loves to gaze upon 'em, will find at last a thousand fools and cuckolds
in 'em instead of cupids.
_Man._ Very well, sir.--But what, you had only eye-kindness from Olivia?
_Fid._ I tell you again, sir, no woman sticks there; eye-promises of
love they only keep; nay, they are contracts which make you sure of
'em. In short, sir, she seeing me, with shame and amazement dumb,
unactive, and resistless, threw her twisting arms about my neck, and
smothered me with a thousand tasteless kisses. Believe me, sir, they
were so to me.
_Man._ Why did you not avoid 'em then?
_Fid._ I fenced with her eager arms, as you did with the grapples of
the enemy's fireship; and nothing but cutting 'em off could have freed
me.
_Man._ Damned, damned woman, that could be so false and infamous! and
damned, damned heart of mine, that cannot yet be false, though so
infamous! what easy, tame suffering trampled things does that little
god of talking cowards make of us! but--
_Fid._ So; it works, I find, as I expected. [_Aside._
_Man._ But she was false to me before, she told me so herself, and
yet I could not quite believe it; but she was, so that her second
falseness is a favour to me, not an injury, in revenging me upon the
man that wronged me first of her love. Her love! a whore's, a witch's
love!--But what, did she not kiss well, sir?--I'm sure I thought her
lips--but I must not think of 'em more--but yet they are such I could
still kiss--grow to--and then tear off with my teeth, grind 'em into
mammocks,[121] and spit 'em into her cuckold's face.
_Fid._ Poor man, how uneasy he is! I have hardly the heart to give
so much pain, though withal I give him cure, and to myself new life.
[_Aside._
_Man._ But what, her kisses sure could not but warm you into desire at
last, or a compliance with hers at least?
_Fid._ Nay, more, I confess--
_Man._ What more? speak.
_Fid._ All you could fear had passed between us, if I could have been
made to wrong you, sir, in that nature.
_Man._ Could have been made! you lie, you did.
_Fid._ Indeed, sir, 'twas impossible for me; besides, we were
interrupted by a visit; but I confess, she would not let me stir, till
I promised to return to her again within this hour, as soon as it
should be dark; by which time she would dispose of her visit, and her
servants, and herself, for my reception. Which I was fain to promise,
to get from her.
_Man._ Ha!
_Fid._ But if ever I go near her again, may you, sir, think me as false
to you, as she is; hate and renounce me, as you ought to do her, and, I
hope, will do now.
_Man._ Well, but now I think on't, you shall keep your word with your
lady. What, a young fellow, and fail the first, nay, so tempting an
assignation!
_Fid._ How, sir?
_Man._ I say, you shall go to her when 'tis dark, and shall not
disappoint her.
_Fid._ I, sir! I should disappoint her more by going.
_Man._ How so?
_Fid._ Her impudence and injustice to you will make me disappoint her
love, loathe her.
_Man._ Come, you have my leave; and if you disgust[122] her, I'll go
with you, and act love, whilst you shall talk it only.
_Fid._ You, sir! nay, then I'll never go near her. You act love, sir!
You must but act it indeed, after all I have said to you. Think of your
honour, sir: love!--
_Man._ Well, call it revenge, and that is honourable: I'll be avenged
on her; and thou shalt be my second.
_Fid._ Not in a base action, sir, when you are your own enemy. O go not
near her, sir; for Heaven's sake, for your own, think not of it!
_Man._ How concerned you are! I thought I should catch you. What, you
are my rival at last, and are in love with her yourself; and have
spoken ill of her out of your love to her, not me: and therefore would
not have me go to her!
_Fid._ Heaven witness for me, 'tis because I love you only, I would not
have you go to her.
_Man._ Come, come, the more I think on't, the more I'm satisfied you
do love her. Those kisses, young man, I knew were irresistible; 'tis
certain.
_Fid._ There is nothing certain in the world, sir, but my truth and
your courage.
_Man._ Your servant, sir. Besides, false and ungrateful as she has been
to me, and though I may believe her hatred to me great as you report
it, yet I cannot think you are so soon and at that rate beloved by her,
though you may endeavour it.
_Fid._ Nay, if that be all, and you doubt it still, sir, I will conduct
you to her; and, unseen, your ears shall judge of her falseness, and my
truth to you, if that will satisfy you.
_Man._ Yes, there is some satisfaction in being quite out of doubt;
because 'tis that alone withholds us from the pleasure of revenge.
_Fid._ Revenge! What revenge can you have, sir? Disdain is best
revenged by scorn; and faithless love, by loving another, and making
her happy with the other's losings. Which, if I might advise--
_Enter_ FREEMAN.
_Man._ Not a word more.
_Free._ What, are you talking of love yet, captain? I thought you had
done with't.
_Man._ Why, what did you hear me say?
_Free._ Something imperfectly of love, I think.
_Man._ I was only wondering why fools, rascals, and desertless
wretches, should still have the better of men of merit with all women,
as much as with their own common mistress, Fortune.
_Free._ Because most women, like Fortune, are blind, seem to do all
things in jest, and take pleasure in extravagant actions. Their love
deserves neither thanks, nor blame, for they cannot help it: 'tis
all sympathy; therefore, the noisy, the finical, the talkative, the
cowardly, and effeminate, have the better of the brave, the reasonable,
and man of honour; for they have no more reason in their love, or
kindness, than Fortune herself.
_Man._ Yes, they have their reason. First, honour in a man they fear
too much to love; and sense in a lover upbraids their want of it;
and they hate anything that disturbs their admiration of themselves;
but they are of that vain number, who had rather show their false
generosity, in giving away profusely to worthless flatterers, than in
paying just debts. And, in short, all women, like fortune (as you say)
and rewards, are lost by too much meriting.
_Fid._ All women, sir! sure there are some who have no other quarrel to
a lover's merit, but that it begets their despair of him.
_Man._ Thou art young enough to be credulous; but we--
_Enter_ Sailor.
_Sail._ Here are now below, the scolding daggled gentlewoman, and that
Major Old--Old--Fop, I think you call him.
_Free._ Oldfox:--prithee bid 'em come up, with your leave, captain, for
now I can talk with her upon the square, if I shall not disturb you.
[_Exit_ Sailor.
_Man._ No; for I'll begone. Come, volunteer.
_Free._ Nay, pray stay; the scene between us will not be so tedious
to you as you think. Besides, you shall see how I rigged my 'squire
out, with the remains of my shipwrecked wardrobe; he is under your sea
valet-de-chambre's hands, and by this time dressed, and will be worth
your seeing. Stay, and I'll fetch my fool.
_Man._ No; you know I cannot easily laugh: besides, my volunteer and
I have business abroad. [_Exeunt_ MANLY _and_ FIDELIA _on one side_;
FREEMAN _on the other._
_Enter_ Major OLDFOX _and_ Widow BLACKACRE.
_Wid._ What, nobody here! did not the fellow say he was within?
_Old._ Yes, lady; and he may be perhaps a little busy at present; but
if you think the time long till he comes, [_Unfolding papers_] I'll
read you here some of the fruits of my leisure, the overflowings of
my fancy and pen.--[_Aside._] To value me right, she must know my
parts.--[_Aloud._] Come--
_Wid._ No, no; I have reading work enough of my own in my bag, I thank
you.
_Old._ Ay, law, madam; but here's a poem, in blank verse, which I think
a handsome declaration of one's passion.
_Wid._ O, if you talk of declarations, I'll show you one of the
prettiest penned things, which I mended too myself, you must know.
_Old._ Nay, lady, if you have used yourself so much to the reading
harsh law, that you hate smooth poetry, here is a character for you,
of--
_Wid._ A character! nay, then I'll show you my bill in chancery here,
that gives you such a character of my adversary, makes him as black--
_Old._ Pshaw! away, away, lady! But if you think the character too
long, here is an epigram, not above twenty lines, upon a cruel lady,
who decreed her servant should hang himself, to demonstrate his passion.
_Wid._ Decreed! if you talk of decreeing, I have such a decree here,
drawn by the finest clerk--
_Old._ O lady, lady, all interruption, and no sense between us, as if
we were lawyers at the bar! but I had forgot, Apollo and Littleton
never lodge in a head together. If you hate verses, I'll give you
a cast of my politics in prose. 'Tis "a Letter to a Friend in the
Country;" which is now the way of all such sober solid persons as
myself, when they have a mind to publish their disgust to the times;
though perhaps, between you and I, they have no friend in the country.
And sure a politic, serious person may as well have a feigned friend
in the country to write to, as an idle poet a feigned mistress to
write to. And so here's my letter to a friend, or no friend, in the
country, concerning the late conjuncture of affairs, in relation to
coffee-houses; or, "The Coffee-man's Case."
_Wid._ Nay, if your letter have a case in't, 'tis something; but first
I'll read you a letter of mine to a friend in the country, called a
letter of attorney.
_Re-enter_ FREEMAN, _with_ JERRY BLACKACRE _in an old gaudy suit
and red breeches of_ FREEMAN'S.
_Old._ What, interruption still! O the plague of interruption! worse to
an author than the plague of critics. [_Aside._
_Wid._ What's this I see? Jerry Blackacre, my minor, in red breeches!
What, hast thou left the modest seemly garb of gown and cap for this?
and have I lost all my good inns-of-chancery breeding upon thee
then? and thou wilt go a-breeding thyself from our inn of chancery
and Westminster Hall, at coffee-houses, and ordinaries, play-houses,
tennis-courts, and bawdy-houses?
_Jer._ Ay, ay, what then? perhaps I will; but what's that to you?
Here's my guardian and tutor now, forsooth, that I am out of your
huckster's hands.
_Wid._ How! thou hast not chosen him for thy guardian yet?
_Jer._ No, but he has chosen me for his charge, and that's all one; and
I'll do anything he'll have me, and go all the world over with him; to
ordinaries, and bawdy-houses, or anywhere else.
_Wid._ To ordinaries and bawdy-houses! have a care, minor, thou wilt
enfeeble there thy estate and body: do not go to ordinaries and
bawdy-houses, good Jerry.
_Jer._ Why, how come you to know any ill by bawdy-houses? you never had
any hurt by 'em, had you, forsooth? Pray hold yourself contented; if I
do go where money and wenches are to be had, you may thank yourself;
for you used me so unnaturally, you would never let me have a penny to
go abroad with; nor so much as come near the garret where your maidens
lay; nay, you would not so much as let me play at hotcockles with 'em,
nor have any recreation with 'em though one should have kissed you
behind, you were so unnatural a mother, so you were.
_Free._ Ay, a very unnatural mother, faith, squire.
_Wid._ But, Jerry, consider thou art yet but a minor; however, if thou
wilt go home with me again, and be a good child, thou shalt see--
_Free._ Madam, I must have a better care of my heir under age, than so;
I would sooner trust him alone with a stale waiting-woman and a parson,
than with his widow-mother and her lover or lawyer.
_Wid._ Why, thou villain, part mother and minor! rob me of my child and
my writings! but thou shalt find there's law; and as in the case of
ravishment of guard--Westminster the Second.
_Old._ Young gentleman squire, pray be ruled by your mother and your
friends.
_Jer._ Yes, I'll be ruled by my friends, therefore not by my mother,
so I won't: I'll choose him for my guardian till I am of age; nay,
maybe, for as long as I live.
_Wid._ Wilt thou so, thou wretch? and when thou'rt of age, thou wilt
sign, seal and deliver too, wilt thou?
_Jer._ Yes, marry will I, if you go there too.
_Wid._ O do not squeeze wax, son; rather go to ordinaries and
bawdy-houses, than squeeze wax. If thou dost that, farewell the goodly
manor of Blackacre, with all its woods, underwoods, and appurtenances
whatever! Oh, oh! [_Weeps._
_Free._ Come, madam, in short, you see I am resolved to have a share in
the estate, yours or your son's; if I cannot get you, I'll keep him,
who is less coy, you find; but if you would have your son again, you
must take me too. Peace or war? love or law? You see my hostage is in
my hand: I'm in possession.
_Wid._ Nay, if one of us must be ruined, e'en let it be him. By my
body, a good one! Did you ever know yet a widow marry or not marry
for the sake of her child? I'd have you to know, sir, I shall be hard
enough for you both yet, without marrying you, if Jerry won't be ruled
by me. What say you, booby, will you be ruled? speak.
_Jer._ Let one alone, can't you?
_Wid._ Wilt thou choose him for guardian, whom I refuse for husband?
_Jer._ Ay, to choose, I thank you.
_Wid._ And are all my hopes frustrated? Shall I never hear thee put
cases again to John the butler, or our vicar? never see thee amble the
circuit with the judges; and hear thee, in our town-hall, louder than
the crier?
_Jer._ No, for I have taken my leave of lawyering and pettifogging.
_Wid._ Pettifogging! thou profane villain, hast thou so?
Pettifogging!--then you shall take your leave of me, and your estate
too; thou shalt be an alien to me and it forever. Pettifogging!
_Jer._ O, but if you go there too, mother, we have the deeds and
settlements, I thank you. Would you cheat me of my estate, i'fac?
_Wid._ No, no, I will not cheat your little brother Bob; for thou wert
not born in wedlock.
_Free._ How's that?
_Jer._ How? what quirk has she got in her head now?
_Wid._ I say, thou canst not, shalt not inherit the Blackacres' estate.
_Jer._ Why? why, forsooth? What d'ye mean, if you go there too?
