fall back when he bids her.
_Don._ I say she shall.--Huswife, come.
_Ger._ She will, she will, I warrant you, sir, if you won't be angry
with her.
_Mrs. Caut._ Do you know what he means by that now? You a Spaniard!
_Don._ How's that? I not a Spaniard! say such a word again--
_Ger._ Come forward, madam, three steps again.
_Mrs. Caut._ See, see, she squeezes his hand now: O the debauched
harlotry!
_Don._ So, so, mind her not; she moves forward pretty well; but you
must move as well backward as forward, or you'll never do anything to
purpose.
_Mrs. Caut._ Do you know what you say, brother, yourself, now? are you
at your beastliness before your young daughter?
_Prue._ Ha! ha! ha!
_Don._ How now, mistress, are you so merry?--Is this your staid maid as
you call her, sister Impertinent?
_Ger._ I have not much to say to you, miss; but I shall not have an
opportunity to do it, unless we can get your father out. [_Aside to_
HIPPOLITA.
_Don._ Come, about again with her.
_Mrs. Caut._ Look you there, she squeezes his hand hard again.
_Hip._ Indeed, and indeed, father, my aunt puts me quite out: I cannot
dance while she looks on for my heart, she makes me ashamed and afraid
together.
_Ger._ Indeed, if you would please to take her out, sir, I am sure I
should make my scholar do better, than when you are present, sir. Pray,
sir, be pleased for this time to take her away; for the next time, I
hope I shall order it so, we shall trouble neither of you.
_Mrs. Caut._ No, no, brother, stir not, they have a mind to be left
alone. Come, there's a beastly trick in't; he's no dancing-master, I
tell you.
_Ger._ Damned jade! she'll discover us. [_Aside to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Don._ What, will you teach me? nay, then I will go out, and you shall
go out too, look you.
_Mrs. Caut._ I will not go out, look you.
_Don._ Come, come, thou art a censorious wicked woman, and you shall
disturb them no longer.
_Mrs. Caut._ What! will you bawd for your daughter?
_Don._ Ay, ay; come go out, out, out.
_Mrs. Caut._ I will not go out, I will not go out; my conscience will
not suffer me, for I know by experience what will follow.
_Ger._ I warrant you, sir, we'll make good use of our time when you are
gone.
_Mrs. Caut._ Do you hear him again? don't you know what he means?
[_Exit_ Don DIEGO _thrusting_ Mrs. CAUTION _out._
_Hip._ 'Tis very well!--you are a fine gentleman to abuse my poor
father so.
_Ger._ 'Tis but by your example, miss.
_Hip._ Well, I am his daughter, and may make the bolder with him, I
hope.
_Ger._ And I am his son-in-law, that shall be; and therefore may claim
my privilege too of making bold with him, I hope.
_Hip._ Methinks you should be contented in making bold with his
daughter (for you have made very bold with her) sure.
_Ger._ I hope I shall make bolder with her yet.
_Hip._ I do not doubt your confidence, for you are a dancing-master.
_Ger._ Why, miss, I hope you would not have me a fine, senseless,
whining, modest lover; for modesty in a man is as ill as the want of it
in a woman.
_Hip._ I thank you for that, sir, now you have made bold with me
indeed; but if I am such a confident piece, I am sure you made me so:
if you had not had the confidence to come in at the window, I had not
had the confidence to look upon a man: I am sure I could not look upon
a man before.
_Ger._ But that I humbly conceive, sweet miss, was your father's
fault, because you had not a man to look upon. But, dearest miss, I do
not think you confident, you are only innocent; for that which would
be called confidence, nay impudence, in a woman of years, is called
innocency in one of your age; and the more impudent you appear, the
more innocent you are thought.
_Hip._ Say you so? has youth such privileges? I do not wonder then,
most women seem impudent, since it is to be thought younger than they
are, it seems. But indeed, master, you are as great an encourager of
impudence, I see, as if you were a dancing-master in good earnest.
_Ger._ Yes, yes, a young thing may do anything; may leap out of the
window and go away with her dancing master, if she please.
_Hip._ So, so, the use follows the doctrine very suddenly.
_Ger._ Well, dearest, pray let us make the use we should of it; lest
your father should make too bold with us, and come in before we would
have him.
_Hip._ Indeed, old relations are apt to take that ill-bred freedom of
pressing into young company at unseasonable hours.
_Ger._ Come, dear miss, let me tell you how I have designed matters;
for in talking of anything else we lose time and opportunity. People
abroad indeed say, the English women are the worst in the world in
using an opportunity, they love tittle-tattle and ceremony.
_Hip._ 'Tis because, I warrant, opportunities are not so scarce here as
abroad, they have more here than they can use; but let people abroad
say what they will of English women, because they do not know 'em, but
what say people at home?
_Ger._ Pretty innocent! ha! ha! ha!--Well, I say you will not make use
of your opportunity.
_Hip._ I say, you have no reason to say so yet.
_Ger._ Well then, anon at nine of the clock at night I'll try you: for
I have already bespoke a parson, and have taken up the three back-rooms
of the tavern, which front upon the gallery-window, that nobody may see
us escape; and I have appointed (precisely betwixt eight and nine of
the clock when it is dark) a coach and six to wait at the tavern-door
for us.
_Hip._ A coach and six! a coach and six, do you say? nay, then I see
you are resolved to carry me away; for a coach and six, though there
were not a man but the coachman with it, would carry away any young
girl of my age in England:--a coach and six!
_Ger._ Then you will be sure to be ready to go with me?
_Hip._ What young woman of the town could ever say no to a coach and
six, unless it were going into the country?--A coach and six! 'tis not
in the power of fourteen years old to resist it.
_Ger._ You will be sure to be ready?
_Hip._ You are sure 'tis a coach and six?
_Ger._ I warrant you, miss.
_Hip._ I warrant you then they'll carry us merrily away:--a coach and
six!
_Ger._ But have you charmed your cousin the monsieur (as you said you
would) that he in the mean time say nothing to prevent us?
_Hip._ I warrant you.
_Re-enter_ Don DIEGO; Mrs. CAUTION _pressing in after him._
_Mrs. Caut._ I will come in.
_Don._ Well, I hope by this time you have given her full instructions;
you have told her what and how to do, you have done all.
_Ger._ We have just done indeed, sir.
_Hip._ Ay, sir, we have just done, sir.
_Mrs. Caut._ And I fear just undone, sir.
_Ger._ D'ye hear that damned witch? [_Aside to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Don._ Come, leave your censorious prating; thou hast been a false,
right woman thyself in thy youth, I warrant you.
_Mrs. Caut._ I right! I right! I scorn your words, I'd have you to
know, and 'tis well known. I right! no, 'tis your dainty minx, that
Jillflirt, your daughter here, that is right; do you see how her
handkerchief is ruffled, and what a heat she's in?
_Don._ She has been dancing.
_Mrs. Caut._ Ay, ay, Adam and Eve's dance, or the beginning of the
world; d'ye see how she pants?
_Don._ She has not been used to motion.
_Mrs. Caut._ Motion! motion! motion d'ye call it? no indeed, I kept her
from motion till now: motion with a vengeance!
_Don._ You put the poor bashful girl to the blush, you see, hold your
peace.
_Mrs. Caut._ 'Tis her guilt, not her modesty, marry!
_Don._ Come, come, mind her not, child.--Come, master, let me see her
dance now the whole dance roundly together; come, sing to her.
_Ger._ Faith; we shall be discovered after all; you know I cannot sing
a note, miss. [_Aside to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Don._ Come, come, man.
_Hip._ Indeed, father, my master's in haste now; pray let it alone till
anon at night, when, you say, he is to come again, and then you shall
see me dance it to the violin; pray stay till then, father.
_Don._ I will not be put off so; come, begin.
_Hip._ Pray, father.
_Don._ Come, sing to her; come, begin.
_Ger._ Pray, sir, excuse me till anon, I am in some haste.
_Don._ I say, begin, I will not excuse you: come, take her by the hand,
and about with her.
_Mrs. Caut._ I say, he shall not take her by the hand, he shall touch
her no more; while I am here, there shall be no more squeezing and
tickling her palm. Good Mr. Dancing-master, stand off. [_Thrusts_
GERRARD _away._
_Don._ Get you out, Mrs. Impertinence.--[_To_ GERRARD.] Take her by the
hand, I say.
_Mrs. Caut._ Stand off, I say. He shall not touch her, he has touched
her too much already.
_Don._ If patience were not a Spanish virtue, I would lay it aside now:
I say, let 'em dance.
_Mrs. Caut._ I say, they shall not dance.
_Hip._ Pray, father, since you see my aunt's obstinacy, let us alone
till anon, when you may keep her out.
_Don._ Well then, friend, do not fail to come.
_Hip._ Nay, if he fail me at last--
_Don._ Be sure you come, for she's to be married to-morrow:--do you
know it?
_Ger._ Yes, yes, sir.--Sweet scholar, your humble servant, till night;
and think in the mean time of the instructions I have given you, that
you may be the readier when I come.
_Don._ Ay, girl, be sure you do,--and do you be sure to come.
_Mrs. Caut._ You need not be so concerned, he'll be sure to come I
warrant you; but if I could help it, he should never set foot again in
the house.
_Don._ You would frighten the poor dancing-master from the house,--but
be sure you come for all her.
_Ger._ Yes, sir.--[_Aside._] But this jade will pay me when I am gone.
_Mrs. Caut._ Hold, hold, sir, I must let you out, and I wish I could
keep you out. He a dancing-master! he's a chouse, a cheat, a mere
cheat, and that you'll find.
_Don._ I find any man a cheat! I cheated by any man! I scorn your
words.--I that have so much Spanish care, circumspection, and prudence,
cheated by a man! Do you think I, who have been in Spain, look you, and
have kept up my daughter a twelve month, for fear of being cheated of
her, look you? I cheated of her!
_Mrs. Caut._ Well, say no more. [_Exeunt_ Don DIEGO, HIPPOLITA, Mrs.
CAUTION, _and_ PRUE.
_Ger._ Well, old Formality, if you had not kept up your daughter, I am
sure I had never cheated you of her.
The wary fool is by his care betrayed,
As cuckolds by their jealousy are made.
[_Exit._
ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.--_A Room in_ Don DIEGO'S _House._
_Enter_ Monsieur de PARIS _without a peruke, with a Spanish
hat, a Spanish doublet, stockings, and shoes, but in
pantaloons, a waist-belt, and a Spanish dagger in it, and a
cravat about his neck._--HIPPOLITA _and_ PRUE _behind laughing._
_Mons._ To see wat a fool love do make of one, _jarni!_ It do
metamorphose de brave man in de beast, de sot, de animal.
_Hip._ Ha! ha! ha!
_Mons._ Nay, you may laugh, 'tis ver vell, I am become as ridicule for
you as can be, _morbleu!_ I have deform myself into a ugly Spaniard.
_Hip._ Why, do you call this disguising yourself like a Spaniard, while
you wear pantaloons still, and the cravat?
_Mons._ But is here not the double doublet, and the Spanish dagger
_aussi_?
_Hip._ But 'tis as long as the French sword, and worn like it. But
where's your Spanish beard, the thing of most consequence?
_Mons. Jarni!_ do you tink beards are as easy to be had as in the
playhouses? non; but if here be no the ugly long Spanish beard, here
are, I am certain, the ugly long Spanish ear.
_Hip._ That's very true, ha! ha! ha!
_Mons._ Auh de ingrate, dat de woman is! wen we poor men are your
gallants, you laugh at us yourselves, and wen we are your husband, you
make all the world laugh at us, _jarni!_--Love, dam love, it makes the
man more ridicule, than poverty, poetry, or a new title of honour,
_jarni!_
_Enter_ Don DIEGO _and_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Don._ What! at your _jarnis_ still? _voto!_
_Mons._ Why, _oncle_, you are at your _votos_ still.
_Don._ Nay, I'll allow you to be at your _votos_ too, but not to make
the incongruous match of Spanish doublet, and French pantaloons.
[_Holding his hat before his pantaloons._
_Mons._ Nay, pray, dear _oncle_, let me unite France and Spain; 'tis
the mode of France now, _jarni, voto!_
_Don._ Well, I see I must pronounce: I told you, if you were not
dressed in the Spanish habit to-night, you should not marry my daughter
to-morrow, look you.
_Mons._ Well! am I not _habillé_ in de Spanish habit? my doublet, ear
and hat, leg and feet, are Spanish, that dey are.
_Don._ I told you I was a Spanish _positivo, voto!_
_Mons._ Will you not spare my pantaloon! begar, I will give you one
little finger to excuse my pantaloon, da--
_Don._ I have said, look you.
