as if it were my own.
_Niece._ But why must it be huddled up so?
_Aunt._ Oh, my dear, a private wedding is much better; your mother had
such a bustle at hers, with feasting and fooling. Besides, they did not
go to bed till two in the morning.
_Niece._ Since you understand things so well, I wonder you never
married yourself.
_Aunt._ My dear, I was very cruel thirty years ago, and nobody has
asked me since.
_Niece._ Alas-a-day!
_Aunt._ Yet, I assure you, there was a great many matches proposed
to me: There was Sir Gilbert Jolly, but he, forsooth, could not
please; he drank ale and smoked tobacco, and was no fine gentleman,
forsooth--But then, again, there was young Mr. Peregrine Shapely, who
had travelled, and spoke French, and smiled at all I said; he was a
fine gentleman--but then he was consumptive. And yet again, to see how
one may be mistaken; Sir Jolly died in half-a-year, and my Lady Shapely
has by that thin slip eight children, that should have been mine--but
here's the bridegroom.--So, cousin Humphry!
_Enter_ HUMPHRY.
_Hump._ Your servant, ladies. So, my dear----
_Niece._ So, my savage--
_Aunt._ O fie, no more of that to your husband, Biddy.
_Hump._ No matter, I like it as well as duck or love; I know my cousin
loves me as well as I do her.
_Aunt._ I'll leave you together; I must go and get ready an
entertainment for you when you come home. [_Exit._
_Hump._ Well, cousin, are you constant? Do you hate me still?
_Niece._ As much as ever.
_Hump._ What an happiness it is, when peoples' inclinations jump! I
wish I knew what to do with you. Can you get nobody, d'ye think, to
marry you?
_Niece._ Oh! Clerimont, Clerimont! Where art thou? [_Aside._
_Enter_ AUNT _and_ CAPTAIN CLERIMONT, _disguised._
_Aunt._ This, sir, is the lady whom you are to draw. You see, sir, as
good flesh and blood as a man would desire to put in colours--I must
have her maiden picture.
_Hump._ Then the painter must make haste. Ha, cousin!
_Niece._ Hold thy tongue, good savage.
_Cler._ Madam, I'm generally forced to new-mould every feature, and
mend nature's handiwork; but here she has made so finished an original,
that I despair of my copies coming up to it.
_Aunt._ Do you hear that, niece?
_Niece._ I don't desire you to make graces where you find none.
_Cler._ To see the difference of the fair sex! I protest to you, madam,
my fancy is utterly exhausted with inventing faces for those that sit
to me. The first entertainment I generally meet with, are complaints
for want of sleep; they never looked so pale in their lives, as when
they sit for their pictures. Then so many touches and retouches, when
the face is finished. That wrinkle ought not to have been, those eyes
are too languid, that colour's too weak, that side-look hides the mole
on the left cheek. In short, the whole likeness is struck out--But in
you, madam, the highest I can come up to will be but rigid justice.
_Hump._ A comical dog this!
_Aunt._ Truly, the gentleman seems to understand his business.
_Niece._ Sir,[95] if your pencil flatters like your tongue, you are
going to draw a picture that won't be at all like me--Sure I have heard
that voice somewhere. [_Aside._
_Cler._ Madam, be pleased to place yourself near me; nearer still,
madam, here falls the best light. You must know, madam, there are three
kinds of airs which the ladies most delight in: There is your haughty,
your mild, and your pensive air. The haughty may be expressed with
the head a little more erect than ordinary, and the countenance with
a certain disdain in it, so as she may appear almost, but not quite,
inexorable. This kind of air is generally heightened with a little
knitting of the brows--I gave my lady Scornwell the choice of a dozen
frowns before she could find one to her liking.
_Niece._ But what's the mild air?
_Cler._ The mild air is composed of a languish, and a smile--But, if
I might advise, I'd rather be a pensive beauty; the pensive usually
feels her pulse, leans on one arm, or sits ruminating with a book in
her hand; which conversation she is supposed to choose rather than the
endless importunities of lovers.
_Hump._ A comical dog!
_Aunt._ Upon my word he understands his business well; I'll tell you,
niece, how your mother was drawn: she had an orange in her hand,[96]
and a nosegay in her bosom, but a look so pure and fresh-coloured you'd
have taken her for one of the Seasons.
_Cler._ You seem indeed, madam, most inclined to the pensive. The
pensive delights also in the fall of waters, pastoral figures, or any
rural view suitable to a fair lady who, with a delicate spleen, has
retired from the world, as sick of its flattery and admiration.
_Niece._ No; since there is room for fancy in a picture, I would be
drawn like the amazon Thalestris, with a spear in my hand, and an
helmet on a table before me. At a distance behind let there be a dwarf,
holding by the bridle a milk-white palfrey.
_Cler._ Madam, the thought is full of spirit, and if you please, there
shall be a Cupid stealing away your helmet, to show that love should
have a part in all gallant actions.
_Niece._ That circumstance may be very picturesque.
_Cler._ Here, madam, shall be your own picture, here the palfrey, and
here the dwarf--The dwarf must be very little, or we shan't have room
for him.
_Niece._ A dwarf cannot be too little.
_Cler._ I'll make him a blackamoor to distinguish him from the other
too powerful dwarf [_Sighs_]--the Cupid--I'll place that beauteous boy
near you, 'twill look very natural--He'll certainly take you for his
mother Venus.
_Niece._ I leave these particulars to your own fancy.
_Cler._[97] Please, madam, to uncover your neck a little; a little
lower still--a little, little lower.
_Niece._ I'll be drawn thus, if you please, sir.
_Cler._ Ladies, have you heard the news of a late marriage between a
young lady of great fortune and a younger brother of a good family?
_Aunt._ Pray, sir, how is it?
_Cler._ This young gentleman, ladies, is a particular acquaintance of
mine, and much about my age and stature (look me full in the face,
madam); he accidentally met the young lady, who had in her all the
perfections of her sex (hold up your head, madam, that's right);
she let him know that his person and discourse were not altogether
disagreeable to her. The difficulty was how to gain a second interview
(your eyes full upon mine, madam); for never was there such a sigher
in all the valleys of Arcadia as that unfortunate youth, during the
absence of her he loved.
_Aunt._ Alack-a-day! poor young gentleman!
_Niece._ It must be he--what a charming amour is this! [_Aside._
_Cler._ At length, ladies, he bethought himself of an expedient; he
dressed himself just as I am now, and came to draw her picture (your
eyes full upon mine, pray, madam).
_Hump._ A subtle dog, I warrant him.
_Cler._ And by that means found an opportunity of carrying her off, and
marrying her.
_Aunt._ Indeed, your friend was a very vicious young man.
_Niece._ Yet perhaps the young lady was not displeased at what he had
done.
_Cler._ But, madam, what were the transports of the lover when she made
him that confession?
_Niece._ I daresay she thought herself very happy when she got out of
her guardian's hands.
_Aunt._ 'Tis very true, niece; there are abundance of those headstrong
young baggages about town.
_Cler._ The gentleman has often told me, he was strangely struck at
first sight, but when she sat to him for her picture, and assumed all
those graces that are proper for the occasion, his torment was so
exquisite, his passion so violent, that he could not have lived a day,
had he not found means to make the charmer of his heart his own.
_Hump._ 'Tis certainly the foolishest thing in the world to stand
shilly-shally about a woman, when one has a mind to marry her.
_Cler._ The young painter turned poet on the subject; I believe I have
the words by heart.
_Niece._ A sonnet! pray repeat it.[98]
I.
While gentle Parthenissa walks,
And sweetly smiles, and gaily talks,
A thousand shafts around her fly,
A thousand swains unheeded die.
II.
If then she labours to be seen,
With all her killing air and mien;
From so much beauty, so much art,
What mortal can secure his heart?
_Hump._ I fancy if 'twas sung, 'twould make a very pretty catch.
_Cler._ My servant has a voice; you shall hear it. [_Here it is sung._
_Aunt._ Why this is pretty! I think a painter should never be without
a good singer, it brightens the features strangely--I profess I'm
mightily pleased. I'll but just step in, and give some orders, and be
with you presently. [_Exit._
_Niece._ Was not this adventurous painter called Clerimont?
_Cler._ It was Clerimont, the servant of Parthenissa; but let me
beseech that beauteous maid to resolve, and make the incident I feigned
to her a real one. Consider, madam, you are environed by cruel and
treacherous guards, which would force you to a disagreeable marriage;
your case is exactly the same with the princess of the Leontines in
_Clelia_.
_Niece._ How can we commit such a solecism against all rules? What, in
the first leaf of our history to have the marriage? You know it cannot
be.
_Cler._ The pleasantest part of the history will be after marriage.
_Niece._ No! I never yet read of a knight that entered tilt or
tournament after wedlock; 'tis not to be expected: when the husband
begins, the hero ends; all that noble impulse to glory, all the
generous passion for adventures, is consumed in the nuptial torch; I
don't know how it is, but Mars and Hymen never hit it.
_Hump._ [_Listening._] Consumed in the nuptial torch! Mars and Hymen!
What can all this mean? I am very glad I can hardly read. They could
never get these foolish fancies into my head, I had always a strong
brain [_Aside._]--Hark ye, cousin, is not this painter a comical dog?
_Niece._ I think he's very agreeable company.
_Hump._ Why then I tell you what: marry him--a painter's a very genteel
calling. He's an ingenious fellow, and certainly poor. I fancy he'd be
glad on't; I'll keep my aunt out of the room a minute or two, that's
all the time you have to consider. [_Exit._
_Cler._ Fortune points out to us this only occasion of our happiness:
Love's of celestial origin, and needs no long acquaintance to be
manifest. Lovers, like angels, speak by intuition; their souls are in
their eyes.
_Niece._ Then I fear he sees mine. [_Aside._]--But I can't think
of abridging our amours, and cutting off all farther decoration of
disguise, serenade, and adventure.
_Cler._ Nor would I willingly lose the merit of long services, midnight
sighs, and plaintive solitudes, were there not a necessity.
_Niece._ Then to be seized by stealth!
_Cler._ Why, madam, you are a great fortune, and should not be married
the common way. Indeed, madam, you ought to be stolen, nay, in
strictness, I don't know but you ought to be ravished.
_Niece._ But then our history will be so short.
_Cler._ I grant it; but you don't consider there's a device in
another's leading you instead of this person that's to have you; and,
madam, though our amours can't furnish out a romance, they'll make a
very pretty novel--Why smiles my fair?
_Niece._ I am almost of opinion that had Oroondates been as pressing
as Clerimont, Cassandra had been but a pocket-book[99]; but it looks
so ordinary, to go out at a door to be married. Indeed, I ought to be
taken out of a window, and run away with.
_Enter_ HUMPHRY _and_ POUNCE.
_Hump._ Well, cousin, the coach is at the door. If you please I'll lead
you.
_Niece._ I put myself into your hands, good savage; but you promise to
leave me.
_Hump._ I tell you plainly, you must not think of having me.
_Pounce._ [_To_ CLER.] You'll have opportunity enough to carry her off;
the old fellows will be busy with me. I'll gain all the time I can, but
be bold and prosper.
_Niece._ Clerimont, you follow us.
_Cler._ Upon the wings of love.
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.--CLERIMONT, SEN.'S _House._
_Enter_ CLERIMONT, SEN. _and_ FAINLOVE.
_Cler. Sen._ Then she gave you this letter, and bid you read it as a
paper of verses?
_Fain._ This is the place, the hour, the lucky minute. Now am I rubbing
up my memory, to recollect all you said to me when you first ruined me,
that I may attack her right.
_Cler. Sen._ Your eloquence would be needless; 'tis so unmodish to need
persuasion: Modesty makes a lady embarrassed; but my spouse is above
that, as for example [_Reading her letter_]--
"Fainlove, you don't seem to want wit; therefore I need say no more
than that distance to a woman of the world is becoming in no man but a
husband: an hour hence come up the back stairs to my closet.
"Adieu, Mon Mignon."
I am glad you are punctual; I'll conceal myself to observe your
interview.--O torture! but this wench must not see it. [_Aside._
_Fain._ Be sure you come time enough to save my reputation.
_Cler. Sen._ Remember your orders, "distance becomes no man but a
husband."
_Fain._ I am glad you are in so good humour on the occasion; but you
know me to be but a bully in love, that can bluster only till the
minute of engagement--but I'll top my part, and form my conduct by my
own sentiments. If she grows coy, I'll grow more saucy--'twas so I was
won myself.
_Cler. Sen._ Well, my dear rival, your assignation draws nigh; you are
to put on your transport, your impatient throbbing heart won't let you
wait her arrival. Let the dull family-thing and husband, who reckons
his moments by his cares, be content to wait; but you are a gallant,
and measure time by ecstasies.
