_Enter_ Sir SIMON ADDLEPLOT, GRIPE, Lady FLIPPANT, Mrs.
MARTHA, Mrs. JOYNER, Mrs. CROSSBITE, _and_ LUCY.
_Sir Sim._ 'Tis as I told you, sir, you see.
_Gripe._ Oh, graceless babe! married to a wit! an idle, loitering,
slandering, foul-mouthed, beggarly wit! Oh that my child should ever
live to marry a wit!
_Mrs. Joyn._ Indeed, your worship had better seen her fairly buried, as
they say.
_Mrs. Cros._ If my daughter there should have done so, I would not have
given her a groat.
_Gripe._ Marry a wit!
_Sir Sim._ Mrs. Joyner, do not let me lose the widow too:--for if you
do, (betwixt friends,) I and my small annuity are both blown up: it
will follow my estate. [_Aside to_ Mrs. JOYNER.
_Mrs. Joyn._ I warrant you. [_Aside._
_L. Flip._ Let us make sure of Sir Simon to-night, or--[_Aside to_ Mrs.
JOYNER.
_Mrs. Joyn._ You need not fear it.--[_Aside._] Like the lawyers, while
my clients endeavour to cheat one another, I in justice cheat 'em both.
_Gripe._ Marry a wit!
_Enter_ DAPPERWIT, RANGER, LYDIA, VALENTINE, CHRISTINA, _and_
VINCENT. DAPPERWIT _stops them, and they stand all behind._
_Dap._ What, is he here! Lucy and her mother! [_Aside._
_Gripe._ Tell me how thou camest to marry a wit.
_Mrs. Mar._ Pray be not angry, sir, and I'll give you a good reason.
_Gripe._ Reason for marrying a wit!
_Mrs. Mar._ Indeed, I found myself six months gone with child, and saw
no hopes of your getting me a husband, or else I had not married a wit,
sir.
_Mrs. Joyn._ Then you were the wit.
_Gripe._ Had you that reason? nay, then----[_Holding up his hands._
_Dap._ How's that! [_Aside._
_Ran._ Who would have thought, Dapperwit, you would have married a
wench?
_Dap._ [_To_ RANGER.]--Well, thirty thousand pounds will make me
amends; I have known my betters wink, and fall on for five or
six.--[_To_ GRIPE _and the rest._] What! you are come, sir, to
give me joy? you Mrs. Lucy, you and you? well, unbid guests are
doubly welcome.--Sir Simon, I made bold to invite these ladies and
gentlemen.--For you must know, Mr. Ranger, this worthy Sir Simon does
not only give me my wedding supper, but my mistress too; and is, as it
were, my father.
_Sir Sim._ Then I am, as it were, a grandfather to your new wife's
_Hans en kelder_;[49] to which you are but, as it were, a father!
there's for you again, sir--ha, ha!--
_Ran._ Ha! ha! ha!--[_To_ VINCENT.
_Dap._ Fools sometimes say unhappy things, if we would mind 'em;
but--what! melancholy at your daughter's wedding, sir?
_Gripe._ How deplorable is my condition!
_Dap._ Nay, if you will rob me of my wench, sir, can you blame me for
robbing you of your daughter? I cannot be without a woman.
_Gripe._ My daughter, my reputation, and my money gone!--but the last
is dearest to me. Yet at once I may retrieve that, and be revenged for
the loss of the other: and all this by marrying Lucy here: I shall get
my five hundred pounds again, and get heirs to exclude my daughter and
frustrate Dapperwit; besides, 'tis agreed on all hands, 'tis cheaper
keeping a wife than a wench. [_Aside._
_Dap._ If you are so melancholy, sir, we will have the fiddles and a
dance to divert you; come!
_A Dance._
_Gripe._ Indeed, you have put me so upon a merry pin, that I resolve to
marry too.
_L. Flip._ Nay, if my brother come to marrying once, I may too; I
swore I would, when he did, little thinking--
_Sir Sim._ I take you at your word, madam.
_L. Flip._ Well, but if I had thought you would have been so quick with
me--
_Gripe._ Where is your parson?
_Dap._ What! you would not revenge yourself upon the parson?
_Gripe._ No, I would have the parson revenge me upon you; he should
marry me.
_Dap._ I am glad you are so frolic, sir; but who would you marry?
_Gripe._ That innocent lady. [_Pointing to_ LUCY.
_Dap._ That innocent lady!
_Gripe._ Nay, I am impatient, Mrs. Joyner; pray fetch him up if he be
yet in the house.
_Dap._ We were not married here:--but you cannot be in earnest.
_Gripe._ You'll find it so; since you have robbed me of my housekeeper,
I must get another.
_Dap._ Why, she was my wench!
_Gripe._ I'll make her honest then.
_Mrs. Cros._ Upon my repute he never saw her before:--but will your
worship marry my daughter then?
_Gripe._ I promise her and you, before all this good company, to-morrow
I will make her my wife.
_Dap._ How!
_Ran._ Our ladies, sir, I suppose, expect the same promise from us.
[_To_ VALENTINE.
_Val._ They may be sure of us without a promise; but let us (if we can)
obtain theirs, to be sure of them.
_Dap._ But will you marry her to-morrow?--[_To_ GRIPE.
_Gripe._ I will, verily.
_Dap._ I am undone then! ruined, let me perish!
_Sir Sim._ No, you may hire a little room in Covent Garden, and set up
a coffee-house:--you and your wife will be sure of the wits' custom.
_Dap._
Abused by him I have abused!--
Fortune our foe we cannot overwit;
By none but thee our projects are cross-bit.
_Val._ Come, dear madam, what, yet angry?--jealousy sure is much more
pardonable before marriage than after it; but to-morrow, by the help of
the parson, you'll put me out of all my fears.
_Chris._ I am afraid then you would give me my revenge, and make me
jealous of you; and I had rather suspect your faith than you should
mine.
_Ran._ Cousin Lydia, I had rather suspect your faith too, than you
should mine; therefore let us e'en marry to-morrow, that I may have
my turn of watching, dogging, standing under the window, at the door,
behind the hanging, or--
_Lyd._ But if I could be desperate now and give you up my liberty,
could you find in your heart to quit all other engagements, and
voluntarily turn yourself over to one woman, and she a wife too? could
you away with the insupportable bondage of matrimony?
_Ran._ You talk of matrimony as irreverently as my Lady Flippant: the
bondage of matrimony! no--
The end of marriage now is liberty.
And two are bound--to set each other free.
EPILOGUE
SPOKEN BY DAPPERWIT.[50]
Now my brisk brothers of the pit, you'll say
I'm come to speak a good word for the play;
But gallants, let me perish! if I do,
For I have wit and judgment, just like you;
Wit never partial, judgment free and bold,
For fear or friendship never bought or sold,
Nor by good-nature e'er to be cajoled.
Good-nature in a critic were a crime,
Like mercy in a judge, and renders him
Guilty of all those faults he does forgive,
Besides, if thief from gallows you reprieve,
He'll cut your throat; so poet saved from shame,
In damned lampoon will murder your good name.
Yet in true spite to him and to his play,
Good faith, you should not rail at them to-day
But to be more his foe, seem most his friend,
And so maliciously the play commend;
That he may be betrayed to writing on,
And poet let him be,--to be undone.
_THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER._
"Non satis est risu diducere rictum
Auditorus: et est quædam tamen his quoque virtus."[51]--HORAT.
If we may trust the author's statement to Pope, this admirable comedy
was written when Wycherley was twenty-one years of age, in the year
1661-2. It is impossible to fix with certainty the date of its first
performance. The Duke's Company, then under the management of the widow
of Sir William Davenant, opened its new theatre in Dorset Gardens,
near Salisbury Court, on the 9th of November, 1671, with a performance
of Dryden's _Sir Martin Mar-all_, and Wycherley's "Prologue to the
City" points to the production of his play in the new theatre shortly
after its opening. Genest states, on the authority of Downes, that
"_The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ was the third new play acted at this
theatre, and that several of the old stock plays were acted between
each of the new ones." _Sir Martin Mar-all_, having been three times
performed, was succeeded by Etherege's _Love in a Tub_, which, after
two representations, gave place to a new piece, Crowne's tragedy of
_Charles the Eighth_. This was played six times in succession, and
was followed, probably after an interval devoted to stock pieces, by
a second novelty, an adaptation by Ravenscroft from Molière, entitled
_The Citizen turn'd Gentleman, or Mamamouchi_, which ran for nine days
together. _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ was then acted, probably after
another short interval, and must therefore have been produced either in
December, 1671, or in January, 1672. Genest, in fact, places it first
on his list of plays performed at the Dorset Gardens Theatre during the
year 1672, although, in his list for the preceding year, immediately
after _The Citizen turn'd Gentleman_, he mentions Lord Orrery's comedy
of _Mr. Anthony_ as "nearly certain" to have been brought out in
the season of 1671-2. But this, again, was a new piece, making the
third produced at Dorset Gardens, without including _The Gentleman
Dancing-Master_, and must consequently have been brought forward
later than Wycherley's play. Of _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ Genest
observes that "it was not much liked, and was acted only six times."
But it is by no means clear that the first performance at Dorset
Gardens was the actual first performance of our comedy. The opening
verses of the prologue, indeed, seem to imply a previous and
unsuccessful performance, probably by the same company, at their old
theatre in Portugal Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields. This, at least, as it
seems to me, is the most obvious interpretation of the following lines:
"Our author (like us) finding 'twould scarce do
At t'other end o' th' town, is come to you;
And, _since 'tis his last trial,_ has that wit
To throw himself on a substantial pit."
The presumption, therefore, is strongly in favour of 1671 as the year
in which _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ was first brought upon the
stage. It was published, without a dedication or the names of the
actors, in 1673. The remarks about "packing to sea" in the epilogue,
which, like the prologue, was written for the production, or rather,
as we may suppose, the revival of the piece at the theatre in Dorset
Gardens, refer, questionless, to the impending war with the Dutch,
against whom the formal declaration of war was issued on the 17th of
March, 1672.
The incident upon which the plot turns is borrowed from Calderon's
comedy, _El Maestro de Danzar_, but a brief review of the corresponding
scenes in that drama will prove how trifling was Wycherley's obligation
to the great Spanish poet. Leonor, the heroine of the piece, is
enjoying a stolen interview with her lover, Don Enrique, in an
apartment of her father's house in Valencia. Meanwhile, lest their
voices should be overheard, Ines, Leonor's maid, stations herself
without the chamber, singing and accompanying herself with the guitar.
She presently enters, declaring that an instrument so out of tune
will attract suspicion, and Don Enrique takes up the guitar for the
purpose of tuning it. At this juncture the father, Don Diego, appears
suddenly upon the scene. In reply to his questioning, Leonor explains
that, dancing being little in fashion at the Court, she had formerly
neglected that accomplishment; but that, finding herself, on that
account, looked down upon in Valencia, where dancing was all the mode,
she had engaged a master, who had but just taken up the guitar which
her maid had brought him, when her father entered. This explanation
proving satisfactory to Don Diego, he seats himself, and desires that
the lesson may proceed. But here a new difficulty arises, for Don
Enrique owns, in an "aside" to his mistress, that he understands little
or nothing of dancing. The lady, however, is equal to the occasion,
and, affecting diffidence, tells her father that he must wait until
she has taken a few lessons. He, nevertheless, insisting, Don Enrique
takes again the guitar, and, under pretence of tuning it, screws up the
string until it snaps, declaring then that the strings are worn, and
that the instrument is broken. Leonor now suggests that the maestro
shall carry away the guitar, to get it set in order, and shall come
again on the morrow or in the evening; and Don Diego, acquiescing, bids
him neglect not to return, trusting him for the payment. Don Enrique
responding that he will not fail, although he has many lessons to give,
the old cavalier dismisses him with a "Vaya con Dios." In a later scene
Don Enrique is again with Leonor, of whom he has conceived unjust
suspicions, and is bestowing upon her the full benefit of his jealousy,
when Ines announces the approach of Don Diego, and the lover, at his
mistress's earnest appeal, again takes up the guitar, and pretends
to be giving her a lesson. The father inquires after his daughter's
improvement, and again insists on seeing her dance, a mock performance
this time actually ensuing. And again, in another scene, the lovers,
similarly interrupted, have recourse to a similar method of diverting
Don Diego's suspicions.
In these few incidents, and in the name of Don Diego, which our author
has employed as the adopted appellation of his Spain-loving Englishman,
are to be found the only points of resemblance between the two plays.
The merits of the one lie in a direction totally diverse from that
in which the excellencies of the other are to be sought. Wycherley's
play is fairly overflowing with wit and mirth, qualities in which the
Spanish drama is somewhat deficient. On the other hand, the English
play affords no counterpart to the high moral tone and exalted passion
which are distinguishing characteristics of Calderon's comedy.
