[Illustration]
PLAYS,
WRITTEN BY
Sir =John Vanbrugh=.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
=Volume= the =First=.
CONTAINING,
The =Relapse=; Or, =Virtue= in =Danger=.
The =Provok'd Wife=, with a new Scene.
=Æsop=, in two =Parts=.
The =False Friend=.
* * * * *
LONDON:
Printed for =J. Rivington=, =T. Longman=,
=T. Lowndes=, =S. Caslon=, =C. Corbett=,
=S. Bladon=, =W. Nicoll=, =T. Evans=,
and =M. Waller=.
MDCCLXXVI.
AN
ACCOUNT
OF THE
LIFE and WRITINGS
OF THE
AUTHOR.
Sir _John Vanbrugh_, an eminent dramatic Writer, Son of Mr. _Giles
Vanbrugh_, of _London_, Merchant, was born in the Parish of _St.
Stephen_'s, _Wallbrook_, in 1666. The Family of _Vanbrugh_ were for
many Years Merchants of great Credit and Reputation, at _Antwerp_, and
came into _England_ in the reign of Queen _Elizabeth_, on account of
the Persecution for Religion.
Sir _John_ received a very liberal Education, and at the Age of
nineteen, was sent by his Father to _France_, where he continued some
Years: He became very eminent for his Poetry, to which he discovered an
early propension. And, pity it is, that this agreeable Writer had not
discovered his Wit, without any Mixture of that Licentiousness, which,
tho' it pleased, tended to corrupt the Audience.
_The Relapse_ was the first Play our Author produced, but not the first
he had written; for he had at that Time by him, all the Scenes of _The
Provok'd Wife_; but being then doubtful whether he should ever trust it
to the Stage, he flung it by, and thought no more of it: Why the last
written Play was first acted, and for what Reason they were given to
different Stages, what follows will explain.
Upon our Author's first Step into public Life, when he was but an
Ensign in the Army, and had a Heart greatly above his Income, he
happened somewhere at his Winter Quarters, upon a slender Acquaintance
with Sir _Thomas Skipwith_, to receive a particular Obligation from
him; and many Years afterwards, when Sir _Thomas_'s Interest in a
Theatrical Patent (which he had a large Share in, though he little
concerned himself in the Conduct of it) was rising but very slowly,
Sir _John_ thought that to give it a lift by a new Comedy, might be
the handsomest Return he could make to those his former Favours;
accordingly he soon after finished _The Relapse, or, Virtue in Danger_,
which was acted at the Theatre in _Drury-Lane_, in 1696, with universal
Applause.
Upon the Success of _The Relapse_, the late Lord _Hallifax_, who was a
favourer of _Betterton_'s Company, having formerly heard some Scenes
of _The Provok'd Wife_ read to him, engaged Sir _John Vanbrugh_ to
revise it, and give it to that Company. This was a Request not to be
refused to so eminent a Patron of the Muses as Lord _Hallifax_, who was
equally a Friend and Admirer of Sir _John_ himself; nor was Sir _Thomas
Skipwith_ in the least disobliged by so reasonable a Compliance. _The
Provok'd Wife_ was accordingly acted at the Theatre in _Lincoln's
Inn-Fields_ in 1697, with great Success.
Tho' this Play met with so favourable a Reception, yet it was not
without its Enemies: People of the graver Sort blamed the looseness
of the Scenes, and the unguarded freedom of the Dialect; and indeed
Sir _John_ himself appears to have been sensible of the immorality
of his Scenes; for in the Year 1725, when this Play was revived, he
thought proper to substitute a new Scene in the fourth Act, in place of
another, in which, in the wantonness of his Wit, he had made a Rake
talk like a Rake, in the Habit of a Clergyman; to avoid which Offence,
he put the same Debauchee into the Undress of a Woman of Quality; by
which means the Follies he exposed in the Petticoat, appeared to the
Audience innocent and entertaining; which new Scene is now for the
first Time printed at the End of the Play.
Soon after the Success of _The Provok'd Wife_, Sir _John_ produced the
Comedy of _Esop_, in two Parts, which was acted at the Theatre-Royal in
_Drury Lane_, in 1697. This was originally written in _French_ by Mr.
_Boursaut_, about six Years before; but the Scenes of Sir _Polydorus
Hogstye_, the Players, and the Beau, were added by our Author. This
Play contains a great deal of general Satire, and useful Morality;
notwithstanding which, it met with but a cold Reception from the
Audience, and its run ended in about nine Days. This seemed the more
surprizing, as the _French_ Comedy was played to crowded Audiences
for a Month together. The little Success this Piece met with on the
_English_ Stage, cannot be better accounted for than in the Words
of Mr. _Cibber_, who, speaking of this Play, makes the following
Observation: "The Character that delivers Precepts of Wisdom, is in
some sort severe upon the Auditor, for shewing him one wiser than
himself; but when Folly is his Object, he applauds himself for being
wiser than the Coxcomb he laughs at; and who is not more pleased with
an Occasion to commend, than to accuse himself?"
The next Play our Author wrote, was _The False Friend_, a Comedy, which
was acted at the Theatre-Royal in _Drury Lane_, in 1702.
In 1703, Sir _John_ formed a Project of building a stately Theatre
in the _Haymarket_, for which he had interest enough to get a
Subscription of thirty Persons of Quality, at one hundred Pounds each,
in consideration whereof, every Subscriber was for his own Life to be
admitted to whatever Entertainments should be publicly performed there,
without any farther Payment for Entrance.
In 1706, when this House was finished, Mr. _Betterton_ and his
Co-partners, who then acted at the Theatre in _Lincoln's Inn-Fields_,
dissolved their Agreement, and put themselves under the direction
of Sir _John Vanbrugh_ and Mr. _Congreve_, imagining, perhaps, that
the Conduct of two such eminent Authors might give a more prosperous
turn to their Affairs; that the Plays it would now be their interest
to write for them, would soon recover the Town to a true Taste, and
be an Advantage that no other Company could hope for; and that till
such Plays could be written, the Grandeur of their House, as it was a
new spectacle, might allure the Crowd to support them: But, if these
were their Views, they soon found their Dependance upon them was too
sanguine; for though Sir _John_ was a very expeditious Writer, yet Mr.
_Congreve_ was too judicious to let any Thing come unfinished from
his Pen. Besides, every proper Convenience of a good Theatre had been
sacrificed to shew the Audience a vast triumphal Piece of Architecture,
in which, by Means of the spaciousness of the Dome, plays could not be
successfully represented, because the Actors could not be distinctly
heard.