_Fain._ I hear her coming--To your post--good husband, know your duty,
and don't be in the way when your wife has a mind to be in private--To
your post, into the coal-hole.
_Enter_ MRS. CLERIMONT.
Welcome, my dear, my tender charmer, oh! to my longing arms--feel
the heart pant, that falls and rises as you smile or frown. Oh, the
ecstatic moment!--I think that was something like what has been said to
me. [_Aside._
_Mrs. Cler._ Very well, Fainlove.--I protest I value myself for my
discerning. I knew you had fire through all the respect you showed me;
but how came you to make no direct advances, young gentleman? Why was I
forced to admonish your gallantry?
_Fain._ Why, madam, I knew you a woman of breeding, and above the
senseless niceties of an English wife. The French way is, you are to
go so far, whether you are agreeable or not. If you are so happy as
to please, nobody that is not of a constrained behaviour is at a loss
to let you know it--Besides, if the humble servant makes the first
approaches, he has the impudence of making a request, but not the
honour of obeying a command.
_Mrs. Cler._ Right; a woman's man should conceal passion in a familiar
air of indifference. Now there's Mr. Clerimont; I can't allow him the
least freedom, but the unfashionable fool grows so fond of me he cannot
hide it in public.
_Fain._ Ay, madam, I have often wondered at your ladyship's choice of
one that seems to have so little of the beau monde in his carriage,
but just what you force him to, while there were so many pretty
gentlemen----[_Dancing._
_Mrs. Cler._ Oh, young gentleman, you are mightily mistaken, if you
think such animals as you, and pretty Beau Titmouse, and pert Billy
Butterfly, though I suffer you to come in, and play about my rooms, are
any ways in competition with a man whose name one would wear.
_Fain._ O madam! then I find we are----
_Mrs. Cler._ A woman of sense must have respect for a man of that
character; but alas! respect--what is respect? Respect is not the
thing. Respect has something too solemn for soft moments--you things
are more proper for hours of dalliance.
_Cler. Sen._ [_Peeping._] How have I wronged this fine lady! I find I
am to be a cuckold out of her pure esteem for me.
_Mrs. Cler._ Besides, those fellows for whom we have respect have none
for us. I warrant on such an occasion Clerimont would have ruffled a
woman out of all form, while you----
_Cler. Sen._ A good hint--now my cause comes on. [_Aside._
_Fain._ Since then you allow us fitter for soft moments, why do we
misemploy 'em? Let me kiss that beauteous hand and clasp that graceful
frame.
_Mrs. Cler._ How, Fainlove! What, you don't design to be
impertinent--But my lips have a certain roughness on 'em to-day, han't
they?
_Fain._ [_Kissing._] No, they are all softness; their delicious
sweetness is inexpressible. Here language fails; let me applaud thy
lips, not by the utterance, but by the touch of mine.
_Enter_ CLERIMONT, SEN., _drawing his sword._
_Cler. Sen._ Ha, villain! Ravisher! Invader of my bed and honour! draw.
_Mrs. Cler._ What means this insolence--this intrusion into my privacy?
What, do you come into my very closet without knocking? Who put this
into your head?
_Cler. Sen._ My injuries have alarmed me, and I'll bear no longer, but
sacrifice your bravado, the author of 'em.
_Mrs. Cler._ Oh! poor Mr. Fainlove! Must he die for his complaisance
and innocent freedoms with me? How could you, if you might? Oh! the
sweet youth! What, fight Mr. Fainlove? What will the ladies say?
_Fain._ Let me come at the intruder on ladies' private hours. The
unfashionable monster! I'll prevent all future interruption from
him--Let me come. [_Drawing his sword._
_Mrs. Cler._ Oh the brave pretty creature! Look at his youth and
innocence--he is not made for such rough encounters. Stand behind
me--Poor Fainlove!--There is not a visit in town, sir, where you shall
not be displayed at full length for this intrusion. I banish you for
ever from my sight and bed.
_Cler. Sen._ I obey you, madam, for distance is becoming in no man but
a husband [_Giving her the letter, which she reads, and falls into a
swoon._]--I've gone too far--[_Kissing her._]--The impertinent was
guilty of nothing but what my indiscretion led her to. This is the
first kiss I've had these six weeks--but she awakes. Well, Jenny, you
topped your part, indeed. Come to my arms, thou ready, willing, fair
one. Thou hast no vanities, no niceties; but art thankful for every
instant of love that I bestow on thee. [_Embracing her._
_Mrs. Cler._ What, am I then abused? Is it a wench then of his? Oh me!
Was ever poor abused wife, poor innocent lady, thus injured! [_Runs and
seizes_ FAINLOVE'S _sword._]
_Cler. Sen._ Oh the brave pretty creature! Hurt Mr. Fainlove! Look at
his youth, his innocence--Ha! ha! [_Interposing._
_Fain._ Have a care, have a care, dear sir--I know by myself she'll
have no mercy.
_Mrs. Cler._ I'll be the death of her; let me come on. Stand from
between us, Mr. Clerimont--I would not hurt you. [_Pushing and crying._
_Cler. Sen._ Run, run, Jenny. [_Exit_ JENNY.] [_Looks at her
upbraidingly before he speaks._] Well, madam, are these the innocent
freedoms you claimed of me? Have I deserved this? How has there been
a moment of yours ever interrupted with the real pangs I suffer? The
daily importunities of creditors, who became so by serving your profuse
vanities: did I ever murmur at supplying any of your diversions, while
I believed 'em (as you call 'em) harmless? Must, then, those eyes that
used to glad my heart with their familiar brightness hang down with
guilt? Guilt has transformed thy whole person; nay, the very memory of
it----Fly from my growing passion!
_Mrs. Cler._ I cannot fly, nor bear it. Oh! look not----
_Cler. Sen._ What can you say? Speak quickly. [_Offering to draw._
_Mrs. Cler._ I never saw you moved before. Don't murder me impenitent;
I'm wholly in your power as a criminal, but remember I have been so in
a tender regard.
_Cler. Sen._ But how have you considered that regard?
_Mrs. Cler._ Is it possible you can forgive what you ensnared me into?
Oh, look at me kindly! You know I have only erred in my intention, nor
saw my danger, till, by this honest art, you had shown me what 'tis to
venture to the utmost limit of what is lawful. You laid that train, I'm
sure, to alarm, not to betray, my innocence. Mr. Clerimont, scorn such
baseness! Therefore I kneel--I weep--I am convinced. [_Kneels._
[_Takes her up, embracing her._
_Cler. Sen._ Then kneel, and weep no more, my fairest--my reconciled!
Be so in a moment, for know I cannot (without wringing my own heart)
give you the least compunction. Be in humour. It shall be your own
fault if ever there's a serious word more on this subject.
_Mrs. Cler._ I must correct every idea that rises in my mind, and learn
every gesture of my body anew--I detest the thing I was.
_Cler. Sen._ No, no; you must not do so. Our joy and grief, honour and
reproach, are the same; you must slide out of your foppery by degrees,
so that it may appear your own act.
_Mrs. Cler._ But this wench!
_Cler. Sen._ She is already out of your way; you shall see the
catastrophe of her fate yourself. But still keep up the fine lady till
we go out of town; you may return to it with as decent airs as you
please.--And now I have shown you your error, I'm in so good humour as
to repeat you a couplet on the occasion--
They only who gain minds, true laurels wear:
'Tis less to conquer, than convince, the fair.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--TIPKIN'S _House._
_Enter_ POUNCE _with papers; a table, chairs, pen, ink, and paper._
_Pounce._ 'Tis a delight to gall these old rascals, and set 'em at
variance about stakes, which I know neither of 'em will ever have
possession of.
_Enter_ TIPKIN _and_ SIR HARRY.
_Tip._ Do you design, Sir Harry, that they shall have an estate in
their own hands, and keep house themselves, poor things?
_Sir Har._ No, no, sir, I know better; they shall go down into the
country, and live with me, not touch a farthing of money; but, having
all things necessary provided, they shall go tame about the house, and
breed.
_Tip._ Well, Sir Harry, then considering that all human things are
subject to change, it behoves every man that has a just sense of
mortality to take care of his money.
_Sir Har._ I don't know what you mean, brother. What do you drive at,
brother?
_Tip._ This instrument is executed by you, your son, and my niece,
which discharges me of all retrospects.
_Sir Har._ It is confessed, brother; but what then?
_Tip._ All that remains is, that you pay me for the young lady's twelve
years' board, as also all other charges, as wearing-apparel, &c.
_Sir Har._ What is this you say? Did I give you my discharge from all
retrospects, as you call it? and after all do you come with this and
t'other, and all that? I find you are--I tell you, sir, to your face--I
find you are----
_Tip._ I find too what you are, Sir Harry.
_Sir Har._ What am I, sir? What am I?
_Tip._ Why, sir, you are angry.
_Sir Har._ Sir, I scorn your words; I am not angry. Mr. Pounce is my
witness; I am as gentle as a lamb. Would it not make any flesh alive
angry, to see a close hunks come after all with a demand of----
_Tip._ Mr. Pounce, pray inform Sir Harry in this point.
_Pounce._ Indeed, Sir Harry, I must tell you plainly, that Mr. Tipkin,
in this, demands nothing but what he may recover. For though this case
may be considered _multifariam_--that is to say, as 'tis usually,
commonly, _vicatim_, or vulgarly expressed--yet, I say, when we only
observe that the power is settled as the law requires, _assensu
patris_, by the consent of the father, that circumstance imports you
are well acquainted with the advantages which accrue to your family by
this alliance, which corroborates Mr. Tipkin's demand, and avoids all
objections that can be made.
_Sir Har._ Why then, I find you are his adviser in all this.
_Pounce._ Look ye, Sir Harry, to show you I love to promote among my
clients a good understanding; though Mr. Tipkin may claim four thousand
pounds, I'll engage for him, and I know him so well, that he shall take
three thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight pounds, four shillings and
eightpence farthing.
_Tip._ Indeed, Mr. Pounce, you are too hard upon me.
_Pounce._ You must consider a little, Sir Harry is your brother.
_Sir Har._ Three thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight pounds, four
shillings and eightpence farthing! For what, I say? For what, sir?
_Pounce._ For what, sir! for what she wanted, sir; a fine lady is
always in want, sir--her very clothes would come to that money in half
the time.
_Sir Har._ Three thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight pounds, four
shillings and eighteenpence farthing for clothes! Pray how many suits
does she wear out in a year?
_Pounce._ Oh! dear sir, a fine lady's clothes are not old by being
worn, but by being seen.
_Sir Har._ Well, I'll save her clothes for the future, after I have got
her into the country. I'll warrant her she shall not appear more in
this wicked town, where clothes are worn out by sight--And as to what
you demand, I tell you, sir, 'tis extortion.
_Tip._ Sir Harry, do you accuse me of extortion?
_Sir Har._ Yes, I say extortion.
_Tip._ Mr. Pounce, write down that; there are very good laws provided
against scandal and calumny--Loss of reputation may tend to loss of
money.
_Pounce._ Item, "for having accused Mr. Tipkin of extortion."
_Sir Har._ Nay, if you come to your items--look ye, Mr. Tipkin, this
is an inventory of such goods as were left to my niece, Bridget, by
her deceased father, and which I expect shall be forthcoming at her
marriage to my son: Imprimis, "a golden locket of her mother's, with
something very ingenious in Latin on the inside of it"; item, "a couple
of muskets, with two shoulder-belts and bandoleers"; item, "a large
silver caudle-cup, with a true story engraven on it."
_Pounce._ But, Sir Harry----
_Sir Har._ Item, "a bass viol, with almost all the strings to it, and
only a small hole on the back."
_Pounce._ But nevertheless, sir----
_Sir Har._ This is the furniture of my brother's bedchamber that
follows:--"A suite of tapestry hangings, with the story of Judith and
Holofernes, torn only where the head should have been off; an old
bedstead, curiously wrought about the posts, consisting of two load of
timber; a hone, a basin, three razors, and a comb-case"--Look ye, sir,
you see I can item it.
_Pounce._ Alas, Sir Harry, if you had ten quire of items, 'tis all
answered in the word retrospect.
_Sir Har._ Why then, Mr. Pounce and Mr. Tipkin, you are both rascals.
_Tip._ Do you call me rascal, Sir Harry?
_Sir Har._ Yes, sir.
_Tip._ Write it down, Mr. Pounce, at the end of the leaf.
_Sir Har._ If you have room, Mr. Pounce, put down "villain, son of a
whore, curmudgeon, hunks, and scoundrel."