_The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ is constructed with greater simplicity
and unity of action than _Love in a Wood_, and, although less
powerfully written than _The Country Wife_, it is also far less
exceptionable, and more uniformly pleasing.
PROLOGUE TO THE CITY
NEWLY AFTER THE REMOVAL OF THE DUKE'S COMPANY FROM LINCOLN'S-INN-FIELDS
TO THEIR NEW THEATRE NEAR SALISBURY-COURT.
Our author (like us) finding 'twould scarce do
At t'other end o' th' town, is come to you;
And, since 'tis his last trial, has that wit
To throw himself on a substantial pit;
Where needy wit or critic dare not come,
Lest neighbour i' the cloak, with looks so grum,
Should prove a dun;
Where punk in vizor dare not rant and tear
To put us out, since Bridewell is so near:
In short, we shall be heard, be understood,
If not, shall be admired, and that's as good.
For you to senseless plays have still been kind,
Nay, where no sense was, you a jest would find:
And never was it heard of, that the city
Did ever take occasion to be witty
Upon dull poet, or stiff player's action,
But still with claps opposed the hissing faction.
But if you hissed, 'twas at the pit, not stage;
So, with the poet, damned the damning age,
And still, we know, are ready to engage
Against the flouting, ticking gentry, who
Citizen, player, poet, would undo:--
The poet! no, unless by commendation,
For on the 'Change wits have no reputation:
And rather than be branded for a wit,
He with you able men would credit get.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Mr. GERRARD,
Mr. MARTIN,
Young Gentlemen of the town, and friends.
Mr. PARIS, or Monsieur de PARIS, a vain coxcomb, and
rich city heir, newly returned from France, and mightily
affected with the French language and fashions.
Mr. JAMES FORMAL, or Don DIEGO, an old rich Spanish
merchant, newly returned home, much affected with the
habit and customs of Spain, and Uncle to PARIS.
A little Blackamoor, Lackey to FORMAL.
A Parson.
A French Scullion.
HIPPOLITA, FORMAL'S Daughter.
Mrs. CAUTION, FORMAL'S Sister, an impertinent precise old
woman.
PRUE, HIPPOLITA'S Maid.
A Lady.
Mrs. FLIRT,
Mrs. FLOUNCE,
Two common Women of the town.
Servants, Waiter, and Attendants.
SCENE--LONDON.
_THE GENTLEMAN DANCING-MASTER._
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.--Don DIEGO'S _House, in the evening._
_Enter_ HIPPOLITA _and_ PRUE.
_Hip._ To confine a woman just in her rambling age! take away her
liberty at the very time she should use it! O barbarous aunt! O
unnatural father! to shut up a poor girl at fourteen, and hinder her
budding! All things are ripened by the sun:--to shut up a poor girl at
fourteen!--
_Prue._ 'Tis true, miss, two poor young creatures as we are!
_Hip._ Not suffered to see a play in a twelve-month!--
_Prue._ Nor go to Punchinello,[52] nor Paradise!--
_Hip._ Nor to take a ramble to the Park nor Mulberry-garden![53]--
_Prue._ Nor to Totnam-court, nor Islington![54]--
_Hip._ Nor to eat a syllabub in New Spring garden[55] with a cousin!--
_Prue._ Nor to drink a pint of wine with a friend at the Prince in the
Sun!--
_Hip._ Nor to hear a fiddle in good company!--
_Prue._ Nor to hear the organs and tongs at the Gun in Moorfields!--
_Hip._ Nay, not suffered to go to church, because the men are sometimes
there!--Little did I think I should ever have longed to go to church.
_Prue._ Or I either;--but between two maids--
_Hip._ Nor see a man!--
_Prue._ Nor come near a man!--
_Hip._ Nor hear of a man!--
_Prue._ No, miss; but to be denied a man! and to have no use at all of
a man!--
_Hip._ Hold, hold!--your resentment is as much greater than mine,
as your experience has been greater. But all this while, what do we
make of my cousin, my husband elect, as my aunt says? We have had his
company these three days; is he no man?
_Prue._ No, faith, he's but a monsieur. But you'll resolve yourself
that question within these three days; for by that time he'll be your
husband, if your father come to-night--
_Hip._ Or if I provide not myself with another in the mean time: for
fathers seldom choose well; and I will no more take my father's choice
in a husband, than I a would in a gown, or a suit of knots. So that if
that cousin of mine were not an ill-contrived, ugly, freakish fool, in
being my father's choice I should hate him. Besides, he has almost made
me out of love with mirth and good-humour; for he debases it as much
as a jack-pudding, and civility and good breeding more than a city
dancing-master.
_Prue._ What! won't you marry him then, madam?
_Hip._ Would'st thou have me marry a fool, an idiot?
_Prue._ Lord! 'tis a sign you have been kept up indeed, and know little
of the world, to refuse a man for a husband only because he's a fool!
Methinks he's a pretty apish kind of a gentleman, like other gentlemen,
and handsome enough to lie with in the dark, when husbands take their
privileges; and for the day-times, you may take the privilege of a wife.
_Hip._ Excellent governess! you do understand the world, I see.
_Prue._ Then you should be guided by me.
_Hip._ Art thou in earnest then, damned jade?--would'st thou have me
marry him?--Well, there are more poor young women undone, and married
to filthy fellows by the treachery and evil counsel of chambermaids,
than by the obstinacy and covetousness of parents.
_Prue._ Does not your father come on purpose out of Spain to marry you
to him? Can you release yourself from your aunt or father any other
way? Have you a mind to be shut up as long as you live? For my part,
though you can hold out upon the lime from the walls here, salt, old
shoes, and oatmeal, I cannot live so: I must confess my patience is
worn out.
_Hip._ Alas, alas, poor Prue! your stomach lies another way: I will
take pity of you, and get me a husband very suddenly, who may have a
servant at your service. But rather than marry my cousin, I will be a
nun in the new protestant nunnery they talk of; where, they say, there
will be no hopes of coming near a man.
_Prue._ But you can marry nobody but your cousin, miss: your father you
expect to-night; and be certain his Spanish policy and wariness, which
has kept you up so close ever since you came from Hackney school, will
make sure of you within a day or two at farthest.
_Hip._ Then 'tis time to think how to prevent him--stay--
_Prue._ In vain, vain, miss!
_Hip._ If we knew but any man, any man, though he were but a little
handsomer than the devil, so that he were a gentleman!
_Prue._ What if you did know any man? if you had an opportunity, could
you have confidence to speak to a man first? but if you could, how
could you come to him, or he to you? nay, how could you send to him?
for though you could write, which your father in his Spanish prudence
would never permit you to learn, who should carry the letter?--But we
need not be concerned for that, since we know not to whom to send it.
_Hip._ Stay--it must be so--I'll try however--
_Enter_ Monsieur de PARIS.
_Mons. Serviteur! serviteur! la cousine;_ I come to give the _bon
soir_, as the French say.
_Hip._ O, cousin! you know him; the fine gentleman they talk of so much
in town.
_Prue._ What! will you talk to him of any man else?
_Mons._ I know all the _beau monde, cousine_.
_Hip._ Master--
_Mons._ Monsieur Taileur, Monsieur Esmit, Monsieur--
_Hip._ These are Frenchmen--
_Mons. Non, non_; voud you have me say Mr. Taylor, Mr. Smith? Fi! fi!
_tête non!_--
_Hip._ But don't you know the brave gentleman they talk so much of in
town?
_Mons._ Who? Monsieur Gerrard?
_Hip._ What kind of man is that Mr. Gerrard? and then I'll tell you.
_Mons._ Why--he is truly a pretty man, a pretty man--a pretty so
so--kind of man, for an Englishman.
_Hip._ How a pretty man?
_Mons._ Why, he is conveniently tall--but--
_Hip._ But what?
_Mons._ And not ill-shaped--but--
_Hip._ But what?
_Mons._ And handsome, as 'tis thought, but--
_Hip._ But! what are your exceptions to him?
_Mons._ I can't tell you, because they are innumerable, innumerable,
_ma foi!_
_Hip._ Has he wit?
_Mons._ Ay, ay, they say, he's witty, brave, and _de bel humeur_, and
well-bred, with all that--but--
_Hip._ But what? does he want judgment?
_Mons. Non, non_: they say he has good sense and judgment; but it is
according to the account Englis--for--
_Hip._ For what?
_Mons._ For, _jarni!_ if I think it.
_Hip._ Why?
_Mons._ Why?--why his tailor lives within Ludgate--his _valet de
chambre_ is no Frenchman--and he has been seen at noon-day to go into
an English eating-house--
_Hip._ Say you so, cousin!
_Mons._ Then for being well-bred, you shall judge:--First, he can't
dance a step, nor sing a French song, nor swear a French oate, nor use
the polite French word in his conversation; and in fine, can't play
at hombre--but speaks base good Englis, with the commune home-bred
pronunciation; and in fine, to say no more, he never carries a
snuff-box about with him.
_Hip._ Indeed!
_Mons._ And yet this man has been abroad as much as any man, and does
not make the least show of it, but a little in his mien, not at all in
his discour, _jarni!_ He never talks so much as of St. Peter's church
at Rome, the Escurial, or Madrid; nay, not so much as of Henry IV., of
Pont-neuf, Paris, and the new Louvre, nor of the Grand Roi.
_Hip._ 'Tis for his commendation, if he does not talk of his travels.
_Mons._ Auh! auh!--_cousine_--he is conscious to himself of his wants,
because he is very envious; for he cannot endure me.
_Hip._ [_Aside._] He shall be my man then for that.--Ay, ay! 'tis the
same, Prue.--[_Aloud._] No, I know he can't endure you, cousin.
_Mons._ How do you know it--who never stir out? _tête non!_
_Hip._ Well--dear cousin,--if you will promise me never to tell my
aunt, I'll tell you.
_Mons._ I won't, I won't, _jarni!_
_Hip._ Nor to be concerned yourself, so as to make a quarrel of it.
_Mons. Non, non_--
_Hip._ Upon the word of a gentleman?
_Mons. Foi de chevalier_, I will not quarrel.
_Prue._ Lord, miss! I wonder you won't believe him without more ado.
_Hip._ Then he has the hatred of a rival for you.
_Mons. Malepeste!_
_Hip._ You know my chamber is backward, and has a door into the gallery
which looks into the back yard of a tavern, whence Mr. Gerrard once
spying me at the window, has often since attempted to come in at that
window by the help of the leads of a low building adjoining; and,
indeed, 'twas as much as my maid and I could do to keep him out.
_Mons. Ah, le coquin!_--
_Hip._ But nothing is stronger than aversion; for I hate him perfectly,
even as much as I love you--
_Prue._ I believe so, faith!--but what design have we now on foot?
[_Aside._
_Hip._ This discovery is an argument, sure, of my love to you.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, say no more, cousin, I doubt not your amour for me,
because I doubt not your judgment. But what's to be done with this
fanfaron?--I know where he eats to-night--I'll go find him out,
_ventre bleu!_--
_Hip._ O, my dear cousin, you will not make a quarrel of it? I thought
what your promise would come to!
_Mons._ Would you have a man of honour--
_Hip._ Keep his promise?
_Mons._ And lose his mistress?--That were not for my honour, _ma foi!_
_Hip._ Cousin, though you do me the injury to think I could be false,
do not do yourself the injury to think any one could be false to you.
Will you be afraid of losing your mistress? To show such a fear to your
rival, were for his honour, and not for yours, sure.
_Mons._ Nay, cousin, I'd have you know I was never afraid of losing my
mistress in earnest.--Let me see the man can get my mistress from me,
_jarni!_--But he that loves must seem a little jealous.
_Hip._ Not to his rival: those that have jealousy hide it from their
rivals.
_Mons._ But there are some who say, jealousy is no more to be hid than
a cough:--but it should never be discovered in me, if I had it, because
it is not French at all--_ventre bleu!_
_Hip._ No, you should rally your rival, and rather make a jest of your
quarrel to him; and that, I suppose, is French too.
_Mons._ 'Tis so, 'tis so, _cousine_; 'tis the veritable French method;
for your Englis, for want of wit, drive every thing to a serious grum
quarrel, and then would make a jest on't, when 'tis too late, when they
can't laugh, _jarni!_
_Hip._ Yes, yes, I would have you rally him soundly: do not spare him a
jot.--But shall you see him to-night?
_Mons._ Ay, ay.
_Hip._ Yes; pray be sure to see him for the jest's sake.
_Mons._ I will--for I love a jest as well as any _bel esprit_ of 'em
all--da!
_Hip._ Ay, and rally him soundly; be sure you rally him soundly, and
tell him just thus:--that the lady he has so long courted, from the
great window of the Ship tavern, is to be your wife to-morrow, unless
he come at his wonted hour of six in the morning to her window to
forbid the banns; for 'tis the first and last time of asking; and if he
come not, let him for ever hereafter stay away, and hold his tongue.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! a ver good jest, _tête bleu!_
_Hip._ And if the fool should come again, I would tell him his own, I
warrant you, cousin. My gentleman should be satisfied for good and all,
I'd secure him.