_Wid._ Thou art but my base child; and according to the law, canst not
inherit it. Nay, thou art not so much as bastard eigne.[123]
_Jer._ What, what, am I then the son of a whore, mother?
_Wid._ The law says--
_Free._ Madam, we know what the law says; but have a care what you say.
Do not let your passion, to ruin your son, ruin your reputation.
_Wid._ Hang reputation, sir! am not I a widow? have no husband, nor
intend to have any? Nor would you, I suppose, now have me for a wife.
So I think now I'm revenged on my son and you, without marrying, as I
told you.
_Free._ But consider, madam.
_Jer._ What, have you no shame left in you, mother?
_Wid._ Wonder not at it, major. 'Tis often the poor pressed widow's
case, to give up her honour to save her jointure; and seem to be a
light woman, rather than marry: as some young men, they say, pretend
to have the filthy disease, and lose their credit with most women, to
avoid the importunities of some. [_Aside to_ OLDFOX.
_Free._ But one word with you, madam.
_Wid._ No, no, sir. Come, major, let us make haste now to the
Prerogative-court.
_Old._ But, lady, if what you say be true, will you stigmatise your
reputation on record? and if it be not true, how will you prove it?
_Wid._ Pshaw! I can prove anything: and for my reputation, know, major,
a wise woman will no more value her reputation, in disinheriting a
rebellious son of a good estate, than she would in getting him, to
inherit an estate. [_Exeunt_ Widow BLACKACRE _and_ Major OLDFOX.
_Free._ Madam.--We must not let her go so, squire.
_Jer._ Nay, the devil can't stop her though, if she has a mind to't.
But come, bully-guardian, we'll go and advise with three attorneys,
two proctors, two solicitors, and a shrewd man of Whitefriars, neither
attorney, proctor, nor solicitor, but as pure a pimp to the law as any
of 'em: and sure all they will be hard enough for her, for I fear,
bully-guardian, you are too good a joker to have any law in your head.
_Free._ Thou'rt in the right on't, squire, I understand no law;
especially that against bastards, since I'm sure the custom is against
that law, and more people get estates by being so, than lose 'em.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--OLIVIA'S _Lodging._
_Enter_ Lord PLAUSIBLE _and_ Boy _with a candle._
_L. Plau._ Little gentleman, your most obedient, faithful, humble
servant. Where, I beseech you, is that divine person, your noble lady?
_Boy._ Gone out, my lord; but commanded me to give you this letter.
[_Gives him a letter._
_Enter_ NOVEL.
_L. Plau._ Which he must not observe. [_Aside. Puts letter up._
_Nov._ Hey, boy, where is thy lady?
_Boy._ Gone out, sir; but I must beg a word with you. [_Gives him a
letter, and exit._
_Nov._ For me? So.--[_Puts up the letter._] Servant, servant, my lord;
you see the lady knew of your coming, for she is gone out.
_L. Plau._ Sir, I humbly beseech you not to censure the lady's good
breeding: she has reason to use more liberty with me than with any
other man.
_Nov._ How, viscount, how?
_L. Plau._ Nay, I humbly beseech you, be not in choler; where there is
most love, there may be most freedom.
_Nov._ Nay, then 'tis time to come to an eclaircissement with you, and
to tell you, you must think no more of this lady's love.
_L. Plau._ Why, under correction, dear sir?
_Nov._ There are reasons, reasons, viscount.
_L. Plau._ What, I beseech you, noble sir?
_Nov._ Prithee, prithee, be not impertinent, my lord; some of you lords
are such conceited, well-assured, impertinent rogues.
_L. Plau._ And you noble wits are so full of shamming and drolling, one
knows not where to have you seriously.
_Nov._ Well, you shall find me in bed with this lady one of these days.
_L. Plau._ Nay, I beseech you, spare the lady's honour; for hers and
mine will be all one shortly.
_Nov._ Prithee, my lord, be not an ass. Dost thou think to get her from
me? I have had such encouragements--
_L. Plau._ I have not been thought unworthy of 'em.
_Nov._ What, not like mine! Come to an eclaircissement, as I said.
_L. Plau._ Why, seriously then, she has told me viscountess sounded
prettily.
_Nov._ And me, that Novel was a name she would sooner change hers for
than for any title in England.
_L. Plau._ She has commended the softness and respectfulness of my
behaviour.
_Nov._ She has praised the briskness of my raillery, of all things, man.
_L. Plau._ The sleepiness of my eyes she liked.
_Nov._ Sleepiness! dulness, dulness. But the fierceness of mine she
adored.
_L. Plau._ The brightness of my hair she liked.
_Nov._ The brightness! no, the greasiness, I warrant. But the blackness
and lustre of mine she admires.
_L. Plau._ The gentleness of my smile.
_Nov._ The subtilty of my leer.
_L. Plau._ The clearness of my complexion.
_Nov._ The redness of my lips.
_L. Plau._ The whiteness of my teeth.
_Nov._ My jaunty way of picking them.
_L. Plau._ The sweetness of my breath.
_Nov._ Ha! ha! nay, then she abused you, 'tis plain; for you know what
Manly said:--the sweetness of your pulvillio she might mean; but for
your breath! ha! ha! ha! Your breath is such, man, that nothing but
tobacco can perfume; and your complexion nothing could mend but the
small-pox.
_L. Plau._ Well, sir, you may please to be merry; but, to put you out
of all doubt, sir, she has received some jewels from me of value.
_Nov._ And presents from me; besides what I presented her jauntily, by
way of ombre, of three or four hundred pounds value, which I'm sure are
the earnest-pence for our love-bargain.
_L. Plau._ Nay, then, sir, with your favour, and to make an end of all
your hopes, look you there, sir, she has writ to me--
_Nov._ How! how! well, well, and so she has to me; look you
there--[_They deliver to each other their letters._
_L. Plau._ What's here?
_Nov._ How's this? [_Reads out._]--"My dear lord,--You'll excuse me
for breaking my word with you, since 'twas to oblige, not offend you;
for I am only gone abroad but to disappoint Novel, and meet you in the
drawing-room; where I expect you with as much impatience as when I used
to suffer Novel's visits--the most impertinent fop that ever affected
the name of a wit, therefore not capable, I hope, to give you jealousy;
for, for your sake alone, you saw I renounced an old lover, and will do
all the world. Burn the letter, but lay up the kindness of it in your
heart, with your--Olivia." Very fine! but pray let's see mine.
_L. Plau._ I understand it not; but sure she cannot think so of me.
_Nov._ [_Reads the other letter._] Hum! ha!--"meet--for your
sake"--hum--"quitted an old lover--world--burn--in your heart--with
your--Olivia." Just the same, the names only altered.
_L. Plau._ Surely there must be some mistake, or somebody has abused
her and us.
_Nov._ Yes, you are abused, no doubt on't, my lord; but I'll to
Whitehall, and see.
_L. Plau._ And I, where I shall find you are abused.
_Nov._ Where, if it be so, for our comfort, we cannot fail of meeting
with fellow-sufferers enough; for, as Freeman said of another, she
stands in the drawing room, like the glass, ready for all comers, to
set their gallantry by her: and, like the glass too, lets no man go
from her unsatisfied with himself. [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ OLIVIA _and_ Boy.
_Oliv._ Both here, and just gone?
_Boy._ Yes, madam.
_Oliv._ But are you sure neither saw you deliver the other a letter?
_Boy._ Yes, yes, madam, I am very sure.
_Oliv._ Go then to the Old Exchange, to Westminster, Holborn, and all
the other places I told you of; I shall not need you these two hours:
begone, and take the candle with you, and be sure you leave word again
below, I am gone out, to all that ask.
_Boy._ Yes, madam. [_Exit._
_Oliv._ And my new lover will not ask, I'm sure; he has his lesson,
and cannot miss me here, though in the dark: which I have purposely
designed, as a remedy against my blushing gallant's modesty; for young
lovers, like game-cocks, are made bolder by being kept without light.
_Enter_ VERNISH, _as from a journey._
_Ver._ Where is she? Darkness everywhere? [_Softly._
_Oliv._ What! come before your time? My soul! my life! your haste
has augmented your kindness; and let me thank you for it thus, and
thus--[_Embracing and kissing him._] And though, my soul, the little
time since you left me has seemed an age to my impatience, sure it is
yet but seven--
_Ver._ How! who's that you expected after seven?
_Oliv._ Ha! my husband returned! and have I been throwing away so many
kind kisses on my husband, and wronged my lover already? [_Aside._
_Ver._ Speak, I say, who was't you expected after seven?
_Oliv._ [_Aside._] What shall I say?--oh--[_Aloud._] Why 'tis but seven
days, is it, dearest, since you went out of town? and I expected you
not so soon.
_Ver._ No, sure, 'tis but five days since I left you.
_Oliv._ Pardon my impatience, dearest, I thought 'em seven at least.
_Ver._ Nay, then--
_Oliv._ But, my life, you shall never stay half so long from me again;
you shan't indeed, by this kiss you shan't.
_Ver._ No, no; but why alone in the dark?
_Oliv._ Blame not my melancholy in your absence.--But, my soul, since
you went, I have strange news to tell you: Manly is returned.
_Ver._ Manly returned! Fortune forbid!
_Oliv._ Met with the Dutch in the channel, fought, sunk his ship, and
all he carried with him. He was here with me yesterday.
_Ver._ And did you own our marriage to him?
_Oliv._ I told him I was married to put an end to his love and my
trouble; but to whom, is yet a secret kept from him and all the world.
And I have used him so scurvily, his great spirit will ne'er return to
reason it farther with me: I have sent him to sea again, I warrant.
_Ver._ 'Twas bravely done. And sure he will now hate the shore more
than ever, after so great a disappointment. Be you sure only to keep
a while our great secret, till he be gone. In the mean time, I'll
lead the easy, honest fool by the nose, as I used to do; and whilst
he stays, rail with him at thee; and when he's gone, laugh with thee
at him. But have you his cabinet of jewels safe? part not with a
seed-pearl to him, to keep him from starving.
_Oliv._ Nor from hanging.
_Ver._ He cannot recover 'em; and, I think, will scorn to beg 'em again.
_Oliv._ But, my life, have you taken the thousand guineas he left in my
name out of the goldsmith's hands?
_Ver._ Ay, ay; they are removed to another goldsmith's.
_Oliv._ Ay, but, my soul, you had best have a care he find not where
the money is; for his present wants, as I'm informed, are such as will
make him inquisitive enough.
_Ver._ You say true, and he knows the man too; but I'll remove it
to-morrow.
_Oliv._ To-morrow! O do not stay till to-morrow; go to-night,
immediately.
_Ver._ Now I think on't, you advise well, and I will go presently.
_Oliv._ Presently! instantly! I will not let you stay a jot.
_Ver._ I will then, though I return not home till twelve.
_Oliv._ Nay, though not till morning, with all my heart. Go, dearest;
I am impatient till you are gone.--[_Thrusts him out._] So, I have
at once now brought about those two grateful businesses, which all
prudent women do together, secured money and pleasure; and now all
interruptions of the last are removed. Go, husband, and come up,
friend; just the buckets in the well; the absence of one brings the
other. But I hope, like them too, they will not meet in the way,
jostle, and clash together.
_Enter_ FIDELIA, _and_ MANLY _treading softly and staying
behind at some distance._
So, are you come? (but not the husband-bucket, I hope, again.)--Who's
there? my dearest? [_Softly._
_Fid._ My life--
_Oliv._ Right, right.--Where are thy lips? Here, take the dumb and best
welcomes, kisses and embraces; 'tis not a time for idle words. In a
duel of love, as in others, parleying shows basely. Come, we are alone;
and now the word is only satisfaction, and defend not thyself.
_Man._ How's this? Why, she makes love like a devil in a play; and in
this darkness, which conceals her angel's face, if I were apt to be
afraid, I should think her a devil. [_Aside._
_Oliv._ What, you traverse ground, young gentleman! [FIDELIA _avoiding
her._
_Fid._ I take breath only.
_Man._ Good Heavens! how was I deceived! [_Aside._
_Oliv._ Nay, you are a coward; what, are you afraid of the fierceness
of my love?
_Fid._ Yes, madam, lest its violence might presage its change; and I
must needs be afraid you would leave me quickly, who could desert so
brave a gentleman as Manly.
_Oliv._ O, name not his name! for in a time of stolen joys, as this is,
the filthy name of husband were not a more allaying sound.
_Man._ There's some comfort yet. [_Aside._
_Fid._ But did you not love him?
_Oliv._ Never. How could you think it?
_Fid._ Because he thought it; who is a man of that sense, nice
discerning, and diffidency, that I should think it hard to deceive him.
_Oliv._ No; he that distrusts most the world, trusts most to himself,
and is but the more easily deceived, because he thinks he can't be
deceived. His cunning is like the coward's sword, by which he is
oftener worsted than defended.
_Fid._ Yet, sure, you used no common art to deceive him.
_Oliv._ I knew he loved his own singular moroseness so well, as to dote
upon any copy of it; wherefore I feigned a hatred to the world too that
he might love me in earnest: but, if it had been hard to deceive him,
I'm sure 'twere much harder to love him. A dogged, ill-mannered--
_Fid._ D'ye hear, sir? pray, hear her. [_Aside to_ MANLY.
_Oliv._ Surly, untractable, snarling brute! He! a mastiff dog were as
fit a thing to make a gallant of.