_Tip._ Not so fast, Sir Harry, he cannot write so fast; you are at the
word "villain"; "son of a whore," I take it, was next--You may make the
account as large as you please, Sir Harry.
_Sir Har._ Come, come, I won't be used thus. Hark ye, sirrah,
draw--what do you do at this end of the town without a sword? Draw, I
say--
_Tip._ Sir Harry, you are a military man, a colonel of the Militia.
_Sir Har._ I am so, sirrah, and will run such an extorting dog as you
through the guts, to show the Militia is useful.
_Pounce._ O dear, O dear! How am I concerned to see persons of your
figure thus moved--The wedding is coming in, we'll settle these things
afterwards.
_Tip._ I am calm.
_Sir Har._ Tipkin, live these two hours, but expect--
_Enter_ HUMPHRY, _leading_ NIECE; MRS. CLERIMONT, _led by_ FAINLOVE;
CAPTAIN CLERIMONT _and_ CLERIMONT, SEN.
_Pounce._ Who are these? Hey-day, who are these, Sir Harry? Ha!
_Sir Har._ Some frolic, 'tis wedding-day; no matter.
_Hump._ Haw! haw! father, master uncle, come, you must stir your
stumps, you must dance--Come, old lads, kiss the ladies.
_Mrs. Cler._ Mr. Tipkin, Sir Harry, I beg pardon for an introduction so
malapropos; I know sudden familiarity is not the English way. Alas, Mr.
Gubbin, this father and uncle of yours must be new modelled; how they
stare, both of them!
_Sir Har._ Hark ye, Numps, who is this you have brought hither? is it
not the famous fine lady, Mrs. Clerimont? What a pox did you let her
come near your wife?
_Hump._ Look ye, don't expose yourself, and play some mad country prank
to disgrace me before her; I shall be laughed at, because she knows I
understand better.
_Mrs. Cler._ I congratulate, madam, your coming out of the bondage of
a virgin state. A woman can't do what she will properly till she's
married.
_Sir Har._ Did you hear what she said to your wife?
_Enter_ AUNT, _before a service of Dishes._
_Aunt._ So, Mr. Bridegroom, pray take that napkin, and serve your
spouse to-day, according to custom.
_Hump._ Mrs. Clerimont, pray know my aunt.
_Mrs. Cler._ Madam, I must beg your pardon; I can't possibly like all
that vast load of meat that you are sending in to table, besides, 'tis
so offensively sweet, it wants that haut-goût we are so delighted with
in France.[100]
_Aunt._ You'll pardon it, since we did not expect you--Who is this?
[_Aside._
_Mrs. Cler._ Oh, madam, I only speak for the future; little saucers
are so much more polite. Look ye, I'm perfectly for the French way;
where'er I'm admitted, I take the whole upon me.
_Sir Har._ The French, madam, I'd have you to know----
_Mrs. Cler._ You'll not like it at first, out of a natural English
sullenness, but that will come upon you by degrees. When I first went
into France I was mortally afraid of a frog, but in a little time I
could eat nothing else, except salads.
_Aunt._ Eat frogs! have I kissed one that has ate frogs? Paw! paw!
_Mrs. Cler._ Oh, madam, a frog and a salad are delicious fare; 'tis
not long come up in France itself, but their glorious monarch has
introduced the diet which makes 'em so spiritual. He eradicated all
gross food by taxes, and, for the glory of the monarch, sent the
subject a-grazing--but I fear I defer the entertainment and diversion
of the day.
_Hump._ Now father, uncle, before we go any further, I think 'tis
necessary we know who and who's together; then I give either of you two
hours to guess which is my wife--and 'tis not my cousin; so far I'll
tell you.
_Sir Har._ How! What do you say? But oh! you mean she is not your
cousin now, she's nearer akin; that's well enough. Well said, Numps;
ha! ha! ha!
_Hump._ No, I don't mean so; I tell you I don't mean so--My wife hides
her face under her hat. [_All looking at_ FAINLOVE.
_Tip._ What does the puppy mean? His wife under a hat!
_Hump._ Ay, ay, that's she, that's she--A good jest, 'faith!
_Sir Har._ Hark ye, Numps, what dost mean, child? Is that a woman, and
are you really married to her?
_Hump._ I am sure of both.
_Sir Har._ Are you so, sirrah? then, sirrah, this is your wedding
dinner, sirrah--Do you see, sirrah, here's roast meat.
_Hump._ Oh, oh! what, beat a married man! Hold him, Mr. Clerimont,
Brother Pounce, Mr. Wife; nobody stand by a young married man! [_Runs
behind_ FAINLOVE.
_Sir Har._ Did not the dog say Brother Pounce? what, is this Mrs.
Ragout? this Madam Clerimont? Who the devil are you all? but especially
who the devil are you two? [_Beats_ HUMPHRY _and_ FAINLOVE _off the
Stage, following._
_Tip._ [_To_ POUNCE.] Master Pounce, all my niece's fortune will be
demanded now--for I suppose that red coat has her. Don't you think you
and I had better break?
_Pounce._ [_To_ TIPKIN.] You may as soon as you please, but 'tis my
interest to be honest a little longer.
_Tip._ Well, Biddy, since you would not accept of your cousin, I hope
you han't disposed of yourself elsewhere.
_Niece._ If you'll for a little while suspend your curiosity, you shall
have the whole history of my amour to this my nuptial day, under the
title of the loves of Clerimont and Parthenissa.
_Tip._ Then, madam, your portion is in safe hands.
_Cler._ Come, come, old gentleman, 'tis in vain to contend; here's
honest Mr. Pounce shall be my engineer, and I warrant you we beat you
out of all your holds.
_Aunt._ What then, is Mr. Pounce a rogue?--He must have some trick,
brother, it cannot be; he must have cheated t'other side, for I'm sure
he's honest. [_Apart to_ TIPKIN.
_Cler. Sen._ Mr. Pounce, all your sister has won of this lady she has
honestly put into my hands; and I'll return it her, at this lady's
particular request.
_Pounce._ And the thousand pounds you promised in your brother's
behalf, I'm willing should be hers also.
_Cler. Sen._ Then go in, and bring 'em all back to make the best of an
ill game; we'll eat the dinner and have a dance together, or we shall
transgress all form.
_Re-enter_ FAINLOVE, HUMPHRY, _and_ SIR HARRY.
_Sir Har._ Well, since you say you are worth something, and the boy has
set his heart upon you, I'll have patience till I see further.
_Pounce._ Come, come, Sir Harry, you shall find my alliance more
considerable than you imagine; the Pounces are a family that will
always have money, if there's any in the world--Come, fiddles.
[_A Dance here._]
_Cler. Sen._
You've seen th' extremes of the domestic life,
A son too much confined--too free a wife;
By generous bonds you either should restrain,
And only on their inclinations gain;
Wives to obey must love, children revere,
While only slaves are governed by their fear.
EPILOGUE.
_Spoken by_ MR. ESTCOURT.[101]
Britons, who constant war, with factious rage,
For liberty against each other wage,
From foreign insult save this English stage.
No more th' Italian squalling tribe admit,
In tongues unknown; 'tis popery in wit.[102]
The songs (theirselves confess) from Rome they bring,
And 'tis high mass, for ought you know, they sing.
Husbands take care, the danger may come nigher,
The women say their eunuch is a friar.
But is it not a serious ill to see
Europe's great arbiters so mean can be;
Passive, with an affected joy to sit,
Suspend their native taste of manly wit;
Neglect their comic humour, tragic rage,
For known defects of nature, and of age?
Arise, for shame, ye conquering Britons rise,
Such unadorned effeminacy despise;
Admire (if you will dote on foreign wit)
Not what Italians sing, but Romans writ.
So shall less works, such as to-night's slight play,
At your command with justice die away;
Till then forgive your writers, that can't bear
You should such very tramontanes appear,
The nations which contemn you to revere.
Let Anna's soil be known for all its charms;
As famed for liberal sciences, as arms:
Let those derision meet, who would advance
Manners or speech, from Italy or France.
Let them learn you, who would your favour find,
And English be the language of mankind.
_THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS._
"Illud genus narrationis, quod in personis positum est, debet habere
sermones festivitatem, animorum dissimilitudinem, gravitatem,
lenitatem, spem, metum, suspicionem, desiderium, dissimulationem,
misericordiam, rerum varietates, fortunæ commutationem, insperatum
incommodum, subitam letitiam, jucundum exitum rerum."[103]--CICERO,
Rhetor. ad Herenn. Lib. i.
_The Conscious Lovers_, a Comedy which had been long in preparation,
was acted at Drury Lane Theatre on November 7, 1722, "with new scenes
and all the characters new drest," and with Booth (who had acted the
part of Pamphilus--the prototype of young Bevil--at Westminster with
great success), Wilks (Myrtle), Cibber (Tom), Mills (Sir John Bevil),
Mrs. Oldfield (Indiana), and Mrs. Younger (Phillis) in the principal
parts. The play ran for eighteen nights, and was a great success. It
was often revived between 1722 and 1760, and was acted at Covent Garden
in 1810, and at Bath in 1818. Phillis was Peg Woffington's second
speaking character in Dublin, and she took that part on March 9, 1741,
during her first season in London. The play was published by Tonson on
December 1, 1722, with the date 1723 on the title-page. The general
idea of the piece is taken from Terence's _Andria_, but the original
is widely departed from after the opening scenes. Colley Cibber lent
material aid in preparing the play for representation. It was attacked
by John Dennis in two pamphlets, and defended by Benjamin Victor and
others.
_To_
THE KING.
MAY IT PLEASE YOUR MAJESTY,
After having aspired to the highest and most laudable ambition, that
of following the cause of liberty, I should not have humbly petitioned
your Majesty for a direction of the theatre, had I not believed success
in that province an happiness much to be wished by an honest man, and
highly conducing to the prosperity of the commonwealth. It is in this
view I lay before your Majesty a Comedy which the audience, in justice
to themselves, has supported and encouraged, and is the prelude of
what, by your Majesty's influence and favour, may be attempted in
future representations.
The imperial mantle, the royal vestment, and the shining diadem are
what strike ordinary minds; but your Majesty's native goodness,
your passion for justice, and her constant assessor mercy, is what
continually surrounds you in the view of intelligent spirits, and
gives hope to the suppliant, who sees he has more than succeeded in
giving your Majesty an opportunity of doing good. Our King is above the
greatness of royalty, and every act of his will which makes another
man happy has ten times more charms in it than one that makes himself
appear raised above the condition of others. But even this carries
unhappiness with it; for calm dominion, equal grandeur, and familiar
greatness do not easily affect the imagination of the vulgar, who
cannot see power but in terror; and as fear moves mean spirits, and
love prompts great ones to obey, the insinuations of malcontents are
directed accordingly; and the unhappy people are ensnared, from want
of reflection, into disrespectful ideas of their gracious and amiable
sovereign, and then only begin to apprehend the greatness of their
master when they have incurred his displeasure.
As your Majesty was invited to the throne of a willing people,
for their own sakes, and has ever enjoyed it with contempt of the
ostentation of it, we beseech you to protect us who revere your title
as we love your person. 'Tis to be a savage to be a rebel, and they who
have fallen from you have not so much forfeited their allegiance as
lost their humanity. And, therefore, if it were only to preserve myself
from the imputation of being amongst the insensible and abandoned, I
would beg permission in the most public manner possible to profess
myself, with the utmost sincerity and zeal,
Sire,
Your Majesty's
Most devoted subject
And servant,
RICHARD STEELE.
THE PREFACE.[104]
This Comedy has been received with universal acceptance, for it was in
every part excellently performed; and there needs no other applause
of the actors but that they excelled according to the dignity and
difficulty of the character they represented. But this great favour
done to the work in acting renders the expectation still the greater
from the author, to keep up the spirit in the representation of the
closet, or any other circumstance of the reader, whether alone or in
company; to which I can only say that it must be remembered, a play is
to be seen, and is made to be represented with the advantage of action,
nor can appear but with half the spirit without it. For the greatest
effect of a play in reading is to excite the reader to go to see it;
and when he does so, it is then a play has the effect of example and
precept.
The chief design of this was to be an innocent performance, and the
audience have abundantly shown how ready they are to support what is
visibly intended that way. Nor do I make any difficulty to acknowledge
that the whole was writ for the sake of the scene of the Fourth Act,
wherein Mr. Bevil evades the quarrel with his friend, and[105] hope
it may have some effect upon the Goths and Vandals that frequent the
theatres, or a more polite audience may supply their absence.