_Mons. Bon, bon._
_Prue._ Well, well, young mistress; you were not at Hackney school for
nothing, I see; nor taken away for nothing.--A woman may soon be too
old, but is never too young to shift for herself. [_Aside._
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! _cousine_, dou art a merry grig, _ma foi!_--I long
to be with Gerrard; and I am the best at improving a jest--I shall have
such divertisement to-night, _tête bleu!_
_Hip._ He'll deny, may be, at first, that he ever courted any such lady.
_Mons._ Nay, I am sure he'll be ashamed of it, I shall make him look
so sillily, _tête non!_--I long to find him out.--Adieu, adieu, _la
cousine_.
_Hip._ Shall you be sure to find him?
_Mons. Indubitablement_, I'll search the town over, but I'll find
him: ha! ha! ha!--[_Exit_ MONSIEUR, _and returns._]--But I'm afraid,
_cousine_, if I should tell him you are to be my wife to-morrow, he
would not come: now, I am for having him come for the jest's sake,
_ventre!_--
_Hip._ So am I, cousin, for having him come too for the jest's sake.
_Mons._ Well, well, leave it to me:--ha! ha! ha!
_Enter_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Mrs. Caut._ What's all this giggling here?
_Mons._ Hey! do you tinke we'll tell you? no, fait, I warrant you,
_tête non!_--ha! ha! ha!--
_Hip._ My cousin is overjoyed, I suppose, that my father is to come
to-night.
_Mrs. Caut._ I am afraid he will not come to-night:--but you'll stay
and see, nephew?
_Mons. Non, non_: I am to sup at t'other end of the town to-night--La,
la, la--Ra, ra, ra--[_Exit, singing._
_Mrs. Caut._ I wish the French levity of this young man may agree with
your father's Spanish gravity.
_Hip._ Just as your crabbed old age and my youth agree.
_Mrs. Caut._ Well, malapert, I know you hate me, because I have been
the guardian of your reputation: but your husband may thank me one day.
_Hip._ If he be not a fool, he would rather be obliged to me for my
virtue than to you, since, at long run, he must, whether he will or no.
_Mrs. Caut._ So, so!
_Hip._ Nay, now I think on't, I'd have you to know, the poor man,
whosoe'er he is, will have little cause to thank you.
_Mrs. Caut._ No!--
_Hip._ No; for I never lived so wicked a life as I have done this
twelvemonth, since I have not seen a man.
_Mrs. Caut._ How, how! if you have not seen a man, how could you be
wicked? how could you do any ill?
_Hip._ No, I have done no ill; but I have paid it with thinking.
_Mrs. Caut._ O that's no hurt! to think, is no hurt:--ancient, grave,
and godly, cannot help thoughts.
_Hip._ I warrant, you have had 'em yourself, aunt?
_Mrs. Caut._ Yes, yes, when I cannot sleep.
_Hip._ Ha! ha!--I believe it. But know, I have had those thoughts
sleeping and waking; for I have dreamt of a man.
_Mrs. Caut._ No matter, no matter, so that it was but a dream: I have
dreamt myself. For you must know, widows are mightily given to dream;
insomuch that a dream is waggishly called "the Widow's Comfort."
_Hip._ But I did not only dream--[_Sighs._
_Mrs. Caut._ How, how! did you more than dream? speak, young harlotry!
confess; did you more than dream? How could you do more than dream in
this house? speak, confess!
_Hip._ Well, I will then. Indeed, aunt, I did not only dream, but I was
pleased with my dream when I awaked.
_Mrs. Caut._ Oh, is that all?--Nay, if a dream only will please you,
you are a modest young woman still: but have a care of a vision.
_Hip._ Ay; but to be delighted when we wake with a naughty dream, is a
sin, aunt; and I am so very scrupulous, that I would as soon consent to
a naughty man as to a naughty dream.
_Mrs. Caut._ I do believe you.
_Hip._ I am for going into the throng of temptations.
_Mrs. Caut._ There I believe you again.
_Hip._ And making myself so familiar with them, that I would not be
concerned for 'em a whit.
_Mrs. Caut._ There I do not believe you.
_Hip._ And would take all the innocent liberty of the town:--to tattle
to your men under a vizard in the playhouses, and meet 'em at night in
masquerade.
_Mrs. Caut._ There I do believe you again; I know you would be
masquerading: but worse would come on't, as it has done to others who
have been in a masquerade, and are now virgins but in masquerade, and
will not be their own women again as long as they live. The children of
this age must be wise children indeed if they know their fathers, since
their mothers themselves cannot inform 'em! O, the fatal liberty of
this masquerading age! when I was a young woman--
_Hip._ Come, come, do not blaspheme this masquerading age, like
an ill-bred city-dame, whose husband is half broke by living
in Covent-garden, or who has been turned out of the Temple or
Lincoln's-Inn upon a masquerading night. By what I've heard, 'tis a
pleasant, well-bred, complaisant, free, frolic, good-natured, pretty
age: and if you do not like it, leave it to us that do.
_Mrs. Caut._ Lord, how impudently you talk, niece! I'm sure I remember
when I was a maid--
_Hip._ Can you remember it, reverend aunt?
_Mrs. Caut._ Yes, modest niece,--that a raw young thing, though almost
at woman's estate, (that was then at thirty or thirty-five years of
age,) would not so much as have looked upon a man--
_Hip._ Above her father's butler or coachman.
_Mrs. Caut._ Still taking me up! Well, thou art a mad girl; and so good
night. We may go to bed; for I suppose now your father will not come
to-night. [_Exit._
_Hip._ I'm sorry for it; for I long to see him.--[_Aside._] But I lie:
I had rather see Gerrard here; and yet I know not how I shall like
him. If he has wit, he will come; and if he has none, he would not be
welcome. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--_The French House.--A table, bottles, and candles._
_Enter_ Mr. GERRARD, MARTIN, _and_ Monsieur de PARIS.
_Mons._ 'Tis ver veritable, _jarni!_ what the French say of you
Englis: you use the debauch so much, it cannot have with you the
French operation; you are never enjoyee. But come, let us for once
be _infiniment gaillard_, and sing a French sonnet. [_Sings,--"La
bouteille, la bouteille, glou, glou."_
_Mar._ [_To_ GERRARD.] What a melodious fop it is!
_Mons._ Auh! you have no complaisance.
_Ger._ No, we can't sing; but we'll drink to you the lady's health,
whom (you say) I have so long courted at her window.
_Mons._ Ay, there is your complaisance: all your Englis complaisance
is pledging complaisance, _ventre!_--But if I do you reason here,
[_Takes the glass._]--will you do me reason to a little French
_chanson à boire_ I shall begin to you?--[_Sings._] _"La bouteille, la
bouteille--"_
_Mar._ [_To_ GERRARD.] I had rather keep company with a set of
wide-mouthed, drunken cathedral choristers.
_Ger._ Come, sir, drink; and he shall do you reason to your French
song, since you stand upon't.--Sing him "Arthur of Bradley," or "I am
the Duke of Norfolk."
_Mons._ Auh! _tête bleu!_--an Englis catch! fy! fy! _ventre!_--
_Ger._ He can sing no damned French song.
_Mons._ Nor can I drink the damned Englis wine. [_Sets down the glass._
_Ger._ Yes, to that lady's health, who has commanded me to wait upon
her to-morrow at her window, which looks (you say) into the inward yard
of the Ship tavern, near the end of what-d'ye-call't street.
_Mons._ Ay, ay; do you not know her? not you! _vert bleu!_
_Ger._ But, pray repeat again what she said.
_Mons._ Why, she said she is to be married to-morrow to a person of
honour, a brave gentleman, that shall be nameless, and so, and so
forth.--[_Aside._] Little does he think who 'tis!
_Ger._ And what else?
_Mons._ That if you make not your appearance before her window
to-morrow at your wonted hour of six in the morning, to forbid the
banns, you must for ever hereafter stay away and hold your tongue; for
'tis the first and last time of asking.--Ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ 'Tis all a riddle to me: I should be unwilling to be fooled by
this coxcomb. [_Aside._
_Mons._ I won't tell him all she said, lest he should not go: I would
fain have him go for the jest's sake--Ha! ha! ha! [_Aside._
_Ger._ Her name is, you say, Hippolita, daughter to a rich Spanish
merchant.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, you don't know her, not you! _à d'autre, à d'autre, ma
foi!_--ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ Well, I will be an easy fool for once.
_Mar._ By all means go.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, by all means go--ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ [_Aside._] To be caught in a fool's trap--I'll venture
it.--[_Drinks to him._] Come, 'tis her health.
_Mons._ And to your good reception--_tête bleu!_--ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ Well, monsieur, I'll say this for thee, thou hast made the best
use of three months at Paris as ever English squire did.
_Mons._ Considering I was in a dam Englis pension too.
_Mar._ Yet you have conversed with some French, I see; footmen, I
suppose, at the fencing-school? I judge it by your oaths.
_Mons._ French footmen! well, well, I had rather have the conversation
of a French footman than of an Englis 'squire; there's for you, da--
_Mar._ I beg your pardon, monsieur; I did not think the French footmen
had been so much your friends.
_Ger._ Yes, yes, I warrant they have obliged him at Paris much more
than any of their masters did. Well, there shall be no more said
against the French footmen.
_Mons. Non, de grace!_--you are always turning the nation _Française_
into ridicule, dat nation so accomplie, dat nation which you imitate
so, dat in the conclusion, you butte turn yourself into ridicule, _ma
foi!_ If you are for de raillery, abuse the Dutch, why not abuse the
Dutch? _les gros villains, pendards_, insolents; but here in your
England, _ma foi!_--you have more honeur, respecte, and estimation for
de Dushe swabber, who come to cheat your nation, den for de Franch
footman, who come to oblige your nation.
_Mar._ Our nation! then you disown it for yours, it seems.
_Mons._ Well! wat of dat? are you the disobligee by dat?
_Ger._ No, monsieur, far from it; you could not oblige us, nor your
country, any other way than by disowning it.
_Mons._ It is de brutal country, which abuse de France, and reverence
de Dushe; I will maintain, sustain, and justifie, dat one little
Franch footman have more honeur, courage, and generosity, more good
blood in his vaines, an mush more good manners an civility den all de
State-General together, _jarni!_--Dey are only wise and valiant wen dey
are drunkee.
_Ger._ That is, always.
_Mons._ But dey are never honest wen dey are drunkee; dey are de only
rogue in de varlde who are not honeste when dey are drunk--_ma foi!_
_Ger._ I find you are well acquainted with them, monsieur.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, I have made the toure of Holland, but it was _en
poste_, dere was no staying for me, _tête non!_--for de gentleman can
no more live dere den de toad in Ir'land, _ma foi!_ for I did not see
on' chevalier in de whole countree: alway, you know, de rebel hate de
gens de quality. Besides, I had made sufficient observation of the
_canaille barbare_ de first nightee of my arrival at Amsterdamme: I did
visit, you must know, one of de principal of de State-General, to whom
I had recommendation from England, and did find his excellence weighing
soap, _jarni!_--ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ Weighing soap!
_Mons._ Weighing soap, _ma foi!_ for he was a wholesale chandeleer; and
his lady was taking de tale of chandels wid her own witer hands, _ma
foi!_ and de young lady, his excellence daughter, stringing harring,
stringing harring, _jarni!_--
_Ger._ So!--and what were his sons doing?
_Mons._ Augh--his son (for he had but one) was making the tour of
France, Espagne, Italy, and Germany, in a coach and six; or rader, now
I tink on't, gone of an embassy hider to dere master Cromwell, whom dey
did love and fear, because he was someting de greater rebel. But now I
talk of de _rebelle_, none but the rebel can love the _rebelle_. And so
much for you and your friend the Dushe; I'll say no more, and pray do
you say no more of my friend de Franch, not so mush as of my friend de
Franch footman--da--
_Ger._ No, no;--but, monsieur, now give me leave to admire thee, that
in three months at Paris you could renounce your language, drinking,
and your country, (for which we are not angry with you,) as I said, and
come home so perfect a Frenchman, that the draymen of your father's own
brewhouse would be ready to knock thee on the head.
_Mons._ Vel, vel, my father was a merchant of his own beer, as the
_noblesse_ of Franch of their own wine.--But I can forgive you that
raillery, that bob,[56] since you say I have the eyre _Français_:--but
have I the eyre _Français_?
_Ger._ As much as any French footman of 'em all.
_Mons._ And do I speak agreeable ill Englis enough?
_Ger._ Very ill.
