when I rattle about the streets 
 in my coach, they'll only say. There goes mistress 
 — mistress — mistress what ? What's this man's 
 namfit I have married, nurie ? 
 
 Nurse. 'Squire Fashion. 
 
 Hoyd. 'Squire Fashion is it ? — Well, 'Squire, 
 that's bettpr than nothing. Do you ' think one 
 could not get .him made a knight, nurse ? - i , 
 
 Nurse. I don't know but one might, madam, 
 when the king's in a good humour. 
 ' Hoyd, Ecod, that would • do rarely; For then 
 he'd be as good a mail ajs my father; you know. 
 
 Nurse. By'r Lady, and that's as good a.i the 
 best of 'em. 
 
 i Hoyd. So j'tis, faith ; for then I shall be my 
 lady, and your ladyship at every word, that's all I 
 have to care for. Haj nurse, but hark you me, 
 one thing more; and then I have done. I'm afraid, 
 if I change my husband again, I shan't ha*e so 
 much money '.to throw about,' nurse. ; 
 
 Nurse. Oh, enough's as good as a feast. Be- 
 sides, madam, one don't know but as much may 
 fall to, your 'share with the younger brother as With 
 the elder. For though these lo'rds have a power of 
 wealth indeed, yfet, as I hive heard say, they give 
 it all to their sluts and their trulls ; who joggle it 
 about in their coaches, with a murrain to 'em! 
 whilst poor madam sits sighing, and wishing, and 
 knotting,; and cfying, andihasnot a Spare half- 
 crown to buy her a Praotice Of Piety. ' •, , 
 
 Hoyd. oil, but for that don't deceive yourself, 
 nurse. For this I must say for my lord, and a — 
 {Snapping her fingers'] for him ; he's as free as 
 an open house at Christmas. For this very morn- 
 ing he told me I should have two hundred a year 
 to buy pins. Now, nurse, if he gives me two 
 hundred a year to buy pins, *hat do you think 
 he'H.ffive me to buy fine petticoats ? 
 
 Nurse. Ah, ray dearest, he deceives thee fauUy, 
 apd .he's no better than a rognB for his pains ! 
 ■These Londoners have got a. gibbenidge with 'em 
 would confound a gipsy. That which they call 
 pin-money is to buy their wives everything in the 
 varsal world,' down to their very, shoe-ties. Nay, I 
 have heard folks say, that some ladies, if they will 
 have gallants, as they call '.em, are forced to find 
 them out of their pin-money too. 
 
 Hiyd. Has heiscrved me so, say ye !— Then I'll 
 be his wife no longer, that's fixed. Look, here he 
 comes, with 611 the fine folks at's heels. Ecod, 
 nurse, these London ladies will laugh till they 
 crack again, to see me slip my collar, and run 
 away from my husband. But, d'ye hear ? Pray, 
 take care of one thing: when the business comes 
 to break out, be sure you get between me and my 
 father, for you know his tricks ; he'll knock me 
 down. 
 
 Nurse. I'll mind him, ne'er fear, madam. 
 Enter Lord Foppington, Lovri.bss, Worthy, Amanda, 
 and Bbbinthia. 
 
 Lord Fop. Ladies and gentlemen, you are all 
 welcome. — Loveless, that's my wife ; prithee do me 
 the favour to salute her j and dost hear,- 
 
THE UELAPSE; OH, VIRTUE IN DANGER, 
 
 ^m 
 
 to him'} if tUau hast a mind to try thy fartune, to 
 be revenged of me, 1 won't take it ill, stap my 
 vitals ! 
 
 Lova. You need not fear, sir ; I'm too fond of 
 
 nay own wife to have the least inclination to yours. 
 
 {^AU salute Mjes Hoyden. 
 
 Lord Fop. [AsideJ] I'd give a thousand, paund 
 he would make love to her, that he may see 
 she has sense enough to prefer me to him, though 
 his own wife has not. — \_Vieu-hig k^m.''} He's a 
 very beastly fellow, in my opinion. 
 
 Hoyd. \_As{de.,'\ What a po^ver of fine men there 
 are in this London I He that kissed me first is a 
 goodty gentleman, I promise you. Sure those 
 wives have a rare time on't that live here always, 
 
 £'jifcj- Sir TUNBEJJ-Y Clu^V^ev, with Musicians, DaiiceiB, 
 
 Sir Tun. Gome, come in, good people, come 
 in 1 Come tune your fiddles, tune your fiddles ! 
 ■=— [To the hautboys.] Bagpipes, make readv thefe. 
 Come, strike up. iSings. 
 
 For this is Hoyden's wedding-day, 
 And therefore we keep holiday, 
 And come to be merry. 
 Ha ! there's my wench, I'faith, Touch and take, 
 I'll warrant her ; she'll breed like a tame rabbit. 
 
 Hoyd. l^Aside.l Ecod, I think my father's gotten 
 drunk before supper. 
 
 Sir Tun. [To Loveless a??^ Worthy.] Gen- 
 tlemen, you are yveicome.^l_SaliUin(/ Amanda 
 and BfiRTNTHiA.] Ladies, by your leave. — 
 [Aside.} Ha! they bill like turtles. Udsookers, 
 they set my old blood a-fire ; I shall cuckold 
 somebody before morning:. 
 
 Lord Fop. [To Sir Tunbelly.] Sir, you being 
 master of the entertainment, will you idesire the 
 company to sit? 
 
 Sir Tun. Oons, sir, I'm the happiest man on 
 this side the Ganges ! 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aiide.] This is a mighty unac- 
 countable old fellow. — [To Sir Tunbell"y.] I 
 said, sir, it would be convenient to ask the com- 
 pany to sit. 
 
 Sir Tun. Sit I— with all my heart. — Come, take 
 your places, ladies ; take your places, gentlemen. 
 — Come sit down, sit down ; a pox of ceremony ! 
 take your places. 
 
 [_They sit, and the masque hegins. 
 
 Enter Cvpm and Hymen, with a Cliorus o/Dimcers. 
 
 Cup. Thou bane to my empire, thou spring of 
 contest, 
 Thou source of all discord, thou period to rest, 
 Instruct o-B, what wretches in bondage can see. 
 That the aim of their life is still pointed to thee. 
 
 Hym. Instruct me, thou little, impertinent god, 
 From whence all thy subjects have taken the mode 
 To grow fond of a change, to whatever it be, 
 And I'll tell thee why those would be bound who 
 are free. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 For change, we're for change, to whatever it be. 
 We are neither contented with freedom nor thee. 
 
 Constancy's an empty sound. 
 
 Heaven, and earth, and all go round, 
 
 All the works of Nature move. 
 
 All the joys of life and love 
 Aie in variety. 
 
 Cup. Were love the reward of a pains-taking 
 
 life, ' 
 
 Had a husband the art to be fond of his wife, 
 Were virtue so plenty, a wife could afford^ > 
 These very hard times, to be true to her lord. 
 Some specious account might be given of those 
 Who are tied by the tail, to be led by the nose. 
 
 But since 'tis the fate of a man anH his wife. 
 
 To consume all their days in contention and strife 5 
 
 Since, whatever the bounty of .Heaven may qreate 
 
 herj 
 He's morally sure he shall heartily hate her^ 
 I think 'twere much wiser to ramble at lar^, 
 And the volleys of love on, the? herd to discharge. 
 
 Hym. Some colour of reason thy couneel might 
 bear. 
 Could a man have no more than his wi£s to his 
 
 share : 
 Or were I a monarch so cruelly just, 
 To oblige a poor wife to -be true to her trust ; 
 But I have not pretended, for many yeaVs past, 
 liy marrying of people, to make 'em grow chaste 
 
 I therefore advise thee to let me go on, 
 
 Thou'it find I'm the' strength and support of thy 
 
 .throne ; 
 For hadst thoU but eyes, tjiou wouldst quickly 
 perceive it, 
 How spaoothly the dart 
 Slips into the heart 
 Of a woman that's wed ; 
 "Wliilst the shivering maid 
 Stands trembling, aud wishing, but dare not receive 
 it. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 For change, we're for change, to whatever it be. 
 We are neither contented with freedom nor thee. 
 Constancy's an empty sound. 
 Heaven, and earth, and all go round. 
 All the works of Nature move, 
 And the joys of lite and love 
 Are in variety^ 
 
 [_End of the masque^ 
 
 Sir Tun, So ; very fine, very fine, i*faith ! this 
 is something like a wedding. Now, if supper were 
 but ready I'd say a short grace ; and if I had such 
 a bedfellow as Hoyden to-night — I'd say as short 
 prayers. 
 
 Enter Tom Fashion, Coupler, and Boll, 
 How now! — what have we got here.' a ghost! 
 Nay, it must be so, for his flesh and blood could 
 never have dared to appear before me. — [To Tom 
 Fashion.] Ah, rogue ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Stap my vitals. Tarn again ! 
 
 Sir Tun, My lord, will you cut his throat ? or 
 shall I > 
 
 Lord Fop. Leave him to me, sir, if you please. 
 — Prithee, Tam, be so ingenuous now as to tell 
 me what thy business is here ? 
 
 Fatih. 'Tis with your bride. 
 
 Lord Fop, Thau art the impudentest fellow that 
 Nature has yet spawned into the warld, strike me 
 speechless ! 
 
 Fash. Why, you know my modesty would have 
 starved me ; 1 sent it a-begging to you, and you 
 would not give it a groat. 
 
 Lord Fop. And dost than expect by an excess 
 of assurance to extart a maintenance fram me } 
 
331 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 Fash. [TakinffMiss Hoyden by ihe hand.] I 
 do intend to extort your mistress from you, and that 
 I hope will prove one. 
 
 Lord Fop. I ever thaught Newgate or Bedlam 
 would be his fartune, and naw his fate's decided. — 
 Prithee, Loveless, dost know of ever a mad-doctor 
 hard by ? 
 
 Fash. There's one at your elbow will cure yon 
 presently. — [To Bull.] Prithee, doctor, take him 
 in hand quickly. 
 
 Loi-d Fop. Shall I beg the favour of you, sir, to 
 pull your fingers out of roy wife's hand ? 
 
 Fash, His wife ! Look you there ; now I hope 
 you are all satisfied lif 's mad. 
 
 Lord Fop. Naw, it is not passible far me to 
 penetrate what species of fally it is thou art driving 
 at! 
 
 Sir Tun. Here, here, here, let me beat out his 
 brains, and that will decide all. 
 
 Lord Fop. No, pray, sir, hold, we'll destray him 
 presently according to law. 
 
 Fash. [To Bull.] Nay, then advance, doctor : 
 come, you are a man of conscience, answer boldly 
 to the questions I shall ask. Did not you marry 
 me to this young lady before ever that gentleman 
 there saw her face ? 
 
 JBuU. Since the truth must out, I did. 
 
 Fash. Nurse, sweet nurse, were not you a wit- 
 ness to it ? 
 
 Nurse. Since my conscience bids me speak — I 
 was. 
 
 Fash. [To Miss Hoyden.] Madam, am not T 
 your lawful husband ? 
 
 Hoyd. Truly I can't tell, but you married me 
 first. 
 
 Fash, Now I hope you are all satisfied ? 
 
 Sir Tun. [Offering to strike him, is held by 
 Loveless and Worthy.] Oons and thunder, you 
 lie! 
 
 Lord Fop. Pray, sir, be calm, the battle is in 
 disarder, but requires more canduct than courage 
 to rally our forces. — Pray, dactar, one word with 
 you. — [Aside to 'Rvi,!..'] Look you, sir, though I 
 will not presume to calculate your notions of 
 damnation fram the description you give us of hell, 
 yet since there is at least a passibility you may have 
 a pitchfark thrust in your backside, methinks it 
 should not be worth your while to risk your saul in 
 the next warld for the sake of a beggarly yaunger 
 brather, who is uat able to make your bady happy 
 in this. 
 
 Bull. Alas I ray lord, I have no worldly ends ; 
 I speak the truth. Heaven knows. 
 
 Lord Fop. Nay, prithee, never engage Heaven 
 in the matter, for by all I can see 'tis like to prove 
 a business for the devil. 
 
 Fash. Come, pray sir, all above-board, no cor- 
 rupting of evidences. If you please, this young 
 lady is my lawful wife, and I'll justify it in all the 
 courts of England ; so your lordship (who always 
 had a passion for variety) may go seek a new mis- 
 tress if you think fit. 
 
 Lord Fop. I am struck dumb with his impu- 
 dence, and cannot passitively tell whether ever I 
 shall speak again or nat. 
 
 Sir Tun. Then let me come and examine the 
 business a little, I'll jerk the truth out of 'em pre- 
 sently. Here, give me my dog- whip. 
 
 Fash. Look you, old gentleman, 'tis in vain to 
 make a noise i if you grow mutiocus, I have some 
 
 friends within call have swords by their sides above 
 four foot long ; therefore be calm, hear the evidence 
 patiently, and when the jury have given their ver- 
 dict, pass sentence according to law. Here's 
 honest Coupler shall be foreman, and ask as many 
 questions as he pleases. 
 
 Coup. All I have to ask is, whether nurse per- 
 sists in her evidence .' The parson, I dare swear, 
 will never flinch from his. 
 
 Nurse. [ To Sir Tdnbelly, Tcneeling.J I hope 
 in heaven your worship will pardon me : I have 
 served you long and faithfully, but in this thing I 
 was overreached ; your worship, however, -was 
 deceived as well as I, and if the wedding-dinner 
 had been ready, you had put madam to bed with 
 him with your own hands. 
 
 Sir Tun. But how durst you do this, without 
 acquainting of me ? 
 
 Nurse. Alas ! if your worship had seen how the 
 poor thing begged, and prayed, and clung, and 
 twined about me, like ivy to an old wall, you 
 would say, I who had suckled it, and swaddled it, 
 and nursed it both wet and dry, must have had a 
 heart of adamant to refuse it. 
 
 Sir Tun. Very well ! 
 
 Fash. Foreman, I expect your verdict. 
 
 Coup. Ladies and gentlemen, what's your 
 opinions ? 
 
 All. A clear case ! a clear case ! 
 
 Coup. Then, my young folks, I wish you joy. 
 
 Sir Tun. [To Tom Fashion.] Come hither, 
 stripling ; if it be true then, that thou hast married 
 my daughter, prithee teU me who thou art ? 
 
 Fash. Sir, the best of my condition is, I am 
 your son-in-law ; and the worst of it is, I am bro- 
 ther to that noble peer there. 
 
 Sir Tun. Art thou brother to that noble peer ! — 
 Why, then, that noble peer, and thee, and thy wife, 
 and the nurse, and the priest — may all go and be 
 damned together ! ^ExU. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside."] Now, for my part, I think 
 the wisest thing a man can do with an aching heart 
 is to put on a serene countenance ; for a philo- 
 sophical air is the most becoming thing in the world 
 to the face of a person of quality. I will therefore 
 bear my disgrace like a great man, and let the 
 people see I am above an affront. — [Aloud.] Dear 
 Tarn, since things are thus fallen aut, prithee give 
 me leave to wish thee jay ; I do it de bon cosur, 
 strike me dumb ! You have married a woman 
 beautiful in her person, charming in her airs, pru- 
 dent in her canduct, canstant in her inclinations, 
 and of a nice marality, split my windpipe ! 
 
 B'ash. Your lardship may keep up your spirits 
 with your grimace if you please, 1 shall support 
 mine with this lady, and two thousand pound 
 a-year. — [Taftini/ Miss Hoyden's hand.] Come, 
 madam : — ■ 
 
 We once again, you see, are man and wife. 
 And now, perhaps, the bargain's struck for life. 
 If I mistake, and we should part again, 
 At least you see you may have choice of men : 
 Nay, should the war at length such havoc make, 
 That lovers should grow scarce, yet for your sake, 
 Kind Heaven always will preserve a beau : 
 
 [Pointing to Lord Fopkngton. 
 You'll find his lordship ready to cnne to. 
 
 Lord Fop. Her ladyship shall stap my vitals if 
 I do. 
 
 [Exeunt omnis 
 
THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 C35 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 SrOKEN BY LORD TOPPINGTON. 
 
 Gentlemen and Ladies, 
 These people have regaled you here to-day 
 (In my opinion) with a saucy play ; 
 In which the author does presume to show, 
 That coxcomb, ab origine — ^was beau. 
 Truly I think the thing of so much weight, 
 That if some sharp chastisement ben't his fate. 
 Gad's curse ! it may in time destroy the state. 
 I hold no one its friend, I must confess, 
 Who would discauntenance you men of dress. 
 Far, give meleave to abserve,good clothes are things 
 Have ever been of great support to kings ; 
 All treaspns come from slovens, it is nat 
 Within the reach of gentle beaux to plat ; 
 They have no gall, no spleen, no teeth, no stings. 
 Of jdl Gad's creatures, the most harmless things. 
 Through all recard, no prince was ever slain. 
 By one who had a feather in his brain. 
 
 They're men of too refined an education. 
 
 To squabble with a court — for a vile dirty nation. 
 
 I'm very pasitive you never saw 
 
 A through republican a finish'd beau. 
 
 Nor, truly, shall you very often see 
 
 A Jacobite much better dress'd than he ; 
 
 In shart, through all the courts that I have been in, 
 
 Tour men of mischief — still are in faul linen. 
 
 Did ever one yet dance the Tyburn jig, 
 
 With a free air, or a well-pawder'd wig ? 
 
 Did eter highwaymen yet bid you stand. 
 
 With a sweet bawdy snuffbax in his hand> 
 
 Ar do you ever find they ask your purse 
 
 As men of breeding do ? — Ladies, Gad's curse ! 
 
 This author is a dag, and 'tis not fit 
 
 You Should allow him even one grain of wit : 
 
 To which, that his pretence may ne'er be named. 
 
 My humble motion is — he may be daaan'i 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE, 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONjE. 
 
 #IR John Brute. 
 
 C^^NE* B^ULiY, } <">^P<"'i<"^ to Sir John Bbote 
 
 Treble, a Singing-Master. 
 
 RAspR, J^flZe(!-(/e-C!ftam6j:e (a §iR John Brut«. 
 
 liOVEWELL, Page ib Lady Brute. 
 
 Job, a Porter. 
 
 Justice of the Peace. 
 
 Page to Lord Rake, 
 
 Lady Brute,^ Wife o/Sr» John Brutjs. 
 
 Bblinda, 7ter jyjece. i ( 
 
 Lady Fancypulv 
 
 Mademoiselle, Fille-de-Chambre (oLadyFancyf^i. 
 
 Pipe * t '^'^* '^ LadY PanCYFUI*. ' 
 
 Tailor, Constable, Watchmeiij Footmen, &c^ 
 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKBN BY MRS, BRACKGIRDLE. 
 
 Since 'tia the intent and t)uaii>ess of the stage, 
 
 To copy out the follies of the age ; 
 
 To hold to every man a faithful glass. 
 
 And show him of what species he's an ass : 
 
 I hope the next that teaches in the school, 
 
 Will show our author he's a scribbling fool. 
 
 And, that the satire may be sure to bite, 
 
 Iviad Heaven inspire some venom'd priest to write I 
 
 And grant some ugly lady may indite ! 
 
 For I would have him lash'd, by heavens I would I 
 
 Till his presumption swam away in blood. 
 
 Three plays at once proclaims a face of brass. 
 
 No matter what they are ; that's not the case ; 
 
 To write three plays, e'en that's to be an ass. 
 
 But what I least forgive, he knows it too, 
 
 For to his cost he lately has known you. 
 
 Experience shows, to many a writer's Sffloart, 
 You hold a court where mercy ne'er had part ; 
 So much of the old serpent's stjng you have, 
 You love to damn, as Heaven delights to save. 
 In foreign parts, let a bold volunteer, 
 For public good, upon the stage appear. 
 He meets ten thousand smiles to dissipate his fear. 
 All tickle on the adventuring young beginner, 
 And only scourge the incorrigible sinner; 
 They touch indeed his faults, but with a hand 
 So gentle, that his merit still may stand ; 
 Kindly they buoy the follies of his pen. 
 That he may shun ^em when he writes again. 
 But 'tis not so in this good-natured town ; 
 All's one, an ox, a poet, or a crown ; 
 Old England's play was always knocking down. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — ^ Room in Sir John Brute's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Sir John Brotb. 
 
 Sir John. What cloying meat is love— when 
 matrimony's the sauce to it! Two years' marriage 
 has debauched my five senses. Everything I see, 
 everything I hear, everything I feel, everything I 
 smell, and everything 1 taste — methinks has wife 
 in't. No boy was ever so weary of his tutor, no 
 giri of her bib, no nun of doing penance, nor old 
 
 maid of being chaste, as I am of being married. 
 Sure, there's a secret curse entailed upon the very 
 name of wife. My lady is a young lady, a line 
 lady, a witty lady, a virtuous lady — and yet I hate 
 her. There is but one thing I loathe on earth beyond 
 her : that's fighting. Would my courage come up 
 but to a fourth part of my ill-nature, I'd staqd buff 
 to her relations, and thrust her out of doors. But 
 marriage has sunk me down to such an ebb of 
 resolution, I dare not draw my sword, though even 
 to get rid of my wife. But here she comes. 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 337 
 
 Bnie'*' Lady Brute. 
 
 Lady Brute. Do you dine at home to-day, sir 
 John ? 
 
 Sir John. Why, do you expect I should tell you 
 what I don't know myself ? , 
 
 Lady Brute. I thought there was no harm in 
 asking you. 
 
 Sir John. If thinking wrong were an excuse for 
 impertinence, women might be justified in most 
 things they say or do. 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm sorry I've said anything to 
 displease you. 
 
 Sir John. Sorrow for things past is of as little, 
 importance to me, as my dining at home or abroad 
 ought to be to you. 
 
 Lady Brute. My inquiry was only that I might 
 have provided what you liked. 
 
 Sir John. Six to four you had been in the 
 wrong there again ; for what I liked yesterday I 
 don't like to-day, and what I like to-day, 'tis odds 
 1 mayn't like to-morrow. 
 
 Lady Brute. But if I had asked you what vou 
 liked ? 
 
 Sir John. Why, then, there would be more 
 asking about it than the thing is worth. 
 
 Lady Brute. I wish I did but know how I might 
 please you. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, but that sort of knowledge is not 
 a wife's talent. 
 
 Lady Brute. Whate'er my talent is, I'm sure 
 my will has ever been to make you easy. 
 
 Sir John. If women were to have their wills 
 the world would be finely governed. 
 
 Lady Brute. What reason have I given you to 
 use me as you do of late ? It once was otherwise. 
 You married me for love. 
 
 Sir John. And you me for money. So, you 
 have your reward, and I have mine. 
 
 I,ady Brute. What is it that disturbs you ? 
 
 Sir John. A parson. 
 
 Lady Brute. "Why, what has he done to you ? 
 
 Sir John. He has married me. lExit. 
 
 Lady Brule. The devil's in the fellow, I think ! 
 — I was told before I married him that thus 'twould 
 be : but I thought I had charms enough to govern 
 him ; and that where there was an estate, a woman 
 must needs be happy ; so, my vanity has deceived 
 rae, and my ambition has made me uneasy. But 
 there's some com fort still ; if one would be revenged 
 of him, these are good times; a woman may have 
 a gallant, and a separate maintenance too. — The 
 surly puppy !— Yet, he's a fool for't ; for hitherto 
 he has been no monster : but who knows how far 
 he may provoke me ? I never loved him, yet I 
 have been ever tnie to him ; and that in spite of 
 all the attacks of art and nature upon a poor weak 
 woman's heart, in favour of a tempting lover. 
 Methinks so noble a defence as I have made should 
 be rewarded with a better usage. — Or who can tell 
 — perhaps a good part of what I suffer from my 
 husband, may be a judgment upon me for my cru- 
 elty to my lover — Lord, with what pleasure could 1 
 indulge that ^thought, were there but a possibility 
 of finding arguments to make it good ! — And how 
 do I know but there may .' — Let me see. — What 
 opposes .' — My matrimonial vow. — Why, what did 
 I vow ? I think I promised to be true to my hus- 
 band. Well ; and he promised to be kind to me. 
 But he han't kept his word. — Why, then, I am 
 
 absolved from mine. — Ay, that seems clear to me. 
 The argument's good between the king and the 
 people, why not between th6 husband and the 
 wife .' Oh, but that condition was not expressed. — 
 No matter, 'twas understood. Well, by all I see, 
 if I argue the matter a little longer with myself, I 
 shan't find so many bugbears in the way as I 
 thought I should. Lord, what fine notions of 
 virtue do we women take up upon the credit of 
 old foolish philosophers ! Virtue's its own reward, 
 virtue's this, virtue's that — virtue's an ass, and a 
 gallant's worth forty on't. 
 
 Enter Belinda. 
 
 Lady Brute.- Good morrow, dear cousin ! 
 
 Bel. Good-morrow, madam ; you look pleased 
 this morning. 
 
 Lady JBrute. I am so. 
 
 Bel. With what, pray .'' 
 
 Lady Brute. With my husband. 
 
 Bel. Drown husbands ! for yours is a provoking 
 fellow. As he went out just now, I prayed him to 
 tell me what time of day 'twas ; and he asked me 
 if I took him for the church-clock, that was obliged 
 to tell all the parish. 
 
 Lady Brute. He has been saying some good 
 obliging things to me too. In short, Belinda, he 
 has used me so barbarously of late, that I could 
 almost resolve to play the downright wife — and 
 cuckold him. 
 
 Bel. That would be downright, indeed. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, after all, there's more to be 
 said for't than you'd imagine, child. I know, accord- 
 ing to the strict statute law of religion, I should do 
 wrong ; but, if there were a Court of Chancery in 
 heaven, I'm sure I should cast him. 
 
 Bel. If there were a House of Lords you might. 
 
 Lady Brute. In either I should infallibly carry 
 my cause. Why, he's the first aggressor, not I. 
 
 Bel. Ay, but you know, we must return good 
 for evil. - ----.,.„ _. .-....-■- - 
 
 Lady Brute. That maybe__a mistake in the 
 translation. — Prithee7Se"ofmy o^nrenr-Behnda ; 
 for I'm positive I'm in the right; and if you'll 
 keep up the prerogative of a woman, you'll like- 
 wise be positive you are in the right, whenever you 
 do anything you have a mind to. But I shall play 
 the fool and jest on, till I make you begin to think 
 I'm in earnest. 
 
 Bel. I shan't take the liberty, madam, to think 
 of anything that you desire to keep a secret from 
 me. 
 
 Lady Brute. Alas, my dear I I have no secrets. 
 My heart could never yet confine my tongue. 
 
 Bel. Your eyes, you mean ; for I'm sure I have 
 seen them gadding, when your tongue has been 
 locked up safe enough. 
 
 Lady Brute. My eyes gadding ! prithee after 
 who, child .' 
 
 Bel. Why, after one that thinks you hate him 
 as much as I know you love him. 
 
 Lady Brute. Constant, you mean ? 
 
 Bt^l. I do so. 
 
 Lady Brute. Lord, what should put such a 
 thing into your head ? 
 
 Bel. That which puts things into most people's 
 heads — observation. 
 
 Lndy Brute, Why what have you observed, ill 
 the name of wonder ? 
 
 Bel. I have observed you blusL when you meet 
 
S38 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 him, force yourself away from him, and then be 
 out of humour with everything about you. In a 
 word, never was poor creature so spurred on by 
 desire, and so reined in with fear 1 
 
 Lady B^nte. How strong is fancy ! 
 
 Bel. How weak is woman ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Prithee, niece, have a better opinion 
 of your aunt's inclination. 
 
 Bel. Dear aunt, have a better opinion of your 
 niece's understanding. 
 
 Lady Brute. You'll make me angry. 
 
 Bel. You'll make me laugh. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then you are resolved to persist ? 
 
 Bel. Positively. 
 
 Lady Brute. And aU I can say — 
 
 Bel. Will signify nothing. 
 
 Lady Brute. Though I should swear 'twere 
 false — 
 
 Bel. I should think it true. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then let us both forgive — [Kiss- 
 ing her'\ for we have both offended : I in making 
 a secret, you in discovering it. 
 
 Bel. Good-nature may do much : but you have 
 more reason to forgive one, than I have to pardon 
 t'other. 
 
 Lady Brute. 'Tis true, Belinda, you have given 
 me so many proofs of your friendship, that my 
 reserve has been indeed a crime. But that you 
 may more easily forgive me, remember, child, that 
 [when our nature prompts us to a thing our honour 
 land religion have forbid us, we would (were't pos- 
 jsible) conceal, even from the soul itself, the know- 
 'ledge of the body's weakness. 
 
 Bel. Well, I hope, to make your friend amends, 
 you'll hide nothing from her for the future, though 
 the body should still grow weaker and weaker. 
 
 Lady Brute. No, from this moment I have no 
 more reserve ; and for a proof of my repentance, 
 I own, Belinda, I'm in danger. Merit and wit 
 assault me from without ; nature and love solicit 
 me within ; my husband's barbarous usage piques 
 me to revenge ; and Satan, catching at the fair 
 occasion, throws in my way that vengeance which, 
 of all vengeance, pleases women best. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis well Constant don't know the weak- 
 ness of the fortification ; for, o' my conscience, 
 he'd soon come on to the assault ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Ay, and I'm afraid carry the town 
 too. But whatever you may have observed, I have 
 dissembled so well as to keep him ignorant. So you 
 see I'm no coquette, Belinda : and if you'll follow 
 my advice, you'll never be one neither. 'Tis true, 
 
 ! coquetry is one of the main ingredients in the 
 natural composition of a woman ; and I, as well as 
 others, could be well enough pleased to see a 
 crowd of young fellows ogling, and glancing, and 
 watching all occasions to do forty foolish officious 
 things. Nay, should some of 'em push on, even 
 to hanging or drowning, why, faith, if I should let 
 pure woman alone, I should e'en be but too well 
 pleased with't. 
 
 Bel. I'll swear 'twould tickle me strangely. 
 
 Lady Brute. But after all, 'tis a vicious prac- 
 tice in us to give the least encouragement but 
 where we design to come to a conclusion. For 
 'tis an unreasonable thing to engage a man in a 
 disease which we beforehand resolve we never will 
 apply a cure to. 
 
 Brl. 'Tis true ; but then a woman must aban- 
 don one of the supreme blessings of her life. For 
 
 I am fully convinced, no man has half that pleasure 
 in possessing a mistress as a woman has in jilting a 
 gallant. 
 
 Lady Brute. The happiest woman then on earth 
 must be our neighbour. 
 
 Bel. O the impertinent composition ! She has 
 vanity and affectation enough to make her a ridi- 
 culous original, in spite of all that art and nature 
 ever furnished to any of her sex before her. 
 
 Lady Brute. She concludes all men her cap- 
 tives ; and whatever course they take, it serves to 
 confirm her in that opinion, 
 
 Bel. If they shun her, she thinks 'tis modesty, 
 and takes it for a proof of their passion. 
 
 Lady Brute. And if they are rude to her, 'tis 
 conduct, and done to prevent town-talk. 
 
 Bel. When her folly makes 'em laugh, she 
 thinks they are pleased with her wit. 
 
 Lady Brute. And when her impertinence makes 
 'em dull, concludes they are jealous of her favours. 
 
 Bel. All their actions and their words she takes 
 for granted aim at her. 
 
 Lady Brute. And pities all other women because 
 she thinks they envy her. 
 
 Bel. Pray, out of pity to ourselves, let us find a 
 better subject, for I'm weary of this. Do you think 
 your husband inclined to jealousy ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Oh, no ; he does not love me well 
 enough for that. Lord, how wrong men's maxims 
 are I They are seldom jealous of their wives, un- 
 less they are very fond of 'em ; whereas they ought 
 to consider the women's inclinations, for there 
 depends their fate. Well, men may talk; but they 
 are not so wise as we, that's certain. 
 
 Bel. At least in our affairs. 
 
 Lady Brute. Nay, I believe we should outdo 
 'em in the business of the state too ; for methinks 
 they do and undo, and make but bad work on't. 
 
 Bel. Why then don't we get into the intrigues 
 of government as well as they .■' 
 
 Lady Brute. Because we have intrigues of our 
 own that make us more sport, child. And so let's 
 in, and consider of 'em. lExmnt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Lady Fancyful's Dressing-Room. 
 
 Enter Lady Fanoyful, Mademoiselle, and Cornet. 
 
 Lady Fan. How do I look this morning .' 
 
 Cor. Your ladyship looks very ill, truly. 
 
 Lady Fan, Lard, how ill-natured thou art. Cor- 
 net, to tell me so, though the thing should be true 
 Don't you know that I have humility enough to be 
 but too easily out of conceit with myself. Hold the 
 glass ; I dare swear that will have more manners 
 than you have. — Mademoiselle, let me have your 
 opinion too. 
 
 Mad. My opinion pe, matam, dat your ladyship 
 never look so well in your life. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, the French are the prettiest 
 obliging people ; they say the most acceptable, 
 well-mannered things, and never flatter. 
 
 Mad. Your ladyship say great justice inteed. 
 
 Lady Fan. Nay, everything's just in my house 
 but Comet. — The very looking-glass gives her the 
 dementi. — But I'm almost afraid it flatters me, it 
 makes me look so very engaging. 
 
 {^Looking affectedly in the glass. 
 
 Mad. Inteed, matam, your face pe handsomer 
 den all de looking-glass in tee world, croyez-moi 1 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 339 
 
 Lady Fan . But is it possible my eyes can be so 
 languishing, and so very full of fire ? 
 
 Mad. Matam, if de glass was burning-glass, I 
 believe your eyes set de fire in de house. 
 
 Ladi/ Fan. You may take that night-gown, 
 Mademoiselle. — Get out of the room. Cornet ! I 
 can't endure you. — [Exit Cornet.] This wench, 
 methinks, does look so unsuSferably ugly. 
 
 Mad. Every ting look ugly, matam, dat stand 
 by your latiship. 
 
 Lady Fan. No really. Mademoiselle, methinks 
 you look mighty pretty. 
 
 Mad. Ah, matam, de moon have no eclat, veu 
 de sua appear. 
 
 Lady Fan. O pretty expression ! Have you 
 ever been in love. Mademoiselle .' 
 
 Mad. Oui, matam. ISighing. 
 
 Lady Fan. And were you beloved again ? 
 
 Mad. No, matam. [Sighing. 
 
 Lady Fan. O ye gods ! what an unfortunate 
 creature should I be in such a case ! But nature 
 has made me nice for my own defence : I'm nice, 
 strangely nice, Mademoiselle. I believe were the 
 merit of whole mankind bestowed upon one single 
 person, I should still think the fellow wanted some- 
 thing to make it worth my while to take notice of 
 him. And yet I could love ; nay fondly love, were 
 it p'ossible to have a thing made on purpose for 
 me : for I'm not cruel, Mademoiselle ; I'm only 
 nice. 
 
 Mad. Ah, matam, I wish I was fine gentleman 
 for your sake. I do all de ting in de world to get 
 leetel way into your heart. I make song, I make 
 verse, I give you de serenade, I give great many 
 present to Mademoiselle ; I no eat, I no sleep, I 
 be lean, I be mad, I hang myself, I drown myself. 
 Ah ma ch^re dame, que je vous aimerais ! 
 
 [Embracing her. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, the French have strange 
 obliging ways with 'em ; you may take those two 
 pair of gloves. Mademoiselle. 
 
 Mad. Me humbly tanke my sweet lady. 
 Re-enler Cobnet. 
 
 Cor. Madam, here's a letter for your ladyship 
 by the penny-post. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Fan. Some new conquest, I'll warrant 
 you. For without vanity, I looked extremely clear 
 last night, when I went to the Park. — O agreeable ! 
 Here's a new song made of me : and ready set too. 
 O thou welcome thing ! — \_Kissing «*.] Call 
 Pipe hither, she shall sing it instantly. 
 Enter Pipe. 
 
 Here, sing me this new song. Pipe. 
 Pipe sings. 
 
 Fly, fly. you happy shepherds, fly ' 
 
 Avoid Philira's charms ; 
 The rigour of her heart denies 
 
 The heaven that's in her arms. 
 Ne'er hope to gaze, and then retire. 
 
 Nor yielding, to be blest : 
 Nature, who form'd her eyes of fire. 
 
 Of ice composed her breast. 
 Yet, lovely maid, this once believe 
 
 A slave whose zeal you move ; 
 The gods, alas, your youth deceive, 
 
 Their heaven consists in love. 
 In spite of all the thanks you owe, 
 
 You may reproach 'em this, 
 That where they did their form bestow. 
 
 They have denied their bliss. [Exit. 
 
 Laily Fan. Well there may be faults, Made- 
 moiselle, but the design is so very obliging, 'twould 
 be a matchless ingratitude in me to discover 'em. 
 
 Mad. Ma foi, matam, I tink de gentleman's 
 song tell you de trute : if you never love, you 
 never be happy.— Ah, que j'aime I'amour moi ! 
 
 Re-enter Cohnet, with another letter. 
 
 Cor. Madam, here's another letter for your 
 ladyship. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Fan. .'Tis thus I am importuned every 
 morning. Mademoiselle. Pray how do the French 
 ladies when they are thus accablees ? 
 
 Mad. Matam, dey never complain, Au con- 
 traire, when one Frense laty have got hundred 
 lover — ^den she do all she can — to get hundred more. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, strike me dead, I think they 
 have le gout bon ! For 'tis an unutterable plea- 
 sure to be adored by all the men, and envied by all 
 the women.— Yet I'll swear I'm concerned at the 
 torture I give 'em. Lard, why was I formed to 
 make the whole creation uneasy ! But let me 
 read my letter. — [Reads.'] If you have a mind to 
 hear of your faults, instead of being praised for 
 your virtues, take the pains to walk in the Green- 
 walk in St. James's with your woman an hour 
 hence. YouHl there meet one who hates you for 
 some things, as he could love you for others, and 
 therefore is willing to endeavour your refoima- 
 tion. If you come to the place I mention, you'll 
 know who I am ; if you don't, you never shall: so 
 take your choice. — This is strangely familiar. 
 Mademoiselle ; now have I a provoking fancy to 
 know vfrho this impudent fellow is. 
 
 Mad. Den take your scarf and your mask, and 
 go to de rendezvous. De Frense laty do justement 
 comme ga. 
 
 Lady Fan. Rendezvous ! What, rendezvous 
 with a man. Mademoiselle ! 
 
 Mad. Eh, pourquoi non ? 
 
 Lady Fan. What, and a man perhaps I never 
 saw in my life. 
 
 Mad. Tant mieux : c'est done quelque chose de 
 nouveau. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why, how do I know what designs 
 he may have .' He may intend to ravish me for 
 aught I know. 
 
 Mad. Ravish ! — bagatelle. I would fain see one 
 impudent rogue ravish Mademoiselle ; oui, je le 
 voudrais. 
 
 Lady Fan. Oh, but my reputation, Made- 
 moiselle, my reputation ; ah, ma chSre reputation ! 
 
 Mad. Matam, quand on I'a une fois perdue, on 
 n'en est plus embarrassee. 
 
 Lady Fan. Fi Mademoiselle, fi ! Reputation 
 is a jewel. 
 
 Mad, Qui coute bien-chere, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why sure you would not sacrifice 
 your honour to your pleasure? 
 
 Mad, Je suis philosophe. 
 
 Laidy Fan. Bless me, how you talk ! Why, 
 what if honour be a burden. Mademoiselle, must it 
 not be borne ? 
 
 Mad. Chacun i sa fa9on. Quand quelquechoso 
 m'incommode moi, je m'en dtfais, vite. 
 
 Lady Fan, Get you gone, you little naughty 
 Frenchwoman you ! I vow and swear I must turn 
 you out of doors, if you talk thus. 
 
 Mad, Turn me out of doors ! — turn yourself 
 out of doors, and go see what de gentleman have to 
 
340 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 say to you. — Tenez. — ^Voili IGiving her her things 
 hastilyl votre echarpe, voilA votfe coiffe, voilil 
 votre masque, voila tout. — [Calling within.^ He, 
 Me.rcure, coquin ! call one chair for matam, and 
 one Oder for me: va-t'en vite. — [Turnin.g to her 
 lady, and helping her on hastily with her things."] 
 AUons, matam ; depfichez-vous done. Mon Dieu, 
 quelles scrupules ! 
 
 Lady Fan. Well for once. Mademoiselle, Til 
 follow your advice, out of the intemperate desire I 
 have to know who this ill-bred fellow is. But 
 I have too much delicatesse to make a practice 
 on't. 
 
 Mad. Belle chose vraiment que la delicatesse, 
 lorsqu'il s'agit de se divertir ! — Ah, 9a — Vous 
 Toilk ^quipfe j partons.— H^ bien ! — qu'avez vous 
 done? 
 
 Lady Fan. J'ai peur. 
 
 Mad. Je n'en ai point moi. 
 
 Lady Fan. I dare not go. 
 
 Mad. D^meurez done. 
 
 Lady Fan. Je suis poltronne. 
 
 Mad. Tant pis pour vous. 
 
 Lady Fan. Curiosity^s a wicked devil. 
 
 Mad. C'est une charmante sainte. 
 
 Lady Fan. It ruined our first parents. 
 
 Mad. Elle a bien diverti leurs enfans. 
 
 Lady Fan. L'honneur est centre. 
 
 Mad. Le plaisir est pour. 
 
 Lady Fan. Must I then go ? 
 
 Mad. Must you go ! — must you eat, must you 
 drink, must you sleep, must you live ? De nature 
 bid you do one, de nature bid you do toder. — ^Vous 
 me ferez enrager ! 
 
 Lady Fan. But when reason corrects nature, 
 Mademoiselle ? 
 
 Mad. Elle est done bien insolente, c'est sa soeur 
 atnfe. 
 
 Lady Fan. Do you then |)rcfer your nature to 
 your reason. Mademoiselle ? 
 
 Mad. OaiAk. 
 
 Lady Fan. Ponrquoi ? 
 
 Mad. Because my nature make me merry, my 
 reason make me mad. 
 
 Lady Fan. Ah la m^chante Franpaise ! 
 
 Mad. Ah la belle Anglaise ! 
 
 £ExU,for(nttg ^lady FANCifFDi. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE l.—St. James's Park. 
 
 Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, I vow. Mademoiselle, I'm 
 strangely impatient to know who this confident 
 fellow is. 
 
 Enter Heartfrbs. 
 
 Look, there's Heartfree. But sure it can't be him ; 
 he's a professed woman-hater. Yet who knows 
 what my wicked eyes may have done I 
 
 Mad. II nous approche, madame. 
 
 Lady Fan. Yes, 'tis he : now will he be most 
 intolerably cavalier, though he should be in love 
 with me. 
 
 Heart. Madam, I'm your humble servant j I 
 perceive you have more humility and good-nature 
 than I thought you had. 
 
 Lady Fan. What you attribute to humility and 
 good-nature, sir, may perhaps be only due to curio- 
 sity. I had a mind to know who 'twas had ill 
 manners enough to write that letter. 
 
 ITJirowinff him his tetter. 
 
 Heart. Well, and now I hope you are satisfied. 
 
 Lady Fan. I am so, sir ; good b'w'y t'ye. 
 
 Heart. Nay, hold there ; though you have done 
 your business, I han't done mine : by your lady- 
 ship's leave, we must have one moment's prattle 
 together. Have you a mind to be the prettiest 
 woman about town, or not.' How she stares upon 
 me ! What ! this passes for an impertinent ques- 
 tion with you now, because you think you are so 
 already. 
 
 Lady Fan. Pray, sir, let me ask you a question 
 in my turn : by what right do you pretend to 
 examine me .' 
 
 Heart. By the same right that the strong govern 
 the weak, because I have you in my power ; for 
 you cannot get so quickly to your coach but I shall 
 
 have time enough to ma:ke you hear everything I 
 have to say to you. 
 
 Lady Fan. 'These are strange liberties you take, 
 Mr. Heartfree ! 
 
 peart. They are so, madam, but there's no help 
 for it J for know that I have a design upon you. 
 
 Lady Fan. Upon me, sir ! 
 
 Heart. Yes; and one that will turn to your 
 glory, and my comfort, if you will but be a little 
 wiser than you use to be. 
 
 Lady Fan. Very well, sir. 
 
 Heart. Let me see — your vanity, madam, I take 
 to be about some eight degrees higher than any 
 woman's in the town, let t'other be who she will ; 
 and my indifference is naturally about the same 
 pitch. Now could you find the way to turn this 
 indifference into fire and flames, methinks your 
 vanity ought to be satisfied ; and this, perhaps, you 
 might bring about upon pretty reasonable terms. 
 
 Lady Fan. And pray at what rate would this 
 indifference be bought off, if one should have so 
 depraved an appetite to desire it ? 
 
 Heart. Why, madam, to drive a quaker's bar- 
 gain, and make but one word with you, if I do part 
 with it — you must lay me down — your affectation. 
 
 Lady Fan. My affectation, sir ! 
 
 Heart. Why, 1 ask you nothing but what you 
 may very well spare. 
 
 Lady Fan. You grow rude, sir ! — Come, Made- 
 moiselle, 'tis high time to be gone. 
 
 Mad. AUons, allons, allons ! 
 
 Heart. {.Stopping them.] Nay, you may as well 
 stand still ; for hear me you shall, walk which way 
 you please. 
 
 Lady Fan. What mean you, sir ? 
 
 Heart. I mean to tell you, that you are the mosi 
 iitngrateful woman upon earth. 
 
 ,Lady Fan. Ungrateful I To who ? 
 
 Ileart. To nature. 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 341 
 
 Lady Fan. Why, what has nature done for me ? 
 
 Heart. What you have undone by art. It made 
 you handsome ; it gave you beauty to a miracle, a 
 shape without a fault, wit enougb to make 'em 
 relish, and so turned you loose to your own discre- 
 tion ; which has made such work with you, that 
 you axe become the pity of our sex, and the jest of 
 your own. There is not a feature in your face, 
 but you have found the way to teach it some affected 
 convulsion ; your feet, your hands, your very fin- 
 gers' ends, are directed never to move without some 
 ridiculous air or other; and your language is a 
 suitable trumpet, to draw people's eyes upon the 
 raree-show. 
 
 Mad. [AsideS] Est-ce qu'on fait I'amour en 
 Angleterre comme qa ? 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside."] Now could I cry for mad- 
 ness, but that I know he'd laugh at me for it. 
 
 Heart, Now do you hate me for telling you the 
 truth, but that's because you don't believe it is so; 
 for were you once convinced of that, you'd reform 
 for your own sake. But 'tis as hard to persuade 
 
 1a woman to quit anything that makes her ridicu- 
 lous, as 'tis to prevail with a poet to see a fault in 
 his own play. 
 
 Lady Fan. Every circumstance of nice breeding 
 must needs appear ridiculous to one who has so 
 natural an antipathy to good manners. 
 
 Heart. But suppose I could find the means to 
 convince you, that the whole world is of my opi- 
 nion, and that those who flatter and commend you, 
 do it to no other intent, but to make you persevere 
 in your folly, that they may continue in their 
 mirth. 
 
 Lady Fan. Sir, though you and all that world 
 you talk of, should be so impertinently officious as 
 to think to persuade me I don't know how to 
 behave myself, I should still have charity enough 
 for my own understanding, to believe myself in the 
 right, and all you in the wrong. 
 
 Mad. Le voilJl mort ! 
 
 ^Exeunt Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 
 
 Heart. [Gazing after her.] There, her single 
 clapper has published the sense of the whole sex. 
 Well, this once 1 have endeavoured to wash the 
 blackamoor white ; but henceforward I'll sooner 
 undertake to teach sincerity to a. courtier, gene- 
 rosity to a usurer, honesty to a lawyer, nay, humi- 
 lity to a divine, than discretion to a woman X see 
 has once set her heart upon playing the fool. 
 
 Enter Constant. 
 
 Morrow, Constant. 
 
 Const. Good morrow, Jack: what are you doing 
 here this morning ? 
 
 Heart. Doing ! guess, if thou canst. — Why I 
 have been endeavouring to persuade my lady Fan- 
 cyful that she's the foolishest v/oman about town. 
 
 Const. A pretty endeavour truly ! 
 
 Heart. I have told her in as plain English as I 
 could speak, both what the town says of her, and 
 what I think of her. In short, 1 have used her as 
 an absolute king would do Magna Charta. 
 
 Const, And liow does she take it .'' 
 
 Heart. As children do pills ; bite 'em, but can't 
 swallow 'em. 
 
 Const. But, prithee, what has put it into your 
 head, of all mankind, to turn reformer ? 
 
 Heart. Why, one thing was, the morning hung 
 upon my hands, I did not know what to do with 
 
 myself; and another was, that as little as I care 
 for women, I could not see with patience one that 
 Heaven had taken such wondrous pains about, be 
 so very industrious to make herself the jack-pud- 
 ding of the creation. 
 
 Const. Well, now could I almost wish to see my 
 cruel mistress make the self-same use of what 
 Heaven has done for her, that so 1 might be cured 
 of a disease that makes me so very uneasy ; foi^ 
 love, love is the devil, Heartfree. 
 
 Heart. And why do you let the devil govern 
 you } 
 
 Const. Because I have more flesh and blood 
 than grace and self-denial. My dear, dear mis- 
 tress ! — 'Sdeath! that so genteel a woman should 
 be a saint'"when religion's put of fashion^ 
 
 "£reaT?r"Kay, she's much in the wrong truly ; 
 but who knows how far time and good example 
 may prevail .'' 
 
 Const. Oh ! they have played their parts in vain 
 already. *Tis now two years since that damned 
 fellow her husband invited me to his wedding: and 
 there was the first time I saw that charming 
 woman, whom I have loved ever since, more than 
 e'er a martyr did his soul ; but she is cold, my 
 friend, still dold as the northern star. 
 
 Heart. So are all women by nature, which! 
 makes 'em so willing to. be warmed. 
 
 Const. Oh, don't profane the sex! Prithee 
 think 'em all angels for hec sake, for she's vir- 
 tuous even to a fault. 
 
 Heart. A lover's head is a good accountably 
 thing truly ! He adores his mistress for being vir-' 
 tuous, and yet is very angry with her because she 
 won't be lewd. 
 
 Const. Well, the only relief I expect in my 
 misery is to see thee some day or other as deeply 
 engaged as myself, which will force me to be merry 
 in the midst of all my misfortunes. 
 
 Heart. That day will never come, be assured, 
 Ned. Not but that I can pass a night with a 
 woman, and for the time, perhaps, make myself as 
 good sport as you can do. Nay, I can court 
 a woman too, call her nymph, angel, goddess, what 
 you please : but here's the difference 'twixt you 
 and I ; I persuade a woman she's an angel, and 
 she persuades you she's one. Prithee let me tell 
 you how I avoid falling in love ; that which serves 
 me for prevention, may chance to serve you for a 
 cure. 
 
 Const. Well, use the ladies moderately then, and 
 I'll hear you. 
 
 Heart. That using 'em moderately undoes us 
 all ; but I'll use 'em justly, and that you ought 
 to be satisfied with. 1 always consider a woman, 
 not as the tailor, the shoemaker, the tire-woman, 
 the sempstress, and (which is more than all that) 
 the poet makes her ; but I consider her as pure 
 nature has contrived her, and that more strictly 
 than I should have done our old grandmother Eve, 
 had I seen her naked in the garden ; for 1 consider 
 her turned inside out. Her heart, well- examined, 
 I find there pride, vanity, covetousness, indiscre- 
 tion, but above all things malice; plots eternalll 
 a-forging to destroy one another's reputations, ana 
 as honestly to charge the levity of men's tongues 
 with the scandal ; hourly debates hov; to make 
 poor gentlemen in love with 'em, with no otheA 
 intent but to use 'em like dogs when they have,* 
 done ; a constant desire of doing more mischief, 
 
342 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 and an everlasting war waged against truth and 
 good-nature. 
 
 Const. Very well, sir ; an admirable composi- 
 tion truly ! 
 
 Heart. Then for her outside, I consider it 
 merely as an outside ; she has a thin tiffany 
 covering, over just such stuff as you and I are 
 made on. As for her motion, her mien, her airs, 
 and all those tricks, I know they aif&t you 
 mightily. If you should see your mistress at a 
 coronation dragging her peacock's train, with all 
 her state and insolence about her, 'twould strike 
 you with all the awful thoughts that heaven itself 
 could pretend to from you ; whereas I turn the 
 whole matter into a jest, and suppose her strutting 
 in the self-same stately manner, with nothing on but 
 her stays, and her under scanty quilted petticoat. 
 
 Const. Hold thy profane tongue ! for I'll hear 
 no more. 
 
 Heart. What ! you'll love on then .' 
 Const. \es, to eternity. 
 Heart. Yet you have no hopes at all. 
 Const. None. 
 
 Heart. Nay, the resolution may be discreet 
 enough ; perhaps you have found out some new 
 philosophy, that love's like virtue, its' own reward. 
 So you and your mistress will be as well content at 
 a distance, as. others that have less learning are in 
 coming together. 
 
 Const. No ; but if she should prove kind at last, 
 my dear Heartfree. lEntbracing him. 
 
 Heart. Nay, prithee, don't take me for your 
 mistress, for lovers are very troublesome. 
 Const. Well, who knows what time may do ! 
 Heart. And just now he was sure time could do 
 nothing, 
 
 i Const. Yet not one kind glance in two years, is 
 somewhat strange. 
 
 Heart. Not strange at all ; she don't like you, 
 that's all the business. 
 
 Const. Prithee, don't distract me. 
 Heart. Nay, you are a good handsome young 
 fellow, she might use you better. Come, will you 
 go see her .' Perhaps she may have changed her; 
 mind ; there's some hopes as long as she's af 
 woman. 
 
 Const. Oh, 'tis in vain to visit her ! Sometimes 
 to get a sight of her I visit that beast her husband ; 
 but she certainly finds some pretence to quit the 
 room as soon as I enter. 
 
 Heart. It's much she don't tell him you have 
 made love to her too, for that's another good- 
 natured thing usual amongst women, in which they 
 have several ends. Sometimes 'tis to recommend 
 their virtue, that they may he lewd with tlie 
 greater security. Sometimes 'tis to make iheir 
 husbands fight, in hopes they may be killed when 
 their affairs require it should be so : but most com- 
 monly 'tis to engage two men in a quarrel, that 
 they may have the credit of being fought for ; and 
 if the lover's killed in the business, they cry, Poor 
 fellow, he had ill luck ! — and so they go u 
 cards. 
 
 Const. Thy injuries to women are not to be for- 
 given. Look lo't, if ever thou dost fall into their 
 bands — 
 
 Heart. They can't use me worse then they do 
 /ou, that speak well of 'em. — ho ! here comes 
 the knight. 
 
 Enter Sir John Brctb. 
 Your humble servant, sir John. 
 Sir John. Servant, sir. 
 Heart. How does all your family ? 
 .Sir John. Pox o' my family ! 
 Const. How does your lady .' I han't seen her 
 abroad a good while. 
 
 Sir John. Do ! I don't know how she does, not 
 I ; she was well enough yesterday : I han't been at 
 home to-night. 
 
 Const. What, were you out of town ? 
 Sir John. Out of town ! no, I was drinking. 
 Const. You are a true Englishman ; don't know 
 your own happiness. If I were married to such a 
 woman, I would not be from her a night for all the 
 wine in France. 
 
 Sir John. Not from her ! Oons ; what a time 
 should a man have of that ! 
 
 Heart. Why, there's no division, I hope. 
 Sir John. No ; but there's a conjunction, and 
 that's worse ; a pox of the parson 1 — Why the 
 plague don't you two marry ? I fancy I look like 
 the devil to you. 
 
 Heart. Why, you don't think you have horns, 
 do you ? 
 
 Sir John. No, I believe my wife's religion will 
 keep her honest. 
 
 Heart. And what will make her keep her religion ? 
 Sir John. Persecution j and therefore she shall 
 have it. 
 
 Heart. Have a care, knight ; women are tender 
 things. 
 
 Sir John, And yet, methinks, 'tis a hard matter 
 to break their hearts. 
 
 ' Const. Fy ! f y I you have one of the best wives 
 in the world, and yet you seem the most uneasy 
 husband. 
 
 Sir John. Best wives ! — the woman's well 
 enough, she has no vice that I know of, but she's 
 a wife, and — damn a wife ! If I were married to a 
 hogshead of claret, matrimony would make me 
 hate it. 
 
 Heart. Why did you marry, then? you were 
 old enough to know your own mind. 
 
 Sir John. Why did I marry! I married be- 
 cause I had a mind to lie with her, and she would 
 not let me. 
 
 Heart. Why did not you ravish her ? 
 Sir John. Yes ! and so have hedged myself into 
 forty quarrels with her relations, besides buying 
 my pardon. But more than all that, you must 
 know, I was afraid of being damned in those days 1 
 for I kept sneaking cowardly company, fellows than 
 went to church, said grace to their meat, and baci 
 not the least tincture of quality, about 'em. | 
 
 Heart. But I think you have got into a better! 
 gang now. 
 
 Sir John. Zoons, sir, my lord Rake and I are 
 liand and glove, I believe we may get our bones 
 broke together to-night ; have you a mind to share 
 a frolic .' 
 
 Const. Not I, truly ; my talent lies to soflei 
 exercises. 
 
 Sir John. What, a down-bed and a strumpet ? 
 
 fA pox of venery ! I say. Will you come and drink 
 with me this afternoon .' 
 Const. I can't drink to-day, but we'll come and 
 sit an hour with you if you will. 
 
 Sir John. Phu ! pox, sit an hour ! Why can't 
 you drink ? 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 343 
 
 Const. Because I'm to see my mistress. 
 
 Sir John. Who's that ? 
 
 Const. Why, do you use to teU ? 
 
 Sir John. Yes. 
 
 Const. So won't I. 
 
 Sir John. Why.' 
 
 Const. Because 'tis a secret. 
 
 Sir John. Would my wife knew it, 'twould be 
 no secret long. 
 
 Const. Why, do you think she can't keep a 
 secret ? 
 
 Sir John. No more than she can keep Lent. 
 
 Heart. Prithee, tell it her to try, Constant. 
 
 Sir John. No, prithee, don't, that I mayn't be 
 plagued with it. 
 
 Const. I'll hold you a guinea you don't make 
 her tell it you. 
 
 Sir John. I'll hold you a guinea I do. 
 
 Const. Which way ? 
 
 Sir John. Why, I'll beg her not to tell it me. 
 
 Heart. Nay, if anything does it, that will. 
 
 Const. But do you think, sir — 
 
 Sir John. Oons, sir, I think a woman and a 
 1 secret are the two impertinentest themes in the 
 1 universe! Therefore, pray let's hear no more of 
 my wife nor your mistress. Damn 'em both with 
 all my heart, and everything else that daggles a 
 petticoat, except four generous whores, with Betty 
 Sands at the head of 'em, who are drunk with my 
 lord Rake and I ten times in a fortnight. ^Exit. 
 
 Const. Here's a dainty fellow for you ! and the 
 veriest coward too. But his usage of his wife 
 makes me ready to stab the villain. 
 
 Heart. Lovers are short-sighted •. all their senses 
 run into that of feeling. This proceeding of his is 
 the only thing on earth can make your fortune. If 
 anything can prevail with her to accept of a gallant, 
 ( 'tis his ill usage of her ; for women will do more 
 I for revenge than they'll do for the gospel. Prithee 
 take heart, I have great hopes for you ; and since 
 I can't bring you quite off of her, I'll endeavour to 
 bring you quite on ; for a whining lover is the 
 damn'dest companion upon earth. 
 
 Const. My dear friend, flatter me a little more 
 with these hopes ; for whilst they prevail, 1 have 
 heaven within me, and could melt with joy. 
 
 Heart. Pray, no melting yet : let things go far- 
 ther first. This afternoon perhaps we shall make 
 some advance. In the meanwhile, let's go dine at 
 Locket's, and let hope get you a stomach. 
 
 {^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II- 
 
 -A Room in Lady Fancyfhl's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lady ■Pancvful and Madbmoisbllh. 
 
 Lady Fan. Did you ever see anything so im 
 portune. Mademoiselle ? 
 
 Mad. Inteed, matam, to say de trute, he wanted 
 leetel good-breeding. 
 
 Lady Fan. Good-breeding ! he wants to be 
 caned. Mademoiselle : an insolent fellow 1 And 
 yet let me expose my weakness, 'tis the only man 
 OQ earth I could resolve to dispense my favours on, 
 ■were be but a fine gentleman. Well, did men but 
 know how deep an impression a fine gentleman 
 makes in a lady's heart, they would reduce all their 
 studies to that of good'breeding alone. 
 
 Enter ConNET, 
 
 Cor. Madam, here's Mr. Treble. He has brought 
 home the verses your ladyship made, and gave him 
 to set. 
 
 Lady Fan. O let him come in by all means 
 
 [Exit Cornet.] — Now, Mademoiselle, am I going 
 to be unspeakably happy. 
 
 Enter Trbblb and Pipe. 
 
 So, Mr. Treble, you have set my little dialogue ? 
 
 Treb. Yes, madam, and I hope your ladyship 
 will be pleased with it. 
 
 Iiady Fan. Oh, no doubt on't ; for really, Mr, 
 Treble, you set all things to a wonder. But your 
 music is in particular heavenly when you have my 
 words to clothe in't. 
 
 Treb. Your words themselves, madam, have so 
 much music in 'em, they inspire me. 
 
 Lady Fan, Nay, now you make me blush, Mr. 
 Treble j but pray let's hear what you have done. 
 
 Treb. You shall, madam. 
 
 Trkele and Pxpa sing, 
 
 Treb. Ah ! lovely nymph, the world's on fire ; 
 
 Veil, veil those cruel eyes ! 
 Pipe. The world may then m flames expire. 
 
 And boast that so it dies. 
 
 Treb. But when all mortals are destroy'd, 
 AMio then shall sing your praise ? 
 
 Pipe. Those who are fit to be employ'd : 
 The gods shall altars raise. 
 
 Treb. How does your ladyship like it, madam ? 
 
 I,ady Fan. Rapture, rapture, Mr. Treble, I'm 
 all rapture ! O wit and art, what power you have, 
 when joined ! I must needs tell you the birth of 
 this little dialogue, Mr. Treble. Its father was a 
 dream, and its mother was the moon. I dreamt 
 that by an unanimous vote I was chosen queen of 
 that pale world : and that the first time I appeared 
 upou my throne — all my subjects fell in love with 
 me. Just then I waked, and seeing pen, ink, and 
 paper lie idle upon the table, I slid into my morn- 
 ing-gown, and writ this impromptu. 
 
 Treb. So I guess the dialogue, madam, is sup- 
 posed to be between your majesty, and your first 
 minister of state. 
 
 Lady Fan. Just. He as minister advises me to 
 trouble my head about the welfare of my subjects ; 
 which I as sovereign find a very impertinent pro- 
 posal. But is the town so dull, Mr. Treble, it 
 affords us never another new song ? 
 
 Treb. Madam, I have one in my pocket, came 
 out but yesterday, if your ladyship pleases to let 
 Mrs. Pipe sing it. 
 
 Lady Fan. By all means Here, Pipe, make 
 
 what music you can of this song here. 
 
 Pipe sings. 
 
 Not an angel dwells above 
 Half so fair as her I love, 
 
 Heaven linows how she'll receive me : 
 If she smiles, I'm blest indeed ; 
 If she frowns, I'm quickly freed ; 
 
 Heaven knows she ne'er can grieve mo. 
 
 None can love her more than I, 
 Yet she ne'er shall make me die. 
 
 If my flame can never warm her; 
 Lasting beauty I'll adore, 
 I shall never love her more. 
 
 Cruelty will so deform her. 
 
344 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Lady Fan. Very well. — This is Heartfree's 
 poetry, without question. 
 
 Trel). Won't your ladysliip please to sing your- 
 self this morning ? 
 
 Lady Fan. O Lord, Mr. Treble, my cold is still 
 so barbarous to refuse me that pleasure. He, — he, 
 ■ — hem. ICmghs. 
 
 Treb. I'm very sorry for it, madam. Methinks 
 all mankind should turn physicians for the cure 
 on't. 
 
 Lady Fan, Why truly, to give mankind their 
 due, there's few that know me, but have offered 
 their remedy. 
 
 Treb. They have" reason, madam : for I know 
 nobody sings so near a cherubim as your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Fan. What I do, I owe chiefly to your 
 skill and care, Mr. Treble. People do flatter me, in- 
 deed, that I have a voice, and zje-rne-sais-quoi in the 
 conduct of it, that will make music of anything. 
 And truly I begin to believe so, since what happened 
 t'other night. Would you think it, Mr. Treble ? 
 walking pretty late in the Park (for I often walk 
 late in the Park, Mr. Treble) a whim took me to 
 sing Chevy-phase, and would you believe it ? next 
 morning I had three copies of verses and six bil- 
 lets-doux at my levee upon it. 
 
 Treb. And without all dispute you deserved as 
 many more, madam. Are there any further com- 
 mands for your ladyship's humble servant ? 
 
 Lady Fan. Nothing more at this time, Mr. 
 Treble. But I shall expect you here every morn- 
 ing for this month, to sing my little matter there 
 to me. I'll reward you for your pains. 
 
 Treb. O Lord, madam ! — 
 
 Lady Fan. Good morrow, sweet Mr. Treble. 
 
 Treb. Your ladyship's most obedient servant. 
 
 IBxit with Pipe. 
 Re-enter Cornet. 
 
 Cor. Will your ladyship please to dine yet ? 
 
 Lady Fan. Yes, let ^em serve. — lExit Cornet.] 
 
 Sure this Heartfree has bewitched me. Mademoi- 
 selle. You can't imagine how oddly he mixed 
 himself in my thoughts during my rapture e'en 
 now. I vow 'tis a thousand pities he is not more 
 polished : don't you think so ? 
 
 Mad. Matam, I tink it so great pity, dat if I 
 was in your ladyship place, I take him home in my 
 house, j lock him up in jny closet, and I never let 
 him go till I teach him everyting dat fine laty 
 expect from line £entlema;i. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why truly I believe I should soon 
 subdue his brutality j for without doubt he has a 
 strange penchant to grow fond of me, in spite of 
 his aversion to the sex, else he would ne'er have 
 taken so much pains about me. Lord, how proud 
 would some poor creatures be of such a conquest ! 
 But I, alas, I don't know how to receive as a favour, 
 what I take to be so infinitely njy due. But what 
 shall I do to new-mould him. Mademoiselle ? for 
 till then he's my utter aversion. 
 
 Mad. Matam, you must laugh at him in aU de 
 place dat you meet him, and turn into de ridicule 
 all he say and all he do. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why truly, satire has ever .been of 
 wondrous use to reform ili-mannerfi. Besides, 'tis my 
 particular talent to ridicule folks, I can be severe, 
 strangely severe, when I will. Mademoiselle ,^- 
 Give me the pen and ink — I find myself whimsi- 
 cal — I'll write to him. — Or I'll let it alone, and be 
 severe upon him that way. — [Sits down to write, 
 rises up again.] Yet active severity is better than 
 passive, — [5'i/s down.] 'Tis as good let it alone 
 too ; for every lash I give him perhaps he'll take 
 for a favour — [i2«.ses.] Yet 'tis a thousand pities 
 so mucb satire should be lost, — [.Sa/^.] But if it 
 should have a wrong effect upon him, 'twould dis- 
 tract me, — [Rises.} Well, I must write though, 
 after all. — [5i(s.] Or I'll let it alone, which is the 
 same thing [iSiicj*. 
 
 Mad. {Aside-I La yoiU determines. lExeunC 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room jm Sir John BEnTE'sifou.-'e. 
 
 Sir John Brute, Lady Brute, and Belinda, discovered 
 rising from table j Servant waiting. 
 
 Sir John. [To Servant.] Here, take away the 
 things ; I expect company. But first bring me a 
 pipe ; I'll smoke. 
 [Servant gives Siv Joss a pipe, removes Uie things, and 
 exit. 
 
 Lady Brute. Lord, sir John, I wonder you 
 won't leave that nasty custom ! 
 
 Sir John. Prithee don't be impertinent. 
 
 Rel. [Aside lo Lady Brute.] 1 wonder who 
 those are he expects this afternoon ? 
 
 Lady Brute. I'd give the world to know. Per- 
 haps 'tis Constant, he comes here sometimes ; if it 
 does prove him, I'm resolved I'll share thevisit. 
 
 Bel. We'll send for our work and sit here. 
 
 Lady Brute. He'll choke us with his tobacco. 
 
 Bel. Nothing will choke us when we are doing 
 what we have a mind to.— Lovewell ! {.Calls. 
 
 Enter LovBwki,i» 
 
 Aoiii?. Madam 1 
 
 Lady Brule. Hei'e ; bring my cousin's work 
 and mine hither. 
 
 [.Exit Lovewell, re-enters with their worft, and then 
 retires. 
 
 Sir John. Whu ! Pox ! can't you work some- 
 where else ? 
 
 Lady Brute. We shall be careful not to disturb 
 you, sir. 
 
 Bel. Your pipe will make you too thoughtful, 
 uncle, if you were left alone ; our prittle-prattle 
 will cure your spleen. 
 
 Sir John, Will it so, Mrs. Pert ? Now I be- 
 lieve it will so increase it, — ISitting and smoking'] 
 I shall take ray own house for a paper mill. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Aside to Belit^da.] Don't let's 
 mind him ; let him say what he will. 
 
 Sir John. A woman's tongue a cure for the 
 spleen — oons ! — [Aside.] If a man had got the 
 headache, they'd be for applying the same remedy^ 
 
 Lady Brute. You have done a great deal, Be- 
 linda, since yesterday. 
 
 Bel, Yes, I have worked very hard; how do 
 you like it .' 
 
 Lady Brule. Oh, 'tis the prettiest fringe in thp 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 SiS 
 
 world ! Well, cousin, you have the happiest faney. 
 prithee advise me about altering my crimson pet- 
 ticoat. 
 
 Sir John. A pox o' youi petticoat ! Here's 
 such a prating, a.man can't digest his own thoughts 
 for you. 
 
 Lady Brute. Don't answer him. — Well, what 
 do you advise me i* 
 
 JBel. Why really I would not alter it at all. 
 Methinks 'tis very pretty as it is. 
 
 Lady Brute. Ay, that's true : but you know 
 one' grows weary of the prettiest things in the 
 world, when onehas had 'em long. 
 
 Sir John. Yes, I have taught her that. 
 
 Bel. Shall we provoke him a little ? 
 
 Lady Brute. With all my heart. — Belinda, 
 don't you long to be married ? 
 
 Sel. Why, there are some things in it 1 could 
 like well enough. 
 
 Lady Brute. What do you think you should 
 dislike ? 
 
 Bel. My husband, a hundred to one else. 
 
 Lady Brute. O ye wicked wretch ! sure you 
 don't speak as you think. 
 
 Bel. Yes, I do: espeoiallyif he smoked tobacco. 
 [Sir John looks earnestly at them. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, that many times takes oJE 
 worse smells. 
 
 Bel. Then he must smell very ill indeed. 
 
 Lady Brute. So some men will, to keep their 
 wives from coming near 'em'. 
 
 Bel. Then those wives should cuckold 'em at a 
 distance. 
 
 ^Sir John rises in a fury, tltrows-his pipe at them, and 
 drives them out. As they go o.ff' Lady BitUTB ritns 
 against Constant. 
 Enter Constant and Hbartfree, a Servant folloimng. 
 
 Sir John. Oons, get you gone up stairs, you 
 confederating strumpets you, or I'll cuckold you 
 with a vengeance ! 
 
 Lady Brute. O Lord, he'll beat us, he'll beat 
 us ! — Dear, dear Mr. <Jonstant, save us ! 
 
 \_Exit with Belinda. 
 
 Sir John. I'll cuckold you, with a pox ! 
 
 Const. Heavens, sir John ! what's the matter ? 
 
 f^ Sir John. Sure, if woman had been ready 
 created, the devil, instead of being kicked down 
 into hell, had been married. 
 
 iTeart.'Why, what new plague have youfound now J 
 
 Sir John. Why these two gentlewomen did but 
 hear me say, I expected you here this afternoon ; 
 upon which they presently resolved to take up the 
 room, o' purpose to plague me and my friends. 
 
 Const. Was that all.' Why we should have 
 been glad of their company. 
 
 Sir John. Then I should have been weary of 
 yours : for I can't relish both together. They 
 found fault with my smoking tobacco too ; and 
 said, men stunk. But I have a good mind — to say 
 something. 
 
 Const No, nothing against the ladies, pray. 
 
 Sir John. Split the ladies 1 Come, will you sit 
 down.' — [ 7"o Servant.] Give us some wine, fel- 
 low. — You won't smoke ? 
 
 Const. No, nor drink neither at this time, I must 
 ask your pardon. 
 
 Sir John. What, this mistress of yours runs in 
 your head ; I'll warrant it's some such squeamish 
 minx as my wife, that's grown so dainty of late 
 ■ihe finds fault even with a dirty shirt. 
 
 Heart. That a woman may do, and not be very 
 dainty neither. 
 
 Sir John. Pox o' the women 1 let's drink. 
 Come, you shall take one glass, though I send 
 for a box of lozenges to sweeten your mouth 
 after it. 
 
 Const. Nay, if one glass will satisfy you, I'll 
 drink it, without putting you to that expense. 
 
 Sir John. Why that's honest. — [To Servant, who 
 Jills the glasses and exit.] Fill some wine, sirrah 1 
 — So, here's to you, gentlemen ! — A wife's the 
 devil. To your being both married ? [.They drink. 
 
 Heart. O your most humble servant, sir. 
 
 Sir John. Well, how do you like my wine ? 
 
 Const. 'Tis very good indeed. 
 
 Heart. 'Tis admirable. 
 
 Sir John. Then give us t'other glass. 
 
 Const. No, pray excuse us now. We'll come 
 another time, and then we won't spare it. 
 
 Sir John. This one glass, and no more. Come, 
 it shall be your mistress's health : and that's a 
 great compliment from me, I assure you. 
 
 Const. And 'tis a very obliging one to me : so 
 give us the glasses. 
 
 Sir John. So,: let her live ! 
 
 iTttey drink : Sir John coughs in the gla»s. 
 
 Heart. And be kind. 
 
 Const. What's the matter ? does it go the wrong 
 way ? 
 
 Sir John. If I had love enough to be jealous, 
 I should take this for an ill omen : for I never 
 drank my wife's health in my life, but J puked in 
 the glass. 
 
 Const. Oh she's too virtuous to make a reason- 
 able man jealous. 
 
 Sir John. Pox of her virtue ! If I could but 
 catch her adulterating, I might be divorced from 
 her by law. 
 
 Heart. Aiid so pay her a yearly pension, to be a 
 distinguished ouekold. 
 
 RR-enier Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir, there's my lord Rake, colonel Bully, 
 and some other gentlemen, at the Blue-posts, desire 
 your company. {E.£ii. 
 
 Sir John. Cod's so, we are to consult about 
 playing the devil to-night. 
 
 Heart. Well, we won't hinder business. 
 
 Sir John. Mfethinks I don't know how to leave 
 you though ; but for once I must make bold. Or 
 look you, maybe the conference mayn't last long : 
 so if you'll wait here half an hour, or an hour ; if 
 I don't come then — why then — I won't come at all. 
 
 Heart. [.<i«a!e <o Constant.] A good modest 
 proposition truly ! 
 
 Const. But let's accept on't however. Who 
 knows what may happen ! 
 
 Heart. Well, sir, to show you how fond we are 
 of your company, we'll expect youi: return as long 
 as we can. 
 
 Sir John. Nay, maybe I mayn't stay at all ; but 
 business, you know, must be done. So your ser- 
 vant — or, hark you, if you have a mind to take a 
 frisk with us, I have an interest with my lord, I 
 can easily introduce you. 
 
 Const. We are much beholden to you : but for 
 my part, I'm engaged another way. 
 
 ■ Sir John. What, to your mistress, I'll warrant! 
 Prithee leave your nasty punk to entertain herself 
 with her own lewd thoughts, and make one with us 
 to-night. 
 
346 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Const. Sir, 'tis business tliat is to employ me. 
 
 Heart. And me ; and business must be done, 
 you Icnow. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, women's business, though the 
 world were consumed for't. ^Exit. 
 
 Const. Farewell, beast ! — And now, my dear 
 friend, would my mistress be but as complaisant as 
 some men's wives, who think it a piece of good- 
 breeding to receive the visits of their husband's 
 friends in his aljience ! 
 
 Heart. Why for your sake I could forgive her, 
 though she should be so complaisant to receive 
 something else in his absence. But what way 
 shall we invent to see her ? 
 
 Const. O ne'er hope it : invention will prove as 
 Tain as wishes. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Brute and Belinda, 
 
 Heart. [Aside to Constant.] What do you 
 think now, friend ? 
 
 Const. I think I shall swoon. 
 
 Heart. I'll speak first then, whilst you fetch 
 breath. 
 
 Lady Brute. We think ourselves obliged, gentle- 
 men, to come and return you thanks for your 
 knight-errantry. We were just upon being devour- 
 ed by the fiery dragon. 
 
 Bel. Did not his fumes almost knock you down, 
 gentlemen ? 
 
 Heart. Truly, ladies, we did undergo some hard- 
 ships ; and should have done more, if some greater 
 heroes than ourselves hard by had not diverted 
 him. 
 
 Const. Though I'm glad of the service you are 
 pleased to say we have done you, yet I'm sorry we 
 could do it no other way than by making our- 
 selves privy to what you would perhaps have kept 
 a secret. 
 
 Lady Brule. For sir John's part, I suppose he 
 designed it no secret, since he made so much noise : 
 and, for myself, truly 1 am not much concerned, 
 since 'tis fallen only into this gentleman's hands 
 and yours, who, I have many reasons to believe, 
 will neither interpret nor report anything to my 
 disadvantage. 
 
 Const. Your good opinion, madam, was what I 
 feared I never could have merited. 
 
 Lady Brutr. Your fears were vain then, sir; for 
 I am just to everybody. 
 
 Heart. Prithee, Constant, what is't you do to 
 get the ladies' good opinions, for I'm a novice at it ? 
 
 Bel. Sir, will you give me leave to instruct you ? 
 
 Heart. Yes, that I will, with all my soul, madam. 
 
 Bel. Why then you must never be slovenly, 
 never be cmt of humour^ fare well, and ery roast- 
 meat ; smoke tobacco, nor drink but when you are 
 a-dry. 
 
 Heart. That's hard. 
 
 Const. Nay, if you take his bottle from him, you 
 Dreak his heart, madam. 
 
 Bel. Why, is it possible the gentleman can love 
 drinking .' 
 
 Heart. Only by way of antidote. 
 
 Bel. Against what, pray ? 
 
 Heart. Against love, madam. 
 
 Ladi/ Brute. Are you afraid of being in love, sir ? 
 
 Heart. 1 should, if there were any danger of it. 
 
 Lady Brute. Pray, why so ? 
 j Heart. Because I always had an aversion to 
 ! being used like a dog. 
 
 Bel, Why, truly, men in love are seldom used 
 better. 
 
 Lady Brute. But was you never in love, sir ? 
 
 Heart. No, I thank Heaven, madam. 
 
 Bel. Pray where got you your learning, then ? 
 
 Heart. From other people's expense. 
 
 Bel. That's being a spnnger, sir, which is scarce / 
 honest. If you'd buy some experience with your ( 
 own money, as 'twould be fairlier got, so 'twouldj 
 stick longer by you. 
 
 Re-enter Servant 
 
 Serv. Madam, here's my lady Fancyful, to wait 
 upon your ladyship. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Brute. Shield me, kind Heaven ' What 
 an inundation of impertinence is here coming upon 
 us ! 
 
 Enter Lady Fancvful, who runs first to Lady Brute, 
 then to Beunda, kissing them. 
 
 Lady I^an. My dear lady Brute ! and sweet 
 Belinda ! methinks 'tis an age since I saw you. 
 
 La.dy Brute. Yet 'tis but three days ; sure you 
 have passed your time very ill, it seems so long to 
 you. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why really, to confess the truth to 
 you, I am so everlastingly fatigued with the ad- 
 dresses of unfortunate gentlemen, that were it not 
 for the extravagancy of the example, I should e'en 
 tear out these wickfed eyes with my own fingers, to 
 make both myself and mankind easy. — What think 
 you on't, Mr. Heartfree, for I take you to be my 
 faithful adviser ^ 
 
 Heart. Why truly, madam, I think every pro- 
 ject that is for the good of mankind ought to be 
 encouraged. 
 
 Lady Fan. Then I have your consent, sir — 
 
 Heart. To do whatever you please, madam. 
 
 Lady Fan. You had a much more limited com- 
 plaisance this morning, sir. — Would you believe it, 
 ladies ? the gentleman has been so exceeding gene- 
 rous, to tell me of above fifty faults in less time 
 than it was well possible for me to commit two 
 of 'em. 
 
 Const. Why truly, madam, my friend there is apt 
 to be something familiar with the ladies. 
 
 Lady Fan. He is, indeed, sir ; but he's won- 
 drous charitable with it. He has had the goodness 
 to design a reformation, even down to my fingers'- 
 ends. — 'Twasthus, I think, sir, you'dhave had 'em 
 stand ! — [Opening her fingers in an awkwardman- 
 ner.l My eyes too he did not like. — How was't 
 you would have directed 'em ? — Thus, I think. — 
 [Staring at Aim.] Then there was something amiss 
 in my gait too ! I don't know well how 'twas, but, 
 as I take it, he would have had me walk like him. 
 — Pray, sir, do me the favour to take a turn or two 
 about the room, that the company may see you. — 
 He's sullen, ladies, and won't. But, to make shorty 
 and give you as true an idea as I can of the matter, 
 I think 'twas much about this figure in general he 
 would have moulded me to : but I was an obstinate 
 woman, and could not resolve to make myself mis- 
 tress of his heart by growing as awkward as his 
 fancy. 
 
 {She walks awkwardly about, staring ana looking 
 
 ungainly 1 then changes on a sudden to the 
 
 extremity of her usual affectation. 
 
 ! Heart. Just thus women do, when they think 
 
 'i we are in love with 'em, or when they are so with us. 
 
 [Here Constant and Lady Buutb taUt together apart 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 S47 
 
 Lady Fan. 'Twonld, however, be less vanity fot 
 me to conclude the former than you the latter, sir. 
 
 Heart. Madam, all I shall presume to conclude 
 is, that if I were in love, you'd find the means to 
 make me soon vreary on't. 
 
 Lady Fan. Not by over-fondness, upon my word, 
 sir. — But pray let's stop here j for you are so much 
 governed by instinct, I know you'll grow brutish at 
 last. 
 
 Bel. [Aside.'\ Now I'm sure she's fond of him ; 
 I'll try to make her jealous. — [^Aloud.l Well, for 
 my part, I should be glad to find somebody would 
 be so free with me, that I might know my faults, 
 and mend 'em. 
 
 Lady Fan. Then pray let me recommend this 
 gentleman to you : I have known him some time, 
 and will be surety for him, that upon a very limited 
 encouragement on your side, you shall find an 
 extended impudence on his. 
 
 Heart. 1 thank you, madam, for your recom- 
 mendation : but hating idleness, I'm unwilling to 
 enter into a place where I believe there would be 
 nothing to do. I was fond of serving your lady- 
 ship, because I knew you'd find" me constant em- 
 ployment. 
 
 Lady Fan. I told you he'd be rude, Belinda ! 
 
 Bel, Oh, a little bluntness is a sign of honesty, 
 which makes me always ready to pardon it. — So, 
 sir, if you have no other exceptions to my service, 
 but the fear of being idle in 't, you may venture 
 to list yourself: I shall find you work, I warrant 
 you. 
 
 Heart. Upon those terms I engage, madam ; 
 and this (with your leave) I take for earnest. 
 
 l^Offerlng to kiss her hand. 
 
 Bel. Hold there, sir ! I'm none of your earnest- 
 givers : but if I'm well served, I give good wages, 
 and pay punctually. 
 
 [Heartfreb and Belinda talk familiarly apart. 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside.'] I don't like this jesting 
 between 'em. — Methinks the fool begins to look as 
 if he were in earnest ; — but then he must be a fool 
 indeed ! — Lard, what a diSerence there is between 
 me and her ! — [Looking at Belinda scornfully.'} 
 — How I should despise such a thing, if I were a 
 man ! — What a nose she has ! what a chin ! what 
 a neck ! — Then, her eyes ! — and the worst kissing 
 lips in the universe ! — No, no, he can never like 
 her, that's positive. — Yet I can't suffer 'em toge- 
 ther any longer [Aloud.] — Mr, Heartfree, do 
 
 you know that you and I must have no quarrel for 
 all this ? — I can't forbear being a little severe now 
 and then : but women, you know, may be allowed 
 anything. 
 
 Heart. Up to a certain age, madam. 
 
 Lady Fan. Which I'm not yet past, I hojie. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.] Nor never will, I dare swear. 
 
 Lady Fan. [fo Lady Brute.J Come, madam, 
 will your ladyship be witness to our reconciliation ? 
 
 Lady Brule. You agree then at last. 
 
 Heart. [Slightingly.] We forgive. 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside. ] That was a cold, ill-natured 
 reply. 
 
 Lndy Brute. Then there's no challenges sent 
 between you .? 
 
 Heart. Not from me, I promise ! — [Aside to 
 Constant.] But that's more than I'll do for her, 
 for I know she can as well be damned as forbear 
 writing to me. 
 
 Const. That I believe. But I think we had best 
 
 be going, lest she should suspect something, and 
 be malicious. 
 
 Heart. With all my heart. 
 
 Const. Ladies, we are your humble servants. I 
 see sir John is quite engaged, 'twould be in vain to 
 expect him. — Come, Heartfree. 
 
 Heart. Ladies, your servant. — [To Belinda.] 
 I hope, madam, you won't forget our bargain ; 
 I'm to say what I please to you. 
 
 Bel. Liberty of speech entire, sir. 
 
 \_Exeunt Heartfree and Constant. 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside.] Very pretty truly ! — But 
 how the blockhead went out ! languishing at her ; 
 and not a look toward me ! — Well, churchmen may 
 talk, but miracles are not ceased. For 'tis more 
 than natural, such a rude fellow as he, and such a 
 little impertinent as she, should be capable of mak- 
 ing a woman of my sphere uneasy. But I can bear 
 her sight no longer. — Methinks she's grown ten 
 times uglier than Cornet. I must go home, and study 
 revenge. — [To Lady Brute.] Madam, your hum- 
 ble servant ; I must take my leave. 
 
 Lady Brute. What, going already, madam .' 
 
 Lady Fan. I must beg you'll excuse me this 
 once ; for really I have eighteen visits to return 
 this afternoon. So you see I am importuned by 
 the women as well as the men, 
 
 Bel. [Aside.] And she's quits with 'em both. 
 
 Lady Fan. [Going.] Nay, you shan't go one 
 step out of the room. 
 
 Lady Brute. Indeed I'll wait upon you down. 
 
 Lady Fan. No, sweet lady Brute, you know I 
 swoon at ceremony. 
 
 Lady Brute. Pray, give me leave. 
 
 Lady Fan, You know I won't. 
 
 Lady Brute, Indeed I must. 
 
 Lady Fan. Indeed you shan't. 
 
 Lady Brute. Indeed I will. 
 
 Lady Fan. Indeed you shan't. 
 
 Lady Brute. Indeed I will, 
 
 Lady Fan. Indeed you shan't. Indeed, indeed, 
 indeed you shan't. 
 
 {_Exit running, Lady Brute and Belinda following. 
 
 Jle-entcr Lady Brute. 
 
 Lady Brute. This impertinent woman has put 
 me out of humour for a fortnight. — What an agree- 
 able moment has her foolish visit interrupted ! — 
 Lord, how like a torrent love flows into the heart, 
 when once the sluice of desire is opened ! Good/ 
 gods ! what a pleasure there is in doing what we\ 
 should not do ! 
 
 He-enter Constant. 
 
 Ha ! here again ? 
 
 Const. Though the renewing my visit may seem 
 a little irregular, I hope I shall obtain your pardon 
 for it, madam, when you know I only left the room, 
 lest the lady who was here should have been as 
 malicious in her remarks, as she's foolish in her 
 conduct. 
 
 Lady Brule. He who has discretion enough to 
 be tender of a woman's reputation, carries a virtue 
 about him may atone for a great many faults. 
 
 Const. If it has a title to atone for any, its pre- 
 tensions must needs be strongest, where the crime 
 is love. I therefore hope I shall be forgiven the 
 attempt I have made upon your heart, since my 
 enterprise has been a secret to all the world but 
 yourself. 
 
 Lady Brute. Secrecy indeed in sins of this kind 
 
343 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 is an argument of weight to lessen tlie punishment; 
 but nothing's a [ilea fur a pardon entire, without a 
 sincere repentance. 
 
 Const. If sincerity in repentance consists-in sor- 
 ••ow for ofiending, no cloister ever inclosed so true 
 a penitent as I should be. But I hope it cannot 
 be reckoned an offence to love, where 'tis a. duty to 
 adore. 
 
 Lady Brute. "Tis an offence, a great one, where 
 it would rob a woman of all she ought to be adored 
 for, her virtue. 
 
 'Conit. Virtue ! — Virtue, alas, is no r^ore Ifte 
 the thing that's called so, than 'tis like vice itself. 
 /Virtue consists in goodness, honour, gratitude, 
 / sincerity, and pity ; and not -in peevish, snarling, 
 ^strait-laced chastity. True virtue, wheresoe'er it 
 imoves, still carries an intrinsic worth about it, and 
 / is in every place, and in each sex, of equal value. 
 I So is not continence, you see : that phantom of 
 l^nour, which men in every age have so contemned, 
 I they have thi^own it amongst the wonien to scrab- 
 ble for. 
 
 Larly Brute. If it be a, thing of so very little 
 value, why do you so earnestly recommend .it to 
 yowr wives and daughters ? 
 
 ■Const. We recommend it to GUr wives, madam,, 
 because we would keep 'em to, ourselves ; and -to 
 our daughte'rs, because we would dispose of 'eiti to 
 others. -. 
 
 Lady Brute. 'Tis then of some importance, it 
 seems, since you can't dispose of 'em without it. 
 
 Const. That importance, madam, lies in the 
 humour of the country, not in the nature of the 
 thing. 
 
 Lady Bjruie. H"o.w do you prove^that, sir ? 
 / Const. From the wisdom of a neighbouring 
 I nation in a contrary practice. , In monarchies 
 things go by whimsy, but commonwealths weigh 
 1 all things in the scale of reason. 
 ' — Lady Brute. 1 hope we are not so very light a 
 people, to bring up fashions without some ground. 
 
 Const. Pray whafdoes your ladyship think of a 
 powdered coat for deep mourning? 
 
 La'ly Brute. I think, sir, your sophistry has all 
 the effect tliat you can reasonably expect it should 
 have ; it pujzles, but don't convincei ' 
 
 Const. I'm sorry for it. 
 
 La/ly Brute. I'm soriy to hear you say so. 
 
 Const. Pray why ? 
 
 Lady Briite. Because if you expected more from 
 tti you hdve aworSe opinion of my understanding 
 than I desire you should have. 
 ^ Const. \_Aside.'] I comprehend her : she would 
 have me set a value upon her chastity, that I may 
 think myself the more obliged to her when she 
 nakes me a present of it. — \_Aloud:'\ I beg you 
 -will believe I did but rally, madam ; 1 know you 
 judge -too well of right and wrong to be deceived 
 by arguments like those. I hope you'll have so 
 favourable an opinion of my understanding too, to 
 believe the thing called virtue has worth enough 
 with me to pass for an eternal obligation where'er 
 'tis sacrificed. 
 
 Lady Brute. It is, I think, so great a. one, as 
 nothing can repay. 
 
 Const. Yes ; the making the man you love your 
 everlasting debtor. 
 
 Lady Brute. When debtors once have borrowed 
 all we have to lend, they are very apt to grow shy 
 of their creditors' company 
 
 Const. That, madam, is only when they are 
 forced -to borrow of usurers, and not of a generous 
 friend. Let us choose our creditors, and we are 
 seldom so ungrateful to shun 'em. 
 
 Lady Brute. What think you of sir John, sir ? 
 I was his free choice. 
 
 Const., I think he's married, madam. 
 
 Lady Brute. Does marriage then exclude men 
 from your rule of constancy ? 
 
 Const. It does. Constancy's a Jjrave, free, 
 haughty, generous agent, that cannot buckle to the 
 chains of wedlock. There's a poor sordid slavery 
 in mar-riage, that turns the flowing tide of honour, 
 and sink's us to the lowest ebb of infamy. 'Tis a 
 corrupted soil ; ill-nature, avarice, sloth, cowardice, 
 and dirt, are all its product. 
 
 Lady Brute. Have you no exceptions to this 
 geperal riile, as well as to t'other ? 
 
 Const. Yes ; I would (after all) be an exception 
 to it myself, if you were free in power and will to 
 make me^so. 
 
 Lady Brute. Compliments are well placed, 
 where 'tis impossible to lay hold on 'em. 
 
 Const. I would to heaven 'twere possible fo; 
 you to lay hold on mine, that you might see it is 
 no compliment at all. But since you are already 
 disposed of beyond redemption, to one who does 
 not know the value of the jewel you have put into 
 his hapjls, I hope you would not think him greatly 
 wronged, though it should sometimes be looked 
 on by a friend, who knows how to esteem it as he 
 ought. 
 
 ■Lady Brute. If looking on't alone would serve 
 his turn, the wrong perhaps might not be very 
 great. 
 
 Const. Why, what if he should wear it now and 
 then a day, so he gave good security to bring it 
 home again at night ? 
 
 , Lady Bfute. Small -security I fancy might serve 
 for that. One might venture to take his word. 
 
 Const., Then where's the injury to the ov.ner ? 
 
 Lady Brute. 'Tis injury to him if he think it 
 one. For if happiness be seated in the mind, 
 ui^happiness must be so too. 
 
 Const' Here I close with you, madam, and draw 
 my conclusive argument from your own position : 
 if the injury lie in the fancy, there needs notiiing 
 but secrecy to prevent the wrong. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Goinj.] A surer way to prevent 
 it, is to hear no more arguments in its behalf. 
 
 Const. IFoUowing her.]. But, madam — 
 
 -Lady Brute. But, sir, 'tis my turn to be discreet 
 now, and not suffer too long a visit. 
 
 Const. [^Catching her hand."] By heaven you 
 shall not stir ! till you give me hopes that I shall 
 see you again at some more convenient time and 
 place. 
 
 Lady Brute. I give you just hopes enough— 
 [Breaking from Aim] to get loose from you : and 
 that's all I can afford you at this time. 
 
 \_Exitj running. 
 
 Const. Now by all that's great and good, she's 
 a charming woman I In what ecstacy of joy she 
 has left me ! For she gave me hope ; did she not 
 say she gave me hope ? — Hope ! ay ; what hope ! 
 — enough to make me let her go ! — Why that's 
 enough in conscience. Or, no matter how 'twas 
 spoke ; hope was the word ; it came from her, and 
 it was said to me. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 349 
 
 Re-enter Hkartfreb. 
 Ha, Heartfree ! Thou hast done me noble service 
 in prattling to the yc-ung gentlewoman without 
 there ; come to my arms, thou venerable bawd, and 
 let me squeeze thee — \_Embracing him eagerly] 
 as a new pair of stays does a fat country girl, 
 when she's carried to court to stand for a maid of 
 honour. 
 
 Heart. Why, what the devil's all this rapture 
 for.' 
 
 Const. Rapture ! there's ground for rapture, 
 man ; there's hopes, my Heartfree ; hopes, my 
 friend ! 
 
 Heart. Hopes ! of what ? 
 
 Const. Why, hopes that my lady ar.a I together 
 (for 'tis more than one body's work) should make 
 sir John a cuckold. 
 
 Heart. Prithee, what did she say to thee ? 
 
 Const. Say ! what did she not say ? She said 
 that — says she — she said — zoons, I don't know 
 what she said : but she looked as if she said every- 
 thing I'd have her ; and so if thou'lt go to the 
 tavern, I'll treat thee with anything that gold can 
 buy : I'll give all my silver amongst the drawers, 
 Anake a bonfire before the door, say the plenipos 
 /have signed the peace, and the Bank of England's 
 (grown honest. lExeuM. 
 
 SCENE II The Blue Posts. 
 
 Lord Rake, Sir John Brute, Colonel Buli.y and others 
 discovered at a table, drinking. Page waiting. 
 
 All. Huzza ! 
 . Sake. Come, boys, charge again. — So. — Con- 
 ^sion to all order ! Here's liberty of conscience I 
 ' All. Huzza! 
 
 Rake. I'll sing you a song I made this morning 
 to this purpose. 
 
 Sir John. 'Tis wicked, I hope. 
 
 Built/. Do6't my lord tell you he made it ? 
 
 Sir John. Well then, let's ha't. 
 
 liord Rake sings. 
 
 What a pother of late 
 
 Have they kept in the state 
 About setting our consciences free i 
 
 A bottle has more 
 
 Dispensations in store. 
 Than the king and the state can decree. 
 
 Whpn my bead's full of wine, 
 
 I o'erflow with design. 
 And know no penal laws that can curb me . 
 
 Whate'er I devise. 
 
 Seems good in my eyes. 
 And religion ne'er dares to disturb me. 
 
 No saucy remorse 
 Intrudes in my course, 
 Nor impertinent notions of evil. 
 So there's claret in store. 
 In peace I've my whore. 
 And in peace I jog on to the devlL 
 
 AIL So there's claret in store. 
 In peace I've my whore. 
 
 Rake. And in peace I jog on to the devil. 
 
 Well, how do you like it, gentlemen ? 
 
 All. O, admirable ! 
 
 Sir John. I would not give a fig for a song that 
 is not full of sin and impudence. 
 
 Sake. Then my muse is to your taste. — But 
 
 drink away ; the night steals upon us ; we shall 
 want time to be lewd in. — Hey, page, sally out, 
 sirrah, and see what's doing in the camp ; we'll 
 beat up their quarters presently. 
 
 Page. I'll bring your lordship an exact account. 
 
 r£ar!(. 
 
 Sake. Now let the spirit of clary go round 1 
 Fill me a brimmer. Here's to our forlorn hope ! 
 — Courage, knight; victory attends you. 
 
 Sir John. And laurels shall crown me ; drink 
 away, and be damned. 
 
 Bake. Again, boys ; t'other glass, and damn ] 
 morality. ) 
 
 Sir John, [Drunk.] Ay — damn morality ! — 
 and damn the watch 1 — and let the constable be 
 married ! 
 
 All. Huzza ! 
 
 Re-enter Page. 
 
 Sake. How are the streets inhabited, sirrah ? 
 
 Page. My lord, it's Sunday night, they are full 
 of drunken citizens. 
 
 Sake. Along then, boys, we shall have a feast. 
 
 Bully. Along, noble knight. 
 
 Sir John. Ay — along. Bully ; and he that says 
 sir John Brute is not as drunk and as religious as 
 the drunkenest citizen of them all — is a liar, and 
 the son of a whore. 
 
 Bully. Why, that was bravely spoke, and like a 
 free-born Englishman. 
 
 Sir John. What's that to you, sir, whether I am 
 an Englishman or a Frenchman ? 
 
 Bully. Zoons, you are not angry, sir ? 
 
 Sir John. Zoons, I am angry, sir \- — for if I'm a 
 free-bom Englishman, what have you to do, even 
 to talk of my privileges ? 
 
 Sake. Why, prithee, knight, don't quarrel here, 
 leave private animosities to be decided by daylight ; 
 let the night be employed against the public enemy. 
 
 Sir John. My lord, I respect you because you 
 are a man of quality : but I'll make that fellovv 
 know, I am within a hair's-breadth as absolute by 
 my privileges, as the king of France is by his pre- 
 rogative. He by his prerogative takes money where 
 it is not his due ; I by my privilege refuse paying 
 it where I owe it. Liberty and property, and Old 
 England, huzza ! 
 
 All. Huzza ! 
 
 \_Exit Sir John, reeling, the rest following him. 
 
 SCENE III.— Lady Brute's Bedchamber. 
 Enter h^'S Brute and Belinda. 
 
 Lady Brute. Sure, it's late, Belinda ; I begin to 
 be sleepy. 
 
 Bel. Yes, 'tis near twelve. Will you go to bed .■■ 
 
 Lady Brute. To bed, my dear ! and by that 
 time 1 am fallen into a sweet sleep (or perhaps a 
 sweet dream, which is better and better) sir John 
 will come home roaring drunk, and be overjoyed 
 he finds me in a condition to be disturbed. 
 
 Bel. Oh, you need not fear him, he's in for all 
 night. The servants say he is gone to drink with 
 my lord Rake. 
 
 Lady Brute. Nay, 'tis not very likely, indeed 
 such suitable company should part presently 
 What hogs men turn, Belinda, when they grow 
 weary of women ! 
 
 Bel. And what owla they are whilst they are 
 fond of 'em I 
 
350 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Lady Brute. But that we may forgive well 
 enough, because they are so upon our accounts. 
 
 Bel. We ought to do so indeed, but 'tis a hard 
 matter. For when a man is really in love he looks 
 so insufferably silly, that though a woman liked 
 him well enough before, she has then much ado to 
 endure the sight of him. And this I take to be the 
 reason why lovers are so generally ill used. 
 
 Lady Brule. Well, I own now, I'm well enough 
 pleased to see a man look like an ass for me. 
 
 Bel. Ay, I'm pleased he should look like an ass 
 too— that is, I am pleased with myself for making 
 him look so. 
 
 Lady Brule. Nay, truly, I think if he'd find 
 some other way to express his passion, 'twould be 
 more to his advantage. 
 
 Bel. Yes ; for then a woman might like his pas- 
 sion, and him too. 
 
 Lady Brule. Yet, Belinda, after all, a woman's 
 life would be but a dull business, if 'twere not for 
 men ; and men that can look like asses too. We 
 should never blame fate for the shortness of our 
 days ; our time would hang wretchedly upon our 
 " ands. 
 
 Bel. Why, truly, they do help us off with a good 
 share on't. For were there no men in the world, 
 o'my conscience, I should be no longer a-dressing 
 than I'm a-saying my prayers ; nay, though it 
 were Sunday : for you know one may go to church 
 without stays on. 
 
 Lady Brute. But don't you think emulation 
 might do something ? For every woman you see 
 desires to be finer than her neighbour. 
 
 Bel. That's only that the men may like her 
 better than her neighbour; No ; if there were no 
 men, adieu fine petticoats, we should be weary ot 
 wearing 'em. 
 
 Lady Brute. And adieu plays, we should be 
 weary of seeing 'em. 
 
 Bel. Adieu Hyde-Park, the dust would choke us. 
 
 Lady Brute. Adieu St. James's, walking would 
 tiie us. 
 
 Bel. Adieu London, the smoke would stifle us. 
 
 Lady Brute. And adieu going to church, for 
 religion would ne'er prevail with us. 
 
 Both. Ha I ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bel. Our confession is so very hearty, sure we 
 merit absolution. 
 
 Lady Brute. Not unless we go through with't, 
 and confess all. So, prithee, for the ease of our 
 consciences, let's hide nothing. 
 
 Bel. Agreed. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, then, I confess that I love 
 to sit in the fore-front of a box ; for, if one sits 
 behind, there's two acts gone perhaps before one's 
 found out. And when I am there, if I perceive 
 the men whispering and looking upon me, you 
 must know I cannot for my life forbear thinking 
 they talk to my advantage. And that sets a thou- 
 sand little tickling vanities on foot — 
 
 Bel. Just my case for all the world ; but go on. 
 
 Lady Brule. I watch with impatience for the 
 next jest in the play, that I may laugh and show 
 my white teeth. If the poet has been dull, and 
 the jest be long a-coming, I pretend to whisper 
 one to my friend, and from thence fall into a little 
 limall discourse, in which I take occasion to show 
 my face in all humours, brisk, pleased, serious, 
 melancholy, languishing. — Not that what we say to 
 one another causes any of these alterations ; hut — 
 
 Bel. Don't trouble yourself to explain ; for, if 
 I'm not mistaken, you and I have had some of 
 these necessary dialogues before now, with the 
 same intention. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, I'll swear, Belinda, some 
 people do give strange agreeable airs to their faces 
 in speaking. Tell me true — did you never practise 
 in the glass ? 
 
 Bel.yfhy, did you? 
 
 Lady Brute. Yes, faith, many a time. 
 
 Bel. And I too, I own it ; both how to speak 
 myself, and how to look when others speak. But 
 my glass and I could never yet agree what face I 
 should make when they come blurt out with a 
 nasty thing In a play. For all the men presently 
 look upon the women, that's certain; so, laugh we 
 must not, though our stays burst for't, because 
 that's telling truth, and owning we understand the 
 jest : and to look serious is so dull, when the whole 
 house is a-laughing. 
 
 Lady Brute. Besides, that looking serious does 
 really hetray our knowledge in the matter as much 
 as laughing with the company would do : for, if 
 we did not understand the thing, we should natu- 
 rally do like other people. 
 
 Bel. For my part, I always take that occasion 
 to blow my nose. 
 
 Lady Brute. You must blow your nose half off 
 then at some plays. 
 
 Bel. Why don't some reformer or other beat the 
 poet for't ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Because he is not so sure of our 
 private approbation as of our public thanks. Well, 
 sure, there is not upon earth so impertinent a 
 thing as women's modesty. 
 
 Bel. Yes; men's fantasque, that obliges us to 
 itn If we quit our modesty, they say we lose our 
 charms; and yet they know that very modesty is 
 affectation, and rail at our hypocrisy. 
 
 Lady Brute, Thus one would think 'twere a 
 hard matter to please 'em, niece : yet our kind 
 mother nature has given us something that makes 
 amends for all. Let our weakness be what it will, 
 mankind will still be weaker ; and whilst there is a 
 world 'tis woman that will govern it. But, prithee, 
 one word of poor Constant before we go to bed, 
 if it be but to furnish matter for dreams. — I dare 
 swear he's talking of me now, or thinking of me at 
 least, though it be in the middle of his prayers. 
 
 Bel. So he ought, I think ; for you were pleased 
 to make him a good round advance to-day, 
 madam. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, I have e'en plagued him 
 enough to satisfy any reasonable woman. He has 
 besieged me these two years to no purpose. 
 
 Bel. And if he besieged you two years more, he'd 
 be well enough paid, so he had the plundering of 
 you at last. 
 
 Lady Brute. That may be : but I'm afraid the 
 ;own won't be able to hold out much longer ; for, 
 ;o confess the truth to you, Belinda, the garrison 
 egins to grow mutinous. 
 
 Bel. Then the sooner you capitulate the better. 
 
 Lady Brute. Yet, methinks, I would fain stay 
 a little longer to see you fixed too, that we might 
 start together, and see who could love longest. 
 What think you, if Heartfree should have a month's 
 mind to you ? 
 
 Bel. Why, faith, I could almost be in love with 
 him for despising that foolish, affected lady Fancy- 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 351 
 
 fal; but I'm afraid he's too cold ever to warm 
 himself by my fire. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then he deserves to be froze to 
 death. Would I were a man for your sake, dear 
 roffue. {^Kissing her. 
 
 Bel. You'd wish yourself a woman again for 
 your own, or the men are mistaken. But if I could 
 make a conquest of this son of Bacchus, and rival 
 his bottle, what should I do with him ^ He has 
 no fortune, I can't marry him ; and sure you would 
 not have me commit fornication. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, if you did, child, 'twould be 
 but a good friendly part ; if 'twere only to keep me 
 in countenance whilst I commit — you know what. 
 
 Bel. Well, if I can't resolve to serve you that 
 way, I may perhaps some other as much to your 
 satisfaction. But pray, how shall we contrive to 
 see these blades again quickly ? 
 
 Lady Brule. We must e'en have recourse to the 
 old way ; make 'em an appointmeot 'twixt jest and 
 earnest, 'twill look like a frolic, and that you 
 know 's a very good thing to save a woman's 
 blushes. 
 
 Bel. You advise well ; but where shall it 
 be.> 
 
 Lady Brute. In Spring-Garden. But they shan't 
 know their women till their women pull off their 
 masks ; for a surprise is the most agreeable thing 
 in the world : and I find myself in a very good 
 humour, ready to do 'em any good turn I can 
 think on. 
 
 Bel. Then pray write 'em the necessary billet 
 without further delay. 
 
 Lady Brute. Let's go into your chamber, then, 
 and whilst you say your prayers, I'll do it, child. 
 
 ^Exeunt, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I.— Covent' Garden*, 
 
 Enter Lord Rake, Sir John Bbute, Colonel Buij.y, and 
 others, with drawn swords. 
 
 Rake. Is the dog dead ? 
 
 Bully. No, damn him ! I heard him wheeze. 
 
 Rake. How the witch his wife howled ! 
 
 Bully. Ay, she'll alarm the watch presently. 
 
 Rake. Appear, knight, then ; come, you have a 
 good cause to fight for, there's a man murdered. 
 
 Sir John. Is there ! then let his ghost be satis- 
 fied, for I'll sacrifice a constable to it presently, 
 £ind bum his body upon his wooden chair. 
 
 Enter a Tailor, with a bundle under his arm. 
 
 Bully, How now ! what have we got here ? a 
 thief! 
 
 Tailor. No, an't please you, I'm no thief. 
 
 Rake. That we'll see presently, — Here, let the 
 general examine him. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, ay, let me examine him, and I'll 
 lay a hundred pound I find him guilty in spite of 
 his teeth — for he looks — like a — sneaking rascal. — 
 jCome, sirrah, without equivocation or mental re- 
 jservation, tell me of what opinion you are, and 
 /what calling ; for by them — I shall guess^at your 
 inorals. 
 
 Tail. An't please you, I'm a dissenting jour- 
 neyman tailor. 
 
 Sir John,. Then, sirrah, you love lying by your 
 religion, and theft by your trade ; and so that your 
 puuishment may be suitable to your crimes — I'll 
 have you first gagged — and then hanged. 
 
 Tail. Pray, good worthy gentlemen, don't 
 abuse me ; Indeed I'm an honest man, and a good 
 workman, though I say it that should not say it. 
 
 Sir John. No words, sirrah, but attend your fate. 
 
 Rake. Let me see what's in that bundle. 
 
 Tail. An't please you, it 's the doctor of the 
 parish's gown. 
 
 Rake. The doctor's gown ! — Hark you, knight, 
 you won't stick at abusing the clergy, will you ? 
 
 Sir John. No, I'm drunk, and I'll abuse any- 
 thing — but my wife ; and her I name — with reve- 
 rence. 
 
 ♦ See page 364. 
 
 Rake. Then you shall wear this gown whilst 
 you charge the watch ; that though the blows fall 
 upon you, the scandal may light upon the church. 
 
 Sir John. A generous design — by all the gods ! 
 — give it me. [Takes the gown, and puts it on. 
 
 Tail. O dear gentlemen, 1 shall be quite 
 undone, if you take the gown. 
 
 Sir John. Retire, sirrah : and since you carry 
 off your skin — go home, and be happy. 
 
 Tail. [^Pausing.^ I think I had e'en as good 
 follow the gentleman's friendly advice ; for if I 
 dispute any longer, who knows but the whim .may. 
 take him to case me ? These courtiers are fuller/ 
 of tricks than they are of money; they'll sooner 
 cut a man's throat than pay his bill. [_Exit. 
 
 Sir J.ohn. So, how do you like my shapes now ? 
 
 Rake. This will do to a miracle ; he looks like 
 a bishop going to the holy war. — Bat to your arms, 
 gentlemen, the enemy appears. 
 
 Enter Constable and Watchmen. 
 
 Watchman. Stand ! Who goes there .' Come 
 before the constable. 
 
 Sir John. The constable's a rascal — and you 
 are the son of a whore I 
 
 Watch. A good civil answer for a parson, 
 truly ! 
 
 Constable. Methinks, sir, a man of your coat 
 might set a better example. 
 
 Sir John. Sirrah, I'll make you know — there 
 
 are men of my coat can set as bad examples — as 
 
 you can do, you dog you ! . 
 
 [Sir John strikes the Constable. They knock him down, 
 
 disarm himf and seize him. Lord Hake and the rest 
 
 run away. 
 
 Con. So, we have secured the parson, however. 
 
 Sir John. Blood, and blood — and blood ! 
 
 Watch. Lord have mercy upon us ! how the 
 wicked wretch raves of blood. I'll warrant he has 
 been murdering somebody to-night. 
 
 Sir John, Sirrah, there's nothing got by murder 
 but a halter. My talent lies towards drunkenness 
 and simony. 
 
 Watch. Why, that now was spoke like a mail 
 of parts, neighbours, it's pity he should be so 
 disguised. 
 
S62 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Sir John. You lie ! — I'm not disguised, for I 
 am drunk barefaced. 
 
 Watch. Look you there a(;ain ! — This is a 
 mad parson, Mr. Constable ; I'll lay a pot of ale 
 npon's head, he's a good preacher. 
 
 Con. Come, sir, out of respect to your call- 
 ing, I shan't put you into the round-house s 
 but we must secure you in our drawing-room till 
 morning, that you may do no mischief. So, come 
 along. 
 
 Sir John. You may put me where you will, 
 sirrah, now you have overcome me. — But if I can't 
 do mischief, I'll think of mischief — in spite of your 
 teeth, you dog you. lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Heartfree's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Hkartfbeb. 
 
 Heart. What the plague ails me ? — Love ? No, 
 I thank you for that, my heart's rock still. — Yet 
 'tis Belinda that disturbs me ; that's positive. — 
 Well, what of all that ? Must I love her for being 
 troublesome ? at that rate I might love all the 
 women I meet, egad. But hold ! — though I don't 
 love her for disturbing me, yet she may disturb 
 me because I love her. — Ay, that may be, faith. I 
 have dreamed of her, that's certain. — Well, so I 
 have ot my mother ; therefore, what's that to the 
 purpose ? Ay, but Belinda runs in my mind 
 waking. — And so does many a damned thing that 
 I don't care a farthing for. — Methinks, though, I 
 would fain be talking to her, and yet I have no 
 business. — ^M^ell, am I the first man that has had 
 a mind to do an impertinent thing ? 
 
 Enter Constant. 
 
 Const. How now, Heartfree ! what makes you 
 up and dressed so soon ? I thought none but 
 lovers quarreled with their beds ; I expected to 
 have found you snoring, as I used to do. 
 
 Heart. Why, faith, friend, 'tis the care I have of 
 your atfairs that makes me so thoughtful ; I have 
 been studying all night how to bring your matter 
 about with Belinda. 
 
 Const. With Belinda ! 
 
 Heart. With my lady, I mean : — and faith I 
 have mighty hopes on't. Sure you must be very 
 well satisfied with her behaviour to you yesterday ? 
 
 Const. So well, that nothing but a lover's fears 
 can make me doubt of success. But what can this 
 sudden change proceed from ? 
 
 Heart. Why, you saw her husband beat her, 
 did you not ? 
 
 Const. That's true : a husband is scarce to be 
 borne upon any terms, much less when he fights 
 with his wife. Methinks she should e'en have 
 cuckolded him upon the very spot, to show that 
 after the battle she was master of the field. 
 
 Heart. A council of war of women would infal- 
 libly have advised her to't. But, I confess, so 
 agreeable a woman as Belinda deserves a better usage. 
 
 Const. Belinda again ! 
 
 Heart. My lady, I mean. — ^What a pox makes me 
 blunder so to-day ? — lAside.} A plague of this 
 treacherous tongue ! 
 
 Const. Prithee look upon me seriously. Heart- 
 free.-— Now answer me directly. Is it my lady or 
 Belinda employs your carefiil thoughts thus .' 
 
 Heart. My ladjr, or Belinda I 
 
 Const. In love ! by this light, in love I 
 
 Heart. In love ! 
 
 Const. Nay, ne'er deny it ; for thou'lt do it so 
 awkwardly, 'twill but make the jest sit heavier 
 about thee. My dear friend, I give thee much joy. 
 
 Heart. Why, prithee, you won't persuade me to 
 it, will you ? 
 
 Const. That she's mistress of your tongne, that's 
 plain ; and I know you are so honest a fellow, your 
 tongue and heart always go together. But how — 
 but how the devil, — pha! ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
 
 Heart. Heyday ! why sure you don't believe it 
 in earnest ? 
 
 Const. Yes I do, because I see yon deny it in jest. 
 
 Heart. Nay, but look you, Ned — a — deny in jest 
 — a — gadzooks, you know I say — a^— when a man 
 denies a thing in jest — a — - 
 
 Const. Pha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Heart. Nay, then we shall have it. What, 
 because a man stumbles at a word ! Did you never 
 make a blunder ? 
 
 Const. Yes, for I am in love, I own it. 
 
 Heart. Then so am I. Now laugh till thy soul's 
 
 glutted with mirth lEmbracing him.^ But, dear 
 
 Constant, don't tell the town on't. 
 
 Const. Nay then, 'twere almost pity to l^gh 
 at thee, after so honest a confession. But tell us 
 a little. Jack, by what new-invented arms has this 
 mighty stroke been given ? 
 
 Heart. E'en by that unaccountable weapon, 
 called Je-ne-'sais-quoi : for everything that can come 
 within the verge of beauty I' have seen it with 
 indifference. 
 
 Const. So in few words then ; the Je-ne-sais-quoi 
 has been too hard for the quilted petticoat. 
 
 Heart. Egad, I think the Je-ne-sais-quoi is in 
 the quilted petticoat ; at least 'tis certain I ne'er 
 think on't without — a — a Je-ne-saisquoi in every 
 part about me. 
 
 Const. Well, but have all your remedies lost 
 their virtue ? have you turned her inside out yet ? 
 
 Heart. I dare not so much as think on't. 
 
 Const. But don't the two years' fatigue I have 
 had discourage you ? 
 
 Heart. Yes : I dread what I foresee, yet cannot 
 quit the enterprise. Like some soldiers, whose 
 courage dwells more in their honour than their 
 nature. On they go, though the body trembles at 
 what the soul makes it undertake. 
 
 Const. Nay, if you expect your mistress vrill use 
 yon, as yonr profanations against her sex deserve, 
 you tremble justly. But how do you intend to 
 proceed, friend ? 
 
 Heart. Thou knowest I'm but a novice; be 
 friendly and advise me. 
 
 Const. Why, look you, then ; I'd have you — 
 serenade and a — write a song — go to church — look 
 like a fool — be very officious — ogle — write — and 
 lead out : and who knows, but in a year or two's 
 time, you may be — called a troublesome puppy, 
 and sent about your business ? 
 
 Heart. That's hard. 
 
 Const. Yet thus it oft falls out with lovers, sir. 
 
 Heart. Pox on me for making one of the number. 
 
 Const. Have a care : say no saucy things; 'twill 
 but augment your crime ; and if your mistress hears 
 on't, increase your punishment. 
 
 Heart. Prithee, say something then to encourage 
 me: you know I helped you in your distress. 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Sots 
 
 Const. Why, then, to enconrage you to perse- 
 verance, though you may be throughly ill used for 
 your offences ; I'll put you in mind, that even the 
 coyest ladies of 'em all are made up of desires, as 
 well as we ; and though they do hold out a long 
 time, they will capitulate at last. For that thun- 
 dering engineer. Nature, does make such havoc in 
 the town, they must surrender at long-run, or 
 parish in their own flames. 
 
 Enter a Footman. 
 FooL Sir, there's a porter without with a letter ; 
 he desires to give it into your own hands. 
 
 Const. Call him in. {.Exit Footm^i. 
 
 Const. What, Joe ! is it thee ? 
 
 Joe. An't please you, sir, I was ordered to deli- 
 ver this into your own hands, by two well-shaped 
 ladies, at the New Exchange. I was at your 
 honour's lodgings, and your servants sent me 
 hither. 
 
 Const. 'Tis well. Are you to carry any answer ? 
 
 Joe. No, my noble master. They gave me ray 
 orders, and whip, they were gone, like a maiden- 
 head at fifteen. 
 
 Const. Very well ; there. [ff/i*e* him movey. 
 
 Joe. God bless your honour. {Exit. 
 
 Const. Now let's see what honest trusty Joe has 
 brought us. — {Reads.'] If you and your play- 
 fellow can spare time from your business and 
 devotions, donH fail to be at Spring-Garden about 
 eight in the evening. You'll find nothing there 
 but women, so you need bring no other arms than 
 what you usually carry about you. — So, play- 
 fellow : here's something to stay your stomach till 
 your mistress's dish is ready for you. 
 
 Heart. Some of our old battered acquaintance. 
 I won't go, not I. 
 
 Const. Nay, that you can't avoid : there's honour 
 ID the case ; 'tis a challenge, and I want a second. 
 
 Heart. I doubt I shall be but a very useless one 
 to you ; for I'm so disheartened by this wound 
 Belinda has given me, I don't think I shall have 
 courage enough to draw my sword. 
 
 Const. Oh, if that be all, come along ; I'll war- 
 rant you find sword enough for such enemies as we 
 have to deal withal. 
 
 SCENE III *,— The Street before the Justice's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Constable and Watchmen, icUh Sir John Brute. 
 
 Con. Come along, sir ; I thought to have let you 
 slip this morning, because you were a minister : 
 but you are as drunk and abusive as ever. We'll 
 see what the justice of the peace will say to you. 
 
 Sir John. And you shall see what I'll say to the 
 justice of the peace, sirrah. {T/uy knock at the door. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Con. Pray acquaint his worship we. have got an 
 unruly parson here. We are unwilling to expose 
 him, but don't know what to do with Lim. 
 
 Serv. I'll acquaint my master. {Exit, 
 
 * See page Zt'A. 
 
 Sir John. You — constable — what damned jus- 
 tice is this ? 
 
 Con. One that will take care of you, 1 warrant 
 you. 
 
 Enter Justice. 
 
 Just. Well, Mr. Constable, what's the disorder 
 here ? 
 
 Con. An't please your worship — 
 
 Sir John. Let me speak, and be damned ! — I'm 
 a divine, and can unfold mysteries better than you 
 can do. 
 
 Just. Sadness, sadness ! a minister so overtaken ! 
 Pray, sir, give the constable leave to speak, and I'll 
 hear you very patiently ; I assure you, sir, I will. 
 
 Sir John. Sir — you are a very civil magistrate : 
 your most humble servant. 
 
 Con. An't please your worship then, he has 
 attempted to beat the walch to-nightj and swore — 
 
 Sir John. You lie ! 
 
 Just. Hold, pray sir, a little. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. 
 
 Con. Indeed, sir, he came at us without any ])ro- 
 vocation, called us whores and rogues, and laid us 
 on with a great quarter-staEf. He was in ray lord 
 Rake's company : they have been playing the devil 
 to-night. 
 
 Just. Hem — hem — pray, sir — may you be chap- 
 lain to my lord? 
 
 Sir John. Sir — I presume— I may if I will. 
 
 Just. My meaning, sir, is — are you so ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir — you mean very well. 
 
 Just. He — hem — hem — under favour, sir, pray 
 answer me directly. 
 
 Sir John. Under favour, sir — do you use to 
 answer directly when you are drunk ? 
 
 Just. Good lack, good lack ! here's nothing to be 
 got from hirii. — Pray, sir, may I crave your name ■* 
 
 Sir John. Sir — my name 's — {He hiccups.] — 
 Hiccup, sir. 
 
 Just. Hiccup ! Doctor Hiccup ! I have known a 
 great many countiy parsons of that name, especially 
 down in the Fens. — Pray where do you live, sir } 
 
 Sir John. Here and there, sir. 
 
 Just. Why, what a strange man is this ! — Where 
 . do you preach, sir .'* have you any cure ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir — I have — a very good cure — for 
 a clap, at your service. 
 
 Just. Lord have mercy upon us ! 
 
 Sir John. {Aside."] This fellow does ask so many 
 impertinent questions, I believe, egad, 'tis the jus- 
 tice's wife in the justice's clothes. 
 
 Just. Mr. Constable, I vow and protest I don't 
 know what to do with him. 
 
 Con. Truly he has been but a troublesome guest 
 to us all night. 
 
 Just. I think I had e'en best let him go about 
 his business, for I'm unwilling to expose him. 
 Con. E'en what your worship thinks fit. 
 
 Sir John. Sir — not to interrupt Mr. Constable, 
 I have a small favour to ask. 
 
 Just. Sir, I open both my ears to you. 
 Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. T 
 have a little urgent business calls upon me ; and 
 thereiore T desire the favour of you to bring matters 
 to a conclusion. 
 
 Just. Sir, if I were sure that business were not 
 to commit more disorders, 1 would release you. 
 Sir John. None — by my priesthood. 
 Just. Then, Mr. Constable, you may dischaiet 
 him. , ^ 
 
354 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. If 
 you please to accept of a bottle — 
 
 Just. I thank you kindly, sir ; but I never drink 
 in a morning. Good bye to ye, sir, good bye to ye. 
 
 Sir John. Good bye t'ye, good sir. — lExit 
 Justice.] So — now, Mr. Constable, shall you and 
 I go pick up a whore together ? 
 
 Con. No, thank you, sir ; my wife's enough to 
 satisfy any reasonable man. 
 
 Sir John. lAside.'] He ! he ! he ! he ! he ! — 
 the fool is married then. — [Aloud.'] Well, you 
 •won't go .' 
 
 Con. Not I, truly. 
 
 Sir John. Then I'll go by myself ; and you and 
 your wife may be damned ! lExit. 
 
 Con. IGaxing after him.] Why, God-a-mercy, 
 ! lExeunt. 
 
 parson 
 
 SCENE IV.— Spring-Garden. 
 
 Constant and Heartfrek cross the stage. As they go off. 
 Lady Fancyful anA Mademoiselle enter masked, and 
 dogging them. 
 
 Const. So : I think we are about the time ap- 
 pointed. Let us walk up this way. 
 
 lExit with Heartfbeb. 
 
 Lady Fan. Good ! Thus far I have dogged 'em 
 •without being discovered. 'Tis infallibly some 
 intrigue that brings them to Spring-Garden. How 
 my poor heart is torn and racked with fear and 
 jealousy ! Yet let it be anything but that flirt 
 Belinda, and I'll try to bear it. But if it prove 
 her, all that's woman in me shall be employed to 
 destroy her, 
 
 lExit with Mademoiselle. 
 
 Se-enter Constant and Heartfree. Lady Fancyful 
 and Madbmc';selle still following at a distance. 
 
 Const. I see no females yet that have anything 
 to say to us. I 'm afraid we are bantered. 
 
 Heart. I wish we were ; for I'm in no humour 
 to make either them or myself merry. 
 
 Const. Nay, I'm sure you'll make them merry 
 ■enough if I tell 'em why you are dull. But prithee, 
 why so heavy and sad before you begin to be ill 
 used ? 
 
 Heart. For the same reason, perhaps, that you 
 are so brisk and well pleased ; because both pains 
 and pleasures are generally more considerable in 
 prospect than when they come to pass. 
 
 Enter Lady Brute and Belinda, masked^ and poorly 
 dressed. 
 
 Const. How now, who are these? Not our 
 game, I hope. 
 
 Heart. If they are, we are e'en well enough 
 served to come a hunting here, when we had so 
 much better game in chase elsewhere. 
 
 Lady Fan. \_To Mademoiselle.] So, those 
 are their ladies without doubt. But I'm afr-aid 
 that doily stuff is not worn for want of better 
 clothes. They are the very shape and size of Be- 
 linda and her aunt. 
 
 Mad. So day be inteed, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. We'll slip into this close arbour, 
 ■where we may hear all they say. \ 
 
 \_Excunt Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselkk. 
 
 Lady Brute. What, are you afraid of us, gentle- 
 men ? \ 
 
 Heart. Why truly, I think -nc may, if appear- 
 ance don't lie. 
 
 Bel. Do you always iind women What they ap- 
 pear to be, sir ? 
 
 Heart. No, forsooth; but I seldom find 'em 
 better than they appear to be. 
 
 Bel. Then the outside's best, you think.' 
 
 Heart. 'Tis the honestest. 
 
 Const. Have a care, Heartfree ; you are relapsing 
 again. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, does the gentleman use to 
 rail at women ? 
 
 Const. He has done formerly. 
 
 Bel. I suppose he had very good cause for't. — 
 They did not use you so well as you thought you 
 deserved, sir. 
 
 Lady Brute. They made themselves merry at 
 your expense, sir. 
 
 Bel. Laughed when you sighed. 
 
 Lady Brute. Slept while you were waking. 
 
 Bel. Had your porter beat. 
 
 Lady Brute. And threw your billets-doux in the 
 fire. 
 
 Heart. Heyday ! I shall do more than rail pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Bel. Why, you won't beat us, will you ? 
 
 Heart. I don't know but I may. 
 
 Const. What the devil's coming here ? Sir John 
 in a gown ? — and drunk i'faith. 
 
 Enter Sir John Brute. 
 
 Sir John. What, a pox ! — here's Constant, 
 Heartfree — and two whores egad ! — O you covetous 
 rogues ! what, have you never a spare punk for 
 your friend ? — But I'll share with you. 
 
 \_He seizes both the ladies. 
 
 Heart. Why, what the plague have you been 
 doing, knight .' 
 
 Sir John. Why, I have been beating the watch, 
 and scandalising the clergy. 
 
 Heart. A very good account, truly ! 
 
 Sir John. And what do you think I'll do next ? 
 
 Const. Nay, that no man can guess. 
 
 Sir John. Why, if you'll let me sup with you, 
 I'll treat both your strumpets. 
 
 Lady Brute, [Aside] O Lord, we are undone ! 
 
 Heart. No, we can't sup together, because we 
 have some affairs elsewhere. But if you'll accept 
 of these two ladies, we'll be so complaisant to 
 you, to resign our right in 'em. 
 
 Bel. [Aside.] Lord, what shall we do ? 
 
 Sir John. Let me see, their clothes are such 
 damned clothes, they won't pawn for the reckoning. 
 
 Heart. Sir John, your servant. Rapture attend 
 you. 
 
 Const. Adieu, ladies ! make much of the gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Lady Brute. W^hy, sure you won't leave us in 
 the hands of a drunken fellow to abuse us ! 
 
 Sir John. Who do you call a drunken fellow, 
 you slut you ? I'm a man of quality ; the king has 
 made me a knight. 
 
 Heart, Ay, ay, you are in good hands. Adieu 
 adieu ! [ijimj off. 
 
 Lady Brute. The devil's hands ! — Let me go, 
 or I'll — For Heaven's sake protect us ! 
 
 [Sfte breaks from him, runs to Constant, twitching off 
 her mask, and clapping it on again. 
 
 Sir John. I'll devil you, you jade you ! I'll 
 demolish your ugly face ! 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 355 
 
 Const. Hold a little, kniglit, she swoons. 
 Sir John I'll swoon her ! 
 Const. Hey, Heartfree ! 
 
 Se-enter Heabtfree. Belinda runs to liimt and shoxcs 
 her/ace. 
 
 Heart. O Heavens ! My dear creature, stand 
 there a little. 
 
 Const. [Aside to Heaktfbee.] Pull him ofiF, 
 Jack. 
 
 Heart. Hold, mighty man ; look you, sir, Tve 
 did but jest with you. These are ladies of our 
 acquaintance, that we had a mind to frighten a 
 little, but now you must leave us. 
 
 Sir John. Oons, I won't leave yon, not I ! 
 
 Heart. Nay, but yon must though ; and there- 
 fore make no words on't. 
 
 Sir John. Then yon are a couple of damned 
 uncivil fellows : and I hope your punks will give 
 you sauce to your mutton ! \_ExU. 
 
 Lady Brute. Oh, I shall never come to myself 
 again, I'm so frightened. 
 
 Const. 'Twas a narrow 'scape indeed. 
 
 Bel. Women must needs have frohcs, yon see, 
 whatever they cost 'em. 
 
 Heart. This might have proved a dear one 
 thongh. 
 
 Lady Brute. You are the more obliged to us, 
 for the lisk we ran upon your accounts. 
 
 Const. And I hope you'll acknowledge some- 
 thing due to our knight-errantry, ladies. This is 
 a second time we have delivered you. 
 
 Lady Brute. 'Tis true ; and since we see fate 
 has designed you for our guardians, 'twill make us 
 the more willing to trust ourselves in your hands. 
 But yon must not have the worse opinion of us 
 for our innocent frolic. 
 
 Heart. Ladies, yon may command our opinions 
 in everything that is to your advantage. 
 
 Bel. Then, sir, I command you to be of opinion, 
 that women are sometimes better than they appear 
 to be. [Lady BftUTE and Constant talk apart. 
 
 Heart. Madam, you have made a convert of 
 me in every thing. I'm grown a fool : I conld 
 be fond of a woman. 
 
 Bel. I thank you, sir, in the name of the whole 
 sex. 
 
 Heart. Which sex nothing but yourself could 
 ever have atoned for. 
 
 Bel, Now has my vanity a devilish itch to know 
 in what my merit consists. 
 
 Heart. In your humility, madam, that keeps 
 yon ignorant it consists at all. 
 
 Bel. One other compliment with that serious 
 face, and I hate you for ever after. 
 
 Heart. Some women love to be abused : is that 
 it you woqld be at ? 
 
 Bel. No, not that neither ; but I'd have men 
 talk plainly what's fit for women to hear ; withont 
 pntting 'em either to a real or an affected blush. 
 
 Heart, Why then, in as plain terms as I can 
 find to express myself, I could love you even to — 
 matrimony itself, a-most, egad. 
 
 Bel. Just as sir John did her ladyship there. 
 What think you ? Don't you believe one month's 
 time might briig you down to the same indiffer- 
 ence, only clad in a little better manners, perhaps ? 
 Well, you men are unaccountable things, mad till 
 you have your mistresses, and then stark mad till 
 you are rid of 'em again. Tell me, honestly, is 
 
 not your patience put to a much severer trial after 
 possession than before ? 
 
 Heart. With a great many, I must confess, it is, 
 to our eternal scandal; but I — dear creature, do 
 but try me. 
 
 Bel. That's the surest way, indeed, to know, 
 but not the safest. — [To Lady Brvte.] Jl.idam, 
 are not you for taking a turn in the Great Walk ? 
 It's almost dark, nobody will know us. 
 
 Lady Brute. Really I find myself something 
 idle, Belinda ; besides I dote upon this little odd 
 private corner. But don't let my lazy fancy con- 
 fine you. 
 
 Const. [_Aside.] So, she would be left alone 
 with me ; that's well. 
 
 Bel. Well, we'll take our turn, and come to you 
 again. — [To HEARTPaKE.] Come, sir, shall we 
 go pry into the secrets of the garden ? Who knows 
 what discoveries we may make ? 
 
 Heart. Madam, I'm at your service. 
 
 Const. [Aside to Heartfkee.] Don't make too 
 much haste back ; for, d'ye hear — I may be busy. 
 
 Heart. Enough. lExituUh Bbliuda. 
 
 Lady Brute. Sure yon think me scandalously 
 free, Mr. Constant. I'm afraid I shall lose your 
 good opinion of me. 
 
 Const. My good opinion, madam, is like your 
 cruelty, never to be removed. 
 
 Lady Brule. But if I should remove my cruelty, 
 then there's an end of your good opinion. 
 
 Const. There is not so strict an alliance between 
 'era neither. 'Tis certain I should love you then 
 better (if that be possible) than I do now ; and 
 where I love I always esteem. 
 
 Lady Brute. Indeed, I doubt you much. Why, 
 suppose you had a wife, and she should entertain 
 a gallant ? 
 
 Const. If I gave her just cause, how could I 
 justly condemn her ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Ah, but you'd differ widely about 
 just causes. 
 
 Const, But blows can bear no dispute. 
 
 Lady Brute. Nor ill manners much, truly. 
 
 Const. Then no woman upon earth has so just a 
 cause as you have. 
 
 Lady Brute. Oh, but a faithful wife is a beauti- 
 ful character. 
 
 Const. To a deserving husband I confess it is. 
 
 Lady Brute, But can his faults release my 
 duty .' 
 
 Const. In equity, withont doubt. And where 
 laws dispense with equity, equity should dispense 
 with laws. 
 
 Lady Brute. Pray let's leave this dispute ; for 
 you men have as much witchcraft in your argu- 
 ments as women have in their eyes. 
 
 Const. But whilst you attack me with your 
 charms, 'tis but reasonable I assault you with mine. 
 
 Lady Brute. The case is not the same. What 
 mischief we do we can't help, and therefore are to 
 be forgiven. 
 
 Const. Beauty soon obtains pardon for the 
 pain that it gives, when it applies the balm of 
 compassion to the wound : but a fine face and a 
 hard heart is almost as bad as an ugly face and a 
 soft one ; both very troublesome to many a poor 
 gentleman. 
 
 Lady Brute. Yes, and to many a poor gentle- 
 woman too, I can assure you. But pray, which of 
 'em is it that most afflicts you '' 
 
35G 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Const. Your glass and conscience will inform 
 you, madam. But for Heaven's sake! (for now I 
 must be serious) if pity or if gratitude can move 
 you : — ITaJcing her hand'i if constancy and truth 
 have power to tempt you : if love, if adoration can 
 affect you, give me at least some hopes that time 
 may do what you perhaps mean never to perform ; 
 'twill ease my sufferings, though not quench my 
 flame. 
 
 Lady Brute. Your sufferings eased, your flame 
 would soon abate : and that I would preserve, not 
 quench it, sir. 
 
 Const. Would you preserve it, nourish it with 
 favours ; for that's the food it naturally requires. 
 
 Lady Brute. Yet on that natural food 'twould 
 surfeit soon, should I resolve to grant all you 
 would ask. 
 
 Const. And in refusing all you starve it. For- 
 give me, therefore, since my hunger rages, if I at 
 last grow wild, and in my frenzy force at least this 
 from you. — [_Kissing her hand.\ Or if you'd have 
 my flame soar higher still, then grant me this, and 
 this, and this — '^Kissing first her hand, then her 
 neck'\, — and thousands more. — \^Aside.\ For now's 
 the time, she melts into compassion. 
 
 Lady Brute. \_Aside.'\ Poor coward virtue, how 
 it shuns the battle. — \_Aloud.'\ O Heavens 1 let 
 me go. 
 
 Const. Ay, go, ay : where shall we go, my 
 charming angel .'' — Into this private arbour. — Nay, 
 let's lose no time — moments are precious. 
 
 Lady Brute. And lovers wild. Pray let us stop 
 here ; at least for this time. 
 
 Const. 'Tis impossible. He that has power 
 over you can have none over himself. 
 
 lAs he is forcing her into the arbour. Lady Fancyful 
 and Madbmoisellb rush out upon them, and 
 run over the stage. 
 
 Lady Brute. Ah, I'm lost ! 
 
 Lady Fan. Fi ! fi 1 fi ! fi ! fi ! 
 
 Mad. Fi ! fi ! fi ! fi ! fi ! 
 
 \^ExU with Lady Fancyful. 
 
 Const. Death and furies ! who are these ? 
 
 Lady Brute. O Heavens ! I'm out of my wits : 
 if they knew me, I am ruined. 
 
 Const. Don't be frightened ! ten thousand to 
 one they are strangers to you. 
 
 Lady Brute. Whatever they are, I won't stay 
 here a moment longer. 
 
 Const. Whither will you go ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Home, as if the devil were in me. 
 —Lord ! Where's this Belinda now .'' 
 
 Re-enter Belinda and Heartfreie. 
 
 Oh ! it's well you are come : I'm so frightened, 
 my hair stands on end. Let's begone, for Heaven's 
 sake ! 
 
 Bel. Lord ! what's the matter \ 
 
 Lady Brute. The devil's the matter, we are 
 discovered. Here's a couple of women have done 
 the most impertinent thing ! — Away ! away ! away ! 
 away ! away ! 
 
 [^Exit running , the others following. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, Mademoiselle, 'tis a prodi- 
 gious thing how women can suffer iilthy fellows to 
 grow so familiar with 'em. 
 
 Mad. Ah, matam, il n'y a rien de si naturel. 
 
 Lady Fan. Fi ! fi ! fi ! But oh my heart ! O 
 jealousy ! O torture ! I'm upon the rack. What 
 shall I do ? My lover's lost, I ne'er shall see him 
 mine. — [Pausing.'] But I may be revenged, and 
 that's the same thing. Ah, sweet revenge I Thou 
 welcome thought, thou healing balsam to my 
 wounded soul, be but propitious on this one occa- 
 sion, I'll place my heaven in thee for all my life 
 to come. 
 
 To woman how indulgent nature's kind ! 
 
 No blast of fortune long disturbs her mind 
 
 Compliance to her fate supports her still ; 
 
 If love won't make her happy — mischief will. 
 
 lExctint 
 
 ACT V, 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Lady Fancyfcl's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lady Fancyful and Madbmolsellb. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, Mademoiselle ; did you dog 
 the filthy things .' 
 
 Mad. O que oui, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. And where are they ? 
 
 Mad. Au logis. 
 
 Lady Fan. What, men and all ? 
 
 Mad. Tons ensemble. 
 
 Lady Fan. O confidence ! what, carry their 
 fellows to their own house ? 
 
 Mad. C'est que le mari n'y est pas. 
 
 Lady Fan. No, so I believe, truly. But he shall 
 be there, and quickly too, if I can find him out. 
 Well, 'tis a prodigious thing, to see when men and 
 women get together, how they fortify one another 
 in their impudence. But if that drunken fool, her 
 husband, be to be found in e'er a tavern in town, 
 I'll Bend him amongst 'em. I'll spoil their sport ! 
 
 Mad. En v^rite, matam, ce seroit domraage. 
 
 Lady Fan. 'Tis in vain to oppose it. Mademoi- 
 selle ; therefore never go about it. For I am the 
 steadiest creature in the world — when I have deter- 
 mined to do mischief. So, come along. lExeunt^ 
 
 SCENE II.- 
 
 -A Room in Sir John Brute's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Consta.nt, Heabtfbee, Lady Brute, Belinda, and 
 Lovewbll. 
 
 Lady Brute. But are you sure you don't mistake, 
 Lovewell ? 
 
 Love. Madam, I saw 'em all go into the tavern 
 together, and my master was so drunk he could, 
 scarce stand. {Exit. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then, gentlemen, I believe we may 
 venture to let you stay, and play at cards with us 
 an hour or two : for they'll scarce part till morning 
 
THE PROVOKED WltE. 
 
 357 
 
 Bel. I think 'tis a pity they should ever part. 
 
 Const. The company that's here, madam. 
 
 Lady Brule. Then, sir, the company that's here 
 must remember to part itself in time. , 
 
 CoTUl. Madam, we don't intend to forfeit your 
 future favours by indiscreet usage of this. The 
 moment you give us the signal, we shan't fail to 
 make our retreat. 
 
 Ladi/ Brute. Upon those conditions then let us 
 sit down to cards. 
 
 Re-enter Lov-ewblt.. 
 
 Love. O Lord, madam ! here's my master just 
 staggering in upon you ; he has been quarrelsome 
 yonder, and they have kicked him out of the com- 
 pany. 
 
 Lady Brute. Into the closet, gentlemen, for 
 
 Heaven's sake ! 1*11 wheedle him to bed, if possible. 
 
 [Constant and Heartfbbe run into the closet. 
 
 Enter Sir John Brdte, all dirt and bloody. 
 
 Lady Brule. Ah — ah — he's all over blood ! 
 
 Sir John. What the plague does the woman — 
 squall for ? Did you never see a man in pickle 
 before ? 
 
 Lad// Brute. Lord, where have you been ? 
 
 Sir John. I have been at — cuffs. 
 
 Ladi/ Brute. I fear that is not all. I hope you 
 are not wounded. 
 
 Sir John. Sound as a roach, wife. 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm mighty glad to hear it. 
 
 Sir John. You know — I think you lie. 
 
 Lady Brute. I know you do me wrong to think 
 so. For Heaven's my witness I had rather see my 
 own blood trickle down than yours. 
 
 Sir John. Then will I be crucified. 
 
 Lady Brule. 'Tis a hard fate I should not be 
 Ibelieved. 
 
 Sir John. 'Tis a damned atheistical age, wife. 
 
 Lady Brute. I am sure I have given you a thou- 
 sand tender proofs how great my care is of you. 
 Nay, spite of all your cruel thoughts, I'll still per- 
 sist, and at this moment, if I can, persuade you to 
 lie down, and sleep a little. 
 
 Sir John. Why — do yon think I am drunk — 
 you slut, you .'' 
 
 Lady Brute. Heaven forbid I should : but I'm 
 afraid you are feverish. Pray let me feel your 
 pulse. 
 
 Sir John. Stand off, and be damned ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, I see your distemper in your 
 very eyes. You are all on fire. Pray go to bed ; 
 let me entreat you. 
 
 Sir John. Come kiss me, then. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Kissing him.] There: now go. — 
 IJside.] He stinks like poison. 
 
 Sir John. I see it goes damnably against your 
 stomach — and therefore — kiss me again. 
 
 Lady Brute. Nay, now you fool me. 
 
 Sir John. Do't, I say. 
 
 Lady Brute. \_Aside.'\ Ah, Lord have mercy 
 upon me ! — {Kisses Mm.] Well ; there : now will 
 you go ? 
 
 Sir -John. Now, wife, you shall see my grati- 
 tude. You give me two kisses — I'll give you — 
 two hundred. [Kisses and tumbles her. 
 
 Lady Brute. O Lord ! Pray sir John be quiet. 
 Heavens, what a pickle am I in ! 
 
 Bel. [Aside.] If I were in her pickle, I'd call 
 my gallant out of the closet, and he should cudgel 
 him soundly. 
 
 Sir John. So, now you being as dirty and as 
 nasty as myself, we may go pig together. But first 
 I must have a cup of your cold-tea, wife. 
 
 [Going to the closet. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Aside.] Oh, I'm ruined! — 
 [Aloud.] There's none there, my dear. 
 
 Sir John. I'll warrant you I'll find some, my 
 dear. 
 
 Lady Brute. You can't open the door, the lock's 
 spoiled ; I have been turning and turning the key 
 this half-hour to no purpose, I'll send for the 
 smith to-morrow. 
 
 Sir John. There's ne'er a smith in Europe can 
 open a door with more expedition than I can do. — 
 As for example ! — Pou. — [He bursts open the door 
 with Ms foot.] How now 1 What the devil have 
 we got here .' — Constant ! — Heartfree ! — and two 
 whores again, egad ! — This is the worst cold-tea — 
 that ever I met with in my life. — 
 
 lie-enter Constant and Heartfree. 
 
 Lady Brule. [Aside.] O Lord what will become 
 of us ? 
 
 Sir John. Gentlemen — I am your very humble 
 servant — I give you many thanks- — I see you take 
 care of my family — I shall do all I can to return 
 the obhgatioo. 
 
 Const. Sir, how oddly soever this business may 
 appear to you, you would have no cause to be 
 uneasy if you knew the truth of all things ; your 
 lady is the most virtuous woman in the world, and 
 nothing has passed but an innocent frolic. 
 
 Heart. Nothing else, upon my honour, sir. 
 
 Sir John. You are both very civil gentlemen — 
 and my wife, there, is a very civil gentlewoman ; 
 therefore I don't doubt but many civil things have 
 passed between you. Your very humble servant ! 
 
 Lady Brute. [Aside to Cokstant.] Pray be 
 gone : he's so drunk he can't hurt us to-night, and 
 to-morrow morning you shall hear from us. 
 
 Const. [Aside to Lady Brute.] I'll obey you, 
 madam. — [Aloud.] Sir, when you are cool, you'll 
 understand reason better. So then I shall take 
 the pains to inform you. If not — I wear a sword, 
 sir, and so good-bye to you ! — Come along. Heart- 
 free. [Exeunt Constant and Heartfrec. 
 
 Sir John. Wear a sword, sir ! — And what of ail 
 that, sir ? — He comes to my house ; eats my meat ; 
 lies with my wife ; dishonours my family ; gets a 
 bastard to inherit my estate — and when I ask a 
 civil account of all this — Sir, says he, I wear a 
 sword. — Wear a sword, sir ! Yes, sir, says he, I 
 wear a sword. — It may be a good answer at cross- 
 purposes ; but 'tis a damned one to a man ii^ my 
 whimsical circumstances — Sir, says he, I wear a 
 sword!— [To Lady Brute.] And what do you 
 wear now? ha! tell me. — [Sitting down in a 
 great-chair.] What ! you are modest, and can't. — 
 Why then I'll tell you, you slut you ! You wear — 
 an impudent lewd face — a damned designing heart 
 — and a tail— and a tail full of — 
 
 [He falls fast asleep snoring. 
 
 Lady Brute. So ; thanks to kind Heaven, he's 
 fast for some hours. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis well he is so, that we may have time to 
 lay our story handsomely ; for we must lie like the 
 devil to bring ourselves off. 
 
 Lady Brute. What shall we say, Belinda .' 
 
 Bel. [Musing.] I'll tell you : it must all light 
 upon Heartfree and I. We'll say he has courred 
 
858 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 me some time, but for reasons unknown to us has 
 ever been very earnest the thing might be kept 
 from sir John. That therefore hearing him upon 
 the stairs he run into the closet, though against our 
 will, and Constant with hira, to prevent jealousy. 
 And to give this a good impudent face of truth, 
 (that I may deliver you from the trouble you are 
 in), I'll e'en (if he pleases) marry him. 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm beholden to you, cousin ; but 
 that would be carrying the jest a little too far for 
 your own sake. You know he's a younger brother, 
 and has nothing. 
 
 Sel. 'Tistrue: but Hike him, and have fortune 
 enough to keep above extremity. I can't say I 
 would live with him in a cell, upon love and bread 
 and butter : but I had rather have the man I love, 
 and a middle state of life, than that gentleman in 
 the chair there, and twice your ladyship's splen- 
 dour. 
 
 Lady Brute. In truth, niece, you are in the right 
 on't ; for I am very uneasy with my ambition. But 
 perhaps, had I married as you'll do, I might have 
 been as ill used. 
 
 Bel. Some risk, I do confess, there always is ; 
 but if a man has the least spark, either of honour 
 or good-nature, he can never use a woman ill, that 
 loves him, and makes his fortune both. Yet 1 
 must own to you, some little struggling I still have 
 .with this teasing ambition of ours. For pride, you 
 jknow, is as natural to a woman, as 'tis to a saint, 
 \I can't help being fond "of this rogue ; and yet it 
 goes to my heart to think I must never whisk to 
 Hyde-park with above a pair of horses ; have no 
 coronet upon my coach, nor a page to carry up my 
 train. But above all — that business of place. — 
 Well ; taking place is a noble prerogative. 
 
 Lady Brule. Especially after a quarrel. 
 
 Bel. Or of a rival. But pray say no more on't 
 for fear I change my mind. For o' my conscience, 
 were't not for your affair in tlie balance, I should 
 go near to pick up some odious man of quality yet, 
 and only take poor Heartl'ree for a gallant. • 
 
 Lady Brute. Then him you must have, however 
 things go .' 
 
 Bel. Yes. 
 
 Lady Bi-ute. Why we may pretend what we 
 will, but 'tis a hard matter to live without Ihe man 
 we love. 
 
 Bel. Especially when we are married to the man 
 we hate. Pray tell me : do the men of the town 
 ever believe us virtuous when they see us do so ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Oh, no : nor indeed hardly, let us 
 do what we will. They most of 'em think, there 
 is no such thing as virtue, considered in the strictest 
 notions of it ; and therefore when you hear 'em say, 
 such a one is a woman of reputation, they only mean 
 she's a woman of discretion. For they consider we 
 have no more religion than they have, nor so much 
 morality ; and between you and I, Belinda, I'm 
 afraid the want of inclination seldom protects any 
 of us. 
 
 Bel. But what think you of the fear of being 
 found out .' 
 
 Lady Brute. I think that never kept any woman 
 virtuous long. We are not such cowards neither. 
 No : let us once pass fifteen, and we have too good 
 an opinion of our own cunning to believe the 
 world can ))enetrate into wliat we would keep a 
 secret. And so iu short we cannot reasonably 
 blame the men for judging of us by themselves. 
 
 Bel. But sure we are not so wicked as they are 
 after all ? 
 
 Lady Brute. We are as wicked, child, but our 
 vice lies another way. Men have more courage 
 than we, so'they commit more bold impudent sins. 
 They quarrel, fight, swear, drink, blaspheme, and 
 the like ; whereas we, being cowards, only back- 
 bite, tell lies, cheat at cards, and so forth. But 
 'tis late : let's end our discourse for to-night, and 
 out of an excess of charity take a small care of 
 that nasty drunken thing there, — Do but look at 
 him, Belinda, 
 
 Bel, Ah — 'tis a savoury dish ! 
 
 Lady Brute. As savoury as 'tis I'm cloyed 
 with't. Prithee call the buttler to take it away. 
 
 Bel. Call the butler ! — call the scavenger ! — [To 
 a Servant within.'] Who's there? Call Rasor! 
 Let him take away his master, scour him clean with 
 a little soap and sand, and so put him to bed. 
 
 Lady Brute. Come, Belinda, I'll e'en lie with 
 you to-night ; and in the morning we'll send for 
 our gentlemen to set this matter even- 
 
 Bel. With all my heart. 
 
 Lady Brute. Good night, my dear ! 
 
 [_Making a low curtsy to Sir JoHV. 
 
 Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Pjvsob. 
 
 Jtas. My lady there's a wag — my master there's 
 a cuckold. Marriage is a slippery thing : — women 
 have depraved appetites: — my lady's a wag. I have 
 heard all ; I have seen all ; I understand all ; and 
 I'll tell all ; for my little Frenchwoman loves news 
 dearly. This story'll gain her heart, or nothing 
 will. — [ To his Master.] Come, sir, your head's 
 too full of fumes at present to make room for 
 your jealousy ; but I reckon we shall have rare 
 work with you when your pate's empty. Come to 
 your kennel, you cuckoldly drunken sot you ! 
 
 [Carries him out upon his back. 
 
 SCENE III. — A Room in Lady Fancyful's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lady Fancvful and SIademoiselle. 
 
 Lady Fan. But why did not you tell me before. 
 Mademoiselle, that Rasor and you were fond ? 
 
 Mad. De modesty hinder me, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why, truly, modesty does often 
 hinder us from doing things we have an extravagant 
 mind to. But does he love you well enough yet 
 to do anything you bid him ? Do you think to 
 oblige you he would speak scandal .' 
 
 Mad. Matam, to oblige your ladyship, he shall 
 speak blasphemy. 
 
 Lady Fjn. Why then, Mademoiselle, I'll tell 
 you what you shall do. You shall engage him to 
 tell his master all that passed at Spring-garden : 
 I have a mind he should know what a wife and a 
 niece he has got. 
 
 Mad. II le fera, matam. 
 
 Enter a F»)f'tmaii,tf7jo speaks to Mademotselle apart. 
 
 Foot. Mademoiselle, yonder's Mr, Rasor desires 
 to speak with you. 
 
 Mad. Tell liim I come jjresently. — IBxit Foot- 
 man. ] Rasor be dare, matam. 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 359 
 
 Lady Fan. That's fortunate. \Vell, I'll leave 
 you together. And if you find liim stubborn, 
 Mademoiselle — ^hark you — don't refuse him a few 
 little reasonable liberties, to put him into humour. 
 
 Mad. Laissez-moi faire. ' lExit Lady Fancvful. 
 
 Rasou peeps in ; and sec iii{j Lady Fancvful gone, runs to 
 JrlADK-iioisELLi:, takes her about the neck, and kisses her. 
 
 Mad. How noWj confidence ! 
 
 Ras. How now, modesty ! 
 
 Mad. Who make you so familiar, sirrah ? 
 
 JRas. My impudence, hussy. 
 
 Mad. Stand off, rogue-face. 
 
 Ras. Ah — Mademoiselle — great news at our 
 house. 
 
 Mad. Why what be de matter ? 
 
 Has. The matter ! — why, uptails all's the matter. 
 
 Mad. Tu te moques de moi, 
 
 Ras. Now do you long to know the particulars 
 — the time when — the place where — the manner 
 how. But I won't tell you a word more. 
 
 Mad. Nay, den dou kill me, Kasor. 
 
 Ras. Come, kiss me, then. 
 
 [Clapping Iiis hands behind him. 
 
 Mad. Nay, pi-idee tell me. 
 
 Ras. Good bye to ye ! \_Going. 
 
 Mad. Hold, hold ! I will kiss dee. {.Kissing him. 
 
 Ras. So, that's civil. Why now, my pretty 
 pall ; my goldfinch ; my little waterwagtail — you 
 must know that — Come, kiss me again. 
 
 Mad, I won't kiss dee no more. 
 
 Ras. Good b'wy to ye ! 
 
 Mad. Doucement. Dare : es tu content ? 
 
 ^Kissing him. 
 
 Ras. So : now I'll tell thee all. Why the 
 news is, that Cuckoldom in folio, is newly printed ; 
 and Matrimony in quarto is just going into the 
 press. Will yoh buy any books. Mademoiselle ? 
 
 Mad. Tu paries comme un libraire, de devil no 
 understand dee. 
 
 Ras. Why then, that I may make myself intel- 
 ligible to a waiting- woman, I'll speak like a valet- 
 <ie-chambre. My lady has cuckolded my master. 
 
 Mad. Bon ! 
 
 Ras. Which we take very ill from her hands, 
 I can tell her that. We can't yet prove matter of 
 fact upon her. 
 
 Mad. N'importe. 
 
 Ras. But we can prove that matter of fact had 
 like to have been upon her. 
 
 Mad. Qui da! 
 
 Ras. For we have such bloody circumstances. 
 
 Mad. Sans doute. 
 
 Ras. That any man of parts may draw tickling 
 conclusions from 'em. 
 
 Mad. Fort bien. 
 
 Ras. We have found a couple of tif^ht well-built 
 gerftlemen stuffed into her ladyship's closet. 
 
 Mad. Le diable ! 
 
 Ras. And I, in my particular person, have 
 discovered a most damnable plot, how to persuade 
 my poor master, that all this hide and seek, this 
 will-in-the-wisp, has no other meaning than a 
 Christian marriage for sweet T^irs. Belinda. 
 
 Mad. Un mariage ! — Ah les drolesses ! 
 
 Ras. Don't you interrupt me, hussy. 'Tis 
 agreed, I say, and my innocent lady, to wriggle 
 herself out at the back-door of the business, turns 
 marriage-bawd to her niece, and resolves to dc4iver 
 up her fair body, to be tumbled and mumbled, by 
 
 that young liquorish whipster Heartfree. Now 
 are you satisfied ? 
 
 Mad. No. 
 
 Ras. Right woman ; always gaping for more. 
 
 Mad. Dis be all dea dat dou know } 
 
 Ras. All ! ay, and a great deal too, I think. 
 
 Mad. Dou be fool, dou know noting. Ecoute, 
 mon pauvre Rasor. Dou see des two eyes ? — 
 Des two eyes have see de devil. 
 
 Ras. The woman's mad ! 
 
 Mad. In Spring-garden, dat rogue Constant 
 meet dy lady. 
 
 Ras. Bon ! 
 
 Mad. I'll tell dee no moie. 
 
 Ras. Nay, prithee, my swan. 
 
 Mad. Come, kiss me den. 
 [Clapping her hands behind her as he had done htfore, 
 
 Ras. I won't kiss you, not I. 
 
 Mad. Adieu ! 
 
 Ras. Hold! — [Gives her a hearty kiss.'\ Now 
 proceed. 
 
 Mad. Ah, 9a I — I hide myself in one cunning 
 place, where I hear all, and see all. First dy drunken 
 master come mal li-propos ; but de sot no know his 
 own dear wife, so he leave her to her sport. — Dea 
 de game begin. De lover say soft ting : de lady 
 look upon de ground. — [As she speaks, Rasok 
 still acts the man, and she the woman.'] He take 
 her by de hand : she turn her head on oder way. 
 Den he squeeze very hard : deu she pull — very 
 softly. Den he take her in his arm : den she give 
 him leetel pat. Deu he kiss her t^tons : den she 
 say — Pish ! nay, fi ! Den he tremble : den she — 
 sigh. Den he pull her into de arbour : den she 
 pinch him. 
 
 Ras. Ay, hut not so hard, you haggage you ! 
 
 Mad. Den he grow bold : she grow weak. He 
 tro her down, il tombe dessus, le diable assiste, il 
 emporte tout. — [Rasor struggles with her, as ifh& 
 would throw her down.'] Stand off, sirrah. 
 
 Ras. You have set me a fire, you jade you ! 
 
 Mad. Den go to de river and quench dyself. 
 
 Ras. What an unnatural harlot 'tis ! 
 
 Mad. Rasor ! [Looking languishing on him. 
 
 Ras. Mademoiselle ! 
 
 Mad. Dou no love me ? 
 
 Ras. Not love thee !— more than a Frenchman 
 does soup. 
 
 Mad. Den dou will refuse noting dat I bid dee ? 
 
 Ras. Don't bid me be damned then. 
 
 Mad. No, only tell dy master all I have tell dee 
 of dy laty. 
 
 Ras. Why, you little malicious strumpet, you ; 
 should you like to be served so ? 
 
 Mad. You dispute den ? — Adieu ! 
 
 Ras. Hold ! — But why wilt thou make me be 
 such a rogue, my dear ? 
 
 Mad. Voili un vrai Anglais ! il est amoureux, 
 et cependant il veut raisonner. Va-t'en au diable I 
 
 Ras. Hold once more ! In hopes thou'lt give me 
 up thy body, I resign thee up my soul. 
 
 Mad. Bon ! ecoute done — If dou fail me — I ! 
 never see dee more. — If dou obey me — je m'aban- I 
 donne li. toi. ' 
 
 [Takes him about the neck and gives hitn a smacking 
 kiss, and exit. 
 
 Ras. [Licking his lips.] Not be a rogue ? — 
 Amor vincit omnia ! [Exit. 
 
noo 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Another Room in the same. 
 Enter Lady Fancyfiil and Mademotsg:li.e:. 
 
 Lady Fan. Marry, say ye ? will the two things 
 marry ? ^ 
 
 Mad. On le^ faire, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. Look you, Mademoiselle, in short, 
 I can't bear it. — No ; I find I can't. — If once I 
 see 'em a-bed together, I shall have ten thousand 
 thoughts in my head will make me run distracted. 
 Therefore run and call Rasor back immediately, 
 for something must be done to stop this impertinent 
 wedding. If I can defer it but four-and-twenty 
 hours, I'll make such work about town, with that 
 little pert slut's reputation, he shall as soon marry 
 a witch. 
 
 Mad. [^Aside.} La voilk bien intentionnee. 
 
 SCENE V. — Constant's Lodgings. 
 Enter Constant and Heartfree. 
 
 Const. But what dost think will come of this 
 business .'* 
 
 Heart. 'Tis easier to think what will not come 
 on't. 
 
 Const. What's that ? 
 
 Heart. A challenge. I know the knight too well 
 for that : his dear body will always prevail upon 
 his noble soul to be quiet. 
 
 Const. But though he dare not challenge me, 
 perhaps he may venture to challenge his wife. 
 
 Heart. Not if you whisper him in the ear, you 
 won't have him do't, and there's no other way left 
 that I see. For as drunk as he was, he'll remem- 
 ber you and I were where we should not be ; and 
 I don't think him quite blockhead enough yet to 
 be persuaded we were got into his wile's closet 
 only to peep in her prayer-book. 
 
 Enter Servant with a letter, 
 
 Serv. Sir, here's a letter ; a porter brought it. 
 
 Const. O ho ! here's instructions for us. — 
 [Reads.'] The accident that has happened has 
 touched our invention to the quick. We would 
 fain come off without your help, hut find that's 
 impossible. In a word, the whole business must 
 be thrown upon a matrimonial intrigue between 
 your friend and mine. Hut if the parties are 
 not fond enough to go quite through with the 
 matter, 'tis sufficient for our turn they own the 
 design. We'll find pretences enough to break the 
 match. Adieu! — ^Well, woman for invention! 
 Hnw long would my blockhead have been a pro- 
 ducing this! — Hey, Heartfree! What musing, 
 man ! prithee be cheerful. What sayest thou, 
 friend, to this matrimonial remedy .' 
 
 Heart. Why I say it's worse than the disease. 
 
 Const. Here's a fellow for you ! There's beauty 
 and money on her side, and love up to the ears on 
 his ; and yet — 
 
 Heart. And yet, l think, I may reasonably be 
 allowed to boggle at marrying the niece, in the very 
 moment that you are debauching the aunt. 
 
 Const. Why truly there may be something in 
 that. But have not you a good opinion enough of 
 your own parts to believe'you could keep a wife to 
 yourself? 
 
 Heart. I should have, if \ had a good opinion 
 enough of hers, to believe she could do as much by 
 me. For to do 'em right, after all, the wife seldom 
 rambles till the husband shows her the way. 
 
 Const, 'Tis true ; a man of real worth scarce 
 ever is a cuckold but by his own fault. Women 
 are not naturally lewd, there must be something to 
 urge 'em to it. They'll cuckold a churl, out of 
 revenge ; a fool, because they despise him ; a beast, 
 because they loathe him. But when they make 
 bold with a man they once had a well-grounded 
 value for, 'tis because they first see themselves 
 neglected by him. 
 
 J^eart. Nay, were I well assured that I should 
 never grow sir John, I ne'er should fear Belindad 
 play my lady. But our weakness, thou knowest, 
 my friend, consists in that very change we so im- 
 pudently throw upon (indeed) a steadier and more 
 generous sex. 
 
 Const. Why, faith, we are a little impudent in 
 that matter, that's the truth on't. But this i^ 
 wonderful, to see you grown so warm an advocate 
 for those (but t'other day) you took so much pains 
 to abuse \ 
 
 Heart. All revolutions run into extremes ; the 
 bigot makes the boldest atheist-; and the coyest 
 saint, the most extravagant strumpet. But prithee 
 advise me in this good and evil, this life and death, 
 this blessing and cursing, that is set before me. 
 Shall I marry — or die a maid ? 
 
 Const. Why faith, Heartfree, matrimony is Uke 
 an army going to engage. Love's the forlorn hope, 
 which is soon cut ofif ; the ii(iarriage-kpot is the main 
 body, which may stand buff a long long time ; and 
 repentance is the rear-guard, which rarely gives 
 ground as long as the main battle has a being. 
 
 Heart. Conclusion then ; you advise me to whore 
 on as you do .'' 
 
 Const. That's not concluded yet. For though 
 marriage be a lottery, in which there are a won-» 
 drous many blanks ; yet there is one inestimable 
 lot, in which the only heaven on earth is written. 
 Would your kind fate but guide your hand to that,, 
 though I were wrapped in all that luxury itself 
 could clothe me with, I still should envy you. 
 
 Heart. And .iustly, too : for to be capable of 
 loving one, doubtless is better than to possess a 
 thousand. But how far that capacity's in me, alas ! 
 I know not. 
 
 Const. But you would know ? 
 
 Heart. I would so. 
 
 Const. Matrimony will inform you. Come, one 
 flight of resolution carries you to the land of expe- 
 rience ; where, in a very moderate time, you'll 
 know the capacity of your soul and your body both, 
 or I'm mistaken. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE VI.— ^ lioom in Sir John Brute's 
 House. 
 
 Knier Lady Brute and Belinda. 
 
 Bel. Well, madam, what answer have you from 
 'em } 
 
 Lady Brute. That they'll be here this moment. 
 I fancy 'twill end in a wedding : I'm sure he's a 
 fool if it don't. Ten thousand pound, and such a 
 lass as you are, is no contemptible offer to a 
 younger brother. But are not yon under strangp 
 agitations .' Prithee how does your pulse beat ? 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 3RT 
 
 Bel. High and low, I have much ado to be 
 valiant : sure it must feel verj strange to go to bed 
 to a man ! 
 
 Lady Brule. Um — it does feel a little odd at 
 first, but it will soon grow easy to you. 
 
 Enter Constant and Heartfrke. 
 
 Lady Brute. Good-morrow, gentlemen ! How 
 have you slept after your adventure ? 
 
 Heart. Some careful thoughts, ladies, on your 
 accounts have kept us waking. 
 
 Bel. And some careful thoughts on your own, I 
 believe, have hindered you from sleeping. Pray 
 how does this 'matrimonial project relish with you ? 
 
 Heart. AVhy faith e'en as storming towns does 
 with soldiers, where the hopes of delicious plunder 
 banishes the fear of being knocked on the head. 
 
 Bel. Is it then possible after all that you dare 
 think of downright lawful wedlock .■" 
 
 Heart. Madam, you have made me so foolhardy 
 I dare do anything. 
 
 Bel. Then, sir, I challenge you ; and matri- 
 mony's the spot where I expect you. 
 
 Heart. 'Tis enough; I'll not fail. — [Aside.'] 
 So, now, I am in for Hobbes's voyage ; a great 
 leap in the dark. 
 
 Lady Brute. Well, gentlemen, this matter being 
 concluded then, have you got your lessons ready ? 
 For sir John is groTvn such an atheist of late he'll 
 believe nothing upon easy terms. 
 
 Const. We'll find ways to extend his faith, 
 madam. But pray how do you find him this 
 morning ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Most lamentably morose, chewing 
 the cud after last night's discovery ; of which how- 
 ever he had but a confused notion e'en now. But 
 I'm afraid the valet-de-chambre has told him all, 
 for they are very busy together at this moment. 
 When I told him of Belinda's marriage, I had no 
 other answer but a grunt : from which you may 
 draw what conclusions you think fit. — But to your 
 notes, gentlemen, he's here. 
 
 Enter Sir JoBN Bbute and Hasor. 
 
 Const. Good-morrow, sir. 
 
 Heart. Good-morrow, sir John. I'm very sorry 
 my indiscretion should cause so much disorder in 
 your family. 
 
 Sir .John. Disorders generally come from indis- 
 cretions, sir ; 'tis no strange thing at all. 
 
 Lady Brute. I hope, my dear, you are satisfied 
 there was no wrong intended you. 
 
 Sir John. None, my dove. 
 
 Bel. If not, I hope my consent to marry Mr. 
 Heartfree wiU convince you. For as little as I 
 know of amours, sir, 1 can assure you, one intrigue 
 is enough to bring four people together, without 
 further mischief. 
 
 Sir John. And I know, too, that intrigues tend 
 to procreation of more kinds than one. One 
 intrigue will beget another as soon as beget a son 
 or a daughter. 
 
 Const. I am very sorry, sir, to see you still seem 
 unsatisfied with a lady whose more than common 
 virtue, I am sure, were she my wife, should meet 
 a better usage. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, if her conduct has put a trick 
 upon her virtue, her virtue's the bubble, but her 
 husband's the loser. 
 
 Const. Sir, you have received a sufiicient answer 
 
 already to justify both her conduct and mine. 
 Vou'U pardon me for meddling in your family- 
 affairs ; but I perceive I am the man you are jea- 
 lous of, and therefore it concerns me. 
 
 Sir John. Would it did not concern r*e, and 
 then I should not care who it concerned. 
 
 Const, ^^'ell, sir, if truth and reason won't con- 
 tent you, I know but one way more, which, if you 
 think fit, you may take. 
 
 Sir John. Lord, sir, you are very hasty. If 1 
 had been found at prayers in your wife's closet, I 
 should have allowed you twice as much time Ut 
 come to yourself in. 
 
 Const. Nay, sir, if time be all you want, we 
 have no quarrel. 
 
 Heart. [Aside to Constant.] I told you how 
 the sword would work upon him. [Pir John muses. 
 
 Const. [Aside to Heartfree.] Let him muse ; 
 however, I'll lay fifty pound our foreman brings us 
 in. Not Guilty. 
 
 Sir John. \_Aside.'] 'Tis ■well — 'tis very well, — 
 In spite of that young jade's matrimonial intrigue, 
 I am a downright stinking cuckold. — Here they 
 are — Boo! — [Putting his hand to his forehead.] 
 Methinks I could butt with a bull. What the 
 plague did I marry her for ? I knew she did not 
 like me ; if she had, she would have lain with me ; 
 for I would have done so because I liked her i 
 but that's past, and I have her. And now, what 
 shall I do with her .' — If I put my horns in my 
 pocket, she'll grow insolent. — If I don't, that goat 
 there, that stallion, is ready to whip me through 
 the guts — The debate, then, is reduced to thist 
 shall I die a hero ? or live a rascal .' — Why, wiser 
 men than I have long since concluded, that a living 
 dog is better than a dead lion. — [Aloud.] Gentle- 
 men, now my wine and my passion are governable, 
 I must own, I have never observed anything in my 
 wife's course of life to back me in my jealousy of 
 her : but jealousy's a mark of love ; so she need 
 not trouble her head about it, as long as 1 make 
 no more words on't. 
 
 Enter Lady Fancyfot. disguised ,- she addresses Belinda 
 apart. 
 
 Const. I'm glad to see your reason rule at last. 
 Give me your hand : I hope you'll look upon m^ 
 as you are wont. 
 
 Sir John. Tour humble servant. — [Aside.] ■ A 
 wheedling son of a whore ! 
 
 Heart. And that I may be sure you are friends 
 with me too, pray give me your consent to wed 
 your niece. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, you have it with all my heart' t 
 damn me if you han't \— [Aside.] 'Tis time to get 
 rid of her : — a young pert pimp ! she'll make an 
 incomparable bawd in a little time. 
 
 Enter a Sprvant, who gives Heabttreb a lelteri 
 
 Bel. Heartfree your husband, say you ? 'tis 
 impossible. 
 
 Lady Fan. Would to kind Heaven it were : but 
 'tis too true ; and in the world there lives not such 
 a wretch. I'm young ; and either I have been 
 flattered by my friends, as well as glass, or nature 
 has been kind and generous to me. I had a for- 
 tune too was greater far than he could ever h')pe 
 for ; hut with my heart I am robbed of all the rest. 
 I'm slighted and I'm beggared both at once ; I 
 have scarce a bare subsistence from the villain, 
 
362 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 yet dare complain to none ; for lie has sworn, if 
 e'er 'tis known I am his wife, he'll murder me. 
 
 {^Pretends to weep. 
 
 Bel. The traitor ! 
 
 Lady Fan. I accidentally was told he courted 
 you; charity soon prevailed upon me to prevent 
 your misery; and as you see, I'm still so generous 
 even to him, as not to suffer he should do a thing 
 for which the law might take away his life. 
 
 {Pretends to weep. 
 
 JBel. Poor creature ! how I pity her ! 
 
 [3'ftc7/ continue talking aside. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.'] Death and damnation ! — Let 
 
 me read it again [Reads.'] Though I have a 
 
 particular reason not to let you know who I am 
 till I see you ; yet you'll easily believe 'tis a faith- 
 ful, friend that gives you this advice — / have lain 
 with Belinda. — Good ! — 1 have a child by her.— 
 Better and better ! — which is now at nurse ,■ — 
 Heaven be praised ! — and I think the foundation 
 laid for another. — Ha ! — Old Truepenny ! — JVo 
 rack could have tortured this story from me, but 
 friendship has done it. I heard of your desi'/n to 
 marry her, and could not see you abused. Make 
 use nfmy advice, but keep my secret till I ask yon 
 for' I again. Adieu. [Bjrii Lady Fancvi'Ul. 
 
 Const. [To Belinda.] Come, madam, shall we 
 send for the parson ? I doubt here's no business 
 for the lawyer. Younger brothers have nothing to 
 settle but their hearts, and that I believe my friend 
 here has already done very faithfully. 
 
 Bel. [Scornfully.'] Are you sure, sir, there are 
 no old mortgages upon it .' 
 
 Hea't. [Coldly.] If you think there are, madam, 
 it mayn't be amiss to defer the marriage till you 
 are sure they are paid off. 
 
 Bel. [Aside.] How the galled horse kicks ! — 
 [ To Heartfeee,] We'll defer it as long as you 
 please, sir. 
 
 Heart. Themoretime we take to consider on't, 
 madam, the less apt we shall be to commit over- 
 sights ; therefore, if you please, we'll put it off for 
 just nine months. 
 
 Bel. Guilty consciences make men cowards ; I 
 don't wonder you want time to resolve. 
 
 Heart. And they make women desperate ; I 
 don't wonder you were so quickly determined. 
 
 Bel. What does the fellow mean ? 
 
 Heart. What does the lady mean ? 
 
 Sir John. Zoons ! what do you both mean ? 
 
 [Heartfrbjs and Belinda walk chafing about. 
 
 Ras. [Aside.] Here's so much sport going to 
 be spoiled, it makes me ready to weep again. A 
 pox o' this impertinent Lady Fancyful and her plots, 
 and her Frenchwoman, too ! she's a whimsical, ill- 
 natured bitch ; and when I have got my bones 
 broke in her service, 'tis ten to one but my recom- 
 pense is a clap ; I hear 'em tittering without still. 
 £cod, I'll e'en go lug 'em both in by the ears, 
 and discover the plot, to secure my pardon. lExit 
 
 Const. Prithee, explain, Hear.tfree. 
 
 Heart. A fair deliverance, thank my stars and 
 my friend. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis well it went no farther ; a base fellow ! 
 
 Lady Brute. What can be the meaning of 
 all this ? 
 
 Bel. What's his meaning 1 don't know ; but 
 mine is, that if I had married him— I had had no 
 husband. 
 
 Heart. And what's her meaning I don't know ; 
 
 but mine is, that if I had married her — I had had 
 wife enough. 
 
 Sir John. Your people of wit have got such 
 cramp ways of expressing themselves, they sel- 
 dom comprehend one another. Pox take you 
 both ! will you speak that you maybe understood .' 
 lie-enter Rasor, in sackcloth, pulling in Lady FANCVKirL 
 and Mademoisellb, both masked. 
 
 Ras. If they won't, here comes an interpreter. 
 
 Lady Brute. Heavens ! what have we here .' 
 
 Ras. A villain— but a repenting villain. Stuff 
 which saints in all ages have been made of. 
 
 All. Rasor ! 
 
 Lady Brute. What means this sudden meta- 
 morphose ? 
 
 Ras, Nothing, without my pardon. 
 
 Lady Brute. What pardon do you want ? 
 
 Ras. Imprimis, your ladyship's ; for a damnable 
 lie made upon your spotless virtue, and set to the 
 tune of Spring-Garden. — [To Sir John.] Next, at 
 my generous master's feet I bend, for interrupting 
 his more noble thoughts with phantoms of disgrace- 
 ful cuckoldom. — [To Constant.] Thirdly, I to 
 this gentleman apply for making him the hero of 
 
 my romance [To Heartfp.ee.] Fourthly, your 
 
 pardon, noble sir, I ask, for clandestinely marrying 
 you, without either bidding of banns, bishop's 
 licence, friends' consent — or your own knowledge. 
 [To Belind.a.] And lastly, to my good young 
 lady's clemency I come, for pretending the corn 
 was sowed in the ground, before ever the plough 
 had been in the field. 
 
 Sir John. [Aside.] So that after all, 'tis a moot 
 point, whether I am a cuckold or not. 
 
 Bel. Well, sir, upon condition you confess all, 
 I'll pardon you myself, and try to obtain as much 
 from the rest of the company. But I must know 
 then who 'tis has put you upon all this mischief ? 
 
 Ras. Satan and his equipage ; woman tempted 
 me, lust weakened me — and so the devil overcame 
 me ; as fell Adam, so fell I. 
 
 Bel. Then pray, Mr. Adam, will you make us 
 'acquainted with your Eve ? 
 
 Ras. [ To Mademoiselle.] Unmask, for the 
 honour of France. 
 
 All. Mademoiselle ! 
 
 Mad. Me ask ten tousand pardon of all de good 
 company. 
 
 Sir John. Why this mystery thickens, instead 
 of clearing up. — [To Rasor.] You son of a whore 
 yo*, put us out of our pain. 
 
 Ras. One moment brings sunshine. — [Pointing 
 to Mademoiselle.] 'Tis true this is the woman 
 that tempted me ; but this is tlie serpent that 
 tempted the woman ; and if my prayers might be 
 heard, her punishment for so doing should be like 
 the serpent's of old. — [Pulls ojf LadyFANcvFOL's 
 mask.] She should lie upon her face all the days of 
 her life. 
 
 All. Lady Fancyful ! 
 
 BpI. Impertinent ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Ridiculous ! 
 
 All. Ha ! ha ! ha I ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bel. I hope your ladyship will give me leave to 
 wish you joy, since you have owned yoiu- mar- 
 riage yourself. — [To Hbartfree.] I tow 'twas 
 strangely wicked in you to think of another wife, 
 when you had one already so charming as her 
 ladyship. 
 
 All. Ha! ha: ha! ha! ha! 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 363 
 
 Lady Fan. [^Aside-I Confusion seize 'em, as it 
 seizes me ! 
 
 l\[ad. \_Aside.'] Que le diable etoufFe ce maraud 
 de Rasor ! 
 
 Bel. Your ladyship seems disordered ; a breed- 
 ing qualm, perhaps.- — -Mr. Heartfree, your bottle 
 of Hungary water to your lady.— Why, madam, 
 he stands as unconcerned as if he were your hus- 
 band in earnest. 
 
 Lady Fan. Your mirth's as nauseous as your- 
 self, Belinda. You think you triumph over a rival 
 now : helas ! ma pauvre fille. Where'er I'm rival 
 there's no cause for mirth. No, my poor wretch, ; 
 'tis from another principle I have acted. I know ! 
 that thing there would make so perverse a husband , 
 and you so impertinent a wife, that lest your 
 mutual plagues should make you both run mad, I 
 charitably would have broke the match. He ! he ! 
 he ! he ! he ! 
 
 \_Exit laughing affectedly. Mademoiselle /oZioiCin^ Iter. 
 
 Mad. He ! he ! he 1 he ! he ! 
 
 All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sir John. \^Aside.'\ Why now this woman will 
 be married to somebody too. 
 
 Bel. Poor creature ! what a passion she's in ! 
 but I forgive her. 
 
 Heart. Since you have so much goodness for her, 
 I hope you will pardon my offence too, madam, 
 
 Bel. There will be no great difficulty in that, 
 since I am guilty of an equal fault. 
 
 Heart. Then pardons being passed on all sides, 
 pray let's to church to conclude the day's work. 
 
 Const. But before you go, let rae treat you, 
 pray, with a song a new-married lady made within 
 this week ; it may be of use to you both. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When yielclinff first to Damon's thime, 
 
 I sunk into his arms ; 
 IIo swore lie'd ever be tho s.^mc, 
 
 Then rifled all my cliiu-ma. 
 But fond of what he liad long; desired. 
 
 Too greedy of his prey, 
 3Iy sliepherd's flame, al.as ! expired 
 
 Before the verge of dny. 
 
 jMy innocence in lovers' wars, 
 
 Reproach'd his quiclc defeat ; 
 Confused, ashamed, and batiied in tears, 
 
 I mourn 'd his cold retreat. 
 At length, Ah shepherdess ! eried he. 
 
 Would you my fire renew, 
 Alas ! you must retreat like mo, 
 
 I'm lost if you pursue ! 
 
 Heart. So, madam ; now had the parson but 
 done his business — . 
 
 Bel. You'd be half weary of your bargain. 
 
 Heart. No, sure, I might dispense with one 
 night's lodging. 
 
 Bel. I'm ready to try, sir. 
 
 Heart. Then let's to ch'jrch : 
 And if it be our chance to disagree — 
 
 Bel. Take heed — the surly husband's fate you 
 see. l^Exeunl. omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 (by another hand) 
 
 spoken by lady brute and belind.i. 
 
 Lady Brute. No Epilogue I 
 
 Bel. I swear I know of none. 
 
 Lady Brute. Lord ! How shall we excuse it to 
 
 the town ? 
 Bel. Why, we must e'en say something of our 
 
 own. 
 Lady Brute. Our own ! Ay, that must needs 
 
 be precious stuff. 
 Bel. I'll lay my life, they'll like it well enough. 
 Come, faith, begin — 
 
 Lady Brute. Excuse me ; after you. 
 
 Bel. Nay, pardon me for that, I know my cue. 
 Lady Brute. Oh, for the world, I would not have 
 
 precedence. 
 Bel. O Lord ! 
 Lady Brute. I swear — 
 Bel. O fy ! 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm all obedience. 
 
 First, then, know all, before our doom is ti.^'d. 
 The third day is for us — 
 
 Bd. Nay, and the sixth. 
 
 Lady Brute. We speak not from the poet now, 
 nor is it 
 His cause — (I want a rliyme) 
 Bel. That we solicit. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then sure you cannot have the 
 hearts to be severe, 
 And damn us — ■ 
 
 Bel. Damn us ! Let 'em if they dare. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, if they should, v/hat punish- 
 ment remains? 
 Bel. Eternal exile from behind our scenes. 
 Lady Brute, But if they're kind, that sentence 
 we'll recal. 
 We can be grateful — 
 
 Bel. And have wherewithal. 
 
 I^ady Brute. But at grand treaties hope not to 
 be trusted. 
 Before preliminaries are adjusted. 
 
 Bel. You know the time, and we appoint this 
 place ! 
 Where, if you please, we'll meet and sign the peace. 
 
2fl4 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 C'pon the revival of this Play, in 172?, Sir John Vaulrugh thought proper to substitute the two 
 follovJing Scenes, in lieu of those printed in pages 351, 353. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE J.—Covent.Garden. 
 
 Enter Lord Rake, Sir John Brute, Colonel Bullv, an^ 
 others, with drawn swords. 
 
 lialce. Is the dog dead ? 
 
 Bully, No, damn him ! I heard him wheeze. 
 
 Rake. How the witch his wife howled ! 
 
 Bully, Ay, she'll alarm the watch presently. 
 
 Rake. Appear, knight, then. Come, you have 
 a good cause to fight fop, there's a man murdered. 
 
 Sir John. Is there ? Then let his ghost be satis- 
 fied ; for I'll sacrifice a constable to it presently, 
 and burn his body upon his wooden chair. 
 Enter a Tailor, with a bundle under his arm. 
 
 Bully. How now! what have we got here? a 
 thief? 
 
 Tailor. No, an't please you, I'm no thief. 
 
 Rake. That we'll see presently. Here^-let the 
 general examine him. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, ay, let me examine him, and I'll 
 lay a hundred pound I find him guilty in spite of 
 his teeth — for he looks — like a — sneaking rascal. 
 Come, sirrah, without equivocation or mental re- 
 servation, tell me of what opinion you are, and 
 what calling ; for by them — I shall guess at yiiur 
 morals. 
 
 Tail. An't please you, I'm a dissenting journey- 
 man woman's tailor. 
 
 Sir John. Then, sirrah, you love lying by your 
 religion, and theft by your trade ; and so that your 
 punishment may be suitable to your crimes — I'll 
 have you first gagged— rand then hanged. 
 
 Tail. Pray, good worthy gentlemen, don't abuse 
 me ; indeed I'm an honest man, and a good work- 
 man, though I say it that should not say it. 
 
 Sir John, No words, sirrah, but attend your 
 fate. 
 
 Rake. Let me see whaf s in that bundle. 
 
 Tail. An't please yon, it's my lady's short 
 cloak and sack. 
 
 S'r .John. What lady, you reptile, you ? 
 
 Tail. My lady Brute, an't please your honour. 
 
 Sir John. My lady Brute ! my wife ! the robe 
 of my wife I with reverencp let me approach it. 
 The dear angel is always taking care of me in 
 danger, and has sent me this suit of armour to 
 protect me in this day of battle. On they go 1 
 
 All. O brave knight ! 
 
 Rake. Live Don Quixote the second. 
 
 Sir John. Sancho, my squire, help me on with 
 my armour. 
 
 Tail. O dear gentlemen ! I shall be quite undone 
 if you take the sack. 
 
 Sir John. Retire, sirrah! and since you carry 
 off your skin, go home and be happy. 
 
 Tail. [,A.iide.] I think I'd e'en as good follow 
 the gentleman's advice ; forlf I dispute any longer. 
 
 who knows but the whim may take 'em to case 
 me. — These courtiers are fuller of tricks than they 
 are of money ; they'll soonef break a man's bones 
 than pay his bills. [Ejrit. 
 
 Sir John. So ! how do you like my shapes now ? 
 
 Rake. To a miracle ! he looks like a queen of 
 the Amazons. — But to youi- ariiis I Gentlemen ! 
 The enemy's upon their march — ^here's the watch — 
 
 Sir John. 'Oons ! if it were Alexander the 
 Great, at the head of his army, I would drive him 
 into a horse-pond. 
 
 All. Huzza ! O brave knight ! 
 
 Enter Watchmen. 
 
 Sir John. See ! here he comes, with all his 
 Greeks about him. — Follow me, boys. 
 
 Watchman, Heyday ! who have we got heie. 
 Stand ! 
 
 Sir John. Mayhap not. 
 
 Watch. What are you all doing here in the 
 streets at this time o' night ? And who arc you, 
 madam, that seem to be at the head of this noble 
 crew ? 
 
 Sir John. Sirrah, I am Bonduca, queen of 
 the Welchmen, and with a leek as long as my 
 pedigree, I will destroy your Roman legion in an 
 instant. — feritons, strike home 1 
 
 [They Jight qff. Watchmen rei7*rn «iz(ft Sir John. 
 
 Watch.' So, we have got the queen, however ! 
 We'll make her pay well for her ransom.^ Come, 
 madam, will your majesty please to walk before the 
 constable ? 
 
 Sir John. The constable's a rascal ! and you are 
 a son of a whore ! 
 
 Watch. A most noble reply, truly ! If this be 
 her royal style, I'll warrant her maids of honour 
 prattle prettily. But we'll teach you some of our 
 court dialect before we part with you, princess. — 
 Away with her to the Round-house. 
 
 Sir John. Hands off, you ruffians ! My honour's 
 dearer to me than my life ; I hope you won't be 
 uncivil. 
 
 Watch. Away with her! lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE lU.— The Street before the Justice's 
 House, 
 
 Enter Constable and "Watchmen, with Sir John Brutb. 
 
 Constable. Come, forsooth, come along, if you 
 please. I once in compassion thought to have 
 seen you safe home this morning, but you have 
 been so rampant and abusive all night, I shall see 
 what the justice of peace will say to you. 
 
 Sir John. And you shall see what I'll say to the 
 justice of peace. [Watchman knocks at the door. 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 805 
 
 Enter Servant, 
 
 Con. Is Mr. Justice at home ? 
 
 Serv. Yes. 
 
 Con. Pray acquaint his worship we have got an 
 unruly woman here, and desire to know what he'il 
 please to have done with her. 
 
 Serv. 1*11 acquaint my master. iExlt. 
 
 Sir John. Hark vou, constable, what cuckoldly 
 justice is this } 
 
 Con. One that knows how to deal with such 
 romps as you are, I'll warrant you. 
 Enter Justice. 
 
 Just. Well, Mr. Constable, what is the matter 
 there > 
 
 Con. An't please your worship, this here comical 
 sort of a gentlewoman has committed great out- 
 rages to-night. She has been frolicking with my 
 lord Rake and his gang ; they attacked the watch, 
 and I hear there has been it man killed : I believe 
 'tis they have done it. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, there may have been murder for 
 aught I know ; and 'tis a great mercy there has 
 not been a rape too — that fellow would have 
 ravished me. 
 
 2 Waleh. Ravish ! ravish ! O lud ! O lud ! 
 lud! Ravish herl why, please your worship, I 
 heard Mr. Constable say he believed she was little 
 better than a maphrodrite. 
 
 Just. Why, truly, she does seem a little mascu- 
 line about the mouth. 
 
 2 Watch. Yes, and about the hands too, an't 
 please your worship. I did but offer in mere 
 civility to help her up the steps into our apart- 
 ment, and with her gripen iist — ay, just so, sir. 
 
 [Sir John knocks him down. 
 
 Sir John. I felled him to the ground like an ox. 
 
 Just. Out upon this boisterous woman ! Out 
 upon her ! 
 
 Sir John. Mr. Justice, he would have been un- 
 civil ! It was in defence of my honour, and I 
 demand satisfaction. 
 
 2 Watch. I hope your worship will satisfy her 
 honour in Bridewell ; that fist of hers will make an 
 admirable hemp-beater. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I hope you will protect me against 
 that libidinous rascal ; I am a woman of quality 
 and virtue too, for all 1 am in an undress this 
 morning. 
 
 Just. Why, she has really the air of a sort of 
 a woman a little something out of the common. — 
 Madam, if you expect I should be favourable to 
 you, I desire I may know who you are. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I am anybody, at your service. 
 
 Just. Lady, I desire to know your name. 
 
 Sir John. Sir. my name's Mary. 
 
 Just. Ay, but vour surname, madam ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir, my surname's the very same with 
 my husband's. 
 
 Just. A strange woman this 1 — Who is your 
 husband, pray .' 
 
 Sir John. Sir John. 
 
 Just. Sir John who .' 
 
 Sir John. Sir John Brute. 
 
 Just. Is it possible, madam, you can be my lady 
 Brute ? 
 
 Sir John. That happy woman, sir, am I ; only 
 a little in my merriment to-night. 
 
 Just. I am concerned for sir John. 
 
 Sir John. Truly so am I. 
 
 Just. I have heard he's an honest gentleman. 
 
 Sir John. As ever drank. 
 , Just. Good lack I Indeed, lady, I'm sorry be 
 has such a wife. 
 
 Sir John. I am sorry he has any wife at alli 
 
 Just. And so, perhaps, may he. — I doubt you 
 have not given him a very good taste of matrimony. 
 
 Sir John. Taste, sir! Sir, I have scorned to 
 stint him to a taste, I have given him a full meal 
 of it. 
 
 Just. Indeed I believe so ! But pray, fair 
 lady, may he have given you any occasion for this 
 e.xtraordinary conduct ? — does he not use you well ? 
 
 Sir John. A little upon the rough sometimes. 
 
 Just. Ay, any man may be out of humour now 
 and then. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I love peace and quiet, and when 
 a woman don't find that at home, she's apt some- 
 times to comfort herself with a few innocent 
 diversions abroad. 
 
 Just. I doubt he tises you but too well. Pray 
 how does he as to that weighty tiling, money ? 
 Does he allow you what is proper of that ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I have generally enough to pay 
 the reckoning, if this son of a whore of a drawer 
 would but bring his bill. 
 
 Just. A strange woman this ! — Does he spend 
 a reasonable portion of his time at home, to the 
 comfort of his wife and children .-' 
 
 Sir John. He never gave his wife cause to 
 repine at his being abroad in his life. 
 
 Jusf. Pray, madam, how may he be in the 
 grand matrimonial point? — is he true to your bed ? 
 
 Sir John. [Aside.'] Chaste ! oons ! This fellow 
 asks so many impertinent questions ! egad I 
 believe it is the justice's wife, in the justice's 
 clothes. 
 
 Just. 'Tis a great pity he should have been thus 
 disposed of. — Pray, madam, (and then I've done,) 
 what may be your ladyship's common method of 
 life ? If I may presume so far. 
 
 .Sir John. Why, sir, much that of a woman of 
 quality. 
 
 Just. Pray how may you generally pass your 
 time, madam? your morning for example. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, like a woman of quality. — I wake 
 about two o'clock in the afternoon — I stretch.— 
 and make a sign for my chocolate. — When I have 
 drank three cups — I slide down again upon my 
 back, with my arms over my head, while my two 
 maids put on my stockings. — Then, hanging upon 
 their shoulders, I am trailed to my great chair, 
 where I sit — and yawn — for my breakfast. — If it 
 don't come presently. Hie down upon my couch to 
 say my prayers, while my maid reads me the play- 
 bills. 
 
 Just. Very well, madam. 
 
 Sir John. When the tea is brought in, I drinn 
 twelve regular dishes, with eight slices of bread 
 and butter. — And half an hour after, 1 send to the 
 cook to know if the dinner is almost ready. 
 
 Just. So, madam ! 
 
 Sir John. By that time my head is half dressed, 
 I hear my husband swearing himself into a state 
 of perdition that the meat's all cold upon tlie 
 table, to amend which, I come down in an hour 
 more, and have it sent back to the kitchen, to be 
 all dressed over again. 
 
 Just. Poor man ! 
 
 Sir John. When I have dined, and my idle 
 servants are presumptuously set down at their eaap, 
 
36C 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 to do so too, I call for my coach, to go visit fifty 
 dear friends, of whom I hope I shall never find 
 one at home while I shall live. 
 
 Just, So, there's the morning and afternoon 
 pretty well disposed of ! —Pray, madam, how do 
 you pass your evenings ? 
 
 Sir John. Like a woman of spirit, sir, a great 
 spirit. Give me a box and dice. — Seven's the 
 main I Oons ! Sir, I set you a hundred pound I — 
 Why, do you think women are married low a days, 
 to sit at home and mend napkins ? Sir, we have 
 nobler ways of passing time. 
 
 Jusl. Mercy upon us, Mr. Constable, what 
 will this age come to ? 
 
 Con. What will it come to, indeed, if such 
 women as these are not set in the stocks .' 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I have a little urgent business 
 calls upon me ; and therefore I desire the favour 
 of you to bring matters to a conclusion. 
 
 Just. Madam, if I were sure that business were 
 not to commit more disorders, I would release 
 you. 
 
 Sir John. None.— by my virtue. 
 
 Jusl. Then, Mr. Constable, you may discharge 
 her. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. If 
 you please to accept of a bottle — 
 
 Just. I thank you kindly, madam ; but I never 
 drink in a morning. Good-by-t'ye, madam, good- 
 by-t'ye. 
 
 Sir John. Good-by-t'ye, good sir. — lExil Jus- 
 tice.] So 1 — Now, Mr. Constable, shall you and I 
 go pick up a whore together ? 
 
 Con. No, thank you, madam ; my wife's enough 
 to satisfy any reasonable man. 
 
 Sir John. [Aside.] He ! he ! he ! he ! he !— 
 the fool is married then. — [Alottd.] Well, yon 
 won't go ? 
 
 Con. Not I, truly. 
 
 Sir John. 'Then I'll go by myself ; and you ano 
 your wife may be damned. l^*-^ 
 
 Con. [Gazing after him.'] Why God-a-mercy, 
 ladv ! lExeutit. 
 
iE S O p. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 To speak for a play if it can't speak for itself is vain ; and if it can, 'tis needless. For one of those reasons (I can't 
 yet tell which, for 'tis now but the second day of acting) I resolve to say nothing for JEsop, though I know he'd be glad 
 of help ; for let the best happen that can, his journey's up hill, with a dead English weight at the tail of him. 
 
 At Paris indeed he scrambled up something faster (for 'twas up hill there too) than I'm afraid he will do here : the 
 Prench having more mercury in their heads, and less beef and pudding in their bellies. Our solidity may set hard, 
 what their folly makes easy : for fcols I own they are, you know we have found them so in the conduct of the war ; 
 t wish we may do so in the management of the peace : but that's neither .^Tisop's business nor mine. 
 
 This play, gentlemen (or one not much unlike it), was writ in French about six years since by one Monsieur Boursault ; 
 'twas played at Paris by the Frencli comedians, and this was its fate : — The first day it appeared, 'twas routed ; — people 
 seldom being fond of what they don't understand, their oivii sweet persons excepted. The second (by the help of some 
 bold Jmight-errants) it rallied ; the third it advanced ; the fourth it gave a vigorous attack ; and the fifth put all the 
 feathers in to^vn to *he Fcamper, pursuing 'em on to the fourteenth, and then they cried out quarter. 
 
 'Tis not reasonable to expect ^sop should gain so great a victory here, since *tis possible by fooling with his sword 
 I may have turned the edge on't. For I confess in the translation I have not at all stuck to the original. Nay, I liave 
 gone farther : I have wholly added the fifth Act, and crowded a country gentleman into the fourth, for which I ask 
 Monsieur Boureault's pardon with all my heart, but doubt I never shall obtain it for bringing him into such company. 
 Though after all, had I been so complaisant to have waited on his play word for word, 'tis possible even that might ;)0t 
 have ensured the success of it : for though it swam in France, it might have sunk in England. Their country abounda 
 in cork, oiu:s in lead. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSOK.-E. 
 
 ^HOP. 
 
 Learchl's, Governor 0/ Cyzicus 
 Oronces, in luve with Eui'hro.nia. 
 
 EoPHBONiA, Daughter to Learchus, in love with 
 
 Oronces. 
 DoRi^, her Nurse. 
 
 A Priest, Mtisicians, Dancers, Servants, &c. 
 
 People who come to JEsop, nnon several occasior^ 
 independent one of anotlier. 
 
 HuafpHRv. } ^^° (Country Tradesmen. 
 
 EoGER, a Country Bumpkin. 
 
 Quaint, a Herald, 
 
 Fruitful, an Innkeeper. 
 
 Mrs. Fruitful, his Wi/e. 
 
 Sir Folidorus Hogstyb, a Countri/ Gentleman. 
 
 IIortensia, an affected learned Lady. 
 
 Aminta, a lewd Mother. 
 
 Mrs. Forgewill, a Scrivener's Widow. 
 
 SCENE,— Cyzicus. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Gallants ! we never yet produced a play 
 "With greater fears than this we act to-day ; 
 Barren of all the graces of the stage. 
 Barren of all that entertains this age. 
 Ko hero, no romance, no plot, no show, 
 No rape, no bawdy, no intrigue, no beau : 
 There's nothing in't with which we use to please ye; 
 With downright dull instruction we're to tease ye; 
 The stage turns pulpit, and the world 's so fickle, 
 The playhouse in a ■\\ him turns conventicle. 
 But preaching here must prove a hungry trade. 
 The patentees will find so, I 'm afraid : 
 
 I For though with heavenly zeal you all abound, 
 I As by your lives and morals may be found ; 
 I Though every female here overflows with grace, 
 ! And chaste Diana's written in her face ; 
 Though maids renounce the sweets of fornication, 
 And one lewd wife's not left in ail the nation ; 
 Though men grow true, and the foul fiiind defy ; 
 Though tradesmen cheat no more, nor lawvers lie: 
 Though not one spot be found on Levi's tribe, 
 Nor one soft courtier that will touch a bribe ; 
 Yet in the midst of such religious days, 
 Sermons have never borne the price of plays. 
 
.168 
 
 iESOP. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's House. 
 Enter Lbarchus, Euphronia, and Doris. 
 
 Lear. At length I am blessed with the ^ight of 
 the world's wonder, the delight of mankind, the 
 incomparable jEsop. — You had time to observe 
 him last night, daughter, as he sat at supper with 
 me. Tell me how you like him, child ; is he not a 
 charming person ? 
 '^Euph. Charming! 
 
 Lear. What sayest thou to him, Doris ? Thou 
 art a gooa judge, a wench of a nice palate. 
 
 Dor, You would not have me flatter, sir ? 
 
 Lear. No, speak thy thoughts boldly. 
 
 Dor. Boldly, you say ? 
 
 hear. Boldly, I say^ 
 
 Dor. Why then, sir, my opinion of the gentle- 
 man is, that he's uglier than an old beau. 
 
 Lear. How ! Impudence. 
 
 Dor. Nay, if you are angry, sir, second thouglits 
 are best ; he's as proper as a pikeman, holds up 
 his head like a dancing-master, has the shape of a 
 barb, the face of an angel, the voice of a cherubim, 
 the smell of a civet-cat — 
 
 I^ear. In short, thou art fool enough not to be 
 pleased with him. 
 
 Dor. Excuse me for that, sir ; I have wit enough 
 to make myself merry with him. 
 
 Lear. If his body's deformed, his soul is beau- 
 tiful : would to kind Heaven, as he is, my daughter 
 could but find the means to please him ! 
 
 Euph. To what end, dear father .' 
 
 Lear. That he might be your husband, dear 
 daughter.- 
 
 Euph. My husband ! Shield me, kind Heaven ! 
 
 Dor. Psha ! he has a mind to make us laugh, 
 that's all. 
 
 Lear. Mso-p, then, is not worth her care, in thy 
 opinion ? 
 
 Dor. Why truly, sir, I'm always for making 
 suitable matches, and don't much approve of breed- 
 ing monsters. I would have nothing marry a baboon 
 but what has been got by a monkey. 
 
 Lear. How darest thou liken so incomparable a 
 man to so contemptible a beast ? 
 
 Dor. Ah, the inconstancy of this world ! Out 
 of sight, out of mind. Your Uttle monkey is scarce 
 cold in his grave, and you have already forgot what 
 you used so much to admire. Do but call him to 
 remembrance, sir, in his red coat, new gloves, little 
 hat, and clean linen ; then discharge your con- 
 science, utter the truth from your heart, and tell 
 us whether he was not the prettier gentleman of 
 the two. — By my virginity, sir, (though that's but 
 a slippery oath you'll say,) had they made love to 
 me together, .Sisop should have worn the willow. 
 
 Lear. Since nothing but an animal will please 
 thee, 'tis pity my monkey had not that virginity 
 thou hast sworn by. But I, whom wisdom charms, 
 even in the homeliest dress, can never think the 
 much deserving jEsop unworthy of my daughter. 
 
 Dor. Now, in the name of wonder, what is't you 
 so admire in him ? 
 
 Lear. Hark, and thou shalt know ; but you, 
 Euphronia, be you more especially attentive. 
 
 'Tis true, he's plain ; but that, my girl's, a trifle. 
 All manly beauty's seated in the soul ; 
 And that of jEsop, envy's self must own 
 Outshines whate'er the world has yet produced. 
 Croesus, the prosperous favourite of Heaven ; 
 Croesus, the happiest potentate on earth ; 
 Whose treasure (though immense) is the least part 
 Of what he holds from Providence's care. 
 Leans on his shoulder as his grand support ; 
 Admires his wisdom, dotes upon his truth, 
 And makes him pilot to imperial sway. 
 But in this elevated post of power. 
 What's his employ ? where does he point his 
 
 thoughts ? 
 To live in splendour, luxury, and ease. 
 Do endless mischiefs, by rieglenting good, 
 And build his family on others' ruins .' 
 No: 
 
 He serves the prince, and serves the people too ; 
 Is useful to the rich, and helps the poor ; 
 There's nothing stands neglected, but himself. 
 With constant pain, and yet with constant joy. 
 From place to place throughout the realm he goes. 
 With useful lessons, form'd to every rank : 
 The people learn obedience from his tongue, 
 The magistrate is guided in command. 
 The prince is minded of a father's care ; 
 The subject's taught the duty of a child. 
 And as 'tis dangerous to be bold with truth, 
 He often calls for fable to his aid. 
 Where under abject names of beasts and birds, 
 Virtue shines out, and vice is clothed in shame : 
 And thus by inofifensive wisdom's force. 
 He conquers folly wheresoe'er he moves ! 
 This is his portrait. 
 
 Dor. A very good picture of a very ill face ! 
 
 Lear. Well, daughter; what, not a word? Is it 
 possible anything that I am father of can be un- 
 touched with so much merit } 
 
 Euph. My duty may make all things possible. 
 But iEsop is so ugly, sir. 
 
 Lear. His soul has so much beauty in't,.your 
 reason ought to blind your eyes. Besides, my in- 
 terest is concerned; his power alarms me. I know 
 throughout the kingdom he's the scourge of evil 
 magistrates ; turns out governors when they turn 
 tyrants ; breaks officers for false musters ; excludes 
 judges from giving sentence when they have been 
 absent during the trial ; hangs lawyers when they 
 take fees on both sides ; forbids physicians to take 
 money of those they don't cure. 'Tis true, my 
 innocence ought to banish my fears : but my 
 government, child, is too delicious a morsel not to 
 SBt many a frail mouth a-watering. Who knows 
 what accusations envy may produce ? But all 
 would be secure, if thou couldst touch the heart of 
 jEsop. Let me blow up thy ambition, girl ; the 
 fire of that will make thy eyes sparkle at him. — 
 [EuPURONiA «i^As.] What's that sigh for now? 
 Ha !— A young husband, by my conscience ! Ah, 
 daughter, hadst thou a young husband, he'd make 
 thee sigh indeed. I'll tell thee what he's composed 
 of. lie has a wig full of pulvilio, a pocket full of 
 dice, a heart full of treason, a mouth full of lies, a 
 belly full of drink, a carcass full of plasters, a tail 
 
BCElS'E I. 
 
 -dSSOP. 
 
 S09 
 
 full of pox, and a head full of — nothing. There's 
 his picture ; wear it at thy heart if thou canst. 
 But here comes one of greater worth. 
 Enter iEsop. 
 
 Lear. Good morning to my noble lord ! your 
 cxceilencv — 
 
 JEsop. Softly, good governor : 
 I'm a poor wanderer from place to place ; 
 Too weak to train the weight of grandeur with me. 
 The name of excellency's not for me. 
 
 Lear. ]My noble lord, 'tis due to your employ ; 
 Your predecessors all — 
 
 /Esop. ]\Iy predecessors all deserved it, sir. 
 They were great men in wisdom, birth, and service; 
 Whilst I, a poor, unknown, decrepit wretch, 
 Mounted aloft for Fortune's pastime, 
 Expect each moment to conclude the farce. 
 By sinking to the mud from whence I sprung. 
 
 Lear. Great Croesus' gratitude will still support 
 His coffers all are open to your will, [you ; 
 
 Yaur future fortune's wholly in your power. 
 
 jE^ojo. But 'tis a power that I shall ne'er employ. 
 
 Lear. Why so, my lord 1 
 
 Msop. I'll tell yoHj sir. 
 
 A hungry goat, who had not eat 
 
 Some nights and days — (for want of meat) 
 
 Was kindly brought at last. 
 
 By Providence's care. 
 
 To better cheer, 
 
 After a more than penitential fast. 
 
 He found a barn well stored with grain, 
 
 To enter in required some pain ; 
 
 But a delicious bait 
 
 Makes the way easy, though the pass is strait. 
 
 Our guest observing various meats, 
 
 He puts on a good modish face^ 
 
 He takes his place, 
 
 He ne'er says grace. 
 
 But where he likes, he there falls to and eats. 
 
 At length with jaded teeth and jaws, 
 
 He made a pause, 
 
 And finding still some room. 
 
 Fell to as he had done before, 
 
 For time to come laid in Ms store ; 
 
 And when his guts could hold no more, 
 
 He thought of going liome. 
 
 But here he met the glutton's curse ; 
 
 He found his belly grown so great, 
 
 'Twas vain to think of a retreat, 
 
 Till he had render'd all he'ad eat, 
 
 And well he fared no worse. 
 To the application, governor. 
 
 Lear. 'Tis easy to be made, my lord. 
 
 JEsop. I'm glad on't. Truth can never be too 
 clear. \Seeing Euphronia. 
 
 Is this young damsel your fair daughter, sir.' 
 
 Lear. 'Tis my daughter, my good lord. Fair 
 too, if she appears such in the eyes of the unerring 
 jEsop. 
 
 JEsop. I never saw so beautiful a creature. 
 
 [_Going up to salute her. 
 
 Lear. [Aside.'] Now's the time ; kiss, soft girl, 
 and fire him. 
 
 jiEsop. How partial's nature 'twixt her form and 
 mine ! iGazing ai her, 
 
 Lear. {Aside.'] Look, look, look, how he gazes 
 at her ! — Cupid's hard at work, I see that already. 
 Slap ; there he hits him !— If the wench would but 
 do her part. — But see, see, how the perverse young 
 
 baggage stands biting her thumbs, and won't give 
 him one kind glance ! — Ah the sullen jade ! Had it 
 been a handsome strong dog of five-and-twenty, 
 she'd a fallen a coquetting on't, with every inch 
 about her. But maybe it's I that' spoil sport, I'll 
 make a pretence to leave 'em together. — {Aloud.] 
 Will your lordship please to drink any coffee this 
 morning ? 
 
 JEsop. With all my heart, governor. 
 
 Lear. Your lordship will give me leave to go 
 and order it myself ; for unless I am by, 'tis never 
 perfect. 
 
 jEsop. Provided you leave me this fair maid in 
 hostage for your return, I consent. 
 
 Lear. My good lord does my daughter too much 
 honour. — {Aside.] Ah, that the wench would but 
 do her part ! — {Aside to Euphronia.] Hark you, 
 hussy ! You can give yourself airs sometimes, you 
 know you can. Do you remember what work you 
 made with yourself at church t'other day ? Play 
 your tricks over again once more for my pleasure, 
 and let me have a good account of this statesman, 
 or, d'ye hear? — you shall die a maid ; go chew 
 upon that; go. lExit. 
 
 ^sop. Here I am left, fair damsel, too much 
 exposed to your charms, not to fall your victim. 
 
 Euph. Your fall will then be due to your own 
 weakness, sir ; for Heaven's my witness, I neither 
 endeavour nor wish to wound you. 
 
 jSsop. I understand you, lady ; your heart's 
 already disposed of, 'tis seldom otherwise at your 
 age. 
 
 Euph. My heart disposed of! 
 
 Dor. Nay, never mince the matter, madam. 
 The gentleman looks like a civil gentleman, e'en 
 confess the truth to him. He has a good interest 
 with your father, and no doubt will employ it to 
 break the heathenish match he proposes to you. — 
 {To jEsop. ] Yes, sir, my young lady has been in 
 love these two years, and that with as pretty a 
 fellow as ever entered a virgin's heart ; tall, 
 straight, young, vigorous, good clothes, long peri- 
 wig, clean linen ; in brief, he has everything that's 
 necessary to set a young lady a-longing, and to stay 
 it when he has done. But her father, whose ambi- 
 tion makes him turn fool in his old age, comes 
 with a back stroke upon us, and spoils all our 
 sport. Would you believe it, sir ! he has proposed 
 to her to-day the most confounded ugly fellow. 
 Look, if the very thoughts of him don't set the 
 poor thing a-crying ? And you, sir, have so much 
 power with the old gentleman, that one word from 
 you would set us all right again. If he will have 
 her a wife, in the name of "Venus let him provide 
 her a handsome husband, and not throw her into 
 the paws of a thing that nature in a merry humour 
 has made half man, half monkey. 
 
 ^sop. Pray what's this monster's name, lady.' 
 
 Euph. No matter for his name, sir; my father 
 will know who you mean at first word. 
 
 JEsop. But you should not always choose by the 
 outside alone ; believe me, fair damsel, a fine peri- 
 wig keeps many a fool's head from the weather. 
 Have a oare of your young gallant. 
 
 ^ Dor. There's no danger, I have examined him ; 
 his inside's as good as his out ; I say he has wit, 
 and I think I know. 
 
 Euph. Nay, she says true ; he's even a miracle 
 of wit and beauty : did you but see him, you'd be 
 yourself my rival. ^ b 
 
370 
 
 ^SOP. 
 
 ^-sop. Then youare resolved against the monster. 
 
 Dor. Yy, sir, fy ! I wonder you'll put her in 
 mind of that foul frightful thing. We shall have 
 her dream of nothing all night but bats and owls, 
 and toads and hedgehogs, and then we shall have 
 such a squeaking and squalling with her, the whole 
 house will be in an uproar : therefore, pray sir, 
 name him no more, but use your interest with her 
 father that she may never hear of him again. 
 
 JEsop. But if 1 should be so generous to save 
 you from the old gallant, what shall I say for your 
 young one ? 
 
 Euph. Oh, sir, you may venture to enlarge upon 
 his perfections ; you need not fear saying too much 
 in his praise. 
 
 Dor, And pray, sir, be as copious upon the 
 defects of t'other ; you need not fear outrunning 
 the text there neither, say the worst you ean. 
 
 Euph. You may say the first is the most graceful 
 man that Asia ever brought forth. 
 
 Dor, And you may say the latter is the most 
 deformed monster that copulation ever produced. 
 
 Euph, Tell him that Oronces (for that 's his 
 dear name) has all the virtues that compose a 
 perfect hero. 
 
 Dor. And tell him that Pigmy has all the vices 
 that go to equip an attorney. 
 
 Euph. That to one I could be true to the last 
 moment of my life. 
 
 Dor, That for t'other she'd cuckold him the 
 very day of her marriage. — This, sir, in few words, 
 is the theme you are desired to preach upon. 
 
 JEsop, I never yet had one that furnished me 
 more matter. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. My lord, there's a lady below desires to 
 speak with your honour. 
 
 JEsop, What lady? 
 
 Ser, It's my lady — my lady — [To DoEis.] The 
 lady there, the wise lady, the great scholar, that no- 
 body can understand. 
 
 Dor. O ho, is it she : pray let's withdraw, and 
 oblige her, madam ; she's ready to swoon at the 
 insipid sight of one of her own sex. 
 
 Euph, You'll excuse us, sir, we leave you to 
 wiser company. \_Exeuni Euphrosjia and Doris. 
 
 Enter Hortensia. 
 
 Hort, The D^esse who from Atropos's breast 
 preserves 
 The names of heroes and their actions, 
 Proclaims your fame throughout this mighty orb, 
 And— 
 
 jEsop. {Aside.] Shield me, my stars ! what have 
 you sent me here ? — [Aloud.] For pity's sake, good 
 lady, be more humane : my capacity is too heavy to 
 mount to your style : if you would have me know 
 what you mean, please to come down to my under- 
 standing. 
 
 Hort. I've something in my nature soars too 
 high 
 For vulgar flight, I own ; 
 But .Ssop's sphere must needs be within call ; 
 /Eisop and I may sure converse together. 
 I know he's modest, but I likewise know 
 His intellects are categorical. 
 
 Meop. Now, by my faith, lady, I don't know 
 what intellect is ; and methinks categorical sounds 
 as if you called me names. Pray speak that you 
 
 may be understood ; language was designed for it, 
 indeed it was. 
 
 Hort. Of vulgar thi ngs, in vulgar phrase we talk ; 
 But when of .^sop we must speak, 
 The theme's too lofty for an humble style : 
 ./Esop is sure no common character. 
 
 Msop. No, truly, I am something particular. 
 Yet, if I am not mistaken, what I have extraor- 
 dinary about me, may be described in very homely 
 language. Here was a young gentlewoman but 
 just now pencilled me out to a hair, I thought ; and 
 yet, I vow to Gad, the learned'st word I heard her 
 make use of, was monster. 
 
 Hort, That was a woman, sir, a very woman ; 
 Her cogitations all were on the outward man ; 
 But I strike deeper, 'tis the mind I view. 
 The soul's the worthy object of my care ; 
 The soul, that sample of divinity. 
 That glorious ray of heavenly light. The soul, 
 That awful throne of thought, that sacred seat 
 Of contemplation. The soul, that noble source 
 Of wisdom, that fountain of comfort, that spring 
 
 of joy. 
 That happy token of eternal life : 
 The soul, that-^. — ^ 
 
 jEsop, Pray, lady, are you married ? 
 
 Hort. Why that question, sir ? 
 
 Msop. Only that I might wait upon your hus- 
 band to wish him joy. 
 
 Hort. When people of my composition would 
 marry, they first find something of their own 
 species to join with ; 1 never could resolve to take 
 a thing of common fabric to my bed, lest when his 
 brutish inclinations prompt him, he should make 
 me mother to a form like his own. 
 
 jEsop. Methinks a lady so extremely nice, should 
 be much at a loss who to converse with. 
 
 Hort. Sir I keep my chamber, and converse with 
 myself; 'tis better being alone, than to misally 
 one's conversation. Men are scandalous, and 
 women are insipid : discourse without figure makes 
 me sick at my soul : Oh the charms of a metaphor 1 
 What harmony there is in words of erudition ! 
 The music of them is inimaginable. 
 
 jEsop. Will you hear a fable, lady ? 
 
 Hort. Willingly, sir ; the apologue pleases me 
 when the application of it is just. 
 
 ^sop. It is, I'll answer for it. 
 
 Once on a time, a nightingale 
 
 To changes prone ; 
 Unconstant, fickle, whimsical, 
 
 (A female one) 
 Who sung like others of her kind, 
 Hearing a well-taught linnet's airs, 
 Had other matters in her mind, 
 To imitate him she prepares. 
 Her fancy straight was on the wing : 
 
 " I fly," quoth she, 
 
 ** As well as he ; 
 I don't know why 
 I should not try 
 As well as he to sing." 
 From that day forth she changed her note, 
 She spoil'd her voice, she strain'd her throat 
 She did, as learned women do, 
 
 Till every thing 
 
 That heard her sing. 
 Would run away from her — as I from you. 
 
 iExitt running 
 
iESOP. 
 
 S71 
 
 Hort. How grossly does this poor world suffer 
 itself to be imposed upon ! — JJsop, a man of sense ! 
 — Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Alas, poor wretch ! I 
 should not have known him but by his deformity, 
 his soul's as nauseous to my understanding, as his 
 odious body to my sense of feeling. Well, 
 
 'Mongst all the wits that are allow'd to shine, 
 Methinks there's nothing yet approaches mine : 
 Sure I was sent the homely age to adorn ; 
 What star, I know not, ruled when I was born, 
 But everything besides myself's my scorn. 
 
 (Exit. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Lrarchus's House. 
 Enter Euphronia and Dohis. 
 
 Dor. What in the name of Jove's the matter 
 with you ? Speak, for Heaven's sake I 
 
 Euph. Oh ! what shall I do ? Doris, I'm undone. 
 
 Dor. What, ravished ? 
 . Euph. No, ten times worse ! ten times worse ! 
 "Unlace me, or I shall swoon. 
 
 Dor. Unlace you ! why you are not thereabouts, 
 I hope ' 
 
 Euph. No, no ; worse still; worse than all that. 
 
 Dor. Nay, then it's bad indeed.— [Doris un- 
 laces her.l There, how d'ye do now ? 
 
 Euph. So; it's going over. 
 
 Dor. Courage, pluck up your spirits ! Well, now 
 what's the matter ! 
 
 Euph. The matter ! thou sha't hear. Know 
 that — that cheat — .^sop — 
 
 Dor. Like enough ; speak ! What has he done ? 
 that ugly ill-boding Cyclops. 
 
 Euph. Why, instead of keeping his promise, 
 and speaking for Oronces, he has not said one 
 word but what has been for himself. And by my 
 father's order, before to-morrow noon he's to 
 marry me. 
 
 Dor. He marry you I 
 
 Euph. Am I in the wrong to be in this despair ? 
 Tell me, Doris, if I am to blame ? 
 
 Dor. To blame ! no, by my troth. That ugly, 
 old, treacherous piece of vermin ! that melancholy 
 mixture of impotence and desire ! does his mouth 
 stand to a young partridge! ah, the old goat! 
 And your father ! — he downright dotes at last then. 
 
 Euph. Ah, Doris ; v/hat a husband does he give 
 me ! and what a lover does he rob me of! Thou 
 knowest 'em both ; think of Oronces, and think of 
 ^sop. 
 
 Dor. [Spitting.'] A foul monster ! And yet, 
 now I think on't, I'm almost as angry at t'other 
 too. Methinks he makes but a slow voyage on't 
 for a man in love : 'tis now above two months 
 since he went to Lesbos, to pack up the old bones 
 of his dead father ; sure he might have made a 
 little more haste. 
 
 Enter Oroncbs. 
 
 Euph. Oh ! my heart ; what do I see ? 
 
 Dor. Talk of the devil, and he's at your elbow. 
 
 Oron. My dear soul ! 
 
 [Euphronia runs and leaps about his neck. 
 
 Euph. Why would you stay so long from me ? 
 
 Oron. 'Twas not my fault indeed ; the winds — 
 
 Dor. The winds ! Will the winds blow you your 
 mistress again ? We have had winds too, and 
 waves into the bargain, storms and tempests, sea 
 monsters, and the devil and all. She struggled as 
 long as she could, but a woman can do no more 
 
 than she can do ; when her breath was gone, down 
 she sunk. 
 
 Oron. What's the meaning of all this ? 
 
 Dor. Meaning! There's meaning and mumping 
 too : your mistress is married, that's all. 
 
 Oron. Death and furies ! 
 
 Euph. [Clinging about him.'] Don't youfrighten 
 him too much, neither, Doris. — No, my dear, I'm 
 not yet executed, though I'tn condemned. 
 
 Oron. Condemned I to what ? Speak ! quick ! 
 
 Dor. To be married. 
 
 Oron. Married ! When ? how ? where ? to what ? 
 to whom ? 
 
 Dor. JEsop ! ^sop ! iEsop ! ^sop ! ^sop ! 
 
 Oron. Fiends and spectres ! What ! that piece 
 of deformity ! that monster ! that crump ! 
 
 Dor. The same, sir, the same. — I find he knows 
 him.^ — You might have come home sooner. 
 
 Oron. Dear Euphronia, ease me from my pain. 
 Swear that you neither have nor will consent. 
 I know this comes from your ambitious father ; 
 But you're too generous, too true to leave me : 
 Millions of kingdoms ne'er would shake my faith, 
 And I believe your constancy as firm. 
 
 Euph, You do me justice, you shall find you do : 
 For racks and tortures, crowns and sceptres join'd, 
 Shall neither fright me from my truth, nor tempt 
 Me to be false. On this you may depend. 
 
 Dor. Would to the Lord you would find soma 
 other place to make your fine speeches in ! Don't 
 you know that our dear friend jEsop's coming to 
 receive his visits here ? In this great downy chair 
 your pretty little husband-elect is to sit and hear 
 all the complaints of the town : one of wisdom's 
 chief recompenses being to be constantly troubled 
 with the business of fools. — Pray, madam, will you 
 take the gentleman by the hand, and lead him into 
 your chamber; and when you are there, don't lie 
 whining, and crying, and sighing, and wishing — 
 [Aside.] If he had not been more modest than 
 wise, he might have set such a mark upon the 
 goods before now, that ne'er a merchant of 'em all 
 would have bought 'em out of his hands. But 
 young fellows are always in the wrong : either so 
 impQdent they are nauseous, or so modest they 
 are useless. — [Aloud.] Go, pray get you gone 
 together. 
 
 Euph. But if my father catch us, we are ruined. 
 
 Dor. By my conscience, this love will make us 
 all turn fools ! Before your father can open the 
 door, can't he slip down the back-stairs ? I'm sure 
 he may, if you don't hold him ; but that's the old 
 trade. Ah — well, get you gone, however.- — Hark ! 
 I hear the old baboon cough ; away ! — [Exeunt 
 Oronces and Ettphronia ru7ining.] Here be 
 comes, with his ugly beak before him ! Ah — a 
 luscious bedfellow, by my troth 1 
 fiBa 
 
372 
 
 ^SOP. 
 
 Enter Learchus and JEsop. 
 
 Lear. 'Well, Doris, what news from my daugh- 
 ter ? Is she prudent ? 
 
 Dnr. Yes, very prudent. 
 
 L'ar. What says she ? what does she do ? 
 
 Dor. Do ? what should she do ? Tears her 
 cornet ; bites her thumbs ; throws her fan in the 
 fire; thinlis it's dark night at noon-day; dreams 
 of monsters and hobgoblins ; raves in her sleep of 
 forced marriage and cuckoldom ; cries Avaunt 
 Deformity! then wakens ofasudden,withfiftyargu- 
 ments at her fingers' ends, to prove the lawfulness 
 of rebellion in a child, when a parent turns tyrant. 
 
 Lear. Very fine ! but all this shan't serve her 
 turn. — I have said the word, and will be obeyed. — 
 My lord does her honour. 
 
 Dor. [Aside.l Yes, and that's all he can do to 
 
 her [To Leakchus.] But I can't blame the 
 
 gentleman, after all ; he loves my mistress because 
 she's handsome, and she hates him because he's 
 ugly. I never saw two people more in Ihe right 
 in my life. — [To ^sop.] You'll pardon me, sir, 
 I'm somewhat free. 
 
 jEsop. Why, a ceremony would but take up 
 time. — But, governor, methinks I have an admir- 
 able advocate about your daughter. 
 
 Lear. Out of the room. Impudence ! begone, I 
 say ! 
 
 Dor. So I will ; but you'll be as much in .the 
 wrong when 1 am gone as when I am here : and 
 your conscience, I hope, will talk as pertly to 
 you as I can do. 
 
 JEsop. If she treats me thus before my face, I 
 may conclude I'm finely handled behind my back. 
 
 Dor. I say the truth here, and I can say no 
 worse anywhere. \_Exit. 
 
 hear. I hope yonr lordship won't be concerned 
 at what t'cis prattling wench bleats out.; my daugh- 
 ter will be governed, she's bred up to obedience. 
 There may be some small ditficulty in weaning her 
 from her young lover ; but 'twon't be the first time 
 she has been weaned from a breast, my lord. 
 
 Msop. Doos she love him fondly, sir .' 
 
 Lear, Foolishly, my lord. 
 
 JEso-p. And he her ? 
 
 Lear. The same. 
 
 jEsop. Is he young? 
 
 Lear, Yes, and vigorous. 
 
 .iEsop. Rich? 
 
 Lear. So, so. 
 
 JEsop. Well-born ? 
 
 Lear. He has good blood in his veins, 
 
 JSsop. Has he wit ? 
 
 Lear. He had, before he was in love. 
 
 jEfiop. And handsome with all this ? 
 
 Lear. Or else we should not have half so much 
 trouble with him. 
 
 Msop. Why do you then make her quit him for 
 me ? All the world knows 1 am neither young, 
 noble, nor rich ; and as for my beauty — look you, 
 governor, I'm honest. But when children cry, 
 they tell 'em .^sop's a-coming. Pray, sir, what 
 is it makes you so earnest to force your daughter ? 
 
 Lear. Am I then to count for nothing the 
 favour you are in at court ? Father-in-law to the 
 great j5!sop ! What may I not aspire to ? My 
 foolish daughter, perhaps, mayn't be so well pleased 
 with't, but we wise parents usually weigh our chil- 
 dren's Imppiness in the scale of our own inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 JEsop. Well, governor, let it be your care, then, 
 to make her consent. 
 
 Lear, This moment, my lord, I reduce her either 
 to obedience, or to dust and ashes. ^Exit. 
 
 jEsop. Adieu ! — [CaHs <o o Servant.] Now let 
 in the people who come for audience. 
 
 [SeaU himself in his chairs reading papers. 
 
 Enter Hobson and Humphry. 
 
 Hob, There he is, neighbour, do but look at 
 him. 
 
 Hum, Ay, one may know him, he's well marked. 
 But, dost hear me ? what title must we give him ? 
 for if we fail in that point, d'ye see me, we shall 
 never get our business done. Courtiers love titles 
 almost as well as they do money, and that'.s a bold 
 word now. 
 
 Hob, Why, I think we had best call him his 
 Grandeur. 
 
 Hum, That will do ; thou hast hit on't. Hold 
 still, let me speak. — May it please your grandeur — " 
 
 jEsop, There I interrupt you, friend ; I have a 
 weak body that will ne'er be able to bear that title. 
 
 Hum, D'ye hear that, neighbour ? what shall 
 we call him now ? 
 
 Hob, Why, call him, — call him — his Excellency; 
 try what that will do. 
 
 Hum. May it please your excellency — 
 
 .^sop. Excellency's a long word ; it takes up 
 too much time in business. Tell me what you'd 
 have in few words. 
 
 Hum. Neighbour, this man will never give ten 
 thousand pounds to be made a lord. But what 
 shall I say to him now? He puts me quite out of 
 my play. 
 
 Hob, Why e'en talk to him as we do to one 
 another. 
 
 Hum. Shall 1 ' why so I will then. — Hem ! 
 Neighbour ; we want a new governor, neighbour. 
 
 .^sop. A new governor, friend 1 
 
 Hum. Ay, friend. 
 
 .^sop. Whyiwhat's the matter with your old one ? 
 
 Hum. What's the matter ? Why he grows 
 rich ; that's the matter : and he that's rich, can't 
 be innocent ; that's all. 
 
 .^sop. Does he use any of you harshly ? or 
 punish you without a fault ? 
 
 Hum. No, but he grows as rich as a miser, his 
 purse is so crammed, it's ready to burst again. 
 
 JEsop. When 'tis full 'twill hold no more. A 
 new governor will have an empty one. 
 
 Hum. 'Fore Gad, neighbour, the little gentle- 
 man's in the right on't 1 
 
 Hob. Why truly I don't know but he may. For 
 now it comes in my head. It cost me more money 
 to fat my hog, than to keep him fat when he was so. 
 Prithee, tell him we'll e'en keep our old governor. 
 
 Hum. I'll do't.' — Why, look you, sir, d'ye see 
 me ? having seriously considered of the matter, my 
 neighbour Hobson, and I here, we are content to 
 jog on a little longer with him we have : but if you'd 
 do us another courtesy, you might. 
 
 JEsop, What's that, friend ? 
 
 Hum, Why that's this : our king Croesus is a 
 very good prince, us a man may say : — but — a — 
 but— taxes are high, an't please you ; and — a — 
 ppor men want money, d'ye see me. It's very 
 hard, as we think, that the poor should work to 
 maintain the rich. If there were no taxes, we 
 should do pretty well. 
 
^SOP. 
 
 373 
 
 Hoh. Taxes mdeed are very burdensome. 
 jEaop. I'll tell you a story, countrymen. 
 
 Once on a time, the hands and feet, 
 As mutineers, grew mighty great ; 
 They met, caball'd, and talk'd of treason, 
 They swore by Jove they knew no reason 
 The belly should have all the meat; 
 It was a damn'd notorious cheat, 
 They did the work, and — death and hell, they'd 
 eat! 
 
 The belly, who adored good cheer, 
 
 Had like to have died away for fear : 
 
 Quoth he, " Good folks, you little know 
 
 What 'tis you are about to do j 
 
 If I am starved, what will become of yoa }" 
 
 " We neither know nor care," cried they ; 
 
 " But this we will be bold to say, 
 
 We'll see you damn'd 
 
 Before we'll work. 
 
 And you receive the pay." 
 
 With that the hands to pocket went, 
 Full wristband deep, 
 The legs and feet fell fast asleep : 
 Their liberty they had redeem'd. 
 And all except the belly seem'd 
 Extremely well content. 
 
 But mark what foUow'd ; 'twas not long 
 
 Before the right became the wrong. 
 
 The mutineers were grown so weak, 
 
 They found 'twas more than time to squeak : 
 
 They call for work, but 'twas too late. 
 
 The stomach (like an aged maid. 
 
 Shrunk up for want of human aid,) 
 
 The common debt of nature paid. 
 
 And with its destiny entrain'd their fate. 
 
 What think you of this story, friends, ha ? 
 Come, you look like wise men ; I'm sure you 
 understand what's for your good. In giving part 
 of what you have, you secure all the rest. If the 
 king had no money, there could be no army ; and 
 if there were no army, your enemies would be 
 amongst you. One day's pillage would be worse 
 than twenty years' taxes. What say you? is it 
 not so ? 
 
 Hum. By my troth, I think he's in the right 
 on't again ! Who'd think that little humpback 
 of his should have so much brains in't, neighbour > 
 
 JEsop. Well, honest men, is there anything else 
 that I can serve you in ? 
 
 Hob. D'ye hear that, Humphry ?— Why that 
 was civil now. But courtiers seldom want good- 
 breeding ; let's give the devil his due. — Why, to 
 tell you the truth, honest gentleman, we had a whole 
 budget full of grievances to complain of. But I 
 think — a — ha, neighbour .' — we had e'en as good 
 let 'em alone. 
 
 Hum. Why good feath I think so too, for by all 
 I can see, we are like to make no great hond on't. 
 Besides, between thee and me, I begin to daubt, 
 whether aur grievances do us such a plaguy deal of 
 mischief as we fancy. 
 
 Hoh. Or put case they did, Humphry ; I'se 
 afraid he that goes to a courtier, in hope to gen 
 fairly rid of 'em, may be said (in aur country 
 dialect) to take the wrong sow by the ear. — But 
 here's neighbour Roger, he's a wit, let's leave him 
 to him. \ f'^suni HonsON and Humphry. 
 
 Enter Roobr ; he looks serious/}/ upon iEsor, and then 
 bursts out a-laughing. 
 
 Root. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Did ever mon 
 behold the like ? ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha I 
 
 JEsop. Hast thou any business with me, friend.' 
 
 Hog. Yes, by my troth, have I ; but if Roger 
 were to he hanged up for't, look you now, he could 
 not hold laughing. What I have in my mind, out 
 ■it comes : but bar that ; I'se an honest lad as well 
 as another. 
 
 JEsop. My time's dearer to me than yours, 
 friend. Have you anything to say to me ? 
 
 JRog. Gadswookers, do people us^ to ask for folks 
 when they have nothing to say to 'em ? I'se tell 
 you my business. 
 
 jEsop. Let's hear it. 
 
 Hog. I have, as you see, a little wit. 
 
 jJisop. True. 
 
 Jioff. 1 live in a village hard by, and I'se the 
 best man in it, though I say it that should not say 
 it. I have good drink in my cellar, and good corn 
 in my barn .; I have cows and oxen, hogs and sheep, 
 cocks and hens, and geese and turkeys : but tlie 
 truth will out, and so out let it. I'se e'en tired of 
 being called plain Roger. I has a leathern purse, 
 and in that" purse there's many a fair half-crown, 
 with the king's sweet face upon it, God bless him ; 
 and with this money I have a mind to bind myself 
 prentice to a courtier. It's a good trade, as 
 I have heard say ; there's money stirring : let a 
 lad be but diligent, and do what he's bid, he shall 
 be let into the secret, and share part of the profits. 
 I have not lived to these years for nothing : those 
 that will swim must go into deep water. I'se get 
 our wife Joan to be the queen's chambermaid ; and 
 then — crack says me I ! and forget all my acquaint- 
 ance. But to come to the business. You who 
 are the king's great favourite, I desire you'll be 
 pleased to sell me some of your friendship, that I 
 may get a court-place. Come, you shall choose 
 me one yourself ; you look like a shrewd man ; by 
 the mass you do ! 
 
 JEsop. I choose thee a place ! 
 
 Rog. Yes : I would willingly have it such a sort 
 of a place as would cost little, and bring in a 
 great deal ; in a word, much profit, and nothing 
 to do. 
 
 A'Jsop. But you must name what post you think 
 would suit your humour. 
 
 Rog. Why I'se pratty indifferent as to that : 
 secretary of state, or butler ; twenty shillings more, 
 twenty shillings less, is not the thing I stand upon. 
 I'se no hagler, gadswookers ; and he that says I 
 am — 'zbud he lies ! There's my humour now.. 
 
 ^sop. But hark you, friend, you say you are 
 well as you are ; why then do you desire to change } 
 
 Rog. Why what a question now is there for a 
 man of your parts .' I'm well, d'ye see me ; and 
 what of all that ? I desire to be better. There's 
 an answer for you. — \_Aside.] Let Roger alone 
 with him. 
 
 JEsop. Very well : this is reasoning ; and I love 
 a man should reason with me. But let us inquire 
 a little whether your reasons are good or not. You 
 say at home you want foi' nothing. 
 
 Rog. Nothing, 'fore George. 
 
 JEsop. You have good driak .' 
 
 Rog. 'Zbud the best i'th' parish ! [Sings. 
 
 And dawne it merrily goes, my lad, 
 And dawne if merrily goes / 
 
374 
 
 iESOP. 
 
 JEsop. You eat heartily ? 
 
 Hoff, I have a noble stomach, 
 
 Msop. You sleep well ? 
 
 Rog. Just as I drink, till I can sleep no longer. 
 
 Msop. Y"ou have some honest neighbours ? 
 
 Rog. Honest ! 'Zbud we are all so, the tawne 
 raund, we live like breether ; when one can sarve 
 another, he does it with all his heart and guts; 
 when we have anything that's good, we eat it 
 together, holidays and Sundays we play at nine- 
 pins, tumble upon the grass with wholesome young 
 maids, laugh till we split, daunce till we are weary, 
 eat till we burst, drink till we are sleepy, then swap 
 into bed, and snore till we rise to breakfast. 
 
 jSsop, And all this tUou wouldst leave to go to 
 court ! I'll tell thee what once happened. 
 A mouse, who long had lived at court, 
 (Yet ne'er the better christian for't) 
 Walking one day to see some country sport, 
 He met a homebred village-mouse. 
 Who with an awkward speech and bow, 
 That favoured much of ca,rt and plough. 
 Made a shift, I know not kow, 
 To invite him to his house. 
 Quoth he, *' My lord, I doubt you'll find 
 Our country fare of homely kind ; 
 But by my troth, you're welcome to't, 
 Y'ave that, and bread, and cheese to boot :'■ 
 And so they sat and dined, 
 
 Rog. Very well. 
 
 jEsop. The courtier could have eat at least 
 As much as any household priest, 
 But thought himself obliged in feeding 
 To show the difference of town'breeding ; 
 He piok'd and cuU'd, and turn'd the meat, 
 He champ'd and chew'd and could not eat : 
 No toothless woman at fourscore, 
 Was ever seen to mumble more. 
 He made a thousand ugly faces. 
 Which (as sometimes in ladies' cases) 
 Were all design' d for airs and graces. 
 
 Rog. Hal ha! 
 
 .^sop. At last he from the table rose, 
 He pick'd his teeth, and blow'd his nose, 
 And with an easy negligence. 
 As though he lately came from France. 
 He made a careless sliding bow : 
 " 'Fore Gad," quoth he, " I don't know how 
 1 shall return your friendly treat ; 
 But if you'll take a bit of meat 
 In town with me. 
 You there shall see 
 How we poor courtiers eat." 
 
 Rog. Tit for tat ; that was friendly. 
 
 Msop. There needed no more invitation 
 To e'er a country squire i'th' nation : 
 Exactly to the time he came. 
 Punctual as woman when she meets 
 A man between a pair of sheets. 
 As good a stomach, and as little shame. 
 Rog. Ho ! ho ! ho ! ho ! ho 1 
 JEsop. To say the truth he found good cheer. 
 With wine, instead of ale and beer : 
 But just as they sat down to eat, 
 Comes bouncing in a hungry cat. 
 
 Rog. O Lord ! O Lord ! Lord ! 
 
 JSaop. The nimble courtier skipp'd from table, 
 The squire leap'd too, as he was able : 
 It can't be said that they were beat. 
 It was no more than a retreat ; 
 Which, when an army, not to fight 
 By day-light, runs away by night. 
 Was ever judged a great and glorious feat. 
 
 Rog. Ever ! ever 1 ever I 
 
 j^sop. The cat retired, our guests return, 
 The danger past becomes their scorn, 
 They fall to eating as before ; — 
 The butler rumbles at the door. 
 
 Rog. Good Lord ! 
 
 JEsop. To boot and saddle again they sound. 
 
 Rog. Ta ra ! tan tan ta ra ! ra ra tan ta ra ! 
 
 jEsop. They frown, as they would stand theii 
 ground. 
 But (like some of our friends) they found 
 'Twas safer much to scour. 
 
 Hog. Tantive ! Tantive ! Tantive ! &c. 
 
 .Xsop. At length the squire, who hated arms. 
 Was so perples'd with these alarms, 
 He rose up in a kind of heat : 
 " Udzwooks !" quoth he, with all your meat, 
 I will maintain a dish of pease, 
 A radish, and a slice of cheese. 
 With a good dessert of ease. 
 Is much a better treat. 
 However, 
 
 Since every man should have his due, 
 I own, sir, I'm obliged to you 
 For your intentions at your board ; 
 But pox upon your courtly crew !" 
 
 Rog. Amen 1 I pray the Lord. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! Now the de'el cuckold me if this story be 
 
 not worth a sermon Give me your bond, sir.- — 
 
 If it had na' been for your friendly advice, I was 
 going to be fool enough to be secretary of state. 
 
 ^sop. Well, go thy ways home, and be wiser 
 for the future. 
 
 Rog. And so I will : for that same mause, your 
 friend, was a witty person, gadsbudlikins ! and so 
 our wife Joan shall know : for between you and I, 
 'tis she has put me upon going to court. Sir, she 
 has been so praud, so saucy, so rampant, ever since 
 I brought her home a laced pinner, and a piuk- 
 colour pair of shoe-strings, from Tickledawne Fair, 
 the parson o'th' parish can't rule her ; and that 
 you'll say's much. But so much for that. Naw 
 I thank you for your good caunsel, honest little 
 gentleman ; and to show you that I'se not un- 
 grateful — give me your hand once more. — If you'll 
 take the pains but to walk dawne to our towne— 
 a word in your ear — I'se send you so drunk whome 
 again, you shall remember friendly Roger as long 
 as you have breath in your body. lExit. 
 
 JEsop. Farewell ! what I both envy and despise : 
 Thy happiness and ignorance provoke me. 
 How noble were the thing call d knowledge, 
 Did it but lead us to a bliss like thine I 
 But there's a secret curse in wisdom's train. 
 Which on its pleasures stamps perpetual pain, 
 And makes the wise man loser by his gain. 
 
 Exit. 
 
^SOP. 
 
 375 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Jicom in Learchus's House. 
 
 Enter JEsop. 
 ^sop. Who waiU there ? 
 
 Enter Servanc. 
 If there be anybody that has business with me, let 
 'em ID. 
 
 Serv. Yes, sir. CExit. 
 
 Enter Qdaimt, trho stands at a distance, making a great 
 many fatcning botes. 
 
 ^sop. "Well, friend, who are you ? 
 
 Quai7U. My name's Quaint, sir, the profoundest 
 of all your honour's humble servants. 
 
 JEsop. And what may your business be with 
 me, sir ? 
 
 Quaint. My business, sir, with every man, is 
 first of all to do him service. 
 
 jEsop. And your next is, I suppose, to be paid 
 for't twice as much as 'tis worth. 
 
 Quaint. Your honour's most obedient, humble 
 servant. 
 
 JEsop. Well, sir, but upon what account am I 
 going to be obliged to you ? 
 
 Qztaint. Sir, I'm a genealogist. 
 
 ^sop. A genealogist ! 
 
 Quaint. At your service, sir. 
 
 Msop. So, sir. 
 