But this incident, and the case of the father and daughter, are
esteemed by some people no subjects of comedy; but I cannot be of their
mind, for anything that has its foundation in happiness and success
must be allowed to be the object of comedy; and sure it must be an
improvement of it to introduce a joy too exquisite for laughter, that
can have no spring but in delight, which is the case of this young
lady. I must, therefore, contend that the tears which were shed on that
occasion flowed from reason and good sense, and that men ought not to
be laughed at for weeping till we are come to a more clear notion of
what is to be imputed to the hardness of the head and the softness
of the heart; and I think it was very politely said of Mr. Wilks, to
one who told him there was a General[106] weeping for Indiana, "I'll
warrant he'll fight ne'er the worse for that." To be apt to give way to
the impressions of humanity, is the excellence of a right disposition
and the natural working of a well-turned spirit. But as I have suffered
by critics who have got no farther than to inquire whether they ought
to be pleased or not,[107] I would willingly find them properer matter
for their employment, and revive here a song which was omitted for
want of a performer, and designed for the entertainment of Indiana.
Signor Carbonelli,[108] instead of it, played[109] on the fiddle, and
it is for want of a singer that such advantageous things are said of an
instrument which were designed for a voice. The song is the distress
of a love-sick maid, and may be a fit entertainment for some small
critics[110] to examine whether the passion is just or the distress
male or female.
I.
From place to place forlorn I go,
With downcast eyes a silent shade,
Forbidden to declare my woe;
To speak till spoken to, afraid.
II.
My inward pangs, my secret grief,
My soft consenting looks betray.
He loves, but gives me no relief;
Why speaks not he who may?
It remains to say a word concerning Terence, and I am extremely
surprised to find what Mr. Cibber told me prove a truth:[111] that what
I valued myself so much upon--the translation of him[112]--should be
imputed to me as a reproach. Mr. Cibber's zeal for the work, his care
and application in instructing the actors and altering the disposition
of the scenes, when I was, through sickness, unable to cultivate such
things myself, has been a very obliging favour and friendship to
me. For this reason I was very hardly persuaded[113] to throw away
Terence's celebrated funeral, and take only the bare authority of the
young man's character; and how I have worked it into an Englishman, and
made use of the same circumstances of discovering a daughter when we
least hoped for one, is humbly submitted to the learned reader.
PROLOGUE.
_By_ MR. WELSTED.[114]
_Spoken by_ MR. WILKS.
To win your hearts and to secure your praise,
The comic writers strive by various ways;
By subtle stratagems they act their game,
And leave untried no avenue to fame.
One writes the spouse a beating from his wife,
And says each stroke was copied from the life.
Some fix all wit and humour in grimace,
And make a livelihood of Pinkey's[115] face.
Here, one gay show and costly habits tries,
Confiding to the judgment of your eyes;
Another smuts his scene (a cunning shaver),
Sure of the rakes' and of the wenches' favour.
Oft have these arts prevailed, and one may guess,
If practised o'er again, would find success.
But the bold sage--the poet of to-night--
By new and desperate rules resolved to write;
Fain would he give more just applauses rise,
And please by wit that scorns the aids of vice;
The praise he seeks from worthier motives springs,
Such praise as praise to those that give it brings.
Your aid most humbly sought, then, Britons lend,
And liberal mirth like liberal men defend.
No more let ribaldry, with licence writ,
Usurp the name of eloquence or wit;
No more let lawless farce uncensured go,
The lewd dull gleanings of a Smithfield show.[116]
'Tis yours with breeding to refine the age,
To chasten wit, and moralise the stage.
Ye modest, wise and good, ye fair, ye brave,
To-night the champion of your virtues save;
Redeem from long contempt the comic name,
And judge politely for your country's fame.
_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._
Sir JOHN BEVIL.
Mr. SEALAND.
BEVIL, JUN., in love with INDIANA.
MYRTLE, in love with LUCINDA.
CIMBERTON, a Coxcomb.
HUMPHRY, an old Servant to Sir JOHN.
TOM, Servant to BEVIL, JUN.
DANIEL, a Country Boy, Servant to INDIANA.
MRS. SEALAND, second Wife to SEALAND.
ISABELLA, Sister to SEALAND.
INDIANA, SEALAND'S Daughter, by his first Wife.
LUCINDA, SEALAND'S Daughter, by his second Wife.
PHILLIS, Maid to LUCINDA.
SCENE.--LONDON.
_THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS._
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.--SIR JOHN BEVIL'S _House._
_Enter_ SIR JOHN BEVIL _and_ HUMPHRY.
_Sir J. Bev._ Have you ordered that I should not be interrupted while I
am dressing?
_Humph._ Yes, sir; I believed you had something of moment to say to me.
_Sir J. Bev._ Let me see, Humphry; I think it is now full forty years
since I first took thee to be about myself.
_Humph._ I thank you, sir, it has been an easy forty years; and I have
passed 'em without much sickness, care, or labour.
_Sir J Bev._ Thou hast a brave constitution; you are a year or two
older than I am, sirrah.
_Humph._ You have ever been of that mind, sir.
_Sir J. Bev._ You knave, you know it; I took thee for thy gravity and
sobriety, in my wild years.
_Humph._ Ah, sir! our manners were formed from our different fortunes,
not our different age. Wealth gave a loose to your youth, and poverty
put a restraint upon mine.
_Sir J. Bev._ Well, Humphry, you know I have been a kind master to you;
I have used you, for the ingenuous nature I observed in you from the
beginning, more like an humble friend than a servant.
_Humph._ I humbly beg you'll be so tender of me as to explain your
commands, sir, without any farther preparation.
_Sir J. Bev._ I'll tell thee, then: In the first place, this wedding of
my son's in all probability--shut the door--will never be at all.
_Humph._ How, sir! not be at all? for what reason is it carried on in
appearance?
_Sir J. Bev._ Honest Humphry, have patience; and I'll tell thee all in
order. I have, myself, in some part of my life, lived (indeed) with
freedom, but, I hope, without reproach. Now, I thought liberty would be
as little injurious to my son; therefore, as soon as he grew towards
man, I indulged him in living after his own manner. I knew not how,
otherwise, to judge of his inclination; for what can be concluded from
a behaviour under restraint and fear?[117] But what charms me above all
expression is, that my son has never, in the least action, the most
distant hint or word, valued himself upon that great estate of his
mother's, which, according to our marriage settlement, he has had ever
since he came to age.
_Humph._ No, sir; on the contrary, he seems afraid of appearing to
enjoy it, before you or any belonging to you. He is as dependent and
resigned to your will as if he had not a farthing but what must come
from your immediate bounty. You have ever acted like a good and
generous father, and he like an obedient and grateful son.
_Sir J. Bev._ Nay, his carriage is so easy to all with whom he
converses, that he is never assuming, never prefers himself to others,
nor ever is guilty of that rough sincerity which a man is not called
to, and certainly disobliges most of his acquaintance; to be short,
Humphry, his reputation was so fair in the world, that old Sealand, the
great India merchant, has offered his only daughter, and sole heiress
to that vast estate of his, as a wife for him. You may be sure I made
no difficulties, the match was agreed on, and this very day named for
the wedding.
_Humph._ What hinders the proceeding?
_Sir J. Bev._ Don't interrupt me. You know I was last Thursday at the
masquerade; my son, you may remember, soon found us out. He knew his
grandfather's habit, which I then wore; and though it was the mode, in
the last age, yet the masquers, you know, followed us as if we had been
the most monstrous figures in that whole assembly.
_Humph._ I remember, indeed, a young man of quality in the habit of a
clown, that was particularly troublesome.
_Sir J. Bev._ Right; he was too much what he seemed to be. You remember
how impertinently he followed and teased us, and would know who we were.
_Humph._ I know he has a mind to come into that particular. [_Aside._
_Sir J. Bev._ Ay, he followed us till the gentleman who led the lady
in the Indian mantle presented that gay creature to the rustic, and
bid him (like Cymon in the fable) grow polite by falling in love, and
let that worthy old gentleman alone, meaning me. The clown was not
reformed, but rudely persisted, and offered to force off my mask; with
that, the gentleman, throwing off his own, appeared to be my son, and
in his concern for me, tore off that of the nobleman; at this they
seized each other; the company called the guards, and in the surprise
the lady swooned away; upon which my son quitted his adversary, and
had now no care but of the lady. When raising her in his arms, "Art
thou gone," cried he, "for ever?--forbid it, Heaven!" She revived at
his known voice, and with the most familiar, though modest, gesture,
hangs in safety over his shoulder weeping, but wept as in the arms of
one before whom she could give herself a loose, were she not under
observation; while she hides her face in his neck, he carefully conveys
her from the company.
_Humph._ I have observed this accident has dwelt upon you very strongly.
_Sir J. Bev._ Her uncommon air, her noble modesty, the dignity of her
person, and the occasion itself, drew the whole assembly together; and
I soon heard it buzzed about she was the adopted daughter of a famous
sea-officer who had served in France. Now this unexpected and public
discovery of my son's so deep concern for her----
_Humph._ Was what, I suppose, alarmed Mr. Sealand, in behalf of his
daughter, to break off the match?
_Sir J. Bev._ You are right. He came to me yesterday and said he
thought himself disengaged from the bargain; being credibly informed
my son was already married, or worse, to the lady at the masquerade. I
palliated matters, and insisted on our agreement; but we parted with
little less than a direct breach between us.[118]
_Humph._ Well, sir; and what notice have you taken of all this to my
young master?
_Sir J. Bev._ That's what I wanted to debate with you. I have said
nothing to him yet--but look you, Humphry, if there is so much in this
amour of his, that he denies upon my summons to marry, I have cause
enough to be offended; and then by my insisting upon his marrying
to-day, I shall know how far he is engaged to this lady in masquerade,
and from thence only shall be able to take my measures. In the meantime
I would have you find out how far that rogue, his man, is let into his
secret. He, I know, will play tricks as much to cross me, as to serve
his master.
_Humph._ Why do you think so of him, sir? I believe he is no worse than
I was for you, at your son's age.
_Sir J. Bev._ I see it in the rascal's looks. But I have dwelt on these
things too long; I'll go to my son immediately, and while I'm gone,
your part is to convince his rogue, Tom, that I am in earnest.--I'll
leave him to you. [_Exit_ SIR JOHN BEVIL.
_Humph._ Well, though this father and son live as well together as
possible, yet their fear of giving each other pain is attended with
constant mutual uneasiness. I'm sure I have enough to do to be honest,
and yet keep well with them both. But they know I love 'em, and that
makes the task less painful however. Oh, here's the prince of poor
coxcombs, the representative of all the better fed than taught. Ho! ho!
Tom, whither so gay and so airy this morning?
_Enter_ TOM, _singing._
_Tom._ Sir, we servants of single gentlemen are another kind of people
than you domestic ordinary drudges that do business; we are raised
above you. The pleasures of board-wages, tavern dinners, and many a
clear gain; vails, alas! you never heard or dreamt of.
_Humph._ Thou hast follies and vices enough for a man of ten thousand a
year, though 'tis but as t'other day that I sent for you to town to put
you into Mr. Sealand's family, that you might learn a little before I
put you to my young master, who is too gentle for training such a rude
thing as you were into proper obedience. You then pulled off your hat
to everyone you met in the street, like a bashful great awkward cub as
you were. But your great oaken cudgel, when you were a booby, became
you much better than that dangling stick at your button, now you are a
fop. That's fit for nothing, except it hangs there to be ready for your
master's hand when you are impertinent.
_Tom._ Uncle Humphry, you know my master scorns to strike his servants.
You talk as if the world was now just as it was when my old master and
you were in your youth; when you went to dinner because it was so much
o'clock, when the great blow was given in the hall at the pantry door,
and all the family came out of their holes in such strange dresses and
formal faces as you see in the pictures in our long gallery in the
country.
_Humph._ Why, you wild rogue!
_Tom._ You could not fall to your dinner till a formal fellow in a
black gown said something over the meat, as if the cook had not made it
ready enough.
_Humph._ Sirrah, who do you prate after? Despising men of sacred
characters! I hope you never heard my good young master talk so like a
profligate.
_Tom._ Sir, I say you put upon me, when I first came to town, about
being orderly, and the doctrine of wearing shams to make linen last
clean a fortnight, keeping my clothes fresh, and wearing a frock within
doors.
_Humph._ Sirrah, I gave you those lessons because I supposed at that
time your master and you might have dined at home every day, and cost
you nothing; then you might have made a good family servant. But the
gang you have frequented since at chocolate houses and taverns, in a
continual round of noise and extravagance--
_Tom._ I don't know what you heavy inmates call noise and extravagance;
but we gentlemen, who are well fed, and cut a figure, sir, think it a
fine life, and that we must be very pretty fellows who are kept only to
be looked at.