_Mons. Véritablement?_
_Ger. Véritablement._
_Mons._ For you must know, 'tis as ill breeding now to speak good
Englis as to write good Englis, good sense, or a good hand.
_Ger._ But, indeed, methinks you are not slovenly enough for a
Frenchman.
_Mons._ Slovenly! you mean negligent?
_Ger._ No, I mean slovenly.
_Mons._ Then I will be more slovenly.
_Ger._ You know, to be a perfect Frenchman, you must never be silent,
never sit still, and never be clean.
_Mar._ But you have forgot one main qualification of a true Frenchman,
he should never be sound, that is, be very pocky too.
_Mons._ Oh! if dat be all, I am very pocky; pocky enough, _jarni!_ that
is the only French qualification may be had without going to Paris, _ma
foi!_
_Enter_ Waiter.
_Wait._ Here are a couple of ladies coming up to you, sir.
_Ger._ To us!--did you appoint any to come hither, Martin?
_Mar._ Not I.
_Ger._ Nor you, monsieur?
_Mons._ Nor I.
_Ger._ Sirrah, tell your master, if he cannot protect us from the
constable, and these midnight coursers, 'tis not a house for us.
_Mar._ Tell 'em you have nobody in the house, and shut the doors.
_Wait._ They'll not be satisfied with that, they'll break open the
door. They searched last night all over the house for my Lord Fisk, and
Sir Jeffery Jantee, who were fain to hide themselves in the bar under
my mistress's chair and petticoats.
_Mons._ Wat, do the women hunt out the men so now?
_Mar._ Ay, ay, things are altered since you went to Paris; there's
hardly a young man in town dares be known of his lodging for 'em.
_Ger._ Bailiffs, pursuivants, or a city constable, are modest people in
comparison of them.
_Mar._ And we are not so much afraid to be taken up by the watch as by
the tearing midnight ramblers, or huzza women.
_Mons. Jarni!_ ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ Where are they? I hope they are gone again.
_Wait._ No, sir, they are below at the stair-foot, only swearing at
their coachman.
_Ger._ Come, you rogue, they are in fee with you waiters, and no
gentleman can come hither, but they have the intelligence straight.
_Wait._ Intelligence from us, sir! they should never come here, if we
could help it. I am sure we wish 'em choked when we see them come in;
for they bring such good stomachs from St James's Park, or rambling
about in the streets, that we poor waiters have not a bit left; 'tis
well if we can keep our money in our pockets for 'em. I am sure I have
paid seventeen and sixpence in half-crowns for coach-hire at several
times for a little damned tearing lady, and when I asked her for it
again one morning in her chamber, she bid me pay myself, for she had no
money; but I wanted the courage of a gentleman; besides, the lord that
kept her was a good customer to our house and my friend, and I made a
conscience of wronging him.
_Ger._ A man of honour!
_Mons. Vert_ and _bleu!_ pleasant, pleasant, _ma foi!_
_Ger._ Go, go, sirrah, shut the door, I hear 'em coming up.
_Wait._ Indeed I dare not; they'll kick me down stairs, if I should.
_Ger._ Go, you rascal, I say. [_The_ Waiter _shuts the door, 'tis
thrust open again._
_Enter_ FLOUNCE _and_ FLIRT _in vizards, striking the_ Waiter,
_and come up to the table._
_Ger._ [_Aside._] Flounce and Flirt, upon my life!--[_Aloud._] Ladies,
I am sorry you have no volunteers in your service; this is mere
pressing, and argues a great necessity you have for men.
_Flou._ You need not be afraid, sir; we will use no violence to you;
you are not fit for our service: we know you.
_Flirt._ The hot service you have been in formerly makes you unfit for
ours now; besides, you begin to be something too old for us; we are for
the brisk huzzas of seventeen or eighteen.
_Ger._ Nay, faith, I am not too old yet; but an old acquaintance will
make any man old:--besides, to tell you the truth, you are come a
little too early for me, for I am not drunk yet. But there are your
brisk young men, who are always drunk, and, perhaps, have the happiness
not to know you.
_Flou._ The happiness not to know us!
_Flirt._ The happiness not to know us!
_Ger._ Be not angry, ladies; 'tis rather happiness to have pleasure to
come than to have it past, and therefore these gentlemen are happy in
not knowing you.
_Mar._ I'd have you to know, I do know the ladies too, and I will not
lose the honour of the ladies' acquaintance for anything.
_Flou._ Not for the pleasure of beginning an acquaintance with us, as
Mr. Gerrard says: but it is the general vanity of you town fops to
lay claim to all good acquaintance and persons of honour; you cannot
let a woman pass in the Mall at midnight, but, damn you, you know her
straight, you know her;--but you would be damned before you would say
so much for one in a mercer's shop.
_Ger._ He has spoken it in a French-house, where he has very good
credit, and I dare swear you may make him eat his words.
_Mons._ She does want a gown, indeed; she is in her _déshabillé_.
This _déshabillé_ is a great mode in England; the women love the
_déshabillé_ as well as the men, _ma foi!_ [_Peeping under her scarf._
_Flirt._ Well, if we should stay and sup with you, I warrant you would
be bragging of it to-morrow amongst your comrades, that you had the
company of two women of quality at the French-house, and name us.
_Mar._ Pleasant jilts! [_Aside._
_Ger._ No, upon our honours, we would not brag of your company.
_Flou._ Upon your honours?
_Mar._ No, faith.
_Flou._ Come, we will venture to sit down then: yet I know the vanity
of you men; you could not contain yourselves from bragging.
_Ger._ No, no; you women now-a-days have found out the pleasure of
bragging, and will allow it the men no longer.
_Mar._ Therefore, indeed, we dare not stay to sup with you; for you
would be sure to tell on't.
_Ger._ And we are young men who stand upon our reputations.
_Flou._ You are very pleasant, gentlemen.
_Mar._ For my part I am to be married shortly, and know 'twould quickly
come to my mistress's ear.
_Ger._ And for my part I must go visit to-morrow betimes a new city
mistress; and you know they are as inquisitive as precise in the city.
_Flirt._ Come, come; pray leave this fooling; sit down again, and let
us bespeak supper.
_Ger._ No, faith, I dare not.
_Mar._ Besides, we have supped.
_Flou._ No matter, we only desire you should look on while we eat, and
put the glass about, or so. [GERRARD _and_ MARTIN _offer to go._
_Flirt._ Pray, stay.
_Ger._ Upon my life I dare not.
_Flou._ Upon our honours we will not tell, if you are in earnest.
_Ger._ Pshaw! pshaw!--I know the vanity of you women; you could not
contain yourselves from bragging.
_Mons. Ma foi!_ is it certain? ha! ha! ha!--Hark you, madam, can't you
fare well but you must cry roast-meat?
You spoil your trade by bragging of your gains;
The silent sow (madam) does eat most grains.--da--
_Flirt._ Your servant, monsieur fop.
_Flou._ Nay, faith, do not go, we will no more tell--
_Mons._ Than you would of a clap, if you had it; dat's the only secret
you can keep, _jarni!_
_Mar._ I am glad we are rid of these jilts.
_Ger._ And we have taken a very ridiculous occasion.
_Mons._ Wat! must we leave the lady then? dis is dam civility Englis,
_ma foi!_
_Flirt._ Nay, sir, you have too much of the French air, to have so
little honour and good breeding. [_Pulling him back._
_Mons._ Dee you tinke so then, sweet madam, I have mush of de French
eyre?
_Flirt._ More than any Frenchman breathing.
_Mons._ Auh, you are the curtoise dame; _morbleu!_ I shall stay then,
if you think so. Monsieur Gerrard, you will be certain to see the lady
to-morrow? pray not forget, ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ No, no, sir.
_Mar._ You will go then?
_Ger._ I will go on a fool's errand for once. [_Exeunt_ GERRARD _and_
MARTIN.
_Flou._ What will you eat, sir?
_Mons._ Wat you please, madam.
_Flou._ D'ye hear, waiter? then some young partridge.
_Wait._ What else, madam?
_Flirt._ Some ruffs.
_Wait._ What else, madam?
_Flirt._ Some young pheasants.
_Wait._ What else, madam?
_Flirt._ Some young rabbits; I love rabbits.
_Wait._ What else, madam?
_Flou._ Stay--
_Mans._ Dis Englis waiter wit his "Wat else, madam," will ruin me,
_tête non!_ [_Aside._
_Wait._ What else, madam?
_Mans._ "Wat else, madam," agen!--call up the French waiter.
_Wait._ What else, madam?
_Mons._ Again!--call up the French waiter or _cuisinier, mort! tête!
ventre! vite!_--Auh, madam, the stupidity of the Englis waiter! I hate
the Englis waiter, _ma foi!_ [_Exit_ Waiter.
_Flirt._ Be not in passion, dear monsieur.
_Mons._ I kiss your hand, _obligeante_ madam.
_Enter a French_ Scullion.
_Cher Pierrot, serviteur, serviteur._--[_Kisses the_ Scullion.]--_Or-ça
à manger._
_Scull. En voulez-vous_ de cram schiquin?
_Flou._ Yes.
_Scull._ De partrish, de faysan, de quailles?
_Mons._ [_Aside._] This _bougre_ vil ruine me too; but he speak wit dat
_bel_ eyre and grace, I cannot bid him hold his tongue, _ventre! C'est
assez, Pierrot, va-t'en._ [_Exit_ Scullion, _and returns._
_Scull._ And de litel plate de--
_Mons. Jarni! va-t'en._ [_Exit_ Scullion, _and returns._
_Scull._ And de litel plate de--
_Mons. De grace_, go dy way. [_Exit_ Scullion, _and returns._
_Scull._ And de litel de--
_Mons. De fromage de Brie, va-t'en!_--go, go.
_Flou._ What's that? cheese that stinks?
_Mons._ Ay, ay, be sure it stinke extremente. _Pierrot, va-t'en;_ but
stay till I drink dy health:--here's to dat pretty fellow's health,
madam.
_Flirt._ Must we drink the scullion's health?
_Mons._ Auh, you will not be _désobligeante_, madam; he is the
_cuisinier_ for a king, nay, for a cardinal or French abbot. [_Drinks.
Exit_ Scullion.
_Flou._ But how shall we divertise ourselves till supper be ready?
_Flirt._ Can we have better _divertissement_ than this gentleman?
_Flou._ But I think we had better carry the gentleman home with us, and
because it is already late, sup at home, and divertise the gentleman at
cards, till it be ready.--D'ye hear, waiter? let it be brought, when
'tis ready, to my lodging hard by, in Mustard-Alley, at the sign of the
Crooked-billet.
_Mons._ At the Crooked-billet!
_Flirt._ Come, sir, come.
_Mons. Morbleu!_ I have take the vow (since my last clap) never to go
again to the _bourdel_.
_Flou._ What is the _bourdel_?
_Mons._ How call you the name of your house?
_Flirt._ The Crooked-billet.
_Mons._ No, no, the--bawdy-house, _vert_ and _bleu!_
_Flirt._ How, our lodging! we'd have you to know--
_Mons._ Auh, _morbleu!_ I would not know it; de Crooked-billet, ha! ha!
_Flirt._ Come, sir.
_Mons._ Besides, if I go wit you to the _bourdel_, you will tell,
_morbleu!_
_Flou._ Fy! fy! come along.
_Mons._ Beside, I am to be married within these two days; if you should
tell now--
_Flirt._ Come, come along, we will not tell.
_Mons._ But you will promise then to have the care of my honour? pray,
good madam, have de care of my honour, pray have de care of my honour.
Will you have care of my honour? pray have de care of my honour, and do
not tell if you can help it; pray, dear madam, do not tell. [_Kneels to
them._
_Flirt._ I would not tell for fear of losing you, my love for you will
make me secret.
_Mons._ Why, do you love me?
_Flirt._ Indeed I cannot help telling you now, what my modesty ought to
conceal, but my eyes would disclose it too:--I have a passion for you,
sir.
_Mons._ A passion for me!
_Flirt._ An extreme passion, dear sir; you are so French, so mightily
French, so agreeable French--but I'll tell you more of my heart at
home: come along.
_Mons._ But is your pation sincere?
_Flirt._ The truest in the world.
_Mons._ Well then, I'll venture my body with thee for one night.
_Flirt._ For one night! don't you believe that; and so you would leave
me to-morrow? but I love you so, I cannot part with you, you must keep
me for good and all, if you will have me. I can't leave you for my
heart.
_Mons._ How! keep, _jarni!_ de whore Englis have notinge but keepe,
keepe in dere mouths now-a-days, _tête non!_--Formerly 'twas enoughe to
keep de shild, _ma foi!_
_Flirt._ Nay, I will be kept, else--but, come, we'll talk on't at home.
