[THE PLAYS OF]
WILLIAM WYCHERLEY
_EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES_
BY W. C. WARD
UNEXPURGATED EDITION
LONDON
T.FISHER UNWIN
PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1893
[Illustration: _William Wycherley. From the Picture by Sir Peter
Lely._]
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION.
WILLIAM WYCHERLEY,
[by Thomas Babington Macaulay].
LOVE IN A WOOD; OR, ST. JAMES'S PARK.
THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER.
THE COUNTRY WIFE.
THE PLAIN DEALER.
NOTES.
As long as men are false and women vain,
Whilst gold continues to be virtue's bane,
In pointed satire WYCHERLEY shall reign.
EVELYN.
_INTRODUCTION._
William Wycherley was, before Congreve arose to surpass him, the most
eminent master of that artificial school of Comedy which commenced
with the restoration of Charles II., and which may be said to have
perished, in a blaze as of a funeral pyre, with Sheridan. Abandoning
the beaten paths of English drama, the writers of this school found,
in the various intrigue of the Spanish theatre, in the verbal vivacity
and piquant satire of the French, a new basis for their productions.
Their works, as a class, have been designated the Comedy of Manners,
a title which aptly distinguishes them from the Comedy of Human Life,
set forth by Shakespeare. It is a title, nevertheless, of limited
applicability. The manners portrayed in these comedies, if drawn
from the life, illustrate but one side of human character, and that
side the most superficial. To divert by wit and ingenuity being the
writer's aim, all allusion to the deeper motives of humanity was
rejected as impertinent, or admitted only as an occasional contrast
to the prevailing tone. Thus the artificiality of the characters is
the consequence rather of incompleteness than of untruth; they are,
as it were, but half characters; the dialogue is no longer, as with
Shakespeare, the means of their development, but the purpose of their
creation.
Living in an age of loose manners and corrupt morals, the result, as
has often been pointed out, of the unnatural state of repression which
accompanied the Puritan supremacy, Wycherley cannot be acquitted of
the vices of his time, nor can it be contended that it was altogether
with the object of lashing these vices that he decked them out with
all the allurements of brilliant dialogue and diverting situations.
Yet I venture to assert that, in spite of their licentiousness, these
comedies possess claims to recognition not lightly to be ignored. Nay,
more: that their very indecency, although the most open, is certainly
not the most pernicious form of immorality known to us in literature.
For as the harm of licentious allusions consists in their appeal to
the basest passions of human nature, so the appeal is stronger as the
impression of human passion is deeper. But these _simulacra_, these
puppet semblances of humanity, which Wycherley and his contemporaries
summon upon the stage for our diversion, what human passion can we
discover in these to which we should be in danger of unworthily
responding? As we read the plays no sense of reality disturbs us.
Transfer the language they employ, the actions they perform, to the
characters in a play of Shakespeare's, a novel of Richardson's, and our
resentment and detestation are instantly awakened. But the _dramatis
personæ_ of Wycherley or of Congreve are not, as the characters of
Shakespeare and Richardson, men and women whom we feel to be as real
and living as those with whom we daily associate. They merely simulate
humanity so far as is requisite for the proper enactment of their
parts. And herein lies the test: a Cordelia, an Iago, a Clarissa, a
Lovelace, are, to our feelings, real creatures of flesh and blood,
whom we love or hate, as the case may be. The characters of Wycherley
and Congreve, on the contrary, we neither love nor detest; we are
interested not in what they are, but only in what they say and do. They
have no further existence for us than as they act and speak on the
stage before our eyes; touch them, and, like ghosts in Elysium, they
turn to empty air in our grasp.
Another counter-influence to the unwholesomeness of these comedies
is the current of mirth which runs through them, more or less, from
end to end. For laughter may be reckoned in some sort an antidote to
sensuality, at least to sensuality in its vilest and most insinuating
mood. "There is no passion," as Sterne says, "so serious as lust;"
and we may safely conclude that when laughter is provoked, the wit of
expression or the ludicrousness of situation is more active to our
apprehension than the license of sentiment.
It is sometimes urged against the comedies of this school that Virtue,
in them, is brought on the stage only to be derided. But this charge
is manifestly unjust. Virtue, indeed, is an unfrequent guest in this
house of mirth; she finds a refuge in the house of mourning hard
by, in the tragedies of the times. Yet if she chance to cross the
unwonted threshold, it is not to be laughed out of countenance, but
more often to be entertained as an honoured guest. Take, for instance,
the character of Christina, in Wycherley's _Love in a Wood_, or even
that of Alithea, in _The Country Wife_; the sentiments of honour and
purity that are set on their lips, or expressed in their actions, are
evidently intended to excite our esteem and admiration. Nay, it may
even be affirmed that if, among these shadowy creatures, there be any
that affect us, beyond the others, with some sense of an approach to
living reality, it is precisely the virtuous characters from whom such
an impression is derived. It is true, on the other hand, that the sin
of adultery, so common to the dramatic plots of this period, is treated
not only without severity, but as a pleasant jest. To the husbands,
in general, small mercy is shown. Yet what husbands are these--these
Pinchwifes, Fondlewifes, _et hoc genus omne_? It is less the sanctity
of marriage that is attacked, or held up to ridicule, in their persons,
than their own vices, their jealousy, tyranny, or folly. And, after
all, it is by no means in the crime itself, but in the ingenuity of
intrigue, that we are expected to find diversion; and the utter absence
of genuine passion on the part of these stage criminals renders any
appeal to passion in ourselves out of the question.
It is not with any intention of excusing the license which abounds
in Wycherley's comedies that I have ventured to offer these few
considerations in their behalf. I contend only that their laughing
outrages upon decency, are infinitely less harmful, because more
superficial, than the sentimental lewdness which, arising from a deeper
depravity, instils a more subtle venom; that, condemn it as we needs
must, we may yet stop short of attaching to the immorality of the
dramatists of the Restoration such consequence as to debar ourselves,
for its sake, from enjoying to the full the admirable wit and ingenuity
which constitute the chief merit of their performances.
Wycherley produced but four comedies, which, however, contain almost
all of intrinsic value that remains from his pen. Besides these, he
himself published but one volume, a folio of _Miscellany-Poems_, which
appeared in 1704, when the author was sixty-four years of age. Of these
pieces nothing favourable can be affirmed even by the friendliest
critic. They form a strange _olla podrida_ of so-called philosophy and
obscenity; they are dull without weight, or lewd without wit; or if
even here and there a good thought occur, the ore is scarcely of such
value as to be worth the pains of separating from the dross. The book
suggests a curious picture of the veteran dramatist, ever and anon
laying aside his favourite Rochefoucauld or Montaigne to chuckle feebly
over the reminiscence of some smutty story of his youthful days. The
versification is, as Macaulay says, beneath criticism; Wycherley had
no spark of poetry in his whole composition. In fine, we may apply to
this volume, without qualification, Dryden's remarks upon poor Elkanah
Settle; "His style is boisterous and rough-hewn; his rhyme incorrigibly
lewd, and his numbers perpetually harsh and ill-sounding." Yet there is
one thing which redeems the volume from utter contempt, as a testimony,
not, indeed, to the author's talent, but to the constancy and
disinterestedness of his temper. I refer to the brave verses addressed
to his friend the Duke of Buckingham, on the occasion of that versatile
nobleman's disgrace and imprisonment in the Tower. The key note is
struck in the opening lines:
"Your late Disgrace is but the Court's Disgrace,
As its false accusation but your Praise."
These lines, it may be remarked, are intended as a rhymed couplet, and
may serve as one instance out of many of the "incorrigible lewdness" of
Wycherley's rhyme; but, paltry as the verses may be, the feeling which
prompted them was surely deserving of respect.
The pieces in prose and verse, which, "having the misfortune to fall
into the hands of a mercenary, were published in 1728, in 8vo, under
the title of _The Posthumous Works of William Wycherley Esq._," are
on the whole superior to the _Miscellany-Poems_, yet, excepting
perhaps some of the prose aphorisms which constitute the first part
of the collection, little or nothing is to be found, even here, worth
resuscitating. Such facility or occasional elegance as the verses
possess must be wholly ascribed to the corrections of Pope; but Pope
himself failed in the impracticable attempt to make a silk purse out of
a sow's ear. Some few of the best pieces, as the lines on _Solitude_,
might possibly pass muster as the worst in a better volume, while the
epistle to Dryden (who had invited Wycherley's collaboration in the
construction of a comedy--an honour which the younger author gratefully
and modestly declined) is interesting personally, and the strain of
elaborate compliment, to which, after the fashion of the day, Wycherley
treated his correspondents, is here, for once, not wholly misapplied.
The _Maxims_, however, contain better stuff than the verses, and fully
justify Pope's repeated hints to the author that "the greater part"
of his pieces "would make a much better figure as single maxims and
reflections in prose, after the manner of your favourite Rochefoucauld,
than in verse."[1] Although, for the most part, as trite as moral
aphorisms usually are, they are not without here and there a touch
of wit, of terseness, or even of wisdom. Here, for instance, is a
pretty simile:--"False friends, like the shadow upon a dial, are ever
present to the sunshine of our fortunes, and as soon gone when we
begin to be under a cloud." Here, again, is a touch of characteristic
satire:--"Old men give young men good counsel, not being able longer to
give them bad examples."[2] And for a specimen of his wisdom take the
following:--"The silence of a wise man is more wrong to mankind than
the slanderer's speech."
I have now noticed all that has appeared in print of Wycherley's
authorship beyond his letters to Pope (which possess at least the merit
of occasioning Pope's letters to Wycherley), and a few letters of
earlier date, published by Dennis,[3] which contain, however, nothing
of more consequence than a string of extravagant and affected encomiums
upon his correspondent. Something remains to be said on the subject
of our author's personal character, which I shall endeavour to set in
a juster light than that in which it is presented by Macaulay, whose
vivid scrutiny, like a strong torch-light, brings out the worse parts
into sharp relief, while it leaves the better in dense obscurity. It
is not to be doubted that Wycherley participated in the fashionable
follies and vices of the age in which he lived. His early intrigue
with the Duchess of Cleveland was notorious. The license of his own
writings is a standing witness against him, and the indecency of some
of the verses which he published in his old age proves that his mind
reverted to the scenes of his youth with feelings other than those of a
repentant sinner. Yet in accepting the evidence of Wycherley's writings
we should beware of over-rating its importance. Dryden's character
is well known as that of a modest and excellent man; yet Dryden
occasionally produced passages abundantly obscene. Libertinism was
the fashion of the age, and although the fashion had somewhat changed
when Wycherley published his _Miscellany-Poems_, we can feel little
surprise that the productions of an aged and infirm man should be
redolent rather of the days when he was crowned with honours and sated
with success, than of those later years of ill-health and obscurity.
In this man's composition the clay was assuredly mingled with pure
metal. Nothing in the testimony of his contemporaries is so striking
as the tone of affection and esteem which they continually assume in
speaking of him. Dryden writes to John Dennis that he has laid aside
his intention of commenting upon some friend's purpose of marriage;
"for, having had the Honour to see my Dear Friend Wycherley's Letter
to him on that occasion, I find nothing to be added or amended. But as
well as I love Mr. Wycherley, I confess I love myself so well, that
I will not shew how much I am inferior to him in Wit and Judgment, by
undertaking anything after him."[4] And Dryden's regard was gratefully
and cordially reciprocated. In his first letter to Wycherley Pope
refers to the high satisfaction which he experienced in hearing the
old dramatist, at their very first meeting, "doing justice to his dead
friend, Mr. Dryden." Wycherley's own epistle, in verse, to the great
poet I have already mentioned; it is filled with expressions, sincere
if exaggerated, of regard and admiration; and long after Dryden's
death, in an essay[5] which appeared not until its author had, himself,
been years in his grave, Wycherley writes of "my once good friend, Mr.
Dryden, whose Memory will be honour'd when I have no Remembrance."
His attachment to his friends, indeed, appears to have been a prominent
characteristic of his disposition. Major Pack, in a short memoir
prefixed to the _Posthumous Works_, declares that "he was as impatient
to hear his Friend calumniated, as some other people would be to find
themselves defamed. I have more than once," he adds, "been a witness of
that honourable Tenderness in his Temper."
His friendship with Pope is one of the best known incidents in his
life. It commenced in 1704, when Wycherley was sixty-four and Pope but
sixteen years of age, and, although at times interrupted, terminated
only with the death of the former in 1715. Their correspondence
displays on both sides the marks of sincere regard. Wycherley's
generous appreciation the young genius repaid with gratitude and
affection, which, however, in the moments even of its warmest ardour,
never degenerated into servility. The last published letter between
them is dated May 2, 1710. It was succeeded by a period of prolonged
estrangement. During the preceding year a silence of unusual duration
on the part of Wycherley had aroused the anxiety of Pope, who alludes
to it, in his correspondence with their common friend Cromwell, in
terms of heart-felt concern. Wycherley had been dangerously ill, and
Cromwell had acquainted Pope with the news of his recovery.
"You have delivered me," he replies, under date of Oct. 19, 1709,
"from more anxiety than he imagines me capable of on his account, as
I am convinced by his long silence. However the love of some things
rewards itself, as of Virtue, and of Mr. Wycherley. I am surprised at
the danger you tell me he has been in, and must agree with you that
our nation would have lost in him as much wit and probity, as would
have remained (for aught I know) in the rest of it. My concern for
his friendship will excuse me (since I know you honour him so much,
and since you know I love him above all men) if I vent a part of my
uneasiness to you, and tell you that there has not been wanting one to
insinuate malicious untruths of me to Mr. Wycherley, which, I fear,
may have had some effect upon him."
The correspondence was renewed, with all the old kindness, in the
following spring, but was soon again to be interrupted. Pope had, for
some years, been engaged upon the occasional correction and emendation
of Wycherley's worse than mediocre verses, and the unsparing honesty
with which he discharged this delicate office, however creditable to
his character, could not but be at times unpalatable to the author
now seventy years of age, and rendered peevish by ill-health and loss
of memory. His last published letter to Pope betrays some natural
indignation at the wholesale slaughter which the young poet was making
of his halting lines, although, with the politeness of an old courtier,
he thanks him for his freedom, which he "shall always acknowledge with
all sort of gratitude." It is probable, also, that some enemy of Pope
had again possessed the old man's ear with slanders, to which his
shattered memory would render him the more accessible, and Wycherley
again broke off the correspondence, leaving his friend to wonder how
he had displeased him, as knowing himself "guilty of no offence but of
doing sincerely just what he bid me."
Pope's references to Wycherley, during this new estrangement, show him
to have been deeply hurt. They indicate, however, more of sorrow than
of resentment, and his delight was unfeigned when, in the autumn of
1711, his friend was once more reconciled to him, and once more wrote
to him and spoke of him in terms of the warmest affection. Cromwell,
from whose correspondence with Pope we derive our information regarding
this second reconciliation narrates the following pleasant incident.
"Mr. Wycherley came to town on Sunday last, and, kindly surprised me
with a visit on Monday morning. We dined and drank together; and I
saying, 'To our loves,' he replied, 'It is Mr. Pope's health.'" On
these terms we leave them. Their correspondence of this date has not
been made public, nor do we know if malice or misunderstanding again
destroyed the concord thus happily re-established. Pope's letters to
Cromwell, moreover, cease about this time, and those which he addressed
to others contain no further mention of Wycherley, until in January
1716, he describes to Mr. Blount the closing scene of the life of "that
eminent comic poet, and our friend."
In after years, speaking of Wycherley, Pope said: "We were pretty well
together to the last: only his memory was so totally bad, that he did
not remember a kindness done to him, even from minute to minute. He was
peevish, too, latterly; so that sometimes we were out a little, and
sometimes in. He never did an unjust thing to me in his whole life; and
I went to see him on his death-bed."[6]
One more of his contemporaries I propose to bring forward as a witness
to our author's character. George Granville, Baron Lansdowne, to
the ordinary qualifications of an accomplished gentleman added some
pretensions, not altogether contemptible, to the rank of a minor poet.
He was the author of a vast number of elegantly written verses (usually
addressed to "Mira"), of a tragedy (_Heroic Love_) commended by Dryden,
and of an amusing comedy (_Once a Lover and always a Lover_) of the
school of Wycherley and Congreve. In the second volume of his collected
works is to be found an epistle in which he remarks, with some
minuteness, upon the character and disposition of his friend Wycherley.
This letter is not dated, but, from internal evidence, must have been
written about the year 1705 or 1706. Lansdowne sets out with declaring
that his partiality to Wycherley as a friend might render what he
says of him suspected, "if his Merit was not so well and so publickly
established as to set him above Flattery. To do him barely Justice,"
he continues, "is an Undertaking beyond my Skill." Further he writes:
"As pointed and severe as he is in his Writings, in his Temper he has
all the Softness of the tenderest Disposition; gentle and inoffensive
to every Man in his particular Character; he only attacks Vice as a
publick Enemy, compassionating the Wound he is under a Necessity to
probe." Yet, "in my Friend every Syllable, every Thought is masculine;"
and it was, questionless, from this particularity that he acquired
the sobriquet (alluding, at the same time, to _The Plain Dealer_) of
_Manly_ Wycherley. Of our Plain Dealer as a poet Lansdowne candidly
confesses--"It is certain he is no Master of Numbers; but a Diamond is
not less a Diamond for not being polish'd." And then, addressing his
correspondent: "Congreve," he writes, "is your familiar Acquaintance,
you may judge of Wycherley by him: they have the same manly way
of Thinking and Writing, the same Candour, Modesty, Humanity, and
Integrity of Manners: It is impossible not to love them for their
own Sakes, abstracted from the Merit of their Works." In conclusion
Lansdowne invites his correspondent to his lodging, to meet Wycherley,
as well as "a young Poet, newly inspired," whose "Name is Pope,"
who "is not above seventeen or eighteen years of age, and promises
Miracles," and whom Wycherley and Walsh "have taken under their Wing."
The foregoing testimonies are, I venture to think, sufficiently
explicit. Johnson, indeed, supposes Wycherley to have been "esteemed
without virtue, and caressed without good-humour," but a statement so
obviously self-contradictory deserves no consideration. One thing is
clear: that Wycherley was both beloved and honoured by men whose temper
and capacity give irrefragable authority to their judgment, and that
judgment, based, as it was upon personal and intimate acquaintance, it
were presumption to dispute.
The present text is that of the first editions, which I have carefully
collated with, and occasionally corrected by, the text of the edition
of 1713 (the last published during the author's life), and that of
Leigh Hunt's edition of 1849. I have usually followed the punctuation
of Leigh Hunt, who was the first to punctuate the plays accurately.
WM. C. WARD.
_WILLIAM WYCHERLEY._[7]
William Wycherley was born in 1640. He was the son of a Shropshire
gentleman of old family,[8] and of what was then accounted a good
estate. The property was estimated at £600 a year, a fortune which,
among the fortunes at that time, probably ranked as a fortune of £2,000
a year would rank in our days.
William was an infant when the civil war broke out; and, while he was
still in his rudiments, a Presbyterian hierarchy and a republican
government were established on the ruins of the ancient church and
throne. Old Mr. Wycherley was attached to the royal cause, and was not
disposed to intrust the education of his heir to the solemn Puritans
who now ruled the universities and the public schools. Accordingly,
the young gentleman was sent at fifteen to France. He resided some
time in the neighbourhood of the Duke of Montausier, chief of one of
the noblest families of Touraine. The Duke's wife, a daughter of the
house of Rambouillet, was a finished specimen of those talents and
accomplishments for which her house was celebrated. The young foreigner
was introduced to the splendid circle which surrounded the duchess,
and there he appears to have learned some good and some evil. In a few
years he returned to this country a fine gentleman and a Papist. His
conversion, it may safely be affirmed, was the effect not of any strong
impression on his understanding or feelings, but partly of intercourse
with an agreeable society in which the Church of Rome was the fashion,
and partly of that aversion to Calvinistic austerities which was then
almost universal amongst young Englishmen of parts and spirit, and
which, at one time, seemed likely to make one half of them Catholics
and the other half Atheists.
But the Restoration came. The universities were again in loyal
hands, and there was reason to hope that there would be again a
national church fit for a gentleman. Wycherley became a member of
Queen's College, Oxford, and abjured the errors of the Church of
Rome. The somewhat equivocal glory of turning, for a short time, a
good-for-nothing Papist into a very good-for-nothing Protestant is
ascribed to Bishop Barlow.
Wycherley left Oxford without taking a degree, and entered at the
Temple, where he lived gaily for some years, observing the humours of
the town, enjoying its pleasures and picking up just as much law as
was necessary to make the character of a pettifogging attorney or of a
litigious client entertaining in a comedy.
From an early age, he had been in the habit of amusing himself by
writing. Some wretched lines of his on the Restoration are still
extant. Had he devoted himself to the making of verses, he would have
been nearly as far below Tate and Blackmore as Tate and Blackmore
are below Dryden. His only chance for renown would have been that he
might have occupied a niche in a satire between Flecknoe and Settle.
There was, however, another kind of composition in which his talents
and acquirements qualified him to succeed; and to that he judiciously
betook himself.
In his old age he used to say that he wrote _Love in a Wood_ at
nineteen, _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ at twenty-one, the _Plain
Dealer_ at twenty-five, and _The Country Wife_ at one or two and
thirty. We are incredulous, we own, as to the truth of this story.
Nothing that we know of Wycherley leads us to think him incapable of
sacrificing truth to vanity. And his memory in the decline of his life
played him such strange tricks that we might question the correctness
of his assertion without throwing any imputation on his veracity. It
is certain that none of his plays was acted till 1672,[9] when he gave
_Love in a Wood_ to the public. It seems improbable that he should
resolve, on so important an occasion as that of a first appearance
before the world, to run his chance with a feeble piece, written
before his talents were ripe, before his style was formed, before he
had looked abroad into the world; and this when he had actually in
his desk two highly finished plays, the fruit of his matured powers.
When we look minutely at the pieces themselves, we find in every part
of them reason to suspect the accuracy of Wycherley's statement. In
the first scene of _Love in a Wood_, to go no further, we find many
passages which he could not have written when he was nineteen. There
is an allusion to gentlemen's periwigs, which first came into fashion
in 1663; an allusion to guineas, which were first struck in 1663;
an allusion to the vests which Charles ordered to be worn at court
in 1666; an allusion to the fire of 1666; and several allusions to
political and ecclesiastical affairs which must be assigned to times
later than the year of the Restoration--to times when the government
and the city were opposed to each other, and when the Presbyterian
ministers had been driven from the parish churches to the conventicles.
But it is needless to dwell on particular expressions. The whole air
and spirit of the piece belong to a period subsequent to that mentioned
by Wycherley. As to _The Plain Dealer_, which is said to have been
written when he was twenty-five, it contains one scene unquestionably
written after 1675, several which are later than 1668, and scarcely a
line which can have been composed before the end of 1666.
Whatever may have been the age at which Wycherley composed his plays,
it is certain that he did not bring them before the public till he
was upwards of thirty. In 1672, _Love in a Wood_ was acted with more
success than it deserved, and this event produced a great change
in the fortunes of the author. The Duchess of Cleveland cast her
eyes upon him and was pleased with his appearance. This abandoned
woman, not content with her complaisant husband and her royal keeper,
lavished her fondness on a crowd of paramours of all ranks, from dukes
to rope-dancers. In the time of the Commonwealth she commenced her
career of gallantry, and terminated it under Anne, by marrying, when
a great grandmother, that worthless fop, Beau Fielding. It is not
strange that she should have regarded Wycherley with favour. His figure
was commanding, his countenance strikingly handsome, his look and
deportment full of grace and dignity. He had, as Pope said long after,
"the true nobleman look," the look which seems to indicate superiority,
and a not unbecoming consciousness of superiority. His hair indeed, as
he says in one of his poems, was prematurely grey. But in that age of
periwigs this misfortune was of little importance.
The Duchess admired him, and proceeded to make love to him after
the fashion of the coarse-minded and shameless circle to which she
belonged. In the Ring, when the crowd of beauties and fine gentlemen
was thickest, she put her head out of her coach-window and bawled to
him--"Sir, you are a rascal; you are a villain;" and, if she is not
belied, she added another phrase of abuse which we will not quote, but
of which we may say that it might most justly have been applied to her
own children. Wycherley called on her Grace the next day, and with
great humility begged to know in what way he had been so unfortunate
as to disoblige her.[10] Thus began an intimacy from which the poet
probably expected wealth and honours. Nor were such expectations
unreasonable. A handsome young fellow about the court, known by the
name of Jack Churchill was, about the same time, so lucky as to become
the object of a short-lived fancy of the Duchess. She had presented
him with £4,500, the price, in all probability, of some title or some
pardon. The prudent youth had lent the money on high interest and on
landed security; and this judicious investment was the beginning of the
most splendid private fortune in Europe. Wycherley was not so lucky.