 Quaint. Sir, I am informed from common fame, 
 as well as from some little private familiar intelli- 
 gence, that your wisdom is entering into treaty 
 with the primuTn mobile of good and evil, a fine 
 lady. I have travelled, sir ; I have read, sir ; I 
 have considered, sir ; and I find, sir, that the 
 nature of a fine lady is to be— a fine lady, sir ; a 
 fine lady's a fine lady, sir, all the world over ;, she 
 loves a fine bouse, fine furniture, fine coaches, fine 
 liveries, fine petticoats, fine smocks ; and if she 
 stops there — she's a fine lady indeed, sir. But to 
 come to my point. It being the Lydian custom, 
 that the fair bride should be presented on her wed- 
 ding-day with something that may signify the merit 
 and the worth of her dread lord and master, I 
 thought the noble ^sop's pedigree might be the 
 welcomest gift that he could ofi'er. If his honour 
 be of the same opinion — I'll speak a bold word ; 
 there's ne'er a herald in all Asia shall put better 
 blood in his veins, than — sir, your humble servant, 
 Jacob Quaint. 
 
 jEsop. Dost thou then know my father, fiiend? 
 for I protest to thee I am a stranger to him. 
 
 Quaint Your father, sir, ha! ha! I know every 
 man's father, sir, and every man's grandfather, 
 and every man's great-grandfalher. Why, sir, 
 I'm a Iierald by nature ; my mother was a Welch- 
 woman. 
 
 A Welchwoman ! Prithee of what coun- 
 try's that? 
 
 Quaint. That, sir, is a country in the world's 
 backside, where every man is bom a gentleman, 
 and a genealogist. Sir, I could telF my mother's 
 pedigree before I could speak plain ; which, to 
 show you the depth of my art, and the strength of 
 my memory, I'll trundle you down in an instant. 
 
 — Noah had three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japhet ; 
 Shem — 
 
 ^sop. Hold, I conjure thee, in the name of all 
 thy ancestors ! 
 
 Quaint. Sir, I could take it higher, but I begin 
 at Noah for brevity's sake. 
 
 jEsop. No more on't, I entreat thee. 
 
 Quaint. Your honour's impatient, perhaps, fy 
 hear your own descent. A word to the wise is 
 enough. Hem, hem: Solomon, the wise king of 
 Judea — 
 
 JEsop. Hold once more ! 
 
 Quaint. Ha ! ha ! your honour's modestj but — 
 Solomon, the wise king of Judea — 
 
 JEsop. Was my ancestor, was he not ? 
 
 Quaint. He was, my lord, which no one sure 
 can doubt, who observes how much of prince there 
 hangs about you. 
 
 j$lsop. What ! is't in my mien? 
 
 Quaint, You have something — wondrous noble 
 in your air. 
 
 jEsop. Personable too ; view me well. 
 
 Quaint. N — not tall ; but majestic. 
 
 JEsop. My shape. 
 
 Quaint. A world of symmetry in it. 
 
 JEsop. The lump upon my back. 
 
 Quaint. N — not regular ; but agreeable. 
 
 JEsop. Now by my honesty thou art a villain, 
 herald. But flattery's a thrust I never fail to parry. 
 'Tis a pass thou shouldst reserve for young fencers; 
 with feints like those they're to be hit : I do not 
 doubt but thou hast found it so ; hast not .'* 
 
 Quaint. I must confess, sir. I have sometimes 
 made 'em bleed by't. But I hope your honour 
 will please to excuse me, since, to speak the truth, 
 I get my bread by't, and maintain my wife and 
 children : and industry, you know, sir, is a com- 
 mendable thing. Besides, sir, I have debated the 
 business a little with my conscience ; for I'm like 
 the rest of my neighbours, I'd willingly get money, 
 and be saved too. if the thing may be done upon 
 any reasonable terms: and so, sir, I say, to quiet 
 my conscience, I have found out at last that flat- 
 tery is a duty. 
 
 JEsop. A duty ! 
 
 Quaint. Ay, sir, a duty : for the duty of all men 
 is to make one another pass their time as pleasantly 
 as they can. Now, sir, here's a young lord, who 
 has a great deal of land, a great deal of title, a 
 great deal of meat, a greal deal of noise, a great 
 many servants, and a great many diseases. I find 
 him very dull, very restless, tired with ease, cloyed 
 with plenty, a burden to himself, and a plague to 
 his family. I begin to flatter : be springs off of the 
 couch ; turns himself rounu in the glass ; finds all 
 I say true ; cuts a caper a yard high ; his blood 
 trickles round in his veins ; his heart's as light as 
 his heels ; and before I leave him — his purse is as 
 empty as his head. So we both are content ; for 
 we part much happier than we met. 
 
 Msop. Admirable rogue ! what dost thou think 
 of murder 
 And of rape .^ Are not they duties too ? 
 Wer't not for such vile fawning things as thou oit. 
 
376 
 
 iESOP. 
 
 Young nobles would not long be what they are : 
 They'd grow ashamed of luxury and ease, 
 And rouse up the old spirit of their fathers ; 
 Ineave the pursuit of a poor frighten'd hare, 
 A.nd malce their foes to tremble in her stead ; 
 Furnish their heads with sciences and arts, 
 A.nd fill their hearts with honour, truth, and 
 
 friendship ; 
 Be generous to some, and just to all ; 
 Drive home their creditors with bags of gold, 
 Instead of chasing 'em with swords and staves ■; 
 Be faithful to their king and country both. 
 And stab the offerer of a bribe from either ; 
 Blush even at a wandering tliought of vice, 
 And boldly own they durst be friends to virtue ; 
 Tremble at nothing but the frowns of Heaven, 
 And be no more ashaaied of him that made 'em. 
 
 Quaint. [^Aside.] If I stand to hear this crump 
 preach a little longer, I shall be fool enough per- 
 haps to be bubbled out of my livelihood, and so 
 lose a bird in the hand for two in the bush. — 
 [AloudJ] Sir, since I have not been able to bring 
 you to a good opinion of yourself, 'tis very probable 
 I shall scarce prevail with you to have one of me. 
 But if you please to do me the favour to fprget me, 
 I shall ever acknowledge myself — sir, your most 
 obedient, faithful, humble servant. [Goin^. 
 
 Mso.p. Hold ; if I let thee go, and give thee 
 nothing, thou'lt be apt to grumble at me j and 
 therefore — Who waits there .' 
 
 Enter Servant, 
 
 Quaint. [Aside."] I don't like his looks, by Gad ! 
 
 jEsop. I'll present thee with a token of my love. 
 
 Quaint, A — another time, sir, will do as well. 
 
 jiisop. No ; T love to be out of debt, though 'tis 
 being out of the fashion. — [To Servant.] So, d'ye 
 year.' give this honest gentleman half a score good 
 strokes on the back with a cudgel. 
 
 Quaint. By no means in the world, sir. 
 
 JE^op. Indeed, sir, you shall take 'em. 
 
 Quaint. Sir, I don't merit half your bounty. 
 
 Alsop. O 'tis but a trifle ! 
 
 Quaint. Your generosity makes me blush. 
 
 ^Looking about to make his escape. 
 
 JEsop. That's your modesty, sir. 
 
 Quaint. Sir, you are pleased to compliment. 
 But a — twenty pedigrees for a clear coast ! 
 
 {Running off, the Servant after him. 
 
 j^sop. Wait upon him down stairs, fellow. — 
 I'd do't myself, were I but nimble enough ; but he 
 makes haste to avoid ceremony. 
 
 lie-enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir, here's a lady in great haste desires to 
 speak with you. 
 
 jEsop, Let her come in. lExit Servant. 
 
 Enter AnUNTA, weeping, 
 
 Amin. O sir, if you don't help me, I'm undone ! 
 
 jEsop. What, what's the matter, lady ? 
 
 Amin. My daughter, sir, my daughter's run 
 away wit'n a filthy fellow. 
 
 jEsop. A slippery trick indeed ! 
 
 Amin. For Heaven's sake, sir, send immedi- 
 ately to pursue 'em, and seize 'em. But 'tis in 
 vain, 'twill be too late, 'twill be too late ! I'll 
 warrant this very moment they are got together 
 in a room with a couch in't. All's gone, all's 
 
 gone ! though 'twere made of gold 'tis lost. Oh, 
 my honour I my honour 1 A forward girl she was 
 always ; I saw it in her eyes the very day of her 
 birth. 
 
 ^.lop. That indeed was early ; but how do you 
 knovT she's gone with a fellow ? 
 . Amin. I have e'en her own insolent handwriting 
 for't, sir ; take but the pains to read what a letter 
 she has left me. 
 
 jEsop. \_lieads.'] I love, and am beloved, and 
 that's the reason I run away, — Short, but signi- 
 ficant ! — /'m sure there's nobody knows better 
 than your ladyship what allovjances are to be made 
 to flesh and blood ; I therefore hope this from your 
 justice, that ivhat you have done three times your- 
 self you'll pardon once in your daughter. — The 
 dickens ! 
 
 Amin. Now, sir, what do you think of the 
 business ? 
 
 JEsop. Why truly, lady, I think it one of the 
 most natural businesses I have met with a great 
 while. I'll tell you a story. 
 
 A crab-fish once her daughter told, 
 
 (In terms that savour'd much of scold) 
 
 She could not bear to see her go, 
 
 Sidle, sidle, to and fro 5 
 
 " The devils in the wench!" quoth she, 
 
 " When so much money has been paid. 
 
 To polish you like me ; 
 
 It makes me almost mad to see 
 
 Y'are still so awkward, an ungainly jade.'' 
 
 Her daughter smiled, and look'd askew 
 
 She answer'd (for to give her her due) 
 
 Pertly, as most folks' daughters do : 
 
 " Madam, your ladyship," quoth she, 
 
 '' Is pleased to blame in me 
 
 What, on inquiry, you may find. 
 
 Admits a passable excuse, 
 
 'From a proverb much in use, 
 
 That * cat will after kind.' " 
 
 Amin. Sir, I took you to be a man better breJ, 
 than to liken a lady to a crab-fish. 
 
 JEsop. What I want in good-breeding, lady, I 
 have in truth and honesty ; as what you have 
 wanted in virtue, you have had in a good face, 
 
 Amin. Have had, sir 1 what I have had, I have 
 still ; and shall have a great while, I hope^ I'm 
 no grandmother, sir. 
 
 JEsop. But in a fair way for't, madam. 
 
 Amin. Thanks to my daughter's forwardness 
 then, not my years, I'd have you to know, sir, I 
 have never a wrinkle in my face- A young pert 
 slut ! who'd think she should know so much at 
 her age ? 
 
 JEsop, Good masters make quick scholars, 
 lady ; she has learned her exercise from you. 
 
 Amin. But where's the remedy, sir ? 
 
 JEsop. In trying if a good example will reclaim 
 her, as an ill one has debauched her. Live private, 
 and avoid scandal. 
 
 Amin. Never speak it ; I can no more retire, 
 than I can go to church twice of a Sunday. 
 
 jEsop. What! your youthful blood boils in your 
 veins, I'll warrant. 
 
 Amin. I have warmth enough to endure the air, 
 old gentleman. I need not shut myself up in a 
 house these twenty years. 
 
 JEsop. [Aside.] She takes a long lease of 
 ' lewdness : she'll be an admirable tenant to lust. 
 
JESOP. 
 
 377 
 
 Amin. [ Walking hastily to and fro.'] People 
 think when a woman is turned forty, she's old 
 enough to turn out of the world : but I say, when 
 a womau is turned forty, she's old enough to have 
 more wit. The most can be said is, her face is 
 the worse for wearing: I'll answer for -all the 
 rest of her fabric. The men would be to be 
 pitied, by my troth would they, if we should quit 
 the stage, and leave 'em nothing but a parcel of 
 young pert sluts, that neither know how to speak 
 sense, nor keep themselves clean. But don't let 
 *em fear, we a nt going yet. — [^sop stares upon 
 her, and as she turns from him runs off the 
 stage.^ How now ! What, left alone ! An un- 
 mannerly piece of deformity \ Methinks he might 
 have had sense enough to have made love to me. 
 Bat I have found men strangely dull for these last 
 ten or twelve years. Sure they'll mend in time, 
 or the world won't be worth living in. 
 For let philosophers say all they can, 
 The source of womatk's joys is placed in man. 
 
 SCENE \\.— Thesame. 
 
 Enter LEARCHrs and Eupbhonia, Doris /o;?otoi7Jp at a 
 distatice. 
 
 Lear. [To Etjphronia.] I must tell you, mis- 
 tress, I'm too mild with you ; parents should never 
 entreat their children, nor will I hereafter. There- 
 fore, in a word, let Oronces "be loved, let ^sop be 
 hated ; let one be a peacock, let t'other be a bat. 
 I'm father, you are daughter ; I command, and 
 you shall obey. 
 
 Euph, I never yet did otherwise ; nor shall I 
 now, sir ; but pray let reason guide you, 
 
 J^ear. So it does. But 'tis my own, not yours, 
 hussy. 
 
 Dot, Ah ! — Well, I'll say ho more ; but were I 
 in her place, by the mass Td have a tug for't ! 
 
 Lear. Demon, born to distract me 1 Whence 
 art thou, in the name of fire and brimstone ? Have 
 not I satisfied thee ? have not I paid thee what's 
 thy due ? and have not I turned thee out of doors, 
 with order-s never more to stride my threshold, 
 ha ? Answer, abominable spirit ! what is*t that 
 makes thee haunt me ? 
 
 Dor. A foolish passion, to do you good in spite 
 of your teeth : pox on me for my zeal 1 1 say. 
 
 Lear, And pox on thee, and thy zeal too ! I say. 
 
 Dor. Now if it were not for her sake more than 
 for yours, I'd leave all to your own management, 
 to be revenged of you. But rather than I'll see 
 that sweet thing sacrificed — I'll play the devil in 
 your house. 
 
 Lear, patience, I summon thee to my aid ! 
 
 Dor* Passijon, I defy thee! to the last drop of 
 my blood Til maintain my ground. What have you 
 to chaige me with ? speak. I love your child 
 better than you do, and you can't bear that, ha.? 
 is't not so ? Nay, it's well y'are ashamed on't ; 
 there's some sign of grace still. Look you, sir, in 
 few words, you'll make me mad ; and 't'wcre 
 enough to make anybody mad (who has brains 
 enough to be so) to see so much virtue ship- 
 wrecked at the very port. The world never saw 
 a virgin better qualified; so witty, so discreet, so 
 modest, so chaste; in a word, 1 brought her up 
 Tnyself, and 'twould be the death of me to see so 
 
 virtuous a maid becomt a lewd wife ; which is the 
 usual effect of parents' pride and covetousness. 
 
 hear. How, strumpet ! would anything be 
 able to debauch my daughter ? 
 
 Dor. Your daughter 1 fyes your daughter, and 
 myself into the bargain : a woman's but a woman; 
 and I'll lay a hundred pound on nature's side. 
 Come, sir, few words despatch business. Let 
 who will be the wife of jEsop, she's a fool, or he's 
 a cuckold. But you'll never have a true notion 
 of this matter till you suppose yourself in your 
 daughter's place. As thus : — You are « pretty, 
 soft, warm, wishing young lady : I'm a straight, 
 proper, handsome, vigorous, young fellow. You 
 have a peevish, positive, covetous, old father, and 
 he forces you to marry a little, lean, crooked, dry, 
 sapless husband. This husband's gone abroad, 
 you are left at home. I make you a visit ; find 
 ypu all alone ;.^the servant pulls to the door j the 
 devil comes in at the window. I begin to wheedle, 
 you begin to melt ; you like my person, and there- 
 fore believe all I say ; so first I make you an 
 atheist, and then I make you a whore. Thus ^he 
 world goes, sir. 
 
 Lear. Pernicious pestilence ! Has thy eternaj 
 tongue run down its larum yet ? . ' 
 
 jDfjr. Yes. 
 
 Lear. Then get out of my house, abomination ! 
 
 Dor. I'll not stir a foot. 
 
 Lear. Who waits there ? Bring me my great 
 stick. 
 
 Dor, Bring you a stick ! bring you a head-piece ; 
 that you'd call for, if'y'ou knew your own waqts. "^ 
 
 Lear. Death and furies, the -devil, and So forth ; 
 I shall run distracted! 
 
 Euph, Pray, sir, don't be sa angry at her. I'm 
 sure she means well, though she may have an odd 
 vvay of expressing herself. 
 
 Lear. What, you like her meanihg ? who doubts 
 it, offspring of Venus ! But I'll make you stay 
 your stomach with meat of my choosing, yoij 
 liquorish young baggage you ! In a word, ^sop's 
 the man ; and to-morrow he shall be your lord 
 and master. - But since he can't be satisfied unless, 
 he has your heart, as well as all the rest of youi;. 
 trumpery, let me see you receive him in such a 
 manner that he may think himself your choice a. 
 well as mine ; 'twill make him esteem your judg- 
 ment : for we usually guess a(f other people's 
 understandings, by their approving our actions, 
 and liking our faces. See here the great man 
 comes ! — [To Donis-l Follow me, Insolence ! and 
 leave 'em to express their j)assi6n to each other. — ; 
 [To Etjphronia."] Remember my last word to 
 you is, obey. 
 
 Dor. [Aside to Euphroxia.] And remembei 
 ray last advice to you is, rebel. 
 
 ZExit LEARckus. ^ov.is followihig him. 
 
 Euph, Alas! I'm good-natured; the last 
 thing that'a said to me Usually leaves the deepest 
 impression. 
 
 Enter Msop ; ikej/ stand some time without speakiiip. 
 
 ^sop. They say, that lovers, for want of worda, 
 have eyes to speak with. I'm afraid you do not 
 understand the language of mine, since yours 1 
 find will make no answer to 'em. But I must 
 tell you, lady, 
 
 There is a numerous train of youthful virgins, 
 That are endow'd with wealth and beauty too, 
 
378 
 
 iESOP. 
 
 Who yet have thought iltrorth their pains and ■care 
 To point their darts at JEsop's homely breast ; 
 Whilst you so much contemn what they pursue, 
 That a young senseless fop's preferr'd before me. 
 
 Euph. Did you but know that fop you dare to 
 term so, 
 His very looks would fright you into DOthiBg. 
 
 JEsnp. A very bauble ! 
 
 Euph. How 1 
 
 ^sop. A. butterfly I 
 
 Euph. 1 can't bear it ! 
 
 jcEsop. A parroquet can prattle and look gaudy. 
 
 Euph. It may be so ; but let me paint him and 
 you in your proper colours, I'll do it exactly, and 
 you shall judge which I ought to choose. 
 
 jEsop, No, hold! I'm naturally not over-cnrious; 
 besides, 'tis pride makes people have their pictures 
 ■drawn. 
 
 Euph. Upon my word, sir, you may have yours 
 taken a hundred times before anybody will believe 
 ^tis done upon that account. 
 
 JEsop. [Aside.'] Howsevereshe isupon m^! — 
 lAloud.^ You are resolved then to persist, and be 
 fond of your feather ; sigh for a periwig, and die 
 for a cravat-string ? 
 
 Euph. Methinks, sir, you might treat with more 
 What I've thought fit to own I value ; [respect 
 Your affronts to him are doubly such to me. 
 If you continue your provoking language, 
 You must expect my tongue will sally too; 
 A nd if you are as wise as some would make you. 
 You can't but know I should have theme enough. 
 
 jEsop. But is it possible you can love so much 
 as you pretend .■* 
 
 Euph. Why, do you question it .' 
 
 jEsop. Because nobody loves so much as they 
 pretend. But hark you, young lady ! marriage is 
 to last a long, long time ; 
 And where one couple bless the sacred knot, 
 A train of wretches curse the institution. 
 You're in an age where hearts are young and tender, 
 A pleasing object gets admittance soon. 
 But since to marriage 
 
 There is annex'd this dreadful word, For Ever, 
 The following example ought to move you. 
 
 A peacock once of splendid show. 
 
 Gay, gaudy, foppish, vain — a beau, 
 
 Attack'd a fond young pheasant's heart 
 
 With such success, 
 
 He pleased her, though he made her smart ; 
 
 He pierced her with so much address. 
 
 She smiled the moment that he fix'd his dart. 
 
 A cuckoo in a neighbouring tree. 
 
 Rich, honest, ugly, old — like me, 
 
 Loved her as he loved his life : 
 
 No pamper'd priest e'er studied more 
 
 To make a virtuous nun a whore. 
 
 Than he to get her for his wife. 
 
 But all his offers still were vain. 
 
 His limbs were weak, his face was plain ; 
 
 Beauty, youth, and vigour weigh'd 
 
 With the warm desiring maid ! 
 
 No bird, she cried, would serve her turn. 
 But what could quench as well as burn, 
 She'd have a young gallant ; so one she had. 
 But ere a month was come and gone, 
 The bride began to change her tone. 
 She found a young gallant was an inconstant one 
 She wander'd to a neighbouring grove, 
 Where after musing long on love. 
 She told her confidant, she found 
 When for one's life one must be bound, 
 (Though youth indeed was a delicious bait,) 
 An aged husband, rich, though plain, 
 WouW give a slavish wife less pain ; 
 And what was more, was sooner slain. 
 Which was a thing of weight. 
 Behold, young lady, here, the cuckoo of the fable : 
 I am -deform'd, 'tis true, yet I have found 
 The means to makie a figure amongst men, 
 That well has recompensed the wrongs of Nature. 
 My rival's beauty promises you much ; 
 Perhaps my homely form might yield you more ; 
 At least consider on't, 'tis worth your thought. 
 Euph. I must confess my fortune would be 
 greater ; 
 But what's a fortune to a heart like mine ? 
 'Tis true, I'm but a young philosopher. 
 Yet in that little spaee my glass has run, 
 I've spent some time in search of happiness : 
 The fond pursuit I soon observed of riches, 
 Inclined me to inquire into their worth ; 
 I found their value was not in themselves, 
 But in their power to grant what we could ask. 
 I then proceeded to my own desires. 
 To know what state of life wouH suit with them : 
 I found 'em moderate in their demands. 
 They neither ask'd for title, state, or power ; 
 They slighted the aspiring post of envy : 
 'Tis true, they trembled at the name contempt ; 
 A general esteem was all they wish'd ; 
 And that I did not doubt might be obtain'd, 
 If f'jrnish'd but with virtue and good^nature j 
 My fortune proved sufficient to afford me 
 Conveniences of life, and independence. 
 This, sir, was the result of my inquiry ; 
 And by this scheme of happiness I build. 
 When I prefer the man I love to you. 
 
 ^sop. How wise, how witty, and how cleanly, 
 young women grow, as soon as ever they are in lo' e ! 
 Euph. How foppish, how impertinent, and how 
 nauseous are old men, when they pretend to be so 
 too! 
 ^sop. How pert is youth '. 
 Euph. How dull is age ! 
 jEsop. WI17 so sharp, young lady ? 
 Euph. Why so blunt, old gentleman ? 
 /Esop. 'Tis enough ; I'll to your father, I know 
 how to deal with him, though I don't know how to 
 deal with you. Before to-morrow noon, damsel, 
 wife shall be written on your brow; iJExit. 
 
 Euph. Then before to-morrow night, statesman, 
 husband shall be stamped upon your forehead. 
 
 {.Exit. 
 
JESOP. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 379 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's Home. 
 Enter Oroncks and DoRis. 
 
 Dor. Patience, 1 beseech you. 
 
 OroTh Patience ! Wliat, and see that lovely 
 creature thrown into the arms of that pedantic 
 monster : 'sdeath, I'd rather see the world reduced 
 to atoms, mankind turned into crawfish, and myself 
 an old woman ! 
 
 Dor. So you think an old woman a very unfor- 
 tunate thing, I find ; but you are mistaken, sir ; 
 she may plague other folks, but she's as entertain- 
 ing to herself as any one part of the creation. 
 
 Oron. [Walking to and fro. 1 She's the devil! 
 — and I'm one of the damned, I think ! But I'll 
 make somebody howl for't, I will so. 
 
 Dor. You'll e'en do as all the young fellows in 
 the town do, spoil your own sport ; ah ! — had 
 young men's shoulders but old courtiers' headsupon 
 'em, what a delicious time would they have on't ! 
 For shame be wise ; for your mistress' sake at 
 least use some caution. 
 
 Oron. For her sake 111 respect, even like a 
 deity, her father. He shall strike me, he shall 
 tread upon me, and find me humbler even than 
 a crawling worm, for I'll not turn again ; but for 
 ./Esop, thatunfinished lump, that chaos of humanity, 
 I'll use him, — nay, expect it, for I'll do't— the first 
 moment that I see him, I'll — 
 
 Dor. Not challenge him, I hope. — 'Twould be a 
 pretty sight truly, to see ^sop drawn up in 
 battalia : fy, for shame I be wise once in your life ; 
 think of gaining time, by putting off the marriage 
 for a day or two, and not of waging war with 
 Pigmy. Yonder's the old gentleman walking 
 by himself in the gallery ; go and wheedle him, you 
 know his weak side ; he's good-natured in the bot- 
 tom. Stir up his old fatherly bowels a little, I'll 
 warrant you'll moveiim at last : go, get you gone, 
 and play your part discreetly. 
 
 Oron, Well, I'll try ; but if words won't do 
 with one, blows shall with t'other ; by heavens 
 they shall. [Hxit. 
 
 \Dor. Nay, I reckon we shall have rare work on't 
 by and by. Shield us, kind Heaven I what things 
 are men in love ! Now they are stocks and stones ; 
 then they are fire and quicksilvers first whining 
 and crying, then swearing and damning ; this mo- 
 ment they are in love, and next moment they are 
 out of love. Ah ! could we but live without 'em — 
 but it's in vain to think on't. \_ExU. 
 
 SCENE U.— The same. 
 
 Enter JEsop at one side of the stai/e, Mrs. Forqbwill at 
 the other. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Sir, I'm your most devoted servant. 
 What I say is no compliment, I do assure you. 
 
 ASsop. Madam, as far as you are really mine, 
 1 believe I may venture to assure you I am yours. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. I suppose, sir, you know that I'm 
 a widow, I 
 
 JEsop. Madam, I don't so much as know you 
 are a woman. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. O surprising ! why, I thought tlie 
 whole town had known it. Sir, I have been u 
 widow this twelvemonth. 
 
 Msop. If a body may guess at your heart by 
 your petticoat, lady, you don't design to be so a 
 twelvemonth more. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. O bless me ! not a twelvemonth ! 
 why, my husband has left me four squalling brats. 
 Besides, sir, I'm undone. 
 
 j9tsop. You seem as cheerful an undone lady as 
 I have met with. 
 
 Mrs. Forge, Alas, sir, I have too great a spirit 
 ever to let afflictions spoil my face. Sir, I'll tell 
 you my condition ; and that will lead me to my 
 business with you. Sir, my husband was a scrive- 
 ner. 
 
 jSsop. The dense he was ! I thought he had 
 been a count at least. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Sir, 'tis not the first time I have 
 been taken for a countess ; my mother used to say, 
 as I lay in my cradle, I had the air of a woman of 
 quality ; and, truly, I have always lived like such. 
 My husband, indeed, had something sneaking in 
 him, (as most husbands have, you know, sir,) but 
 from the moment I set foot in his house, bless me, 
 what a change was there ! His pewter was turned 
 into silver, his goloshoes into a glass coach, and his 
 little travelling mare into a pair of Flanders horses. 
 Instead of a greasy cookmaid, to wait at table, I 
 had four tall footmen in clean linen j all things 
 became new and fashionable, and nothing looked 
 awkward in my family. My furniture was the 
 wcnler of my neighbourhood, and my clothes the 
 admiration of the whole town ; I had a necklace 
 that was envied by the queen, and a pair of pend- 
 ants that set a duchess a-crying. In a word^ I 
 saw nothing I liked but I bought it j and my hus- 
 band, good man, durst ne'er refuse paying for't. 
 Thus I lived, and I flourished, till he sickened and 
 died ; but, ere he was cold in his grave, his credi- 
 tors plundered my house. But what pity it was 
 to see fellows with dirty shoes come into my best 
 rooms, and touch my hangings wilh their filthy 
 fingers ! You won't blame me, sir, if, with all my 
 courage, I weep at this sensible part of my misfor- 
 tune. 
 
 ^sop. A very sad story truly ! 
 
 Mrs. Forge. But now, sir, to my business. 
 Having been informed this morning that the king 
 has appointed a great sum of money for the mar- 
 riage of young women who have lived well and are 
 fallen to decay, I am come to acquaint you I have 
 two strapping daughters just fit for the matter, 
 and to desire you'll help 'em to portions out of 
 the king's bounty; that they mayn't whine and 
 pine, and be eaten up with the green-sickness, as 
 half the young women in the town are, or would 
 be, if there were not more helps for a disease than 
 one. This, sir, is my business. 
 
 jEsop. And this, madam, is my answer : — 
 A crawling toad, all speckled o'er. 
 Vain, gaudy, painted, patch'd — a whore, 
 
380 
 
 jEsap. 
 
 Seeing a well-fed ox hard by, 
 Kegards him with an envious eye, 
 And (as the poets tell) 
 *' Ye gods, J cannot bear't ! " quoth she, 
 " I'll burst, or be as big as he 1 " 
 And so began to swell. 
 Her friends and kindred routid her came. 
 They show'd her she was much to blame. 
 The thing was out of reach. 
 She told 'em they *ere busy folk, 
 And when her husband would'have spoke, 
 She bid him kiss her br — h. 
 "With that they all e'en gave%er o'er, 
 And she persisted as before, 
 ^Till, with a deal of strife, 
 She sweU'd at last so much her spleen, 
 She burst like one that we have seen, 
 Who was a scrivener's wife. 
 
 This, vridow^ I take to be your case, and that of a 
 great many others ; fpr this is an age where most 
 ^epple get falls by clapibering too high, to reach 
 at what they should not do. The shoemaker's 
 wife reduces her husband to a cobbler, by endea- 
 vouring to be as spruce ast^e tailor's ; the tailor's 
 brings hers to a botcher, by going as fine as the 
 mercer's ; the mercer's lowers hers to a'iforeman, 
 by perking np to .the merchant's ; the merchant's 
 wears hers to a broker, by strutting up to quality ; 
 and quality bring theirs to nothing, by striving to 
 outdo one another. If women were humbler, men 
 would be honester. Pride brings want, want makes 
 rogues, rogues come to be hanged, and the devil 
 alone's the gainer. Go your ways home, woman ; 
 and, as your husband maintained you by his 
 p&i, maintain yourself ^y your needle ; put your 
 g;reat girls to service, eraployment will keep *em 
 honest ; much work, ,audr plain diet, will cure the 
 gr^en-sickness a^well as a husband. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Why, you pitiful pigmy, preach- 
 ing, canting, pickthank ! you little, sorry, crooked, 
 dry, withered eunuch ! do you know that — 
 
 JEsop. I know that Vm so deformed you han't 
 wit enough to describe me ; but I have this good 
 jqu'ality, that a foolish woman can never make me 
 artgry. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Can't she so! I'll try that,'I will. 
 i^^he falls upon him,'holds his hands, and boxes his t^ars. 
 
 jEsop. Help ! help ! help ! 
 
 Enter Servants. She runs ciff", they after her. 
 Nay, e'en let her go — let her go — don't bring her 
 back again. I'm for making a bridge of gold for 
 my enemy to retreat upon. — I'm quite out' of breath. 
 — A terrible woman, I protest ! 
 
 Enter Sir POLibORUS HobstfyE dr'dnk, in a Jmntinp tiress, 
 with a Huntsman, Groom, Falconer, and other Servants; 
 one leading a couple of hounds, another greyhounds, a 
 third a spaniel, a fourth a gun upon ?tis shoulder, the 
 Falconer a hawk upon his fist, ^c. 
 
 Sir ■Pol. Haux ' Haux ! Haux ! Haux ! Haux ! 
 
 Joular, There, boy ! Joi.lar! Joular! Tinker ! Ped- 
 lar ! Miss ! Miss ! Miss ! Miss ! Miss ! — Blood 
 and oons ! — Oh, there he 's ; that must be he, I 
 have seen his picture. — [Heeling upon ^sop.] 
 ■Sir — if your name's ^sop — I'm your humble 
 servant. 
 
 JEsop. Sir, my name is ^sop, at your service. 
 
 Sir Pol. Wby, then, sii — compliments being 
 passed on both sides, with \our leave — we'll pro- 
 
 ceed to business. — Sir, I'm by profession — a gen- 
 tleman of — three thousand pounds a — year, sir. I 
 keep a good pack of hounds, and a good stable of 
 -horses.— [ To. his Groom.] How many horses have 
 I, sirrah ? — Sir, this is my groom. 
 
 IPresenting him to ^sop. 
 
 Groom. Your worship has six coach-horses (cut 
 and long-tail,) two runners, half-a-dozen hunters, 
 four breeding mares, and two blind stallions, 
 besides pads, routs, and dog-horses. 
 
 Sir Pol. Look you there, sir, I scorn to tell a 
 lie. He that questions my honour — he's a son of 
 a whore. But to business. — Having heard, sir, 
 that you were come to this town, I have taken the 
 pains to come hither too, though I had a great 
 deal of business upon myhands, for I have ap- 
 pointed three justices of the peace to hunt with 
 *em this morning — and be drunk with 'em in the 
 afternoon. But the main chance must be looked 
 to — and that's this — I desire, sir, yau'll tell the 
 king from me — I don't like these taxes— ^in one 
 word as well as in twenty — I don't like these taxes. 
 
 J^sop. Pray, sir, how high may you be taxed ? 
 
 Sir Pol. How high may I be taxed, sir ! — Why, 
 I may be taxed, sir, — four shillings in the pound, 
 sir ; one-half 1 pay in money — and t'other half I 
 
 pay in perjury, sir Hey,'JoularI Joular! Joular! 
 
 haux ! haux ! haux ! haux ! haux ! whoo ! hoo ! — ■ 
 Here's the best hound-bitch in Europe. Zoons is 
 she. And I had rather kiss her than kiss my wife 
 —rot me if I had not. But, sir, I don't like these 
 taxes. 
 
 JEsop. Why, how would you have the war 
 carried on .*' 
 
 Sir Pol. War carried on, sir ! — W^hy, I had 
 rather have no war carried on at all, sir, than pay 
 taxes. I don't desire to beruined, sir. 
 
 'JEsop. Why you say you have three thousand 
 pounds a-year. 
 
 Sir Pol. And so I have, sir Lettacre ! — Sir, 
 
 this is my steward. — How much land have I, Lett- 
 acre ? 
 
 Lettacre. Your worship has three thausand 
 paunds a-year, as good lond as any's in the caunty ; 
 •and two thausaiid paunds worth of wood to cut 
 dawne at your worship's pleasure, and put the 
 money in your pocket. 
 
 Sir Pol. Look you there, sir, wnat have you to 
 say to that " 
 
 ■jEsop, I have to say, sir, that you may pay your 
 taxes in money, instead of perjury, and still have 
 a better revenue than I'm afraid you deserve^ 
 What service do ^ou do your king, sir ? 
 
 'Sir Pol. Nunc at all, sir : I'm above it. 
 
 jEsop. What service may you do your country, 
 pray ? 
 
 Sir Pol. I'm justice of the peace — and captain of 
 tlie militia. 
 
 Msop. Of what use are you to your kindred ? 
 
 Sir Pol. I'm the head of the family, and have 
 all. the estate. 
 
 Aisop. What good do you do your neighbours? 
 
 Sir Pol. I give *em their bellies full of beef every 
 time they come to see rae ; and make 'em so drunk, 
 they spew it up again before they go away. 
 
 ^sop. How do you use your tenants ? 
 
 Sir Pol. Why, I screw up their rents till they 
 break and run away ; apd if I catch 'em again. I 
 let 'em rot in a jail. 
 
 JEsop. How do you treat your wife ? 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 JSSOP. 
 
 381 
 
 Sir Pol. I treat her all day with ill-nature and to- 
 bacco, and all night with snoring and a dirty shirt. 
 
 jEsop. How do you breed your childrea ? 
 
 Sir Pol. I breed my eldest son — a fool ; my 
 youngest breed themselves, and my daughters — 
 have no breeding at all. 
 
 jEsop. 'Tis very well, sir : I shall be sure to 
 speak to the king of you ; or if you thinlc fit to 
 remonstrate to him, by way of petition or address, 
 how reasonable it maybe to let men of your impor- 
 tance go scot-free, in the time of a necessary war, 
 I'll deliver it in council, and speak to it as I ought. 
 
 Sir Pol. Why, sir, I don't disapprove your 
 advice ; but my clerk is not here, and I can't spell 
 well. 
 
 Msop. You may get it writ at your leisure, and 
 send it me. But because you are not much used 
 to draw up addresses perhaps, I'll tell you in gene- 
 ral what kind of one this ought to be. 
 
 May it please your Majesty — You'll excuse me 
 if I don't know your name and title. 
 
 Sir Pol. Sir Polidorus Hogstye, of Beast-Hall, 
 in Swine-county. 
 
 jEsop. Very well. 
 
 May it please your Majesty : 
 
 Polidorus Hogstye, of Beast-Hall, 
 in Swine-county, most humbly represents, that he 
 hates to pay taxes, the dreadful consequences of 
 'em being inevitably these, that he must retrench 
 two dishes irt ten, where not above six of 'em are 
 designed for gluttony. 
 
 Four bottles out of twenty ; where not above 
 fifteen of 'em are for drunkenness. 
 
 Six horses out of thirty ; of which not above 
 Iwejity are kept for state. 
 
 And four servants out of a score; where one 
 half do nothing bul make work for t'other. 
 
 To this deplorable condition must vour im.f)ortant 
 subject be reduced, or forced to cut down his timber^ 
 which he would willingly preserve against an ill 
 run at dice. 
 
 And as to the necessity of the war for the secu- 
 rity of the kingdom, he neither knows nor cares 
 whether it he necessary or not. 
 
 He concludes with his prayers for your majesty's 
 life, upon condition you will protect him and his 
 fox-hounds at Beast-Hall without e'er a penny of 
 money. 
 This, sir, I suppose, is much what you would be at. 
 
 Sir Pol. Exactly, sir ; I'll be sure to have one 
 drawn up to the selfsame purpose ; and next fox- 
 hunting I'll engage half the company shall set their 
 hands to't. Sir, I am your — most devoted ser- 
 vant ; and if you please to let me see you at Beast- 
 Hall, here's my huntsman, Houndsfoot, will show 
 you a fox shall lead you through so many hedges 
 and briars, you shall have no more clothes on your 
 back in half an hour's time — than you had — in the 
 womb of your mother. — Haux ! haux ! haux ! &c. 
 lExU ghouting, followed by his attendants. 
 
 .Msop. O temporal O mores! 
 
 Enter Mr. Fruitful and Mrs, Fruitful. 
 
 Mr, Fruit. Heavens preserve the noble ,iEsop, 
 grant him long life and happy days ! 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. And send him a fruitful wife, with 
 a hopeful issue I 
 
 jiEsop. And what is it I'm to do for you, good 
 people, to make you amends for all these friendly 
 wishes ^ 
 
 Mr. Fruit. Sir, here's myself and my wife — 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Sir, here's I and my husband— [ To 
 Mr. Fruitful.] Let me speak in my turn, good- 
 man Forward. — [To jEsop.] Sir, here's I and my 
 husband, I say, think we have as good pretensions 
 to the king's favour as ever a lord in the land. 
 
 Msop. If you have no better than some lords in 
 the land. I hope you won't expect much for your 
 service. 
 
 Mr. Fruit. An't please you, you shall be judge 
 yourself, 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. That's as he gives sentence, Mr. 
 Littlewit ; who gave you power to come to a refer- 
 ence .' If he does not do us right, the king him- 
 self shall ; what's to be done here ! — l_To .^sop,] 
 Sir, I'm forced to correct my husband a little ; poor 
 man, he is not used to court-business ; but to give 
 him his due, he's ready enough at some things. 
 Sir, I have had twenty fine children by him ; fifteen 
 of 'em are alive, and alive like to be ; five tall 
 daughters are wedded and bedded, and ten proper 
 sons serve their king and their country. 
 
 JEsop. A goodly company, upon my word ' 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. "Would all men take as much pains 
 for the peopling the kingdom, we might tuck up 
 our aprons, and cry a fig for our enemies ! but we 
 have such a parcel of drones amongst us. — Hold 
 up your head, husband. — He's a little out of coun- 
 tenance, sir, because I chid him ; but the man's a 
 very good man at the bottom. But to come to my 
 business, sir ; I hope his majesty will think it rea- 
 sonable to allow me something for the service I 
 have done him ; 'tis pity but labour should be 
 encouraged, especially when what one has done, 
 one has done't with a good-will. 
 
 JEsop. What profession are you of, good people ? 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. My husband's an innkeeper, sir ; 
 he bears the name, but I govern the house. 
 
 Msop. And what posts are your sons in, in the 
 service ? 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Sir, there are four monks, 
 
 Mr. Fruit. Three attorneys. 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Two scriveners. 
 
 Mr. Fruit. And an exciseman. 
 
 Msop. The dense o' the service ! why, I thought 
 they had been all in the army. 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Not one, "sir. 
 
 Msop. No, so it seems, by my troth ! Ten sons 
 that serve their country, quotha ! 'monks, attor- 
 neys, scriveners, and excisemen, serve their country 
 with a vengeance. You deserve to be rewarded, 
 truly ; you deserve to be hanged, you wicked people 
 you ! Get you gone out of my sight : I never was 
 so angry in my life. lExit. 
 
 Mr. Fruit. So ; who's in the right now, you or 
 I .' I told you what would come on't; you must 
 be always a-breeding, and breeding, and the king 
 would take care of 'em, and the queen would take 
 care of 'em : and always some pretence or other 
 there was. But now we have got a great kennel ot 
 whelps, and the devil will take care of 'em, for 
 aught I see. For your sons are all rogues, and 
 your daughters are all whores ; you know they arc. 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. What, you are a grudging of your 
 pains now, you lazy, sluggish, phlegmatic drone ! 
 You have a mind to die of a lethargy, have you ? 
 but I'll raise your spirits for you, I will so. Get 
 you gone home, go ; go home, you idle sot, you. 
 I'll raise your spirits for you 1 
 
 \_Exit, pushing fllv Fruitful 6(J/o»-c her. 
 
382 
 
 JESOP. 
 
 He-enter JEsop. 
 
 ACsop. Monks, attorneys, scriveners, and excise- 
 men ! 
 
 Enter Oronces. 
 
 Oron. O here he is. — Sir, I have been searching 
 for you, to say two words to you. 
 
 .^sop. And now you have found me, sir, what 
 are they ? 
 
 Oron. They are, sir — that my name's Oronoes : 
 you comprehend me. 
 
 JEsop, I comprehend your name. 
 
 Oron. And not my business ? 
 
 jEsop. Not I, by my troth. 
 
 Oron. Then I shall endeavour to teach you, 
 Monsieur .ffisop. 
 
 JEsop. And I to learn it, Monsieur Oronces. 
 
 Oron. Know, sir — that I admire Euphronia. 
 
 yltsop. Know, sir — that you are in the right 
 on't. 
 
 Oron. But I pretend, sir, that nobody else shall 
 admire her. 
 
 Msop. Then I pretend, sir, she won't admire 
 you. 
 
 Oron. Why, so, sir .' 
 
 Msop. Because, sir — 
 
 Oron. What, sir .' 
 
 ^sap. She's a woman, sir. 
 
 Oron. What then, sir .' 
 
 jEaop. Why then, sir, she desires to be admired 
 by every man she meets. 
 
 Oron. Sir, you are too familiar. 
 
 Msop, Sir, you are too haughty ; I must soften 
 that harsh tone of yours : It don't become you, sir ; 
 it makes a gentleman appear a porter, sir : and 
 that you may know the use of good language, I'll 
 tell you what once happened. 
 Once on a time — 
 
 Oron I'll have none of your old wives fables, 
 sir, I have no time to lose ; therefore, in a word — 
 
 .3isop. In a word, be mild': for nothing else 
 will do you service. Good manners and soft 
 words have brought many a difficult thing to pass. 
 Therefore hear me patiently. 
 
 A cook one day, who had been drinking, 
 
 (Only as many times, you know, 
 
 You spruce, young, witty beaux will da, 
 
 To avoid the dreadful pain of thinking,) 
 
 Had orders sent him to behead 
 
 A goose, like any chaplain fed. 
 
 He took such pains to set his knife right, 
 
 'T had done one good to have lost one's life by't. 
 
 But many men have many minds, 
 
 There's various tastes in various kinds ; 
 
 A swan (who by mistake he seized) 
 
 With wretched life was better pleased : 
 
 For as he went to give the blow, 
 
 In tuneful notes she let him know. 
 
 She neither was a goose, nor wish'd 
 
 To make her exit so. 
 
 The cook (who thought of nought but blood, 
 
 Except it were the grease, 
 
 For that you know's his fees) 
 
 To hear her sing, in great amazement stood. 
 
 " Cods-fish 1" quoth he, " 'twas well you spoke. 
 
 For I was just upon the stroke : 
 
 Your feathers have so much of goose, 
 
 A drunken cook could do no less 
 
 Than think you one : that you'll confess : 
 
 But y'have a voice so soft, so sweet, 
 
 That rather than you shall be eat. 
 
 The house shall starve for want of meat ;" 
 
 And so he turned her loose. 
 Now, sir, what say you ? Will you be the swan or 
 the goose ? 
 
 Oron. The choice can't sure be difficult to make ; 
 I hope you will excuse my youthful heat, 
 Young men and lovers have a claim to pardon : 
 But since the faults of age have no such plea, 
 I hope you'll be more cautious of oiTending. 
 The flame that warms Euphronia's heart and mina 
 Has long, alas 1 been kindled in our breasts : ' 
 Even years are past since our two souls were wed, 
 'Twould be adultery but to wish to part 'em. 
 And would a lump of clay alone content you, 
 A mistress cold and senseless in your arms. 
 Without the least remains or signs of life, 
 Except her sighs, to mourn her absent lover ? 
 Whilst you should press her in your eager arms. 
 With fond desire and ecstacy of love, 
 Would it not pierce you to the very soul, 
 To see her tears run trickling down her cheeks, 
 And know their fountain meant 'em all to me ? 
 Could you bear this ? 
 
 Yet thus the gods revenge themselves on those 
 Who stop the happy course of mutual love. 
 If you must be unfortunate one way, 
 Choose that where justice may support your grief, 
 And shun the weighty curse of injured lovers. 
 
 Msop. Why, this is pleading like a swan indeed ! 
 Were anything at stake but my Euphronia — 
 
 Oro^i. Your Euphronia, sir ! — 
 
 Msop. The goose — take heed- 
 
 Were anything, I say, at stake but her. 
 Your plea would be too strong to be refused. 
 But our debate's about a lady, sir. 
 That's young, that's beautiful, that's made for love. 
 — So am not I, you'll say ? But you're mistaken ; 
 
 sir ; 
 I'm made to love, though not to be beloved. 
 I have a heart like yours ; I've folly too : 
 I've every instrument of love like others. 
 
 Oron. But, sir, you have not been so long a 
 lover ; 
 Your passion's young and tender, 
 'Tis easy for you to become its master ; 
 Whilst I should strive in vain : mine's old and 
 fix'd. 
 
 Msop. The older 'tis, the easier to be govem'd. 
 Were mine of as long a standing, 'twere possible I 
 might get the better on't. Old passions are like 
 old men ; weak, and soon jostled into the kennel. 
 
 Oron. Yet age sometimes is strong, even to the 
 verge of life. 
 
 Msop. Ay, but there our comparison don't hold. 
 
 Oron. You are too merry to be much in love. 
 
 Msop. And you too sad to be so long. 
 
 Oron. My grief may end my days, so quench 
 my flame, 
 But nothing else can e'er extinguish it. 
 
 Msop. Don't be discouraged, sir ; I have seen 
 many a man outlive his passion twenty years. 
 
 Oron. But I have sworn to die Euphronia's 
 slave. 
 
 Msop. A decayed face always absolves a lover's 
 oath. 
 
 Oron. Lovers whose oaths are made to faces then : 
 But 'tis Euphronia's soul that I adore, 
 Which never can decay. 
 
^SOP. 
 
 383 
 
 jEsop. I would fain see a young fellow in love 
 with a soul of threescore. 
 
 Oron. tlaitbut Euphroniato me, and you shall ; 
 At least if Heaven's bounty will afford us 
 But years enough to prove my constancy, 
 And this is all 1 ask the gods and you. ZExit. 
 
 JEiop. A good pretence however to beg long life. 
 How grossly do the inclinations of the ilesh impose 
 
 upon the simplicity of the spirit ! Had this young 
 fellow but studied anatomy, he'd have found the 
 source of his passion lay far from his mistress's 
 soul. Alas ! alas ! had women no more charms 
 in their bodies than what they have in their minds, 
 we should see more wise men in the world, much 
 fewer lovers and poets. IBxiU 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's House. 
 
 Enter EupHRONiA and Doris. 
 
 Euph, Heavens, what is't you make me do, 
 Doris .' Apply myself to the man I loathe ; beg 
 favours from him I hate ; seek a reprieve from 
 him I abhor ; 'tis low, 'tis mean, 'tis base in me. 
 Dor. Why, you hate the devil as much as you 
 do .£sop, (or within a small matter,) and should 
 you think it a scandal to pray him to let you alone 
 a day or two, if he were going to run away with 
 you ; ha ? 
 
 Euph. I don't know what I think, nor what I 
 say, nor what I do : but sure thou'rt not my 
 friend thus to advise me. 
 
 Dor. I advise ! I advise nothing ; e'en follow 
 your own way ; marry him, and make much of 
 him. I Ijave a mind to see some of his breed ; 
 if you like it, I like it. He shan't breed out of 
 me only ; that's all I have to take care of. 
 Euph. Prithee don't distract me. 
 Dor. Why, to-morrow's the day, fixed and firm, 
 you know it. Much meat, little order, great many 
 relations, fewfriends, horse-play, noise, and bawdy 
 stories, all's ready for a complete wedding. 
 Euph. Oh ! what shall I do .' 
 Dor. Nay, 1 know this makes you tremble ; and 
 yet your tender conscience scruples to drop one 
 hypocritical curtsy, and say, pray, Mr. .(Esop, be 
 so kind to defer it a few days longer. 
 
 Euph. Thou knowest I cannot dissemble. 
 Dor. I know you can dissemble well enough 
 when you should not do't. Do you remember 
 how you used to plague your poor Oronces ; make 
 him believe you loathed him, when you could have 
 kissed the ground he went on ; affront him in all 
 public places ; ridicule him in all company ; 
 abuse him wherever you went : and when you had 
 reduced him within ambs-ace of hanging or drown- 
 ing then come home with tears in your eyes, and cry, 
 Now, Doris, let's go lock ourselves up, and talk of 
 my dear Oronces. — Is not this true ? 
 
 Euph. Yes, yes, yes. But, prithee, have some 
 compassion of me. Come, I'll do anything thou 
 biddest me. — ^What shall I say to this monster .' tell 
 me, and I'll obey thee. 
 
 Dor. Nay, then there's some hopes of you. — 
 Why you must tell him — 'Tis natural to you to 
 dislike folks at first sight : that since you have 
 considered him better, you find your aversion 
 abated : that though perhaps it may be a hard 
 matter for you ever to think him a beau, you don't 
 despair in time of finding out his je-ne-sais-qiioi. 
 And that on t'other side ; though you have 
 hitherto thought (as most young women do) that 
 nothing could remove your first affection, yet you 
 
 have very great hopes in the natural inconstancy of 
 your sex. Tell him, 'tis not impossible, a change 
 may happen, provided he gives you time : but 
 that if he goes to force you, there's another piece 
 of nature peculiar to woman, which may chance to 
 spoil all, and that's contradiction. Ring that 
 argument well in his ears : he's a philosopher, he 
 knows it has weight in't. In short, wheedle, 
 whine, flatter, lie, weep, spare nothing; it's a 
 moist age, women have tears enough ; and when 
 you have melted him down, and gained more time, 
 we'll employ it in closet-debates how to cheat him 
 to the end of the chapter. 
 
 Euph. But you don't consider, Doris, that by 
 this means I engage myself to him ; and can't 
 afterwards with honour retreat. 
 
 Dor. Madam, I know the world. — Honour's a 
 jest, when jilting's useful. Besides, he that 
 would have you break your oath with Oronces, 
 can never have the impudence to blame you for 
 cracking your word with himself. But who knows 
 what may happen between the cup and the lip ? 
 Let either of the old gentlemen die, and we ride 
 triumphant. Would I could but see the states- 
 man sick a little, I'd recommend a doctor to him, 
 a cousin of mine, a man of conscience, a wise 
 physician ; tip but the wink, he understands you. 
 
 Euph. Thou wicked wench, wouldst poison 
 him ? 
 
 Dor. I don't know what I would do. I think, I 
 study, I invent, and somehow I will get rid of him. 
 I do more for you, I'm sure, than you and your 
 knight-errant do together for yourselves. 
 
 Euph. Alas I both he and I do all we can ; thou 
 knowest we do. 
 
 Dor. Nay, I know y'are willing enough to get 
 together ; but y'are a couple of helpless things, 
 Heaven knows. 
 
 Euph. Our stars, thou seest, are bent to oppo- 
 sition. 
 
 Dor. Stars ! — I'd fain see the stars hinder me 
 from running away with a man I liked. 
 
 Euph. Ay, but thou knowest, should I disoblige 
 ray father, he'd give my portion to my younger 
 sister. 
 
 Dor. Ay, there the shoe pinches, there's the 
 love of the age ! Ah !— to what an ebb of passion 
 are lovers sunk in these days ! Give me a woman 
 that runs away with a man when his whole estate's 
 packed up in his snapsack : that tucks up her 
 coats to her knees j and through thick and through 
 thin, from quarters to camp, trudges heartily on, 
 with a child at her back, another in her arms, and 
 a brace in her belly : there's flame with a witness, 
 where this is the effects on't. But we must have 
 love in a featherbed : forsooth, a coach and six 
 
384 
 
 iESOP. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 horses, clean linen, and a caudle ! Fy, for shame ! 
 — ho, here comes our man ! Now show yourself 
 a woman, if you are one. 
 
 Enter Msop. 
 Ssopi I'm: told, fair virgin, you desire to speak 
 with me. , Lovers are apt to flatter themselves ; I 
 take your message for a favour. I hope 'twas 
 *meant so. 
 
 Euph. Favours from women are so cheap of 
 late, men may expect 'em truly without vanity. 
 
 JEsop. If the women are so liberal, I think the 
 men are generous too on their side. 'Tis a well- 
 bred age, thank Heaven : and a deal of civility 
 there passes between the two sexes. — What service 
 is't that I can do you, lady ? 
 
 Euph. Sir, I have a small favour to entreat you. 
 Msop. What is't ? I don't believe I shall refuse 
 you. 
 
 Euph. What if you should promise me you 
 won't ? 
 
 .^sop. Why then I should make a divorce be- 
 tween my good-breeding and my sense, which 
 ou^ht to be as sacred a knot as that of wedlock.- 
 
 Euph. Dare you not trust then, sir, the thing 
 you love ? 
 
 .^sop. Not when the thing I love don't love me : 
 never !. 
 
 Dor. Trust is sometimes the way to be beloved. 
 /!■ sop. Ay, but 'tis oftenerthe way to be cheated. 
 Euph. Pray promise me you'll grant my suit. 
 Dor. 'Tis a reasonable one, I give you my word 
 for't. 
 
 Msop. If it be so, I do promise to grant it. 
 Dor. That's still leaving yourself judge- 
 Msop. Why, who's more concerned in the trial .' 
 Dor. But nobody ought to be judge in their own 
 cause. 
 
 JEsap. Yet he that Is so, is sure to have no 
 wrong done him. 
 
 Dor. But if he does wrong to others, that's 
 worse. 
 
 JEsop. Worse for them, but not for him. 
 Dor. True politician, by my troht ! 
 JEsop. Men must be so when they have to do 
 with sharpers. 
 
 Euph, If I should tell you then there were a 
 possibility I might be brought to love you, you'd 
 scarce believe me. 
 
 JEsop. I should hope as a lover, and suspect as 
 a statesman. 
 
 Dor. [Aside'\ Love and wisdom ! There's the 
 passion of the age again. 
 
 Euph. You have lived long, sir, and observed 
 much : did you never see Time produce strange 
 changes ? 
 
 .Msop. Amongst women, I must confess I have. 
 Euph. Why, I'm a woman, sir. 
 Msop. Why, truly, that gives me some hopes. 
 Euph. I'll increase 'em, sir ; I have already been 
 in love two years. 
 
 Dor. And time, you 'know, wears all things to 
 tatters. 
 
 JEsop. Well observed. 
 
 Euph. What if you should allow me some to try 
 what I can do ? 
 
 JEsop. Why, truly, I would have patience a day 
 or two, if there were as much probability of my 
 being your new gallant, as perhaps there may be 
 of changing your old one. 
 
 Dor. She shall give you fair play for't, sir ; 
 opportunity and leave to prattle, and that's what 
 carries most women in our days. Nay, she shall 
 do more for you. You shall play with her fan ; 
 squeeze her little finger ; buckle her shoe ; read a 
 romance to her in the arbour ; and saunter in the 
 woods on a moonshiny night. If this don't melt 
 her, she's^no woman, or you- no man. 
 
 Msop. I'm not a man to melt a woman that way : 
 I know myself, and know what they require. 
 'Tis through a woman's eye you pierce her heart. 
 And I've no darts can make their entrance there. 
 
 Dor. You are a great statesman, sir ;but I find 
 you know little of our matters. A woman's heart 
 is to be entered forty ways. Every sense she has 
 about her keeps a door to it. With a smock-face, 
 and a feather; you get in at her eyes. With power- 
 ful nonsense, in soft words, you creep in at her 
 ears. An essenced peruke, and a sweet handker- 
 chief, lets you in at her nose. With a treat, and 
 a boxfuU of sweetmeats, you slip in at her mouth : 
 and if you would enter by her sense of feeling, 'tis 
 as beaten a road as the rest. What think you 
 now, sir .' There are more ways to the woods than 
 one, you see. 
 
 Msop. Why, you're an admirable pilot ; I don't 
 doubt but you have steered many a ship safe to 
 harbour. But I'm an old stubborn seaman ; I 
 must sail by my own compass still. 
 
 Euph. And, by your obstinacy, lose your vessel. 
 Msop: No : I'm just entering into port ; we'll 
 be married to-morrow. 
 
 Euph. For Heaven's sake, defer it some days 
 longer ! I cannot love you yet, indeed I cannot. 
 JEsop. Nor never will, I dare swear. 
 Euph. Why then will you marry me ? 
 JBsop. Because I love you. 
 Euph. If you loved me, you would never make 
 me miserable. 
 
 Msop. Not if I loved you for your sake ; but I 
 love you for my own. 
 
 Dor. [Aside.'] There's an old rogue for you. 
 Euph. [Weeping.l Is there no way left ! must 
 I be wretched r 
 
 Msop. 'Tis but resolving to be pleased. You 
 can't imagine the strength of resolution. I have 
 seen a woman resolve to be in the wrong all the 
 days of her life ; and by the help of her resolution 
 she has kept her word to a tittle. 
 
 Euph. Methinks the subject we're upon should 
 be of weight enough to make you serious. 
 
 ^50^. Right. To-morrow morning, pray he 
 
 ready ; you'll find me so : I'm serious. Now I hope 
 
 you are pleased. [_Turnmg away from her. 
 
 Euph. Break heart ! for if thou boldest, I'm 
 
 miserable. [.Ooing ojf weeping, and leaning upon Doris. 
 
 Dor. [To iEsop.] Now may the extravagance 
 
 of a lewd wife, with the insolence of a virtuous one, 
 
 join hand in hand to bring thy grey hairs to the 
 
 grave. {^Exeunt Euphronia and Doris. 
 
 Msop. My old friend wishes me well to the last, 
 
 I see. 
 
 Enter Learchus hastily, followed by Oroncbs. 
 
 Oron. Pray hear me, sir. 
 
 Lear. 'Tis in vain : I'm resolved, I tell you. — 
 Most noble jEsop, since you are pleased to accept 
 of my poor offspring for your consort, be so charit. 
 able to my old age, to deliver me from the imper- 
 tinence of youth, by making her your wife this 
 
^SOP. 
 
 036 
 
 instant ; for there's a plot against my life ; they 
 have resolved to tease me to death to-night, that 
 they may break \\ie match to-morrow morning. 
 Marry her tliis instant, I entreat you. 
 
 JEsopf This instant, say you ! 
 
 Lear. This instant ; thi§ very instant. 
 
 jEsop. 'Tis enough ; get all things ready ; I'll 
 be with you in a mqment. [£".1/7. 
 
 Lear, Now, what say you, Mr. Plamefire ? I 
 shall have the whiphand of you presently. 
 
 Osson. Defer it but till to-morrow, sir. 
 
 Lear. That you may run away with her to.-night; 
 ha?— Sir, your most obedient, humble servant,— 
 Hey, who waits there ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Call my daughter to me : quick.- — [Ew.it Servant.] 
 I'll give, her her despatches presently. 
 
 Re-enter Euphro^ia, 
 
 Euph. D *ye call, sir ? 
 
 Lear. Yes I do, minx. Go shift yourself, and 
 put on your best clothes. You are to be married. 
 
 Euph. Married, sir 1 
 
 Lear. Yes, married, madam ; and that this 
 instant too. 
 
 Euph. Dear sir !> 
 
 Lear. Not a word : obedience and a clean smock ; 
 despatch!— [Ej-'i^EuPHRONiAwee^m^.] Sir, your 
 most obedient humble servant. [_Goirtg. 
 
 Oron. Yet hear what I've to say. 
 
 Lear. And what have you to say, sir? 
 
 Oron. Alas ! I know not what T have to say ! 
 
 Lear. Very like so. — That's a sure sign he's in 
 love now. 
 
 Oron. Have you no bowels ? 
 
 Lear. Ha ! ha ! bowels in a parent ; here's a 
 young fellow for you ! — Hark thee, stripling ; 
 being in a very merry humour, I don't care if I 
 discover some paternal secrets to thee. Know 
 then, that how humoursome, how whimsical soever 
 we may appear, there's one fixed principle that 
 runs through almost the whole race of us ; and 
 that's to please ourselves. Why dost think I got 
 my daughter? Why, there was something in't 
 that pleased me. Why dost think I marry my 
 daugliter ? Why to please myself still. And what 
 is't that pleases me? Why, my interest; what 
 dost think it should be ? If iEsop's my son-in- 
 law, he'll make me a lord : if thou art my son-in- 
 law, thou'lt make me a grandfather. Now I having 
 more mind to be a lord than a grandfather, give 
 my daughter to him, and not to thee. 
 
 Oron. Then shall her happiness weigh nothing 
 with you ? 
 
 Lear. Not this. If it did, I'd give her to thee, 
 and not to him. 
 
 Oron. Do you think forced marriage the way to 
 keep women virtuous ? 
 
 Lear. No ; nor I don't care whether women are 
 virtuous or not. 
 
 Oron. You know your daughter loves me. 
 
 Lear. I do so. 
 
 Oron. What if the children that ^sop may 
 happen to father should chance to be begot by me ? 
 
 Lear. Why, then ^sop would be the cuckold, not I. 
 
 Oron, Is that all your care ? 
 
 Lear. Yes : I speak as a father. 
 
 Oron. What think you of your child'.s concern 
 in t'other world "■ 
 
 Le^tr. Why, I think it my child's concern, not 
 mine. I speak as a father. 
 
 Oron. Do you remember you once gave me 
 your consent to wed your daughter ? 
 
 Lear. I did. 
 
 Oron. Why did you so ? 
 
 Lear, Because you were the best match that 
 offered at that time. I did like a father. 
 
 OroTh. Why then, sir, I'll do like a lover. I'll 
 make you keep your word, or cut your throat. 
 
 Lear. Who waits there, ha ? 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Seize me that bully there. Carry him to prison, 
 and keep him safe. [They seize him. 
 
 Oron. Why, you won't use me thus ? 
 Lear. Yes, but I will though. — Away with him ! 
 — Sir, your most humble servant : I wish you a 
 good night's rest ; and as far as a merry dream 
 goes, my daughter's at your service. 
 Oron. Death and furies I 
 
 \^Exeunt Servants ic'ith Oronceb. 
 Lear. [SiTiging.'] 
 
 Dolf de to! dol, dol dol, de tol dol : 
 Lilly Burleiyhre^s lodged in a bough. 
 
 Enter a Troop o/Musicians, Dancers, Sfc. 
 
 Lear. How now ! what have we got here ? 
 
 Mus. Sir, we are a troop of trifling fellows, 
 fiddlers and dancers, come to celebrate the wedding 
 of your fair daughter, if your honour pleases to 
 give us leave. 
 
 Lear. With all my heart : but who do you take 
 me for, sir ; ha ? 
 
 Mtis. I take your honour for our noble governor 
 of Cyzicus- 
 
 Lear. Governor of Cyzicus ! Governor of a 
 cheese-cake ! I'm father-in-law to the great JEsop, 
 sirrah.- — [Ail bow to him.'] — [Aside."] I shall be a 
 great man. — [Aloud.] Come, tune your fiddles : 
 shake your legs ; get all things ready. My son-in- 
 law will be here presently. —I shall be a great man. 
 
 [ExiL 
 
 1 Mus. A great marriage, brother : what dost 
 think will be the end on't ? 
 
 2 Mus. Why, I believe we shall see three turns 
 upon't. This old fellow here will turn fool ; his 
 daughter will turn strumpet ; and his son-in-law 
 will turn 'em both out of doors. But that's 
 nothing to thee nor me, as long as we are paid for 
 our fiddling. So tune away, gentlemen. 
 
 1 Mus. D'ye hear, trumpets, when the bride 
 appears, salute her with a melancholy waft, 'Twill 
 suit her humour ; for I guess she mayn't be over- 
 well pleased. 
 
 Re-enter Learchus with several Gentlemen, and a Priest. 
 Lear. Gentlemen and friends, y'are all welcome, 
 I have sent to as many of you as our short time 
 would give me leave, to desire you would be wit- 
 nesses of the honour the great -fesop designs our- 
 stlf and family. — Hey ; who attends there ? 
 
 Enter Servant, 
 Go let my daughter know I wait for her.— [Exit 
 Servant.] 'Tis a vast honour that is done me, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Gent. It is indeed, my lord. 
 
 Lear. [Aside.] Look you there; if they don't 
 call me my lord already — I shall be a great man 
 
380 
 
 jKsor. 
 
 Se^nter Eupubonta tueepinf;, and leaning upon Boris, 
 both in deep mourning. 
 Lear. How now ! what's here ? all in deep 
 mourning ! — Here's a provoking baggage for you. 
 [TAe trumpets sound a melancholy air till JEsop appears,- 
 and then the violins and hautboys strike up a Lanca- 
 shire hornpipe. 
 
 Jte-enter Msqp in a gay foppish dress, long peruke, ^c., a 
 gaudy equipage of Pages and Footmen, all enter In an 
 airy brisk manner. 
 
 JBsop. \_In an affected tone to Edphronia.] 
 Gad take my soul, mame, I hope I shall please you 
 now ! — Gentlemen all, I'm your humble servant. 
 I'm going to be a very happy man, you see. — [ To 
 EuPHRONiA.] When the heat of the ceremony's 
 over, if your ladyship pleases, mame, I'll wait upon 
 you to take the air in the Park. — Hey, page ; let 
 there be a coach and six horses ready instantly. — 
 l^Observing fl^r dress."] I vow to Gad, mame, I 
 ■was so taken up with my good fortune, I did not 
 observe the extreme fancy of your ladyship's 
 wedding-clothes I — Infinitely pretty, as I hope to 
 be saved ! a world of variety, and not at all gaudy ! 
 — [ To Leabchus.] My dear father-in-law, em- 
 brace me. 
 
 Lear. Your lordship does me too much honour. 
 — [Aside.] I shall be a great man. 
 
 JEsop. Come, gentlemen, are all things ready .' 
 Where's the priest ? 
 
 Priest. Here, my noble lord. 
 
 JEsop. Most reverend, will you please to say 
 grace that I may fall to, for I'm very hungry, and 
 here's very good meat. — But where's my rival all 
 this while 1 The least we can do, is to invite him 
 to the wedding. 
 
 Lear. My lord, he's in prison. 
 
 ^sop. In prison 1 how so ! 
 
 Lear. He would have murdered me, 
 
 Msap. A bloody fellow ! But let's see him how- 
 ever. Send for him quickly. Ha, governor, that 
 handsome daughter of yours, I will so mumble 
 her ! — 
 
 Lear. I shall be a great man. 
 
 Re-enter Oeoncbs, pinioned and guarded. 
 
 Msop. O ho, here's my rival 1 Then we have 
 all we want. — Advance, sir, if you please. I aesire 
 you'll do me the favour to be a witness to my mar- 
 riage, lest one of these days you should take a 
 fancy to dispute my wife with me. 
 
 Oron. Do you then send for me to insult me ? 
 'Tis base in you. 
 
 Aisop. I have no time now to throw away upon 
 points of generosity ; I have hotter work upon my 
 hands. — Come, priest, advance. 
 
 Lear. Pray hold him fast there ; he has the devil 
 and all of mischief in's eye. 
 
 JEsop. [To EuPHRONiA.] Will your ladyship 
 
 please, mame, to give me your fair hand. — Heyday I 
 
 {_She refuses her hand. 
 
 Lear. I'll give it you, my noble lord, if she 
 won't [Aside.'] A stubborn, self-willed, stiff- 
 necked strumpet ! 
 
 [,Learchus holds out her hand to JEsop, who takes it ; 
 Oaonces stands on ,^sop'b left hand, and the Friest 
 b^ore them. 
 
 .Xsop. Let my rival stand next me : of all men 
 I'd have him be satisfied. 
 
 Oron. Barbarous inhuman monster ! 
 
 JEsop. Now, priest, do thy office. 
 
 [_Flourish with the trumpets. 
 
 Priest. Since the eternal laws of fate decree. 
 That he thy husband, she thy wife, should be, 
 May heaven take you to its care, 
 May Jupiter look kindly down. 
 Place on your heads contentment's crown ; 
 And may his godhead never frown 
 Upon this happy pair. 
 
 IFlourish again of trumpets. As the Priest pro- 
 nounces the last line, JJsop joins Oronces and 
 EuPHBONiA's hands. 
 
 Oron. O happy change 1 Blessings on blessings 
 wait on the generous .£sop. 
 
 JSsop. Happy, thrice happy may you ever be, 
 And if you think there's something due to me. 
 Pay it in mutual love and constancy. 
 
 Euph. [ ToMsov.] You'll pardon me, most gene- 
 If in the present transports of my soul, [rous man. 
 Which you yourself have by your bounty caused, 
 My willing tongue is tied from uttering 
 The thoughts that flow from a most grateful heart. 
 
 ./Esop. For what I've done I merit little thanks. 
 Since what I've done, my duty bound me to. 
 I would your father had acquitted his : 
 But he who's such a tyrant o'er his children 
 To sacrifice their peace to his ambition. 
 Is fit to govern nothing but himself. 
 And therefore, sir, at my return to court 
 
 [3*0 Learchus, 
 I shall take care this city may be sway'd 
 By more humanity than dwells in you. 
 
 Lear. [Aside.] I shall be a great man. 
 
 Euph. [To .ffisop.] Had I not reason, from 
 your constant goodness. 
 To judge your bounty, sir, is infinite, 
 I should not dare to sue for farther favours : 
 But pardon me, if imitating Heaven and you, 
 I easily forgive my aged father. 
 And beg that .^sop would forgive him too. 
 
 ^Kneeling to him, 
 
 ^sop. The injury he would have done to you 
 Was great indeed : 
 
 But 'twas a blessing he design'd for me. 
 If therefore you can pardon him, I may. 
 Your injured daughter, sir, has on her knees 
 
 [To Learchus. 
 
 Entreated for her cruel barbarous father ; 
 
 And by her goodness has obtained her suit. 
 
 If in the remnant of your days you can find out 
 
 some way to recompense her, do it, that men and 
 
 gods may pardon you, as she and I have done. — 
 
 But let me see, I have one quarrel still to make up. 
 
 Where's my old friend Doris ? 
 
 Dor. She's here, sir, at your service ; and as 
 much your friend as ever : true to her principles, 
 and firm to her mistress. But she has a much better 
 opinion of you now than she had half an hour ago. 
 ^sop. She has reason : for my soul appeared 
 then as deformed as my body. But I hope now 
 one may so far mediate for t'other, that provided 
 I don't make love, the women won't quarrel with 
 me ; for they are worse enemies even than they are 
 
 friends Come, gentlemen, I'll humour my dress 
 
 a little longer, and share with you in the diversions 
 
 these boon companions have prepared us. Let's 
 
 take our places, and see how they can divert us. 
 
 [,^sop leads Euphbonea to her place. All being seated, 
 
 there follows a short concert of hautboys, trumpets, 
 
 SfC. After which a dance between . an Old Man and a 
 
 Young "Woman, who shuns him stilt as he comes near 
 
 her. At last he stops, and begins this dialogue, which 
 
 they sing together. 
 
] SCEKE I. 
 
 MSOP. 
 
 387 
 
 Old Man. Why so cold, and why so coy ? 
 What I want in youth and fire, 
 I have in love and in desire : 
 To my arms, my iove, my joy ! 
 Why so cold, and why so coy? 
 
 Woman, 'Tis sympathy perhaps with you ; 
 You are cold, and I'm so too. 
 
 Old Man. My years alone have froze my blood ; 
 Youthful heat in female charms. 
 Glowing in my aged arms, 
 Would melt it down once more into a flood. 
 
 Woman. Women, alas, like flints, ne'er burn 
 To make a virgin know [alone ; 
 
 There's fire within the stone, 
 Some manly steel must boldly strike the blow. 
 
 Old Man. Assist me only with your charms, 
 You'll find I'm man, and still am bold ; 
 You'll find I still can strike, though old : 
 I only want your aid to raise my arm. 
 
 Enter a Youth, wlio seizes on the Young Woman. 
 
 Youth. Who talks of charms, who talks of aid ? 
 I bring an arm 
 That wants no charm. 
 To rouse the fire that's in a flinty maid. 
 Retire, old age ! — 
 
 Woman. Winter, begone ! 
 
 Behold, the youthful Spring comes gaily on. 
 Here, here's a torch to light a virgin's fire ! 
 To ray arms, my love, my joy ! 
 When women have what they desire, 
 They're neither cold nor coy. 
 
 IShe takes Mm in her arjns. The somi and dance ended, 
 .ailsop takes EupHRONfA and Obonceh tjy the hands, 
 leading them forwards. 
 
 JEsop. By this time, my young eager couple, 'tis 
 probable you would be glad to be alone ; perhaps 
 you'll have a mind to go to bed even without your 
 supper ; for brides and bridegrooms eat little on 
 their wedding-night. But since if matrimony were 
 worn as it ought to be, it would perhaps sit easier 
 about us than usually it does, I'll give you one 
 word of counsel, and so I shall release you. When 
 one is out of humour, let the other be dumb. Let 
 your diversions be such as both may have a share 
 in 'em. Never let familiarity exclude respect. Be 
 clean in your clothes, but nicely so in your^persons. 
 Eat at one table, lie in one room, but sleep in two 
 beds : I'll tell the ladies why. — 
 
 [Turning to the boxes. 
 
 In the sprightly month of May, 
 
 When males and females sport and play, 
 
 And kiss and toy away the day ; 
 
 An eager sparrow and his mate 
 
 Chirping on a tree were sate, 
 
 Full of love— and full of prate. 
 
 They talk'd of nothing but their fires, 
 
 Of raging heats and strong desires, 
 
 Of eternal constancy ; 
 
 How true and faithful they would De, 
 
 Of this and that, and endless joys, 
 
 And a thousand more sucli toys : 
 
 The only thing they apprehended, 
 
 Was that their lives would be so short, 
 
 They could not finish half their sport 
 
 Before their days were ended. 
 
 But as from bough to bough they rove, 
 
 They chanced at last 
 
 In furious haste. 
 On a twig with birdlime spread, 
 (Want of a more downy bed) 
 To act a scene of love. 
 Fatal it proved to both their fires. 
 For though at length they broke away, 
 And balk'd the schoolboy of his j*ey, 
 Which made him weep the livelong day, 
 The bridegroom in the hasty strife, 
 Was stuck so fast to his dear wife. 
 That though he used his utmost art. 
 He quickly found it was in vain, 
 To put himself to further pain, 
 They never more must part. 
 A gloomy shade o'ercast his brow ; 
 He found himself — I know not how : 
 He look'd — as husbands often do. 
 Where'er he moved he felt her still. 
 She kiss'd him oft against his will : 
 Abroad, at home, at bed and board. 
 With favours she o'erwhelm'd her lord. 
 Oft he turn'd his head away. 
 And seldom had a word to say. 
 Which absolutely spoil'd her play, 
 For she was better stored. 
 Howe'er at length her stock was spent, 
 (For female fires sometimes may he 
 Subject to mortality ;) 
 
 So back to back they sit and sullenly repent. 
 But the mute scene was quickly ended, 
 The lady, for her share, pretended 
 The want of love lay at his door ; 
 For her part she had still in store 
 Enough for him and twenty more, 
 Which could not be contented. 
 He answer'd her in homely words, 
 (For sparrows are hut ill-bred birds,) 
 That he already had enjoy'd 
 So much, that truly he was cloy'd. 
 Which so provoked her spleen. 
 That after some good hearty prayers, 
 A jostle, and some spiteful tears, 
 They fell together by the ears, 
 And ne'er were fond again. lExmnt ommt. 
 
iE s o r 
 
 PART II. 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 Enter several Players, male and female, Tkey salute 
 Maov. 
 
 jEsop. Well, good people, who are all you ? 
 
 All. Sir, we are players. 
 
 jEsop. Players ! what players ? 
 
 Play. Why, sir, we are stage -players, that's 
 our calling : though we play upon other things 
 too ; some of us play upon the fiddle ; some play 
 upon the flute ; we play upon one another ; we 
 play upon the town ; and we play upon the pa- 
 tentees. 
 
 Osop. Patentees ! prithee, what are they ? 
 
 Play. Why, they are, sir-^sir, they are — ood, 
 I don't know what they are ! — fish or flesh — mas- 
 ters or servants : — sometimes one— sometimes 
 t'other, I think — just as we are in the mood. 
 
 Msop. Why, I thought they had a lawful autho- 
 rity over you. 
 
 Play. Lawful authority, sir ! — sir, we are free- 
 born Englishmen, we care not for law nor authority 
 neither, when we are out of humour. 
 
 jEsop. But I think they pretended at least to an 
 authority over you ; pray upon what foundation 
 was it built ^ 
 
 Play. Upon a rotten one — if you'll believe us. 
 Sir, I'll tell you what the projectors did : they 
 embarked twenty thousand pound upon a leaky 
 vessel. — She was built at Whitehall ; I think they 
 called her — the Patent — ay, the Patent : her keel 
 was made of a broad seal — and the king gave them 
 a white staff for their mainmast. She was a pretty 
 tight frigate to look upon, indeed : they spared 
 nothing to set her off ; they gilded her, and painted 
 her, and rigged, and gunned her ; and so sent her 
 a- privateering. But the first storm that blew, 
 down went the mast ! ashore went the ship ! — 
 Crack ! says the keel : — Mercy ! cried the pilot ; but 
 the wind was so high, his prayers could not be 
 heard — so they split upon a rock — that lay hid 
 under a petticoat. 
 
 jSsop. A very sad story, this : but what became 
 of the ship's company ? 
 
 Play. Why, sir, your humble servants here, who 
 were the officers, and the best of the sailors — (little 
 Ben amongst the rest) seized on a small bark that 
 lay to our hand, and away we put to sea again. To 
 spy the truth, we were better manned than rigged, 
 and ammunition was plaguy scarce amongst us. 
 However, a-cruising we went, and some petty small 
 prizes we have made ; but the blessing of heaven 
 not being among us — or how the devil 'tis, I can't 
 tell i but we are not rich. 
 
 JSsnp. Well, but what became of the rest of the 
 crew } 
 
 Play. Why, sir, as for the scoundrels, they, poor 
 dogs, stuck by the wreck. The captain gave 
 them bread and cheese, and good words. He told 
 them if they would patch her up, and venture 
 t'other cruise, he'd prefer *em all; so to work they 
 went, and to sea they got her. 
 
 .Msop. I hope he kept his word with 'em. 
 
 Play. That he did ; he made the boatswain's 
 mate lieutenant ; he made the cook doctor ; he was 
 forced to be purser, and pilot, and gunner himself; 
 and the swabber took orders to be chaplain. 
 
 jEsop. But with such unskilful officers, I'm 
 afraid, they'll hardly keep above water long. 
 
 Play. Why, truly, sir, we care not how soon 
 they are under : but cursed folks thrive, I think. 
 I know nothing else that makes 'em swim. I'm 
 sure, by the rules of navigation, they ought to have 
 overset long since ; for they carry a great deal of 
 sail, and have very little ballast. 
 
 ^sop. I'm afraid you ruin one another. I fancy 
 if you were all in a ship together again, you'd have 
 less work and more profit. 
 
 Play. Ah, sir — we are resolved we'll never sail 
 under captain Patentee again. 
 
 ^sop. Prithee, why so ? 
 
 Play. Sir, he has used us like dogs. 
 
 Worn. And bitches too, sir. 
 
 Msop. I'm sorry to hear that ; pray how was't 
 he treated you ? 
 
 Play. Sir, 'tis impossible to tell; he used us 
 like the English at Amboyna. 
 
 JEsop. But I would kuow some particulars ; tell 
 me what 'twas he did to you. 
 
 Play. What he did, sir ! — why, he did in the 
 first place, sir — in the first place, sir, he did — ecodj 
 I don't know what he did. — Can you tell, wife ? 
 
 Worn. Yes, marry can I ; and a burning shame 
 it was too. 
 
 Play. Oh, I remember now, sir, he would not 
 give us plums enough in our pudding. 
 
 jEsop. That indeed was very hard ; but did he 
 give you as many as he promised you ? 
 
 Play. Yes, and more ; but what of all that.' we 
 had not as many as we had a mind to. 
 
 1 Worn. Sir, my husband tells you truth. 
 
 j/Esop. I believe he may. But what other 
 wrongs did he do you ? 
 
 1 iVom. Why, sir, he did not treat me with 
 respect ; 'twas not one day in three he would so 
 much as bid me good-morrow. 
 
 2 ^om. Sir, he invited me to dinner, and never 
 drank my health. 
 
SCENE 
 
 jESOP. 
 
 S8ij 
 
 1 Worn, Then he cocked his hat at Mis. 
 Pert. 
 
 2 Worn. Yes, and told Mrs. Shppery he had as 
 good a face as she had. 
 
 JEsop. Why, these were insufferable abuses I 
 
 2 Play, Then, sir, I did but come to him one 
 day, and tell him I wanted fifty pouqd, and whfkt do 
 you think he did by me, sir — sir, he turned round 
 upon his heel like a top — 
 
 1 Play. But that was nothing to the affront he 
 put upon me, sir. I came to him, and in very civil 
 words, as I thought, desired him to double my 
 pay: sir, would you believe it?. he ha'^. the bar- 
 barity to ask me if I intended to double my work ; 
 and because I told him jio, sir— he did use me — 
 good Lord, how he did use me ! 
 
 jEsop. Prithee how ? 
 
 1 Play. Why, he walked off, and answered me 
 never a word. 
 
 jEsop. How had you patience ? 
 
 1 Play. Sir, I had not patience. I sent him a 
 challenge ; and what do you thiuk his answer was .■• 
 — he sent me word I was a scoundrel son of a 
 whore, and he would only fight me by proxy ! 
 
 JEsop. Very fine ! 
 
 1 Play. At this rate, sir, were we poor dogs 
 used — till one frosty morning dovni he comes 
 amongst us — and very roundly tells us — that for 
 the future, no purchase no pay. They that would 
 not work should not eat. — Sir, we at first asked 
 him coolly and civilly. Why ? His answer was, 
 because the town wanted diversion, and he wanted 
 money. — Our reply to this, sir, was very short ; 
 bat I thiak to the purpose. 
 
 ^sop. What was it ? 
 
 1 Play. It was, sir, that so we wallowed, in 
 plenty and ease — the town and he mightbe damned ! 
 This, sir, is the true history of separation — and we 
 hope you'll stand our friend. 
 
 ^sop. I'll tell you what, sirs — 
 
 I once a pack of beagles knew 
 That much resembled — I know who ; 
 With a good huntsman at their tail, 
 In full command. 
 With whip in hand, 
 They'd run apace 
 The cheerful chace, 
 
 And of their game were seldom known to fail. 
 But, being at length their chance to find 
 A hurtsman of a gentler kind. 
 They soon perceived the rein was slack. 
 The word went quickly through the pack — 
 They one and all cried " Liberty ! 
 This happy moment we are free, 
 W^/11 range the woods. 
 Like nymphs and gods. 
 
 And spend our mouths in praise of mutiny." 
 JV^ith that old Jowler trots away. 
 And Bowman singles out his prey ; 
 Thunder bellow'd through the wood. 
 And swore he'd burst his guts with blood. 
 Venus tripp'd it o'er the plain, 
 With boundless hopes of boundless gain. 
 Juno, sheslipp'd down the hedge, 
 But left her sacred word for pledge ; 
 That all she pick'd up by-the-by 
 Should to the public treasury. 
 And well they might rely upon her : 
 For Juno was a bitch of honour. 
 
 In short they all had hopes to see 
 
 A heavenly crop of mutiny. 
 
 And so to reaping fell : 
 
 But in a little time they found. 
 
 It was the devil had till'd the ground. 
 
 And brought the seed from bell. 
 
 The pack divided, nothing throve : 
 
 Discord seized the throne of love. 
 
 Want and misery all endure. 
 
 All take pains, and all grow poor. 
 
 When they had toil'd the livelong day. 
 
 And came at night to view their prey, 
 
 Oft, alas ! so ill they sped, 
 
 That half went supperless to bed. 
 
 At length, they all in council sate, 
 
 Where at a very fair debate, 
 
 It was agreed at last. 
 
 That slavery with ease and plenty. 
 
 When hounds were something turn'd of twenty 
 
 Was much a better fate, 
 
 Than 'twas to work and fast. 
 
 1 Play. Well, sir — and what did they do then ? 
 
 j^sop. Why, they all went home to their kennel 
 again. If you think they did wisely, you'll do well 
 to follow their example. lExit. 
 
 1 Play. Well, beagles, what think you of the 
 little gentleman's advice ? 
 
 2 Worn. I think he's a little ugly philosopher, 
 and talks like a fool. 
 
 1 Play. Ah, why, there's it now ! If he had 
 been a tall, handsome blockhead, he had talked 
 like a wise man. 
 
 2 Worn. \A"hy, do you think, Mr. Jowler, that 
 we'll ever join again ? 
 
 1 Play. I do think, sweet Mrs. Juno, that if we 
 do not join again, you must be a little freer of your 
 carcass than you are, or you must bring down your 
 pride to a serge petticoat. 
 
 1 Worn. And do you think, sir, after the affronts 
 I have received, the patent and I can ever be 
 friends ? 
 
 1 Play. I do think, madam, that if my interest 
 had not been more affronted than your face, the 
 patent and you had never been foes. 
 
 1 Worn. And so, sir, then you have serious 
 thoughts of a reconciliation .■■ 
 
 1 Play. Madam, I do believe I may. 
 
 1 fVom. Why then, sir, give me leave to tell 
 you, that — make it my interest, and I'll have seri- 
 ous thoughts on't too. 
 
 2 fVom. Nay, if you are thereabouts, I desire to 
 come into the treaty. 
 
 3 Play. And I. 
 
 4 Play. And I. 
 
 2 Play. And I. No separate peace ; none of 
 your Turin play, I beseech you. 
 
 I Play. Why then, since you are all so chris- 
 tianly disposed, I think we had best adjourn im- 
 mediately to our council-chamber ; choose some 
 potent prince for mediator and guarantee ; fix 
 upon the place of treaty, despatch our plenipos, 
 and whip up the peace like an oyster. For under 
 the rose, my confederates, here is such a damned 
 discount upon our bills, I'm afraid, if we stand it 
 out another campaign, we must live upon slender 
 subsistence. Exeunt. 
 
3U0 
 
 ^SOP. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Mnier a Coimtry Gentleman, who walks to and fro, 
 
 looking angrily upon ^sop. 
 iMsop. Have you any business with me, sir ? 
 Gent. I can't tell whether I have or not. 
 JEsop. You seem disturbed, sir. 
 Gent. I'm always so at the sight of a courtier. 
 ^sop. Pray what may it be that gives you so 
 great an antipathy to 'em ? 
 Gent. My profession. 
 Msop. What's that ? 
 Gent. Honesty. 
 
 ^sop. 'Tis an honest profession. I hope, sir, 
 for the general good of manltind, you are in some 
 public employment. 
 
 Gent. So I am, sir ; no thants to the court. 
 Msop. You are then, I suppose, employed by— 
 Geni. My country. 
 jEsop. Who have made you — 
 Gent. A senator. 
 
 JEsop. Sir, I reverence you. IBomng. 
 
 Gent. Sir, you may reverence as low as you 
 please ; but I shall spare none of you. Sir, I am 
 entrusted by my country witli above ten thousand 
 of their grievances, and in order to redress 'em, 
 my design is to hang ten thousand courtiers. 
 
 Msop. Why, 'tis making short work, I must 
 confess. But are you sure, sir, that would do't ? 
 Gent. Sure ! — ay, sure. 
 Msop. How do you know .' 
 Gent. Why, the whole country says so, and I at 
 the head of 'em. Now let me see who dares say 
 the contrary. 
 
 Msop. Not I, truly. But, sir, if you won't take 
 it ill, I'll ask you a question or two. 
 
 Gent. Sir, I shall take ill what I please ; and if 
 you, or e'er a courtier of you all, pretend the con- 
 trary, I say it's a breach of privilege. Now put 
 your question, if you think fit. 
 
 Msop. Why then, sir, with all due regard to 
 your character, and your privilege too, I would be 
 glad to know what you chiefly complain of? 
 
 Gent, Why, sir, I do chiefly complain, that we 
 have — a great many ships, and very little trade ; a 
 great many tenants, and very little money ; a great 
 many soldiers, and very little fighting ; a great many 
 gazettes, and little good news ; a great many states- 
 men, and very little wisdom ; a great many parsons, 
 and not an ounce of religion. 
 
 Msop. Why truly, sir, I do confess these are 
 grievances very well worth your redressing. I per- 
 ceive you are truly sensible of our diseases, but I'm 
 afraid you are a little out in the cure. 
 
 Gent. Sir, I perceive you take me for a country 
 physician : but you shall find, sir, that a country 
 doctor is able to deal with a court quack ; and to 
 show you that I do understand something of the 
 state of the body politic, I will tell you, sir, that I 
 have heard a wise man say, the court is the sto- 
 mach of the nation , in which, if the business be not 
 thoroughly digested, the whole carcass will be in 
 disorder. Now, sir, I do find by the latitude of 
 the members, and the vapours that fly into the 
 head, that this same stomach is full of indigestions, 
 which must be removed. And therefore, sir, I am 
 come post to town with my head full of crocus 
 metaU'irum. and design to give the court a vomit. 
 Msop. Sir, the physic you mention, though 
 necessary sometimes, is of too violent a nature to 
 
 be used without a great deal of caution. I'm afraid 
 you are a little too rash in your prescriptions. Is 
 it not possible you may be mistaken in the cause 
 of the distemper ? 
 
 Gent. Sir, I do not think it possible I should 
 be mistaken in anything. 
 
 Msop. Have you been long a senator ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 Msop. Have you been much about town ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 Msop. Have you conversed much with men of 
 biisiness ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 Msop. Have you made any serious inquiry into 
 the present disorders of the nation ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 Msop. Have you ever heard what the men now 
 employed in business have to say for themselves .' 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 Msop. How then do you know they deserve to 
 be punished for the present disorders in your affairs? 
 
 Gent. I'll tell you how I know. 
 
 Msop. I would be glad to hear. 
 
 Gent. Why, I know by this — I know it, I say, 
 by this — that I'm sure on't. — And to give you 
 demonstration that I'm sure on't, there's not one 
 man in a good post in the nation — but I'd give my 
 vote to hang him. Now X hope you are convinced. 
 
 Msop. As for example : the first minister of 
 state, why would you hang him ? 
 
 Gent. Because he gives bad counsel. 
 
 Msop. How do you know ? 
 
 Gent. Why they say so. 
 
 Msop. And who would you put in his room ? 
 
 Gent. One that would give better. 
 
 Msop. Who's that ? 
 
 Gent. Myself. 
 
 Msop. The secretary of state, why would you 
 hang him ? 
 
 Gent, Because he has not good intelligence. 
 
 JEsop. How do you know ? 
 
 Gent. I have heard so. 
 
 Msop. And who would you put in his place ? 
 
 Gent. My father. 
 
 Msop. The treasurer, why would you hang him ? 
 
 Gent. Because he does not understand his busi- 
 ness. , 
 
 Msop. How do you know ? 
 
 Gent. I dreamt so. 
 
 Msop. And who would you have succeed him ? 
 
 Gent. My uncle. 
 
 Msop. The admiral, why would you hang him ? 
 
 Gent. Because he has not destroyed the enemies, 
 
 Msop. How do you know he could do it ? 
 
 Gent. Why, I believe so. 
 
 JEsop. And who would you have command in his 
 
 Gent. My brother. 
 
 Msop. And the general, why would you hanghim ? 
 
 Gent. Because he tools: ne'er a town last cam- 
 paign. 
 
 Msop. And how do you know ' twas in his power .' 
 
 Gent. Why I don't care a souse whether it was 
 in his power or not. But I have a son at home, a 
 brave chopping lad ; he's been captain in the mi- 
 litia these twelve months, and I'd be glad to see 
 him in his place. What do ye stare for, sir ? ha ! 
 Egad I tell you he'd scour all to the devil. He's 
 none of your fencers, none of your sa-sa men. 
 Numphs is downright, that's his play. You may 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 ^SOP. 
 
 391 
 
 see his courage in his face : he has a pair of cheeks 
 like two bladders, a nose as fiat as jour hand, and 
 a forehead like a bull. 
 
 ^sop. In short, sir, I find if you and your family 
 were provided for, things would soon grow better 
 than they do. 
 
 Gent. And so they would, sir. Clap me at 
 the head of the state, and Numphs at the head of 
 the army ; he with his club-musket, and I with 
 my club-headpiece, we'd soon put an end to your 
 business. 
 
 Msop. I believe you would indeed. And there- 
 fore since I happen to be acquainted with your 
 extraordinary abilities, I am resolved to give the 
 king an account of you, and employ my interest 
 with him, that you and your son may have the 
 posts you desire. 
 
 Gent. Will you, by the Lord ? — Give me your 
 fist, sir — the only honest courtier that ever I met 
 with in my life. 
 
 Msop. But, sir, when I have done you this 
 mighty piece of service, I shall have a small request 
 to beg of you, which I hope you won't refuse me. 
 
 Gent. What's that ? 
 
 ^sop. Why 'tis in behalf of the two officers 
 who are to be displaced to make room for you and 
 your son. 
 
 Gent. The secretary and the general ? 
 
 Msop. The same. 'Tis pity they should be 
 quite out of business ; I must therefore desire 
 you'll let me recommend one of 'em to you for 
 your bailifT, and t'other for your huntsman. 
 
 Gent. My baihff and my huntsman ! — Sir, that's 
 not to be granted. 
 
 Msop. Pray, why? 
 
 Gent. Why 1 — ^because one would ruin my land, 
 and t'other would spoil my fox-hounds. 
 
 jF.sop. Why do you think so ? 
 
 Gent. Why do I think so ! — These courtiers 
 will ask the strangest questions ! — ^Why, sir, do 
 you think that men bred up to the state and the 
 army, can understand the business of ploughing 
 and hunting ? 
 
 Msop. I did not know but they might. 
 
 Gent. How could you think so ? 
 
 Msop. Because I see men bred up to ploughing 
 and hunting, understand the business of the state 
 and the army. 
 
 Gent. I'm shot — I ha'nt one word to say for 
 myself — I never was so caught in my life. 
 
 jEsop. I perceive, sir, by your looks what I 
 have said has made some impression upon yt)u ; 
 and would perhaps do more if you would give it 
 leave. — ^Takinff his hand.'] Come, sir, though I 
 am a stranger to you, I can be your friend ; my 
 favour at court does not hinder me from being a 
 lover of my country. 'Tis my nature as well as 
 principles to be pleased with the prosperity of 
 mankind. I wish all things happy, and my study 
 is to make them so. The distempers of the 
 government (which I own are great) have em- 
 ployed the stretch of my understanding, and 
 the deepest of my thoughts, to penetrate the 
 cause, and to find out the remedy. But, alas ! all 
 the product of my study is this: — that I find there 
 is too near a resemblance between .the diseases of 
 the state and those of the body, for the most 
 expert minister to become a greater master in one 
 than the college is in t'other : and how far their 
 skill extends you may see by this lump upon my 
 
 back. Allowances in all professions there must be, 
 since 'tis weak man that is the weak professor. 
 Believe me, senator, for I have seen the proof 
 on't ; the longest beard amongst us is a fool. 
 Could you but stand behind the curtain, and there 
 observe the secret springs of state, you'd see in all 
 the good or evil that attends it, ten ounces of 
 chance for one grain either of wisdom or roguery. 
 You'd see, perhaps, a venerable statesman 
 Sit fast asleep in a great downy chair ; 
 Whilst in that soft vacation of his thought. 
 Blind chance (or what at least we blindly call so) 
 Shall so dispose a thousand secret wheels, 
 That when he wakes he needs but write his name. 
 To publish to the world some bless'd event. 
 For which his statue shall be raised in brass. 
 Perhaps a moment thence you shall behold him 
 Torturing his brain ; his thoughts all stretch'd upon 
 The rack for public service : the livelong night, 
 When all the world's at rest. 
 Consumed in care, and watching for their safety, 
 When by a whirlwind in his fate. 
 In spite of him some mischief shall befal 'em, 
 For which a furious sentence straight shall pass. 
 And they shall vote him to the scaffold. 
 Even thus uncertain are rewards and punishments ; 
 And even thus little do the people know 
 When 'tis the statesman merits one or t'other. 
 
 Gent. Now I do believe I am beginning to be 
 a wise man ; for I never till now perceived I was a 
 fool. But do you then really believe, sir, our men 
 in business do the best they can ? 
 
 .iEsop. Many of 'em do : some perhaps do not. 
 But this you may depend npon ; he that is out of 
 business is the worst judge in the world of him that 
 is in : first, because he seldom knows anything of 
 the matter : and, secondly, because he always 
 desires to get his place. 
 
 Gent. And so, sir you turn the tables upon the 
 plantiff, and lay the fool and knave at his door. 
 
 jEsop. If I do him wrong, I'm sorry for't. 
 Let him examine himself, he'll find whether I do 
 or not. lExit. 
 
 Gent, Examine ! — I think I have had enough 
 of that already. There's nothing left, that I know 
 of, but to give sentence : and truly I think there's 
 no great difficulty in that. A very pretty fellow I 
 am indeed ! Here am I come bellowing and roar- 
 ing two hundred miles post to find myself an ass ; 
 when with one quarter of an hour's consideration 1 
 might have made the self-same discovery, without 
 going over my threshold. Well! if ever they send 
 me on their errand to reform the state again, I'll 
 . be damned. But this I'll do : I'll go home and 
 reform my family if I can : them I'm sure I know. 
 There's my father's a peevish old coxcomb : there's 
 my uncle's a drunken old sot : there's my bro- 
 ther's a cowardly bully ; son Numphs is a lubberly 
 whelp : I've a great ramping daughter, that stares 
 like a heifer ; and a wife's that's a slatterrdy sow. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter a young, gay. airy Beau, ty/io utands smiling 
 
 contemptibly upon iEsop. 
 
 Msop. Well, sir, wl>at are you ? 
 JSean. A fool. 
 
 JEsop. That's impossible ; — for if thou viei't 
 thou'dst think thvself a wise man. 
 
392 
 
 JESOP. 
 
 Beau. So I do. — This is my own opinion — the 
 t'other's my neighbours'. C Walking airily about. 
 
 jEsop. [Gazing after Aim.! Have you any 
 business with me, sir ? 
 
 Beau. Sir, I have business with nobody ; plea- 
 sure's my study. 
 
 jEsop. [Aside.] An odd fellow this ! — [Aloud.'] 
 Pray, sir, who are you ? 
 
 Beau. I can't tell. 
 
 ^sop. Do you know who I am ? 
 
 Beau. No, sir ; I'm a favourite at court} and I 
 neither know myself nor anybody else. 
 .jEsop. Are you in any employment ? 
 
 Beau. Yes. 
 
 jEsop. What is't ? 
 
 Beau. I don't know the name on't. 
 
 JEsop. You know the business on't, I hope ? 
 
 Beau. That I do — ^the business of it is^to-^ 
 put in a deputy, and receive the money. 
 
 JEsop. Pray what may be your name ? 
 
 Beau. Empty. 
 
 jEsop. Where do you live ? 
 
 Beau. In the side-box. 
 
 jEsop. What do you do there ? 
 
 Beau. I ogle the ladies. 
 -.^sop. To what purpose ? 
 
 Beau. To no purpose. 
 
 JEsop. Why then do you do it ? 
 
 Beau. Because they like it, and I like it. 
 
 JEsop, Wherein consists the pleasure "i 
 
 Beau. In playing the fool. 
 
 JEsop. Pray sir, what age are you? , 
 
 Beau. Five-and-twenty, my body ; my head's 
 about fifteen. 
 
 JEsop. Is your father living .' 
 
 Beau. Dead, thank God. 
 
 JEsop. Has he been long so ? 
 
 Beau. Positively yes. 
 
 JEsop. Where were you brought up ? 
 
 Beau. At school. 
 
 JEsop. What school .' 
 
 Beau. The school of Venus. 
 
 JEsop. Were you ever at the university ? 
 
 Beau. Yes. 
 
 jEsop. What study did you follow there ? 
 
 Beau. My bed maker. 
 
 JEsop. How long did you stay ? 
 
 Beau. Till I had lost my maidenhead. 
 
 JEsop. Why did you come away .' 
 
 Beau. Because I was expelled. 
 
 .Xsop. Where did you go then ? 
 
 Beau. To court. 
 
 jExop. Who took care of your education there ? 
 
 Beau. A whore and a dancing-master. 
 
 JEsop. What did you gain by them ? 
 
 Beau. A minuet and the pox. 
 
 JEsop. Have you an estate ? 
 
 Beau. I had. 
 
 Msop. What's become on't ? 
 
 Beau. Spent. 
 
 JEsop. In wnat ? 
 
 Beau. In a twelvemonth. 
 
 .iEsop. But how ? 
 
 Beau. Why, in dressing, drinking, whoring, 
 claps, dice, and scriveners. What do you think 
 of me now, old gentleman ? 
 
 JEsop. Pray what do you think of yourself? 
 
 Beau. I don't think at all : I know how to be- 
 stow my time better. 
 
 -Esop. Are you married ? 
 
 Beau. No — ^have you ever a daughter to bestow 
 upon me ? 
 
 j^,sop. She would be well bestowed ! 
 
 Beau. Why, I'm & strong young do'g, you old 
 put,. you : she may be worse coupled. 
 
 jEsop. Have you then a mind to a wifej sir ? 
 
 Beau. Yaw, min Heer. 
 
 JEsop. What would you do with her ? 
 
 Beau. Why, I'd take care of her affairs, rid 
 her of all her troubles, h6r maidenhead, and her 
 portion. 
 
 jEsop. And pray what sort of wife wduld you be 
 willing to throw yourself away upon .'' 
 
 Beau. Why, upon one that has youth; beauty, 
 quality, virtue, wit, and money. . , 
 
 !/Esop. And how may jou be qualified your- 
 self, to back you in your pretensions to such a 
 one ,? 
 
 Beau. Why, I am qualified with — a periwig — a 
 snuffbox — a feather — a — smooth fac,e — a fool's head 
 -^and a patch. 
 
 JEsop. But one question more : what settle- 
 ments can you make } 
 
 Beau. Settlements ! — why, if she be a very great 
 heiress indeed, I believe I may settle-^myself upon 
 her for life, and my pox upon her children for 
 ever. 
 
 jEsop. 'Tis enough ; you may expect I'll serve 
 you, if it lies in my way. But I would not have 
 you rely too much upon your success, because 
 people sometimes are mistaken ; as for example — 
 
 An ape there was- of nimble parts, 
 
 A great intruder into hearts, 
 
 As brisk, and gay, and fall of air. 
 
 As you, or I, or any here ; 
 
 Rich in his dress, of splendid show. 
 
 And with a head like any beau : 
 
 Eternal mirth was in his face ; 
 
 Where'er he went. 
 
 He was content. 
 
 So Fortune had but kindly sent 
 
 Some ladies — and a looking-glass. 
 
 Encouragement they always gave him, 
 
 Encouragement to play the fool ; 
 
 For soon they found it was a tool. 
 
 Would hardly be so much in love. 
 
 But that the mumbling of a glove, 
 
 Or tearing of a fan, would save him. 
 
 These bounties he accepts as proof 
 Of feats done by his wit and youth. 
 Ke gives their freedom gone for ever, 
 Concludes each female heart undone, 
 Except that very happy one. 
 To which he'd please to do the favour. 
 In short, so smooth his matters went. 
 He guess'd, where'er his thoughts were benU 
 The lady he must carry. 
 So put on a fine new cravat, 
 He.comb'd his wig, he cock'd his hat. 
 And gave it out he'd marry. 
 But here, alas ! he found to's cost. 
 He had reckon'd long without his host : 
 For wheresoe'er he made the attack. 
 Poor pug with shame was beaten back. 
 
 The first fair she he had in chace, 
 Was a yoiing cat, extremely rich, 
 Her mother was a noted witch; 
 So had the daughter proved but civil, 
 He had been related to the devil. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 ^SOP. 
 
 3!)3 
 
 But when he came 
 To urge his iiame, 
 She scratch'd him o'er the i^ace. 
 
 With that he went among the hitches, 
 Such as had beauty, wit, and riches, 
 And swore Miss Maulken, to her cost. 
 Should quickly see .what she had lost : 
 But the poor unlucky sWain 
 Miss'd his shepherdess again ; 
 His fate was to miscarry. 
 It was his destiny to find, 
 That cats and dogs are of a mind, 
 When monkeys come to marry. 
 
 Beau. 'Tis very well ; — 'tis very well, old spark : 
 I say 'tis very well. Because I han't a pair of plod 
 shoes and a dirty shirt, you thinly a woman won't 
 venture upon me for a husband. Why now to 
 show you, old father, how, little you philosophers 
 know of thfe ladies — I'll tell you an adventure of a 
 friend of mine. 
 
 A band, a bob-wig, arid a featherj 
 Attack'd a lady's heart together ; 
 The bfind in a most learned plea, 
 Afad?. up of deep philosophy. 
 Told her, if she would please to wed 
 A reverend beard, and take instead 
 Of vigorous youth, 
 Old solemn truth. 
 
 with books and morals into bed. 
 How happy she would be. 
 
 The Bob he talk'd of management, 
 What wondrous blessings heaven Sent 
 On care, and pains, and industry ; 
 And truly he must be so free, 
 To owi^ he thought yo.ur airy beaux. 
 With powder d wigs and dancing shoes; 
 Were good for nothing (mend his soul !) 
 But prate, and talk, and play the fool. 
 
 He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirthi 
 And that to be the dearest wife 
 Of one who labour'd all his life. 
 To make a mine of gold his own, 
 And not spend sixpence when he'd done. 
 Was heaven upon earth. 
 
 When theSe two blades had "dase, d'ye ^ee. 
 The feather (as it might be me) 
 Stejis out; ^ir, from behind the screen. 
 With such an air, and such a mien, 
 Look you, old gentleman, in short. 
 He Quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport. 
 
 It proved such sunshine weather, 
 That you .must know, at the first beck 
 The lady leap'd about his neck, 
 And off they went together. 
 
 There's a tale for your tale; old di(d, and so — 
 serviteuT 1 lUxU. 
 
THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Don Feux de Cabreua, a Gentleman of Valencia. 
 
 Don Pedro Osorio, '| 
 
 Don Guzman db Torrbllas, KLovei's o/Leonora. 
 
 Don John dk Altarada, j 
 
 Lopez, Servant to Don John. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONjE. 
 
 Galindo, Servant to Don Guzman. 
 
 Leonora, Daughter to Don Feltx. 
 Isabella, her Friend, and Sister to Gitzmak. 
 Jacinta, Maid to Leonora. 
 
 SCENE,— Valencia. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SFOEEN BY CAPT. GRIFFIN'. 
 
 Yon dread reformers of an impious age, 
 You awful cat-a-nine tails to the stage, 
 This once be just, and in our cause engage. 
 To gain your favour, we your rules obey, 
 And treat you with a moral piece to-day ; 
 So moral, we're afraid *twiU damn the play. 
 
 For though ye have long been leagued (as people 
 tell) 
 To reduce the power exorbitant of hell ; 
 No troops you send; to abate it in this field, 
 But leave us still exposed, to starve or yield. 
 Your scouts indeed sometimes come stealing in. 
 To observe this formidable camp of sin, 
 And whisper, if we'll piously declare, 
 What aids you then will send to help us through 
 the war. 
 
 To this we answer. We're a feeble state, 
 And cannot well afford to love or hate. 
 So should not meddle much in your debate. 
 But since your cause is good, thus far we'll 
 
 go. 
 When Portugal declares, we'll do so too. 
 Our cases, as we think, are much aliUe, 
 And 00 the same conditions we should strike ; 
 Send to their aid a hundred men-of-war. 
 To ours a hundred squadrons of the fair ; 
 
 Rig out your wives and daughters all around, 
 (I mean who are fit for service, tight and sound^ 
 And for a proof our meaning is sincere. 
 See but the ships are good, and if you fear 
 A want of equipage, we'll man them here. 
 
 These are the terms, on which you may engage 
 The poet's fire, to batter from the stage. 
 Useful ally ! whose friendship lets you in 
 Upon the weak and naked side of sin ; 
 Against your old attack, the foe's prepared, 
 Well fortified, and always on his guard ; 
 The sacred shot you send are flung in vain ; 
 By impious hands, with insolent disdain, 
 They're gather'd up, and fired at you again. 
 Through bafiled toils, and unsuccessful cares. 
 In slaughter, blood, and wounds, and pious snares. 
 Ye have made a Flanders war these fifteen hundred 
 
 years. 
 Change then your scheme, if you'd your foe annoy, 
 And the infernal Bajazet destroy : 
 Our aid accept. 
 
 We have gentler stratagems which may succeed ; 
 We'll tickle 'em, where you would make 'em bleed: 
 In sounds less harsh we'll teach 'em to obey ; 
 In softer strains the evil spirit lay, 
 And steal their immorality away. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 /^: 
 
 SCENE I Don John's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Don John heating Lopez. 
 
 -bjD. Hold, sir, hold ; there's enough in all con- 
 science ; l!m reasonable, I ask no more ; I'm 
 content. 
 
 Don John. Then there's double content, you 
 dog, and a brace of contents more into the bargain. 
 Now is't well .■* [Striking again and again. 
 
 Lop. mighty well, sir, you'll never mend it ; 
 pray leave it as 'tis. 
 
 Don John. Look you, you jackanapes, if ever I 
 hear an offer at your impertinent advice again—/ 
 
 Lop. And why, sir, will you stifle the most 
 useful of my quaUfioations ? 
 
 Don John. Either, sirrah, I pass for a very great 
 blockhead with you, or you are pleased to reckon 
 much upon my patience. 
 
THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 395 
 
 Lop. "Your patience, sir, indeed is great ; I feel 
 at this time forty proofs on't upon my shoulders. 
 But really, sir, I would advise you to — 
 
 Don John. Again ! I oan bear thee no longer. 
 Here, pen and ink, I'll give thee thy discharge. 
 Did I take you for a valet, or a privy.counsellor, 
 sir? 
 
 Lop. 'Tis confessed, sir, you took me but for 
 humble employment ; but my intention was agree- 
 ably to surprise you with some superior gifts of 
 nature, to your faithful slave. I profess, my noble 
 master, a most perfect knowledge of men and man- 
 ners. Yours, gracious sir, (with all respect I 
 speak it) are not irreprehensible. And I'm afraid 
 in time, sir, I am indeed, they'll wriggle you into 
 some ill-favoured affair, whence with all my under- 
 standing I shall be puzzled to bring you off. 
 
 Don John. Very well, sir. 
 
 Lop. And therefore, sir, it is, that 1 (poof Lopez 
 as I am) sometimes take leave to moralise. 
 
 Don John. Go, go, moralise in the market-place; 
 I'm quite worn out. Once more, march. 
 
 Lop. Is the sentence definitive ? 
 
 Don John. Positive. 
 
 Lop. Then pray let us come to account, and see 
 what wages are due. 
 
 Don John. Wages I Refund what you have had, 
 you rascal you, for the plague you have given me. 
 
 Lop. Nay, if I must lose my money, then let 
 me claim another right ; losers have leave to speak. 
 Therefore advance, my tongue, and say thy plea- 
 sure ; tell this master of mine, he should die with 
 shame at the life he leads : so much unworthy of a 
 man of honour. Tell him — 
 
 Don John. I'll hear no more. 
 
 Lop. You shall indeed, sir. 
 
 Don John. Here, take thy money and begone. 
 
 Lop. Counters all ; adieu you glistering spangles 
 of the world ! farewell ye tempters of the great ; 
 not me ! Tell him — 
 
 Don John. Stay. ^ 
 
 Lop. Go on. — Tell him he's worse among the 
 women than a ferret among the rabbits ; at one and 
 all, from the princess to the tripe-woraan ; hand- 
 some, ugly, old women and children, all go down.\ 
 
 Don-John. Very well. 
 
 Lop. It is indeed, sir, and so are the stories you 
 tell them to bring them to your matters. The 
 handsome, she's all divinity to be sure ; the ugly, 
 she's so agreeable, were it not for her virtue, she'd 
 be overrun with lovers ; the light airy flipflap, she 
 kills him with her motions ; the dull heavy-tailed 
 maukin melts him down with her modesty ; the 
 scragged lean pale face has a shape for destruction ; 
 the fat overgrown sow has an air of importance ; 
 the tall awkward trapes with her majesty wounds ; 
 t^e little short trundle-tail shoots a je-ne-sais-guoi: 
 in a word, they have all something for him — and 
 he has something for 'em all. 
 
 Don John. And thus, you fool, by a general 
 attack, I keep my heart my own ; lie with them 
 that like me, and care not sixpence for them that 
 don't. 
 
 Lop. Well said, well said, a very pretty amuse- 
 ment truly ! But pray, sir, by your leave (cere- 
 mony aside) since you are pleased to clear up into 
 conversation, what mighty matters do you expect 
 from boarding a woman you know is already heart 
 and soul engaged to another .' 
 
 Don John. Why I expect her heart and soul 
 
 should disengage in a week. If you live a little 
 longer with me, sirrah, you'll know how to instruct 
 your next master to the purpose ; and therefore 
 that I may charitably equip you for a new service, 
 now I'm turning you out of my own, I'll let you 
 know, that when a woman loves a man best, she's 
 in the most hopeful way of betraying him ; for 
 love, like fortune, turns upon a wheel, and is very 
 much given to rising and falling. 
 
 Lop. Like enough. But as much upon the 
 weathercock as the ladies are, there are some the 
 wind must blow hard to fetch them about. When 
 such a sturdy hussy falls in your honour's way, 
 what account may things turn to then, an't please 
 ye? 
 
 Don John. They turn to a bottle, you puppy. 
 
 Lop. I find they'll always tui-n to something ; 
 but when you pursue a poor woman only to make 
 her lover jealous, what pleasure can you take in 
 that? 
 
 Don John. That pleasure. 
 
 Lop. Look you there again ! 
 
 Don John. Why, sirrah, d'you think there's no 
 pleasure in spoiling their sport, when 1 can't make 
 my own ? 
 
 Lop. Oh ! to a good-natured man, be sure there 
 must ; but suppose, instead of fending and proving 
 with his mistress, he should come to — a — parrying 
 and thrusting with you ; what becomes of your 
 joy then, my noble master ? 
 
 Don John. Why do you think I'm afraid to 
 fight, you rascal ? 
 
 Lop. 1 thought we were talking of what we loved, 
 not what we feared, sir. 
 
 Don John. Sir, I love everything that leads to 
 what I love most. 
 
 Lop. I know, sir, you have often fought upon 
 these occasions. 
 
 Don John. Therefore that has been no stop to 
 my pleasures. 
 
 Lop. But you have never been killed once, sir ; 
 and when that happens, yim will for ever lose the 
 pleasure of — 
 
 Don John. [SlriJcing /zim.] Breaking your 
 head, you rascal, which will afflict me heartily. 
 • — ^Knocking at the door.'] See who knocks so 
 hard. 
 
 Lop. Somebody that thinks I can hear no better 
 than you think I can feel. 
 
 Enter- Don Guzman. 
 
 Don Guz. Don John de Alvarada, is he here ? 
 
 Lop. There's the man. — lAside.l Show me 
 such another if you can find him. 
 
 Don Guz. Don John, I desire to speak with you 
 alone. 
 
 Don John.- You may speak before this fellow, 
 sir ; he's trusty. 
 
 Don Guz. 'Tis an affair of honour, sir. 
 
 Don John. Withdraw, Lopez. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.'] Behind the door I will, and no 
 farther. This fellow looks as if he came to save 
 me a broken head. IRetircs. 
 
 Don Guz. I call myself Don Guzman de Tor- 
 rellas, you know what blood I spring from ; I am 
 a cadet, and by consequence not rich ; but I am 
 esteemed by men of honour: I have been forward 
 to expose myself in battles abroad, and I have met 
 with applause in our feasts at home. 
 
 Lop. So much by way of introduction, lAside, 
 
S9G 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Don John. I understand your merit, sir, and 
 should be glad to do as much by your business. 
 
 Don Gux. Give attention, and you'll be in- 
 structed. I love Leonora, and from my youth have 
 done so. Long she rejected my sighs, and despised 
 my tears, but my constancy at last has vanquished. 
 1 have found the way to h^r heart, and nothing is 
 wanting to complete , my joy but the consent of 
 her father, whom I cannot yet convince, that the 
 wants in my fortune are recompensed by thp merits 
 of my person. , 
 
 Lop. He's a very dull fellow indeed. . iAside. 
 
 Don Guz.^ In the meanwhile the object, of my 
 vows is a sharer in my grieif, and the only cordial 
 we have is the pleasure of a secret conversation, 
 through a small breach Ij have made \n a: thin par- 
 tition that divides our lodgings. I trust you, Don 
 John, with this important secret ; friend pr enemy, 
 you are noble, thereifore keep it, I charge your 
 honour with it. 
 
 Lop. You could not put it in better hands. 
 
 Don Gnz. But more, my passion for this lady is 
 not hid ; all Valencia is acquainted with my wishes, 
 and approves my choice. Ybu alone, John de 
 Alvarada, seemipg ignorant of my vows, dare 
 traverse my amour. 
 Don John. Go on. 
 
 Lop. These words import war ; lie close, Lopez. 
 
 [^ ^ide. 
 Don Gu». You ftre the Argus of our street, and 
 the spy of Leonora ; whether Diana, by her bor- 
 rowed light, supplies the absence of the Astrea of 
 day, or that the shades of night cover the earth 
 witl^ impenetrable darkness ; you still attendtill 
 Aurora's return, under the balcoiiy of that adorable 
 beauty. 
 
 Don John. So. 
 
 Don Guz. Wherever she moves, you still follow 
 as her shalidw, at church, at plays ; be her business 
 with heayen or earth, your importunity is such, 
 you'll share it. 
 
 Lop. He is a forward fellow, that's the truth on't 
 
 \_Aside. 
 Don Guz. But what's still farthei-, you take the 
 liberty to copy me ; my words, my actions, every 
 motion is no sooner mine, but ybiirs. In short, 
 you ape me, Don; and to that point, I once, de- 
 signed to ^tab myself, and try if yod would follow 
 me in that too. 
 
 Lop. No, there the monkey would have left you. 
 
 [,Asidti. 
 Don Gtii:. But to conclude. 
 Don Johri. 'Tis time. 
 
 Don Guz. My patience, Don, is now no more ; 
 and I pronounce, that if henceforth 1 find you 
 under Leonora's window, who never wished, forid 
 man, to see you there, I by the ways of honour 
 shall fix you in another station. I leave you to 
 consider on't. Farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Don John. Hold, sir, we had e'en as good do 
 this honourable deed now. 
 
 Re-enU7' Lopez. 
 Lop. No, pray, sir, let him go, and may be you 
 mayn't have occasion to do it at all. 
 
 Don John. I thought at first the coxcomb came 
 upon another subject, which would have embar- 
 rassed me much more. 
 
 Lop. Now this was a subject would have em- 
 barrassed me enough in all conscience. 
 
 Don John. I was afraid he came to forbid me 
 seeing his sister Isabella, with whom I'm upon 
 very good terms. 
 
 Lop. Why now that's a hard case, when you 
 have got a man's sister, you can't leave him his 
 mistress. . 
 
 Don John. No, changeling, I hate him enough, 
 to love every woman that belongs to hinl : and the 
 fool has so provoked me by his threatening, that I 
 believe I shall have a stroke at his mother before I 
 think myself even with him. 
 
 Lap. A most admirable Way to make up accounts 
 truly ! , , 
 
 Don John. A . son of » whore J 'sdeath, I did 
 not care sixpence for the slut before, but now I'll 
 haveher maidenhead in a week, for fear the rogue 
 should marry her in ten days; 
 
 Lop. Mum ; here's her . father : I'll warrant 
 this old spark comes to correct our way of living 
 too. , - t. . 
 
 Enter Don Fklix, 
 
 Don Fel. Don John 
 
 Don John. Don Felix, do I see you m my poor 
 dwelling ? Pray, to what lucky accident do I owe 
 this honour ? 
 
 Don Fel. That I may speak to you without 
 constraintj-pray sehd away your servant. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.'\ What the pox have I done to 
 them, they are all so uneasy at my company ! 
 
 Don John. Give us chairs, and . leave the room. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.'] If this old fellow cbmSs to 
 quarrel with us tooj he'll at least do us less harm. 
 
 Don Fel. Won't you retire, friend ? 
 
 [Looking behind. 
 
 Don John. Begone, sirrah ! 
 
 Lop. \_Aside.'] Pox take ye, you old prig you ! 
 But I shall be even with you I IHiies himself, 
 
 Don Fel. You know me, sir ? 
 
 Donifflhn. I do, sir. 
 
 Don Fel. That I call iuyself— 
 
 Don John. Don Felix. 
 
 Don Fel. That I am of the house of — 
 
 Don John. Cabrera, one of the first of Valencia. 
 
 Don Fel. That my estate is — 
 
 Don John. Great. 
 
 Don Fel. You know that I have some repu- 
 tation in the world. 
 
 Don John. I know your reputation equals your 
 birth. , 
 
 Don Fel. And you are not ignorant, that heaven 
 for the consolation of my grey hairs has given me 
 an only daughter,. who is not deformed. 
 
 Don John. Beauteous as light. 
 
 Don Fel. Weil shaped, witty, and endowed 
 with' — . . 
 
 Don John. All the good qualities of mind and 
 body. 
 
 Don Fel. Since you are satisfied with all this, 
 hearken, I pray, with attention, to the business 
 that brings me hither. 
 
 Don John I shall. 
 
 Don Fel. We all know, Don John, some by their 
 own experience, some by that of others, how nice 
 a gentleman's honour is, and how easily tarnished ; 
 an eclaircissement managed with prudence, often 
 prevents misfortunes that perhaps might be upon 
 the point of attending us. I have thought it my 
 duty to acquaint you, that I have seen your designs 
 upon my daughter. You pass nights entire under 
 her window, as if you were searching an oppor- 
 
THE FALSE FRIEND, 
 
 397 
 
 tunity to get into noy house ; there is nobody in 
 the town but has taken notice of your proceedings ; 
 you give the public a subject for disadvantageous 
 discourse j and though in reality Leonora's virtue 
 receives no prejudice by it, her reputation daily 
 runs some risk. My years have taught me to judge 
 right of things : and yet I have not been able to 
 decide what your end can be ; you can't regard 
 my daughter on a foot of gallantry, you know her 
 virtue and my birth too well ; and for a wife you 
 seem to have no thought, since you have yet made 
 no demand to me : what then is your intention ? 
 You have heard perhaps, I have hearkened to a 
 gentleman of Toledo, a man of merit. I own I 
 have, and I expect him daily here ; but, Don John, 
 if 'tis that which hinders you from declaring in 
 form, I'll ease you of a great deal of trouble, which 
 the customs of the world impose upon these occa- 
 sions, and in a word, I'll break with him, and give 
 you Leonora. 
 
 Lop. \_Aside.'\ Good. 
 
 Don Fel. You don't answer me ! what is't that 
 troubles you ? 
 
 Don John. That I have been such a sot, old 
 gentleman, to hear you with so much patience. 
 
 \_Rising. 
 Don Fel. How, Don ! I'm more astonished at 
 your answer than t was with your silence. 
 
 Don John. Astonished ! why han't you talked 
 to me of marriage ? He asks me to marry, and 
 wonders what I complain of ! 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis well — 'tis well, Don John, the 
 outrage is violent ! You insult me in your own 
 house. But know, sir — \_Rising. 
 
 Don John. But know, sir, there needs no quarrel, 
 if you please, sir ; I like your daughter very well ; 
 but for marrying her — serviteur. 
 
 Don Fel. Don Guzman deTorrellas has not less 
 merit than you, Don. 
 
 Don John. Agreed ; what then ? 
 Don Fel. And yet I have refused him my 
 daughter. 
 
 Don John. Why ttien you have used him better 
 
 than you have done me, which I takeveryunkindly, 
 
 Don Fel. I have used you, sii- — 
 
 Don John. Used me, sir ! you have used me 
 
 very ill, to come into my own house to seduce 
 
 me. 
 
 Don Fel. What extravagance ! 
 Don John. What persecution ! 
 Don Fel. Am I then to have no other answer ? 
 Don John. Methijiks you have enough in all 
 conscience. 
 
 Don Fel. Promise me at least you'll cease to 
 love my daughter. 
 
 Don John. I won't affront your family so far 
 neither. 
 
 Lop. Egad my master shines to-day. \_Aside. 
 
 Don Fel. Know, Don. that I can bear no more. 
 
 Lop. If he could, I think there's no more to lay 
 
 upon him. lAside. 
 
 Don Fel. If I find you continue to importune 
 
 Leonora, I shall find a way to- satisfy my offended 
 
 honour, and punish your presumption. 
 
 Don John. You shall do what you please to me 
 provided you don't marry me. 
 
 Don Fel. Know, Alvarada, there are ways to 
 revenge such outrageous affronts as these. 
 Don John. 1 won't marry. 
 Don Fel. 'Tis enough. [Exit. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.'] So; the old fellow's gone at last, 
 and has carried great content along with him, 
 Don John, Lopez. ' 
 
 Re-enter Lopez. 
 
 Lap. Sir--- 
 
 Don John. What dost think ? he would hava 
 married me 1 
 
 Lop. Yes, he had found his man. But you have 
 been even with him. 
 
 Don John, What, thou hast heard us then ? 
 
 Lop. Or I were no valet. But pray what does 
 your honour intend to do now ? Will you con- 
 tinue the siege of a place, where 'tis probable they 
 will daily augment the fortifications, when there 
 are so many open towns you may march into 
 without the trouble of opening the trenches ? 
 
 Don J-ohn. I am ^oing, Lopez, to double my 
 attacks: I'll beat up her quarters six times a-night, 
 I am now downright in love ; the difficulties pique 
 me to the attempt, and I'll conquer or I'll die. 
 
 Lop. Why to confess the truth, sir, I find yo.^ 
 much' upon my taste in this matter; difficulties 
 are the rocambole of love, I never valued an easy 
 conquest in my life. To rouse my fire, the lady 
 must cry out (as softly as ever she can) Have a 
 care my dear, mymother has seen us ; my brothers 
 suspect me ; my husband may surprise us : oh, 
 dear heart, have a care, I pray ! Then I play the 
 devil : but when I come to a fair-one, where I may 
 hang up my cloak upon a peg, get into my gown, 
 and slippers — 
 
 Don John. Impudent rogue I \^Aside. 
 
 Lop. See her stretched upon the couch in great 
 security, with- — My dear, come kiss me, we have 
 nothing to fear ; I droop, I yawn, I sleep. 
 
 Don John. Well, sir, whatever you do with your 
 fair-one, I am going to be very busy with mine ; I 
 was e'en almost weary of her, but Guzman and this 
 old fellow have revived my dying fire ; and so 
 have at her. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis all mighty well, sir, mighty well, sir, 
 as can be in the world. But if you would have the 
 goodness to consider en passant, or so, a little 
 now and then, about swords and daggers, and 
 rivals and old fellows, and pistols and great guns, 
 and such-like baubles, only now and then at 
 leisure, sir, not to interrupt things of more con- 
 sequence. 
 
 Don John. Thou art a cowardly rascal, I have 
 often considered that. 
 
 Lop. Ay, that's true, sir, and yet a blunderbuss 
 is presently discharged out of a garret window. 
 
 Don John. Come, no more words ; but follow 
 me. — How now ! what impertinence have we here 
 now to stop me ? 
 
 Enter Don Pedro. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis Don Pedro, or I'm a dog. 
 
 Don John. Impossible ! Don Pedro returned ! 
 
 Don Fed. 'Tis I, my dearest friend; I'm come 
 to forget all the miseries of a long absence, in one 
 happy embrace. [They embrace. 
 
 Don John. I'm overjoyed to see you. 
 
 Don Fed. Mine's not to be expressed. — What, 
 friend Lopez here still ! how dost do, Lopez } 
 What, dost not know me } 
 
 Lop. As well as my father's seal, sir, when he 
 sends me a bill of exchange. 
 
 Don Fed. Just as he was, I find galliard still. 
 
398 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Lop. I find it very unwhoksome to be other- 
 wise, sir. 
 
 Don John. You have then quitted the service 
 in Flanders, I suppose. 
 
 Don Ped. 1 have so, friend ; I have left the 
 ensigns of Mars, and am listing myself in a softer 
 militia. 
 
 Don John. Explain, pray. 
 
 Don Ped. Why, when your father's death obliged 
 
 you to leave Brussels, and return hither to the 
 
 plentiful fortune he left yon, I stayed in Flanders, 
 
 very triste for your loss, an^ passed three years in 
 
 the trade of war. About two months since, my 
 
 father writ to me from Toledo, that he was going 
 
 to marry me very advantageously at Valencia. He 
 
 sent me the picture of the lady, and I was so well 
 
 pleased with it, that I immediately got my cong^, 
 
 and embarked at Dunkirk ; I had a quick passage 
 
 to the Groyne, from whence, by the way of Madrid, 
 
 1 am come hither with all the speed I could. I 
 
 I liave, yon must know, been two days in town, but 
 
 I have lain incognito, that I might inform myself 
 
 of the lady's conduct I'm to marry ; and I have 
 
 I discovered that she's served by two cavaliers of 
 
 \ birth and merit. But though they have both given 
 
 '■ many proofs of a most violent passion, I have 
 
 found for the quiet of my honour that this virtuous 
 
 lady, out of modesty or prudence, has shown a 
 
 ! perfect indifference to them and their gallantries ; 
 
 her fortune is considerable, her birth is high, her 
 
 '■ manners irreproachable, and her beauty so great, 
 
 that nothing but my love can equal it. 
 
 Don John. I have hearkened to you, Don Pedro, 
 
 ■with a great deal of attention, and Heaven's my 
 
 , witness I have a mighty joy in seeing you ; but 
 
 I the devil fetch me, it makes my heart bleed to hear 
 
 you are going to be married. 
 
 Don Ped. Say no more of that, I desire you, we 
 
 have always been friends, and I earnestly beg we 
 
 ever may be so ; but I am not come to ask counsel 
 
 about my marriage, my party is taken, and my 
 
 I inquiries have so much heightened my desire, that 
 
 , nothing can henceforth abate it. I must therefore 
 
 I expect from you, dear friend, that you' won't oppose 
 
 i it, but that you'll aid me in hastening the moment 
 
 ' of my happiness. 
 
 I Don John. Since 'tis so impossible for you to 
 
 resolve for your own good, I must submit to what 
 
 . you'll have me. But are not we to know the name 
 
 ' of this pieee of rarity, that is to do you this good 
 
 turn ? 
 I Don Ped. You'll know it presently ; for I'm 
 
 going to carry you to her house. 
 ; Don John. You shall tell me at least who are 
 her two gallants. 
 
 Don Ped. One, they could not tell me his name ; 
 t'other is — But before we talk any more of these 
 affairs, can you let me dispose of Lopez till the 
 return of a servant I sent three days ago to — 
 
 Don John. Carry news of you to papa, I sup- 
 pose. 
 
 Don Ped. You are right ; the good man is 
 thirty leagues off, and I have not seen him this 
 six years. 
 
 Don John. Lopez, do you wait upon Don 
 Pedro. 
 
 Lop. With all my heart — [Aside.l It's at least 
 a suspension of boxes o' th' ear, and kicks n' the 
 backside. 
 
 Don Ped. Then, honest Lopez, with yoiir mas- 
 ter's leave, go to the new inn, the King of France 
 on horseback, and see if my servant's returned ; I'll 
 be there immediately, to charge thee with a com- 
 mission of more importance. 
 
 Lop. I shall perform your orders, sir, both to 
 your satisfaction and my own reputation. iExit. 
 
 Don John. Very quaint. — Well, old acquaint- 
 ance, we are going to be married then ? 'Tis re- 
 solved ; ha ! 
 
 Don Ped. So says my star. 
 
 Don John. The foolishest star that has said any- 
 thing a great while. 
 
 Don Ped. Still the same, I see ! or, more than 
 ever, resolved to love nothing. 
 
 Don John. Love nothing ! why, I'm in Ij.s at 
 this very time. 
 
 Don Ped. With what ? 
 
 Don John. A woman. 
 
 Don Ped. Impossible! 
 
 Don John. True. 
 
 Don Ped. And how came you in love with 
 her.' 
 
 Don John. Why I was ordered not to be in love 
 vfith her. 
 
 Don Ped. Then there's more humour than love 
 in't. 
 
 Don John, There shall be what you please in't : 
 but I shan't quit the gentlewoman till I have con- 
 vinced her there's something in't. 
 
 Don Ped. Mayn't I know her name ? 
 
 Don John. When you have let me into your 
 conjugal affection. ■ 
 
 Don Ped. Pray stay here but till I have sent 
 Lopez to my father-in-law : I'll come back and 
 carry you with me in a moment. 
 
 Don John. I'll expect you. 
 
 Don Ped. Adieu, dear friend ; may I in earnest 
 see you quickly in love. 
 
 Don John. May I, without a jest, see you quickly 
 a widower. — [Exit Don Pedro.] He comes, he 
 says, to marry a woman of quality that has two 
 lovers. — If it should be Leonora ? — But why she ? 
 There are many, I hope, in that condition in 
 Valencia. — I'm a little embarrassed about it, how- 
 ever. — 
 
 Friendship, take heed ; if woman interfere, 
 Be sure the hour of thy destruction's noav. 
 
 lExil 
 
THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 S90 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCEXE I.— Leonora's Apartment. 
 Snter Leonora, Isabella, and Jacinta. 
 
 Leo. Dear Isabella, come in. How I am plagued 
 ■with this troublesome wretch ! — Jacinta, have you 
 shut the outward gates ? 
 
 Jac. I have, madam. 
 
 Leo. Shut the window too ; we shall have him 
 get in there by and by. 
 
 Isab. What's this you are in such apprehensions 
 of, pray ? 
 
 Leo. Xotliing worth naming. 
 
 Isab. You dissemble ; something of love in the 
 case, I'll warrant you. 
 
 Leo. The reverse on't ; 'tis aversion. My imper- 
 tinent star has furnished me with a lover for my 
 guard, who is never from my "window ; he perse- 
 cutes me to distraction ; I affront him fifty times 
 a-day, which he receives with a bow down to the 
 ground : in short, all I can do is doing nothing at 
 all : be still persists in loving me, as much as I 
 hate him. 
 
 Tsab. Have a care he don't get the better on't, 
 for all that ; for when a man loves a woman well 
 enough to persevere, 'tis odds but she at last loves 
 him well enough to make him give it over. But I 
 think I had as good take off my scarf; for since 
 my brother Don Guzman knows I'm with you, he 
 won't quarrel at my return for the length of my 
 ■visit. 
 
 Leo. If he should, I should quarrel with him, 
 which few things else would make me do. But 
 methinks, Isabella, you are a little melancholy. 
 
 Isab. And you a little thoughtful. 
 
 Leo. Pray tell me your affliction. 
 
 Isab. Pray don't conceal yours, 
 
 Leo. Why truly, my heart is not at ease. 
 
 Isab. ]\Iine, I fear, never will. 
 
 Leo. My father's marrying me against my incli- 
 nation. 
 
 Isab. My brother is hindering me from marrying 
 with mine. 
 
 Leo. You know I love your brother, Don Guz- 
 man. 
 
 Isab. And you shall know, I'm uneasy for Don 
 John de Alvarada. 
 
 Leo. Don John ! 
 
 Isab, The same. 
 
 Leo. Have you any reason to hope for a return ? 
 
 Isab. I think so. 
 
 Leo. I'm afraid, my dear, you abuse yourself. 
 
 Isab. Why? 
 
 Leo. Because he is already in love with — 
 
 Isab. Who? 
 
 Leo. Me. 
 
 Isab. I would not have you too positive in that, 
 madam, for I am very sure that — 
 
 Leo. Madam, I am very sure that he's the trou- 
 blesome guest I just now complained of : and you 
 may believe — 
 
 Isab. Madam, I can never believe he's trouble- 
 some to anybody. 
 
 Leo. O dear madam ! But I'm sure I'm forced 
 to keep my windows shut till I'm almost dead with 
 heat, and that I think is troublesome. 
 
 Isab. This mistake is easily set right, Leonora. 
 Our houses join, and when he looks at my window, 
 you fancy 'tis at yours. 
 
 Leo. But when he attacks my door, madam, and 
 almost breaks it down, I don't know how in the 
 world to fancy 'tis yours. 
 
 Isab. A man may do that to disguise his real 
 inclination. 
 
 Leo. Nay, if you please, believe he's dying for 
 you. I wish he were ; then I should be troubled 
 no more with him. — Be sure, Jacinta, you don't 
 open a window to-night. 
 
 Isab. Not while I'm here at least ; for if he 
 knows that, he may chance to press in. 
 
 Leo. Look you, Isabella, 'tis entirely alike to 
 me who he's fond of ; but I'm so much your friend, 
 I can't endure to see you deceived. 
 
 Isab. And since I have the same kindness for 
 you, Leonora, know in short, that my brother is so 
 alarmed at his passion for me, that he has forbid 
 him the street. 
 
 Leo. Bless my soul ! and don't you plainly see 
 by that he's jealous of him upon my account? 
 
 Isab. [Smiling.'l He's jealous of his honour, 
 madam, lest he should debauch his sister. 
 
 Leo. I say, he's jealous of his love, lest he should 
 corrupt his mistress. 
 
 Isab. But why all this heat ? If you love mv 
 brother, why are you concerned. Don John should 
 love me ? 
 
 Leo. I'm not concerned ; I have no designs upon 
 him, I care not who he loves. 
 
 Isab. Why then are you angry ? 
 
 Leo. Why do you say he does not care for me ? 
 
 Isab. Well, to content you then, I know nothing 
 certain but that I love him. 
 
 Leo. And to content you, I know nothing so 
 certain, as that I neither love him, nor never can 
 love him. And so I hope we are friends again. 
 
 Isab. Kiss me then, and let us never be other- 
 wise. 
 
 Leo. Agreed. — [They kiss.'] And now my dear, 
 as my misfortune's nearest, I am first to be pitied. 
 I am the most wretched woman living. My father 
 every moment expects a gentleman from Flanders, 
 to whom he has resolved to marry me. But neither 
 duty, nor prudence, nor danger, nor resolution, nor 
 all I can summon to my aid, can drive your brother 
 from my heart ; but there he's fixed to ruin me. 
 
 Jac. Madam, here's Don Guzman at the cham- 
 ber-door ; he begs so passionr.tely to come in, sure 
 you can't refuse him. 
 
 Leo. Heavens ! but does he consider to what he 
 exposes me ? 
 
 Jac. Madam, he considers nothing ; if he did, 
 I'd say he were an impudent fellow to pretend to 
 be in love with you. 
 
 Leo. Shall I venture, Isabella ? 
 
 Isab. You know best. 
 
 Enter Don Guzman. 
 
 Jac. Marry, methinks he knows best of us all, 
 for here he comes. 
 
 Don Ouz. Forgive me, lovely Leonora ; 'tis the 
 last time perhaps that I may beg your pity. My 
 
400 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 rival is not far ; excess of modesty is now our ruin. 
 Break through it, for this moment you have left, 
 and own to your old father how you love. He 
 once did so himself; our scene of sorrow may per- 
 haps reoal some small remembrance of his tender 
 years, and me}t him into mercy, 
 
 Leo. Alas I Don Guzman ! 
 
 Jac. O heavens ! madam— > 
 
 Len. What's the matter? 
 
 J:ac. Y'are undone, here's your father, 
 
 Isab. What an unlucky accident I 
 
 Leo. Has he seen Don Guzman ? 
 
 Jac. Nay, the dense knows. 
 
 Isab, Where shall he hide himself,? 
 
 Jac. In the moon, if he can get thither. 
 
 Enter Don Frlix. 
 
 l^on Gux. I niust e'en stand it now. 
 
 Doit Fel. Good news, my daughter, good new^ ; 
 I come to acquaint you, that — How now ? what's 
 the meaning of this ? Don Guzman in my daughter's 
 jhamher ! 
 
 jpon Guf!. I see your surprise, sir, but yon need 
 ijot be disturbed ; 'twas some sudden business with 
 my sister brought me hei^e.' 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis enough, sir : I'm glad to find 
 you,hei;e ; you ghaUbe a witness that I know how 
 to preserve the honour of my family. 
 
 hon Guz. What mean you, sir? 
 
 Don Eel. To marry Leonora this moment. 
 
 Don Guz,. How say you ? 
 
 Don Fel. I say you shall have nothing left tp 
 ask of me. 
 
 Don Gux. Is't possible ? O Heavens ! what joy 
 I feel. 
 
 Don Fel. Leonora, prepare your hand and heart. 
 
 Leo. They both are ready, sir ; and in giving 
 me the man I love, you charge me with a debt of 
 gratitude can never be repaid. 
 
 Don Gux. [Kneeling.'\ Upon my knees, I thank 
 the best of men, for blessing me with all that's 
 blest in woman. 
 
 Isab. How well that kind, that gentle look be- 
 comes him ! 
 
 Jac. Now methinks he looks like an old rogue ; 
 I don't like his looks. lAside. 
 
 Enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. To all whom it may concern, greeting. 
 Don Pedro Osorio acknowledging himself most 
 unworthy of the honour intended him, in the per- 
 Sfjn of the fair Leonora, addresses himself (by me 
 his small ambassador) to the generosity of Don 
 Felix, for leave to walk in and take possession. 
 
 Don Fel. I had already given order for his 
 entrance. 
 
 Don Guz. What is't I hear ! 
 
 Leo. Support me ! 
 
 Isab. She faints. 
 
 Don Guz. Look, tyrant, here, and if thou canst 
 be cruel ! IHoldinp her. 
 
 Don Fel. Bring in Don Pedro. IBxil Lorsz. 
 
 Don Guz. Barbarian ! 
 
 Jac. Look up, madam, for heaven's sake ! since 
 ynu must marry the fellow, e'en make the most 
 on't. 
 
 Leo. Oh! 
 
 Enter Don Pedtio and Don John. 
 
 Jao. So — how d'ye do now .' Come, cheer up. 
 See, here he comes. — By my troth, and a pretty 
 
 turned fellow. — [Aside.'\ He'll set all to rights by 
 to-morrow morning, I'll answer for him. 
 
 Don Fel. Don Pedro, you are welcome ; let me 
 embrace vou. 
 
 Don Fed. In what terms, sir, shall I express 
 what I owe you for the honour you do me ? and 
 with what prospect of ^et^rn can I receive this 
 inestimable present ? — Your picture, madam, made 
 what impression art could stamp, but nature has 
 done more. What wounds your sex can give, or 
 ours receive, I feel. 
 
 Don Fel. Come son, (for I'm in haste to call 
 yo\! so)— but what's this I see ? Alvarada here ! 
 Whence, sir, this insolence; to come within my 
 doors after you know what has passed? Who 
 brought you here ? 
 
 Don Fed. 'Twas I, sir. 
 
 Don Fel. But do you know that he — 
 
 Don Fed. Sir, he's the best of my friends. 
 
 Don Fel. But do you know, I say, that he 
 would — 
 
 Don Fed. Hinder this marriage, 'tis true. 
 
 Don Fel. Yes, because he designed — 
 
 Don Fed. I know his design, sir ; 'tis to hinder 
 all his friends from marrying. Pray forgive him. 
 
 Don Fel. Then to prevent for ever his designs 
 here, come hither, Leonora, and give Don Pedro 
 your hand. 
 
 Don John. Keep down, my kindling iealousy : 
 I've something tortures me I never felt till now. 
 
 \_A.'iii^e. 
 
 Don Fed. [To Leonora.] Why this backward- 
 ness, madam .■' Where a father chooses, a daughter 
 may with modesty approve. Pray give me your 
 hand. 
 
 Don Guz. I cannot see it. \,Turnir^ from them. 
 
 Don Fel. [Aside to Leonora.] Are you dis- 
 fracted ? Will you let him know your folly .'' Give 
 him your hand, for shame ! 
 
 Leo. Oh ! Don Guzman, I am yours. 
 
 [_Sighin(j, and giving her hand carelessly. 
 
 Don Guz. Madam ! ^Turning. 
 
 Don Fel. What a fatal slip ! iAside. 
 
 Leo. 'Twas not to you T spoke, sir. 
 
 Don Fed. But him it was she named, and thought 
 on too, T fear. I'm much alarmed. lAside. 
 
 Don Fel. [ To Leonora. ] Repair what you have 
 done, and look more cheerful on him. 
 
 Leo. Repair what you have done, and kill me. 
 
 Don Fel. Fool ! 
 
 Leo. Tyrant ! 
 
 Jac. A very humdrum marriage this. [Aside. 
 
 Don Guz. Pray, sister, let's retire ; for I can 
 bear this sight no longer. 
 
 Isab. My dear, farewell ! I pity you indeed. 
 
 Leo. I am indeed an obiect of your pity. 
 
 [Exeunt Don Guzman £i;irf Isarblla. 
 
 Don Fel. Come daughter, come my son, let's 
 to ths church and tie this happy knot. 
 
 Don Fed. I'll wait upon you, sir. 
 
 [Exit Don Pklix, leading Lbonora, 3AcmTA /allowing. 
 
 Don John. I love her, and I love her still. 
 Fate, do thv worst, I'll on. [Aside. 
 
 Don Fed, To name another man, in giving me 
 her hand ! [Asille. 
 
 Don John. How am I racked and torn with 
 jealousy ! [Aside. 
 
 Don Fed. 'Tis doubtless so, Don Guzman has 
 her heart. [Aside. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.'\ The bridegroom's tliought- 
 
SvKiSB I. 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 401 
 
 t\i\. The lady's trip has furnished him with some 
 matrimonial reflections." They'U'agree with him at 
 this time, perhaps, better than my company, I'll 
 leave \nm.—[ A loud.'] Don Pedro, adieu ! we shall 
 meet again at night. 
 ''Boa Fed. Pray stay ; I have need of a friend's 
 counsel. 
 
 Don John. What, already ? 
 
 Don Ped. Already. 
 
 Don John. That's to say, you have already 
 enough of matrimony. 
 
 Don Ped. I scarce know what I have, nor am 
 I sure of what I am. 
 
 lie-enter Lopjaa. 
 
 lop. [T^oDoN Pedko.] An't please your honour, 
 jonder^'s your man Bertrand just arrived ; his horse 
 and he so tired of one another, that they both came 
 down upon the pavement at the stable-door. 
 
 Don Ped. [To Don John.} He brings news 
 from my father. 
 
 Lop. 1 believe he does, and hasty news too ; but 
 if you stay till he brings it hither, I believe it will 
 coJie but slowly. But here's his packet ; I suppose 
 that will do as well as his company. lOives a letter. 
 
 Don Ped. [Reads to himself.'] My dear friend, 
 here's ill news. 
 
 Don John. What's the matter .', 
 
 Don Ped. My poor old father's dyin^. 
 
 Dun John. I'm mighty sorry for't ; 'tis a weighty 
 stroke I must confess ; the burden of his estate will 
 almost bear ypu down. But we must submit to 
 Heaven's good will. 
 
 Don Ped. You tall^, Alvarada, lil^e a perfect 
 stranger to that tenderness methinks every son 
 should feel for a good father. For my part, I've 
 received such repeated proofs of an uncommon 
 aflection from mine, that the loss of a mistress 
 could scarce touch me nearer. You'll believe me, 
 when you see me leave Leonora a virgin till I have 
 seen the good old man. 
 
 Don John. That will be a proof indeed ; Hea- 
 ven's blessing must needs fall upon so dutiful a 
 son ; but I don't know how its judgments may deal 
 with so indifferent a lover. 
 
 Don Ped, Oh, I shall have time enough to 
 repair this seeming small neglect. But before I 
 go, pray a word or two with you alone.- — Lopez, 
 wait without. — {Exit Lopez.] You see, my dear- 
 est friend, I am engaged with Leonora — perhaps I 
 have done wrong; but 'tis gone too far to talk or 
 think of a retreat ; I shall go directly from this 
 place to the altar, and there seal the eternal con- 
 tract. That done, I'll take post to see my father, 
 if I can, before he dies. 
 
 I leave then here a young and beauteous bride ; 
 But that which touches every string of thought, 
 I fear, I leave her wishing I were Guzman. 
 If it be so, no doubt he knows it well ; 
 And he that knows he's loved by Leonora, 
 Can let no fair occasion pass to gain her : 
 My absence is his friend, but you are mine. 
 And so the danger's balanced. Into your hands, 
 My dear, my faithful Alvarada — ^Embracing him'] 
 I put my honour, I put my life ; 
 For both depend on Leonora's truth. 
 Observe her lover, and — neglect not her. 
 You are wise, you are active, you are brave and true. 
 You have all the qualities that man should have 
 For such a trust ; and 1 by consequence 
 
 Have all the assurance man can have ; 
 You'll, as you ought, discharge it. 
 
 Don John. A very hopeful business you would 
 
 have me undertake — keep a woman honest ! 
 
 Udsdeath ! I'd as soon undertake to keep Porto- 
 carero honest. Look you, we are friends, intimate 
 friends ; — you must not be angry if I talk freely. 
 Women are naturally bent to mischief, and their 
 actions run in one continued torrent till they die. 
 But the less a torrent's checked, the less mischief 
 it does ; let it alone, perhaps, 'twill only kiss the 
 banks and pass ; but stop it, 'tis insatiable. 
 
 Don Ped, I would not stop it ; but could 
 I gently turn its course where it might run, 
 And vent itself with innocence, I would. 
 Leonora of herself is virtuous ; 
 Her birth, religion, modesty, and sense. 
 Will guide her wishes where they ought to point.— 
 But yet let guards be v/hat they will. 
 That place is safest that is ne'er attack'd. 
 
 Don John, As far as I can serve you, in hinder- 
 ing Guzman's approaches, you may command me. 
 
 Don P-e.d. That's all I ask. 
 
 Don John, Then all you ask is granted. 
 
 Uon Ped, I am at ease ; farewell ! 
 
 Don John. Heaven bring you safe to us again ! 
 ,.f-[-Exit Don Pedro.] Yes, I shall o'oserve her, 
 doubt it not. I wish nobody may observe me ; for 
 I find I'm no more master of myself. Don Guz- 
 man's passion for her adds to mine ; but when I 
 think on what Don Pedro'll reap, I'm fire and 
 flame ! Something must be done ; what, let love 
 direct, for I have nothing else to guide me. 
 
 Re-enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Inside.'] Don Pedro is mounting for his 
 journey, and leaves a young, warm, liquorish hussy, 
 with a watery mouth, behind him.' — Hum ! if she 
 falls handsomely in my master's way, let her look 
 to her — ^'st — there Ije is. Doing what ? — think- 
 ing ? That's new ; and if any good comes oa't, 
 that will be newer still. 
 
 Don John, [.clside.] How i abuse the trust a 
 friend reposes in me .' and while he thinks me 
 waking for his peace, employ the stretch of thought 
 to make him wretched ? 
 
 Lop. Not to interrupt your pious meditations, sir, 
 
 pray have you seen Seen what, fool .' Why he 
 
 can't see thee. Egad, I believe the little blind bas- 
 tard has whipped him through the heart in earnest. 
 
 Don John. [Aside,] Pedro would never have 
 done this by me. How do I know that.' Why, he 
 swore he was my friend. Well, and I swore I was 
 his. Why then, if ] find I can break my oath, why 
 should not I conclude he would do as much by his .' 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] His countenance begins to clear 
 up : I suppose things may be drawing to a con- 
 clusion. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] Ay, 'tis just so ; and I 
 don't believe he would have debated the matter 
 half so long as I have done : egad, I think I have 
 put myself to a great expense of morahty about it. 
 I'm sure, at least, my stock's out : but 1 have 
 a fund of love, 1 hope, may last a little longer. 
 — [Observing Lopez.] Oh, are you there, sir.' 
 
 Lop. I think so, sir.— 1 won't be positive in 
 anything. 
 
 Don John. Follow me; I have some busines.^ 
 to employ you in you'll like. [fc'jii 
 
 Lop. I won't be positive in that neither. I guess 
 
402 
 
 THK FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 what jou are going about ; — there's roguery a-foot ! 
 
 This is at Leonora, who I know hates him : nothing 
 i under a rape will do't. He'll be hanged ; and then 
 j what becomes of thee, my little Lopez ? Why, the 
 I Honour to a — dingle dangle by him ; which he'll have 
 i the good-nature to be mighty sorry for. But I may 
 
 chance to be beforehand with him : if we are not 
 taken in the fact, they'll perhaps do him the honour 
 to set a reward upon his head. Which if they do, 
 Don, I shall go near to follow your moral example, 
 secure my pardon, make my fortune, and hang you 
 up for the good of your country. iExit 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Don Felix's House. 
 Enter Don Fblix, Pon Pedro, Leonora, and Jacinta. 
 
 Don Fel. How, son ! obliged to leave us imme- 
 diately, say you ? 
 
 Don Fed. My ill fortune, sir, will have it so. 
 
 Leo. lAside.'] What can this be ! 
 
 Don Fel. Pray what's the matter ? You surprise 
 me. 
 
 Don Fed. This letter, sir, will inform you. 
 
 Don Fel. ("Reads.] JUi/ dear son, Bertrand 
 jas brought me the welcome news of your return, 
 and has given me your letter ; which has in some 
 sort Yevived my spirits in the extremity I am. 
 I daily expect my exit from this loorld. ' Tis now 
 six years since I have seen you ; I should be glad 
 to do it once again before I die. Jf you will give 
 me that satisfaction, you must be speedy. Heaven 
 preserve you ! — 'Tis enough. The occasion I'm 
 sorry for, but since the ties of blood and gratitude 
 oblige you, far be it from me to hinder you. Fare- 
 well, my. sou ! may you have a happy journey, and 
 if it be Heaven's will, may the sight of so good a 
 son revive so kind a father ! I leave you to bid 
 your wife adieu. [£.«■;<. 
 
 Don Fed. I must leave you, my lovely bride ; 
 With bitter pangs of separation. [but 'tis 
 
 Had I your heart to cheer me on my way, 
 I might, with such a cordial, run my course : 
 But that support you want the power to give me. 
 
 Leo. Who tells you so .' 
 
 Don Fed. My eyes and ears, and all the pains I bear. 
 
 Leo. When eyes and ears are much indulged. 
 Like favourite servants, they are apt to abuse 
 The too much trust their piaster places in 'em. 
 
 Don Fed. If I am abused. 
 Assist me with some fair interpretation 
 Of all that present trouble and disquiet, 
 Which is not in my power to overlook. 
 Nor yours to hide. 
 
 Leo. You might, methinks, have spared 
 
 My modesty ; and, without forcing me 
 To name your absence, have laid my trouble there. 
 
 Don Fed, No, no, my fair deluder, that's a veil 
 Too thin to cover what's so hard to hide ; 
 My presence, not my absence, is the cause. 
 Your cold reception at my first approach. 
 Prepared me for the stroke ; and 'twas not long 
 Before your mouth confirm'd my doom : Don Guz- 
 man, I am yours ! 
 
 Leo. Is't, then, impossible the mouth should 
 ■utter one name for another ? 
 
 Don Fed. Not at all, when it follows the dic- 
 tates of the heart. 
 
 Leo. Were it even so, what wrong is from that 
 iearc received, where duty and where virtue are its 
 rulers ? 
 
 Don Fed. Where they preside our honour may 
 be safe, yet our minds be on the rack. 
 
 Leo. This discourse will scarce produce a 
 remedy ; we'll end it therefore if you please, and 
 leave the rest to time. Besides, the occasion of 
 your journey presses you. 
 
 Don Fed. The occasion of my delay presses 
 you, I fear, much more ; you count the tedious 
 minutes I am with you, and are reduced to mind 
 me of my duty to free yourself from my sight. 
 
 Leo. You urge this thing too far, and do me 
 wrong. The sentiments I have for you are much, 
 more favourable than your jealousy suffers 'em to 
 appear. But if my heart has seemed to lean an- 
 other way, before you had a title to it, you ought 
 not to conclude I shall suffer it to do so long. 
 
 Don Fed. I know you have virtue, gratitude, 
 and truth ; 
 And therefore 'tis I love you to my ruin. 
 Could I believe you false, contempt would soon 
 Release me from my chains, which yet I can't 
 But wish to wear for ever ; therefore, 
 Indulge at least your pity to your slave, 
 'Tis the soft path in which we tread to love. 
 I leave behind a tortured heart to move you : — 
 Weigh well its pains, think on its passion too, 
 Remember all its torments spring from you ; 
 And if you cannot love, at least be true. lExit. 
 
 Jac. Now, by my troth, madam, I am ready to 
 cry. He's a pretty fellow, and deserves better luck. 
 
 Leo. I own he does ; and his behaviour would 
 engage anything that were unengaged. But, alas! 
 I want his pity more than he does mine. 
 
 Jac. You do ! Now, I'm of another mind. 
 The moment he sees your picture he's in love with 
 you ; the moment he's in love with you, he embarks ; 
 and, like lightning, in a moment more he's here : 
 where you are pleased to receive him with a Don 
 Guzman, I am yours ! Ah, poor man ! 
 
 Leo. I own, Jacinta, he's unfortunate, but still 
 I say my fate is harder yet. The 'irresistible pas- 
 sion I have for Guzman renders Don Pedro, with 
 all his merit, odious to me ; yet I must in his 
 favour make eternal war against the strength of 
 inclination and the man I love. 
 
 Jac. [Aside.'] Um — If I were In her case, I 
 could find an expedient for all this matter. But 
 she makes such a bustle with her virtue, I dare not 
 propose it to her. 
 
 Leo. Besides, Don Pedro possesses what he 
 loves, but I must never think on poor Don Guz- 
 man more. [Weeping. 
 
 Jac. Poor Don Guzman, indeed! We han't 
 said a word of the pickle he's in yet. Hark ! 
 somebody knocks — at the old rendezvous. It's he, 
 on my conscience. 
 
 Leo. Let's be gone ; I must think of him no more. 
 
THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 03 
 
 Jac. Yes, let's be gone ; but let's know whethei 
 'tis he or not first. 
 
 Leo. No, Jacinta ; I must not speak with him 
 any more {^Sighing,'] I'm manied to another. 
 
 Jac. Married to another ! well, married to an- 
 other ; why, if one were married to twenty others, 
 one may give a civil gentleman an answer. 
 Leo. Alas ! what wouldst thou have me say to him ? 
 
 Jac. Say to him ! why, one may find twenty 
 things to say to a man. Say, that 'tis true you are 
 married to another, and that a — 'twould be a sin to 
 think of anybody but your husband, and that a — 
 you are of a timorous nature, and afraid of being 
 damned ; and that a — ^you wduid not have him die 
 neither; that a — folks are mortal, and tilings 
 sometimes come strangely about, and a widow's a 
 widow, and — 
 
 Leo. Peace, Levity ! — [Sighing.'] But see who 
 'tis knocks. 
 
 Jac. Who's there ? 
 
 Isab. [Behind the scenes.'] 'Tis X, Isabella. 
 
 Leo. Isabella ! What do you want, my dear ? 
 
 Isab. Your succour, for Heaven's sake, Leonora. 
 My brother will destroy himself. 
 
 Leo. Alas '. it is not in my power to save him. 
 
 Isab. Permit him hut to speak to you, that pos- 
 sibly may do. 
 
 Leo. Why have not I the force to refuse him ? 
 
 Don Ouz. [Behind the scenes.} Is it you, I 
 hear, my poor lost mistrjss ? Am I so happy 
 once more to meet you where I so often have been 
 Dlest? 
 
 Jac. Courage, madam, say a little something to 
 him. 
 
 Don Guz. Not one kind word to a distracted 
 lover ? 
 No pity for a wretch you have made so miserable ? 
 
 Leo. The only way to end that misery 
 Is to forget we ever thought of happiness. 
 
 Don Guz. And is that in your power ? Ah, 
 You never loved like me ! [Leonora, 
 
 Leo. How I have loved, to Heaven I appeal ! 
 But Heaven does now permit that love no more. 
 
 Don Guz. Why does it then permit us life and 
 Are we deceived in its omnipotence ? [thought ? 
 Is it reduced 
 To find its pleasures in its creatures' pain ? 
 
 Leo. In what, or where, the joys of heaven 
 consist, 
 Lies deeper than a woman's line can fathom ; 
 But this we know, 
 
 A wife must in her husband seek for hers. 
 And therefore I must think of you no more. 
 Farewell. C-E-^"- 
 
 Don Guz. Yet hear me, cruel Leonora. 
 
 Jac. It must be another time then, for she's 
 whipped off now. All the comfort I can give you 
 is, that I see she durst not trust herself any longer 
 in your company. But hush, I hear a noise, get 
 you gone, we shall be catched. 
 
 Leo. [Within.] Jacinta! 
 
 Jac. I come, I come, madam. \.ExU. 
 
 SCENE II.— A Boom in the same. 
 
 Enter LorEz, 
 
 Lop. If I mistake not, there are a brace of 
 
 lovers intend to take some pains about madam, in 
 
 her husband's absence. Poor Don Pedro ! Well, 
 
 methinks a man's in a very merry mood that marries 
 a handsome wife. When I dispose of my person, 
 it shall be to an ugly one : they take it so kindly, 
 and are so full of acknowledgment ; watch you, 
 wait upon you, nurse you, humour you, are s« 
 fond, and so chaste. Or if the hussy has pre- 
 sumption enough to think of being otherwise, away 
 with her into the mountains fifty leagues off ; no- 
 body opposes. If she's mutinous, give her dis- . 
 cipline ; everybody approves on't. Hang her ! 
 says one, he's kinder than she deserves ; Damn 
 her ! says another, why does not he starve her ? 
 But if she s handsome. Ah the brute ! cries one — 
 Ah the Turk ! cries 'tother : Why don't she cuckold 
 him ? says this fellow ; Why does not she poison 
 him ? says that ; and away comes a packet of 
 epistles to advise her to't. Ah, poor Don Pedro ! 
 But enough. 'Tis now night, all's hush and still : 
 everybody's a-bed, and what am I to do ? Why, 
 as other trusty domestics, sit up to let the thief in. 
 But I suppose he won't be here yet ; with the help 
 of a small nap beforehand, I shall be in a better 
 condition to perform the duty of a sentinel when I 
 go to my post. This corner will just fit me. Come, 
 Lopez, lie thee down, short prayers, and to sleep. 
 
 [He lies down. 
 
 Enter Jaci.vta, wiili a candle in her hand. 
 
 Jac. So, I have put my poor lady to bed with no- 
 thing but sobs, tears, sighs, wishes, and a poor pillow 
 to mumble, instead of a bridegroom, poor heart ! I 
 pity her ; but everybody has their afflictions, and 
 by the beads of my grandmother, I have mine. 
 Tell me, kind gentlemen, if I have not something 
 to excite you .' Methinks I have a roguish eye, 
 I'm sure I have a mettled heart. I'm soft, and 
 warm, and sound, may it please ye. Whence comes 
 it then, this rascal Lopez, who now has been two 
 hours in the family, has not yet thought it worth 
 his while to make one motion towards me ? Not 
 that the blockhead's charms have moved me, but 
 I'm angry mine han't been able to move him. I 
 doubt I must begin with the lubber ; my reputa- 
 tion's at stake upon't, and I must rouse the drone 
 somehow. 
 
 Lop. [Bubbing his eges, and coming on.] What 
 a damned condition is that of a valet ! No sooner 
 do I, in comfortable slumber, close my eyes, but 
 methinks my master's upon me, with fifty slaps o' 
 th' back, for making him wait in the street. I have 
 his orders to let him in here to-night, and so I had 
 e'en — who's that ?— Jacinta ! — Yes. A caterwaul- 
 ing ! — like enough. 
 
 Jac. The fellow's there ; I had best not lose 
 the occasion. [Asid : 
 
 Lop. The slut's handsome ; I begin to kindle. 
 But if my master should be at the door — why there 
 let him be till the matter's over. lAsiJe. 
 
 Jac. Shall I advance ? [Aside. 
 
 Lop. Shall I venture ? [Aside. 
 
 Jac. How severe a look he has ! [Aside. 
 
 Lop. She seems very reserved. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. If he should put the negative upon me. 
 
 ZAside. 
 
 Lop. She seems a woman of great discretion ; I 
 tremble. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. Hang it, I must venture. [Aside. 
 
 Lop. Faint heart never won fair lady. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. Lopez ? 
 
 Lop. Jacinta ! 
 
iOi 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Jac. O dear heart ! is't you ? 
 
 Lop. Charming Jacinta ! fear me not. 
 
 Jac. [Aside.] O ho ! he begins to tallc soft— then 
 let us take upon us again. 
 
 Lop. Cruel Jacinta, whose mouth (small as it is) 
 has made but one morsel of my heart. 
 
 Jac. [Aside.] It's well he prevents me. I wa? 
 going to leap about the rascal's neclc. 
 
 Lop. Barbare Jacinta, cast your eyes 
 On your poor Lopez, ere he dies. 
 
 Jac. [Aside.] Poetry too ! Nay then I have 
 done his business. 
 
 Lop. Feel how I bum with hot desire, 
 Ah ! pity me, and quench my fire ; 
 Deaf, my fair tyrant, deaf to my woes, 
 Nay then, barbarian, in it goes. [_I)rawtng a knife. 
 
 Jac. Why how now, Jack-sauce .' why how now, 
 Presumption ? What encouragement have I given 
 you, Jack-a-lent, to attack me with your tenders ? 
 I could tear your eyes out, sirrah, for thinking T 
 am such a one. Wliat indecency have you seen in 
 my behaviour, impudence, that you sliould thinlc 
 me for your beastly turn, you goat you ? 
 
 Lop. Patience, my much offended goddess, 'tis 
 honourably I would share your bed. 
 
 Jac. Peace, I say — Mr. Liquorish, I, for whom 
 the most successful cavaliers employ their sighs in 
 vain, shall I look down upon ,a crawling worm ? 
 Pha ! — see that crop-ear there, that vermin, that 
 wants to eat at a table would set his master's mouth 
 a watering ! 
 
 Lop. May I presume to make an humble meal 
 upon what savoury remnants he may leave ? 
 
 Jac. No. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis hard ! 'tis wondrous hard ! 
 
 Jac. Leave me. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis pitiful, 'tis wondrous pitiful ! 
 
 Jac. Begoue ! I say 
 
 Thus ladies 'tis, perhaps, sometimes with you ; 
 With scorn you fly the thing which you pursue. 
 
 {_Aside.~ExiL 
 
 Lop. 'Tis very well, Mrs. Flipflap, 'tis very well; 
 but do you hear — Tawdry, you are not so alluring 
 as you think you are — Comb-brush, nor I so much 
 in love ! — your maidenhead may chance to grow 
 mouldy with your airs ; — the pox be your bedfellow ! 
 there's that for you. — Come, let's think no more 
 on't, sailors must meet with storms ; my master's 
 going to sea too. He may chance to fare no better 
 with the lady than I have done with her Abigail : 
 there may be foul weather there too. I reckon at 
 present he may be lying by under a mizen at the 
 street-door, I think it rains too for his comfort. 
 What if I should leave him there an hour or two 
 in fresco, and try to work off the amour that way.' 
 No ; people will be physicked their own way. But 
 perhaps I might save his life by't — yes, and have 
 my bones broke for being so officious ; therefore, if 
 you are at the door, Don John, walk in and take 
 your fortune. [0pm8 me door. 
 
 Enter Don John. 
 
 Don John. Hist ! hist ! 
 Lop. Hist I hist ! 
 Don John. Lopez ! 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] The devil <— [Aloud.] Tread 
 Boftly. 
 
 Don John. Are they all asleep ? 
 
 Lop. Dead. 
 
 Don John. Enough ; shut the door. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis done. 
 
 Don John. Now begone. 
 
 Cop. What! shut the' door first, and then be- 
 gone .' Now, raethinks, I might as well have gone 
 first, and then shut the door. 
 
 Don John. I bid you begone, you dog you ! clo 
 you find the way. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] Stark mad, and always so when 
 a woman's in chase. — [Alond.\ But, sir, will you 
 keep your chief minister out of the secrets of your 
 s^ate ? Pray let me know what this night's work 
 IS to be. 
 
 Don John. No questions, but march. 
 
 Lop. Very well. — [Goes to the door, and returns.] 
 But, sir, shall I stay for you in the street .'* 
 
 Don John. No, nor stir out of the house. 
 
 Lop. So. Well, sir, I'U do just as you have 
 ordered me ; I'll he gone, and I'll stay; and I'll 
 march, and I won't stir, and — ^just as you say, sir. 
 
 Don John. I see you are afraid, you rascal you. 
 
 Lop. Passably. 
 
 Don John. Well, be it so ; but you shan't leave 
 the house, sir ; therefore begone to your hogstye, 
 and wait further orders. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.^ But first I'll know how you 
 intend to ' dispose of yourself. 
 
 [_Conccats himself behind the door. 
 
 Don John. All's hush and still ; and I am at the 
 point of being a happy — villain. That though 
 comes uninvited ; — th^n like an uninvited guest 
 let it be treated : begone, intruder ! Leonora's 
 charms turn vice to virtue, treason into truth ; 
 nature, who has made her the supreme object of 
 our desires, must needs have designed her the 
 regulator of our morals. Whatever points at her, is 
 pointed right. We are all her due, mankind's the 
 dower which heaven has settled on her ; and he's the 
 villain that would rob her of her tribute. I there- 
 fore, as in duty bound, will in, and pay her mine. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] There he goes, i'faith ; he 
 seemed as if he had a qualm just now ; but he 
 never goes without a dram of conscience-water 
 about him, to set matters right again. 
 
 Don John. This is her door, 'tis locked ; but I 
 have a smith about me will make her staple fly. 
 
 {_Pulls out some irons, and/orces Pie lock. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] Hark! hark! if he is not equip- 
 ped for a housebreaker too. Very well, he has 
 provided two strings to his bow ; if he 'scapes the 
 rape, he may be hanged upon the burglary. 
 
 Don John. There, 'tis done. So. — No watch- 
 light burning ? — [Peeping into her chamber.] All 
 in darkness .' so much the better, 'twill save a 
 great deal of blushing on both sides. Methinks I 
 feel myself mighty modest, I tremble too ; that's 
 not proper at this time. Be firm, my courage, I 
 
 have business for thee So — how am I now ? — 
 
 pretty well. Then by your leave, Don Pedro, I 
 must supply your neglect. You should not have 
 married till you were ready for consummation ; a 
 maidenhead ought no more to lie upon a hand- 
 some bride, than an impeachment upon an inno- 
 cent minister. lExit into the chamber 
 
 Lop. [Coming forwards.] Well done, well 
 done ; Gad a-marcy, my little Judas ! Unfortunate 
 Don l?edro ! thou hast left thy purse in the hands 
 of a robber; and while thou art galloping to pay the 
 last duty to thy father, he's at least upon the trot 
 to pay the first to thy wife. Ah, the traitor ! 
 What a capilotade of damnation will there be 
 
SCKNK in. 
 
 THE FALSE FRIKNP. 
 
 408 
 
 cooked up for him ! But softly : let's lay our ear 
 to the door, and pick some curiosities. — 1 hear no 
 noise. — There's no light; we shall have him. blun- 
 der where he should not do, by and by. — Commit 
 a rape upon her tea table perhaps, break all her 
 china, and then she'll be sure to hang him. But 
 hark ! —now I hear^— nothing ; she does not say a 
 word ; she sleeps curiously. — How if she should 
 take it all for a dreani now,?- or her virtue-ihould be 
 fallfen into an ap'oplex ? — Where the pox will all 
 this end ? 
 
 Leo. [Within.'] Jacinta ! Beatrix ! Fernandes ! 
 Murder ! murder ! help ! help ! help ! 
 
 Lop. Now the play begins ; it opens finely. 
 
 Leo. iWilhin.'\ Father I Alphonso ! Save 
 me ! O save me ! 
 
 LeOt Comedy-or tragedy for El ducat ! for fear of 
 the latter, decamp Lopei. lExit. 
 
 SCENE III. — Leonora's Bedchamber. 
 
 Leonora discovered in a gown, holding Don John hy the 
 
 sleeve. 
 
 Leo. "Whoever you are, villain, you shan'tescape 
 me ; and though your efforts have been in vain, 
 you shan't fail to receive the rfecorapense of your 
 attempt.. — Help, ho, help there ! help ! 
 
 [Don John Meaks fromher^ hut can't find the door\ 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] 'Sdeath, I shall be un- 
 done ! where is this damned ddor ? 
 
 Leo. He'll get away : a light there, (Quickly ! 
 
 Enter Don Guzman wiih his sword drawn. 
 
 Don Guz. Where are you, fair angel .'' I come 
 to lose my life in- your defence. 
 
 Don John, [Aside.\ That's Guzman's voice; 
 the devil has sent him. But we are still in the 
 dark ; I have one, tour yet^ impudence be my 
 aid. — [Aloud."] Lights there, ho ! Where is the 
 villain that durst attempt the virtuous Leonora ? 
 . Don Guz. His life Shall make her satisfaction. 
 
 Don John. Or mine shall fall in, his pursuit. 
 
 Don Guz. 'Tis by my hands that she shall see 
 him die. 
 
 Don John. My swoi-d shall lay him bleeding at 
 her feet. 
 
 Leo. [Aside.] What can this mean ? But here's 
 lights at last, thank the just bounteous heaven. 
 
 Don John. Enter with the light there ; but 
 secure the door, lest the traitor 'scape my ven- 
 geance. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro with a light, he finds Leonora between 
 them ; both their swords dravm, 
 
 Leo. O Heavens ! what is't I see ? 
 
 Don John. Don Pedro here ! 
 
 Don Fed. [Aside.] What monstrous scene is 
 this! 
 
 Don Guz. [Aside.] What accident has brought 
 him here ? 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] Now I am intrigued 
 indeed. [Don Pedro steps back, and shuts the door. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] This mystery must unfold 
 before we part. What torments has my fate pro- 
 vided me ? Is this the comfort I'm to reap, to 
 dry my tears for my poor father's death ? — 
 [Aloud.] Ah, Leonora! 
 
 Leo. [Aside.] .Alas! where will this end ! 
 
 [^Falling into a chair. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] Naked! and thus attended 
 at the dead of night 1 — my soul is froze at what I 
 see. Confusion sits in all their faces, and in large 
 characters L read - the ruin of my honour and 
 my love. — [Aloud.] Speak, statues, if you yet 
 have power to speak, why at this time of night you 
 arte found with- Leonora.^ — None speak ! — Don 
 John, it. is from you I ought to know. 
 Don John. My silence may inform you. 
 Don Ped. Your silence does inform me of iny 
 shame, but I must have some information more ; 
 explain the whole. 
 
 Don John. I shall. You remember, Don Pedro — 
 Don Ped. Be quick. 
 
 •.Don John. You remember you charged me 
 before you went — 
 
 Don Ped. I rehiembter Well, gb on. 
 Don John. With the care of your honour. 
 Don Ped. I did : despatch. 
 Don John. Very well ; you see Don Guzman in 
 this apartment, you see your wife naked, and you 
 see me, .my sword in my hand ;. that's all. 
 
 Do7i Ped. [DraMj»n^«ponDoN GozMAN,] 'Tie 
 heije then I am to revenge my wrongs. 
 Don Guz. Hold I- 
 Don Ped. Villain, defend thyself I 
 Leo. O Heaven! 
 Don Guz. Yet hear me. 
 Don Ped. What canst thou say }, 
 Don Guz. The truth, as holy Heaven itself is 
 truth. I heard the shrieks and cries of Leonora ; 
 what the occasion- was I knew not, but she repeated 
 'em with so much vehemence^ I found, whatever 
 her, distress might be, her succour must be sudden ; 
 so leaped the wall .that parts cur, houses, and flew 
 to her assistance. Don John can, if he please, 
 inform you more. 
 
 DoK Ped, [yisWe.] .Mankind's a villain, and 
 this may be true ; 
 Yet 'tis too monstrous for a quick conception. 
 1 should be dautious how I wrong Don John. 
 Sure 'tis hot: right to balance. . 
 I yet have but their words against their words ; 
 I know Don John for my friend, and Guzman 
 for my rival. What can be clearer ? Yet hold : 
 if Leonora's innocent, she may untangle all. — 
 [Aloud.] Madam, 1 should be glad to know (if I 
 have, so much interest left) vvhich way your evi- 
 dence will point my sword .'' 
 
 Leo. My lord, I'm in the same perplexity with 
 you. All I can say is thisj one of 'era came to 
 force me, t'other to save me : but the night con- 
 founding the villany of the guilty with the gene- 
 rosity of the innocent, I still am ignorant to which 
 I owe ray gratitude or my resentment. 
 
 Don Guz. But, madam, did you not hear me 
 cry I came to help you ? 
 Leo. I own it. 
 
 Don John. And did you not hear me threaten 
 to destroy the author of your fears ^ 
 Leo. I can't deny it. 
 
 Don Guz. What can there be more to clear me? 
 Don John. Or me ? 
 
 Don Ped. Yet one's a villain still. — [Aside.] 
 My confusion but increases : yet why confused .'' 
 It is, it must be Guzman. But how came Don 
 John here ? Right. Guzman has said how he 
 came to her aid, but Alvaiada could not enter but 
 by treason. — [Aloud.] Then perish — 
 JDon Guz. Who ' 
 
400 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Don John. "Who? 
 
 Don Ped. Just gods ! instruct me who. 
 
 ^Knocking at the door, 
 
 Don Fel. [ Within.^ Let me in, open the door ! 
 
 Leo. "Tis my father. 
 
 Don Ped. No matter, keep the door fast. — 
 lAside.] I'll have this matter go no further, till I 
 can reach the depth on't. — ^Aloud.'] Don Guzman, 
 leave the house ; I must suspend my vengeance for 
 a time. 
 
 Don Guz. I obey you j but I'll lose my life, or 
 show my innocence. {Exit. 
 
 Don Fel. [ Within.] Open the door ; why am I 
 kept out ? 
 
 Don Ped. Don John, follow me by this back 
 way. — And you, Leonora, retire. [.Exit LEONoai. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] If Don Guzman's throat 
 were cut, would not this bustle end ? — Yes. — Why, 
 then, if his throat be not cut, may this bustle end 
 me. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Don Guzman's House. 
 Enter Don Guzman and Galtndo. 
 
 Don Guz. \_Musing.'] Galindo ! 
 
 Gal. Sir ! 
 
 Don Guz. Try if you can see Jacinta ; let her 
 privately know I would fain speak with her. 
 
 Gal. It shall be done, sir. {Exit. 
 
 Don Guz. Sure villany and impudence were 
 never on the stretch before ! This traitor has 
 racked 'em till they crack. To what a plunge 
 the villain's tour has brought me ! Pedro's resent- 
 ment must at last be pointed here. But that's a 
 trifle s had he not ruined me with Leonora, I easily 
 
 had passed him by the rest What's to be done .' 
 
 Which way shall I convince her of my innocence ? 
 The blood of him who has dared declare me guilty, 
 may satisfy my vengeance, but not aid my love. 
 No, I'm lost with her for ever — 
 
 Enter Jacinta. 
 Speak, is't not so, Jacinta ? Am I not ruin'd with 
 the virtuous Leonora ? 
 
 Jao. One of you, I suppose, is. 
 
 Don Guz. Which dost thou think ? 
 
 Jac. Why, he that came to spoil all ; who should 
 it be ? 
 
 Don Guz. Prithee be serious with me if thou 
 canst for one small moment, and advise me which 
 way I shall take to convince her of my innocence, 
 that it was I that came to do her service ? 
 
 Jac. Why you both came to do her service, did 
 not you ? 
 
 Don Guz. Still trifling.' 
 
 Jac. No, by my troth, not I ! 
 
 Don Guz. Then turn thy thoughts to ease me 
 in my torment, and be my faithful witness to her. 
 That Heaven and Hell and all their wratli I impre- 
 cate, if ever once I knew one fleeting thought, that 
 durst propose to me so impious an attempt. No, 
 Jacinta, I love her well'; but love with that humi- 
 lity, whatever misery I feel, 
 My torture ne'er shall urge me on to seize, 
 More than her bounty gives me leave to take. 
 
 Jac. And the murrain take such a lover and his 
 humility both, say I. Why sure, sir, you are not 
 in earnest in this story, are you ? 
 
 Don Guz, Why dost thou question it ? 
 
 Jac, Because I really and seriously thought you 
 innocent. 
 
 Don Guz. Innocent ! what dost thou mean .' 
 
 Jac. Mean ! why what should I mean ? I mean 
 that I concluded yo» loved my lady to that degree 
 you could not live without her : and that the 
 
 thought of her being given up to another made 
 your passion flame out like mount Etna. That 
 upon this your love got the bridle in his teeth, and 
 ran away with you into her chamber, where that 
 impertinent spy upon her and you, Don John, 
 followed, and prevented farther proofs of your 
 affection. 
 
 Don Guz. Why sure — 
 
 Jac. Why sure, thus I thought it was, and thus 
 she thinks it is. If you have a mind in the depth 
 of your discretion to convince her of your innocence 
 — may your innocence be your reward. I'm sure 
 were I in her place, you should never have any 
 other from me. 
 
 Don Guz. Was there then no merit in flying to 
 her assistance when I heard her cries ? 
 
 Jac. As much as the constable and the watch 
 might have pretended to — something to drink. 
 
 Don Guz. This is all raillery ; 'tis impossible 
 she can be pleased with such an attempt, 
 
 Jac. 'Tis impossible she can be pleased with 
 being reduced to make the attempt upon you. 
 
 Don Guz. But was this a proper way to save 
 her blushes ? 
 
 Jac. 'Twas in the dark, that's one way. 
 
 Don Guz. But it must look like downright 
 violation. 
 
 Jac. If it did not feel like it, what did that sig- 
 nify ? Come, sir, waggery apart, you know I'm 
 your servant, I have given you proofs on't. There- 
 fore don't distrust me now if I tell you, this quar- 
 rel may be made up with the wife, though perhaps 
 not with the husband. In short, she thinks you 
 were first in her chamber, and has not the worse 
 opinion of you for it ; she makes allowance for your 
 sufferings, and has still love enough for you, not 
 to be displeased with the utmost proofs you can 
 give, that you have still a warm remain for her. 
 
 Don Guz. If this be true, and that she thought 
 'twas me, why did she cry out to expose me ? 
 
 Jac. Because at that time she did not think 'twas 
 you. Will that content you ? And now she does 
 think 'twas you, your business is to let her think 
 so on ; for in a word, I can see she's concerned at 
 the danger she has brought you into, and I believe 
 would be heartily glad to see you well out on't. 
 
 Don Guz. 'Tis impossible she can forgive me. 
 
 Jac. Oons ! — Now Heaven forgive me, for I 
 had a great oath upon the very tip of my tongue ; 
 you'd make one mad with your impossibles, and 
 your innocence, and your humilities. 'Sde'ath, sir, 
 d'you think a woman makes no distinction between 
 the assaults of a man she likes and one she don't ? 
 My lady hates Don John, and if she thought 'twas 
 
THE FALSE Fill END. 
 
 407" 
 
 he had done this job, she'd hang him for't in her 
 own garters ; she likes you, and if you should do 
 such another, you might still die in your bed like 
 a bishop for her. 
 
 Don Guz. Well, I'll dispute no farther. T put 
 myself into thy hands. What am I to do next ? 
 
 Jac. Why, do as she bids you ; be in the way 
 at the old rendezvous, she'll take the first occasion 
 she can to speak to you ; and when you meet, do 
 as I bid you, and instead of your innocent and 
 humble, be guilty and resolute. Your mistress is 
 now married, sir, consider that. She has changed 
 her situation, and so must you your battery. At- 
 tack a maid gently, a wife warmly, and be as rug- 
 ged with a widow as you can. Good bye t'ye, sir. 
 {Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. — Leonora's Apartmetit. 
 Enter Don Pedro. 
 
 Don Fed. In what distraction have I pass'd this 
 night ! 
 Sure I shall never close my eyes again. 
 No rack can equal what I feel. 
 Wounded in both my honour and my love ; 
 They have pierced me in two tender parts. 
 Yet could I take my just revenge, 
 It would in some degree assuage my smart. 
 Oh, guide me Heaven to that cordial drop ! — 
 Hold ! a glance of light I think begins to — yes — 
 right. When yesterday I brought Don John hither, 
 was not Don Felix much disturbed ? — He was. And 
 why ? — That may be worth inquiring. But some- 
 thing more occurs. At my arrival in th'is city. 
 Was I not told two cavaliers were warm 
 In the pursuit of Leonora .' 
 
 One I remember well they named ; 'twas Guzman : 
 The other I am yet a stranger to. 
 I fear I shall not be so long — 'Tis Alvarada ; 
 O the traitor ! — yet I may wrong him much. I 
 have Guzman's own confession that he passed the 
 wall to come to Leonora. — Oh, but 'twas to her 
 assistance. — 
 
 And so it might, and he a villain still. 
 There are assistances of various sorts. — 
 What were her wants ? That's dark. — But what- 
 They were, he came to her assistance. [soe'er 
 
 Death be his portion for his ready service ! 
 
 Enter Don Fex-tx. 
 
 Don Fel. You avoid me, Don Pedro ; 'tis not 
 well. Am I not your father, have you not reason 
 to believe I am your friend ? 
 
 Don Fed. I have. 
 
 Don Fel. Why do you not then treat me like a 
 father and a friend.' The mystery you make to me 
 of last night's disturbance I take unkindly from 
 you. Come tell me your grief, that if I can I may 
 assuage it. 
 
 Don Fed. Nothing but vengeance can give me 
 ease. 
 
 Don Fel. If I desire to know your wrongs, 'tis 
 to assist you in revenging them. 
 
 Don Fed. Know then, that last night in this 
 apartment I found Don Guzman and Don John. 
 
 Don Fel. Guzman and Alvarada ! 
 
 Don Fed. Yes ; and Leonora almost naked be- 
 tween them, crying out for aid. 
 
 Don Fel. Were they both guilty ? 
 
 Don Pad. One was come to force her, t'otlier 
 to rescue her. 
 
 Don Fel. Which was the criminal ? 
 
 Don Ped. Of that I yet am ignorant. They- 
 accuse each other. 
 
 Don Fel. Can't your wife determine it ? 
 
 Don Ped. The darkness of the night put it out 
 of her power. 
 
 Don Fel. But I perhaps may bring some light 
 I have part in the affront : [to aid you. 
 
 And though ray arm's too old and weak to serve 
 
 you. 
 My counsel may be useful to your vengeance. 
 Know then, that Don Guzman has a long time 
 pursued my daughter ; and I as resolutely refused 
 his suit : which however has not hindered him 
 from searching all occasions to see and speak to 
 her. Don John, on his side — 
 
 Don Fed. Don John's my friend, and I am 
 confident — 
 
 Don Fel. That confidence destroys you. Hear 
 my charge, and be yourself his judge. He too has 
 been a pressing suitor to my daughter. 
 
 Don Fed. Impossible ! 
 
 Don Fel. To me myself, he has owned his love 
 to her. 
 
 Don Ped. Good gods ! Yet still this leaves the 
 mystery where it was ; this charge is equal. 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis true ; but yonder's one (if you 
 can make her speak) I have reason to believe can- 
 tell us more. — Ho, Jacinta ! 
 
 Enter Jacinta. 
 
 Jac. Do you call me, sir .' 
 
 Don Fel. Yes ; Don Pedro would speak with 
 you. — {^Aside to Don Pedro.] I'll leave you with, 
 her ; press her both by threats and promises, and 
 if you find your wife in fault, old as t am, her 
 father too, I'll raise my arm to plunge this dagger 
 in her breast ; and by that fermete convince the 
 world, my honour's dearer to rae than my child. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Don Ped. [^Aside.'\ Heaven grant me power to 
 stifle my rage, till 'tis time to let my vengeance 
 fly ! — Jacinta, come near : I have some business 
 with you. 
 
 Jac. {_Asidc.'] His business with me at this 
 time can be good for nothing, I doubt. — lAloitd.] 
 What commands have you, sir, for me .** for I'ni 
 not very well. 
 
 Don Ped. What's your disorder .' 
 
 Jac. A little sort of a something towards an ague, 
 I think. 
 
 Don Ped. You don't seem so ill but you may 
 tell me — 
 
 Jac. Oh, I can tell you nothing, sir, I assure you. 
 
 Don Ped. You answer me before you hear my 
 question. That looks as if you knew — 
 
 Jac. I know that what you are going to ask 
 me, is a secret I'm out at. 
 
 Don Ped. [Offering her a purse.'] Then this 
 shall let thee into it. 
 
 Jac. I know nothing of the matter. 
 
 Don Fed. Come, tell me all, and take thy 
 reward. 
 
 Jac. I know nothing of the matter, I say. 
 
 Don Fed. [Drawing his sword.} Speak; or 
 by all the flame and fire of hell eternal — 
 
 Jac. O Lard ! O Lard ! O Lard ! 
 
 Don Ped, Speak, or th'art dead. 
 
408 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Jac. But if I do speak, shan't I be dead for all 
 that ? 
 
 Don Ped. Speak, and thou art safe. 
 Jai. Well-0 Lard!— I'm so frighted i—iSut 
 if I must speak then — O dear heart \ — give me the 
 purse. 
 
 Don Ped. There. 
 
 Jac. Why truly, between a purse in one's hand-^- 
 and — a sword in one's guts, I think there's little 
 room left for debate. 
 
 Don Ped. Come, begin, I'm impatient. 
 Jac. Begin ! let me see j where shall I begin ? 
 at Don Guzman, I think. 
 Don Ped. M'hat of him ? 
 
 Jac. Why he has been in love with my lady 
 these six years. 
 
 Don Ped. I know it, but how has she received 
 him .' 
 
 Jac. Received him ! Why — as young maids use 
 to receive hdndsome fellows ; at first ill, afterwards 
 better. 
 
 Don Ped. [Asiie.'] Furies! — \_Alov.d.'\ Did 
 they ever meet 1 
 Jac. A little. 
 
 Don Ped. By day or night ? 
 Jac. Both. 
 
 Don Ped. Distraction ! Where was their ren- 
 dezvous ? 
 
 Jac. Where they could not do one another 
 much good. 
 Don Ped. As how .' 
 Jac. As through a hole in a wall. 
 Don Ped. Thfe strumpet banters me. — Be 
 serious, Insolence, or I sliall spoil your gaiety ; 
 I'm not disposed to mirth. 
 
 Jac. Why I am serious, if you like my story 
 the better for't. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.'] How miseratle a wretch 
 am I ! 
 
 Jac. I tell you there's a wall parts their two 
 houses, and in that wall there's a hole. How the 
 wall came by the hole, I can't tell ; mayhap by 
 chance, mayhap by no chance ; hiit there 'tiSj and 
 there they use to prattle. 
 
 Don Ped. A.nd this is truth ? 
 Jac. I can't bate you a word on't, sir. 
 Don Ped. When did they meet there last ? , 
 Jac. Yesterday ; I suppose 'twas only to bid 
 one another adieu. 
 
 Don Ped. Ah, Jacinta, thou hast pierced my 
 soul ! 
 
 Jac. [Aside.'] And yet I han't told you half I 
 could tell you, my don. 
 
 Don Ped. Where is this place you speak of ? 
 Jac. There 'tis, if you are curious. 
 Don Ped. When they would speak with one 
 another, what's the call? 
 Jac. Tinkle, tinkle. 
 Don Ped. A bell ? 
 Jac. It is. 
 Don Ped. Ring ! 
 Jac. What do you mean, sir ? 
 Don Ped. [Hastily.] Ring I 
 Jac. 'Tis done. [She makes the signal. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] I'll make use of her to 
 
 <;xamine him [Aloud."] Does he come ? 
 
 Jac. Not yet. 
 Don Ped. Pull again. 
 
 Jac. You must give him time, sir ; my lady 
 always does so. 
 
 Don Ped. I hear sohliething'. 
 
 Jac. 'Tis he. .- . , , , , . 
 
 Don Gux. [ tVithin.] Who's there ? 
 
 Don Ped. [So/tiff.] Say you are Leonora, 
 [Dumb show of her uinviUitiftnfss, and his tHreateiiXng. 
 
 Jac. [SofU%.\ 'Tis Leonora. , 
 
 Don Guz. What are yoijr cqmmands, inadatai ? 
 Is it possible so unfortunate a wreteh as 1 can be 
 capable of serving you .' 
 
 [Don Pbdro 'whispt^s Jacinta, who seems backward to 
 speak. 
 
 . Jac. I come lo ask you, ho* you could so far 
 forget that iniinite regard you- have professed, to 
 make an attempt so dangeroug both ti> yourself and 
 me ; and which, with all the esteem and Ibve I ha'^e 
 ever borne youj you scarce could hope I ever should 
 forgive you. 
 
 Don Guz. Alas, my hopes and fears were 
 , ' vanished tooi , . 
 My counsel was my love and my despair. 
 If they advised me wrong, of tliem comnlain^ 
 Fdr it wfes you who made 'em my directors. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] The villain owns the fact. 
 It seems he thinks 
 He' has not much to fear from her resentment. 
 Oh, toi-tdi-e ! 
 
 Enter Leonora. 
 Jac. [Aside.] So, she's her'e ; that's as I ex- 
 pected : now we are blown up.. 
 
 Xeo. [Aside, not seeing thetn:'] If I don't mis- 
 take, I heard Don Guzman's call, t can't refuse 
 to answer it ; forgive me, gods, ,and let my woman's 
 weakness jilead my bause. — How ! my husband 
 here ! l^Iay then — , . 
 
 Don Ped. You seem disordered; madam ; pray 
 what may be the cause .'. 
 
 Leo. [Confased.J I don't know really ; I'm not 
 — 1 don't know that — 
 
 Don Ped. You did not know that I was here, I 
 guess, 
 
 Leo. Y^s I did, and^came to, speak with you. 
 Don Ped. I'm not at present in a talking 
 humour. 
 But if your tongue is set to conversation. 
 There's on^ behind the wall will entertain you. 
 
 Don Guz. But is it possible, fair Leonora, that 
 you can pardon. my attempt ? . 
 
 Don Ped. [To Leonora.] You hear him; ma^ 
 dam ; he dares own it to you. 
 
 Leo. [Aside."] Jacinta winks ; I guess what 
 scene they haye bpen actipg here. . My pai-t is tiow 
 to play. — [To Don Pedro.] I see, sir, he dares 
 own it : nor is he the first lover has presumed be* 
 yond the countenance he ever has received. Pray 
 drav^ near, and hear what.-he has more to say : it 
 is my interest you should know the depth of ail hai 
 ever passed between us. — ; 
 I fain would know, Don Guzman, whether 
 In the whole conduct of my life, you've known 
 Oneslep that could encourage you to hope 
 1 ever could be yours, 
 
 But on the terms of honour which you sought me .' 
 Don Guz. Not one. 
 
 Leo. Why then should you believe I could 
 Forgive the taking that by force which you 
 Already were convinced 
 I valued more the keeping than nay life ? 
 
 Don Guz. Had my love been as temperate as 
 I with your reason had perhaps de'.)ated, [yours. 
 
THE FALSE FRIFND. 
 
 409 
 
 But not in reason, but in flames, I flew 
 To Leonora. 
 
 Leo. If strong temptation be allow'd a plea. 
 Vice, in the worst of shapes, has much to urge. 
 No, . . , 
 
 Could anything have shaken me in virtue* 
 It must have been the strength ofit ip you. 
 Had you shone bright enough to dazzle me, 
 I blindlv miglit have miss'd the path I meant ^ 
 To tread : but now you have clear'd my sight for 
 
 ever. 
 If therefore from this moment more you dare 
 To let me know one thought of love, 
 Though in the humblest sty^e^ expect ,to be 
 A sacrifice to him you attempt to wrong. . 
 Farewell I {.Site retire's from hini. 
 
 Don Guz. Oh, stay and hear me ! I have 
 wronged myself, I'm innocent ; by all that's sacred, 
 just, and good, I'm. innocent ! 
 
 Don Fed. \_Asi(le.'] What does he mean ? 
 Don Cuz. I have owned a fact I am not guilty 
 of; Jacinta can infprm you", sbe knows I never — 
 
 Jac. I know ! the man's mad. Praylaegone, 
 sir, my lady will hear no more. — 1*11 shut him oiit, 
 madam, shan't I .^ 
 
 Leo. 1 have no farther business with him. 
 
 [Jacivta shuts vp Ihe bole. 
 EnUr Isabella hastily. 
 Isah. O Heavens, Leonora, where are- you ? — 
 Don Pedro, you can assist rue better. 
 Leo. What's the matter ? 
 
 Don Fed. What is it, madam , 1 can serve yoii in ? 
 Isab. In what the ^ea'ce of my whole lite con- 
 sists, the safety of my brother! Dun John's servant 
 has this moment left me aletter for him, which 1 
 have opened, knowing there is an animosity of 
 some time between *em. 
 Don Ped. Well, madam ! 
 
 Isah'. O dearj it is a challenge, and whst to do 
 I know not! If I show it my brother, he'll imme- 
 diately fly to the plafce appointed : . and if I don% 
 he'll be accused of cowardice! One way I risk his 
 life, t'other I ruin his honour. 
 
 Don Fed. What would yoia have me do, madam ? 
 
 ...Jsdhe I'll tell you, sir : I only beg you'll go to 
 the place where Don John expects him ; tell hitn I 
 have intercejjted his letter, and make him promise 
 ypu he*ll send no qiore. By this generous charity 
 you may hinder two men (whose piques are on a 
 frivolous occasion) from mprdering one another • 
 and by this good pfficg _you'll repay the small debt 
 you owe my brother for flying last nigbt to Leonora's 
 succour ; and doubly pay the^ obligation you have 
 to me upon the same occasion. , , 
 
 Don Fed. What obligation; madam ? I am 
 Ignorant ; pray inform me. 
 
 tsab. 'Tvfas I, sir, that first Heard Leqrjora's 
 cries, and raised my brotiier to her aid. Pray let 
 me receive the same assistance from your prudence 
 which you have l\adfroro my care and my brother's 
 generosity. But pray lose no time, Don John 
 js perhaps already on thesppt, and not meeiiog my 
 brother, may send a second message, which may 
 be fatal, c ; 
 
 Don Fed. Madam, be at rest ; you shall be 
 satisfied, I'll go this moment. I'll only ask yon 
 first whether you are sure you heard my wife call 
 but for succour, before your brother passed the 
 wall ? 
 
 Isab. i did ; why do you ask that question ? 
 
 Don Fed. I have a reason, you may be sure. — 
 [Aside.'] Just Heaven, I adore thee !,the truth ^t 
 last shines clear, and by that villain Alvarada I'm 
 betrayed. But enough, I'll make use of this occa- 
 siori for TOy vengeance.! — [ To Isabella.] Where, 
 madain, is it Don John is waiting ? 
 
 Isab, But here, in 4, small field behind the 
 garden. 
 
 Don Fed. [Aside.'] His blood shall do me reason 
 for his treachery. 
 
 Isab. Will you go there directly ? 
 
 Don Ped. I will. Be satisfied. iExil. 
 
 Leo. You weep, Isabella. 
 
 Isab. You see my irouble for a .brother, fo/ 
 whom t would "die, and a lover for whom I wouJ.ci 
 live. They both are authors of my grief. 
 
 Leo. They both are instruments of my mis- 
 fortune. Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v; 
 
 SCENE t.—A field adjbhing Don Felix's 
 Garden, 
 Enter Lopkz! 
 tiOp. Q ho, my good signor Don Joiin, yoa are 
 mistaken in your man ! 1 ara your humble valet; 
 'tis true, and I am to obey you : but wh?n you 
 have got the devil in your body, and are upon your 
 rantipole adventures, ypu shall Ciuixote it by your- 
 self for Lopez. Yonder he is, waiting for poor 
 Guzman, vtrith a sword of a fathom and a half, -a 
 dagger for close engagement ; and (if 1 don't mis- 
 take) a pocket pistol for extraordinary occasions. 
 I think I am not in the wrong to keej> a little out 
 of the way. These matters will end in a court of 
 
 justice, or I'm wrong in my foresight. Now that 
 being a place where I am pretty well known, and 
 not overmuch reputed, I believe 'tis best, neither 
 to come in for prisoner nor evidence. Uut hold ; 
 yonder comes another Toledo. Don Guzman I , 
 presume ; but 1 presume wrong ; 'tis — who is't .' i 
 
 Don Pedro, by all the power^ ! What the pox doe's 
 he here, or what the pox do I here .' I'm sure u's 
 matters stand; 1 ought' to fly him like a creditor ; 
 but he sees me, 'tis too late to slip him. 
 
 , . i£nter Don 1?bdro, 
 
 Don Ped. How now, Lopez, where are you 
 going .' 
 
 Lop. I'm going, sir, I-rl'm going — if you please 
 I'm .going about my business. 
 
 Don Ped. Frpm whence <lo you come ? 
 
 Lop. Only, only, sir, from — taking the air a 
 little, I'm mightily muddled with a whur — round 
 about in my head for this day or two ; I'm going 
 home to be let blood, as fast as I can, sir. 
 
 Don Ped. Hold, sir, I'll i»t you blood here. — 
 [Aside.'\ This rascal may have borne some part in 
 this late adventure : He's a coward, I'll try to 
 frighten it out of him. — [Aloud.] You traitor you, 
 y'are dead ! 
 
 \ Seizes Lopbz bi/ the collar, and draws his poniard. 
 
410 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 /iCT V. 
 
 \_Knedinfj. 
 
 J.op. Mercy, Don Pedro ! 
 
 Bon Fed: Are yon not a villain ? 
 
 Lop. Yes, if you please. 
 
 Don Ped. Is there so great a one upon earth ? 
 
 Lop. With respect to my master; no. 
 
 Don Ped. Prepare then to die. 
 
 Lop. Give me but time, and I will. But noble 
 Don Pedro, just Don Pedro, generous Don Pedro, 
 vphat is it I have done ? 
 
 Don Ped. What if thou darest deny, I'll plunge 
 this dagger deep into thy throat, and drive the 
 falsehood to thy heart again. Therefore take heed, 
 and on thy life declare ; didst thou not this last 
 night open my doors to let Don Guzman in ? 
 
 Lop. Don Guzman ! 
 
 Don Ped. Don Guzman ? Yes, Don Guzman, 
 traitor, him ! 
 
 Lop. Now may the sky crush me, if I let in Don 
 Guzman. 
 
 Don Ped. Who did you let in then ? It wan't 
 your master sure ! if it was him, you did your duty, 
 I have no more to say. 
 
 Lop. Why then if I let in anybody else, I'm a 
 son of a whore. {Rising. 
 
 Don Ped. Did he oi'der you beforehand, or did 
 you do't upon his knocking ? 
 
 Lop. Why he ; I'll tell you, sir, he — pray put up 
 that brilliant ; it sparkles so in my eyes, it almost 
 blinds me. — [Don Pedbo sheathes his poniard.] 
 Thank you, sir. — Why, sir, I'll tell you just how 
 the matter was, but I hope you won't consider me 
 as a party .'' 
 
 Don Ped. Go on, thou art safe. 
 
 Lop. Why then, sir, (when for our sins,) you 
 had left us, says my master to me, Lopez, says he, 
 go and stay at old Don Felix's house, till Don 
 Pedro returns, they'll pass thee for his servant, and 
 think he has ordered thee to stay there. And then 
 says he, dost hear, open me the door by Leonora's 
 apartment to-night, for I have a little business, 
 says he, to do there. 
 
 Don Ped. {Aside.] Perfidious wretch ! 
 
 Lop. Indeed, I was at first a little wresty, and 
 stood off ; being suspicious (for I knew the man) 
 that there might be some ill intentions. But he 
 knew me too, takes me upon the weak side, whips 
 out a long sword, and by the same means makes 
 me do the thing as you have made me discover it. 
 — [Aside."] There's neither liberty nor property in 
 this land, since the blood of the Bourbons came 
 amongst us. 
 
 Don Ped. Then you let him in, as he bid you ? 
 
 Lop. I did : if I had not, I had never lived to 
 tell you the story. Yes, I let him in. 
 
 Don Ped. And what followed ? 
 
 Lop. Why he followed. 
 
 Don Ped. What ? 
 
 Lop. His inclinations. 
 
 Don Ped. Which way ? 
 
 Lop. The old way ; to a woman. 
 
 Don Ped. Confound him ', 
 
 Lop. In short, he got to madam's chamber, and 
 before he had been there long, (though you know, 
 sir, a little time goes a great way in some matters) I 
 heard such a clutter of small shot, murder ! murder 1 
 murder ! rape ! fire ! help ! and so forth. — But hold, 
 here he comes himself, and can give you a more 
 circumstantial account of the skirmish. lExit. 
 
 Don Ped. I thank thee. Heaven, at last, for hav- 
 ing pointed me to the victim I am to sacrifice. 
 
 Jj:nter Do^f John. 
 Villain, defend thyself! IDrawing. 
 
 Don John. What do you mean ? 
 
 Don Ped. To punish a traitor. 
 
 Don John. Where is he .' 
 
 Don Ped. In the heart of a sworn friend. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] I saw Lopez go from him ; 
 without doubt he has told him all. — [Aloud.] Of 
 what am I suspected ? 
 
 Don Ped. Of betraying the greatest trust that 
 man could place in man. 
 
 Don John. And by whom am I accused. 
 
 Don Ped. By me. Have at thy traitor's heart. 
 
 Don John. Hold! and be not quite a madman ! 
 Pedro, you know me well. You know I am not 
 backward upon these occasions, nor shall I refuse 
 you any satisfaction you'll demand ; but first, I 
 will be heard, and tell you, that for a man of sense, 
 you are pleased to make very odd conclusions. 
 
 Don Ped, Why, what is't possible thou canst 
 invent to clear thyself ? 
 
 Don John. To clear myself! Of what? I'm to 
 be thanked for what 1 have done, and not re- 
 proached. I find I have been an ass, and pushed 
 my friendship to that point, you find not virtue in 
 yourself enough to conceive it in another. But 
 henceforward I shall be a better husband on't. 
 
 Don Ped. I should be loath to find ingratitude 
 could e'er be justly charged upon me : but after 
 what your servant has confessed — 
 
 Don John. My servant ! right, my servant ! the 
 very thing I guessed. Fy, fy, Don Pedro ! is't 
 from a servant's mouth a friend condemns a friend ? 
 or can servants always judge at what their masters' 
 outward actions point ? But some allowances I 
 should make for the wild agitations you must needs 
 be in. I'm therefore calm, and thus far pass all by. 
 
 Don Ped. If you are innocent. Heaven be my 
 aid, that I may find you so. But .still — 
 
 Don John. But still you wrong me, if you still 
 suspect. Hear then, in short, my part of this 
 adventure. In order to acquit myself of the charge 
 you laid upon me in your absence, I went last 
 night, just as 'twas dark, to view the several 
 approaches to the house where you had left your 
 wife ; and I observed not far from one of the back 
 doors two persons in close eager conference. I was 
 disguised, so ventured to pass near 'em, and by a 
 word or two I heard, I found 'twas Guzman talk- 
 ing to Jacinta. My concern for your honour 
 made me at first resolve to call him to an immediate 
 account. But then reflecting that I might possi- 
 bly o'erhear some part of their discourse, and by 
 that judge of Leonora's thoughts, I reined my 
 passion in ; and by the help of an advancing but- 
 tress, which kept me from their sight, I learned the 
 black conspiracy, Don Guzman said, he had 
 great complaint to make ; and since his honourable 
 love had been so ill returned, he could with ease 
 forgive himself, if by some rougher means he 
 should procure what prayers, and tears, and sighs 
 had urged in vain. 
 
 Don Ped. Go on. 
 
 Don John, His kind assistant closed smoothly 
 with him, and informed him with what ease that 
 very night she'd introduce him to her chamber. 
 At last they parted, with this agreement, that at 
 some overture in a wall, he should expect her to 
 inform him when Leonora was in bed, and all the 
 coast was clear. 
 
 I 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 411 
 
 Don Fed. Despatch the rest. — [^sWe.] Is't 
 possible after all he should be innocent I 
 
 Don John. 1 must confess the resolution taken 
 made me tremble for you. How to prevent it now 
 and for ever was my next care. I immediately 
 ordered Lopez to go lie at Don Felix's and to open 
 me the door when all the family were in bed. He 
 did as I directed him. I entered, and in the dark 
 found my way to Leonora's apartment ; I found 
 the door open, at which I was surprised. I thought 
 I heard some stirring in her chamber, and in an 
 instant heard her cry to aid. At this I drew, and 
 rushed into the room ; which Guzman alarmed at, 
 cried out to her assistance. His ready impudence, 
 1 must confess, at first quite struck me speechless ; 
 but in a moment I regained my tongue, and loud 
 proclaimed the traitor. 
 
 Don Fed. Is't possible ! 
 
 Don John. Yet more : your arrival hindering 
 me at that time from taking vengeance for your 
 wrong, I at this instant expect him here, to punish 
 him (with heaven's righteous aid) for daring to 
 attempt my ruin with the man, whose friendship I 
 prefer to all the blessings Heaven and eartli dis- 
 pense. And now, Don Pedro, I have told you 
 this, if still you have a mind to take my life, J shall 
 defend it with the self-same warmth I intended to 
 expose it in your service. IBraws. 
 
 Don Fed. [_Aside.'] If I did not know he was 
 in love with Leonora, I could be easily surprised 
 with what he has told me. But — but yet 'tis cer- 
 tain he has destroyed the proofs against him ; and 
 if I only hold him guilty as a lover, why must Don 
 Guzman pass for innocent ? Good Gods, I am 
 again returning to my doubts ! 
 
 Don John. [,Aside.'\ I have at last reduced him 
 to a balance. 
 But one lie more toss'd in will turn the scale. — 
 [Aloud.} One obligation more, my friend, yon 
 
 owe me ; 
 I thought to have let it pass, but it shall out. 
 Know then, 
 
 I loved, like you, the beauteous Leonora ; 
 But from the moment I observed how deep 
 Her dart had pierced you, 
 I tore my passion from my bleeding heart, 
 And sacrificed my happiness to yours. 
 Now I've no more to plead ; if still you think 
 Your vengeance is my due, come pay it me. 
 
 Don Fed. Rather ten thousand poniards strike 
 O Alvarada ! [me dead. 
 
 Can you forgive a wild distracted friend ? 
 Gods ! whither was my jealous frenzy leading me ? 
 Can you forget this barbarous injury .' 
 
 Don John. I can : no more. But for the 
 future, think me what I am, a faithful and a zealous 
 friend. Retire, and leave me here. In a few 
 moments I hope to bring you farther proofs on't. 
 Guzma* I instantly expect ; leave me to do you 
 justice on him. 
 
 Don Fed. That must not be. My revenge can 
 ne'er be satisfied by any other hand but this. 
 
 Don John. Then let that do't. You'll in a 
 moment have an opportunity. 
 
 Don Fed. You mistake, he won't be here. 
 
 Don John. How so .' 
 
 Don Fed. He has not bad your challenge. His 
 sister intercepted it, and desired I'd come to pre- 
 vent the quarrel. 
 
 Don John. What then is to be done ? 
 
 Don Fed. I'll go and find him out immediately. 
 
 Don John. Very well: or hold— [Aside.'] I 
 must hinder 'em from talking, gossiping may dis- 
 cover me. — [Aioud.] Yes : let's go and find 
 him : or, let me see — ay — 'twill do better. 
 
 Don Fed. What ? 
 
 Don John. Why — that the punishment should 
 fauit the crime. 
 
 Don Fed. Explain. 
 
 Don John. Attack him by his own laws of war. 
 
 'Twas in the night he would have had your 
 
 honour, and in the night you ought to have his 
 life. 
 
 Don Fed. His treason cannot take the guilt from 
 mine. 
 
 Don John. There is no guilt in fair retaliation. 
 When 'tis a point of honour founds the quarrel, 
 the laws of swordmen must be kept, 'tis true : but 
 if a thief glides in to seize my treasure, methinks 
 I may return the favour on my dagger's point, as 
 well as with my sword of ceremony six times as 
 long. 
 
 Don Fed. Yet still the nobler method I would 
 choose ; it better satisfies the vengeance of a man 
 of honour. 
 
 Don John. I own it, were you sure you should 
 succeed : but the events of combats are uncertain. 
 Your enemy may 'scape you : you perhaps may 
 only wound him ; yon may be parted. Believe 
 me, Pedro, the injury's too great for a punctilio 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Don Fed. Well, guide me as you please, so you 
 direct me quickly to my vengeance. What do you 
 propose ? 
 
 Don John. That which is easy, as 'tis just to 
 execute. The wall he p-issed, to attempt your 
 wife, let us get over to jii-event his doing so any 
 more. 'Twill let us in tt) a private apartment by 
 his garden, where every evening in his amorous 
 solitudes he spends some time alone, and where I 
 guess his late fair scheme was drawn. The deed 
 done, we can retreat the way we entered ; let me 
 be your pilot, 'tis now e'en dark, and the most 
 proper time. 
 
 Do?!. Fed. Lead on ; I'll follow you. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] How many villanies I"m 
 forced to act, to keep one secret ! lExcunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Don Guzman's Apartment. 
 Don Guzman discovered sitting. 
 
 Don Guz. With what rigour does this unfaithful 
 woman treat me ! Is't possible it can be she, who 
 appeared to love me with so much tenderness ? 
 How little stress is to be laid upon a woman's 
 heart? Sure they're not worth those anxious 
 cares they give. — [Rising.] Then burst my chains, 
 and give me room to search for nobler pleasures. 
 I feel my heart begin to mutiny for liberty ; there 
 is a spirit in it yet, will struggle hard for freedom : 
 but solitude's the worst of seconds. — Ho, Sanchol 
 Galindo 1 who waits there ? Bring some lights. 
 Where are you ? 
 
 Enter GAT.INDO, nibbing his eyes, and drunk. 
 
 Gal. I can't well tell. Do yon want me, sir ? 
 
 Don Gux. Yes, sir, I want you. Why am I 
 left in the dark ? what were you doing ? 
 
 Gal. Doing, sir ! I was doing' — what one docs 
 when one sleeps, sir. 
 
412 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 J>nn Gttx. Have you no light without? 
 
 Gal. li'Hwning.] JLight ! — No, sir,^-I have no 
 light. I am used to hardship^ I can sleep in the 
 daiik., , : , , , . , f , . . , . I ; 
 
 Don Gux. You have heen drinkiiig, you rascal, 
 you are drunk ! ' > , : . t 
 
 Gal. I have been dVinking,- sir, 'tis true, b\lt T 
 am not drunk. Every man that is drunk, has befeo 
 drinking ; confessed. But fevery man that Jias 
 been drinking, is not drunk. Conft^ss that too. 
 , ^oji (?i(Zi Who isft has put you in this coridi- 
 tlor>, .you sot.,' i, ; ,, ,„■ . ; 
 
 Gal. A very honest fellow : Madam Leonora's 
 coachman, ^obody plsp. I^ have betin 'hiaking a 
 little debauch with Madam Leonora's coachman; 
 .ye% .,,'.,, , - • ': I '.", 
 
 ,, Don Guz. How c<>me ybu to drink with him', 
 beast .' ; . . , I 
 
 Gal. X)nly par complaisanoe, sir. The coach- 
 jnan was to be drunk,upon,madam.'s wedding ; and 
 I being a, friend, was d^ired to take part, , 
 
 Don Guz. And so, you villain, you can make 
 yourself merry with *^hat "renders ra'e thiSerable ! 
 
 Gai. Nq. sir, no ; 'twas the coachman was merry : 
 I drank with tears in my eyes. The remembrance 
 pf ygiir misfortpnesj made me so aadj so sad, that 
 every cup 1 swallowed, was like a cup of poison tO 
 me. i 
 
 Don Gn«. Without, doubt. . 
 . Gal. Yes ; and .to "mortify myself upon mjelan' 
 chcily matters, I believe I took down fifty. Yes., 
 , Doxt Guz. Go fetch some lights, you drunken 
 got, ypu ! , ■ . 
 
 Gal. I will if I can find the door, that is to say, 
 
 -^The devil's in the door ! 1 think 'tis grown too 
 
 little fo'' me.it— [.FefSn^/or the dmr, dnd running 
 
 against «/.] Shrunk this wet weather, I presume. 
 
 ii, . . . - iExit. 
 
 Don Guz. Ahsencfe, the old remedy for love, 
 must e'en be mine ; to stay and brave the danger 
 were presumption : Farewell, Valencia, then ! and 
 farewell, Leonora.! And if tliou canst, ray heart, 
 redeem thy liberty ; secure it by a farewell eternal 
 to her sex. 
 
 Re-enter Galistdo, %nt)i a candle. 
 
 Gal. Here's light, sir. — [He falls and puis it 
 out.'] So ! 
 
 Don Guz. Well done ! You sottish rascal, 
 come no more in my. sight. ... 
 
 ,. [_Exit into an adjoining chamber. 
 
 Gal. These boards are so uneven ! — You shall 
 see now I shall neither find the candle — nor the 
 candlestick; 'it shan't be -for want of searching 
 however." — [Rising, hnd feelih(f about for the can- 
 dle.} O ho, have 1 got you! Enough, I'll look for 
 your companion to-morrow. 
 
 Enter Dom Pedro and Don John. 
 
 Don Fed. Where are we now ? 
 
 Don John. We are in the apartment I told you 
 of — softly — I hear something stir. — Ten to one but 
 'tis he. 
 
 Gal. Don't I hear somewhat ? — Ko. — When one 
 has wine in one's head, one has such a bustle in 
 one's ears. 
 
 Don I'ed. [To Don John.] Who is that talking 
 to himself? 
 
 Don John. Tis his servant, I know his voice, 
 keep still. 
 
 Gal. Well ; since my master has banished me 
 his sight, I'll redeem by my obedience what I hav6 
 lost by niy debauohV I'll go bleep twelve hours in 
 some melancholy hole where the devil shan't fintl 
 me.. Yes. ■ ■ • • > ■, ; -CEj;!*. 
 
 , Don John. He's gone ; but hush; I hear some- 
 body .coming. ' ', ' ^ 
 Don Guz. Ho, there ! will liobodybring light ? 
 , ^ . , ISeh^nd the icen^. 
 Don Ped. 'Tis Guzman. . 
 Don .John. 'Tis so, prepare. ^ 
 , Don Ped. Shall J own my weaknfess.?il feel an 
 jnward check ; I Wish this could be done some 
 other way. ; .' .* . i 
 : Don John. Distraetioni all !. is this a time tb 
 balanced' . Think on. the injury he would have done 
 you, 'twill fortify your arm, and guide yourdaggei: 
 to his heart. . -, 
 , Din. Ped. Enough; I'll hesitate no inore ; be 
 satisfied, hark ! he's coming. 
 
 Re-enter Don (jujman, he crosses the stage. 
 Don Guz. I think these rogues are resolved to 
 leave me in the dark all night. \_Exit. 
 
 Don John. Now's your time ; follow him, and 
 strike home. ' ' ' • 
 
 Don Ped. Tb his heart, if my dagger will reach 
 it. ^ ■ ■ ■ iExil. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] If one be killed, I'm satis- 
 fied ; 'tis no great rnaMer which; 
 Re-enter Don GtizMAN, Don PEbRO following hinit wilJi 
 his dagger ready to strike. 
 Don Guz. My chamber-door's locked, and t 
 think I hear somebody treadi-;^Who's there ?-j- 
 N(5body answers. ' But still I hear something stir. 
 Holo there ! Sanchb, are you all drunk ? Sonle 
 tights here quickly. 
 IPasses by the corner where. Don John stands, and goct 
 ■ o^ff" Ike stage] 'Don Ped'^o following him. 
 Don Ped. . [Aeide:] I think I'm near him how. 
 — Traitor, take that ! my wife has sent it thee. , 
 1 ■ - . ' [Stabs, Don John, 
 
 Don John. Ah, I'm dead ! 
 Don Ped. Then thou hast thy dnSl 
 Don 'John. I have indeed, 'tis I that have be- 
 trayed thee. 
 
 Don Ped. And 'tis 1 that am revengbd on thee 
 for doing it. ; ' 
 
 Din John. I would have forced thy ^tife. 
 Don Ped. Die then with the regret to havi^ failed 
 in thy attempt. ' . 
 
 Don John. Farewell, if thou canst forgive infe — 
 ' \_Dies 
 
 Don Ped. I have done the deed : there's nothing 
 left, but to make our escape. Don John, where 
 ire you.'' let's be gone, I hear the servants coming. 
 ,' ' . ■ ; IKnothing at thi- door. 
 
 . Lop. [ Without.] Open there quickly, open the 
 door ! 
 
 > Don.P'ed. That's Lopez, we shall be discovered. 
 But 'tis no great matter, the crime will justify the 
 execution. But where's Don John? — Don John, 
 where are you ? 
 
 I [Knocking at the door. 
 
 Lnp. [ tVithout.] Open the door there, quickly ! 
 — Madam, I saw 'em both pass the wall, the devil's 
 in't if any good comes ou't. 
 
 Leo. [Without.] I am frightened out of my 
 senses I — Ho, Isabella! 
 
 Don Ped. 'Tis Leonora. — She's welcome. — 
 With her own eyes let her see her Guzman dead. 
 
SCENE K. 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND, 
 
 4VS 
 
 Enter Don Guzman, Leonora, Isabella, Jacinta, and 
 Lopez, with lights, 
 
 Don Fed. Ha ! what is't I see ? Guzman 
 alive ? Then who art thou ? ILookiiig on Don John. 
 
 Don Guss. Guzmau alive! Yes, Pedro, Guz- 
 man is alive. 
 
 Don Ped. Then Heaven is just, and there's » 
 traitor dead. ■ 
 
 Isab. \_Weepin(;.'\ Alas, Don John ! 
 
 Lop. [Looking upon Don John.] Buenas 
 noches ! 
 
 Don Guz. What has produced this bloody 
 scene ? 
 
 Don Ped. 'Tis I have been the actor in't ; my 
 poniard, Guzman, 1 intended in youf beart. I 
 
 thought your crime deserved it : but I did you 
 wrong, arid my hand in searching the innocent. Las 
 by heaven's justice been directed to the gnitty. 
 Don John, with his last breath, confessed himself 
 the offender. Thus my revenge is satisfied, and 
 you are cleared. 
 
 Don, Guz. Good Heaven, how equitable are thy 
 juds:raents ! 
 
 Don Ped. [To Leonora.] Come, madam, my 
 honour now is satisfied, and if jou please my love 
 may be so too. ' 
 
 Leo. If it is not. 
 
 You to yourself alone shall own ypur smart:. 
 
 For where I've given my hand, I'll give' my 
 hea?^. ■ l^xeunt omn«w. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY I4RS. OLDFIELD, 
 
 What say you, sirs, d'ye think my lady*U '«cape ? 
 'Tis devilish hard to stand a favourite's rape. 
 Should Guzman, like Don John, break in upon 
 
 her, 
 For all her virtue, heaven have mercy on her ! 
 Her strength, I doubt, 's in his irresolution, 
 There's wondrous charms in vigorous execution. 
 Indeed you raen are fools, you won't believe ■■' 
 What dreadful things we women can forgive s 
 I know but one we never do pass by. 
 And that you plague us with eternally ; 
 
 Wheij in your courtly fears to disoblige, 
 
 You won't' attack the town which you''besiege : 
 
 Your guns are light, and planted out of reach : 
 
 D'ye~thihk with billets-doux to make a breach ? 
 
 'Tis small-shot all, and not a stone will fly : 
 
 Walls fall by canoan, and by firing nigh : 
 
 In sluggish dull blockades you Ifeep the field, 
 
 And starve us ere we can with honour yield. 
 
 In short-— 
 
 M^e can't 'receive those terms you gently tender, 
 
 But^ stQrm, and w@ caQ EUiswer our surrender. 
 
THE CONFEDERACY, 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.E. 
 
 MoNEYTBAP, ] '""' '''■''' ^onei/ Scriveners. 
 Dick Amlet, a Gamester, St»i to Mrs. Amlet. 
 Baass, his Companion^ passes for his Vakt-de- 
 
 Chambre. 
 Clip, a Goldsmith, 
 Jessamin, Footboy to Claiussa. 
 A Constable. 
 Clarissa, Wife (oGripe, an expensive luxurious 
 
 Woman, a great Admirer qf Quality. 
 
 Araminta, Wife to Monevtrap, very intimate 
 
 with Clarissa, ^the same Humour. 
 CoRiNNA, Daughter to Gripe by a former Wife, 
 
 a good Fortune, young, and kept very close 
 
 by her Father. 
 Flippanta, Maid to Clarissa. 
 Mrs. Amlet, a Seller ofallSorts of private Affairs 
 
 to the Ladies. 
 Mrs. Cloggit, her Neighbour, 
 
 SCENE,— London, 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY A SHABBY POET. 
 
 Ye gods ! what crime had my poor father done, 
 That you should make a poet of his son ? 
 Or is't for some great services of his, 
 Y'are pleased to compliment his boy — with this ? 
 [^Showing his crown of laurel. 
 The honour, 1 must needs confess, is great, 
 If, with his crown, you'd tell him where to eat. 
 'Tis well. — But I have more complaints — look here ! 
 [^Showing his ragged coat. 
 Hark ye : — D'ye think this suit good winter wear ? 
 In a cold morning, whu — at a lord's gate. 
 How you have let the porter let me wait ! 
 You'll say, perhaps, you knew I'd get no harm, 
 You'd given me fire enough to keep me warm. 
 Ah!— 
 
 A world of blessings to that fire we owe ; 
 Without it I'd ne'er made this princely show. 
 I have a brother too, now in my sight, 
 
 ILooking behind the scenes. 
 A busy man amongst us here to-night : 
 
 Your fire has made him play a thousand pranks, 
 For which, no doubt, you've had his daily thanks ; 
 He has thank'd you, first, for all his decent plays. 
 Where he so nick'd it, when he writ for praise. 
 Next for his meddling with some folks in black, 
 And bringing — souse ! — a priest upon his back ; ' 
 For building houses here to oblige the peers. 
 And fetching all their house about his ears ; 
 For a new play, he'as now thought fit to write, 
 To soothe the town — which they — will damn to- 
 night. 
 These benefits are such, no man can doubt 
 But he'll go on, and set your fancy out, 
 Till for reward of all his noble deeds, 
 At last like other sprightly folks he speeds : 
 Has this great recompense fix'd on his brow 
 At famed Parnassus ; has your leave to bow 
 And walk about the streets — equipp'd — as I am 
 now. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE l.—Covent Garden. 
 Enter Mrs. Amlet and Mrs, Cloggit, meeting. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Good-morrow, neighbour ; good- 
 morrow, neighbour Cloggit ! How does all at your 
 house this muming .' 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Thank you kindly, Mrs. Amlet, 
 thank you kindly ; how do you do, I pray ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. At the old .rate, neighbour, poor and 
 honest j these are hard times, good lack ! 
 
 Mrs. Clog. If they are hard with you, what are 
 they with us .' You have a good trade going, all the 
 great folks in town help you off with your mer- 
 chandise. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Yes, they do help us off with 'em 
 indeed ; they buy all. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. And pay — 
 
 Mrs. Ami,, For some. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Well, 'tis " thousand pities, Mrs. 
 Amlet, they are not as ready at one as tiiey are at 
 
TJIE CONFEDERACV. 
 
 a: 
 
 t'other: for, not to wrong 'em, they give very good 
 rates. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Oh, for that, let us do 'em justice, 
 neiglibour ; they never make two words upon the 
 price, all they haggle about is the day of pay- 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. There's all the dispute, as you say. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. But that's a wicked one. For my 
 part, neighbour, I'm just tired off ray legs with 
 trotting after 'em ; besides, it eats out all our profit. 
 Would you believe it, Mrs. Cloggit, I have worn out 
 four pair of pattens with following my old lady 
 Youthful, for one set of false teeth, and but three 
 pots of paint. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Look you there now ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. If they would but once let me get 
 enough by 'em, to keep a coach to carry me a- 
 dunning after 'em, there would be some conscience 
 in it. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Ay, that were something. But now 
 you talk of conscience, Mrs. Amlet, how do you 
 speed amongst your city customers ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. My city customers ! now by my 
 truth, neighbour, between the city and the court 
 (with reverence be it spoken) there's not a — to 
 choose. My ladies in the city, in times past, were 
 as fuR of gold as they were of religion, and as 
 punctual in their payments as they were in their 
 prayers ; but since they have set their minds upon 
 quality, adieu one, adieu t'other, their money and 
 their consciences are gone. Heaven knows where. 
 There is not a goldsmith's wife to be found in 
 town, hut's as , hard-hearted as an ancient judge, 
 and as poor as a towering duchess. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. But what the murrain have they to 
 do with quality ! why don't their husbands make 
 'em mind their shops ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Their husbands ! their husbands, 
 sayest thou, woman ? Alack ! alack ! they mind 
 their husbands, neighbour, no more than they do a 
 sermon. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Good lack a-day, that women born 
 of sober parents, should be prone to follow ill 
 examples ! But now we talk of quality, when did 
 you hear of your son Richard, Mrs. Amlet ? My 
 daughter Flipp says she met him t'other day in a 
 laced coat, with three fine ladies, his footman at 
 his heels, and as gay as a bridegroom. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ? Ah the rogue ! 
 Well, neighbour, all's well that ends well ; but 
 Dick will be hanged. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. That were pity. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Pity indeed ; for he's a hopeful 
 young man to look on ; but he leads a life — Well 
 — where he has it. Heaven knows ; but they say, 
 he pays his club with the best of 'em. I have seen 
 him but once these three months, neighbour, and 
 then the varlet wanted money ; but I bid him 
 march, and march he did to some purpose ; for in 
 less than an hour back comes my gentleman into 
 the house, walks to and fro in the room, with his 
 wig over his shoulder, his hat on one side, whist- 
 ling a minuet, and tossing a purse of gold from one 
 hand to t'other, with no more respect (Heaven 
 bless us !) than if it had been an orange. Sirrah, 
 says I, where have you got that .' He answers me 
 never a word, but sets his arms akimbo, cocks his 
 saucy hat in my face, turns about upon his ungra- 
 cious heel, as much as to say kiss — and I've never 
 set eve on him since. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Look you there now ; to see what 
 the youth of this age are come to ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. See what they will come to, neigh- 
 bour. Heaven shield, I say ; but Dick's upon the 
 gallop. Well, I must bid you good-morrow ; I'm 
 going where I doubt I shall meet but a sorry wel- 
 come. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. To get in some old debt, I'll war- 
 rant you ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Neither better nor worse. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. From a lady of quality ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. No, she's but a scrivener's wife ; 
 but she lives as well and pays as ill as the state- 
 liest countess of 'em all. [^Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II.— r/ie Street before Gripe's Home. 
 Enter Brass. i 
 
 Brass. Well, surely through the world's wide 
 extent, there never appeared so impudent a felloe,- 
 as my school-fellow Dick. — Pass himself upon the 
 town for a gentleman, drop into all the best com- 
 pany with an easy air, as if his natural element 
 were in the sphere of quality ; when the rogue hai) 
 a kettle-drum to his father, who was hanged fo! 
 robbing a church, and has a pedlar to his mother, 
 — who carries her shop under her arm ! — But here 
 he comes. 
 
 Enter Dick Awlet. 
 
 Dick. Well, Brass, what news ? Hast thou 
 given my letter to Flippanta ? 
 
 Brass. I'm but just come : I han't knocked at 
 the door yet. But I have a damned piece of news 
 for you. 
 
 Dick. As how ? 
 
 Brass. We must quit this country. 
 
 Dick. We'll be hanged first. 
 
 Brass. So you will if you stay. 
 
 Dick. Why, what's the matter ? 
 
 Brass. There's a storm a coming. 
 
 Dick. From whence .'' 
 
 Brass. From the worst point in the compass, 
 the law. 
 
 Dick. The law ! why what have I to do with the 
 law? 
 
 Brass. Nothing; and therefore it has something 
 to do with you. 
 
 Dick. Explain. 
 
 Brass. You knowyou cheated a young fellow at 
 picquet t'other day of the money lie hud to raise 
 his company. 
 
 Dick. Well, what then ? 
 
 Brass. Why, he's sorry he lost it. 
 
 Dick. Who doubts that .' 
 
 Sras. Ay, but that is not all, he's such a fool 
 to think of complaining on't. 
 
 Dick. Then 1 must be so wise to stop his mouth. 
 
 Brass. How.' 
 
 Dick. Give him a little back ; if that won't do, 
 strangle him. 
 
 Brass. You are very quick in your methods. 
 
 Dick. Men must be so that will despatch busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Brass. Hark you, colonel, your father died in's 
 bed.' 
 
 Diek. He might have done, if he had not been o 
 fool. 
 
41 G 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Brans. Why, he robbed a church. 
 
 DicK. Ay, but lie' forgot to biake sure of the 
 sesthii. 
 
 Urass. Are not you a great rogue ? 
 
 bick. Or I should wear worse clothes. 
 
 Brass. Hark ydii, I would advise yoil to change 
 your life. 
 
 Bick. And turn hallad-teingej; ? 
 
 Brass. Not so neither. 
 
 Dick. What then. ' 
 
 Brass. Why, if you can get this young weneh, 
 tefdrm,' and live honest. " ' ' ' 
 
 'Dick. That's the w^y to be starved. 
 
 Hrass. No, she has money* enough to buy you a 
 good place, and pay me into the bargain for help- 
 ing her to so good a match. You have but this 
 throw left to save you, for you are not ignorant, 
 ypungstar, that your mofals' begtn ttf 'be tjreyy 
 well known about town ; have a care your noble 
 birth and' your hono'urable relations are not dis- 
 covered too ; there needs but that to" hi^ve you 
 tossed in a blanket, for the entertainment of the 
 first company of ladies you intrude into ; and then, 
 like a dutiful sott, jou may daggle about with your 
 mother, and sell paint : she'iS old and weak, and 
 wants somebody to carry her goods after, her. ' Howf 
 like a dog will you look, with a' pair of plod shoes, 
 your hair cropped up to your ear,s, and a bandbox 
 undpr your arm; ! 
 
 Dick. Why faith, Brass, I think thou .-vrt in t^g 
 right on't ; I must fix my affairs quickly, or ma- 
 dam Fortune will' be playing some of her bitch- 
 trioks with me : therefore I'll tell thee what *e'll 
 do ; we'll pursue this did rogue's daughter heartily', 
 we'll cheat his family to purpose, and they shall 
 atone for the rest of mankind.' 
 
 Brass. Have at her then ! I'll about your busi- 
 ness presently. 
 
 Dick. One kiss — and success attend thee. iExU. 
 
 Brass. A great rogiie '.^rWell; I say nothing : 
 but when I have got the thing into a good posture, 
 he shall sign and seal, or I'll have him tumbled out 
 of the house like a cheese. — Now for Flippanta. 
 
 IKnocke at Gripe's door. 
 
 Enter Fuppanta, 
 
 Flip. Who's that ? Brass ! 
 
 Brass. Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. What want you, rogue's face .' 
 
 Brass. Is your mistress dressed ? 
 
 Flip. What, ali-eady ! Is the fellow drunk ? 
 
 Brass. Why, .with respect to her looking-glass, 
 it's almost two. 
 
 Flip. What then, fool ? 
 
 Brass. Why then it's time for the mistress of 
 the house to come down, and look after her 
 family. 
 
 Flip. Prithee don't be an owl. Those that go 
 to bed at night may rise in the morning I we 
 that go to bed in the morning rise in the after- 
 noon. 
 
 Brass. When does she make her visits then ? 
 
 Flip. By candle-light ; it helps off a muddy 
 complexion ; we women hate inquisitive sunshine. 
 But do you know that my lady is going to turn 
 good housewife ? 
 
 Brass. What, is she going to die ? 
 
 Fhp. Die! 
 
 Brass. Why, that's the only way to save money 
 for her family. 
 
 Flip No ; hut she has thought of a project to 
 save chair-hire. 
 
 Brass. As how? 
 
 Flip. Why all'the company she u^ed to keep 
 abroad, she now intends' shall rheet at her own 
 house. Your master has advised her to set up a 
 basset-table'. 
 
 Brass. Nay, if he advised her to % it's right j 
 but "has she acquainted her husband with it 'yet ? 
 
 Flip. What to do? when the company meet, 
 he'll see 'em. ' '' 
 
 Brass. Nay, that's true, as you say ; he'll knov? 
 it soon enough. ' . - •. 
 
 Flip. Well, I must be gone ; haye you any busi- 
 ness with my lady .' " , .. ■ .1' -. 
 
 Brass. Yes ; as ambassador from ^raminta, I 
 have a letter fbr her. ' • 
 
 Flip. Give it me. 
 
 Brass. Hold ! — and as first minister of state to 
 the colonel, I have an affair to dommuhidate to 
 thee. ' " ' . "' . ■ 
 
 Flip. What is't ? — quick ! 
 
 Brass. Why — he's ih lo^e. 
 
 Flip. With what ? 
 
 Br'ass. A woman — and her money together. 
 
 i?/ijD. Who is shaJ ' ' ' *'' •"■ 
 
 Brass. Corinna.* 
 
 Flip. What would he be at ? 
 
 Brass. At her, if sh&'-s 'at leisure. 
 
 Flip. Which way? " 
 
 Brass. Honourably. He has ordered me to 
 demand her of thee in maniage. ' 
 
 Flip. Of me !- 
 
 Brass. Why, when a man of quality has a mind 
 to a' city fortune, wouldst have Iikn apply to her 
 fkther and thother ?" ' ^ ' 
 
 Flip. No. 
 
 Brass. No ; so I think. Men of our end of the 
 town are better bred than to use ceremony. With 
 t£ 'long periwig we strike the lady ; with a you- 
 know-what we soften the inaid ; and when the 
 parson has done his job, we open the affair to the 
 femily. Will you slip this letter into her Prayer- 
 Book, my little queen ? it's a very passionate one. 
 It's sealed with a heart and a dagger ; you may see 
 by that what he intends to do with himself. 
 
 Flip. Are there any verses in it .' if not, I won't 
 touch it. 
 
 Brass. Not one word in prose ; it's dated in 
 rhyme. [Flippanta takes the letter. 
 
 Flip. Well, but have you brought nothing else .' 
 
 Brass. Gad forgive me, I'm the forgetfuUest 
 dog ! — I have a letter for you too ; — here, 'tis in a 
 purse, but it's in prose ; you won't touch it. 
 
 Flip. Yes, hang it, it is not good to be too 
 dainty. 
 
 Brass. How useful a virtue is humility ! — Well, 
 child, we shall have an answer to-morrow, shan't 
 we ? 
 
 Flip. I can't promise you that; for our young 
 gentlewoman is not so often in ray way as she 
 would be. Her father (who is a citizen from the 
 fbot to the forehead of him) lets her seldom con- 
 verse with her mother-in-law and me, for fear she 
 should learn the airs of a woman of quality. But 
 I'll take the first occasion. — See, there's my lady ; 
 go in and deliver your letter to her. lExeunt, 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 417 
 
 SCENE III. — A Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Clarissa, followed b^/ Flippanta and Brass. 
 
 Clar. No messages this morning from anybody, 
 Flippanta ? Lard, how dull that is ! Oh, there's 
 Brass ! — I did not see thee, Brass. What news 
 dost thou bring .' 
 
 Brass. Only a letter from Araminta, madam. 
 
 Clar. Give it me. — Open it for me, Flippanta, 
 I am so lazy to-day. ISittinn down. 
 
 Brass. [Aside to Flippanta.] Be sure now 
 you deliver my master's as carefully as I do this. 
 
 Flip. Don't trouble thyself, I'm no novice. 
 
 Clar. {To Brass.] 'Tis well ; there needs no 
 answer, since she'll be here so soon. 
 
 Brass. Your ladyship has no farther commands 
 then ? 
 
 Clar. Not at this time, honest Brass. — [Exit 
 Brass.] Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. Madam. 
 
 Clar. My husband's in love. 
 
 Flip. In love ! 
 
 Clar. With Araminta. 
 
 Flip. Impossible ! 
 
 Clar. This letter from her is to give me an 
 account of it. 
 
 Flip. Methinks you are not very much alarmed. 
 
 Clar. No ; thou knowest I'm not much tor- 
 tured with jealousy. 
 
 Flip. Nay, you are much in the right on't, 
 madam, for jealousy's a city passion ; 'tis a thing 
 unknown amongst people of quality. 
 
 Clar. Fy ! a woman must indeed be of a mecha- 
 nic mould who is either troubled or pleased with 
 anything her husband can do to her. Prithee 
 mention him no more ; 'tis the dullest theme. 
 
 Flip. 'Tis splenetic indeed. But when once 
 you open your basset-table, I hope that will put 
 him out of your head. 
 
 Clar. Alas, Flippanta ! I begin to grow weary 
 even of the thoughts of that too. 
 
 Flip. How so .' 
 
 Clar. Why, I have thought on't a day and a 
 night already ; and four-and-twenty hours, thou 
 knowest, is enough to make one weary of any- 
 thing. 
 
 Flip. Now, by my conscience, you have more 
 woman in you than all your sex together : you 
 never know what you would have. 
 
 Clar. Thou mistakest the thing quite. I al- 
 ways know what I lack, but I am never pleased 
 with what I have. The want of a thing is per- 
 plexing enough, but the possession of it is intoler- 
 able. 
 
 Flip. Well, I don't know what you are made 
 of, but other women would think themselves blest 
 in your case; handsome, witty, loved by every- 
 body, and of so happy a composure to care a fig 
 for nobody. You have no one passion but that of 
 your pleasures ; and you have in me a servant 
 devoted to all your desires, let 'em be as extrava- 
 gant as they will. Yet all this is nothing ; you can 
 still be out of humour. 
 
 Clar. Alas ! I have but too much cause. 
 
 Flip. Why, what have you to complain of? 
 
 C^ar. Alas ! I have more subjects for spleen 
 than one. Is it not a most horrible thing that I 
 should be but a scrivener's wife ? Come, don't 
 flatter me ; don't you think nature designed me 
 for something plus elev^e f 
 
 Flip. Nay, that's certain ; but on t'other side, 
 methinks, you ought to be in some measure con- 
 tent, since you live like a woman of quality, though 
 you are none. 
 
 Clar. O fy ! the very quintessence of it is 
 wanting. 
 
 Flip. What's that ? 
 
 Clar. Why, I dare abuse nobody : I'm afraid to 
 affront people, though 1 don't like their faces ; or 
 to ruin their reputations, though they pique me to 
 it by taking ever so much pains to preserve 'em : I 
 dare not raise a lie of a man, though he neglects to 
 make love to me ; nor report a woman to be a fool, 
 though she's handsomer than I am. In short, I 
 dare not so much as bid my footman kick the 
 people out of doors, though they come to ask me 
 for what I owe 'em. 
 
 Flip. All this is very hard indeed. 
 
 Clar. Ah, Flippanta, the perquisites of quality 
 are of an unspeakable value ! 
 
 Flip. They are of some use, I must confess ; 
 but we must not expect to have everything. You 
 have wit and beauty, and a fool to your husband : 
 come, come, madam, that's a good portion for 
 one. 
 
 Clar, Alas ! what signifies beauty and wit, when 
 one dares neither jilt the men nor abuse the women? 
 'Tis a sad thing, Flippanta, when wit's confined ; 
 'tis worse than the rising of the lights. I have 
 been sometimes almost choked with scandal, and 
 durst not cough it up for want of being a countess. 
 
 Flip. Poor lady ! 
 
