Here’s the Figure of a Worldly Sorrow, and of a Worldly Love, drawn to
the Life, from the Heart and Humour of a Right, Worldly Woman. Hypocrisie
Out-does the Truth, in Grief, as well as in Religion. ’Tis too Fierce
and Noisie, to be Natural; but the Ostentation supplies the Place of the
Duty. If the Wives Transports had not been Counterfeit, they would have
been as Certain Death as the Husband’s Disease: For Flesh and Blood is
not able to bear up under so Intolerable a Weight. It is in short, only
the Acting a Part, not the Discharge of a Flowing Passion; she takes
the Hint; Plays her Roll; Cries out her _Set time_, and when the Farce
is over, betakes her self from her Infirmity to her Philosophy; not
forgetting the Politique Part all this while, of making her Mourning for
One Husband, a Prologue to the Drawing on of Another.
And This is not the Poor Woman’s Case Alone, but many a Poor Man’s
too; for the Extravagance holds for a Sick Wife, as well as for a Sick
Husband. ’Tis Custom, Practice and Good Manners, in fine, that in a Great
Measure Rules This Affair. People Proportion their Griefs to their Hopes,
and their Tears to their Legacies. There is as much a Fashion in the
Mourning Face, as in the Mourning Dress; and our very Looks must be in
the Mode, as well as our Cloaths. This Hint Minds me of a Pleasant Droll
of a Painter, to an Honourable Lady of My Acquaintance that was sitting
for her Picture. _Madam_ (says he) _will your Ladiship be pleas’d to
have your Lip drawn as they wear ’em now?_ It is a Notable Part of Good
Breeding, to know When, and How, and how Much, and how Long to Cry; and
_Every Thing must be done too as they do it now_. I speak This, as to the
Method of a Widow’s Lamentations: But _when the Husband’s Dead, the Play
is Done_; and then it comes to the Old Bear Garden Case, when the Bull
had Toss’d a Poor Fellow that went to save his Dog: There was a mighty
Bussle about him, with Brandy and Other Cordials to bring him to Himself
again; but when the College found there was no Good to be done on’t,
_Well, Go thy ways Jaques_, says a Jolly Member of that Society, _There’s
the best Back-Sword Man in the Field gone. Come, Play Another Dog._ The
Sick Husband here wanted for neither Slops nor Doctors, and Every Thing
was in a Hurry too in Both Places Alike. The Man Dies, and the Woman
Bethinks her self, Well, says she, _There’s the Best Husband Gone that
ever Woman had to do withal: But, Pray Sir, is T’other Husband in the
House that you were speaking of?_ What is all This now, but directly to
the Tune of _The Butcher’s Back-Sword Man_, and _Playing Another Dog_.