Not long before this Time, the _Italian_ Opera began to steal into
_England_, but in as rude a Disguise as possible: notwithstanding
which, the new Monster pleased, though it had neither Grace, Melody,
nor Action, to recommend it. To strike in therefore with the prevailing
Fashion, Sir _John_ and Mr. _Congreve_ opened their New Theatre with a
translated Opera, set to _Italian_ Music, called _The Triumph of Love_;
but it met with a very cool Reception, being performed only three
Times--to thin Houses.
Immediately upon the Failure of this Opera, Sir _John Vanbrugh_ brought
on his Comedy, called _The Confederacy_, taken, but very greatly
improved, from _Les Bourgeoises à la Mode_, of Monsieur _D'Ancourt_.
The Success of this Play was not equal to its Merit; for it is written
with an uncommon Vein of Wit and Humour; which plainly shews that the
difficulty of hearing, distinctly, in that large Theatre, was no small
Impediment to the Applause that might have followed the same Actors on
any other Stage; and indeed every Play acted there before the House
was altered, seemed to suffer greatly from the same Inconvenience; for
what few could plainly hear, it was not likely many could applaud. In
a Word, the Prospect of Profits from this Theatre was so very barren,
that Mr. _Congreve_, in a few Months, gave up his Share in it wholly to
Sir _John Vanbrugh_; who, as he had a happier Talent of throwing the
_English_ Spirit into his Translations, than any other Author who had
borrowed from them, he in the same Season produced _The Mistake_, a
Comedy, taken from _Le D'epit Amoureux_, of _Moliere_; and _The Country
House_, a Farce, translated from _The French_, which has been acted at
all the Theatres with general Applause.
Sir _John_ soon afterwards, thoroughly tired of Theatrical Affairs,
determined to get rid of his Patent on the best Terms he could; he
accordingly made an Offer to Mr. _Owen Swiney_ of his House, Clothes,
and Scenes, with the Queen's Licence to employ them, upon Payment of
the Rent of five Pounds upon every acting Day, and not to exceed 700
_l._ in the Year; with which Proposal Mr. _Swiney_ soon complied, and
managed that Stage for some Time after.
Sir _John_ is not a little to be admired for his Spirit, and
readiness in producing Plays so fast upon the Neck of one another;
for, notwithstanding his quick Dispatch, there is a clear and lively
Simplicity in his Wit, that neither wants the Ornaments of Learning,
nor has the least Smell of the Lamp, as the Face of a fine Woman, with
her Locks loose about her, may then be in its greatest Beauty; such
were his Productions, only adorned by Nature. And there is, besides,
something so catching to the Ear, and so easy to the Memory, in all he
writ, that it has been observed by all the Actors of those Times, the
Stile of no Author whatsoever gave their Memory less Trouble, than that
of Sir _John Vanbrugh_. And indeed his Wit and Humour was so little
laboured, that his most entertaining Scenes seem to be no more than
his common Conversation committed to Paper. As his Conceptions were so
full of Life and Humour, it is not much to be wondered at, if his Muse
should be sometimes too warm to wait the slow Pace of Judgment, or to
endure the Drudgery of forming a regular Fable to them.
Besides the Plays already mentioned, Sir _John_ left behind him Part
of a Comedy, called _A Journey to London_, which has since been made
an entire Play of by Mr. _Cibber_, and called _The Provoked Husband_,
and was acted at the Theatre-Royal, in _Drury Lane_, in 1727, for
twenty-eight Nights successively, with universal Applause.
In 1703, he was appointed Clarencieux King of Arms, and in 1706 was
commissioned by Queen _Anne_ to carry the Habit and Ensigns of the
Order of the Garter to King _George_ the First, then at _Hanover_; he
was likewise Comptroller-General of the Board of Works, and Surveyor
of the Gardens and Waters. In the Year 1714, he received the Order
of Knighthood; and in 1719 he married _Henrietta Maria_, Daughter
of Colonel _Yarborough_, of _Haslington_, near _York_, by whom he
had three Children; _Charles_ the eldest was killed at the Battle of
_Fontenoy_, the other two died young.
Sir _John_ died at his House in _Scotland-Yard_, the 26th of _March_,
1726, and is interred in the Family Vault, under the Church of _St.
Stephen_'s, _Wallbrook_.
[Illustration]
THE
RELAPSE:
OR,
VIRTUE in DANGER:
A
COMEDY.
Being the Sequel of _The Fool in Fashion_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE
PREFACE.
To go about to excuse half the Defects this abortive Brat is come
into the World with, would be to provoke the Town with a long useless
Preface, when it is, I doubt, sufficiently soured already by a tedious
Play.
I do therefore (with all the Humility of a repenting Sinner) confess,
it wants every thing----but length; and in that, I hope, the severest
Critick will be pleas'd to acknowledge I have not been wanting. But
my Modesty will sure atone for every thing, when the World shall
know it is so great, I am even to this Day insensible of those two
shining Graces in the Play (which some part of the Town is pleas'd to
compliment me with) Blasphemy and Bawdy.
For my part, I cannot find them out: If there were any obscene
Expressions upon the Stage, here they are in the Print; for I have
dealt fairly, I have not sunk a Syllable, that cou'd (though by racking
of Mysteries) be rang'd under that Head; and yet I believe with a
steady Faith, there is not one Woman of a real Reputation in Town,
but when she has read it impartially over in her Closet, will find
it so innocent, she will think it no Affront to her Prayer-Book, to
lay it upon the same Shelf. So to them (with all manner of Deference)
I entirely refer my cause; and I am confident they will justify me
against those Pretenders to Good-manners, who at the same time have so
little Respect for the Ladies, they wou'd extract a bawdy Jest from an
Ejaculation, to put them out of countenance. But I expect to have these
well-bred Persons always my Enemies, since I am sure I shall never
write any thing lewd enough to make them my Friends.
As for the Saints (your thorough-pac'd ones, I mean, with skrew'd Faces
and wry Mouths) I despair of them; for they are Friends to nobody:
They love nothing but their Altars and themselves; they have too much
Zeal to have any Charity; they make Debauches in Piety, as Sinners do
in Wine; and are as quarrelsome in their Religion, as other People are
in their Drink: so I hope nobody will mind what they say. But if any
Man (with flat plod Shoes, a little Band, greasy Hair, and a dirty
Face, who is wiser than I, at the Expence of being forty Years older),
happens to be offended at a Story of a Cock and a Bull, and a Priest
and a Bull-dog, I beg his pardon with all my Heart; which, I hope, I
shall obtain, by eating my Words, and making this publick Recantation.