 Clar. Oh I liberty is a fine thing, Flippanta ; 
 it's a great help in conversation to have leave to say 
 what one will. I have seen a woman of quality, 
 who has not had one grain of wit, entertain a whole 
 company the most agreeably in the world, only 
 with her malice. But 'tis in vain to repine ; I 
 can't mend my condition till my husband dies ; so 
 I'll say no more on't, but think of making the most 
 of the state I am in. 
 
 Flip. That's your best way, madam ; and in order 
 to it, pray consider how you'll get some ready 
 money to set your basset-table a-going ; for that's 
 necessary. 
 
 Clar. Thou sayest true ; but what trick I shall 
 play my husband to get some I don't know : for 
 my pretence of losing my diamond necklace has 
 put the man into such a passion, I'm afraid he 
 won't hear reason. 
 
 Flip. No matter ; he begins to think 'tis lost in 
 earnest ; so I fancy you may venture to sell it, and 
 raise money that way. 
 
 Clar. That can't be, for he has left odious notes 
 with all the goldsmiths in town. 
 
 Flip. Well, we must pawn it then. 
 
 Clar. I'm quite tired with dealing with those 
 pawnbrokers. 
 
 Flip. [Aside.] I'm afraid you'll continue the 
 trade a great while, for all that. 
 
 ^nter Jessamin. 
 
 Jes. Madam, there's the woman below that sells 
 paint and patches, iron-bodice, false teeth, and all 
 sorts of things to the ladies ; I can't think of her 
 name. lExit, 
 
 Flip. 'Tis Mrs. Amlet ; she wants money. 
 
 Clar, Well, I han't enough for myself, it's an 
 unreasonable thing she shoul'd think I have an; for 
 her. „ „ 
 
418 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Flip. She's a troublesome jade. 
 
 Clar. So are all people that come a-dunning. 
 
 Flip. What will you do with her ? 
 
 Clar. I have just now thought on't. She's very 
 rich, that woman is, Flippanta ; I'll borrow some 
 money of her. 
 
 Flip. Borrow ! sure you jest, madam. 
 
 Clar. No, I'm in earnest ; I give thee commis- 
 sion to do it for me. 
 
 Flip. Me I 
 
 Clar. Why dost thou stare, and look so ungainly? 
 don't I speak to be understood ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, I understand you well enough ; but 
 Mrs. Amlet — 
 
 Clar. But Mrs. Amlet must lend me some mo- 
 ney ; where shall I have any to pay her else ? 
 
 Flip, That's true ; I never thought of that truly. 
 But here she is. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Amlbt. 
 
 Clar. How d'you do ? how d'you do, Mrs. Am- 
 let ; I han't seen you these thousand years, and 
 yet I believe I'm down in your books. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Oh, madapi, I don't come for that, 
 alack 1 
 
 Flip. Good-morrow, Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Good-morrow, Mrs. Flippanta. 
 
 Clar. How much am I indebted to you, Mrs. 
 Amlet .» 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Nay, if your ladyship desires to see 
 your bill, I believe I may have it about me. — There, 
 madam, if it ben't too much fatigue to you to look 
 it over. 
 
 Clar. Let me see it, for I hate to be in debt — 
 [Aside'\ — where I am obliged to pay. — [Reads.'\ 
 Imprimis, For bolstering out the Countess of 
 Crump's left hip — Oh, fy ! this does not belong to 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I beg your ladyship's pardon. I 
 mistook, indeed ; 'tis a countess's bill I have writ 
 out to little purpose. I furnished her two years 
 ago with three pair of hips, and am not paid for 
 'em yet. — But some are better customers than 
 some. — There's your ladyship's bill, madam. 
 
 Clar. [Reads.] For the idea of a new-irwented 
 commode. — Ay, this may be mine, but 'tis of a pre- 
 posterous length. Do you think I can waste time 
 to readievery article, Mrs. Amlet ? I'd as lief read 
 a sermon. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Alack-a-day, there's no need of 
 fatiguing yourself at that rate ; cast an eye only, 
 if your honour pleases, upon the sum total. 
 
 Clar. Total ; fifty-six pound — and odd things. 
 
 Flip. But six-and-fifty pound ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Nay, another body would have made 
 it twice as much ; but there's a blessing goes along 
 with a moderate profit. 
 
 Clar. Flippanta, go to my cashier, let him give 
 you six-and-fifty pound. Make haste : don't you 
 hear me ? six-and-fifty pound. Is it so difficult to 
 be comprehended .'' 
 
 Flip. No, madam, I — I comprehend six-and- 
 fifty pound, but — 
 
 Clar. But go and fetch it then. 
 
 Flip. ^Aside.'] What she means I don't know ; 
 but I shall, I suppose, before I bring her the money. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Clar. ^.Setting her hair in a pocket-glass.'] The 
 trade you follow gives you a great deal of trouble, 
 Mrs. Amlet f 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Alack-a-day, a world of pain, ma- 
 dam, and yet there's smedl profit, as your honour 
 sees by your bill. 
 
 Clar. Poor woman I Sometimes you have great 
 losses, Mrs. Amlet? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I have two thousand pounds owing 
 me, of which I shall never get ten shillings. 
 
 Clar. Poor woman ! You have a great charge of 
 children, Mrs. Amlet .' 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Only one wicked rogue, madam, 
 who, I think, will break my heart. 
 
 Clar. Poor woman ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. He'll be hanged, madam — ^that will 
 be the end of him. Where he gets it, Heaven 
 knows ; but he's always shaking his heels with the 
 ladies, and his elbows with the lords. He's as 
 fine as a prince, and as gim as the best of them ; 
 but the ungracious rogue tells all he comes 
 near that his mother is dead, and I am but his 
 nurse. 
 
 Clar. Poor woman ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami, Alas, madam, he's like the rest of 
 the world ; everybody's for appearing to be more 
 than they are, and that ruins alL 
 
 Clar. Well, Mrs. Amlet, you'll excuse me, I have 
 a little business, Flippanta will bring you your 
 money presently. Adieu, Mrs. Amlet 1 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I return your honour many thanks. 
 — [Exit Clarissa.] Ah, there's my good lady, 
 not so much as read her bill. If the rest were like 
 her, I should soon have money enough to go as 
 fine as Dick himself. 
 
 Enter 'DIC& Amlet. 
 
 Diclc. Sure Flippanta must have given my letter 
 by this time ; I long to know how it has been 
 received. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Misericorde ! what do I see ! 
 
 Dicli. \_Aside.'\ Fiends and hags — the witch my 
 mother ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Nay, 'tis he ; ah, my poor Dick, 
 what art thou doing here i 
 
 Dick. [Aside.^ What a misfortune! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Good Lard 1 how thou art bravely 
 decked. But it's all one, I am thy mother still ; 
 and though thou art a wicked child, nature will 
 speak, I love thee still, ah, Dick ! my poor Dick ! 
 
 [Embracing him. 
 
 Dick. Blood and thunder ! will you ruin me ? 
 
 [Brealiing from her. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah, the blasphemous rogue, how he 
 swears I 
 
 Dick. You destroy all my hopes. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Will your mother's kiss destroy you, 
 varlet .' Thou art an ungracious bird ; kneel down, 
 and ask me blessing, sirrah, 
 
 Dick. Death and furies ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah, he's a proper young man ; see 
 what a shape he has ! ah, poor child ! 
 
 [Running to embrace Mm, lie stiU avoiding Iter. 
 
 Dick. Oons, keep off ! the woman's mad. If 
 anybody comes, my fortune's lost. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What fortune, ha ? speak, graceless ! 
 Ah Dick, thou'lt be hanged, Dick ! 
 
 Dick. Good dear mother now, don't call me 
 Dick here. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Not call thee Dick ! is it not thy 
 name ? What shall I call thee .' Mr. Amlet ? ha ! 
 Art not thou a presumptuous rascal ? Hark yo'u, 
 sirrah, I hear of your tricks ; you disown me for 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 410 
 
 your mother, and say I am but your nurse. Is not 
 this true ? 
 
 Dick. No, 1 love you ; I respect you ; — [ Taking 
 her hand.'\ I am all duty. But if you discover me 
 here, you ruin the fairest prospect that man ever 
 had. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What prospect ? ha ! Come, this 
 is a lie now. 
 
 Diok. No, my honoured parent ; what I say is 
 true, I'm about a great fortune. I'll bring you 
 home a daughter-in-law, in a coach and six horses, 
 if you'U but be quiet : I can't tell you more now. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Is it possible I 
 
 Dick. 'Tis true, by Jupiter ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami, My dear lad ! — 
 
 Dick. For heaven's salce ! — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. But tell mg, Dick — 
 
 Dick. I'll follow you home in a moment, and 
 tell you all. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What a shape is there ! 
 
 Dick. Pray mother go. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I must receive some money here 
 first, which shall go for thy wedding- dinner. 
 
 Dick. Here's somebody coming. — lAside.'\ 
 'Sdeath, she'll betray me ! 
 
 [^He makes signs to his mother. 
 
 Re-enter Flippanta. 
 
 Dick. Good-morrow, dear Flippanta : how do 
 all the ladies within ? 
 
 Flip. At your service, colonel ; as far at least 
 as my interest goes. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Colonel ! — Law you now, how Dick's 
 respected ! "iAside. 
 
 Dick. Waiting for thee, Flippanta, I was making 
 acquaintance with this old gentlewoman here. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. The pretty lad ! he's as impudent 
 as a page. \_Aside. 
 
 ■Dick. Who is this good woman, Flippanta ? 
 
 Flip. A gin of all trades ; an old daggling cheat, 
 that hobbles about from house to house to bubble 
 the ladies of their money. I have a small business 
 of yours in my pocket, colonel. 
 
 Dick. An answer to my letter ? 
 
 Flip. So quick indeed ! No, it's your letter 
 itself. 
 
 Dick. Hast thou not given it then yet ? 
 
 Flip. I han't had an opportunity ; but 'twon't 
 be long first. Won't you go in and see my lady ? 
 
 Dick. Yes, I'll go make her a short visit. But, 
 dear Flippanta, don't forget : my life and fortune 
 are in your hands. 
 
 Flip. Ne'er fear, I'll take care of 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. How he traps 'em ! let Dick alone. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Dick. [To Mrs. Amlet.] Your servant, good 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Your honour's most devoted. — 
 [Emt Dick Amlet.] A pretty, civil, well-bred 
 gentleman this, Mrs. Flippanta. Pray whom may 
 he be? 
 
 Flip. A man of great note ; Colonel Shapely. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ! I have heard much 
 of him indeed, but never saw him before. One 
 may see quality in every limb of him : he's a fine 
 man truly. 
 
 Flip. I think you are in love with him, Mrs. 
 Amlet. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Alas, those days are done with me, 
 but if I were as fair as I was once, and had as 
 ranch money as some folks. Colonel Shapely 
 should not catch cold for want of a bedfellow. I 
 love your men of rank, they have something in 
 their air does so distinguish 'em from the rascftUty. 
 
 Flip. People of quality are fine things indeed, 
 Mrs. Amlet, if they had but a little more money ; 
 but for want of that, they are forced to do things 
 their great souls are ashamed of. For example — 
 here's my lady — she owes you but six-aad-lifiy 
 pounds — 
 
 Mrs. Ami, Well ! 
 
 Flip. Well, and she has it not by her to pay yon. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. How can that be ? 
 
 Flip. I don't know ; her cash-keeper's out of 
 humour, he says he has no money. 
 
 Mrs, Ami. What a presumptuous piece of ver- 
 min is a cash-keeper ! Tell his lady he has no 
 money ! — Now, Mrs. Flippanta, you may see his 
 bags are full, by his being so saucy. 
 
 Flip. If they are, there's no help for't ; he'll 
 do what he pleases, till he comes to make up hiii 
 yearly accounts. 
 
 Mrs, Ami. But madam plays sometimes, so 
 when she has good fortune, she may pay me out 
 of her winnings. 
 
 Flip. Oh, ne'er think of that, Mrs. Amlet ; if 
 she had won a thousand pounds, she'd rather die in 
 a jail than pay off a farthing with it. Play-money, 
 Mrs. Amlet, amongst people of quality, is a sacred 
 thing, and not to be profaned. The dense ! — 'tis 
 consecrated to their pleasures, 'twould be sacrilege 
 to pay their debts with it. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Why what shall we do then ? for I 
 han't one penny to buy bread. 
 
 Flip. I'll tell yon — it just now comes in my 
 head ; I know my lady has a little occasion for 
 money at this time ; so — if you lend her^-a hun- 
 dred pound — do you see, then she may pay you 
 your six-and-fifty out of it. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Sure, Mrs. Flippanta, you think to 
 make a fool of me ! 
 
 Flip. No, the devil fetch me if I do. — You shall 
 have a diamond necklace in pawn. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. O ho, a pawn ! That's another case. 
 And when must she have this money ? 
 
 Flip. In a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Say no more. Bring the necklace to 
 my house, it shall be ready for you. 
 
 Flip. I'll be with you in a moment, 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Adieu, Mrs. Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. Adieu, Mrs. Amlet. — [Exit Mrs. Amlet.] 
 So — this ready money will make us all happy. 
 This spring will set our basset going, and that's a 
 wheel will turn twenty others. My lady's young 
 and handsome ; she'll have a dozen intrigues upon 
 her hands before she has been twice at her prayers. 
 So much the better ; the more the grist, the richer 
 the miller. Sure never wench got into so hopeful 
 a place ! Here's a fortune to be sold, a mistress 
 to be debauched, and a master to be ruined. If I 
 don't feather my nest, and get a good husband, I 
 deserve to die, both a maid and a beggar. lExit. 
 
 E E2 
 
420 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Room in Gkipe's House. 
 Enter Clarissa and Dtck Amx.et. 
 
 Clwr. What in the name of dulness is the mat- 
 ter with you, colonel ? Yon are as studious as a 
 cracked chemist. 
 
 I>ick. My head, madam, is fall of your husband. 
 
 Clar. The worst furniture for a head in the uni- 
 verse. 
 
 Dich. I am thinking of his passion for your 
 friend Araminta. 
 
 Clar. Passion! — dear colonel, give it a less 
 violent name. 
 
 Enter Brass. 
 
 DicJs. Well, sir, what want you ? 
 
 Srass. [Aside to Dick Amlet.] The affair I 
 told you of goes ill. — There's an action out. 
 
 Dich., The devil there is ! 
 
 Clar. What news brings Brass ? 
 
 Dich. Before Gad I'can't tell, madam ; the dog 
 
 will never speak out [To Brass.] My lord 
 
 what d'ye call him waits for me at my lodging : is 
 not that it ' 
 
 Brass, Yes, sir. 
 
 Dick. Madam, I ask your pardon.- 
 
 Clar. Your servant, sir {Exeunt Dick Am- 
 let and BaASS.] Jessamin I iShe sits down. 
 
 Enter Jesasmin. 
 
 Jes. Madam ! 
 
 Clar. Where's Corinna ? Call her to me, if her 
 father han't locked her up ; I want her company. 
 
 Jes. Madam, her guitar-master is with her. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Clar. Psha ! she's taken up with her impertinent 
 guitar man. Flippanta stays an age with that old 
 fool Mrs. Amlet. And Araminta, before she can 
 come abroad, is so long a- placing her coquette- 
 patch, that I must be a year without company. 
 How insupportable is a moment's uneasiness to a 
 woman of spirit and pleasure 1 
 
 Enter Flippanta, 
 
 Oh, art thou come at last ? Prithee, Flippanta, 
 learn to move a little quicker, thou knowest how 
 impatient I am. 
 
 Flip. Yes, when you expect money. If you had 
 Bent me to buy a prayer-book, you'd have thought 
 I had flown. 
 
 Clar. Well, hast thou brought me any, after all ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, I have brought some. There — 
 [Giving her a purse.'] The old hag has struck off 
 her bill, the rest is in that purse. 
 
 Clar. 'Tis well ; but take care, Flippanta, my 
 husband don't suspect anything of this ; 'twould 
 vex him, and I don't love to make him uneasy : so 
 1 would spare him these little sort of troubles, by 
 keeping 'em from his knowledge. 
 
 Flip. See the tenderness she has for him ! and 
 yet he's always complaining of you. 
 
 Clar. 'Tis the nature of 'em, Flippanta ; a 
 busband is a growling animal. 
 
 Flip. How exactly you define 'em 1 
 
 Clar. I know 'em, Flippanta ; though I con- 
 fess my poor wretch diverts me sometimes with his 
 ill humours. 1 wish he would quarrel with me to 
 day a little, to pass away the time, for I find 
 myself in a violent spleen. 
 
 Flip. Why, if you please to drop yourself in his 
 way, six to four but he scolds one rubbers with 
 you. 
 
 Clar. Ay, but thou knowest he's as uncertain as 
 the wind, and if instead of quarrelling with me, he 
 should chance to be fond, he'd make me as sick as a 
 dog. 
 
 Flip. If he's kind, you must provoRe him ; if 
 he kisses you, spit in his face. 
 
 Clar. Alas ! when men are in the kissing fit, 
 (like lapdogs,) they take that for a favour. 
 
 Flip. Nay, then I don't know what you'll do 
 with him. 
 
 Clar. I'll e'en do nothing at all with him^ 
 Flippanta. iYawning. 
 
 Flip. Madam 1 
 
 Clar. My hoods and scarf, and a coach to the 
 door. 
 
 Flip. Why, whither are you going ? 
 
 Clar. I can't tell yet, but I would go spend some 
 money, since I have it. 
 
 Flip. Why, you want nothing that I know of. 
 
 Clar. How awkward an objection now is that 1 
 as if a woman of education bought things because 
 she wanted 'em. Quality always distinguishea 
 itself, and therefore as the mechanic people buy 
 things, because they have occasion for 'em, you 
 see women of rank always buy things, because they 
 have not occasion for 'em. Now there, Flip- 
 panta, you see the difference between a woman that 
 has breeding, and one that has none. O ho, here's 
 Araminta come at last. 
 
 Enter Araminta. 
 
 Lard, what a tedious while you have let me expect 
 you ! I was afraid you were not well ; how d'ye 
 do to-day .' 
 
 Aram As well as a woman can do, that has not 
 slept all night. 
 
 Flip. Methinks, madam, you are pretty well 
 awake, however. 
 
 Aram. Oh, 'tis not a little thing will make a 
 woman of my vigour look drowsy. 
 
 Clar. But prithee what was't disturbed you ? 
 
 Aram. Not your husband, don't trouble your- 
 self ; at least, I am not in love with him yet. 
 
 Clar. Well remembered, I had quite forgot that 
 matter. I wish yon much joy, you have made a 
 noble conquest indeed. 
 
 Aram. But now I have subdued the country, 
 pray is it worth my keeping? You know the 
 ground, you have tried it. 
 
 Clar. A barren soil. Heaven can tell. 
 
 Aram. Yet if it were well cultivated, it would 
 produce something to my knowledge. Do you know 
 It is in my power to ruin this poor thing of yours ? 
 His whole estate is at my service. 
 
 Flip. Cods-fish 1 strike him, madam, and let my 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 421 
 
 lady go your halves. There's no sin in plundering 
 a husband, so his wife has share of the booty. 
 
 Aram. Whenever she gives me her orders, I 
 shall be very ready to obey 'em. 
 
 Clar. Why, as odd a thing as such a project 
 may seem, Araminta, I believe I shall have a little 
 serious discourse with you about it. But, prithee, 
 tell me how you have passed the night .' for I am 
 sure your mind has been roving upon some pretty 
 thing or other. 
 
 Aram. Why, I have been studying all the ways 
 my brain could produce to plague my husband. 
 
 Clar. No wonder indeed you look so fresh this 
 morning, after the satisfaction of such pleasing 
 ideas all night. 
 
 Aram. Why, can a woman do less than study 
 mischief, whcm she has tumbled and tossed herself 
 into a burning fever for want of sleep, and sees a 
 fellow lie snoring by her, stock-still, in a ffne 
 breathing sweat ? 
 
 Clar. Now see the difference of women's tem- 
 pers ! If my dear would make but one nap of his 
 whole life, and only waken to make his will, I 
 should be the happiest wife in the universe. But 
 we'll discourse more of these matters as we go, 
 for I must take a tour among the shops. 
 
 Aram. I have a coach waits at the door, we'll 
 talk of 'em as we rattle along. 
 
 Clar. The best place in nature ; for you know 
 
 a hackney-coach is a natural enemy to a husband. 
 
 [_Exeunt Clarissa and Arawinta. 
 
 Flip. What a pretty little pair of amiable per- 
 sons are there gone to hold a council of war toge- 
 ther ! Poor birds ! What would they do with their 
 time, if the plaguing their husbands did not help 
 'em to employment ! Well, if idleness be the 
 root of all evil , the n__matrimony^ good-for some- 
 tTiingjITor'-itTsets many a poor woman to work. 
 But here comes Miss. I hope I shall help her into 
 the holy state too ere long. And when she's once 
 there, if she don't play her part as well as the best 
 of 'em, I'm mistaken. Han't I lost the letter I'm 
 to give her ? — No, here 'tis ; so, now we shall see 
 how .pure nature will work with her, for art she 
 knows none yet. 
 
 Enter Corinna. 
 
 Cor. What does my mother-in-law want with 
 me, Flippanta ? They tell me she was asking for 
 me. 
 
 Flip. She's just gone out, so I suppose 'twas no 
 great business. 
 
 Cor. Then I'll go into my chamber again. 
 
 Flip, Nay, hold a little if you please. I have 
 some business with you myself of more concern 
 than what she had to say to you. 
 
 Coj: Make haste then, for you know my father 
 won't let me keep you company ; he says you'll 
 spoil me. 
 
 Flip. I spoil you ! He's an unworthy man to 
 give you such ill impressions of a woman of my 
 honour. 
 
 Cor. Nay, never take it to heart, Flippanta, for 
 I don't believe a word he says. But he does so 
 plague me with his continual scolding, I'm almost 
 weary of my life. 
 
 Flip. Why, what is't he finds fault with ? 
 
 Cor. Nay, I don't know, for I never mind him ; 
 . when he has babbled for two hours together, me- 
 thinks I have heard a mill going, that's all. It 
 
 does not at all change my opinion, Flippanta, it 
 only makes my head ache. 
 
 Flip. Nay, if you can bear it so, you are not to 
 be pitied so much as I thought. 
 
 Cor. Not pitied ! Why is it not a miserable 
 thing for such a young creature as I am should be 
 kept in perpetual solitude, with no other company 
 but a parcel of old fumbling masters, to teach me 
 geography, arithmetic, philosophy, and a thousand 
 useless things ? Fine entertainment, indeed, for a 
 young maid at sixteen ? Methinks one's time 
 might be better employed. 
 
 Flip. Those things will improve your wit. 
 
 Cor. Fiddle, faddle ! han't I wit enough already ? 
 My mother-in-law has learned none of this trum- 
 pery, and is not she as happy as the day is long ? 
 
 Flip. Then you envy her I find ? 
 
 Cor. And well I may. Does she not do what 
 she has a miud to, in spite of her husband's teeth ? 
 
 Flip. {Aside.] Look you there now ! If she 
 has not already conceived that as the supreme 
 blessing of life ! 
 
 Cor. I'll tell you what, Flippanta; if my mother- 
 in-law would but stand by me a little, and encou- 
 rage me, and let me keep her company, I'd rebel 
 against my father to-morrow, and throw all my 
 books in the fire. Why, he can't touch a groat 
 of my portion ; do you know that, Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. \_Aside.] So — I shall spoil her 1 Pray 
 Heaven the girl don't debauch me ! 
 
 Cor. Look you: in short, he may think what lie 
 pleases, he may think himself wise ; but thoughts 
 are free, and I may think in my turn. I'm but a 
 girl, 'tis true, and a fool too, if you'll believe him ; 
 but let him know, a foolish girl may make a wise 
 man's heart ache ; so he had as good be quiet. — 
 Now it's out. 
 
 Flip. Very well, I love to see a young woman 
 have spirit, it's a sign she'll come to something. 
 
 Cor. Ah, Flippanta ! if you would but encourage 
 me, you'd find me quite another thing. I'm a 
 devilish girl in the bottom ; I wish you' d but let 
 me make one amongst you. 
 
 Flip. That never can be till you are married. 
 Come, examine your strength a little. Do you 
 think you durst venture upon a husband ? 
 
 Cor. A husband 1 Why, a — if you would but 
 encourage me. Come, Flippanta, be a true friend 
 now. I'll give you advice when I have got a little 
 more experience. Do you in your very conscience 
 and soul think I am old enough to be married ? 
 
 Flip. Old enough ! why, you are sixteen, are 
 you not? 
 
 Cor. Sixteen I I am sixteen, two months, and 
 odd days, woman. I keep an exact account. 
 
 Flip. The dense you are ! 
 
 Cor. Why, do you then truly and sincerely think 
 I am old enough ? 
 
 Flip. I do upon my faith, child. 
 
 Cor. Why, then, to deal as fairly with you, 
 Flippanta, as you do with me, I have thought so 
 any time these three years. 
 
 Flip. Now I find you have more wit than ever 
 I thought you had ; and to show you what an 
 opinion I have of your discretion, I'H show you a 
 thing I thought to have thrown in the fire. 
 
 Cor. What is it, for Jupiter's sake ? 
 
 Flip. Something will make your heart chuck 
 within you. 
 
 Cor. My dear Flippanta '. 
 
422 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Flip. What do you think it is ? 
 
 Cor. I don't know, nor I don't care, but I'm 
 mad to have it. 
 
 Flip. It's a four-cornered thing. 
 
 Cor. What, like a cardinal's cap ? 
 
 Flip. No, 'tis worth a whole conclave of 'em. 
 How do you like it ? \_Sliowing the letter. 
 
 Cor. O Lard, a letter ! Is there ever a token in it? 
 
 Flip. Yes, and a precious one too. There's a 
 handsome young gentleman's heart. 
 
 Cor. A handsome young gentleman's heart ! — 
 [Aside.'] Nay, then, it's time to look grave. 
 
 Flip. There. 
 
 Cor. I shan't touch it. 
 
 Flip. What's the matter now ? 
 
 Cor. I shan't receive it. 
 
 Flip. Sure you jest. 
 
 Cor. You'll find I don't. I understand myself 
 better than to take letters when I don't know who 
 they are from. 
 
 Flip. I'm afraid I commended yourwit too soon. 
 
 Cor. 'Tis all one, I shan't touch it, unless I 
 know who it comes from. 
 
 Flip. Heyday ! open it and you'll see. 
 
 Cor. Indeed I shall not. 
 
 Flip. Well — then I must return it where I had it. 
 
 Cor. That won't serve your turn, madam. My 
 father must have an account of this. 
 
 Flip. Sure you are not in earnest ? 
 
 Cor. You'll find I am. 
 
 Flip. So, here's fine work ! This 'tis to deal 
 with girls before they come to know the distinc- 
 tion of sexes ! 
 
 Cor. Confess who you had it from, and perhaps, 
 for this once, I mayn't tell my fath«r. 
 
 Flip. Why then since it must out, 'twas the 
 colonel. But why are you so scrupulous, madam ? 
 
 Cor. Because if it had come from anybody else 
 — I would not have given a farthing for it. 
 
 ITwUching it eagerly out o/her hand. 
 
 Flip. Ah, my dear little rogue 1 — IKissing her.] 
 You frightened me out of my wits. 
 
 Cor. Let ■ me read it ! let me read it ! let me 
 read it ! let me read it ! I say. — Um, um, urn — 
 Cupid's, — um, um, um,- — darts, — urn, um, um, — 
 beauty, — um, — charms, — um, um, ixm, — angel, — 
 um, — goddess, — um. — {^Kissing the letter.] um, 
 um, um, — truest lover, — um, um, — eternal con- 
 stancy, — um, um, um, — cruel, — um, um, um, — 
 racks, — um, um, — tortures, — um, um, — -fifty dag- 
 gers, — um, um, — bleeding heart, — urn, um, — 
 dead man. — Very well, a mighty civil letter I pro- 
 mise you ; not one smutty word in it : 1'U go lock 
 it up in my comb-box. 
 
 Flip. Well — but what does he say to you.' 
 
 Cor. Not a word of news, Flippanta; 'tis all 
 about business. 
 
 Flip. Does he not tell you he's in love with you ? 
 
 Cor. Ay, but he told me that before. 
 
 Flip. How so ? he never spoke to you. 
 
 Cor. He sent me word by his eyes. 
 
 Flip. Did he so .' mighty well ! I thought you 
 had been to learn that language. 
 
 Cor. Oh, but you thought wrong, Flippanta. 
 What, because I don't go a-visiting, and see the 
 world, you think I know nothing ! But you 
 should consider, Flippanta, that the more one's 
 alone the more one thinks ; and 'tis thinking that 
 improves a girl, I'll have you to know, when I was 
 younger than I am now, by more than I'll boast 
 
 of, I thought of things would have made you stare 
 again. 
 
 Flip. Well, since you are so well versed in your 
 business, I suppose I need not Inform you, that if 
 you don't write your gallant an answer — he'll die. 
 
 Cor. Nay, now, Flippanta, I confess you tell 
 me something I did not know before. Do you 
 speak in serious sadness ! are men given to die if 
 their mistresses are sour to 'em ? 
 
 Flip. Um — I can't say they all die. — No, I 
 can't say they all do ; but truly, I believe it would 
 go very hard with the colonel. 
 
 Cor. Lard, I would not have my hands in blood 
 for thousands ; and therefore, Flippanta — if you'll 
 encourage me— 
 
 Flip. O by all means an answer. 
 
 Cor. Well, since you say it then, I'll e'en in 
 and do it, though I protest to you (lest you should 
 think me too forward now) he's the only man that 
 wears a beard I'd ink my fingers for. — ^Aside.] 
 Maybe if I marry him, in a year or two's time I 
 mayn't be so nice. lExit. 
 
 Flip. Now Heaven give him joy ; he's like to 
 have a rare wife o' thee ! But where there's money, 
 a man has a plaster to his sore. They have a bles- 
 sed time on't, who marry for love. See ! — here 
 comes an example — Araminta's dread lord. 
 
 Enter MoNByxRAp. 
 
 Mon. Ah, Flippanta ! How do you do, good 
 Flippanta .' how do you do ? 
 
 Flip. Thank you, sir, well, at your service. 
 
 Mon. And how does the good family, your mas. 
 ter, and your fair mistress ? Are they at home .' 
 
 Flip. Neither of 'em ; my master has been 
 gone out these two hours, and my lady is just gone 
 with your wife. 
 
 Mon. Well, I won't say I have lost my labour, 
 however, as long as I have met with you Flip- 
 panta. For I have wished a great while for an 
 opportunity to talk with you a little. You won't 
 take it amiss, if I should ask yoa a few questions ? 
 
 Flip. Provided you leave me to my liberty in 
 my answers. — [Aside.] What's this cotquean 
 going to pry into now ! 
 
 Mon. Prithee, good Flippanta, how do your 
 master and mistress live together ? 
 
 Flip. Live ! why — like man and wife ; generally 
 out of humour, quarrel often, seldom agree, com- 
 plain of one another ; and perhaps have both rea- 
 son. In short, 'tis much as 'tis at your house. 
 
 Mon. Good lack ! But whose side are you 
 generally of .' 
 
 Flip. Oh, the right side always, my lady's. And 
 if you'll have me give you my opinion of these mat- 
 ters, sir, I do not think a husband can ever be in 
 the right. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. Little peaking, creeping, sneaking, stingy, 
 covetous, cowardly, dirty, cuckoldly things. 
 
 Mon. Ha I 
 
 Flip. Fit for nothing but tailors and dry-nurses. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. A dog in a manger, snarling and biting, to 
 starve gentlemen with good stomachs. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. A sentry upon pleasure, set to be a plague 
 upon lovers, and damn poor women before their 
 time. 
 
 Mon. A husband is indeed — 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 423 
 
 Flip. Sir, I say, he is nothing. — A beetle with- 
 out wings, a windmill without sails, a ship in a calm. 
 
 Man. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. A bag without money — an empty bottle — 
 dead small beer. 
 
 Mon. Ha \ 
 
 Flip. A quack without drugs. 
 
 Mon. Ha! 
 
 Flip. A lawyer without knavery. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. A courtier without flattery. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. A kii^ without an army — or a people with 
 one. Have I drawn him, sir.' 
 
 Mon. Why truly, Flippanta, I can't deny but 
 there are some general lines of resemblance. But 
 you know there may be exceptions. 
 
 Flip . Hark you, sir, shaU I deal plainly with 
 you ? Had I got a husband, I would put him in 
 mind that he was married as well as I. ISiyigt. 
 
 For were I the thing calVd a wife. 
 And my fool grew too fond of his power. 
 He should look like an ass all his life, 
 For a prank that I'd play in an hour. 
 
 Tol lol, la ra, iol tal, ^a. 
 
 Do you observe that, sir ? 
 
 Mon. I do : and think you would be in the 
 right on't. Bat, prithee, why dost not give this 
 advice to thy mistress ? 
 
 Flip. For fear it should go round to your wife, 
 sir, for you know they are playfellows. 
 
 Mon. Oh, there's no danger of my wife ; she 
 knows I'm none of those husbands. 
 
 Flip. Are you sure she knows that, sir ? 
 
 Mon. I'm sure she ought to know it, Flippanta, 
 for really I have but four faults in the world. 
 
 Flip. And, pray, what may they be .' 
 
 Mon. Why, I'm a little slovenly, I shift but 
 once a week. 
 
 Flip. Fough! 
 
 Mon. I am sometimes out of humour. 
 
 Flip. Provoking ! 
 
 Mon. I don't give her so much money as she'd 
 have. 
 
 Flip. Insolent ! 
 
 Mon. And a — perhaps I mayn't be quite so 
 young as I was. 
 
 Flip. The devil ! 
 
 Mon. Oh, but then consider how 'tis on her 
 side, Flippanta. She ruins me with washing, is 
 always out of humour, ever wanting money, and 
 will never be older. 
 
 Flip. That last article, I must confess, is a little 
 hard upon you. 
 
 Mon. Ah, Flippanta ! didst thou but know the 
 daily provocations I have, thou'dst be the first to 
 excuse my faults. But now I think on't — thou 
 art none of my friend, thou dost not love me at 
 all J no, not at all. 
 
 Flip. And whither is this little reproach going to 
 lead us now } 
 
 Mon. You have power over your fair mistress, 
 Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. Sir I 
 
 Mon. But what then .' you hate me. 
 
 Flip. I understand you not. 
 
 Mon. There's not a moment's trouble her 
 naughty husband gives her but I feel it too. 
 ■ Flip, I don't know what you mean. 
 
 Mon. If she did but know what part I take in 
 her sufferings — 
 
 Flip. Mighty obscure ! 
 
 Mon. Well, I'll say no more : but — 
 
 Flip. All Hebrew ! 
 
 Mon. If thou wouldst but tell her on't. 
 
 Flip. Still darker and darker ! 
 
 Mon. I should not be ungrateful. 
 
 Flip. Ah, now I begin to understand you. 
 
 Mon. Flippanta— there's my purse. 
 
 Flip. Say no more ; now you explain, indeed— 
 you are in love ? 
 
 Mon. Bitterly — and I do swear by all the gods — 
 
 Flip. Hold ! — spare 'em for another time, yon 
 stand in no need of 'em now. A usurer that 
 parts with his purse, gives sufficient proof of his 
 sincerity. 
 
 Mon. I hate my wife, Flippanta. 
 
 Flip, That we'll take upon your bare word. 
 
 Mon. She's the devil, FUppanta. 
 
 Flip, You like your neighbour's better ^ 
 
 Mon. Oh ! — an angel ! 
 
 Flip. What pity it is the law don't allow truck- 
 ing! 
 
 Mon. If it did, Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. But since it don't, sir — keep the reins 
 upon your passion : don't let your flame rage too 
 high, lest my lady should be cruel, and it should 
 dry you up to a mummy. 
 
 Mon. 'Tis impossible she can be so barbarous 
 to let me die. Alas, Flippanta ! a very small 
 matter would save my life. 
 
 Flip. Then y'are dead — for we women never 
 grant anything to a man who will be satisfied with 
 a little. 
 
 Mon. Dear Flippanta, that was only my mo- 
 ; but since you'll have it out — I am a very 
 dragon : and so your lady'U find — if ever she 
 thinks fit to be — Now I hope you'll stand my 
 friend. 
 
 Flip. Well, sir, as far as my credit goes, it shall 
 be employed in your service. 
 
 Mon. My best Flippanta ! — Tell her — I'm all 
 hers — tell her — my body's hers — tell her — my 
 soul's hers — and tell her — my estate's hers. Lard 
 have mercy upon me, how I'm in love ! 
 
 Flip. Poor man ! what a sweat he's in ! But 
 hark — I hear my master ; for heaven's sake com- 
 pose yourself a little, you are in such a fit, o'my 
 conscience he'll smell you out. 
 
 Mon. Ah dear ! I'm in such an emotion, I dare 
 not be seen ; put me in this closet for a moment. 
 
 Flip. Closet, man ! it's too little, your love 
 would stifle you. Go air yourself in the garden a 
 little, you have need on't i'faith.— [She puts him 
 out.'] A rare adventure, by my troth ! This will 
 be curious news to the wives. Fortune has now 
 put their husbands into their hands, and I think 
 they are too sharp to neglect its favours. 
 
 Enter Gripe. 
 
 Gripe. Oh, here's the right hand ; the rest of 
 the body can't be far off. — Where's my wife, hus- 
 wife .' 
 
 Flip. An admirable question I — Why, she's gone 
 abroad, sir. 
 
 Gripe. Abroad, abroad, abroad already ! Why, 
 she uses to be stewing in her bed three hours after 
 this time, as late as 'tis. What makes her gadding 
 so soon .' 
 
42i 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Plip. Business, I suppose. 
 
 Gripe. Business ! she has a pretty head for bu- 
 siness truly. ho, let her change her way of 
 living, or I'll make her change a light heart for a 
 heavy one. 
 
 JPlip. And why would you have her change her 
 way of living, sir 2 You see it agrees with her. 
 She never looked better in her life. 
 
 Gripe. Don't tell me of her looks, I have done 
 with her looks long since. But I'll make her 
 change her life, or — 
 
 Flip. Indeed, sir, you won't. 
 
 Gripe. Why, what shall hinder me, Insolence ? 
 
 Flip. That which hinders most husbands — con- 
 tradiction. 
 
 Gripe. Suppose I resolve I won't be contra- 
 dicted ? 
 
 Flip. Suppose she resolves you shall ? 
 
 GHpe. A wife's resolution is not good by law. 
 
 Flip. Nor a husband's by custom. 
 
 Gripe. I teil thee, I will not bear it. 
 
 Flip. I tell you, sir, you will bear it. 
 
 Gripe. Oons ! I have borne it three years already. 
 
 Flip. By that you see 'tis but giving your mind 
 to it. 
 
 Gripe. My mind to it ! Death and the devil ! 
 My mind to it ! 
 
 Flip. Look ye, sir, you may swear and damn, 
 and call the furies to assist you ; but till you apply 
 the remedy to the right place, you'll never cure the 
 disease. You fancy you have got an extravagant 
 wife, is't not so ? 
 
 Gripe. Prithee change me that word fancy, and 
 it is so. 
 
 Flip. Why there's it. Men are strangely trou- 
 bled with the vapours of late. You'll wonder now, 
 if I tell you, you have the most reasonable wife in 
 town : and that all the disorders you think you see 
 in her, are only here, here, here, in your own head. 
 [Thumping his forehead. 
 
 Gripe. She is then, in thy opinion, a reasonable 
 woman ^ 
 
 Flip. By my faith I think so. 
 
 Gripe. I shall run mad ! — Name me an extrava- 
 gance in the world she is not guilty of. 
 
 Flip. Name me an extravagance in the world she 
 is guilty of. 
 
 Gripe. Come then : does not she put the whole 
 house in disorder .' 
 
 Flip. Not that I know of, for she never comes 
 into it but to sleep. 
 
 Gripe. 'Tis very well : does she employ any one 
 moment of her life in the government of her fa- 
 mily .' 
 
 Flip. She is so submissive a wife she leaves it 
 entirely to you. 
 
 Gripe. Admirable ! Does she not spend more 
 money in coach-hire, and chair-hire, than would 
 maintain six children ? 
 
 Flip. She's too nice of your credit to be seen 
 daggling in the streets. 
 
 Gripe. Good ! Do I set eye on her sometimes in 
 a week together ? 
 
 Flip. That, sir, is because you are never stirring 
 at the same time ; you keep odd hours ; you are 
 always going to bed when she's rising, and rising 
 just when she's coming to bed. 
 
 Gripe. Yes truly, night into day, and day into 
 night, bawdy-house play, that's her trade ! But 
 these are triiles : has she not lost her diamond 
 necklace ? Answer me to that. Trapes. 
 
 Flip. Yes ; and has sent as many tears after it 
 as if it had been her husband. 
 
 Qripe. Ah ! — the pox take her I but enough. 
 'Tis resolved, and I will put a stop to the course of 
 her life, or I will put a stop to the course of her 
 blood, and so she shall know the first time I meet 
 with her. — [Aside.'] Which though we are man and 
 wife, and lie under one roof, 'tis very possible may 
 not be this fortnight. \^Exit. 
 
 Flip. Nay, thou hast a blessed time on't, that 
 must be confessed. What a miserable devil is a 
 husband 1 Insupportable to himself, and a plague to 
 everything about them. Their wives do by them 
 as children do by dogs, tease and provoke 'em, till 
 they make 'em so cursed, they snarl and bite at 
 everything that comes in their reach. This wretch 
 here is grown perverse to that degree, he's for his 
 wife's keeping home, and making hell of his house, 
 so he may be the devil in it, to torment her. How 
 niggardly soever he is, of all things he possesses, he 
 is willing to purchase her misery, at the expense of 
 his own peace. But he'd as good be still, for he'll 
 miss of his aim. If I know her (which I think I 
 do) she'll set his blood in such a ferment, it shall 
 bubble out at every pore of him ; whilst hers is so 
 quiet in her veins, her pulse shall go like a pen- 
 dulum. \_Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in. Mrs. Amlet's House. 
 
 Enter Djck Amlet. 
 
 Dick. Where's this old woman ? — A-hey ! What 
 the devil, nobody at home ! Ha ! her strong-box 1 
 and the key in't ! 'tis so. Now Fortune be my 
 friend. What the dense ! — not a penny of money 
 in cash ! — nor a chequer note !— nor a bank bill ! 
 — [Searches the strong box.'] Nor a crooked stick ! 
 nor a — mum! — here's something. — A diamond 
 necklace, by all the gods ! — Oons, the old woman ! 
 —Zest I 
 
 [fillips the necklace in his pocket, then runs and asks 
 her blessing. 
 
 Enter Mrs. AuLsr. 
 Pray mother, pray to, &c. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ! — Dick upon his hum- 
 ble knee ! Ah my dear child ! — May Heaven be 
 good unto thee. 
 
 Dick. I'm come, my dear mother, to pay my 
 duty to you, and to ask your consent to — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What a shape is there I 
 
 Dick. To ask your consent, I say, to marry a 
 great fortune ; for what is riches in this world 
 without a blessing ? and how can there be a bleso- 
 ing without respect and duty to parents ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What a nose he has ! 
 
 Dick. And therefore it being the duty of every 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 425 
 
 good child not to dispose of himself in marriage, 
 without the — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Now the Lord love thee ! — [Kissing 
 him.] for thou art a goodly young man. Well, 
 Dick, — and how goes it with the lady ? Are her 
 eyes open to thy charms ? does she see what's for 
 her own good ? is she sensible of the blessings thou 
 hast in store for her ? ha ! is all sure ? hast thou 
 broke a piece of money with her ? Speak, bird, 
 do : don't be modest and hide thy love from thy 
 mother, for I'm an indulgent parent. 
 
 Dick. Nothing under heaven can prevent my 
 good fortune but its being discovered I am your 
 son — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Then thou art still ashamed of thy 
 natural mother — graceless! why, I'm no whore, 
 sirrah. 
 
 Dick. I know you are not. — A whore ! bless us 
 all! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. No j my reputation's as good as the 
 best of 'em ; and though I'm old, I'm chaste, you 
 rascal you ! 
 
 Dick. Lord, that is not the thing we talk of, 
 mother ; but — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I think, as the world goes, they may 
 be proud of marrying their daughter into a vartuous 
 family. 
 
 Ditk. Ooiis ! Vartue is not the case — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Where she may have a good example 
 before her eyes. 
 
 Dick. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I'm a woman that don't so much as 
 encourage an incontinent look towards me. 
 
 Dick, I tell you, 'sdeath, I tell you- — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. If a man should make an uncivil 
 motion to me, I'd spit in his lascivious face : and 
 all this you may tell 'em, sirrah. 
 
 Dick. Death and furies I the woman's out of 
 her — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Don't you swear, you rascal yoii, 
 don't you swear ; we shall have thee damned at 
 last, and then I shall be disgraced. 
 
 Dick. Why then in cool blood hear me speak to 
 you. I tell you it's a city fortune I'm about, she 
 cares not a fig for your vartue, she'll hear of nothing 
 but quality. She has quarrelled with one of her 
 friends for having a better complexion, and is re- 
 solved she'll marry, to take place of her. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What a cherry-lip is there ! 
 
 Dick. Therefore, good dear mother now, have a 
 care and don't discover me ; for if you do, all's lost. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Dear, dear, how thy fair bride will 
 be delighted ! Go, get thee gone, go ! Go fetch 
 her home ! go fetch her home ! I'U give her a 
 sack-posset, and a pillow of down she shall lay her 
 head upon. Go, fetch her home, I say ! 
 
 Dick. Take care then of the main chance, my 
 dear mother ; remember if you discover me — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Go, fetch her home, I say ! 
 
 Dick. You promise me then — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. March ! 
 
 Dick. But swear to me — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Begone, sirrah 1 
 
 Dick. Well, I'll rely upon you. — But one kiss 
 before I go. \_Kisses her heartily, and runs oS- 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Now the Lord love thee ; for thou art 
 a comfortable young man 1 \Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Gripe's House. 
 
 Enter CoRritfNA and Flip^antA. 
 
 Cor. But hark you, Flippanta, if you don't think 
 he loves me dearly, don't give him my letter after 
 all. 
 
 Flip. Let me alone. 
 
 Cor. When he has read it, let him give it you 
 again. 
 
 Flip. Don't trouble yourself. 
 
 Cor. And not a word of the pudding to my 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 Flip. Enough. 
 
 Cor. When we come to love one another to the 
 purpose, she shall know all. 
 
 Flip. Ay, then 'twill be time. 
 
 Cor. But remember 'tis you make me do all this 
 now, so if any mischief comes on't, 'tis you must 
 answer for't. 
 
 Flip. I'll be your security. 
 
 Cor. I'm young, and know nothing of the matf 
 ter ; but yon have experience, so it's your business 
 to conduct me safe. ^, ■ 
 
 Flip. Popr innocence ! 
 
 Cor. But tell me in serious sadness, Flippanta, 
 does he love me with the very soul of him ? 
 
 Flip. I have told you so a hundred times, and 
 yet you are not satisfied. 
 
 Cor. But, methiuks, I'd fain have him tell me 
 so himself. 
 
 Flip. Have patience, and it shalj he done. 
 
 Cor. Why, patience is a virtue ; that we must 
 all confess. — But, I fancy, the sooner it's done the 
 better, Flippanta. 
 
 Enter Jessamin. 
 
 Jes. Madam, yonder's your geography-master 
 waiting for you. \_Exit. 
 
 Cor. Ah, how I am tired with these old fumbling 
 fellows, Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. Well, don't let 'fern break your heart, yott 
 shall be rid of 'em all ere lotig. 
 
 Cor. Nay, 'tis not th6 study I'm so weary o?, 
 Flippanta, 'tis the odious ' thing that teaches me. 
 Were the colonel my master, I fancy I could take 
 pleasure in learning everything he could show 
 me. 
 
 Flip. And he can show you a great deal, I can 
 tell you that. But get you gone in, here's some- 
 body coming, we must not be seen together. 
 
 Cor. I will, I will, I will ! — On, the dear colonel ! 
 {^Exit, running. 
 Enter'^MtB. Ami et. 
 
 Flip. O ho, it's Mrs. Amlet. — What brings you 
 so soon to us again, Mrs. Amlet .' 
 
 Mrs. Ami. ijjn, my dear Mrs. Flippanta, I'm in 
 a furious fright ! 
 
 Flip. Why, what's come tp you ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah, mercy on us all ! — Madam's 
 diamond necklace — 
 
 Flip. What of that ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Are you sure you left it at my house ? 
 
 Flip. Sure I left it ! a very pretty question 
 truly ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Nay, don't be angry •, say nothing 
 to madam of it, I beseech you. It will be found 
 again, if it be Heaven's good will. At least 'tis I 
 must bear the loss on't. 'Tis my rogue of a son 
 has laid his birdlime fingers on't. 
 
426 
 
 THE CONFEDERACV. 
 
 Flip. Your son, Mrs. Arnlet I Do you breed 
 youi children up to such tricks as these then ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What shall I say to you, Mrs. Flip- 
 panta .' Can I help it ? He has been a rogue from 
 his cradle, Dick has. But he has his deserts too. 
 And now it comes in my head, mayhap he may 
 have no ill design in this neither. 
 
 Flip. No ill design, woman ! He's a pretty 
 fellow if he can steal a diamond necklace with a 
 good one. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. You don't know him, Mrs. Flip- 
 panta, so well as I that bore him. Dick's a rogue, 
 'tis true, but — mum ! — 
 
 Flip. What does the woman mean I 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Hark you, Mrs. Flippauta, is not 
 here a young gentlewoman in your bouse that wants 
 a husband ? 
 
 Flip. Why do you ask ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. By way of conversation only, it does 
 not concern me ; but when she marries, I may 
 chance to dance at the wedding. Remember I tell 
 you so ; I who am but Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Flip. You dance at her wedding ! you ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Yes I, I j but don't trouble madam 
 about her necklace, perhaps it mayn't go out of the 
 family. Adieu, Mrs. Flippauta. lExit. 
 
 Flip. What — what — what doestheworaan mean.^ 
 Mad ! What a capilotade of a story's here ? The 
 necklace lost ; and her son Dick ; and a fortune to 
 marry ; and she shall dance at the wedding ; and — 
 she does not intend, I hope, to propose a match 
 between her son Dick and Corinna ? By my con- 
 science I believe she does. An old beldam t 
 
 Enter Brass. 
 
 Brass. Well, hussy, how stand our affairs ? Has 
 miss writ us an jinswer yet ? my master's very 
 Impatient yonder. 
 
 Flip. And why the dense does not he come him- 
 self .' What does he send suth idle fellows as thee 
 of his errands .' Here I had her alone just now. 
 — He won't have such an opportunity again this 
 month, I can tell him that. 
 
 Brass. So much the worse for him ; 'tis his 
 business. — But now, my dear, let thee and I talk 
 a little of our own : I grow most damnably in love 
 with thee ; dost hear that ? 
 
 Flip. Phu ! thou art always timing things wrong; 
 my head is full at present of more important things 
 than love. 
 
 Brass. Then it's full of important things indeed : 
 dost want a privy-counsellor ? 
 
 Flip. I want an assistant. 
 
 Brass. To do what ? 
 
 Flip. Mischief. 
 
 Brass. I'm thy man — touch. 
 
 Flip. But before I venture to let thee into my 
 project, prithee tell me whether thou findest a 
 natural disposition to ruin a husband to oblige his 
 wife .' 
 
 Brass. Is she handsome ? 
 
 Flip. Yes. 
 
 Brass. Why then my disposition's at her service. 
 
 Flip. She's beholden to thee. 
 
 Brass. Not she alone neither, therefore don't 
 let her grow vain upon't ; for I have three or four 
 affairs of that kind going at this time. 
 
 Flip. Well, go carry this epistle from Miss to 
 thy master ; and when thou comest back I'll tell 
 thee thy business. 
 
 Brass. I'll know it before I go, if you please. 
 
 Flip. Thy master waits for an answer. 
 
 Brass. I'd rather he should wait than I. 
 
 Flip. Why then, in short, Araminta's husband 
 is in love with my lady. 
 
 Brass. Very well, child, we have a Rowland for 
 her Oliver : thy lady's husband is in love with 
 Araminta. 
 
 Flip. Who told you that, sirrah .' 
 
 Brass. 'Ti's a negotiation I am charged with, 
 pert. Did not I tell the^ I did business for half 
 the town ? I have managed Master Gripe's little 
 affairs for him these ten years, you slut you. 
 
 Flip. Hark thee. Brass, the game's in our 
 hands, if we can but play the cards. 
 
 Brass. Pique and repique, you jade you, it the 
 wives will fall into a good intelligence. 
 
 Flip. Let them alone ; I'll answer for 'em 
 they don't slip the occasion. — See here they come. 
 They little think what a piece of good news we have 
 for 'em. 
 
 fnfer-GLARissA and ArA-minta. 
 
 Clar. Jessainin ! 
 
 Enter Jessamin. 
 
 Here, boy, carry up these things into my dressing- 
 room, and break as many of them by the way as 
 you can, be sure. — ^Exil Jessamin.] Oh, art 
 thou there, Brass ! what news ? 
 
 Brass. Madam, I only called in as I was going 
 by. — But some little propositions Mrs. Flippanta 
 has been starting, have kept me here to offer your 
 ladyship my humble service. 
 
 Clar. What propositions ? 
 
 Brass. She'll acquaint you, madam. 
 
 Aram. Is there anything new, Flippanta ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, and ^pretty too. 
 
 Clar. That follows of course ; but let's have it 
 quick. 
 
 Flip. Why, madam, you have made a conquest. 
 
 Clar. Hussy !■ — But of who .' quick ! 
 
 Flip. Of Mr. Moneytrap, that's all. 
 
 Aram. My husband I 
 
 Flip, Yes, yoiA: husband, madam. You thought 
 fit to corrupt ours, so now we are even with you. 
 
 Aram. Sure thou art in jest, Flippanta I 
 
 Flip. Serious as my devotions. 
 
 Brass. And the cross intrigue, ladies, is what 
 our brains have been at work about. 
 
 Aram. [7'o CiARisSA.] My dear! 
 
 Clar. My life I 
 
 Aram. My angel ! 
 
 Clar. My soul ! {.Hugging one another. 
 
 Aram. The stars have done this. 
 
 Clar. The pretty little twinklers. 
 
 Flip. And what will you do for them now ? 
 
 Clar. What grateful creatures ought ; show 'em 
 we don't despise their favours. 
 
 Aram. But is not this a wager between these 
 two blockheads .' 
 
 Clar. 1 would not give a shilling to go the win- 
 ner's halves. 
 
 Aram. Then 'tis the most fortunate thing thaf 
 ever could have happened. 
 
 Clar, All your last night's ideas, Araminta, were 
 trifles to it. 
 
 Aram. Brass (my dear) will be useful to us. 
 
 Brass. At your service, madam. 
 
 Clar. Flippanta will be necessary, my life. 
 
 Flip. She waits your commands, madam. 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 427 
 
 Aram. For my part then, I recommend my 
 husband to thee, Flippanta, and make it my earnest 
 request thou won't leave him one half-crown. 
 
 Flip. I'll do all I can to obey you, madam. 
 
 Brass. [_To Clarissa.] If your ladyship would 
 give me the same kind orders for yours. 
 
 Clat. Oh— if thou sparest him, Brass, I'm thy 
 enemy till I die. 
 
 Brass. Tis enough, madam, I'll be sure to give 
 you a reasonable account of him. Bat how do you 
 intend we shall proceed, ladies ? Must we storm 
 the purse at once, or break ground in form, and 
 carry it by little and little ? 
 
 Clar. Storm, dear Brass, storm ! Ever whilst 
 you live, storm 1 
 
 Aram. Oh, by all means ! — Must it not be so, 
 FUppauta ? 
 
 Flip. In four-and-twenty hours, two hundred 
 pounds a-piece, that's my sentence. 
 
 Brass. Very well. — But, ladies, you'll give me 
 leave to put you in mind of some little expense in 
 favours, 'twill be necessary you are at, to these 
 honest gentlemen. 
 
 Aram. Favours, Brass ! 
 
 Brass. Vm — a — some small matters, madam, I 
 doubt must be* 
 
 Clar. Now that's a vile article, Araminta ; for 
 that thing your husband is so like mine — 
 
 Flip. Phn, there's a scruple, indeed ! Pray, 
 madam, don't be so squeamish ; though the meat 
 be a little flat, we'll find you savoury sauce to it, 
 
 Clar. This wench is so mad. 
 
 Flip. Why, what in the name of Lucifer is it 
 yon have to do that's so terrible ? 
 
 Briiss. A civil look only. 
 
 Aram. There's no great hsrra in that. 
 
 Flip. An obliging word. 
 
 Clar. That one may afford 'em. 
 
 Brass. A little smile a propos, 
 
 Aram. That's but giving one's self an air. 
 
 Flip. Receive a little letter, perhaps. 
 
 Clar. Women of quality do that from fifty odious 
 fellows. 
 
 Brass. Suffer (maybe) a squeeze by the band. 
 
 Aram. One's so used to that one does not feel 
 it. 
 
 Flip. Or if a kiss would do't ? 
 
 Clar. I'd die first ! 
 
 Brass. Indeed^ ladies, I doubt 'twill be neces- 
 sary to — 
 
 Clar. Get their wretched money, without paying 
 so dear for it. 
 
 Flip. Well, just as you please for that, my 
 ladies. But I suppose you'll play upon the square 
 with your favours, and not pique yourselves upon 
 being one more grateful than another ? 
 
 Brass. And state a fair account of receipts and 
 disbursements .** 
 
 Aram. That I think should be indeed. 
 
 Clar. With ail my heart, and Brass shall be our 
 bookkeeper. So get thee to work, man, as fast as 
 thou canst ; but not a word of all this to thy 
 master. 
 
 Brass. I'll observe my orders, madam. lExit. 
 
 Clar. I'll have the pleasure of telling him 
 myself; he'll be violently delighted with it. 'Tis 
 the best man in the world, Araminta ; he'll bring 
 us rare company to-morrow, all sorts of gamesters ; 
 and ihou shalt see my husband will be such a beast 
 to be out of humour at it. 
 
 Aram. The monster ! — But hush, here's my 
 dear approaching : prithee let's leave him to Flip- 
 panta. 
 
 Flip. Ay, pray do, I'll bring you a good account 
 of him, I'll warrant you. 
 
 Clar. Despatch then, for the basset-table's in 
 haste. lExit with Arauinta. 
 
 Flip. So, now have at him ; here he comes. 
 We'll try if we can pillage the usurer, as he does 
 other folks. 
 
 Enter MONETTBAP. 
 
 Mon. Well, my pretty Flippanta, is thy mistress 
 come home ^ 
 
 Flip. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mon. And where is she, prithee ? 
 
 Flip. Gone abroad, sir. 
 
 Mon. How dost mean ? 
 
 Flip. I mean right, sir ; my lady '11 come home 
 and go abroad ten times in an hour, when she's 
 either in very good humour, or very bad. 
 
 Mon. Good lack ! But I'll warrant, in general, 
 'tis her naughty husband that makes her house 
 uneasy to her. But hast thou said a little some- 
 thing to her, chicken, for an expiring lover ? ha ! 
 
 Flip. Said ! — yes, I have said ; much good may 
 it do me ! 
 
 Mon: Well, and tow ? 
 
 Flip. And how ! — And how do you think you 
 would have me do't ? And you have such a way 
 with you, one can refuse you nothing. But I have 
 brought myself into a fine business by it. 
 
 Mon. Good lack ! — But I hope, Flippanta — . 
 
 Flip. Yes, your hopes will do much, when I am 
 turned out of doors. 
 
 Mon. Was she then terrible angry ? 
 
 Flip. Oh ! had you seen how she flew, when she 
 saw where I was pointing ; for you must know I 
 went round the bush, and round the bush, before I 
 came to the matter. 
 
 Mon. Nay, 'tis a ticklish point, that must be 
 owned. 
 
 Flip. On my word is it — I mean where a lady's 
 truly virtuous ; for that's our case, you must Iniow, 
 
 Mon. A very dangerous case indeed. 
 
 Flip. But I can tell you one thing — she has an 
 inclination to you. 
 
 Mon. Is it possible ! 
 
 Flip. Yes, and I told her so at last. 
 
 Mon. Well, and what did she answer thee ? 
 
 Flip. Slap — and bid me bring it you for a token. 
 IGiving him a slap on ike/ace. 
 
 Mon. lAside.'] And you have lost none on't by 
 the wayi with a pox t'ye ! 
 
 Flip. Now this, I think, looks the best in the 
 world. 
 
 Mm. Yea, but really it feels a little oddly. 
 
 Flip. Why, you must know, ladies have different 
 ways of expressing their kindness, according to the 
 humour they are in. If she had been in a good 
 one, it had been a kiss ; but as long as she sent 
 you something, your affairs go well. 
 
 M<m. Why, truly, I am a tittle ignorant in the 
 mysterious paths of love, so I must be guided by 
 thee. But, prithee, take her in a good humour 
 next token she sends me. 
 
 Flip. Ah— good humour ! 
 
 Mon. What's the matter .' 
 
 Flip. Poor lady ! 
 
 Mon. Ha! 
 
 Flip. If I durst tell you all — 
 
428 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Mon. What then ? 
 
 Flip. You would not expect to see her in t)ne a 
 good while. 
 
 Mon. Why, I pray .' 
 
 Flip. I must own I did take an unseasonable 
 time to talk of love- matters to her. 
 
 Mon. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 Flip. Nothing. 
 
 Mon. Nay, prithee tell me. 
 
 Flip. I dare not. 
 
 Mon. You must indeed. 
 
 Flip. Why, when women are in difficulties, how 
 can they think of pleasure ? 
 
 Mon. Why, what difficulties can she be in ? 
 
 Flip. Nay, I do but guess after all ; for she has 
 tha.i grandeur of soul, she'd die before she'd telK 
 
 Mon. But what dost thou suspect ? 
 
 Flip. Why, what should one suspect, where a 
 husband loves nothing, but getting of money, and a 
 wife nothing but spending on't ? , 
 
 Mon. So she wants that same then .' 
 
 Flip. I say no such thing, I know nothing of 
 the matter ; pray mak« no wrong interpretation of 
 what I say, my lady wants nothing that I know of. 
 'Tis true — she has had ill luck at cards of late ; I 
 believe she has not won once this month : but what 
 of that ? 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. 'Tis true, I, know her spirit's that, she'd 
 see her husband hanged before she'd ask him for 
 a farthing. 
 
 Mon. Ha! 
 
 Flip. And then I know him again, he'd see her 
 drowned before he'd give her a farthing ; but that's 
 a help to your affairj you know. 
 
 Mon, 'Tis so indeed. 
 
 Flip. Ah — welli I'll say nothing; but if she 
 bad none of these things to fret her — 
 
 Mon. Why really, Flippanta — 
 
 Flip. 1 know what you are going to say now ; 
 you are going to offer your service, but 'twoa't do ^ 
 you have a mind to play the gallant now, but it 
 must not be, you want to be showing your liberality, 
 but 'twon't be allowed ; you'll be pressing me to 
 offer it, and she'll be in a rage. We shall have 
 the devil to do. 
 
 Mon. You mistake me, li'lippanta; I was only 
 going to say; — 
 
 Flip, Ay, I know what you were going to say 
 well enough ; but I tell you it will never do so. 
 If one could find out some way now — ay— let me 
 see — 
 
 Mon. Indeed I hope — 
 
 Flip. Pray be quiet — no — but I'm thinking — 
 hum — she'll smoke that though — let us consider* 
 — If one could find a way to — 'Tis the nicest point 
 in the world to bring about, she'll never touch it, 
 if she knows from whence it comes. 
 
 Mon. Shall I try if I can reason her husband 
 out of twenty pounds, to make her easy the rest 
 of her life ? 
 
 Flip. Twenty pounds, man !-*-why you shall 
 see her set that upon a card. Oh, she has a great 
 soul ! — Besides, if her husband should oblige her, 
 it might, in time, take off her aversion to him, and 
 by consequence, her inclination to you. No, oo, 
 it must never come that way. 
 
 Mon, What shall we do then ? 
 
 Flip, Hold still— I have it. I'll tell you what 
 you shall do. 
 
 Mon, Ay. 
 
 Flip, You shall make her — m restitution — of 
 two hundred pounds. 
 
 MoH, Ha ! — a restitution ! 
 
 Flip, Yes, yes, 'tis the luckiest thought in the 
 world ; madam often plays, you know, and folks 
 who do so meet now and then with sharpers. Now 
 you shall be a sharper, 
 
 Mon. A sharper I 
 
 Flip. Ay, ay, a sharper, and having cheated her 
 of two hundred pounds, shall be troubled in mind, 
 and send it her back again. You comprehend me . 
 
 Mon. Yes I — I comprehend, but a — won't she 
 suspect if it be so much .' 
 
 Flip. No, no, the more the better. 
 
 Mon, Two hundred pound ! 
 
 Flip, Yes, two hundred pound. — Or let me see 
 - — so even a sum may look a little suspicious, — ay 
 — let it be two hundred and thirty ; that odd 
 thirty will make it look so natural the devii won't 
 find it out. 
 
 Mon. Ha! 
 
 Flip, Pounds, too, look I don't know how ; 
 guineas I fancy were better :• — ay, guineas, it shall 
 be guineas. You are of that mind, are you not ? 
 
 Mon, Um — a guinea, you know, Flippanta, is — 
 
 Flip, A thousand times genteeler ; you are 
 certainly in ;the right on't ; it shall be as you say, 
 two hundred and thirty guineas. 
 
 Mon. Ho— well, if it must be guineas, let s see, 
 two hundred gnineas. 
 
 Flip. And thirty ; two hundred and thirty : if 
 you mistake the sum, you spoil all. So go put 
 'em in a purse, while it's fresh in your head, and 
 send 'em to me with a penitential letter, desiring 
 I'll do you the favour to restore 'em to her, 
 
 Mon, Two hundred and thirty founds in a bag! 
 
 Flip, Guineas, I say, guineas ! 
 
 Mon, Ay, guineas, that's true. But, Flippanta, 
 if she. don't know they come from me, then I give 
 my money for nothing, you know. 
 
 Flip. Phu ! leave that to me ; I'll manage the 
 stock for you, I'll make it produce something, I'll 
 warrant you. 
 
 Mon, Well, Flippanta, 'tis a great sura indeed , 
 but I'll go try what 1 can do for her. You say, 
 two hundred guineas in a purse .'' 
 
 Flip. And thirty, if the man's in his senses ! 
 
 M«n. And thirty, 'tis true, I always forget that 
 thirty. [.Exit. 
 
 Flip. So, get thee gone ; thou art a rare fellow, 
 i'faith. — Brass ! — it's thee, is't not ? 
 
 Ri-enter Brass. 
 
 Brass. It is, huswife. How go matters ? I 
 stayed till thy gentleman was gone. Hast done 
 anything towards our common purse ? 
 
 Flip. I think I have ; he's going to make us a 
 restitution of two or three hundred pounds. 
 
 Brass. A restitution ! — good ! 
 
 Flip. A new way, sirrah, to make a lady take a 
 present without putting her to the blush. 
 
 Brass. 'Tis very well, mighty well, indeed. 
 Prithee, where's thy master .' let me try if I can 
 persuade him to be troubled in mind too. 
 
 Flip, Not so hasty ; he's gone into his closet 
 to prepare himself foraquarrel. I have advised him 
 to be with his wife. 
 
 Brass, What to do ? 
 
 Flip, Why, to make her stay at home, now she 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 429 
 
 has resolved to do it beforehand. You must 
 know, sirrah, we intend to make a merit of our 
 basset-table, and get a good pretence for the merry 
 companions we intend to fill his house with. 
 
 Brass. Very nicely spun, truly ; thy husband 
 will be a happy man. 
 
 Flip. Hold your tongue, you fool you ! See 
 here comes your master. 
 
 Brass, He's welcome. 
 
 Enter Dick Amlet. 
 
 Dick. My dear Flippanta, how many thanks 
 have I to pay thee ! 
 
 Flip. Do you like her style ? 
 
 Dicli. The kindest little rogue ! there's nothing 
 but she gives me leave to hope. I am the happiest 
 man the world has in its care. 
 
 Flip. Not so happy as you think for neither, 
 perhaps ; you have a rival, sir, I can tell you that. 
 
 Dick, A rival ! 
 
 Flip. Yes, and a dangerous one too. 
 
 Dick. Who, in the name of terror ? 
 
 Flip. A devilish fellow ; one Mr. Amlet. 
 
 Dick. Amlet ! I know no such man. 
 
 Flip. You know the man's mother though ; you 
 met her here, and are in her favour, I can tell you. 
 If he worst you in your mistress, you shall e'en 
 marry her, and disinherit him. 
 
 Dick. If I have no other rival but Mr. Amlet, 
 I believe I shan't be much disturbed in my amour. 
 But can't I see Corinna ? 
 
 Flip. I don't know, she has always some of her 
 masters with her : but I'll go see if she can spare 
 you a momentj and bring you word. [^Exit. 
 
 Dick. I wish my old hobbling mother han't 
 been blabbing something here she should not do. 
 
 Brass, Fear nothing, all's safe on that side yet. 
 But how speaks young mistress's epistle ? soft and 
 tender } 
 
 Dick. As pen can write. 
 
 Brass. So you thinTc all goes well there ? 
 
 Dick. As my heart can wish. 
 
 Brass. You are sure on't ? 
 
 Dick. Sure on't. 
 
 Brass. Why then, ceremony aside, — [Putting 
 on his haf] you and I must have a little talk, 
 Mr. Amlet. 
 
 Dick. Ah, Brass, what art thou going to do ? 
 Won't ruin me .*' 
 
 Brass. Look you, Dick, few words ; you are in 
 a smooth way of making your fortune ; 1 hope all 
 will roll on. But how do you intend matters shall 
 pass 'twixt you and me in this business ? 
 
 Dick. Death and furies ! what a time dost take 
 to talk on't ! 
 
 Brass. Good words, or I betray you ; they have 
 already heard of one Mr. Amlet in the house. 
 
 Dick. Here's a son of a whore I [Aside. 
 
 Brass. In short, look smooth, and be a good 
 prince. I am your valet, 'tis true ; your footman 
 sometimes, which I'm enraged at ; but you have 
 always had the ascendant, I confess. When we 
 were schoolfellows, you made me carry your books, 
 make your exercise, own your rogueries, and some- 
 times take a whipping for you. When we were 
 fellow-prentices, though I was your senior, you 
 made me open the shop, clean my master's shoes, 
 cut last at dinner, and eat all the crust. In our 
 sins too, I must own you stiil kept me under ; you 
 soared up to adultery with our mistress, while I was 
 
 at humble fornication with the maid. Nay, in out 
 punishments you still made good your post ; for 
 when once upon a time I was sentenced but to be 
 whipped, I cannot deny but you were condemned 
 to be hanged. So that in all times, I must confess, 
 your inclinations have been greater and nobler 
 than mine : however, I cannot consent that you 
 should at once fix fortune for life, and I dwell in 
 my humilities for the rest of my days. 
 
 Dick. Hark thee. Brass, if I do not most nobly 
 by thee, I'm a dog. 
 
 Brass. And when ? 
 
 Dick. As soon as ever I am married. 
 
 Brass. Ah, the pox take thee ! 
 
 Dick. Then you mistrust me .'' 
 
 Brass. 1 do, by my faith ! Look yon, sir, some 
 folks we mistrust, because we don't know 'em ; 
 others we mistrust, because we do know 'em : 
 and for one of these reasons I desire there may be 
 a bargain beforehand. If not — [Raising his voice.'} 
 look ye, Dick Amlet — 
 
 Dick. Soft, my dear friend and companion. — 
 [^Aside.'] The dog will ruin me ! — [Aloud.'] Say, 
 what is't will content thee .' 
 
 Brass. O ho ! 
 
 Dick. But how canst thou be such a barbarian ? 
 
 Brass. I learned it at Algiers. 
 
 Dick. Come, make thy Turkish demand then. 
 
 Brass. You know you gave me a bank-bill this 
 morning to receive for you. 
 
 Dick. I did so, of fifty pounds ; 'tis thine. So, 
 now thou art satisfied, all's fixed. 
 
 Brass. It is not, indeed. There's a diamond 
 necklace you robbed your mother of e'en now, 
 
 Dick. Ah, you Jew ! 
 
 Brass. No words, 
 
 Dick. My dear Brass ! 
 
 Brass. I insist. 
 
 Dick. My old friend ! 
 
 ^rass. Dick Amlet — [Raising his voice"] I insist 
 
 Dick. Ah, the cormorant ! — Well, 'tis thine : 
 but thou'lt never thrive with 't. 
 
 Brass. When I find it begins to do me mischief, 
 I'll give it you again. But I must have a wedding- 
 suit. 
 
 Dick. Well. 
 
 Brass. Some good lace. 
 
 Dick. Thou shalt. 
 
 Brass. A stock of linen. 
 
 Dick. Enough. 
 
 Brass. Not yet ; a silver sword. 
 
 Dick. Well, thou shalt have that too. Now 
 thou hast^everything. 
 
 Brass. God forgive me ! I forgot a ring of 
 remembrance ; I would not forget all these favours 
 for the world. A sparkling diamond will be always 
 playing in my eye, and put me in mind of 'em. 
 
 Dick. [Aside.] This unconscionable rogue I— 
 [Aloud.] Well, I'll bespeak one for thee. 
 
 Brass. Brillant ? 
 
 Dick. It shall. But if the thing don't succeed 
 after all ?— 
 
 Brass. I'm a man of honour, and restore : and 
 so the treaty being finished, I strike my flag of 
 defiance, and fall into my respects again. 
 
 [Taking off his hat. 
 Re-enter Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. I have made you wait a little, but I could 
 not help it ; her master is but just gone. He has 
 been showing her PrinceEugene's March intultaly. 
 
430 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Dick. Prithee, let me come to her, I'll show her 
 a part of the world he has never shown her yet. 
 
 Flip. So I told her, you must know; and she 
 said, she could like to travel in good company : so, 
 if you'll slip up those back-stairs, you shall try if 
 you can agree upon the journey. 
 
 Dick. My dear Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. None of your dear acknowledgments, I 
 beseech you, but np stairs as hard as you can 
 drive. 
 
 Dick. I'm gone- [Exit. 
 
 Flip. And do you follow him, Jack-a-dandy, 
 and see he is not surprised. 
 
 Brass. I thought that was your post, Mrs. 
 UsefuL But if you'll come and keep me in 
 
 humour, I don't care if I , share the duty with 
 you. 
 
 Flip. No words, sirrah, but follow him ; I have 
 somewhat else to do. 
 
 Brass. The jade's so absolute, there's no con- 
 testing with her. One kiss though, to keep the 
 sentinel warm. — IGives Her a long kiss.'] So. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Flip: llViping her mouth.'] A nasty rogue. 
 But let me see, what have I to do now ? This resti- 
 tution will be here quickly, I suppose ; in the 
 mean time I'll go know if my lady's ready for the 
 quarrel yet. Master, yonder, is so full on't, he's 
 ready to burst ; but we'll give him vent by-and-by 
 with a witness. lExit. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE 1.—A Boom in Gripe's House. 
 Enter Corinna, DrcK Amlet, and Brass, 
 
 Brass. Don't fear, I'll give timely notice. 
 
 [Goes to the door. 
 
 Dick. Come, you must consent, you shall con- 
 sent. How can you leave me thus upon the rack ? 
 a man who loves you to that excess that I do. 
 
 Cor. Nay, that you love me, sir, that I am satis- 
 fied in, for you have sworn you do : and I am so 
 pleased with it, I'd fain have you do so as long as 
 you live, so we must never marry. 
 
 Dick. Not marry, my dear ! why, what's our 
 love good for if we don't marry ? 
 
 Cor. Ah ! — I'm afraid 'twill be good for little if 
 we do. 
 
 Dick. Why do you think so ? 
 
 Cor. Because I hear my father and mother, and 
 my uncle and aunt, and Araminta and her husband, 
 and twenty other married folks, say so from morn- 
 ing to night. 
 
 Dick. Oh, that's because they are bad husbands 
 and bad wives ; but, in our case, there will be a 
 good husband and a good wife, and so we shall 
 love for ever. 
 
 Cor. Why, there may be something in that 
 truly ; and I'm always willing to hear reason, as a 
 reasonable young woman ought to do. But are 
 you sure, sir, though we are very good now, we 
 shall be so when we come to be better acquainted? 
 
 Dick. I can answer for myself, at least. 
 
 Cor. I wish you could answer for me too. You 
 see I am a plain-dealer, sir, I hope you don't like 
 me the worse for it. 
 
 Dick. Oh, by no means ! 'Tis a sign of admir- 
 able morals ; and I hope, since you practise it 
 yourself, you'll approve of it in your lover. In 
 one word, therefore, (for 'tis in vain to mince the 
 matter,) my resolution's fixed, and the world can't 
 stagger me, I marry — or I die. 
 
 Cor. Indeed, sir, I have much ado to believe 
 you ; the disease of love is seldom so violent. 
 
 Dick, Madam, I have two diseases to end my 
 miseries ; if the first don't do't, the latter shall ; — 
 [Drawing his sword] one's in my heart, t'other's 
 in my scabbard. 
 
 Cor. Not for o diadem ! — [Catching hold of 
 him.] Ah, put it up ! put it up ! 
 
 Dick. How absolute is your command ! — [Drop- 
 ping his sword.] A word, you see, disarms me. 
 
 C6r. [Aside.] What a power I have over him ! 
 The wondrous deeds of love ! — [^Aloud.] Pray, sir, 
 let me have no more of these rash doings though ; 
 perhaps I mayn't be always in the saving humour. 
 — [Aside.] I'm sure if I had let him stick himself, 
 I should have been envied by all the great ladies 
 in the town. 
 
 Dick. Well, madam, have I then your promise ? 
 You'll make me the happiest of mankind ? 
 
 Cor. I don't know what to say to you ; but I 
 believe I had as- good promise, for I find I shall 
 certainly do't. 
 
 Dick. Then let us seal the contract thus. 
 
 IKisxes ker. 
 
 Cor. [Aside.] Um — he has almost taken away 
 my breath : he kisses purelyj 
 
 Dick. Hark! — somebody comes. 
 
 Brass. [ Peeping in.] Gare there I the enemy 1 
 — No, hold ! y'are safe, 'tis Flippanta. 
 
 Enter Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. Come, have you agreed the matter? If 
 not, you must end it another time, for your father's 
 in motion, so, pray kiss and part. 
 
 Cor. That's sweet and sour. — [They kiss,] 
 Adieu t'ye, sir ! [Exeunt Dice Aailgt and Corinna. 
 
 Enter Clarissa. 
 
 Clar. Have you told him I'm at home, Flip, 
 panta ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, madam. 
 
 Clar. And that I'll see him ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, that too. But here's news for you ! 
 I have just now received the restitution. 
 
 Clar. That's killing pleasure ; and how much 
 has he restored me ? 
 
 Flip. Two hundred and thirty. 
 
 Clar. Wretched rogue ! But retreat; your 
 master's coming to quarrel. 
 
 Flip. I'll be within call, if things run high. 
 
 [Exit, 
 Enter Grips, 
 
 Gripe. O ho ! — are you there i'faith ? Madam, 
 your humble servant, I'm very glad to see you at 
 home, I thought I should never have had that 
 honour again. 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 431 
 
 Clar, Good-morrow, my dear, how d'ye do? 
 Flippanta says you are out of humour, and that 
 you have a mind to quarrel with me. Is it true ? 
 iia ! — I have a terrible pain in my head, I give you 
 notice on't beforehand. 
 
 Gripe, And how the pox should it be otherwise ? 
 It's a wonder you are not dead — [Aside'] as a' 
 would you were ! — [^/owrf] with the life you lead. 
 Are you not ashamed ? and do you not blush to — 
 
 Clar. My dear child, you crack my brain ; 
 soften the harshness of your voice. Say what thou 
 won't, but let it be in an agreeable tone. 
 
 Gripe. Tone, madam ! don't tell me of a tone — 
 
 Clar. Oh, — if you will, quarrel, do it with tem- 
 perance ; let it be all in cool blood, even and 
 smooth, as if you were not moved with what you 
 said ; and then I'll hear you as if I were not moved 
 with it neither. 
 
 Gripe. Had ever man such need of patience ! 
 Madam, madam, I must tell you, madam — 
 
 Clar. Another key, or I walk off. 
 
 Gripe. Don't provoke me. 
 
 Clar. Shall you be long, my dear, in your 
 remonstrances .'' 
 
 Gripe. Yes, madam, and very long. 
 
 Clar. If you would quarrel in abrdgee, I should 
 have a world of obligation to you. 
 
 Gripe. "What I have to say, forsooth, is not to 
 be expressed in abregee, vaj complaints are too 
 numerous. 
 
 Clar. Complaints ! of what, my dear ? Have I 
 ever given you subject of complaint, my life .' 
 
 Gripe. O pox ! my dear and my life ! I desire 
 none of your tendres. 
 
 Clar. How ! find fault with my kindness, and 
 my expressions of aflfection and respect ? The 
 world will guess by this what the rest of your com- 
 plaints may be. I must tell you I'm scandalised 
 at your procedure. 
 
 Gripe. I must tell you I'm running mad with 
 yours. 
 
 Clar. Ah ! how insupportable are the humours 
 of some husbands, so full of fancies, and so ungo- 
 vernable ! What have you in the world to disturb 
 you ? 
 
 Gripe. What have I to disturb me ! I have 
 you, death and the devil ! 
 
 Clar, Ay, merciful Heaven ! how he swears ! 
 "You should never accustom yourself to such words 
 as these ; indeed, my dear, you should not ; your 
 mouth's always full of 'em. 
 
 Gripe. Blood and thunder ! madam — 
 
 Clar. Ah, he'll fetch the house down ! Do you 
 know you make me tremble for you ? — Flippanta ! 
 who's there .' Flippanta ! 
 
 Gripe. Here's a provoking devil for you ! 
 
 Re-ent&r Flippanta. 
 
 JFlip. What in the name of Jove's the matter } 
 you'll raise the neighbourhood. 
 
 Clar. Why, here's your master in a most violent 
 fuss, and no mortal soul can tell for what. 
 
 Gripe. Not tell for what ! 
 
 Clar. No, my life. — I have begged him to tell 
 me his griefs, Flippanta ; and then he swears, good 
 Lord, how he does swear ! 
 
 Gripe. Ah you wicked jade ! ah you wicked 
 jade ! 
 
 Clar. Do you hear him, Flippanta ! do you hear 
 nim! 
 
 Flip. Pray, sir, let's know a little what puts you 
 in all this fury .' 
 
 Clar. Prithee stand near me, Flippanta, there's 
 an odd froth about his mouth, looks as if his poor 
 head were going wrong, I'm afraid he'll bite. 
 
 Gripe. The wicked woman, Flippanta, the 
 wicked woman ! 
 
 Clar. Can anybody wonder I shun my own 
 house, when he treats me at this rate in it ? 
 
 Gripe. At this rate ! Why in the devil's name — 
 
 Clar. Do you hear him again ? 
 
 Flip. Come, a little moderation, sir, and try 
 what that will produce. 
 
 Gripe. Hang her, 'tis all a pretence to justify 
 her going abroad. 
 
 Clar. A pretence ! a pretence ! Do you hear 
 how black a charge he loads me with .' Charges 
 me with a pretence ! Is this the return for all my 
 downright open actions ? You know, my dear, 
 I scorn pretences : whene'er I go abroad, it is 
 without pretence. 
 
 Gripe. Give me patience ! 
 
 Flip. You have a great deal, sir. 
 
 Clar. And yet he's never content, Flippanta. 
 
 Gripe. What shall I do 1 
 
 Clar. What a reasonable man would do ; own 
 yourself in the wrong, and be quiet. Here's Flip- 
 panta has understanding, and I have moderation ; 
 I'm willing to make her judge of our differences. 
 
 Flip. You do me a great deal of honour, ma- 
 dam : but I tell you beforehand, I shall be a little 
 on master's side. 
 
 Gripe. Right, Flippanta has sense. Come, let 
 her decide. — Have I not reason to be in a passion ? 
 tell me that. 
 
 Clar. You must tell her for what, my life. 
 
 Gripe. Why, for the trade you drive, my soul. 
 
 Flip. Look you, sir, pray take things right. - I 
 know madam does fret you a little now and tlien, 
 that's true ; but in the fund she is the softest, 
 sweetest, gentlest lady breathing. Let her but live 
 entirely to her own fancy, and she'll never say a 
 word to you from morning to night. 
 
 Gripe. Oons I let her but stay at home, and she 
 shall do what she will : in reason, that is. 
 
 Flip, D'ye hear that, madam ? Nay, now I 
 must be on master's side ; you see how he loves 
 you, he desires only your company. Pray give him 
 that satisfaction, or I must pronounce against you. 
 
 Clar. Well, I agree. Thou knowest I don't 
 love to grieve him : let him be always in good hu- 
 mour, and I'll be always at home. 
 
 Flip. Look you there, sir, what would you have 
 more ? 
 
 Gripe. Well, let her keep her word, and I'll 
 have done quarrelling. 
 
 Clar. I must not, however, so far lose the merit 
 of my consent, as to let you think I'm weary of 
 going abroad, my dear. What I do, is purely to 
 oblige you ; which, that I may be able to perform 
 without a relapse, I'll invent what ways I can to 
 make my prison supportable to me. 
 
 Flip. Her prison ! pretty bird ! her prison ? 
 don't that word melt you, sir? 
 
 Gripe. I must confess I did not expect to find 
 her so reasonable. 
 
 Flip. Oh, sir, soon or late wives come into good 
 humour. Husbands must only have a little pa- 
 tience to wait for it. 
 
 Clar. The innocent little diversions, dear, that I 
 
 
432 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 shall content myself with, will be chiefly play and 
 company. 
 
 Gripe. Oh, T'U find you employment, your time 
 shan't lie upon your hands j though if you, 
 have a mind now for such a companion as a — let 
 me see — Araminta for example, why I shan't be 
 against her being with you from morning till night. 
 Clar. You oau't oblige me more, 'tis the best 
 woman in the world. 
 Gripe. Is not she .' 
 
 Flip. Ah, the old satyr ! iAaide. 
 
 Gripe. Then we'll have, besides her, maybe 
 sometimes — her husband ; and we shall see my 
 niece that writes verses, and my sister Fidget ; with 
 her husband's brother that's always merry ; and his 
 little cousin, that's to marry the fat curate ; and 
 my uncle the apothecary, with his wife and all his 
 children. Oh, we shall divert ourselves rarely ! 
 Flip. Good ! lAside. 
 
 Clar. Oh, for that, my dear child, I must be 
 plain with you, I'll see none of 'em but Araminta, 
 who has the manners of the court ; for I'll con- 
 verse vrith none but women of quality. 
 
 Gripe. Ay, ay, they shall all have one quality or 
 other. 
 
 Clar. Then, my dear, to make our home plea- 
 sant, we'll have consorts of music sometimes. 
 Gripe. Music in my house I 
 Clar. Yes, my child, we must have music, or the 
 house will he so dull I shall get the spleen, and be 
 going abroad again. 
 
 Flip. Nay, she has so much complaisance for 
 you, sir, you can't dispute such things with her. 
 Gripe. Ay, but if I have music — 
 Clar. Ay, but sir, I must have music — 
 Flip. Not every day, madam don't mean. 
 Clar. No, bless me, no ; but three consorts a 
 week : three days more we'll play after dinner, at 
 ombre, picqnet, basset, and so forth, and close the 
 evening with a handsome supper and a ball. 
 Gripe. A ball 1 
 
 Clar. Then, my love, you know there is but one 
 day more upon our hands, and that shall be the 
 day of conversation, we'll read verses, talk of 
 books, invent modes, tell lies, scandalise our friends, 
 be pert upon religion ; and in short, employ every 
 moment of it in some pretty witty exercise or other. 
 Flip. What order you see 'tis she proposes to 
 live in ! a most wonderful regularity ! 
 
 Gripe. Regularity with a pox ! lAside. 
 
 Clar. And as this kind of life, so soft, so smooth, 
 so agreeable, must needs invite a vast deal of 
 company to partake of it, 'twill be necessary to 
 have the decency of a porter at our door, you 
 know. 
 
 Gripe. A porter ! — a scrivener have a porter, 
 madam ! 
 
 Clar. Positively, a porter. 
 Gripe. Why, no scrivener since Adam ever had 
 a porter, woman ! , 
 
 Clar. You will therefore be renowned in story, 
 for having the first, my life. 
 Gripe, riippanta! 
 
 Flip. [Aside to Gripe.] Hang it, sir, never 
 dispute a trifle; if you vex her, perhaps she'll 
 insist upon a Swiss. 
 Gripe. But, madam — 
 
 Clar. But, sir, a porter, positively a porter; 
 without that the treaty's null, and I go abroad 
 this moment. 
 
 Flip. Come, sir, never lose so advantageous a 
 peace for a pitiful porter. 
 
 Gripe. Why, I shall be hooted at, the boys 
 will throw stones at my porter. Besides, where 
 shall I have money for all this expense ? 
 
 Clar. My dear, who asks you for any .' Don't 
 be in a fright, chicken. 
 
 Gripe. Don't be in a fright, madam ! But 
 where, I say— 
 
 Flip. Madam plays, sir, think on that ; women 
 that play have inexhaustible mines, and wives who 
 receive least money from their husbands, are many 
 times those who spend the most. 
 
 Clar. So, my dear, let what Flippanta says 
 content you. Go, my life, trouble yourself with 
 nothing, but let me do just as I please, and all will 
 be well. I'm going into my closet, to consider of 
 some more things to enable me to give you the 
 pleasure of my company at home, without making 
 it too great a misery to a yielding wife. lExit. 
 
 Flip. Mirror of goodness ! Pattern to all wives ! 
 Well sure, sir, you are the happiest of all hus- 
 bands \ 
 
 Gripe. Yes — and a miserable dog for all that 
 too, perhaps. 
 
 Flip, Why what can you ask more than this 
 matchless complaisance } 
 
 Gripe. I don't know what I can ask, and yet 
 I'm not satisfied with what I have neither, the 
 devil mixes in it all, I think ; complaisant or per 
 verse, it feels just as't did. 
 
 Flip. Why, then, your uneasiness is only a dis- 
 ease, sir; perhaps a little bleeding and purging 
 would relieve you. 
 
 Clar. [Calling within.'] Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. Madam calls. — I come, madam. — Come, 
 be merry, be merry, sir, you have cause, take my 
 word for't. — [Aside.'] Poor devil ! iExit. 
 
 Gripe. I don't know that, I don't know that : 
 but this I do know, that an honest man, who has 
 married a jade, whether she's pleased to spend 
 her time at home or abroad, had better have lived 
 a bachelor. 
 
 Se-mter Brass. 
 
 Brass. Oh, sir, I'm mighty glad I have found 
 you. 
 
 Gripe. Why, what's the matter, prithee ? 
 
 Brass. Can nobody hear us .' 
 
 Gripe. No, no, speak quickly. 
 
 Brass. You han't seen Araminta since the last 
 letter I carried her from you ? 
 
 Gripe. Not 1, I go prudently; I don't press 
 things like your young firebrand lovers. 
 
 Brass. But seriously, sir, are you very much in 
 love with her ? 
 
 Gripe. As mortal man has been. 
 
 Brass. I'm sorry for't. 
 
 Gripe. Why so, dear Brass ? 
 
 Brass. If you were never to see her more now ? 
 Suppose such a thing, d'you think 'twould break 
 your heart ? 
 
 Gripe. Oh 1 
 
 Brass. Nay, now I see you love her; would 
 you did not ! 
 
 Gripe. My dear friend ! 
 
 Brass. I'm in your interest deep ; you see it. 
 
 Gripe. I do : but speak, what miserable story 
 hast thou for me ? 
 
 Brass. I had rather the devil had, phu ! — ^flown 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 4^3 
 
 away with you quick, than to see you so much in 
 love, as I perceive you are, since-—- 
 
 Gripe. Since what ?->-ho ! 
 
 Brasst. Araminta, sir^r- 
 
 Gripe. Dead ? 
 
 Jii^ass. No. 
 
 Gripe. How then ? 
 
 Brass. Worse. 
 
 Gripe. Out with't 
 
 Brass. Broke. 
 
 Gripe. Broke ! 
 
 Brass. She is, poor lady, in the most unfortu- 
 nate situation of affairs. But I have said too 
 much. 
 
 Gripe, No, no, 'tis very sad, but let's hear it. 
 
 Brass. Sir, she charged me, on my life^ never to 
 mention it to you, of all men living. 
 
 Gripe. Why, who shouldst thou tell it to, but 
 to the best of her friends ? 
 
 Brass. Ay, why there's it now, it's going just 
 as I fancied. Now will I be hanged if you are not 
 enough in love to be engaging in this matter. But I 
 must tell you, sir, that as much concern as I have for 
 that most excellent, beautiful, agreeable, distressed, 
 unfortunate lady, I'm too much your friend and 
 servant, ever to let it be said, ^twas the means of 
 your being ruined for a woman — by letting you 
 know she esteemed you more than any other man 
 upon earth. 
 
 Gripe. Ruined ! what dost thou mean ? 
 
 Brass. Mean ! why I mean that women always 
 ruin those that love 'em, that's the rule. 
 
 Gripe. The rule ! 
 
 Brass. Yes, the rule ; why, would you have 'em 
 ruin those that don't ? How shall they bring that 
 about ? 
 
 Gripe. But is there a necessity then they should 
 ruin somebody ? 
 
 Brass. Yes, marry is there ; how would yon 
 have 'em support their expense else? Why, sir, 
 you can't conceive now — you can't conceive what 
 Araminta's privy-purse requires : only her privy- 
 purse, sir ! Why, what do you imagins now she 
 gave me for the last letter I carried her from you.' 
 *Tis true, 'twas from a man she liked, else, perhaps, 
 I had had my bones broke. But what do you 
 think she gave me ? 
 
 Gripe. Why, mayhap — a shilling. 
 
 Brass. A guinea, sir, a guinea ! You see by 
 that how fond she was on't, by the by. But then, 
 sir, her coach-hire, her chair-hire, her pin-money, 
 her play-money, her china, and her charity — 
 would consume peers. A great soul, a very great 
 soul ! but what's the end of all this ? 
 
 Gripe. Ha ! 
 
 Brass. Why, I'll tell you what the end is — a 
 nunnery. 
 
 Gripe. A nunnery ! 
 
 Brass. A nunnery. — In short, she is at last 
 reduced to that extremity, and attacked with such 
 a battalion of duns, that rather than tell her hus- 
 band (who you know is such a dog, he'd let her go 
 if she did) she has e'en determined to turn papist, 
 and bid the world adieu for life. 
 
 Gripe. O terrible ! a papist ! 
 
 Brass. Yes, when a handsome woman has 
 brought herself into difficulties, the devil can't help 
 her out of — to a nunnery, that's another rule, sir. 
 
 Gripe. But, but, but, prithee Brass, but — 
 
 Brass. But all the buts in the world, sir, vpon't 
 
 stop her ; she's a woman of a noble resolution. 
 So, sir, your humble servant ; I pity her, I pity 
 you, turtle and mate ; but the fates will have it 
 so, all's packed up, and I am now going to call her 
 a coach, for she resolves to slip off without saying 
 a word ; and the next visit she receives from her 
 friends will be through a melancholy grate, with a 
 veil instead of a top-knot. IGoing. 
 
 Gripe. It must not be, by the powers it must 
 not ! she was made for the world, and the world 
 was made for her. 
 
 Brass. And yet you see, sir, how small a share 
 she has on't. 
 
 Gripe. Poor woman ! is there no way to save 
 her? 
 
 Brass. Save her ! no ; how can she be saved ? 
 Why she owes above five hundred pound. 
 
 Gripe. Oh ! 
 
 ^rass. Five hundred pound, sir ; she's like to be 
 saved indeed ! — Not but that I know them in this 
 town would give me one of the five if I would per- 
 suade her to accept of t'other four : but she has 
 forbid me mentioning it to any soul living ; and I 
 have disobeyed her only to yon ; and so — I'll go 
 and call a coach. 
 
 Gripe. Hold ! — Dost think, my poor Brass, one 
 might not order it so as to compound those debts 
 for — for — twelve pence in the pound? 
 
 Brass. Sir, d'ye hear ? I have already tried 'em 
 with ten shillings, and not a rogue will prick up 
 his ear at it. Though after all, for three hun- 
 dred pounds all in glittering gold, I could set their 
 chaps a-watering. But where's that to be had with 
 honour ? there's the thing, sir. — I'll go and call a 
 coach. 
 
 Go'ipe. Hold, once more : I have a note in my 
 closet of two hundred, ay — and fifty, I'll go and 
 give it her myself. 
 
 Brass. You will ; very genteel truly 1 Go, slap 
 dash, and offer a woman of her scruples money bolt 
 in her face ! Why, you might as well offer her' a 
 scorpion, and she'd as soon touch it. 
 
 Gripe. Shall I carry it to her creditors then, and 
 treat with them ? 
 
 Brass. Ay, that's a rare thought. 
 
 Gripe. Is not it, Brass ? 
 
 Brass. Only one little inconvenience by the way. 
 
 Gripe. As how ? 
 
 Brass. That they are your -^vife's creditors aa 
 well as hers ; and perhaps it might not be altoge- 
 ther so well to see you clearing the debts of your 
 neighbour's wife, and leaving those of your own 
 unpaid. 
 
 Gripe. Why that's true now. 
 
 Brass. I'm wise you see, sir. 
 
 Gripe. Thou art; and I'm but a young lover. 
 But what shall we do then ? 
 
 Brass. Why I'm thinking, that if you give me 
 the note, do you see,' and that I promise to give 
 you an account of it — 
 
 Gripe. Ay, but look you, Brass — 
 
 Brass. But look you ! — Why what, d'ye think 
 I'm a pickpocket? D'ye think I intend to run 
 away with your note ? your paltry note ! 
 
 Gripe. I don't say so — I say only that in case — 
 
 Brass. Case, sir ! there's no case but the case I 
 have put you ; and since you heap cases upon cases, 
 where there is but three hundred rascally pounds 
 in the case — I'll go and call a coach. 
 
 Gri7)e. Prithee don't be so testy ; come, no mom 
 
434 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Aor V- 
 
 words, follow me to my closet, and I'll give thee 
 the money. 
 
 Brass. A terrible effort you make indeed ; you 
 are so much in love, your wits are all upon the 
 wing, just a-going ; and for three hundred pounds 
 you put a stop to their flight. Sir, your wits are 
 worth that, or your wits are worth nothing. Come 
 away. 
 
 Gripe. Well say no more, thou shalt be satisfied . 
 
 lExeunt. 
 Re-enter Dick Amlbt. 
 
 Dick. S't!— Brass! S't !— 
 
 Re-enter Brass. 
 
 Brass. Well, sir ! 
 
 Dick. 'Tis not well, sir, 'tis very ill, sir ; we 
 shall be all blovm up. 
 
 Brass. What, with pride and plenty ? 
 
 Dick. No, sir, with an officious slut that will 
 spoil all. In short, Flippanta has been telling her 
 mistress and Araminta of my passion for the young 
 Kentlewoman ; and truly to oblige me (supposed no 
 ill match by the by) they are resolved to propose 
 it immediately to her father. 
 
 Brass. That's the devil ! We shall come to 
 papers and parchments, jointures and settlements, 
 relations meet on both sides ; that's the devil ! 
 
 Dick. I intended this very day to propose to 
 Flippanta the carrying her off : and I'm sure the 
 young housewife would have tucked up her coats, 
 and have marched. 
 
 Brass. Ay, with the body and the soul of her, 
 
 Dick. Why, then, what damned luck is this ? 
 
 Brass. 'Tis your damned luck, not mine. I have 
 always seen it in your ugly phiz, in spite of your 
 powdered periwig. — Pox take ye ! — he'll be hanged 
 at last. — Why don't you try to get her off yet ? 
 
 Dick. I have no money, you dog ; you know you 
 have stripped me of every penny. 
 
 Brass. Come, damn it, I'll venture one cargo 
 more upon your rotten bottom : but if ever I see 
 one glance of your hempen fortune again, I'm off 
 of your partnership for ever. — 1 shall never thrive 
 with him. 
 
 Dick. An impudent rogue ! but he's in posses- 
 sion of my estate, so I must bear with him. iAside. 
 
 Brass. Well, come, I'll raise a hundred pounds 
 fory our use, upon my wife's jewels here. — [Pulling 
 out the necklace.'] Her necklace shall pawn for't. 
 
 Dick. Remember, though, that if things fail, I'm 
 to have the necklace again ; you know yon agreed 
 to that. 
 
 Brass. Yes, and if I make it good, you'll be the 
 better for't ; if not, I shall : so you see where. the 
 cause will pinch. 
 
 Dick. Why, you barbarous dog, you won't offer 
 to- 
 Brass. No words now ; about your business, 
 march ! Go stay for me at the next tavern : I'll go 
 to Flippanta, and try what I can do for you. 
 
 Dick. Well, I'll go, but don't think to— O pox, 
 sir ! — {_Exit. 
 
 Brass. Will you be gone ? A pretty title you'd 
 have to sue me upon truly, if I should have a mind 
 to stand upon the defensive, as perhaps I may. I 
 have done the rascal service enough to lull my con- 
 science upon't I'm sure : but 'tis time enough for 
 that. Let me see — first I'll go to Flippanta, and 
 put a stop to this family way of match-making, then 
 sell our necklace for what ready money 'twill pro- 
 duce ; and by this time to-morrow I hope we shall 
 be in possession of — t'other jewel here ; a precious 
 jewel, as she's set in gold : I believe for the stone 
 itself we may part with't again to a friend — for a 
 tester. iExxt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE \.—A Room in Gripe's House. 
 Enter Brass and Flippanta. 
 
 Brass, Well, you agree I'm in the right, don't 
 you ? 
 
 Flip. I don't know ; if your master has the 
 estate he talks of, why not do't all above-board ? 
 Well, though I am not much of his mind, I'm much 
 in his interest, and will therefore endeavour to 
 serve him in his own way. 
 
 Brass. That's kindly said, my child, and I 
 believe I shall reward thee one of these days, with 
 as pretty a fellow to thy husband for't as — 
 
 Flip. Hold your prating Jackadandy, and leave 
 me to my business. 
 
 Brass, I obey — adieu ! [.Kisses her, and exit. 
 
 Flip. Rascal 1 
 
 ' Enter Corinna. 
 
 Cor. Ah, Flippanta, I'm ready to sink down ! 
 my legs tremble under me, my dear Flippy '. 
 
 Flip. And what's the affair ? 
 
 Cor. My father's there within with my mother 
 and Araminta ; I never saw him in so good a 
 humour in my life. 
 
 Flip. And is that it that frightens you so ? 
 
 Cor. Ah, Flippanta, they are just going to speak 
 to him about my marrying the colonel. 
 
 Flip. Are they so ! so much the worse ; they're 
 too hasty. 
 
 Cor. O no, not a bit; I slipped out on purpose, 
 you must know, to give 'em an opportunity ; 
 would 'twere done already ! 
 
 Flip. I tell you no ; get you in again imme- 
 diately, and prevent it. 
 
 Cor. My dear, dear, I am not able ; I never was 
 in such a way before. 
 
 Flip. Never in a way to be married before, ha? 
 is not that it ? 
 
 Cor. Ah, Lord, if I'm thus before I come to't, 
 Flippanta, what shall I he upon the very spot .' Do 
 but feel with what a thumpaty thump it goes. 
 
 [Putting her hand to her heart. 
 
 Flip. Nay, it does make a filthy bustle, that's 
 the truth on't, child. But I believe I shall make 
 it leap another way when I tell you I'm cruelly 
 afraid your father won't consent after all. 
 
 Cor. Why, he won't be the death o'me, will he? 
 
 Flip. I don't know, old folks are cruel ; but we'll 
 have a trick for him. Brass and I have been con- 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 t'-iS 
 
 suiting upon the matter, and agreed upon a surer 
 way of doing it in spite of his teeth. 
 
 Cor. Ay, marry, sir, that were something. 
 
 Flip. But then he must not know a word of any- 
 thing towards it. 
 
 Cor. No, no. 
 
 Flip. So, get you in immediately. 
 
 Cor. One, two, three, and away ! IXunnirtff off. 
 
 Flip. And prevent your mother's speaking on't. 
 
 Cor. But is t'other way sure, Flippanta ? 
 
 Flip, Fear nothing, 'twill only depend upon you. 
 
 Cor. Nay then — O ho ! ho ! ho I how pure that 
 is I [Exit. 
 
 Flip. Poor child ! we may do what we will with 
 lier, as far as marrying her goes : when that's 
 over, 'tis possible she mayn't prove altogether so 
 tractable. But who's here ? my sharper, 1 think : 
 yes". 
 
 Enter Moneytrap. 
 
 Mon. Well, my best friend, how go matters .' 
 Has the restitution been received, ha .-' Was she 
 pleased with it ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, truly ; that is, she was pleased to see 
 there was so honest a man in this immoral age. 
 
 Mon. Well, but a — does she know that 'twas I 
 that — 
 
 Flip. Why, you must know I begun to give her 
 a little sort of a hint, and — and so — why, and so 
 she begun to put on a sort of a severe, haughty, 
 reserved, angry, forgiving air. But soft ; here she 
 comes. You'll see how you stand with her pre- 
 sently : but don't be afraid. Courage ! 
 
 Mon. He, hem ! 
 
 Enter Clarissa. 
 
 'Tis no small piece of good fortune, madam, to iind 
 you at home ; I have often endeavoured it in vain. 
 
 Clar. 'Twas then unknown to me, for if I could 
 often receive the visits of so good a friend at home, 
 I should be more reasonably blamed for being so 
 much abroad. 
 
 Mon. Madam, you make me — 
 
 Clar. You are the man of the world whose com- 
 pany I think is most to be desired. I don't com- 
 pliment you when I tell you so, I assure you. 
 
 Mon. Alas, madam; yourpoor humble servant — 
 
 Clar. My poor humble servant however (with 
 all the esteem I have for him) stands suspected 
 with me for a vile trick I doubt he has played me, 
 which if I could prove upon him I'm afraid I 
 should punish him very severely. 
 
 Mtm. I hope, madam, you'll believe I am not 
 capable of — 
 
 Clar. Look you, look you, you are capable of 
 whatever you please, you have a great deal of wit, 
 and know how to give a nice and gallant turn to 
 everything ; but if you will have me continue your 
 friend, you must leave me in some uncertainty in 
 this matter. 
 
 Mon. Madam, I do then protest to you — 
 
 Clar. Come, protest nothing about it, I am but 
 too penetrating, as you may perceive ; but we 
 sometimes shut our eyes rather than break with 
 our friends ; for a thorough knowledge of the truth 
 of this business, would make me very seriously 
 angry. 
 
 Mon. 'Tis very certain, madam, that — 
 
 Clar. Come, say no more on't, I beseech you, 
 for I'm in a good deal of heat while 1 but think 
 on't J if you'll walk in, I'll follow you presently. 
 
 Mon. Your goodness, madam, is — 
 
 Flip. [^sWe <o MoNEYTRAP.] War horse! No 
 fine speeches, you'll spoil all. 
 
 Mon. Thou art a most incomparable person. 
 
 Flip. Nay, it goes rarely ; but get you in, and 
 I'll say a little something to my lady for you 
 while she's warm. 
 
 Mon. But s't, Flippanta, how long dost think 
 she may hold out .' 
 
 Flip. Phu ! not a twelvemonth. 
 
 Mon. Boo ! 
 
 Flip. Away, I say ! ^Pushing him out, 
 
 Clar. Is he gone S What a wretch it is ! he 
 never was quite such a beast before. 
 
 Flip. Poor mortal, his money's finely laid out 
 truly ! 
 
 Clar. I suppose there may have been much such 
 another scene within between Araminta and my 
 dear. But I left him so insupportably brisk •'tis 
 impossible he can have parted with any money. 
 I'm afraid Brass has not succeeded as thou hast 
 done, Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. By my faith but he has, and better too ; 
 he presents his humble duty to Araminta, and has 
 sent her — this. [Showing the note. 
 
 Clar. A bill from my love for two hundred and 
 fifty poiinds ! The monster ! he would not part 
 with ten to save his lawful wife from everlasting 
 torment. 
 
 Flip. Never complain of his avarice, madam, as 
 long as you have his money. 
 
 Clar, But is not he a beast, Flippanta ? me- 
 thinks the restitution looked better by half. 
 
 Flip. Madam, the man's beast enough, that's 
 certain ; but which way will you go to receive his 
 beastly money, for I must not appear with his 
 note ? 
 
 Clar. That's true ; why send for Mrs. Amlet ; 
 that's a mighty useful woman that Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Flip. Marry is she ; we should have been basely 
 puzzled how to dispose of the necklace without 
 her, 'twould have been dangerous offering it to sale. 
 
 Clar, It would so, for I know your master has 
 been laying out for't amongst the goldsmiths. But 
 I stay here too long, I must in and coquette it a 
 little more to my lover, Araminta will get ground 
 on me else. 
 
 Flip. And I'll go send for Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. — Another Room in the same. 
 
 Araminta, Corinna, Gripe, and Moneytrap, are dis- 
 covered at a tea-table, very gay and laughing. 
 
 All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mon. Mighty well, O mighty well indeed ! 
 
 Enter Clarissa. 
 
 Clar. Save you, save you, good folks ! you are all 
 in rare humour methinks. 
 
 Gripe. Why, what should we be otherwise for, 
 madam } 
 
 Clar. Nay, I don't know, not I, my dear ; but 
 I han't had the happiness of sreeing you so since 
 our honeymoon was over, I think. 
 
 Gripe. Why to tell you the truth my dear, 'tis 
 
 the joy of seeing you at home \^Kisses her,'] 
 
 You see what charms you have when you are 
 pleased to make use of 'em. 
 
4Rfi 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Arum. Very gallant truly. 
 
 Clar. Nay, and what's more, you must know, 
 he's never to be otherwise henceforwariis j we have 
 come to an agreement about it. 
 
 Mon. Why, here's my love and I have been upon 
 just such another treaty too. 
 
 Aram. Well, sure there's some very peaceful 
 star rules at present. Pray Heaven continue its 
 reign 
 
 Mun. Pray do you continue its reign, you 
 ladies ; for 'tis all in your power. 
 
 ILeering at Clarissa , 
 
 Gripe. My neighbour Moneytrap says true, at 
 least I'll confess frankly lOgling Araminta] 'tis 
 in one lady's power to make me the best-humoured 
 man on earth. 
 
 Mon. And I'll answer for another that has the 
 same over me. {.Ogling Clarissa. 
 
 Clar. 'Tis mighty fine, gentlemen ! mighty civil 
 husbands, indeed ! 
 
 Gripe. Nay, what I say's true, and so true, that 
 all quarrels being now at an end, I am willing, if 
 you please, to dispense with all that fine company 
 we talked of to-day, be content with the friendly 
 conversation of our two good neighbours here, and 
 spend all my toying hours alone with my sweet 
 wife. 
 
 Man. Why, truly, I think now, if these good 
 women pleased, we might make up the prettiest 
 little neighbourly company between our two fami- 
 lies, and set a defiance to all the impertinent people 
 in the world. 
 
 Clar. The rascals ! iAside. 
 
 Aram. Indeed I doubt you'd soon grow weary, 
 if we grew fond. 
 
 Gripe. Never, never, for our wives have wit, 
 neighbour, and that never palls. 
 
 Clar. And our husbands have generosity, Ara- 
 minta, and that seldom palls. 
 
 Gripe. So, that's a wipe for me now, because I 
 did not give her a new-year's-gift last time ; but be 
 good, and I'll think of some tea-cups for you, next 
 year. 
 
 Mon. And perhaps I mayn't forget a fan, or as 
 good a thing — hum, hussy. 
 
 Clar. Well, upon these encouragements, Ara- 
 minta, we'll try how good we can be. 
 
 Gripe. {Aside.} Well, this goes most rarely ! 
 Poor Moneytrap, he little thinks what makes his 
 wife so easy in his company. 
 
 Mon. [Aside."] I can but pity poor neighbour 
 Gripe. Lard, Lard, what a fool does his wife and 
 I make of him ! 
 
 Clar. [Aside to Araminta.] Are not these 
 two wretched rogues, Araminta ? 
 
 Aram. [Aside to Clarissa.] They are indeed. 
 
 Enter Jessamin. 
 
 Jes. Sir, here's Mr. Clip, the goldsmith, desires 
 to speak with you. 
 
 Gripe. Cods so, perhaps some news of your 
 necklace, my dear. 
 
 Clar. That would be news indeed. 
 
 Gripe. Let him come in. iExii Jbssamin. 
 
 Enter Mr. Clip. 
 
 Gripe. Mr. Clip, your servant; I'm glad to see 
 you : how do you do ? 
 
 Clip. At your service, sir, very well. — Your ser- 
 vant, madam Gripe. 
 
 Clar. Horrid fellow ! {Aiide. 
 
 Gripe, Well, Mr. Clip, no news yet of my wife's 
 necklace .' 
 
 Clip. If you please to let me speak with 
 you in the next room, I have something to say 
 to you. 
 
 Gripe. Ay, with all my heart. Shut the door 
 after us. — [ They come forward, and the scene shuts 
 behind them,"] Well, any news? 
 
 Clip. Look you, sir, here's a necklace brought 
 me to sell, at least very like that you described to 
 me. 
 
 Gripe. Let's see't. — Victoria! the very same. 
 Ah, my dear Mr. Clip 1 [Kisses him.] But who 
 brought it you ? you should have seized him. 
 
 Clip. 'Twas a young fellow that I know : I can't 
 tell whether he may be guilty, though it's like 
 enough. But he has only left it me now, to show 
 a brother of our trade, and will call upon me again 
 presently. 
 
 Gripe. Wheedle him hither, dear Mr. Clip 
 Here's my neighbour Moneytrap in the house j 
 he's a justice, and will commit him presently. 
 
 Clip. 'Tis enough. 
 
 Enter Brass. 
 
 Gripe. O, my friend Brass ! 
 
 Brass. Hold, sir, I think that's a gentleman I'm 
 looking for. — Mr. Clip, oh, your servant I What, 
 are ydu acquainted here ? I have just been at your 
 shop. 
 
 Clip. I only stepped here to show Mr. Gripe the 
 necklace you left. 
 
 Srass. [ To Gripe.] Why, sir, do you under- 
 stand jewels ? I thought you had dealt only in 
 gold. But I smoke the matter, hark you — a word in 
 your ear — you are going to play the gallant again, 
 and make a purchase on't for Araminta ; ha, ha ? 
 
 Gripe. Where had you the necklace ? 
 
 Brass. Look you, don't trouble yourself about 
 that ; it's in commission with me, and I car help 
 you to a pennyworth on't. 
 
 Gripe. A pennyworth on't, villain ? 
 
 IStrikes at him. 
 
 Brass. Villain ! ahey, ahey ! Is't you or me, 
 Mr. Clip, he's pleased to comphment.' 
 
 Clip. What do you think on't, sir ? 
 
 Brass. Think on't ! now the devil fetch me if I 
 know what to think on't. 
 
 Gripe. You'll sell a pennyworth, rogue ! of a 
 thing you have stolen from me. 
 
 Brass. Stolen ! pray, sir — what wine have you 
 drank to-day.^ It has a very merry effect upon 
 you. 
 
 Gripe. You villain ! either give me an account 
 how you stole it, or — 
 
 Brass. O ho, sir, if you please, don't carry 
 your jest too far ; I don't understand hard woi'ds, 
 I give you warning on't. If you han't a mind to 
 buy the necklace, you may let it alone j I know how 
 to dispose on't. What a pox 1 — 
 
 Gripe. Oh, you shan't have that trouble, sir — 
 Dear Mr. Clip, you may leave the necklace here. 
 I'll call at your shop, and thank you for your care. 
 
 Clip. Sir, your humble servant. [Ooing. 
 
 Brass. O ho, Mr. Clip, if you please sir, this 
 won't do ! — [Stopping him.] I don't understand 
 raillery in such matters. 
 
 Clip. I leave it with Mr. Gripe do you and he 
 dispute it. f '?■»■'' 
 
THE CONFEDERA(;y. 
 
 437 
 
 Brass. Ay, but 'tis from you, by your leave, sir, 
 that I expect it. tooing tfter Mm. 
 
 Gripe. You expect, you rogue, to make your 
 escape, do you ? But I have other accounts besides 
 this to make up with you. To be sure the dog 
 has cheated me of two hundred aYid fifty pound. 
 Come, villain, give me an account of — 
 
 Brass. Account of ! — sir, give me an account of 
 my necklace, or I'll make such a noise in your 
 house I'll raise the devil in't. 
 
 Gripe. Well said. Courage ! 
 
 Brass. Blood and thunder, give it me, or — 
 
 Gripe. Come, hush, be wise, and I'll make no 
 nuise of this affair. 
 
 Brass. You'll make no noise ! but I'll mak* a 
 noise, and a damned noise too. Oh, dou't think 
 to— 
 
 Gripe. I tell thee I will not hang thee. 
 
 Brass. But I tell you I will hang you, if you 
 don't give me my necklace. I will, rot me ! 
 
 Gripe. Speak softly, be wise ; how came it thine? 
 who gave it thee ? 
 
 Brass, A gentleman, a friend of mine. 
 
 Gripe. What's his name ? 
 
 Brass. His name ! — I'm in such a passion I 
 \ave forgot it. 
 
 Gripe. Ah, brazen rogue — thou hast stole it 
 from my wife 1 'tis the same she lost six wefeks 
 ago. 
 
 Brass. This has not been in England a month. 
 
 Gripe. You are a son of a whore. 
 
 Brass. Give me my necklace.- 
 
 Gripe. Give me my two hundred and fifty pound 
 lote. 
 
 Brass, Yet I oiFer peace : one word without pas- 
 sion. The case stands thus, either I'm out of my 
 wits, or you are out of yours : now 'tis plain 1 am 
 not out of my wits, ergo — '■ 
 
 Gripe. My bill, hang-dog, or I'll strangle thee ! 
 
 [They struggle. 
 
 Brass. Murder ! murder ! 
 
 Enter Clarissa, Araaiinta, Cobinna, Flippanta, 
 MuNEVTRAP, and Jessamin. 
 
 Flip, What's the matter 1 what's the matter 
 here } 
 
 Gripe. I'll matter him ! 
 
 Clar, Who makes thee cry out ttus, poor 
 Brass .'' 
 
 Brass. Why. your husband, madam, he's in his 
 altitudes here. 
 
 Gripe, Robber ! 
 
 Brass. Here, he has cheated me of a diamond 
 necklace. 
 
 Cor. Who, papa ? ah, dear me ! 
 
 Clar. Prithee what's the meaning of this great 
 emotion, my dear ? 
 
 Gripe, The meaning is that — I'm quite out of 
 breath — this son of a whore has got your necklace, 
 that's all. 
 
 Clar, My necklace I 
 
 Gripe. That birdlime there — stole it. 
 
 Clar. Impossible ! 
 
 Brass. Madam, you see master's a little — 
 touched, that's all. Twenty ouuces of blood let 
 loose would set all right again. 
 
 Gripe. Here, call a coitstable presently. — [Exit 
 Jessamin.] Neighbour Moneytrap, you'll com- 
 mit him .' 
 
 Brass. D'ye hear? d'ye hear.' See how wild 
 
 he looks : how his eyes roll in his head 1 tie him 
 down, or he'll do some mischief or other. 
 
 Gripe. Let me come at him. 
 
 Clar. Hold ! — prithee, my dear, reduce things 
 to a little temperance, and let us coolly into the 
 secret of this disagreeable rupture. 
 
 Gripe. Well then, without passion. Why, you 
 must know (but I'll have him hanged,) you must 
 know that he came to Mv. Clip, to Mr. Clip the 
 dog did!— with a necklace to sell; so Mr. Clip 
 having notice before that (can you deny this, 
 sirrah ?) that you had lost yours, brings it to me. 
 Look at it here, do you know it again .<' — Ah, you 
 traitor 1 LTo Braks. 
 
 Brass. He makes me mad ! Here's an appear- 
 ance of something now to the company, and yet 
 nothing in't in the bottom. 
 
 Enter Constable. 
 
 Clar. Flippanta! — 
 
 [Aside to Flippanta, showing the necklace. 
 
 Flip, 'Tis it, faith ; here's some mystery in this, 
 we must look about us. 
 
 Clar. The safest way is point blank to disown 
 the necklace. 
 
 Flip. Right, stick to that. 
 
 Gripe'. Well, madam, do you know your old 
 acquaintance, ha ? 
 
 Clar. Why, truly, my dear, though (as you 
 may all imagine) I should be very glad to 
 recover so valuable a thing as my necklace, yet 
 1 must be jusC to all the world, this necklace is 
 not mine. 
 
 Brass. Huzza ! — Here, constable, do your duty. 
 — Mr. Justice, I demand my necklace, and satis- 
 faction of him. 
 
 Gripe. I'll die before I part with it, I'll keep it, 
 and have him hanged. 
 
 Clar. But be a little calm, my dear, do, my 
 bird, and then thou'lt be able to judge rightly of 
 things. 
 
 Gripe. O good lack ! O good lack ! 
 
 Clar, No, but don't give way to fury and inter- 
 est both, either of 'em are passions strong enough 
 to lead a wise man out of the way. The necklace 
 not being really mine, give it the man again, and 
 come drink a dish of tea. 
 
 Brass, Ay, madam says right. 
 
 Gripe. Oons, if you with your addle head 
 don't know your own jewels, 1 with my solid 
 one do : and if I part with it, may famine be 
 my portion ! 
 
 Clar. But don't swear and curse thyself at this 
 fearful rate : don't, my dove. Be temperate in your 
 words, and just in all your actions, 'twill bring a 
 blessing upon you and your family. 
 
 Gripe, Bring thunder and lightning upon me 
 and my family, if I part with my necklace ! 
 
 Clar. Why you'll have the lightning burn your 
 house about your ears, my dear, if you go on in 
 these practices. 
 
 Mon. A most excellent woman this ! iAside, 
 
 Enter jMrs. Amlet, 
 
 Gripe, I'll keep my necklace. 
 
 Brass, Will you so ? then here comes one has a 
 title to it, if I han't. — [Aside.] Let Dick bring 
 himself off with her as he can. — [Aloud.] Mrs. 
 Amlet, you are come in a very good time ; you lost 
 
438 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 a necklace t'other day, and who do you thiak has 
 got it ? . 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Marry that know I not, 1 wish 1 
 did. 
 
 Brass. Why then here's Mr. Gripe has it, and 
 svtrears 'tis his wife's. 
 
 Gripe. And so I do, sirrah ! — Look here, mis- 
 tress, do you pretend this is yours ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami, Not for the round world I would 
 not say it ; I only kept it, to do madam a small 
 courtesy, that's all. 
 
 Clar. Ah, Flippanta, all will out now ! 
 
 [_Aside to Fi.ippanta. 
 
 Gripe. Courtesy ! what courtesy ? 
 
 Mrs, Ami. A little money only that madam had 
 present need of, please to pay me that, and I 
 demand no more. 
 
 Brass. So here's fresh game ; I have started a 
 new hare, I find. lAside. 
 
 Gripe. How, forsooth, is this true ? 
 
 ITo Clarissa. 
 
 Clar, You are in a humour at present, love, to 
 believe anything, so I won't take the paias to con- 
 tradict it. 
 
 Brass. This damned necklace will spoil all our 
 affairs, this is Dick's luck again. iAtide. 
 
 Gripe. Are you not ashamed of these ways ? 
 Do you see how you are exposed before your best 
 friends here ? don't you blush at it ? 
 
 Clar. I do blush, my dear, but 'tis for you, 
 that here it should appear to the world, you 
 keep me so bare of money, I'm forced to pawn 
 my jewels. 
 
 Gripe. Impudent housewife ! 
 
 ^Raising his hand to strike her. 
 
 Clar. Softly, chicken ; you might have pre- 
 vented all this by giving me the two hundred 
 and fifty pound you sent to Araminta e'en 
 now. 
 
 Brass. You see, sir, I delivered your note. 
 How I have been abused to-day ! 
 
 Gripe. I'm betrayed ! — Jades on both sides, I 
 see that! {Aside. 
 
 Mon. But, madam, madam, is this true I hear.' 
 Have you taken a present of two hundred and 
 fifty pound ? Pray what were you to return for 
 these pounds, madam, ha ? 
 
 Aram. Nothing, my dear ; I only took 'em to 
 reimburse you of about the same sum you sent to 
 Clarissa. 
 
 Mon. Hum, hum, hum ! 
 
 Gripe, How, gentlewoman, did you receive 
 money from him ? 
 
 Clar, Oh, my dear, 'twas only in jest j I knew 
 you'd give it again to his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. But amongst all this tintamar, I 
 don't hear a word of my hundred pounds. Is it 
 madam will pay me, or master .' 
 
 Gripe. I pay ! the devil shall pay ! 
 
 Clar. Look you, my dear, malice apart, pay 
 Mrs. Amlet her money, and I'll forgive you the 
 wrong you intended my bed with Araminta. Am 
 not I a good wife now .' 
 
 Gripe. I burst with rage, and wiU get rid 
 of this noose, though I tuck myself up in 
 another. 
 
 Mon. Nay, pray, e'en tuck me up with you. 
 
 ^Exeunt Mo.veytrap and Gnipjs. 
 
 Clar. and .Aram. Bye, dearies ! 
 
 Enter Dick Amlbt. 
 
 Cor. Look, look, Flippanta, here's the colonel 
 come at last ! 
 
 Dick. Ladies, I ask your pardon, I have stayed 
 so long, but — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah, rogue's face, have I got thee, 
 old Good-for-nought .' fiirrah, sirrah, do you , 
 think to amuse me with your marriages, and your 
 great fortunes .'' Thou hast played me a rare prank, 
 by my conscience ! Why, you ungracious rascal, 
 what do you think will be the end of all this ? Now 
 Heaven forgive me, but I have a great mind to hang 
 thee for't. 
 
 Cor. She talks to him very familiarly, Flippanta 1 
 
 Flip. So methiuks, by my faith ! 
 
 Brass, Now the rogue's star is making an end 
 of him. ^Aside. 
 
 Dick. What shall I do with her ? ^Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Do but look at him, my dames : he 
 has the countenance of a cherubim, but he's a 
 rogue in his heart. 
 
 Clar, What is the meaning of all this, Mrs. 
 Amlet ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. The meaning, good lack ! Why 
 this all-to-be-powdered rascal here is my son, an't 
 please you. — Ha, Graceless ! Now I'll make you 
 own your mother, vermin ! 
 
 Clar. What, the colonel your son ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. 'Tis Dick, madam, that rogue Dick 
 I have so often told you of, vrith tears trickling 
 down my old cheeks. 
 
 Aram. The woman's mad, it can never be. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Speak, rogue, am I not thy mother, 
 ha ? Did I not bring thee forth ? say then. 
 
 Dick. What will you have me say ? you had a 
 mind to ruin me, and you have done't ; would you 
 do any more. 
 
 Clar. Then, sir, yon are son to good Mrs. 
 Amlet .' 
 
 Aram. And have had the assurance to put upon 
 us all this while ! 
 
 Flip. And the confidence to think of marrying 
 Corinna .' 
 
 Brass. And the impudence to hire me for your 
 servant, who am as well born as yourself .' 
 
 Clar. Indeed I think he should be corrected. 
 
 Aram. Indeed I think he deserves to be cud- 
 gelled. 
 
 Flip. Indeed I think he might be pumped. 
 
 Brass, Indeed I think he will be hanged. 
 
 Mrs. Ami, Good lack a-day ! Good lack 
 a-day ! there's no need to be so smart upon him 
 neither : if he is not a gentleman, he's a gentle- 
 man's fellow. — Come hither, Dick, they shan't run 
 thee down neither ; cock up thy hat, Dick, and 
 tell 'em, though Mrs. Amlet is thy mother, she can 
 make thee amends with ten thousand good pounds 
 to buy thee some lands, and build thee a house in 
 the midst on't. 
 
 All. How! 
 
 Clar. Ten thousand pounds, Mrs. Amlet ! 
 
 Mrs, Ami. Yes forsooth, though I should lose 
 
 the hundred you pawned your necklace for Tell 
 
 'em of that, Dick. 
 
 Cor. Look you, Flippanta, I can hold no longer, 
 and I hate to see the young man abused. — And so, 
 sir, if you please, I'm your friend and servant, and 
 what's mine is yours ; and when our estates are put 
 together, I don't doubt but we shall do as well a.'! 
 the best of 'em. 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 4S9 
 
 Dick. Sayest thou so, my little queen ? Why 
 then if dear mother will give us her blessing, the 
 parson shall give us a tack. We'll get her a score 
 of grandchildren, and a merry house we'll make 
 her. IThey kneel to Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah — ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! the pretty 
 pair, the pretty pair ! Rise my chickens, rise, 
 rise and face the proudest of 'em. And if madam 
 does not deign to give her consent, a fig for her, 
 Dick !■ — -Why, how now ? 
 
 Clar. Pray, Mrs. Amlet, don't be in a passion, 
 the girl is my husband's girl, and if you can have 
 
 his consent, upon my word you shall have mine, 
 for anything belongs to him. 
 
 Flip. Then all's peace again, but we li.ive been 
 more lucky than wise. 
 
 Aram. And I suppose for us, Clarissa, we are 
 to go on with our dears, as we used to do. 
 
 Clar. Just in the same tract, for this late treaty 
 of agreement with 'em was so unnatural you see it 
 could not hold. But 'tis just as well with us as 
 if it had. Well, 'tis a strange fate, good folks ! 
 But while you live, everything gets well out of a 
 broil but a husband. [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BARRY. 
 
 I've heard wise men in politics lay down 
 What feats by little England might be done. 
 Were all agreed, and all would act as one. 
 Ye wives a useful hint from this might take. 
 The heavy, old, despotic kingdom shake. 
 And make your matrimonial monsieurs quake. 
 Our heads are feeble, and we're cramp'd by laws ; 
 Our hands are weak, and not too strong our cause : 
 Yet would those heads and hands, such as they are, 
 In firm conf^jderacy resolve on war, 
 You'd find your tyrants — what I've found my dear. 
 What only two united can produce 
 You've seen to-night, a sample for your use : 
 Single, we found we nothing could obtain ; 
 We join our force — and we subdued our men. 
 Believe me (my dear sex) they are not brave ; 
 Try each your man ; you'll quickly find your slave. 
 
 I know they'll make campaigns, risk blood and life ; 
 But this is a more terrifying strife ; 
 They'll stand a shot, who'll tremble at a wife. 
 Beat then your drums, and your shrill trumpets 
 
 sound, 
 Let all your visits of your feats resound. 
 And deeds of war in cups of tea go round : 
 The stars are witli you, fate is in your hand. 
 In twelve months' time you've vanquish'd half the 
 
 land ; 
 Be wise, and keep 'em under good command. 
 This year will to your glory long be known, 
 And deathless ballads hand your triumphs down ; 
 Your late achievements ever will remain. 
 For though you cannot boast of many slain, 
 Your prisoner.? show you've made a brave cnni- 
 
 paign 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 a ©otneUp. 
 
 Don Alvarbz, FatJier to Leonora. 
 Don Fbltx, Father to Don Lorbnzo. 
 Don Carlos, in love with Leonora. 
 Don Lorenzo, in love with Leonora. 
 Metaphrastus, Tutor to Camillo. 
 Sancho, Servant to Don Carlos. 
 Lopez, Servant to Don Lorenzo 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 ToLEuo, a Bravo, 
 
 Leonora, Daughter to Don Alvarez. 
 Camillo, supposed-Son to Don Alvaiver 
 Isabella, her Friend, 
 Jacinta, Servant to Leonora. 
 
 SCENE,— A Town in Spain^ 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 (written b* MB. Steele) spoken by mr^ booth. 
 
 Our author's wit and raillery to-night 
 Perhaps might please, hut that your stage-delight 
 No more is in your minds, but ears and sight. 
 With audiences composed of belles and beaux, 
 The first dramatic rule is, have good clothes. 
 To charm the gay spectator's gentle breast, 
 In lace and feather tragedy's express'd, 
 And heroes die nnpitied, if ill dress'd. 
 
 The other style you full as well advance j 
 If 'tis a comedy, you ask — Who dance ? 
 For oh I what dire convulsions have of late 
 Torn and distracted each dramatic state. 
 On this great question, which house first should 
 
 sell 
 The new French steps, imported by Ruel .' 
 Desbarques can't rise so high, we must agree, 
 They've half a foot in height more wit thao we. 
 But though the genius of our learned age 
 Thinks fit to dance and sing quite oft the stage. 
 True action, comic mirth, and tragic rsige ; 
 Yet as your taste now stands, our author draws 
 
 Some hopes of your indulgferice arid applause. 
 For that great end this edifice he made. 
 Where humble swain at lady's feet is laid ; 
 Where the pleased nymph her conquer'd lovei 
 
 Then ta glass pillars turns h'er conscious eyes, 
 And points anew each charm, for which he dies. 
 
 The Muse, before nor terrible nor great, 
 Enjoys by him this awful gilded seat : 
 By him theatric angels mount more high, 
 And mimic thunders shake a broader sky. 
 
 Thus all must own, our author has doile more, 
 For your delight than ever bard before. 
 His thoughts are still to raise your pleasures fiU'd 
 To write, translate, to blazon, or to build. 
 Then take him in the lump, nor nicely pry 
 Into small faults, that 'scape a busy eye j 
 But kindly, sirs, consider, he to-day 
 Finds you the house, the actors, and the play : 
 So, -though we stage-mechanic rules omit. 
 You must allow it in a wholesale wit. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Street. 
 Enter Don CARf.os and Sancho. 
 
 Don Car. I tell thee, I am not satisfied ; I'm 
 in love enough to be suspicious of everybody. 
 
 San. And yet methinks, sir, you should leave 
 me out. 
 
 Don Car. It may be so, I can't tell ; but I'm 
 not at ease. If they don't make a knave, at least 
 they'll make a fool of thee. 
 
 San. I don't believe a word on't. But good 
 faith, master, your love makes somewhat of you ; 
 1 don't know what 'tis, but methinks when you 
 suspect me, you don't seem a man of half those 
 parts I used to take you for. Look in my face, 
 'tis round and comely, not one hollow line of a 
 villain in it. Men of my fabric don't use to be 
 suspected for knaves ; and when you take us for 
 fools, we never take you for wise men. For my 
 part, in this present case, I take myself to be 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 441 
 
 mighty deep. A stander-by, sir, sees moi'e tlian 
 
 gamester. You are pleased to be jealous of your 
 poor mistress without a cause. She uses you but 
 too well, in my humble opinion. She sees you, and 
 taiks with you, till I am quite tired on't sometimes ; 
 and your rival, that you are so scared about, 
 forces a visit upon her about once in a fortnight. 
 
 Don Cur. Alas ! thou art ignorant in these 
 affairs : he that's the civilest received ia often the 
 least cared for. Women appear warm to one, to 
 hide a flame for another. Lorenzo, in short, 
 appears too composed of late to be a rejeeted 
 lover ; and the indifference he shows upon the 
 favours I seem to receive from her, poisons the 
 pleasure 1 else should taste in 'etOj and keeps me 
 on a perpetual ,rack. No I 1 would fain see 
 some of his jealous transports ; have him fire at 
 the sight o' me, contradict, me vvhetiever I speak, 
 affront me wherever he meets me, challenge me, 
 fight me — 
 
 San. Run you through the guts, 
 
 Don Car. But he's too calm,- his heart's too 
 much at ease, to leave me mine at rest. 
 
 San. But, sir, you forget that there are two 
 ways for our hearts to get at ease ; when our mis- 
 tresses come to be very fond of us, or we, not to 
 care a fig for them. Now suppose, upon the 
 rebukes you know he has had, it should chauce to 
 be the latter. 
 
 Don Cari Again thy ignorance appears.' Alas ! 
 a lover who has broke bis chain 'will shun the 
 tyrant that enslaved him.; Indifference never is 
 his lot ; he loves or bates for ever ; and if his mis- 
 tress prove another's prize, he cannot calmly see 
 her in his arms. 
 
 San. For my part, master, I'm not so great a 
 philosopher as you be, nor . (thank my stars) so 
 bitter a lover, but what I see — that I generally 
 believe ; and when Jacinta tells me she loves'- me 
 dearly, I have good thoughts enough of my person 
 never to doubt the truth on't. See, here the bag- 
 gage comes. 
 
 Enter Jacinta with a letter^ 
 Histf Jaeintaf my dear J 
 
 Joe. Who's that ? Blunderbuss ! Where's your 
 master ? ' ■ 
 
 San. Hard by. [Pointing to Don Carxos. 
 
 JaC. O, sir ! I'm glad I have found you at last ; 
 I believe I have travelled five miles after yoUj^and 
 could neither find you at home^ nor in the walks, 
 tor at church, nor at the opera, nor^ — 
 
 San. Nor anywhere else, where he was not to 
 be found.' If you had looked for him where he 
 was, 'twas ten ^-o one but you had met with him. 
 
 Jac. I had, Jack-a-dandy ! 
 
 Don Car. But, prithee, what's the matter? 
 who sent you after me ? 
 
 Jac. One who's never well but when she sees 
 you, I think ; 'twas my lady. 
 
 Don Car. Dear Jacinta, I fain would flatter 
 myself, but am not able ; tlje blessing's too great 
 to be my lot. Yet 'tis not well to trifle with me : 
 how short soe'er I am in other merit, the tender- 
 ness I have for Leonora claims something from her 
 generosity. I should not be deluded. 
 
 Jao. And why do you think you are ? methinks 
 she's pretty well above-board with you. What 
 must be done more to satisfy you ? 
 
 San. Why, Lorenzo must hang himself, and 
 *hen we are content. 
 
 Jac. How ! Lorenzo ! 
 
 San, If less will do, he'll tell you. 
 
 Jac. Why, you are not mad, sir, are you ? 
 Jealous of him I Pray which way may this have 
 got into your head .' I took you for a mia of sense 
 before. — [ To Sancho.] Is this your doings, Log .' 
 
 San: No,'fors6oth, Pert! I'm not much given 
 to suspicion, as you can tell, Mrs. Forward : if 1 
 were, I might find more cause, I guess, than your 
 mistress has given our master here. But 1 have so 
 many pretty thoughts of my own person, house- 
 wife, more than I have ,of yours, that 1 stand in 
 dread of no man. 
 
 Jac. That's the way to prosper j however, so far 
 I'll confess the truth to thee ; at least, if that don't 
 do, nothing else will. Men are mighty simple in 
 love-matters, sir. When-you suspect a woman's 
 falling off, you fall a-pla|uing her t» bring her oti 
 again, attack her with reasrin. and a . sour fiice. 
 Udslifej sir ! attack her with a fiddle, double your 
 good-humour ; give her a. ball — powder your peri- 
 wig at her.'— let hCr cheat you at cards a little — and 
 I'll warrant all's right again. But to come upon 
 a poor woman with the gloomy face "of jealousy, 
 before she gives the least occasion for 't, is to set a 
 complaisant rival in too favourable a light. Sir, 
 sir! 1 miust tell yoUf I have seen those have owed 
 their success to nothing else. > 
 
 Don Car. Say no more, 1 have been to blame ; 
 but there sliall be no iriore on't. 
 
 Jac. 1 should punish you but justly, howevef, , 
 for. what's past, if 1 carried back v\»hat I have 
 brought you; but I'm good-natured, so here 'tis; 
 open it, and see how'wroiig you timed your jea- 
 lousy ! 
 
 ■ Don Car. [Reads.] // you love me with that 
 tendt mess you have made me long believe you do, 
 this letter ttnll be. leelcomp. ; His to tell you, -ytm 
 have leave to plead a daughter's u^akfiess to a 
 fai}wr''s indulgence i' and if you prevail with him 
 to lay his commands- upon me, you shall be as 
 happy as my obedience to 'em can make you. 
 
 ■ Leonora, 
 Then I shall be what man was never yet. — [Kiss- 
 iny the letter.'] Ten thousand blessings on thee for 
 thy hews !— ^I could adore thee as a deity ! 
 
 [Embracing Jacinta. 
 
 San. True flesh add blood, evefy inch of hef, 
 for all that. 
 
 Don Car.' [Reads again.] And if you prevail 
 ■with him to lay his commands 'upon me, you shall 
 be as happy as viy obedierice to 'em can make you. 
 — O happyj happy CafliJs f — But what shall I say 
 to thee' for this welcome message ? Alas I I want 
 words.— But let this speak for me, and this, arid 
 this, and^^ [Giving her Ms ring, ivatch, and purse. 
 
 San. Hold, sir J pray leave a little something for 
 
 our board-wages. J-[ To Jacinta.] You can't 
 
 carry 'em all, 1 believe : shall I ease thee of this ? 
 
 [Qfftring to take the purse. 
 
 Jac. No ; but you may carry — that, sirrah. 
 
 [Giving him a box on the ear, 
 
 San. The jade's grown purse-proud already. 
 
 Don Car, Well, dear Jacinta, say something to 
 your charming mistress, that 1 am not able to say 
 myself: but above all, excuse my late unpardon 
 able folly, and offer her my lite to expiate my 
 crime. 
 
 Jac, The best plea for pardon will be never to 
 repeat the fault. 
 
di2 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 Don Car. If that will do, 'tis sealed for ever. 
 
 Jiic. Enough. But I must begone ; success 
 attend you with the old gentleman. Good-bye t'ye, 
 sir. 
 
 Don Car. Eternal blessings follow thee ! 
 
 [^Exit JACINTA. 
 
 San. I think she has taken 'em all with her ; 
 the jade has got her apron full. 
 
 Don Car. Is not that Lorenzo coming this way ? 
 
 San. Yes, 'tis he ; for my part now I pity the 
 poor gentleman. 
 
 Enter Don Lorenzo. 
 
 Don Car. I'll let him see at last I can be cheer- 
 ful too. — Your servant, Don Lorenzo j how do you 
 do this morning ? 
 
 Don Lor. I thank you, Don Carlos, perfectly 
 well, both in body and in mind. 
 
 Don Car. What ! cured of your love then ? 
 Don Lor. No, nor I hope I never shall. May 
 I ask you how 'tis with yours ? 
 
 Don Car. Increasing every hour ; we are very 
 constant both. 
 
 Don Lor. I find so much delight in being so I 
 hope I never shall be otherwise. 
 
 Don Car. Those joys 1 am well acquainted with, 
 but should lose 'em soon were I to meet a 
 cool reception. 
 
 Don Lor. That's every generous lover's case, 
 no doubt ; an angel could not fire my heart but 
 with an equal flame. 
 
 Don Car. And yet you said you still loved Leo- 
 nora. 
 
 Don Lor. And yet I said I loved her. 
 Don Car. Does she then return you — 
 Don Lor. Everything my passion can require. 
 Don Car. Its wants are small, I find. 
 Don Lor. Extended as the heavens. 
 Don Car. 1 pity you. 
 Don Lor. He must be a deity that does so. 
 Don Car. Yet I'm a mortal, and once more can 
 pity you. 
 Alas ! Lorenzo, 
 
 'Tis a poor cordial to an aching heart, 
 To have the tongue alone announce it happy : 
 Besides 'tis mean, you should be more a man. 
 
 Don Lor.l find I have made you an unhappy one, 
 So can forgive the boilings of your spleen. 
 
 Don Car. This seeming calmness might have 
 the effect your vanity proposes by it, had I not a 
 testimony of her love would (should I show it) sink 
 you to the centre. 
 
 Don Lor. Yet still I'm calm as ever. 
 Don Car. Nay, then have at your peace. Read 
 that, and end the farce. [.Gives him Lkonoba's letter. 
 Don Lor. [After reading.] I have read it. 
 Don Car. And know the hand ? 
 Don Lor. 'Tis Leonora's ; I have often seen it. 
 Don Car. I hope you then at last are satisfied. 
 Don Lor. [Sjni/mjr.] lam. Goodmorrow, Carlos ! 
 
 'Exit. 
 San. Sure he's mad, master. 
 Don Car. Mad ! sayest thou ? 
 San. And yet, by'r Lady, that was a sort of a 
 dry sober smile at going off. 
 
 Don Car. A very sober one ! Had he show me 
 such a letter, I had put on another countenance. 
 San. 4y, o' my conscience had you. 
 Don Car. Here's mystery in this— I like it not. 
 San. I see his man and confidant there, Lopez. 
 
 Shall I draw him on a Scotch pair of boots, mas- 
 ter, and make him tell all ? 
 
 Don Car. Some questions I must ask him ; call 
 him hither. 
 
 San. Hem, Lopez, hem ! 
 
 Enter I.opk/.. 
 
 Lop. Who calls .' 
 San. I and my master. 
 Lop. I can't stay. 
 
 San. You can indeed, sir. iLayinglwldonMm. 
 Don Car. Whither in such haste, honSst Lopez ? 
 What ! upon some love-errand .' 
 
 Lop. Sir, your servant ; I ask your pardon, but 
 I was going — 
 
 Don Car. I guess where ; but you need not be 
 shy of me any more, thy master and I are no 
 longer rivals ; I have yielded up thf cause ; the 
 lady will have it so, so I submit. 
 
 Lop. Is it possible, sir ? Shall I then live to 
 see my master and you friends again ? 
 
 San. Yes ; and what's better, thou and I shall 
 be friends too. There will be no more fear of 
 Christian bloodshed, I give thee up, Jacinta ; she's 
 a slippery housewife, so master and I are going to 
 match ourselves elsewhere. 
 
 Lop. But is it possible, sir, your honour should 
 be in earnest ? I'm afraid you are pleased to be 
 merry with your poor humble servant. 
 
 Don Car. I'm not at present much disposed to 
 mirth, my indifference in this matter is not so 
 thoroughly formed ; but my reason has so far 
 mastered my passion, to show me 'tis in vain to 
 pursue a woman whose heart already is another's. 
 'Tis what I have so plainly seen of late, I have 
 roused my resolution to my aid, and broke my 
 chains for ever. 
 
 Lop, Well, sir, to be plain with you, this is the 
 joyfullest news I have heard this long time ; for I 
 always knew you to be a mighty honest gentleman, 
 and good faith it often went to the heart o' me to 
 see you so abused. Dear, dear, have I often said 
 to myself (when they have had a private meeting 
 just after you have been gone) — 
 Don Car. Ha! 
 San. Hold, master, don't kill him yet. 
 
 [Aside to Don Carlos- 
 Lop. I say I have said to myself, what wicked 
 things are women, and what pity it is they should 
 be suffered in a Christian country ! what a shame 
 they should be allowed to play will-in-the-wisp with 
 men of honour, and lead them through thorns and 
 briars, and rocks, and rugged ways, till their 
 hearts are torn in pieces, like an old coat in a fox- 
 chase ! I say, I have said to myself — 
 
 Don Car. Thou hast said enough to thyself, but 
 say a little more to me. Where were these secret 
 meetings thou talkest of ? 
 
 Lop. In sundry places, and by divers ways ; 
 sometimes in the cellar, sometimes in the garret, 
 sometimes in the court, sometimes in the gutter ; 
 but the place where the kiss of kisses was given 
 was — 
 
 Don Car. In hell ! 
 Lop. Sir ! 
 
 Don Car. Speak, fury, what dost thou mean by 
 the kiss of kisses ? 
 
 Lop. The kiss of peace, sir ; the kiss of union ; 
 the kiss of consummation- 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 443 
 
 Don Car. Thou liest, villain ! 
 
 Lop. I don't know but I may, svc.—\_Aside.'[ 
 What the devil's the matter now ! 
 
 Don Car. There's not one word of truth in all 
 thy cursed tongue has uttered. 
 
 Lop. No, sir, I — I — believe there is not. 
 
 Don Car. Why then didst thou say it, wretcli .' 
 
 Lop. Oh — only in jest, sir. 
 
 Don Cur. I am not in a jesting condition. 
 
 Lop. Nor 1 — at present, sir. 
 
 Don Car. Speak then the truth, as thou wouldst 
 do it at the hour of death. 
 
 Lop. Yes, at the gallows, and be turned off as 
 soon as I've done. „ \Aside. 
 
 Don Car. What's that you murmur ? 
 
 Lop. Nothing but a short prayer. 
 
 Don Car. [Aside."] I am distracted, and fright 
 the wretch from telling me what I am upon the 
 rack to know. — \^Alo'ud.'] Forgive me, Lopez, I 
 am to blame to speak thus harshly to thee. Let 
 this obtain thy pardon. — \^Gives him money-l Thou 
 seest I am disturbed. 
 
 Lop. Yes, sir, I see I have been led into a snare ; 
 I have said too much. 
 
 Don Car. And yet thon must say more ; nothing 
 can lessen my torment but a farther knowledge of 
 what causes my misery. Speak then ! have I any- 
 thing to hope ? 
 
 Lop. Nothing ; but that you may be a happier 
 bachelor than my master may probably be a mar- 
 ried man. 
 
 Don Car. Married, sayest thou ? 
 
 Lop. I did, sir, and I believe he'll say so too in 
 a twelvemonth. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — An open court near the House of 
 Don Alvarez. 
 
 Enter Cauillo and Isabella. 
 
 Isai. How can you doubt my secrecy ? have 
 you not proofs of it i 
 
 Cam. Nay, I am determined to trust you ; but 
 ' are we safe here ? can nobody overhear us ? 
 
 Isab. Safer much than in a room. Nobody can 
 come within hearing before we see 'em. 
 
 Cam. And yet how hard 'tis for mo to break 
 silence ! 
 
 fsab. Your secret sure must be of great import- 
 ance. 
 
 Cam. You may be sure it is, when I confess 
 'tis with regret I own it e'en to you ; and, were it 
 possible, you should not know it. 
 
 Isab. 'Tis frankly owned indeed ; but 'tis not 
 kind, perhaps not prudent, after what you know I 
 already am acquainted with. Have I not been 
 bred up with you ? and am I ignorant of a secret 
 which, were it known — 
 
 Cam. Would be my ruin ; I confess it would. 
 I own you know why both my birth and sex are thus 
 disguised ; you know how I was tali en from my 
 cradle to secure the estate which had else been lost 
 by young Camillo's death ; but which is now safe in 
 my supposed father's hands, by my passing for his 
 son: and 'tis because you know all this, I have 
 resolved to open farther wonders to you. But, 
 
 Don Car. O torment ! — But give me more on't : 
 when, how, to who, where .'' 
 
 Lop. Yesterday, to Leonora, by the parson in 
 the pantry. 
 
 Don Car. Look to't, if this be false, thy life 
 shall pay the torment thou hast given me. Begone ! 
 
 Lop. With the body and the soul o'me. [/ijrt*. 
 
 San. Base news, master. 
 
 Don Car. Now my insulting rival's smile sp?aks 
 out : O cursed, cursed woman ! 
 Re-enter Jacinta. 
 
 Jac. I'm come in haste to tell you, sir, that as r 
 soon as the moon's up, my lady'U give you a meet- 
 ing in the close-walk by the back-door of the 
 garden ; she thinks she has something to propose 
 to you will certainly get her father's consent to 
 mai'ry you. 
 
 Don Car. Past sufferance ! 
 This aggravation is not to be borne. 
 Go, thank her — with my curses. Fly ! — 
 And let 'em blast her, while their venom's strong, 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Jac. Won't thou explain ? What's this storm for ? 
 
 San. And darest thou ask me questions, smooth- 
 faced iniquity, crocodile of Nile, siren of tlie rocks ! 
 Go, carry back the too gentle answer thou hast 
 received ; only let me add with the poet ; — 
 We are no fools, trollop, my master, nor me ; 
 And thy mistress may go — to the devil with thee. 
 
 iExit. 
 
 Jac. Am I awake! — I fancy not; a very idle 
 dream this. Well : I'll go talk in my sleep to my 
 lady about it ; and when 1 awake, we'll try what 
 interpretation we can make on't. ^Exit 
 
 before I say any more, you must resolve one doubtj 
 which often gives me great disturbance ; whether 
 Don Alvarez ever was himself privy to the mys- 
 tery which has disguised my sex, and made me 
 pass for his son ? 
 
 Isab. What you ask me is a thing has often 
 perplexed my thoughts as well as yours, nor could 
 my mother ever resolve the doubt. You know 
 when that young child Camillo died, in whom was 
 wrapped up so much expectation, from the great 
 estate his uncle's will (even befbre he came into 
 the world) had left him ; his mother made a secret 
 of his death to her husband Alvarez, and readily 
 fell in with a proposal made her to take you (who 
 then were just Camillo's age) and bring you up in 
 his room. You have heard how you were then at 
 nurse with my mother, and how your own was 
 privy and consenting to the plot ; but Don Alvarez 
 was never let into it by 'em. 
 
 Cam. Don't you then think it probable his wife 
 might after tell him ? 
 
 Isab. 'Twas ever thought nothing but a death- 
 bed repentance could draw it from her to any one; 
 and that was prevented by the suddenness of her 
 exit to t'other world, which did not give her even 
 time to call Heaven's mercy on her. And yet, 
 now I have said all this, I own the correspondence 
 and friendship I observe he holds with your real 
 mother gives me some suspicion, and the presents 
 he often makes her (which people seldom do for 
 
■Hi 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 nothing) confirm it. But, since this is all I can 
 say to you on that point, pray let us come to the 
 secret, whioh yqu have ma4e me impatient to hear. 
 
 Cam. Know, then, that though Cupid is blind, 
 he is not to be deceived : I can hide my ^ex from 
 the world, but not from him ; his dart has found 
 the way through the manly garb I wear, tp pierce 
 a virgin's tender heart. — I love — 
 
 Isali. Ho?r! 
 
 Cam. Nay, ben't surprised at that, I have other 
 wonders for you. 
 
 Isab. Quick, let me hear 'em. 
 
 Cam. I love Lotehzo. 
 
 Isati. Lorenzo ! Most nicely hit ! The very 
 man from whom your imposture keeps this vast 
 estate ; and who, on the first knowledge of your 
 being a w6nian, would enter into possession of it. 
 This is indeed a wonder. 
 
 Cam. Then, wonder farther Still, I am his wife. 
 
 Imb. Ha ! his wife ! 
 
 Isab. His wife, Isabella ; and yet thou hast not 
 all my wonders, I ttm his wife without his know- 
 ledge : he does not even know I am a woman, . 
 
 Isab. Madam, your humble servant ; it* yon 
 please to go on, 1 won't interrupt you, iiideed 1 
 won't. ' ' 
 
 Cam. Then hear how these strange things have 
 passed : Lorenzo, bound unregarded in my sister's 
 chains, seefined in my eyes a conquest worth her 
 care. Nor 'could' I see him treated with contempt 
 without growing warm in his 'interest : I blamed 
 Leonora for not being touched with his merit; I 
 blamed her so long, till I gre^ touched with it 
 myself ; and th6'' reasons I urged to vanquish her 
 heart insensibly made a conquest of my own. 
 'Twas thus, my friend, I fell. What was next to 
 be done my passion pointed out ; my heart I felt 
 was warmed to a noble enterprise, I gave it way, 
 and boldly on it led me. Leonora's name and 
 voice, in the dark shades of night, I borrowed, to 
 engage the object of my wishes. I met him, Isa- 
 bella, and so deceived him ; he caiinot blame me 
 sure, for much 1 blessed hirri. ' But to finish this 
 strange story : in short, I owned I long had loved j 
 out, finding my father most averse to my desires, 
 I at last had forced myself to, this secret corre- 
 spondence ; 
 I urged the mischiefs would attend the knowledge 
 
 On't, 
 I urged 'em so, he thought 'em full of weight, 
 So yielded fo observe what rules I gave him. 
 They were, to pass the day with cold indifTere'rtqe, 
 To avoid even sign or looks of intimacy. 
 But gather for the still, the secret night, 
 A flood of love 
 
 To recompense the losses of the day. 
 I will not trouble you with Ibvers' cares. 
 Nor what contrivances we form'd to bring 
 This toying to a solid bliss. 
 
 Know only, when three nights we thus had pass'd', 
 The fourth 
 
 It was agreed should make us one for ever ; 
 Each kept their promise, and last night has join'd 
 us. 
 
 Isab. Indeed your talents pass my poor extent ; 
 You serious ladies are well form'd for business. 
 What wretched work a poor coquette had made 
 
 on't! 
 But still there's that remains will try your skill ; 
 You have your man, but — 
 
 Cam. Lovers think no farther. ' 
 
 The object Of that passion possesses all desire, 
 However, I have opened to you my wondrous situa 
 tion, if you ean a,dvise me in my difficulties to 
 come, you will. But see— my husband ! 
 
 JEfnter Don iLoRE^zb. 
 
 i>on Lor. You look as if yon were busy } pray 
 tell me jf I interrupt you ; I'll retire. 
 
 Cam. No, no, you have a right to irvterrupt us, 
 ^ince you were the sulyect of our discourse. 
 
 Don Lor. Was I ? 
 
 Cam. You were ; nay, I'll tell you how you 
 entertained us too. 
 
 Don Lor. Perhaps I had a^ good avoid hearing 
 that. 
 
 Cam. You need not fear, it was not to your dis- 
 advantage ; I was commending you, and saying, if 
 I had been a woman, t had been in danger ; nay I 
 think I said I should infallibly have been in love 
 with you. 
 
 Jbori Lor. While such an if is iii the way, you 
 ruri no great risk iri declaring ; but you'd be finely 
 catched now, should some wonderfi^l transforma- 
 tion give me a claim to your heart. 
 
 Cam, Not sorry for'^t at all, for I ne'^er expect 
 to find a mistress please me half' so well as you 
 would do, if 1 were youts. 
 
 Don Lor. Since you are so well inclined to me 
 in your wishes, sir, 1 suppose (as the fates have 
 ordained it)" you would have some pleasure in help- 
 ing me to a mistress, since you can't be mine your- 
 self. 
 
 Cam. Indeed I should not. 
 
 Don Lor. Then my obligation is but sniall to 
 you. 
 
 Cam. Why, would you have a woman, that is in 
 love with you herself, employ her interest to help 
 you to another ? 
 
 Don Lor. No, but you being no woman might. 
 
 Cam. -Sir, 'tis as awpmanl say what I do, and 
 I suppose myself a woman when I design all these 
 favours to you. Therefore, out of that supposition, 
 1 have no other good intentions to you than you 
 may expect from any one that says, he's — sir, your 
 humble servant. 
 
 Don Lor. So, unless Heaven is pleased to work 
 a rhiraole, and from a sturdy young fellow make 
 you a kind-hearted young lady, I'm to get little by 
 your good opinion of me. 
 
 Cam. Yes, there is one means yet left (on this 
 side a miracle) that would perhaps engage me, if 
 with an honest oath you could declare, were I 
 woman, I might dispute your heart, even with the 
 first of my pretending sex. 
 
 Son Lor. Then solemnly and honestly I swear, 
 that had you been a woman, and I the master of 
 the world, I think I should have laid it at your feet. 
 
 Cam. Then honestly and solemnly I swear,: 
 henceforwards all your interest shall be mine. 
 
 Don Lor. I have a secret to impart to you will 
 quickly try your friendship. 
 
 Cam, I have a secret to unfold to you will put 
 you even to a fiery trial. 
 
 jbon Lor. What do you mean, Camillo ? 
 
 Cam. I mean that I love where I never durst 
 yet own it, yet where 'tis in your power to make 
 me the happiest of — 
 
 Don Lor. Explain, Camillo ; and be assured, 
 if your happiness is in ray power, 'tis in your own. 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 445 
 
 Cam. Alas ! you promise me you know not what. 
 
 Don Lor. I promise nothing but what I will 
 perform j name the person. 
 
 Cam. 'Tis o?ie who's very near to you. 
 
 Don Lor. If 'tis my sister, why all this pain irj 
 bringing forth the secret.' 
 
 Cam. Alas ! it is your — 
 
 Don Lor. Speak ! 
 
 Cam. I cannot yet ; farewell ! 
 
 Don Lor. Hold 1 pray speak it now. 
 
 Cam. I must not : but when you tell me your 
 secret, you shall know mine. 
 
 Don Lor. Mine is not in my power, without the 
 consent of another. 
 
 Cam. Get that consent, and then we'll try who 
 best will keep their oaths. 
 
 Don Lor. I am content. 
 
 Cam. And I. Adieu! 
 
 Don Lor. Farewell. [_ExU. 
 
 Enter Lronora and Jacinta, 
 
 Leo. 'Tis enough : I will revenge myself this 
 way, if it does but torment him. I shall be con- 
 tent to find no other pleasure in it — Brother, you'll 
 wonder at my change ; after all my ill usage of 
 Lorenzo, I am determined to be his wife. 
 
 Cam. How, sister! so sudden a turn? This 
 inequality of temper indeed is not commendable. 
 
 Leo. Your change, brother, is much more justly 
 surprising ; you hitherto have pleaded for him 
 strongly ; accused me of blindness, cruelty, and 
 pride ; and now I yield to your reasons, and resolve 
 in his favour, you blame my compliance, and appear 
 against his interest. 
 
 Cam,, I quit his service for what's dearer to me, 
 yours. I have learned from sure intelligence, the 
 attack he made on you was but a feiut, and that 
 his heart is in another's chain ; I would not there- 
 fore see you so exposed, to offer up yourself to one 
 who must refuse you. 
 
 Leo. If that be all, leave me my honour to take 
 care of; I am no stranger to his wishes ; he won't 
 refuse me, brother, nor I hope will you, to tell him 
 of my resolution : if you do, this moment with my 
 own tongue (through all a virgin's blushes) I'll own 
 to him I am determined in his favour. — You pause 
 as if you'd let the task lie on me. 
 
 Cam. Neither on you, nor me ; I have a reason 
 you are yet a stranger to. 
 Know then there is a virgin young and tender. 
 Whose peace and happiness so much are mine, 
 I cannot see her miserable ; 
 Slie loves him with that torrent of desire, 
 That were the world resign'd her in his stead. 
 She'd still be wretched. 
 I will not pique you to a female strife. 
 By saying you have not charms to tear him from 
 
 her; 
 But I would move you to a female softness. 
 By telling you her death would wait your conquest. 
 What I have more to plead is as a brother, 
 T hope that gives me some small interest in you ; 
 Whate'er it is, you see how I'd employ it. 
 
 Leo. You ne'er could put it to a harder service. 
 I beg a little time to think : pray leave me to myself 
 a while. 
 
 Cam. I shall ; I only ask that you would think. 
 And then you won't refuse me. 
 
 [Exeunt Camillo o.nd Isabella. 
 Jac. Indeed, madam, I'm of your brother's mind. 
 
 though for another cause ; bu'; sure 'tis worth 
 thinking twice on for your own sake. You are too 
 violent. 
 
 Leo. A slighted woman knows no bounds. Ven- 
 geance is all the cordial she can have, so snatches 
 at the nearest. Ungrateful wretch I to use me 
 with such insolence. 
 
 Jao. You see me as much enraged at it as you 
 are yourself, yet my brain is roving after the cause, 
 for something there must be ; never letter was 
 received by man with more passion and transport ; 
 I was almost as charming a goddess as yourself, 
 only for bringing it. Yet when in a moment after 
 I come with a message worth a dozen on't, never 
 was witch so handled ; something must have passed 
 between one and t'other, that's sure. 
 
 Leo. Nothing could pass worth my inquiring 
 after, since nothing could happen that can excuse 
 his usage of me ; he had a letter under my hand 
 which owned him master of my heart ; and till t 
 contradicted it with my mouth he ought not to 
 doubt the truth on't. 
 
 Jao. Nay, I confess, madam, I han't a word to 
 say for him, I'm afraid he's but a rogue at bottom, 
 as well as my Shameless that attends him ; we are 
 bit, by my troth, and haply well enough served, 
 for listening to the glib tongues of the rascals. 
 But be comforted, madam ; they'll fall into the 
 hands of some foul sluts or other, before they die, 
 that will set our account even with 'em. 
 
 Leo. Well, let him laugh ; let him glory in 
 what he has done : he shall see I have a spirit can 
 use him as I ought. 
 
 Jac. And let one thing be your comfort by the 
 way, madam, that in spite of all your dear affec- 
 tions to him, you have had the grace to keep him 
 at arm's end. Yo.u han't thanked me for't ; but 
 good faith 'twas well 1 did not stir out of the 
 chamber that fond night. For there are times the 
 stoutest of us are in danger, the rascals wheedle so. 
 
 Leo. In short my very soul is fired with his 
 treatment : and if ever that perfidious monster 
 should relent, though he should crawl like a poor 
 worm beneath my feet, nay, plunge a dagger in his 
 heart, to bleed for pardon ; I charge thee strictly, 
 charge thee on thy life, thou do not urge a look to 
 melt me toward him, but strongly buoy me up 
 in brave resentment ; and if thou seest (which 
 Heavens avert !) a glance of weakness in me, rouse 
 to my memory the vile wrongs I've borne, and 
 blazon them with skill in all their glaring colours. 
 
 Jac. Madam, never doubt me ; I'm charged to 
 the mouth with fury, and if ever I meet that fat 
 traitor of mine, such a volley will I pour about his 
 ears ! — Now Heaven prevent all hasty vows ; but 
 in the humour I am, methinks I'd carry my maiden- 
 head to my cold grave with me, before I'd let it 
 simper at the rascal. But soft ! here comes your 
 father. 
 
 Enter Don Alvarez. 
 
 Don Alv. Leonora, I'd have you retire a little, 
 and send your brother's tutor to me, Metaphrasfus. 
 — [Exeunt Leonora and Jacinta.] I'll try if I 
 can discover, by his tutor, what 'tis that seems so 
 much to work his brain of late; for something 
 more than common there plainly does appear, yet 
 nothing sure that can disturb his soul, like what 
 I have to torture mine on his account. Sure 
 nothing in this world is worth a troubled mind ! 
 What ranks has avarice stretched me on I I wanted 
 
446 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 nothing : kind Heaven liad given me a plenteous lot, 
 and seated me in great abundance. Why then 
 approve I of this imposture ? What have I gained 
 by it ? Wealth and misery. I have bartered 
 peaceful days for restless nights ; a vfretohed bar- 
 gain ! and he that merchandises thus must be 
 undone at last. 
 
 Enter Metaphrastus. 
 Metaph. Mandatum tuum euro diligenter. 
 
 Don Alv. Master, I had a mind to ask you — 
 
 Metaph. The title, master, comes f/ora mayis 
 and ter, which is as much as to say, Ihrice worthy. 
 
 Don Alv. I never heard so much before, but it 
 may be true for aught I know. But, master — 
 
 Metaph, Go on. 
 
 Don Alv. Why so I vpill if you'll let me, but 
 don't interrupt me then. 
 
 Metaph. Enough, proceed. 
 
 Don Alv. Why then, master, for the third time, 
 my son Camillo gives me much uneasiness of late ; 
 you kn ow I lovehim , and have many careful thoughts 
 about him.' 
 
 Metaph. 'Tis true. Filio non potest prmferri, 
 nisi filius, 
 
 Don Alv. Master, when one has business to talk 
 on, these scholastic expressions are not of use ; I 
 believe you a great Latinist ; possibly you may 
 understand Greek ; those who recommended you 
 to me, said so, and I am willing it should be true : 
 but the thing I want to discourse you about at 
 present, does not properly give you an occasion to 
 display your learning. Besides, to tell you truth, 
 'twill at all times be lost upon me ; my father was 
 a wise man, but he taught me nothing beyond com- 
 mon sense ; I know but one tongue in the world, 
 which luckily being understood by you as well as 
 me, I fancy whatever thoughts we have to com- 
 municate to one another, may reasonably be con- 
 veyed in that, without having recourse to the 
 language of Julius Csesar. 
 
 Metaph. You are wrong, but may proceed. 
 
 Don Alv. I thank you. What is the matter I 
 do not know ; but though it is of the utmost con- 
 sequence to me to marry my son, what match 
 soever I propose to him, he still finds some pretence 
 or other to decline it. 
 
 Metaph. He is, perhaps, of the humour of a 
 brother of Marcus Tullius, who — 
 
 Don Alv. Dear master, leave the Greeks and 
 the Latins, and the Scotch and the Welsh, and let 
 me go on in my business ; what have those people 
 to do with my son's marriage ? 
 
 Metaph. Again you are wrong ; but go on. 
 
 Don Alv. I say then, that I have strong appre- 
 hensions, from his refusing all my proposals, that 
 he may have some secret inclination of his own ; 
 and to confirm me in this fear, I yesterday observed 
 him (without his knowing it.) in a corner of the 
 grove where nobody comes — 
 
 Metaph. A place out of the way, you would say ; 
 a place of retreat. 
 
 Don Alv. Why, the corner of the grove, where 
 nobody comes, is a place of retreat, is it not ? 
 
 Metaph. In Latin, secessus. 
 
 Don Alv. Ha ! 
 
 Metaph. As Virgil has it. Est in secessu locus. 
 
 Don Alv. How could Virgil have it, when I tell 
 you no soul was there but he and I ? 
 
 Metaph. Virgil is a famous author ; I quote his 
 saying as a phrase more proper ';o the occasion than 
 
 that you use, and not as one who was in the wood 
 with you. 
 
 Don Alv. And I tell you, I hope to be as famous 
 as any Virgil of 'em all, when I have been dead as 
 long, and have no need' of a better phrase than my 
 own to tell you my meaning. 
 
 Metaph. You ought however to make choice of 
 the words most used by the best authors. Ta 
 vivendo bonos, as they say, scribendo sequare 
 peritos. 
 
 Don Alv. Again ! 
 
 Metaph. 'Tis Quintilian's own precept. 
 Don Alv. Oons ! 
 
 Metaph. And he has something very learned 
 upon it, that may be of service to you to hear. 
 
 Don Alv. You son of a whore, will you hear me 
 speak ? 
 
 Metaph. What may be the occasion of this un- 
 manly passion ^ What is it you would have with me? 
 Don Alv. What you might have known an hour 
 ago, if you had pleased. 
 
 Metaph. You would then have me hold my peace 
 —I shall. . 
 
 Don Alv. You will do very well. 
 Metaph. You see I do ; well, go on. 
 Don Alv. Why then, to begin once again. I say 
 my son Camillo — 
 
 Metaph. Proceed ; I shan't interrupt you, 
 Don Alv. I say, my son Camillo — 
 Metaph. What is ityou sayof your son Camillo .' 
 Don Alv. That he has got a dog of a tutor, 
 whose brains I'll beat out if he won't hear me 
 speak. 
 
 Metaph. That dog is a philosopher, contemns 
 passion, and yet will hear you. 
 
 Don Alv. I don't believe a word on't, but I'll 
 try once again. I have a mind to know from you, 
 whether you have observed anything in my son — 
 Metaph. Nothing that is like his father. Go on. 
 Don Alv. Have a care ! 
 
 Metaph. I do not interrupt you ; but you are 
 long in coming to a conclusion. 
 
 Don Alv. Why, thou hast not let me begin yet ! 
 Metaph. And yet it is high time to have made an 
 end. 
 
 Don Alv. Dost thou know thy danger .' I have 
 not — thus much patience left. 
 
 {_Showing the md of his finger. 
 Metaph. Mine is already consumed. I do not 
 use to be thus treated ; my profession is to teach, 
 and not to hear, yet I have hearkened like a school- 
 boy, and am not heard, although a master. 
 Don Alv. Get out of the room ! 
 Metaph. I will not. If the mouth of a wise 
 man be shut, he is, as it were, a fool ; for who shall 
 know his understanding? Therefore a certain 
 philosopher said well. Speak, that thou mayest be 
 known ; great talkers, without knowledge, are as 
 the winds that whistle ; but they who have learning 
 should speak aloud. If this be not permitted, we 
 may expect to see the whole order of nature o'er- 
 thrown ; hens devour foxes, and lambs destroy 
 wolves, nurses suck children, and children give 
 suck ; generals mend stockings, and chambermaids 
 take towns ; we may expect, I say — 
 
 Don Alv. That, and that, and that, and— 
 
 \Strikes Mm and kicks him. 
 Metaph. O tempora ! O mores ! 
 {_Exlt, Don Xt.yATii^z following him with a bell at his car 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 w 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Street before the House o/Don 
 Alvarez. 
 
 Enter Lopez. 
 Lop. Sometimes Fortune seconds a bold design, 
 and when folly has brought us into a trap, impu- 
 dence brings us out on't. I have been caught by 
 this hot-headed lover here, and have told like a 
 puppy what I shall be beaten for like a dog. Come ! 
 courage, my dear Lopez ; fire will fetch out fire. 
 Thou hast told one body thy master's secret, e'en 
 tell it to half-a-dozen more, and try how that will 
 thrive; go tell it to the two old Dotts, the lovers' 
 fathers. The thing's done, and can't be retrieved ; 
 perhaps they'll lay their two ancient heads together, 
 club a pennyworth of wisdom a-piece, and with 
 great penetration at last find out that 'tis best to 
 submit where 'tis not in their power to do^ other- 
 wise. This being resolved, there's no time to be 
 lost. ^Knocks at Don Alvarez's door. 
 
 Don Ah. [Within.'] Who knocks? 
 Lop. Lopez. 
 
 Don Ah. [Looking out."] What dost want? 
 Lop. To bid you good-morrow, sir. 
 Don Alv. Well, good-morrow to thee again. 
 
 \_Tl£tlres. 
 Lop. What a — I think he does not care for my 
 company. [Knoclis again. 
 
 Don Alv. \_Within.'] Who knocks ? 
 Lop. Lopez. 
 
 Don Alv. [Loolcing out.] What wouldst have ? 
 Lop. My old master, sir, gives his service to you, 
 and desires to know how you do. 
 
 Don Alv. How I do ! why, well ; how should I 
 do ? Service to him again. ^.Retires. 
 
 Lop. Sir ! 
 
 Don Alv. IReturniug.] What the dense wouldst 
 thou have with me, with thy good- morrows and thy 
 services ? 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] This man does not understand 
 good breeding, I find.' — [Aloud.] Why, sir, my 
 master has some very earnest business with you. 
 
 Don Alv. Business ! about what ? What busi- 
 ness can he have witli me ? 
 
 Lop. I don't know, truly ; but 'tis some very 
 important matter. He has just now (as I hear) 
 discovered some great secret, which he must needs 
 talk with you about. 
 
 Don Alv. Ha ! a secret, sayest thou ? 
 Lop. Yes ; and bid me bring him word if you 
 were at home, he'd be with you presently. Sir, 
 your humble servant. iExit. 
 
 Enter Don Alvarez, from the house. 
 Don Alv. A secret ; and must speak with me 
 about it ! Heavens, how I tremble ! What can 
 this, message mean ? I have very little acquaint- 
 ance with him, what business can he have with me ? 
 An important secret 'twas, he said, and that he had 
 just discovered it. Alas ! I have in the world but 
 one, if it be that — I'm lost ; an eternal blot must 
 fix upon me. How unfortunate am I, that I have 
 not followed the honest counsels of my heart, which 
 have often urged me to set my conscience at ease, 
 by rendering to him the estate that is his due, and 
 
 which by a foul imposture I keep from him ! But 
 'tis now too late ; my villany is out, and I shall 
 not ouly be forced with shame to restore him what 
 is his, but shall be perhaps condemned to make him 
 reparation with my own. O terrible view ! 
 
 Enter Don Felix. 
 
 Don Fel. [Aside.] My son to go and marry her 
 without her father's knowledge ! This can never 
 end well. I don't know what to do, he'll conclude 
 I was privy to it, and his power and interest are so 
 great at court he may with ease contrive my ruin : 
 I tremble at his sending to speak with me. — Mercy 
 on me, there he is ! 
 
 Don Alv. [Aside.] Ah ! shield me, kind Hea- 
 ven ! there's Don Felix come. How I am struck 
 with the sight of him ! Ob, the torment of a guilty 
 mind I 
 
 Don Fel. What shall I say to soften him ? \_Ande. 
 
 Don Alv. How shall I look him in the face ? 
 
 l^Aside. 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis impossible he can forgive it. 
 
 lAside. 
 
 Don Alv. To be sure he'll expose me to the 
 whole world. ^Aside. 
 
 Don Fel. I see his countenance change. lAsirle. 
 
 Don Alv. Vi^ith what contempt he looks upon 
 me ! [^Aside. 
 
 Don Fel. I see, Don Alvarez, by the disorder 
 of your face you are but too well informed of what 
 brings me here. 
 
 Don Alv. 'Tis true. 
 
 Don Fel. The news may well surprise you, 'tis 
 what I have been far from apprehending. 
 
 Don Alv. Wrong, very wrong, indeed. 
 
 Don Fel. The action is certainly to the last 
 point to be condemned, and I think nobody should 
 pretend to excuse the guilty. 
 
 Don Alv. They are not to be excused, though 
 Heaven may have mercy. 
 
 Don Fel. That's what I hope you will consider. 
 
 Don Alv. We should act as Christians. 
 
 Don Fel. Most certainly. 
 
 Don Alv. Let mercy then prevail. 
 
 Don Fel. It is-indeed of heavenly birth. 
 
 Don Alv. Generous Don Felix ! 
 
 Don Fel. Too indulgent Alvarez 1 
 
 Don Alv. I thank you on my knee. 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis I ought to have been there first. 
 
 ITkci/ kneel. 
 
 Don Alv. Is it then possible we are friends ? 
 
 Don Fel. Embrace me to confirm it. 
 
 {They embrace. 
 
 Don Alv. Thou best of men ! 
 
 Don Fel. Unlooked-for bounty ! 
 
 Don Alv. [Itisinff.] Did you know the torment 
 this unhappy action has given me — 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis impossible it could do otherwise ; 
 nor has my trouble been less. 
 
 Don Alv. But let my misfortune be kept secret. 
 
 Don Fel. Most willingly ; my advantage is suf- 
 ficient by it, without the vanity of making it public 
 to tlie world. 
 
 Don Alv. [Aside.] Incomparable goodness ! 
 That I should thus have wronged a man so worthy 
 — [Aloud.] My honour tlien is safe ? 
 
■i4B 
 
 THE MISTAKK. 
 
 Don Fel. For ever, even for ever let it be a secret, 
 I am content. 
 
 Don Ah. [Aside."] Noblegentleman! — [Aloud,] 
 As to what advantages ought to accrue to you by 
 it, it shall be all to your entire satisfaction. 
 
 Don Fel. [Aside.]Vf onAerfalhouTity^ — [Aloud.] 
 As to that, Don Alvarez, I leave it entirely to you, 
 and shall be content with whatever you think 
 reasonable. 
 
 Don Alv. I thank you, from myeoul I must, 
 you know I m\iisi.rT-.iAside.] This must be an 
 angel, not a man. 
 
 Don Fel. The thanks lie on my side, Alvarez, 
 for this unexpected generosity ; but may all faults 
 be forgot, and Heaven ever prosper you 1 
 
 Don Ah. The same prayer I, with a double 
 fervour, offer up for you. 
 
 Don Fel. Let us then once more embrace, and 
 bp forgiveness sealed for £ver. 
 
 Don Alv. Agreed ; thoU best of men, agreed. 
 
 [Tftey embrace. 
 
 Don Fel. This thing then being thus happily 
 terminated, let me own to you, Don Alvarez, I 
 was in extreme apprehensions of your utmost 
 resentment on this occasion ; for I could not 
 doubt but you had formed more happy .views in 
 the disposal of so fair a daughter as Leonora, than 
 my poor son's inferior fortune e'er can answer : 
 but since they are joined, and that — 
 
 Don Alv. Ha ! 
 
 Don Fel. Nay, 'tis very likely to discourse of it 
 may not be very pleasing to you, though your Chris- 
 tianity and natural goodness have prevailed on you 
 60 generously to forgive it. But to do justice to 
 Leonora, and screen her from your too harsh 
 opinion in this unlucky action, 'twas that cunning 
 wicked creature that attends her, who by unusual 
 arts wrought her to this breach of duty, for her 
 own inclinations were disposed to all the modesty 
 and resignation a father could ask from a daughter ; 
 my son I can't excuse, but since your bounty does 
 so. I hope you'll quite forget the fault of the less- 
 guilty Leonora. 
 
 Don Alv. [Aside.] What a mistake have I lain 
 under here ! and from a groundless apprehension 
 of one misfortune, find myself in the certainty of 
 another. 
 
 Don Fel. He looks disturbed ; what can this 
 mean ? [AsMe. 
 
 Don Alv. [Aside.] My daughter married to his 
 son ! — Confusion ! But I find myself in such unruly 
 agitation, something wrong may happen if I con- 
 tinue with him ; I'll therefore leave him. 
 
 Don Fel. You seem thoughtful, sir ; I hope 
 there's no — 
 
 Don Ah. A sudden disorder I am seized with ; 
 you'll pardon me, I must retire. iExil. 
 
 Don Fel. 1 don't like this : — he went oddly off. 
 — I doubt he finds this bounty difficult to go 
 through with. His natural resentment is making 
 an attack upon his acquired generosity : pray 
 Heaven it ben't too strong for't. The misfortune 
 is a great one, and can't but touch him nearly. 
 It was not natural to be so calm ; I wish it don't 
 yet drive him to my ruin. But here comes this 
 young hot-brained coxcomb, who with his midnight 
 amours has been the cause of all this mischief to 
 
 Enter Don Lorknzo. 
 
 So, sir, are you come to receive my thanks for 
 your noble exploit ? You think you have done 
 bravely now, ungracious oflTspring, to bring per- 
 petual troubles on me ! Must there never pass a 
 d^y, but I must drink som.e bitter potion or other 
 of your preparation for me .' 
 
 Don Lot. I am amazed, sir ; pray what have I 
 done to deserve your anger? 
 
 Don Fel. Nothing, no manner of thing in the 
 world ; nor never do. I am an old testy fellow, 
 and am always scol^^ing, and finding fault for 
 nothing ; complaining that I have got a coxcomb 
 of a son that makes me weary of my life, fancying 
 he perverts the order of nature, turning day into 
 night, and night into jday ; getting whims in my 
 brain, that he consumes his life in idleness, unless 
 he rouses now and then to do some noble stroke 
 of mischifif ; and having an impertinent drfam at 
 this time, that he has been making the fortune of 
 the family, by an underhand marriage with the 
 daughter of a man who will crush jis all to powder 
 for it. Aht— ungracious wretch, to bring an old 
 man into all this trouble ! The pain thou gavest 
 thy mother to bring thee into the world, and the 
 plague thou hast given me ,to keep thee here, 
 make the getting thee (though 'twas in our honey- 
 moon) a bitter remembrance to us both. iExit. 
 
 Don Lor. So, all's out ! — Here's a noble storm 
 arising, and I'm at sea in a cock -boat ! But which 
 way could this business reach him ? by this traitor 
 Lopez — it must be so ; it could be no other way ; 
 for only he, and the priest that married us, know 
 of it. The villain will never confess though : I 
 must try a little address with him, and conceal my 
 anger, — Oh ! here he comes. 
 
 Re-enter Lopez. 
 
 Lopez ! 
 
 Lnp. Do you call, sir ? 
 
 Don Lor. I find all's discovered to my father; 
 the secret's out ; he knows my marriage. 
 
 Lop. He knows your marriage ! — How the pest 
 should that happen ? Sir, 'tis impossible ! — that's 
 all. 
 
 Don Lor. I tell thee 'tis true ; he knows every 
 particular of it. 
 
 Lop. He does ! — Why then, sir, all l»can say 
 is, that Satan and he are better acquainted than 
 the devil and a good Christian ought to be. 
 
 Don. Lor. Which way he has discovered it I 
 can't tell, nor am I much concerned to know 
 since, beyond all my expectations, I find him per- 
 fectly easy at it, and ready to excuse my fault with 
 better reasons than I can find to do it myself. 
 
 Lop. Say you so ? — I'm very glad to hear that ; 
 then all's safe. lAshle 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis unexpected good fortune j but il 
 could never proceed purely from his own temper; 
 there must have been pains taken with him to bring 
 liiin to this calm. I'm sure I owe much to the 
 bounty of some friend or other; I wish I knew 
 where my obligation lay, that I might acknowledge 
 it as I ought. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] Are you thereabouts, i'faith.' 
 Then sharp's the word ; egad I'll own the thing, 
 and receive his bounty for't. — [Aloud.] Why, sir 
 — not that I pretend to make a merit o' the matter, 
 for, alas ! I am but your ooor hireling, and there- 
 
SCENE i. 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 449 
 
 fore bound in duty to render you all the service 1 
 can ; — but — 'tis I have done't. 
 
 Drni Lor. What hast thou done ? 
 
 Lop. What no man else could have done — the 
 job, sir ; told him the secret, and then talked him 
 into a liking on't. 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis impossible; thou dost not tell me 
 true. 
 
 Lop. Sir, I scorn to reap anything from another 
 man's labours ; but if this poor piece of service car- 
 ries any merit with it, you now know where to 
 reward it. 
 
 Don Lor. Thou art not serious ? 
 
 Lop. I am, or may hunger be my messmate ! 
 
 Don Lor. And may famine be mine, if I don't 
 reward thee for't as thou deservest ! — Dead ! 
 
 [Making a pass at him. 
 
 Lop. Have a care there ! — [Leaping on one 
 side.'] What do you mean, sir? I bar all sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Don Lor. Traitor ! is this the fruit of the trust 
 ' placed in thee, villain 1 
 
 [Making another thrust at him. 
 
 Lop. Take heed, sir ! you'll do one a mischief 
 before y'are aware. 
 
 Don Lor. What recompense canst thou make 
 me, wretch, for this piece of treachery ? Thy 
 sordid blood can't expiate the thousandth 1 — But 
 "'11 have it, however. [Thrusts again. 
 
 Lop. Look you there again ! Pray, sir, be 
 quiet ; is the devil in you ? 'Tis bad jesting with 
 edged tools. Egad, that last push was within an 
 inch o'me ! I don't know what you make all this 
 bustle about ; but I'm sure I've done all for the 
 best, and I believe 'twill prove for the best too at 
 last, if you'll have but a little patience. But if 
 
 gentlemen will be in their airs in a moment ■ 
 
 Why, what the dense — I'm sure I have been as 
 eloquent as Cicero in your behalf ! and I don't 
 doubt, to good purpose too, if you'll give things 
 time to work. But nothing but foul language, and 
 naked swords about the house ! — Sa, sa ! run you 
 through, you dog ! Why nobody can do business 
 at this rate.. 
 
 Don Lor. And suppose your project fail, and 
 I'm ruined by't, sir ! 
 
 Lop. Why, 'twill be time enough to kill me then, 
 sir ; won't it .' What should you do it for now ? 
 Besides, Lan't ready, I'm not prepared ; I might 
 be undone by't. 
 
 Don Lor. But what will Leonora say to her 
 marriage being known, wretch } 
 
 Lop. Why maybe she'll draw^ — her sword too. 
 ' — {Showing his tongue.'] But all shall be well 
 with you both, if you will but let me alone. 
 
 Don Lor. Peace ! here's her father. 
 
 Lop. That's well : we shall see how things go 
 presently. 
 
 Re-enter Don Alvarez. 
 
 Don Ah. \_Aside.] The more I recover from the dis- 
 order this discourse has put me in, the more strange 
 the whole adventure appears to me. Leonora main- 
 tains there is not a word of truth in what I have 
 heard ; that she knows nothing of marriage : and, 
 indeed, she tells me this with such a naked air of 
 sincerity, that, for my part, I believe her. What 
 then must be their project ? Some villanous inten- 
 tion, to be sure ; though which way I yet am 
 ignorant. — But here's tlie bridegroom ; I'll accost 
 him. — [Aloud. ] I am told','sir, you take upon you 
 
 to scandalise my daughter, and tell idle tales of 
 what can never happen. 
 
 Lop. Now methiiiks, sir, if you treated your 
 son-in-law with a little more civility, things might 
 go just as well in the main. 
 
 Don Ah. What means this insolent fellow by 
 my son-in-law ! I suppose 'tis you, villain, are the 
 author of this impudent story. 
 
 Lop. You seem angry, sir ; — perhaps without 
 cause. 
 
 Don Ah. Cause, traitor ! Is a cause wanting, 
 where a daughter's defamed, and a noble family 
 scandalised .'' 
 
 Lop. There he is, let him answer you. 
 
 Don Ah. I should be glad he'd answer me : 
 why, if he had any desires to my daughter, he did 
 not make his approaches like a man of honour. 
 
 Lnp. Yes ; and so have had the doors bolted 
 against him, like a house-breaker. [Aside. 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, to j\istify my proceeding, I have 
 little to say ; but to excuse it, I have ranch, if any 
 allowance may be made to a passion which, in your 
 youth, you have yourself been swayed by. I love 
 your daughter to that excess — 
 
 Don Ah. You would undo her for a night's 
 lodging. 
 
 Don Lor. Undo her, sir ! 
 
 Don Ah. Yes, that's the word. You knew it 
 was against her interest to marry you, therefore 
 you endeavoured to win her to't in private ; you 
 knew her friends would make a better bargain for 
 her, therefore you kept your designs from their 
 knowledge, and yet you love her to that excess — 
 
 Don Lor. I'd readily lay down my life to serve 
 her. 
 
 Don Ah. Could you readily lay down fifty thou- 
 sand pistoles to serve her, your excessive love would 
 come with better credentials : an offer of life is very 
 proper for the attack of a counterscarp, but a thou- 
 sand ducats will sooner carry a lady's heart. You 
 are a young man, but will learn this when you are 
 older. 
 
 Lop. But since things have succeeded better 
 this once, sir, and that my master will prove a most 
 incomparable good husband (for that he'll do, I'll 
 answer for him), and that 'tis too late to recai 
 what's already done, sir — 
 
 Don Ah. What's done, villain ? 
 
 Lop. Sir, I mean — that since my master and 
 my lady are married, and — 
 
 Don Ah. Thou best ! they are not married. 
 
 Lop. Sir, I say — that since they are married, 
 and that they love each other so passing dearly— 
 indeed, I fancy — that — 
 
 Don Ah. Why, this impudence is beyond all 
 bearing ! Sir, do you put your rascal upon this ? 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, I am in a wood ! I don't know 
 what it is you mean. 
 
 Don Ah. And I am in a plain, sir, and think 
 I may be understood. Do you pretend you are 
 married to my daughter ? 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, 'tis my happiness on one side, as 
 it is my misfortune on another. 
 
 Don Ah. And you do think this idle project can 
 succeed? You do believe your affirming you are 
 married to her will induce both her and me to 
 consent it shall be so ? 
 
 Lop. Sir, I see you make my master almost out 
 of his wits to hear you talk so ; but I, who am but 
 a stander-by now, as I was at the wedding, have 
 
450 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 mine about me, and desire to know, whether you 
 think this project can succeed ? Do you believe 
 your affirming they are not married, will induce 
 both him and I to give up the lady ? One short 
 question to bring this matter to an issue, — why do 
 you think they are not married ? 
 
 Don Alv. Because she utterly renounces it. 
 
 Lop, And so she will her religion, if you attack 
 it with that dreadful face. D'ye hear, sir .'the 
 poor lady is in love heartily, and I wish all poor 
 ladies that are so, would dispose of themselves so 
 well as she has done ; but you scare her out of her 
 senses. Bring her here into the room, speak gently 
 to her, tell her you know the thing is done, that 
 you have it from a man of honour, — ^me : that 
 maybe you wish it had been otherwise, but are a 
 Christian, and profess mercy, and therefore have 
 resolved to pardon her. Say this, and I shall 
 appear a man of reputation, and have satisfaction 
 made me. 
 
 Don Alv. Or an impudent rogue, and have all 
 your bones broke. 
 
 Lop. Content I 
 
 Don Alv. Agreed ! — Leonora ! — Who's there ? 
 call Leonora. 
 
 Lop. All will go rarely, sir ; we shall have shot 
 the gulf in a moment. \_Aside to Lorenzo. 
 
 Enter Leonora. 
 
 Don Alv, Come hither, Leonora, 
 
 Lop. So, now we shall see. 
 
 Don Alv. I called you to answer for youself ; 
 here's a strong claim upon you ; if there be any 
 thing in the pretended title, conceal it no farther, 
 it must be known at last, it may as well be so now. 
 Nothing is so uneasy as uncertainty, I would there- 
 fore be gladly freed from it. If you have done 
 what I am told you have, 'tis a great fault indeed ; 
 but as I fear 'twill carry much of its punishment 
 along with it, I shall rather reduce my resentment 
 into mourning your misfortune, than suffer it to 
 add to your afflietion ; therefore speak the truth. 
 
 Lop. Well, this is fair play ; now I speak, sir, — 
 You see, fair lady, the goodness of a tender father, 
 nothing need therefore hinder you from owning a 
 most loving husband. We had like to have been all 
 together by the ears about this business, and pails 
 of blood were ready to run about the house : but 
 thank Heaven, the sun shines out again, and one 
 word from your sweet mouth makes fair weather 
 for ever. My master has been forced to own your 
 marriage, he begs you'll do so too. 
 
 Leo. What does this impudent rascal mean ? 
 
 Lop. Ha ! — madam ! 
 
 Leo. [To Don LoaENZo] Sir, I should be very 
 glad to know what can have been the occasion of 
 this wild report ; sure you cannot be yourself a 
 party in it I 
 
 Lop. He, he — 
 
 Don Lor. Forgive me, dear Leonora, I know you 
 had strong reasons for the secret being longer kept ; 
 but 'tis not my fault, our marriage is disclosed. 
 
 Leo. Our marriage, sir ! — 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis known, my dear, though much 
 against my will ; but since it is so, 'twould be in 
 vain for us to deny it longer. 
 
 Leo. Then, sir, I am your wife ? I fell in love 
 with you, and married you without my father's 
 knowledge ? 
 
 Don Lor. I dare not be so vain to think 'twas 
 
 love ; I humbly am content to owe the blessing to 
 your generosity j 
 
 You saw the pains I suffer'd for your sake, 
 And in compassion eased 'em. 
 
 Leo. I did, sir I 
 
 Sure this exceeds all human impudence I 
 
 Lop. Truly, I think it does. She'd make an in- 
 comparable actress. lAside. 
 
 Don Lor. I begin to be surprised, madam, at 
 your carrying this thing so far ; you see there's no 
 occasion for it ; and for the discovery, I have already 
 told yon 'twas not my fault. 
 
 Lop. My master's 1 no, 'twas I did it. Why, 
 what a bustle's here 1 I knew things would go 
 well, and so they do, if folks would let 'em. But 
 if ladies will be in their merriments, when gentle- 
 men are upon serious business, why what a dense 
 can one say to 'em ! 
 
 Leo. 1 see this fellow is to be an evidence in 
 your plot. Where you hope to drive, it is hard to 
 guess ; for if anything can exceed its impudence, 
 it is its folly. A noble stratagem indeed to win a 
 lady by ! I could be diverted with it, but that I 
 see a face of villany requires a rougher treatment : 
 I could almost, methinks, forget my sex, and be 
 my own avenger. 
 
 Don Lor. Madam, I am surprised beyond all — 
 
 Lop. Pray, sir, let me come to her ; you are so 
 surprised you'll make nothing on't : she wants a 
 little snubbing. —Look you, madam, I have seen 
 many a pleasant humour amongst ladies, but you 
 outcut 'em all. Here's contradiction with a ven- 
 geance ! You han't been married eight-and-forty 
 hours, and you are slap — at your husband's beard 
 already. Why, do you consider who he is .' — who 
 this gentleman is .' — and what he can do — by law ? 
 Why, he can lock you up — knock you down — tie 
 you neck and heels — 
 
 Don Lor. Forbear, you insolent villain, you ! 
 
 {Offering to strike him, 
 
 Leo. That — for what's past however. 
 
 {Giving him a box on the ear. 
 
 Lop, I think — she gave me a box o' th' ear ; 
 ha ! — [Exit Leonora.] Sir, will you suffer your 
 old servants to be used thus by new comers ? It's 
 a shame, a mere shame. Sir, will you take a poor 
 dog's advice for once } She denies she's married 
 to you : take her at her word ; you have seen some 
 of her humours, — let her go. 
 
 Don Alv. Well, gentlemen, thus far you see T 
 have heard all with patience ; have you content .' 
 or how much farther do you design to go with this 
 business ? 
 
 Lop. Why truly, sir, I think we are near at astand. 
 
 Don Alv. 'Tis time, you villain you ! 
 
 Lop. Why and I am a villain now, if every word 
 I've spoke be not as true as — as the Gazette : and 
 your daughter's no better than a — a — a whimsical 
 young woman, for making disputes among gentle- 
 men. And if everybody had their deserts, she'd 
 have a good — I won't speak it out to inHanie 
 reckonings ; but let her go, master. 
 
 Don Alv. Sir, I don't think it well to spend any 
 more words with your impudent and villanous ser- 
 vant here. 
 
 Lop. Thank yon, sir : but I'd let her go. 
 
 Don Alv. Nor have I more to say to you than 
 this, that you must not think so daring an affront 
 to my family can go long unresented. Farewell ! 
 
 {Exit, 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 451 
 
 Don Lor. Well, sir, what have you to say for 
 yourself now ? 
 
 Lop. Why, sir, I have only to say, that I am a 
 very unfortunate— middle-aged man ; and that I 
 believe all the stars upon heaven and earth have 
 been concerned in my destiny. Children now un- 
 born will hereafter sing my downfal in mournful 
 lines, and notes of doleful tune : 1 am at present 
 troubled in mind, despair around me, signified in 
 appearing gibbets, with a great bundle of dog-whips 
 by way of preparation. 
 I therefore will go seek some moHntain high, 
 If high enough some mountain may be found, 
 With distant valley, dreadfully profound. 
 And from the horrid cliff — look calmly all around. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Don Lor. No, sirrah : I'll see your wretched 
 end myself. Die here, villain I \,Drawing his sword. 
 
 Lop. I can't, sir, if anybody looks upon me. 
 
 Don Lor. Away, you trifling wretch ! but think 
 
 not to escape, for thou shalt have thy recompense. 
 
 t {Exit. 
 
 Lop. Why, what a mischievous jade is this, to 
 make such an uproar in a family the first day of 
 her marriage ! Why, my master won't so much as 
 get a honeymoon outofher ! Egad, I'dlethergo. 
 If she be thus in her soft and tender youth, she'll 
 be rare company at threescore. Well, he may do 
 as he pleases ; but were she my dear, I'd let her go 
 — such afoot at her tail, I'd make the truth bounce 
 out at her mouth like a pellet out of a pot-gun. 
 
 iEMt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I A Street. 
 
 Enter Camillo and Isabella. 
 
 Isah. 'Tis an unlucky accident indeed ! 
 
 Cam. Ah, Isabella, fate has now determined my 
 undoing ! This thing can ne'er end here ; Leonora 
 and Lorenzo must soon come to some explanation; 
 the dispute is too monstrous to pass over without 
 further inquiry, which must discover all, and what 
 will be the consequence I tremble at. For whether 
 Don Alvarez knows of the imposture, or whether 
 he is deceived with the rest of the world, when once 
 it breaks out, and that the consequence is the loss 
 of that great wealth he now enjoys by it, what must 
 become of me ? All paternal aflections then must 
 cease, and regarding me as an unhappy instrument 
 in the trouble which will then o'erload him, he will 
 return me to my bumble birth, and then I'm lost 
 for ever. For what, alas ! will the deceived Lo- 
 renzo say ? A wife, with neither fortune, birth, 
 nor beauty, instead of one most plenteously en- 
 dowed with all. O Heavens ! what a sea of misery 
 I have before me ! 
 
 Jsab. Indeed you reason right, but these reflec- 
 tions are ill-timed ; why did you not employ them 
 sooner ? 
 
 Cam. Because I loved. 
 
 I sab. And don't you do so now .' 
 
 Cam. I do, and therefore 'tis I make these cruel 
 just reflections. 
 
 Isab. So that love, I find, can do anything. 
 
 Cam. Indeed it can. Its powers are wondrous 
 great, its pains no tongue can tell, its bliss no 
 heart conceive, crowns cannot recompense its tor- 
 ments, heaven scarce supplies its joys. My stake 
 is of this value. Oh, counsel me how I shall 
 save it I 
 
 Isab. Alas ! that counsel's much beyond my 
 wisdom's force, I see no way to help you. 
 
 Cam. And yet 'tis sure there's one. 
 
 Isab. What.' 
 
 Cam. Death. 
 
 Isab. There possibly may be another; I have a 
 thought this moment — ^perhaps there's nothing in 
 it ; yet a small passage comes to my remembrance, 
 that I regarded little when it happened — I'll go and 
 search for one may be of service. But hold ; I see 
 
 Don Carlos. He'll but disturb us now, let us avoid 
 him. {Exeunt 
 
 Enter Don Carlos and Sancho. 
 
 Don Car. Repulsed again ! this is not to be 
 borne. What though this villain's story be a false- 
 hood, was 1 to blame to hearken to it ? This usage 
 cannot be supported : how was it she treated 
 thee? 
 
 San. Never was ambassador worse received. 
 Madam, my master asks ten thousand pardons, and 
 humbly begs one moment's interview : — Begone, 
 you rascal you ! Madam, what answer shall 1 give 
 my master ? — Tell him he's a villain. Indeed, fair 
 lady, I think this is hasty treatment — Here, my 
 footmen ! toss me this fellow out at the window ; 
 — and away she went to her devotions. 
 
 Don Car. Did you see Jacinta ? 
 
 San. Yes ; she saluted me with half-a-score 
 rogues and rascals too. I think our destinies are 
 much alike, sir : and, o' my conscience, a couple of 
 scurvy jades we are hampered with. 
 
 Don Car. Ungrateful woman ! to receive with 
 such contempt so quick a return of a heart bo 
 justly alarmed. 
 
 San. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Don Car, What, no allowance to be made to 
 the first transports of a lover's fiiry, when roused 
 by so dreadful an appearance ! As just as my sus- 
 picions were, have I long suffered 'em to arraign 
 her.' 
 
 San. No. 
 
 Don Car. Have I waited for oaths or impreca- 
 tions to clear her .' 
 
 San. No. 
 
 Don Car. Nay, even now is not the whole world 
 still in suspense about her ? whilst 1 alone conclude 
 her innocent. 
 
 San. 'Tis very true. 
 
 Don Car. She might, methinks, through this 
 profound respect. 
 Observe a flame another would have cherish'd ; 
 She might support me against groundless fears, 
 And save me from a rival's tyranny ; 
 She might release me from these cruel racks, 
 And would, no doubt, if she could love as I do. 
 
 San. Ha ! ha t ha ! q a 2 
 
■462 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 Don Car. But since she don't, what do I whining 
 here ? 
 Curse on the base humilities of love ! 
 
 San. Right. • 
 
 Hon Car. Let children kiss the rod that flays 'em, 
 Let dogs lie down, and lick the shoe that spurns 'em. 
 
 San. Ay. 
 
 Don Car. I am a man by nature meant for 
 power ; 
 The sceptre's given us to wield, and we 
 Betray our trust whenever 
 We meanly lay it at a woman's feet. 
 
 San, True, we are men, boo ! — Come, master, 
 let us both be in a passion ; here's my sceptre. — 
 [Showing a cndgel.\ Subject Jacinta, look about 
 you. Sir, was you ever in Muscovy ? the women 
 there love the men dearly ; why ? because — [shaking 
 his sticle'\ there's your love-powder for you. Ah, 
 sir, were we but wise and stout, what work should 
 we make with them ! But this humble love-making 
 spoils 'em all. A rare way indeed to bring mat- 
 ters about with 'em ! We are persuading 'em all 
 day they are angels and goddesses, in order to use 
 'em at night like human creatures ; we are like 
 to succeed truly ! 
 
 Don Car. For my part, I never yet could bear 
 a slight from anything, nor will I now. There's 
 but one way, however, to resent it from a woman ; 
 and that's to drive her bravely from your heart, 
 and place a worthier in her vacant throne. 
 
 San. Now, with submission to my betters, I 
 have another way, sir ; I'll drive my tyrant from 
 my heart, and place myself in her throne. Yes ; 
 I will be lord of my own tenement, and keep my 
 household in order. Would you would do so too, 
 master ! For, look yon, I have been servitor in a 
 college at Salamanca, and read philosophy with 
 the doctors ; where I found that a woman, in all 
 times, has been observed to be an animal hard to 
 understand, and much inclined to mischief. Now, 
 as an animal is always an animal, and a captain 
 always a captain, so a woman is always a woman : 
 whence it is that a certain Greek says, her head is 
 like a bank of sand ; or, as another, a solid rock ; 
 or, according to a third, a dark lantern. Pray, 
 sir, observe, for this is close reasoning : and so as 
 the head is the head of the body ; and that the 
 body without a head, is like a head without a tail ; 
 and that where there is neither head nor tail, 'tis 
 a very strange body : so I say a woman is by com- 
 parison, do you see, (for nothing explains things 
 like comparisons,) I say by comparison, as Aris- 
 totle has often said before me, one may compare 
 her to the raging sea. For as the sea, when the 
 wind rises, knits its brows like an angry bull, and 
 that waves mount upon rocks, and rocks mount 
 upon waves ; that porpoises leap like trouts, and 
 whales skip about like gudgeons ; that ships roll 
 like beer-bartels, and mariners pray like saints ; 
 
 just so, I say, a woman A woman, I say, just so, 
 
 when her reason is shipwrecked upon her passion, 
 and the hulk of her understanding lies thumping 
 against the rock of her fury ; then it is, I say, that 
 by certain immotions, which — um — cause, as one 
 may suppose, a sort of convulsive — yes — hurri- 
 canious — um — like — in short, a woman is like the 
 devil. 
 
 Don Car. Admirably reasoned indeed, Sancho ! 
 
 San. Pretty well, I thank Heaven. — But here 
 come the crocodiles to weep us into mercy. 
 
 Enter Leonora and Jacinta, 
 Master, let us show ourselves men, and leave their 
 briny tears to wash their dirty faces. 
 
 Don Car. It is not in the power of charms to 
 move me. 
 
 San. Nor me, I hope ; and yet I fear those eyes 
 Will look out sharp to snatch up such a prize. 
 
 [.Pointing to Jacinta. 
 
 Jac. He's coming to us, madam, to beg pardon ; 
 but sure you'll never grant it him ! 
 
 Leo. If I do, may Heaven never grant me mine. 
 
 Jao. That's brave. 
 
 Don Car. You look, madam, upon me as if you 
 thought I came to trouble you with my usual 
 importunities ; I'll ease you of that pain, by telling 
 you, my business now is calmly to assure you, but 
 I assure it you with heaven and hell for seconds ; 
 for may the joys of one ily from me, whilst the 
 pains of t'other overtake me, if all your charms 
 displayed e'er shake my resolution ; I'll never see 
 you more. 
 
 San. Bon ! 
 
 Leo. You are a man of that nice honour, sir, I 
 know you'll keep your word: I expected this 
 assurance from you, and came this way only to 
 thank you for't. 
 
 Jac. Very well ! 
 
 Don Cur. You did, imperious dame, you did ! 
 How base is woman's pride ! How wretched are 
 the ingredients it is formed of ! If you saw cause 
 for just disdain, why did you not at first repulse 
 me ? Why lead a slave in chains, that could not 
 grace your triumphs ? If I am thus to be con- 
 temned, think on the favours you have done the 
 wretch, and hide your face for ever. 
 
 San. Well argued. 
 
 Leo. I own you have hit the only fault the world 
 cjin charge me with : the favours I have done to 
 you I am indeed ashamed of; but, since women 
 have their frailties, you'll allow me mine. 
 
 Don Car. 'Tis well, extremely well, madam. 
 I'm happy, however, you at last speak frankly. I 
 thank you for it ; from my soul I thank you : but 
 don't exjiect me groviUing at your feet again ; 
 don't, for if I do — 
 
 Leo. You will be treated as you deserve ; trod 
 upon. 
 
 Don Car. Give me patience ! — But 1 don't want 
 it; I am calm. Madam, farewell ; be happy if you 
 can ; by Heavens I wish you so, but never spread 
 your net for me again ; for if you do — 
 
 Leo. You'll be running into it. 
 
 Don Car. Rather run headlong into fire and 
 Rather be torn with pincers bit from bit ; [flames ; 
 
 Rather be broil'd like martyrs upon gridirons ! 
 
 But I am wrong ; this sounds like passion, and 
 Heaven can tell I am not angry. Madam, I think 
 we have no farther business together ; your most 
 humble servant. 
 
 Leo. Farewell t'ye, sir. 
 
 Don Car. [To Sancho.] Came along. — [Goes 
 to the scene and returns.'] Yet once more before 1 
 go (lest you should doubt my resolution) may I 
 starve, perish, rot, be blasted, dead, damned, or 
 any other thing that men or gods can think on, if 
 on any occasion whatever, civil or military, pleasure 
 or business, love or hate, or any other accident of 
 life, I, from this moment, change one word or look 
 with you. [Ji-s he goes off, Bancho ciaTps him on the back. 
 
 Leo. Content ! — Come away, Jacinta, 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 450 
 
 Re-enter Don Carlos. 
 
 Don Car. Yet one word, madam, if you please. 
 I have a little thing here belongs to you, a foolish 
 bauble I once was fond of. — [Twitching her pic- 
 ture from his breast.'] Will you accept a trifle 
 from y-onr servant ? 
 
 Leo. Willingly, sir. I have a bauble too I think 
 
 «u have some claim to ; you'll wear it for my sake. 
 
 ^Breaks a bracelet from her arm, and gives it him. 
 
 Don Car. Most thankfully. This too I should 
 restore you, it once was yours. — [Giving her a 
 table-book.} By your favour, madam — there is a 
 line or two in it I think you did me once the 
 honour to write with your own fair hand. Here 
 it is. llteads. 
 
 You love Vie, Carlos, and would know 
 The secret movements of mi/ heart, 
 Whether I give you mine or no, 
 With yours, methinks, Vd never, never part. 
 Thus you have encouraged me, and thus you have 
 deceived me. 
 San, Very true. 
 
 Leo. [Pulling out a tahle-book.'] I have some 
 faithful lines too ; I think I can produce 'em. 
 
 [Reads. 
 How long soe'er, to si(/h in vain, 
 
 My destiny may prove. 
 My fate {in spite of your disdain) 
 Will let me glory in your chain. 
 And give me leave eternally to lore. 
 
 There, sir, take your poetry again [Throwing it 
 
 at his feet,'] Tis not much the worse for my wear- 
 ing ; 'twill serve again upon a fresh occasion. 
 Jac. Well done ! 
 
 Don Car. I believe 1 can return the present, 
 
 madam, with — apocketfuU of your prose. — There ! 
 
 [Throwing a handful of letters at her feet. 
 
 Leo. Jacinta, give me his letters. — There, sir, 
 
 not to be behindhand with you. 
 
 [Takes a handful of his letters out of a box, and'throws 
 
 them in his face. 
 Jac. And there ! and there ! and there, sir ! 
 
 [jAcrNTA ihrotvs the rest at him. 
 
 San, 'Cods my life, we want ammunition ! but 
 
 for a shift — there ! and there ! you saucy slut you ! 
 
 [Sancho pulls a pack of dirty cards out of his pockett 
 
 and throws them at her; then thep close ; he pulls off 
 
 her headclothes, and she his wig, and then part, she 
 
 running to her mistress, he to his master. 
 
 Jac. I think, madam, we have clearly the better 
 
 on't. 
 
 Leo. For a proof, I resolve to keep the field. 
 Jac. Have a care he don't rally and beat you 
 yet though : pray walk off. 
 Leo. Fear nothing. 
 
 San. How the armies stand and gaze at one 
 another after the battle ! What think you, sir, of 
 showing yourself a great general, by making an 
 honourable retreat ? 
 
 Don Car. 1 scorn it ! — O Leonora ! Leonora I 
 a heart like mine should not be treated thus ! 
 
 ■Leo. Carlos I Carlos ! I have not deserved this 
 usage ! 
 
 Don Car. Barbarous Leonora ! but 'tis useless 
 to reproach you ; she that is capable of what you 
 have done, is formed too cruel ever to repent of it. 
 Go on then, tyrant; make your bliss complete; 
 torment me still, for still, alas ! I love enough to 
 be tormented. 
 
 Zeo. Ah Carlos ! little do you know the tender 
 
 movements of that thing you name ; the heart 
 where love presides, admits no thought against the 
 honour of its ruler. 
 
 Don Car. 'Tis not to call that honour into doubt, 
 If, conscious of our own unworthiness, 
 We interpret every frown to our destruction. 
 
 Leo. When jealousy proceeds from such humble 
 apprehensions, it shows itself with more respect 
 than yours has done. 
 
 Don Car. And where a heart is guiltless, it 
 easily forgives a greater crime. 
 
 Leo. Forgiveness is not now in our debate; if 
 both have been in fault, 'tis fit that both should 
 suffer for it ; our separation will do justice on us. 
 Don Car. But since we are ourselves the judges 
 of our crimes, what if we should inflict a gentler 
 publishment ? 
 
 Leo. 'Twould but encourage us to sin again. 
 Don Car. And if it should — 
 Leo. 'Twould give a fresh occasion for the pleas- 
 ing exercise of mercy. 
 
 Don Car. Right ; and so 
 We act the part of earth and heaven together, 
 Of men and gods, and taste, of both their pleasures. 
 Leo. The banquet's too inviting to refuse it. 
 Don Car. Then let's fall on, and feed upon'tfor 
 ever. 
 [Carries her off, embracing her, and kissing her hand. 
 Leo. Ah woman ! foolish, foolish woman ! 
 San. Very foolish indeed. 
 Jac. But don't expect I'll follow her example. 
 San. You would, Mopsy, if I'd let you. 
 Jac. I'd sooner tear my eyes out ; ah — that she 
 had a little of my spirit in her ! 
 
 San. I believe I shall find thou hast a great deal 
 of her flesh, my charmer ; but 'twon't do ; I am 
 all rock, hard rock, very marble. 
 
 Jao. A very pumice stone, you rascal you, if one 
 would try thee ! But to prevent thy humilities, 
 and show thee all submission, would be vain ; to 
 convince thee thou hast nothing but misery and 
 despair before thee, here — take back thy paltry thim- 
 ble, and be in my debt, for the shirts I have made 
 thee with it. 
 
 San. Nay, if y'are at that sport, mistress, I be- 
 lieve I shall lose nothing by the balance of the 
 presents. There, take thy tobacco-stopper, and 
 stop thy — 1 
 
 Jac. Here — take thy. satin pincushion, with thy 
 curious half hundred of pins in't, thou madest such 
 a vapouring about yesterday. Tell 'em carefully, 
 there's not one wanting, 
 
 San. There's thy ivory-hafted knife again, whet 
 it well ; 'tis so blunt 'twill cut nothing but love. 
 
 Jac. And there's thy pretty pocket scissars thou 
 hast honoured me with, they'll cut off" a leg or an 
 arm- Heaven bless 'em ■ 
 
 San. Here's the enchanted handkerchief you 
 were pleased to endear with your precious blood, 
 when the violence of your love at dinner t'other' 
 day made you cut your fingers. — There. 
 
 [Blows his nose iti it and gives it her. 
 
 Jac. The rascal so provokes me, I won't even 
 
 keep his paltry garters from him. D' you see 
 
 these ? You pitiful beggarly scoundrel you ! — 
 
 There, take 'em, there. 
 
 [She takes her garters off, and flaps them about Ids face. 
 
 San. I have but one thing more of thine. — 
 
 [Shotving his cudgel.] I own 'tis the top of all 
 
 thy presents, and might be useful to me ; but that 
 
 I 
 
454 
 
 THE iMISTAKE. 
 
 thou mayest have nothing to upbraid me with, 
 e'en take it again with the rest of em. 
 
 {^Lifting it up to itrikeher, she leaps about his neck. 
 
 Jae, Ah cruel Sancho ! — Now beat me, Sancho, 
 do. 
 
 San, Rather, like Indian beggars, beat my pre- 
 cious self. [Throws away his stickt and embraces her. 
 Kather let infants' blood about the streets, 
 Rather let all the wine about the cellar. 
 
 Rather let — Oh Jacinta — thou hast o'ercome. 
 How foolish are the great resolves of man 1 
 Resolves, which we neither would keep, nor can. 
 When those bright eyes in kindness please to shine, 
 Their goodness I must needs return with mine : 
 Bless my Jacinta in her Sancho's arms — 
 Jae. And I my Sancho with Jacinta's charms. 
 
 lExetmt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE J.—^ Street. 
 Enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. As soon as it is night, says my master to 
 me, though it cost me my life, I'll enter Leonora's 
 lodgings ; therefore make haste, Lopez, prepare 
 everything necessary, three pair of pocket-pistols, 
 two wide-mouthed blunderbusses, some six ells of 
 sword-blade, and a couple of dark lanterns. When 
 my master said this to me ; Sir, said I to my mas- 
 ter, (that is, 1 would have said it if I had not been 
 in such a fright I could say nothing, however I'll 
 say it to him now, and shall probably have a quiet 
 hearing,) look you, sir, by dint of reason I intend 
 to confound you. You are resolved, you say, to 
 get into Leonora's lodgings though tlie devil stand 
 in the doorway ! — Yes, Lopez, that's my resolu- 
 tion. — Very well ; and what do you intend to do 
 when you are there ? — Why, what an injured man 
 should do ; make her sensible of — Make her 
 sensible of a pudding ! don't you see she's a jade ? 
 She'll raise the house about your ears, arm the 
 whole family, set the great dog at you, — Were 
 there legions of devils to repulse me, in such a 
 cause I could disperse them all. — Why then you 
 have no occasion for help, sir, you may leave me 
 at home to lay the cloth. — No ; thou art my ancient 
 friend, my fellow traveller, and to reward thy 
 faithful services this night thou shalt partake my 
 danger and my glory. — Sir, I have got glory enough 
 under you already, to content any reasonable 
 servant for his life. — Thy modesty makes me will- 
 ing to double my bounty j this night may bring 
 eternal honour to thee and thy family. — Eternal 
 honour, sir, is too much in conscience for a serving- 
 man ; besides, ambition has been many a great 
 soul's undoing. — I doubt thou art afraid, my Lopez ; 
 thou shalt be armed with back, with breast, and 
 head-piece. — They will encumber me in my re- 
 treat. — Retreat, mybero ! thou never shalt retreat. — 
 Then by my troth I'll never go, sir. — But here he 
 comes. 
 
 Enter Don Lorbnzo. 
 
 Don Lor. Will it never be night 1 sure 'tis the 
 longest day the sun e'er travelled. 
 
 Lop. Would 'twere as long as those in Green- 
 land, sir, that you might spin out your life t'other 
 half year. I don't like these nightly projects ; a 
 man can't see what he does. We shall have some 
 scurvy mistake or other happen ; a brace of bullets 
 blunder through your head in the dark perhaps, 
 and spoil all your intrigue. 
 
 Don Lor. Away, you trembling wretch, away ! 
 
 Lop. Nay, sir, what I say is purely for your 
 safety ; for as to myself — uds-death, I no more 
 value the losing a quart of blood than I do drink- 
 ing a quart of wine. Besides, my veins are too 
 full, my physician advised me but yesterday to let 
 go twenty ounces for my health. So you see, sir, 
 there's nothing of that in the case. 
 
 Don Lor, Then let me hear no other objections ; 
 for till I see Leonora I must lie upon the rack. I 
 cannot bear her resentment, and will pacify her 
 this night, or not live to see to-morrow. 
 
 Lop. Well, sir, since yon are so determined, I 
 shan't be impertinent with any farther advice ; but 
 I think you have laid your design to — [Coughs'] (I 
 have got such a cold to-day !) to get in privately, 
 have you not ? 
 
 Don Lor. Yes ; and have taken care to be in- 
 troduced as far as her chamber-door with all 
 secrecy. 
 
 Lop. {Coughing.} This unlucky cough ! I had 
 rather have had a fever at another time. Sir, I 
 should be sorry to do you more harm than good 
 upon this occasion : if this cough should come 
 upon me in the midst of the action [^covighs} and 
 give the alarm to the family, I should not forgive 
 myself as long as I lived. 
 
 Don Lor. I have greater ventures than that to 
 take my chance for, and can't dispense with your 
 attendance, sir. 
 
 Lop. This 'tis to be a good servant, and make 
 one's self necessary 1 
 
 Enter Toledo. 
 
 Tol. Sir, — I am glad I have found you. I am 
 a man of honour, you know, and do always profess 
 losing my life upon a handsome occasion. Sir, I 
 come to offer you my service. 1 am informed from 
 unquestionable hands that Don Carlos is enraged 
 against you to a dangerous degree ; and that old 
 Alvarez has given positive directions to break the 
 legs and arms of your servant Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Look you there now, I thought what 
 'twould come to ! What do they meddle with me 
 for ? what have I to do in my master's amours .> 
 The old Don's got out of his senses, I thuik; have 
 I married his daughter } 
 
 Don Lor. Fear nothing, we'll take care o' thee.— 
 Sir, I thank you for the favour of your intelligence, 
 'tis nothing however but what I expected, and am 
 provided for. 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 456 
 
 Vol. Sir, I would advise you to provide yourself 
 vfith good friends, I desire the honour to keep 
 your back hand myself. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis very kind indeed. Pray, sir, have 
 you ne'er a servant with you could hold a racket 
 for me too .' 
 
 Tol. I have two friends fit to head two armies ; 
 and yet — a word in your ear, they shan't cost you 
 above a ducat a piece. 
 
 Lop. Take 'em by all means, sir, you were never 
 offered a better pennyworth in your life. 
 
 Tol. Ah, sir ! — little Diego — you have heard of 
 him; he'd have been worth a legion upon this 
 occasion. You know, I suppose, how they have 
 served him. — They have hanged him, but he made 
 a noble execution ; they clapped the rack and the 
 priest to him at once, but coidd neither get a word 
 of confession nor a groan of repentance ; he died 
 mighty well truly. 
 
 Don Lor. Such a man is indeed much to be re- 
 gretted : as for the rest of your escort, captain, I 
 thank you for 'em, but shall not use 'em. 
 
 Tol. I'm sorry for't, sir, because I think you go 
 in very great danger ; I'm much afraid your rival 
 won't give you fair play. 
 
 Lop. If he does I'll be hanged I he's a damned 
 passionate fellow, and cares not what mischief he 
 does. 
 
 Don Lor. I shall give him a very good oppor- 
 tunity ; for I'll have no other guards about me but 
 you, sir. So come along. 
 
 Lop. Why, sir, this is the sin of presumption ; 
 setting heaven at defiance, making jack-pudding of 
 a blunderbuss. 
 
 Don Lor. No more, but follow. — Hold ! turn this 
 way ; I see Camillo there. I would avoid him, 
 till I see what part he takes in this odd affair of 
 his sister's. For I would not have the quarrel 
 fixed with him, if it be possible to avoid it. {Exit. 
 
 Lop. Sir I — Captain Toledo ! one word if you 
 please, sir. I'm mighty sorry to see my master 
 won't accept of your friendly offer. Look ye, I'm 
 not very rich ; but as far as the expense of a dollar 
 went, if you'd be so kind to take a little care of 
 me, it should be at your service. 
 
 Tol. Let me see ; — a dollar you say .' but sup- 
 pose I'm wounded ? 
 
 Lop. Why you shall be put to no extraordinary 
 charge upon that : I have been prentice to a barber, 
 and will be your surgeon myself. 
 
 Tol. 'Tis too cheap in conscience j but my land- 
 estate is so ill paid this war time — 
 
 Lop. That a little industry may be commend- 
 able ; so say no more, that matter's fixed. lExmnt. 
 Enter Camillo. 
 
 Cam. Howmiserable a perplexity have I brought 
 myself into ! Yet why do I complain ? since, 
 With all the dreadful torture I endure, 
 I can't repent of one wild step I've made. 
 O love ! what tempests canst thou raise, what 
 Canst thou assuage ! [storms 
 
 To all thy cruelties I am resign'd. Long years 
 Through seas of torment I'm content to roll. 
 So thou wilt guide me to the happy port 
 Of my Lorenzo s arms. 
 And bless me there with one calm day at last. 
 
 Enter Isabblla. 
 What news, dear Isabella ? Methinks there's 
 iiomething cheerful in your looks may give a trem- 
 
 bling lover hopes. If you have comfort for me, 
 speak, for I indeed have need of it. 
 
 Isab. Were your wants yet still greater than they 
 are, I bring a plentiful supply. 
 
 Cam. O Heavens ! is't possible ! 
 
 Isab. New mysteries are out, and if yAu can find 
 charms to wean Lorenzo from your sister, no other 
 obstacle is in your way to all you wish. 
 
 Cam. Kind messenger from Heaven, speak on. 
 
 Isab. Know then, that you are daughter to 
 Alvarez. 
 
 Cam. How ! daughter to Alvarez ! 
 
 Isab. You are : the truth this moment's come 
 to light ; and till this moment he, although your 
 father, was a stranger to it ; nay, did not even 
 know you were a woman. In short, the great 
 estate, which has occasioned these uncommon 
 accidents, was left but on condition of a son j great 
 hopes of one there was, when you destroyed 'em, 
 and to your parents came a most unwelcome guest. 
 To repair the disappointment, you were exchanged 
 for that young Camillo, who few months after died. 
 Your father then was absent, but your mother 
 quick in contrivance, bold in execution, during that 
 infant's sickness, had resolved his death should not 
 deprive her family of those advantages his life had 
 given it j so ordered things with such dexterity, 
 that once again there passed a change between you. 
 Of this (for reasons yet unknown to me) she made 
 a secret to her husband, and took such wise pre- 
 cautions, that till this hour 'twas so to all the 
 world, except the person from whom I now have 
 heard it. 
 
 Cam. This news indeed affords a view of no 
 unhappy termination ; yet there are difficulties stiU 
 may be of fatal hindrance. 
 
 Isab. None, except that one X just now named 
 to you ; for to remove the rest, know I have already 
 unfolded all both to Alvarez and Don Felix. 
 
 Cam. And how have they received it .' 
 
 Isab. To your wishes both. As for Lorenzo, he 
 is yet a stranger to all has passed, and the two old 
 fathers desire he may some moments longer con- 
 tinue so. They have agreed to be a little merry 
 with the heats he is in, and engage you in a family- 
 quarrel with him. 
 
 Cam. I doubt, Isabella, I shall act that part hut 
 faintly. 
 
 Isab. No matter, you'll make amends for it in 
 the scene of reconciliation. 
 
 Cam. Pray Heaven it be my lot to act it with 
 him. 
 
 Isab. Here comes Don Felix to wish you joy. 
 
 Enter Don Felix. 
 
 Don Fel. Come near, my daughter, and with 
 extended arms of great affection let me receive thee. 
 — [Kisses Aer.] Thou art a dainty wench, good faith 
 thou art, and 'tis a mettled action thou hast done ; 
 if Lorenzo don't like thee the better for't, cods my 
 life, he's a pitiful fellow, and I shan't believe the 
 bonny old man had the getting of him. 
 
 Cam. I'm so encouraged by your forgiveness, 
 sir, methinks I have some flattering hopes of 
 his. 
 
 Don Fel. Of his ! egad and he had best ; I 
 believe he'll meet with his match if he don't. What 
 dost think of trying his courage a little, by way of 
 a joke or so ? 
 
 Isab. I was just telling her your design, sir. 
 
4fie 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Don Fel. Why I'm in a mighty witty way upon 
 this whimsical occasion ; but I see him coming. 
 You must not appear yet ; go your way in to the 
 rest of the people there, and I'll inform him what 
 a squabble he has worked himself into here. 
 
 [_Exeunt Camillo and Isabella, 
 
 Re-enter Don Lorenzo and Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Pray, s.ir, don't be so obstinate now, don't 
 affront Heaven af this rate. I had a vision last 
 night about this business on purpose to forewarn 
 you ; I dreamt of goose-eggs, a blunt knife, and 
 the snuff of a candle ; I'm sure there's mischief 
 towards. 
 
 Don Lor, You cowardly rascal, hold your 
 tongue. 
 
 Dan Fel. Lorenzo, come hither, my boy, I was 
 just going to send for thee. The honour of our 
 ancient family lies in thy hands ; there is a combat 
 preparing, thou must fight, my son. 
 
 Lop. Look you there now, did not I tell you ? 
 Oh, dreams are wondrous things ! I never knew 
 that snufT of a candle fail yet. 
 
 Don, Lor. Sir, I do not doubt but Carlos seeks 
 my life, I hope he'll do it fairly. 
 
 Lop. Fairly, do you hear, fairly ! give me leave 
 to tell you, sir, folks are not fit to be trusted with 
 lives that don't know how to look better after 'em. 
 — Sir, you gave it him, I hope you'll make him take 
 a little more care on't. 
 
 Don Fel. My care shall be to make him do as a 
 man of honour ought to do. 
 
 Lop. What, will you let him fight then ?• let 
 your own flesh and blood fight ? 
 
 Don Fel. In a good cause, as this is. 
 
 Lop. O monstrum horrendum ! Now I have 
 that humanity about me, that if a man but talks to 
 me of fighting, I shiver at the name on't. 
 
 Don Lor. What you do on this occasion, sir, is 
 worthy of you ; and had I been wanting to you, in 
 my due regards before, this noble action would 
 have stamped that impression, which a grateful son 
 ought to have for so generous a father. 
 
 Lop. ^^Aside.l Very generous truly ! gives him 
 leave to be run through the guts, for his posterity 
 to brag on a hundred years hence. 
 
 Don Lor. I think, sir, as things now stand, it 
 won't be right for me to wait for Carlos's call ; I'll 
 if you please prevent him. 
 
 Lop. Ay, pray sir, do prevent him by all means ; 
 'tis better made up, as you say, a thousand times. 
 
 Don Fel. Hold your tongue, you impertinent 
 jack-a-napes ! I will have him fight, and fight like 
 a fury too ; if he don't he'll be worsted, I can tell 
 
 him that For know, son, your antagonist is not 
 
 the person you name, it is an enemy of twice his 
 force. 
 
 Lop. O dear ! dear ! dear ! and will nobody 
 keep 'em asunder ? 
 
 Don Lor. Nobody shall keep us asunder, if once 
 I know the man I have to deal with. 
 
 Don Fel. Thy man then is — Camillo. 
 
 Don Lor. Camillo ! 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis he ; he'll suffer npbody to decide 
 this quarrel but himself. 
 
 Lop. Then there are no seconds, sir .' 
 
 Don Fel. None. 
 
 Lop. He's a brave man. 
 
 Don Fel. No, he says nobody's blood shall be 
 
 spilled on this occasion, but theirs who have a title 
 to it. 
 
 Lop. I believe he'll scarce have a lawsuit -upon 
 the claim. 
 
 Don Fel. In short, he accuses thee of a shameful 
 falsehood, in pretending his sister Leonora was thy 
 wife ; and has upon it prevailed with his father, as 
 thou hast done with thine, to let the debate be 
 ended by the sword 'twixt him and thee. 
 
 Lop. And pray, sir, with submission, one short 
 question if you jdease ; what may the gentle 
 Leonora say of this business ? 
 
 Don Fel. She approves of the combat, and 
 marries Carlos. 
 
 Lop. Why, God a-mercy ! 
 
 Don Lor, Is it possible ? sure she's a devil, not 
 a woman. 
 
 Lop. Ecod, sir, a 4evil and a woman both,! 
 think. 
 
 Don Fel. Well, thou s'la't have satisfaction of 
 some of 'em. — Here they all come. 
 
 Enter Don Alvarez, Don Carlos, Leonora, .Tacinta, 
 and Sancho. 
 
 Don Ah. Well, Don Felix, have you prepared 
 your son ? for mine, he's ready to engage. 
 
 Don Lor. ,\nd so is his. My wrongs prepare 
 me for a thousand combats. My hand has hitherto 
 been held by the regard I've had to everything of 
 kin to Leonora ; but since the monstrous part she 
 acts has driven her from my heart, I call for repa- 
 ration from her family. 
 
 Don Alv. You'll have it, sir ; Camillo will attend 
 you instantly. 
 
 Lop. O lack ! O lack 1 will nobody do a little 
 something to prevent bloodshedi — [To Leonora.] 
 Why, madam, have you no pity, no bowels ? Stand 
 and see one of your husbands stotered before your 
 face ? 'Tis an arrant shame. 
 
 Leo. If widowhood be my fate, I must bear it 
 as I can. 
 
 Lop. Why, did you ever hear the like ? 
 
 Don Lor. Talk to her no more. Her monstrous 
 impudence is no otherwise to h& replied to than by 
 a dagger in her brother's heart. 
 
 Leo. Yonder he's coming to receive it. But 
 have a care, brave sir, he does not place it in 
 another's. 
 
 Don Lor. It is not in his power. He has a rotten 
 cause upon his sword, I'm sorry he is engaged in't; 
 but since he is he must take his fate. — \_To Don 
 Carlos.] For you, my bravo, expect me in your 
 turn. 
 
 Don Car. You'll find Camillo, sir, will set your 
 hand out. 
 
 Don Lor. A beardless boy ! You might have 
 matched me better, sir ; but prudence is a virtue. 
 
 Don Fel. Nay, son, I would not have thse 
 despise thy adversary neither ; thon'lt find Camillo 
 will put thee hardly to't. 
 
 Don Lor. I wish we were come to the trial. Why 
 does he not appear ? 
 
 Jac. Now do I hate to hear people brag thus. 
 Sir, with my lady's leave, I'll hold a ducat he 
 disarms you. IThep laugh. 
 
 Don Lor. Why, what ! — I think I'm sported 
 with. Take heed, I warn you all ; I am not to be 
 trifled with. 
 
■So^nTe I. 
 
 tHfi klSTAKfi. 
 
 4&7 
 
 Re-enter CamOiLO and Isabella. 
 
 Leo. You shan't, sir ; here's one will be in 
 «arnest with you. 
 
 Don Lor. He's welcome : though I had rather 
 have drawn my sword against another; — I'm sorry, 
 Camillo, we should meet on such bad terms as 
 these ; yet 'more sorry your sister should be the 
 <wicked cause on't : but since nothing will serve her 
 ;but the blood either of a husband or brother, she 
 shall be glutted with't. Draw ! 
 
 Lop- Ah Lard ! ah Lard ! ah Lftrd ! 
 
 Don Lor. And yet, before I take this instruifient 
 of death into my fatal hand, hear me, Camillo ; hear, 
 Alvarez ; all ! 
 
 I imprecate the utmost powers of Heaven 
 To shower upon my head the deadliest of its wrath ; 
 ■I ask that all hell's torments may unite 
 To round 'my soul with one eternal anguish, 
 If wicked Leonora ben' t my wife. 
 
 All. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 
 
 Leo. Why then, may all those curses pass him by, 
 And wrap me in their everlasting pdns, 
 Jf ever once I had a fleeting thought 
 Of making him my husband. 
 
 Lop. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 
 
 Leo. Naymor«-, -to strike him dumb^at once, 
 and show what men with honest looks can practise, 
 know he's married to another. 
 
 Don Alv. ^ Don Fel. How ! 
 
 Leo. The truth of this is known to some here. 
 
 Jac. Nay, 'tis certainly so. 
 
 Isab. 'Tis to a friend of mine. 
 
 Don Car. I know the person. 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis false 1 and thou art a villain for 
 thy testimony. 
 
 Cam. Then let me speak ; what they aver is 
 true, and I myself was, in disguise, a witness of its 
 •doing. 
 
 Don Lor. Death and confusion ! he a villain too ! 
 — Have at thy heart. IHe draws. 
 
 Lop. Ah ! — I can't bear the sight on't. 
 
 Cam. Put up that furious thing, there's no 
 business for't. 
 
 Don Lor. There's business for a dagger, strip- 
 ling ; 'tis that should be thy recompense. 
 
 Cam. Why then to show thee naked to the 
 world, and close thy mouth for ever — I am myself 
 thy wife — 
 
 Don Lor. What does the dog mean ? 
 
 Cam. To fall upon the earth and sue for mercy. 
 IKneels and lets her periuyiff/all qg'. 
 
 Don Lor. A woman ! — 
 
 Lop. Ecod, and a pretty one too ; you wags you ! 
 
 Don Lor. I'm all amazement ! — Rise, Camillo, 
 (if I am still to call you by that name,) and let me 
 bear the wonders you have for me. 
 
 Isab. That part her modesty will ask from 
 me. 
 I'm to inform you then, that this disguise 
 Hides other mysteries besides a woman ; 
 A large and fair estate was cover'd by't. 
 Which with the lady now will be resign' d you. 
 'Tis true, in justice it was youjjs before ; 
 But 'tis the god of love has done you right. 
 To him you owe this strange discbvery ; 
 Through him you are to know the true Camilld'fi 
 dead, and that this fair adventurer is daughter to 
 Alvarez. 
 
 Don Lor. -Incredible ! But go on ; let me hear 
 more. 
 
 Don Fel. She'll tell thee the rest herself thfe 
 next dark night she meets thee in the gardeni 
 
 Don Lor. Ha ! — Was it Camillo then, that I — 
 
 Isab. Itwas Camillo who there-made you happy: 
 and who has, virtue, beauty, wit, and love — enough 
 to make xou so while life shall last you. 
 
 Don Lfir, The proof she gives me of her love 
 deserves a large acknowledgment indeed. Forgive 
 me, therefore, Leonora, if what I owe this goodness 
 and these charms, I with my utmost care, my life, 
 my soul, endeavour to repay. ' ' 
 
 Cam. Is it then;^C5ssible;-y pu «an forgive me .' 
 
 Don Lor. Indeed I can ; few crimes have such 
 a claim 
 To mercy. But join with me then, dear CamiUo, 
 (For still I know you by no other name,) 
 Join with me to obtain jrour father's pardon. 
 Yours, Leonora, too, I must itaaplore ; 
 And yours, my friend, for now we may be such. 
 
 ITO CAKLOSi 
 
 Of all I ask forgiveness ; and since there is 
 So fair a cause of all my wild mistakes, 
 I hope I by her interest shall obtain it. . 
 
 Don Alv. You have a claim to mine, Lorenzo, 
 I wish I had so strong a one to yours ; but if by 
 future services, (though I lay down my life amongst 
 'em) 1 may blot out of your remembrance a fault 
 (I cannot name), I then shall leave the world in 
 peace. 
 
 Don Lor. In peace then, sir, enjoy it ; for from 
 this very hour, whate'er is past with me is gone 
 for ever. Your daughter is too fair a mediatrix to 
 be refused his pardon, to whom she owes the 
 charms she pleads with for it. 
 
 From this good day, then let all discord cease ; 
 Let those to come be harmony and peace ; 
 Henceforth let all our different interests join, 
 Let fathers, lovers, friends, let all combine. 
 To make each other's days as bless'd as she will 
 mine. {Exeunt omuei. 
 
4^8 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 (written by MB. MOTTEUX) SPOKEN BY ISABELLA. 
 
 I'm thinking, now good husbands are so few. 
 To get one like my friend, what I must do. 
 Camillo ventured hard ; yet at the worst, 
 She stole love's honeymoon, and tried her lover 
 
 first. 
 Many poor damsels, if they dared to tell, 
 Have done as much, but have not 'scaped so welL 
 "Tis well the scene's in Spain ; thus in the dark, 
 I should be loath to trust a London spark. 
 Some accident might, for a private reason. 
 Silence a female, all this acting season. 
 Hard fate of woman ! Any one would vex. 
 To think what odds you men have of our sex. 
 Restraint and customs share our inclination. 
 You men can try, and run o'er half the nation. 
 We dare not, even to avoid reproach. 
 When you're at White's, peep out of hackney- 
 coach; 
 Nor with a friend at night, our fame regarding, 
 Witbiglass drawn Up, driVe about CoVeAt-garden. 
 
 If poor town-ladies steal in here, you rail. 
 Though like chaste nuns, their modest looks they 
 With this decorum they can hardly gain [veil % 
 To be thought virtuous, even in Drury-lane, 
 Though this you'll not allow, yet sure you may 
 A plot to snap you, in an honest way. 
 In love-affairs, one scarce would spare a brother : 
 All cheat ; and married folks may keep a pother, 
 But look as if they cheated one another. 
 You may pretend, our sex dissembles most. 
 But of your truth none have much cause to boast; 
 You promise bravely; but for all your storming. 
 We find you're not so valiant at performing. 
 Then sure CamiUo's conduct you'll approve : 
 Would you not do as much for one you love ? 
 Wedlock's but a blind bargain at the best, 
 You venture more, sometimes, to be not half so 
 
 blest. 
 All, soon or late, that dangerous venture make 
 And some of you may make a worse mistake. 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MoNaiBUR Barnard, a ci-devant Lawyer turned 
 
 Country-Qmtleman. 
 MoNsiBUR Griffard, Brothev to Monsieur 
 
 Barnard. 
 Erastus, in love with Mariamne. 
 DoRANT, Son to Monsieur Barnard. 
 Monsieur le Marquis. 
 Baron de Messy. 
 
 Janno, Cousin to Monsiexjr Barnard. 
 Colin, Servant to Monsieur Barnard. 
 Gbarlt, a little Boy^ Cousin to Mariamne. 
 
 Servant to EraStus. 
 
 Monsieur i^a Garantiere, ^ 
 
 Monsieur x-a Rose, \-Friends (cDoFAPi'T. 
 
 Monsieur TrofiOnac, J 
 
 A Soldier, Cook, other Servants, &c. 
 
 Madame Barnard, Wife to Monsieur Barnahd. 
 Mariamne, Baugfiter to Monsieur Baanakd "by 
 
 a former marriage. 
 Mawkin, Sister to Janno. 
 Lisetta. Maid to Mariamne. 
 
 SCENE, — NORMANBY IN FRANCE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Monsieur Barnabb's 
 Country/- House. 
 
 Enter Erastus and hU Servant, IijSBTiAfoiloieinff. 
 
 Lis. Once more I tell ye, sir, if you have any 
 consideration in the world for her, you must begone 
 this minute. 
 
 Erast. My dear Lisetta, let me but speak to her, 
 let me but see her only. 
 
 Lis. You may do what you will ; but not here, 
 whilst you are in our house. I do believe she's as 
 impatient to see you as you ean be to see her ; 
 but— 
 
 Erast. But why won't you give us that satisfac- 
 tion then ? 
 
 Lis. Because I know the consequence ; for when 
 you once get together, the devil himself is not able 
 to part ye ; you will stay so long till you are sur- 
 prised, and what will become of us then ? 
 
 Serv. Why, then we shall be thrown out at the 
 window, I suppose. 
 
 Lis. No, but I shall be turned out of doors. 
 
 Erasl. How unfortunate am 1 1 these doors are 
 open to all the world, and only shut to me. 
 
 Lis. Because you come for a wife, and at our 
 house we do not care for people that come for 
 wives. 
 
 Serv. What would you have us come for, child ? 
 
 Lis. Anything but wives ; because they cannot 
 be put off without portions. 
 
 Sere. Portions ! No, no, never talk of portions ; 
 my master nor 1 neither don't want poi'tions ; and 
 
 if he'd follow my advice, a regiment of fathers 
 should not guard her. 
 
 Lis. What say you ? 
 
 Serv. Why, if you'll contrive that my master 
 may run away with your mistress, I don't much 
 care, faith, if i run away with you. 
 
 Lis. Don't you so, rogue's face ! But I hope 
 to b,e better provided for. 
 
 Erast. Hold your tongues.— But where is Ma- 
 riamne's brother ? He is my bosom friend, and 
 would be willing to serve me. 
 
 Lis. I told ydil before that he has been abroad 
 a-hunting, and we han't seen him these three days; 
 he seldom lies at home, to avoid his father's ill 
 humour ; so that it is not your mistress only that 
 our old covetous cuff teases : — there's nobody in 
 the family but feels the effects of his ill humour : 
 — by his good will he would not suffer » creature 
 to come within his doors, or eat at his table j— and 
 if there be but a rabbit extraordinary for dinner, he 
 thinks himself ruined for ever. 
 
 Erast. Then I find you pass your time comfort- 
 ably in this family. 
 
 Lis. Not so bad as you imagine neither, perhaps; 
 for, thank Heaven, we have a mistress that's as 
 bountiful as he is stingy, one that will let him say 
 what he will, and yet does what she will. But 
 hark, here's somebody coming ; it is certainly he. 
 
 Erast. Can't you hide us somewhere .> 
 
 Lis. Here, here, get you in here as fast as you 
 can. 
 
 Serv. Thrust me in too. [Puts them into the closet 
 
460 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 Enter Mauiamne. 
 Lis. Oh, is it you ? 
 
 Mar. So, Lisetta, whfere have you heen ? I've 
 'been looking for ye all over the house. Who are 
 those people in the garden with my mother-in-law ? 
 I believe my father won't be very well pleased to 
 see 'em there. 
 
 Cis. And here's somebody else not far off, that 
 
 I believe your father won't be very well pleased 
 
 with neither. — Come, sir, W) • iCalis: 
 
 i '' ' 
 
 Re-enter Erastus and Servant. 
 
 Mar. O heavens ! 
 
 Lis. Come, lovers, I can allow you but a short 
 tout on't this time ; you must do your work with 
 a jirk — one whisper, two sighs, and a kiss ; make 
 haste, I say, and I'll stand sentry for ye in the 
 meantime. lExit. 
 
 , Mar. Do you know what you expose me to, 
 'Erastus ? What do you mean ? 
 
 Brast. To die, mad^m, since jrbu receive hie with 
 so little pleasure. 
 
 Mar. bohsider what would become of me, if my 
 father should see you here. 
 
 Erast, What would you have me do ? 
 