The partiality with which the great lady regarded him was indeed the
talk of the whole town; and, sixty years later, old men who remembered
those days told Voltaire that she often stole from the court to her
lover's chambers in the Temple, disguised like a country girl, with a
straw hat on her head, pattens on her feet and a basket in her hand.[11]
The poet was indeed too happy and proud to be discreet. He dedicated
to the Duchess the play which had led to their acquaintance, and in
the dedication expressed himself in terms which could not but confirm
the reports which had gone abroad. But at Whitehall such an affair
was regarded in no serious light. The lady was not afraid to bring
Wycherley to court and to introduce him to a splendid society, with
which, as far as appears, he had never before mixed. The easy king,
who allowed to his mistresses the same liberty which he claimed for
himself, was pleased with the conversation and manners of his new
rival. So high did Wycherley stand in the royal favour that once, when
he was confined by a fever to his lodgings in Bow Street, Charles,
who, with all his faults, was certainly a man of social and affable
disposition, called on him, sat by his bed, advised him to try a change
of air, and gave him a handsome sum of money to defray the expenses of
a journey.[12] Buckingham, then Master of the Horse and one of that
infamous ministry known by the name of the Cabal, had been one of the
Duchess's innumerable paramours. He at first showed some symptoms of
jealousy, but he soon, after his fashion, veered round from anger to
fondness, and gave Wycherley a commission in his own regiment and a
place in the royal household.
It would be unjust to Wycherley's memory not to mention here the only
good action, as far as we know, of his whole life. He is said to have
made great exertions to obtain the patronage of Buckingham for the
illustrious author of _Hudibras_, who was now sinking into an obscure
grave, neglected by a nation proud of his genius and by a court which
he had served too well. His grace consented to see poor Butler; and an
appointment was made. But unhappily two pretty women passed by; the
volatile Duke ran after them; the opportunity was lost and could never
be regained.
The second Dutch war, the most disgraceful war in the whole history
of England, was now raging. It was not in that age considered as by
any means necessary that a naval officer should receive a professional
education. Young men of rank, who were hardly able to keep their
feet in a breeze, served on board the King's ships, sometimes with
commissions and sometimes as volunteers. Mulgrave, Dorset, Rochester,
and many others left the playhouses and the Mall for hammocks and salt
pork; and, ignorant as they were of the rudiments of naval service,
showed, at least, on the day of battle, the courage which is seldom
wanting in an English gentleman. All good judges of maritime affairs
complained that, under this system, the ships were grossly mismanaged,
and that the tarpaulins contracted the vices, without acquiring the
graces, of the court. But on this subject, as on every other, the
government of Charles was deaf to all remonstrances where the interests
or whims of favourites were concerned. Wycherley did not choose to
be out of the fashion. He embarked, was present at a battle, and
celebrated it, on his return, in a copy of verses too bad for the
bellman.[13]
About the same time he brought on the stage his second piece, _The
Gentleman Dancing-Master_. The biographers say nothing, as far as we
remember, about the fate of this play. There is, however, reason to
believe that, though certainly far superior to _Love in a Wood_, it
was not equally successful. It was first tried at the west end of the
town, and, as the poet confessed, "would scarce do there." It was then
performed in Salisbury Court, but, as it should seem, with no better
event. For, in the prologue to _The Country Wife_, Wycherley described
himself as "the late so baffled scribbler."
In 1675, _The Country Wife_ was performed with brilliant success,
which, in a literary point of view, was not wholly unmerited. For,
though one of the most profligate and heartless of human compositions,
it is the elaborate production of a mind, not indeed rich, original
or imaginative, but ingenious, observant, quick to seize hints, and
patient of the toil of polishing.
_The Plain Dealer_, equally immoral and equally well written, appeared
in 1677. At first this piece pleased the people less than the critics;
but after a time its unquestionable merits and the zealous support of
Lord Dorset, whose influence in literary and fashionable society was
unbounded, established it in the public favour.
The fortune of Wycherley was now in the zenith and began to decline. A
long life was still before him. But it was destined to be filled with
nothing but shame and wretchedness, domestic dissensions, literary
failures and pecuniary embarrassments.
The King, who was looking about for an accomplished man to conduct the
education of his natural son, the young Duke of Richmond, at length
fixed on Wycherley. The poet, exulting in his good luck, went down to
amuse himself at Tunbridge, looked into a bookseller's shop on the
Pantiles, and, to his great delight, heard a handsome woman ask for
_The Plain Dealer_, which had just been published. He made acquaintance
with the lady, who proved to be the Countess of Drogheda, a gay young
widow with an ample jointure. She was charmed with his person and
his wit, and after a short flirtation, agreed to become his wife.
Wycherley seems to have been apprehensive that this connection might
not suit well with the King's plans respecting the Duke of Richmond. He
accordingly prevailed on the lady to consent to a private marriage. All
came out. Charles thought the conduct of Wycherley both disrespectful
and disingenuous. Other causes probably assisted to alienate the
sovereign from the subject who had lately been so highly favoured.
Buckingham was now in opposition and had been committed to the Tower;
not, as Mr. Leigh Hunt supposes, on a charge of treason, but by an
order of the House of Lords for some expressions which he had used in
debate. Wycherley wrote some bad lines in praise of his imprisoned
patron, which, if they came to the knowledge of the King, would
certainly have made his majesty very angry. The favour of the court
was completely withdrawn from the poet. An amiable woman with a large
fortune might indeed have been an ample compensation for the loss. But
Lady Drogheda was ill-tempered, imperious and extravagantly jealous.
She had herself been a maid of honour at Whitehall. She well knew in
what estimation conjugal fidelity was held among the fine gentlemen
there, and watched her town husband as assiduously as Mr. Pinchwife
watched his country wife. The unfortunate wit was, indeed, allowed to
meet his friends at a tavern opposite to his own house. But on such
occasions the windows were always open, in order that her ladyship, who
was posted on the other side of the street, might be satisfied that no
woman was of the party.
The death of Lady Drogheda released the poet from this distress; but
a series of disasters in rapid succession broke down his health, his
spirits and his fortune. His wife meant to leave him a good property
and left him only a lawsuit. His father could not or would not assist
him. He was at length thrown into the Fleet, and languished there
during seven years, utterly forgotten, as it should seem, by the gay
and lively circle of which he had been a distinguished ornament. In
the extremity of his distress, he implored the publisher who had been
enriched by the sale of his works to lend him twenty pounds, and was
refused. His comedies, however, still kept the stage and drew great
audiences, which troubled themselves little about the situation of
the author. At length, James the Second, who had now succeeded to
the throne, happened to go to the theatre on an evening when _The
Plain Dealer_ was acted. He was pleased with the performance, and
touched by the fate of the writer, whom he probably remembered as one
of the gayest and handsomest of his brother's courtiers. The King
determined to pay Wycherley's debts and to settle on the unfortunate
poet a pension of £200 a-year. This munificence on the part of a
prince who was little in the habit of rewarding literary merit, and
whose whole soul was devoted to the interests of his Church, raises
in us a surmise which Mr. Leigh Hunt will, we fear, pronounce very
uncharitable. We cannot help suspecting that it was at this time that
Wycherley returned to the communion of the Church of Rome.[14] That he
did return to the communion of the Church of Rome is certain. The date
of his reconversion, as far as we know, has never been mentioned by
any biographer. We believe that, if we place it at this time, we do no
injustice to the character either of Wycherley or James.
Not long after, old Mr. Wycherley died; and his son, now past the
middle of life, came to the family estate. Still, however, he was
not at his ease. His embarrassments were great; his property was
strictly tied up; and he was on very bad terms with the heir-at-law.
He appears to have led, during a long course of years, that most
wretched life, the life of an old boy about town. Expensive tastes
with little money and licentious appetites with declining vigour, were
the just penance for his early irregularities. A severe illness had
produced a singular effect on his intellect. His memory played him
pranks stranger than almost any that are to be found in the history
of that strange faculty.[15] It seemed to be at once preternaturally
strong and preternaturally weak. If a book was read to him before he
went to bed, he would wake the next morning with his mind full of the
thoughts and expressions which he had heard over night; and he would
write them down, without in the least suspecting that they were not his
own. In his verses the same ideas, and even the same words, came over
and over again several times in a short composition. His fine person
bore the marks of age, sickness and sorrow; and he mourned for his
departed beauty with an effeminate regret. He could not look without
a sigh at the portrait which Lely had painted of him when he was only
twenty-eight, and often murmured, _Quantum mutatus ab illo_.
He was still nervously anxious about his literary reputation, and, not
content with the fame which he still possessed as a dramatist, was
determined to be renowned as a satirist and an amatory poet. In 1704,
after twenty-seven years of silence, he again appeared as an author.
He put forth a large folio of miscellaneous verses, which, we believe,
has never been reprinted. Some of these pieces had probably circulated
through the town in manuscript. For, before the volume appeared, the
critics at the coffee-houses very confidently predicted that it would
be utterly worthless, and were in consequence bitterly reviled by the
poet in an ill-written foolish and egotistical preface. The book amply
vindicated the most unfavourable prophecies that had been hazarded.
The style and versification are beneath criticism; the morals are
those of Rochester. For Rochester, indeed, there was some excuse. When
his offences against decorum were committed, he was a very young man,
misled by a prevailing fashion. Wycherley was sixty-four. He had long
outlived the times when libertinism was regarded as essential to the
character of a wit and a gentleman. Most of the rising poets, Addison,
for example, John Philips and Rowe, were studious of decency. We can
hardly conceive anything more miserable than the figure which the
ribald old man makes in the midst of so many sober and well-conducted
youths.
In the very year in which this bulky volume of obscene doggerel was
published, Wycherley formed an acquaintance of a very singular kind.
A little, pale, crooked, sickly, bright-eyed urchin, just turned of
sixteen, had written some copies of verses in which discerning judges
could detect the promise of future eminence. There was, indeed, as
yet nothing very striking or original in the conceptions of the young
poet. But he was already skilled in the art of metrical composition.
His diction and his music were not those of the great old masters; but
that which his ablest contemporaries were labouring to do he already
did best. His style was not richly poetical; but it was always neat,
compact and pointed. His verse wanted variety of pause, of swell and
of cadence, but never grated harshly on the ear or disappointed it by
a feeble close. The youth was already free of the company of wits, and
was greatly elated at being introduced to the author of _The Plain
Dealer_ and _The Country Wife_.
It is curious to trace the history of the intercourse which took place
between Wycherley and Pope--between the representative of the age
that was going out and the representative of the age that was coming
in--between the friend of Rochester and Buckingham and the friend of
Lyttleton and Mansfield. At first the boy was enchanted by the kindness
and condescension of his new friend, haunted his door and followed him
about like a spaniel from coffee-house to coffee-house. Letters full
of affection, humility and fulsome flattery were interchanged between
the friends. But the first ardour of affection could not last. Pope,
though at no time scrupulously delicate in his writings or fastidious
as to the morals of his associates, was shocked[16] by the indecency of
a rake who, at seventy, was still the representative of the monstrous
profligacy of the Restoration. As the youth grew older, as his mind
expanded and his fame rose, he appreciated both himself and Wycherley
more correctly. He felt a well-founded contempt for the old gentleman's
verses, and was at no great pains to conceal his opinion. Wycherley,
on the other hand, though blinded by self-love to the imperfections
of what he called his poetry, could not but see that there was an
immense difference between his young companion's rhymes and his own.
He was divided between two feelings. He wished to have the assistance
of so skilful a hand to polish his lines; and yet he shrank from the
humiliation of being beholden for literary assistance to a lad who
might have been his grandson.
Pope was willing to give assistance, but was by no means disposed to
give assistance and flattery too. He took the trouble to retouch whole
reams of feeble, stumbling verses, and inserted many vigorous lines,
which the least skilful reader will distinguish in an instant. But he
thought that by these services he acquired a right to express himself
in terms which would not, under ordinary circumstances, become one who
was addressing a man of four times his age. In one letter, he tells
Wycherley that "the worst pieces are such as, to render them very good,
would require almost the entire new writing of them." In another, he
gives the following account of his corrections: "Though the whole be as
short again as at first, there is not one thought omitted but what is
a repetition of something in your first volume or in this very paper;
and the versification throughout is, I believe, such as nobody can be
shocked at. The repeated permission you give me of dealing freely with
you, will, I hope, excuse what I have done; for, if I have not spared
you when I thought severity would do you a kindness, I have not mangled
you when I thought there was no absolute need of amputation."
Wycherley continued to return thanks for all this hacking and hewing,
which was, indeed, of inestimable service to his composition. But by
degrees his thanks began to sound very like reproaches. In private,
he is said to have described Pope as a person who could not cut out a
suit, but who had some skill in turning old coats.[17] In his letters
to Pope, while he acknowledged that the versification of the poems
had been greatly improved, he spoke of the whole art of versification
with scorn, and sneered at those who preferred sound to sense. Pope
revenged himself for this outbreak of spleen by return of post. He had
in his hands a volume of Wycherley's rhymes, and he wrote to say that
this volume was so full of faults that he could not correct it without
completely defacing the manuscript. "I am," he said, "equally afraid
of sparing you and of offending you by too impudent a correction."
This was more than flesh and blood could bear. Wycherley reclaimed his
papers in a letter in which resentment shows itself plainly through
the thin disguise of civility. Pope, glad to be rid of a troublesome
and inglorious task, sent back the deposit, and, by way of a parting
courtesy, advised the old man to turn his poetry into prose, and
assured him that the public would like his thoughts much better without
his versification. Thus ended this memorable correspondence.
Wycherley lived some years after the termination of the strange
friendship which we have described.[18] The last scene of his life
was, perhaps, the most scandalous. Ten days before his death, at
seventy-five, he married a young girl, merely in order to injure his
nephew, an act which proves that neither years nor adversity, nor
what he called his philosophy, nor either of the religions which he
had at different times professed, had taught him the rudiments of
morality.[19] He died in December, 1715, and lies in the vault under
the church of St. Paul in Covent Garden.
His bride soon after married a Captain Shrimpton, who thus became
possessed of a large collection of manuscripts. These were sold to a
bookseller. They were so full of erasures and interlineations that no
printer could decipher them. It was necessary to call in the aid of a
professed critic; and Theobald, the editor of Shakespeare and the hero
of the first _Dunciad_, was employed to ascertain the true reading. In
this way, a volume of miscellanies in verse and prose was got up for
the market. The collection derives all its value from the traces of
Pope's hand, which are everywhere discernible.
Of the moral character of Wycherley it can hardly be necessary for us
to say more. His fame as a writer rests wholly on his comedies, and
chiefly on the last two. Even as a comic writer, he was neither of
the best school, nor highest in his school. He was in truth a worst
Congreve. His chief merit, like Congreve's, lies in the style of his
dialogue. But the wit which lights up _The Plain Dealer_ and _The
Country Wife_ is pale and flickering when compared with the gorgeous
blaze which dazzles us almost to blindness in _Love for Love_ and _The
Way of the World_. Like Congreve, and, indeed, even more than Congreve,
Wycherley is ready to sacrifice dramatic propriety to the liveliness
of his dialogue. The poet speaks out of the mouths of all his dunces
and coxcombs, and makes them describe themselves with a good sense
and acuteness which puts them on a level with the wits and heroes.
We will give two instances, the first which occur to us, from _The
Country Wife_. There are in the world fools who find the society of old
friends insipid and who are always running after new companions. Such a
character is a fair subject for comedy. But nothing can be more absurd
than to introduce a man of this sort saying to his comrade, "I can deny
you nothing: for though I have known thee a great while, never go if I
do not love thee as well as a new acquaintance." That town-wits again,
have always been rather a heartless class, is true. But none of them,
we will answer for it, ever said to a young lady to whom he was making
love, "We wits rail and make love often but to show our parts: as we
have no affections, so we have no malice."[20]
Wycherley's plays are said to have been the produce of long and patient
labour. The epithet of "slow" was early given to him by Rochester,
and was frequently repeated.[21] In truth, his mind, unless we are
greatly mistaken, was naturally a very meagre soil, and was forced
only by great labour and outlay to bear fruit which, after all, was
not of the highest flavour. He has scarcely more claim to originality
than Terence. It is not too much to say that there is hardly anything
of the least value in his plays of which the hint is not to be found
elsewhere. The best scenes in _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ were
suggested by Calderon's _Maestro de Danzar_, not by any means one of
the happiest comedies of the great Castilian poet. _The Country Wife_
is borrowed from the _Ecole des Maris_ and the _Ecole des Femmes_. The
groundwork of _The Plain Dealer_ is taken from the _Misanthrope_ of
Molière. One whole scene is almost translated from the _Critique de
l'Ecole des Femmes._[22] Fidelia is Shakespeare's Viola stolen, and
marred in the stealing: and the widow Blackacre, beyond comparison
Wycherley's best comic character, is the Countess in Racine's
_Plaideurs_, talking the jargon of English instead of that of French
chicane.
The only thing original about Wycherley, the only thing which he could
furnish from his own mind in inexhaustible abundance, was profligacy.
It is curious to observe how everything that he touched, however pure
and noble, took in an instant the colour of his own mind. Compare
the _Ecole des Femmes_ with _The Country Wife_. Agnes is a simple
and amiable girl, whose heart is indeed full of love, but of love
sanctioned by honour, morality and religion. Her natural talents are
great. They have been hidden and, as it might appear, destroyed by
an education elaborately bad. But they are called forth into full
energy by a virtuous passion. Her lover, while he adores her beauty,
is too honest a man to abuse the confiding tenderness of a creature so
charming and inexperienced. Wycherley takes this plot into his hands;
and forthwith this sweet and graceful courtship becomes a licentious
intrigue of the lowest and least sentimental kind, between an impudent
London rake and the idiot wife of a country squire. We will not go
into details. In truth, Wycherley's indecency is protected against
the critics as a skunk is protected against the hunters. It is safe,
because it is too filthy to handle and too noisome even to approach.
It is the same with _The Plain Dealer_. How careful has Shakespeare
been in _Twelfth Night_ to preserve the dignity and delicacy of Viola
under her disguise! Even when wearing a page's doublet and hose, she
is never mixed up with any transaction which the most fastidious mind
could regard as leaving a stain on her. She is employed by the Duke on
an embassy of love to Olivia, but on an embassy of the most honourable
kind. Wycherley borrows Viola--and Viola forthwith becomes a pander of
the basest sort. But the character of Manly is the best illustration of
our meaning. Molière exhibited in his misanthrope a pure and noble mind
which had been sorely vexed by the sight of perfidy and malevolence
disguised under the forms of politeness. As every extreme naturally
generates its contrary, Alceste adopts a standard of good and evil
directly opposed to that of the society which surrounds him. Courtesy
seems to him a vice; and those stern virtues which are neglected by the
fops and coquettes of Paris become too exclusively the objects of his
veneration. He is often to blame; he is often ridiculous: but he is
always a good man; and the feeling which he inspires is regret that a
person so estimable should be so unamiable. Wycherley borrowed Alceste,
and turned him--we quote the words of so lenient a critic as Mr. Leigh
Hunt--into "a ferocious sensualist, who believed himself as great a
rascal as he thought everybody else." The surliness of Molière's hero
is copied and caricatured. But the most nauseous libertinism and the
most dastardly fraud are substituted for the purity and integrity of
the original. And, to make the whole complete, Wycherley does not
seem to have been aware that he was not drawing the portrait of an
eminently honest man. So depraved was his moral taste, that, while he
firmly believed that he was producing a picture of virtue too exalted
for the commerce of this world, he was really delineating the greatest
rascal that is to be found even in his own writings.
_LOVE IN A WOOD; OR ST. JAMES'S PARK._
----Excludit sanos Helicone poetas
Democritus.[23]--HORAT.
Wycherley informed Pope that he wrote his first comedy. _Love in a
Wood_, at the age of nineteen--_i.e._ in the year 1659-60. If this
statement be accurate, the play must have undergone very considerable
alterations previous to its production on the stage; for not only
do we discover in it occasional allusions to events of later years,
but the whole piece displays an intimate acquaintance with life in
the metropolis scarcely commensurate with the opportunities of a
youth who, from the age of fifteen, when he was sent into France,
to that of twenty, when he became a student at Oxford, can have
passed but a few weeks, at the most, in London. From the _Biographia
Britannica_ we learn that Wycherley returned from France shortly
before the Restoration; from Wood's _Athenæ Oxonienses_ that he became
a fellow commoner of Queen's College, Oxford, also "a little before
the Restoration of Charles II., but wore not a gown, only lived in
the provost's lodgings," and "was entered in the public library (the
Bodleian) under the title of philosophiæ studiosus in July, 1660."
In the _Fasti Oxonienses_, however, the following entry occurs under
the year 1660: "In the month of July this year Will. Wicherley became
sojourner in Oxon for the sake of the public library." We are at
liberty, therefore, to conclude that between the date of his return to
England and the following July, part, at least, of our author's time
may have been spent in London, where he may possibly have composed
the first draught of his comedy, and where, at all events, his quick
observation would furnish him with material sufficient for a first
draught.
The year 1672 has been universally determined as that of the first
performance of _Love in a Wood_; I believe, nevertheless, incorrectly.
We are as certain as we can be, in the absence of direct evidence, that
Wycherley's second play, _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_, was first
brought upon the stage in 1671.[24] Now there is little doubt that _The
Gentleman Dancing-Master_ had been preceded by _Love in a Wood_, for
not only do the authorities generally concur in assigning an earlier
date to the production of the latter play, but Wycherley, in dedicating
it to the Duchess of Cleveland, refers pointedly to himself as a "new
author." Further in the dedication we find that her Grace had honoured
the poet by going to see his comedy twice together, _during Lent_, and
had been pleased, thereupon, to command from him a copy of the play,
with which he takes occasion to offer the dedicatory epistle. These
were not the days of long runs, even for the most successful dramas,
nor are we likely to err in assuming that the Duchess was present at an
early performance of the piece which she distinguished with her favour;
or that Wycherley prefixed her title to a comedy newly brought upon
the stage, rather than to one which had already been for some time the
property of the public, and which had been revived, as must then have
been the case, before the Duchess had seen it. Note, also, that the
dedication is addressed to the Duchess of Cleveland by that title. In
Lent, 1670, Barbara Palmer was Countess of Castlemaine: she was created
Duchess of Cleveland on the 3rd of August in the same year. Considering
then that the piece was certainly performed during Lent, that it cannot
have been produced later than 1671, and that the Duchess to whom it
was inscribed enjoyed not that title until the autumn of 1670, we may
conclude, with tolerable security, that the first performance of _Love
in a Wood_ took place some time during the spring of 1671.
Genest indeed, supposes it to have been brought out by the King's
Company after their removal to the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields.[25]
Their own house in Drury Lane having been destroyed by fire in January,
1672, they opened, on the 26th of February following, the Lincoln's
Inn Fields Theatre, which had been untenanted since the migration of
the Duke's Company to Dorset Gardens in the preceding November, with
a representation of Beaumont and Fletcher's _Wit without Money_. This
was succeeded, in order, by _Arviragus and Philicia_ and Dryden's
_Marriage à la Mode_, after which, Genest thinks, _Love in a Wood_ was
produced. But, on this supposition, the first performance of _Love
in a Wood_ must have taken place later than that of _The Gentleman
Dancing-Master_, and in that case it seems hardly probable that
Wycherley should describe himself as a _new_ author in the dedication
to the former play. Moreover, the prologue to Wycherley's third
comedy, _The Country Wife_, contains a distinct allusion to the recent
ill-fortune of _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_, which we can scarcely
suppose the author would have thus referred to, had a successful play
of his been produced in the interval, and that by the same company
which brought forward _The Country Wife_. In fact, the only argument
which I can conceive it possible to adduce in support of Genest must be
based upon a conjecture that not only _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_,
but _Love in a Wood_ also, had failed to win the favour of the public,
and that it is the latter play to which allusion is intended in the
prologue to _The Country Wife_. That _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_
proved a failure is certain; that _Love in a Wood_ succeeded, we have
no direct evidence, but of circumstantial sufficient, I think, to prove
the point. The general assumption in its favour we may pass; but the
whole tone of the dedication, though it afford us no information, in
so many words, as to the fate of the piece, forbids us to believe that
it can have been indited by the "baffled scribbler" of a condemned
comedy. Indeed, had the piece thus failed, it is quite inconceivable
that Wycherley would have had the temerity to offer it to the Duchess;
he would rather have sent it into the world silently, and without the
flourish of a dedication, as was actually the case with _The Gentleman
Dancing-Master_. Dennis, moreover, declares expressly that _Love in a
Wood_ brought its author acquainted with the wits of the Court, and we
may question whether the reputation of an unprosperous playwright would
have proved the surest passport to their intimacy.
The reasons for rejecting the date of 1672 thus recounted, there
remains but to notice one inconsiderable particular, which, could we
allow it consequence, would tend to determine the production of _Love
in a Wood_ at a yet earlier date than that to which I have assigned
it. In a conversation with the Duchess, immediately after her visit to
his play, Wycherley, as reported by Dennis, continually addresses her
Grace by the title of "your Ladyship." I doubt not, however, that this
is a mere slip on the part of Dennis, nor can we easily imagine that
Wycherley deferred, until the autumn, the presentation of his play to a
lady who had "commanded" it of him, with such distinguishing marks of
favour, in the preceding spring.
_Love in a Wood_, then, was produced by the King's company, during the
spring of 1671, at the Theatre Royal, in Drury Lane. Some of the first
actors of the day took part in the performances. Hart, who in tragedy
yielded the palm to Betterton alone, appeared as Ranger, Mohun as
Dapperwit; Lacy the comedian, soon afterwards "creator" of Bayes, as
Alderman Gripe; and Kinaston, who in his youth, before women trod the
boards, had been famous in female parts, now, changing sides, enacted
the jealous lover, Valentine. The rôle of Lady Flippant was taken by an
actress well known to us from the pages of Pepys--his favourite Mrs.
