_A Room in Boniface's Inn_.
_Enter Aimwell dressed, and Archer_.
_Aim_. And was she the daughter of the house?
_Arch_. The landlord is so blind as to think so; but I
dare swear she has better blood in her veins.
_Aim_. Why dost think so?
_Arch_. Because the baggage has a pert _je ne sais quoi_;
she reads plays, keeps a monkey, and is troubled
with vapours.
_Aim_. By which discoveries I guess that you know more
of _Cher_.
_Arch_. Not yet, faith; the lady gives herself airs;
forsooth, nothing under a gentleman!
_Aim_. Let me take her in hand.
_Arch_. Say one word more of that, and I'll declare
myself, spoil your sport there, and everywhere else;
look ye, Aim well, every man in his own sphere.
_Aim_. Right; and therefore you must pimp for your
master.
_Arch_. In the usual forms, good sir, after I have served
myself.--But to our business. You are so well
dressed, Tom, and make so handsome a figure, that
I fancy you may do execution in a country church;
the exterior part strikes first, and you're in the
right to make that impression favourable. {23}
_Aim_. There's something in that which may turn to
advantage. The appearance of a stranger in a
country church draws as many gazers as a blazing-star;
no sooner he comes into the cathedral, but a
train of whispers runs buzzing round the congregation
in a moment: _Who is he? Whence comes he?
Do you know him?_Then I, sir, tips me the verger
with half-a-crown; he pockets the simony, and
inducts me into the best pew in the church; I pull
out my snuff-box, turn myself round, bow to the
bishop, or the dean, if he be the commanding-officer;
single out a beauty, rivet both my eyes
to hers, set my nose a-bleeding by the strength of
imagination, and show the whole church my concern,
by my endeavouring to hide it; after the
sermon, the whole town gives me to her for a lover,
and by persuading the lady that I am a-dying for
her, the tables are turned, and she in good earnest
falls in love with me. {42}
_Arch_. There's nothing in this, Tom, without a precedent;
but instead of riveting your eyes to a
beauty, try to fix 'em upon a fortune; that's our
business at present.
_Aim_. Psha! no woman can be a beauty without a
fortune. Let me alone, for I am a marksman.
_Arch_. Tom!
_Aim_. Ay. {50}
_Arch_. When were you at church before, pray?
_Aim_. Um--I was there at the coronation.
_Arch_. And how can you expect a blessing by going to
church now?
_Aim_. Blessing! nay, Frank, I ask but for a wife. [_Exit_.
_Arch_. Truly, the man is not very unreasonable in his
demands. [_Exit at the opposite door_.
_Enter Boniface and Cherry_.
_Bon_. Well, daughter, as the saying is, have you brought
Martin to confess? {59}
_Cher_. Pray, father, don't put me upon getting anything
out of a man; I 'm but young, you know, father,
and I don't understand wheedling.
_Bon_. Young! why, you jade, as the saying is, can any
woman wheedle that is not young? your mother
was useless at five-and-twenty. Not wheedle!
would you make your mother a whore, and me a
cuckold, as the saying is? I tell you, his silence
confesses it, and his master spends his money so
freely, and is so much a gentleman every manner of
way, that he must be a highwayman. {70}
_Enter Gibbet, in a cloak_.
_Gib_. Landlord, landlord, is the coast clear?
_Bon_. O Mr. Gibbet, what 's the news?
_Gib_. No matter, ask no questions, all fair and
honourable.--Here, my dear Cherry.--[_Gives her a bag_.]
Two hundred sterling pounds, as good as any that
ever hanged or saved a rogue; lay 'em by with the
rest; and here-three wedding or mourning rings,
'tis much the same you know-here, two silver-hilted
swords; I took those from fellows that never
show any part of their swords but the hilts-here
is a diamond necklace which the lady hid in the
privatest place in the coach, but I found it out--
this gold watch I took from a pawnbroker's wife; it
was left in her hands by a person of quality: there's
the arms upon the case.
_Cher_. But who had you the money from? {86}
_Gib_. Ah! poor woman! I pitied her;-from a poor
lady just eloped from her husband. She had made
up her cargo, and was bound for Ireland, as hard
as she could drive; she told me of her husband's
barbarous usage, and so I left her half-a-crown.