 Mar. Expect with patience some happy turn of 
 affairs. My mother-in-law is kind and indulgent 
 to a miracle ; and her favour, if well managed, may 
 turn to our advantage ; and^dould I prevail tipon 
 myself to declare my passion to her, 1 don't doubt 
 but she'd join in our interest. 
 
 Erast. Well, since we've nothing to fear from 
 her, and your brother, you know, is my intimate 
 friend, you may therefore conceal me somewhere 
 about the house for a few days. I'll creep into 
 any hole. 
 
 Serv. Ay, but who must have the care of bring- 
 ing us victuals ? [Aside. 
 
 Erast. Thrust us into the cellar, or up into the 
 garret : I don't care where it is, so that- it be but 
 under the same roof with you. 
 
 Serv. But I don't say so, for that jade Lisetta 
 will have the feeding of us, and I know what kind 
 of diet she keeps. — I believe we shan't be like the 
 fox in the fable, our bellies won't be so full but 
 we shall be able to creep out at the same hole we 
 got in at. lAstde. 
 
 Erast. Must I then begone ? must I return to 
 Paris? 
 
 -Re-enter Lisrtta. 
 
 Lis. Yes, that you must, and immediately too, 
 for here's my master corning in upon ye.. 
 
 Erast. What shall I do .' 
 
 Lis. Begone this minute. 
 
 Mar. Stay in the village till yon hear from me, 
 none of our family know that you are in it. 
 
 Erast. Shall I see you sometimes .' 
 
 Mar. I han't time to answer you now. 
 
 Lis. Make haste, I say ; are you bewitched ? 
 
 Erast. Will you write to me ? 
 
 Mar. I will if I can. 
 
 Lis. Begone, I say ; is the devil in you ? — 
 [ Thrusts Erastus and Servant out.'] Come this 
 way, your father's just stepping in upon us. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 Enter Monsieur BABNAnD boating Cotm. 
 
 lifon. Barn. Rogue ! rascal ! did not I com- 
 mand you ? Did not I give you my orders, sirrah .' 
 
 Col. Why, you gave me orders to let nobody in ; 
 and madam, her gives me orders to let everybody 
 
 in — why, the devil himself can't please you boath, 
 I think. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Birt,, sirrah, you must obey my or- 
 ders, not hers. 
 
 Col. Why, the gentlefolks asked for her, they 
 did not ask for you — what do you make such a 
 noise about .' 
 
 Mon. Barn. For that reason, sirrah, you should 
 not have let 'em in. 
 
 , Col. 'Hold,, sir, I'd rather see you angry than 
 her, that's triie ; fbr when you're angry you have 
 only the devil in ye, but when madam's in a passion 
 she has the devil and his dam both in her belly. 
 
 Mon. Barn. You must mind what I say to you, 
 sirrah, and obey ray orders. 
 
 Col. Ay, ay, measter— but let's not quarrel with 
 one another — you're always in such a plaguy 
 humour. 
 
 ManJBaifn. What are these people that are just 
 come ? , 
 
 Col. Nay, that know not I — but as fine volk 
 they aue as ever eye beheld, Heaven bless 'em I 
 
 Man. Barn. Did you hear their names ? 
 
 Col. Noa, noa, but in a coach they keam all 
 besmeared with'- gould, with six breave horses, the 
 like on 'em ne'er did I set eyes on. — 'Twould do a 
 man's heart good to look on sike fine beast, measter 
 
 ilfon. Barn. How many persons are there .' 
 
 Col. Vour — two as fine men as ever woman 
 bore, and two as dainty deames as a man would 
 desire to lay his lips to. 
 
 Mon. Barn. And all this crew sets up at my 
 house. 
 
 Col. Noa, noa, measter, the coachman is gone 
 into the village to set up his coach at some inn, 
 for I told him our coach-house was vull of vaggots, 
 biit- he'll bring back the six horses, for I told him 
 we had a rare good steable. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Did^ou so, rascal? did you so? 
 
 [Beats him. 
 
 Col. Doant, doant, sir, it would do you good to 
 see site cattle, I'faith they look as if they had ne'er 
 kept Lent. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Then they shall learn religion at my 
 house. — Sirrah, do you take care they sup without 
 oats to-night. — What will become of me ! Since 
 I have bought this damned country-house, I spend 
 more in a summer than would maintain me seven 
 year. 
 
 Col, Why, if you do spend money, han't you 
 good things for it ? Come they not to see you the 
 vChole country raund ? Mind how you're beloved, 
 measter. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Pox take such love I — 
 
 Re-enter Lisbtta.. 
 
 How now, what do you want ? 
 
 Lis. Sir, there's some company in the garden 
 with my mistress, who desire to see you. 
 
 Mon. Barn. The devil take 'em, what business 
 have they here? But who are they ? 
 
 Lis. Why, sir, there's the fat abbot that always 
 sits so long at dinner, and drinks his two bottles 
 by way of whet. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I wish his church was in his belly, 
 that his guts might be half full before he came. — 
 And who else ? 
 
 Lis. Then there's the young marquis that won 
 all my lady's money at cards. 
 
 nfon. Barn. Pox take him too 1 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 461 
 
 Lis. Then there's the merry lady that's always 
 in a good humour. 
 
 Mon, Barn. Very well. 
 
 Lis. Then there's she that threw down ail my 
 lady's china t'other day, and laughed at it for a jest. 
 
 Mttii, Barn. Which I paid above fifty pounds 
 for in earnest. — Very well, and pray how did 
 madam receive all this fine company.' — With a 
 hearty welcome, and a curtsy with her bum down 
 to the grouad, ha ? 
 
 Lis. No indeed, sir, she was very angry with 'em. 
 
 Mon. Barn. How, angry with 'em, say you .' 
 
 Lis. Yes indeed, sir, for she expected they 
 would have staid here a fortnight, but it seems 
 things happen so unluckily that they can't stay 
 here above ten days. \_Exit. 
 
 Mon. Barn. 'I'en days ! how ! what ! four 
 persons with a coach and six, and a kennel of 
 hungry hounds in liveries, to live upon me ten days ! 
 
 Enter Soldier. 
 So, what do you want .' 
 
 Sol. Sir, I come from your nephew, captain 
 Hungry. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Well, what does he want ? 
 Sol. He gives his service to you, sir, and sends 
 you word that he'll conae and dine with you to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Dine with me ! no, no, friend, tell 
 him 1 don't dine at all to-morrow, it is my fast- 
 day, my wife died on't. 
 
 Sol. And he has sent you here a pheasant and a 
 couple of partridges. 
 
 Mon. Barn. How's that, a pheasant and part- 
 ridges, say you ! — Let's see — very fine birds, 
 truly. — Let me consider — to-raorrow is not my 
 fast-day, I mistook ; tell my nephew he shall be 
 weloome.^CTo Colin.] And d'ye hear? do you 
 take these fowl and hang them up in a cool place 
 — and take this soldier in, and make him drink — 
 make him drink, d'ye see — a cup, — ay, a cup of 
 small beer — d'ye hear } 
 
 Col. Yes, sir. — Come along ; our small beer is 
 
 reare good. iExit. 
 
 Sol. But, sir, he bade me tell you that he'll 
 
 bring two or three of his brother officers along with 
 
 him. 
 
 Mon. Barn. How's that! officers with him — 
 here, come back— take the fowls again; I don't 
 dine to-morrow, and so tell him. — [Gires him the 
 basket."^ Go, go! IThrustinghimout. 
 
 Sol. Sir, sir, that won't hinder them from com- 
 ing, for they retired a little distance off the camp, 
 and because your house is near 'em, sir, they 
 resolve to come. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Go, begone, sirrah ! — [ Thrusts him 
 out.2 There's a rogue now, that sends me three 
 lean carrion birds, and brings half-a-dozen varlets 
 to eat them ! 
 
 Enter Monsieur Griffard. 
 Mon. Griff. Brother, what is the meaning of 
 these doings .' If you don't order your affairs bet- 
 ter, you'll have your fowls taken out of your very 
 yard, and carried away before your face. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Can I help it, brother .' But what's 
 the matter now ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. There's a parcel of fellows have 
 been hunting about your grounds all this morning, 
 broke down your hedges, and are now coming into 
 your house. — Don't you hear them .' 
 
 Mon. Barn. No, no, 1 don't hear them : who 
 are they .'' 
 
 Mon. Griff. Three or four rake-helly officers, 
 with your nephew at the head of 'em. 
 
 Mon. Barn. O the rogue I he might well send 
 me fowls. — But is it not a vexatious thing, that I 
 must stand still and see myself plundered at this 
 rate, and have a carrion of a wife who thinks I 
 ought to thank all these rogues that come to de- 
 vour me ! But can't you advise me what's to be 
 done in this case ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. I wish I could, for it goes to my 
 heart to see you thus treated by a crew of vermin, 
 who think they do you a great deal of honour in 
 ruining of you. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Can there be no way found to re- 
 dress this ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. If I were you, I'd leave this house 
 quite, and go to town. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What, and leave my wife behind 
 me ? ay that would be mending the matter 
 indeed ! 
 
 Mon. Griff. Why don't you sell it then ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Because nobody will buy it ; it has 
 got as bad a name as if the plague were in't ; it 
 has been sold over and over, and every family that 
 has lived in it has been ruined. 
 
 Mon. Griff. Then send away all your beds and 
 furniture, except what is absolutely necessary for 
 your own family ; you'll save something by that, 
 for then your guests can't stay with you all night, 
 however. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I've tried that already, and it sig- 
 nified nothing : — for they all got drunk and lay iu 
 the barn, and next morning laughed it off for a frolic. 
 
 Mon, Griff. Then there is but one remedy left 
 tliat I can think off. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What's that ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. You must e'en do what's done 
 when a town's ou fire, blow up your house that the 
 mischief may run no further. — But who is this 
 gentleman .' 
 
 Mon. Barn. I never saw him in my life before, 
 but for all that, I'U hold fifty pound he comes to 
 dine with me. 
 
 Enter the Marquis. 
 
 Marq. My dear M. Barnard, I'm your most 
 humble servant. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I don't doubt it, sir. 
 
 Marq. What is the meaning of this, M. Bar- 
 nard ? You look as coldly upon me as if I were a 
 stranger. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Why truly, sir, I'm very apt to do 
 so by persons I never saw in my life before. 
 
 Marq. You must know, M . Barnard, I'm come 
 ou purpose to drink a bottle with you. 
 
 Mon. Bam. That may be, sir ; but it happens 
 that at this time I'm not at all dry. 
 
 Marq. I left the ladies at cards waiting for sup- 
 per ; for my part, I never play ; so I came to see 
 my dear M. Barnard ; and I'll assure you, I under- 
 took this journey only to have the honour of your 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Mon. Barn. You might have spared yourself 
 that trouble, sir. 
 
 Marq. Don't you know, M. Barnard, that this 
 house of yours is a little paradise .' 
 
 Mon. Barn. Then rot me, if it be, sir ! 
 
 Marq. For my part, I think a pretty retreat ia 
 
462 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 the country is one of the greatest comforts in life ; 
 I suppose you never want good company, M. 
 Barnard ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. No, sir, I never want company; 
 for you must know I love very much to be alone. 
 
 Marq. Good wine yon must keep above all things, 
 without good wine and good cheer I would not give 
 a fig for the country. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Really, sir, my wine is the worst 
 you ever drank in your life, and you'll find my 
 cheer but very mdiiferent, 
 
 Marq. No matter, no matter, M. Barnard: 
 I've heard much of your hospitality, there's a 
 plentiful table in your looks — and your wife is 
 certainly one of the best women in the world. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Rot me if she be, sir 1 
 
 Re-enter Colin, 
 
 Col. Sir, sir, yonder's the baron de Messy has 
 lost his hawk in our garden ; he says it is perched 
 upon one of the trees ; may we let him have'n 
 again, sir? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Go tell him, that — 
 
 Col. Nay, you may tell him yourself, for here 
 he comes. 
 
 Enter Baron Db Messv. 
 
 Baron. Sir, I'm your most humble servant, and 
 ask you a thousand pardons that I should live so 
 long in your neighbourhood, and come upon such an 
 occasion as this to pay you my first respects. 
 
 Mon. Barn, It is veiy well, sir ; but I think 
 people may be very good neighbours without visit- 
 ing one another. 
 
 Biron. Pray how do you like our country ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Not at all, I am quite tired on't. 
 
 Marq. Is it not the baron I it is certainly he. 
 
 Baron. How ; my dear marquis 1 let me em- 
 braee you. 
 
 Marq. My dear baron, let me kiss you. 
 
 [They run and embrace. 
 
 Baron. We have not seen one another since we 
 were schoolfellows before. 
 
 Marq. The happiest rencontre ! 
 
 Mon. Griff. These gentlemen seem to be very 
 well acquainted. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Yes, but I know neither one nor 
 t'other of them. 
 
 Marq. Baron, let me present to you one of the 
 best-natured men in the world — M. Barnard here, 
 the flower of hospitality ! — I congratulate you upon 
 having so good a neighbour. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Sir ! 
 
 Baron. It is an advantage I am proud of. 
 
 Mon. Bam. Sir I 
 
 Marq. Come, gentlemen, you must be very in- 
 timate ; let me have the honour of bringing yon 
 better acquainted. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Sir ! 
 
 Baron, Bear Marquis, I shall take it as a 
 favour if you'll do me that honour. 
 
 Barn. Sir 1 
 
 Marq With all my heart. — Come, baron, now 
 you are here we can make up the most agreeable 
 company in the world. — Faith you shall stay and 
 pass a few days with us. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Methinks now,thisson of a whore 
 does the honours of my house to a miracle. iAside. 
 
 Baron. I don't know what to say, but I should 
 be very glad you'd excuse me. 
 
 Marq. Faith, I can't. 
 
 Baron. Dear marquis ! 
 Marq. Egad, I won't. 
 
 Baron. Well, since it must be so — ^but here 
 comes the lady of the family. 
 
 Enter Madame Barnard. 
 
 Marq. Madam, let me present you to the flower 
 of France. 
 
 Baron. Madam, I shall think myself the happiest 
 person in the world in your ladyship's acquaint- 
 ance ; and the little estate I have in this country I 
 esteem more than all the rest, because it lies so 
 near your ladyship. 
 
 Mad. Bam. Sir, your most humble servant. 
 
 Marq. Madam, the baron de Messy is the best- 
 humoured man in the world. I've prevailed with 
 him to give us his company a few days. 
 
 Mad. Barn. I'm sure you could not oblige M. 
 Barnard or me more. 
 
 Mon. Barn. That's a damned lie, I'm sure. 
 
 ^Aside. 
 
 Baron. I'm sorry, madam, I can't accept of the 
 honour — for it falls out so unluckily, that I've 
 some ladies at my house that I can't possibly leave. 
 
 Marq. No matter, no matter, baron ; you have 
 ladies at your house, we have ladies at our house — 
 
 let's join companies Come, let's send for them 
 
 immediately j the more the merrier. 
 
 Mon. Barn. An admirable expedient, truly ! 
 
 Baron. Well, since it must be so, I'll go for 
 them myself. 
 
 Marq. Make haste, dear baron, for we shall be 
 impatient for your return. 
 
 Baron. Madam, your most humble servant. — 
 But I won't take my leave of you — I shall be back 
 again immediately. — Monsieur Barnard, I'm your 
 most humble servant ; since you will have it so, 
 I'll return as soon as possible. 
 
 \_Exeunt Baron DE Messy and Marquis. 
 
 Mon. Bam. I have it so ! 'sbud, sir, you may 
 stay as long as you please ; I'm in no haste for ye. 
 Madam, you are the cause that I am not master of 
 my own house. 
 
 Mad. Bam. Will you never learn to be reason- 
 able, husband ? 
 
 Re-enter the Marquis. 
 
 Marq. The baron is the best-humoured man in 
 the world, only a little too ceremonious, that's all. 
 — T love to be free and generous ; since I came to 
 Paris I've reformed half the court. 
 
 Mad. Barn. You are of the most agreeable 
 humour in the world, marquis. 
 
 Marq. Always merry But what have you done 
 
 with the ladies .' 
 
 Mad. Barn. I left them at cards. 
 
 Marq. Well, I'll wait upon 'em. But, madam, 
 let me desire you not to put yourself to any extra- 
 ordinary expense upon our accounts. — You must 
 consider we have more than one day to live 
 together. 
 
 Mad, Barn. You are pleased to be merry, mar- 
 quis. 
 
 Marq. Treat us without ceremony. Good wine 
 and poultry you have of your own ; wild-fowl and 
 fish are brought to your door : — you need not send 
 abroad for anything but a piece of butcher's meat, 
 or so. — Let us have no extraordinaries. [Exit. 
 
 Mon. Bam. If I had the feeding of you, a 
 thunderbolt should be your supper. 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 463 
 
 Mad. Bam. Husband, will you never change 
 your humour ? If you go on at this rate, it will be 
 impossible to live with ye. 
 
 Man. Bam. Very true ; for in a little time I 
 shall have nothing to live upon. 
 
 Mad. Bam. Do you know what a ridiculous 
 figure you make ? 
 
 Mon. Bam. You'll make a great deal worse, 
 when you han't money enough to pay for the wash- 
 ing of your shifts. 
 
 Mad. Bam. It seems you married me only to 
 dishonour me ; how horrible this is 1 
 
 Mon. Bam. I tell ye, you'll ruin me. Do you 
 know how much money you spend in a year ? 
 
 Mad. Bam. Not I truly, I don't understand 
 arithmetic, 
 
 Mon. Bam. Arithmetic, O Lud ! O Lud ! Is 
 it so hard to comprehend, that he who receives but 
 sixpence and spends a shilling, must be ruined in 
 the end ? 
 
 Mad. Barn. I never troubled my head with 
 accounts, nor never will ; but if you did but know 
 what ridiculous things the world says of ye— 
 
 Mon. Bam, Rot the world ! — 'Twill say worse 
 of me when I am in a jail. 
 
 Mad. Barn. A very Christian-like saying,truly ! 
 
 Mon. Bam. Don't tell me of Christian !— Ads- 
 bud, I'll turn Jew, and nobody shall eat at my table 
 that is not circumcised. 
 
 Re'CnUr Lisetta. 
 
 Lis. Madam, there's the duchess of Twangdillo 
 just fell down near our door, her coach was over- 
 turned. 
 
 Mad. Barn. I hope her grace has received no 
 hurt? 
 
 Lis. No, madam, but her coax;h is broke. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Then there's a smith in town may 
 mend it. 
 
 Lis. They say 'twill require two or three days to 
 fit it up again. 
 
 Mad. Barn. I'm glad on't with all my heart, 
 for then I shall enjoy the pleasure of her grace's 
 good company. — I'll wait upon her. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Very fine doings this ! 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — The same. 
 Enter Monsieur Babnabd 
 
 Mon. Barn. Heaven be now my comfort, for 
 my house is hell : — \_Starts.'\ Who's there, what 
 do you want ? who are you ? 
 
 EnUiT Servant witU a portmanteau. 
 
 Serv. Sir, here's your cousin Janno and cou- 
 sin Mawkin come from Paris. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What a plague do they want ? 
 
 Enter Janno, leading in Mawkin. 
 
 Jan. Come, sister, come along. — Oh, here's cou. 
 sin Barnard. — Cousin Barnard, your servant. — 
 Here's my sister Mawkin and 1 are come to see 
 you. 
 
 Mawk, Ay, cousin, here's brother Janno and I 
 are come from Paris to see you. Pray how does 
 cousin Mariamne do ? 
 
 Jan. My sister and I waunt well at Paris ; so 
 my father sent us here for two or three weeks to 
 take a little country air. 
 
 Mon. Barn. You could not come to a worse 
 place ; for this is the worst air in the whole 
 country. 
 
 Mawk. Nay, I'm sure, my father says it is the 
 best. 
 
 Mon. Bam. Your father's a fool ; I tell ye, 
 'tis the worst. 
 
 Jan. Nay, cousin, I fancy you're mistaken 
 now ; for I begin to find my stomach come to me 
 already ; in a fortnight's time you shall see how I'll 
 lay about me. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I don't at all doubt it. 
 
 Mawk. Father would have sent sister Flip and 
 little brother Humphrey, but the calash would not 
 holds us all, and so they don't come till to-morrow 
 with mother. 
 
 Jan. Come, sister, let's put up our things in 
 our chamber ; and after you have washed my face, 
 
 and put me on a clean neckcloth, we'll go in and 
 see how oar cousins do. 
 
 Mawk. Ay, come along, we'll go and see cousin 
 Mariamne. 
 
 Jan, Cousin, we shan't give you much trouble, 
 one bed will serve us ; for sister Mawkin and 1 
 always lie together. 
 
 Mawk. But, cousin ; mother prays you that 
 you'd order a little cock-broth for brother Janno 
 and I, to be got ready as soon as may be. 
 
 Jan. Ay, a propos, cousin Barnard, that's true ; 
 my mother desires that we may have some cock- 
 broth to drink two or three times a-day between 
 meals, for my sister and I are sick folks. 
 
 Mawk. And some young chickens too, the 
 doctor said, would bring us to our stomachs very 
 soon. 
 
 Jan. You fib now, sister, it waunt young chick- 
 ens, so it waunt, it was plump partridges sure, the 
 doctor said so. 
 
 Mawk, Ay, so it was, brother. — Come, let's go 
 in, and see our cousins. 
 
 Jan, Ay, come along, sister. — Cousin Barnard, 
 don't forget the cock-broth. 
 
 [Exeunt Janno and Mawkin, Servant /ollowifig, 
 
 Mon. Bam. What the devil does all this mean ! 
 Mother, and sister Flip, and little brother Hum- 
 phrey, and chickens, and partridges, and cock- 
 broth, and fire from hell to dress 'em all. 
 Enter Colin. 
 
 Col. measter ! O measter ! — you'll not chide 
 to-day, as you are usen to do ; no, marry will you 
 not; see now what it is to be wiser than one's 
 measter ! 
 
 Mon, Barn. What would this fool have ? 
 
 Col, Why, thanks, and money to-boot, an folk 
 were grateful. 
 
 Mon, Bam, What's the matter ? 
 
 Col. Why, the matter is, if you have good store 
 of company in your house, you have good store " 
 meat to put in their bellies. 
 
464 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 Mon. Barn. How so ? how so ? 
 
 Col. Why, a large and steately stag, with- a pair 
 of horns on his head, Heaven bless you, your wor- 
 ship might be seen to wear 'em, comes towards our 
 geat a puffing and blawing like a cow in hard 
 labour. — Now, says I to myself, says I, if my 
 measter refuse to let this fine youth come in, why, 
 
 then, he's a fool d'ye see So T opens him the 
 
 geat, pulls off my hat with both my bonds,, and 
 said, You're welcome, kind sir, to our house. 
 
 Mon. Bam. Well, well ! 
 
 Col. Well; well, ay, and so it is well, as you shall 
 straightway find. — So in he trots, and makes 
 directly towards our barn, and goes bounce, bounce, 
 against thedoor, as boldly as if he had 'been meas- 
 ter on't : — he turns' en about and thawcks'n down 
 in the stra, as who would say, Here will I lay me 
 till to-morrow morning. — But he had no fool to 
 deal with : for to the kitchen goes I, and takes me 
 down a musket, and, with a breace of balls, I hits'n 
 such a slap in the feace, that he ne'er spoke a word 
 more to me. — Haval done.well or no, measter? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Yes, you have done very well for 
 once. 
 
 Col. But this was not all, for a parcel of dogs came 
 yelping after their companion, as I suppose ; so I 
 goes to the back-yard door, and, as many as came 
 by, shu! says I, and drove 'em into the gearden ; 
 so there they are as safe as in a pawnd — ha ! ha ! — 
 But I can't but think what a power of pasties we 
 shall have at our house, ha ! ha ! [_lixiL 
 
 Mon, Barn. I see Providence takes some care 
 of me : this could never have happened in a better 
 time. 
 
 Enter Coob. • 
 
 Cook. Sir, sir, in the name of wonder, what do 
 you mean ? is it by your orders that all those dogs 
 were let into the garden ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. How ! 
 
 Cook. I believe there's forty or fifty dogs tearing 
 up the lettuce and cabbage by the root ; I believe 
 before they have done, they'll rout up the whole 
 garden. 
 
 Mon. Barn. This is that rogue's doings. 
 
 Cook. This was not all, sir, for three or four of 
 'em came into the kitchen, and tore half the meat 
 off the spit that was for your worship's supper. 
 
 Mon. Barn. The very dogs plague me ! 
 
 Cook. And then there's a crew of hungry foot- 
 men who devoured what the dogs left, so that 
 there's not a bit left for your worship's supper ; 
 not a scrap, not one morsel, sir. lExit. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Sure I shall hit on some way to 
 get rid of this crew. 
 
 Re-enter Colin, 
 
 Col. Sir, sir, here's the devil to do without yon- 
 der I A parcel of fellows swear they'll have our 
 venison, and 'sblead I swear they shall have none 
 on't ; so stand to your arms, measter. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Ay, you've done finely, rogue, 
 rascal, have you not ? IBeating him. 
 
 Col. 'Sblead, I say they shan't have our venison ! 
 I'll die before I'll part with it. IBxit. 
 
 Enter Monsieur Grikfard. 
 
 Mon, Griffs. Brother, there's some gentlemen 
 within ask for you. 
 
 Mon, Barn, What gentlemen .' who are they ? 
 Mon, Griff, The gentlemen that have been 
 
 hunting aU this morning, they're now gone up to 
 your wife's ehamber. 
 
 Mon. Barn. The devil go with 'em ! 
 
 Mon. Griff. There's but one way to get rid of 
 this plague, and that is, as I told you before, to 
 set your house on fire. 
 
 Mon. Bam. That's doing myself an injury, not 
 them. 
 
 Mon. Griff There's dogs, horses, masters, and 
 servants, all intend to stay here till to-morrow 
 morningj that they may be near the woods to hunt 
 the earlier : — besides (I overheard them) they're in 
 a kind of plot against you. 
 
 Mdn. Barn. What did they say ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. You'll be angry if I should tell ye. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Can I be more angry than I am ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. They said, then, that it was the 
 greatest pleasure in the world to ruin an old lawyer 
 in the country, who had got an estate by ruining 
 honest people in town. 
 
 Mon. Barn. There's rogues for ye ! 
 
 Mbn. Griff: I'm mistaken- if they don't play 
 you some trick or other. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Hold, let me consider. 
 
 Mon. Griff. What are you doing ? 
 
 Mon, Barn. I'm conceiving, I shall bring forth 
 presently. — Oh, I have it! it comes from hence, 
 wit' was its father, and invention its mother ; if I 
 had thought on't sooner, I should have been happy. 
 
 Mon. Griff. What is it ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Come, come along, I say ; you 
 must help me to put it in execution. 
 
 Enter L'isetta. 
 
 Lis. Sir, my mistress desires you to walk up ; 
 she is not able, by herself, to pay the civilities due 
 to so much good company. 
 
 Mon. Barn. O the carrion ! What, does she 
 play her jests upon me too .' — but, mum, he laughs 
 best that laughs last. 
 
 Lis. What shall I tell her, sir, will you come ? 
 
 Mon. Ba/rn. Yes, yes, tell her I'll come, with a 
 pox to her ! \_ExU with Monsieur Griffabd. 
 
 Lis. Nay, I don't wonder he should be angry ; 
 — they do try his patience, that's the truth on't. 
 
 Enter Mariamne. 
 
 What, madam, have you left your mother and the 
 company ? 
 
 Mar. So much tittle tattle makes my head ache ; 
 I don't wonder my father should not love the 
 country, for besides the expense he's at, he nevej 
 enjoys a minute's quiet. 
 
 Lis. But let's talk of your own affairs : — have 
 you writ to your lover ? 
 
 Mar. No, for I have not had time since I saw 
 him. 
 
 Lis. Now you have time then, about it imme- 
 diately, for he's a sort of a desperate spark, and a 
 body does not know what he may do if he should 
 not hear from you. Besides yon promised him, and 
 you must behave yourself like a woman of honour, 
 and keep your word. 
 
 Mar, I'll about it this minute. 
 Enter Charlv. 
 
 Char. Cousin, cousin, cousin, where are you 
 going .' Come back, I have something to say to 
 you. 
 
 Lis, What does this troublesome boy want ? 
 
 Char, What's that to you what I want ? Per 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 iP,rj 
 
 haps I have something to say to her that will make 
 her laugh. — Why sure ! what need you care ? 
 
 Mar. Don't snub my cousin Charly. — Well, 
 what is't ? 
 
 Char, Who do you think I met as I was coming 
 here, but that handsome gentleman I've seen at 
 church ogle you like any devil ? 
 
 Mar. Hush, softly, cousin. 
 
 Lis. Not a word of that for your life. 
 
 Char. Oh, I know, I should not speak on't before 
 folks ; you know I made signs to you above, that I 
 wanted to speak to you in private, didn't I, cousin ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, yes, I saw you. 
 
 Char. You see I can keep a secret. — 1 am no 
 girl, mun. — I believe I could tell ye fifty, and fifty 
 to that, of my sister Cicely. — Oh, she's the devil 
 of a girl ! — but she gives me money and sugar- 
 plums — and those that are kind to me fare the 
 better for it, you see, cousin. 
 
 Afar. I always said my cousin Charly was a 
 good-natured boy. 
 
 Lis. Well, and did he know you ? 
 
 Char. Yes, I think he did know me— for he 
 took me in his arms, and did so hug me and kiss 
 me ! — Between you and I, cousin, I believe he is 
 one of the best friends I have in the world. 
 
 Mar. Well, but what did he say to you .' 
 
 Char. Why, he asked me where I was going ; I 
 told him I was coming to see you ; You're a lying 
 young rogue, says he, I'm sure you dare not go see 
 your cousin : — for you must know my sister was 
 with me, and it seems he took her for a crack, and 
 I being a forward boy, he fancied I was going to 
 make love to her under a hedge, ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mar. So ! 
 
 Char. So he offered to lay me a louis-d'or that 
 I was not coming to you ; so, Done ! says I — Done ! 
 »ays he, — and so 'twas a bet, you know. 
 
 Mar. Certainly. 
 
 Char. So my sister's honour being concerned, 
 and having a mind to win his- louis-d'or, d'ye see 
 — I bid him follow me, that he might see whether 
 I carae in or no. — But he said he'd wait for me at 
 tlie little garden gate that opens into the fi<ilds, and 
 if I would come through the house and meet him 
 there, he should know by that whether I had been 
 in or no. 
 
 Mar. Very well. 
 
 Char. So I went there, opened the gate, and let 
 him in — 
 
 Mar. What then .' 
 
 Char. Why, then he paid me the louis-d'or, 
 that's all. 
 
 Mar. Why, that was honestly done. 
 
 Char. And then he talked to me of you, and said 
 you had the charmingest hubbies, and every time 
 he named 'em. Ha ! says he, as if he had been 
 sipping hot tea. 
 
 Afar. But was this all ? 
 
 Char. No, for he had a mind, you must know, to 
 win his louis-d'or back again ; so he laid me another 
 that I dare not come back and tell you that he was 
 there ; so, cousin, I hope you won't let me lose, for 
 if you don't go to him and tell him that I've won, 
 he won't pay me. 
 
 Mar. What, would you have me go and speak 
 to a man .■' 
 
 Char. Not for any harm, but to win your poor 
 cousin a louis-d'or. I'm sure you will— for you're 
 a modest young v7oman, and may go without danger. 
 
 — ^Well, cousin, I'll swear you look very handsome 
 to-day, and have the prettiest bubbles there ; do let 
 me feel 'em, I'll swear you must. 
 
 Mar. What does the young rogue mean ? I 
 swear I'll have you whipped. 
 
 lExeunt Charly and Marumnb. 
 
 Re-enter Colin. 
 
 Col. Ha ! ha ! ha ! our old gentleman's a wag, 
 i'faith, he'll be even with 'em for all this, ha ! ha 1 
 ha! 
 
 Lis, What's the matter ? what does the fool 
 laugh at .' 
 
 Col. We an't in our house now, Lisetta, we're 
 in an inn : ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lis. How in an inn ? 
 
 CgI. Yes, in an inn ; my measter has gotten an 
 old rusty sword and hung it up at our geat, and 
 writ underneath with a piece of charcoal with his 
 own fair hand. At the Sword Royal ; Entertain- 
 ment for Man and Horse ; hal ha ! — 
 
 Lis. What whim is this ? 
 
 Col. Thou and I live at the Sword Royal, ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lis. I'll go tell my mistress of her father's extra- 
 vagance. lExit. 
 
 Re-enter Monsieur Barnard and Monsieur Griffard. 
 Mon. Barn. Ha ! ha ! yes I think this will do. 
 — Sirrah, Colin, you may now let in all the world ; 
 the more the better. 
 
 Col. Yes, sir. — Odsflesh ! we shall break all the 
 inns in the country : — for we have a breave hand< 
 some landlady, and a curious young lass to her 
 daughter. — Oh, here comes my young measter. — 
 We'll make him chamberlain — ha ! ha ! 
 
 Enter DoRANT. . 
 
 More. £arra. 'What's the matter, son.' How 
 comes it that you are ail alone ? You used to do 
 me the favour to bring some of your friends along 
 with ye. 
 
 Dor. Sir, there are some of 'era coming ; I only 
 rid before to beg you to give 'em a favourable 
 reception. 
 
 Alon. Barn. Ay, why not ? It is both for your 
 honour and mine ; you shall be master. 
 
 Dor. Sir, we have now an opportunity of making 
 all the gentlemen in the couiitry our friends. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I'm glad on't with all my heart ; 
 pray how so .' 
 
 Dor. There's an old quarrel to be made up 
 between two families, and all the company are to 
 meet at our house. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Ay, with all my heart ; but pray 
 what is the quarrel } 
 
 Dor. O, sir, a very ancient quarrel ; it happened 
 between their great grandfathers about a duck. 
 
 Mon. Barn. A quarrel of consequence truly ! 
 
 Dor. And 'twill be a great honour to us if this 
 should be accommodated at our house. 
 
 Mon, Barn. Without doubt. 
 
 Dor. Dear sir, you astonish me with this good- 
 ness ; how shall I express this obligation ? 1 was 
 afraid, sir, you would not like it. 
 
 Mon. Barn, Why so ? 
 
 Dor, I thought, sir, you did not care for the 
 expense. 
 
 Mon. Barn, O Lord, I am the most altered man 
 in the world from what I was, I'm quite anothsi 
 thine, mun ! But how many are there of 'em ? 
 
 Dor, Not above nine or ten of a side, sir. 
 
460 
 
 THE COUNTRy HOUSE. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Oh, we shall dispose of them easily 
 enough. 
 
 Dor. Some of 'em will be here presently ; the 
 rest I don't expect till to-morrow morning. 
 
 Mon. Bam. I hope they're good companions, 
 jolly fellows, that love to eat and drink well ? 
 
 hor. The merriest, best-natm-ed creatures in 
 the world, sir. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I'm very glad on't, for 'tis such 
 men I want. — Come, brother, you and I will go 
 and prepare for their reception. 
 
 \_Exit with. Monsieur Griffard. 
 
 Dor. Bless me, what an alteration is here ! 
 How my father's temper is changed within these 
 two or thi'ee days 1 Do you know the meaning 
 of it? 
 
 Col. Why the meaning on't is, ha ! ha 1 
 
 Dor. Can you tell me the cause of this sudden 
 change, I say .' 
 
 Col. Why the cause on't is, ha ! ha ! — 
 
 Dor. What do you laugh at, sirrah ? do you 
 know ? 
 
 Col. Ha ! — Because the old gentleman's a droll, 
 that's all. 
 
 Dor, Sirrah, if I take the cudgel — 
 
 Col. Nay, sir, don't be angry for a little harm- 
 less mirth. — But here are your friends. 
 
 Enter Messieurs La Garantierb, La Hose, and 
 Trofignac. 
 
 Dor. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Pasty 
 Hall. — See that these gentlemen's horses are taken 
 care of. lExit Colin. 
 
 La Gar, A very fine dwelling this. 
 
 Dor. Yes, the house is tolerable. 
 
 La Rose. And' a very fine lordship belongs 
 to it. 
 
 Dor. The land is good. 
 
 Trof. This house ought to have been mine ; for 
 my grandfather sold it to his father, from whom 
 your father purchased it.' 
 
 Dor. Yes, the house has gone through a great 
 many hands. 
 
 La Gar. A sign there has always been good 
 housekeeping in it. 
 
 Dor. And I hope there ever will. 
 
 Jte-enter Monsieur Barnard and Monsieur Griffard, 
 dressed tike Drawers. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Gentlemen, do you call .' will you 
 please to see a room, gentlemen ? — Somebody take 
 off the gentlemen's boots there. 
 
 Dor. Father ! uncle ! what is the meaning of 
 this ? 
 
 3fon. Barn. Here, show a room. — Or will you 
 please to walk into the kitchen first, gentlemen, 
 and see what you like for dinner. 
 
 La Gar. Make no preparation, sir ; your own 
 dinner is sufficient. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Very well, I understand ye. Let's 
 see, how many are there of ye }—lCounting them.} 
 One, two, three, four : well, gentlemen, 'tis but 
 half-a-crown a-piece for yourselves, and sixpence 
 a head for your servants ; your dinner shall be 
 ready in half an hour. Here, show the gentlemen 
 into the Apollo. 
 
 La Rose. What, sir, does your father keep an 
 inn ? 
 
 Mon. Bam. The Sword Royal, at your service, 
 
 Dor. But, father, let me speak to you ; would 
 you disgrace me .•■ 
 
 Mon. Barn. My wine is very good, gentlemen, 
 but, to be very plain with ye, it is dear. 
 
 Dor. Oh, I shall run distracted ! 
 
 Mon. Barn. You seem not to like my house, 
 gentlemen ; you may try all the inns in the county, 
 and not be better entertained ; but I own my bills 
 run high. 
 
 Dor. Gentlemen, let me beg the favour of 
 ye. 
 
 La Gar. Ay, my young squire of the Sword 
 Royal, you shall receive some favours from us j 
 
 Dor. Dear Monsieur La Garantiere ! 
 
 La Gar. Here, my horse there ! 
 
 Dor. Monsieur La Rose ! 
 
 La Rose. Damn ye, ye prig ! 
 
 Dor. Monsieur Trofignac ! 
 
 Trof. Go to the devil ! 
 
 lEjseunt Messieurs La Garantiere, La Eosb, and 
 Trofignac. 
 
 Dor. Oh, I'm disgraced for ever ! 
 
 Mon. Barn. Now, son, this will teach you how 
 to live. 
 
 Dor. Your son ! I deny the kindred ; I'm the 
 son of a whore, and I'll burn your house about 
 your ears, you old rogue you 1 lExil. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Ha ! ha I — 
 
 Mon. Griff. The young gentleman's in a passion. 
 
 Mon. Barn. They're all gone for all that, and 
 the Sword- Royal's the best general in Christendom. 
 
 Enter Erastus's Servant talking with Lisetta. 
 
 Lis. What, that tall gentleman I saw in the 
 garden with ye ? 
 
 Serv. The same, he's my master's uncle, and 
 ranger of the king's forests. He intends to leave 
 my master all he has. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Don't I know this scoundrel ? 
 What, is his master here ! — ^What do you do here, 
 rascal ? 
 
 Serv. I was asking which must be my master's 
 chamber. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Where is your master ? 
 
 Serv. Above stairs with your wife and daughter ; 
 and I want to know where he's to lie, that I may 
 put up his things. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Do you so, rascal ? 
 
 Serv. A very handsome inn this. — Here, drawer, 
 fetch me a pint of wine. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Take that, rascal ; do you banter 
 us ? IKicks him out. 
 
 Enter Madame Barnard. 
 
 Mad. Barn. What is the meaning of this, hus- 
 band ? Are not you ashamed to turn your house 
 into an inn ? — and is this a dress for my spouse, 
 and a man of your' character ? 
 
 Mon, Barn. I'd rather wear this dress than bo 
 ruined. 
 
 Mad. Barn. You're nearer being so than yon 
 imagine ; for there are some persons within who 
 have it in their power to punish you for your ridi- 
 culous folly. 
 
 Enter Erastos, leading in Mariamne. | 
 
 Mon. Barn, How, sir, what means this ? who i 
 
 sent you here ? 
 
 Erast. It was the luckiest star in your firman 
 
 ment that sent me here. 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE, 
 
 467 
 
 Man. Bam. Then I doubt, at my birth, the 
 planets were but in a scurvy disposition. 
 
 Erast. Killing one of the Icing's stags, that run 
 hither for refuge, is enough to overturn a fortune 
 much better established than yours. — However, sir, 
 if you will consent to give me your daughter, for 
 her sake I wiU bear you harmless. 
 
 Mon. Bam. No, sir ; no man shall have my 
 daughter, that won't take my house too. 
 
 Erast. Sir, I will take your house ; pay you the 
 full value of it, and you shall remain as much master 
 of it as ever. 
 
 Mon. Bam. No, sir, that won't do neither ; you 
 must be master yourself, and from this minute 
 
 begin to do the honours of it in your own per- 
 son. 
 Erast. Sir, I readily consent. 
 Man. Barn. Upon that condition, and in order 
 to get rid of my house, here, take my daughter. — 
 And now, sir, if you tliink you've a hard bargain, 
 I don't care if I toss you in my wife, to make you 
 amends. 
 
 Well, then since all things thus are fairly sped, 
 My son in anger, and my daughter wed ; 
 My house disposed of, the sole cause of strife, 
 I now may hope to lead a happy life. 
 If I can part with my engaging wife. 
 
 \_Exiunt omnes. 
 
1 JOURNEY TO LONDON, 
 
 [UNFINISHEDO 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON iE. 
 
 Sir Francis Hiiadpibcb, a CourUry Gentleman. 
 
 Lord Lovekulb. 
 
 Sir Charles. 
 
 Unclr Richabd, Uncle to Sir FRANCis* Hbao- 
 
 FIECE. 
 
 Squibb Humphbv, Son to Sir Francis Hba>^ 
 
 FIECB. 
 
 Colonel Codrtlv. 
 Captain Toupee . 
 
 JOHN MOODV, , ^^^^^^^ j^ g_^ p^^^,^ jj^^„. 
 
 Georob, > 
 
 Tom, / '■"'™- 
 
 James, Servant to TIncle Richard. 
 
 MoNBVBAO, Steward to Lord Lovkrule. 
 
 Shoetyard, a Mercer. 
 
 Lady ITsadpibcb, Wi/e to Sib Francis 11kai> 
 
 PIECE. 
 
 Miss Betty, her Daughter. 
 
 Lady Arabella, Wife to Lord Loverulk. 
 
 Clarinda, a young unmarried Lady, 
 
 Mrs. Motherly, one that lets Lodgings, 
 
 Martilla, her Niece, 
 
 Mrs. Handy, Maid to Lady Headpibce. 
 
 Doll Tripe, Cookmaid to her Ladyship. 
 
 Deborah, Maid to Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 Trusty, Maid to Lady Arabella. 
 
 SCENE, — London. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Uncle Richard's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Unci.e Hichard. 
 
 Unc. Rich. What prudent cares does this deep 
 foreseeing nation take for the support of its wor- 
 shipful families ! In order to which, and that they 
 may not fail to be always significant and useful in 
 their country, it Is a settled foundation-point that 
 every child that is horn shall be a beggar, except 
 one ; and that he — shall be a fool. My grandfather 
 was bred a fool, as the country report ; my father 
 was a tool, as my mother used to say ; my brother 
 was a fool, to my own knowledge, though a great 
 justice of the peace ; and he has left a son that 
 will make his son a fool, or I am mistaken. The 
 lad is now fourteen years old, and but just out of 
 his Psalter. As to his honoured father, my much- 
 esteemed nephew — here I have him. — [Takes out a 
 klter.'] In this profound epistle (which I have 
 just now received) there is the top and bottom of 
 him. Forty years and two is the age of him ; in 
 which it is computed, by his butler, his own person 
 has drank two-and-thirty tun of ale. The rest of 
 his time has been employed in persecuting all the 
 poor four-legged creatures round that would but 
 run away fast enough from him, to give him the 
 high-mettied pleasure of running after them. In 
 this noble employ he has broke his right arm, his 
 
 left leg, and both his collar-bones. Once he broke 
 his neck, but that did him no harm ; a nimble 
 hedge-leaper, a brother of the stirrup, that was by, 
 whipped off his horse aud mended it. His estate 
 being left him with two jointures and three weighty 
 mortgages upon it, he, to make all easy, and pay 
 his brother's and sister's portions, married a pro- 
 fuse young housewife for love, with never a penny 
 of money. Having done all this, like his brave 
 ancestors, for the support of the family, he now 
 finds children and interest-money make such a 
 bawling about his ears, that he has taken the 
 friendly advice of his neighbour, the good lord 
 Courtlove, to run his estate two thousand pounds 
 more in debt, that he may retrieve his affairs by 
 being a parliament-man, and bringing his wife to 
 London to play off a hundred pounds at dice with 
 ladies of quality before breakfast. But let me read 
 this wiseacre's letter once over again. — [TJearfs.] 
 Most honoured uncle, I do not douH but you have 
 much rejoiced at my success in my election. Jt has 
 cost me some money, I men ; but what of alt that ! 
 J am a parliament-man, and that will set all to 
 rights, I have lived in the country all my days, 
 'tis true ; but what then ! I have made speeches at 
 the sessions, and in the vestry too, and can else- 
 where, perhaps, as well as some others that do , 
 and I have a noble friend hard by, who has let mt 
 into some small knowledge of what's what at West 
 
A JOURNEy TO LONDON. 
 
 i09 
 
 minster. And so, that I may be always at hand 
 to serve my country, J have consulted with my wife 
 about taking a house at London, and bringing her 
 and my family up to town ; which, her opinion is, 
 will be the rightest thing in the world. — My wife's 
 opinion about bringing her to London 1 — I'll read 
 no more of thee — beast ! 
 
 IStrikes the letter down with his stick. 
 
 ^nter James hastily. 
 
 James. Sir, sir ! do you hear the news ? They 
 are all a-coming, 
 
 Unc. Rich. Ay, sirrah, I hear it, with a pox to it ! 
 
 James. Sir, here's John Moody arrived already ; 
 he's stumping about the streets in his dirty boots, 
 and asking every man he meets, if they can tell 
 where he may have a good lodging for a parlia- 
 ment-man, till he can hire such a house as b'ecomes 
 him. He tells them his lady and all the family are 
 coming too ; and that they are so nobly attended 
 they care not a fig for anybody. Sir, they have 
 added two cart-horses to the four old geldings, 
 because ray lady will have it said she came to town 
 in ner coach-and-six ; and — ha! ha! — heavy George 
 the ploughman rides postilion ! 
 
 Unc. Rich. Very well ; the journey begins as it 
 should do. — James ! 
 
 James. Sir ! 
 
 Unc. Rich. Dost know whether they bring all 
 the children vrith them } 
 
 James. Only Squire Humphry and Miss Betty, 
 sir ; the other six are put to board at half-a-crown 
 a week a head, with Joan Growse at Smoke-dung- 
 hill-farm. 
 
 Unc. Rich. The Lord have mercy upon all 
 good folks ! what work will these people make ! 
 Dost know when they'll be here ? 
 
 James. John says, sir, they'd have been here last 
 night, but that the old wheezy-belly horse tired, 
 and the two fore-wheels came crash down at once 
 in Waggonrut-lane. Sir, they were cruelly loaden, 
 as I understand ; my lady herself, he says, laid on 
 four mail-trunks, besides the great deal-box, which 
 fat Tom sate upon behind. 
 
 Unc. Rich. So ! 
 
 James. Then within the coach there was Sir 
 Francis, my lady, the great fat lapdog. Squire 
 Humphry, Miss Betty, my lady's maid, Mrs. 
 Handy, and Doll Tripe the cook ; but she puked 
 with sitting backward, so they mounted her into 
 the coach-box. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Very well. 
 
 James. Then, sir, for fear of a famine before they 
 should get to the baiting-place, there was such 
 baskets of plum-cake, Dutch-gingerbread, Che- 
 shire-cheese, Naples biscuits, maccaroons, neats'- 
 tongues, and cold boiled beef; — and in case of 
 sickness, such bottles of usquebaugh, black-cherry 
 brandy, cinnamon-water, sack, tent, and strong- 
 beer, as made the old coach crack again. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Well said ! 
 
 James. And for defence of this good cheer and 
 my lady's little pearl necklace, there was the family 
 bfisket-hilt sword, the great Turkish cimiter, the 
 old blunderbuss, a good bag of bullets, and a great 
 horn of gunpowder. 
 
 Une. Rich. Admirable ! 
 
 James. Then for bandboxes, they were so be- 
 pilcd up — to sir Francis's nose, that he could 
 only peep out at a chance hole with one eye, as if 
 
 he were viewing the country through a perspective- 
 glass.— But, sir, if you please, I'll go look after 
 John Moody a little, for fear of accidents ; for he 
 never was in London before, you know, but one 
 week, and then he was kidnapped into a house of 
 ill repute, where he exchanged all his money s.i;d 
 clothes for a nm 1 So I'll go look after him, 
 
 sir. [i-j;-!. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Nay, I don't doubt but this wise 
 expedition will be attended with more adventurus 
 than one. This noble head and supporter of his 
 family will, as an honest country gentleman, get 
 credit enough amongst the tradesmen, to run so far 
 in debt in one session, as will make him just fit for 
 a jail when he's dropped at the next election. He 
 will make speeches in the house, to show the 
 government of what importance he can be to them, 
 by which they will see he can be of no importance 
 at alii and he will find, in time, that he stands 
 valued at (if he votes right) being sometimcii — 
 invited to dinner! Then his .wife (who has. ten 
 times more of a jade about her than she yet knows 
 of) will so improve in this rich soil, she will, in one 
 month, learn every vice the finest lady in the town 
 can teach her. She will be extremely courteous to 
 the fops who make love to her in jest, and she will 
 be extremely grateful to those who do it in earnest. 
 She will visit all ladies that will let her into their 
 houses, and she will run in debt to all the shop- 
 keepers that will let her into their books. In short, 
 before her husband has got five pound by a speech 
 at Westminster, she will have lost five hundred at 
 cards and dice in the parish of St. James's. — Wife 
 and family to London with a pox ! lExit. 
 
 SCENE II.- 
 
 -A Room in Mrs. Mothekly's 
 ITouse. 
 
 Enter James, and John Moody. 
 
 James. Dear John Moody, I am so glad to see 
 you in London once more. 
 
 John. And I you, dear Mr. James. Give me a 
 kiss. — Why that's friendly. 
 
 James. I wish they had been so, John, that you 
 met with when you were here before. 
 
 John. Ah — murrain upon all rogues and whores ! 
 I say. But I am grown so cunning now, the deel 
 himself can't handle me. I have made a notable 
 bargain for these lodgings here, we are to pay hut 
 five pounds a-weefc, and have all the house to our- 
 selves. 
 
 James. Where are the people that belong to it 
 to be then .' 
 
 John. Oh ! there's only the gentlewoman, her 
 two maids, and a cousin, a very pretty, civil young 
 woman truly, and the maids are the merriest 
 grigs— 
 
 James. Have a care, John. 
 
 John. Oh, fear nothing ; we did so play toge- 
 ther last night. 
 
 James. Hush ! here comes my master. 
 
 Enter Uncle Richard. 
 
 Unc. Rich. What ! John has taken these lodg- 
 ings, has he ? 
 
 James. Yes, sir, he has taken 'em. lExit. 
 
 Unc. Rich. O John ! how dost do, honest John ! 
 I am glad to see thee with all my heart. 
 
470 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 John. 1 humbly thank your worship. I'm staut 
 still, and a faithful awd servant to th' family. 
 Heaven prosper aw that belong to't. 
 
 Unc. Rich. What, they are all upon the road ? 
 
 John. As mony as the awd coach would hauld, 
 air : the Lord send 'em well to tawn. 
 
 Unc. Rich. And well out on't again, John, ha! 
 
 John. Ah, sir ! you are a wise man, so am I : 
 home's home, I say. I wish we get any good 
 here. I's sure we ha' got little upo' the road. 
 Some mischief or other aw the day long. Slap ! 
 goes one thing, crack ! goes another ; my lady 
 cries out for driving fast ; the awd cattle are for 
 going slow ; Roger whips, they stand still and 
 kick ; nothing but a sort of a contradiction aw the 
 journey long. My lady would gladly have been 
 here last night, sir, though there were no lodgings 
 got ; but her ladyship said, she did naw care for 
 that, she'd lie in the inn where the horses stood, as 
 long as it w.as in London. 
 
 Unc. Rich. These ladies, these ladies, John ! — 
 
 John. Ahj sir, I have seen a little of 'em, 
 though not so much as my betters. Your worsliip 
 IS naw married yet ? 
 
 Unc. Rich. No, John, no ; I am an old bache- 
 lor still. 
 
 John. Heavens bless you, and preserve you, sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. I think you have lost your good 
 woman, John ? 
 
 John. No, sir, that have I not ; Bridget sticks 
 to me still, sir. She was for coming to London 
 too, but, no, says I, there may be mischief enough 
 done without you. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Why that was bravely spoken, John, 
 and like a man. 
 
 John. Sir, were my measter but hafe the mon 
 that I am, gadswookers — though he'll speak stautly 
 too sometimes, but then he canno hawd it ; no, he 
 canno hawd it. 
 
 Enter Deborah. 
 
 Deb. Mr. Moody, Mr. Moody, here's the coach 
 come. 
 
 John. Already ! no sure. 
 
 Deb. Yes, yes, it's at the door, they are getting 
 out ; ray mistress is run to receive 'era. 
 
 John. And so will I, as in duty bound. 
 
 ZExit with Dkrobah. 
 
 Unc. Rich. And I will stay here, not being in 
 duty bound to do the honours of this house. 
 
 .Enter Sir Francis Headpiece, Lady He.\dpieck, 
 'Squire Humphry, Mies Betty, Mrs. Handy, John 
 Moody, and Mi'S. Motherly. 
 
 Lady Head. Do you hear, Moody, let all the 
 things be first laid down here, and then carried 
 where they'll be used. 
 
 John, 'They shall, an't please your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Head. What, my Uncle Richard here to 
 receive us ! This is kind indeed : sir, I am extremely 
 glad to see you. 
 
 Unc. Rich. [Salutes her.J Niece, your servant. 
 — [Aside. ] I am extremely sorry to see you in the 
 worst place I know in the world for a good woman 
 to grow better in. — lAloud.] Nephew, I am your 
 servant too ; but I don't know how to bid you 
 welcome. 
 
 Sir Fran. I am sorry for that, sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Nay, 'tis for your own sake : I'm 
 not concerned. 
 
 Sir Fran. I hope, uncle, I shall give you such 
 
 weighty reasons for what I have done, as shall 
 convince you I am a prudent man. 
 
 U71C. Rich. That wilt thou never convince me 
 of, whilst thou shalt live. lAside. 
 
 Sir Fran. Here, Humphry, come up to your 
 uncle. — Sir, this is your godson. 
 
 Squire Hum. Honoured uncle and godfather, I 
 crave leave to ask your blessing. [_Kneds. 
 
 Unc. Rich. [Aside.'] Thou art a numskull I see 
 already. — [Puts his hand on his head.'] There, 
 thou hast it. And if it will do thee any good, inay 
 it be to make thee, at least, as wise a man as thy 
 father. 
 
 Ladv Head. Miss Betty, don't you see your 
 Uncle 1 
 
 Unc. Rich. And for thee, my dear, mayst thou 
 bej at least, as good a woman as thy mother. 
 " MisS Bet. I wish I may ever bo so handsome, 
 sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Ha ! Miss Pert ! now that's a 
 thought that seems to have been hatched in the 
 girl on this side Highgate. lAside. 
 
 Sir Fran. Her tongue is a little nimble, sir. 
 
 Lady Head. That's only from her country edu- 
 cation, sir Francis, she has been kept there too 
 long ; I therefore brought her to London, sir, to 
 learn more reserve and modesty. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Oh, the best place in the world for it ! 
 Every woman she meets will teach her something of 
 it. There's the good gentlewoman of the house 
 looks like a knowing person, even she perhaps will 
 be so good to read her a lesson, now and then, 
 
 upon that subject [Aside.'] An arrant bawd, or 
 
 I have no skill in physiognomy 1 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Alas, sir, miss won't stand long in 
 need of my poor instructions ; if she does, they'll 
 be always at her service. 
 
 Lady Head. Very obliging indeed, Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 Sir Fran. Very kind and civil truly ; I believs 
 we are got into a mighty good house here. 
 
 Unc. Rich. [Aside.] For good business very 
 probable. — [Aloud.] Well, niece, your servant for 
 to-night J you have a great deal of affairs upon your 
 hands here, so I won't hinder you. 
 
 Lady Head. I believe, sir, I shan't have much 
 less every day, while I stay in this town, of one 
 sort or other. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Why, 'tis a town of much action 
 indeed. 
 
 Miss Bet. And my mother did not come to it 
 to be idle, sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Nor you neither, I dai'c say, young 
 mistress. 
 
 Miss Bet. I hope not, sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Ura ! miss Mettle. — [Going, Sir 
 FiiANCis following him.] Where are you going, 
 nephew .' 
 
 Sir Fran. Only to attend you to the door, sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Phu ! no ceremony with me j you'll 
 find I shall use none with you or your family. 
 
 Sir Fran. I must do as you command me, sir. 
 lExit TTncle Richard. 
 
 Miss Bet. This uncle Richard, papa, seems but 
 a crusty sort of an old fellow. 
 
 Sir Fran. He is a little odd, chUd ; but you 
 must be very civil to him, for he has a great deal of 
 money, and nobody knows who he may give it to. 
 
 Lady Head. Phu; a fig for his money ! you have 
 so many projects of late about money, since you 
 are a parliament-man, we must make ourselves 
 
A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 472 
 
 slaves to his testy humours, sevea years perhaps, 
 in hopes to be his heirs ; and then he'll be just old 
 enough to marry his maid. — But pray let us take 
 care of our things here : are they all brought in yet ? 
 
 Mrs. Hand. Almost, my lady ; there are only 
 some of the bandboxes behind, and a few odd 
 things. 
 
 Lady Head. Let 'em be fetched in presently. 
 
 Mrs. Hand. They are here. — Come, bring the 
 things in. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 Is there all yet ? 
 
 Serv. All but the great basket of apples, and the 
 goose-pye. 
 
 Enter Doll Tripe. 
 
 Doll, Ah, my lady ! we're aw undone ; the 
 goose-pye's gwon. 
 
 All. Gone? 
 
 Sir Fran. The goose-pye gone .' how ? 
 
 Doll. Why, sir, I had got it fast under my arm 
 to bring it in, but being almost dark, up comes two 
 of these thin starved London rogues, one gives me 
 a great kick o' the — here ; ILaping her hand upon 
 her haclcside.'\ while t'other hungry varlet twitched 
 the dear pye out of my hands, and away they run 
 dawn street like two greyhounds. I cried out fire ! 
 but heavy George and fat Tom are after 'em with 
 a Tengeance ; they'll sauce their jackets for 'em, 
 I'll warrant 'em. 
 
 Enter George with a hloody facet and Tom. 
 So, have you catched 'em ? 
 
 George. Catched em ! the gallows catch 'em for 
 me ! I had naw run hafe the length of our beam, 
 before somewhat fetched me such a wherry across 
 the shins, that dawn came I flop o' my feace all 
 along in the channel, and thought I should ne'er 
 ha' gotten up again ; but Tom has skaward after 
 them, and cried murder as he'd been stuck. 
 
 Tom. Yes, and straight upo' that, swap comes 
 somewhat across my forehead, with such a force, 
 that dawn came 1 like an ox. 
 
 Squire Hum. So, the poor pye's quite gone then ! 
 
 Tom. Gone, young measter ! yeaten I believe 
 by this time. These I suppose are what they call 
 sharpers in this country. 
 
 Squire Hum. It was a rare good pye. 
 
 Doll. As e'er these hands put pepper to. 
 
 Lady Head. Pi-ay Mrs. Motherly, do they make 
 a practice of these things often here .' 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Madam, they'll twitch a rump of 
 beef out of a boiling copper ; and for a silver tan- 
 kard, they make no more conscience of that, than 
 if it were a Tunbridge sugar-box. 
 
 Sir Fran. I wish the coach and horses, George, 
 were safe got to the inn. Do you and Roger take 
 special care that nobody runs away with them, as 
 you go thither. 
 
 George. I believe, sir, our cattle woant yeasily be 
 run away with to-night ;,but weest take best care 
 we con of them, poor sauls ! lExil. 
 
 Sir Fran. Do so, pray now. 
 
 Squire Hum. Feather, I had rather they had 
 run away with heavy George than the goose-pye, 
 > alice of it before supper to siKht would have been 
 pure. 
 
 Lady Head. This boy is always thinking of his 
 belly. 
 
 Sir Fran. But, my dear, you may allow him to 
 be a little hungi-y after a journey. 
 
 Lady Head. Pray, good sir Francis, he has been 
 constantly eating in the coach, and out of the 
 coach, above seven hours this day. I wish my 
 poor girl could eat a quarter as much. 
 
 Mhs Bet. Mama, 1 could eat a good deal more 
 than I do, but then I should grow fat mayhap, like 
 him, and spoil my shape. 
 
 Lady Head. Mrs. Motherly, will you be so kind 
 to tell them where they shall carry the things ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Madam, I'll do the best I can : I 
 doubt our closets will scarce hold 'em all, but we 
 have garrets and cellars, which, with the help of 
 hiring a store-room, I hope may do. — [To Tom.J 
 Sir, will you be so good to help my maids a little 
 in carrying away the things ? 
 
 Tom. With all my heart, forsooth, if I con but 
 see my way s but these whoresons have awmost 
 knocked my eyen awt. [Tliey carry off the things. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Will your ladyship please to refresh 
 yourself with a dish of tea, after your fatigue ? I 
 think I have pretty good. 
 
 Lady Head. If you please, Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 \_Exit Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 Squire Hum. Would not a good tankard of 
 strong beer, nutmeg, and sugar, do better, feather, 
 with a toast and some cheese .' 
 
 Sir Fran. I think it would, son. — Here, John 
 Moody, get us a tankard of good hearty stuff 
 presently. 
 
 John. Sir, here's Norfolk-nog to be had at next 
 door. 
 
 Squire Hum. That's best of all, feather ; but 
 make haste with it, John. {_Exit John Moody. 
 
 Lady Head. Well, I wonder. Sir Francis, you 
 will encourage that lad to swill his guts thus with 
 such beastly, lubberly liquor : ■ if it were bur- 
 gundy, or champagne, something might be said 
 for't ; they'd perhaps give him some wit and 
 spirit ; but such heavy, muddy stuff as this will 
 make him quite stupid. 
 
 Sir Fran. Why you know, my dear, I have 
 drank good ale and strong beer these thirty years, 
 and by your permission I don't know that I want wit. 
 
 Miss Bet. But you might have had more, papa, 
 if you had been governed by my mother. 
 
 Re-enter John Moody, with a tankard, <Jc. 
 
 Sir Fran. Daughter, he that is governed by his 
 wife, has no wit at all. 
 
 Miss Bet. Then I hope I shall marry a fool, 
 father, for I shall love to govern dearly. 
 
 Sir Fran. Here, Humphry, here's to thee. — 
 [Drinks.] You are too pert, child, it don't do 
 well in a young woman. 
 
 Lady Head. Fray, sir Francis, don't snub her, 
 she has a fine growing spirit, and if you check her 
 so, you'll make her as dull as her brother there. 
 
 Squire Hum. Indeed, mother, I think my sister 
 is too forward. {After drinking a long draught. 
 
 Miss Bet. You, you think I'm too forward ! 
 what have you Ui do to think, brother Heavy ? 
 you are too fat to think of anything but your belly. 
 
 Lady Head. Well said, miss ; he's none of your 
 master, though he's your elder brother. 
 
 Re-enter Ghorqk. 
 
 George. Sir, I have no goad opinion of this 
 tawne, it's made up of mischief, I think. 
 
 Sir Fran. Why, what's the matter now ? 
 
 Geori/e, I'se tell your worship ; before we were 
 gotten to the street end, a great Juggerheaded cart, 
 
472 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 with wheels as thick as a good brick wall, laid hawld 
 of th*! coach, and has pood it aw to bits. An this be 
 London, wa'd we were all weel i'th' country again. 
 
 Miss Bet. What have yon to do, sir, to wish us 
 all in tile country again, lubber ? I hope we shan't 
 go in tlie country again these seven years, mama, 
 let twenty coaches be pulled to pieces. 
 
 Sir Fran. Hold your tongue, Betty. — [To 
 George] Was Roger in no fault in this ? 
 
 George. No, sir, nor I neither. Are not you 
 ashamed, says Roger to the carter, to do such an 
 unkind thing to strangers ? No, says he, you bump- 
 kin. — Sir, he did the thing on very purpose, and so 
 the folks said that stood by ; bat they said your 
 worship need na be concerned, for you might have 
 a lawsuit with him when you pleased, that woiild 
 not cost you above a hundred pounds, and mayhap 
 you might get the better of him. 
 
 Sir Fran. I'll try what I can do with him, egad, 
 I'll make such — 
 
 Squire Hum. Feather, have him before the par- 
 liamenL 
 
 Sir Fran. And so I will : I'll make him know 
 who I am. Where does he live ? 
 
 George. I believe in London, sir. 
 
 Sir Fran. What's the villain's name ? 
 
 George. I think I heard somebody call him Dick. 
 
 5;V Fran. Where did he go ? 
 
 George. Sir, he went home. 
 
 Sir Fran. Where's that ? 
 
 George. By my troth 1 do naw knaw. I heard 
 him say he had nothing more to do with us to- 
 niglit, and so he'd go home and smoke a pipe. 
 
 Lady Head. Come, sir Francis, don't put your- 
 self in a heat, accidents will happen to people in 
 travelling abroad to see the world. Eat your 
 supper heartily, go to bed, sleep quietly, and to- 
 morrow see if you can buy a handsome second- 
 hand coach for present use, bespeak a new one, 
 and then all's easy. lExtunt. 
 
 SCENE III Another Jioom in the same. 
 
 Enter Colonel Courtly. 
 
 Col. Who's that, Deborah ? 
 
 Enter Deborah, 
 
 Deb. At your service, sir. 
 
 Col. What, do you keep open house here ? I 
 found the street door as wide as it could gape. 
 
 Deb. Sir, we are all in a bustle, we have lodgers 
 come m to-night, the house full. 
 
 Col. Where's your mistress .' 
 
 Deb. Prodigious busy with her company ; but 
 I'll tell Mrs. Martilla you are here, 1 believe she'll 
 come to you. 
 
 Col. That will do as well. — [Exit Deborah.] 
 Poor Martilla ! she's a very good girl, and I Lave 
 loved her a great while. I thick six months 
 it is, since, like a merciless highwayman, I made 
 her deUver all she had about her ; she begged 
 hard, poor thing, I'd leave her one small bauble. 
 Had I let her keep it, I believe she had still kept 
 roe. Conld women but refuse their ravenous 
 lovers that one dear destructive moment, how 
 long might they reign over them ! — But for a bane 
 to both their joys and ours, when they have indulged 
 us with such favours as to make us adore them, they 
 are not able to refuse us that one which puu an 
 end to our devotion. 
 
 Enter Martilla. 
 Martilla, how dost thou do, my child ? 
 Mar. As well as a losing gamester can. 
 Col. Why, what have you lost ? 
 Mar. I have lost you. 
 Col. How came you to lose me ? 
 Mar. By losing myself. 
 Col. We can be friends still 
 Mar. Dull ones. 
 
 Col. Useful ones perhaps. Shall I help thee to 
 
 a good husband ? 
 
 Mar, Not if I were rich enough to livewithout one. 
 
 Col. I'm sorry I am not rich enough to make 
 
 thee so ; but we won't talk of melancholy things. 
 
 Who are these folios your aunt has got in her house? 
 
 Mar. One sir Francis Headpiece and his lady, 
 
 with a son and daughter. 
 
 Col. Headpiece ! cotso, I know 'em a little. I 
 met with 'em at a race in the country two years 
 since ; a sort of blockhead, is not he ? 
 Mar. So they say. 
 
 Col. His wife seemed a mettled gentlewoman, if 
 she had had but a fair field to range in. 
 
 Mar. That she won't want now, for they stay 
 in town the whole winter. 
 
 Col. Oh, that will do to show aU her parts in. 
 Enter Mrs. Mothkrly, 
 How do you do, my old acquaintance ? 
 
 Afrs. Moth. At your service you know always, 
 colonel. 
 
 Col. I hear you have got good company in the 
 bouse, 
 
 Mrs. Moth. I hope it will prove so ; he's a par- 
 liament man only, colonel, you know there's some 
 danger in that. 
 
 Col. Oh, never fear, he'll pay his landlady, 
 though he don't pay his butcher. 
 
 Mrs. M'.t/i. His wife's a clever woman. 
 Col. So she is. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. How do you know ? 
 Col. I have seen her in the country, and I begin 
 to think I'll visit her in town. 
 
 Mrs. Hfoth. You begin to look like a rogne. 
 Col. What, your wicked fancied are stirring 
 already ? 
 
 Afrs. Moth. Yours are, or I'm mistaken. But 
 — I'll have none of your pranks played upon her. 
 Col. Why she's no girl, she can defend herself. 
 Airs. Moth, But what if she won't ? 
 Col. Whv, then, she can blame neither you nor me. 
 Airs. Aloth. You'll never be quiet till yon get 
 my windows broke ; but I must go and attend my 
 lodgers, so good night. 
 
 Col. Do so, and give my service to my lady, 
 and tell her, if she'll give me leave, I'll do myself 
 the honour to-morrow to come and tender my 
 services to her, as long as she stays in town. — 
 [Aside.l If it ben't too long. 
 
 Airs. Aloth. I'll tell her what a devil you are, 
 and advise her to have a care of you. 
 
 Col. Do, that will make her every time she sees 
 me think of what I'd be at. — [Font Mrs. Mother- 
 ly.] Dear Martilla, good night, I know you won't 
 be my hindrance ; I'll do you as good a turn some 
 time or other. Well, I am so glad, you don't love 
 me too much. 
 
 Alar. When that's our fate, as too, too oft we 
 prove, 
 How bitterly we pay the past delights of love 
 
 {Exfi'nl. 
 
A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 473 
 
 AOT II. 
 
 SCENE !. — A Roorr. i» Lord Loverui-e's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lord Loverule and Lady Arabella. 
 
 Lady Ara. Well, look you, my lord, I can bear 
 it no longer; nothing still but about my faults, my 
 faults I an agreeable subject truly I 
 
 hard hove. But, madam, if you won't hear of 
 your faults, how is it likely you should ever mend 
 'em? 
 
 Lady Ara. Why, I don't intend to mend 'em. 
 I can't mend 'em, I have told you so a hundred 
 times ; you know I have tried to do it, over and 
 over, and it hurts me so I can't bear it. Why, 
 don't you know, my lord, that whenever (just to 
 please you only) I have gone about to wean myself 
 from a fault (one of my faults I mean that I love 
 dearly), han't it put me so out of humour you 
 could scarce endure the house with me ? 
 
 Lord Love. Look you, my dear, it is very true, 
 that in weaning one's self from — 
 
 Lady Ara, Weaning ! why, ay, don't you see, 
 that even in weaning poor children from the purse 
 it's almost the death of 'em? and don't you see 
 your true religious people, when they go about to 
 wean themselves, and have solemn days of fasting 
 and praying, on purpose to help them, does it not 
 so disorder them, there's no coming near 'em ; are 
 they not as cross as the devil? and then they don't 
 do the business neither ; for next day their faults 
 are just where they were the day before. 
 
 Lord Love. But, madam, can you think it a rea- 
 sonable thing to he abroad till two o'clock in the 
 morning, when you know I go to bed at eleven ? 
 
 Lady Ara. And can you think it a wise thing 
 (to talk your own way now) to go to bed at 
 eleven, when you know I am likely to disturb you 
 by coming there at three ? 
 
 Lord Love. Well, the manner of women's living 
 of late is insupportable, and some way or other' — ' 
 
 Lady Ara. It's to he mended, I suppose. — Pray, 
 my lord, one word of fair argument. You com- 
 plain of ray late hours ; I of your early ones ; so 
 far we are even, you'll allow. But which gives us 
 the best figure in the eye of the polite world ? My 
 two o'clock speaks life, activity, spirit, and vigour ; 
 your eleven has a dull, drowsy, stupid, good-for- 
 nothing sound with it. It savours much of a me- 
 chanic, who must get to bed betimes that he may 
 rise early to open his shop, faugh ! 
 
 Lord Love. I thought to go to bed early and 
 rise so, was ever esteemed a right practice for all 
 people. 
 
 Lady Ara. Beasts do it. 
 
 Lord Love. Fy, fy, madam, fy! But 'tis not 
 your ill hours alone disturb me; hut the ill com- 
 pany who occasion those ill hours. 
 
 Lady Ara. And pray what ill company may 
 those be ? 
 
 Lord Love. Why, women that lose their money, 
 and men that win it : especially when 'tis to be 
 paid out of their husband's estate ; or if that fail, 
 and the creditor be a little pressing, the lady will 
 perhaps be obliged to try if the gentleman, instead 
 of gold, will accept of a trinket. 
 
 Lady Ara. My lord, you grow scurrilous, and 
 you'll make me hate you. I'll have yon to know 
 I keep company with the politest people in the 
 town, and the assemblies I frequent are full of such. 
 
 Lord Love. So are the churches now and then. 
 
 Lady Ara. My friends frequent them often, as 
 well as the assemblies. 
 
 Lord Love. They would do it oftener, if a groom 
 of the chamber there were allowed- to furnish cards 
 and dice to the company. 
 
 iMdy Ara. You'd make a woman mad ! 
 
 Lord Love. You'd make a man a fool. 
 
 Lady Ara. If Heaven has made you otherwise, 
 that won't be in my power. 
 
 Lord Love. I'll try if I can prevent your making 
 me a beggar at least. 
 
 Lady Ara. A beggar ! Croesus ! I'm out of 
 patience .' — I won't come home till four to-morrow 
 morning. 
 
 Lord Love. I'll order the doors to be locked at 
 twelve. 
 
 Lady Ara. Then I won't come home till to- 
 morrow night. 
 
 Lord Love. Then you shall never come home 
 again, madam. [-t'x:(. 
 
 hady Ara* There he has knocked me down. 
 My father upon our marriage said, wives were 
 come to that pass, he did not think it fit they 
 should be trusted with pin-money, and so would 
 not let this man settle one penny upon his poor 
 wife, to serve her at a dead lift for separate main- 
 tenance. 
 
 Enter Clabinda. 
 
 Clar. Good-morrow, madam; how do you do 
 to-dav ' you seem to-be in a little fluster. 
 
 Laity Ara. My lord has been in one, and as I 
 am the most complaisant poor creature in the 
 world, I put myself into one too, purely to be 
 suitable company to him. 
 
 Clar. You are prodigious good ; but surely it 
 must be mighty agreeable when a man and his wife 
 can give themselves the same turn of conversation. 
 
 Lady Ara. Oh, the prettiest thing in the world ! 
 
 Clar. But yet, though I believe there's no life 
 so happy as a married one, in the main ; yet I 
 fancy, where two people are so very much together, 
 they must bften be in want of something to talk 
 upon. 
 
 Lady Ara. Clarinda, you are the most mistaken 
 in the world ; married people have things to talk 
 of, child, that never enter into the imagination of 
 others. Why now, here's my lord and I, we han't 
 been married above two short years, you know, and 
 we have already eight or ten things constantly in 
 bank, that whenever we want company, we can 
 talk of any one of them for two hours together, 
 and the subject never the flatter. It will be as 
 fresh next day, if we have occasion for it, as it was 
 the first day it entertained us.. 
 
 Clar. Why that must be wonderful pretty. 
 
 Lady Ara. Oh, there's no life like it i This 
 very day now, for example, my lord and I, after a 
 pretty cheerful tiie-a-lite dinner, sat down by the 
 fireside, in an idle, indolent, picktoolh way for a 
 while, as if we had not thought of one another's 
 
474 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 being in the room. At last (siretcliing himself, 
 and yawning twice), ray dear, says he, you came 
 home very late last night. 'Twas but two in the 
 morning, says I. I was in bed (yawning) by 
 eleven, says he. So you are every night, says I. 
 Well, says he, I am amazed how you can sit up 
 so late. How can you be amazed, says I, at a 
 thing that happens so often ? Upon which we 
 entered into conversation. And thougli this is a 
 point has entertained us above fifty times already, 
 we always find so many pretty new things to say 
 npon't, that I believe in my soul it wiU last as long 
 as we live. 
 
 Clar. But in such sort of family dialogues 
 (though extremely well for passing of time) don't 
 there now and then enter some little witty sort of 
 bitterness ? 
 
 Lady Ara. yes ; which don't do amiss at all, 
 a little something that's sharp, moderates the 
 extreme sweetness of matrimonial society, which 
 vfould else perhaps be cloying. Though to tell 
 you the truth, Clarinda, I think we squeezed a 
 little too much lemon into it this bout ; for it 
 grew so sour at last, that I think I almost told him 
 he was a fool ; and he talked something oddly of 
 turning me out of doors. 
 
 Clar. Oh, but have a care of that ! 
 Lady Ara. Why, to be serious, Clarinda, what 
 would you have a woman do in my case ? There 
 is no one thing he can do in this world to please 
 me — except giving me money ; and that he is 
 growing weary of ; and I at the same time (partly 
 by nature, and partly perhaps by keeping the best 
 company) do with my soul love almost everything 
 that he hates. I dote upon assemblies, adore 
 masquerades, my heart bounds at a ball j 1 love 
 play to distraction, cards enchant me, and dice — 
 put me out of my little wits.— Dear, dear hazard, 
 what music there is in the rattle of the dice, com- 
 pared to a sleepy opera ! Do yon ever play at 
 hazard, Clarinda ? 
 
 Clar. Never; I don't think it sits well upon 
 women ; it's very masculine, and has too much of a 
 rake ; you see how it makes the mQW swear and 
 curse. Sure it must incline the women to do the 
 same too, if they durst give way to it. 
 
 Lady Ara. So it does ; but hitherto, for a little 
 
 decency, we keep it in ; and when, in spite of our 
 
 teeth, an oath gets into our mouths, we swallow it. 
 
 Clar. That's enough to burst you ; but in time 
 
 perhaps you'll let 'em fly as they do. 
 
 Lady Ara. Why 'tis probable we may, for the 
 pleasure of all polite women's lives now, you know, 
 is founded upon entire liberty to do what they will. 
 But shall I tell you what happened t'other night ? 
 Having lost all my money but ten melancholy 
 guineas, and throwing out for them, what do you 
 think slipped from me ? 
 Clar. An oath .' 
 Lady Ara. Gud soons ! 
 
 Clar. Lord ! O Lord ! did not it frighten 
 you out of your wits .' 
 
 Lady Ara. Clarinda, I thought a gun had gone 
 off. — But I forget, you are a prude, and design to 
 live soberly. 
 
 Clar. Why 'tis true ; both my nature and 
 education do in a good degree incline me that way; 
 Lady Ara. Well, surely to be sober is to be 
 ten-ibly duU. You will marry, won't you .' 
 Clar. I ciiii't tell but I may. 
 
 Lady Ara. And you'll live in town ? 
 Clar. Half the year I should like it very well. 
 Lady Ara. And you would live in London half 
 a year, to be sober in it ? 
 Clar. Yes. 
 
 Lady Ara. Why can't you as well go and be 
 sober in the country .' 
 
 Clar. So 1 would the t'other half year. 
 Lady Ara. And pray what pretty scheme of life ' 
 would yon form now, for your summer and winter 
 sober entertainments ? 
 
 Clar. A scheme that, I think, might very well 
 content us. 
 
 Lady Ara. Let's hear it. 
 
 Clar. I could in summer pass my time very 
 agreeably, in riding soberly, in walking soberly, in 
 sitting under a tree soberly, in gardening soberly, 
 in reading soberly, in hearing a little music soberly, 
 in conversing with some agreeable friends soberly, 
 in working soberly, in managing my family and 
 children (if I had any) soberly, and possibly by 
 these means I might induce my husband to be 
 as sober as myself. 
 
 Lady Ara. Well, Clarinda, thou art a most 
 contemptible creature. But let's have the sober 
 town scheme too, for I'm charmed with the coun- 
 try one. 
 
 Clar. You shall, and I'll try to stick to my 
 sobriety there too. 
 
 Lady Ara. If you do, you'll make me sick of 
 you. But let's hear it however. 
 
 Clar. I would entertain myself in observing the 
 new fashions soberly, I would please myself in new 
 clothes soberly, I would divert myself with agree- 
 able friends at home and abroad soberly, I would 
 play at quadrille soberly, I would go to court 
 soberly, I would go to some plays soberly, I would 
 go to operas soberly, and I think I could go once, 
 or, if I liked my company, twice to a masquerade 
 soberly. ' 
 
 Lady Ara. If it had not been for that last piece 
 of sobriety, I was going to call for some surfeit- 
 water. 
 
 Clar. Why don't you think, that with the fur- 
 ther aid of breakfasting, dining, supping, and 
 sleeping (not to say a word of devotion), the four- 
 and-twenty hours might roll over in a tolerable 
 manner ? 
 
 Lady Ara. How I detest that word, tolerable ! 
 And so will a country relation of ours, that's newly 
 come to town, or I'm mistaken. 
 Clar. Vi^ho is that ? 
 
 Lady Ara. Even my dear lady Headpiece. 
 Clar. Is she come ? 
 
 Lady Ara. Yes, her sort of a tolerable husband 
 has gotten to be chosen parliament-man at some 
 simple town or other, upon which she has persuaded 
 him to bring her and her folks up to London. 
 
 Clar. That's good ; I think she was never here 
 before. 
 
 Lady Ara. Not since she was nine years old ; 
 but she has had an outrageous mind to it ever since 
 she was married. 
 
 Clar. Then she'll make the most of it, I suppose, 
 now she is come, 
 
 Lady Ara. Depend upon that. 
 Clar. We must go and visit her. 
 Lady Ara. By all means ; and may be you'll 
 have a mind to offer her your tolerable scheme for 
 her London diversion this winter ; if you do, 
 
A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 475 
 
 mistress, I'll show her mine too, and you shall see 
 she'll so despise you and adore me, that if I do 
 but chirrup to her, she'll hop after me like a tame 
 sparrow, the town round. But there's your 
 admirer I see coming in, I'll oblige him, and leave 
 you to receive part of his visit, while I step up to 
 write a letter. Besides, to tell you the truth, I 
 don't like him half so well as I used to do ; he 
 falls off of late from being the company he was, in 
 our way. In short, I think he's growing to be a 
 little like my lord. IBxil. 
 
 l:ntcr Sir Ciiables. 
 Sir Char. Madam, your servant ; they told me 
 lady Arabella was here. 
 
 Clar, She's only stepped up to write a letter ; 
 she'll come down presently. 
 
 Sir Char. Why, does she write letters ? I 
 thought she had never time for't : pray how may 
 she have disposed of the rest of the day ? 
 
 Clar. A good deal as usual ; she has visits to 
 make till six ; she's then engaged to the play ; 
 from that till court-time she's to be at cards at 
 Mrs. Idle's ; after the drawing-room she takes a 
 short supper with lady Hazard, and from thence 
 they go together to the assembly. 
 
 Sir Char. And are you to do all this with her ? 
 
 Clar. The visits and the play, no more. 
 
 Sir Char. And how can you forbear all the rest ? 
 
 Clar. 'Tis easy to forbear what we are not very 
 fond of. 
 
 Sir Char. I han't found it so. I have passed 
 much of my life in this hurry of the ladies, yet was 
 never so pleased as when 1 was at quiet witliout 
 'em. 
 
 Clar. What then induced you to be with 'em ? 
 
 Sir Char. Idleness and the fashion. 
 
 Clar. No mistresses in the case ? 
 
 Sir Char. To speak honestly, yes. When one 
 is in a toyshop, there was no forbearing the bau- 
 bles; so I was perpetually engaging with some 
 coquette or other, whom I could love perhaps just 
 enough to put it into her power to plague me. 
 
 Clar. Which power I suppose she sometimes 
 made use of. 
 
 Sir Char. The amours of a coquette, madam, 
 generally mean nothing farther ; I look upon them 
 and prudes to be nuisances much alike, though they 
 seem very different : the first are always disturbing 
 the men, and the latter always abusing the women. 
 
 Clar. And all I think is to establish the cha- 
 racter of being virtuous. 
 
 Sir Char. That is, being chaste they mean, for 
 they know no other virtue ; therefore indulge them- 
 selves in everything else that's vicious ; they (against 
 nature) keep their chastity only because they find 
 more pleasure in doing mischief with it than they 
 should have in parting with it. But, madam, if 
 both these characters are so odious, how highly to 
 be valued is that woman who can attain all they 
 aim at without the aid of the folly or vice of 
 either ! 
 
 Re-enter Lady Ahasrlla. 
 
 Lady Ara- Your servant, sir. I won't ask your 
 pardon for leaving you alone a little with a lady 
 that I know shares so much of your good opinion. 
 
 Sir Char. I wish, madam, she could think my 
 good opinion of value enough to afford me a small 
 part in hers. 
 
 Lady Ara. I believe, sir, every woman, who 
 
 knows she has a place in a fine gentleman's good 
 opinion, will be glad to give him one in hers if she 
 can. But however you two may stand in one 
 another's, you must take another time if you desire 
 to talk farther about it, or we shan't have enough 
 to make our visits in ; and so your servant, sir. — 
 Come, Clarinda. 
 
 Sir Char. I'll stay and make my lord a visit, if 
 you will give me leave. 
 
 Lady Ara. You have my leave, sir, though you 
 were a lady. \_Exlt wiLh Clarinda, 
 
 Re-enter Lord Loveul-lk. 
 
 Lord Love. Sir Charles, your servant ; — what, 
 have the ladies left you ? 
 
 Sir Char. Yes ; and the ladies in general I hope 
 will leave me too. 
 
 Lord Love. Why so .' 
 
 Sir Char. That I mayn't be put to the ill-man- 
 ners of leaving them first. 
 
 Lord Love. Do you then already find your gal- 
 lantry inclining to an ebb ? 
 
 Sir Char. 'Tis not that I am yet old enough to 
 justify myself in an idle retreat, but I have got, I 
 think, a sort of surfeit on me that lessens much the 
 force of female charms. 
 
 Lord Love. Have you then been so glutted with 
 their favours ? 
 
 Sir Char, Not with their favours, but with their 
 service ; it is unmerciful. I once thought myself 
 a tolerable time-killer ; I drank, 1 played, 1 in- 
 trigued, and yet I had hours enow for reasonable 
 uses ; but he that will list himself a lady's man of 
 metal now, she'll work him so at cards and dice, 
 she won't aff'ord him time enough to play with her 
 at anything else, though s!ie herself should have a 
 tolerable good mind to it. 
 
 Lord Love. And so the disorderly lives they lead 
 make you incline to a reform of your own. 
 
 Sir Char. 'Tis true ; for bad examples (if they 
 are but bad enough) give us as useful reflections as 
 good ones do. 
 
 Lord Love. 'Tis pity anything that's bad should 
 come from women. 
 
 Sir Char. 'Tis so indeed ; and there was ahappy 
 time when both you and I thought there never 
 could. 
 
 Lord Love. Our early-first conceptions of them, 
 I well remember, were, that they never could be 
 vicious, nor never could be old. 
 
 Sir Char. We thought so then ; the beauteous 
 form we saw them cast in, seemed designed a 
 habitation for no vice, nor no decay ; all I had 
 conceived of angels I conceived of them ; true, 
 tender,gentle,modest, generous, constant, I thought 
 was writ in every feature ; and in my devotions, 
 Heaven, how did I adore thee, that blessings like 
 them should be the portion of such poor inferior 
 creatures as I took myself and all men else (com- 
 pared with them) to be !— But where's that adora- 
 tion now ? 
 
 Lmd Love. 'Tis with such fond youjig fools as 
 you and I were then. 
 
 Sir Char. And with such it ever will be. 
 
 Lord Love. Ever. The pleasure is so great in 
 believing women to be what we wish them, that 
 nothing but a long and sharp experience can ever 
 make us think them otherwise. That experience, 
 friend, both you and I have had ; but yours has 
 been at other men's expense ; mine — at my own. 
 
470 
 
 A JOURNEY TO I-ONUON. 
 
 AOT IIT. 
 
 Sir Char. Perhaps you'd wonder should you 
 find me disposed to run the risk of that experience 
 too. 
 
 Lord Love. I should indeed. 
 
 Mr Char. And yet 'tis possible I may ; know, 
 at least, I still have so much of my early folly left, 
 to think there's yet one woman fit to make a wife 
 of. How far such a one can answer the charms of 
 a mistress, married men are silent in, so pass — for 
 that, I'd take my chance; but could she make a 
 home easy to hei- partner, by letting him find there 
 a cheerful companion, an agreeable intimate, a 
 useful assistant, a faithful friend, and (in its time 
 perhaps) a tender mother, such change of life, 
 irom what I lead, seems not unwise to think of. 
 
 Lord Love. Not unwise to purchase, if to be 
 had for millions ; but — 
 
 Sir Char. But what ? 
 
 Lord Love. If the reverse of this should chance 
 to be the bitter disappointment, what would the 
 life be then ? 
 
 Sir Char. A damned one. 
 
 Lord Love. And what relief ? 
 
 Sir Char. A short one ; leave it, and return to 
 that you left, if you can't find a better. 
 
 Lord Love. [Aside.'] He says right. ^That's 
 the remedy, and a just one. — ;^or if I sell my li- 
 
 berty for gold, and I am foully paid in brass, shall 
 I be held to keep the bargain ? 
 
 Sir Char. What are you thinking of? 
 
 Lord Love. Of what you have said. 
 
 Sir Char. And was it well said .' 
 
 Lord Love. I begin to think it might. 
 
 Sir Char. Think on, 'twill give you ease. — The 
 man who has courage enough to part with a wife, 
 need not much dread the having one ; and he that 
 has not ought to tremble at being a husband.— 
 But perhaps I have said too much ; you'll pardon, 
 however, the freedom of an old friend, because 
 you know I am so ; so your servant. 
 
 Lord Love. Charles, farewell I I can take no- 
 thing as ill meant that comes from you. — [Exit Sir 
 Charles.] Nor ought my wife to think I mean 
 amiss to her, if I convince her I'll endure no 
 longer that she should thus expose herself and me. 
 No doubt 'twill grieve her sorely. Physic's a 
 loathsome thing till we find it gives us health, and 
 then we are thankful to those who made us take it. 
 Perhaps she may do so by me ; if she does 'tis well ; 
 if not, and she resolves to make the house ring 
 with reprisals, I believe (though the misfortune's 
 great) he'll make a better figure in the world who 
 keeps an ill wife out of doors than he that keeps 
 her within. ^ExH. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 SCENE I. — A lioom inMrs. MoTaEti.i.Y's House. 
 Enter Lady'HEADprECB and Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 inrfy Head. So, you are acquainted with Lady 
 Arabella, I find. 
 
 Mrs Moth. Oh, madam, I have had the hon- 
 our to know her ladyship almost from a child, and 
 a charming woman she has made. 
 
 Lady Head. 1 like her prodigiously ; I had 
 some acquaintance with her in the country two 
 years ago ; but she's quite another woman here. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Ah, madam, two years keeping 
 company with the polite people of the town will 
 do wonders in the improvement of a lady, so she 
 has it but about her. 
 
 Lady Head. Now 'tis ray misfortune, Mrs. 
 Motherly, to come late to school. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Oh ! don't be discouraged at that, 
 madam, the quickness ot your ladysliip's parts will 
 easily recover your loss of a little time. 
 
 Lady Head. Oh, you flatter me ! But I'll en- 
 deavour, by industry and application, to make it 
 up ; such parts as I have shall not lie idle. My 
 lady Arabella has been so good to offer me already 
 her introduction to those assemblies where a woman 
 may soonest leam to make herself valuable to 
 everybody. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. [Aside."] But her husband.- — 
 [Aloud.] Her ladyship, madam, can indeed, better 
 than anybody, introduce you where everything 
 that accomplishes a fine lady is practised to the 
 last perfection. Madam, she herself is at the very 
 tip top of it — 'tis pity, poor lady, she should meet 
 with any discouragements. 
 
 Lady .Jxead, Discouragements ! from whence 
 pray r 
 
 ATrs. Moth. From home sometimes — my loid 
 a — ' 
 
 Ladi/ Head. 'Wliat does he do ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. But one should not talk of people 
 of quality's family concerns. 
 
 Lady Head. Oh, no matter, Mrs. Motherly, as 
 long as it goes no farther. My lord, you were 
 saying— 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Why, my lord, madam, is a little 
 humoursome, they say. 
 
 Lady Head. Humoursome ! 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Yes, they say he's humoursome. 
 
 Lady Head. As how, pray ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Why, if my poor lady perhaps does 
 but stay out at night maybe four or five hours 
 after he's in bed. he'll be cross. 
 
 Lady Head. What, for such a thing as that ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Yes, he'll be cross; and then, if 
 she happens, it may be, to be unfortunate at play, 
 and lose a great deal of money, more than she has 
 to pay, then madam — he'll snub. 
 
 Lady Head. Out upon him, snub such a woman 
 as she is ? I can tell you, Mrs. Motherly, I that 
 am but a country lady, should sir Francis take 
 upon him to snub me, in London, he'd raise a 
 spirit would make his hair stand an end. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Really, madam, that's the only way 
 to deal with 'em. 
 
 J^nier Miss BKirr. 
 
 And here comes pretty Miss Betty, that I be- 
 lieve will never be made a fool of when she's 
 married. 
 
 Miss Bet. No, by my troth won't I. What, 
 are you talking of my being married, mother ? 
 
 Lady Head. No, miss ; Mrs. Motherly was only 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 477 
 
 saying what a good wife you would make wlien you 
 were so. 
 
 Miss Bet. The sooner it's tried, mother, the 
 sooner it will he known. — Lord, here's the colonel, 
 madam. 
 
 Enter Colonel Courtly. 
 
 Lady Head. Colonel, your servant. 
 
 Miss Bet. Your servaot, colonel. 
 
 Col. Ladies, your most obedient. — I hope, ma- 
 dam, the town air continues to agree with you .'' 
 
 Lady Head. Mighty well, sir. 
 
 Miss Bet. Oh, prodigious well, sir. We have 
 bought a new coach, and an ocean of new clothes, 
 and we are to go to the play to-night, and to-mor- 
 row we go to the opera, and next night we go to 
 the assembly, and then the next night after, we — 
 
 Lady Head. Softly, miss. — Do you go to the 
 play to-night, colonel } 
 
 Col. I did not design it, madam ; but now I find 
 there is to be such good company, I'll do myself 
 the honour (if you'll give me leave, ladies) to come 
 and lead you to your coach. 
 
 Lady Head. It's extremely obliging. 
 
 Miss Bet. It is, indeed, mighty well-bred. — 
 Lord, colonel, what a difference there is between 
 your way and our country companions ! One of 
 them would have said, What, you are aw gooing to 
 the playhouse, then ? Yes, says we, won't you 
 come and lead us out ? No, by good feggings, says 
 he, ye ma* e'en ta' care o' yoursels, y' are awd 
 enough ; and so he'd ha' gone to get drunk at the 
 tavern against we came home to supper. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Ha ! ha ! ha ! well, sure madam, 
 your ladyship is the happiest mother in the world 
 to have such a charming - companion to your 
 daughter. 
 
 Col. The prettiest creature upon earth ! 
 
 Miss Bet. D'ye hear that, mother ? Well, he's 
 a fine gentleman really, and 1 think a man of ad- 
 mirable sense. 
 
 Lady Head. Softly, miss, he'll hear you. 
 
 Miss Bet. If he does, madam, he'll think I say 
 true, and he'll like me never the worse for that, I 
 hope. — Where's your niece Martilla, Mrs. Mo- 
 therly .' — Mama, won't you carry Martilla to the 
 play with us .'' 
 
 Lady Head. With all my heart, child. 
 
 Col. She's a very pretty civil sort of woman, 
 madam, and miss will be very happy in having 
 such a companion in the house with her. 
 
 Miss Bet. So I shall indeed, sir, and I love her 
 dearly already, we are growing very great together. 
 
 Lady Head But what's become of your brother, 
 child } I haa't seen him these two hours, where 
 is he ? 
 
 Miss Bet. Indeed, mother, I don't know where 
 he is ; I saw him asleep about half an hour ago by 
 the kitchen fire. 
 
 Col. Must not he go to the play too ? 
 
 Lady Head. Yes, I think he should go, though 
 he'll be weary on't before it's half done. 
 
 Miss Bet. Weary ! yes, and then he'll sit, and 
 yawn, and stretch like a greyhound by the fireside, 
 till he does some nasty thing or other, that they'll 
 turn him out of the house, so it's better to leave 
 him at home. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Oh, that were pity, miss. Plays 
 
 will enliven him See, here he coines, and my 
 
 niece with liim. 
 
 Enter Squiro HuMpimv and Martilla, 
 
 Col. Your servant, sir ; you come in good time, 
 the ladies are all going to the play, and wanted 
 you to help gallant them. 
 
 Squire Hum. And so 'twill be nine o'clock be- 
 fore one shall get ony supper ! 
 
 Miss Bet. Supper ! why your dinner is not out 
 of your mouth yet, at least 'tis all about the brims 
 of it. — See how greasy his chaps is, mother. 
 
 Lady Head. Nay, if he han't a mind to go, he 
 
 need not You may stay here till your father 
 
 comes home from the parliament house, and then 
 you may eat a broiled bone together. 
 
 Miss Bet. Yes, and drink a tankard of strong 
 beer together, and then he may tell you all he has 
 been doing in the parliament house, and you inny 
 tell him all you have been thinking of when you 
 were asleep in the kitchen ; and then if you'll put 
 it all down in writing, when we come from the piay, 
 I'll read it to the company. 
 
 Squire Hum. Sister I don't like your joking, 
 and you are not a well-behaved young woman: and 
 although my mother encourages you, my thoughts 
 are, you are not too big to be whipped. 
 
 Miss Bet. How, sirrah ? 
 
 Squire Hum. There's a civil young gentlewoman 
 stands there is worth a hundred of you. And I 
 believe she'll he married before you. 
 
 Miss Bet. Cots my life, I have a good mind to 
 pull your eyes out ! 
 
 Lady Head. Hold, miss, hold, don't be in such 
 a passion neither. 
 
 Miss Bet. Mama, it is not that I am angry at 
 anything he says to commend Martilla, for 1 wish 
 she were to be married to-morrow, that I miglit 
 have a dance at her wedding ; but what need he 
 abuse me for ? — 'iAside.'] 1 wish the lout had 
 mettle enough to be in love with her, she'd make 
 pure sport with him.— [..l/ourf.] Does your lieavi- 
 ness find any inclinations moving towards the lady 
 you admire ? — Speak ! are you in love with her ? 
 
 Squire Hum. I am in love with nobody ; and if 
 anybody be in love with me, mayhap they had as 
 good be quiet. 
 
 Miss Bet. Hold your tongue, I'm quite sick of 
 you. — Come, Martilla, you are to go to the play 
 with us. 
 
 Marl. Am I, miss ? I am ready to wait iipon 
 you. 
 
 Lady Head. I believe it's time we should be 
 going, colonel, is not it .■' 
 
 Col. Yes, madam, I believe it is. 
 
 Lady Head, Come then ; who is there ? 
 
 Enter Tom. 
 Is the coach at the door ? 
 
 Tom. It has been there this hafe haur, so please 
 your ladyship. 
 
 Miss Bet. And are all the people in the street 
 gazing at it, Tom .' 
 
 Tom. That are they, madam ; and Roger has 
 drank so much of his own beverage, that he's e'en 
 as it were gotten a little drunk. 
 
 Lady Head. Not so drunk, I hope, but that he 
 can drive us ? 
 
 Tom. Yes, yes, madam, he drives best when he's 
 a little upish. When Roger's head turns, raund go 
 the wheels, i'faith. 
 
 Miss Bet. Never fear, mama, as long as it's 
 to the playhouse there's no danger. 
 
478 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 Lady Head. Well, daughter, since you are so 
 courageous, it shan't be said I make any difficulty; 
 and if the colonel is so gallant to have a mind to 
 share our danger, we have room for him, if he 
 pleases. 
 
 Col. Madam, you do me a great deal of honour, 
 and I'm sure you give me a great deal of pleasure. 
 Miss Bet. Come, dear mama, away we go, 
 [ExcMni Lady HiiADPiECE,MissBETTY, Colonel Courtly, 
 
 and Tom. 
 Squire Hum. [ To Martii.la.] I did not think 
 you would have gone. 
 
 Mart. Oh, I love a play dearly. iExit. 
 
 Mrs. Motlt. I wonder, squire, that you would 
 not go to the play with 'em. 
 
 Squire Hum. What needed Martilla have gone ? 
 they were enow without her. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Oh, she was glad to go to divert 
 herself ; and, besides, my lady desired her to go 
 with them. 
 
 Squire Hum. And so I'm left alone i 
 Mrs. Moth. Why, ghould you have cared for 
 her company ? 
 
 Squire Hum. Rather than none. 
 Mrs. Moth. [Aside.] On my conscience he's 
 ready to cry ; this is matter to think of ; but here 
 conies sir Francis. 
 
 Enter Sir Francis. 
 How do you do, sir ? I'm afraid these late parlia- 
 ment hours won't agree with you. 
 
 Sir Fran. Indeed, I like them not, Mrs. Mo- 
 therly ; if they would dine at twelve o'clock as we 
 do in the country, a man might be able to drink a 
 reasonable bottle between that and supper-time. 
 
 J/rs. Moth. That would be much better indeed, 
 sir Francis. 
 
 Sir Fran. But then when we consider that what 
 we undergo is in being busy for the good of our 
 country. — Oh, the good of our country is above all 
 things ! What a noble and glorious thing it is, 
 Ivlrs. Motherly, that England can boast of five 
 hundred zealous gentlemen, all in one room, all of 
 one mind, upon a fair occasion, to go all together by 
 the ears for the good of their country ! — Humphry, 
 perhaps you'll be a senator in time, as your father is 
 now ; when you are, remember your country ; spare 
 nothing for the good of your country ; and when 
 you come home at the end of the sessions, you will 
 find yourself so adored, that your country will come 
 and dine with you every day in the week. — Oh, 
 here's my uncle Richard. 
 
 Enter Uncle IxICHARD. 
 Mrs. Moth. I think, sir, I had best get you a 
 mouthful of something to stay your stomach till 
 supper. 
 
 Sir Fran. With all ray heart, for I'm almost 
 
 famished. lExit Mrs. JIotherly. 
 
 Squire Hum. And so shall I before my mother 
 
 comes from the playhouse, so I'll go get a buttered 
 
 toast. [■E'J.-if. 
 
 Sir Fran. Uncle, I hope you are well. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Nephew, if I had been sick I would 
 
 not have come abroad ; I suppose you are well, for 
 
 i I sent this morning and was informed you went 
 
 ! out early ; was it to make your court to some of 
 
 1 the great men ? 
 
 j Sir I' ran. Yes, uncle, I was advised to lose no 
 ' time, so 1 went to one great man whom I had never 
 I seen before. 
 
 Une. Rich. And who had you got to introduce 
 you ? 
 
 Sir Fran. Nobody. I remembered I had heard 
 a wise man say, My son, be bold ; so I introduced 
 myself. 
 
 Unc. Rich. As how, I pray .' 
 Sir Fran. Why thus, uncle ; Please your lord- 
 ship, says I, I am sir Francis Headpiece, of Head- 
 piece-hall, and member of parliament for the 
 ancient borough of Gobble-guinea. Sir, your hum- 
 ble servant, says my lord, though I have not the 
 honour to know your person, I have heard you are 
 a very honest gentleman, and I am very glad your 
 borough has made choice of so worthy a represen- 
 tative ; have you any service to command me ? 
 Those last words, uncle, gave me great encourage- 
 ment ; and though I know you have not any very 
 great opinion of my parts, I believe you won't say 
 I missed it now. 
 
 Unc. Rich. I hope I shall have no cause. 
 iSii" Fran. My lord, says I, I did not design to 
 say anything to your lordship to-day about busi- 
 ness ; but since your lordship is so kind and free, 
 as to bid me speak if I have any service to com- 
 mand you, I will. 
 Unc. Rich. So ! 
 
 Sir Fran. I have, says I, my lord, a good estate, 
 but it's a little aut at elbows, and as I desire to 
 serve my king as well as my country, I shall be 
 very willing to accept of a place at court. 
 line. Rich. This was bold indeed. 
 Sir Fran. Ecod, I shot him flying, uncle ; 
 another man would have been a month before he 
 durst have opened his mauth about a place. But 
 you shall hear. Sir Francis, says my lord, what 
 sort of a place may you have turned your thoughts 
 upon .' My lord, says I, beggars must not be 
 choosers ; but some place about a thousand a-year, 
 I believe, might do pretty weel to begin with. Sii 
 Francis, says he, I shall be glad to serve you iu 
 anything I can ; and in saying these words he gave 
 me a squeeze by the hand, as much as to say, I'll 
 do your business. And so he turned to a lord that 
 was there, who looked as if he came for a place 
 too. 
 
 Unc. Rich. And so your fortune's made 'r 
 Sir Fran. Don't you think so, uncle .' 
 Unc. Rich. Yes, for just so mine was made — 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 Sir Fran. Why, I never knew you had a place, 
 uncle 1 
 
 Unc. Rich. Nor I neither, upon my faith, ne- 
 phew. But you have been down at the house since 
 you made your court, have not you ? 
 
 Sir Fran. O yes ; I would not neglect the house 
 for ever so much. 
 
 Unc. Rich. And what may they have done there 
 to-d.iy, I pray? 
 
 Sir Fran. Why truly, uncle, I cannot well tell 
 what they did. Bat I'll tell you what I did : I 
 ha;ipened to make a little sort of a mistake. 
 Unc. Rich. How was that ? 
 Sir Fran. Why you must know, uncle, they 
 were all got into a sort of a hodge-podge argument 
 for the good of the nation, which I did not well 
 understand. However, I was convinced, and so 
 resolved to vote aright, according to my conscience; 
 but they made such a puzzling business on't, when 
 they put the question, as they call it, that, I believe, 
 I cried ay when I should have cried no ; for a sort 
 
A JOURNEY I'O LONDON. 
 
 4.y'J 
 
 of a Jacobite that sate next me, took me by the 
 hand, and said, — Sir, you are a man of honour, and 
 a true Englishman, and I should be glad to be bet- 
 ter acquainted with you ; and so he pulled me along 
 with the crowd into the lobby with him, when, I 
 believe, I should have staid where T was. 
 
 Unc. Rich. And so, if you had not quite made 
 your fortune before, you have clenched it now. — 
 [Aside ] Ah, thou head of the Headpieces ! — 
 [Aloud.] How now, what's the matter here ? 
 
 Re-enter Lady Headpiece, Miss Betty, Colonel Courtly, 
 Squire Humphry, and Martilla, in disorder^ some 
 dirty, some lame, some bloody. 
 
 Sir Fran. Mercy on us ! they are all killed. 
 
 Miss Bet. Not for a thousand pounds ; but we 
 have been all down in the dirt together. 
 
 I.ady Head. We have had a sad piece of work 
 on't, sir Francis ; overturned in the channel as we 
 were going to the playhouse. 
 
 Miss Bet. Over and over, papa ; had it been 
 coming from the playhouse I should not have cared 
 a farthing. 
 
 Sir Fran. But, child, you are hurt, your face is 
 all bloody. 
 
 Miss Bet. O sir, ray new gown is all dirty. 
 
 Lady Head. The new coach is all spoiled. 
 
 JMiss Bet. The glasses are all to bits. 
 
 Lady Head. Roger has put out liis arm. 
 
 Miss Bet. Would he had put out his neck for 
 making us lose the play ! 
 
 Squire Hum. Poor Martilla has scratched lier 
 little finger. 
 
 Lady Head. And here's the poor colonel, no- 
 body asks what he has done I hope, sir, you have 
 
 got no harm ? 
 
 Col. Only a little wounded with some pins I 
 met with about your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Head. I am sorry anything about me 
 should do you harm. 
 
 Col. If it does, madam, you have that about you, 
 if you please, will be my cure. I hope your lady- 
 ship feels nothing amiss ? 
 
 Lady Head. Notliing at all, though we did roll 
 about together strangely. 
 
 Col. We did indeed. I'm sure we rolled so, 
 that my poor hands were got once — T don't know 
 where they were got. — But her ladyship I see will 
 pass by slips. iAside. 
 
 Sir Fran. It would have been pity the colonel 
 should have received any damage in his services to 
 the ladies ; he is the most complaisant man to 'em, 
 uncle ; always ready when tiiey have occasion for 
 him. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Then I believe, nephew, they'll never 
 let him want business. 
 
 Sir Fran. Oh, but they should not ride the free 
 horse to death neither. — Come, colonel, you'll stay 
 and drink a bottle, and eat a little supper with us, 
 after your misfortune ? 
 
 Col. Sir, since I have been prevented from at- 
 tending the ladies to the play, I shall be very proud 
 to obey their commands here at home. 
 
 Sir Fran. A prodigious civil gentleman, uncle ; 
 and yet as bold as Alexander upon occasion. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Upon a lady's occasion. 
 
 Sir Fran. Ha, ha, you are a wag, uncle ! but J 
 believe he'd storm anything. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Then I believe your citadel may be 
 in danger. [_Aside. 
 
 Sir Fran. Uncle, won't you break your rule for 
 once, and sup from home ? 
 
 Unc. Rich. The company will excuse me, ne- 
 phew ; they'll be freer without me ; so good night 
 to them and you. 
 
 Lady Head. Good night to you, sir, since you 
 won't stay Come, colonel. 
 
 Unc. Rich. [Aside.'\ Methinks this facetious 
 colonel is got upon a pretty, familiar, easy foot 
 already with the family of the Headpieces — hum, 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Sir Fran. Come, my lady, let's all in, and pas? 
 the evening cheerfully. And d'ye hear, wife — a 
 word in your ear — I have got a promise of a place 
 in court, of a thousand a-year, he, hem I lExeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — Lady Arabella's Dressing-room. 
 
 Enter Lady Arabella, as just up, walking pensively to 
 her toilet, followed by Trusty. 
 
 Lady Ara. Well, sure never woman had such 
 luck ! — these devilish dice ! — Sit up all night ; 
 lose all one's money, and then — how like a hag I 
 look ! — [Sits at her toilet, turning her purse 
 inside out.'] Not a guinea — worth less by a hun- 
 dred pounds than I was at one a clock this morn- 
 ing — and then — I was worth nothing — what is to 
 be done, Trusty ? 
 
 Trus. I wish I were wise enough to tell you, 
 madam : but if there comes in any good company 
 to breakfast with your ladyship, perhaps you may 
 jiave a run of better fortune. 
 
 Lady Ara. But I han't a guinea to try my for- 
 tune. — Let me see — who was that impertinent man, 
 that was so saucy last week about money, that I 
 
 was forced to promise, once more, he should have 
 what I owed him this morning ? 
 
 Trus. Oh, I remember, madam ; it was your 
 old mercer Shortyard, that you turned o.*f a year 
 ago, because he would trust you no longer. 
 
 Lady Ara. That's true ; and I think I bid the 
 steward keep thirty guineas out of some money he 
 was paying me, to stop his odio\is mouth. 
 
 Trus. Your ladyship did so. 
 
 Lady Ara. Prithee, Trusty, run and see whe- 
 tlier the wretch has got the money yet ; if not, tell 
 the steward I have occasion for it myself; run 
 quickly. [Trusty runs to the door. 
 
 Trus. Ah, madam, he's just a-paying it away 
 now, in the hall. 
 
 Lady Ara. Stop him ! quick, quick, dear Trusty. 
 
 Trus. Hem, hem, Mr, Moneybag, a word with 
 you quickly. 
 
 Mon. [IVithin,] I'll come presently. 
 
430 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 Trus. Presently won't do, you must come this 
 moment. 
 
 Mon. I'm but just paying a little money. 
 
 Trxis. Cods my life, paying money ! is the man 
 distracted? Come here, I tell you, to my lady 
 this moment, quick. 
 
 Enter Monevsas to the door, milh a purse in his hand. 
 My lady says, you must not pay the money to-day, 
 there's a mistake in the account, which she must 
 examine ; and she's afraid too there was a false 
 guinea or two left in the purse, which might dis- 
 grace her. — [Twitches the purse from /Mm.] But 
 she's too busy to look for 'em just now, so you 
 must bid Mr. What-d'ye-call-'em come another 
 time. — [Exit Moneybag.] There they are, 
 madam. — [Gives Lady Arabella the monet/.] 
 The poor things were so near gone they made me 
 tremble. I fancy your ladyship will give me one 
 of those false guineas for good luck. — [Talces a 
 guinea-l Thank you, madam. 
 
 Lady Ara. Why, I did not bid you take it. 
 
 Trus. No, but your ladyship looked as if you 
 were just going to bid me, so I took it to save your 
 ladyship the trouble of speaking. 
 
 Lady Ara. Well, for once — but hark — I think 
 I hear the man making a noise yonder. 
 
 Trus. Nay, I don't expect he'll go out of the 
 house quietly. I'll listen. 
 
 Lady Ara. Do. [Trusty goes to the door. 
 
 Trus. He's in a bitter passion with poor Money- 
 bag J I believe he'll beat him. — Lord, how he 
 swears ! 
 
 Lady Ara. And a sober citizen too ! that's a 
 shame. 
 
 Trus. He says he will speak with you, madam, 
 though the devil held your door. — Lord ! he's 
 coming hither full drive, but I'll lock him out. 
 
 Lady Ara. No matter, let him come : I'll 
 reason with him. 
 
 Trus. But he's a saucy fellow for all that. 
 
 Enter Shortyabd. 
 Wliat would you have, sir? 
 
 Short. I would have my due, mistress. 
 
 Trus. Tliat would be — to be well cudgelled, 
 master, for coming so familiarly where you should 
 not come. 
 
 Lady Ara. Do you think you do well, sir, to 
 intrude into my dressing-room ? 
 
 Short. Madam. I sold my goods to you in your 
 dressing-room, I don't know why I mayn't ask 
 tor my money there. 
 
 Lady Ara. You are very short, sir. 
 
 Short. Your ladyship won't complain of my 
 patience being so ? 
 
 Lady Ara. I complain of nothing that ought 
 not to be complained of ; but I hate ill manners. 
 
 Short. So do I, madam — but this is the seven- 
 teenth time I have been ordered to come, with 
 good manners, for my money, to no purpose. 
 
 Lady Ara. Your money, man ! is that the 
 matter ? Why it has lain in the steward's hands 
 this week for you. 
 
 Short. Madam, you yourself appointed me to 
 come this very morning for it. 
 
 Lady Ara. But why did you come so late then ? 
 
 Short. So late ! I came soon enough, I thought. 
 
 I.ady Ara. That thinking wrong makes us 
 liable to a world of disappointments; if you had 
 
 thought of coming one minute sooner, you had 
 had your money. 
 
 Short. Gad Ijless me, madam ; I had the money 
 as I thought, I'm sure it was telling out, and I was 
 writing a receipt for't. 
 
 Trus. Why, there you thought wrong again, 
 master. 
 
 Lady Ara. Yes, for you should never think of 
 writing a receipt till the money is in your pocket. 
 
 Short. Why, I did think 'twas in my pocket. 
 
 2'rus. Look you, thinking again ! Indeed, Mr. 
 Shortyard, you make so many blunders, 'tis impos- 
 sible but you must suffer by it, in your way of 
 trade. I'm sorry for you, and you'll be undone. 
 
 Short. And well I may, when I sell my goods to 
 people that won't pay me for 'em, till the interest 
 of my money eats out all my profit : I sold them 
 so cheap, because I thought I should be paid the 
 next day. 
 
 Trus. Why, there again ! there's another of 
 your thoughts. Paid the next day ! and you han't 
 been paid this twelvemonth, you see. 
 
 Short. Oous, I han't been paid at all, mistress. 
 
 Lady Ara. Well, tradesmen are strange, unrea- 
 sonable creatures, refuse to sell people any more 
 things, and then quarrel with *em because they 
 don't pay for those they have had already. Now, 
 what can you say to that, Mr. Shortyard ? 
 
 Short. Say! why — 'sdeath, madam, I don't know 
 what you talk of, I don't understand your argu- 
 ment. 
 
 Lady Ara. Why, what do you understand, man ? 
 
 Short. Why, I understand that I have had above 
 a hundred pounds due to me a year ago ; that I 
 came by appointment just now to receive it ; that 
 it proved at last to be but thirty instead of a hun- 
 dred and ten ; and that, while the steward was 
 telling even that out, and I was writing the receipt, 
 comes Mrs. Pop here, and the money was gone. 
 But I'll be bantered no longer if there's law in 
 England. Say no more, Shortyard. iExit. 
 
 Trus. What a passion the poor devil's in ! 
 
 Lady Ara. Why, truly, one can't deny but he has 
 some present cause for a little ill-humour ; but when 
 one has things of so much greater consequence on 
 foot, one can't trouble oneself about mailing such 
 creatures easy ; so call for breakfast. Trusty, and 
 set the hazard-table ready ; if there comes no com- 
 pany I'll play a little by myself. 
 
 Enter Lord Lovbrule. 
 
 Lord Love. Pray what offence, madam, have 
 you given to a man I met with just now as I came 
 in? 
 
 Lady Ara. People who are apt to take offence 
 do it for small matters, you know. 
 
 Lord Love. I shall be glad to find this so ; but 
 he says that you have owed him above a hundred 
 pounds this twelvemonth ; that he has been here 
 forty times by appointment for it, to no purpose ; 
 and that coming here this morning upon positive 
 assurance from yourself, he was tricked out of the 
 money while he was writing a receipt for it, and 
 sent away without a farthing. 
 
 Lady Ara. Lord, how these shopkeepers will 
 lie! 
 
 Lord Love. What then is the business ? For 
 some ground the man must have to be in such a 
 passion. 
 
 Lady Ara. I believe you'll ratlier wonder to see 
 
A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 481 
 
 me so calm, when I tell you he had the insolence to 
 Intrude into my very dressing-room here, with a 
 
 story without a head or tail You Icnow, Trusty, 
 
 we could not understand one word he said, but 
 when he swore — good Lord ! how the wretch did 
 swear ! 
 
 Trus. I never heard the like, for my part. 
 
 I,ord Love. And all this for nothing .' 
 
 Lady Ara, So it proved, my lord, for he got 
 nothing by it. 
 
 Lord Love, His swearing I suppose was for his 
 money, madam. Who can blame him ? 
 
 Lady Ara. If he swore for money he should be 
 put in the pillory. 
 
 Lord Love. Madam, I won't be bantered, nor 
 sued by this man for your extravagances. Do you 
 owe him the money or not .'' 
 
 I,ady Ara. He says 1 do, but such fellows will 
 say anything. 
 
 Lord Love. [^Aside.'] Provoking ! — lAloud.'\ 
 Did not I desire an account from you, of all 
 your debts, but six months since, and give you 
 money to clear them .'' 
 
 Lady Ara. My lord, you can't imagine how 
 accounts make my head ache. 
 
 Lord Love. That won't do. The steward gave 
 you two hundred pounds besides but last week ; 
 Where's that ? 
 
 Lady Ara. Gone. 
 
 Lord Love. Gone ! where .'' 
 
 Lady Ara. Half the town over I believe by this 
 time. 
 
 Lord Love. Madam, madam, this can be endured 
 no longer ! and before a month passes expect to Stid 
 me — 
 
 Lady Ara. Hist, my lord, here's company. 
 
 Enter Captain ToupfiB. 
 
 Captain Toupee, your servant ; what, nobody with 
 you ? do yon come quite alone ? 
 
 Capl. 'Slife, I thought to find company enough 
 
 here My lord, your servant. — What a dense, you 
 
 look as if you had been up all night. I'm sure I 
 was in bed but three hours ; I would vou'd give me 
 some coffee. 
 
 Lady Ara. Some coffee there, tea too, and cho- 
 colate. iExrt Trusts. 
 Capt. [Singing a minuet and dancing.'] Well, 
 what a strange fellow am I to be thus brisk, after 
 losing all my money last night !^ — But upon my soul 
 you look sadly. 
 
 Lady Ara. No matter for that, if you'll let me 
 win a little of your money this morning. 
 
 Capi. What, with that face ? Go, go wash it, 
 go wash it, and put on some handsome things ; you 
 looked a good likely woman last night ; I would not 
 much have cared if you had run five hundred 
 pounds in my debt ; but if I play with you this 
 morning, egad I'd advise you to win, for I 
 won't take your personal security at present for a 
 guinea. 
 
 Lord Love. [Aside.] To what a nauseous free- 
 dom do women of quality of late admit these 
 triflmg fops ? and there's a morning exercise will 
 give 'em claim to greater freedoms still. — [Points 
 to the hazard-table.] Some course must be taken. 
 
 Capl. What, is my lord gone ? He looked me- 
 tbought as if he did not delight much in my com- 
 pany. Well, peace and plenty attend him for your 
 
 ladyship's sake, and those — who have now and then 
 the honour to win a hundred pounds of you. 
 
 [.Goes to the table singing and ihrows. 
 
 Lady Ara. [Twitching the box from , him.] 
 What, do you intend to win all the money upon the 
 table? — Seven's the main — set me a million, 
 Toupee. 
 
 Capt, I set you two, my queen — six to seven ! 
 
 Lady Ara, Six. — The world's my own. 
 
 Both, Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Lady Ara, Oh, thatmylord had but spirit enough 
 about him to let me play for a thousand pounds 
 a night — but here comes country company. 
 
 Enter Lady Headpiece, Miss Bbttv, Mrs. MoTHiiW.v, 
 and Colonel Courtly. 
 
 Your servant, madam, good morrow to you. 
 
 Lady Head, And to you, madam, we are come 
 to breakfast with you. Lord, are you got to those 
 pretty things already ! [Points to the dice. 
 
 Lady Ara. You see we are not such idle folks in 
 town as you country ladies take us to be ; we are 
 no sooner out of our beds, but we are at our work. 
 
 Miss Bet, Will dear lady Arabella give us leave, 
 mother, to do a stitch or two with her ? 
 
 [Takes the box and throws, 
 
 Capt, The pretty lively thing ! 
 
 Lady Ara. With all her heart ; what says your 
 mama ? 
 
 Lady Head. She says, she don't love to sit v/ith 
 her hands before her, when other people's are em- 
 ployed. 
 
 Capt. And this is the prettiest little sociable 
 work, men and women can all do together at it. 
 
 Lady Head. Colonel, you are one with us, are 
 you not ? 
 
 Lady Ara. O, I'll answer for him, he'll be out 
 at nothing. 
 
 Capt. In a facetious way ; he is the politest per- 
 son ; he will lose his money to the ladies so civilly, 
 and will win theirs with so much good breeding ; 
 and he will he so modest to 'em before company, 
 and so impudent to 'em in a dark corner. Ha I 
 colonel ! 
 
 Lady Head. So I found him, I'm sure, last 
 mgnt. — Mercy on me,, an ounce of virtue less than 
 I had, and sir Francis had been undone. 
 
 Capt. Colonel, I smoke you. 
 
 Col. And a fine character you give the ladies of 
 me, to help me. 
 
 Capt. I give 'em just the character of you they 
 like, modest and brave. — Come ladies, to business ; 
 look to your money, every woman her hand upon 
 her purse. 
 
 Miss Bet. Here's mine, captain. 
 
 Capt. Oh, the little soft velvet one ! — and it's as 
 full. — Come, lady Blowze, rattle your dice and away 
 witti 'em. 
 
 Lady Ara. Six — at all — five to six — five eight 
 
 — at all again — nine to eight — nine. 
 
 Enter Sir Francis, and stands gazing at them. 
 Seven's the main— at all for ever ! [Throws ov,t. 
 Miss Bet. Now, mama, let's see what you can do. 
 [Lady He/idpieck iakf-v (fie ho:r 
 Lady Head. Well, I'll warrimr jmi, dim^lit- - 
 Miss Bet. If you do, I'll follow a good exampU 
 I,ady Head. Eight's the main — doa'c spare me, 
 gentlemen, I fear you not — have at you all — seven 
 to eight — seven. 
 
482 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 Copt. Eight, lady, eight. — Five pounds if you 
 please. 
 
 Ladp Ara. Three, kinswoman. 
 
 Cal. Two, madam. 
 
 Miss Bet. And one for miss, mama. — And now 
 let's see what I can do. — ^Aside-I If I should win 
 enough this morning to buy me another new gown 
 — O bless me ! there they go ! — Seven ! — Come 
 captain, set me boldly, I want to be at a hand- 
 fill. 
 
 Capt. There's two for you, miss. 
 
 Miss Set. I'll at 'em, though I die for't. 
 
 Sir Fran, Ah my poor child, take care ! 
 
 [_Runs to stop the throw. 
 
 Mm Bet. There. 
 
 Capt. Out — twenty pounds, young lady. 
 
 Sir Fran. False dice, sir. 
 
 Capt. False dice, sir ! I scorn your words.— 
 Twenty pounds, madam. 
 
 Miss Bet. Undone ! undone ! 
 ' Sir Fran. She shan't pay you a farthing, sir ; I 
 won't have miss cheated. 
 
 Capt. Cheated, sir ! 
 
 Lady Head. What do you mean, sir Francis, to 
 disturb the company, and abuse the gentleman 
 thus ? 
 
 Sir Fran. I mean to be in a passion. 
 
 Lady Head. And why will you be in a passion, 
 sir Francis ? 
 
 Sir Fran. Because I came here to breakfast 
 with my lady there, before I went down to the 
 House, expecting to find my family set round a civil 
 table with her, upon some plumcake, hot rolls, and 
 a cup of strong beer ; instead of which, I find 
 these good women staying their stomachs with a 
 box and dice, and that man there, with the strange 
 periwig, making a good hearty meal upon my wilif 
 and daughter — 
 
 c.£ri>ai Li:£UNr. 
 
■THB 
 
 DRAMATIC WOEKS 
 
 GEOEGE FARQUHAR. 
 
LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 gl fflometfp. 
 
 Vade, sed incultus, qiialcm dooet exulis esse, 
 
 Ovid. Trist. i. 1. 
 
 TO THE EIGHT HONOXTBABLE 
 
 PEREGRINE, LORD MARQUIS OF CARMARTHEN, &c. 
 
 My Lord, — Being equally a stranger to your Lordship, and the whole nohilityof this kingdom, something of a natural 
 anpulse and aspiring motion in my inclinations has prompted me, though I hazard a presumption, to declare my respect. 
 And he the success how it will, I am vain of nothing in this piece hut the choice of my patron ; I shall be so far thought 
 a judicious author, whose principal business is to design his works an offering to the greatest honour and merit. 
 
 I cannot here, my Lord, stand accused of any sort of adulation but to myself, because compliments due to merit 
 return upon the giver; and the only flattery is to myself, whilst I attempt your Lordship's praise. I dare make no essay 
 on your Lordship's youthful bravery and courage, because such is always guarded with modesty, but shall venture to 
 present you some lines on this subject, which the world will undoubtedly apply to your Lordship. 
 
 Courage the highest gift, that scorns to bend 
 
 To mean devices for a sordid end. 
 
 Courage— an independent spark from Heaven's bright throne. 
 
 By which the soul stands raised, triumphant, high, alone. 
 
 Great in itself, not praises of the crowd, 
 
 Above all vice, it stoops not to be proud. 
 
 Courage, the mighty attribute of powers above. 
 
 By which those great in war, are great in love. 
 
 The spring of all brave acts is seated here, 
 
 As falsehoods draw their sordid birth from fear. 
 
 The best and noblest part of mankind pay homage to royalty, what veneration then is due to those virtues and 
 endowments which even engaged the respect of royalty itself, in the person of one of the greatest emperors in the world, 
 who chose your Lordship not only as a companion, but a conductor ! 
 
 He wanted the fire of such a Briton to animate his cold Russians, and would therefore choose you his leader In war, 
 as in travel. He knew the fury of the Turk could be only stopped by an English nobleman, as the power of France was 
 by an English king. A sense of this greatness which might deter others, animates me to address your lordship ; resolved 
 that my first muse should take a high and daring flight, I aspired to your Lordship's protection for this trifle, which 
 I must own myself now proud of, afi'ording me this opportunity of humbly declaring myself, my Lord, your Lordship's! 
 most devoted servant, G. FARQUHAR, 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 RoBBuCK, an Irish Gentleman, of a wild roving 
 
 temper i newly come to London. 
 LovBWELi-, his i'riend, sober and modest, in love 
 
 with LUCINDA. 
 
 MocKMODB, a young Squire, come newly from the 
 
 University, and setting up/or a Beau. 
 Lvnrc, a Poet. 
 Pamphlet, a Bookseller 
 RiOAJinoN, a Dancing- Master. 
 NiMBi.EWBiST, a Fencing-Master. 
 Club, Servant to Mochmodb. 
 BuusH, Servant to Lovbwkll, 
 
 LuciNDA, a Lady of considerable Fortune. 
 Lbanthe, Sister to LoVewell, in hove with Rok- 
 
 BucK, and disguised as Lucinda's Page. 
 Trudob, Whore to Roebuck. 
 Widow BuLLFmcH, Landlady to Mockmodk. 
 
 Lyhic, and Trudob. 
 VmiyK^ss, Attendant and Confidante ioLuci.vcy^ 
 
 Bailiffs, Cripple, Porter, Boy, Masks, Dancers, 
 and AttcnihiQtfi. 
 
 SCENE.— London. 
 
486 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 ACT T, 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 BY J. H. SPOKEN BY MR. ^OWElL, 
 
 A Servant attending with a Bottle of Wine. 
 
 AS stubborn atheists, who disdain'd to pray, 
 Repeat, though late, upon their dying day, 
 So in their pangs, most authors rack'd with 
 
 fears. 
 Implore your mercy in our suppliant prayers. 
 But our new author has no cause maintain'd, 
 Let him not lose what he has never gain'd. 
 Love and a Bottle are his peaceful arms. 
 Ladies and gallants, have not these some charms ? 
 For love, all mankind to the fair must sue. 
 And sirs, the bottle he presents to you. 
 Health to the play ! [^Drinks] e'en let it fairly 
 
 pass; 
 Sure none sit here that will refuse their glass ! 
 
 Oh, there's a damning soId^e^ — let me think^- 
 He looks as he were swornJ— to what ? to drink. 
 
 Come on then ; foot to foot be boldly set, 
 And our young author's new commission wet. 
 He and his bottle here attend their doom. 
 From you the poet's Helicon must come ; 
 If he has any foes, to make amends, 
 He gives his service : [Drinks] sure you now are 
 No critic here will he provoke to fight, [friends. 
 The day be theirs, he only begs his night. 
 Pray pledge him now, secured frOra all abuse. 
 Then name the health you love, let none refuse. 
 But each man's mistress be the poet's muse. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE ^.— Lincoln's- inn-Fields. 
 
 Enter Roebuck, repeating the foUowing line. 
 Roe. Thus far our arms have with success been 
 crowned — - 
 Heroically spoken, faith, of a fellow that has 
 not one farthing in his pocket ! If 1 have one 
 penny to buy a halter withal in my present neces- 
 sity, may I be hanged ! though I'm reduced to a 
 fair way of obtaining one methodically very soon, 
 if robbery or theft will purchase the gallows. But 
 hold — can't I rob honourably, by turning soldier .' 
 
 Enter Cripple begging. 
 
 Crip. One farthing *o the poor old soldier, for 
 the Lord's sake ! 
 
 Boe. Ha ! — a glimpse of damnation just as a 
 man is entering into sin, is no great policy of the 
 devil. — But how long did you bear arms, friend ? 
 
 Crip. Five years, an't please you, sir. 
 
 Boe. And how long has that honourable crutch 
 borne you .'' 
 
 Crip, Fifteen, sir. 
 
 Roe. Very pretty 1 five year a soldier, and fif- 
 teen a beggar ! — This is hell right ! an age of dam- 
 nation, for a momentary offence. Thy condition, 
 fellow, is preferable to mine ; the merciful bullet, 
 more kind thto thy ungrateful country, has given 
 thee a debenture in thy broken leg, from which 
 thou canst draw a more plentiful maintenance than 
 I from all my limbs in perfection. Prithee, friend, 
 why wouldst thou beg of me? dost think I'm rich.' 
 
 Crip. No, sir, and therefore I believe you chaii- 
 table. Your warm fellows are so far above the 
 sense of our misery, that they can't pity us ; and I 
 have always found it, by sad experience, as need- 
 less to beg of a rich man as a clergyman. Our 
 greatest benefactors, the brave oflicers, are all dis- 
 banded, and must now turn beggars like myself; 
 and so, times are very hard, sir. 
 
 Roe. What, are the soldiers more charitable than 
 the clergy .' 
 
 Crip. Ay, sir; a captain will sSy dam'me, and 
 give me sixpence ; and a parson shall whine out 
 God bless mey and give me not a farthing : now I 
 think the officer's blessing much the best. 
 
 Roe. Are the beaux never compttssibnate ? 
 
 Crip. The great full wigs they wear stop their 
 ears so close, that they Can't hear us ; and if they 
 should, they never have any farthings about 'em. 
 
 Roe. Then I am a beau, friend ; therefoie pray 
 leave me. Begging from a generous soul that has 
 not to bestow, is more tormenting than robbery to 
 a miser in his abundance. Prithee, friendj be thou 
 charitable for once ; I beg only the favour which 
 rich friends bestow, a little advice. I am as poor 
 as thou art, and am designing to turn soldier. 
 
 Crip. No, no, sir. See what an hoWOufalble post 
 1 am forced to stand to ; my rags are scarecrows 
 sufficient to frighten any one from the field ; rather 
 turn bird of prey at home. ISkowing his crutch. 
 
 Roe. Grammercy, old devil 1 I find hell has its 
 pimps of the poorer sort as well as of the wealthy. 
 I fancy, friend, thou hast got a cloven foot instead 
 of a broken leg. — 'Tis a hard case that a man must 
 never expect to go nearer heaven than some steps 
 of a ladder. But 'tis unavoidable ; I have my 
 wants to lead, and the devil to drive ; and if 1 can't 
 meet ray friend Lovewell (which I think impossi- 
 ble,being sogreat a stranger in town), Fortune, thou 
 hast done thy worst ; I proclaim open war against 
 thee. 
 
 I'll stab thy next rich darling that I see ; 
 And killing him, be thus revenged on thee. 
 IRctire."! to the back part of the stage, as into the ivalkSy 
 making some turns across the stage in disorder. — 
 Exit Cripple. 
 
 Enter Luotnda and Pindrkss. 
 
 Luc. Oh ! these summer mornings are so deli- 
 cately fine, Pindress, it does me good to be abroad ! 
 
 JHin. Ay, madam, these summer mornings are 
 as pleasant to young folks as the winter nights to 
 
LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 487 
 
 married people, or as your morning o' beauty to 
 Mr. Love well. 
 
 Luc. I'm violently afraid the evening of my 
 beauty will fall to his share very soon ; for I'm 
 inclinable to marry him. I shall soon lie under an 
 eclipse, Pindress. 
 
 Pin. Then it must be full moon with your lady 
 ship. But why would you choose to marry in 
 summer, madam ? 
 
 Luc. I know no cause, but that people are 
 aptest to run mad in hot weather, unless you take 
 a woman's reason. 
 
 Pin. What's that, madam ? 
 
 Luc>. Why, I am weary of lying alone. 
 
 Pin. Oh, dear madam, lying alone is very dan- 
 gerous ! 'tis apt to breed strange dreams. 
 
 Luc. I had the oddest dream last night of my 
 courtier that is to be, Squire Mockmode. He 
 appeared crowded about with a dancing-master, 
 pushing-master J music-master^ and all the throng 
 of beau-makers ; and methought he mimicked fop- 
 pery so awkwardly, that his imitation was down- 
 right burlesquing it. I burst out a-laughing so 
 heartily, that 1 wakened myself ! 
 
 Pin. But dreams go by contraries^ madam. 
 Have not you seen him yet ? 
 
 Luc. No ; but my uncle's letter gives account 
 that he's newly come to town from the university, 
 where his education could reach no farther than to 
 guzzle fat ale, smoke tobacco, and chop logic.^ 
 Fau^h ! it makes me sick ! 
 
 Pin. But he's very rich, madam ; his concerns 
 join to yours in the country. 
 
 Luc. Ay, but his concerns shall never join to 
 mine in the city : for since I have the disposal of 
 my own fortune, Lovewell's the man for ray 
 money. 
 
 pin. Ay, and for ray money : for I've had above 
 twenty pieces from him since hia courtship began. 
 He's the prettiest sober gentleman I I have so 
 strong an opinion of his modesty, that I'm afraid, 
 madanq, your first child will be a fool ! 
 
 Luc. Oh, God forbid ! I hope a lawyer under- 
 stands business better than to beget anything non 
 compos. — The walks fill apace ; the enemy ap- 
 proaches, we must sec out our false colours. 
 
 [Put on their masks. 
 
 Pin. We masks are the purest privateers !^- 
 Madam, how would you like to cruise about a 
 little ? 
 
 Luc. Well enough, had we no enemies but our 
 fops and cits : but I dread these blustering men- 
 of-war, the officers, who, after a broadside of 
 damme's and sinkme's, are for boarding all masks 
 they meet as lawful prize. 
 
 Pin. In truth, madam, and the most of 'em ai;e 
 lawful prize, for they generally have French ware 
 under hatches. 
 
 Luc. Oh, hideous ! o' my conscience, girl, 
 thou'rt qnite spoiled ! An actress upon the stage 
 would blush at such expressions. 
 
 Pin. Ay, madam, and your ladyship would 
 seem to blush in the box, when the redness of 
 your face proceeded from nothing but the con- 
 straint of holding your laughter. Did you chide 
 me for not putting a stronger lace in your stays, 
 when you had broke one as strong as a hempen 
 cord with containing a violent tihee at a smutty 
 jest in the last play ? 
 
 Lun. Go, go, thou'rt a naughty girl! thy im- 
 
 pertinent chat has diverted us from our business. 
 I'm afraid Lovewell has missed us for want of the 
 sign. — But whom have we here ? An odd figure ! 
 some gentleman in disguise, I believe. 
 
 Pin. Had he a. finer suit on, I should believe 
 him in disguise ; for I fancy his friends have only 
 known him by that this twelvemonth. 
 
 Luc. His mien and air show him a gentleman, 
 and his clothes demonstrate him a wit. He may 
 afford us some sport. I have a female inclination 
 to talk to him. 
 
 Pin,. Hold, madam, he looks as like one of 
 those dangerous men-of-war you just now men- 
 tioned as can be ; you had best send out your 
 pinnace before to discover the enemy. 
 
 Luc. No, I'll hail him myself. — [Moves to- 
 wards Roebuck.] What, sir, dreaming ? 
 
 iSlaps him on the shoulder with her fan. 
 
 Roe. Yes, madam. [Sullenly. 
 
 Luc. Of what .' 
 
 Roe. Of the devil ; and now my dream's out, 
 
 Luc. What, do you dream standing ? 
 
 Roe. Yes faith, lady, very often when my sleep's 
 haunted by such pretty goblins as you ! You are 
 a sort of dream I would fain be reading : I'm a very 
 good interpreter indeed, madam. 
 
 Luc^ Are you then one of the wise men of the 
 East? 
 
 Roe. No, madam, but one of the fools of the 
 West. 
 
 Luc. Pray, what do you mean by that ? 
 
 Roe. An Irishman, madam, at your service. 
 
 Luc. Oh, horrible ! an Irishman! a mere wolf- 
 dog, I protest I 
 
 Roe. Ben't surprised, child ; the wolf-dog is as 
 well-natured an animal as any of your country bull- 
 dogs, and a much more fawning creature, let me 
 tell ye. [Lays hold of her. 
 
 Luc. Pray, good Caesar, keep off your paws ; no 
 scraping acquaintance, for Heaven's sake ! Tell 
 us some news of your country ; I have heard the 
 strangest stories— that the people wear horns and 
 hoofs ! 
 
 Roe. Yes, 'faith, a great many wear horns : but 
 we had that, among other laudable fashions, from 
 London. I think it came over with your mode of 
 wearing high topknots ; for ever since, the men 
 and wives bear their heads exalted alike. They 
 were both fashions that took wonderfully. 
 
 Luc. Then you have ladies among you ? 
 
 Roe. Yes, yes, we have ladies, and whores, 
 colleges and playhouses, churches and taverns, fine 
 houses and bawdy-houses : in short, everything 
 that you can boast of, but fops, poets, toads, and 
 adders. 
 
 Luc. But have you no beaux at all ? 
 
 Roe. Yes ; they come over like the woodcocks* 
 onoe a year. 
 
 Luc. And have your ladies no springes to catoh 
 'em in ? 
 
 Roe. No, madam ; our own country affords us 
 much better wildfowl. But they are generally 
 stripped of their feathers by the playhouse and 
 taverns ; in both which they pretend to be critics ; 
 and our ignorant nation imagines a full wig as 
 infallible a token of a wit as the laurel. 
 
 Luc. Oh Lard ! and here 'tis the certain sign 
 of a blockhead. But why no poets in Ireland, sir? 
 
 Roe. Faith, madam, I know not, unless St. 
 Patrick sent them a-packing with other venomous 
 
488 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 creatures out of Ireland. Nothing that carries a 
 sting in its tongue can live there. But since I 
 have described my country, let me know a little of 
 England, by a sight of your face. 
 
 Luc. Come you to particulars first. Pray, sir, 
 unmask, by telling who you are ; and then I'll 
 unmask, and show who T am. 
 
 Roe. You must dismiss your attendant then, 
 madam ; for the distinguishing particular of me is 
 a secret. 
 
 Pin. Sir, I can keep a secret as well as my mis- 
 tress ; and the greater the secrets are, I love 'em 
 the better. 
 
 Lue. Can't they bs whispered, sir ? 
 
 Itoe. Oh yes, madam, I can give you a hint, by 
 which you may understand 'em. 
 
 \_Pretends to whisper, and kisses her. 
 
 Lue. Sir, you're impudent ! 
 
 Roe. Nay, madam, since you're so good at 
 minding folks, have with you ! 
 
 \Gatches her fast, carrying her ojf. 
 
 Luc. Pin. Help ! help ! help ! 
 
 Enler Lovswell, Bwisu following. 
 
 I Love. Villain, unhand the lady, and defend thy- 
 self ! iDraws. 
 
 Roe. What, knight-errants in this country ! — 
 Now has the devil very opportunely sent me a 
 throat to cut ; pray Heaven his pockets be well 
 lined. — [Quits Lucinda, who goes off with Pin- 
 dress.] Have at thee ! St. George for England ! 
 — {They fight ; after some passes. Roebuck i(a»-<» 
 hack and pauses. ] My friend Lovewell ! 
 
 Love. My dear Roebuck ! — [Fling down their 
 swords, and embrace.'] Shall I believe my eyes ? 
 
 Roe. You may believe your ears; 'tis I, by 
 Gad! 
 
 Love. Why, thy being in London is such a 
 mystery, that I must have the evidence of more 
 senses than one to confirm me of its truth. — But 
 pray unfold the riddle. 
 
 Roe. Why 'faith, 'tis a riddle. You wonder at 
 it before the explanation, then wonder more at 
 yourself for not guessing it.. — What is the universal 
 cause of the continued evils of mankind P 
 
 Love. The universal cause of our continued 
 evil is the devil, sure ! 
 
 Roe. No, 'tis the flesh, Ned. — That very woman 
 that drove us all out of Paradise, has sent me a- 
 packing out of Ireland. 
 
 Love. How so 2 
 
 Roe. Only tastingtheforbidden fruit, that wasall. 
 
 Lore. Is simple fornication become so great a 
 crime there as to be punishable by no less than 
 banishment ? 
 
 Roe. Egad, mine was double fornication, Ned ! 
 — The jade was so pregnant to bear twins, the 
 fruit grew in clusters ; and my unconscionable 
 father, because I was a rogue in debauching her, 
 would make me a fool by wedding her. But I 
 would not marry a whore, and he would not own a 
 disobedient son, and so — 
 
 Love. But was she a gentlewoman } 
 
 Roe. Psha ! no ; she had no fortune. She wore 
 indeed a silk manteau and high-head j but these 
 Hre grown as little signs of gentility now-a-days as 
 that is of chastity. 
 
 Love. But what necessity forced you to leave 
 tlie kingdom ? 
 
 Roe. I'll tell you. — To shun the insulting autho- 
 
 rity of an incensed father, the dull and often- 
 repeated advice of impertinent relations, the con- 
 tinual clamours of a furious woman, and the shrill • 
 bawling of an ill-natured bastard. From all which, 
 good Lord deliver me ! 
 
 Love. And so you left them togrand-dadda.'- 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Roe. Heaven was pleased to lessen my affliction, 
 by taking away the she brat j but the t'other is, I 
 hope, well, because a brave boy, whom I christened 
 Edward, after thee, Lovewell ; I made bold to 
 make my man stand for you, and your sister sent 
 her maid to give her name to my daughter. 
 
 Love. Now you talk of my sister, pray how 
 does she ? 
 
 Roe. Dear Lovewell, a very miracle of beauty 
 and goodness ! — But I don't like her. 
 
 Love. Why .' 
 
 Roe. She's virtuous ; — and I think beauty and 
 virtue are as ill joined as lewdness and ugliness. 
 
 Love. But I hope your arguments could not 
 make her a proselyte to this profession ? 
 
 Roe. Faith, I endeavoured it, but that plaguy 
 honour — damn it for a whim ! — Were it as honour- 
 able for women to be whores, as men to be whore- 
 masters, we should have lewdness as great a mark 
 of quality among the ladies, as 'tis now among the 
 lords. 
 
 Love. What, do you hold no innate principle of 
 virtue in women ? 
 
 Roe. I hold an innate principle of love in them. 
 Their passions are as great as ours, their reason 
 weaker. We admire them, and consequently they 
 must us. And I tell thee once more, that had 
 women no safeguard but your innate principle of 
 virtue, honest George Roebuck would have lain 
 with your sister, Ned, and should enjoy a countess 
 before night. 
 
 Love. But methinks, George, 'twas not fair to 
 tempt my sister. 
 
 Roe. Methinks 'twas not fair of thy sister, Ned, 
 to tempt me. As she was thy sister, I had no 
 design upon her ; but as she's a pretty woman, I 
 could scarcely forbear her, were she my own. 
 
 Love. But, upon serious reflection, could not 
 you have lived better at home by turning thy 
 whore into a wife, than here by turning other 
 men's wives into whores ? There are merchants' 
 ladies in London, and you must trade with them, 
 for aught I see. 
 
 Roe. Ay, but is the trade open ? is the manu- 
 facture encouraged, old boy ? 
 
 Love. Oh, wonderfully ! — a great many poor 
 people live by't. Though the husbands are for 
 engrossing the trade, the wives are altogether for 
 encouraging interlopers. But I hope you have 
 brought some small stock to set up with } 
 
 Roe. [Aside."] The greatness of my wants, 
 which would force me to discover 'em, makes me 
 blush to own 'em. — [Aloud.'] Why faith, Ned, I 
 had a great journey from Ireland hither, and would 
 burden myself with no more than just necessary 
 charges. 
 
 Love. Oh, then you have brought bills .' 
 
 Roe. No, faith, exchange of money from Dublin 
 hitlier, is so unreasonable high, that — 
 
 Love. M^hat .•* 
 
 Roe. That — Zoons, I have not one farthing !— 
 Now you understand me. 
 
 Love. No faith, I never understand one that 
 
LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 489 
 
 comes in forma pauperis ; I han't studied the law 
 
 so long for nothing But what prospect can you 
 
 propose of a supply ? 
 
 Roe. 1*11 tell you. When you appeared, I was 
 just thankrng my stars for sending me a throat to 
 cut, and consequently a purse : but my knowledge 
 of you prevented me of that way, and therefore I 
 think you're obliged in return to assist me by some 
 better means. You were once an honest fellow ; 
 but so long study in the inns may alter a man 
 strangely, as you say. 
 
 Love. No, dear Roebuck, I'm still a friend to 
 thy virtues, and esteem thy follies as foils only to 
 set them off. I did but rally you ; and to convince 
 you, here are some pieces, share of what I have 
 about me : take them as earnest of oly farther 
 supply. You know my estate sufficient to maintain 
 us both, if you will either restrain yoiir extrava- 
 gancies, or I retrench my necessaries. 
 
 Roe. Thy profession of kindness is so great, 
 that I could almost suspect it of design. But 
 come, friend, I am heartily tired with the fatigue 
 of my journey, besides a violent fit of sickness, 
 which detained me a month at Coventry, to the 
 exhausting my health and money. Let me only 
 recruit by a relish of the town in love and a bottle, 
 and then— O heavens ! and earth ! 
 
 [_As they are going off. Roebuck starts hack surprised. 
 
 Love. What's the matter, man ? 
 
 Roe. Why, death and the devill,. or, what's 
 worse, a woman and a child. — Oons ! don't you- 
 see Mrs. Trudge with my bastard in her arras 
 crossing the field towards us ? — Oh, the indefati- 
 gable whore, to follow me all the way to London ! 
 
 Love. Mrs. Trudge ! my old acquaintance ? 
 
 Roe. Ay, ay, the very same ; your old acquaint- 
 ance ; and for aught I know, you might have 
 clubbed about getting the brats. 
 
 Love, 'Tis but reasonable then I should pay, 
 share at the reckoning. I'll help to provide for 
 her; in the mean time, you had best retire. — Brush, 
 conduct this gentleman to my lodgings, and run 
 from thence to widow Bullfinch's, and provide a 
 
 lodging with her for a friend of mine Fly ! and 
 
 come back presently. — [Exeunt Roebuck and 
 Brush.] So, my friend comes to town like the 
 great Turk to the field, attended by his concubines 
 and children; and I'm afraid these are but parts of 
 his retinue. — But hold — I shan't be able to sustain 
 the shock of this woman's fury. I'll withdraw till 
 she has discharged her first volley, then surprise 
 her. \_Retires behind. 
 
 Enter Trudge, with a child crying. 
 
 Trudge. Hush, hush, hush ! — And indeed it was 
 a young traveller ! — And what would it say.' It 
 says that daddy is a false man, a cruel man, and an 
 ungrateful man. — In troth so he is, my dear child. 
 — What shall I do with it, poor creature? — Hush, 
 hush, hush ! — Was ever poor woman in such a 
 lamentable condition ? immediately after the pains 
 of one travail, to undergo the fatigues of another ! 
 — But I'm sure he can never do well ; for though 
 I can't find him, my curses, and the misery of this 
 babe, will certainly reach him. 
 
 Love. [Coming forward.'] Methinks I should 
 
 know that voice What, Mrs. Trudge ! and in 
 
 London ! Whose brave boy hast thou got there .■' 
 
 Trudge. Oh Lord! Mr. Lovewell ! I'm very 
 glad to see you, — and yet am ashamed to see you. 
 But indeed he promised to marry me, [Crying'] 
 
 and you know, Mr. Lovewell, that he's such a 
 handsome man, and has so many ways of insinuat- 
 ing, that the frailty of woman's nature could not 
 resist him. 
 
 Love. What's all this? — a handsome man ! ways 
 of insinuating ! frailty of nature ! — I don't under- 
 stand these ambiguous terms. 
 
 ICrudge. Ah, Mr. Lovewell ! I'm sure you have 
 seen Mr. Roebuck, and I'm sure 'twould be the 
 first thirtg he would tell you. I refer it to you, Mr. 
 Lovewell, if he ife not an ungrateful man, to deal 
 so barbarously with any wonian that had used him 
 so civilly. I was kinder to him than I would have 
 been to my own born brother. 
 
 Love. Oh, then I find kissing goes by favour, 
 Mrs. Trudge. 
 
 Trudge. Faith, you'fe all alike, you men are 
 alike. — Poor child 1 he's as like his own dadda as 
 if he were spit out of his mouth. See, Mr. Love- 
 well, if he has not Mr. Roebuck's nose to a hair ; 
 arrti you know he has a very good nose ; and the 
 little pigsny has mamma's mouth. — Oh, the little 
 lips! and 'tis the best-natured little dear! — [Smug- 
 gles and kisses it."] And would it ask its god- 
 father blessing ? — Indeed, Mr. Lovewell, I believe 
 the, child knows you. 
 
 Love. Ha 1 ha ! ha 1 well, I will give it my 
 blessing. [Giv^s it gold. 
 
 lie-enter Lucinda and Pindrebs, who seeing the others 
 instantly absconds 
 
 Come, madam, I'll first settle you in a lodging, and 
 then find the false man, as you call him. 
 
 \_Exit with Trudge. 
 
 Luc. [Coming forward. '\ The false man is found 
 already I — Was there ever such a lucky discovery? 
 — My care for his preservation brought me back» 
 and now behold how my kindness is, tetiirned ! — 
 Their fighting was a downright trick to frighten 
 me from the place, thereby to afford him opportu- 
 nity of entertaining his whore and brat. 
 
 Pin, Your. conjecture, madam, bears a colour; 
 for looking back, I could perceive 'em talking very 
 familiarly ; so that they could not be strangers as 
 their pretended quarrel would intimate. 
 
 Luc. 'Tis all true as he is false. — What, slighted! 
 despised ! my honourable love trucked for a whore ! 
 O villain! epitome of thy sex ! — But I'll be revenged. 
 I'll marry tlie first man that asks me the question; 
 nay, though he be a disbanded soldier, or a poor 
 poet, or a senseless fop ; — nay, though impotent, 
 I'll marry him. 
 
 Pin. O madam ! that's to be revenged on 
 yourself. 
 
 Luc. I cate not, fool ! I deserve punishment for 
 my credulity, as much as he for his falsehood. — 
 And you deserve it too, minx ; your persuasions 
 drew me to this assignation : I never loved the false 
 man. 
 
 Pin. That's false, I'm sure. \_Aside. 
 
 Luc. But you thought to get another piece of 
 
 gold. We shall have him giving you money on the 
 
 same score he was so liberal to his whore just now, 
 
 {JWalks about in a passion. 
 
 Re-enter Lovewell, Brush following. 
 
 Love. So much for friendship, now for my love. 
 — I han't transgressed much. — Oh, there she is. — 
 O my angel ! {^Runs to Lucinda. 
 
 Luc. O thou devil 1 iStarisback. 
 
 Love, Not unless you damn me, madam. 
 
490 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 Luc. You're damned already ; you're a man. 
 
 [Exit pushing Pindress. 
 
 Love. You're a woman, V\\ be sworn Heyday! 
 
 what giddy female planet rules now ! By the Lord, 
 these women are like theif maidenheads, no sooner 
 found than lost !^-Here, Brush, run after Pindress, 
 and know the occasion of this. — Stay, come back. 
 — Zoons, I'm a fool ! 
 
 Brush. That's the first wise word you have spo-- 
 ken these two months. 
 
 Love. Trouble me with your untimely jests, 
 sirrah, and I'll — 
 
 Brush. Your pardon, sir ; I'm in downright 
 earnest. — [Aside."] 'Tis less slavery to be appren- 
 tice to a famous qiap-surgeon, than to a lover. He 
 falls out with me, because he can't fall in with his 
 mistress. I can beaiJ it no longer. 
 
 Love. Sirrah, what are you mumbling ? 
 
 Bfush. A. short prayer before I depart, sir.-^I 
 have been these three years your servant, but now, 
 sir. I'm your humble servant. [Bov}S as gofiig. 
 
 Love. Hold 1 you shan't leave me. 
 
 Brxish. Sir, you can't be my master. 
 
 Love. Why so .' 
 
 Brush, Because you're notyour own master; yet 
 one would think you might, for you have lost your 
 mistress. Cons, sir, let he'r go, and a fair riddance! 
 Who throws away a tester and a mistress, loses six- 
 pence. Tljat little pimping Cupid is a blind gunner. 
 Had he shot as many darts as I have carried billets- 
 doux, he would have laid her kicking with her heels 
 up ere now. In short, sir, my patience is worn to 
 the stumps with attending ; my shoes and stockings 
 are upon their last legswirh trudging between you. 
 I have sweat out all my moisture of my hand with 
 palming your clammy letters upon her. I have — 
 
 Lofoe. Hold, sir, your trouble is now at an end, 
 for 1 design to marry her. 
 
 Btush. And have you courted her these three 
 years for nothing but a wife ? 
 
 Love. Do you think, rascal, I would have taken 
 so much pains to make her a miss ? 
 
 Brush. No^ sir ; the tenth paft'on't would ha' 
 done. — But if you are resolved to marry, God 
 h'w'ye ! 
 
 l.ovc. What's the matter now, sirrah ! 
 
 Brush* Why, the matter will be, that I must 
 then pimp for her. — Hark ye, sir, what have you 
 been doing all this while, but teaching her the 
 way to cuckold ye .'-^Take care, sir ; look before 
 you leap. You have a ticklish point to manage* 
 — Can you tell, sir, what's her quarrel to you now.^ 
 
 Love. I can't imagine. I don't remember that 
 ever I offended her. 
 
 Brush. That's it, sir. She resolves to put youf 
 easiness to the test now, that she may with more 
 security rely upon't hereafter — Always suspect 
 those women of designs that are for searching rnto 
 the humours of their courtiers ; for they certainly 
 intend to try them when they're married. 
 
 Love. How camest thou such an engineer in 
 love ? 
 
 Brush. T have sprung some mines in my time^ 
 sir ; and since I have trudged so long about your 
 amorous messages, 1 have more intrigue in the sole 
 of my feet, than some blockheads in their whole 
 body. 
 
 Love. Sirrah, have you ever discovered any be* 
 baviour in this lady to occasion this suspicious 
 discourse ? 
 
 Brush. Sir, has this lady evei? discovered any 
 behaviour of yours to occasion this suspicious 
 quarrel .'' I believe the lady has as much of the 
 innate principle of virtue (as the gentleman said) 
 as any woman ; but that baggage, her attendant, is 
 about raV^ishing her lady's page every hour. 'Tis 
 an old saying. Like master, like man ; why not as 
 well. Like mistress, like maid ? 
 
 Love. [^Aside-I Since thou art foi" trying hu- 
 mours, have with you, madam Lucinda ! Besides, 
 so fair an opportunity offers, that fate seemed to 
 design it.. — [_Aloudt'\ Have you left the gentleman 
 at; my lodgings 2 
 
 Brush. Yes, sir, and sent a porter to his inn to 
 bring his things thither. 
 
 Love. That's right. — Love, like other diseases, 
 must sometimes have a desperate cure. The school 
 of Venus imposes the strict discipline ; 
 And awful Cupid is a chastening god ; 
 He whips severely. 
 
 Brush. No. not if we kiss the rod. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE li — LovEWEit's tioJgirips. 
 Entar Lovkwell, Roebuck, and BbCsh. 
 
 Love O* my conscience, the fawning creatui'e 
 loves you. 
 
 Roe. Ay, the constant effects of debauching a 
 woman are, that she infallibly loves the man for 
 doing the business, and he certainly hates her. — 
 But what company is she like to have at this flame 
 widow's, Brush .' 
 
 Brush. Oh, the best of company, sir 1 i poet 
 lives tliere, sir. 
 
 Jtoe. They're the worst company, for they're ill- 
 natured. 
 
 Brush. Ay, sir, but it does nobody any harm ; 
 for the-c fellows that get bread by their wits are 
 always forced to eat their words. They must be 
 
 good-iiatilredf spite of their teeth, sir. 'Tis said 
 he pays his lodging by cracking some smutty jests 
 with his landlady over night ; for she's very well 
 pleased with his natural parts. 
 
 IWhile UoKBucK and Brush converse together. Lovb- 
 WEM. seems to project something by himself. 
 
 Roe. What other lodgers are there .' 
 
 ^rmh. One newly entered, a young squire, just 
 come from the university. 
 
 Roe. A mere peripatetic, I warrant him. — A 
 very pretty family ! a heathen philosopher, an 
 English poet, and an Irish whore I Had the 
 landlady but a Highland piper to join with 'em, 
 she might set up for a collection of monsters. — 
 Anybody within ? ISlaps LovKWELLon the shouider. 
 
 Love. Yes, you are my friend ; all my thoughts 
 were employed about you. In short. I have one 
 
LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 491 
 
 request to make, — that you would renounce your 
 loose wild courses, and lead a sober life, as 1 do. 
 
 Roe. That I will, if you'll grant me a boon. 
 
 Love. You shall have it, be't what it will. 
 
 Roe. That you would relinquish your precise 
 sober behaviour, and live like a gentleman, as I do. 
 
 Roe, That I can't grant. 
 
 Roe. Then we're off : though should your wo- 
 men prove no better than your wine, my debauch- 
 eries will fall of themselves for want of temptation. 
 
 Love. Our women are worse than our wine; 
 our claret has but little of the French in't, but our 
 wenches have the devil and all. They are both 
 adulterated ; to prevent the inconveniences of 
 which, I'll provide you an honourable mistress. 
 
 Roe. An honourable mistress ! what's that .'' 
 
 Love. A virtuous lady, whom you must love and 
 court ; the surest method of reclaiming you. — As 
 thus : those superfluous pieces you throw away in 
 wine may be laid out — 
 
 Roe. To the poor ? 
 
 Lofve. No, no j in sweet-powder, cravats, garters, 
 snuffboxes, ribbons, coach-hire, and chair-hire. 
 Those idle hours which ypu misspend with lewd 
 sopliisticated wenches, must be dedicated — 
 
 Roe. To the church ? 
 
 Ijove. No ; to the innocent and charming con- 
 versation of your virtuous mistress : by which 
 means the two most exorbitant debaucheries, 
 drinking and whoring, will be retrenched. 
 
 Roe. A very fine retrenchment truly ! I must 
 first despise the honest jolly conversation at the 
 tavern, for the foppish, affected, dull, insipid enter- 
 tainment at the chocolate- house ; must quit my 
 freedom with ingenious company to harness myself 
 to foppery among the fluttering crowd of Cupid's 
 livery-boys ! — The second article is, that 1 must 
 resign the company of lewd women for that of my 
 innocent mistress ; that is, I must change my easy 
 natural sin of wenching, to that constrained de- 
 bauchery of lying and swearing.— The many lies 
 and oaths that I ma^e to thy sister, will go nearer 
 to damn me, than i£ 1 had enjoyed her a hundred 
 times over. 
 
 Love, O Roebuck ! your reason will maintain 
 the contrary when you're in love. 
 
 Roe. That is, when I have lost my reason. — 
 Come, come, a wench, « wench ! a soft, white, 
 easy, consenting creature ! — Prithee, Ned, leave 
 mustiness, and show me the varieties of the town. 
 
 Love* A wench is the least variety — Look out — 
 see what a numerous train ti'ip along the street 
 there ! \Po\nting (luiwards. 
 
 Roe. O Venus ! all these fine stately creatures ! 
 Fare you well, Ned! — \Runs out; Lovewell 
 catcher him and pulU him back. '\ Prithee let me 
 go ; 'tis a deed of charity ; I'm quite starved. I'll 
 just take a snap, and be with you in the twink- 
 ling. — As you're my friend — I must go. 
 
 Love. Then we must break for all together 
 
 [Quits him.] He that will leave his friend for a 
 whore, I reckon a commoner in friendship as in 
 love. 
 
 Roe. If you saw how ill that serious face be- 
 comes a fellow of your years, you would never 
 wear it again. Youth is taking in any masquerade 
 but gravity. 
 
 Love. Though lewdness suits much worse with 
 your circumstances, sir. 
 
 Roe. l^Astd/i.l Ay, these circumstances ! damn 
 
 these circumstances ! There he has hamstringed 
 me. This poverty ! how it makes a man sneak ! — 
 [Alaud.l Well, prithee let's know this devilish 
 virtuous lady. By the circumstances of my body, 
 I shall soon be off or on with her. 
 
 Lo^e. Know then, for thy utteT condemnation, 
 that she's a lady of eighteen, beautiful, witty, and 
 nicely virtuous. 
 
 Roe. A lady of eighteen ! good. — Beautiful ; 
 better. — Witty ! bestofall.-^Now with these three 
 qualifications, if she be nicely virtuous, then I'll 
 henceforth Etdore everything that wears a petti- 
 coat. — Witty and virtuous ! ha! ha! ha! Why, 
 'tis as ihconsistent in ladies as gentlemen ; and 
 were I to debauch one for a wager, her wit should 
 be my bawd. — Come, come, the forbidden fruit 
 was plucked from the tree of knowledge, boy. 
 
 Love. .Right. — But there was a cunninger devil 
 than you, to tempt. I'll assure you, George, your 
 rhetoric would fail you here ; she should worst you 
 at your own weapons. 
 
 Roe. Ay, or any man in England, if she be 
 eighteen, as you say. 
 
 Love. Have a care, friend ; this satire will get you 
 torn in pieees by the female? ; you^ll fall into 
 Orpheus's fate* 
 
 Roe. Orpheus was a blockhead, and deserved his 
 fate. ' 
 
 Love. Why .' 
 
 Roe. Because he went to hell for a wife. 
 
 Love. lAside.'] This happens right. — [^fojicf.] 
 But you shall go to heaven for a mistress, you shall 
 court this divine creature. — I dou*t desire you to 
 fall in love with her ; I don't intend you should 
 marry her neither : but you must be convinced of 
 the chastity of the sex ; though if you should con- 
 quer her, the spoil, you rogue, will be glorious, 
 and infinitely worth the pains in attaining. 
 
 Roe. Ay, but Ned, my circiimstances, my cir- 
 cumstances ! 
 
 L&ve. Come, you shan't want money. 
 
 Rbe. Then I dare attempt it. Money is the 
 sinews of love, as of war. Gad, friend, thou'rt 
 the bravest pimp I every hea.rd of. — Well, give 
 me directions to sail by, the. name of my port, 
 lade my pockets, and then for the Cape of Good 
 Hope. 
 
 Love. You need no directions as to the man- 
 ner of courtship. 
 
 Roe. No ; I have seen some -few principles on 
 which my courtship's founded, which seldom fail. 
 To let a lady rely upon mynoodesty, but to depend 
 myself altogether ujion my impudence ; to use a 
 mistress hke a deity in public, but like a woman in 
 private : to be as cautious then of asking an imper- 
 tinent question, as afterwards of telling a story ; 
 remembering, that the tongue is the only member 
 that can hurt a lady's honour, though touched in 
 the tenderest part. 
 
 Love* Oh 1 but to a friend, George, you'll tell a 
 friend your success .' 
 
 Roe. No, not to her very self; it must be as 
 private as devotion. — No blabbing unless a squall-- 
 
 ing brat peeps out to tell tales But where lies 
 
 my course } 
 
 Love. Brush shall show you the house; the 
 lady's name is Lucinda ; her father and mother 
 dead ; she's heiress to twelve hundred a year. But 
 above all, observe this : she has a page whi^li you 
 must get on your side ; 'tis a very pretty boy j I 
 
492 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 presented him to the lady about a fortnight ago ; 
 he's your countryman too ; he brought me a letter 
 from my sister, which I have about me. — Here, 
 you may read it. 
 
 Roe. [Aside.'\ Ay, 'tis her hand ; I know it 
 
 well ; and I almost blush to see it. ilieads. 
 
 Dear brother, 
 
 A lady of my acquaintance lately dyinn, beg- 
 ged me as her last request, to provide for this boy, 
 who was her page. I hope I have obeyed my 
 friend's last command, and obliged a brother, bg 
 sending him to you. Pray dispose of him as muck 
 as you can for his advantage. All friends are 
 well, and I am your affectionate sister, 
 
 Lbanthe. 
 
 [_While he reads, Lovewell converses in dumb show 
 with Brush 
 All friends are well ! — Is that all ? not a word of 
 poor Roebuck. — I wonder' she mentioned nothing 
 of my misfortunes to her brother. But she has 
 forgot me already. True woman still ! — Well, I 
 may excuse her, for I'm makiiig all the haste I can 
 to forget her. 
 
 Love. [Aside to Brush.] Be sure you have an 
 eye upon him, and come to me presently at widow 
 Bullfinch's. — Well, George, you won't communicate 
 your success ? 
 
 Tioe. You may guess what you please. — I'm as 
 merry after a mistress as after a bottle. — All air ; 
 brimful of joy, like a bumper of claret, smiling and 
 sparkling. 
 
 Love. Then you'll certainly run over. 
 
 Roe. No, no, nor shAU I drink to anybody. 
 
 [ Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room to Widow Bullfinch's 
 House; a flute and music-book upon the table; 
 a case of toys hangiug up. 
 
 Enter Rioadoon, leading in Mockmode by both hands ; he 
 sings and Mockmode dances avilcwardly ; Clvb/oUows, 
 
 Rig. Tal— dal — deral !— one— two.— Tal— dal 
 — deral ! — coupd. — Tal — dal — deral !— very well! 
 —Tal— dal— deral !— wrong !— Tal — dal— deral 1 
 — toes out ! — Tal — dal — deral I — observe time ! — 
 Very well indeed, sir ; you shall dance as well as any 
 man in England ; you have an excellent disposi- 
 tion in your limbs, sir. — Observe me, sir. — 
 [Dances a new minuet ; at every cut Club makes 
 an awkward imitation by leaping up.'\ And so 
 forth, sir. 
 
 Mock. I'm afraid we shall disturb my landlady. 
 
 Rig. Landlady ! you must have a care of that ; 
 she'll never pardon you. — Landlady ! — every wo- 
 man, from a countess to a kitchen wench, is 
 madam ; and every man, from a lord to a lackey, 
 sir. 
 
 Moch. Must I then lose my title of squire, 
 squire Mockmode } 
 
 Rig. By all means, sir; squire and fool are the 
 same thing here. 
 
 Mock. That's very comical, faith ! — But is there 
 an art of parliament for that, Mr. Rigadoon ? — 
 Well, since I can't be a squire, I'll do as well ; I 
 have a great estate, and want only to be a great 
 bea u to qualify me either for a knight or a lord. 
 By the universe, I have a great mind to bind my- 
 self 'prentice to a beau ! — Could I but dance wel 
 
 I 
 
 push well, play upon the flute, and swear the most 
 modish oaths, I would set up for quality with e'er 
 a young nobleman of 'em all — Prav what are the 
 most fashionable oaths in town ? Zoons, I take it, 
 is a very becoming one. 
 
 Rig. Zoons is only used by the disbanded offi- 
 cers and bullies : but zauns is the beaux' pronun- 
 ciation. 
 
 Mock. Zauns ! 
 
 Club. Zauns. 
 
 Rig. Yes, sir, we swear as we dance ; smooth, 
 and with a cadence. — Zauns I — 'Tis harmonious, 
 and pleases the ladies, because 'tis soft. — Zauns, 
 madam ! — is the only compliment oar great beaux 
 pass on a lady. 
 
 Mock. But suppose a lady speaks to me, what 
 must I say ? 
 
 Rig. Nothing, sir : — you must take snush, grin, 
 and make her an humble cringe — thus: — [Bows 
 foppishly, and takes snush; Mockmode imitates 
 him awkwardly, and taking snush, sneezes.'] O 
 Lard, sir ! you must never sneeze ; 'tis as unbe- 
 coming after orangery as grace after meat. 
 , Mock. I thought people took it to clear the 
 brain. 
 
 Rig. '''he beaux have no brains at all, sir ; their 
 skull is fl perfect snush-box ; and I heard a physi- 
 cian swear, who opened one of 'em, that the three 
 divisions of his head were filled with orangery, ber- 
 gamot, and plain Spanish. 
 
 Mock. Zauns, I must sneeze ! — [Sneexes.J 
 Bless me ! 
 
 Rig. O fy, Mr. Mockmode! what a rustical 
 expression that is ! — Bless me ! — You should upon 
 all such occasions cry, Dem me ! You would be 
 as nauseous to the ladies as one of the old patri- 
 archs, if you used that obsolete expression. 
 
 Club. [Aside.] I find that going to the devil is 
 very modish in this town. — [Aloud.] Pray, mas- 
 ter dancing-master, what religion may these beaux 
 be of? 
 
 Rig. A sort of Indians in their religion, they 
 worship the first thing they see in the morning. 
 
 Mock. What's that, sir > 
 
 Rig. Their own shadows in the glass ; and some 
 of 'em such hellish faces, that may frighten 'em 
 into devotion. 
 
 Mock. Then they are Indians right, for they 
 worship the devil. 
 
 Rig. Then you shall be as great a beau as any 
 of 'em. But you must be sure to mind your 
 dancing. » 
 
 Mock. Is not music very convenient too? — I 
 can play the Bells and Maiden Fair already. — 
 Alamire ! Bifabemi ! Cesolfa ! Delasol 1 Ela ! 
 Effaut ! Gesolreut ! — I have 'em all by heart 
 already. But T have been plaguily puzzled about 
 the etymology of these notes ; and certainly a man 
 cannot arrive at any perfection, unless he under- 
 stands the derivation of the terms. 
 
 Rig. O Lard, sir ! that's easy. Effaut and 
 Gesolreut were two famous German musicians, and 
 the rest were Italians. 
 
 Mock. But why are they only seven ? 
 
 Rig. From a prodigious great bass-viol with 
 seven strings, that played a jig called the Music of 
 the Spheres. The seven planets were nothing but 
 fiddle-strings. 
 
 Mock. Then your stars have made you a dancing- 
 master ? 
 
LOVE ANt) A BOTTLE. 
 
 493 
 
 Rig: O Lard, sir ! Pythagoras was a danoing- 
 masler ; he shows the creation to be a country- 
 dance, where after some antic changes, all the parts 
 fell into their places, and there they stand ready, 
 till the next squeak of a philosopher's fiddle sets 
 'em a dancing again. 
 
 Club. Sir, here comes the pushing-master. 
 
 Rig. Then I'll be gone. But you must have a 
 care of pushing, 'twill spoil the niceness of your 
 steps. Learn a flourish or two ; and that's all a 
 beau can have occasion for. iExU. 
 
 Enter NiHBLBWHtsT, 
 
 Mock. Oh, Mr. Nimblewrist, I crave you ten 
 thousand pardons, by the universe ! 
 
 Nimb That was a home thrust !— Good sir, I 
 Lope you're for a breathing this morning.' — \_Takes 
 down afoil.l I'll assure you, Mr. Mockmode, you 
 will make an excellent swordsman ; you're as well 
 shaped for fencing as any man in Europe. The 
 duke of Burgundy is just of your make ; he pushes 
 the finest of any man in France. — Sa ! sa ! — like 
 lightning. 
 
 Mock. I'm much in love with fencing : but I 
 think, backsword is the best play. 
 
 Nimb. Oh Lard, sir ! — Have you ever been in 
 France, sir .'' 
 
 Mock. No, sir ; but I understand the geography 
 of it — France is bounded on the north with the 
 Rhine — 
 
 Nimb. No, sir; a Frenchman is bounded on the 
 north with quart, on the south with tierce — and so 
 forth. 'Tis a noble art, sir ; and every one that 
 wears a sword is obliged by his tenure to learn. 
 The rules of honour are engraved on my hilt, and 
 my blade must maintain 'em. My sword's my 
 herald, and the bloody hand my coat of arms. 
 
 Mock, And how long have you professed this 
 noble art, sir ' 
 
 Nimb. Truly, sir, I served an apprenticeship to 
 this trade, sir 
 
 Mock. What, are ye a corporation then ? 
 
 Nimb. Yes, sir ! the surgeons have taken us 
 into theirs, because we make so much work for 
 'em. — But, as I was telling you, sir, I professed 
 this science till the wars broke out : but then, 
 when everybody got commissions, I put in for one, 
 served the campaigns in Flanders ; and when the 
 peace broke out, was disbanded ; so among a great 
 many other poor rogues, am forced to betake to 
 my old trade. Now the public quarrel's ended, I 
 live by private ones. I live still by dying, as the 
 song goes, sir. While we have English courages, 
 French honour, and Spanish blades among us, I 
 shall live, sir. 
 
 Mock. Surely your sword and skill did the king 
 great service abroad ? 
 
 Nimb. Yes, sir ; I killed above fifteen of our 
 
 own oflScers by private duels in the camp, sir ; 
 
 killed 'em fairly ; killed 'em thus, sir. — Sa ! sa ! 
 
 sa ! sa ! Parry ! parry ! parry ! — 
 
 [Pushes MocKMODK 071 the ribs ; he strikes Nibiblewiust 
 
 over the head, and breaks the foil. 
 
 Club. What's the name of that thrvist, pray, sir ? 
 
 Nimb. Oh Lard, sir ! he did not touch me not 
 in the least, sir ; the foil was cracked, a palpable 
 crack ! [Blood runs down his/ace. 
 
 Club. A very palpable crack, truly ! Your skull 
 is only cracked, palpably cracked, that's all. 
 
 Mock, Well, sir, if you please to teach me my 
 
 honours. — My dancing-master has forbid me any 
 more, lest I should discompose my steps. 
 
 Nimb. Your dancing-master is a blockhead, sir. 
 
 Re-enter Riqauoon. 
 
 Rig. I forgot my gloves, and so — 
 
 Mock. O sir, he calls you blockhead, by the 
 universe ! 
 
 Rig. Zauns, sir ! [Foppish!!/. 
 
 Nimb. Zoons, sir ! [Bltiffishli/. 
 
 Rig. I have more wit in the sole of my foot, 
 than you have in your whole body. 
 
 Nimb. Ay, sir; you caperers dance all your 
 brains into your heels, which makes you carry 
 such empty noddles. Your rational's reversed, 
 carrying your understandings in your legs. Y^our 
 wit is the perfect antipodes to other men's. 
 
 Rig. And what are you, good monsieur Sa, sa ? 
 — Stand upon your guard, Mr. Mockmode, he's 
 the greatest falsifier in his art: he'll fill your head 
 so full of French principles of honour, that you 
 won't have one of honesty left. His breastplate 
 there he calls the but of honour, at which all the 
 fools in the kingdom shoot, and not one can liit 
 the mark. 
 
 Nimb. You talk of Robin Hood, who never shot 
 in his bow, sir. — You dancers are the battledores 
 of the nation, that toss the light foppish shuttle- 
 cocks to and again, to get yourselves in heat. — 
 Have a care, Mr. Mockmode ; this fellow will 
 
 make a mere grasshopper of you Sir, you're the 
 
 grand pimp to foppery and lewdness ; and the 
 devil and a dancing-master dance a coranto over 
 the whole kingdom. 
 
 Rig. A pimp, sir ! what then, sir ? I engage 
 couples into the bed of love, but you match 'em 
 in the bed of honour. We only juggle people 
 out of their chastity, but you cheat 'em out of their 
 lives — We shall have you, Mr. Mockmode, grin- 
 ning in the bed of honour, as if you laughed at the 
 fool who must be hanged for you. — Which is best, 
 Mr. Nimblewrist, an easy minuet, or a Tyburn jig ? 
 
 Nimb. Don't provoke my sword, sir, lest that 
 art you so revile should revenge itself ; for every 
 one of you that live by dancing should die by 
 pushing, sir. 
 
 Rig. And every man that lives by pushing, 
 should die dancing, 1 take it. 
 
 Nimb. Zoons, sir 1 what d'ye mean ? 
 
 Rig. Nothing, sir ; — tal — dal — deral ! — 
 [Dances.] This takes the ladies, Mr. Mockmode ; 
 this runs away with all the great fortunes in town. 
 Though you be a fool, a fop, a coward, dance well, 
 and you captivate the ladies. The moving a man's 
 limbs pliantly does the business. If you want a 
 fortune, come t(> me Tal — dal — derail [Dances. 
 
 Nimb. No, no, to me, sir.— Sa! sa ! — does 
 your business soonest with a woman. A clean 
 
 and manly extension of all your parts Ha! — 
 
 carrying a true point is the matter. — Sa ! sa ! sa I 
 sa ! Defend yourself. 
 [Pushes at Rioadoon, who dances and ships, retiring ojf 
 the stage. 
 
 Enter Widow BuLtFlNcu. 
 
 Bull. Oh goodness ! what a room's here ! Could 
 not these fellows wipe their feet before they came 
 up .' And here's such a tripping and such a 
 stamping, that they have broke down all the 
 ceiling. — You dancing and fencing-masters have 
 been the downfall of many houses. Get out of 
 
i'.^i. 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 icy doors ! my house was never in such a pickle. 
 — You country gentlemen, newly come to London, 
 like your own spaniels out of a pond, must be 
 shaking the water off, and, bespatter everybody 
 about you. — 
 
 [MocKMODE having taken snush, offering to sneeze^ 
 sneezes in her /ace. 
 
 Mock. Zauns, madam ! — [Sneezes.] Bless me ! 
 Dern me ! 1 mean. 
 
 Bull. He's tainted. These cursed flies have 
 blown upon him already. lAside. 
 
 Mock. Sa ! sa ! — defend flankonade, madam. 
 
 Bull. Ah, Mr. Mookmode, my pushing and 
 dancing days are done ! But I had a son, Mr. 
 Mockmode, that would match you. — Ah, my poor 
 Hobin ! — He died of an apoplexy ; he was as pretty 
 a young man as ever stepped in a black-leather 
 shoe. He was as like you, Mr. Mockmode, as one 
 egg Is like another ; he died like an angel. But 1 
 am sure he might have recovered but for the 
 physicians.-^Oh, these doctors ! these doctors ! 
 
 Moek. Bless the doctors ! I say ; for I believe 
 they killed my honest old father. 
 
 JBvll. Ay, that's true. If my Robin had left me 
 an estate, 1 should have said so too. ICrics. 
 
 Mock. Zauns, madam, you must not be melan- 
 choly, madam ! 
 
 Bull. Well, sir, I hope you'll give us the beverage 
 of your fine clothes. I'll assure you, sir, they fit 
 you very well, and I like your fancy mightily. 
 
 Mock. Ay, ay, madam. But what's most 
 modish for beverage .'' for, I suppose, the fashion 
 of that alters always with the clothes. 
 
 Bull. The tailors are the best judges of that : — 
 but champagne, 1 suppose. 
 
 Mock. Is champagne a tailor .'* Now, methinks, 
 that were a fitter name for a wigrmaker.^I think 
 they call my wig a campaign. 
 
 Bull. You're clear out, sir, clear out ! cham- 
 pagne is a fine liquor, which all your great beaux 
 drink to make 'em witty. 
 
 Mock. Witty ! oh, by the universe, I must be 
 witty ! I'll drink nothing else ; I never was witty 
 in all my life. I love jokes dearly. — Here, Club, 
 bring us a bottle of what d'ye call it ; the witty 
 liquor. \_E3ni Club. 
 
 Bull. But I thought all you that were bred at 
 the university should be wits naturally .' 
 
 Mock. The quite contrary, raadam, there's no 
 such thing there. We dare not have wit there, for 
 fear of being counted rakes. Your solid philosophy 
 is all read there, which is clear another thing. 
 But now 1 will be a wit, by the universe ! 1 must 
 get acquainted with the great poets : landlady, you 
 must introduce me. 
 
 Bull. Oh, dear me, sir ! would you ruin me ? I 
 introduce you ! no widow dare be seen with a poet, 
 for fear she should be thought to keep him. 
 
 Mock. Keep him !' what's that .' They keep 
 nothing but sheep in the country; I hope they 
 don't fleece the wits .' 
 
 Bull. Alas, sir, they have no fleeces ! there's a 
 great cry, but little wool. However, if you would 
 be acquainted with the poets, I can prevail with a 
 gentleman of my acquaintance to introduce you. 
 'Tis one Lovewell, a fine gentleman that comes 
 here sometimes. 
 
 Mock. Lovewell ! by the universe, my rival I 
 I heard of him in the country. This puts me in 
 'laind of my mistress. — Zauns I I'm certainly be- 
 
 come a beau already ; for I was so in love with 
 myself, I quite forgot her. — I have a note in my 
 pocket-book to find her out by. — [Pulls out a 
 large pocket-book ; turning over the leaves, reads 
 io himself.] Sixpence for washing.- — Twopence 
 
 to the maid. — Sixpence for snush One shilling 
 
 for buttered ale, — By the universe, I have lost the 
 directions ! — Hark ye, madam ; does this same 
 Lovewell come often here, say you ? 
 
 Bull. Yes, sir, very often. There's a lady of 
 his acquaintance, a lodger in the housp just now. 
 
 Mock. A lady of his acquaintance, a lodger in 
 the house j ust now ! of his acquaintance, do you say } 
 
 Bull. Yes, and a pretty lady too. 
 
 Mock. And he comes often here, you say ? — By 
 the universe, should I happen to lodge in the 
 same house with my mistress ! Egad, it must be 
 the same ! — Can you tell the woman's name ? — 
 Stay — is her name Lucinda.^ 
 
 Bull. Perhaps it may, sir ; but I believe she's a 
 widow, for she has a young son, and I'm sure 'tis 
 legitimately begotten ; for 'tis tfce bravest child 
 you shall see in a summer's day. Tis not like one 
 of our puling brats o'th' town here, born with the 
 diseases of half-a-dozen fathers about it. 
 
 Monk. By the universe, I don't remember whe- 
 ther my ihistress is maid or widow I But a widow, 
 so much the better; for all your London widows 
 are devilish rich, they say. She came in a coach, 
 did she not, madam ? 
 
 Bull. Yes, sir, yes, 
 
 Mock. Then, 'tis infallibly she, — Does she not 
 always go out in her coach ? 
 
 Bull, She has not stirred abroad since she came, 
 sir. 
 
 Moek. Oh, I was told she was very reserved, 
 though 'tis very much of a widow. I have often 
 heard my mother say, that sitting at home, and 
 silence, were very becoming in a maid ; and she 
 has often chid my sister Dorothy for gadding out 
 to the meadows, and tumbling among the cocks 
 with the haymakers. Egad, I am the most lucky 
 son of a whore ! I was wrapped in the tail of my 
 mother's smock, landlady. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Bull. Oh, but t?iis lady, sir — ' 
 
 Sent. Madam, here's a gentleman below wants 
 to speak with you instantly. 
 
 Bull. With me, child! — Sir, I'll wait on you in 
 a minute. [_Exit uith Servant. 
 
 Re-enta' Club, tvHh wine and glasses. 
 
 Mock. Is that the witty liquor ? Come, fill the 
 glasses. Now that I have found my mistress, 1 
 must next find my wits. 
 
 Club. So you had need, master j for those tha* 
 find a mistress are generally out of their wits. 
 
 IGivcs him a giats. 
 
 Mock. Come, fill for yourself. — [Thep jingle 
 and drink.] But where's the wit now, Club ! have 
 you found it ? 
 
 Club. Egad, master, I think 'tis a very good jest. 
 
 Mock. What? 
 
 Club. What ! why, drinking. , You'll find , mas- 
 ter, that this same gentleman in the straw-doublet, 
 this same will i'th' wisp is a wit at the bottom. 
 — [Fills.] Here, here, master ; how it puns and 
 quibbles in the glass ! 
 
 Mock. By the universe, now I have it ! — ths 
 
SmMI, J. 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 ADl) 
 
 wit lies in the jingling. All wit consists most in 
 jingling, hear how the glasses rhyme to one an- 
 other. 
 
 Club. What, master, are these wits so apt to 
 clash? [Jingle the glasses. 
 
 Mock. Oh, by the universe, by the universe, 
 this is wit ! — \_Jireaks them. ] My landlady is in 
 the right. — I have often heard there was wit in 
 breaking glasses. It would be a very good joke to 
 break the flask now. 
 
 Club. I find, then, that this same wit is very 
 brittle ware. But I think, sir, 'twere no joke to 
 spill the wine. 
 
 Mock. Why, there's the jest, sirrah ; all wit 
 consists in losing ; there was never anything got 
 by't. 1 fancy this same wine is all sold at Will's 
 Coffee-house, Do you know the way thither, 
 sirrah ? I long to see Mr. Comic and Mr. Tag- 
 rhyme, with the rest of 'em, I wonder how they 
 look ! Certainly these poets must have something 
 extraordinary in their faces. Of all the rarities of 
 the town, I long to see nothing more than the 
 poets and Bedlam. — Come in. Club ; I must go 
 practise my honours. — Tal — dal.— deral ! — 
 
 [Exit dancing, and Club toping. 
 
 SCENE III. — Another Room in the same. 
 Enter Lovbwbll and Widow Bullfinch. 
 
 Bull. Oh, Mr. Lovewell, you come just in the 
 nick I I was ready to spoil all, by teUing liim that 
 she was a stranger, and just now come. 
 
 Love. Well, dear madam, be cautious for the 
 future ; 'tis the most fortunate chance that ever 
 befel me. 'Twere convenient we had the other 
 lodgers of our side. 
 
 Bull. There's nobody but Mr. Lyric; and you 
 had as safely tell a secret over a groaning-cheese 
 as to him. 
 
 Love. How so ? 
 
 Bull. Why, you must know, that he has been 
 lying-in these four months of a play ; and he has 
 got all the Muses about him ; a parcel of the most 
 tattUng gossips. 
 
 Love. Come, come ; no move words; but to our 
 business. I will certainly reward you. But have 
 you any good hopes of its succeeding ? 
 
 Bull. Very well of the squire's side. But I'm 
 afraid your widow will never play her part, she's 
 so awkward, and so sullen. 
 
 Love. Go you and instruct her, while I manage 
 affairs abroad. 
 
 Bull. She's always raving of one Roebuck. 
 Prithee, who is this same Roebuck ? — Ah, Mr. 
 Lovewell, I'm afraid this widow of yours is some- 
 tliing else at the bottom ; I'm afraid there has been 
 a dog in the well I [ Exit. 
 
 Enter Bru5h. 
 
 Love. So, sirrah ! where have you left the gen- 
 tleman % 
 
 Brush. In a friend's house, sir. 
 
 Love. What friend .-" 
 
 Brush. Why, a tavern. 
 
 Love What took him there .'' 
 
 Brush. A coach, sir. 
 
 Love. How d'ye mean ? 
 
 Brush. A coach and six, sir ; no less. I'll assure 
 you, sir. 
 
 Love. A coach and six ! 
 
 Brush. Yes, sir, six whores and a carted bawd. 
 He picked 'em all up in the street, and is gone, 
 with this splendid retinue, into the Sun by Covent- 
 Garden. 1 asked him what he meant .' He told 
 me, that he only wanted to whet, when the very 
 sight of 'em turned my stomach. 
 
 Love. The fellow will have his swing, though he 
 hang for't. However, run to him, and bid him 
 take the name of Mockmode, call himself Mock- 
 mode upon all occasions; and tell him that he 
 shall find me here about four in the afternoon. — 
 Ask no questions, but fly ! — [Exit Brush.] So : — 
 his usurping that name gives him a title to court 
 Lucinda, by which I shall discover her inclinations 
 to this Mockmode, whose coming to town has cer- 
 tainly occasioned her quarrel with me ; while I set 
 the hound himself upon a wrong scent, and, ten to 
 one, provide for mistress Trudge by the bargain. 
 'Tis said, one can't be a friend and a lover. 
 But opposite to that, this plot shall prove, 
 I '11 serve my friend by what assists my love. [Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I, — A Room in Lucinda's House. 
 Enter Leanthe. 
 
 Lean. Methinks this livery suits ill my birth : 
 But slave to Love, I must not disobey ; 
 His service is the hardest vassalage, 
 Forcing the powers divine to lay their godships 
 
 down. 
 To be more gods, more happy here below.^ — 
 Thus I, poor wanderer, have left my country. 
 Disguised myself so much, I hardly know 
 Whether this habit, or my love, be blindest ; 
 To follow one, perhaps, that loves me not, 
 Though every breath of his soft words was passion. 
 And every accent love. O Roebuck! [Weeps. 
 
 Enter UoKBucK. 
 
 Roe. This is the page, love's link-boy, that must 
 light me the way. — How now, pretty boy ; has 
 your lady beaten you .' ha ! — This lady must be a 
 Venus, for she has got a Cupid in her family. 
 'Tis a wondrous pretty boy: — [Leanthb starts, 
 and stares at Aim] but a very comical boy. — What 
 the devil does he stare at ? 
 
 Lean. {Aside."] Oh, Heavens! is the object real, 
 or are my eves false .' Is that Roebuck, or am I 
 Leanthe ? I am afraid he's not the same ; and 
 too sure I'm not myself. [ Weeps. 
 
 Roe. What offence could such pretty innocence 
 commit, to deserve a punishment to make you cry ? 
 
406 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Lean. O sir ! a wondrous offence. 
 
 line. What was it, my child .' 
 
 Lean. I pricked my finger with a pin, till I 
 made it bleed. 
 
 Roe. Such little boys as you should have a care 
 of sharp things. 
 
 Lean. Indeed, sir, we ought; for it pricked me 
 so deep, that the sore went to my very heart. 
 
 Roe. Poor boy !— here's a plaster for your sore 
 finger. [_Gives Leanthe gold. 
 
 Lean. Sir, you had best keep it for a sore-finger. 
 
 \_Returng it. 
 
 Roe. O' my conscience the boy's witty, but not 
 very wise in returning gold. — Come, come, you 
 shall take it. \_Forces it upon Iter, and kisses her. 
 
 Lean. That's the fitter cure (or my sore finger. — 
 The same dear lips still. Oh that the tongue 
 within them were as true ! lAside. 
 
 Roe. [Aside."] By heavens, this boy has the 
 softest pair of lips I ever tasted ! I ne'er found 
 before that ladies kissed their pages ; but now if 
 this rogue were not too young, I should suspect 
 he were beforehand with me. Egad, I must kiss 
 him again. — [Aloud.] Come, you shall take the 
 money. lEisses. 
 
 Lean. [Aside.] Oh, how he bribes me into 
 bribery ! — [Aloud.] But what must I do with this 
 money, sir? 
 
 Roe. You must get a little mistress, and treat 
 her with it. 
 
 Lean. Sir, T have one mistress already ; and 
 they say, no man can serve two masters, much less 
 two mistresses. How many mistresses have you, 
 pray ? 
 
 Roe. [Aside.] Um ! — Egad, the boy has posed 
 ine. — [Aloud.] How many, child ? Why, let me 
 see — there was Mrs. Mary, Mrs. Margaret, Mrs. 
 Lucy, Mrs. Susan, Mrs. Judy, and so forth, to the 
 number of five-and-twenty or thereabouts. 
 
 Lean. Oh ye powers ! and did you love 'em all ^ 
 
 Roe. Yes, desperately. I would have drank and 
 fought for any one of 'em : I have sworn and lied 
 to every one of 'em, and have lain with ^em all : 
 that's for your encouragement, boy. Learn be- 
 times, youth ; young plants should be watered. 
 Your smock-face was made for a chamber-utensil. 
 
 fjean. And did not one escape ye .' 
 
 Roe. Yes, one did ; — the devil take her ! 
 
 Lean. What, don't you love her then ? 
 
 Roe. No, faith ; but I bear her an amorous 
 grudge still, something between love and spite, — T 
 could kill her with kindness. 
 
 I^ean. I don't believe it, sir ; you could not be 
 so hard-hearted sure : her honourable passion, I 
 think, should please you best. 
 
 Roe. O child ! boys of your age are continually 
 reading romances, filling your heads with that old 
 bombast of love and honour : but when you come 
 to my years, you'll understand better things. 
 
 Lean. And must 1 be a false treacherous villain 
 when 1 come to your years, sir .' Is falsehood and 
 perjury essential to the perfect state of manhood ? 
 
 Roe. Psha ! children and old men always talk 
 thus foolishly. — You understand nothing, boy. 
 
 Lean. Yes, sir, I've been in love, and much more 
 than you, I perceive. 
 
 Roe. [Aside.] It appears then, that there's no 
 service in the world so educating to a boy as a 
 lady's. ^ — By Jove, this spark may be older than I 
 imagine. — [Aloud.] Hark ye, sir; do you never 
 
 pull off your lady's shoes and stockings ? do you 
 never reach her the — pincushion .' do you never 
 sit on her bedside, and sing to her ? ha ! — Come, 
 tell me, that's my good boy. IMakes much of her. 
 
 Lean Yes, I do sing her asleep sometimes. 
 
 Roe. But do you never waken her again ? 
 
 Lean. No, but I constantly wake myself; my 
 rest's always disturbed by visions of the devil. 
 
 Roe. [Aside.] Who would imagine now, that 
 this young shaver could dream of a woman so soon ? 
 — [Aloud.] But what songs does your lady delight 
 in most ^ 
 
 Lean. Passionate ones, sir ; I'll sing you one 
 of 'em if you'll stay. 
 
 Roe. With all my heart, my little cherubim. — 
 The rogue is fond of showing his parts. — Come, 
 begin. 
 
 Leanthe sings. 
 
 How blees'd are lovers in disguise I 
 
 Lilce gods, they see, 
 
 As I do tliee. 
 Unseen by human eyes. 
 
 Exposed to view, 
 
 I'm hid from you, 
 I'm alter'd, yet the same : 
 
 Tlie dark conceals me, 
 
 Love reveals me ; 
 Love, which lights me by its flame. 
 
 Were you not false, you me would know ; 
 
 For though your eyes 
 
 Could uot devise, 
 Your heiirt had told you so. 
 
 Your heart would beat 
 
 With eager heat. 
 And me by sympathy would find : 
 
 True love might see. 
 
 One changed like me, 
 False love is only blind. 
 
 Roe. Oh my little angel in voice and shape I — 
 [Kisses her.] 1 could wish myself a female for thy 
 sake. 
 
 Lean. You're much better as you are for my 
 sake. \_Aside. 
 
 Roe. Or, if thou wert a woman, I would — 
 
 Lean. What would you ? marry me ? would you 
 marry me ? 
 
 Roe. Marry you, child ! no, no ; I love you too 
 well for that ; ■ you should not have my hand, but 
 all my body at once. But to our business : is your 
 lady at home .' 
 
 Lean. My lady ! what business have you with 
 my lady, pray, sir .' 
 
 Roe. Don't ask questions. You know Mr 
 Lovewell ? 
 
 Lean. Yes, very well. He's my great friend, 
 and one I would serve above all the world, — but 
 his sister. 
 
 Roe. [Aside.] His sister! — Ha ! that gives me a 
 twinge for my sin. — [Aloud.] Pray, Mr. Page, 
 was Leanthe well when you left her .' 
 
 Lean. No, sir ; but wondrous melancholy, by 
 the departure of a dear friend of hers to another 
 world. 
 
 Roe. Oh, that was the person mentioned in her 
 letter, whose departure occasioned your departure 
 for England.- 
 
 Lean. That was the occasion of my coming, too 
 sure, sir. — Oh, 'twas a dear friend to me 1 the loss 
 makes me weep. 
 
 Roe. [Aside.] Poor tender-hearted creature 1 
 But I still find there was not a word of me — 
 
SCENE 1, 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 497 
 
 [Aloud^l Pray, good boy, let your mistress know, 
 here's one to wait on her. 
 
 Lean. Your business is from Mr. Lovewcll, I 
 suppose, sir ? 
 
 Roe. Yes, yes. 
 
 Lean. Then I'll go. ZExit 
 
 Roe, I've thrown my cast, and am fairly in for't. 
 But an't I an impudent dog ? Had I as much 
 gold in my breeches as brass in my face, I durst 
 attempt a whole nunnery. This lady is a reputed 
 virtue, of good fortune and quality ; I am a rake- 
 helly rascal not worth a groat ; and without any 
 farther ceremony am going to debauch her. — But 
 hold ! She does not know that I'm this rakehelly 
 rascal ; and I know that she's a woman, one of 
 eighteen too ; beautiful, witty. 0' my conscience, 
 upon second thoughts, I am not so very impudent 
 neither. Now as to my management, I'll first try 
 the whining addresses, and see if she*Il bleed in the 
 soft vein. 
 
 Enter Lucinda. 
 
 Lnc. Have you any business with me, sir ? 
 
 Roe. Thus looked the forbidden fruit, luscious 
 and tempting. 'Tis ripe, and will soon fall, if one 
 will shake the tree. [jiside. 
 
 Luc. Have you any business with me, sir ? 
 
 IComes nearer. 
 
 Roe. Yes, madam, the business of mankind, to 
 adore you. — [Aside.] My love, like my blood, cir- 
 culates through my veins, and at every pulse of my 
 heart animates me with a fresh passion. — [Aloud/] 
 Wonder not, madam, at the power of your eyes, 
 whose painted darts have struck on a young and 
 tender heart, which they easily pierced, and which, 
 unaccustomed to such wounds, finds the smart 
 more painful. 
 
 Lean. [Peeping in.] Oh, traitor! just such 
 words he spoke to me. 
 
 Luc. Heyday ! I was never so attacked in all 
 my life. In love with me, sir ! did you ever see 
 me before ? 
 
 Roe. [Aside.] Never, by Jove. — [Aloud] Oh, 
 ten thousand times, madam ! Y^ur lovely idea is 
 always in my view, either asleep or awake, eating 
 or drinking, walking, sitting, or standing ; alone or 
 in company, my fancy wholly feeds upon your dear 
 image, and every thought is you. — [Aside.] Now 
 have I told about fifteen lies in a breath I 
 
 Luc. I suppose, sir, you are some conceited 
 young scribbler, who has got the benefits of a first 
 play in your pocket, and are now going a-fortune- 
 hunting. 
 
 Roe. But why a scribbler, madam ? Are my 
 clothes so coarse, as if they were spun by those 
 lazy spinsters the Muses? does the parting of my 
 fore-top show so thin, as if it resembled the two 
 withered tops of Parnassus ? do you see anything 
 peculiarly whimsical or ill-natured in my face ? is 
 my countenance strained, as if my head were dis- 
 torted by a strangury of thought } is there anything 
 proudly, slovenly, or affectedly careless in my dress ? 
 do my hands look like paper-moths } I think, 
 madam, I have nothing poetical about me. 
 
 Luc. Yes, sir, you have wit enough to talk like 
 a fool; and are fool enough to talk like a wit. 
 
 Roe. You called me poet, madam ; and I know 
 no better way of revenge, than to convince you that 
 I am one by my impudence. {Offers to hiss her hand. 
 
 Li*c* Then make me a copy of verses upon that, 
 eir, \_Hit8 him on the ear, and exit. 
 
 Re-enter Lbanthe, 
 
 Lean. How d'ye like the subject, sir? 
 
 Roe. 'Tis a very copious one. — [Spitting.] It 
 has made my joUs rhyme in my head. This it is 
 to be thought a poet 1 every minx must be casting 
 his profession in his teeth. — What, gone ! 
 
 Lean, Ay, she knows that making verses requires 
 solitude and retirement. 
 
 Roe. She certainly was afraid I intended to beg 
 leave to dedicate something. — If ever I make love 
 like a poetical fool again, may I iiever receive any 
 favour but a subject for a copy of verses. 
 
 Re-enter Lucinda. 
 
 Luc. [Aside.] I won't dismiss him thus, for 
 fear he lampoon me. — [Aloud.] Well, sir, have you 
 done them ? 
 
 Roe. Yes, madam, will you please to read. 
 
 [Catches her and kisses her three or four times. 
 
 Lean. [Aside.] Oh. Heaven ! I can never bear 
 it. I must devise some means to part *em. [.Exit. 
 
 Luc. Sir, your verses are too rough and con- 
 strained. However, because I gave the occasion, 
 I'll pardon what's past. 
 
 Roe. [Aside.] By the Lord, she was angry only 
 because I did not make the first offer to her lips ! 
 —[Aloud.] Then, madam, the peace is concluded ? 
 
 Luc. Yes ; and therefore both parties should 
 draw out of the field. [Going. 
 
 Roe. Not till we make reprisals. I make peace 
 with sword in hand, madam, and till you return my 
 heart, which you have taken, or your own in 
 exchange, I will not put up. And so, madam, I 
 proclaim open war again. [Catches her. 
 
 Re-enter Lbanthe. 
 
 Lean. O madam ! yonder's poor little Crab, 
 your lapdog, has got his head between two of the 
 window-bars, and is like to be strangled. 
 
 [The dog howls behind the scenes. 
 
 Luc. Oh Lard, my poor Crabby ! I must run 
 to the rescue of my poor dog ; I'll wait on you 
 instantly. — Come, come, page. — Poor Crabby ! 
 
 [Exit with Lkanthb. 
 
 Roe. Oh, the devil choke Crabby '—Well, I find 
 there's much more rhetoric in the lips than in the 
 tongue. Had buss been the first word of my court- 
 ship, I might have gained the outworks by this. 
 Impudence in love is like courage in war; though 
 both blind chances, because women and Fortune 
 rule them. 
 
 Re-enter Leanthe. 
 
 Lean. Sir, my lady begs your pardon ; there's 
 something extraordinary happened, which prevents 
 her waiting on you, as she promised. 
 
 Roe. What, has monsieur Crabby rubbed some 
 of the hairs off his neck ? has he disordered his 
 pretty ears ? She won't come again then.' 
 
 Lean. No, sir ; you must excuse her. 
 
 Roe. Then I'll go be drunk. — Hark'ee, sirrah 
 I have half a dozen delicious creatures waiting 
 for me at the Sun ; you shall along with me and 
 have your choice. I'll enter you into the school 
 of Venus, child. 'Tis time you had lost your maiden- 
 head, you're too old for playthings. 
 
 Lean. [Aside.] O Heavens ! I had rather he 
 should stay than go there. — [Aloud.] But why will 
 you keep such compaisy, sir ? 
 
 Roe. Nay, if you're for advice, farcvell ! 
 
498 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 Men of ripe understanding should always despise 
 What babes only practise, and dotards advise. 
 
 [_Exit singing. 
 Lean. Wild as winds, and unconfined as air ! — 
 Yet I may reclaim him. His follies are weakly 
 founded, upon the principles of honour, where the 
 very foundation helps to undermine the structure. 
 How charming would virtue look .in him, whose 
 behaviour can add a grace to the unseemliness of 
 vice ! 
 
 Re-enter Lucinda. 
 
 Luc. What, is the gentleman gone ? 
 
 Lean. Yes, madam. He was instantly taken ill 
 ■with a violent pain in his stomach, and was forced 
 to hurry away in a chair to his lodging. lExit. 
 
 Luc. Oh, poor gentleman ! He's one of those 
 conceited fools that think no female can resist their 
 temptations. Blockheads that imagine all wit to 
 consist in blaspheming heaven and women. — I'll 
 feed his vanity, but starve his love. 
 
 And may all coxcombs meet no better fate. 
 
 Who doubt our sex's virtue, or dare prompt our 
 hate. [.Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Widow BtiLLFiNCH's 
 House. 
 
 XvRic discovered in a nightgown and cap, writing at a 
 table, on which are papers scattered about. 
 
 Lyr. Two as good lines as ever were written ! — 
 [ Rising.'] Egad I shall maul these topping fellows ! 
 Says Mr. Lee, 
 
 Let there be not one glimpse, one starry spark, 
 But gods meet gods, and jostle in the dark. 
 Says little Lyric, 
 
 Let all the lights he burnt out to a snuff. 
 And gods meet gods, and play at blindman's-buff. 
 Very well ! 
 
 Let gods meet gods, and so — fall out and cuff. 
 That's much mended. They're as noble lines as 
 ever were penned. — Oh ! here comes my damned 
 muse ; I'm always in the humour of writing elegy 
 after a little of her inspiration. 
 
 Enter Widow Bullfinch. 
 
 Bull. Mr. Lyric, what do you mean by all this ? 
 Here you have lodged two years in my house, pro- 
 mised me eighteen-pence a week for your lodging, 
 and I have never received eighteen farthings, not 
 the value of that, Mr. Lyric. — [Snaps with her 
 fingers.] You always put me oS with telling me of 
 your play, your play ! Sir, you shall play no more 
 with me ; I'm in earnest. 
 
 Lyr. [Aside.] This living on love is the dearest 
 lodging — a man's eternally dunned, though perhaps 
 he have less of one ready coin than t'other. — 
 [Aloud.] There's more trouble in a play than you 
 imagine, madam. 
 
 Bull. There's more trouble with a lodger than 
 you think, Mr. Lyric. 
 
 Lyr. First, there's the decorum of time. 
 
 Bull, Which you never observe : for you keep 
 the worst hours of any lodger in town. 
 
 Lyr. Then there's the exactness of characters. 
 
 Hull. And you have the most scandalous one I 
 «ver heard. 
 
 Lyr. Then there's laying the drama. 
 
 Bull. Then you foul my napkins and towels. 
 
 Lyr, Then there are preparations of incidents, 
 working the passions, beauty of expression, close- 
 ness of plot, justness of place, turn of language, 
 opening the catastrophe. 
 
 Bull. Then you wear out my sheets, burn my 
 fire and candle, dirty my house, eat my meat, 
 destroy my drink, wear out my furniture — I have 
 lent you money out of my pocket. 
 
 Lyr. [Aside.] Was ever poor rogue so ridden ! 
 If ever the Muses had a horse, I am he. — [Aloud.'^ 
 Faith, madam, poor Pegasus is jaded. 
 
 Bull. Come, come, sir, he shan't slip his neck 
 out of the collar for all that. Money I will have, 
 and money I must have ; let your play and you 
 both be damned ' 
 
 Lyr. Well, madam, my bookseller is to bring 
 me some twenty guineas for a few sheets of mine 
 presently, which I hope will free me from your 
 sheets. 
 
 Bull. My sheets, Mr. Lyric 1 pray what d'ye 
 mean .■' I'll assure you, sir, my sheets are finer than 
 any of your Muses' spinning — marry come up ! 
 
 Lyr. Faith, you have spun me so fine, that you 
 have almost cracked my thread of life ; as may 
 appear by my spindle-shanks. 
 
 Bull. Why sure — where was your Thalia, and 
 your Melpomene, when the tailor would have 
 stripped you of your silk waistcoat, and have 
 clapped you on a stone doublet ? Would all your 
 golden verse have paid the Serjeant's fees ? 
 
 Lyr. Truly, you freed me from jail, to confine 
 me in a dungeon ; you did not ransom me, but 
 bought me as a slave ; so, madam, I'll purchase my 
 freedom as soon as possible. Flesh and blood can't 
 bear it. 
 
 Bull. Take your course, sir. — There were a 
 couple of gentlemen just now to inquire for you ; 
 and if they come again, they shan't be put off with 
 the old story of your being abroad, I'll promise you 
 that, sir. lExtt. 
 
 Lyr. Zoons ! if this bookseller does not bring 
 me money — if % 
 
 Enter Pamphlet. 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Pamphlet, your servant. Have you 
 perused my poems .' 
 
 Pam. Yes, sir ; and there are some things very 
 well, extraordinary well, Mr. Lyric. But I don't 
 think 'em for my purpose. — Poetry is a mere drug, 
 sir. 
 
 Lyr. Is that because I take physic when I write. 
 — [Aside.] Damn this costive fellow, now does he 
 not apprehend the joke ! 
 
 Pam. No, sir ; but your name does not recom- 
 mend 'em. One must write himself into a con- 
 sumption before he gain reputation. 
 
 Lyr. That's the way to lie abed when his name's 
 up. Now, I lie abed before I can gain reputation. 
 
 Pam. Why so, sir? 
 
 Lyr. Because I have scarcely any clothes to 
 put on. — If ever man did penance in a white 
 sheet — 
 
 Pam. You stand only sometimes in a white 
 sheet for your offences with your landlady. Faith, 
 I have often wondered how your muse could take 
 such flights, yoked to such a cartload as she is, 
 
 Lyr. Oh ! they are like the Irish horses, they 
 draw best by the tail. — Have you ever seen any of 
 my burlesque, Mr. Pamphlet .' I have a project of 
 turning three or four* of our most topping fellows 
 into doggrel. As for example : — llteads. 
 
LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 4S9 
 
 Conquest with laurels has our arms adorned, 
 
 And Rome in tears of blood our anger mourned. 
 Now, 
 
 Butchers with rosemary have our beef adorn'd, 
 
 Which has in gravy tears our hunger mourn'd . 
 How d'ye like it, Mr. Pamplilet, ha ? — Well— 
 
 Like gods, we pass'd the rugged Alpine hills ; 
 
 Melted our way, and drove our hissing wheels 
 
 Through cloudy deluges, eternal rills. 
 Now observe, Mr. Pamphlet ; pray observe. 
 
 Like raxors keen, our knives cut passage clean 
 
 Through rills of fat, and deluges of lean. 
 
 Pam. Very well, upon my soul ! 
 
 Lyr, HurVd dreadful fire and vinegar infused, 
 
 Pam. Ay, sir, vinegar ! how patly that comes 
 in for the beef, Mr. Lyric ! 'Tis all wondrous fine 
 indeed. 
 
 Lyr. [Aside.'] This is the most ingenious fellow 
 of his trade that I have seen ; he understands a good 
 
 thing [Aloud.'] But as to our business. What 
 
 are you willing to give for these poems ? Prithee 
 say something. There are about three thousand 
 lines. — Here, take 'em for a couple of guineas. 
 
 Pam. No, sir ; paper is so excessive dear, that 
 I dare not venture upon 'em. 
 
 Lyr. Well, because you're a friend, I'll bestow 
 'em upon you. Here, take 'em all. — \_Aside.'] 
 There's the hopes of a dedication still. 
 
 Pam. I give you a thousand thanks, sir ; but I 
 dare not venture the hazard ; they'll never quit 
 cost indeed, sir. 
 
 Lyr. [Aside.] This fellow is one of the greatest 
 blockheads that ever was a member of a corpora- 
 tion. — How shall I be revenged ? 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Boy. Sir, there are two men below desire to have 
 the honour of kissing your hand, 
 
 Lyr. They must be knaves or fools, by their 
 fulsome compliment. Hark ye — [ Whispers Boy.] 
 Bid 'em walk up. 
 
 Pam.. Since you have got company, sir, I'll take 
 my leave. 
 
 Iiyr. No, no, Mr. Pamphlet, by no means ! We 
 must drink before we part. Boy, a pint of sack 
 and a toast. — [Exit Boy.] These are two gentle- 
 men out of the country, who will be for all the 
 new things lately published ; they'll be good cus- 
 tomers. Come, sit down. — You have not seen my 
 play yet .' — Here take the pen, and if you see any- 
 thing amiss correct it ; I'll go bring 'em up. — 
 Stay, lend me your hat and wig, or I shall take 
 cold going down stairs. 
 
 [Takes Pamphjcet's hat and wig, and puts Ids cap on 
 Pamphlet's head, and exit. 
 
 Pam. This is a right poetical cap ; 'tis baize the 
 outside, and the lining fustian. — [Reading.] This 
 is all stuff, worse than his poems. 
 
 Enter two Bailiffs fifftind and clap him on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 1 Bail. Sir, you're the king's prisoner. 
 
 Pam. That's a good fancy enough, Mr. Lyric ! 
 But pray don't interrupt me, I'm in the best scene. 
 Egad the drama is very w.ell laid. 
 
 2 Bail. Come, sir. 
 
 Pam. Well, well, sir, I'll pledge ye. Prithee 
 now, good Mr. Lyric, don't disturb me. — 
 
 And furious lightnings brandish' d in her eyes. 
 That's true spirit of poetry. 
 
 1 Bail. Zoons, sir, d'ye banter us ? 
 
 i'fakes him under each arm, and hauls him up. 
 
 Pam. Gentlemen, I beg your pardon. How 
 d'ye like the city, gentlemen ? If you have any 
 occasion for books to carry into the country, I can 
 furnish you as well as any man about Paul's. 
 Where's Mr. Lyric ? 
 
 1 Bail. These wits are damnable cunning ! — I 
 always have double fees for arresting one of you 
 wits. All your evasions won't do ; we understand 
 trap, sir ; you must not think to catch old birds 
 with chaff, sir. 
 
 Pam. Zoons, gentlemen, I'm not the person ! 
 I'm a freeman of the city ; I have good effects, 
 gentlemen, good effects. D'ye think to make a 
 fool of me .' I'm a bookseller, no poet. 
 
 2 Bail. Ay, sir, we know what you are by your 
 fool's cap there. 
 
 1 Bail. Yes, one of you wits would have passed 
 upon us for a corn-cutter yesterday ; and was so 
 like one we had almost believed him. [Hauls him. 
 
 Pam. Why, gentlemen ! gentlemen ! officers ! 
 have a little patience, and Mr. Lyric will come up 
 stairs. 
 
 1 Bail. No, no ; Mr. Lyric shall go down stairs. 
 
 He would have us wait till some friends come in to 
 
 rescue him. Ah ! these wits are devilish cunning. 
 
 [Exeunt Bailiffs hauling Pamphlet. 
 
 Re-enter Lyric, with Mockmode and Club. 
 
 Lyr. Ha ! ha ! ha I very poetical, faith ; a good 
 plot for a play, Mr. Mockmode ; a bookseller 
 bound in calves' leather j ha ! ha ! ha ! — How they 
 walked along, like the three volumes of the English 
 Rogue squeezed together on a shelf ! 
 
 Mock. What was it ? what was it, Mr. Lyric ? 
 
 Lyr. Why, I am a statesman, sir. — I can't but 
 laugh to think how they'll spunge the sheet before 
 the errata be blotted out ; and then how he'll 
 hamper the dogs for false imprisonment. 
 
 Mock. But pray, what's the matter, Mr. Lyric ? 
 
 Lyr. Nothing, sir, but a shirking bookseller 
 that owed me about forty guineas for a few lines. 
 He would have put me off, so I sent for a couple 
 of bull-dogs, and arrested him. 
 
 Mock. Oh Lord ! Mr. Lyric, honesty's quite 
 out of doors ; 'tis a rare thing to find a man that's 
 a true friend, a true friend is a rare thing indeed ! 
 Mr. Lyric, will you be my friend ? I only want 
 that accomplishment. I have got a mistress, a 
 dancing and fencing-master ; and now I want only 
 a friend to be a fine gentleman. 
 
 Lyr. Have you never had a friend, sir ? 
 
 Mock. Yes, a very honest fellbw ; our friend- 
 ship commenced in the college-cellar, and we loved 
 one another, like two brothers, till we unluckily fell 
 out afterwards at a game at tables. 
 
 Lyr. [Aside.] I find then that neither of ye 
 lost by the set. — [Aloud.'] But my short acquaint- 
 ance can't recommend me to such a trust. 
 
 Mock. Psha, acquaintance! — You must be a 
 man of honour, as you're a poet, sir ? 
 
 Lyr. But what use would you make of a friend, 
 sir ? 
 
 Mock. Only to tell my secrets to, and be my 
 second, — Now, sir, a wit must he best to keep a 
 secret, because what you say to one's prejudice 
 will be thought malice. Then you must have a 
 devilish deal of courage, by your heroic writing.-— 
 But know, that I alone am king of me. 
 
600 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 Heavens ! sure the author of that line must be b 
 plaguy stout fellow ; it makes me valiant as Hector 
 when I read it. 
 
 Lyr. Sir, we stick to what we write as little as 
 divines to what they preach. — Besides, sir, there 
 are other qualifications requisite in a friend — he 
 must lend you money. Now, sir, I can't be that 
 friend, for I want forty guineas. 
 
 Mock. Sir, I can lend you fifty upon good se- 
 curity 'Twas the last word my father spoke on 
 
 his death-bed, that I should never lend money with- 
 out security. 
 
 Zjyr. Fy, sir! security from a friend, and a man 
 of honour by his profession too ! 
 
 Mock. By the universe that's true, you are my 
 friend. Then I'll teil you a secret. [Thei; uihitper. 
 
 Club. Now will this plaguy wit turn my nose 
 out of joint. — I was my master's friend before, 
 though I never found the knack of borrowing 
 money ; though I have received some marks of his 
 friendship, some sound drubs about the head and 
 shoulders, or so. I have been bound for him too 
 in the stocks, for his breaking windows, very often. 
 
 {^Aside. 
 
 Ly. Mr. Mockmode, you may be imposed upon. 
 I would see this lady you court. I know Mr. 
 Lovewell has a mistress named Lucinda ; but that 
 she lodges in this house I much doubt. 
 
 Mock. Imposed upon ! that's very comical — 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! You shall see, sir j come.' — Pray, 
 sir, you're my friend. 
 
 Lyr. Nay, pray; indeed, sir, I beg your — 
 [They compliment for the door'[ pardon ; you're 
 a squire, sir. 
 
 Mock. Zauns, sir, you lie, I'm not a fool! I'll 
 take an affront from no man.— Draw, sir ! [Brawt. 
 
 Club. Draw, sir ! — Egad I'll put his nose out of 
 joint now. 
 
 Lyr. Unequal numbers, gentlemen. 
 
 Club. I'm only my master's friend, his second, 
 or so, sir. 
 
 Lyr. M'hat's the matter, noble squire ? 
 
 Mock. You lie again, sir ; zauns, draw ! 
 
 [^Strikes him with his sword. 
 
 Lyr. Ha ! — a blow ! — Essex, a blow ! — yet I 
 will be calm. 
 
 Club. Zoons, draw, sir ! iSlrikes him. 
 
 Lyr. Oh patience, Heaven! — Thou art my friend 
 still. 
 
 Mock. You lie, sir ! 
 
 Ly.r. Then thou art a traitor ! tyrant ! monster! 
 
 Mock. Zauns, sir, you're a son of a whore, and 
 a rascal ! 
 
 Club. A scribbler I 
 
 Lyr. Ah ! ah ! — that stings home. — Scribbler 1 
 
 Mock. Ay, scribbler ! ballad-maker 1 
 
 Lyr. Nay, then — 
 I and the gods will fight it with ye all. [_Drawt. 
 
 Enter Robbuck drunk, and singing. 
 Roe. France ne'er will comply 
 Till her claret run dry ; 
 ' Then let's pull away to defeat her : 
 He hinders the peace, 
 Who refuses his glass, 
 And deserves to be hang' d for a traitor. 
 Now, my myrmidons, fall on ; I have taken off the 
 odds. 
 
 Dub a dub, dub a dub, to the battle I iSings, 
 Zoons, gentlemen, why don't ye fight ? Blood, 
 
 fight ! Oblige me so far to fight a little ; I long 
 to see a little sport. 
 
 Lyr. Sir, I scorn to show sport to any man. 
 
 IFUts up. 
 
 Mock. And so do I, by the universe. 
 
 Club. And I, by the universe. 
 
 Lyr. I shall take another time. IBxit. 
 
 Roe. Here, rascal, take your chopping-knife, — 
 [Gives Club his sivord.] and bring me a joint of 
 that coward's flesh for your master's supper.— Fly, 
 (Jog. ITakes him iy the nose. 
 
 Club. Auh ! This fellow's likeliest to put my 
 nose out of joint. \_Exit. 
 
 Roe. Now, sir, tell me, how you durst be a 
 coward. 
 
 Mock. Coward, sir ! I'm a man of great estate, 
 sir ; I have five thousand acres of as good fighting 
 ground as any in England, good terra fi/rma, sir. 
 Coward, sir ! Have i care what you say, sir. My 
 father was a parliament man, sir ; and I was bred 
 at the college, sir. 
 
 Roe. Oh then I know your genealogy ; your 
 father was a senior fellow, and your mother was an 
 air-pump. You were suckled by Platonic ideas, 
 and you have some of your mother's milk in your 
 nose yet. 
 
 Mock. Form the proposition by mode and figure 
 sir. 
 
 Roe. I told you so. Blow your nose, child; 
 and have a care of dirting your philosophical slab- 
 bering-bib. 
 
 Mock. What d'ye mean, sir ? 
 
 Roe. Your starched band, set by mode and figure, 
 sir. 
 
 Mock. Band, sir! — This fellov^'s blind-drunk. — 
 I wear a cravat, sir. 
 
 Roe. Then set a good face upon the matter. 
 Throw off childishness and folly, with your hang- 
 ing-sleeves. Now you have left the university, 
 learn, learn ! 
 
 Mock. [Aside."] This fellow's an atheist, by the 
 universe ; I'll take notice of him, and inform against 
 him for being drunk. — [Aloud.] Pray, sir, what's 
 your name ? 
 
 Roe. My name ! by the Lord, I have forgot ! — 
 Stay, I shall think on't by and by. 
 
 Mock. Zauns, forget your own name ! your me- 
 mory must be very short, sir. 
 
 Roe. Ay, so it seems, for I was but christened 
 this morning, and I have forgot it already. 
 
 Mock, Was your worship then Turk or Jew 
 hefore'. — [Aside.] I knew he was some damned 
 bloody dog. 
 
 Roe. Sir, I have been Turk, or Jew rather, 
 since ; for I have got a plaguy heathenish name. 
 — Pox on't ! — oh ! now I have it. — Mo — Mock — ' 
 mo — Mockmode ! 
 
 Mock. Mockmode ! Mockmode ! Sir, pray how 
 do you spell it ? 
 
 Roe. Go you to your A, B, C, you came last 
 from the university. 
 
 Mock. Sir, I'm called Mockmode. What family 
 are you of, sir .' 
 
 Roe. What family are you of, sir ? 
 
 Mock. Of Mockmode-hall in Shropshire. 
 
 Roe. Then I'm of the same, I believe. I fancy, 
 sir, that you and I are near relations. 
 
 Mock. Relations ! sir, there are but two families ; 
 my father's, who is now dead ; and his brother's, 
 Colonel Peaceable Mockmode. 
 
LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 50] 
 
 Roe. Ay ay, the very same colonel Peaceable, 
 [g not he coloDel of militia ? 
 
 Mock. Yes, sir. 
 
 Roe. And was not he high-sheriff of the county 
 last year? 
 
 ■Mock. The very same, sir. 
 
 Roe. The very same ; I'm of that family, And 
 your father died about — let me see — 
 
 Mock. About half a year ago. 
 
 Roe. Exactly ; by the same token you got drunk 
 at a hunting-match that very day seven-night he 
 was buried. 
 
 Mock. [Aside.'\ Thisfellow'sawitch ! — iJloud.] 
 But it looks very strange that you should be christ- 
 ened this morning. I'm sure your godfathers had a 
 plaguy deal to answer for. 
 
 Roe. Oh, sir, I'm of age to answer for myself. 
 
 Mock. One would not thiqk so, you're so for- 
 getful. 'Tis two-and-twenty years since I was 
 christened, and I can remember my name still. 
 
 Roe. Come, we'll take a glass of wine, and that will 
 clearourunderstanding. We'll remember our friends. 
 
 Mock. You must excuse me, sir. — lAfiide.'\ This 
 is some sharper. 
 
 Roe. Nay, prithee, cousin, good cousin Mock- 
 mode, one glass. I know you are an honest fel- 
 low. We must remember our relations in the 
 country, indeed, sir. 
 
 Mock. Oh, sir, you're so short of memory you 
 
 can never call 'em to mind. You have forgot 
 yourself, sir; Mockmode is a heathenish name 
 sir, and all that, sir. And so I beg your pardon 
 sir. [Exit. 
 
 Roe. Now were I lawyer enough, oy that little 
 inquiry into that fellow's concerns, I could bring in 
 a false deed to cheat him of his estate. 
 
 Enter Brush. 
 
 Where the devil is thy master ? You said I should 
 find him here. 
 
 Rrush. 'Tis impossible for you, or me, or any- 
 body to find him. 
 
 Roe. Why } 
 
 Brush. Because he has lost himself. The devil 
 has made a juggler's ball of him, I believe. He's 
 here now ; then. Presto ! pass in an instant. He 
 has got some damned business to-day in hand. 
 
 Roe, Ay, so it seems. I must be squire Mock- 
 mode, and court an hopourable mistress in the 
 devil's name ! Well, let my sober thinking friend 
 plot on, and lay traps to catch futurity; I'm for 
 holding fast the present. I have got about twenty 
 guineas in my pocket ; and whilst they last the 
 devil take George if he thinks of futurity. I'll go 
 liand in hand with Fortune, 
 
 She is an honest, giddy, reeling punk ; 
 
 My head, her wheel, turn round, and so we both 
 are drunk, lExit reeling, Brvsh folloiving. 
 
 ACT IV, 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Lucinda's House. 
 
 Enter Leanthk.Pindress/o/^owimP with a paper of sweet- 
 meats in her hand. 
 
 Pin. Here, here, page, your lady has sent you 
 some sweetmeats ; but indeed you shan't have 'em 
 till you hire n e. 
 
 Lean, She sent sour sauce, when she made you. 
 the bearer. [Aside. 
 
 Pin. Prithee now, what makes you constantly 
 so melancholy ? Come, you must be merry, and 
 shall be merry ; I'll get yon some playthings. 
 
 Lean. I believe you want playthings more than 
 I. — But I would be private, Pindress. 
 
 Pin. Well, my child, I'll be private with you. 
 Boys and girls should still be private together ; and 
 we may be as retired as we please ; for my mistress 
 is reading in her closet, and all the servants are 
 below. But what concerns have you ? I'm sure, 
 such a little boy can have no great business in 
 private. 
 
 Lean. [Aside.'] I will try thee for once. — ■ 
 lAload.J Yes, Mrs. Pindress, I have great incli- 
 nation. 
 
 Pin, To what ? to do what, sir? — Don't name 
 it ! 'Tis aU in vain ; — you shan't do it ; you need 
 not ask it. 
 
 Lean. Only to kiss you. [Kisses her. 
 
 Pin. Oh fy sir ! indeed I'll none of your kisses. 
 Take it back again — [Kisses Leanthe.] Is not 
 the taste of the sweetmeats very pretty about my 
 lipa .' 
 
 Lean. O hana; your liquorish chaps ! you'd fain 
 be licking your lips, I find LLat. 
 
 Pin. Indeed, Mr. Page, I won't pay you the 
 kisses yon won from me last night at cross-pur- 
 poses ; and you shan't think to keep my pawn 
 neither. Pray give me my Hungary bottle. As I 
 hope to be saved I will have my Hungary bottle. — 
 [Rummaging Leanthe.] I'm stronger than you. 
 I'll carry you in, and throw you upon the bed, and 
 take it from you, [Takes Lbanthe in her arms. 
 
 Lean. Help ! help ! I shall be ravished ! help ! 
 help! 
 
 Enter Lucinda. 
 
 Luc. What's the matter ? — Oh bless me ! 
 
 Pin. Oh dear, madam, this unlucky boy had 
 almost spoiled me. Did not your ladyship hear 
 me cry I should be ravished ? I was so weak, I 
 could not resist the little strong rogue ; he whipped 
 me up in his arms, like a baby ; and had not your 
 ladyship come in — 
 
 Lua. What, sirrah ! would you debauch my maid, 
 you Uttle cock-sparrow ? must you be billing too i" 
 I have a great mind to make her whip you, sirrah. 
 
 Pin. Oh dear, madam, let me do't ! I'll take 
 him into the room, and I will so chastise him — 
 
 Luc. But do you think you'll be able, Pindress ? 
 I'll send one of the men to help you. 
 
 Pin. No, no, madam : I could manage him with 
 one hand. See here, madam. 
 
 [Takes Leanthe in her armSt and is running away. 
 
 Luc. Hold, hold ! Is this you that the little 
 strong rogue had almost ravished ? He snatched 
 you up in his arms like a' baby ! Ah, Pindress, 
 Pindress I I see y'are very weak indeed. Are not 
 you ashamed, girl, to debauch my little boy ? 
 
 Pin. Your ladyship gave me orders to make hiin 
 
502 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 merry, and divert his melancholy ; and I know no 
 hetter way than to tease him a little. I'm afraid 
 the boy is troubled with the rickets, and a little 
 shaking, madam, would do him some good. 
 
 Lean. \_Aside.'] I am tired with impertinence, 
 and have other business to mind. lExU. 
 
 Pin. I hope your ladyship entertains no ill 
 opi!>ien of my virtue. 
 
 ijfc. Truly I don't know what to think on't : 
 but I've so good an opinion of your sense, as to 
 believe you would not play the fool with a child. 
 
 Pin. We're all subject to playing the fool, if you 
 continue your resolution in marrying the first man 
 that asks you the question. 
 
 Luc. No, my mind's changed ; I'll never marry 
 any man. 
 
 Pin. \^Aside.'\ I dare swear that resolution 
 breaks sooner than the former. — [Aloud.'] Ah, 
 madam, madam 1 if you never believe man again, 
 you must never be woman again ; for though we are 
 as cunning as serpents, "we are naturally as flexible 
 too. Speak ingenuously, madam ; if Mr. Lovewell 
 should, with an amorous whine, and suppliant 
 cringe, tell you a formal story, contrary to what we 
 suspect, would you not believe him ? 
 
 Luc, What, believe his vain assertions before 
 the demonstration of my senses ! no, no ; my love's 
 not so blind. Did I not see his miss and his child ? 
 did I not behold him giving her money ? did I not 
 heai him declare he would settle her in a lodging ? 
 
 Pin. But, madam, upon serious reflection, 
 wheie's the great harm in all this.' Most ladies 
 would be overjoyed at such a discovery of their 
 lOver's ability. TThe child seemed a lusty chopping 
 boy ; and let me tell you, madam, it must be a lusty 
 chopping boy that got it. 
 
 Luc. Urge no farther in his defence ; he's a vil- 
 lain, and of all villains that I hate most, an hypo- 
 critical one. The ladies give him the epithet of 
 modest, and the gentlemen that of sober Lovewell. 
 Now methinks, such a piece of debauchery sits so 
 awkwardly on a person of his character, that it 
 adds an unseemliness to the natural vileness of the 
 vice ; and he that dares be a hypocrite in religion, 
 ■will certainly be one in love. — Stay, is not that he ? 
 \_Pointing outwards. 
 
 Pin. Yes, madam ; I believe he's going to the 
 Park. 
 
 Luc. Call a couple of chairs quickly ; we'll thither 
 masked. — \_Emt Pindress.] This day's adven- 
 tures argue some intended plot upon me, which I 
 may countermine by only setting a face upon the 
 matter. \_PiUs her viask on. 
 
 For as hypocrisy in men can move. 
 
 Here's the best hypocrite in female love. 
 
 On even scores designing Heaven took care ; 
 
 Since men false hearts, that we false faces wear. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 SCENE n.— The Park. 
 Enter Lovewell and Lybic, meeiinri. 
 
 Lin: [Reading.] I' II rack thy reputation, blast 
 thy fame, 
 And in strong grinding satire gibbet up 
 thy name. 
 Lose. What ! in a I'apture, Mr. Lyric ? 
 I.ijr. A littlepoetical fury, that's all. — I'll squire 
 h'm ! I'll draw his character for the buffoon of a 
 
 farce ! he shall be as famous in ballad as Robin 
 Hood, or Little John ; my muses shall haunt him 
 like demons ; they shall make him more ridiculous 
 than Don Quixote. 
 
 Love. Because he encountered your •windmill- 
 pate. — Ha! ha! ha ! — Come, come, Mr. Lyric, you 
 must be pacified. 
 
 Lyr. Pacified, sir ! Zoons, sir, he's a fool, has 
 not a grain of sense ! Were he an ingenious fel- 
 low, or a man of parts, I could bear a kicking from 
 him ; but an abuse from a blockhead ! I can never 
 suffer it. [Umds. 
 
 Pert blockhead^ who has purchased by the school 
 
 Just sense enough to make a noted fool. 
 That stings, Mr. Lovewell. 
 
 Love. Pray, sir, let me see it. 
 
 Lyr. This is imperfect, sir : but If you please to 
 give your judgment on this piece. — \_Gives him a 
 paper."] 'Tis a piece of burlesque on some of our 
 late writings. 
 
 Love. Ay, you poets mount first on the shoulders 
 of your predecessors, to see farther in making dis- 
 coveries ; and having once got the upper-hand, you 
 spurn them under-foot. I think you should bear 
 a veneration to their very ashes. 
 
 Lyr. Ay, if most of their writings had been 
 burned! I declare,, Mr. Lovewell, their fame has 
 only made them the more remarkably faulty : their 
 great beauties only illustrate their greater errors. 
 
 Love. Well, you saw the new tragedy last night ; 
 how did it please ye ? 
 
 Lyr. Very well ; it made me laugh heartily. 
 
 Love. What, laugh at a fragedy ! 
 I Lyr. I laugh to see the ladies cry ; to see so 
 many weep at the death of the fabulous hero. Who 
 would but laugh, if the poet that made 'em were 
 hanged ! On my conscience, these tragedies make 
 the ladies vent all their love and honour at their 
 eyes, when the same white handkerchief that blows 
 their noses, must be a winding-sheet to the deceased 
 hero. 
 
 Love. Then there's something in the handker- 
 chief to embalm him, Mr. Lyric ? ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
 But what relish have you of comedy.' 
 
 Lyr. No satisfactory one : my curiosity is fore- 
 stalled by a foreknowledge of what shall happen ; 
 for as the hero in tragedy is either a whining 
 cringing fool, that's always a-stabbing himself, or 
 a ranting, hectoring bully, that's for killing every- 
 body else : so the hero in comedy is always the 
 poet's character. 
 
 Love. What's that ? 
 
 Lyr. A compound of practical rake and specu- 
 lative gentleman, who always bears off the great 
 fortune in the play, and shams the beau and squire 
 with a whore or chambermaid : and as the cata- 
 strophe of all tragedies is death, so the end of 
 comedies is marriage. 
 
 Love. An-" some think that the most tragical 
 conclusion of the two. 
 
 Lyr. And therefore my eyes are diverted by a 
 better comedy in the audience than that upon the 
 stage. I have often wondered why men should be 
 fond of seeing fools ill represented, when at the 
 same time and place they may behold the mighty 
 originals acting their parts to the life in the boxes \y 
 
 Love. Oh ! be favourable to the ladies, Mr. 
 Lyric ; 'tis your interest. Beauty is the deity of 
 poetry ; and if you rebel, you'll certainly run the 
 fate of your first parent, the devil ! 
 
LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 605 
 
 Lyr. You're out, sir ! Beauty is a merciful deity, 
 and allows us sometimes to be a little atheistical : 
 and 'tis so indulgent to wit, that it is pleased with 
 it, though in the worst habit — that of satire. 
 Besides, there can appear no greater argument of 
 our esteem than raillery, because 'tis still founded 
 upon jealousy ; occasioned by their preferring sense- 
 less fops and wealthy fools to men of wit and merit, 
 the great upholders of the empire. 
 
 Love. Now I think these favourites of the ladies 
 are more witty than you. 
 
 Lyr. How so, pray, sir ? 
 
 Love. ^Because they play the fool, conscious that 
 it will please ; and you're a wit, when sensible that 
 coxcombs only are encouraged. , I wonder, Mr. 
 Lyric, that a man of your sense should turn poet ! 
 You'll hardly ever find a man that is capable of the 
 employment will undertake it. 
 
 Lyr. The reason of that is, every one that knows 
 not a tittle of the matter pretends to be a judge of 
 it. By the Lai'd, Mr. Lovewell, I put the critics 
 next to plague, pestilence, and famine, in my 
 litany ! Had you seen 'em last night in the pit, 
 with such demure supercilious faces — their contem- 
 plative wigs thrust judiciously backwards — their 
 hands rubbing their temples, to chafe ill-nature, 
 and with a hissing venomous tongue pronouncing, 
 Pish ! Stuif ! Intolerable ! Damn him ! — Lord have 
 mercy upon us ! 
 
 Lme. Ay, and you shall have others as foolish 
 as they are ill-natured ; fond of being thought wits, 
 who shall laugh outrageously at every smutty jest ; 
 cry. Very well, by Gad ! That's fine, by heavens ! 
 — and if a distich of rhyme happens, they clap so 
 damnably loud that they drown the jest. 
 
 Lyr. That's the jest ! the wit lies in their hands. 
 And if you would tell a poet his fortune, you must 
 gather it from the palmistry of the audience ; for 
 • as nothing's ill said but what's ill taken, so nothing's 
 well said but what's well taken. And between you 
 and I, Mr. Lovewell, poetry, without these laugh- 
 ing fools, were a bell without a clapper ; an empty 
 soundmg business, good for nothing ; and all we 
 professors might go hang ourselves in the bell- 
 ropes ! 
 
 Lme. Ha! ha! ha I — But I thought poetry 
 was instructive. 
 
 Lyr. Oh, Gad forgive me, that's true ! — To 
 ladies it is morally beneficial : for you must know, 
 they are too nice to read sermons — such instruc- 
 tions are too gross for their refined apprehensions : 
 but any precepts that may be instilled by easy 
 numbers, such as of Rochester, and others, make 
 great converts. Then they hate to hear a fellow in 
 church preach methodical nonsense, with a firstly, 
 secondly, and thirdly : but they take up with some 
 of our modern plays in their closet, where the 
 morality must be devilish instructive ! — But I must 
 be gone ; — here comes the squire. What, in the 
 name of wonder, has he got with him "i 
 
 Love. That which shall afford you a more plen- 
 tiful revenge than your lampoon, if you join with 
 me in the plot. To the better effecting of which, 
 you must be seemingly reconciled to him. Let's 
 step aside, and observe 'em while i give you a hint 
 of the matter. 
 
 \Extnnt between the scenes, and seem to confer 
 and hearken. 
 
 Enter Mockmode, leading Trudge dressed like a Widow. 
 
 Mock. This is very fine weather, blessed weather 
 indeed, madam ! 'twill do abundance of good to the 
 grass and corn. 
 
 Trudge. Ay, sir, the days are grown a great 
 length ; and I think the weather much better here 
 than in Ireland. 
 
 Mode. Why, madam, were you ever there .' 
 
 Trudge. Oh, no ! not I indeed, sir ; but I have 
 heard my first husband (rest his soul !) say so. — 
 He was an Irish gentleman. 
 
 Mock. I find, madam, you have loved your first 
 husband mightily, for you affect his tone in dis- 
 course. — Pray, madam, what did that mourning 
 cost a yard ? 
 
 Trudge. [.4«rf«.] O Lard! what shall I say 
 now ? 'tis none of mine. — [^Aloud.'] It cost, sir, — 
 let me see — it cost about — but it was my steward 
 bought it for me ; I never buy such small things. 
 
 Mock. [Aside."] By the universe, she must be 
 plaguy rich I I will be brisk. — \_Aloud.'\ Pray, 
 madam — I — I pray, madam, will you give us a 
 song? 
 
 Trudge. A song ! — Indeed then I had a good 
 voice before Mr. Roebuck spoiled it. 
 
 Mode. Mr. Roebuck ! was that your first hus- 
 band's name, madam ? 
 
 Love. [Behind.'] She'll spoil all. 
 
 Trudge. No, sir : Roebuck was a doctor that 
 let me blood under the tongue for the quinsy, and 
 made me hoarse ever since. 
 
 Modi. [Aside.] By the universe, she's a widow, 
 and I'll he a little brisk ! — [Aloud.] Madam, will 
 you grant me a small favour, and I will bend upon 
 my knees to receive it ? {Kneels. 
 
 Trudge. What is't, pray ? 
 
 Mock. Only to take off your garter. 
 
 Re-enter Lovewell. 
 
 Love. [Aside.] Zoons ! her thick leg will dis- 
 cover all ! — [Aloud.] By your leave, sir, have you 
 any pretensions to this lady ? 
 
 {Pushes MocKsiDDB down. 
 
 Mock. [Aside.] I don't know whether this be 
 an afi'ront or not. — [Aloud.] Pretensions, sir ! I 
 have so great a veneration for the lady, that I 
 honour any man that has pretensions to her. — 
 Demme, sir ! may I crave the honour of your 
 acquaintance ? 
 
 Love. No, sir. 
 
 Mock. [Aside.] No, sir ! egad that must be 
 wit, for it can't be good manners ! — [Aloud.] Sir, 
 I respect aU men of sense, and would therefore beg 
 to know your name. 
 
 Love. No matter, sir ; I know your name's 
 Mockmode. 
 
 Mock. By the universe, that's very comical ! 
 That a fellow should pretend to tell me my own 
 name ! — Another question, if you please, sir. 
 
 Love. What is it, sir ? 
 
 Mock. Pray, sir, what's my christened name ? 
 
 Love. Sir, you don't know. 
 
 Mock. Zauns, sir I would you persuade me out 
 of my christened name ? I'll lay you a guinea 
 that I do know, by the universe \— [Pulls a hand- 
 ful of money out.] Here's silver, sir ; here's silver, 
 sir ; I can command as much money as another, 
 sir ; I am at age, sir, and I won't be bantered, 
 sir ; 
 
 ) 
 
504 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 Love. Sir, you must know that I baptise you 
 Rival ; for your love to this lady is the only sign of 
 Christianity you can boast of. — And now, sir, my 
 name's Lovewell. 
 
 Mock. Then I say, sir, that your love to that 
 lady is the only sign of a Turk you can brag of. — 
 [Aside.] I wish Club were come. 
 
 Love. Sir, I shall certainly circumcise you, if 
 you make any farther pretensions to madam Lu- 
 cinda here. 
 
 Mock. Circumcise me ! circumcise a pudding's- 
 end, sir ! — Zauns, sir ! I'll be judged by the lady 
 who merits circumcision most, you or I, sir. — 
 These London blades are all stark mad ! — 
 
 [LovBWBLL courts Trudge in dumb show. 
 
 Enter Lucinda and Pindress, seeing the others they 
 abscond. 
 
 I met one about two hours ago that had forgot his 
 name, and this fellow would persuade me now that 
 I had forgot mine ! — Mr. Lyric is the only man 
 that speaks plain to me : I must be friends with 
 him, because I find I may have occasion for such a 
 friend; — I'll find him out straight. lExit. 
 
 Looe. Madam, will you walk .' {.Exit with Trudge. 
 
 Luc. IComing forward.'] Now my doubts are 
 removed ! 
 
 Pill. Mine are more puzzling. There must be 
 something in this more than we imagine. You 
 had best talk to him. 
 