_Man._ Ay, a goat, or monkey, were fitter for thee. [_Aside._
_Fid._ I must confess, for my part, though my rival, I cannot but say
he has a manly handsomeness in's face and mien.
_Oliv._ So has a Saracen in the sign.
_Fid._ Is proper, and well made.
_Oliv._ As a drayman.
_Fid._ Has wit.
_Oliv._ He rails at all mankind.
_Fid._ And undoubted courage.
_Oliv._ Like the hangman's; can murder a man when his hands are tied.
He has cruelty indeed; which is no more courage, than his railing is
wit.
_Man._ Thus women, and men like women, are too hard for us, when they
think we do not hear 'em: and reputation, like other mistresses, is
never true to a man in his absence. [_Aside._
_Fid._ He is--
_Oliv._ Prithee, no more of him: I thought I had satisfied you enough
before, that he could never be a rival for you to apprehend. And you
need not be more assured of my aversion to him, than by the last
testimony of my love to you; which I am ready to give you. Come, my
soul, this way. [_Pulls_ FIDELIA.
_Fid._ But, madam, what could make you dissemble love to him, when
'twas so hard a thing for you; and flatter his love to you?
_Oliv._ That which makes all the world flatter and dissemble, 'twas
his money: I had a real passion for that. Yet I loved not that so
well, as for it to take him; for as soon as I had his money I hastened
his departure like a wife, who when she has made the most of a dying
husband's breath, pulls away his pillow.
_Man._ Damned money! its master's potent rival still; and like a saucy
pimp, corrupts itself the mistress it procures for us. [_Aside._
_Oliv._ But I did not think with you, my life, to pass my time in
talking. Come hither, come; yet stay, till I have locked a door in
the other room, that may chance to let us in some interruption; which
reciting poets or losing gamesters fear not more than I at this time
do. [_Exit._
_Fid._ Well, I hope you are now satisfied, sir, and will be gone to
think of your revenge?
_Man._ No, I am not satisfied, and must stay to be revenged.
_Fid._ How, sir? You'll use no violence to her, I hope, and forfeit
your own life, to take away hers? that were no revenge.
_Man._ No, no, you need not fear: my revenge shall only be upon her
honour, not her life.
_Fid._ How, sir? her honour? O Heavens! consider, sir, she has no
honour. D'ye call that revenge? can you think of such a thing? But
reflect, sir, how she hates and loathes you.
_Man._ Yes, so much she hates me, that it would be a revenge sufficient
to make her accessory to my pleasure, and then let her know it.
_Fid._ No, sir, no; to be revenged on her now, were to disappoint her.
Pray, sir, let us begone. [_Pulls_ MANLY.
_Man._ Hold off! What, you are my rival then! and therefore you shall
stay, and keep the door for me, whilst I go in for you; but when I'm
gone, if you dare to stir off from this very board, or breathe the
least murmuring accent, I'll cut her throat first; and if you love her,
you will not venture her life.--Nay, then I'll cut your throat too; and
I know you love your own life at least.
_Fid._ But, sir; good sir.
_Man._ Not a word more, lest I begin my revenge on her by killing you.
_Fid._ But are you sure 'tis revenge that makes you do this? how can it
be?
_Man._ Whist!
_Fid._ 'Tis a strange revenge, indeed.
_Man._ If you make me stay, I shall keep my word, and begin with you.
No more. [_Exit at the same door_ OLIVIA _went out by._
_Fid._
O Heavens! is there not punishment enough
In loving well, if you will have't a crime,
But you must add fresh torments daily to't,
And punish us like peevish rivals still,
Because we fain would find a heaven here?
But did there never any love like me,
That untried tortures you must find me out?
Others at worst, you force to kill themselves;
But I must be self-murdress of my love,
Yet will not grant me power to end my life,
My cruel life; for when a lover's hopes
Are dead and gone, life is unmerciful.
[_Sits down and weeps._
_Re-enter_ MANLY.
_Man._ I have thought better on't: I must not discover myself now I am
without witnesses; for if I barely should publish it, she would deny
it with as much impudence, as she would act it again with this young
fellow here.--Where are you?
_Fid._ Here--oh--now I suppose we may be gone.
_Man._ I will; but not you. You must stay and act the second part of a
lover, that is, talk kindness to her.
_Fid._ Not I, sir.
_Man._ No disputing, sir, you must; 'tis necessary to my design of
coming again to-morrow night.
_Fid._ What, can you come again then hither?
_Man._ Yes; and you must make the appointment, and an apology for your
leaving her so soon; for I have said not a word to her; but have kept
your counsel, as I expect you should do mine. Do this faithfully, and
I promise you here, you shall run my fortune still, and we will never
part as long as we live; but if you do not do it, expect not to live.
_Fid._ 'Tis hard, sir; but such a consideration will make it easier.
You won't forget your promise, sir?
_Man._ No, by Heavens! But I hear her coming. [_Exit._
_Re-enter_ OLIVIA.
_Oliv._ Where is my life? Run from me already! You do not love me,
dearest; nay, you are angry with me, for you would not so much as speak
a kind word to me within: what was the reason?
_Fid._ I was transported too much.
_Oliv._ That's kind.--But come, my soul, what make you here? Let us go
in again; we may be surprised in this room, 'tis so near the stairs.
_Fid._ No, we shall hear the better here, if anybody should come up.
_Oliv._ Nay, I assure you, we shall be secure enough within: come,
come--
_Fid._ I am sick, and troubled with a sudden dizziness; and cannot stir
yet.
_Oliv._ Come, I have spirits within.
_Fid._ O! don't you hear a noise, madam?
_Oliv._ No, no; there is none: come, come. [_Pulls her._
_Fid._ Indeed there is; and I love you so much, I must have a care of
your honour, if you won't, and go; but to come to you to-morrow night,
if you please.
_Oliv._ With all my soul. But you must not go yet; come, prithee.
_Fid._ Oh!--I'm now sicker, and am afraid of one of my fits.
_Oliv._ What fits?
_Fid._ Of the falling sickness; and I lie generally an hour in a
trance: therefore pray consider your honour for the sake of my love,
and let me go, that I may return to you often.
_Oliv._ But will you be sure then to come to-morrow night?
_Fid._ Yes.
_Oliv._ Swear.
_Fid._ By our past kindness!
_Oliv._ Well, go your ways then, if you will, you naughty creature
you.--[_Exit_ FIDELIA.] These young lovers, with their fears and
modesty, make themselves as bad as old ones to us; and I apprehend
their bashfulness more than their tattling.
_Re-enter_ FIDELIA.
_Fid._ O madam, we're undone! There was a gentleman upon the stairs,
coming up with a candle, which made me retire. Look you, here he comes!
_Re-enter_ VERNISH, _and his_ Servant _with a light._
_Oliv._ How, my husband! Oh, undone indeed! This way. [_Exit._
_Ver._ Ha! You shall not escape me so, sir. [_Stops_ FIDELIA.
_Fid._ O Heavens! more fears, plagues, and torments yet in store!
[_Aside._
_Ver._ Come, sir, I guess what your business was here, but this must be
your business now. Draw. [_Draws._
_Fid._ Sir--
_Ver._ No expostulations; I shall not care to hear of't. Draw.
_Fid._ Good sir!
_Ver._ How, you rascal! not courage to draw; yet durst do me the
greatest injury in the world? Thy cowardice shall not save thy life.
[_Offers to run at_ FIDELIA.
_Fid._ O hold, sir, and send but your servant down, and I'll satisfy
you, sir, I could not injure you as you imagine.
_Ver._ Leave the light and begone.--[_Exit_ Servant.] Now, quickly,
sir, what have you to say, or--
_Fid._ I am a woman, sir, a very unfortunate woman.
_Ver._ How! a very handsome woman, I'm sure then: here are witnesses
of't too, I confess--[_Pulls off her peruke and feels her breasts; then
aside_,] Well, I'm glad to find the tables turned; my wife is in more
danger of cuckolding than I was.
_Fid._ Now, sir, I hope you are so much a man of honour, as to let me
go, now I have satisfied you, sir.
_Ver._ When you have satisfied me, madam, I will.
_Fid._ I hope, sir, you are too much a gentleman to urge those secrets
from a woman which concern her honour. You may guess my misfortune to
be love by my disguise: but a pair of breeches could not wrong you, sir.
_Ver._ I may believe love has changed your outside, which could not
wrong me; but why did my wife run away?
_Fid._ I know not, sir; perhaps because she would not be forced to
discover me to you, or to guide me from your suspicions, that you might
not discover me yourself; which ungentlemanlike curiosity I hope you
will cease to have, and let me go.
_Ver._ Well, madam, if I must not know who you are, 'twill suffice for
me only to know certainly what you are; which you must not deny me.
Come, there is a bed within, the proper rack for lovers; and if you
are a woman, there you can keep no secrets; you'll tell me there all
unasked. Come. [_Pulls her._
_Fid._ Oh! what d'ye mean? Help! oh!
_Ver._ I'll show you: but 'tis in vain to cry out: no one dares help
you; for I am lord here.
_Fid._ Tyrant here!--But if you are master of this house, which I have
taken for a sanctuary, do not violate it yourself.
_Ver._ No, I'll preserve you here, and nothing shall hurt you, and will
be as true to you as your disguise; but you must trust me then. Come,
come. [_Pulls her._
_Fid._ Oh! oh! rather than you should drag me to a deed so horrid and
so shameful, I'll die here a thousand deaths.--But you do not look like
a ravisher, sir.
_Ver._ Nor you like one would put me to't; but if you will--
_Fid._ Oh! oh! help! help!
_Re-enter_ Servant.
_Ver._ You saucy rascal, how durst you come in? When you heard a woman
squeak, that should have been your cue to shut the door.
_Serv._ I come, sir, to let you know, the alderman coming home
immediately after you were at his house, has sent his cashier with the
money, according to your note.
_Ver._ Damn his money! Money never came to any, sure, unseasonably till
now. Bid him stay.
_Serv._ He says, he cannot a moment.
_Ver._ Receive it you then.
_Serv._ He says he must have your receipt for it:--he is in haste, for
I hear him coming up, sir.
_Ver._ Damn him! Help me in here then with this dishonourer of my
family.
_Fid._ Oh! oh!
_Serv._ You say she is a woman, sir.
_Ver._ No matter, sir: must you prate?
_Fid._ Oh Heavens! is there--[_They thrust her in, and lock the door._
_Ver._ Stay there, my prisoner; you have a short reprieve.
I'll fetch the gold, and that she can't resist,
For with a full hand 'tis we ravish best.
[_Exeunt._
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.--ELIZA'S _Lodgings._
_Enter_ OLIVIA _and_ ELIZA.
_Oliv._ Ah, cousin! nothing troubles me but that I have given the
malicious world its revenge, and reason now to talk as freely of me as
I used to do of it.
_Eliza._ Faith, then, let not that trouble you; for, to be plain,
cousin, the world cannot talk worse of you than it did before.
_Oliv._ How, cousin! I'd have you to know, before this _faux pas_, this
trip of mine, the world could not talk of me.
_Eliza._ Only that you mind other people's actions so much that you
take no care of your own, but to hide 'em; that, like a thief, because
you know yourself most guilty, you impeach your fellow-criminals first,
to clear yourself.
_Oliv._ O wicked world!
_Eliza._ That you pretend an aversion to all mankind in public, only
that their wives and mistresses may not be jealous, and hinder you of
their conversation in private.
_Oliv._ Base world!
_Eliza._ That abroad you fasten quarrels upon innocent men for talking
of you, only to bring 'em to ask your pardon at home, and to become
dear friends with them, who were hardly your acquaintance before.
_Oliv._ Abominable world!
_Eliza._ That you condemn the obscenity of modern plays, only that you
may not be censured for never missing the most obscene of the old ones.
_Oliv._ Damned world!
_Eliza._ That you deface the nudities of pictures, and little statues,
only because they are not real.[124]
_Oliv._ O, fy! fy! fy! hideous, hideous! Cousin, the obscenity of their
censures makes me blush!
_Eliza._ The truth of 'em, the naughty world would say now.
_Enter_ LETTICE _hastily._
_Let._ O, madam! here is that gentleman coming up who now you say is my
master.
_Oliv._ O, cousin! whither shall I run? protect me, or--[OLIVIA _runs
away, and stands at a distance._
_Enter_ VERNISH.
_Ver._ Nay, nay, come--
_Oliv._ O, sir, forgive me!
_Ver._ Yes, yes, I can forgive you being alone in the dark with a woman
in man's clothes: but have a care of a man in woman's clothes.
_Oliv._ What does he mean? he dissembles only to get me into his power:
or has my dear friend made him believe he was a woman? My husband may
be deceived by him, but I'm sure I was not. [_Aside._
_Ver._ Come, come, you need not have lain out of your house for this;
but perhaps you were afraid, when I was warm with suspicions, you must
have discovered who she was.--And, prithee, may I not know it?
_Oliv._ She was!--[_Aside._] I hope he has been deceived: and since my
lover has played the card, I must not renounce.
_Ver._ Come, what's the matter with thee? If I must not know who she
is, I'm satisfied without. Come hither.
_Oliv._ Sure you do know her; she has told you herself, I suppose.
