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 DRAMATIC WORKS 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE 
 
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 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 To Mr. Congreve. 
 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 stri-ve to raise. 
 Nature so coy, so hardly to be woo'd, 
 Flies like a mistress, but to be pursued. 
 O Congreve ! 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 live 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 Old 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 ; 
 And with a proud, ungenerous spirit, try 
 To pass an ostracism on poetry. 
 
 But you, my friend, your worth does safely bear 
 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 traffic 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. MARSH. 
 
 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 ; 
 Thou shalt succeed, the glory of the stage- 
 Adorn and entertain the coming age. 
 
 BEVIL HIGGONS. 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 To my dear Friend Mr. Congreve, on his Comedy 
 
 called " The Double-Dealer." 
 Well, then, the promised hour is come at last ; 
 The present age of wit obscures the past : 
 Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ, 
 Conquering with force of arms and dint of wit ; 
 Theirs 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 rankness cured : 
 Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude ; 
 And boisterous English wit with art endued. 
 Our age was cultivated thus at length ; 
 But what we gain'd in 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 Vitruvias, come at length, 
 Our beauties equal, but excel our strength. 
 Firm Doric pillars found your solid base, 
 The fair Corinthian 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, Southerne'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 Romano 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 little) 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 born, 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 by his Comedy 
 
 called " The Way 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 know, 
 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 few. 
 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 quaff. 
 
 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 warming force, 
 The wounded Frenchman falling from his horse ; 
 And her own William glorious in the strife, 
 Bestowing on the prostrate foe his fife : 
 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 mourn 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 afflictions 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. 
 
 a ©omrtip. 
 
 Quern tulit ad scenam ventoso gloria curru, 
 Exanimat lentus spectator, sedulus inflat. 
 Sic leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarum 
 Subruit, aut reficit.— Horat. Lib. ii. Epist. 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 out of my power to make you any compliment : since all offers 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 my 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 run me into the debt ; that 
 I might have it to boast I had distinguished a man to whom I would be glad to be obliged, even without the hopes of 
 having it in my power 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 man 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 offence 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 the justness of 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 to 
 have made ; but however I can draw this use from it, to my own advantage, that I think there are no faults in it but 
 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. CONGREVE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Heartwell, a surly old Bachelor, pretending to 
 
 slight Women, secretly in love with Sri- via. 
 Bellmour, in love with Belinda. 
 Vainlove, capricious in his love • in love with 
 
 Ar A MIXTA. 
 Sharper. 
 
 Sir Joseph Wittol. 
 Captain Bluffe. 
 FoNDLEwrFE, a Banker. 
 Setter, a Pimp. 
 Gavot, a Music-master. 
 Pace, Footman to Araminta. 
 
 Barnaby, Servant to Fondlewife. 
 ^4 Boy. 
 
 Araminta, in love with "Vainijove. 
 Belinda, her Cousin, an affected Lady, in love with 
 Bellmour. 
 
 LiETITIA, Wife tO FONDLEWIFE. 
 
 Silvia, Vainlovje's/0»-miA;ct Mistress. 
 
 Lucy, her Maid. 
 
 Betty, Maid to Araminta. 
 
 Dancers, and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
 L 2 
 
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, 
 
 Up 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 wit, 
 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 ; 
 You think that strange — no matter, he'll out-grow it. 
 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 I 
 Well the deuse take me, if I han't forgot it ! 
 
 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 confusion, 
 
 I cannot stay to hear your resolution. [Runs off. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Street. 
 Bellmour. and Vainlove 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, casts off the bias, and 
 leaves us wide and short of the intended mark. 
 
 Vain. Pleasure, I guess, you mean. 
 
 Bell. Ay, what else has meaning ? 
 
 Vain. Oh, the wise will tell you — 
 
 Bell. More than they believe — or understand. 
 
 Vain. How, how, Ned, a wise man say more 
 than he understands ? 
 
 Bell. Ay, ay ; wisdom's nothing but a 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 roll in a higher orb, 
 and dwell — 
 
 Vain. In castles i'th' air of thy own building : 
 that's thy element, Ned. Well, as high a flyer as 
 you are, I have a lure may make you stoop. 
 
 [Flint's a h-lter. 
 
 Bell. Ay, marry, sir, I. have a hawk's eye at a 
 woman's hand. — There's more elegancy in the 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 149 
 
 false spelling of this superscription — [Takes up 
 the letter] than in all Cicero. — Let me see — 
 How now S Dear perfidious Vainlove. [Reads. 
 
 Vain. Hold ! hold ! 'slife, that 's the wrong. 
 
 Bell. Nay, let 's see the name — Silvia ! How 
 canst thou be ungrateful to that creature % She 's 
 extremely pretty, and loves thee entirely. I have 
 heard her breathe such raptures about thee. 
 
 Yam. Ay, or anybody that she 's about. 
 
 Bell. 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. 
 
 * Bell. 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 ? Preach this doctrine to husbands, and 
 the married women will adore thee. 
 
 Bell. 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 unlike, she may help out with her own 
 fancy. 
 
 Vain. But is it not an abuse to the lover to be 
 made a blind of % 
 
 Bell. 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. 
 
 Vain. 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. 
 
 Bell. What, the old banker with the handsome 
 wife? 
 
 Vain. Ay. 
 
 Bell. Let me see, Lsetitia ! oh, "'tis a delicious 
 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. 
 
 Bell. [Reads.'] Hum, hum — Out of town this 
 evening, and talks of sending for Mr. Spintext to 
 Tceep me company ; but I '11 take care he shall not 
 be at home. Good ! Spintext ! oh, the fanatic 
 one-eyed parson ! 
 
 Vain. Ay. 
 
 Bell. [Reads.] Hum, hum — That your conversa- 
 tion will be much more agreeable, if you can coun- 
 terfeit his habit to blind the servants. Very good ! 
 Then I must be disguised \ — With all my heart — 
 It 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. 
 
 Bell. 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. 
 
 Bell. 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. 
 
 Bell. 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— 
 
 Bell. 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. 
 
 Bell. 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. 
 
 Bell. 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 Belinda 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 take up, or I shall never hold out; 
 flesh and blood cannot bear it always. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Bellmour and Sharped. 
 Sharp. I "m sorry to see this, Ned ; once a man 
 conies to his soliloquies I give him for gone. 
 Bell. Sharper, I 'm glad to see thee. 
 
150 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Sharp. What, is Belinda cruel, that you are so 
 thoughtful ? 
 
 Bell. 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-and- 
 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, I 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. 
 Bellmotjr, Sharper, and Heartwell. 
 
 Bell. 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 lovers 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. 
 
 Beu. Faith, I don't know ; 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 gratitude 
 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 you don't swallow that very hook 
 yourselves have baited, but you are cloyed w r ith 
 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 
 lapdog, 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 office 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 
 
J 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 151 
 
 bear greater burdens; are forced to undergo, dress- 
 ing, dancing, singing, sighing, whining, rhyming, 
 flattering, lying, grinning, cringing, and the drud- 
 gery of loving to boot. 
 
 Bell. O brute ! the drudgery of loving ! 
 
 Heart. Ay, why 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. 
 
 Bell. 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. 
 
 Bell. 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 in 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 ! 
 
 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 j 
 '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 ! ha ! 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. [Looking on his watch. 
 
 Bell. Nay, prithee, George — 
 
 Heart. No : besides my business, I see a fool 
 coming this way. Adieu. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Bellmour and Sharper. 
 
 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- 
 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 ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
152 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 ACT IT. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Street. 
 Sir Joseph Wittol, Sharper following. 
 
 Sharp. [Aside.] Sure that's he, and alone. 
 
 Sir Jo. [Not perceiving Sharper.] 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, I 
 shall never be reconciled to this place heartily. 
 
 Sharp. 'Tis but trying, and being where I am 
 at worst. Now luck ! — [Aloud.'] 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 hither! 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 ! 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, till 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 my memory. — [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 will 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 expressing 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 to'gad, but in my 
 hopes 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 suffer 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 ; '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 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 153 
 
 my hands of at present ; I have laid it all out upon 
 my back. 
 
 Sharp. Are you so extravagant in clothes, sir 
 Joseph ? 
 
 Sir Jo. Ha ! ha ! ha ! a very good jest I 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 ; 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 damn'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 Wrrroi,, Sharper, 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 i 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 ; I 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. 
 
 Sir 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, sir, 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 ? 
 
 Sharp. 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 ! 
 
 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 ! [Aside. 
 
 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 ! 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. 
 
154 
 
 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 calm, 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 Betty. 
 
 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 ! Let 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. 
 
 Aram. 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 I 
 don't perceive you love him. 
 
 Belin. Oh, I love your hideous fancy ! Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! love a man ! 
 
 Aram. Love a man ! yes, you would not love a 
 beast ? 
 
 Belin. Of all beasts not an ass — which is so like 
 your Vainlove ! — Lard, I have seen an ass look so 
 chagrin, ha ! ha ! ha ! (you must pardon me, I 
 can't help laughing) that an 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 you 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 
 by. 
 
 Aram. Yes, yes, 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 ; would 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 ! 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, teil it all 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 ! 
 
 Aram. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Betty. Did your ladyship call, madam ? 
 
 Belin. Get my hoods and tippet, and bid the 
 footman call a chair. SJExit Betty. 
 
 Aram. I hope you are not going out in dudgeon, 
 cousin ? 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Araminta, Belinda, and Pace. 
 
 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 I 
 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 ; but if you continue your 
 humour, it won't be very entertaining.— [Aside.] 
 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 
 
SCENE IX. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 155 
 
 admire. — Let me see ; hold the glass. — Lard, I 
 look wretchedly to-day ! 
 
 Aram, Betty, why don't you help my cousin ? 
 
 [Putting 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 footman. Here, take-'em all again, 
 my mind's changed, I won't go. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Araminta and Belinda. 
 
 Aram. [Aside.] So, this I expected — [Aloud.] 
 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 ? 
 
 Belin. Not 1 ; witness my heart, I stay out of 
 pure affection. 
 
 Aram. In my conscience, I believe you. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Araminta, Belinda, Vainlove, Bellmour, and P.ace. 
 
 Bell. 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 ! 
 But 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 afflicted 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 
 through you our devotion must be conveyed. 
 
 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 music-master 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 Bellmocr. 
 
 Bell. Why, you won't hear me with patience. 
 
 Aram. What's the matter, cousin ? 
 
 Bell, Nothing, madam, only — 
 
 Belin. Prithee, hold thy tongue ! — Lard, he has 
 so pestered me with flames and stuff, I think I 
 shan't endure the sight of a fire this twelvemonth ! 
 
 Bell. Yet all can't melt 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 ; 
 doift come always, like the devil, wrapped in flames. 
 — I'll not hear a sentence more, that begins with 
 an / burn — or an / beseech you, madam. 
 
 Bell. But tell me how you would be adored ; I 
 am very tractable. 
 
 Belin. Then know, 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 w 7 on't understand. 
 
 Bell. Ay, but if I am tongue-tied, I must have 
 all my actions free to — quicken your apprehen- 
 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. 
 
 gavot 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. 
 
156 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 Aram. I 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 ; you may like it better 
 at second hearing. You'll bring my cousin ? 
 
 Bell. Faith, madam, I dare not speak to her, 
 but I'll make signs. 
 
 [Addresses Belinda in dumb sJiow. 
 
 Belin. 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 liberty ; 
 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. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Street before Silvia's Lodging. 
 Silvia and Lucy. 
 
 Silv. Will he not come then % 
 
 Lucy. Yes, yes ; come ! I warrant him, if you 
 will go in and be ready to receive him. 
 
 Silv. Why, did you not tell me ? — who mean 
 you? 
 
 Lucy. Whom you should mean, Heartwell. 
 
 Silv. Senseless creature ! I meant my Vainlove. 
 
 Lucy. 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. 
 
 Silv. 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 ? in anger or in scorn ? 
 
 Lucy. 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 come empty-handed ; as a court lord does 
 his mercer's bill, or a begging dedication — he re- 
 ceived it as if 't had been a letter from his wife. 
 
 Silv. 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 him 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. 
 
 Lucy. I have that in my head may make mis- 
 chief. 
 
 Silv. How, dear Lucy ? 
 
 Lucy. You know Araminta's dissembled coyness 
 has won, and keeps him hers — 
 
 Silv. Could we persuade him that she loves 
 another — 
 
 Lucy. 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. 
 
 Lucy. Trouble not your head. Let me alone. 
 I will inform myself of what passed between 'em 
 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. 
 
 Silv. '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. 
 
 Lucy. Hang art, madam ! and trust to nature 
 for dissembling. 
 
 Man was by nature woman's cully made ; 
 We never are but by ourselves betray'd. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Heartwell, Vainlove and Bellmour following . 
 
 Bell. Hist, hist, is not that Heartwell going to 
 Silvia ? 
 
 Vain. He's talking to himself, I think : prithee 
 let's try if we can hear him. 
 
 Heart. Why, whither in the devil's name am I 
 a-going now ? 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 ! 
 
 Vain. Hush ! 
 
 Heart. 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 
 points. — Now could I curse myself, yet cannot 
 repent. O thou delicious, 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 Superan- 
 nuated Maiden's Comfort, or the Bachelor's Fall ; 
 and upon the third, I shall be hanged in effigy, 
 pasted up for the exemplary ornament of necessary- 
 houses and cobbler's' stalls. Death, I can't think 
 on't ! — I'll run into the danger to lose the appre- 
 hension. 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 157 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Bellmour and Vainlove. 
 
 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 
 snatched 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 pleasui'e 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. 
 Bellmour, Vainlove, 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. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 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 Lsetitia. 
 
 Set. Rather prepare her for confession, sir, by 
 helping her to sin. 
 
 Bell. Be at your master's lodging in the evening, 
 I shall use the robes. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Setter. 
 I shall, sir. — I wonder to which of these two gen- 
 tlemen I do most properly appertain ? — The one 
 uses 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 Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. [Aside.] 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. [Not perceiving Lucy.] 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.] Worthy sir, a word with 
 you. [Puts 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 ! thou maukin, made up of the shreds 
 and parings of his superfluous fopperies ! 
 
 Set. Thou art thy mistress's foul self, composed 
 of her sullied iniquities and clothing. 
 
 Lucy. Hang thee, beggar's cur ! — 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! filthy toad ! I can hold no longer : 
 look and tremble. [Unmasks. 
 
158 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 ACT 111. 
 
 Set. How, Mrs. Lucy ! 
 
 Lucy. I wonder thou hast the impudence to look 
 me in the face. 
 
 Set. Adsbud, who's in fault, mistress of mine ? 
 who flung 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 any reparation. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Seh 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 with 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 him 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. 
 
 Ijucy. No, 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 Wittol and Bluffe. 
 
 Bluffe. And so out of your unwonted generosity — 
 
 Sir 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 things 
 than to be run through the guts for a hundred 
 pounds. — Why, 1 gave that hundred pounds for 
 being saved, and d'ye think, an there were no 
 danger, I'll be so ungrateful to take it from the 
 gentleman again ? 
 
 Bluffe. WelLgotohimfromme.— 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 — 111 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 
 him 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 VIII. 
 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. LCuJs 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 Mm. 
 
 Bluffe. Oh, this is your time, sir, you had best 
 make use on't. 
 
THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 159 
 
 Sharp. Egad, and so I will : there's again for 
 y OU> [Kicks him. 
 
 Bluffe. 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. i^icks 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 Bix'ffe. 
 
 Bluffe. Very well — very fine — but 'tis no 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. ] O Lord, his anger was not 
 raised before ! — [Aloud.'] 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.] But were not you, my friend, 
 abused and cuffed and kicked ? 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, ay, so were you too ; no matter, 'tis 
 past. 
 
 Bluffe. 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. 
 Heartwell and Silvja. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 As Amoret and Thyrsis lay 
 
 Melting the hours in gentle play, 
 
 Joining faces, mingling kisses, 
 
 And exchanging harmless blisses ; 
 
 He trembling cried with eager haste : — 
 
 " O, let me feed, as well as taste ; 
 
 I die, if I'm not wholly blest !" 
 
 After the song a Dance of Antics. 
 
 Silv. Indeed, it is very fine, I could look upon 
 'em all day. 
 
 Heart. Well, 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 it] 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.] Oons, why do I 
 look on her ? Yet I must. — [Aloud.] Speak, 
 dear angel ! devil ! saint ! witch ! 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 1 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 ! — [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 calm an 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. — I 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) very 
 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 ! I hope you 
 don't mean so, for I won't be a whore. 
 
160 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 Heart. The more is the pity. [Aside. 
 
 Silv. Nay, if you would marry 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 ? 
 
 Heart. [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 I am put to it. — 
 [Aloud.] Marry you ! no, no, I '11 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. 
 
 Silv. Never tell me that, I know it is not 
 changed by myself ; for I love you and would 
 marry you. 
 
 Heart. I '11 have my beard shaved, it shan't hurt 
 thee, and we '11 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 
 pwse] and I '11 never see you again, 'cause you 'd 
 have me be naught. [Going. 
 
 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 hie ■ 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. {.Pretends to weep. 
 
 Heart. Ha ! nay come, we '11 kiss at parting. — 
 [Aside.] By heaven, her kiss is sweeter than 
 liberty ! — [Aloud.] I will marry thee ; there 
 thou hast done 't. All my resolves melted in that 
 kiss — one more. 
 
 Silv. But when ? 
 
 Heart. 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 evening 
 expect me. — One kiss more to confirm me mad ; 
 so. [Exit. 
 
 Silv. Ha ! ha ! ha ! an old fox trapped ! 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 Silvia and Lucy. 
 
 Silv. Bless me ! you frighten me, I thought he 
 had been come again, and had heard me. 
 
 Lucy. 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 ? 
 
 Lucy. 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. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 The Street "before Fondle wife's House. 
 
 Bellmour in fanatic habit, and Setter. 
 
 Bell. 'Tis pretty near the hour. — [Looking on 
 his watch.] Well, and how, Setter, ha ? does 
 my hypocrisy fit me, ha ? does it sit easy on 
 me ? 
 
 Set. most religiously well, sir. 
 
 Bell. 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. 
 
 Bell. Gads so, there he is, he must not see me. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Fondlewife and Barnaby. 
 
 Fond. I say I will tarry at home. 
 
 Bar. But, sir — 
 
 Fond. Good lack ! I profess the spirit of con- 
 tradiction hath possessed the lad — I say I will 
 tarry at home, varlet ! 
 
 Bar. 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 ? 
 
 Bar. I did ; and Comfort will send Tribulation 
 higher as soon as ever he comes home. — I could 
 h: , e 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 
 Levi te, and pampereth himself up with dainties, that 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 161 
 
 he may look lovely in the eyes of women. — Sin- 
 cerely I am afraid he hath already defiled the ta- 
 bernacle of our sister Comfort ; while her good 
 husband is deluded by his godly appearance. I say, 
 that even lust doth sparkle in his eyes, and glow 
 upon 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. A.nd run the hazard to lose your affair, sir ? 
 
 Fond. Goodlack, good lack ! — I profess 'tis a very 
 sufficient vexation, for a man 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. 
 
 Fondle wife. 
 
 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 and 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. 
 
 FONDLEWIFE and LiETITIA. 
 
 Lest. 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. 
 
 Lest. 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,! say, 
 have you considered what it is to cuckold our 
 husband ? 
 
 Lost. [Aside.] I'm amazed; sure he has dis- 
 covered 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, no, I tell you I shall have it in my 
 head. 
 
 Lcet. [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. 
 
 Lest. [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 — 
 
 Lost. 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 done : I shall be contented to 
 lie at peace in my cold grave — since it will please 
 you. [Sighs. 
 
 Fond. [Aside.] Good lack ! good lack ! she 
 would melt a heart of oak. — I profess I can hold 
 no longer. — [Aloud.] Nay, dear Cocky — I'feck 
 you'll break my heart — I'feck you will. See, you 
 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. 
 
 Lost. [Aside.] How ! Heaven forbid ! that will 
 be carrying the jest too far indeed. 
 
 Fond. Won't you kiss Nykin? 
 
 Lcet. Go, naughty Nykin, you don't love me. 
 
 Fond. Kiss, kiss, i'feck I do. 
 
 Lost. No, you don't. [She kisses him. 
 
 Fond. What, not love Cocky ! 
 
 Lcet. No — h. [Sighs. 
 
 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. 
 
 Lcet. 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. 
 
 Lost. [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. [Kiss. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Lost. Bye, Nykin ! 
 
 Fond. Bye, Cocky ! 
 
 Lost. Bye, Nykin ! 
 
 Fond. Bye, Cocky ! bye ! bye ! 
 
162 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 act iy. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Vainlove and Sharper. 
 
 Sharp. How, Araminta lost ! 
 
 Vain. To confirm what I have said, read this — 
 
 [Gives a letter. 
 
 Sharp. {Reads.'} Hum, hum. — And what then 
 appeared a fault, upon reflection seems only an 
 effect of a too powerful passion. I 'm afraid I 
 give too great a proof of my own at this time. — I 
 am in disorder for what I have written. But some- 
 thing, I know not what, forced me. I only beg 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 will go too — and she shall see her error in — 
 
 Sharp. In her choice, egad ! — But thou canst 
 not 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 fly what does pursue : 
 
 'Tis fit men should be coy, when women woo. 
 
 SCENE VI.— A Room in Fondlewife's House. 
 
 A Servant introducing Bellmour in a fanatic habit, with 
 a patch upon one eye, and a book in his 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 I am the very picture of Mon- 
 tufar in the Hypocrites — Oh, she comes ! 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Bellmour and L^etitia. 
 
 Bell. " So breaks Aurora through the veil of 
 night, 
 Thus fly the clouds, divided by her light, 
 And every eye receives a new-born sight." 
 
 {Throwing off his cloak, patch, $c. 
 Last. " Thus strewed with blushes, like" — {Dis- I 
 
 covering him, starts.'] Ah ! Heaven defend me ! 
 who's this ? 
 
 Bell. Your lover. 
 
 Lo?t. Vainlove's friend ! I know his face, and 
 he has betrayed me to him. [Aside. 
 
 Bell. You are surprised. Did you not expect a 
 lover, madam ? Those eyes shone kindly on my 
 first appearance, though now they are o'ercast. 
 
 Lcet. 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. 
 
 Lcet. Who are you, sir ? you have mistaken the 
 house sure. 
 
 Bell. I have directions in my pocket, which agree 
 with everything but your unkindness. 
 
 [Pulls out the letter. 
 
 Lcet. [ Aside.] My letter 1 Base Vainlove ! 
 Then 'tis too late to dissemble.— {Aloud.] 'Tis 
 plain then you have mistaken the person. [Going. 
 
 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. 
 
 Lcet. {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. 
 
 Lcet. I am discovered ! and either Vainlove is 
 not guilty, or he has handsomely excused him. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Bell. You appear concerned, madam. 
 
 Lmt. 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 false wit- 
 ness, and deserves to be pilloried. No, by Heaven 
 I swear— 
 
 Lcet. 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 
 
 Last. Upon that condition. [He kisses her. 
 