But I had almost forgot, my dear Cherry, I have a
present for you.
_Cher_. What is 't?
_Gib_. A pot of ceruse, my child, that I took out of a
lady's under-pocket.
_Cher_. What, Mr. Gibbet, do you think that I paint?
_Gib_. Why, you jade, your betters do; I 'm sure the lady
that I took it from had a coronet upon her handkerchief.
Here, take my cloak, and go, secure the
premises. {101}
_Cher_. I will secure 'em. [_Exit_.
_Bon_. But, hark'ee, where's Hounslow and Bagshot?
_Gib_. They'll be here to-night.
_Bon_. D' ye know of any other gentlemen o' the pad on
this road?
_Gib_. No.
_Bon_. I fancy that I have two that lodge in the house
just now.
_Gib_. The devil! how d'ye smoke 'em? {110}
_Bon_. Why, the one is gone to church.
_Gib_. That's suspicious, I must confess.
_Bon_. And the other is now in his master's chamber; he
pretends to be servant to the other; we 'll call him
out and pump him a little.
_Gib_. With all my heart.
_Bon_. Mr. Martin! Mr. Martin! [_Calls_.
_Enter Archer, combing a periwig and singing_.
_Gib_. The roads are consumed deep, I'm as dirty as Old
Brentford at Christmas.--A good pretty fellow
that; whose servant are you, friend? {120}
_Arch_. My master's.
_Gib_. Really!
_Arch_. Really.
_Gib_. That 's much.--The fellow has been at the bar by
his evasions.--But, pray, sir, what is your master's
name?
_Arch_. _Tall, all, dall!_--[_Sings and combs the periwig._]
This is the most obstinate curl--
_Gib_. I ask you his name?
_Arch_. Name, sir--_tall, all, doll!_--I never asked him
his name in my life.--_Tall, all, doll!_ {131}
_Bon_. What think you now? [Aside to Gibbet.
_Gib_. [_Aside to Boniface_.] Plain, plain, he talks now as
if he were before a judge.--[_To Archer_.] But pray,
friend, which way does your master travel?
_Arch_. A-horseback.
_Gib_. [_Aside_.] Very well again, an old offender, right--
[_To Archer_.] But, I mean, does he go upwards or
downwards?
_Arch_. Downwards, I fear, sir.--_Tall, all!_ {140}
_Gib_. I 'm afraid my fate will be a contrary way.
_Bon_. Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Martin, you 're very arch.
This gentleman is only travelling towards Chester,
and would be glad of your company, that's all.--
Come, captain, you'll stay to-night, I suppose?
I'll show you a chamber--come, captain.
_Gib_. Farewell, friend!
_Arch_. Captain, your servant.--[_Exeunt Boniface and
Gibbet._] Captain! a pretty fellow! 'Sdeath, I
wonder that the officers of the army don't conspire
to beat all scoundrels in red but their own. {151}
_Re-enter Cherry_.
_Cher_. [_Aside_.] Gone, and Martin here! I hope he did
not listen; I would have the merit of the discovery
all my own, because I would oblige him to love me.
--[_Aloud_] Mr. Martin, who was that man with my
father?
_Arch_. Some recruiting Serjeant, or whipped-out trooper,
I suppose.
_Cher_. All's safe, I find. [_Aside_
_Arch_. Come, my dear, have you conned over the
catechise I taught you last night? {161}
_Cher_. Come, question me.
_Arch_. What is love?
_Cher_. Love is I know not what, it comes I know not
how, and goes I know not when.
_Arch_. Very well, an apt scholar.--[_Chucks her under the
chin_.] Where does love enter?
_Cher_. Into the eyes.
_Arch_. And where go out?
_Cher_. I won't tell ye. {170}
_Arch_. What are the objects of that passion?
_Cher_. Youth, beauty, and clean linen.
_Arch_. The reason?
_Cher_. The two first are fashionable in nature, and the
third at court.
_Arch_. That's my dear.--What are the signs and tokens
of that passion?
_Cher_. A stealing look, a stammering tongue, words
improbable, designs impossible, and actions impracticable.