_Ver._ No, I might have known her better but that I was interrupted by
the goldsmith, you know, and was forced to lock her into your chamber,
to keep her from his sight; but, when I returned, I found she was got
away by tying the window-curtains to the balcony, by which she slid
down into the street. For, you must know, I jested with her, and made
her believe I'd ravish her; which she apprehended, it seems, in earnest.
_Oliv._ And she got from you?
_Ver._ Yes.
_Oliv._ And is quite gone?
_Ver._ Yes.
_Oliv._ I'm glad on't--otherwise you had ravished her, sir? But how
durst you go so far, as to make her believe you would ravish her? let
me understand that, sir. What! there's guilt in your face, you blush
too: nay, then you did ravish her, you did, you base fellow! What,
ravish a woman in the first month of our marriage! 'tis a double injury
to me, thou base, ungrateful man! wrong my bed already, villain! I
could tear out those false eyes, barbarous, unworthy wretch!
_Eliza._ So, so!--
_Ver._ Prithee hear, my dear.
_Oliv._ I will never hear you, my plague, my torment!
_Ver._ I swear--prithee, hear me.
_Oliv._ I have heard already too many of your false oaths and vows,
especially your last in the church. O wicked man! and wretched
woman that I was! I wish I had then sunk down into a grave, rather
than to have given you my hand, to be led to your loathsome bed.
Oh--Oh--[_Pretends to weep._
_Ver._ So, very fine! just a marriage-quarrel! which though it
generally begins by the wife's fault, yet, in the conclusion, it
becomes the husband's; and whosoever offends at first, he only is sure
to ask pardon at last. My dear--
_Oliv._ My devil!--
_Ver._ Come, prithee be appeased, and go home; I have bespoken our
supper betimes: for I could not eat till I found you. Go, I'll give you
all kind of satisfactions; and one, which uses to be a reconciling one,
two hundred of those guineas I received last night, to do what you will
with.
_Oliv._ What, would you pay me for being your bawd?
_Ver._ Nay, prithee no more; go, and I'll thoroughly satisfy you when I
come home; and then, too, we will have a fit of laughter at Manly, whom
I am going to find at the Cock in Bow-street, where I hear he dined.
Go, dearest, go home.
_Eliza._ A very pretty turn, indeed, this! [_Aside._
_Ver._ Now, cousin, since by my wife I have that honour and privilege
of calling you so, I have something to beg of you too; which is not
to take notice of our marriage to any whatever yet a while, for some
reasons very important to me. And, next, that you will do my wife the
honour to go home with her; and me the favour, to use that power you
have with her, in our reconcilement.
_Eliza._ That I dare promise, sir, will be no hard matter. Your
servant.--[_Exit_ VERNISH.]--Well, cousin, this, I confess, was
reasonable hypocrisy; you were the better for't.
_Oliv._ What hypocrisy?
_Eliza._ Why, this last deceit of your husband was lawful, since in
your own defence.
_Oliv._ What deceit? I'd have you to know I never deceived my husband.
_Eliza._ You do not understand me, sure: I say, this was an honest
come-off, and a good one. But 'twas a sign your gallant had had enough
of your conversation, since he could so dexterously cheat your husband
in passing for a woman.
_Oliv._ What d'ye mean, once more, with my gallant and passing for a
woman?
_Eliza._ What do you mean? you see your husband took him for a woman.
_Oliv._ Whom?
_Eliza._ Heyday! why, the man he found you with, for whom last night
you were so much afraid; and who you told me--
_Oliv._ Lord, you rave sure!
_Eliza._ Why, did you not tell me last night--
_Oliv._ I know not what I might tell you last night, in a fright.
_Eliza._ Ay, what was that fright for? for a woman? besides, were you
not afraid to see your husband just now? I warrant only for having been
found with a woman! Nay, did you not just now, too, own your false
step, or trip, as you called it? which was with a woman too! fy, this
fooling is so insipid, 'tis offensive!
_Oliv._ And fooling with my honour will be more offensive. Did you not
hear my husband say he found me with a woman in man's clothes? and d'ye
think he does not know a man from a woman?
_Eliza._ Not so well, I'm sure, as you do; therefore I'd rather take
your word.
_Oliv._ What, you grow scurrilous, and are, I find, more censorious
than the world! I must have a care of you, I see.
_Eliza._ No, you need not fear yet, I'll keep your secret.
_Oliv._ My secret! I'd have you to know, I have no need of confidants,
though you value yourself upon being a good one.
_Eliza._ O admirable confidence! you show more in denying your
wickedness, than other people in glorying in't.
_Oliv._ Confidence, to me! to me such language! nay, then I'll never
see your face again.--[_Aside._] I'll quarrel with her, that people may
never believe I was in her power; but take for malice all the truth she
may speak against me.--[_Aloud._] Lettice, where are you! Let us be
gone from this censorious ill woman.
_Eliza._ [_Aside._] Nay, thou shalt stay a little, to damn thyself
quite.--[_Aloud._] One word first, pray, madam; can you swear that whom
your husband found you with--
_Oliv._ Swear! ay, that whosoever 'twas that stole up, unknown, into my
room, when 'twas dark, I know not, whether man or woman, by Heavens! by
all that's good; or, may I never more have joys here, or in the other
world! Nay, may I eternally--
_Eliza._ Be damned. So, so, you are damned enough already by your
oaths; and I enough confirmed, and now you may please to be gone. Yet
take this advice with you, in this plain-dealing age, to leave off
forswearing yourself; for when people hardly think the better of a
woman for her real modesty, why should you put that great constraint
upon yourself to feign it?
_Oliv._ O hideous, hideous advice! let us go out of the hearing of it.
She will spoil us, Lettice.
[_Exeunt_ OLIVIA _and_ LETTICE _at one door_, ELIZA _at the other._
SCENE II.--_The Cock in Bow Street. A table and bottles._
_Enter_ MANLY _and_ FIDELIA.
_Man._ How! saved her honour by making her husband believe you were a
woman! 'Twas well, but hard enough to do, sure.
_Fid._ We were interrupted before he could contradict me.
_Man._ But can't you tell me, d'ye say, what kind of man he was?
_Fid._ I was so frightened, I confess, I can give no other account of
him, but that he was pretty tall, round-faced, and one, I'm sure, I
ne'er had seen before.
_Man._ But she, you say, made you swear to return to-night?
_Fid._ But I have since sworn, never to go near her again; for the
husband would murder me, or worse, if he caught me again.
_Man._ No, I will go with you, and defend you to-night, and then I'll
swear, too, never to go near her again.
_Fid._ Nay, indeed, sir, I will not go, to be accessory to your death
too. Besides, what should you go again, sir, for?
_Man._ No disputing, or advice, sir, you have reason to know I am
unalterable. Go therefore presently, and write her a note, to inquire
if her assignation with you holds; and if not to be at her own house,
where else; and be importunate to gain admittance to her to-night.
Let your messenger, ere he deliver your letter, inquire first if her
husband be gone out. Go, 'tis now almost six of the clock; I expect
you back here before seven, with leave to see her then. Go, do this
dextrously, and expect the performance of my last night's promise,
never to part with you.
_Fid._ Ay, sir; but will you be sure to remember that?
_Man._ Did I ever break my word? Go, no more replies, or doubts.
[_Exit_ FIDELIA.
_Enter_ FREEMAN.
Where hast thou been?
_Free._ In the next room with my Lord Plausible and Novel.
_Man._ Ay, we came hither, because 'twas a private house; but with thee
indeed no house can be private, for thou hast that pretty quality of
the familiar fops of the town, who, in an eating-house, always keep
company with all people in't but those they came with.
_Free._ I went into their room, but to keep them, and my own fool the
squire, out of your room; but you shall be peevish now, because you
have no money. But why the devil won't you write to those we were
speaking of? Since your modesty, or your spirit, will not suffer you to
speak to 'em, to lend you money, why won't you try 'em at last that way?
_Man._ Because I know 'em already, and can bear want better than
denials, nay, than obligations.
_Free._ Deny you! they cannot. All of 'em have been your intimate
friends.
_Man._ No, they have been people only I have obliged particularly.
_Free._ Very well; therefore you ought to go to 'em the rather, sure.
_Man._ No, no. Those you have obliged most, most certainly avoid you,
when you can oblige 'em no longer; and they take your visits like so
many duns. Friends, like mistresses, are avoided for obligations past.
_Free._ Pshaw! but most of 'em are your relations; men of great fortune
and honour.
_Man._ Yes; but relations have so much honour as to think poverty
taints the blood, and disown their wanting kindred; believing, I
suppose, that as riches at first make a gentleman, the want of 'em
degrades him. But damn 'em! now I am poor, I'll anticipate their
contempt, and disown them.
_Free._ But you have many a female acquaintance whom you have been
liberal to, who may have a heart to refund to you a little, if you
would ask it: they are not all Olivias.
_Man._ Damn thee! how couldst thou think of such a thing? I would as
soon rob my footman of his wages. Besides, 'twere in vain too: for a
wench is like a box in an ordinary, receives all people's money easily,
but there is no getting, nay, shaking any out again; and he that fills
it is sure never to keep the key.
_Free._ Well, but noble captain, would you make me believe that you,
who know half the town, have so many friends, and have obliged so many,
can't borrow fifty or a hundred pounds?
_Man._ Why, noble lieutenant, you who know all the town, and call all
you know friends, methinks should not wonder at it; since you find
ingratitude too. For how many lords' families (though descended from
blacksmiths or tinkers) hast thou called great and illustrious? how
many ill tables called good eating? how many noisy coxcombs wits?
how many pert cocking[125] cowards stout? how many tawdry affected
rogues well-dressed? how many perukes admired? and how many ill verses
applauded? and yet canst not borrow a shilling. Dost thou expect I, who
always spoke truth, should?
_Free._ Nay, now you think you have paid me; but hark you, captain, I
have heard of a thing called grinning honour, but never of starving
honour.
_Man._ Well, but it has been the fate of some brave men; and if they
won't give me a ship again, I can go starve anywhere with a musket on
my shoulder.
_Free._ Give you a ship! why, you will not solicit it.
_Man._ If I have not solicited it by my services, I know no other way.
_Free._ Your servant, sir; nay, then I'm satisfied, I must solicit my
widow the closer, and run the desperate fortune of matrimony on shore.
[_Exit._
_Enter_ VERNISH.
_Man._ How!--Nay, here is a friend indeed; and he that has him in his
arms can know no wants. [_Embraces_ VERNISH.
_Ver._ Dear sir! and he that is in your arms is secure from all fears
whatever: nay, our nation is secure by your defeat at sea, and the
Dutch that fought against you have proved enemies to themselves only in
bringing you back to us.
_Man._ Fy! fy! this from a friend? and yet from any other 'twere
insufferable: I thought I should never have taken anything ill from you.
_Ver._ A friend's privilege is to speak his mind, though it be taken
ill.
_Man._ But your tongue need not tell me you think too well of me; I
have found it from your heart, which spoke in actions, your unalterable
heart. But Olivia is false, my friend, which I suppose is no news to
you.
_Ver._ He's in the right on't. [_Aside._
_Man._ But couldst thou not keep her true to me?
_Ver._ Not for my heart, sir.
_Man._ But could you not perceive it at all before I went? Could she so
deceive us both?
_Ver._ I must confess, the first time I knew it was three days
after your departure, when she received the money you had left in
Lombard-street in her name; and her tears did not hinder her, it seems,
from counting that. You would trust her with all, like a true generous
lover.
_Man._ And she like a mean jilting--
_Ver._ Traitorous--
_Man._ Base--
_Ver._ Damned--
_Man._ Covetous--
_Ver._ Mercenary whore.--[_Aside._] I can hardly hold from laughing.
_Man._ Ay, a mercenary whore indeed; for she made me pay her before I
lay with her.
_Ver._ How!--Why, have you lain with her?
_Man._ Ay, ay.
_Ver._ Nay, she deserves you should report it at least, though you have
not.
_Man._ Report it! by Heaven, 'tis true!
_Ver._ How! sure not.
_Man._ I do not use to lie, nor you to doubt me.
_Ver._ When?
_Man._ Last night, about seven or eight of the clock.
_Ver._ Ha!--[_Aside._] Now I remember, I thought she spake as if she
expected some other rather than me. A confounded whore, indeed!
_Man._ But what, thou wonderest at it! nay, you seem to be angry too.
_Ver._ I cannot but be enraged against her, for her usage of you:
damned infamous, common jade!
_Man._ Nay, her cuckold, who first cuckolded me in my money, shall not
laugh all himself: we will do him reason, shan't we?
_Ver._ Ay, ay.
_Man._ But thou dost not, for so great a friend, take pleasure enough
in your friend's revenge, methinks.
_Ver._ Yes, yes; I'm glad to know it, since you have lain with her.
_Man._ Thou canst not tell who that rascal, her cuckold, is?
_Ver._ No.
_Man._ She would keep it from you, I suppose.
_Ver._ Yes, yes.
_Man._ Thou wouldst laugh, if thou knewest but all the circumstances of
my having her. Come, I'll tell thee.
_Ver._ Damn her! I care not to hear any more of her.
_Man._ Faith, thou shalt. You must know--
_Re-enter_ FREEMAN _backwards, endeavouring to keep out_ NOVEL,
Lord PLAUSIBLE, JERRY BLACKACRE, _and_ Major OLDFOX, _who all
press upon him._
_Free._ I tell you he has a wench with him, and would be private.