 Bell. Eternity was in that moment ! — One more, 
 upon any condition. 
 
SCENE IX. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 1B3 
 
 Last. Nay, now — [Aside.'] I never saw anything 
 so agreeably impudent ! — [Aloud,'] Won't you 
 censure me for this, now ? — but 'tis to buy your 
 silence. — [Kiss.] 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 ! — quickly, for I'm 
 afraid I shall have a fit. 
 
 Last. Bless me ! what fit ? 
 
 Bell. Oh, a convulsion ! — I feel the symptoms. 
 
 Lest. 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.— St. James's Park. 
 Araminta 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 ! — 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 ! 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! I 
 can't for my soul help thinking that I look just 
 like one of 'em — Good dear, pin this, and I'll tell 
 you. — Very well — so, thank you, my dear. — But 
 as I was telling you — pish! this is the unto- 
 wardest lock ! — 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, 
 chird — 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 Friesland 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! pshaw, how you're mistaken ! 
 The poor creature, I warrant, was as full of curtsies 
 as if I had been her godmother : the truth 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 ! here comes the fool 
 that dined at my lady Freelove's t'other day. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Araminta, Belinda, Sir Joseph Wittol, and Bluffe. 
 
 Aram. May be he may not know us again. 
 
 Belin. We'll put on our masks to secure his 
 ignorance. [They put on their masks. 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, gad, I'll pick up ! I'm resolved to 
 make a night on't. I'll go to alderman Fondlewife 
 by and by, and get fifty pieces more from him. Ad- 
 slidikins, bully, we'll wallow in wine and women ! 
 Why, this same Madeira wine has made me as 
 light as a grasshopper. — Hist ! hist ! bully ; dost 
 thou see those tearers ? — [Sings.] Look you what 
 here is — Look 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 ?) be gone : 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 
 
164 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Araminta, Belinda, Sir Joseph Wittol, Bluffe, 
 Sharper and Vainlove at some distance. 
 
 Belin. Dear Araminta, I'm tired. 
 
 Aram. [Apart to Belinda.] 'Tis but pulling 
 off our masks, and obliging Vainlove to know 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. [Unmasks. 
 
 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. 
 
 Bluffe. Nay, by the world, I'll see your face. 
 
 Belin. You shall. [Unmasks. 
 
 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 
 the scabbard ; so were forced to draw in our own 
 defence. 
 
 Bluffe. 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 XL 
 Araminta, Belinda, Vainlove, 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 
 hope 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 ! 
 
 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 XII. 
 
 Araminta and Vainlove. 
 
 Vain. I find,madam, the formality of the law must 
 be observed, though the penalty of it be dispensed 
 with ; and an offender must plead to his arraign- 
 ment, though he has his pardon in his pocket. 
 
 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 sball 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 ! 
 
 Vain. Did I dream ! or do I dream ! shall I believe 
 my eyes or ears ! the vision is here still. — Tour 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. 
 
 i [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 : — I 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 her. — 
 Come, Mr. Sharper. 
 
SCENE XXI. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 165 
 
 SCENE XV.- 
 
 ■A Chamber in Fondlewife 's 
 House. 
 
 L^etitia and Bellmour, his cloak, hat, S;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 my 
 monster's voice. — 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. [ Without.'] Cocky I Cocky ! where are you, 
 Cocky ? Fm come home. 
 
 Lcet. 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. 
 
 Lcet. 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 Fm in haste. 
 
 Lcet. Then I'll let you in. [Opens the door. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 L^titja, Fondlewife, 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. 
 
 Lcet, Oh, I'm undone ! [Aside. 
 
 Sir Jo. Pray, first let 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. 
 
 LiETiTiA 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 ? 
 
 Lcet. Sir, I seldom stir abroad. 
 
 [ Walks about in disorder. 
 
 Sir Jo. I wonder at that, madam, for 'tis most 
 curious fine weather. 
 
 Lest. Methinks 't has been very ill weather. 
 
 Sir Jo. As you say, madam, 'tis pretty bad 
 weather, and has been so a great while. 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 
 Ljetitia, Sir Joseph Wittol, and Fondlewife. 
 
 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. 
 
 Lcet. [Aside.] Ruined, past redemption ! What 
 shall I do ?— Ha ! this fool may be of use.— [As 
 Fondlewife is going into the chamber, she runs 
 to Sir Joseph, almost pushes him down, and cries 
 out.] Stand off, rude ruffian ! Help me, my dear 
 
 — O bless me ! why will you leave me alone with 
 such a satyr ? 
 
 Fond. Bless us ! what's the matter ? what's the 
 matter ? 
 
 Lat. Your back was no sooner turned, but like 
 a lion, be came open-mouthed upon me, and would 
 have ravished a kiss from me by main force. 
 
 Sir Jo. Oh Lord ! Oh terrible ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 is your wife mad, alderman ? 
 
 Lcet. 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 ! 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 think! 
 
 SCENE XIX. 
 
 L^titia and Fondlewife. 
 
 List. 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 have been in such a fright, that I 
 forgot to tell you poor Mr. Spintext has a sad fit 
 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 me 
 disturb you. 
 
 SCENE XX. 
 
 LiETITIA. 
 
 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. 
 
 L^etitia and Fondlewife. 
 
 Fond. Good lack ! good lack ! T profess-, the 
 
 poor man is in great torment* he lies as fiat— dear, 
 
 you should heat a trencher or a napkin — where's 
 
 Deborah ? let her clap some warm thing to his sto- 
 
166 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 mach, or chafe it with a warm hand, rather than 
 fail. — What book's this ? 
 
 [Sees the book that Bellmovr forgot . 
 
 Lest. Mr. Spintext's prayer-book, dear. — [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 ! A prayer-book ! 
 Ay this is the devil's pater-noster : hold, let me 
 see, The Innocent Adultery. 
 
 Lcet. Misfortune ! now all's ruined again. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Lcet. 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 h this apocryphal elder ? I'll ferret him. 
 
 Lcet. I'm so distracted, I can't think of a lie. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 SCENE XXII. 
 
 IhEtitia, and Fondlewife, haling oat Bellmour. 
 
 Fond. Come out here, thou Ananias incarnate ! 
 Who, — how now, — who have we here ? 
 
 Lcet. Ha ! [Shrieks, 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-horn-mad ! — But who, in the 
 devil's name, are you ? mercy on me for swearing ! 
 But— 
 
 Lcet. Oh, goodness keep us ! who's this ? — Who 
 are you ? what are you ? 
 
 Bell. So! 
 
 Lcet. 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 ! no, I am afraid, 'tis the flesh, thou harlot ! 
 Dear, with the pox ! — Come, siren, speak, confess, 
 who is this reverend, brawny pastor ? 
 
 Lcet. Indeed, and indeed, now my dear Nykin, 
 I never saw this wicked man before. 
 
 Fond. Oh, it is a man then, it seems ! 
 
 Lcet. 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 
 Magdalen unconverted ? 
 
 Bell. 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 wife, no. 
 
 Fond. Humph. 
 
 Lcet. 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 ? don'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 ! 
 
 Lcet. Let the wicked man answer for himself: 
 does he think that 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. Come, sir, who are you, in the first place? 
 and what are you ? 
 
 Bell. A. whore-master. 
 
 Fond. Very concise. 
 
 Lcet. 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. 
 
 Lcet. 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. 
 
 Lcet. 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 
 direction. — 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 me. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Bell. No ; for then you must of consequence 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 167 
 
 part with your wife, and there will be some hopes 
 of having her upon the public ; 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. 
 
 Lest. Ah, cruel dear, how can you be so barba- 
 rous ? You'll break my heart if you talk of parting. 
 
 [Cries. 
 
 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 trickling tears. 
 
 [She goes and hangs upon his neck, and kisses him ; 
 
 Bellmour kisses her hand behind Fondlewife'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 ! 
 
 Lost. 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 ! 
 
 [Weeping. 
 
 Lcet. No — h. [Sighing. 
 
 Fond. Oh, that I could believe thee ! 
 
 Lcet. 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. 
 
 Lcet. 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'll 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 she's so believed. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Street. 
 
 Bellmour 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 you : — I would not be 
 known. — Pox take 'em ! they stand just in my way. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Bellmour, Heartwell, and Lucy. 
 
 Heart. I'm impatient till it be done. 
 
 Lucy. That may be, 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 qualified 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 
 your bride. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Bellmour and Lucy. 
 
 Bell. Humph, sits the wind there ? — What a 
 lucky rogue am I ! 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 me ! 
 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 knowest 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 r 
 
 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. Well, it is then ; but you'll be 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. 
 
168 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Lucy, How ! O Lord ! 
 
 Bell. Nay, don't be in a passion, Lucy ; — I'll 
 provide a fitter husband for her. — Come, here's 
 earnest of my good intentions for thee too ; let this 
 mollify. — [Gives 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. 
 
 Lucy. 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. IGives 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 ! 
 
 Bell. That's as much as to say, The pox take 
 me ! — Well, lead on. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Vainlove, Sharper, and Setter. 
 
 Sharp. Just now, say you, gone in with Lucy ? 
 
 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 a pleasant cheat. 
 I'll plague Heartwell when I see him. — Prithee, 
 Frank, let's tease him ; make him fret till he 
 foam at the mouth, and disgorge his matrimonial 
 oath with interest. — Come, thou'rt musty. 
 
 Set. [ To Sharper.] Sir, a word with you. 
 
 [ Whispers 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 
 I can 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 
 affairs 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. There I received the letter. — It must be 
 so. — And why did you not find me out, to tell me 
 this before, sot ? 
 
 Set. 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 repent- 
 ance be of force, I'll win her, or weary her into 
 a forgiveness. [Exit. 
 
 Sharp. Methinks I long to see Bellmour come 
 forth. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Sharper, Bellmour, and Setter. 
 
 Set. 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-natured, 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 ; 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 with 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. 
 
 Set. O Lord, sir. 
 
 Bell. I'll leave him with you, and go shift my 
 habit. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Sharper, Setter, Sir Joseph Wittol, and Bluffe. 
 
 Sharp. Heh ! sure, Fortune has sent this fool 
 hither on purpose. Setter, stand close ; seem not 
 to observe 'em, and hark ye — [ Whispers. 
 
 Bluffe. Fear him not ; I am prepared for him 
 now ; and he shall find 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 I did a little while ago. — Look yonder. — Agad, 
 if he should hear the lion roar, he'd cudgel him 
 
SCENE VIII. 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 169 
 
 into an ass, and his primitive braying. Don't you 
 remember the story in iEsop's Fables, bully ? Agad, 
 there are good morals to be picked out of iEsop's 
 Fables, let me tell you that ; and Reynard the Fox, 
 too. 
 
 Bluffe. Damn your morals ! 
 
 Sir Jo. Prithee, don't speak so loud. 
 
 Bluffe. Damn your morals ! — I must revenge the 
 affront done to my honour. [i» a low voice. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay ; do, do, captain, if you think fitting; 
 — you may dispose of your own flesh as you think 
 fitting, d'ye see. — But, by the Lord Harry, I'll 
 leave you. [Stealing away upon his tiptoes. 
 
 Bluffe. Prodigious ! what, will you forsake your 
 friend in extremity ! You can't in honour refuse 
 to carry him a challenge. 
 
 [Almost whispering, and treading softly after him. 
 
 Sir Jo. Prithee, 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 warrant you, sir, I'm instructed. 
 
 [Apart to Sharper. 
 
 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 ; but 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. 
 
 Sharp. A wretch, that has flown for shelter to 
 the lowest shrub of mankind, and seeks protection 
 from a blasted coward. 
 
 Sir Jo. That's you, bully back. 
 
 [Bluffe frowns upon Sir Joseph. 
 
 Sharp. She has gi^en Vainlove her promise to 
 marry him before to-morrow morning — has she not? 
 
 [To Setter. 
 
 Set. She lias, sir ; and I have it in charge to 
 attend her all this evening, in order to conduct her 
 to the place appointed. 
 
 Sharp. Weil,. I'll go and inform your master ; 
 and do you press her to make all the haste imagin- 
 able. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Setter, Sir Joseph Wittol, and Bluffe. jj 
 
 Set. Were I a rogue now, what a noble prize 
 could I dispose of ! A goodly pinnace, richly 
 I laden, and to launch forth under my auspicious 
 j 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 hand, I'll dispose of mine to the best advantage. 
 
 Sir Jo. Heh ! heh ! heh ! here 'tis for you, 
 i'faith, Mr. Setter. Nay, I'll take you at your 
 word ! [Chinking 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 tmdone ! 
 
 Sir Jo. No, no, never fear, man, the lady's 
 business shall be done. What ! — Come, 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 for me. [Gives him gold. 
 
 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 more, man : — 
 
 there take all. — Now — 
 
 Set. Well, sir Joseph, you have such a winning 
 way with you — 
 
 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 bubbies ? and — agad, 
 I'm so overjoyed ! — and 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. — But I warrant, I'll bring you into the 
 lady's good graces. 
 
 Bluffe. 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 reads, Bluffe whispers Setter. 
 
 Set. Captain, I 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 my hand. — In the 
 mean time, here's earnest. — -[Gives 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 VIII. 
 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 ' >use. 
 
 Heart. Whither? whither? which corner house? 
 
 Sharp. Why, there : the two white posts. 
 
 Heart. And who would you visit there, say you ? 
 \_Aside.~] 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 BACHELOR. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ture that Vainlove debauched, and has forsaken. 
 Did you never hear Bellmour chide him about 
 Silvia ? 
 
 Heart. [Aside.] Death and hell and marriage ! 
 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. — 
 [Aloud.] 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. [Going. 
 
 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. [Exit. 
 
 Sharp. Mad, by this light ! 
 Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure ; 
 Married in haste, we may repent at leisure. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Sharper and Setter. 
 
 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. 
 Bellmour, Belinda, Araminta, and Vainlove. 
 
 Vain. Oh, 'twas frenzy all ! cannot you forgive 
 it ? — men in madness have a title to your pity. 
 
 [To Araminta. 
 
 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 make a more than 
 ordinary quiet husband. 
 
 Bell. Say you so ? is that a maxim among you ? 
 
 Belin. Yes ; you fluttering men of the mode 
 have made marriage a mere French dish. 
 
 Bell. I hope there's no French sauce. [Aside. 
 
 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, foh ! no ; rather courtship to mar- 
 riage, is as a very witty prologue to a very dull 
 play. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 Bellmour, 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. [To Belinda. 
 
 Belin. 0,'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 comer-house, and I'll tell you by the way what 
 may divert and surprise you. 
 
SCENE XV. 
 
 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. [Exit. 
 
 Heart. So — that precious pimp too. — Damned, 
 damned strumpet ! could she not contain herself 
 on her wedding day ! not hold out till night. O 
 cursed state ! how wide we err, when apprehensive 
 of the load of life,— 
 
 We hope to find 
 That help which Nature meant in womankind, 
 To man that supplemental self design'd ; 
 But proves a burning caustic when applied ; 
 And Adam, sure, could with more ease abide 
 The bone when broken, than when made a bride. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 Heartwell, Bellmour, Belinda, Vainlove, and Ara- 
 
 MINTA. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 [Vainlove and Araminta 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 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 
 vour wasp here, or the clown may grow boisterous ; 
 I 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 1 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 ! — But let me be calm a 
 little. — How have I deserved this of you ? any of 
 ye? — 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 wife, my 
 mistress might have been just : — there we are even. 
 — But have a good heart, 1 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 divorced from my 
 virility, to be divorced from my wife. 
 
 SCENE XIV 
 
 Heartwell, Bellmour, Belinda, Vainlove, Araminta., 
 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. Then 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, Araminta, 
 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 Che fair Araminta, 
 my wife's permission. — [Lucy unmasks.] Oh, 
 the devil, cheated at last ! 
 
172 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 Sir Jo. Only a little art-military 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. 
 
 [Aramuntta and Belinda unmask. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ah ! O Lord, my heart aches ! — Ah, 
 Setter, a rogue of all sides ! 
 
 Sharp. Sir .Joseph, you had better have pre- 
 engaged this gentleman's pardon ; for though Vain- 
 love be so generous to forgive the loss of his 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 am witness. 
 
 Sharp. Bellmour will unriddle to you. 
 
 [Heartwell goes to Bellmour. 
 
 Sir Jo. Pray, madam, who are you ? for I find 
 you and T are like to be better acquainted. 
 
 Silv. 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 
 on'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. 
 I 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 you. — 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, 'midst of these dreadful denunciations, 
 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 fellow-travellers. — Old George, 
 I'm sorry to see thee still plod on alone. 
 
 Heart. With gaudy plumes and gingling bells 
 made proud, 
 
 The youthful 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 ! 
 
 Our 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. BARRY. 
 
 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 fares it 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. 
 
 Metbinks 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. 
 
 a ©online. 
 
 Interdum tamen, et vocem Comoedia tollit — Horat. Ars Poet. 
 
 Syrus. Huic equidem consilio palmam do : hie me magnifice effero, 
 Qui vim tantam in me, et potestatem habeam tantas astutias, 
 Vera dicendo ut eos ambos fallam. — Terent. Heauton. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 CHARLES MONTAGUE, 
 
 ONE OF THE LORDS OF THE TREASURY. 
 
 Sir,— I heartily wish that this play were as perfect as I intended it, that it might be more worthy your acceptance ; 
 and that my dedication of it to you might be more becoming that honour and esteem which I, with everybody who is 
 so 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 I 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 : but I found 
 it an undertaking which put me in mind oi—Sudet multum, frustraque labor et 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 mechanical 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 discourse is very impertinent to you, whose judgment much better can discern the faults, than I 
 can excuse them ; and whose good-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 known she has been a very kind mistress to you : she has not denied you the last favour ; 
 and she has been fruitful to you in a most beautiful issue — If I break off 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 I was conscious 
 where a true critic might have put me upon my defence. I was prepared for the attack ; and am pretty confident I 
 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 which 
 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 mischievous intentions may be very improper to be communicated to a second person. In such a case, there- 
 fore, the audience must observe, whether the person upon the stage takes any notice of them at all, or no. For if he 
 supposes any one to be by when he talks to himself, it is monstrous and ridiculous to the last degree. Nay, not only in 
 this case, but in any part of a play, if there is expressed any knowledge of an audience, it is insufferable. But otherwise, 
 when a man in soliloquy reasons with himself, and pro's and con's, and weighs all his designs, 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 necessary 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 communication of 
 thought. 
 
 Another very wrong objection has been made by some, who have not taken leisure to distinguish 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 gull 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 themselves be at a loss to justify their title : but if an open-hearted honest man, who has an entire 
 confidence in one whom he takes to be his friend, and whom he has obliged to be 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 other has proved a villain ? Ay, but there was 
 caution given to Mellefont in the first Act by his friend Careless. Of what nature was that caution ? Only to give the 
 
174 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 audience some light into the character of Maskwell, 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 Maskwell 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 there are but 
 two sexes, male and female, men and women, which have a title to humanity : and if I 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 be tickled by a surgeon when he is letting them blood. 
 They who are 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 I intend the play to be so too, I hope I 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, but 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 CONGREVE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Maskwell, a Villain ,- pretended Friend to Melle- 
 font, Gallant to Lady Touchwood, and in love with 
 
 CYNTHtA. 
 
 Lord Touchwood, Uncle to Mellefont. 
 
 Mellefont, promised to and in love with Cynthia. 
 
 Careless, his Friend. 
 
 Lord Froth, a solemn Coxcomb. 
 
 Brisk, a pert Coxcomb. 
 
 Sir Paul Plyant, an uxorious, foolish, old Knight; 
 
 brother to Lady Touchwood, and Father to 
 
 Cynthia. 
 
 Saygrace, Chaplain to Lord Touchwood. 
 
 Lady Touchwood, in love with Mellefont. 
 Cynthia, Daughter to Sir Paul by 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 Lord Touchwood's House, with Chambers adjoining. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 Moors have this way (as story tells) to know 
 Whether their brats are truly got or no ; 
 Into the sea the new-born 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. 
 
 'scaped 
 
 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 ; 
 But, by my troth, I cannot avoid thinking 
 How nearly some good men might have 
 
 sinking. 
 
 But Heaven be praised this custom is confined 
 Alone to the offspring of the Muses' kind : 
 Our christian cuckolds are more bent to pity ; 
 I know not one Moor husband in the city. 
 I' 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 be cursed. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 175 
 
 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 ; 
 Mellefont following Mm. 
 
 Mel. Ned, Ned, whither so fast ? what, turned 
 flincher ? 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, 
 and 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 to 
 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 II. 
 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 
 it, 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- 
 thrust : 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 deuse take 
 me, if there were three good things said, or one 
 understood, since thy amputation from the body of 
 our society. — He ! I think 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, mon cozur ! what is't ? Nay gad I'll 
 punish you for want of apprehension : the deuse 
 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 deuse take me if 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 deuse 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, I 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 hell 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, terminated 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 ! 'tis well 
 
176 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 ACT T. 
 
 Nature hasnotput it into her sex's power to ravish. 
 — Well, bless us ! proceed. What followed ? 
 
 Mel. What at first amazed me : for I looked to 
 have seen her in all the transports of a slighted 
 and revengeful woman : but when I expected 
 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 ; which 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, confirmed 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 
 I 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 my lord Froth, he and his wife will be 
 sufficiently taken up with admiring one another, 
 and Brisk's gallantry, as they call it. I'll observe 
 my uncle 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 should 
 you suspect him ? 
 
 Care. Faith, I cannot help it, you know I never 
 liked him ; I am a little superstitious in physiog- 
 nomy. 
 
 Mel. 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 fami- 
 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 
 and blood at best, and opportunities between them 
 
 are frequent. His affection to you, you have con- 
 fessed, is grounded upon 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 consequence is visible, were 
 your suspicions just — But see, the company is 
 broke up, let's meet 'em. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Careless, Mellefont, Lord Touchwood, Lord Froth, 
 Sir Paul Plyant, and Brisk. 
 
 Lord Touch. Out upon't, nephew ! — leave your 
 father-in-law and me to maintain our ground 
 against young people ! 
 
 Mel. 1 beg your lordship's pardon ; we were just 
 returning. 
 
 Sir Paul. Were you, son? gadsbud, 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'd as lieve you 
 call'd me fool. 
 
 Sir Paul. Nay, I pro'test and vow now, 'tis 
 true ; when Mr. Brisk jokes, your lordship's laugh 
 does so become you, he ! 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 ! let me perish, do I never say anything worthy 
 to be laughed at ? 
 
 Lord Froth. O foy ! 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 i such a vulgar expression 
 of the passion ! 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 ! Now when I laugh, I 
 always laugh alone. 
 
 Brisk. I 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, 'tis a sign I hit you in the 
 teeth if you show 'em. 
 
 Lord Froth. He ! 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 incontinently. 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER, 
 
 177 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Mellefont, Careless, Lord Froth, and Brfsk. 
 
 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 ! why, 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 ! he! 
 I have often constrained my inclinations to laugh, 
 — he ! he ! he ! 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, deuse 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 Fro.th.] 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 ! 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 
 bent not to be instructed. 
 