{180}
_Arch_. That's my good child, kiss me.---What must a
lover do to obtain his mistress?
_Cher_. He must adore the person that disdains him,
he must bribe the chambermaid that betrays him,
and court the footman that laughs at him. He
must--he must--
_Arch_. Nay, child, I must whip you if you don't mind
your lesson; he must treat his-- {188}
_Cher_. Oh ay!--he must treat his enemies with respect,
his friends with indifference, and all the world with
contempt; he must suffer much, and fear more; he
must desire much, and hope little; in short, he
must embrace his ruin, and throw himself away.
_Arch_. Had ever man so hopeful a pupil as mine!--
Come, my dear, why is love called a riddle?
_Cher_. Because, being blind, he leads those that see, and,
though a child, he governs a man.
_Arch_. Mighty well!--And why is Love pictured blind?
_Cher_. Because the painters out of the weakness or
privilege of their art chose to hide those eyes that
they could not draw. {199}
_Arch_. That's my dear little scholar, kiss me again.--
And why should Love, that's a child, govern a man?
_Cher_. Because that a child is the end of love.
_Arch_. And so ends Love's catechism.--And now, my
dear, we'll go in and make my master's bed.
_Cher_. Hold, hold, Mr. Martin! You have taken a great
deal of pains to instruct me, and what d' ye think I
have learned by it?
_Arch_. What? {209}
_Cher_. That your discourse and your habit are
contradictions, and it would be nonsense in me to believe
you a footman any longer.
_Arch_. 'Oons, what a witch it is!
_Cher_. Depend upon this, sir, nothing in this garb shall
ever tempt me; for, though I was born to servitude,
I hate it. Own your condition, swear you love me,
and then--
_Arch_. And then we shall go make my master's bed?
_Cher_. Yes. {219}
_Arch_. You must know, then, that I am born a gentleman,
my education was liberal; but I went to
London a younger brother, fell into the hands of
sharpers, who stripped me of my money, my friends
disowned me, and now my necessity brings me to
what you see.
_Cher_. Then take my hand--promise to marry me before
you sleep, and I'll make you master of two
thousand pounds.
_Arch_. How! {229}
_Cher_. Two thousand pounds that I have this minute in
my own custody; so, throw off your livery this
instant, and I 'll go find a parson.
_Arch_. What said you? a parson!
_Cher_. What! do you scruple?
_Arch_. Scruple! no, no, but--Two thousand pounds, you say?
_Cher_. And better.
_Arch_. [_Aside_.] 'Sdeath, what shall I do?--[_Aloud_.] But
hark 'ee, child, what need you make me master of
yourself and money, when you may have the same
pleasure out of me, and still keep your fortune in
your hands?
_Cher_. Then you won't marry me? {242}
_Arch_. I would marry you, but--
_Cher_. O sweet sir, I'm your humble servant, you're
fairly caught! Would you persuade me that any
gentleman who could bear the scandal of wearing
a livery would refuse two thousand pounds, let the
condition be what it would? no, no, sir. But I
hope you 'll pardon the freedom I have taken, since
it was only to inform myself of the respect that I
ought to pay you. [_Going_.
_Arch_. [_Aside_.] Fairly bit, by Jupiter!--[_Aloud_.] Hold!
hold!--And have you actually two thousand pounds? {254}
_Cher_. Sir, I have my secrets as well as you; when you
please to be more open I shall be more free, and
be assured that I have discoveries that will match
yours, be what they will. In the meanwhile, be
satisfied that no discovery I make shall ever hurt
you, but beware of my father! [_Exit_.
_Arch_. So! we're like to have as many adventures in
our inn as Don Quixote had in his. Let me see--
two thousand pounds--if the wench would promise
to die when the money were spent, egad, one would
marry her; but the fortune may go off in a year or
two, and the wife may live--Lord knows how long.
Then an innkeeper's daughter! ay, that's the
devil--there my pride brings me off. {268}
For whatsoe'er the sages charge on pride,
The angels' fall, and twenty faults beside,
On earth, I'm sure, 'mong us of mortal calling,
Pride saves man oft, and woman too, from falling.
[_Exit_.