I do therefore, for his Satisfaction, acknowledge I lyed, when I said,
they never quit their hold; for in that little time I have liv'd in the
World, I thank God I have seen them forc'd to it more than once; but
next time I will speak with more Caution and Truth, and only say, they
have very good Teeth.
If I have offended any honest Gentleman of the Town, whose Friendship
or good Word is worth the having, I am very sorry for it; I hope they
will correct me as gently as they can, when they consider I have had
no other Design, in running a very great Risk, than to divert (if
possible) some part of their Spleen, in spite of their Wives and their
Taxes.
One Word more about the Bawdy, and I have done. I own the first Night
this thing was acted, some Indecencies had like to have happened; but
it was not my Fault.
The fine Gentleman of the Play, drinking his Mistress's Health in
_Nants_ Brandy, from six in the Morning to the time he waddled on
upon the Stage in the Evening, had toasted himself up to such a pitch
of Vigour, I confess I once gave _Amanda_ for gone, and am since
(with all due respect to Mrs. _Rogers_) very sorry she escaped; for
I am confident a certain Lady (let no one take it to herself that
is handsome) who highly blames the Play, for the Barrenness of the
Conclusion, would then have allowed it a very natural Close.
[Illustration]
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by _Miss_ =Cross=.
_Ladies, this Play in too much haste was writ,
To be o'ercharg'd with either Plot or Wit;
'Twas got, conceiv'd, and born in six Weeks Space,
And Wit, you know, 's as slow in Growth----as Grace.
Sure it can ne'er be ripen'd to your Taste;
I doubt 'twill prove our Author bred too fast:
For mark 'em well, who with the Muses marry,
They rarely do conceive, but they miscarry.
'Tis the hard Fate of those who are big with Rhyme,
Still to be brought-to-bed before their Time.
Of our late Poets, Nature few has made;
The greatest part----are only so by Trade.
Still want of something brings the scribbling Fit;
For want of Money some of 'em have writ,
And others do't, you see--for want of Wit.
Honour, they fancy, summons 'em to write,
So out they lug in resty Nature's spight,
As some of you spruce Beaux do--when you fight.
Yet let the Ebb of Wit be ne'er so low,
Some Glimpse of it a Man may hope to show,
Upon a Theme so ample----as a ~Beau~.
So, howsoe'er true Courage may decay,
Perhaps there's not one Smock-Face here to-day,
But's bold as ~Cæsar~--to attack a Play.
Nay, what's yet more, with an undaunted Face, }
To do the Thing with more heroick Grace, }
'Tis six to four y' attack the strongest Place. }
You are such Hotspurs in this kind of Venture,
Where there's no Breach, just there you needs must enter.
But be advis'd----
E'en give the Hero and the Critique o'er, }
For Nature sent you on another score; }
She formed her ~Beau~, for nothing but her Whore._ }
[Illustration]
Dramatis Personæ.
MEN.
Sir _Novelty Fashion_, newly created }
Lord _Foppington_, } Mr. _Cibber_.
Young _Fashion_, his Brother, Mr. _Kent_.
_Loveless_, Husband to _Amanda_, Mr. _Verbruggen_.
_Worthy_, a Gentleman of the Town, Mr. _Powel_.
Sir _Tunbelly Clumsey_, a Country Gentleman, Mr. _Bullock_.
Sir _John Friendly_, his Neighbour, Mr. _Mills_.
_Coupler_, a Matchmaker, Mr. _Johnson_.
_Bull_, Chaplain to Sir _Tunbelly_, Mr. _Simpson_.
_Syringe_, a Surgeon, Mr. _Haynes_.
_Lory_, Servant to Young _Fashion_, Mr. _Dogget_.
Shoemaker, Taylor, Perriwig-maker, &c.
WOMEN.
_Amanda_, Wife to _Loveless_, Mrs. _Rogers_.
_Berinthia_, her Cousin, a young Widow, Mrs. _Verbruggen_.
Miss _Hoyden_, a great Fortune, Daughter }
to Sir _Tunbelly_, } Mrs. _Cross_.
Nurse, her Governant, Mrs. _Powel_.
[Illustration]
THE
RELAPSE;
OR,
VIRTUE in DANGER.
[Illustration]
+ACT+ I. +SCENE+ I.
_Enter ~Loveless~, reading._
How true is that Philosophy which says
Our Heaven is seated in our Minds!
Through all the roving Pleasures of my Youth,
(Where Nights and Days seem all consum'd in Joy,
Where the false Face of Luxury
Display'd such Charms,
As might have shaken the most holy Hermit,
And made him totter at his Altar)
I never knew one Moment's Peace like this.
Here--in this little soft Retreat,
My thoughts unbent from all the Cares of Life,
Content with Fortune,
Eas'd from the grating Duties of Dependence,
From Envy free, Ambition under foot,
The raging Flame of wild destructive Lust
Reduc'd to a warm pleasing Fire of lawful Love,
My Life glides on, and all is well within.
_Enter ~Amanda~._
Lov. _meeting her kindly._
How does the happy Cause of my Content, my dear _Amanda_?
You find me musing on my happy State,
And full of grateful Thoughts to Heaven, and you.
_Aman._ Those grateful Offerings Heaven can't receive
With more Delight than I do:
Would I cou'd share with it as well
The Dispensations of its Bliss,
That I might search its choicest Favours out,
And shower 'em on your Head for ever.
_Lov._ The largest Boons that Heaven thinks fit to grant
To Things it has decreed shall crawl on Earth,
Are in the Gift of Woman form'd like you.
Perhaps when Time shall be no more,
When the aspiring Soul shall take its Flight,
And drop this pond'rous Lump of Clay behind it,
It may have Appetites we know not of,
And Pleasures as refin'd as its Desires--
But till that Day of Knowledge shall instruct me,
The utmost Blessing that my Thought can reach,
[_Taking her in his Arms._] Is folded in my Arms, and rooted in my
Heart.
_Aman._ There let it grow for ever.
_Lov._ Well said, _Amanda_--let it be for ever.--
Wou'd Heaven grant that--
_Aman._ 'Twere all the Heaven I'd ask.