 Brisk. 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 glass, 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 Maskwell. 
 
 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 Mellefont, 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 ? 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 ! 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- 
 vince you from the necessity of my being firm to you. 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 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 onoe was paid me, and everlastingly en- 
 
 Mask. Fixed, rooted in my heart, whence no- 
 thing can remove 'em, yet you — 
 
 Lady 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 
 with 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 ! 
 
 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 burn. — 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. I have : she is ready for any im- 
 pression I 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 will 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. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Gallery in 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 ; I 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 ! 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 
 
SCENE IJT. 
 
 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 be troubled 
 with your instructions. 
 
 Lady Froth. Nay, I beg your pardon ; but being 
 derived from the Greek, I thought you might have 
 escaped the etymology. — But I'm the more amazed 
 to find you 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 ne 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. 
 
 Lady Froth. And my lord with him ; pray, 
 observe the difference. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Lady Froth, Cynthia, Lord Froth, Mellefont, and 
 Brisk. 
 
 Cyn. Impertinent creature ! I could almost be 
 angry with her now. [Aside. 
 
 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 ! do you 
 remember, my lord ? 
 
 [Squeezes him by the hand, looks kindly on him, sighs, 
 and then laughs out. 
 
 Lord Froth. Pleasant creature ! 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-glass.'] 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. 
 
 Lord 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 you 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 ! — 
 
 Lady Froth. More wit than anybody ? 
 
 Brisk. I'm everlastingly your humble servant, 
 deuse take me, madam. 
 
 Lord Froth. [ To Cynthi a..] 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 ; but, 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 ! deuse 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? 
 
 Brisk. Lactilla, maybe : — 'gad, I cannot tell. 
 
 Lady Froth. Biddy, that's all ; just my own 
 name. 
 
 Brisk. Biddy ! egad, very pretty ! — Deuse take 
 me, if your ladyship has not the art of surprising 
 the most naturally in the world ! — 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 be 
 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. — Mi\ 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 Cynthia* 
 Mel. You're thoughtful, Cynthia ? 
 Cyn. I'm thinking, though marriage makes man 
 
 N 2 
 
180 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 and wife one flesh, 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. 
 
 Cyn. 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 frowns 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 doubting 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 find you, 
 When the power must forsake you : 
 Think, O think, o' th' sad condition, 
 To be past, yet wish fruition .' 
 
 Mel. You shall have my thanks below. 
 
 [To the Musicians, who go out. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Mellefont, Cynthta, Sir Paul Plyant, and 
 Lady Plyant. 
 
 Sir Paul. [Aside to Lady Plyant.] Gadsbud ! 
 I am provoked into a fermentation, as my Lady 
 Froth says ; was ever the like read of in story ? 
 
 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 I 
 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 u*p 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 me ; 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 ! 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 181 
 
 Mel. [Aside.] Hell and damnation! this is 
 my aunt ; such malice can be engendered nowhere 
 else. 
 
 Lady Ply. Sir Paul, take Cynthia from his 
 sight ; 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 I 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 Mellefont. 
 
 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. I grant it ; and next to the villany 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 ! for, now sir 
 Paul's gone, you are corum nobus. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ? Alas ! humanity is feeble, 
 Heaven knows ! very feeble, and unable to support 
 itself. 
 
 Mel. Where am I ? is it day ? and am I awake ? 
 — Madam — 
 
 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 ; 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-cock ; O fy, cousin Mellefont ! 
 
 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 ; 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 ! — 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'll 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 ! I must fly. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Mellefont, 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 VII. 
 
 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 ; I met sir Paul towing away 
 Cynthia. Come, trouble 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 1 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 ! 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 must needs be entertaining. — I warrant 
 she was very violent at first. 
 
 Mel. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 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. At 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 will ; till then success attend thee. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Maskwell. 
 Till then, success will attend me ; for when I 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 about 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 wise 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. 
 
 {.Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I The Gallery in Lord Touchwood's 
 
 House. 
 
 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. 
 
 Lord Touch. I don't believe it true ; he has 
 better principles — Pho, 'tis nonsense ! Come, 
 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. 
 
 Lady 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. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 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 T can't tell ; nay, I don't say 
 there was. I am willing to believe as favourably 
 of my nephew as I can. 
 
 Lord Touch. I don't know that. [Half aside. 
 
 Lady Touch. How ? don't you believe that, say 
 you, my lord ? 
 
 Lord Touch. No, 1 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 don't know ; I am very unwilling 
 to speak my thoughts in anything that may be to my 
 cousin's disadvantage ; besides, 1 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 
 something 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 ; 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. 
 
 L,ady Touch. You won't. 
 
 Lord Touch. By my life, my dear, I will. 
 
 Lady Touch. What if you can't ? 
 
 Lord Touch. How ? then I must know, nay I 
 will : no more trifling. — I 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 
 Meilefont ? — I dare swear he's sorry ; and were it 
 to do again, would not — 
 
 Lord Touch. Sorry, for what ? death, you rack 
 me with delay ! 
 
 Lady Touch. Nay, no great matter, only — well, 
 I have your 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 my 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 will 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. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Lady Touchwood and Maskwell. 
 
 Mash. 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 Meilefont ? 
 
 Mash. I have ; and am to meet him here about 
 this time. 
 
 Lady Touch. How does he bear his disappoint- 
 ment ? 
 
 Mash. Secure in my assistance, he seemed not 
 much afflicted, but rather laughed at the shallow 
 artifice, which so little time must of necessity dis- 
 cover. Yet he is apprehensive of some farther 
 
184 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 design of yours, and has engaged me to watch you. 
 I believe he will hardly be 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. — IVty 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 
 Mellefont'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. 
 
 Lady 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 ! your ladyship has a most 
 improving fancy. You had best go to my lord, 
 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 ! I 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. 
 
 [Maskwell pretending not to see him, walks by him, 
 and speaks, as it ivere, to himself. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Maskwell and Mellefont. 
 
 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 ought 
 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 ! 
 
 Mask. No, you would not. — It would not be so 
 convenient as I can order matters. 
 
 Mel. What d'ye mean ? 
 
 Mask. Mean ! 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 111 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. 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 185 
 
 Mel. Let me adore thee, my better genius ! by- 
 Heaven I think it is not in the power of fate to 
 disappoint my 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 ! 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Mellefont and Careless. 
 
 Care. Mellefont, get out o' th' way, my lady 
 Plyant'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. 
 
 Mel. 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 from her 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 nightcap, 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, like 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, I 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 ! — 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'll 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 with 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 her 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Careless, Sir Paul and Lady Plyant. 
 
 Sir Paxil. Shan't we disturb your meditation, 
 Mr. Careless ? you would be private ? 
 
 Care. You bring that along with you, sir Paul, 
 that shall be always 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 ! 
 You will be making answers, and taking that upon 
 you which ought to lie upon me ! — That you should 
 have so little 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 ! 
 
 Sir Paul. [Aside to Lady Plyant.] I acquiesce, 
 my lady ; but don't snub so loud. 
 
 Lady Ply. Mr. Careless, if a person that is 
 wholly illiterate might be supposed to be capable 
 of being qualified to make a suitable return to those 
 obligations 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 person. 
 
 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 i 
 or else you should hear — Gadsbud, you may talk 
 of my lady Froth ! 
 
186 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 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 
 thought of ; — if that can ever be. 
 
 Lady 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 I 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 fine, discreet, well-spoken woman as you shall 
 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. 
 
 Careless, Sir Paul, Lady Plyant, and Boy with a letter. 
 
 Lady Ply. How often have you been told of that, 
 you jackanapes ! 
 
 Sir Paul. Gad so, gadsbud ! — Tim, carry it to 
 my lady ; you should have carried it to my lady 
 first. 
 
 Boy. 'Tis directed to your worship. 
 
 Sir Paul. Well, well, my lady reads all letters 
 first. — Child, do so no more ; d'ye hear, Tim ? 
 
 Boy. No, and't please you. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Careless, 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 coun- 
 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 migbtily beholden to 
 Providence : — a poor unworthy sinner. — But if I 
 had a son, — ah, that's my affliction, and my only 
 affliction ! indeed I cannot refrain tears when it 
 comes in my mind. [Cries. 
 
 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 ; 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 s Sir Paul, Lady Plyant, Lord Froth, 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 ! — 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 Whiner, Mr. Sneer, and sir Laurence Loud, 
 and that gang. 
 
 Sir Paul. I vow and swear she's a very merry 
 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 ! — 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 ! right. And then, 
 my lady Whifler is so ready ; — she always comes in 
 three bars too soon. — And then, what do they laugh 
 at ? for you know laughing without a jest is as 
 impertinent ; hee ! as, as — 
 
 Cyn. AlS 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 you 
 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- 
 ant ! 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 has done I would speak with her below. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Cynthia, 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.] Let me see here, you know what goes 
 before, — the comparison, you know. IReads. 
 
 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. IReads. 
 
 For as the sun shines every day, 
 So, of our coachman I may 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. 
 
 Lady 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 in milk. 
 For Susan, you know, is Thetis, and so — 
 
 Brisk. Incomparably well and proper, egad ! — 
 But I have one exception 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 S 
 
 Lord Froth. Hee ! hee ! hee ! my dear, have you 
 done ? — won't you join with us ? we were laughing 
 at my lady Whiner and Mr. Sneer. 
 
 Lady Froth. Ay, my dear. — Were you ? O 
 filthy Mr. Sneer ! he's a nauseous figure, a most 
 iulsamic 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 exposing their 
 infirmities. 
 
 Lady Froth. Then that t'other great strapping 
 lady — I can't hit of her name — the old fat fool that 
 paints so exorbitantly. 
 
 Brisk. I know whom you mean — but, deuse 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 1 
 
 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 
 
 Ancient Phillis has young graces, 
 'Tis a strange thing, but a true one ; 
 
 Shall I tell you how ? 
 She herself makes her own faces, 
 And each morning wears a new one ; 
 
 Where's the wonder now ? 
 
 Brisk. Short, but there's salt in't ; my way oi 
 writing, egad ! 
 
188 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 CrNTHiA, Lord Froth, Lady Froth, Brisk, and Footman. 
 
 Lady Froth. How now ? 
 
 Foot. Your ladyship's chair is come. 
 
 Lady Froth. Is nurse and the child in it ? 
 
 Foot. Yes, madam. 
 
 Lady Froth. Q 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. 
 
 Lady 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 your ladyship. 
 
 Brisk. Pray, madam, how old is lady Sappho ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Three quarters ; but I swear she 
 has a world of wit, and can sing a tune already. 
 
 — My lord, won't you go ? won't you ? what, not 
 to see Saph ? pray, my lord, come see little Saph. 
 I knew you could not stay. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Cynthia. 
 
 'Tis not so hard to counterfeit joy in the depth of 
 affliction, as to dissemble mirth in company of 
 fools. — Why should I call 'em fools ? the world 
 thinks better of 'em ; for these have quality and 
 education, 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, 
 
 The wise are wretched, and fools only bless'd. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Gallery in Lord Touchwood's 
 House. 
 
 Mellbfont and Cynthia. 
 
 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 we 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 ! 
 
 Cyn. Ay, ay, what have we to do with 'em ? — 
 you know we marry 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, I 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 ; — 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 ; I would not have 'em see us together 
 yet. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 189 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Careless and Lady Plyant. 
 Lady Ply. I swear, Mr. Careless, you are very- 
 alluring, and say so many fine things, and nothing 
 is so moving to me as a fine thing. Well, I must 
 do you this justice, and declare in the face of the 
 world, never anybody gained so far upon 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 
 I can description — 
 
 Care. [In 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 adorer dies. 
 Lady Ply. Ah, very fine ! 
 
 Care. [Still 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 
 j cannot hear it : — I am not safe if I stay, and must 
 : leave you. 
 
 Care. And must you leave me ! rather let me 
 i languish out a wretched life, and breathe my soul 
 ; beneath your feet ! — [Aside.] I must say the same 
 j thing over again, and can't help it. 
 
 Lady Ply. I swear I'm ready to languish too. — 
 O my honour ! 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 
 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 ! — I 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 ! {Cries. 
 
 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 Paul ; but if he were 
 not come, I'm so transported I cannot speak. — 
 This note will inform you. {Gives 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 ? 
 
 Cyn. 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. 
 
 Lady 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 saiditwould 
 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 up-on 
 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 ; you'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 affec- 
 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 
 silly. [Aside. 
 
 Lady Ply. My lip, indeed, sir Paul, I swear 
 you shall. [He kisses her, and bows very low. 
 
 Sir Paul. I humbly thank your ladyship 
 
 [Aside.] 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. — 
 [Aloud.] 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 and 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 
 chopping boy ? I'll 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 ! 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 ! 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 — not 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 ruined, 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. Deuse 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'll come and look at you by 
 and by. — Where's my son Mellefont ? 
 
 Lady Ply. I'll send him to them, I know where 
 he is. 
 
 Brisk. Sir Paul, will 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. — Ah ! 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- 
 
SCENE IX. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 191 
 
 I proaches. — Hem, hem ! — [Bows."] Ah, madam ! — 
 i — Pox on't, why should I disparage my parts by 
 i thinking what to say ? None but dull rogues think ; 
 i witty men, like rich fellows, are always ready for 
 I 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. 
 
 Brisk and Lady Froth. 
 
 Brisk. [ Walks about, singing.] I'm sick with 
 love, — ha ! ha ! ha ! — prithee come cure me. 
 I'm sick with, Qc. 
 
 ye powers ! O my lady Froth ! my lady Froth ! 
 my lady Froth ! Heigho ! 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, 
 I madam, nothing at all egad. I was fallen into the 
 j most agreeable amusement in the whole province 
 I of contemplation : that's all. — {Aside.] I'll seem 
 i 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 ? T 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 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 I 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. 
 
 Lady 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 ! 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 ! 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Seriously, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Brisk. That's well enough ; let me perish, ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! O miraculous ! what a happy discovery ; 
 ah, my dear charming lady Froth ! 
 
 Lady Froth. O my adored Mr. Brisk ! [Embrace. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 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 Ply. O Mr. Careless ! Mr. Careless ! I'm 
 ruined ! I'm undone ! 
 
 Care. What's the matter, madam ? 
 
 Lady Ply. O the unluckiest accident ! I'm 
 afraid I shan't live to tell it you. 
 
 Care. Heaven forbid ! what is it ? 
 
 Lady Ply. I'm in such a fright ! the strangest 
 quandary and premunire ! 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 before he sees ! 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Sir Paul with a letter. 
 
 Sir Paul. O providence ! what a conspiracy 
 have I discovered ! — But let me see to make an 
 
392 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 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 fad. 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 thenl 
 languish in expectation of my adored charmer. — 
 Dying Ned Careless. Gadsbud, 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 after night for three 
 years past ? have I 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 
 i 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 ; if 
 it were not for Providence, sure, poor sir Paul, thy 
 heart would break. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Sir Paul and Lady Plyant, 
 
 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 
 jsour 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 1 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. 
 
 Lody 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 here 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 XL 
 
 Careless and Sir Paul. 
 
 Care. Sir Paul, I'm glad I've met with you : 
 'gad I have said all I could, but can't prevail. — 
 Then my friendship to you has carried me a little 
 farther in this matter — - 
 
 Sir Paul. Indeed !— Well, sir.— [Aside.] 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 with me to my lady, I can't contain 
 myself; come, my dear friend. 
 
 Care. So, so, so, this difficulty's over. [Aside. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 Mellefont, Maskwell, from different 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 
 thee! 
 
SCENE XVII. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 190 
 
 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. 
 Maskwell and Lord Touchwood. 
 
 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. 
 
 I ord 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 
 nave 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 what 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 him, 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 I — 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, I 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 ! — Oh that her lord were but sweating behind 
 this hanging, with the expectation of what 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 Maskwell, entering.] I was accus 
 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 still 
 behind-hand, still to be more and more indebted 
 to your goodness. 
 
 Lady 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 ! Thus 
 may my lips be ever closed. — [Kisses 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. [Aside.] That I believed; 'twas well I 
 left the private passage open. 
 
 Lady Touch. So, that's safe. 
 
 Mask. And so may all your pleasures be, and 
 secret as this kiss. 
 
 Mel. [Leaping out.] And may all treachery be 
 thus discovered ! 
 
 Lady Touch. Ah ! [Shrieks. 
 
 Mel. Villain ! [Offers to draw. 
 
 Mask. Nay, then, there's but one way. 
 
 [Rung ou l 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 Lady Touchwood and Mellefont. 
 
 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. 
 
 Lady Touch. Be damned ! 
 
 Mel. Consider I have you on the hook ; you 
 will but flounder yourself a-weary, and be never- 
 theless my prisoner. 
 
 Lady Touch. I'll hold my breath and die, but 
 I'll be free. 
 
 Mel. O madam, have 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 little penance and 
 my absolution, all this may turn to good account. 
 
 Lady 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. [She 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 ; 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. 
 
 Maskwell 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, I 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 you not let me 
 go ? — I'll forgive all that's past — O heaven, you 
 will not ravish me ! 
 
 Mel. Damnation ! 
 
 Lord Touch. Monster ! dog ! your life shall 
 answer this — 
 [Draws, and runs at Mellefont, 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 ! 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 ! 
 
 [As Lady Touchwood retires she turns back and 
 
 smiles atjiini. 
 
 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. 
 
 Mellefont. 
 
 O I could curse my stars ! fate and chance ! all 
 causes and accidents of fortune in this life ! But 
 to what purpose ? Yet 'sdeath ! for a man to have 
 the fruit of all his industry grow full and ripe, 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE DQUBLE-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 fairer 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. [Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Gallery in Lord Touchwood's 
 House. 
 
 Lady Touchwood and Maskwell. 
 
 Lady Touch. Was't not lucky ? 
 
 Mask. Lucky ! Fortune is your own, and 'tis 
 her interest so to be. By heaven, I 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 II. 
 Maskwell. 
 
 So ; I durst not own my introducing my lox'd, 
 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 ! [Aside. 
 
 Mask. '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 
 have served a worthy lord, to whom I owe myself. 
 
 Lord Touch. Excellent man ! [Aside. 
 
 Mask. 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, 
 so unhoped for, so unthought of ! 
 
 Lord Touch. I will confirm it, and rejoice with 
 thee. 
 
 02 
 
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 ull 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 Cynthin, 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 ! 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. 
 
 Lady 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 with 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 ! 
 
 Lord Touch. I tell you he confessed it to me. 
 
 Lady Touch. Confusion ! how's this ! [Aside. 
 
 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'll 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 ! Oh, I am wild 
 with this surprise of treachery ! It is impossible, it 
 cannot be ! — He love Cynthia ! What, have I been 
 bawd to his designs, his property only, a baiting 
 place ! 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 VIII. 
 
 Lady Touchwood and Sir Paul. 
 
 Sir Paul. Madam ! sister ! my lady sister ! did 
 you see my lady, my wife ? 
 
 Lady Touch. Oh, torture ! [Aside. 
 
 Sir Paul. Gadsbud, 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 Touch. Why, th'en, 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. — Gadsbud, 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. Hear me ; consent to the breaking 
 off this marriage, and the promoting any other, 
 without consulting me, and I'll renounce all blood, 
 all relation and 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. 
 
SCENE XII. 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 ly? 
 
 Lady Touch. Fool ! sot ! insensible ox ! But 
 remember what I said to you, or you bad better 
 eat your own horns ; by this light you had. 
 
 Sir Paul. You're a passionate woman, gadsbud ! 
 — But to say truth, all our family are choleric ; I 
 am the only peaceable person amongst 'em. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Mellefont, 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 I have once resolved ; and a true female 
 courage to oppose anything that resists my will, 
 though 'twere reason itself. 
 
 Mash. That's right, — Well, T'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 ? 
 
 Mask. 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 don'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 you. 
 
 Mel. So— 
 
 Mask. 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 you 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 Jesuit — 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 or praise thee, I 
 should waste the little time we have. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Cynthia and Maskwell. 
 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. 
 
 Maskwell. 
 
 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 a 
 finger in't : he promised me to be within at this 
 hour. — Mr. Saygrace ! Mr. Say grace i 
 
 [Goes to the chamber door, and knocks. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 Maskwell and Saygrace. 
 
 Say. [Looking out] 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 he 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 she 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. [Exit. 
 
 Mask. It will be the fii'st you have so served. 
 
198 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 Lord Touchwood and Maskwell. 
 
 Lord Touch. Sure I was born to be controlled 
 by those I should command : my very slaves will 
 shortly give me rules how I shall govern them. 
 
 Mask. I am 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 
 mean ? 
 
 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.— [A loud.] Did 
 not your lordship tell her of the honours you de- 
 signed me ? 
 
 Lord Touch. Yes. 
 
 Mask. 'Tis that ; 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'll 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 Cynthia. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Cyn. Here he comes. 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 
 Careless, Cynthia, and Mellefont. 
 
 Cyn. 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. 
 
 Cyn. My lord musing ! {.Aside. 
 
 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. {Aside. 
 
 Lord Touch. Cynthia here ! — 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. [Within] 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 Touchwood 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 I 
 
 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 my sight !— But then 'twill 
 be too late to know. — Thou hast, thou hast found 
 the only way to turn my rage ; too well thou 
 knowest my jealous soul could never bear uncer- 
 tainty. Speak then, and tell me. — Yet are you 
 
SCENE XX. 
 
 THE DOUBLE DEALER. 
 
 199 
 
 silent ? Oh, I am bewildered in all passions ! but 
 thus my anger melts. — [ Weeps.} — Here, take this 
 poniard, for my very spirits faint, and I want 
 strength to hold it ; thou hast disarmed my soul. 
 
 [Gives 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 ; 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 my 
 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 confined within the 
 puny province of a girl ! No — yet though I dote 
 on each 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. \Givss the dagger. 
 
 Lady Touch. Thou canst deceive everybody, — 
 nay, thou hast deceived me ; but 'tis as I would 
 wish. — Trusty villain ! I could worship thee ! 
 
 Mask. No more. — 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! 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 
 Maskwell. 
 
 So, this wasa pinch indeed ; my invention was upon 
 the rack, and made discovery of her last plot : I 
 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 ! 
 
 Cyn. My lord, have patience, and be sensible 
 how great our happiness is that this discovery 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 Froth and Sir Paul. 
 
 Lord Froth. By heavens, I have slept an age ! 
 — Sir Paul, what o'clock is't ? Past eight, on my 
 conscience ! my 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 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 Sir Paul. Nay, only about poetry, I suppose, 
 my lord ; making couplets. 
 Lord Froth. Couplets ! 
 Sir Paul. O, here they come. 
 
 SCENE XXI. 
 Lord Froth, Sir Paul, Lady Froth, and Brisk. 
 
 Brisk. My lord, your humble servant: — sir Paul, 
 yours. — The finest night ! 
 
 Lady 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, I 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 own, thank you, 
 my dear. 
 
 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 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 in'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. 
 
 SCENE XXII. 
 