 Luc. Yes, if my tongue bore poison in it, and 
 that I could spit death in his face ! 
 
 Pin. If he is lost, your hard usage this morn^ 
 ing has occasioned it. 
 
 Luc. I'm glad on't ; I've gained by the loss ; I 
 despise him more now than e'er I loved him ! 
 That passion which can stoop so low as that blowjze, 
 is an object too mean for anything but my scorn to 
 level at ! 
 
 Pin. This were a critical minute for your new 
 lover the squire, I fancy j Mr. Lovewell's disgrace 
 would bring him into favour presently. 
 
 Luc, It certainly shall, if he be not as great a 
 fool as t'other's false. 
 
 Pin. You may be mistaken in your opinion of 
 him, as much as you have been in Mr. Lovewell. 
 
 Luc. No, Pindress ; I shall find what I read in 
 the last miscellanies very true. 
 
 But two distinctions their whole sex does part ; 
 
 AH fools by nature ; or all rogues by art. 
 
 [,Exi-mit. 
 
 SCENE III. — Another pari of the same. 
 
 Enter several Masks crossing the stage, Roebuck 
 following. 
 
 Roe. 'Sdeath ! what a coney-borough's here ! 
 the trade goes swimmingly on. This is the great 
 ernpory of lewdness, as the Change is of knavery. 
 The merchants cheat the world there, and their 
 wives gull them here. I begin to think whoring scan- 
 dalous, 'tis grown so mechanical. My modesty 
 will do me no good, I fear. — Madam, are you a 
 whore } iCatches a Maelt. 
 
 1 Mask. Yes, sir. lExil. 
 
 Hoe. Short and pithy ! — If ever woman spoke 
 truth I believe thou hast. — [Second Mask pulls 
 him by the elhow.'] Have you any business with me, 
 ii.adam ? 
 
 2 Mask. Pray, sir, be civil ; you're mistaken, sir. 
 — [Aside.] I have had an eye upon this fellow all 
 this afternoon. — [Aloud.] You're mistaken, sir. 
 
 Roe. Very likely, madam ; for I imagined you 
 modest. 
 
 2 Mask. So I am, for I'm married. 
 
 Roe. And married to your sorrow, I warrant 
 you ! 
 
 2 Mask. Yes, upon my honour, sir. 
 
 lioe. 1 knew it. I have met above a dozen this 
 evening, all married to their sorrow. — Then I sup- 
 pose you're a citizen's wife ; and by the broadness 
 of your bottom, I should guess you sat very much 
 behind a counter. 
 
 2 Mask. My husband's no mercer, he's a judge. 
 
 Roe. Zouns, a judge ! I shall be arraigned at 
 the bar for keeping on my hat so long. — 'Tis very 
 hard, madam, he should not do you justice : has 
 not he an. estate in tail, madam ? 
 
 2 Mask. I seldom examine his papers ; they are 
 a parcel of old dry shrivelled parchments ; and this 
 court-hand is so devilish crabbed 1 can't endure it. 
 
 Roe. Umph ! — Then I suppose, iuadam, you 
 want a young lawyer to put your case to. But 
 faith, madam, I am a judge too. 
 
 2 Mask. Oh heavens forbid ! Such a young man ! 
 
 Roe. That's, I'll do nothing without a bribe. — 
 Pray, madam, how does that watch strike ? 
 
 2 Mask. It never strikes, it only points to the 
 business, as you must do, without telling tales. 
 Dare you meet me two hours hence ? 
 
 Soe. Ay, madam, but I shall never hit the time 
 exactly without a watch. 
 
 2 Mask. Well, take it. — At ten exactly, at the 
 fountain in the Middle-Temple. Coke upon 
 Littleton be the word. , {Exit. 
 
 Roe. So — If the law be all siich volumes as thou, 
 mercy on the poor students ! From Coke upon 
 Littleton in sheets deliver me. 
 
 Enter Lovewell. 
 
 Love. What, engaged ? Myrmidon I I find 
 you'll never quit the battle till you have cracked a 
 pike in the service. 
 
 Roe. Oh, dear friend ! thou'rt critically come to 
 my relief ; for faith I'm almost tired. 
 
 Love. What a miserable creature is a whore ! 
 whom every fool dares pretend to love, and every 
 wise man hates. 
 
 Roe. What, moralising again ! Oh, I'll tell thee 
 news, man ; I'm entered in the inns, by the Lard ! 
 
 Love. Psha ! 
 
 Roe. Nay, if you won't believe me, see my note 
 of admission. {.Shows the watch. 
 
 Love. A gold watch, boy I 
 
 Roe. Ay, a gold watch, boy. 
 
 Love. Whence had you money to buy it ? 
 
 Roe. I took it upon tick, and I design to pay 
 honestly. 
 
 Love. I don't like this running o'th' score. — But 
 what news from Lucinda, boy .' is she kind.' ha ? 
 
 Enter a Mask crossing the stage. 
 
 Roe. Ha! there's a stately cruiser ; I must give 
 her one chase. — I'll tell you when I return. 
 
 {Exit, running. 
 
 Love. I find he has been at' a loss there, which 
 occasions his eagerness for the game here. I 
 begin to repent me of my suspicion ; I believe her 
 virtue so sacred, that 'tis a piece of atheism to 
 
SCt:NE III, 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 605 
 
 distrust its existence. But jealousy in love, like 
 the devil in religion, is still raising doubts, which 
 without a firm faith in what we adore, will certainly 
 damn us. 
 
 Enter a Porter. 
 
 Par. Is your name Mr. Roebuck, sir ? 
 
 Love. What would you have with Mr. Roebuck, 
 sir ! 
 
 Pot. I have a small note for him, sir. 
 
 Love. Let me see*t. 
 
 Par. Ay, sir ; if your name be Mr. R.oebu6k, 
 sir. 
 
 Love. My name is Roebuck, blockhead. 
 
 Pot, God bless you, master. . 
 
 \(Avts him a letter, and exit. 
 
 Love. This is, some tawdry billet, with a scrawl- 
 ing adieu at the end on't. These strolling jadefi 
 know a young wholesome fellow npwly come to 
 town, as well as a parson's wife does a fat goose. 
 'Tis certainly soine secret, and therefore shall be 
 known. \_Opens the letter. 
 
 Sir, , Tuesday^ 3 o^ctock. 
 
 My behaviour totodrds you this morniHy was 
 somewhat strange ; but I shall tell you. the cau^e 
 of it, if you meet me at ten this night in our garden ; 
 the back-door shall be open. — Yours, — 
 
 LuciNDA. 
 
 Oh, Heavens!, Certainly it can't ,be ! 
 
 L, U, C, J, N, 1), A,; that spells woman. 'Twas 
 never written so plain before. Roebuck, thou'rt 
 as true an oracle , as she's a false one. Oh, 
 thou damned Sibyl ! I haye courted thee these 
 three years, and could never obtain above a kiss of 
 the hand, and this. fellow in an hour or two has 
 obtained the back-door open!, Mr. Roebuck, 
 since I have discovered some of your gecrets, I'll 
 make bold to open some more of 'em. — But how 
 shall I shake him off ?— Oh, I have it; I'll seek 
 him instantly. [Exit, 
 
 Re-enter RoEBpcK meeting the IPorter. 
 
 Roe. Here, you sir, have you a note for one 
 Roebuck ? , . 
 
 Por. I had, sir j but I gave it him jUst no*. 
 
 Moe. You lie, sirrah ! I am the man. 
 
 Por. I an't positive I gave it to the right per- 
 son ; but I'm very sure I did ; for he finswered the 
 description the page gave to a T, sir. 
 
 Roe. 'Twas well I met that page, dog, or now 
 should I cut thy throat, rascal ! 
 
 Por. Bless your worshiji, noble sir ! [Exit. 
 
 Roe. At ten, in the garden ! — the back-door 
 open ! — Oh, the delicious place and hour ! — Soft 
 panting breasts ! — Trembling joiilts ! — Melt- 
 ing sighs! and eager embraces ! — Oh, ecstacy! — 
 but how to shake off Lovewell ! — This is his nicely 
 virtuous ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — This is his innate prin- 
 ciple of virtue ! ha ! ha! ha ! 
 
 Be-enter Lovewell. 
 
 Love. How now ! why so merry ! 
 
 Roe. Merry 1 why, 'twould make a dog split, 
 man ; ha ! ha ! ha ! — The watch, sir, the watch ; 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Love. What of the watch ? You laugh by the 
 hour ; you'll be run down by and by, sure ! 
 
 Roe. Ay, but I shall be wound up »gain. This 
 watch I had for a fee, lawyer. — Should I ever be 
 tried before this judge, how I should laugh to see 
 how gravely his goose cap sits upon a pair of horns j 
 ha 1 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Love. Thou'rt horn mad. Prithee leave imper- 
 tinence. — I received a note just now. 
 
 Roe. A note ! 'sdeath, what note ! what d'ye 
 mean } who bi'ought it ? 
 
 Love. A gentleman ; 'tis a challenge. 
 
 Roe. Oh, thanks to the stars \ I'm glad on't. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Love. And you may be signally serviceable to 
 me in this affair., I, can give you no greater testi- 
 mony of my affectioii than by making so free with 
 you. . , 
 
 Roe. what needs all this formality ? I'll be thy 
 second, without all i;his impertinence. 
 
 Love. There's more than that, friend. In the 
 first place I don't understand a swpi;d ; and again, 
 I'm to be called to the bar this term, and such a 
 business might prejudice me- extremely. So, sir, 
 you must meet and fight for me. ; , 
 
 Roe. Faith, Lovewell, ,1 shan't stiqk. itb cut a 
 throat for my friend at any time, so I may do it 
 fairly, or so. — The hour and place ? 
 
 hove. This very ejvening, in Moorfields. 
 
 Roe. Umph ! how will you employ yoiirself the 
 while i 
 
 Love. I'll follow you at a distance, lestyouhave 
 any foul play. 
 
 Roe. Which if you do — No, faith, Ned, since 
 I'm to answer an appointment for you, you must 
 make good a,n assign^tion,foi; me. I'm to meet one 
 of your ladies at this fountain in the Temple to- 
 night. You may be called to the bar there, if you 
 v/ill. This watch will tell you the hour, and shall 
 be your passport. Let me have yours.,-, 
 
 J [Changes watches. 
 
 Love. Oh, was that the jest ? Ha ! ha ! ha !■ — ■ 
 Well, I will answef an assignation for you sure 
 enough. Ha! ha! ha! — [Aside. \ How readily 
 does the fool ruii to have his, throat ,cut ! 
 
 Roe. [Aside.l How eagerly now does. my moral 
 
 friend run to the devij, having hopes of profit in the 
 
 wind ! I have shabbed him off ^\ive\y.-^\_Aloud.'\ 
 
 Sut prithee, Nfed, where had you this fine jewel .' 
 
 [Viewing one tied to the watch. 
 
 Love. Psha! a trifle, a trifle, from a mistress! 
 — Take care on't though. But hark ye, George : 
 don't push too home ; have a care of whipping 
 through the guts. 
 
 Roe. 'Gad, I'm afraid olie or both of us may 
 fall. But d'ye hear, Ned, remember you sent me 
 on this errand, and are therefore answerable for all 
 mischief; if I do whip my adversaiy through the 
 lungs, or so, r.emember you set me upbn't. 
 
 Love. Well, honest George, you won't believe 
 how much you oblige me in this courtesy. 
 
 Roe. You know al*ays I oblige tnyself by serv- 
 ing my friend.— [^sWe.] I never thought this 
 spark was a, coward before. 
 
 Love. [Aside.] I never imagined this fellow 
 was so easy before. — {Aloud.] Well, good suc- 
 cess to us both ; and when we meet, we'll relate 
 all transactions that pass. 
 
 Roe. That you're a fool. 
 
 Love. That you're an ass. 
 
 [Exeunt severally, laughing. 
 
 Iti^-enter Lovewell crossing the stage hastily, Hockaiode 
 and hvwc following him. 
 
 Lyr. Mr. Lovewell, a word w'ye. 
 
 Love. Let it be short, pray sir, for my business 
 is urgent, and 'tis almost da'k. 
 
 Lyr. I'm reconciled to the squire, and want 
 
SOS 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 ACT 17. 
 
 only the presentment of a copy of verses to ingra- 
 tiate myself wholly, throughly. Let me have that 
 piece I lent just now. 
 
 Love. Ay, ay, with all my heart. — Here,— fare- 
 well ! 
 
 \_PitUs the poem hastily, Justus out a letter wiiK it, whiclt 
 MoCKMODB takes up, and exit. 
 
 Lyt. Now, sir, here's a poem, which (accord- 
 ing to the way of us poets) I say, was written at 
 fifteen, but between you and I it was made at five- 
 and-twenty. 
 
 Mock. Five-and-twenty ! — When is a poet at 
 age. pray, sir.' 
 
 Lyr. At the third night of his first play ; for 
 he's never a man till then. 
 
 Mock. But when at years of discretion ? 
 
 Lyr. When they leave writing, and that's sel- 
 dom or never. 
 
 Mock. But who are your guardians ? 
 
 Lyr. Tlie critics, who with their good will 
 ■would never let us come to age. — But what have 
 you got there ? 
 
 Mock. By the universe, I don't know ; 'tis a 
 woman's hand ; some billet-doux, I suppose ; it 
 justled out of Lovewell's pocket. We'll to the 
 next light and read it. lExeimt. 
 
 SCENE IV. — A dark Arbour in Lccinda's 
 Garden. 
 
 Enter Roebuck. 
 Roe. Oh, how I reverence a back- door half 
 open, half shut ! 'Tis the narrow gate to the lover's 
 paradise ; Cupid stood sentry at the entrance ; love 
 was the word, and he let me pass. — Now is my 
 friend pleading for life ; he has a puzzling case to 
 manage, ten to one he's nonsuited s I have gulled 
 him fairly. 
 
 Enter Lovewell. 
 
 Love. I've got in, thanks to my stars, or rather 
 the clouds, whose influence is my best friend at 
 present. Now is Roebuck gazing, or rather grop- 
 ing about for a fellow with a long sword ; and I 
 know his fighting humour will be as mad to be 
 balked by an enemy as by a mistress. 
 
 Roe. Hark, hark ! I hear a voice ; it must be 
 she. — Lucinda ! 
 
 Love. True to the touch, I find.^Is it you, 
 my dear? 
 
 Roe. Yes, my dear. 
 
 Love. Let me embrace thee, my heart. 
 
 Roe. Come to my arms. 
 {^lluns into each other's arms. Tiinliiip the mistake, 
 start back. 
 
 Love. 'Slife 1 a man 1 
 
 Roe. 'Sdeath ! a devil ! — and wert thou a legion, 
 here's a wand should conjure thee down. IDraws. 
 
 Love. We should find whose charm is strongest. 
 
 IDraws. 
 IThej/pltsh by one another ; Eokbuck passes ovt at the 
 
 opposite door : and as Lovewell is passing out on the 
 
 other side of the stage. 
 
 Enter Leantjie, wearinrj a nightgown over her Page's 
 dress. 
 
 Lean. Mr. Roebuck ! sir, Mr. Roebuck ! 
 Love. That's a woman's voice, I'll swear. — 
 Madam ! ' , 
 
 Lean. Sir ! ■ .- 
 
 Love. Come, my dear Lucinda; I've staid a 
 little too long; but making an apology now were 
 only lengthening the offence. Let's into the 
 arbour, and make up for the moments misspent. 
 
 Lean. Hold, sir : do you love this Lucinda, 
 you're so fond of hauling into the arbour ? 
 Love. Yes, by all that's powerful. 
 Lean. \_Aside.'] False, false Roebuck!— I am 
 lost. 
 
 Love. Madan;, do you love this Roebuck, that 
 you opened the garden-door to so late ? 
 Lean. I'm afraid I do too well. 
 Love. And did you never own an aSection to 
 another ? 
 
 Lean. No ; witness all those powers you just 
 now mentioned ! 
 
 Love. Revenge yourselves, ye Heavens! — Behold 
 in me your accuser, and your judge ! Behold Love- 
 well, injured Lovewell ! — 'This darkness, which 
 opportunely hides your blushes, makes your shame 
 more monstrous. 
 
 Lean. Ha ! Lovewell I I'm vexed 'tis he, but 
 glad to be mistaken. Now, female policy, assist 
 me. {.Aside. 
 
 Love. Yes, madam, your silence proclaims you 
 guilty. — Farewell, woman ! 
 Lean. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Love. What, am I made your scorn ? 
 Lean. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — This happens better than 
 I expected. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! — Mr. Lovewell ! 
 
 Love. No counterplotting, madam ; the mine's 
 sprung already, and all your deceit discovered. 
 
 Lean. Indeed, you're a fine fellow at discovering 
 deceits, I must confess, that could not find whether 
 I was a man or a woman all this time. 
 Love. What, the page ! 
 
 Lean. No counterplotting, good sir ; the mine's 
 sprung already. — Ah, sir, I fancy Mr. Roebuck is 
 better at discovering a man from a woman in the 
 dark than you. 
 
 Love. This discovery is the greatest riddle ! — 
 Prithee, child, what makes thee disguised ? But 
 above all, what meant that letter to Roebuck ? 
 
 Lean. Then I find you intercepted it. — Why, 
 sir, my lady had a mind to put a trick upon the \ 
 impudent fellow, made him an assignation, and \ 
 sent me in her stead, to banter him. But when I j 
 tell her how you fell into the snare, and how jealous 
 you were — Ha ! hn ! ha ! 
 
 Loxte. Oh, my little dear rogue ! was that the 
 matter? — [Hugs her.'] 0' my conscience, thou'rt 
 so soft, I believe thou art a woman still. — But 
 who was that man I encountered just now ? 
 
 Lean, [Aside.'] A man ! 'twas certainly Roe- 
 buck [Aloud.l Some of the footmen, I suppose. 
 
 Come, sir, I must conduct you out immediately, 
 lest some more of 'em meet you. 
 
 [Conducts him to the door, and returns 
 He certainly was here, and 1 have missed him, 
 Fortune delights with innocence to play. 
 And loves to hoodwink those already blind. 
 Wary deceit can many by-ways tread, 
 To shun the blocks in virtue's open road, 
 Wliilst heedless innocence still falls on ruin, 
 Yet, whilst by love inspired, I will pursue 
 What men by courage, we by love can do. 
 Not even his falsehood shall my claim remove ; 
 From mutual fires none can true passion prove ; 
 For like to like, is gratitude not love. 
 
 [Exit 
 
LOVE AXn A BOTTLE. 
 
 507 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — An Antechamber !« Ldcikda's 
 House. — The Flat Scene half open, discocers a 
 bedchamber ; Lucinda in her niyht-gown, and 
 reading by a table. 
 
 Enter Roebuck, groping his way. 
 
 Roe. On what new happy climate am I thrown ? 
 This house is love's labyrinth ; I have stumbled 
 into it by chance. — Ha ! an illusion ! let me look 
 again. — Eyes, if you play mefalse, ILooking about] 
 I'll pluck ye out. — 'Tis she ; 'tis Lucinda ! alone, 
 undressed, in a bedchamber, between eleven and 
 twelve a clock. A blessed opportunity ! — Now if 
 her innate principle of virtue defend her, then is 
 my innate principle of manhood not worth two- 
 pence, — Hold, she comes forward. 
 
 Luc. [Comes forward, reading,'] Unjust pre- 
 rogative of faithless man, 
 Abusing power which partial Heaven has granted ! 
 In former ages, love and honour stood 
 As props and beauties to the female cause ; 
 But now lie prostitute to scorn and sport. 
 Man, made our monarch, is a tyrant grown, 
 And womankind must bear a second fall. 
 
 Roe, \_Aside.'] Ay, and a third too, or I'm 
 mistaken. — I must divert this plaguy romantic 
 humour. 
 
 Luc. While virtue guided peace, and honour war, 
 Their fruits and spoils were offerings made to love. 
 
 Roe. And 'tis so still ; for — [Itaiiing his voice. 
 
 Beau with earliest cherries Miss does grace, 
 
 And soldier offers spoils of Flanders lace. 
 
 Luc. Ha ! — Protect me. Heavens ! what art 
 thou? 
 
 Roe. A man, madam. 
 
 Luc. "What accursed spirit has driven you hither .' 
 
 Roe. The spirit of flesh and blood, madam. 
 
 Luc. Sir, what encouragement have you ever 
 received to jirompt you to this impudence ? 
 
 Roe. [Aside.] Umph ! I must not own the 
 reception of a note from her. — [Aloud.'] Faith, 
 madam, I know not whether to attribute it to 
 chance, fortune, my good stars, my fate, or my 
 destiny : but here I am, madam , and here I will be. 
 [Taking her hy the hand. 
 
 Luc. [Pulling her hand away,] If a gentleman, 
 my commands may cause you withdraw ; if a 
 ruffian, my footmen shall dispose of you. 
 
 Roe. Madam, I'm a gentleman ; 1 know how to 
 oblige a lady, and how to save her reputation. 
 My love and honour go linked together ; they are 
 my principals : and if you'll be my second, we'll 
 engage immediately. 
 
 Luc. Stand off, sir ! the name of love and honour 
 are burlesqued by thy professing 'em. Thy love is 
 impudence, and thy honour a cheat. Thy mien 
 and habit show thee a gentleman ; but thy beha- 
 viour is brutal. Thou art a centaur ; only one 
 part man, and the other beast. 
 
 Roe. [Aside.] Philosophy in petticoats ! no 
 wonder women wear the breeches ! — [Aloud.] And, 
 madam, you are a demi-goddess ; only one part 
 woman, t'other angel ; and thus divided, claim my 
 love and adoration, 
 
 Luc. Honourable love is the parent of mankind j 
 
 j but thine is the corrupter and debascr of it. — The 
 ! passion of you libertines is like your drunkenness; 
 ' heat of lust, as t'other is of wine, and off with the 
 I next sleep. 
 
 I Roc. No, madam ; a hair of the same — is my 
 receipt. — Come, come, madam, all things are laid 
 to rest that will disturlj our pleasure ; whole nature 
 favours us ; the kind indulgent stars that directed 
 me hither, wink at what we are about. — 'Twere 
 jilting of fortune to be now idle ; and she, like a 
 tnie woman, once balked, never affords a second 
 opportunity. — I'll put out the candle, the torch of 
 love shall light us to bed. 
 
 Luc. To bed, sir ! — thou hast impudence enough 
 to draw thy rationality in question. Whence pro- 
 ceeds it ? from a vain thought of thy own graces, 
 or an opinion of my virtue ? — If from the latter, 
 know that I am a woman, whose modesty dare not 
 doubt my virtue ; yet have so much pride to sup- 
 port it, that the dying groans of thy whole sex, at 
 my feet, should not extort an immodest thought 
 from me. 
 
 Roe. Your thoughts may be as modest as you 
 please, madam. — ^You shall be as virtuous to- 
 morrow morning as e'er a nun in Europe ; the 
 opinion of the world shall proclaim you as such, 
 and that's the surest charter the most rigid virtue 
 in England is held by. The night has no eye.s to 
 see, nor have I a tongue to tell : one kiss shall seal 
 up my lips for ever, 
 
 Luc. That uncharitable censure of women argues 
 the meanness of thy conversation. 
 
 Roe. [Aside.] Her superior virtue awes me into 
 coldness. — 'Slife ! it can't be twelve, sure — night's 
 a liar. [Draws out his watch. 
 
 Luc. Sir, if you won't be gone, I must fetch 
 those shall conduct you lience. — [Passing by him 
 towards the door, she perceives the jewel tied to 
 the watch.] My eyes are dazzled, sure ; Pray, sir. 
 let me see that jewel. 
 
 Roe. \ Aside.] By Heavens, she has a mind to't ! 
 — [Aloud.] Oh, 'tis at your service with all my soul. 
 
 Luc. Wrong not my virtue by so poor a thought. 
 — But answer directly, as you are a gentleman, to 
 whut I now shall ask : whence had you that jewel ? 
 
 Roe. I exchanged watches with a gentleman, 
 and had this jewel into the bargain. He valued it 
 not, 'twas a trifle from a mistress. 
 
 Luc. A trifle, said he\-~[Aside.] Oh indigna- 
 tion ! slighted thus ! — I'll put a jewel out of bis 
 power, that he would pawn his soul to retrieve. — 
 [Aloud.] If you be a gentleman, sir, whom grati- 
 tude can work up to love, or a virtuous wife reclaim, 
 I'll make you a large return for that trifle. 
 
 Roe. Heyday I a wife, said she ? [Aside. 
 
 Luc. What's your name, sir.' and of vihat 
 country .' 
 
 Roe. My name's Roebuck, madam. 
 
 Luc. Roebuck ! 
 ^ Roe. [Aside.] 'Sdeath ! I forgot my instruc- ' 
 tions — [Aloud.] Mookmode, madam. — Roebuck 
 Mockmode, my name, and surname. 
 
 Luc. [Aside.] Mockmode, my squire ! it ran'i 
 be! But ifit should, I've made the better e.\cliange 
 — [Aloud.] Of what family are you, bir? • 
 
508 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 Roe. Of Mockmode-hall in Shropshire, madam. 
 Mm father's lately dead ; I came lately from the 
 university ; I have fifteen hundred acres of as good 
 fighting ground as any in England. — [^st'rfe.] Twas 
 lucky I met that blockhead to-day. 
 
 Luo. The very same ! — Aiid had yoU any direc- 
 tions to court a lady in London ? 
 
 Jtoe. Umph ! — How should I Have found the 
 way hither else, madam ? — lAside.1 What the 
 devil will this come to ? 
 
 Luo [Aside.] My fool that I dreamt of I find 
 a pretty gentleman. Dreams go by contraries.-— 
 [Aloud.'] Well, sir, I am the lady j and if your 
 ■ designs are honourable, I'm yours j take a turn in 
 the garden till I send for my chaplain : you must 
 take me immediately, for if I cool, I'm lost for ever. 
 
 :E.rit. 
 
 Roe. I think I am become a very sober Shrop- 
 shire gentleman in good earnest 5 I don't start at 
 the name of a parson. - O Fortune! Fortune! 
 what art thbu doing ? If thou and my friend will 
 throw me into the arms of a fine lady, and great 
 fortune, how the devil can I help it 1 Oh, but, 
 zoons, there's marriage ! Ay, but there's money. 
 Oh, but there are children, squalling children. 
 Ay, but then there are rickets arid small-pox, 
 which perhaps may carry them all away. Oh, but 
 there's boms ! Horns ! Ay, but then I shall go 
 to heaven ; for 'tis but reasonable, since all mar- 
 riages are made in heaven, that all cuckolds should 
 gothitherl But then there's Leanthe? — that sticks. 
 I love her, witness Heaven, I love her to that 
 degree — psha ! I shall whine presently. I love her 
 as well as any woman j and wliat can she e-tpect 
 more ? I can't drag a lover's chain a hundred 
 miles by land, and a hundred leagues by *ater. 
 Fortune has decreed it otherwise. So lead on, 
 blind guide, I follow thee ; and when the blind 
 lead the blihd, no wonder they both fall into^ 
 matrimony. _ lOoing. 
 
 Enter Leanthb. 
 
 Oh, my dear auspicious little Mercury! let me 
 kiss thee. Go tell thy charming mistress I obey 
 her commands. * [Exit. 
 
 Lean. Her commands ! Oh Heavens ! I must 
 follow him. eoing. 
 
 Re-enter Lucinda. 
 
 Luc. Page ! page ! 
 
 Lean. [Aside.] Oh, my cursed fortune ! balked 
 again ! — [Aloud.] Madam ! 
 
 I,uc. Call my chaplain ; I'm to be married pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Lean. Married so suddenly ! To whom, pray, 
 mndam .' 
 
 Luc. To the gentleman you met going hence 
 iust now. 
 
 Lean. Oh Heavens ! your ladyship is not in 
 earnest, madam ? 
 
 Luc. What, is matrimony to be made a jest of? 
 Don't be impertinent, boy ; call him instantly. 
 
 Lean. [Aside.] What shall I do .' — [Aloud.] 
 Oh, madam, suspend it till the morning, for Hea- 
 ven's sake. Mr. Lovewell is in the house; I met 
 him not half an hour ago ; and he will certainly 
 kill the gentleman, and perhaps harm your ladyship. 
 
 Luo. Lovewell in my house ! how came he 
 hither .> 
 
 Lean. I know not, madam. I saw him, and 
 allved to him ; he had his sword drawn, and he 
 
 threatened everybody. Pray, delay it to-night, 
 maHam. 
 
 Luc. No, I'm resolved; and I'll prevent his 
 discovering us ; I'll put on a suit of your clothes, 
 and order Pindrees to carry her night-gown to the 
 gentleman in the garden, and bid him meet me in 
 the lower arbour, in the west corner, and send the 
 chaplain thither instantly. t^'"''. 
 
 Lean. Hold, Fortune, hold ; thou hast entirely 
 won ; 
 For I am lost. Thus long I have been rack'd 
 On thy tormenting wheel, and now my heart-strings 
 
 break. 
 Discovering who I am, exposes me to shame. 
 Then what ori earth can help me ? 
 
 Enter P[Ndrbs». 
 
 Pin. Oh Lord, page, what's the matter? Here's 
 old doings, or rather new doings. Prithee, let you 
 and I throw in our twopence apiece into this mar- 
 riage lottery. 
 
 Lean. You'll draw hothihg but blanks, I'U 
 assure you, frbm me. — But stay, let me consider 
 0' th' business. 
 
 Pin. No consideration ; the business must be 
 done hand overhead. 
 
 Lean. Well, 1 have one card to play still, and 
 with you, Pindress. iTakes her hand. 
 
 Pin. You expectj though, that I should turn up 
 trumps. 
 
 ■ Lean. [Aside.] No, not if t shuffle right — 
 [Aloud.] Well, Pindress, 'tis, a match. Begone 
 to the lower arbour, at the west corner of the gar- 
 den, and I'll come to thee immediately with the 
 chaplain. You must not whisper, for we must 
 pass upon the chaplain for my lady and the gentle- 
 man. Haste I 
 
 Pin. Shan't I pill on my new gown first? 
 
 Lean. No, no ; you shall have a green gown for 
 your wedding in the arbour. 
 
 Pin. A green gown 1 well, all flesh is grass. 
 
 Lean. Make haste, my spouse, fly ! 
 
 i'in. And will you come ? will you be sure to 
 come ? — Oh, my little green gooseberry, my teeth 
 waters at ye ! , ' '^^'''• 
 
 Lean. Now chance — no, thou'rt blind — 
 Then Love, be thou my guide, and set me right j 
 Though blind, like Chance, you have best eyes by 
 night, iExit. 
 
 SCENE II,— y/ Room in Widow Bullfinch's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lovewell, Brush, and Servant, 
 
 Love. Mr. Lyric abroad, sayest thou ! and 
 Mockmode with him I 
 
 Serv. All abroad, my mistress and all. 
 
 Love. I don't understand this. — Brush, run to 
 Lucinda's lodgings, and observe what's doing there : 
 I spied some hasty lights glancing through the 
 rooms ; I'll follow you presently. — [E.iil Brush ] 
 Can't you inform me which way they went ? 
 
 Serv. Perhaps Mr. Mockmode's man can inform 
 ye. 
 
 Love. Pray call him. 
 
 Serv. Mr. Club ! Mr. Clu'i ! CC*''- 
 
 Love. What, is the fellow deaf ? 
 
 Serv. No, sir ; but he's asleep, and in bed. — Mr. 
 Club 1 Mr. Club ! iCalts 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 500 
 
 Club. [Without.'] Augh — [Yawning.] I'm 
 asleep ) I'm asleep I don't wake me. — Augh ! 
 Sen. Here's a gentleman wants ye. lExit. 
 
 Mnier Club, with Ms coat unbuttoned, his garters untied^ 
 scratching and gawning, as newly wakened from bed. 
 
 Club. Pox o' your London breeding ! what 
 makes you waken aman out of his sleep that way.' 
 
 Love. Where's your master, pray, sir ? 
 
 Club. Augh ! 'Tis a sad thing to be broken of ■ 
 one's rest this way. 
 
 Love. Can you inform me where your master's 
 gone ? 
 
 Club. My master ! — Augh ! — 
 
 ^Stretching and yawning. 
 
 Love. Yes, sir, your master. 
 
 Club. My master ! Augh ! — What o'clock is it, 
 sir ? I believe 'tis past midnight, for I have gotten 
 my first sleep. — Augh I 
 
 Love. Thou'rt asleep still, blockhead I Answer 
 me, or — where's your master ? 
 
 Club. Augh ! 1 had the pleasantest dream when 
 you called me — augh ! I thought my master's 
 great black stone-horse had broke loose among the 
 mares. — Augh! And so, sir, you called me. — 
 Augh 1 And so I wakened. 
 
 Love. Sirrah I — [Striking him.] Now your 
 dream's out, I hope. , 
 
 Club. Zauns, sir! what d'ye mean, sir? My 
 master's as good a man as you, sir; dem me, sir ! 
 
 Lsve. Tell me presently, where your master is, 
 sirrah, or I'll dust the secret out of your jacket. 
 
 Club. Oh, sir, your name's Lovewell, sir ! 
 
 Love. What then, sir? 
 
 Club. Why then my master is — where you are 
 not, sir. My master's in a fine lady's arms, and 
 you are— here, I take it. IShrugging. 
 
 Love. Has he got a whore abed with him ? 
 
 Club. He may be father to the son of a whore 
 by this time, if your mistress Lucinda be one ; Mr. 
 Lyric did his business, and my master will do her 
 business, I warrant him, if o' th' right Shropshire 
 breed, which I'm sure he is, for my mother nursed 
 him on my milk. 
 
 Love. "Two calves suckled on the same cow, ha! 
 ha ! ha ! Gramercy, poet ! has he brought the 
 play to a catastrophe so soon ? A rare executioner, 
 to clap him in the female pillory akeady, ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Club. Ay, sir ; and a pillory that you would give 
 your ears for; I warrant you think my master's 
 over head and ears in the Irish quagmire you would 
 have drowned him in. But, sir, we have found the 
 bottom on't. 
 
 Love. He may pass over the quagmire, sirrah ; 
 for there were stepping-stones laid in his way. 
 
 Club. He has got over dry-shod, I'll assure you. 
 Pray, sir, did not you receive a note from Lucinda, 
 the true Lucinda, to meet her at ten in her gar- 
 den to-night.' — ^Why don't you laugh now? ha ! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Love. 'Sdeath, rascal, what intelligence could 
 you have of that ? 
 
 Club. Hold, sir, I have more inte:lligence. You 
 threw Mr. Lyric his poem, in a hurry, in the Park, 
 and justled that sweet letter out of your pocket, 
 sir. This letter fell into my master's hands, sir, 
 and discovered your sham, sir, your trick, sir. 
 Now, sir, I think you're as deep in the mud as he 
 is in the mire. 
 
 Love. Cursed misfortune ! — And where are they 
 gone, sir? Quickly, the truth, the whole truth, 
 dog, or I'll spit you like a sparrow ! 
 
 Club. I design to tell you, sir. Mr. Lyric, sir, 
 being my master's intimate friend, or so, upon a 
 bribe of a hundred pounds, or so, has sided with 
 him, taken him to Lucinda's garden in your stead, 
 and there's a parson, and all, and so forth. — Now, 
 sir, I hope the poet has brought the play to a very 
 good cata — cata — what d'ye call him, sir ? 
 
 Love. 'Twas he I encountered in the garden. — 
 'Sdeath ! tricked by the poet ! I'll cut off one of 
 his limbs, I'll make a synalepha of him ; I'll — 
 
 Club. He 1 he ! he ! — two calves sucked on the 
 same cow I — he ! he ! 
 
 Love. Nay, then I begin with you. [BraSt him. 
 
 Club. Zauns! murder ! dem me! zauns ! murder! 
 xauns ! IBuns off, Lovbwbll a/ier him 
 
 SCENE III. — The Antechamber in Lucinda's 
 House ,• a hat and sword on the table. 
 
 Enter Brush. 
 
 Brush. I have been peeping and crouching about 
 like a cat a-mousing. Ha ! I smell a rat. — A sword 
 and hat I — There are certainly a pair of breeches 
 appertaining to these, and may be lapped up in my 
 lady's lavender, who knows ! [Listens. 
 
 Enter Lovbwelj,, in a hurry. 
 
 Love. What, sir? what -are you doing? I'm 
 ruined, tricked. — 
 
 Brush, I believe so too, sir. See here ! 
 
 {_Shows the hat and sword. 
 
 Love. By all my hopes, Roebuck's hat and 
 sword ! This is mischief upon mischief. — Run you 
 to the garden, sirrah ; and if you find anybody, 
 secure 'em, I'll search the house. — I'm ruined ! — 
 Fly!— [£ot< Brush.] Roebuck 1— What hoa ! — 
 Roebuck ' — hoa ! 
 
 Enter Roebuck unbuttoned ,• runs to Lotbwbu. and 
 embraces him. 
 
 Roe. Dear, dear Lovewell, wish me joy I wish me 
 joy, my friend ! 
 
 Love. Of what, sir ? 
 
 Roe. Of the dearest, tenderest, whitest, softest, 
 bride that ever blessed man's arms ! I'm all air, all 
 a Cupid, all wings, and must fly again to her em- 
 braces. Detain me not, my friend. 
 
 Love. Hold, sir ; I hope you mock me ! though 
 that itself 's unkind. 
 
 Roe. Mock you ! — By Heavens, no ! she's more 
 than sense can bear,or tongue express. — O Lucinda! 
 should Heaven — 
 
 Love. Hold, sir ; no more ! 
 
 Roe. I'm on the rack of pleasure, and must con- 
 fess all. 
 When her soft melting, white, and yielding waist, 
 Within my pressing arms was folded fast, 
 Our lips were melted down by heat of love, 
 And lay incorporate in liquid kisses, 
 Whilst in soft broken sighs we catch'd each other's 
 souls. 
 
 Love. Come, come, Roebuck, no more of this 
 extravagance. — By Heaven I swear you shan't 
 marry her ! 
 
510 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 Roe. By HeSveii I swear so tpc ; for I'm mar- 
 ried already'. 
 
 io7)«.- Thf;n thou'rt a villain ! 
 
 Rsie. A villainf^man ! — Psha ! that's nonsense. 
 A poor fellow can no sooner get married,' than yon 
 imagine he may be called a villain presently. You 
 may call me fool, a. blockhead, or an ass, by the 
 authority of custom : but why a villain, for God's 
 sake ? 
 
 Love. Did not you engage to meet and fight a 
 gentleman fbr me in JVIborfields .' 
 
 Roe. Did not you promise to engage a lady for 
 me at the fourltain, sir? 
 
 i'o»ff. This Lucinda is my mistress, sir. 
 
 Roe. This Lucinda, sir,, is my wife. 
 
 Love. "Then this decides the matter. — Draw ! 
 
 [Throws RoEBUOK his sword and draws his own. 
 
 Roe. Prithee be quiet, man, I've other business 
 to mind on my wedding-night. I must in to my 
 bride. • - iOoing. 
 
 Love. Hold, sir ! move a step, and by Heavens 
 I'll stab thee. 
 
 Roe. Put up, put up! Psha! I an't prepared to 
 die ; I an't, devil take me ! 
 
 Love. Do you dally with me, sir ? 
 
 Roe. "Why, you won't be so unconscionable as 
 to kill a man so suddenly .' I han't made my will 
 yet. Perhaps I may leave you a legacy. 
 
 Love. Pardon me, Heavens, if pressed by stinging 
 taunts, 
 My passion urge my arm to act what's foul. 
 
 , \OS^rs to push at him. 
 
 Roe. Hold'.— [^Taking tip his swoxd.] 'Tis safest 
 making peace, they say, with sword in hand. — I'll 
 tell thee what, !f^ed, I would not lose this night's 
 pleasure forthe honour of fighting and vanquishing 
 the Sev?n Champions of Christendom. Permit me 
 then but this night' to return to the arms of my 
 dear bride, and faith and troth I'll take a fair thrust 
 with you to-morrow morning. 
 
 Love. What ! beg a poor reprieve for life ! — 
 Then tho'u.'rt a coward. 
 
 Roe. You imagined the contrary when you 
 employed me to figbt for ye in Moorfields. 
 
 Love. Will nothing move thy gall ? — Thou'rt 
 base, ungrateful ! 
 
 Roe. Ungrateful-! I love thee, Ned; by Heavens, 
 my friend, I love thee ! Therefore name not that 
 word again, for such a repetition would overpay all 
 thy favours. 
 
 Loiie.'A cheap, a very cheap way of ' making 
 acknowledgment, and therefore thou hast catched, 
 which makes thee more ungrateful. 
 
 Roe. My friendship even yet does balance pas- 
 sion ; but throw in the least grain more of an affront, 
 arid by Heaven you turn the scale. 
 
 Love, [ Pausing. ] No, I've thought better ; my 
 reason clears : sha's not worth my sword ; a bully 
 only should draw in her defence, for she's false, a 
 prostitute. [Puts up his sword. 
 
 Roe. A prostitute ! by Heavens thou liest ! — 
 [Draws.'] Thou hast blasphemed. Her virtue 
 answers the uncorrupted state of woman ; so much 
 above immodesty, that it mocks temptation. She 
 has convinced me of the bright honour of her sex, 
 and I stand champion now for the fair female cause. 
 
 Love. Then I have lost what nought on earth 
 can pay. Curse on all doubts, all jealousies, that 
 destroy our present happiness, by mistrusting the 
 future ! Thus m'sbelievers making their heaven 
 
 uncertain, find a certain hell. And is she virtuous ? 
 Sound the bold charge aloud, which does proclaim 
 me guilty. 
 
 Roe. By Heavens, as virtuous as thy sister. 
 
 Love. My sister ! — Ha ! — I fear, sir, your mar- 
 riage with Lucinda has wronged my sister ; for her 
 you courted, and I heard she loved you. 
 
 Roe. I courted her, 'tis true, and loved her also; 
 Nay, my love to her rivail'd my friendship to- 
 wards-^ ; 
 And had my fate allow'd me time for thought, 
 Her dear remembrance might have stopp'd the 
 
 marriage. 
 But since 'tis past I must own to you, to her, 
 And all the world, 
 
 That I cast off all former passion, and shall 
 Henceforth confine my love to the dear circle 
 Of her charming arms from which I just now parted. 
 
 Enter Lbanthb in woman's loose apparel. 
 
 Lean. I take you at your word. These arc the 
 arms that held' you. 
 
 Roe. Oh gods and happiness ! Leanthe ! 
 
 Love. My sister ! Heavens ! it cannot be. 
 
 Roe. By Heavens it can, it shall, it must be so ! 
 For none on earth could give such joys but she. 
 Who would have thought my joys could bear 
 
 increase .'' * 
 Lovewell, my friend, this is thy sister ! 'Tis 
 Leanthe ! My mistress ! my Bride ! ray wife ! 
 
 Lean. I am your sister, sir ; as such I beg you 
 to pardon the effect of violent passion, which has 
 driven me into some imprudent actions : but none 
 such as may blot the honour of my virtue or 
 family. To hold you no longer in suspense, 'twas 
 I brought the letter from Leanthe ; 'twas I managed 
 the intrigue with Lucinda ; I sent the note to Mr, 
 Roebuck this afternoon ; and I — ■ 
 
 Roe. That was the bride of happy me. 
 
 Ijove, Thou art my sister and my guardian-angel ; 
 For thou hast bless'd thyself, and bless'd thy 
 
 brother. 
 Lucinda still is safe, and may be mine. 
 
 Roe. May ! — She shall be thine, my- friend. 
 
 Love. Where is Lucinda ? 
 
 Enter Mocicmodb. 
 
 Mock. Not far off ; though far enough from you, 
 by the universe ! 
 
 Lean. You must give me leave not to believe 
 you, sir. 
 
 Mock. Oh, madam ! I crave you ten thousand 
 pardons, by the universe, madam ! — Zauns, ma- 
 dam ! Dem me, madam I 
 
 [OJfers to salute her awkwardly. 
 
 Love. By your leave, sir — \Thrusls him back. 
 
 Roe. Ah, cousin Mockmode ! — How do all our 
 friends in Shropshire ? — 
 
 Mock. Now, gentlemen, I thank you all for your 
 trick, your sham. You imagine I have got your 
 whore, cousin, your crack. But, gentlemen, by the 
 assistance of a poet, your Sheely is metamorphosed 
 into the real Lucinda ; which your eyes shall testify. 
 Bring in the iury there ! — Guilty or not guilty ? 
 
 ' Enter Lyric and Tkudge. 
 Trudge. Oh my dear Roebuck! — [Throws off 
 he.r mask., flies to him, takes him about the neck and 
 kisses him.] And faith is it you, dear joy ? And 
 where have you been these seven long years ? 
 
SCENE m. 
 
 LOVE AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 Eil) 
 
 Mock. Zauns ! 
 
 Roe. Hold off, stale iniquity ! — [ To Leanthe.] 
 Madam, you'll pardon tliis ? 
 
 Trudge. Indeed I won't live with that stranger. 
 You promised to marry me, so you. did. Ah, sir, 
 Neddy's a brave boy, God bless him ; he's a whole 
 armful ; Lord knows I had a heavy-load of him. 
 
 Love. Guilty or not guilty, Mr. Mockmode ? 
 
 Mock. 'Tis past that; I am condemned, I'm 
 hanged in the marriage noose. — [To Trudge.] 
 Hark ye, madam, was this the doctor that let you 
 blood under the tongue for the quinsy ? 
 
 Trudge. Yes, that it was, sir. 
 
 Mock. Then he may do so again ; for the devil 
 take me if ever I breathe a vein for ye 1 — Mr. 
 Lyric, is this your poetical friendship .' 
 
 Lyr. I had only a mind to convince you of your 
 squireship. 
 
 Love. Now, sister, my fears are over. But 
 wbere's Lucinda ? how is she disposed of .' 
 
 Lean. The fear she lay under of being dis- 
 covered by you, gave me an opportunity of im- 
 posing Pindress upon her instead of this gentleman, 
 whom she expected to wear one of Pindress's 
 nightgowns as a disguise. To make the cheat more 
 current, she disguised herself in my clothes, which 
 has made her pass on her maid for me ; and I by that 
 opportunity putting on a suit of her's, passed upon 
 this gentleman for Xiucinda, my next business is to 
 find her out, and beg her pardon, endeavour her 
 reconcilement to you, which the discovery of the 
 mistakes between both will easily effect. lExit. 
 
 Roe. . [To Lyric] Well, sir, how was your 
 plot carried on ? 
 
 Lyr. Why this squire, (will you give me leave to 
 call you so now ?) this squire had a mind to per- 
 sonate Lovewell, to catch Lucinda. So 1 made 
 Trudge to personate Lucinda, and snap him in this 
 very garden. — \_To Mockmode.] Now, sir, you'll 
 give me leave to write your epithalamium .' 
 
 Mock. My epithalamium ! my epitaph, screech- 
 owl, for I'm buried alive. But I hope you'll 
 return my hundred pound I gave you for marrying 
 me.' 
 
 Lijr. No ; but for five hundred more I'll un- 
 marry you. These are hard times, and men of 
 industry must make money. 
 
 Mock, Here's the money, by the universe, sir ! 
 a bill of five hundred pound sterling upon Mr.' 
 Ditto the mercer in Cheapside. Bring me a re- 
 prieve, and 'tis yours. 
 
 Lyr. hay it in that gentleman's hands — [Mock- 
 mode gives Roebuck the bill.'] The executioner 
 shall cut the rope. — \_Goes to the door and brings 
 in Widow Bcilfinch dressed like a parson.'] 
 Here's revelation for you ! iPum opm mugmn. 
 
 Mock. Oh thou damned whore of Babylon ! 
 Love. What pope Joan the second ! were you 
 the priest ? ~ 
 
 Bull. Of the poet's ordination. 
 Lyr. Ay, ay, before the time of Christianity the' 
 poets were priests. 
 
 Mock. No wonder then that all the world were 
 heathens ! 
 
 Lyr. How d'ye like the plot ? would it not do 
 well for a play ? — [To Roebuck.] My money, 
 sir. 
 
 Roe. No, sir ; it belongs to this gentlewoman — 
 [Gioes if io Trudge] you have divorced her, and 
 must give her separate maintenauQe. There's an- 
 other turn of plot you- were not awar§ of; Mr. 
 Lyric. 
 
 Jte-entsr Leanthe, with Lucinda a7id Pindress. 
 Luc. You have told me wonders ! 
 Lean. Here are these can testify the truth. — 
 This gentleman is the real Mr. Mockmode, and 
 much such another person as your dream repre- 
 sented. '-- — 
 
 Roe. I hope,'madara, you'll pardon my dissem- 
 bling, since only the hopes of so great a purchase 
 could cause it. 
 
 Luc. Let my wishing you much joy and happi- 
 ness in your bride testify my reconciliation ; and 
 at the request of your sister, Mr. Lovewell, I 
 nardon your past jealousies. — You threatened me, 
 Mr. Lovewell," with an Irish entertainment at my 
 wedding. I wish it present now, to assist at yout 
 sister's nuptials. 
 
 Lean. At my last going hence I sent for 'em, 
 and they're ready. 
 
 Love. Call 'em in then. 
 [_An Irish entertainment of three men and three womeUt 
 
 dressed after the Fingallian fashion. 
 Luc. I must reward your sister, Mr. LoveweU, 
 for the many services done me as my page. I 
 therefore settle my fortune and myself on you, on 
 this condition, that you make over your estate in 
 Ireland to your sister, and that gentleman. 
 
 Love. 'Tis done ; only with this proviso, brother, 
 that you forsake your extravagances. 
 
 Roe. Brother, you know I alw3.ys slighted gold, 
 But most when offer'd as a sordid bribe. 
 I scorn to be bribed even to virtue, 
 But for bright virtue's sake I liere embrace it. 
 
 lEmbraciriff Lkanthe. 
 I have espoused all goodness with Leanthe, 
 And am divorced from all ray former follies. 
 Woman's our fate. Wild and unlawful flames 
 Debauch us first, and softer love reclaims. 
 Thus paradise was losJ by woman's fall ; 
 But virtuous woman thus restores it all. 
 
 lExeuiit ovtyies 
 
512 
 
 LOVK AND A BOTTLE. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY JO. HAYNES, IN MODRNINO. 
 
 I COME not here, our poet's fate to see, 
 He and his play may be both be damn'd for me : 
 No, Royal Theatre, I come to mourn for thee. 
 And must these structures then untimely fall, 
 Whilst the other house stands, and gets the devil 
 
 and all .' 
 Must still kind Fortune through all weathers steer 
 
 'em, 
 And beauties bloom there spite of edax rerum, 
 Fivilur ingenio, that damn'd motto there, 
 
 \^Jt00liing up, at it. 
 Seduced me first to be a wicked player. 
 Hard times' indeed ; O tempora I O mores ! 
 I knew that stage must down where not one 
 
 whore is. 
 But can you have the hearts though ? — (Pray 
 
 now speak,) 
 After all our services, to let us break ? 
 You cannot do't, unless the devil's in ye, 
 What arts, what merit, han't we used to win ye .' 
 First, to divert ye with some new French strollers ; 
 We brought ye Bona Sera's, Barba Colars. 
 
 [Mocking the late singers. 
 When their male-throats no longer drew your 
 
 money : 
 We got ye a eunuch's pipe, signor Rampony. 
 That beardless songster we could ne'er make much 
 
 on ; 
 "The females found a damn'd blot in his scutcheon. 
 An Italian now we've got of mighty fame, 
 pon Sigismondo Fideli. — There's rousic in his 
 
 name ; 
 
 His voice is like the music of the spheres, 
 It should be heavenly for the price it bears. 
 
 [202. a time 
 He's a handsome fellow too, looks brisk and trim : 
 If he don't take ye, then the devil take him 1 
 Besides, lest our white faces always mayn't de- 
 light ye, 
 We've pick'd up gipsies now to please or fright 
 ye. 
 Lastly, to make our house more courtlier shine, 
 As travel does the men of mode refine. 
 So our stage-heroes did their tour design ; 
 To mend their manners and coarse EngUsh feeding, 
 They went to Ireland to improve their breeding. 
 Yet, for all this, we still are at a loss. 
 Oh Collier ! Collier ! thou'st frighted away Miss 
 
 Cross : 
 She, to return our foreigner's complaisance. 
 At Cupid's call, has made a trip to France. 
 Love's fire-arms here, are since not worth a 
 
 souse : 
 We've lost the only touch-hole of our house. 
 
 Losing that jewel, gave us a fatal blow : 
 Well, if thin audience must Jo. Haynes undo. 
 Well, if 'tis decreed, nor can thy fate, O stage ! 
 Resist the vows of this obdurate age, 
 I'll then grow wiser, leave off playing the fool, 
 And hire this playhouse for a boarding-school. 
 D'ye think the maids won't be in a sweet condition, 
 When they are under Jo. Haynes's grave tuition i 
 They'll have no occasion then I'm sure to play, 
 They'll have such comings in another way. 
 
THE CONSTANT COUPLE : 
 
 OA, 
 
 /^ TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 a (Bomebio. 
 
 Sive favore tuli, sive banc ego carmine famam ; 
 Jure tibi grates, candide lector, ago. 
 
 Ovro. Trist. iv. 10. 
 
 TO THE HONOURABLE 
 
 SIR ROGER MOSTYN, BART., OF MOSTYN-HALL IN FLINTSHIRE. 
 
 SiH, — Tis no small reflection on pieces of this nature, that panegyric is bo much improved, and that dedication ia 
 grown more an art than poetry ; that authors, to make their patrons more than men, make themselves less ; and that 
 persons of honour are forced to decline patronising wit, because their modesty cannot bear the gross strokes of adulation, 
 
 But give me leave to say. Sir, that I am too young an author to have learned the art of flattery ; and, I hope, the 
 same modesty which recommended this play to the world, will also reconcile my addresses to you, of whom I can say 
 nothing but what your merits may warrant, and all that have the honour of your acquaintance will be proud to 
 vindicate. 
 
 The greatest panegyric upon you. Sir, is theunprejudiced and bare truth of your character, the fire of youth, with the 
 Bedateness of a senator, and the modem gaiety of a fine English gentleman, with the noble solidity of the ancient 
 Briton, 
 
 This is the character. Sir, which all men, but yourself, are proud to publish of you, and which more celebrated pens 
 than mine should transmit to posterity. 
 
 The play has had some noble appearances to honour its representation ; and to complete the success, I have presumed 
 to prefix BO noble a name to usher it into the world. A stately frontispiece is the beauty of a building. But here I 
 must transverse Ovid : — materia svperahit opus. I am, honoiu-able Sir, youx nio5t devoted and hiunble servant, 
 
 G. FABQUHAR. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE READER. 
 
 Ajt affected modesty is very often the greatest vanity, jmd authors are sometimes prouder of their blushes than of the 
 praises that occasioned them. I shan't therefore, like a foolish virgin, fly to he pursued, and deny what I chiefly wish 
 for. I am very willing to acknowledge the beauties of this play, especially those of the third night, wbicli not to be 
 proud'of were the height of impudence. Who is ashamed to value himself upon such favours, undervalues those who 
 conferred them. 
 
 As I freely submit to the criticisms of the judiciou-s so I cannot call this an ill play, since the town has allowed it 
 such success. When they have pardoned ray faults 'twere very ill manners to condemn their indulgence. Some may 
 think (my acquaintance in town being too slender to make a party for the play) that the success must be derived from 
 the pure merits of the cause I am of another opinion : I have not been long enough in town to raise enemies against 
 me; and the English are still kind to strangers. I am below the envy of great wits, and above the maliceof little ones. 
 I have not displeased the ladies, nor ofl'enrted the clergy ; both which are now pleased to say, that a comedy may be 
 diverting without smut and profaneness. 
 
 Next to those advant^es, the beauties of action gave the greatest life to the play, of which the to^vn is so sensible, 
 that all will join with me in commendation of the actors, and allow (without detracting from the merit of others) that 
 the Theatre Royal affords an excellent and complete set of comedians. Mr. Wilks'sperfonnancehas&et himsofar above 
 aompetition in the part of Wildair, that none can pretend to envy tlie praise due to his merit. That he made the part, 
 will appear from hence* that whenever the stage hsa the misfortune to lose him. Sir Harry Wildair may go to the 
 Jubj'ffe. 
 
 A great many quarrel at the Trip to the Jubilee for a misnomer : I must tell them, that perhaps there are greater 
 trips in ihe play; and when 1 find that more exact plays have had better success, I'll talk with the critics about deeo- 
 "uma, ic. However, if I ever commit another fault of this nature, I'll endeavour lo make it more excusable. 
 
 LI. 
 
614 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE; OR, 
 
 DKAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Srn Harry Wildair, an atri/ , Gentleman, a^ccting 
 
 Itumorous gaiety and freedom in his Ijehaviour, 
 Colonel Standard, a disbanded Officer, brave aiid 
 
 generous. 
 Vizard, outwardly/ pious, otlierujise a great debauchee 
 
 and villain. 
 Alderman Smuggler, an old Merchant. 
 Clincher Senior, a pert London Prentice turned 
 
 Beau, and affecting travel. 
 Clincher Junior, his Brother, educated in the 
 
 Country. 
 
 SCENE,- 
 
 Dicky, his Man. 
 
 Tim Errand, a Porter. 
 
 Lady Lurewell, of a jilting temper, proceeding from 
 
 a resentment (if her wrongs from Men. 
 Lady Darling, an old Lady, Mother to Angelica. 
 Angelica, a Woman of Honour. 
 Parly, Maid to Lady Lurewell. 
 
 Butler, Jailor, Constable, Mob, Porter's Wife, and 
 Footmen. 
 ■London. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 BY A FRIEND. 
 
 Poets will think nothing so checks their fury 
 As wits, citSj beaux, and women, for their jury. 
 Our spark's half dead to think what medley's come, 
 With blended judgments to pronounce his doom. 
 'Tis all false fear ; for in a mingled pit, 
 Why, what your grave don thinks but dully writ, 
 His neighbour i'th' great wig may take for wit. 
 Some authors court the few, the wise, if any ; 
 Our youth's content, if he can reach the many, 
 Who go with much like ends to church, and play, 
 Not to observe what priests or poets say ; 
 Ko, no, your thoughts, like theirs, lie quite another 
 
 way. 
 The ladies safe may smile : for here's no slander, 
 No smut, no lewd-tongued beau, no double-enlendre. 
 'Tis true, he has a spark just come- from France, 
 But then so far from beau — why, he talks sense ! 
 Like coin oft carried out, but — seldom brought from 
 
 thence. 
 There's yet a gang to whom our spark submits, 
 Your elbow-shaking fool, that lives by's wits, 
 That's only witty though, just as he lives, by fits. 
 Who, lion-like, through bailiffs scours away, 
 Hunts, in the face, a dinner all the day, 
 
 At night, with empty bowels, giumbles o'er tlie 
 
 play. 
 And now the modish prentice he implores. 
 Who, with his master's cash, stolen out of door^j. 
 Employs it on a brace of — honourable whores ; 
 While their good bulky mother pleased, sits by. 
 Bawd regent of the bubble gallery. 
 Next to our mounted friends, we humbly move, 
 Who all your side-box tricks are much above, 
 And never fail to pay us — with your love. 
 Ah, friends ! Poor Dorset garden-house is gone t 
 Our merry meetings there are all undone : 
 Quite lost to us, sure for some strange misdeeds. 
 That strong dog Samson's puU'd it o'er our 
 
 heads, 
 Snaps rope like thread ; but when his fortune's 
 
 told him, 
 He'll hear perhaps of rope will one day hold him r 
 At least, I hope, that our good-natured town 
 Will find a way to pull his prizes down. 
 
 Well, that's all 1 Now, gentlemen, for the play. 
 On second thoughts, I've but two words to say ; 
 Such as it is for your delight design'd, 
 Hear it, read, try, judge, and speak as you find. 
 
 ANOTHER PROLOGUE. 
 
 'Tis hard, the author of this play in view, 
 Should be condemn'd, purely for pleasing you : 
 Charged with a crime, which you, his judges, own 
 Was only this, that he has pleased the town. 
 He touch'd no poet's verse, nor doctor's bills ; 
 
 No foe to B re, yet a friend to Wills. 
 
 No reputation stabb'd by sour debate ; 
 Nor had a hand in bankrupt Brisco's fate : 
 And, as an ease to's tender conscience, vows. 
 He's none of those that broke the t'other house : 
 In perfect pity to their wretched cheer. 
 Because his play was bad — he brought it here. 
 The dreadful sin of murder cries aloud ; 
 And sure these poets ne'er can hope for good. 
 Who dipp'd their barbarous pens in that poor 
 
 house's blood. 
 'Twas malice all : no malice like to theirs. 
 To write good plays, purpose to starve the players. 
 To starve by's wit, is still the poet's due. 
 But here are men whose wit is matoh'd by few ; 
 Their wit both starves themselves and others too. 
 
 Our plays are farce, because our house is cramm'd ; 
 Their plays all good j for what .' — because they're 
 
 damn'd. 
 Because we pleasure you, you call us tools ; 
 And 'cause you please yourselves they call youi 
 
 fools. 
 By their good-nature, they are wits, true blue ; 
 And men of breeding, by their respects to you. 
 To engage the fair, all other means being lost, 
 They fright the boxes with old Shakspeare's ghost ;, 
 The ladies of such spectres should take heed ; 
 For 'twas the devil did raise that ghost indeed. 
 Their case is hard that such despair can show ; 
 They've disobliged all powers above, they know ; 
 And now must have recourse to powers below. 
 Let Shakspeare then lie still, ghosts do no 
 
 good; 
 The fair are better pleased with flesh and blood. 
 What is't to them, to mind the ancients' taste ? 
 But the poor folks are mad, and I'm in haste. 
 
 [fliins air 
 
A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 515 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE J.— The Park. 
 
 Enter Vizard tcith a letter, Footmsm foUftwing. 
 
 Visf. Angelica, send it back unopened ! say you ? 
 
 Foot. As you see, sir. 
 
 Viz. The pride of these virtuous women is more 
 insufferable than the immodesty of prostitutes ! — 
 After all my encouragement, to slight me thus ! 
 
 Foot. She said, sir, that imagining your morals 
 sincere, she gave you access to her conversation ; 
 but that your late behaviour in her company has 
 convinced her, that your love and religion are both 
 hypocrisy, and that she believes your letter like 
 yourself, fair on the outside, foul vrithin ; so sent 
 it back unopened. 
 
 Viz. May obstinacy guard her beauty till 
 wrinkles bury it ! Then may desire prevail to 
 make her curse that untimely pride her disappointed 
 age repents ! — I'll be revenged the very first op- 
 portunity. — Saw you the old lady Darling, her 
 mother ? 
 
 Foot. Yes, sir, and she was pleaded to say much 
 in your commendation. 
 
 Viz. That's my cue. — An esteem grafted in old 
 age is hardly rooted out, years stiffen their opin- 
 ions with their bodies, and old zeal is only to be 
 cozened by young hypocrisy. — Run to the lady 
 Lnrewell's, and know of her maid whether her lady- 
 ship will be at home this evening. — \,Eant Foot- 
 man.] Her beauty is sufficient cure for Angelica's 
 scorn. {_FuUt out a book, reads, and walks about 
 
 Enter Alderman Smuggler. 
 
 Smug. Ay, there's a pattern for the young men 
 o'th' times ! — At his meditation so early, some book, 
 of pious ejaculations, I'm sure. 
 
 Viz. [Aside.'i This Hobbes is an excellent fel- 
 low ! — lAloud.'] O uncle Smuggler ! To find you 
 in this end o'th' town is a miracle. 
 
 Smug. I have seen a miracle this morning 
 indeed, cousin Vizard. 
 
 Viz. What is it, pray, sir ? 
 
 Smug. A man at his devotion so near the court. 
 — I'm very glad, boy, that you keep your sanctity 
 untainted in this infeetious place ; the very air of 
 this park is heathenish, and every man's breath I 
 meet scents of atheism. 
 
 Viz. Surely, sir, some great concern must bring 
 you to this unsanctified end of the town. 
 
 Smug. A very unsanctified concern truly, cousin. 
 
 Viz. What is't ? 
 
 Smug. A lawsuit, boy. — shall I tell you ? — My 
 ship the Swan is newly arrived from St. Sebastian, 
 laden with Portugal wines : now the impudent 
 rogue of a tidewaiter has the face to affirm, 'tis 
 French wines in Spanish casks, and has indicted 
 me upon the statute. — O conscience ! conscience ! 
 these tidewaiters and surveyors plague us more 
 with the French wines, than the war did with 
 French privateers. 
 
 Enter Colonel Standard. 
 Ay, there's another plague of the nation — a red 
 coat and feather. 
 
 Viz. Colonel Standard, I'm your humble ser- 
 vant. 
 
 Stand. Maybe not, sir. 
 
 Viz. Why so .' 
 
 Stand. Because — I'm disbanded. 
 
 nz. How, broke ! 
 
 Stand. This very morning, in Hyde Park, my 
 brave regiment, a thousand men that looked like 
 lions yesterday were scattered, and looked as poor 
 and simple as the herd of deer that grazed beside 
 'em. 
 
 Smug. [Singing.l Tal, al, deral 1 — I'll have a 
 bonfire this night as high as the Monument. 
 
 Stand. A bonfire ! thou dry, withered, ill 
 nature ! had not these brave fellows' swords de- 
 fended youj your house had been a bonfire ere 
 this about your ears. — Did we. not venture our 
 lives, sir ? 
 
 Smug. And did not we pay you for your lives, 
 sir ? — Venture your lives ! I'm sure we ventured 
 our money, and that's life and soul to me. — Sir, 
 we'U maintain you no longer. 
 
 Stand. Then your wives shall, old ActEeon. 
 There are five-and-thirty strapping officers gone 
 this morning to live upon free quarter iu the city. 
 
 Smug. O Lord ! O Lord ! I shall have a son 
 within these nine months born with a leading staff 
 in his hand. — Sir, you are — 
 
 Stand. WTiat, sir ? 
 
 Smug. Sir, I say that you are — 
 
 Stand. What, sir ? 
 
 Smug. Disbanded, sir, that's all. — I see my 
 lawyer yonder. lEint. 
 
 Viz. Sir, I'm very sorry for your misfortune. 
 
 Stand. Why so ? I don't come to borrow money 
 of you ; if you're my friend, meet me this evening 
 at the Rummer, I'll pay my way, drink a health to 
 my king, prosperity to my country ; and away for 
 Hungary to-morrow morning. 
 
 Viz. What ! you won't leave us ? 
 
 Stand. What ! a soldier stay here ! to look like 
 an old pair of colours in Westminster-hall, ragged 
 
 and rusty ! no, no I met yesterday a broken 
 
 lieutenant, he was ashamed to own that he wanted 
 a dinner, but begged eighteenpence of me to buy a 
 new sheath for his sword. 
 
 Viz. Oh ! but you have good friends, colonel ! 
 
 Stand. Oh, very good friends ! my father's 
 a lord, and my elder brother a beau. 
 
 Viz. But your country may perhaps want your 
 sword again. 
 
 Stand. Nay, for that matter, let but a single 
 drum beat up for volunteers between Ludgate and 
 Charing Cross, and I shall undoubtedly hear it at 
 the walls of Buda. 
 
 Viz. Come, come, colonel, there are ways of 
 making your fortune at home.— Make your ad- 
 dresses to the fair, you're a man of honour and 
 courage. 
 
 Stand. Ay, my courage is like to do me won- 
 drous service with the fair. This pretty cross cut 
 over my eye will attract a duchess. I warrant 
 'twill be a mighty grace to my ogling. — Had I 
 used the stratagem of a certain brother colonel of 
 mine, I might succeed. 
 
 Viz. What was it, pray ? 
 
 Stand. Why, to save his pretty face for the 
 
616 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE; OR, 
 
 women, he always tutned his back upon the enemy. 
 He was a man of honour — for the ladies. 
 
 Viz. Come, come, the loves of Mars and Venus 
 will never fail ; you must get a mistress. 
 
 Stand. Prithee, no more on't. — You have 
 awakened a thought, from which, and the king- 
 dom, I would have stolen away at once. — To be 
 plain, I have a mistress. 
 
 Via. And she's cruel. 
 
 Stand. No. 
 
 Viz. Her parents prevent your happiness. 
 
 Stand. Nor that. 
 
 Viz. Then she has no fortune. 
 
 Stand. A large one ; beauty to tempt all man- 
 kind, and virtue to beat off their assaults. O Viz- 
 ard ! such a creature ! — 
 
 Enter Sir Harry WrLDAiR, crosses the stage singing with 
 Footmen after him. 
 
 Heyday ! who the devil have we here ? 
 
 Viz. The joy of the playhouse, and life of the 
 Park ; Sir Harry Wildair newly come from Paris. 
 
 Stand. Sir Harry Wildair ! Did not he make 
 a campaign in Flanders some three or four years 
 ago? 
 
 Viz. The same. 
 
 Stand. Why, he behaved himself very bravely. 
 
 Viz. Why not ? dost think bravery and gaiety 
 are inconsistent ? He's a gentleman of most happy 
 circumstances, born to a plentiful estate ; has had 
 a genteel and easy education, free from the rigid- 
 ness of teachers and pedantry of schools. His 
 florid constitution being never ruffled by misfor- 
 tune, nor stinted in its pleasures, has rendered him 
 entertaining to others, and easy to himself : — turn- 
 ing all passion into gaiety of humour, by which he 
 chooses rather to rejoice hi* friends than be hated 
 by any ; as you shall see. 
 
 Re-enter Sir Haruy Wildair, Footman attending. 
 
 Sir liar. Ha, Vizard ! 
 
 Viz. Sir Harry ! 
 
 Sir Har. Who thought to find you out of the 
 rubric so long ? I thought thy hypocrisy had been 
 wedded to a pulpit-cushion long ago. — Sir, if I 
 mistake not your face, your name is Standard. 
 
 Stand. Sir Harry, I'm your humble servant. 
 
 Sir Har. Come, gentlemen, the news ! the news 
 o' th' town ! for I'm just arrived. 
 
 Viz. Why, in the city-end o' th' town we're 
 playing the knave, to get estates. 
 
 Sinnd. And in the court-end playing the fool, in 
 spending 'em. 
 
 Sir Har. Just so in Paris ; I'm glad we're grown 
 so modish. 
 
 Viz- We are all so reformed, that gallantry is 
 taken for vice. 
 
 Stand. And hypocrisy for religion. 
 
 Sir Har. A la mode de Paris, again. 
 
 Viz. Not one whore between Ludgate and Aid- 
 gate. 
 
 Stand. But ten times more cuckolds than ever. 
 
 Viz. Nothing like an oath in the city. 
 
 Stand. That's a mistake ; for my major swore a 
 hundred and fifty last night to a merchant's wife in 
 her bedchamber. 
 
 Sir Har. Psha ! this is trifling ; tell me news, 
 gentlemen, what lord has lately broke his fortune 
 at the Groom-porter's ? or his heart at Newmarket, 
 for the loss of a race ? What wife has been lately 
 
 suing in Doctors' Commons for alimony ? or, what 
 daughter run away with her father's valet ? What 
 beau gave the noblest ball at the Bath, or had the 
 finest coach in the ring .' I want news, gentlemen. 
 
 Stand. Faith, sir, these are no news at all. 
 
 Viz. But pray, sir Harry, tell us some news of 
 your travels. 
 
 Sir Har. With all my heart. You must know 
 then, I went over to Amsterdam in a Dutch ship ; 
 I there had a Dutch whore for five stivers : I went 
 from thence to Landen, where 1 was heartily 
 drubbed in the battle with the butt-end of a Swiss 
 musket. I thence went to Paris, where I had half- 
 a-dozen intrigues, bought half-a-dozen new suits, 
 fought a couple of duels, and here I am again in 
 statu quo. 
 
 Viz. But we heard that you designed to make 
 the tour of Italy ; what brought you back so soon ? 
 
 Sir Har. That which brought you into the 
 world, and may perhaps carry you out of it; a 
 woman. 
 
 Stand. What ! quit the pleasures of travel for a 
 woman ! 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, colonel, for such a woman ! I had 
 rather see her ruelle than the palace of Louis le 
 Grand. There's more glory in her smile than in 
 the Jubilee at Rome ; and I would rather kiss her 
 hand than the pope's toe. 
 
 Viz. You, colonel, have been very lavish in the 
 beauty and virtue of your mistress ; and sir Harry 
 here has been no less eloquent in the praise of his . 
 now will I lay you both ten guineas a piece, that 
 neither of them is so pretty, so witty, or so vir- 
 tuous, as mine. 
 
 Stand. 'Tisdone! 
 
 Sir Har. I.'U double the stakes. — But, gentle- 
 men, now I think on't, how shall we be resolved ? i 
 for I know not where my mistress may be found ; 
 she left Paris about a month before me, and 1 had 
 an account — 
 
 Stand. How, sir ! left Paris about a month before 
 you ! 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, but I know not where, and per- 
 haps mayn't find her this fortnight. 
 
 Stand. Her name, pray, sir Harry ? 
 
 Viz. Ay, ay, her name ; perhaps we know 
 her. I 
 
 Sir Har. Her name ! Ay, — she has the softest, j 
 whitest hand that ever was made of flesh and blood, i 
 her lips so balmy sweet! 
 
 Stand. But her name, sir ! 
 
 Sir Har. Then her neck and breast ; — her 
 breasts do so heave ! so heave ! {.Singing. 
 
 Viz. But her name, sir, her quality ! 
 
 Sir Har. Then her shape, colonel 1 
 
 Stand. But her name I want, sir! 
 
 Sir Har. Then her eyes. Vizard ! 
 
 Stand. Psha, sir Harry, her name or nothing ! 
 
 Sir Har. Then, if you must have it, she's called 
 the lady— But then her foot, gentlemen ! she dances 
 to a miracle. — Vizard, you have certainly lost your 
 wager. 
 
 Viz. Why, you have lost your senses ; we shall 
 never discover the picture unless you subscribe the 
 name. 
 
 Sir Har. Then her name is Lurewell. 
 
 Stand. 'Sdeath, my mistress ! CAside. 
 
 Viz. My mistress, by Jupiter 1 lAsi^ii. 
 
 Sir Har. Do you know her, gentlemen ? 
 
 Stand. I have seen her, sir. 
 
■SCRNE II. 
 
 A TRIP TO THE JUBILEK. 
 
 517 
 
 j Sir liar. Canst tell where she lodges? Tell 
 
 ' me, dear colonel. 
 
 \ Stand. Your humble servant, sir. {,Exit. 
 
 I Sir Har, Nay, hold, colonel, I'll follow you, and 
 will know. {Runs ml. 
 
 Viz. The lady Lurewell his mistress \ — He loves 
 her, but she loves me. — But he's a baronet, and I 
 plain Vizard ; he has a coach-and-six, and 1 walk 
 a-foot ; I was bred in London, and he in Paris. — 
 That very circumstance has murdered me. — Then, 
 some stratagem must be laid to divert his preten- 
 sions. 
 
 B.&-enttr Sir Harry Wjldair. 
 
 Sir Hat. Prithee, Dick, what makes the colo- 
 nel so out of humour? 
 
 Viz. Because he's out; of pay^ I suppose. 
 
 Sir Har. 'Slite, that's true ! I was beginning 
 to mistrust some livalship in the case. 
 
 Viz. And suppose there were, you know the 
 culonel can fight, sir Harry. 
 
 Sir Har. Ij'ight ! psha ! but he can't dance, 
 ha ! M"e contend for ^ woman, Vizard ! 'SUfe, 
 man, if ladies were to be gained by sword and 
 pistol only, what the devil should all the beaux do ? 
 
 Viz. {Aside.'] .I'll try him farther. — [Aloud.'} 
 But would not you, sir Harry, fight for this woman 
 you so much admire ? 
 
 Sir Har. Fight ! — Let me consider. I love her, 
 that's true ; — but, then, I love honest sir Harry 
 Wildair better. The lady Lurewell is divinely 
 charming — right — ^but, then, a thrust i'th' guts, or 
 a Middlesex jary, is as ugly as the devil. 
 
 Viz. Ay, sir Harry, 'twere a dangerous cast for 
 a beau baronet to be tried by a parcel of greasy, 
 grumbling, bartering boobies, who would hang you 
 purely because you're a gentleman. 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, but on t'other hand, I have 
 money enough to bribe the rogues with : so, upon 
 mature deliberation, I would fight for her. — But 
 no more of her. Prithee, Vizard, can't you recom- 
 mend a friend, to a pretty mistress by-the-by, till I 
 can find my own .'' You have store, I'm sure ; 
 you cunning poaching dogs make surer game than 
 we that hunt open and fair. Prithee now, good 
 Vizard ! 
 
 Viz. Let me consider a little. — [^Aside.] Nov/ 
 love and revenge-inspire my politics. 
 
 IPauses, whilst Sir Harry Wildaib walks about singing. 
 
 Sir Har. Psha 1 thou'rt as long studying for 
 a new mistress as a drawer is piercing a new pipe. 
 
 Viz. I design a new pipe for you, and whole- 
 some wine ; you'll therefore bear a little expecta- 
 tion. 
 
 Sir Har. Ha 1 sayest thou, dear Vizard. 
 
 Viz. A girl of sixteen, sir Harry. 
 
 Sir Har. Now sixteen thousand blessings light 
 on thee! 
 
 Viz. Pretty and witty. 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, ay, but her name. Vizard ? 
 
 Viz. Her name! yes, — she has the softest, 
 whitest hand that ever was made of flesh and 
 blood, her lips so balmy sweet ! 
 
 Sir Har. Well, well, but where shall I find her, 
 man ? 
 
 Viz. Find her ! — but, then, her foot, sir Harry ! 
 — she diinces to a miracle. 
 
 Sir Har. Prithee, don't distract me. 
 
 Viz. Well, then, you must know that this lady 
 is the curiosity and ambition of the town; her 
 name's" Angehca. She that passes for her mother 
 
 is a private bawd, and culled the lady Darling ; she 
 goes for a baronet's lady, (no disparagement to 
 your honour, sir Harry,) I assure you. 
 
 Sir Har. Psha, hang my honour ! But what 
 street, what house ? 
 
 Viz. Not so fast, sir Harry ; you must have my 
 passport for your admittance, and you'll find my 
 recommendation, in a line or two, will procure you 
 very civil entertainment ; I suppose twenty or 
 thirty pieces handsomely placed will gain the 
 point ; I'll ensure her sound. 
 
 Sir Har. Thou dearest friend to a man in 
 necessity! — \_To Footman.] Here, sirrah, order 
 my coach about to St. James's; I'll walk across 
 the Park. [_ExJt Footman. 
 
 Enter Clinchbh Senior. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Here, sirrah, order my coach about 
 to St. James's, I'll walk across the Park too. — Mr. 
 Vizard, your most devoted. — Sir, [To Sir Harry 
 Wildair.] I admire the mode of your shoulder- 
 knot ; methinks it hangs very emphatically, and 
 carries an air of travel in it ; your sword-knot too 
 is most ornamentally modish, and bears a foreign 
 mien. Gentlemen, my brother is just arrived in 
 town, so that, being upon the wing to kiss his 
 hands, I hope you'll pardon this abrupt departure 
 of, gentlemen, your most devoted and most faith- 
 ful, humble servant. iExit. 
 
 Sir Har. Prithee, dost know him ? 
 
 Viz. Know him! why, 'tis Clincher, who was 
 apprentice to my uncle Smuggler, the merchant in 
 the city. 
 
 Sir Har. What makes him so gay ? 
 
 Viz. Why, he's in mourning for his father; the 
 kind old man, in Hertfordshire t'other day, broke 
 his neck a fox-hunting; the son, upon the news, 
 has broke his indentures, whipped from behind the . 
 counter into the side-box, forswears merchandise, 
 — where he must live by cheating, — ^and usurps 
 gentility, where he may die by raking. He keeps 
 his coach and liveries, brace of geldings, leash of 
 mistresses, talks of nothing but wines, intrigues, 
 plays, fashions, and going to the Jubilee. 
 
 Sir Har. Ha! ha! ha! how many pound of 
 pulvil must the fellow use in sweetening himself 
 from the smell of hops and tobacco ? Faugh ! — 
 I'iny conscience methought, like Olivia's lover, he 
 stunk of Thames-street. But now for Angelica, 
 that's her name. — We'll to the Princess's choco- 
 late-house, where you shall write my passport. 
 AUons ! lExeuut. 
 
 SCENE 11.- 
 
 ■A Room in Lady Lurewell's 
 House. 
 
 Lady LuBBWBLL and Parly. 
 
 Lady Lure. Parly, my pocket-book ! — Let me 
 see— Madrid, Venice, Paris, London. — Ay, Lon- 
 don ! They may talk what they will of the hcrc 
 countries, but 1 find love most fruitful under this 
 climate. — In a month's space, have I gained — ■ 
 let me see, imprimis, colonel Standard. 
 
 Far. And how will your ladyship manage him ? 
 
 Lady Lure. As all soldiers should be managed, 
 he shall serve me till I gain my ends, then 1 di;i- 
 band him. 
 
 Par. But he loves you, madam. 
 
 Ludt/ Lure. Therefore 1 scorn, him, I hate all 
 
618 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE; OR, 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 that don't love me, and slight all that do. Would 
 his whole deluding sex admired me, thus would I 
 slight them all ! My virgin and unwary ianocenoe 
 ■was wronged hy faithless man, but now glance 
 eyes, plot brain, dissemble face, lie tongue, and be 
 a second Eve to tempt, seduce, and damn the 
 treacherous kind. — Let me survey my captives. — 
 The Colonel leads the van ; next Mr. Vizard, he 
 courts me, out of the Practiee of Piely, therefore 
 is a hypocrite ; then Clincher he adores me with 
 orangery, and Is consequently a fool ; then my old 
 merchant. Alderman Smuggler, he's a compound 
 of both ; out of which medley of lovers, if I don't 
 make good diversion — what d'ye think, Parly ? 
 
 Par. I think, madam, I'm like to be very virtu- 
 ous in your service, if you teach me all those tricks 
 that you use to your lovers. 
 
 Lady Lure. You're a fool, child ; observe this 
 that though a woman swear, forswear, lie, dissemble, 
 backbite, be proud, vain, malicious, anything, if 
 she secures the main chance, she's still virtuous ; 
 that's a maxim. 
 
 Par. I can't be persuaded though, madam, but 
 that you really loved sir Harry Wildair in Paris. 
 
 Lady Lure. Of all the lovers I ever had, he was 
 my greatest plague, for I could never make him 
 uneasy ; I left him involved in a duel upon my 
 account ; I long to know whether the fop be killed 
 or not. 
 
 Enter Colonel Standard. 
 O Lord ! no sooner talk of killing, but the soldier 
 is conjured up. You're upon hard duty, colonel, 
 to serve your king, your country and a mistress 
 too. 
 
 Stand. The latter, I must confess, is the harder ; 
 for in war, madam, we can be relieved in our duty : 
 but in love who would take our post is our enemy ; 
 emulation in glory is .transporting, but rivals here 
 intolerable. 
 
 Lady Lure. Those that bear away the prize in 
 the field, should boast the same success in the bed- 
 chamber ; and I think, considering the weakness 
 of our sex, we should make those our companions 
 who can be our champions. 
 
 Stand. I once, madam, hoped the honour of 
 defending you from all injuries through a title to 
 your lovely person, but now my love must attend 
 my fortune. This commission, madam, was my 
 passport to the fair; adding a nobleness to my 
 passion, it stamped a value on my love ; 'twas once 
 the life of honour, but now its hearse, and with it 
 must my love be buried. 
 
 Par. What ! disbanded, colonel.' 
 
 Stand. Yes, Mrs. Parly. 
 
 Par. Faugh, the nauseous fellow ! he stinks of 
 poverty already. ' iAside. 
 
 Lady Lure. His misfortune troubles me, 'cause 
 it may prevent my designs. [Aside, 
 
 Stand. I'll choose, madam, rather to destroy 
 my passion by absence abroad, than have it starved 
 at home. 
 
 Lady Lure. I'm sorry, sir, you have so mean 
 an opinion of my alfection, as to imagine it founded 
 upon your fortune. And to convince you of your 
 mistake, here I vow by all that's sacred, I own the 
 same affection now as before. Let it suffice, my 
 ^fortune is considerable. 
 
 Stand. No, madam, no ; I'll never be a charge 
 to her I love. The man that sells himself for gold 
 is the worst of prostitutes. 
 
 Lady Lure. Now were he any other creature but 
 a man, I could love him. iAtide. 
 
 Stand. This only last request I make, that no 
 title recommend a fool, office introduce a knavB, 
 nor a coat a coward to my place in your affections ; 
 so farewell my country ! and adieu my love ! [Exit. 
 
 Lady Lure. Now the devil take thee for being 
 so honourable ! — Here Parly, call him back. — 
 \_Exit Parly] I shall lose half my diversion else. 
 
 Re-enter Parly with Colonel Standard. 
 
 Now for a trial of skill. — Sir, I hope you'll pardon 
 my curiosity ; when do you take your journey ? 
 
 Stand. To-morrow morning, early, madam. 
 
 Lady Lure. So suddenly ! which way are you 
 designed to travel .■' 
 
 Stand. That I can't yet resolve on. 
 
 Lady Lure. Pray, sir, tell me, pray sir ; I 
 entreat you, why are you so obstinate .' 
 
 Stand. Why are you so curious, madam ? 
 
 Lady Lure. Because — 
 
 Stand. What? 
 
 Lady Lure. Because, I — I. 
 
 Stand. Because what, madam ? pray tell me. 
 
 Lady Lure. Because I design to follow you. 
 
 [.Crying. 
 
 Stand. Follow me ! byall that's great, I ne'er was 
 proud before, but love from such a creature might 
 swell the vanity of the proudest prince. Follow me ! 
 By Heavens, thou shalt not. What ! expose thee 
 to the hazards of a camp ! — Rather I'll stay and here 
 bear the contempt of fools, and worst of fortune. 
 
 Lady Lure. You need cot, shall not ; my estate 
 for both is sufficient. 
 
 Stand. Thy estate ! no, I'll turn a knave and 
 purchase one myself ; I'll cringe to that proud man 
 I undermine, and fawn on him that I would bite 
 to death ; I'll tip my tongue with flattery, and 
 smooth my face with smiles ; I'll turn pimp, 
 informer, office-broker, nay coward, to be great j 
 and sacrifice it all to thee, my generous fair. 
 
 Lady Lure. And I'll dissemble, lie, swear, jilt, 
 anything but I'd reward thy love, and recompense 
 thy noble passion. 
 
 Stand. Sir Harry, ha ! ha ! ha ! poor Sir Harry, 
 ha ! ha 1 ha ! Rather kiss her hand than the Pope's 
 toe, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lady Lure. What sir Harry, colonel, what sir 
 Harry ! 
 
 Stand. Sir Harry Wildair, madam. 
 
 Lady Lure. What ! is he come over ? 
 
 Stand. Ay, and he told me — but I don't believe 
 a syllable on't. 
 
 Lady Lure. What did he tell you ? 
 
 Stand. Only called you his mistress, and pre- 
 tending to be extravagant in your commendation, 
 would vainly insinuate the praise of his own judg- 
 ment and good fortune in a choice — 
 
 Lady Lure. How easily is the vanity of fops 
 tickled by our sex ! 
 
 Stand. Why, your sex is the vanity of fops. 
 
 Lady Lure. O' my conscience, I believe so. 
 This gentleman, because he danced well, I pitched 
 on for a partner at a ball in Paris, and ever since 
 he has so persecuted me with letters, songs, dances, 
 serenading, flattery, foppery, and noise, that I was 
 forced to fly the kingdom.— And I warrant yon he 
 made you jealous ? 
 
 Stand. Faith, madam, I was a little uneasy. 
 
 Lady Lure. You shall have a plentiful revenge 
 
A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 619 
 
 I'll send him back all his foolish letters, songs, and 
 verses, and you yourself shall carry 'em ; 'twill 
 afford you opportunity of triumphing, and free me 
 from his farther impertinence ; for of all men he's 
 my aversion. — I'll run and fetch them instantly. 
 
 Stand. Dear madam, a rare project! — [Exit 
 Lady Lurewell.] How I shall bait him like 
 ActBBOn, with his own dogs ! — ^Well, Mrs. Parly, 'tis 
 ordered by act of Parliament, that you receive no 
 more pieces, Mrs. Parly. — 
 
 Par. 'Tis provided by the same act, that you 
 send no more messages by me, good colonel ; you 
 must not pretend to send any more letters, unless 
 yon can pay the postage. 
 
 Stand. Come, come, don't be mercenary ; take 
 example by your lady, be honourable. 
 
 Par. A lack a day, sir ! it shows as ridiculous 
 and haughty for us to imitate our betters in their 
 honour as in their finery ; leave honour to nobility 
 that can support it ; we poor folks, colonel, have 
 no pretence to't ; and truly, I think, sir, that your 
 
 honour should be cashiered with your leading- 
 staff. 
 
 Stand. 'Tis one of the greatest curses of poverty 
 to be the jest of chambermaids ! lAside. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Lurewell. 
 
 Lady Lure. Here's the packet, colonel ; the 
 whole magazine of love's artillery. [.Gives him a packet. 
 
 Stand. Which since I have gained I will turn 
 upon the enemy ; madam, I'll bring you the news 
 of my victory this evening. — Poor sir Harry, ha ! 
 ha ! ha I lExit. 
 
 Lady Lure. To the right about as you were ; 
 march, colonel ! ha 1 ha ! ha ! 
 
 Vain man, who boasts of studied parts and wiles. 
 
 Nature in us your deepest art beguiles, 
 
 Stamping deep cunning in our frowns and 
 smiles. 
 
 You toil for art, your intellects you trace ; 
 
 Woman, without a thought, bears policy in her 
 face. {_ExU, Parly /oUotoing.. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — Clincheb. Junior's Lodgings. 
 Enter Clincher Junior, opening a letter, T>icKy following. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. [Reads.] 
 
 Dear Brother, 
 
 I will see you presently ; I have, sent this lad 
 to wait on you, he can instvuct you in the fashions 
 of the town; I am your affectionate brother, 
 
 Clinchek. 
 Very well, and what's your name, sir ? 
 
 Dicky. My name is Dicky, sir. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Dicky ! 
 
 Dicky. Ay, Dicky, sir. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Very well, a pretty name ! And 
 what can you do, Mr. Dicky .' 
 
 Dicky. Why, sir, I can powder a wig, and pick 
 up a whore. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. O Lord ! O Lord ! — a whore ! 
 why are there many whores in this town ? 
 
 Dicky. Ha ! ha ! ha ! many whores ? there's a 
 <}uestion indeed ! Why, sir, there are above five 
 hundred surgeons in town. Hark'ee, sir, do you 
 see that woman there in the velvet scarf, and red 
 knots ? 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Ay, sir ; what then ? 
 
 Dicky. Why, she shall be at your service in 
 three minutes, as I'm a pimp. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. O Jupiter Ammon ! why, she's a 
 gentlewoman. 
 
 Dicky. A gentlewoman ! why, so are all the 
 whores in town, sir. 
 
 Enter Clincher Senior. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Brother, you're welcome to London. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. I thought, brother, you owed so 
 much to the memory of my father as to wear 
 mourning for his death. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Why, so I do, fool, I wear this 
 because I have the estate, and you wear that be- 
 cause you have not the estate : you have cause to 
 mourn indeed, brother. Well, brother, I'm glad 
 to see you, fare you well ! [Going. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Stay, stay brother, where are you 
 going ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. How natural 'tis for a country 
 booby to ask impertinent questions ! — Hark'ee, sir, 
 is not my father dead ? 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Ay, ay, to my sorrow. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. No matter for that, he's dead, and 
 am not I a young powdered extravagant English 
 heir? 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Very right, sir. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Why, then, sir, you may be sure 
 that I am going to the Jubilee, sir. 
 
 Clinch. Jwn. Jubilee ! what's that 1 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Jubilee ! why the Jubilee is — faith, 
 I don't know what it is. 
 
 Dicky. Why, the Jubilee is the same thing with 
 our lord-mayor's day in the city ! there will be 
 pageants, and squibs, and raree-shows, and all 
 that, sir. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. And must you go so soon, brother ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. YeS, sir, for I must stay a month 
 in Amsterdam, to study poetry. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Then, I suppose, brother, you 
 travel through Muscovy to learn fashions, don'f; 
 you, brother .' 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Brother ! — Prithee, Robin, don't 
 call me brother ; sir will do every jot as well. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. O Jupiter Ammon ! why so ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Because people will imagine that 
 you have a spite at me. — But have you seen your 
 cousin Angelica yet, and her mother the lady Dar- 
 ling 1. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. No, my dancing-master has not 
 been with me yet. How shall I salute them, 
 brother ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Psha! that's easy; 'tis only two 
 scrapes, a kiss, and your humble servant ; I'll tell 
 you more when I come from the Jubilee. Come 
 along. [Ejceunt^ 
 
520 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE ; OR, 
 
 SCENE 11,—^ Room in Lady Darling's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Sir Harry Wildair, with a letter. 
 
 ■Sir Har. Like light and heat incorporate we iay^ 
 We blessed the night and cursed the 
 coming day 
 Well, if this paper-kite flies sure, I'm secure of 
 my game — humph ! The prettiest bordel I have 
 seen; a very stately genteel one — [Footmen cross 
 the stage.2 Heyday ! equipage too ! Now for a 
 bawd by the courtesy, and a whore with a coat of 
 arms. — 'Sdeath, I'm afraid 1 have mistaken the 
 house ! 
 
 Enter Lady Darling. 
 
 No, this must be the bawd by her bulk. 
 
 Lady Dar, Your business, pray, sir ? 
 
 Sir Har. Pleasure, madam. 
 
 Lady Dar. Then, sir, you have no business 
 here. 
 
 Sir Har. This letter, madam, will inform you 
 farther ; Mr. Vizard sent it, with his humble 
 service to your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Dar. How does my cousin, sir ? 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, her cousin too : — that's right 
 procuress again. \_Aside. 
 
 Lady Dar. [Reads.] Madam — earnest inclina- 
 tion to serve — Sir Harry — madam — court my 
 cousin — gentleman — fortune — your ladyship's 
 most humble servant, — Vizard. 
 Sir, your fortune and quality are sufficient to 
 recommend you anywhere ; but what goes farther 
 with me, is the recommendation of so sober and 
 pious a young gentleman as my cousin Vizard. 
 
 Sir Har, A right sanctified bawd, o' my word ! 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Ludy Dar. Sir Harry, your conversation with 
 Mr. Vizard argues you a gentleman, free from the 
 loose and vicious carriage of the town ; I'll there- 
 fore call my daughter. \Exit. 
 
 Sir Har. Now go thy way for an illustrious 
 bawd of Babylon ! — She dresses up a sin so reli- 
 giously, that the devil would hardly know it of his 
 making. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Darling with Angelica. 
 
 Lady Dar. [^side (o Angelica.] Pray, daugh- 
 ter, use him civilly, such matches won't offer every 
 day. [Exit. 
 
 Sir Har. O all ye powers of love ! an angel ! 
 'Sdeath, what money have I got in my pocket .' I 
 can't offer her less than twenty guineas — and, by 
 Jupiter, she's worth a hundred ! [.Aside. 
 
 Angel. 'Tis he ! the very same ? and his person 
 as agreeable as his character of good-humour. — 
 Pray Heaven his silence proceed from respect. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Sir Har. How innocent she looks ! How would 
 
 that modesty adorn virtue, when it makes even 
 
 : vice look so charming ! — By Heaven there's such 
 
 j a commanding innocence in her looks that I dare 
 
 I not ask the question. \_Aside. 
 
 j Angel. Now all the charms of real love and 
 
 [ feigned indifference assist me to engage his heart, 
 
 for mine is lost already. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Har. Madam — I, I — \_Aslde.'\ Zoons ! I 
 
 cannot speak to her. — But she's >i whore, and 1 
 
 will. — [Aloud.] Madam, in short, I, I — [Aside.] 
 
 hypocrisy, hypocrisy ! what a charming sin art 
 thou ! 
 
 Angel. [Aside.'] He is caught ; now to secure 
 my conquest. — [Aloud.] I thought, sir, you had 
 business to impart ? 
 
 Sir Har. [Aside.] Business to impart ! how 
 nicely she words it ! — [Aloud.] Yes, madam ; 
 don't you, don't you love singing birds, madam.' 
 
 Angel. [Aside.] That's an odd question for a 
 lover. — [Aloud.] Yes, sir. 
 
 Sir Har. Why, then, madam, heJ-e is a nest of 
 the prettiest goldfinches that ever chirped in a 
 cage ; twenty young Ones, I assure you, madam. 
 
 Angel. Twenty young ones ! what then, sir .' 
 
 Sir Har. Why, then, madam, there are twenty 
 young ones. — 'Slife, I think twenty is pretty fair. 
 
 Angel. [Aside.] He's mad, sure ! — [Aloud.] 
 Sir Harry, when you have learned more wit and 
 manners you shall be welcome here again, [Exit. 
 
 Sir Har. Wit and manners ! Egad, now I 
 Conceive, there is a great deal of wit and manners 
 in twenty guineas. — I'm sure 'tis all the wit and 
 manners I have about me at present. What shall 
 
 1 do? 
 
 Enter Clincher Junior and Dicey. 
 
 What the devil's here ? Another cousin I warrant 
 ye ! — Hark'ee, sir, can you lend nie ten or a dozen 
 guineas instantly ? I'll pay you fifteen for them 
 in three hours, upon my honour. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. [Aside to Dicky.] These London 
 sparks are plaguy impudent ! This fellow, by his 
 wig and assurance, can be no less than a courtier. 
 
 Dicky. He's rather a courtier by his borrowing. 
 
 Clinch, jun. Faith, sir, I han't above five 
 guineas about me. 
 
 Sir Har. What business have you here then, 
 sir.'' For to my knowledge twenty won't be suffi- 
 cient. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Sufficient ! for what, sir ? 
 
 Sir Har. What, sir! why, for that, sir; what 
 the devil should it be, sir ! I know your business 
 notwithstanding all your gravity, sir. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. My business ! wijy, my cousin 
 lives here. 
 
 Sir Har. I know your cousin does live there, and 
 Vizard's cousin, and — my cousin, and everybody's 
 cousin. — Hark'ee, sir, I shall return immediately, 
 and if you offer to touch her till I come back, I 
 shall cut your throat, rascal 1 [Exit. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Why, the man's mad, sure ! 
 
 Dicky. Mad, sir! ay. Why, he's a beau ! 
 
 Clinch. Jun. A beau 1 what's that 2 Are all 
 madmen beaux ? 
 
 Dicky. No, sir ; but most beaux are madmen. — 
 But now for your cousin. Remember your three 
 scrapes, a kiss, and your humble servant. 
 
 [Exeunt, as into the house. 
 
 SCENE III A Street. 
 
 Enter Sir Harry Wildair, Colonel Standard /oZiouiin^. 
 
 Stand. Sir Harry ! Sir Hari-y I 
 
 Sir Har. I'm in haste, colonel ; besides, if 
 you're in no better humour than when 1 parted 
 with you in the Park this morning, your company 
 won't, be very agreeable. 
 
 atand. You're a happy man, sir Harry, who 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 521 
 
 are never out of humour. Can nothing move yoUr 
 gall, sir Harry ? 
 
 .Sir Har. Nothing but impossibilities, which are 
 the same as notliing. 
 
 Stand. What impossibilities ? 
 
 Sir Har. The resurrection of my father to dis- 
 inherit me, or an act of parliament against wench- 
 ing. A man of eight thousand pounds per acnum 
 to be vexed !— No, no ; anger and spleen are com- 
 panions for younger brothers. 
 
 Stand. Suppose one called you son of a whore 
 behind your back ? 
 
 Sir Har. Why, then would I call him rascal 
 behind his back, and so we're evEn. 
 
 Stand. But suppose you had lost a mistress ? 
 
 Sir Hdr. Why, then would I get another. 
 
 Stand. But suppose you were discarded by the 
 * woman you love, that would surely trouble you .'' 
 
 Sir Har. You're mistaken, colonel ; my love is 
 neither romantically honourable, nor meanly mer- 
 cenary — 'tis only a pitch of gratitude : while she 
 loves me, I love her ; when she desists, the obli- 
 gation's void. 
 
 Stand. But to be tnistaken in yoiir opinion, sir J 
 if the lady Lurewell (only suppose it) had dis- 
 carded you ; I say, only suppose it — and had sent 
 your discharge by &e ! 
 
 Sir Har. Psha ! that's another impossibility. 
 
 Stand. Are you sure of that ? 
 
 Sir Har. Why, 'twere a solecism in nature I 
 — we're finger and thumb, sir. She dances with 
 me, sings with me, plays with me, swears with mfe, 
 lies with me ! 
 
 Stand. How, sir ? 
 
 Sir Har. I mean in an hoii'ourable way ; that 
 is, she lies for me. — In short, we are as like one 
 another as a couple of guineas ! 
 
 Stand. Now that I have raised you to the highest 
 pinnacle of vanity, will I give you so mortifying a 
 fall as shall da^li your hopes to pieces I — 1 pray 
 your honour to peruse these papers. 
 
 [_Gives him the packet. 
 
 Sir Har. What, is't the muster-roll of your 
 regiment, colonel ? 
 
 Stand. No, no, 'tis a list of your forces in your 
 last love campaign ; and, for your comfort, all dis- 
 banded ! 
 
 Sir Har. Prithee, good metaphorical colonel, 
 what d'ye mean ? 
 
 Stand. Read, sir, read ! these are the sibyl's 
 leaves that will unfold your destiny. 
 
 Sir Har. So it be not a false deed to cheat me 
 of my estate, what care I ! — \_Opening the pacfcet.} 
 Humph! my hand! — To the Iddi/ Lurewell.' — 
 To the lady Lurewell 1 — To the lady Lurewell I — 
 What devil hast thou been tampering with to 
 conjure up these spirits? 
 
 Stand. A certain familiar of your acquaintance, 
 sir. 
 
 Sir Har. [Reading.] Madam., my passlnn — so 
 natural — your beauty coniendirtt/ — forctj of charms 
 — mankind — eternal admirer, Wildaiii ! — 1 never 
 was ashamed of my name before ! 
 
 Stand, Wliat, sir Hawy Wildair out of humour ! 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! — Poor sir Harry ! more glory in her 
 smile than ic the Jubilee at Rome ! ha ! ha 1 ha ! 
 — But then her foot, sir Harry ! she dances to a 
 miracle ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — Py, sir Harry ! a man of 
 your parts write letters not worth a keeping ! 
 — What sayest thou, my dear knight-errant.' 
 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! — You may go Seek adventures now 
 indeed I 
 
 Sir Har. 'No, nol— [Sings.} Let her wander, &c. 
 
 Stand. Yoi> are jilted to some tune^ sir ! blown 
 up with false music, that's all ! 
 
 Sir Har. Now, vvhy should I be angry that a 
 woman is a woman ? Since inconstancy and false- 
 hood are ground^tl in their natures, ho* batl they 
 help it .' 
 
 Stand. Then fhey must be grounded in your 
 nature ; for you and she are finger and thumb, 
 sir ! 
 
 Sir Har. Here's a copy of verses too; I must 
 turn poet in the devil's name ! — [Aside.'] Stay ! — 
 'sdeatb, what's here ? This is her hand. — Oh, the 
 charming characters ! — [Reading.] My dear Wild- 
 air, — That's I ;—ihis huff' bluff colonel — that's he, 
 —ri'i the rarest fool in nature, — the devil he is ! — 
 and as such have J used him ; — with all my heart, 
 faith ! — / had no better way of letting you know 
 that I lodge in Pall-Mall, 'near the Holy Lamb. 
 • — [Aloud. j Colonel, I'm your most humble ser- 
 vant. 
 
 Stand. Hold, sir! you shan't go yet; I han't 
 delivered half my message. 
 
 Sir Har. Upon iMy faith, but you have, colonel I 
 ,. Stand.' Well, well, o^n your spleen ; out with 
 it : I know you're like to burst. 
 
 $ir Har. I am so, by Gad, ha I ha ! ,ha ! 
 
 Stand. Ay, with all my heart, ha! ha! ha I — 
 [Laugh and point at one another."] Well, well, 
 that's all forced, sir Harry. 
 
 Sir Har. I was liever better pleased in all my 
 life, by Jupiter ! 
 
 Stand. Well, sir Harry, 'tiS prudence to hide 
 your concern when tliere's no help for't. — But to 
 be serious now, the lady has sent you back all 
 your papers tbere. ' I was so jlist as not to look 
 upon 'em. 
 
 Sir Har. I'm glad on't, sir ; for there were 
 some things that I would not have you see. 
 
 Stand. Ah this she has done for my sake, and 
 I desire you would decline aqy farther pretensions 
 for your own sake. So, honest, good-natured sir 
 Harry, I'm your humble servant. [_Exit. 
 
 Sir Har. Ha ! ha ' ha ! poor colonel !— ^Oh, 
 the dehght of an ingenious mistress ! what a life 
 and briskness it adds to an amour Hike the loves 
 of mighty Jovei still suing in different shapes. A 
 legerdemain mistress, who. Presto! pkss ! and 
 she's vanished, then Hey / in an instant in your 
 arms again. IGoiiig 
 
 Enter V'izard. 
 
 Viz. Well met, sir Harry ; what hews from the 
 island of Ldve ? 
 
 Sir Har. Faith, we made but a broken voyage 
 by your card ; but now I am bound for another 
 port : I told you the colonel was my rival. 
 
 Vix. The colonel ! cursed misfortune ! another I 
 
 {_Aiside. 
 
 Sir Har. But the . civillest in the world ; he 
 brought me word where my mistress lodges. The 
 story's too long to tell you now, for I must fly. 
 
 Viz. What ! have you given over all thoughts 
 of Angelica .'' 
 
 Sir Har. No, no, I'll think of her some olher 
 time. But now for the lady Lurewell ; wit and 
 beauty calls. 
 
 That mistress ne'er can pall her lover's joys, 
 
 Who's wit can whet whene'er her beau'.y cloys. 
 
£22 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE; OR, 
 
 Her little amorous frauds all truth excel, 
 And make us happy, being deceived so well. 
 
 iExtl. 
 Viz. The colonelj my rival too 1 how shall I 
 manage ? There is but one way : him and the 
 knight will I set a tilting, where one cuts t'other's 
 throat, and the survivor's hanged. So there will 
 be two rivals pretty decently disposed of. Since 
 honour may oblige them to play the fool, why 
 should not necessity engage me to play the knave ? 
 
 lExU. 
 
 SCENE IV. — A Room in Lady Lurewell's 
 House. 
 
 Lady Lurbwbll and Parly. 
 
 Lady Lure. Has my servant ^brought me the 
 money from my merchant ? 
 
 Par. No, madam, he met alderman Smuggler 
 at Charing-cross, who has promised to wait on you 
 himself immediately. 
 
 Ladi/ Lure. 'Tis odd that this old rogue should 
 pretend to love me, and at the same time cheat me 
 of my money. 
 
 Par. 'Tis well, madam, if he don't cheat you of 
 your estate ; for you say the writings are in his 
 hands. 
 
 Larit/ Lure. But what satisfaction can I get of 
 him ? — 
 
 Enter Alderman Smuggler. 
 
 Mr. Alderman, your servant ; have you brought 
 me any money, sir ? 
 
 Smug. Faith, madam, trading is very dead; 
 what with paying the taxes, raising the customs, 
 losses at sea abroad, and maintaining our wives at 
 home, the bank is reduced very low. 
 
 Ladi/ Lure. Come, come, sir, these evasions 
 won't serve your turn ; I must have money, sir ; — 
 I hope you don't design to cheat me. 
 
 Smug. Cheat you, madam ! have a care what 
 you say : I'm an alderman, madam. Cheat you, 
 madam ! I have been an honest citizen these five- 
 and-thirty years ! 
 
 Lady Lure. An honest citizen ! bear witness, 
 Parly ! I shall trap him in more lies presently. — 
 Come, sir, though I am a womanlcan take a course. 
 
 Smug. What course, madam ? You'll go to 
 law, will ye ? I can maintain a suit of law, be it 
 right or wrong, these forty years, I'm sure of that, 
 thanks to the honest practice of the courts. 
 
 Lady Lure. Sir, I'll blast your reputation, and 
 60 ruin your credit. 
 
 Smug. Blast my reputation I he ! he 1 he ! — 
 Why, I'm a religious man, madam ! I have been 
 very instrumental in the reformation of manners. 
 Kuin my credit ! ah, poor woman. There is but 
 one way, madam. You have a sweet leering eye ! 
 
 Lady Lure. You instrumental in the reforma- 
 tion ! how ? 
 
 Smug. I whipped all the whores, cut and long 
 tail, out of the parish.— Ah I that leering eye ! - 
 Then I voted for pulling down the playhouse. — 
 Ah, that ogle ! that ogle '.—Then ray own pious 
 example.— Ah, that lip ! that lip ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Here's n religious rogue for you 
 now ! As I hope to be saved, I have a good mind 
 to beat the old monster. i-Anidt to PAiiLy. 
 
 Smug. Madam, I have brought you about a 
 
 hundred and fifty guineas, (a great deal of money 
 as times go,) and — 
 
 Lady Lure. Come, give it me. 
 
 Smug. Ah that hand ! that hand ! that pretty, 
 soft, white — I have brought it, you see ; but the 
 condition of the obligation is such, that whereas 
 that leering eye, that pouting lip, that pretty soft 
 hand, that — you understand me ; you understand, 
 I'm sure you do, you little rogue — 
 
 Lady Lure. [Aside to Parly.] Here's a -villain 
 now, so covetous, that he won't wench upon his 
 own cost, but would bribe me with my own money ! 
 I will be revenged.— [^/oMrf.] Upon my word, Mr. 
 Alderman, you make me blush ; what d'ye mean, 
 pray ? 
 
 Smug. See here, madam. — \Puts a piece of 
 money in his mouth.'] Buss and guinea, buss and 
 guinea, buss and guinea ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Well, Mr. Alderman, you have 
 such pretty yellow teeth, and green gums, that I 
 will, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Smug. Will you indeed ? he ! he ! he ! my little 
 cocket ; and when ? and where .' and how ? 
 
 Lady Lure. 'Twill be a difficult point, sir, to 
 secure both our honours ; you must therefore be 
 disguised, Mr. Alderman. 
 
 Smug. Psha ! no matter, I am an old fornicator, 
 I'm not half so religious as I seem to be. You 
 little rogue ; why, I'm disguised as I am ; our 
 sanctity is all outside, all hypocrisy. 
 
 Lady Lure, No man is seen to come into this 
 house after nightfall ; you must therefore sneak in 
 when 'tis dark, in woman's clothes. 
 
 Smug. Egad so ! cod so ! — I have a suit a pur- 
 pose, my little cocket; I love to be disguised; 
 ecod, I make a very handsome woman, ecod I do ! 
 
 Enter Footman, whispers Lady Lubewell. 
 
 Lady Lure. Oh ! Mr. Alderman, shall I beg you 
 to walk into the next room ? here are some strangers 
 coming up. 
 
 Smug. Buss and guinea first ; ah, my little 
 cocket ! [■Bartf with Footman. 
 
 Enter Sm nARRYWiLDAiB, Footman attending. 
 
 Sir Har. My life, my soul, my all that heaven 
 can give ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Death's life with thee, without thee 
 death to live. 
 Welcome, my dear sir Harry, I see you got my 
 directions. 
 
 Sir Har. Directions! in the most charming 
 manner, thou dear Machiavel of intrigue ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Still brisk and airy, I find, sir 
 Harry. 
 
 Sir Har. The sight of you, madam, exalts my 
 air, and makes joy lighten in my face. 
 
 Lady Lure. I have a thousand questions to ask 
 you, sir Harry ; how d'ye like France ? 
 • Sir Har. Ah ! est le plus beau pays du monde. 
 
 Lady Lure. Then what made you leave it so 
 soon .' 
 
 Sir Har. Madame, vous voyez que je vous sms 
 partout. 
 
 Lady Lure. O monsieur, je vous suis fort obhgie, 
 
 —But Where's the court now ? 
 
 Sir Har. At Marli, madam. 
 
 Lady Lure. And where my count Le Valier ? 
 
 Sir Har. His body's in the church of Notre 
 Dame ; I don't know where his soul is. 
 
A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 523 
 
 Lady Lure. What disease did lie die of ? 
 
 Sir Jffar. A duel, madam ; I was his doctor. 
 
 Lady Lure. How d'ye mean ? 
 
 Sir Har. As most doctors do, I killed him. 
 
 Lady Lure. En chevalier, my dear knight- 
 errant ? well, and how ? And how, what intrigues, 
 ■what gallantries are carrying on in the beau-monde ? 
 
 Sir Har. I should ask you that question, madam, 
 since your ladyship makes the beau-monde wher- 
 ever you come. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ah, sir Harry ! I've been almost 
 ruined, pestered to death here, by the incessant 
 attacks of a mighty colonel ; he has besieged me as 
 close as our army did Namur. 
 
 Sir Har. I hope your ladyship did not surrender 
 though ? 
 
 Lady Lure. No, no, but was forced to capitulate ; 
 but since you are come to raise the siege, we'll 
 dance, and sing, and laugh. 
 
 Sir Har. And love and kiss. — Monirex-moi 
 voire chambre. 
 
 Lady Lure. Aiiende, attende, un peu. — I re- 
 member, sir Harry, you promised me in Paris never 
 to ask that impertinent question again. 
 
 Sir Har. Psha, madam ! that was above two 
 months ago ; besides, madam, treaties made in 
 JFrance are never kept. 
 
 Lady Lure. Would you marry me, sir Harry ? 
 
 Sir Har. Oh ! — Le mariage est un grand mat 
 — ^but I will marry you. 
 
 Lady Lure. Your word, sir, is not to be relied 
 on : if a gentleman will forfeit his honour in deal- 
 ings of business, we may reasonably suspect his 
 fidelity in an amour. 
 
 Sir Har. My honour in dealings of business ! 
 why, madam , I never had any business in all my life. 
 
 Lady Lure. Yes, sir Harry, I have heard a very 
 odd story, and am sorry that a gentleman of your 
 figure should undergo the scandal. 
 
 Sir Har. Out with it, madam. 
 
 Lady Lure. Why, the merchant, sir, that trans- 
 mitted your bills of exchange to you in France, com- 
 plains of some indirect and dishonourable dealings. 
 
 Sir Har. Who, old Smuggler ! 
 
 X,ady Lure. Ay, ay, you know him, I find. 
 
 Sir Har, I have no less than reason, I think ; 
 why the rogue has cheated me of above five hun- 
 dred pound within these three years. 
 
 Lady Lure. 'Tis your business then to acquit your- 
 self publicly ; for he spreads the scandal everywhere. 
 
 Sir Har. Acquit myself publicly ! — [ To Foot- 
 man.] Here, sirrah, my coach ; I'll drive instantly 
 into the city, and cane the old villain round the 
 Royal Exchange ; he shall run the gauntlet through 
 a thousand brush-beavers and formal cravats. 
 
 Lady Lure. Why, he is in the house now, sir. 
 
 Sir Har. What, in this house .' 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay, in the next room. 
 
 Sir Har. Then, sirrah, lend me your cudgel. 
 
 Lady Lure. Sir Harry, you won't raise a dis- 
 turbance in my house ? 
 
 Sir Har. Disturbance, madam ! no, no, I'll 
 beat him with the temper of a philosopher. — Here, 
 Mrs. Parly, show me the gentleman. 
 
 \^Exit with Parly and Footman. 
 
 Lady Ijure. Now shall I get the old monster 
 well beaten, and Sir Harry pestered next term with 
 bloodsheds, batteries, costs and damages, solicitors 
 and attorneys ; and if they don't tease him out of 
 his good humour, I'll never plot again. {Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. — Another Room in the same. 
 Alderman Smuggler discovered alone. 
 Smug. Oh, this damned tidewaiter ! A ship 
 and cargo worth five thousand pound ! why, 'tis 
 richly worth five hundred perjuries. 
 
 Enter Sir Harry AViLPAm. 
 
 Sir Har. Dear Mr. Alderman, I'm your most 
 devoted and humble servant. 
 
 Smug. My best friend, sir Harry, you're wel- 
 come to England. 
 
 Sir Har. I'll assure you, sir, there's not a man 
 in the king's dominions I'm gladder to meet. 
 
 Smug. O Lord, sir, you travellers have the most 
 obliging ways with you ! 
 
 Sir Har. There is a business, Mr. Alderman, 
 fallen out, which you may oblige me infinitely by 
 — I am very sorry that I am forced to be trouble- 
 some ; but necessity, Mr. Alderman. 
 
 Smug. Ay, sir, as you say, necessity — but upon 
 my word, sir, I am very short of money, at present, 
 but— 
 
 Sir Har. That's not the matter, sir, I'm above 
 an obligation that way ; but the business is, I am 
 reduced to an indispensable necessity of being ob- 
 liged to you for a beating. Here, take this cudgel. 
 
 Smug. A beating,, sir Harry ! ha! ha! ha! I 
 beat a knight baronet ! an alderman turned cudgel- 
 player ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sir Har. Upon my word, sir, you must beat 
 me, or I cudgel you ; take your choice. 
 
 Smvg: Psha, psha, you jest! 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, 'tis as sure as fate : so, alderman, 
 I hope you'll pardon my curiosity. IStrikes him. 
 
 Smug. Curiosity I deuse take your curiosity, 
 sir ! what dy'e mean } 
 
 Sir Har. Nothing at all : I'm but in jest, sir. 
 
 Smug. Oh, I can take anything in jest ; but a 
 man might imagine by the smartness of the stroke 
 that you were in downright earnest. 
 
 Sir Har. Not in the least, sir; — [ Strikes hlmj 
 not in the least, indeed, sir ! 
 
 Smug. Pray, good sir, no more of your jests : 
 for they are the bluntest jests that I ever knew. 
 
 Sir Har. [Slrikes.^ I heartily beg your par- 
 don, with all my heart, sir. 
 
 Smug. Pardon, sir ! well, sir, that is satisfaction 
 enough from a gentleman ; but seriously now, if 
 you pass any more of your jests upon me, I shall 
 grow angry. 
 
 Sir Har. I humbly beg your permission to break 
 one or two more. IStriking him. 
 
 Smug. O Lord, sir, you'll break my bones ! 
 
 Are you mad, sir ? Murder ! felony ! manslaughter ! 
 
 ' [Sir Harry knocks him down. 
 
 Sir Har. Sir, I beg you ten thousand pardons ! 
 but I am absolutely compelled to't, upon my 
 honour, sir, nothing can be more averse to my in- 
 clinations, than to jest with my honest, dear, loving, 
 obliging friend, the alderman. 
 IStriking him alt this whitCt Smuggler tumbtcs over and 
 over, and shakes out his pocket-book on the Jloor. 
 
 Enter Lady Lurewell. 
 
 Lady Lure. [Aside.] The old rogue's pocket- 
 book; thismayheof\ise.-w-[Takesitiip.] O Lord, 
 sir Harry's murdering the poor old man ! 
 
 Smug. O dear, madam, I was beaten in jest, 
 till I am murdered in good earnest. 
 
.')24 
 
 THE CONSTANT C;OUPLE; OR, 
 
 Lady Lure. Well, well, I'll bring you off. — [Tc 
 Sir Harry] Seigneur, frappez, friippez I 
 
 Smug. Oh, for charity's sake, madam, rescue a 
 poor citizen ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Oh, you barbarous man ! hold, 
 hold ! — Frappei plni 7 udemeht, frappez ! — I won- 
 der you are not ashamed ! — [Hvlding Sir HaKry.] 
 A poor reverend , honest eldet \—[_H<'lps Smug- 
 gler up.'] It makes me weep to see him in this 
 condition, poor man ! — Now the devil take you, 
 sir Harry- — for not beating him harder! — [To 
 Smuggler.] Well, my dear, you shall come at 
 night, and I'll make you amends ! 
 
 iHere Sir Habhy takes snush. 
 
 Smug. lyiadam, I will have amends before I 
 leave the place. — Sir, how durst you use me thus .' 
 
 Sir Har. Sir ! 
 
 Smug. Sir,, I say that I will have satisfaction ! 
 
 Sir Har. With all my heart ! 
 
 IThrows snush into his eyes. 
 
 Smug. Oh, murder! blindness! firel^ — Oh, 
 madam ! madam ! get me some water ! water ! 
 fire ! fire ! water ! lExit with Lady Lurkweli. 
 
 Sir Har. How pleasant is resenting an injury 
 without passion ! 'tis the beauty of revenge ! 
 Let statesmen plot, and under business groan. 
 And settling public quiet lose their own ; 
 Let soldiers drudge and fight for pay or fame, 
 lor when they're shot, i iliink 'tis much the 
 
 same. 
 Let Sijholarf, vex theii: brains with mood and 
 
 tense. 
 And mad with strength of reason, fools commence, 
 Losing their wits in searching after sense ; 
 Their summum boniiiji they must toil to gairi^ 
 And seeking pleasure, spend their life in pain. 
 I make the most of life, no hour misspend. 
 Pleasure's the means, and pleasure is my end. 
 No spleen, no trouble, shall my time destroy ; 
 Life's but a span, I'll eietj inch enjoy; llixit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Street. 
 Enter Colonel SxAiiiiARD and Vjzard. 
 
 Stajid. I bring him word where she lodged ! I, 
 the civilest rival in the world ! — 'tis impossible ! 
 
 Viz. I shall urge it no farther, sir. I only 
 thought, sir, that my character in the world might 
 add authority to my words, witho'ut so many repe- 
 titions. 
 
 Stand, f ardon ine, dear Vizard ; our belief 
 struggles hard, before it can be brought to yield to 
 the disadvantage of what we love : 'tis so great an 
 abuse to o'ur judgment, that it makes the faults of 
 our choice our own failing: — Bui what said^ sir 
 Harry.** 
 
 Viz. He pitied the poor credulous colonel ; 
 labghed heartily ; flew away with all the raptures 
 of a bridegroom, repeating these lines : — 
 
 A mistress ne^er can pall her lover^s joi/Sf 
 
 Whose wit can whet whenever her beauty cloys* ^ 
 
 Stand. A mistress ne'er can pall ! — by all my 
 wrongs, he whores her ! and I'm made their pro- 
 perty. Vengeance !— Vizard, you must carry a. 
 note for me to sir Harry. 
 
 Viz. What 1 a challenge ! I hope you don't 
 design to fight ? 
 
 Stand. What ! wear the livery of my king, and 
 pocket an afi"ront ! — 'Twere an abuse to his sacred 
 majesty ! a soldier's sword. Vizard, should st4rt of 
 itself to redress its master's wrong ! 
 
 Viz, However, sir, I think it not proper for me 
 to carry any such message between friends. 
 
 Stand. I have ne'er a servant here, what shall 
 I do? 
 
 Viz. There's Tim Errand, the porter, that plies 
 at the Blue Posts, and who knows sir Harry and 
 his haunts very well j you may send a note by 
 him. 
 
 Stand. Here ! you, friend. [Calls. 
 
 Viz. I have now some business, and roust take 
 my leave ; I would advise you, nevertheless, against 
 this affair. 
 
 Stand. No whispering now, nor telling of friends 
 
 to prevent us. He that disappoints a man of an 
 honourable revenge, may love him foolishly like a 
 wife, but never value him as a friend. 
 
 Viz. Nayi the devil take him that parts you, 
 say I ! iP-xil. 
 
 Enter Tisi Errand, running. 
 
 Tim. Did your honour call a porter .'' 
 
 Stand. Is your name Tim Errand ? 
 
 Tim. People call me so, an't like your worship. 
 
 Stand. D'ye know sir Harry Wildair.' 
 
 Tim. Ay, very well, sir ; he's one of my mas- 
 ters J many a round half-crown have I had of his 
 worship ! he's newly come home from France, 
 sir. 
 
 Stand. Go to the next coffee-house, and wait 
 forme. — [£«iTiMERn.AND.] O woman! woman! 
 How blest is man when favour'd by your smiles ! 
 And how accursed when all those smiles are found- 
 But wanton baits to soothe us to destruction ! 
 
 Thus our chief joys with base allays are curst. 
 
 And our best things, when once corrupted, worst. 
 
 iExil. 
 
 SCENE II.— The same. 
 
 Entir Sir Harry "Wildair, and Clinchbr Senior 
 following. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Sir, sir, sir ! having some business 
 of importance to communicate to you, I would 
 beg your attention to a trifling affair that I would 
 impart to you. 
 
 Sir Har. What is your trifling business of im- 
 portance, pray sweet sir ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Pray, sir, are the roads deep 
 between this and Paris .' 
 
 Sir Har. Why that question, sir .' 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Because I design to go to the Jubi- 
 lee, sir. I understand that you are a traveller, sir; 
 tliere is an air of travel in the tie of your cravat, 
 sir, there is indeed, sir. — I suppose, sir, you 
 bought this lace in Flanders ? 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 s?."; 
 
 air Har. No, sir ; this lace was made in Nor 
 way. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Norway, sir ! 
 
 Sir Har. Yes, sir, of the shavings of deal- 
 boards. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. That's very strange now, faith ! — 
 Lace made of the shavings of deal-boards ! Egad, 
 sir, you travellers see very strange things abroad 1 
 — very incredible things abroad indeed ! Well, I'll 
 have a cravat of that very same lace before I come 
 ^ome. 
 
 Sir Har. But, sir, what preparatioivs have you 
 made for your journey ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. A case of pocket-pistols for the 
 bravoes, and a swimming-girdle. 
 
 Sir Har. Why these, sir ! 
 
 Clinch. Sen. O Lord 1 sir, I'll tell you. Sup- 
 pose us in Rome now ; away goes me, I, to some 
 ball — for ril be a mighty beau ! Then, as I said, 
 I go to some ball, or some bear-baiting — 'tis all one, 
 you know ; then comes a fine Italian bona roba, 
 and plucks me by the sleeve, Signer Angle ! Sig- 
 ner Angle ! — she's a very fine lady, observe that ! 
 — Signor Angle! says she ; Slgnora ! says I, and 
 trips after her to the corner of a street — suppose it 
 Russel-street here, or any other street ; then, you 
 know, I must invite her to the tavern — I can do no 
 less. There, up comes her bravo ; the Italian 
 grows saucy, and I give him an English douse of 
 the face. — I can box, sir, box tightly ; I was a 
 prentice, sir. — But then, sir, he whips out his sti- 
 letto, and I whips out my bull-dog — slaps him 
 through, trips down stairs, turns the corner of 
 Russel-street again, and whips me into the ambas- 
 sador's train, and there I'm safe as a beau behind 
 the scenes ! 
 
 Sir Har. Was your pistol charged, sir ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Only a brace of bullets, that's 
 all, sir. — I design to shoot seven Italians a-week, 
 sir. 
 
 Sir Har. Sir, yon won't have provocation. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Provocation, sir ! — Zauns, sir ! I'll 
 kill any man for treading upon my corn I — and 
 there will be a devilish throng of people there. — 
 They say that all the princes of Italy will be 
 there. 
 
 Sir Har. And all the fops and fiddlers in Eu- 
 rope. — But the use of your swimming-girdle, pray, 
 sir? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. O Lord, sir ! that's easy. Sup- 
 pose the ship cast away ; — now, whilst other foolish 
 people are busy at their prayers, I whips on my 
 swimming-girdle, claps a month's provision into 
 my pockets, and sails me away like an egg in a 
 duck's belly. — And hearkee, sir; I have a new 
 project in my head. Where d'ye think my swim- 
 ming-girdle shall carry me upon this occasion ? — 
 'tis a new project. 
 
 Sir Har, Where, sir ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. To Civita Vecchia, faith and troth ! 
 and so save the charges of my passage. Well, sir, 
 you must pardon me now, I'm going to see my 
 mistress. iExit. 
 
 Sir Har. This fellow's an accomplished ass 
 before he goes abroad. — Well ! this Angelica has 
 got into my heart, and I can't get her out of my 
 head. I must pay her t'other visit. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. — A Hoom in Lady Darmng's 
 House. 
 
 Angbltca discovered alone 
 Angel. Unhappy state of woman ! whose chief 
 virtue is but ceremony, and our much boasted 
 modesty but a slavish restraint. The strict con- 
 finement on our words makes our thoughts ramble 
 more ; and what preserves our outward fame, 
 destroys our inward quiet. — 'Tis hard that love 
 should be denied the privilege of hatred ; that 
 scandal and detractioii sliould be so much indulged, 
 yet sacred love and truth debarred our conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 Enter Ladj' Darling, Clincher Jun?or, and Dicky. 
 
 Lady Har. This is my daughter, cousin. 
 
 Dicky. Now, sir, remember your three sc;-apes, 
 
 lAside to him. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. [Saluting Angelica.] One, two, 
 three — [Kisses her^ your humble servant. — Was 
 not that right, Dicky ? 
 
 Dicky. Ay, faith, sir ; but why don't you speak 
 to her .' 
 
 Clinch. Jun. I beg your pardon Dicky, I know 
 my distance. Would you have me speak to a lady 
 at the first sight ? 
 
 Dicky. Ay, sir, by all means ; the first aim is the 
 surest. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Now for a good jest to make her 
 laugh heartily. — By Jupiter Ammon, I'll go give 
 her a kiss. [Goes towards her. 
 
 Enter Sir Harry Wildair, interposing. 
 
 Sir Har. 'Tis all to no purpose, I told you so 
 before ; your pitiful five guineas will never do. — 
 You may march, sir, for as far as five hundred 
 pounds will go, I'll outbid you. 
 
 Clinch, Jun. What the devil ! the madman's 
 here again. 
 
 Lady Dar. Bless me, cousin ! what d'ye mean ? 
 Affront a gentleman of his quality in my house ! 
 
 Clinch. Jun, Quality ! why, madam, 1 don't 
 know what you mean by your madmen, and your 
 beaux, and your quality. — They're all alike I 
 believe. 
 
 Lady Dar. Pray, sir, walk with me into the 
 next room. 
 
 \_ExiU leading Clincher Junior, BiCKY/oltowing. 
 
 Angel. Sir, if your conversation be no more 
 agreeable than 'twas the last time, 1 would advise 
 you to make it as short as you can. 
 
 Sir Har. The offences of my last visit, madam, 
 bore their punishment in the commission ; and 
 have made me as uneasy till I receive pardon as 
 your ladyship can be till I sue for it. 
 
 Angel. Sir Harry, I did not well understand the 
 offence, and must therefore proportion it to the 
 greatness of your apology ; if you would therefore 
 have me think it light, take no great pains in an 
 excuse. 
 
 Sir Har. How sweet must be the lips that guard 
 that tongue ! — Then, madam, no more of past 
 offences, let us prepare for joys to come ; let this 
 seal my pardon. — [Kisses her hand ] And this 
 — [Kisses again."] initiate me to farther happiness. 
 
 Angel. Hold, sir, — one question, sir Harry, and 
 pray answer plainly ; d'ye love me ? 
 
 Sir Har. Love you ! does fire ascend? do hypo- 
 
520 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE ; OR. 
 
 ACT in 
 
 crites dissemble ? usurers love gold, or great men 
 flattery ? — Doubt these, then question that I love. 
 
 Am/el. This shows your gallantry, sir, but not 
 your love. 
 
 Sir Har. View your own charms, madam, then 
 judge my passion ; your beauty ravishes my eye, 
 your voice my ear, and your touch has thrilled my 
 melting soul. 
 
 Angel. If your words be real, 'tis in your power 
 to raise an equal flame in me. 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, then — I seize — 
 
 Angel. Hold, sir 1 'tis also possible to make me 
 detest and scorn you worse than the most profligate 
 of your deceiving sex. 
 
 Sir Har. Ha 1 a very odd turn this. — I hope, 
 madam, you only affect anger, because you know 
 your frowns are becoming. 
 
 Angel. Sir Harry, you being the best judge of 
 your own designs, can best understand whether my 
 anger should be real or dissembled, think what 
 strict modesty should bear, then judge of my 
 resentments. 
 
 Sir Har. Strict modesty should bear ! why faith, 
 madam, I believe the strictest modesty may bear 
 fifty guineas, and I don't believe 'twill bear one 
 farthing more. 
 
 Angel. What d'ye mean, sir ? 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, madam, what do you mean ? If 
 you go to that, I think now fifty guineas is a very 
 fine offer for your strict modesty, as you call it. 
 
 Angel. 'Tis more charitable, sir Harry, to charge 
 the impertinence of a man of your figure, on his 
 defect in understanding, than on his want of man- 
 ners. — I'm afraid you're mad, sir. 
 
 Sir Har. Why, madam, you're enough to make 
 any man mad. 'Sdeath, are you not a — 
 
 Angel. What, sir ? 
 
 Sir Har. Why, a lady of- strict modesty, if you 
 will have it so. 
 
 Angel. I shall never hereafter trust common 
 report, which represented you, sir, a man of honour, 
 wit, and breeding ; for I find you very deficient in 
 them all. iExit. 
 
 Sir Har. Now I find that the strictest pre- 
 tences which the ladies of pleasure make to strict 
 modesty, is the reason why those of quality are 
 ashamed to wear it. 
 
 Enter Vizard. 
 
 Viz. Ah, sir Harry ! have I caught you ? Well, 
 and what success ? 
 
 Sir Har. Success '. Tis a shame for you young 
 fellows in town here, to let the wenches grow so 
 saucy : I offered her fifty guineas, and she was in 
 her airs presently. I could have had two countesses 
 in Paris for half the money, and je vous remercie 
 into the bargain. 
 
 Viz. Gone in her airs, say you .' and did not you 
 follow her ? 
 
 Sir Har. Whither should I folTow her ? 
 
 Viz. Into her bedchamber, man ; she went on 
 purpose. You a man of gallantry, and not under- 
 stand that a lady's best pleased when she puts on 
 her airs, as you call it ! 
 
 Sir Har. She talked to me of strict modesty, 
 and stuff. 
 
 Viz. Certainly most women magnify their mo- 
 desty, for the same reason that cowards boast their 
 courage, because they have least on't. Come, 
 come, sir Harry, when you make your next assault, 
 
 encourage your spirits with brisk burgundy ; if you 
 succeed, 'tis well ; if no,t you have a fair excuse 
 for your rudeness. I '11 go in, and make your peace 
 for what's past.— Oh, I had almost forgot— 
 Colonel Standard wants to speak with you about 
 some business. 
 
 Sir Har. I'll wait upon him presently, d'ye 
 know where he may be found ? 
 
 Viz. In the Piazza of Covent-Garden, about an 
 hour hence I promised to see him, and there you 
 may meet him — [Aside'] To have your throat cut. 
 — [Aloud.] I'll go in and intercede for you. 
 
 Sir Har. But no foul play with the lady, 
 Vizard ! 
 
 Viz, [Aside.] No fair play, I can assure you. 
 
 lExeunt severaUt/, 
 
 SCENE TV.— The Street before Lady Lnn.E- 
 well's House. 
 
 Lady Lurewbll and Clincher Senior are discovered 
 coquetting in the balcony. Enter below Colonel 
 Standard. 
 
 Stand. How weak is reason in disputes of love ! 
 That daring reason which so oft pretends 
 To question works of high omnipotence. 
 Yet poorly truckles to our weakest passions, 
 And yields implicit faith to foolish love, 
 Paying blind zeal to faithless woman's eyes. 
 I've heard her falsehood with such pressing proofs. 
 That I no longer should distrust it. 
 Yet still my love would baffle demonstration, 
 And make impossibilities seem probable. {.Looks np. 
 Ha ! that fool too ! what, stoop so low as that 
 animal! — 'Tis true, women once fallen, like cowards 
 in despair, will stick at nothing, there's no medium 
 in their actions. They must be bright as angels, 
 or black as fiends. But now for my revenge, I'll 
 kick her cully before her face, call her a whore, 
 curse the whole sex, and so leave her. 
 
 {Exit into the house. 
 
 SCENE V. — A Room in the same. 
 Enter Lady Lurkw^ll with Clincher Senior. 
 
 Lady Lure. O Lord, sir, 'tis my husband I what 
 will become of you .' 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Eh ! your husband! oh, I shall bo 
 murdered ! what shall I do ! where shall I run ? 
 I'll creep into an oven ; I'll climb up the chimney ; 
 I'll fly ! I'll swim ! — I wish to the Lord I were at 
 the Jubilee now '. 
 
 Ladi/ Lure. Can't you think of anything, sir ? 
 
 Enter Tim Errand. 
 
 What do you want, sir ? 
 
 Tim. Madam, I am looking for sir Harry Wil- 
 dair ; I saw him come in here this morning ; and 
 did imagine he might be here still. 
 
 Lady Lure. A lucky hit ! — Here, friend, change 
 clothes with this gentleman, quickly ; strip 1 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Ay, ay, quickly, strip ! I'll give 
 you half-a-crown. Come, here : sn. 
 
 I'll. nj change clothes. 
 
 Eady Lure. [To Clincher.] Now slip you 
 down stairs, and wait at the door till my husband 
 he go-ne.— [Exit Clincher.] And get you in there 
 till I call you. iPuts Tim Errand into the next room. 
 
A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 EnUr Colonel Staxdaiid. 
 
 Oh, sir ! are you come ? I wonder, sir, how yon 
 have the confidence to approach me after so base a 
 triclc! 
 
 Stand. O madam, all your artifices won't 
 prevail. 
 
 Lady Lure. Nay, sir, your artifices won't ar^I. 
 I thought, sir, that I gave you caution enough 
 against troubling me with sir Harry Wildair*s 
 company when T sent his letters back by yon ; yet 
 TOO, forsooth, most tell him where I lodged, and 
 expose me again to his impertinent courtship. 
 
 Stand, I expose yoa to his coartship 1 
 
 Lady Lure. I'll lay my life you'll deny it now. 
 Come, come, sir ; a pitifiU He is as scandalous to a 
 red coat as an oath to a black. Did not sir Harry 
 himself tell me that he found out by you where 1 
 lodged? 
 
 Stand. You're all lies ! First, yonr heart is 
 false, your eyes are double : one look belies another : 
 and then yonr tongue does contradict them all. 
 Madam, I see a licUe devil just now hammering 
 out a lie in your pericranium. 
 
 Lady Lure. [^Aside.^ As I hope for mercy, he's 
 in the right on't. — \_Alofud.'\ Hold, sir, you have 
 got the playhouse cant upon your tongne, and 
 think that wit may privil^e your railing : but I 
 must tell yon, sir, that what is satire upon the 
 stage, is iH manners here. 
 
 Stand. What is feigned upon the stage, is here 
 in reality real falsehood. Yes, yes, madam ; I 
 exposed you to the courtship of your fool Clincher 
 too : I hope your female wiles will impose that upon 
 me, also — 
 
 Lady Lure. Clincher ! nay, now you are stark 
 mad. I know no such person. 
 
 Stand. Oh woman in perfection! not know him! 
 'Slife, madam, can my eyes, my piercing jealous 
 eyes, be so deluded ? Kay, madam, my nose could 
 not mistake him ; for I smelt the fop by his pulvi- 
 lio &om the balcony down to the street. 
 
 Lady Lure. The balcony ! ha, ha, ha, the bal- 
 cony 1 I'll be hanged but he has mistaken sir 
 Harry "Wildair's footman, with a new French livery, 
 for a bean. 
 
 Stand. 'Sdeath, madam, what is there in me 
 that looks like a cally ? did I not see him ? 
 
 Lady Lure. "So, no, you could not see him ; 
 you're dreamiog, colonel. Will you believe your 
 eyes, now that I hare rubbed them open ? — Here, 
 you fhrad ! {CaOs. 
 
 , Be-enttr Tim EEnAxn. 
 
 Stand. This is illusion all ; my eyes conspire 
 against themselves ! 'tis legerdemain ! 
 
 Zdidy Lure. Legerdemain ! is that all your ac- 
 knowledgment for your rnde behaviour? Oh, 
 what a curse is it to love as I do ! But don't pre- 
 sume too far, sir, on my affection : for such ungene- 
 rous usage will soon return my tired heart. — ^To 
 Tim Erbaxd.] Begone, sir, to your impertinent 
 master ! and tell him I shall never be at leisure to 
 receive any of his troublesome visits. Send to me 
 to know when I should be at home ! — Begone, 
 sir ; — I am sure he has made me an unfortunate 
 woman. l Weeps.— Exit Tim Errand. 
 
 Stand. Xay, then there is no certainty in 
 Nature ; 
 And truth is only falsehood well disguised. 
 
 Lady Lure, Sir, had not I owned my fond fool- 
 
 ish passion, 1 shotdd not have been subject to such 
 unjust suspicions : but 'tis an ungrateful retum. 
 
 {_ Weeping. 
 
 Stand. [Aside.'] Now, where are all my firm 
 resolves ? 1 will believe her jnst. My passion 
 raised my jealousy ; then why mayn't love be blind 
 in finding faults as in excusing them ? — [Aloud.'] 
 1 hope, madam, you'll pardon me, since jealousy, 
 that magnified my suspicion, is as much the effect 
 of love as my easiness in being satisfied. 
 
 Lady Lure. Easiness in being satisfied ! You 
 men have got an insolent way of extorting pardon 
 by persisting in your faults. No, no, sir, cherish 
 your suspicions, and feed upon your jealousy : 'tis 
 fit meat for your squeamish stomach. 
 
 With me all women should this rule pursue : 
 
 Who thinks us false, should never find us true. 
 
 {_Exit in a rage. 
 
 Se-enUr Cltxcheb Senior. 
 Clinch. Sen. Well, intriguing is the prettiest, 
 pleasantest thing for a man of my parts ! How 
 shaU. we laugh at the husband when he is gone ! — 
 How silly he looks ! He's in labour of horns 
 already : — to make a colonel a cuckold ^ Twill be 
 rare news for the aldermen. [AritU. 
 
 Stand. All this sir Harry has occasioned ; bnt 
 he's brave, and will afford me just revenge. — Oh, 
 
 this is the porter I sent the challenge by ^Well, 
 
 sir, have you found him ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. What the devil does he mean 
 
 lAside. 
 Have you given sir Harry the note. 
 
 now f 
 
 Stand. 
 fellow? 
 
 Clinch. 
 
 Stand. 
 
 !_ 
 
 Sen. The note ! what note? 
 The letter, blockhead ! which I sent by 
 yon to sir Harry Wildair ; have yon seen him ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. [Aside.'] O Lord ! what shall I 
 say now? — [Aloud.] Seen him?— yes, sir — ^no, 
 sir. — I have, sir — I have not, sir. 
 
 Stand. The fellow's madj Answer me directiy, 
 sirrah, or I'll break your head ! 
 
 Clinch. Sen. I know sir Harry very well, sir ; 
 but as to the note, sir, I can't remember a word 
 on't : truth is, I have a very bad memory. 
 
 Stand. Oh, sir, I'U qtucken your memory ! 
 
 {_S'rikes Aim. 
 
 Clinch. Sen, Zauns, sir, hold ! I did give him 
 the note. 
 
 Stajid. Ajid what answer ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. I mean, sir, I did not give him the 
 note. 
 
 Stand. What ! d'ye banter, rascal ? 
 
 ISlrika him again. 
 
 Clinch. Sen, Hold, sir ! hold ! — He did send an 
 answer. 
 
 Stand. What was't, villain? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Why, truly, sir, I have forgot it : I 
 told you that I had a very treacherous memory. 
 
 Stand. I'll engage you shall remember me this 
 month, rascal ! IBeaU Jiim off^ and exii, 
 
 Re-tnier Lady Lurewzll tciUi Parlt. 
 
 Lady Lure. Fort ban I fort bon ! fort bon ! — 
 this is better than I expected ; but fortune still 
 helps the industrious. 
 
 Re-er^ler Cuncher Senior. 
 Clinch. Srn. Ah, the devil take all intriguing, 
 say I ! and him who first invented canes ! That 
 cursed colonel has got such a k'lack of beating his 
 
528 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUl'LE ; OR, 
 
 men, that he has left the mark of a collar of ban- 
 dileers about my shoulders. 
 
 Lady Lure. Oh, my poor gentleman ! and was 
 it beaten ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Yes, I have been heaten . but 
 Where's my clothes ! my clothes ? 
 
 Lady Lure. What ! you won't leave me so 
 soon, my dear, will ye ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Will ye ! — if ever I peep into a 
 colonel's tent again, may I be forced to run the 
 gauntlet ! — But my clothes", madam. 
 
 Ladi/ Lure. I sent tlie porter down stairs with 
 them : did not you meet him ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Meet him ! no, pot I. 
 Par. No ! he went out of the "back-door, and is 
 run clear away, I'm afraid. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Goue ! say you ; and with my 
 clothes ! my fine Jubilee clothes ! — Oh, the rogue ! 
 the tfiief I- — I'll have him hanged for murder. But 
 how shall I get home in this pickle ? 
 
 Par. I'm afraid, sir, the colonel will be back 
 presently ; for he dines at home. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Oh, then I must sneak off! — Was 
 
 ever man so managed ! to have his coat well 
 
 thrashed, and lose his coat too .' lExil. 
 
 Lndii Lure. Thus the noble poet spoke truth : — 
 
 Nothing svils wor^p. with vice than want of sense : 
 
 Pools are still wicked at their own expense. 
 
 Par. Methinks, madam, the injuries you have 
 
 suffered by men must be very great, to raise such 
 
 heavy resentments against the whole sex. 
 
 Lady Lure. The greatest injury that woman 
 could sustain : they robbed me of that jewel which, 
 preserved, exalts our sex almost to angels; but 
 destroyed, debases us below the worst of brutes — 
 mankind. 
 
 Pur. But I think, madam, your anger should 
 be only confined to the author of your wrongs. 
 
 Lady Lure. The author ! — Alas ! I know him 
 not ; which makes my wrongs the greater. 
 
 Par. Not know him ! 'tis odd, madeim, that a 
 man should rob you of that same jewel you men- 
 tioned, and you not know him ! 
 
 Ladi/ Lure. Leave trifling ! — 'tis a subject that 
 always sours my temper. But since, by thy faitii- 
 ful service, I have some reason to confide in your 
 secrecy, hear the strange relation. Some twelve 
 years ago T lived at my father's house in Oxford- 
 shire, blest with innocence, the ornamental but 
 weak guard of blooming beauty. I was then just fif- 
 teen, an age oft fatal to the female sex : — our youth 
 is tempting, our innocence credulous, romances 
 moving, love powerful, and men are — villains ! 
 Then it happened, that three young gentlemen, 
 from the university, coming into the country, and 
 being benighted, and strangers, called at my 
 father's : he was very glad of their company, and 
 offered them the entertainment of his house. 
 
 Par. Which they accepted, no doubt. — Oh ! 
 these strolling collegians are never abroad but 
 upon some mischief ! 
 
 Lady Lure. They had some private frolic or 
 design in their heads, as appeared by their not 
 naming one another; which my father perceiving, 
 out of civility, made no inquiry into their affairs. 
 Two of them had a heavy, pedantic, university air, 
 a sort of disagreeable scholastic boorishness in their 
 behaviour ; but the third I — 
 
 Par. Ay, the third, madam ! — the third of all 
 "•hinjjs, they say, is very critical. 
 
 Lady Lure. He was- but, in short, nature cut 
 him out for my undoing! — He seemed to be about 
 eighteen. 
 
 Par. A fit match for your fifteen as could be. 
 Lady Lure. He had a genteel sweetness in his 
 face, a graceful comeliness in his person, and his 
 tongue was fit to soothe soft innocence to ruin. 
 His very looks were witty, and his expressive eyes 
 spoke softer, prettier things, than words could 
 frame. 
 
 Par. There will be mischief byrand-by ; I never 
 heard a woman talk so much of eyes but there 
 were tears presently after. 
 
 Lady Lure. His discourse was directed to my 
 father, but his looks to me. After supper, I went 
 to my chamber, and read Cassandra ; then went to 
 bed, and dreamt of him all night ; rose in the 
 morning, and made verses : so fell desperately in 
 love. My father was so well pleased with his con- 
 versation, that he begged their company next day ; 
 they consented ; and next night, Parly — 
 
 Par. Ay, next night, madam,-^next night (I'm 
 afraid) was a night ipdeed. 
 
 Lady Lure. He bribed my maid, with b'S gold, 
 out of her honesty ; and me, with his rhetoric, out 
 of my honour. She admitted him to my chamber, 
 and there he vowed, and swore, and wept, and 
 sighed — and conquered. iWeeps. 
 
 Par. Alack a-day, poor fifteen ! [ Weeps- 
 
 Ladt/ Lure. He swore that he would come 
 down from Oxford in a fortnight and marry me. 
 
 Par. [Aside.l The old bait ! the old bait !— I 
 was cheated just so myself. — \^Aloud.'\ But had 
 not you the wit to know his name all this while ' 
 
 Lady Lure. Alas ! what wit had innocence like 
 mine .' He told me, that he was under an obliga- 
 tion to his companions of concealing himself then, 
 but that he would write to me in two days, and let 
 me know his name and quality. After all the 
 binding oaths of constancy, joining hands, exchang- 
 ing hearts, I gave him a ring with this mot to, Love 
 and honour, then we parted ; but I never saw the 
 dear deceiver more. 
 
 Par. No, nor never will I warrant you. 
 Lady Lure. I need not tell my griefs, which my 
 father's death made a fair pretence for ; he left me 
 sole heiress and executrix to three thousand pounds 
 a year. At last, my love for this single dissembler 
 turned to a hatred of the whole sex ; and, resolv- 
 ing to divert my melancholy, and make my large 
 fortune subservient to my pleasure and revenge, I 
 went to travel, where, in most courts of Europe, I 
 have done some execution. Here X will play my 
 last scene ; then retire to my country-house, live 
 solitary, and die a penitent. 
 
 Par. But don't you still love this dear dissem- 
 bler ? 
 
 Lady Lure. Most certainly : 'tis love of him 
 that keeps my anger warm, representing the base- 
 ness of mankind full in view ; and makes my 
 resentments work. We shall have that old impo- 
 tent lecher Smuggler here to-night ; I have a plot 
 to swinge him, and his precise nephew Vizard. 
 
 Par. I think, madam, you manage everybody 
 that comes in your way. 
 
 Lady Lure. No, Parly, those men whose pre- 
 tensions I found just and honourable, I fairly dis- 
 missed, by letting them know my firm resolutions 
 never to marry. But those villains that would 
 attempt my honour, I've seldom failed to manage. 
 
A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 b2i, 
 
 Par. What d'ye think of the colonel, madam ? 
 I suppose his designs are honourable. 
 
 Lady Lure. That man's a riddle ; there's some- 
 thing of honour in his temper that pleases : I'm 
 sure he loves me too, becausd he's soon jealous, 
 and soon satisfied. But he's a man still. When 
 I once tried his pulse about marriage, his blood 
 ran as low as a coward's. He swore, indeed, that 
 he loved me, but could not marry me forsooth, 
 because he was engaged elsewhere. So poor a 
 pretence made me disdain his passion, which 
 
 otherwise might have been uneasy to me. But 
 hang him, I have teased him euough. Besides, 
 Parly, I begin to be tired of my revenge. — But 
 this buss and guinea I must maul once more : I'll 
 hansel his woman's clothes for him I — Go, get me 
 pen and ink ; I must write to Vizard too. 
 
 lExit Parly. 
 Fortune this once assist me as before. 
 Two such machines can never work in vain. 
 As thy propitious wheel, and my projecting 
 brain. lExlt. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 SCENE l.—Covent Garden. 
 
 Enter Sir Harry Wildair and Colonel Standa rd meeting^ 
 
 Stand. I thought, sir Harry, to have met you 
 ere this in a more convenient place ; but since my 
 wrongs were without ceremony, my revenge shall 
 be so too. Draw, sir ! 
 
 Sir Har. Draw sir ! what shall T draw ? 
 
 Stand. Come, come, sir, 1 like your facetious 
 humour well enough ; it shows courage and uncon- 
 cern* I know you brave ; and therefore usp you 
 thus. Draw your sword. 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, to oblige you, I will draw ; but 
 the devil take me if I fight !— Perhaps, colonel, 
 this is the prettiest blade you have seen. 
 
 Stand. I doubt not but the arm is good ; and 
 therefore think both worth my resentment. Come, 
 sir. 
 
 Sir Har. But, prithee colonel, dost think that I 
 am such a madman as to send my soul to the 
 devil and my body to the worms upon every fool's 
 errand ? 
 
 Stand. I hope you're no coward, sir. 
 
 Sir Har. Coward, sir! I have eight thousand 
 pounds a year, sir. 
 
 Stand, You fought in Flanders to my know- 
 ledge. 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, for the same reason that I wore a 
 red coat, because 'twas fashionable. 
 
 Stand. Sir, you fought a French count in Paris. 
 
 Sir Har. True, sir ; he was a beau like my- 
 self. Now you're a soldier, colonel, and fighting's 
 your trade ; and I think it downright madness to 
 contend with any man in his profession. 
 
 Stand. Come, sir, no more dallying : I shall 
 take very unseemly methods if you don't show 
 yourself a gentleman. 
 
 Sir Har. A gentleman ! why there again now ? 
 A gentleman ! I tell you once more, colonel, that 
 I am a baronet, and have eight thousand pounds a 
 year. I can dance, sing, ride, fence, understand 
 the languages. Now, I can't conceive how run- 
 ning you through the body should contribute one 
 jot more to my gentility. But, pray, colonel, I had 
 forgot to ask you : what's the quarrel ? 
 
 Stand. A woman, sir. 
 
 Sir Har. Then T put up my sword. — Take her. 
 
 Stand. Sir, my honour's concerned. 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, if your honour be concerned with 
 a woman, get it out of her hands as soon as yoa 
 can. An honourable lover is the greatest slave in 
 nature ; some will say, the greatest fuol. Come, 
 
 come, colonel, this is something about the lady 
 Lurewell, I warrant ; I can give you satisfaction 
 in that affair. 
 
 Stand. Do so then immediately. 
 
 Sir Har. Put up your sword first ; you know I 
 dare fight : but I had ibuch rather make you a 
 friend than an enemy. I can assure you, this lady 
 will prove too hard for one of your temper. You 
 have too much honour, too much in conscience, to 
 be a favourite with the ladies. 
 
 Stand. I'm assured, sir, she never gave you any 
 encouragement. 
 
 Sir Har. A man can never hear reason with a 
 sword in his hand. Sheathe your weapon ; and 
 then if I don't satisfy you, sheathe it in my body 
 
 Stand. Give me but demonsU'ation of her grant- 
 ing you any favour, and 'tis enough. 
 
 Sir Har, Will you take my word } 
 
 Stand. Pardon me, sir, I cannot. 
 
 Sir Har. Will you believe your own eyes ? 
 
 Stand. 'Tis ten to one whether I shall or no ; 
 they have deceived me already. 
 
 Sir Har. That's hard But some means I shall 
 
 devise for your satisfaction. We must riy this 
 place, else that cluster of mob will overwhelm us. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Mob, Tim Errand's wife hurrying in Clincher 
 Senior. 
 
 Wife, Oh, the villain ! the rogue! he has mur- 
 dered my husband : ah, my poor Timothy ! 
 
 {Crying. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Dem your Timothy ! — your hus- 
 band has murdered me, woman ; fur he has carried 
 away my fine Jubilee clothes. 
 
 IVife. Ay, you cut-throat, have you not got his 
 clothes upon your back there ? — Neighbours, don't 
 you know poor Timothy's coat and apron } 
 
 Mob. Ay, ay, 'tis the same. 
 
 1 Mob. What shall we do with him, neigh- 
 bours ? 
 
 2 Mob. We'll pull him in pieces. 
 
 1 Mob. No, no ; then we may be hanged for 
 murder : but we'll drown him. 
 
 Clineh. Sen. Ha, good people, pray don't drown 
 me ; for I never learned to swim in all my life. — 
 Ah, this plaguy intriguing ! 
 
 Mob. Away with himi away with him to the 
 Thames ! 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Oh, if I had but my swimmirif^ 
 girdle, now ! lAtidp 
 
530 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE; OR, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Enter Gonstaljlfi. 
 Const. Hold, neighbours ! I command the peace. 
 
 Wife. Oh, Mr. Constable, here's a rogue that 
 has murdered my husband, and robbed him of his 
 clothes. 
 
 Const. Murder and robbery ! then he must be a 
 gentleman. — Hands off there ! he must not be 
 abused — Give an account of yourself : are you a 
 gentleman ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. No, sir, I am a beau. 
 
 Const. Then you have killed nobody, I'm per- 
 suaded. How came you by these clothes, sir ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. You must know, sir, that walking 
 along, sir, 1 don't know how, sir; 1 can't tell 
 where, sir; and — so the porter and I changed 
 clothes, sir. 
 
 Const. Very well, the man speaks reason and 
 like a gentleman. 
 
 ffife. But pray, Mr. Constable, ask him how 
 he changed clothes with him. 
 
 Const. Silence, woman 1 and don't disturb the 
 court. — Well, sir, how did you change clothes ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Why, sir, he pulled off my coat, 
 and I drew off his ; so I puts on his coat, and he 
 puts on mine. 
 
 Const. Why, neighbours, I don't find that he's 
 guilty : search him ; and if he carries no arms 
 about him, we'll let him go. 
 
 IThey search his pothels, and pull out his pistols. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. O gemiui ! my Jubilee pistols ! 
 
 Const. What, a case of pistols ! then the case is 
 plain. — Speak, what are you, sir .' whence came 
 you, and whither go you .' 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Sir, I came from Russel-street, 
 and am going to the Jubilee. 
 
 Wife. You shall go to the gallows, you rogue ! 
 
 Const. Away with him ! away with him to New- 
 gate, straight ! 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Inside.] 1 shall go to the Jubilee 
 now, indeed. lExeunt. 
 
 Re-enter Sir Habby Wildair and Colonel Standard. 
 
 Sir Har. In short, colonel, 'tis all nonsense. 
 Fight for a woman ! — Hard by is the lady's house; 
 if you please we'll wait on her together : you shall 
 draw your sword, I'll draw my snuffbox: you shall 
 produce your wounds received in war, I'll relate 
 mine by Cupid's dart : you shall look big, I'll 
 ogle : you shall swear, I'll sigh : you shall sa 1 sa ! 
 and I'll coupee : and if she flies not to my arms 
 like a hawk to its perch, my daucing-master deserves 
 to be damned ! 
 
 Stand. With the generality of women, I grant 
 you, these arts may prevail. 
 
 Sir Har. Generality of women ! why there again 
 you're out. They're all alike, sir ; I never heard 
 of any one that was particular, but one. 
 
 Stand. Who was she, pray ? 
 
 Sir Har. Penelope, I think, she's called ; and 
 that's a poetical story too. When will you find a 
 poet in our age make a woman so chaste ? 
 
 Stand. Well, sir Harpy, your facetious humour 
 can disguise falsehood, and make calumny pass for 
 satire. But you have promised me ocular demon- 
 stration that she favours you : make that good, and 
 I shall then maintain faith and female to be as in- 
 consistent as triith and falsehood. 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, by what you have told me, I am 
 satisfied that she Imposes on us all ; and Vizard, 
 too. seems what 1 still suspected him : but his 
 
 honesty once mistrusted, spoils his knavery. — But 
 will you be convinced, if our plot succeeds ? 
 
 Stand. I rely on your word and honour, sir 
 Harry ; which if I doubted, my distrust would 
 cancel the obligation of their security. 
 
 Sir Har. Then meet me half an hour henpe at 
 the Rummer. You must oblige me by taking a 
 hearty glass with me toward the fitting me out for 
 a certain project which this night I undertake. 
 
 Stand. I guess by the preparation that woman's 
 the design. 
 
 Sir Har. Yes, faith. — I am taken dangerously 
 ill with two foolish maladies, modesty and love ; 
 the first I'll cure with burgundy, and my love by a 
 night's lodging with the damsel. A sure remedy. 
 Probatum est .' 
 
 Stand. I'll certainly meet you, sir. 
 
 lExeunt severalif. 
 
 SCENE U.— The same. 
 Enter Clincher Junior and Dicky. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Ah, Dicky, this London is a sad 
 place ! a sad vicious place ! I wish that I were in 
 the country again. — And this brother of mine ! 
 I'm sorry he's so great a rake : I had rather see 
 him dead than see him thus. 
 
 Dicky. Ay, sir, he'll spend his whole estate at 
 this same Jubilee. Who d'ye think lives at this 
 same Jubilee ? 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Who, pray ? 
 
 Dicky. The pope. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. "The devil he does ! My brother 
 go to the place where the pope dwells ! he's be- 
 witched sure 1 
 
 Enter Tim Errand. 
 
 Dicky. Indeed I believe he is, for he's strangely 
 altered. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Altered ! why he looks like a 
 Jesuit already. 
 
 Tim. This lace will sell. What a blockhead 
 was the fellow to trust me with his coat ! If I can 
 get cross the Garden, down to the water side, I'm 
 pretty secure. [_Asid€. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Brother ! — Alaw ! O gemini ! are 
 you my brother ? 
 
 Dicky. I seize you in the king's name, sir. 
 
 Tim. O Lord ! should this prove some parlia- 
 ment man now ! {Aside. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Speak, you rogue, what are you ? 
 
 Tim. A poor porter, sir, and going of an errand. 
 
 Dicky. What errand ? speak, you rogue. 
 
 Tim. A fool's errand, I'm. afraid. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Who sent you ? 
 
 Tim. A beau, sir. 
 
 Dicky. No, no, the rogue has murdered your 
 brother, and stripped him of his clothes. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Murdered my brother 1 O crimini 1 
 O my poor Jubilee brother ! — Stay, by Jupiter 
 Ammon, I'm heir though ! — Speak, sirrah, have 
 you killed him ? Confess that you have killed 
 him, and I'll give you half-a-crown. 
 
 Tim. Who, I sir ? Alack-a-day, sir, I never 
 killed any man but a carrier's horse once. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Then you shall certainly be hanged, 
 but confess that you killed him, and we'll let you go. 
 
 Tim. \^Aside.1 Telling the truth hangs a man, 
 but confessing a lie can do no harm ; besides, if 
 
SCKNE III. 
 
 A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 631 
 
 the worst comes to the worst, I can but deny it 
 again. — [Aloud.] Well, sir, since I must tell you, 
 I did kiU him. 
 
 Cli7Lch, Jun. Here's your money, sir : — but are 
 you sure you killed him dead ? 
 
 Tim. Sir, 1*11 swear it before any judge in 
 England. 
 
 Dicky. But are you sure that he's dead in law ? 
 
 Tim. Dead in law ! I can't tell whether he be 
 
 dead in law: but he's dead as a door-nail; for 
 
 I gave him seven knocks on the head with ** 
 
 hammer. 
 
 Dicky. Then you have the estate by the statute. 
 Any man that's knocked o'th' head is dead in law. 
 Clinch. Jun. But are you sure he was compos 
 me7ilis when he was killed? 
 
 Tim. I suppose he was, sir ; for he told me 
 nothing to the contrary afterwards. 
 
 Cli)ich. Jun. Hey ! then 1 go to the Jubilee. 
 — Strip, sir, strip ! by Jupiter Ammon, strip ! 
 
 lExchanges clothes with Tim Eriund. 
 Dicky. Ah ! don't swear, sir. 
 Clijich. Jun. Swear, sir ! Zoons, han't I got 
 the estate, sir 1 Come, sir, now I'm in mourning 
 for my brother. 
 
 Tim. I hope you'll let me go now, sir — 
 Clinch. Jun. Yes, yes, sir ; but you must first do 
 me the favour to swear positively before a magis- 
 trate that you killed him dead, that I may enter 
 upon the estate without any trouble. By Jupiter 
 AramoD, all my religion's gone since I put on 
 these fine clothes \ — Hey ! call me a coach some- 
 body. 
 
 Tim. Ay, master, let me go, and I'll caU one 
 immediately. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. No, no, Dicky, carry this spark 
 before a justice, and when he has made oath, you 
 may discharge him. — ^^Eaoeunt Dicky and Tim 
 Errand.] And I'll go see Angelica- Now, that 
 I'm an elder brother, I'll court, and swear, and 
 rant, and rake, and go to the Jubilee with the best 
 of them. \_Bxit. 
 
 SCENE III. — A Room in Lady Lurewell's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lady Lurewell and Parly. 
 
 Lady Lure. Are you sure that Vizard had my 
 letter? 
 
 Par. Yes, yes, madam ; one of your ladyship's 
 footmen gave it to him in the Park, and he told 
 the bearer, with all transports of joy, that he would 
 be punctual to a minute. 
 
 Lady Lure. Thus most villains, sometime or 
 other, are punctual to their ruin ; and hypo- 
 crisy, by imposing on the world, at last deceives 
 itself. Are all things prepared for his reception ? 
 
 Par. Kxactly to your ladyship's order ; the 
 alderman too is just come, dressed and cooked up 
 for iniquity. 
 
 Lady Lure. Then he has got woman's clothes on? 
 
 Par. Yes, madam, and has passed upon the 
 family for your nurse. 
 
 Lady Lure. Convey him into that closet, and 
 put out the candles, and tell him I'll wait on him 
 presently. — \_As Parly goes to put out the candles 
 somebody knocks.] This must be some clown with- 
 out manners, or a gentleman above ceremony. — 
 Who's there ? 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Sir Ear. [Without.'] Thus Damon knock'd at Celia'a 
 door. 
 He Bigh'd, and begg'd, and wept, and swore ; 
 
 The eigu was so ; [Knocks. 
 
 She answer'd, no, 
 
 No, no, no. {Knocks thrice. 
 
 Again he sigh'd, again he pray'd ;— 
 " No, Damon, no, I am afraid ; 
 Consider, Damon, I'm a maid. 
 
 Consider ; no, 
 
 I'm. a maid. 
 
 No, no, no." 
 
 At last his sighs and tears made way, 
 She rose, and softly turn'd the key ; 
 •* Come in," said she, " but do not stay. 
 
 I may conclude 
 
 You will be rude. 
 
 But, if you are, you may." [Exit Parly. 
 
 Enter Sir Harry Wjldair, 
 Lady Lure. 'Tis too early for serenading, sir 
 Harry. 
 
 Sir Har. Wheresoever love is, there music is 
 proper; there's an harmonious consent in their 
 natures, and, when rightly joined, they make up 
 the chorus of earthly happiness. 
 
 Lady Lure. But, sir Harry, what tempest drives 
 you here at this hour ? 
 
 Sir Har. No tempest, madam, but as fair wea- 
 ther as ever enticed a citizen's wife to cuckold 
 her husband in fresh air : — ^love, madam. 
 
 [Taking her by the hand. 
 Lady Lure. As pure and white as angels^ soft 
 
 desires. — Is't not so? 
 Sir Har. Fierce, as when ripe consenting 
 
 beauty fires. 
 Lady Lure. [Aside.] O villain ! What privilege 
 has man to our destruction, that thus they hunt 
 our ruin? — [Aloud.] If this be a love token, — 
 [Sir Harry Wildair drops a ring, she takes it 
 up] your mistress's favours hang very loose 
 about you, sir. 
 
 Sir. Har. I can't justly, madam, pay your trouble 
 of taking it up by anything but desiring you to 
 wear it. 
 
 Lady Lure. You gentlemen have the cunuingest 
 ways of playing the fool, and are so industrious in 
 your profuseness ! Speak seriously, am I beholden 
 to chance or design for this ring .■' 
 
 Sir Har. To design, upon my honour, and I 
 
 hope my design will succeed. [Aside. 
 
 Lady Lure. [Singing.] And what shall J give 
 
 you for such a fine thing ? 
 Sir Har. [Singing.] YouHl give me another, 
 
 you'll give me another fine thing. 
 Lady Lure. Shall I be free with you, sir Harry } 
 Sir Har. With all my heart, madam, so I may 
 be free with yon. 
 
 Lady Lure. Then, plainly, sir, I shall beg the 
 favour to see you some other time, for at this very 
 minute I have two lovers in the house. 
 
 Sir Har. Then, to be as plain, I must be gone 
 this minute, for 1 must see another mistress within 
 these two hours. 
 
 Lndy Lure. Frank and free. 
 Sir Har. As you with me. — Madam, your most 
 humble servant. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Lure. Nothing can disturb his humour. 
 — Now for my merchant and Vizard. 
 
 [Exit, and takes the candles with her 
 
5.32 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE; OR, 
 
 Re-enter Parly, leading in Alderman Smuggler, dressed 
 in woman's clothes. 
 
 Par. This way, Mr. Alderman. 
 Smug. Well, Mrs. Parly, I'm obliged to you 
 for this trouble ; here are a couple of shillings for 
 you. Times are hard, very hard indeed, but next 
 time rU steal a pair of silk stockings from my 
 wife, and bring them to you. — What are you fum- 
 bling about my pockets for ? 
 
 Par. Only settling the plaits of your gown. 
 Here, sir, get into this closet, and my lady will 
 wait on you presently. 
 [_Puts him into the closet^ runs outf and returns with 
 Vizard. 
 
 Viz. Where wouldst thou lead me, my dear 
 auspicious little pilot ? 
 
 Par. You're almost in port, sir ; my lady's 
 in the closet, and will come out to you imme- 
 diately. 
 
 fix. Let me thank thee as I ought. IKisses her. 
 
 Par. \^Aside } Psha ! who has hired me best — 
 a couple of shillings or a couple of kisses ? [Exit. 
 
 Viz. Propitious darkness guides the lover's 
 steps, and night that shadows outward sense, lights 
 up our inward joy. Night ! the great awful ruler 
 of mankind, which like the Persian monarch hides 
 its royalty to raise the veneration of the world. 
 Under thy easy reign dissemblers may speak truth ; 
 all slavish forms and ceremonies laid aside, and 
 generous villany may act without constraint. 
 
 Smiui. [Peeping out of the closet.'\ Bless me I 
 what voice is this } 
 
 Viz. Our hungry appetites, like the wild beasts 
 of prey, now scour abroad to gorge their craving 
 maws ; the pleasure of hypocrisy, like a chained 
 lion once br -ke loose, wildly indulges its new free- 
 dom, ranging through all unbounded joys. 
 
 Smug. My nephew's voice, and certainly pos- 
 sessed with an evil spirit ; be talks as profanely as 
 an actor possessed with a poet. 
 
 Viz. Ha 1 I hear a voice.— Madam — my life, my 
 happiness, where are you, madam ,■' 
 
 Smug. [^Aside.] Madam ! He takes me for a 
 woman too, I'll try him. — [Aloud.] Where have 
 you left your sanctity, Mr. Vizard .' 
 
 Viz. 'Talk no more of that ungrateful subject — 
 I left it where it has only business, with daylight ; 
 'tis needless to wear a mask in the dark. 
 
 Smug. [Aside.] O the rogue, the rogue! — 
 [Aloud.] 'The world takes you for a very sober, 
 virtuous gentleman. 
 
 ViX. Ay, madam, that adds security to all my 
 pleasures. With me a cully, squire may squander 
 his estate, and ne'er be thought a spendthrift : with 
 me a holy elder may zealously be drunk, and toast 
 his tuneful nose in sack, to make it hold forth 
 clearer : but what is most my praise, the formal 
 rigid, she that rails at vice and men, with me secures 
 her loosest pleasures, and her strictest honour. She 
 who with scornful mien and virtuous pride dis- 
 dains the name of whore, with me can wanton, and 
 laugh at the deluded world. 
 
 Smug. [ Aside.] How have I been deceived ! — 
 [Aloud.] Then you are very great among the 
 ladies } 
 
 Viz. Yes, madam ; they know that, like a mole 
 in the earth, I dig deep, but invisible ; not like 
 those fluttering noisy sinners, whose pleasure is 
 the. proclamation of their faults ; those empty 
 tiaahes who no sooner kindle, but they must blaze 
 
 to alarm the world. — But come, madam, you delay 
 our pleasures. 
 
 Smug. [Aside.] He surely takes me for the 
 lady Lurewell ; she has made him an appointment 
 too ; but I'll be revenged of both.— [Aloud.] Well, 
 sir, what are those you are so intimate with ? 
 
 Viz. Come, come, madam, you know very well . 
 those who stand so high, that the vulgar envy even 
 their crimes, whose figure adds privilege to their 
 sin, and makes it pass unquestioned ; fair, high, 
 pampered females, whose speaking eyes and pierc- 
 ing voice would arm the statue of a stoic, and 
 animate his cold marble with the soul of an epicure j 
 all ravishing, lovely, soft, and kind, like you ! 
 
 Smug. [Aside.] I'm very lovely and soft indeed ! 
 you shall find me much harder than you imagine, 
 friend ! — [Aloud.] Well, sir, but I suppose your 
 dissimulation has some other motive besides plea- 
 sure .' 
 
 Viz. Yes, madam, the honestest motive in the 
 world — interest. You must know, madam, that I 
 have an old uncle, alderman Smuggler — you have 
 seen him, I suppose ? 
 
 Smug Yes, yes, I have some small acquaintance 
 with him. 
 
 Viz. 'Tis the most knavish, precise, covetous 
 old rogue that ever died of a gout. 
 
 Smug. [Aside.] Ah ! the young son of a whore ! 
 — [Aloud.] Well, sir, and what of him ? 
 
 Viz. Hell hungers not more for wretched souls 
 than he for ill-got pelf : and yet (what's wonder- 
 ful) he that would stick at no profitable villany 
 himself, loves holiness in another. He prays all 
 Sunday for the sins of the week past ; he spends 
 all dinner-time in too tedious graces ; and what he 
 designs a blessing to the meat, proves a curse to 
 his family. He's the most — 
 
 Smug. Well, well, sir, I know him very well. 
 Viz. Then, madam, he has a swinging estate, 
 which I design to purchase as a saint, and spend 
 like a gentleman. He got it by cheating, and 
 should lose it by deceit. By the pretence of my 
 zeal and sobriety, I'll cozen the old miser one of 
 these days out of a settlement and deed of con- 
 veyance — 
 
 Smug. It shall be a deed to convey you to the 
 
 gallows, then, you young dog I iAside. 
 
 Viz. And no sooner he's dead, but I'll rattle 
 
 over his grave with a coach-and-six, to inform his 
 
 covetous ghost how genteelly 1 spend his money. 
 
 Smug. I'll pievent you, boy ; for I'll have my 
 
 money buried with me. \_Aside. 
 
 Viz. Bless me, madam 1 here's a light coming 
 
 this way, I must fly immediately ! When shall I 
 
 see you, madam ^ 
 
 Smug. Sooner than you expect, my dear ! 
 Viz. Pardon me, dear madam, I would not be 
 seen for the world. I would sooner forfeit my life, 
 nay my pleasure, than my reputation. [Earif. 
 
 Smug. Reputation ! reputation ! that poor word 
 suffers a great deal. Well, thou art the most 
 accomplished hypocrite that ever made a grave 
 plodding face over a dish of coffee and a pipe of 
 tobacco ! He owes me for seven years' mainte, 
 nance, and shall pay me by seven years' imprison- 
 ment ; and when I die, I'll leave him to the fee- 
 simple of a rope and a shilling ! — Who are these . 
 I begin to be afraid of some mischief. 1 wish that 
 I were safe within the city liberties. — I'll hide my- 
 self. iSiandt close. 
 
A TRIP TO THE JUBILEK. 
 
 633 
 
 Enter Butler and Footmen wiWi h'ghls. 
 
 But. I say there are two spoons wanting, and 
 1*11 search the whole house. Two spoous will be 
 no small gap in my quarter's wages. 
 
 Foot, When did you miss 'era, James ? 
 
 But. Miss them ! why I miss thera now ; in 
 short, they must be among you, and if you don't 
 return them, L'U goto the cunning-man to-morrow 
 morning ; my spoons I want, and my spopns I will 
 have. 
 
 Foot Come, come, search about. — [Search,and 
 discover Alderman Smuggler.] Ah ! who's this ? 
 
 But. Hark'ee, good woman, what makes yon 
 hide yourself? what are you ashamed oi ? 
 
 Smug. Ashamed of !^0 Lord, sir ! I'm an 
 honest old woman that never was ashamed of any- 
 thing. 
 
 But. What are you ? a midwife then ? Speak, 
 did not you sqe a couple of stray spoons in your 
 travels } 
 
 Smug. Stray spoons I 
 
 But, Ay, ay, stray spoons ; in short, you stole 
 them, and I'll shake your old limbs to pieces if you 
 don't deliver them presently. 
 
 Smug. [Aside.l Bless me, a reverend elder of 
 seventy years old accused for petty larceny ! — 
 [^/owrf.] Why, search me, good people, search 
 me; and if you find any spoons about me, you 
 shall bum me for a witch. 
 
 But. Ay, ay, we will search you, mistress. 
 
 [They search^ and pull the spoons out of Ms pocket. 
 
 Smug. Oh, the devil ! the devil ! 
 
 But. Where? where is he? — Lord bless us! 
 she is a witch in good earnest, maybe ! 
 
 Smug. Oh, it was some devil, fiome Covent- 
 
 garden or St. James's devil that put thera in my 
 pocket ! 
 
 But. Ay, ay, you shall be hanged for a thief, 
 burned for a witch, and then carted for a bawd. 
 Speak, what are you ? 
 
 Re-enter Lady Luhkwell. 
 
 Smug. I'm the lady Lurewell's nijrse, 
 
 Ladg Lure. What noise is this? 
 
 But. Here is an old succubus, madam, that has 
 stole two silver spoons, and says she's your nurse. 
 
 Lady Lure. My nurse ! O the impudent old 
 jade ! I never saw the withered creature before. 
 
 Smug. {_Aside.'\ Then 1 ara finely caught! — 
 \_Aloud.'] O madam, madam ! don't you know 
 me ? don't you remember buss and guinea ? 
 
 Lady Lure. Was ever such impudence ! — I 
 know thee I why thou'rt as brazen as a bawd in 
 the side-box.^ — Take her before a justice, and then 
 to Newgate. Away ! 
 
 Smug. Oh! consider^ madam, that Vm an alder- 
 man. \_Aside to Lady Lurewell. 
 
 Lady Lure. \_Aside to Alderman Smuggler.] 
 Consider, sir, that you're a compound of covetous- 
 ness, hypocrisy, and knavery, and must be punished 
 accordingly. You must be in petticoats,' gouty 
 monster, must ye ! you must buss and guinea too ! 
 you must tempt a lady's honour, old satyr ! — 
 \_Aloud.'] k.vii3.y with, him ! 
 
 \_Exeunt Butler and Footmen with Alderman 
 Smuooler. 
 
 Still may our sex thus frauds of men oppose. 
 
 Still may our arts delude these tempting foes ; 
 
 May honour rule, and never fall betray'd, 
 
 But vice be cauglit in nets for virtue laid. {_Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Lady Darling's Home. 
 Lady Darling and Angelica. 
 
 Lady Dar. Daughter, since you have to deal 
 with a man of so peculiar a temper, you must not 
 think the general arts of love can secure him ; you 
 may therefore allow such a courtier some encou- 
 ragement extraordinary without reproach to your 
 modesty. 
 
 Ant/el. I ara sensible, madam, that a formal 
 nicety makes our modesty sit awkward, and ap- 
 pears rather a chain to enslave than bracelet to 
 adorn us ; it should show, when unmolested, easy 
 and innocent as a dove, but strong and vigorous as 
 a falcon when assaulted. 
 
 Ladff Dar. I'm afraid, daughter, you mistake 
 sir Harry's gaiety for dishonour. 
 
 Angel. 'Though modesty, madam, may wink, it 
 must O't sleep, when powerful enemies are abroad. 
 Imiist confess, that of allmen's,! would not see sir 
 Harry Wildair's faults ; nay, 1 could wrest his most 
 suspicious words a thousand ways to make them 
 look like honour. — But, madam, in spite of love I 
 must hate him, and curse those practices which 
 taint our nobility, and rob all virtuous women of 
 the bravest men. 
 
 Lady Dar. You must certainly be mistaken, 
 Angelica ; for I'm satisfied sir Harry's designs are 
 only to court and marry you. 
 
 Angel. His pretence, perhaps, was such ; but 
 women now, like enemies, are attacked ; whether 
 by treachery or fairly conquered, the glory of tri- 
 umph is the same. Pray, madam, by what means 
 were you made acquainted with his designs ? 
 
 Lady Dar. Means, child ! why, my cousin 
 
 Vizard, who I'm sure is your sincere friend, sent 
 
 him. He brought me this letter from my cousin. 
 
 [Gives her the letter, which she op: ns. 
 
 Angel. lAside.'] Ha! Vizard! then I'm abused 
 in earnest. Would sir Harry, by his instigntion, 
 fix a base affront upon me ? No, 1 can't suspect 
 him of so ungenteel a crime. "Tliis letitr shall 
 trace the truth. — [Aloud.] My suspicions, madiuii, 
 are much cleared ; and 1 hope to satisly your lady- 
 ship in my management when next I see sir Harry. 
 
 Enter Footman, 
 
 Foot. Madam, here's a gentleman below calls 
 himself Wildair. 
 
 Lady Dar. Conduct him up. — [Exit Footman.] 
 Daughter, I won't doubt your discretion. ilixil. 
 
 Enter Sir I-Jarry "WrLDAiR. 
 
 Sir Har. Oh, the delights of love and burgundy' 
 —Madam, I have toasted your ladyship tifteei, 
 bumpers successively, and swallowed cupids likt.' 
 loaches, to every glass. 
 
 Augei, And what then, sir i 
 
634 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE; OR, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Sir liar. Why then, madam, the wine has got 
 into my head, and the cnpids into my heart ; and 
 unless by quenching quick my flame, you kindly 
 ease the smart, I'm a lost man, madam. 
 
 Angel. Drunkenness, sir Harry, is the worst 
 pretence a gentleman can make for rudeness : for 
 the excuse is as scandalous as the fault. — Therefore, 
 pray consider who you are so free with, sir ; a 
 woman of condition, that can call half-a-dozen 
 footmen upon occasion. 
 
 .Sir Har. Nay, madam, if you have a mind to 
 toss me in a blanket, half-a-dozen chambermaids 
 would do better service. — Come, come, madam, 
 though the wine makes me lisp, yet has it taught 
 me to speak plainer. By all the dust of my ancient 
 progenitors, I must this night quarter my coat of 
 arms with yours. 
 
 Angel. Nay then — Who waits there "• [CoHj. 
 
 Enter Footmen. 
 
 Take hold of that madman, and bind him. 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, then burgundy's the word, and 
 slaughter will ensue. Hold ! — do you know, 
 scoundrels, that 1 have been drinking victorious 
 burgundy ? llh-aws. 
 
 Fool. We know you're drunk, sir. 
 
 Sir Har, Then, how have you the impudence, 
 rascals, to assault a gentleman with a couple of 
 flasks of courage in his head ? 
 
 Fool. Sir, we must do as our young mistress 
 commands us. 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, then have among ye, dogs ! 
 llTirows money among them : they scramble, and take U 
 up. He petting them out, shuts the door, and returns. 
 Rascals ! Poltroons ! — I have charmed the dragon, 
 and now the fruit's my own. 
 
 Angel. Oh, the mercenary wretches ! this was a 
 plot to betray me. 
 
 Sir Har. I have put the whole army to flight ; 
 and, now take the general prisoner. 
 
 [Laying hold of her. 
 
 Angel. I conjure you, sir, by the sacred name 
 of honour, by your dead father's name, and the 
 fair reputation of your mother's chastity, that you 
 offer not the least offence ! — Already you have 
 wronged me past redress. 
 
 Sir Har. Thou art the most unaccountable 
 creature I 
 
 Angel. What madness, sir Harry, what wild 
 dream of loose desire could prompt you to attempt 
 this baseness ? View me well. The brightness of 
 my mind, methinks, should lighten outwards, and 
 let you see your mistake in my behaviour. 
 I think it shines with so much innocence in my face, 
 That it should dazzle all your vicious thoughts : 
 Think not I am defenceless 'cause alone. 
 Your very self is guard against yourself : 
 I'm sure, there's something generous in youi soul ; 
 My words shall search it out, 
 And eyes shall fire it for my own defence. 
 
 Sir Har. lMimickin.g,] Talltidum, ti dum, tall 
 tl didi, didum. — A million to pne now but this 
 girl is just come flush from reading the Rival 
 Queens. — Egad, I'll at her in her own cant. — 
 
 O my Slalira 1 O my angry dear I 
 Turn thy eyes on me, — behold thy beau in buskins. 
 
 Angel. Behold me, sir ; view me with a sober 
 thought, 
 Free from those fumes of wine that throw a mist 
 Before your sight, and you shall find 
 
 That every glance from my reproaching eyes, 
 Is arm'd with sharp resentment, and with 
 A virtuous pride that looks dishonour dead. 
 
 Sir Har. [Aside.] This is the first whore in 
 heroics that I have met with. — \_Aloud.'\ Look ye, 
 madam, as to that slender particular of your virtue, 
 we shan't quarrel about it; you may be as vir- 
 tuous as any woman in England, if you please; 
 you may say your prayers all the time. — But pray, 
 madam, be pleased to consider what is this same 
 virtue that you make such a mighty noise about. 
 Can your virtue bespeak you a front row in the 
 boxes ? No ; for the players can't live upon virtue. 
 Can your virtue keep you a coach and six ? No, 
 no, your virtuous women walk a foot. Can your 
 virtue hire you a pew in a church ? Why, the 
 very sexton will tell you, no. Can your virtue 
 stake for you at picquet .' No. Then what busi- 
 ness has a woman with virtue ? Come, come, 
 madam, I off'ered you fifty guineas :* there's a hun- 
 dred. — The devil I Virtuous still ! Why, 'tis a 
 hundred, five score, a hundred guineas. 
 
 Angel. O indignation .' 
 Were I a man, you durst not use me thus ; 
 But the mean, poor abuse you throw on me, 
 Reflects upon yourself ? 
 Our sex still strikes an awe upon the brave. 
 And only cowards dare affront a woman. 
 
 Sir Har. Affront ! 'sdeath, madam ! a hundred 
 guineas will set you up at basset, a hundred 
 guineas will furnish out your lodgings with china ; 
 a hundred guineas' will give you an air of quality j 
 a hundred guineas will buy you a rich escriroir for 
 your billets-doux, or a fine Common Prayer-book 
 for your virtue. A hundred guineas will buy a 
 hundred fine things, and fine things are for fine 
 ladies ; and fine ladies are for fine gentlemen ; and 
 fine gentleman are — egad, this burgundy makes a 
 man speak like an angel. — Come, come, madam 
 take it, and put it to what use you please. 
 
 Angel. I'll use it as I would the base unworthy 
 giver — thus. [Throws down thepurse andstamps upon iU 
 
 Sir Har. [Aside. ] I have no mind to meddle in 
 state affairs ; but these women will make me a 
 parliament man 'spite of my teeth, on purpose to 
 bring in a bill against their extortion. She tramples 
 underfoot that deity which all the world adores. — 
 Oh, the blooming pride of beautiful eighteen i 
 Psha, I'll talk to her no longer ; I'll make my mar- 
 kets with the old gentlewoman ; she knows business 
 better. — [Goes to the door, and calls] Here, you 
 friend, pray desire the old lady to walk in.— • 
 Heark'ee, bv Gad, madam, I'll tell your mother. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Darling. 
 
 Lady Dar. Well, sir Harry, and how d'ye like 
 my daughter, pray .' 
 
 Sir Har. Like her, madam ! — Heark'ee, will yon 
 take it ? — Why, faith, madam 1 — Take the money, 
 I say, or egad, all's out. 
 
 Angel. All shall out ; sir, you're a scandal to the 
 name of gentleman. 
 
 Sir Har. With all my heart, madam.— In short, 
 madam, your daughter has lised me somewhat too 
 familiarly, though I have treated her like a woman 
 of quality. 
 
 Lady Dar. How, sir 1 
 
 Sir Har, Why, madam, I have offered her a 
 hundred guineas. 
 
 Lady Dar. A hundred guineas ! upon what score ? 
 
A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 6ar. 
 
 Sir Har. Upon what score ! Lord ! Lord ! how 
 these old women love to hear bawdy ! Why, faith, 
 madam, I have ne'er a dmible-entendre ready at 
 present but I'll sing you a song. ISingt. 
 
 Behold the goldfinches, tall al de rail. 
 
 And a man of my inches, tall al de rail ; 
 
 You shall take 'em, believe me, tall al de rail. 
 
 If you will give me your — tall al de rail. 
 A modish minuet, madam, that's all. 
 
 Zady Dar. Sir, I don't understand you. 
 
 Sir Har. [Aside.^ Ay, she will have it in plain 
 terms. — [Aloud.'\ Then, madam, in downright 
 English, I offered your daughter a hundred guineas, 
 to — 
 
 Angel. Hold, sir, stop your abusive tongue ! too 
 loose for modest ears to bear. Madam, 1 did be- 
 fore suspect that his designs were base, now they're 
 coo plain ; this knight, this mighty man of wit and 
 humours, is made a tool to a knave : Vizard has 
 sent him of a bully's errand, to affront a woman ; 
 nt I scorn the abuse, and him that offered it. 
 
 Ladi/ Dar. How, sir, come to affront us ! d'ye 
 know who we are, sir ? 
 
 Sir Har. Know who ye are ! why, your daughter 
 there is, Mr. Vizard's cousin, I suppose : — and for 
 you, madam, — [^Aside."] now to call her procuress d 
 la mode France [Aloud] tTestime voire occupation. 
 
 Lady Dar. Pray, sir, speak English. 
 
 Sir Har. {Aside.] Then to define her office, 
 a la mode Londres ! — [Alnud.'] I suppose your 
 ladyship to be one of those civil, obliging, discreet, 
 old gentlewomen, who keep their visiting days for 
 the entertainment of their presenting friends, whom 
 they treat with imperial tea, a private room, and a 
 pack of cards. Now Isuppose you do understand me. 
 
 Lady Dar. This is beyond sufferance ! But say, 
 thou abusive man, what injury have you ere re- 
 ceived from me or mine, thus to engage you in this 
 scandalous aspersion." 
 
 Angel. Yes, sir, what cause, what motives, could 
 induce yon thus to debase yourself below your rank? 
 
 Sir Har. Heyday ! Now dear Roxana, and 
 you my fair Statira, be not so very heroic in your 
 styles ; Vizard's letter may resolve you, and answer 
 all the impertinent questions you have made me. 
 
 Lady Dar. Angel, We appeal to that. 
 
 Sir Har. And I'll stand to't ; he read it to me, 
 and the contents were pretty plain, I thought. 
 
 Angel. Here, sir, peruse it, and see how much 
 we are injured, and you deceived. 
 
 Sir Har. [ Opening the letter.'] But bold, ma- 
 dam— [To Lady Darling] before I read, I'll 
 make some condition. Mr. Vizard says here, that 
 I won't scrapie thirty or forty pieces. Now, ma- 
 dam, if you have clapped in another cipher to the 
 account, and made it three or four hundred, by 
 Gad, I will not stand to't. 
 
 Angel. Now, can't 1 tell whether disdain or 
 anger be the most just resentment for this injury. 
 
 {_A8ide. 
 
 Lady Dar. The letter, sir, shall answer you. 
 
 Sir Har. Well then !— [Reads.] Out of my earn- 
 estinelinalion to serveyour ladyship, and my cousin 
 Angelica — Ay, ay, the very words, I can say it by 
 
 heart / have sent sir Harry Wildair — to court 
 
 my coMsm..— What the devil's this ? — Sent Sir 
 Harry Wildair to court my cousin I — He read to 
 me quite a different thing. — He's a gentleman of 
 yreat parts and fortune — He's a son of a whore, and 
 a rascal ! — And would make your daughter very 
 
 happy in a husband. — [ Whistles.] Oh, poor sir 
 Harry I what have the angry stars designed ? 
 
 ILooks foolish, and hums a sonff. 
 
 Angel. Now, sir, I hope you need no instigati<m 
 to redress our wrongs since even the injury points 
 the way, 
 
 Lady Dar. Think, sir, that our blood for man; 
 generations has run in the purest channel of un- 
 sullied honour. 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, madam. [.Iioat to litr. 
 
 Angel. Con&ider what a tender blossom is femaie 
 reputation, which the least air of foul detraction 
 blasts. 
 
 Sir Har. Yes, madam. IBows to Angelica. 
 
 Lady Dar. Call then to mind your rude and 
 scandalous behaviour. 
 
 Sir Har. Right, madam. [.Bows again. 
 
 Angel. Remember the base price you offered me. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Sir Har. Very true, madam. — Was ever man so 
 catechised ? 
 
 Lady Dar. Then think that Vizard, villain Vi- 
 zard, caused all this, yet lives : that's all, farewell ! 
 
 [Going. 
 
 Sir Har. Stay, madjim, one word. Is there no 
 other way to redress your wrongs, but by fighting ? 
 
 Lady Dar. Only one, sir, which if you can think 
 of, you may do ; you know the business 1 enter- 
 tained you for. 
 
 Sir Har. I understand you, madam. — [Exit 
 Lady D.\rltng.] Here am 1 brought to a very 
 pretty dilemma ; I must commit murder or com- 
 mit matrimony ! Which is best, now ? a licence 
 from Doctors' Commons, or a sentence from the 
 Old Bailey ? If I kill my man, the law hangs me ; 
 if I marry my woman, I shall hang myself. — But, 
 damn it ! cowards dare iight ; I'll marry, that's the 
 most daring action of the two. So, my dear cousin 
 Angelica, have at you. [Ejcit. 
 
 SCENE II Newgate. 
 
 Clwcber Senior discovered alone. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. How severe and melancholy are 
 Newgate reflections ! Last week my father died ; 
 yesterday I turned beau ; to-day I am laid by the 
 heels, and to-morrow shall be hung by the neck. — 
 I was agreeing with a bookseller about printing an 
 account of my journey through France to Italy; 
 but now, the history of my travels through Holborn 
 to Tyburn — The last arid dying speech of Beau 
 Clincher, that was going to the Jubilee. — Come, a 
 halfpenny a piece ! — a sad sound, a sad sound, 
 faith ! 'Tis one way to have a man's death make a 
 great noise in the world. 
 
 Enter Alderman Smuogler and Jailer. 
 
 Smug. Well, friend, I have told you who I am : 
 so send these letters into Thames-street, as directed ; 
 
 they are to gentlemen that will bail me {JEjnt 
 
 Jailer.] Eh ! this Newgate is a very populous 
 place : here's robbery and repentance in every 
 
 corner Well, friend, what are you .' a cut-throat 
 
 or a bum-bailiff? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. What are you, mistress ? a bawd, 
 or a witch .', Heark'ee, if you are a witch, d'ye 
 see, I'll give you a hundred pounds to mount me 
 on a broom-staff, and whip me away to the Jubilee. 
 
 Smug. The Jubilee ! Oh, you young rakeheli, 
 what brought you here ? 
 
fi.'!6 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE; OR, 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Ah, you old rogue, what brought 
 you here, if you go to that ? 
 
 Smug. I knew, sir, what yonr powdering, your 
 prinlcing, your dancing, and your frisking, would 
 come to. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. And I knew what your cozening, 
 your extortion, and your sn Iggling, would come to. 
 
 Smug, Ay, sir, you musi break your indentures, 
 and run to the devil in a full-bottom wig, must 
 you ? 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Ay, sir, and you must put oflF your 
 gravity, and run to the devil in petticoats ? You 
 design to swing in masquerade, master, d'ye ? 
 
 Smug. Ay, you must go to the plays, too, sirrah ; 
 kiord ! Lord ! what business has a prentice at a 
 playhouse, unless it be to hear his master made a 
 cuckold, and his mistress » whore ! 'Tis ten to 
 one now, but some malicious poet has my character 
 upon the stage within this month. 'Tis a hard 
 matter now that an honest sober man can't sin in 
 private for this plaguy stage. I gave an honest 
 gentleman five guineas myself towards writing a 
 book against it : and it has done no good, we see. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Well, well, master, take courage ; 
 our comfort is, we have lived together, and shall die 
 together : only with this difference, that I have 
 lived like a fool, and shall die like a knave ; and 
 you have lived like a knave, and shall die like a fool. 
 
 Smug. No, sirrah ! I have sent a messenger for 
 my clothes, and shall get out immediately, and 
 shall be upon your jury by and by. — Go to prayers 
 you rogue ! go to prayers ! lExit. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Prayers ! 'tis a hard taking when 
 a man must say grace to the gallows. Ah, this 
 cursed intriguing ! Had I swung handsomely in a 
 silken garter now, I had died in my duty ; but to 
 hang in hemp, like the vulgar, 'tis very nngenteel. 
 
 Enter Tim Errand. 
 
 A reprieve ! a reprieve ! Thou dear, dear — damned 
 rogue, where have you been r thou art the most 
 welcome — son of a whore ! where's my clothes } 
 
 Tim. Sir, I see where mine are : come, sir, 
 strip, sir, strip ! 
 
 Clinch. Sen, What, sir 1 will you abuse a gen- 
 tleman ? 
 
 Tim. A gentleman ! ha ! ha ! ha ! D'ye know 
 where you are, sir ? we're all gentlemen here. 1 
 stand up for liberty and property, Newgate's a. 
 commonwealth. No courtier has business among 
 us. Come, sir ! 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Well, but stay, stay till I send for 
 my own clothes : I shall get out presently. 
 
 Tim. No, no, sir ! I'll ha' you into the dun- 
 geon, and uncase you. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Sir, you can't master me ; for I'm 
 twenty thousand strong. lExeunt struggling. 
 
 SCENE III. — A Boom in Lady Darling's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Sir HARRvWrLDAiB with letterSt^ooiTa&n/ollowing.- 
 
 Sir Har. Here, fly all around, and bear these as 
 directed ; — you to Westminster, you to St. James's, 
 and you into the city. Tell all ray friends a bride- 
 groom's joy invites their presence. Look all of ye 
 like bridegrooms also : all appear with hospitable 
 looks, and bear a welcome in your faces. Tell 'em 
 
 I'm married.' If any ask to whom, make no reply, 
 but tell 'em that I'm married, that joy shall crown 
 the day, and love the night. Begone ! fly ! 
 
 \_Exeunt Footmen running 
 
 Enter Colonel Standahd. 
 A thousand welcomes, friend ! my pleasure s now 
 complete, since I can share it with my friend. 
 Brisk joy shall bound from me to you ; then back 
 again ; and like the sun grow warmer by reflexion ! 
 
 Stand. You're always pleasant, sir Harry ; but 
 this transcends yourself ! whence proceeds it .' 
 
 Sir Har. Canst thou not guess, my friend ? 
 Whence flows all earthly joy ? What is the life of 
 man and soul of pleasure ? — woman ! What fires 
 the heart with transport, and the soul with rap- 
 tures ? — lovely woman ! What is the masterstroke 
 and smile of the creation, but charming, virtuous 
 woman } When nature, in the general composi- 
 tion, first brought woman forth, like a flushed poet 
 ravished with his fancy, with ecstacy she blessed the 
 fair production ! — Methinks, my friend, you relish 
 not my joy ; what is the cauoc .■* 
 
 Stand. Canst thou not guess .' What is the 
 bane of man and scourge of life, but woman ? 
 What is the heathenish idol man sets up, and is 
 damned for worshipping? — treacherous woman. 
 What are those, whose eyes, like basilisks, shine 
 beautiful for sure destruction, whose smiles are 
 dangerous as the grin of fiends, but false, deluding 
 woman ? Woman ! whose composition inverts hu- 
 manity : their body's heavenly, but their souls 
 are clay ! 
 
 Sir Har. Come, come, colonel, this is too much. 
 I know your wrongs received from Lurewell may 
 excuse your resentments against her : but 'tis 
 unpardonable to charge the failings of a single 
 woman upon the whole sex. I have found one, 
 whose virtues — 
 
 Stand. So have I, sir Harry ; I have found one, 
 whose pride's above yielding to a prince. And i/ 
 lying, dissembling, perjury, and falsehood, be no 
 breaches in woman's honour, she's as innocent 
 as infancy. 
 
 Sir Har. Well, colonel, I find your opinion 
 grows stronger by opposition : I shall now there- 
 fore waive the argument, and only beg you for this 
 day to make a show of complaisance at least. — 
 Here comes my charming bride. 
 
 Enter Lady Darling and Angelica. 
 
 Stand. [Saluting Angelica.] I wish yon, ma- 
 dam, all the joys of love and fortune. 
 
 Enter Clincmbr Junior 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Gentlemen and ladies, I'm just 
 upon the spur, and have only a minute to take my 
 leave. 
 
 Sir Har. Whither are you bound, sir .> 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Bound, sir I I'm going to the Jubi- 
 leej sir. 
 
 Lady Dor. Bless me, cousin ! how came you 
 by these clothes ? 
 
 Clinch, Jun. Clothes ! ha ! ha ■ ha ! the rarest 
 jest ! ha ! ha ! ha I I shall burst, by Jupiter Am- 
 mon, I shall burst ! 
 
 Lady Dar. What's the matter, cousin .' 
 
 Clinch, Jun. The matter ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Why, 
 an honest porter — ha ! ha I ha ! — has knocked out 
 my brother's brains, ha ! ha ! ha I 
 
SCENE HI. 
 
 A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 5:!7 
 
 Sir Har. A very good jest, i'faith ! fia ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Clinch. Jan. Ay, sir, but the best jest of all is, 
 he knocked out his brains with a hammer, and so 
 he is as dead as a dooi'-nail, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lady 0<ir. And do you laugh, wretch .' 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Laugh ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — Let me 
 see e'er a younger brother in England that won't 
 laugh at such a jest. 
 
 Angel. You appeared a very sober pious gentle- 
 man some hours ago. 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Psha ! I was a fool then ; but 
 now, madam, I'm a wit : I can rake now. As for 
 your part, madam, you might have had me once ; 
 but now, madam, if you should chance fall to eat- 
 ing chalk, or gnawing the sheets, 'tis none of my 
 fault. Now, madam, 1 have an estate, and I must 
 go to the Jubilee. 
 
 Enter Clincher Senior in a blanket. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Must you so, rogue ! must ye ? — 
 You will go to the Jubilee, will you .' 
 
 Clinch. Jun. A ghost ! a ghost ! — Send for the 
 dean and chapter presently. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. A ghost I no, no, sirrah; I'm an 
 elder brother, rogue ! 
 
 Clinch. Jun. I don't care a farthing for that ; 
 I'm sure you're dead in law. 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Why so, sirrah .' why so ? 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Because, sir, I can get a fellow to 
 swear he knocked out your brains. 
 
 Sir Har, An odd way of swearing a man out of 
 his life ! 
 
 Clinch. Jun. Smell him, gentlemen ; he has a 
 deadly scent about him ! 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Truly, the apprehensions of death 
 may have made me savour a little ! O Lord ! the 
 colonel 1 — The apprehension of him may make me 
 savour worse, I'm afraid. lAside. 
 
 Clitich. Jun. In short, sir, were you ghost, or 
 brother, or devil, I will go to the Jubilee, by Jupiter 
 Ammon ! 
 
 Stand. Go to the Jubilee ! go to the bear-garden ! 
 The travel of such fools as you doubly injures our 
 country ; you expose our native foUies, which ridi- 
 cules us among strangers ; and return fraught only 
 with their vices, which you vend here for fashion- 
 able gallantry. A travelling fool is as dangerous 
 as a homebred villain. Get you to your native 
 plough and cart ; converse with animals like your- 
 selves — sheep and oxen ; men are creatures you 
 don't understand. 
 
 S'r Har. Let 'em alone, colonel, their folly will 
 be now diverting. — Come, gentlemen, we'll dispute 
 this point some other time ; I hear some fiddles 
 tuning, let's hear how they can entertain us. — Be 
 pleased to sit. 
 
 [_Here singing and dancing ; after which a Footman 
 enttre and whispers Sir Harry Wildair. 
 
 Sir Har. [ To Lady Darling.] Madam, sha" 
 I beg you to entertain the company in the next 
 room for a moment .** 
 
 Ladj/ Dar. With all my heart. -^Come, gentle- 
 men. {Exeunt all hut Su- Harrv Wild^iu. 
 
 Sir Har. A lady to inquire for me ! Who can 
 this be ? 
 
 Enter Lady Lurewell. 
 
 Oh, madam, this favour is beyond my expectation, 
 to come uninvited to dance at my wedding ! — What 
 d've jraze at, madam ? 
 
 Lady Lure. A monster ! — If thou art married, 
 thou'rt the most perjured wretch that e'er avouched 
 deceit ! 
 
 Sir Har. Heyday ! why, madam, I'm sure I 
 never swore to marry you ! I made, indeed, 9, 
 slight promise, upon condition of your granting 
 me a small favour ; but you would not consent, 
 you know. 
 
 Lady Lure. [Aaide.'\ How he upbraids me with 
 my shame ! — [Aloud.] Can you deny your binding 
 vows. When this appears a witness 'gainst your 
 falsehood ? {Showing a ring. 
 
 Methinks the motto of this sacred pledge 
 Should flash confusion in your guilty face ! 
 Eead, read here the binding words of love and 
 
 honour; 
 Words not unknown to your perfidious eyes, 
 Thoui»h utter strangers to your treacherous heart ! 
 
 Sir Har. The woman's stark staring mad, that's 
 certain ! 
 
 Lady JjUre, Was it maliciously designed to let 
 me find my misery when past redress? to let ra? 
 know you, only to know you false.' Had not 
 cursed chance showed me the surprising motto, I 
 had been happy. The first knowledge I had of you 
 was fatal to me, and this second worse. 
 
 Sir Har, What the devil's all this ! Madam, 
 I'm not at leisure for raillery at present ; I have 
 weighty affairs upon my hands ; the business of 
 pleasure, madam — any other time — lOoing. 
 
 Lady Lure. Stay, I conjure you, stay ! 
 
 Sir Har. Faith, I can't ! my bride expects me. 
 • — But hark'ee, when the honeymoon is over, about 
 a month or two hence, I may do you a small 
 favour. lExit. 
 
 Lady IfUre. Graijt me some wild expressions, 
 Heavens, or I shall burst ! M'oman's weakness, 
 man's falsehood, my own ghame, and love's dis- 
 dain, at once swell up my breast ! — Words, words, 
 or I shaU burst ! {Going. 
 
 Re-enter Colonel Standard. 
 
 Stand. Stay, madam, you need not shun my 
 sight ; for if you are perfect woman, you have con"- 
 fidence to outface a crime, and bear the charge of 
 guilt without a blush. 
 
 Lady Lure. The charge of guilt ! — What, mak- 
 ing a fool of you .' ■ ve done't, and glory in the 
 act ! the height of female justice were to make you 
 all hang or drown, dissembling to the prejudice of 
 men is virtue ; and every look, or sign, or smile, 
 or tear, that can deceive is meritorious. 
 
 Stand. Very pretty principles truly ! If there 
 be truth in woman, 'tis now in thee. — Come, ma- 
 dam, you know that you're discovered, and being 
 sensible you can't escape, you would now turn to 
 b»y- — That ring, madam, proclaims you guilty. 
 
 Lady Lure. O monster ! villain ! perfidious vil- 
 lain ! has he told you ? 
 
 Stand. I'll tell it you, and loudly too. 
 
 Lady Lure. Oh, name it not ! — Yes, speak it 
 out, 'tis so just « punishment for putting faith in 
 m^an, that I will bear it all ; and let credulous maids, 
 that trust their honour to the tongues of men, thus 
 hear their shame proclaimed. — Speak now what his 
 busy scandal, and your improving malice, both dare 
 utter. 
 
 Stand. Your fal.sehood can't be reached by ma- 
 lice nor by satire; your actions are the justest libel 
 on your fame. Your words, your looks, your tears. 
 
5u8 
 
 THE CONSTANT COUPLE ; OR, 
 
 T did believe in spite of common fame : nay, against 
 my own eyes I still maintained your trutli. I ima- 
 gined Wildair's boasting of your favours to be the 
 pure result of his own vanity. At last he urged your 
 taking presents of him ; as a convincing proof of 
 which you yestefday from him received that ring : 
 — which ring, that I might be sure he gave it, I 
 lent him for that purpose. 
 
 hady Lure. Ha I you lent h^m for that purpose ! 
 
 Stand. Yes, yes, madam, I lent him for that 
 purpose — no denying it. — I know it well, for I 
 have worn it long, and desire you now, madam, to 
 restore it to the just owner. 
 
 Lady Lure. The just owner ! think, sir, think 
 but of what importance 'tis to own it. If you have 
 loye and hondur in your soul; 'tis then most justly 
 yours J if not; you are a robber, and fiave stolen it 
 basely. 
 
 Stand. Ha 1 your words, like meeting flints, have 
 struck a light to show me something strange. — But 
 tell me instantly, is not your real name Manly ? 
 
 Lady Lure. Answer me first, did not you receive 
 this ring about twelve years ago ? 
 
 Stand. I did. 
 
 Lady Lure. And were not you abdut that time 
 entertained two nights at the house of sir Oliver 
 Maply in Oxfordshire ? 
 
 Stand. I was ! I was ! — [Runs to her, and 
 embraces her.^ The blest remembrance fires my 
 soul with transport — I know the rest — you are the 
 charmingshe, and I the happy man. 
 
 Lady Lure. How has blind Fortune stumbled 
 on the right! — But where have you wandered since .* 
 — 'Twas cruel to forsake me. 
 
 Stand. The particula.rs of my fortune were too 
 tedious now ; but to discharge myself from the 
 stain of dishonour, I must tell you, that imme- 
 diately upon my return to the university, my elder 
 brother and I quarrelled. My father, to prevent 
 farther mischief, posts nie away to travel : I writ to 
 you from London, but fear the letter came not to 
 your hands. 
 
 Lady Lure. I never had the least account of 
 you, by letter or otherwise. 
 
 Stand. Three years I lived abroad, and at my 
 return, found you were gone out of the kingdom ; 
 though none could tell me whither. Missing you 
 thus, I went to Flanders, served my king till the 
 peace commenced ; then fortunately going on board 
 at Amsterdam, one ship transported us both to 
 England. At the first sight I loved, though igno- 
 rant of the hidden cause. — You may remember, 
 madam, that talking once of marriage, I told you 
 I was engaged ; to your dear self I meant. 
 
 Lady Lure. Then men are still most generous 
 and brave — and to reward your truth, an estate of 
 three thousand pounds a year waits your accept- 
 ance ; and if I can satisfy you in my past conduct, 
 and the reasons that engaged me to deceive all 
 men, I shall expect the honourable performance of 
 your promise, and that you would stay with me in 
 England. 
 
 Stand. Stay I — not fame nor glory e'er shall part 
 us more. My honour can be nowhere more con- 
 cerned than here. 
 
 Tte-enter Sir Habiiv Wildaib, Angelica, Clincher Senior, 
 and Clincher J unior. 
 
 Oh, sir Harry, Fortune has acted miracles ! The 
 story's strange and tedious, but all amounts to 
 
 this : that woman's mind is charming as her per- 
 son, and I am made a convert too to beauty. 
 
 Sir Har. I wanted only this to make my plea, 
 sure perfect. 
 
 Enter Alderman Smuggler. 
 
 Smug. So, gentlemen and ladies, is my gracious 
 nephew Vizard among ye ? 
 
 Sir Har. Sir, he dares not show his face among 
 such honourable company, for your gracious ne- 
 phew is — 
 
 Smug. What, sir .' have a care what you say- 
 Sir Har, A villain, sir. 
 
 Smug. With all my heart : — I'll pardon you the 
 beating me foi: that very word. And pray, si 
 Harry, when you see him next, tell him this newv 
 from me, that I have disinherited him, that I wii 
 leave him as poor as a disbanded quarter-master. 
 And this is the positive and stiff resolution of three- 
 score and ten ; an age that sticks as obstinately to 
 its purpose, as the old fashion of its cloak. 
 
 Sir Har. \_To Angehca.] You see, madam, 
 bow industriously Fortune has punished his oifence 
 to you. 
 
 Angel. I can scarcely, Sir, reckon it an offence, 
 considering the happy dorisequence of it. 
 
 Smug. O sir Harry, he is as hypocritical — 
 
 Lady Lure. As yourself, Mr. Alderman: how 
 fares my good old nurse, pray sir .' 
 
 Smug. O madam, I shall be even with you before 
 I part with your writings and money, that I have 
 in Tpy hands I 
 
 Stand. A word with you, Mr. Alderman ; do 
 you know this pocket-book .' 
 
 Smug. [Aside. \ O Lord, it contains an account 
 of all my secret practices in trading! — [Aloud.] 
 How came you by it, sir ? 
 
 Stand. Sir Harry here dusted it out of your 
 pocket, at this lady's house yesterday. It contains 
 an account of some secret practices in your mer- 
 chandising ; among the rest the counterpart of an 
 agreeiuent "with a Correspondent at Bordeaux, 
 about transporting French wine in Spanish casks. — 
 First return this lady all her writings, then I shall 
 consider whether I shall lay your proceedings before 
 the parliament or not ; whose justice will never 
 suffer your smuggling to go unpunished. 
 
 Smug. Oh, mj poor ship and cargo ! 
 
 Clinch. Sen. Hark'ee, master, you had as good 
 come along with me to the Jubilee now. 
 
 Angel. Cour , Mr. Alderman, for oo«e let a 
 woman adviag- Would you be thought it honest 
 man, banish covetousnf ss, that worst gout of age ) 
 avarice is a poor pilfering quality of the soul, ao'l 
 will as certainly cheat, as a thief would steal.- .- 
 Would you be thought a reformer of the times, be 
 less severe in your censures, less rigid in your pre- 
 cepts, and more strict in your example. 
 
 Sir Har. Right, madam ; virtue flows freer from 
 imitation than compulsion j of which, colonel, your 
 conversion and mine are just examples. 
 
 In vain are musty morals taught in schools. 
 
 By rigid teachers, and as rigid rules. 
 
 Where virtue with a frowning aspect stands, 
 
 And frights the pupil from its rough commands. 
 
 But woman, — 
 
 Charming woman, can true converts make ; 
 
 We love the precepts for the teacher's sake. 
 
 Virtue in them apjiears so bright, so gay. 
 
 We hear with transport, and with pride obey. 
 
 [Exeunt omnee 
 
A TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 fi39 
 
 EVILOGUE, 
 
 SPOKEN BT MR. WILKS. 
 
 Now all depart, each his respective way, 
 To spend an evening's chat upon the play ; 
 Some to HippoUto's ; one homeward goes, 
 And one with loving she retires to the Rose. 
 The amorous pair in all things frank and free, 
 Perhaps may save the play — in number Threfe. 
 The tearing spark, if Phillis aught gainsays. 
 Breaks the drawer's head, kicks her, and murders 
 
 Bays. 
 To coffee some retreat to save their pockets, 
 Others, more generous, damn the play at Locket's; 
 But there, I hope, the author's fears are vain, 
 Alalice ne'er spoke ill' generous champagne. 
 That poet merits an ignoble deatli. 
 Who fears to fall oyer a brave MontetTi. 
 The privilege of wine we only ask'. 
 You'll taste again before you damn tlie flask. 
 Our author fears not you ; but those he may, 
 Who in cold blood murder a man in tea. 
 Those men of spleen, who fond the world should 
 
 ; know it, 
 Sit down, and for their twopence damn a poet. 
 Their criticism's good, that we can say for't. 
 They understand a play — too welt t6 pay for't. 
 
 From box to sta|>e, from stSge to box thfey run. 
 First Steal the play, theii damn it when they've 
 
 done. 
 But nowi to know what fate may us Ijefidej 
 Among our friends, in Cornhill and Cheapside : 
 But those, I think, have but one rufe foi- jDlays ; 
 They'll say they're good, if so the world says. 
 If it should please them and their spouses know it, 
 "They straight inquire what kind of man's the 
 
 poet. 
 But from side-box we dread a fearfuf doom. 
 All the good-natured beaux are gone to Rome. 
 The ladies' censure I'd almost forgot. 
 Then for a line or two to engage thefr vote : 
 But that way's old, below our author's aim; 
 No less than his vvhole play is compliment to 
 
 them. 
 For their saTces then the play can't miss sufcceeding. 
 Though critics may want wit, they haVe good 
 
 breeding. 
 They won't, I'm sure, forfeit the ladies' graces. 
 By showing their ill-nature to their faces. 
 Our business with good manners may be done. 
 Flitter ffs here, abi". daWn tis when y6ii're gofie. 
 
SIR HARRY WILDAIR; 
 
 BEING THE SEQUEL OF THB 
 
 TRIP TO THE JUBILEE. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 'i'KE EARL OF ALBEMARLE, &c. 
 
 KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDKR OF THE GARTER. 
 
 Mv LtniD, — My pen i» both a novice in poetry, and a stranger at court, and can no more raiae Itaelf to the style o! 
 paneg^ic, than it can Btoop to the art of flattery ; ' but if in the plain an.d simple habit of truth, it may presume to mix 
 with that crowd of followers that daily attend upon your Lordship's favour, please to behold a strangei-, with this 
 difference, that he pays more homage to your worth, than adoration to your greatness. 
 
 This distinction, my Lord, will appear too nice and metaphysical to the world, who know your Lordship's merit and 
 place to be so inseparable, that they can only differ as the cause from the effect ; and this, my Lord, is as much beyond 
 dispute, as that youi royal master, who has made the noble choice, is the most wise and most discerning prince in the 
 universe. 
 
 To present the world with a liyely draught of your Lordship's perfections, I should enuTnerate the judgment, conduct. 
 piety and courage of our great and gracious king, who can only place his favours on thos^ shining qualifications for 
 which his majesty is so eminjently remarkable himself; but this, my Lord, will prove the business of voluminous 
 history, and your Ijordghip's character must attend the fame of your great master in the memoirs of futurity, as your 
 faithful service has hitherto accompanied the noble actions of his life. 
 
 The greatest princes in all ages have had their friends and favourites, with them to communicate and debate their 
 thoughts, so to exercise and ripen their judgments j or sometimes to ease their cares by imparting them. The great 
 Augustus, we read in his project of settling the unwieldy Roman conquests on a fixed basis of government, had the 
 design laid, not in his council, but his closet ; there we find him with his two friends Maecenas and Agrippa, his 
 favourite friends, persons of sound judgment and unquestionable fidelity, there the great question is freely and reason- 
 ably debated, without the noise of faction and constraint of formality ; and there was laid that prodigious scheme of 
 government, that soon recovered their bleeding country, healed the wounds of the civil war, blcbsed the empire with a 
 lasting peace, and styled its monarch, Pater Patria. 
 
 The parallel, my Lord, is easily made ; we have our Cffisar too, no less renowned than the forementioned Augustus ; 
 he first asserted our liberties at home against popery and thraldom, headed our ai'mies abroad with bravery imd success, 
 gave peace to Europe, and security to our religion. And you, my Lord, are his Masccnas, the private counsellor to those 
 great transactions which have made England so formidable to its enemies, that (which I blush to own) it is grown 
 jealous of its friends. 
 
 But here, my Lord, appears the particular wiwiom and circumspection of your Lordship's conduct, that you so firmly 
 retain the favour of your master without the envy of the subject ; your moderation and even deportment between both, 
 has secured to your Lordship the ear of the king, and the heart of the people ; the nation has voted you their good 
 Angel in all suits and petitions to their prince, and their success fills the three kingdoms with daily praises of your 
 Lordship's goodness, and his majesty's grace and clemency. 
 
 And now, my Lord, give me leave humbly to beg, that among all the good actions of your Lordship's high and happy 
 btation, the encouragement of arts and literature may not be solely excluded from the influonco of your favour. The 
 polite Maecenas, whom I presumed to make a parallel to your Lordship in the favour of his prince, had his Virpil imd 
 his Horace, and his time was mostly divided between the emperor and the poet ; he so mimaged his stake of royal 
 favour, that as Augustus made him great, so the Muses fixed him immortal ; and Miiro's excellency, my Lord, will 
 appear the less wonder, when we consider that his pen was so cherished with bounty, and inspired by gratitude. 
 
 Hut I can lay no claim to the merits of so great a person for my access to your Lordship ; I have only this to recom- 
 mend me without art void of rhetoric, that I am a true lover of my king, and pay an unfeigned veneration to all thosb 
 who are his trusty servants and faithful ministers ; which infers that I am, my Lord, with all submission, yom- Lord 
 ship's moKt devoted and most obedient humble servant^ 
 
 G. PARCIUIIAR. 
 
SIR HARRY WlLVAUi. 
 
 541 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sir Harry Wm)AiR. 
 
 Bantbr, Beau, a younger Brother to Sir Harry. 
 
 GoiANEL Standard. 
 
 Captain Firbball, a Naval Officer, Brother to 
 
 Colonel Standard. 
 Mqnsirur ls MARQinK, a sharping Refugee. 
 Clinchkr, the Jubilee-Beau turned Politician. 
 Dicky, Servant to Sir Harry. 
 Shark, Servant to Captain Fireball. 
 
 Lord Bellamy. 
 Remnant, a Tailor 
 
 Lady Lurewell. 
 
 Angelica. 
 Parly. 
 
 Ladies, Chambermaids, Ghost, Bailor, Footmen, 
 &c. 
 
 SCENfe,~LoNDON. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 Our authors have, in most their late Assays, 
 Prologued their own, by damning other plays ; 
 Made great harangues to teach you what was fit 
 To pass for humour and go down for wit. 
 Athenian rules must form an English piece, 
 And Drury-lane comply with ancient Greece. 
 Exactness only, such as Terence writ, 
 Must please our mask'd Lucretias in the pit. 
 Our youthful author swears he cares not a pin 
 ForVossius, Scaliger, Hedelin, or Rapin : 
 He leaves to learned pens such laboured lays. 
 You are the rules by which he writes his plays. 
 From musty books let others take their view, 
 He hates dull reading, but he studies you. 
 First, from you beaux, his lesson is formality, 
 And in your footmen there — most nice morsdity ; 
 To pleasure them his Pegasus must fly, 
 Because they judge, and lodge, three stories high. 
 
 From the front boxes he has pick'd his style, 
 And learns, without a blush, to make *em smile : 
 A lesson only taught us by the fair, — 
 A waggish action, but a modest air. 
 Among his friends here in the pit he reads 
 Some rules that every modish writer needs. 
 He le£Lrns from every Covent-garden critic's face, 
 The modem forms of action, time, and place. 
 The action he's ashamed to name, d'ye see ; 
 The time is seven, the place is number Three. 
 The masks he only reads by passant looks, 
 He dares not venture far into their books. 
 Thus, then, the pit and boxes are his schools, 
 Your air, your humour, his dramatic rules. 
 Let critics censure then, and hiss like snakes, 
 He gains his ends, if his light fancy takes 
 St, James's beaux, and Covent-garden rakes. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I.- The Park. 
 
 Enter Colonel Standard and Captain Fireball meeting. 
 
 Stand. Ha, brother Fireball ! welcome ashore. 
 What, heart whole ? limbs firm, and frigate safe ? 
 
 Fire. All, all, as my fortune and friends could 
 wish. 
 
 Stand. And what news from the Baltic ? 
 
 Fire. Why, yonder are three or four young boys 
 i' th' North, that have got globes and sceptres to 
 play with. They fell to loggerheads about their 
 playthings ; the English came in like Robin Good- 
 fellow, cried Boh ! and made 'em be quiet. 
 
 Stand. In the next place, then, you're to con- 
 gratulate my success. You have heard, I suppose, 
 that I've married a fine lady with a great fortune. 
 
 Fire. Ay, ay ; 'twas my first news upon my 
 landing, that colonel Standard had married the fine 
 lady Lurewell — a fine lady indeed I a very fine 
 lady ! But faith, brother, 1 had rather turn skip- 
 per to an Indian canoe than manage the vessel 
 you're master of. 
 
 Stand. Why so, sir ? 
 
 Fire. Because she'U run adrift with every wind 
 ^hat blows : she's all sail and no ballast. — Shall I 
 
 tell you the character I have heard of a fine lady .' 
 A fine lady can laugh at the death of her husband, 
 and cry for the loss of a lapdog : a fine lady is 
 angry without a cause, and pleased without a rea- 
 son : a fine lady has the vapours all the morning 
 and the colic all the afternoon : the pride of a fine 
 lady is above the merit of an understanding head ; 
 yet her vanity will stoop to the adoration of a 
 peruke : and, in fine, a fine lady goes to church 
 for fashion's sake, and to the basset-table with de- 
 votion ; and her passion for gaming exceeds her 
 vanity of being thought virtuous, or the desire of 
 acting the contrary. — We seamen speak plain, 
 brother. 
 
 Stand. You seamen are like your element, al- 
 ways tempestuous, too ruflling to handle a fine lady. 
 
 Fire. Say you so ? why then, give me thy hand, 
 honest Frank ; and let the world talk on, and be 
 damned ! 
 
 Stand. The world talk, say you ? what does the 
 world talk ? 
 
 Fire.. Nothing, nothing at all. — They only say 
 what's usual upon such occasions : that your wife's 
 the greatest coquette about the nourt, and your wor- 
 ship the greatest cuckold about the city ; that's all. 
 
ii-Z 
 
 SIR HARRY A^LDAIR. 
 
 S'and. How, how, sir ! 
 
 Fire. That she's a coquette, and you a cuckold. 
 
 Stand. She's,an angel in herself, and a paradise 
 to me. 
 
 Fire. She's an Eve in herself and a devil to you. 
 
 Stand. She's all truth and the world a liar. 
 
 Fire. Why then, egad, brother, it shall be so j 
 I'll back again to White's, and whoever dares 
 mutter scandal of my brother and sister, I'll dash 
 his ratafia in's face, and call him a liar. [Bolng. 
 
 Stand. Hold, hold, sir! The world is too 
 strong for us. Were scandal and detraction to be 
 throughly revenged, we must murder all the 
 beaux, and poison ha^f the ladies. Those that have 
 nothing else to say must tell stories : fools over 
 burgundy, and ladies over tea, must have some- 
 thing that's sharp to relish their liguor ; malice is 
 the piquant sauce of such conversation, and with- 
 out it their entertainment would prove mighty 
 insipid. — Now, brother, why should we pretend to 
 quarrel with all mankind i 
 
 Fire. Because that all mankind quarrel with lis. 
 
 Stand. The worst reason in the world. — Would 
 you pretend to devour a ^on because a lion would 
 devour yon ! 
 
 Fire. Yes, if I could. 
 
 Stand. Ay, that's right j if you could ! But 
 since you have neither teeth nor paws for such an 
 encounter, lie quietly down, and perhaps the furious 
 beast may run over you. 
 
 Fire. 'Sdeath, sir ! but, I say, that whoever 
 abuses my brother's wife, though at the back of 
 the king's chair, he's a villain. 
 
 Stand, No, no, brother, that's a contradiction ; 
 there's no such thing as villany at court. Indeed, 
 if the practice of courts were found in a single 
 person, he might be styled villain with a vengeance ; 
 but number and power authorises everything, and 
 turns the villain upon their accusers. In short, sir, 
 every man's morals, like his religion now-a-days, 
 pleads liberty of conscience ; every man's con- 
 science is his convenience, and we know no con- 
 venience but preferment. — As for instance, who 
 would be so complaisant as to thank an officer for 
 his courage, when that's the condition of his pay .' 
 and who can be so ill-natured as to blame a courtier 
 for espousing that which is the very tenure of his 
 livelihood? 
 
 Fire. A very good argument in a very damnable 
 cause ! — But, sir, my business is not with the court, 
 but with you : I desire you, sir, to open your eyes ; 
 at least, be pleased to lend an ear to what I heard 
 just now at the Chocolate-house. 
 
 Stand. Brother ! 
 
 Fire. Well, sir. 
 
 Stand. Did the scandal please you when you 
 heard it .' 
 
 Fire. No 
 
 Stand. Then why should you think it should 
 please me ? Be not more uncharitable to your 
 friends than to yourself, sweet sir : if it made you 
 uneasy, there's no question but it will torment me, 
 who am so much nearer concerned. 
 
 Fire. But would you not be glad to know your 
 enemies ? 
 
 Stand. Psha ! if they abused me they are my 
 frinnds, my intimate friends, my table company, 
 and pot companions. 
 
 Fire. Why then, brother, the devil take all your 
 arquaintance 1 You were so rallied, so torn ! there 
 
 were a hundred ranks of sneering white teeth drawn 
 upon your misfortunes at once ; whi,ih so mangled 
 your wife's reputation, that she can never patch up 
 her honour while she lives. 
 
 Stand. And their teeth were very white, you say ? 
 
 Fire. Very white I blood, sir, I say, they man- 
 gled your wife's reputation. 
 
 Stand. And I say, that if they touch my wife's 
 reputation with nothing but their teeth, her honour 
 will be safe enough. 
 
 Fire. Then you won't hear it ? 
 
 Stand. Not a syllable. Listening after slander, 
 is laying nets for serpents, which, when you have 
 caught, will sting you to death : let 'em spit their 
 venom among themselves, and it hurts nobody. 
 
 Fire. Lord ! Lord ! how cuckoldom and con- 
 tentment go together I — Fy, fy, sir ! consider you 
 have been a soldier, dignified by a noble post ; dis- 
 tinguished by brave actions, an honour to your 
 nation, and a terror to your eneinies. — Hell I that 
 a man who has stormed Namur, should become the 
 jest of a coffee-table ! — The whole house was 
 clearly taken up with the two important questions, 
 whether the colonel was a cuckold or Kid a pirate. 
 
 Stand. This I cannot bear. i,Atide. 
 
 Fire. Ay, (says a sneering coxcomb,) the colonel 
 has made his fortune with a witness ; he has se- 
 cured himself a good estate in this life, and a re- 
 version in the world to come. Then (replies an- 
 other) I presume he's obliged to your lordship's 
 bounty for the latter part of the settlement. There 
 are otliers (says a third) that have played with my 
 lady Lurewell at picquet, besides my lord ; I have 
 capotted her myself two or three times in an 
 evening. 
 
 Stand. O matrimonial patience assist me I 
 
 Fire. Matrimonial patience I matrimonial pes- 
 tilence ! — Shake off these drowsy chains that fetter 
 your resentments. If your wife has wronged ye, 
 pack her off, and let her person be as public as her 
 character,: if she be honest, revenge her quarrel. 
 — I can stay no longer : this is my hour of attend- 
 ance at the Navy Office ; I'll come and dine with 
 you ; in the meantime, revenge ; think on't. [.Exit. 
 
 Stand. How easy is it to give advice, and how 
 difficult to observe it ! If your wife has wronged 
 ye, pack her off. Ay, but how ! The Gospel drives 
 the matrimonial nail, and the law clinches it so 
 very hard, that to draw it again would tear the 
 work to pieces — That her intentions have wronged 
 me, here's a young bawd can witness. 
 
 Enter Par|.y, running across the stage. 
 
 Here, here, Mrs. Parly ; whither so fast ? 
 
 Par, Oh lord ! my master ! — Sir, I was running 
 to mademoiselle Furbelo, the French milliner, for « 
 new burgundy for my lady's head. 
 
 Stand. No, child, you're employed about an old- 
 fashioned garniture for your master's head, if I mis- 
 take not your errand. 
 
 Par. Oh, sir ! there's the prettiest fashion 
 lalely come over ! so airy, so French, and all that ! 
 The pinners are double rufifled with twelve plaits 
 of a side, and open all from the face ; the hair is 
 frizzled all up round the head, and stands as stiff 
 as a bodkin. Then the favourites hang loose upon 
 the temples, with a languishing lock in the middle 
 Then the caul is extremely wide, and over all is a 
 coronet raised very high, and all the lappets behind. 
 ^I must fetch it presently. ICfoing. 
 
SIR HARRy WILDAIR. 
 
 543 
 
 Stand. Hold a little, child ; I must talk with 
 ^yott. 
 
 Par. Another time, sir, my lady stays for it. 
 
 Stand. One question first : — what wages does 
 my wife give you? 
 
 Par. Ten pound a year, sir ; which Gad knows 
 is little enough, considering how I slave from place 
 to place upon her occasions. But, then, sir, my 
 perquisites are considerahle ; I make above two 
 hundred pound a year of her old clothes. 
 
 Stand. [Aside.} Two hundred pound a year by 
 her old clothes ! what then must her new ones cost .'' 
 — [Aloud."] But what do you get by visiting gal- 
 lants and picquet ? 
 
 Par. About a hundred pound more. 
 
 Stand. [Aside.'] A hundred pound more! Now 
 who can expect to find a lady's woman honest, 
 when she gets so much by being a jade ? — [^/o«d.] 
 What religion are you of, Mrs. Parly .' 
 
 Par. 1 can't tell. 
 
 Stand, What was your father ? 
 
 Par. A mountebank. 
 
 Stand. Where were you born ? 
 
 Par. In Holland. 
 
 Stand. Were you ever christened ? 
 
 Par. No. 
 
 Stand. How came that ? 
 
 Par. My parents were Anabaptists : they died 
 before I was dipped ; 1 then forsook their religion^ 
 and ha' got ne'er a new one since. 
 
 Stand. I'm very sorry, madam, that I had not 
 the honour to know the worth of your extraction 
 sooner, that I might have paid you the respect due 
 to your quality. 
 
 Par. Sir, your humble servant. ICurtser/s. 
 
 Stand. Have you any principles ? 
 
 Par. Five hundred. 
 
 Stand. Have you lost your maidenhead.' — [She 
 puts on her mask, and nods.] Do you love money ? 
 
 Par. Yaw, min Heer. 
 
 Stand. Well, Mrs. Parly, now you have been so 
 free with me, I tell you what you must trust to in 
 return : never to come near my house again. Be- 
 gone, monster ! fly ! — Hell and furies ! never 
 christened ! her father a mountebank ! — ■ 
 
 Par. Lord, sir, you need not be so furious. 
 Never christened ! what then ? I may be a very 
 good Christian for all that I suppose. — Turn me 
 off ! sir, you shan't. Meddle with your fellows ; 
 'tis my lady's business to order her women. 
 
 Stand. [Aside.] Here's a young whore for you 
 now ! A sweet companion for my wife ! Where 
 there's such a hellish confidante, there must be 
 damnable secrets. — [Aloud.] Begone, I say ! My 
 wife shall turn you away. 
 
 Par. Sir, she won't turn me away, she shan't 
 turn me away, nor she can't turn me away. Sir, I 
 say, she dare not turn me away. 
 
 Stand. Why, you jade.^ why ? 
 
 Par Because I'm the mistress, not she. 
 
 Stand. You the mistress ! 
 
 Par. Yes, I know all her secrets ; and let her 
 oifer to turn me off if she dares. 
 
 Stand. What secrets do you know .' 
 
 Par. Humph ! — Tell a wife's secrets to ier hus- 
 band! — very pretty, 'faith! — sure, sir, you don't 
 think me such a Jew.' Though I was never chris- 
 tened, I have more religion than that comes to. 
 
 Stand. Are you faithful to your lady for affection 
 or interest ? 
 
 Par. Shall I tell you a christian lie, or a pagan 
 truth ? 
 
 Stand. Come, truth for once. 
 
 Par. Why, then, interest, interest. I have a 
 great soul, which nothing can gain but a great bribe. 
 
 Stand. Well, though thou art a devil, thou art 
 a very honest one. Give me thy hand, wench., 
 Should not interest make you faithful to me as 
 much as to others .' 
 
 Par. Honest to you ! marry for what ? You 
 gave me indeed two pitiful pieces the day you were 
 married, but not a stiver since. One gallant gives 
 me ten guineas, another a watch, another a pair of 
 pendants, a fourth a diamond ring ; and my noble 
 master gives me — his linen to mend. — Faugh ! — 
 I'll tell you a secret, sir : stinginess to servants 
 makes more cuckolds, than ill-nature to wives. 
 
 Stand. And am I a cuckold. Parly ? 
 
 Par. No, faith, not yet ; though in a very fair 
 way of having the dignity conferred upon you very 
 suddenly. 
 
 Stand. Come, girl, you shall be my pensioner ; 
 you shall have a glorious revenue ; for every guinea 
 that you get for keeping of a secret, I'll give you 
 two for revealing it. You shall find a husband 
 once in your life outdo all your gallants in gene- 
 rosity. Take their money, child, take all their 
 bribes : give 'em hopes, make 'em assignations ; 
 serve your lady faithfully, but tell all to me. By 
 which means, she will be kept chaste, you will grow 
 rich, and I shall preserve my honour. 
 
 Par. But what security shall I have for pre- 
 formance of articles ? 
 
 Stand. Ready payment, (;hild. 
 
 Par. Then give me earnest. 
 
 Stand. Five guineas. ZGlves her motuy. 
 
 Par. Are they right? No Gray's-Inn pieces 
 amongst 'em. — All right as my leg. — Now, sir, I'll 
 give you an earnest of my service. Who d'ye think 
 is come to town .'' 
 
 Stand. Who* 
 
 Par. Your old friend, sir Harry Wildair. 
 
 Stand. Impossible ! 
 
 Par. Yes, faith, and as gay as ever. 
 
 Stand. And has he forgot his wife so soon ? 
 
 Par. Why, she has been dead now above a year. 
 — He appeared in the Ring last night with such 
 splendour and equipage, that he eclipsed the beaux, 
 dazzled the ladies, and made your wile dream all 
 night of six Flanders mares, seven French liveries, 
 a wig Uke a cloak, and a hat like a shittlecock. 
 
 Stand. What are a woman's promises and 
 oaths ? 
 
 Par. Wind, wind, sir. 
 
 Stand. When I married her, how heartily did 
 she condemn her light preceding conduct ; and for 
 the future vowed herself a perfect pattern of con- 
 jugal fidelity ! 
 
 Par. She might as safely swear, sir, that this 
 day se'nnight, at four o'clock, the wind will blow 
 fair for Flanders. 'Tis presuming for any of us 
 all to promise for our inclinations a whole week. 
 Besides, sir, my lady has got the knack of coquet- 
 ting it ; and once a woman has got that in her head, 
 she will have a touch on't everywhere else. 
 
 Stand. An oracle, child 1 But now I must make 
 the best of a bad bargain ; and since I have got 
 you on my side, I have some hopes, that by con- 
 stant disappointment and crosses in her designs, 
 may at last tire her into good behaviour. 
 
644 
 
 SIR HARRY VVILDAIR. 
 
 Par. Well, sir, the condition of the artirles being 
 duly performed, I stand to the obligation ; and 
 will tell you farther, that by-and-by sir Harrry 
 Wildair is to come to our house to cards, and that 
 there is a design laid to cheat him of his money. 
 
 Stand. What company will there be besides ? 
 
 Par. Why, the old set at the basset-table j my 
 lady Lovecards and the usual company. They have 
 made up a bank of fifteen hundred louis-d'ors 
 among 'em ; the whole design lies upon sir Har- 
 ry's purse, and the French mdrquis, yon kilow, 
 constantly tallies. 
 
 Stand. Ay, the French marquis ; that's one of 
 your benefactors. Parly ; — the persecution of bas- 
 set in Paris furnished us with that refugee ; but the 
 character of such a fellow ought not to reflect on 
 those who have been real sufferers for their religion. 
 — But take no notice. Be sure only to inform me 
 of all that passes.— There's more earnest for you : 
 be rich and faithful. \_Exit. 
 
 Par. I am now not only woman to the lady 
 Lurewell, but steward to her husband, in my dou- 
 ble capacity of knowiilg her secrets, and command- 
 ing his purse. A very pretty ofBce in a family ! 
 For every guinea that I get for keeping a secret, 
 he'll give me two for revealing it. — My comings-in, 
 at this rate, will be worth a master in chancery's 
 place, and many a poor Templar will be glad to 
 marry me with half my fortune. {.Going. 
 
 Enter Dicky, meeting her. 
 
 Diclcy. Here's a man much fitter for your pur- 
 poses. 
 
 Par. Bless me ! Mr. Dicky ! 
 Dioky. The very same in longitude and latitude ; 
 not a bit diminished, not a hair's breadth increased. 
 — Dear Mrs. Parly give me a buss, for I'm almost 
 starved. 
 
 Par. Why so hungry, Mr. Dicky .' 
 Dicky. Why, I han't tasted a bit this year and 
 half, woman ; I have been wandering about all over 
 the world, following my master, and come home to 
 dear London but two days ago. Now the devil 
 take me, if I had not rather kiss an English pair 
 of pattens, than the finest lady in France. 
 
 Par. Then you're overjoyed to see London again ? 
 Dicky. Oh ! I was just dead of a consumption, 
 till the sweet smoke of Cheapside, and the dear 
 perfume of Fleet-ditch, made me a man again. 
 
 Par. But how came you to live with sir Harry 
 Wildair ? 
 
 Dicky. Why, seeing me a handsome personable 
 fellow, and well qualified for a livery, he took a 
 fancy to my figure, that was all. 
 
 Par. And what's become of your old master ? 
 Dicky. Oh ! hang me, he was a blockhead, and I 
 turned him off, I turned him away. 
 
 Par. And were not you very sorry for the loss 
 of your mistress, sir Harry's lady ? They say, she 
 was a very good woman. 
 
 Dicky. Oh ! the sweetest woman that ever the 
 
 sun shined upon. I could almost weep when I 
 
 think of her. [.Wiping hii eyes. 
 
 Par. How did she din, pray ? 1 could never 
 
 hear how 'twas. 
 
 Dicky. Give me a buss then, and I'll tell ye. 
 Par. You shall have your wages when your 
 work's done. 
 
 Dicky. Well then — courage !— Now for a doleful 
 tale. — You know that my master took a freak to go 
 
 see that foolish Jubilee that made such a noise 
 among Us here ; and no sooner said than done ; 
 away he went, he took his fine French servants to 
 wait on him; and left me, the poor English puppy, 
 to vtrait upon his lady at home here. Well, so far, 
 so good. — But scarce was my master's back turned, 
 when my lady turned to sighing, and pouting, and 
 whining, and crying ; and in short fell sick upon't. 
 Par. Well, well; I know all this already ; and 
 that she plucked up her spirits at last, and went to 
 follow him, 
 
 Dicky. Very well. Follow him we did, far and 
 far, and farther than I can tell, till we came to a 
 place called Montpelier, in France ; a goodly place 
 truly. — But Sir Harry was gone to Rome ; there 
 was our labour lost. — But, to be short, my poor 
 lady, with the tiresomeness of travelling, fell sick 
 — and died. ' ICriei. 
 
 Par. Poor woman ! 
 
 Dicky. Ay, but that was not all: here comes the 
 worst of the story. Those cursed barbarous devils, 
 the French , would not let us bury her. 
 Par. Not bury her ! 
 
 Dicky. No, she was a heretic woman, and they 
 would not let her corpse be put in their holy 
 ground. — Oh, damn their holy ground, for me ! 
 
 Par. [Axide.l Now had not I better be an 
 honest pagan, as I am, than such a christian as one 
 of these ? — {.Aloud.} But how did you dispose the 
 body ? 
 
 Dicky. Why, there was one charitable gentle- 
 woman that used to visit my lady in her sickness : 
 she contrived the matter so, that she had her 
 buried in her own private chapel. This ladv and 
 myself carried her out upon our own shoulders 
 through a back-door, at the hour of midnight, and 
 laid her in a grave that I dug for her with my own 
 hands ; and if we had been catched by the priests, 
 we had gone to the gallows without the benefit of 
 clergy. 
 
 Par. Oh, the devil take 'em ! — But what did 
 they mean by a heretic woman ? 
 
 Dicky. I don't know ; some sort of a cannibal, 
 I believe. I know there are some cannibal women 
 here in England, that come to the playhouses in 
 masks ; but let them have a care how they go to 
 France : for they are all heretics, I believe. But 
 I'm sure my good lady was none of these. 
 Par. But how did sir Harry bear the news ? 
 Dicky. Why, you must know, that my lady after 
 she was buried sent me — 
 
 Par. How ! after she was buried ! 
 Dicky. Psha ! why Lord, mistress, you know 
 what I mean ! I went to sir Harry all the way to 
 Rome ; and where d'ye think I found him ? 
 Par. Where.' 
 
 Dicky. Why, in the middle of a monastery 
 among a hundred and fifty nuns, playing at hot- 
 cockles. He was surprised to see honest Dicky, 
 you may be sure. But when I told him the sad 
 story, he roared out a whole volley of English oaths 
 upon the spot, and swore that he would set fire on 
 the pope's palace for the injury done to his wife. 
 He then flew away to his chamber, locked himself 
 up for three days ; we thought to ha<e found him 
 dead j lyut instead of that, he called for his best 
 linen, fine wig, gilt coach ; and laughing very 
 heartily, swore again he would be revenged, and 
 bid them drive to the nunnery ; and he was re- 
 venged to some purpose. 
 
SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 645 
 
 Par. How, how, dear Mr. Dicky ? 
 
 Dicky. Why, in the matter of five days he got 
 six nuns with child, and left 'em to provide for 
 their heretic bastards. — Ah, plague on 'em ! they 
 hate a dead heretic, but they love a piping hot warm 
 heretic with all their hearts. — So away we came ; 
 and thus did he jog on, revenging himself at this 
 rate through all the Catholic countries that we 
 passed, till we came home ; and now, Mrs. Parly, 
 
 I fancy he has some designs of revenge too upon 
 your lady. 
 
 Par. Who could have thought that a man 
 of his light airy temper would have been so re- 
 vengeful ? 
 
 Dicky. Why, faith, I'm a little malicious too. 
 Where's the buss you promised me, you jade ? 
 
 Par. Follow me, you rogue. [Runs off. 
 
 Dicky. Allons ! iFoUowt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Colonel Standard's 
 House. 
 
 Enter two Chamliennaids. 
 