_Mons._ Auh, _cher_ pantaloons! Speak for my pantaloons, cousin. My
poor pantaloons are as dear to me as de scarf to de countree capitane,
or de new-made officer: therefore have de compassion for my pantaloons,
Don Diego, _mon oncle. Hélas! hélas! hélas!_ [_Kneels._
_Don._ I have said, look you, your dress must be Spanish, and your
language English: I am _un positivo_.
_Mons._ And must speak base good English too! Ah! _la pitié! hélas!_
_Don._ It must be done; and I will see this great change ere it be
dark, _voto!_--Your time is not long; look to't, look you.
_Mons. Hélas! hélas! hélas!_ dat _Espagne_ should conquer _la France_
in England! _Hélas! hélas! hélas!_ [_Exit._
_Don._ You see what pains I take to make him the more agreeable to you,
daughter.
_Hip._ But indeed, and indeed, father, you wash the blackamoor white,
in endeavouring to make a Spaniard of a monsieur, nay, an English
monsieur too; consider that, father: for when once they have taken the
French _plie_ (as they call it) they are never to be made so much as
Englishmen again, I have heard say.
_Don._ What! I warrant you are like the rest of the young silly
baggages of England, that like nothing but what is French? You would
not have him reformed, you would have a monsieur to your husband, would
you, _cuerno_?
_Hip._ No, indeed, father, I would not have a monsieur to my husband;
not I indeed: and I am sure you'll never make my cousin otherwise.
_Don._ I warrant you.
_Hip._ You can't, you can't indeed, father: and you have sworn,
you know, he shall never have me, if he does not leave off his
monsieurship. Now, as I told you, 'tis as hard for him to cease being a
monsieur, as 'tis for you to break a Spanish oath; so that I am not in
any great danger of having a monsieur to my husband.
_Don._ Well, but you shall have him for your husband, look you.
_Hip._ Then you will break your Spanish oath.
_Don._ No, I will break him of his French tricks; and you shall have
him for your husband, _cuerno!_
_Hip._ Indeed and indeed, father, I shall not have him.
_Don._ Indeed you shall, daughter.
_Hip._ Well, you shall see, father.
_Mrs. Caut._ No, I warrant you, she will not have him, she'll have her
dancing-master rather: I know her meaning, I understand her.
_Don._ Thou malicious foolish woman! you understand her!--But I do
understand her; she says, I will not break my oath, nor he his French
customs; so, through our difference, she thinks she shall not have him:
but she shall.
_Hip._ But I shan't.
_Mrs. Caut._ I know she will not have him, because she hates him.
_Don._ I tell you, if she does hate him, 'tis a sign she will have him
for her husband; for 'tis not one of a thousand that marries the man
she loves, look you. Besides, 'tis all one whether she loves him now or
not; for as soon as she's married, she'd be sure to hate him. That's
the reason we wise Spaniards are jealous, and only expect, nay, will be
sure our wives shall fear us, look you.
_Hip._ Pray, good father and aunt, do not dispute about nothing; for I
am sure he will never be my husband to hate.
_Mrs. Caut._ I am of your opinion, indeed; I understand you. I can see
as far as another.
_Don._ You! you cannot see so much as through your spectacles!--But
I understand her: 'tis her mere desire to marriage makes her say she
shall not have him; for your poor young things, when they are once in
the teens, think they shall never be married.
_Hip._ Well, father, think you what you will; but I know what I think.
_Re-enter_ Monsieur de PARIS _in the Spanish habit entire, only
with a cravat, and followed by the little_ Blackamoor _with a
golilla_[62] _in his hand._
_Don._ Come, did not I tell you, you should have him? look you there,
he has complied with me, and is a perfect Spaniard.
_Mons._ Ay! ay! I am ugly rogue enough now, sure, for my cousin. But
'tis your father's fault, cousin, that you han't the handsomest,
best-dressed man in the nation; a man _bien mis_.
_Don._ Yet again at your French! and a cravat on still! _voto á St.
Jago!_ off, off, with it!
_Mons._ Nay, I will ever hereafter speak clownish good English, do but
spare me my cravat.
_Don._ I am _un positivo_, look you.
_Mons._ Let me not put on that Spanish yoke, but spare me my cravat;
for I love cravat _furieusement_.
_Don._ Again at your _furieusements!_
_Mons._ Indeed I have forgot myself: but have some mercy. [_Kneels._
_Don._ Off, off, off with it, I say! Come, refuse the _ornamento_
principal of the Spanish habit! [_Takes him by the cravat, pulls it
off, and the_ Black _puts on the golilla._
_Mons._ Will you have no mercy, no pity? alas! alas! alas! Oh! I had
rather put on the English pillory, than that Spanish _golilla_, for
'twill be all a case I'm sure: for when I go abroad, I shall soon have
a crowd of boys about me, peppering me with rotten eggs and turnips.
_Hélas! hélas!_ [Don DIEGO _puts on the golilla._
_Don. Hélas_, again!
_Mons._ Alas! alas! alas!
_Hip._ I shall die! }
} Ha! ha! ha!
_Prue._ I shall burst! }
_Mons._ Ay! ay! you see what I am come to for your sake, cousin: and,
uncle, pray take notice how ridiculous I am grown to my cousin, that
loves me above all the world: she can no more forbear laughing at me, I
vow and swear, than if I were as arrant a Spaniard as yourself.
_Don._ Be a Spaniard like me, and ne'er think people laugh at you:
there was never a Spaniard that thought any one laughed at him. But
what! do you laugh at a _golilla_, baggage? Come, sirrah black, now
do you teach him to walk with the _verdadero gesto, gracia,_ and
_gravidad_ of a true Castilian.
_Mons._ Must I have my dancing-master too?--Come, little master, then,
lead on. [_The_ Black _struts about the stage,_ Monsieur _follows him,
imitating awkwardly all he does._
_Don. Malo! malo!_ with your hat on your poll, as it it hung upon a
pin!--the French and English wear their hats as if their horns would
not suffer 'em to come over their foreheads, _voto!_
_Mons._ 'Tis true, there are some well-bred gentlemen have so much
reverence for their peruke, that they would refuse to be grandees of
your Spain for fear of putting on their hats, I vow and swear!
_Don._ Come, black, teach him now to make a Spanish leg.[63]
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! your Spanish leg is an English courtesy, I vow and
swear, hah! hah! hah!
_Don._ Well, the hood does not make the monk; the ass was an ass still,
though he had the lion's skin on. This will be a light French fool, in
spite of the grave Spanish habit, look you.--But, black, do what you
can; make the most of him; walk him about.
_Prue._ Here are the people, sir, you sent to speak about provisions
for the wedding; and here are clothes brought home too, mistress.
[_Goes to the door and returns._
_Don._ Well, I come.--Black, do what you can with him; walk him about.
_Mons._ Indeed, uncle, if I were as you, I would not have the grave
Spanish habit so travestied: I shall disgrace it, and my little black
master too, I vow and swear.
_Don._ Learn, learn of him; improve yourself by him--and do you walk
him, walk him about soundly.--Come, sister, and daughter, I must have
your judgments, though I shall not need 'em, look you.--Walk him, see
you walk him. [_Exeunt_ Don DIEGO, HIPPOLITA, _and_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Mons. Jarni!_ he does not only make a Spaniard of me, but a Spanish
jennet, in giving me to his lackey to walk.--But come along, little
master. [_The_ Black _instructs_ Monsieur _on one side of the stage_,
PRUE _standing on the other._
_Prue._ O the unfortunate condition of us poor chambermaids! who have
all the carking and caring, the watching and sitting up, the trouble
and danger of our mistresses' intrigues, whilst they go away with all
the pleasure! And if they can get their man in a corner, 'tis well
enough; they ne'er think of the poor watchful chambermaid, who sits
knocking her heels in the cold, for want of better exercise, in some
melancholy lobby or entry, when she could employ her time every whit as
well as her mistress, for all her quality, if she were but put to't.
[_Aside._
_Black._ Hold up your head, hold up your head sir:--a stooping
Spaniard, _malo!_
_Mons._ True, a Spaniard scorns to look upon the ground.
_Prue._ We can shift for our mistresses, and not for ourselves. Mine
has got a handsome proper young man, and is just going to make the most
of him; whilst I must be left in the lurch here with a couple of ugly
little blackamoor boys in bonnets, and an old withered Spanish eunuch;
not a servant else in the house, nor have I hopes of any comfortable
society at all. [_Aside._
_Black._ Now let me see you make your visit-leg, thus.
_Mons._ Auh, _tête non!_--ha! ha! ha!
_Black._ What! a Spaniard, and laugh aloud! No, if you laugh, thus
only--so--Now your salutation in the street, as you pass by your
acquaintance; look you, thus--if to a woman, thus--putting your hat
upon your heart; if to a man, thus, with a nod--so--but frown a little
more, frown:--but if to a woman you would be very ceremonious to,
thus--so--your neck nearer your shoulder--so--Now, if you would speak
contemptibly of any man, or thing, do thus with your hand--so--and
shrug up your shoulders till they hide your ears.--[Monsieur _imitating
the_ Black.] Now walk again. [_The_ Black _and_ Monsieur _walk off the
stage._
_Prue._ All my hopes are in that coxcomb there: I must take up with my
mistress's leavings, though we chambermaids are wont to be beforehand
with them. But he is the dullest, modestest fool, for a frenchified
fool, as ever I saw; for nobody could be more coming to him than I have
been, though I say it, and yet I am ne'er the nearer. I have stolen
away his handkerchief, and told him of it; and yet he would never so
much as struggle with me to get it again: I have pulled off his peruke,
untied his ribbons, and have been very bold with him: yet he would
never be so with me: nay, I have pinched him, punched him and tickled
him; and yet he would never do the like for me.
_Re-enter the_ Black _and_ Monsieur.
_Black._ Nay, thus, thus, sir.
_Prue._ And to make my person more acceptable to him, I have used
art, as they say; for every night since he came, I have worn the
forehead-piece of bees-wax and hog's-grease, and every morning washed
with butter-milk and wild tansy; and have put on every day for his only
sake my Sunday's bowdy[64] stockings, and have new-chalked my shoes, as
constantly as the morning came: nay, I have taken occasion to garter my
stockings before him, as if unawares of him; for a good leg and foot,
with good shoes and stockings, are very provoking, as they say; but the
devil a bit would he be provoked.--But I must think of a way. [_Aside._
_Black._ Thus, thus.
_Mons._ What, so! Well, well, I have lessons enough for this time,
little master; I will have no more, lest the multiplicity of them make
me forget them, da.--Prue, art thou there and so pensive? what art thou
thinking of?
_Prue._ Indeed, I am ashamed to tell your worship.
_Mons._ What, ashamed! wert thou thinking then of my beastliness? ha!
ha! ha!
_Prue._ Nay, then I am forced to tell your worship in my own
vindication.
_Mons._ Come then.
_Prue._ But indeed, your worship--I'm ashamed, that I am, though it was
nothing but a dream I had of your sweet worship last night.
_Mons._ Of my sweet worship! I warrant it was a sweet dream then:--what
was it? ha! ha! ha!
_Prue._ Nay, indeed, I have told your worship enough already; you may
guess the rest.
_Mons._ I cannot guess; ha! ha! ha! What should it be? prithee let's
know the rest.
_Prue._ Would you have me so impudent?
_Mons._ Impudent! ha! ha! ha! Nay, prithee tell me; for I can't guess,
da--
_Prue._ Nay, 'tis always so, for want of the men's guessing the poor
women are forced to be impudent:--but I am still ashamed.
_Mons._ I will know it; speak.
_Prue._ Why then, methought last night you came up into my chamber in
your shirt when I was in bed; and that you might easily do, for I have
ne'er a lock to my door.--Now I warrant I am as red as my petticoat.
_Mons._ No, thou'rt as yellow as e'er thou wert.
_Prue._ Yellow, sir!
_Mons._ Ay, ay: but let's hear the dream out.
_Prue._ Why, can't you guess the rest now?
_Mons._ No, not I, I vow and swear: come, let's hear.
_Prue._ But can't you guess, in earnest?
_Mons._ Not I, the devil eat me!
_Prue._ Not guess yet! why then, methought you came to bed to me.--Now
am I as red as my petticoat again.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha!--well, and what then? ha! ha! ha!
_Prue._ Nay, now I know by your worship's laughing you guess what you
did. I'm sure I cried out, and waked all in tears, with these words in
my mouth--"You have undone me! you have undone me! your worship has
undone me!"
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha!--but you waked, and found it was but a dream.
_Prue._ Indeed it was so lively, I know not whether 'twas a dream, or
no.--But if you were not there, I'll undertake you may come when you
will, and do anything to me you will, I sleep so fast.
_Mons._ No, no; I don't believe that.
_Prue._ Indeed you may, your worship--
_Mons._ It cannot be.