_Man._ Damn 'em! a man can't open a bottle in these eating-houses, but
presently you have these impudent, intruding, buzzing flies and insects
in your glass.--Well, I'll tell thee all anon. In the mean time
prithee go to her, but not from me, and try if you can get her to lend
me but a hundred pounds of my money, to supply my present wants; for I
suppose there is no recovering any of it by law.
_Ver._ Not any: think not of it. Nor by this way neither.
_Man._ Go try, at least.
_Ver._ I'll go; but I can satisfy you beforehand it will be to no
purpose. You'll no more find a refunding wench--
_Man._ Than a refunding lawyer; indeed their fees alike scarce ever
return. However, try her; put it to her.
_Ver._ Ay, ay, I'll try her; put it to her home with a vengeance.
[_Exit._
_Nov._ Nay, you shall be our judge, Manly--Come, major, I'll speak
it to your teeth; if people provoke me to say bitter things to their
faces, they must take what follows; though, like my lord Plausible, I'd
rather do't civilly behind their backs.
_Man._ Nay, thou art a dangerous rogue, I've heard, behind a man's back.
_L. Plau._ You wrong him sure, noble captain; he would do a man no more
harm behind his back than to his face.
_Free._ I am of my lord's mind.
_Man._ Yes, a fool, like a coward, is the more to be, feared behind a
man's back, more than a witty man; for as a coward is more bloody than
a brave man, a fool is more malicious than a man of wit.
_Nov._ A fool, tar,--a fool! nay, thou art a brave sea-judge of wit! a
fool! Prithee when did you ever find me want something to say, as you
do often?
_Man._ Nay, I confess thou art always talking, roaring, or making a
noise; that I'll say for thee.
_Nov._ Well, and is talking a sign of a fool?
_Man._ Yes, always talking, especially too if it be loud and fast, is
the sign of a fool.
_Nov._ Pshaw! talking is like fencing, the quicker the better; run 'em
down, run 'em down, no matter for parrying; push on still, sa, sa, sa!
No matter whether you argue in form, push in guard or no.
_Man._ Or hit or no; I think thou always talkest without thinking,
Novel.
_Nov._ Ay, ay; studied play's the worse, to follow the allegory, as the
old pedant says.
_Old._ A young fop!
_Man._ I ever thought the man of most wit had been like him of most
money, who has no vanity in showing it everywhere, whilst the beggarly
pusher of his fortune has all he has about him still only to show.
_Nov._ Well, sir, and make a pretty show in the world, let me tell you;
nay, a better than your close hunks. A pox, give me ready money in
play! what care I for a man's reputation? what are we the better for
your substantial thrifty curmudgeon in wit, sir?
_Old._ Thou art a profuse young rogue indeed.
_Nov._ So much for talking, which, I think, I have proved a mark of
wit; and so is railing, roaring, and making a noise; for railing is
satire, you know; and roaring and making a noise, humour.
_Re-enter_ FIDELIA; _she takes_ MANLY _aside, and shows him
a paper._
_Fid._ The hour is betwixt seven and eight exactly: 'tis now half an
hour to six.
_Man._ Well, go then to the Piazza, and wait for me: as soon as it
is quite dark, I'll be with you. I must stay here yet a while for my
friend.--[_Exit_ FIDELIA.] But is railing satire, Novel?
_Free._ And roaring and making a noise, humour?
_Nov._ What, won't you confess there's humour in roaring and making a
noise?
_Free._ No.
_Nov._ Nor in cutting napkins and hangings?
_Man._ No, sure.
_Nov._ Dull fops!
_Old._ O rogue, rogue, insipid rogue!--Nay, gentlemen, allow him those
things for wit; for his parts lie only that way.
_Nov._ Peace, old fool! I wonder not at thee; but that young fellows
should be so dull, as to say there's no humour in making a noise, and
breaking windows! I tell you there's wit and humour too in both; and a
wit is as well known by his frolic as by his smile.
_Old._ Pure rogue! there's your modern wit for you! Wit and humour
in breaking of windows: there's mischief, if you will, but no wit or
humour.
_Nov._ Prithee, prithee, peace, old fool! I tell you, where there's
mischief, there's wit. Don't we esteem the monkey a wit amongst beasts,
only because he's mischievous? and, let me tell you, as good-nature is
a sign of a fool, being mischievous is a sign of a wit.
_Old._ O rogue, rogue! pretend to be a wit, by doing mischief and
railing!
_Nov._ Why, thou, old fool, hast no other pretence to the name of a
wit, but by railing at new plays!
_Old._ Thou, by railing at that facetious noble way of wit, quibbling!
_Nov._ Thou callest thy dulness gravity; and thy dozing, thinking.
_Old._ You, sir, your dulness, spleen; and you talk much and say
nothing.
_Nov._ Thou readest much, and understandest nothing, sir.
_Old._ You laugh loud, and break no jest.
_Nov._ You rail, and nobody hangs himself; and thou hast nothing of the
satire but in thy face.
_Old._ And you have no jest, but your face, sir.
_Nov._ Thou art an illiterate pedant.
_Old._ Thou art a fool with a bad memory.
_Man._ Come, a pox on you both! you have done like wits now: for you
wits, when you quarrel, never give over till ye prove one another fools.
_Nov._ And you fools have never any occasion of laughing at us wits but
when we quarrel. Therefore let us be friends, Oldfox.
_Man._ They are such wits as thou art, who make the name of a wit as
scandalous as that of bully: and signify a loud-laughing, talking,
incorrigible, coxcomb, as bully a roaring hardened coward.
_Free._ And would have his noise and laughter pass for wit, as t'other
his huffing and blustering for courage.
_Re-enter_ VERNISH.
_Man._ Gentlemen, with your leave, here is one I would speak with;
and I have nothing to say to you. [_Puts all out of the room except_
VERNISH.
_Ver._ I told you 'twas in vain to think of getting money out of
her. She says, if a shilling would do't, she would not save you
from starving or hanging, or what you would think worse, begging or
flattering; and rails so at you, one would not think you had lain with
her.
_Man._ O, friend, never trust for that matter a woman's railing; for
she is no less a dissembler in her hatred than her love; and as her
fondness of her husband is a sign he's a cuckold, her railing at
another man is a sign she lies with him.
_Ver._ He's in the right on't: I know not what to trust to. [_Aside._
_Man._ But you did not take any notice of it to her, I hope?
_Ver._ So!--Sure he is afraid I should have disproved him by an inquiry
of her: all may be well yet. [_Aside._
_Man._ What hast thou in thy head that makes thee seem so unquiet?
_Ver._ Only this base impudent woman's falseness; I cannot put her out
of my head.
_Man._ O, my dear friend, be not you too sensible of my wrongs; for
then I shall feel 'em too with more pain, and think 'em unsufferable.
Damn her, her money, and that ill-natured whore too, Fortune herself!
But if thou wouldst ease a little my present trouble, prithee go borrow
me somewhere else some money. I can trouble thee.
_Ver._ You trouble me, indeed, most sensibly, when you command me
anything I cannot do. I have lately lost a great deal of money at play,
more than I can yet pay; so that not only my money, but my credit too
is gone, and know not where to borrow: but could rob a church for
you.--[_Aside._] Yet would rather end your wants by cutting your throat.
_Man._ Nay, then I doubly feel my poverty, since I'm incapable of
supplying thee. [_Embraces him._
_Ver._ But, methinks, she that granted you the last favour, (as they
call it,) should not deny you anything.
_Nov._ [_Looking in._] Hey, tarpaulin, have you done? [_Retires again._
_Ver._ I understand not that point of kindness, I confess.
_Man._ No, thou dost not understand it, and I have not time to let you
know all now; for these fools, you see, will interrupt us: but anon, at
supper, we'll laugh at leisure together at Olivia's cuckold, who took a
young fellow, that goes between his wife and me, for a woman.
_Ver._ Ha!
_Man._ Senseless, easy rascal! 'twas no wonder she chose him for a
husband; but she thought him, I thank her, fitter than me, for that
blind bearing office.
_Ver._ I could not be deceived in that long woman's hair tied up
behind, nor those infallible proofs, her pouting swelling breasts: I
have handled too many sure not to know 'em. [_Aside._
_Man._ What, you wonder the fellow could be such a blind coxcomb?
_Ver._ Yes, yes--
_Nov._ [_Looking in again._] Nay, prithee, come to us, Manly. Gad, all
the fine things one says in their company, are lost without thee.
_Man._ Away, fop! I'm busy yet. [NOVEL _retires._] You see we cannot
talk here at our ease: besides, I must be gone immediately, in order to
meeting with Olivia again to-night.
_Ver._ To-night! it cannot be, sure--
_Man._ I had an appointment just now from her.
_Ver._ For what time?
_Man._ At half an hour after seven precisely.
_Ver._ Don't you apprehend the husband?
_Man._ He! snivelling gull! he a thing to be feared! a husband! the
tamest of creatures!
_Ver._ Very fine! [_Aside._
_Man._ But, prithee, in the mean time, go try to get me some money.
Though thou art too modest to borrow for thyself, thou canst do
anything for me, I know. Go; for I must be gone to Olivia. Go, and meet
me here, anon.--Freeman, where are you? [_Exit._
_Ver._ Ay, I'll meet with you, I warrant; but it shall be at Olivia's.
Sure, it cannot be: she denies it so calmly, and with that honest
modest assurance, it cannot be true--and he does not use to lie--but
belying a woman when she won't be kind, is the only lie a brave man
will least scruple. But then the woman in man's clothes, whom he
calls a man--well, but by her breasts I know her to be a woman--but
then again, his appointment from her, to meet him again to-night! I
am distracted more with doubt than jealousy. Well, I have no way to
disabuse or revenge myself, but by going home immediately, putting on a
riding-suit, and pretending to my wife the same business which carried
me out of town last, requires me again to go post to Oxford to-night.
Then, if the appointment he boasts of be true, it's sure to hold, and I
shall have an opportunity either of clearing her, or revenging myself
on both. Perhaps she is his wench, of an old date, and I am his cully,
whilst I think him mine; and he has seemed to make his wench rich, only
that I might take her off his hands. Or if he has but lately lain with
her, he must needs discover by her my treachery to him; which I'm sure
he will revenge with my death, and which I must prevent with his, if it
were only but for fear of his too just reproaches; for I must confess,
I never had till now any excuse but that of interest, for doing ill to
him. [_Exit._
_Re-enter_ MANLY _and_ FREEMAN.
_Man._ Come hither; only, I say, be sure you mistake not the time. You
know the house exactly where Olivia lodges, 'tis just hard by.
_Free._ Yes, yes.
_Man._ Well then, bring 'em all, I say, thither, and all you know that
may be then in the house; for the more witnesses I have of her infamy,
the greater will be my revenge: and be sure you come straight up to her
chamber without more ado. Here, take the watch; you see 'tis above a
quarter past seven; be there in half an hour exactly.
_Free._ You need not doubt my diligence or dexterity; I am an old
scourer, and can naturally beat up a wench's quarters that won't be
civil. Shan't we break her windows too?
_Man._ No, no; be punctual only. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.--_A Room in the same._
_Enter_ Widow BLACKACRE, _and two_ Knights of the Post,[126]
_a_ Waiter _following with wine._
_Wid._ Sweetheart, are you sure the door was shut close, that none of
those roysters saw us come in?
_Wait._ Yes, mistress; and you shall have a privater room above,
instantly. [_Exit._
_Wid._ You are safe enough, gentlemen; for I have been private in this
house ere now, upon other occasions, when I was something younger.
Come, gentlemen; in short, I leave my business to your care and
fidelity: and so here's to you.
_1st Knight._ We are ungrateful rogues if we should not be honest to
you; for we have had a great deal of your money.
_Wid._ And you have done me many a good job for't; and so, here's to
you again.
_2nd Knight._ Why, we have been perjured but six times for you.
_1st Knight._ Forged but four deeds, with your husband's last deed of
gift.
_2nd Knight._ And but three wills.
_1st Knight._ And counterfeited hands and seals to some six bonds; I
think that's all, brother?
_Wid._ Ay, that's all, gentlemen; and so, here's to you again.
_2nd Knight._ Nay, 'twould do one's heart good to be forsworn for you.
You have a conscience in your ways, and pay us well.
_1st Knight._ You are in the right on't, brother; one would be damned
for her with all one's heart.
_2nd Knight._ But there are rogues, who make us forsworn for 'em; and
when we come to be paid, they'll be forsworn too, and not pay us our
wages, which they promised with oaths sufficient.
_1st Knight._ Ay, a great lawyer that shall be nameless bilked me too.
_Wid._ That was hard, methinks, that a lawyer should use gentlemen
witnesses no better.
_2nd Knight._ A lawyer! d'ye wonder a lawyer should do't? I was bilked
by a reverend divine, that preaches twice on Sundays, and prays half
an hour still before dinner.
_Wid._ How! a conscientious divine and not pay people for damning
themselves! sure then, for all his talking, he does not believe
damnation. But, come, to our business. Pray be sure to imitate exactly
the flourish at the end of this name. [_Pulls out a deed or two._
_1st Knight._ O, he's the best in England at untangling a flourish,
madam.
_Wid._ And let not the seal be a jot bigger. Observe well the dash too,
at the end of this name.
_2nd Knight._ I warrant you, madam.
_Wid._ Well, these and many other shifts, poor widows are put to
sometimes; for everybody would be riding a widow, as they say, and
breaking into her jointure. They think marrying a widow an easy
business, like leaping the hedge where another has gone over before. A
widow is a mere gap, a gap with them.