But we are clad in black Mortality,
And the dark Curtain of eternal Night
At last must drop between us.
_Lov._ It must: that mournful Separation we must see.
A bitter Pill it is to all; but doubles its ungrateful Taste,
When Lovers are to swallow it;
_Aman._ Perhaps that Pain may only be my Lot,
You possibly may be exempted from it;
Men find out softer ways to quench their Fires.
_Lov._ Can you then doubt my Constancy, _Amanda_?
You'll find 'tis built upon a steady Basis----
The Rock of Reason now supports my Love,
On which it stands so fix'd,
The rudest Hurricane of wild Desire
Wou'd, like the Breath of a soft slumbering Babe,
Pass by, and never shake it.
_Aman._ Yet still 'tis safer to avoid the Storm;
The strongest Vessels, if they put to Sea,
May possibly be lost.
Wou'd I cou'd keep you here in this calm Port for ever!
Forgive the Weakness of a Woman,
I am uneasy at your going to stay so long in Town;
I know its false insinuating Pleasures;
I know the Force of its Delusions;
I know the Strength of its Attacks;
I know the weak Defence of Nature;
I know you are a Man--and I--a Wife.
_Lov._ You know then all that needs to give you Rest,
For Wife's the strongest Claim that you can urge.
When you would plead your Title to my Heart,
On this you may depend; therefore be calm,
Banish your Fears, for they are Traitors to your Peace:
Beware of them, they are insinuating busy Things
That gossip to and fro, and do a World of Mischief
Where they come: But you shall soon be Mistress of 'em all,
I'll aid you with such Arms for their Destruction,
They never shall erect their Heads again.
You know the Business is indispensible, that obliges
Me to go to _London_, and you have no Reason, that I
Know of, to believe that I'm glad of the Occasion:
For my honest Conscience is my Witness,
I have found a due Succession of such Charms
In my Retirement here with you,
I have never thrown one roving Thought that way;
But since, against my Will, I'm dragg'd once more
To that uneasy Theatre of Noise,
I am resolv'd to make such use on't,
As shall convince you 'tis an old cast Mistress,
Who has been so lavish of her Favours,
She's now grown Bankrupt of her Charms,
And has not one Allurement left to move me.
_Aman._ Her Bow, I do believe, is grown so weak,
Her Arrows (at this distance) cannot hurt you,
But in approaching 'em you give 'em Strength:
The Dart that has not far to fly,
Will put the best of Armour to a dangerous Trial.
_Lov._ That Trial past, and y'are at ease for ever;
When you have seen the Helmet prov'd,
You'll apprehend no more for him that wears it:
Therefore to put a lasting Period to your Fears,
I am resolv'd, this once, to launch into Temptation.
I'll give you an Essay of all my Virtues;
My former boon Companions of the Bottle
Shall fairly try what Charms are left in Wine:
I'll take my Place amongst them,
They shall hem me in,
Sing Praises to their God, and drink his Glory;
Turn wild Enthusiasts for his sake,
And Beasts to do him Honour:
Whilst I, a stubborn Atheist,
Sullenly look on,
Without one reverend Glass to his Divinity.
That for my Temperance,
Then for my Constancy----
_Aman._ Ay, there take heed.
_Lov._ Indeed the Danger's small.
_Aman._ And yet my Fears are great.
_Lov._ Why are you so timorous?
_Aman._ Because you are so bold.
_Lov._ My Courage should disperse your Apprehensions.
_Aman._ My Apprehensions should alarm your Courage.
_Lov._ Fy, fy, _Amanda_, it is not kind thus to distrust me.
_Aman._ And yet my Fears are founded on my Love.
_Lov._ For if you can believe 'tis possible
I shou'd again relapse to my past Follies,
I must appear to you a thing
Of such an undigested Composition,
That but to think of me with Inclination,
Wou'd be a Weakness in your Taste,
Your Virtue scarce cou'd answer.
_Aman._ 'Twou'd be a Weakness in my Tongue,
My Prudence cou'd not answer,
If I shou'd press you farther with my Fears;
I'll therefore trouble you no longer with 'em.
_Lov._ Nor shall they trouble you much longer,
A little time shall shew you they were groundless;
This Winter shall be the fiery Trial of my Virtue;
Which, when it once has past,
You'll be convinc'd 'twas of no false Allay,
There all your Cares will end--
_Aman._ Pray Heaven they may!
[_Exeunt Hand in Hand._
+SCENE+, _Whitehall._
_Enter ~Young Fashion~, ~Lory~, and ~Waterman~._
_Young Fash._ Come, pay the Waterman, and take the Pormanteau.
_Lory._ Faith, Sir, I think the Waterman had as good take the
Portmanteau, and pay himself.
_Young Fash._ Why sure there's something left in't.
_Lory._ But a solitary old Waistcoat, upon my Honour, Sir.
_Young Fash._ Why, what's become of the blue Coat, Sirrah?
_Lory._ Sir, 'twas eaten at _Gravesend_; the Reckoning came to thirty
Shillings, and your Privy-Purse was worth but two Half-Crowns.
_Young Fash._ 'Tis very well.
_Wat._ Pray, Master, will you please to dispatch me?
_Young Fash._ Ay, here a----Canst thou change me a Guinea?
_Lory._ [_Aside._] Good.
_Wat._ Change a Guinea, Master! Ha, ha, your Honour's pleas'd to
compliment.
_Young Fash._ I'gad I don't know how I shall pay thee then, for I have
nothing but Gold about me.
_Lory._ [_Aside._]--Hum, hum.
_Young Fash._ What dost thou expect, Friend?
_Wat._ Why, Master, so far against Wind and Tide, is richly worth half
a Piece.
_Young Fash._ Why, faith, I think thou art a good conscionable Fellow.
I'gad, I begin to have so good an Opinion of thy Honesty, I care not if
I leave my Portmanteau with thee, till I send thee thy Money.
_Wat._ Ha! God bless your Honour; I should be as willing to trust you,
Master, but that you are, as a Man may say, a Stranger to me, and these
are nimble Times; there are a great many Sharpers stirring. [_Taking
up the Portmanteau._] Well, Master, when your Worship sends the Money,
your Portmanteau shall be forthcoming. My Name's _Tugg_, my Wife keeps
a Brandy-Shop in _Drab-Ally_ at _Wapping_.
_Young Fash._ Very well; I'll send for't to-morrow.
[_Exit Wat._
_Lory._ So--Now, Sir, I hope you'll own yourself a happy Man, you have
outliv'd all your Cares.