_Prue._ Insensible beast! he will not understand me yet; and one would
think I speak plain enough. [_Aside._
_Mons._ Well, but, Prue, what art thou thinking of?
_Prue._ Of the dream, whether it were a dream or no.
_Mons._ 'Twas a dream, I warrant thee.
_Prue._ Was it? I am hugeous glad it was a dream.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, it was a dream: and I am hugeous glad it was a dream
too.
_Prue._ But now I have told your worship my door has neither lock nor
latch to it, if you should be so naughty as to come one night, and
prove the dream true--I am so afraid on't.
_Mons._ Ne'er fear it:--dreams go by the contraries.
_Prue._ Then, by that I should come into your worship's chamber, and
come to bed to your worship.--Now am I as red as my petticoat again, I
warrant.
_Mons._ No, thou art no redder than a brick unburnt, Prue.
_Prue._ But if I should do such a trick in my sleep, your worship
would not censure a poor harmless maid, I hope?--for I am apt to walk
in my sleep.
_Mons._ Well, then, Prue, because thou shalt not shame thyself, poor
wench, I'll be sure to lock my door every night fast.
_Prue._ [_Aside._] So! so! this way I find will not do:--I must come
roundly and downright to the business, like other women, or--
_Enter_ GERRARD.
_Mons._ O, the dancing-master!
_Prue._ Dear sir, I have something to say to you in your ear, which I
am ashamed to speak aloud.
_Mons._ Another time, another time, Prue. But now go call your mistress
to her dancing-master. Go, go.
_Prue._ Nay, pray hear me, sir, first.
_Mons._ Another time, another time, Prue; prithee begone.
_Prue._ Nay, I beseech your worship hear me.
_Mons._ No; prithee begone.
_Prue._ [_Aside._] Nay, I am e'en well enough served for not speaking
my mind when I had an opportunity.--Well, I must be playing the modest
woman, forsooth! a woman's hypocrisy in this case does only deceive
herself. [_Exit._
_Mons._ O, the brave dancing master! the fine dancing-master! Your
servant, your servant.
_Ger._ Your servant sir: I protest I did not know you at
first--[_Aside._] I am afraid this fool should spoil all,
notwithstanding Hippolita's care and management; yet I ought to trust
her:--but a secret is more safe with a treacherous knave than a
talkative fool.
_Mons._ Come, sir, you must know a little brother dancing-master of
yours--walking master I should have said; for he teaches me to walk
and make legs, by-the-bye. Pray, know him, sir; salute him, sir.--You
Christian dancing-masters are so proud.
_Ger._ But, monsieur, what strange metamorphosis is this? You look like
a Spaniard, and talk like an Englishman again, which I thought had been
impossible.
_Mons._ Nothing impossible to love: I must do't, or lose my mistress,
your pretty scholar; for 'tis I am to have her. You may remember I told
you she was to be married to a great man, a man of honour and quality.
_Ger._ But does she enjoin you to this severe penance?--such I am sure
it is to you.
_Mons._ No, no: 'tis by the compulsion of the starched fop her father,
who is so arrant a Spaniard, he would kill you and his daughter, if he
knew who you were: therefore have a special care to dissemble well.
[_Draws him aside._
_Ger._ I warrant you.
_Mons._ Dear Gerrard--Go, little master, and call my cousin: tell her
her dancing-master is here. [_Exit the_ Black]--I say, dear Gerrard,
faith, I'm obliged to you for the trouble you have had. When I sent
you, I intended a jest indeed; but did not think it would have been so
dangerous a jest: therefore pray forgive me.
_Ger._ I do, do heartily forgive you.
_Mons._ But can you forgive me for sending you at first, like a fool as
I was? 'Twas ill done of me: can you forgive me?
_Ger._ Yes, yes, I do forgive you.
_Mons._ Well, thou art a generous man, I vow and swear, to come and
take upon you all this trouble, danger, and shame, to be thought a
paltry dancing-master; and all this to preserve a lady's honour and
life, who intended to abuse you. But I take the obligation upon me.
_Ger._ Pish! pish! you are not obliged to me at all.
_Mons._ Faith, but I am strangely obliged to you.
_Ger._ Faith, but you are not.
_Mons._ I vow and swear but I am.
_Ger._ I swear you are not.
_Mons._ Nay, thou art so generous a dancing-master, ha! ha! ha!
_Re-enter_ Don DIEGO, HIPPOLITA, Mrs. CAUTION, _and_ PRUE.
_Don._ You shall not come in, sister.
_Mrs. Caut._ I will come in.
_Don._ You will not be civil.
_Mrs. Caut._ I'm sure they will not be civil, if I do not come in:--I
must, I will.
_Don._ Well, honest friend, you are very punctual, which is a rare
virtue in a dancing-master; I take notice of it, and will remember it;
I will, look you.
_Mons._ So, silly, damned, politic Spanish uncle!--ha! ha! ha! [_Aside._
_Ger._ My fine scholar, sir, there, shall never have reason, as I
have told you, sir, to say I am not a punctual man; for I am more her
servant than to any scholar I ever had.
_Mons._ Well said, i'faith!--[_Aside._] Thou dost make a pretty fool
of him, I vow and swear. But I wonder people can be made such fools
of:--ha! ha! ha!
_Hip._ Well, master, I thank you; and I hope I shall be a grateful,
kind scholar to you.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! cunning little jilt, what a fool she makes of him
too! I wonder people can be made such fools of, I vow and swear:--ha!
ha! ha! [_Aside._
_Hip._ Indeed, it shall go hard but I'll be a grateful, kind scholar to
you.
_Mrs. Caut._ As kind as ever your mother was to your father, I warrant.
_Don._ How! again with your senseless suspicions.
_Mons._ Pish! pish! aunt--[_Aside._] Ha! ha! ha! she's a fool another
way: she thinks she loves him, ha! ha! ha! Lord! that people should be
such fools!
_Mrs. Caut._ Come, come, I cannot but speak: I tell you, beware in
time; for he is no dancing-master, but some debauched person who will
mump you of your daughter.
_Don._ Will you be wiser than I still? Mump me of my daughter! I would
I could see any one mump me of my daughter.
_Mrs. Caut._ And mump you of your mistress too, young Spaniard.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! will you be wiser than I too, _voto_? Mump me of my
mistress! I would I could see any one mump me of my mistress.--[_Aside
to_ GERRARD _and_ HIPPOLITA.] I am afraid this damned old aunt should
discover us, I vow and swear: be careful therefore and resolute.
_Mrs. Caut._ He! he does not go about his business like a
dancing-master. He'll ne'er teach her to dance; but he'll teach her no
goodness soon enough, I warrant.--He a dancing-master!
_Mons._ Ay, the devil eat me if he be not the best dancing-master in
England now!--[_Aside to_ GERRARD _and_ HIPPOLITA.] Was not that well
said, cousin? was it not? for he's a gentleman dancing-master, you know.
_Don._ You know him, cousin, very well? cousin, you sent him to my
daughter?
_Mons._ Yes, yes, uncle:--know him!--[_Aside._] We'll ne'er be
discovered, I warrant, ha! ha! ha!
_Mrs. Caut._ But will you be made a fool of too?
_Mons._ Ay, ay, aunt, ne'er trouble yourself.
_Don._ Come, friend, about your business; about with my daughter.
_Hip._ Nay, pray, father, be pleased to go out a little, and let us
practise awhile, and then you shall see me dance the whole dance to the
violin.
_Don._ Tittle tattle! more fooling still!--Did not you say, when your
master was here last, I should see you dance to the violin when he came
again?
_Hip._ So I did, father: but let me practise a little first before,
that I may be perfect. Besides, my aunt is here, and she will put me
out; you know I cannot dance before her.
_Don._ Fiddle faddle!
_Mons._ [_Aside._] They're afraid to be discovered by Gerrard's
bungling, I see.--[_Aloud._] Come, come, uncle turn out! let 'em
practise.
_Don._ I won't, _voto á St. Jago!_ what a fooling's here.
_Mons._ Come, come, let 'em practise: turn out, turn out, uncle.
_Don._ Why can't she practise it before me?
_Mons._ Come, dancers and singers are sometimes humoursome; besides,
'twill be more grateful to you to see it danced all at once to the
violin. Come, turn out, turn out, I say.
_Don._ What a fooling's here still among you, _voto!_
_Mons._ So, there he is with you, _voto!_--Turn out, turn out; I vow
and swear you shall turn out. [_Takes him by the shoulder._
_Don._ Well, shall I see her dance it to the violin at last?
_Ger._ Yes, yes, sir; what do you think I teach her for?
_Mons._ Go, go, turn out.--[_Exit_ Don DIEGO.] And you too, aunt.
_Mrs. Caut._ Seriously, nephew, I shall not budge; royally, I shall not.
_Mons._ Royally, you must, aunt: come.
_Mrs. Caut._ Pray hear me, nephew.
_Mons._ I will not hear you.
_Mrs. Caut._ 'Tis for your sake I stay: I must not suffer you to be
wronged.
_Mons._ Come, no wheedling, aunt: come away.
_Mrs. Caut._ That slippery fellow will do't.
_Mons._ Let him do't.
_Mrs. Caut._ Indeed he will do't; royally he will.
_Mons._ Well, let him do't, royally.
_Mrs. Caut._ He will wrong you.
_Mons._ Well, let him, I say; I have a mind to be wronged: what's that
to you? I will be wronged, if you go there too, I vow and swear.
_Mrs. Caut._ You shall not be wronged.
_Mons._ I will.
_Mrs. Caut._ You shall not.
_Re-enter_ Don DIEGO.
_Don._ What's the matter? won't she be ruled?--Come, come away; you
shall not disturb 'em. [Don DIEGO _and_ Monsieur _try to thrust_ Mrs.
CAUTION _out._
_Mrs. Caut._ D'ye see how they laugh at you both?--Well, go to; the
troth-telling Trojan gentlewoman of old was ne'er believed till the
town was taken, rummaged, and ransacked. Even, even so--
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! turn out--[_Exeunt_ Mrs. CAUTION _and_ Don
DIEGO.]--Lord, that people should be such arrant cuddens![65] ha! ha!
ha! But I may stay, may I not?
_Hip._ No, no; I'd have you go out and hold the door, cousin; or else
my father will come in again before his time.
_Mons._ I will, I will then, sweet cousin.--'Tis well thought on; that
was well thought on, indeed, for me to hold the door.
_Hip._ But be sure you keep him out, cousin, till we knock.
_Mons._ I warrant you, cousin.--Lord, that people should be made such
fools of! Ha! ha! ha! [_Exit._
_Ger._ So, so:--to make him hold the door, while I steal his mistress,
is not unpleasant.
_Hip._ Ay, but would you do so ill a thing, so treacherous a thing?
Faith 'tis not well.
_Ger._ Faith, I can't help it, since 'tis for your sake.--Come,
sweetest, is not this our way into the gallery?
_Hip._ Yes; but it goes against my conscience to be accessory to so ill
a thing.--You say you do it for my sake?
_Ger._ Alas, poor miss! 'tis not against your conscience, but against
your modesty, you think, to do it frankly.
_Hip._ Nay, if it be against my modesty, too, I can't do it indeed.
_Ger._ Come, come, miss, let us make haste:--all's ready.
_Hip._ Nay, faith, I can't satisfy my scruple.
_Ger._ Come, dearest, this is not a time for scruples nor
modesty.--Modesty between lovers is as impertinent as ceremony
between friends; and modesty is now as unseasonable as on the wedding
night.--Come away, my dearest.
_Hip._ Whither?
_Ger._ Nay, sure we have lost too much time already. Is that a proper
question now? If you would know, come along; for I have all ready.
_Hip._ But I am not ready.
_Ger._ Truly, miss, we shall have your father come in upon us, and
prevent us again, as he did in the morning.
_Hip._ 'Twas well for me he did:--for, on my conscience, if he had not
come in, I had gone clear away with you when I was in the humour.
_Ger._ Come, dearest, you would frighten me, as if you were not yet in
the same humour.--Come, come away; the coach and six is ready.
_Hip._ 'Tis too late to take the air, and I am not ready.
_Ger._ You were ready in the morning.
_Hip._ Ay, so I was.
_Ger._ Come, come, miss:--indeed the jest begins to be none.
_Hip._ What! I warrant you think me in jest then?
_Ger._ In jest, certainly; but it begins to be troublesome.
_Hip._ But, sir, you could believe I was in earnest in the morning,
when I but seemed to be ready to go with you; and why won't you believe
me now when I declare to the contrary?--I take it unkindly, that the
longer I am acquainted with you, you should have the less confidence in
me.
_Ger._ For Heaven's sake, miss, lose no more time thus; your father
will come in upon us, as he did--
_Hip._ Let him if he will.
_Ger._ He'll hinder our design.