Knipp, "a merry jade!"
Upon the whole this play must be owned inferior to Wycherley's
other dramas. It is excelled in unity of action by _The Gentleman
Dancing-Master_, in richness of humour by _The Country Wife_, in
strength of satire by _The Plain Dealer_. Nevertheless, it is a
highly diverting, witty comedy, and strikingly superior to most of
the new plays which, since the Restoration, had preceded it upon the
stage. Some critics would have us believe that Wycherley derived the
suggestion of this play from Sir Charles Sedley's comedy of _The
Mulberry Garden_. It is difficult to understand upon what grounds
this assertion is based. In the first place, although _The Mulberry
Garden_ was produced on the stage in 1668, nearly three years earlier
than _Love in a Wood_, it is exceedingly doubtful if it were earlier
written. Indeed, if Wycherley may be credited as to the year in which
his own play was composed, the question of priority is easily settled,
for _The Mulberry Garden_ cannot have been written until after the
Restoration, as its dénouement turns upon the proclamation of the King
by General Monk. Moreover, it is hardly possible that Wycherley should
have known anything of Sedley's play before its public representation,
as he seems not to have been acquainted with Sedley himself until after
the production of his own drama, so that our acceptance of the theory
that he borrowed from Sedley the hint of _Love in a Wood_ would involve
the unwarrantable conclusion that he also, in conversation with Pope,
antedated its composition by at least eight years. But further, the
only considerable point of resemblance between the two plays appears
to be that while in Wycherley's part of the action takes place in St.
James's Park, in Sedley's one of the scenes is laid in the Mulberry
Garden, which was certainly very near to St. James's Park, being,
in fact, situated at its western extremity. If the reader choose to
consider this remarkable coincidence sufficient to justify a charge
of plagiarism against Wycherley, I have nothing more to urge in his
defence.
_Love in a Wood_ was registered at Stationers' Hall on the 6th of
October, 1671, and was published in the following year.
TO HER GRACE
THE DUCHESS OF CLEVELAND.
Madam,
All authors whatever in their dedication are poets; but I am now to
write to a lady who stands as little in need of flattery, as her beauty
of art; otherwise I should prove as ill a poet to her in my dedication,
as to my reader in my play. I can do your Grace no honour, nor make you
more admirers than you have already; yet I can do myself the honour
to let the world know I am the greatest you have. You will pardon me,
Madam, for you know it is very hard for a new author, and poet too, to
govern his ambition: for poets, let them pass in the world ever so much
for modest, honest men, but begin praise to others which concludes in
themselves; and are like rooks, who lend people money but to win it
back again, and so leave them in debt to 'em for nothing; they offer
laurel and incense to their heroes, but wear it themselves, and perfume
themselves. This is true, Madam, upon the honest word of an author
who never yet writ dedication. Yet though I cannot lie like them, I
am as vain as they; and cannot but publicly give your Grace my humble
acknowledgments for the favours I have received from you:--this, I say,
is the poet's gratitude, which, in plain English, is only pride and
ambition; and that the world might know your Grace did me the honour
to see my play twice together. Yet, perhaps, my enviers of your favour
will suggest 'twas in Lent, and therefore for your mortification. Then,
as a jealous author, I am concerned not to have your Grace's favours
lessened, or rather my reputation; and to let them know, you were
pleased, after that, to command a copy from me of this play;--the only
way, without beauty and wit, to win a poor poet's heart.
'Tis a sign your Grace understands nothing better than obliging all the
world after the best and most proper manner. But, Madam, to be obliging
to that excess as you are (pardon me, if I tell you, out of my extreme
concern and service for your Grace) is a dangerous quality, and may
be very incommode to you; for civility makes poets as troublesome,
as charity makes beggars; and your Grace will be hereafter as much
pestered with such scurvy offerings as this, poems, panegyrics, and
the like, as you are now with petitions: and, Madam, take it from me,
no man with papers in 's hand is more dreadful than a poet; no, not a
lawyer with his declarations. Your Grace sure did not well consider
what ye did, in sending for my play: you little thought I would have
had the confidence to send you a dedication too. But, Madam, you find
I am as unreasonable, and have as little conscience, as if I had
driven the poetic trade longer than I have, and ne'er consider you had
enough of the play. But (having suffered now so severely) I beseech
your Grace, have a care for the future; take my counsel, and be (if
you can possible) as proud and ill-natured as other people of quality,
since your quiet is so much concerned, and since you have more reason
than any to value yourself:--for you have that perfection of beauty
(without thinking it so) which others of your sex but think they have;
that generosity in your actions which others of your quality have
only in their promises; that spirit, wit and judgment, and all other
qualifications which fit heroes to command, and would make any but
your Grace proud. I begin now, elevated by my subject, to write with
the emotion and fury of a poet, yet the integrity of an historian; and
I could never be weary--nay, sure this were my only way to make my
readers never weary too, though they were a more impatient generation
of people than they are. In fine, speaking thus of your Grace, I should
please all the world but you; therefore I must once observe and obey
you against my will, and say no more, than that I am,
Madam,
Your Grace's most obliged, and most humble servant,
WILLIAM WYCHERLEY.
PROLOGUE.
Custom, which bids the thief from cart harangue
All those that come to make and see him hang,
Wills the damned poet (though he knows he's gone)
To greet you ere his execution.
Not having fear of critic 'fore his eyes,
But still rejecting wholesome, good advice,
He e'en is come to suffer here to-day
For counterfeiting (as you judge) a play,
Which is against dread Phœbus highest treason;
Damn, damning judges, therefore, you have reason:--
You he does mean who, for the selfsame fault,
That damning privilege of yours have bought.
So the huge bankers, when they needs must fail,
Send the small brothers of their trade to jail;
Whilst they, by breaking, gentlemen are made,
Then, more than any, scorn poor men o' the trade.
You hardened renegado poets, who
Treat rhyming poets worse than Turk would do,
But vent your heathenish rage, hang, draw, and quarter;
His Muse will die to-day a fleering martyr;
Since for bald jest, dull libel, or lampoon,
There are who suffer persecution
With the undaunted briskness of buffoon,
And strict professors live of raillery,
Defying porter's-lodge, or pillory.
For those who yet write on our poet's fate,
Should as co-sufferers commiserate:
But he in vain their pity now would crave,
Who for themselves, alas! no pity have,
And their own gasping credit will not save;
And those, much less, our criminal would spare,
Who ne'er in rhyme transgress;--if such there are.
Well then, who nothing hopes, need nothing fear:
And he, before your cruel votes shall do it,
By his despair declares himself no poet.
_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._
Mr. RANGER,
Mr. VINCENT,
Mr. VALENTINE,
Young Gentlemen of the town.
Alderman GRIPE, seemingly precise, but a covetous,
lecherous, old Usurer of the city.
Sir SIMON ADDLEPLOT, a Coxcomb, always in pursuit of
women of great fortunes.
Mr. DAPPERWIT, a brisk, conceited, half-witted fellow of
the town.
Mrs. CROSSBITE'S Landlord, and his Prentices, Servants,
Waiters, and other Attendants.
CHRISTINA, VALENTINE'S Mistress.
LYDIA, RANGER'S Mistress.
Lady FLIPPANT, GRIPE'S Sister, an affected Widow in
distress for a husband, though still declaiming
against marriage.
Mrs. MARTHA, GRIPE'S Daughter.
Mrs. JOYNER, a Match-maker, or precise city bawd.
Mrs. CROSSBITE, an old cheating jill, and bawd to her
Daughter.
Miss LUCY, Mrs. CROSSBITE'S Daughter.
ISABEL, CHRISTINA'S Woman.
LEONORE, Servant to LYDIA.
SCENE--LONDON.
_LOVE IN A WOOD;
OR,
ST. JAMES'S PARK._
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.--GRIPE'S _House, in the evening._
_Enter_ Lady FLIPPANT _and_ Mrs. JOYNER.
_Lady Flip._ Not a husband to be had for money!--Come, come, I might
have been a better housewife for myself, as the world goes now, if I
had dealt for an heir with his guardian, uncle, or mother-in-law; and
you are no better than a chouse, a cheat.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I a cheat, madam!
_L. Flip._ I am out of my money, and patience too.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Do not run out of your patience, whatever you do:--'tis a
necessary virtue for a widow without a jointure, in truly.
_L. Flip._ Vile woman! though my fortune be something wasted, my
person's in good repair. If I had not depended on you, I had had a
husband before this time. When I gave you the last five pounds, did you
not promise I should be married by Christmas?
_Mrs. Joyn._ And I had kept my promise if you had co-operated.
_L. Flip._ Co-operated! what should I have done? 'Tis well known no
woman breathing could use more industry to get her a husband than I
have. Has not my husband's 'scutcheon walked as much ground as the
citizens' signs since the Fire?--that no quarter of the town might be
ignorant of the widow Flippant.
_Mrs. Joyn._ 'Tis well known, madam, indeed.
_L. Flip._ Have I not owned myself (against my stomach) the relict of a
citizen, to credit my fortune?
_Mrs. Joyn._ 'Tis confessed, madam.
_L. Flip._ Have I not constantly kept Covent-Garden church, St.
Martin's, the playhouses, Hyde Park, Mulberry garden,[26] and all the
other public marts where widows and maids are exposed?
_Mrs. Joyn._ Far be it from me to think you have an aversion to a
husband. But why, madam, have you refused so many good offers?
_L. Flip._ Good offers, Mrs. Joyner! I'll be sworn I never had an offer
since my late husband's.--If I had an offer, Mrs. Joyner!--there's the
thing, Mrs. Joyner.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Then your frequent and public detestation of marriage is
thought real; and if you have had no offer, there's the thing, madam.
_L. Flip._ I cannot deny but I always rail against marriage;--which is
the widow's way to it certainly.
_Mrs. Joyn._ 'Tis the desperate way of the desperate widows, in truly.
_L. Flip._ Would you have us as tractable as the wenches that eat
oatmeal, and fooled like them too?
_Mrs Joyn._ If nobody were wiser than I, I should think, since the
widow wants the natural allurement which the virgin has, you ought to
give men all other encouragements, in truly.
_L. Flip._ Therefore, on the contrary, because the widow's fortune
(whether supposed or real) is her chiefest bait, the more chary she
seems of it, and the more she withdraws it, the more eagerly the busy
gaping fry will bite. With us widows, husbands are got like bishoprics,
by saying "No:" and I tell you, a young heir is as shy of a widow as of
a rook, to my knowledge.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I can allege nothing against your practice--but your
ill success; and indeed you must use another method with Sir Simon
Addleplot.
_L. Flip._ Will he be at your house at the hour?
_Mrs. Joyn._ He'll be there by ten:--'tis now nine. I'll warrant you he
will not fail.
_L. Flip._ I'll warrant you then I will not fail:--for 'tis more than
time I were sped.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Mr. Dapperwit has not been too busy with you, I
hope?--Your experience has taught you to prevent a mischance.
_L. Flip._ No, no, my mischance (as you call it) is greater than
that. I have but three months to reckon, ere I lie down with my port
and equipage, and must be delivered of a woman, a footman, and a
coachman:--for my coach must down, unless I can get Sir Simon to draw
with me.
_Mrs. Joyn._ He will pair with you exactly if you knew all. [_Aside._
_L. Flip._ Ah, Mrs. Joyner, nothing grieves me like the putting down
my coach! For the fine clothes, the fine lodgings,--let 'em go; for a
lodging is as unnecessary a thing to a widow that has a coach, as a
hat to a man that has a good peruke. For, as you see about town, she is
most properly at home in her coach:--she eats, and drinks, and sleeps
in her coach; and for her visits, she receives them in the playhouse.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Ay, ay, let the men keep lodgings, as you say, madam, if
they will.
_Enter behind, at one door,_ GRIPE _and_ Sir SIMON ADDLEPLOT, _the
latter in the dress of a_ Clerk; _at the other,_ Mrs. MARTHA.
_L. Flip._ Do you think if things had been with me as they have been,
I would ever have housed with this counter-fashion brother of mine,
(who hates a vest as much as a surplice,) to have my patches assaulted
every day at dinner, my freedom censured, and my visitants shut out of
doors?--Poor Mr. Dapperwit cannot be admitted.
_Mrs. Joyn._ He knows him too well to keep his acquaintance.
_L. Flip._ He is a censorious rigid fop, and knows nothing.
_Gripe._ So, so! [_Behind._
_Mrs. Joyn._ [_Aside._] Is he here?--[_To_ Lady FLIPPANT.] Nay, with
your pardon, madam, I must contradict you there. He is a prying
commonwealth's-man, an implacable magistrate, a sturdy pillar of his
cause, and--[_To_ GRIPE] But, oh me, is your worship so near then? if I
had thought you heard me--
_Gripe._ Why, why, Mrs. Joyner, I have said as much of myself ere now;
and without vanity, I profess.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I know your virtue is proof against vainglory; but the
truth to your face looks like flattery in your worship's servant.
_Gripe._ No, no; say what you will of me in that kind, far be it from
me to suspect you of flattery.
_Mrs. Joyn._ In truly, your worship knows yourself, and knows me, for I
am none of those--
_L. Flip._ [_Aside._] Now they are in--Mrs. Joyner, I'll go before to
your house, you'll be sure to come after me.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Immediately.--[_Exit_ Lady FLIPPANT.] But as I was saying,
I am none of those--
_Gripe._ No, Mrs. Joyner, you cannot sew pillows under folks' elbows;
you cannot hold a candle to the devil; you cannot tickle a trout to
take him; you--
_Mrs. Joyn._ Lord, how well you do know me indeed!--and you shall see I
know your worship as well. You cannot backslide from your principles;
you cannot be terrified by the laws; nor bribed to allegiance by office
or preferment; you--
_Gripe._ Hold, hold, my praise must not interrupt yours.
_Mrs. Joyn._ With your worship's pardon, in truly, I must on.
_Gripe._ I am full of your praise, and it will run over.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Nay, sweet sir, you are--
_Gripe._ Nay, sweet Mrs. Joyner, you are--
_Mrs. Joyn._ Nay, good your worship, you are--[_Stops her mouth with
his handkerchief._
_Gripe._ I say you are--
_Mrs. Joyn._ I must not be rude with your worship.
_Gripe._ You are a nursing mother to the saints; through you they
gather together; through you they fructify and increase; and through
you the child cries from out of the hand-basket.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Through you virgins are married, or provided for as well;
through you the reprobate's wife is made a saint; and through you the
widow is not disconsolate, nor misses her husband.
_Gripe._ Through you--
_Mrs. Joyn._ Indeed you will put me to the blush.
_Gripe._ Blushes are badges of imperfection:--saints have no shame. You
are--are the flower of matrons, Mrs. Joyner.
_Mrs. Joyn._ You are the pink of courteous aldermen.
_Gripe._ You are the muffler of secrecy.
_Mrs. Joyn._ You are the head-band of justice.
_Gripe._ Thank you, sweet Mrs. Joyner: do you think so indeed? You
are--you are the bonfire of devotion.
_Mrs. Joyn._ You are the bellows of zeal.
_Gripe._ You are the cupboard of charity.
_Mrs. Joyn._ You are the fob of liberality.
_Gripe._ You are the rivet of sanctified love or wedlock.
_Mrs. Joyn._ You are the picklock and dark-lantern of policy; and, in a
word, a conventicle of virtues.
_Gripe._ Your servant, your servant, sweet Mrs. Joyner! you have
stopped my mouth.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Your servant, your servant, sweet alderman! I have nothing
to say.
_Sir Sim._ The half pullet will be cold, sir.
_Gripe._ Mrs. Joyner, you shall sup with me.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Indeed I am engaged to supper with some of your man's
friends; and I came on purpose to get leave for him too.
_Gripe._ I cannot deny you anything. But I have forgot to tell you what
a kind of fellow my sister's Dapperwit is: before a full table of the
coffee-house sages, he had the impudence to hold an argument against
me in the defence of vests and protections; and therefore I forbid him
my house; besides, when he came I was forced to lock up my daughter
for fear of him, nay, I think the poor child herself was afraid of
him.--Come hither, child, were you not afraid of Dapperwit?
_Mrs. Mar._ Yes indeed, sir, he is a terrible man.--Yet I durst meet
with him in a piazza at midnight. [_Aside._
_Gripe._ He shall never come into my doors again.
_Mrs. Mar._ Shall Mr. Dapperwit never come hither again then?
_Gripe._ No, child.
_Mrs. Mar._ I am afraid he will.
_Gripe._ I warrant thee.
_Mrs. Mar._ [_Aside._] I warrant you then I'll go to him.--I am glad of
that, for I hate him as much as a bishop.
_Gripe._ Thou art no child of mine, if thou dost not hate bishops and
wits.--Well, Mrs. Joyner, I'll keep you no longer. [_To_ ADDLEPLOT.]
Jonas, wait on Mrs. Joyner.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Good night to your worship.
_Gripe._ But stay, stay, Mrs. Joyner: have you spoken with the widow
Crossbite about her little daughter, as I desired?
_Mrs. Joyn._ I will to-morrow early; it shall be the first thing I'll
do after my prayers.
_Gripe._ If Dapperwit should contaminate her!--I cannot rest till I
have redeemed her from the jaws of that lion.--Good night.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Good gentleman. [_Exeunt_ GRIPE _and_ Mrs. MARTHA.
_Sir Sim._ Ha! ha! ha! Mrs. Joyner.
_Mrs. Joyn._ What's the matter, Sir Simon?
_Sir Sim._ Ha! ha! ha!--let us make haste to your house, or I shall
burst, faith and troth, to see what fools you and I make of these
people.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I will not rob you of any of the credit; I am but a feeble
instrument, you are an engineer.
_Sir Sim._ Remember what you say now when things succeed, and do not
tell me then,--I must thank your wit for all.
_Mrs. Joyn._ No, in truly, Sir Simon.
_Sir Sim._ Nay, I am sure Dapperwit and I have been partners in many an
intrigue, and he uses to serve me so.
_Mrs. Joyn._ He is an ill man to intrigue with, as you call it.
_Sir Sim._ Ay, so are all your wits; a pox! if a man's understanding be
not so public as theirs, he cannot do a wise action but they go away
with the honour of it, if he be of their acquaintance.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Why do you keep such acquaintance then?
_Sir Sim._ There is a proverb, Mrs. Joyner, "You may know him by his
company."
_Mrs. Joyn._ No, no, to be thought a man of parts, you must always keep
company with a man of less wit than yourself.
_Sir Sim._ That's the hardest thing in the world for me to do, faith
and troth.
_Mrs. Joyn._ What, to find a man of less wit than yourself? Pardon my
raillery, Sir Simon.
_Sir Sim._ No, no, I cannot keep company with a fool:--I wonder how men
of parts can do't, there's something in't.
_Mrs. Joyn._ If you could, all your wise actions would be your own, and
your money would be your own too.
_Sir Sim._ Nay, faith and troth, that's true; for your wits are
plaguily given to borrow. They'll borrow of their wench, coachman,
or linkboy, their hire, Mrs. Joyner; Dapperwit has that trick with a
vengeance.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Why will you keep company with him then, I say? for, to
be plain with you, you have followed him so long, that you are thought
but his cully;[27] for every wit has his cully, as every squire his led
captain.
_Sir Sim._ I his cully, I his cully, Mrs. Joyner! Lord, that I should
be thought a cully to any wit breathing!
_Mrs. Joyn._ Nay, do not take it so to heart, for the best wits of the
town are but cullies themselves.
_Sir Sim._ To whom, to whom, to whom, Mrs. Joyner?
_Mrs. Joyn._ To sempstresses and bawds.
_Sir Sim._ To your knowledge, Mrs. Joyner.--[_Aside._] There I was with
her.
_Mrs. Joyn._ To tailors and vintners, but especially to the French
houses.
_Sir Sim._ But Dapperwit is a cully to none of them; for he ticks.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I care not, but I wish you were a cully to none but me;
that's all the hurt I wish you.
_Sir Sim._ Thank you, Mrs. Joyner. Well, I will throw off Dapperwit's
acquaintance when I am married, and will only be a cully to my wife;
and that's no more than the wisest husband of 'em all is.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Then you think you shall carry Mrs. Martha?
_Sir Sim._ Your hundred guineas are as good as in your lap.
_Mrs. Joyn._ But I am afraid this double plot of yours should fail: you
would sooner succeed if you only designed upon Mrs. Martha, or only
upon my Lady Flippant.
_Sir Sim._ Nay, then, you are no woman of intrigue, faith and troth:
'tis good to have two strings to one's bow. If Mrs. Martha be coy, I
tell the widow I put on my disguise for her; but if Mrs. Martha be kind
to Jonas, Sir Simon Addleplot will be false to the widow: which is no
more than widows are used to; for a promise to a widow is as seldom
kept as a vow made at sea, as Dapperwit says.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I am afraid they should discover you.
_Sir Sim._ You have nothing to fear; you have your twenty guineas in
your pocket for helping me into my service, and if I get into Mrs.
Martha's quarters, you have a hundred more; if into the widow's,
fifty:--happy go lucky! Will her ladyship be at your house at the hour?
_Mrs. Joyn._ Yes.
_Sir Sim._ Then you shall see when I am Sir Simon Addleplot and myself
I'll look like myself; now I am Jonas, I look like an ass. You never
thought Sir Simon Addleplot could have looked so like an ass by his
ingenuity.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Pardon me, Sir Simon.
_Sir Sim._ Nay, do not flatter, faith and troth.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Come let us go, 'tis time.
_Sir Sim._ I will carry the widow to the French house.
_Mrs. Joyn._ If she will go.
_Sir Sim._ If she will go! why, did you ever know a widow refuse a
treat? no more than a lawyer a fee, faith and troth: yet I know too--
No treat, sweet words, good mien, but sly intrigue
That must at length the jilting widow fegue.[28] [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--_The French House. A table, wine and candles._
_Enter_ VINCENT, RANGER, _and_ DAPPERWIT.
_Dap._ Pray, Mr. Ranger, let's have no drinking to-night.
_Vin._ Pray, Mr. Ranger, let's have no Dapperwit to-night.
_Ran._ Nay, nay, Vincent.
_Vin._ A pox! I hate his impertinent chat more than he does the honest
Burgundy.
_Dap._ But why should you force wine upon us? we are not all of your
gusto.
_Vin._ But why should you force your chawed jests, your damned ends of
your mouldy lampoons, and last year's sonnets, upon us? we are not all
of your gusto.
_Dap._ The wine makes me sick, let me perish!
_Vin._ Thy rhymes make me spew.
_Ran._ At repartee already! Come, Vincent. I know you would rather have
him pledge you: here, Dapperwit--[_Gives him the glass._]--But why are
you so eager to have him drink always?
_Vin._ Because he is so eager to talk always, and there is no other way
to silence him.
_Enter_ Waiter.
_Wait._ Here is a gentleman desires to speak with Mr. Vincent.
_Vin._ I come. [_Exit_ VINCENT _with_ Waiter.
_Dap._ He may drink, because he is obliged to the bottle for all the
wit and courage he has; 'tis not free and natural like yours.
_Ran._ He has more courage than wit, but wants neither.
_Dap._ As a pump gone dry, if you pour no water down you will get none
out, so--
_Ran._ Nay, I bar similes too, to-night.
_Dap._ Why, is not the thought new? don't you apprehend it?
_Ran._ Yes, yes, but--
_Dap._ Well, well, will you comply with his sottishness too, and hate
brisk things in complaisance to the ignorant dull age? I believe
shortly 'twill be as hard to find a patient friend to communicate one's
wit to, as a faithful friend to communicate one's secret to. Wit has as
few true judges as painting, I see.
_Ran._ All people pretend to be judges of both.
_Dap._ Ay, they pretend; but set you aside, and one or two more--
_Ran._ But why, has Vincent neither courage nor wit?
_Dap._ He has no courage, because he beat his wench for giving me
_les doux yeux_ once; and no wit, because he does not comprehend
my thoughts; and he is a son of a whore for his ignorance. I take
ignorance worse from any man than the lie, because 'tis as much as to
say I am no wit.
_Re-enter_ VINCENT.
You need not take any notice, though, to him what I say.
_Vin._ Ranger, there is a woman below in a coach would speak with you.
_Ran._ With me? [_Exit_ RANGER.
_Dap._ This Ranger, Mr. Vincent, is as false to his friend as his wench.
_Vin._ You have no reason to say so, but because he is absent.
_Dap._ 'Tis disobliging to tell a man of his faults to his face. If he
had but your grave parts and manly wit, I should adore him; but, a pox!
he is a mere buffoon, a jack-pudding, let me perish!
_Vin._ You are an ungrateful fellow. I have heard him maintain you had
wit, which was more than e'er you could do for yourself.--I thought you
had owned him your Mæcenas.
_Dap._ A pox! he cannot but esteem me, 'tis for his honour; but I
cannot but be just for all that--without favour or affection. Yet I
confess I love him so well, that I wish he had but the hundredth part
of your courage.
_Vin._ He has had courage to save you from many a beating, to my
knowledge.