_Humph._ Very well, sir, I hope the fashion of being lewd and
extravagant, despising of decency and order, is almost at an end, since
it has arrived at persons of your quality.
_Tom._ Master Humphry, ha! ha! you were an unhappy lad to be sent up to
town in such queer days as you were. Why, now, sir, the lackeys are the
men of pleasure of the age, the top gamesters; and many a laced coat
about town have had their education in our party-coloured regiment. We
are false lovers; have a taste of music, poetry, billet-doux, dress,
politics; ruin damsels; and when we are tired of this lewd town, and
have a mind to take up, whip into our masters' wigs and linen, and
marry fortunes.
_Humph._ Hey-day!
_Tom._ Nay, sir, our order is carried up to the highest dignities and
distinctions; step but into the Painted Chamber,[119] and by our titles
you'd take us all for men of quality. Then, again, come down to the
Court of Requests, and you see us all laying our broken heads together
for the good of the nation; and though we never carry a question nemine
contradicente, yet this I can say, with a safe conscience (and I wish
every gentleman of our cloth could lay his hand upon his heart and say
the same), that I never took so much as a single mug of beer for my
vote in all my life.
_Humph._ Sirrah, there is no enduring your extravagance; I'll hear you
prate no longer. I wanted to see you to enquire how things go with your
master, as far as you understand them; I suppose he knows he is to be
married to-day.
_Tom._ Ay, sir, he knows it, and is dressed as gay as the sun; but,
between you and I, my dear, he has a very heavy heart under all that
gaiety. As soon as he was dressed I retired, but overheard him sigh in
the most heavy manner. He walked thoughtfully to and fro in the room,
then went into his closet; when he came out he gave me this for his
mistress, whose maid, you know----
_Humph._ Is passionately fond of your fine person.
_Tom._ The poor fool is so tender, and loves to hear me talk of the
world, and the plays, operas, and ridottos[120] for the winter, the
parks and Belsize[121] for our summer diversions; and "Lard!" says she,
"you are so wild, but you have a world of humour."
_Humph._ Coxcomb! Well, but why don't you run with your master's letter
to Mrs. Lucinda, as he ordered you?
_Tom._ Because Mrs. Lucinda is not so easily come at as you think for.
_Humph._ Not easily come at? Why, sirrah, are not her father and my
old master agreed that she and Mr. Bevil are to be one flesh before
to-morrow morning?
_Tom._ It's no matter for that; her mother, it seems, Mrs. Sealand, has
not agreed to it; and you must know, Mr. Humphry, that in that family
the grey mare is the better horse.
_Humph._ What dost thou mean?
_Tom._ In one word, Mrs. Sealand pretends to have a will of her own,
and has provided a relation of hers, a stiff, starched philosopher, and
a wise fool, for her daughter; for which reason, for these ten days
past, she has suffered no message nor letter from my master to come
near her.
_Humph._ And where had you this intelligence?
_Tom._ From a foolish fond soul that can keep nothing from me; one that
will deliver this letter too, if she is rightly managed.
_Humph._ What! her pretty handmaid, Mrs. Phillis?
_Tom._ Even she, sir; this is the very hour, you know, she usually
comes hither, under a pretence of a visit to your housekeeper,
forsooth, but in reality to have a glance at----
_Humph._ Your sweet face, I warrant you.
_Tom._ Nothing else in nature; you must know, I love to fret and play
with the little wanton.
_Humph._ Play with the little wanton! What will this world come to!
_Tom._ I met her this morning in a new manteau and petticoat, not a bit
the worse for her lady's wearing; and she has always new thoughts and
new airs with new clothes--then she never fails to steal some glance or
gesture from every visitant at their house; and is, indeed, the whole
town of coquets at second-hand. But here she comes; in one motion she
speaks and describes herself better than all the words in the world can.
_Humph._ Then I hope, dear sir, when your own affair is over, you will
be so good as to mind your master's with her.
_Tom._ Dear Humphry, you know my master is my friend, and those are
people I never forget.
_Humph._ Sauciness itself! but I'll leave you to do your best for him.
[_Exit._
_Enter_ PHILLIS.[122]
_Phil._ Oh, Mr. Thomas, is Mrs. Sugar-key at home? Lard, one is almost
ashamed to pass along the streets! The town is quite empty, and nobody
of fashion left in it; and the ordinary people do so stare to see
anything, dressed like a woman of condition, as it were on the same
floor with them, pass by. Alas! alas! it is a sad thing to walk. O
fortune! fortune!
_Tom._ What! a sad thing to walk? Why, Madam Phillis, do you wish
yourself lame?
_Phil._ No, Mr. Tom, but I wish I were generally carried in a coach
or chair, and of a fortune neither to stand nor go, but to totter, or
slide, to be short-sighted, or stare, to fleer in the face, to look
distant, to observe, to overlook, yet all become me; and, if I was
rich, I could twire[123] and loll as well as the best of them. Oh, Tom!
Tom! is it not a pity that you should be so great a coxcomb, and I so
great a coquet, and yet be such poor devils as we are?
_Tom._ Mrs. Phillis, I am your humble servant for that----
_Phil._ Yes, Mr. Thomas, I know how much you are my humble servant, and
know what you said to Mrs. Judy, upon seeing her in one of her lady's
cast manteaus: That any one would have thought her the lady, and that
she had ordered the other to wear it till it sat easy; for now only it
was becoming. To my lady it was only a covering, to Mrs. Judy it was
a habit. This you said, after somebody or other. Oh, Tom! Tom! thou
art as false and as base as the best gentleman of them all; but, you
wretch, talk to me no more on the old odious subject--don't, I say.
_Tom._ I know not how to resist your commands, madam. [_In a submissive
tone, retiring._
_Phil._ Commands about parting are grown mighty easy to you of late.
_Tom._ Oh, I have her; I have nettled and put her into the right temper
to be wrought upon and set a-prating. [_Aside._]--Why, truly, to be
plain with you, Mrs. Phillis, I can take little comfort of late in
frequenting your house.
_Phil._ Pray, Mr. Thomas, what is it all of a sudden offends your
nicety at our house?
_Tom._ I don't care to speak particulars, but I dislike the whole.
_Phil._ I thank you, sir, I am a part of that whole.
_Tom._ Mistake me not, good Phillis.
_Phil._ Good Phillis! Saucy enough. But however----
_Tom._ I say, it is that thou art a part, which gives me pain for the
disposition of the whole. You must know, madam, to be serious, I am a
man, at the bottom, of prodigious nice honour. You are too much exposed
to company at your house. To be plain, I don't like so many, that would
be your mistress's lovers, whispering to you.
_Phil._ Don't think to put that upon me. You say this, because I wrung
you to the heart when I touched your guilty conscience about Judy.
_Tom._ Ah, Phillis! Phillis! if you but knew my heart!
_Phil._ I know too much on't.
_Tom._ Nay, then, poor Crispo's[124] fate and mine are one. Therefore
give me leave to say, or sing at least, as he does upon the same
occasion--
"Se vedette," &c. [_Sings._]
_Phil._ What, do you think I'm to be fobbed off with a song? I don't
question but you have sung the same to Mrs. Judy too.
_Tom._ Don't disparage your charms, good Phillis, with jealousy of so
worthless an object; besides, she is a poor hussy, and if you doubt the
sincerity of my love, you will allow me true to my interest. You are a
fortune, Phillis.
_Phil._ What would the fop be at now? In good time, indeed, you shall
be setting up for a fortune!
_Tom._ Dear Mrs. Phillis, you have such a spirit that we shall never
be dull in marriage when we come together. But I tell you, you are a
fortune, and you have an estate in my hands. [_He pulls out a purse,
she eyes it._
_Phil._ What pretence have I to what is in your hands, Mr. Tom?
_Tom._ As thus: there are hours, you know, when a lady is neither
pleased or displeased; neither sick or well; when she lolls or loiters;
when she's without desires--from having more of everything than she
knows what to do with.
_Phil._ Well, what then?
_Tom._ When she has not life enough to keep her bright eyes quite open,
to look at her own dear image in the glass.
_Phil._ Explain thyself, and don't be so fond of thy own prating.
_Tom._ There are also prosperous and good-natured moments: as when a
knot or a patch is happily fixed; when the complexion particularly
flourishes.
_Phil._ Well, what then? I have not patience!
_Tom._ Why, then--or on the like occasions--we servants who have skill
to know how to time business, see when such a pretty folded thing as
this [_Shows a letter._] may be presented, laid, or dropped, as best
suits the present humour. And, madam, because it is a long wearisome
journey to run through all the several stages of a lady's temper, my
master, who is the most reasonable man in the world, presents you this
to bear your charges on the road. [_Gives her the purse._
_Phil._ Now you think me a corrupt hussy.
_Tom._ O fie, I only think you'll take the letter.
_Phil._ Nay, I know you do, but I know my own innocence; I take it for
my mistress's sake.
_Tom._ I know it, my pretty one, I know it.
_Phil._ Yes, I say I do it, because I would not have my mistress
deluded by one who gives no proof of his passion; but I'll talk more
of tips as you see me on my way home. No, Tom, I assure thee, I take
this trash of thy master's, not for the value of the thing, but as it
convinces me he has a true respect for my mistress. I remember a verse
to the purpose--
They may be false who languish and complain,
But they who part with money never feign.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II. BEVIL, JUN.'S _Lodgings._
BEVIL, JUN., _reading._
_Bev. Jun._ These moral writers practise virtue after death. This
charming vision of Mirza![125] Such an author consulted in a morning
sets the spirit for the vicissitudes of the day better than the glass
does a man's person. But what a day have I to go through! to put on
an easy look with an aching heart! If this lady my father urges me to
marry should not refuse me, my dilemma is insupportable. But why should
I fear it? Is not she in equal distress with me? Has not the letter I
have sent her this morning confessed my inclination to another? Nay,
have I not moral assurances of her engagements, too, to my friend
Myrtle? It's impossible but she must give in to it; for, sure, to be
denied is a favour any man may pretend to. It must be so--Well, then,
with the assurance of being rejected, I think I may confidently say to
my father, I am ready to marry her. Then let me resolve upon, what I am
not very good at, though it is an honest dissimulation.
_Enter_ TOM.
_Tom._ Sir John Bevil, sir, is in the next room.
_Bev. Jun._ Dunce! Why did not you bring him in?
_Tom._ I told him, sir, you were in your closet.
_Bev. Jun._ I thought you had known, sir, it was my duty to see my
father anywhere. [_Going himself to the door._
_Tom._ The devil's in my master! he has always more wit than I have.
[_Aside._
BEVIL, JUN., _introducing_ SIR JOHN.
_Bev. Jun._ Sir, you are the most gallant, the most complaisant of all
parents. Sure, 'tis not a compliment to say these lodgings are yours.
Why would you not walk in, sir?
_Sir J. Bev._ I was loth to interrupt you unseasonably on your
wedding-day.
_Bev. Jun._ One to whom I am beholden for my birth-day might have used
less ceremony.
_Sir J. Bev._ Well, son, I have intelligence you have writ to your
mistress this morning. It would please my curiosity to know the
contents of a wedding-day letter; for courtship must then be over.
_Bev. Jun._ I assure you, sir, there was no insolence in it upon the
prospect of such a vast fortune's being added to our family; but much
acknowledgment of the lady's greater desert.
_Sir J. Bev._ But, dear Jack, are you in earnest in all this? And will
you really marry her?
_Bev. Jun._ Did I ever disobey any command of yours, sir? nay, any
inclination that I saw you bent upon?
_Sir J. Bev._ Why, I can't say you have, son; but methinks in this
whole business, you have not been so warm as I could have wished you.
You have visited her, it's true, but you have not been particular.
Everyone knows you can say and do as handsome things as any man; but
you have done nothing but lived in the general--been complaisant only.
_Bev. Jun._ As I am ever prepared to marry if you bid me, so I am ready
to let it alone if you will have me.
[HUMPHRY _enters, unobserved._
_Sir J. Bev._ Look you there now! why, what am I to think of this so
absolute and so indifferent a resignation?
_Bev. Jun._ Think? that I am still your son, sir. Sir, you have been
married, and I have not. And you have, sir, found the inconvenience
there is when a man weds with too much love in his head. I have been
told, sir, that at the time you married, you made a mighty bustle
on the occasion. There was challenging and fighting, scaling walls,
locking up the lady, and the gallant under an arrest for fear of
killing all his rivals. Now, sir, I suppose you having found the ill
consequences of these strong passions and prejudices, in preference of
one woman to another, in case of a man's becoming a widower----
_Sir J. Bev._ How is this?