_Hip._ No, he will not; for mine is to stay here now.
_Ger._ Are you in earnest?
_Hip._ You'll find it so.
_Ger._ How! why, you confessed but now you would have gone with me in
the morning.
_Hip._ I was in the humour then.
_Ger._ And I hope you are in the same still; you cannot change so soon.
_Hip._ Why, is it not a whole day ago?
_Ger._ What! are you not a day in the same humour?
_Hip._ Lord! that you who know the town, they say, should think any
woman could be a whole day together in a humour!--ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ Hey! this begins to be pleasant.--What! won't you go with me
then after all?
_Hip._ No indeed, sir, I desire to be excused.
_Ger._ Then you have abused me all this while?
_Hip._ It may be so.
_Ger._ Could all that so natural innocency be dissembled?--faith, it
could not, dearest miss.
_Hip._ Faith, it was, dear master.
_Ger._ Was it, faith?
_Hip._ Methinks you might believe me without an oath. You saw I could
dissemble with my father, why should you think I could not with you?
_Ger._ So young a wheedle!
_Hip._ Ay, a mere damned jade I am.
_Ger._ And I have been abused, you say?
_Hip._ 'Tis well you can believe it at last.
_Ger._ And I must never hope for you?
_Hip._ Would you have me abuse you again?
_Ger._ Then you will not go with me?
_Hip._ No: but, for your comfort, your loss will not be great; and
that you may not resent it, for once I'll be ingenuous, and disabuse
you.--I am no heiress, as I told you, to twelve hundred pounds a-year;
I was only a lying jade then.--Now will you part with me willingly, I
doubt not.
_Ger._ I wish I could. [_Sighs._
_Hip._ Come, now I find 'tis your turn to dissemble:--but men use to
dissemble for money; will you dissemble for nothing?
_Ger._ 'Tis too late for me to dissemble.
_Hip._ Don't you dissemble, faith?
_Ger._ Nay, this is too cruel.
_Hip._ What! would you take me without the twelve hundred pounds
a-year? would you be such a fool as to steal a woman with nothing?
_Ger._ I'll convince you; for you shall go with me:--and since you are
twelve hundred pounds a-year the lighter, you'll be the easier carried
away. [_He takes her in his arms, she struggles._
_Prue._ What! he takes her way against her will:--I find I must knock
for my master then. [_She knocks._
_Re-enter_ Don DIEGO _and_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Hip._ My father! my father is here!
_Ger._ Prevented again! [GERRARD _sets her down again._
_Don._ What, you have done I hope now, friend, for good and all?
_Ger._ Yes, yes; we have done for good and all indeed.
_Don._ How now!--you seem to be out of humour, friend.
_Ger._ Yes, so I am; I can't help it.
_Mrs. Caut._ He's a dissembler in his very throat, brother.
_Hip._ Pray do not carry things so as to discover yourself, if it be
but for my sake, good master. [_Aside to_ GERRARD.
_Ger._ She is grown impudent. [_Aside._
_Mrs. Caut._ See, see, they whisper, brother!--to steal a kiss under a
whisper!--O the harlotry!
_Don._ What's the matter, friend?
_Hip._ I say, for my sake be in humour, and do not discover yourself,
but be as patient as a dancing-master still. [_Aside to_ GERRARD.
_Don._ What, she is whispering to him indeed! What's the matter? I will
know it, friend, look you.
_Ger._ Will you know it?
_Don._ Yes, I will know it.
_Ger._ Why, if you will know it then, she would not do as I would have
her; and whispered me to desire me not to discover it to you.
_Don._ What, hussy, would you not do as he'd have you? I'll make you do
as he'd have you.
_Ger._ I wish you would.
_Mrs. Caut._ 'Tis a lie; she'll do all he'll have her do, and more too,
to my knowledge.
_Don._ Come, tell me what 'twas then she would not do--come, do it,
hussy, or--Come, take her by the hand, friend. Come, begin:--let's see
if she will not do anything now I'm here!
_Hip._ Come, pray be in humour, master.
_Ger._ I cannot dissemble like you.
_Don._ What, she can't dissemble already, can she?
_Mrs. Caut._ Yes, but she can: but 'tis with you she dissembles: for
they are not fallen out, as we think. For I'll be sworn I saw her
just now give him the languishing eye, as they call it, that is, the
whiting's eye, of old called the sheep's eye:--I'll be sworn I saw it
with these two eyes; that I did.
_Hip._ You'll betray us; have a care, good master. [_Aside to_ GERRARD.
_Don._ Hold your peace, I say, silly woman!--but does she dissemble
already?--how do you mean?
_Ger._ She pretends she can't do what she should do; and that she is
not in humour.--The common excuse of women for not doing what they
should do.
_Don._ Come, I'll put her in humour.--Dance, I say.--Come, about with
her, master.
_Ger._ [_Aside._] I am in a pretty humour to dance.--[_To_ HIPPOLITA.]
I cannot fool any longer, since you have fooled me.
_Hip._ You would not be so ungenerous as to betray the woman that hated
you! I do not do that yet. For Heaven's sake! for this once be more
obedient to my desires than your passion. [_Aside to_ GERRARD.
_Don._ What! is she humoursome still?--but methinks you look yourself
as if you were in an ill-humour:--but about with her.
_Ger._ I am in no good dancing humour, indeed.
_Re-enter_ Monsieur.
_Mons._ Well, how goes the dancing forward?--What, my aunt here to
disturb 'em again?
_Don._ Come! come! [GERRARD _leads her about._
_Mrs. Caut._ I say, stand off;--thou shall not come near. Avoid, Satan!
as they say.
_Don._ Nay, then we shall have it:--nephew, hold her a little, that she
may not disturb 'em.--Come, now away with her.
_Ger._ One, two, and a coupee.--[_Aside._] Fooled and abused--
_Mrs. Caut._ Wilt thou lay violent hands upon thy own natural aunt,
wretch? [_To_ Monsieur.
_Don._ Come, about with her.
_Ger._ One, two, three, four, and turn round--[_Aside._] by such a
piece of innocency!
_Mrs. Caut._ Dost thou see, fool, how he squeezes her hand? [_To_
Monsieur.
_Mons._ That won't do, aunt.
_Hip._ Pray, master, have patience, and let's mind our business.
_Don._ Why did you anger him then, hussy, look you?
_Mrs. Caut._ Do you see how she smiles in his face, and squeezes his
hand now? [_To_ Monsieur.
_Mons._ Your servant, aunt.--That won't do, I say.
_Hip._ Have patience, master.
_Ger._ [_Aside._] I am become her sport!--[_Aloud._] One, two,
three--Death! hell! and the devil!
_Don._ Ay, they are three indeed!--But pray have patience.
_Mrs. Caut._ Do you see how she leers upon him, and clings to him? Can
you suffer it? [_To_ Monsieur.
_Mons._ Ay, ay.
_Ger._ One, two, three, and a slur.--Can you be so unconcerned after
all?
_Don._ What! is she unconcerned?--Hussy, mind your business.
_Ger._ One, two, three, and turn round;--one, two, fall back--hell and
damnation!
_Don._ Ay, people fall back indeed into hell and damnation, Heaven
knows!
_Ger._ One, two, three, and your honour.--I can fool no longer!
_Mrs. Caut._ Nor will I be withheld any longer, like a poor hen in her
pen, while the kite is carrying away her chicken before her face.
_Don._ What, have you done?--Well then, let's see her dance it now to
the violin.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, let's see her dance it to the violin.
_Ger._ Another time, another time.
_Don._ Don't you believe that, friend:--these dancing-masters make no
bones of breaking their words. Did not you promise just now, I should
see her dance it to the violin? and that I will too, before I stir.
_Ger._ Let monsieur play then while I dance with her--she can't dance
alone.
_Mons._ I can't play at all; I'm but a learner:--but if you'll play,
I'll dance with her.
_Ger._ I can't play neither.
_Don._ What! a dancing-master, and not play!
_Mrs. Caut._ Ay, you see what a dancing-master he is. 'Tis as I told
you, I warrant.--A dancing-master, and not play upon the fiddle!
_Don._ How!
_Hip._ O you have betrayed us all! If you confess that, you undo us for
ever. [_Apart to_ GERRARD.
_Ger._ I cannot play;--what would you have me say? [_Apart to_
HIPPOLITA.
_Mons._ I vow and swear we are all undone if you cannot play. [_Apart
to_ GERRARD.
_Don._ What! are you a dancing-master, and cannot play? Umph--
_Hip._ He is only out of humour, sir.--Here, master, I know you will
play for me yet;--for he has an excellent hand. [_She offers_ GERRARD
_the violin._
_Mons._ Ay, that he has.--[_Aside._] At giving a box on the ear.
_Don._ Why does he not play, then?
_Hip._ Here, master, pray play for my sake. [_Gives_ GERRARD _the
violin._
_Ger._ What would you have me do with it?--I cannot play a stroke.
[_Apart to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Hip._ No! stay--then seem to tune it, and break the strings. [_Apart
to_ GERRARD.
_Ger._ Come then.--[_Aside._] Next to the devil's, the invention of
women! They'll no more want an excuse to cheat a father with, than an
opportunity to abuse a husband.--[_Aloud._] But what do you give me
such a damned fiddle with rotten strings, for? [_Winds up the strings
till they break, and throws the violin on the ground._
_Don._ Hey-day! the dancing-master is frantic.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! That people should be made such fools of! [_Aside._
_Mrs. Caut._ He broke the strings on purpose, because he could not
play.--You are blind, brother.
_Don._ What! will you see further than I, look you?
_Hip._ But pray, master, why in such haste? [GERRARD _offers to go._
_Ger._ Because you have done with me.
_Don._ But don't you intend to come to-morrow, again?
_Ger._ Your daughter does not desire it.
_Don._ No matter; I do; I must be your paymaster, I'm sure. I would
have you come betimes too; not only to make her perfect, but since
you have so good a hand upon the violin, to play your part with
half-a-dozen of musicians more, whom I would have you bring with
you: for we will have a very merry wedding, though a very private
one.--You'll be sure to come?
_Ger._ Your daughter does not desire it.
_Don._ Come, come, baggage, you shall desire it of him; he is your
master.
_Hip._ My father will have me desire it of you, it seems.
_Ger._ But you'll make a fool of me again if I should come; would you
not?
_Hip._ If I should tell you so, you'd be sure not to come.
_Don._ Come, come, she shall not make a fool of you, upon my word. I'll
secure you, she shall do what you will have her.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! So, so, silly Don. [_Aside._
_Ger._ But, madam, will you have me come?
_Hip._ I'd have you to know, for my part, I care not whether you
come or no:--there are other dancing-masters to be had:--it is my
father's request to you. All that I have to say to you is a little good
advice, which, because I will not shame you, I'll give you in private.
[_Whispers_ GERRARD.
_Mrs. Caut._ What! will you let her whisper with him too?
_Don._ Nay, if you find fault with it, they shall whisper, though I
did not like it before:--I'll ha' nobody wiser than myself. But do you
think, if 'twere any hurt, she would whisper it to him before us?
_Mrs. Caut._ If it be no hurt, why does she not speak aloud?
_Don._ Because she says she will not put the man out of countenance.
_Mrs. Caut._ Hey-day! put a dancing-master out of countenance!
_Don._ You say he is no dancing-master.
_Mrs. Caut._ Yes, for his impudence he may be a dancing-master.
_Don._ Well, well, let her whisper before me as much as she will
to-night, since she is to be married to-morrow;--especially since her
husband (that shall be) stands by consenting too.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, let 'em whisper, as you say, as much as they will
before we marry.--[_Aside._] She's making more sport with him, I
warrant.--But I wonder how people can be fooled so.--Ha! ha! ha!
_Don._ Well, a penny for the secret, daughter.
_Hip._ Indeed, father, you shall have it for nothing to-morrow.
_Don._ Well, friend, you will not fail to come?
_Ger._ No, no, sir.--[_Aside._] Yet I am a fool if I do.
_Don._ And be sure you bring the fiddlers with you, as I bid you.
_Hip._ Yes, be sure you bring the fiddlers with you, as I bid you.
_Mrs. Caut._ So, so: he'll fiddle your daughter out of the house.--Must
you have fiddles, with a fiddle faddle?
_Mons._ Lord! that people should be made such fools of! Ha! ha!
[_Aside._
[_Exeunt_ Don DIEGO, HIPPOLITA, Monsieur, Mrs. CAUTION, _and_ PRUE.
_Ger_.
Fortune we sooner may than woman trust:
To her confiding gallant she is just;
But falser woman only him deceives,
Who to her tongue and eyes most credit gives.
[_Exit._
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.--_A Room in_ Don DIEGO'S _House._
_Enter_ Monsieur de PARIS _and the_ Black, _stalking over the
stage; to them_ GERRARD.