 1 Cham. Are all things set in order ? the toilet 
 fixed, the bottles and combs put in form, and the 
 chocolate ready ? 
 
 2 Cham. 'Tis no great matter whether they he 
 right or not ; for right or wrong we shall be sure 
 of our lecture j I wish for my part that my time 
 were out. 
 
 1 Cham. Nay, 'tis a hundred to one but we 
 may run away before our time be half expired ; 
 and she's worse this morning than ever. — Here she 
 comes. 
 
 Enter Lady Lukkwell. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay, there's a couple of you indeed ! 
 .^But how, how in the name of negligence could 
 you two contrive to make a bed as mine was last 
 night ? a wrinkle on one side, and a rumple on 
 t'other; the pillows awry, and the quilt askew. I 
 did nothing but tumble about, and fence with the 
 sheets all night long. Oh ! my bones ache this 
 morning as if I had lain all night on a pair of 
 Dutch stairs. — Go, bring chocolate — and, d'ye 
 hear ? be sure to stay an hour or two at least. — 
 [Exeunt Chambermaids.] Well, these English 
 animals are so unpolished ! I wish the persecution 
 would rage a little harder, that we might have 
 more of these French refugees among us. — These 
 wenches are gone to Smyrna for this chocolate 1 — 
 
 Re-enter Chambermaids with chocolate. 
 
 And what made you stay so long ? 
 
 1 Cham. I thought we did not stay at all, 
 madam. 
 
 Lady Lure. Only an hour and a half by the slowest 
 clock in Christendom ! — And such salvers and dishes 
 too ! — The Lard be merciful to me ; what have I 
 committed, to be plagued with such animals .' — 
 Where are my new japan salvers ? — Broke, o' my 
 conscience ! all to pieces, I'll lay pay life on't. 
 
 2 Cham. No, indeed, madam, -iut your hus- 
 band — 
 
 Lady Lure. How ! husband, impudence ! I'll 
 teach you manners ! — [Gives her a box on the ear.] 
 Husband ! Is that your Welsh breeding ? han't 
 the colonel a name of his own ? 
 
 2 Cham. Well then, the colonel. He used 'em 
 this morning, and we han't got 'em since. 
 
 Lady Lure. How, the colonel use my things ! 
 how dare the colonel use anything of mine ? — But 
 his campaign education must be pardoned. — And 
 I warrant they were fisted about among his dirty 
 
 levee of disbanded officers .' — Faugh ! tne very 
 thoughts of them fellows with their eager looks, 
 iron swords, tied-up wigs, and tucked-in cravats, 
 makes me sick as death. — Come, let me see. — 
 [Goes to take the chocolate, and starts back.'] Hea- 
 vens protect me from such a sight ! Lord, girl ! 
 when did you wash your hands last ? And have 
 you been pawing me all this morning with them 
 dirty fists of yours?^— [Runs to the glass.] I must 
 dress all over again. — Go, take it away, I shall 
 swoon else. — Here, Mrs. Monster, call up my 
 tailor. — [Exit First Chambermaid.] And, d'ye 
 hear ? you Mrs. Hobbyhorse, see if the company 
 be come to cards yet. [Exit Second Chamliermaid. 
 
 Re-enter Chambermaid with Rehtnamt. 
 
 Oh, Mr. Remnant ! I don't know what ails these 
 stays you have made me ; but something is the 
 matter, I don't like 'em. 
 
 Rem. I am very sorry for that, madam. But 
 what fault does your ladyship find .' 
 
 Lady Lure. I don't know where the fault lies ; 
 but in short, I don't like 'em ; I can't tell hov/ ; 
 the things are well enough made, but I don't like 
 'em. 
 
 Rem. Are they too wide, madam ? 
 
 Lady Lure. No. 
 
 Rem. Too strait, perhaps ? 
 
 Lady Lure. Not at all I they fit me very well , 
 but — Lard bless me I can't you tell where the fault 
 lies? 
 
 Rem. Why truly, madam, I can't tell. But 
 your ladyship, I think, is a little too slender for 
 the fashion. 
 
 Lady Lure. How ! too slender for the fashion, 
 say you ? 
 
 Rem. Yes, madam ; there's no such thing as a 
 good shape worn among the quality : your fine 
 waists are clear out, clear out, madam. 
 
 Lady Lv/re. And why did you not plump up my 
 stays to the fashionable size ? 
 
 Rem. I made 'em to fit yon, madam. 
 
 Lady Lv/re. Fit me I fit my monkey ! What ! 
 d'ye think I wear clothes to please myself ? Fit 
 me ! fit the fashion, pray ; no matter for me. I 
 thought something was the matter; I wanted of 
 quality-air. Pray, Mr. Remnant, let me have a 
 hulk of quality, a spreading contour. I do remem- 
 ber now, the ladies in the apartments, the birth- 
 night, were most of 'em two yards about. Indeed, 
 sir, if you contrive my things any more with your 
 scanty chambermaid's air, you shall work no more 
 for me. 
 
 Rem, I shall take care to please your ladyship 
 for the future. {.ExiU 
 
 N N 
 
HAd 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 ACT ri. 
 
 Enter Footman. 
 
 Foot. Madam, my master desires — 
 
 Lndy Lure. Hold, hold, fellow ! for Gad's sake, 
 Hold ! If thou touch my clothes with that tobacco- 
 breath of thine, I shall poison the whole drawing- 
 room I Stand at the door pray, and speak. 
 
 [Footman goes to the door and speaks. 
 
 Foot. My master, madam, desires — 
 
 Lady Lure. Oh, hideous! — Now the rascal 
 bellows so loud that he tears my head to pieces ! — 
 [To Chambermaid.] Here, Awkwardness, go take 
 the booby's message, and bring it to me. 
 
 [Chamliermaid goes to the door, whispers, and returns. 
 
 Cham. My master desires to know how your 
 ladyship rested last night, and if you are pleased 
 to admit of a visit this morning. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay. — [Exeunt Chambermaid and 
 Footman.] Why, this is civil ! 'Tis an insupport- 
 able toil, though, for women of quality to model 
 their husbands to good breeding. 
 
 Enter Colonel Standard, 
 Stand. Good-morrow, my dearest angel! how 
 have yott rested last night .' 
 
 Lady Lure. Lard, Lard, colonel ! what a room 
 have you made me here with your dirty feet I — 
 Bless me, sir I will you never be reclaimed from 
 your slovenly campaign-airs ? 'Tis the most un- 
 mannerly thing in nature to make a sliding-bow in 
 a lady's chamber with dirty shoes ; it writes rude- 
 ness upon the boards I 
 
 Stand. [Aside. ] A very odd kind of reception 
 this, truly [^[Aloud.] I'm very sorry, madam, 
 that the offences of my feet should create an aver- 
 sion to my company : but for the future, I shall 
 honour your ladyship's apartment as the Sepulchre 
 at Jerusalem, and always come in barefoot. 
 
 Lady Lure. Sepulchre at Jerusalem ! your com- 
 pliment, sir, is very far-fetched. But your feet 
 indeed have a very travelling air. 
 
 Stand. Come, come, my dear, no serious dis- 
 putes upon trifles; since you know I never contend 
 with you in matters of consequence. You are still 
 mistress of your fortune, and marriage has only 
 made you more absolute in your pleasure, by add- 
 ing one faithful servant to your desires — Come, 
 clear your brow of that uneasy chagrin, and let 
 that pleasing air take place that first ensnared my 
 heart ! I have invited some gentlemen to dinner, 
 whose friendships deserve a welcome look. Let 
 their entertainment show how blessed you have 
 made me, by a plentiful fortune and the love of so 
 agreeable a creature. 
 
 Lady Lure. Your friends. I suppose, are all 
 men of quality ? 
 
 Stand. Madam, they are officers, and men of 
 honour. 
 
 Lady Lure. Officers, and men of honour ! that 
 £s, they will daub the stairs with their feet, stain 
 all the rooms with their wine, talk bawdy to my 
 woman, rail at the parliament, then at one another, 
 fall to cutting of throats, and break all my china. 
 
 Stand. Admitting that 1 kept such company, 
 'tis unkind in you, madam, to talk so severely of 
 my friends. — But my brother, my dear, is just 
 come from his voyage, and will be here to pay his 
 respects to you. 
 
 Lady Lure. Sir, I shall not be at leisure to 
 entertain a person of his Wapping education, I can 
 assure you. 
 
 Enter Parly, and whispers Lady Lc'Rewell. 
 Sir, I have some business with my Woman ; you 
 may entertain your sea-monster by yourself ; you 
 may command a dish of pork and pe^ise, with a 
 bowl of punch, I suppose ; and so, sir, much good 
 may do you.— Come, Parly. IBxit.with Parly. 
 
 Stand. Hell and furies ! 
 
 Enter Captain Fireball. 
 
 Fire. With all my heart.— Where's your wife, 
 brother ? — How now, man, what's the matter .' — 
 Is dinner ready ? 
 
 Stand. No I don't know. — Hang it, I'm sorry 
 
 that I invited you ; for you must know that my 
 wife is very much out of order ; taken dangerously 
 ill of a sudden. So that — 
 
 Fire. Psha ! nothing, nothing but a marriage 
 qualm ; breeding children, or breeding mischief. 
 Where is she, man ? Prithee let me see her ; I long 
 to see this fine lady you have got. 
 
 Stand. Upon my word she's very ill, and can't 
 see anybody. 
 
 Fire. So ill that she can't see anybody ! What, 
 she's not in labour sure ! I tell you, I will see 
 her. — Where is she ? [Looking about. 
 
 Stand. No, no, brother ; she's gone abroad to 
 take the air. 
 
 Fire. What the devil ! dangerous sick, and gone 
 out! So sick that she'll see nobody within, yet 
 gone abroad to see all the world ! — Ay, you have 
 made your fortunes with a vengeance ! — Then, 
 brother, you shall dine with me at Locket's ; I hate 
 these family-dinners, where a man's obliged to, O 
 Lard, madam ! — No apology, dear sir ! — 'Tis very 
 good indeed, madam ! — For yourself, dear madam! 
 — Where, between the rubbed floor under foot, the 
 china in one corner, and the glasses in another, a 
 man can't make two strides without hazard of his 
 life. Commend me to a boy and a bell ; Coming, 
 coming, sir ! Much noise, no attendance, and a 
 dirty room, where I may eat like a horse, drink 
 like a fish, and swear like a devil. Hang your 
 family dinners 1 come along with me. 
 
 Enter Banter, wlio seeing them, seems to retire. 
 
 Stand. Who's that ? Come in, sir. Your busi- 
 ness, pray sir ? 
 
 Ban. Perhaps, sir, it may not be so proper to 
 inform you ; for you appear to be as great a stranger 
 here as myself. 
 
 Fire. Come, come away, brother ; he has some 
 business with your wife. 
 
 Ban. His wife ! Gadso ! a pretty fellow, a very 
 pretty fellow, a likely fellow, and a handsome fel- 
 low ; I find nothing like a monster about him ; I 
 would fain see his forehead though. — Sir, your 
 humble servant. 
 
 Stand. Yours, sir. — But why d'ye stare so in 
 my face .■' 
 
 Ban. I was told, sir, that the lady Lurewell'a 
 husband had something very remarkable over his 
 eyes, by which he might be known. 
 
 Fire. Mark that, brother ! 
 
 [Aside to Colonel Standarix 
 
 Stand. Your information, sir, was right ; I have 
 a cross cut over my left eye that's very remarkable. 
 But pray, sir, by what marks are you to be known? 
 
 Ban. Sir, I am dignified and distinguished by 
 the name and title of beau Banter; I'm younger 
 brother to sir Harry Wildair; and I hope to inherit 
 
SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 fi47 
 
 his estate with his hum^r ; for his wife, I'm told, 
 is dead, and has left do child. 
 
 Stand. Oh, sir! I'm yom- very humble servant; 
 you're not unlike your brother in the face ; but 
 methinks, sir, you don't become his humour alto- 
 gether so well; for what's nature in him looks like 
 affectation in you. 
 
 Ban. Oh, Lard, sir ! 'tis j-ather nature in me 
 what is acquired by him ; he's beholding to his 
 education for his air. Now where d'ye think my 
 humour was estabhshed ? 
 
 Stand. Where.' 
 
 Ban. At Oxford. 
 
 Stand. Fire. At Oxford ! 
 
 Ban. Ay ; there have I been sucking my dear 
 Alma Mater these seven years : yet, in defiance to 
 legs of mutton, small beer, crabbed books, and 
 sour-faced doctors, I can dance a minuet, court a 
 mistress, play at picqnet, or make a paroli, with 
 any Wildair in Christendom. In short, sir, in 
 spite of the university, I'm a pretty gentleman. — 
 Colonel, Where's your wife? 
 
 Fire. [Mimicking Banter.] In spite of the 
 university I'm a pretty gentleman ; — then. Colonel, 
 where is your wife ? — Hark ye, young Plato, whe- 
 ther would you have your nose slit or your ears 
 cut? 
 
 Ban. First tell me, sir, which will you choose, 
 to be run through the body, or shot through the 
 head ? 
 
 Fire. FoUow me, and I'll tell ye. 
 
 Ban. Sir, my servants shall attend ye, if you 
 have no equipage of your own. 
 
 Fire. Blood, sir ! 
 
 Stand. Hold, brother, hold ! he's a boy. 
 
 Ban. Look ye, sir, I keep half-a-dozen footmen 
 that have no business upon earth but to answer 
 impertinent questions ; now, sir, if your fighting 
 stomach can digest these six brawny fellows for a 
 breakfast, their master, perhaps, may do you the 
 favour to run you through the body for a dinner. 
 
 Fire. Sirrah, will you fight me ? I received just 
 now six months' pay, and by this light, I'll give 
 you the half on't for one fair blow at your scull. 
 
 Ban. Down with your money, sir. 
 
 Stand, No, no, brother ; if you are so free of your 
 pay, get into the next room, there you'll find some 
 company at cards, I suppose ; you may find oppor- 
 tunity for your revenge ; my house protects him 
 now. 
 
 Fire. Well, sir, the time will come. lExit. 
 
 Ban. Well said, brazen-head ! 
 
 Stand. 1 hope, sir, you'll excuse the freedom of 
 this gentleman ; his education has been among 
 the boisterous elements, the wind and waves. 
 
 Ban. Sir, I value neither him, nor his wind and 
 waves neither ; I'm privileged to be very imperti- 
 nent, being an Oxonian, and obliged to fight na 
 man, being a beau. 
 
 Stand. 1 admire the freedom of your condition. 
 — But, pray, sir, have you seen your brother since 
 he came last over ? 
 
 Ban. I han't seen my brother these seven years, 
 and scarcely heard from him but by report of 
 others. About a month ago he was pleased to 
 honour me with a letter from Paris, importing his 
 design of being in London very soon, with a desire 
 of meeting me here. Upon this, I changed my cap 
 and gown for a long wig and sword, and came up 
 to London to attend him, went to his house, but 
 
 that was all in sables for the death of his wife ; 
 there I was told, that he designed to change his ha- 
 bitation, because he would avoid all remembrances 
 that might disturb his quiet. You are the lir.«;t 
 person that has told me of his arrival, and I expect 
 that you may likewise inform me where to wait ca 
 him. 
 
 Stand. And I suppose, sir, this was the busineis 
 that occasioned me the honour of this visit ? 
 
 Ban. Partly this, and partly an affair of greater 
 consequence. You must know, sir, that though [ 
 have read ten thousand lies in the university, yet I 
 have learned to speak the truth myself ; and to deal 
 plainly with you, the honour of this visit, as you 
 were pleased to term it, was designed to the larly 
 Lurewell. 
 
 Stand. My wife, sir ! 
 
 Ban. My lady Lurewell, I say, sir. 
 
 Stand. But I say my wife, sir. — What ! — 
 
 Ban. Why, look ye, sir ; you may have the 
 honour of being called the lady Lurewell's hus- 
 band ; but you will never find in any author, either 
 ancient or modem, that she's called Mr. Standard's 
 wife. 'Tis true, you're a handsome young fellow : 
 she liked you, she married you ; and though the 
 priest made you both one flesh, yet there's no small 
 distinction in your blood. You are still a disbanded 
 colonel, and she is still a woman of quality, I 
 take it. 
 
 Stand. And you are the most impudent young 
 fellow I ever met with in all my Ufe, I take it. 
 
 Ban. Sir, I'm a master of arts, and 1 plead the 
 privilege of my standing. 
 
 Enter Footman, and whispers Bantbr. 
 Foot. Sir, the gentleman in the coach below 
 says, he'll be gone unless you come presently. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Ban. I had forgot. — Colonel, your humble ser- 
 vant. 
 
 Stand. Sir, you must excuse me for not waiting 
 on you downstairs. — [Exit Banter.] An impudent 
 young dog. iExit. 
 
 SCENE II. — Another Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Lady Lurewell, Ladies, Marquis, and Captain 
 Fireball, as losing gamesters, one after another, tearing 
 their cards, and Jlinging them about the room. Parly 
 and several Footmen attending. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ruined ! undone ! destroyed ! 
 
 1 Lady. O Fortune ! Fortune ! Fortune ! 
 
 2 Lady. What will my husband say ? 
 Marq. Oh malheur ! malheur ! malheur ! 
 Fire. Blood and fire, I have lost six months' 
 
 pay! 
 
 Marq. A hundred and ten pistoles, sink me ! 
 
 Fire-. Sink you ! sink me, that have lost two 
 hundred and ten pistoles. — Sink you, indeed ! 
 
 Lady Lure. But why would you hazard the 
 bank upon one card ? 
 
 Marq. Because me had lose by de card tree 
 times before. — Look, dere madame, de very next 
 card had been our. Oh morbleu ! que ga ? 
 
 Lady Lure. I relied altogether on your setting 
 the cards ; you used to taille with success. 
 
 Marq. Morbleu, madame ! me nevre lose before : 
 but that monsieur sir Arry, dat chevalier Wildair is 
 de devil. — Vere is de chevalier ? 
 
 Lady Lure. Counting our money within yonder. 
 N N 2 
 
648 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 Go, go, begone ! and bethink yourself of some re- 
 venge. — lExit Marquis.] Here he comes. 
 Enter Sir Harry Wildair. 
 
 Sir Har. Fifteen hundred and seventy louis- 
 d'ors 1 — Tall dall de rail.- [Sings.] Look ye, 
 gentlemen, anybody may dance to this tune ; — tall 
 dall de rail. I dance to the tune of fifteen hundred 
 pound, the most elevated piece of music that ever 
 I heard in my life ; they are the prettiest castanets 
 in the world. — {Chinks the money.] Here, waiters, 
 
 there's cards and candles for you [Gives the 
 
 Footmen money.] Mrs. Parly, — here's hoods and 
 scarfs for you. [Gives her money. — Exeunt Pably 
 and Footmen.] And here's fine coaches, splendid 
 equipage, lovely women, and victorious burgundy 
 for me. — Oh, ye charming angels ! the loser's 
 sorrow and the gainer's joy : get ye into my 
 pocjset. — Now, gentlemen and ladies, I am your 
 humble servant. — You'll excuse me, I hope ; the 
 small devotion here that I pay to my good fortune. 
 — How now ! mute I— Why, ladies, I know that 
 losers have leave to speak ; but I don't find that 
 they're privileged to be dumb. — Monsieur ! ladies ! 
 captain ! [Claps Captain Pjrbball on the shoulder. 
 
 Fire. Death and hell ! why d'ye strike me, 
 sir ^ {^Drawing. 
 
 Sir Har. To comfort you, sir. — Your ear, 
 captain. — The king of Spain is dead. 
 
 Fire. The king of Spain dead ! 
 
 Sir Har. Dead as Julius Caesar ; I had a letter 
 on't just now. 
 
 Fire. Tall dall de rail ! — [Sings.] Look ye, sir, 
 pray strike me again if you please. — See here, sir, 
 you have left me ')ut one solitary guinea in the 
 world. — [Puts it in his mouth.] Down it goes 
 i'faith !— AUons for the Thatched House and the 
 Mediterranean ! — Tall dall de rail ! l^xit singing. 
 
 Sir Har. Ha! ha! ha! — Bravely resolved, 
 captain ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Bless me, sir Harry ! I was afraid 
 of a quarrel. I'm so much concerned — 
 
 Sir Har. At the loss of your money madam. 
 But why, why should the fair be afflicted .' 
 Y'our eyes, your eyes, ladies, 
 Much brighter than the sun, have equal power 
 
 with him. 
 And can transform to gold whate'er they please. 
 The lawyer's tongue, the soldier's sword, 
 The courtier's flattery, and the merchant's trade, 
 Are slaves that dig the golden mines for you. 
 Your eyes untie the miser's knotted purse. 
 
 ITo one Lady. 
 Melt into coin the magistrate's massy chain. 
 Youth mints for you hereditary lands. 
 
 [To another Lady. 
 
 And gamesters only win when they can lose to you. 
 
 [_To Lady Lurewell. 
 
 — This luck is the most rhetorical thing in nature ! 
 
 Lady Lure. I have a great mind to forswear 
 cards as long as I live. 
 
 1 Lady. And I. lExit. 
 
 2 Lady. And I. LExit crying. 
 Sir Har. What, forswear cards ! why, madam, 
 
 you'll ruin our trade. — I'll maintain, that the 
 money at court circulates more by the basset- 
 bank, than the wealth of the merchants by the 
 bank of the city. 
 
 Cards I the great ministers of Fortune's power ; 
 That blindly shuffle out her thoughtless favours, 
 And make a knave more powerful than a king. 
 
 What adoration do these powers receive 
 
 iLi/tinp up a card. 
 From the bright hands and fingers of the fair, 
 Always lift up to pay devotion here ! 
 And then the pleasing fears, the anxious hopes, 
 And dubious joy that entertain our mind ! — 
 The capot at picquet, the paroli at basset ; — and 
 then ombre ! who can resist the charms of mata- 
 dores .' 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay, sir Harry ; and then the Sept 
 le va I Quinze le va ! and Trente le va ! 
 
 Sir Har. Kight, right, madam ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Then the nine of diamonds at 
 comet, three fives at cribbage, and pam in lan- 
 teraloo, sir Harry ! 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, madam, these are charms indeed. 
 Then the pleasure of picking your husband's pocket 
 overnight to play at basset next day ! Then the 
 advantage a fine gentleman may make of a lady's 
 necessity, by gaining a favour for fifty pistoles, 
 which a hundred years' courtship could never have 
 produced. 
 
 Lady Lure. Nay nay, sir Harry, that's foul play. 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, nay, madam, 'tis nothing but the 
 game ; and I have played it so in France a hundred 
 times. 
 
 Lady Liire. Come, come, sir, no more on't. I'll 
 tell you in three words, that rather than forego my 
 cards, I'U forswear my visits, fashions, mymonkey, 
 friends, and relations. 
 
 Sir Har. There spoke the spirit of true-born 
 English quality, with a true French education ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Look ye, sir Harry, I am well-born, 
 and I was well bred; 1 brought my husband a 
 large fortune ; he shall mortgage, or I will elope. 
 
 Sir Har. No, no, madam ! there's no occasion 
 for that. See here, madam ! 
 
 Lady Lure. What, the singing-birds, sir Harry 1 
 Let me see. 
 
 Sir Har. Pugh, madam, these are but a few ! — 
 But I could wish, de tout mon cosur pour quelque 
 commodity, where I might be handsomely plundered 
 of 'em. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ah, chevalier, toujours obligeant, 
 engageant, et tout fa ! 
 
 Sir Har. Allans, allons, madame ! tout a votre 
 service. [_Pulls her. 
 
 Lady Lure. No, no, sir Harry, not at this time 
 o' day ; you shall hear from me in the evening. 
 
 Sir Har. Then, madam, I'll leave you some- 
 thing to entertain you the while. 'Tis a French 
 pocket-book, with some remarks of my own upon 
 the new way of making love. Please to peruse it, 
 and give me your opinion in the evening. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Lure. [Opening the hook.] A French 
 pocket-book, with remarks upon the new way of 
 making love ! Then sir Harry is turning author, 
 I find.— What's here .'-Hi! hi! hi 1 « bank-bill 
 for a hundred pound. — The new way of making 
 love ! — Pardie, e'est fort galant ! — One of the pret- 
 tiest remarks that ever I saw in all my life ! Well 
 now, that Wildair's a charming fellow — Hi I hi ! 
 hi I — He has such an air, and such a turn in what 
 he does ! I warrant now, there's a hundred home- 
 bred blockheads would come — Madam, I'll give 
 you a hundred guineas if you'll let me — Faugh 1 
 hang their nauseous immodest proceedings !-~- 
 Here's a hundred pound now, and he never names 
 the thing : I love an impudent action with an air 
 of modesty with all my heart. IBxit. 
 
SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 640 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Colonel Standard's 
 House, 
 
 Xady LuRB\v£LL and Mai'quis. 
 
 Lady Lure. Well, monsieur, and have you 
 thought "how to retaliate your ill fortune ? 
 
 Marq. Madame, I have tought dat Fortune he 
 one hiind bitch. Why should Fortune be kinder 
 to de A.nglis chevalier dan to de France marquis ? 
 Ave I not de bon grace? Ave I not de personage? 
 Ave I not de understanding ? Can de Anglis che- 
 valier dance bettre dan I ? Can de Anglis cheva- 
 lier fence bettre dan I ? Can de Anglis jchevalier 
 play basset bettre dan I ? Den vphy should Fortune 
 be kinder to de Anglis chevalier dan de France 
 marquis ? 
 
 Lady Lure. Why ? because Fortune is blind. 
 
 Marq. Blind ! yes begar, and dumb and deaf 
 too. — Veil den, Fortune give de Anglisman de 
 riches, but nature give de Franceman de politique 
 to correct de unequal distribution. 
 
 Lady Lure. But how can you correct it, mon- 
 sieur ? 
 
 Marq, Ecoutej madame. Sir Arry Wildair his 
 vife is dead. 
 
 Lady Lure. And what advantage can you make 
 of that ? 
 
 Marq. Begar, madame — hi ! hi ! hi !— de An- 
 glisman's dead vife aall cuckol her husband. 
 
 Lady Lure. How, how, sir, a dead woman cuck- 
 old her husband ! 
 
 Marq. Mark, madame. We Francemen make 
 a de distinction between de design and de term of 
 de treaty. — She canno touch his head, but she can 
 cuckol his pocket of ten tousan livres. 
 
 Lady Lure. Pray explain yourself, sir. 
 
 Marq. 1 have sir Arry Wildair his vife in my 
 pocket. 
 
 Lady Lure. How, sir Harry's wife in your 
 pocket ! 
 
 Marq. Hold, madame ; dere is an autre distinc- 
 tion between de design and de term of de treaty. 
 
 Lady Lure. Pray, sir, no more of your dis- 
 tinctions, but speak plain. 
 
 Marq. Wen de Franceman's politique is in his 
 head, dere is noting but distinction upon his tongue. 
 - — See here, madame ! I ave de picture of sir Arry's 
 vife in my pocket. 
 
 Lady Lure. Is' t possible? 
 
 Marq. Voyez ! 
 
 Lady Lure. The very same, and finely drawn. 
 Pray, monsieur, how did you purchase it? 
 
 Marq. As me did purchase de picture, so me 
 did gain de substance, de dear, dear substance, by 
 de bon mien, de France air, chantant, charmant de 
 politique a la tSte, and dan^ant k la pied. 
 
 Lady Lure. Lard bless met! how cunningly 
 some women can play the rogue! Ah.! have I 
 found it out ! Now, as 1 hope for mercy, I'm glad 
 on't. I hate to have any woman more virtuous 
 than myself. — Here was such a work with my lady 
 Wildair's piety ! my lady Wildair's conduct ! and 
 my lady Wildair's fidelity, forsooth ! — Now, dear 
 monsieur, you have infallibly told me the best news 
 
 that I ever heard in my life. Well, and she was 
 but one of us ! eh ? 
 
 Marq, Oh, madam ! me no tell tale, me no scan- 
 dalise de dead ; de picture be dumb, de picture say 
 noting. 
 
 Lady Lure. Come, come, sir, no more distinc- 
 tions ; I'm sure it was so. I would have given the 
 world for such a story of her while she vpas living. 
 She was charitable, forsooth ! and she was devout, 
 forsooth ; and everybody was twitted i' th' teeth 
 with my lady Wildair's reputation : And why don't 
 you mark her behaviour, and her discretion ? She 
 goes to church twice a-day. — Ah ! I hate these 
 congregation- women. There's such a fuss and such 
 a clutter about their devotion, that it makes more 
 noise than all the bells in the parish. — Well, but 
 what advantage can you make now of the pidture ? 
 
 Mo/rq. De advantage of ten tousand livres, par- 
 die ! — Attendez vouz, madame. Dis lady she die 
 at Montpelier in France : I have de broder in dat 
 city dat write m^ one account dat she die in dat 
 city, and dat she send me dis picture as a legacy, 
 wid a tousand baise-mains to de dear marquis, de 
 charmant marquis, raon coeur le marquis. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay, here was devotion ! here was 
 discretion ! here was fidelity ! Mon coeur le mar- 
 quis ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, but how will this pro- 
 cure the money ? 
 
 Marq. Now, madam, for de France politique. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay, what is the French politic .'' 
 
 Marq. Never to tell a secret to ». voman. — 
 Madame, je suis votre serviteur. [Runs off. 
 
 Lady Lure. Hold, hold, sir ; we shan't part so ; 
 I will have it, \_FoUou3S. 
 
 Enter Colonel Standard and Captain Fireball. 
 
 Fire. Ha ! Look I look ! Look ye there, bro- 
 ther ! See how they coquette it ! Oh ! there's a 
 look ! there's a simper ! there's a squeeze for you ! 
 Ay, now the marquis is at it. Mon cosur^ mafoi^ 
 pardie., allons ! — Don't you see how the French 
 rogue has the head, and the feet, and the hands, 
 and the tongue, all going together .'' 
 
 Stand. [ Walking in disorder.'\ Where's my rea- 
 son ? where's my philosophy.'' where's my religion 
 now? 
 
 Fire. I'll tell you where they are, in your fore- 
 head, sir. — Blood ! I say, revenge ! 
 
 Stand. But how, dear brother? 
 
 Fire. Why, stab him, stab him now. — Italian, 
 Spaniard, I say. 
 
 Stand. Stab him ! why, cuckoldora's a hydra 
 that bears a thousand heads ; and though I should 
 cut this one off, the monster still would sprout. 
 Must I murder all the fops in the nation ? and to 
 save my head from horns, expose my neck lo the 
 halter ? 
 
 Fire. *Sdeath, sir, can't you kick and cufF.^ — 
 Kick one. 
 
 Stand. Cane another. 
 
 Fire. Cut off the ears of a third. 
 
 Stand, Slit the nose of a fourth. 
 
 Fire. Tear cravats. 
 
 Stand. Burn peruses. 
 
 Fire. Shoot their coach-horses. 
 
 I 
 
550 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR 
 
 Stand. A noble plot ! — But now it's laid, how- 
 shall we put it in execution ? for not one of these 
 fellows stirs about without his garde-du-corps. 
 Then they're stout as heroes ; for I can assure you, 
 that a beau with six footmen shall fight you any 
 gentleman in Christendom. 
 
 Enter Footman. 
 
 Foot. Sir, here's Mr. Clincher below, who begs 
 the honour to kiss your hand. 
 
 Staitd. Ay, why here's another beau. 
 
 Fire. Let him come, let him come ; I'll show 
 you how to manage a beau presently. 
 
 Stand. Hold, hold, sir ; this is a simple inoffen- 
 sive fellow, that will rather make us diversion. 
 
 Fire. Diversion ! ay. Why, I'll knock him 
 down for diversion. 
 
 Stand. No, no ; prithee be quiet ; I gave him a 
 surfeit of intriguing some months ago before I was 
 married. — Here, bid him come up. — \^£xit Foot- 
 man.] He's worth your acquaintance, brother. 
 
 Fhe. My acquaintance I what is he ? 
 
 Stand. A fellow of a strange weathercock-head, 
 very hard, but as light as the wind ; constantly full 
 of the times, and never fails to pick up some hu- 
 mour or other out of the public revolutions, that 
 proves diverting enough. Some time ago he had 
 got the travelling maggot in his head, and was 
 going to the Jubilee upon all occasions : but lately 
 since the new revolution in Europe, another spirit 
 has possessed him, and he runs stark mad after 
 news and politics. 
 
 Enter Clincher. 
 
 Clinch. News, news, colonel, great ! — Eh ! 
 what's this fellow ? Methinks he has a kind of 
 suspicious air. — Your ear, colonel. — The pope's 
 dead. 
 
 Stand. Where did you hear it ? 
 
 Clinch. I read it in the public news. IWhispering. 
 
 Stand. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! — And why d'ye whisper 
 it for a secret .' 
 
 Clinch. Odso ! faith, that's true. — But that fel- 
 low there, what is he ? 
 
 Stand. My brother Fireball, just come home from 
 the Baltic. 
 
 Clinch. Odso ! — Noble captain, I'm your most 
 humble and obedient servant, from the poop to the 
 forecastle. — Nay, a kiss o' t'other side, pray. — Now, 
 dear captain, tell us the news. — Odso I I'm so 
 pleased I have met you ! Well, the news, dear 
 captain. — You sailed a brave squadron of men-of- 
 war to the Baltic. — Well, and what then ? eh ? 
 
 Fire. Why, then — we came back again. 
 
 Clinch. Did you, faith ? — Foolish ! foolish ! very 
 foolish ! — a right sea-captai-n. — But, what did you 
 do ! how did you fight'? what storms did you 
 meet ? and what whales did you see .' 
 
 Fire. We had a violent storm off the coast of 
 Jutland. 
 
 Clinch. Jutland ! Ay, that's part of Portugal. 
 
 Well, and so ; — you entered the Sound ; — and 
 
 you mauled Copenhagen, faith. — And then that 
 pretty, dear, sweet, pretty king of Sweden ! what 
 sort of man is he, pray ? , 
 
 Fire. Why, tall and slender. 
 
 Clinch. Tall and slender ! Much about my 
 pitch 'f eh ! 
 
 Fire. Not so gross, nor altogether 60 low. 
 I Clinch. No 1 I'm sorry for'tj very sorry indeed ! 
 
 Enter Parly to the door ; Clincher beckons her with his 
 hands behind going backwards, and speaking to her and 
 the gentlemen by turns. 
 
 Well, and what more.' And so you bombarded 
 Copenhagen. — Mrs. Parly ! — Whiz ! slap went the 
 bombs. — Mrs. Parly ! — And so, well, not altoge- 
 ther so gross, you say ? — Here's a letter, you jade I 
 — Very tall, you say ? is the king very tall .' — Here's 
 a guinea, you jade ! — [Pakly takes the letter, and 
 exit; Colonel Standard observes him.'\ Hem I 
 hem ! colonel, I'm mightily troubled with the 
 
 phthisic of late Hem ! hem ! a strange stoppage 
 
 of my breast here : hem ! but now it is off again. 
 — Well, but, captain, you tell us no news at all. 
 
 Fire. I tell you one piece that all the world 
 knows, and still you are a stranger to it. 
 
 Clinch. Bless me ! what can this be ? 
 
 Fire. That you are a fool. 
 
 Clinch. Eh ! witty, witty sea-captain. Odso ! 
 and I wonder, captain, that your understanding 
 did not split your ship to pieces. 
 
 Fire. Why so, sir ? 
 
 Clinch. Because, sir, it is so very shallow, very 
 shallow. There's wit for you, sir — 
 
 JU-enter Parly, and gives Colonel Standard a letter. 
 
 Odso ! a letter ! then, there's news What, is it 
 
 the foreign post ? — What news, dear colonel, what 
 news." — Hark ye, Mrs. Parly. 
 
 [Talks with Parlv while Colonel Standard reads the 
 letter. 
 
 Stand. The son of a whore ! is it he ? [Reads. 
 Dear Madam, 
 
 1 was afraid to break open the seal of your 
 letter, lest I should violate the work of your fair 
 hands. — Oh, fulsome fop ! — i, therefore, with the 
 warmth of my kisses thawed it asunder. — Ay, 
 here's such a turn of style as takes a fine lady I — 
 / have no news but that the pope's dead, and I 
 have some packets upon that affair to send to my 
 correspondent in Wales ; but I shall waive all 
 business, and hasten to wait on you at the hour 
 appointed, with the wings of a Flying Post, yours, 
 Toby Clincher. 
 
 Very well, Mr. Toby. — Hark ye, brother, this 
 fellow's a rogue. 
 
 Fire. A damned rogue I 
 
 Stand. See here ! a letter to my wife ! 
 
 Fire. 'Sdeath ! let me tear him to pieces. 
 
 Stand. No, no ; we'll manage him to more 
 advantage. Take him with you to Locket's, and 
 invent some way or other to fuddle him. — Here, 
 Mr. Clincher, I have prevailed on my brother here 
 to give you a very particular account of the whole 
 voyage to the Sound by his own journal, if you 
 please to honour him with your company at 
 Locket's. 
 
 Clinch. His own journal ! Odso, let me see it. 
 
 Stand. Show it him. 
 
 Fire. Here, sir. 
 
 Clinch. Now for news. — [Reads.] Thursday, 
 Aui/ust the nth, from the 6th noon to this day 
 noon, winds variable, courses per traverse, true 
 course protracted, with all impediments allowed, 
 is north 45 degrees, west 60 miles, difference of 
 latitude 42 miles, departure west 40 miles, latitudt 
 per judgment 54 degrees 13 minutes meridian 
 distance current from the bearing of the land, and 
 the latitude is 88 miles. — Odso ! great news, faith. 
 — IjCt me see — At noon broke our maintopsail- 
 
SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 561 
 
 pard, being rotten in the slings ; two whales 
 southward. — Odso I a whale ! great news, faith. — 
 Come, come along, captain. — But d'ye hear ? With 
 this proviso, gentlemen, that I won't drink ; for, 
 hark ye, captain, between you and I, there's a fine 
 lady in the wind, and I shall have the longitude 
 and latitude of a fine lady, and the — 
 
 Fire. A fine lady ! ah the rogue ! lAside. 
 
 Clinch. Yes, a fine lady, colonel, a very fine 
 
 lady. Come, no ceremony, good captain. 
 
 lExit with Captain Fireball. 
 
 Stand. Well, Mrs. Parly, how go the rest of our 
 affairs ? 
 
 Par. Why, worse and worse, sir ; here's more 
 mischief still, more branches a sprouting. 
 
 Stand. Of whose planting, pray ? 
 
 Par. Why, that impudent young rogue, sir 
 Harry Wildair's brother, has commenced his suit, 
 and fee'd counsel already. — Look here, sir, two 
 pieces, for which, by article, 1 am to receive four. 
 
 Stand. \_Aside.'\ 'Tis a hard case now, that a 
 man must give four guineas for the good news of 
 his dishonour ! Some men throw away their money 
 in debauching other men's wives, and I lay out mine 
 to keep my own honest ; — but this is making a 
 man's fortune ! — \_Aloud,'\ Well, child, there's 
 your pay ; and I expect, when I come back, a true 
 account how the business goes on. 
 
 Par. But suppose the business be done before 
 you come back ? 
 
 Stand. No, no ; she han't seen him yet ; and her 
 pride will preserve her against the first assaults. 
 Besides I shan't stay. lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Another Room in the same. 
 Enter Sir Harry Wildaib and Lady Lurewell. 
 
 Lady Lure. Well now, sir Harry, this book you 
 gave me ! As I hope to breathe, I think 'tis the 
 best penned piece I have seen a great while ; I don't 
 know any of our authors have writ in so ilorid and 
 genteel a style. , 
 
 Sir Har. Upon the subject, madam, I dare 
 affirm there is nothing extant more moving. — Look 
 ye, madam, I am an author rich in expressions ; 
 The needy poets of the age may fill 
 Their works with rhapsodies of flames and dar.ts. 
 Their barren sighs and tears, their speaking looks 
 And amorous vows, that might in Chaucer's time. 
 Perhaps, have pass'd for love ; but now 
 'Tis only such as I can touch that noble passion, 
 And by the true, persuasive eloquence, 
 Turn'd in the moving style of louis-d'ors, 
 Can raise the ravish'd female to a rapture. 
 In short, madam, I'll match Cowley in softness, 
 o'ertop Milton in sublime, banter Cicero in elo- 
 quence, and Dr. Swan in quibbling, by the helj) 
 of that most ingenious society, called the Bank of 
 England. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay, sir Harry, I begin to hate that 
 old thing called love ; they say 'tis clear out in 
 France. 
 
 Sir Har. Clear out, clear out ! nobody wears it : 
 and here, too, honesty went out with the slashed 
 doublets, and love with the close-bodied gowns. 
 Love ! 'tis so obsolete, so mean, and out of fashion, 
 that I can compare it to nothing but the miserable 
 picture of Patient Grizzle at the head of an old 
 ballad. — Faugh ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Ha ! ha ! ha 1 the best emblem in 
 
 the world Come, sir Harry, faith we'll run it 
 
 down. — Love ! ay, methinks I see the mournful 
 Melpomene with her handkerchief at her eye, her 
 heart full of fire, her eyes full of water, her head 
 full of madness, and her mouth full of nonsense. — 
 Oh, hang it ! 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, madam. Then the doleful ditties, 
 piteous plaints, the daggers, the poisons ! — 
 
 Lady Lure. Oh, the vapours ! 
 
 Sir Har. Then a man must kneel, and a man 
 must swear. — [Aside.} There is a repose, I see, in 
 the next room. 
 
 Lady Lure. Unnatural stuff 
 
 Sir Har. Oh, madam, the most unnatural thing 
 in the world ; as fulsome as a sack-posset ; — [Pull- 
 ing her towards the door] ungenteel as a wedding- 
 ring, and as impudent as the naked statue was in 
 the Park. IPuUa her again. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay, sir Harry ; I hate love that's 
 impudent. These poets dress it up so in their 
 tragedies, that no modest woman can bear it. Your 
 way is much the more tolerable, I must confess. 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, ay, madam ; I hate your rude 
 whining and sighing ; it puts a lady out of coun- 
 tenance. ^Pulling her. 
 
 Lady Lure. Truly so it does. — Hang their im- 
 pudence ! — But where are we goin" ' 
 
 Sir Har. Only to rail at love, mao.am. 
 
 iPulls ker In 
 Enter Banter. 
 
 Ban. Hey ! who's here ? 
 
 Re-enter Lady Lubewelj.. 
 
 Lady Lure. Psha, prevented i By a stranger 
 too ! Had it been my husband now. — Psha ! — 
 Very familiar, sir. 
 
 Ban. Madam , you have dropped your hat. 
 
 \TakES up Sir Harrv'b hat, that was dropped in the 
 room. 
 
 Lady Lure. Discovered, too, by a stranger ! — 
 What shall I do ? 
 
 Sir Har. [ Within.] Madam, you have got the 
 most confounded pens here ! Can't you get the 
 colonel to write the superscriptions of your letters 
 for you .' 
 
 Lady Lure. Lord bless me, sir Harry ! don't 
 you know th^t the colonel can't write French ? 
 Your time is so precious ! 
 
 Sir Har. Shall I direct by way of Rouen or 
 Paris ? 
 ' Lady Lure. Which you will. 
 
 Ban. Madam, I very much applaud your choice 
 of a secretary ; he understands the intrigues of 
 most courts in Europe they say. 
 
 Re-enter Sir Harry Wildair, with a letter. 
 
 Sir Har. Here, Inadam, I presume 'tis right. — 
 
 This gentleman a relation of yours, madam ? 
 
 Dem him ! lAsidc. 
 
 Bail. Brother, your humble servant. 
 
 Sir Har. Brother ! by what relation, sir ? 
 
 Ban. Begotten by the same father, born of the 
 same mother, brother kindred, and brother beau. 
 
 Sir Har. Heyday ! how the fellow strings his 
 genealogy ! — Look ye, sir, you may be brother to 
 Tom Thumb for auglit I know ; but if you are my 
 brother, I could have wished you in your mother's 
 womb for an hour or two longer. 
 
 Ban. Sir, I received your letter at Oxford, with 
 
662 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 your commands to meet you in London ; and if you 
 can remember your own liaud, there 'tis. 
 
 ZGives a letter. 
 
 Sir Jffar. [Looking over the letter.] Oh ! pray, 
 
 sir, let me consider you a httle By Jupiter a 
 
 pretty boy, a very pretty boy I a handsome face, 
 good shape, — [IValks about and views him,'] well 
 dressed. — The rogue has a good leg too ! — Come 
 kiss me, child. — Ay, he kisses like one of the family, 
 the right velvet lip Canst thou dance, child.' 
 
 Ban. Oui, monsieur. 
 
 Ladt/ Lure, Heyday ! French too ! why sure, 
 sir, you could never be bred at Oxford ! 
 
 Ban. No, madam, my clothes were made in 
 London.— Brother, I have some affairs of conse- 
 quence to communicate, which require a little 
 privacy, 
 
 Ladt/ Lure. Oh, sir, I beg your ^pardon, I'll 
 leave you. — Sir Harry, you'll stay supper ? 
 
 Sir Har. Assur^ment, madame. 
 
 Ban. Yes, madam, we'll both stay. 
 
 \_E3sii LadyLuBEWBLZ.. 
 
 ■Sir Har. Both ! — Sir, I'll send you back to 
 your mutton commons again. How now ? 
 
 Ban. No, no ; I shall find better mutton com- 
 mons by messing with you, brother. — Come, sir 
 Harry ; if you stay, I stay ; if you go, aliens ! 
 
 -Sir Har. Why, the devil's in this young fellow ! 
 Why sirrah, hast thou any thoughts of being my 
 heir ? Why, you dog, you ought to pimp for me , 
 you should keep a pack of wenches o' purpose to 
 hunt down matrimony. Don't you know, sir, that 
 lawful wedlock in me is certain poverty to you .' 
 Look ye, sirrah, come along : and for my disap- 
 pointment just now, if you don't get me a new 
 mistress to night, I'll marry to-morrow, and won't 
 leaveyoH a groat. — Go, pimp, like a dutiful bro- 
 ther 1 \:Pushea him outt and txit. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Tavern. 
 Enter Captain Firbbai^l, hauling in Clincher. 
 
 3fire. Come, sir, not drink the king's health ! 
 
 Clinch. Pray now, good captain, excuse me. 
 Look here, sir ; — [Pulling out his watoh."} the cri- 
 tical minute, the critical minute, faith ! 
 
 Fire. What d'ye mean, sir } 
 
 Clinch. The lady's critical minute, sir. — Sir, 
 your humble servant. [.Going. 
 
 Fire. Well, the death of this Spanish king will — 
 
 Clinch. [Returning.} Eh ! what's that of the 
 Spanish king ? Tell me, dear captain, tell me. 
 
 .Fire. Sir, if you please to sit down, I'll tell you 
 that old Don Carlos is dead. 
 
 Clinch. Dead ! — nay, then — [Sits down.'} Here, 
 pen and ink, boy ; pen and ink presently ; I must 
 write to my correspondent in Wales straight, — 
 Dead ! — lEises, and walks about in disorder. 
 
 Fire. What's the matter, sir ? 
 
 Clinch. Politics, politics, stark mad with politics. 
 
 Fire. 'Sdeath, sir, what have such fools as you 
 to do with politics ? 
 
 Clinch. What, sir? the Succession ! — Not mind 
 the Succession ! 
 
 Fire. Nay, that's minded already; 'tis settled 
 upon a prince of France. 
 
 Clinch. What, settled already ! — the best news 
 that ever came into England I — Come, captain, faith 
 and troth, captain, here's a health to the Succession. 
 
 Fire. Burn the Succession, sir 1 I won't drink 
 it. What, drink confusion to our trade, religion, 
 and liberties ! 
 
 Clinch. Ay, by all means. As for trade, d'ye 
 see ? I'm a gentleman, and hate it mortally, 'These 
 tradesmen are the most impudent fellows we have, 
 and spoil all our good manners. What have we to 
 do with trade ? 
 
 Fire. A trim politician, truly! And what do 
 you think of our religion, pray ? 
 
 Clinch. Hi ! hi I hi ! — religion ! And what has 
 1 gentleman to do with religion, pray .' And to 
 
 hear a sea-captain talk of religion !-^that's plea, 
 sant, faith 1 
 
 Fire. And have you no regard to our liberties, 
 sir? 
 
 Clinch. Psha ! liberties ! that's a jest. We ■ 
 beaux shall have liberty to whore and drink in any 
 government, and that's all we care for, — 
 
 Enter Col&nel Standard. 
 
 Dear 'Colonel, the rarest news ! 
 
 Stand. Damn your news, sir ! why are not you 
 drunk by this ? 
 
 Clinch. A very civil question, truly ! 
 
 Stand. Here, boy, bring in the brandy. — Fill ! 
 
 Clinch. This is a piece of politics that I don't 
 so well comprehend. 
 
 Stand. Here, sir ; now drink it off, or — [Draws} 
 expect your throat cut ! 
 
 Clinch. Ay, ay, this comes o'the Succession ; 
 fire and sword already ! 
 
 Stand. Come, sir, off with it 1 
 
 Clinch. Pray, colonel, what have I done to be 
 burned alive f 
 
 Stand. Drink, sir, I say ! — [Aside to Captain 
 FiKEBALL.] Brother, manage him j I must be 
 gone. iExit. 
 
 Fire. Ay, drink, sir ! 
 
 Clinch. Eh ! what the devil, attacked both by 
 sea and land !— ^Look ye, gentlemen, if I must be 
 poisoned, pray let me choose my own dose. Were 
 I a lord now, I should have the privilege of the 
 block ; and as I'm a. gentleman, pray stifle me 
 with claret at least ; don't let me die like a bawd, 
 with brandy. 
 
 Fire. Brandy ! you dog, abuse brandy 1 flat 
 treason against the navy-royal ! — Sirrah, I'll teach 
 you to abuse the fleet ! — Here, Shark 1 ICalls. 
 
 Enter Shark, 
 
 Get three or four of the ship's crew, and press this 
 fellow aboard the Beelzebub. 
 
 Shark, Ay, master. ^Exit, 
 
SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 553 
 
 Clinch. What ! aboard the Beelzebub ! Nay, 
 nay, dear captain, I'll choose to go to the devil 
 this way. — Here, sir, your good health— ^and my 
 own confusion, I'm afraid ! — [Drinks il off.'] Oh, 
 fire ! fire ! flames I brimstone 1 and tobacco ! 
 
 IBeats his stomach. 
 
 Fire. Here, quench it, queuch it then. Take 
 the glass, sir. 
 
 Clinch. What, another broadside ! nay, then I'm 
 sunk downright ! Dear captain, give me quarter ; 
 consider the present juncture of affairs ; you'll spoil 
 my head, ruin my politics — faith, you will ! 
 
 Fire. Here, Shark ! [_Calis. 
 
 Clinch. Well, well, I will drink !— The devil 
 take Shark for me ! — [Drinks.'] Whiz ! buz ! don't 
 you .hear it ? put your ear to my breast, and hear 
 how it whizzes like a hot iron 1 — Eh ! bless me, 
 how the ship roUs ! — I can't stand upon my legs, 
 faith ! — Dear captain, give me a kiss. — Ay, burn 
 the Succession ! — Look ye, captain, I shall be sea- 
 sick presently 1 [Falls into Captain Piiiebj«.i's afpis. 
 
 Re-enter Shark and Sailor with a chair. 
 
 Fire. Here, in with him ! 
 
 Shark. Ay, ay, sir ! — Avast, avast! — [_Thej/ put 
 Clincher into the chair.] Here, boy. — No Na&tes 
 Ifift? ITopes the glass. 
 
 Fire. Bring him along. 
 
 Clinch: Politics ! polities ! brandy politics ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE 11.—^ Room in Colonel Standard's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lady Lurewell and Parlv. 
 
 Lady Lure. Did you ever see such an itapudent 
 young rogue as that Banter ? He foUowe'd his bro- 
 ther up and down from place to place so very close 
 that we could not so much as whisper. 
 
 Par. I reckon, sir Harry will dispose of him 
 now, madam, where he. may be secured. Biit I 
 wonder, madam, why Clincher comes not aecord- 
 ing to his letter ! 'tis near the hour. 
 
 Lady Lure. I wish. Parly, that no harm may 
 befal me to-day ; for I had a most frightful dream 
 last night ; I dreamt of a mouse ! 
 
 Par. 'Tis strange, madamj you should be so 
 much afraid of that little. creature, that can do you 
 no harm ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Look ye, girl, we women of quality 
 have each of us some darling fright. ' I, now, hate 
 a mouse ; my lady Lovecards abhors a cat ; Mrs. 
 Fiddlefan can't bear a squirrel ; the countess of 
 Picquet abominates a frog ; and my lady Swimair 
 hates a man 1 
 
 Enter Marquis, running. 
 
 Marq. Madame ! madame ! madame ! pardie, 
 Toyez ! — -L'argent ! I'argent ! {.Shows a bag of money. 
 
 Lady Lure. As I hope to breathe, he has got 
 it !— Well, but how } how, dear monsieur .' 
 
 Marq. Ah, madame ! begar, monsieur sirArrybe 
 one pigeaneau. — Voyez, madame ; me did tell him 
 dat my broder in Montpelier did furnise his lady 
 wid ten tousan livres for de expence of her travaille ; 
 and dat she not being able to write wen she was 
 dying, did give him de picture for de certificate and 
 de credential to receive de money from her hus- 
 band. Mark ve ! 
 
 Lady Lure. The best plot in the world ! — You 
 told him, that your brother lent her the money in 
 France, when her bills, I suppdse were delayed. — 
 You put in that, I presume. 
 
 Marq. Oui, oui, madame. 
 
 Lady Lure. And that upon her death-bed she 
 gave your brother the picture, as i certificate to sir 
 Harry that she had received the money, which 
 picture your brother sent over to you, with com* 
 mission to receive, the debt .' 
 
 Marq. Assurement.— Dere was the politique, de 
 France politique ! — See, madame, wat he can do, 
 de France marquis ! He did make de Anglise 
 lady cuckle her husband when she was living, and 
 sheat him when she was dead, begar: ha! ha I 
 ha I — Oh ! pardie, c'est bon. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay,, but what did sir Harry say? 
 
 Marq, Oh !, begar monsieur chevalier he love his 
 vife ; he say, dat if she take up a hundre tousan 
 livres, he would repay it ; he knew de picture, he 
 
 say, and order me de money from his stewar Oh 
 
 Notre Dame ! Monsieur sir Arry be one dupe. 
 
 Lady Lure. Well but, monsieur, I long to know 
 one thing. Was the conquest you made of his lady 
 So easy? What assaults did you make..' and what 
 resistance did she show ? 
 
 Marq. Resistance against de France marquis ! 
 Voyez, madame; dere was tree doui-yeux, one 
 serenade, an' two capre ; dat was all, begar ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Chatillionte ! There's nothing in 
 nature so sweet to a longing woman, as a malicious 
 story. — Welli inonsieur ! 'tis about aj.thousand 
 pound? i we go snacks. . , . J 
 
 J^fory. ; Snaoke ! pardie, for what ? why snackej 
 madame ? Me, will give you de present of fiif^ 
 louis-d'ors ; dat is ver good snacke for you. ■>, 
 
 Lady Lure, And you'll give me no more?-^ 
 Very well ! 
 
 Marq. Ver' well ! yes, begar, 'tis ver' well ! — 
 Considre, madame, me be de poor refugie, me 'ave 
 noting but de religious charite and de France 
 politique, de fruit of jny owfeaddr^ss, dat is all. , 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay, art object of charity, wi.th.a 
 thousand pound inhis.fist ! Hfim \^[KnocMng 
 below. — Exit Parly.] Oh moiisieur ! that's my 
 husband, I know his knock. — He must not see yonf. 
 Get into the closet till by and hy.— [Hurries him 
 in.] And if I don't be, revenged upon your Franc* 
 politique, then have I no English politique. — Hang 
 the, money ! I would not for twice a thousand 
 pound forbear abusing this virtuous woman to her 
 husband, 
 
 Re-enter Parly. 
 
 Par. 'Tis sir Harry, madam. 
 
 Lady Lure. As I could wish. — Chairs . 
 
 Enter Sir Harry 'WaoAiR. 
 
 Sir Har. Here, Mrs. Parly, ia the first place 1 
 sacrifice a louis-d'or to thee for good luck. 
 
 Par, A guinea, sir, will do as well. 
 
 Sir Har. Noj no, child ; French money is always 
 most successful in bribes, and very much in fashion, 
 cbild. lExit Pahlv. 
 
 Enter Dicky and runs to Sir Harry. 
 
 Dicky. Sir, will you please to have your own 
 nightcaps .' 
 
 Sir Har, Sirrah ! 
 
 Dicky, Sir, sir I shall I order your chair to the 
 back-door by five o'clock in the morning > 
 
f54 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 Sir Har. The devil's in tl>e fellow ! Get you 
 gone ! — [Dicky mns out.'] Now, dear madam, I 
 have secured my brother, you have disposed the 
 colonel, and we may rail at love till we han't a 
 word more to say. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ay, sir Harry. — Please to sit a little, 
 sir. — You must know I'm in a strange humour of 
 asking you some questions.— How did you like 
 your lady, pray sir." 
 
 Sir Har. Like her!— ha I ha! ha! — so very 
 well, faith, that for her very sake I'm in love with 
 every woman I meet. 
 
 Lady Lure. And did matrimony please you ex- 
 tremely .' 
 
 Sir Har. So very much, that if polygamy were 
 allowed, I would have a new wife every day. 
 
 Lady Lure. Oh, sir Harry ! this is raillery. 
 But your serious thoughts upon the matter, 
 pray. 
 
 Sir Har. Why then, madam, to give you my 
 true sentiments of wedlock : I had a lady that £ 
 married by chance, she was virtuous by chance, 
 and T loved her by great chance. Nature gave 
 her beauty, education, and air, and Fortune threw 
 a young fellow of five-and-twenty in her lap. I 
 courted her all day, loved her all night, she was 
 iny mistress one day, my wife another : I found in 
 one the variety of a thousand, and the very con- 
 finement of marriage gave me the pleasure of 
 change. 
 
 Lady Lure. And she was very virtuous ? 
 
 Sir Har. Look ye, madam, you know she was 
 beautiful. She had good-nature about her mouth, 
 the smile of beauty in her cheeks, sparkling wit in 
 her forehead, and sprightly love in her eyes. 
 
 Lady Lure. Psha ! I knew her very well ; the 
 woman was well enough. But you don't answer 
 my question, sir. 
 
 Sir Har. So, madam, as I told you before, she 
 was young and beautiful, I was rich and vigorouei 
 my estate gave a lustre to my love, and a swing to 
 our enjoyment ; round, like the ring that made us 
 one, our golden pleasures circled without end. 
 
 Lady Lure. Golden pleasures I golden fiddle- 
 sticks ! — What d'ye tell me of your canting stuff .^ 
 Was she virtuous, I say .' 
 
 Sir Har. [Aside.} Ready to burst with envy; 
 but I will torment thee a little. — \_AloTid.'\ So, 
 madam, I powdered to please her, she dressed to 
 engage me ! we toyed away the morning in amo- 
 rous nonsense, lolled away the evening in the Park, 
 or the playhouse, and all the night — hem ! — 
 
 Lady Lure. Look ye, sir, answer my question, 
 or I shall take it ill. 
 
 Sir Har. Then, madam, there was never such 
 a pattern of unity. — Her wants were still prevented 
 by my supplies ; my own heart whispered me her 
 desires, 'cause she herself was there ; no contention 
 ever rose, but the dear strife of who should most 
 oblige ; no noise about authority : for neither would 
 stoop to command, 'cause both thought it glory to 
 obey. 
 
 Lady Lure. Stuff! stuff! stuff! — I won't be- 
 lieve a word on't. 
 
 Sir Har. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Then, madam, we 
 never felt the yoke of matrimony, because onr incli- 
 nations made us one ; a power superior to the forms 
 of wedlock. The marriage-torch had lost its weaker 
 light in the bright flame of mutual love that joined 
 our hearts before. Then — 
 
 Lady Lure. Hold, hold, sir I I cannot bear it ; 
 sir Harry, I'm affronted. 
 
 Sir Har. Ha ! ha ! ha ! affronted ! — 
 
 Lady Lure. Yes, sir ; 'tis an affront to any 
 woman to hear another commended ; and I will 
 resent it. — In short, sir Harry, your wife was a — 
 
 Sir Har. Buz, madam ! — no detraction. — I'll 
 tell you what she was. — So much an angel in her 
 conduct, that though I saw another in her arms, I 
 should have thought the devil had raised the phan- 
 tom, and my more conscious reason had given my 
 eyes the lie. 
 
 Lady Lure. Very well ! then I an't to be believed, 
 it seems — But, d'ye hear, sir? 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, madam, do you hear? I tell 
 you, 'tis not in the power of malice to cast a.blot 
 upon her fame ; and though the vanity of our sex, 
 and the envy of yours, conspired both against her 
 honour, 1 would not hear a syllable. 
 
 [^Stopping his ears. 
 
 Lady Lure. Why then, as I bope to breathe, 
 you shall hear it. — The picture ! the picture 1 the 
 picture ! {_Bawling aloud. 
 
 Sir Har. Ran, tan, tan ! A pistol-bullet from 
 ear to ear. 
 
 Lady Lure. That picture which you had just 
 now from the French marquis, for a thousand 
 pound, that very picture did your very virtuous 
 wife send to the marquis as a pledge of her very 
 virtuous and dying affection. So that you are both 
 robbed of your honour, and cheated of your money. 
 
 \_Aloud. 
 
 Sir Har. Louder, louder, madam ! 
 
 Lady Lure. I tell you, sir, your wife was a jilt; 
 I know it, I'll swear it. — She virtuous ! she was a 
 devil. 
 
 Sir Har. Fal, al, deral ! iSingt. 
 
 Lady Lure. Was ever the like seen ! He won't 
 hear me — I burst with malice, and now he won't 
 mind me. — Won't you hear me yet ? 
 
 Sir Har. No, no, madam. 
 
 Lady Lure. Nay, then I can't bear it. — {^Bursis 
 out a-crying.1 Sir, I must say that you're an 
 unworthy person, to use a woman of quality at this 
 rate, when she has her heart full of malice ; I don't 
 know but it may make me miscarry. Sir, I say 
 again and again, that she was no better than one 
 of us, and I know it ; I have seen it with my eyes, 
 so I have. 
 
 Sir Har. Good Heavens deliver me, I beseech 
 thee ! How shall I 'scape ? \_Aside. 
 
 Lady Lure. Will you hear me yet ? Dear sir 
 Harry, do but hear me ; I'm longing to speak. 
 
 Sir Har. Oh, I have it! — Hush ! hush! hush ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Eh ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Sir Har. A mouse ! a mouse ! a mouse 1 
 
 Lady Lure. Where ? where ? where .' 
 
 Sir Har Your petticoats, your petticoats, ma- 
 dam ! — [Lady Lubewell shrieks and runs off.} 
 Oh, my head ! I was never worsted by a woman 
 before. — But I have heard so much as to know the 
 marquis to be a villain. — [Knocking.} Nay then, I 
 must run for't. — [Runs out, and returns.} The 
 entry is stopped by a chair coming in ; and some- 
 thing there is in that chair that I will discover, if 
 I can (ind a place to hide myself. — [Goes to the 
 closet-door.} Fast ! I have keys about me for most 
 
 looks about St. James's Let me see. — [Tries 
 
 one key.} No, no j this opens my lady Planthorn's 
 back-door. — [ Tries another.} Nor this ; this is 
 
SCENE H. 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 655 
 
 the key to my lady Stakeall's garden. — [ Tries a 
 third.'i Ay, ay, this does it, faith. 
 
 IGoa into the closet, and peeps out. 
 Enter Shark and Sailor, with CuNCHfiR in a chair; 
 Parly following. 
 
 Par. Hold, hold, friend ! who gave you orders 
 to lug in your dirty chair into the house ? 
 
 Shark. My master, sweetheart. 
 
 Par. Who is your master, impudence ? 
 
 Shark, Everybody, saucebox. — And, for the 
 present, here's my master ! and, if you have any- 
 thing to say to him, there he is for ye. — {^Lugs 
 Clincher out of the chair , and throws him upon 
 thejloor.1 Steer away, Tom. iExit with SaUor. 
 
 Sir Har. What the devil, Mr. Jubilee, is it you .' 
 
 Par. Bless me ! the gentleman's dead ! Murder ! 
 murder ! 
 
 Ee-enter Lady Lurewkll. 
 
 Lady Lure. Protect me 1 What's the matter, 
 Clincher ? 
 
 Par. Mr. Clincher, are you dead, sir ? 
 
 Clinch. Yes. 
 
 Lady Lure. Oh ! then, 'tis well enough. — Are 
 you drunk, sir ? 
 
 Clinch. Ko. 
 
 Lady Lure. Well ! certainly I'm the most un- 
 fortunate woman living : all my affairs, all my 
 designs, all my intrigues, miscarry. — Faugh ! the 
 beast — But, sir, what's the matter with you ? 
 
 Clinch. Politics. 
 
 Par, Where have you been, sir ? 
 
 Clinch. Shark ! 
 
 Lady Lure. What shall we do mth him. Parly ? 
 If the colonel should come home now, we were 
 ruined. 
 
 Enter Colonel STaNDAKD. 
 Oh, inevitable destruction ! 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, ay ; unless I relieve her now, all 
 the world can't save her. 
 
 Stand. Bless me ! what's here ? — Who are you, 
 sir? 
 
 Clinch. Brandy. 
 
 Stand. See there, madam 1 — Behold the man 
 that you prefer to me 1 And such as he are all 
 those topgallants that daily haunt my house, ruin 
 your honour, and disturb my quiet. — I urge not 
 the sacred bond of marriage ; I'll waive your ear- 
 nest vows of truth to me, and only lay the case in 
 equal balance ; and see whose merit bears the 
 greater weight, his or mine. 
 
 Sir Har. Well argued, colonel ! 
 
 Stand. Suppose yourself freely disengaged, un- 
 married, and to make a choice of him you thought 
 most worthy of your love ; would you prefer a brute ? 
 a monkey ? one destined only for the sport of man ! 
 — ^Yes ; take him to yonr bed ; there let the beast 
 disgorge his fulsome load in your fair, lovely 
 bosom ; snore out his passion in your soft embrace ; 
 and, with the vapours of his sick debaucb, perfume 
 your sweet apartment. 
 
 Lady Lure. Ah, nauseous ! nauseous ! poison ! 
 Stand, I ne'er was taught to set a value on my- 
 self : but, when compared to him, there modesty 
 must stoop, and indignation give my words a loose, 
 to tell you, madam, that I am a man unblemished 
 in my honour, have nobly served my king and 
 country ; and, for a lady's service, I think that 
 nature has not been defective. 
 
 Sir Har. Egad, 1 should think so too ; the 
 fellow's well made. 
 
 Stand. I'm young as he, my person too as fair 
 to outward view ; and, for my mind, I thought it 
 could distinguish right, and therefore made a choice 
 of you. — Your sex have blessed our isle with 
 beauty, by distant nations prized ; and could they 
 place their loves aright, their lovers might acquire 
 the envy of mankind, as well as they the wonder of 
 the world. 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, now he coaxes. — He will conquer 
 unless I relieve her in time ; she begios to melt 
 already. 
 
 Stand. Add to all this, I love you next to 
 Heaven ; and, by that Heaven I swear, ;he con- 
 stant study of my days and nights have been to 
 please my dearest wife. Your pleasure never met 
 
 control from me, nor your desires a frown I 
 
 never mentioned my distrust before, nor will I 
 now wrong your discretion so as e'er to think you 
 made him an appointment. 
 
 Lady Lure. Generous, generous man ! {.Weeps. 
 
 Sir Har. Nay, then, 'tis time for me ; I will 
 relieve her. — [Steals out of the closet, and coining 
 behind Colonel Standard, claps him on the 
 shoulder. '\ Colonel, your humble servant. 
 
 Stand. Sir Harry ! how came you hither ? 
 
 Sir Har. Ah, poor fellow ! thou hast got thy 
 load with a witness ; but the wine was humming 
 strong ; I have got a touch on't myself. 
 
 [Reels a little. 
 
 Stand. Wine, sir Harry ! what wine .' 
 
 Sir Har. Why, 'twas new burgundy, heady stuff, 
 — But the dog was soon gone, knocked under pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Stand. What, then Jlr. Clincher was with you, 
 it seems } eh ! 
 
 Sir Har. Yes, faith, we have been together all 
 this afternoon ; 'tis a pleasant foolish fellow. He 
 would needs give me a welcome to town, on pre- 
 tence of hearing all the news from the Jubilee. The 
 humour was new to me ; so to't we went. — But 
 'tis a weak-headed coxcomb; two or three bumpers 
 did his business. — [Aside to Lady Lurewell.] 
 Ah, madam, what do I deserve for this ? 
 
 Lady Lure. Look ye there, sir ; you see how 
 sir Harry has cleared my innocence. — [Aside to Sir 
 Habry WiLDAiR ] I'm obliged t'ye, sir ; but I 
 must leave you to make it out. 
 
 [Exit, V&B1.V following. 
 
 Stand. Yes, yes ; he has cleared yon wonder- 
 fully. — But pray, sir, I suppose you can inform me 
 how Mr. Clincher came into my house .' eh ! 
 
 Sir Har, Ay ; why, you must know that the 
 fool got presently as drunk as a drum ; so I had 
 him tumbled into a chair, and ordered the fellows 
 to carry him home. Now you must know he 
 lodges but three doors off ; but the boobies, it 
 seems, mistook the door, and brought him in here, 
 like a brace of loggerheads. 
 
 Stand. Oh, yes ; sad loggerheads, to mistake a 
 door in James's for a house in Covent-garden. — 
 Here ! icalls. 
 
 Enter Footmen. 
 Take away that brute. — [Footmen carry off 
 Clincher.] And you say 'twas new burgundy, 
 sir Harry, very strong .■■ 
 
 Sir Har. [Aside.'\ Egad, there is some trick in 
 
 this matter, and I shall be discovered. — [Aloud-.] 
 
 Ay, colonel ; but I must be gone : I'm engaged to 
 
 meet — colonel, I'm your humble servant. [Going. 
 
 Stand, But, sir Harry, where 's your hat, sir .' 
 
556 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 Sir Har, Oh, marbleu ! these hats, gloves, 
 canes, and swords, are the ruin at all our designs. 
 
 Stand. But Where's your hat, sir Harry ? 
 
 ■Sir Aar. [Aside.'\ I'll never intrigue again with 
 anything about me but what is just bound to my 
 body. How shall I come off? — [Aloud.'\ Hark 
 ye, colonel, in your ear ; I would not have your 
 lady hear it. — You must know, just as I came into 
 the room here, what should I spy but a great mouse 
 running across that closet-door. I took no notice, 
 for fear your lady should be frighted, but with all 
 my force (d'ye see), I flung my hat at it, and so 
 threw it into the closet, and there it lies. 
 
 Stand. And so, thinking to kill the mouse, you 
 dung your hat into that closet? 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, ay ; that was all. I'll go'fetch it. 
 
 Stand. No, sir Harry, I'll bring it out. 
 
 [Goes into the closet. 
 
 Sir Har. Now have I told a matter of twenty 
 lies in a breath. 
 
 Stand, Sir Harry I is this the mouse that you 
 threw your hat at "i 
 
 {Bxturns with the hat in one hand, and hauling in the 
 Marquis w^th the other. 
 
 Sir Har. I'm amazed ! 
 
 Marq. Pardie, I'm amaze too. 
 
 Stand. Look ye, monsieur Marquis, as for your 
 part, I shall cut your throat, sir. 
 
 Sir Har. Give me leave, I must cut his throat 
 first. 
 
 Marq. Wat ! bote cut my treat I Begar, mes- 
 sieurs, 1 have but one troat. 
 
 iie-enfer' Parlv, running. 
 
 Par. \_To Colonel Standard.] Sir, the mon- 
 sieur is innocent ; he came upon another design. 
 My lady begins to be penitent, and If you make 
 any noise 'twill spoil all. 
 
 Stand, Look ye, gentlemen, I have too great a 
 confidence in the virtue of my wife, to think it in 
 the power of you, or you, sir, to wrong my honour: 
 but 1 am bound to guard her reputation, so that 
 no attempts be made that may provoke a scandal : 
 therefore, gentlemen, let me tell you, 'tis time to 
 desist. \_Exit, Pab-i/x following. 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, ay ; so 'tis, faith. — Come, mon- 
 Sieiir, I must talk with you, sir. lExeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room, in Colonel Standard's 
 il&iise. 
 
 Enter Colonel Standard and Captain Fireball. 
 
 Stand. In short, brother, n man may talk till 
 doomsday of sin, hell, and damnation ; but your 
 rhetoric will never convince a lady that there's 
 anything of a devil in a handsome fellow with a 
 fine coat. You niust show the cloven-foot, expose 
 the brute as I have done ; and though her virtue 
 sleeps, her pride will surely take the alarm. 
 
 Fire. Ay, but if you had let me Cut off one of 
 the rogue's ears before you sent him away — 
 
 Stand. No, no ; the fool has served my turn, 
 without the scandal of a public resentment; and 
 the effect has shown that my design was right ; 
 I've touched her very heart, and she relents apace. 
 
 £n(er Lady LuREWfiLt, running. 
 
 Lady Lure, Oh I my dear, save me; I'm frighted 
 out of my life. 
 
 Fire, Blood and fire ! madam, who dare touch 
 you ? I^ravjs his sword and stands h^ore her. 
 
 Lady Lure, Oh, sir ! a ghost 1 a ghost ! I have 
 seen it twice. 
 
 Fire, Nay then, we soldiers have nothing to do 
 with ghosts ; send for the parson. 
 
 [_&heathes his sword. 
 
 Stand. 'Tis fancy, my dear, nothing but fancy. 
 
 Lady Lure. Oh dear, colonel ! I'll never lie 
 alone again ; I'm frighted to death j I saw it twice; 
 twice it stalked by my chamber-door, and with a 
 hollow voice uttered a piteous groan. 
 
 Stand. This is strange ! ghosts by day-light ! — 
 Come, my dear, along with me ; don't shrink, we'll 
 Bee to find this ghost. iPxeunt. 
 
 SCENE 11.-^ Street. 
 
 Enter Sir Harry WildaYA, Marquis, and DiCKT. 
 
 Sir Har. Dicky ! 
 
 Dicky. Sir. 
 
 Sir Har, Do you remember anything of a thou- 
 sand pounds lent to my wife in Montpelier by 3 
 French gentleman ? 
 
 Marq, Oui, monsieur Dicky, you remembre de 
 gentilman, he was one marquis. 
 
 Dicky, Marqui, sir ! I think, for my part, that 
 all the men in France are marqui's. We met 
 above a thousand marqui's, but the devil a one of 
 'em could lend a thousand pence, much less a 
 thousand pound ! 
 
 Marq. Morbleu, que dites-vous, bougre le chien ? 
 
 Sir Har. Hold, sir, pray answer me one ques- 
 tion .' What made you fly your country .' 
 
 Marq My religion, monsieur. 
 
 Sir Har. So you fled for your religion out of 
 France ; and are a downright atheist in England ? 
 A very tender conscience truly 1 
 
 Marq, Begar, monsieur, my conscience be de 
 ver' tendre ; he no suffer not his mastre to starve, 
 pardie ! 
 
 Sir Har. Come, sir, no ceremony ; refund. 
 
 Marq. Refunde ! vat is dat refunde ? Parley 
 Francais, monsieur. 
 
 Sir Har. No, sir ; I tell you in plain English, 
 return my money, or I'll lay you by the heels. 
 
 Marq. Oh ! begar dere is the Anglisman now. 
 Dere is de law for me. De law ! Ecoute, 
 monsieur sir Arry — voyez 5a. — De France marquis 
 scorn de law. My broder lend your vife de money, 
 and here is my witness. TDraios. 
 
 Sir Har, Your evidence, sir, is very positive, 
 and shall be examined : but this is nu place to try 
 
SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 557 
 
 the cause ; we'll cross the Park into the fields ; you 
 shall throw down the money between us, and the 
 best title, upon a fair hearing, shall take it up. — 
 Aliens ! 
 
 Marq. Oh ! de tout mon coeur. — AUons ! Fient 
 h. la tfite, begar ! \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. — A Room in Colonel Standard's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lady Lxjrewell and Parly. 
 
 Lady Lure. Psha 1 I'm such a frightful fool ! 
 'Twas nothing but a fancy. — Come, Parly, get me 
 pen and ink, I'll divert it. Sir Harry shall know 
 what a wife he had, I'm resolved. Though he 
 would not hear me speak, he'll read my letter 
 sure. t^iis down to write. 
 
 Ghost. [Within.1 Hold! 
 
 Lady Lure. Protect me ! — Parly, don't leave 
 me. — But I won't mind it. 
 
 Ghost. Hold ! 
 
 Lady Lure. Defend me ! — Don't you hear a 
 voice ? 
 
 Par. I thought so, madam. 
 
 Lady Lure. It called hold. — I will venture once 
 more. {_Sits down to write. 
 
 Ghost. Disturb no more the quiet of the dead. 
 
 Lady Lure. Now, 'tis plain, I heard the words. 
 
 Par. Deliver us, madam, and forgive us our 
 sins ! what is it ? 
 
 Enter Ghost ; Lady Lurewell and Parly shriek, and run 
 to a corner (if the stage. 
 
 Ghost. Behold the airy form of wrong'd Angelica, 
 Forced from the shades below to vindicate her 
 
 fame. 
 Forbear, malicious woman, thus to load 
 With scandalous reproach the grave of innocence. 
 Xepent, vain woman ! 
 Thy matrimonial vow is register'd above, 
 And all the breaches of that solemn faith 
 Are register'd below. I'm sent to warn thee to 
 
 repent. 
 Forbear to wrong thy injured husband's bed. 
 Disturb no more the quiet of the dead. 
 [^Stalks off. — Lady Luebwell swoons, Parly supports her. 
 Par. Help ! help ! help ! 
 
 Enter Colonel Standard and Captain Fireball. 
 
 Stand. Bless us ! what, fainting ! What's the 
 Aatter .■• 
 
 Fire. Breeding, breeding, sir. 
 
 Par. Oh, sir, we're frighted to death j here has 
 been the ghost again. 
 
 Stand. Ghost ! why you're mad, sure ! What 
 ghost ? 
 
 Par. The ghost of Angelica, sir Harry Wildair's 
 wife. 
 
 Stand. Angelica ! 
 
 Par. Yes, sir ; and here it preached to us the 
 Lord knows what, and murdered my mistress with 
 mere morals. 
 
 Fire. A good hearing, sir ; 'twill do her good. 
 
 Stand. Take her in, Parly. — [Parly leads out 
 Lady Lurbwell.] What can this mean, brother? 
 
 Fire. The meaning's plain. There's a design of 
 communication between your wife and sir Harry j 
 so his wife is come to forbid the bans, that's all. 
 
 Stand. No, no, brother : if I maybe induced to 
 believe the walking of ghosts, I rather fancy that 
 the rattle-headed fellow her husband has broke the 
 poor lady's heart ; which, together with the in- 
 dignity of her burial, has made her uneasy in her 
 grave. — But whatever be the cause, it's fit we im- 
 mediately find out sir Harry, and inform him. 
 
 \_ExeunU 
 
 SCENE Vr.—The Park 
 
 Lord Bellamy and others discovered walking about. Sir 
 Harry Wildair and Marquis enter and pass hastily 
 over the stage. 
 
 Lord Bel. Sir Harry ! [Calls. 
 
 Sir Har. My lord ! — Monsieur, I'll follow you, 
 sir. {Exit Marquis. 
 
 Lord Bel. I must talk with you, sir. 
 Sir Har. Pray, my lord, let it be very short, for 
 I was never in more haste in my life. 
 
 Lord Bel. May I presume, sir, to inquire the 
 cause that detained you so late last night at my 
 house ? 
 
 Sir Har. [Aside.^ More mischief again ! — 
 [Aloud.] Perhaps, my lord, I may not presume to 
 inform you. 
 
 Lord Bel. Then perhaps, sir, I may presume to 
 extort it from you. 
 
 Sir Har. Look ye, my lord, don't frown ; it 
 spoils your face. — But if you must know, your 
 lady owes me two hundred guineas, and that sum 
 I will presume to extort from your lordship. 
 
 Loi'd Bel. Two hundred guineas ! have you any- 
 thing to show for it ? 
 
 Sir Har. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Show for it, my lord ! 
 
 I showed quint and quatorze for it ; and to a man 
 
 of honour, that's as firm as a bond and judgment. 
 
 Lord Bel. Come, sir, this won't pass upon me ; 
 
 I'm a man of honour. 
 
 Sir Har. Honour ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — 'Tis very 
 strange that some men, though their education 
 be never so galjant, will ne'er learn breeding ! — 
 Look ye, my lord, when you and I were under the 
 tuition of our governors, and conversed only with 
 old Cicero, Livy, Virgil, Plutarch, and the like ; 
 why then such a man was a villain, and such a on^ 
 was a man of honour : but now, that 1 have known 
 the court, a little of what they call the beau-monde 
 and the bd-esprit, I find that honour looks as ridi- 
 culous as Roman buskins upon your lordship, or 
 my full peruke upon Scipio Africanus. 
 Lord Bel. Why should you think so, sir .' 
 Sir Har. Because the world's improved, my 
 lord, and we find that this honour is a very trouble- 
 some and impertinent thing. Can't we live 
 together like good neighbours and Christians, a< 
 they do in France ? I lend you my coach, I borrow 
 yours ; you dine with me, I sup with you ; I lie 
 with your wife, and you lie with mine. Honour ! 
 that's such an impertinence ! — Pray, my lord, hear 
 me. What does your honour think of murdering 
 your friend's reputation ? making a jest of his mis- 
 fortunes .' cheating him at cards, debauching his 
 bed, or the like? 
 
 Lord Bel. Why rank villany. 
 Sir Har, Pish I pish ! nothing but good man- 
 ners, excess of good manners. Why, you han't 
 been at court lately. There 'tis the only practice 
 to show our wit and breeding. — As for instance, 
 
 
65B 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 your friend reflects upon yon when absent, because 
 'tis good manners ; rallies yon when present, 
 because 'tis witty ; cheats you at piquet, to show 
 he has been in France j and lies with your wife, to 
 show he's a man of quality. 
 
 Lord Bel. Very well, sir. 
 
 Sir Har. In short, my lord, you have a wrong 
 notion of things. Should a man with a handsome 
 wife revenge all affronts done to his honour, poor 
 White, Chaves, Morris, Locket, Pawlet, and Pon- 
 tack, were utterly ruined. 
 
 TiOrd Bel. How, so, sir ? 
 
 Sir Har. Because, my lord, you must run all 
 their customers quite through the body. Were it 
 not for abusing your men of honour, taverns and 
 chocolate-houses could not subsist ; and were there 
 but a round tax laid upon scandal, and false poli- 
 tics, we men of figure would find it much heavier 
 than four shillings in the pound. — Come, come, 
 my lord ; no more on't, for shame ; your honour is 
 safe enough, for I have the key of its back-door 
 in my pocket. lliuns off. 
 
 Lord Bel. Sir, I shall meet you another time. 
 
 [ExiU 
 
 SCENE N.— The Fields. 
 
 Enter Mnrquis with a Footman carrying Ms fighting 
 equipage, pumps, caps, Sfc. He dresses himself accord- 
 ingly, and fiourishes about the stage. 
 
 Marq. Sa ! sa ! sa ! fient k la tSte ! — Sa — emba- 
 racade ; — quart sur redouble! Hey ! 
 
 Enter Sir Harry Wil-dair, 
 
 Sir Har. Ha ! ha ! ha ! the devil ! must I fight 
 with a tumbler .' These i'rench are as great fops 
 in their quarrels as in their amours. 
 
 Marq. AUons ! -aliens ! Stripe, stripe. 
 
 .Sir Har. No, no, sir ; I never strip to engage a 
 man ; I fight as I dance — Come, sir, down with 
 the money. 
 
 Marq, Dere it is, pardie ! — [Lays down the bag 
 between them.'] AUons '. — 
 
 Enter Dicky, and gives Sir Harry a gun. 
 Morbleu ! que 5a ? 
 
 Sir Har. Now, Monsieur, if you offer to stir, 
 I'll shoot you through the head. — Dicky, take up 
 the money, and carry it home. 
 
 Dick. [Aside."] Here it is, faith : and if my 
 master be killed, the money's my own. 
 
 [Takes up the bag, and exit with Footman. 
 
 Marq. Oh morbleu ! de Anglismau be one 
 coward. 
 
 Sir Har, Ha ! ha ! ha ! Where's your France 
 politique now ? Come, Monsieur ; you must know 
 I scorn to fight any man fot my own ; but now 
 we're upon the level ; and since you have been at 
 the trouble of putting on your habiliments, I must 
 requite your pains. So come on, sir. 
 
 [Lays down the gun, and uses his sword. 
 
 Marq. Come on ! for wat ? wen de money is gone ! 
 de Franceman fight where dere is no profit ! Par- 
 donnez-moi, pardie ! ISits down to pull off his pumps. 
 
 Sir Har. Hold, hold, sir ; you must fight. Tell 
 me how you came by this picture ? 
 
 Marq. [Starting up.] Wy den, begar, monsieur 
 chevalier, since de money be gone, me will speak 
 de verite.— Pardie, monsieur, me did make de 
 
 cnckle of you, and your vife send me de picture 
 for my pain. 
 
 Sir Har. Look ye, sir, if I thought you had 
 merit enough to gain a lady's heart from me, I would 
 shake hands immediately, and be friends : but as I 
 believe you to be a vain scandalous liar, I'll cut 
 your throat. [They fight. 
 
 Enter Colonel Standard and Captain Fireball, who part 
 them. 
 
 Stand. Hold, hold, gentlemen ! — Brother, secure 
 the marquis. — Come, sir Harry, put up ; I have 
 something to say to you very serious. 
 
 Sir Har. Say it quickly then ; for I'm a little 
 out of humour, and want something to make me 
 laugh. 
 [As they talk Marquis dresses, and Captain Fireball 
 helps him. 
 
 Stand. Will what's very serious make you 
 laugh ? 
 
 Sir Har. Most of all. 
 
 Stand. Psha ! Pray, sir Harry, tell me what 
 made you leave your wife ? 
 
 Sir Har. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I knew it. — Pray, 
 colonel, what makes you stay with your wife.' 
 
 Stand. Nay, but pray answer me directly ; I beg 
 it as a favour. 
 
 Sir Har. Why then, colonel, you must know we 
 were a pair of the most happy, toying, foolish 
 people in the world, till she got, I don't know how, 
 a crotchet of jealousy in her head. This made her 
 frumpish ; but we had ne'er an angry word : she 
 only fell a-crying over night, and I went for Italy 
 next morning. — But pray no more on't. — Are you 
 hurt, monsieur ? 
 
 Stand. But, sir Harry, you'll be serious when I 
 tell you that her ghost appears. 
 
 Sir Har. Her ghost ! ha ! ha ! ha ! That's 
 pleasant, faith. 
 
 Stand. As snre as fate, it walks in my house. 
 
 Sir Har. In your house ! — Come along, colonel ! 
 By the Lard I'll kiss it. 
 
 [Exit with Colonel Standard. 
 
 Marq. Monsieur le oapitaine, adieu! 
 
 Fire. Adieu! no, sir, you shall follow sir Harry. 
 
 Marq. For wat ? 
 
 Fire. For what ! why, d'ye think I'm such 'A 
 rogue as to part a couple of gentlemen when they're 
 fighting, and not see 'em make an end on't I I 
 think it a less sin to part man and wife. — Come 
 along, sir. [Exit, pulling Marquis. 
 
 SCENE VI. — A Room in Colonel Standard's 
 
 Hortse. 
 
 Enter Sir Harry Wildair and Colonel Standard. 
 
 Sir Har. Well then ; this, it seems, is thp 
 enchanted chamber. The ghost has pitched upon 
 a handsome apartment however..— .Well, colonel, 
 when do you intend to begin ? 
 
 Stand. What, sir ? 
 
 Sir Har. To laugh at me ; I know you design it. 
 
 Stand. Ha ! by all that's powerful, there it is. 
 
 Enter Ghost and walks across the stage. 
 
 Sir Har. The devil it is !— Hem ! Blood, I'll 
 speak to't. — -Vous, mademoiselle Ghost, parlez- 
 vous Fran5ais ? — No ! — Hark ye, Mrs. Ghost, will 
 your ladyship be pleased to inform us who you 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 669 
 
 are, that we may pay you the respect due to your 
 quality ? 
 
 Ghost. I am the spiiit of thy departed wife. 
 
 Sir Har. Are you, faith ! why then here's the 
 body of thy living husband, and stand me if you 
 dare.— [^uns to her and embraces Aei-.] Ha! 
 'tis substance, I'm sure. — But hold, lady Ghost, 
 stand off a little, and tell me in good earnest now, 
 whether you are alive or dead ? 
 
 Angel. [Throioing off her shroud.] Alive! 
 
 alive ! \^liuns and throws her arms about his 
 
 neck"} and never lived so much as in this moment. 
 
 Sir Har. What d'ye think of the ghost now, 
 colonel ? — [She hangs upon him.] Is It not a very 
 loving ghost ? 
 
 Stand. Amazement ! 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, 'tis amazement, truly. — Look ye, 
 madam, I hate to converse so familiarly with spirits : 
 pray keep your distance. 
 
 Angel. I am alive, indeed I am. 
 
 Sir Har. Idon'tbelieveaword on't. IMovingaway. 
 
 Stand. Sir Harry, you're more afraid now than 
 before. 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, most men are more afraid of a 
 living wife than a dead one. 
 
 Stand. 'Tis good manners to leave you together, 
 however. lExit. 
 
 Angel. 'Tis unkind, my dear, after so long and 
 tedious an absence, to act the stranger so. I now 
 shall die in earnest, and must for ever vanish from 
 your sight. [ Weeping and going. 
 
 Sir Har. Hold, hold, madam ! Don't be angry, 
 my dear ; you took me unprovided : had you but 
 sent me word of your coming, I had got three or 
 four speeches out of Oroonoko and the Mourning 
 Bride upon this occasion, that would have charmed 
 your very heart. But we'll do as well as we can ; 
 I'll have the music from both houses; Pawlet and 
 Locket shall contrive for our taste ; we'll charm 
 our ears with Abel's voice ; feast our eyes with one 
 another ; and thus, with all our senses tuned to 
 love, we'll hurl off our clothes, leap into bed, and 
 there — look ye, madam, if I don't welcome you 
 home with raptures more natural and more moving 
 than all the plays in Christendom — I'll say no more. 
 
 Angel. As mad as ever ! 
 
 Sir Har. But ease my wonder first, and let me 
 know the riddle of your death. 
 
 Angel. Your unkind departure hence, and your 
 avoiding me abroad, made me resolve, since I could 
 not live with you, to die to all the world besides ; 
 I fancied that though it exceeded the force of love, 
 yet the power of grief perhaps might change your 
 humour, and therefore had it given out that I died 
 in France ; my sickness at Montpelier, which indeed 
 was next to death, and the affront offered to the 
 body of our ambassador's chaplain at Paris, con- 
 duced to have my burial private. This deceived 
 ^y retinue ; and by the assistance of my woman, 
 and your faithful servant, I got into man's clothes, 
 came home into England, and sent him to observe 
 your motions abroad, with orders not to undeceive 
 you till your return. — Here I met you in the 
 quality of beau Banter, your busy brother, under 
 which disguise I have disappointed your design 
 upon my lady Lurewell ; and in the form of a 
 ghost, have revenged the scandal she this day threw 
 upon me, and have frighted her sufficiently from 
 lying alone. 1 did resolve to have frighted you 
 likewise, but you were too hard for me. 
 
 Sir Har. How weak, how squeamish, and how 
 fearful, are women when they want to be humoured ! 
 and how extravagant, how daring, and how pro- 
 voking, when they get the impertinent maggot in 
 their head ! — But by what means, my dear, could 
 you purchase this double disguise ? How came you 
 by my letter to my brother } 
 
 Angel. By intercepting all your letters since I 
 came home. But for my ghostly contrivance, 
 good Mrs. Parly (moved by the justness of my cause, 
 and a bribe) was my chief engineer. 
 
 Enter Captain Fireball and Marquis. 
 
 Fire. Sir Harry, if you have a mind to fight it 
 out, there's your man ; if not, I have discharged 
 my trust. 
 
 Sir Har. Oh, monsieur ! won't you salute your 
 mistress, sir ? 
 
 Marq. Oh, morbleu ! Begar, me must run to 
 some oder country now for my religion. 
 
 Angel. Oh ! what the French marquis ! I know 
 him. 
 
 Sir Har. Ay, ay, my dear, you do know him, 
 and I can't be angry, because 'tis the fashion for 
 ladies to know everybody. But methinks, madam, 
 that picture now ! — hang it, considering 'twas my 
 gift, you might have kept it.^^But no matter ; my 
 neighbours shall pay for't. 
 
 Angel. Picture, my dear ! could you think I 
 e'er would part with that .' No, of all my jewels, 
 this alone I kept, 'cause 'twas given by you. 
 
 \_Shows the picture. 
 
 Sir Har. Eh ! wonderful I — And what's this .' 
 ZPuUing out the other picture, 
 
 Ang. They are very much alike. 
 
 Sir Har. So like, that one might fairly pass for 
 t'other. — Monsieur marquis, ecoute. You did lie 
 vid my vife, and she did give you de picture for 
 your pain. Eh ! come, sir, add to your France 
 politique a little of your native impudence, and tell 
 us plainly how you came by't. 
 
 Marq. Begar, monsieur chevalier, wen de France- 
 man can tell no more lie, den vill he tell trute. — I 
 was acquaint wid de paintre dat draw your lady's 
 picture, an' I give him ten pistole for de copy.. — An 
 so me have de picture of all de beauty in London ; 
 and by dis politique, me have de reputation to lie 
 wid dem all. 
 
 Sir Har. When perhaps your pleasure never 
 reached above a pit-mask in your life. 
 
 Marq. Ain' begar, for dat matre, de natre of wo- 
 men, a pit-mask is as good as de best. De pleasure 
 is noting, de glory is all ; a la mode de Prance. 
 
 IStrut^ out. 
 
 Sir Har. Go thy ways for a true pattern of the 
 vanity, impertinence, subtlety, and ostentation of 
 thy country.— Look ye, captain, give me thy hand ; 
 once I was a friend to France ; but henceforth I 
 promise to sacrifice my fashions, coaches, wigs, and 
 vanity, to horses, arms, and equipage, and serve 
 my king in propria persona, to promote a vigorous 
 war, if there be occasion. 
 
 Mre. Bravely said, sir Harry ! And if all the 
 beaux in the side-boxes were of your mind, we would 
 send 'em back their L'Abb^, and Balon, and show 
 'em a new dance to the tune of Harry the Fifth. 
 Re-enter Colonel Standard with Lady Lurewell, Dicky, 
 and Parly. 
 
 Sir Har. O colonel ! such discoveries ! 
 
 Stand. Sir, I have heard all from your servaiil 
 honest Dicky has told me the whole story. 
 
560 
 
 SIR HARRY WILDAIR. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Sir Har. Why then, let Dicky run for the fid- 
 dles immediately. 
 
 Dioh. Oh, sir j I knew what it would come to ; 
 they're here already, sir. 
 
 [Qoes to Vie door and britigs in Musicians, 
 
 Sir Har. Then, colonel, we'll havfe a new wed- 
 ding, and begin it with a dance. — Strike up. 
 
 [A Dance. 
 
 Stand. Now, sir Harry, we have retrieved our 
 wives ; yours from death, and mine from the devil ; 
 and they are at present very honest. But how shall 
 we keep 'em so } 
 
 Angel. By being good husbands, sir ; and the 
 great secret for keeping matters right in wedlock, 
 is never to quarrel with your wives for trifles. For 
 we are but babies at best, and must have our play- 
 things, our longings, our vapours, our frights, our 
 monkeys, our china, our fashions, our washes, 
 our patches, our waters, our tattle and imperti- 
 nence ; therefore, I say, 'tis better to let a woman 
 play the fool, than provoke her to play the devil. 
 
 Lady Lmre. And another rule, gentlemen, let me 
 advi&e you to observe, never to be jealous ; or if 
 you should, be sure never to let your wife think 
 you suspect her ; for we are more restrained by 
 
 the scandal of the lewdness, than by the wicked- 
 ness of the fact ; when once a woman has borne the 
 shame of a whore, she'll despatch you the sin in a 
 moment. 
 
 Sir Har. We're obliged to you, ladies, for your 
 advice i and in return, give me leave to give you 
 the definition of a good wife, in the character of my 
 
 own The wit of her conversation never outstrips 
 
 the conduct of her behaviour: she's affable to all 
 men, free with no man, and only kind to me : often 
 cheerful-, sometimes gay, and always pleased, but 
 when I am angry ; then sorry, not sullen. The 
 Park, playhouse, and cards, she frequents in com- 
 pliance with custom ; but her diversions of inclina- 
 tion are at hoqie : she's more cautions of a 
 remarkable woman than of a noted wit, well 
 knowing than the infection of her own sex is more 
 catching than the temptation of ours. To all this, 
 she is beautiful to a wonder, scorns all devices that 
 engage a gallant, and uses all arts to please her 
 husband. 
 
 So spite of satire 'gainst a married life, 
 A man is traly bless'd with such a wife. 
 
 {^Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 BY A FRIEND. SPOKEN BY MONSIEDB. IE MAKQUIS. 
 
 Vbntbe bleu I vere is dis dam poet ? vere ? 
 
 Garzoon ! me vil cut off all his two ear : 
 
 Je suis enrage ? — now he is not here. 
 
 He has affront de French ! le vilain bfite. 
 
 De French ! your best friend ! — you suffre dat ? 
 
 Parbleu ! messieurs, a serait fort ingrate I 
 
 Vat have you English, dat you can call your 
 
 own ? 
 Vat have you of grand plaisir in dis towne, 
 Vidout it come from France, dat will go down ! 
 Picquet, basset j your vin, your dress, your dance ; 
 'Tis all you see, tout a la mode de France, 
 De beau dere buy a hondre knick, knack ; 
 He carry»out wit, but seldom bring it back : 
 But den he bring a snuffbox hinge, so small 
 De joint, you can no see de vark at all, 
 
 Cost him five pistole, dat is sheap enough, 
 In tree year it sal save alt an ounce of snoffe, 
 De coquette she ave her ratafia dere, 
 Her gown, her complexion, doux-yeux, herlovere; 
 As for de cuckol — dat indeed you can make here. 
 De French it is dat teach de lady wear 
 De short muff, wit her vite elbow bare ; 
 De beau de large muff, with his sleeve down dere. 
 [Pointing to his fingers. 
 We teach your vife to ope dere husbands' purses, 
 To put de furbelo round dere coach, and dere horses. 
 Garzoon I vee teach you everything de varle : 
 For vy den your damn poet dare to snarle ? 
 Begar, me vil be revenge upon his play, 
 Tre tousand refugi^s (Parbleu c'est vrai) 
 Sail all come here, and damn him upon his tird day 
 
THE INCONSTANT; 
 
 THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 In nova fert animus mutatag dicere formas 
 Corpora.— Ovid. Met, 
 
 TO RICHARD TIGHE, ESQ. 
 
 Sir, — Dedications are the only fashions in the world that are more disliked for being universal ; and the reason is. 
 that they very seldom fit the persons they were made for ; hut I hope to avoid the common obloquy in this address, by 
 laying aside the poet in everything but the dramatic decorum of suiting my character to the person. 
 
 From the part of Mirabel in this play, and another character in one of my former, people are willing to compliment 
 my performance in drawing a gay, splendid, generous, easy, fine young gentleman. My genius, I must confess, has a 
 bent to that kind of description ; and my veneration for you. Sir, may pass for unquestionable, since in all these happy 
 accomplishments, you come so near to my darling character, abating his inconstancy. 
 
 What an unspeakable blessing is youth and fortune, when a happy understanding comes in, to moderate the desires 
 of the first, and to refine upon the advantages of the latter ; when a gentleman is master of all pleasures, but a slave to 
 none ; who has teavelled, not for the curiosity of the sight, but for thfe improvement of the mind's eye ; and who returns 
 full of everything but himself I— An author might say a great deal more, but a friend. Sir, nay an enemy, must allow 
 you this. 
 
 I shall here, Sir, meet with two obstacles, your modesty and your sense ; the fii-at as a censor upon the subject, the 
 «cond as a critic upon the style. But I am obstinate in my purpose, and will maintain what I eay to the last drop of 
 my pen ; which I may the more boldly undertake, having all the world on my side ; nay, I have yoiu: very self against 
 you; for by declining to hear your own merit, your friends are authorised the more to proclaim it. 
 
 Your generosity and easiness of temper is not only obvious in your common afPa.irs and conversation, but more plainly 
 evident in your darling amusement, that opener and dilater of the mind, music ; — from your affection for this delightful 
 study, we may deduce the pleasing harmony that is apparent in all your actions : and be assured. Sir, that a person 
 must be posspssed of a very divine soul, who is so much in love with the entertainment of angels. 
 
 From your encouragement of music, if there be any poetry here, it has a claim, by the right of kindred, to your 
 favour and affection. You were pleased to honour the representation of this play with your appearance at several 
 times, which flattered my hopes that there might be something in it which your good-nature might excuse. With the 
 honour I here intend for myself, 1 likewise consult the interest of my nation, by showing a person that is so much a 
 reputation aad credit to my country. Besides all this, I was willing to make a handsome compliment to the place of 
 my pupilage ; by informing the world that so fine a gentleman had the seeds of his education in the same imiversity, 
 and at the same time with, Sir, your most faithful, and most humble servant, 
 
 G. FARQUHAR. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 To give you thehistory of this play would but cause the reader and the writer a trouble to no purpose ; I shall only say 
 that I took the hint from Fletcher's ** Wild-Goose Chase ;" and to those who say, that I have spoiled the original, I wish 
 no other injury, but that they would say it again. 
 
 4s to the success of it, I think 'tis but a kind of Cremona business, I have neither lost nor won. I pushed fairly, but 
 the French were prepossessed, and the charms of Gallic heels were too hard for an English brain ; but lam proud to own, 
 that I have laid my head at the ladies' feet. The favour was unavoidable, for we are a nation so very fond of improving 
 our understanding, that the instFuctions of a play does no good, when it comes in competition with th(? moral of minuet. 
 Pliny tells us in his "Natural History," of elephants that were taught to dance on the ropes ; if this could be made 
 practicable now, what u number of subscriptions might be had to bring the Great Mogul out of Fleet-street, and make 
 him dance between the acts I 
 
 I remember, that about two years ago, I had a gentleman from France that brought the playhouse some fifty 
 audiences in five months ; then why should I be surprised to find a French lady do as much ? 'Tis the prettiest way in 
 
 o o 
 
5(!2 
 
 THE INCONSTANT ; OR, 
 
 the world of despising the French king, to let him see that we can afford money to brihe away his dancers, when he, 
 poor man, has exhausted all his stock, in buying of some pitiful towns and principalities : cum muUis aliis. What can 
 be a greater compliment to our generous nation, than to have the lady, upon her reiour to Paris, boast of their splendid 
 entertainment in England, of the complaisance, liberality, and good-nature of a people, that thronged her house so full 
 that she had not room to stick a pin ; and left a poor fellow, that had the misfortune of being one of themselves, without 
 one farthing, for half a year's pains that he had taken for their entertainment ! 
 
 There were some gentlemetf in the pit the first night, that took the hint from the prologue to damn the play j but 
 they made such a noise in the execution, that the people took the outcry for a reprieve ; so that the darling mischief 
 was overlaid by their over-fondness of the changeling. 'Tis somewhat hard, that gentlemen should debase themselves 
 into a faction of a dozen, to stab a single person, whenever had the resolution to face two men at a time ; if he has had 
 the misfortune of any misunderstanding with a particular person, he has had a particular person to answer it. But 
 these sparks would be remarkable in their resentment ; and if anybody falls under .their displeasure, they scorn to call 
 him to a particular account, but will very honourably burn his bouse, or pick his pocket. 
 
 The New-house has perfectly made me a convert by their civility on my sixth night ; for, to be friends, and revenged 
 at the same time, I must give them a play, that is, — when I write another. For faction runs so high, that I could wish 
 the senate would suppress the houses, or put in force the act against bribing elections ; that house which has the most 
 favours to bestow, will certainly carry it, spite of all poetical justice that would support t'other. 
 
 1 have heard some people so extravagantly angiy at this play, that one would think they had no reason to be displeased 
 at all ; whilst some (other^vise men of good sense) have commended it so much, that I was afraid they ridiculed me ; so 
 that between both, I am absolutely at a loss what to think on't ; for though the cause has come on six days successively, 
 yet the trial, 1 fancy, is not determined. When our devotion to Leut, and our lady, is over, the business wiU be brought 
 on again, and then shall we have fair play for our money. 
 
 There is a gentleman of the first ujiderstanding, and a very good critic, who said of Mr. Wilks, that in this part he 
 out-acted himself, and all men that he ever saw. I would not rob Mr. Wilks, by a worse expression of mine, of a compli- 
 ment that he so much deserves. 
 
 I had almost forgot to tell you, that the turn of plot in the last act, is an adventure of Chevalier de Chastillon in Paris, 
 and matter of fact ; but the thing is so universally known, that I think this advice might have been spared, as well as 
 all the rest of the preface, for any good it will do either to me or the play. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 
 
 OiJ> MiRAnpL, an aged Gentleman of an odd com- 
 pound, between the peevishness incident to his 
 years, and bis fatherly fondness towards his 
 Son. 
 
 Young Mirabel, his Son. 
 
 Captain Duretetb, an honest good-natured Fel- 
 low, that thinks himself agreater fool than h»is. 
 
 DuGABD, Brother to Oriana. 
 
 Petit, Servant to Dubard, and afterwards to 
 Oriana. 
 
 Oriana, a Lady contracted to Young Mirabel, 
 
 who would bring him to reason. 
 BisARRE, a whimsical Lady, Friend to Oriana, 
 
 admired by Duretete. 
 Laaiorce, a Woman of contrivance. 
 
 Bravoes, Gentlemen, Ladies, Soldiers, Singers, 
 Fiddler, Maids, Page, and other Servants. 
 
 SCENE,— Pakis. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 WRITTEN BY MR. MOTTEUX 
 
 Like hungry guests, a sitting audience looks: 
 Plays are like suppers : poets are the cooks. 
 The founder's you : the table is this place : 
 The carvers we : the prologue is the grace. 
 Each act, a course ; each scene, a different dish. 
 Though we're in Lent, I doubt you're still for flesh. 
 Satire's the sauce, high-season'd, sharp, and rough: 
 Kind masks and beaux, I hope you're pepper-proof? 
 Wit is the wine ; but 'tis so scarce the true, 
 Poets, like vintners, balderdash and brew. 
 Your surly scenes, where rant and bloodshed join. 
 Are butcher's meat, a battle's a sirloin. 
 Your scenes of love, so flowing, soft, and chaste, 
 Are water-gruel, without salt or taste. 
 Bawdy's fat venison, which, though stale, can 
 
 please : 
 Your rakes love hauts-go&ts, like your damn'd 
 
 French cheese. 
 Your rarity for the fair guest to gape on, 
 Is your nice squeaker, or Italian capon : 
 
 Or your French virgin-pullet, garnish'd round, 
 And dress'd with sauce of some — four hundred 
 
 pound. 
 An opera, like an oglio, nicks the age ; 
 Farce is the hasty-pudding of the stage. 
 For when you're treated with indifferent cheer. 
 Ye can dispense with slender stage-coach fare. 
 A pastoral's whipp'd cream j stage whims, mere 
 
 trash ; 
 And tragi-comedy, half fish half flesh. 
 But comedy, that, that's the darling cheer. 
 This night we hope you'U an Inconstant bear : 
 Wild-fowl is liked in playhouse all the year. 
 
 Yet since each mind betrays a different taste. 
 And every dish scarce pleases every guest. 
 If aught you relish, do not damn the rest. 
 This favour craved, up let the music strike : 
 You're vrelcome all. — Now fall to where you 
 
 like. ' 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 5(i3 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Street. 
 Enter Dugard and Petit. 
 
 Dug. Sirrah, what's o'clock ? 
 
 Pet. Turned of eleven, sir. 
 
 Dug. No more ! We have rid a swinging pace 
 from Nemours since two this morning ! Petit, 
 run to Rousseau's, and bespeak a dinner at a louis- 
 d'or a head, to be ready by one. 
 
 Pet. How many will there be of you, sir ? 
 
 Dug. Let me see ; Mirabel one, Duretete two ; 
 myself three — 
 
 Pet. And I four. 
 
 Dug. How now, sir, at your old travelling fami- 
 liarity ! When abroad, you had some freedom for 
 want of better company ; but among my friends at 
 Paris pray remember your distance. — Begone, sir ! 
 — [Exit Petit.] This fellow's wit was necessary 
 abroad, hut he's too cunning for a domestic ; I 
 must dispose of him Some way else. — Who's here ? 
 Old Mirabel, and my sister ! 
 
 Enter Old Miraeejl and Oriana. 
 
 My dearest sister ! 
 
 Ori. My brother ! welcome ! 
 
 Dug. Monsieur Mirabel ! I'm heartily glad to 
 see you. 
 
 Old Mir. Honest Mr. Dugard, by the blood of 
 the Mirabels I'm your most humble servant. 
 
 Dug. Why, sir, you cast your skin sure ! you're 
 brisk and gay, lusty health about you, no sign 
 of age but your silver hairs. 
 
 Old Mir, Silver hairs ! then they are quicksilver 
 hairs, sir. Whilst I have golden pockets, let my 
 hairs be silver an they will. Adsbud, sir, I can 
 dance, and sing, and drink, and — no, I can't wench. 
 But, Mr. Dugard, no news of my son Bob in all 
 your travels ? 
 
 Dug. Your son's come home, sir. 
 
 Old Mir. Come home ! Bob come home ? By 
 the blood of the Mirabels, Mr. Dugard, what say 
 ye.' 
 
 Ori. Mr. Mirabel returned, sir ? 
 
 Dug. He's certainly come, and you may see him 
 within this hour or two. 
 
 Old Mir. Swear it, Mr. Dugard, presently 
 swear it. 
 
 Dug. Sir, he came to town with me this morn- 
 ing, I left him at the bagnieur's, being a little dis- 
 ordered after riding, and I shall see him again 
 presently. 
 
 Old Mir. What ! and he was ashamed to ask 
 blessing with his boots on ? A nice dog ! Well, 
 and how fares the young rogue, ha ? 
 
 Dug. A fine gentleman, sir. He'll be his own 
 messenger. 
 
 Old Mir. A fine gentleman ! But is the rogue 
 like me still ? 
 
 Dug. Why yes, sir ; he's very like his mother, 
 and as like you as most modern sons are to their 
 fathers. 
 
 Old Mir. Why, sir, don't you think that I begat 
 him ? 
 
 Dug. Why yes, sir ; you married his mother. 
 
 and he inherits your estate. He's very like you, 
 upon my word. 
 
 Ori. And pray, brother, what's become of his 
 honest companion, Duretete .' 
 
 Dug. Who, the captain ? The very same, he 
 went abroad ; he's the only Frenchman I ever knew 
 that could not change. — ^Your son, Mr. Mirabel, is 
 more obliged to nature for that fellow's composition 
 than for his own ; for he's more happy in Duretete's 
 folly than his own wit. In short, they are as inse- 
 parable as finger and thumb, but the first instance 
 in the world, I believe, of opposition in friendship. 
 
 Old Mir. Very well ; will he be home to dinner, 
 think ye ? 
 
 Dug. Sir, he has ordered me to bespeak a din- 
 ner for us at Rousseau's at a louis-d'or a head. 
 
 Old Mir. A louis-d'or a head ! Well said. Bob ; 
 by the blood of the Mirabels, Bob's improved. But, 
 Mr. Dugard, was it so civil of Bob to visit mon- 
 sieur Rousseau before his own natural father.' eh 1 
 — Heark'ee Oriana, what think you now, of a fel- 
 low that can eat and drink ye a whole louis-d'or at 
 a sitting .' He must be as strong as Hercules ; life 
 and spirit in abundance. Before Gad I don't won- 
 der at these men of quality, that their own wives 
 can't serve 'em ! A louis-d'or a head ! — 'tis 
 enough to stock the whole nation with bastards, 
 'tis faith. — Mr. Dugard, I leave you with your 
 sister. lExit. 
 
 Dug. Well, sister, I need not ask you how you 
 do, your looks resolve me ; fair, tall, well-shaped ; 
 you're almost grown out of my remembrance. 
 
 Ori, Why, truly, brother, I look pretty vvell, 
 thank nature and my toilet ; I have 'scaped the 
 jaundice, green-sickness, and the small-pox ; I eat 
 three meals a day, and very merry when up, and 
 sleep soundly when I'm down. 
 
 Dug. But, sister, you remember that upon my 
 going abroad you would choose this old gentleman 
 for your guardian ; he's no more related to our 
 family than Prester John, and I have no reason to 
 think you mistrusted my management of your for- 
 tune, therefore pray be so kind as to tell me with- 
 out reservation the true cause of making such a 
 choice. 
 
 Ori. Look'ee, brother, you were going a rambling, 
 and 'twas proper lest I should go a rambling too, 
 that somebody should take care of me. Old mon- 
 sieur Mirabel is an honest gentleman, was our 
 father's friend, and has a young lady in his house, 
 whose company I like, and who has chosen him for 
 her guardian as well as I. 
 
 Dug. Who, mademoiselle Bisarre ? 
 
 Ori. The same ; we live merrily together, with- 
 out scandal or reproach ; we make much of the old 
 gentleman between us, and he takes care of us ; we 
 eat what we like, go to bed when we please, rise 
 when we will, all the week we dance and sing, and 
 upon Sundays go first to church and then to the 
 play. Now, brother, besides these motives for 
 choosing this gentleman for my guardian, perhaps 
 had some private reasons. 
 
 Dug. Not so private as you imagine, sister ; 
 your love to young Mirabel ; no secret I can assure 
 O O 2 
 
564 
 
 THE INCONSTANT J OR, 
 
 ACT I 
 
 you, but so public that all your friends are ashamed 
 on't. 
 
 Ori. O' my word then, my friends are very bash- 
 ful ; though I'm afraid, sir, that those people are 
 not ashamed enough-at their own crimes, wliohave 
 so many blushes to spare for the faults of their 
 neighbours. 
 
 Dug. Ay, but sister, the people say — 
 
 Ori. Psha, hang the people ! they'll talk treason, 
 and profane their Maker ; must we therefore infer 
 that our king is a tyrant, and religion a cheat ? 
 Look'ee, brother, their court of inquiry is a tavern, 
 and their informer claret. They think as they drink, 
 and swallow reputations like loches : a lady's health 
 goes briskly round with the glass, but her honour 
 is lost in tlie toast. 
 
 Dug. Ay, but sister, there is still something — 
 
 Ori. If there be something, brother, 'tis none of 
 the people's something ; marriage is my thing, and 
 I'll stick to't. 
 
 Dug. Marriage ! young Mirabel marry ! he'll 
 bujld churches sooner. Take heed, sister, though 
 your honour stood proof to his home-bred assaults, 
 you must keep a stricter guard for the future ; he 
 has now got the foreign air and the Italian softness, 
 his wit's improved by converse, his behaviour 
 finished by observation, and his assurance con- 
 firmed by success. Sister, I can assure you he has 
 made his conquests ; and 'tis a plague upon your 
 sex, to be the soonest deceived by those very men 
 that you know have been false to others. 
 
 Ori. Then why will you tell me of his conquests ? 
 for I must confess there is no title to a woman's 
 favour so engaging as the repute of a handsome 
 dissimulation. There is something of a pride to see 
 a fellow lie at our feet, that has triumphed over so 
 many ; and then, I don't know, we fancy he must 
 have something extraordinary about him to please 
 us, and that we have something engaging about us 
 to secure him, so we can't be quiet, till we put oui^ 
 selves upon the lay of being both disappointed. 
 
 Dug. But then, sister, he's as fickle — 
 
 Ori. For Gad's sake, brother, tell me no more of 
 his faults, for if you do I shall run mad for him. 
 Say no more, sir, let me but get him into the bands 
 of matrimony, I'll spoil his wandering, I'll warrant 
 him. I'll do his business that way, never fear. 
 
 Dug. Well, sister, I won't pretend to understand 
 the engagements between you and your lover ; I 
 expect, when you have need of my counsel or assist- 
 ance, you will let me know more of your affairs. 
 Mirabel is a gentleman, and as far as my honour 
 and interest can reach, you may command me to 
 the furtherance of your happiness. In the mean 
 time, sister, I have a great mind to make you a pre- 
 sent of another humble servant ; a fellow I took up 
 at Lyons, who has served me honestly ever since. 
 
 Ori. Then why will you part with him ? 
 
 Dug, He has gained so insufferably on my 
 good-humour,' that he's grown too familiar j but 
 the fellow's cunning, and may be serviceable to 
 you in your affair with Mirabel. Here he comes. 
 
 Re-enter Petit. 
 
 Well, sir, have you been at Rousseau's ! 
 
 Pet. Yes, sir ; and who should I find there but 
 Mr. Mirabel and the captain, hatching as warmly 
 over a tub of ice as two hen-pheasants over a 
 brood. — They would let me bespeak nothing, for 
 they had dined before I came. 
 
 Dug. Come, sir, you shall serve my sister : I 
 shall still continue kind to you, and if your lady 
 recommends your diligence upon trial, I'JI use my 
 interest to advance you ; you have sense enough 
 to expect preferment. Here, sirrah, here's ten 
 guineas for thee, get thyself a drugget suit and a 
 pufF-wig, and so — I dub thee gentleman usher.^ 
 Sister, I must go put myself in repair, you may 
 expect me in the evening. — Wait on your lady 
 home. Petit. {.Exit. 
 
 Pet. A chair ! a chair ! a chair I [^Calti. 
 
 Ori. No, no, I'll walk home, 'tis but next door. 
 
 {.Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II A Tavern. 
 
 Young Mirabel and Captain Duhetbtb are discovered 
 rising from table. 
 
 Young Mir. Welcome to Paris once more, my 
 dear captain ; we have eat heartily, drank roundly, 
 paid plentifully, and let it go for once. I liked 
 everything but our women, they looked so lean and 
 tawdry, poor creatures ! 'Tis a sure sign the army 
 
 is not paid Give me the plump Venetian, brisk 
 
 and sanguine, that smiles upon me like the glow- 
 ing sun, and meets my lips like sparkling wine, 
 her person shining as the glass, and spirit like the 
 foaming liquor. 
 
 Dur. Ay, Mirabel, Italy I grant you ; but for 
 our women here in France, they are such thin, 
 brawn-fallen jades, a man may as well make a beil- 
 fellow of a cane chair. 
 
 Young Mir. France I a light, unseasoned coun- 
 try, nothing but feathers, foppery, and fashions ; 
 we're fine indeed, so are our coach-horses ; men 
 say we're courtiers, men abuse us ; that we are 
 wise and politic, non credOj signor s that our women 
 have wit ; — parrots, mere parrots ! — assurance and 
 a good memory sets them up. — There's nothing 
 on this side the Alps worth my humble service 
 t'ye. — Ha ! Roma la Santa, Italy for my money ; 
 their customs, gardens, buildings, paintings, music, 
 policies, wine, and women 1 the paradise of the 
 world. — Not pestered with a parcel of precise, old 
 gouty fellows, that would debar their children 
 every pteasure that they themselves are past the 
 sense of ; commend me to the Italian familiarity 
 — Here son ; there's fifty crowns, go pay your 
 whore her week's allowance. 
 
 Dur. Ay, these are your fathers for you, that 
 understand the necessities of young men ; not like 
 our musty dads who, because they cannot fish 
 themselves, would muddy the water, and spoil the 
 sport of them that can. But now you talk of the 
 plump, what d'ye think o^ a Dutch woman 1 
 
 Young Mir. A Dutch woman ! — too compact, 
 nay, everything among 'em is so ; a Dutch man is 
 thick, a Dutch woman is squab, a Dutch horse is 
 round, a Dutch dog is short, a Dutch ship is 
 broad-bottomed ; and, in short, one would swear 
 the whole products of the country were cast in the 
 same mould with their cheeses. 
 
 Dur. Ay, but, Mirabel, you have forgot the 
 English ladies. 
 
 Young Mir. The women of England were excel- 
 lent, did they nottake such unsuiferable pains to ruin 
 what nature has made so incomparably well ; they 
 would be delicate creatures indeed, could they but 
 thoroughly arrive at the French mien, or entirely 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 666 
 
 let it alone ; for they only spoil a very good air of 
 their own by an awkward imitation of ours ; their 
 parliaments and our tailors give laws to their three 
 kingdoms. But come, Duretete, let us mind the 
 business in hand, mistresses we must have, and 
 must take up with the manufacture of the place ; 
 and, upon a competent diligence, we shall find 
 those in Paris shall match the Italians from top to 
 toe. 
 
 Dur. Ay, Mirabel, you will do well enough, but 
 what wUl become of your friend ; you know I am 
 so plaguy bashful, so naturally an ass upon these 
 occasions, that — 
 
 Young Mir, Fsha. you must be bolder, man ! 
 Travel three years, and bring home such a baby as 
 bashfulness ! A great lusty fellow ! and a soMer ! 
 fy upon't ! 
 
 Dur. Look'ee, sir, I can visit, and I can ogle a 
 little, — as thus, or thus now. Then I can kiss 
 abundantly, and make a shift to — but, if they 
 chance to give me a forbidding look, as some 
 women, you know, have a devilish cast with their 
 eyes, — or, if they cry — What d'ye mean ? what 
 d*ye take me for ? Fy^ sir ! remember who I am, 
 sir. — A person of quality to be used at this rate I 
 — Egad, I'm struck as flat as a frying-pan. 
 
 Young Mir. Words o' course ! nevermind 'em, 
 turn you about upon your heel with a janty air ; 
 hum out the end of an old song ; cut a cross caper, 
 and at her again. 
 
 Dur. [Imitates him."] No, hang it, 'twill never 
 do ! — Oons, what did my father mean by sticking 
 me up in a university, or to think that I should 
 gain anything by my head, in a nation whose genius 
 lies all in their heels ! Well, if ever I come to 
 have children of my own, they shall have the edu- 
 cation of the country, they shall learn to dance 
 before they can walk, and be taught to sing before 
 they speak. 
 
 Young Mir. Come, come, throw off that child- 
 ish humour, put on assurance, there's no avoiding 
 it ; stand all hazards, thou'rt a stout lusty fellow, 
 and hast a good estate ; look bluff. Hector, you 
 have a good side-box face, a pretty impudent face ; 
 so, that's pretty well. — [Jjsirfe.] This fellow went 
 abroad like an ox, and is returned Uke an ass. 
 
 Dur. Let me see now, how I look. — [Putts out 
 a pocket'glass, and looks on't.] A side-box face, 
 say you ! — Egad, I don't like it, Mirabel- — Fy, sir ! 
 don't abuse your friends, I could not wear such a 
 face for the best countess in Christendom. 
 
 Young Mir. Why, can't you, blockhead, as well 
 as I ? 
 
 Dur. Why, thou hast impudence to set a good 
 face upon anything ; I would change half my gold 
 for half thy brass, with,all my heart. — Who comes 
 here ? Odso, Mirabel, your father 1 
 
 Enter Old Miraebl. 
 
 Old Mir. Where's Bob, dear Bob ? 
 
 Young Mir. Your blessing, sir. 
 
 Old Mir. My blessing I Damn ye, you young 
 rogue ; why did not you come to see your father 
 first, sirrah? My dear boy, I am heartily glad to 
 see thee, my dear child, faith ! — Captain Duretete, 
 by the blood of the Mirabels, I'm yours. — Well, 
 my lads, ye look bravely, i'faith. — Bob, hast got 
 any money left ? 
 
 Young Mir, Not a farthing, sir 
 
 Old Mir Why. then, I won't gi'thee a sense. 
 
 Young Mir. Sir,I did but jest, here'sten pistoles. 
 
 Old Mir. Why, then, here's ten more ; I love 
 to be charitable to those that don't want it. — Well, 
 and how d'ye like Italy, my boys ? 
 
 Young Mir. Oh, the garden of the world, sir ! 
 Rome, Naples, Venice, Milan, and a thousand 
 others — all fine. 
 
 Old Mir. Ay, say you so ! And they say that 
 Chiari is very fine too. 
 
 Dur. Indifferent, sir, very indifferent : a very 
 scurvy air, the most unwholesome to a French 
 constitution in the world. 
 
 Young Mir. Psha, nothing on't ! these rascally 
 Gazetteers have misinformed you. 
 
 Old Mir, Misinformed me ! Oons, sir, were 
 not we beaten there ? 
 
 Young Mir. Beaten, sir ! the French beater i 
 
 Old Mir, Why, how was it, pray, sweet sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. Sir, the captain will tell you. 
 
 Dur. No, sir, your son will tell you. 
 
 Young Mir, The captain was in the action, sir. 
 
 Dur. Your son saw more than I, sir, for he was 
 a looker-on. 
 
 Old Mir. Confound ye both for a brace of cow- 
 ards ! here are no Germans to overhear you ; why 
 don't ye tell me how it was ? 
 
 Young Mir, Why, then, you must know, that 
 we marched up a body of the finest, bravest, well- 
 dressed fellows in the universe : our commanders 
 at the head of us, all lace and feather, like so many 
 beaux at a ball. — I don't believe there was a maa 
 of 'em but could dance a Charmer, morbleu ! 
 
 Old Mir. Dance ! very well, pretty fellows, faith ! 
 
 Young Mir. We capered up to their very 
 trenches, and there saw peeping over a parcel of 
 scarecrow, olive-coloured, guupowdered fellows, 
 as ugly as the devil. 
 
 Dur. Egad, I shall never forget the looks of 
 'em while I have breath to fetch. 
 
 Young Mir. They were so civil indeed as to 
 welcome us with their cannon ; but, for the rest, 
 we found 'em such unmannerly, rude, unsociable 
 dogs, that we grew tired of their company, and so 
 we e'en danced back again. 
 
 Old Mir, And did ye all come back ." 
 
 Young Mir, No, two or three thousand of us 
 stayed behind. 
 
 Old Mir. Why, Bob, why ? 
 
 Young Mir. Fsha ! — because they could not 
 come that night.— But, come, sir, we were talking 
 of something else ; pray how does your lovely 
 charge, the fair Oriana ? 
 
 Old Mir. Ripe, sir, just ripe ; you'll find it 
 better engaging with her than with the Germans, 
 let me tell you. — And what would you say, my 
 young Mars, if I had » Venus for thee too .' — 
 Come, Bob, your apartment is ready, and, pray, 
 let your friend be my guest too ; you shall com- 
 mand the house between ye, and I'll be as mei ry 
 as the best of you. * 
 
 Young Mir. Bravely said, father ! — 
 Let misers bend their age with niggard cares. 
 And starve themselves to pamper hungry heirs ; 
 Who, living, stint their sons what youth may crave 
 And make 'em revel o'er a father's grave. 
 The stock on which I grew, does still dispense 
 Its genial sap into the blooming branch ; 
 The fruit, he knows, from his own root is grown. 
 And therefore soothes those passions once his own, 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
566 
 
 THE INCONSTANT J OR, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ACT II. * 
 
 SCENE I.— A Room in Old Mirabel's House. 
 Ortana and BisAaitE discovered. 
 
 Bia. And you love this young rake, d'ye .' 
 
 On. Yes. 
 
 Bis. In spite of all his ill usage ? 
 
 Ori. I can't help it. 
 
 Bis. What's the matter w'ye ? 
 
 OH. Psha! 
 
 Bis. Um ! — before that any young, lying, swear- 
 ing, flattering, rakehelly fellow, should play such 
 tricks with me, I would wear my teeth to the 
 stumps with lime and chalk. Oh, the devil tak« 
 all your Cassandras and Cleopatras for me. — Pri- 
 thee mind your airs, modes, and fashions ; your 
 stays, gowns, and furbelows. Hark'ee, my dear, 
 have you got Jiome your furbelowed smocks yet i 
 
 Ori. Prithee be quiet, Bisarre j you know I can 
 be as mad as you, when this Mirabel is out of my 
 head. 
 
 Bis. Psha ! would he were out, or in, or some 
 ■way to make you easy. — I warrant now you'll 
 play the fool when he comes, and say you love 
 him ; eh r 
 
 Ori. Most certainly ; I can't dissemble, Bis- 
 arre. — Besides, 'tis past that, we're contracted. 
 
 Bis. Contracted ! a-lack-a-day, poor thing ! 
 What, you have changed rings, or broken an old 
 broad-piece between you ! Hark'ee, child, han't 
 you broke something else between ye ? 
 
 Ori. No, no, I can assure you. 
 
 Bis. Then, what d'ye whine for ? Whilst I kept 
 that in my power, I would make a fool of any fel- 
 low in France. Well, I must confess, 1 do love a 
 little coquetting with all my heart ; my business 
 should be to break gold with my lover one hour, 
 and crack my promise the next ; he should find 
 me one day with a prayer-book in my hand, and 
 with a play-book another. He should have my 
 consent to buy the wedding-ring, and the next 
 moment would I laugh in his face. 
 
 Ori. Oh, my dear, were there no greater tie 
 upon my heart, than there is upon my conscience, 
 1 would soon throw the contract out a-doors ; but 
 the mischief on't is, I am so fond of being tied, 
 that I'm forced to be just, and the strength of my 
 passion keeps down the Inclination of my sex. — 
 But here's the old gentleman. 
 
 Enter Old Mirabel. 
 
 Old Mir. W^here's my wenches ? where's my 
 two little girls ? Eh ! have a care, look to your- 
 selves, faith, they're a-coming, the travellers are 
 a-coming. W^ll, which of you two will be my 
 daughter-in-law now .' Bisarre, Bisarre, what 
 say you, madcap .' Mirabel is a pure wild fellow. 
 
 Bis. I like him the worse. 
 
 Old Mir. You lie, honey, you like him the bet- 
 ter, indeed you do. — What say you, my t'other 
 little filbert, eh ! 
 
 Ori. I suppose the gentleman will choose for 
 cimself, sir. 
 
 Old Mir. Why, that's discreetly said ; and so 
 he shall. 
 
 Enter Young MiRABEt and Duretetk, they salute the 
 ladies. 
 Bob, heark'ee ! you shall marry one of the girls, 
 sirrah. 
 
 Young Mir. Sir, I'll marry 'em both, if you 
 please. 
 
 Bis. He'll find that one may serve his turn. 
 
 lAside. 
 
 Old Mir. Both ! why, you young dog, d'ye 
 banter me .' Come, sir, take your choice. — Dure- 
 tete, you shall have your choice too ; but Robin 
 shall choose first. — Come, sir, begin. 
 
 Young Mir. Well, 1 an't the first son that 
 has made his father's dwelling a bandy-bouse — let 
 me see. 
 
 Old Mir. Well, which d'ye like ? 
 
 Young Mir. Both. 
 
 Old Mir. But which will you marry ? 
 
 Young Mir. Neither. 
 
 Gld Mir. Neither ! Don't make me angry 
 now, Bob ; pray don't make me angry. Look'ee, 
 sirrah, if I don't dance at your wedding to-morrow, 
 I shall be very glad to cry at your grave. 
 
 Young Mir. That's a bull, father. 
 
 Old Mir. A bull I why, how now, ungrateful 
 sir, did I make thee a man, that thou shouldst 
 make me a beast } 
 
 Young Mir. Your pardon, sir, I only meant 
 your expression. 
 
 Old Mir. Heark'ee, Bob, learn better manners 
 to your father before strangers : I won't be angry 
 this time, — but oons, if ever you do't again, you 
 rascal ; remember what I say. [.Exit. 
 
 Young Mir. Pshal what does the old fellow 
 mean by mewing me up here with a couple of 
 green girls ! — Come, Duretete, wUl you go ? 
 
 Ori. I hope, Mr. Mirabel, you han't forgot — 
 
 Young Mir. No, no, madam, I han't forgot, I 
 have brought you athousand little Italian curiosities; 
 I'll assure you, madam, as far as a hundred pistoles 
 would reach, I han't forgot the least circumstance. 
 
 Ori. Sir, you misunderstand me. 
 
 Young Mir. Odso, the relics, madam, from 
 Rome, I do remember now you made a vow of 
 chastity before my departure ; a vow of chastity, 
 or something like it ; was it not, madam ? 
 
 Ori. sir, I'm answered at present. IBxit. 
 
 Young Mir, She was coming full mouth upon 
 
 me with her contract Would I might despatch 
 
 the t'other ! lAside. 
 
 Dur. Mirabel, — that lady there, observe her, 
 she's wondrous pretty faith, and seems to have but 
 few words ; I like her mainly : speak to her, man, 
 prithee speak to her. [Aside to Mirabel 
 
 Young Mir. Madam, here's a gentleman, who 
 declares — 
 
 Dur. Madam, don't believe him, I declare 
 nothing. — What the devil do you mean, man S 
 
 Young Mir. He says, madam, that you are 
 beautiful as an angel. 
 
 Ihir, He tells a damned lie, madam ; I say no 
 
 such thing Are you mad, Mirabel ? why, 1 shall 
 
 drop down with shame. 
 
 Young Mir. And so, madam, not doubting but 
 
THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 567 
 
 your ladyship may like him as well as he does 
 vou, 1 think it proper to leave you together. 
 
 Dur. Hold, hold !— Why Mirabel, friend, sure 
 you won't be so barbarous as to leave me alone ! 
 Prithee speak to her for yourself, as it were. Lord, 
 Lord, that a Frenchman should want impudence I 
 
 Young Mir. You look mighty demure, madam ! 
 —She's deaf, captain. 
 
 Dur. I had much rather have her dumb. 
 
 Young Mir. The gravity of your air, madam, 
 promises some extraordinary fruits from your 
 study, which moves us with a curiosity to inquire 
 the subject of your ladyship's contemplation.— -Not 
 a word I 
 
 Dur. I hope in the Lord she's speechless ; if 
 she be, she's mine this moment. — Mirabel, d'ye 
 think a woman's silence can be natural ? 
 
 Bis. But the forms that logicians introduce, and 
 which proceed from simple enumeration, are dubit- 
 able, and proceed only upon admittance — 
 
 Young Mir. Hoyty toyty ! what a plague have 
 we here ? Plato in petticoats ' 
 
 Dur. Ay, ay, let her go on, man ; she talks in 
 my own mother-tougue. 
 
 Bis. 'Tis exposed to invalidity from a contra- 
 dictory instance, looks only upon common opera- 
 tions, and is infinite in its termination. 
 
 Young Mir. Rare pedantry! 
 
 Dur. Axioms ! axioms 1 self-evident principles ! 
 
 Bis. Then the ideas wherewith the mind is pre- 
 occupate — O gentlemen, I hope you'll pardon my 
 cogitation ; 1 was involved in a profound point of 
 philosophy ; but I shall discuss it somewhere else, 
 being satisfied that the subject is not agreeable to 
 you sparks, that profess the vanity of the times. 
 
 IBxit. 
 
 Young Mir. Go thy way, goodwife Bias. Do 
 you hear, Duretete ? dost hear this starched piece 
 of austerity ? 
 
 Dur. She's mine, man ; she's mine : my own 
 talent to a T. I'll match her in dialectics, faith. I 
 was seven years at the university, man ; nursed 
 up with Barbara, Celarunt, Darii, Ferio, Bara- 
 lipton. Did you never know, man, that 'twas 
 metaphysics made me an ass ? it was, faith. Had 
 she talked a word of singing, dancing, plays, fash- 
 ions, or the like, I had foundered in the first step ; 
 but as she is — Mirabel, wish me joy. 
 
 Young Mir. You don't mean marriage, I hope.' 
 
 Dur. No, no, I'm a man of more honour. 
 
 Young Mir. Bravely resolved, captain ! Now 
 for thy credit, warm me this frozen snow-ball, 
 'twill be a conquest above the Alps. 
 
 Dwr. But will you promise to be always near 
 me .' 
 
 Young Mir. Upon all occasions, never fear. 
 
 Dur. Why then, you shall see me in two mo- 
 ments make an induction from my love to her 
 hand, from her hand to her mouth, from her mouth 
 to her heart, and so conclude in her bed, categori- 
 matice. iSxa. 
 
 Young Mir, Now the game begins, and my 
 fool is entered. — But here comes one to spoil my 
 sport ; now shall I be teased to death with this 
 old-fashioned contract. I should love her too, if 
 I might do it my own way, but she'll do nothing 
 without witnesses forsooth : I wonder women can 
 be so immodest. 
 
 Re-enter Oriana. 
 Well, madam, why d'ye follow me ? 
 
 Ori. Well, sir, why do you shun me ? 
 
 Young Mir, 'Tis my humour, madam, and I am 
 naturally swayed by inclination. 
 
 Ori. Have you forgot our contract, sir ,' 
 
 Young Mir. All I remember of that contract is, 
 that it was made some three years ago, and that's 
 enough in conscience to forget the rest on't. 
 
 Ori. 'Tis sufficient, sir, to recollect the passing 
 of it, for in that circumstance, I presume, lies the 
 force of the obligation. 
 
 Young Mir. Obligations, madam, that are forced 
 upon the will are no tie upon the conscience ; J was 
 a slave to my passion when I passed the instru- 
 ment, but the recovery of my freedom makes the 
 contract void. 
 
 Ori. Sir, you can't make that a compulsion 
 which was your own choice. Besides, sir, a sub- 
 jection to your own desires has not the virtue of a 
 forcible constraint : and you will find, sir, that to 
 plead your passion for the killing of a man will 
 hardly exempt you from the justice of the punish- 
 ment. 
 
 Young Mir. And so, madam, you make the sin 
 of murder and the crime of a contract the very 
 same, because that hanging and matrimony are so 
 much alike ? 
 
 Ori. Come, Mr. Mirabel, these expressions I 
 expected from the raillery of your humour, but I 
 hope for very different sentiments from your 
 honour and generosity. 
 
 Young Mir. Look'ee, madam, as for my gene- 
 rosity, 'tis at your service, with all my heart : I'll 
 keep you a coach and six horses, if you please, 
 only permit me to keep my honour to myself; for 
 J can assure you, madam, that the thing called 
 honour is a circumstance absolutely unnecessary 
 in a natural correspondence between male and 
 female, and he's a madman that lays it out, con- 
 sidering its scarcity, upon any such trivial occa- 
 sions. There's honour required of us by our 
 friends, and honour due to our enemies, and they 
 return it to us again ; but I never heard of => man 
 that left but an inch of his honour in a woman's 
 keeping, that could ever get the least account on't. 
 Consider, madam, you have no such thing among 
 ye, and 'tis a main point of policy to keep no faith 
 with reprobates : thou art a pretty little reprobate, 
 and so get thee about thy business. 
 
 Ori. Well, sir, even all this I will allow to the 
 gaiety of your temper ; your travels have improved 
 your talent of talking, but they are not of force, I 
 hope, to impair your morals. 
 
 Young Mir. Morals ! why there 'tis again now. 
 I tell thee, child, there is not the least occasion for 
 morals in any business between you and I. Don't 
 you know that of all commerce in the world there 
 is no such cozenage and deceit as in the traffic 
 between man and woman ; we study all our lives 
 long how to put tricks U'lon one another. What 
 is your business now, from the time you throw 
 away your artificial babies, but how to get natural 
 ones with the most advantage ? No fowler lays 
 abroad more nets for his game, nor a hunter for 
 his prey, than you do to catch poor innocent men. 
 Why do you sit three or four hours at your toilet 
 in a morning ? Only with a viltanous design to 
 j make some poor fellow a fool before night. What 
 k are your languishing looks, your studied airs and 
 
668 
 
 THE INCONSTANT; OR, 
 
 affectations, but so many baits and devices to delude 
 men out of their dear liberty and freedom ? What 
 d'ye sigh for ? what d'ye weep for ? what d'ye pray 
 for ? Why for a husband : that is, you implore 
 Providence to assist you in the just and pious 
 design of making the wisest of his creatures a fool, 
 and the head of the creation a slave. 
 
 Ori. Sir, I am proud of my power, and am re- 
 solved to use it. 
 
 Young Mir. Hold, hold, madam ! not so fast. — 
 \s you have variety of vanities to make coxcombs 
 of us ; so we have vows, oaths, and protestations, 
 of all sorts and sizes, to make fools of you. As 
 TOU are very strange and whimsical creatures, so 
 we are allowed as unaccountable ways of managing 
 you. And this, in short, my dear creature, is our 
 present condition j I have sworn and lied briskly 
 to gain my ends of you, your ladyship has patched 
 and painted violently to gain your ends of me : 
 but, since we are both disappointed, let us make a 
 drawn battle, and part clear of both sides. 
 
 Ori. With all my heart, sir ; give me up my 
 contract, and Til never see your face again. 
 
 Young Mir. Indeed I won't, child. 
 
 Ori. What, sir, neither do one nor t'other ? 
 
 Young Mir. No, you shaU die a maid, unless 
 you please to be otherwise upon my terms. 
 
 Ori. What do you intend by this, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. Why, to starve you into compliance. 
 Look'ee, you shall never marry any man ; and you 
 had as good let me do you a kindness as a stranger. 
 
 Ori. Sir, you're a — 
 
 Young Mir. What am I, mistress ? 
 
 Ori. A villain, sir. 
 
 Young Mir. I'm glad on't. I never knew an 
 honest fellow in my life but was a villain upon 
 these occasions. Han't you drawn yourself now 
 into a very pretty dilemma ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! the 
 poor lady has made a vow of virginity, when she 
 thought of making a vow for the contrary. Was 
 ever poor woman so cheated into chastity ? 
 
 Ori. Sir, my fortune is equal to yours, my friends 
 as powerful, and both shall be put to the test, to 
 do me justice. 
 
 Young Mir. What ! you'll force me to marry 
 you, will ye ? 
 
 Ori. Sir, the law shall. 
 
 Young Mir. But the law can't force me to do 
 anything else, can it ? 
 
 Ori. Psha, I despise thee, — monster ! 
 
 Young Mir. Kiss and be friends then. Don't 
 cry, child, and you shall have your sugar-plum. 
 Come, madam, d'ye think I could be so unreason- 
 able as to make ye fast all your life long ? No, 
 I did but jest, you shall have your liberty ; here, 
 take your contract, and give me mine. 
 
 Ori. No, I won't. 
 
 Young Mir. Eh ! what, is the girl a fool ? 
 
 Ori, No, sir, you shaU find me cunning enough 
 to do myself justice ; and since I must not depend 
 upon your love, I'll be revenged, and force you to 
 marry me out of spite. 
 
 Young Mir. Then I'll beat thee out of spite ; 
 make a most confounded husband. 
 
 Ori. O sir, I shall match ye ! a good husband 
 makes a good wife at any time. 
 
 Young Mir. I'll rattle down your china about 
 ^our ears. 
 
 Ori. And I'll rattle about the city to run you in 
 (ebt for mors. 
 
 Young Mir. Your face-mending toilet shall fly 
 out of the window. 
 
 Ori. And your face-mending periwig shall fly 
 after it. 
 
 Young Mir. I'll tear the furbelow off your 
 clothes, and when you swoon for vexation, you 
 shan't have a penny to buy a bottle of hartshorn. 
 
 Ori. And you, sir, shall have hartshorn in abun- 
 dance. 
 
 Young Mir. I'll keep as many mistresses as 1 
 have coach-horses. 
 
 Ori. And I'll keep as many gallants as you have 
 grooms. 
 
 Young Mir. I'll lie with your woman before 
 your face. 
 
 Ori. Have a care of your valet behind your back. 
 
 Young Mir. But, sweet madam, there is such a 
 thing as a divorce. 
 
 Ori. But, sweet sir, there is such a thing as 
 alimony : so divorce on, and spare not. ^Exit. 
 
 Young Mir. Ay, that separate maintenance is 
 the devil : there's their refuge. O' my conscience, 
 one would take cuckoldom for a meritorious action, 
 because the women are so handsomely rewarded 
 for't. ■ lExit. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Saloon in Old Mirabel's House, 
 
 with chambers adjoining. 
 
 Enter Captain Dubbtbtb and Petit. 
 
 Dur. And she's mighty peevish, you say ? 
 
 Pet. O sir, slie has a tongue as long as my leg, 
 and talks so crabbedly, you would think she al- 
 ways spoke Welsh ! 
 
 Dur. That's an odd language, methinks, for her 
 philosophy. 
 
 Pet. But sometimes she will sit you half a day 
 without speaking a word, and talk oracles all the 
 while by the wrinkles of her forehead, and the 
 motions of her eyebrows. 
 
 Dur, Nay, I shall match her in philosophical 
 ogles, faith ; that's my talent : I can talk best, yon 
 must know, when I say nothing. 
 
 Pet. But d'ye ever laugh, sir ? 
 
 jDur, Laugh ! won't she endure laughing ? 
 
 Pet. Why she's a critic, sir ; she hates a jest, 
 for fear it should please her ; and nothing keeps 
 her in humour but what gives her the spleen. 
 And then for logic, and all that, you know — 
 
 Dur, Ay, ay, I'm prepared, I have been prac- 
 tising hard words, and no sense, this hour, to 
 entertain her. 
 
 Pet. Then place yourself behind this screen, 
 that you may have a view of her behaviour before 
 you begin, 
 
 Dur, I long to engage her, lest I should forget 
 my lesson. 
 
 Pel. Here she comes, sir, I must fly. 
 
 lExit — Captain Doretetb conceals himself behind the 
 screen. 
 
 Enter Bisarrb, with a book in her hand, and Maid. 
 
 Bis. Psha, hang books I they sour our temper 
 spoil our eyes, and ruin our complexions. 
 
 {Throws away the book. 
 
 Dur. [Aside, peeping out.} Eh! the devU such 
 a word there is in all Aristotle. 
 
 .Bis. Come, wench, let's be free ; call in the 
 fiddle, there's nobody near us. lExit Maid. 
 
 Dur. Would to the Lord there was not ! [Aside. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 669 
 
 Re-enter Maid with Fiddler. 
 
 Sis. Here, friend, a minuet ! — Quicker time I — 
 Ha ! would we had a man or two. 
 
 Dur. [Stealing away.] You shall have the 
 devil sooner, my dear dancing philosopher. [.Aside. 
 
 Bis. Uds my life ! — Here's one. 
 
 [Runs t-o DuRBTBTB and hales him baek. 
 
 Dur. Is all my learned preparation come to this ? 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Bis. Come, sir, don't be ashamed, that's my 
 good boy : — you're very welcome, we wanted such 
 a one. — Come, strike up. — I know you dance well, 
 sir, you're finely shaped for't. — Come, come, sir ; 
 quick, quick, you miss the time else. 
 
 Dur. But, madam, I come to talk with you. 
 
 Bis. Ay, ay, talk as you dance, talk as you dance ; 
 come. 
 
 Dur. But we were talking of dialectics. 
 
 Bis. Hang dialectics ! — [7*0 rte Fiddler.] Mind 
 the time: — quicker, sirrah I — Come — and how d'ye 
 find yourself now, sir } 
 
 Dur. In a fine breathing sweat, doctor. 
 
 Bis. All the better, patient, all the better. — 
 Come, sir, sing now, sing, I know you sing well ; 
 I see you have a singing face ; a heavy dull sonata 
 face. 
 
 Dur. Who, I sing ? 
 
 Bis .Oh, you're modest, sir ! — Butcome, sitdown, 
 closer, closer. — Here, a bottle of wine. — Come, sir, 
 fa, la, la ; sing, sir. 
 
 Dur. But, madam, I came to talk with you. 
 
 Bis. O sir, you shall drink first. Come, fill me 
 a bumper — here, sir, bless the king. 
 
 Dvr. Would I were out of his dominions ! — By 
 this light, she'll make me drunk too ! [Aside. 
 
 Bis. Oh, pardon me, sir, you shall do me right, 
 fill it higher. — Now, sir, can you drink a health 
 under your leg ? 
 
 Dur. Rare philosophy that, faith ! [Aside. 
 
 Bis. Come, off with it, to the bottom. — Now, 
 how d'ye like me, sir .'- 
 
 Dur. Oh, mighty well, madam. 
 
 Bis. You see how a woman's fancy varies, 
 sometimes splenetic and heavy, then gay and 
 frolicsome. — And how d'ye like the humour ? 
 
 Dur. Good madam, let me sit down to ans,wer 
 you, for I am heartily tired. 
 
 Bis. Fy upon't ! a young man, and tired I Up 
 for shame, and walk about, action becomes us : — 
 a little faster, sir. — What d'ye think now of my 
 lady La Pale, and lady Coquette the duke's fair 
 daughter .' Ha ! are they not brisk lasses ? Then 
 there is black Mrs. Bellair, and brown Mrs. Bell- 
 face. ' 
 
 Dur. They are all strangers to me, madam. 
 
 Bit. But let me tell you, sir, that brown is not 
 
 always despicable. — O Lard, sir, if young Mrs* 
 Bagatelle bad kept herself single till this time o' 
 day, what a beauty there had been I And then, 
 you know, the charming Mrs. Monkeylove, the 
 fair gem of St, Germains. 
 
 Dur. Upon my soul, I don't. 
 
 Bis. And then you must have heard of the 
 English bean, Spleenamore, how unlike a gentle- 
 man — 
 
 Dur. Hey — not a syllable on't, as I hope to be 
 saved, madam 1 
 
 Bis. No ! why then play me a jig.^ — Come, sir. 
 
 Dur. By this light I cannot, faith, madam, I 
 have sprained my leg. 
 
 Bis. Then sit you down, sir. And now tell me 
 what's your business with me ? what's your errand ? 
 quick, quick, despatch ! — Odso, may be you are 
 some gentleman's servant, that have brought me a 
 letter, or a haunch of venison. 
 
 Dur. 'Sdeath, madam, do I look like a carrier? 
 
 Bis. Oh, cry your mercy, sir ! I saw you just 
 now, I mistook you, upon my word : you are one 
 of the travelling gentlemen. — And pray, sir, how 
 do all Our impudent friends in Italy ? 
 
 Dur. Madam, I came to wait on you with a 
 more serious intention than your entertainment has 
 answered. 
 
 Bis. Sir, your intention of waiting on me was 
 the greatest affront imaginable, howe'er your ex- 
 pressions may turn it to a compliment : your visit, 
 sir, w^s intended as a prologue to a very scurvy 
 play, of which Mr. Mirabel and you so handsomely 
 laid the plot. — Marry ! no, no^ I'm a man of morei 
 honour. — Where's your honour.' wherer'fe your cou- 
 rage now ? .Ads my life, sir, I have, a great miud 
 to kick you! — Go, .^go to your, fellow-rake now, 
 rail at my sex, and get drunk for vexation, and 
 write a lampoon ! — But I must have you to know, 
 sir, that my reputation is above the scandal of a 
 libel, my virtue is sufficiently approved to those 
 whose opinion is my interest : and for the rest, let 
 them talk what they will ; for when I please I'll be 
 what I please, in spite of you and all mankind : 
 and so, my dear man of honour, if you be tired, 
 con over this lesson, and sit there till I come to 
 you. [Exit, Maid and Fiddler fottotoing. 
 
 Dur. Turn ti dum — ISings.] Ha! ha! ha! 
 Ads my life ! I have a great mind to kick you} — 
 Oons and confusion ! — [Slarts up."] Was ever man 
 so abused ! — Ay, Mirabel set me on. 
 
 Re-enter Peiit. 
 
 Pelit. Well, sit, how d'ye find yourself? 
 
 Dur. You son of a nine-eyed whore, d'ye come 
 to abuse me .'' I'll kick you with a vengeance, you 
 dog ! [Petit runs qft and DunKTETE a/ter him. 
 
670 
 
 THE INCONSTANT ; OR, 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.- 
 
 -The Saloon in Old Mirabel's 
 House. 
 
 Old Mirabel and Young Mirabel discovered. 
 
 Old Mir. Bob, come hither, Bob. 
 
 Yoimg Mir. Your pleasure, sir ? 
 
 Old Mir. Are not you a great rogue, sirrah ? 
 
 Young Mir. That's a little out of my compre- 
 hension, sir, for I've heard say, that I resemble my 
 father. 
 
 Old Mir. Your father is your very humble slave. 
 — I tell thee what, child, thou art a very pretty 
 fellow, and I love thee heartily ; and a very great 
 villain, and I hate thee mortally. 
 
 Young Mir. Villain, sir ! then I must be a very 
 impudent one, for I can't recollect any passage of 
 my life that I'm ashamed of. 
 
 Old Mir. Come hither, my dear friend ; dost 
 gee this picture ? [_Shoios him a miniature. 
 
 Young Mir. Oriana's ! — Psha ! 
 
 Old Mir. What, sir, won't you look upon't ? — 
 Bob, dear Bob, prithee come hither now. — Dost 
 want any money, child ? 
 
 Young Mir. No, .sir. 
 
 Old Mir. Why then here's some for thee ; come 
 here now. — How canst thou be so hard-hearted, an 
 unnatural, unmannerly rascal (don't mistake me, 
 child, I an't angry) as to abuse this tender, lovely, 
 good-natured, dear rogue ? Why, she sighs for 
 thee, and cries for thee, pouts for thee, and snubs 
 for thee, the poor little heart of it is like to burst. 
 Come, my dear boy, be good-natured like your 
 nown father, be now. — And then see here, read 
 this — the effigies of the lovely Oriana, with ten 
 thousand pound to her portion — ten thousand 
 pound, you dog ! ten thousand pound, you rogue ! 
 How dare you refuse a lady with ten thousand 
 pound, you impudent rascal ? 
 
 Young Mir. Will you hear me speak, sir ? 
 
 Old Mir. Hear you speak, sir ! if you had ten 
 thousand tongues, you could not outtalk ten thou- 
 sand pound, sir. 
 
 Young Mir. Nay, sir, if you won't hear me I'll 
 begone, sir ! I'll take post for Italy this moment. 
 
 Old Mir. Ah ! the fellow knows I won't part 
 with him. Well, sir, what have you to say ? 
 
 Young Mir. 'The universal reception, sir, that 
 marriage has had in the world, is enough to fix it 
 for a public good, and to draw everybo^y into the 
 common cause ; but there are some constitutions, 
 like some instruments, so peculiaMy singular, that 
 they make tolerable music by themselves, but never 
 do well in a consort. 
 
 Old Mir. Why this is reason, I must confess, 
 but yet 'tis nonsense too ; for though you should 
 reason like an angel, if you argue yourself out of a 
 good estate you talk like a fool. 
 
 Young Mir. But, sir, if you bribe me into bond- 
 age with the riches of Croesus, you leave me but 
 a beggar for want of my liberty. 
 
 Old Mir. Was ever such a perverse fool heard ! 
 'Sdeath, sir, why did I give you education ? was it 
 to disi'ute me out of my senses ? Of what colour 
 how lb tlie head of this cane? You'll say 'tis 
 
 white, and, ten to one, make me believe it too. I 
 thought that young fellows studied to get money. 
 
 Young Mir. No, sir, I have studied to despise 
 it : my reading was not to make me rich, but 
 happy, sir. 
 
 Old Mir. There he has me again now. But, 
 sir, did not I marry to oblige you ? 
 
 Young Mir. To oblige me, sir ! in what respect, 
 pray .' 
 
 Old Mir. Why, to bring you into the world, sir ; 
 wa'n't that an obligation ? 
 
 Young Mir. And because I would have it still 
 an obligation, I avoid marriage. 
 
 Old Mir. How is that, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. Because 1 would not curse the hour 
 I was born. 
 
 Old Mir. Look'ee, friend, you may persuade 
 me out of my designs, but I'll command you out 
 of yours ; and though you may convince my reason 
 that you're in the right, yet there is an old attend- 
 ant of sixty-three, called positiveness, which you 
 nor all the wits in Italy shall ever be able to shake ; 
 so, sir, you're a wit, and I'm a father ; you may 
 talk, but I'll be obeyed. 
 
 Young Mir. ^Aside. ] This it is to have the son 
 a finer gentleman than the father ; they first give 
 us breeding that they don't understand, then they 
 turn us out of doors 'cause we are wiser than them- 
 selves. But I'm a little aforehand with the old 
 gentleman. — [Aloud.] Sir, you have been pleased 
 to settle a thousand pound sterling a year upon me ; 
 in return of which, I have a very great honour for 
 you and your family, and shall take care that your 
 only and beloved son shall do nothing to make him 
 hate his father, or to hang himself. So, dear sir, 
 I'm your very humble servant. IRuns off. 
 
 Old Mir. Here, sirrah ! rogue ! Bob ! villain ! , 
 
 Enter Duoard. 
 
 Dug. <Ay, sir, 'tis but what he deserves. 
 
 Old Mir. 'Tis false, sir, he don't deserve it ; 
 what have you to say against my boy, sir ? 
 
 Dug. I shall only repeat your own words. 
 
 Old Mir. What have you to do with my words ? 
 I have swallowed my words already ; I have eaten 
 them up, and how can you come at *em, sir .'' 
 
 Dug. Very easily, sir : 'tis but mentioning your 
 injured ward, and you will throw them up again 
 immediately. 
 
 Old Mir. Sir, your sister was a foolish young 
 flirt to trust any such young, deceitful, rakehelly 
 rogue, like him. 
 
 Dug. Cry you mercy, old gentleman! I thought 
 we should have the words again. 
 
 Old Mir. And what then .' 'Tis the way with 
 young fellows to slight old gentlemen's words, you 
 never mind 'em when you ought. — I say, that Bob's 
 an honest fellow, and who dares deny it .' 
 
 Enter Bisabrk. 
 
 Bis. That dare I, sir : — I say, that your son is 
 a wild, foppish, whimsical, impertinent coxcomb ; j 
 and were I abused as this gentleman's sister, I I 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 571 
 
 would make it an Italian quarrel, and poison the 
 whole family. 
 
 Dug. Come, sir, 'tis no time for trifling, my 
 sister is abused ; you are made sensible of the 
 affront, and your honour is concerned to see her 
 redressed. 
 
 Old Mir. Look'ee, Mr. Dugard, good words go 
 farthest. I will do your sister justice, but it must 
 be after my own rate, nobody must abuse my son 
 but myself. For although Robin be a sad dog, yet 
 he's nobody's puppy but my own. 
 
 Bis. Ay, that's my sweet- natured, kind old gen- 
 tleman. — [ Wheedling Aim.] We will be good then, 
 if you'll join with us in the plot. 
 
 Old Mir. Ah, you coaxing young baggage, what 
 plot can you have to wheedle a fellow of sixty-three } 
 
 Bis. A plot that sixty-three is only good for, to 
 bring other people together, sir ; and you must act 
 the Spaniard, 'cause your son will least suspect 
 you ; and if he should, your authority protects you 
 from a quarrel, to which Oriana is unwUing to 
 expose her brother. 
 
 Old Mir. And what part will you act in the bu- 
 siness, madam ? 
 
 Bis. Myself, sir ; my friend is grown a perfect 
 changeling : these foolish hearts of ours spoil our 
 heads presently ; the fellows no sooner turn knaves 
 but we turn fools. But I am still myself, and he 
 may expect the most severe usage from me, 'cause 
 I neither love him nor hate him. \_Bxit. 
 
 Old Mir. Well said, Mrs. Paradox. — But, sir, 
 who must open the matter to him ? 
 
 Dug. Petit, sir, who is our engineer general. 
 And here he comes. 
 
 Enter Petit. 
 
 Pet. O sir, more discoveries I Are all friends 
 about us .' 
 
 Dug. Ay, ay, speak freely. 
 
 Pet. You must know, sir — ods my life, I'm out 
 of breath ! — ^you must know, sir — you must know — 
 
 Old Mir. What the devil must we know, sir ? 
 
 Pet. That I have — [^Pants and blows.J bribed, 
 sir, bribed — your son's secretary of state. 
 
 Old Mir. Secretary of state ! whp's that, for 
 Heaven's sake ? 
 
 Pet. His valet-de-chambre, sir. You must know, 
 sir, that the intrigue lay folded up with his master's 
 clothes, and when he went to dust the embroidered 
 suit, the secret flew out of the right pocket of his 
 coat, in a whole swarm of your crambo songs, 
 short-footed odes, and long-legged pindarics. 
 
 Old Mir. Impossible ! 
 
 Pet. Ah, sir, he has loved her all along ; there 
 was Oriana in every line, but he hates marriage. 
 Now, sir, this plot will stir up his jealousy, and we 
 shall know by the strength of that how to proceed 
 farther. Come, sir, let's about it with speed. 
 
 'Tis expedition gives our king the sway ; 
 
 For expedition too the French give way ; 
 
 Swift to attack, or swift to run away. {.Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II.— The same. 
 
 Enter Young Miiiabel and Bisarre, passing carelessly 
 by one another. 
 
 Bis. I wonder what she can see in this fellow to 
 like him .' 
 
 Young Mir. I wonder what my friend can see 
 in this girl to admire her ? 
 
 Bis. A wild, foppish, extravagant rakehell. 
 
 Young Mir. A ^ght, whimsical, impertinent 
 madcap. 
 
 Bis. Whom do you mean, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. Whom do you mean, madam ? 
 
 Bis. A fellow that has nothing left to re-establish 
 him for a human creature, but a prudent resolution 
 to hang himself. 
 
 Young Mir. There is a way, madam, to force 
 me to that resolution. 
 
 Bis. I'll do't with all my heart. 
 
 Young Mir. Then you must marry me. 
 
 Bis. Look'ee, sir, don't think your ill manners 
 to me shall excuse your ill usage of my friend ; nor 
 by fixing a quarrel here, to divert my zeal for the 
 absent : for I'm resolved, nay I come prepared, to 
 make you a panegyric that shall mortify your pride 
 like any modern dedication. 
 
 Young Mir. And I, madam, like a true modern 
 patron, shall hardly give you thanks for your trouble. 
 
 Bis. Come, sir, to let you see what little foun- 
 dation you have for your dear sufficiency, I'll take 
 you to pieces. " 
 
 Young Mir. And what piece will you choose ? 
 
 Bis. Your heart, to he sure ; 'cause I should get 
 presently rid on't ; your courage I would give to a 
 Hector, your wit to a lewd playmaker, your honour 
 to an attorney, your body to the physicians, and 
 your soul to its master. 
 
 Young Mir. I had the oddest dream last ni^lit 
 of the duchess of Burgundy ! methought the fur- 
 belows of her gown were pinned up so high behind, 
 that I could not see her head for her tail. 
 
 Bis. The creature don't mind me I — [^Hers 
 Mirabel pulls out a book and reads to himself 
 while she speaks.] Do you think, sir, that your 
 humorous impertinence can divert me .' No, sir, 
 I'm above any pleasure that you can give, but that 
 of seeing you miserable. And mark me, air ; my 
 friend, my injured friend, shall yet be doubly happy, 
 and you shall be a husband as much as the rites of 
 marriage, and the breach of 'em, can make you. 
 
 Young Mir. [Reading.] 
 
 At regina dok>s, guisfallere possii amanlem ? — 
 
 Dis&imulare etiam sperasti, perjide, tantum — 
 Very true ! — 
 
 Posse nefas ? — 
 By your favour, friend Virgil, 'twas but a rascally 
 trick of your hero to forsake poor Pug so inhumanly. 
 
 Bis. I don't know what to say to him. — The 
 devil — what's Virgil to us, sir .' 
 
 Young Mir. Very much, madam, the most 
 apropos in the world — for, what should I chop 
 upon, but the very place where the perjured rogue 
 of a lover and the forsaken lady are battling it 
 tooth and nail. Come, madam, spend your spirits 
 no longer, we'll take an easier method : I'll be 
 ^neas now, and you shall be Dido, and we'll rail 
 by book. Now for you, madam Dido. 
 
 Nee te nosier amor, nee tedata dextera quondam. 
 
 Nee moritura tenet crudeli funere Dido — 
 Ah, poor Dido ! [.Looking at her. 
 
 Bis. Rudeness ! affronts ! impatience ! I could 
 almost start out even to manhood, and want but a 
 weapon as long as his to fight him upon the spot. 
 What shall I say ? 
 
 Young Mir. Now she rants, — 
 QutEquibusanteferam? Jam jamneemaxima Juno — 
 
 Bis. A man ! no, the woman's birth was suirilcd 
 away. 
 
672 
 
 THE INCONSTANT ; OR, 
 
 Young Mir. Right, right, madam, the very 
 words! 
 
 Bis. And some pernicious elf left in the cradle 
 With. human shape to palliate growing mischief. 
 [_Botli speak together and raise their voices by degrees. 
 
 Young Mir. Perfide, sed duris genuit te cautibus 
 horrens 
 Caucasus, Hyrcanceque admorunt ubera tigres. 
 
 Bis. Go, sir, fly to your midnight revels ! 
 
 Young Mir. Excellent ! 
 /, sequere Italiam ventis, pete regna per undas, 
 Spero equidem mediis, si quidpia numina possunt. 
 
 Bis. Converse with imps of darkness of your 
 make, your nature starts at justice, and shivers at 
 the touch of virtue !-^Now the devil take his im- 
 pudence, he vexes me so, I don't know whether to 
 cry or laugh at him. 
 
 Young Mir. Bravely performed, my dear Libyan ! 
 I'll write the tragedy of Dido, and you shall act the 
 part. But you do nothing at all, unless you fret 
 yourself into a fit ; for here the poor lady is stifled 
 with vapours, drops into the arms of her maids, 
 and the cruel, barbarous, deceitful wanderer, is in 
 the very next line called pius jEneas. — ^There's 
 authority for ye! 
 
 Sorry indeed .(Eneas stoo 
 To see her in a pout ; 
 
 But Jove himself, who ne'er thought good 
 To stay a second bout. 
 
 Commands him off, with all his crew, 
 
 And leaves poor Di, as I leave you. [Runs off. 
 
 Bis. Go thy ways, for a dear, mad, deceitful, 
 agreeable fellow ! O' my conscience I must excuse 
 Oriana. 
 
 That lover soon his angry fair disarms. 
 
 Whose slighting pleases, and whose faults are 
 charms. [.Exit. 
 
 SCENE III.— The same. 
 
 Enter Petit, lie runs about knocking at every door. 
 
 Pet. Mr. Mirabel, sir, where are you ? nowhere 
 to be found ? 
 
 Enter Young Mirabei,. 
 
 Young Mir. What's the matter. Petit ? 
 
 Pet. Most critically met. — Ah, sir, that one who 
 has followed the game so long, and brought the 
 poor hare just under his paws, should let a mongrel 
 cor chop in, and run away with the puss ! 
 
 Young Mir. If your worship can get out of 
 your allegories, be pleased to tell me in three words 
 what you mean. 
 
 Pet, Plain, plain, sir! Your mistress and mine 
 is going to be married. 
 
 Young Mir. I believe you lie, sir. 
 
 Pet. Your humble sei-vant, sir. IGoing. 
 
 Young Mir. Come hither, Petit. Married ! say 
 you ? 
 
 Pet. No, sir, 'tis no matter ; I only thought to 
 do you a service, but I shall take care how I confer 
 my favours for the future. 
 
 Young Mir. Sir, I beg you ten thousand par- 
 dons. IBuwing low. 
 
 Pet. 'Tis enough, sir. — I come to tell you, sir, 
 that Oriana is this moment to be sacrificed ; mar- 
 ried past redemption. 
 
 Young Mir. I understand her, she'll take a 
 husband out of spite to me, and then out of love to 
 
 me she will make him a cuckold ; 'tis ordinary with 
 women to marry one person for the sake of another, 
 and to throw themselves into the arms of one they 
 hate, to secure their pleasure with the man they 
 love. But who is the happy man .' 
 
 Pet. A lord, sir. 
 
 Young Mir. I'm her ladyship's most humble 
 servant ; a train and a title, hey ! — Room for my 
 lady's coach 1 A front row in the box for her lady- 
 ship ! Lights, lights for her honour ! — Now must 
 I be a constant attender at my lord's levee, to work 
 my way to my lady's couchee. — A countess, I 
 presume, sir .' 
 
 Pet. A Spanish count, sir, that Mr. Dugard 
 knew abroad is come to Paris, saw your mistress 
 yesterday, marries her to-day, and whips her into 
 Spain to-morrow. 
 
 Young Mir. Ay, is it so ? and must I follow my 
 cuckold over the Pyrenees ? Had she married 
 within the precincts of a billet-doux, I would be 
 the man to lead her to church ; but as it happens, 
 I'll forbid the bans. Where is this mighty Don ? 
 
 Pei. Have a care, sir, he's a rough cross-grained 
 piece, and there's no tampering with him ; would 
 you apply to Mr. Dugard, or the lady herself, 
 something might be done, for it is in despite to you, 
 that the business is carried so hastily. Odso, sir, 
 here he comes. I must be gone. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Old Mirabel, dressed in a Spanish habit, leading 
 Oriana, 
 
 Ori, Good my lord, a nobler choice had better 
 suited your lordship's merit. My person, rank, 
 and circumstance, expose me as the public theme 
 of raillery, and subject me to so Injurious usage, 
 my lord, that I can lay no claim to any part of your 
 regard, except your pity. 
 
 Old Mir. Breathes he vital ail', that dares pre- 
 sume 
 With rude behaviour to profane such excellence ? 
 Show me the man — 
 
 And you shall see how sudden my revenge 
 Shall fall upon the head of such presumption. 
 Is this thing one ? IStrutling up to Young Mirabkl. 
 
 Young Mir. Sir ! 
 
 Ori. Good my lord. 
 
 Old Mir. If he, or any he — 
 
 Ori. Pray, my lord, the gentleman's a stranger. 
 
 Old Mir. Oh, your pardon, sir! — but if you 
 had — remember, sir — the lady now is mine, her 
 injuries are mine ; therefore, sir, you understand 
 mo. — Come, madam. 
 
 ILeads Oriana to the door, she goes of.- Young Kirabbl 
 runs to his father, and pulls him by the sleeve. 
 
 Young Mir. Ecoute, monsieur le comte. 
 
 Old Mir. Your business, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. Boh ! 
 
 Old Mir. Boh ! what language is that, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. Spanish, my lord. 
 
 Old Mir. What d'ye mean ? 
 
 Young Mir. This, sir. ITrips up his heels. 
 
 Old Mir. A very concise quarrel, truly. — I'll 
 bully him. Trinidado, Seigneur, give me fair play. 
 
 [Cfffering to rise. 
 
 Young Mir. By all means, sir. — [Takes auiag 
 his sword.'] Now, seigneur, where's that bombast 
 look, and fustian face your countship' wore just 
 now. [^Strikes him. 
 
 Old Mir. The rogue quarrels well, very well, 
 my own son right ! — But hold, sirrah, no more 
 jesting ; I'm your father, sir, your father. 
 
THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 573 
 
 Young Mir. [Aside.'i My father ! then by this 
 light I could find in my heart to pay thee. — 
 \_Aloud.'] Is the fellow mad? Why sure, sir, I 
 han't frighted you out of your senses ? 
 
 Old Mir. But you have, sir. 
 
 Young Mir. Then I'll beat them into you again. 
 [Offers to strike him. 
 
 Old Mir. Why rogue — Bob, dear Bob, don't 
 you know me, child .' 
 
 Young Mir. Ha ! ha ! ha ! the fellow's down- 
 right distracted, thou miracle of impudence, 
 wouldst thou make me believe that such a grave 
 gentleman as my father would go a-masquerading 
 thus ? that a person of threescore and three would 
 run about in a fool's coat to disgrace himself and 
 family ! Why, you impudent villain, do you 
 think I will suffer such an affront to pass upon 
 my honoured father, my worthy father, my dear 
 father.' 'Sdeath, sir, mention my father but once 
 again, and I'll send your soul to my grandfather 
 this minute. {Offering to stab him. 
 
 Old Mir. Well, well, I am not your father. 
 
 Young Mir. Why then, sir, you are the saucy, 
 hectoring Spaniard, and I'll use you accordingly. 
 
 Old Mir. The devil take the Spaniards, sir ; we 
 have all got nothing but blows since we began to 
 take their part. 
 
 Enter Duoard, Ortana, PErrr, anxL Maid. 
 
 Dug. Fy, fy, Mirabel ! murder your father ! 
 
 [Holding him. 
 
 Young Mir. My father I what, is the whole 
 family mad ? Give me way, sir, I won't beheld. 
 
 Old Mir. No, nor I neither ; let me be gone, 
 pray. [Offering to go. 
 
 Young Mir. My father ! 
 
 Old Mir. Ay, you dog's face, I am your father, 
 for I have bore as much for tbee as your mother 
 ever did. 
 
 Young Mir. O ho ! then this was a trick, it 
 seems, a design, a contrivance, a stratagem. — Oh! 
 how my bones ache ! 
 
 Old Mir. Your bones, sirrah, why yours ? 
 
 Young Mir. Why, sir, han't I been beating 
 my own flesh and blood all this while? — [To 
 Oriana.] O madam, I wish your ladyship joy of 
 your new dignity ! Here was a contrivance, 
 indeed. 
 
 Pet. The contrivance was well enough, sir, for 
 they imposed upon us all. 
 
 Young Mir. Well, my dear Dulcinea, did your 
 Don Quixote battle for you bravely ? My father 
 will answer for the force of my love. 
 
 Ori. Pray, sir, don't insult the misfortunes of 
 your own creating. 
 
 Dug. [Aside.'] My prudence will be counted 
 cowardice, if I stand tamely now. — IComes up 
 between Young Mirabel and Omana.] Well, 
 sir ! 
 
 Young Mir. Well, sir ! Do you take me for 
 one of your tenants, sir, that you put on your 
 landlord.face at me ? 
 
 Dug. On what presumption, sir, dare yon 
 assume thus ? [Draws. 
 
 Old Mir. What's that to you, sir ? [Draws. 
 
 Pet. Help, help, the lady faints ! 
 
 [ORiANA/alls into her Maid's armf. 
 
 Young Mir. Vapours ! vapours ! she'll come 
 to herself. If it be an angry fit, a dram of asa- 
 fcetida : if jealousy, hartshorn in water : if the 
 mothei burnt feathers : if grief, ratafia : if it be 
 
 strait stays, or corns, there's nothing like a dran) 
 of plain brandy. [Exit 
 
 Ori. Hold off, give me air ! — my brother 
 would you preserve my life, endanger not your 
 own ; would you defend my reputation, leave it to 
 itself J 'tis a dear vindication that's purchased by 
 the sword ; for though our champion prove victo- 
 rious, yet our honour is wounded. 
 
 Old Mir. Ay, and your lover may be wounded, 
 that's another thing. But I think you're pretty 
 brisk again, my child. 
 
 Ori. Ay, sir, my indisposition was only a pre- 
 tence to divert fiie quarrel ; the capricious taste of 
 your sex excuses this artifice in ours. 
 
 For often, when our chief perfections fail. 
 
 Our chief defects with foolish men prevail. 
 
 [Exit 
 
 Pet. Come, Mr. Dugard, take courage, there ia 
 a way still left to fetch him again. 
 
 Old Mir. Sir, I'll have no plot that has any 
 relation to Spain. 
 
 Dug. I scorn all artifice whatsoever ; my sword 
 shall do her justice. 
 
 pet. Pretty justice, truly ! Suppose you run 
 him through the body ; you run her through the 
 heart at the same time. 
 
 Old Mir. And me through the head. — Rot 
 your sword, sir, we'll have plots ! — Come, Petit, 
 let's hear. 
 
 Pet. What if she pretended to go into a nun- 
 nery, and so bring him about to declare himself? 
 
 Dug. That, I must confess, has a face. 
 
 Old Mir. Face ! a face like an angel, sir. Ada 
 my life, sir, 'tis the most beautiful plot in Chris- 
 tendom ! We'll about it immediately. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE IV.— ^ Street. 
 Captain Durbtbte and Young Mirabel discovered. 
 
 Dur. And though I can't dance, nor sing, nor 
 talk like you, yet I can fight, you know, sir. 
 
 Young Mir. I know thou canst, man. 
 
 Dur. 'Sdeath, sir, and I will I Let me see 
 the proudest man alive make a jest of me ! 
 
 Young Mir. But I'll engage to make you 
 amends. 
 
 Dur. Danced to death ! baited like a bear I 
 
 ridiculed ! threatened to be kicked ! confusion ! 
 
 Sir, you set me on, and I will have satisfaction, all 
 mankind will point at me. 
 
 Mir. [Aside.] I must give this thunderbolt 
 some passage, or 'twill break upon my own head.— 
 
 Enter two Gentlemen. 
 
 [Aloud.] Look'ee, Duretete, what do these gen- 
 tlemen laugh at ? 
 
 Dur. At me, to be sure. — Sir, what made you 
 laugh at me ? 
 
 1 Gent. You're mistaken, sir, if we were merry 
 we had a private reason. 
 
 2 Gent, Sir, we don't know you. 
 
 Dur. Sir, I'll make you know me ; mark and 
 observe me, I won't be named, it shan't be men 
 tioned, not even whispered in your prayers at 
 church. 'Sdeath sir, d'ye smile ? 
 
 1 Gent. Not I, upon my word. 
 
 Dur. Why then look grave as an owl in a bam 
 or a friar with his crown a- shaving. 
 
674 
 
 THE INCONSTANT ; OR, 
 
 Young Mir. [Aside to the Gentlemea.] Don't 
 be bullied out of your bumour, gentlemen ; tbe 
 fellow's mad, laugh at him, and I'll stand by you. 
 
 1 Gent. Egad, and so we will, [■^^i'^e to Mirabel, 
 
 Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Dur. Ha ! ha ! ha ! very pretty. — [Draws.] 
 She threatened to kick me. Ay, then, you dogs, 
 I'll murder ye. 
 
 [FifjhtSt «nd beats Viem ojf, Mtbabbl runs over to his 
 side. 
 
 Young Mir. Ha ! ha ! ha ! bravely done, 
 Duretete ! there you had him, noble captain ! hey, 
 they run ! they run ! Victoria I Victoria ! — Ha ! 
 ha ! ha I how happy am I in an excellent friend ! 
 Tell me of your virtuosos and men of sense, a 
 parcel of sour-faced splenetic rogues. — A man of 
 my thin constitution should never want a fool in 
 his company : I don't affect your fine things that 
 improve the understanding, but hearty laughing to 
 
 fatten my carcass ; and n' my conscience, a man 
 of sense is as melancholy without a coxcomb, as a 
 Uon without his jackal ; he hunts for our diversion, 
 starts game for our spleen, and perfectly feeds us 
 with pleasure. 
 
 1 hate the man who makes acquaintance nice, 
 And still discreetly plagues me with advice ; 
 Who moves by caution, and mature delays. 
 And must give reasons for whate'er he says. 
 The man, indeed, whose converse is so full. 
 Makes me attentive, but it makes me dull : 
 Give me the careless rogue who never thinks, 
 That plays the fool as freely as he drinks. 
 Not a buffoon, who is buffoon by trade, 
 But one that nature, not his wants have made. 
 Who still is merry, but does ne'er design it : 
 And still is ridiculed, but ne'er can find it. 
 Who when he's most in earnest, is the best ; 
 And his most grave expression is the jest. iExit 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Old Mirabel's House. 
 Old Mirabel and Dugabd discovered. 
 
 Dug. The lady abbess is my relation, and privy 
 to the plot. Your son has been there, but had no 
 admittance beyond the privilege of the grate, and 
 there nay sister refused to see him. He went off 
 more nettled at his repulse than I thought his 
 gaiety could admit. 
 
 Old Mir. Ay, ay, this nunnery will bring him 
 about, X warrant ye. 
 
 Enter Captain Ddrbtbte. 
 
 Dur. Here, where are ye all ? — O Mr. Mirabel, 
 you have done fine things for your posterity ! — And 
 you, Mr. Dugard, may come to answer this. — I 
 come to demand my friend at your hands ; restore 
 him, sir, or — \.To Old Mirabel. 
 
 Old Mir. Restore him ! why d'ye think I have 
 got him in my trunk, or my pocket ? 
 
 Dur. Sir, he's mad, and you're the cause on't. 
 
 Old Mir. That may be ; for I was as mad as he 
 when I begat him. 
 
 Dug. Mad, sir ! what d'ye mean? 
 
 Dwr. What do you mean, sir, by shutting up 
 your sister yonder, to talk like a parrot through a 
 cage, or a decoy-duck, to draw others into the 
 snare ? — Your son, sir, because she has deserted 
 him, he has forsaken the world; and in three 
 »vords, has — 
 
 Old Mir. Hanged himself ! 
 
 Dur. The very same ; turned friar. 
 
 Old Mir. You lie, sir ! 'tis ten times worse. 
 Bob turned friar ! — Why should the fellow shave 
 his foolish crown when the same razor may cut his 
 throat ? 
 
 Dur. If you have any command, or you any 
 interest over him, lose not a minute ! He has 
 thrown himself into the next monastery, and has 
 ordered me to pay off his servants, and discharge 
 his equipage. 
 
 Old Mir. Let me alone to ferret him out ; I'll 
 sacrifice the abbot if he receives him ; I'll try 
 
 whether the spiritual or the natural father has 
 the most right to the child. But, dear captain, 
 what has he done with his estate ? 
 
 Dur. Settled it upon the church, sir. 
 
 Old Mir. The church ! nay, then the devil won't 
 get him out of their clutches. — Ten thousand livres 
 a year upon the church ! 'tis downright sacrilege. 
 — Come, gentlemen, all hands to work ; for half 
 that sum, one of these monasteries shall protect 
 you a traitor subject from the law, a rebellions wife 
 from her husband, and a disobedient son from his 
 own father. 'iExit. 
 
 Dug. But will you persuade me that he's gone 
 to a monastery ? 
 
 Dur. Is your sister gone to the Filles Repenties9 
 I tell you, sir, she's not fit for the society of re- 
 penting maids. 
 
 Dug. Why so, sir ? 
 
 Dur. Because she's neither one nor t'other ; 
 
 she's too old to be a maid, and too young to repent. 
 
 iExitt "DvoAKD/ollotoing him. 
 
 SCENE II.— TAe Interior of a Monastery. 
 
 Oriana and Bisarrb discovered / the former attired 
 as a Nun. 
 
 Ori, I hope, Bisarre, there is no harm in jesting 
 with this religious habit. 
 
 Bis. To me, the greatest jest in the habit, is 
 taking it in earnest : I don't understand this im- 
 prisoning people with the keys of Paradise, nor the 
 merit of that virtue which comes by constraint.^ 
 Besides, we may own to one another, that we are 
 in the worst company when among ourselves ; for our 
 private thoughts run us into those desires which 
 our pride resists from the attacks of the world ; 
 and you may remember, the first woman then met 
 the devil, when she retired from her man. 
 
 Ori. But I'm reconciled, methinks, to the mor- 
 tification of a nunnery ; because I fancy the habit 
 becomes me. 
 
 Bis. A well-contrived mortification, truly, that 
 
THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 575 
 
 makes a womau look ten times handsomer than 
 she did before ! — Ah, my dear, -were there any 
 religion in becoming dress, our sex's devotion were 
 rightly placed j for our toilets would do the work of 
 the altar ; we should all be canonised. 
 
 Ori. But don't you think there is a great deal of 
 merit, in dedicating a beautiful face and person to 
 the service of reUgion ? 
 
 Bis. Not half so much as devoting 'em to a 
 pretty fellow. If our feminalityhadno business in 
 this world, why was it sent hither ? Let us dedi- 
 cate our beautiful minds to the service of Heaven. 
 And for our handsome persons, they become a box 
 at the play, as well as a pew in the church. 
 
 Ori. But the vicissitudes of fortune, the incon- 
 stancy of man, with other disappointments of life, 
 require some place of religion, for a refuge from 
 their persecution. 
 
 Bis. Ha ! ha ! ha ! and do you think there is 
 any devotion in a fellow's going to church, when 
 he takes it only for a sanctuary ? Don't you know, 
 that religion consists in a charity with all mankind ; 
 and that you should never think of being friends 
 vrith Heaven, till you have quarrelled with all the 
 world ? Come, come, mind your business ; Mirabel 
 loves you 'tis now plain, and hold him to't : give 
 fresh orders that he shan't see you. We get more 
 by hiding our faces sometimes than by exposing 
 them ; a very mask, you see, whets desire, but a 
 pair of keen eyes through an iron gate, fire double 
 upon *em, with view and disguise. But I must be 
 gone upon my affairs, I have brought my captain 
 about again. 
 
 Ori. But why will you trouble yourself with that 
 coxcomb ? 
 
 Bis. Because he is a coxcomb ; had not I better 
 have a lover like him, that I can make an ass, than 
 a lover like yours, to make a fool of me. — IKnock- 
 ing below.l A message from Mirabel, I'll lay my 
 life. — [^Runs to the door.'\ Come hither, run, thou 
 charming nun, come hither. 
 
 Ori. 'WTiat's the news ? iRuns to her. 
 
 Bis. Don't you see who's below ? 
 
 Ori. I see nobody but a friar. 
 
 Bis. Ah ! thou poor bUnd Cupid ! O' my con- 
 science, these hearts of ours spoil our heads in- 
 stantly; the fellows no sooner turn knaves, than 
 we turn fools. A friar ! don't you see a villanous 
 genteel mien under that cloak of hypocrisy, the 
 loose careless air of a tall rakehelly felluw ? 
 
 Ori. As I live, Mirabel turned friar ! I hope, 
 In Heaven, he's not in earnest. 
 
 Bis. In earnest ! ha ! ha ! ha ! are you in 
 earnest ? Now's your time ; this disguise has he 
 certainly taken for a passport, to get in and try 
 your resolutions ; stick to your habit to be sure ; 
 treat him with disdain, rather than anger ; for 
 pride becomes us more than passion. Remember 
 what I say, if you would yield to advantage, and 
 ><old out the attack ; to draw him on, keep him off 
 to be sure. 
 
 The cunning gamesters never gain too fast, 
 
 But lose at first, to win the more at last. iExit. 
 
 Ori. His coming puts me into some ambiguity, 
 I don't know how; I don't fear him, but I mistrust 
 myself. Would he were not come ; yet I would 
 not have him gone neither ; I'm afraid to talk with 
 him, but I love to see him though. 
 
 What a strange power has this fantastic fire, 
 
 Tuat makes us dread even what we most desire ! 
 
 Enter Young Mikabel habited as a Friar. 
 
 Young Mir. Save you, sister !— Your brother, 
 young lady, having a regard to your soul's health, 
 has sent me to prepare you for that sacred habit by 
 confession. 
 
 Ori. [Aside.'] That's false ; the cloven foot 
 already. — [Aloud.'] My brother's care I own ; 
 and to you, sacred sir, I confess, that the great 
 crying sin which 1 have long indulged, and now 
 prepare to expiate, was love. My morning 
 thoughts, my evening prayers, my daily musings, 
 nightly cares, was love ! My present peace, my 
 future bliss, the joys of earth, and hopes of heaven, 
 I all contemned for love ! 
 
 Young Mir. [Aside.'] She's downright stark 
 mad in earnest ; death and confusion, I have lost 
 her ! — [Aloud.] You confess your fault, madam, 
 in such moving terms, that I could almost be in 
 love with the sin. 
 
 Ori. Take care, sir; crimes, like virtues, are 
 their own rewards ; my chief delight became my 
 only grief; he in whose breast I thought my heart 
 secure turned robber, and despoiled the treasure that 
 he kept. 
 
 Young Mir. Perhaps that treasure he esteems 
 so much, that like a miser, though afraid to use it, 
 ne reserves it safe. 
 
 Ori. No, holy father : who can be miser in 
 another's wealth that's prodigal of his own ? His 
 heart was open, shared to all he knew, and what, 
 alas ! must then become of mine ? But the same 
 eyes that drew the passion in, shall send it out in 
 tears, to which now hear my vow. — 
 
 Young Mir. [Discovering himself.] No, my 
 fair angel, but let me repent ; here on his knees 
 behold the criminal, that vows repentance his. — 
 [Aside.] Ha ! no concern upon her ! 
 
 Ori. This turn is odd, and the time has been, 
 that such a sudden change would have surprised me 
 into some confusion. 
 
 Young Mir. Restore that happy time, for I am 
 now returned to myself; I want but pardon to 
 deserve your favour, and here I'll fix till you relent, 
 and give it. 
 
 Ori. Grovelling, sordid man ! why would you 
 act a thing to make you kneel, monarch in pleasure 
 to be slave to your faults .' Are all the conquests 
 of your wandering sway, your wit, your humour, 
 fortune, all reduced to the liase cringing of a bended 
 knee.' Servile and poor! 1— [Aside] love it. 
 
 Young Mir. I come not here to justify my fault 
 but my submission, for though there be a meanness 
 in this humble posture, 'tis nobler still to bend 
 when justice calls, than to resist conviction. 
 
 Ori. No more ! thy oft-repeated violated words 
 reproach my weak belief, 'tis the severest calumny 
 to hear Ihee speak ; that humble posture which 
 once could raise, now mortifies my pride. How 
 canst thou hope for pardon from one that you 
 affront by asking it .' 
 
 Young Mir. [Rises.] In my own cause no 
 more, but give me leave to intercede for you against 
 the hard injunctions of that habit which for my 
 fault you wear, 
 
 Ori. Surprising insolence ! My greatest foe pre- 
 tends to give me counsel ; but I am too warm 
 upon so. cool a subject. My resolutions, sir, are 
 fixed! but as our hearts were united with tlie 
 ceremony of our eyes, so I shall spare some tears 
 to the separation— [ Weeps.] That's all ; farewell ! 
 
570 
 
 THE INCONSTANT ; OR, 
 
 Young Mir. And must I lose her? — no. — 
 [Runs and catches Aer.] Since all my prayers are 
 vain, I'll use the nobler argument of man, and 
 force you to the justice you refuse ; you're mine 
 by pre-contract : and where's the vow so sacred 
 to disannul another 2 I'll urge my love, your oath, 
 and plead my cause 'gainst all monastic shifts upon 
 the earth. 
 
 Ori. Unhand me, ravisher ! would you profane 
 these holy walls with violence ? revenge for all my 
 past disgrace now offers ; thy life should answer 
 this, would I provoke the law. Urge me no farther, 
 but be gone. 
 
 Young Mir. Inexorable woman, let me kneel 
 again. iKneeli. 
 
 Enter Old Mirabel. 
 
 Old Mir. Where, where's this counterfeit 
 nun? 
 
 Ori. Madness 1 confusion ! I'm ruined ! iAside. 
 
 Young Mir. What do I hear ? — [Puts on his 
 Aoorf.] What did you say, sir? 
 
 Old Mir. I say she's a coimterfeit, and you may 
 be another for aught I know, sir ; I have lost my 
 child by these tricks, sir. 
 
 Young Mir. What tricks, sir ? 
 
 Old Mir. By a pretended trick, sir. A con- 
 trivance to bring my son to reason, and it has made 
 him stark mad ; I have lost him, and a thousand 
 pound a year. 
 
 Young Mir. [Discovering himself.'] My dear 
 father, I'm your most humble servant. 
 
 Old Mir, My dear boy ! [Runs and kisses 
 him.1 Welcome, eip inferis, my dear boy ! 'Tis 
 all a trick, she's no more a nun than I am. 
 
 Young Mir, No ? 
 
 Old Mir, The devil a hit 
 
 Young Mir, Then kiss me again, my dear dad, 
 for the moat happy news. — And now most vener- 
 able holy sister. [.Kneels. 
 Your mercy and your pardon I implore. 
 For the offence of asking it before. 
 Look'ee, my dear counterfeiting nun, take my 
 advice, be a nun in good earnest ; women make 
 the best nuns always when they can't do other- 
 wise. — Ah, my dear father, there is a merit in your 
 son's behaviour that you little think ; the free 
 deportment of such fellows as I, makes more ladies 
 religious, than all the pulpits in France. 
 
 Ori, sir, how unhappily have you destroyed 
 what was so near perfection ! He is the counter- 
 feit that has deceived you. 
 
 Old Mir, Ha ! Look'ee, sir, I recant, she is 
 a nun. 
 
 Young Mir, Sir, your humble servant, then I'm 
 a friar this moment. 
 
 Old Mir. Was ever an old fool so bantered 
 by a brace o' young ones ! Hang you both, you're 
 both counterfeits, and my plot's spoiled, that's all. 
 
 iExit. 
 
 Ori. Shame and confusion ! love, anger, and 
 disappointment, will work my brain to madness. 
 
 [Throws off her habit, and exit. 
 
 Young Mir. Ay, ay, throw by the rags, they 
 have served a turn for us both, and they shall e'en 
 go off together. [ ?«*«« »^'"» '«»*>(■ 
 
 Thus the sick wretch, when tortured by his pain, 
 
 And finding all essays for life are vain ; 
 
 When the physician can no more design. 
 
 Then calls the other doctor the divine. 
 
 What vows to Heaven, would Heaven restore his 
 
 health ! 
 Vows all to Heaven, his thoughts, his actions, 
 
 wealth : 
 But if restored to vigour, as before, 
 His health refuses what his sickness swore. 
 The body is no sooner raised and well. 
 But the weak soul relapses into ill ; 
 To all its former swing of life is led, 
 And leaves its vows and promises in bed. 
 
 [Exit, throwing away the habit. 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ Room in Old Mirabel's 
 House, 
 
 Enter Captain DURSTETa with a Letter. 
 
 Dur. [Reads.] My rudeness was only a proof 
 of your humour, which I have found so agreeable, 
 that J own myself penitent, and willing to make 
 any reparation upon your first appearance to 
 
 BlSARKE. 
 
 Mirabel swears she loves me, and this confirms 
 it ; then farewell gallantry, and welcome revenge : 
 'tis my turn now to be upon the sublime, I'll take 
 her off, I warrant her. 
 
 Enter Bisarrb. 
 
 Well, mistress, do you love me ? 
 
 Bis. I hope, sir, you will pardon the modesty 
 of— 
 
 Dur. Of what ? of a dancing devil ! — Do you 
 love me, 1 say ? 
 
 Bis. Perhaps I — 
 
 Dur. What? 
 
 Bis. Perhaps I do not. 
 
 Dur. Ha ! abused again ! — Death, woman, I'll — 
 
 Bis. Hold, hold, sir ; I do, I do ! 
 
 Dur. Confirm it then by your obedience. 
 Stand there ; and ogle me now, as if your heart, 
 blood, and soul, were like to fly out at your eyes. — 
 First, the direct surprise — [She looks full upon 
 him."] Right ; next the doux yeux par oblique — . 
 [She gives him the side glaTUie."] Right ; now 
 depart, and languish. — [She turns from- him, and 
 
 looks over her shoulder. ] Very well ; now sigh 
 
 [She sighs.} Now drop your fan o' purpose. — [She 
 drops her fan."] — Now take it up again. — Come 
 now, confess your faults ; are not you a proud — 
 say after me. 
 
 Bis. Proud — 
 
 Dur. Impertinent — 
 
 Bis. Impertinent — 
 
 Dur. Ridiculous — 
 
 Bis. Ridiculous — 
 
 Dur. Flirt? 
 
 Bis. Puppy? 
 
 Dur. Zoons, woman ! don't provoke me, we 
 are alone, and you don't know but the devil may 
 tempt me to do you a mischief ; ask my pardon 
 immediately. 
 
 Bis. I do, sir, I only mistook the word. 
 
 Dur. Cry then ; ha' you got e'er a handkerchief? 
 
 Bis. Yes, sir. 
 
 Dur. Cry then, handsomely ; cry like a queen 
 in a tragedy. 
 
 [Slie, pretending to cry, bursts out a-Unigltait, 
 
THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 677 
 
 Mnter two Ladiea latighing. 
 
 Bis. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! 
 
 Ladies. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Dur. Hell broke loose upon me, and all the furies 
 fluttered about my ears ! Betrayed again ! 
 
 Sis. That you are, upon my word, my dear 
 captain ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Dur. The Lord deliver me ! 
 
 1 Lady, What ! is this the mighty man with the 
 bull-face that comes to frighten ladies ? I long to 
 see him angry ; come, begin. 
 
 Dur. Ah, madam, I'm the best natured fpUow 
 m the world. 
 
 2 Lady. A man ! we're mistaken, " man has 
 manners ; the awkward creature is some tinker's 
 trull in a periwig. 
 
 Bis. Come, ladies, let's examine him. 
 
 IThey lay hold on him, 
 
 Dur. Examine ! the devil you will I 
 
 Bis. I'll lay my life, some great dairy-maid in 
 man's clothes. 
 
 Dur. They will do't. — Look ye, dear christian 
 women, pray hear mci 
 
 Bis. Will you ever attempt a lady's honour 
 again ? 
 
 Dur, If you please td let me get away with my 
 honour, I'd do anything in the world. 
 
 Bis. Will yoa persuade your friend to marry 
 mine } 
 
 Dur. O yes, to be sure. 
 
 Bis. And will you do the same by me ? 
 
 Dur. Bum me if I do, if the coast be clear ! 
 
 [^Runs out. 
 
 Bis. Ha ! ha ! ha ! this visit, ladies, was critical 
 for our diversion ; we'll go make an end of our tea. 
 
 lBxBU7lt. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Another Room in the same. 
 Enter Young Mirabel, Old Miraebl following. 
 
 Young Mir. Your patience, sir. I tell you I 
 won't marry ; and though you send all the bishops 
 in France to persuade me, I shall never believe 
 their doctrine against their practice. 
 
 Old Mir. But will you disobey your father, sir .' 
 
 Young Mir. Would my father have his youth- 
 ful son lie lazing here, bound to a wife, chained like 
 a monkey to make sport to a woman, subject to her 
 whims, humours, longings, vapours, and caprices ; 
 to have her one day pleased, to-morrow peevish, 
 the next day mad, the fourth rebellious j and no- 
 thing but this succession of impertinence for ages 
 together .' Be merciful, sir, to your own flesh and 
 blood. 
 
 Old Mir. But sir, did not I bear all this, why 
 should not you .'' 
 
 Young Mir. Then you think that marriage, like 
 treason, should attaint the whole blood ? Pray 
 consider, sir, is it reasonable because you throw 
 yourself down from one story, that I must cast my- 
 self headlong from the garret window ? You would 
 compel me to that state, which I have heard you 
 curse yourself, when my mother and you have 
 battled it for a whole week together. 
 
 Old Mir, Never but once, you rogue ! and that 
 was when she longed for six Flanders mares. Ay, 
 sir, then she was breeding of you, which showed 
 what an expensive dog I should have of you. 
 
 Enter Pktit, 
 Well, Petit, how does she now .' 
 
 Pet, Mad, sir, con pompos. — Ah, Mr. Mirabel, 
 you'll believe that I speak truth now, when I con- 
 fess that I have told you hitherto nothing but lies ; 
 our jesting is come to a sad earnest, she's down- 
 right distracted. 
 
 Enter Bisarrb. 
 
 Bis. Where is this mighty victor .' — The great 
 exploit is done ; go triumph in the glory of your 
 conquest, inhuman, barbarous man ! — [ To Old 
 Mirabel.] O sir, your wretched ward has found 
 a tender guardian of you ! Where her young in- 
 nocence expected protection, here has she found 
 her ruin. 
 
 Old Mir, Ay , the fault is mine, for I believe that 
 rogue won't marry, for fear of begetting such a dis- 
 obedient son as his father did. I have done all I 
 can, madam, and now can do no more than run 
 mad for company. {Cries, 
 
 Enter Dugard, with his sword drawn. 
 
 Dug. Away ! Revenge ! revenge ! 
 
 Old Mir. [Holding Dugabd.] Patience, pa- 
 tience, sir I — [^Aside to Young Mirabel.] Bob, 
 draw. 
 
 Du.g, Patience ! the coward's virtue, and the 
 brave man's failing, when thus provoked. — -Villain ! 
 
 Young Mir, Your sister' s frenzy shall excuse 
 your madness ; and show my concern for what she 
 suffers; I'll bear the villain from her brother. Put 
 up your anger with your sword ; I have a heart like 
 yours, that swells at an affront received, but melts 
 at an injury given ; and if the lovely Oriana's grief 
 be such a moving scene, 'twill find a part within 
 this breast, perhaps as tender as a brother's. 
 
 Dug, To prove that soft compassion for her 
 grief, endeavour to remove it. 
 
 Enter Oriana as mad, held hy two Maids, leho put her 
 in a chair. 
 
 There, there, behold an object that's infective ! I 
 cannot view her, but I am as mad as she. A sister 
 that my dying parents left, with their last words 
 and blessing, to my care. — Sister, dearest sister. 
 
 IGoes to Oriana. 
 
 Old Mir. Ay, poor child, poor child, d'ye know 
 me .' 
 
 Ori. You ! you are Amadis de Gaul, sir.-^Oh ! 
 oh my heart ! — Were you never in love, fair lady ? 
 and do you never dream of flowers and gardens ? 
 — I dream of walking fires, and tall gigantic sighs. 
 Take heed, it comes now. — What's that } — Pray 
 stand away : I have seen that face sure. — How light 
 my head is ! 
 
 Young Mir. What piercing charms has beauty, 
 even in madness ! 
 These sudden starts of undigested words 
 Shoot through my soul with more persuasive force 
 Than all the studied art of labour'd eloquence. -i- 
 Come, madam, try to repose a little. 
 
 Ori. I cannot j for I must be up to go to church, 
 and I must dress me, put on my new gown, and be 
 so fine, to meet my love. — Heigh-ho ! — WiU not you 
 tell me where my heart lies buried ? 
 
 Young Mir, My very soul is touched Your 
 
 hand, my fair. 
 
 Ori. How soft and gentle you feel I — I'll tell you 
 your fortune, friend. 
 
 Youjtg Mir. How she stares upon me ! 
 
578 
 
 THE INCONSTANT ; OR, 
 
 Oi'i. You have a flattering face ; but 'tis a fine 
 one. — I warraut you have five hundred mistresses. 
 — Ay, to be sure, a mistress for every guinea in his 
 pocket. — ^Will you pray for me? I shall die to- 
 morrow. — And will you ring my passing-bell 1 
 
 Young Mir. O woman, woman, of artifice cre- 
 ated ! 
 Whose nature, even distracted, has a cunning : 
 In vain let man his sense, his learning boast. 
 When woman's madness overrules his reason. — 
 Do you know me, injured creature ? 
 
 Ori. No ; but you shall be my intimate acquaint- 
 ance in the grave. iWceps. 
 
 Young Mir. O tears, I must believe ye ! 
 Sure there's a kind of sympathy in madness ; 
 For even I, obdurate as I am. 
 Do feel my soul so toss'd with storms of passion, 
 That I could cry for help as well as she. 
 
 IWipes his eyes. 
 
 Ori. What, have you lost your lover ? — No, you 
 mock me ; I'll go home and pray. 
 
 Young Mir. Stay, my fair innocence ! and hear 
 me own 
 My love so loud. 
 
 That I may call your senses to their place, 
 Restore 'em to their charming happy functions. 
 And reinstate myself into your favour. 
 
 Sis. Let her alone, sir, 'tis all too late. — She 
 trembles ; hold her ; her fits grow stronger by 
 her talking. — Don't trouble her ; she don't know 
 you, sir. 
 
 Old Mir. Not' know him ! what then ? she loves 
 to see him for all that. 
 
 Enter Captain Duretetb. 
 
 Dur. Where are you all ? — What the devil ! 
 melancholy, and I here ! Are ye sad, and such a 
 ridiculous subject, such a very good jest among 
 ye, as I am .' 
 
 YouTig Mir. Away with this impertinence ! this 
 is no place for bagatelle. I have murdered my 
 honour, destroyed a lady, and my desire of repara- 
 tion is come at length too late. See there 1 
 
 Dur. What ails her .' 
 
 Young Mir. Alas ! she's mad. 
 
 Dur. Mad ! dost wonder at that ? By this light, 
 they're all so ; they're cozening mad, they're brawl- 
 ing mad, they're proud mad j I just now came from 
 a whole world of mad women, that had almost — 
 what, is she dead .' 
 
 Young Mir. Dead ! Heavens forbid. 
 
 Dur. Heavens further it ; for till they be cold 
 as a key, there's no trusting them. You're never 
 sure that a woman's in earnest till she be nailed in 
 her coffin. Shall I talk to her .' — Are you mad, 
 mistress ? 
 
 Bis. What's that to you, sir ? 
 
 Dur. Oons, madam ! are you there ? iRuns off. 
 
 Young Mir, Away, thou wild buffoon ! 
 How poor and mean this humour now appears ! 
 His follies and my own I here disclaim ; 
 This lady's frenzy has restored my senses, 
 And was she perfect now, as once she was, 
 {Before you all I speak it,) she should be mine ; 
 And as she is, my tears and prayers shall wed her. 
 
 Dug. How happy had this declaration been some 
 hours ago ! 
 
 £is. Sir, she beckons to you, and waves us to 
 go off; come, come, let's leave 'em. 
 
 lExi! Willi Old MmAEEL, Duoakd, Petit, and Maids. 
 
 Ori. Oh, sir! 
 
 Young Mir. Speak, my charming angel, if your 
 dear senses have regained their order ; speak, fair, 
 and bless me with the news ! 
 
 Ori. First, let me bless the cunning of my sex, 
 that happy counterfeited frenzy, that has restored 
 to my poor labouring breast the dearest, best- 
 beloved of men I 
 
 Young Mir. Tune all ye spheres your instru- 
 ments of joy. 
 And carry round your spacious orbs 
 The happy sound of Oriana's health ; 
 Her soul, whose harmony was next to yours. 
 Is now in tune again : 
 The counterfeiting fair has play'd the fool. 
 She was so mad to counterfeit for me ; 
 I was so mad to pawn my liberty : 
 But now we both are well, and both are free. 
 
 Ori. How, sir 1 free ! 
 
 Young Mir. As air, my dear bedlamite. What, 
 marry a lunatic ! Look, my dear, you have coun- 
 terfeited madness so very well this bout, that you'll 
 be apt to play the fool all your life long. — Here, 
 gentlemen ! [CaJij. 
 
 Ori. Monster, you won't disgrace me .' 
 
 Young Mir. O'my faith, but I will ! — Here, 
 come in, gentlemen. 
 
 He-enter Old Mirabel and Dugard. 
 
 A miracle ! a miracle ! the woman's dispossessed, 
 the devil's vanished. 
 
 Old Mir. Bless us, was she possessed .' 
 
 Young Mir. With the worst of demons, sir, — 
 a marriage-devil, a horrid devil ! — Mr. Dugard, 
 don't be surprised ; I promised my endeavours to 
 cure your sister. No mad-doctor in Christendom 
 could have done it more effectually. Take her 
 into your charge, and have a care she don't relapse. 
 If she should, employ me not again ; for I am no 
 more Infallible than others of the faculty ; I do 
 cure sometimes. 
 
 Ori. Your remedy, most barbarous man, will 
 prove the greatest poison to my health ; for though 
 my former frenzy was but counterfeit, I now shall 
 run into a real madness. 
 
 \^Exii, Old Mirabel after her. 
 
 Dug. This was a turn beyond my knowledge ; 
 I'm so confused, I know not how to resent it. 
 
 iExit. 
 
 Young Mir. What a dangerous precipice have 
 I 'soaped ! was not I just now upon the brink of 
 destruction .' 
 
 Re-enter Captain Duretete. 
 
 O my friend, let me run into thy bosom ! no lark 
 escaped from the devouring pounces of a hawk, 
 quakes with more dismal apprehensions ! 
 
 Dur. The matter, man ? 
 
 Young Mir. Marriage 1 hanging ! — I was just 
 at the gallows-foot, the running noose about my 
 neck, and the cart wheeling from me ! Oh, I 
 shan't be myself this month again ! 
 
 Dur. Did not I tell you so ? They are all alike, 
 saints or devils ; their counterfeiting can't be re- 
 puted a deceit: for 'tis the. nature of the sex, not 
 their contrivance. 
 
 Young Mir. Ay, ay ; there's no living here 
 with security : this house is so full of stratagem 
 and design, that I must abi'oad again. 
 
 Dur. With all my heart, I'll bear thee company. 
 
THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 571) 
 
 my lad. I'll meet you at the play ; and we'll set 
 out for Italy to-morrow morning. 
 
 Young Mir. A. match : I'll go pay my compli- 
 ment of leave to my father presently. 
 
 Dur. I'm afraid he'll stop you. 
 
 Young Mir. What, pretend a command over 
 me, after his settlement of a thousand poujid a 
 year upon me ! No, no, he has passed away his 
 authority with the conveyance ; the will of a living 
 father is chieiiy obeyed for salte of the dying 
 
 What makes the world attend and crowd the great ? 
 Hopes, interest, and dependence, make their 
 
 state. 
 Behold the antechamber fiU'd with beaux, 
 A horse's levee throng'd with courtly crows. 
 Though grumbling subjects make the crown their 
 
 sport, 
 Hopes of a place will bring the sparks to court. 
 Dependence, even a father's sway secures, 
 For though the son rebels, the heir is yours. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE l.—The Street before the Theatre. 
 
 Enter Young Mirabel and Captain Durbtete as from 
 tfte play. 
 
 Dur. How d'ye like this play ? 
 
 Young Mir, I liked the company ; the lady, the 
 rich beauty in the front-box, had my attention. 
 These impudent poets bring the ladies together to 
 support them, and to kill everybody else. 
 
 For death's upon the stage, the ladies cry. 
 
 Hut ne'er mind us that in the audience die : 
 
 The poeCs hero should not move their pain, 
 
 JBiMt they should weep for those their eyes have 
 stain. 
 
 Bur. Hoity; toity ! did Phillis inspire you with 
 all this ? 
 
 Young Mir. Ten times more ! the playhouse is 
 the element of poetry, because the region of beauty. 
 The ladies, methinks, have a more inspiring tri- 
 umphant air in the boxes than anywhere else ; they 
 sit commanding on their thrones with all their sub- 
 ject-slaves about them. Their best clothes, best 
 looks, shining jewels, sparkling eyes, the treasure 
 of the world in a ring. Then there's such a hurry 
 of pleasure to transport us ; the bustle, noise, gal- 
 lantry, equipage, garters, feathers, wigs, bows, 
 smiles, ogles, love, music, and applause. I could 
 wish that my whole life-long were the first night of 
 a new play ! 
 
 Dur. The fellow has quite forgot this journey ! 
 — Have you bespoke post-horses .' 
 
 Young Mir. Grant me but three days, dear 
 captain : one to discover the lady, one to unfold 
 myself, and one to make me happy ; and then I'm 
 yours to the world's end. 
 
 Dur. Hast thou the impudence to promise thy- 
 self a lady of her figure and quality in so short a 
 time .' 
 
 Young Mir. Yes, sir ; I have a confident 
 address, no disagreeable person, and five hundred 
 louis-d'ors in my pocket. 
 
 Dur. Five hundred louis-d'ors ! you an't mad ! 
 
 Young Mir. I tell you, she's worth five thou- 
 sand ; one of her black brilliant eyes is worth a 
 diamond as big as her head. I compared her 
 necklace with her looks, and the living jewels out- 
 sparkled the dead ones by a million. 
 
 Dv/r. But you have owned to me, that abating 
 Oriana's pretensions to marriage, yon loved her 
 passionately, then how can you wander at this rate? 
 
 Young Mir. I longed for a partridge t'other day 
 off the king's plate, but dy'e think, because I could 
 not have it, I must eat nothing ? 
 
 Dur. Prithee, Mirabel, be quiet. You may 
 remember what narrow 'scapes you have had abroad 
 by following strangers : you forget your leap out 
 of the courtesan's window at Bologna to save your 
 fine ring there. 
 
 Young Mir. My ring's a trifle ; there's nothing 
 we possess comparable to what we desire. Be shy 
 of a lady barefaced in the front box with a thousand 
 pound iii jewels about her neck ! for shame, no 
 more ! 
 
 Enter Oeuana, dressed as a Page, with a letter. 
 
 Ori. Is your name Mirabel, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. Yes,, sir. 
 
 Ori. A letter from your uncle iu Picardy. 
 
 [^Gives the letter. 
 
 Young Mir. [Reads.] The bearer is the son of 
 a Protestant gentleman, who flying for his religion, 
 left me the charge of this youth. — A pretty boy ! — 
 He's fond of some handsome service that may 
 afford him opportunity of improvement, your care 
 of him will oblige — Yours — Hast a mind to travek 
 chUd ? 
 
 Ori. 'Tis my desire, sir ; I should be pleased to 
 serve a traveller in any capacity. 
 
 Young Mir. A hopeful inclination ! You shall 
 along with me into Italy, as my page. 
 
 Dur. I don't think it safe ; the rogue's too 
 handsome. — [Noise without.'^ The play's done, 
 and some of the ladies come. this way. 
 
 Enter Lamorce, her train home up hy a Page. 
 
 Young Mir. Duretete, the very dear, identical 
 she ! 
 
 Dur. And what then .' 
 
 Young Mir. Why 'tis she. 
 
 Dur. And what then, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. Then! why— [To Oriaka.] 
 Look'ee, sirrah, the first piece of service I put you 
 upon, is to follow that lady's coach, and bring me 
 word where she lives. 
 
 Ori. I don't know the town, sir, and am afraid 
 of losing myself. 
 
 Young Mir. Psha ! 
 
 Lam. Page, what's become of all my people .' 
 
 Page. I can't tell, madam, I can see no sign of 
 your ladyship's coach. 
 
 Lam. That fellow is got into his old pranks, and 
 fallen drunk somewhere: none of the footmen there? 
 
 Page. Not one, madam. 
 
 Lam. These servants are the plague of our lives, 
 what shall I do ? 
 
 Young Mir. By all my hopes, Fortune pimps foi 
 me ! — Now Duretete, for a niece of gallantry. 
 
580 
 
 THE INCONSTANT; OR, 
 
 Dur. Why you won't, sure ? 
 
 Young Mir. Won't, brute !_[ To Lamorce.] 
 Let not your servants' neglect, madam, put your 
 ladyship to any inconvenience, for you can't be 
 disappointed of an equipage whilst mine waits 
 below, and would you honour the master so far, he 
 would be proud to pay his attendance. 
 
 Dur. Ay, to be sure. [,Aiide. 
 
 Lam. Sir, I won't presume to be troublesome, 
 for my habitation is a great way off. 
 
 i)ur. Very true, madam, and he's a little engaged ; 
 besides, madam, a hackney-coach will do as well, 
 madam. 
 
 Young Mir. [To Captain Duretete.] Rude 
 beast, be quiet! — [To Lamorce.] The farther 
 from home, madam, the more occasion you have 
 for guard — Pray, madam — 
 
 Lam. Lard, sir ! — 
 
 {_ne seems to press, she to decline it, in dumb show. 
 
 Dur. Ah ! the devil's in his impudence ! Now 
 he wheedles, she smiles ; he flatters, she simpers ; 
 he swears, she believes ; he's a rogue, and she's a 
 whore in a moment. 
 
 Young Mir. Without there, my coach ! — Dure- 
 tete, wish me joy. 
 
 l_Hands Lamorce out, Fage following. 
 
 Dur. Wish you a surgeon ! — Here, you little 
 Picard, go follow your master, and he'll lead you — 
 
 Ori. Whither, sir ? 
 
 Dur. To the academy, child ; 'tis the fashion 
 with men of quality to teach their pages their 
 exercises— go. 
 
 Ori. Won't you go with him too, sir? that 
 woman may do him some harm ; I don't like her. 
 
 Dur. Why, how now, Tages, do you start up to 
 give laws of a sudden ? do you pretend to rise at 
 court, and disapprove the pleasures of your betters ? 
 Look'ee, sirrah, if ever you would rise by a great 
 man, be sure to be with him in his little actions ; 
 and, as a step to your advancement, follow your 
 master immediately, and make it your hope that he 
 go to a bawdy-house. 
 
 Ori. Heavens forbid ! [,Exit. 
 
 Dur. Now would I sooner take a cart in com- 
 pany of the hangman, than a coach with that 
 woman. What a strange antipathy have I taken 
 agaijQst these creatures ! A woman to me is aver- 
 sion upon aversion, cheese, a cat, a breast of mut- 
 ton, the squealing of children, the grinding of 
 knives, and the snuff of a candle. \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE IT. — Lamorce's Lodgings. 
 Enter Young Mjrabel and Lamorcb, 
 
 Lam. To convince me, sir, that your service 
 was something more than good breeding, please to 
 lay out an hour of your company upon my desire, 
 as you have already upon my necessity. 
 
 Young Mir. Your desire, madam, has only pre- 
 vented my request. — My hours ! make 'em yours, 
 madam, eleven, twelve, one, two, three, and all 
 that belong to those happy minutes. 
 
 Larti. But I must trouble you, sir, to dismiss 
 your retinue, because an equipage at my door, at 
 this time of night, will not be consistent with my 
 reputation. 
 
 Young Mir. By all means, madam, all but one 
 'ittle boy. — Here, Page — 
 
 Enter Oriana, 
 
 Order my coach and servants home, and do you 
 stay. — [Eaeit Oriana.'J 'Tis a foolish country 
 boy, that knows nothing but innocence. 
 
 Lam. Innocence, sir ! I should be sorry if you 
 made any sinister constructions of my freedom. 
 
 Young Mir. O madam, I must not pretend to 
 remark upon anybody's freedom, having so entirely 
 forfeited my own. 
 
 Lam. Well, sir, 'twere convenient towards our 
 easy correspondence, that we entered into a free 
 confidence of each other, by a mutual declaration 
 of what we are, and what we think of one another. 
 Now, sir, what are you ? 
 
 Young Mir. In three words, madam, I am a 
 gentleman, I have five hundred pound in my pocket, 
 and a clean shirt on. 
 
 Lam. And your name is — 
 
 Young Mir. Mustapha. — Now, madam, the in- 
 ventory of your fortunes. 
 
 Lam. My name is Lamorce ; my birth noble ; 
 I was married young, to a proud, rude, sullen, im- 
 perious fellow ; the husband spoiled the gentleman ; 
 crying ruined my face, till at last I took heart, 
 leaped out of a window, got away to my friends, 
 sued my tyrant, and recovered my fortune. I lived 
 from fifteen to twenty to please a husband, from 
 twenty to forty I'm resolved to please myself, and 
 from thence upwards I'll humour the world. 
 
 Young Mir. The charming wild notes of a bird 
 broke out of its cage ! 
 
 Lam. I marked you at the play, and something 
 I saw of a well-furnished, careless, agreeable tour 
 about you. Methought your eyes made their man- 
 nerly demands with such an arch modesty, that I 
 don't know how — but I'm eloped, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 I'm eloped. 
 
 Young Mir. Ha 1 ha ! ha ! I rejoice in your 
 good fortune with all my heart. 
 
 Lam. Oh, now I think on't, Mr. Mustapha, you 
 have got the finest ring there ! I could scarcely 
 believe it right ; pray let me see it. 
 
 Young Mir. Hum ! — Yes, madam, 'tis, 'tis 
 right. — But — but — but — it was given me by my 
 mother ; — an old family-ring, madam, — an old- 
 fashioned family-ring. 
 
 Lam. Ay, sir ! — If you can entertain yourself 
 with a song for a moment I'll wait on you. — Come 
 in there. 
 
 Enter Singers. 
 
 Call what you please, sir. lExit. 
 
 Young Mir. The new soTig— Prithee, PhiUis,Si,c. 
 
 BONG. 
 
 Since, Celia, 'tis not in our power 
 To tell how long our lives may last, 
 
 Begin to love this very hour. 
 
 You've lost too much in what is past. 
 
 For since the power we all obey. 
 
 Has in your breast my heart confinoit 
 
 Let me my body to it lay, 
 
 In vain you'd part what nature join 'd. 
 
 ^Exeunt Singers. 
 
 Young Mir, Certainly the stars have been in a 
 strange intriguing humour when I was born ! — Ay, 
 this night should I have had a bride in my arms ; 
 and that I should like well enough. But what 
 should I have to-morrow night ? the same. And 
 what next night ? the same. And what next night ? 
 
THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 CU. 
 
 the very same. Soup for breakfast, soup for din- 
 ner, soup for Slipper, and soup for breakfast again. 
 But liere's variety. 
 
 I love the fair who freely gives her heart 
 
 That's mine by ties of nature not of art ; 
 
 Who boldly owns whate'er her thoughts indite. 
 
 And is too modest for a hypocrite. 
 She comes, she comes ! — [Lamorce appears at the 
 door, as he runs towards her, Jour Bravoes step in 
 before her. He starts back.'\ Hum ! hum ! — 
 [/iaide.] Bitch ! — murdered, murdered to be sure 1 
 The sursed strumpet ! to make me send away my 
 servants ! — Nobody near me !— These cut-throats 
 make always sure work. — ^What shall I do ? I have 
 but one way. — [/Houd.] Are these gentlemen your 
 relations, madam ? 
 
 Lam. Yes, sir. 
 
 Young Mir. Gentlemen, your most humble 
 servant ! — Sir, your most faithful ! — Yours, sir, 
 with all my heart ! — Your most obedient! — [Salutes 
 all round.] Come, gentlemen, please to sit. — No 
 ceremony — next the lady — pray, sir. [They all sit. 
 
 Lam. Well, sir, and how d'ye like my friends ? 
 Young Mir. O madam, the most finished gen- 
 tlemen ! I was never more happy in good com- 
 pany in my life. — I suppose, sir, you have travelled .' 
 1 Bra. YiS, sir. 
 Young Mir. Which way, may I presume ?. 
 
 1 Bra. In a western barge, sir. 
 
 Young Mir. Ha ! ha ! ha 1 very pretty ; face- 
 tious pretty gentleman ! 
 
 Lam. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Sir, you have got the 
 prettiest ring upon your finger there — 
 
 Young Mir. Ah, madam ! 'tis at your service 
 with all my heart. {Offering the ring. 
 
 Lam. By no means, sir, a family-ring ! {Takes it. 
 
 Young Mir. No matter, madam. — \_Aside.'[ 
 Seven hundred pound, by this light ! 
 
 2 Bra. Pray, sir, what's o'clock .' 
 
 Young Mir. Hum ! Sir, I forgot my watch at 
 home. 
 
 2 Bra. I thought I saw the string of it just now. 
 
 Young Mir. Ods my life, sir, I beg your par- 
 don ! Here it is — but it don't go. IPuiiing it up. 
 
 Lam. O dear sir, an English watch ! Tompion's, 
 I presume .' 
 
 Young Mir. D'ye like it, madam ? No cere- 
 mony.- — [Lj^mokc£ takes the watch.'] 'Tis at your 
 service with all my heart and soul. — [Aside.] 
 Tompion's ! hang ye. 
 
 1 Bra. But, sir, above all things, I admire the 
 fashion and make of your sword-hilt. 
 
 Young Mir. I'm mighty glad you like it, sir. 
 
 1 Bra. Will you part with it, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. Sir, I won't sell it. 
 
 I Bra. Not sell it, sir ! 
 
 Young Mir. No, gentlemen — but I'll bestow it 
 with all my heart. {Offering it. 
 
 1 Bra. O sir, we shall rob you ! 
 
 Young Mir. [Aside.] That you do, I'll be 
 sworn I — [Aloud.] I have another at home, pray, 
 sir. — [Gives his sword.] Gentlemen, you're too 
 modest ; have I anything else that you fancy ? — 
 1 To First Bravo.] Sir, will you do me a favour .' 
 1 am extremely in love with that wig which you 
 wear, will you do me the favour to change with me .' 
 
 1 Bra. Look'ce, sir, this is a family-wig, and I 
 would not part with it, but if you like it — 
 
 Young Mir. Sir, your most humble servant. 
 
 {They change tvigs. 
 
 1 Bra. Madam, your most humble slave. 
 
 {Goes up foppishly to Lamorce, and salutes her. 
 
 2 Bra. The fellow's very liberal, shall we mur- 
 der him .' {Aside. 
 
 1 Bra. [Aside.] What ! let him 'scape to hang 
 us all, and I to lose my wig ! no, no. 1 want but 
 a handsome pretence to quarrel with him, for you 
 know we must act like gentlemen. — [Aloud.] Here, 
 some wine ! 
 
 Enter Servant with wine. 
 
 Sir, your good health. 
 
 {Pulls Young Mirabel by the nose. 
 
 Young Mir. O sir, your most humble servant ! 
 
 A pleasant frolic enough, to drink a man's health, 
 
 and pull him by the nose ; ha ! ha ! ha ! the plea- 
 
 santest pretty humoured gentleman ! 
 
 Lam. Help the gentleman to a glass. 
 
 [Young Mirabel drinks, 
 
 1 Bra. How d'ye like the wine, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. Very good o' the kind, sir ; but I'll 
 tell ye what, I find we're all inclined to be frolic- 
 some, and egad, for my own part, I was never 
 more disposed to be merry ; let's make a night 
 on't, ha ! — This wine is pretty, but I have such 
 burgundy at home ! — Look'ee, gentlemen, let me 
 send for a dozen flasks of my burgundy, I defy 
 
 France to match it 'Twill make us all life, all 
 
 air ; pray, gentlemen. 
 
 2 Bra. Eh ! shall us have his burgundy ? 
 
 1 Bra. Yes, faith, we'll have all we can. — Here, 
 call up the gentleman's servant. — [Exit Servant.] 
 What think you, Lamorce ? 
 
 Lam. Yes, yes. — Your servant is a foolish 
 country boy, sir, he understands nothing but inno- 
 cence } 
 
 Young Mir. Ay, ay, madam. — Here, page. — 
 
 Re-enter Oriana. 
 
 Take this key, and go to my butler ; order him to 
 send half-a-dozen flasks of the red burgundy, 
 marked a thousand, and be sure you make haste. 
 I long to entertain my friends here, my very good 
 friends. 
 
 All. Ah, dear sir ! 
 
 1 Bra. Here, child, take a glass of wine; — Your 
 master and I have changed wigs, honey, in a 
 frolic. — Where had you this pretty boy, honest 
 Mustapha ? 
 
 Ori. Mustapha! {Aside. 
 
 Young Mir. Out of Picardy. — This is the first 
 errand he has made for me, and if he does it right, 
 I'll encourage him. 
 
 Ori, The red burgundy, sir .' 
 
 Young Mir. The red, marked a thousand, and 
 be sure you make haste. 
 
 Ori. I shall, sir. {Exit, 
 
 I Bra, Sir, you were pleased to like my wig, 
 have you any fancy for my coat ? Look'ee, sir, it 
 has served a great many honest gentlemen very 
 faithfully. 
 
 Young Mir. Not so faithfully, for I'm afraid it 
 has got a scurvy trick of leaving all its masters in 
 necessity, The insolence of these dogs is beyond 
 their cruelty. {Asidi, 
 
 Lam, Y'ou're melancholy, sir ! 
 
 Young Mir. Only concerned, madam, that 1 
 should have no servant here but this lirttle boy. — 
 He'll make some confounded blunder, I'll lay my 
 life on't ; I would not be disappointed of my wine 
 for the universe. 
 
582 
 
 THE INCONSTANT; OR, 
 
 Lam. He'll do well enough, sir ; but supper's 
 ready, will you please to eat a bit, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. O madam, I never had a better 
 stomach in my life ! 
 
 Zram. Come then ; we have nothing but a plate 
 of soup. 
 
 Young Mir. [Aside.'] Ah ! The marriage-soup 
 I could dispense with now. \.Exit, handing Lamorca. 
 
 2 Bra. 'That wig won't fall to your share. 
 
 1 lira. No, no, we'll settle that after supper ; in 
 the mean time the gentleman shall wear it. 
 
 2 Bra. Shall we despatch him ? 
 
 3 Bra, To be sure : I think he knows me. 
 
 1 Bra. Ay, ay, dead men tell no tales. I won- 
 der at the impudence of the English rogues, that 
 will hazard the meeting a man at the bar that they 
 have encountered upon the road ! I han't the 
 confidence to look a man in the face after I have 
 done him an injury ; therefore we'll murder him. 
 
 \Exmnt, 
 
 SCENE III.— 4 Room in Old Mirabel's 
 House. 
 
 Captain Duretietb discovered alone. 
 
 Dur. My friend has forsaken me, I have aban- 
 doned my mistress, my time lies heavy on my 
 hands, and my money bums in my pocket. — But 
 now I think on't, my myrmidons are upon duty 
 to-night ; I'll fairly stroll down to the guard, and 
 nod away the night with my honest lieutenant, over 
 a flask of wine, a rakehelly story, and a pipe of 
 tobacco. [Going off. 
 
 Enter Bisarrb, meeting him. 
 
 Bis. Who comes there ? Stand ! 
 
 Dur. Heyday, now she's turned dragoon ! 
 
 Bis. Look'ee, sir, I'm told you intend to travel 
 again. — I design to wait on you as far as Italy. 
 
 Dur. Then I'll travel into Wales. 
 
 Bis. Wales ! what country's that ? 
 
 Dur. The land of mountains, child, where you're 
 never out of the way, 'cause there's no such thing 
 as a high-road. 
 
 Bis. Rather always in a high road, 'cause you 
 travel all upon hiUa. — But be't as it will, I'll jog 
 along with you. 
 
 Dur. But we intend to sail to the East Indies. 
 
 Bis. East or west, 'tis all one to me ; I'm tight 
 and light, and the fitter for saiUng. 
 
 Dur. But suppose we take through Germany, 
 and drink hard .' 
 
 Bis. Suppose I take through Germany, and 
 drink harder than you ? 
 
 Dur. Suppose I go to a bawdy-house .° 
 
 Bis. Suppose I show you the way .' 
 
 Dur. 'Sdeath, woman, will you go to the guard 
 with me, and smoke a pipe ? 
 
 Bis. AUons, done I 
 
 Dur. The devil's in the woman ! — Suppose I 
 hang myself ? 
 
 Bis. There I'U leave you. 
 
 Dur. And a happy riddance, the gallows is wel- 
 come. [Going. 
 
 Bis. Hold, hold, sir ! — [Catches him hy the 
 arm.] One word before we part. 
 
 Dur. Let me go, madam, or I shall think that 
 you're a man, and perhaps may examine you. 
 
 Bis. Stir if vo« dare ; I have still spirits to at- 
 
 tend me ; and can raise such a muster of fairies as 
 shall punish you to death.— Come, sir, stand there 
 now and ogle me. — [He frowns upon her.] Now 
 a languishing sigh I — [He groans.] Now run and 
 take up my fan, — faster. — [He runs and takes it 
 up. ] Now play with it handsomely. 
 
 DUr. Ay, ay. [H^ tears it all in pieces. 
 
 Bis. Hold, hold, dear humorous coxcomb ; cap- 
 tain, spai-e my fan, and I'll — why, you rude, inhu- 
 man monster, don't you expect to pay for this ? 
 
 Dur. Yes, madam, there's twelvepence ; for 
 that's the price on't. 
 
 Bis. Sir, it cost a guinea. 
 
 Dur. Well, madam, you shall have the sticks 
 again. [Throws them to her, and exit. 
 
 Bis. Ha ! ha I ha ! ridiculous below my con- 
 cern. I must follow him, however, to know if he 
 can give me any news of Oriana. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV Lamorce's Lodgings. 
 
 Young Mirabel discovered atone. 
 
 Young Mir. Bloody hell-hounds, I overheard 
 you ! — Was not I two hours ago the happy, gay, 
 rejoicing Mirabel ? How did I plume my hopes in 
 a fair coming prospect of a long scene of years ! 
 Life courted me with all the charms of vigour, 
 youth, and fortune ; and to be torn away from all 
 my promised joys, is more than death ; the man- 
 ner too — ^by villains. — O my Oriana, this very mo- 
 ment might have blessed me in thy arms ! and my 
 poor boy, the innocent boy ! — Confusion ! — But 
 hush, they come ; I must dissemble. 
 
 Enter Bravoes. 
 
 Still no news of my wine, gentlemen ? 
 
 1 Bra. No, sir, I believe your country booby 
 has lost himself, and we can wait no longer for't. 
 — True, sir, you're a pleasant gentleman, but I 
 suppose you understand our business. 
 
 Young Mir, Sir, I may go near to guess at 
 your employments ; you, sir, are a lawyer, I pre- 
 sume, you a physician, you a scrivener, you a stock- 
 jobber. — [Aside.] All cut-throats, egad ! 
 
 4 Bra. Sir, I am a broken officer; I was 
 cashiered at the head of the army for a coward : so 
 I took up the trade of murder to retrieve the repu- 
 tation of my courage. 
 
 3 Bra. I am a soldier too, and would serve my 
 king, but I don't like the quarrel, and I have more 
 honour than to fight in a bad cause. 
 
 2 Bra. I was bred a gentleman, and have no 
 estate, but I must have my whore and my bottle, 
 through the prejudice of education. 
 
 1 Bra. I am a ruffian too, by the prejudice of 
 education, I was bred a butcher. In short, sir, if 
 your wine had come, we might have trifled a little 
 longer. — Come, sir, which sword will you fall by ? 
 mine, sir ? [Draws. 
 
 2 Bra. Or mine ? [Draws. 
 
 3 Bra. Or mine ? [Draws. 
 
 4 Bra. Or mine ? [Draws. 
 Young Mir. [Aside.] I scorn to beg my life; 
 
 but to be butchered thus — [Knocking.] Oh, 
 there's the wine ! — This moment for my life or 
 death. 
 
THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 583 
 
 Enltr Oriama. 
 Lost, for ever lost ! — ^Where's the wine, child ? 
 
 On, Coming up, sir. ISlamps. 
 
 , Enter Captain Duuetetk with his sword drawilt and six 
 ' Soldiers, with their pieces presented, the Bravoes drop 
 their SKords, Exit Oriana. 
 
 Young Mir. The wine ! the wine ! the wine ! 
 Youth, pleasure, fortune, days, and years, are now 
 iny own again. — Ah, my dear friends, did not J 
 tell you this wine would make me merry .' — Dear 
 captain, these gentlemen are the best-natured, face- 
 tioas, witty creatures, that ever you knew. 
 
 Enter Laaiorce. 
 
 Lam. Is the wine come, sir ? 
 
 Young Mir. O yes, madam, the wine is come 
 — see there ! — {^Pointing to the Soldiers-l Your 
 ladyship has got a very fine ring upon your finger. 
 
 Lam. Sir, 'tis at your service. 
 
 Young Mir. O ho ! is it so ? — IPuts it on his 
 finger.'\ Thou dear seven hundred pound, thou'rt 
 welcome home again, with all my heart! — Ad's my 
 life, madam, you have got the finest huilt watch 
 there ! Tompion's, I presume ? 
 
 Lam. Sir, you may wear it. 
 
 Young Mir. O madam, by no means, 'tis too 
 much ! — Rob you of all ! — [ Taking it from her.'] 
 Good dear time, thou'rt a precious thing : I'm glad 
 I have retrieved thee. — IPutiing it 7jp.] What, 
 my friends neglected all this while ! Gentlemen, 
 you'll pardon my complaisance to the lady. — How 
 now, is it so civil to be out of humour at my enter- 
 tainment, and I so pleased with yours? — [To 
 DuRETETE.] Captain, you're surprised at all this ! 
 but we're iu oui' frolics, you must know. — Some 
 nine here ! 
 
 Enter Servant with wine. 
 
 Come, captain, this worthy gentleman's health. — 
 [ Tweaks First Bravo by the nose, he roars."] But 
 now, where, where's my dear deliverer, my boy, 
 my charming boy ? 
 
 1 Bra. I hope some of our crew below stairs 
 have despatched him. 
 
 Young Mir, Villain, what sayest thou ? de- 
 spatched ! I'll have ye all tortured, racked, torn to 
 pieces alive, if you have touched my boy.-^Here, 
 page I page ! page ! ^Runs out. 
 
 Dur. Here, gentlemen, be sure you secure those 
 fellows. ' 
 
 1 Bra. Yes, sir, we know you and your guard 
 will be very civil to us. 
 
 Dur. Now, for you madam. — He ! he ! he ! I'm 
 so pleased to think that I shall be revenged of one 
 woman before I die. — Well, Mistress Snapdragon, 
 which of these honourable gentlemen is so happy 
 to call you wife ? 
 
 1 Bra. Sir, she should have been mine to-night, 
 ""cause Sampre here had her last night. Sir, she's 
 very true to us all four. 
 
 Dur. Take 'em to justice. 
 
 [Exeunt Soldiers with the Bravoes. 
 
 Enter Omyi-iaASiZL, Dugahd, and Bisarre. 
 
 Old Mir. Robin ! Robin ! where's Bob, where's 
 my boy .' — What, is this the lady ? — A pretty 
 whore, faith ! — Heark'ee child, because my son 
 was so civil as to oblige you with s. coach, I'll 
 treat you with a cart ; indeed I will. 
 
 Dug. Ay, madam, — and you shall have a swing- 
 ing equipage, three or four thousand footmen at 
 your heels at least. 
 
 Dur. No less becomes her quality. 
 
 Bis. Faugh ! the monster ! 
 
 Dur. Monster! ay, you're all a little monstrous, 
 let me tell you. 
 
 Re-enter Young AIirabel. 
 
 Old Mir. Ah, my dear Bob, art thou safe, man? 
 
 Young Mir. No, no, sir, I'm ruined, the saver 
 of my life is lost. 
 
 Old Mir. No, no, he came and brought us the 
 news. 
 
 Young Mir. But where is he ? 
 
 Re-enter Oriana. 
 
 Ha ! — [ Buns and embraces her.] My dear pre- 
 server, what shall I do to recompense your trust ? 
 — Father, friend, gentlemen, behold the youth that 
 has relieved me from the most ignominious death, 
 from the scandalous poniards of these bloody ruf- 
 fians, where to have fallen, would have defamed my 
 memory with vile reproach. — My life, estate, my 
 all, is due to such a favour. Command me, child: 
 before you all, before my late, so kind indulgent 
 stars, I swear, to grant whate'er you ask. 
 
 Ori. To the same stars indulgent now to me, I 
 will appeal as to the justice of my claim ; I shall 
 demand but what was mine before — the j nst per- 
 formance of your contract to Oriana. 
 
 [Discovering herself. 
 
 All. Oriana ! 
 
 Ori. In this disguise I resolved to follow you 
 abroad, counterfeited that letter that got me into 
 your service ; and so, by this strange turn of fate, 
 I became the instrument of your preservation. Few 
 common servants would have had such cunning : 
 my love inspired me with the meaning of your 
 message, 'cause my concern for your satety made 
 me suspect your company. 
 
 Dur. Mirabel, you're caught. 
 
 Young Mir. Caught ! I scorn the thought of 
 imposition, the tricks and artful cunning of the sex 
 I have despised, and broke through all contrivance. 
 Caught ! no, 'tis my voluntary act ; this was no 
 human stratagem, but by my providential stars 
 designed 
 
 To show the dangers, wandering youth incurs 
 By the pursuit of an unlawful love, 
 To plunge me headlong in the snares of vice, 
 And then to free me by the hands of virtue ; 
 Here on my knees, 
 
 I humbly beg my fair preserver's pardon ; 
 My thanks are needless, for myself I owe. 
 And now for ever do protest me yours. 
 
 Old Mir. {Sings.]— T&ll, ail, di dall!_[2b 
 Okiana.] Kiss me, daughter.— [ To Lamobce.] 
 No, you shall kiss me first ; for you're the cause 
 on't. — Well, Bisarre, what say you to the captain ? 
 
 Bis. I like the beast well enough, but I don't 
 understand his paces so well as to venture him in 
 a strange road. 
 
 Old Mir. But marriage is so beaten a path that 
 you can't go wrong. 
 
 Bis. Ay, 'tis so beaten that the way is spoiled. 
 
 Dur. There is but one thing should make me 
 thy husband. I could marry thee to-day for the 
 privilege of beating thee to-morrow. 
 
 Old Mir. Come, come, you may agree for ali 
 
6G4 
 
 THE INCONSTANT; OR. THE WAY TO WIN HIM. 
 
 this. — Mr. Dugard, are not you pleased with 
 this? 
 
 Dug. So pleased, that if I thought it might 
 secure your son's affection to my sisler, I would 
 double her fortune. 
 
 Young Mir. Fortune ! has not she given me 
 mine ? my life, estate, my all, and what is more, 
 her virtuous self? 
 
 Virtue, in this so advantageous light, 
 Has het own sparkling charms more tempting far 
 Than glittering gold or glory. Behold the foil 
 
 IPointing to Lamobcb. 
 
 That sets this brightness off. — ITo Oriana.] 
 
 Here view the pride [To Ohiana. 
 
 And scandal of the sex. — [To Lamorce.] There 
 
 the false meteor, LTo Lamorce. 
 
 Whose deluding light leads mankind to destruction. 
 Here— [To Obiana,] the bright shining star that 
 
 guides to a 
 Sequfity of happiness. A garden 
 Anil a single she — [To Obiana,] was our first 
 
 father's bliss ; 
 The tempter — ITo Lamorce,] and to' wander 
 
 was his curse. 
 What liberty can be so tempting there, 
 
 ^Pointing to Lamorce. 
 As a soft, virtuous, amorous pondage here. 
 
 ' ' ; ITO ORtANA. 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 BY NATHANIEL BOWE. SPOKEN BY MR. WILES. 
 
 From Fletcher's great original, to-day 
 We took the hint of this our modem play : 
 Our author, from his lines, has strove to paint 
 A witty, wild, inconstant, free gallant, 
 With a gay soul, with sense, and will to rove, 
 With language, and with softness framed to move, 
 With little truth, but with a world of love. 
 Such forms on maids in morning slumbers wait, 
 When fancy first instructs their hearts to beat. 
 When first they wish, and sigh for what they know 
 
 not yet. 
 Frown not, ye fair, to think your lovers may 
 Reach your cold hearts by some unguarded way ; 
 Let Yilleroy's misfortune make you wise. 
 There's danger still in darkness and surprise ; 
 Though from his ramparts he defied the foe, 
 Prince Eugene found an aqueduct below. 
 With easy freedom, and a gay address, 
 \ pressing lover seldom wants success: 
 
 Whilst the respectful, like the Greek, sits down. 
 And wastes a ten years' siege before one town. 
 For her own sake, let no forsaken maid. 
 Our wanderer, for want of love, upbraid ; 
 Since 'tis a secret, none should e'er confess. 
 That they have lost the happy power to please. 
 If you suspect the rogue inclined to break. 
 Break first, and swear you've turn'd him off, a 
 
 week ; 
 As princes, when they resty statesmen doubt. 
 Before they can surrender, turn 'em out. 
 Whate'er you think, grave uses may be made, 
 And much even for inconstancy he said. 
 Let the good man, for marriage rites design'd, 
 With studious care, and diligence of mind, 
 Turn over every page of womankind ; 
 Mark every sense, and how the readings vary. 
 And, when he knows the worst on't, — let him 
 
 marry. 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 Sic voa non vobis. — Virgil. 
 
 TO HENRY BRETT, ESQ. 
 
 The commons of England have a right of petitioning ; and since by your place in the senate you are obliged to heav 
 and redress the subject, I presume upon the privilege of the people to give you the following trouble. 
 
 As prologues introduce plays on the stage, so dedications usher them into the great theatre of the world ; and as we 
 choose some stanch actor to address the audience, so we pitch upon some gentleman of undisputed ingenuity to 
 recommend us to the reader. Books, like metals, requfre t9 be stamped with some valuable effigies before they become 
 popular and current. 
 
 To escape the critic^ I resoIvpJ to ,t3ke sanctuary with one of the best ; one who differs from the fraternity iid this, 
 that his good-nature is ever prediimitiant, can discoVer an author's smallest fault, and pardon the greatest. 
 
 Your generous approbation, Sir, has done this play service, but has injured the author ; for it has made him insufifer- 
 ably vain, and he thinks himself authorised to stand up for the merit of his performance, when so great a master of wit 
 has declared in. its favour. 
 
 The muses are the most coquettish of their sex, fond of being admired, and always putting on their best airs to the 
 finest gentleman : but alas, Sir ! their addresses are stale, and their fine things but repetition ; for there is nothing new 
 in wit, but what is foimd in yoiir own conversation." 
 
 Could I write by the help of study, as you talk without it, I would venture to say something in the usual strain of 
 dedication ; but as you have too much wit to sufferfit, and I too little to undertake it, I hope the world will excuse my 
 deficiency, and you will pardon 4he presumption of. Sir, your most obliged, and most bumble servant, > ' 
 
 December 23, 1702. ' G. FARQUHAR. 
 
 THE PREFACE. 
 
 The success and countenance that debauchery has met with in plays, was the most severe and reasonable charore 
 against their authors in Mr. ColliQr|s " Short View;" and indeed this gentleman I^ad done the drama considerable 
 service, had he arraigned the stage only to punish its misdemeanours, and not to take away its life ; but there is an 
 advantage to be made sometimes of the advice of an enemy, and the only way to disappoint his designs, is to improve 
 upon his invective, and to make the stage flourish, by virtue of that satire by which he thought to suppress it. 
 
 I have therefore in this piece endeavoured to show, that an English comedy may^a'nswer the strictness of poetical 
 justice ; but indeed the greater share of the English audience, I mean that part which is no farther read than in plays of 
 their own language, have imbibed other principles, and stand up as vigorously for the old poetic licence, as they do 
 for the liberty of the subject. They take all innovations for grievances; and, let a project be never so well laid for 
 their advantage, yet the imdertaker is very likely to suffer by't. A play without a beau, cully, cuckold, or coquette, is 
 as poor an entertainment to some palates, as their Sunday's dinner would be without beef and pudding. And tliis I take 
 to be one reason that the galleries were so thin during the run of this play. I thought indeed to have soothed the 
 splenetic zeal of the city, by making a gentleman a knave, and punishing their great grievance — a whoremaster ; but a 
 certain virtuoso of that fraternity has told me since, that the citizens were never more disappointed in any entertain-/ 
 msnt: "For," said he, •* however pious we may appear to be at home, yet we never go to that end of the town but with 
 an intention to be lewd." 
 
