^ ; : 
 
 THE 
 
 DRAMATIC WOKKS 
 
 OF 
 
 SIR JOHN VANBRUGH 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 Ctr^\\^ 
 
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 VI 
 
 31 
 
 >\*« 
 
\u 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 3 ®ont0iJB. 
 
 BEING THE SEQUEL OF "THE FOOL IN FASHION. 
 
 t$ 
 
 THE PREFACE. 
 
 To go about to excuse half the defects this abortive brat is come into the world with, would be to provoke the town 
 with a long useless preface, when 'tis, I doubt, sufficiently soured already by a tedious play. 
 
 I do therefore (with all the humility of a repenting sinner) confess, it wants everything — but length ; and in that, 
 I hope, the severest critic will be pleaied to acknowledge I have not been wanting. But my modesty will sure atone 
 for everything, when the world shall know it is so great, I am even to this day insensible of those two shining graces in 
 the play (which some part of the town is pleased to compliment me with) — blasphemy and bawdy. 
 
 For my part, I cannot find them out, If there were any obscene expressions upon the stage, here they are in the 
 print ; for I have dealt fairly, I have not sunk a syllable that could (though by racking of mysteries) be ranged under 
 that head ; and yet I believe with a steady faith, there is not one woman of a real reputation in town, but when she has 
 read it impartially over in her closet, will find it so innocent, she'll think it no affront to her prayer-book, to lay it upon 
 the same shelf, So to them (with all manner of deference) I entirely refer my cause ; and I'm confident they'll justify 
 me against those pretenders to good manners, who, at the same time, have so little respect for the ladies, they would 
 extract a bawdy jest from an ejaculation, to put 'em out of countenance. But I expect to have these well-bred persons 
 always my enemies, since I'm sure I shall never write anything lewd enough to make 'em my friends. 
 
 As for the saints (your thorough-paced ones, I mean, with screwed faces and wry mouths) I despair of them, for they 
 are friends to nobody. They love nothing but their altars and themselves. They have too much zeal to have any 
 " i rity ; they make debauches in piety, as sinners do in wine ; and are as quarrelsome in their religion, as other people 
 are m their drink : so I hope nobody will mind what they say. But if any man (with flat plod shoes, a little band, 
 greasy hair, and a dirty face, who is wiser than I, at the expense of being forty years older) happens to be offended at 
 a stcry of a cock and a bull, and a priest and a bull-dog, I beg his pardon with all my heart ; which, I hope, I shall 
 obtain, by eating my words, and making this public recantation. I do therefore, for his satisfaction, acknowledge I 
 \L'-~ when I said, they never quit their hold ; for in that little time I have lived in the world, I thank God I have seen 
 forced to it more than once : but next time I'll speak with more caution and truth, and only say, they have very 
 good teeth. 
 
 If I have offended any honest gentlemen of the town, whose friendship or good word is worth the having, I am very 
 sorry for it ; I hope they'll correct me as gently as they can, when they consider I have had no other design, in running 
 a very great risk, than to divert (if possible) some part of their spleen, in spite of their wives and their taxes. 
 
 One word more about the bawdy, and I have done. I own the first night this thing was acted, some indecencies had 
 like to have happened, but 'twas not my fault. 
 
 The fine gentleman of the play, drinking his mistress's health in Nantes brandy, from six in the morning to the time 
 he waddled on upon the stage in the evening, had toasted himself up to such a pitch of vigour, I confess I once gave 
 Amanda for gone, and am since (with all due respect to Mrs. Rogers) very sorry she scaped ; for I am confident a certain 
 lady (let no one take it to herself that's handsome) who highly blames the play, for the barrenness of the conclusion, 
 would then have allowed it a very natural close. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sir Novelty Fashion, newly created Lord Foppington. 
 
 Tom Fashion, his Brother. 
 
 Loveless, Husband to Amanda. 
 
 Worthy, a Gentleman of the Town. 
 
 Sir Tunbelly Clumsey, a Country Gentleman. 
 
 Sir John Friendly, his Neighbour. 
 
 Coupler, a Match-maker. 
 
 Bull, Chaplain to Sir Tunbelly. 
 
 Syringe, a Surgeon. 
 
 Lory, Servant to Tom Fashion. 
 
 La Verole, Valet to Lord Foppington. 
 
 Mendlegs, a Hosier. 
 
 Foretop, a Periwig-maker. 
 Tug, a Waterman. 
 
 Amanda, Wife to Loveless. 
 Berinthia, her Cousin, a young Widow. 
 Miss Hoyden, a great Fortune, Daughter to Sir Tun- 
 belly. 
 Nurse, her Governanle. 
 Mrs. Calico, a Sempstress. 
 Abigail, Maid to Berinthia. 
 
 Shoemaker, Tailor, Constable, Clerk, Porter, Page, 
 Musicians, Dancers, &c. 
 
 SCENE, — Sometimes in London, sometimes in the Country. 
 
302 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 FIRST PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MISS CROSS. 
 