_Mons._ Good morrow to thee, noble dancing-master:--ha! ha! ha! your
little black brother here, my master, I see, is the more diligent man
of the two. But why do you come so late?--What! you begin to neglect
your scholar, do you?--Little black master, _con licencia_, pray get
you out of the room.--[_Exit_ Black.] What! out of humour, man! a
dancing-master should be like his fiddle, always in tune. Come, my
cousin has made an ass of thee; what then? I know it.
_Ger._ Does he know it! [_Aside._
_Mons._ But prithee don't be angry: 'twas agreed upon betwixt us,
before I sent you, to make a fool of thee;--ha! ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ Was it so?
_Mons._ I knew you would be apt to entertain vain hopes from the
summons of a lady: but, faith, the design was but to make a fool of
thee, as you find.
_Ger._ 'Tis very well.
_Mons._ But indeed I did not think the jest would have lasted so long,
and that my cousin would have made a dancing-master of you, ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ The fool has reason, I find, and I am the coxcomb while I
thought him so. [_Aside_.
_Mons._ Come, I see you are uneasy, and the jest of being a
dancing-master grows tedious to you:--but have a little patience; the
parson is sent for, and when once my cousin and I are married, my uncle
may know who you are.
_Ger._ I am certainly abused. [_Aside._
_Mons._ [_Listening._] What do you say?
_Ger._ Merely fooled! [_Aside._
_Mons._ Why do you doubt it? ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ Can it be? [_Aside._
_Mons._ Pish! pish! she told me yesterday as soon as you were gone,
that she had led you into a fool's paradise, and made you believe she
would go away with you--ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ Did she so?--I am no longer to doubt it then. [_Aside._
_Mons._ Ay, ay, she makes a mere fool of thee, I vow and swear; but
don't be concerned, there's hardly a man of a thousand but has been
made a fool of by some woman or other.--I have been made a fool of
myself, man, by the women; I have, I vow and swear I have.
_Ger._ Well, you have, I believe it, for you are a coxcomb.
_Mons._ Lord! you need not be so touchy with one; I tell you but the
truth, for your good; for though she does, I would not fool you any
longer; but prithee don't be troubled at what can't be helped. Women
are made on purpose to fool men: when they are children, they fool
their fathers; and when they have taken their leaves of their hanging
sleeves, they fool their gallants or dancing masters,--ha! ha! ha!
_Ger._ Hark you, sir! to be fooled by a woman, you say, is not to be
helped; but I will not be fooled by a fool.
_Mons._ You show your English breeding now; an English rival is so dull
and brutish as not to understand raillery; but what is spoken in your
passion I'll take no notice of, for I am your friend, and would not
have you my rival to make yourself ridiculous.--Come, prithee, prithee,
don't be so concerned; for, as I was saying, women first fool their
fathers, then their gallants, and then their husbands; so that it will
be my turn to be fooled too (for your comfort); and when they come to
be widows, they would fool the devil, I vow and swear.--Come, come,
dear Gerrard, prithee don't be out of humour, and look so sillily.
_Ger._ Prithee do not talk so sillily.
_Mons._ Nay, faith, I am resolved to beat you out of this ill-humour.
_Ger._ Faith, I am afraid I shall first beat you into an ill-humour.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! that thou shouldst be gulled so by a little gipsy,
who left off her bib but yesterday!--faith I can't but laugh at thee.
_Ger._ Faith, then I shall make your mirth (as being too violent)
conclude in some little misfortune to you. The fool begins to be
tyrannical.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! poor angry dancing-master! prithee match my Spanish
pumps and legs with one of your best and newest sarabands; ha! ha! ha!
come--
_Ger._ I will match your Spanish ear, thus, sir, and make you dance
thus. [_Strikes and kicks him._
_Mons._ How! sa! sa! sa! then I'll make you dance thus. [Monsieur
_draws his sword and runs at him, but_ GERRARD _drawing, he retires._
Hold! hold a little!--[_Aside._] A desperate disappointed lover will
cut his own throat, then sure he will make nothing of cutting his
rival's throat.
_Ger._ Consideration is an enemy to fighting; if you have a mind to
revenge yourself, your sword's in your hand.
_Mons._ Pray, sir, hold your peace; I'll ne'er take my rival's
counsel, be't what 'twill. I know what you would be at; you are
disappointed of your mistress, and could hang yourself, and therefore
will not fear hanging. But I am a successful lover, and need neither
hang for you nor my mistress: nay, if I should kill you, I know I
should do you a kindness; therefore e'en live, to die daily with envy
of my happiness. But if you will needs die, kill yourself, and be
damned for me, I vow and swear.
_Ger._ But won't you fight for your mistress?
_Mons._ I tell you, you shall not have the honour to be killed for
her: besides I will not be hit in the teeth by her as long as I live,
with the great love you had for her. Women speak well of their dead
husbands; what will they do of their dead gallants?
_Ger._ But if you will not fight for her, you shall dance for her,
since you desired me to teach you to dance too;--I'll teach you to
dance thus--[_Strikes his sword at his legs,_ Monsieur _leaps._
_Mons._ Nay, if it be for the sake of my mistress, there's nothing I
will refuse to do.
_Ger._ Nay, you must dance on.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, for my mistress, and sing too, la, la, la, ra, la.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITA _and_ PRUE.
_Hip._ What! swords drawn betwixt you two! what's the matter?
_Mons._ [_Aside._] Is she here?--[_Aloud._] Come, put up your sword;
you see this is no place for us; but the devil eat me if you shall not
eat my sword, but--
_Hip._ What's the matter, cousin?
_Mons._ Nothing, nothing, cousin, but your presence is a sanctuary for
my greatest enemy, or else, _tête non!_--
_Hip._ What, you have not hurt my cousin, sir, I hope? [_To_ GERRARD.
_Ger._ How! she's concerned for him! nay, then I need not doubt, my
fears are true. [_Aside._
_Mons._ What was that you said, cousin? hurt me!--ha! ha! ha! hurt
me!--if any man hurt me, he must do it basely; he shall ne'er do it
when my sword's drawn, sa! sa! sa!
_Hip._ Because you will ne'er draw your sword, perhaps.
_Mons._ [_Aside._] Scurvily guessed.--[_Aloud._] You ladies may say
anything; but, cousin, pray do not you talk of swords and fighting;
meddle with your guitar, and talk of dancing with your dancing-master
there, ha! ha! ha!
_Hip._ But I am afraid you have hurt my master, cousin:--he says
nothing; can he draw his breath?
_Mons._ No, 'tis you have hurt your master, cousin, in the very heart,
cousin, and therefore he would hurt me; for love is a disease makes
people as malicious as the plague does.
_Hip._ Indeed, poor master, something does ail you.
_Mons._ Nay, nay, cousin, faith don't abuse him any longer; he's an
honest gentleman, and has been long of my acquaintance, and a man of
tolerable sense, to take him out of his love; but prithee, cousin,
don't drive the jest too far for my sake.
_Ger._ He counsels you well, pleasant, cunning, jilting miss, for his
sake; for if I am your divertisement, it shall be at his cost, since
he's your gallant in favour.
_Hip._ I don't understand you.
_Mons._ But I do, a pox take him! and the custom that so orders it,
forsooth! that if a lady abuse or affront a man, presently the gallant
must be beaten; nay, what's more unreasonable, if a woman abuse her
husband, the poor cuckold must bear the shame as well as the injury.
[_Aside._
_Hip._ But what's the matter, master? what was it you said?
_Ger._ I say, pleasant, cunning, jilting lady, though you make him a
cuckold, it will not be revenge enough for me upon him for marrying
you.
_Hip._ How! my surly, huffing, jealous, senseless, saucy master?
_Mons._ Nay, nay, faith, give losers leave to speak, losers of
mistresses especially, ha! ha! ha! Besides, your anger is too great a
favour for him; I scorn to honour him with mine you see.
_Hip._ I tell you, my saucy master, my cousin shall never be made that
monstrous thing you mention, by me.
_Mons._ Thank you, I vow and swear, cousin; no, no, I never thought I
should.
_Ger._ Sure you marry him by the sage maxim of your sex, which is,
wittols make the best husbands, that is, cuckolds.
_Hip._ Indeed, master, whatsoever you think, I would sooner choose you
for that purpose than him.
_Mons._ Ha! ha! ha! there she was with him, i'faith;--I thank you for
that, cousin, I vow and swear.
_Hip._ Nay, he shall thank me for that too:--but how came you two to
quarrel? I thought, cousin, you had had more wit than to quarrel, or
more kindness for me than to quarrel here. What if my father, hearing
the bustle, should have come in? he would have soon discovered our
false dancing-master (for passion unmasks every man), and then the
result of your quarrel had been my ruin.
_Mons._ Nay, you had both felt his desperate deadly daunting
dagger:--there are your d's for you!
_Hip._ Go, go presently, therefore, and hinder my father from coming
in, whilst I put my master into a better humour, that we may not be
discovered, to the prevention of our wedding, or worse when he comes;
go, go.
_Mons._ Well, well, I will, cousin.
_Hip._ Be sure you let him not come in this good while.
_Mons._ No, no, I warrant you.--[_Goes out and returns._]--But if he
should come before I would have him, I'll come before him, and cough
and hawk soundly, that you may not be surprised. Won't that do well,
cousin?
_Hip._ Very well, pray begone.--[_Exit_ Monsieur.] Well, master, since
I find you are quarrelsome and melancholy, and would have taken me away
without a portion, three infallible signs of a true lover, faith here's
my hand now in earnest, to lead me a dance as long as I live.
_Ger._ How's this! you surprise me as much, as when first I found so
much beauty and wit in company with so much innocency. But, dearest, I
would be assured of what you say, and yet dare not ask the question.
You h----do not abuse me again? You h----will fool me no more sure?
_Hip._ Yes, but I will sure.
_Ger._ How? nay, I was afraid on't.
_Hip._ For, I say, you are to be my husband, and you say husbands must
be wittols, and some strange things to boot.
_Ger._ Well, I will take my fortune.
_Hip._ But have a care, rash man.
_Ger._ I will venture.
_Hip._ At your peril; remember I wished you to have a care: forewarned,
fore-armed.
_Prue._ Indeed now, that's fair; for most men are fore-armed before
they are warned.
_Hip._ Plain dealing is some kind of honesty however, and few women
would have said so much.
_Ger._ None but those who would delight in a husband's jealousy, as the
proof of his love and her honour.
_Hip._ Hold, sir, let us have a good understanding betwixt one another
at first, that we may be long friends. I differ from you in the point;
for a husband's jealousy, which cunning men would pass upon their wives
for a compliment, is the worst can be made 'em; for indeed it is a
compliment to their beauty, but an affront to their honour.
_Ger._ But madam--
_Hip._ So that upon the whole matter I conclude, jealousy in a
gallant is humble true love, and the height of respect, and only an
undervaluing of himself to overvalue her; but in a husband 'tis arrant
sauciness, cowardice, and ill-breeding, and not to be suffered.
_Ger._ I stand corrected, gracious miss.
_Hip._ Well, but have you brought the gentlemen fiddlers with you, as I
desired?
_Ger._ They are below.
_Hip._ Are they armed well?
_Ger._ Yes, they have instruments too that are not of wood; but what
will you do with them?
_Hip._ What did you think I intended to do with them? when I whispered
you to bring gentlemen of your acquaintance instead of fiddlers, as my
father desired you to bring, pray what did you think I intended?
_Ger._ Faith, e'en to make fools of the gentlemen fiddlers, as you had
done of your gentleman dancing-master.
_Hip._ I intended 'em for our guard and defence against my father's
Spanish and Guinea force, when we were to make our retreat from hence;
and to help us to take the keys from my aunt, who has been the watchful
porter of this house this twelve-month; and this design (if your heart
do not fail you) we will put in execution as soon as you have given
your friends below instructions.
_Ger._ Are you sure your heart will stand right still? You flinched
last night, when I little expected it, I am sure.
_Hip._ The time last night was not so proper for us as now, for reasons
I will give you. But besides that, I confess I had a mind to try
whether your interest did not sway you more than your love; whether
the twelve hundred pounds a-year I told you of had not made a greater
impression in your heart than Hippolita: but finding it otherwise--yet
hold, perhaps upon consideration you are grown wiser; can you yet, as
I said, be so desperate, so out of fashion, as to steal a woman with
nothing?
_Ger._ With you I can want nothing, nor can be made by anything more
rich or happy.
_Hip._ Think well again; can you take me without the twelve hundred
pounds a-year,--the twelve hundred pounds a-year?
_Ger._ Indeed, miss, now you begin to be unkind again, and use me worse
than e'er you did.
_Hip._ Well, though you are so modest a gentleman as to suffer a wife
to be put upon you with nothing, I have more conscience than to do it.