_Dap._ Come, come, I wish the man well, and, next to you, better than
any man! and, I am sorry to say it, he has not courage to snuff a
candle with his fingers. When he is drunk, indeed, he dares get a clap,
or so--and swear at a constable.
_Vin._ Detracting fop! when did you see him desert his friend?
_Dap._ You have a rough kind of a raillery, Mr. Vincent; but since you
will have it, (though I love the man heartily, I say,) he deserted me
once in breaking of windows, for fear of the constables--
_Re-enter_ RANGER.
But you need not take notice to him of what I tell you; I hate to put a
man to the blush.
_Ran._ I have had just now a visit from my mistress, who is as jealous
of me as a wife of her husband when she lies in:--my cousin Lydia,--you
have heard me speak of her.
_Vin._ But she is more troublesome than a wife that lies in, because
she follows you to your haunts. Why do you allow her that privilege
before her time?
_Ran._ Faith, I may allow her any privilege, and be too hard for her
yet. How do you think I have cheated her to-night?--Women are poor
credulous creatures, easily deceived.
_Vin._ We are poor credulous creatures, when we think 'em so.
_Ran._ Intending a ramble to St. James's Park to-night, upon some
probable hopes of some fresh game I have in chase, I appointed her to
stay at home; with a promise to come to her within this hour, that she
might not spoil the scent and prevent my sport.
_Vin._ She'll be even with you when you are married, I warrant you. In
the meantime here's her health, Dapperwit.
_Ran._ Now had he rather be at the window, writing her anagram in the
glass with his diamond, or biting his nails in the corner for a fine
thought to come and divert us with at the table.
_Dap._ No, a pox! I have no wit to-night. I am as barren and hide-bound
as one of your damned scribbling poets, who are sots in company for all
their wit; as a miser is poor for all his money. How do you like the
thought?
_Vin._ Drink, drink!
_Dap._ Well, I can drink this, because I shall be reprieved presently.
_Vin._ Who will be so civil to us?
_Dap._ Sir Simon Addleplot:--I have bespoke him a supper here, for he
treats to-night a new rich mistress.
_Ran._ That spark, who has his fruitless designs upon the bed-ridden
rich widow, down to the suckling heiress in her pissing-clout. He was
once the sport, but now the public grievance, of all the fortunes in
town; for he watches them like a younger brother that is afraid to be
mumped of his snip,[29] and they cannot steal a marriage, nor stay
their stomachs, but he must know it.
_Dap._ He has now pitched his nets for Gripe's daughter, the rich
scrivener, and serves him as a clerk to get admission to her; which the
watchful fop her father denies to all others.
_Ran._ I thought you had been nibbling at her once, under pretence of
love to her aunt.
_Dap._ I confess I have the same design yet, and Addleplot is but my
agent, whilst he thinks me his. He brings me letters constantly from
her, and carries mine back.
_Vin._ Still betraying your best friends!
_Dap._ I cannot in honour but betray him. Let me perish! the poor young
wench is taken with my person, and would scratch through four walls to
come to me.
_Vin._ 'Tis a sign she is kept up close indeed.
_Dap._ Betray him! I'll not be traitor to love for any man.
_Enter_ Sir SIMON ADDLEPLOT _with the_ Waiter.
_Sir Sim._ Know 'em! you are a saucy Jack-straw to question me, faith
and troth; I know everybody, and everybody knows me.
_All._ Sir Simon! Sir Simon! Sir Simon!
_Ran._ And you are a welcome man to everybody.
_Sir Sim._ Now, son of a whore, do I know the gentlemen?--A dog! would
have had a shilling of me before he would let me come to you!
_Ran._ The rogue has been bred at Court, sure.--Get you out, sirrah.
[_Exit_ Waiter.
_Sir Sim._ He has been bred at a French-house, where they are more
unreasonable.
_Vin._ Here's to you, Sir Simon.
_Sir Sim._ I cannot drink, for I have a mistress within; though I would
not have the people of the house to know it.
_Ran._ You need not be ashamed of your mistresses, for they are
commonly rich.
_Sir Sim._ And because she is rich, I would conceal her; for I never
had a rich mistress yet, but one or other got her from me presently,
faith and troth.
_Ran._ But this is an ill place to conceal a mistress in; every waiter
is an intelligencer to your rivals.
_Sir Sim._ I have a trick for that:--I'll let no waiters come into the
room; I'll lay the cloth myself rather.
_Ran._ But who is your mistress?
_Sir Sim._ Your servant,--your servant, Mr. Ranger.
_Vin._ Come, will you pledge me?
_Sir Sim._ No, I'll spare your wine, if you will spare me Dapperwit's
company; I came for that.
_Vin._ You do us a double favour, to take him and leave the wine.
_Sir Sim._ Come, come, Dapperwit.
_Ran._ Do not go, unless he will suffer us to see his mistress too.
[_Aside to_ DAPPERWIT.
_Sir Sim._ Come, come, man.
_Dap._ Would you have me so uncivil as to leave my company?--they'll
take it ill.
_Sir Sim._ I cannot find her talk without thee.--Pray, gentlemen,
persuade Mr. Dapperwit to go with me.
_Ran._ We will not hinder him of better company.
_Dap._ Yours is too good to be left rudely.
_Sir Sim._ Nay, gentlemen, I would desire your company too, if you knew
the lady.
_Dap._ They know her as well as I; you say I know her not.
_Sir Sim._ You are not everybody.
_Ran._ Perhaps we do know the lady, Sir Simon.
_Sir Sim._ You do not, you do not: none of you ever saw her in your
lives;--but if you could be secret, and civil--
_Ran._ We have drunk yet but our bottle a-piece.
_Sir Sim._ But will you be civil, Mr. Vincent?
_Ran._ He dares not look a woman in the face under three bottles.
_Sir Sim._ Come along then. But can you be civil, gentlemen? will you
be civil, gentlemen? pray be civil if you can, and you shall see her.
[_Exit, and returns with_ Lady FLIPPANT _and_ Mrs. JOYNER.
_Dap._ How, has he got his jilt here! [_Aside._
_Ran._ The widow Flippant! [_Aside._
_Vin._ Is this the woman that we never saw! [_Aside._
_L. Flip._ Does he bring us into company!--and Dapperwit one! Though
I had married the fool, I thought to have reserved the wit as well as
other ladies. [_Aside._
_Sir Sim._ Nay, look as long as you will, madam, you will find them
civil gentlemen, and good company.
_L. Flip._ I am not in doubt of their civility, but yours.
_Mrs. Joyn._ You'll never leave snubbing your servants! Did you not
promise to use him kindly? [_Aside to_ Lady FLIPPANT.
_L. Flip._ [_Aside to_ Mrs. JOYNER.] 'Tis true.--[_Aloud._] We wanted
no good company, Sir Simon, as long as we had yours.
_Sir Sim._ But they wanted good company, therefore I forced 'em to
accept of yours.
_L. Flip._ They will not think the company good they were forced into,
certainly.
_Sir Sim._ A pox! I must be using the words in fashion, though I never
have any luck with 'em. Mrs. Joyner, help me off.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I suppose, madam, he means the gentlemen wanted not
inclination to your company, but confidence to desire so great an
honour; therefore he forced 'em.
_Dap._ What makes this bawd here? Sure, mistress, you bawds should be
like the small cards, though at first you make up a pack, yet, when the
play begins, you should be put out as useless.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Well, well, gibing companion: you would have the pimps
kept in only? you would so?
_Vin._ What, they are quarrelling!
_Ran._ Pimp and bawd agree now-a-days like doctor and apothecary.
_Sir Sim._ Try, madam, if they are not civil gentlemen; talk with 'em,
while I go lay the cloth--no waiter comes here.--[_Aside._] My mother
used to tell me, I should avoid all occasions of talking before my
mistress, because silence is a sign of love as well as prudence. [_Lays
the cloth._
_L. Flip._ Methinks you look a little yellow on't, Mr. Dapperwit. I
hope you do not censure me because you find me passing away a night
with this fool:--he is not a man to be jealous of, sure.
_Dap._ You are not a lady to be jealous of, sure.
_L. Flip._ No, certainly.--But why do you look as if you were jealous
then?
_Dap._ If I had met you in Whetstone's park,[30] with a drunken
foot-soldier, I should not have been jealous of you.
_L. Flip._ Fy, fy! now you are jealous, certainly; for people always,
when they grow jealous, grow rude:--but I can pardon it since it
proceeds from love certainly.
_Dap._ I am out of all hopes to be rid of this eternal old
acquaintance: when I jeer her, she thinks herself praised; now I call
her whore in plain English she thinks I am jealous. [_Aside._
_L. Flip._ Sweet Mr. Dapperwit, be not so censorious, (I speak for
your sake, not my own,) for jealousy is a great torment, but my honour
cannot suffer certainly.
_Dap._ No, certainly; but the greatest torment I have is--your love.
_L. Flip._ Alas! sweet Mr. Dapperwit, indeed love is a torment: but
'tis a sweet torment; but jealousy is a bitter torment.--I do not go
about to cure you of the torment of my love.
_Dap._ 'Tis a sign so.
_L. Flip._ Come, come, look up, man; is that a rival to contest with
you?
_Dap._ I will contest with no rival, not with my old rival your
coachman; but they have heartily my resignation; and, to do you a
favour, but myself a greater, I will help to tie the knot you are
fumbling for now, betwixt your cully here and you.
_L. Flip._ Go, go, I take that kind of jealousy worst of all, to
suspect I would be debauched to beastly matrimony.--But who are those
gentlemen, pray? are they men of fortunes, Mrs. Joyner?
_Mrs. Joyn._ I believe so.
_L. Flip._ Do you believe so, indeed?--Gentlemen--[_Advancing towards_
RANGER _and_ VINCENT.
_Ran._ If the civility we owe to ladies had not controlled our envy to
Mr. Dapperwit, we had interrupted ere this your private conversation.
_L. Flip._ Your interruption, sir, had been most civil and
obliging;--for our discourse was of marriage.
_Ran._ That is a subject, madam, as grateful as common.
_L. Flip._ O fy, fy! are you of that opinion too? I cannot suffer any
to talk of it in my company.
_Ran._ Are you married then, madam?
_L. Flip._ No, certainly.
_Ran._ I am sure so much beauty cannot despair of it.
_L. Flip._ Despair of it!--
_Ran._ Only those that are married, or cannot be married, hate to hear
of marriage.
_L. Flip._ Yet you must know, sir, my aversion to marriage is such,
that you, nor no man breathing, shall ever persuade me to it.
_Ran._ Cursed be the man should do so rude a thing as to persuade you
to anything against your inclination! I would not do it for the world,
madam.
_L. Flip._ Come, come, though you seem to be a civil gentleman, I think
you no better than your neighbours. I do not know a man of you all that
will not thrust a woman up into a corner, and then talk an hour to her
impertinently of marriage.
_Ran._ You would find me another man in a corner, I assure you, madam;
for you should not have a word of marriage from me, whatsoever you
might find in my actions of it; I hate talking as much as you.
_L. Flip._ I hate it extremely.
_Ran._ I am your man then, madam; for I find just the same fault with
your sex as you do with ours:--I ne'er could have to do with woman in
my life, but still she would be impertinently talking of marriage to me.
_L. Flip._ Observe that, Mrs. Joyner.
_Dap._ Pray, Mr. Ranger, let's go; I had rather drink with Mr. Vincent,
than stay here with you; besides 'tis Park-time.
_Ran._ [_To_ DAPPERWIT.] I come.--[_To_ Lady FLIPPANT.] Since you are
a lady that hate marriage, I'll do you the service to withdraw the
company; for those that hate marriage hate loss of time.
_L. Flip._ Will you go then, sir? but before you go, sir, pray tell me
is your aversion to marriage real?
_Ran._ As real as yours.
_L. Flip._ If it were no more real than mine--[_Aside._
_Ran._ Your servant, madam. [_Turns to go._
_L. Flip._ But do you hate marriage certainly? [_Plucks him back._
_Ran._ Certainly.
_L. Flip._ Come, I cannot believe it: you dissemble it only because I
pretend it.
_Ran._ Do you but pretend it then, madam?
_L. Flip._ [_Aside_] I shall discover myself--[_Aloud_] I mean, because
I hold against it, you do the same in complaisance:--for I have heard
say, cunning men think to bring the coy and untractable women to
tameness as they do some mad people--by humouring their frenzies.
_Ran._ I am none of those cunning men, yet have too much wit to
entertain the presumption of designing upon you.
_L. Flip._ 'Twere no such presumption neither.
_Dap._ Come away; 'sdeath! don't you see your danger?
_Ran._ Those aims are for Sir Simon.--Good night, madam.
_L. Flip._ Will you needs go, then?--[_To_ Sir SIMON] The gentlemen are
a-going, Sir Simon; will you let 'em?
_Sir Sim._ Nay, madam, if you cannot keep 'em, how should I?
_L. Flip._ Stay, sir; because you hate marriage, I'll sing you a new
song against it. [_Sings._
A spouse I do hate,
For either she's false or she's jealous;
But give us a mate
Who nothing will ask us or tell us.
She stands on no terms,
Nor chaffers, by way of indenture,
Her love for your farms;
But takes her kind man at a venture.
If all prove not right,
Without an act, process, or warning,
From wife for a night
You may be divorced in the morning.
When parents are slaves,
Their brats cannot be any other;
Great wits and great braves
Have always a punk[31] to their mother.
Though it be the fashion for women of quality to sing any song
whatever, because the words are not distinguished, yet I should have
blushed to have done it now, but for you, sir.
_Ran._ The song is edifying, the voice admirable--and, once more, I am
your servant, madam.
_L. Flip._ What, will you go too, Mr Dapperwit?
_Sir Sim._ Pray, Mr. Dapperwit, do not you go too.
_Dap._ I am engaged.
_Sir Sim._ Well, if we cannot have their company, we will not have
their room: ours is a private backroom; they have paid their reckoning,
let's go thither again.
_L. Flip._ But pray, sweet Mr. Dapperwit, do not go. Keep him, Sir
Simon.
_Sir Sim._ I cannot keep him. [_Exeunt_ VINCENT, RANGER, _and_
DAPPERWIT.
It is impossible; (the world is so;)
One cannot keep one's friend, and mistress too. [_Exeunt._
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.--_St. James's Park at night._
_Enter_ RANGER, VINCENT, _and_ DAPPERWIT.
_Ran._ Hang me, if I am not pleased extremely with this new-fashioned
caterwauling, this mid-night coursing in the park.
_Vin._ A man may come after supper with his three bottles in his head,
reel himself sober, without reproof from his mother, aunt, or grave
relation.
_Ran._ May bring his bashful wench, and not have her put out of
countenance by the impudent honest women of the town.
_Dap._ And a man of wit may have the better of the dumb show of
well-trimmed vest or fair peruke:--no man's now is whitest.
_Ran._ And now no woman's modest or proud; for her blushes are hid, and
the rubies on her lips are dyed, and all sleepy and glimmering eyes
have lost their attraction.
_Vin._ And now a man may carry a bottle under his arm instead of his
hat;--and no observing spruce fop will miss the cravat that lies on
one's shoulder, or count the pimples on one's face.
_Dap._ And now the brisk repartee ruins the complaisant cringe, or wise
grimace.--Something 'twas, we men of virtue always loved the night.
_Ran._ O blessed season!
_Vin._ For good-fellows.
_Ran._ For lovers.
_Dap._ And for the Muses.
_Ran._ When I was a boy I loved the night so well, I had a strong
vocation to be a bellman's apprentice.
_Vin._ I, a drawer.
_Dap._ And I, to attend the waits of Westminster, let me perish!
_Ran._ But why do we not do the duty of this and such other
places;--walk, censure, and speak ill of all we meet?
_Dap._ 'Tis no fault of mine, let me perish!
_Vin._ Fy, fy! satirical gentlemen, this is not your time; you cannot
distinguish a friend from a fop.
_Dap._ No matter, no matter; they will deserve amongst 'em the worst we
can say.
_Ran._ Who comes here, Dapperwit? [_People walk slowly over the stage._
_Dap._ By the toss of his head, training of his feet, and his elbows
playing at bo-peep behind his back, it should be my Lord Easy.
_Ran._ And who the woman?
_Dap._ My Lord what-d'ye-call's daughter, that had a child by--
_Vin._ Dapperwit, hold your tongue.
_Ran._ How! are you concerned?
_Vin._ Her brother's an honest fellow, and will drink his glass.
_Ran._ Prithee, Vincent, Dapperwit did not hinder drinking to-night,
though he spake against it; why, then, should you interrupt his
sport?--Now, let him talk of anybody.
_Vin._ So he will,--till you cut his throat.
_Ran._ Why should you on all occasions thwart him, contemn him, and
maliciously look grave at his jests only?
_Vin._ Why does he always rail against my friends, then, and my best
friend--a beer-glass?
_Ran._ Dapperwit, be your own advocate: my game, I think, is before me
there. [_Exit._
_Dap._ This Ranger, I think, has all the ill qualities of all your town
fops;--leaving his company for a spruce lord or a wench.
_Vin._ Nay, if you must rail at your own best friends, I may forgive
you railing at mine.
_Enter_ LYDIA _and_ Lady FLIPPANT.--_They walk over the stage._
_Lyd._ False Ranger, shall I find thee here? [_Aside._
_Vin._ Those are women, are they not? [_To_ DAPPER.
_Dap._ The least seems to be my Lucy, sure. [_Aside._
_Vin._ Faith, I think I dare speak to a woman in the dark!--let's try.
_Dap._ They are persons of quality of my acquaintance;--hold!
_Vin._ Nay, if they are persons of quality of your acquaintance, I may
be the bolder with 'em. [_The_ Ladies _go off, they follow them._
_Re-enter_ LYDIA _and_ Lady FLIPPANT.
_Lyd._ I come hither to make a discovery to-night.
_L. Flip._ Of my love to you, certainly; for nobody but you could have
debauched me to the Park, certainly. I would not return another night,
if it were to redeem my dear husband from his grave.
_Lyd._ I believe you:--but to get another, widow.
_L. Flip._ Another husband, another husband, foh!
_Lyd._ There does not pass a night here but many a match is made.
_L. Flip._ That a woman of honour should have the word match in her
mouth!--but I hope, madam, the fellows do not make honourable love
here, do they? I abominate honourable love, upon my honour.
_Lyd._ If they should make honourable love here, I know you would
prevent 'em.
_Re-enter_ VINCENT _and_ DAPPERWIT.--_They walk slowly towards the_
Ladies.
But here come two men will inform you what to do.
_L. Flip._ Do they come?--are they men certainly?
_Lyd._ Prepare for an assault, they'll put you to't.
_L. Flip._ Will they put us to't certainly? I was never put to't yet.
If they should put us to't, I should drop down, down, certainly.
_Lyd._ I believe, truly, you would not have power to run away.
_L. Flip._ Therefore I will not stay the push.--They come! they come!
oh, the fellows come! [Lady FLIPPANT _runs away,_ LYDIA _follows, and_
VINCENT _and_ DAPPERWIT _after them._
_Re-enter_ Lady FLIPPANT _at the other side, alone._
_L. Flip._ So! I am got off clear! I did not run from the men, but my
companion. For all their brags, men have hardly courage to set upon
us when our number is equal; now they shall see I defy 'em:--for we
women have always most courage when we are alone. But, a pox! the lazy
rogues come not! or they are drunk and cannot run. Oh drink! abominable
drink! instead of inflaming love, it quenches it; and for one lover
it encourages, it makes a thousand impotent. Curse on all wine! even
Rhenish wine and sugar--
_Enter_ Sir SIMON ADDLEPLOT, _muffled in a cloak._
But fortune will not see me want; here comes a single bully,--I wish he
may stand;--
For now a-nights the jostling nymph is bolder
Than modern satyr with his cloak o'er shoulder.
Well met, sir. [_She puts on her mask._
_Sir Sim._ How shall I know that, forsooth? Who are you? do you know me?
_L. Flip._ Who are you? don't you know me?
_Sir Sim._ Not I, faith and troth!
_L. Flip._ I am glad on't; for no man e'er liked a woman the better for
having known her before.
_Sir Sim._ Ay, but then one can't be so free with a new acquaintance as
with an old one; she may deny one the civility.
_L. Flip._ Not till you ask her.
_Sir Sim._ But I am afraid to be denied.
_L. Flip._ Let me tell you, sir, you cannot disoblige us women more
than in distrusting us.
_Sir Sim._ Pish! what should one ask for, when you know one's
meaning?--but shall I deal freely with you?
_L. Flip._ I love, of my life, men should deal freely with me; there
are so few men will deal freely with one--
_Sir Sim._ Are you not a fireship,[32] a punk, madam?
_L. Flip._ Well, sir, I love raillery.
_Sir Sim._ Faith and troth, I do not rally, I deal freely.
_L. Flip._ This is the time and place for freedom, sir.
_Sir Sim._ Are you handsome?
_L. Flip._ Joan's as good as my lady in the dark, certainly: but men
that deal freely never ask questions, certainly.
_Sir Sim._ How then! I thought to deal freely, and put a woman to the
question, had been all one.
_L. Flip._ But, let me tell you, those that deal freely indeed, take a
woman by--
_Sir Sim._ What, what, what, what?
_L. Flip._ By the hand--and lead her aside.
_Sir Sim._ Now I understand you; come along then.
_Enter behind_ Musicians _with torches._
_L. Flip._ What unmannerly rascals are those that bring light
into the Park? 'twill not be taken well from 'em by the women,
certainly.--[_Aside._] Still disappointed!
_Sir Sim._ Oh, the fiddles, the fiddles! I sent for them hither to
oblige the women, not to offend 'em; for I intend to serenade the whole
Park to-night. But my frolic is not without an intrigue, faith and
troth: for I know the fiddles will call the whole herd of vizard masks
together; and then shall I discover if a strayed mistress of mine be
not amongst 'em, whom I treated to-night at the French-house; but as
soon as the jilt had eat up my meat and drunk her two bottles, she ran
away from me, and left me alone.
_L. Flip._ How! is it he? Addleplot!--that I could not know him by his
faith and troth! [_Aside._
_Sir Sim._ Now I would understand her tricks; because I intend to marry
her, and should be glad to know what I must trust to.
_L. Flip._ So thou shalt;--but not yet. [_Aside._
_Sir Sim._ Though I can give a great guess already; for if I have any
intrigue or sense in me, she is as arrant a jilt as ever pulled pillow
from under husband's head, faith and troth. Moreover she is bow-legged,
hopper-hipped, and, betwixt pomatum and Spanish red, has a complexion
like a Holland cheese, and no more teeth left than such as give a _haut
goût_ to her breath; but she is rich, faith and troth.
_L. Flip._ [_Aside._] Oh rascal! he has heard somebody else say
all this of me. But I must not discover myself, lest I should be
disappointed of my revenge; for I will marry him. [_The_ Musicians
_approaching, exit_ FLIPPANT.
_Sir Sim._ What, gone!--come then, strike up, my lads.
_Enter_ Men _and_ Women _in vizards--a Dance, during which_ Sir SIMON
ADDLEPLOT, _for the most part, stands still in a cloak and vizard; but
sometimes goes about peeping, and examining the_ Women's _clothes--the
Dance ended, all exeunt._
_Re-enter_ Lady FLIPPANT _and_ LYDIA, _after them_ VINCENT _and_
DAPPERWIT.
_L. Flip._ [_To_ LYDIA.] Nay, if you stay any longer, I must leave you
again. [_Going off._
_Vin._ We have overtaken them at last again. These are they: they
separate too; and that's but a challenge to us.
_Dap._ Let me perish! ladies--
_Lyd._ Nay, good madam, let's unite, now here's the common enemy upon
us.
_Vin._ Damn me! ladies--
_Dap._ Hold, a pox! you are too rough.--Let me perish! ladies--
_Lyd._ Not for want of breath, gentlemen:--we'll stay rather.
_Dap._ For want of your favour rather, sweet ladies.
_L. Flip._ [_Aside._] That's Dapperwit, false villain! but he must
not know I am here. If he should, I should lose his thrice agreeable
company, and he would run from me as fast as from the bailiffs. [_To_
LYDIA.] What! you will not talk with 'em, I hope?
_Lyd._ Yes, but I will.
_L. Flip._ Then you are a Park-woman certainly, and you will take it
kindly if I leave you.
_Lyd._ No, you must not leave me.
_L. Flip._ Then you must leave them.
_Lyd._ I'll see if they are worse company than you, first.
_L. Flip._ Monstrous impudence!--will you not come? [_Pulls_ LYDIA.
_Vin._ Nay, madam, I never suffer any violence to be used to a woman
but what I do myself: she must stay, and you must not go.
_L. Flip._ Unhand me, you rude fellow!
_Vin._ Nay, now I am sure you will stay and be kind; for coyness in a
woman is as little sign of true modesty, as huffing in a man is of true
courage.
_Dap._ Use her gently, and speak soft things to her.
_Lyd._ [_Aside._] Now do I guess I know my coxcomb.--[_To_ DAPPERWIT.]
Sir, I am extremely glad I am fallen into the hands of a gentleman that
can speak soft things; and this is so fine a night to hear soft things
in;--morning, I should have said.
_Dap._ It will not be morning, dear madam, till you pull off your
mask.--[_Aside._] That I think was brisk.