 Lord Froth, Sir Paul, Lady Froth, Brisk, Lady Plyant, 
 
 Careless, and Cynthia. 
 
 Lady Ply. 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. 
 
 Lady Froth. Mr. Brisk, my coach shall set you 
 down. [A great shriek from the corner of the stage. 
 
 All. What's the matter ? 
 
 SCENE XXIII. 
 
 Lord Froth, Sir Paul, Lady Froth, Brisk, Lady Plyant, 
 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 Paup., 
 Lady Plyant, CyNTHiA, Brisk, Careless ; Mellefont 
 disguised in a parson's habit, and pulling in Maskwell. 
 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 ! 
 
 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 seize him. 
 
 Care. Miracle of ingratitude ! 
 
 Brisk. This is all 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, 1 
 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. 
 
 lExeunt omnes. 
 
THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 201 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. MOUNTFORD. 
 
 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 stolen, 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 teaming. 
 Beaux judge of dress ; the witlings judge of songs : 
 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. 
 
^/UstJn^^rtJr* 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 a ©omtirg. 
 
 Nudus agris, nudus nummis paternis, 
 * * * * 
 
 Insanire parat certa ratione modoque.— Horat. Lib. ii. Sat. 3. 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET AND MIDDLESEX, 
 
 LORD CHAMBERLAIN OF HIS MAJESTY'S HOUSEHOLD, AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &C. 
 
 My Lord, — A young poet is liable to tbe same vanity and indiscretion with a young lover ; and the great man who 
 smiles 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 different motive, which will a little distinguish the offenders. 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 prayer for your protection. 
 
 I am not ignorant of the common form of poetical dedications, which are generally made up of panegyrics, where the 
 authors endeavour 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 behave 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 panegyrie to the Emperor Trajan he says—" Nee minus considerabo quid aures 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 were omitted on the stage, and particularly one whole 
 scene in the third Act, which not only helps the design forward with less precipitation, 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 kind reception it had from the 
 town, I could heartily wish it yet shorter ; but the number of different characters represented in it would have been too 
 much crowded in less room. 
 
 Thisi-eflection on prolixity (a fault for which scarce any one beauty will atone) warns me not to be tedious now, and 
 detain your Lordship any longer with the trifles of, my Lord, your Lordship's most obedient, and most humble servant, 
 
 WILL. CONGREVE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sir Sampson Legend, Father to Valentine and Ben. 
 
 Valentine, fallen under his Father's displeasure by 
 his expensive way of living, in love with Angelica. 
 
 Scandal, his Friend, a free speaker. 
 
 Tattle, a half-witted Beau, vain of his amours, yet 
 valuing himself for secrecy. 
 
 Ben, Sir Sampson's younger Son, half home-bred, and 
 half sea-bred, designed to marry Miss Prue. 
 
 Foresight, an illiterate old fellow, peevish and posi- 
 tive, superstitious, and pretending to understand 
 Astrology, Palmistry, Physiognomy, Omens, Breams, 
 Sfc. Uncle to Angelica. 
 
 Jeremy, Servant to Valentine. 
 
 Trapland, a Scrivener. 
 
 Buckram, a Lawyer. 
 
 Snap, a Bailiff. 
 
 Angelica, Niece to Foresight, of a considerable For- 
 tune in her oivn hands. 
 
 Mrs. Foresight, second Wife to Foresight. 
 
 Mrs. Frail, Sister to Mrs. Foresight, a Woman of 
 the Town. 
 
 Miss Prue, Baughter to Foresight by a former Wife, 
 a silly awkward country Girl. 
 
 Nurse to Miss Prue. 
 
 Jenny, Maid to Angelica. 
 
 Steward, Sailors, and Servants. 
 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
SCENE I 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 203 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN, AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW HOUSE, BY MR. BETTERTON. 
 
 The husbandman in vain renews his toil, 
 
 To cultivate each year a hungry soil ; 
 
 And fondly hopes for rich and generous fruit, 
 
 When what 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 ancient stocks removed. 
 
 Well may they hope, when you so kindly aid, 
 
 Well plant a soil which you 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 ill-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 rage, 
 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, 
 I He offers but this one excuse, 'twas writ 
 i Before your late encouragement of wit. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — Valentine's Lodging. 
 
 Valentjne discovered reading, Jeremy waiting .- several 
 books upon the table. 
 
 Val. Jeremy ! 
 
 Jer. Sir? 
 
 Val. Here, take away; I'll walk a turn, and 
 digest what I have read. 
 
 Jer. [Aside.] You'll grow devilish fat upon this 
 paper diet. - [Takes 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 ? 
 
 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, 
 or 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, I know it ; and yet, 
 heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit ; — 
 but I was always a fool when I told you what your 
 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 you 
 as much as they do one another. 
 
 Val. Well, and now I am poor I have an oppor- 
 tunity to be revenged on 'em 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 in a condition to he 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 out of their 
 hands. 
 
 Jer. Now heaven, of mercy, continue the tax 
 upon paper ! you don't mean to write ! 
 
 Val. 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, sirrah, 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 it, than to be canonised for a Muse 
 after my decease. 
 
 Val. You are witty, you rogue ! I shall want 
 your help ; I'll have you learn to make couplets, 
 to tag the ends of acts ; d'ye hear, get the maids to 
 crambo in an evening, and learn the knack of 
 rhyming : you may arrive at the height of a song 
 sent by an unknown hand, or a chocolate-house 
 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 youturnpoet 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 I 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 other porters for hire, 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 be paid 
 him, like the wages of sin, either at the day of 
 marriage, or the day of death. 
 
 Val. Very well, sir ; 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 the 
 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. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Valentine, Scandal, and Jeremy. 
 
 Scan. What, Jeremy holding forth ? 
 
 Val. The rogue has (with all the wit he could 
 muster up) been declaiming against wit. 
 
 Scan. 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. 
 
 Scan. 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 ? must you 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 how 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. Rail ? at whom ? the whole world ? Im- 
 potent and vain ! who would die a martyr to sense 
 in a country where 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 hfe. 
 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 t door.'] Jeremy, see who's 
 there. — [Exit 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. 
 
 Re-enter 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 III. 
 
 Valentine 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 such 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, learn 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. 
 
 Valentine, 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, 
 [Gives 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 with my 
 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 ! 
 — 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. [Sits.] 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, fill, 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.] And how does your handsome 
 daughter ? Come, a good husband to her. 
 
 [Drinks. 
 
 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. 
 
 Vah 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 ! 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 you 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 Jeremy.] 
 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 ! 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. 
 
20G 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Valentine, Scandal, Jeremy, Trapland, 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 in Pall-mall and 
 Covent-garden ; and if we don't make haste, the 
 chairmen will be abroad, and block up the choco- 
 late-houses, and then our labour's lost. 
 
 Trap. Udso, that's true. — Mr. Valentine, I love 
 mirth, but business must be done ; are you ready 
 to— 
 
 Jer. Sir, your father's steward says he comes to 
 make proposals concerning your debts. 
 
 Vol. 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, 
 who whispers Valentine. 
 
 Scan. 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 ? 
 
 Vol. \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 — 
 
 Vol. No apology, good Mr. Scrivener, you shall 
 be paid. 
 
 Trap. I hope you forgive me, my business 
 requires — 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Valentine and Scandal. 
 
 Scan. He begs pardon like a hangman at an 
 execution. 
 
 Vol. But I have got a reprieve. 
 
 Scan. I am surprised ; what, does your father 
 relent ? 
 
 Val. No ; 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 wait 
 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 believedj and refuses the 
 reputation of a lady's favour, as a doctor says No 
 to a bishopric, only that it may be 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. 
 
 Scan. 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. 
 
SCENE XIII. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 207 
 
 Tat. But how barbarous that is, and bow 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 handled 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 1 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 I 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. 
 
 Scan. How ! 
 
 Val. 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 
 stories, and say this and that of one and t'other, 
 and everything in the world ; and, says I, if your 
 grace — 
 
 Sean. Grace ! 
 
 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 linguce. — 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. {Hums a song. 
 
 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. 
 
 Val. 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 a 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 ? you 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 you not tell me — 
 
 Scan. No, you told us. 
 
 Tat. And bid me ask Valentine ? 
 
 Val. What did I say ? I hope you won't bring 
 me to confess an answer, when you never asked me 
 the question ? 
 
 Tat. But, gentlemen, this is the most inhuman 
 proceeding — 
 
 Val. 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. 
 
 Valentine, Scandal, Tattle, and Jeremy. 
 
 Jer. Sir, Mrs. Frail has sent to know if you are 
 stirring. 
 
 Val. Show her up when she comes. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 Valentine, Scandal, and Tattle. 
 
 Tat. I'll be gone. 
 
 Val. You'll meet her. 
 
 Tat. 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 but 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. 
 
 Val. 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. "lis very hard. — Won't a baronet's lady 
 pass ? 
 
 Scan. No, nothing under a right honourable. 
 
 Tat. O inhuman ! you don't expect their names ? 
 
 Scan. 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 must 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. 
 
 Tat. 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 ! 
 
 Tat. 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 be particular ; — but 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 ; 
 tbere 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. Pox take 'em ! 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. — 'Tis 
 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 you 
 have a great many pictures. 
 
 Tat. I have a pretty good collection at your 
 service, some originals. 
 
 Scan. Hang him, he has nothing but the Seasons 
 and the Twelve Ceesars, 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, characters, and 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, 
 
ACT II. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 209 
 
 foppery, vanity, cowardice, bragging, lechery, 
 impotence and ugliness in another piece ; and yet 
 one of these is a celebrated beauty, and t'other a 
 professed beau. I have paintings too, some 
 pleasant enoughs 
 
 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. 
 
 Scan. 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 
 shall see. 
 
 Frail. Well, I'll come, if it be but to disprove you. 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 
 Valentine, Scandal, Tattle, Mrs. Frail, and 
 Jeremy. 
 
 Jer. Sir, here's the steward again from your 
 father. 
 
 Vol. 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. 
 
 Vol. Tell Angelica, I am about making hard 
 conditions to come abroad, and be at liberty to 
 see her. 
 
 Scan. I'll 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 your 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. {.Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Foresight'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 
 born, 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 II. 
 
 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 warrant 
 she's fond o' seeing the town ; — marry, pray heaven, 
 they ha' given her any dinner. — Goodlack-a-day, 
 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! O strange ! I'll vow and swear now, — 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! marry, and did you ever see the like i 
 
 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 I 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. 
 
 Ang. 
 uncle ? 
 order. 
 
 Angelica, Foresight, and Nurse. 
 
 Is it not a good hour for pleasure too, 
 pray lend me your coach, mine's out of 
 
210 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 act ir. 
 
 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, 
 Withouten 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 fruitful 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, 
 uncle, 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 full 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, Jill-flirt, you are very pert — and 
 always ridiculing that celestial science. 
 
 Ang. 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 eclipse, 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 ground, or at least 
 making a voyage to Greenland, to inhabit there all 
 the dark season. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Nurse. O merciful father, how she talks ! 
 
 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 ! — I 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 the 
 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 
 will. 
 
 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 ! 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 will 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 be 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 ! there 
 are a great many horned beasts amoug 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 anything 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 shall 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. 
 
 Angelica, Foresight, Nurse, 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. [Exit. 
 
 Fore. Well — why, if I was born to be a cuckold, 
 there's no more to be said — he's here already. 
 
 
SCENE VII. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 211 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Foresight and Sir Sampson with a paper. 
 
 Sir Samp. Nor no more to be done, old boy 5 
 that's plain. — Here 'tis, I have it in my hand, old 
 Ptolomee ; I'll make the ungracious prodigal know 
 who begat him ; 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, signatitm, 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 but hold. 
 I wish things were done, and the conveyance made. 
 When was this signed, what hour ? Odso, you 
 should have consulted me for the time. Well, but 
 we'll make haste. 
 
 Sir Samp. Haste, ay, ay ; haste enough, my 
 son Ben will be in town to night. — I 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 wise ; and sapiens 
 dominabitur astris ; there's Latin for you to prove 
 it, and an argument to confound your ephemeris. — 
 Ignorant ! — 1 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 you, 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 sextiles, quad- 
 rates, trines and oppositions, fiery trigons and 
 aquatical trigons. Know whether life shall be long 
 or short, happy or unhappy, whether diseases are 
 curable or incurable. If journeys shall be 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. [Aside.] What, does he twit me with my 
 wife too ? I must be better informed of this. — 
 [Aloud.] 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 modern 
 Mandeville ! Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a 
 type of thee, thou liar of the first magnitude ! Take 
 back 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 trusty 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 ? — I 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 with 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. 
 
 Foresight, Sir Sampson, and Jeremy. 
 
 Sir Samp. How now, who sent for you ? hu I 
 what would you have ? 
 
 [Jeremy whispers Sir Sampson. 
 
 Fore. Nay, if you were but in jest — Who's that 
 fellow ? I don't like his physiognomy. 
 
 Sir Samp. [ To Jeremy.] My son, sir ; what j 
 son, sir ? my son Benjamin, hoh ? 
 
 Jer. No, sir ; Mr. Valentine, my master. — 'Tis \ 
 the first time he has been abroad since his confine- j 
 ment, and he comes to pay his duty to you. 
 
 Sir Samp. Well, sir. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Foresight, Sir Sampson, Valentine, and Jeremy. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 P2 
 
212 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 Val. 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 
 filial 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 Holborn-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 1 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 a 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, 1 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 you 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 born 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 me 
 the spleen. 
 
 Sir Samp. The spleen, ha ! 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 born 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 were 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. 
 
gCENB X. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 213 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Valentine and Jeremy, 
 
 Jer. I told you 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 
 earnest.— I'll avoid 'em.— Come this way, and go 
 and inquire when Angelica will return. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Mrs. Foresight and Mrs. Frail. 
 
 'slife, 
 
 Frail. What have you to do to watch me 
 I'll do what 1 please. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. You will ? 
 
 Frail. Yes, 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?— rl warrant 
 if you had been there, it had been only innocent 
 recreation. — Lord, where' s the comfort of this life, 
 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 a hackney-coach 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 
 thought yourself happy in a hackney-coach before 
 now. — If I had gone to Knightsb ridge, or to Chelsea, 
 or to Spring-Garden, or Barn 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 ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. I suppose you would not go alone to 
 theWorld's-End. 
 
 Frail. The 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 ; you never were at the World's-End ° 
 
 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. 
 
 Mrs. 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 but 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 mado 
 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 of 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 an 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. Frail, Tattle, and Miss Prue, 
 
 Prue. Mother, mother, mother, look you here ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Fy, fy, miss ! how you bawl. — 
 Besides, I have told you, you must not call me 
 mother. 
 
 Prue. 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 all 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 ; 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 ! — 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 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. A cunning cur ! 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. Tattle'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 ! who'll believe you ? — 
 You'd be hanged before you'd confess — we know 
 you— she's very pretty !— Lord, what pure red and 
 white ! — she looks so wholesome ; — ne'er stir, I 
 don't know, but I fancy, if I 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 ! — 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 ! 
 — 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 ; — remember I 
 wash my hands of it— I'm throughly innocent. 
 
 SCENE XL 
 Tattie and Miss Prue. 
 
 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 
 love me too. If I tell you you are handsome, 
 you must deny it, and say I flatter you. But 
 you must think yourself hiore charming than I 
 speak you : and like me, for the beauty which 
 I 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 ; — 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. Weil, my pretty creature ; will you make 
 me happy by giving me a kiss ? 
 
 Prue. No, indeed ; I'm angry at you. 
 
 IRuns 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 again. 
 
LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 215 
 
 Tat. With all my heart. — Now, then, my little 
 angel ! [Kisses her. 
 
 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. 
 
 Tai. Oh, my dear apt scholar ! 
 
 Prue. Well, now I'll run, and make more haste 
 tban you. 
 
 Tat. You shall not fly so fast as I'll pursue. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Gallery adjoining Prue's 
 Bedchamber. 
 
 Nurse. 
 
 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 ! — 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 i — [Knocks.'] Od's my life ! won't you open 
 the door ? — III 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 ! 
 
 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 indifference for uacertaintv : 
 
 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 Scanoaj.. 
 
 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! 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 
 
21G 
 
 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. 
 
 Vol, There, now it's out. 
 
 Ang. I 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 power ; 
 but you would if you could, no doubt on't. 
 
 Tat. Not in my power, madam ! what, does 
 your ladyship mean that I have no woman's repu- 
 tation in my power ? 
 
 Scan. [Aside to Tattle.] 'Oons, why, you 
 won't own 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 ! 
 
 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 a 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? 
 
 Scan. 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's very true, madam, I think we 
 
 are obliged to acquit ourselves ; and for my part — 
 but your 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 this 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 Pall-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 ; and a lady 
 of quality, that shall be nameless, in a raging fit of 
 jealousy, came down in her coach and six horses, 
 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. [Exit. 
 
 Tat. For Heaven's sake if you do guess, say 
 nothing ; gad, I'm very unfortunate. 
 
 Re-enter- Scandal with one to sing. 
 
 Scan. Pray sing the first song in the last new 
 play. 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 217 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A nymph and a swain to Apollo once pray'd, 
 
 The swain had been jilted, the nymph been 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 won't betray in whom none will confide : 
 
 And the nymph may be chaste that has never been tried." 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Angelica, Valentine, Scandal, Tattle, Sir Sampson, 
 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. — [Exit 
 Servant.] I'm ready to cry for joy. 
 
 Frail. Now, miss, you shall see your husband. 
 
 Prue. [Aside to Mrs. Frail.] Pish, he shall 
 be none of my husband. 
 
 Frail. [Aside to 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 the 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 
 the deed of conveyance of my estate ; and I'll 
 defer it as long as I can. — Well, you'll come to a 
 resolution ? 
 
 Aug. 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 
 iri-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 ma-rry, 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, 
 T 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 desponding 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 Prue, 
 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. 
 
 Ben. Thank you, father, and I'm glad to see 
 you. 
 
 Sir Samp. Odsbud, and I am glad to see thee ; 
 kiss me, boy, kiss me again and again, dear Ben. 
 
 [Kisses 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. — [Salutes her."} 
 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. 
 
 [Kisses Miss Prue. 
 
 Tat. 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 
 
s 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 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. 
 
 Fnail. 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 ! he ! he ! 
 
 Ang. I swear, Mr. Benjamin is the 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 gentlewoman is not angry; 
 I mean all in good part ; for if I give a jest I'll 
 take a jest : and so, forsooth, you may 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 to Miss Prub.J 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. I warrant thee, boy ; come, come, 
 we'll be gone ; I'll venture that. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Ben and Miss Prue. 
 
 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 
 dumb ; I can be heard as far as another; — I'll heave 
 
 off to please you — [Sits farther off.] An we were 
 a league 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 my 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 you, 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. — As 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 o' 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 [Cries], 
 you durst not talk at this rate ; — no, you durst not, 
 you stinking tar-barrel ! 
 
SCENE XI. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 21 9 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Ben, Miss Prue, Mrs. Foresight, and Mrs. Frail. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. [Aside to Mrs. 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 
 I 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 ? 
 
 [Looking 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 melancholic, 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 Sampson, 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 ? 
 Scan. 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 
 Blackwall. 
 
 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 ; 
 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 ao with 
 his dreams or his divinations ? — Body o'me. this is 
 a trick to defer signing the conveyance. I 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 conscien- 
 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! — Humanumesterrare. 
 
 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 ! 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. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 I did not think you had been read in these matters. 
 — 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 justly. 
 
 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 ; and 
 looked just so. 
 
 Fore. How ! am I altered any way ? I don't 
 perceive it. 
 
 Scan. That may be, but your beard is longer 
 than it was two hours ago. 
 
 Fore. Indeed ! bless me ! 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 Scandal, Foresight, and Mrs. Foresight. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Husband, will you go to bed ? it's 
 ten o'clock — Mr. Scandal, your servant. 
 
 Scan. [Aside.] Pox on her ! she has inter- 
 rupted my design :— but I must work her into 
 the project — [A loud.~\ You keep early hours, 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Mr. Foresight is punctual, we sit 
 up after him. 
 
 Fore. My dear, pray lend me your glass, your 
 little looking-glass. 
 
 Scan. Pray, lend it him, madam — I'll tell 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, brings me 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'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 1 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 ! — hem, hem, hem ! faintish. My 
 heart is pretty good ; yet it beats ; and my pulses, 
 ha ! — I have none — mercy on me ! — hum — yes, 
 here they are — gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, 
 gallop, hey ! whither will 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 ! 
 
 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 been 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 ; I hope this will be gone by 
 morning; taking it in time. 
 
 Fore. I hope so. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 Scandal, Foresight, Mrs. Foresight, and Nurse. 
 
 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, 
 i let me have a watch-light, and lay the Crumbs 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 ! — just upon the turning of the tide, 
 bring me the urinal. And I hope, neither the lord 
 of my ascendant, nor the moon, vail be combust ; 
 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. 
 
SCKNE XV. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 221 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 Scandal and Mrs. Foresight. 
 
 Scan. Good night, good Mr. Foresight ; and I 
 hope Mars and Venus will be in conjunction, while 
 your wife and I are together. 
 
 Mrs. Fere. 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 ; 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. 
 
 Mrs. 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 a villanous 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 liberty 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 ; 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 ! 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, Mrs. Forksight, Mrs. Frail, and Ben. 
 
 Ben. 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 he 
 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. 
 
 Ben. 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 mayhap 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, you don't think I'm false- 
 hearted like 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'll 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 with a song. 
 
 Ben. The song was made upon one of our 
 ship's crew's wife ; our boatswain made the 
 song ; 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 name 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, 
 He loved her more than plunder ; 
 
222 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 And show'd her many a scar, sir, 
 That he had brought from far, 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 leak. 
 
 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 just 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 I'll make 
 one. 
 
 Ben. We're merry folks, we sailors, we han't 
 much to care for. Thus we live at sea ; eat biscuit, 
 and drink 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 bed. For my part, I mean to toss a 
 can, and remember my sweetheart, afore I turn in ; 
 mayhap I may dream of her. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Mr. Scandal, you had best go to 
 bed and dream too. 
 
 Scan. Why faith, I have a good lively imagina- 
 tion ; and can dream as much 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 finish'd man. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I — Valentine's Lodging. 
 Scandal and Jeremy. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Jer. 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 t 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 II. 
 
 Scandal, Jeremy, Angelica, 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. [Aside.] 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. — 
 [Aloud.] May I not see him ? 
 
 Scan. I'm afraid the physician is not willing 
 you should see him yet. — Jeremy, go in and 
 inquire. 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 223 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Scandal, Angelica, and Jenny. 
 
 Ang. [Aside.] 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. Therefore 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 — but 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, orave 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. 
 
 composition, 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Scandal and Jeremy. 
 
 Scan. Humph ! — An admirable 
 faith, this same womankind ! 
 
 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 joyful 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 Buckram. 
 
 the 
 
 Sir Samp. D'ye see, Mr. Buckram, here's 
 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. — O s 
 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 ! 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 ! — Speak to be understood, and tell me in plain 
 terms what the matter is with him, or 1*11 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. Valentine upon a couch, disorderly dressed. 
 