I have the twelve hundred pounds a-year out of my father's power, which
is yours, and I am sorry it is not the Indies to mend your bargain.
_Ger._ Dear miss, you but increase my fears, and not my wealth. Pray
let us make haste away; I desire but to be secure of you:--come, what
are you thinking of?
_Hip._ I am thinking if some little, filching, inquisitive poet should
get my story, and represent it to the stage, what those ladies who
are never precise but at a play would say of me now;--that I were a
confident, coming piece, I warrant, and they would damn the poor poet
for libelling the sex. But sure, though I give myself and fortune away
frankly, without the consent of my friends, my confidence is less than
theirs who stand off only for separate maintenance.
_Ger._ They would be widows before their time, have a husband and no
husband:--but let us begone, lest fortune should recant my happiness,
now you are fixed, my dearest miss. [_He kisses her hand._
_Re-enter_ Monsieur, _coughing, followed by_ Don DIEGO.
_Hip._ Oh, here's my father!
_Don._ How now, sir!--What, kissing her hand! what means that, friend,
ha?--Daughter, ha! do you permit this insolence, ha? _voto á mi honra!_
_Ger._ We are prevented again. [_Aside to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Hip._ Ha! ha! ha! you are so full of your Spanish jealousy, father;
why, you must know he is a city dancing-master, and they, forsooth,
think it fine to kiss the hand at the honour before the corant.
_Mons._ Ay, ay, ay, uncle, don't you know that?
_Don._ Go to, go to, you are an easy French fool; there's more in it
than so, look you.
_Mons._ I vow and swear there's nothing more in't, if you'll believe
one.--[_Aside to_ HIPPOLITA _and_ GERRARD.] Did not I cough and hawk?
a jealous, prudent husband could not cough and hawk louder at the
approach of his wife's chamber in visiting time, and yet you would not
hear me. He'll make now ado about nothing, and you'll be discovered
both.
_Don._ Umph, umph,--no, no, I see it plain, he is no dancing-master:
now I have found it out, and I think I can see as far into matters as
another: I have found it now, look you.
_Ger._ My fear was prophetical. [_Aside to_ HIPPOLITA.
_Hip._ What shall we do?--nay, pray, sir, do not stir yet. [GERRARD
_offers to go out with her._
_Enter_ Mrs. CAUTION.
_Mrs. Caut._ What's the matter, brother? what's the matter?
_Don._ I have found it out, sister, I have found it out, sister; this
villain here is no dancing-master--but a dishonourer of my house and
daughter; I caught him kissing her hand.
_Mons._ Pish! pish! you are a strange Spanish kind of an uncle, that
you are.--A dishonourer of your daughter, because he kissed her hand!
pray how could he honour her more? he kissed her hand, you see, while
he was making his honour to her.
_Don._ You are an unthinking, shallow French fop, _voto!_--But I tell
you, sister, I have thought of it, and have found it out; he is no
dancing-master, sister. Do you remember the whispering last night? I
have found out the meaning of that too; and I tell you, sister, he's no
dancing-master, I have found it out.
_Mrs. Caut._ You found it out! marry come up, did not I tell you always
he was no dancing-master?
_Don._ You tell me! you silly woman, what then? what of that?--You tell
me! d'ye think I heeded what you told me? but I tell you now I have
found it out.
_Mrs. Caut._ I say I found it out.
_Don._ I say 'tis false, gossip, I found him out.
_Mrs. Caut._ I say I found him out first, say you what you will.
_Don._ Sister, mum, not such a word again, _guarda!_--You found him out!
_Mrs. Caut._ I must submit, or dissemble like other prudent women,
or--[_Aside._
_Don._ Come, come, sister, take it from me, he is no dancing-master.
_Mrs. Caut._ O yes, he is a dancing-master.
_Don._ What! will you be wiser than I every way?--remember the
whispering, I say.
_Mrs. Caut._ [_Aside._] So, he thinks I speak in earnest, then I'll fit
him still.--[_To_ Don DIEGO.] But what do you talk of their whispering!
they would not whisper any ill before us, sure.
_Don._ Will you still be an idiot, a dolt, and see nothing?
_Mons._ Lord! you'll be wiser than all the world, will you? are we not
all against you? pshaw! pshaw! I ne'er saw such a _donissimo_ as you
are, I vow and swear.
_Don._ No, sister, he's no dancing-master; for now I think on't too, he
could not play upon the fiddle.
_Mrs. Caut._ Pish! pish! what dancing-master can play upon a fiddle
without strings?
_Don._ Again, I tell you he broke them on purpose, because he could not
play; I have found it out now, sister.
_Mrs. Caut._ Nay, you see farther than I, brother. [GERRARD _offers to
lead her out._
_Hip._ For Heaven's sake stir not yet. [_Aside to_ GERRARD.
_Don._ Besides, if you remember, they were perpetually putting me
out of the room; that was, sister, because they had a mind to be
alone, I have found that out too:--now, sister, look you, he is no
dancing-master.
_Mrs. Caut._ But has he not given her a lesson often before you?
_Don._ Ay, but sister, he did not go about his business like a
dancing-master; but go, go down to the door, somebody rings. [_Exit_
Mrs. CAUTION.
_Mons._ I vow and swear, uncle, he is a dancing-master; pray be
appeased.--Lord! d'ye think I'd tell you a lie?
_Don._ If it prove to be a lie, and you do not confess it, though you
are my next heir after my daughter, I will disown thee as much as I do
her, for thy folly and treachery to thyself, as well as me.--You may
have her, but never my estate, look you.
_Mons._ How! I must look to my hits then. [_Aside._
_Don._ Look to't.
_Mons._ [_Aside._] Then I had best confess all, before he discover all,
which he will soon do.--
_Enter_ Parson.
O here's the parson too! he won't be in choler, nor brandish toledo
before the parson sure?--[_To_ Don DIEGO.] Well, uncle, I must confess,
rather than lose your favour, he is no dancing-master.
_Don._ No!
_Ger._ What! has the fool betrayed us then at last, nay, then 'tis time
to be gone; come away, miss. [_Going out._
_Don._ Nay, sir, if you pass this way, my toledo will pass that way,
look you. [_Thrusts at him with his sword._
_Hip._ O hold, Mr. Gerrard!--Hold father!
_Mons._ I tell you, uncle, he's an honest gentleman, means no hurt, and
came hither but upon a frolic of mine and your daughter's. [_Stops_ Don
DIEGO.
_Don. Ladron! traidor!_
_Mons._ I tell you all's but a jest, a mere jest, I vow and swear.
_Don._ A jest!--jest with my honour, _voto!_ ha! no family to dishonour
but the grave, wise, noble, honourable, illustrious, puissant, and
right worshipful family of the Formals!--Nay, I am contented to
reprieve you, till you know who you have dishonoured, and convict you
of the greatness of your crime before you die. We are descended, look
you--
_Mons._ Nay, pray, uncle, hear me.
_Don._ I say, we are descended--
_Mons._ 'Tis no matter for that.
_Don._ And my great, great, great-grandfather was--
_Mons._ Well, well, I have something to say more to the purpose.
_Don._ My great, great, great-grandfather, I say, was--
_Mons._ Well, a pinmaker in--
_Don._ But he was a gentleman for all that, fop, for he was a sergeant
to a company of the trainbands; and my great-great-grandfather was--
_Mons._ Was his son, what then? won't you let me clear this gentleman?
_Don._ He was, he was--
_Mons._ He was a felt-maker, his son a wine-cooper, your father a
vintner, and so you came to be a Canary merchant.
_Don._ But we were still gentlemen, for our coat was, as the heralds
say--was--
_Mons._ Was! your sign was the Three Tuns, and the field Canary; now
let me tell you, this honest gentleman--
_Don._ Now, that you should dare to dishonour this family!--by the
graves of my ancestors in Great St. Helen's church--
_Mons._ Yard.
_Don._ Thou shalt die for't, _ladron!_ [_Runs at_ GERRARD.
_Mons._ Hold, hold, uncle, are you mad?
_Hip._ Oh! oh!--
_Mons._ Nay then, by your own Spanish rules of honour (though he be my
rival), I must help him; [_Draws his sword._] since I brought him into
danger.--[_Aside._] Sure he will not show his valour upon his nephew
and son-in-law, otherwise I should be afraid of showing mine.--Here,
Mr. Gerrard, go in here, nay, you shall go in, Mr. Gerrard, I'll
secure you all; and, parson, do you go in too with 'em, for I see you
are afraid of a sword and the other world, though you talk of it so
familiarly, and make it so fine a place. [_Opens a door, and thrusts_
GERRARD, HIPPOLITA, Parson, _and_ PRUE _in, then shuts it, and guards
it with his sword._
_Don. Tu quoque, Brute!_
_Mons._ Nay, now, uncle, you must understand reason.--What, you are not
only a Don, but you are a Don Quixote too, I vow and swear!
_Don._ Thou spot, sploach[66] of my family and blood! I will have his
blood, look you.
_Mons._ Pray, good Spanish uncle, have but patience to hear me.
Suppose--I say, suppose he had done, done, done the feat to your
daughter.
_Don._ How! done the feat! done the feat: done the feat! _en hora mala!_
_Mons._ I say, suppose, suppose--
_Don._ Suppose!
_Mons._ I say, suppose he had, for I do but suppose it; well, I am
ready to marry her, however. Now marriage is as good a solder for
cracked female honour as blood; and can't you suffer the shame but for
a quarter of an hour, till the parson has married us? and then if
there be any shame, it becomes mine; for here in England, the father
has nothing to do with the daughter's business, honour, what d'ye
call't, when once she's married, d'ye see.
_Don._ England! what d'ye tell me of England? I'll be a Spaniard still,
_voto á mi honra!_ and I will be revenged.--Pedro! Juan! Sanchez!
[_Calls at the door._
_Re-enter_ Mrs. CAUTION, _followed by_ FLIRT _and_ FLOUNCE,
_in vizard masks._
_Mrs. Caut._ What's the matter, brother?
_Don._ Pedro! Sanchez! Juan!--but who are these, sister? are they not
men in women's clothes? what make they here?
_Mrs. Caut._ They are relations, they say, of my cousin's, who pressed
in when I let in the parson; they say my cousin invited 'em to his
wedding.
_Mons._ Two of my relations!--[_Aside._] Ha! they are my cousins indeed
of the other night; a pox take 'em!--but that's no curse for 'em; a
plague take 'em then!--but how came they here?
_Don._ [_Aside._] Now must I have witnesses too of the dishonour of my
family; it were Spanish prudence to despatch 'em away out of the house,
before I begin my revenge. [_To_ FLIRT _and_ FLOUNCE.] What are you?
what make you here? who would you speak with?
_Flirt._ With monsieur.
_Don._ Here he is.
_Mons._ Now will these jades discredit me, and spoil my match just in
the coupling minute. [_Aside._
_Don._ Do you know 'em?
_Mons._ Yes, sir, sure, I know 'em.--[_Aside to them._] Pray, ladies,
say as I say, or you will spoil my wedding, for I am just going to be
married; and if my uncle or mistress should know who you are, it might
break off the match.
_Flou._ We come on purpose to break the match.
_Mons._ How!
_Flirt._ Why, d'ye think to marry, and leave us so in the lurch?
_Mons._ What do the jades mean? [_Aside._
_Don._ Come, who are they? what would they have? If they come to the
wedding, ladies, I assure you there will be none to-day here.
_Mons._ They won't trouble you, sir; they are going again.--Ladies, you
hear what my uncle says; I know you won't trouble him.--[_Aside._] I
wish I were well rid of 'em.
_Flou._ You shall not think to put us off so. [_Aside._
_Don._ Who are they? what are their names?
_Flirt._ We are, sir--
_Mons._ Nay, for Heaven's sake don't tell who you are, for you will
undo me, and spoil my match infallibly. [_Aside to them._
_Flou._ We care not, 'tis our business to spoil matches.
_Mons._ You need not, for I believe married men are your best
customers, for greedy bachelors take up with their wives.
_Don._ Come, pray ladies, if you have no business here, be pleased to
retire; for few of us are in humour to be so civil to you as you may
deserve.
_Mons._ Ay, prithee, dear jades, get you gone.
_Flirt._ We will not stir.
_Don._ Who are they, I say, fool? and why don't they go?
_Flou._ We are, sir--
_Mons._ Hold! hold!--They are persons of honour and quality, and--
_Flirt._ We are no persons of honour and quality, sir, we are--
_Mons._ They are modest ladies, and being in a kind of disguise, will
not own their quality.
_Flou._ We modest ladies!