_Lyd._ Indeed, dear sir, my face would frighten back the sun.
_Dap._ With glories more radiant than his own.--[_Aside._] I keep up
with her, I think.
_Lyd._ But why would you put me to the trouble of lighting the world,
when I thought to have gone to sleep?
_Dap._ You only can do it, dear madam, let me perish!
_Lyd._ But why would you (of all men) practise treason against your
friend Phœbus, and depose him for a mere stranger?
_Dap._ I think she knows me. [_Aside._
_Lyd._ But he does not do you justice, I believe; and you are so
positively cock-sure of your wit, you would refer to a mere stranger
your plea to the bay-tree.
_Dap._ She jeers me, let me perish! [_Aside._
_Vin._ Dapperwit, a little of your aid; for my lady's invincibly dumb.
_Dap._ Would mine had been so too! [_Aside._
_Vin._ I have used as many arguments to make her speak, as are
requisite to make other women hold their tongues.
_Dap._ Well, I am ready to change sides.--Yet before I go, madam, since
the moon consents now I should see your face, let me desire you to pull
off your mask; which to a handsome lady is a favour, I'm sure.
_Lyd._ Truly, sir, I must not be long in debt to you for the
obligation; pray let me hear you recite some of your verses; which to a
wit is a favour, I'm sure.
_Dap._ Madam, it belongs to your sex to be obliged first; pull off your
mask, and I'll pull out my paper.--[_Aside._] Brisk again, of my side.
_Lyd._ 'Twould be in vain, for you would want a candle now.
_Dap._ [_Aside._] I dare not make use again of the lustre of her
face.--[_To_ LYDIA.] I'll wait upon you home then, madam.
_Lyd._ Faith, no; I believe it will not be much to our advantages to
bring my face or your poetry to light: for I hope you have yet a pretty
good opinion of my face, and so have I of your wit. But if you are for
proving your wit, why do not you write a play?
_Dap._ Because 'tis now no more reputation to write a play, than it is
honour to be a knight. Your true wit despises the title of poet, as
much as your true gentleman the title of knight; for as a man may be
a knight and no gentleman, so a man may be a poet and no wit, let me
perish!
_Lyd._ Pray, sir, how are you dignified or distinguished amongst the
rates of wits? and how many rates are there?
_Dap._ There are as many degrees of wits as of lawyers: as there is
first your solicitor, then your attorney, then your pleading-counsel,
then your chamber-counsel, and then your judge; so there is first
your court-wit, your coffee-wit, your poll-wit, or politic-wit, your
chamber-wit, or scribble-wit, and last of all, your judge-wit, or
critic.
_Lyd._ But are there as many wits as lawyers? Lord, what will become of
us!--What employment can they have? how are they known?
_Dap._ First, your court-wit is a fashionable, insinuating, flattering,
cringing, grimacing fellow--and has wit enough to solicit a suit of
love; and if he fail, he has malice enough to ruin the woman with a
dull lampoon:--but he rails still at the man that is absent, for you
must know all wits rail; and his wit properly lies in combing perukes,
matching ribbons, and being severe, as they call it, upon other
people's clothes.
_Lyd._ Now, what is the coffee-wit?
_Dap._ He is a lying, censorious, gossiping, quibbling wretch, and sets
people together by the ears over that sober drink, coffee: he is a wit,
as he is a commentator, upon the Gazette; and he rails at the pirates
of Algier, the Grand Signior of Constantinople, and the Christian Grand
Signior.
_Lyd._ What kind of man is your poll-wit?
_Dap._ He is a fidgetting, busy, dogmatical, hot-headed fop, that
speaks always in sentences and proverbs, (as other in similitudes,) and
he rails perpetually against the present government. His wit lies in
projects and monopolies, and penning speeches for young parliament men.
_Lyd._ But what is your chamber-wit, or scribble-wit?
_Dap._ He is a poring, melancholy, modest sot, ashamed of the world:
he searches all the records of wit, to compile a breviate of them
for the use of players, printers, booksellers, and sometimes cooks,
tobacco-men; he employs his railing against the ignorance of the age,
and all that have more money than he.
_Lyd._ Now your last.
_Dap._ Your judge-wit, or critic, is all these together, and yet has
the wit to be none of them: he can think, speak, write, as well as the
rest, but scorns (himself a judge) to be judged by posterity: he rails
at all the other classes of wits, and his wit lies in damning all but
himself:--he is your true wit.
_Lyd._ Then, I suspect you are of his form.
_Dap._ I cannot deny it, madam.
_Vin._ Dapperwit, you have been all this time on the wrong side; for
you love to talk all, and here's a lady would not have hindered you.
_Dap._ A pox! I have been talking too long indeed here; for wit is lost
upon a silly weak woman, as well as courage. [_Aside._
_Vin._ I have used all common means to move a woman's tongue and mask;
I called her ugly, old, and old acquaintance, and yet she would not
disprove me:--but here comes Ranger, let him try what he can do; for,
since my mistress is dogged, I'll go sleep alone. [_Exit._
_Re-enter_ RANGER.
_Lyd._ [_Aside._] Ranger! 'tis he indeed: I am sorry he is here,
but glad I discovered him before I went. Yet he must not discover
me, lest I should be prevented hereafter in finding him out. False
Ranger!--[_To_ Lady FLIPPANT.] Nay, if they bring fresh force upon us,
madam, 'tis time to quit the field. [_Exeunt_ LYDIA _and_ Lady FLIPPANT.
_Ran._ What, play with your quarry till it fly from you!
_Dap._ You frighten it away.
_Ran._ Ha! is not one of those ladies in mourning?
_Dap._ All women are so by this light.
_Ran._ But you might easily discern. Don't you know her?
_Dap._ No.
_Ran._ Did you talk with her?
_Dap._ Yes, she is one of your brisk silly baggages.
_Ran._ 'Tis she, 'tis she!--I was afraid I saw her before; let us
follow 'em: prithee make haste.--[_Aside._] 'Tis Lydia. [_Exeunt._
_Re-enter, on the other side_, LYDIA _and_ Lady FLIPPANT--DAPPERWIT
_and_ RANGER _following them at a distance._
_Lyd._ They follow us yet, I fear.
_L. Flip._ You do not fear it certainly; otherwise you would not have
encouraged them.
_Lyd._ For Heaven's sake, madam, waive your quarrel a little, and let
us pass by your coach, and so on foot to your acquaintance in the old
Pall-mall[33]: for I would not be discovered by the man that came up
last to us. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--CHRISTINA'S _Lodging._
_Enter_ CHRISTINA _and_ ISABEL.
_Isa._ For Heaven's sake, undress yourself, madam! They'll not return
to-night: all people have left the Park an hour ago.
_Chris._ What is't o'clock?
_Isa._ 'Tis past one.
_Chris._ It cannot be!
_Isa._ I thought that time had only stolen from happy lovers:--the
disconsolate have nothing to do but to tell the clock.
_Chris._ I can only keep account with my misfortunes.
_Isa._ I am glad they are not innumerable.
_Chris._ And, truly, my undergoing so often your impertinency is not
the least of them.
_Isa._ I am then more glad, madam, for then they cannot be great; and
it is in my power, it seems, to make you in part happy, if I could but
hold this villainous tongue of mine: but then let the people of the
town hold their tongues if they will, for I cannot but tell you what
they say.
_Chris._ What do they say?
_Isa._ Faith, madam, I am afraid to tell you, now I think on't.
_Chris._ Is it so ill?
_Isa._ O, such base, unworthy things!
_Chris._ Do they say I was really Clerimont's wench, as he boasted;
and that the ground of the quarrel betwixt Valentine and him was not
Valentine's vindication of my honour, but Clerimont's jealousy of him?
_Isa._ Worse, worse a thousand times! such villainous things to the
utter ruin of your reputation!
_Chris._ What are they?
_Isa._ Faith, madam, you'll be angry: 'tis the old trick of lovers to
hate their informers, after they have made 'em such.
_Chris._ I will not be angry.
_Isa._ They say then, since Mr. Valentine's flying into France you are
grown mad, have put yourself into mourning, live in a dark room, where
you'll see nobody, nor take any rest day or night, but rave and talk to
yourself perpetually.
_Chris._ Now, what else?
_Isa._ But the surest sign of your madness is, they say, because you
are desperately resolved (in case my Lord Clerimont should die of his
wounds) to transport yourself and fortune into France to Mr. Valentine,
a man that has not a groat to return you in exchange.
_Chris._ All this, hitherto, is true; now to the rest.
_Isa._ Indeed, madam, I have no more to tell you. I was sorry, I'm
sure, to hear so much of any lady of mine.
_Chris._ Insupportable insolence!
_Isa._ [_Aside._] This is some revenge for my want of sleep
to-night.--[_Knocking at the door._] So, I hope my old second is come;
'tis seasonable relief. [_Exit._
_Chris._ Unhappy Valentine! couldst thou but see how soon thy absence
and misfortunes have disbanded all thy friends, and turned thy slaves
all renegadoes, thou sure wouldst prize my only faithful heart!
_Enter_ Lady FLIPPANT, LYDIA, _and_ ISABEL.
_L. Flip._ Hail, faithful shepherdess! but, truly, I had not kept my
word with you, in coming back to-night, if it had not been for this
lady, who has her intrigues too with the fellows as well as you.
_Lyd._ Madam, under my Lady Flippant's protection, I am confident
to beg yours; being just now pursued out of the Park by a
relation of mine, by whom it imports me extremely not to be
discovered:--[_Knocking at the door._] but I fear he is now at the
door.--[_To_ ISABEL, _who goes out._] Let me desire you to deny me to
him courageously;--for he will hardly believe he can be mistaken in me.
_Chris._ In such an occasion, where impudence is requisite, she will
serve you as faithfully as you can wish, madam.
_L. Flip._ Come, come, madam, do not upbraid her with her assurance, a
qualification that only fits her for a lady's service. A fine woman of
the town can be no more without a woman that can make an excuse with
assurance, than she can be without a glass, certainly.
_Chris._ She needs no advocate.
_L. Flip._ How can any one alone manage an amorous intrigue? though the
birds are tame, somebody must help draw the net. If 'twere not for a
woman that could make an excuse with assurance, how should we wheedle,
jilt, trace, discover, countermine, undermine, and blow up the stinking
fellows? which is all the pleasure I receive, or design by them; for
I never admitted a man to my conversation, but for his punishment,
certainly.
_Chris._ Nobody will doubt that, certainly.
_Re-enter_ ISABEL.
_Isa._ Madam, the gentleman will not be mistaken: he says you are here,
he saw you come in; he is your relation, his name's Ranger, and is come
to wait upon you home. I had much ado to keep him from coming up.
_Lyd._ [_To_ CHRISTINA.] Madam, for Heaven's sake, help me! 'tis yet
in your power; if but, while I retire into your dining-room, you will
please to personate me, and own yourself for her he pursued out of the
Park: you are in mourning too, and your stature so much mine it will
not contradict you.
_Chris._ I am sorry, madam, I must dispute any command of yours. I
have made a resolution to see the face of no man, till an unfortunate
friend of mine, now out of the kingdom, return.
_Lyd._ By that friend, and by the hopes you have to see him, let me
conjure you to keep me from the sight of mine now. Dear madam, let your
charity prevail over you superstition.
_Isa._ He comes, he comes, madam! [LYDIA _withdraws, and stands unseen
at the door._
_Enter_ RANGER.
_Ran._ Ha! this is no Lydia. [_Aside._
_Chris._ What, unworthy defamer, has encouraged you to offer this
insolence?
_Ran._ She is liker Lydia in her style than her face. I see I am
mistaken; but to tell her I followed her for another, were an affront
rather than an excuse. She's a glorious creature! [_Aside._
_Chris._ Tell me, sir, whence had you reason for this your rude pursuit
of me, into my lodgings, my chamber? why should you follow me?
_Ran._ Faith, madam, because you ran away from me.
_Chris._ That was no sign of an acquaintance.
_Ran._ You'll pardon me, madam.
_Chris._ Then, it seems, you mistook me for another, and the night
is your excuse, which blots out all distinctions. But now you are
satisfied in your mistake, I hope you will seek out your woman in
another place.
_Ran._ Madam, I allow not the excuse you make for me. If I have
offended, I will rather be condemned for my love, than pardoned for my
insensibility.
_Lyd._ How's that? [_Aside._
_Chris._ What do you say?
_Ran._ Though the night had been darker, my heart would not have
suffered me to follow any one but you:--he has been too long acquainted
with you to mistake you.
_Lyd._ What means this tenderness? he mistook me for her sure. [_Aside._
_Chris._ What says the gentleman? did you know me then, sir?
_Ran._ [_Aside._] Not I, the devil take me! but I must on
now.--[_Aloud._] Could you imagine, madam, by the innumerable crowd of
your admirers, you had left any man free in the town, or ignorant of
the power of your beauty?
_Chris._ I never saw your face before, that I remember.
_Ran._ Ah, madam! you would never regard your humblest slave; I was
till now a modest lover.
_Lyd._ Falsest of men! [_Aside._
_Chris._ My woman said, you came to seek a relation here, not a
mistress.
_Ran._ I must confess, madam, I thought you would sooner disprove my
dissembled error, than admit my visit, and was resolved to see you.
_Lyd._ 'Tis clear! [_Aside._
_Ran._ Indeed, when I followed you first out of the Park, I was
afraid you might have been a certain relation of mine, for your
statures and habits are the same; but when you entered here, I was
with joy convinced. Besides, I would not for the world have given her
troublesome love so much encouragement, to have disturbed my future
addresses to you; for the foolish woman does perpetually torment me to
make our relation nearer; but never more in vain than since I have seen
you, madam.
_Lyd._ How! shall I suffer this? 'tis clear he disappointed me to-night
for her, and made me stay at home that I might not disappoint him of
her company in the Park. [_Aside._
_Chris._ I am amazed! but let me tell you, sir, if the lady were
here, I would satisfy her the sight of me should never frustrate her
ambitious designs upon her cruel kinsman.
_Lyd._ I wish you could satisfy me. [_Aside._
_Ran._ If she were here, she would satisfy you she were not capable of
the honour to be taken for you:--though in the dark. Faith, my cousin
is but a tolerable woman to a man that had not seen you.
_Chris._ Sure, to my plague, this is the first time you ever saw me!
_Ran._ Sure, to the plague of my poor heart, 'tis not the hundredth
time I have seen you! For, since the time I saw you first, you have not
been at the Park, playhouse, Exchange,[34] or other public place, but I
saw you; for it was my business to watch and follow.
_Chris._ Pray, when did you see me last at the Park, playhouse, or
Exchange?
_Ran._ Some two, three days, or a week ago.
_Chris._ I have not been this month out of this chamber.
_Lyd._ That is to delude me. [_Aside._
_Chris._ I knew you were mistaken.
_Ran._ You'll pardon a lover's memory, madam.--[_Aside._] A pox! I have
hanged myself in my own line. One would think my perpetual ill-luck in
lying should break me of the quality; but, like a losing gamester, I am
still for pushing on, till none will trust me.
_Chris._ Come, sir, you run out of one error into a greater: you would
excuse the rudeness of your mistake, and intrusion at this hour into my
lodgings, with your gallantry to me,--more unseasonable and offensive.
_Ran._ Nay, I am in love I see, for I blush and have not a word to say
for myself.
_Chris._ But, sir, if you will needs play the gallant, pray leave my
house before morning, lest you should be seen go hence, to the scandal
of my honour. Rather than that should be, I'll call up the house and
neighbours to bear witness I bid you begone.
_Ran._ Since you take a night visit so ill, madam, I will never wait
upon you again but by day. I go, that I may hope to return; and, for
once, I wish you a good night without me.
_Chris._ Good night, for as long as I live. [_Exit_ RANGER.
_Lyd._ And good night to my love, I'm sure. [_Aside._
_Chris._ Though I have done you an inconsiderable service, I assure
you, madam, you are not a little obliged to me.--[_Aside._] Pardon me,
dear Valentine!
_Lyd._ I know not yet whether I am more obliged than injured: when I
do, I assure you, madam, I shall not be insensible of either.
_Chris._ I fear, madam, you are as liable to mistakes as your kinsman.
_Lyd._ I fear I am more subject to 'em: it may be for want of sleep,
therefore I'll go home.
_Chris._ My Lady Flippant, good night.
_L. Flip._ Good night, or rather good morrow, faithful shepherdess.
_Chris._ I'll wait on you down.
_Lyd._ Your coach stays yet, I hope.
_L. Flip._ Certainly. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.--_The Street before_ CHRISTINA'S _Lodging._
_Enter_ RANGER _and_ DAPPERWIT.
_Dap._ I was a faithful sentinel: nobody came out, let me perish!
_Ran._ No, no, I hunted upon a wrong scent; I thought I had followed a
woman, but found her an angel.
_Dap._ What is her name?
_Ran._ That you must tell me. What very fine woman is there lives
hereabouts?
_Dap._ Faith, I know not any. She is, I warrant you, some fine woman of
a term's standing or so in the town; such as seldom appear in public,
but in their balconies, where they stand so constantly, one would think
they had hired no other part of the house.
_Ran._ And look like the pictures which painters expose to draw in
customers;--but I must know who she is. Vincent's lodging is hard by,
I'll go and inquire of him, and lie with him to-night: but if he will
not let me, I'll lie with you, for my lodging is too far off.
_Dap._ Then I will go before, and expect you at mine. [_Exeunt._
SCENE IV.--VINCENT'S _Lodging._
_Enter_ VINCENT _and_ VALENTINE _in a riding habit, as newly from a
journey._
_Vin._ Your mistress, dear Valentine, will not be more glad to see you!
but my wonder is no less than my joy, that you would return ere you
were informed Clerimont were out of danger. His surgeons themselves
have not been assured of his recovery till within these two days.
_Val._ I feared my mistress, not my life. My life I could trust again
with my old enemy Fortune; but no longer my mistress in the hands of my
greater enemies, her relations.
_Vin._ Your fear was in the wrong place, then: for though my Lord
Clerimont live, he and his relations may put you in more danger of your
life than your mistress's relations can of losing her.
_Val._ Would any could secure me her! I would myself secure my life,
for I should value it then.
_Vin._ Come, come; her relations can do you no hurt. I dare swear, if
her mother should but say, "Your hat did not cock handsomely," she
would never ask her blessing again.
_Val._ Prithee leave thy fooling, and tell me if, since my departure,
she has given evidences of her love, to clear those doubts I went away
with:--for as absence is the bane of common and bastard love, 'tis the
vindication of that which is true and generous.
_Vin._ Nay, if you could ever doubt her love, you deserve to doubt on;
for there is no punishment great enough for jealousy--but jealousy.
_Val._ You may remember, I told you before my flight I had quarrelled
with the defamer of my mistress, but I thought I had killed my rival.
_Vin._ But pray give me now the answer which the suddenness of your
flight denied me;--how could Clerimont hope to subdue her heart by the
assault of her honour?
_Val._ Pish! it might be the stratagem of a rival to make me desist.
_Vin._ For shame! if 'twere not rather to vindicate her, than satisfy
you, I would not tell you how like a Penelope she has behaved herself
in your absence.
_Val._ Let me know.
_Vin._ Then know, the next day you went she put herself in mourning,
and--
_Val._ That might be for Clerimont, thinking him dead, as all the world
besides thought.
_Vin._ Still turning the dagger's point on yourself! hear me out. I say
she put herself into mourning for you--locked herself in her chamber
this month for you--shut out her barking relations for you--has not
seen the sun or the face of man since she saw you--thinks and talks of
nothing but you--sends to me daily to hear of you--and, and, in short,
(I think,) is mad for you. All this I can swear; for I am to her so
near a neighbour, and so inquisitive a friend for you--
_Enter_ Servant.
_Serv._ Mr. Ranger, sir, is coming up.
_Vin._ What brings him now? he comes to lie with me.
_Val._ Who, Ranger?
_Vin._ Yes. Pray retire a little, till I send him off:--unless you have
a mind to have your arrival published to-morrow in the coffee houses.
[VALENTINE _retires to the door behind._
_Enter_ RANGER.
_Ran._ What! not yet a-bed? your man is laying you to sleep with
usquebaugh or brandy; is he not so?
_Vin._ What punk[35] will not be troubled with you to-night, therefore
I am?--is it not so?
_Ran._ I have been turned out of doors, indeed, just now, by a
woman,--but such a woman, Vincent!
_Vin._ Yes, yes, your women are always such women!
_Ran._ A neighbour of yours, and I'm sure the finest you have.
_Vin._ Prithee do not asperse my neighbourhood with your acquaintance;
'twould bring a scandal upon an alley.
_Ran._ Nay, I do not know her; therefore I come to you.
_Vin._ 'Twas no wonder she turned you out of doors, then; and if she
had known you, 'twould have been a wonder she had let you stay. But
where does she live?
_Ran._ Five doors off, on the right hand.
_Vin._ Pish! pish!--
_Ran._ What's the matter?
_Vin._ Does she live there, do you say?
_Ran._ Yes; I observed them exactly, that my account from you might be
exact. Do you know who lives there?
_Vin._ Yes, so well, that I know you are mistaken.
_Ran._ Is she not a young lady scarce eighteen, of extraordinary
beauty, her stature next to low, and in mourning?
_Val._ What is this? [_Aside._
_Vin._ She is; but if you saw her, you broke in at window.
_Ran._ I chased her home from the Park, indeed, taking her for another
lady who had some claim to my heart, till she showed a better title
to't.
_Vin._ Hah! hah! hah!
_Val._ Was she at the Park, then? and have I a new rival? [_Aside._
_Vin._ From the Park did you follow her, do you say?--I knew you were
mistaken.
_Ran._ I tell you I am not.
_Vin._ If you are sure it was that house, it might be perhaps her woman
stolen to the Park, unknown to her lady.
_Ran._ My acquaintance does usually begin with the maid first, but now
'twas with the mistress, I assure you.
_Vin._ The mistress!--I tell you she has not been out of her doors
since Valentine's flight. She is his mistress,--the great heiress,
Christina.
_Ran._ I tell you then again, I followed that Christina from the Park
home, where I talked with her half an hour, and intend to see her to
morrow again.
_Val._ Would she talk with him too! [_Aside._
_Vin._ It cannot be.
_Ran._ Christina do you call her? Faith I am sorry she is an heiress,
lest it should bring the scandal of interest, and the design of lucre,
upon my love.
_Vin._ No, no, her face and virtues will free you from that censure.
But, however, 'tis not fairly done to rival your friend Valentine in
his absence; and when he is present you know 'twill be dangerous, by
my Lord Clerimont's example. Faith, if you have seen her, I would not
advise you to attempt it again.
_Ran._ You may be merry, sir, you are not in love; your advice I come
not for, nor will I for your assistance;--Good night. [_Exit._
_Val._ Here's your Penelope! the woman that had not seen the sun, nor
face of man, since my departure! for it seems she goes out in the
night, when the sun is absent, and faces are not distinguished.
_Vin._ Why! do you believe him?
_Val._ Should I believe you?
_Vin._ 'Twere more for your interest, and you would be less deceived.
If you believe him, you must doubt the chastity of all the fine women
in town, and five miles about.
_Val._ His reports of them will little invalidate his testimony with me.
_Vin._ He spares not the innocents in bibs and aprons. I'll secure you,
he has made (at best) some gross mistake concerning Christina, which
to-morrow will discover; in the meantime let us go to sleep.
_Val._ I will not hinder you, because I cannot enjoy it myself:--
Hunger, Revenge, to sleep are petty foes,
But only Death the jealous eyes can close.
[_Exeunt._
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.--_A Room in_ Mrs. CROSSBITE'S _House._
_Enter_ Mrs. JOYNER _and_ Mrs. CROSSBITE.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Good morrow, gossip.
_Mrs. Cros._ Good morrow;--but why up so early, good gossip?
_Mrs. Joyn._ My care and passionate concern for you and yours would not
let me rest, in truly.
_Mrs. Cros._ For me and mine?
_Mrs. Joyn._ You know we have known one another long; I think it be
some nine-and-thirty years since you were married.
_Mrs. Cros._ Nine-and thirty years old, mistress! I'd have you to
know, I am no far-born child; and if the register had not been burned
in the last great fire, alas!--but my face needs no register sure;
nine-and-thirty years old, said you?
_Mrs. Joyn._ I said you had been so long married; but, indeed, you bear
your years as well as any she in Pepper-alley.
_Mrs. Cros._ Nine-and-thirty, mistress!
_Mrs. Joyn._ This it is; a woman, now-a-days, had rather you should
find her faulty with a man, I warrant you, than discover her age, I
warrant you.
_Mrs. Cros._ Marry, and 'tis the greatest secret far. Tell a miser he
is rich, and a woman she is old,--you will get no money of him, not
kindness of her. To tell me I was nine-and-thirty--(I say no more)
'twas un-neighbourly done of you, mistress.
_Mrs. Joyn._ My memory confesses my age, it seems, as much as my face;
for I thought--
_Mrs. Cros._ Pray talk nor think no more of any one's age; but say what
brought you hither so early.
_Mrs. Joyn._ How does my sweet god-daughter, poor wretch?
_Mrs. Cros._ Well, very well.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Ah, sweet creature! Alas! alas!--I am sorry for her.