_Mons._ Umh--so, so, ver vel; de amour of de whore does alway end in
keep, ha! keep, _ma foi!_ keep, ha!--
The punk that entertains you wit her passion,
Is like kind host who makes the invitation,
At your own cost, to his _fort bonne collation._
[_Exeunt._
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.--Don DIEGO'S _House in the morning._
_Enter_ Don DIEGO _in a Spanish habit, and_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Don._ Have you had a Spanish care of the honour of my family? that is
to say, have you kept my daughter close in my absence, as I directed?
_Mrs. Caut._ I have sir, but it was as much as I could do.
_Don._ I knew that; for 'twas as much as I could do to keep up her
mother;--I that have been in Spain, look you.
_Mrs. Caut._ Nay 'tis a hard task to keep up an Englishwoman.
_Don._ As hard as it is for those who are not kept up to be honest,
look you, _con licencia_, sister.
_Mrs. Caut._ How now, brother! I am sure my husband never kept me up.
_Don._ I knew that, therefore I cried _con licencia_, sister, as the
Spaniards have it.
_Mrs. Caut._ But you Spaniards are too censorious, brother.
_Don._ You Englishwomen, sister, give us too much cause, look you;--but
you are sure my daughter has not seen a man since my departure?
_Mrs. Caut._ No, not so much as a churchman.
_Don._ As a churchman! _voto!_ I thank you for that; not a churchman!
not a churchman!
_Mrs. Caut._ No, not so much as a churchman; but of any, one would
think one might trust a churchman.
_Don._ No, we are bold enough in trusting them with our souls, I'll
never trust them with the body of my daughter, look you, _guarda!_ You
see what comes of trusting churchmen here in England; and 'tis because
the women govern the families, that chaplains are so much in fashion.
Trust a churchman!--trust a coward with your honour, a fool with your
secret, a gamester with your purse, as soon as a priest with your wife
or daughter; look you, _guarda!_ I am no fool, look you.
_Mrs. Caut._ Nay, I know you are a wise man, brother.
_Don._ Why, sister, I have been fifteen years in Spain for it, at
several times, look you: now in Spain, he is wise enough that is grave,
politic enough that says little, and honourable enough that is jealous;
and though I say it, that should not say it, I am as grave, grum, and
jealous, as any Spaniard breathing.
_Mrs. Caut._ I know you are, brother.
_Don._ And will be a Spaniard in everything still, and will not
conform, not I, to their ill-favoured English customs, for I will wear
my Spanish habit still, I will stroke my Spanish whiskers still, and I
will eat my Spanish _olio_ still; and my daughter shall go a maid to
her husband's bed, let the English custom be what 'twill: I would fain
see any finical, cunning, insinuating monsieur of the age, debauch, or
steal away my daughter. But, well, has she seen my cousin? how long has
he been in England?
_Mrs. Caut._ These three days.
_Don._ And she has seen him, has she? I was contented he should see
her, intending him for her husband; but she has seen nobody else upon
your certain knowledge?
_Mrs. Caut._ No, no, alas! how should she? 'tis impossible she should.
_Don._ Where is her chamber? pray let me see her.
_Mrs. Caut._ You'll find her, poor creature, asleep, I warrant you: or,
if awake, thinking no hurt, nor of your coming this morning.
_Don._ Let us go to her, I long to see her, poor innocent wretch.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--_A Room in_ Don DIEGO'S _House._
_Enter_ HIPPOLITA, GERRARD, _and_ PRUE _at a distance._
_Ger._ Am I not come upon your own summons, madam? and yet receive me
so?
_Hip._ My summons, sir! no, I assure you; and if you do not like your
reception, I cannot help it; for I am not used to receive men, I'd have
you to know.
_Ger._ She is beautiful beyond all things I ever saw. [_Aside._
_Hip._ I like him extremely! [_Aside._
_Ger._ Come, fairest, why do you frown?
_Hip._ Because I am angry.
_Ger._ I am come on purpose to please you, then; do not receive me so
unkindly.
_Hip._ I tell you, I do not use to receive men.--There has not been a
man in the house before, but my cousin, this twelvemonth, I'd have you
to know.
_Ger._ Then you ought to bid me the more welcome, I'd have you to know.
_Hip._ What! do you mock me too? I know I am but a home-bred simple
girl! but I thought you gallants of the town had been better bred than
to mock a poor girl in her father's own house. I have heard, indeed,
'tis a part of good breeding to mock people behind their backs, but not
to their faces.
_Ger._ [_Aside._] Pretty creature! she has not only the beauty, but the
innocency of an angel.--[_To_ HIPPOLITA.] Mock you, dear miss! no, I
only repeated the words because they were yours, sweet miss; what we
like we imitate.
_Hip._ "Dear miss! sweet miss!" how came you and I so well acquainted?
this is one of your confident tricks, too, as I have been told; you'll
be acquainted with a woman in the time you can help her over a bench
in the playhouse, or to her coach. But I need not wonder at your
confidence, since you could come in at the great gallery window, just
now. But, pray, who shall pay for the glass you have broken?
_Ger._ Pretty creature! your father might have made the window bigger
then, since he has so fine a daughter, and will not allow people to
come in at the door to her.
_Hip._ A pleasant man!--well, 'tis harder playing the hypocrite with
him, I see, than with my aunt or father; and if dissimulation were not
very natural to a woman, I'm sure I could not use it at this time: but
the mask of simplicity and innocency is as useful to an intriguing
woman as the mask of religion to a statesman, they say. [_Aside._
_Ger._ Why do you look away, dearest miss?
_Hip._ Because you quarrelled with me just now for frowning upon you,
and I cannot help it, if I look upon you.
_Ger._ O! let me see that face at any rate.
_Hip._ Would you have me frown upon you? for I shall be sure to do't.
_Ger._ Come, I'll stand fair: you have done your worst to my heart
already.
_Hip._ Now I dare not look upon him, lest I should not be able to keep
my word. [_Aside._
_Ger._ Come, I am ready:--[_Aside._] and yet I am afraid of her
frowns.--[_To_ HIPPOLITA.] Come, look, Ih--am ready, Ih--am ready.
_Hip._ But I am not ready. [_Aside._
_Ger._ Turn, dear miss, come, Ih--am ready.
_Hip._ Are you ready then? I'll look. [_Turns upon him._]--No, faith, I
cannot frown upon him, if I should be hanged. [_Aside._
_Ger._ Dear miss, I thank you, that look has no terror in't.
_Hip._ No, I cannot frown for my heart for blushing, I don't use to
look upon men, you must know.
_Ger._ If it were possible anything could, those blushes would add to
her beauty: well, bashfulness is the only out-of-fashioned thing that
is agreeable. [_Aside._
_Hip._ Ih--h--like this man strangely, I was going to say loved him.
Courage then, Hippolita! make use of the only opportunity thou canst
have to enfranchise thyself. Women formerly (they say) never knew how
to make use of their time till it was past; but let it not be said
so of a young woman of this age.--My damned aunt will be stirring
presently:--well, then, courage, I say, Hippolita!--thou art full
fourteen years old,--shift for thyself. [_Aside._
_Ger._ So! I have looked upon her so long, till I am grown bashful too.
Love and modesty come together like money and covetousness, and the
more we have, the less we can show it. I dare not look her in the face
now, nor speak a word. [_Aside._
_Hip._ What, sir, methinks you look away now!
_Ger._ Because you would not look upon me, miss.
_Hip._ Nay, I hope you can't look me in the face, since you have done
so rude a thing as to come in at the window upon me. Come, come, when
once we women find the men bashful, then we take heart. Now I can look
upon you as long as you will; let's see if you can frown upon me now.
_Ger._ Lovely innocency! no, you may swear I can't frown upon you, miss.
_Hip._ So! I knew you were ashamed of what you have done. Well, since
you are ashamed, and because you did not come of your own head, but
were sent by my cousin, you say--
_Ger._ Which I wonder at. [_Aside._
_Hip._ For all these reasons, I do forgive you.
_Ger._ In token of your forgiveness then, dearest miss, let me have the
honour to kiss your hand.
_Hip._ Nay, there 'tis; you men are like our little shock dogs:[57] if
we don't keep you off from us, but use you a little kindly, you grow so
fiddling and so troublesome, there is no enduring you.
_Ger._ O dear miss! if I am like your shock-dog, let it be in his
privileges.
_Hip._ Why, I'd have you know he does not lie with me.
_Ger._ 'Twas well guessed, miss, for one so innocent.
_Hip._ No, I always kick him off from the bed, and never will let him
come near it; for of late, indeed, (I do not know what's the reason,) I
don't much care for my shock-dog, nor my babies.
_Ger._ O then, miss, I may have hopes! for after the shock-dog and the
babies, 'tis the man's turn to be beloved.
_Hip._ Why, could you be so good-natured as to come after my shock-dog
in my love? it may be, indeed, rather than after one of your brother
men.
_Ger_ Hah, ha, ha! poor creature! a wonder of innocency! [_Aside._
_Hip._ But I see you are humble, because you would kiss my hand.
_Ger._ No, I am ambitious therefore.
_Hip._ [_Aside._] Well, all this fooling but loses time, I must make
better use of it. [_To_ GERRARD.] I could let you kiss my hand, but
then I'm afraid you would take hold of me and carry me away.
_Ger._ Indeed I would not.
_Hip._ Come, I know you would.
_Ger._ Truly I would not.
_Hip._ You would! you would! I know you would.
_Ger._ I'll swear I wo' not--by--
_Hip._ Nay, don't swear, for you'll be the apter to do it then.
[_Aside._] I would not have him forswear it neither;--he does not like
me, sure, well enough to carry me away.
_Ger._ Dear miss, let me kiss your hand.
_Hip._ I am sure you would carry me away if I should.
_Ger._ Be not afraid of it.
_Hip._ [_Aside._] Nay, I am afraid of the contrary.--Either he
dislikes me, and therefore will not be troubled with me, or what is as
bad, he loves me and is dull, or fearful to displease me.
_Ger._ Trust me, sweetest! I can use no violence to you.
_Hip._ Nay, I am sure you would carry me away; what should you come in
at the window for, if you did not mean to steal me.
_Ger._ If I should endeavour it, you might cry out, and I should be
prevented.
_Hip._ [_Aside._] Dull, dull man of the town! are all like thee? He is
as dull as a country squire at questions and commands.--[_To_ GERRARD.]
No, if I should cry out never so loud, this is quite at the further end
of the house, and there nobody could hear me.
_Ger._ I will not give you the occasion, dearest.
_Hip._ [_Aside._] Well, I will quicken thy sense, if it be
possible.--[_To_ GERRARD.] Nay, I know you come to steal me away;
because I am an heiress, and have twelve hundred pounds a year, lately
left me by my mother's brother, which my father cannot meddle with, and
which is the chiefest reason (I suppose) why he keeps me up so close.
_Ger._ Ha!
_Hip._ So!--this has made him consider. O money! powerful money! how
the ugly, old, crooked, straight, handsome young women are beholding to
thee! [_Aside._
_Ger._ Twelve hundred pounds a year!
_Hip._ Besides, I have been told my fortune, and the woman said I
should be stolen away, because she says 'tis the fate of heiresses to
be stolen away.
_Ger._ Twelve hundred pounds a-year!--[_Aside._
_Hip._ Nay, more, she described the man to me that was to do it, and he
was as like you as could be. Have you any brothers?
_Ger._ Not any; 'twas I, I warrant you, sweetest.
_Hip._ So, he understands himself now. [_Aside._
_Ger._ Well, madam, since 'twas foretold you, what do you think on't?
'tis in vain, you know, to resist fate.
_Hip._ I do know, indeed, they say 'tis to no purpose: besides, the
woman that told me my fortune, or you, have bewitched me--Ih--think.
[_Sighs._
_Ger._ My soul! my life! 'tis you have charms powerful as numberless,
especially those of your innocency irresistible, and do surprise the
wariest heart. Such mine was, while I could call it mine, but now 'tis
yours for ever.
_Hip._ Well, well, get you gone then. I'll keep it safe for your sake.
_Ger._ Nay, you must go with me, sweetest.
_Hip._ Well, I see you will part with the jewel; but you will have the
keeping of the cabinet to which you commit it.
_Ger._ Come, come, my dearest, let us be gone: Fortune as well as women
must be taken in the humour.
_As they are going out_, PRUE _runs hastily to them._
_Prue._ O miss, miss! your father, it seems, is just now arrived, and
is here coming in upon you.
_Hip._ My father.
_Enter_ Don DIEGO _and_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Don._ My daughter and a man!
_Mrs. Caut._ A man! a man in the house!
_Ger._ Ha! what mean these?--a Spaniard!
_Hip._ What shall I do? Stay--Nay, pray stir not from me; but lead me
about, as if you led me a corant.[58] [_Leads her about._
_Don._ Is this your government, sister? and this your innocent charge,
that hath not seen the face of a man this twelvemonth? _en hora mala!_
_Mrs. Caut._ O, sure, it is not a man! it cannot be a man! [_Puts on
her spectacles._
_Don._ It cannot be a man! if he be not a man, he's a devil. He has her
lovingly by the hand too, _valgame el cielo!_
_Hip._ Do not seem to mind them, but dance on, or lead me about still.