_Bev. Jun._ I say, sir, experience has made you wiser in your care of
me; for, sir, since you lost my dear mother, your time has been so
heavy, so lonely, and so tasteless, that you are so good as to guard
me against the like unhappiness, by marrying me prudentially by way of
bargain and sale. For, as you well judge, a woman that is espoused for
a fortune, is yet a better bargain if she dies; for then a man still
enjoys what he did marry, the money, and is disencumbered of what he
did not marry, the woman.
_Sir J. Bev._ But pray, sir, do you think Lucinda, then, a woman of
such little merit?
_Bev. Jun._ Pardon me, sir, I don't carry it so far neither; I am
rather afraid I shall like her too well; she has, for one of her
fortune, a great many needless and superfluous good qualities.
_Sir J. Bev._ I am afraid, son, there's something I don't see yet,
something that's smothered under all this raillery.
_Bev. Jun._ Not in the least, sir. If the lady is dressed and ready,
you see I am. I suppose the lawyers are ready too.
_Humph._ This may grow warm if I don't interpose. [_Aside._]--Sir, Mr.
Sealand is at the coffee-house, and has sent to speak with you.
_Sir J. Bev._ Oh! that's well! Then I warrant the lawyers are ready.
Son, you'll be in the way, you say.
_Bev. Jun._ If you please, sir, I'll take a chair, and go to Mr.
Sealand's, where the young lady and I will wait your leisure.
_Sir J. Bev._ By no means. The old fellow will be so vain if he sees----
_Bev. Jun._ Ay; but the young lady, sir, will think me so indifferent.
_Humph._ Ay, there you are right; press your readiness to go to the
bride--he won't let you. [_Aside to_ BEV. JUN.
_Bev. Jun._ Are you sure of that? [_Aside to_ HUMPH.
_Humph._ How he likes being prevented. [_Aside._
_Sir J. Bev._ No, no. You are an hour or two too early. [_Looking on
his watch._
_Bev. Jun._ You'll allow me, sir, to think it too late to visit a
beautiful, virtuous young woman, in the pride and bloom of life, ready
to give herself to my arms; and to place her happiness or misery, for
the future, in being agreeable or displeasing to me, is a----Call a
chair.
_Sir J. Bev._ No, no, no, dear Jack; this Sealand is a moody old
fellow. There's no dealing with some people but by managing with
indifference. We must leave to him the conduct of this day. It is the
last of his commanding his daughter.
_Bev. Jun._ Sir, he can't take it ill, that I am impatient to be hers.
_Sir J. Bev._ Pray let me govern in this matter; you can't tell how
humorsome old fellows are. There's no offering reason to some of
'em, especially when they are rich.--If my son should see him before
I've brought old Sealand into better temper, the match would be
impracticable. [_Aside._
_Humph._ Pray, sir, let me beg you to let Mr. Bevil go.--See whether he
will or not. [_Aside to_ SIR JOHN]--[_Then to_ BEV.] Pray, sir, command
yourself; since you see my master is positive, it is better you should
not go.
_Bev. Jun._ My father commands me, as to the object of my affections;
but I hope he will not, as to the warmth and height of them.
_Sir J. Bev._ So! I must even leave things as I found them; and in
the meantime, at least, keep old Sealand out of his sight--Well,
son, I'll go myself and take orders in your affair. You'll be in the
way, I suppose, if I send to you. I'll leave your old friend with
you--Humphry, don't let him stir, d'ye hear?--Your servant, your
servant. [_Exit_ SIR JOHN.
_Humph._ I have a sad time on't, sir, between you and my master. I
see you are unwilling, and I know his violent inclinations for the
match.--I must betray neither, and yet deceive you both, for your
common good. Heaven grant a good end of this matter.--But there is a
lady, sir, that gives your father much trouble and sorrow.--You'll
pardon me.
_Bev. Jun._ Humphry, I know thou art a friend to both, and in that
confidence I dare tell thee, that lady is a woman of honour and virtue.
You may assure yourself I never will marry without my father's consent.
But give me leave to say, too, this declaration does not come up to a
promise that I will take whomsoever he pleases.
_Humph._ Come, sir, I wholly understand you. You would engage my
services to free you from this woman whom my master intends you, to
make way, in time, for the woman you have really a mind to.
_Bev. Jun._ Honest Humphry, you have always been a useful friend to my
father and myself; I beg you continue your good offices, and don't let
us come to the necessity of a dispute; for, if we should dispute, I
must either part with more than life, or lose the best of fathers.
_Humph._ My dear master, were I but worthy to know this secret, that
so near concerns you, my life, my all should be engaged to serve you.
This, sir, I dare promise, that I am sure I will and can be secret:
your trust, at worst, but leaves you where you were; and if I cannot
serve you, I will at once be plain and tell you so.
_Bev. Jun._ That's all I ask. Thou hast made it now my interest to
trust thee. Be patient, then, and hear the story of my heart.
_Humph._ I am all attention, sir.
_Bev. Jun._ You may remember, Humphry, that in my last travels my
father grew uneasy at my making so long a stay at Toulon.
_Humph._ I remember it; he was apprehensive some woman had laid hold of
you.
_Bev. Jun._ His fears were just; for there I first saw this lady.
She is of English birth: her father's name was Danvers--a younger
brother of an ancient family, and originally an eminent merchant of
Bristol, who, upon repeated misfortunes, was reduced to go privately
to the Indies. In this retreat, Providence again grew favourable to
his industry, and, in six years' time, restored him to his former
fortunes. On this he sent directions over that his wife and little
family should follow him to the Indies. His wife, impatient to obey
such welcome orders, would not wait the leisure of a convoy, but took
the first occasion of a single ship, and, with her husband's sister
only, and this daughter, then scarce seven years old, undertook the
fatal voyage--for here, poor creature, she lost her liberty and life.
She and her family, with all they had, were, unfortunately, taken by
a privateer from Toulon. Being thus made a prisoner, though as such
not ill-treated, yet the fright, the shock, and cruel disappointment,
seized with such violence upon her unhealthy frame, she sickened,
pined, and died at sea.
_Humph._ Poor soul! O the helpless infant!
_Bev._ Her sister yet survived, and had the care of her. The captain,
too, proved to have humanity, and became a father to her; for having
himself married an English woman, and being childless, he brought home
into Toulon this her little country-woman, presenting her, with all her
dead mother's movables of value, to his wife, to be educated as his own
adopted daughter.
_Humph._ Fortune here seemed again to smile on her.
_Bev._ Only to make her frowns more terrible; for, in his height of
fortune, this captain, too, her benefactor, unfortunately was killed at
sea; and dying intestate, his estate fell wholly to an advocate, his
brother, who, coming soon to take possession, there found (among his
other riches) this blooming virgin at his mercy.
_Humph._ He durst not, sure, abuse his power?
_Bev._ No wonder if his pampered blood was fired at the sight of
her--in short, he loved; but when all arts and gentle means had failed
to move, he offered, too, his menaces in vain, denouncing vengeance on
her cruelty, demanding her to account for all her maintenance from her
childhood; seized on her little fortune as his own inheritance, and
was dragging her by violence to prison, when Providence at the instant
interposed, and sent me, by miracle, to relieve her.[126]
_Humph._ 'Twas Providence, indeed. But pray, sir, after all this
trouble, how came this lady at last to England?
_Bev._ The disappointed advocate, finding she had so unexpected a
support, on cooler thoughts, descended to a composition, which I,
without her knowledge, secretly discharged.
_Humph._ That generous concealment made the obligation double.
_Bev._ Having thus obtained her liberty, I prevailed, not without some
difficulty, to see her safe to England; where, no sooner arrived,
but my father, jealous of my being imprudently engaged, immediately
proposed this other fatal match that hangs upon my quiet.
_Humph._ I find, sir, you are irrecoverably fixed upon this lady.
_Bev._ As my vital life dwells in my heart--and yet you see what I do
to please my father: walk in this pageantry of dress, this splendid
covering of sorrow--But, Humphry, you have your lesson.
_Humph._ Now, sir, I have but one material question----
_Bev._ Ask it freely.
_Humph._ Is it, then, your own passion for this secret lady, or hers
for you, that gives you this aversion to the match your father has
proposed you?
_Bev._ I shall appear, Humphry, more romantic in my answer than in all
the rest of my story; for though I dote on her to death, and have no
little reason to believe she has the same thoughts for me, yet in all
my acquaintance and utmost privacies with her, I never once directly
told her that I loved.
_Humph._ How was it possible to avoid it?
_Bev._ My tender obligations to my father have laid so inviolable a
restraint upon my conduct that, till I have his consent to speak, I am
determined, on that subject, to be dumb for ever.
_Humph._ Well, sir, to your praise be it spoken, you are certainly the
most unfashionable lover in Great Britain.
_Enter_ TOM.
_Tom._ Sir, Mr. Myrtle's at the next door, and, if you are at leisure,
will be glad to wait on you.
_Bev._ Whenever he pleases----hold, Tom! did you receive no answer to
my letter?
_Tom._ Sir, I was desired to call again; for I was told her mother
would not let her be out of her sight; but about an hour hence, Mrs.
Lettice said, I should certainly have one.
_Bev._ Very well. [_Exit_ TOM.
_Humph._ Sir, I will take another opportunity. In the meantime, I only
think it proper to tell you that, from a secret I know, you may appear
to your father as forward as you please, to marry Lucinda without the
least hazard of its coming to a conclusion--Sir, your most obedient
servant.
_Bev._ Honest Humphry, continue but my friend in this exigence, and
you shall always find me yours. [_Exit_ HUMPH.]--I long to hear how my
letter has succeeded with Lucinda--but I think it cannot fail; for, at
worst, were it possible she could take it ill, her resentment of my
indifference may as probably occasion a delay as her taking it right.
Poor Myrtle, what terrors must he be in all this while? Since he knows
she is offered to me, and refused to him, there is no conversing or
taking any measures with him for his own service.--But I ought to bear
with my friend, and use him as one in adversity--
All his disquiets by my own I prove,
The greatest grief's perplexity in love.
[_Exit._
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.--BEVIL, JUN.'S _Lodgings._
_Enter_ BEVIL, JUN. _and_ TOM.
_Tom._ Sir, Mr. Myrtle.
_Bev. Jun._ Very well, do you step again, and wait for an answer to my
letter. [_Exit_ TOM.
_Enter_ MYRTLE.
_Bev. Jun._ Well, Charles, why so much care in thy countenance? Is
there anything in this world deserves it? You, who used to be so gay,
so open, so vacant!
_Myrt._ I think we have of late changed complexions. You, who used to
be much the graver man, are now all air in your behaviour.--But the
cause of my concern may, for aught I know, be the same object that
gives you all this satisfaction. In a word, I am told that you are this
very day--and your dress confirms me in it--to be married to Lucinda.
_Bev. Jun._ You are not misinformed.--Nay, put not on the terrors of
a rival till you hear me out. I shall disoblige the best of fathers
if I don't seem ready to marry Lucinda; and you know I have ever told
you you might make use of my secret resolution never to marry her for
your own service as you please; but I am now driven to the extremity
of immediately refusing or complying unless you help me to escape the
match.
_Myrt._ Escape? Sir, neither her merit or her fortune are below your
acceptance--Escaping do you call it?
_Bev. Jun._ Dear sir, do you wish I should desire the match?
_Myrt._ No; but such is my humorous and sickly state of mind since it
has been able to relish nothing but Lucinda, that though I must owe my
happiness to your aversion to this marriage, I can't bear to hear her
spoken of with levity or unconcern.
_Bev. Jun._ Pardon me, sir, I shall transgress that way no more. She
has understanding, beauty, shape, complexion, wit----
_Myrt._ Nay, dear Bevil, don't speak of her as if you loved her neither.
_Bev. Jun._ Why, then, to give you ease at once, though I allow Lucinda
to have good sense, wit, beauty, and virtue, I know another in whom
these qualities appear to me more amiable than in her.
_Myrt._ There you spoke like a reasonable and good-natured friend. When
you acknowledge her merit, and own your prepossession for another, at
once you gratify my fondness and cure my jealousy.
_Bev. Jun._ But all this while you take no notice, you have no
apprehension, of another man that has twice the fortune of either of us.
_Myrt._ Cimberton![127] hang him, a formal, philosophical, pedantic
coxcomb; for the sot, with all these crude notions of divers things,
under the direction of great vanity and very little judgment, shows his
strongest bias is avarice; which is so predominant in him that he will
examine the limbs of his mistress with the caution of a jockey, and
pays no more compliment to her personal charms than if she were a mere
breeding animal.