_Mrs. Cros._ Why, what has she done to deserve your sorrow, or my
reprehension?
_Enter_ LUCY, _and stands unseen at the door._
_Lucy._ What, are they talking of me? [_Aside._
_Mrs. Joyn._ In short, she was seen going into the meeting-house of the
wicked, otherwise called the playhouse, hand in hand with that vile
fellow Dapperwit.
_Mrs. Cros._ Mr. Dapperwit! let me tell you, if 'twere not for Master
Dapperwit, we might have lived all this vacation upon green cheese,
tripe, and ox cheek. If he had it, we should not want it; but, poor
gentleman! it often goes hard with him,--for he's a wit.
_Mrs. Joyn._ So, then, you are the dog to be fed, while the house is
broken up! I say, beware! The sweet bits you swallow will make your
daughter's belly swell, mistress; and, after all your junkets, there
will be a bone for you to pick, mistress.
_Mrs. Cros._ Sure, Master Dapperwit is no such manner of man!
_Mrs. Joyn._ He is a wit, you say; and what are wits, but contemners
of matrons, seducers, or defamers of married women, and deflowerers
of helpless virgins, even in the streets, upon the very bulks[36];
affronters of midnight magistracy, and breakers of windows? in a word--
_Mrs. Cros._ But he is a little wit, a modest wit, and they do no such
outrageous things as your great wits do.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Nay, I dare say, he will not say himself he is a little
wit if you ask him.
_Lucy._ Nay, I cannot hear this with patience.--[_Comes forward._] With
your pardon, mother, you are as much mistaken as my godmother in Mr.
Dapperwit; for he is as great a wit as any, and in what he speaks or
writes as happy as any. I can assure you, he contemns all your tearing
wits, in comparison of himself.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Alas, poor young wretch! I cannot blame thee so much as
thy mother, for thou art not thyself. His bewitching madrigals have
charmed thee into some heathenish imp with a hard name.
_Lucy._ Nymph, you mean, godmother.
_Mrs. Joyn._ But you, gossip, know what's what. Yesterday, as I told
you, a fine old alderman of the city, seeing your daughter in so ill
hands as Dapperwit's, was zealously, and in pure charity, bent upon her
redemption; and has sent me to tell you, he will take her into his care
and relieve your necessities, if you think good.
_Mrs. Cros._ Will he relieve all our necessities?
_Mrs. Joyn._ All.
_Mrs. Cros._ Mine, as well as my daughter's?
_Mrs. Joyn._ Yes.
_Mrs. Cros._ Well fare his heart!--D'ye hear, daughter, Mrs. Joyner has
satisfied me clearly; Dapperwit is a vile fellow, and, in short, you
must put an end to that scandalous familiarity between you.
_Lucy._ Leave sweet Mr. Dapperwit!--oh furious ingratitude! Was he not
the man that gave me my first Farrendon[37] gown, put me out of worsted
stockings and handkerchiefs, taught me to dress, talk, and move well?
_Mrs. Cros._ He has taught you to talk indeed; but, huswife, I will not
have my pleasure disputed.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Nay, indeed, you are too tart with her, poor sweet soul.
_Lucy._ He taught me to rehearse, too,--would have brought me into the
playhouse, where I might have had as good luck as others: I might have
had good clothes, plate, jewels, and things so well about me, that my
neighbours, the little gentlemen's wives of fifteen hundred or two
thousand pounds a year, should have retired into the country, sick with
envy of my prosperity and greatness.
_Mrs. Joyn._ If you follow your mother's counsel, you are like to enjoy
all you talk of sooner than by Dapperwit's assistance:--a poor wretch
that goes on tick for the paper he writes his lampoons on, and the very
ale and coffee that inspire him, as they say.
_Mrs. Cros._ I am credibly informed so, indeed, Madam Joyner.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Well, I have discharged my conscience; good morrow to you
both. [_Exeunt severally._
SCENE II.--Mrs. CROSSBITE'S _Dining-room._
_Enter_ DAPPERWIT _and_ RANGER.
_Dap._ This is the cabinet in which I hide my jewel; a small house, in
an obscure, little, retired street, too.
_Ran._ Vulgarly, an alley.
_Dap._ Nay, I hide my mistress with as much care as a spark of the town
does his money from his dun after a good hand at play; and nothing but
you could have wrought upon me for a sight of her, let me perish.
_Ran._ My obligation to you is great; do not lessen it by delays of the
favour you promised.
_Dap._ But do not censure my honour; for if you had not been in a
desperate condition,--for as one nail must beat out another, one
poison expel another, one fire draw out another, one fit of drinking
cure the sickness of another,--so, the surfeit you took last night of
Christina's eyes shall be cured by Lucy's this morning; or as--
_Ran._ Nay, I bar more similitudes.
_Dap._ What, in my mistress's lodging? that were as hard as to bar
a young parson in the pulpit, the fifth of November, railing at the
Church of Rome; or as hard as to put you to bed to Lucy and defend you
from touching her; or as--
_Ran._ Or as hard as to make you hold your tongue.--I shall not see
your mistress, I see.
_Dap._ Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy!--[_Knocks at the door and returns._]--The
devil take me, if good men (I say no more) have not been upon their
knees to me, to see her, and you at last must obtain it.
_Ran._ I do not believe you.
_Dap._ 'Tis such as she; she is beautiful without affectation; amorous
without impertinency; airy and brisk without impudence; frolic without
rudeness; and, in a word, the justest creature breathing to her
assignation.
_Ran._ You praise her as if you had a mind to part with her; and yet
you resolve, I see, to keep her to yourself.
_Dap._ Keep her! poor creature, she cannot leave me; and rather than
leave her, I would leave writing lampoons or sonnets almost.
_Ran._ Well, I'll leave you with her then.
_Dap._ What, will you go without seeing her?
_Ran._ Rather than stay without seeing her.
_Dap._ Yes, yes, you shall see her; but let me perish if I have not
been offered a hundred guineas for a sight of her; by--I say no more.
_Ran._ [_Aside._] I understand you now.--[_Aloud._] If the favour be to
be purchased, then I'll bid all I have about me for't.
_Dap._ Fy, fy, Mr. Ranger! you are pleasant, i'faith. Do you think I
would sell the sight of my rarity?--like those gentlemen who hang out
flags at Charing Cross, or like--
_Ran._ Nay, then I'm gone again.
_Dap._ What, you take it ill I refuse your money? rather than that
should be, give us it; but take notice I will borrow it. Now I think
on't, Lucy wants a gown and some knacks.
_Ran._ Here.
_Dap._ But I must pay it you again: I will not take it unless you
engage your honour I shall pay it you again.
_Ran._ You must pardon me; I will not engage my honour for such a
trifle. Go, fetch her out.
_Dap._ Well, she's a ravishing creature: such eyes and lips, Mr. Ranger!
_Ran._ Prithee go.
_Dap._ Such neck and breasts, Mr. Ranger!
_Ran._ Again, prithee go.
_Dap._ Such feet, legs, and thighs, Mr. Ranger!
_Ran._ Prithee let me see 'em.
_Dap._ And a mouth no bigger than your ring!--I need say no more.
_Ran._ Would thou wert never to speak again!
_Dap._ And then so neat, so sweet a creature in bed, that, to my
knowledge, she does not change her sheets in half a year.
_Ran._ I thank you for that allay to my impatience.
_Dap._ Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy! Miss!--[_Knocking at the door._
_Ran._ Will she not open? I am afraid my pretty miss is not stirring,
and therefore will not admit us. Is she not gone her walk to Lamb's
Conduit?[38]
_Dap._ Fy, fy, a quibble next your stomach in a morning! What if she
should hear us? would you lose a mistress for a quibble? that's more
than I could do, let me perish!--She's within, I hear her.
_Ran._ But she will not hear you; she's as deaf as if you were a dun or
a constable.
_Dap._ Pish! give her but leave to gape, rub her eyes, and put on her
day pinner; the long patch under the left eye; awaken the roses on
her cheeks with some Spanish wool, and warrant her breath with some
lemon-peel; the doors fly off the hinges, and she into my arms. She
knows there is as much artifice to keep a victory as to gain it; and
'tis a sign she values the conquest of my heart.
_Ran._ I thought her beauty had not stood in need of art.
_Dap._ Beauty's a coward still without the help of art, and may have
the fortune of a conquest but cannot keep it. Beauty and art can no
more be asunder than love and honour.
_Ran._ Or, to speak more like yourself, wit and judgment.
_Dap._ Don't you hear the door wag yet?
_Ran._ Not a whit.
_Dap._ Miss! miss! 'tis your slave that calls. Come, all this tricking
for him!--Lend me your comb, Mr. Ranger.
_Ran._ No, I am to be preferred to-day, you are to set me off. You are
in possession, I will not lend you arms to keep me out.
_Dap._ A pox! don't let me be ungrateful; if she has smugged herself up
for me, let me prune and flounce my peruke a little for her. There's
ne'er a young fellow in the town but will do as much for a mere
stranger in the playhouse.
_Ran._ A wit's wig has the privilege of being uncombed in the very
playhouse, or in the presence.
_Dap._ But not in the presence of his mistress; 'tis a greater neglect
of her than himself. Pray lend me your comb.
_Ran._ I would not have men of wit and courage make use of every fop's
mean arts to keep or gain a mistress.
_Dap._ But don't you see every day, though a man have never so much wit
and courage, his mistress will revolt to those fops that wear and comb
perukes well. I'll break off the bargain, and will not receive you my
partner.
_Ran._ Therefore you see I am setting up for myself. [_Combs his
peruke._
_Dap._ She comes, she comes!--pray, your comb. [_Snatches_ RANGER'S
_comb._
_Enter_ Mrs. CROSSBITE.
_Mrs. Cros._ Bargain!--what, are you offering us to sale?
_Dap._ A pox! is't she?--Here take your comb again, then. [_Returns the
comb._
_Mrs. Cros._ Would you sell us? 'tis like you, y'fads.
_Dap._ Sell thee!--where should we find a chapman? Go, prithee, mother,
call out my dear Miss Lucy.
_Mrs. Cros._ Your Miss Lucy! I do not wonder you have the conscience to
bargain for us behind our backs, since you have the impudence to claim
a propriety in us to my face.
_Ran._ How's this, Dapperwit?
_Dap._ Come, come, this gentleman will not think the worse of a woman
for my acquaintance with her. He has seen me bring your daughter to the
lure with a chiney-orange, from one side of the playhouse to the other.
_Mrs. Cros._ I would have the gentleman and you to know my daughter is
a girl of reputation, though she has been seen in your company; but is
now so sensible of her past danger, that she is resolved never more to
venture her pitcher to the well, as they say.
_Dap._ How's that, widow? I wonder at your confidence.
_Mrs. Cros._ I wonder at your old impudence, that where you have had so
frequent repulses you should provoke another, and bring your friend
here to witness your disgrace.
_Dap._ Hark you, widow, a little.
_Mrs. Cros._ What, have you mortgaged my daughter to that gentleman;
and now would offer me a snip to join in the security!
_Dap._ [_Aside._] She overhead me talk of a bargain;--'twas
unlucky.--[_Aloud._] Your wrath is grounded upon a mistake; Miss Lucy
herself shall be judge; call her out, pray.
_Mrs. Cros._ She shall not; she will not come to you.
_Dap._ Till I hear it from her own mouth, I cannot believe it.
_Mrs. Cros._ You shall hear her say't through the door.
_Dap._ I shall doubt it unless she say it to my face.
_Mrs. Cros._ Shall we be troubled with you no more then?
_Dap._ If she command my death, I cannot disobey her.
_Mrs. Cros._ Come out, child.
_Enter_ LUCY, _holding down her head._
_Dap._ Your servant, dearest miss: can you have--
_Mrs. Cros._ Let me ask her.
_Dap._ No, I'll ask her.
_Ran._ I'll throw up cross or pile[39] who shall ask her.
_Dap._ Can you have the heart to say you will never more break a
cheese-cake with me at New Spring Garden,[40] the Neat-house, or
Chelsea? never more sit in my lap at a new play? never more wear a
suit of knots of my choice? and, last of all, never more pass away an
afternoon with me again in the Green Garret?--do not forget the Green
Garret.
_Lucy._ I wish I had never seen the Green Garret.--Damn the Green
Garret!
_Dap._ Damn the Green Garret!--You are strangely altered!
_Lucy._ 'Tis you are altered.
_Dap._ You have refused Colby's Mulberry-garden, and the French houses,
for the Green Garret; and a little something in the Green Garret
pleased you more than the best treat the other places could yield; and
can you of a sudden quit the Green Garret?
_Lucy._ Since you have a design to pawn me for the rent, 'tis time to
remove my goods.
_Dap._ Thou art extremely mistaken.
_Lucy._ Besides, I have heard such strange things of you this morning.
_Dap._ What things?
_Lucy._ I blush to speak 'em.
_Dap._ I know my innocence, therefore take my charge as a favour. What
have I done?
_Lucy._ Then know, vile wit, my mother has confessed just now thou wert
false to me, to her too certain knowledge; and hast forced even her to
be false to me too.
_Dap._ Faults in drink, Lucy, when we are not ourselves, should not
condemn us.
_Lucy._ And now to let me out to hire like a hackney!--I tell you my
own dear mother shall bargain for me no more; there are as little as I
can bargain for themselves now-a-days, as well as properer women.
_Mrs. Cros._ Whispering all this while!--Beware of his snares again:
come away, child.
_Dap._ Sweet, dear miss--
_Lucy._ Bargain for me!--you have reckoned without your hostess, as
they say. Bargain for me! bargain for me! [_Exit._
_Dap._ I must return, then, to treat with you.
_Mrs. Cros._ Treat me no treatings, but take a word for all. You shall
no more dishonour my daughter, nor molest my lodgings, as you have done
at all hours.
_Dap._ Do you intend to change 'em, then, to Bridewell, or Long's
powdering-tub?[41]
_Mrs. Cros._ No, to a bailiff's house, and then you'll be so civil, I
presume, as not to trouble us.
_Ran._ Here, will you have my comb again, Dapperwit?
_Dap._ A pox! I think women take inconstancy from me worse than from
any man breathing.
_Mrs. Cros._ Pray, sir, forget me before you write your next lampoon.
[_Exit._
_Enter_ Sir SIMON ADDLEPLOT _in the dress of a_ Clerk.--RANGER
_retires to the background._
_Sir Sim._ Have I found you? have I found you in your by-walks, faith
and troth? I am almost out of breath in following you. Gentlemen when
they get into an alley walk so fast, as if they had more earnest
business there than in the broad streets.
_Dap._ [_Aside._]--How came this sot hither? Fortune has sent him to
ease my choler.--You impudent rascal, who are you, that dare intrude
thus on us? [_Strikes him._
_Sir Sim._ Don't you know me, Dapperwit? sure you know me. [_Softly._
_Dap._ Will thou dishonour me with thy acquaintance too? thou rascally,
insolent, pen-and-ink man. [_Strikes him again._
_Sir Sim._ Oh! oh! sure you know me! pray know me. [_Softly._
_Dap._ By thy saucy familiarity, thou shouldst be a marker at a
tennis-court, a barber, or a slave that fills coffee.
_Sir Sim._ Oh! oh!
_Dap._ What art thou? [_Kicks him._
_Sir Sim._ Nay, I must not discover myself to Ranger for a kick or two.
Oh, pray hold, sir: by that you will know me. [_Delivers him a letter._
_Dap._ How, Sir Simon!
_Sir Sim._ Mum, mum, make no excuses, man; I would not Ranger should
have known me for five hundred--kicks.
_Dap._ Your disguise is so natural, I protest, it will excuse me.
_Sir Sim._ I know that, prithee make no excuses, I say. No ceremony
between thee and I, man:--read the letter.
_Dap._ What, you have not opened it!
_Sir Sim._ Prithee, don't be angry, the seal is a little cracked: for I
could not help kissing Mrs. Martha's letter. The word is, now or never.
Her father she finds will be abroad all this day, and she longs to see
your friend Sir Simon Addleplot:--faith 'tis a pretty jest; while I am
with her, and praising myself to her at no ordinary rate. Let thee and
I alone at an intrigue.
_Dap._ Tell her I will not fail to meet her at the place and time. Have
a care of your charge; and manage your business like yourself, for
yourself.
_Sir Sim._ I warrant you.
_Dap._ The gaining Gripe's daughter will make me support the loss of
this young jilt here. [_Aside._
_Ran._ [_Coming forward._] What fellow's that?
_Dap._ A servant to a friend of mine.
_Ran._ Methinks he something resembles our acquaintance Sir Simon;
but it is no compliment to tell him so: for that knight is the most
egregious coxcomb that ever played with lady's fan.
_Sir Sim._ So! thanks to my disguise, I know my enemies! [_Aside._
_Ran._ The most incorrigible ass, beyond the reproof of a kicking rival
or a frowning mistress. But, if it be possible, thou dost use him worse
than his mistress or rival can; thou dost make such a cully of him.
_Sir Sim._ Does he think so too? [_Aside._
_Dap._ Go, friend, go about your business.--[_Exit_ Sir SIMON.] A pox!
you would spoil all, just in the critical time of projection. He brings
me here a summons from his mistress, to meet her in the evening; will
you come to my wedding?
_Ran._ Don't speak so loud, you'll break poor Lucy's heart. Poor
creature, she cannot leave you; and, rather than leave her, you would
leave writing of lampoons or sonnets--almost.
_Dap._ Come, let her go, ungrateful baggage!--But now you talk of
sonnets, I am no living wit if her love has not cost me two thousand
couplets at least.
_Ran._ But what would you give, now, for a new satire against women,
ready made?--'Twould be as convenient to buy satires against women
ready made, as it is to buy cravats ready tied.
_Dap._ Or as--
_Ran._ Hey, come away, come away, Mr., or as--[_Exeunt._
SCENE III.--_A Room in_ Mrs. CROSSBITE'S _House._
_Enter_ Mrs. JOYNER _and_ GRIPE.
_Gripe._ Peace, plenty, and pastime be within these walls!
_Mrs. Joyn._ 'Tis a small house, you see, and mean furniture; for no
gallants are suffered to come hither. She might have had ere now as
good lodgings as any in town; her Mortlake[42] hangings, great glasses,
cabinets, china, embroidered beds, Persia carpets, gold-plate, and
the like, if she would have put herself forward. But your worship
may please to make 'em remove to a place fit to receive one of your
worship's quality; for this is a little scandalous, in truly.
_Gripe._ No, no; I like it well enough:--I am not dainty. Besides,
privacy, privacy, Mrs. Joyner! I love privacy in opposition to the
wicked, who hate it. [_Looks about._
_Mrs. Joyn._ What do you look for, sir?
_Gripe._ Walls have ears; but, besides, I look for a private place to
retire to, in time of need. Oh! here's one convenient. [_Turns up a
hanging, and discovers the slender provisions of the family._]
_Mrs. Joyn._ But you see, poor innocent souls, to what use they put
it;--not to hide gallants.
_Gripe._ Temperance is the nurse of chastity.
_Mrs. Joyn._ But your worship may please to mend their fare; and, when
you come, may make them entertain you better than, you see, they do
themselves.
_Gripe._ No, I am not dainty, as I told you. I abominate
entertainments;--no entertainments, pray, Mrs. Joyner.
_Mrs. Joyn._ No! [_Aside._
_Gripe._ There can be no entertainment to me more luscious and savoury
than communion with that little gentlewoman.--Will you call her out? I
fast till I see her.
_Mrs. Joyn._ But, in truly, your worship, we should have brought a
bottle or two of Rhenish and some Naples biscuit, to have entertained
the young gentlewoman. 'Tis the mode for lovers to treat their
mistresses.
_Gripe._ Modes! I tell you, Mrs. Joyner, I hate modes and forms.
_Mrs. Joyn._ You must send for something to entertain her with.
_Gripe._ Again entertaining!--we will be to each other a feast.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I shall be ashamed, in truly, your worship.--Besides, the
young gentlewoman will despise you.
_Gripe._ I shall content her, I warrant you; leave it to me.
_Mrs. Joyn._ [_Aside._] I am sure you will not content me, if you will
not content her; 'tis as impossible for a man to love and be a miser,
as to love and be wise, as they say.
_Gripe._ While you talk of treats, you starve my eyes; I long to see
the fair one; fetch her hither.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I am ashamed she should find me so abominable a liar;
I have so praised you to her, and, above all your virtues, your
liberality; which is so great a virtue, that it often excuses youth,
beauty, courage, wit, or anything.
_Gripe._ Pish, pish! 'tis the virtue of fools; every fool can have it.
_Mrs. Joyn._ And will your worship want it, then? I told her--
_Gripe._ Why would you tell her anything of me? you know I am a modest
man. But come, if you will have me as extravagant as the wicked, take
that and fetch us a treat, as you call it.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Upon my life a groat! what will this purchase?
_Gripe._ Two black pots of ale and a cake, at the cellar.--Come, the
wine has arsenic in't.
_Mrs. Joyn._ [_Aside._] Well, I am mistaken, and my hopes are abused: I
never knew any man so mortified a miser, that he would deny his lechery
anything; I must be even with thee then another way. [_Exit._
_Gripe._ These useful old women are more exorbitant and craving in
their desires than the young ones in theirs. These prodigals in white
perukes spoil 'em both; and that's the reason, when the squires come
under my clutches, I make 'em pay for their folly and mine, and 'tis
but conscience:--oh, here comes the fair one at last!
_Re-enter_ Mrs. JOYNER _leading in_ LUCY, _who hangs backwards
as she enters._
_Lucy._ Oh Lord, there's a man, godmother!
_Mrs. Joyn._ Come in, child, thou art so bashful--
_Lucy._ My mother is from home too, I dare not.
_Mrs. Joyn._ If she were here, she'd teach you better manners.
_Lucy._ I'm afraid she'd be angry.
_Mrs. Joyn._ To see you so much an ass.--Come along, I say.
_Gripe._ Nay, speak to her gently; if you won't, I will.
_Lucy._ Thank you, sir.
_Gripe._ Pretty innocent! there is, I see, one left of her age; what
hap have I! Sweet little gentlewoman, come sit down by me.
_Lucy._ I am better bred, I hope, sir.
_Gripe._ You must sit down by me.
_Lucy._ I'd rather stand, if you please.
_Gripe._ To please me, you must sit, sweetest.
_Lucy._ Not before my godmother, sure.
_Gripe._ Wonderment of innocence!
_Mrs. Joyn._ A poor bashful girl, sir: I'm sorry she is not better
taught.
_Gripe._ I am glad she is not taught; I'll teach her myself.
_Lucy._ Are you a dancing-master then, sir? But if I should be dull,
and not move as you would have me, you would not beat me, sir, I hope?
_Gripe._ Beat thee, honeysuckle! I'll use thee thus, and thus, and
thus. [_Kisses her._] Ah, Mrs. Joyner, prithee go fetch our treat now.
_Mrs. Joyn._ A treat of a groat! I will not wag.
_Gripe._ Why don't you go? Here, take more money, and fetch what you
will; take here, half-a-crown.
_Mrs. Joyn._ What will half-a-crown do?
_Gripe._ Take a crown then, an angel, a piece;[43]--begone!
_Mrs. Joyn._ A treat only will not serve my turn; I must buy the poor
wretch there some toys.
_Gripe._ What toys? what? speak quickly.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Pendants, necklaces, fans, ribbons, points, laces,
stockings, gloves--
_Gripe._ Hold, hold! before it comes to a gown.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Well remembered, sir; indeed she wants a gown, for she has
but that one to her back. For your own sake you should give her a new
gown, for variety of dresses rouses desire, and makes an old mistress
seem every day a new one.
_Gripe._ For that reason she shall have no new gown; for I am naturally
constant, and as I am still the same, I love she should be still the
same. But here, take half a piece for the other things.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Half a piece!--
_Gripe._ Prithee, begone!--take t'other piece then--two pieces--three
pieces--five! here, 'tis all I have.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I must have the broad-seal ring too, or l stir not.
_Gripe._ Insatiable woman! will you have that too! Prithee spare me
that, 'twas my grandfather's.
_Mrs. Joyn._ That's false, he had ne'er a coat.--So! now I go; this is
but a violent fit, and will not hold. [_Aside._
_Lucy._ Oh! whither do you go, godmother? will you leave me alone?
_Mrs. Joyn._ The gentleman will not hurt you; you may venture yourself
with him alone.
_Lucy._ I think I may, godmother.--[_Exit_ Mrs. JOYNER.] What! will you
lock me in, sir? don't lock me in, sir. [GRIPE, _fumbling at the door,
locks it._
_Gripe._ 'Tis a private lesson, I must teach you, fair.
_Lucy._ I don't see your fiddle, sir; where is your little kit?
_Gripe._ I'll show it thee presently, sweetest.--[_Sets a chair against
the door._]--Necessity, mother of invention!--Come, my dearest. [_Takes
her in his arms._
_Lucy._ What do you mean, sir? don't hurt me, sir, will you--Oh! oh!
you will kill me! Murder! murder!--Oh! oh!--help! help! oh!
_The door is broken open; enter_ Mrs. CROSSBITE, _and her_
Landlord, _and his_ 'Prentice, _in aprons._
_Mrs. Cros._ What, murder my daughter, villain!
_Lucy._ I wish he had murdered me.--Oh! oh!