 Sir Samp. How now I what's here to do ? 
 
 Vol. 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. 
 
 AOT IV. 
 
 and people that we do not know ; and yet the sun 
 shines upon 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 black ? — does 
 he carry his conscience withoutside ? — Lawyer, 
 what art thou ? dost thou know me ? 
 
 Buck. 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 tell ; I have very 
 few acquaintance. 
 
 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 'sin 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 VII. 
 Sir Sampson, Valentine, 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 ! but I'm glad 
 thou art better, honest Val. 
 
 Val. I thank you, sir. 
 
 Scan. Miracle ! the monster grows loving. 
 
 I J side. 
 
 Sir Samp. Let me feel thy hand again, Val ; 
 it does 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. 
 Scan. That ever I should suspect such a heathen 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Sir Samp. Dost thou know this paper, Val ? I 
 know thou'rt honest, and wilt perform articles. 
 
 [Shows 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 — [Reads.'] 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 up in 
 
 my pocket, Val, and then nobody need hold it 
 
 [Puts 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. 
 
 of any remorse 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Sir Sampson, Valentine, Scandal, Jeremy, and 
 Buckram. 
 
 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 Jeremy. 
 
 Val. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you need not run so fast, 
 honesty wiil not overtake you. — Ha ! ha ! 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 
 you 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-cook, 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 ! sayest thou so ? thou 
 hast nicked it. — But, it's wonderful strange, 
 Jeremy. 
 
SCENE XIII. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 225 
 
 Jer. What is, sir ? 
 
 Vol. That grey hairs should cover a green head, 
 and I make a fool of my father. — What's here ! 
 Err a Pater, or a bearded Sibyl ? If Prophecy 
 comes, Truth must give place. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 Sir Sampson, Scandal, Foresight, Mrs. Foresight, 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, we 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 Longomontanus, 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. 
 
 Scandal, 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 ? [Considers. 
 
 Scan. Madam, you and I can tell him something 
 else that he did not foresee, and more particularly 
 relating to his own fortune. 
 
 [Aside 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 not 
 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 of before, but 
 never believed. 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 'em. — 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, for my part ! 
 
 Frail. Mr. Benjamin in choler ! 
 
 Ben. No, I'm pleased well enough now I have 
 found you. — Mess, I 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 mo 
 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 1 
 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 husband ; for 
 my part I was none of her man. — I 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. Gad, 
 
 I says I, an you play the fool and marry at these 
 
 Q 
 
225 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 years, 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 ? 
 
 Ben. Then why was he graceless first ? — If I am 
 undutiful and graceless, why did he beget me so ? 
 I did not get myself. 
 
 Frail. O impiety ! how have I been mistaken ! 
 what an inhuman merciless creature have I set my 
 heart upon ! 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 mores'— 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 
 make 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 I know your 
 mind, tho'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 ; don't call 
 names, — I don't love you so well as to bear that, 
 whatever I did. I'm glad you show yourself, 
 mistress. — Let them marry you, as don't know 
 you : — gad, I know you too well, by sad experi- 
 ence ; I believe he that marries you will go to sea 
 in 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. [.Exit. 
 
 Frail. Ha ! ha ! ha ! no doubt on't ; — 
 
 My true love is gone to sea — [.Sings. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 
 Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight. 
 
 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. I 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 Jeremy. 
 
 Scan. And have you given your master a hint 
 of their plot upon him ? [To Jeremy. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Val. 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 happen 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 questions 
 concerning to-morrow. 
 
 Scan. Ask him, Mr. Foresight. 
 
 Fore. Pray, what will be done at court ? 
 
 Val. Scandal will tell you : — I am Truth, I never 
 come there. 
 
 Fore. In the city ? 
 
 Val. Oh, prayers will be said in empty churches, 
 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 
 
SCENE XVI. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 227 
 
 the city ; the clocks will strike twelve at noon, and 
 the homed 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 crept 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- 
 garden 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 the calves 
 of twenty chairmen, and make thee pedestals to 
 stand erect upon, and look matrimony in the face. 
 Ha ! ha ! 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. 
 
 Vol. 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 you ? 
 
 Val. Hark ye— I have a secret to tell you — 
 Endymion and the moon shall meet 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 ! Nobody 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 I 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, Valentine, Scandal, 
 Foresight, Jeremy, Tattle, and Angelica. 
 
 Jer. I'll take care, and — 
 
 Val. Whisper. 
 
 Ang. 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, 
 such 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. [Aside.] 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 both ; there you see the ruins of a 
 poor decayed creature, — here a complete and lively 
 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. 
 
 Tat. 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 ; for no fire can fetch it out. I am no blab, 
 sir. 
 
 Val. [Aside 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 with Jeremv . 
 
 Tat. Do you know me, Valentine ? 
 Q2 
 
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 not borrow money of 
 me ; then what employment have I for a friend ? 
 
 Tat. Ha ! a good open speaker, and not to be 
 trusted with a secret. 
 
 Ang. Do you know me, Valentine ? 
 
 Val. Oh,, very well. 
 
 Ang. Who am I ? 
 
 Val. You're a woman, — one to whom heaven 
 gave beauty, 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. 
 
 Tat. 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 be 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. [Aside to Scandal. 
 
 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 ; in short, 
 I will deny thee nothing. 
 
 Tat. Madam, shall I wait upon you :' 
 
 [To Angelica. 
 
 Ang. 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 Scaneal. 
 
 Ang. Mr. Scandal, I only 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 all 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 inclinations. 
 
 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 
 hanged. 
 
 Val. 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 ! 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. [Siglts. 
 
 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 to 
 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 barbarous to misunderstand me 
 longer ! 
 
 SCENE XIX. 
 
 Valentine, Angelica, and Jeremy. 
 
 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 substantially mad as any free- 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 229 
 
 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 
 madman 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 again 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 ! — 
 [Knocking at the door.} Who's there ? 
 
 Val. Go see, you sot. — [Exit Jeremy.] 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 exceptious : 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 ; but 
 now you have restored me to my former opinion 
 and compassion. 
 
 Re-enter Jeremy. 
 
 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. 
 
 Ang. Well, have you been there ? — Come hither. 
 
 Jen. [Aside to Angelica.] Yes, madam, sir 
 Sampson will wait upon you presently. 
 
 Val. You are not leaving 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 I'll 
 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 ? I 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 begin 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. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Jen. 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 ! — not since I was 
 five-and-tbirty. 
 
 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 bare 
 
230 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 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. 
 
 Ang. Fifty a contemptible age ! not at all, a 
 very fashionable age, I think. — I assure you, 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 i 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 tbroat ? 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 her 
 husband. I should like a man of 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 out of his money, and 
 now his poverty has run him out of his wits. 
 
 Ang. Sir Sampson, as your 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. I 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, I believe she likes 
 me ! — [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 of 
 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- 
 thing 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 ! what would the world 
 say ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Say ! they would say you were a wise 
 woman and I a happy man. Odd, madam, I'll 
 love you as long as I 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 prac- 
 ticable, I'll give you my answer. 
 
 Sir Samp. With ail my heart : come 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 young man : odzooks, I'm a young man, 
 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 to choose, 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. 
 
8CENE V. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 231 
 
 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 warrant you 
 for little Sampson : odd, Sampson's a very good 
 name for an able fellow : your Sampsons were 
 strong dogs from the beginning. 
 
 Ang. 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. 
 
 Tat. 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, I 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. I 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 a 
 good persuading accent. 
 
 Jer. 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. [Aside.'] O ignorance ! — [Aloud.] 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 ; and 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 her. 
 
 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 before. 
 
 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'll be ready for you. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Tattle and Miss Prue. 
 
 P^ue. O Mr. Tattle, are you here ! 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 ! [Aside. 
 
 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. 
 
 Tat. 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 ? 
 
 Tat. 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 marry is 
 to be a child again, and play with the same rattle 
 always ; O f y ! 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 your 
 own mind. 
 
 Prue. 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 in 
 
232 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 your physiognomy that has a resemblance of her ; 
 and the girl is like me. 
 
 Tat. 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.'] I fancy you have a wrong notion of 
 faces. 
 
 Fore. How ? what ? a wrong notion ! how so ? 
 
 Tai. In the way of art : I have some taking fea- 
 tures, not obvious to vulgar eyes ; that are indica- 
 tions of a sudden turn of good fortune in the lottery 
 of wives ; and promise a great beauty and great 
 fortune reserved alone for me, by a private intrigue 
 of destiny, kept secret from the piercing eye of per- 
 spicuity ; from all astrologers and the stars them- 
 selves. 
 
 Fore. How ? I will make it appear that what 
 you say is impossible. 
 
 Tat. Sir, I beg your pardon, I'm in haste — 
 
 Fore. For what ? 
 
 Tat. To be married, sir, married. 
 
 Fore. Ay, but pray take me along with you, sir — 
 
 Tat. 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 ? 
 
 Tai. Very true, sir, and desire to continue so. 
 I have no more love for your daughter than I have 
 likeness of you ; and I have a secret in my heart, 
 which you would be glad to know, and shan't know ; 
 and yet you shall know it too, and be sorry for it 
 afterwards. I'd have you 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 Miss Prue. 
 
 Prue. O father, why will you let him go ? won't 
 you make him to be my husband ? 
 
 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. 
 
 Prue. A fiddle of a rod ! I'll have a husband : 
 and if you won't get me one, I'll get one for myself. 
 I'll 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 
 thank me too, for he told me so. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Foresight, Miss Prue, Scandal, Mrs. Foresight, and 
 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 ! 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 does 
 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, Scandal, Mrs. Foresight, and Ben. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Ben. 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. I 
 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 tell 
 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, I know not which. 
 
SCENE XI. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 233 
 
 Fore. Well, but they are not mad, that is, not 
 lunatic ? 
 
 Ben. I don't know what you may call madness ; 
 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. 
 
 Foresight, Scandal, Mrs. Foresight, Ben, Sir Sampson, 
 Angelica, and Buckram. 
 
 Sir Samp. Where is this old soothsayer ? this 
 uncle of mine elect ? — 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 lactea ! 
 
 Fore. I'm thunderstruck ! — You are not married 
 to my niece ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Not absolutely married, uncle ; but 
 very near it, within a kiss of the matter, as you see. 
 
 [Kisses 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. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. I'm glad to hear you have so much 
 fire 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. 
 
 Ben. 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 can possibly 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 I believe the devil would not 
 venture aboard o'your conscience. And that's for 
 you. 
 
 Sir Samp. Hold your tongue, sirrah ! — How 
 now ? who's here ? 
 
 SCENE XL 
 
 Sir Sampson, Angelica, Foresight, Mrs. Foresight, 
 Ben, Buckram, Tattle, and Mrs. Frail. 
 
 Frail. O sister, the most unlucky accident ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. What's the matter ? 
 
 Tat. Oh, the two most unfortunate poor creatures 
 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 another. 
 
 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 be 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 I believe I shall lead her a damned 
 sort of a life. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. [Aside to Mrs. Frail.] He's 
 better than no husband at all — though he's a 
 coxcomb. 
 
 Frail. [Aside to Mrs. Foresight.] Ay, ay, 
 it's well it's no worse. — [Aloicd.~] Nay, for my 
 part I always despised Mr. Tattle of all things ; 
 nothing but his being my husband could have made 
 me like him less. 
 
 Tat. Look you there, I thought as much ! — Pox 
 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. 
 
 Ang. O you'll agree very well in a little time ; 
 custom will make it easy to you. 
 
 Tat. Easy ! pox on't ! I don't believe I shall 
 sleep to-night. 
 
 Sir Samp. Sleep, quotha ! no ; why you would 
 not sleep o' your wedding night ! I'm an older 
 fellow than you, and don't mean to sleep. 
 
 Ben. 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 that. — Who's here ? the madman ? 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Valentine, Scandal, Sir Sampson, Angelica, Fore- 
 sight, Mrs. Foresight, Tattle, Mrs. Frail, Ben, 
 Jeremy, and Buckram. 
 
 Vol. 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 I reflect that I very 
 lately counterfeited madness ; 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. 
 
 Buck. Here it is, sir, with the deed ; all is ready. 
 [Valentine goes 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 I think my own inclina- 
 
 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 heart, sir. 
 
 Scan. 'Sdeath, you are not mad indeed, to ruin 
 yourself ? 
 
 Val. I have been disappointed of my only hope ; 
 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 ! [Aside. 
 
 Buck. Here is the deed, sir. 
 
 Val. But where is the bond, by which I am 
 obliged to sign this ? 
 
 Buck. 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 the 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 ! 
 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 avoid 
 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 ! [Exit. 
 
 Tat. If the gentleman is in disorder for want of 
 a wife, I can spare him mine. — [To Jeremy.] Oh, 
 are you there, sir ? I'm indebted to you for my 
 happiness. 
 
 Jer. Sir, I ask you ten thousand pardons ; 'twas 
 an arrant mistake. — You see, sir, my master was 
 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 pro- 
 vided for his own wedding ; methinks 'tis pity they 
 
SCENE XII. 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 235 
 
 should not be employed when the match is so 
 much mended. — Valentine, though it be morning, 
 we may have a dance. 
 
 Vol. Anything, my friend, every thing that looks 
 like joy and transport. 
 
 Scan. Call 'em, Jeremy. 
 
 Ang. I have done dissembling now, Valentine ; 
 and if that coldness which I have always worn 
 before you, should turn to an extreme fondness, 
 you must not suspect it. 
 
 Vol. 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. If ever you seem to 
 love too much, it must be only when I can't love 
 enough. 
 
 Ang. Have a care of promises ; you know you 
 are apt to run more in debt than you are able to 
 pay. 
 
 Val. 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 your 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, only 
 to cover your own want of merit. You would all 
 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 ! In 
 admiring me you misplace the novelty : — 
 
 The miracle to-day is, that we find 
 
 A lover true : not that a woman's kind. 
 
 [Exeunt omncs. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW HOUSE BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 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, 
 j Whom, as I think, they call'd — Py — Py thagories ; — 
 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, we players resemble such a soul ; 
 That, does from bodies, we from houses stroll. 
 Thus Aristotle's soul, of old that was, 
 May now 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 resort 
 
 To shining theatres to see our sport, 
 
 Now find us toss'd into a tennis-court. 
 
 These walls but t'other day were filTd with noise 
 
 Of roaring gamesters, and your damme boys ; 
 
 Then bounding balls and rackets they encompast, 
 
 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. 
 
 a tEragrtrg. 
 
 . Neque enim lex aequior ulla, 
 
 Quam necis artifices arte perire sua — VI »' de Arte Amandi. 
 
 TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Madam,— That high station which hy your birth you hold above the people, exacts from every one, as a duty, 
 whatever honours they are capable of paying to your Royal Highness : 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 duty. 
 
 The public gratitude 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, of 
 consequence has recourse to your Royal Highness's patronage ; aspiring to cast itself 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 influence. 
 
 It is from 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 multitndes 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 contemplating the perfections and real excellences of your Royal Highness's person 
 in your court, may yet behold some small sketches and imagings of the virtues of your mind, abstracted and 
 represented on the theatre. 
 
 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 then 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 eoncern 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 
 approve. 
 
 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 has 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. 
 
 Manuel, the King of Granada. 
 
 Gonsalez, his Favourite. 
 
 Garcia, Son to Gonsalez. 
 
 Perez, Captain of the Guards. 
 
 Alonzo, an Officer, creature to Gonsalez. 
 
 Osmyn, a noble Prisoner. 
 
 He li, a Prisoner, his Friend. 
 
 Selim, a Eunuch 
 
 Almeria, the Princess of Granada. 
 
 Zara, a captive Queen. 
 
 Lkonora, chief Attendant on the Princess. 
 
 Almeria's Women, Eunuchs and Mutes 
 attending Zara, Guards, Prisoners, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 SCENE,— Granada. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 237 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON. 
 
 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 ; 
 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 ; 
 So t'other can foretell, by certain rules, 
 What crops of coxcombs, or what floods of fools. 
 In 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, Leonora waiting in mourning. 
 After the music, Almeria rises from her chair and 
 comes forward. 
 
 Aim. Music has charms to soothe a savage 
 breast, 
 To soften 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 I 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 how 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 < 
 The jarring crowns. 
 
 Aim. Alphonso ! O Alphonso ! 
 
 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 ? 
 Why 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 
 
238 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 ACT 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 ? 
 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 ; 
 
 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 ; 
 
 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 love 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 S 
 
 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 — what ? 
 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 ! 
 But fearful to renew your troubles past, 
 I never did presume 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 his 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 had fallen 
 Amid those flames! — but 'twas not so decreed. 
 Alphonso, who foresaw my father'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 shore, 
 
 And bulging 'gainst a rock was dash'd in pieces ! 
 But Heaven spared me for yet much more affliction ! 
 Conducting them who follow'd us to shun 
 The shoal, and save me floating on the waves, 
 While the good queen and my Alphonso perish'd. 
 
 Leon. Alas ! were you then wedded to Alphonso ? 
 
 Aim. That day, that fatal day, our hands were 
 join'd. 
 For when my lord beheld 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 ensued, 
 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 widow. 
 
 Leon. Indeed 'twas mournful. 
 
 Aim. 'Twas as I have told thee ; 
 
 For which I mourn, and will for ever mourn ; 
 Nor will I change these black and dismal robes, 
 Or ever dry these swollen and watery eyes ; 
 Or ever taste content, or peace of heart, 
 While I have life, and thought of my 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 diffused through the revolving year, 
 Come, heavy-laden with the oppressing weight, 
 To me ; with me, successively, they leave 
 The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares, 
 And all the damps of grief, that did retard their 
 
 flight ; 
 They shake their downy wings, and scatter 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's triumph. 
 
 [Shouts at a distance. 
 
 cease, for heaven's sake, assuage a little 
 This torrent of your grief ; for much I fear 
 'Twill urge his wrath to see you drown'd in tears, 
 When joy appears in every other face. 
 
 Aim. And joy he brihgs to every other heart, 
 But double, double weight of woe to mine ; 
 For with him Garcia comes — Garcia, to whom 
 
 1 must be sacrificed, and all the vows 
 
 I gave my dear Alphonso basely broken. 
 No, it shall never be ; for I will die ; 
 First, die ten thousand deaths ! — Look down, look 
 down, [Kneels. 
 
 Alphonso, hear the sacred vow I make ; 
 One moment cease to gaze on perfect bliss, 
 And bend thy glorious eyes to earth and me ; 
 And thou, Anselmo, if yet thou art arrived, 
 Through all impediments of purging fire, 
 To that bright heaven, where my Alphonso reigns, 
 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 [Rising. 
 My heart has some relief ; having so well 
 Discharged this debt, incumbent on my love. 
 Yet one thing more I would engage from thee. 
 Leon. My heart, my life, and will, are only 
 yours. 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE, 
 
 139 
 
 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 Anselmo's tomb. 
 
 Leon. Alas ! I fear some fatal resolution. 
 
 Aim. No, on my life, my faith, I mean no ill, 
 Nor violence. 1 feel myself more light, 
 And more at large, since I have made this vow. 
 Perhaps I would repeat it there more solemnly. 
 'Tis that, or some such melancholy thought, 
 Upon my word, no more. 
 
 Leon. I will attend you. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Almeria, Leonora, and Alonzo. 
 
 A Ion. The lord Gonsalez comes to tell your 
 The king is just arrived. [highness 
 
 Aim. Conduct him in. [Exit 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 follow ; 
 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 sight ; 
 This sight, which is indeed not seen (though twice 
 The multitude should gaze) in absence of your eyes. 
 
 Aim. My lord, my 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 my 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 been 
 
 born. 
 
 Leon. Madam, the king. [Flourish. 
 
 Aim. My women. I would meet him. 
 
 [Attendants to Almeria enter in mourning. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Symphony of warlike music. Enter Manuel, attended 
 by Garcia and several Officers. Files of Prisoners 
 in chains, and Guards, who are ranged in order 
 round the stage. Almeria 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 friend ! 
 
 Gon. But tears of joy. 
 
 Believe me, sir, to see you thus has fill'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 Some 
 
 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 afflictions 
 
 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 dispensation 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 
 Succeeding that, in which our deadliest foe, 
 Hated Anselmo, 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 ! 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 revelfd 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 ! By 
 
 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 
 
240 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Betray'd by too much piety, to seem 
 As if she had offended. — Sure, no more. 
 
 Man. To seem is to commit, at this 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. [Kneeling.'] Your pardon, sir, if I presume 
 so far, 
 As to remind you of your gracious promise. 
 
 Man. Rise, Garcia — I forgot. Yet stay, Almeria. 
 
 Aim. My boding heart! — What is your pleasure, 
 sitf? 
 
 Man. Draw near, and give your hand ; and, 
 Garcia, yours : 
 Receive this lord, as one whom I have found 
 Worthy to be your husband, and my son. 
 
 Gar. 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! {.Faints. 
 
 Gar. She faints ! help to support her. 
 
 Gon. She recovers. 
 
 Man. A fit of bridal fear ; how is't, Almeria ? 
 
 Aim. A sudden dullness seizes on my spirits. 
 Your leave, sir, to retire. 
 
 Man. Garcia, conduct her. 
 
 [Garcia leads Almeria to the door and returns, 
 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 would Alonzo ? 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Manuel, Gonsalez, Garcia, Alonzo, 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 off. 
 
 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. I would oblige him, but he shuns my 
 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 than his own. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Manuel, Gonsalez, Garcia, Alonzo, Zara and Osmyn 
 bound, conducted by Perez and a Guard, and attended 
 by Selim and several Mutes and Eunuchs in a train. 
 
 Man. What welcome and what honours, beau- 
 teous Zara, 
 A king and conqueror can give, are yours. 
 A conqueror indeed, 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 conquerors 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 feel 
 These bonds, I look with loathing on myself ; 
 And scorn vile slavery, though doubly hid 
 Beneath mock-praises, and dissembled state. 
 
 Man. Those bonds ! 'twas my command you 
 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 
 Fit 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 soul 
 To rule all hearts. 
 Garcia, what's he, who with contracted brow 
 
 {Beholding Osmyn as they unbind 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 characteryou 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 ; and the regret 
 Of not revenging on his foes that loss 
 Has caused this melancholy and despair. 
 
 Man. She does excuse him ; 'tis as I suspected. 
 
 {To Gonsai,ez. 
 
 Gon. That friend may be herself; seem not to heed 
 His arrogant 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 he your care : 
 It shall he mine to pay devotion here ; 
 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 broke 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 ; 
 Ch aosing 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 ; 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, officiously 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 confirm'd or elear'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 ; the tombs 
 And monumental caves of death look cold, 
 And shoot a dullness 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 affrights 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. 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 The Scene opening discovers a place of tombs. One monu- 
 ment fronting the view 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'll follow it. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Almeria 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 loathing. 
 My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount, 
 And range the starry 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. 
 
 Almeria, Leonora ; Osmyn ascending from the tomb. 
 
 Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was 
 
 Alphonso ? 
 Aim. Angels, and all the host of heaven, sup- 
 
 port me ! 
 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 ; 
 
 [Coining 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 VII. 
 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 ! 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 ? |7 orce 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, hor answer how, or why 
 We both have backward trod the paths of fate, 
 To meet again in life ; 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 of 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Osm. 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 ; 
 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 matchless 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 shall 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 with 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. I did ; and thou, my love, didst call me ; 
 thou. 
 
 Aim. True ; but how earnest 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 earnest 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. 
 
 Heli. 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. 
 
 Heli. 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. 
 
 Osmyn. 
 
 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 I 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 — 
 
 R 2 
 
244 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Zaba, Selim, 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 oay 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 see 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 ha\e 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, 1" loosed my hair, 
 And with it dried thy wat'ry cheeks ; then dhafed 
 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, 
 Whicli 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 ; 
 Ruin ! '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 I hold him 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 thou 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 stave, 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 trembling 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 ! 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 245 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Zara, Osmyn, Selim, Manuel, Perez, and Attendants. 
 Man. Why does the fairest of her kind with- 
 draw 
 Her shining from the day, to gild this scene 
 Of death and night ? Ha! what disorder's this ? 
 Somewhat I heard of king and rival mentioned. 
 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 ? {Aside. 
 
 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-blowu 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. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 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. 
 If my Alphonso — ha! {Reading. 
 
 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 {Reading. 
 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 follow — 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 born. 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 
 earnest 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 1 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. 
 Osm. 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 life, 
 To break these chains ! Off, off, ye stains of 
 
 royalty ! 
 Off, slavery ! O curse ! 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 on 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, but that the 
 
 sight 
 Would hold thee here, and clog thy expedition. 
 Within I found it, by my father's hand 
 'Twas writ ; a prayer for me, wherein appears 
 Paternal love prevailing o'er his sorrows ; 
 Such 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. 
 
 OSMYN. 
 
 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 bis 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. 
 
 Osmyn, Zara 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. [Lifting up her veil. 
 
 Osm. Zara ! I am betray' d 
 
 By my surprise. {Aside. 
 
 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 tbou 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 with 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 thou 
 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 as 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 fly ; 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'll try. 
 
 Osm. I have not merited this grace ; 
 Nor, should my secret purpose take effect, 
 Can I repay, as you require, such benefits. 
 
 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, till I redeem thee hence ; 
 That done, I leave thy justice to return 
 My love. Adieu. 
 
 SCENE V, 
 
 OSMYN. 
 
 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 
 Rude irons ? Must 1 meet thee thus, Almeria ? 
 
 Aim. Thus, thus ; we parted, thus to meet again. 
 Thou told'st me thou wouldst think 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, no, '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 ! 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 stifle in thy griefs ? 
 Thy heart will 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 ; 
 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 1 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, 
 
248 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 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 ? 
 O 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 1 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 ! 
 The sacred union of connubial love 
 Yet unaccomplish'd ; his mysterious rites 
 Delay'd ; nor has our hymeneal torch 
 Yet lighted up his last most grateful sacrifice ; 
 But dash'd 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 ! 
 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. 
 
 Aim. 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 ; 
 Think on to-morrow, when thou shalt be torn 
 From these weak, struggling, unextended arms ; 
 Think how my heart will heave, and 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. 
 
 Aim. 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 1 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, Selim, Osmyn, and Almeria. 
 
 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 return' d 
 From visiting the noble prisoner. 
 
 Zara. Ha ! 
 
 What say'st thou ? 
 
 Osm. We are lost ! 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 VIII. 
 
 Zara, Selim, and Osmyn. 
 
 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 
 
 Osm. 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 know thou couldst : but I'm not often 
 
 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. 1 thank you. 
 
 Zara. Thou liest ! for now I know for whom 
 thou'dst live. 
 
 Osm. Then you may know for whom I'd die. 
 
 Zara. Hell ! hell !— 
 
 Yet I'll 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 
 mourn'd ; 
 
 Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turn'd, 
 
 Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd. [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room of State in the Palace. 
 Zara and Selim. 
 
 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 offices 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. 
 From 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 will 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 and 
 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 ; 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 off 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 Selim. 
 
 Man. Bear to the dungeon those rebellious slaves, 
 The ignoble curs, that yelp to fill the cry, 
 And spend their mouths in barking 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 learn more 
 Of this conspiracy. 
 
 Man. Then be it so. 
 
 Stay, soldier ; they shall suffer with the Moor. 
 Are none return'd of those who followed Heli ? 
 
 Gon. None, sir. Some papers have been since 
 discover'd 
 In Roderigo's house, who fled 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 way bent 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 ! 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 ; 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 : but 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 all except Gonsalez leave the room. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Manuel, Gonsalez, Zara, and Selim. 
 
 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 such 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 
 
 have spared 
 That last restraint ; you hardly can suspect 
 The princess is confederate with the Moor. 
 
 might 
 
SCENE VII» 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 251 
 
 Zara. I've heard her charity did once extend 
 So far, to visit him, at his request. 
 
 Gon. Ha! 
 
 Man. How ? she visit Osmyn ! What, my 
 daughter ? 
 
 Sel. Madam, take heed ; or you have ruin'd all. — 
 
 [Aside to Zara. 
 
 Zara. And after did solicit you on his 
 Behalf. 
 
 Man. Never. You have been misinformed. 
 
 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 ; 
 I like it not. 
 
 Man. What dost thou think, Gonsalez ; 
 
 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, Almeria, 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 Leonora. 
 To talk with you. Come near; why dost thou 
 
 shake ? 
 What mean those swollen and red-fleck'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 ; 
 But that the beams of light are to be 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 jubilee. 
 
 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 my 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 ! 
 
 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 !■ — all pains and 
 
 tortures 
 That wit of man and dire revenge can think, 
 Shall he accumulated under-bear. 
 
 Aim. Oh, I am lost ! — there fate begins to wound. 
 
 Man. Hear me, then ; if thou canst, reply ; 
 know, traitress, 
 
252 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 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 knows, 
 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 ! 
 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. 
 
 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 bare 
 bosom ! 
 I'll not let go till 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 will ; 
 I'll 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 : 
 
 1 will be death ; then though you kill my husband, 
 He shall be mine, still and for ever mine. 
 
 Man. What husband ? who ? whom dost thou 
 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 ! 
 
 Man. Wilder than winds or waves thyself dost 
 rave. 
 Should I hear more, I 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 she attempt not on her life. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Almeria, Gonsalez, Leonora, and Attendants. 
 
 Aim. O stay, yet stay ! 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 
 
 here! 
 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. 
 
 Gonsalez. 
 
 She's greatly grieved ; nor am I less surprised. 
 
 Osmyn Alphonso ! 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 
 Anselmo's race ; yet if — that if concludes me. 
 To doubt, when I 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. 
 Alon. 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. 
 Alon. 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. 
 
 [Exit Alonzo. 
 So, this can hardly fail. Alphonso slain, 
 The greatest obstacle is then removed. 
 
 Almeria widow'd, yet again may wed ; 
 
 And I yet fix the crown on Garcia' s head. [Exit. 
 
 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 double 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 well. 
 
 [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 bosom, 
 As to conceal the importance of his errand. 
 
 [Alonzo 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 this — 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 ? my mortal foe beneath my 
 roof? [Having 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 — 
 
 Man. 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 ! 
 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 treachery! 
 Hark thee, villain, traitor — answer me, slave ! 
 
254 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE, 
 
 Per. My service has not merited those titles. 
 
 Man. Darest thou reply? take that — thy ser- 
 vice ? thine ? [Strikes Mm. 
 What's thy whole life, thy soul, 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. 
 
 [Perez 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. 
 Zara and Selim. 
 
 Zara. The mute not yet return'd ! — ha, 'twas 
 the king ! 
 The king that parted hence ! frowning he went ; 
 His eyes like meteors roll'd, then darted down 
 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 ; 
 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 ! 
 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've concluded on myself, if I 
 Think fit, I'll leave thee my command to die. 
 Regard 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 IV.— The Prison. 
 Gonsalez alone, disguised like a Mute, with a dagger. 
 
 Nor sentinel, nor guard ! the doors unbarr'd ! 
 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. 
 
 [Looks in. 
 Ha ! 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. 
 
 Garcia 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 ? 
 Alon. 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 ! — 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 ? 
 
 Gon. 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. 
 
 255 
 
 The king in person animate our men, 
 Granada's lost : and to confirm this fear, 
 Th") traitor Perez, and the captive Moor, 
 Are through a postern fled, and join the foe. 
 
 Gon. Would all were false as that ; for whom 
 you call 
 The Moor, is dead. That Osmyn was Alphonso ; 
 la whose heart's blood this poniard yet is warm. 
 Gar. Impossible, for Osmyn 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. 
 
 J Ion. 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. 
 
 Re-enter Garcia. 
 
 Gar. Ruin and horror ! O heart-wounding sight ! 
 
 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— 
 
 Gon. 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. 
 
 Gon. 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,) 
 Whose 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. 
 
 {Goes 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 his retreat. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Zara, followed by Selim, and two Mutes bearing the bowls. 
 
 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 in. 
 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 
 
 {Tlie 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. 
 {They go to the Scene, which opening, she perceives the 
 body. 
 Ha ! prostrate ! bloody ! headless ! O — I'm lost ! 
 
 Osmyn ! O Alphonso ! Cruel fate ! 
 Cruel, cruel, O more than killing object ! 
 
 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, Selim, and Mutes. 
 
 Sel. I've sought in vain, for nowhere can the 
 king 
 Be found. 
 
 Zara. Get thee to hell, and seek him there ! 
 
 {Stabs 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 : 
 I 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 i 
 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 boivls. 
 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. 
 
 {Drinks. 
 
 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 ! look, he hides his face ! 
 
 1 cannot feel it — quite beyond my reach — 
 
 O now he's gone, and all is dark — {Dies. 
 
 {The Mutes kneel and mourn over her. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Almeria, 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, 
 Feeling 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, 
 Return ! 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 ! 
 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 ! The springs of tears are dried 
 And of a sudden I am calm, as if 
 All 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 Mutes point at the bowl 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 point at the other cup. 
 Ha ! point again ? 'tis there, and full, I hope. 
 Thanks to the liberal hand that fill'd thee thus ; 
 I'll drink my glad acknowledgment — 
 
 Leon. 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 ! a headless trunk ! nor lips nor face, 
 
 {Coming nearer the body, starts and lets fall the cup. 
 But spouting veins, and mangled flesh ! Oh, oh ! 
 
SCENE XII. 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 257 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Almeria, Leonora, Alphonso, Heli, Perez, with Garcia 
 prisoner, Guards and Attendants. 
 
 Alph. Away, stand off ! where is she ? let me fly, 
 Save her from death, and snatch her to my heart. 
 
 Aim. Oh! 
 
 Alph. Forbear ; my arms alone shall hold 
 her up, 
 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 
 And living ? Yes, I will ; I've been abused 
 
 With apparitions and affrighting 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 confess'd 
 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 — 
 
 [Almeria 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, 
 Still 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. 
 
 lExeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEG1RDLE. 
 
 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 condemn'd 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 uplifted 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 offering to the sex design'd. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Audire est operae pretium, procedere recte 
 Qui moechis non vultis. — Horat. Lib. i. Sat. 2. 
 
 Metuat, doti deprensa. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 RALPH, EARL OF MONTAGUE, &c. 
 
 My Lord,— 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 at 
 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 censure. 
 
 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 Lordship's ; and it is my security, 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 o'f 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 overcharged 
 with criticism, that they very often let fly their censure, when through their rashness they have mistaken their aim. 
 This I had occasion lately to observe ; for this play had been acted two or three days, before some of these 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 is only by the countenance of your Lordship, and the/010 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 Laslius, 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 which 
 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 
 Theophrastus, of whom he was a disciple ; and Theophrastus, it is known, 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 Lselius and 
 Scipio, two of the greatest and most polite men of his age. And indeed the privilege of such a conversation is the 
 only certain means of attaining to the perfection of dialog\ic. 
 
 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 more corrigible, than in those which I have formerly written, I must, with equal pride and gratitude, ascribe it to 
 
^HE way of the world. 
 
 259 
 
 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 that this comedy was 
 written. If I have failed in my performance, it is only to he regretted, where there were so many, not inferior either to 
 a Scipio or a Lselius, that there should he one wanting equal in capacity to a Terence. 
 
 If I am not mistaken, poetry is almost the only art which has not yet laid claim to your Lordship's patronage. 
 Architecture and painting, to the great honour of our coun try, have nourished 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 your esteem to which none 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 maxim 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 due sense of your extreme worthiness and humanity, 
 my Lord, your Lordship's most obedient, and most obliged humble servant, 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Fainall, in love with Mrs. Marwood. 
 Mirabell, in love with Mrs. Millamant. 
 
 Witwoud, 1 Followers 0? M.ks. Millamant. 
 
 Petulant, » y^ 
 
 Sir Wilfull Witwoud, half Brother to Witwoud, and 
 
 Nephew to Lady Wishfort. 
 Waitwell, Servant to Mirabell. 
 
 Lady Wishfort, Enemy to Mirabell, for having 
 falsely pretended love to her, 
 
 Mrs. Millamant, a fine Lady, Niece to Lady Wish- 
 fort, and loves Mirabell. 
 
 Mrs. Marwood, Friend to Mr. Fainall, and likes 
 
 Mirabell. 
 Mrs. Fainall, Daughter to Lady Wishfort, and Wife 
 
 to Fain all, formerly Friend to Mirabell. 
 Foible, Woman to Lady Wishfort. 
 Mincing, Woman to 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. 
 
 Of those few fools who with ill stars are 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, 
 If 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 (with 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. 
 
 S 2 
 
260 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I A Chocolate-House. 
 
 Mirabell and Fainall, rising from cards, Betty 
 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 
 lessens the pleasure of the winner. I'd no more 
 play with a man that slighted his ill fortune than 
 I'd make love to a woman who undervalued the 
 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 ! She has a lasting 
 passion for you, and with reason. — What, then my 
 wife was there ? 
 
 Mir. Yes, and' Mrs. Mar wood, and three or 
 four more, whom I never saw before. Seeing me, 
 they all put on their grave faces, whispered 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, I thought nothing 
 was so easy as to know when a visit began to be 
 troublesome. She reddened, and I withdrew, with- 
 out 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 
 inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of 
 
 the week. You and I are excluded ; and it was 
 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 of 
 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 a 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 winch 
 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. [Exit. 
 
 Mir. Betty, what says your clock ? 
 
 Bet. Turned of the last canonical hour, sir. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mir. How pertinently the jade answers me ! 
 — [Looking on his watch.] — Ha! almost one 
 o'clock ! — O, y'are come ! 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 261 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Mirabell and Footman. 
 
 Mir. Well, is the grand affair over ? You have 
 been something tedious. 
 
 Foot. Sir, there's such coupling at Pancras, that 
 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 consummation till further 
 orders. Bid Waitwell shake his ears, and dame 
 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 Betty. 
 
 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 by rote. The catalogue 
 was so large, that I was not without hopes one day 
 or other to hate her heartily : to which end I so 
 used myself to think of 'era, 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 'em 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 
 again. 
 
 Mir. Say you so ? 
 
 Fain. Ay, ay, I have experience : I have a wife, 
 and so forth. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Mirabell, Fainall, Betty, and Messenger. 
 
 Mes. Is one squire Witwoud here ? 
 
 Bet. Yes, what's your business ? 
 
 Mes. I have a letter for him, from his brother 
 sir Wilfull, which I am charged to deliver into his 
 own hands. 
 
 Bet. He's in the next room, friend — that way. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Mirabell, Fainall, and Betty. 
 
 Mir. What , is the chief of that noble family in 
 town, sir Wilfull Witwoud ? 
 
 Fain. He is expected to-day. Do you know 
 him ? 
 
 Mir. I have seen him. He promises to be an 
 extraordinary person ; I 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. 'Tis 
 better to trade with a little loss, than to be quite 
 eaten up with being overstocked. 
 
 Mir. Pray, are the follies of this knight-errant, 
 and those of the squire his brother, anything 
 related ? 
 
 Fain. Not at all ; Witwoud grows by the knight, 
 like a medlar grafted on a crab. One will 
 melt in your mouth, and t'other set your teeth 
 on edge ; one is all pulp, and the other all core. 
 
262 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Mir. So one will be rotten before he be ripe, and 
 the otherwill be rotten without ever being ripe at all. 
 
 Fain. Sir Wilfull is an odd mixture of bash- 
 fulness and obstinacy. — But 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 somefew 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. 
 Mirabell, Fainall, Betty, and Witwoud. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Bet. Did not a messenger bring you one but 
 now, sir ? 
 
 Wit. Ay, but no other ? 
 
 Bet. No, sir. 
 
 Wit. That's hard, that's very 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 ! 
 
 Wit. Ay, ay, my half brother. My half brother 
 he is, no nearer upon honour. 
 
 Mir. Then 'tis possible he may be but half a fool. 
 
 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. 
 
 Wit. My dear, I ask ten thousand pardons ; — 
 gad, I have forgot what I was going to say to you ! 
 
 Mir. I 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 ? 
 
 Wit. 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 : for you are sure to be too hard for him at re- 
 partee; since you monopolise the wit that is between 
 you, the fortune must be his of course. 
 
 Mir. I don't find that Petulant confesses the 
 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 an 
 odd sort of a small wit : nay, I'll do him justice. 
 I'm his friend; I won't wrong him neither. — And 
 if he had any judgment in the world, he would not 
 be altogether contemptible. Come, come, don't 
 detract from the merits of my friend. 
 
 Fain. You don't take your friend to be over- 
 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 beauty. 
 
 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 words 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 wil.l lie like a chambermaid, or a 
 woman of quality's porter. Now that is a fault. 
 
SCENE IX. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 263 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Mirabell, Fainall, Witwoud, Betty, 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. 
 Mirabell, 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 him 
 call for himself. 
 
 Fain. Call for himself ! what dost thou mean ? 
 
 Wit. Mean ! why he would slip 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 finding 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, Mirabell, Fainall, Witwoud, and Betty. 
 
 Bet. Sir, the coach stays. 
 
 Pet. Well, well ; — I come. — 'Sbud, a man had 
 as good be a professed midwife, as a professed 
 whoremaster, 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-'ems he means sultana queens. 
 
 Pet. Ay, Roxolanas. 
 
 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 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, Petulant, 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. 
 
 Mir. 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! 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-nature 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 sense 
 then for the future ? 
 
264 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Mir. 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. 
 
 [Mirabell and Petulant talk apart. 
 
 Fain. Petulant and you both 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, I 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. 
 
 Wit. 'Tis what she will hardly allow anybody 
 else : — now, demme, 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 ; 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. 
 
 Mir. I thought you had been the greatest 
 favourite. • 
 
 Pet. Ay, tete-a-tete, but not in public, because 
 I make remarks. 
 
 Mir. You do ? 
 
 Pet. Ay, ay ; pox, I'm malicious, man ! Now 
 he's soft 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 ladies 
 talked of being there. 
 
 Mir. I thought you were obliged to watch for 
 your brother sir Wilfull's arrival. 
 
 Wit. No, no ; he comes to his aunt's, my lady 
 Wishfort. Pox on him ! I shall be troubled with 
 him too ; what shall I do with the fool ? 
 
 Pet. Beg him for his estate, that I may beg you 
 afterwards : and so have but one trouble with you 
 both. 
 
 Wit. O rare Petulant ! thou art as quick as fire 
 in 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 you ? pray then walk by yourselves : 
 let not us be accessary to your putting the ladies 
 out of countenance 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 not 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 error of your 
 judgment in defence of your practice. 
 
 Where modesty's ill-manners, 'tis but fit 
 
 That impudence and malice pass for wit. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I St. James's Park. 
 
 Mrs. Fatnall and Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Mrs. 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 ought 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 before 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 III. 
 
 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. You see my friendship by my freedom. 
 Come, be as sincere, acknowledge that your senti- 
 ments agree with mine. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Never! 
 
 Mar. You hate mankind ? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Heartily, inveterately. 
 
 Mar. Your husband ? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Most transeendently ; ay, though I 
 say it, meritoriously. 
 
 Mar. Give me your hand upon it. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. There. 
 
 Mar. I join with you ; what I have 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 I 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 ceremony. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You would not make him a cuckold ? 
 
 Mar. No ; but I'd make him believe I did, and 
 that's as bad. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Why, had not you as 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 
 would 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 ; 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 
 o' 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. Fainall, Mrs. Marwood, Fainall, and Mirabell. 
 
 Mar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! he comes opportunely for 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. For you, for he has brought Mira- 
 bell with him* 
 
 Fain„ My dear ! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. My soul ! 
 
 Fain. You don't look well to-day, child. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. D'ye think so ? 
 
 Mir. He is the only man that does, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. The only man that would tell me so 
 at least ; and the only man from whom I could hear 
 it without mortification. 
 
 Fain. O my dear, I am satisfied of your tender- 
 ness ; I know you cannot resent anything from me ; 
 especially what is an effect of my concern. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Mr. Mirabell, 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. Fain. 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 walk 
 with his wife. This way, Mr. Mirabell, and I dare 
 promise you will oblige us both. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Fainall and Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Fain. Excellent creature ! Well, sure if I 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 put an 
 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 to 
 conquer. 
 
 Mar. Will you not follow 'em ? 
 
 Fain. Faith, I think not. 
 
 Mar. Pray let us ; I have a reason. 
 
 Fain. You are not jealous ? 
 
 Mar. Of whom? 
 
 Fain. Of Mirabell. 
 
 Mar. If I am, is it inconsistent with my 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. 
 
 Fain. But he, I fear, is too insensible. 
 
 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, and 
 you are false. 
 
 Mar. That I 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. Your 
 mutual jealousies of one another have made you 
 clash till you have both struck fire. I have seen 
 the 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 
 
266 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 by my wife ; that by permitting her to be engaged, 
 I might continue unsuspected in my pleasures ; 
 and take you oftener to my arms in full security. 
 But could you think, because the nodding husband 
 would not wake, that e'er the watchful lover slept ? 
 
 Mar. And wherewithal can you reproach me ? 
 
 Fain. With infidelity, with loving another, with 
 love of Mirabell. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis false ! I challenge you to show an 
 instance that can confirm your 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 Millamant ? 
 
 Mar. My obligations 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 ! 
 
 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 should 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 set 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 your 
 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 ! 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 Millamant 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 
 squander it on love and you ? 
 
 Mar. Deceit and frivolous pretence ! 
 
 Fain. Death, am I not married ? What's pre- 
 tence ? Am I not imprisoned, fettered ? Have I 
 not a wife ? nay a wife that was a widow, a young 
 widow, a handsome 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 yet be re- 
 conciled to truth and me ? 
 
 Mar. Impossible. Truth and you are incon- 
 sistent : I hate you, and shall for ever. 
 
 Fain. For loving you ? 
 
 Mar. I loathe the name of love after such usage ; 
 and next to the guilt with which you would asperse 
 me, I scorn you most. Farewell ! 
 