_Young Fash._ How so, Sir?
_Lory._ Why you have nothing left to take care of.
_Young Fash._ Yes, Sirrah, I have myself and you to take care of still.
_Lory._ Sir, if you cou'd but prevail with somebody else to do that for
you, I fancy we might both fare the better for't.
_Young Fash._ Why, if thou canst tell me where to apply myself, I have
at present so little Money, and so much Humility about me, I don't know
but I may follow a Fool's Advice.
_Lory._ Why then, Sir, your Fool advises you to lay aside all
Animosity, and apply to Sir _Novelty_, your elder Brother.
_Young Fash._ Damn my elder Brother.
_Lory._ With all my heart; but get him to redeem your Annuity, however.
_Young Fash._ My Annuity! 'Sdeath, he's such a Dog, he would not give
his Powder-Puff to redeem my Soul.
_Lory._ Look you, Sir, you must wheedle him, or you must starve.
_Young Fash._ Look you, Sir, I will neither wheedle him, nor starve.
_Lory._ Why? what will you do then?
_Young Fash._ I'll go into the Army.
_Lory._ You can't take the Oaths; you are a Jacobite.
_Young Fash._ Thou may'st as well say I can't take Orders because I'm
an Atheist.
_Lory._ Sir, I ask your Pardon; I find I did not know the Strength of
your Conscience, so well as I did the Weakness of your Purse.
_Young Fash._ Methinks, Sir, a Person of your Experience should have
known, that the Strength of the Conscience proceeds from the Weakness
of the Purse.
_Lory._ Sir, I am very glad to find you have a Conscience able to
take care of us, let it proceed from what it will; but I desire
you'll please to consider, that the Army alone will be but a scanty
Maintenance for a Person of your Generosity (at least as Rents now are
paid); I shall see you stand in damnable need of some auxiliary Guineas
for your _menu Plaisirs_; I will therefore turn Fool once more for your
Service, and advise you to go directly to your Brother.
_Young Fash._ Art thou then so impregnable a Blockhead, to believe
he'll help me with a Farthing?
_Lory._ Not if you treat him, _de haut en bas_, as you use to do.
_Young Fash._ Why, how would'st have me treat him?
_Lory._ Like a Trout, tickle him.
_Young Fash._ I can't flatter----
_Lory._ Can you starve?
_Young Fash._ Yes----
_Lory._ I can't; Good-by t'ye, Sir--
[_Going._
_Young Fash._ Stay, thou wilt distract me. What would'st thou have me
to say to him?
_Lory._ Say nothing to him, apply yourself to his Favourites; speak to
his Perriwig, his Cravat, his Feather, his Snuff-box, and when you are
well with them----desire him to lend you a Thousand Pounds. I'll engage
you prosper.
_Young Fash._ 'Sdeath and Furies! Why was that Coxcomb thrust into the
World before me? O Fortune--Fortune--thou art a Bitch, by Gad----
[_Exeunt._
+SCENE+, _A Dressing-Room_.
_Enter Lord ~Foppington~ in his Night-Gown._
_Lord Fop._ Page----
[_Enter Page._
_Page._ Sir.
_Lord Fop._ Sir! Pray, Sir, do me the Favour to teach your Tongue the
Title the King has thought fit to honour me with.
_Page._ I ask your Lordship's Pardon, my Lord.
_Lord Fop._ O, you can pronounce the Word then----I thought it would
have choak'd you----D'ye hear?
_Page._ My Lord.
_Lord Fop._ Call La Varole, I wou'd dress--
[_Exit Page._
_Solus._
Well, 'tis an unspeakable Pleasure to be a Man of Quality----Strike me
dumb----My Lord----Your Lordship----My Lord _Foppington_--_Ah! c'est
quelque chose de beau, que le Diable m'emporte_----
Why the Ladies were ready to puke at me, whilst I had nothing but Sir
_Novelty_ to recommend me to 'em----Sure whilst I was but a Knight,
I was a very nauseous Fellow----Well, 'tis Ten Thousand Pawnd well
given----stap my Vitals----
_Enter ~La Varole~._
Me Lord, de Shoemaker, de Taylor, de Hosier, de Sempstress, de Peru, be
all ready, if your Lordship please to dress.
_Lord Fop._ 'Tis well, admit 'em.
_La Var._ Hey, Messieurs, entrez.
_Enter ~Taylor~, ~&c.~_
_Lord Fop._ So, Gentlemen, I hope you have all taken pains to shew
yourselves Masters in your Professions.
_Tayl._ I think I may presume to say, Sir----
_La Var._ My Lord----you Clawn you.
_Tayl._ Why, is he made a Lord?----My Lord, I ask your Lordship's
Pardon; my Lord, I hope, my Lord, your Lordship will please to own,
I have brought your Lordship as accomplish'd a Suit of Clothes, as
ever Peer of _England_ trode the Stage in, my Lord: Will your Lordship
please to try 'em now?
_Lord Fop._ Ay, but let my People dispose the Glasses so, that I may
see myself before and behind; for I love to see myself all raund----
[_Whilst he puts on his Clothes, enter ~Young Fashion~
and ~Lory~._
_Young Fash._ Hey-dey, what the Devil have we here? Sure my Gentleman's
grown a Favourite at Court, he has got so many People at his Levee.
_Lo._ Sir, these People come in order to make him a Favourite at Court,
they are to establish him with the Ladies.
_Young Fash._ Good God! to what an Ebb of Taste are Women fallen, that
it shou'd be in the power of a lac'd Coat to recommend a Gallant to
'em----
_Lo._ Sir, Taylors and Perriwig-makers are now become the Bawds of the
Nation, 'tis they debauch all the Women.
_Young Fash._ Thou sayest true; for there's that Fop now, has not by
Nature wherewithal to move a Cook-maid, and by that time these Fellows
have done with him, I'gad he shall melt down a Countess----But now for
my Reception, I engage it shall be as cold a one, as a Courtier's to
his Friend, who comes to put him in mind of his Promise.
_Lord Fop._ _to his Taylor._] Death and eternal Tartures! Sir, I say
the Packet's too high by a Foot.
_Tayl._ My Lord, if it had been an Inch lower, it would not have held
your Lordship's Pocket-Handkerchief.
_Lord Fop._ Rat my Packet-Handkerchief! Have not I a Page to carry it?
You may make him a Packet up to his Chin a purpose for it; but I will
not have mine come so near my Face.