_Mrs. Cros._ What has he done?
_Lucy._ Why would you go out, and leave me alone? unfortunate woman
that I am!
_Gripe._ How now, what will this end in? [_Aside._
_Mrs. Cros._ Who brought him in?
_Lucy._ That witch, that treacherous false woman, my godmother, who has
betrayed me, sold me to his lust.--Oh! oh!--
_Mrs. Cros._ Have you ravished my daughter, then, you old goat?
ravished my daughter!--ravished my daughter! speak, villain.
_Gripe._ By yea and by nay, no such matter.
_Mrs. Cros._ A canting rogue, too! Take notice, landlord, he has
ravished my daughter, you see her all in tears and distraction; and see
there the wicked engine of the filthy execution.--[_Pointing to the
chair._]--Jeremy, call up the neighbours, and the constable,--False
villain! thou shalt die for it.
_Gripe._ Hold! hold!--[_Aside._]--Nay, I am caught.
_Mrs. Cros._ Go, go, make haste--
_Lucy._ Oh! oh!--
_Mrs. Cros._ Poor wretch!--Go quickly.
_Gripe._ Hold! hold!--Thou young spawn of the old serpent! wicked, as I
thought thee innocent! wilt thou say I would have ravished thee?
_Lucy._ I will swear you did ravish me.
_Gripe._ I thought so, treacherous Eve!--then I am gone, I must shift
as well as I can.
_Lucy._ Oh! oh!--
_Mrs. Cros._ Will none of you call up the neighbours, and the authority
of the alley?
_Gripe._ Hold, I'll give you twenty mark[44] among you to let me go.
_Mrs. Cros._ Villain! nothing shall buy thy life.
_Land._ But stay, Mrs. Crossbite, let me talk with you.
_Lucy._ Oh! oh!--
_Land._ Come, sir, I am your friend:--in a word, I have appeased her,
and she shall be contented with a little sum.
_Gripe._ What is it? what is it?
_Land._ But five hundred pounds.
_Gripe._ But five hundred pounds!--hang me then, hang me rather.
_Land._ You will say I have been your friend.
_Pren._ The constable and neighbours are a-coming.
_Gripe._ How, how; will you not take a hundred? pray use conscience in
your ways. [_Kneels to_ Mrs. CROSSBITE.
_Mrs. Cros._ I scorn your money! I will not take a thousand.
_Gripe._ [_Aside._] My enemies are many, and I shall be a scandal
to the faithful, as a laughing-stock to the wicked.--[_Aloud._]
Go, prepare your engines for my persecution; I'll give you the best
security I can.
_Land._ The instruments are drawing in the other room, if you please to
go thither.
_Mrs. Cros._ Indeed, now I consider, a portion will do my daughter
more good than his death. That would but publish her shame; money will
cover it--_probatum est_, as they say. Let me tell you, sir, 'tis a
charitable thing to give a young maid a portion. [_Exeunt._
SCENE IV.--LYDIA'S _Lodging._
_Enter_ LYDIA _and_ Lady FLIPPANT, _attended by_ LEONORE.
_Lyd._ 'Tis as hard for a woman to conceal her indignation from her
apostate lover, as to conceal her love from her faithful servant.
_L. Flip._ Or almost as hard as it is for the prating fellows
now-a-days to conceal the favours of obliging ladies.
_Lyd._ If Ranger should come up, (I saw him just now in the street,)
the discovery of my anger to him now would be as mean as the discovery
of my love to him before.
_L. Flip._ Though I did so mean a thing as to love a fellow, I would
not do so mean a thing as to confess it, certainly, by my trouble to
part with him. If I confessed love, it should be before they left me.
_Lyd._ So you would deserve to be left, before you were. But could you
ever do so mean a thing as to confess love to any?
_L. Flip._ Yes; but I never did so mean a thing as really to love any.
_Lyd._ You had once a husband.
_L. Flip._ Fy! madam, do you think me so ill bred as to love a husband?
_Lyd._ You had a widow's heart, before you were a widow, I see.
_L. Flip._ I should rather make an adventure of my honour with a
gallant for a gown, a new coach, a necklace, than clap my husband's
cheeks for them, or sit in his lap. I should be as ashamed to be caught
in such a posture with a husband, as a brisk well-bred spark of the
town would be to be caught on his knees at prayers--unless to his
mistress.
_Enter_ RANGER _and_ DAPPERWIT.
_Lyd._ Mr. Ranger, 'twas obligingly done of you.
_Ran._ Indeed, cousin, I had kept my promise with you last night, but
this gentleman knows--
_Lyd._ You mistake me; but you shall not lessen any favour you do to
me. You are going to excuse your not coming to me last night, when I
take it as a particular obligation, that though you threatened me with
a visit, upon consideration you were so civil as not to trouble me.
_Dap._ This is an unlucky morning with me! here's my eternal
persecution, the widow Flippant. [_Aside._
_L. Flip._ What, Mr. Dapperwit! [DAPPERWIT _retires to the back of the
stage, followed by_ LADY FLIPPANT.
_Ran._ Indeed, cousin, besides my business, another cause I did
not wait on you was, my apprehension you were gone to the Park,
notwithstanding your promise to the contrary.
_Lyd._ Therefore, you went to the Park to visit me there,
notwithstanding your promise to the contrary?
_Ran._ Who, I at the Park! when I had promised to wait upon you at your
lodging! But were you at the Park, madam?
_Lyd._ Who, I at the Park! when I had promised to wait for you at
home! I was no more at the Park than you were. Were you at the Park?
_Ran._ The Park had been a dismal desert to me, notwithstanding all the
good company in it, if I had wanted yours.
_Lyd._ [_Aside._] Because it has been the constant endeavour of men
to keep women ignorant, they think us so; but 'tis that increases
our inquisitiveness, and makes us know them ignorant as false. He is
as impudent a dissembler as the widow Flippant, who is making her
importunate addresses in vain, for aught I see.
[Lady FLIPPANT _comes forward, driving_ DAPPERWIT _from one
side of the stage to the other._
_L. Flip._ Dear Mr. Dapperwit! merciful Mr. Dapperwit!
_Dap._ Unmerciful Lady Flippant!
_L. Flip._ Will you be satisfied?
_Dap._ Won't you be satisfied?
_L. Flip._ That a wit should be jealous; that a wit should be jealous!
there's never a brisk young fellow in the town, though no wit, Heaven
knows, but thinks too well of himself, to think ill of his wife or
mistress. Now, that a wit should lessen his opinion of himself;--for
shame!
_Dap._ I promised to bring you off, but I find it enough to shift for
myself--[_Softly, apart to_ RANGER.
_Lyd._ What! out of breath, madam!
_L. Flip._ I have been defending our cause, madam; I have beat him out
of the pit. I do so mumble these prating, censorious fellows they call
wits, when I meet with them.
_Dap._ Her ladyship, indeed, is the only thing in petticoats I dread.
'Twas well for me there was company in the room; for I dare no more
venture myself with her alone, than a cully that has been bit dares
venture himself in a tavern with an old rook.
_L. Flip._ I am the revenger of our sex, certainly.
_Dap._ And the most insatiable one I ever knew, madam; I dare not
stand your fury longer.--Mr. Ranger, I will go before and make a
new appointment with your friends that expect you at dinner at the
French-house; 'tis fit business still wait on love.
_Ran._ Do so--but now I think on't, Sir Thomas goes out of town this
afternoon, and I shall not see him here again these three months.
_Lyd._ Nay, pray take him with you, sir.
_L. Flip._ No, sir, you shall not take the gentleman from his
mistress.--[_Aside to_ DAPPERWIT.] Do not go yet, sweet Mr. Dapperwit.
_Lyd._ Take him with you, sir; I suppose his business may be there to
borrow or win money, and I ought not to be his hindrance: for when he
has none, he has his desperate designs upon that little I have;--for
want of money makes as devout lovers as Christians.
_Dap._ I hope, madam, he offers you no less security than his liberty.
_Lyd._ His liberty is as poor a pawn to take up money on as honour.
He is like the desperate bankrupts of this age, who, if they can get
people's fortunes into their hands, care not though they spend them in
jail all their lives.
_L. Flip._ And the poor crediting ladies, when they have parted with
their money, must be contented with a pitiful composition, or starve,
for all them.
_Ran._ But widows are commonly so wise as to be sure their men are
solvable before they trust 'em.
_L. Flip._ Can you blame 'em! I declare I will trust no man. Pray, do
not take it ill, gentlemen: quacks in their bills, and poets in the
titles of their plays, do not more disappoint us, than gallants with
their promises; but I trust none.
_Dap._ Nay, she's a very Jew in that particular. To my knowledge,
she'll know her man, over and over again, before she trust him.
_Ran._ Well, my dearest cousin, good-morrow. When I stay from you so
long again, blame me to purpose, and be extremely angry; for nothing
can make me amends for the loss of your company, but your reprehension
of my absence. I'll take such a chiding as kindly as Russian wives do
beating.
_Lyd._ If you were my husband, I could not take your absence more
kindly than I do.
_Ran._ And if you were my wife, I would trust you as much out of my
sight as I could, to show my opinion of your virtue.
_L. Flip._ A well-bred gentleman, I warrant.--Will you go then, cruel
Mr. Dapperwit? [_Exeunt_ RANGER _and_ DAPPERWIT, _followed by_ Lady
FLIPPANT.
_Lyd._ Have I not dissembled well, Leonore?
_Leo._ But, madam, to what purpose? why do you not put him to his
trial, and see what he can say for himself?
_Lyd._ I am afraid lest my proofs, and his guilt, should make him
desperate, and so contemn that pardon which he could not hope for.
_Leo._ 'Tis unjust to condemn him before you hear him.
_Lyd._ I will reprieve him till I have more evidence.
_Leo._ How will you get it?
_Lyd._ I will write him a letter in Christina's name, desiring to meet
him; when I shall soon discover if his love to her be of a longer
standing than since last night; and if it be not, I will not longer
trust him with the vanity to think she gave him the occasion to follow
her home from the Park; so will at once disabuse him and myself.
_Leo._ What care the jealous take in making sure of ills which they,
but in imagination, cannot undergo!
_Lyd._
Misfortunes are least dreadful when most near:
'Tis less to undergo the ill, than fear. [_Exeunt._
ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.--_A Room in_ GRIPE'S _House._
_Enter_ Mrs. JOYNER _and_ GRIPE, _the latter in a blue gown
and nightcap._
_Mrs. Joyn._ What, not well, your worship! This it is, you will be
laying out yourself beyond your strength. You have taken a surfeit of
the little gentlewoman, I find. Indeed you should not have been so
immoderate in your embraces; your worship is something in years, in
truly.
_Gripe._ Graceless, perfidious woman! what makest thou here? art thou
not afraid to be used like an informer, since thou hast made me pay
thee for betraying me?
_Mrs. Joyn._ Betray your worship! what do you mean? I an informer! I
scorn your words!
_Gripe._ Woman, I say again, thou art as treacherous as an informer,
and more unreasonable; for he lets us have something for our money
before he disturb us.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Your money, I'm sure, was laid out faithfully; and I went
away because I would not disturb you.
_Gripe._ I had not grudged you the money I gave you:--but the five
hundred pounds! the five hundred pounds! Inconscionable, false woman,
the five hundred pounds!--You cheated, trepanned, robbed me, of the
five hundred pounds!
_Mrs. Joyn._ I cheat you! I rob you!--well, remember what you say, you
shall answer it before Mr. Doublecap and the best of--
_Gripe._ Oh, impudent woman, speak softly!
_Mrs. Joyn._ I will not speak softly; for innocence is loud as well as
barefaced. Is this your return, after you have made me a mere drudge to
your filthy lusts?
_Gripe._ Speak softly; my sister, daughter, and servants, will hear.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I would have witnesses, to take notice that you blast my
good name, which was as white as a tulip, and as sweet as the head of
your cane, before you wrought me to the carrying on the work of your
fleshly carnal seekings.
_Gripe._ Softly! softly! they are coming in.
_Enter_ Lady FLIPPANT _and_ Mrs. MARTHA.
_L. Flip._ What's the matter, brother?
_Gripe._ Nothing, nothing, sister, only the godly woman is fallen into
a fit of zeal against the enormous transgressions of the age. Go! go!
you do not love to hear vanity reproved; pray begone!
_Mrs. Joyn._ Pray stay, madam, that you may know--
_Gripe._ [_Aside to_ Mrs. JOYNER.] Hold! hold! here are five guineas
for thee,--pray say nothing.--[_Aloud._] Sister, pray begone, I
say.--[_Exeunt_ Lady FLIPPANT _and_ Mrs. MARTHA.] Would you prejudice
your own reputation to injure mine?
_Mrs. Joyn._ Would you prejudice your own soul to wrong my repute, in
truly? [_Pretends to weep._
_Gripe._ Pray have me in excuse. Indeed, I thought you had a share of
the five hundred pounds, because you took away my seal-ring; which they
made me send, together with a note to my cash-keeper for five hundred
pounds. Besides, I thought none but you knew it was my wonted token to
send for money by.
_Mrs. Joyn._ 'Tis unlucky I should forget it, and leave it on the
table!--But oh the harlotry! did she make that use of it then? 'twas no
wonder you did not stay till I came back.
_Gripe._ I stayed till the money released me.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Have they the money, then? five hundred pounds!
_Gripe._ Too certain.
_Mrs. Joyn._ They told me not a word of it; and have you no way to
retrieve it?
_Gripe._ Not any.
_Mrs. Joyn._ [_Aside._] I am glad of it.--[_Aloud._] Is there no law
but against saints?
_Gripe._ I will not for five hundred pounds publish my transgression
myself, lest I should be thought to glory in't: though, I must confess,
'twould tempt a man to conform to public praying and sinning, since
'tis so chargeable to pray and sin in private.
_Mrs. Joyn._ But are you resolved to give off a loser?
_Gripe._ How shall I help it?
_Mrs. Joyn._ Nay, I'll see you shall have what the young jade has, for
your money; I'll make 'em use some conscience, however.--Take a man's
money for nothing!
_Gripe._ Thou sayest honestly, indeed. And shall I have my pennyworths
out of the little gentlewoman for all this?
_Mrs. Joyn._ I'll be engaged body for body for her, and you shall take
the forfeiture on me else.
_Gripe._ No, no, I'll rather take your word, Mrs. Joyner.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Go in and dress yourself smug, and leave the rest to me.
_Gripe._ No man breathing would give-off a loser, as she says.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--_Another Room in the same._
Sir SIMON ADDLEPLOT _discovered sitting at a desk writing as a_
Clerk, Lady FLIPPANT _jogging him._
_Sir Sim._ 'Tis a lord's mortgage, and therefore requires the more
haste:--pray do not jog me, madam.
_L. Flip._ Dull rascal! [_Aside._
_Sir Sim._ They cannot stay for money as other folks. If you will not
let me make an end on't, I shall lose my expedition-fee.
_L. Flip._ There are some clerks would have understood me before this.
[_Aside._
_Sir Sim._ Nay, pray be quiet, madam; if you squeeze me so to the wall,
I cannot write.
_L. Flip._ [_Aside._] 'Tis much for the honour of the gentlemen of
this age, that we persons of quality are forced to descend to the
importuning of a clerk, a butler, coachman, or footman; while the
rogues are as dull of apprehension, too, as an unfledged country squire
amongst his mother's maids! [_Jogs him again._
_Sir Sim._ Again! Let me tell you, madam, familiarity breeds contempt:
you'll never leave till you have made me saucy.
_L. Flip._ I would I could see that.
_Sir Sim._ I vow and swear then, get you gone! or I'll add a black
patch or two to those on your face.--[_Aside._] I shall have no time to
get Mrs. Martha out, for her.
_L. Flip._ Will you, sir, will you! [_Jogs him again._
_Sir Sim._ [_Aside._] I must have a plot for her, she is a coy
woman.--[_Aloud._] I vow and swear if you pass this crevice,[45] I'll
kiss you in plain English.
_L. Flip._ I would I could see that!--do you defy me! [_Steps to
him--he kisses her._
_Sir Sim._ [_Aside._] How's this! I vow and swear, she kisses as
tamely as Mrs. Ticklish, and with her mouth open too.
_L. Flip._ I thought you would have been ashamed to have done so to
your master's own sister!
_Sir Sim._ I hope you'll be quiet now, madam?
_L. Flip._ Nay, I'll be revenged of you sure.
_Sir Sim._ If you come again, I shall do more to you than
that.--[_Aside._] I'll pursue my plot and try if she be honest.
_L. Flip._ You do more to me than that! nay, if you'll do more to me
than that--[_She throws down his ink and runs out, he following her._
_Enter_ Mrs. JOYNER.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I must visit my young clients in the meantime.
_Re-enter_ Sir SIMON, _holding up his hands._
What's the matter, Sir Simon?
_Sir Sim._ Lord! who would have thought it?
_Mrs. Joyn._ What ails you, Sir Simon?
_Sir Sim._ I have made such a discovery, Mrs. Joyner!
_Mrs. Joyn._ What is't?
_Sir Sim._ Such a one that makes me at once glad and sorry; I am sorry
my Lady Flippant is naught, but I'm glad I know it:--thanks still to my
disguise.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Fy! fy!
_Sir Sim._ Nay, this hand can tell--
_Mrs. Joyn._ But how?
_Sir Sim._ She threw down my ink-glass, and ran away into the next
room; I followed her, and, in revenge, threw her down upon the
bed:--but, in short, all that I could do to her would not make her
squeak.
_Mrs. Joyn._ She was out of breath, man, she was out of breath.
_Sir Sim._ Ah, Mrs. Joyner, say no more, say no more of that!
_Re-enter_ Lady FLIPPANT.
_L. Flip._ You rude, unmannerly rascal!
_Mrs. Joyn._ You see she complains now.
_Sir Sim._ I know why, Mrs. Joyner, I know why. [_Aside to_ Mrs. JOYNER.
_L. Flip._ I'll have you turned out of the house; you are not fit for
my brother's service.
_Sir Sim._ Not for yours, you mean, madam. [_Aside._
_L. Flip._ I'll go and acquaint my brother--
_Mrs. Joyn._ [_Aside to_ Lady FLIPPANT.] Hold, hold, madam, speak not
so loud:--'tis Sir Simon Addleplot, your lover, who has taken this
disguise on purpose to be near you, and to watch and supplant his rival.
_L. Flip._ What a beast was I, I could not discover it! you have undone
me! why would you not tell me sooner of it? [_Aside to_ Mrs. JOYNER.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I thought he had been discernible enough.
_L. Flip._ I protest, I knew him not; for I must confess to you, my
eyes are none of the best since I have used the last new wash of
mercury-water.--What will he think of me!
_Mrs. Joyn._ Let me alone with him.--[_To_ Sir SIMON.] Come, come, did
you think you could disguise yourself from my lady's knowledge? she
knew you, man, or else you had ne'er had those liberties. Alas, poor
lady, she cannot resist you!
_L. Flip._ 'Tis my weakness.
_Sir Sim._ How's this!--but here comes my master.
_Enter_ GRIPE _and_ Mrs. MARTHA.
_Gripe._ Come, Mrs. Joyner, are you ready to go?
_Mrs. Joyn._ I am ever ready when your worship commands.
_L. Flip._ Brother, if you go to t'other end of the town, you'll set me
down near the playhouse?
_Gripe._ The playhouse! do you think I will be seen near the playhouse?
_L. Flip._ You shall set me down in Lincoln's-inn-fields, then? for I
have earnest business there.--[_Apart to_ Sir SIMON.] When I come home
again, I'll laugh at you soundly, Sir Simon.
_Sir Sim._ Has Joyner betrayed me then! 'tis time to look to my hits.
[_Aside._
_Gripe._ Martha, be sure you stay within now. If you go out, you shall
never come into my doors again.
_Mrs. Mar._ No, I will not, sir; I'll ne'er come into your doors again,
if once I should go out.
_Gripe._ 'Tis well said, girl. [_Exeunt_ GRIPE, Mrs. JOYNER, _and_ Lady
FLIPPANT.
_Sir Sim._ 'Twas prettily said: I understand you, they are dull, and
have no intrigue in 'em. But dear sweet Mrs. Martha, 'tis time we were
gone; you have stole away your scarfs and hood from your maid, I hope?
_Mrs. Mar._ Nay, I am ready, but--
_Sir Sim._ Come, come, Sir Simon Addleplot, poor gentleman, is an
impatient man, to my knowledge.
_Mrs. Mar._ Well, my venture is great, I'm sure, for a man I know not.
But pray, Jonas, do not deceive me; is he so fine a gentleman, as you
say he is?
_Sir Sim._ Pish! pish! he is the--gentleman of the town, faith and
troth.
_Mrs. Mar._ But may I take your word, Jonas?
_Sir Sim._ 'Tis not my word, 'tis the word of all the town.
_Mrs. Mar._ Excuse me, Jonas, for that:--I never heard any speak well
of him but Mr. Dapperwit and you.
_Sir Sim._ That's because he has been a rival to all men, and a gallant
to all ladies. Rivals and deserted mistresses never speak well of a man.
_Mrs. Mar._ Has he been so general in his amours? his kindness is not
to be valued then.
_Sir Sim._ The more by you; because 'tis for you he deserts all the
rest, faith and troth.
_Mrs. Mar._ You plead better for him than he could for himself, I
believe; for, indeed, they say he is no better than an idiot.
_Sir Sim._ Then, believe me, madam--for nobody knows him better than
I--he has as much wit, courage, and as good a mien to the full, as I
have.--He an idiot!
_Mrs. Mar._ The common gull; so perspicuous a fop, the women find him
out:--for none of 'em will marry him.
_Sir Sim._ You may see, now, how he and you are abused. For that he
is not married, is a sign of his wit; and for being perspicuous,
'tis false; he is as mysterious as a new parliament-man, or a young
statesman newly taken from a coffee-house or tennis-court.
_Mrs. Mar._ But is it a sign of his wit because he is not married?
_Sir Sim._ Yes, yes; your women of the town ravish your fops: there's
not one about the town unmarried that has anything.
_Mrs. Mar._ It may be then he has spent his estate.
_Sir Sim._ [_Aside._] How unluckily guessed!--[_Aloud._] If he had, he
has a head can retrieve it again.
_Mrs. Mar._ Besides, they say he has the modish distemper.
_Sir Sim._ He can cure it with the best French chirurgeon in town.
_Mrs. Mar._ Has his practice on himself been so much?
_Sir Sim._ Come, come.--
Fame, like deserted jilt, does still belie men;
Who doubts her man, must be advised by Hymen;
For he knows best of any how to try men. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.--_The old Pall Mall._
_Enter_ RANGER _and_ DAPPERWIT.
_Ran._ Now the Lucys have renounced us, hey for the Christinas! She
cannot use me worse than your honourable mistress did you.
_Dap._ A pox! some young heir or another has promised her marriage.
There are so many fools in the world, 'tis impossible for a man of wit
to keep his wench from being a lady, let me perish!
_Ran._ But have you no other acquaintance that sticks to her vocation,
in spite of temptations of honour or filthy lucre? I declare, I make
honourable love merely out of necessity, as your rooks play on the
square rather than not play at all.
_Enter_ LEONORE _masked, with a letter in her hand._
_Dap._ Come, the devil will not lose a gamester: here's ready money for
you, push freely.
_Ran._ Thou art as well met as if by assignation. [_To_ LEONORE.
_Leo._ And you are as well met as if you were the man I looked for.
_Ran._ Kind rogue!
_Leo._ Sweet sir!
_Ran._ Come, I am thy prisoner, (without more words,) show but thy
warrant. [_Goes to pull off her mask._
_Leo._ You mistake, sir; here is my pass. [_Gives him the letter._
_Ran._ A letter! and directed to me!
[_Reads._] "I cannot put up the injuries and affronts you did
me last night;"--a challenge, upon my life! and by such a
messenger!--"therefore conjure you by your honour, at eight o'clock
precisely, this evening, to send your man to St. James's gate, to wait
for me with a chair, to conduct me to what place you shall think most
fit, for the giving of satisfaction to the injured--Christina."
Christina! I am amazed! What is it o'clock, Dapperwit?
_Dap._ It wants not half an hour of eight.
_Ran._ [_To_ LEONORE.] Go then back, my pretty herald, and tell my fair
enemy the service she designs my man is only fit for my friend here;
whose faith and honour she may be secure of. He shall immediately go
wait for her at St James's gate, whilst I go to prepare a place for our
rencounter, and myself to die at her feet. [_Exit_ LEONORE.] Dapperwit,
dear Dapperwit.
_Dap._ What lucky surprisal's this?
_Ran._ Prithee ask no questions, till I have more leisure and less
astonishment. I know you will not deny to be an instrument in my
happiness.
_Dap._ No, let me perish! I take as much pleasure to bring lovers
together as an old woman; or as a bankrupt gamester loves to look on,
though he has no advantage by the play; or as a bully that fights not
himself, yet takes pleasure to set people together by the ears, or as--
_Ran._ 'Sdeath! is this a time for similitudes?
_Dap._ You have made me miscarry of a good thought now, let me perish!
_Ran._ Go presently to St. James's gate, where you are to expect the
coming of a lady ('tis Christina), accompanied by that woman you saw
e'en now. She will permit you to put her into a chair, and then conduct
her to my lodging; while I go before to remove some spies, and prepare
it for her reception.