_Mons._ Why, sometimes you are in the humour to pass for women of
honour and quality; prithee, dear jades, let your modesty and greatness
come upon you now. [_Aside to them._
_Flirt._ Come, sir, not to delude you, as he would have us, we are--
_Mons._ Hold! hold!--
_Flirt._ The other night at the French-house--
_Mons._ Hold, I say!--'Tis even true as Gerrard says, the women will
tell, I see.
_Flou._ If you would have her silent, stop her mouth with that ring.
_Mons._ Will that do't? here, here--'Tis worth one hundred and fifty
pounds.--[_Takes off his ring and gives it her._] But I must not lose
my match, I must not lose a trout for a fly.--That men should live to
hire women to silence!
_Re-enter_ GERRARD, HIPPOLITA, Parson, _and_ PRUE.
_Don._ Oh, are you come again. [_Draws his sword and runs at them_,
Monsieur _holds him._
_Mons._ Oh! hold! hold! uncle!--What, are you mad, Gerrard, to expose
yourself to a new danger? why would you come out yet?
_Ger._ Because our danger now is over, I thank the parson there. And
now we must beg-- [GERRARD _and_ HIPPOLITA _kneel._
_Mons._ Nay, faith, uncle, forgive him now, since he asks you
forgiveness upon his knees, and my poor cousin too.
_Hip._ You are mistaken, cousin; we ask him blessing, and you
forgiveness.
_Mons._ How, how, how! what do you talk of blessing? what, do you ask
your father blessing and he ask me forgiveness? but why should he ask
me forgiveness?
_Hip._ Because he asks my father's blessing.
_Mons._ Pish! pish! I don't understand you, I vow and swear.
_Hip._ The parson will expound it to you, cousin.
_Mons._ Hey! what say you to it, parson?
_Par._ They are married, sir.
_Mons._ Married!
_Mrs. Caut._ Married! so, I told you what 'twould come to.
_Don._ You told us!--
_Mons._ Nay, she is setting up for the reputation of a witch.
_Don._ Married!--Juan, Sanchez, Pedro, arm! arm! arm!
_Mrs. Caut._ A witch! a witch!
_Hip._ Nay, indeed, father, now we are married, you had better call the
fiddlers.--Call 'em, Prue, quickly. [_Exit_ PRUE.
_Mons._ Who do you say, married, man?
_Par._ Was I not sent for on purpose to marry 'em? why should you
wonder at it?
_Mons._ No, no, you were to marry me, man, to her; I knew there was a
mistake in't somehow; you were merely mistaken, therefore you must do
your business over again for me now.--The parson was mistaken, uncle,
it seems, ha! ha! ha!
_Mrs. Caut._ I suppose five or six guineas made him make the mistake,
which will not be rectified now, nephew. They'll marry all that come
near 'em, and, for a guinea or two, care not what mischief they do,
nephew.
_Don._ Married!--Pedro! Sanchez!
_Mons._ How! and must she be his wife then for ever and ever? have I
held the door then for this, like a fool as I was?
_Mrs. Caut._ Yes, indeed!
_Mons._ Have I worn _golilla_ here for this? little breeches for this?
_Mrs. Caut._ Yes, truly.
_Mons._ And put on the Spanish honour with the habit, in defending my
rival? nay then, I'll have another turn of honour in revenge. Come,
uncle, I'm of your side now, sa! sa! sa! but let's stay for our force;
Sanchez, Juan, Pedro, arm! arm! arm!
_Enter two_ Blacks _and a_ Spaniard, _followed by_ PRUE, MARTIN,
_and five other gentlemen-like_ Fiddlers.
_Don._ Murder the villain! kill him! [_Running all upon_ GERRARD.
_Mar._ Hold! hold! sir!
_Don._ How now! who sent for you, friends?
_Mar._ We fiddlers, sir, often come unsent for.
_Don._ And you are often kicked down stairs for't too.
_Mar._ No, sir, our company was never kicked, I think.
_Don._ Fiddlers, and not kicked! then to preserve your virgin honour,
get you down stairs quickly; for we are not at present disposed much
for mirth, _voto!_
_Mons._ [_Peeping._] A pox! is it you, is it you, Martin?--Nay,
uncle, then 'tis in vain; for they won't be kicked down stairs, to
my knowledge. They are gentlemen fiddlers, forsooth! A pox on all
gentlemen fiddlers and gentlemen dancing-masters! say I.
_Don._ How! ha! [_Pausing._
_Mons._ Well, Flirt, now I am a match for thee: now I may keep
you.--And there's little difference betwixt keeping a wench and
marriage; only marriage is a little the cheaper; but the other is the
more honourable now, _vert_ and _bleu!_ Nay, now I may swear a French
oath too. Come, come, I am thine; let us strike up the bargain: thine,
according to the honourable institution of keeping.--Come.
_Flirt._ Nay, hold, sir; two words to the bargain; first, I have ne'er
a lawyer here to draw articles and settlements.
_Mons._ How! is the world come to that? A man cannot keep a wench
without articles and settlements! Nay, then 'tis e'en as bad as
marriage, indeed, and there's no difference betwixt a wife and a wench.
_Flirt._ Only in cohabitation; for the first article shall be against
cohabitation:--we mistresses suffer no cohabitation.
_Mons._ Nor wives neither now.
_Flirt._ Then separate maintenance, in case you should take a wife, or
I a new friend.
_Mons._ How! that too! then you are every whit as bad as a wife.
_Flirt._ Then my house in town and yours in the country, if you will.
_Mons._ A mere wife!
_Flirt._ Then my coach apart, as well as my bed apart.
_Mons._ As bad as a wife still!
_Flirt._ But take notice, I will have no little, dirty, second-hand
chariot new furbished, but a large, sociable, well-painted coach; nor
will I keep it till it be as well known as myself, and it come to be
called Flirt-coach; nor will I have such pitiful horses as cannot carry
me every night to the Park; for I will not miss a night in the Park,
I'd have you to know.
_Mons._ 'Tis very well: you must have your great, gilt, fine painted
coaches. I'm sure they are grown so common already amongst you, that
ladies of quality begin to take up with hackneys again, _jarni!_--But
what else?
_Flirt._ Then, that you do not think I will be served by a little dirty
boy in a bonnet, but a couple of handsome, lusty, cleanly footmen, fit
to serve ladies of quality, and do their business as they should do.
_Mons._ What then?
_Flirt._ Then, that you never grow jealous of them.
_Mons._ Why, will you make so much of them?
_Flirt._ I delight to be kind to my servants.
_Mons._ Well, is this all?
_Flirt._ No.--Then, that when you come to my house, you never presume
to touch a key, lift up a latch, or thrust a door, without knocking
beforehand: and that you ask no questions, if you see a stray piece of
plate, cabinet, or looking-glass, in my house.
_Mons._ Just a wife in everything.--But what else?
_Flirt._ Then, that you take no acquaintance with me abroad, nor bring
me home any when you are drunk, whom you will not be willing to see
there when you are sober.
_Mons._ But what allowance? let's come to the main business; the money.
_Flirt._ Stay, let me think: first for advance-money, five hundred
pounds for pins.
_Mons._ A very wife!
_Flirt._ Then you must take the lease of my house, and furnish it as
becomes one of my quality; for don't you think we'll take up with your
old Queen Elizabeth furniture, as your wives do.
_Mons._ Indeed there she is least like a wife, as she says.
_Flirt._ Then for house-keeping, servants' wages, clothes, and
the rest, I'll be contented with a thousand pounds a year present
maintenance, and but three hundred pounds a year separate maintenance
for my life, when your love grows cold. But I am contented with a
thousand pounds a year, because for pendants, neck-laces, and all sorts
of jewels, and such trifles, nay, and some plate, I will shift myself
as I can; make shifts, which you shall not take any notice of.
_Mons._ A thousand pounds a year! what will wenching come to? Time was
a man might have fared as well at a much cheaper rate, and a lady of
one's affections, instead of a house, would have been contented with a
little chamber, three pair of stairs backward, with a little closet or
ladder to't; and instead of variety of new gowns and rich petticoats,
with her _deshabillé_, or flame-colour gown called Indian, and slippers
of the same, would have been contented for a twelvemonth; and instead
of visits and gadding to plays, would have entertained herself at
home with "St. George for England," "The Knight of the Sun," or "The
Practice of Piety;" and instead of sending her wine and meat from the
French-houses, would have been contented, if you had given her, poor
wretch, but credit at the next chandler's and chequered cellar;[67] and
then, instead of a coach, would have been well satisfied to have gone
out and taken the air for three or four hours in the evening in the
balcony, poor soul. Well, Flirt, however, we'll agree:--'tis but three
hundred pounds a year separate maintenance, you say, when I am weary of
thee and the charge.
_Don._ [_Aside._]--Robbed of my honour, my daughter, and my revenge
too! O my dear honour! Nothing vexes me, but that the world should
say I had not Spanish policy enough to keep my daughter from being
debauched from me. But methinks my Spanish policy might help me yet. I
have it--so--I will cheat 'em all; for I will declare I understood the
whole plot and contrivance, and connived at it, finding my cousin a
fool, and not answering my expectation. Well, but then if I approve of
the match, I must give this mock-dancing-master my estate, especially
since half he would have in right of my daughter, and in spite of me.
Well, I am resolved to turn the cheat upon themselves, and give them my
consent and estate.
_Mons._ Come, come, ne'er be troubled, uncle: 'twas a combination, you
see, of all these heads and your daughter's, you know what I mean,
uncle, not to be thwarted or governed by all the Spanish policy in
Christendom. I'm sure my French policy would not have governed her; so
since I have 'scaped her, I am glad I have 'scaped her, _jarni!_
_Mrs. Caut._ Come, brother, you are wiser than I, you see: ay, ay.
_Don._ No, you think you are wiser than I now, in earnest: but know,
while I was thought a gull, I gulled you all, and made them and you
think I knew nothing of the contrivance. Confess, did not you think
verily that I knew nothing of it, and that I was a gull?
_Mrs. Caut._ Yes indeed, brother, I did think verily you were a gull.
_Hip._ How's this? [_Listening._
_Don._ Alas, alas! all the sputter I made was but to make this young
man, my cousin, believe, when the thing should be effected, that it was
not with my connivance or consent; but since he is so well satisfied,
I own it. For do you think I would ever have suffered her to marry a
monsieur, a monsieur? _guarda!_--besides, it had been but a beastly
incestuous kind of a match, _voto!_--
_Mrs. Caut._ Nay, then I see, brother, you are wiser than I indeed.
_Ger._ So, so.
_Mrs. Caut._ Nay, young man, you have danced a fair dance for yourself,
royally; and now you may go jig it together till you are both weary.
And though you were so eager to have him, Mrs. Minx, you'll soon have
your bellyful of him, let me tell you, mistress.
_Prue._ Ha! ha!
_Mons._ How, uncle! what was't you said? Nay, if I had your Spanish
policy against me, it was no wonder I missed of my aim, _ma foi!_
_Don._ I was resolved too my daughter should not marry a coward,
therefore made the more the more ado to try you, sir. But I find you
are a brisk man of honour, firm stiff Spanish honour; and that you
may see I deceived you all along, and you not me, ay, and am able to
deceive you still, for I know now you think that I will give you little
or nothing with my daughter, like other fathers, since you have married
her without my consent--but, I say, I'll deceive you now; for you
shall have the most part of my estate in present, and the rest at my
death.--There's for you: I think I have deceived you now, look you.
_Ger._ No, indeed, sir, you have not deceived me; for I never suspected
your love to your daughter, nor your generosity.
_Don._ How, sir! have a care of saying I have not deceived you, lest I
deceive you another way, _guarda!_--Pray, gentlemen, do not think any
man could deceive me, look you; that any man could steal my daughter,
look you, without my connivance:--
The less we speak, the more we think;
And he sees most, that seems to wink.
_Hip._ So, so, now I could give you my blessing, father; now you are a
good complaisant father, indeed:--
When children marry, parents should obey,
Since love claims more obedience far than they.
[_Exeunt._
EPILOGUE
SPOKEN BY FLIRT.
The ladies first I am to compliment,
Whom (if he could) the poet would content,
But to their pleasure then they must consent;
Most spoil their sport still by their modesty,
And when they should be pleased, cry out, "O fy!"
And the least smutty jest will ne'er pass by.
But city damsel ne'er had confidence
At smutty play to take the least offence,
But mercy shows, to show her innocence,
Yet lest the merchants' daughters should to-day
Be scandalised, not at our harmless play,
But our Hippolita, since she's like one
Of us bold flirts of t'other end o' th' town;
Our poet sending to you (though unknown)
His best respects by me, does frankly own
The character to be unnatural;
Hippolita is not like you at all:
You, while your lovers court you, still look grum,
And far from wooing, when they woo, cry mum;
And if some of you e'er were stol'n away,
Your portion's fault 'twas only, I dare say.