_Tayl._ 'Tis not for me to dispute your Lordship's Fancy.
_Young Fash. to Lory._] His Lordship! _Lory_, did you observe that?
_Lo._ Yes, Sir; I always thought 'twould end there. Now, I hope, you'll
have a little more Respect for him.
_Young Fash._ Respect! Damn him for a Coxcomb; now has he ruin'd his
Estate to buy a Title, that he may be a Fool of the first Rate: But
let's accost him----
_To Lord Fop._] Brother, I'm your Humble Servant.
_Lord Fop._ O Lard, _Tam_; I did not expect you in _England_: Brother,
I am glad to see you----
_Turning to his Taylor._] Look you, Sir. I shall never be reconcil'd
to this nauseous Packet; therefore pray get me another Suit with all
manner of Expedition, for this is my eternal Aversion. Mrs. _Callicoe_,
are not you of my Mind?
_Semp._ O, directly, my Lord, it can never be too low--
_Lord Fop._ You are passitively in the right on't, for the Packet
becomes no part of the Body but the Knee.
_Semp._ I hope your Lordship is pleas'd with your Steenkirk.
_Lord Fop._ In love with it, stap my Vitals. Bring your Bill, you shall
be paid to-marrow--
_Semp._ I humbly thank your Honour--
[_Exit Semp._
_Lord Fop._ Hark thee, Shoemaker, these Shoes a'n't ugly, but they
don't fit me.
_Shoe._ My Lord, my thinks they fit you very well.
_Lord Fop._ They hurt me just below the Instep.
_Shoe._ [_Feeling his Foot._] My Lord, they don't hurt you there.
_Lord Fop._ I tell thee, they pinch me execrably.
_Shoe._ My Lord, if they pinch you, I'll be bound to be hang'd, that's
all.
_Lord Fop._ Why, wilt thou undertake to persuade me I cannot feel?
_Shoe._ Your Lordship may please to feel what you think fit; but that
Shoe does not hurt you--I think I understand my Trade----
_Lord Fop._ Now by all that's great and powerful, thou art an
incomprehensible Coxcomb; but thou makest good Shoes, and so I'll bear
with thee.
_Shoe._ My Lord, I have work'd for half the People of Quality in Town
these Twenty Years; and 'tis very hard I should not know when a Shoe
hurts, and when it don't.
_Lord Fop._ Well, pr'ythee, begone about thy Business.
[_Exit Shoe._
[_To the Hosier._] Mr. _Mend Legs_, a Word with you; the Calves of the
Stockings are thicken'd a little too much. They make my Legs look like
a Chairman's----
_Mend._ My Lord, my thinks they look mighty well.
_Lord Fop._ Ay, but you are not so good a Judge of those things as I
am, I have study'd them all my Life; therefore pray let the next be the
thickness of a Crawn-piece less----[_Aside._] If the Town takes notice
my Legs are fallen away, 'twill be attributed to the Violence of some
new Intrigue.
_To the Perriwig-maker._] Come, Mr. _Foretop_, let me see what you have
done, and then the Fatigue of the Morning will be over.
_Foretop._ My Lord, I have done what I defy any Prince in _Europe_ to
out-do; I have made you a Perriwig so long, and so full of Hair, it
will serve you for a Hat and Cloak in all Weathers.
_Lord Fop._ Then thou hast made me thy Friend to Eternity: Come, comb
it out.
_Young Fash._ Well, _Lory_, What do'st think on't? A very friendly
Reception from a Brother after Three Years Absence!
_Lory._ Why, Sir, 'tis your own Fault; we seldom care for those that
don't love what we love: if you wou'd creep into his Heart, you must
enter into his Pleasures--Here you have stood ever since you came in,
and have not commended any one thing that belongs to him.
_Young Fash._ Nor never shall, while they belong to a Coxcomb.
_Lory._ Then, Sir, you must be content to pick a hungry Bone.
_Young Fash._ No, Sir, I'll crack it, and get to the Marrow before I
have done.
_Lord Fop._ Gad's Curse! Mr. _Foretop_, you don't intend to put this
upon me for a full Perriwig?
_Fore._ Not a full one, my Lord! I don't know what your Lordship may
please to call a full one, but I have cramm'd twenty Ounces of Hair
into it.
_Lord Fop._ What it may be by Weight, Sir, I shall not dispute; but by
Tale, there are not nine Hairs on a side.
_Fore._ O Lord! O Lord! O Lord! Why, as God shall judge me, your
Honor's Side-Face is reduc'd to the Tip of your Nose.
_Lord Fop._ My Side-Face may be in an Eclipse for aught I know; but I'm
sure my Full-Face is like the Full-moon.
_Fore._ Heaven bless my Eye-sight----[_Rubbing his Eyes._] Sure I look
thro' the wrong end of the Perspective; for by my Faith, an't please
your Honour, the broadest place I see in your Face does not seem to me
to be two Inches diameter.
_Lord Fop._ If it did, it would just be two Inches too broad; for a
Perriwig to a Man, should be like a Mask to a Woman, nothing should be
seen but his Eyes--
_Fore._ My Lord, I have done; if you please to have more Hair in your
Wig, I'll put it in.
_Lord Fop._ Passitively, yes.
_Fore._ Shall I take it back now, my Lord?
_Lord Fop._ No: I'll wear it to-day, tho' it shew such a manstrous pair
of Cheeks, stap my Vitals, I shall be taken for a Trumpeter.
[_Exit ~Fore~._
_Young Fash._ Now your People of Business are gone, Brother, I hope I
may obtain a quarter of an Hour's Audience of you.
_Lord Fop._ Faith, _Tam_, I must beg you'll excuse me at this time, for
I must away to the House of Lards immediately; my Lady _Teaser_'s Case
is to come on to-day, and I would not be absent for the Salvation of
Mankind. Hey, _Page_! Is the Coach at the Door?
_Page._ Yes, my Lord.
_Lord Fop._ You'll excuse me, Brother.
[_Going._
_Young Fash._ Shall you be back at Dinner?
_Lord Fop._ As Gad shall jedge me, I can't tell; for 'tis passible I
may dine with some of aur Hause at _Lacket_'s.
_Young Fash._ Shall I meet you there? for I must needs talk with you.