_Dap._ Your lodging? had you not better carry her to Vincent's? 'tis
hard by; and there a vizard mask has as free egress and regress as at
the playhouse.
_Ran._ Faith, though it be not very prudent, yet she shall come thither
in my vindication; for he would not believe I had seen her last night.
_Dap._ To have a fine woman, and not tell on't as you say, Mr. Ranger--
_Ran._ Go, and bring her to Vincent's lodging; there I'll expect you.
[_Exeunt severally._
SCENE IV.--_The Street before_ VINCENT'S _Lodging._
_Enter_ CHRISTINA _and_ ISABEL.
_Isa._ This is the door, madam; here Mr. Vincent lodges.
_Chris._ 'Tis no matter, we will pass it by; lest the people of our
lodgings should watch us. But if he should not be here now!
_Isa._ Who, Mr. Valentine, madam? I warrant you my intelligencer dares
not fail me.
_Chris._ Did he come last night, said he?
_Isa._ Last night late.
_Chris._ And not see me yet! nay, not send to me!--'tis false, he is
not come,--I wish he were not. I know not which I should take more
unkindly from him, exposing his life to his revengeful enemies, or
being almost four-and-twenty hours so near me, and not let me know't.
_Isa._ A lover's dangers are the only secrets kept from his mistress;
he came not to you because he would not purchase his happiness with
your fear and apprehensions.
_Chris._ Nay, he is come, I see, since you are come about again of his
side.
_Isa._ Will you go in, madam, and disprove me, if you can? 'tis better
than standing in the street.
_Chris._ We'll go a little further first, and return. [_Exeunt._
SCENE V.--VINCENT'S _Lodging._
_Enter_ VINCENT _and_ VALENTINE.
_Vin._ I told you I had sent my man to Christina's this morning, to
inquire of her maid, (who seldom denies him a secret,) if her lady had
been at the Park last night; which she peremptorily answered to the
contrary, and assured him she had not stirred out since your departure.
_Val._ Will not chambermaids lie, Vincent?
_Vin._ Will not Ranger lie, Valentine?
_Val._ The circumstances of his story proved it true.
_Vin._ Do you think so old a master in the faculty as he will want the
varnish of probability for his lies?
_Val._ Do you think a woman, having the advantage of her sex, and
education under such a mistress, will want impudence to disavow a truth
that might be prejudicial to that mistress?
_Vin._ But if both testimonies are fallible, why will you needs believe
his? we are apter to believe the things we would have, than those we
would not.
_Val._ My ill luck has taught me to credit my misfortunes and doubt my
happiness.
_Vin._ But fortune we know is inconstant.
_Val._ And all of her sex.
_Vin._ Will you judge of fortune by your experience, and not do your
mistress the same justice? Go see her, and satisfy yourself and her;
for if she be innocent, consider how culpable you are, not only in your
censures of her, but in not seeing her since your coming.
_Val._ If she be innocent, I should be afraid to surprise her, for her
sake; if false, I should be afraid to surprise her for my own.
_Vin._ To be jealous and not inquisitive is as hard as to love
extremely and not to be something jealous.
_Val._ Inquisitiveness as seldom cures jealousy, as drinking in a fever
quenches the thirst.
_Vin._ If she were at the Park last night, 'tis probable she'll not
miss this. Go watch her house, see who goes out, who in; while I, in
the meantime, search out Ranger: who, I'll pawn my life, upon more
discourse shall avow his mistake.--Here he is; go in:--how luckily is
he come! [VALENTINE _retires to the door behind._
_Enter_ RANGER.
Ranger, you have prevented me: I was going to look you out, between
the scenes at the playhouse, the coffee-house, tennis-court, or
Gifford's.[46]
_Ran._ Do you want a pretence to go to a bawdy-house?--but I have other
visits to make.
_Vin._ I forget. I should rather have sought you in Christina's
lodgings, ha! ha! ha!
_Ran._ Well, well, I'm just come to tell you that Christina--
_Vin._ Proves not, by daylight, the kind lady you followed last night
out of the Park.
_Ran._ I have better news for you, to my thinking.
_Vin._ What is't?
_Ran._ Not that I have been in Christina's lodging this morning; but
that she'll be presently here in your lodging with me.
_Val._ How! [_Aside._
_Vin. [Retiring, and speaking softly to_ VALENTINE.] You see now, his
report was a jest, a mere jest.--[_To_ RANGER.] Well, must my lodging
be your vaulting-school[47] still? thou hast appointed a wench to come
hither, I find.
_Ran._ A wench! you seemed to have more reverence for Christina last
night.
_Vin._ Now you talk of Christina, prithee tell me what was the meaning
of thy last night's romance of Christina?
_Ran._ You shall know the meaning of all when Christina comes: she'll
be here presently.
_Vin._ Who will? Christina?
_Ran._ Yes, Christina.
_Vin._ Ha! ha! ha!
_Ran._ Incredulous envy! thou art as envious as an impotent lecher at a
wedding.
_Vin._ Thou art either mad, or as vain as a Frenchman newly returned
home from a campaign, or obliging England.
_Ran._ Thou art as envious as a rival; but if thou art mine, there's
that will make you desist; [_gives him a letter_] and if you are not my
rival, entrusting you with such a secret will, I know, oblige you to
keep it, and assist me against all other interests.
_Vin._ Do you think I take your secret as an obligation? don't I know,
lovers, travellers, and poets, will give money to be heard? But what's
the paper? a lampoon upon Christina, hatched last night betwixt squire
Dapperwit and you, because her maid used you scurvily?
_Ran._ No, 'tis only a letter from her, to show my company was not so
disgustful to her last night, but that she desires it again to-day.
_Val._ A letter from her! [_Aside._
_Vin._ A letter from Christina! [_Reads._]--Ha! ha! ha!
_Ran._ Nay, 'tis pleasant.
_Vin._ You mistake, I laugh at you, not the letter.
_Ran._ I am like the winning gamester, so pleased with my luck, I will
not quarrel with any who calls me a fool for't.
_Vin._ Is this the style of a woman of honour?
_Ran._ It may be, for ought you know; I'm sure 'tis well if your female
correspondents can read.
_Vin._ I must confess I have none of the little letters, half name
or title, like your Spanish Epistles Dedicatory; but that a man so
frequent in honourable intrigues as you are, should not know the
summons of an impudent common woman, from that of a person of honour!
_Ran._ Christina is so much a person of honour she'll own what she has
writ when she comes.
_Vin._ But will she come hither indeed?
_Ran._ Immediately. You'll excuse my liberty with you; I could not
conceal such a happiness from such a friend as you, lest you should
have taken it unkindly.
_Vin._ Faith, you have obliged me indeed; for you and others would
often have made me believe your honourable intrigues, but never did me
the honour to convince me of 'em before.
_Ran._ You are merry, I find, yet.
_Vin._ When you are happy I cannot be otherwise.
_Ran._ [_Aside._] But I lose time; I should lay a little parson in
ambush, that lives hard by, in case Christina should be impatient to
be revenged of her friends, as it often happens with a discontented
heiress. Women, like old soldiers, more nimbly execute than they
resolve. [_Going out._
_Vin._ What now! you will not disappoint a woman of Christina's quality?
_Ran._ I'll be here before she comes, I warrant you. [_Exit._
_Vin._ I do believe you truly!--What think you, Valentine?
_Val._ [_Coming forward._] I think, since she has the courage to
challenge him, she'll have the honour of being first in the field.
_Vin._ Fy, your opinion of her must be as bad, as Ranger's of himself
is good, to think she would write to him. I long till his bona-roba[48]
comes, that you may be both disabused.
_Val._ And I have not patience to stay her coming, lest you should be
disabused.
_Enter_ CHRISTINA _and_ ISABEL.
_Vin._ Here she is, i'faith; I'm glad she's come.
_Val._ And I'm sorry. But I will to my post again, lest she should say
she came to me. [_Retires as before._
_Vin._ [_Aside._] By heavens, Christina herself! 'tis she! [CHRISTINA
_pulls off her mask._
_Val._ 'Tis she:--cursed be these eyes! more cursed than when they
first betrayed me to that false bewitching face. [_Aside._
_Chris._ You may wonder, sir, to see me here--
_Vin._ I must confess I do.
_Chris._ But the confidence your friend has in you is the cause of
mine; and yet some blushes it does cost me to come to seek a man.
_Val._ Modest creature! [_Aside._
_Vin._ How am I deceived! [_Aside._
_Chris._ Where is he, sir? why does he not appear, to keep me in
countenance? pray call him, sir; 'tis something hard if he should know
I'm here.
_Vin._ I hardly can myself believe you are here, madam.
_Chris._ If my visit be troublesome or unseasonable, 'tis your friend's
fault; I designed it not to you, sir. Pray call him out, that he may
excuse it, and take it on himself, together with my shame.
_Vin._ How impatient she is! [_Aside._
_Chris._ Or do you delay the happiness I ask, to make it more welcome?
I have stayed too long for it already, and cannot more desire it. Dear
sir, call him out. Where is he? above, or here within? I'll snatch
the favour which you will not give.--[_Goes to the door and discovers_
VALENTINE.] What! Do you hide yourself for shame?
_Val._ [_Coming forward._] I must confess I do.
_Chris._ To see me come hither--
_Val._ I acknowledge it. [VALENTINE _offers to go out._
_Chris._ Before you came to me? But whither do you go? come, I can
forgive you.
_Val._ But I cannot forgive you.
_Chris._ Whither do you go? you need not forge a quarrel to prevent
mine to you: nor need you try if I would follow you, you know I
will;--I have, you see.
_Val._ That impudence should look so like innocence! [_Aside._
_Chris._ Whither would you go? why would you go?
_Val._ To call your servant to you.
_Chris._ She is here; what would you have with her?
_Val._ I mean your lover,--the man you came to meet.
_Chris._ Oh heavens! what lover? what man? I came to see no man but
you, whom I had too long lost.
_Val._ You could not know that I was here.
_Chris._ Ask her; 'twas she that told me. [_Points to_ ISABEL.
_Val._ How could she know?
_Chris._ That you shall know hereafter.
_Val._ No, you thought me too far out of the way to disturb your
assignation; and I assure you, madam, 'twas my ill-fortune, not my
design: and that it may appear so, I do withdraw, as in all good
breeding and civility I am obliged; for sure your wished-for lover's
coming.
_Chris._ What do you mean? are you a-weary of that title?
_Val._ I am ashamed of it, since it grows common. [_Going out._
_Chris._ Nay, you will not, shall not go.
_Val._ My stay might give him jealousy, and so do you injury, and him
the greatest in the world: heavens forbid! I would not make a man
jealous; for though you call a thousand vows, and oaths, and tears to
witness (as you safely may), that you have not the least of love for
me, yet if he ever knew how I have loved you, sure he would not, could
not believe you.
_Chris._ I do confess, your riddle is too hard for me to solve;
therefore you are obliged to do't yourself.
_Val._ I wish it were capable of any other interpretation than what you
know already.
_Chris._ Is this that generous good Valentine? who has disguised him
so? [_Weeps._
_Vin._ Nay, I must withhold you then. [_Stops_ VALENTINE _going out._]
Methinks she should be innocent; her tongue, and eyes, together with
that flood that swells 'em, do vindicate her heart.
_Val._ They show but their long practice of dissimulation. [_Going out._
_Vin._ Come back: I hear Ranger coming up: stay but till he comes.
_Val._ Do you think I have the patience of an alderman?
_Vin._ You may go out this way, when you will, by the back-stairs; but
stay a little, till--Oh, here he comes.
_Re-enter_ RANGER. _Upon his entrance_ CHRISTINA _puts on
her mask._
_Val._ My revenge will now detain me. [VALENTINE _retires again._
_Ran._ [_Aside._]--What, come already! where is Dapperwit?--[_Aloud._]
The blessing's double that comes quickly; I did not yet expect you
here, otherwise I had not done myself the injury to be absent. But I
hope, madam, I have not made you stay long for me.
_Chris._ I have not staid at all for you.
_Ran._ I am glad of it, madam.
_Chris._ [_To_ ISABEL.] Is not this that troublesome stranger who
last night followed the lady into my lodgings?--[_Aside._] 'Tis he.
[_Removing from him to the other side._
_Ran._ [_Aside._] Why does she remove so disdainfully from
me?--[_Aloud._] I find you take it ill I was not at your coming here,
madam.
_Chris._ Indeed I do not; you are mistaken, sir.
_Ran._ Confirm me by a smile then, madam; remove that cloud, which makes
me apprehend foul weather. [_Goes to take off her mask._]--Mr. Vincent,
pray retire; 'tis you keep on the lady's mask, and no displeasure which
she has for me.--Yet, madam, you need not distrust his honour or his
faith.--But do not keep the lady under constraint; pray leave us a
little, Master Vincent.
_Chris._ You must not leave us, sir; would you leave me with a
stranger?
_Val._ How's that! [_Aside._
_Ran._ [_Aside._] I've done amiss, I find, to bring her hither.--Madam,
I understand you--[_Apart to_ CHRISTINA.
_Chris._ Sir, I do not understand you.
_Ran._ You would not be known to Mr. Vincent.
_Chris._ 'Tis your acquaintance I would avoid.
_Ran._ [_Aside._] Dull brute that I was, to bring her hither!--I have
found my error, madam; give me but a new appointment, where I may meet
you by and by, and straight I will withdraw as if I knew you not.
[_Softly to her._
_Chris._ Why, do you know me?
_Ran._ [_Aside._] I must not own it.--No, madam, but--[_Offers to
whisper._
_Chris._ Whispering, sir, argues an old acquaintance; but I have not
the vanity to be thought of yours, and resolve you shall never have the
disparagement of mine.--Mr. Vincent, pray let us go in here.
_Ran._ How's this! I am undone, I see; but if I let her go thus, I
shall be an eternal laughing-stock to Vincent. [_Aside._
_Vin._ Do you not know him, madam? I thought you had come hither on
purpose to meet him.
_Chris._ To meet him!
_Vin._ By your own appointment.
_Chris._ What strange infatuation does delude you all? you know, he
said he did not know me.
_Vin._ You writ to him; he has your letter.
_Chris._ Then, you know my name sure? yet you confessed but now you
knew me not.
_Ran._ I must confess your anger has disguised you more than your mask:
for I thought to have met a kinder Christina here.
_Chris._ [_Aside._] Heavens! how could he know me in this place? he
watched me hither sure; or is there any other of my name.--[_Aloud._]
That you may no longer mistake me for your Christina, I'll pull off
that which soothes your error. [_Pulls off her mask._
_Ran._ Take but t'other vizard off too, (I mean your anger,) and I'll
swear you are the same, and only Christina which I wished, and thought,
to meet here.
_Chris._ How could you think to meet me here?
_Ran._ [_Gives her the letter._] By virtue of this your commission;
which now, I see, was meant a real challenge: for you look as if you
would fight with me.
_Chris._ The paper is a stranger to me; I never writ it. You are abused.
_Vin._ Christina is a person of honour, and will own what she has
written, Ranger.
_Ran._ [_Aside._] So! the comedy begins; I shall be laughed at
sufficiently if I do not justify myself; I must set my impudence to
hers. She is resolved to deny all, I see, and I have lost all hope of
her.
_Vin._ Come, faith, Ranger--
_Ran._ You will deny too, madam, that I followed you last night from
the Park to your lodging, where I staid with you till morning? you
never saw me before, I warrant.
_Chris._ That you rudely intruded last night into my lodging, I cannot
deny; but I wonder you have the confidence to brag of it: sure you will
not of your reception?
_Ran._ I never was so ill-bred as to brag of my reception in a lady's
chamber; not a word of that, madam.
_Val._ [_Aside._] How! If he lies, I revenge her; if it I be true, I
revenge myself. [VALENTINE _draws his sword, which_ VINCENT, _seeing,
thrusts him back, and shuts the door upon him before he is discovered
by_ RANGER.
_Enter_ LYDIA _and_ LEONORE, _stopping at the door._
_Lyd._ What do I see! Christina with him! a counterplot to mine, to
make me and it ridiculous. 'Tis true, I find, they have been long
acquainted, and I long abused; but since she intends a triumph, in
spite, as well as shame, (not emulation,) I retire. She deserves no
envy, who will be shortly in my condition; his natural inconstancy will
prove my best revenge on her--on both. [_Exeunt_ LYDIA _and_ LEONORE.
_Enter_ DAPPERWIT.
_Dap._ Christina's going away again;--what's the matter?
_Ran._ What do you mean?
_Dap._ I scarce had paid the chairmen, and was coming up after her, but
I met her on the stairs, in as much haste as if she had been frightened.
_Ran._ Who do you talk of?
_Dap._ Christina, whom I took up in a chair just now at St. James's
gate.
_Ran._ Thou art mad! here she is, this is Christina.
_Dap._ I must confess I did not see her face; but I am sure the lady is
gone that I brought just now.
_Ran._ I tell you again this is she: did you bring two?
_Chris._ I came in no chair, had no guide but my woman there.
_Vin._ When did you bring your lady, Dapperwit?
_Dap._ Even now, just now.
_Vin._ This lady has been here half-an-hour.
_Ran._ He knows not what he says, he is mad: you are all so; I am so
too.
_Vin._ 'Tis the best excuse you can make for yourself, and by owning
your mistake you'll show you are come to yourself. I myself saw your
woman at the door, who but looked in, and then immediately went down
again;--as your friend Dapperwit too affirms.
_Chris._ You had best follow her that looked for you; and I'll go seek
out him I came to see.--Mr. Vincent, pray let me in here.
_Ran._ 'Tis very fine! wondrous fine! [CHRISTINA _goes out a little,
and returns._
_Chris._ Oh! he is gone! Mr. Vincent, follow him; he were yet more
severe to me in endangering his life, than in his censures against
me. You know the power of his enemies is great as their malice;--just
Heaven preserve him from them, and me from this ill or unlucky man!
[_Exeunt_ CHRISTINA, ISABEL, _and_ VINCENT.
_Ran._ 'Tis well--nay, certainly, I shall never be master of my senses
more: but why dost thou help to distract me too?
_Dap._ My astonishment was as great as yours to see her go away again;
I would have stayed her if I could.
_Ran._ Yet again talking of a woman you met going out, when I talk of
Christina!
_Dap._ I talk of Christina too.
_Ran._ She went out just now; the woman you found me with was she.
_Dap._ That was not the Christina I brought just now.
_Ran._ You brought her almost half an hour ago;--'sdeath, will you give
me the lie?
_Dap._ A lady disappointed by her gallant, the night before her
journey, could not be more touchy with her maid or husband, than you
are with me now after your disappointment; but if you thank me so, I'll
go serve myself hereafter. For aught I know, I have disappointed Mrs.
Martha for you, and may lose thirty thousand pounds by the bargain.
Farewell! a raving lover is fit for solitude. [_Exit._
_Ran._ Lydia, triumph! I now am thine again. Of intrigues, honourable
or dishonourable, and all sorts of rambling, I take my leave; when we
are giddy, 'tis time to stand still. Why should we be so fond of the
by-paths of love, where we are still waylaid with surprises, trepans,
dangers, and murdering disappointments?--
Just as at blindman's buff we run at all,
Whilst those that lead us laugh to see us fall;
And when we think we hold the lady fast,
We find it but her scarf, or veil, at last. [_Exit._
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.--_St. James's Park._
_Enter_ DAPPERWIT _and_ Sir SIMON ADDLEPLOT, _the latter leading_
Mrs. MARTHA.
_Sir Sim._ At length you see I have freed the captive lady for her
longing knight, Mr. Dapperwit:--who brings off a plot cleverly now?
_Dap._ I wish our poets were half so good at it.--Mrs. Martha, a
thousand welcomes! [DAPPERWIT _kisses and embraces_ Mrs. MARTHA.
_Sir Sim._ Hold, hold, sir: your joy is a little too familiar, faith
and troth!
_Dap._ Will you not let me salute Mrs. Martha?
_Mrs. Mar._ What, Jonas, do you think I do not know good breeding? must
I be taught by you?
_Sir Sim._ I would have kept the maidenhead of your lips for your sweet
knight, Mrs. Martha, that's all; I dare swear you never kissed any man
before but your father.
_Mrs. Mar._ My sweet knight, if he will be knight of mine, must be
contented with what he finds, as well as other knights.
_Sir Sim._ So smart already, faith and troth!
_Mrs. Mar._ Dear Mr. Dapperwit I am overjoyed to see you; but I thank
honest Jonas for't. [_She hugs_ DAPPERWIT.
_Sir Sim._ [_Aside._] How she hugs him!
_Mrs. Mar._ Poor Mr. Dapperwit, I thought I should never have seen you
again; but I thank honest Jonas there--
_Sir Sim._ Do not thank me, Mrs. Martha, any more than I thank you.
_Mrs. Mar._ I would not be ungrateful, Jonas.
_Sir Sim._ Then reserve your kindness only for your worthy, noble,
brave, heroic knight, who loves you only, and only deserves your
kindness.
_Mrs. Mar._ I will show my kindness to my worthy, brave, heroic knight,
in being kind to his friend, his dear friend, who helped him to me.
[_Hugs_ DAPPERWIT _again._
_Sir Sim._ But, Mistress Martha, he is not to help him always; though
he helps him to be married, he is not to help him when he is married.
_Mrs. Mar._ What, Mr. Dapperwit, will you love my worthy knight less
after marriage than before? that were against the custom; for marriage
gets a man friends, instead of losing those he has.
_Dap._ I will ever be his servant and yours, dear madam; do not doubt
me.
_Mrs. Mar._ I do not, sweet dear Mr. Dapperwit; but I should not
have seen you these two days if it had not been for honest Jonas
there--[_She kisses_ DAPPERWIT.
_Sir Sim._ [_Apart to_ DAPPERWIT.] For shame! though she be young and
foolish, do not you wrong me to my face.
_Dap._ Would you have me so ill bred as to repulse her innocent
kindness?--what a thing it is to want wit!
_Sir Sim._ [_Aside._] A pox! I must make haste to discover myself, or
I shall discover what I would not discover; but if I should discover
myself in this habit, 'twould not be to my advantage. But I'll go,
put on my own clothes, and look like a knight.--[_Aloud._] Well, Mrs.
Martha, I'll go seek out your knight: are you not impatient to see him?
_Mrs. Mar._ Wives must be obedient; let him take his own time.
_Sir Sim._ Can you trust yourself a turn or two with Master Dapperwit?
_Mrs. Mar._ Yes, yes, Jonas--as long as you will.
_Sir Sim._ [_Aside._] But I would not trust you with him, if I could
help it.--
So married wight sees what he dares not blame;
And cannot budge for fear, nor stay for shame. [_Exit._
_Dap._ I am glad he is gone, that I may laugh. 'Tis such a miracle of
fops, that his conversation should be pleasant to me, even when it
hindered me of yours.
_Mrs. Mar._ Indeed, I'm glad he is gone too, as pleasant as he is.
_Dap._ I know why, I know why, sweet Mrs. Martha. I warrant you, you
had rather have the parson's company than his?--now you are out of your
father's house, 'tis time to leave being a hypocrite.
_Mrs. Mar._ Well, for the jest's sake, to disappoint my knight, I would
not care if I disappointed myself of a ladyship.
_Dap._ Come, I will not keep you on the tenters; I know you have a mind
to make sure of me: I have a little chaplain (I wish he were a bishop
or one of the friars) to perfect our revenge upon that zealous Jew,
your father.
_Mrs. Mar._ Do not speak ill of my father; he has been your friend, I'm
sure.
_Dap._ My friend!
_Mrs. Mar._ His hard usage of me conspired with your good mien and wit,
and to avoid slavery unto him, I stoop to your yoke.
_Dap._ I will be obliged to your father for nothing but a portion; nor
to you for your love; 'twas due to my merit.
_Mrs. Mar._ You show yourself Sir Simon's original; if 'twere not for
that vanity--
_Dap._ I should be no wit--'tis the badge of my calling; for you can
no more find a man of wit without vanity than a fine woman without
affectation: but let us go before the knight comes again.
_Mrs. Mar._ Let us go before my father comes; he soon will have the
intelligence.
_Dap._ Stay, let me think a little. [_Pauses._
_Mrs. Mar._ What are you thinking of? you should have thought before
this time, or I should have thought rather.
_Dap._ Peace! peace!
_Mrs. Mar._ What are you thinking of?
_Dap._ I am thinking what a wit without vanity is like. He is like--
_Mrs. Mar._ You do not think we are in a public place, and may be
surprised and prevented by my father's scouts!
_Dap._ What! would you have me lose my thought?
_Mrs. Mar._ You would rather lose your mistress, it seems.
_Dap._ He is like--I think I am a sot to-night, let me perish.
_Mrs. Mar._ Nay, if you are so in love with your thought--[_Offers to
go._
_Dap._ Are you so impatient to be my wife?--He is like--he is like--a
picture without shadows, or--or--a face without patches--or a diamond
without a foil. These are new thoughts now, these are new!
_Mrs. Mar._ You are wedded already to your thoughts, I see;--good night.
_Dap._ Madam, do not take it ill:--
For loss of happy thought there's no amends;
For his new jest true wit will lose old friends.
That's new again,--the thought's new. [_Exeunt._