_Enter_ Major OLDFOX, _with two_ Waiters. _The_ Knights
of the Post _huddle up the writings._
What, he here! Go then, go my hearts, you have your instructions.
[_Exeunt_ Knights of the Post.
_Old._ Come, madam, to be plain with you, I'll be fobbed off no
longer.--[_Aside._] I'll bind her and gag her but she shall hear
me.--[_To the_ Waiters.] Look you, friends, there's the money I
promised you; and now do you what you promised me: here my garters, and
here's a gag.--[_To the_ Widow.] You shall be acquainted with my parts,
lady, you shall.
_Wid._ Acquainted with your parts! A rape! a rape!--what, will you
ravish me? [_The_ Waiters _tie her to the chair, gag her, and exeunt._
_Old._ Yes, lady, I will ravish you: but it shall be through the ear,
lady, the ear only, with my well-penned acrostics.
_Enter_ FREEMAN, JERRY BLACKACRE, _three_ Bailiffs,
_a_ Constable, _and his_ Assistants _with the two_
Knights of the Post.
What, shall I never read my things undisturbed again?
_Jer._ O la! my mother bound hand and foot, and gaping as if she rose
before her time to-day!
_Free._ What means this, Oldfox? But I'll release you from him; you
shall be no man's prisoner but mine. Bailiffs, execute your writ.
[_Unties her._
_Old._ Nay, then, I'll be gone, for fear of being bail, and paying her
debts without being her husband. [_Exit._
_1st Bail._ We arrest you in the king's name, at the suit of Mr.
Freeman, guardian to Jeremiah Blackacre, esquire, in an action of ten
thousand pounds.
_Wid._ How, how, in a choke-bail action! What, and the pen and-ink
gentlemen taken too!--Have you confessed, you rogues?
_1st Knight._ We needed not to confess; for the bailiffs have dogged us
hither to the very door, and overheard all that you and we said.
_Wid._ Undone, undone then! no man was ever too hard for me till now. O
Jerry, child, wilt thou vex again the womb that bore thee?
_Jer._ Ay, for bearing me before wedlock, as you say. But I'll teach
you call a Blackacre bastard, though you were never so much my mother.
_Wid._ [_Aside._] Well, I'm undone! not one trick left? no law-mesh
imaginable?--[_To_ FREEMAN.] Cruel sir, a word with you, I pray.
_Free._ In vain, madam; for you have no other way to release yourself
but by the bonds of matrimony.
_Wid._ How, sir, how! that were but to sue out a habeas-corpus, for a
removal from one prison to another.--Matrimony!
_Free._ Well, bailiffs, away with her.
_Wid._ O stay, sir! can you be so cruel as to bring me under
covert-baron[127] again, and put it out of my power to sue in my own
name? Matrimony to a woman is worse than excommunication, in depriving
her of the benefit of the law; and I would rather be deprived of life.
But hark you, sir, I am contented you should hold and enjoy my person
by lease or patent, but not by the spiritual patent called a licence;
that is, to have the privileges of a husband, without the dominion;
that is, _Durante beneplacito_. In consideration of which, I will out
of my jointure secure you an annuity of three hundred pounds a year,
and pay your debts; and that's all you younger brothers desire to marry
a widow for, I'm sure.
_Free._ Well, widow, if--
_Jer._ What! I hope, bully-guardian, you are not making agreements
without me?
_Free._ No, no. First, widow, you must say no more that he is a son
of a whore; have a care of that. And, then, he must have a settled
exhibition of forty pounds a year, and a nag of assizes, kept by you,
but not upon the common; and have free ingress, egress, and regress, to
and from your maids' garret.
_Wid._ Well, I can grant all that too.
_Jer._ Ay, ay, fair words butter no cabbage: but guardian, make her
sign, sign and seal; for otherwise, if you knew her as well as I, you
would not trust her word for a farthing.
_Free._ I warrant thee, squire.--Well, widow, since thou art so
generous, I will be generous too; and if you'll secure me four hundred
pounds a year, but during your life, and pay my debts, not above a
thousand pounds, I'll bate you your person, to dispose of as you please.
_Wid._ Have a care, sir, a settlement without a consideration is void
in law; you must do something for't.
_Free._ Prithee, then let the settlement on me be called alimony; and
the consideration, our separation. Come; my lawyer, with writings
ready drawn, is within, and in haste. Come.
_Wid._ But, what, no other kind of consideration, Mr. Freeman?
Well, a widow, I see, is a kind of sinecure, by custom of which the
unconscionable incumbent enjoys the profits, without any duty, but does
that still elsewhere. [_Exeunt._
SCENE IV.--OLIVIA'S _Lodging._
_Enter_ OLIVIA _with a candle in her hand._
_Oliv._ So, I am now prepared once more for my timorous young lover's
reception. My husband is gone; and go thou out too, thou next
interrupter of love.--[_Puts out the candle._] Kind darkness, that
frees us lovers from scandal and bashfulness, from the censure of our
gallants and the world!--So, are you there?
_Enter_ FIDELIA, _followed softly by_ MANLY.
Come, my dear punctual lover, there is not such another in the world;
thou hast beauty and youth to please a wife; address and wit, to amuse
and fool a husband; nay, thou hast all things to be wished in a lover,
but your fits. I hope, my dear, you won't have one to-night; and that
you may not, I'll lock the door, though there be no need of it, but
to lock out your fits: for my husband is just gone out of town again.
Come, where are you? [_Goes to the door and locks it._
_Man._ Well, thou hast impudence enough to give me fits too, and make
revenge itself impotent; hinder me from making thee yet more infamous,
if it can be. [_Aside._
_Oliv._ Come, come, my soul, come.
_Fid._ Presently, my dear, we have time enough sure.
_Oliv._ How, time enough! True lovers can no more think they ever have
time enough, than love enough. You shall stay with me all night; but
that is but a lover's moment. Come.
_Fid._ But won't you let me give you and myself the satisfaction of
telling you how I abused your husband last night?
_Oliv._ Not when you can give me, and yourself too, the satisfaction of
abusing him again to-night. Come.
_Fid._ Let me but tell you how your husband--
_Oliv._ O name not his, or Manly's more loathsome name, if you love me!
I forbid 'em last night: and you know I mentioned my husband but once,
and he came. No talking, pray, 'twas ominous to us.--[_A noise at the
door._] You make me fancy a noise at the door already, but I'm resolved
not to be interrupted. Where are you? Come, for rather than lose my
dear expectation now, though my husband were at the door, and the
bloody ruffian Manly here in the room, with all his awful insolence, I
would give myself to this dear hand, to be led away to heavens of joys,
which none but thou canst give.--[_The noise at the door increases._]
But what's this noise at the door? So, I told you what talking would
come to. Ha!--O Heavens, my husband's voice!--[_Listens at the door._
_Man._ [_Aside._] Freeman is come too soon.
_Oliv._ O, 'tis he!--Then here's the happiest minute lost that ever
bashful boy or trifling woman fooled away! I'm undone! my husband's
reconcilement too was false, as my joy all delusion. But come this way,
here's a back door.--[_Exit, and returns._] The officious jade has
locked us in, instead of locking others out: but let us then escape
your way, by the balcony; and whilst you pull down the curtains, I'll
fetch from my closet what next will best secure our escape. I have left
my key in the door, and 'twill not suddenly be broken open. [_Exit._
[_A noise as if people were forcing the door._
_Man._ Stir not, yet fear nothing.
_Fid._ Nothing but your life, sir.
_Man._ We shall know this happy man she calls husband.
_Re-enter_ OLIVIA.
_Oliv._ Oh, where are you? What, idle with fear? Come, I'll tie the
curtains, if you will hold. Here take this cabinet and purse, for it is
thine, if we escape;--[MANLY _takes them from her_]--therefore let us
make haste. [_Exit._
_Man._ 'Tis mine indeed now again, and it shall never escape more from
me, to you at least. [_The door is broke open, enter_ VERNISH _with a
dark-lantern and a sword, running at_ MANLY, _who draws, puts by the
thrust, and defends himself, whilst_ FIDELIA _runs at_ VERNISH _behind._
_Ver._ So, there I'm right, sure--[_In a low voice._
_Man._ [_Softly._] Sword and dark-lantern, villain, are some odds; but--
_Ver._ Odds! I'm sure I find more odds than I expected. What, has my
insatiable two seconds at once? but--[_In a low voice._
[_Whilst they fight_, OLIVIA _re-enters, tying two
curtains together._
_Oliv._ Where are you now?--What, is he entered then, and are they
fighting? O do not kill one that can make no defence!--[MANLY _throws_
VERNISH _down and disarms him._] How! but I think he has the better
on't. Here's his scarf, 'tis he. So, keep him down still: I hope thou
hast no hurt, my dearest? [_Embracing_ MANLY.
_Enter_ FREEMAN, Lord PLAUSIBLE, NOVEL, JERRY BLACKACRE, _and_
Widow BLACKACRE, _lighted by the two_ Sailors _with torches._
Ha!--what! Manly! and have I been thus concerned for him! embracing
him! and has he his jewels again too! What means this? O, 'tis too
sure, as well as my shame! which I'll go hide for ever. [_Offers to go
out,_ MANLY _stops her._
_Man._ No, my dearest; after so much kindness as has passed between us,
I cannot part with you yet.--Freeman, let nobody stir out of the room;
for notwithstanding your lights, we are yet in the dark, till this
gentleman please to turn his face--[_Pulls_ VERNISH _by the sleeve._]
How, Vernish! art thou the happy man then? thou! thou! speak, I say;
but thy guilty silence tells me all.--Well, I shall not upbraid thee;
for my wonder is striking me as dumb as thy shame has made thee. But
what? my little volunteer hurt, and fainting!
_Fid._ My wound, sir, is but a slight one in my arm; 'tis only my fear
of your danger, sir, not yet well over.
_Man._ But what's here? more strange things--[_Observing_ FIDELIA'S
_hair untied behind, and without a peruke, which she lost in the
scuffle._] What means this long woman's hair, and face! now all of it
appears too beautiful for a man; which I still thought womanish indeed!
What, you have not deceived me too, my little volunteer?
_Oliv._ Me she has, I'm sure. [_Aside._
_Man._ Speak!
_Enter_ ELIZA _and_ LETTICE.
_Eliza._ What, cousin, I am brought hither by your woman, I suppose, to
be a witness of the second vindication of your honour?
_Oliv._ Insulting is not generous. You might spare me, I have you.
_Eliza._ Have a care, cousin, you'll confess anon too much; and I would
not have your secrets.
_Man._ Come, your blushes answer me sufficiently, and you have been my
volunteer in love. [_To_ FIDELIA.
_Fid._ I must confess I needed no compulsion to follow you all the
world over; which I attempted in this habit, partly out of shame to own
my love to you, and fear of a greater shame, your refusal of it; for I
knew of your engagement to this lady, and the constancy of your nature;
which nothing could have altered but herself.
_Man._ Dear madam, I desired you to bring me out of confusion, and you
have given me more. I know not what to speak to you, or how to look
upon you; the sense of my rough, hard, and ill usage of you, (though
chiefly your own fault,) gives me more pain now 'tis over, than you
had when you suffered it: and if my heart, the refusal of such a
woman--[_Pointing to_ OLIVIA]--were not a sacrifice to profane your
love, and a greater wrong to you than ever yet I did you, I would beg
of you to receive it, though you used it as she had done; for though it
deserved not from her the treatment she gave it, it does from you.
_Fid._ Then it has had punishment sufficient from her already, and
needs no more from me; and, I must confess, I would not be the only
cause of making you break your last night's oath to me, of never
parting with me; if you do not forget or repent it.
_Man._ Then take for ever my heart, and this with it;--[_Gives her the
cabinet_] for 'twas given to you before, and my heart was before your
due: I only beg leave to dispose of these few.--Here, madam, I never
yet left my wench unpaid. [_Takes some of the jewels, and offers them
to_ OLIVIA; _she strikes them down_: Lord PLAUSIBLE _and_ NOVEL _take
them up._
_Oliv._ So it seems, by giving her the cabinet.
_L. Plau._ These pendants appertain to your most faithful humble
servant.
_Nov._ And this locket is mine; my earnest for love, which she never
paid: therefore my own again.
_Wid._ By what law, sir, pray?--Cousin Olivia, a word. What, do they
make a seizure on your goods and chattels, _vi et armis_? Make your
demand, I say, and bring your trover, bring your trover. I'll follow
the law for you.
_Oliv._ And I my revenge. [_Exit._
_Man._ [_To_ VERNISH.] But 'tis, my friend, in your consideration
most, that I would have returned part of your wife's portion; for
'twere hard to take all from thee, since thou hast paid so dear
for't, in being such a rascal. Yet thy wife is a fortune without a
portion; and thou art a man of that extraordinary merit in villany,
the world and fortune can never desert thee, though I do; therefore
be not melancholy. Fare you well, sir.--[_Exit_ VERNISH _doggedly._]
Now, madam, I beg your pardon [_Turning to_ FIDELIA] for lessening
the present I made you; but my heart can never be lessened. This, I
confess, was too small for you before; for you deserve the Indian
world; and I would now go thither, out of covetousness for your sake
only.