_Lord Fop._ That, I'm afraid, mayn't be so praper; far the Lards I
commonly eat with, are a People of a nice Conversation; and you know,
_Tam_, your Education has been a little at large: but if you'll stay
here, you'll find a Family Dinner. Hey, Fellow! What is there for
Dinner? There's Beef: I suppose my Brother will eat Beef. Dear _Tam_,
I'm glad to see thee in _England_, stap my Vitals.
[_Exit, with his Equipage._
_Young Fash._ Hell and Furies, is this to be borne?
_Lory._ Faith, Sir, I cou'd almost have given him a knock o' th' Pate
myself.
_Young Fash._ 'Tis enough, I will now shew you the excess of my Passion
by being very calm: Come, _Lory_, lay your Loggerhead to mine, and in
cool Blood let us contrive his Destruction.
_Lory._ Here comes a Head, Sir, would contrive it better than us both,
if he wou'd but join in the Confederacy.
_Enter ~Coupler~._
_Young Fash._ By this Light, old _Coupler_ alive still! Why, how now,
Matchmaker, art thou here still to plague the World with Matrimony? You
old Bawd, how have you the Impudence to be hobbling out of your Grave
twenty Years after you are rotten!
_Coup._ When you begin to rot, Sirrah, you'll go off like a Pippin, one
Winter will send you to the Devil. What Mischief brings you home again?
Ha! You young lascivious Rogue, you: Let me put my Hand into your
Bosom, Sirrah.
_Young Fash._ Stand off, old _Sodom_.
_Coup._ Nay, pr'ythee now don't be so coy.
_Young Fash._ Keep your Hands to yourself, you old Dog you, or I'll
wring your Nose off.
_Coup._ Hast thou then been a Year in _Italy_, and brought home a Fool
at last? By my Conscience, the young Fellows of this Age profit no more
by their going abroad, than they do by their going to Church. Sirrah,
Sirrah, if you are not hang'd before you come to my Years, you'll know
a Cock from a Hen. But come, I'm still a Friend to thy Person, tho' I
have a Contempt of thy Understanding; and therefore I would willingly
know thy Condition, that I may see whether thou standest in need of my
Assistance; for Widows swarm, my Boy, the Town's infested with 'em.
_Young Fash._ I stand in need of any body's Assistance, that will help
me to cut my elder Brother's Throat, without the Risque of being hang'd
for him.
_Coup._ I'gad, Sirrah, I cou'd help thee to do him almost as good a
turn, without the danger of being burnt in the Hand for't.
_Young Fash._ Say'st thou so, old Satan? Shew me but that, and my Soul
is thine.
_Coup._ Pox o'thy Soul! give me thy warm Body, Sirrah; I shall have a
substantial Title to't when I tell thee my Project.
_Young Fash._ Out with it then, dear Dad, and take possession as soon
as thou wilt.
_Coup._ Sayest thou so, my _Hephestion_? Why, then, thus lies the
Scene: but hold; who's that? If we are heard we are undone.
_Young Fash._ What have you forgot _Lory_?
_Coup._ Who, trusty _Lory_, is it thee?
_Lory._ At your Service, Sir.
_Coup._ Give me thy Hand, old Boy; I'gad I did not know thee again; but
I remember thy Honesty, tho' I did not thy Face; I think thou hadst
like to have been hang'd once or twice for thy Master.
_Lory._ Sir, I was very near once having that Honour.
_Coup._ Well, live and hope; don't be discourag'd; eat with him, and
drink with him, and do what he bids thee, and it may be thy Reward at
last, as well as another's.
_To Young Fash._] Well, Sir, you must know I have done you the Kindness
to make up a Match for your Brother.
_Young Fash._ I am very much beholden to you, truly.
_Coup._ You may be, Sirrah, before the Wedding-day yet; the Lady is a
great Heiress; fifteen hundred Pound a year, and a great Bag of Money;
the Match is concluded, the Writings are drawn, and the Pipkin's to be
crack'd in a Fortnight--Now you must know, Stripling (with Respect to
your Mother), your Brother's the Son of a Whore.
_Young Fash._ Good.
_Coup._ He has given me a Bond of a Thousand Pounds for helping him to
this Fortune, and has promis'd me as much more in ready Money upon the
Day of Marriage; which, I understand by a Friend, he ne'er designs to
pay me; if therefore you will be a generous young Dog, and secure me
five thousand Pounds, I'll be a covetous old Rogue, and help you to the
Lady.
_Young Fash._ I'gad, if thou can'st bring this about, I'll have thy
Statue cast in Brass. But don't you doat, you old Pandar you, when you
talk at this rate?
_Coup._ That your youthful Parts shall judge of: This plump Partridge,
that I tell you of, lives in the Country, fifty Miles off, with her
honoured Parents, in a lonely old House which nobody comes near;
she never goes abroad, nor sees Company at home: To prevent all
Misfortunes, she has her Breeding within Doors, the Parson of the
Parish teaches her to play on the Bass-Viol, the Clerk to sing, her
Nurse to dress, and her Father to dance: In short, nobody can give you
admittance there but I; nor can I do it any other way, than by making
you pass for your Brother.
_Young Fash._ And how the Devil wilt thou do that?
_Coup._ Without the Devil's Aid, I warrant thee. Thy Brother's Face not
one of the Family ever saw; the whole Business has been manag'd by me,
and all the Letters go thro' my Hands: The last that was writ to Sir
_Tunbelly Clumsey_ (for that's the old Gentleman's Name) was to tell
him, his Lordship would be down in a Fortnight to consummate. Now you
shall go away immediately; pretend you writ that letter only to have
the romantick Pleasure of surprizing your Mistress; fall desperately
in Love, as soon as you see her; make that your Plea for marrying her
immediately; and when the fatigue of the Wedding-night's over, you
shall send me a swinging Purse of Gold, you Dog you.
_Young Fash._ I'gad, old Dad, I'll put my Hand in thy Bosom now----
_Coup._ Ah, you young hot lusty Thief, let me muzzle you----
[_Kissing._
Sirrah, let me muzzle you.
_Young Fash._ 'Psha, the old Letcher----
[Aside.
_Coup._ Well; I'll warrant thou hast not a Farthing of Money in thy
Pocket now; no, one may see it in thy Face----
_Young Fash._ Not a Sous, by _Jupiter_.
_Coup._ Must I advance then?--Well, Sirrah, be at my Lodgings in half
an Hour, and I'll see what may be done; we'll sign and seal, and eat
a Pullet, and when I have given thee some farther Instructions, thou
shalt hoist Sail and be gone----[_Kissing._]----T'other Buss, and so
adieu.