_Bev. Jun._ Are you sure that is not affected? I have known some women
sooner set on fire by that sort of negligence than by----
_Myrt._ No, no; hang him, the rogue has no art; it is pure, simple
insolence and stupidity.
_Bev. Jun._ Yet, with all this, I don't take him for a fool.
_Myrt._ I own the man is not a natural; he has a very quick sense,
though very slow understanding. He says, indeed, many things that want
only the circumstances of time and place to be very just and agreeable.
_Bev. Jun._ Well, you may be sure of me if you can disappoint him; but
my intelligence says the mother has actually sent for the conveyancer
to draw articles for his marriage with Lucinda, though those for mine
with her are, by her father's orders, ready for signing; but it seems
she has not thought fit to consult either him or his daughter in the
matter.
_Myrt._ Pshaw! a poor troublesome woman. Neither Lucinda nor her father
will ever be brought to comply with it. Besides, I am sure Cimberton
can make no settlement upon her without the concurrence of his great
uncle, Sir Geoffry, in the west.
_Bev. Jun._ Well, sir, and I can tell you that's the very point that
is now laid before her counsel, to know whether a firm settlement can
be made without his uncle's actual joining in it. Now, pray consider,
sir, when my affair with Lucinda comes, as it soon must, to an open
rupture, how are you sure that Cimberton's fortune may not then tempt
her father, too, to hear his proposals?
_Myrt._ There you are right, indeed; that must be provided against. Do
you know who are her counsel?
_Bev. Jun. Yes,_ for your service I have found out that, too. They are
Serjeant Bramble and Old Target--by the way, they are neither of them
known in the family. Now, I was thinking why you might not put a couple
of false counsel upon her to delay and confound matters a little;
besides, it may probably let you into the bottom of her whole design
against you.
_Myrt._ As how, pray?
_Bev. Jun._ Why, can't you slip on a black wig and a gown, and be Old
Bramble yourself?
_Myrt._ Ha! I don't dislike it.--But what shall I do for a brother in
the case?
_Bev. Jun._ What think you of my fellow, Tom? The rogue's intelligent,
and is a good mimic. All his part will be but to stutter heartily, for
that's old Target's case. Nay, it would be an immoral thing to mock him
were it not that his impertinence is the occasion of its breaking out
to that degree. The conduct of the scene will chiefly lie upon you.
_Myrt._ I like it of all things. If you'll send Tom to my chambers, I
will give him full instructions. This will certainly give me occasion
to raise difficulties, to puzzle or confound her project for a while at
least.
_Bev. Jun._ I'll warrant you success.--So far we are right, then. And
now, Charles, your apprehension of my marrying her is all you have to
get over.
_Myrt._ Dear Bevil, though I know you are my friend, yet when I
abstract myself from my own interest in the thing, I know no objection
she can make to you, or you to her, and therefore hope----
_Bev. Jun._ Dear Myrtle, I am as much obliged to you for the cause of
your suspicion, as I am offended at the effect; but, be assured, I am
taking measures for your certain security, and that all things with
regard to me will end in your entire satisfaction.
_Myrt._ Well, I'll promise you to be as easy and as confident as I can,
though I cannot but remember that I have more than life at stake on
your fidelity. [_Going._
_Bev. Jun._ Then depend upon it, you have no chance against you.
_Myrt._ Nay, no ceremony, you know I must be going. [_Exit_ MYRT.
_Bev. Jun._ Well, this is another instance of the perplexities which
arise, too, in faithful friendship. We must often in this life go on
in our good offices, even under the displeasure of those to whom we
do them, in compassion to their weaknesses and mistakes.--But all
this while poor Indiana is tortured with the doubt of me. She has no
support or comfort but in my fidelity, yet sees me daily pressed to
marriage with another. How painful, in such a crisis, must be every
hour she thinks on me! I'll let her see at least my conduct to her
is not changed. I'll take this opportunity to visit her; for though
the religious vow I have made to my father restrains me from ever
marrying without his approbation, yet that confines me not from seeing
a virtuous woman that is the pure delight of my eyes and the guiltless
joy of my heart. But the best condition of human life is but a gentler
misery--
To hope for perfect happiness is vain,
And love has ever its allays of pain. [_Exit._
SCENE II.--INDIANA'S _Lodgings._
_Enter_ ISABELLA _and_ INDIANA.
_Isab._ Yes, I say 'tis artifice, dear child. I say to thee again and
again 'tis all skill and management.
_Ind._ Will you persuade me there can be an ill design in supporting me
in the condition of a woman of quality? attended, dressed, and lodged
like one; in my appearance abroad and my furniture at home, every way
in the most sumptuous manner, and he that does it has an artifice, a
design in it?
_Isab._ Yes, yes.
_Ind._ And all this without so much as explaining to me that all about
me comes from him!
_Isab._ Ay, ay, the more for that. That keeps the title to all you have
the more in him.
_Ind._ The more in him! He scorns the thought----
_Isab._ Then he--he--he----
_Ind._ Well, be not so eager. If he is an ill man, let us look into
his stratagems. Here is another of them. [_Showing a letter._] Here's
two hundred and fifty pounds in bank notes, with these words: "To pay
for the set of dressing-plate which will be brought home to-morrow."
Why, dear aunt, now here's another piece of skill for you, which I own
I cannot comprehend; and it is with a bleeding heart I hear you say
anything to the disadvantage of Mr. Bevil. When he is present I look
upon him as one to whom I owe my life and the support of it; then,
again, as the man who loves me with sincerity and honour. When his eyes
are cast another way, and I dare survey him, my heart is painfully
divided between shame and love. Oh! could I tell you----
_Isab._ Ah! you need not; I imagine all this for you.
_Ind._ This is my state of mind in his presence; and when he is absent,
you are ever dinning my ears with notions of the arts of men; that his
hidden bounty, his respectful conduct, his careful provision for me,
after his preserving me from utmost misery, are certain signs he means
nothing but to make I know not what of me.
_Isab._ Oh! You have a sweet opinion of him, truly.
_Ind._ I have, when I am with him, ten thousand things, besides my
sex's natural decency and shame, to suppress my heart, that yearns to
thank, to praise, to say it loves him. I say, thus it is with me while
I see him; and in his absence I am entertained with nothing but your
endeavours to tear this amiable image from my heart; and in its stead,
to place a base dissembler, an artful invader of my happiness, my
innocence, my honour.
_Isab._ Ah, poor soul! has not his plot taken? don't you die for him?
has not the way he has taken, been the most proper with you? Oh! oh! He
has sense, and has judged the thing right.
_Ind._ Go on then, since nothing can answer you; say what you will of
him. Heigh! ho!
_Isab._ Heigh! ho! indeed. It is better to say so, as you are now,
than as many others are. There are, among the destroyers of women,
the gentle, the generous, the mild, the affable, the humble, who all,
soon after their success in their designs, turn to the contrary of
those characters. I will own to you, Mr. Bevil carries his hypocrisy
the best of any man living, but still he is a man, and therefore a
hypocrite. They have usurped an exemption from shame for any baseness,
any cruelty towards us. They embrace without love; they make vows
without conscience of obligation; they are partners, nay, seducers to
the crime, wherein they pretend to be less guilty.
_Ind._ That's truly observed. [_Aside._]--But what's all this to Bevil?
_Isab._ This it is to Bevil and all mankind. Trust not those who will
think the worse of you for your confidence in them; serpents who lie
in wait for doves. Won't you be on your guard against those who would
betray you? Won't you doubt those who would contemn you for believing
'em? Take it from me, fair and natural dealing is to invite injuries;
'tis bleating to escape wolves who would devour you! Such is the
world--[_Aside._] and such (since the behaviour of one man to myself)
have I believed all the rest of the sex.
_Ind._ I will not doubt the truth of Bevil, I will not doubt it. He has
not spoke of it by an organ that is given to lying. His eyes are all
that have ever told me that he was mine. I know his virtue, I know his
filial piety, and ought to trust his management with a father to whom
he has uncommon obligations. What have I to be concerned for? my lesson
is very short. If he takes me for ever, my purpose of life is only to
please him. If he leaves me (which Heaven avert) I know he'll do it
nobly, and I shall have nothing to do but to learn to die, after worse
than death has happened to me.
_Isab._ Ay, do, persist in your credulity! flatter yourself that a man
of his figure and fortune will make himself the jest of the town, and
marry a handsome beggar for love.
_Ind._ The town! I must tell you, madam, the fools that laugh at
Mr. Bevil will but make themselves more ridiculous; his actions are
the result of thinking, and he has sense enough to make even virtue
fashionable.
_Isab._ O' my conscience he has turned her head.--Come, come, if he
were the honest fool you take him for, why has he kept you here these
three weeks, without sending you to Bristol in search of your father,
your family, and your relations?
_Ind._ I am convinced he still designs it, and that nothing keeps him
here, but the necessity of coming to a breach with his father in regard
to the match he has proposed him. Beside, has he not writ to Bristol?
and has not he advice that my father has not been heard of there almost
these twenty years?
_Isab._ All sham, mere evasion; he is afraid, if he should carry you
thither, your honest relations may take you out of his hands, and so
blow up all his wicked hopes at once.
_Ind._ Wicked hopes! did I ever give him any such?
_Isab._ Has he ever given you any honest ones? Can you say, in your
conscience, he has ever once offered to marry you?
_Ind._ No! but by his behaviour I am convinced he will offer it, the
moment 'tis in his power, or consistent with his honour, to make such a
promise good to me.
_Isab._ His honour!
_Ind._ I will rely upon it; therefore desire you will not make my life
uneasy, by these ungrateful jealousies of one, to whom I am, and wish
to be, obliged. For from his integrity alone, I have resolved to hope
for happiness.
_Isab._ Nay, I have done my duty; if you won't see, at your peril be it!
_Ind._ Let it be--This is his hour of visiting me.
_Isab._ Oh! to be sure, keep up your form; don't see him in a
bed-chamber--[_Apart._] This is pure prudence, when she is liable,
wherever he meets her, to be conveyed where'er he pleases.
_Ind._ All the rest of my life is but waiting till he comes. I live
only when I'm with him. [_Exit._
_Isab._ Well, go thy ways, thou wilful innocent!--[_Aside._] I once had
almost as much love for a man, who poorly left me to marry an estate;
and I am now, against my will, what they call an old maid--but I will
not let the peevishness of that condition grow upon me, only keep up
the suspicion of it, to prevent this creature's being any other than a
virgin, except upon proper terms. [_Exit._
_Re-enter_ INDIANA, _speaking to a Servant._
_Ind._ Desire Mr. Bevil to walk in--Design! impossible! A base
designing mind could never think of what he hourly puts in practice.
And yet, since the late rumour of his marriage, he seems more reserved
than formerly--he sends in too, before he sees me, to know if I am
at leisure--such new respects may cover coldness in the heart; it
certainly makes me thoughtful--I'll know the worst at once; I'll lay
such fair occasions in his way, that it shall be impossible to avoid
an explanation, for these doubts are insupportable!--But see, he comes,
and clears them all.
_Enter_ BEVIL.
_Bev._ Madam, your most obedient--I am afraid I broke in upon your rest
last night; 'twas very late before we parted, but 'twas your own fault.
I never saw you in such agreeable humour.
_Ind._ I am extremely glad we were both pleased; for I thought I never
saw you better company.
_Bev._ Me, madam! you rally; I said very little.
_Ind._ But I am afraid you heard me say a great deal; and, when a woman
is in the talking vein, the most agreeable thing a man can do, you
know, is to have patience to hear her.
_Bev._ Then it's pity, madam, you should ever be silent, that we might
be always agreeable to one another.
_Ind._ If I had your talent or power, to make my actions speak for me,
I might indeed be silent, and you pretend to something more than the
agreeable.
_Bev._ If I might be vain of anything in my power, madam, 'tis that
my understanding, from all your sex, has marked you out as the most
deserving object of my esteem.
_Ind._ Should I think I deserve this, 'twere enough to make my vanity
forfeit the very esteem you offer me.
_Bev._ How so, madam?
_Ind._ Because esteem is the result of reason, and to deserve it from
good sense, the height of human glory. Nay, I had rather a man of
honour should pay me that, than all the homage of a sincere and humble
love.
_Bev. Jun._ You certainly distinguish right, madam; love often kindles
from external merit only.
_Ind._ But esteem rises from a higher source, the merit of the soul.
_Bev. Jun._ True--And great souls only can deserve it. [_Bowing
respectfully._
_Ind._ Now I think they are greater still, that can so charitably part
with it.