Thus much for him the poet bid me speak;
Now to the men I my own mind will break.
You good men o' th' Exchange, on whom alone
We must depend, when sparks to sea are gone;
Into the pit already you are come,
'Tis but a step more to our tiring-room;
Where none of us but will be wondrous sweet
Upon an able love of Lombard-street.
You we had rather see between our scenes,
Than spendthrift fops with better clothes and miens;
Instead of laced coats, belts, and pantaloons,
Your velvet jumps,[68] gold chains, and grave fur gowns,
Instead of periwigs, and broad cocked hats,
Your satin caps, small cuffs, and vast cravats.
For you are fair and square in all your dealings,
You never cheat your doxies with gilt shillings;
You ne'er will break our windows; then you are
Fit to make love, while our huzzas make war;
And since all gentlemen must pack to sea,
Our gallants and our judges you must be!
We, therefore, and our poet, do submit,
To all the camlet cloaks now i' the pit.
_THE COUNTRY WIFE._
Indignor quidquam reprehendi, non quia crasse
Compositum illepideve putetur, sed quia nuper:
Nec veniam antiquis, sed honorem et præmia posci.[69]
HORAT.
_The Country Wife_ was written, according to its author's own
statement, about the year 1671 or 1672. Its production upon the stage
was subsequent to that of _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_, to which
allusion is made in the prologue, and antecedent to that of the
earlier-written _Plain Dealer_, in the second act of which the author
inserted some critical observations upon _The Country Wife_. The first
performance of _The Plain Dealer_, as will afterwards appear, admits
not of a later date than that of March, or the very beginning of April,
1674; it follows then that _The Country Wife_ was brought forward some
time between the early spring of 1672 and that of 1674. It was acted by
the King's Company, established during these two years at the theatre
in Portugal Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, and was published in the year
1675.
If we can overlook the immorality which, in this play, is more
offensive and pronounced than in any of Wycherley's other dramas, we
shall find in _The Country Wife_ a brilliantly written and skilfully
constructed comedy, superior to either of the preceding dramas from
the same pen, and surpassed, among comedies of the Restoration, only
by its author's own masterpiece, _The Plain Dealer_. The plot of _The
Country Wife_ is partly based upon two comedies by Molière--_L'Ecole
des Femmes_ and _L'Ecole des Maris_. From the former of these
Wycherley derived his conception of the jealous man who keeps under
close restraint a young and ignorant woman, with the vain hope of
thereby securing her fidelity to him. Agnes's innocent confessions to
Arnolphe of her lover's stratagems and her own esteem for him find a
counterpart in the Country Wife's frankness on a similar occasion, but
beyond these points of coincidence there is little resemblance between
the two plays. From _L'Ecole des Maris_, again, Wycherley has borrowed
one or two incidents: the imprisoned girl's device of making her
would-be husband (in the English play, her actual husband) the bearer
of a letter to her gallant, and the trick by which Isabella causes her
tyrant, under the impression that she is another woman, to consign her
with his own hands to his rival.
Steele has published, in the _Tatler_ of April 16, 1709, a very just
criticism upon this play, which, as it cannot fail to interest the
reader, I venture to subjoin.
"Will's Coffee-house, April 14.
"This evening the Comedy, called _The Country Wife_, was acted in
Drury Lane, for the benefit of Mrs. Bignell. The part which gives
name to the Play was performed by herself. Through the whole action
she made a very pretty figure, and exactly entered into the nature
of the part. Her husband, in the Drama, is represented to be one of
those debauchees who run through the vices of the town, and believe,
when they think fit, they can marry and settle at their ease. His own
knowledge of the iniquity of the age makes him choose a wife wholly
ignorant of it, and place his security in her want of skill to abuse
him. The Poet, on many occasions, where the propriety of the character
will admit of it, insinuates that there is no defence against vice
but the contempt of it: and has, in the natural ideas of an untainted
innocent, shown the gradual steps to ruin and destruction which
persons of condition run into, without the help of a good education
to form their conduct. The torment of a jealous coxcomb, which arises
from his own false maxims, and the aggravation of his pain by the
very words in which he sees her innocence, makes a very pleasant and
instructive satire. The character of Horner, and the design of it, is
a good representation of the age in which that Comedy was written:
at which time love and wenching were the business of life, and the
gallant manner of pursuing women was the best recommendation at Court.
To this only it is to be imputed that a Gentleman of Mr. Wycherley's
character and sense condescends to represent the insults done to the
honour of the bed without just reproof; but to have drawn a man of
probity with regard to such considerations had been a monster, and a
Poet had at that time discovered his want of knowing the manners of
the Court he lived in, by a virtuous character in his fine gentleman,
as he would show his ignorance by drawing a vicious one to please the
present audience."
PROLOGUE
SPOKEN BY MR. HART.[70]
Poets, like cudgelled bullies, never do
At first or second blow submit to you;
But will provoke you still, and ne'er have done,
Till you are weary first with laying on.
The late so baffled scribbler of this day,
Though he stands trembling, bids me boldly say,
What we before most plays are used to do,
For poets out of fear first draw on you;
In a fierce prologue the still pit defy,
And, ere you speak, like Castril[71] give the lie.
But though our Bayes's battles oft I've fought,
And with bruised knuckles their dear conquests bought;
Nay, never yet feared odds upon the stage,
In prologue dare not hector with the age;
But would take quarter from your saving hands,
Though Bayes within all yielding countermands,
Says, you confederate wits no quarter give,
Therefore his play shan't ask your leave to live.
Well, let the vain rash fop, by huffing so,
Think to obtain the better terms of you;
But we, the actors, humbly will submit,
Now, and at any time, to a full pit;
Nay, often we anticipate your rage,
And murder poets for you on our stage:
We set no guards upon our tiring-room,
But when with dying colours there you come,
We patiently, you see, give up to you
Our poets, virgins, nay, our matrons too.
_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._
Mr. HORNER.
Mr. HARCOURT.
Mr. DORILANT.
Mr. PINCHWIFE.
Mr. SPARKISH.
Sir JASPER FIDGET.
A Boy.
A Quack.
Waiters, Servants, and Attendants.
Mrs. MARGERY PINCHWIFE.
ALITHEA, Sister of PINCHWIFE.
Lady FIDGET.
Mrs. DAINTY FIDGET, Sister of Sir JASPER.
Mrs. SQUEAMISH.
Old Lady SQUEAMISH.
LUCY, ALITHEA'S Maid.
SCENE--LONDON.
_THE COUNTRY WIFE._
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.--HORNER'S _Lodging._
_Enter_ HORNER, _and_ Quack _following him at a distance._
_Horn._ [_Aside._] A quack is as fit for a pimp, as a midwife
for a bawd; they are still but in their way, both helpers of
nature.--[_Aloud._] Well, my dear doctor, hast thou done what I desired?
_Quack._ I have undone you for ever with the women, and reported you
throughout the whole town as bad as an eunuch, with as much trouble as
if I had made you one in earnest.
_Horn._ But have you told all the midwives you know, the orange wenches
at the playhouses, the city husbands, and old fumbling keepers of this
end of the town? for they'll be the readiest to report it.
_Quack._ I have told all the chambermaids, waiting-women, tire-women,
and old women of my acquaintance; nay, and whispered it as a secret to
'em, and to the whisperers of Whitehall; so that you need not doubt
'twill spread, and you will be as odious to the handsome young women,
as--
_Horn._ As the small-pox. Well--
_Quack._ And to the married women of this end of the town, as--
_Horn._ As the great one; nay, as their own husbands.
_Quack._ And to the city dames, as aniseed Robin, of filthy and
contemptible memory; and they will frighten their children with your
name, especially their females.
_Horn._ And cry, Horner's coming to carry you away. I am only afraid
'twill not be believed. You told 'em it was by an English-French
disaster, and an English-French chirurgeon, who has given me at once
not only a cure, but an antidote for the future against that damned
malady, and that worse distemper, love, and all other women's evils?
_Quack._ Your late journey into France has made it the more credible,
and your being here a fortnight before you appeared in public, looks as
if you apprehended the shame, which I wonder you do not. Well, I have
been hired by young gallants to belie 'em t'other way; but you are the
first would be thought a man unfit for women.
_Horn._ Dear Mr. Doctor, let vain rogues be contented only to be
thought abler men than they are, generally 'tis all the pleasure they
have; but mine lies another way.
_Quack._ You take, methinks, a very preposterous way to it, and as
ridiculous as if we operators in physic should put forth bills to
disparage our medicaments, with hopes to gain customers.
_Horn._ Doctor, there are quacks in love as well as physic, who get
but the fewer and worse patients for their boasting; a good name is
seldom got by giving it one's self; and women, no more than honour,
are compassed by bragging. Come, come, Doctor, the wisest lawyer never
discovers the merits of his cause till the trial; the wealthiest man
conceals his riches, and the cunning gamester his play. Shy husbands
and keepers, like old rooks, are not to be cheated but by a new
unpractised trick: false friendship will pass now no more than false
dice upon 'em; no, not in the city.
_Enter_ Boy.
_Boy._ There are two ladies and a gentleman coming up. [_Exit._
_Horn._ A pox! some unbelieving sisters of my former acquaintance, who,
I am afraid, expect their sense should be satisfied of the falsity of
the report. No--this formal fool and women!
_Enter_ Sir JASPER FIDGET, Lady FIDGET, _and_ Mrs. DAINTY FIDGET.
_Quack._ His wife and sister.
_Sir Jasp._ My coach breaking just now before your door, sir, I look
upon as an occasional reprimand to me, sir, for not kissing your hands,
sir, since your coming out of France, sir; and so my disaster, sir, has
been my good fortune, sir; and this is my wife and sister, sir.
_Horn._ What then, sir?
_Sir Jasp._ My lady, and sister, sir.--Wife, this is Master Horner.
_Lady Fid._ Master Horner, husband!
_Sir Jasp._ My lady, my Lady Fidget, sir.
_Horn._ So, sir.
_Sir Jasp._ Won't you be acquainted with her, sir?--[_Aside._] So, the
report is true, I find, by his coldness or aversion to the sex; but
I'll play the wag with him.--[_Aloud._] Pray salute my wife, my lady,
sir.
_Horn._ I will kiss no man's wife, sir, for him, sir; I have taken my
eternal leave, sir, of the sex already, sir.
_Sir Jasp._ [_Aside._] Ha! ha! ha! I'll plague him yet.--[_Aloud._] Not
know my wife, sir?
_Horn._ I do know your wife, sir; she's a woman, sir, and consequently
a monster, sir, a greater monster than a husband, sir.
_Sir Jasp._ A husband! how, sir?
_Horn._ So, sir; but I make no more cuckolds, sir. [_Makes horns._
_Sir Jasp._ Ha! ha! ha! Mercury! Mercury!
_Lady Fid._ Pray, Sir Jasper, let us be gone from this rude fellow.
_Mrs. Dain._ Who, by his breeding, would think he had ever been in
France?
_Lady Fid._ Foh! he's but too much a French fellow, such as hate women
of quality and virtue for their love to their husbands. Sir Jasper,
a woman is hated by 'em as much for loving her husband as for loving
their money. But pray let's be gone.
_Horn._ You do well, madam; for I have nothing that you came for. I
have brought over not so much as a bawdy picture, no new postures, nor
the second part of the _Ecole des Filles_; nor--
_Quack._ Hold, for shame, sir! what d'ye mean? you'll ruin yourself for
ever with the sex--[_Apart to_ HORNER.
_Sir Jasp._ Ha! ha! ha! he hates women perfectly, I find.
_Mrs. Dain._ What pity 'tis he should!
_Lady Fid._ Ay, he's a base fellow for't. But affectation makes not a
woman more odious to them than virtue.
_Horn._ Because your virtue is your greatest affectation, madam.
_Lady Fid._ How, you saucy fellow! would you wrong my honour?
_Horn._ If I could.
_Lady Fid._ How d'ye mean, sir?
_Sir Jasp._ Ha! ha! ha! no, he can't wrong your ladyship's honour,
upon my honour. He, poor man--hark you in your ear--a mere eunuch.
[_Whispers._
_Lady Fid._ O filthy French beast! foh! foh! why do we stay? let's be
gone: I can't endure the sight of him.
_Sir Jasp._ Stay but till the chairs come; they'll be here presently.
_Lady Fid._ No, no.
_Sir Jasp._ Nor can I stay longer. 'Tis, let me see, a quarter and half
quarter of a minute past eleven. The council will be sat; I must away.
Business must be preferred always before love and ceremony with the
wise, Mr. Horner.
_Horn._ And the impotent, Sir Jasper.
_Sir Jasp._ Ay, ay, the impotent, Master Horner; hah! hah! hah!
_Lady Fid._ What, leave us with a filthy man alone in his lodgings?