 There was an odium cast upon this play, before it appeared, by some persons who thought it their interest to have it 
 suppressed. The ladies were frighted from seeing it by formidably stories of a midwife, and were told, no doubt, that 
 they must expect no less than a labour upon the stage ; but I hope the exafhjnin^ into that aspersion will be enough to 
 wipe it off, since the character of the midwife is only so far touched as is necessary for carrying on the plot, she being 
 principally deciphered in her procuring capacity ; and I dare not affront the ladifis so far as to imagine they could bo 
 offended at the exposing of a bawd. 
 
 Some critics complain, that the design is defective for want of Clelia's appearance in the scene ; but I had rathei they 
 should find this fault, than I forfeit my regard to the fair, by showing a lady of figure under a misfortune ; for which 
 reason I made her only nominal, and chose to expose the person that injured her ; and if the ladies don't agree that I 
 have done her justice in the end, I'm very sorry for't. 
 
 Some people are apt to say, that the chai-acter of Richmore points at a particular person ; though I must confess I see 
 nothing but what is very general in his character, except his marrying his own mistress j which by the way, he never 
 did, itor he was no sooner off the stage but he chanijed his mind, and the poor lady ie still in etatu quo. But upon the 
 
fl86 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 whole matter, 'tis applicatiou only makes the ass ; and characters in plays are like Long-lane clothes, not hung out 
 for the use of any particular people, but to be bought by only those they happen to fit. 
 
 The most material objection against this play is the importance of the subject, which necessarily leads into sentiments 
 too grave for diversion, and supposes vices too great for comedy to punish. 'Tis said, I must own, that the business of 
 comedy is chiefly to ridicule folly ; and that the punishment of vice falls rather into the proviuce of tragedy ; but 
 if there be a middle sort of wiclcedness, too high for the sock, and too low for the buskin, is there any reason that it 
 should go unpunished ? What are more obnoxious to human society, than the villanies exposed in this play, the frauds, 
 plots and contrivances upon the fortunes of men, and the virtue of women ? But the persons are too mean for the 
 heroic ; then what must we do with them ? "Why, they must of necessity drop into comedy ; for it is unreasonable to 
 imagine that the lawgivers in poetry would tie themselves up from executing that justice which is the foundation of 
 their constitution ; or to say, that exposing vice is the business of the drama, and yet make rules to screen it from 
 persecution. 
 
 Some have asked the question, why the Elder Wouldbe, in the fourth act, should counterfeit madness in his confine- 
 ment ? Don't mistake, there was no such thing in his head ; and the judicious could easily perceive, that it was only 
 a start of hxmiour put on to divert his melancholy ; and when gaiety is strained to cover misfortune, it may very 
 naturally be overdone, and rise to a semblance of madness, sufficient to impose on the constable, and perhaps on some 
 of the audience ; who taking everything at sight, impute that as a fault, which lam bold to stand up for, as one of 
 the most masterly strokes of the whole piece. 
 
 This I think sufficient to obviate what objections I have heard made ; hut there was no great occasion for making this 
 defence, having had the opinion of some of the gi'eatest persons in England, both for quality and parts, that the play 
 has merit enough to hide.more faults than have been found ; and I think their approbation sufficient to excuse some 
 pride that may be incident to the author upon this performance. 
 
 I mijst own myself obliged to Mr. Longueville for some lines in the part of Teague, and something of the lawyer ; hut 
 above all, for his hint of the twins, upon which I formed my plot. But having paid him all due satisfaction and 
 acknowledgment, I must do myself the justice to believe, that few of our modem writers have been less beholden to 
 foreign assistance iu their plays, than I have been in the following scenes. 
 
 DRAMATIS. PERSONiE. 
 
 Hermes Woui-DitB, elder Son and he 17-' to X-onu 
 
 Wouldbe. 
 Bknjawin Wouldbe, his Brother. 
 RiCRAiORS, a gay dissipated Rake. 
 Captain Truebian, his Nepheuj, and friend to 
 
 Heiimss Wouldbe. 
 SuBTLtGMAN, an Attorney. 
 Fairbank, a Goldsmith. 
 Balderdash, a Vintner. 
 Clearaccount, Steward to Lord Wouldbe. 
 Comic, a Poet. 
 
 Valets to Bbnjam[n Wouldbe. 
 
 Jack, ■» 
 
 Fbisube, J 
 Teague, Valet to Hermes Wouldbe. 
 
 Constance, betrothed to IIeumks Wouldbe. 
 AuRKLiA, her Cousin, beloved by Captain Tuue- 
 
 AIAN. 
 
 Mrs. Cleauaccount, Wife to Clearaccount. 
 Mrs. Mandrake, a Midwife and Procuress. 
 
 Alderman, Constables, Gentlemen, Mob, Maid, 
 and Footmen. 
 
 SCENE,— London, 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 BY MR. MOTTEUX, SPOKEN BY MR. WILKS. 
 
 ' , An Alarm sounded. 
 
 With drams and trumpets in this warring age, 
 A martial prologue should alarm the stage. 
 New plays, ere acted, a full audience near, 
 Seem towns invested, when a siege they fear. 
 Prologues are like a forlorn hope, sent out 
 Before the play, to skirmish and to scout : 
 Our dreadful foes, the critics, when they spy, 
 They cock, they charge, they fire, then — back they 
 
 fly. 
 The siege is laid, — there gallant chiefs abound, 
 Here foes iatreuch'd, there glittering troops around, 
 And the loud batteries roar — from yonder rising 
 
 ground. 
 In the first act brisk sallies (miss or hit), 
 With volleys of small shot, or snip-snap wit, 
 Attack, and gall the trenches of the pit. 
 The next the fire continues, but at length 
 Grows less, and slackens like a bridegroom's 
 
 strength. 
 The third, feints, mines, and countermines abound. 
 Your critic engineers safe underground. 
 Blow up our works, and all our art confound. 
 
 The fourth brings on most action, and 'tis sharp, 
 Fresh foes crowd on, at your remissness carp. 
 And desperate, though unskill'd, insult our counter- 
 scarp. 
 Then comes the last ; the general storm is near. 
 The poet-govornor now quakes for fear ; 
 Runs wildly up and down, forgets to huff, 
 And would give all he has plunder'd — to get off. 
 So, Don and Monsieur, bluff before the siege. 
 Were quickly tamed — at Venloo, and at Liege : 
 'Twas Viva Spagnia ! Vive France .' before ; 
 Now, Qua)'<ter .' Monsieur! Quariier! Ah, Senor! 
 But what your resolution can withstand ? 
 You master all, and awe the sea and land. 
 In war your valour makes the strong submit ; 
 Your judgment humbles all attempts in wit. 
 What play, what fort, what beauty can endure. 
 All fierce assaults, and always be secure ! 
 Then grant 'em generous terms who dare to write, 
 Since now that seems as desperate as to fight : 
 If we must yield, yet ere the day be fist, 
 Let us hold out the third, and, if we may, the sixth. 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALb. 
 
 587 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — Benjamin Wouldbe's Lodgings. 
 
 Benjamin Wouldbe discovered dressing. Jack buckling 
 his shoes. 
 
 Ben. Would. Here is such a plague every morn- 
 ing, with buckliag shoes, gartering, combing and 
 powdering! — Psha ! cease thy impertinence, I'll 
 dress no more to-day. — [Exit Jack.] Were I an 
 honest brute, that rises from his litter, shal^es him- 
 self, and so is dressed, I could bear it. 
 
 Enter Richmore. 
 
 Rich. No farther yet, 'W'ouldbe ! 'tis almost one. 
 
 Ben. Would. Then blame the olockmakers, they 
 made it so ; the sun has neither fore nor afternoon. 
 Prithee, what have we to do with time ? Can't we 
 let it alone as nature made it ? Can't a man eat 
 when he's hungry, go to bed when he's sleepy, rise 
 when he wakes, dress when he pleases, without the 
 confinement of hours to enslave him .' 
 
 Rich. Pardon me, sir, I understand your stoi- 
 cism — you have lost your money" last night. 
 
 Ben. Would. No, no. Fortune took care of me 
 there — I had none to lose. 
 
 Rich. 'Tis that gives you the spleen. 
 
 Ben. Would. Yes, I have got the spleen ; and 
 something else. — Hark'ee — iWhispcrs. 
 
 Rich. How! 
 
 Ben. Would. Positively, The lady's kind re- 
 ception was the most severe usage 1 ever met with. 
 Shan't I breali her windows, Richmore } 
 
 Rich. A mighty revenge truly ! Let me ' tell 
 you, friend, that breaking the windows of such 
 houses are no more than writing over a vintner's 
 door, as they do in Holland, Vin le koop. 'Tis no 
 more than a bush to a tavern, a decoy to trade, and 
 to draw in customers ; but upon the whole matter, 
 I think, a gentleman should put up an affront got 
 in such little company ; for the pleasure, the pain, 
 and the resentment, are ail alike scandalous. 
 
 Ben. Would. Have you forgot, Richmore, how 
 I found you one morning with the Fljing-Post in 
 your hand, hunting for physical advertisements ? 
 
 Rich. 'That was in the days of dad, my friend, 
 in the days of dirty linen, pit-masks, hedge-ta- 
 verns, and beefsteaks ; but now 1 Hy at nobler 
 game ; the Ring, the Court, Pawlet's, and the Park : 
 I despise all women that I apprehend any danger 
 from, less than the having my throat cut : and 
 should scruple to converse even with a lady of for- 
 tune, unless her virtue were loud enough to give 
 me pride in exposing it. — Here's a letter I received 
 this morning ; you may read it. iGives a letter. 
 
 Ben. Would. [Reads.] If there he solemnily in 
 protestation^ justice in heaven, or Jidelity- on earthy 
 I may still depend on the faith of my Richmore. 
 Though I may conceal my love, I no longer can 
 hide the effects on't from the world. Be careful 
 of my honour, remember your vows, and fly to the 
 relief of the disconsolate Clelia. 
 
 The fair, the courted, blooming Clelia I 
 
 Rich. The credulous, troublesome, foolish Clelia. 
 Did you ever read such a fulsome harangue .' 
 Lard, sir, J am near my time, and wunl your as' 
 
 sistance ! Does tlie silly creature imagine that 
 any man would come near her ia those circum- 
 stances, unless it were doctor Chamberlain ? — You 
 may keep the letter. 
 
 Ben. Would. But why would you trust it with 
 me.' you know I can't keep a secret that has any 
 scandal in't. 
 
 Rich. For that reason I communicate : I know 
 thou art a perfect gazette, and will spread the news 
 all over the town : for you must understand that I 
 am now besieging another ; and I would have the 
 fame of my conquest upon the wing, that the town 
 may surrender the sooner. 
 
 Ben. Would. But if the report of your cruelty 
 goes along with that of your valour, you'll find no 
 garrison of any strength will open their gates to 
 you. 
 
 Rich. No, no, women are cowards, and terror 
 prevails upon them more than clemency : my best 
 pretence to my success with the fair is my using 'em 
 ill. 'Tis turning their own guns upon 'em, and I 
 have always found it the most successful battery to 
 assail one reputation by sacrificing another, 
 
 Ben. Would. I could love thee for thy mischief, 
 did 1 not envy thee for thy success in't. 
 
 Rich. You never attempt a woman of figure. 
 
 Ben. Would. How can I .' this confounded hump 
 of mine is such a burden at my back, that it presses 
 me down here in the dirt and diseases of Covent- 
 garden, the low suburbs of pleasure. Curst for- 
 "tune ! I am a younger brother, and yet cruelly 
 deprived of my birthright of a handsome person ; 
 seven thousand a year in a direct line, would have 
 straightened my back to some purpose. But I look, 
 in my presefit circumstances, like a branch of an- 
 other kind, grafted onlyupon the stock which makes 
 me grow so crooked. 
 
 Rich. Come, come, 'tis no misfortune, your 
 father is so as well as you. 
 
 Ben. Would. Then why should not I be a lord 
 as well as he ? Had I the same title to the de- 
 formity I could bear it. 
 
 Rich. But how does my lord hear the absence of 
 your twin-brother .' 
 
 Ben. Would. My twin-brother ! Ay, 'twas his 
 crowding me that spoiled my shape, and his coming 
 half an hour before me that ruined my fortune. 
 My father expelled me his house some two years 
 ago, because I would have persuaded him that my 
 twin-brother was a bastard. He gave me my por- 
 tion, which was about fifteen hundred pound, and 
 I have spent two thousand of it already. As for 
 my brother, he don't care a farthing for me. 
 
 Rich. Why so, pray ,■* 
 
 Ben. Would. A very odd reason — because I hate 
 him. 
 
 Rich. How should he know that .' 
 
 Ben. Would. Because he thinks if reasonable it 
 should be so. 
 
 Rich. But did your actions ever express any 
 malice to him ? 
 
 Ben. Would. Yes : I would fain have kept him 
 company; but being aware of my kindness, he went 
 abroad. He has travelled these live vears, and I 
 
6r.8 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 am told, is a grave sober fellow, and in danger of 
 living a great virhile ; all my hope is, that when he 
 gets into his honour and estate, the nobility will 
 soon kill him by drinking him up to his dignity. 
 But come, Frank, I have but two eyesores in the 
 world, a brother before me and a hump behind me, 
 and thou art still laying 'em in my way : let us asT 
 sume an argument of less severity. Canst thou 
 lend uie a brace of hundred ponnds ? 
 
 Rich. What would you do with 'em ? 
 
 Ben. Would. Do with 'em ! there's a question 
 indeed ! Do you think I would eat 'em ? 
 
 Rich. Yes, o' my troth, would you, and drink 
 'em together. Look'ee, Mr. Wouldbe, whilst you 
 kept well with your father, I could have ventured 
 to have lent you five guineas : but as the case 
 stands, I can assure you, I have lately paid off my 
 sister's fortunes, and — 
 
 Ben. Wouli. Sir, this put-off looks like an 
 aifront, when you know I don't use to take such 
 things. 
 
 Rich. Sir, your demand is rather an affront, 
 when you know I don't use to give such things. 
 
 Ben. Jfould. Sir, I'll pawn my honour. 
 
 Rich. That's mortgaged already for more than 
 it is worth ; you had better pawn your sword there, 
 'twill bring you forty shillings. 
 
 Ben. Would. 'Sdeath, sir. — 
 
 {Takes his sword off the table. 
 
 Rich. Hold, Mr. Wouldbe! suppose I put an 
 end to your misfortunes all at once ? 
 
 Ben. Would. How, sir ? 
 
 Rich. Why go to a magistrate, and swear you 
 would have robbed me of two hundred pounds. 
 Look'ee, sir, you have been often told, that your 
 extravagance would some time or other be the ruin 
 of you ; and it will go a great way in your 
 indictment, to have turned the pad upon your 
 friend. 
 
 Ben. Would. This usage is the height of ingra- 
 titude from you, in whose company »I have spent 
 my fortune. 
 
 Rich. I'm therefore a witness, that it was very 
 ill spent. Why would you keep company, be at 
 equal expenses with me, that have fifty times your 
 estate ? What was gallantry in me, was prodigality 
 in you ; mine was my health, because I could 
 pay for't ; yours a disease, because you could 
 not. 
 
 Ben. Would. And is this all I must expect from 
 our friendship ? 
 
 Rich. Friendship ! sir, there can be no such 
 thing without an equality. 
 
 Ben. Would. That is, there can be no such 
 thing when there is occasion for't. 
 
 Rich. Kight, sir ; our friendship was over a bottle 
 only ; and whilst you can pay your club of friend- 
 ship, I'm that way your humble servant ; but when 
 once you come borrowing, I'm this way — your 
 humble servant. lExit. 
 
 Ben. Would. Rich, big, proud, arrogant villain ! 
 I have been twice his second, thrice sick of the 
 same love, and thrice cured by the same physic, 
 and now he drops me for a trifle. That an honest 
 fellow in his cups should be such a rogue when he's 
 sober ! The narrow-hearted rascal has been drink- 
 ing coffee this morning. Well, thou dear, solitary 
 half-crown, adieu !— Here, Jack I 
 
 Re-enter Jack. 
 Take this ; pay for a bottle of wine, and bid Bal- 
 derdash bring it himself. — \_Exit Jack.] How 
 melancholy are my poor breeches ; not one chink ! 
 — Thou art a villanous hand, for thou hast picked 
 my pocket. — This vi-ntner now has all the marks of 
 an honest fellow, a broad face, a copious look, a 
 strutting belly, and a jolly mien. I have brought 
 him above three pound a night for these two years 
 successively. The rogue has money, I'm sure, it 
 he will but lend it. 
 
 Enter Balderdash with a bottle and glass. Jack attending. 
 Oh, Mr. Balderdash, good morrow. 
 
 Bald. Noble Mr. Wouldbe, I'm your most 
 humble servant. I have brought you a whetting- 
 glass, the best old hock in Europe ; I know 'tia 
 your drink in a morning. 
 
 Ben. Would. I'll pledge you, Mr. Balderdash. 
 
 Bald. Your health, sir. \_Drinki 
 
 Ben. Would. Pray, Mr. Balderdash, tell me one 
 thing — but first sit down : now tell me plainly what 
 you think of me ? 
 
 Bald. Think of you, sir ! I think that you are 
 the honestest, noblest gentleman, that ever drank 
 a glass of wine ; and the best customer that ever 
 came into my house. 
 
 Ben. Would. And you really think as you speak ? 
 
 Bald. May this wine be my poison, sir, if I don't 
 speak from the bottom of my heart ! 
 
 Ben. Would. And how much money do you 
 think I have spent in your house .' 
 
 Bald. Why truly, sir, by a moderate computa- 
 tion, I do believe that I have handled of your 
 money the best part of five hundred pounds within 
 these two years. 
 
 Ben. Would. Very well ! And do you think 
 that you lie under any obligation for the trade I 
 have promoted to your advantage ? 
 
 Bald. Yes, sir ; and if I can serve you in any 
 respect, pray command me to the utmost of my 
 ability. 
 
 Ben. Would. Well, thanks to my stars, there 
 is still some honesty in wine ! — Mr. Balderdash, I 
 embrace you and your kindness : I am at present 
 a little low in cash, and must beg you to lend me a 
 hundred pieces. 
 
 Bald. Why, truly, Mr. Wouldbe, I was afraid 
 it would come to this. I have had it in my head 
 several times to caution you upon your expenses : 
 but you were so very genteel in my house, and 
 your liberality became you so very well, that I was 
 unwilling to say anything that might check your 
 disposition; buttruly,sir,Ican forbear no longer to 
 tell you, that you have been a little too extravagant. 
 
 Ben. Would. But since you reaped the benefit 
 of my extravagance, you will, I hope, consider my 
 necessity. 
 
 Bald. Consider your necessity I I do with all 
 my heart, and must tell you, moreover, that 1 will 
 be no longer accessary to it : I desire you, sir, to 
 frequent my house no more. 
 
 Ben. Would. How, sir ! 
 
 Bald. I say, sir, that I have an honour for my 
 good lord your father, and will not suffer his son 
 to run into any inconvenience. Sir, I shall order 
 my drawers not to serve you with a drop of wine. 
 Would you have me connive at a gentleman's 
 destruction ? 
 
 Ben. Would. But methinks, sir, that a person 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 689 
 
 of your nice coDscience should have cautioned jne 
 before. 
 
 Bald. Alas 1 sir, it was none of my business." 
 Would you have me be saucy to a gentleman that 
 was my best customer ? Lackaday, sir, had you 
 money to hold it out still, I had been hanged rather 
 than be i-ude to you. But truly, sir, when a man 
 is ruined, 'tis but the duty of a Christian to tell 
 him of it. 
 
 Ben. Would. Will you lend me the money, sir ? 
 
 Bald. Will you pay me this bill, sir ? 
 
 Ben. Would. Lend me the hundred pound, and 
 I will pay the bill. 
 
 Bald. Pay me the hill, and I will not lend the 
 hundred pound, sir. But pray consider with yourself 
 now, sir, would not you think me an arrant cox- 
 comb, to trust a person with money that has always 
 been so extravagant under my eye .' whose profuse- 
 ness I have seen, I have felt, 1 have handled.'' 
 Have not I known you, sir, throw away ten pound 
 of a night upon a covey of pit-partridges, and a 
 setting-dog .' Sir, you have made my house an ill 
 house : my very chairs will bear you no longer. In 
 short, sir, I desire you to frequent the Crown no 
 more, sir. 
 
 Ben. Would. Thou sophisticated tun of iniquity, 
 have I fattened your carcass, and swelled your bags 
 with my vital blood 1 Have I made you my com- 
 panion to be thus saucy to me? But now I will 
 keep you at your due distance. [Kicks him. 
 
 Jack. Welcome, sir I 
 
 Ben. Would. Well said. Jack. IKicks him again. 
 
 Jack. Very welcome, sir I I hope we shall have 
 your company another time. Welcome, sir ! 
 
 [Balderdash is kicked ojf. 
 
 Ben. Would. Pray wait on him down stairs, and 
 give him a welcome at the door too. — \Exii Jack.] 
 This is the punishment of hell ; the very devil that 
 tempted me to the sin, now upbraids me with the 
 crime — I havevillanouslymurderedmy fortune; and 
 now its ghost, in the lank shape of poverty, haunts 
 me : is there no charm to conjure down the fiend ? 
 
 Re-enter Jack. 
 
 Jack. O sir, here's sad news ! 
 
 Ben. Would. Then keep it to thyself, I have 
 enongh of that already. 
 
 Jack. Sir, you will hear it too seon. 
 
 Ben. Would. What ! is Broad below .' 
 
 Jack. No, no, sir ; better twenty such as he were 
 hanged. Sir, your father's dead. 
 
 Ben. Would. My father I — Good night, my 
 lord ! — Has he left me anything .' 
 
 Jack. I heard nothing of that, sir. 
 
 Ben. Would. Then I believe you heard all there 
 was of it. — Let me see. — My father dead ! and my 
 elder brother abroad I — If necessity be the mother 
 of invention, she was never more pregnant than 
 with me — [/"aases.] Here, sirrah, run to Mrs. 
 Mandrake, and bid her come hither presently. — 
 \_Ex%t Jack.] That woman was my mother's mid- 
 wife when I was born, and has been my bawd these 
 ten years. I have had her endeavours to corrupt 
 my brother's mistress ; and now her assistance will 
 be necessary to cheat him of his estate ; for she's 
 famous for understanding the right sideof awoman, 
 and the wrong side of the law. [V.xiL 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Mrs. Mandrake's 
 
 House, 
 
 Mr8. Mandrake discovered. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Who is there ? 
 
 Enter Maid. 
 
 iCaUt, 
 
 Maid. Madam ! 
 
 Mrs. Man. Has any message been left for me 
 to-day .' 
 
 Maid. Yes, madam : here has been one from my 
 lady Stillborn, that desired you not to be out of the 
 way, for she expected to cry out every minute. 
 
 Mrs. Man. How ! every minute ! — Let me sefe. 
 — ITakei out a pocket-book.'] Stillborn— ay — she 
 reckons with her husband from the first of April ; 
 and with sir James, from the first of March. — Ay, 
 she's always a month before her time. — [Knocking 
 at the door.] Go see who's at the door. 
 
 Maid. Yes, madam. [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Well, certainly there is not a woman 
 in the world so willing to oblige mankind as my- 
 self 1 and really I have been so ever since the age 
 of twelve, as I can remembert I have delivered as 
 many women of great bellies, and helped as many 
 to 'em, as any person in England ; but my watching 
 and cares have broken me quite, I am not the 
 same woman I was forty years ago. 
 
 Enter Kichmobe. 
 Oh, Mr. Richmore ! you're a sad man, a barbar- 
 ous man, so you are ! What will become of poor 
 Clelia, Mr. Richmore .' The poor creature is so 
 big with her misfortunes, that they are not to be 
 home. [ ireeps. 
 
 Rich. You, Mrs. Mandrake, are the fittest per- 
 son in the world to ease her of 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Man. And won't you marry her, Mr. 
 Richmore ? 
 
 Rich. My conscience won't allow it ; for I have 
 sworn since to marry another. 
 
 Mrs. Man. And will you break your vows to 
 Cklia .' 
 
 Rich. Why not, when she has broke hers to me ? 
 
 Mrs. Man. How's that, sir ? 
 
 Rich. Why, she swore a hundred times never to 
 srrant me the favour, and yet, you know she broke 
 her word. 
 
 Mrs. Man. But she loved, Mr. Richmore, and 
 that was the reason she forgot her oath. 
 
 Rich. And I love Mr. Richmore, and that is 
 the reason I forgot mine. Why should she be 
 angry that I follow her own example, by doing the 
 very same thing from the very same motive.' 
 
 Mrs. Man. Well, well, take my word, you'll 
 never thrive. I wonder how you can have the face 
 to come near me, that am the witness of your 
 horrid oaths and imprecations ! Are not you 
 afraid that the guilty chamber above-stairs should 
 fall down upon your head .' Yes, yes, I was acces- 
 sary,, I was so ; but if ever you involve my honour 
 in such a villany the second time — Ah, poor Clelia ! 
 I loved her as I did my own daughter you seduc- 
 ing man! [Weeps. 
 
 Rich. Heigh-ho, my Aurelia ! 
 
 Mrs. Man. Heigh-ho, she's very pretty ! 
 
 Rich. Dost thou know her, my dear Man- 
 drake ? 
 
 Mrs. Man. Hcigh-ho, she's very pretty ! A h. 
 
590 
 
 THE TWiy-RIVALS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 you're a sad man ! Poor Clelia was handsome, but 
 indeed, breeding, pukln?, and longing, lias broken 
 her much. 'Tis a hard case, Mr. Richmore, for a 
 young lady to see a thousand things, and long for 
 a thousand things, and yet not dare to own that 
 she longs for one. She had like to have miscarried 
 t'other day for the pith of aloin of veal. — Ah, you 
 barbarous man ! — 
 
 liich. But, my Aurelia ! confirm me that you 
 know her, and I'll adore thee. 
 
 Mrs. Man. You would fling five hundred 
 guineas at my head, that you knew as much of her 
 as J do : why, sir, I brought her into the world ; 
 I have had her sprawling in my lap. Ah ! she was 
 as plump as a puffin, sir. 
 
 liich. I think she has no great portion to value 
 herself upon ; her reputation only will keep up the 
 market. We must first make that cheap, by crying 
 it down, and then she'll part with it atan easy rate. 
 
 3frs. Man. But won't you provide for poor 
 Clelia ? 
 
 Bich. Provide ! why han't I taught her a trade ? 
 Let her set up when she will, I'll engage her 
 customers enough, because I can answer for the 
 goodness of the ware. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Nay, but you ought to set her up with 
 credit, and take a shop ; that is, get her a htisband. 
 Have you no pretty gentleman your relation now, 
 that wants a young virtuous lady with a handsome 
 fortune ? No young Templar that has spent his 
 estate iu the study of the law, and starves by the 
 practice .' No spruce officer that wants a handsome 
 wife to make court for him among the major- 
 generals ? Have you none of these, sir ? 
 
 Rich. Pho, pho, madam ! you have tired me 
 upon that subject. Do you think a lady that gave 
 me so much trouble before possession shall ever 
 give me any after it ? No, no ; had she been more 
 obliging to me when I was in her power, I should 
 De more civil to her now she's in mine : my assi- 
 duity beforehand was an over price ; had she 
 made a merit of the matter, she should have 
 yielded sooner. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Nay, nay, sir ; though you have no 
 regard to her honour, yet you shall protect mine. 
 How d'ye think I have secured my reputation so 
 long among the people of best figure, but by keep- 
 ing all mouths stopped.' Sir, I'll have no clamours 
 at me. Heavens help me, I have clamours enough 
 at my door early and late in ray t'other capacity ! 
 In short, sir, a husband for Clelia, or I banish you 
 my presence for ever. 
 
 Rich. Thou art a necessary devil, and I can't 
 want thee. lAside. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Look'ee, sir, 'tis your own advan- 
 tage ; 'tis only making over your estate into the 
 hands of a trustee ; and though you don't absolutely 
 command the premises, yet you may exact enough 
 out of 'em for necessaries, when you will. 
 
 Rich. Patience a little, madam ! I have a young 
 nephew that, is a captain of horse : he mortgaged 
 the last morsel of his estate to me, to make up his 
 equipage for the last campaign. Perhaps you 
 know him ; he's a brisk fellow, much about court', 
 captain Trueman. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Traeman I ads my life, he's one of 
 my babies ! I can tell you the very minute he 
 was horn — prec'isely at three a clock next St. 
 George's day "Frueman w'.U be two-and-twenty ; a 
 stripling, the prettiest, good-nature.1 child, and 
 
 your nephew ! he must be the man ; and shall be 
 the msn ; I have a kindness for him. 
 
 Rich. But we must have a care ; the fellow 
 wants neither sense nor coilrage. 
 
 Mr.?. Man. Phu, phu ! never fear her part, she 
 shan't want instructions ; and then for her lying- 
 in a little abruptly, 'tis my business to reconcile 
 matters there, a fright or a fall excuses that. Lard, 
 sir ! I do these things every day. 
 
 Rich. 'Tis pity then to put you out of your 
 road ; and Clelia shall have a husband. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Rpoke like a man of honour ! and 
 now I'll serve you again. This Aurelia, you 
 sav — 
 
 Rich. Oh, she distracts me ! Her beauty, 
 family, and virtue, make her a noble pleasure. 
 
 Mrs. Man. And you have a mind for that 
 reason to get her a husband ? ' 
 
 Rich. Yes, faith ; I have another young relation 
 at Cambridge is just going into orders ; and I 
 think such a fine woman, with fifteen hundred 
 pound, is a better presentation than any living in 
 my gift : and why should he like the cure the worse 
 that an incumbent was there before ? 
 
 Mrs. Man. Thou art a pretty fellow ! At the 
 same moment you would persuade me that you 
 love a woman to madness, are you contriving how 
 to part with her. 
 
 Rich. If 1 loved her not to madness I should 
 not run into these contradictions. Here, my dear 
 mother, Aurelia's the word. lOffers her money. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Pardon me, sir ! — [Refusing the 
 money."] Did you ever know me mercenary ? No, 
 no, sir ; virtue is its own reward. 
 
 Rich. Nay, but, madem, I owe you for the teeth 
 powder you sent me. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Oh, that's another matter, sir! — 
 [ Takes the money. '\ I hope you like it, sir ? 
 
 Rich. Extremely, madam. — [Aside.^ But it was 
 somewhat dear of twenty guineas. 
 
 Entsr Footman. 
 
 Foot. Madam, here is Mr. Wouldbe's footman 
 below with a message from his master. 
 
 Mrs. Man. I come to him presently. — [Exit 
 Footman.] Do you know that Wouldbe loves 
 Aurelia's cousin and companion, Mrs. Constance 
 with the great fortune, and that I solicit for him ? 
 
 Rich. Why, she's engaged to his elder brother ! 
 besides, young Wouldbe has no money to prosecute 
 an affair of such consequence. You can have no 
 hopes of success there, I'm sure. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Truly, I have no great hopes ; but 
 an industrious body, you know, would do anything 
 rather than be idle : the aunt is very near her time, 
 and I have access to the family when I please. 
 
 Rich. Now I think on't ; prithee, get the letter 
 from Wouldbe that I gave him just now. It would 
 be proper to our designs upon Trueman that it 
 should not be Exposed. 
 
 Mrs. Man. And you showed Clelia's letter to 
 Wouldbe ? 
 
 Rich. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Eh, you barbarous man ! Who the 
 devil would oblige you ? What pleasure can you 
 take in exposing the poor creature .' Dear little 
 child, 'tis pity, indeed it is! 
 
 Rich. Madam the messenger waits below ; so 
 I'll take my leave. C^*;'- 
 
 Mrs. Ma}!,. Ah, you're a sad man ! {.Suit 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 591 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I The Parle. 
 
 Constance and Aurelta discovered. 
 
 Aur. Prithee, gousin Constance, be cheerful ; let 
 the dead lord sleep in peace, and look up to the 
 living ; take pen, ink, and paper, and write imme- 
 diately to your lover, that he is now a baron of 
 England, and that you long to be a baroness. 
 
 Con. Nay, Aurelia, there is some regard due to 
 the memory of the father for the respect I bear the 
 son ; besides I don't know how, I could wish my 
 young lord were at home in this juncture. This 
 brother ofhis — some mischief will happen — I hada 
 very ugly dream last night. In short, I am eaten up 
 with the spleen, my dear. 
 
 Aur. Come, come, walk about and divert it; the 
 air will do you good ; think of other people's affairs 
 a little. When did you see Clelia ? 
 
 Con. I'm glad you mentioned her ; don't you 
 observe her gaiety to be much more forced than 
 formerly ? her humour don't sit so easy upon her. 
 
 Aur. No, nor her stays neither, I can assure you. 
 
 Con. Did you observe how she devoured the 
 pomegranates yesterday .' 
 
 Aur. She talks of visiting a relation in Leices- 
 tershire. 
 
 Con. She fainted av^ay in the country dance 
 t'other night. 
 
 Aur. Richmore shunned her in the Walk last 
 week. 
 
 Con. And his footman laughed. 
 
 Aur. She takes laudanum to make her sleep a 
 nights. 
 
 Con. Ah, poor Clelia ! What will she do, cousin ? 
 
 Aur. Do ! why nothing till the nine months 
 be up. 
 
 Con. That's cruel, Aurelia, how can you make 
 merry with her misfortunes ? I am positive she 
 was no easy conquest ; some singular villany has 
 been practised upon her. 
 
 Aur. Yes, yes, thp fellow would be practising 
 upon me too, I thank him. 
 
 Con. Have a care, cousin, he has a promising 
 person. 
 
 Aur. Nay, for that matter, his promising person 
 may as soon be broke as his promising vows. 
 Nature indeed has made him a giant, and he wars 
 with heaven like the giants of old. 
 
 Con. Then why will you admit his visits ? 
 
 Aur. I never did : but all the servants are more 
 his than our own. He has a golden key to every 
 door in the house ; besides, he makes my uncle 
 believe that his intentions are honourable ; and, 
 indeed, he has said nothing yet to disprove it. 
 But, cousin, do you see who comes yonder, sliding 
 along the Mall .' 
 
 Con. Captain Trueman, I protest ! the cam- 
 paign has improved him, he makes a very clean, 
 well-furnished figure. 
 
 Aur. Youthful, easy, and good-natured. I could 
 wish he would know us. 
 
 Con. Are you sure he's well-bred ? 
 
 Aur. I tell you he's good-natured, and I take 
 good manners to be nothing but a natural desire 
 to be easy and agreeable to whatever conversation 
 
 we fall into ; and a porter with this is mannerly in 
 his way ; and a duke without it, has but the breed- 
 ing of a dancing-master. 
 
 Con. I like him for his affection to my young lord. 
 
 Aur. And I like him for his affection to my 
 young person. 
 
 Con. How, how, cousin, you never told me that. 
 
 Aur. How should I .■' He never told it me, but 
 I have discovered it by a great many signs and 
 tokens, that are better security for his heart than 
 ten thousand vows and promises. 
 
 Con. He's Richmore's nephew. 
 
 Aur. Ah, would he were his heir too ! He's a 
 pretty fellow. But, then, he's a soldier ; and must 
 share his time with his mistress, honour, in Flan- 
 ders, No, no, I'm resolved against a man that 
 disappears all the summer like a woodcock. 
 
 Enter Captain Trueman behind them, as passing over (he 
 stage. 
 
 True. That's for me whoever spoke it. — l_The 
 Ladies turn about.'} Aurelia ! 
 
 Con. What, captain, you're afraid of everything 
 but the enemy ! 
 
 True. I have reason, ladies, to be most appre- 
 hensive where there is most danger. The enemy 
 is satisfied with a leg or an arm, but here I'm in 
 hazard of losing my heart. 
 
 Aur. None in the world, sir, nobody here de- 
 signs to attack it. 
 
 True. But suppose it be assaulted, and taken 
 already, naadam ? 
 
 Aur. Then we'll return it without ransom. 
 
 True. But suppose, madam, the prisoner choose 
 to stay where it is .'' 
 
 Aur. That were to turn deserter, and you know, 
 captain, what such deserve. 
 
 True. The punishment it undergoes this moment 
 — shot to death. 
 
 Con, Nay, then, 'tis time for me to put in. — 
 Pray, sir, have you heard the news of mv lord 
 Wouldbe's death ? 
 
 True. [To Constance.] People mind not the 
 death of others, madam, that are expiring them- 
 selves. — [To Aurelia.] Do you consider, madam, 
 the penalty of wounding a man in the Park ? 
 
 Aur. Heyday ! Why, captain, d'ye intend to 
 make a Vigo business of it, and break the boom at 
 once } Sir, if you only rally, pray let my cousin 
 have her share ; or, if you would be particular, 
 pray be more respectful ; not so much upon the 
 declaration, I beseech you, sir. 
 
 True, 1 have been, fair creature, a perfect 
 coward in my passion ; I have had hard strugglings 
 with my fear before 1 durst engage, and now per- 
 haps behave but too desperately. 
 
 Aur. Sir, I am very sorry you have said so 
 much ; for I must punish you for't, though it be 
 contrary to my inclination. — Come, cousin, will 
 you walk .' 
 
 Con, Servant, sir ! {^Exit tvith Aurelta. 
 
 True. Charming creature ! — 7 must punish you 
 for't, though it be contrary to my inclination. — 
 Hope and despair in a breath. But I'll think the 
 best. [Exit. 
 
592 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 SCENE II. — Benjamin Wouldbe's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Bbnjahin Wouldbe and Mrs. Mandrake 
 meeting. 
 
 Ben. Would. Thou life and soul of secret deal- 
 ings, welcome ! 
 
 Mrs. Man. My dear child, bless thee ! — ^Who 
 would have imagined that I brought this great 
 rogue into the world? He makes me an old 
 woman, I protest. — But, adso, my child, I forgot ; 
 I'm sorry for the loss of your father, sorry at ray 
 heart, poor man ! — [Weeps.'\ Mr. Wduldbe, have 
 you got a drop of brandy in your closet ? 1 an't 
 very well to-day. 
 
 Ben. IVould. That you shan't want; but be 
 pleased to sit, my dear mother. — Here, Jack, the 
 
 ijrapdy-bottle [taWs to Servant.] Now, madam, 
 
 I have occasion to use you in dressing up a hand- 
 some cheat for me. 
 
 Mrs. Man. I defy any chambermaid in England 
 to do it better. I have dressed up a hundred and 
 fifty cheats in my time. 
 
 Enter Jack with the brandy-bottle. 
 Here, boy, this glass is too big; carry it away, I'll 
 take a sup out of the bottle. lExU Jack. 
 
 Ben. Would. Right, madam. And my business 
 being very urgent— ^in three words, 'tis this — 
 
 Mrs. Man. Hold, sir, till I take advice of my 
 counsel. — [Drinks.'] There is nothing more com- 
 fortable to a poor creature, and fitter to revive 
 wasting spirits, than a little plain brandy. I an't 
 for your hot spirits, your rosa solis, your ratafias, 
 your orange^waters, and the like : a moderate glass 
 of cool Nantes is the thing. 
 
 Ben. Would. But to our business, madam. — My 
 father is dead, and I have a mind to inherit his 
 estate. 
 
 Mrs. Man. You put the case very well. 
 
 Ben. Would. One of two things I must choose 
 — either to be a lord or a beggar. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Be a lord to choose : — though I 
 have known some that have chosen both. 
 
 Ben, Would. I have a brother that I love very 
 well ; but, since one of us must want, I had rather 
 he should starve than I. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Upon my conscience, dear heart, 
 you're in the right on't. 
 
 Ben. Would. Now your advice upon these heads. 
 
 Mrs. Man. They be matters of weight, and I 
 must consider. — [Drinks.'] Is there a will in the 
 case ? 
 
 Ben. Would. There is ; which excludes me from 
 everv foot of the estate. 
 
 Mrs. Man. That's bad. — ^^\'here's your brother? 
 
 Ben. Would. He's now in Germany, in his way 
 to England, and is expected very soon. 
 
 Mrs. Man. How soon .' 
 
 Ben. Would. In a month or less. 
 
 Mrs. Man. O ho ! a month is a great while ! 
 our business must be done in an hour or two. We 
 must — [Drinlcs'\ suppose your brother to be dead ; 
 nay, he shall be actually dead — and, my lord, my 
 humble service t'ye 1 
 
 Ben. Would. O madam, I'm your ladyship's 
 most devotedl Make your words good, and I'll — 
 
 Mrs. Man. Say no more, sir ; you shall have 
 it, vou shall have it. 
 
 Ben. Would. Ay, but how, (Jear Mrs. Man- 
 drake ? 
 
 Mrs. Man. Mrs. Mandrake I is that all ? Why 
 not mother, aunt, grandmother ? Sir, I have done 
 more for you this moment than all the relations 
 you have in the world. 
 
 Ben. Would. Let me hear it. 
 
 Mrs. Man, , By the strength of this potent 
 inspiration, I have made you a peer of England, 
 with seven thousand pound a year. — My lord, I 
 wish you joy. [Drinkt. 
 
 Sen. Would. The woman's mad, I believe ! 
 
 Mrs. Man. Quick, quick, my lord ! Counter- 
 feit a letter presently from Germany, that your 
 brother is killed in a duel ; let it be directed to 
 your father, and fall into the hands of the steward 
 when yon are by. — What sort of fellow is the 
 steward .^■ 
 
 Ben. Would. Why, a timorous, half-honest 
 man, that a little persuasion will make a whole 
 knave. Ha wants courage to be throughly just or 
 entirely a villain ; but good backing will make him 
 either. 
 
 Mrs. Man. And he shan't want that ! I tell 
 you the letter must come into his hands when you 
 are by ; upop this you take immediate possession, 
 and so you have the best part of the law of your 
 side. 
 
 Ben. Would. But suppose my brother comes in 
 the mean time .' 
 
 Mrs. Man. This must be done this very mo- 
 ment. Let him come when you're in possession, 
 I'll warrant we'll find a way to keep him out. 
 
 Ben. Would. But, how, my dear contriver ? 
 
 Mrs. Man. By your father's will, man, your 
 father's will ; — that is, one that your father might 
 have made, and which we will make for him. I'll 
 send you a nephew of my own, a lawyer, that shall 
 do the business. Go, get into possession, pos- 
 session, I say ; let us have but the estate to back 
 the suit, and you'll find the law too strong for 
 justice, I warrant you, 
 
 Ben. Would. My oracle ! How shall we revel 
 in- delight when this great prediction is accom- 
 plished ! — But one thing yet remains, my brother's 
 mistress, the charming Constance — let her be mine. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Pho ! pho ! she's yours o' course ; 
 she's contracted to you ; for she's engaged to 
 marry no man but my lord' Wouldbe's son and 
 heir ; now, you being the person, she's recoverable 
 by law. 
 
 Ben. Would. Marry herl no, no, she's con- 
 tracted to him ; 'twere injustice to rob a brother 
 of his wife, an easier favour will satisfy me. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Why, truly, as you say, that favour 
 is so easy that I wonder they make such a bustle 
 about it. But get you gone and mind your affairs, 
 I must about mine. — Oh — I had forgot — where's 
 that foolish letter you had this morning from 
 Richmore ? 
 
 Ben. Would. I have posted it up in the Choco- 
 late-house. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Yaw '.— [Shrieks.] I shall fall into 
 fits ; hold me — 
 
 Ben. Would. No, no, I did but jest ; here it is. 
 But be assured, madam, I wanted only time to have 
 exposed it. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Ah, you barbarous man .' why so y 
 
 Ben. Would. Because, when knaves of our sex, 
 and fools of yours meet, they make the best jest in 
 the world. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Sir. the world has a better aLaie ia 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 IHti TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 fi03 
 
 the jest when we are the knaves and you the fools. 
 But look'ee, sir, if ever you open your mouth about 
 this trick, I'll discover all your tricks; therefore, 
 silence and safety on both sides, 
 
 Ben. Would. Madam, you need not doubt my 
 silence at present ; because my own affairs will 
 employ me sufficiently ; so there's your letter. 
 — IGives the letter.] And now to write my 
 own. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Adiea, my lord ! — [Exit Wouldbe.] 
 Let me see. — [Opens the letter and reads.] If 
 there be solemnity in protestations — that's foolish, 
 very foolish ! Why should she expect solemnity 
 in protestations ? — Um, um, um. — / may still de- 
 pend upon the faith of my liichmore Ah, poor 
 
 Clelia ! — Um, um, um. — I can no longer hide the 
 effects on't from the world. — The effects on't ! 
 How modestly is that expressed ! Well, 'tis a 
 pretty letter, and I'll keep it. IBxit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 -A Room in Lord Wouldbe's 
 House. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Clbar&ccount discovered. 
 
 Mrs. Clear. You are to blame, you are much to 
 ilame, husband, in being so scrupulous. 
 
 Clear. 'Tis true ; this foolish conscience of 
 mine has been the greatest bar to my fortune. 
 
 Mrs. Clear. And will ever be so. Tell me but 
 one that thrives, and I'll show you a hundred that 
 starve by it. Do you think 'tis fourscore pound 
 a year makes my lord Gouty's steward's wife live 
 at the rate of four hundred ? Upon my word, my 
 dear, I'm as good a gentlewoman as she, and I ex- 
 pect to be maintained accordingly. 'Tis conscience 
 I warrant that buys her the point-heads and dia- 
 mond necklace? Was it conscience that bought 
 her the fine house in Jermyn-street.'' Is it conscience 
 that enables the steward to buy when the lord is 
 forced to sell ? 
 
 Clear. But what would you have me do ? 
 
 Mrs. Clear. Do ! now's your time ; that small 
 morsel of an estate your lord bought lately, a 
 thing not worth mentioning j take it towards your 
 daughter Molly's portion. What's two hundred 
 a year ? 'twill never be missed. 
 
 Clear. 'Tis but a small matter, I must confess ; 
 and as a reward for my past faithful service, I think 
 it but reasonable I should cheat a little now. 
 
 Mrs. Clear. Reasonable ! all the reason that 
 can be ; if the ungrateful world won't reward an 
 honest man, why let an honest man reward himself. 
 There's five hundred pounds you received but two 
 days ago, lay them aside. Yon may easily sink it 
 in the charge of the funeral. Do my dear now, 
 kiss me, and do it. 
 
 Clear. Well, you have such a winning way with 
 you ! But, my dear, I'm so much afraid of my 
 young lord's coming home ; he's a cunning close 
 man, they say, and will examine my accounts very 
 narrowly. 
 
 Mrs. Clear. Ay, my dear, would you had the 
 younger brother to deal with ! you might manage 
 him as you pleased. I see him coming. Let us 
 weep, let us weep. 
 
 [Tftey pull out their handkerchiefs, and seem to mourn. 
 
 Enter Behmmin Wouldbe. 
 
 Clear. Ah, sir ! we have all lost a father, a 
 friend, and a supporter. 
 
 Ben. Would: Ay, Mr. Steward, we must submit 
 to fate, as he has done. And it is no small addition 
 to my grief, honest Mr. Clearaccount, that it is not 
 in my power to supply my father's place to you 
 and yours. Your sincerity and justice to the dead 
 merits the greatest regard from those that survive 
 him. Had I but my brother's ability, or he my 
 inclinations, I'll assure you, Mrs. Clearaccount, 
 you should not have such cause to mourn. 
 
 Mrs. Clear. Ah, good noble sir ! 
 
 Clear. Your brother, sir, I hear, is a very severe 
 man. 
 
 Ben. Would. He is what the world calls a pru- 
 dent man, Mr. Steward. I have often heard him 
 very severe upon men of your business ; and has 
 declared, that for form's sake indeed he would keep 
 a steward, but that he would inspect into all his 
 accounts himself. 
 
 Mrs. Clear. Ay, Mr. Wouldbe, you have more 
 sense than to do these things ; you have naore 
 honour than to trouble your head with your own 
 affairs. Would to Heavens we were to serve you ! 
 
 Ben. Would. Would I could serve you, madam, 
 without injustice to my brother. 
 
 Enter Footman. 
 
 Foot. A letter for my lord Wouldbe. 
 
 Clear. It comes too late, alas ! for his perusal. 
 Let me see it. [Opens arid reads, 
 
 Frankfort, Octoh. 10, new style. 
 Frankfort ! where's Frankfort, sir .' 
 
 Ben. Would. In Germany. This letter must be 
 from my brother ; I suppose he's a-coming home. 
 
 Clear. 'Tis none of his hand. Let me see. 
 
 [Reads. 
 My Lord, 
 
 I am troubled at this unhappy occasion of send- 
 ing to your lordship ; your brave son, and my dear 
 friend, was yesterday unfortunately killed in a 
 duel by a German count — 
 
 I shall love a German count as long as I live. — My 
 lord, my lord, now I may call you so, since your 
 elder brother's — dead. 
 
 Sen. Would., Mrs. Clear. How.' 
 
 Clear. Read there. 
 
 IGives the letter, Wouldbe perusen it. 
 
 Ben. Would. Oh, my fate! a father and a 
 brother in one day ! Heavens ! 'tis too much. — 
 Where is the fatal messenger .' 
 
 Foot. A gentleman, sir, who said he came post 
 on purpose. He was afraid the contents of the 
 letter would unqualify my lord for company ; so 
 he would take another time to wait on him. [Exit. 
 
 Ben. Would. Nay, then 'tis true ; and there is 
 truth in dreams. Last night I dreamed — 
 
 Mrs. Clear. Nay, my lord, I dreamed too ; I 
 dreamed I saw your brother dressed in a long 
 minister's gown (Lord bless us !), with a book in 
 his hand, walking before a dead body to the 
 grave. 
 
 Ben. Would. Well, Mr. Clearaccount, get 
 mourning ready. 
 
 Clear. Will your lordship have the old coach 
 covered, or a new one made ? 
 
 Ben. Would. A new one. The old coach, with 
 the grey horses, I give to Mrs. Clearaccount here ; 
 'tis not fit she should walk the streets. 
 
594 
 
 THJE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 Mrs. Clear. [Aside.'] Heavens bless the Ger- 
 man count, I say! — {Aloud.] But, my lord — 
 
 Ben. Would. No reply,madatn, you shall have it: 
 and receive it but as the earnest of my favours. — 
 Mr. Clearaccount, I double your salary, and all the 
 servants' vfages, to moderate their grief for our great 
 losses. Pray, sir, take order about these affairs. 
 
 Clear. I shall, my lord. 
 
 {_Bxit with Mrs. CLEARACCOt/NT. 
 
 Ben* Would. So ! 1 have got possession of the 
 castle, and if I had but a little laiv to fortify me 
 now, I believe we might hold it out a great while. 
 Oh ! here comes my attorney. 
 
 Enter Subtleman. 
 Mr. Subtleman, your servant. 
 
 Suh. My lord, I wish you joy j my aunt Man- 
 drake has sent me to receive your commands. 
 
 Ben. Would. Has she told you anything of the 
 affair ? 
 
 Sub. Not a word, my lord. 
 Ben. Would. Why then — come nearer. — Can 
 you make a man right heir to an estate during the 
 life of an elder brother ? 
 
 Sub. I thought you had been the eldest. 
 Ben. Would. That we are not yet agreed upon ; 
 for you must know, there is an impertinent fellow 
 that takes a fancy to dispute the seniority with me; 
 for, look'ee, sir, my mother has unluckily sowed 
 discord in the family, by bringing forth twins. My 
 brother, 'tis true, was first-born ; but, I believe from 
 the bottom of my heart, I was the iirst-begotten. 
 
 Sub. \ understand — you are come to an estate 
 and dignity, that by justice indeed is your own, but 
 by law it falls to your brother. 
 
 Ben. Would. I had rather, Mr. Subtleman, it 
 were his by justice and mine by law ; for I would 
 have the strongest title, if possible. 
 
 Suh. 1 am very sorry there should happen any 
 breach between brethren : so I think it would be 
 but a christian and charitable act to take away all 
 farther disputes, by making you true heir to the 
 estate by the last will of your father. Look'ee, 
 I'll divide stakes ; you shall yield the eldership and 
 honour to him, and he shall quit his estate to you. 
 Ben. Would. Why, as you say, I don't much 
 care if I do grant him the eldest, half an hour is 
 ■ but a trifle. But how shall we do about this will ? 
 who shall we get to prove it ? 
 
 Sub. Never trouble yourself for that, I expect a 
 cargo of witnesses and usquebaugh by the first fair 
 wind. 
 
 Ben. Would. But we can't stay for them ; it 
 must be done immediately. 
 
 Sub. Well, well ; we'll find somebody, I warrant 
 you, to make oath of his last words. 
 
 Ben. Would. That's impossible ; for my father 
 died of an apoplexy, and did not speak at all. 
 
 Sub. That's nothing, sir : he's not the first dead 
 man that I have made to speak. 
 
 Ben. Would. You're a great master of speech, 
 I don't question, sir; and I can assure you there 
 will be ten guineas for every word you extort from 
 him in my favour. 
 
 Sub. O sir, that's enough to make your great- 
 grandfather speak. 
 
 Ben. Would. Come then, I'll carry you to 
 my steward ; he shall give you the names of the 
 manors, and the true titles and denominations of 
 the estate, and then you shall go to work. lExmnt. 
 
 SCENE W.—The Parle. 
 
 Enter Richmohb and Captain TauE.wAN, meeting. 
 Rich. O brave cuz ! you're very happy with the 
 fair, I find. Pray which of those two ladies you 
 encountered just now has your adoration } 
 
 True. She that commands by forbidding it : 
 and since I had courage to declare to herself, I 
 dare now own it to the world : Aurelia, sir, is my 
 angel. 
 
 Rich. Ha! — [A long pause."] Sir, I find 
 you're of everybody's religion ; but methinks you 
 make a bold flight at first. Do you think your 
 captain's pay will stake against so high a 
 gamester ? 
 
 True. What do you mean ? 
 Rich. Mean ! bless me, sir, mean ! — You're a 
 man of mighty honour, we all know. — But I'll 
 tell you a secret — the thing is public already. 
 
 True. 1 should be proud that all mankind were 
 acquainted with it ; I should despise the passion 
 that could make me either ashamed or afraid to 
 own it. 
 
 Rich. Ha ! ha ! ha . prithee, dear captain, no 
 more of these rhodomontados ; you may as soon 
 put a standing-army upon us. I'll tell you 
 another secret — five hundred pound is the least 
 penny. 
 
 True. Nay, to my knowledge, she has fifteen 
 hundred. 
 
 Rich. Nay, to my knowledge, she took five. 
 True. Took five ! how ? where ? 
 Rich. In her lap, in her lap, captain, where 
 should it be ? 
 
 True. I'm amazed ! 
 
 Rich. So am I ; that she could be so unreason- 
 able. — Fifteen hundred pound ! 'sdeath ! had she 
 that price from you ? 
 
 True. 'Sdeath I I meant her portion. 
 Rich. Why, what have you to do with her 
 portion ? 
 
 True. I loved her up to marriage, by this light 
 Rich. Marriage ! ha ! ha ! ha ! I love the gipsy 
 for her cunning. A young, easy, amorous, credu- 
 lous fellow of two-and-twenty, was just the game 
 she wanted ; I find she presently singled you out 
 from the herd. 
 
 7\ue. You distract me ! 
 
 Rich. A soldier too, that must follow the wars 
 abroad, and leave her to engagements at home. 
 True. Death and furies ! I'll be revenged ! 
 Rich. Why, what can you do ? You'll chal- 
 lenge her, will you ? 
 
 True. Her reputation was spotless when I went 
 over. 
 
 Rich. So was the reputation of mareschal Bouf- 
 flers ; but d'ye think, that while you were beating 
 the French abroad, that we were idle at home? 
 No, no, we have had our sieges, our capitulations, 
 and surrendries, and all that. We have cut our- 
 selves out good winter quarters as well as you. 
 True. And are you billeted there ? 
 Rich. Look'ee, Trueman, you ought to be very 
 trusty to a secret, that has saved you from destruc- 
 tion. In plain terms, I have buried five hundred 
 pounds in that little spot, and I should think it 
 very hard if you took it over my head. 
 
 True. Not by a lease for life, I can assure you 
 but I shall — 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 69S 
 
 Rich. What ! you han't five hundred pounds to 
 give ? Look'ee, since you can malce no sport, 'spoil 
 none. In a year or two, she dwindles to a perfect 
 basset-bank ; everybody may play at it that 
 pleases, and then you may put in for a piece or 
 two. 
 , True. Dear sir, I could worship you for this. 
 
 Rich. Not for this, nephew ; for I did not intend 
 it, but I came to seek you upon another affair. 
 Were not you in the presence last night ? 
 
 True. I was. 
 
 Rich, Did not you talk to Clelia, my lady 
 Taper's niece ? 
 
 True. A fine woman. 
 
 Rich. Well, I met her upon the stairs, and 
 handing her to her coach, she asked me if you 
 were not my nephew ; and said two or three warm 
 things, that persuade me she likes you. Her 
 relations have interest at court, and she has money 
 in her poctet. 
 
 True. But — this devil Aurelia still sticks vrith 
 me. 
 
 Rich. What then ! the way to love in one place 
 with success, is to marry in another with conveni- 
 ence. Clelia has four thousand pound ; this ap- 
 plied to your reigning ambition, whether love or 
 advancement, will go a great way : and for her 
 virtue and cdiiduct, be assured, that nobody can 
 give a better account of it than myself. 
 
 True. I am willing to believe from this late 
 accident, that you consult my honour and interest 
 in what you propose, and therefore I am satisfied 
 to be governed. 
 
 Rich. I see the very lady in the walk. — We'll 
 about it. 
 
 True. I wait on you. IBxeunt. 
 
 SCENE v.— A Room in Lord Wouldbe's 
 House. 
 
 Benjamtn Wouldbe, Sustlbman, and Ci^earaccount, 
 discovered. 
 
 Ben. Would. Well, Mr. Subtleman, you are 
 sure the will is firm and good in law .•' 
 
 Sub. I warrant you, my lord : and for the last 
 words to prove it, here they are — look'ee, Mr. 
 Clearaccount — Yes — that is an answer to the ques- 
 tion that was put to him (you know) by those 
 about him when he was a-dying — yes, or no, he 
 must have said ; so we have chosen yes — Yes, I 
 have made my will, as ii may be found in the 
 custody of Mr. Clearaccount my steward ; and I 
 desire it may stand as my last will and testament. 
 — Did you ever hear a dying man's words more to 
 the purpose 1 An apoplexy 1 I tell you, my lord 
 had intervals to the last. 
 
 Clear. Ay, but how shall these words be 
 proved ? 
 
 Sub. My lord shall speak *em now. 
 
 Ben. Would. Shall he, faith 1 
 
 Sub. Ay, now — if the corpse ben't buried. 
 Look'ee, sir, these words must be put into his 
 mouth, and drawn out again before us all ; and if 
 they won't be his last words then — I'll be per- 
 jured. 
 
 Ben. Would. What ! violate the dead ! it must 
 not be, Mr. Subtleman. 
 
 Sub. With all my heart, sir! But I think 
 you had better violate the dead of a tooth or so, 
 
 than violate the living of seven thousand pound 
 a year. 
 
 Sen. Would. But is there no other way .' 
 
 Sab. No, sir. Why, d'ye think Mr. Clear- 
 account here will hazard soul and body to swear 
 they are his last words, unless they be made his 
 last words .' For my part, sir, I'll swear to 
 nothing but what I see with my eyes come out of 
 a man's mouth. 
 
 Ben. Would. But it looks so unnatural. 
 
 Sub. What, to open a man's mouth, and put in 
 a bit of paper ! — this is all. 
 
 Ben. Would. But the body is cold, and his 
 teeth can't be got asunder. 
 
 Sub. But what occasion has your father for teeth 
 now ? I tell you what, I knew a gentleman, three 
 days buried, taken out of his grave, and his dead 
 hand set to his last will, (unless somebody made 
 him sign another afterwards,) and I know the 
 estate to be held by that tenure to this day ; and 
 a firm tenure it is ; for a dead hand holds fastest ; 
 and let me tell you, dead teeth will fasten as hard. 
 
 Ben. Would. Well, well, use your pleasure, you 
 understand the law best. — \^Exeunt Subtleman 
 and Clearaccount.] What a mighty confusion 
 is brought into families by sudden death ! Men 
 should do well to settle their affairs in time. Had 
 my father done this before he was taken ill, what 
 a trouble had he saved us ! But he was taken 
 suddenly, poor man I 
 
 lie-enter Subtleman. 
 
 Sub. Your father still bears you the old grudge 
 I find. It was with much struggling he con- 
 sented ; I never knew a man so loath to speak in 
 my life. . 
 
 Ben. Would. He was always a man of few 
 words. 
 
 Sub. Now I may safely bear witness myself, as 
 the scrivener there present : I love to do things 
 with a clear conscience. iSubscril/es. 
 
 Ben. Would. But the lawrequires three witnesses. 
 
 Sub. Oh I I shall pick up a couple more, that 
 perhaps may take my word for't. But is not Mr. 
 Clearaccount in your interest ? 
 
 Ben. Would. I hope so. 
 
 Sub. Then he shall be one; a witness in the 
 family goes a great way; besides, these foreign 
 evidences are risen confoundedly since the wars. 
 I hope, if mine escape the privateers, to make a 
 hundred pound an ear of every head of 'em. But 
 the steward is an honest man, and shall save you 
 the charges. lExit. 
 
 Ben. Would. The pride of birth, the heats of 
 appetite, and fears of want, are strong temptations 
 to injustice. — But why injustice .' — The world 
 has broke all civilities with me, and left me in 
 the eldest state of nature, wild, where force, or 
 cunning first created right. I caflnot say I ever 
 knew a father ; 'tis true, I was begotten in his 
 lifetime, but I was posthumous born, and lived not 
 till he died. My hours indeed I numbered, but 
 
 ne'er enjoyed 'em till this moment My brother ! 
 
 what is brother? we are all so ; and the first two 
 were enemies. He stands before me in the road 
 of life to rob me of my pleasures. My senses, 
 formed by nature for delight, are all alarmed. My 
 sight, my hearing, taste and touch, call loudly on 
 me for their objects, and they shall be satisfied. 
 
 Q Q 2 C-^^''- 
 
506 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Lord Wouldbe's House. 
 
 Benjamin Wouidbb is discovered dressinfft Frisdre 
 attending. Clearaccount, Comic, and a levee 0/ Gentle- 
 men, in waiting. 
 
 Sen. Would, [^sirfe.] Surely, the greatest oma- 
 rnent of quality is a clean and a numerous levee 1 
 Such a crowd of attendance for the cheap reward 
 of words and promises, distinguishes the nobility 
 from those that pay wages to their servants. — [Krst 
 Gentleman whispers.'] Sir, I shall speak to the 
 commissioners, and use all my interest, 1 can assure 
 you, sir. — [Second Gentleman whispers.] Sir, I 
 shall meet some of your board this evening ; let me 
 see you to-morrow. — [Third Gentleman whispers.] 
 Sir, I'll consider of it. — lAside.] That fellow's 
 breath stinks of tobacco. — O Mr. Comic, your 
 servant ! 
 
 Com. My lord, I wish you joy ; 1 have some- 
 thing to show your lordship. 
 
 Ben. JVould. What is it, pray, sir ? 
 
 Com. I have an elegy upon the dead lord, and a 
 panegyric upon the living one. — In utrumque pa- 
 raius, my lord. 
 
 Ben. Would, Ha ! ha ! very pretty, Mr. Comic. 
 But pray, Mr. Comic, why don't you write plays ? 
 it would give one an opportunity of serving you. 
 
 Com. My lord, I have writ one. 
 
 Ben, Would. Was it ever acted ? 
 
 Com. No, my lord ; but it has been a-rehearsing 
 these three years and a half. 
 
 Ben. Would. A long time. There must be a 
 great deal of business in it surely. 
 
 Com, No, my lord, none at all. I have another 
 play just finished, but that I want a plot for't. 
 
 Be7i. Would. A plot 1 you should read the 
 Italian and Spanish plays, Mr. Comic. I like your 
 verses here mightily Here, Mr. Clearaccount ! 
 
 Com. Now for five guineas at least. iAside. 
 
 Ben. Would. Here, give Mr. Comic, give him 
 — give him the Spanish play that lies in the closet 
 vrindow. — [To a Gentleman.] Captain, can I do 
 you any service ? 
 
 Fourth Gent. Pray, my lord, use your interest 
 with the general for that vacant commission : I 
 hope, my lord, the blood I have already lost, may 
 entitle me to spill the remainder in my country's 
 cause. 
 
 Ben. Would. All the reason in the world. — 
 Captain, you may depend upon me for all the ser- 
 vice I can. 
 
 Fifth Gent. I hope your lordship won't forget 
 to speak to the general about that vacant com- 
 mission. Although I have never made a campaign, 
 yet, my lord, my interest in the country can raise 
 me men, which, I think, should prefer me to that 
 gentleman, whose bloody disposition frightens the 
 poor people from listing. 
 
 Ben. Would. All the reason in the world, sir ; 
 you may depend upon me for all the service in my 
 power. — Captain, I'll do your business for you. — 
 Sir, I'll speak to the general ; 1 shall see him at the 
 bouse. 
 
 Enter Alderman. 
 Oh, Mr. Alderman, your servant ! — Gentlemen all, 
 I beg your pardon! — [Exeunt Levee.] Mr. Alder- 
 man, have you any service to command me .'' 
 
 Aid. Your lordship's humble servant ! — I have 
 a favour to beg. You must know, I have a grace- 
 less son, a fellow that drinks and swears eternally, 
 keeps a whore in every corner of the town : in 
 short, he's fit for no kind of thing but a soldier. I 
 am so tired of him that I intend to throw him 
 into the army, let the fellow be ruined, if he will. 
 
 Ben. Would. I <;ommend your paternal care, 
 sir I Can I do you any service in this affair .' 
 
 Aid. Yes, my lord : there is a vacant company 
 in colonel Whatd'yecalum's regiment, and if your 
 lordship would hut speak to the general — 
 
 Ben, Would. Has your son ever served ? 
 
 Aid. Served! yes, my lord, he's an ensign in the 
 trainbands. 
 
 Ben. Would. Has he ever signalised his courage ? 
 
 Aid, Often, often, my lord ; but' one day par- 
 ticularly, you must know, his captain was so busy 
 shipping of a cargo of cheeses, that he left my son 
 to command in his place — would you believe it, my 
 lord } he charged up Cheapside, in the front of the 
 buff-coats with such bravery and courage, that I 
 could not forbear wishing, in the loyalty of my 
 heart, for ten thousand such officers upon the Rhine. 
 Ah ! my lord, we must employ such fellows as him, 
 or we shall neVer humble the French king. — Now, 
 my lord, if you could find a convenient time to hint 
 these things to the general — 
 
 Ben. Would, All the reason in the world, Mr. 
 Alderman — I'll do you all the service I can. 
 
 Aid, You may tell him ; he's a man of courage, 
 fit for the service ; and then he loves hardship — he 
 sleeps every other night in the round-house. 
 
 Ben. Would, I'll do you all the service I can. 
 
 Aid, Then, my lord, he salutes with his pike so 
 very handsomely, it went to his mistress's heart, 
 t'other day. — Then he beats a drum like an angel. 
 
 Ben, Would. Sir, I'll do you all the service I 
 can — 
 
 l^Not taking the least notice qf the Alderman all this 
 while, but dressing himself tn* the glass. 
 
 Aid, But, my lord, the hurry of your lordship's 
 affairs may put my business out of your head ; 
 therefore, my lord, I'll presume to leave you some 
 memorandum. 
 
 Ben, Would, I'll do you all the service I can. 
 
 {Not minding him. 
 
 Aid, Pray, my lord, — [Pulling him hy the 
 sleeve] give me leave for a memorandum ; my 
 glove, I suppose, will do. Here, my lord, pray 
 remember me — 
 
 {Lays his glove upon the tahlCt and exit, 
 
 Ben. Would, I'll do you all the service I can. — 
 What, is he gone .' '"Tis the most rude familiar 
 fellow ! — Faugh, what a greasy gauntlet is here ! — 
 [A purse drops out of the glove,] Oh ! no, no j 
 the glove is a clean well-made glove, and the 
 owner of it— the most respectful person I have seen 
 this morning ; he knowsi wliat distance — [Chink- 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 &'Jl 
 
 ing the purse'\ is due to a maa of quality. — But 
 vfhat must I do for tliis ?— Frisure, do you remem- 
 ber what the alderman said to me .' 
 
 Fris. No, my lord, I thought your lordship had. 
 
 Ben. Would. This blockhead thinks a man of 
 quality can mind what people say — when they do 
 something, 'tis another case. — Here, call him back. 
 — \_Exit Frisuhe.] He talked something of the 
 general, and his son, and trainbands, I know not 
 what stuff. 
 
 Be-enter Fbisukb with Alderman. 
 
 Oh, Mr. Alderman, I have put your memorandum 
 in my pocket. 
 
 Aid. Oh, my lord, you do me too much honour ! 
 
 Ben. Would. But, Mr. Alderman, the business 
 you were talking of ; it shall be done, but if you 
 gave a short note of it to my secretary, it would 
 not be amiss. — But, Mr. Alderman, han't you the 
 fellow to this glove, it fits me mighty well — \_Put- 
 tmg on the glove.'] It looks so like a challenge to 
 give a man an odd glove — and I would have nothing 
 that looks hke enmity between you and I, Mr. 
 Alderman. 
 
 Aid. Truly, my lord, I intended the other glove 
 for a memorandum to the colonel, but since your 
 lordship has a mind to't — iOives the glove. 
 
 Ben. Would. Here, Frisure, lead this gentleman 
 to my secretary, and bid him take a note of his 
 business. 
 
 Aid. But, my lord, don't do me all the service 
 you can now. 
 
 Ben. Would. Well, I won't do you all the ser- 
 vice I can. — [Ejeeimt Frisure and Alderman.] 
 These citizens have a strange capacity of soliciting 
 sometimes. 
 
 Re-enter CiiEARAccouNT. 
 
 Clear. My lord, here are your tailor, your 
 vintner, your bookseller, and half-a-dozen more 
 with their bills at the door, and they desire their 
 money. 
 
 Ben. Would. Tell 'em, Mr. Clearaccount, that 
 when I was a private gentleman, I had nothing else 
 to do but to run in debt, and now that I have got 
 into a higher rank, I'm so very busy 1 can't pay 
 it. As for that clamorous rogue of a tailor, speak 
 him fair tin he has made up my liveries : then 
 about a year and a half hence, be at leisure to put 
 him off ; for a year and a half longer. 
 
 Clear. My lord, there's a gentleman below calls 
 himself Mr. Basset, he says your lordship owes him 
 fifty guineas that he won of you at cards. 
 
 Ben. Would. Look'ee, sir, the gentleman's 
 money is a debt of honour, and must be paid im- 
 mediately. 
 
 Clear'. Your father thought otherwise, my lord. 
 He always took care to have the poor tradesmen 
 satisfied, whose only subsistence lay in the use of 
 their money, and was used to say, that nothing was 
 ionourable but what was honest. 
 
 Ben. Would. My father might say what he 
 pleased, he was a nobleman of very singular hu- 
 mours : but in my notion there are not two things 
 in nature more different than honour and honesty. 
 Now your honesty is a little mechanic quality, well 
 enough among citizens, people that do nothing but 
 pitiful mean actions according to law ; but your 
 honour flics a much higher pitch, and will do any- 
 thing that's free and spontaneous, but scorns to 
 level itself to what is only just. 
 
 Clear. But I think it a little hard to have these 
 poor people starve for want of their money, and 
 yet pay this sharping rascal fifty guineas. 
 
 Ben. Would, Sliarping rascal ! what a barba- 
 rism that is 1 Why he wears as good wigs, as fine 
 linen, and keeps as good company, as any at 
 White's J and between you and I, sir, this sharping 
 rascal, as you are pleased to call him, shall make 
 more interest among the nobility with his cards and 
 counters, than a soldier shall with his sword and pis- 
 tol. Pray iet him have fifty guineas immediately. 
 
 \Eijceunt. 
 
 SCENE \l.—The Street before Lord Wouldbe's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Hermes "Wouldbe, writing in a pocket-book. 
 
 Herm. Would. Monday the lith of December, 
 1702, / arrived safe in London, and so concluding 
 my travels — IPuts up the book. 
 
 Now welcome country, father, friends. 
 My brother too, (if brothers can be friends :) 
 But above all, my charming fair, my Constance. 
 Through all the mazes of my wandering steps. 
 Through all the various climes that I have run ; 
 Her love has been the loadstone of my course. 
 Her eyes the stars that pointed me the way. 
 Had not her charms my heart entire possess'd. 
 Who knows what Circe's artful voice and look 
 Might have ensnared my travelling youfh, 
 And fix'd me to enchantment ? 
 Here comes my fellow-traveller. 
 
 Enter lBA.avB,with a portmantle.which he throws down 
 and sits on. 
 
 What makes you sit upon the portmantle, Teague.' 
 You'll rumple the things. 
 
 Teague. Be me shoule, maishter, I did carry 
 the portmantle till it tired me; and now the port- 
 mantle shall carry me till I tire him. 
 
 Herm. Would. And how d'ye like London, 
 Teague, after our travels ? 
 
 Teague. Fet, dear joy, 'tis the bravest plaase I 
 have sheen in my peregrinations, exshepting my 
 nown brave shitty of Carick-Vergus. — Uf, uf, d'ere 
 ish a very fragrant shmell hereabouts. — Maishter, 
 shall I run to that paishtry-cook's for shix penny- 
 worths of boiled beef? 
 
 Herm. Would. Though this fellow travelled the 
 world over he would never lose his brogue nor his 
 stomach. — Why, you cormorant, so hungry and so 
 early ! 
 
 Teague. Early ! Deel tauke me, maishter, 'tish 
 a great deal more than almost twelve a-clock. 
 
 Herm. Would. Thou art never happy unless thy 
 guts be stuffed up to thy eyes. 
 
 Teague. O maishter, dere ish a dam way of dis- 
 tance, and the deel a bit between. 
 
 Enter Benjamin Wouldbe in a chair, passing over the 
 stage, with /our or Jive Footmen be/ore him. 
 
 Herm. Would. Heyday, who comes here ? with 
 one, two, three, four, five footmen ! Some young 
 fellow just tasting the sweet vanity of fortune. — 
 Run, Teague, inquire who that is. 
 
 Teague. Yes, maishter. — [Runs to one of the 
 Footmen.] Sir, will you give my humble shcrvish 
 to your maishter, and tell him to send me word fat 
 naam ish upon him. 
 
598 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 Foot. You would know fat naam ish upon him ? 
 
 Teague. Yesh, fet would I. 
 
 Foot. Why, what are you, sir ? 
 
 Teague. Be me shoul, I am a shentleman bred 
 and born, and dere ish my maishter. 
 
 Foot. Then your master would know it ? 
 
 Teague. Arrah, you fool, ish it not the saam 
 ting? 
 
 Foot. Then tell your master 'tis the young lord 
 Wouldbe, just come to his estate by the death of 
 his father and elder brother. » [Exit. 
 
 Herm. Would. What do I hear ? 
 
 Teague. You hear that you are dead, maisht«r ; 
 fere vil you please to be buried ? 
 
 Herm, Would., But art thou sure it was my 
 brother ? 
 
 Teague. Be me shoul it was him nown self ; I 
 know'd him fery well, after his man told me. 
 
 Herm. Would. The business requires that I be 
 convinced with my own eyes ; I'll follow him, and 
 know the bottom on't. — Stay here till I return. 
 
 Teague. Dear maishter, have a care upon your- 
 shelf : now they know you are dead, by my shoul 
 they may kill you. 
 
 Herm. Would. Don't fear ; none of his servants 
 know me, and I'll take care to keep my face from 
 his sight. It concerns me to conceal myself, till I 
 know the engines of this contrivance. — Be sure 
 you stay till I come to you ; and let nobody know 
 whom you belong to. [Exit. 
 
 Teague. Oh, ho, hon, poor Teague is left alt 
 alone ! [Siis on the portmantle. 
 
 Enter Subtleman and OlbAraccount. 
 
 Sub. And you won't swear to the will ? 
 
 Clear. My conscience tells me I dare not do't 
 with safety. 
 
 Sub. But if we make it lawful, what should you 
 fear .' We now think nothing against conscience, 
 till the cause be thrown out of court. 
 
 Clear. In you, sir, 'tis no sin ; because 'tis the 
 principle of your profession : but in me, sir, 'tis 
 downright perjury indeed. You can't want wit- 
 nesses enough, since money won't be wanting, and 
 you must lose no time ; for I heard just now, that 
 the true lord Wouldbe was seen in town, or his 
 ghost. 
 
 Sub. It was his ghost, to be sure ; for a noble- 
 man without an estate is but the shadow of a lord. 
 Well, take no care ; leave me to myself; I'm near 
 the Friars, and ten to one shall pick up an evi- 
 dence. 
 
 Clear. Speed you well, sir 1 [Exit. 
 
 Sub. There's a fellow that has hunger and the 
 gallows pictured in his face, and looks like my 
 countryman. — How now, honest friend, what have 
 you got under you there .' 
 
 Teague. Noting, dear joy. 
 
 Sub. Nothing ? is it not a portmantle ? 
 
 Teague. That is noting to you. 
 
 Sub. The fellow's a wit. 
 
 Teague. Fet am I i my grandfader was an 
 Irish poet. He did write a great book of verses 
 concerning the vars between St. Patrick and the 
 wolf-dogs. 
 
 Sub. Then thou art poor, I'm afraid ? 
 
 Teague, Be me shoul, my sole generation ish 
 BO. I have noting but thish poor portmantle, and 
 dat itshelf ish not my own. 
 
 Sub. "Why, who does it belong to .' 
 
 Teague. To my maishter, dear jOy. 
 
 Sub. Then you have a master .' 
 
 Teague. Fet I have, but he's dead. 
 
 Sub. Right ! and how do you intend to live ? 
 
 Teague, By eating, dear joy, fen I can get it, 
 and by sleeping fen I can get none : 'tish the fashion 
 of Ireland. 
 
 Sub, What was your master's name, pray ? 
 
 Teague. [Aside.'] I will tell a lee now ; but it 
 shall be a true one. — ^AloUd.'] Macfadin, dear joy, 
 was his naam. He vent over vith king Jamish into 
 France. — lAside.J He was my master once. Deere 
 Ish de true lee noo. 
 
 Sub. What employment had be ? 
 
 Teague. Je ne sat pds. 
 
 Sub, What, can you speak French ? 
 
 Teague. Oui, monsieur, I did travel France, and 
 Spain, and Italy. Dear joy, I did kish the pope's 
 toe, and dat will excuse me all the sins of my life ; 
 and fen I am dead, St. Patrick will excuse tbe 
 rest. 
 
 Sub, [Aside,] A rare fellow for my purpose ' 
 — [Aloud."] Thou lookest like an honest fellow ; 
 and if you'll go with me to the next tavern, I'll 
 give thee a dinner, and a glass of wine. 
 
 Teague. Be me shoul, 'tis dat I wantfd. dear 
 joy ; come along, I will follow you. 
 
 [Runs out with the portmantle on his hack, Subtleman 
 following. 
 
 Re-enter Hermes Wouidbb. 
 Herm. Would. My father dead ! my birthright 
 lost ! How have my drowsy stars slept o'er my 
 fortune .'' — Ha ! — [^Looking about] my servant 
 gone ! The simple, poor, ungrateful wretch has 
 left me. I took him up from poverty and want ; 
 and now he leaves me just as I found him. My 
 clothes and money too ! — But why should I repine ? 
 Let man bat view the dangers he has passed, and 
 few will fear what hazards are to come. That 
 3'rovidence that has secured my life from robbers, 
 shipwreck, and from sickness, is still the same ; 
 still kind whilst I am just. My death, I fmd, is 
 firmly believed; but how it gained so universal 
 credit I fain would learn. — Who comes here ? — 
 honest Mr. Fairbank ! my father's goldsmith, a 
 man of substance and integrity. The alteration of 
 five years' absence, with the report of my death, 
 may shade me from his knowledge, till I inquire 
 some news. 
 
 Enter Fairbank. 
 
 Sir, your humble servant ! 
 
 Fair, Sir, I don't know you. [Shunning Mm. 
 
 Herm, Would, I intend you no harm, sir ; but 
 seeing you come from my lord Wouldbe's house, I 
 would ask you a question or two. — Pray what dis- 
 temper did my lord die of.' 
 
 Fair, I am told it was an apoplexy. 
 
 Herm, Would. And pray, sir, what does the 
 world say ? is his death lamented .' 
 
 Fair. Lamented 1 my eyes that question should 
 resolve ; friend, thou knewest him not : else thy 
 own heart had answered thee. 
 
 Herm. Would. [Aside.] His grief, methinks, 
 
 chides my defect of filial duty [Aloud,] But, I 
 
 hope, sir, his loss is partly recompense in the 
 merits of his successor. 
 
 Fair, It might have been ; but his eldest son, 
 heir to his virtue and his honour, was lately and 
 unfortunately killed in Germany. 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 699 
 
 I 
 
 Herm. Would. How unfortunately, sir ? 
 
 Fair. Unfortunately for him and us. I do 
 remember him. He was the mildest, humblest, 
 sweetest youth— 
 
 Herm, Would. \Aside.^ Happy indeed had 
 been my part in life if I had left this human stage 
 whilst this so spotless and so fair applause had 
 crowned my going off. — [Aloud.'\ Well, sir. 
 
 Fair. But those that saw him in his travels, told 
 such wonders of his improvement, that the report 
 recalled his father's years ; and with the joy to hear 
 his Hermes praised, he oft would break the chains 
 of gout and age ; and leaping up with strength of 
 greenest youth, cry, My Hermes is myself. Me- 
 thinks I live my sprightly days again and I am 
 young in him. 
 
 Herm. Would. Spite of all modesty, a man 
 must own a pleasure in the hearing of his praih>. 
 
 ' iAltide. 
 
 Fair. You're thoughtful, sir — had you any rela- 
 tion to the family we talk of? 
 
 Herm. Would. None, sir, beyond my private 
 concern in the public loss. — But pray, sir, what 
 character does the present lord bear ? 
 
 Fair. Your pardon, sir. As for the dead, their 
 memories are left unguarded, and tongues may 
 touch them freely : but for the living, they have 
 provided for the safety of their names by a strong 
 inclosure of the law. There is a thing called scan- 
 dalum magnatumy sir. 
 
 Herm. Would. I commend your caution, sir ; 
 but be assured I intend not to entrap you. I am 
 a poor gentleman ; and having heard much of the 
 charity of the old lord Wouldbe, I had a mind to 
 apply to his son ; and therefore inquired his 
 character. 
 
 Fair, Alas ! sir, things are changed. That 
 house was once what poverty might go a pilgrimage 
 to seek, and have its pains rewarded. The noble 
 lord, the truly noble lord, held his estate, his 
 honour, and his house, as if they were only lent 
 upon the interest of doing good to others. He 
 kept a porter, not to exclude, but serve the poor. 
 No creditor was seen to guard his going out, or 
 watch his coming in : no craving eyes, but looks 
 of smiling gratitude. But now, that family, which 
 like a garden fairly kept invited every stranger to 
 its fruit and shade, is now run o'er with weeds. — 
 Nothing but wine and revelling within, a crowd of 
 noisy creditors without, a train of servants inso- 
 lently proud. — ^Would you believe it, sir, as I offered 
 to go in just now, the rude porter pjished me back 
 with his staff. I am at this present (thanks to 
 Providence and my industry) worth twenty thou- 
 sand pounds. I pay the fifth part of this to 
 maintain the liberty of the nation ; and yet this 
 slave, the impudent Swiss slave, offered to strike 
 lue ! 
 
 Herm. Would. 'Twas hard, sir, very hard : and 
 if they used a man of your substance so roughly, 
 how will they manage me, that am not worth a 
 groat ? 
 
 Fair. I would not willingly defraud your hopes 
 of what may happen. If you can drink and swear ; 
 perhaps— 
 
 Herm. Would. I shall not pay that price for his 
 lordship's bounty would it extend to half he's 
 worth. Sir, I give you thanks for your caution, 
 and shall steer another course. 
 
 Fair. Sir, you look like an honest, modest 
 
 gentleman. Come home with me ; I am as able 
 to give you a dinner as my lord ; and you shall be 
 very welcome to eat at my table every day, till you 
 are better provided. 
 
 Herm. Would. lAside.'\ Good man ! — [Aloud.l 
 Sir, I must beg you to excuse me to-day : but I 
 shall find a time to accept of your favours, or at 
 least to thank you for 'em. 
 
 Fair. Sir, you shall be very welcome whenever 
 you please. \_ExU. 
 
 Herm. Would. Gramercy, citizen ! Surely, if 
 Justice were an herald, she would give this trades- 
 man a nobler coat of arms than my brother. — But 
 I delay : I long to vindicate the honour of my 
 station, and to displace this bold usurper. — But 
 one concern methinks is nearer still, my Constance! 
 Should she, upon the rumour of my death, have 
 fixed her heart elsewhere, — then I were dead 
 indeed ; but if she still proves true, — brother, sit 
 fast. 
 
 I'll shake your strength, all obstacles remove, 
 
 Sustain'd by justice, and inspired by love. i^xU. 
 
 SCENE III. — Constance's Apartment. 
 Constance and Aubelta discovered. 
 
 Con. For Heaven's sake, cousin, cease your 
 impertinent consolation ! it but makes me angry, 
 and raises two passions in me instead of one. 
 You see I commit no extravagance, my grief is 
 silent enough : my tears make no noise to disturb 
 anybody. I desire no companion in my sorrows : 
 leave me to myself and you comfort me. 
 
 Aur. But, cousin, have you no regard to your 
 reputation ? — This immoderate concern for a young 
 fellow — what will the world say .' You lament him 
 like a husband. 
 
 Con. No, you mistake : I have no rule nor me- 
 thod for my grief ; no pomp of black and darkened 
 rooms ; no formal month for visits on my bed. I 
 am content with the slight mourning of a broken 
 heart ; and all my form is tears. IWeepi. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Mandrake. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Madam Aurelia, madam, don't dis- 
 turb her. Everything must have its vent. 'Tis a 
 hard case to be crossed in one's first love. But 
 you should consider, madam, \_To Constance] 
 that we are all born to die ; some young, some 
 old. 
 
 Con. Better we all died young, than be plagued 
 with age as I am. I find other folks' years are as 
 troublesome to us as our own. 
 
 Mrs. Man. You have reason, you have cause to 
 mourn : he was the handsomest man, and the 
 sweetest babe, that I know. Though 1 must con- 
 fess too, that Ben had much the finer complexion 
 when he was born. But then Hermes — O yes, 
 Hermes had the shape, that he had I But of all 
 the infants that I ever beheld with my eyes, I think 
 Ben had the finest ear 1 — waxwork, i)erfect wax- 
 .work ! And then he did so sputter at the breast ! 
 His nurse was a hale, well-complexioned, sprightly 
 jade as ever I saw ; but her milk was a little too 
 stale, though, at the same time, 'twas as blue an;' 
 clear as a cambric. 
 
 Aur. Do you intend all this, madam, for a con- 
 solation to my cousin ? 
 
600 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 Mrs. Man. No, no, madam, that's to come. — 
 I tell you, fair lady, you have only lost the man ; 
 the estate and title are still your own ; and this 
 very moment I would salute you lady Wouldbe, 
 if you pleased. 
 
 Con. Dear madam, your proposal is very tempt- 
 ing ; let me but consider till to-morrow, and I'll 
 give you an answer. 
 
 Mrs, Man. I knew it, I knew it ! I said, 
 when you were born, you would be a lady ; I 
 knew it ! Tormorrow, you say? — My lord shall 
 know it immediately. lExit. 
 
 AuT. What d'ye intend to do, cousin ? 
 
 Con. To go into the country this moment, to be 
 free from the impertinence of condolence, the per- 
 secution of that monster of a man, and that devil 
 of a woman. O Aurelia, I long to be alone ! I 
 am become so fond of grief, that I would fly where 
 I might enjoy it all, and have no interruption in 
 my darling sorrow. 
 
 Enter Hermes Wouldbe unperceived. 
 
 Herm. Would. In tears ! perhaps for me ; I'll 
 try. l^Drops a miniature, and retires behind, listening. 
 
 Aur. If there be aught in grief delightful, don't 
 grudge me a share. 
 
 Con. No, my dear Aurelia, I'll engross it all. 
 I loved him so, methiaks I should be jealous if 
 any mourned bis death besides myself. What's 
 here! — [Takes up the miniature.'] Ha! see, 
 cousin — the very face and features of the man ! 
 Sure, some officious angel has brought me this for 
 a companion in my solitude ! Now I'm fitted out 
 for sorrow ! With this I'll sigh, with this con- 
 verse, gaze on his image till I grow blind with 
 weeping ! 
 
 Aur, I'm amazed ! how came it here? 
 
 Con. Whether by miracle or human chance, 
 'tis all alike ; I have it here : nor shall it ever 
 separate from my breast. It is the only thing 
 could give me joy, because it will increase my 
 grief. 
 
 Herm. Would. [Coming forward.'] Most glo- 
 rious woman ! now I am fond of life. 
 
 Aur. Ha I what's this ! — Your business, pray, 
 sir ? 
 
 Herm, Would. With this lady. — [Goes to Con- 
 stance, takes her hand, and kneels.] Here let 
 me worship that perfection whose virtue might 
 attract the listening angels, and make 'em smile 
 to see such purity, so like themselves in human 
 ^ape! 
 
 Con. Hermes ! 
 
 Herm. Would. Your living Hermes, who shall 
 die yours too ! 
 
 C0-/1. [Aside.] Now passion, powerful passion, 
 would bear me like a whirlwind to his arms ! — But 
 
 my sex has bounds [Aloud.] 'Tis wondrous, 
 
 sir! 
 
 Herm. Would. Most wondrous are the works 
 of fate for man ; and most closely laid is the ser- 
 pentine line that guides him into happiness 1 That 
 hidden power which did permit those arts to cheat 
 me of my birthright, had this surprise of happiness 
 in store, well knowing that grief is the best pre- 
 parative for joy. 
 
 Con. I never found the true sweets of love till 
 this romantic turn. — Dead, and alive ! — my stars 
 are poetical ! For Heaven's sake, sir, unriddle 
 vour fortune ! 
 
 Herm. 'Would. That my dear brother must do ; 
 for he made the enigma. 
 
 Aur. Methinks I stand here like a fool all this 
 while ! would I had somebody or other to say 
 a fine thing or two to me ! 
 
 Herm. Would. Madam, I beg ten thousand 
 pardons ! I have my excuse in my hand. 
 
 Aur. My lord, I wish you joy ! 
 
 Herm. Would. Pray, madam, don't trouble me 
 with a title till I am better equipped for it. My 
 peerage would look a little shabby in these robes. 
 
 Con. You have a good excuse, my lord : you can 
 wear better when you please. 
 
 Herm. Would. I have a better excuse, madam : 
 these are the best I have. 
 
 Con. How, my lord ? 
 
 Herm. Would. Very true, madam ; I am at 
 present, I believe, the poorest peer in Englan^.— 
 Heark'ee, Aurelia, prithee lend me a piece or 
 two. 
 
 Aur. Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor peer indeed ! he wants 
 a guinea. 
 
 Con. I'm glad on't, with all my heart 1 
 
 Herm. Would. Why so, madam ? 
 
 Con. Because I can furnish you with five thou- 
 sand. 
 
 Herm. Would. Generous woman ! 
 
 Enter Captain Trueman. 
 
 Ha, my friend too ! 
 
 True, I'm glad to find you here, my lord. 
 Here's a current report about town that you were 
 killed. I was afraid it might reach this family ; so 
 I came to disprove the story by your letter to me 
 by the last post. 
 
 Aur. I'm glad he's come ; now it will be my 
 turn, cousin. {.Aside. 
 
 True. Now, my lord, I wish you joy ; and I 
 expect the same from you. 
 
 Herm. Would. With all my heart ; but upon 
 what score ? 
 
 True. The old score — marriage. 
 
 Herm. Would. To whom ? 
 
 True. To a neighbour lady here. 
 
 {.Looking at Aurelia. 
 
 Aur. [Aside.'] Impudence ! — [Aloud.] The 
 lady mayn't be so near as you imagine, sir. 
 
 True. The lady mayn't be so near as you ima- 
 gine, madam. 
 
 Aur. Don't mistake me, sir : I did not care if 
 the lady were in Mexico. 
 
 True. Nop>I neither, madam. 
 
 Aur. You're very short, sir ! 
 
 True. The shortest pleasures are the sweetest, 
 you know. 
 
 Aur. Sir, you appear very different to me from 
 what you were lately. 
 
 True. Madam, you appear very indifferent to 
 me to what you were lately. 
 
 Aur. Strange I 
 
 {This irhilc Constance ond Wouldbb converse I'n 
 dumb-show. 
 
 True. Miraculous ! 
 
 Aur, I could never have believed it. 
 
 True. Nor I, as I hope to be saved ! 
 
 Aur, 111 manners I 
 
 True, Worse. 
 
 Aur, How have I deserved it, sir ? 
 
 True. How have I deserved it, madam ? 
 
 Aur. What? 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 COl 
 
 True. You. 
 
 Aur. Riddles ! 
 
 True. Women ! — My lord, you'll hear of me at 
 White's. — Farewell ! \Rms off. 
 
 Herm. Would. What, Trueman gone ! 
 
 Aur. Yes. \_Walks about in disorder. 
 
 Con. Bless me ! what's the matter, cousia .' 
 
 Aur. Nothing. 
 
 Con. Why are yon uneasy .° 
 
 AuT. Nothing. 
 
 Con. What ails you then ? 
 
 Aur. Nothing.- — I don't love the fellow ! — yet, 
 to be affronted — I can't bear it I 
 
 [^Bursts out arcrying^ and runs off. 
 
 Con. Your friend, my lord, has affronted Au- 
 relia. 
 
 Herm. Would. Impossible 1 his regard to me 
 were sufficient security for his good behaviour 
 here, though it were in his nature to be rude else- 
 where. She has certainly used him ill. 
 
 Con. Too well rather. 
 
 Herm. Would. Too well I have a care, madam I 
 That, with some men, is the greatest provocation 
 to a slight. 
 
 Con, Don't mistake, my lord ; her usage never 
 went further than mine to you ; and I should take 
 it very ill to be abused for it. 
 
 Herm. Would. I'll follow him, and know the 
 cause of it. 
 
 Con. No, my lord, we'll follow her, and know 
 it. Besides, your own affairs with your brother 
 require you at present [^Exeunt, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Boom in Lord Wouldbe's House. 
 Benjamin Wouldee and Subtlkman discovered. 
 
 Ben. Would. Returned ! who saw him ? who 
 spoke with him ? — He can't be returned. 
 
 Sub. My lord, he's below at the gate parleying 
 with the porter, who has private orders from me 
 to admit nobody till you send him word, that we 
 may have the more time to settle our affairs. 
 
 Ben. Would. 'Tis a hard case, Mr. Subtleman, 
 that a man can't enjoy his right without all this 
 trouble. 
 
 Sub. Ay, my lord, you see the benefit of law 
 now, what an advantage it is to the public for 
 securing of property ! Had you not the law o' 
 ■ your side, who knows what devices might be prac- 
 tised to defraud you of your right ! — But I have 
 secured all. — The will is in true form; and you 
 have two witnesses already to swear to the last 
 words of your father. 
 
 Ben. Would. Then you have got another ? 
 
 Sub. Yes, yes, a right one ; and I shall pick up 
 another time enough before the term : and I have 
 planted three or four constables in the next room 
 to take care of your brother if he should be bois- 
 terous. 
 
 Ben. Would. Then you think we are secure .'' 
 
 Sub. Ay, ay ; let him come now when he pleases. 
 I'll go down, and give orders for his admittance. 
 
 iExil. 
 
 Ben. Would. Unkind brother ! to disturb me 
 thus, just in the swing and stretch of my full for- 
 tune ! Where is the tie of blood and nature when 
 brothers will do this .' Had he but staid till Con- 
 stance had been mine, his presence or his absence 
 had been then indifferent. 
 
 Enter Mfs. Mandrake. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Well, my lord, — [Pants as out of 
 breath.'] you'll ne'er be sarisfied till you have 
 broken my poor heart. I have had such ado 
 yonder about you with madam Constance — but 
 she's our own. 
 
 Ben. Would. How ! my own ! Ah, my dear 
 helpmate, I'm afraid we are routed in that quarter : 
 my brother's come home. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Your brother come home ! then I'll 
 go travel. [Going. 
 
 Ben. Would. Hold, hold, madam, we are all 
 secure ; we have provided for his reception ; your 
 nephew Subtleman has stopped up all passages ;to 
 the estate. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Ay, Subtleman is a pretty, thriving, 
 ingenious boy. Little do you think who is the 
 father of hips \ I'll tell you ;— Mr. Moabite the 
 rich Jew in Louibard-street. 
 
 Ben. Would. Moabite the Jew I 
 
 Mrs. Man. You shall hear, my lord. One 
 evening as I was very grave in my own house, 
 reading the — Weekly Preparation— xj, it was tiie 
 Weekly Preparation^ I do remember particularly 
 well — what hears me I — but pat, pat, pat, very 
 softly at the door. Come in, cries I ; and presently 
 enters Mr. Moabite, followed by a snug chair, the 
 windows close drawn, and in it a fine young 
 virgin just upon the point of being delivered. We 
 were all in a great hurly-burly for a while, to be 
 sure ; but our production was a fine boy. I had 
 fifty guineas for my trouble, the lady was wrapped 
 up very warm, placed in her chair, and reconveyed 
 to the place she came from. Who she was, or 
 what she was, I could never learn, though my 
 maid said that the chair went through the Park— ■ 
 but the child was left with me. The father would 
 have made a Jew on't presently, but I swore, if he 
 committed such a barbarity on the infant, that I 
 would discover all. So I had him brought up a 
 good Christian, and bound prentice to an attorney. 
 
 Ben. Would. Very well ! 
 
 Mrs. Man. Ah, my lord ! there's many a pretty 
 fellow in London that knows as little of their true 
 father and mother as he does ; I have had several 
 such jobs in my time ; — there was one Scotch 
 nobleman that brought me four in half a-year. 
 
 Ben. Would. Four ! and how were they all pro- 
 vided for .' 
 
 Mrs. Man. Very handsomely indeed j they were 
 two sons and two daughters, the eldest son rides in 
 the first troop of guards, and the other is a very 
 pretty fellow, and his father's valet-de-chambre. 
 
 Ben. Would. And what is become of the daugb 
 ters, pray ? 
 
602 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 Mrs. Man. "Why, one of 'em is a mantean- 
 maker, and the youngest has got into the playhouse. 
 — Ay, ay, my lord, let Subtleman alone, I'll war- 
 rant he'll manage your brother. — Ads my life, here's 
 somebody coming ! I would not be seen. 
 
 Ben. Would. 'Tis my brother, and he'll meet 
 yen upon the stairs ; 'adso, get into this closet till 
 he be gone, [^Shuts her into the closet. 
 
 Re-enter Subtjlkman with Hermes Wouldee. 
 
 My brother ! dearest brother, welcome ! 
 
 [iiwni and embraces him, 
 
 Herm. Would. I can't dissemble, sir, else I 
 would return your false embrace. 
 
 Ben. Would. False embrace ! still suspicious of 
 me ! I thought that five years' absence might have 
 cooled the unmanly heats of our childish days. That 
 'X am overjoyed at your return, let this testify ; this 
 moment I resign all right and title to your honour, 
 and salute you, lord. 
 
 Herm. Would. I want not your permission to 
 enjoy my right ; here I am lord and master without 
 your resignation ; and the first use I make, of my 
 authority, is, to discard that rude, buU-faceS fellow 
 at the door. — Where's my steward ? 
 
 Enter Clearaccount. 
 
 Mr. Clearacconnt, let that pampered sentinel below 
 
 this minute be discharged Brother, I wonder you 
 
 could feed such a swarm of lazy, idle drones about 
 you, and leave the poor industrious bees, that fed 
 you from their hives, to starve for want. — Steward, 
 look to't ; if I have not discharges for every far- 
 thing of my father's debts upon my toilet, to mor- 
 row-morning, you shall follow the tipstaff, I can 
 assure you. 
 
 Ben. Would. Hold, hold, my lord, you usurp 
 too large a power, methinks, o'er my family. 
 
 Herm. Would. Your family ! 
 
 Ben. Would. Yes, my family : you have no title 
 to lord it here.-^Mr. Clearaccount, you know your 
 toaster. ^, _ 
 
 Herm. Would. How ! a combination against 
 me ! — brother, take heed how you deal with one 
 that, cautious of your falsehood, comes prepared to 
 meet your arts, and can retort your cunning to your 
 infamy. Your black, unnatural designs against my 
 life, before I went abroad, my charity can pardon : 
 but my prudence must remember to guard me from 
 your malice for the future. 
 
 Ben. Would. Our father's weak and fond sur- 
 mise ! which he upon his death-bed owned : and 
 to recompense me for that injurious, unnatural sus- 
 picion, he left me sole heir to his estate. Now, 
 my lord, my house and servants are — at your ser- 
 vice. 
 
 Herm. Would. Villany beyond example ! Have 
 I not letters from my father, of scarce a fortnight's 
 date, where he repeats his fears for my return, lest 
 it should again expose me to your hatred ? 
 
 Suh. Well, well, these are no proofs, no proofs, 
 my lord ; they won't pass in court against positive 
 evidence. Here is your father's will, su/nalum et 
 siqillatum, besides his last words to confirm it, to 
 which I can take my positive oath in any court of 
 Westminster. 
 
 Herm. Would. What are you, sir ? 
 
 Sub. Of Clifford's Inn, my lord ; I belong to the 
 law. 
 
 Herm. Would. Thou art the worm and maggot 
 
 of the law, bred in the bruised and rotten parts, 
 and now art nourished on the same corruption that 
 produced thee. The English law, as planted first, 
 was like the Enghsh oak, shooting its spreading 
 arms around, to shelter all that dwelt beneath its 
 shade : but now whole swarms of caterpillars, like 
 you, hang in such clusters upon every branch, that 
 the once thriving tree now sheds infectious vermin 
 on our heads. 
 
 Ben. Would. My lord^ I ^have some company 
 above ; if your lordship will drink a glass of wine, 
 we shall be proud of the honour ; if not, I shall 
 attend you at any court of judicature, whenever 
 you. pleas^ ,to summon me. . {Going. 
 
 Herm. Would. Hold, sir! — [Aside.'] Perhaps 
 my father's dying weakness was imposed on, and 
 he has left him heir ; if so, his will shall freely be 
 obeyed. — [_Alotid. ] Brother, you say you have a 
 will .' 
 
 S?ib. Here it is. {Showing a parchment. 
 
 Herm. Would. Let me see it. 
 
 iSmS. There's no precedent for that, my lord. 
 
 Herm. Would. Upon my honour, I'll restore it. 
 
 Ben. Would. Upon my honpur, but you shan't. 
 ITaki'S it/rom Subtleman, and puts it in his pocket. 
 
 Herm. Would, This over-caution, brother, is 
 suspicious. ,, 
 
 Ben- Would. Seven thousand pound a year is 
 worth looking after. 
 
 Herm. Would. Therefore you can't take it ill, 
 that I am a little inquisitive about it. — Have yon 
 witnesses to prove my father's dying words .'. 
 
 Ben. Would. A couple in the house. 
 
 Herm. Woultl. Who are they ^ 
 
 Sub. Witnesses, my lord ! 'tis unwarrantable to 
 inquire into the merits of the cause out of court. 
 My client shall answer no more questions. 
 
 Herrn. Would. Perhaps, sir, upon a satisfactory 
 account of his title, I intend to leave your client to 
 the quiet enjoyment of his right, without troubling 
 any court with the business ; I therefore desire to 
 know what kind of persons are these witnesses. 
 
 Sub. \^Aside^ Oho, he's a coming about! — 
 [Aloud.] I told your lordship already that 1 am 
 one ; another is in the house, one of my lord's foot- 
 men. 
 
 Herm. Would. Where is this footman ? 
 
 Ben. Would. Forthcoming. 
 
 Herm. Would. Produce him. 
 
 Sub. That I shall presently — [Aside to Benja- 
 min Would BE.] The day's our own, sir— [3'o 
 Hermes Wouldbe.] But you shall engage first 
 to ask him no cross questions. 
 
 Herm. Would. I am not skilled in such. — [EoeH 
 Subtleman.] But pray, brother, did my father 
 quite forget me ? left me nothing ! 
 
 Ben. fTouW. Truly, my lord, nothing. He spoke 
 but little ; left no legacies. 
 
 Herm. Would. 'Tis strange ! he was extremely 
 just, and loved me too ; — but perhaps — 
 
 Re-enter Subtleman with Tbagub. 
 
 Suh. My lord, here's another evidence. 
 
 Herm. Would. Teague ! 
 
 Ben. Would. My brother's servant ! 
 
 {They all four stare upon one another. 
 
 Sub. His servant ! 
 
 Teague,. Maishter ! see here, maishter, I did 
 get all dish — [Chinks money] for being an evi-- 
 densh, dear joy ! an be me shoule, I will give the 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 003 
 
 half of it to you, if you wiU give me your permis- 
 sion to maake swear against you. 
 
 Herm. Would. My wonder is divided between the 
 villany of the fact, and the amazement of the dis- 
 covery ! Teague ! my very servant ! sure I dream. 
 
 Teague. Fet, dere ish no dreaming in the cashe ; 
 I'm sure the croon pieceish are awake, for 1 have 
 been taaking with dem dish half hour. 
 
 Ben, Would. Ignorant, unlucky man, thou hast 
 
 ruined me ! why had not I a sight of him before ? 
 
 {^Aside to Subtlbman. 
 
 Sub. I thought the fellow had been too ignorant 
 to be a knave. 
 
 Teague. Be noe shoule, you lee, dear joy. I can 
 he a knave as well as you, fen I think it con- 
 veniency. 
 
 Herm. Would. Now, brother !— Speechless ! — 
 Your oracle too silenced ! — Is all ydiir boasted 
 fortune sunk to the guilty blushing for a crime ? — 
 But I scorn to insult : let disappointment be your 
 punishment. — ^Butfor your lawyer there — Teague, 
 lay hold of him. 
 
 Suh. Let none dare to attach me without a legal 
 Warrant. 
 
 Teague. Attach ! no, dear joy, I cannot attach 
 you — but I can catch you by the troat, after the 
 fashion of Ireland. [Tafte* Subtlemaw by the throat. 
 
 Sub, An assault ! an assault ! 
 
 Teague. No, no, 'tish nothing but choking, 
 nothing but choking. 
 
 Herm. Would. Hold him fast, Teague.— [To 
 Benjamin Wocldbe.] Now, sir, because I was 
 your brother, you would have betrayed me ; and 
 because I am your brother I forgive it : — dispose 
 yourself as you think fit. I'll order Mr. Clear- 
 account to give you a thousand pounds. Go take 
 it, and pay me by your absence. 
 
 ■Ben. Would. I.scorn your beggarly benevolence 1 
 had my designs succeeded, I would not have 
 allowed you the weight of a wafer, and therefore 
 will accept none. — As for that lawyer, he deserves 
 to be pilloried, not for his cunning in deceiving 
 you, but for his ignorance in betraying me. The 
 villain has defrauded me of seven thousand pounds 
 a year. Farewell — IGoing. 
 
 iZc-ewfgr Mrs. Mandrake. (2nd ?-Mn*(oBBNjAMTN'WouLDBB. 
 
 Mrs, Man. [Kneeling.'] My lord ! my dear 
 lord Wouldbe, I beg you ten thousand pardons ! 
 
 Ben. Would. What offence hast thou done to 
 me ? 
 
 Mrs. Man. An offence the most injurious. I 
 have hitherto concealed a secret in my breast to 
 the offence of justice, and the defrauding your 
 lordship of your true right and title. You, Ben- 
 jamin Wouldbe, with the crooked back, are the 
 eldest-born, and true heir to the estate and 
 dignity. 
 
 All. How! 
 
 Teague. Arab, how .' 
 
 Mr.i. Man. None, my lord, can tell better than 
 I, who brought you both into the world. My 
 deceased lord, upon the sight of your deformity, 
 engaged me, by a considerable reward, to say you 
 were the last born, that the beautiful twin, likely 
 to be the greater ornament to the family, might 
 succeed him in his honour. This secret my con- 
 science has long struggled with. Upon the news 
 that you were left heir to the estate, I thought 
 ■ustice was satisfied, and I was resolved to keep it 
 
 u secret still ; but by strange chance, overhearing 
 what passed just now, my poor conscience was 
 racked, and I was forced to declare the truth. 
 
 ien. Would. By all my forward hopes, I could 
 have sworn it ! I found the spirit of eldership in 
 my blood ; my pulses beat, and swelled for seniority. 
 — Mr. Hermes Wouldbe, — I'm your most humble 
 servant . IFoppithly. 
 
 Herm, Would. Hermes is my name, my Chris- 
 tian name ; of which I am prouder than of all titles 
 that honour gives, or flattery bestows. But thou, 
 vain bubble, puffed up with 'the empty breath of 
 that more empty woman ; to let. thee see how I 
 despise thy pride, I'll call thee lord, dress thee up 
 in titles like a king at arms ; you shall be blazoned 
 round, like any church in Holland ; thy pageantry 
 shall exceed the lord mayor's ; and yet this Hermes, 
 plain Hermes, shall despise thee. 
 
 Sub, Well, well, this is nothing to the purpose. 
 — Mistress, will you make an affidavit of what you 
 have said, before a master in Chancery ,'' 
 
 Mrs. Man. That I can, though I were to die the 
 next minute after it. 
 
 Teague. Den, dear joy, you would be dam the 
 next minute after dat. 
 
 Herm. Would, All this is trifling : I must purge 
 
 my house of this nest of villany at once -Here, 
 
 Teague \— [Whispers T-kagve.^ Go, make haste ! 
 
 Teagiie. Dat I can. 
 
 S_As he runs out, Benjamin Wovldbe stops him, 
 
 Ben, Would. Where are you going, sir ? 
 
 Teague. Only for a pot of ale, dear joy, for you 
 and my maishter, to drink friends. 
 
 Ben. Would. You lie, sirrah I IPushesMm bach, 
 
 Teague. Fet, I do so. 
 
 Herm, Would. What ! violence to my servant ! 
 Nay, then, I'll force him a passage. IDraws. 
 
 Sub, An assault ! an assault upon the body of 
 a peer ! — Within there ! 
 
 Enter Constables, one of them with a black patch on his etie. 
 
 They disarm Hehmbs "Wouldbe, and secure Teaouk^ 
 
 Herm, Would, This plot was laid for my recep- 
 tion — Unhand me. Constable ! 
 
 Ben, Would. Have a care, Mr. Constable, the 
 man is mad ; he's possessed with an odd frenzy, 
 that he's my brother, and my elder too : so, be- 
 cause I would not very willingly resign my house 
 and estate, he attempted to murder me. 
 
 Sub. Gentlemen, take care of that fellow : he 
 made an assault upon my body, vi el armis. 
 
 Teague. Arab, fat is dat ioy at arniish ? 
 
 Sub. No matter, sij-rah ; I shall have you hanged; 
 
 Teague. Hanged ! dat is nothing, dear joy : — 
 we are used to't. 
 
 Herm, Woitld, Unhand me, villains ! or bv 
 all— ' 
 
 Teague, Have a caaf, dear maishter, don't 
 swear ; we shall be had in the croon-offish.— You 
 know dere ish sharpers about us. 
 
 {^Looking about on them that hold him, 
 
 Ben, Would, Mr. Constable, you know your 
 directions ; away with 'em ! 
 
 Herm. Would. Hold!— 
 
 Constab. No, no ; force him away. 
 
 iExeunt all but Benjamin 'Wouldbe, and 
 Mrs. Mandrake. 
 
 Ben. Would. Now, my dear prophetess, mv 
 sibyl, by all my dear desires and ambitions, I do 
 believe you have spoken the truth ! — I am the 
 elder. 
 
604 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 Mrs. Man. No, no. sir, the devil a word on't 
 is true. I would not wrong my conscience 
 neither ; for, faith and troth, as I am an honest 
 woman, you,were horn above three quarters of an 
 hour after him j — but I don't much care if I do 
 swear that you are the eldest. — What a blessing it 
 was that I was in the closet at that pinch ! Had 
 I not come out that moment, you would have 
 sneaked ofif ; your brother had been in possession, 
 and then we had lost all ; but now you are estab- 
 lished : possession gets you money, that gets you 
 law, and law, you know — Down on your knees, 
 sirrah, and ask me blessing. 
 
 Ben. Would. No, my dear mother, I'll give thee 
 a blessing, a rent-charge of five hundred pound a 
 year, upon what part of the estate you will, during 
 your life. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Thank you, my lord : that five 
 hundred a year will afford me a leisurely life, and 
 a handsome retirement in the country, where I 
 mean to repent me of my sins, and die a good 
 Christian : for, Heaven knows, I am old, and 
 ought to bethink me of another life. — Have you 
 none of the cordial left that we had in the morn- 
 ing ? 
 
 Ben. Would. Yes, yes, we'll go to the fountain- 
 head. iEMunt. 
 
 SCENE 11.—^ Slreei. 
 Enter Tbague. 
 
 Teague. Deeltauke me but dish ish a mostshweet 
 business indeed ! Maishters play the fool, and 
 shervants must shuffer for it. I am prishoner in 
 the constable's house, be me shoule, and shent 
 abrode to fetch some bail for my maishter ; but 
 foo shall fail poor Teague agra .' 
 
 Enter Constance. 
 
 Oh, dere ish my maishter's old love. Indeed, I 
 fear dish bishness will spoil his fortune. 
 
 Con. Who's here, Teague ? IHe turns Jrom her. 
 
 Teague. [Aside.] Deel tauke her, I did tought 
 she could not know me again. — [Constance goes 
 about to look him in the face. He turns from 
 her.'] Dish ish not shivil, be me shoule to know a 
 shentleman fither he will or no. 
 
 Con. Why this, Teague? what's the matter.' 
 are you ashamed of me, or yourself, Teague ? 
 
 Teague. Of bote, be my shoule. 
 
 Con. How does your master, sir ? 
 
 Teague. Very well, dear joy, and in prishon. 
 
 Con. In prison! how? where? 
 
 Teague. Why, in the little Bashtile yonder, at 
 the end of the street. 
 
 Con. Show me the way immediately. 
 
 Teague. Fet, I can show you the house yonder : 
 she yonder j be me shoule I she his faace yonder, 
 peeping troo the iron glash window ! 
 
 Con. I'll see him, though a dungeon were his 
 confinement. iRum out. 
 
 Teague. Ah ! auld kindnesh, be my shoule, can- 
 not be forgotten. Now, if my maishter had but 
 grash enough to get her with child, her word would 
 go for two ; and she would bail him and I bote. 
 
 iBxit. 
 
 SCENE III. — A meanly-furnished Room in n 
 Spunging House. 
 
 Hbrmeb Woui/DBb is discovered sitting at a table writing, 
 
 Herm. Would. The Tower confines the great. 
 The spunging house the poor ; 
 
 Thus there are degrees of state 
 That even the wretched must endure. 
 
 Yirgil, though cherish'd in courts, 
 Relates but a splenetic tale : 
 
 Cervantes revels and sports. 
 Although he writ in a jail. 
 
 Then bang reflections ! — [Starts up.] I'll go write 
 a Comedy. — Ho, within there 1 Tell the lieutenant 
 of the Tower that I would speak with him. 
 
 Enter Constable. 
 
 Constat, Ay, ay, the man is mad ; lieutenant 
 o'th' Tower ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — Would you could 
 make your words good, master. 
 
 Herm. Would. Why, am not I a prisoner there ? 
 I know it by the stately apartments. What is 
 that, pray, that hangs streaming down upon the 
 wall yonder ? 
 
 Constab. Yonder ! 'tis cobweb, sir. 
 
 Herm. Would. 'Tis false, sir 1 'tis as fine 
 tapestry as any in Europe. 
 
 Constab. The devil it is ! 
 
 Herm. Would. Then your damask bed, here ; 
 the flowers are so bold, I took 'em for embroidery ; 
 and then the beadwork ! Pointe de Venise, I 
 protest. 
 
 Constab. As good ICidderminster as any in 
 England, I must confess ; and though the sheets 
 be a little soiled, yet I can assure you, sir, that many 
 an honest gentleman has lain in them 
 
 Herm. fVould. Pray, sir, what did those two 
 Indian pieces cost, that are fixed up in the corner of 
 the room. 
 
 Constab. Indian pieces ! What the devil, sir, 
 they are my old jack boots, my militia boots ! 
 
 Herm. Would. I took 'em for two china jars, 
 upon my word ! But heark'ee, friend, art thou 
 content that these things should be as they 
 are ? 
 
 Constab. Content ! ay, sir. 
 
 Herm. Would. Why then should I complain? 
 
 Servant. [Without.] Mr. Constable, here's a 
 woman will force her way upon us : we can't stop 
 her. 
 
 Constab. Knock her down then, knock her 
 down ; let no woman come up, the man's mad 
 enough already. 
 
 ' Enter Constance. 
 
 Con. Who dares oppose me ? 
 
 {Throws him a handful of money. 
 
 Constab. Not I truly, madam. 
 
 [Gathers up the money. 
 
 Herm. Would. My Constance I my guardian 
 angel here ! Then naught can hurt me. 
 
 Constab. Heark'ee, sir, you may suppose the 
 bed to be a damask bed for half an hour if you 
 please. 
 
 Cim. No, no, sir, your prisoner must along witL 
 me. 
 
 Constab. Ay, faith, the woman's madder than 
 the man. 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 eo5 
 
 Enter Captain Trubman and Teagub. 
 
 Herm. Would. Ha ! Trueman too ! I'm proud 
 to think that many a prince has not so many true 
 friends in his palace, as I have here in prison. — 
 Two such — 
 
 Teague. Tree, he my shoule. 
 
 True, My lord, just as I heard of your confine- 
 ment, I was going to make myself a prisoner. 
 Behold the fetters ! I had just bought the wedding 
 ring. 
 
 Con. I hope they are golden fetters, captain ? 
 
 True. They weigh four thousand pound, madam, 
 besides the purse, which is worth a million. — My 
 lord, this very evening was I to be married ; hut 
 the news of your misfortune has stopped me : I 
 would not gather roses in a wet hour. 
 
 Herm. Would. Come, the weather shall be 
 clear ; the thoughts of your good fortune will 
 make me easy, more than my own can do, if pur- 
 chased by your disappointment. 
 
 True. Do you think, my lord, that I can go to 
 the bed of pleasure whilst you lie in a hovel ? — 
 Here, where is this constable ? How dare you do 
 this, insolent rascal ? 
 
 Constat. Insolent rascal ! do you know wno you 
 speak to, sir? 
 
 True. Yes, sirrah, don't I call you by your 
 proper name ? How dare you confine a peer of 
 the realm .■' 
 
 Constab. Peer of the realm! you may give good 
 words though, I hope. 
 
 Herm. Would. Ay, ay, Mr. Constable is in the 
 right, he did but his duty ; I suppose he had 
 twenty guineas for his pains. 
 
 Constab. No, I had but ten. 
 
 Herm. Would. Heark'ee, Trueman, this fellow 
 must be soothed, he'll be of use to us ; I must 
 employ you too in this affair with my brother. 
 
 True. Say no more, my lord, I'll cut his throat, 
 'tis but flying the kingdom. 
 
 Herm. Would. No, no, 'twill be more revenge 
 to worst him at his own weapons. Could I but 
 force him out of his garrison, that I might get into 
 possession, his claim would vanish immediately. 
 Does my brother know you ? 
 
 True. "Very little, if at all. 
 
 Herm. Would. Heark'ee. iWhiapers, 
 
 True. It shall be done. — Look'ee, constable, 
 you're drawn into a wrong cause, and it may prove 
 your destruction if you don't change sides imme- 
 diately. We desire no favour, but the use of your 
 coat, wig, and staif, for half an hour. 
 
 Constab. Why truly, sir, I understand now, by 
 this gentlewoman that I know to be our neigh- 
 bour, that he is a lord, and I heartily beg his 
 worship's pardon, and if I can do your honour any 
 service, your grace may command me. 
 
 Herm. Would. I'll reward you. — But we must 
 have the black patch for the eye too. 
 
 Teague. I can give your lordship wan ; here fet, 
 'tis a plaishter for a shore finger, and I have worn 
 it but twice. 
 
 Con. But pray, captain, what was your quarrel 
 at Aurelia to-day ? 
 
 True. With your permission, madam, we'U mind 
 my lord's business at present ; when that's done, 
 we'll mind the lady's. — My lord, I shall make an 
 excellent constable ; I never had the honour of a 
 civil employment before. We'll equip ourselves in 
 another place. — Here, you Prince of Darkness, 
 
 have you ne'er a better room in your house ? these 
 iron grates frighten the lady. 
 
 Constab. I have a handsome, neat parlour below, 
 sir. 
 
 Tr^ie. Come along then, you must conduct us.— 
 [Aside.} We don't intend to be out of your sight, 
 that you mayn't be out of ours. \.ExeunU 
 
 SCENE IV. — Aurelia's Apartment. 
 Enter Aurelia, ^icii:,ioB.E following. 
 
 Aur. Follow me not ! age and deformity, with 
 quiet, were preferable to this vexatious persecution. 
 For Heaven's sake, Mr. Richraore, what have I 
 ever shown to vindicate this presumption of yours ? 
 
 Rich. You show it now, madam ; your face, 
 your wit, your shape, are all temptations to undergo 
 even the rigour of your disdain, for the bewitching 
 pleasure of your company. 
 
 Aur. Then be assured, sir, you shall reap no 
 other benefit by my company ; and if you think it 
 a pleasure to be constantly slighted, ridiculed, and 
 affronted, you shall have admittance to such enter- 
 tainment whenever you will. 
 
 Rich. I take you at your word, madam ; I am 
 armed with submission against all the attacks of 
 your severity, and your ladyship shall find that my 
 resignation can bear much longer than your rigour 
 can inflict. 
 
 Aur. That is, in plain terms, your sufficiency 
 will presume much longer than my honour can 
 resist. Sir, you might have spared the unman- 
 nerly declaration to my face, having already taken 
 care to let me know your opinion of my virtue, by 
 your impudent settlement, proposed by Mrs. Man- 
 drake. 
 
 Rich. By those fair eyes, I'll double the proposal! 
 This soft, this white, this powerful hand — \_Takes 
 her hand"} shall write its own conditions. 
 
 Aur. Then it shall write this — [Strikes him'} 
 and if you like the terms, you shall have more 
 another time. lExit. 
 
 Rich. Death and madness ! a blow ! — Twenty 
 thousand pound sterling for one night's revenge 
 
 upon her dear, proud, disdainful person ! Am I 
 
 rich as many a sovereign prince, wallow in wealth, 
 
 yet can't command my pleasure ? — Woman ! If 
 
 there be power in gold, I yet shall triumph o'er thy 
 pride. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Mandrake. 
 
 Mrs. Man. O' my troth, and so you shall, if I 
 can help it. 
 
 Rich. Madam, madam, here, here, here's money, 
 gold, silver ! take, take, all, all, my rings too ! 
 All shall be yours, make me but happy in this 
 presumptuous beauty ; I'll make thee rich as 
 avarice can crave ; if not, I'll murder thee, and 
 myself too. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Your bounty is too large, too large 
 indeed, sir. 
 
 Rich. Too large I no, 'tis beggary without her. 
 Lordships, manors, acres, rents, tithes and trees, 
 all, all shall fly for my dear sweet revenge ! 
 
 Mrs. Man. Say no more, this night I'll put you 
 in a way. 
 
 Rich. This night 1 
 
 Mrs. Man. The lady's aunt is very near her 
 time — she goes abroad this evening a-visiting ; in 
 
606 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 the mean time I send to your mistress, tliat lier 
 aunt is fallen in labour at my house : she comes in 
 a hurry, and then — 
 
 Rich. Shall I be there to meet her ? 
 
 Mrs. Man. Perhaps. 
 
 Rich. In a private room ? 
 
 Mrs. Man. Mum. 
 
 Rich. No creature to disturb us ? 
 
 Mrs, Man. Mum, I say ; but you must give me 
 your word not to ravish her ; nay, I can tell you 
 she won't be ravished. 
 
 Rich. Ravish ! — Let me see, I'm worth five 
 thousand pound a-year, twenty thousand guineas 
 in my pocket, and may not I force a toy that's 
 scarce worth fifteen hundred pound ? I'll do't. 
 
 Her beauty sets my heart on fire ; beside 
 The injurious blow has set on fire my pride ; 
 The bare fruition were not worth my pain, 
 The joy will be to humble her disdain ; 
 Beyond enjoyment will the transport last 
 In tri\imph when the eostacy is past. [.Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.- 
 
 -A Room in Lord Wouldbe's 
 House. 
 
 Benjamin Wouldbb discovered alone. 
 Ben. Would. Show me that proud stoic that can 
 bear success and champagne : philosophy can sup- 
 port us in hard fortune, but who can have patience 
 in prosperity ? The learned may talk what they 
 will of human bodies, but I am sure there is not 
 one atom in mine but what is truly epicurean. 
 My brother is secured, I guarded with my friends, 
 my lewd and honest midnight friends — Holla, who 
 waits there ? 
 
 Enter Footman, 
 
 Fool. My lord ? 
 
 Ben. Would. A fresh battalion of bottles to 
 reinforce the cistern. Are the ladies come ? 
 
 Foot. Half an hour ago, my lord ; they're below 
 in the bathing-chamber. 
 
 Sea. Would. Where did you light on 'em ? 
 
 Foot. One in the passage at the old- playhouse, 
 my lord — I found another very melancholy paring 
 her nails by Rosamond's Pond, —and a couple I got 
 at the Chequer ale-house in Holborn ; the two 
 last came to town yesterday in a west-country 
 waggon. 
 
 Ben. Would. Very well, order Baconface to 
 hasten supper ; and, d'ye hear ? and bid the Swiss 
 admit no stranger without acquainting me. — lExit 
 Footman.] Now, Fortune, I defy thee ; this night's 
 my own at least. 
 
 Re-enter Footman. 
 
 Foot. My lord, here's the constable below with 
 the black eye, and he wants to speak with your 
 lordship in all haste. 
 
 Ben. Would. Ha! the constable! — Should For- 
 tune jilt me now?— Bid him come up. — [Exit 
 Footman.] I fear some cursed chance to thwart 
 me. 
 
 Enter Captain Tbueman, disguised as a Constable. 
 
 True. Ah I my lord, here is sad news — your 
 brother is — 
 
 Ben. Would. Got away, made his escape, I war- 
 rant you. 
 
 True. Worse, worse, my lord. 
 
 Ben. Would. Worse, worse I what can be worse? 
 
 True. I dare not speak it. 
 
 Ben. Would. Death and hell, fellow, don't dis- 
 tract me ! 
 
 True. He's dead. 
 
 Ben. Would. Dead.! 
 
 True. Positively. 
 
 Ben. Would. Coup de grace, del grandmerci ! 
 
 True. Villain, I understand yoii. [Aside. 
 
 Ben. Would. But, how, how, Mr. Constable ? 
 speak it aloud, kill me with the relation. 
 
 True. I don't know how j the poor gentleman 
 was very melancholy upon his confinement, and so 
 he desired me to send for a gentlewoman that lives 
 hard by here ; mayhap your worship may know 
 her. 
 
 Ben, Would. At the gilt balcony in the square ? 
 
 True. The very same, a smart woman truly. I 
 went for her myself, but she was otherwise engaged ; 
 not she truly ! she would not come. Would you 
 believe it, my lord, at hearing of this the poor man 
 was like to drop down dead. 
 
 Ben. Would. Then he was but likely to drop 
 dead? 
 
 True. Would it were no more ! Then I left 
 him, and Coming about two hours after, I found 
 him hanged in his sword-belt. 
 
 Ben. Would. Hanged ! 
 
 True. Dangling. 
 
 Ben. Would. Ike coup d'iclat! done like the 
 noblest Roman of 'em all ! — But are you sure he's 
 past all recovery ? Did you send for no surgeon 
 to bleed him ? 
 
 True. No, my lord, I forgot that — ^but I'll send 
 immediately. 
 
 Ben. Would. No, no, Mr. Constable, 'tis too 
 late now, too late. — And the lady would not come, 
 you say ? 
 
 True. Not a step would she stir. 
 
 Ben. Would. Inhuman ! barbarous ! — dear, de- 
 licious woman, thou now art mine. — ^Where is the 
 body, Mr. Constable ? I must see it. 
 
 True. By all means, my lord, it lies in my par- 
 lour : there's a power of company come in, and 
 among the rest one, one, one Trueman, I think 
 they call him ; a devilish hot fellow, he had like to 
 have pulled the house down about our ears, and 
 swears. I told him he should pay for his swear- 
 ing, he gave me a slap in the face, said he was in 
 the army, and had a commission for't. 
 
 Ben. Would. Captain Trueman? a blustering 
 kind of rakehelly officer ? 
 
 True. Ay, my lord, one of those scoundrels that 
 we pay wages to for being knocked o' th' head for 
 us. 
 
 Ben. Would. Ay, ay, one of those fools that 
 have only brains to be knocked out. 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 607 
 
 True. [Aside.'\ Son of a whore. — [Aloud.'^ He's 
 a plaguy impudent fellow, my lord ; he swore that 
 you were the greatest villain upon the earth. 
 
 Ben. Would. Ay, ay, but he durst not say that 
 to my face, Mr. Constable. 
 
 True. No, no, hang him, he said it behind your 
 back to be sure. And he swore, moreover,— have 
 a care, my lord, — he swore that he would cut your 
 throat whenever he met yon. 
 
 Ben. tVould. Will you swear that you heard 
 him say so ? 
 
 True. Heard him ! ay, as plainly as you hear 
 me : he spoke the very words that I speak to your 
 lordship. 
 
 Ben. Would. Well, well, I'll manage him. — But 
 now I think on't, I won't go see the body ; it will 
 but increase my grief. Mr. Constable, do you send 
 for the coroner : they must find him non compos. 
 He was mad before, you know. Here — something 
 for your trouble. lOives money. 
 
 True. Thank your honour. — But pray, my lord, 
 have a care of that Trueman ; he swears that he'll 
 cut your throat, and he will do't, my lord, he will 
 do't. 
 
 Ben. Would. Never fear, never fear. 
 
 True. But he swore it, my lord, and he will cer- 
 tainly do't. Pray have a care. [_Exit. 
 
 Ben. Would. Well, well, — so, — the devil's in't 
 if I ben't the eldest now. What a pack of civil 
 relations have I had here 1 My father takes a fit 
 of the apoplexy, makes a face, and goes off one 
 way ; my brother takes a fit of the spleen, makes a 
 face, and goes off t'other way. — Well, I must own 
 he has found the way to mollify me, and I do love 
 him now with all my heart ; since he was so very 
 civil to jnstle into the world before me, I think he 
 did very civilly to justle out of it before me. — But 
 now my joys ! — Without there — hollo ! — Take off 
 the inquisition of the gate ; the heir may now enter 
 unsuspected. 
 
 The wolf is dead, the shepherds may go play : 
 Ease follows care ; so rolls the world away. 
 
 'Tls a question whether adversity or prosperity 
 makes the most poets. 
 
 Re-enter Footman. 
 
 Foot. My lord, a footman brought this letter, 
 and waits for an answer. 
 
 Ben. Would. Nothing from the Elysian fields, 
 I hope.- — [ Opening the letter.'] What do I see, 
 CONSTANCE I Spells and magic in every let- 
 ter of the name ! — Now for the sweet contents. 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 Vm pleased to hear of your happy change of 
 fortune, and shall be glad to see your lordship this 
 evening to wish you joy. 
 
 Constance. 
 
 Now the devil's in this Mandrake ! she told me 
 this afternoon that the wind was chopping about ; 
 and has it got into the warm corner already.' — 
 Here, my coach-and-six to the door : I'll visit my 
 sultana in state. As for the seraglio below stairs, 
 you, my bashaws, may possess 'em. 
 
 iBxit, Footman following. 
 
 SCENE 11.— The Street before Mrs. Man- 
 drake's House, 
 
 Enter Teaoub carrying a lantern, Captain Teuemah 
 following, disguised as a Oonstable. 
 
 True. Blockhead, thou hast led us out of the 
 way ; we have certainly passed the constable's 
 house. 
 
 Teague. Be me shoule, dear joy, I am never out 
 of my ways ; for poor Teague has been a vanderer 
 ever since he was horned. 
 
 True. Hold up the lantern. — What sign is that? 
 the St. Albans tavern ! — Why, you blundering fool, 
 you have led me directly to St. James's Square, 
 when you should have gone towards Soho. — 
 [^Shrieking within.l Hark! what noise is that 
 over the way .' a woman's cry ! 
 
 Teague. Fet is it ; shome daumsel in distress I 
 believe, that has no mind to be relieved. 
 
 True. I'll use the privilege of my office to know 
 what the matter is. 
 
 Teague. Hold, hold, maishter captain, be me 
 fet, dat ish not the way home. 
 
 Aur. [ Within.'] Help ! help ! murder ! help. 
 
 True. Ha I here must be mischief. — Within there, 
 open the door in the king's name, or I'll force it 
 open. — Here, Teague, break down the door. 
 
 [Teague takes the staff, thumps at the door. 
 
 Teague. Deel tauke him, I have knock so long 
 as I am able. Arab, maishter, get a great long 
 ladder to get in the window of the firsht room, and 
 sho open the door, and let in yourshelf. 
 
 Aur. [ Within. ] Help ! help ! help ! 
 
 True. Knock harder ; let's raise the mob, 
 
 Teague. O maishter, I have tink just now of a 
 brave invention to maake dem come out ; and be 
 St. Patrick, dat very bushiness did maake my 
 nown shelf and my fader run like de devil out of 
 my nown hoose in my nown country : — be me 
 shoule, set the hoose a-fire. 
 
 Enter Mob. 
 
 Mob, What's the matter, master constable ? 
 
 True. Gentlemen, I command your assistance 
 in the king's name to break into the house : there 
 is murder cried within. 
 
 Moh. Ay, ay, break open the door. 
 
 Mrs. Man. \_From the balcony.] What noise is 
 that below .' 
 
 Teague. Arah, vat noise ish dat above ? 
 
 Mrs. Man. Only a poor gentlewoman in labour ; 
 'twill be over presently. — Here, Mr. Constable ; 
 there's something for you to drink. 
 
 IThrows down a purse, Teague takes it up. 
 
 Teague. Come, maishter, we have no more to 
 shay, be me shoule.— [Goi?4^.] Arah, if you vill 
 play the constable right now, fet you vill come 
 away. 
 
 True. No, no ; there must r2 villany bj this 
 bribe. — Who lives in this house ? 
 
 Mob, A midwife, a midwife j 'tis none of our 
 business : let us be gone. 
 
 Aur. [Looking out at a window.'] Gentle- 
 man, dear gentleman, help I — A rape ! a rape ! 
 villany I 
 
 True. Ha ! that voice I know. — Give me the 
 staff; I'll make a breach, I warrant you. 
 
 IBreaks open the door, and enters, Tbaode and Mob 
 following. 
 
608 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ Room in Mrs. Mandrake's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Captain Trueman and Mob. 
 
 True. Gentlemen, searoli all about the house ; 
 let not a soul escape. 
 
 Enter Aukelia running, out of breath, and her hair 
 dishevelled. 
 
 Aur. Dear Mr. Constable — had you — staid but 
 a moment longer — I had been ruined. 
 
 True, [jiside.] Aurelia ! — \_Aloud\ Are you 
 safe, madam ? 
 
 Aur. Yes, yes ; I am safe — I think — but with 
 enough ado : he's a devilish strong fellow. 
 
 True. Where is the villain that attempted it ? 
 
 Aur. Psha ! — never mind the villain ; — look out 
 the woman of the house, the devil, the monster, 
 that decoyed me hither. 
 
 Enter Tbague, haling in Mrs. Mandrake 63/ the hair. 
 
 Teague. Be me shoul, I have taaken my shaare 
 of the plunder. Let me she fat I have gotten. — 
 l^Takes her to the light.'] Ububboo, a witch! a 
 witch ! the very saame witch dat would swear my 
 maishter was the youngest. 
 
 True. [Aside.} How ! Mandrake ! this was the 
 luckiest disguise — \_Aloud.'] Come, my dear Pro- 
 serpine, I'll take care of you. 
 
 Mrs. Marh. Pray, sir, let me speak with you. 
 
 True. No, no ; I'll talk with you before a 
 magistrate. — A cart, Bridewell, — you understand 
 me ? — Teague, let her be your prisoner ; I'll wait 
 on this lady. 
 
 Aur. Mr. Constable, I'll reward you. 
 
 Teague. It ish convenient noo by the law of 
 armsh, that I search my prishoner, for fear she 
 may have some pocket-pishtols. — Dere is a joak 
 for you ! [Searches her pockets. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Ah ! don't use an old woman so 
 barbarously. 
 
 Teague. Dear joy, den fy vere you an old 
 woman ? dat is your fait, not mine, joy ! — Uboo, 
 here ish nothing but scribble-scrabble papers, I 
 tink. [Fulls out a handful of letters. 
 
 True. Let me see 'em ; they may be of use. — 
 {Looks over the letters.'] For Mr. Richmore — 
 Ay ! does he traffic hereabouts ? 
 
 Av^. That is the villain that would have abused 
 me. 
 
 True. [Aside.] Ha ! then he has abused you ? 
 Villain indeed ! — [Aloud.'] Was his name Eich- 
 more, mistress ? a lusty, handsome man ? 
 
 Aur. Ay, ay, the very same : a lusty, ugly 
 fellow. 
 
 True. Let me see — [Opening a letter] whose 
 scrawl is this ? — [Aside.] Death and confusion 
 to my sight ! Clelia, my bride, his whore ! — I've 
 passed a precipice unseen, which to look back 
 upon, shivers me with terror.— This night, this 
 very moment, had not my friend been in confine- 
 ment, had not I worn this dress, had not Aurelia 
 been in danger, had not Teague found this letter, 
 had the least minutest circumstance been omitted, 
 what a monster had I been! — [Aloud.] Mistress, 
 is this same Pjchmore in the house still, think'ee.= 
 
 Aur. 'Tis very probable he may. 
 
 True. Very well. — Teague, take these ladies 
 Over to the tavern, and stay there till I come to 
 
 you. — [To Aurelia.] Madam, fear no injury; 
 your friends are near you. 
 
 Aur. What does he mean .' lAside. 
 
 Teague. Come, dear joy, I vill give you a pot of 
 wine out of your own briberies here. 
 
 {HaJes out Mrs. Mandrake, Aurelia and Mob 
 following. 
 
 Enter Rich.more. 
 
 Rich. [Aside.] Since my money won't prevail 
 on this cross fellow, I'll try what my authority can 
 do. — [Aloud.] What's the meaning of this riot, 
 constable .' I have the commission of the peace, 
 and can command you. Go about your business, 
 and leave your prisoners with me. 
 
 True. No, sir; the prisoners shall go about 
 their business, and I'll be left with you. — Look'ee, 
 master, we don't use to make up these matters 
 before company : so you and I must be in private 
 a little. — You say, sir, that you are a justice of 
 peace ? 
 
 Rich. Yes, sir; I have my commission in my 
 pocket. 
 
 Tru£. I believe it. — Now, sir, one good turn 
 deserves another : and, if -you will promise to do 
 me a kindness, why, you shall have as good as you 
 bring. 
 
 Rich. What Is it ? 
 
 True. You must know, sir, there is a neighbour's 
 daughter that I had a woundy kindness for. She 
 had a very good repute all over the parish, and 
 might have married very handsomely, that I must 
 say ; but, I don't know how, we came together 
 after a very kindly, natural manner, and I swore, 
 that I must say, I did swear confoundedly, that I 
 would marry her ; but, I don't know how, I never 
 cared for marrying of her since. 
 
 Rich. How so ? 
 
 True. Why, because I did my business without 
 it : that was the best way, I thought. The truth 
 is, she has some foolish reasons to say she's with 
 child, and threatens mainly to have me taken up 
 with a warrant, and brought before a justice of 
 peace. Now, sir, I intend to come before you, 
 and I hope your worship will bring me off. 
 
 Rich. Look'ee, sir, if the woman prove with 
 child, and you swore" to marry her, you must do't. 
 
 True. Ay, master ; but I am for liberty and 
 property. I vote for parliament men : I pay 
 taxes, and, truly, I don't think matrimony con- 
 sistent with the liberty of the subject. 
 
 Rich. But, in this case, sir, both law and justice 
 will oblige you. 
 
 True. Why, if it be the law of the land — I 
 found a letter here — I think it is for your worship. 
 
 Rich. Ay, sir ; how came you by it ? 
 
 True. By a very strange accident truly. — Clelia 
 — she says here you swore to marry her. Eh ! — 
 Now, sir, I suppose that what is law for a petty- 
 constable may be law for a justice of peace. 
 
 Rich, This is the oddest fellow — 
 
 True. Here was the t'other lady that cried out so 
 — I warrant now, if I were brought before yon for 
 ravishing a woman — the gallows would ravish me 
 for'f. 
 
 Rich. But I did not ravish her. 
 
 True. That I'm glad to hear : I wanted to be 
 sure of that. iAside. 
 
 Rich. [Aside.] I don't like this fellow. — 
 [Aloud.] Come, sir, give me my letter, and go 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS, 
 
 G09 
 
 about your business ; I have no more to say to 
 you. 
 
 True. But I have something to say to you. 
 
 looming up to him. 
 
 Rich. What? 
 
 True. Dog ! \_Btrikes him. 
 
 Rich. Ha ! struclt by a peasant \— [Draws.'] 
 Slave, thy death is certain. 
 
 \_Run$ at Captain Triteman. 
 
 True. O brave Don John, rape and murder in 
 one night ! IDisarms him. 
 
 Rich. Rascal, return my sword, and acquit your 
 prisoners, else will I prosecute thee to beggary. 
 I'll give some pettifogger a thousand pound to 
 starve thee and thy family according to law. 
 
 True. I'll lay you a thousand pound you won't. 
 iViscovering himself. 
 
 Rich. Gho^sts and apparitions ! Trueman ! 
 
 True. Words are needless to upbraid you ; my 
 very looks are sufficient ; and, if you have the 
 least sense of shame, this sword would be less 
 painful in your heart than my appearance is in 
 your eye. 
 
 Rich. Truth, by Heavens ! 
 
 True. Think on the contents of this, — IShouiing 
 a lelterj think next on me ; reflect upon your 
 villany to Aurelia, then view thyself. 
 
 Rich. Trueman, canst thou forgive me ? 
 
 Trjie. Forgive thee ! — lA long pause.^ Do one 
 thing, and I will. 
 
 Rich. Anything : — I'll beg thy pardon. 
 
 True. The blow excuses that. 
 
 Rich. I'll give thee half my estate. 
 
 True. Mercenary ! 
 
 Rich. I'll make thee my sole heir. 
 
 True. I despise it. 
 
 Rich. What shall I do ? 
 
 True. You shall — marry Clelia. 
 
 Rich. How ! that's too hard. 
 
 True. Too hard ! why was it then imposed on 
 me? If you marry her yourself, I shall believe 
 you intended me no injury ; so your behaviour 
 will be justified, my resentment appeased, and the 
 lady's honour repaired. 
 \ Rich. 'Tis infamous. 
 
 ^True. No, by Heavens, 'tis justice ! and what 
 is-ljust is honourable : if promises from man to 
 m^ have force, why not from man to woman ? 
 Th^ very weakness is the charter of their power, 
 and'they should not be injured because they can't 
 return it. 
 
 i?i(A. Return ray sword. 
 
 True. In my band 'tis the sword of justice, and 
 I should not part with it. 
 
 Rich^ Then sheathe it here, I'll die before I 
 consent so basely. 
 
 True. Consider, sir, the sword is worn for a 
 distinguishing. mark of honour: promise me one, 
 and receive t'other. 
 
 Rich. I'll promise nothing, till I have that in 
 my power. 
 
 True. Take it. IThrows him his sword. 
 
 Rich. I scorn to he compelled even to justice ; 
 and now, that I may resist, I yield. Trueman, I 
 have injured thee, and Clelia I have severely 
 wronged. 
 
 True. Wronged indeed, sir ; — and, to aggravate 
 the crime, the fair afflicted loves you. Marked 
 you with what confusion she received me .' She 
 Mept, the injured Innocence wept, and, with a 
 
 strange reluctance, gave consent ; her moving 
 softness pierced my heart, though I mistook the 
 cause. 
 
 Rich. Your youthful virtue warms my breast, 
 and melts it into tenderness. 
 
 True. Indulge it, sir ; justice is noble in any 
 form : think of the joys and raptures will possess 
 her when she finds you instead of me : you, the 
 dear dissembler, the man she loves, the man she 
 gave for lost, to find him true, returned, and in 
 her arms. 
 
 Rich. No new possession can give equal joy. — 
 It shall be done, the priest that waits for you shall 
 tie the knot this moment j in the morning I'll ex- 
 pect you'll give me joy. ^Exit. 
 
 True. So, is not this better now than cutting of 
 throats ? I have got my revenge, and the lady 
 will have hers without bloodshed. lExit. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Constance's Apartment. 
 CoNSTANcs: and Footman discovered. 
 
 Foot. He's just a-coming up, madam. IBxit. 
 
 Con. My civility to this man will be as great a 
 constraint upon me as rudeness would be to his 
 brother : but I must bear it a little, because our 
 designs require it. 
 
 Enter Benjamin Wouldbe. 
 — [Aside."] His appearance shocks me. — [^Atoud.l 
 My lord, I wish you joy. 
 
 Ben. Would. Madam, 'tis only in your power to 
 give it ; and would you honour me with a title to 
 be really proud of, it should be that of your hum- 
 blest servant. 
 
 Con. I never admitted anybody to the title of an 
 humble servant, that I did not intend should 
 command me ; if your lordship will bear with the 
 slavery, you shall begin when you please, provided 
 you take upon you the authority when I have a 
 mind. 
 
 Ben. Would. Our sex, madam, make much bet- 
 ter lovers than husbands ; and I think it highly 
 unreasonable, that you should put yourself in my 
 power, when you can so absolutely keep me in 
 yours. 
 
 Con. No, my lord, we never truly command till 
 we have given our promise to obey ; and we are 
 never in more danger of being made slaves, than 
 when we have 'em at our feet. 
 
 Ben. Would. True, madam, the greatest empires 
 are in most danger of falling ; but it is better to be 
 absolute there, than to act by a prerogative that'fj 
 confined. 
 
 Con. Well, well, my lord, I like the constitution 
 we live under ; I'm for a limited power, or none 
 at all. 
 
 Ben. Would. You have so much the heart of 
 the subject, madam, that you may rule as you 
 please ; but you have weak pretences to a limited 
 sway, where your eyes have already played the 
 tyrant. — I think one privilege of the people is to 
 kiss their sovereign's hand. [Taking her hand. 
 
 Con, Not tiU they have taken the oaths, my 
 lord ; and he that refuses them in the form the law 
 prescribes, is, I think, no better than a rebel. 
 
 Ben. Would. [Kneeling.] By shrines and altars ! 
 by all that you think just, and I hold good ! by 
 
610 
 
 THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 this, {Taking her hand] the fairest, and the dearest 
 vow — ^Kisses her hand. 
 
 Con. Fy, my lord ! [.Seemingly yielding. 
 
 Ben. Would. Your eyes are mine, they bring 
 me tidings from your heart that this night I shall 
 be happy. ■ 
 
 Con. Would not you despise a conquest so 
 easily gained ! 
 
 Sen. Would. Yours will be the conquest, and I 
 shall despise all the world but you. 
 
 Con. But will you promise to make no attempts 
 upon my honour ? 
 
 Ben. Would. [Aside.'] That's (oo\\a\i.— [Aloud.] 
 Not angels sent on messages to earth shall visit 
 with more innocence. 
 
 Con. [Aside.] Ay, ay, to be sure. — [Aloud.] 
 My lord, I'll send one to conduct yon. lExit. 
 
 Ben. Would. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — no attempts upon 
 her honour ! When I can find the place where it 
 lies, I'll tell her more of my mind. — Now do I feel 
 ten thousand Cupids tickling me all over with the 
 points of their arrows. — Where's my deformity 
 now } I have read somewhere these lines : — 
 Though Nature cast me in a rugged mould, 
 Since fate has changed the bullion into gold : 
 Cupid returns, breaks all his shafts of lead. 
 And tips each arrow with a golden head. 
 Feather'd with title, the gay lordly dart 
 Flies proudly on, whilst every virgin's heart 
 Swells with ambition to receive the smart. 
 
 Enter Hermes Wouldbb behind him. 
 
 Herm. Would. Thus to adorn dramatic story, 
 
 Stage-hero struts in borrow'd glory. 
 Frond and august as ever man saw. 
 And ends his empire in a stanza. 
 
 ISlaps him on the shoulder. 
 
 Ben. Would. Ha ! my brother ! 
 
 Herm. Would. No, perfidious man ; all kindred 
 and relation I disown ! The poor attempts upon 
 my fortune I could pardon, but thy base designs 
 upon my love I never can forgive. My honour, 
 birthright, riches, all I could more freely spare, 
 than the least thought of thy prevailing here. 
 
 Ben. Would. How ! my hopes deceived ! — 
 Cursed be the fair delusions of her sex ! whilst 
 only man opposed my cunning, I stood secure ; but 
 soon as woman interposed, luck changed hands, 
 and the devil was immediately on her side. — Well, 
 sir, much good may do you with your mistress, and 
 may you love, and live, and starve together. iGoing. 
 
 Herm. Would. Hold, sir ! I was lately your 
 prisoner, now you are mine ; when the ejectment 
 is executed, you shall be at liberty. 
 
 Ben. Would, Ejectment ! 
 
 Herm. Would. Yes, sir, by this time, I hope, 
 my friends have purged my father's house of that 
 debauched and riotous swarm that you had hived 
 together. 
 
 Ben. Would. Confusion ! — Sir, let me pass ; I 
 am the elder, and will be obeyed. IDraws. 
 
 Herm. Would. Barest thou dispute the eldership 
 so nobly ? 
 
 Ben. Would. I dare, and will, to the last drop 
 of my inveterate blood. IThey fight. 
 
 Enter Captain Trueman and Teaooe. 
 
 True. [Striking down their sworda.] Hold, hold, 
 my lord ! I have brought those shall soon decide 
 the controversy. 
 
 Ben. Would. If I mistake not, that is the villain 
 that decoyed me abroad. 
 
 IRuns at Captain Trueman, Teagoe catches his arm 
 behind, and takes away his sword. 
 
 Teague. Ay, be me shoule, thish ish the besht 
 guard upon the rules of fighting, to catch a man 
 behind his back. 
 
 Trite. My lord, a word. — [Whispers Hermes 
 WocLDBE.] Now, gentlemen, please to hear this 
 venerable lady. 
 
 [Goes to the door, and brings in Mrs. Mandrake. 
 
 Herm. Would. Mandrake in custody ! 
 
 Teague. In my custody, fet. 
 
 True. Now, madam, you know what punishment 
 is destined for the injury offered to Aurelia, if you 
 don't immediately confess the truth. 
 
 Mrs. Man. Then I must own, ( Heaven forgive 
 me !) — [ Weeping"] 1 must own, that Hermes, as he 
 was still esteemed, so be is the first-born. 
 
 Teague. A very honesht woman, be me shoule \ 
 
 Ben. Would. That confession is extorted by 
 fear, and therefore of no force. 
 
 True. Ay, sir ; but here is your letter to her, 
 with the ink scarce dry, where you repeat your 
 offer of five hundred pound a year to swear in your 
 behalf. 
 
 Teague. Dat was Teague's finding out, and, I 
 believe, St. Patrick put it in my toughts to pick 
 her pockets. . 
 
 Enter Constance and Aurblta. 
 
 Con. I hope, Mr. Wouldbe, you will make no 
 attempts upon my person. 
 
 Ben. Would. Damn your person ! 
 
 Herm. Would. But pray, madam, where have 
 you been all this evening .' \To Aureua. 
 
 Aur. Very busy, I can assure you, sir. Here's 
 an honest constable that I could find in my heart 
 to marry, had the greasy rogue but one drop of 
 genteel blood in his veins ; what's become of him ? 
 
 ^Looking about. 
 
 Con. Bless me, cousin, marry a constable ! 
 
 Aur. Why truly, madam, if that constable had 
 not come in a very critical minute, by this time I 
 had been glad to marry anybody. 
 
 True. I take you at your word, madam, you 
 shall marry him this moment ; and if you don't say 
 that I have genteel blood in my veins by to-morrow 
 morning — 
 
 Aur. And was it you, sir ? 
 
 True. Look'ee, madam, don't be ashamed ; I 
 found you a little in the deshabille, that's the truth 
 on't, but you made a brave defence. < 
 
 Aur. I am obliged to yon ; and though you 
 were a little whimsical to-day, this late adventure 
 has taught me how dangerous it is to provoke a 
 gentleman by ill usage ; therefore, if my lord and 
 this lady will show us a good example, I think we 
 must follow our leaders, captain. 
 
 True. As boldly as when honour calls. 
 
 Con. My lord, there was taken among your 
 brother's jovial crew, his friend Subtleman, whom 
 we have taken care to secure. 
 
 Herm, Would. For him the pillory. — For you, 
 madam t^o Mrs. Mandrake. 
 
 Teague. Be me shoule, she shall be married to 
 maishter Fuller. 
 
 Herm. Would. For you, brother — 
 
 Ben. Would. Poverty and contempt — 
 To which I yield as to a milder fate. 
 Than obligations from the man I hate. lExit. 
 
THE TWIN-RIVALS. 
 
 611 
 
 Herm. Would. Then take thy wish. — And now, 
 I hope, all parties have received their due rewards 
 and punishments ? 
 
 Teague. But what will you do for poor Teague, 
 maishter ? 
 
 Herm. Would. What shall I do for thee ! — 
 
 Teague. Arah, maak me a justice of peash, dear 
 oy. 
 
 Herm. Would. Justice of peace ! thou art not 
 qualified, man. 
 
 Teague. Yest, fet am I — I can take the oats, 
 
 and write my mark — I can be an honesht man 
 myshelf, and keep a great rogue for my dark. 
 
 Herm. Would. Well, well, you shall be taken 
 care of. — And now, captain, we set out for hap- 
 piness : — ' 
 
 Let none despair whate'er their fortunes be, 
 Fortune must yield, would men but act like me. 
 Choose a brave friend as partner of your breast, 
 Be active when your right is in contest ; 
 Be true to love, and fate will do the rest. 
 
 \Exeunt omneg. 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. HOOK. 
 
 Our poet open'd with a loud warlike blast, 
 But now weak woman is his safest cast, 
 To bring him off with quarter at the last : 
 Not that he's vain to think that 1 can say, 
 Or he can write, fine things to help the play. 
 The various scenes have drain'd his strength and 
 
 art ; 
 And I, you know, had a hard struggling part : 
 But then he brought me off with life and limb ; 
 Ah, would that I could do as much for him ! — 
 Stay, let me think — your favours to excite, 
 I still must act the part I play'd to-night. 
 For whatsoe'er may be your sly pretence, 
 You like those best that make the best defence : 
 But this is needless — 'tis in vain to crave it. 
 If you have damn'd the play, no power can save it. 
 Not all the wits of Athens, and of Rome ; 
 Not Shakspeare, Jonson, could revoke its doom : 
 Nay, what is more — if once your anger rouses. 
 Not all the courted beauties of both houg» 
 
 He would have ended here — out I thought meet, 
 
 To tell him there was left one safe retreat, 
 
 Protection sacred, at the ladies' feet. 
 
 To that he answer'd in submissive strain. 
 
 He paid all homage to this female reign. 
 
 And therefore turn'd his satire 'gainst the men. 
 
 From your great queen this sovereign right ye 
 
 draw, 
 To keep the wits, as she the world, in awe: 
 To her bright sceptre your bright eyes they bow ; 
 Such awful splendour sits on every brow, 
 All scandal on the sex were treason now. 
 The play can tell with what poetic care 
 He labour' d to redress the injured fair, 
 And if you won't protect, the men will damn him 
 
 there. 
 Then save the Muse, that flies to ye for aid ; 
 Perhaps my poor request may some persuade. 
 Because it is the first I ever made. 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 Captique dolls, donisque coactL 
 
 ViROlL. Maeii. ii. 196. 
 
 TO ALL FRIENDS ROUND THE WREKIN. 
 
 My Lords and Gbhtlemen, — Instead of the mercenary expectations that attend addresses of this nature, I humbly 
 beg, that this may be received as an acknowledgment for the favours you have already conferred. I have transgressed 
 the rules of dedication in offering you anything in that style, without first asking your leave : but the entertainment 
 I found in Shropshire commands me to be grateful, lind that's all I intend. 
 
 'Twas my good fortune to be ordered some time ago into the place which is made the scene of this comedy ; I was « 
 perfect stranger to everything in Salop, but its character of loyalty, the number of its inhabitants, the alacrity of the 
 gentlemen in recruiting the army, with their generous and hospitable reception of strangers. 
 
 This character I found so amply verified in every particular, that you made recruiting, which is the greatest fatigue 
 upon earth to others, to be the greatest pleasure in the world to me. 
 
 The kingdom cannot show better bodies of men, better inclinations for the service, more generosity, more good 
 understanding, nor more politeness, than is to be found at the foot of the Wrekiu. 
 
 Some little turns of humour that I met with almost within the shade of that famous hill, gave the rise to this comedy ; 
 and people were apprehensive that, by the example of some others, I would make the town merry at the expense of 
 the country-gentlemen. But they forgot that I was to write a comedy, not a libel ; and that whilst I held to nature, 
 no person of any character in your country could suffer by being exposed. I have drawn the justice and the clown in 
 their puris naturalibus ; the one an apprehensive, sturdy, brave blockhead ; and the other a worthy, honest, generous 
 gentleman, hearty in his country's cause, and of as good an understanding as I could, give him, which I must confess is 
 far short of his own. 
 
 I humbly beg leave to interline a word or two of the adventures of the Kecruiting Officer upon the stage. Mr. Rich, 
 who commands the company for which those recruits were raised, has desired me to acquit him before the world of a 
 charge which he thinks lies heavy upon him, for acting this play on Mr. Durfey's third night. 
 
 Be it known unto all meu by these presents, that it was my act and deed, or rather Mr. Durfey's ; for he would play 
 his third night against the first of mine. He brought down a huge flight of frightful birds upon me ; when (Heaven 
 knows i; I had not a feathered fowl in my play, except one single Kite ; but I presently made Plume a bird, because of 
 his name, and Brazen another, because of the feather in his hat ; and with these three I engaged his whole empire, 
 which I think was as great a IFonder as any in the Sun . 
 
 But to answer his complaints more gravely, the season was far advanced ; the officers that made the greatest figures 
 in my play were all commanded to their posts abroad, andwaitedonly for a wind, which might possibly tm^ in less time 
 than a day : and I know none of Mr. Durfey's birds that had posts abroad but his Woodcocks, and their season is over ; 
 60 that he might put off a day with less prejudice than the Recruiting Officer could ; who has this farther to say for 
 himself, that he was posted before the other spoke, and could not with credit recede from his station. 
 
 These and somo other rubs this comedy met with before it appeared. But on the other hand, it had powerful helps 
 to set it forward. The Duke of Ormond encouraged the author, and the Earl of Orrery approved the play. My recruits 
 were reviewed by my general and my colonel, and could not fail to pass muster ; and still to add to my success, they 
 nrere raised among my friends round the Wrekin. 
 
 This health has the advantage over our other celebrated toasts, never to grow worse for the wearing : 'tis a lasting 
 beauty, old without age, and common without scandal. That you may live long to set it cheerfully round, and to enjoy 
 the abundant pleasures of your fair and plentiful country, is the hearty wish of, my Lords and Gentlemen, your most 
 obliged, and most obedient servant, 
 
 G. FARQTJHAR. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Justice Balance, ^j 
 
 Justice Scbi'plb, > three Justices of the Peace. 
 
 Justice ScaIiJI, J 
 
 Mb. Worthy, a Gentleman qf Shropshire. 
 
 Serjeant Kjra, Serjeant to Captain Plume. 
 Bullock, a Country Clown, Brother to Rose. 
 
 C0»TABPEAnMA,N, 1 j„„ ^„^„i(,, 
 
 Thomas Appletueb, ) 
 
 Pluck, a Butcher, 
 Thomas, a Smith. 
 
 Mblinda, a Lady (^fortune, beloved by Mb. Worthy. 
 Silvia, Daughter to Jubticb Balance, in love with 
 
 Captain Plumb. 
 Lucy, Maid to Mblinda. 
 Rose, a Country &irl. Sister to Bulloce. 
 
 Steward, Drummer, Recruits, Constables, Watch, Mob 
 Servants, &:o. dio. 
 
 SCENE,— Shrewsbury. 
 
THE RKCRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 613 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 In ancient times when Helen's fatal charms 
 Roused the contending universe to arms, 
 The Grecian, council happily deputes 
 The sly Ulysses forth — to raise recruits. 
 The artful captain found, without delay. 
 Where great Achilles, a deserter, lay. 
 Him fate had warn'd to shun the Trojan blows t 
 Him Greece required — against their Trojan foes. 
 All the recruiting arts were needful here. 
 To raise this great, this timorous volunteer. 
 Ulysses well could talk i he stirs, he warms 
 The warlike youth. — He listens' to the charms 
 Of plunder, ^ fine laced coats, and glittering 
 
 Ulysses caught the young aspiring boy, 
 Ani listed him who wrought the fate of Troy. 
 Thus by recruiting was bold Hector slain : 
 Recruiting thus fair Helen did regain. 
 If for one Helen such prodigious things 
 Were acted, that they even listed kings ; 
 If for one Helen's artfnl, vicious charms. 
 Half the transported world was found in arms ; 
 What for so many Helens may we dare, 
 Whose minds as well as faces are so fair ? 
 If by one Helen's eyes old Greece could find, 
 Its Homer fired to write — even Homer blind ; 
 The Britons sure beyond compare may write, 
 That view so many Helens every night. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Market Place. 
 
 Enter Drummer, beating the " Grenadier's March" Ser- 
 jeant KiTB,*Co5TAR PEARMAm, Thomas Afplktrbs, and 
 Mob, following. 
 
 Kite. [Making a speech.'^ If any gentlemen 
 soldiers, or others, have a mind to serve her 
 majesty, and pull down the French king : if 
 any prentices have severe masters, any children 
 have undutiful parents : if any servants have 
 . too little wages, or any husband too much 
 wife : let them repair to the noble seijeant Kite, 
 at the sign of the Raven in this good town of 
 Shrewsbury, and they shall receive present relief 
 and entertainment. — Gentlemen, I don't beat my 
 drums here to ensnare or inveigle any man ; for you 
 must know, gentlemen, that I am a man of honour. 
 Besides, I don't beat up for common soldiers j no, 
 I list only grenadiers, grenadiers, gentlemen. — 
 Pray, gentlemen, observe this cap. This is the cap 
 of honour, it dubs a man a gentleman in the draw- 
 ing of a tricker ; and he that has the good fortune 
 to be bom six foot high, was born to be a great 
 man. — [To Costar Fearmain.] Sir, will you 
 give me leave to try this cap upon your head ? 
 
 Pear. Is there no harm in't.' won't the cap 
 list me .' 
 
 Kite. No, no, no more than I can. — Come, let 
 me see how it becomes you ? 
 
 Pear. Are you sure there be no conjuration in 
 it ? no gunpowder plot upon me ? 
 
 Kite. No, no, friend ; don't fear, man. 
 
 Pear. My mind misgives me plaguily. — Let me 
 see it. — [Going to put it on.} It smells woundily 
 of sweat and brimstone. Pray, Serjeant, what 
 writing is this upon the face of it .' 
 
 Kile. The crown, or the bed of honour. 
 
 Pear. Pray now, what may be that same bed of 
 honour ? 
 
 Kite. Oh ! a mighty large bed ! bigger by 
 half than the great bed of Ware — ten thousand 
 people may lie in it together, and never feel one 
 another, 
 
 Pear My wife and I would do well to lie in't, 
 
 for we don't care for feeling one ,another. — But do 
 folk sleep sound in this same bed of honour .' 
 
 Kite. Sound ! ay, so sound that they never wake. 
 
 Pear, Wauns ! I wish again that my wife lay 
 there. 
 
 Kite. Say you so? then, I find, brother — 
 
 Pear. Brother ! hold there, friend ; I am no 
 kindred to you that I know of yet. Look'ee, Ser- 
 jeant, no coaxing, no wheedling, d'ye see : it I have 
 a mind to list, why so ; if not, why 'tis not so : 
 therefore take your cap and your brothership back 
 again, for I an't disposed at this present writing. 
 — No coaxing, no brothering me, faith ! 
 
 Kite. I coax ! I wheedle ! I'm above it ! sir, 
 I have served twenty campaigns. But, sir, you 
 talk well, and I must own that you are a man 
 every inch of you, a pretty young sprightly fellow. 
 I love a fellow with a spirit ; but I scorn to coax, 
 'tis base : though I must say, that never in my life 
 have I seen a better built man ; how firm and 
 strong he treads ! he steps like a castle ; but I 
 scorn to wheedle any man. — Come, honest lad, will 
 you take share of a pot ^ 
 
 Pear. Nay, for that matter, I'll spend my penny 
 with the best he that wears a head, that is, begging 
 your pardon, sir, and in a fair way. 
 
 Kite. Give me your hand then ; and now, gen- 
 tlemen, I have no more to say, but this — here's a 
 purse of gold, and there is a tub of humming ale at 
 my quarters : 'tis the queen's money, and the 
 queen's drink. — She's a generous queen, and loves 
 her subjects — I hope, gentlemen, you won't refuse 
 the queen's health .' 
 
 Mob. No, no, no ! 
 
 Kite. Huzza then ! huzza for the queen, and the 
 honour of Shropshire ! 
 
 Mob. Huzza ! 
 
 Kite. Beat drum. 
 
 lExeunt, Drummer beating the '* Qrenadier^s March.' 
 
 Enter Captain Plumb. 
 
 Plume. By the Grenadier March, that should be 
 my drum, and by that shout, it should beat with 
 success. — Let me see — four o'clock. — [LooMngon 
 
614 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 Ms watch.'] At ten yesterday moming I left Lon- 
 don. — A hundred and twenty miles in thirty hours 
 is pretty smart riding, but nothing to the fatigue 
 of recruiting. 
 
 Se-enter Serjeant Kite. 
 
 Kite. Welcome to Shrewsbury, noble captain ! 
 From the banks of the Danube to the Severn side, 
 noble captain, you're welcome ! 
 
 Plume. A very elegant reception indeed, Mr. 
 Kite ! I find you are fairly entered into your re- 
 cruiting strain : pray, what success ? 
 
 Kite. I have been here but a week, and I have 
 recruited five. 
 
 Plume. Five ! pray what are they ? 
 
 Kite. I have listed the strong man of Kent, the 
 king of the gipsies, a Scotch pedlar, a scoundrel 
 attorney, and a Welsh parson. 
 
 . Plume. An attorney ! wert thou mad ? List a 
 lawyer t Discharge him, discharge him this minute. 
 
 Kite. Why, sir ? 
 
 Plume. Because I will have nobody in my com- 
 pany that can write ; a fellow that can write, can 
 draw petitions. — T say this minute discbarge him. 
 
 Kite, And what shall 1 do with the parson ? 
 
 Plume. Can he write ? 
 
 Kite. Hum ! he plays rarely upon the fiddle. 
 
 Plume. Keep him by all means. — But how 
 standsi the country affected ? were the people 
 pleased with the news of my coming to town ? 
 
 Kite. Sir, the mob are so pleased with your 
 honour, and the justices and better sort of people 
 are so delighted with me, that we shall soon do our 
 business. — But, sir, you have got a recruit here 
 that you little think of. 
 
 Plume. Who? 
 
 Kite. One that you beat up for last time you 
 were in the country : you remember your old friend 
 Molly at the Castle ? 
 
 Plume. She's not with child, I hope ? 
 
 Kite. No, no, sir — she was brought to bed yes- 
 terday. 
 
 Plume. Kite, you must father the child. 
 
 Kite. And so her friends will oblige me to marry 
 the mother ! 
 
 Plume. If they should, we'll take her with us ; 
 she can wash, you know, and make a bed upon 
 occasion. 
 
 Kite. Ay, or unmake it upon occasion. But 
 your honour knows that I am married already. 
 
 Plume. To how many ? 
 
 Kile. I can't tell readily — I have set them down 
 here upon the back of the muster-roll. — [Draws it 
 out] Let me see, — Imprimis, Mrs. Sheely Snike- 
 reyes ; she sells potatoes upon Ormond Key in 
 Dublin — Peggy Guzzle, the brandy-woman at the 
 Horse-guard at Whitehall — Dolly Waggon, the 
 carrier's daughter at Hull — Mademoiselle Van- 
 Bottomflat at the Buss. — Then Jenny Oakham, 
 the ship-carpenter's widow, at Portsmouth ; but I 
 don't reckon upon her, for she was married at the 
 same time to two lieutenants of marines, and a 
 man-of-war's boatswain. 
 
 Plume. A full company ! — You have named five 
 ^come, make 'em hdf-a-dozen. Kite. Is the child 
 a boy or a girl .' 
 
 Kile. A chopping boy. 
 
 Plume. Then set the mother down in your list, 
 and the boy in mine ; enter him a grenadier by the 
 name of Francis Kite, absent upon furlough. I'll 
 
 allow you a man's pay for his subsistence ; and now 
 go comfort the wench in the straw. 
 
 Kite. I shall, sir. 
 
 Plume. But hold; have you made any use of 
 your German doctor's habit since you arrived ? 
 
 Kite. Yes, yes, sir, and my fame's all about the 
 country for the most famous fortune-teller that 
 ever told a lie. — I was obliged to let my landlord 
 into the secret, for the convenience of keeping it 
 so ; hut he's an honest fellow, and will be trusty 
 to any roguery that is confided to him. This device, 
 sir, will get you men, and me money, which, I 
 think, is all we want at present. — But yonder comes 
 your friend Mr. Worthy. — Has your honour any 
 farther commands ? 
 
 Plume. None, at present. — [^Exit Serjeant 
 KiTB.] 'Tis indeed the picture of Worthy, but the 
 life's departed. 
 
 Enter Mr. Worthy. 
 
 What ! arms a-cross. Worthy ! Methinks, you 
 should hold 'em open when a friend's so near. — 
 The man has got the vapours in his ears, I believe : 
 I must expel this melancholy spirit. 
 
 Spleen, thou worst of fiends below, 
 
 Fly, I conjure thee by this magic blow. 
 
 l^Slaps Mr. Worthy on the shoulder. 
 
 War. Flume ! my dear captain, welcome. Safe 
 and sound returned } 
 
 Plume. I 'scaped safe from Germany, and 
 sound, I hope, from London ; you see I have lost 
 neither leg, arm, nor nose ; then for my inside, 
 'tis neither troubled with sympathies nor antipa- 
 thies ; and I have an excellent stomach for roast- 
 beef. 
 
 Wor. Thou art a happy fellow ; once I was so. 
 
 Plume. What ails thee, man ? No inundations ■ 
 nor earthquakes in Wales, I hope ? Has your 
 father rose from the dead, and reassumed his 
 estate .' 
 
 Wor. No. 
 
 Plume. Then you are married surely ? 
 
 Wor. No. 
 
 Plume. Then you are mad, or turning quaker ? 
 
 Wor. Come, I must out with it. — Your once 
 gay, roving friend is dwindled into an obsequious, 
 thoughtful, romantic, constant coxcomb. 
 
 Plume. And, pray, what is all this for ? 
 
 Wor. For a woman. 
 
 Plume. Shake hands, brother; if you go to 
 that, behold me as obsequious, as thoughtful, and 
 as constant a coxcomb as your worship. 
 
 Wor. For whom ? 
 
 Plume. For a regiment. — But for a woman !— 
 'Sdeath ! I have been constant to fifteen at a time, 
 but never melancholy for one ; and can the love 
 of one bring you into this pickle ? Pray, who ii 
 this miraculous Helen ? 
 
 Wor. A Helen indeed, not to be won under u 
 ten years' siege, as great a beauty, and as great a 
 jilt. 
 
 Plume. A jilt ! pho ! is she as great a whore ? 
 
 Wor. No, no. 
 
 Plume. 'Tis ten thousand pities. But who is 
 she .' do I know her ? 
 
 Wor, Very well. 
 
 Plume. Impossible !— I know no woman that 
 will hold out a ten years' siege. 
 
 Wor. What think you of Melinda .' 
 
 Plume. Melinda 1 why, she began to capitulate 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 615 
 
 this time twelvemonth, and offered to surrender 
 upon honourable terms ; and I advised you to 
 propose a settlement of five hundred pounds a year 
 to her, before I went last abroad. 
 
 Wor. I did, and she hearkened to't, desiring 
 only one week to consider : when, beyond her 
 hopes, the town was relieved, and I forced to turn 
 my siege into a blockade. 
 
 Plume. Explain, explain ! 
 
 Wor. My lady Richly, her aunt, in Flintshire 
 dies, and leaves her, at this critical time, twenty 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 Plume. Oh, the devil ! what a delicate woman 
 was there spoiled ! But, by the rules of war now, 
 Worthy, your blockade was foolish. After such a 
 convoy of provisions was entered the place, you 
 could have no thought of reducing it by famine ; 
 you should have redoubled your attacks, taken the 
 town by storm, or have died upon the bneach. 
 
 Wor. I did make one general assault, and 
 pushed it with all my forces ; but 1 was so vigor- 
 ously repulsed, that, despairing of ever gaining her 
 for a mistress, I have altered my conduct, given 
 my addresses the obsequious and distant turn, and 
 court her now for a wife. 
 
 Plume. So as you grpw obsequious, she grew 
 haughty ; and because you approached her as a 
 gbddess, she used you like a dog .' 
 
 Wor. Exactly. 
 
 Plume. 'Tis the way of 'em all. Come, Wor- 
 thy, your obsequious and distant airs will never 
 bring you together; you must not think to sur- 
 mount her pride by your humility. Would you 
 bring her to better thoughts of you, she must be 
 reduced to a meaner opinion of herself. Let me 
 see ; the very first thing that I would do, should 
 be to lie with her chambermaid, and hire three or 
 four wenches in the neighbourhood to report that 
 I had got them with child. Suppose we lampooned 
 all the pretty women in town, and left her out? 
 Or, what if we made a ball, and forgot to invite 
 her with one or two of the ugliest ? 
 
 Wor. These would be mortifications, I must 
 confess ; but we live in such a precise, dull place, 
 that we can have no balls, no lampoons, no — 
 
 Plume. What ! no bastards ! and so many 
 recruiting officers in town ! I thought 'twas a 
 maxim among them to leave as many recruits in 
 the country as they carried out. 
 
 Wor. Nobody doubts your good-will, noble 
 captain, in serving your country with your best 
 blood ; witness our friend Molly at the Castle, 
 There have been tears in town about that business, 
 captain. 
 
 Plume. I hope Silvia has not heard of 't ? 
 
 Wor. O sir, have you thought of her ? I began 
 to fancy you had forgot poor Silvia. 
 
 Plums. Your affairs had put my own quite out 
 of my head. 'Tis true, Silvia and I had once agreed 
 to go to bed together, could we have adjusted pre- 
 liminaries s but she would have the wedding before 
 consummation, and I was for consummation before 
 the wedding ; we could not agree. She was a 
 pert, obstinate fool, and would lose her maiden- 
 head her own way, so she may keep it for Flume. 
 
 Wor. But do you intend to marry upon no 
 other conditions .' 
 
 Plwme. Your pardon, sir, I'll marry upon no 
 conditions at all. If I should, I am resolved never 
 to bind myself to a woman for my whole life, till I 
 
 know whether I shall like her company for half an 
 hour. Suppose I married a woman that wanted a 
 leg 1 such a thing might be, unless I examined the 
 goods beforehand. If people would but try one 
 another's constitutions before they engaged, it 
 would prevent all these elopements, divorces, and 
 the devil knows what. 
 
 Wor. Nay, for that matter, the town did not 
 stick to say, that — 
 
 Plume. I hate country towns for that reason., 
 If your town has a dishonourable thought of Silvia 
 it deserves to be burned to the ground. I love 
 Silvia, I admire her frank, generous disposition. 
 There's something in that girl more than woman, 
 her sex is hut a foil to her. The ingratitude, dis- 
 simulation, envy, pride, avarice, and vanity of her 
 sister females, do but set off thqir contraries in her. 
 In short, were I once a general I would marry her. 
 
 Wor. Faith, you have reason ; for were you 
 but a corporal she would marry you. But my 
 Melinda coquettes it with every fellow she sees. 
 I'll lay fifty pound she makes love to you. 
 
 Plume. I'll lay fifty pound that I return it, if 
 she does. Look'ee, Worthy, I'll win her, and 
 give her to you afterwards. 
 
 Wor. If you win her you shall wear her, faith ; 
 I would not give a fig for the conquest without the 
 credit of the victory. 
 
 Re-tnter Serjeant Kite. 
 
 Kite. Captain, captain, a word in your ear. 
 
 Plume. You may speak out, h^ere are none but 
 friends. 
 
 Kite. You know, sir, that you sent me to com- 
 fort the good woman in the straw, Mrs. Molly — 
 my wife, Mr. Worthy. 
 
 Wor. O ho ! very well I I wish you joy, Mr. Kite. 
 
 Kite. Your worship very well may, for I have 
 got both a wife and a child in half an hour. But, as 
 I was a-sayiug, you sent me to comfort Mrs. Molly, 
 my wife I mean ; but what d'ye think, sir ? she 
 was becter comforted before I came. 
 
 Plume. As how ! 
 
 Kite. Why, sir, a footman in a" blue livery had 
 brought her ten guineas to buy her baby-clothes. 
 
 Plums. Who, in the name of wonder, could 
 send them.^ 
 
 Kite. Nay, sir, I must whisper that — Mrs. Silvia, 
 
 \WliUverg. 
 
 Plume. Silvia ! generous creature 1 
 
 Wor. Silvia ! impossible ! 
 
 Kite. Here be the guineas, sir ; I took the gold 
 as part of my wife's portion. Nay, farther, sir, 
 she sent word that the child should be taken all 
 imaginable care of, and that she intended to stand 
 godmother. The same footman, as I was coming 
 to you with this news, called after me, and told 
 me, that his lady would speak with me. I went, 
 and, upon hearing that you were come to town, 
 she gave me half-a-guineafor the news ; and ordered 
 me to tell you, that justice Balance, her father, who 
 is just come out of the country, would be glad to 
 see you. 
 
 Plume. There's a girl for yon. Worthy! Is 
 there anything of woman in this ? No, 'tis noble 
 and generous, manly friendship. Show me another 
 woman that would lose an inch of her prerogative, 
 that way, without tears, fits, and reproaches ! The 
 common jealousy of her sex, which is nothing but 
 their avarice of pleasure, she despises ; and can 
 
616 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 part with the lover, though she dies for the man. 
 Come, Worthy : where's the best wine ? for there 
 I'll quarter. 
 
 Wor. Horton has a fresh pipe of choice Barce- 
 lona, which I would not let him pierce before, 
 because I reserved the maidenhead of it for your 
 welcome to town. 
 
 Plume. Let's away then. — Mr. Kite, wait on 
 the lady with my humble service, and tell her I 
 shall only refresh a little, and wait upon her. 
 
 Wor. Hold, Kite ! — Have you seen the other 
 recruiting-captain ? 
 
 Kile. No, sir. 
 
 Plume. Another ! who is he ? 
 
 Wor. My rival in the first place, and the most 
 unaccountable fellow — but I'll tell you more as we 
 go, \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE 11 Meliiiida's Apartment. 
 
 Enter Mblinda and Silvia meeting. 
 
 Mel. Welcome to town, cousin Silvia, — {^Salute.l 
 I envied you your retreat in the country ; for 
 Shrewsbury, methinlcs, and all your heads of shires, 
 are the most irregular places for living. Here we 
 have smoke, noise, scandal, affectation, and pre- 
 tension ; in short, everything to give the spleen — 
 and nothing to divert it. Then the air is intole- 
 rable. 
 
 Silv. O madam ! I have heard the town com- 
 mended for its air. 
 
 Mel. But you don't consider, Silvia, how long 
 I have lived in't ! for I can assure you, that to a 
 lady, the least nice in her constitution, no air can 
 be good above half a year. Change of air I take to 
 be the most agreeable of any variety in life. 
 
 Silv. As you say, cousin Melinda, there are 
 several sorts of airs. 
 
 Mel. Psha ! I talk only of the air we breathe, 
 or more properly of that we taste. Have not you, 
 Silvia, found a vast difference in the taste of airs .' 
 
 Silv. Pray, cousin, are not vapours a sort of air ? 
 taste air 1 you might as well tell me, I may feed 
 upon air. But prithee, my dear Melinda, don't 
 put on such an air to me. Your education and 
 mine were just the same ; and I remember the 
 time when we never troubled our heads about air, 
 but when the sharp air from the Welsh mountains 
 made our fingers ache in a cold morning at the 
 boarding-school. 
 
 Mel. Our education, cousin, was the same, but 
 our temperaments had nothing alike ; you have the 
 constitution of a horse. 
 
 Silv. So far as to be troubled with neither spleen, 
 colic, nor vapours ; I need no salts for my sto- 
 mach, no hartshorn for my head, nor wash for my 
 complexion ; I can gallop all the morning after the 
 hunting-horn, and all the evening after a fiddle. 
 In short, I can do everything with my father, but 
 drink, and shoot flying ; and I am sure, I can do 
 everything my mother could, were I put to the 
 trial. 
 
 Mel. You are in a fair way of being put to't ; 
 for I am told your captain is come to town. 
 
 Silv. Ay, Melinda, he is come, and I'll take 
 care he shan't go without a companion. 
 
 Mel. You are certainly mad, cousin ! 
 
 Silv. And there's a pleasure sure, in being mad, 
 Which none but madmen know. 
 
 Mel. Thou poor romantic Quixote ! Hast 
 thou the vanity to imagine that a voung sprightly 
 officer, that rambles over half the globe in half a 
 year, can confine his thoughts to the little daugh- 
 ter of a country-justice, in an obscure corner of the 
 world ? 
 
 Silv. Psha ! what care I for his thoughts ? I 
 should not like a man with confined thoughts, it 
 shows a narrowness of soul. Constancy is but 
 a dull sleepy quality at best, they will hardly admit 
 it among the manly virtues j nor do I think it 
 deserves a place with bravery, knowledge, policy, 
 justice, and souie other qualities that are proper 
 to that noble sex. In short, Melinda, I think a 
 petticoat a mighty simple thing, and I am heartily 
 tired of my sex. 
 
 Mel. That is, you are tired of an appendix to 
 our sex, that you can't so handsomely get rid of in 
 petticoats, as if you were in breeches. O' my con- 
 science, Silvia, hadst thou been a man, thou hadst 
 been the greatest '■ake in Christendom. 
 
 Silv. I should have endeavoured to know the 
 world, which a man can never do thoroughly with- 
 out half a hundred friendships, and as many 
 amours. But now I think on't, how stands your 
 affair with Mr. Worthy ? 
 
 Mel. He's my aversicjn'! 
 
 Silv. Vapours ' 
 
 Mel. What do you say, maaam ? 
 
 Silv. I say, that you should not use that honest 
 fellow so inhumanly. He's a gentleman of parts 
 and fortune ; and besides that he's my Plume's 
 friend, and by all that's sacred, if you don't use 
 him better, I shall expect satisfaction 
 
 Mel. Satisfaction I you begin to lancy yourself 
 in breeches in good earnest. But to be plain with 
 you, I like Worthy the worse for being so intimate 
 with your captain, for I take him to be a loose, 
 idle, unmannerly coxcomb. 
 
 Silv. O madam ! you never saw him, perhaps, 
 since you were mistress of twenty-thousand pound ; 
 you only knew him when you were capitulating 
 with Worthy for a settlement, which perhaps 
 might encourage him to be a little loose, and un- 
 mannerly with you. 
 
 Mel. What do you mean, madam ? 
 
 Silv. My meaning needs no interpretation, ma- 
 dam. 
 
 Mel. Better it had, madam ; for methinks you 
 are too plain. 
 
 Silv. If you mean the plainness of my person, I 
 think your ladyship as plain as me to the full. 
 
 Mel. Were I sure of that, I would be glad to . 
 take up with a rakehelly officer as you do. 
 
 Silv. Again ! — Look'ee, madam, you're in your 
 own house. 
 
 Mel. And if you had kept in yours, I should 
 have excused you. 
 
 Silv. Don't be troubled, madam, I shan't desire 
 to have my visit returned. 
 
 Mel. The sooner therefore you make an end of 
 this the better. 
 
 Silv. I am easily persuaded to follow my inclina- 
 tions, so, madam, your humble servant. [Er/t 
 
 Met. Saucy thing I 
 
 Snter Lucy. 
 
 I.ucy. What's the matter, madam .' 
 Mel. Did you not see the proud nothing, how 
 she swells upon the arrival of her fellow .' 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 617 
 
 I.vcy. Her fellow has not been long enough 
 arrived to occasion any great swelling, madam ; I 
 don't believe she has seen him yet. 
 
 Mel. Nor shan't if I can help it— Let me see — 
 I have it I — Bring me pen and ink. — Hold, I'll go 
 write in my closet. 
 
 Lucy, An answer to this letter, I hope, 
 madam. \_Pvesents a letter. 
 
 Mel, Who sent it ? 
 
 Lucy. Your captain, madam. 
 
 Mel. He's a fool, and I am tired of him. Send 
 it back unopened. 
 
 Lucy, The messenger's gone, madam. 
 
 Mel. Then how shall I send an answer ? Call 
 him back immediately, while I go write. 
 
 ZExtunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — ^i?oom in Justice Balance's i/oMe. 
 Enter Justice Balanck and Captain Plume. 
 
 Bal. Look'ee, captain, give us but blood for our 
 money, and you shan't want men. I remember 
 that for some years of the last war, we had no 
 blood nor wounds, but in the ofiScers' mouths ; 
 nothing for our millions but newspapers not worth 
 a reading. Our armies did nothing but play at pri- 
 son bars, and hide and seek with the enemy ; but 
 now ye have brought us colours, and standards, and 
 prisoners. Ads my life, captain, get us but an- 
 other mareschal of France, and I'll go myself for a 
 soldier. 
 
 Plume. Pray, Mr. Balance, how does your fair 
 daughter ? 
 
 Bal. Ah, paptain ! what is my daughter to a 
 mareschal of France ? We're upon a nobler subject, 
 I want to have a particular description of the bat- 
 tle of Hochstadt. 
 
 Plume. The battle, sir, was a very pretty battle 
 as one should desire to see, but we were all so 
 intent upon victory, that we never minded the 
 battle. All that I know of the matter is, our 
 general commanded us to beat the French, and we 
 did so ; and if he pleases but to say the word, we'll 
 do't again. But pray, sir, how does Mrs. Silvia.' 
 
 Bal. Still upon Silvia ! For shame, captain ! 
 you are engaged already, wedded to the war ; vic- 
 tory is your mistress, and 'tis below a soldier to 
 think of any other. 
 
 Plume. As a mistress, I confess, but as a friend, 
 Mr. Balance. 
 
 Bal. Come, come, captain, never mince the 
 matter, would not you debauch my daughter if you 
 could .' 
 
 Plwme. How, sir ! I hope she's not to be 
 debauched. 
 
 Bal. Faith, but she fs, sir j and any woman in 
 England of her age and complexion, by a man of 
 your youth and vigour. Look'ee, captain, once I 
 was young, and once an officer as you are ; and I 
 can guess at your thoughts now, by what mine were 
 then ; and I remember very well, that I would 
 have given one of my legs to have deluded the 
 daughter of an old plain country gentleman, as 
 like me as I was then like you. 
 
 Plume. But, sir, was that country gentleman 
 your friend and benefactor ? 
 
 Bal. Not much of that. 
 
 Plume. There the comparison breaks : thefavours, 
 sir, that — 
 
 Bal. Pfao, I hate speeches ! If I have done you 
 any service, captain , 'twas to j;lease myself, for I 
 
 love thee ; and if I could part with my girl you 
 should have her as soon as any young fellow I know. 
 But I hope you have more honour than to quit the 
 service, and she more prudence than to follow the 
 camp ; but she's at her own disposal, she has fif- 
 teen hundred pound in her pocket, and so — Silvia, 
 Silvia ! ^Calls. 
 
 Enter Su.TrA, 
 
 Si.v. There are some letters, sir, come by the post 
 from London ; 1 left them upon the table in your 
 closet. 
 
 Bal. And here is a gentleman from Germany. — 
 ^Presents Captain Plume to her.] Captain, you'll 
 excuse me, I'll go read my letters, and wait on you. 
 
 lExil. 
 
 Silv. Sir, you're welcome to England. 
 
 Plume. You are indebted to me a welcome, ma- 
 dam, since the hopes of receiving it from this fair 
 hand was the principal cause of my seeing England. 
 
 Silv. 1 have often heard that soldiers were sincere, 
 shall I venture to believe public report ? • 
 
 Plume. You may, when 'tis backed by private 
 insurance : for I swear, madani, by the honour of 
 my profession, that whatever dangers I went upon, 
 it was with the hope of making myself more worthy 
 of your esteem ; and if ever I had thoughts of pre- 
 serving my life, 'twas for the pleasure of dying at 
 your feet. 
 
 Silu. Well, well, you shall die at my feet, or where 
 you will; but you know, sir, there is a certain will 
 and testament to be made beforehand. 
 
 Plume. My will, madam, is made already, and 
 there it is ; [Gives her a parchment,'] and if you 
 please to open that parchment, which was drawn 
 the evening before the battle of Blenheim, you will 
 find Whom I left my heir. 
 
 Silv. lOpens the will and rends.] Mrs. Silvia 
 Balance. — Well, Captain, this is a handsome and a 
 substantial compliment ; but I can assure you, I 
 am much better pleased with the bare knowledge 
 of your intention, than I should have been in the 
 possession of your legacy. But methinks, sir, you 
 should have left something to your little boy at the 
 Castle. 
 
 Plume. [Aside.] That's home I— [Aloud.] My 
 little boy! Lack-a-day, madam, that alone may 
 convince you 'twas none of mine. Why the girl, 
 madam, is my Serjeant's wife, and so the poor crea- 
 ture gave out that I was father, in hopes that my 
 friends might support her in case of necessity^ 
 that was al'., madam. — My boy ! no, no, no. 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Madam, my master has received some ill 
 news from London, and desires to s]ieak with you 
 
618 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 Immediately, and he begs the captain's pardon, that 
 he can't wait on him as he promised. [Exit- 
 
 Plume. Ill news ! Heavens avert it, nothing could 
 touch me nearer than to see that generous worthy 
 gentleman afflicted. I'll leave you to comfort him, 
 and be assured, that if my life and fortune can be 
 any way serviceable to the father of my Silvia, she 
 shall freely command both. 
 
 Silv. The necessity must be very pressing that 
 would engage me to endanger either. 
 
 lExeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. — Another Room in the same. 
 Justice Balance and Silvia discovered. 
 
 Silv. Whilst there is life there is hope, sir ; per- 
 haps ray brother may recover. 
 
 JBal. We have but litde reason to expect it ; 
 doctor Kilman acquaints me here, that before this 
 comes to my bands, he fears I shall have no son. 
 — Poor Owen ! — But the decree is just, 1 was 
 pleased with the death of my father, because he left 
 me an estate, and now I'm punished with the loss 
 of an heir to inherit mine. I must now look upon 
 you as the only hopes of my family, and I expect 
 that the augmentation of your fortune will give you 
 . fresh thoughts, and new prospects. 
 
 Silv. My desire of being punctual in my obe- 
 dience, requires that you would be plain in your 
 commands, sir. 
 
 JBal. The death of your brother makes you sole 
 heiress to my estate, which you know is about 
 twelve hundred pounds a year. This fortune gives 
 you a fair claim to quality and a title ; you must 
 set a j«ist value upon yourself, and, in plain terms, 
 think no more of captain Plume. 
 
 Silv. You have often commended the gentleman, 
 sir. 
 
 Sal, And I do so still ; he's a very pretty fellow; 
 but though I liked him well enough for a bare son- 
 in-laWj I don't approve of him for an heir to my 
 estate and family. Fifteen hundred pounds indeed 
 I might trust in his hands, and it might do the 
 young fellow a kindness ; but, ods my life ! twelve 
 hundred pounds a year would ruin him — quite turn 
 his brain ! A captain of foot worth twelve hundred 
 pounds a year ! 'tis a prodigy in nature. Besides 
 this, 1 have live or six thousand pounds in woods 
 upon my estate ; oh, that would make him stark 
 mad ! For you must know, that all captains have 
 a mighty aversion to timber ; they can't endure to 
 see trees standing. Then I should have some 
 rogue of a builder, by the help of his damned 
 magic art, transform my noble oaks and elms into 
 cornices, portals, sashes, birds, beasts, and devils, 
 to adorn some magotty, new-fashioned bauble upon 
 the Thames ; and then you should have a dog of a 
 gardener bring a habeas corpus for my terra firma^ 
 remove it to Chelsea or Twittenham, and clap it 
 into grass-plats and gravel-walks. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir, here's one below with a letter for your 
 worship, but he will deliver it into no hands but 
 your own. 
 
 Bal. Come, show me the messenger. 
 
 \_Exit with Servant. 
 
 Silv. Make the dispute between love and duty, 
 and I am prince Prettyman exactly. If my brother 
 
 dies, ah poor brother I if he lives, ah poor sister ! 
 'Tis bad both ways ; I'll try again. Follow my 
 own inclinations, and break my father's heart ; or 
 obey his commands, and break my own .' worse 
 and worse. Suppose 1 take it thus ? a moderate 
 fortune, a pretty fellow, and a pad ; or a fine 
 estate, a coach-and-six, and an ass. That will 
 never do neither. 
 
 Re-enter Justice Balance and Servant. 
 
 Bal. [To Servant.] Put four horses into the 
 coach. — [Exit Servant.] Silvia ! 
 
 Silv. Sir. 
 
 Bal. How old were you when your mother died ? 
 
 Silv. So young that I don't remember I ever had 
 one ; and you have been so careful, so indulgent to 
 me since, that indeed I never wanted one. 
 
 Bal. Have I ever denied you anything you asked 
 of me? 
 
 Silv. Never that I remember. 
 
 Bal. Then, Silvia, I must beg that, once in your 
 life, you would grant me a favour. 
 
 Silv. Why should you question it, sir ? 
 
 Bal. I don't ; but I would rather coimsel than 
 command. I don't propose this with the authority 
 of a parent, but as the advice of your friend ; that 
 you would take the coach this moment, and go into 
 the country. 
 
 Silv. Does this advice proceed from the contents 
 of the letter you received just now ? 
 
 Bal. No matter ; I shall be with you in three or 
 four days, and then give you my reasons. But 
 before you go, 1 expect you wiU make me one 
 solemn promise. 
 
 Silv. Propose the thing, sir. 
 
 Bal. That you will never dispose of yourself to 
 any man without my consent. 
 
 Silv. I promise. 
 
 Bal. Very well ; and to be even with you, I pro- 
 mise that I will never dispose of you without your 
 own consent ; and so, Silvia, the coach is ready ; 
 farewell ! — [Leads her to the door, and returns.\ 
 Now she's gone, I'll examine the contents of this 
 letter a little nearer. \Reads 
 
 Sir, 
 My intimacy with Mr. Worthy has drawn a 
 secret from him that he had from his friend cfljD- 
 tain Plume ; and my friendship and relation to 
 your family oblige me to give you timely notice of 
 it: the captain has dishonourable designs upon 
 my cousin Silvia. Evils of this nature are more 
 easily prevented than amended ; and that you would 
 immediately send my cousin into the country, is the 
 advice of, sir, your humble servant^ 
 
 Melinda. 
 
 Why the devil's in the young fellows of this age ! 
 they are ten times worse than they were in my 
 time. Had he made my daughter a whore, and 
 forswore it like a gentleman, I could have almost 
 pardoned it ; but to tell tales beforehand is mon- 
 strous. Hang it, I can fetch down a woodcock or 
 a snipe, and why not a hat and feather ? I have a 
 case of good pistols, and have a good mind to try. 
 
 Enter Mr. Worthy. 
 
 Worthy, yolir servant. 
 
 Wor. I'm sorry, sir, to be the messenger of ill 
 
SCENE HI. 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 619 
 
 Bal. I apj)rehend it, sir ; you have heard that 
 my son Owen is past recovery. 
 
 ffor. My advices say he's dead, sir. 
 
 Bal. He's happy, and I'm satisfied. The strokes 
 of Heaven I can bear, but injuries from men, Mr. 
 Worthy, are not so easily supported. 
 
 Wor. I hope, sir, you're under no apprehension 
 of wrong from anybody ? 
 
 Bal. You know 1 ought to be. 
 
 fVor. You wrong my honour, sir, in believing I 
 could know anything to your prejudice without 
 resenting it as much as you should. 
 
 Bal. This letter, sir, which I tear in pieces to 
 conceal the person that sent it, informs me that 
 Plume has a design upon Silvia, and that you are 
 privy to't. [Tears the letter. 
 
 Wor. Nay then, sir, I must do myself justice, 
 and endeavour to find out the author. — [ Takes up 
 a fragment of the letter.^ Sir, I know the hand,, 
 and if you refuse to discover the contents — Me- 
 linda shall tell me. [Going. 
 
 Bal. Hold, sir ! the contents I have told you 
 already, only with this circumstance, that her inti- 
 macy with Mr. Worthy had drawn the secret from 
 him. 
 
 Wor. Her intimacy with me ! — Dear sir, let me 
 pick up the pieces of this letter ; 'twill give me 
 Buch a hank upon her pride, to have her own an 
 intimacy under her hand. — [Gathering up the 
 letter.'^ 'Twas the luckiest accident ! The asper- 
 sion, sir, was nothing but malice, the effect of a 
 little quarrel between her and Mrs. Silvia. 
 
 Bal. Are you sure of that, sir .' 
 
 Wor, Her maid gave me the history of part of 
 the battle just now, as she overheard it. But I 
 hope, sir, your daughter has suffered nothing upon 
 the account ? 
 
 Bal. No, no, poor girl ; she's so afflicted with 
 the news of her brother's death, that to avoid 
 company she begged leave to be gone into the 
 country. 
 
 Wor. And is she gone ^ 
 
 Bal. I could not refuse her, she was so pressing ; 
 the coach went from the door the minute before 
 you came. 
 
 Wor. So pressing to be gone, sir ! I find 
 her fortune will give her the same airs with 
 Melinda, and then Flume and 1 may laugh at one 
 another. 
 
 Bal. Like enough ; women are as subject to pride 
 as we are, and why mayn't great women, as well as 
 great men, forget their old acquaintance .' But 
 come, Where's this young fellow ? I love him so 
 well, it would break the heart of me to think him 
 a rascal. — [Aside.} I'm glad my daughter's gone 
 fairly off though. — lAloud.J Where does the cap- 
 tain quarter ? 
 
 Wor, At Horton's ; I'm to meet him there 
 two hours hence, and we should be glad of your 
 company. 
 
 Bal. Your pardon, dear Worthy ; I must allow 
 a day or two to the death of my son : the decorum 
 of mourning is what we owe the world, because 
 they pay it to us afterwards. I'm yours over a 
 bottle, or how jwu will. 
 
 Wor, Sir, I'm your humble servant. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ Street. 
 
 Enter Serjeant Kjte, leading Cobtar Pwabmaiit /n one 
 hand, and Thomas Applbtkee in the other, both drunk, 
 
 Serjeant Kite sings. 
 Our prentice Tom may now refuse 
 To wipe his scoundrel master's shoes ; 
 For now he's free to sing and play.— 
 Over the hills and far away. 
 
 Chorus. Over the hills, and over the main. 
 To Flanders, Portugal, or Spain : 
 The queen commands, and we'll obey — 
 Over the hills and far away. 
 
 We all shall lead more happy lives. 
 
 By getting rid of brats and wives. 
 
 That scold and brawl both night and day — 
 
 Over the hills and far away. 
 
 Chorus. Over the hills, &o. 
 
 Hey, hoys ! thus we soldiers live ; drink, sing, 
 dance, play ! We live, as one should say — we live 
 — 'tis impossible to tell how we live. We are all 
 princes. Why — why, you are a king — you are an 
 emperor, and I'm a prince. Now — an't we — 
 
 Apple. No, Serjeant, I'll be no emperor. 
 
 Kite. No! 
 
 Apple. No, I'll be a justice of peace. 
 
 Kite. A justice of peace, man ! 
 
 Apple. Ay, wauns will I ; for since this pressing 
 act, they are greater than any emperor under the 
 sun. 
 
 Kite. Done ! you are a justice of peace, and 
 you are a king, and I am a duke ; and a rum duke, 
 an't I ? 
 
 Pear. Ay, but I'll be no king. 
 
 Kite. What then } 
 
 Pear, I'll be a queen. 
 
 Kite, A queen ! 
 
 Pear. Ay, queen of England ; that's greater 
 than any king of 'em all. 
 
 Kite. Bravely said, faith ! Huzza for the queen I-- — 
 IHuzza.J But heark'ee, you Mr. Justice, and you 
 Mr. Queen, did you ever see the queen's picture? 
 
 Both, No ! no ! no ! 
 
 Kite. I wonder at that ; I have two of 'em set 
 in gold, and as Uke her majesty, God bless the 
 mark ! — See here, they are set in gold. 
 
 Takes two broad-pieca out of his pocket, and gives one 
 to each. 
 
 Apple. The wonderful works of Nature ! 
 
 [Looking at it. 
 
 Pear. What's this written about ? Here's a 
 posy, I believe, — Ca-ro-lus. — What's that, Ser- 
 jeant ? 
 
 Kite, Oh, Carolus ! — Why, Carolus is Latin for 
 queen Anne, — that's all. 
 
 Pear. 'Tis a fine thing to be a scoUard ! Ser- 
 jeant, will you part with this ? I'll buy it on you, 
 if it come within the compass of a crawn. 
 
 Kite, A crown ! never talk of buying j 'tis the 
 same thing among friends, you know ; I present 
 them to ye both : you shall give me as good a thing. 
 Put 'em up, and remember your old friend, when 
 I am — Over the hills and far away ! 
 
 [They sing and put up the money. 
 
 Enter Captain Plume, singing. 
 Flume. Over the hills and over the main, 
 To Flanders, Portugal, or Spain s 
 The queen commands, and we'll obey. 
 Over the hills and far away. 
 
020 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 ACT IT. 
 
 Cbme on, my men of mirth, away with it, I'll make 
 one among ye. — Who are these hearty lads ? 
 
 Kile. Off with your hats ;' 'ounds, off with your 
 hats ! This is the captain, .the captain. 
 
 Apple. We have seen captains afore now, mun. 
 
 Pear. Ay, and lieutenant- captains too ; flesh ; 
 ] 'se keep on my nab ! 
 
 Apple. And I'se scarcely doff mine for any cap- 
 tain in England. My v^ther's a freeholder. 
 
 Plume. Who are these jolly lads, Serjeant ? 
 
 Kite. A couple of honest brave fellows, that are 
 willing to serve the queen : 1 have entertained 'em 
 just now as volunteers' under your honour's com- 
 mand. 
 
 Plume. And good entertainment 'they shall 
 have. Volunteers are the inert i want, those are 
 the men fit to make soldiers, captains, generals ! 
 
 Pear. Wauns, Tummas, what's this ! are you 
 listed ? 
 
 Apple. Elesh,notI: areyo", Costar? 
 
 Pear. Wauns, not I ! 
 
 Kite. What, not listed ! Ha I ha 1 ha ! a very 
 good jest i'faith ! 
 
 Pear. Come, Tummas, we'll go home. 
 
 Apple. Ay, ay, come. 
 
 Kite. Home ! for shame, gentlemen, behave 
 yourselves better before your captain! D.ear 
 Tummas, honest Costar — 
 
 Apple. No, no, we'll be gone. 
 
 Kite. Nay then, J command you to stay : I 
 place you both sentinels in this place for two hours 
 to watch the motion of St. Mary's clock, you: and 
 you the motion of St. Chad's : and he that dares 
 stir from his post till he be relieved, shall have my 
 sword in his guts the next minute. 
 
 Plume. What's the matter, Serjeant } I'm 
 afraid you are too rough with these gentlemen. 
 
 Kite. I'm too mild, sir : they disobey command, 
 sir, and one of 'em should be shot for an example 
 to the other. 
 
 Pear. Shot, Tummas ! 
 
 Plume. Come, gentlemen, what's the matter ? 
 
 Pear. We don't know ; the noble Serjeant is 
 pleased to be in a passion, sir — but — 
 
 Kile. They disobey command ; they deny their 
 being listed. 
 
 Apple. Nay, Serjeant, we don't downright deny 
 it neither ; that we dare not do, for fear of being 
 shot : but we humbly conceive in a civil way, and 
 begging your worship's pardon, that we may go 
 home. 
 
 Plume. That's easily known. Have either of 
 you received any of the queen's money .' 
 
 Pear. Not a brass farthing, sir. 
 
 Kile. Sir, they have each of them received 
 three-and-twenty shillings and sixpence, and 'tis 
 now in their pockets. 
 
 Pear. Wauns, if I have a penny in my pocket 
 but a bent sixpence, I'll be content to be listed, 
 and shot into the bargain ! 
 
 Apple. And I. Look ye here, sir. 
 
 Pear. Ay, here's my stock too : nothing but the 
 queen's picture, that the Serjeant gave me just now. 
 
 Kite. See there, a broad-piece ! three-and- 
 twenty shillings and sixpence j t'other has the 
 fellow on't, 
 
 Plume. The case is plain, gentlemen, the goods 
 are found upon you. Those pieces of gold are 
 worth three and-twenty and sixpence each. 
 
 f Whispers Serjeant Kite. 
 
 Pear. So it seems, that Carolus is three-and- 
 twenty shillings and sixpence in Latin. 
 
 Apple. 'Tis the same thing in Greek, for we are 
 listed. 
 
 Pear. Flesh, but we an't, Tummas ! — I desire to 
 be carried before the mayor, captain. 
 
 Plume. [Aside to Kite.] 'Twill never do. Kite 
 — your damned tricks will ruin me at last. — I won't 
 lose the fellows though, if I can help it. — ■ 
 [Aloud.'] Well, gentlemen, there must be some 
 trick in this : my Serjeant offers here to take his 
 oath that you are fairly listed. 
 
 Apple. Why, captain, we know that you 
 soldiera have more liberty of conscience than other 
 folks; but for me or neighbour Costar here, to 
 take such an oath, 'twould be a downright perju- 
 ration. 
 
 Plume. [To Kite.] Look'ee, you rascal ! you 
 villain ! if I find that you have imposed upon 
 these two honest fellows, I'll trample you to death, 
 you dog ! Come, how was't ? 
 
 Apple. Nay, then, we will speak. Your Ser- 
 jeant, as you say, is a rogue, begging yourworship's 
 pardon — and — 
 
 Pear. Nay, Tummas, let me speak ; you know 
 I can read. — And so, sir, he gave us those two 
 pieces of money for pictures of the queen, by way 
 of a present. 
 
 Plume. How ! by way of a present ! The sou 
 of a whore ! I'll teach him to abuse honest fel- 
 lows like you !— Scoundrel, rogue, villain ! 
 
 [Bea(«o# Serjeant Kjtb, and follows. 
 
 Both. O brave noble captain ! Huzza ! a brave 
 captain, faith ! 
 
 Pear. Now, Tummas, Carolus is Latin for a 
 beating. This is the bravest captain I ever saw. 
 — Wauns, I have a month's mind to go with 
 him ! 
 
 Re-snter Captain Plumb. 
 
 plume. A dog, to abuse two such pretty fel- 
 lows as you ! — Look'ee, gentlemen, I love a pretty 
 fellow : I come among you as an officer to list sol- 
 diers, not as a kidnapper, to steal slaves. 
 
 Pear. Mind that, Tummas. 
 
 Plujne. I desire no man to go with me but as 
 I went myself : I went a volunteer, as you, or you, 
 may do ; for a little time carried a musket, and 
 now I command a company. 
 
 Apple. Mind that, Costar. — A sweet gentleman ! 
 
 Plume. 'Tis true, gentlemen, I might take an 
 advantage of you j the queen's money was in your 
 pockets, my Serjeant was ready to take his oath 
 you were listed ; but I scorn to do a base thing, 
 you are both of you at your liberty. 
 
 Pear. Thank you, noble captain. — Ecod, I can't 
 find in my heart to leave him, he talks so finely. 
 
 Apple. Ay, Costar, would he always hold in this 
 mind. 
 
 Plume. Come, my lads, one thing more I'll tell 
 you : you're both young tight fellows, and the 
 army is the place to make you men for ever : every 
 man has his lot, and you have yours. What think 
 you now of » purse full of French gold out of a 
 monsieur's pocket, after you have dashed out his 
 brains with the but of your firelock, eh 1 
 
 Pear. Wauns! I'll have it, cap'tain — give me a 
 shilling, I'll follow you to the end of the world. 
 
 Apple. Nay, dear Costar, do'na ; be advised. 
 
 Plume. Here, my hero, here fere two guineas 
 for thee, as earnest of wlrat I'll do farther for thee. 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 621 
 
 Apple. Do'ua take it, do'na, dear Costar ! 
 
 ICrieSt and pulls back his arm. 
 
 Pear. I wuU! Iwull! — Wauns, my mind gives 
 me, that I shall be a captain myself. — I take your 
 money, sir, and now 1 am a gentleman. 
 
 Plume. Give me thy hand, and now you and 
 I VfiU travel the world o'er, and command 
 vpherever we tread lAside to Costau Pear- 
 main.] Bringyour friend with you,if you can. 
 
 Pear, Well, Tummas, must we part ? 
 
 Apple. No, Costar, I canno leave thee. — Come, 
 captain, I'll e'en go along too ; and if you have 
 two honester simpler lads in your company, than 
 we twa been, I'll sav no more. 
 
 Plume. Here, my lad. — IGives him money.1 
 Now your name ? 
 
 Apple. Tummas Appletree. 
 Plume. And yours .' 
 Pear. Costar Pearmain 
 Plume. Born where ? 
 Apple. Both in Herefordshire. 
 Plume. Very well ; courage, my lads ! — Now 
 we'll sing. Over the hills and far away. [Sings. 
 
 Courage, toys, 'tis one to ten, 
 
 But we return all gentlemen ; 
 
 While conquering colours we display, 
 
 Over the hills and far away. 
 
 Over the hills, ^c. [Exeunt singing. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE l.—The MarJcet-place. 
 Enter Captain Plume and Mr, WortAy. 
 
 Wor. I cannot forbear admiring the equality of 
 our two fortunes. We loved two ladies, they met 
 us half way, and just as we were upon the point of 
 leaping into their arms, fortune drops into their 
 laps, pride possesses their hearts, a maggot fills 
 their heads, madness takes 'em by the tails ; they 
 snort, kick up their heels, and away they run. 
 
 Plume. And leave us here to mourn upon the 
 shore — a couple of poor melancholy monsters. — 
 What shall we do ? 
 
 Wor. I have a trick for mine ; the letter, you 
 know, and the fortune-teller. 
 
 Plume. And I have a trick for mine. 
 
 Wor. What is't ? 
 
 Plume. I'll never think of her again. 
 
 Wor. No ! 
 
 Plume. No ; I think myself above administering 
 to the pride of any woman, were she worth twelve 
 thousand a year, and 1 haji't the vanity to believe 
 I shall ever gain a lady worth twelve hundred. The 
 generous good-natured Silvia in her smock I ad- 
 mire, but the haughty scornful Silvia, with her 
 fortune, I despise. {.Sings. 
 
 Come, fair one, be kind ; 
 
 You never shall find 
 A fellow so fit for a lover : 
 
 The world shall view 
 
 My passion for you. 
 But never your passion discover. 
 
 I still will complain 
 
 Of your frowns and disdain. 
 Though I revel through all your obarms : 
 
 The world shall declare, 
 
 That I die with despair. 
 When I only die in your arms. 
 
 I stJM will adore. 
 
 And love more and more. 
 But, by Jove, if you chance to prove cruel, 
 
 ril get me a miss 
 
 That freely will kiss. 
 Though I afterwards drink water-gruel. 
 
 What, sneak out o' town, and not so much as a 
 word, a Hue, a compliment I 'Sdeath, how far off 
 does she live ? I'll go and break her windows. 
 
 Wor. Ha ! ha 1 ha 1 ay, and the window-bars 
 too to come at her. Come, come, friend, no more 
 of your rough military airs. 
 
 Eater Serjeant Kirfi, 
 
 Kite. Captain ! sir ! look yonder, she's a-coming 
 this way : 'tis the prettiest, cleanest, little tit ! 
 
 Plume. Now, Worthy, to show you how much 
 I am in love. — Here she comes ; and what is that 
 great country fellow with her ? 
 
 Kite. I can't tell, sir. 
 
 Enter Hose, a basket on her arm, and Bullock. 
 
 Sose. Buy chickens ! young and tender ! young 
 and tender chickens ! 
 
 Plume. Here, you chickens 1 
 
 Sose. Who calls ? 
 
 Plume. Come hither, pretty maid. 
 
 Rose. Will you please to buy, sir r 
 
 Wor. Yes, child, we'll both buy. 
 
 Plume. Nay, Worthy, that's not fair, market for 
 yourself. — Come, child, I'll buy all you have. 
 
 Sose. Then all I have is at your sarvice. 
 
 {Curtsies. 
 
 Wor. Then I must shift for myself, I find. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Plume. Let me see ; young and tender you say' 
 {Chucks her under the chin. 
 
 Sose. As ever you lasted in your life, sir. 
 
 Plume. Come, I must examine your basket to 
 the bottom, my dear. 
 
 Sose. Nay, for that matter, put in your hand ; 
 feel, sir ; I warrant my ware as good as any in the 
 market. 
 
 Plume. And I'll buy it all, child, were it ten 
 times more. 
 
 Sose. Sir, I can furnish you. 
 
 Plume. Come then, we won't quarrel about the 
 price, they're fine birds. — Pray what's your name, 
 pretty creature ? 
 
 Sose. Rose, sir. My father is a farmer within 
 three short mile o' the town ; we keep this market j 
 I sell chickens, eggs, and butter, and my brother 
 Bullock there sells corn. 
 
 Bull. Come, sister, haste ye, we shall be leat 
 a hoame. [ Whistles about the stage, 
 
 Pltwie, Kite ! — ITips him the wink, he returns 
 it.\ Pretty Mrs. Rose — you have, let me see — how 
 many ? 
 
 Sose. A dozen, sir, and they are richly worth a 
 crawn. 
 
 Bull. Come, Ruose, Ruose ! I sold fifty strake 
 o' barley to-day in half this time ; but you will 
 
022 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 higgle and higgle for a penny more than the com- 
 modity is worth. 
 
 Hose. What's that to you, oaf? I can make as 
 much out of a groat as you can out of fourpence, 
 I'm sure. The gentleman bids fair, and when I 
 meet with a chapman I know how to make the best 
 on him : and so, sir, I say, for a crawn-piece, the 
 bargain's yours. 
 
 Plume. Here's a guinea, my dear. 
 Rose. I can't change your money, sir. 
 Plume. Indeed, indeed, but you can : my lodging 
 is hard by, you shall bring home the chickens, 
 and we'll make change there. 
 
 [Goes offt RosK follows him. 
 Kite. So, sir, as I was telling you, I have seen 
 one of these hussars eat up a ravelin for his break- 
 fast, and afterwards pick his teeth with a palisado. 
 Bull. Ay, you soldiers see very strange things. 
 But pray, sir, what is a ravelin ? 
 
 Kite. Why, 'tis like a modem minced pie, but 
 the crust is confounded hard, and the plums are 
 somewhat hard of digestion. 
 
 Bull. Then your palisado, pray what may he be? 
 — Come, Ruose, pray ha' done. 
 
 Kite. Your palisado is a pretty sort of bodkin, 
 about the thickness of my leg. 
 
 Bull. IJsiM] That's a fib, I believe.— [.<4/o«rf.] 
 £h ! where's Ruose ? Ruose ! Ruose ! 'sflesh, 
 Where's Ruose gone ? 
 
 Kile. She's gone with the captain. 
 Bull. The captain ! wauns, there's no pressing 
 of women, sure } 
 
 Kite. But there is, sir. 
 
 Bull. If the captain should press Ruose I should 
 
 be ruined ! Which way went she ? Oh, the devil 
 
 take your rablins and palisadoes ! [Jlxit. 
 
 Kite, you shall be better acquainted vrith them, 
 
 honest Bullock, or I shall miss of my aim. 
 
 Re-enter Mr. Worthy. 
 
 IVor. Why, thou art th^ most nsefiil fellow in 
 nature to your captain ; admirable in your way, I 
 find. 
 
 Kite. Yes, sir, I understand my business, I will 
 say it. — You must know, sir, I was bom a gipsy, 
 and bred among that crew till I was ten year old. 
 There I learned canting and lying. I was bought 
 from my mother, Cleopatra, by a certain nobleman 
 for three pistoles ; who, liking my beauty, made me 
 his page ; there I learned impudence and pimping. 
 I was turned off for wearing my lord's linen, and 
 drinking my lady's ratafia ; and then turned bailiff's 
 follower : there I learned bullying and swearing. 
 I at last got into the army, and there I learned 
 whoring and drinking : so that if your worship 
 pleases to cast up the whole sum, viz. canting, 
 lying, impudence, pimping, bullying, swearing, 
 whoring, drinking, and a hidberd, you will find the 
 sum total amount to a recruiting Serjeant. 
 
 IVor. And pray, what induced you to turn 
 soldier ? 
 
 Kite. Hunger and ambition, the fears of starv- 
 ing, and hopes of a truncheon, led me along to a 
 gentleman, with a fair tongue and a fair periwig, 
 who loaded me with promises ; but egad, it was 
 the lightest load that ever I felt in my life. He 
 promised to advance me, and indeed he did so — to 
 a garret in the Savoy. I asked him why he put 
 me in prison ; he called me lying dog, and said I 
 was in garrison ; and, indeed, 'tis a garrison 
 
 that may hold out till doomsday before I should 
 desire to take it again. But here comes justice 
 Balauce. 
 
 Enter Justice Baiancb and Bullock. 
 
 Bal. Here, you Serjeant, where's your captain ? 
 Here's a poor foolish fellow comes clamouring to 
 me with a complaint that your captain has pressed 
 his sister. — Do you know anything of this matter, 
 Worthy .' 
 
 War. Ha ! ha ! ha I I know his sister is gone 
 with Plume to his lodging, to sell him some 
 chickens. 
 
 Bal. Is that all? the fellow's a fool. 
 Bull. I know that, an't please you ; but if your 
 worship pleases to grant me a warrant to bring her 
 before you, for fear of the worst. 
 
 Bal. Thou'rt mad, fellow, thy sister's safe 
 enough. 
 
 Kite. I hope so too. lAHie. 
 
 TVor. Hast thou no more sense, fellow, than to 
 believe that the captain can list women ? 
 
 Bull. 1 know not whether they list them, or 
 what they do with them, but, I am sure, they 
 carry as many women as men with them out of the 
 country. 
 
 Bal. But how came you not to go along with 
 your sister ? 
 
 Bull. Luord, sir,I thought no more of her going 
 than I do of the day I shall die ; but this gentleman 
 here, not suspecting any hurt neither, I believe — 
 [To Kite.] You thought no harm, friend, did ye? 
 Kite. Lackaday, sir, not I ! — [Aside.'\ Only 
 that, I believe, I shall marry her to-morrow. 
 
 Bal. I begin to smell powder. — Well, friend, 
 but what did that gentleman with you ? 
 
 Bull. Why, sir, he entertained me with a fine 
 story of a great fight between the Hungarians, I 
 think it was, and the Irish ; and so, sir, while we 
 were in the heat of the battle — the captain carried 
 off the baggage. 
 
 Bal. Serjeant, go along with this fellow to your 
 captain, give him my humble service, and I desire 
 him to discharge the wench, though he has listed 
 her. 
 
 Bull. Ay, and if he hen't free for that, he shall 
 have another man in her place. 
 
 Kite. Come, honest friend — \^Aside.'\ You shaU 
 go to my quarters instead of the captain's. 
 
 [Exit WiUl BULIAGK. 
 
 Bai. We must get this mad captain his comple- 
 ment of men, and send him a-packing, else he'll 
 overrun the country. 
 
 War. You see, sir, how little he values your 
 daughter's disdain ! 
 
 Bal. I like him the better ; I was just such 
 another fellow at his age. I never set my heart 
 upon any woman so much as to make myself uneasy 
 at the disappointment ; but what was very sur- 
 prising both to myself and friends, I changed o'th' 
 sudden, from the most fickle lover to the most 
 constant husband in the world. But how goes 
 your affair with Melinda ? 
 
 Wor. Very slowly. Cupid had formerly wings, 
 but I think, in this age, he goes upon crutches ; or, 
 I fancy Venus has been dallying with her cripple 
 Vulcan when my amour commenced, which has 
 made it go on so lamely ; my mistress has got a 
 captain too, but such a captain ! As I live, yonder 
 he comes 1 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 623 
 
 • Bah Who ? that hluff fellow in the sash ! I 
 don't know him. 
 
 ff^or. But I engage he knows you, and every- 
 hody at first sight : his impudence were a prodigy, 
 were not his ignorance proportionable. He has the 
 most universal acquaintance of any man living ; for 
 fie won't be alone, and nobody will keep him com- 
 pany twice. Then he's aCcesar among the women, 
 Veni, vidi, vici, that's all : if he has but talked 
 with the maid, he swears he has lain with the 
 mistress. But the most surprising part of his 
 character is his memory, which is the most prodi- 
 gious and the most trifling in the world. 
 
 Bal. I have met with such men ; and I take this 
 good-for-nothing memory to proceed from a certain 
 contexture of the brain, which is purely adapted to 
 impertinencies, and there they lodge secure, the 
 owner having no thoughts of his own to disturb 
 them. 1 have known a man as perfect as a chro- 
 nologer, as to the day and year of most important 
 transactions, but be altogether ignorant of the 
 causes, springs, or consequences of any one thing 
 of moment. I have known another acquire so much 
 by travel, as to tell you the names of most places 
 in Europe, with their distances of miles, leagues, 
 or hours, as punctually as a postboy ; but for any- 
 thing 'else, as ignorant as the horse that carries the 
 mail. ■ 
 
 Wor. This is your man, sir, add but the tra- 
 veller's privilege of lying ; and even that he abuses. 
 This is the picture, behold the life ! 
 
 Enter Captain Braskn. 
 
 Braz. Mr. Worthy, I am your servant, and so 
 forth. — Heark'ee, my dear. 
 
 Wor, Whispering, sir, before company is not 
 manners, and when nobody's by 'tis foolish. 
 
 Braz. Company 1 Mori de ma vie .' I beg the 
 gentleman's pardon ; who is he .'* 
 
 Wor. Ask him. 
 
 Braz. So I will. — My dear, I am your servant, 
 and so forth — your name, my dear ? 
 
 Bal. Very laconic, sir ! 
 
 Braz. Laconic ! a very good name, truly ; I 
 have known several of the Laconics abroad. — Poor 
 Jack Laconic ! he was killed at the battle of Lan- 
 den. I remember that he had a blue ribbon in his 
 hat that very day, and after he fell, we found a 
 piece of neat's tongue in his pocket. 
 
 Bal. Pray, sir, did the French attack us, or 
 we them, at Landen .-' 
 
 Braz. The French attack us ! Oons, sir, are 
 you a Jacobite ? 
 
 Bal. Why that question ? 
 
 Braz. Because none but a Jacobite could think 
 that the French durst attack us. No, sir, we 
 attacked them on the — I have reason to remember 
 the time, for I had two-and-twenty horses killed 
 under me that day. 
 
 Wor. Then, sir, you must have rid mighty hard. 
 
 Bal. Or perhaps, sir, like my countryman, you 
 rid upon half-a-dozen horses at once. 
 
 Braz. What do you mean, gentlemen ? I tell 
 you they were killed, all torn to pieces by cannon- 
 shot, except six I staked to death upon the enemies 
 chevaux-de-frise. 
 
 Bal. Noble captain, may I crave your name ! 
 
 Braz. Brazen, at your service. 
 
 Bal. Oh, Brazen, a very good name; I have 
 know several of the Brazens abroad. 
 
 Wor. Do yon know captain Plume, sir ? 
 
 Braz. Is he anything related to Frank Plume in 
 Northamptonshire ? — Honest Frank ! many, many 
 a dry bottle have we cracked hand to fist. You 
 must have known his brother Charles that was con- 
 cerned in the India company, he married the 
 daughter of old Tonguepad, the master in chancery, 
 a very pretty woman, only squinted a little. She 
 died in childbed of her first child ; but the child 
 survived, 'twas a daughter, but whether 'twas called 
 Margaret or Margery, upon my soul, I can't re- 
 member. — [Looking on his watch.'] But, gentle- 
 men, I must meet a lady, a twenty thousand 
 pounder, presently, upon the walk by the water. — 
 Worthy, your servant. — Laconic, 'yours. lExU. 
 
 Bal. If you can have so mean an opinion of 
 Melinda as to be jealous of this fellow, I think 
 she ought to give you cause to be so. 
 
 Wor. I don't think she encourages him' so much 
 for gaining herself a lover, as to set me up a rival. 
 Were there any credit to be given to his words, I 
 should believe Melinda had made him this assig- 
 nation. I must go see ; sir, you'll pardon me. 
 
 Bal. Ay, ay, sir, you re a man of business. — 
 [Exit Mr. Worthy.] But what have we got 
 here .' 
 
 Re-enter Kose, singing. 
 
 Rose. And I shall be a lady, a captain's lady and 
 ride single upon a white horse with a star, upon a 
 velvet side-saddle ; and I shall go to London, and 
 see the tombs; and the lions, and the queeif. — Sir, 
 an please your worship, I have often seen your 
 worship ride through our grounds a-hunting, beg- 
 ging your worship's pardon — pray what may this 
 lace be worth a yard ? {Showing some lact. 
 
 Bal. Right Mechlin, by this light ! Where did 
 you get this lace, child .' 
 
 Rose. No matter for that, sir, I came honestly 
 by it. 
 
 Bal. I question it mnch. 
 
 Rose. And see here, sir, a fine Turkey-shell snuff- 
 box, and fine mangery, see here. — [ Takes sntiff 
 affectedly. ] The captain learned me how to take 
 it with an air. 
 
 Bal. Oho I the captain ! now the murder's 
 out. And so the captain taught you to take it 
 with an air .' 
 
 Rose. Yes, and give it with an air too. — Will 
 your worship please to taste my snuff ? 
 
 lOffers the box affectedly. 
 
 Bal. You are a very apt scholar, pretty maid. 
 And pray, what did you give the captain for these 
 fine things ? 
 
 Rose. He's to have my brother for a soldier, and 
 two or three sweethearts that I have in the country, 
 they shall all go with the captain. Oh, he's the 
 finest man, and the humblest withal I Would you 
 believe it, sir, he carried me up with him to his 
 own chamber, with as much fam-mam-mill-yara- 
 rality as if I had been the best lady in the land ! 
 
 Bal. Oh ! he's a mighty famihar gentleman, as 
 can be. 
 
 Rose. But I must beg your worship's pardon, 
 I must go seek out my brother Bullock. 
 
 [Runs ojf singing. 
 
 Bal. If all ofiicers took the same method of 
 recruiting with this gentleman, they might come in 
 time to be fathers as well as captains of their 
 companies. 
 
624 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 Re-enter Captain Fluub singing, with his arm round 
 Bosfi, 
 
 Plume. But it is not so 
 
 With those that go. 
 Through frosi and srtow. 
 Most apropos. 
 
 My maid with the milking-pait. 
 — [Aside.} How, the justice I then I'm arraigned, 
 condemned, and executed. 
 Bal. Oh, my noble captain ! 
 Rose. And my noble captain too, sir. 
 Plume. [Aside to Rose.] 'Sdeath, child ! are 
 you mad ! — [Aloud.] Mr. Balance, I am so full 
 of business about my recruits, that I han't a 
 moment's time to — I have just now three or four 
 people to — 
 
 Bal. Nay, captain, I must speak to you. 
 Nose. .And so must I too, captain. 
 Plume. Any other time, sir — I cannot for my 
 life, sir^ 
 
 Bal. Pray, sir — 
 
 Plume. Twenty thousand things — I would — but 
 now, sir, pray — devil take Bie — I cannot — I must — - 
 
 IBreaks'away. 
 Bal. Nay, I'll folltiw you. LExit. 
 
 Rote. And I too. iExit. 
 
 SCENE II — A Walk by the Severn. 
 M Enter Meunda and Lucy. 
 
 Mel. And pray, was it a ring, or buckle, or pen- 
 dants, or knots ? or, in what shape was the al- 
 mighty gold transformed, that has bribed you so 
 much in his favour r 
 
 Lucy. Indeed, madam, the last bribe I had was 
 from the captain, and that was only a small piece 
 of Flanders edging for pinners, 
 
 Mel. Ay, Flanders lace is as constant a present 
 from officers to their women, as something else is 
 from their women to them. They every year bring 
 over a cargo of lace, to cheat the queen of her 
 duty, and her subjects of their honesty. 
 
 Lucy. They only barter one sort of prohibited 
 goods for another, madam. 
 
 Mel. Has any of 'em been bartering with you, 
 Mrs. Pert, that you talk so like a trader ? 
 
 Lucy. Madam, you talk as peevishly to me, as 
 if it were my fault ; the crime is none of mine, 
 though I pretend to excuse it : though he should 
 not see you this week, can I help it ? But as I was 
 Baying, madam — his friend, captain Plume, has so 
 taken him up these two days. 
 
 Mel. Psha ! would his friend, the captain, were 
 tied upon his back ! I warrant, he has never been 
 sober since that confounded captain came to town. 
 The devil take" all officers, I say ! they do the nation 
 more harm by debauching us at home, than they 
 do good by defending us abroad. No sooner a 
 captain comes to town, but all the young fellows 
 flock about him, and we can't keep a man to 
 ourselves. 
 
 Lucy. One would imagine, madam, by your 
 concern for Worthy's absence, that you should use 
 him better when he's with you. 
 
 Mel. Who told you, pray, that I was concerned 
 for his absence .' I'm only vexed that I've had 
 nothing said to me these two days. One may like 
 the love, and despise the lover, I hope; as one 
 
 may love the treason, and hate the traitor. Oh, 
 here comes another captain, and a i ogue that has 
 the confidence to Inake love to me ; but, indeed, I 
 don't wonder at that, when he has the assurance to 
 fancy himself a fine gentleman. 
 
 Lucy. If he should speak o' th' aissignation, I 
 should be I'uined. {.Aside. 
 
 Enter Captain Brazen. 
 
 Braz. [Aside.] True to the touch, faith ! — 
 [Aloud.] Madam, I am your humble servant, and 
 all that, madam. — A fine river this same Severn. — 
 Do you love fishing, madam ? 
 
 Mel. 'Tis a pretty melancholy amusement for 
 lovers. 
 
 Braz. I'll go buy hooks and lines presently ; for 
 you must know, madam, that I have served in 
 Flanders against the French, in Hungary against 
 the Turks, and in Tangier against the Moors, and 
 I was never so much in love before ; and split me, 
 madam, in all the campaigns I ever made, I have 
 not seen so fine a woman as your ladyship. 
 
 Mel. And from all the men I ever saw, I never 
 had so fine a compliment ; but you soldiers are the 
 best bred men, that we must allow. 
 
 Braz. Some of us, madam. — But there are 
 brutes among us too, very sad brutes ; for my own 
 part, I have always had the good luck to prove 
 agreeable. — I have had very considerable offers, 
 madam— "I might have married a German princess, 
 worth fifty thousand crowns a year, but her stove 
 disgusted me. — The daughter of a Turkish bashaw 
 fell in love with me too, when I was prisoner 
 among the Infidels ; she offered to rob her father 
 of his treasure, and make her escape with me ; but 
 I don't know how, my time was not come ; hanging 
 and marriage, you know, go by destiny ; fate has 
 reserved me for a Shropshire lady with twenty 
 thousand pound. — Do you know any such person, 
 madam ? 
 
 Mel. [Aside.] Extravagant coxcomb! — [Aloud.] 
 To be sure, a great many ladies of that fortune 
 would be proud of the name of Mrs. Brazen. 
 
 Braz. Nay, for that matter, madam, there are 
 women of very good quality of the name of Brazen. 
 
 Enter Mr. Worthy. 
 
 Mel. [Aside.] Oh, are you there, gentleman ? 
 — [Aloud.] Come, captain, we'll walk this way, 
 give me your hand. 
 
 Braz. My hand, heart's blood, and guts are 
 at your service. — Mr. Worthy, your servant, my 
 dear. \_Exit, leading Mblinda, Jjvcv following. 
 
 Wor. Death and fire, this is not to be borne ! , 
 
 Enter Captain Plumb. 
 
 Plume. No more it is, faith. 
 
 Wor. What? 
 
 Plume. The March beer at the Raven. I have 
 been doubly serving the queen — raising men, and 
 raising the excise. Recruiting and elections are 
 rare friends to the excise. 
 
 Wor. You an't drunk ? 
 
 Plume. No, no, whimsical only ; I could be 
 mighty foolish, and fancy myself mighty witty. 
 Reason still keeps its throne, but it nods a little, 
 that's all. 
 
 Wor. Then you're just fit for a frolic. 
 
 Plume. As fit as close pinners for a punk in the 
 pit. 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 025 
 
 Wor. There's your play then, recover me that 
 vessel from that Tangerine. 
 
 Plume. She's well rigged, but how Is She 
 tnaiinedl 
 
 War. By captain Brazen, that I told you of 
 to-day. She is called the Melinda, a first rate, I 
 can assure you : she sheered oflf with him just now, 
 on purpose to afc'ront me ; but according to your 
 advice I would take no notice, because I would 
 seem to be above a concern for her behaviour. — 
 But hpve a care of a quarrel. 
 
 Plume. No, no, I never quarrel vrith anything 
 in my cups but an oyster wench, or a cookmaid ; 
 and if they ben't civil, I knock 'era down. But 
 heark'ee, my friend, I'll make love, and I must 
 make love. I tell you what, I'll make love like a 
 platoon. 
 
 Wor. Platoon, how's that ? 
 
 Plume. I'll kneel, stoop, and stand, faith ; most 
 ladies are gained by platooning. 
 
 Wor. Here they come ; I must leave you. LEj^it. 
 
 Plume. So ! now must I look as sober and as 
 demure as a whore at a christening. 
 
 Re enter Captain Brazen and MelindA. 
 Braz. Who's that, madam ? 
 Mel. A brother officer of yours, I suppose, sir, 
 Braz. Ay ! — [To Plume.] My dear ! 
 Plume. My dear ! [Run and enibi'ace. 
 
 Braz. My dear boy, how is't ? Your name, my 
 dear ? If I be not mistaken, I have seen your face. 
 Plume. I never saw yours in my life, my dear. 
 — But there's a face well known, as the sun's that 
 shines on all, and is by all adored. 
 
 Braz. Have you any pretensions, sir ? 
 Plume. Pretensions 1 
 
 Braz. That is, sir, have you ever served abroad ? 
 Plume. I have served at home, sir, for ages served 
 this cruel fair — and that will serve the turn, sir. 
 
 Mel. So, between the fool and the rake I shall 
 bring a fine spot of work upon my hands ! — I see 
 Worthy yonder — I could be content to be friends 
 with him, would he come this way. \_Aside. 
 
 Braz. Will you fight for the lady, sir ? 
 Plume. No, sir, but Til have her notwithstanding. 
 Thou peerless princess of Salopian plains, 
 Envied by nymphs^ and worshipped by the swains / 
 Braz. Oons, sir, not fight for her ! 
 Plume. Prithee be quiet — I shall be out — 
 Behold, how humbly does the Severn glide. 
 To greet thee princess of the Severn side ! 
 Braz, Don't mind him, madam. — If he were 
 not so well dressed, I should take him for a poet. 
 — But I'll show the difference presently. — Come, 
 madam — we'll place you between us ; and now the 
 longest sword carries her. [Z^raw*.- Melinda jftriefc*. 
 Jie-enterMr. Worthv. 
 Mel. Oh ! Mr. Worthy ! save me from these 
 madmen. lExit with Wobihv. 
 
 Plume. Ha ! ha I ha ! why don't you follow, sir, 
 and fight the bold ravisher .' 
 
 Braz. No, sir, you are my man. 
 Plume. I don't like the wages, and I won't be 
 your man. 
 Braz. Then you're not worth my sword. 
 Plume. No ! pray what did it cost .' 
 Braz. It cost me twenty pistoles in France, and 
 my enemies thousands of lives in Flanders. 
 Plume. Then they had a dear bargain. 
 
 Enter Silvia in male apparel. 
 
 Silv. Save ye, save ye, gentlemen ! 
 
 Braz. My dear, I'm yours. 
 
 Plume. Do you know the gentleman ? 
 
 Braz. No, but I will presently. — \_To Silvia.] 
 Your name, my dear .■' 
 
 Silv. Wilful ; Jack Wilful, at your service. 
 
 Braz. What, the Kentish Wilfuls, or those of 
 Staffordshire ? 
 
 .ytfti. Both, sir, both ; I'm related to all the Wil- 
 fuls in Europe, and I'm head of the family at 
 present. 
 
 Plume. Do you live in this country, sir ? 
 
 Silv. Yes, sir, I live where I stand ; I have neither 
 home, house, nor habitation, beyond this spot of 
 ground. 
 
 Braz. What are you, sir ? 
 
 Silv. A rake. 
 
 Plume. In the army, I presume. 
 
 Silv. No, but I intend to list immediately. — 
 Look'ee, gentlemen, he that bids me fairest shall 
 have me. 
 
 Braz. Sir, I'll prefer you, I'll make you a cor- 
 poral this minute. 
 
 Plume. Corporal ! I'll make you my companion, 
 you shall eat with me. 
 
 Braz. You shall drink with me. 
 
 Plume. You shall lie with me, you young rogue. 
 
 ^Kisses her. 
 
 Braz. You shall receive your pay, and do no 
 duty. 
 
 Silv. Then you must make me a field officer. 
 
 Plume. Pho ! pho ! I'll do more than ' all this ; 
 I'll make you a corporal, and give you a brevet for 
 Serjeant. 
 
 Braz. Can you read and write, sir ? 
 
 Silv. Yes. 
 
 Braz. Then your business is done — I'll make 
 you chaplain to the regiment. 
 
 Silv. Your promises are so equal, that I'm at a 
 loss to choose. There is one Plume, that I hear 
 much commended, in town ; pray, which of you is 
 captain Plume ? 
 
 Plume. I am captain Plume. 
 
 Braz. No, no, I am captain Plume. 
 
 Silv. Heyday ! 
 
 Plume. Captain Plume ! I'm your servant, my 
 dear. 
 
 Braz. Captain Brazen ! I am yours. — \_Aside.'] 
 The fellow dare not fight. 
 
 Enter Serjeant Kite. 
 
 Kite. [To Captain Pldme.] Sir, if you please — 
 
 Plume. No, no, there's your captain Captain 
 
 Plume, your Serjeant here has got so drunk, he mis- 
 takes me for you. 
 
 Braz. He's an incorrigible sot ! — [To Silvia.1 
 Here, my Hector of Holborn, forty shillings for you^ 
 
 Plume. I forbid the bans. — Look'ee, friend, you 
 shall list with captain Brazen. 
 
 Silv. I will see captain Brazen hanged first ! I 
 will list with captain Plume, I am a freebom 
 Englishman, and will be a'slave my own way. — 
 [To Captain Brazen.] Look'ee, sir, will you 
 stand by me ? 
 
 Braz. I warrant you, my lad. 
 
 Silv. [To Captain Plume.] Then I will tell 
 you, captain Brazen, that you are an ignorant, 
 pretending, impudent coxcomb. 
 
 Braz. Ay, ay, a sad dog. 
 
<;2n 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 Silv, A very sad dog. — Give me the money, 
 aoble captain Plume. 
 
 Plume. Then you won't list with captain Brazen ? 
 
 Silv. I won't. 
 
 Braz. Never mind him, child, Til end the dis- 
 pute presently. — Hearlc'ee, my dear. 
 
 [Takes Captain Plumb to one side of Vie stage, and 
 entertains Mm in dumb show. 
 
 Kite. Sir, he in the plain coat is captain Plume, 
 I am his Serjeant, and will take my oath on't. 
 
 Silv. What ! are you Serjeant Kite .' 
 
 Kite. At your service. 
 
 Silv. Then I would not tate your oath for a 
 farthing. 
 
 Kite. A very understanding youth of his age ! — 
 Pray, sir, let me look you full in the face ? 
 
 Silv. Well, sir, what have you to say to my face ? 
 
 Kite. The very image and superscription of my 
 brother ; two bullets of the same caliver were never 
 so like : sure it must be Charles, Charles ! 
 
 Silv. What d'ye mean by Charles ? 
 
 Kite. The voice too, only a little variation in 
 EfFa ut flat. — My dear brother, for I must call you 
 so, if you should have the fortune to enter into the 
 most noble society of the sword, I bespeak you for 
 a comrade. 
 
 Silv. No, sir, I'll be your captain's comrade, if 
 anybody's. 
 
 Kite. Ambition there again ! 'Tis a noble pas- 
 sion for a soldier ; by that I gained this glorious 
 halberd. Ambition ! I see a commission in his face 
 already. Pray, noble captain, give me leave to 
 salute you. [.Offers to kiss her. 
 
 Silv. What, men kiss one another ! 
 
 Kite. We oiEcers do : 'tis our way ; we live 
 together like man and wife, always either kissing or 
 fighting. — But I see a storm coming. 
 
 Silv. Now, Serjeant, I shall see who is your 
 captain by your knocking down the t'other. 
 
 Kite. My captain scorns assistance, sir. 
 
 Brax. How dare you contend for anything, anil 
 not dare to draw your sword ? But you're a 
 young fellow, and have not been much abroad ; 1 
 excuse that, bilt prithee resign tlie man, prithee do ; 
 you're a very honest fellow. 
 
 Plume. You lie ; and you are a son of a whore. 
 [Draws and makes up to Captain Brazen. 
 
 Braz. Hold ! hold ! did not you refuse to fight 
 for the lady ? [Retiring. 
 
 Plume, I always do — but for a man I'll fight 
 knee deep : so you lie again. 
 
 [Px-UMB and Brazen Jight a traverse or two about the 
 stage ; Sjlvia draws, and is held by Kite, who sounds 
 to arms with his mouth ; takes Silvia in his arms, and 
 carries her off. 
 
 Braz. Hold ! where's the man .' 
 
 Plume. Gone. 
 
 Braz. Then what do we fight for ? — [Puts up.J 
 Now let's embrace, my dear. 
 
 Plume. Inputting up.'] With all my heart, my 
 Atur,— [Aside.] I suppose Kite has listed him by 
 this time. [Tliey embrace, 
 
 Braz. You are a brave fellow, I always fight 
 with a man before I make him my friend ; and if 
 once I find he will fight, I never quarrel with him 
 afterwards. — And now I'll tell you a secret, my dear 
 friend, that lady that we frighted out of the walk 
 just now I found in bed this morning — so beau- 
 tiful, so inviting ! — I presently locked the door — ^bnt 
 I am a man of honour. — But I believe I shall marry 
 her nevertheless — her twenty thousand pound, you 
 know, will be a pretty convenience. — I had an 
 assignation with her here, but your coming spoiled 
 my sport. Curse you, my dear, but don't do so 
 again — 
 
 Plume. No, no, my dear, men are my business 
 at present. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I The Walk hy the Severn. 
 
 Enter EosB and Bullock meeting. 
 
 Rose. Where have you been, you great booby ? 
 you're always out o' the way in the time of pre- 
 ferment. 
 
 Bull. Preferment ! who should prefer me ? 
 
 Rose. I would prefer you ! who should prefer a 
 man but a woman .' Come,' throw away that great 
 club, hold up your head, cock your hat, and look 
 big. 
 
 Bull. Ah, Ruose, Ruose, I fear somebody' will 
 look big sooner than folk think of! this genteel 
 breeding never comes into the country without a 
 train of followers. — Here has been Cartwheel, your 
 sweetheart, what will btcome of him ? 
 
 Rose. Look'ee, I'm a great woman, and will 
 provide for my relations. I told the captain how 
 finely he could play upon the tabor and pipe, so he 
 has set him down for drum-major. 
 
 Bull. Nay, sister, why did not you keep that 
 place for me .' you know I always loved to be a- 
 drumming, if it were but on a table or on a quart 
 pot. 
 