_Young Fash._ Um, 'psha.
_Coup._ Ah; you young warm Dog, you; what a delicious Night will the
Bride have on't!
[_Exit Coupler._
_Young Fash._ So, _Lory_; Providence, thou seest, at last takes care of
Men of Merit: We are in a fair way to be great People.
_Lo._ Ay, Sir, if the Devil don't step between the Cup and the Lip, as
he uses to do.
_Young Fash._ Why, faith, he has play'd me many a damn'd Trick to spoil
my Fortune, and, I'gad, I'm almost afraid he's at work about it again
now; but if I should tell thee how, thou'dst wonder at me.
_Lo._ Indeed, Sir, I shou'd not.
_Young Fash._ How dost know?
_Lo._ Because, Sir, I have wonder'd at you so often, I can wonder at
you no more.
_Young Fash._ No! what wouldst thou say if a Qualm of Conscience should
spoil my Design?
_Lo._ I wou'd eat my Words, and wonder more than ever.
_Young Fash._ Why, faith, _Lory_, tho' I am a young Rake-hell, and
have play'd many a Roguish Trick; this is so full grown a Cheat, I find
I must take pains to come up to't; I have Scruples----
_Lo._ They are strong Symptoms of Death; if you find they increase,
pray, Sir, make your Will.
_Young Fash._ No, my Conscience shan't starve me, neither. But thus far
I'll hearken to it; before I execute this Project, I'll try my Brother
to the bottom, I'll speak to him with the Temper of a Philosopher;
my Reasons (tho' they press him home) shall yet be cloth'd with so
much Modesty, not one of all the Truths they urge, shall be so naked
to offend his Sight: if he has yet so much Humanity about him, as to
assist me (tho' with a moderate Aid) I'll drop my Project at his Feet,
and shew him how I can do for him, much more than what I ask he'd do
for me. This one conclusive Trial of him I resolve to make--
_Succeed or no, still Victory's my Lot;_ }
_If I subdue his Heart, 'tis well; if not,_ }
_I shall subdue my Conscience to my Plot._ }
[~Exeunt.~
[Illustration]
+ACT+ II. +SCENE+ I.
_Enter ~Loveless~ and ~Amanda~._
_Lov._ How do you like these Lodgings, my Dear? For my part, I am so
well pleased with them, I shall hardly remove whilst we stay in Town,
if you are satisfy'd.
_Aman._ I am satisfy'd with every thing that pleases you; else I had
not come to Town at all.
_Lov._ O! a little of the Noise and Bustle of the World sweetens the
Pleasures of Retreat: We shall find the Charms of our Retirement
doubled, when we return to it.
_Aman._ That pleasing Prospect will be my chiefest Entertainment,
whilst, much against my Will, I am obliged to stand surrounded with
these empty Pleasures, which 'tis so much the Fashion to be fond of.
_Lov._ I own most of them are indeed but empty; nay, so empty, that one
would wonder by what Magick Power they act, when they induce us to be
vicious for their sakes. Yet some there are we may speak kindlier of:
There are Delights, of which a private Life is destitute, which may
divert an honest Man, and be a harmless Entertainment to a virtuous
Woman. The Conversation of the Town is one; and truly (with some small
Allowances) the Plays, I think, may be esteem'd another.
_Aman._ The Plays, I must confess, have some small Charms; and wou'd
have more, wou'd they restrain that loose obscene Encouragement to
Vice, which shocks, if not the Virtue of some Women, at least the
Modesty of all.
_Lov._ But till that Reformation can be made, I would not leave the
wholesome Corn for some intruding Tares that grow among it. Doubtless
the Moral of a well-wrought Scene is of prevailing Force----Last Night
there happen'd one that mov'd me strangely.
_Aman._ Pray, what was that?
_Lov._ Why 'twas about--but 'tis not worth repeating.
_Aman._ Yes, pray let me know it.
_Lov._ No, I think 'tis as well let alone.
_Aman._ Nay, now you make me have a mind to know.
_Lov._ 'Twas a foolish thing: You'd perhaps grow jealous shou'd I tell
it you, tho' without a Cause, Heaven knows.
_Aman._ I shall begin to think I have cause, if you persist in making
it a Secret.
_Lov._ I'll then convince you you have none, by making it no longer
so. Know then, I happen'd in the Play to find my very Character, only
with the Addition of a Relapse; which struck me so, I put a sudden Stop
to a most harmless Entertainment, which till then diverted me between
the Acts. 'Twas to admire the Workmanship of Nature, in the Face of
a young Lady that sat some distance from me, she was so exquisitely
handsome----
_Aman._ So exquisitely handsome!
_Lov._ Why do you repeat my Words, my Dear?
_Aman._ Because you seem'd to speak them with such Pleasure, I thought
I might oblige you with their Echo.
_Lov._ Then you are alarmed, _Amanda_?
_Aman._ It is my Duty to be so, when you are in danger.
_Lov._ You are too quick in apprehending for me; all will be well when
you have heard me out. I do confess I gaz'd upon her, nay, eagerly I
gaz'd upon her.
_Aman._ Eagerly! That's with Desire.
_Lov._ No, I desir'd her not: I view'd her with a World of Admiration,
but not one Glance of Love.
_Aman._ Take heed of trusting to such nice Distinctions.
_Lov._ I did take heed; for observing in the Play, that he who seem'd
to represent me there, was, by an Accident like this, unwarily
surpriz'd into a Net, in which he lay a poor intangled Slave, and
brought a Train of Mischiefs on his Head, I snatch'd my Eyes away; they
pleaded hard for leave to look again, but I grew absolute, and they
obey'd.
_Aman._ Were they the only things that were inquisitive? Had I been in
your place, my Tongue, I fancy, had been curious too: I shou'd have
ask'd her Name, and where she liv'd (yet still without Design:)--Who
was she, pray?
_Lov._ Indeed I cannot tell.
_Aman._ You will not tell.
_Lov._ By all that's sacred, then, I did not ask.
_Aman._ Nor do you know what Company was with her?
_Lov._ I do not.
_Aman._ Then I am calm again.
_Lov._ Why, were you disturb'd?
_Aman._ Had I then no cause?
_Lov._ None certainly.
_Aman._ I thought I had.
_Lov._ But you thought wrong, _Amanda_; For turn the Case, and let
it be your Story; Should you come home, and tell me you had seen a
handsome Man, shou'd I grow jealous because you had Eyes?