_Ger._ What d'ye mean by it? [_Apart to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Don._ Hey, they are frolic, a-dancing!
_Mrs. Caut._ Indeed, they are dancing, I think.--Why, niece!
_Don._ Nay, hold a little: I'll make 'em dance in the devil's name; but
it shall not be _la gallarda_. [_Draws his sword._
_Mrs. Caut._ O niece! why niece! [Mrs. CAUTION _holds him._
_Ger._ Do you hear her? what do you mean? [_Apart to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Hip._ Take no notice of them; but walk about still, and sing a little,
sing a corant.
_Ger._ I can't sing: but I'll hum, if you will.
_Don._ Are you so merry? well I'll be with you: _en hora mala!_
_Mrs. Caut._ O niece, niece! why niece! oh--
_Don._ Why, daughter, my dainty daughter! My shame! my ruin! my plague!
[_Struggling, gets from_ Mrs. CAUTION, _goes towards them with his
sword drawn._
_Hip._ Mind him not, but dance and sing on.
_Ger._ A pretty time to dance and sing, indeed, when I have a Spaniard
with a naked Toledo at my tail! No, pray excuse me, miss, from fooling
any longer.
_Hip._ [_Turning about._] O, my father, my father! poor father! you are
welcome; pray give me your blessing.
_Don._ My blessing, _en hora mala!_
_Hip._ What! am I not your daughter, sir?
_Don._ My daughter! _mi mal! mi muerte!_
_Hip._ My name's Hippolita, sir: I don't own your Spanish names. But,
pray father, why do you frighten one so? you know I don't love to see a
sword: what do you mean to do with that ugly thing out?
_Don._ I'll show you. _Traidor! ladron de mi honra!_ thou diest. [_Runs
at_ GERRARD.
_Ger._ Not if I can help it, good Don. But by the names you give me, I
find you mistake your man: I suppose some Spaniard has affronted you.
[_Draws._
_Don._ None but thee, _ladron!_ and thou diest for't. [_Fight._
_Mrs. Caut._ Oh! oh! oh!--help! help! help!
_Hip._ O--what, will you kill my poor dancing-master? [_Kneels._
_Don._ A dancing-master! he's a fencing-master rather, I think. But is
he your dancing-master? umph--
_Ger._ So much wit and innocency were never together before. [_Aside._
_Don._ Is he a dancing-master? [_Pausing._
_Mrs. Caut._ Is he a dancing-master? He does not look like a
dancing-master.
_Hip._ Pish!--you don't know a dancing-master: you have not seen one
these threescore years, I warrant.
_Mrs. Caut._ No matter: but he does not look like a dancing-master.
_Don._ Nay, nay, dancing-masters look like gentlemen enough, sister:
but he's no dancing-master, by drawing a sword so briskly. Those
tripping outsides of gentlemen are like gentlemen enough in everything
but in drawing a sword; and since he is a gentleman, he shall die by
mine. [_They fight again._
_Hip._ Oh! hold! hold!
_Mrs. Caut._ Hold! hold!--Pray, brother, let's talk with him a little
first; I warrant you I shall trap him; and if he confesses, you may
kill him; but those that confess, they say, ought to be hanged--Let's
see--
_Ger._ Poor Hippolita! I wish I had not had this occasion of admiring
thy wit; I have increased my love, whilst I have lost my hopes; the
common fate of poor lovers. [_Aside._
_Mrs. Caut._ Come, you are guilty, by that hanging down of your head.
Speak: are you a dancing-master? Speak, speak; a dancing-master?
_Ger._ Yes, forsooth, I am a dancing-master; ay, ay--
_Don._ How does it appear?
_Hip._ Why, there is his fiddle, there upon the table, father.
_Mrs. Caut._ No, busybody, but it is not:--that is my nephew's fiddle.
_Hip._ Why, he lent it to my cousin: I tell you it is his.
_Mrs. Caut._ Nay, it may be, indeed; he might lend it to him for aught
I know.
_Don._ Ay, ay: but ask him, sister, if he be a dancing-master, where.
_Mrs. Caut._ Pray, brother, let me alone with him, I know what to ask
him, sure.
_Don._ What, will you be wiser than I? nay, then stand away. Come, if
you are a dancing-master, where's your school? _Donde? donde?_
_Mrs. Caut._ Why, he'll say, may be, he has ne'er a one.
_Don._ Who asked you, nimble chaps? So you have put an excuse in his
head.
_Ger._ Indeed, sir, 'tis no excuse: I have no school.
_Mrs. Caut._ Well; but who sent you? how came you hither?
_Ger._ There I am puzzled indeed. [_Aside._
_Mrs. Caut._ How came you hither, I say? how--
_Ger._ Why, how, how should I come hither?
_Don._ Ay, how should he come hither? Upon his legs.
_Mrs. Caut._ So, so! now you have put an excuse in his head too, that
you have, so you have; but stay--
_Don._ Nay, with your favour, mistress, I'll ask him now.
_Mrs. Caut._ Y'facks, but you shan't! I'll ask him, and ask you no
favour, that I will.
_Don._ Y'fackins, but you shan't ask him! if you go there too, look
you, you prattle-box you, I'll ask him.
_Mrs. Caut._ I will ask him, I say!--come!
_Don._ Where?
_Mrs. Caut._ What!
_Don._ Mine's a shrewd question.
_Mrs. Caut._ Mine's as shrewd as yours.
_Don._ Nay, then, we shall have it.--Come, answer me; where's your
lodging? come, come, sir.
_Mrs. Caut._ A shrewd question, indeed! at the Surgeons'-arms, I
warrant you; for 'tis spring-time, you know.
_Don._ Must you make lies for him?
_Mrs. Caut._ But come, sir; what's your name?--answer me to that; come.
_Don._ His name! why, 'tis an easy matter to tell you a false name, I
hope.
_Mrs. Caut._ So! must you teach him to cheat us?
_Don._ Why did you say my questions were not shrewd questions, then?
_Mrs. Caut._ And why would you not let me ask him the question, then?
Brother, brother, ever while you live, for all your Spanish wisdom,
let an old woman make discoveries: the young fellows cannot cheat us in
anything, I'd have you to know. Set your old woman still to grope out
an intrigue, because, you know, the mother found her daughter in the
oven. A word to the wise, brother.
_Don._ Come, come, leave this tattling: he has dishonoured my family,
debauched my daughter; and what if he could excuse himself? The Spanish
proverb says, excuses neither satisfy creditors nor the injured. The
wounds of honour must have blood and wounds, _St. Jago para mi!_
[_Kisses the cross of his sword, and runs at_ GERRARD.
_Hip._ O hold, dear father! and I'll confess all.
_Ger._ She will not, sure, after all. [_Aside._
_Hip._ My cousin sent him; because, as he said, he would have me
recover my dancing a little before our wedding, having made a vow he
would never marry a wife who could not dance a corant. I am sure I was
unwilling; but he would have him come, saying I was to be his wife as
soon as you came, and therefore expected obedience from me.
_Don._ Indeed, the venture is most his, and the shame would be most
his; for I know here in England, 'tis not the custom for the father
to be much concerned what the daughter does; but I will be a Spaniard
still.
_Hip._ Did not you hear him say last night he would send me one this
morning?
_Mrs. Caut._ No, not I, sure. If I had, he had never come here.
_Hip._ Indeed, aunt, you grow old I see; your memory fails you very
much. Did not you hear him, Prue, say he would send him to me?
_Prue._ Yes, I'll be sworn did I.
_Hip._ Look you there, aunt.
_Mrs. Caut._ I wonder I should not remember it.
_Don._ Come, come, you are a doting old fool.
_Mrs. Caut._ So! So! the fault will be mine now. But pray, mistress,
how did he come in? I am sure I had the keys of the doors, which, till
your father came in, were not opened to-day.
_Hip._ He came in just after my father, I suppose.
_Mrs. Caut._ It might be, indeed, while the porters brought in the
things, and I was talking with you.
_Don._ O, might he so, forsooth! you are a brave governante! Look you,
you a duenna, _voto!_--and not know who comes in and out!
_Mrs. Caut_ So! 'tis my fault, I know.
_Don._ Your maid was in the room with you; was she not, child?
_Hip._ Yes, indeed, and indeed, father, all the while.
_Don._ Well, child, I am satisfied then.--But I hope he does not use
the dancing-master's tricks, of squeezing your hands, setting your legs
and feet, by handling your thighs and seeing your legs.
_Hip._ No, indeed, father: I'd give him a box on the ear if he should.
_Don._ Poor innocent!--Well, I am contented you should learn to dance,
since, for aught I know, you shall be married to-morrow, or the next
day at farthest: by that time you may recover a corant--a saraband
I would say.[59] And since your cousin, too, will have a dancing
wife, it shall be so; and I'll see you dance myself. You shall be my
charge these two days, and then I dare venture you in the hand of any
dancing-master, even a saucy French dancing-master, look you.
_Mrs. Caut._ Well, have a care, though; for this man is not dressed
like a dancing master.
_Don._ Go, go, you dote; are they not (for the most part) better
dressed and prouder than many a good gentleman? you would be wiser than
I, would you, _cuerno_?
_Mrs. Caut._ Well, I say only, look to't, look to't.
_Don._ Hey, hey! Come, friend, to your business; teach her her lesson
over again; let's see.
_Hip._ Come, master.
_Don._ Come, come, let's see your English method; I understand
something of dancing myself--come.
_Hip._ Come, master.
_Ger._ I shall betray you yet, dearest miss; for I know not a step: I
could never dance. [_Apart to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Hip._ No!
_Don._ Come, come, child.
_Hip._ Indeed I'm ashamed, father.
_Don._ You must not be ashamed, child; you'll never dance well if you
are ashamed.
_Hip._ Indeed, I can't help it, father.
_Don._ Come, come, I say, go to't.
_Hip._ Indeed I can't, father, before you: 'tis my first lesson, and
I shall do it so ill.--Pray, good father, go into the next room for
this once; and the next time my master comes, you shall see I shall be
confident enough.
_Don._ Poor, foolish, innocent creature!--Well, well, I will, child.
Who but a Spanish kind of a father could have so innocent a daughter in
England?--Well, I would fain see any one steal or debauch my daughter
from me.
_Hip._ Nay, won't you go, father?
_Don._ Yes, yes, I go, child: we will all go but your maid.--You can
dance before your maid?
_Hip._ Yes, yes, father: a maid at most times with her mistress is
nobody. [_Exeunt_ DIEGO _and_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Ger._ He peeps yet at the door.
_Hip._ Nay, father, you peep; indeed you must not see me. When we have
done, you shall come in. [_She pulls the door to._
_Prue._ Indeed, little mistress, like the young kitten, you see you
played with your prey till you had almost lost it.
_Hip._ 'Tis true, a good old mouser like you had taken it up, and run
away with it presently.
_Ger._ Let me adore you, dearest miss, and give you--[_Going to embrace
her._
_Hip._ No, no embracing, good master! that ought to be the last lesson
you are to teach me, I have heard.
_Ger._ Though an aftergame be the more tedious and dangerous, 'tis won,
miss, with the more honour and pleasure: for all that, I repent we were
put to't. The coming in of your father, as he did, was the most unlucky
thing that ever befel me.
_Hip._ What then, you think I would have gone with you?
_Ger._ Yes; and you will go with me yet, I hope.--Courage, miss! we
have yet an opportunity; and the gallery-window is yet open.
_Hip._ No, no; if I went, I would go for good and all: but now my
father will soon come in again, and may quickly overtake us. Besides,
now I think on't, you are a stranger to me; I know not where you live,
nor whither you might carry me. For aught I know, you might be a
spirit, and carry me to Barbadoes.
_Ger._ No, dear miss, I would carry you to court, the playhouses, and
Hyde-park--
_Hip._ Nay, I know 'tis the trick of all you that spirit women away,
to speak 'em mighty fair at first: but when you have got 'em in your
clutches, you carry 'em into Yorkshire, Wales, or Cornwall, which is
as bad as to Barbadoes; and rather than be served so, I would be a
prisoner in London still as I am.
_Ger._ I see the air of this town, without the pleasures of it, is
enough to infect women with an aversion for the country. Well, miss,
since it seems you have some diffidence in me, give me leave to
visit you as your dancing-master, now you have honoured me with the
character; and under that I may have your father's permission to see
you, till you may better know me and my heart, and have a better
opportunity to reward it.
_Hip._ I am afraid to know your heart would require a great deal of
time; and my father intends to marry me very suddenly to my cousin, who
sent you hither.