 Enter Silvia. 
 
 Silv. Had I but a commission in my pocket, I } 
 fancy my breeches would become me as well as any | 
 ranting fellow of 'em all ; for I take a bold step, a I 
 rakish toss, a smart cock, and an impudent air, to i 
 be the principal ingredients in the composition of a 
 captain. — ^What's here : Rose ! my nurse's daugh- 
 ter ! — I'll go and practise. — Come, child, kiss me 
 at once. — [Kisses Rose.] And her brother too ! 
 — [To Bullock.] Well, honest duugfork, do yon 
 know the difference between a horse-cart, and a 
 cart-horse, eh .' 
 
 Bull. I presume that your worship is a captain 
 by your clothes and your courage. 
 
 Silv. Suppose I were, would you be contented 
 to list, friend ? 
 
 Rose. No, no, though your worship be a hand- 
 some man, there be others as fine as you ; my bro- 
 ther is engaged to captain Plume. 
 
 Silv. Plume ! do you know captain Plume ? 
 
 Rose. Yes, I do, and he knows me. He took the 
 very ribbons out of his shirt-sleeves, and put 'em 
 into my shoes. See there — I can assure you, that 
 I can do anything with the captain. 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 027- 
 
 Bull. That is, in a modest way, sir. — Have a care 
 what you say, Ruose, doa't shame your parentage. 
 
 Rose. Nay, for that matter, I am not so simple 
 as to say that I can do anything with the captain 
 but what I may do witli anybody else. 
 
 Silv. So ! and pray what do you expect from 
 this captain, child ? 
 
 Rose. I expect, sir, — I expect — but he ordered 
 me to tell nobody. — But suppose that he should 
 promise to marry me } 
 
 Silv. You should have a care, my dear, men 
 will promise anything beforehand. 
 
 Rose. I know that, but he promised to marry 
 me afterwards. 
 
 Bull. "Wauns, Ruose, what have you said ^ 
 
 Silv. Afterwards ! after what ? 
 
 Rose. After I had sold him my chickens'. — I 
 hope there's no harm in that. 
 
 Enter Captain Plumb. 
 
 Plume. What, Mr. A¥ilful, so close with my 
 market-woman ! 
 
 Silv. \_Aside.'\ I'll try if he loves her. — [Aloud.'] 
 
 Close, sir ! ay, and closer yet, sir Come, my 
 
 pretty maid, you and I will withdraw a little. 
 
 Plume. No, no, friend, I han't done with her yet. 
 
 Silv. Nor have I begun with her, so I have as 
 good right as you have. 
 
 Plume. Thou art a bloody impudent fellow. 
 
 Silv. Sir, I would qualify myself for the service. 
 
 Plume. Hast thou really a mind to the service ? 
 
 Silv. Yes, sir : so let her go. 
 
 Rose. Pray, gentlemen, don't be so violent. 
 
 Plume. Come, leave it to the girl's own choice. 
 — ^Will you belong to me or to that gentleman .' 
 
 Rose. Let me consider, you are both very hand- 
 some. 
 
 Plume. Now the natural nnconstancy of her sex 
 begins to work, {.Aside. 
 
 Rose. Pray, sir, what will you give me ? 
 
 Bull. Don't be angry, sir, that my sister should 
 be mercenary, for she's but young. 
 
 Silv. Give thee, child ! I'll set thee above scan- 
 dal ; you, shall have o coach with six before and 
 six behind, an equipage to make vice fashionable, 
 and put virtue out of countenance. 
 
 Plume. Pho ! that's easily done. — I'll do more 
 for thee, child, I'll buy you a furbelow scarf, and 
 . give yoa a ticket to see a play. 
 
 Bull. A play! "Wauns, Ruose, take the ticket, 
 and let's see the show. 
 
 Silv. Look'ee, captain, if you won't resign, I'll 
 go list with captain Brazen this minute. 
 
 Plume. Will you list with me if I give up my title? 
 
 Silv. I will. 
 
 Plume. Take her : I'll change a woman for a 
 man at any time. 
 
 Rose. I have heard before, indeed, that you 
 captains used to sell your men. 
 
 Bull. Pray, captain, do not send Ruose to the 
 West Indies. ICries. 
 
 Plume. Ha! ha! ha! West Indies !— No, no, 
 my honest lad, give me thy hand ; nor you nor she 
 shall move a step farther than I do. This gentle- 
 man is one of us, and will be kind to you, Mrs. Rose. 
 
 Rose. But will you be so kind to me, sir, as the, 
 captain would ? 
 
 Sih. I can't be altogether so kind to you, my 
 circumstances are not so good as the captain's ; 
 but I'll take care of you, upon my word. 
 
 Plume. Ay, ay, we'll all take care of her ; shs. 
 shall live like a princess, and lier brother here shall, 
 be — What would you be ? 
 
 Bull. O sir ! if you had not promised the placa 
 of drum-major — 
 
 Plume. Ay, that is promised. But what tliint 
 you of barrack-master.' You are a person of 
 understanding, and barrack-master you shall be. — 
 But what's become of this same Cartwheel you toli 
 me of, my dear ? 
 
 Rose. We'll go fetch him. — Come, Iirotlier- 
 barrack-master. — We shall find you at honie^ 
 noble captain ? 
 
 Plume. Yes, yes.— [Exeunt Rose and Bol- 
 lock.] And now, sir, here are your forty shillings^ 
 
 Silv. Captain Plume, I despise your listiag 
 money ; if I do serve, 'tis purely for love — of that 
 wench, I mean. For you must know, (hat, among 
 my other sallies, I have spent the best part of my 
 fortune in search of a maid, and could never fin^ 
 one hitherto: so you maybe assured I'd not sell 
 my freedom under a less purchase than I did my 
 estate. So, before I list, I must be certified that 
 this girl is a virgin. 
 
 Plume. Mr. Wilful, I can't tell you how yov» 
 can be certified in that point till you try ; but, 
 upon my honour, she may be a vestal for aught. 
 that I know to the contrary. I gained her heart,., 
 indeed, by some trifling presents and promises,, 
 and, knowing that the best security for a woman's 
 soul is her body, I would have made myself master 
 of that too, had not the jealousy of my impertk 
 nent landlady interposed. 
 
 Silv. So you only want an opportunity feei' 
 accomplishing your designs upon her ? 
 
 Plume. Not at all ; I have already gained my 
 ends, which were only the drawing in one or twa 
 of her followers. The women, you know, are th& 
 loadstones everywhere ; gain the wives, and yo\t 
 are caressed by the husbands ; please the mistresses,, 
 and you are valued by the gallants ; secure aii 
 interest with the finest women at court, and yoii 
 procure the favour of the greatest men : so, kisss 
 the prettiest country wenches, and you are sure ot 
 listing the lustiest fellows. Some people may call, 
 this artifice, but I term it stratagem, since it is so- 
 main a part of the service. Besides, the fatigue of^ 
 recruiting is so intolerable, that, unless we could 
 make ourselves some pleasure amidst the psin, no>, 
 mortal man would be able to bear it. ' 
 
 Silv. Well, sir, I am satisfied as to the point ict 
 debate ; but now let me beg you to lay aside your 
 recruiting airs, put on the man of honour, and tell 
 me plainly what usage I must expect when I am. 
 under your command. 
 
 Plume. You must know, in the first place, then„ 
 that I hate to have gentlemen in my company ; for 
 they are always troublesome and expensive, some- 
 times dangerous ; and 'tis a constant maxim 
 amongst us, that those who know the least obey 
 the best. Notwithstanding all this, I find some- 
 thing so agreeable about you, that engages me ta 
 court your company ; and I can't tell how it is„ 
 but I should be uneasy to see you under the com- 
 mand of anybody else. Your usage will chiefly 
 depend upon your behaviour ; only this you must 
 expect, that if you commit a small fault I wilt 
 excuse it, if a great one I'll discharge you ; fbr 
 something tells me I shall not be able to punielte.- 
 
628 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 Silo. And something tells me, that if you do 
 discharge me, 'twill be the greatest punishment 
 you can inflict j for were we this moment to go 
 upon the greatest dangers In your profession, they 
 would be less terrible to me than to stay behind 
 you. — And now your hand, this lists me — and now 
 you are my captain. 
 
 Plume. [Kissing her."} Your friend. — lAside.} 
 'Sdeath ! there's something in this fellow that 
 charms me. 
 
 Silv. One favour I must beg. This affair will 
 make some noise, and I have some friends that 
 would censure my conduct if I threw myself into 
 the circumstance of a private sentinel of my own 
 head : I must therefore take care to be im- 
 pressed by the act of parliament ; you shall leave 
 that to me. 
 
 Plume. What you please as to that. — Will you 
 lodge at my quarters in the mean time ? you shall 
 have part of my bed. 
 
 Silv. O fy ! lie with a common soldier ! Would 
 not you rather lie with a common woman ? 
 
 Plume. No, faith, I'm not that rake that the 
 world imagines ; I have got an air of freedom, which 
 people mistake for lewdness in me, as they mis- 
 take formality in others for religion. The world is 
 all a cheat ; only 1 take mine, which is undesigned, 
 to be more excusable than theirs which is hypocri- 
 tical. I hurt nobody but myself, and they abuse 
 all mankind. — Will you lie with me ? 
 
 Sile. No, no, captain, you forget Rose ; she's to 
 be my bedfellow, you know. 
 
 Plume. I had forgot ; pray be kind to her. 
 
 {Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE \1.—The same. 
 Enter Melinda and Lucv. 
 
 Mel. [Aside.l 'Tis the greatest misfortune in 
 nature for a woman to want a confidant ! We are 
 so weak that we can do nothing without assistance, 
 and then a secret racks us worse than the colic. 
 I am at this minute so sick of a secret, that I'm 
 ready to faint away. — \_Alovd.'\ Help me, Lucy ! 
 
 Lucy. Bless me, madam ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Mel. Vapours only, I begin to recover. — [Aside.'] 
 If Silvia were in town I could heartily forgive her 
 faults for the ease of discovering my own. 
 
 Lucy. You're thoughtful, madam ; am not I 
 worthy to know the cause ? 
 
 Mel. You are a servant, and a. secret would 
 make you saucy. 
 
 Lucy. Not unless you should find fault without 
 a cause, madam. 
 
 Mel. Cause or not cause, I must not lose the 
 pleasure of chiding when I please ; women must 
 discharge their vapours somewhere, and before we 
 get husbands our servants must expect to bear with 
 'em. 
 
 Lucy. Then, madam, you had better raise me to 
 a degree above a servant. You know my family, 
 and that five hundred pounds would set me upon 
 the foot of a gentlewoman, and make me worthy 
 the confidence of any lady in the land ; besides, 
 madam, 'twill extremely encourage me in the great 
 design I now have in hand. 
 
 Mel. I don't find that your design can be of any 
 great advantage to you. 'Twill please me, indeed, 
 in the humour I have of being revenged on the fool 
 for his vanity of making love to me, so I don't 
 
 much care if I do promise you five hundred pound 
 the day of my marriage. 
 
 Lucy. That is the way, madam, to make me 
 diligent in the vocation of a confidant, which I 
 think is generally to bring people together. 
 
 Mel. O Lucy! I can hold my secret no longer. 
 You must know, that hearing of the famous for- 
 tune-teller in town, I went disguised to satisfy a 
 curiosity, which has cost me dear. That fellow is 
 certainly the devil, or one of his bosom favourites, 
 he has told me the most surprising things of my 
 past life — . 
 
 Lucy. Things past, madam, can hardly be reck- 
 oned surprising,because we know them already. Did 
 he tell you anything surprising that was to come .'' 
 
 Mel. One thing very surprising ; he said I should 
 die a maid ! 
 
 Lucy. Die a maid ! come into the world for 
 nothing ! Dear madam, if you should believe him, 
 it might come to pass, for the bare thought on't 
 might kill one in four-and-twenty hours. — And did 
 you ask him any questions about me ? 
 
 Mel. You ! why, I passed for you. 
 
 Lucy. So 'tis I that am to die a maid ! — But 
 the devil was a liar from the beginning ; he can't 
 make me die a maid. — {Aside.] I have put it out 
 of his power already. 
 
 Mel. I do but jest, I would have passed for you, 
 and called myself Lucy ; but he presently told me 
 my name, my quality, my fortune, and gave me the 
 whole history of my life. He told me of a lover I 
 had in this country, and described Worthy exactly, 
 but in nothing so well as in his present indifierence. 
 I fled to him for refuge here to-day ; he never so 
 much as encouraged me in my fright, but coldly 
 told me that he was sorry for the accident, because 
 it might give the town cause to censure my con- 
 duct ; excused his not waiting on me home, made 
 me a careless bow, and walked off. 'Sdeath ! I 
 could have stabbed him, or myself, 'twas the same 
 thing Yonder he comes — I will so use him ! 
 
 Lucy. Don't exasperate him ; consider what the 
 fortune-teller told you. Men are scarce, and as times 
 go, it is not impossible for a woman to die a maid. 
 
 Mel. No matter. 
 
 Enter Mr. Worthy. 
 
 Wor. [Aside.] I find she's warmed ; I must 
 strike while the iron is hot. — [Aloud.] You have 
 a great deal of courage, madam, to venture into the 
 walks where you were so lately frightened ' 
 
 Mel. And you have a quantity of impudence to 
 appear before me, that you have so lately affronted. 
 
 Wor. I had no design to affront you, nor appear 
 before you either, madam : I left you here, because 
 I had business in another place, and came hither, 
 thinking to meet another person. 
 
 Mel. Since you find yourself disappointed, 1 
 hope you'll withdraw to another part of the walk. 
 
 fVor. The walk is as free for me as you, madam, 
 and broad enough for us both. — [ They walk by 
 one another, he with his hat cocked, she fretting 
 and tearing her fan.] Will you please to take 
 snufl', madam ? 
 
 {OJfers her his box, she strikes it out of his hand; while 
 lie is gathering it up, 
 
 Enter Captain Brazbi;. 
 
 JBrax. What, here before me, my dear ! 
 
 {Clasps Heunoa round the waist, 
 Mel. What means this insolence ? 
 
 IGives him a box on tlie ean 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 625) 
 
 Lucy. Are you mad ? don't you see Mr. Wor- 
 tljy ? [To Captain Brazbn, 
 
 Braz. No, no, I'm struck blind. — Worthy ! 
 odso r well turned 1— My mistress has wit at her 
 fingers' ends. — Madam, I ask your pardon, 'tis our 
 way abroad. — Mr. Worthy, you are the happy man. 
 
 Wor. I don't envy your happiness very much, 
 if the lady can afford no other sort of favours but 
 what she has bestowed upon you. 
 
 Mel. I am sorry the favour miscarried, for it 
 was designed for you, Mr. Worthy ; and be assured, 
 'tis the last and only favour you must expect at 
 my hands. — Captain, I ask your pardon. 
 
 Braz. I grant it. — [Exeunt Melinda and 
 LrcY.] You see, Mr. Worthy, 'twas only a ran- 
 dom-shot, it might have taken off your head as 
 well as mine. Courage, my dear ! 'tis the fortune 
 of war. — But the enemy has thought fit to with- 
 draw, I think. 
 
 Wor. Withdraw ! oons, sir I what d'ye mean by 
 vrithdraw ? 
 
 Braz. I'll show you. [Exit. 
 
 fVor. She's lost, irrecoverably lost, and Plume's 
 advice has ruined me ! 'Sdeath ! why should I, 
 that knew her haughty spirit, be ruled. by a man 
 that's a stranger to her pride ? 
 
 Enter Captain Plumb. 
 Plume. Ha ! ha ! ha ! a battle-royal. Don't 
 frown so, man ; she's your own, I tell you ; I saw 
 the fury of her love in the extremity of her pas- 
 sion : the wildness of her anger is a certain sign 
 ■ that she loves you to madness. That rogue Kite 
 ' began the battle with abundance of conduct, and 
 will bring you off victorious, my life on't ; he plays 
 his part admirably ; she's to be with him again 
 presently. 
 
 Wor. But what could be the meaning of Brazen's 
 familiarity with her .■' 
 
 Plume. You are no logician, if you pretend to 
 draw consequences from the actions of fools : there's 
 no arguing by the rule of reason upon a science 
 without principles, and such is their conduct. 
 Whim, unaccountable whim, hurries 'em on like a 
 man drunk with brandy before ten o'clock in the 
 morning. — But we lose our sport : Kite has opened 
 above an hour ago, let's away. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. — Serjeant Kite's Quarters. 
 
 Serjeant Kite, in a conjuror's habit, discovered sitting at 
 a table, whereon are a globe and books. 
 
 Kite. IRising.] By the position of the heavens, 
 gained from my observation upon these celestial 
 globes, I find that Luna was a tidewaiter, Sol a 
 surveyor. Mercury a thief, "Venus a whore, Saturn 
 an alderman, Jupiter a rake, and Mars a Serjeant 
 of grenadiers ; and this is the system of Kite the 
 aonjurer. 
 
 Enter Captain Plume and Mr. Worthy. 
 
 Plume. Well, what success ? 
 
 Kite. I have sent away a shoemaker and a tailor 
 already ; one's to be a captain of marines, and the 
 other a major of dragoons ; I am to manage them 
 at night. — Have you seen the lady, Mr. Worthy ? 
 
 Wor. Ay, but it won't do. Have you showed 
 her her name, that I tore off from the bottom of 
 the letter .' 
 
 Kite. No, sir, I reserve that for the last stroke. 
 
 Plume. What letter ? 
 
 Wor. One that I would not let you see, for fear 
 that you should break Melinda's windows in good 
 earnest. [Knocking at the door. 
 
 Kite. Officers, to your posts. [Plume and 
 Worthy conceal themselves behind a screen.'] — 
 Tycho, mind the door. [Servant opens the door. 
 
 Enter Thomas. 
 
 Thos. Well, master, are you the cunning man ? 
 
 Kite. I am the learned Copernicus. 
 
 Thos. Well, master Coppernose, I'm but a poor 
 man, and I can't afford above a shilling for my for- 
 tune. 
 
 Kite. Perhaps that is more than 'tis worth. 
 
 Thos. Look'ee, doctor, let me have something 
 that's good for my shilling, or I'll have my money 
 again. 
 
 Kite. If there be faith in the stars, you shall 
 have your shilling forty fold. — Your hand, country- 
 man, you're by trade a smith. 
 
 Thos. How the devil should you know that ? 
 
 Kile. Because the devil and you are brother- 
 tradesmen — you were born under Forceps. 
 
 Thos. Forceps, what's that .' 
 
 Kite. One of the signs. There's Leo, Sagit- 
 tarius, Forceps, Fumes, Dixmude,Namur, Brussels, 
 Charleroy, and so forth — twelve of 'em. — Let me 
 see — did you ever make any bombs or cannon- 
 bullets ? 
 
 Thos. Not I. 
 
 Kite. You either have or will. The stars have 
 decreed, that you shall be — I must have more 
 money, sir, — your fortune's great. 
 
 Thos. Faith, doctor, I have no more. 
 
 Kite. O sir, I'll trust you, and take it out of 
 your arrears. 
 
 Thos. Arrears ! what arrears ? 
 
 Kite. The five hundred pound that's owing to 
 you from the government. 
 
 Tkos. Owing me 1 
 
 Kite. Owing you, sir. — Let me see your t'other 
 hand. — I beg your pardon, it will be owing to you : 
 and the rogue of an agent will demand fifty per 
 cent, for a fortnight's advance. 
 
 Thos. I'm in the clouds, doctor, all this while. 
 
 Kite. Sir, I am above 'em, among the stars. In 
 two years, three months, and two hours, you will 
 be made captain of the forges to the grand train of 
 artillery, and will have ten shillings a day, and tv\ o 
 servants. 'Tis the decree of the stars, and of the 
 fixed stars, that are as immoveable as your anvil ; 
 strike, sir, while the iron is hot. Fly, sir ! begone ! 
 
 Thos. What, what would you have me do, 
 doctor .' I wish the stars would put me in a way 
 for this fine place. 
 
 Kite. The stars do. — Let me see — ay, about an 
 hour hence walk carelessly into the market-place, 
 and you'll see a tall, slender gentleman, cheapen- 
 ing a pennyworth of apples, with a cane hanging 
 upon his button. This gentleman will ask you 
 what's o'clock. He's your man, and the maker of 
 your fortune : follow him, follow him. — And now 
 go home, and take leave of your wife and children ; 
 an hour hence exactly is your time. 
 
 Thos. A tall slender gentleman, you say, with a 
 cane .' pray, what sort of head has the cane ? 
 
 Kite. An amber head, with a black ribbon. 
 
 Thos. And pray, of what employment is the 
 gentleman .' 
 
630 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 Kite. Let me see, he's either a collector of the 
 excise, a plenipotentiary, or a captain of grena- 
 diers, I can't tell exactly which. But he'll call you 
 honest — your name is — 
 
 Thos. Thomas. 
 
 Kite. Right ! He'll call you honest Tom. 
 
 Thos. But how the devil should he know my 
 name ? 
 
 Kite. Oh, there are several sorts of Toms ! Tom 
 «' Lincoln, Tom-tit, Tom Tell-troth, Tom o' Bed- 
 lam, and Tom Fool. — [^Knocking at the door.1 
 
 - Begone '. — an hour hence precisely. 
 
 Thos. You say, he'll ask me what's o'clock ? 
 Kite. Most certainly..— And you'll answer you 
 
 ■ Aoa't know ; — and be sure you look at St. Mary's 
 -dial ; for the sun won't shine, and if it should, you 
 won't be able to tell the figures. 
 
 Thos. I will, I will. [.Exit. 
 
 Plume. [Behind.] Well done, conjurer ! go on 
 and prosper. 
 
 Kite, As you were. 
 
 Enter PtucK, 
 
 J_Aside.'] What my old friend Pluck the butcher ! 
 i ofiFered the surly bull-dog five guineas this morn- 
 ing, and he refused it. 
 
 Pluok. So, master Conjurer, here's half-a- 
 crown. — And now you must understand — 
 
 Kite. Hold, friend, I know your business before- 
 'Jiand- 
 
 Pluck. Yon're devilish cunning then, for I don't 
 'WbU know it myself. 
 
 Kite. I know more than you, friend. — You have 
 a foolish saying, that such a one knows no more 
 tkau the man in the moon : I tell you, the man in 
 the moon knows more than all the men under the 
 -sua. Don't the moon see all the' world ? 
 
 Pluck. All the world see the moon, I must con- 
 ':fess. 
 
 "Kiie, Then she must see all the world, that's 
 ■certain. — Give me your hand. — ^You're by trade, 
 «itfaer a butcher or a surgeon. 
 
 Pluck. True, I am a butcher. 
 
 Kite. And a surgeon you will be, the employ- 
 •ments differ only in the name : he that can cut up 
 an ox, may dissect a man ; and the same dexterity 
 that cracks a marrow-bone, will cut off a leg or an 
 
 ■ arm. 
 
 Pluck. What d'ye mean, doctor, what d'ye 
 ' xEci&n. ? 
 
 Kile. Patience, patience, Mr. Surgeon General ; 
 Ihe stars are great bodies, and move slowly. 
 
 Pluck. But what d'ye mean by surgeon-general, 
 
 ■ jdootor .' 
 
 Kite. Nay, sir, if your worship won't have 
 patience, I must beg the favour of your worship's 
 absence. 
 
 Pluck. My worship ! my worship ! but why my 
 ■ worship ? 
 
 Kite. Nay then, I have done. [.Sits down. 
 
 i Pluck. Pray, doctor-- 
 
 Kite. Fire and fury, sir ! — [Rises in a passion.'] 
 Do you think the stars will be hurried ? Do the 
 «tars owe you any money, sir, that you dare to dun 
 their lordships at this rate ? Sir, I am porter to the 
 stars, and I am ordered to let no dun come near 
 ' their doors. 
 
 Pluck. Dear doctor, I never had any dealings 
 
 - with the stars, they don't owe me a penny. But 
 aince you are their porter, please to accept of this 
 
 half-crown to drink their healths, and don't be 
 angry. 
 
 Kite. Let me see your hand then once more. — 
 Here has been gold — five guineas, my friefid, in 
 this very hand this morning. 
 
 Pluck. Nay, then he is the devil ! — Pray, doctor, 
 were you born of a woman } or, did you come into 
 the world of your own head .' 
 
 Kite. That's a secret. — This gold was offered you 
 by a proper handsome man, called Hawk, or Buz- 
 zard, or — 
 
 Pluck. Kite you mean. 
 
 Kite. Ay, ay. Kite. 
 
 Pluck. As arrant a rogue as ever carried a hal- 
 berd I The impudent rascal would have decoyed 
 me for a soldier ! 
 
 Kite. A soldier ! a man of your substance for a 
 soldier.! Your mother has a hundred pound in 
 hard money, lying at this minute in the hands of a 
 mercer, not forty yards from this place. 
 
 Pluck. Oons ! and so she has. but very few 
 know so much. 
 
 Kite. I know it, and that rogue, what's his name, 
 Kite knew it, and offered you five guineas to list, 
 because he knew your poor mother would give the 
 hundred for your discharge. 
 
 Pluck. There's a dog now ! — Flesn, doctor, 
 I'll give you t'other half-crown, and tell me that 
 this same Kite will be hanged. 
 
 Kite. He's in as much danger as any man in the 
 county of Salop. 
 
 Pluck. There's your fee But you have forgot 
 
 the surgeon-general all this while. 
 
 Kite. You put the stars in a passion. — [Looks 
 on his books,'] But now they are pacified again : — 
 Let me see, did you never cut off a man's leg ? 
 
 Pluck. No. 
 
 Kite. KecoUect, pray. 
 
 Pluck. I say, no. 
 
 Kite. That's strange ! wonderful strange ! but 
 nothing is strange to me, such wonderful changes 
 have I seen. — The sSoond, or third, ay, the third 
 campaign that you make in Flanders, the leg of a 
 great officer will be shattered by a great shot, you 
 will be there accidentally, and with your cleaver 
 chop off the limb at a blow : in short, the opera- 
 tion will be performed with so much dexterity, that 
 with the general applause you will be made surgeon- 
 general of the whole army. 
 
 Pluck. Nay, for the matter of cutting off a limb, 
 I'll do't, I'll do't with any surgeon in Europe, but 
 I have no thoughts of making a campaign. 
 
 Kite. You have no thoughts ! what's matter for 
 your thoughts ? The stars have decreed it, and 
 you must go. 
 
 Pluck. The stars decree it ! oons, sir, the 
 justices can't press me ! 
 
 Kite. Nay, friend, 'tis none of my business, I 
 ha' done ; only mind this, you'll knowmore an hour 
 and a half hence, that's all, farewell ! [Going. 
 
 Pluck. Hold, hold, doctor ! — Surgeon-general ! 
 what is the place worth, pray? 
 
 Kite. 5i'6 hundred pounds a year, besides 
 guineas for claps. 
 
 Pluck. Five hundred pounds a year ! — An hour 
 and a half hence, you say ? 
 
 Kite. Prithee, friend, be quiet, don't be so trouble- 
 some. Here's such a work to make a booby butcher 
 accept of five hundred pound a year ! — But if you 
 must hear it — I'll tell you in short, you'll be stand- 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 cni 
 
 ing in your stall an hour and half hence, and a 
 gentleman will come by with a snuffbox in his 
 hand, and the tip of his handkerchief hanging out 
 of his right pocket ; he'll ask you the price of a 
 loin of veal, and at the same time stroke your great 
 dog upon the head, and call him Chopper. 
 
 Pluck. Mercy on us ! Chopper is the dog's 
 name. 
 
 Kite. Look'ee there — what I say is true — things 
 that are to come must come to pass. Get you 
 home, sell off your stock, don't mind the whining 
 and the snivelling of your mother and your sister 
 — women always hinder preferment — make what 
 money you can, and follow that gentleman, his 
 name begins with a P, mind that. — There will be 
 the barber's daughter too, that you promised mar- 
 riage to — she will be pulling and haling you to 
 pieces. 
 
 Pluck. What ! . know Sally too ? He's the 
 devil, and he needs must go that the devil drives. 
 — [Going.'] The tip of his handkerchief out of 
 his left pocket ? 
 
 Kite. No, no, his right pocket ; it it be the 
 left, 'tis none of the man. 
 
 Pluck. Well, well, I'll mind him. iExit. 
 
 Plume. \_Beliind.'\ The right pocket, you say ? 
 IKnocking at the door. 
 
 Kite. I hear the rostlmg of sUks. Fly, sir! 
 'tis madam Melinda. 
 
 Enter Melinda and Lucv. 
 
 Tycho, chairs for the ladies. 
 
 [Calls to Servant. 
 
 Mel. Don't trouble yourself, we shan't stay, 
 doctor. 
 
 Kite. Your ladyship is to stay much longer than 
 you imagine. 
 
 Mel. For what ? 
 
 Kite. For a husband.— [To Lucy.] For your 
 part, madam, you won't stay for a husband. 
 
 Lucy. Pray, doctor, do you converse with the 
 stars, or with the devil ? 
 
 Kite. With both. When I have the destinies 
 of men in search, I consult the stars ; when the 
 affairs of women come under my hands, I advise 
 with my t'other friend. 
 
 Mel. And have you raised the devil upon my 
 account ? 
 
 Kite. Yes, madam, and he's now under the table. 
 
 Liicy. Oh, Heavens protect us ! Dear madam, 
 let's be gone. 
 
 Kite. If you be afraid of him, why do you come 
 to consult him ? 
 
 Mel. [To Lucy.] Don't fear, fool.— [To 
 Kite.] Do you think, sir, that because I am a 
 woman, I'm to be fooled out of my reason, or 
 frighted out of my senses ? Come, show me this 
 devil. 
 
 Kite. He's a little busy at present ; but when 
 he has done, he shall wait on you. 
 
 Mel. What is he doing ? 
 
 Kite. Writing your name in his pocket-book. 
 
 Mel. Ha! ha! my name! Pray, what have 
 you or he to do with my name ? 
 
 Kile. Look'ee, fair lady, the devil is a very 
 modest person, he seeks nobody unless they seek 
 him first ; he's chained up like a mastiff, and can't 
 stir unless he be let loose. You come to me to 
 have your fortune told— do you think, madam, 
 that I can answer you of my own head.' No 
 
 madam, the affairs of women are so irregular, 
 that nothing less than the devil can give any 
 account of 'em. Now to convince you of your 
 increduhty, I'll show you a trial of my skill. — 
 Here, you Cacodemon del fuego — exert your 
 power, draw me this lady's name, the word 
 Melinda, in the proper letters and character of her 
 own handwriting. — Do it at three motions — one 
 
 — two — three — 'tis done Now, madam, will you 
 
 please to send your maid to fetch it ? 
 
 Lucy. I fetch it ! the devil fetch me if I do ! 
 Mel. My name in my own handwriting ! that 
 would be convincing indeed. 
 
 Kite. Seeing's believing. — [Goes to the table, 
 lifts up the carpet.] Here, Tre, Tre, poor Tre, 
 give me the bone, sirrah. — [He puts his hand 
 under the table, PiuME steals to the other side of 
 the table, and catches him, by the hand.] Oh ! 
 oh ! the devil ! the devil in good earnest ! My 
 hand ! my hand 1 the devil ! my hand ! — 
 [Melinda and Lucy shriek, and run to a corner 
 of the stage. Kite discovers Plume, and gets 
 away his hand.] A plague o' your pincers! he 
 has fixed his nails in my very flesh. — O madam ! 
 you put the demon in such a passion with your 
 scruples, that it has almost cost me iny hand. 
 
 Mel. It has cost us our lives almost — but have 
 you got the name ? 
 
 Kite. Got it I ay, madam, I have got it here — 
 I'm sure the blood comes. — But there's your name 
 upon that square piece of paper — behold ! 
 
 Mel. 'Tis wonderful ! my very letters to a 
 tittle ! 
 
 Lucy. 'Tis like your band, madam, but not so 
 like your hand neither, and now I look nearer, 'tis 
 not like your hand at all. 
 
 Kite. Here's a chambermaid now that will outlie 
 the devil ! 
 
 Lucy. Look'ee, madam, they shan't impose 
 
 upon us ; people can't remember their hands, no 
 
 more than they can their faces. — Come, madam, 
 
 , let us be certain, write your name upon this paper, 
 
 then we'll compare the two names. 
 
 {Takes out a paper, and folds it. 
 Ki(e. Anything for your satisfaction, madam — 
 here's pen and ink. 
 
 [Melinda writes, Lucy holds the paper. 
 Lucy, Let me see it, madam ; 'tis the same- — 
 the very same. — [Aside.] But I'll secure one 
 copy for my own affairs. 
 
 Mel. This is demonstration. 
 Kite. 'Tis so, madam — The word demonstration 
 comes from Demon the father of lies. 
 
 Mel. Well, doctor, I am convinced ; and now, 
 pray, what account can you give me of my future 
 fortune ? 
 
 Kite. Before the sun has made one course round 
 this earthly gl,obe, your fortune will be fixed for 
 happiness or misery. 
 
 Mel. What I so near the crisis of my fate ! 
 Kite. Let me see — about the hour of ten to- 
 morrow morning you will be saluted by a gentle- 
 man, who will come to take his leave of you, being 
 designed for travel ; his intention of going abroad 
 is sudden, and the occasion a woman. Your for- 
 tune and his are like the bullet and the barrel, one 
 runs plump into the other. In short, if the gen- 
 tleman travels, he will die abroad ; and if he does 
 you will die before he comes home. 
 Mel. What sort of man is he .■■ 
 
6S2 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 Kile. Madam, he's a fine gentleman and a lover, 
 that is, a man of very good sense, and a very great 
 fool. 
 
 Mel. How is that possible, doctor ? 
 
 Kite, Because, madam — because it is so. — A 
 woman's reason is the best for a man's being a fool. 
 
 Mel. Ten o'clock, you say ? 
 
 Kile. Ten — about the hour of tea-drinking 
 throughout the kingdom, 
 
 Mel. Here, doctor. — [Gives money.'] Lucy, 
 have you any questions to ask ? 
 
 Lucy. O madam ! a thousand. 
 
 Kile. I must beg your patience till another time ; 
 for 1 expect more company this minute ; besides, I 
 must discharge the gentleman under the table. 
 
 Lucy. Oh, pray, sir, discharge us first ! 
 
 Kite. Tycho,' wait on the ladies down stairs. 
 
 [_Exeunt Mhlinda and Lucy. Plumb and Worthy 
 come forward laughing. 
 
 Kite, Ay, you may well laugh, gentlemen, not all 
 the cannon of the French army could have frighted 
 me so much as that gripe you gave me under the 
 table. 
 
 Plume. I think, Mr. Doctor, 1 out-conjured you 
 that bout. 
 
 Kite, I was surprised, for I should not have 
 taken a captain for a conjuror. 
 
 Plume. No more thanl should a Serjeant fora wit. 
 
 Kite. Mr. Worthy, you were pleased to wish pie 
 joy to-day, I hope to be able to return the compli- 
 ment to-morrow. 
 
 Wor, I'll make it the best compliment to you 
 that you ever made in your life, if you do. But I 
 must be a traveller, you say .' 
 
 Kite. No farther than the chops of the Channel, 
 I presume, sir. 
 
 Plume. That we have concerted already — [Ldud 
 knocking at the door.] Heyday ! you don't pro- 
 fess midwifery, doctor. 
 
 Kite. Away to your ambuscade ! 
 
 [Plume and Wobthv retire as before. 
 
 Enter Captain Braben, 
 
 Braz, Your servant, servant, my dear. 
 
 Kite. Stand off, I have my familiar already. 
 
 Braz, Are you bewitched, my dear .' 
 
 Kite. Yes, my dear ; but mine is a peaceable 
 spirit, and hates gunpowder. Thus 1 fortify 
 myself. — [Draws a circle round him.] And now, 
 captain, have a eare how you force my lines. 
 
 Braz. Lines 1 what dost talk of lines I You 
 have something like a fishing-rod there, indeed j 
 but I come to be acquainted with you, man. — 
 What's your name, my dear ? 
 
 Kite. Conundrum. 
 
 Braz. Conundrum ! rat me, I knew a famous 
 doctor in London of your name ! — Where were you 
 born ? 
 
 Kite. I was born in Algebra. 
 
 Bran. Algebra ! 'tis no country in Christendom, 
 I'm sure, unless it be some pitiful place in the 
 Highlands of Scotland, 
 
 Kite. Right, I told you I was bewitched. 
 
 Braz. So am I, my dear : I am going to be 
 married. I have had two letters from a lady of 
 fortune that loves me to madness, fits, colic, 
 spleen, and vapours : shall I marry her in four-aud- 
 twenty hours, ay, or no ? 
 
 Kite. I must have the year and day of the month 
 vhen these letters were dated 
 
 Brax. Why, you old bitch, did you ever hear of 
 love-letters dated' with the year and day o' the 
 month ? Do you think billets-doux are like bank 
 bills ? 
 
 Kite. They are not so good — But if tliey beai 
 no date, I must examine the contents.. 
 
 Braz. Contfents ! that you shall, old boy : here 
 they be both. , IPMs out two letteri- 
 
 Kite. Only the last you received, if you please. 
 — ITakes one of the letters.] Now, sir, if you 
 please to let me consult my books for a minute, 
 I'll send this letter inclosed to you with the detei^ 
 mination of the stars upon it to your lodgings. 
 
 Braz. With all my heart — I must give him — 
 [Puts his hands in his pocket.'] Algebra I I 
 fancy, doctor, 'tis hard to calculate the place of 
 your nativity? — Here. — [Gives him money] 
 And if I succeed, I'll build a watch-tower upoii 
 the top of the highest mountain in Wales for thjs 
 study of astrology, and the benefit of Conundrums. 
 [Exit. Plumb And WoftTHY come forward. 
 
 Wor. O doctor ! that letter's worth a million. 
 Let me see iti — [Takes the letter.'] And now I 
 have it, I'm afraid to open it. 
 
 Plume, Pho I let me see it. — [Snatches' the letter 
 from Worthy and opens it.] If she be a jilt — 
 damn her, she is one 1 there's her name at the 
 bottom on't. 
 
 Wor. How ! then I'll travel in good earnest. — 
 [Looking at t^ letter.] By all my hopes, 'tis 
 Lucy's hand 1 
 
 Plume. Lucy's ! 
 
 Wor. Certainly j 'tis no more like Melijida's 
 character than black is to white. 
 
 Plume. Then 'tis certainly Lucy's contrivance 
 to draw in Brazen for a husband. — But are you 
 sure 'tis not Melinda's hand .' 
 
 Wor, Yqu shall see. — [7'oKite.] Where's the 
 bit of paper I gave you just now that the devil 
 writ Melinda upon ? 
 
 Kite. Here, sir. 
 
 Plume. 'Tis plain they're not the same. And 
 is this the malicious name that was subscribed to 
 the letter, which made Mr. Balance send his 
 daughter into the country ? 
 
 Wor. The very same, the other fragments 1 
 showed you just now. I once intended it for an- 
 other use, but I think I have turned it now to better 
 advantage. 
 
 Plume. But 'twas barbarous to conceal this so 
 long, and to continue m^ so many hours in the 
 pernicious heresy of believing that angelic creature 
 could change ! — Poor Silvia ! 
 
 Wor. Rich Silvia you mean, and poor captain, 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! Come, come, friend, Melinda is true 
 and shall be mine ; Silvia is constant, and may be 
 yours. 
 
 Plume. No, she's above my hopes : but for her 
 sake I'll recant my opinion of her sex. 
 
 By some the sex is blamed without design. 
 
 Light harmless censure, such as yours and mine ; 
 
 Sallies of wit, and vapours of our wine. 
 
 Others the justice of the sex condemn, 
 
 And wanting merit to create esteem. 
 
 Would hide their own defects by censuring them. 
 
 But they, secure in their all-conquering charms, 
 
 Laugh at the vain efforts of false alarms ; 
 
 He magnifies their conquests who complains. 
 
 For none would struggle were they not in chains. 
 
 {Exeunt 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 033 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — An Anterpqm adjoining Silvia's 
 Bedcham her '; A periwig^ hat ,- and svJordf vpon 
 the table. ■ ' 
 
 Enter SiLvrA in her nightcap. 
 
 Silv. I have rested but ihdifFerently, and I believe 
 my bedfellow was as little pleased ; poor Rose ! 
 here she comes — 
 
 Enter Rose. 
 
 Good morrow, my dear, how d'ye this morning.' 
 
 Hose. Just as I was last night, neither betternor 
 worse for you. 
 
 Silv. What's the matter ? did you not like your 
 bedfellow? 
 
 Hose. I dfin't know whether I had a bpdfeUdvy^ 
 or not. ' ' , 
 
 Silv. Did not I lie with you ? 
 
 Rose. No : I wonder you' could have the con- 
 science to ruin a poor girl for nothing. 
 
 Silv. I have saved thee from ruin, child ; don't 
 be melancholy, I can give you as many fine things 
 as the captain pan. 
 
 Bose. But you can't I'm sure. 
 
 {^Knocking at the door. 
 
 Silv. Odso t my accoutrements. — [Puts on her 
 periwig, hat, and sword.] Who's at the door ? 
 
 Constable. iJVilhout.} Open the door, or we'll 
 break it down. 
 
 Sill). Patieiice a little, lOpem the door. 
 
 Enter Constable and Watch. 
 
 Con. We have 'em,' we have 'em ! the duck and 
 the mallard b'oth in the decoy. ' 
 
 Silv. What means this riot ? Stand off,! — 
 [Draws. ] the man dies that comes within reach of 
 my point. 
 
 Con. Th^t is not the point, master ; put up your 
 sword or I shall knock you down ; and so 1 comr 
 mand the queen's peacp. . ; : 
 
 Silv. You are some blockhead of a constable. 
 
 Cen. I am so, and have a warrant to apprehend 
 the bodies of you and youx whore there, 
 
 Bose. W^hore ! never was poor woman so abused. 
 
 Enter Bvluxk unbuttoned. 
 
 Bull. What's the matter now? — O Mr. Bride- 
 well ! what brings you abroad so early .' 
 
 Coti. This, sir. — [Lays hold of Bullock.] 
 You're the queen's prisoner. 
 
 Bull. Wauns, you lie, sir 1 I'm the queen's 
 soldier. 
 
 Con. No matter for that, you shall go before 
 Justice Balance. 
 
 Silv. [Aside.] Balance ! 'tis what I wanted. — 
 [Aloud.] Here, Mr. Constable, I resign my swopd. 
 
 Bose. Can't you carry us before the captain, Mr, 
 Bridewell ? 
 
 Con. Captain 1 han't you got your bellyfull of 
 captains yet? — Come, come, make way there. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE II A Boom in Justice Balance'* 
 
 " House. ' 
 
 , Enter Justice Balance and Justice Scale, 
 
 Scale. I say 'tis not to be borne, Mr. Balance ! 
 
 Bal- Look'ee, Mr. Scale, for my own part I 
 shall be very tender in what regards the; officers of 
 the army ; they expose their lives to so' many dan- 
 gers for jis abroad, that we may give them some 
 grains of allowance at hotile. 
 
 Scale. Allowance ! this poor girl's father is my 
 tenant ; and, if I mistake not, her mother nursed a 
 child for you. Shall they debauch our daughters 
 to our faces ? 
 
 Bal. Consider, Mr. Scale, that were it not for 
 the bravery'of these officers, we should have French 
 dragoons among us, that would leave us neither 
 liberty, property, wife, nor daughter. Come, 
 Mr. Scale, the gentlemen are vigorous and warm, 
 and may they continue so ; the same heat that stirs 
 them up to love, spurs them on to battle: you 
 never knew « great general in your life, that did 
 not love a vfhore. This I only spealc in reference 
 to captain Plume — for the' other spark I know 
 nothing of. 
 
 Scale. Nor can I hear of anybody that does. — 
 Oh, here they come. ■ ' ; 
 
 Enter Constable ^nd Watch, with Silvia, Bullock,- and 
 
 KOSK. 
 
 Con. May it please your worships we top^ 
 them in the^ery act, re infecta, sir. The gentle- 
 man, indeed, behaved himself like a gentleman; for 
 he drew his sword and swore, and afterwards laid 
 it down, and said nothing. ' 
 
 Bal. Give the gentleman his sword again — wait 
 you without. — \Exeujit Constable and Watch.] 
 I'm sorry, sir,— ^[ To Silvia] to know a gentle- 
 man upon such terms, that the Qccasion of our 
 meeting should prevent the satisfactipn of, an 
 acquaintance. /■ • 
 
 Silv. Sir, you need make, no apology for your 
 warrant, no more than I shall do for Aiy behaviour: 
 my innocence is upon an equal foot with your 
 authority. 
 
 Scale. Innocence ! have not you seduced that 
 young-maid ? ' 
 
 Silv. No, Mr. Goosecap, she seduced me. 
 
 Bull. So she did, I'll swear — for she proposed 
 marriage first. 
 
 Bal. What, then you are married, child ? 
 
 [To Rosit. 
 
 Bose. Yes, sir, to my sorrow. 
 
 Bal. Wlio was witness ? 
 
 JSmW. That was I^ — I danced, threw the stocking, 
 and spoke jokes by their bedside, I'm sure. 
 
 Bal. Who ^as the minister .■' 
 
 BiAll. Minister ! we are soldiers, and want no 
 ministers. They were married by the articles of 
 war. 
 
 Bal. Hold thy prating, fool! — [To Silvia.] 
 Your appearance, sir, promises some understand- 
 I ing ; pray what does this fellow mean? 
 
C34 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 Silv. He means marriage, I think — but that you 
 know is so odd a tiling, that hardly any two people 
 under the sun agree in the ceremony ; some make 
 it a sacrament, others a convenience, and others 
 make it a jest ; but among soldiers 'tis most sacred. 
 Our sword, you know, is our honour ; that we lay 
 down ; the hero jumps over it first, and the amazon 
 after — leap rogue, follow whore — the drum beats a 
 ruff, and so to bed ; that's all — the ceremony is 
 concise. 
 
 Bull. And the prettiest ceremony, so full of 
 pastime and prodigality ! — 
 
 Bal. What ! are you a soldier ? 
 
 Bull. Ay, that I am. Will your worship lend 
 me your cane, and I'll show you how I can ex- 
 ercise. 
 
 Bal. [Striking him over the head-l Take it. — 
 [To Silvia.] Pray, sir, what commission may you 
 bear ? 
 
 Silv. I'm called captain, sir, by all the coffeemen, 
 drawers, whores, and groom -porters in Loudon ; 
 for I wear a red coat, a sword, a hat Hen trouss^, 
 a martial twist in my cravat, a fierce knot in my 
 periwig, a cane upon my button, piquet in my head, 
 and dice in my pocket. 
 
 Scale. Your name, pray, sir ? 
 
 Silv. Captain Pinch : I cock my hat with a pinch, 
 I take snuff with a pinch, pay my whores with a 
 pinch. In short, I can do anything at a pinch, but 
 fight and fill my belly. 
 
 Bal. And pray, sir, what brought you into 
 Shropshire .' 
 
 Silv. A pinch, sir : I knew you country gentle- 
 men want wit, and you know that we town gentle- 
 men want money, and so — 
 
 Bal. I understand you, sir. — Here, constable ! 
 
 Re-enter Constable, 
 
 Take this gentleman into custody till farther orders. 
 
 Rose. Pray your worship don't be uncivil to 
 him, for he did me no hurt ; he's the most harmless 
 man in the world, for all he talks so. 
 
 Scale. Come, come, child, I'll take care of you. 
 
 Silv. AVhat, gentlemen, rob me of my freedom, 
 and my wife at once ! 'Tis the first time they ever 
 went together. 
 
 Bal. Heark'ee, constable ! iWhispers him. 
 
 Con. It shall be done, sir. — Come along, sir. 
 
 {^Exit with Bullock and Silvia. 
 
 Bal. Come, Mr. Scale, we'll manage the spark 
 presently. lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. — Melinda's Apartment. 
 Enter Melinda and Worthy, 
 
 Mel. [Aside.'] So far the prediction is right, 'tis 
 ten exactly. — [Aloud.] And pray, sir, how long 
 have you been in this travelling humour ? 
 
 Wor. 'Tis natural, madam, for us to avoid what 
 disturbs our quiet. 
 
 Mel. Rather the love of change, which is more 
 natural, may be the occasion of it. 
 
 Wor. To be sure, madam, there must be charms 
 in variety, else neither you nor I should be so fond 
 of it. 
 
 Mel. rou mistake, Mr. Worthy, I am not so 
 fond of variety as to travel for't, nor do I think it 
 prudence in you to run yourself into a certain ex- 
 pense and danger, in hopes of precarious pleasures, 
 
 which at best never answer expectation ; as 'tis 
 evident from the example of most travellers, that 
 long more to return to their own country than 
 they did to go abroad. 
 
 IVor. What pleasures I mhj receive abroad are 
 indeed uncertain ; but this I am sure of, I shall 
 meet with less cruelty among the most barbarous 
 nations, than I have found at home. 
 
 Mel. Come, sir, you and I have been jangling a 
 great while ; I fancy if we made up our accounts, 
 we should the sooner come to an agreement. 
 
 fVor. Sure, madam, you won't dispute your being 
 in my debt ? My fears, sighs, vows, promises, assi- 
 duities, anxieties, jealousies, have run on for a 
 whole year without anv payment. 
 
 Mel. A year ! oh. Sir. Worthy ! what you owe 
 to me is not to be paid under a seven years' servi- 
 tude. How did you use me the year before .' when, 
 taking the advantage of my innocence and necessity, 
 you would have made me your mistress, that is, 
 your slave. Kemember the wicked insinuations, 
 artful baits, deceitful arguments, cunning pretences; 
 then your impudent behaviour, loose expressions, 
 familiar letters, rude visits, — remember those ! 
 those, Mr. Worthy ! 
 
 Wor. [Aside.] I do remember, and am sorry I 
 made no better use of 'em. — [Aloud.l But you 
 may remember, madam, that — 
 
 Mel. Sir, I'll remember nothing — 'tis your in- 
 terest that I should forget : you have been bar- 
 barous to me, I have been cruel to you ; put that 
 and that together, and let one balance the other. 
 Now if you will begin upon a new score, lay aside 
 your adventuring airs, and behave yourself hand- 
 somely till Lent be over ; here's my hand, I'll use 
 you as a gentleman should be. 
 
 Wor. And if I don't use you as a gentlewoman 
 should be, may this be my poison ' 
 
 ^Kissing her hand- 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Madam, the coach is at the door. lExit. 
 
 Mel. 1 am going to Mr. Balance's country-house 
 to see my cousin Silvia ; I have done her an injury, 
 and can't be easy till I have asked her pardon. 
 
 Wor. I dare not hope for the honour of waiting 
 on you. 
 
 Mel. My coach is full ; but if you will be so 
 gallant as to mount your own horses and follow us, 
 we shall be glad to be overtaken ; and if you bring 
 captain Plume with you, we shan't have the worse 
 reception, 
 
 Wor- I'll endeavour it. lExit, leadir.g MEMtiDt. 
 
 SCENE IV.— r/sc Marketplace. 
 Enter Captain Plume and Serjeant Kite. 
 
 Plume. A baker, a tailor, a smith, and a butcher 
 — I believe the first colony planted in Virginia had 
 not more trades in their company than I have in 
 mine. 
 
 Kite. The butcher, sir, will have his hands full ; 
 for we have two sheep-stealers among us. I hear 
 of a fellow too committed just now for stealing of 
 horses. 
 
 Plume. We' 11 dispose of him among the dragoons. 
 Have we ne'er a poulterer among us ? 
 
 Kite. Yes, sir, the king of the gipsies is a very 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 635 
 
 good one, he has an exellent hand at a goose or a 
 turkey. Here's captain Brazen, sir, 1 must go 
 look after the men. lE.vU. 
 
 Enter Captain Bhazkn, reading a letter. 
 
 Braz. Um, urn, um. the canonical hour — Um, 
 um, very well. — My dear Plume ! give me a buss. 
 
 Plume. Half a score, if you will, my dear. 
 What hast got in thy hand, child } 
 
 Braz. 'Tis a project for laying out a thousand 
 pound. 
 
 Plume. Were it not requisite to project first how 
 to get it in ? 
 
 Braz. You can't imagine, my dear, that I want 
 twenty thousand pound ; I have spent twenty times 
 as much in the service. Now, my dear, pray advise 
 me, my head runs much upon architecture, shall I 
 build a privateer or a playhouse ? 
 
 Plume. An odd question — a privateer or a play- 
 house 1 'Twill require some consideration. — Faith, 
 I'm for a privateer. 
 
 Braz. .I'm not of your opinion, ray dear. — For 
 in the first place a privateer may be ill built. 
 
 Plume. And so may a playhouse. 
 
 Braz. But a privateer may be ill manned. 
 
 Plume. And so may a playhouse. 
 
 Braz, But a privateer may run upon the shal- 
 ioffs. 
 
 Plume. Not so often as a playhouse. 
 
 Braz. But you know a privateer may spring a 
 leak. 
 
 Plume. And I know that a playhouse may spring 
 a great many. 
 
 Braz. But suppose the privateer come home 
 Tith a rich booty, we should never agree about our 
 shares. 
 
 Plume. 'Tis just so in a playhouse : — so, by my 
 advice, you shall fix upon the privateer. 
 
 Braz. Agreed ! — But if this twenty thousand 
 should not be in specie — 
 
 Plume. What twenty thousand ? 
 
 Braz. Heark'ee. IWMspers. 
 
 Plume. Married ! 
 
 Braz. Presently, we're to meet about half a 
 !i:iIeout of town at the water-side — and so forth. — 
 I Reads.] For fear I should be known by any of 
 JVorthy's friends, you must give me leave to wear 
 my mask till after the ceremony, which will make 
 me for ever yours. — Look'ee there, my dear dog. 
 [Shows the bottom of the letter to Plu-me. 
 
 Plume. Melinda ! — and by this light, her own 
 hand ! — Once more, if you please, my dear.~Her 
 iiand exactly ! — Just now, you say .'' 
 
 Braz. This minute 1 must be gone. 
 
 Plume. Have a little patience, and I'll go with 
 you. 
 
 Braz. No, no, I see a gentleman coming this 
 way, that may be inquisitive ; 'tis Worthy, do you 
 know him .' 
 
 Plume. By sight only. 
 
 Braz. Have a care, the very eyes discover secrets. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Jlr. "WoraBY, 
 
 Wor. To boot and saddle, captain, you must 
 mount. 
 
 Plume. Whip and spur. Worthy, or you won't 
 mount. 
 
 Wor. But I shall : McIinda and I are agreed, 
 she's gone to visit Silvia, we are to mount and 
 
 follow ; and could we carry a parson with us, who 
 knows what might be done for us both ? 
 
 Plume. Don't trouble your head ; Melinda has 
 secured a parson already. 
 
 Wor. Already ! do you know more tlian I ? 
 
 Plume. Yes, I saw it under her liand. — Brazen 
 and she are to meet half a mile hence at the water- 
 side, there to take boat, i suppose to be ferried 
 over to the Elysian fields, if there be any such 
 thing in matrimony. 
 
 Wor. I parted with Melinda just now ; she as- 
 sured me she hated Brazen, and that she resolved 
 to discard Lucy for daring to write letters to him 
 in her name. 
 
 Plume. Nay, nay, there's nothing of Lucy in 
 
 this 1 tell ye, I saw Melinda's hand, as surely as 
 
 this is mine. 
 
 Wor. But I tell you, she's gone this minute to 
 justice Balance's country-house. 
 
 Plume. But I tell you, she's gone this minute 
 to the water-side. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. [To Worthy.] Madam Melinda has sent 
 word, that you need not trouble yourself to follow 
 her, because her journey to justice Balance's is put 
 ofi", and she's gone to take the air another way. 
 
 Wor. How ! her journey put off ! 
 
 Plume. That is, her journey was a put-off to you. 
 
 Wor. 'Tis plain, plain ! — But how, where, when 
 is she to meet Brazen .' 
 
 Plume. Just now, I tell you, half a mile hence 
 at the water-side. 
 
 Wor. Up or down the water ? 
 
 Plume. That I don't know. 
 
 Wor. I'lB glad my horses are ready. — Jack, get 
 'em out. {_Exit Servant. 
 
 Plume. Shall I go with you ? 
 
 Wor. Not an inch ; I shall return presently. 
 
 Plume. You'll find me at the hall ; the justices 
 are sitting by this time, and I must attend them. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE Y.—A Court of Justice. 
 
 Justices Bax,.\.vce, Scale, and Scuuple, discovered upon 
 the bench; Serjeant Kite, Constable, and Mob, in atten- 
 dance. 
 
 Kite. [Aside to Constable.] Pray, who are those 
 honourable gentlemen upon the bench ? 
 
 Con. He in the middle is justice Balance, he on 
 the right is justice Scale, and he on the left is jus- 
 tice Scruple ; and I am Mr. Constable : — four very 
 honest gentlemen. 
 
 Kite. O dear sir ! I am your most obedient ser- 
 vant. — [Saluting him.l I fancy, sir, that your em- 
 ployment and mine are much the same ; for my 
 business is to keep people in order, and if they 
 disobey, to knoclc 'em down ; and then we are both 
 staff-officers. 
 
 Con. Nay, I'm a Serjeant myself— of the militia. 
 Come, brother, you shall see me exercise. Sup- 
 pose this a musket now : now I am shouldered. 
 
 [Puts his staff on his right shoulder. 
 
 Kite. Ay, you are shouldered pretty well for a 
 constable's staff ; but for a musket, you must put it 
 on t'other shoulder, my dear. 
 
 Con. Adso ! that's true. — Come, now give the 
 word of com.mand. 
 
630 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 Kite. Silence t 
 
 Con. Ay, ay, so we will— we wjU be silent. 
 
 Kite. Silence, you dog, silence I 
 
 iStrikes him over the head with his halberd. 
 
 Con. That's the way to sileiice a man. with a 
 witness ! What d'ye mean, friend .' 
 
 Kile. Only to exercise you, sir. 
 
 Con. Your exercise differs so from ours, that we 
 shall ne'er agree about it. If my own captain had 
 given me such a rap, I had taken the law of him. 
 
 l^nter Captain Plumb. 
 
 Sal. Captain, you're welcome. 
 Plume. Gentlemen, I thank you. 
 Serup. Come, honest riaptain,sit byme — [Plume 
 takes his seat upon the bench.\ 'Now produce your 
 prisoners. — Here, that fellow there — set him up — 
 Mr. Constable, what have you to say against this 
 man ? 
 
 Con. I have nothing to say against him, an 
 please you. 
 
 Bal. No ! what rofiie you bf ing him hither ? 
 Con. I don't know, an please your worship, 
 iScdle. Did not the contents of your wari-ant 
 direct you what sort of men to take up ? 
 
 Con. I can't tell, an please ye ; I can't read. 
 Sbrup. A very pretty constable truly ! — I find 
 we have no business here. 
 
 Kite. May it please the worshipful bench, I de- 
 sire to be heard in this case, as being counsel for 
 the queen. 
 
 Sal. Come, Serjeant, you shall be heard, since 
 nobody else will speak ; we won't come here foV 
 nothing. 
 
 Kile. This man is but one man j the country 
 may spare lim, and the armywahts him'; besides, 
 he's cut out by nature for a grenadier ; he's five 
 foot ten inches high ; he shall box, wrestle, or dance 
 the Cheshire round with any man in the country ; 
 he gets drunk every sabbath day, and he beats his 
 wife. 
 
 IVife. You lie, sirrah! you lie! — An please your 
 worship, he's the best-natur'dst, pains-taking'st 
 man in the parish, witness my five poor children. 
 
 Scrup, A wife and five children ! — You con- 
 stable, you rogue, how durst you impress a man 
 that has a wife and five children .' 
 
 Scale. Discharge him ! discharge him ! 
 Sal. Hold, gentlemen ! — Hark'ee, friend, how 
 do you maintain your wife and children ? 
 
 Plume. They live upon wildfowl and venison, 
 sir ; the husband keeps a gun, and kills all the hares 
 and partridges within five miles round. 
 
 Sal. A gun ! nay, if he be so good at gunning, 
 he shall have enough on't. He may be of use 
 against the French, for he shoots flying, to be sure. 
 Scrup. But his wife and children, Mr. Balance ! 
 Wife. Ay, ay, that's the reason you would send 
 him away ; you know I have a child every year, 
 and you are afraid they should come upon the parish 
 at last. 
 
 Plume. Look'ee there, gentlemen, the honest 
 woman has spoke it at once j the parish had better 
 maintain five children this year, than six or seven 
 the next. That fellow, upon his high feeding, may 
 get you two or three beggars at a birth. 
 
 IVife. Look'ee, Mr. Captain, the parish shall 
 get nothing by sending him away, for 1 won't lose 
 my teeming-time, if there be a man left in the 
 palish. 
 
 Sal. Send that woman to the house of correction 
 - — and the man — 
 
 Kile. I'll take care o' him, if you please. 
 
 ITakes him down. 
 
 Scale. Here, you constable, the next:— set up 
 that black-faced fellow, he has a gunpowder look. 
 What can you say against this man, constable? 
 
 Con. Nothing, but that he is a very honest man. 
 
 Pluine. Pray, gentlemen, let me have one honest 
 man in my company, for the novelty's sake, 
 
 Sal. What are you, friend ? 
 
 Mob. A collier ; I work in the coal-pits. 
 
 Scrup. Look'ee, gentlemen, this fellow has a 
 trade, and the act of parliament here expresses, 
 that we are to impress no man that has any visible 
 means of a livelihood. 
 
 Kite. May it please your worships, this man has 
 no visible means of livelihood, for he works under- 
 ground. 
 
 Plume. Well said. Kite ! Besides, the army 
 wants miners. 
 
 Bal. Right, and had we an order of government 
 for't, we could raise you in this and the neighbour- 
 ing county of Stafford, five hundred colliers, that 
 would ran you underground like moles, and do 
 more service in a siege than all the miners in the 
 army. 
 
 Scrup. Well, friend, what have you to say for 
 yourself? 
 
 Mob. I'm married. 
 
 Kite. Lack.a-day, so am I! 
 
 Mob. Here's my wife, poOT woman. 
 
 Sal. Are you married, good woman ? 
 
 IVom. I'm married in conscience. 
 
 Kite. May it please your worship, she's with 
 child in conscience. 
 
 Scale. Who married you, mistress ? 
 
 Worn. My husband — we agreed that I sliould 
 call him husband, to avoid passing for a whore, and 
 that he should call me wife, to shun going for a 
 soldier. 
 
 Scrup. A very pretty couple ! Pray, captain, 
 will you take 'em both ? 
 
 Plume. What say you, Mr. Kite ? will you take 
 care of the woman ? ' . 
 
 Kite. Yes, sir ; she shall go with us to the sea- 
 side, and there, if she has a mind to drown herself, 
 we'll take care that nobody shall hinder her. 
 
 Bal. Here, constable, bring in my man. — [Ejnt 
 Constable.] Now, captain, I'll fit you with a man, 
 such as you ne'er listed in your life. 
 
 Re-enter Constable with Silvia. 
 
 Oh ! my friend Pinch, I'm very glad to see you. 
 
 Silv. Well, sir, and what then .' 
 
 Scale. What then ! is that your respect to the 
 bench ? 
 
 Sih. Sir, I don't care a farthing for you nor 
 your bench neither. _ 
 
 Scrup. Look'ee, gentlemen, that's enough : he s 
 a very impudent fellow, and fit for a soldier. 
 
 Scale. A notorious rogue, I say, and very fit for 
 a soldier. 
 
 Con. A whoremaster, I say, and therefore fit to 
 go. 
 
 Sal. What think you, captain ? 
 
 Plume. 1 think he's a very pretty fellow, and 
 therefore fit to serve. 
 
 Silv. Me for a soldier ! send your own luzy, 
 lubberly sons at home, fellows that hazard their 
 
THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 (537 
 
 necks every day in pursuit of a fox, yet dare not 
 peep abroad to look an enemy in the face. 
 
 Con. May it please your worships, I have a 
 woman at the door to swear a rape against this 
 rogue. 
 
 Silv. Is it your wife or daughter, booby? I 
 ravished 'em both yesterday. 
 
 Bal. Pray, captain, read the Articles of War, 
 we'll see him listed immediately. 
 
 Plume. [Reads.] Articles of War against mu- 
 tiny and desertion — 
 
 Silv. Hold, sir ! — Once more, gentlemen, have 
 a care what you do, for you shall severely smart 
 for any violence you offer to me ; and you, Mr. 
 Balance, I speak to you particularly, you shall 
 heartily repent it. 
 
 Plume. Look'ee, young spark, say but one word 
 more, and I'll build a horse for you as high as the 
 ceiling, and make you ride the most tiresome jour- 
 ney that ever you made in your life. 
 
 Silv. Yon have made a fine speech, good cap- 
 tain HufFcap, but you had better be quiet, I shall 
 find a way to cool your courage. 
 
 Plume. Pray, gentlemen, don't mind him, he's 
 distracted. 
 
 Silv. 'Tis false ! I am descended of as good a 
 family as any in your county ; my father is as good 
 a man as any upon your bench, and I am heir to 
 twelve hundred pound a year, 
 
 Bal. He's certainly mad ! — Pray, captain, read 
 the Articles of War. 
 
 Silv. Hold once more 1 — Pray, Mr. Balance, to 
 you I speak, suppose I were your child, would you 
 use me at this rate ? 
 
 Bal. No, faith, were you mine, I would send 
 you to Bedlam first, and into the army afterwards. 
 
 Silv. But consider my father, sir, he's as good, 
 as generous, as brave, as just a man as ever served 
 his country ; I'm his only child, perhaps the loss 
 of me may break his heart. 
 
 Bal. He's a very great fool if it does. — Captain, 
 if you don't list him this minute, I'll leave the 
 court. 
 
 Plume. Kite, do you distribute the levy-money 
 to the men while I read. 
 
 Kite. .\y, sir. — Silence, gentlemen ! 
 
 [Captain Plume reads the Articles of War. 
 
 Bal. Very weU ; now, captain, let me beg the 
 favour of you, not to discharge this fellow upon 
 any account whatsoever. — Bring in the rest. 
 
 Con. There are no more, an't please your wor- 
 ship. 
 
 Bal. No more ! there were five two hours ago. 
 
 Silv. 'Tis true, sir, but this rogue of a constable 
 let the rest escape for a bribe of eleven shillings a 
 man ; because he said the act allowed him but ten, 
 so the odd shilling was clear gains. 
 
 Justices. How ! 
 
 Silv. Gentlemen, he offered to let me get away 
 for two guineas, but I had not so much about me ; 
 this is truth, and I'm ready to swear it. 
 
 Kite. And I'll swear it ; give me the book, 'tis 
 for the good of the service. 
 
 Mob. May it please your worship, I gave him 
 faalf-a-crown to say that I was an honest man ; 
 but now, since that your worships have made me a 
 rogue, I hope I shall have my money again. 
 
 Bal. 'Tis my opinion, that this constable be 
 put into the captain's hands, and if his friends 
 don't bring four good men for his ransom by to- 
 
 morrow night — captain, you shall carry him to 
 Flanders. 
 
 Scale. Scrup. Agreed ! agreed ! 
 
 Plume. Mr. Kite, take the constable into "us- 
 tody. 
 
 Kite. Ay, ay, sir.— [To Constable.] Will you 
 please to have your office taken from you ? or will 
 you handsomely lay down your staff, as your betters 
 have done before you 1 [Constable drops his staff. 
 
 Bal. Come, gentlemen, there needs no great 
 ceremony in adjourning this court. — Captain, you 
 shall dine, with me. 
 
 Kite. [To Constable.] Come, Mr. Militia 
 Serjeant, I shall silence you now, I believe, withont 
 your taking the law of me. . i^Exe^nt. 
 
 SCENE VI.— The Fields. 
 Enter Captain Brazen leading Lucy masked. 
 
 Braz. The boat is just below here. 
 Enter Mr. Worthy with a case of pistils under his arm, 
 
 Wor. Hei-e, sir, take your cnoicei 
 
 {Going between them, 'and offering thepistols. 
 
 Braz. What ! pistols ! are they charged, my 
 dear? 
 
 Wor. With a brace of bullets each. 
 
 Braz. But I'm a foot-officer, my dear, and never 
 use pistols, the sword is my way — and I won't be 
 put out of my road to please any man. 
 
 Wor. Nor I neither ; so have at you* 
 
 {Cocks one pistol, 
 
 Braz. Look'ee, my dear, I don't care for pis. 
 tols. — Pray, oblige me, and let us have a bout at 
 sharps ; damn it, there's no parrying these bullets ! 
 
 Wor. Sir, if you han't your bellyfuU of these, 
 the swords shall come in for second course. 
 
 Braz. Why, then, fire and fury ! I have eaten 
 smoke from the mouth of a cannon, sir ; don't 
 think I fear powder, for I live upon't. Let me 
 see — [ Takes one.'] And now, sir, how many paces 
 distant shall we fire ? 
 
 Wor. Fire you when you please, I'll reserve 
 my shot till I am sure of you. 
 
 Braz. Come, where' s your cloak ? 
 
 Wor. Cloak I what d'ye mean ? 
 
 Braz. To fight upon j I always fight upon a 
 cloak, 'tis our way abroad. 
 
 Lucy, Come, gentlemen, I'll end the strife. 
 
 {Vlimasks, 
 
 Wor. Lucy ! — take her. 
 
 Braz. The devU take me if I do ! Huzza ! — 
 [Fires his pistol.'] D'ye hear, d'ye hear, you plaguy 
 harridan, how those bullets whistle ! suppose they 
 had been lodged in my gizzard now ! 
 
 Lucy. Pray, sir, pardon me. 
 
 Braz. I can't tell, child, till I know whether 
 my money be safe. — [Searching his pockets.] Yes, 
 yes, I do pardon you, but if I had you in the Rose 
 tavern, Covent-Garden, with three or four hearty 
 rakes, and three or four smart napkins, I would 
 tell you another story, my dear. {Exit, 
 
 Wor. And was Melinda privy to this ? 
 
 Lucy. No, sir, she wrote her name upon a piece 
 of paper at the fortune-teller's last night, which I 
 put iu my pocket, and so writ above it to the cap- 
 tain. 
 
 Wor. And how came Melinda's journey put off .' 
 
 Lucy. At the town's end she met Mr. Balance's 
 
OSf? 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 steward, who told her, that Mrs. Silvia was gone 
 from her father's, and nobody could tell whither, 
 
 Wor. Silvia gone from her father's ! This will 
 be news to Plume. — Go home, and tell your lady 
 how near 1 was being shot for her. 
 
 lExcimt several!!/. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 -A Room in Justice Balance's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Justice Balance and Steward. 
 
 Slew. We did not miss her till the evening, sir ; 
 and then, searching for her in the chamber that 
 was my young master's, we found her clothes 
 there ; but the suit that your son left in the press, 
 when he went to London, was gone. 
 
 Bal. The white trimmed with silver ? 
 
 Stew. The same. 
 
 Bal. You han't told that circumstance to any- 
 body? 
 
 Steu). To none hut your worship. 
 
 Bal. And be sure you don't. Go into the 
 dining-room, and tell captain Plume that I beg to 
 speak with him. 
 
 Stew. I shall. CB.»''- 
 
 Bal. Was ever man so imposed upon I I had 
 her promise, indeed, that she should never dispose 
 of herself without my consent. I have consented 
 with a witness, given her away as my act and deed. 
 And this, I warrant, the captain thinks will pass ; 
 no, I shall never pardon him the villany, first of 
 robbing me of my daughter, and then the mean 
 opinion he must have of me, to think that I could 
 be so wretchedly imposed upon ; her extravagant 
 passion might encourage her in the attempt, but 
 the contrivance must be his. I'll know the truth 
 presently. 
 
 Enter Captain Pf.ump. 
 
 Pray, captain, what have you done with your young 
 gentleman soldier ? 
 
 Plume. He's at my quarters, I suppose, with 
 the rest of my men. 
 
 Bal. Does he keep company with the common 
 soldiers ? 
 
 Plume. No, he's generally with me. 
 
 Bal. He lies with you, I presume ? 
 
 Plume. No, faith, I offered him part of my bed ; 
 but the young rogue fell In love with Rose, and has 
 lain with her, I think, since he came to town. 
 
 Bal. So, that between you both. Rose has been 
 finely managed. 
 
 Plume. Upon my honour, sir, she had no harm 
 from me. 
 
 Bal. [Aside.] All's safe, I find ! — [Aloud.'] 
 Now, captain, you must know that the young fel- 
 low's impudence in court was well grounded ; he 
 said I should heartily repent his being listed, and 
 BO I do from my soul. 
 
 Plume. Ay ! for what reason ? 
 
 Bal. Because he is no less than what he said he 
 was, born of as good a family as any in this 
 county, and is heir to twelve hundred pound a 
 year. 
 
 Plume. I'm very glad to hear it— for I wanted 
 but a man of that quality to make my company a 
 perfect representative of the whole commons of 
 England. 
 
 Bdl. Won't you discharge him ? 
 
 Plume. Not under a hundred pound sterling. 
 
 Bal. You shall have it, for his father is my 
 intimate friend. 
 
 Plume. Then you shall have him for nothing. 
 
 Bal. Nay, sir, you shall have your price. 
 
 Plume. Not a penny, sir ; I value an obligation 
 to you much above a hundred pound. 
 
 Bal. Perhaps, sir, you shan't repent your gene- 
 rosity. — Will you please to write his discharge in 
 my pocket-book ? — [Gives his book.] In the mean 
 time, we'll send for the gentleman. — ^Who waits 
 there ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Go to the captain's lodging, and inquire for Mr. 
 Wilful, tell him his captain wants him here 
 immediately. 
 
 Ser. Sir, the gentleman's below at the door, 
 inquiring for the captain. 
 
 Plume. Bid him come up. — [Exit Servant.] 
 Here's the discharge, sir. 
 
 Bal. Sir, I thank you [Aside.] 'Tis plain he 
 
 had no hand in't. 
 
 Enter Silvia. 
 
 Silv. I think, captain, you might have usedme bet- 
 ter than to leave me yonder among your swearing, 
 drunken crew. And you, Mr. Justice, might have 
 been so civil as to have invited me to dinner, for I 
 have eaten with as good a man as your worship. 
 
 Plume. Sir, you must charge our want of respect, 
 upon our ignorance of your quality. — But now you 
 are at liberty — I have discharged you. 
 
 Silv. Discharged me ! 
 
 Bal. Yes, sir, and you must once more go home 
 to your father. 
 
 Silv. My father ! then I am discovered. — sir ! 
 [Kneeling.] I expect no pardon. 
 
 Bal. Pardon ! no, no, child, your crime shall be 
 
 your punishment Here, captain, I deliver her 
 
 over to the conjugal power for her chastisement ; 
 since she will be a wife, be you a husband, a very 
 husband. When she tells you of her love, upbraid 
 her with her folly ; be modishly ungrateful, because 
 she has been unfashionably kind, and use her worse 
 than you would anybody else, because you can't 
 use her so well as she deserves. 
 
 Plume. And are you Silvia, in good earnest ? 
 
 Silv. Earnest ! I have gone too far to make it 
 a jest, sir. 
 
 Plume. And do you give her to me in good 
 earnest .'* 
 
 Bal. If you please to take her, sir. 
 
 Plume. Why then I have saved my legs and arms, 
 and lost my liberty; secure from wounds, I am 
 prepared for the gout; farewell subsistence, and 
 welcome taxes ! — Sir, my liberty, and hopes of 
 being a general, are much dearer to me than your 
 twelve hundred pound a year — But to your love, 
 madam, I resign my freedom, and to your beauty 
 my ambition : greater in obeying at your feet, than 
 commanding at the head of an army. 
 
 Enlcr Mr. WonTHY. 
 
 Wor. I am sorry to hear, Mr. Balance, that 
 your daughter is lost. 
 
 Bal. So am not I, sir, since an honest gentleman 
 has found her. 
 
SCENE VII. 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 630 
 
 Elder ^IKLIN1)A. 
 
 Jlfei. Pray, Mr. Balance, what's become of my 
 cousin Silvia ? 
 
 JBal. Your cousin Silvia is talking yonder with 
 your cousin Plume. 
 
 Mel. fVor. How ! 
 
 Silv. Do you think it strange, cousin, that a 
 woman should change ? but, 1 hope, you'll excuse 
 a change that has proceeded from constancy. I 
 altered my outside, because I vras the same within.; 
 and only laid by the woman to make sure of my 
 man ; that's my history. 
 
 Mel. Your history is a little romantic, cousin, 
 but since success has crowned your adventures, you 
 will have the world o' your side, and I shall be 
 willing to go with the tide, provided you'll pardon 
 an injury I offered you in the letter to your father. 
 
 Plume. That injury, madam, was done to me, 
 and the reparation I expect shall be made to my 
 friend ; make Mr. Worthy happy, and I shall be 
 satisfied. 
 
 Mel. A good example, sir, will go a great way : 
 when my cousin is pleased to surrender, 'tis pro- 
 bable I shan't hold out much longer. 
 
 Enter Captain Brazen. 
 
 Brax. Gentlemen, I am yours. — Madam, I am 
 not yours. 
 
 Mel. I'm glad on't, sir. 
 
 Braz. So am I. — You have got a pretty house 
 here, Mr. Laconic. 
 
 Bal. 'Tis time to right all mistakes. — My name, 
 sir, is Balance. 
 
 Braz. Balance ! Sir, I am your most obedient ! 
 — I know your whole generation. Had not you an 
 uncle that was governor of the Leeward Islands 
 some years ago ? 
 
 Bal. Did you know him ? 
 
 Braz. Intimately, sir. He played at billiards 
 to a miracle. You had a brother too, that was 
 ■.aptain of a iireship — poor Dick— he had the most 
 engaging way with him — of making punch — and 
 then his cabin was so neat — but his boy Jack was 
 the most comical bastard — ha ! ha ! ha ! ha 1 ha ! 
 a pickled dog, I shall never forget him. 
 
 Plume. Well, captain, are you fixed in your 
 project yet .' are you still for the privateer ? 
 
 Braz. No, no, I had enough of a privateer just 
 now J I had like to have been picked up by a cruiser 
 under false colours, and a French pickaroou for 
 aught I know. 
 
 Plume. But have you got your recruits, my 
 dear ? 
 
 Braz. Not a stick, my dear. 
 
 Plume. Probably I shall furnish you. 
 
 Enter Ross avd Bullock. 
 
 Hose. Captain, captain, I have got loose once 
 more, and have persuaded my sweetheart Cart- 
 wheel to go with us ; but you must promise not to 
 part with me again. 
 
 Silv. I find, Mrs. Rose has not been pleased with 
 her bedfellow. 
 
 Rose. Bedfellow ! I don't know whether I had 
 a bedfellow or not. 
 
 Silv. Don't be in a passion, child, I was as little 
 pleased with your company as you could be with 
 mine. 
 
 Bull. Pray, sir, dunna be offended at my sister, 
 she's something underbred ; but if you please, I'll 
 lie with you in her stead. 
 
 Plume. I have promised, madam, to provide for 
 this girl ; now will you be pleased to let her wait 
 upon you .' or shall I take care of her ? 
 
 Silv. She shall be my charge, sir ; you may find 
 it business enough to take care of me. 
 
 Bull. Ay, and of me, captain ; for wauns ! if 
 ever you lift your hand against me, I'll desert. 
 
 Plume. Captain Brazen shall take care o' that. 
 - — [ To Captain Brazen.] My dear, instead of the 
 twenty thousand pound you talked of, you shall 
 have the twenty brave recruits that I have raised, 
 at the rate they cost me. — My commission I lay 
 down, to be taken up by some braver fellow, that 
 has more merit and less good fortune, whilst I en- 
 deavour, by the example of this worthy gentleman, 
 to serve my queen and country at home. 
 
 With some regret I quit the active field, 
 
 Where glory full reward for life does yield ; 
 
 Bur the recruiting trade, with all its train 
 
 Of lasting plague, fatigue, and endless pain, 
 
 I gladly quit, with my fair spouse to stay, 
 
 And raise recruits the matrimonial way. 
 
 {Exeunt omniv. 
 
640 
 
 THE RECRUITING OFFICER. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 All ladies and gentlemen that arfe billing to see 
 the comedyjcalled the Recruiting Officer, let them 
 repair to-morrow night, by six o'clock, to the sign 
 of the Theatre-Royal in Drury-lane; and they shall 
 be kindly ent<?rtained. , 
 
 We scorn the vulgar ways to bid you comej 
 Whole Euirope now obeys the call of drum. 
 The soldier, not the poet, here appears, 
 And beats up for a corp^ of volunteers : 
 He finds that music chiefly does delight ye, 
 And therefore chooses music to invite ye. 
 
 Beat the Grenadier March. —Row, row, tow ! — 
 Gedtlfemeni this piece of music, called An Over- 
 ture to a Battle, was composed by a famous Italian 
 master, and was performed with wonderful success 
 at the great operas of Vigo, Schellenherg, and 
 Blenheim ; -it came off with the applause of all 
 Europe, excepting France ; the French found it a 
 ittle too rough for their deliedtesse. 
 
 Sometbat have acted on those glorious stages, 
 Are here to witness to succeeding ages. 
 That ilo music like the grenadier's engages. 
 
 Ladies, wemust own, that this music bf ours is 
 not altogether so soft as Bononcini's ; yet, we dare 
 affirm, that it has laid more people asleep, than all 
 the Camillas in the world ; and,, you'll condescend 
 to own, that, it keeps one awake better than any 
 opera that ever was acted. 
 
 The Grenadier March seems to be a compdsiire 
 excellently adapted to the genius of the English, 
 for no music was ever followed so. far by us, nor 
 with so much alacrity { and, with all deference to 
 the present subscription, we must $ay, that the 
 Grenadier March has been subscribed for by the 
 whole Grand Alliance ; and, we presume to inform the 
 ladies, that it always has the pre-eminence abroad, 
 and is constantly heard by the tallest, handsomest 
 men in the whole army. In short, to gratify the 
 present, taste, oar author is nowadapting somewords 
 to the Grenadier March, which he intepds to have 
 performed to-morrow, if the lady who is to sing it 
 should not happen to be sick. 
 
 This he concludes tp be the surest way 
 To draw you hither ; for you'll all obey 
 Soft music's call, though you should damn his 
 jfilay. 
 
THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 ^ ©omeUg. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The reader may find some faults in this play, which my illness prevented the amending of ; but there is great amends 
 Blade in the representation, which cannot be matched, no more than the friendly and indefatigable care of Mr. Wilks, 
 to whom I chiefly owe the sucoess of the play, 
 
 G. FAKftCHAR. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON^ffi. 
 
 AiMWELL, 1 two Gentlemen ef broken Fortunes, the first 
 
 Archer, I as Master t and the second as Servant. 
 
 Count Bbl'iAtr, a French O^cer, Prisoner at Lichfield. 
 
 &1DTRE Sullen, a Country Blockhead^ brutal tohisWi/e. 
 
 Sm Charles Freeman, Brother to Mrs. Sullen. 
 
 FoiOARU, a Priest, Chaplain to the French Oncers, 
 
 Boniface, an Innkeeper, 
 
 Gibbet, \ 
 
 HouNSLOw, ythree Highwaymen. 
 
 Bagshot, J 
 
 Scrub, Servant to Squire Suio-en. 
 
 Lady Bountiful, an old, civil. Country Oentlewoman, 
 thai cures all her Neighbours of all distempert and 
 foolishly foTid of her Son Squibb Sullen 
 
 DoKiNDA, Daughter to Lady Bountiful. 
 
 Mrs. Sullen, Wife to Squibb Sullen. 
 
 Gipsy, Maid to the Ladies. 
 
 Cherry, Daughter to Boniface. 
 
 Tapster, Coach-passengers, Countryman, Country 
 woman, and Servants. 
 
 SCENE, LlCHFIELB. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MB. 'WILKS. 
 
 /When strife disturbs, or sloth corrupts an age, 
 HSeen satire is the business of the stage. 
 When the Plain-Dealer writ, he lash'd those 
 
 crimes. 
 Which then infested most the modish times : 
 But now, when faction sleeps, and sloth is fled. 
 And all our youth in active fields are bred ; 
 When through Great Britain's fair extensive round, 
 The trumps of fame, the notes of union sound ; 
 When Anna's sceptre points the laws their 
 
 course, 
 And her example gives her precepts force : 
 There scarce is room for satire ; all our lays 
 Must be, or songs of triumph, or of praise. 
 
 But as in grounds best cultivated, tares 
 And poppies rise among the golden ears ; 
 Our product so, fit for the field or school. 
 Must mix with nature's favourite plant — a fool : 
 A weed that has to twenty summers ran, 
 Shoots up in stalk, and vegetates to man. 
 Simpling our author goes from field to field. 
 And culls such fools as may diversion yield ; 
 And, thanks to nature, there's no want of those, 
 For rain or shine, the thriving coxcomb grows. 
 jFoUies to-night we show ne'er lash'd before, 
 jYet such as nature shows you every hour ; 
 ^or can the pictures give a just offence, 
 iFor fools are made for jests to men of sense. 
 
 T T 
 
6i'Z 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 ABT 1. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — A lloom in Boniface's Inn. 
 Enter Boniface running. 
 
 Bon. Chamberlain ! maid ! Cherry ! daughter 
 Cherry ! all asleep ? all dead ? 
 
 Enter Cherry running. 
 
 Cher, Here, here ! why d'ye bawl so, father ? 
 d'ye think we have no ears ? 
 
 Bon. You deserve to have none, you young 
 minx ! The company of the Warrington coach has 
 stood in the hall this hour, and nobody to show 
 them to their chambers. 
 
 Cher. And let 'em wait, father ; there's neither 
 red-coat in the coach, nor footman behind it. 
 
 Bon. But they threaten to go to another inn to- 
 night. 
 
 Cher. That they dare not, for fear the coach- 
 man should overturn them to-morrow. — Coming ! 
 coming ! — Here's the London coach arrived. 
 
 Enter Coacli-passengers un'fA trunks, bandboxes, and other 
 luggage, and cross the stage. 
 
 Bon. Welcome, ladies ! 
 
 Cher. Very welcome, gentlemen ! — Chamberlain, 
 show the Lion and the Rose. \_Exit with the company. 
 
 Enter Ajhw£ll and Archer, ttie latter carrying a 
 portmantle. 
 
 Bon. This way, this way, gentlemen ! 
 
 /iim. [To Archer.] Set down the things ; go 
 to the stable, and see my horses well rubbed. 
 
 Arch. I shall, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Aim. You're my landlord, I suppose ? 
 
 Bon. Yes, sir, I'm old Will. Boniface, pretty 
 well known upon this road, as the saying is. 
 
 Aim. O Mr. Boniface, your servant ! 
 
 Bon. O sir ! — What will your honour please to 
 drink, as the saying is ? 
 
 Aim. I have heard your town of Lichfield much 
 famed for ale ; I think I'll taste that. 
 
 Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tun of the 
 best ale in Staffordshire ; 'tis smooth as oil, sweet 
 as milk, clear as amber, and strong as brandy ; 
 and will be just fourteen year old the fifth day of 
 next March, old style. 
 
 Aim. You're very exact, I find, in the age of 
 your ale. 
 
 Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my 
 children. I'll show you such ale ! — Here, tapster, 
 broach number 1706, as the saying is. — Sir, you 
 shall taste my Anno Domini. — I have lived in 
 Lichfield, man and boy, above eight-and-fifty years, 
 and, I believe, have not consumed eight-and-fifty 
 ounces of meat. 
 
 Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess 
 your sense by your bulk. 
 
 iBon. Not in my life, sir, I have fed purely upon 
 ale ; I have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always 
 sleep upon ale. 
 
 Enter Tapster ujith a bottle and glass, and exit. 
 
 Now, sir, you shall see ! — {Pours out a glass.'] 
 Your worship's health. — Hii ! delicious, delicious ! 
 
 fancy it burgundy, only fancy it, and 'tis worth ten 
 ^hillings a quart. 
 
 Aim. [Xfrinfe.] 'Tis confounded strong ! 
 
 Bon. Strong ! it must be so, or how should we 
 be strong that drink it ? 
 
 Aiv. And have you lived so long upon this ale, 
 landlord ? 
 
 Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir — 
 but it killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is. 
 
 Aim. How came tliat to pass ? 
 
 Bon. I don't know how, sir ; she would not let 
 the ale take its natural course, sir ; she was for 
 qualifying it every now and then with a dram, as 
 the saying is ; and an honest gentleman that came 
 this way from Ireland, made her a present of a 
 dozen bottles of usquebaugh — but the poor woman 
 was never well after : but, howe'er, I was obliged 
 to the gentleman, yon know. 
 
 Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her ? 
 
 Bon. My lady Bountifal said so. She, good 
 lady, did what could be done ; she cured her of 
 three tympanies, but the fourth carried her off. 
 But she's happy, and I'm contented, as the saying is. 
 
 Aim. Who's that lady Bountiful you mentioned? 
 
 Bon. Ods my life, sir, we'll drink her health. — 
 IDrinks.'] My lady Bountiful is one of the best 
 of women. Her last husband, sir Charles Boun- 
 tiful, left her worth a thousand pound a year ; 
 . an4, 1 believe, she lays out one-half on't in chari- 
 I table uses for the good of her neighbours. She 
 cures rheumatisms, ruptures, and broken shins in 
 men ; green-sickness, obstructions, and fits of the 
 mother, in women ; the king's evil, chincough, and 
 ^chilblains, in children : in short, she has cured 
 Vaore people in and about Lichfield within ten 
 jtears than the doctors have killed in twenty ; and 
 ^at's a bold word. 
 
 Aim, Has the lady been any other way useful 
 in her generation ? 
 
 Bon. Yes, sir; she has a daughter by sir Charles, 
 the finest woman in all our country, and the greatest 
 fortune. She has a sou too, by her first husband, 
 squire Sullen, who married a fine lady from London 
 t'other day ; if you please, sir, we'll drink his 
 health. 
 
 Aim. What sort of a man is he ? 
 
 Bon. Why, sir, the man's well enough ; says 
 little, thinks less, and does — nothing at all, faith. 
 But he's a man of great estate, and values nobody. 
 
 Aim. A sportsman, I suppose ? 
 
 Bon. Yes, sir, he's a man of pleasure ; he plays 
 at whisk and smokes his pipe eight-and-forty hours 
 together sometimes. 
 
 Aim. And married, you say ? 
 
 Bon. Ay, and to a curious woman, sir. But 
 he's a — he wants it ; here, sir. 
 
 IPointing to his forehead 
 
 Aim. He has it there, you mean ? 
 
 Bon. That's none of my business ; he's my 
 landlord, and so a man, you know, would not — 
 But — ecod, he's no better than — Sir, my humble 
 
 service to you [Drinhs."] Though I value not a 
 
 farthing what he can do to me ; I pay him his 
 rent at quarter-day ; I have a good running-trade 
 
THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 643 
 
 I have but one daughter, and I can give her — but 
 ' uo matter for that. 
 
 Aim. You're very happy, Mr. Boniface. Pray, 
 what other company have you in town ? 
 
 Bon, A power of line ladies ; and then we have 
 the French officers. 
 
 Avm. Oh, that's right, you have a good many 
 jof those gentlemen : pray, how do you like their 
 company ? 
 
 Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish 
 we had as many more of 'em ; they're full of 
 money, and pay double for everything they have. 
 They know, sir, that we paid good round taxes for 
 the taking of 'em, and so they are willing to reim- 
 burse us a little. One of 'em lodges in my house. 
 
 Re-enter Archer, 
 
 Arch. Landlord, there are some French gentle- 
 men below that ask for you. 
 
 Bon, I'll wait on 'em. — [Aside to Archer.] 
 Does your master stay long in town, as the say- 
 ing is? 
 
 Arch. I can't tell, as the saying is- 
 
 Bon. Come from London ? 
 
 Arch. No. 
 
 Bon. Going to London, mayhap 1 
 
 Arch. No. 
 
 Bon. {Aside.l An odd fellow this. — \To Aim- 
 well.] I beg your worship's pardon, I'll wait on 
 you in half a minute. \_Exit. 
 
 Aim. The coast's clear, I see. — Now, my dear 
 Archer, welcome to Lichfield. 
 
 Arch. I thank thee, my dear brother in iniquity. 
 
 Aim. Iniquity ! prithee, leave canting ; you 
 need not change your style with your dress. 
 
 Arch. Don't mistake me, Aimwell, for 'tis still 
 my maxim, that there is no scandal like rags, nor 
 any crime so shameful as poverty. 
 
 Aim. The world confesses it every day in its 
 practice, though men won't own it for their 
 opinion. Who did that worthy lord, my brother, 
 single out of the side-box to sup with him t'other 
 night? 
 
 Arch. Jack Handicraft, a handsome, well- 
 dressed, mannerly, sharping rogue, who keeps the 
 best company in town. 
 
 Aim. Right ! And, pray, who married my lady 
 Manslaughter t'other day, the great fortune .'' 
 
 Arch. Why, Nick Marrabone, a professed pick- 
 pocket, and a good bowler ; but he makes a hand- 
 some figure, and rides in his coach, that he formerly 
 used to ride behind. 
 
 Aim. But did you observe poor Jack Generous 
 in the Park last week ? 
 
 Arch. Yes, with his autumnal periwig, shading 
 his melancholy face, his coat older than anything 
 but its fashion, with one hand idle in his pocket, 
 and with the other picking his useless teeth ; and, 
 though the Mall was crowded with company, yet 
 was poor Jack as single and solitary as a lion in a 
 desert. 
 
 Aim. And as much avoided, for no crime upon 
 earth but the want of money. 
 
 Arch. And that's enough. Men must not be 
 poor ; idleness is the root of all evil ; the world's 
 wide enough, let 'em bustle. Fortune has taken 
 the weak under her protection, but men of sense 
 are left to their industry. 
 
 Aim, Upon which topic we proceed, and, I 
 'hink, luckily hitherto. Would not any man swear 
 
 now, that I am a man of quality, and you my !ier- 
 vant, when if our intrinsic value were known — 
 
 Arch. Come, come, we are the men of intrinsic 
 value who can strike our fortunes out of ourselves, 
 whose worth is independent of accidents in life, or 
 revolutions in government ; we have heads to get 
 money and hearts to spend it. 
 
 Aim. As to our hearts, I grant ye, they are as 
 willing tits as any within twenty degrees ; but I can 
 have no great opinion of our heads from the service 
 they have done us hitherto, unless it be that they 
 have brought us from London hither to Lichfield, 
 made me a lord and you my servant. 
 
 Arch. That's more than you could expect 
 already. But what money have we left ? 
 
 Aim, But two hundred pound. 
 
 Arch. And our horses, clothes, rings, &c. — Why, 
 we have very good fortunes now for moderate 
 people ; and, let me tell you, that this two hundred 
 pound, with the experience that we are now mas- 
 ters of, is a better estate than the ten we have 
 spent. Our friends, indeed, began to suspect that 
 our pockets were low, but we came oif with flying 
 colours, showed no signs of want either in word or 
 deed. 
 
 Aim. Ay, and our going to Brussels was a good 
 pretence enough for our sudden disappearing ; and, 
 I warrant you, our friends imagine that we are 
 gone a-volunteering. 
 
 Arch. Why, faith, if this prospect fauls, it must 
 e'en come to that. I am for venturing one of the 
 hundreds, if you will, upon this knight-errantry; 
 but, in case it should fail, we'll reserve the t'other 
 to carry us to some counterscarp, where we may 
 die, as we lived, in a blaze. 
 
 Aim. With all my heart ; and we have lived 
 justly. Archer ; we can't say that we have spent 
 our fortunes, but that we have enjoyed 'em. 
 
 Arch. Right ! so much pleasure for so much 
 money. We have had our pennyworths ; and, had 
 I millions, I would go to the same market again. 
 — O London ! London ! — Well, we have had our 
 share, and let us be thardcful : past pleasures, for 
 aught I know, are best, such as we are sure of ; 
 those to come may disappoint us. 
 
 Aim. It has often grieved the heart of me to see 
 how some inhuman wretches murder their kind 
 fortunes ; those that, by sacrificing all to one appe- 
 tite, shall starve all the rest. You shall have some 
 that live only in their palates, and in their sense 
 of tasting shall drown the other four : others are 
 only epicures in appearances, such who shall starve 
 their nights to make a figure a days, and famish 
 their own to feed the eyes of others i a contrary 
 sort confine their pleasures to the dark, and contract 
 their spacious acres to the circuit of a muff-string. 
 
 Arch. Right ! But they find the Indies in that 
 spot where they consume 'em, and, I think, your 
 kind keepers have much the best on't ; for they 
 indulge the most senses by one expense, there's 
 the seeing, hearing, and feeling, amply gratified ; 
 and, some philosophers will tell you, that from 
 such a commerce there arises a sixth sense, that 
 gives infinitely more pleasure than the other five 
 put together. 
 
 Aim. And to pass to the other extremity, of all 
 keepers I think those the worst that keep their 
 money. 
 
 Arch. Those are the most miserable wights in 
 being, they destroy the rights of nature, and disap- 
 
(544 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 point the blessings of Providence. Give me a man 
 that keeps his five senses keen and bright as his 
 sword, that has 'em always drawn out in their just 
 order and strength, with his reason, as commander 
 at the head of 'em, that detaches 'em by turns 
 upon whatever party of pleasure agreeably offers, 
 and commands 'em to retreat upon the least appear- 
 ance of disadvantage or danger ! For my part, I 
 can stick to my bqttle while my wine, my com- 
 pany, and my reason, holds good ; I can be charmed 
 with Sappho's singing without falling in love with 
 Jier face : I love hunting, but would not, like 
 JActseon, be eaten up by my own dogs ; I love a 
 ^jie house, but let another keep it ; and just so I 
 love a fine woman. 
 
 Aim. In that last particular you have the better 
 of me. 
 
 Arch. Ay, you're such an amorous puppy, that 
 I'm afraid you'll spoil our sport ; you can't coun- 
 terfeit the passion without feeling it. 
 
 Aim. Though the whining part be out of doors 
 in town, 'tis still in force with the country ladies : 
 and let me tell you, Frank, the fool in that passion 
 shall outdo the knave at any time. 
 
 Arch. Well, I won't dispute it now ; you com- 
 mand for the day, and so I submit : at Notting- 
 ham, you know, I am to be master. 
 
 Aim. And at Lincoln, I again. 
 
 Arch. Then, at Norwich I mount, which, I 
 think, shall be our last stage ; for, if we fail there, 
 we'll embark for Holland, bid adieu to Venus, and 
 welcome Mars. 
 
 Aim. A match I — Mum ! 
 
 Re-enter Bonifack. 
 
 Bon. What will your worship please to have for 
 supper ? 
 
 Aim. What have you got ? 
 
 Hon. Sir, we have a delicate piece of beef in the 
 po^ and a pig at the fire. 
 
 Aim. Good supper-meat, I must confess. I 
 can't eat beef, landlord. 
 
 Arch. And I hate pig. 
 
 Aim. Hold your prating, sirrah ! do you know 
 who you are ? 
 
 JBon. Please to bespeak something else ; I have 
 everything in the house. 
 
 Aim, Have you any veal ? 
 
 Bon. Veal ! sir, we had a delicate loin of veal 
 on Wednesday last. 
 
 Aim. Have you got any fish or wildfowl ? 
 
 Bon. As for fish, truly, sir, we are an inland 
 town, and indifferently provided with fish, that's 
 the truth on't ; and then for wildfowl — we have a 
 delicate couple of rabbits. 
 
 Aim. Get me the rabbits fricasseed. 
 
 Bon. Fricasseed ! Lard, sir, they'll eat much 
 better smothered with onions. 
 
 Arch. Psha ! damn your onions ! 
 
 Aim. Again, sirrah 1 — ^Well, landlord, what you 
 please. But hold, I have a small charge of money, 
 and your house is so full of strangers, that I believe 
 it may be safer in your custody than mine j for 
 when this fellow of mine gets drunk he minds no- 
 thing. — Here, sirrah, reach me the strong-box. 
 
 Arch. Yes, sir. — [^Aside.} This will give us a 
 reputation. lOives Aimweli. a box. 
 
 Aim. Here, landlord ; the locks are sealed down 
 both for your security and mine ; it holds somewhat 
 above two hundred pound ; if you doubt it, I'll 
 
 count it to you after supper ; but be sure you lay 
 it where I may have it at a minute's warning ; for 
 my affairs are a little dubious at present ; perhaps 
 I may be gone in half an hour, perhaps I may be 
 your guest till the best part of that be spent ; and 
 pray order your ostler to keep my horses always 
 saddled, But one thing above the rest 1 must beg, 
 that you would let this fellow have none of your 
 Annq Domini, as you call it ; for he's the most 
 insufferable sot. — Here, sirrah, light me to my 
 chamber. [Exit, lighted by Ahcuek, 
 
 Bon. Cherry! daughter Cherry ! 
 
 Re-enter Cherry, 
 Cher. D'ye call, father .' 
 
 Bon. Ay, child, you must lay by this box for the 
 gentleman ; 'tis full of money. 
 
 fCher. Money! all that money! why, sure, fa- 
 ther, the gentleman comes to be chosen parliament- 
 man. Who is he ? 
 
 Bon. I don't know what to make of him ; he 
 talks of keeping his horses ready saddled, and of 
 going perhaps at a minute's warning, or of staying 
 perhaps till the best part of this be spent. 
 
 Cher. Ay, ten to one, father, he's a highwayman. 
 
 Bon, A highwayman ! upon my life, girl, you 
 have hit it, and this box is some new-purchased 
 booty. Now, could we find him out, the money 
 were ours. 
 
 Cher, He don't belong to our gang. 
 
 Bon. What horses have they ? 
 
 Cher, The master rides upon a black. 
 
 Bon. A. black ! ten to one the man upon the 
 black mare j and since he don't belong to our fraJ 
 ternity, we may betray him with a safe conscience I 
 I don't think it lawful to harbour any rogues but 
 my own. Look'ee, child, as the saying is, we musti 
 go cunningly to work, proofs we must have ; tha 
 gentleman's servant loves drink, I'll ply him thali 
 way, and ten to one loves a wench ; you must work^ 
 him t'other way. 
 
 Cher. Father, would you have me give my secret 
 for his .' 
 
 Bon. Consider, child, there's two hundred pound 
 to boot. — \_Ringing without. '\ Coming! coming! 
 — Child, mind your business. [Exit. 
 
 Cher. What a rogue is my father ! My father ! 
 I deny it. My mother was a good, generous, free- 
 hearted woman, and I can't tell how far her good- 
 nature might have extended for the good of her 
 children. This landlord of mine, for [ think I can 
 call him no more, would betray his guest, and de- 
 bauch his daughter into the bargain — by a footman 
 too! 
 
 Re-enter Archer, 
 
 Arch. What footman, pray, mistress, is so happy 
 as to be the subject of your contemplation ,' 
 
 Cher, Whoever he is, friend, he'll be but little 
 the better for't. 
 
 Arch, I hope so, for, I'm sure, you did not 
 think of me. 
 
 Cher, Suppose I had ? 
 
 Arch, Why then you're but even with me ; for 
 the minute I came in, I was a-considering in what 
 manner I should make love to you. 
 
 Cher. Love to me, friend ! 
 
 Arch. Yes, child. 
 
 Cher. Child ! manners ! — If you kept a little 
 more distance, friend, it would become you much 
 better. 
 
THE BEAUX-STHArAGEM. 
 
 Arch. Distance ! good night, sauce-box. IGoing. 
 Cher. {Aside.'\ A pretty fellow ! I like his pride. 
 — [Aloud.\ Sir, pray, sir, yoo see, sir, [Archer 
 retnrns.'\ I have the credit to be entrusted with 
 your master's fortune here, which sets me a degree 
 above his footman ; I hope, sir, you an't affronted ? 
 Arch. Let me look you fall in the face, and I'll 
 tell you whether you can affront me or no. 'Sdeath, 
 child, you have a pair of delicate eyes, and you 
 don't know what to do with 'em ! 
 
 Cher. Why, sir, don't I see everybody ? 
 Arch. Ayj but if some women had 'em, they 
 would kill everybody. Prithee, instruct me, I 
 would fein make love to you, but I don't know 
 what to say. 
 
 Cher. Why, did you never make love to anybody 
 before ? 
 
 Arch. Never to a person of your figure, I can 
 assure you, madam ; my addresses have beeo always 
 confined to people within my own sphere, I never 
 aspired so high before. iSings. 
 
 But yott look so bright, 
 And are dress'd so tight, 
 That a man would swear you're rightf 
 Aa arm was e'er laid over. 
 Such an air 
 You freely wear 
 To ensnare, 
 Aa makes each guest a lover \ 
 Since then, my dear, I'm your guest. 
 Prithee give me of the best 
 Of what is ready drest : 
 Since then, my dear, &c. 
 
 Cher. iAside.] What can I think of this man ? 
 — [Aloud.^ Will you give me that song, sir .= 
 
 Arch. Ay, my dear, take it while 'tis warm. — 
 [Ki:sses her."] Death and fire ! her lips are honey- 
 combs. 
 
 Cher. And I wish there had been bees too, to 
 have stung you for your impudence. 
 
 Arch. There's a swarm of Cupids, my little 
 Venus, that has done the business much better. 
 
 Cher. lAside.} This fellow is misbegotten as 
 well as I.^— [Aloud.'] What's your name, sir.' 
 
 Arch. [Aside.} Name ! egad, I have forgot, it. 
 —[Aloud.'] Oh I Martin. 
 
 Cher. Where were you bom .' 
 
 Arch. In St. Martin's parish. 
 
 Cher. What was your father .' 
 
 Arch. St. Martin's parish. 
 
 Cher. Then, friend, good night. 
 
 Arch. I hope not. 
 
 Cher. You may depend npon't. 
 
 Arch. Upon what ? 
 
 Cher. That you're very impudent. 
 
 Arch. That you're very handsome. 
 
 Cher. That you're a footman. 
 
 Arch. That you're an angel. 
 
 Cher. I shall be rude. 
 
 Arch. So shall I. \Sehes her hand. 
 
 Cher. Let go my hand. 
 
 Arch. Give me a kiss. {_Kisses her. 
 
 Bon. [Without.] Cherry! Cherry! 
 
 Cher. I'm — my father calls ; you plaguy devil, 
 how durst you stop my breath so? Offer to fol- 
 low me one step, if you dare. S_Exii. 
 
 Arch. A fair challenge, by this light ! this is a 
 pretty fair opening of an adventure ; but we are 
 knight-errants, and so Fortune be our guide. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE i.—A Gallery in Lady BouNTirnL's 
 Hvise. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Sollbn ond Dorinda meeting. 
 
 Dor. Morrow, my dear sister; are you for church 
 this morning ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Anywhere to pray ; for Heaven alone 
 can help me. But I think, Dorinda, there's no 
 form of prayer in the liturgy against bad husbands. 
 
 Dor. But there's a form of law in Doctors- 
 Commons ; and I swear, sister Sullen, rather than 
 see you thus continually discontented, I would 
 advise you to apply to that : for besides the part 
 that I bear in your vexatious broils, as being sister 
 to the husband, and friend to the wife, your 
 example gives me such an impression of matrimony, 
 that I shall be apt to condemn my person to a long 
 vacation all its life. But supposing, madam, that 
 you brought it to a case of separation, what can 
 yon urge against your husband .' My brother is, 
 first, the mOFt constant man alive. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. The most constant husband, I grant ye. 
 
 Dor. He never sleeps from you. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. No, he always sleeps with me. 
 
 Dor. He allows you a maintenance suitable to 
 your quality. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. A maintenance I do you take me, 
 madam, for an hospital child, th.at I must sit down. 
 
 and bless my benefactors for meat, drink, and 
 clothes ? As I take it, madam, I brought your 
 brother ten thousand pounds, out of which I might 
 expect some pretty things, called pleasures. 
 
 Dor. You share in all the pleasures that the 
 country affords. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Country pleasures ! racks and tor-, 
 ments ! . Dost think, child, that my limbs werd 
 made for leaping of ditches, and clambering ovei 
 stiles .' or that my parents, wisely foreseeing m; 
 future happiness in country-pleasures, had earl) 
 instructed me in rnral accomplishments of drinkir^ 
 fat ale, playing at whisk, and smoking tobacco with 
 my husband? or of spreading of plasters, brewing! 
 of diet-drinks, and stilling rosemary-water, with! 
 the good old gentlewoman my mother-in-law ? * 
 
 Dor. I'm sorry, madam, that it is not more in 
 our power to divert you ; I could wish, indeed, 
 that our entertainments were a little more polite, 
 or your taste a little less refined. But, pray, 
 madam, how came the poets and philosophers, 
 that laboured so much in hunting after pleasure, to 
 place it at last in a country life ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Because they wanted money, child] 
 to find out the pleasures of the town. Did yoi 
 ever see a poet or philosopher worth ten thousam 
 pound ? if you can show me such a man, I'll la' 
 you fifty pound you'll find him somewhere withii 
 
646 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 the weekly biUs. Not that I disapprove rural 
 pleasures, as the poets have painted them ; in their 
 landscape, every Phillis has her Corydon, every 
 murmuring stream, and every flowery mead, gives 
 fresh alarms to love. Besides, you'll find, that 
 their couples were never married : — but yonder 
 I see my Corydon, and a sweet swain it is, Heaven 
 knows ! Come, Dorinda, don't be angry, he's my 
 husband, and your brother ; and between both, is 
 he not a sad brute .' 
 
 Dor. I have nothing to say to your part of him, 
 you're the best judge. 
 
 (Mrs. Sul. O sister, sister ! if ever you marry, 
 beware of a sullen, silent sot, one that's always 
 musing, but never thinks. There's some diversion 
 in a talking blockhead ; and since a woman must 
 wear chains, I would have the pleasure of hearing 
 'em rattle a little. Now you shall see, but take 
 this by the way. He came home this morning at 
 his usual hour of four, wakened me out of a sweet 
 dream of something else, by tumbling over the tea- 
 table, which he broke all to pieces ; after his man 
 and he had rolled about the room, like sick passen- 
 gers in a storm, he comes flounce into bedj dead as 
 a salmon into a fishmonger's basket ; his feet cold 
 as ice, his breath hot as a furnace, and his hands 
 and his face as greasy as his flannel nightcap. O 
 matrimony ! He tosses up the clothes vrith a 
 barbarous swing over his shoulders, disorders the 
 whole economy of my bed, leaves me half nakedj 
 and my whole night's comfort is the tuneable 
 serenade of that wakeful nightingale, his nose! Oh, 
 the pleasure of counting the melancholy clock by a 
 snoring husband ! But now, sister^ you shall see 
 liow handsomely, being a well-bred man, he will beg 
 my pardon. 
 
 Enter Squire Sullbw. 
 
 Squire Sul. My head aches consumedly. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Will you be pleased, my dear, to 
 drink tea with us this morning ? it may do your 
 head good. 
 
 Squire Sul. No. 
 
 Dor. Coffee, brother ? 
 
 Squire Sul. Psha ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Will you please to dress, and go to 
 church with me .' the air may help you. 
 
 Squire Sul. Scrub ! ICalls. 
 
 Enter 6CRUJ3. 
 
 Scrub. Sir ! 
 
 Squire Sul. What day o'th' week is this ? 
 
 Scrub. Sunday, an't please your worship. 
 
 Squire Sul. Sunday ! bring me a dram ; and 
 d'ye hear, set out the venison-pasty, and a tan- 
 kard of strong beer upon the hall-table, I'll go to 
 breakfast. [Going. 
 
 Dor. Stay, stay, brother, you shan't get off so ; 
 yoH were very naught last night, and must make 
 your wife reparation ; come, come, brother, won't 
 you ask pardon ? 
 
 Squire Sul. For what ? 
 
 Dor. For being drunk last night. 
 
 Squire Sul. I can afford it, can't I .' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. But I can't, sir. 
 
 Squire Sul. Then you may let it alone. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. But I must tell you, sir, that this 
 is not to be borne. 
 
 Squire Sul. I'm glad on't. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. What is the reason, sir, that you use 
 I me thus inhumanly ? 
 
 Squire Sul. Scrub ! 
 
 Scrub. Sir ! 
 
 Squire Sul. Get things ready to shave my head. 
 
 iEzit. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Have a care of coming near his 
 temples. Scrub, for ffcar you meet something there 
 that may turn the edge of your razor. — [Exit 
 Scrub. ] Inveterate stupidity ! did you ever know 
 so hard, so obstinate a spleen as his? O sister, 
 sister ! I shall never ha' good of the beast till I get 
 him to town ; London, dear London, is the place 
 for managing and breaking a husband. I 
 
 Dor. And has not a husband the same oppor- 
 tunities there for humbling a wife ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. No, no, childj 'tis a standing maxim 
 in conjugal discipUne, that when a man would 
 enslave his wife^ he hurries her into the country ; 
 and when a lady would be arbitrary with her 
 husband she wheedles her booby up to town. A 
 man dare not play the tyrant in London, because 
 there are so mafiy examples to encourage the 
 subject to rebel. O Dorinda ! Dorinda ! a fine 
 woman may do anything in London : o' my con 
 science, she may raise an army of forty thousand 
 men. 
 
 Dor. I fancy, sister, you have a mind to be 
 trying your power that way here in Lichfield ; you 
 have drawn the French count to your colours 
 already. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. The French are a people that can't"\ 
 live without their gallantries. ! 
 
 Dor. And some English that I know, sister, are J 
 not averse to such amusements. •' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Well, sister, since the truth must 
 out, it may do as well now as hereafter ; I think, 
 one way to rouse my lethargic, sottish husband, is 
 to give him a rival : security begets negligence in 
 all people, and men must be alarmed to make 'em 
 alert in their dutyi Women are like pictures, of 
 no value in the hands of a fool, till he hears men of 
 sense bid high for the purchase. 
 
 Dor. This might do, sister, if my brother's 
 understanding were to be convinced into a passion 
 for you ; but, I fancy, there's a natural aversion of 
 his side ; and I fancy, sister, that you don't come 
 much behind him, if you dealt fairly. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I own it, we are united contradictions, 
 fire and water : but I could be contented, with a 
 great many other wives, to humour the censorious 
 mob, and give the world an appearance of living 
 well with my husband, could I bring him but to 
 dissemble a little kindness to keep me in counte- 
 nance. 
 
 Dor. But how do you know, sister, but that, 
 instead of rousing your husband by this artifice to 
 a counterfeit kindness, he should awake in a real 
 fury ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Let him : if I can't entice him to the 
 one, I would provoke him to the other. 
 
 Dor. But how must I behave myself between ye ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. You must assist me. 
 
 Dor. What, against my own brother ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. He's but half a brother, and I'm your 
 entire friend. If I go a step beyond the bounds 
 of honour, leave me ; till then, I expect you should 
 go along with me in everything j while I trust my 
 honour in your hands, you may trust your brother's 
 in mine. The count is to dine here to-day. 
 
 Dor, 'Tis a strange thing, sister, that I can't 
 like that man. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 647 
 
 Mrs. Sul. You like nothing ; your time is not 
 come ; love and death have their fatalities, and 
 strike home one time or other : you'll pay for all 
 one day, I warrant ye. But come, my lady's tea 
 is ready, and 'tis almost church time. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room, in Boniface's Inn'. 
 AiMWKLL and Archer discovered. 
 
 Aim. And was she the daughter of the house ? 
 
 Arch. The landlord is so blind as to think so ; 
 but 1 dare swear she has better blood in her veins. 
 
 Aim. Why dost think so ? 
 ^y- Arch. Because the baggage has a pert jene sais 
 Jguoi ; she reads plays, keeps a monkey, and is 
 jtroubled vrith vapours. 
 
 *■ Aim. By which discoveries I guess that you 
 know more ol her. 
 
 Arch. Not yet, faith ; the lady gives herself airs ; 
 forsooth, nothing under a gentleman ! 
 
 Aim. Let me take her in hand. 
 
 Arch. Say one word more o' that, and I'll de- 
 clare myself, spoil your sport there, and every- 
 where else ; look ye, Aimwell, every man in his 
 own sphere. 
 
 Aim. Right ; and therefbre you must pimp for 
 your master. 
 
 Arch. In the usual forms, good sir, after I hav6 
 served myself — But. to our business. You are so 
 well dressed, Tom, and make so handsome a ligure, 
 that I fancy you may do execution in a country 
 church ; the exterior part strikes first, and you're 
 In the right to make that impression favourable. 
 
 Aim. There's something in that which may turn 
 to advantage. The appearance of a stranger in a 
 country church draws as many gazers as a blazing- 
 star ; no sooner he comes into the cathedral, but a 
 train of whispers runs buzzing round the congre- 
 gation in a moment : Who is he 9 Whence comes 
 he$ Do you know him 9 Then I, sir, tips me 
 the verger with half-a-crown ; he pockets the si- 
 mony, and inducts me into the best pew in the 
 church ; I pull out my snuffbox, turn myself 
 round, bow to the bishop, or the dean, if he be 
 the commanding-officer ; single out a beauty, rivet 
 both my eyes to hers, set my nose a-bleeding by 
 the strength of imagination, and show the whole 
 church my concern, by my endeavouring to hide 
 it ; after the sermon, the whole town gives me to 
 her for a lover, and by persuading the lady that I 
 am a-dying for her, the tables are turned, and she 
 in good earnest falls in love with me. 
 
 Arch. There's nothing in this, Tom, without a 
 
 precedent ; but instead of riveting your eyes to a 
 
 beauty, try to fix 'em upon a fortune ; that's our 
 
 business at present. 
 
 / Aim. Psha ! no woman can be a beauty without 
 
 I a fortune. Let me alone, for I am a marksman. 
 
 Arch. Tom ! 
 
 Aim. Ay. 
 
 Arch. When were you at church before, pray ? 
 
 Aim. Um — I was there at the coronation. 
 
 Arch. And how can you expect a" blessing by 
 going to church now ? 
 
 Aim. Blessing ! nay; Frank, I ask but for a 
 wife. [.Exit. 
 
 Arch. Truly, the man is not very unreasonable 
 in his demands. [_Exit at the opposite door. 
 
 SCENE III. — Another Room in the same. 
 
 BoNiFAcs and Cherry discovered. 
 
 Bon. Well, daughter, as the saying is, have you 
 brought Martin to confess .' 
 
 Cher. Pray, father, don't put me upon getting 
 anything out of a man ; I'm but young, you know, 
 father, and I don't understand wheedling. 
 
 Bon. Young ! why, you jade, as the saying is, 
 can any woman wheedle that is not young ? your 
 mother wa^ useless at five-and-twenty. Not 
 wheedle ! would you make your mother a whore, 
 and me a cuckold, as the saying is ? I tell youA 
 his silence confesses it, and his master spends 
 his money so freely, and is so much a gentleman 
 every manner of way, that he must be a highways 
 
 Enter Gibbet. 
 
 Gib. Landlord, landlord, is the coast clear ? 
 
 Bon. O Mr. Gibbet, what's the news .' 
 
 Gib. No matter, ask no questions, all fair and 
 honourable. — Here, my dear Cherry. — ~[Gives her 
 a bag."] Two hundred sterling pounds, as good as 
 any that ever hanged or saved a rogue ; lay 'em by 
 with the rest ; and here — three weddingj)r^ignrn- 
 jngj;ingSj 'tis much the fianSeyoulEnow — here, two 
 silver^ilted swords ; I took those from fellows 
 that never show any part of their swords but the 
 hilts — here is a diamond necklace which the lady 
 hid in the privatest place in the coach, but 1 found 
 it out — this gold watch I took from a pawnbroker's 
 wife ; it was left in her hands by a person of 
 quality, there's the arms upon the case. 
 
 Cher. But who had you the money from ? 
 
 Gib. Ah ! poor woman ! I pitied her ; — from a 
 poor lady just eloped from her husband. She had 
 made up her cargo, and was bound for Ireland, as 
 hard as she could drive ; sne told me of her hus- 
 band's barbarous usage, and so I left her half-a- 
 crown. But I had almost forgot, my dear Cherry, 
 I have a present for you. 
 
 Cher. Whatis't? 
 
 Gib. A pot of ceruse, my child, that I took out 
 of a lady's under-pocket. 
 
 Cher. What, Mr. Gibbet, do you think that I 
 paint ? 
 
 Gib. Why, you jade, your betters do ; I'm sure 
 the lady that I took it from had a coronet upon her 
 handkerchief. Here, take my cloak, and go, secure 
 the premises. 
 
 Cher. I will secure 'em. \_Exit. 
 
 Bon, But, heark'ee, where's Hounslow and 
 Bagshot P 
 
 Gib. They'll be here to-night. 
 
 Bon. D'ye know of any other gentlemen o' the 
 pad on this road ? 
 
 Gib. No. 
 
 Bon. I fancy that I have two that lodge in the 
 house just now. 
 
 Gib. The devil 1 how d'ye smoke 'em ? 
 
 Bon. Why, the one is gone to church. 
 
 Gib. That's suspicious, I must confess. 
 
 Bon. And the other is now in his master's 
 chamber ; he pretends to be servant to the other, 
 we'll call him out and pump him a little. 
 
 Gib. With all my heart. 
 
 Ban. Mr. Martin, Mr. Martin I [CalU 
 
C43 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 Enter Archer combing a periwig^ and singing, 
 
 Gib. The reads are consumed deep, I'm as dirty 
 as old Brentford at Christmas. — A good pretty 
 fellow that ; whose servant are you, friend ? 
 
 Arch. My master's. 
 
 Gib. Really! 
 
 Arch. Really. 
 
 tGib. That's much. — The fellow has been at the 
 bar by his evasions. — But, pray, sir, what is your 
 master's name ? . 
 
 Arch. Tall, all, dall ! — [Sings and combs the 
 periwig.'] This is the most obstinate curl — 
 
 Gib. I ask you his name ? 
 
 Arch. Name, sir — tall, all, dall ! — I never asked 
 him his name in my life. — Tall, all, dall ! 
 
 Bon, What think you now ? lAside to Gibbet. 
 
 Gib. lAside to Boniface.] Plain, plain, he 
 talks now as if he were before a judge. — [To 
 Archer.] But pray, friend, which way does your 
 master travel ? 
 
 Arch. A-horseback. 
 
 Gib. lAside.] Very well again, an old offender, 
 right.— [To Archer.] But, I mean, does he go 
 upwards or downwards ? 
 
 Arch. Downwards, I fear, sir. — ^Tall, all ! 
 
 Gib. I'm afraid my fate vrill be a contrary way. 
 
 Bon. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! Mr. Martin, you're very 
 arch. This gentleman is only travelling towards 
 Chester, and would be glad of your company, that's 
 all. — Come, captain, you'll stay to-night, I sup- 
 pose ? I'll show you a chamber — come, captain. 
 
 Gib. Farewell, friend ! 
 
 Arch. Captain, your servant. — [Exeunt Boni- 
 face and Gibbet.] Captain ! a pretty fellow ! 
 'Sdeath, I wonder that the officers of the army 
 don't conspire to beat all scoundrels in red but 
 their own. 
 
 Re-enter Cherry. 
 
 Cher. [^Aside.'] Gone, and Martin here ! I hope 
 he did not listen ; I would have the merit of the 
 discovery all my own, because I would oblige him 
 to love me. — [Aloud.] Mr. Martin, who was that 
 man with my father ? 
 
 Arch. Some recruiting Serjeant, or whipped-out 
 trooper, I suppose, 
 
 Cher, All's safe, I find. iAtide. 
 
 Arch. Come, my dear, have you conned over the 
 catechise I taught you last night .' 
 
 Cher. Come, question me. 
 
 Arch. What is love ? 
 
 Cher. Love is I know not what, it comes I know 
 not how, and goes I know not when. 
 
 Arch. Very well, an apt scholar. — [Chiicks her 
 under the chin.] Where does love enter ? 
 
 Cher. Into the eyes. 
 
 Arch. And where go out ? 
 
 Cher, I won't tell ye. 
 
 Arch, What are the objects of that passion ? 
 
 Cher, Youth, beauty, and clean lineh. 
 
 Arch, The reason ? 
 
 Cher. The two first are fashionable in nature, 
 and the third at court. 
 
 Arch, That's my dear. — [Pats her cheek,] 
 What are the signs and tokens of that passion .' 
 
 Cher. A stealing look, a stammering tongue, 
 words improbable, designs impossible, and actions 
 impracticable. 
 
 Areh. That's my good child, kiss m?. — What 
 must a lover do to obtain his mislress .' 
 
 Cher. He must adore the person that disdains 
 him, he must bribe the chambermaid that betrays 
 him, and court the footman that laughs at him. 
 He must — he must— 
 
 Arch: Nay, child, I must whip yqu if you don't 
 mind your lesson ; he must treat his — 
 
 Cher. O ay ! — he must treat his enemies with re- 
 spect, his friends with indifference, and all the world 
 with contempt ;' he must sufier much, and fear more ; 
 he must desire much, and hope little ; in short, he 
 must embrace his ruin, and throw himself away. 
 
 Arch. Had ever man so hopeful a pupil as 
 mine ! — Cotne, my dear, why is love called a 
 riddle ? 
 
 Cher, Because, being blind, he leads those that 
 see, ahd, though a child, he governs a man. 
 
 Arch. Mighty well I — And why is Love pictured 
 blind .' 
 
 , Cher, Because the painters out of the weakness 
 /or privilege of their art chose to hide those eyes 
 [that they could not draw. 
 
 Arch, That's my dear little scholar, kiss me 
 again. — And why should Love, that's a child, govern 
 a man ? 
 
 Cher, Because that a child is the end of loveJ 
 
 Arch, And so ends Love's catechism.-^And rlow, 
 my dear, we'll go in and make my master's bed. 
 
 Cher. Hold, hold, Mr. Martin ! You have 
 taken a great deal of pains to instruct me, and 
 what d'ye think' I have learned by it P 
 
 Arch. What ? 
 
 Cher, That your discourse and your habit are 
 contradictions, and it would be nonsense in me to 
 believe you a footman ahy longer. 
 
 Arch. 'Oons, what a witch it is ! 
 
 Cher, Depend upon this, sir, nothing in this 
 garb shall ever tempt me ; for, though I was born 
 to servitude, I hate it. Own your condition, swear 
 you love me, and then — 
 
 Arch, And then we shall go make the bed ? 
 
 Cher, Yes. 
 
 Arch. You must know then, that I am bom a 
 gentleman, my education was liberal ; but I went 
 to London a younger brother, fell into the hands 
 of sharpers, who stripped me of my money, my 
 friends disowned me, and now my necessity brings 
 me to what you see. 
 
 Cher. Then take my hand — promise to marry 
 me before you sleep, and I'll make you master of 
 two thousand pounds. 
 
 Arch. How I 
 
 Cher. Two thousand pounds that I have this 
 minute in my own custody ; so, throw off your 
 livery this instant, and I'll go find a parson. 
 
 Arch. What said you ? a parson ! 
 
 Cher. What ! do you scruple ? 
 
 Arch. Scruple ! no, no, but — Two thousand 
 pound, you say ? 
 
 Cher. And better. 
 
 Arch. [Aside.] 'Sdeath, what shall I do ? — 
 [Aloud.] But heark'ee, child, what need you 
 make me master of yourself and money, when you 
 may have the same pleasure out of me, and still 
 keep your fortune in your hands. 
 
 Cher. Then you won't marry me ? 
 
 Arch. I would marry you, but — 
 
 Cher. O, sweet sir, I'm your humble servant, 
 you're fairly caught I Would you persuade me 
 that any gentleman who could bear the scandal of 
 wearing a livery would refuse two thousand pound. 
 
THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 64U 
 
 let the condition be what it would ? no, no, sir. 
 But I hope you'll pardon the freedom 1 have taken, 
 since it was only to inform myself of the respect 
 that I onght to pay you. 
 
 Arch. [Aside.'\ Fairly bit, by Jupiter!— 
 lAlotid.'] Hold ! hold ! — And have you actually 
 two thousand pounds ? 
 
 Cher. Sir, I have my secrets as well as you; 
 when y/>a please to be more open I shall be more 
 free, and be assured that I have discoveries that 
 will match yours, be what they will. In the mean 
 while, be satisfied that no discovery I make shall 
 ever hurt you, but beware of my father ! iExit. 
 
 Arch. So ! we're lik^ to have as many adven- 
 
 tures in our inn as Don Quixote had in his. 
 Let me see — two thousand pounds — if the wench 
 would promise to die when the money were spent, 
 egad, one would marry her ; but the fortune may 
 go off in a year or two, and the wife may live — 
 Lord knows how long. Then s^u innkeeper's 
 daughter ; ay, that's the devil — there my pride 
 brings me off. 
 
 For whatsoe'er the sages charge on pride, 
 The angels' fall, and twenty faults beside, 
 bn earth, I'm sure, 'mong us of mortal calling. 
 Pride saves man oft, and woman too, from falling. 
 
 iExit, 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Gallery in Lady Bountifdl's 
 Mouse. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Sullen and Dorihda. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Ha ! ha ! ha ! my dear sister, let me 
 embrace thee ! now we are friends indeed ; for I 
 shall have a secret of yours as a pledge for mine — 
 now you'll be good for something, I shall have you 
 conversable in the subjects of the sex. 
 
 Dor. But do you think that I am so weak as to 
 fall in love with a fellow at first sight ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Psha ! now you spoil all ; why should 
 not we be as free in our friendships as the meu } 
 I warrant you, the gentleman has got to his confi- 
 dant already, has avowed bis passion, toasted your 
 health, called you ten thousand angels, has run 
 over your lips, eyes, neck, shape, air, and every- 
 thing, in a description that warms their mirth to a 
 second enjoyment. 
 
 Dor. "i'our hand, sister, I an't well. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. So — she's breeding already — come, 
 child, up with it — hem a little — so — now tell me, 
 don't you like the gentleman that we saw at church 
 just now ? 
 
 Dor. The man's well enough. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Well enough ! is he not a demigod, 
 a Narcissus, a star, the man i'the moon ? 
 
 Dor. O sister, I'm extremely ill! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Shall I send to your mother, child, 
 for a little of her cephalic plaster to put to the 
 soles of your feet, or shall I send to the gentleman 
 for something for you ? Come, unlace your stays, 
 unbosom yourself. The man is perfectly a pretty 
 fellow, I saw him when he first came into church. 
 
 Dor. I saw him too, sister, and with an air that 
 shone, methought, like rays about his person. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Well said, up with it ! 
 
 Dor. No forward coquette behaviour, no airs to 
 set him off, no studied looks nor artful posture, — 
 but nature did it all — 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Better and better!— one touch more 
 — come ! 
 
 Dor. But then his looks — did you observe his 
 eyes ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Yes, yes, I did — His eyes, well, 
 what of his eyes ? 
 
 Dor. Sprightly, but not wandering ; they seemed 
 to view, but never gazed on anything but me. — 
 And then his looks so hunible were, and yet so 
 
 noble, that they aimed to tell me that he could 
 with pride die at my feet, though he scorned 
 slavery anywhere else. 
 
 Mrs. Svl. The physic works purely ! — How 
 d'ye find yourself now, my dear ? 
 ' Dor. Hem ! much better, my dear.^Oh, "here 
 comes our Mercury ! 
 
 Enter Scrub. 
 
 Well, Scrub, what news of the gentleman ? 
 
 Scrub. Madam, I have brougjtjt you a packet of 
 news. 
 
 Dor. Open it quickly, come. 
 
 Scrub. In the first place I inquired who the 
 gentleman was ; they told me he was a stranger. 
 Secondly, I asked what the gentleman was ; they 
 answered and said, that they never saw him before. 
 Thirdly, I inquired what countryman he was ; 
 they replied, 'twas more than they knew. Fourthly, 
 I demanded whence he came ; their answer was, 
 they could not tell. And, fifthly, I asked whither 
 he went ; and they replied, they knew nothing of 
 the matter, — and this is all I could learn. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. But what do the people say ? can't 
 they guess ? 
 
 ■ Scrub. Why, some think he's a spy, some guess 
 he's a mountebank, some say one tiling, some an- 
 other; but, for my own part, I believe he's a 
 Jesuit. 
 
 Dor. A Jesuit ! why a Jesuit .' 
 
 Scrub. Because he keeps his horses always ready 
 saddled, and his footman talks French. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. His footman ! 
 
 Scrub. Ay, he and the count's footman were 
 gabbering French like two intriguing ducks in a 
 mill-pond ; and I believe they talked of me, for 
 they laughed consumedly. 
 
 Dor. What sort of livery has the footman .' 
 
 Scrub. Livery ! Lord, madam, I took him for a 
 captain, he's so bedizzened with lace ! And then 
 he has tops to his shoes, up to his mid leg, a silver- 
 headed cane dangling at his knuckles ; he carries 
 bis hands in his pockets just so — IfFalks about 
 foppishly,] and has a fine long periwig tied up in 
 a bag. — Lord, madam, he's clear another sort of 
 man than I ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. That may easily be. — But what shall 
 We do now, sister ? 
 
 Dor. I have it — this fellow has a world of sim- 
 
650 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 plicity, and some cunning, the first hides the lat- 
 ter by abundance. — Scrub ! 
 
 Scrub. Madam I 
 
 Dor. We have a great mind to know who this 
 gentleman is, only for our satisfaction. 
 
 Scrub. Yes, madam, it would bfe a satisfaction, 
 no doubt. 
 
 Dor. You must go and get acquainted with hi^ 
 footman, and invite him hither to drinls: a bottle of 
 your ale because you're butler to-day. 
 
 Scrub. Yes, madam, I am butler every Sunday. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. O brave ! sister, o' my conscience, 
 you understand the mathematics already. 'Tis the 
 best plot in the world ; your mother, you know, 
 will be gone to church, my spouse will be got to 
 the alehouse with his scoundrels, and the house 
 will be our own — so we drop in by accident, and 
 ask the fellow some questions ourselves. In the 
 country, you know, aiiy stranger is company, and 
 we'te glad to take up with the butler in a country, 
 dance and happy if he'll do us the favour. 
 
 Scrub. O madam, you wrong me 1 I never 
 refused your ladyship the favour in my life. 
 
 Enter Gipsy, 
 
 Gip. Ladies, dinner's upon table. 
 Dur. Scrub, we'll excuse your waiting — go 
 where we ordered you. 
 
 Scrub. I shall. iExeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Boniface's Inn. 
 AriawELL and Archer discovered. . 
 
 Arch. Well, Tom, I find you're a marksman. 
 
 Aim. A marksman ! who so blind could be, as 
 not discern a swan among the ravens ? 
 
 Arch. Well, but heark'ec, Aimwell ! 
 
 Aim. Aimwell ! call me Oroondates, Cesario, 
 Amadis, all that romance can in a lover paint, 
 and then I'll answer. O Archer ! I read her thou- 
 sands in her looks, she looked like Ceres in her 
 harvest : com, wine and oil, milk and honey, gar- 
 dens, groves, and purling streams, played on her 
 plenteous face. 
 
 \ Arch. Her face ! her pocket, you mean ; the 
 cirn, wine and oil, lies there. In short, she has 
 ten thousand pound, that's the EngUsh on't. 
 
 Aim. Her eyes . — 
 
 Arch. Are demi-canons, to be sure ; so I won't 
 stand their battery. IGoina. 
 
 Aim. Pray excuse me, my passion must have 
 vent. 
 
 Arch. Passion ! what a plague, d'ye think these 
 romantic airs will do out business .' Were my 
 temper as extravagant as yours, my adventures 
 have something more romantic by half. 
 
 Aim. Your adventures ! 
 
 Arch. Yes, 
 The nymph that with her twice ten hundred 
 
 pounds, 
 With brazen engine hot, and quoif clear starched. 
 Can fire the guest in warming of the bed — 
 There's a touch of subUme Milton for you, and the 
 lubject but an innkeeper's daughter ! I can play 
 with a girl as an angler does with his fish; he 
 keeps it at the end of his line, runs it up the 
 stream, and down tlie stream, till, at last, he brings 
 it to hand, tickles the trout, and so whips it into 
 bis basket. 
 
 E7itrr BOXIFACE. 
 
 Son. Mr. Martin, as the saying is — yonder's an 
 honest fellow below, my lady Bountiful's butler, 
 who begs the honour that you would go home with 
 him and seb his cellar; 
 
 Arch. Do my baise-mains to the gentleman, and 
 tell him I will do myself the honour to wait on him 
 immediately. iExU Boniface. 
 
 Aim. What do I hear? 
 Soft Orpheus play, and fair Toftida Sing ! 
 
 Arch. Psha ! damn your raptures ; I tell you> 
 here's a pump going to be put into the vessel, and 
 the ship will get into harbour, my lifte on't. You 
 say, there's another lady very handsome there ? 
 
 Aim. Yes, faith. 
 
 Arch. I'm in love with her already. 
 
 Aim. Can't you give me a bill upon Cherry in 
 the mean time ? 
 
 Arch. No, no, friend, all her corn, vrine aUd 
 oil, is ingrossed to my market. And once more I 
 warn you, to keep your anchorage clear of mine ; 
 for if you fall foul of me, by this light you shall go 
 to the bottom ! What ! make priie of my little 
 frigate, while I am upon the cruise for you ! — 
 
 Aim. Well, well, I won't. — [Emit Archer.] 
 
 Re-enter Boniface. 
 
 Landlord, have you any tolerable company in the 
 house, I don't care for dining alone ? 
 
 Bon. Yes, sir, there's a captain below, as the 
 saying is, that arrived about an hour ago. 
 
 Aim. Gentlemen of his coat are welcome every- 
 where ; will you make him a compliment from me 
 and tell him I should be glad of his company ? 
 
 Bon. Who shall I tell him, sir, would — 
 
 Aim. lAsidB.] Ha ! that stroke wa well thrown 
 in \—lAloud.] I'm only a traveller, like himself, 
 and would be glad of his company, that's all. 
 
 Bon. I obey your commands, as the saying is. 
 
 iExtU 
 Jie-enter Archer. 
 
 Arch. 'Sdeath! I had forgot i what title will you 
 give yourself ? 
 
 Aim. My brother's, to be sure ; he would never 
 give me any thing else, so I'll make bold with his 
 honour this bout : — you know the rest of your cue. 
 
 Arch. Ay, ay* C^*'*- 
 
 Enter Gibbet. 
 
 Gib. Sir, I'm yours. 
 
 Aim. 'Tis more than I deserve, sir, for I don't 
 know you. ' 
 
 Gib. I don't wonder at that, sir, for you never 
 saw me before — l^Aside] 1 hope. 
 
 Aim. And pray, sir, how came I by the honour 
 of seeing you now ? 
 
 Gib. Sir, I scorn to mtrude upon any gentle- 
 man — but my landlord — 
 
 Aim. O sir, I ask your pardon, you're the cap- 
 tain he told me of ? 
 
 Gib. At your service, sir. 
 
 Aim. What regiment, may I be so bold ? 
 
 Gift. A marching regiment, sir, an old corps. 
 
 Aim. [Aside.] Very old, if your coat be regi- 
 mental. — lAloud.] You have served abroad, sir ? 
 
 Gib. Yes, sir, in the plantations, 'twas my lot 
 to be sent into the worst service; I would have 
 quitted it indeed, but a man of honour, you know 
 —Besides, 'twas for the good of my country that I 
 
 L 
 
THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 G51 
 
 should be abroad : — anything for the good of one's 
 country — I'm a Roman for that. 
 
 Aim. lAside.'] One of the first ; I'll lay my life. 
 lAloud.] Yon found the West Indies very hot, sir ? 
 
 Gib. Ay, sir, too hot for me. 
 
 Aim. Pray, dr, han't I seen yonr face at Will's 
 coffee-house ? 
 
 Gib. Yes, sir, and at White's too. 
 
 Aim. And where is your company now, captain ? 
 
 Gib. They han't come yet. 
 
 Aim, 'Why, d'ye expect 'em here ? 
 
 Gi4. They'll be here to-night, sir. 
 
 Aim. Which way do they march ? 
 
 Gib. Across the conntry. — f^Aside.l The devil's 
 in't, if I han't said enough to encourage him to 
 declare! But I'm afraid he's not light, I must 
 tack abont. 
 
 Aim. Is your company to quarter in Lichfield? 
 
 Gib. In this honse, sir. 
 
 Aim. What! all? 
 
 Gib. My company's but thin, ha ! ha ! ha ! we 
 are but three, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Aim. You're merry, sir. 
 
 Gib. Ay, sir, you must excuse me, sir, I under- 
 stand the world, especially the art of travelling : I 
 don't care, sir, for answering questions directly 
 upon the road — for I generally ride with a charge 
 about me. 
 
 Aim. Three or four, I believe. ^Atide. 
 
 Gib. 1 am credibly informed that there are 
 highwaymen upon this quarter, not, sir, that I 
 could suspect a gentleman of your figure!— but 
 truly, sir, I have got such a way of evasion upon 
 the Toad, that I don't care for speaking truth to 
 any man. 
 
 Aim. [Aside.'] Your caution may be necessary. 
 — [Aloud.'] Then I presume you're no captain ? 
 
 Gib. Not I, sir, captain is a good travelling 
 name, and so I take it ; it stops a great many 
 foolish inquiries that are generally made about 
 gentlemen that travel, it gives a man an air of 
 something, and makes the drawers obedient : — and 
 thus fax 1 am a captain, and no &rther. 
 
 AijR. And pray, sir, what is your true profession? 
 
 Gib. O sir, you must excuse me! — upon my 
 word, sir, 1 don't think it safe to tell ye. 
 
 Aim. Ha ! ha ! ha ! upon my word, I commend 
 yon. 
 
 Be-enter Bonifacb. 
 
 Well, Mr. Boniface, what's the news ? 
 
 Bon. There's another gentleman below, as the say- 
 ing is, that hearing you were but two, would be glad 
 to make the third man, if you would give him leave. 
 
 Aim. What is he ? 
 
 Bon. A clergyman, as the saying is. 
 
 Aim. A clergyman ! is he really a clergyman ? 
 or, is it only his travelling name, as my friend the 
 captain has it ? 
 
 Bon. O sir, he's a priest, and chaplain to the 
 French officers in town. 
 
 Aim. Is he a Frenchman ? 
 
 Bon. Yes, sir, bom at Brussels. 
 t Gib. A Frenchman, and a priest! I won't be 
 \seen in his company, sir ; I have a value for my 
 irepntation, sir. 
 
 Aim. Nay, but, captain, since we are by our- 
 selves — can he speak English, landlord ? 
 
 Bon. Very well, sir ; you may know him, as the 
 saying is, to be a foreigner by his accent, and that's 
 aU. 
 
 Aim. Then he has been in England before ? 
 
 Bon. Never, sir ; but he's a master of languages,. 
 as the saying is ; he talks Latin — it does me good 
 to hear him talk Latin. 
 
 Aim. Then you understand Latin, Mr. Boniface ? 
 
 Bon. Not I, sir, as the saying is ; but he talks 
 it so very fast, that I'm sure it must be good. ' 
 
 Aim. Fray, desire him to walk up. 
 
 Bon. Here he is, as the saying is. 
 
 Enter Foigabd. 
 
 Foi. Saave you, gentlemens, bote. 
 
 Aim. [Aside.'] A Frenchman !^— [ To Foigard.] 
 Sir, your most humble servant. 
 
 Foi. Ocb, dear joy, I am your most faitbful 
 shervant, and yours alsho. 
 
 Gib. Doctor, you talk very good English, but 
 you have a mighty twang of the foreigner. 
 
 Foi. My English is very vel for the vords, but 
 we foreigners, you know, cannot bring our tongues 
 about the pronunciation so soon. 
 
 Aim. [Aside.] A foreigner! a downright Teague, 
 by this light . — [Aloud.] Were you born in France, 
 doctor % 
 
 Foi. I was educated in France, but I was homed 
 at Brussels ; I am a subject of the king of Spdn, 
 joy. 
 
 G'%b. What king of Spain, sir." speak '. 
 
 Foi. Upon my shoul, joy, I cannot lell you as 
 yet. 
 
 Aim. Nay, captain, that was too hard upon the 
 doctor, he's a stranger. 
 
 Foi. Oh, let him alone, dear joy, I am of a na- 
 tion that is not easily put out of countenance. 
 
 Aim. Come, gentlemen, I'll end the dispute.-^ 
 Here, landlord, is dinner ready ? 
 
 Bon. Upon the table, as the saying is. 
 
 Aim. Gentlemen — ^pray — that door — 
 
 Foi. No, no, fait, the captain must lead; \ 
 
 Aim. No, doctor, the church is our guideA 
 
 Gib. Ay, ay, so it is. [Exit, the other f:ftfltoiBinp. 
 
 -The Gallery in Lady Botjni'iful's 
 Hoitse. 
 
 SCENE III.- 
 
 Enter Archer and Sc&db singing, and hugging one 
 another , the latter with a tankard in hie hand. Gipsy 
 lieteninff befiind. 
 
 Scrub. Tall, all, dall ! — Come, my dear boy, let's 
 have that song once more. 
 
 Arch. No, no, we shall disturb the family. — 
 But will you be sure to keep the secret ? 
 
 Scrub. Pho ! upon my honour, as I'm a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Arch. 'Tis enough. You must know then, that 
 my master is the lord viscount Aimwell ; he fought 
 a duel t'other day in London, wounded his man so 
 dangerously, that he thinks fit to withdraw till he 
 hears whether the gentleman's wounds be mortal 
 or not. He never was in this part of England 
 before, so he chose to retire to this place, that's all. 
 
 Gip. And that's enough for me. [.Exit. 
 
 Scrub. And where were you when your master 
 fought ? 
 
 Arch. We never know of our masters' quarrels. 
 
 Scrub. No ! if our masters in the country here 
 receive a challenge, the first thing they do is to tell 
 theii wives ; the wife tells the servants, the servants 
 
052 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 ttlarm the tenants, and in half aji hour you shall 
 have the whole county in arms. 
 V Arch. To hinder two men from doing what they 
 \have no mind for. — But if you should chance to 
 Italk now of my business ? 
 
 Scrub. Talk ! ay, sir, had I nqt learned the 
 knack of holding ay tongue, I had never lived so 
 long in a great family. ' 
 
 ' Arch. Ay, ay, to be sure there are secrets in all 
 families. 
 
 Scrub. Secrets 1 ^y ; — ^but I'll say no more. 
 Come, sit down, we'll make an end of our tankard : 
 here — IQives Aiicher the tankard. 
 
 Arch. With all my heart ; who ' knows but you 
 and I may come to be better acquainted, eh ? Here's 
 your ladies' healths ; you have three, I think, and 
 to be sure there must he secrets among em. 
 
 IDrinks, 
 Scrub. Secrets ! ay, friend. — I vfish I had a 
 friend ! — 
 
 Arch. Am not I your friend ? come, you and I 
 win be sworn brothers^ 
 Scrub. Shall we ? , 
 
 Arch. From this minute. Give me a kiss : — 
 and now, brother Scru^ — 
 
 Scrub. And no^, brother Martin, I will tell you 
 a secret 'that will make your hair stand an end. You 
 must know that I am consumedly in love. 
 
 Arch. That's a terrible secret, that's the truth 
 dn't. 
 
 Scrub. That jade, Gipsy, that was with us just 
 now in the cellar, is the arrantest whore that ever 
 wore a petticoat ; and I'm dying for love of her. 
 
 Arch. Ha ! ha ! ha ( — Are you ii^ love with her 
 person or her virtue, brother Scrub " 
 
 Scrui. I should like virtue be$t, because it is 
 more duralile than beauty : for virtue holds good 
 with some women long, and many a day after they 
 have lost it. 
 
 Arch. In the country, I grant ye, where no 
 I woman's virtue is lost, till a bastard be found. , 
 I Scrub. Ay, could I bring her to a bastard, I 
 should have her all to myself ; but I dare not put 
 it upon that lay, for fear of being sent for a soldier. 
 Pray, brother, how do you gentlemen in London 
 like that satne pressing act ? 
 
 Arch. Very ill, brother Scrub ; 'tis the worst 
 that ever was made for us. Formerly I remember 
 the good days, when we could dun our masters for 
 our wages, and if they refused to pay us, we could 
 have a warrant to carry 'em before a justice : but 
 now if we talk Of eating, they have a warrant for 
 us, and carry us before three justices 
 
 Scrub, And to be sure we go, if we talk of eat- 
 ing ; for the justices won't give their own servants 
 a bad example. Now this is my misfortune — I dare 
 not speak in the house, while that jade Gipsy dings 
 about like a fury. — Once I had the better end of 
 the staff. 
 
 Arch. And how comes the change now .' 
 Scrub. Why, the mother of all this mischief is a 
 priest. 
 
 Arch. A priest ! 
 
 Scrub. -Ay, a damned son of a vphore of Babylon, 
 that came over hither to say grace to the French 
 officers, and eat up our provisions. There's not a 
 day goes over his head without a dinner or supper 
 in this house. 
 
 Arch. How came he so familiar in the family .' 
 Scrub. Because he speaks English as if hs had 
 
 lived here all his life, and tells lies as if he had been 
 a traveller from his cradle. 
 
 Arch. And this priest, I'm afraid, has converted 
 the affections of your Gipsy. 
 
 Shrub. Converted ! ay, and perverted, my dear 
 friend : for, I'm afraid, he has made her a whore 
 and a papist ! But this is not all ; there's th$ 
 French count and Mrs. Sullen, they're in the con- 
 federacy, and for some private ends of their own to 
 be sure. 
 
 Arch. A very hopeful family yours, brother Scrub ! 
 I suppose the maiden lady has her lover too ? 
 
 Scrub. Not that I know ; she'? the best on 'em, 
 thaj:'s the truth on't : but they take care to prevent 
 my curiosity, by giving me so much business, that 
 I'm a perfect slave. , What 've think is my place 
 in this family ? 
 
 Arch. Butler, I suppose. 
 
 iScrwA. Ah, Lord help you ! I'll tell you. Of a. 
 Monday I drive the coach, of a Tuesday 1 drive the ' 
 plough, on Wednesday I follow the hounds, ai 
 Thursday I dun the tenants, on Friday I go to 
 market, on Saturday I draw warrants, and a Sun-\ 
 d^y I draw beer. 
 
 ' Arch. Ha ! ha ! ha ! if variety be a pleasure in 
 life, you have enough on't, my dear brother. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Sullen and Dorkyda. 
 
 But what ladies are those ? 
 
 Scrub. Ours, ours ; that upon the right hand is 
 Mrs. Sullen, and the other is Mrs. Dorinda. Don't 
 mind 'em, sit still, man. 
 
 Mrs. Sul, I have heard my brother talk of my 
 lord Aimwell ; but they say that his brother is the 
 finer gentleman. 
 
 Dor. That's impossible, sister. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. He's vastly rich, but very close, they 
 say. 
 
 Dor. No matter for that ; if I can creep into his 
 heart, I'll open his breast, I warri»nt him : I have 
 heard say, that people may be guessed at by the 
 behaviour of their servants ; I could wish we might 
 talk to that fellow. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. So do 1 i for, I think he's a very 
 pretty fellow. Come this way, I'll throw out a 
 lure for him presently. 
 
 [DoBrNDA and Mrs. Sullen walks towards the opposite 
 side of the stage 
 
 Arch. [Aside.] Corn, wine, and oil indeed ! — 
 But, I think, the wife has the greatest plenty of 
 flesh an4 blood ; she should be my choice. — Ay, 
 ay, say ydu so !— [Mrs. Sullen drops her glove, 
 which ht picks up and presents to her.] Madam — 
 your ladyship's glove. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. O sir, I thank you ! — [7*o Dobinda.1 
 What a handsome bow the fellow has 1 
 
 Dor. Bow ! why I have known several footmen 
 1 come down from London set up here for dancing- 
 masters, and carry oft the best fortunes in the 
 \ cduntry. 
 
 Arch. lAside.] That project, for aught I know, 
 had been better than ours. — [ To Scrub.] Brother 
 Scrub, why don't you introduce me.' 
 
 Scrub. Ladies, this is the strange gentleman's 
 servant that you see at churoh to-day ; I under- 
 stood he came from London, and so I invited him 
 to the cellar, that he might show me the newest 
 flourish in whetting my knives. 
 
 Dor. And I hope you have made much of him ? 
 Arch. yes, madam, but the strength of youi 
 
SCKNfcJ III, 
 
 THE J3EAUX-STRATAGEM 
 
 653 
 
 ladyship's liquor is a little too potent for the 
 constitution of your humble servant. 
 
 Mrs. SuL'What then, you don't usually drink 
 ale? 
 
 Arch. No, madam ; my constant drink is tei, 
 or a little wine and water. *Tis prescribed me by 
 the physician for a remedy against the spleen. 
 Scrub. O la ! O la ! a footman have the spleen ! 
 \ Mrs. Sul. I thought that distemper had been 
 1 only proper to people of quality ? 
 / Arch. Madam, like all other fashions it wears 
 / out, and so descends to their servants ; though in 
 a great many of us, I believe, it proceeds from 
 some melancholy particles in the blood, occasioned 
 by the stagnation of wages. 
 
 Dor. [Aside to Mrs. Sullen.] How affectedly 
 the fellow talks ! — [To Archer.] How long, pray, 
 have you served your present master ? 
 
 Aroh. Not long ; my life has been mostly spent 
 in the service of the ladies. 
 
 Mrs. SuL And pray, which service do you liHe 
 best ? 
 
 Arch. Madam, the ladies pay best; the honour 
 of serving them is sufficient wages; there is a 
 charm in their looks that delivers a pleasure with 
 their commands, and gives our duty the wings of 
 inclination. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. [Aside.^ That flight was above the 
 pitch of a livery. — [Aloud.] And, sir, would not 
 you be satisfied to serve a lady again ? 
 
 Arch. As a groom of the chamber, madam, but 
 not as a footman. 
 
 Mrs. SuL I suppose you served as footman 
 before ? 
 
 Arch, For that reason I would not serve in that 
 post again ; for my memory is too weak for the 
 load of messages that the ladies lay upon their ser- 
 vants in London. My lady Howd'ye, the last 
 mistress I served, called me up one morning, and 
 told me, Martin, go to my lady Allnight with my 
 humble service ; tell her I was to wait on her 
 ladyship yesterday, and left word with Mrs. Rebecca, 
 that the preliminaries of the affair she knows of, 
 are stopped till we know the concurrence of the 
 person that I know of, for which there are circum- 
 stances wanting which we shall accommodate at the 
 old place ; but that in the mean time there is a 
 person about her ladyship, that from several hints 
 and surmises, was accessary at a certain time to 
 the disappointments that naturally attend things, 
 that to her knowledge are of more importance — 
 
 Mrs. Sul, Dor, Ha I ha ! ha ! where are you 
 going, sir ? 
 
 Arch. Why, I han't half done !— The whole 
 owd'ye was about half an hour long ; so I hap- 
 ened to misplace two syllables, and was turned off,- 
 ^nd rendered incapable. 
 
 Dor, [Aside to Mrs, Sullen.] The pleasantest 
 fellow, sister, I ever saw! — [7'o Archer.] But, 
 friend, if your master be married, I presume you 
 still serve a lady ? 
 
 Arch. No, madam, I take care never to come 
 jinto a married family ; the commands of the master 
 ;and mistress are always so contrary, that 'tis Impos- 
 isible to please both. 
 
 ^ Dor. There's a main point gained : my lord is 
 not married I find. [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Sul, But I wonder, friend, that in so many 
 good services, you had not a better provision made 
 for you. 
 
 Arch. I don't know how, madam. X had a 
 lieutenancy offered me three or four times ; but 
 ihat is not bread, madam — I live much better as 
 1 do. 
 
 Scrub. Madam, he sings raiely '. I was thought 
 to do pretty well here in the country till he came ; 
 but alack a day, I'm nothing to my brother Martin ! 
 
 Dor. Does he } — Pray, sir, will you oblige us 
 with a song ? 
 
 Arch. Are you for passion or humour? 
 
 Scrub, O le ! he has the purest ballad about a 
 trifle— 
 
 Mrs. Sul. A trifle ! pray, sir, let's have it. 
 
 Arch. I m ashamed to offer you a trifle, madam ; 
 but since you command me — iSings. 
 
 A trifling song you shall hear, . 
 Begun with a trifle and ended: 
 All trifling people draw near. 
 And I shall he nohly attend£d« 
 
 Were it not for trifles, a few, 
 That lately have come into play; . 
 The men would want something to do, 
 And the women want something to saj*"- 
 
 What malies men trifle in dressing ? 
 Because the ladies (they know) 
 Admire, hy often possessing. 
 That eminent trifle a beau. 
 
 WJien the lover his moments has triileQ» 
 The trifle of trifles to gain : 
 No sooner the virgin is rifled. 
 But a trifle shall part 'em again. 
 
 What mortal man would he able 
 At White's half an hour to sit ? 
 Or who could bear a tea-table. 
 Without talking of trifles for wit ? 
 
 The court is from trifles secure. 
 Gold keys are no trifles, we see : 
 White rods are no trifles, I'm sur©„ 
 Whatever their bearers may be. 
 
 Bat if you will go to the place. 
 Where trifles abundantly breed, 
 The levee will show you his grace 
 Makes promises trifles indeed. 
 
 A coach with six footmen behind, 
 I count neither trifle nor sin : 
 But, ye gods ! how oft do we find 
 A scandalous trifle within. 
 
 A flask of champagne, people think it 
 A trifle, or something as bad : 
 But if you'll contrive how to drink it. 
 You'll flnd it no trifle, egad ! 
 
 A parson's a trifle at sea, 
 
 A widow's a trifle in sorrow. 
 
 A peace is a trifle to-day. 
 
 Who knows what may happen to-morroir ( 
 
 A black coat a trifle may cloke, 
 
 Or to hide it, tlie red may endeavour; 
 
 But if once the army is broke, 
 
 We shall have more trifles than ever. 
 
 The stage is a trifle, they say. 
 The reason, pray carry along. 
 Because at every new play, 
 The house they with trifles so throng. 
 
 But with people's malice to trifle. 
 And to set us all on a foot : 
 The author of this is a trifle, 
 And his song is a trifle to boot. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Very well, sir, we're obliged to you. 
 —Something for a pair of gloves. 
 
 [OJfering hhamoiir^ 
 
654 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 Arch. I humbly beg leave to be excused : my 
 master, madam, pays me ; nor dare I take money 
 from any other hand, without injuring his honour, 
 and disobeying his commands. {.Exit with Bcrub. 
 
 Dor. This is surprising ! Did you ever see so 
 pretty a well-bred fellow ? 
 
 Mrs. Sill. The devil take him for wearing that 
 livery ! 
 
 Dor. I fancy, sister, he maybe some gentleman, 
 a friend of my lord's, that his lordship has pitched 
 upon for his courage, fidelity, and discretion, to 
 bear him company in this dress, and who ten to one 
 was bis second too. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. It is so, it must be so, and it shall be 
 so ! — for I like him. 
 
 Dor. What ! better than the count ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. The count happened to be the most 
 agreeable man upon the place ; and so I chose him 
 to serve me in my design upon my husband. But 
 I should like this fellow better in a design upon 
 myself. 
 
 Dor. But now, sister, for an interview with this 
 lord and this gentleman ; how shall we bring that 
 about ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Patience ! you country ladies give no 
 quarter if once you be entered. Would you prevent 
 their desires, and give the fellows no wishing-time .' 
 Look'ee, Dorinda, if my lord Aimwell loves you or^ 
 deserves you, he'll find a way to see you, and there ^ 
 we must leave it. My business comes now upon 
 the tapis. Have you prepared your brother ? 
 
 Dor, Yes, yes, 
 
 Mrs. Sul. And how did he relish it ? 
 
 Dor. He said little, mumbled something to him- 
 self, promised to be guided by me — but here he 
 comes. 
 
 EnUr Squire SuLLEif. 
 
 Squire Sul. What singing was that I heard just 
 now ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. The singing in your head, my dear, 
 you complained of it all day. 
 
 Squire Sul. You're impertinent. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I was ever so, since I became one 
 flesh with you. 
 
 Squire Sul. One flesh ! rather two carcasses 
 joined unnaturally together. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Or rather a living soul coupled to a 
 dead body. 
 
 Dor. So, this is fine encouragement for me ! 
 
 Squire Sul. Yen, my wife shows you what you 
 must do. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. And my husband shows you what you 
 must suffer. 
 
 Squire Sul. 'Sdeath, why can't you be silent ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. 'Sdeath, why can't you talk ? 
 
 Squire Sul. Do you talk to any. purpose ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Do you think to any purpose ? 
 
 Squire Sul. Sister, heark'ee ! — [Whispers.] I 
 shan't be hotae till it be late. {.ExU. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. What did he whisper to ye ? 
 
 Dor. That he would go round the back way, 
 come into the closet, and listen as I directed him. 
 But let me beg you once more, dear sister, to drop 
 this project ; for as 1 told you before, instead of 
 awaking him to kindness, you may provoke him to 
 a rage ; and then who knows how far his brutality 
 may carry him ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I'm provided to receive him, I warrant 
 you. But here comes the count, vanish ! 
 
 lExU DORINPA. 
 
 Enter Coimt BELLAra. 
 Don't you wonder, monsieur le comte, that I was 
 not at church this afternoon ? 
 
 Count Bel. I more wonder, madam, that you go 
 dere at all, or how you dare to lift those eyes to 
 heaven that are guilty of so much killing. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. If Heaven, sir, has given to my eyes 
 with the power of killing the virtue of making a 
 cure, I hope the one may atone for the other. 
 
 Count Bel. Oh, largely, madam, would your 
 ladyship be as ready to apply the remedy as to give 
 the wound. Consider, madam, I am doubly a 
 prisoner ; first to the arms of your general, then to 
 your more conquering eyes. My first chains are 
 easy, there a ransom may redeem me, but from your 
 fetters I never shall get free. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Alas, sir ! why should you complain 
 to me of your captivity, who am in chains myself ? 
 You know, sir, that 1 am bound, nay, must be tied 
 up in that particular that might give you ease : I 
 am like yon, a prisoner of war,^i^of war, indeed — 
 I have given my parole of honour ; would you 
 break yours to gain your liberty ? 
 
 Count Bel. Most certainly I would, were I a 
 prisoner among the Turks ; dis is your case, you're 
 a slave, madam, slave to the worst of Turks, a 
 husband. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. There lies my foible, I confess ; no 
 fortifications, no courage, conduct, nor vigilancy, 
 can pretend to defend a place, where the cruelty of 
 the governor forces the garrison to mutiny. 
 
 Count Bel. And where de besieger is resolved 
 to die before de place. — Here will I fix ; — [Kneels] 
 with tears, vows, and prayers assault your heart, 
 and never rise till you surrender ; or if I must 
 storm — Love and St. Michael ! — And so I begin the 
 attack. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Stand off! — [Aside."] Sure he hears 
 me not !— And I could almost wish — he did not ! — 
 The fellow makes love very prettily. — [Aloud.] 
 But, sir, why should you put such a value upon 
 my person, when you see it despised by one that 
 knows it so much better ? 
 
 Count Bel. He knows it not, though he possesses 
 it ; if he but knew the value of the jewel he is 
 master of, he would always wear it next his heart, 
 and sleep with it in his arms. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. But since he throws me unregarded 
 from him — 
 
 Count Bel. And one that knows your value 
 well comes by and takes you up, is not justice ? 
 
 IGoes to lay hold of her. 
 
 Enter Squire Sullbn with his sword drawn. 
 
 Squire Sul. Hold, villain, hold ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. [Presenting a pistol.] Do you hold ! 
 
 Squire Sul. What ! murder your husband, to 
 defend your bully ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Bully! for shame, Mr. Sullen, bullies 
 near long swords, the gentleman has none, he's a 
 prisoner, you know. I was aware of your outrage, 
 and prepared this to receive your violence ; and, if 
 occasion were, to preserve myself against the force 
 of this other gentleman. 
 
 Count Bel. O madam, your eyes be bettre fire- 
 arms than your pistol ; they nevre miss. 
 
 Squire Sttl. What I court my wife to my face ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Pray, Mr. Sullen, put up ; suspend 
 your fury for a minute. 
 
 Squire Sul. To give you time to invent an excuse i 
 
THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 665 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I need none. 
 
 Squire Sul. No, for I heard every syllable of 
 your discourse. 
 
 Count Bel. Ah ! and begar, I tink the dialogue 
 was vera pretty. 
 
 Mr^. SuL Then I suppose, sir, you heard some- 
 thing of your own barbarity ? 
 
 Sguire -Sal. Barbarity ! oons what does the 
 woman call barbarity ? do I ever meddle with you ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. No. 
 
 SqMire Sul. As for you, sir, I shall take another 
 time. 
 
 Cotmi Bel. Ah, begar, and so must I. 
 
 Squire Sul. Look'ee, madam, don't think that 
 my anger proceeds from any concern I have for 
 your honour, but for my own, and if you can con- 
 trive any way of being a whore without making 
 me a cuckold do it and welcome. 
 \ Mrs. Stil. Sir, I thank you kindly, you would 
 ^liow me the sin but rob me of the pleasure. No, 
 ,''no, I'm resolved never to venture upon the crime 
 without the satisfaction of seeing you punished 
 for't. 
 
 Squire Sul. Then wiU you grant me this, my 
 dear ? Let anybody else do you the favour but 
 that Frenchman, for 1 mortally hate his whole ge- 
 neration. . ^Bxit. 
 
 Count Bel. Ah, sir, that be ungrateful, for begar, 
 I love some of yours, madam — lApproacMng Tier. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. No, sir. 
 
 Count Bel. No, sir ! garzoon, madam, I am not 
 your husband. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. 'Tis time to undeceive you, sir. I 
 believed your addresses to me were no more than 
 an amusement, and 1 hope you will think the same 
 of my complaisance ; and to convince you that you 
 ought, you must know, that 1 brought you hither 
 only to make you instrumental in setting me right 
 with my husband, for he was planted to listen by 
 my appointment. 
 
 Count Bel. By your appointment ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Certainly. 
 
 Count Bel. And so, madatn, while I was telling 
 twenty stories to part you from your husband, 
 begar, I was bringing you together all the while ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I ask your pardon, sir, but I hope 
 this will give you a taste of the virtue of the En- 
 glish ladies. 
 
 Count Bel. Begar, madam, your virtue be vera 
 great, but garzoon, your houeste be vera little. 
 
 Re-^Hier Dorinda, 
 Mrs. Sul. Nay, now, you're angry, sir. 
 Count Bel. Angry I — Fair Dorinda [Sings and 
 addresses Dobinda.] Madam, when your ladyship 
 want a fool, send for me. Fair Dorinda, Revenge, 
 SfC. [£.¥i£ singing. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. There goes the true humour of hi» 
 nation — resentment with good manners, and the 
 height of anger in a song 1 Well, sistgr, you mu^ 
 he judge, for you have heard the trial. 
 Dor, And I bring in my brother guilty. 
 Mrs. Sul. B\tt I must bear the punishment 
 'Tis hard, sister. 
 
 Dor. I own it ; but you must have patience. 
 Mrs. Sul. Patience ! the cant of custom — Pro- 
 vidence sends no evil without a remedy. Should I 
 lie groaning under a yoke I casi shake off, I were 
 accessary to my ruin, and my patience were no 
 better than self-murder. 1 
 
 Dor. But how can you shake off the yoke ? your I 
 divisions don't come within the reach of the law/ 
 • for a divorce. \ 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Law ! what law can search into the ' 
 ' remote abyss of nature ? what evidence can prove 
 [ the unaccountable disaffectioijs of wedlock .' Can j 
 a jury sum up the endless aversions that are rooted j 
 in our souls, or can a bench give judgment upon ; 
 antipathies ? 
 
 Dor. They never pretended, sister j they never 
 meddle, but in case of uncleanness. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Uncleanness ! O sister ! casual vio- 
 lation is a transient injury, and may possibly be 
 repaired, but can radical hatreds be ever reconciled ? 
 No, no, sister, nature is the first lawgiver, and 
 when she has set tempers opposite, not all the 
 golden links of wedlock nor iron manacles of law 
 can keep 'em fast. 
 
 Wedlock we own ordain'd by Heaven's decree, 
 But such as Heaven ordain'd it first to be ; — 
 Concurring tempers in the man and wife 
 As mutual helps to draw the load of life. 
 View all the works of Providence above, 
 The stars with harmony and concord move ; 
 View all the works of Providence below. 
 The fire, the water, earth and air, we know. 
 All in one plant agree to make it grow. 
 Must man, the chiefest work of art divine. 
 Be doom'd in endless discord to repine .-' 
 No, we should injure Heaven by that surmise. 
 Omnipotence is just, were man but wise. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I The Gallery in Lady Bountifol's 
 
 House. 
 
 Mr9. Sltllbn discovered alone. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Were I born an humble Turk, where 
 women have no soul nor property, there I must sit 
 contented. But in England, a country whose 
 women are its glory, must women be abused ? 
 where women rule, must women be enslaved } 
 Nay, cheated into slavery, mocked by a promise of 
 comfortable society into a wilderness of solitude ! 
 I dare not keep the thought about me. Oh, here 
 comes something to divert me ! 
 
 Enter a Countrywoman. 
 
 Worn. I come, an't please your ladyship — you're 
 my lady Bountiful, an't ye .' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Well, good woman, go on. 
 
 Worn. I come seventeen long mail to have a cure 
 for my husband's sore leg. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Your husband ! what, woman, cure 
 your husband ! 
 
 Worn. Ay, poor man, for his sore leg won't let 
 him stir from home. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. There, I confess, you have given me 
 a reason. Well, good woman, I'll tell you what 
 you must do. You must lay your husband's leg 
 
656 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 upon a table, and with a chopping-knife you must 
 lay it open as broad as you can, then you must 
 take out the bone, and beat the fiesh soundly 
 with a rolling-pin, then take salt, pepppr, cloves, 
 mace, and ginger, some sweet-herbs, and season it 
 very well, then roll it up like brawn, and put it 
 into the oven for two hours. 
 
 Worn. Heavens reward your ladyship ! — I have 
 two little babies too that are piteous bad with the 
 graips, an't please ye. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Put a little pepper and sidt in their 
 bellies, good woman. 
 
 Enter Lady Bountiful. 
 I beg your ladyship's pafdon for taking your busi- 
 ness out of your hands, I have been ia-tampering 
 here a little with one of your patients. 
 
 Lady Soun, Come, good woman, don't mind 
 this mad creature, I aiii the person that you want, 
 I suppose. What would you have, woman .' 
 
 Mrs. ilul. She wants something for her hus- 
 band's sOre leg. 
 
 Ladi/ Bonn. What's the matter vrith his leg, 
 goody ? 
 
 Worn, It come first, as one might say, with a 
 Sort of dizziness in his foot, then he had a kind of 
 laziness in his joints, and then his leg broke out, 
 and then it swelled, and then it closed again, and 
 then it broke out again, and then it festered, and 
 then it grew better, and then it grew worse again. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lady Boun. How can you be merry wilh the 
 misfortunes of other people ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Because my own make me sad, 
 madam. 
 
 Lady Boun. The worst reason in the world, 
 daughter ; your own misfortmies should teach you 
 to pity others. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. But the woman's misfortunes and 
 mine are nothing alike ; her husband is sick, and 
 mine, alas ! is in health. 
 
 Lady Boun. What ! would you vrish your hus- 
 band sick ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Not of a sore leg of all things. 
 
 Lady Boun. Well, good woman, go to the 
 pantry, get your bellyful of victuals, then I'll give 
 you a receipt of diet-drink for your husband. But 
 d'ye hear, goody, you must not let your husband 
 move too much. 
 
 Worn. No, no, madam, the poor man's inclinable 
 enough to lie still. lExtt. 
 
 Lady Boun. Well, daughter Sullen, though you 
 laugh, I have done miracles about the country here 
 with my receipts. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Miracles indeed, if they have cured 
 anybody ; but I believe, madam, the patient's faith 
 goes farther toward the miracle than your prescrip- 
 tion. 
 
 Lady Boun. Fancy helps in some cases ; but 
 there's your husband, who has as little fancy as 
 anybody, I brought him from death's door. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I suppose, madam, you made him 
 drink plentifully of ass's milk. 
 
 Enter Dobinda, wJio runs to Mrs. Sullen. 
 Dor. News, dear sister ! news ! news ! 
 
 Enter Abchsb, running. 
 Arch. Where, where is my lady Bountiful ? — 
 Pray, which is the old lady of you three i 
 Lady Boun. 1 am. 
 
 Arch. O madam, the fame of your ladyship's 
 charity, goodness, benevolence, skill and ability, 
 have drawn me hither to implore your ladyship's 
 help in behalf of my unfortunate master, who is 
 this moment breathing his last. 
 
 Lady Boun. Your master ! where is he ? 
 
 Areh. At your gate, madam. Drawn by the ap- 
 pearance of your handsome house to view it nearer, 
 and walking up the avenue within five paces of the 
 court-yard, he was taken ill of a sudden with a sort 
 of I know not what, but down he fell, and there he 
 lies. 
 
 Lady Boun. Here, Scrub, Gipsy, all run, get my 
 easy-chair down stairs, put the gentleman in it, and 
 bring him in quickly ! quickly ! 
 i Arch. Heaven will reward your ladyship for this 
 charitable act. 
 
 Lady Boun. Is your master used to these fits ? 
 
 Arch. O yes, madani, frequently : I have known 
 him have five or six of a night. 
 
 Lady Boun. What's his name ? 
 
 Arch. Lord, madam, he's a-dying ! a minute's 
 care or neglect may save or destroy his life. 
 
 Lady Boun. Ah, poor gentleman !-rX!ome, friend, 
 
 show me the way ; I'll see him brought in myself. 
 
 lExit with Abchbr. 
 
 , Dor. O sister, my heart flutters about strangely ! 
 
 I can hardly forbear running to his assistance. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. And I'll lay my life he deserves your 
 assistance more than he wants it. Did not I tell 
 you that my lord would find a way to come at you ? 
 Love's his distemper, and you must be the physician ; 
 put on all your charms, summon all your fire into 
 your eyes, plant the whole artillery of your looks 
 against his breast, and down with him. 
 
 Dor. O sister ! I'm but a young gunner ; I shall 
 be afraid to shoot, for fear the piece should recoil, 
 and hurt myself. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Never fear, you shall see me shoot 
 before you, if you will. 
 
 Dor. No, °o, dear sister, you have missed your 
 mark so unfortunately, that I shan't care for being 
 instructed by you. 
 
 Enter Aimwkll, carried in a chair by Archer and Scrub, 
 and counterfeiting a swoon / Lady Bountiful and 
 Gipsy following. 
 
 Lady Boun. Here, here, let's see the hartshorn 
 drops. — Gipsy, a glass of fair water ! His fit's very 
 strong. — Bless me, how his hands are clinched ! 
 
 Arch. For shame, ladies, what d'ye do 1 why 
 don't you help us?— [To Dorinda.] Pray, 
 madam, take his hand, and open it, if you can, 
 whilst I hold his head. [Dorinda takes his hand. 
 
 Dor. Poor gentleman! — Oh!— he has got my 
 hand within his, and squeezes it unmercifully — 
 
 Lady Boun. 'Tis the violence of his convulsion, 
 child. 
 
 Arch. Oh, madam, he's perfectly possessed in 
 these cases — he'll bite if you don't have a care. 
 
 Dor. Oh, my hand 1 my hand I 
 
 Lady Boun. What's the matter with the fool- 
 ish girl ? I have got this hand open you see with 
 a great deal of ease. 
 
 Arch. Ay, but, madam, your daughter's hand is 
 somewhat warmer than your ladyship's, and the 
 heat of it draws the force of the spirits that way. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I find, friend, you're very learned in 
 these sorts of fits. 
 
 Arch. 'Tis no wonder, madam, for I'm often 
 
THE BEAUX-STllATAGEM. 
 
 667 
 
 troubled with them myself ; I find myself extremely 
 ill at this minute. [Looking hard at Mi's. Sullen. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I fancy I could find a way to cure 
 you. lAside. , 
 
 Lady Bonn. His fit holds him very long. 
 Arch. Longer than usual, madam. — Pray, young 
 lady, open his breast, and give hiro air. 
 
 Lady Boun. Where did bis illness take him 
 first, pray ? 
 
 Arch. To-day at church, madam. 
 Lady Boun. In what manner was he taken ? 
 Arch. Very strangely, my lady. He was of a 
 sudden touched with something in his eyes, which, 
 at the first, he only felt, but could not tell whether 
 'twas pain or pleasure. 
 
 Lady Boun. Wind, nothing but wind ! 
 Arch. By soft degrees it grew and mounted to 
 Tiis brain, there his fancy caught it ; there formed 
 it so beautiful, and dressed it up in such gay, 
 pleasing colours, that his transported appetite 
 seized the fair idea, and straight conveyed it to his 
 heart. That hospitable seat of life sent all its 
 sanguine spirits forth to meet, and opened all its 
 sluicy gates to take the stranger in. 
 
 Lady Boun. Your master should never go with- 
 out a bottle to smell to. — Oh, — he recovers ! —The 
 lavender water — some feathers to burn under his 
 nose — Hungary water to rub his temples. — Oh, he 
 comes to himself! — Hem a little, sir, hera. — 
 Gipsy ! bring the cordial-water. 
 
 lAiMVfKLi. seems to awakein amaiie. 
 Dor. How d'ye, sir ? 
 
 Aim. Where am I .' [Rising. 
 
 Sure I have pass'd the gulf of silent death. 
 And now 1 land on the Elysian shore ! — 
 Behold the goddess of those hai-ipy plains. 
 Fair Proserpine — 
 Let me adore thy bright divinity. 
 
 [Kneels to Dorinda, and kissrs her hand. 
 Mrs. Sul. So, so, so ! I knew where the fit 
 would end ! 
 
 Aim. Eurydice perhaps — 
 
 How could thy Orpheus keep his word, 
 
 And not look back upon thee ? 
 
 No treasure but thyself could sure have 
 
 bribed him 
 To look one minute off thee. 
 Lady Boun. Delirious, poor gentleman ! 
 Arch. Very delirious, madam, very delirious. 
 Aim. Martin's voice, I think. 
 Arch. Yes, my lord.— How does your lordship? 
 Lady Boun. Lord ! did you mind that, girls ? 
 [Aside to Mrs, Sullbn and Dorinda. 
 Aim. Where am I ? 
 
 Arch. In very good hands, sir. You were taken 
 just now with one of your old fits, under the trees, 
 just by this good lady's house; her ladyship had 
 you taken in, and has miraculously brought you to 
 yourself, as you see. 
 
 Aim. I am so confounded with shame, madam, 
 that I can now only beg pardon ; and refer my 
 acknowledgments for your ladyship's care, till 
 an opportunity offers of making some amends. I 
 dare be no longer troublesome. — Martin 1 give two 
 guineas to the servants. [Qoing. 
 
 Dor. Sir, you may catch cold by going so soon 
 into the air, you don't look, sir, as if you were 
 perfectly recovered. 
 
 [Here ARCBsn talks to Lady Bountiful in dumb show. 
 Aim. That I shall never be, madam ; my present 
 
 illness is so rooted that I must expect to carry il 
 to my grave. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Don't despair, sir ; I have known 
 several in your distemper shake it off with a fort- 
 night's physic. 
 
 Lady Boun. Come, sir, your servant has been 
 telling me that you're apt to relapse if you go into 
 the air : your good manners shan't get the better of 
 ours — you shall sit down again, sir. Come, sir, 
 we don't mind ceremonies in the country — here, 
 sir, my service t'ye.— You shall taste my water ; 
 'tis a cordial I can assure you, and of my own 
 making' — ^drink it off, sir. — [Aimwell drinks.''^ 
 PldA how d'ye find yourself now, sir ? 
 
 Aim. Somewhat better — though very faint still. 
 
 Lady Boun. Ay, ay, people are always faint 
 after these fits. — Come, girls, you shall show the 
 gentleman the house. — 'Tis but an old family build- 
 ing, sir J but you had better walk about, and cool 
 by degrees, than venture immediately into the air. 
 /You'll find some tolerable pictures. — Dorinda, 
 'show the gentleman the way. I must go to the 
 poor woman below. [Exit. 
 
 Dor. This way, sir. 
 
 Aim. Ladies, shall I beg leave for my servant to 
 wait on you, for he understands pictures very well.'^ 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Sir, we understand originals as well 
 as he does pictures, so he may come along. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Scrub, Aimwell leading Dorind.a. 
 
 Enter FoiQARD. 
 
 Foi. Save you, master Scrub 1 
 
 Scrub. Sir, I won't be saved your way — I hate a 
 priest, 1 abhor the French, and I defy the devil.1 
 Sir, I'm a bold Briton, and will spill the last drop\ 
 of my blood to keep out popery and slavery. ' 
 
 Foi. Master Scrub, you would put me down in 
 politics, and so I would be speaking with Mrs. 
 Shipsy. 
 
 Scrub. Good Mr. Priest, you can't speak with 
 her, she's sick, sir, she's gone abroad, sir, she's — 
 dead two months ago, sir. 
 
 Re-enter Gipsy. 
 
 Gip. How now, impudence I how dare you talk 
 so saucily to the doctor ? — Pray, sir, don't take it 
 ill ; for the common people of England are not so 
 civil to strangers, as — I 
 
 Scrub. You lie ! you lie ! 'tis the common peo- ■ 
 pie that are civillest to strangers. \ 
 
 Gip. Sirrah, I have a good mind to — get you 
 out, I say 1 
 
 Scrub. I won't. 
 
 Gip. You won't, sauce-box ! — Pray, doctor, 
 what is the captain's name that came to your inn 
 last night ? 
 
 Scrub. \_Aside.^ The captain ! ah, the devil, 
 there she hampers me again ; the captain has me 
 on one side, and the priest on t'other ; so between 
 the gown and the sword, 1 have a fine time on't. 
 — But, Cediint arma iogte. 
 
 Gip. What, sirrah, won't you march ? 
 
 Scrub. No, my dear, I won't march— but I'll 
 walk. — [Aside.'] And I'll make bold to listen a 
 little too. [Beiires behind, listening. 
 
 Gip. Indeed, doctor, the count has been barba- 
 rously treated, that's the truth on't. 
 
 Foi. Ah, Mrs. Gipsy, upon my shoul, now, gra 
 his complainings would mollify the marrow in your 
 bones, and move the bowels of your commiseta- 
 II II 
 
osu 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 ACT 17 
 
 tion ! He veeps, and he dances, and he fistles, 
 and he swears, and he laughs, and he stamps, and 
 he sings : in conclusion, joy, he's afflicted a-la- 
 franfaise, and a stranger would not know whider 
 to cry or to laugh with him. 
 
 Gip. What would you have me do, doctor ? 
 
 Foi. Noting, joy, but only hide the count in 
 Mrs. Sullen's closet when it is dark. 
 
 Gip. Nothing ! is that nothing ? it would be 
 both a sin and a shame, doctor. 
 
 Foi. Here is twenty louis-d'ors, joy, for your 
 shame ; and I will give you an absolution for the 
 shin. 
 
 Gip. But won't that money look like a bribe ? 
 
 Foi. Dat is according as you shall tauk it. If 
 you receive the money beforehand, 'twill be logice, 
 a bribe ; but if you stay till afterwards, 'twill be 
 only a gratification. 
 
 Gip. Well, doctor, I'll take it logice. But what 
 must 1 do with my conscience, sir ? 
 
 Foi. Leave dat wid me, joy ; I am your priest, 
 gra ; and your conscience is under my hands. 
 
 Gip. But should I put the count into the 
 closet — 
 
 Foi. Vel, is dere any shin for a man's being in 
 a closhet ? one may go to prayers in a closhet. 
 
 Gip. But if the lady should come into her cham- 
 ber, and go to bed ? 
 
 Foi. Vel, and is dere any shin in going to bed, 
 joy? 
 
 Gip. Ay, but if the parties should meet, doctor .' 
 
 Foi. Vel den — the parties must be responsible. 
 Do you be after putting the count in the closhet ; 
 and leave the shins wid themselves. I will come 
 with the count to instruct you in your chamber. 
 
 Gip. Well, doctor, your religion is so pure! 
 Methinks I'm so easy after an absolution, andean 
 sin afresh with so much security, that I'm resolved 
 to die a martyr to't. Here's the key of the garden 
 door, come in the back-way when 'tis late, I'll be 
 ready to receive you ; but don't so much as whis- 
 per, only take hold of my hand ; I'll lead you, and 
 do you lead the count, and follow me. [_Exeunt, 
 
 Scrub. [Coming forward.~\ What witchcraft 
 now have these two imps of the devil been a-hatch- 
 ing here ? There's twenty louis-d'ors ; I heard 
 that, and saw the purse. — But I must give room to 
 my betters. lExit. 
 
 Re-enter Aimivell, leading 'Dokinda, and making love in 
 dumb show i Mrs. Sullen and ABCHiiR following. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. [To Archer.] Pray, sir, how d'ye 
 like that piece } 
 
 Arch. Oh, 'tis Leda ! You find, madam, how 
 / Jupiter comes disguised to make love — 
 
 Mrs. Sul. But what think yon there of Alex- 
 ander's battles ? 
 
 Arch. We want only a Le Brun, madam, to 
 draw greater battles, and a greater general of our 
 own. The Danube, madam, would make a greater 
 figure in a picture than the Granicus; and we have 
 <)ar Ramillies to match their Arbela. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Pray, sir, what head is that in the 
 liorner there.' 
 
 Arch. O madam, 'tis poor Ovid in his exile. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. What was he banished for ? 
 ' Arch. His ambitious love, madam. — [Bowing.'] 
 liis misfortune touches me. 
 
 Mrs, Sul. Was he successful in his amours ? 
 
 Arch. There he has left us in the dark. — He 
 was too much a gentleman to tell. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. If he were secret, I pity him. 
 
 Arch. And if he were successful, I envy him. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. How d'ye like that Venus over the 
 chimney ? 
 
 Areh. Venus ! I protest, madam, I took it for 
 your picture ; but now I look again, 'tis not hand- 
 some enough. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Oh, what a charm is flattery ! If you 
 would see my picture there it is over that cabinet. 
 How d'ye like it? 
 
 Arch. I must admire anything, madam, that 
 has the least resemblance of you. But, methinks, 
 madam — [He looks at the picture and Mrs. Sul- 
 len three or four times, by turns."] Pray, madam, 
 who drew it ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. A famous hand, sir. 
 
 {Here A[aiW£ll and Dorihda go off. 
 
 Arch, A famous hand, madam ! — Your eyes, 
 indeed, are featured there ; but Where's the spark- 
 ling moisture, shining fluid, in which they swim ? 
 The picture, indeed, has your dimples; but where's 
 the swarm of killing Cupids that should ambush 
 there ? The lips too are figured out ; but where's 
 the carnation dew, the pouting ripeness that tempts 
 the taste in the original ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Had it been my lot to have matched 
 with such a man ! lAside. 
 
 Arch. Your breasts too — presumptuous man ! 
 ^hat, paint Heaven! — Apropos, madam, in the 
 ^ry next picture is Salmoneus, that was struck 
 dead with lightning, for offering to imitate Jove's 
 thunder ; 1 hope you served the painter so, ma- 
 ^m! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Had my eyes the power of thunder, 
 they should employ their lightning better. 
 
 Arch. There's the finest bed in that room, ma- 
 dam ! I suppose 'tis your ladyship's bedchamber. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. And what then, sir ? 
 
 Arch. I think the quilt is the richest that ever 
 I saw. I can't at this distance, madam, distinguish 
 the figures of the embroidery ; will you give me 
 leave, madam ? [Goes into the chamber. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. The devil take his impudence ! — Sure, 
 if I gave Him an opportunity, he durst not offer it? 
 
 I have a great mind to try. — [Goes in after 
 
 Archer, but returns hastily.] 'Sdeath, what am 
 I doing ? — And alone, too ! — Sister ! sister ! 
 
 {Runs out. 
 
 Arch. [Coming out.] I'll follow her close — 
 For where a Frenchman durst attempt to storm, 
 A Briton sure may well the work perform. 
 
 \_Going. 
 Re-enter Scrub. 
 
 Scrub. Martin ! brother Martin ! 
 
 Arch. O brother Scrub, 1 beg your pardon, I 
 was not a-going : here's a guinea my master or- 
 dered you. 
 
 Scrub. A guinea ! hi ! hi ! hi ! a guinea ! eh — 
 by this light it is a guinea ! But I suppose yoa 
 expect one and twenty shillings in change ? 
 
 Arch. Not at all ! I have another for Gipsy. 
 
 Scrub. A guinea for her ! faggot and fire for the 
 witch ! Sir, give me that guinea, and I'll discover 
 a plot. 
 
 Arch. A plot ! 
 
 Scrub. Ay, sir, a plot, a horrid plot ! First, it 
 must be a plot, because there's a woman in't : se- 
 condly, it must be a plot, because there's a priest 
 
THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 C)bii 
 
 i in't : thirdly, it must be a plot, because there's 
 French gold in't : and fourthly, it must be a plot, 
 ! because I don't know what to make on't. 
 
 Arch. Nor anybody else, I'm afraid, brother 
 Scrub. 
 
 Scrub. Truly, I'm afraid so too ; for where 
 there's a priest and a woman, there's always a 
 mystery and a riddle. This, I know, that here has 
 been the doctor with a temptation in one hand and 
 an absolution in the other, and Gipsy has sold her- 
 self to the devil ; I saw the price paid down, my 
 eyes shall take their oath on't. 
 
 Arch. And is all this bustle about Gipsy ? 
 
 Scrub. That's not all ; I could hear but a word 
 here and there ; but I remember they mentioned 
 a count, a closet, a back-door, and a key. 
 
 Arch. The count! — Did you hear nothing of 
 Mrs. Sullen ? 
 
 Scrub. I did hear some word that sounded that 
 way ; but whether it was Sullen or Dorinda, I 
 could not distinguish. 
 
 Arch. You have toH this matter to nobody, 
 brother ? 
 
 Scrub. Told ! noj sir, I thank yon for that ; I'm 
 resolved never to speak one word pro nor eon, till 
 we have a peace. 
 
 Arch. You're i' th' right, brother Scrub. Here's 
 a treaty a foot between the count and the lady : 
 the priest and the chambermaid are the plenipo- 
 tentiaries. It shall go hard but I find a way to be 
 included in the treaty. — 7 Where's. the doctor, now? 
 
 Scrub. He and Gipsy are this moment devouring 
 my lady's marmalade in the closet. 
 
 Aim. [Without. 'i Martin! Martin! 
 
 Arch. I come, sir, I come. 
 
 Scrub. But you forget the other guinea, brother 
 Martin. 
 
 Arch. Here, I give it with all my heart. 
 
 Scrub. And I take it with all my soul. — [Exit 
 Archer.] Ecod, I'll spoil your plotting, Mrs. 
 Gipsy ! and if you should set the captain upon me, 
 these two guineas will buy me off. ^Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Sullkn and Dorinda, meeting. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Well, sister ! 
 
 Dor. And well, sister ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. What's become of my lord ? 
 
 Dor. What's become of his servant .' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Servant ! he's a prettier fellow, and 
 a finer gentleman by fifty degrees, than his master. 
 
 Dor. O' my conscience, I fancy you could beg 
 that fellow at the gallows-foot ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. O' my conscience I could, provided 
 I could put a friend of yours in his room. 
 
 Dor. You desired me, sister, to leave yon, when 
 you transgressed the bounds of honour. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Thou dear censorious country girl ! 
 what dost mean .' You can't think of the man 
 without the bedfellow, I find. 
 
 Dor. I don't find anything unnatural in that 
 l^ought : while the mind is conversant with flesh 
 and blood, it must conform to the humours of the 
 company. 
 
 ' Mrs. Sul. How a little love and good company 
 improves a woman ! Why, child, yon begin tp 
 live — you never spoke before. 
 
 Dor. Because I was never spoke to — My lord 
 has told me that I have more wit and beauty than 
 any of my sex ; and truly I begin to think the man 
 is sincere. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. You're in the right, Dorinda ; pride 
 is the life of a woman, and flattery is our daily 
 bread ; and .she's a fool that won't believe a man 
 there, as much as she that believes him- in anything 
 else. But I'll lay you a guinea that I had finer 
 things said to me than you had. 
 
 Dor. Done ! What did your fellow say to ye .' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. My fellow took the picture of Venus 
 for mine. 
 
 Dor. But my lover took me for Venus herself. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Common cant ! Had my spark 
 called me a Venus directly, I should have believed 
 him a footman in good earnest. 
 
 Dor. But my lover was upon his knees to me. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. And mine was upon his tiptoes to me. 
 
 Dor. Mine vowed to die for me. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Mine swore to die with me. 
 
 Dor. Mine spoke the softest moving things. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Mine had his moving things too. 
 
 Dor. Mine kissed my hand ten thousand times. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Mine has all that pleasure to come. 
 
 Dor. Mine offered marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. O Lard ! d'ye call that a moving 
 thing? 
 
 Dor. The sharpest arrow in his quiver, my dear 
 sister ! Why, my ten thousand pounds may lie 
 brooding here this seven years, and hatch nothing 
 at last but some ill-natured clown like yours I 
 Whereas, if I marry my lord Aimwell, there will 
 be title, place, and precedence, the Park, the play, 
 and the drawing-room, splendour, equipage, noise, 
 and flambeaux. — Hen, my lady Aimwell's servants 
 there ! — Lights, lights to the stairs ! — My lady 
 AimwelVs coach put forward! — Stand by, make 
 room for her ladyship ! — Are not these things 
 moving .' — What ! melancholy of a sudden .' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Happy, happy sister ! your angel has 
 been watchful for your happiness, whilst mine has 
 slept regardless of his charge. Long smiling years 
 of circhng joys for you, but not one hour for me ! 
 
 [ Weeps. 
 
 Dor. Come, my dear, we'll talk of something 
 else. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. O Dorinda ! I own myself a woman, 
 full of my sex, a gentlg, generous soul, easy and 
 yielding to soft desires ; a spacious heart, where 
 love and all his train might lodge. And must the 
 fair apartment of my breast be made a stable for a 
 brute to lie in ? 
 
 Dor. Meaning your husband, I sn}vpose ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Husband 1 no ; even husband is too 
 soft a name for him. — But, come, I expect my 
 brother here to-night or to-morrow ; he was abroad 
 when my father married me ; perhaps he'll find a 
 way to make me easy. 
 
 Dor. Will you promise not to make yoursel' 
 easy in the mean time with my lord's friend ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. You mistake me," sister. It happens 
 with us as among the men, the greatest talkers are 
 the greatest cowards ; and there's a reason for it ; 
 those spirits evaporate in prattle, which might do 
 more mischief if they took another course. — 
 Though, to confess the truth, I do love that fellow ; 
 — and if I met him dressed as he should be, and I 
 undressed as I should be— look'ee, sister, I have 
 no supernatural gifts — I can't swear I could resist 
 the temptation ; though I can safely promise to 
 avoid it ; and that's as much as the best of us can 
 do. IBxeum. 
 
1 GOO 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Hoom in Boniface's Inn. 
 Enter AiMwHLL and Archkr laughing. 
 
 Arch. And the awkward kindness of the good 
 motherly old gentlewoman — 
 
 Aim. And the coming easiness of the young one 
 — 'Sdeath, 'tis pity to deceive her ! 
 
 Arch. Nay, if you adhere to those principles, 
 stop where you are. 
 
 Aim. I can't stop ; for I love her to distraction. 
 
 Arch. 'Sdeath, if yon love her a hair's breadth 
 beyond discretion, you must go no farther. 
 
 Aim. Well, well, anything to deliver us from 
 sauntering away our idle evenings at White's, 
 Tom's, or Will's, and be stinted to bear looking at 
 our old acquaintance, the cards ; because our impo- 
 tent pockets can't afford us a guinea for the merce- 
 nary drabs. 
 
 Arch. Or be obliged to some purse-proud cox- 
 comb for a scandalous bottle, where we must not 
 pretend to our share of the discourse, because we 
 can't pay our club o'th' reckoning. — Damn it, I 
 had rather spunge upon Morris, and sup upon a 
 dish of bohea scored behind the door ! 
 
 Aim. And there expose our want of sense by 
 tEtlking criticisms, as we should our want of money 
 by railing at the government. 
 
 Arch. Or be obliged to sneak into the side-box, 
 and between both houses steal two acts of a play, 
 and because we han't money to see the other three, 
 we come away discontented, and damn the whole 
 five. 
 
 Aim. And ten thousand such rascally tricks — 
 had we outlived our fortunes among our acquaint- 
 ance. — But now — 
 
 Arch. Ay, now is the time to prevent all this : — 
 strike while the iron is hot. — This priest is the 
 luckiest part of our adventure ; he shall marry you, 
 and pimp for me. 
 
 Aim. But I should not like a woman that can be 
 so fond of a Frenchman. 
 
 Arch. Alas, sir ! Necessity has no law. The 
 lady may be in distre.ss ; perhaps she has a con- 
 founded husband, and her revenge may carry her 
 farther than her love. Egad, I have so good an 
 opinion of her, and of myself, that I begin to fancy 
 strange things ; and we must say this for the 
 honour of our women, and indeed of ourselves, that 
 they do stick to their men as they do to their 
 Magna Charta. If the plot lies as I suspect, I 
 must put on the gentleman. — But here comes the 
 doctor — I shall be ready. lExit. 
 
 Enter FoiaAlm. 
 
 Foi. Siiuve you, noble friend. 
 
 Aim. O sir, you^ servant ! Pray, doctor, may 
 1 crave your name } 
 
 Foi. Fat naam is upon me ? My naam is 
 Foi^ard, joy. 
 
 Jim. Foigard ! a very good name for a clergyman. 
 Fray, doctor Foigard, were you ever in Ireland? 
 
 Foi. Ireland ! no, joy. Fat sort of plaace is dat 
 saam Ireland ? Dey say de people are catched 
 di;re when dey are young. 
 
 Aim. And some of 'em when they re old ; — as 
 for example.— [TaAes Foigard by the shoulder.} 
 Sir, I arrest yc(u as a traitor against the govern- 
 ment ; you're a subject of England, and this morn- 
 ing showed me a commission, by which you served 
 
 as chaplain in the French army. This is death by 
 our lavr, and your reverence must hang for't. 
 
 Foi. Upon my shoul, noble friend, dis is strange 
 news you tell me ! Fader Foigard a subject of Eng- 
 land ! de son of a burgomaster of Brussels, a 
 subject of England ! ubooboo — 
 
 Aim. The son of a bog-trotter in Ireland ! Sir, 
 your tongue will condemn you before any bench in 
 the kingdom. 
 
 Foi. And is my tongue all your evidensh, joy ? 
 
 Aim. That's enough. 
 
 Foi. No, no, joy, for I vil never spake English 
 no more. 
 
 Aim. Sir, I have othejr evidence ^Here, Martin ! 
 
 Ke-enter ArciIer. 
 
 You know this fellow ? 
 
 Arch. [Inabrogue.'] Saave you, my dear cussen, 
 how does your health ? 
 
 Foi. [Aside.'] Ah ! upon my shoul dere is my 
 countryman, and his brogue will hang mine, — [To 
 Archer.] Mynheer, Ich wet neat watt hey zacht, 
 Icic universlon ewe neat, sacramant ! 
 
 Aim. Altering your language won't do, sir, this 
 fellow knows your person, and will swear to youi 
 face. 
 
 Foi. Faash ! fey, is dere a brogue upon my faash 
 too.' 
 
 Arch. Upon my soulvation dere ish, joy ! — But 
 cussen Mackshane; vil you not put a remembrance 
 upon me ? 
 
 Poi. Mackshane I by St. Paatrick, dat ish naame 
 shure enough ! [Aside. 
 
 Aim. I fancy. Archer, you have it. 
 
 {_A€ide to Archer. 
 
 Foi. The devil hang you, joy ! by fat acquaint- 
 ance are you my cussen ' 
 
 Arch. Oh, the devil hang yourshelf, joy ! you 
 know we were little boys togeder upon de school, 
 and your foster- moder's son was married upon my 
 nurse's chister, joy, and so we are Irish cussens. 
 
 Foi. De devil taake de relation ! vel, joy, and 
 fat school was it .' 
 
 Arch. I tinks it vas — aay, — 'twas Tipperary. 
 
 Foi. No, no, joy ; it vas Kilkenny. 
 
 Aim. That's enough for us — self-confession, — 
 come, sir, we must deliver you into the hands of 
 the next magistrate. 
 
 Arch. He sends you to jail, you're tried next 
 assizes, and away you go swing into purgatory. 
 
 Foi, And is it so wid you, cussen T 
 
 Arch. It vil be sho wid y6u, cussen, if you don't 
 immediately confess the secret between you and 
 Mrs. Gipsy. Look'ee, sir, the gallows or the 
 secret, take your choice. 
 { Foi. The gallows ! upon my shoul I hate that 
 s lam gallow, for it is a diseash dat is fatal to our 
 fimily. Vel, den, dere is nothing, shentlemens, 
 I utMrs. ShuUen would spaak wid the count in her 
 (hamberat midnight, and dere is no haarm, joy, 
 for I am to conduct the count to the plash, myshelf. 
 
 Arch. As I guessed. — Have you communicated 
 the matter to the count? 
 
 Foi. I have not sheen him since. 
 
 Arch. Right again ! Why then, doctor— you 
 shall conduct me to the lady instead of the count. 
 
 Foi. Fat, my cussen to the lady ! upon my 
 shoul, gra, dat is too much upon the brogue. 
 
 Arch. Come, come, doctor ; consider we have 
 got a rope about «Qur neck, and if you offer to 
 
THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 GOl 
 
 squeak, we'll stop your windpipe, most certainly ; 
 we shall have another job ifor you iu a day or two, 
 1 hope. 
 
 Aim. Here's company coming this way, let|s 
 into my chamber, and there concert our affair 
 farther. 
 
 Arch. Come, my dear cussen, come along, 
 
 IMxeunt. 
 
 Enter Bonifacb, Hounslow, and Bagshot, at one door, 
 Otbbbt at the opposite. 
 
 Gib. Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our 
 enterprise. 
 
 Houn. Dark as hell. 
 
 Bag. And blows like the devil ; oar landlord 
 here has showed us the window where we must 
 break in, and tells us the plate stands in the wain- 
 scot cupboard in the parlour. 
 
 Bon. Ay, ay, Mr. Bagshot, 9s the saying is, 
 knives and forks, and cups and cans and tumblers 
 and tankards. There's one tankard, as the saying 
 is, that's near upon as big as me, it was a present 
 to the squire from his godmother, and snpeils of 
 nutmeg and toast like an East-India ship. 
 
 Houn. Tiien you say we must divide at the stair- 
 head .' 
 
 Bon. Yes, Mr. Honnslow, as the saying is. At 
 one end of that gallery lies my lady Bountiful 
 and her daughter, and at the other Mrs. Sullen. As 
 for the squire — ■ 
 
 Gib. He's safe enough, I have fairly entered 
 him, and he's more than half seas over already. 
 
 But such a parcel of scoundrels are got about him 
 now, that, egad, I was ashamed to be seen in their 
 company, 
 
 Bon. 'Tis now twelve, as the saying is — gentle, 
 men, you must set oqt at one. 
 
 Gib. Hounslow, do you and Bagshot see our 
 arms fixed, and I'll come to you presently. 
 
 Houn. Bag. We wi;i. iExeunt. 
 
 Gib. Well, my dear Bonny, you assure me that 
 Scrub is a coward ? 
 
 Bon. A chicken, as the saying is. You'll have 
 no creature' to deal with but the ladies. 
 
 Gib. And I can assure you, friend, there's a great 
 deal of address and good manners in robbing a lady ; 
 I am the most a gentleman that way that ever 
 travelled tjie road. — 'But, my dear Bonny, this 
 prize will be a galleon, a Vigo business. — I war- 
 rant you we shall bring off three or four thousand 
 pound. 
 
 Bon. In plate, jewels, and money, as the sayiag 
 is, you may. 
 
 Gib. Why then, Tyburn, I defy thee ! I'll get 
 up to town, sell off my horse and arms, buy myself 
 some pretty employrnent in the household, and Ije 
 as snug and as honest as any courtier of 'em all. 
 
 Bon. And what think you then of my daughter 
 Cherry for a wife .'' 
 
 Gib. Look'ee, my dear Bonny — Cherry is the 
 Goddess I adore, as the song goes ; but it is a 
 maxim, that man and wife should never have it in 
 their power to hang one another ; for if they should, 
 the Lord have mercy on 'em both ! iExmnt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in BoSiifacVs Inn. 
 Knocking without, enter Bon[Facb. 
 
 Bon. Coming ! coming ! — A coach and six 
 foaming horses at this time o'night ! some great 
 man, as the saying is, for he scorns to travel with 
 other people. 
 
 Enter Sir Charlbs Frebman. 
 
 Sir Chas. What, fellow ! a public house, and 
 abed when other people sleep .' 
 
 Bon. Sir, 1 an't abed, as the saying is. 
 
 Sir Chas. Is Mr. Sullen's family abed, think'ee ? 
 
 Bon. All but the squire himself, sir, as the say- 
 ing is, he's in the house. 
 
 Sir Chas. What company has he ? 
 
 Bon. Why, sir, there's the constable, Mr. Gage 
 the exciseman, the hunch-backed barber, and two 
 or three other gentlemen. 
 
 Sir Chas. X find my sister's letters gave me the 
 true picture of her spouse. {.Aside. 
 
 Enter Squire Sullen, drunk. 
 
 Bon. Sir, here's the squire. 
 
 Squire Sul. The puppies left me asleep — Sir ! 
 
 Sir Chas. Well, sir. 
 
 Squire Sul. Sir, I am an unfortunate man — I 
 have three thousand pound a year, and I can't get 
 a man to drink a cup of ale with me. 
 
 Sir Chas. That's very hard. 
 
 Squire Sul. Ay, sir ; and unless you have pity 
 
 upon me, and smoke one pipe with ttie, I must e'en 
 go home to ray wife, and, I had rather go to the 
 devil by half. 
 
 Sir Chas. But I presume, sir, you won't see 
 your wife to-night, she'll be gone to bed. You 
 don't use to lie with your wife in that; j)ickle .' 
 
 Squire Sul. What ! not lie with my wife ! why, 
 sir, do you take me for an atheist or a rake ? 
 
 Sir Chas. If you hate her, sir,' I think you had 
 better lie from her. ^ 
 
 Squire Sul. I think so too, friend. But I'm a\ 
 justice of peace, and must do nothing against the 
 law. 
 
 Sir Chas. Law ! as I take it, Mr. Justice, no- 
 body observes law for law's sake, only for the good 
 of those lor whom it was made. 
 
 Squire Sul. But, if the law orders me to send 
 you to jail, you must lie there, my friend. 
 
 Sir Chas. Not unless I commit a crime to de- 
 serve it. 
 
 Squire Sul. A crime ! 00ns, an't I married ? 
 
 Sir Chas. Nay, sir, if you call marriage a crime, 
 you must disown it for a law. 
 
 Squire Sul. Eh ! I must be acquainted with 
 you, sir. — But, sir, I should be very glad to know 
 the truth of this matter. 
 
 Sir Chas. Truth, sir, is a profound sea, and few 
 there be that dare wade deep enough to find out 
 the bottom ou't. Besides, sir, I'm afraid the line 
 of your understanding mayn't be long enough. 
 
 Squire Sul. Look'ee, sir, I have nothing tu ea\ 
 
6C2 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 to your sea of truth, but, if a ^ood parcel of land 
 can entitle a man to a little truth, I have as much 
 as any he in the country. 
 
 Bon. I never heard your worship, as the saying 
 is, talk so much before. 
 
 Squire Sul. Because I never met with a man 
 that I liked before. 
 
 Bon. Pray, sir, as the saying is, let me ask you 
 one question : are not man and wife one flesh .' 
 
 Sir Chaa. You and your wife, Mr. Guts, may he 
 one flesh, because ye are nothing else ; but rational 
 creatures have minds that must be united. 
 
 Squire Sul. Minds ! 
 
 Sir Chas. Ay, minds, sir ; don't you think that 
 the mind takes place of the body? 
 
 Sqitire Sul. In some people. 
 
 Sir Chas. Then the interest of the master must 
 be consulted before that of his servant. 
 
 Squire Sul. Sir, you shall dine with me to-mor- 
 row ! — Oons, I always thought that we were natu- 
 rally one. 
 
 Sir Chas. Sir, I know that my two hands are 
 naturally one, because they love one another, kiss 
 one another, help one another in all the actions of 
 life ; but I could not say so much if they were 
 always at cuBs. 
 
 Squire Sul. Then 'tis plain that we are two. 
 
 Sir Chas. Why don't you part with her, sir ? 
 
 Squire Sul. Will you take her, sir? 
 
 Sir Chas. With all my heart. 
 
 Squire Sul. You shall have her to-morrow 
 morning, and a venison-pasty into the bargain. 
 
 Sir Chas. You'll let me have her fortune too ? 
 ; Squire Sul. Fortune ! why, sir, I have no quar- 
 1 rel at her fortune : I only hate the woman, sir, and 
 none but the woman shall go. 
 
 Sir Chas. But her fortune, sir — 
 
 Squire Sul. Can you play at whisk, sir ? 
 
 Sir Chas. No, truly, sir. 
 
 Squire Sul. Nor at all-fours ? 
 
 Sir Chas. Neither. 
 
 Squire Sul. [Aside.'] Oons ! where was this 
 man bred ? — [Aloud.} Burn me, sir ! I can't go 
 home, 'tis but two a clock. 
 
 Sir Chas. For half an hour, sir, if you please- 
 but you must consider 'tis late. 
 
 Squire Sul. Late ! that's the reason I can't go 
 to bed Come, sir 1 lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE U.— The Lobby before Aimwell's 
 Chamber in the same. 
 
 Enter Cherry, runs across the stage, and knocks at the 
 chamber-door. Enter Aimwell in his nightcap and 
 goutn. 
 
 Aim. What's the matter ? you tremble, child, 
 you're frighted. 
 
 Cher. No wonder, sir — But, in short, sir, this 
 very minute a gang of rogues are gone to rob my 
 lady Bountiful's house. 
 
 Aim. How! 
 
 Cher. I dogged 'em to the very door, and left 
 "em breaking in. 
 
 Aim. Have you alarmed anybody else with the 
 lews ? 
 
 Cher. No, no, sir, I wanted to have discovered 
 the whole plot, and twenty other things, to your 
 man Martin ; but I have searched the whole house, 
 md can't find him : where is he ? 
 
 Aim. No matter, child; will you guide me imme- 
 diately to the house ? 
 
 Cher. With all my heart, sir ; my lady Boun- 
 tiful is my godmother, and 1 love Mrs. Dorinda so 
 well — 
 
 Aim. Dorinda ! the name inspires me, the glory 
 and the danger shall be all my own. — Come, my 
 life, let me but get my sword. lExemit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 -A Bedchamber in Lady Boun- 
 tiful's House. 
 
 Mrs. BuLiiEM and Dorinda discovered. 
 Dor. 'Tis very late, sister, no news of your spouse 
 yet? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. No, I'm condemned to be alone till 
 towards four, and then perhaps I may be executed 
 with his company. 
 
 Dor. Well, my dear, I'll leave you to your rpst; 
 you'll go directly to bed, I suppose ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I don't know what to do.— ^Heigh-ho! 
 Dor. That's a desiring sigh, sister. 
 Mrs. Sul. This is a languishing hour, sister. 
 Dor. And might prove a critical minute if the 
 pretty fellow were here. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Here 1 what, in my bedchamber at 
 two o'clock o'th' morning, I undressed, the family 
 asleep, my hated husband abroad, and my lovely 
 fellow at my feet ! — O 'gad, sister ! 
 
 Dor. Thoughts are free, sister, and them I allow 
 you. — So, my dear, good night. 
 
 Mrs. SuL A good rest to my dear Dorinda ! — 
 [jB«« Dorinda.] Thoughts free! are they so? 
 Why, then, suppose him here, dressed like a youth- 
 ful, gay, and burning bridegroom, 
 
 Enter Archer unpereeivedfrom a closet behind. 
 with tongue enchanting, eyes bewitching, knees 
 imploring. — [ turns, and discovers Abch er kneel- 
 ing.'] — Ah ! — [Shrieks, and runs to the other side 
 of the stage.] Have my thoughts raised a spirit ? 
 — ^Wbat are you, sir, a man or a devil ? 
 
 Arch. A man, a man, madam. [Rising. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. How shall I be sure of it ? 
 Arch. Madam I'll give you demonstration this 
 minute. ITakes her hand. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. 'What, sir ! do you intend to be rude? 
 Arch. Yes, madam, if you please. 
 Mrs. Sul. In the name of wonder, whence came 
 ye? 
 
 Arch. From the skies, madam — I'm a Jupiter 
 in love, and you shall be my Alcmena. 
 Mrs. Sul. How came you in ? 
 Arch. 1 flew in at the window, madam ; your 
 cousin Cupid lent me his wings, and your sister 
 Venus opened the casement. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I'm struck dumb with admiration I 
 Arch. And I -with wonder ! 
 
 [looks passionate!!/ at her. 
 Mrs. Sul. What will become of me ? 
 Arch. How beautiful she looks!— The teeming 
 jolly Spring smiles in her blooming face, and, when 
 she was conceived, her mother smelt to roses, looked 
 on lilies — 
 Lilies unfold their white, their fragrant charms. 
 When the warm sun thus darts into their arms. 
 
 [Runs to her. 
 Mrs. Sul. Ah ! [Shrieks. 
 
 Arch. Oons, madam, what d'ye mean ? you'll 
 raise the house. 
 
SCKNE III. 
 
 THE BEAUX-STllATAGEM. 
 
 CG3 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Sir, I'll wake the dead before I bear 
 this ! —What ! approach me with the freedoms of 
 a keeper ! I*m glad on't, your impudence has 
 cured me. 
 
 Arch. If- this be impudence, — [Kneels"} I leave 
 to your partial self: no panting pilgrim, after a 
 tediou.Sj painful voyage, e'er bowed before his saint 
 with more devotion. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. lAside.J Now, now, I'm ruined if 
 he kneels ! — [Aloud.] Rise, thou prostrate en- 
 gineer, not all thy undermining skill shall reach 
 my heart. — Rise, and know I am a woman without 
 my sex ; I can love to all the tenderness of wishes, 
 sighs, and tears — but go no farther. — Still, to con- 
 vince you that I'm more than woman, I can speak 
 my frailty, confess my weakness even for you — 
 but — 
 
 Arch. For me ! iGoing to lay hold on ker. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Hold, sir ! build not upon that ; for 
 my most mortal hatred follows if you disobey what 
 I command you now. — Leave me this minute, — 
 [Aside.'} If he denies I'm lost. 
 
 Arch. Then you'll promise — 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Anything another time. 
 
 Arch. When shall I come .' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. To-morrow, when you will. 
 
 Arch. Your lips must seal the promise. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Psha 1 
 
 Arch. They must ! they must ! — [Kisses her.] 
 Raptures and paradise ! — And why not now, my 
 angel ? the time, the place, silence, and secrecy, 
 all conspire* — And the now conscious stars have 
 pre-ordained this moment for my happiness. 
 
 [Takes her in his arms. 
 
 Mrs. Sul, You will not ! cannot sure ! 
 
 Arch. If the sun rides fast, and disappoints not 
 mortals of to-morrow's dawn, this night shall 
 crown my joys. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. My sex's pride assist me ! 
 ' Arch. My sex's strength help me ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. You shall kill me first ! 
 
 Arch. I'll die with you. iCarrying her off, 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Thieves ! thieves ! murder ! — 
 
 Enter Scrub in his breechesy and one shoe. 
 
 Scrub. Thieves 1 thieves ! murder ! popery ! 
 
 Arch. Ha ! the very timorous stag will kill in 
 rutting time. [Draws, and offers to stab Scrub. 
 
 Scrub. [Kneeling.^ O pray, sir, spare all I have, 
 and take my life ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. [Holding Archer's hand.} What 
 does the fellow mean .' 
 
 Scrub. O madam, down upon your knees, your 
 marrowbones ! — he's one of 'em. 
 
 Arch. Of whom ? 
 
 Scrub. One of the rogues — I beg your pardon, 
 one of the honest gentlemen that just now are broke 
 into the house. 
 
 Arch. How ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I hope you did not come to rob me ? 
 
 Arch. Indeed 1 did, madam, but 1 would have 
 taken nothing but what you might ha' spared ; but 
 your crying thieves has waked this dreaming fool, 
 and so he takes 'em for granted. 
 
 Scrub. Granted ! 'tis granted, sir, take all we 
 have. 
 
 3Trs. Sul. The fellow looks as if he were broke 
 out of Bedlam. 
 Scrub. Cons, madam, they're broke into the 
 
 house with fire and sword ! I saw them, heard 
 them, they'll be here this minute. 
 
 Arch. What, thieves ! 
 
 Sciiib. Under favour, sir, I think so. 
 
 Mi-s. Sill. What shall we do, sir ? 
 
 Arch. Madam, 1 wish your ladyship a good 
 night, 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Will you leave me ? 
 
 Arch. Leave you ! Lord, madam, did not yott 
 command me to be gone just now, upon pain of 
 your immortal hatred.' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Nay, but pray, sir— 
 
 [Takes hold of him. 
 
 Arch. Ha ! ha ! ha ! now comes my turn to be 
 ravished. — You see now, madam, you must use 
 men one way or other ; but take this by the way, 
 good madam, that none but a fool will give you the 
 benefit of his courage, unless you'll take his love 
 along with it, — How are they armed, friend .' 
 
 Scrub. With sword and pistol, sir. 
 
 Arch. Hush ! — I see a dark lantern coming 
 through the gallery. — Madam, be assured I will 
 protect you, or lose my life. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Your life 1 no, sir, they can rob me 
 of nothing that I value half so much ; therefore 
 now, sir, let me entreat you to be gone. 
 
 Arch. No, madam, I'll consult my own safety 
 for the sake of yours j I'll work by stratagem. 
 Have you courage enough to stand the appearance 
 of 'em I 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Yes, yes, since I have 'scaped your 
 hands, I can face anything. 
 
 Arch. Come hither, brother Scrub ! don't you 
 know me ? 
 
 Scrub. Eh, my dear brother, let me kiss thee. 
 
 [Kisses Archer. 
 
 Arch. This way — here — 
 
 [Archer and S€bub hide behind the bed. 
 
 Enter Gibbet, with a dark lantern in one hami, and a 
 pistol in the other. 
 
 Gib. Ay, ay, this is the chamber, and the lady 
 alone. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Who are you, sir ? what would you 
 have ? d'ye come to rob me ? 
 
 Gib. Rob you ! alack a day, madam, I'm only 
 a younger brother, madam ; and so, madam, if you 
 make a noise, I'll shoot you through the head; 
 but don't be afraid, madam. — [Lat/ing his lantern 
 and pistol u/ion the table.] These rings, madam ; 
 don't be concerned, madam, I have a profound 
 respect for you, madam ; your keys, madam ; don't 
 be frighted, madam, I'm the most of a gentleman. 
 — [Searching her pockets.] This necklace, madam j 
 I never was rude to a lady ; — I have a veneration — 
 for this necklace — 
 
 [Here Archer having come round, and seized the 
 pistol, takes Gibbet by the collar, trips up his heels, 
 and claps the pistol to his breast. 
 
 Arch. Hold, profane villain, and take the reward 
 of thy sacrilege ! 
 
 Gib. Oh ! pray, sir, don't kill me ; I an't pre- 
 pared. 
 
 Arch. How many is there of 'em, Scrub ? 
 
 Scrub. Five-and-forty, sir. 
 
 Arch. Then I must kill the villain, to have him 
 out of the way. 
 
 Gib. Hold, hold, sir, we are but three upon my 
 honour. 
 
 Arch. Scrub, will you undertake to secure him ? 
 
 
fiC4 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 ACT \. 
 
 Sorvb. Not I, sir; kill him, kill him ! 
 
 Arch. Run to Gipsy's chamber, there you'll find 
 the doctor ; bring him hither presently. — [tJxil 
 SonuB, running.2 Come, rogue, if you have a 
 short prayer, say it, 
 
 Gib. Sir, I have no prayer at all; the government 
 has provided a cha|>lain to say prayers for us on 
 these occasions. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Pray, sir, don't kill him : you fright 
 me as much as him. 
 
 Arch. The dug shall die, madam, for being the 
 occasion of my disappointment. — Sirrah, this 
 moment is yxiur last. 
 
 Gib. Sir, I'll give you two hundred pounds to 
 spare my life. 
 
 Arch. Have you no more, rascal ? 
 
 Gib. Yes, sir, I can command four hundred, 
 i but I must reserve two of 'em to save my life at the 
 sessions. 
 
 Re-enter Scrub teith Foigard. 
 
 Arch. Here, doctor, I suppose Scrub and you 
 between you may manage him. Lay hold of him, 
 doctor^ "I^FoiaARD lays hold of Gibbet. 
 
 Gib. Whati turned over to the priest already ! 
 — Look'ee, doctor, you come before your time ; 1 
 an't condemned yet, I thank ye. 
 
 Foi. Come, my dear joy, I vil secure your body 
 and your shoul too ; I vil make you a good catholic, 
 and give you an absolution. 
 
 Gib. Absolution ! can you procure me a pardon, 
 doctor .' 
 
 Foi. No, joy. 
 
 Gib. Then you and your absolution may go to 
 the devil ! 
 
 Arch. Convey him into the cellar, there bind 
 him : — take the pistol, and if he offers to resist, 
 shoot him through the head — and come back to us 
 with all the speed you can. 
 
 Sciub, Ay, ay, come, doclor, do you hold him 
 fast, and I'll guard him. 
 
 \_Exit FoioAKD man GiBDKT, &cnvB fotlowing. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. But how came the doctor — 
 
 Arch. In short, madam — [Shrieking without.] 
 'Sdeath ! the rogues are at work with the other 
 ladies — I'm vexed I parted with the pistol ; but I 
 must fly to their assistance. — Will you stay here, 
 madam, or venture yourself with me ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. [Taking him bi/ the arm.] Oh, with 
 you, dear sir, with you. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Another Bedchamber in the same. 
 
 Enter IIounslow and Baoshot, with drawn svjords, 
 haling in Lady Bountiful and Dorinda. 
 
 lloun Come, come, your jewels, mistress ! 
 Bag. Your keys, your keys, old gentlewoman ! 
 
 Enter Aimwkll and Chkrrv. 
 
 Aim. Turn this way, villains I I durs't engage 
 an army in such a cause. Ul' engages them both. 
 
 Dor. O madam, had 1 but a sword to help the 
 brave man ! 
 
 Laily Boun. There's three or four hanging up 
 in the hall ; but they won't draw. I'll go fetch one 
 liovvever, lExit. 
 
 Enter Archer and Mrs. Sullen. 
 
 Arch. Hold, hold, my lord ! every man his bird, 
 pray. 
 [I'ftey engage man to man, Hounslow and Baqshot are 
 thrown and disarmed. 
 
 Cher. [Aside.] What ! the rogues taken ! then 
 they'll impeach my father ; I must give him timely 
 notice. [Hunt out. 
 
 Arch. Shall we kill the rogues ? 
 
 Aim. No, no, we'll bind them. 
 
 Arch. Ay, ay. — [To Mrs. Sullkn.] Here, 
 madam, lend me your garter. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. [Aside.] The devil's in this fellow I 
 he fights, loves, and banters, all in a breath. — 
 [Alnud.] Here's a cord that the rogues brought 
 with 'em, I suppose. 
 
 Arch. Right, right, the rogue's destiny, a rope 
 to hang himself. — Come, my lord — this is but a 
 scandalous sort of an office, [Bindimj the Highway- 
 men together,] if our adventures should end in this 
 sort of hangman-work ; but 1 hope there is some- 
 thing in prospect, that — 
 
 Enter Scrub. 
 Well, Scrub, have you secured your Tartar ? 
 
 Scrub. Yes, sir, I left the priest aod him dis- 
 puting about religion. 
 
 Aim. And pray carry these gentlemen to reap 
 the benefit of the controversy. 
 
 [Exit Scrub with the Highwaymen bounrl. 
 
 Mrs, Sul. Pray, sister, how came my lord here } 
 
 Dor. And pray how came the gentleman here .' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I'll tell you the greatest piece of 
 villany [They tatii in dumb show. 
 
 Aim. T fancy. Archer, you have been more suc- 
 cessful in your adventures than the housebreakers. 
 
 Atch. No matter for my adventure, yours is the 
 principal. — Press her this minute to marry you — 
 now while she's hurried between the palpitation of 
 her fear and the joy of her deliverance, now while 
 the tide of her spirits are at high-flood — throw , 
 yourself at her feet, speak some romantic nonsense ^ 
 or other — address her, like Alexander, in the 
 height of his victory, confound her senses, bear 
 down her reason, and away with her. — The priest 
 is now in the cellar, and dare not refuse to do the 
 work. 
 
 Re-enter Lady BouNxiruL. 
 
 Aim. But how shall I get off without being 
 observed ? 
 
 Arch. You a lover, and not find a way to get 
 off ! — Let me see — 
 
 Aim. You bleed, Archer. 
 
 Arch. 'Sdeath, I'm glad on't; this wound will 
 do the business. I'll amuse the old lady and Mrs. 
 Sullen about dressing my wound, while you carry 
 off' Dorinda. 
 
 Lady Boun. Gentlemen, could we understand 
 how you would be gratified for the services — 
 
 Arch. Come, come, my lady, this is no time for 
 compliments ; I'm wounded, madam. 
 
 Lady Boun. Mrs. Sul. How 1 wounded ! 
 
 Dor. I hope, sir, you have received no hurt? 
 
 Aim. None but what you may cure — 
 
 [Makes love in ditmb shoiv. 
 
 Lady Bonn. Let me see your arm, sir — 1 must 
 have some powder-sugar to stop the blood. — me! 
 anu^ly gash, upon my word, sir, you mustgo into bed. 
 
 Arch. Ay, my lady, a bed would do very well. — j 
 [To Mrs. Sullen.] Madam, will you do me the 
 favour to conduct me to a chamber.' 
 
THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 (iur> 
 
 Lofly Boun. Do, do, daughter — while I get the 
 Knt and the probe and the plaster ready. 
 
 [Runs out one way, Aimwkll carries o^Dobinda 
 another. 
 
 Arch. Come, madam, why don't you obey your 
 mother's commands ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. How can you, after what is passed, 
 have the confidence to ask me ? 
 
 Arch. And if you go to that, how can'you, after 
 what is passed, have the confidence to deny me ? 
 Was not this blood shed in your defence, and my 
 Hfe exposed for your protection ? Look'ee, madam, 
 I'm none of your romantic fools, that fight giants 
 
 Sand monsters for nothing ; my valour is downright 
 Swiss; I'm a soldier of fortune, and must be paid. 
 Mrs. Sul. 'Tis ungenerous in you, sir, to upbraid 
 me with your services ! 
 
 Arch. 'Tis ungenerous in you, madam, not to 
 reward 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Howl at the expense of my honour? 
 Arch. Honour ! can honour consist with ingra- 
 titude ? If you would deal like a woman of honour, 
 do like a man of honour. D'ye think I would deny 
 you in such a case ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Madam, my lady ordered me to tell you, 
 that your brother is below at the gate. \_Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. My brother ! Heavens be praised ! — 
 Sir, he shall thank you for yoiir services, he has it 
 in his power. 
 
 Arch. Who is your brother, madam .' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Sir Charles Freeman. — You'll excuse 
 me, sir ; I must go and receive him. {_Exit. 
 
 Arch. Sir Charles Freeman ! 'sdeath and hell ! 
 my old acquaintance. Now unless Aimwell has 
 made good use of his time, all our fair machine 
 goes souse into the sea like the Eddystone. [.Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. — The Gallery in the same. 
 Enter Aimwell and Dorinda. 
 Dor. WeUi well, my lord, you have conquered ; 
 your late generous action will, I hope, plead for 
 my easy yielding ; though I must own, your lord- 
 ship had a friend in the fort before. 
 
 Aim. The sweets of Hybla dwell upon her tongue! 
 — Here, doctor — 
 
 Enter Foigard, with a book in his hand, 
 
 Foi. Are you prepared boat ? 
 
 Dor. I'm ready. But first, my lord, one word 
 —I have a frightful example of a hasty marriage in 
 my own family ; when I reflect upon't it shocks 
 me. Pray, my lord, consider a little — 
 
 Aim. Consider ! do you doubt my honour or my 
 love? 
 
 Dor. Neither : I do believe you equally just as 
 brave : and were your whole sex drawn out for me 
 to choose, I should not cast a look upon the multi- 
 tude if you were absent. But, my lord, I'm a 
 v/oman ; colours, concealments may hide a thousand 
 faults in me, therefore know me better first; I 
 hardly dare affirm I know myself in anything except 
 my love. 
 
 Aim. [Aside.'] Such goodness who could injure ! 
 I find myself unequal to the task of villain ; she 
 has gained my soul, and made it honest like her 
 
 own. — I cannot, cannot hurt her. — [Aloud.] Doc- 
 tor, retire. — [SMt Foigard.] Madam, behold your 
 lover and your proselyte, and judge of my passion 
 by my conversion ! — I'm all a lie, nor dare I give 
 a fiction to your arms ; I'm all counterfeit, except 
 my passion. 
 
 Dor. Forbid it. Heaven ! a counterfeit 1 
 
 Aim. I am no lord, but a poor needy man, come 
 with a mean, a scandalous design to prey upon your 
 fortune ; but the beauties of your mind and person 
 have so won me from myself, that like a trusty 
 servant, I prefer the interest of my mistress to my 
 own. 
 
 Dor. Sure I have had the dream of some poor 
 mariner, a sleepy image of a welcome port, and 
 wake involved in storms !— Pray, sir, who are you ? 
 
 Aim. Brother to the man whose title I usurped, 
 but stranger to his honour or his fortune. 
 
 Dor. Matchless honesty ' — Once I was proud, 
 sir, of your wealth and title, but now am prouder 
 that you want it : now I can show my love was 
 justly levelled, and had no aim but love. — Doctor, 
 
 Enter Foigard at one door, Gipsy at another, who 
 whispers Dorinda. 
 
 [To Foigard.] Your pardon, sir, we shan't want 
 you now. — [To Aimwell.] Sir, you must excuse 
 me — I'll wait on you presently. [Exit with Gipsv. 
 
 Foi. Upon my shoul, now, dis is foolish. [Exit. 
 
 Aim. Gone ! and bid the priest depart ! — It has 
 an ominous look. 
 
 Enter Archer, 
 
 Arch. Courage, Tom ! — Shall I wish you joy } 
 
 Aim. No. 
 
 Arch. Oons, man, what ha' you been doing ? 
 
 Aim. O Archer ! my honesty, I fear, has ruined 
 me. 
 
 Arch. How ! 
 
 Aim. I have discovered myself. 
 
 Arch. Discovered ! and without my consent ? 
 What ! have I embarked my small remains in the 
 same bottom with yours, and you dispose of all 
 without my partnership ? 
 
 Aim. O Archer ! I own my fault. 
 
 Arch. After conviction — 'tis then too late for 
 
 pardon ^You may remember, Mr. Aimwell, that 
 
 you proposed this folly : as you begun, so end it. 
 Henceforth I'll hunt my fortune single— so fare- 
 well ! 
 
 Aim. Stay, my dear Archer, but a minute. 
 
 Arch. Stay ! what, to be despised, exposed, and 
 laughed at ! No, I would sooner change conditions 
 with the worst of the rogues we just now bound, 
 than bear one scornful smile from the proud knight 
 that once I treated as my equal. 
 
 Aim. What knight ? 
 
 Arch. Sir Charles Freeman, brother to the lady 
 that I bad almost — but no matter for that, 'tis a 
 cursed night's work, and so I leave you to make 
 the best on't. 
 
 Aim. Freeman! — One word. Archer. Still I 
 have hopes ; methought she received my confession 
 with pleasure. 
 
 Arch. 'Sdeath, who doubts it ? 
 
 Aim. She consented after to the match ; and still 
 1 dare believe she will be just. 
 
 Arch. To herself, I warrant her, as you should 
 have been. -^ -^ 
 
3C6 
 
 THB BEAUX STRATAGEM. 
 
 Aim. By all my hopes she comes, and smiling 
 comes 1 
 
 Re-enter Dorinda. 
 
 Dor. Come, my dear lord — I fly with impatience 
 to your arms — the minutes of my absence was a 
 tedious year. Where's this priest ? 
 
 Re-enter Foigard, 
 
 Arch. Oons, a brave girl ! 
 
 Dor, I suppose, my lord, this gentleman is privy 
 to our affairs ? 
 
 Arch. Yes, yes, madam, I'm to be your father. 
 
 Dor. Come, priest, do your office. 
 
 Arch. Malce haste, make haste, couple 'em any 
 way. — [Takes Aimwei-l's hand.] Come, madam, 
 I'm to give you — 
 
 Dor. My mind's altered ; I won't. 
 
 Arch. Eh !— 
 
 Aim. I'm confounded ! 
 
 Foi. Upon my shoul, and sho is myshelf. 
 
 Arch. What's the matter now, madam .' 
 
 Dor. Look'ee, sir, one generous action deserves 
 
 another This gentleman's honour obliged him to 
 
 hide nothing from me ; my justice engages me to 
 conceal nothing from him. In short, sir, you are 
 the person that you thought you counterfeited; 
 you are the true lord viscount Aimwell, and I wish 
 your lordship joy. — Now, priest, you may be gone ; 
 if my lord is pleased now with the match, let his 
 Lordship marry me in the face of the world. 
 
 Aim. Arch. What does she mean ? 
 
 Dor. Here's a witness for my truth. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Frekman and Mrs. Sullen. 
 
 Sir Chas. My dear lord Aimwell, I wish you 
 joy. 
 
 Aim. Of what? 
 
 Sir Chas. Of your honour and estate. Your 
 brother died the day before I left London ; and all 
 your friends have writ after you to Brussels ; — 
 among the rest, I did myself the honour. 
 
 Arch. Heark'ee, sir knight, don't you banter 
 now ? 
 
 Sir Chas. 'Tis truth, upon my honour. 
 
 Aim. Thanks to the pregnant stars that formed 
 tt'^ accident ' 
 
 Arch. Thanks to the womb of time that brought 
 it forth ! — away with it ! 
 
 Aim. Thanks to my guardian angel that led me 
 to the prize ! [.Taking Dorinda's hand. 
 
 Arch. And double thanks to the noble sir 
 Charles Freeman. — My lord, I wish you joy. — My 
 lady, I wish you joy. — Egad, sir Freeman, you're 
 the honestest fellow living ! — 'Sdeath, I'm grown 
 strange airy upon this matter !— My lord, how 
 
 d'ye? A word, my lord; don't you remember 
 
 something of a previous agreement, that entitles 
 me to the moiety of this lady's fortune, which I 
 think wiU amount to five thousand pounds ? 
 
 Aim. Not a penny. Archer ; you would ha' cut 
 ray throat just now, because I would not deceive 
 ibis lady. 
 
 Arch. Ay, and I'll cut your throat again, if you 
 should deceive her now. 
 
 Aim. That's what I expected ; and to end the 
 i:i!'pute, the lady's fortune is ten thousand pounds, 
 we'll divide stakes : take the ten thousand pounds 
 ur the lady. 
 
 Dor. How ! is your lordship so indifferent ? 
 
 Arch. No, no, no, madam ! his lordship knows 
 very well that I'll take the money; I leave you to 
 his lordship, and so we're both proyidpd for. 
 
 Enter Count Bgllair. 
 
 Count Bel. Mesdames el Messieurs, I am your 
 servant trice humble ! I hear you he rob here. 
 
 Aim. the ladies have been in some danger, sir. 
 
 Count Bel. And, begar, our inn be rob too I 
 
 Aim. Our inn ! by whom ? 
 
 Count Bel. By the landlord, begar ! — Garzoor 
 he has rob himself, and run away I 
 
 Arch. Robbed himself ! 
 
 Count Bel. Ay, begar, and me too of a hundre 
 pound. 
 
 Arch. A hundred pounds ? 
 
 Count Bel. Yes, that I owed him. 
 
 Aim. Our money's gone, Frank. 
 
 Arch. Rot the money ! my wench is gone. — 
 [To Count Beliair.] Savez-vous quelquechose 
 de mademoiselle Cherry ? 
 
 Enter a Countryman witJi a box and a letter. 
 
 Coun. Is there one Martin here ? 
 
 Arch. Ay, ay — who wants him ? 
 
 Coun. I have a box here, and letter for him. 
 
 [Gives the box and letter to Archer, and exit. 
 
 Arch. Ha ! ha ! ha ! what's here ? Legerde- 
 main ! — By this light, my lord, our money again I 
 — But this unfolds the riddle. — [Opening the 
 letter.'] Hum, hum, hum I — Oh, 'tis for the publia 
 good, and must be communicated to the company. 
 
 [Reads 
 Mr. Martin, 
 
 My father being afraid of an impeachment by 
 the rogues that are taken to-night, is gone off; but 
 if you can procure him a pardon, he*ll make great 
 discoveries that may be useful to the country. 
 Could J have met you instead of your master to- 
 night, I would have delivered myself into your , 
 hands, with a sum that much exceeds that in your | 
 strong-box, which I have sent you. with an assur- 
 ance to my dear Martin that I shall ever be his 
 most faithful friend till death. 
 
 CHEBRy BoNiyACK. 
 
 There's a billet-doux for you ! As for the father, 
 I think he ought to be encouraged ; and for the 
 daughter — pray, my lord, persuade your bride to 
 take her into her service instead of Gipsy. 
 
 Aim. I can assure you, madam, your deliver- 
 ance was owing to her discovery. 
 
 Dor. Your command, my lord, will do without 
 the obligation. I'U take care of her. 
 
 Sir Chas. This good company meets oppor- 
 tunely in favour of a design I liave in behalf of my 
 unfortunate sister. I intend to part her from her 
 husband — gentlemen, will yon assist me ? 
 
 Arch. Assist you ! 'sdeath, who would not 
 
 Count Bel. Assist ! garzoon, we all assist I 
 
 Enter Squire Sullen and Scrub. 
 
 Squire Sul. What's all this ? They tell me, 
 spouse, that you had like to have been robbed. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Truly, spouse, I was pretty near it, 
 had not these two gentlemen interposed. 
 
 Squire Sul. How came these gentlemen here ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul, That's his way of returning thanks, 
 you must know. 
 
 Count Bel. Garzoon, the question be apropoj 
 for all dat. 
 
SCENK V. 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 SkU 
 
 Sir Clifts. Yott promised last night, sir, that 
 you would deliver your lady to me this morning. 
 
 Squire Sul. H umph ! 
 
 Arch. Humph ! what do you mean by humph ? 
 Sir, you shall deliver her — in short, sir, we have 
 saved you and your family j and if you are not 
 civil, we'll unbind the rogues, join with 'em, and 
 set fire to your house. "What does the man mean ? 
 not part with his wife ! 
 
 Count Bel. Ay, garzoon, de man no nnderstau 
 common justice. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Hold, gentlemen, all things here 
 must move by consent, compulsion would spoil 
 us ; let Boy dear and I talk the matter over, and 
 you shall judge it between us. 
 
 Squire Sul. Let me know first who are to be 
 our judges. Pray, sir, who are you } 
 
 Sir Clias, I am sir Charles Freeman, come to 
 take away your wife. 
 
 Squire Sul. And you, good sir ? 
 
 Aim. Charles viscount Aimwell, come to take 
 away your sister. 
 
 Squire Sul. And you, pray, sir ? 
 
 Arch. Francis Archer, esquire, come — 
 
 Squire Sul. To take away my mother, I hope. 
 Gentlemen, you're heartily welcome ; I never met 
 with three more obliging people since I was born ! 
 — And now, my dear, if you please, you shall have 
 the first word. 
 
 Arch. And the last, for five pound I 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Spouse ! 
 
 Squire Sul. Rib ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. How long have we been married ? 
 
 Squire Sul. By the almanac,' fourteen months; 
 but by my account, fourteen years. 
 . Mrs. Sul. 'Tis thereabout by my reckoning. 
 
 V Count Bel. Garzoon, their account will agree. 
 Mrs. Sul. Prav, spouse, what did you marry 
 for? 
 
 Squire Sul. To get an heir to my estate. 
 
 Sir Chas. And have you succeeded ? 
 
 Squiie Sul. No. 
 
 Arch. The condition fails of his side. — Pray, 
 madam, what did you marry for ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. To support the weakness of my sex 
 by the strength of his, and to enjoy the pleasures 
 of an agreeable society. 
 
 Sir Chas. Are your expectations answered .' 
 
 Mrs. Sul. No. 
 
 Count Bel. A clear case ! a clear case ! 
 
 Sir Chas. What are the bars to your mutual 
 contentment ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. In the first place, I can't drink ale 
 with him. 
 
 Squire Sul. Nor can I drink tea with her. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I can't hunt with you. 
 
 Squire Sul. Nor can I dance with you. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. I hate cocking and racing. 
 
 Squire Sul. And I abhor ombre and piquet. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Your silence is intolerable. 
 
 Squire Sul Your prating is worse. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Have we not been a perpetual offence 
 to each other ? a gnawing vulture at the heart? 
 
 Squire Sul. A frightful goblin to the sight ? 
 
 Mrs. Sul. A porcupine to the feeling ' 
 
 Squire Sul. Perpetual wormwood to the taste ? 
 
 Airs. Sul. Is there on earth a thing we could 
 agree in .'' ' ' 
 
 Squire Sul. Yes — to part. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Withall my heart. 
 
 Squire Sul. Your hand. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. Here. 
 
 Squire Sul. These hands jomed as, these sh^ll 
 part us. — Away ! 
 
 Mrs. Sul. North. 
 , Squire Sul. South. 
 
 Mrs. Sul. East. 
 
 Squire Sul. West — far as the poles asunder. 
 
 Count Bel. Begar, the ceremony be vera pretty . 
 
 Sir Chas. Now, Mr. Sullen, there wants only 
 my sister's fortune to make us easy. 
 
 Squire Sul. Sir Charles, you love your sistei, 
 and I love her fortune ; every one to his fancy. 
 
 Arch,. Then you won't refund ? 
 
 Squire Sul. Not a stiver. 
 
 Arch. Then I find, madam, you must e'en go to 
 your prison again. 
 
 Count Bel. What is the portion ? 
 
 Sir Chas. Ten thousand pound, sir. 
 
 Count Bel. Garzoon, I'll pay it, and she shall 
 go home wid me. 
 
 Arch. Ha ! ha ! ha ! French all over. — Do you 
 know, sir, what ten thousand pound English is,' 
 
 Count Bel. No, begar, not justement. 
 
 Arch. Why, sir, 'tis a hundred thousand livres. 
 
 Count Bel. A hundre tousand livres ! A gar- 
 zoon, me canno' do't, your beauties and their 
 fortunes are both too much for me. 
 
 Arch. Then I will.' — ^This night's adventure has 
 proved strangely lucky to us all — for captain Gibbet 
 in his walk had made bold, Mr. Sullen, with your 
 study and escritoir, and had taken out all the writ- 
 ings of your estate, all the articles of marriage with 
 your lady, bills, bonds, leases, receipts to an 
 infinite value, I took 'em from him, and I deliver 
 'em to Sir Charles. 
 [Gives Sir Charles Fp.beman a parcel of 'papers and 
 parchments. 
 
 Squire Sul. How, my writings ! — my head aches 
 consumedly. — Well, gentlemen, you shall have her 
 fortune, but I can't talk. If you have a mind, sir 
 Charles, to be merry, and celebrate my sister's 
 wedding and my divorce, you may command my 
 house — but my head aches consumedly. — Scrub, 
 bring me a dram. 
 
 Arch. {To Mrs. Sullen.] Madam, there's a 
 country dance to the trifle that I sung to-day j your 
 hand, and we'll lead it up. 
 
 A Dance. 
 
 'Twould be hard to guess which of these parties is 
 the better pleased, the couple joined, or the couple 
 parted ; the one rejoicing in hopes of an untasted 
 happiness, and the other in their deliverance fl-om 
 an experienced misery. 
 
 Both happy in their several states we find. 
 Those parted by consent, and those conjoin'd. 
 Consent, if mutual, saves the lawyer's fee, 
 Consent is law enough to set you free. 
 
 iE.vcjnt omnes 
 
338 
 
 THE BEAUX-STRATAGEM. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 DESIGN'ED TO BE SPOKEN IN THE " BEACX-STBATAGEM." 
 
 If to our play your judgment can't be kind. 
 
 Let its expiring author pity find : 
 
 Survey his mournful case with melting eyes. 
 
 Nor let the bard be daran'd before be die?. 
 
 Forbear, you fair, on his last scene to frown, 
 
 But his true exit with a plaudit crown ; 
 
 Then shall the dying poet cease to fear 
 
 The dreadful knell, while your applause he hears. 
 
 At Leuctra so the conquering Theban died, 
 
 Claim'd his friends' praises, but their tears denied: 
 
 Pleased in the pangs of death he greatly thought 
 Conquest with loss of life but cheaply bought 
 The difference this, — the Greek was one would 
 
 fight, 
 As brave, though not so gay as Serjeant Kite ; 
 Ye sons of Will's, whatfs that to those whu 
 
 write ? 
 To Thebes alone the Grecian owed his bays. 
 You may the bard above the hero raise. 
 Since yours is greater than Athenian praise. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 A 
 
 WKDOK : 
 nRADBmiY, EVAKS, A^^3 CO., PRINTEns, WHITEFRIARS. 
 
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