_Fid._ Your heart, sir, is a present of that value, I can never make
any return to't.--[_Pulling_ MANLY _from the company._] But I can give
you back such a present as this, which I got by the loss of my father,
a gentleman of the north, of no mean extraction, whose only child
I was, therefore left me in the present possession of two thousand
pounds a-year; which I left, with multitudes of pretenders, to follow
you, sir; having in several public places seen you, and observed your
actions thoroughly, with admiration, when you were too much in love
to take notice of mine, which yet was but too visible. The name of my
family is Grey, my other Fidelia. The rest of my story you shall know
when I have fewer auditors.
_Man._ Nay, now, madam, you have taken from me all power of making
you any compliment on my part; for I was going to tell you, that for
your sake only I would quit the unknown pleasure of a retirement; and
rather stay in this ill world of ours still, though odious to me, than
give you more frights again at sea, and make again too great a venture
there, in you alone. But if I should tell you now all this, and that
your virtue (since greater than I thought any was in the world) had now
reconciled me to't, my friend here would say, 'tis your estate that
hast made me friends with the world.
_Free._ I must confess I should; for I think most of our quarrels to
the world are just such as we have to a handsome woman; only because we
cannot enjoy her as we would do.
_Man._ Nay, if thou art a plain dealer too, give me thy hand; for now
I'll say, I am thy friend indeed; and for your two sakes, though I have
been so lately deceived in friends of both sexes,--
I will believe there are now in the world
Good-natured friends, who are not prostitutes,
And handsome women worthy to be friends;
Yet, for my sake, let no one e'er confide
In tears, or oaths, in love, or friend untried.
[_Exeunt._
EPILOGUE.
SPOKEN BY THE WIDOW BLACKACRE.
To you the judges learned in stage-laws,
Our poet now, by me, submits his cause;
For with young judges, such as most of you,
The men by women best their business do:
And, truth on't is, if you did not sit here,
To keep for us a term throughout the year,
We could not live by'r tongues; nay, but for you,
Our chamber-practice would be little too.
And 'tis not only the stage-practiser
Who by your meeting gets her living here:
For as in Hall of Westminster
Sleek sempstress vents amidst the courts her ware;
So, while we bawl, and you in judgment sit,
The visor-mask sells linen too i' th' pit
O, many of your friends, besides us here,
Do live by putting off their several ware.
Here's daily done the great affairs o' th' nation
Let love and us then ne'er have long-vacation.
But hold; like other pleaders I have done
Not my poor client's business, but my own.
Spare me a word then now for him. First know,
Squires of the long robe, he does humbly show,
He has a just right in abusing you,
Because he is a Brother-Templar too:
For at the bar you rally one another;
Nay, fool and knave, is swallowed from a brother:
If not the poet here, the Templar spare,
And maul him when you catch him at the bar.
From you, our common modish censurers,
Your favour, not your judgment, 'tis he fears:
Of all love begs you then to rail, find fault;
For plays, like women, by the world are thought,
When you speak kindly of 'em, very naught.
NOTES.
[1] _Correspondence between Pope and Wycherley_: Letter 26. See also
Letter 15.
[2] I ought to have remembered that this maxim is Rochefoucauld's.
It may stand, however, as an instance of the untrustworthiness of
Wycherley's memory. See p. xxxvi.
[3] _Letters on several Occasions_; published by John Dennis: London,
1696.
[4] _Letters on several Occasions_: p. 57.
[5] _An Essay against Pride and Ambition_, in the Posthumous Works.
[6] Spence's _Anecdotes_.
[7] From Macaulay's Essay on _The Comic Dramatists of the Restoration._
[8] Daniel Wycherley, Esq., of Clive or Cleve, in Shropshire, about
seven miles north of Shrewsbury.--ED.
[9] The dates assigned by Macaulay to the first representations of
Wycherley's plays are in every case incorrect. See the Introduction to
each play.--ED.
[10] Macaulay's version of the above story is derived from Spence's
_Anecdotes._ It differs entirely from Dennis's version, which is
evidently the correct one, as the former totally misses the point,
and makes the Duchess guilty merely of a piece of unmeaning rudeness.
Dennis's account is as follows.--"The writing of that Play [_Love in
a Wood_] was the Occasion of his becoming acquainted with one of King
Charles's Mistresses after a very particular manner. As Mr. Wycherley
was going thro' _Pall Mall_ towards _St. James's_ in his Chariot, he
met the foresaid lady in hers, who, thrusting half her Body out of the
Chariot, cry'd out aloud to him, 'You, Wycherley, you are a Son of a
Whore,' at the same time laughing aloud and heartily.... Mr. Wycherley
was certainly very much surpriz'd at it, yet not so much but he soon
apprehended it was spoke with Allusion to the latter End of a Song in
the foremention'd Play--
'Great Wits and great Braves
Have always a Punk to their Mother.'
As, during Mr. Wycherley's Surprize, the Chariots drove different ways,
they were soon at a considerable Distance from each other, when Mr.
Wycherley, recovering from his Surprize, ordered his Coachman to drive
back, and to overtake the Lady. As soon as he got over-against her,
he said to her, 'Madam, you have been pleased to bestow a title on me
which generally belongs to the Fortunate. Will your Ladyship be at the
Play to-night?' 'Well,' she reply'd, 'what if I am there?' 'Why, then I
will be there to wait on your Ladyship, tho' I disappoint a very fine
Woman who has made me an Assignation.' 'So,' said she, 'you are sure to
disappoint a Woman who has favour'd you for one who has not.' 'Yes,'
reply'd he, 'if she who has not favour'd me is the finer Woman of the
two. But he who will be constant to your Ladyship, till he can find a
finer Woman, is sure to die your Captive.' The Lady blush'd, and bade
her Coachman drive away.... In short, she was that Night in the first
Row of the King's Box in 'Drury Lane,' and Mr. Wycherley in the Pit
under her, where he entertain'd her during the whole Play." Dennis's
_Familiar Letters_, London, 1721.--ED.
[11] This anecdote is given by Leigh Hunt on the authority of
Voltaire's _Letters concerning the English Nation_. But Leigh Hunt's
memory appears to have played him false. The only allusion, in
Voltaire's _Letters_, to the connection between Wycherley and the
Duchess, is contained in the following words:--"Mr. Wycherley, who was
a long Time known publickly to be happy in the good Graces of the most
celebrated Mistress of King Charles the Second."--ED.
[12] Wycherley accordingly journeyed into France, about the beginning
of the winter of 1678, and returned, entirely restored, at the end of
the following spring. The King received him with the utmost favour,
and made choice of him as governor to his son. It was immediately
after this that Wycherley went down to Tunbridge (in the summer of
1679), where he met the Countess of Drogheda, whom he soon afterwards
married.--ED.
[13] Mr. Leigh Hunt supposes that the battle at which Wycherley was
present was that which the Duke of York gained over Opdam, in 1665. We
believe that it was one of the battles between Rupert and De Ruyter, in
1673.
The point is of no importance; and there cannot be said to be
much evidence either way. We offer, however, to Mr. Leigh Hunt's
consideration three arguments--of no great weight certainly--yet such
as ought, we think, to prevail in the absence of better. First, it is
not very likely that a young Templar, quite unknown in the world--and
Wycherley was such in 1665--should have quitted his chambers to go
to sea. On the other hand, it would have been in the regular course
of things that, when a courtier and an equerry, he should offer his
services. Secondly, his verses appear to have been written after a
drawn battle, like those of 1673, and not after a complete victory,
like that of 1665. Thirdly, in the epilogue to _The Gentleman
Dancing-Master_, written in 1673, he says that "all gentlemen must pack
to sea;" an expression which makes it probable that he did not himself
mean to stay behind. The epilogue to _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_ was
probably written about the end of 1671. See the Introduction to that
play.--ED.
[14] There are no grounds whatever for this surmise.--ED.
[15] "He lost his memory (forty years before he died) by a fever, and
would repeat the same thought, sometimes in the compass of ten lines,
and did not dream of its being inserted but just before: when you
pointed it out to him, he would say, 'Gads-so, so it is! I thank you
very much: pray blot it out.'"--Pope, in Spence's _Anecdotes._
Elsewhere Pope states that he was forty years of age when the illness
occurred. It is possible that this illness may have been the fever
before mentioned, from which he sought recovery by travel, in the
winter of 1678; though Dennis certainly describes him as returning
"entirely restored," both in body and mind.--ED.
[16] This assertion is wholly without foundation.--ED.
[17] I can find no authority for this observation. It may have been
spoken in a moment of peevishness, but it is certainly very far from
conveying Wycherley's real estimate of his friend's genius.--ED.
[18] This "strange friendship" only terminated, as has been already
shown, with Wycherley's death.--ED.
[19] Our information respecting the closing scene of Wycherley's
life is too scanty for the formation of a definite judgment. We are,
however, under no necessity of believing the circumstances which
attended it to have been in any way scandalous. Pope's letter, on this
occasion, to Mr. Blount is here subjoined.
"Jan. 21, 1715-16.
"I know of nothing that will be so interesting to you at present, as
some circumstances of the last act of that eminent comic poet, and
our friend, Wycherley. He had often told me, as I doubt not he did
all his acquaintance, that he would marry as soon as his life was
despaired of. Accordingly, a few days before his death, he underwent
the ceremony: and joined together those two sacraments, which, wise
men say, should be the last we receive: for, if you observe, matrimony
is placed after extreme unction in our catechism, as a kind of hint of
the order of time in which they are to be taken. The old man then lay
down, satisfied in the conscience of having by this one act paid his
just debts, obliged a woman, who, he was told, had merit, and shown
an heroic resentment of the ill-usage of his next heir. Some hundred
pounds, which he had with the lady, discharged those debts: a jointure
of four hundred a year made her a recompense; and the nephew he left
to comfort himself as well as he could, with the miserable remains of
a mortgaged estate. I saw our friend twice after this was done, less
peevish in his sickness than he used to be in his health; neither much
afraid of dying, nor (which in him had been more likely) much ashamed
of marrying. The evening before he expired, he called his young wife
to the bedside, and earnestly entreated her not to deny him one
request, the last he should make. Upon her assurances of consenting to
it, he told her, 'My dear, it is only this, that you will never marry
an old man again.' I cannot help remarking, that sickness, which often
destroys both wit and wisdom, yet seldom has power to remove that
talent which we call humour. Mr. Wycherley shewed his, even in this
last compliment; though I think his request a little hard, for why
should he bar her from doubling her jointure on the same easy terms.
"So trivial as these circumstances are, I should not be displeased
myself to know such trifles, when they concern or characterise any
eminent person. The wisest and wittiest of men are seldom wiser or
wittier than others in these sober moments. At least, our friend ended
much in the character he had lived in: and Horace's rule for a play
may as well be applied to him as a play-wright:
'----_Servetur ad imum_
_Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet._'
"I am, &c."
It is stated that the lady's name was Jackson, and that she brought
Wycherley a fortune of £1,500. The following additional particulars are
given, on the authority of Pope, in Spence's _Anecdotes_, "Wycherley's
nephew, on whom his estate was entailed (but with power to settle a
widow's jointure) would not consent to his selling any part of it;
which he wanted much to do, to pay his debts, about a thousand pounds.
He had therefore long resolved to marry, in order to make a settlement
from the estate, to pay off his debts with his wife's fortune, and 'to
plague his damned nephew,' as he used to express it.... After all, the
woman he did marry proved a cheat; was a cast mistress of the person
who recommended her to him; and was supplied by him with money for her
wedding clothes." This last assertion is hardly to be reconciled with
the assumption that Wycherley paid his debts with his wife's fortune.
From an allusion to his nephew's "ill-carriage" to him, in a letter to
Pope, dated Aug. 11, 1709, we gather that the quarrel between them was
of old standing; of its origin we are completely ignorant.--ED.
[20] It is difficult to understand in what the impropriety of these
speeches is supposed to consist. They are both placed in the mouth of
Sparkish, an affected fop, whose utmost ambition is to be recorded a
wit, and to whom no sacrifice would seem excessive for the sake of a
smart saying. His indifference to the young lady in question occasions
his loss of her in the end.--ED.
[21] Wycherley's "slowness" has been denied by both Pope and Lansdowne.
The former declares that "he was far from being slow in general, and,
in particular, wrote _The Plain Dealer_ in three weeks." And Lansdowne
observes, "If it had been a trouble to him to write, I am much mistaken
if he would not have spared himself that trouble." It seems certain,
however, that he revised and altered his plays before committing them
to the public, and he by no means belonged to the class of so-called
Easy Writers, with respect to whom a _bon-mot_ of his is recorded in
the ninth _Tatler_. "The town has for half an age been tormented with
insects called Easy Writers, whose abilities Mr. Wycherley one day
described excellently well in one word: 'That,' said he, 'among these
fellows is called Easy Writing, which anyone may easily write.'"--ED.
[22] A remarkably free translation, one would say; and the "whole
scene" is, in fact, but a small portion of a scene. But see, for
Wycherley's plagiarisms, the Introductions to the plays.--ED.
[23] Democritus excludes sane poets from Helicon.--_De Art Poet._ 296-7.
[24] See the Introduction to _The Gentleman Dancing-Master_.
[25] _Some Account of the English Stage_, vol i. p. 135.