 Fain. Nay, we must not part thus. 
 
 Mar. Let me go. 
 
 Fain. Come, I'm sorry. 
 
 Mar. I care not — let me go — break my hands, 
 do — I'd leave 'em to get loose. 
 
 Fain. I would not hurt you for the world. Have 
 I no other hold to keep you here ? 
 
 Mar. 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 not ? what is it not yet r 
 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, I 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 any way, 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 
 somewhere, anywhere, to another world. I'll 
 marry thee — be pacified. — 'Sdeath, they come, hide 
 your face, your tears ; — you 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 occasion ? 
 why did you make me marry this man ? 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 265 
 
 Mir. Why do we daily commit disagreeable and 
 dangerous actions ? 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 husband ? 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 town 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, Mirabell. 
 
 Mir. 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. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. He is an humble servant to Foible 
 my mother's woman, and may win her to your 
 interest. 
 
 Mir. Care is taken for that — she is won and 
 worn by this time. They were married this 
 morning. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. 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 terms ; so I made 
 him sure beforehand. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So, if my poor mother is caught in 
 a contract, you will discover the imposture be- 
 times ; and release her by producing a certificate 
 of her gallant's former marriage ? 
 
 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 Millamant and your 
 uncle. 
 
 Mir. That was by Foible's direction, 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 ; and 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 ! we must all come 
 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 Y. 
 
 Mirabell, Mrs. Fainall, Mrs. Millamant, Witwoud, 
 and Mincjng. 
 
 Mir. Here she comes, i'faith, full sail, with her 
 fan spread and her 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. [To Millamant.] You seem to be 
 unattended, madam — you used to have the beau 
 rnonde 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 comparison for want of breath. 
 
 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 I am as sick of 'em — 
 
 Wit. As a physician of a good air. — I cannot 
 help it, madam, though 'tis against myself. 
 
 Mil. Yet, again ! — Mincing, stand between me 
 and his wit. 
 
 Wit. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a 
 
 great fire I confess I 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 ; I 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 were dressed before I came 
 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, letters — I had letters — I am perse- 
 cuted with letters — I hate letters — Nobody knows 
 how to write letters, and yet one has 'em, one does 
 not know why. They serve one to pin up one's hair. 
 
 Wit. Is that the way ? Pray, madam, do you 
 pin 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 with prose — I think I tried 
 once, Mincing. 
 
 Min. O mem, I shall never forget it. 
 
 Mil. Ay, poor Mincing tift and tiffc all the 
 morning. 
 
 Min. Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I'll 
 vow, mem : and all to no purpose. But when 
 your laship pins it up with poetry, it sits so plea- 
 sant the next day as 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 away. — Now I think on't, 
 
2G8 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 I'm 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 cruelty which is not in 
 your nature ; your true vanity is in the power of 
 pleasing. 
 
 Mil. Oh I ask you pardon for that — one's 
 cruelty is one's power ; and when 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, how lost a thing you'll be ! Nay, 
 'tis true : you are no longer handsome when you've 
 lost your lover ; your beauty dies upon the instant ; 
 for beauty is the lover's gift ; 'tis he bestows your 
 charms— your glass is all a cheat. 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 one, if one was not handsome. 
 Beauty the lover's gift ! — Lord, 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. 
 
 Wit. 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 lover, 
 than one's wit to an echo. They can but reflect 
 what we look and 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 lover you owe the pleasure of 
 hearing yourselves praised ; and to an echo the 
 pleasure of hearing yourselves talk. 
 
 Wit. 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 Witwoud. lAside to Mrs. Fainall. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Immediately. — I have a word or 
 two for Mr. Witwoud. 
 
 SCENE 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 my 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 in 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 myself: — besides, sometimes to 
 converse with fools is for my health. 
 
 Mir. Your health ! is there a worse disease 
 than the conversation of fools ? 
 
 Mil. Yes, the vapours ; fools are physic for it, 
 next to assafoetida. 
 
 Mir. You are not in a course of fools ? 
 
 Mil. Mirabell, if you persist in this offensive 
 freedom, you'll displease me. — I think I must 
 resolve, after all, not to have you : — we shan't 
 agree. 
 
 Mir. Not in our physic, it may be. 
 
 Mil. And yet our distemper, in all likelihood, 
 will be the same ; for we shall be sick of one 
 another. I shan't endure to be reprimanded nor 
 instructed ; 'tis so dull to act always by advice, 
 and so tedious to be told of one's faults — I can't 
 bear it. Well, I won't have you, Mirabell — I'm 
 resolved — I think — 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 
 know I could not help it. 
 
 Mil. Come, don't look grave then. Well, 
 what do you say to me ? 
 
 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 Mirabell ! — Prithee, don'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 
 persuade you for a moment to be serious. 
 
 Mil. What, with that face ? no, if you keep 
 your countenance, 'tis impossible I 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 melancholy, as melancholy as a watch-light. 
 Well, Mirabell, if ever you will win me woo me 
 now. — Nay, if you 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. 
 
 Mir. 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 mansion. 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 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 269 
 
 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. 
 
 Mirabell, Waitwell, and Foible. 
 
 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. 
 
 Mir. That I believe. 
 
 Foib. But I told my lady as you 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 ! matrimony has made 
 you 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 ; she had so 
 much company last night. 
 
 Mir. Your diligence will merit more — in the 
 mean time — [Gives money. 
 
 Foib. O dear sir, your humble servant ! 
 
 Wait. Spouse. 
 
 Mir. Stand off, sir, not a penny ! — Go 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 you 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'm 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 haste home and prevent her. Your 
 servant, sir. — B'w'y, Waitwell. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Mirabell and Waitwell. 
 
 Wait. Sir Rowland, if you please. — The jade's 
 so pert upon her preferment she forgets herself. 
 
 Mir. Come, sir, will 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 difficulty 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 Room in Lady Wishfort's 
 House. 
 
 Lady Wishfort at her toilet, Peg waiting. 
 
 Lady Wish. Merciful ! no news of Foible yet ? 
 
 Peg. 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 hear, 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 you both ! — fetch me 
 the cherry-brandy then. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Lady Wishfort. 
 
 I'm as pale and as faint, I look like Mrs. Qualm- 
 sick, the 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 ? 
 
270 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Lady Wishfort, Peg with a bottle and china cup. 
 
 Peg. Madam, I was looking for a cup. 
 
 Lady Wish. A cup, save thee ! and what a cup 
 hast thou brought ! — Dost thou take me for a fairy, 
 to drink out 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 the door.'] — See who that 
 
 is Set down the bottle first — here, here, under 
 
 the table. — What, wouldst thou go with the bottle 
 in thy hand, like 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 surprised to find your ladyship in 
 dishabille 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 
 that would corrupt integrity itself ! If she has 
 given him an opportunity, she has as good as put 
 her integrity into his hands. Ah, dear Marwood, 
 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 Wishfort and Foible. 
 
 Lady Wish. O Foible, where hast thou been ? 
 what hast thou been doing ? 
 
 Foib. Madam, I have seen the party. 
 
 Lady Wish. But what hast thou done ? 
 
 Foih. Nay, 'tis your ladyship has done, and are 
 to do ; 1 have only promised. But a man so ena- 
 moured — so 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, 
 
 I 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 ? 
 Foib. [Aside.] So the devil has been before- 
 hand with me. What shall I say? — [Aloud.] — 
 Alas, madam, could I help it, if I met that confi- 
 dent thing ? was I in fault ? If you had 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 could have borne ; 
 but he had a fling at your ladyship too ; and then 
 I could not hold ; but i'faith I gave him his own. 
 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'll 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. 
 
 Foib. Poison him ! poisoning's too good for him. 
 Starve 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) ; but (says he) I'll fit 
 you for that. I warrant you (says he) I'll hamper 
 you for that (says he) ; you and your old frippery 
 too (says he) ; I'll handle you — 
 
 Lady Wish. Audacious villain ! handle me ! 
 would he durst ! — Frippery ! old frippery ! was 
 there ever such a foulimouthed 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. 
 
 Lady Wish. Frippery ! superannuated frippery ! 
 I'll frippery the villain ; I'll reduce him to frip- 
 pery and rags ! a tatterdemalion I 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 prodigal's in debt as much 
 as 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 hope to see him lodge in Ludgate 
 first, and angle into Biackfriars 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 VIIT. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 271 
 
 This wretch has fretted me that I am absolutely 
 decayed. Look, Foible. 
 
 Foib. Your ladyship has frowned a little too 
 rashly, indeed, madam. There are some cracks 
 discernible in the white varnish. 
 
 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 my 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 
 won'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 storm, 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 offending 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 
 that Waitwell, to whom thou wert this morning 
 married, is to personate MirabelPs 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 in your ladyship that was 
 deficient ; but I thought Ihe former good corre- 
 spondence between your ladyship and Mr. Mira- 
 bell might have hindered his communicating this 
 secret. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Dear Foible, forget that. 
 
 Foib. O dear madam, Mr. Mirabell is such a 
 sweet, winning 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 VII. 
 
 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 I— Madam Marwood has 
 a month's mind, but he can't abide her. — 'Twere 
 better for him you had not been 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 Wishfort. 
 
 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 am in a very 
 chaos to think I should so forget myself: — but 
 
272 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 I have such 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. O he's in less danger of being spoiled 
 by his travels — I 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. 
 
 Mar. Methinks Mrs. Millamant and he would 
 make a very fit match. He may travel afterwards, 
 "lis a thing very usual with young gentlemen. 
 
 Lady Wish. I promise you I 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 itr 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Mrs. Mabwood, Lady Wishfort, and Foible. 
 
 Lady Wish,. Come, come, Foible— -I had forgot 
 my nephew will be here before dinner : — I must 
 make haste. 
 
 Foil, Mr. Witwoud and Mr. Petulant are come 
 to dine with your ladyship. 
 
 Lady 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 'em ? I'll make all 
 imaginable haste. Dear friend, excuse me. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Mrs. Marwood, Mrs. Millamant, and Mincing. 
 
 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 ; but 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 drap 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 visit is 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 ownMirabell, 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 can 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 here ; their folly is less 
 provoking than your malice. 
 
 SCENE XT. 
 
 Millamant and Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Mil. The town has found it ! what has it found ? 
 That Mirabell 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 i 
 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 I shall tell him by telling J 
 
 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. 
 
 27o 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 Millamant, Mrs. Marwood, and Mincing. 
 
 Min. The gentlemen stay but to comb, madam, 
 and will wait on you. 
 
 Mil. Desire Mrs. — that is in the next room to 
 sing the song I would have learned yesterday. — 
 You 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 sickly flame, which, if not fed, expires, 
 And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires. 
 
 'Tis not to wound a wanton boy 
 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 
 That heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 Millamant, Mrs. Marwood, Mincing, Petulant, and 
 
 WlTWOUD. 
 
 Mil. Is your animosity composed, gentlemen ? 
 
 Wit. Raillery, raillery, madam ; we have no 
 animosity — we hit off a little wit now and then r 
 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 — 
 
 Wit. Ay, when he has a humour to contradict, 
 then I contradict too. What, I know my 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 handled. 
 
 Pet. Importance is one thing, and learning's 
 another ; but a debate's a debare, 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 
 wonder 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. Marwood, 
 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 Wilfull.] 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 Wilfull 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 Wilfull Witwoud, Petulant, Witwoud, and Mrs. 
 Marwood. 
 
 Sir Wil. Oons, this fellow knows less than a 
 starling ; I don't think a' knows his own name. 
 
 Mar. 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 ! 
 
 Mar. For shame, Mr. Witwoud ; why won't 
 you speak to him ? — And you, sir. 
 
274 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Wit. Petulant, speak. 
 
 Pet. And you, sir. 
 
 Sir Wil. No offence, I hope. 
 
 [Salutes Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Mar. No sure, sir. 
 
 Wit. This is a vile 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. [Surveying him round. 
 
 Sir Wil. Very likely, sir, that it may seem so. 
 
 Pet. No offence, I 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 ! 
 
 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.] You must not take anything amiss from 
 your friends, sir. You are among your friends 
 here, 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 ! 
 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 
 your 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 
 be 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 subpoena. I might expect this when 
 you left off, " Honoured brother ;" 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 you lived 
 with honest Pimple Nose the attorney of Furnival's 
 Inn — you could entreat to be remembered 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 felts. 
 
 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 'Tis like my 
 
 aunt may have told you, madam — yes, I 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 small 
 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 Wilfull Witwoud, Petulant, Witwoud, Mrs. Mar- 
 wood, Lady Wishfort, and Fainall. 
 
 Lady Wish. 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 ; 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 OF THE WORLD. 
 
 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 Mrs. Marwood talk apart. 
 
 Sir Wil. Why then let him hold his tongue in 
 the mean time ; and rail when that day comes. 
 
 SCENE XVII. 
 
 Sir Wilfull Witwoud, Petulant, Witwoud, Lady 
 "VVishfort, Mrs. Marwood, Fainall, and Mincing. 
 
 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 Wii- 
 full is ready. 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 
 Mrs. Marwood and Fainall. 
 
 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 born 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 Mirabell. 
 
 Fain. Damn him ! that had been mine — had you 
 not made that fond discovery — that had been for- 
 feited, had 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 ! that may be. 
 
 Mar. You married her to keep you ; and if you 
 can contrive to have her keep you 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 my 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 know 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 you know she knows 
 some passages — nay, I expect all will come out — 
 but let the mine 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- 
 bell 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. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 T 2 
 
276 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 -A Room in Lady Wishfort's 
 House. 
 
 Lady Wish fort and Foible. 
 
 Lady Wish. Is sir Rowland coming, sayestthou, 
 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. 
 
 Lady Wish. Have you pulvilled the coachman 
 and postilion, that they may not stink of the stable 
 when sir Rowland comes by ? 
 
 Foib. Yes, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. And are the dancers and 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 
 appears, 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 
 furnishes with blushes, and recomposing airs 
 beyond comparison. Hark ! there's a coach. 
 
 Foib. 'Tis he, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. O dear ! — Has my nephew made 
 his addresses to Millamant ? I ordered him. 
 
 Foib. Sir Wilfull 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 Wilfull 
 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 Wilfull 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 the wretch 
 come. 
 
 Thy r sis, a youth of the inspired train. 
 
 [Repeating. 
 Dear Fainall, entertain sir Wilfull — 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 ; but I 
 have business of my own. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Millamant, 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 zvhile 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 Wilfull ! 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'll 
 leave you together, and lock the door. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Sir Wilfull and Millamant. 
 
 Sir Wil. Nay, nay, cousin — I have forgot my 
 gloves — what d'ye do ? — S'heait, 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 
 
SCENE V 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 277 
 
 pass through as it were — I think this door's en- 
 chanted ! 
 
 Mil. [Repeating.] 
 
 I prithee spare me, gentle boy, 
 Press me no more for that slight toy. 
 
 Sir Wil. Anan ? Cousin, your servant. 
 
 Mil. [Repeating.] 
 
 That foolish trifle of a heart. 
 Sir Wilfull ! 
 
 Sir Wil. 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. 
 
 Mil. Have you any business with me, sir 
 Wilfull ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin — yes, I make 
 bold to see, to come and know if that how you 
 were disposed to fetch a walk this evening, if so 
 be that I might not be troublesome, I would have 
 sought a walk with you. 
 
 Mil. A walk ! what then ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Nay, nothing — only for the walk's 
 sake, that's all. 
 
 Mil. I nauseate walking ; 'tis a country diver- 
 sion; I loathe the country, and everything that 
 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, I'etourdi ! 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 ! ha ! yes, 'tis like I may — You 
 have nothing further 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 
 say.— Cousin, your servant — I think this door's 
 locked. 
 
 Mil. 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 ! 
 
 Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 MlLLAMANT and MlRAEELL. 
 
 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 upon 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 
 I am first made sure of my 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 sommeils 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 
 
 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 ali. 
 
 Mir. Have you any more conditions to offer? 
 Hitherto your demands are pretty 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 T 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 you 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. 
 Item, I shut my doors against all bawds with 
 baskets, and penny-worths of muslin, china, fans, 
 atlasses etc. — Item, when you shall be breeding — 
 
 Mil. Ah ! name it not. 
 
 Mir. Which 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 I 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. 
 Millamant, Mirabell, and Mrs. 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. Well 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 ! f y ! 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 coming ; 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 mean time I suppose 
 you have said something t,o please me. 
 
 Mir. I am all obedience. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Millamant and Mrs. Fainall. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Yonder sir Wilfull's drunk, and so 
 noisy that my mother has been forced to leave sir 
 Rowland to appease him ; 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 you 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? foh ! 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 279 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Millamant, Mrs. Fainall, and Witwoud. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So, is the fray made up, that you 
 have left 'em ? 
 
 Wit. 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. 
 
 Mil. 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, Petulant, 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 fish. 
 
 Pet. Look you, Mrs. Millamant — 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 decimo 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 of 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- 
 conciliation, till he [Hiccups'] rises upon my 
 stomach like a radish. 
 
 Mil. Eh I 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 reward, say so ; if 
 not, fight for your face the next time yourself — 
 I'll go sleep. 
 
 Wit. Do, wrap thyself up like 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 in this pickle ? 
 
 Wit. A plot ! a plot ! to get rid of the night — 
 your husband's advice ; but he sneaked off. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Sir Wilfull drunk, Lady Wishfort, Witwoud, 
 Millamant, and Mrs. Fainall. 
 
 Lady Wish. Out upon't, out upon't ! At years 
 of discretion, and comport yourself at this ranti- 
 pole rate ! 
 
 Sir Wil. No offence, aunt. 
 Lady Wish. Offence! as I'm a person, I'm 
 ashamed of you — foh ! 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 — [Sings. 
 
 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— Wilfull will do't, that's the 
 word — Wilfull will do't, that's my crest — my motto 
 I have forgot. 
 
 Lady Wish. My nephew's a little overtaken, 
 cousin — but 'tis 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 ; Wilfull 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, boys, 
 
 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, 
 That he's able next morning to light us. 
 
 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, Wilfull 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 Wilfull grows very powerful. Eh ! how he 
 smells ! I shall be overcome, if I stay — Come, 
 cousin. 
 
280 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 SCENE XL 
 
 Lady Wishfort, Sir Wilfull, 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 [Sings. 
 
 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 coffee. 
 
 But let British lads sing, 
 
 Crown a health to the king, 
 And a fig for your sultan and sophy ! 
 
 A.h 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. Come, knight. — Pox on him, I don't 
 know what to say to him. — Will you go to a cock- 
 match ? 
 
 Sir Wil. 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. [Sings. 
 
 And a fig for your sultan and sophy. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Wilfull and Witwo t jd. 
 
 Lady Wish. This will never do. It will never 
 make a match — at least before he has been abroad. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Lady Wishfort and Waitwell, 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, and 
 dispense with a little ceremony. 
 
 Wait. My impatience, madam, is the effect of 
 my transport ; 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, sir 
 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, madam ! 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 he 
 has died away at my feet, the tears that he has 
 shed, the oaths that he has sworn, the palpitations 
 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 his protest- 
 ing eyes ! — 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't. 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 has 
 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 love — 
 you have the clue. — But 1 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— 
 
scene xv. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 281 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 Lady Wish fort, Wattwell, and FOible. 
 
 Foib. Madam, the dancers are ready; and there's 
 one with a letter, who must deliver it into your 
 own 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 Foible. 
 
 Wait. Fy, fy ! — What a slavery have I undergone ! 
 Spouse, hast thou any cordial ? I want 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 hours. — 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 dancers. — 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 superscription is like a 
 woman's hand. 
 
 Foib. [Aside to Waitwell.] By Heaven ! 
 Mrs. Marwood's, I 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, by a frank communi- 
 cation. — You shall see it — we'll open it together — 
 look you here. — [Reads.] — Madam, though un- 
 known to you — Look you there, 'tis from nobody 
 that I know — I have that honour for your character, 
 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 there was a throat 
 to be cut presently. If he were my son, as he is 
 my nephew, I'd pistol him ! 
 
 Foib. O treachery ! — But are you sure, sir Row- 
 land, it is his writing ? 
 
 Wait. Sure ! 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 ! 
 
 Foib. O what luck it is, sir Rowland, that you 
 were present at this juncture ! — This was the busi- 
 ness that brought Mr. Mirabel! disguised to madam 
 Millamant 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 villain 
 was in the house indeed ; and now I remember, my 
 niece went away abruptly, when sir Wilfull was to 
 have made his addresses. 
 
 Foib. Then, then, 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. No, good sir Rowland, don't incur the law. 
 
 Wait. Law ! I care not for law. I can but die, 
 and 'tis in a good cause. — My lady shall be satisfied 
 of my truth and innocence, though it cost me my 
 life. 
 
 Lady Wish. No, dear sir Rowland, don't fight, 
 if you should be killed I must never show my face; 
 or hanged — O, consider my reputation, sir Row- 
 land ! — No, you shan't fight — I'll go in and examine 
 my niece ; I'll make her confess. I conjure you, 
 sir Rowland, by all your love, not to fight. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 buxom 
 widow : — 
 
 Ere long you shall substantial proof receive, 
 
 That I'm an errant knight — 
 
 Foib. [Aside.] Or errant knave. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
282 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE L- 
 
 -A Room in Lady Wishfort' 
 House. 
 
 Lady Wishfort and Foible. 
 
 Lady Wish. Out of my house, out of ray house, 
 thou viper ! thou serpent, that I have fostered ! 
 thou bosom traitress, that I raised from nothing ! 
 — Begone 1 begone ! begone ! — go ! 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 ! 
 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, and 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 
 governante of my whole family ! You have forgot 
 this, have you, now you have feathered your 
 nest ? 
 
 Foib. 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. 
 
 Ladii Wish. What then, I have been your pro- 
 perty, have I ! I have been convenient to you, it 
 seems 1 — 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 brought 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. 
 
 [Exit. 
 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 Foible. 
 
 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 your 
 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-walking, 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 wish.— Now, Mincing ! 
 
SCENE V, 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 283 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Mrs. Fainall, Foible, and Mincing. 
 
 Min. My lady wouldspeak 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 
 Wilfull 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 IV. 
 
 Mrs. Fainall, Lady Wishfort, and Mrs. Makwood. 
 
 Lady Wish. O my dear friend, how can I enu- 
 merate the benefits that I have received from your 
 goodness ! 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- 
 sible 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 my plate and my 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! your husband 
 my friend ! what do you mean ? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I know what I mean, madam, and 
 
 so do you ; and so shall the world 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 of 
 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 ! — [To 
 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 Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 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 her educa- 
 tion has been unexceptionable — I may say it ; 
 for I chiefly made 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. 
 