_Get._ Pray, sweet miss, let us make the better use of our time if it
be short. But how shall we do with that cousin of yours in the mean
time? we must needs charm him.
_Hip._ Leave that to me.
_Ger._ But (what's worse) how shall I be able to act a dancing-master,
who ever wanted inclination and patience to learn myself?
_Hip._ A dancing-school in half an hour will furnish you with terms of
the art. Besides, Love (as I have heard say) supplies his scholars with
all sorts of capacities they have need of, in spite of nature:--but
what has love to do with you?
_Ger._ Love, indeed, has made a grave gouty statesmen fight duels, the
soldier fly from his colours, a pedant a fine gentlemen, nay, and the
very lawyer a poet; and, therefore, may make me a dancing-master.
_Hip._ If he were your master.
_Ger._ I'm sure, dearest miss, there is nothing else which I cannot do
for you already; and, therefore, may hope to succeed in that.
_Re-enter_ Don DIEGO.
_Don._ Come, have you done?
_Hip._ O, my father again!
_Don._ Come, now let us see you dance.
_Hip._ Indeed I am not perfect yet: pray excuse me till the next time
my master comes. But when must he come again, father?
_Don._ Let me see--friend, you must needs come after dinner again,
and then at night again, and so three times to-morrow too. If she be
not married to-morrow, (which I am to consider of,) she will dance a
corant in twice or thrice teaching more; will she not? for 'tis but a
twelvemonth since she came from Hackney-school.
_Ger._ We will lose no time, I warrant you, sir, if she be to be
married to-morrow.
_Don._ True, I think she may be married to-morrow; therefore, I would
not have you lose any time, look you.
_Ger._ You need not caution me, I warrant you, sir.--Sweet scholar,
your humble servant: I will not fail you immediately after dinner.
_Don._ No, no, pray do not; and I will not fail to satisfy you very
well, look you.
_Hip._ He does not doubt his reward, father, for his pains. If you
should not, I would make that good to him.
_Don._ Come, let us go in to your aunt: I must talk with you both
together, child.
_Hip._ I follow you, sir. [_Exeunt_ GERRARD _and_ Don DIEGO.
_Prue._ Here's the gentlewoman o' th' next house come to see you,
mistress.
_Hip._ [_Aside._] She's come, as if she came expressly to sing the new
song she sung last night. I must hear it; for 'tis to my purpose now.--
_Enter_ Lady.
Madam, your servant: I dreamt all night of the song you sung last; the
new song against delays in love, Pray, let's hear it again.
_Lady._ [_Sings._]
Since we poor slavish women know
Our men we cannot pick and choose,
To him we like why say we no,
And both our time and lover lose?
With feigned repulses and delays
A lover's appetite we pall;
And if too long the gallant stays,
His stomach's gone for good and all,
Or our impatient amorous guest
Unknown to us away may steal,
And rather than stay for a feast,
Take up with some coarse ready meal
When opportunity is kind,
Let prudent women be so too;
And if the man be to your mind,
Till needs you must, ne'er let him go.
The match soon made is happy still,
For only love has there to do.
Let no one marry 'gainst her will,
But stand off when her parents woo,
And only to their suits be coy:
For she whom jointure can obtain,
To let a fop her bed enjoy,
Is but a lawful wench for gain.
_Prue._ Your father calls for you, miss. [_Steps to the door._
_Hip._ I come, I come; I must be obedient as long as I am with him.
[_Pausing._
Our parents who restrain our liberty,
But take the course to make us sooner free,
Though all we gain be but new slavery;
We leave our fathers, and to husbands flee.
[_Exeunt._
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.--Don DIEGO'S _House._
_Enter_ Monsieur de PARIS, HIPPOLITA, _and_ PRUE.
_Mons. Serviteur, serviteur, la cousine._ Your maid told me she watched
at the stair-foot for my coming; because you had a mind to speak wit me
before I saw your fader, it seem.
_Hip._ I would so, indeed, cousin.
_Mons. Or-ça! or-ça!_ I know your affair. It is to tell me wat
recreation you ade with Monsieur Gerrard. But did he come? I was afrait
he would not come.
_Hip._ Yes, yes, he did come.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha!--and were you not infiniment divertisee and please?
Confess.
_Hip._ I was indeed, cousin, I was very well pleased.
_Mons._ I do tinke so. I did tinke to come and be divertisee myself
this morning with the sight of his reception: but I did rancounter last
night wit dam company dat keep me up so late, I could not rise in de
morning, _malepeste de putains!_--
_Hip._ Indeed, we wanted you here mightily, cousin.
_Mons._ To elpe you to laugh: for if I adde been here, I had made such
recreation wit dat coxcomb Gerrard!
_Hip._ Indeed, cousin, you need not have any subject property to make
one laugh, you are so pleasant yourself; and when you are but alone,
you would make one burst.
_Mons._ Am I so happy, cousin, then, in the _bon_ quality of making
people laugh?
_Hip._ Mighty happy, cousin.
_Mons. De grace?_
_Hip._ Indeed.
_Mons._ Nay, _sans vanité_, I observe, wheresoe'er I come, I make
everybody merry; _sans vanité_--da--
_Hip._ I do believe you do.
_Mons._ Nay, as I marche in de street, I can make de dull apprenty
laugh and sneer.
_Hip._ This fool, I see, is as apt as an ill poet to mistake the
contempt and scorn of people for applause and admiration. [_Aside._
_Mons._ Ah, cousin, you see what it is to have been in France! Before I
went into France, I could get nobody to laugh at me, _ma foi!_
_Hip._ No? truly, cousin, I think you deserved it before; but you are
improved, indeed, by going into France.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, the French education make us _propre à tout_. Beside,
cousin, you must know, to play the fool is the science in France, and I
didde go to the Italian academy at Paris thrice a-week to learn to play
de fool of Signior Scaramouche,[60] who is the most excellent personage
in the world for dat noble science. Angel is a dam English fool to him.
_Hip._ Methinks, now, Angel is a very good fool.
_Mons._ Naugh, naugh, Nokes is a better fool; but indeed the Englis
are not fit to be fools: here are ver few good fools. 'Tis true, you
have many a young cavalier who go over into France to learn to be de
buffoon; but for all dat, dey return but _mauvais_ buffoon, _jarni!_
_Hip._ I'm sure, cousin, you have lost no time there.
_Mons._ Auh, _le brave_ Scaramouche!
_Hip._ But is it a science in France, cousin? and is there an academy
for fooling? sure none go to it but players.
_Mons._ Dey are comedians dat are de _maîtres_; but all the _beau
monde_ go to learn, as they do here of Angel and Nokes. For if you did
go abroad into company, you would find the best almost of de nation
conning in all places the lessons which dey have learned of the fools
dere _maîtres_, Nokes and Angel.
_Hip._ Indeed!
_Mons._ Yes, yes, dey are de _gens de qualité_ that practise dat
science most, and the most _ambitieux_; for fools and buffoons have
been always most welcome to courts, and desired in all companies. Auh,
to be de fool, de buffoon, is to be de great personage.
_Hip._ Fools have fortune, they say, indeed.
_Mons._ So say old Senèque.
_Hip._ Well, cousin, not to make you proud, you are the greatest fool
in England, I am sure.
_Mons. Non, non, de grace; non:_ Nokes de comedian is a pretty man, a
pretty man for a comedian, da--
_Hip._ You are modest, cousin.--But lest my father should come in
presently, which he will do as soon as he knows you are here, I must
give you a caution, which 'tis fit you should have before you see him.
_Mons._ Vell, vell, cousin, vat is dat?
_Hip._ You must know, then (as commonly the conclusion of all mirth is
sad), after I had a good while pleased myself in jesting, and leading
the poor gentleman you sent into a fool's paradise, and almost made him
believe I would go away with him, my father, coming home this morning,
came in upon us, and caught him with me.
_Mons. Malepeste!_
_Hip._ And drew his sword upon him, and would have killed him; for you
know my father's Spanish fierceness and jealousy.
_Mons._ But how did he come off then, _tête non?_
_Hip._ In short, I was fain to bring him off by saying he was my
dancing-master.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! ver good jeste.
_Hip._ I was unwilling to have the poor man killed, you know, for our
foolish frolic with him: but then, upon my aunt's and father's inquiry,
how he came in, and who sent him, I was forced to say you did, desiring
I should be able to dance a corant before our wedding.
_Mons._ A ver good jest--da--still better as better.
_Hip._ Now, all that I am to desire of you is, to own you sent him,
that I may not be caught in a lie.
_Mons_ Yes, yes, a ver good jest: Gerrard a _maître de danse!_ ha! ha!
ha!
_Hip._ Nay, the jest is like to be better yet; for my father himself
has obliged him now to come and teach me: so that now he must take the
dancing-master upon him, and come three or four times to me before
our wedding, lest my father, if he should come no more, should be
suspicious I had told him a lie. And, for aught I know, if he should
know, or but guess he were not a dancing-master, in his Spanish
strictness and punctilios of honour, he might kill me as the shame
and stain of his honour and family, which he talks of so much. Now,
you know the jealous cruel fathers in Spain serve their poor innocent
daughters often so; and he is more than a Spaniard.
_Mons. Non, non,_ fear noting; I warrant you, he shall come as often as
you will to de house; and your father shall never know who he is till
we are married. But then I'll tell him all for the jest's sake.
_Hip._ But will you keep my counsel, dear cousin, till we are married?
_Mons._ Poor dear fool! I warrant thee, _ma foi!_
_Hip._ Nay, what a fool am I indeed! for you would not have me killed.
You love me too well, sure, to be an instrument of my death.
_Enter_ Don DIEGO, _walking gravely, a_ Black boy _behind him;
and_ Mrs. CAUTION.
But here comes my father, remember.
_Mons._ I would no more tell him of it than I would tell you if I had
been with a wench, _jarni!_ [_Aside._]--She's afraid to be killed, poor
wretch, and he's a capricious, jealous fop enough to do't:--but here
he comes.--[_To_ HIPPOLITA.] I'll keep thy counsel, I warrant thee, my
dear soul, _mon petit cœur._
_Hip._ Peace! peace! my father's coming this way.
_Mons._ Ay, but by his march he won't be near enough to hear us this
half hour, ha! ha! ha! [Don DIEGO _walks leisurely round_ Monsieur,
_surveying him, and shrugging up his shoulders, whilst_ Monsieur _makes
legs and faces aside._
_Don._ Is that thing my cousin, sister?
_Mrs. Caut._ 'Tis he, sir.
_Don._ Cousin, I am sorry to see you--
_Mons._ Is that a Spanish compliment?
_Don._ So much disguised, cousin.
_Mons._ [_Aside._] Oh! is it out at last, _ventre?_--[_To_ Don
DIEGO.]--_Serviteur, serviteur, à monsieur mon oncle;_ and I am glad
to see you here within doors, most Spanish _oncle_, ha! ha! ha! but I
should be sorry to see you in the streets, _tête non!_
_Don._ Why so?--would you be ashamed of me, hah--_voto á St. Jago!_
would you? hauh--
_Mons._ Ay; it may be you would be ashamed yourself, _monsieur mon
oncle_, of the great train you would get to wait upon your Spanish
hose, puh--the boys would follow you, and hoot at you--_vert_ and
_bleu!_ pardon my Franch _franchise, monsieur mon oncle._
_Hip._ We shall have sport anon, betwixt these two contraries. [_Apart
to_ PRUE.
_Don._ Dost thou call me "monsieur?" _voto á St. Jago!_
_Mons._ No, I did not call you Monsieur Voto á St. Jago! Sir, I know
you are my uncle, Mr. James Formal--da--
_Don._ But I can hardly know you are my cousin, Mr. Nathaniel
Paris.--But call me, sir, Don Diego henceforward, look you, and no
monsieur. Call me monsieur! _guarda!_
_Mons._ I confess my error, sir; for none but a blind man would call
you monsieur, ha! ha!--But, pray, do not call me neder Paris, but
de Paris, de Paris, (_s'il vous plait,_) Monsieur de Paris. Call me
monsieur, and welcome, da--
_Don._ Monsieur de Pantaloons then, _voto_--
_Mons._ Monsieur de Pantaloons! a pretty name, a pretty name, _ma
foi!_ da--_bien trouvé_ de Pantaloons! how much better den your de
la Fountaines, de la Rivieres, de la Roches, and all the _de's_ in
France--da--well; but have you not the admiration for my pantaloon, Don
Diego, _mon oncle?_
_Don._ I am astonished at them, _verdaderamente_, they are wonderfully
ridiculous.
_Mons._ Redicule! redicule! ah--'tis well you are my uncle,
da--redicule! ha--is dere any ting in the universe so _gentil_ as de
pantaloons? any ting so _ravissant_ as de pantaloons? Auh--I could
kneel down and varship a pair of _gentil_ pantaloons. Vat, vat, you
would have me have de admiration for dis outward skin of your thigh,
which you call Spanish hose, fi! fi! fi!--ha! ha! ha!