[26] The Mulberry Garden was situated at the further extremity of the
Mall in St. James's Park, upon the site now occupied by Buckingham
Palace and its grounds. Its name was derived from a plantation of
mulberry trees which James I. caused to be made there. Later, the spot
was converted into a public garden, with shrubberies, walks, arbours,
and a house of refreshment, and was much frequented by persons of
fashion as well as citizens. Pepys found it "a very silly place, worse
than Spring-garden," but "a wilderness here that is somewhat pretty."
The following extract from Sedley's _Mulberry Garden_ gives an idea of
the doings at this place. The scene is laid in the Garden:--
"_Wildish._ What, is there store of game here, gentlemen?
_Modish._ Troth, little or none; a few citizens that have brought their
children out to air 'em, and eat cheesecakes.
_Wildish._ I thought this place had been so full of beauties, that like
a pack of hounds in a hare warren, you could hunt one for another: what
think you of an arbor and a bottle of Rhenish?"
[27] A gull; a courtesan's dupe; "one who may be easily led by the nose
or put upon."--_Bailey's Dict._
[28] Fegue or feague. "To beat, to whip, to drive."--_Wright Dict. of
obsolete and provincial English._ Hence our word _fag._
[29] Cheated of his portion.
[30] Whetstone's Park was the name of the district lying between
Lincoln's Inn Fields and Holborn. The character of its inhabitants had
given it at this time an ill reputation. In Crowne's comedy of the
_Country Wit_ (1675) occurs the following allusion to Whetstone's Park:
"After I had gone a little way in a great broad street, I turned into
a Tavern hard by a place they call a Park; and just as our Park is all
Trees, that Park is all Houses. I asked if they had any Deer in it, and
they told me, not half so many as they used to have; but that if I had
a mind to a Doe, they would put a Doe to me."
[31] Strumpet.
[32] A prostitute.
[33] The present Pall Mall, so called from the game of Pall Mall
formerly played there with ball and mallet. In Wycherley's time Pall
Mall was already a street of houses, and the game was then played at
the Mall in St. James's Park, also called Pall Mall.
[34] _i.e._ The New Exchange, a long building, erected upon the site
of the stables of Durham House, on the south side of the Strand,
and nearly opposite Bedford Street. Opened in 1609, it became a
fashionable lounge after the Restoration, and was pulled down in
1737. "It was erected partly on the plan of the Royal Exchange, with
vaults beneath, over which was an open paved arcade; and above were
walks of shops, occupied by perfumers and publishers, milliners and
sempstresses."--_Timbs' Curiosities of London._
[35] Strumpet.
[36] Bulk. "A stall before a shop."--_Bailey._
[37] Or Ferrandine: a stuff made of silk and wool.
[38] In 1577, William Lamb (formerly a gentleman of the chapel to
Henry VIII.) caused to be constructed, in the fields where now stands
Lamb's Conduit Street, a reservoir and a conduit by which the water was
conveyed to Snow Hill. These fields formed a place of resort for the
inhabitants of the adjoining districts. The conduit was restored, from
a design by Sir Christopher Wren, in 1667.
[39] "Cross or pile": equivalent to our "heads or tails." A cross was
usually on the reverse of old English coins; the obverse was called the
"pile," from the pile or punch with which the impression was struck.
[40] The New Spring Garden, at Vauxhall; afterwards under the name
of Vauxhall, the most famous place of resort of that kind in the
metropolis. It was first opened about 1661, when Evelyn describes it
as "a pretty-contriv'd plantation," and was closed in 1859. Pepys has
an interesting entry concerning it, under date of May 28, 1667; "I by
water to Fox-hall, and there walked in Spring-garden. A great deal of
company, and the weather and garden pleasant: and it is very pleasant
and cheap going thither, for a man may go to spend what he will, or
nothing, all as one. But to hear the nightingale and other birds,
and here fiddles and there a harp, and here a Jew's trump, and here
laughing, and there fine people walking, is mighty divertising."--The
Neat-house was a place of entertainment at Pimlico.
[41] A powdering-tub means properly a tub in which meat is salted, to
sprinkle with salt being an occasional sense of the verb "to powder."
Hence the name of powdering-tub was applied to places where persons
afflicted with a certain disease were cured. Compare Shakespeare,
_Measure for Measure_, iii. 2; "Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her
beef, and she is herself in the tub." Also _King Henry V._, ii. 1.
[42] The Mortlake tapestry was of some note at this time. The works had
been founded under the patronage of James I., and Rubens and Vandyck
subsequently lent their services to the undertaking.
[43] The angel was worth 10_s._, and the piece 22_s._
[44] The mark was worth 13_s._ 4_d._
[45] This incident is evidently borrowed from the story of "La
procureuse passe la raie," in _Les Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_, or from
the more recent version in Bandello's _Novelle_.
[46] Mother Clifford was a noted procuress, who is mentioned in several
comedies of the time.
[47] Brothel.
[48] Prostitute.
[49] Dutch, literally "Jack in the Cellar;" a jocular term for an
unborn infant.--_Wright._
[50] The part of Dapperwit was originally acted by Mohun.
[51] 'Tis not sufficient to make the hearer laugh aloud; although there
is nevertheless a certain merit even in this.--_Sat._ I. 10, 8-9.
[52] Punchinello had a booth at Charing Cross in 1666; this was
probably the earliest appearance of Punch in this country, under that
name.
[53] See note 26.
[54]
"Hogsdone, Islington, and Totnam Court,
For cakes and cream had then no small resort."
_Wither's Britain's Remembrancer_, 1628.
[55] See note 40.
[56] Jest; taunt.
[57] Rough-coated.
[58] Coranto, a quick and lively dance.
[59] The saraband was a slow and stately dance.
[60] A farcical personage of the Italian stage, in the character of
a military braggart. Tiberio Fiurelli, the creator of this part, was
acting in Wycherley's time at the Italian Theatre in Paris. Angel
and Nokes were eminent comic actors of the day, and this scene must
have been sufficiently diverting if, as Genest supposes, the part of
Monsieur de Paris was actually played by Nokes, and that of Don Diego
by Angel.
[61] _Gavanho_ in former editions, but there is no such word in the
Spanish language. I venture to substitute _gabacho_, a term of contempt
applied to a Frenchman.
[62] The _golilla_ was a collar of pasteboard, covered with white
muslin, starched and plaited. It was at this time generally worn in
Spain, but later only by lawyers.
[63] _i.e._, To bow in the Spanish fashion.
[64] Scarlet. A new method of dyeing scarlet was brought to England in
1643 by a German, who established his dye-house at Bow; hence Bow-dye
came to signify scarlet. It is also used as a verb: "Now a cup of nappy
ale will bow-dye a man's face."
[65] Cudden or cuddy; a clown; a silly fellow.
[66] Blot.
[67] The "Checkers" was a common sign of public houses; from the game
of checkers, or draughts.
[68] Jump: a short coat.
[69] I am out of patience when anything is blamed, not because it is
thought coarsely and inelegantly composed, but because it is new:
when for the ancients not indulgence, but honour and rewards are
demanded.--_Epist._ II. i. 76-8.
[70] Charles Hart, grandson of Shakespeare's sister, Joan Hart, was one
of the most distinguished actors of his time. He excelled chiefly in
tragedy, and it was said of him that he "might teach any king on earth
how to comport himself." He retired from the stage in 1682, and died in
the following year.
[71] A character in Ben Jonson's comedy, _The Alchemist_.
[72] _Sir Martin Mar-all_ is the title of a comedy by Dryden, first
produced in 1667. In the scene referred to, Sir Martin serenades his
mistress, going through the motions of singing and accompanying himself
with the lute, while the actual performance is that of his man, who is
concealed behind him. The lady discovers the imposition, through Sir
Martin's failing to leave off at the right time.
[73] Chatelain's was a famous French ordinary in Covent Garden, much
frequented by wits and men of fashion. It is mentioned by Pepys, and
often referred to by Shadwell in his plays. The Cock Tavern was in
Bow Street, near where Wycherley and his first wife, the Countess of
Drogheda, lodged; and it was here that the windows had to be left open
when Wycherley frequented it, that the countess might see there were no
ladies in the company.
[74] See note 34.
[75] "Covent Garden Drolery, Or a Colection of all the Choice Songs,
Poems, Prologues, and Epilogues (Sung and Spoken at Courts and
Theaters) never in Print before. Written by the refined'st Witts of
the Age. And Collected by R[ichard] B[rome] Servant to His Majestie.
London, Printed for James Magnes neer the Piazza in Russel-Street,
1672."--_Tarugo's Wiles, or the Coffee House_; a comedy by Sir Thomas
St. Serle, produced in 1668.--_The Slighted Maid_, a comedy by Sir
Robert Stapleton, produced in 1663.
[76] A sweet-scented powder.
[77] Carefully.
[78] Succeeds.
[79] Romp; tomboy.
[80] A well frequented ordinary near Charing Cross, on the site of
Drummond's Bank.
[81] In Wycherley's time the square of Covent Garden must have
presented an elegant appearance. The Piazza, designed by Inigo Jones,
extended, like the modern piazza, along the northern and eastern
sides; on the west stood St. Paul's Church, built by the same famous
architect, and on the south the square was bordered by the gardens of
Bedford House. "The area was inclosed with railings, at sixty feet from
the buildings; and in the centre was a dial, with a gilt ball, raised
upon a column." _Timbs' Curiosities of London._ In 1671 the market was
established, but was held, originally, only on the southern side of the
square, under the wall of Bedford Gardens. The houses within the Piazza
were then occupied by persons of rank and fashion.
[82] Paw, adj. naughty. An affected word fashionable in the latter half
of the seventeenth century.--_Wright._
[83] "Lanterloo" or "langteraloo" was the name of a game at cards.
[84] The glasses.
[85] Or Knipp, the friend of Mr. Pepys. She played the part of Lady
Fidget.
[86] Ridicule commonly decides great matters more forcibly and better
than severity.--_Sat._ i. 10, 14-15.
[87] It cannot have been earlier than the latter year, as _Le
Misanthrope_, upon which Wycherley's play is based, did not appear
until 1666.
[88] Dryden.
[89] _Letters concerning the English Nation._ London, 1733.
[90] It is, to say the least, doubtful if _Les Plaideurs_ were written
before _The Plain Dealer_. The former was produced in 1668. This
supposed discovery of a non-existent coincidence appears to have arisen
from a misinterpretation of Voltaire's words in the French edition
of his _Letters concerning the English Nation_: "On a encore lardé
cette piece (_The Plain Dealer_) d'une Comtesse de Pimbesche, vieille
plaideuse." But Voltaire clearly employs the title of "Comtesse de
Pimbesche" only as a generic term for a litigious female.
[91] Mother Bennet, a noted procuress. "The ironical commendation of
the industry and charity of these antiquated ladies, these directors
of Sin, after they can no longer commit it, makes up the beauty of the
inimitable dedication to _The Plain Dealer_, and is a masterpiece of
raillery on this vice."--Steele, in the _Spectator_, No. 266.
[92] Nothing is bolder than they who are detected; the sense of their
own infamy gives them anger and spirit.
[93] Indeed, excess is needful for continency's sake. Fire is with fire
extinguished.
[94] Hob in the Hall: the name of a game.
[95] Compare the ensuing dialogue with _Le Misanthrope,_ act I, scene I.
[96] One who gave false bail or evidence, for hire.
[97] _i.e._ Draggled; bespattered with mud.
[98] To keep a strict watch on anyone's actions. _Grose: Lexicon
Balatronicum._
[99] Look sullen.
[100] A tragedy by Thomas Shadwell, produced in 1676, partly based on
Molière's _Le Festin de Pierre_. This allusion must have been inserted
after the production of _The Plain Dealer_.
[101] Afterwards Sir Peter Lely, painter of the beauties of the Court
of Charles II.
[102] A sweet-scented powder.
[103] Been even with.
[104] See note 80.
[105]
L'honneur de contredire a pour lui tant de charmes,
Qu'il prend contre lui-même assez souvent les armes
Et ses vrais sentiments sont combattus par lui,
Aussitôt qu'il les voit dans la bouche d'autrui.
_Le Misanthrope_, act 2, scene 5.
[106] "Picaroon," a rogue, from Spanish _picaro_. "Loof" is more
commonly written "luff."
[107] A pert young fellow.
[108] Scotch warming-pan; a wench. _Grose: Lex. Balat._
[109] Cheat: gamble.
[110] The point of the antithesis lies in the opposition of the _new_
guinea to the _old_ gold. Guineas were not coined before the year 1662.
[111] Hercules' Pillars was the name of a tavern in Fleet Street,
mentioned by Pepys; also of one at Hyde Park Corner, immortalised in
the pages of _Tom Jones_.
[112] A law-term, signifying under the protection of a husband.
[113] A maintenance of any man in his suit, upon condition of having
part of the thing if recovered.
[114] Simpleton.
[115] A puppet-show.
[116] Trangame: a toy. _Wright._
[117] See note 96.
[118] Mortgaged.
[119] Mixed with spirits.
[120] Westminster Hall was anciently used as a banqueting-room to the
old Palace of Westminster.
[121] Fragments: scraps.
[122] Dislike.
[123] Fr. _aîné_: first-born.
[124]
Elle fait des tableaux couvrir les nudités;
Mais elle a de l'amour pour les réalités.
_Le Misanthrope_, act iii., scene v.
[125] Cock-fighting; wantoning. _Wright._
[126] See note 96.
[127] See note 112.
FINIS.
End of Project Gutenberg's William Wycherley, Four Plays, by William Wycherley