_Bey. Jun._ Now, madam, you make me vain, since the utmost pride and
pleasure of my life is, that I esteem you as I ought.
_Ind._ [_Aside._] As he ought! still more perplexing! he neither saves
nor kills my hope.
_Bev. Jun._ But, madam, we grow grave, methinks. Let's find some other
subject--Pray how did you like the opera last night?
_Ind._ First give me leave to thank you for my tickets.
_Bey. Jun._ Oh! your servant, madam. But pray tell me, you now, who
are never partial to the fashion, I fancy must be the properest judge
of a mighty dispute among the ladies, that is, whether _Crispo_ or
_Griselda_[128] is the more agreeable entertainment.
_Ind._ With submission now, I cannot be a proper judge of this question.
_Bev._ How so, madam?
_Ind._ Because I find I have a partiality for one of them.
_Bev. Jun._ Pray which is that?
_Ind._ I do not know; there's something in that rural cottage of
Griselda, her forlorn condition, her poverty, her solitude, her
resignation, her innocent slumbers, and that lulling _dolce sogno_
that's sung over her; it had an effect upon me that--in short I never
was so well deceived, at any of them.
_Bev. Jun._ Oh! Now then, I can account for the dispute. Griselda, it
seems, is the distress of an injured innocent woman, Crispo, that only
of a man in the same condition; therefore the men are mostly concerned
for Crispo, and, by a natural indulgence, both sexes for Griselda.
_Ind._ So that judgment, you think, ought to be for one, though fancy
and complaisance have got ground for the other. Well! I believe you
will never give me leave to dispute with you on any subject; for I own,
Crispo has its charms for me too. Though in the main, all the pleasure
the best opera gives us is but mere sensation. Methinks it's pity the
mind can't have a little more share in the entertainment. The music's
certainly fine, but, in my thoughts, there's none of your composers
come up to old Shakespeare and Otway.
_Bev._ How, madam! why if a woman of your sense were to say this in a
drawing-room----
_Enter a_ SERVANT.
_Serv._ Sir, here's Signor Carbonelli[129] says he waits your commands
in the next room.
_Bev._ Apropos! you were saying yesterday, madam, you had a mind to
hear him. Will you give him leave to entertain you now?
_Ind._ By all means; desire the gentleman to walk in. [_Exit_ SERVANT.
_Bev._ I fancy you will find something in this hand that is uncommon.
_Ind._ You are always finding ways, Mr. Bevil, to make life seem less
tedious to me.
_Enter_ MUSIC MASTER.
When the gentleman pleases.
[_After a Sonata is played,_ BEVIL _waits on the Master to the door,
etc._]
_Bev._ You smile, madam, to see me so complaisant to one whom I pay
for his visit. Now, I own, I think it is not enough barely to pay
those whose talents are superior to our own (I mean such talents as
would become our condition, if we had them). Methinks we ought to
do something more than barely gratify them for what they do at our
command, only because their fortune is below us.
_Ind._ You say I smile. I assure you it was a smile of approbation;
for, indeed, I cannot but think it the distinguishing part of a
gentleman to make his superiority of fortune as easy to his inferiors
as he can.--Now once more to try him. [_Aside._]--I was saying just
now, I believed you would never let me dispute with you, and I daresay
it will always be so. However, I must have your opinion upon a subject
which created a debate between my aunt and me, just before you came
hither; she would needs have it that no man ever does any extraordinary
kindness or service for a woman, but for his own sake.
_Bev._ Well, madam! Indeed I can't but be of her mind.
_Ind._ What, though he should maintain and support her, without
demanding anything of her, on her part?
_Bev._ Why, madam, is making an expense in the service of a valuable
woman (for such I must suppose her), though she should never do him any
favour, nay, though she should never know who did her such service,
such a mighty heroic business?
_Ind._ Certainly! I should think he must be a man of an uncommon mould.
_Bev._ Dear madam, why so? 'tis but, at best, a better taste in
expense. To bestow upon one, whom he may think one of the ornaments
of the whole creation, to be conscious, that from his superfluity, an
innocent, a virtuous spirit is supported above the temptations and
sorrows of life! That he sees satisfaction, health, and gladness in
her countenance, while he enjoys the happiness of seeing her (as that I
will suppose too, or he must be too abstracted, too insensible), I say,
if he is allowed to delight in that prospect; alas, what mighty matter
is there in all this?
_Ind._ No mighty matter in so disinterested a friendship!
_Bev._ Disinterested! I can't think him so; your hero, madam, is no
more than what every gentleman ought to be, and I believe very many
are. He is only one who takes more delight in reflections than in
sensations. He is more pleased with thinking than eating; that's the
utmost you can say of him. Why, madam, a greater expense than all this,
men lay out upon an unnecessary stable of horses.
_Ind._ Can you be sincere in what you say?
_Bev._ You may depend upon it, if you know any such man, he does not
love dogs inordinately.
_Ind._ No, that he does not.
_Bev._ Nor cards, nor dice.
_Ind._ No.
_Bev._ Nor bottle companions.
_Ind._ No.
_Bev._ Nor loose women.
_Ind._ No, I'm sure he does not.
_Bev._ Take my word then, if your admired hero is not liable to any
of these kind of demands, there's no such pre-eminence in this as you
imagine. Nay, this way of expense you speak of is what exalts and
raises him that has a taste for it; and, at the same time, his delight
is incapable of satiety, disgust, or penitence.
_Ind._ But still I insist his having no private interest in the action,
makes it prodigious, almost incredible.
_Bev._ Dear madam, I never knew you more mistaken. Why, who can be more
a usurer than he who lays out his money in such valuable purchases? If
pleasure be worth purchasing, how great a pleasure is it to him, who
has a true taste of life, to ease an aching heart; to see the human
countenance lighted up into smiles of joy, on the receipt of a bit of
ore which is superfluous and otherwise useless in a man's own pocket?
What could a man do better with his cash? This is the effect of a human
disposition, where there is only a general tie of nature and common
necessity. What then must it be when we serve an object of merit, of
admiration!
_Ind._ Well! the more you argue against it the more I shall admire the
generosity.
_Bev._ Nay, nay--Then, madam, 'tis time to fly, after a declaration
that my opinion strengthens my adversary's argument. I had best hasten
to my appointment with Mr. Myrtle, and begone while we are friends, and
before things are brought to an extremity. [_Exit, carelessly._
_Enter_ ISABELLA.
_Isab._ Well, madam, what think you of him now, pray?
_Ind._ I protest, I begin to fear he is wholly disinterested in what he
does for me. On my heart, he has no other view but the mere pleasure of
doing it, and has neither good or bad designs upon me.
_Isab._ Ah! dear niece! don't be in fear of both! I'll warrant you, you
will know time enough that he is not indifferent.
_Ind._ You please me when you tell me so; for, if he has any wishes
towards me, I know he will not pursue them but with honour.
_Isab._ I wish I were as confident of one as t'other. I saw the
respectful downcast of his eye, when you caught him gazing at you
during the music. He, I warrant, was surprised, as if he had been taken
stealing your watch. Oh! the undissembled guilty look!
_Ind._ But did you observe any such thing, really? I thought he looked
most charmingly graceful! How engaging is modesty in a man, when one
knows there is a great mind within. So tender a confusion! and yet,
in other respects, so much himself, so collected, so dauntless, so
determined!
_Isab._ Ah! niece! there is a sort of bashfulness which is the best
engine to carry on a shameless purpose. Some men's modesty serves their
wickedness, as hypocrisy gains the respect due to piety. But I will own
to you, there is one hopeful symptom, if there could be such a thing as
a disinterested lover. But it's all a perplexity--till--till--till----
_Ind._ Till what?
_Isab._ Till I know whether Mr. Myrtle and Mr. Bevil are really friends
or foes.--And that I will be convinced of before I sleep; for you shall
not be deceived.
_Ind._ I'm sure I never shall, if your fears can guard me. In the
meantime I'll wrap myself up in the integrity of my own heart, nor dare
to doubt of his.
As conscious honour all his actions steers,
So conscious innocence dispels my fears. [_Exeunt._
ACT THE THIRD.[130]
SCENE.--SEALAND'S _House._
_Enter_ TOM, _meeting_ PHILLIS.
_Tom._ Well, Phillis! What, with a face as if you had never seen me
before!--What a work have I to do now? She has seen some new visitant
at their house whose airs she has caught, and is resolved to practise
them upon me. Numberless are the changes she'll dance through before
she'll answer this plain question: videlicet, have you delivered my
master's letter to your lady? Nay, I know her too well to ask an
account of it in an ordinary way; I'll be in my airs as well as she.
[_Aside._]--Well, madam, as unhappy as you are at present pleased to
make me, I would not, in the general, be any other than what I am. I
would not be a bit wiser, a bit richer, a bit taller, a bit shorter
than I am at this instant. [_Looking steadfastly at her._
_Phil._ Did ever anybody doubt, Master Thomas, but that you were
extremely satisfied with your sweet self?
_Tom._ I am, indeed. The thing I have least reason to be satisfied with
is my fortune, and I am glad of my poverty. Perhaps if I were rich I
should overlook the finest woman in the world, that wants nothing but
riches to be thought so.
_Phil._ How prettily was that said! But I'll have a great deal more
before I'll say one word. [_Aside._
_Tom._ I should, perhaps, have been stupidly above her had I not been
her equal; and by not being her equal, never had opportunity of being
her slave. I am my master's servant for hire--I am my mistress's from
choice, would she but approve my passion.
_Phil._ I think it's the first time I ever heard you speak of it with
any sense of the anguish, if you really do suffer any.
_Tom._ Ah, Phillis! can you doubt, after what you have seen?
_Phil._ I know not what I have seen, nor what I have heard; but since I
am at leisure, you may tell me when you fell in love with me; how you
fell in love with me; and what you have suffered or are ready to suffer
for me.
_Tom._ Oh, the unmerciful jade! when I am in haste about my master's
letter. But I must go through it. [_Aside._]--Ah![131] too well I
remember when, and how, and on what occasion I was first surprised.
It was on the 1st of April, 1715, I came into Mr. Sealand's service; I
was then a hobbledehoy, and you a pretty little tight girl, a favourite
handmaid of the housekeeper. At that time we neither of us knew what
was in us. I remember I was ordered to get out of the window, one pair
of stairs, to rub the sashes clean; the person employed on the inner
side was your charming self, whom I had never seen before.
_Phil._ I think I remember the silly accident. What made ye, you oaf,
ready to fall down into the street?
_Tom._ You know not, I warrant you--you could not guess what surprised
me. You took no delight when you immediately grew wanton in your
conquest, and put your lips close, and breathed upon the glass, and
when my lips approached, a dirty cloth you rubbed against my face, and
hid your beauteous form! When I again drew near, you spit, and rubbed,
and smiled at my undoing.
_Phil._ What silly thoughts you men have!
_Tom._ We were Pyramus and Thisbe--but ten times harder was my fate.
Pyramus could peep only through a wall; I saw her, saw my Thisbe
in all her beauty, but as much kept from her as if a hundred walls
between--for there was more: there was her will against me. Would she
but yet relent! O Phillis! Phillis! shorten my torment, and declare you
pity me.
_Phil._ I believe it's very sufferable; the pain is not so exquisite
but that you may bear it a little longer.
_Tom._ Oh! my charming Phillis, if all depended on my fair one's
will, I could with glory suffer--but, dearest creature, consider our
miserable state.
_Phil._ How! Miserable!
_Tom._ We are miserable to be in love, and under the command of others
than those we love; with that generous passion in the heart, to be
sent to and fro on errands, called, checked, and rated for the meanest
trifles. Oh, Phillis! you don't know how many china cups and glasses my
passion for you has made me break. You have broke my fortune as well as
my heart.
_Phil._ Well, Mr. Thomas, I cannot but own to you that I believe your
master writes and you speak the best of any men in the world. Never was
woman so well pleased with a letter as my young lady was with his; and
this is an answer to it. [_Gives him a letter._
_Tom._ This was well done, my dearest; consider, we must strike out
some pretty livelihood for ourselves by closing their affairs. It will
be nothing for them to give us a little being of our own, some small
tenement, out of their large possessions. Whatever they give us, it
will be more than what they keep for themselves. One acre with Phillis
would be worth a whole county without her.
_Phil._ O, could I but believe you!
_Tom._ If not the utterance, believe the touch of my lips. [_Kisses
her._
_Phil._ There's no contradicting you. How closely you argue, Tom!
_Tom._ And will closer, in due time. But I must hasten with this
letter, to hasten towards the possession of you. Then, Phillis,
consider how I must be revenged, look to it, of all your skittishness,
shy looks, and at best but coy compliances.