_Don._ Dost thou deride my Spanish hose, young man, hauh?
_Mons._ In comparison of pantaloon, I do undervalue 'em indeed, Don
Diego, _mon oncle_, ha! ha! ha!
_Don._ Thou art then a _gabacho[61] de mal gusto_, look you.
_Mons._ You may call me vat you vill, _oncle_ Don Diego; but I must
needs say, your Spanish hose are scurvy hose, ugly hose, lousy hose,
and stinking hose.
_Don._ Do not provoke me, _borracho!_ [_Puts his hand to his sword._
_Mons._ Indeet, as for lousy, I recant dat epithete, for dere is scarce
room in 'em for dat little animal, ha! ha! ha! but for stinking hose,
dat epithete may stand; for how can they choose but stink, since they
are so _furieusement_ close to your Spanish tail, da?
_Hip._ Ha! ha! ridiculous! [_Aside._
_Don._ Do not provoke me, I say, _en hora mala!_ [_Seems to draw._
_Mons._ Nay, _oncle_, I am sorry you are in de pation; but I must live
and die for de pantaloon against de Spanish hose, da.
_Don._ You are a rash young man; and while you wear pantaloons, you are
beneath my passion, _voto_--auh--they make thee look and waddle (with
all those gewgaw ribbons) like a great, old, fat, slovenly water dog.
_Mons._ And your Spanish hose, and your nose in the air, make you look
like a great, grizzled, long Irish greyhound reaching a crust off from
a high shelf, ha! ha! ha!
_Don. Bueno! bueno!_
_Mrs. Caut._ What, have you a mind to ruin yourself and break off the
match?
_Mons._ Pshaw--wat do you tell me of the matche! d'ye tinke I will not
vindicate pantaloons, _morbleu!_
_Don._ [_Aside._] Well, he is a lost young man, I see, and desperately
far gone in the epidemic malady of our nation, the affectation of the
worst of French vanities: but I must be wiser than him, as I am a
Spaniard. Look you, Don Diego, and endeavour to reclaim him by art
and fair means, look you, Don Diego; if not, he shall never marry
my daughter, look you, Don Diego, though he be my own sister's son,
and has two thousand five hundred seventy-three pounds sterling,
twelve shillings and twopence a year pennyrent, _seguramente!_--[_To_
Monsieur.] Come, young man, since you are so obstinate, we will refer
our difference to arbitration; your mistress, my daughter, shall be
umpire betwixt us, concerning Spanish hose and pantaloons.
_Mons._ Pantaloons and Spanish hose, _s'il vous plait_.
_Don._ Your mistress is the fittest judge of your dress, sure.
_Mons._ I know ver vel dat most of the _jeunesse_ of England will
not change de ribband upon de crevat without de consultation of dere
_maîtresse_; but I am no _Anglais_, da--nor shall I make de reference
of my dress to any in the universe, da--I judge by any in England!
_tête non!_ I would not be judge by any English looking-glass, _jarni!_
_Don._ Be not _positivo_, young man.
_Mrs. Caut._ Nay, pray refer it, cousin, pray do.
_Mons._ Non, non, your servant, your servant, aunt.
_Don._ But, pray, be not so positive. Come hither, daughter, tell me
which is best.
_Hip._ Indeed, father, you have kept me in universal ignorance, I know
nothing.
_Mons._ And do you tink I shall refer an affair of that consequence to
a poor young ting who have not seen the vorld, da? I am wiser than so,
_voto!_
_Don._ Well, in short, if you will not be wiser, and leave off your
French dress, stammering, and tricks, look you, you shall be a fool,
and go without my daughter, _voto!_
_Mons._ How! must I leave off my jantee French accoutrements, and
speak base Englis too, or not marry my cousin, _mon oncle_ Don Diego?
Do not break off the match, do not; for know, I will not leave off my
pantaloon and French pronuntiation for ne'er a cousin in England't, da.
_Don._ I tell you again, he that marries my daughter shall at least
look like a wise man, for he shall wear the Spanish habit; I am a
Spanish _positivo_.
_Mons._ Ver vel! ver vel! and I am a French _positivo_.
_Don._ Then I am _definitivo_; and if you do not go immediately
into your chamber, and put on a Spanish habit, I have brought over
on purpose for your wedding-clothes, and put off all these French
fopperies and _vanidades_, with all your grimaces, agreeables,
adorables, _ma fois_, and _jarnis_; I swear you shall never marry my
daughter (and by an oath by Spaniard never broken) by my whiskers and
snuff-box!
_Mons._ O hold! do not swear, uncle, for I love your daughter
_furieusement_.
_Don._ If you love her, you'll obey me.
_Mons._ Auh, wat will become of me! but have the consideration. Must I
leave off all the Franch _beautés_, graces, and embellisments, bote of
my person, and language? [_Exeunt_ HIPPOLITA, Mrs. CAUTION, _and_ PRUE,
_laughing._
_Don._ I will have it so.
_Mons._ I am ruinne den, undonne. Have some consideration for me, for
dere is not de least ribbon of my _garniture_ but is as dear to me as
your daughter, _jarni!_
_Don._ Then, you do not deserve her; and for that reason I will be
satisfied you love her better, or you shall not have her, for I am
_positivo_.
_Mons._ Vill you break mine arte? Pray have de consideration for me.
_Don._ I say again, you shall be dressed before night from top to toe
in the Spanish habit, or you shall never marry my daughter, look you.
_Mons._ If you will not have de consideration for me, have de
consideration for your daughter; for she have de passionate _amour_ for
me, and like me in dis habite bettre den in yours, da.
_Don._ What I have said I have said, and I am _un positivo_.
_Mons._ Will you not so mush as allow me one little French oate?
_Don._ No, you shall look like a Spaniard, but speak and swear like an
Englishman, look you.
_Mons. Hélas! hélas!_ den I shall take my leave, _mort! tête! ventre!
jarni! tête bleu! ventre bleu! ma foi!_ certes!
_Don._ [_Calls at the door._] Pedro, Sanchez, wait upon this
_cavaliero_ into his chamber with those things I ordered you to take
out of the trunks.--I would have you a little accustomed to your
clothes before your wedding; for, if you comply with me, you shall
marry my daughter to-morrow, look you.
_Mons._ Adieu then, dear pantaloon! dear belte! dear sword! dear
peruke! and dear _chapeau retroussé_, and dear shoe, _jarni!_ adieu!
adieu! adieu! _Hélas! hélas! hélas!_ will you have yet no pity?
_Don._ I am a Spanish _positivo_, look you.
_Mons._ And more cruel than de Spanish inquisitiono, to compel a man to
a habit against his conscience; _hélas! hélas! hélas!_ [_Exit._
_Re-enter_ PRUE _with_ GERRARD.
_Prue._ Here's the dancing-master, shall I call my mistress, sir?
_Don._ Yes.--[_Exit_ PRUE.] O, you are as punctual as a Spaniard: I
love your punctual men; nay, I think 'tis before your time something.
_Ger._ Nay, I am resolved your daughter, sir, shall lose no time by my
fault.
_Don._ So, so, 'tis well.
_Ger._ I were a very unworthy man, if I should not be punctual with
her, sir.
_Don._ You speak honestly, very honestly, friend; and I believe a very
honest man, though a dancing-master.
_Ger._ I am very glad you think me so, sir.
_Don._ What, you are but a young man, are you married yet?
_Ger._ No, sir; but I hope I shall, sir, very suddenly, if things hit
right.
_Don._ What, the old folks her friends are wary, and cannot agree with
you so soon as the daughter can?
_Ger._ Yes, sir, the father hinders it a little at present; but the
daughter, I hope, is resolved, and then we shall do well enough.
_Don._ What! you do not steal her, according to the laudable custom of
some of your brother dancing-masters?
_Ger._ No, no, sir; steal her, sir! steal her! you are pleased to be
merry, sir, ha! ha! ha!--[_Aside._] I cannot but laugh at that question.
_Don._ No, sir, methinks you are pleased to be merry, but you say the
father does not consent?
_Ger._ Not yet, sir; but 'twill be no matter whether he does or no.
_Don._ Was she one of your scholars? if she were, 'tis a hundred to ten
but you steal her.
_Ger._ [_Aside._] I shall not be able to hold laughing. [_Laughs._
_Don._ Nay, nay, I find by your laughing you steal her: she was your
scholar; was she not?
_Ger._ Yes, sir, she was the first I ever had, and may be the last too;
for she has a fortune (if I can get her) will keep me from teaching to
dance any more.
_Don._ So, so, then she is your scholar still it seems, and she has a
good portion; I'm glad on't; nay, I knew you stole her.
_Ger._ [_Aside._] My laughing may give him suspicions, yet I cannot
hold. [_Laughs._
_Don._ What! you laugh, I warrant, to think how the young baggage and
you will mump the poor old father! but if all her dependence for a
fortune be upon the father, he may chance to mump you both and spoil
the jest.
_Ger._ I hope it will not be in his power, sir, ha! ha! ha!--[_Aside._]
I shall laugh too much anon.--[_To_ Don DIEGO.] Pray, sir, be pleased
to call for your daughter, I am impatient till she comes, for time was
never more precious with me, and with her too; it ought to be so, sure,
since you say she is to be married to-morrow.
_Don._ She ought to bestir her, as you say, indeed. Wuh, daughter!
daughter! Prue! Hippolita! come away, child, why do you stay so long?
[_Calls at the door._
_Re-enter_ HIPPOLITA, PRUE, _and_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Hip._ Your servant, master; indeed I am ashamed you have stayed for me.
_Ger._ O, good madam, 'tis my duty; I know you came as soon as you
could.
_Hip._ I knew my father was with you, therefore I did not make
altogether so much haste as I might; but if you had been alone, nothing
should have kept me from you. I would not have been so rude as to have
made you stay a minute for me, I warrant you.
_Don._ Come, fiddle faddle, what a deal of ceremony there is betwixt
your dancing-master and you, _cuerno!_--
_Hip._ Lord, sir! I hope you'll allow me to show my respect to my
master, for I have a great respect for my master.
_Ger._ And I am very proud of my scholar, and am a very great honourer
of my scholar.
_Don._ Come, come, friend, about your business, and honour the
king.--[_To_ Mrs. CAUTION.] Your dancing-masters and barbers are
such finical, smooth-tongued, tattling fellows; and if you set 'em
once a-talking, they'll ne'er a-done, no more than when you set
'em a-fiddling: indeed, all that deal with fiddles are given to
impertinency.
_Mrs. Caut._ Well, well, this is an impertinent fellow, without being a
dancing-master. He is no more a dancing-master than I am a maid.
_Don._ What! will you still be wiser than I? _voto!_--Come, come, about
with my daughter, man.
_Prue._ So he would, I warrant you, if your worship would let him alone.
_Don._ How now, Mrs. Nimblechaps!
_Ger._ Well, though I have got a little canting at the dancing-school
since I was here, yet I do all so bunglingly, he'll discover me.
[_Aside to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Hip._ [_Aside._] Try.--[_Aloud._] Come take my hand, master.
_Mrs. Caut._ Look you, brother, the impudent harlotry gives him her
hand.
_Don._ Can he dance with her without holding her by the hand?
_Hip._ Here, take my hand, master.
_Ger._ I wish it were for good and all. [_Aside to her._
_Hip._ You dancing-masters are always so hasty, so nimble.
_Don. Voto á St. Jago!_ not that I see; about with her, man.
_Ger._ Indeed, sir, I cannot about with her as I would do, unless you
will please to go out a little, sir; for I see she is bashful still
before you, sir.
_Don._ Hey, hey, more fooling yet! come, come, about, about with her.
_Hip._ Nay, indeed, father, I am ashamed, and cannot help it.
_Don._ But you shall help it, for I will not stir. Move her, I
say.--Begin, hussy, move when he'll have you.
_Prue._ I cannot but laugh at that, ha! ha! ha! [_Aside._
_Ger._ [_Apart to_ HIPPOLITA.] Come, then, madam, since it must be so,
let us try; but I shall discover all.--One, two, and coupee.
_Mrs. Caut._ Nay, d'ye see how he squeezes her hand, brother! O the
lewd villain!
_Don._ Come, move, I say, and mind her not.
_Ger._ One, two, three, four, and turn round.
_Mrs. Caut._ D'ye see again? he took her by the bare arm.
_Don._ Come, move on, she's mad.
_Ger._ One, two, and a coupee.
_Don._ Come, one, two, and turn out your toes.
_Mrs. Caut._ There, there, he pinched her by the thigh: will you suffer
it?
_Ger._ One, two, three, and fall back.
_Don._ Fall back, fall back, back; some of you are forward enough to
back.
_Ger._ Back, madam.
_Don._ Fall back, when he bids you, hussy.