 Lady 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 atthe 
 sight or name of an obscene play-book ! — 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 ushered in with 
 an O yes of scandal ; and have your case opened 
 by an old fumbling lecher in a quoif like a man- 
 midwife ; to bring your daughter's infamy to light ; 
 to be a theme for legal punsters and quibblers 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 in doomsday-book ; to discom- 
 pose the gravity of the bench, and provoke naughty 
 interrogatories in more naughty law Latin ; while 
 the good judge, tickled with the proceeding, sim- 
 pers under a grey beard, and ridges 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 ; ay, 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 you, as a friend, the inconveniences 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. Marwood, 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 difficulty ; 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 apothecary. 
 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 my wife, with that six thou- 
 sand pounds, which is the 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) by her 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, and 
 could not make his addresses. 
 
 Fain. I come to make demands — I'll hear no 
 objections. 
 
 Lady Wish. You will grant me time to con- 
 sider ? 
 
 Fain. Yes, while the instrument is drawing, to 
 which you must set your hand till more sufficient 
 deeds can be perfected : which I will take care 
 shall be done with all 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 
 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 for the contract that passed 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 23.5 
 
 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 your leave for 
 admittance. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, I'll 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. 
 
 Mil. 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 Wilfull, 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 once 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 door and hems. 
 
 Mar. This is precious fooling, if it would pass ; 
 but I'll know the bottom 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, I am too happy. — 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 ; 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 have 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 quickly, 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 has a false insinuating tongue ! — 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 bribed 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, and 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 will 
 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 ram 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 
 
286 
 
 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 obligation to me ; or else perhaps 
 I could advise — 
 
 Lady Wish. O 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 for 
 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. 
 
 Lady 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. 
 Lady Wishfort, Millamant, Sir Wilfull, Mirabell, 
 Fainall, Mrs. Marwood, Mrs. Fainall. Foible, and 
 Mincing. 
 
 Mar. O my shame ! [Mirabell and Lady 
 Wishfort go to Mrs. Fainall and Foible.] 
 These corrupt things are brought hither to expose 
 me. [To Fainall. 
 
 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 terms ; no, I will insist the more. 
 
 Foib. Yes indeed, madam, I'll take my bible 
 oath of it. 
 
 Min. And so will I, mem. 
 
 Lady Wish. O Marwood, Marwood, 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 your 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 
 your 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, Mirabell, 
 Fainall, Mrs, Fainall, Mrs. Marwood, Foible, Min- 
 ctng, and Waitwell, 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 ? 
 
 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 Wishfort, Millamant, Sir Wilfull, Mirabell. 
 Fainall, Mrs. Marwood, Mrs. Fainall, Foible, Min- 
 cing, Waitwell, Petulant, and Witwoud. 
 
 Pet. How now? What's the matter? whose 
 hand's out ? 
 
 Wit. 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 temper, 
 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 deed of conveyance of the whole 
 estate real of Arabella Languish, toidow, in trust 
 to Edward Mirabell. — Confusion ! 
 
 Mir. Even so, sir ; 'tis the Way of the World, 
 
SCENE XIV. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 287 
 
 sir ; of the widows of the world. I suppose this 
 deed may bear an elder date than what you have 
 obtained from your lady. 
 
 Fain. Perfidious fiend ! then thus I'll be re- 
 venged. [Offers to run at Mrs. Fainall. 
 
 Sir Wil. Hold, sir ! now you may make your 
 bear-garden flourish somewhere else, sir. 
 
 Fain. Mirabell, you shall hear of this, sir, be 
 sure you shall. — Let me pass, oaf ! [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Madam, you seem to stifle your re- 
 sentment ; you had better give it vent. 
 
 Mar. Yes, it shall have vent — and to your con- 
 fusion ; or I'll perish in the attempt. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 
 Lady Wishfort, Millamant, Mirabell, Mrs. Fainall, 
 Sir Wilfull, Petulant, Witwoud, Foible, Mincing, 
 and Waitwell. 
 
 Lady Wish. O daughter, daughter ! 'tis plain 
 thou hast inherited thy mother's prudence. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Thank Mr. Mirabell, a cautious 
 friend, to whose advice all is owing. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, Mr. Mirabell, you have kept 
 your promise — and I must perform mine. — First, I 
 pardon, for your sake, sir Rowland there, and 
 Foible ; the next thing is to break the matter to 
 my nephew — and how to do that — 
 
 Mir. For that, madam, give yourself no trouble ; 
 let me have your consent. Sir Wilfull is my friend ; 
 he has had compassion upon lovers, and generously 
 engaged a volunteer in this action, for our service ; 
 and now designs to prosecute his travels. 
 
 Sir Wil. S'heart, aunt, I have no mind to marry. 
 My cousin's a fine lady, and the gentleman loves 
 her, and she loves 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 two gentlemen would travel too, I think 
 they may be spared. 
 
 Pet. For my part, I say little — I think things 
 are best off or on. 
 
 Wit. I'gad, I understand nothing of the matter ; 
 I'm in a maze yet, like a dog in a dancing-school. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, sir, take her, and with her 
 all the joy I can give you. 
 
 Mil. Why does not the man take me ? would 
 you have me give myself to you over again ? 
 
 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. 
 
 Sir Wil. S'heart, you'll have time enough to toy 
 after you're married ; or if you 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 WilfuU. 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 Wish. As I am a person, I can hold out 
 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 yet, 
 that my son Fainall will pursue some desperate 
 course. 
 
 Mir. Madam, disquiet not yourself on that ac- 
 count ; to my knowledge his circumstances are 
 such he must of force comply. For my part, I will 
 contribute all that in me lies to a reunion ; in the 
 mean time, madam,— [To Mrs. Fainall.] let me 
 before these witnesses restore to you this deed of 
 trust ; it may be a means, well-managed, to make 
 you live easily together. 
 
 From hence let those bewarn'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 MRS. BRACEG1RDLE. 
 
 After our Epilogue this crowd dismisses, 
 I'm thinking how this play'll be pull'd to pieces. 
 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 diseased, 
 They scarcely come inclining to be pleased : 
 And sure he must have more than mortal skill, 
 Who pleases any one against his will. 
 Then all bad poets we are sure are foes, 
 And how their number's swell'd, the town well knows : 
 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. 
 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 ; 
 Such who watch plays with scurrilous intent 
 To mark out who by characters are meant. 
 
 And though no perfect likeness they can trace, 
 
 Yet each pretends to know the copied face. 
 
 These with false glosses feed their own ill nature, 
 
 And turn to libel what was meant a satire. 
 
 May 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 learn '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 coquettes and beaux. 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF PARTS. 
 
 a Jflasquc. 
 
 • Vincis utramque Venus. 
 
 Ovid, de Arte Amandi, lib. i. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Goddess of Discord, at the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, conveys a Golden 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, under the conduct 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. 
 
 M.ERCURY. 
 
 Juno. 
 Pallas. 
 
 
 
 Venus. 
 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 <§•<?. lying by him. 
 While a symphony is playing, Mercury de- 
 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 thy tuneful reed ; 
 For thou to greater honours 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. 
 [Juno, Pallas, and Venus, are seen at a distance 
 descending in several machines. 
 
 Par. O ravishing delight ! 
 What mortal can support the sight ? 
 
 Alas ! 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. [Mercury ascends. 
 [ While a symphony is playing, Juno descends from her 
 
 machine ; after the 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. 
 
 [Symphony for Pallas. 
 Pallas. This way, mortal, bend thy eyes, 
 Pallas claims the golden prize : 
 A virgin goddess free from stain, 
 A.nd queen of arts and arms I reign. 
 
 [Symphony for Venus. 
 Venus. Hither turn thee, gentle swain, 
 Let not Venus sue in vain ; 
 
THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS. 
 
 289 
 
 Venus rules the gods above, 
 Love rules 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 I am she. 
 Ven. Hither turn thee, gentle swain. 
 Juno and Pal. She will deceive thee. 
 Ven. They will deceive thee, I'll never leave thee. 
 Chorus of the 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 equal a 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 a face that must carry the prize. 
 Juno sings. 
 Let ambition fire thy mind, 
 
 Thou wert born o'er men to reign, 
 Not to follow flocks design'd ; 
 
 Scorn thy crook, and leave the plain. 
 
 Crowns I'll throw beneath thy feet, 
 Thou on necks of kings shall 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 prize 
 
 For the blessings I bestow, 
 Joyful I'll ascend the skies, 
 Happy thou shalt reign below. 
 Chorus. 
 Let ambition fire thy mind, 
 
 Thou wert born o'er men to reign, 
 Not to follow flocks design'd ; 
 
 Scorn thy crook, and leave the plain. 
 Pallas 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 sings. 
 O what joys does conquest yield ! 
 When returning from the field, 
 
 O how glorious 'tis to see 
 The godlike hero crown'd with victory ! 
 
 Laurel wreaths his head 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 how glorious 'tis to see 
 The godlike hero crown'd with victory ! [Symphony. 
 
 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. 
 
 Chorus. 
 One only joy, &c. 
 
 Venus sings. 
 
 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 ! 
 Should 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 contending, 
 
 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. 
 
 Par. I yield, I yield, O take the prize, 
 
 And cease, O cease the enchanting song ! 
 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 Parts gives to Venus the Golden Apple. Several 
 Cupids descend, the three Graces alight from the 
 chariot of 'Venus, they call the Hours, who assemble, 
 with all the attendants on Venus. All join in a circle 
 round her, and sing the last grand chorus, while 
 Juno and Pallas 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 ! 
 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. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
SEME L E 
 
 &tt ©pera. 
 
 A natura discedimus ; populo nos damus, nullius rei bono auctori, et in bac re, sicut in omnibus, inconstan- 
 tissimo. — Seneca, Epist. 99. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 After Jupiter's amour with Europa, 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 allowed 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. 
 
 Jupiter. 
 
 Cadmus, King of Thebes . 
 
 Athamas, a Prince ofBceotia. in love with and 
 
 designed to marry Semele. 
 Somnus. 
 Apollo. 
 Cupid. 
 Zephyrs. 
 Loves. 
 Shepherds. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Satyrs. 
 
 Juno. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Semele, Daughter to Cadmus, beloved by and 
 
 in love with Jupiter. 
 Ino, Sister to Semele, in love with Athamas. 
 
 1 Chief Priest of Juno, other Priests and Augurs. 
 
 SCENE,— Bceotia. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 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 statue of Juno is seen to bow. 
 Cadmus, Athamas, Semele, Ino, and Attendants, 
 1 Priest. Behold ! auspicious flashes rise ; 
 Juno accepts our sacrifice ; 
 The grateful odour swift ascends, 
 And see, the golden image bends. 
 1 & 2 Priest. Lucky omens bless our rites, 
 And sure success shall crown your loves ; 
 
 Peaceful days and fruitful nights 
 Attend the pair that she approves. 
 Cad. Daughter, obey, 
 Hear, and obey, 
 With kind consenting 
 Ease a parent's care ; 
 Invent no new delay. 
 Ath. 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 warrting. 
 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'erfiowing ! 
 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 ! 
 
 Ill-boding thunder on the right hand rolls, 
 And Jove himself descends in showers, 
 To quench our late propitious fires. 
 Chorus of Priests. 
 Avert these omens, all ye powers ! 
 
 2 Priest. Again auspicious flashes rise, 
 
 Juno accepts our sacrifice. 
 [Flames are again kindled on the altar, and the Statue 
 nods. 
 
 3 Priest. Again the sickly flame decaying dies : 
 Juno assents, but angry Jove denies. 
 
 {The fire is again extinguished. 
 
 Ath. [Apart.] Thy aid, pronubial Juno, Atha- 
 mas implores. 
 
 Sem. [Apart.] Thee Jove, and thee alone, thy 
 Semele adores. 
 
 [A loud clap of thunder ,■ the altar 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 but 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 II. 
 Athamas and Ino, 
 
 Ath. O Athamas, what torture hast thou borne ! 
 
 And oh, what hast thou yet to bear ! 
 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. 
 Ath. She weeps ! 
 
 The gentle maid, in tender pity, 
 Weeps to behold my miserv ! 
 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 herself inflicts the wound. 
 U 2 
 
292 
 
 SEMELE. 
 
 Ino. Ah me, too much afflicted ! 
 Ath. Can pity for another's pain 
 
 Cause such anxiety ! 
 Ino. Couldst thou but guess 
 What I endure ! 
 Or could I tell thee — 
 Thou, Athamas, 
 Wouldst for a while 
 Thy sorrows cease, a little cease, 
 And listen for a while 
 To my lamenting. 
 Ath. Of grief too sensible 
 
 I know your tender nature. 
 Well I remember, 
 When I oft have sued 
 To cold, disdainful Semele, 
 When I with scorn have been rejected, 
 Your tuneful voice my tale would tell, 
 
 In pity of my sad despair ; 
 And with sweet melody, compel 
 Attention from the flying fair. 
 Ino. Too well I see 
 
 Thou wilt not understand me. 
 Whence could proceed such tenderness ? 
 Whence such compassion ? 
 Insensible ! ingrate ! 
 Ah no, I cannot blame thee : 
 For by effects unknown before, 
 Who could the hidden cause explore ? 
 Or think that love could act so strange a part, 
 To plead for pity in a rival's heart ? 
 Ath. Ah me, what have I heard ! 
 
 She does her passion own. 
 Ino. What, had I not despaired, 
 You never should have known. 
 You've undone me ; 
 Look not on me 
 Guilt upbraiding ; 
 Shame invading ; 
 Look not on me ; 
 You've undone me ! 
 Ath. With my life I would atone 
 
 Pains you've borne, to me unknown. 
 Cease, cease to shun me. 
 Ino. Look not on me, 
 
 You've undone me. 
 Ath. Cease, cease to shun me ; 
 Love, love alone 
 Has both undone. 
 Ino, Ath. Love, love alone 
 Has both undone. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Athamas, Ino, and Cadmus, attended. 
 Cad. Ah wretched prince, doom'd to disastrous 
 Ah me, of parents most forlorn ! [love ! 
 
 Prepare, O Athamas, to prove 
 
 The sharpest pangs that e'er were borne : 
 Prepare with me our common loss to mourn. 
 Ath. Can fate, or Semele invent 
 
 Another, yet another punishment ? 
 Cad. Wing'd with our fears, and pious haste, 
 From Juno's fane we fled ; 
 Scarce we the brazen gates had pass'd, 
 When Semele around her head 
 With azure flames was graced, 
 Whose lambent glories in her tresses play'd. 
 
 While this we saw, with dread surprise, 
 Swifter than lightning downwards tending 
 An eagle stoop'd, of mighty size, 
 On purple wings descending ; 
 Like gold his beak, like stars shone forth his eyes, 
 His silver plumy breast with snow contending : 
 Sudden he snatch' d the trembling maid, 
 And soaring from our sight convey'd ; 
 Diffusing ever, as he lessening flew, 
 Celestial odour and ambrosial dew. 
 
 Ath. O prodigy, to me of dire portent ! 
 Ino. To me, I hope, of fortunate event. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Athamas, Ino, Cadmus, the Chief-Priest, Augurs, and 
 other Priests. 
 
 Cad. See, see Jove's priests, and holy augurs 
 come : — 
 Speak, speak, of Semele and me declare the doom : 
 
 1 Aug. Hail, Cadmus, hail ! Jove salutes the 
 
 Theban king. 
 Cease your mourning, 
 Joys returning, 
 Songs of mirth and triumph sing. 
 
 2 Aug. Endless pleasure, endless love 
 
 Semele enjoys above. 
 On her bosom Jove reclining, 
 
 Useless now his thunder lies ; 
 To her arms his bolts resigning, 
 
 And his lightning to her eyes. 
 Endless pleasure, endless love 
 
 Semele enjoys above. 
 1 Priest. Haste, haste,haste ! to sacrifice prepare, 
 Once to the thunderer, once to the fair, 
 
 Jove and Semele implore : 
 Jove and Semele like honours share ; 
 
 Whom gods admire, let men adore. 
 Haste, haste, haste ! to sacrifice prepare. 
 
 Chorus of Priests and Augurs. 
 
 Hail, Cadmus, hail ! Jove salutes the Theban king. 
 
 Cease your mourning, 
 
 Joys returning, 
 Songs of mirth and triumph sing. {Exeunt. 
 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 SEMELE. 
 
 293 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I A pleasant country; the prospect is 
 
 terminated by a beautiful 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 burn : 
 Then why this long delay ? 
 Iris. With all his speed, not yet tbe 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 lightning 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 ; 
 
 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 imperial 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 fierce 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 fiery eyes, 
 Which never know repose. 
 Juno. Hence, Iris, hence away, 
 
 Far from the realms 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 ! 
 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 Dance 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 hi. 
 
 Mighty Jove though he be, 
 
 Jup. Thy sex of Jove's the masterpiece, 
 
 And 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. 
 
 Given to agitate the mind, 
 
 Sem. 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 loving, 
 
 And dull repose, 
 
 No more afflict me 
 
 The foes of transport 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Still a woman ; 
 
 Though this human form I wear, 
 
 And ever when you leave me, 
 
 Think not I man's falsehood bear. 
 
 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 read 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 fears, 
 
 She would dethrone Saturnia ; 
 
 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 alone, 
 
 And hearing must refuse her. 
 
 But love and I are one. 
 
 Sem. Why do you cease to gaze upon me ? 
 
 Jup. Sem. If this be love, not you alone, 
 
 Why musing turn away ? 
 
 But love and I are one. 
 
 Some other object 
 
 Sem. Ah me ! 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Two winged Zephyrs 
 
 Where hovering for a vent, 
 
 From her downy bed 
 
 Amidst their humid fires, 
 
 Thy much-loved 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 ; 
 
 Sem. 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 wander'd in my love. 
 
 Now all this scene shall 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, 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 Still complaining ; 
 
 
 If consenting, 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Still repenting ; 
 
 
 Most complying, 
 When denying, 
 And to be follow'd only flying. 
 
 Jupiter retires. Semele and Ino meet and embrace. 
 
 The Scene is totally changed, and shows an open country. 
 
 Several Shepherds and Shepherdesses enter. Semele 
 and Ino having entertained each other in dumb show, sit 
 
 With my frailty don't upbraid me, 
 
 and observe the rural sports, which end the second Act. 
 
 I am woman as you made me. 
 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 SEMELE. 
 
 295 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Cave of Somnus. The god of 
 sleep lying on his bed. A soft symphony is 
 heard. Then the music changes to a different 
 movement. 
 
 Juno and Iris. 
 
 Juno. Somnus, awake ! 
 
 Raise thy reclining head. 
 Iris. Thyself forsake, 
 
 And lift up 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. 
 
 [Sinks down again. 
 Iris. 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 ; 
 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 
 Juno. 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. 
 Som. I tremble to comply. 
 Juno. To me thy leaden rod resign, 
 To charm the sentinels 
 On mount Citheron ; 
 Then cast a sleep on mortal Ino, 
 Tbat 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. 
 Juno. 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. 
 
 [Exeunt Juno and Iris. 
 [Somnus retires within his Cave, the scene changes 
 to Semele's Apartment. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Semele. 
 
 I love, and am loved, yet more I desire ; 
 Ah, how foolish a thing is fruition ! 
 
 As one passion cools, some other takes fir* 
 And I'm still in a longing condition. 
 Whate'er I possess 
 Soon seems an excess, 
 
 For something untried I petition ; 
 Though daily I prove 
 The pleasures of love, 
 
 I die for the joys of ambition. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Semele, and Juno as Ino, with a mirror in her hand. 
 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 ? 
 Sem. 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 this 
 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 ! 
 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 did that glance become me ! 
 But take this flattering mirror from me. 
 Yet once again let me view me : 
 Ah, charming all o'er ! 
 [Offering the glass, withdraws her hand again 
 
29G 
 
 SEMELE. 
 
 Here — hold, I'll have one look more, 
 Though that look I were sure would undo me. 
 Juno. [ Taking the glass from her.'] Be wise as 
 you are beautiful, 
 Nor lose this opportunity. 
 When Jove appears, 
 All ardent with desire, 
 Refuse his proffer'd flame 
 Till you obtain a boon without a name. 
 Sem. Can that avail me ? 
 Juno. Unknowing your intent, 
 And eager for possessing, 
 He unawares will grant 
 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 bed 
 In likeness of a mortal, 
 But like himself the mighty thunderer, 
 In pomp of majesty, 
 And heavenly attire ; 
 As when he proud Saturnia charms, 
 And with ineffable delights 
 Fills her encircling arms, 
 And pays the nuptial rites. 
 By this conjunction 
 With entire divinity 
 You shall partake of heavenly essence, 
 And thenceforth leave 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 my arms embrace thee ; 
 And when I'm a goddess made, 
 With charms like mine I'll grace thee. 
 Juno. Rich odours fill the fragrant air, 
 And Jove's approach declare. 
 I must retire — 
 Sem. Adieu ! — Your counsel I'll pursue. 
 Juno. [Apart.] And sure destruction will ensue. 
 Vain, wretched fool ! — [To Semele] Adieu! 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Jupitbr enters, offers to embrace Semele ; she looks kindly 
 on him, bat 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. 
 Jup. O Semele, 
 
 Why art thou thus insensible ? 
 Were I a mortal, 
 Thy barbarous disdaining 
 Would surely end me, 
 And death at my complaining 
 In pity would befriend me. 
 Sem. I ever am granting, 
 
 You always complain ; 
 I always am wanting, 
 Yet never obtain. 
 Jup. Speak, speak your desire, 
 I'm all over fire. 
 Say what you require, 
 I'll grant it — now let us retire. 
 Sem. Swear by the Stygian lake. 
 Jup. By that tremendous flood I swear : 
 Ye Stygian waters, hear, 
 And thou Olympus, shake, 
 In witness to the oath I take. 
 \Thunder heard at a distance, and underneath. 
 Sem. You'll grant what I 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, 
 Should 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 your omnipotence arm ye. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 She withdraws, Jupiter remains pensive and dejected. 
 Jupiter. 
 
 Ah ! whither is she gone ? unhappy fair ! 
 Why did she wish ? — Why did I rashly swear ? 
 'Tis past, 'tis past recall, 
 She must a victim fall. 
 Anon, when I appear, 
 The 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. 
 
 Juno appears in her chariot ascending. 
 Juno. 
 Above measure 
 Is the pleasure 
 Which my revenge supplies. 
 Love's a bubble, 
 Gaia'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 ! 
 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 lying under a canopy, 
 leaning pensively. While a mournful symphony is play- 
 ing, she looks up and sees Jupiter descending in a black 
 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. 
 
 Semele. 
 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 burn, 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 0/ Semele, a sudden and great flash 
 of lightning breaks forth, and a clap of loud thunder 
 is heard ,- when at one instant Semele, with the 
 palace and the whole present scene disappears, and 
 Jupiter reascends siviftly. The scene, totally changed, 
 represents a pleasant country , Mount Cither on 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 ! 
 Ino. How I was hence removed, 
 
 Or hither how return'd, I know not 
 
 Cad. 
 
 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 fled, 
 That Jove ordain'd I Athamas should wed. 
 Be Jove in everything obey'd. 
 
 [Joins their hands. 
 Ath. Unworthy of your charms, myself I yield ; 
 Be Jove's commands and yours fulfill' 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, Ino, 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. 
 
 Then mortals be merry, &c. 
 
 Danee of Satyrs. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
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