 Ladies, this Play in too much haste was writ, 
 
 To be o'ercharged with either plot or wit ; 
 
 'Twas got, conceived, and born in six weeks' 
 
 space, 
 And wit, you know, 's as slow in growth as — 
 
 grace. 
 Sure it can ne'er be ripen'd to your taste ; 
 I doubt 'twill prove, our author bred too fast : 
 For mark 'em well, who with the Muses marry, 
 They rarely do conceive, but they miscarry. 
 'Tis the hard fate of those who are big with rhyme, 
 Still to be brought to bed before their time. 
 Of our late poets Nature few has made ; 
 The greatest part are — only so by trade. 
 Still want of something brings the scribbling fit ; 
 For want of money some of 'em have writ, 
 And others do't, you see, for — want of wit. 
 Honour, they fancy, summons 'em to write, 
 
 So out they lug in wresty Nature's spite, 
 
 As some of you spruce beaux do —when you fight. 
 
 Yet let the ebb of wit be ne'er so low, 
 
 Some glimpse of it a man may hope to show, 
 
 Upon a theme so ample as — a beau. 
 
 So, howsoe'er true courage may decay, 
 
 Perhaps there's not one smock-face here to-day, 
 
 But's bold as Csesar — to attack a play. 
 
 Nay, what's yet more, with an undaunted face, 
 
 To do the thing with more heroic grace, 
 
 'Tis six to four ye attack the strongest place. 
 
 You are such Hotspurs in this kind of venture, 
 
 Where there's no breach, just there you needs must 
 
 enter : 
 But be advised — 
 
 E'en give the hero and the critic o'er, 
 For Nature sent you on another score ; — 
 She form'd her beau, for nothing but her whore. 
 
 PROLOGUE ON THE THIRD DAY. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. VERBRUGGEN. 
 
 Apologies for Plays, experience shows, 
 Are things almost as useless as — the beaux. 
 Whate'er we say (like them) we neither move 
 Your friendship, pity, anger, nor your love. 
 'Tis interest turns the globe ; let us but find 
 The way to please you, and you'll soon be kind : 
 But to expect, you'd for our sakes approve, 
 Is just as though you for their sakes should love ; 
 And that, we do confess, we think a task 
 Which (though they may impose) we never ought 
 to ask. 
 This is an age, where all things we improve, 
 But, most of all, the art of making love. 
 In former days, women were only won 
 By merit, truth, and constant service done ; 
 But lovers now are much more expert grown ; 
 They seldom wait, to approach by tedious form ; 
 They're for despatch, for taking you by storm : 
 Quick are their sieges, furious are their fires, 
 Fierce their attacks, and boundless their desires. 
 Before the Play's half ended, I'll engage 
 To show you beaux come crowding on the stage, 
 Who with so little pains have always sped, 
 They'll undertake to look a lady dead. 
 
 How have I shook, and trembling stood with 
 
 awe, 
 When here, behind the scenes, I've seen 'em 
 
 draw 
 — A comb ; that dead-doing weapon to the heart, 
 And turn each powder' d hair into a dart ! 
 When I have seen 'em sally on the stage, 
 Dress'd to the war, and ready to engage, 
 I've mourn' d your destiny — yet more their fate, 
 To think, that after victories so great, 
 It should so often prove their hard mishap 
 To sneak into a lane, and get — a clap. 
 But, hush ! they're here already ; I'll retire, 
 And leave 'em to the ladies to admire. 
 They'll show you twenty thousand arts and graces, 
 They'll entertain you with their soft grimaces, 
 Their snuffbox, awkward bows, and — ugly faces. 
 In short, they're after all so much your friends, 
 That lest the Play should fail, the author ends ; 
 They have resolved to make you some amends. 
 Between each act (perform'd by nicest rules) 
 They'll treat you with — an Interlude of fools : 
 Of which that you may have the deeper sense, 
 The entertainment's— at their own expense. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE \.—A Room in Loveless's Country- 
 House. 
 
 Enter Loveless, reading. 
 
 Love. How true is that philosophy, which savs 
 Our heaven is seated in our minds ! 
 Through all the roving pleasures of my youth, 
 (Where nights and days seem all consumed in joy, 
 Where the false face of luxury 
 Display' d such charms, 
 
 As might have shaken the most holy hermit, 
 
 And made him totter at his altar,) 
 
 I never knew one moment's peace like this. 
 
 Here, in this little soft retreat, 
 
 My thoughts unbent from all the cares of life, 
 
 Content with fortune, 
 
 Eased from the grating duties of dependence, 
 
 From envy free, ambition under foot, 
 
 The raging flame of wild destructive lust 
 
 Reduced to a warm pleasing fire of lawful love, 
 
 My life glides on, and all is well within. 
 
SCENE 
 
 THE RELAPSE : OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 S03 
 
 Enter Amanda. 
 
 How does the happy cause of my content, 
 
 [Meeting her kindly. 
 My dear Amanda ? 
 
 You find me musing on my happy state, 
 And full of grateful thoughts to Heaven, and you. 
 
 Aman. Those grateful offerings Heaven can't 
 receive 
 With more delight than I do : 
 Would I could share with it as well 
 The dispensations of its bliss ! 
 That I might search its choicest favours out, 
 And shower 'em on your head for ever. 
 
 Love. The largest boons that Heaven thinks fit 
 to grant, 
 To things it has decreed shall crawl on earth, 
 Are in the gift of woman form'd like you. 
 Perhaps when time shall be no more, 
 When the aspiring soul shall take its flight, 
 And drop this ponderous lump of clay behind it, 
 It may have appetites we know not of, 
 And pleasures as refined as its desires — 
 But till that day of knowledge shall instruct me, 
 The utmost blessing that my thought can reach, 
 
 [Taking her in his arms. 
 Is folded in my arms, and rooted in my heart. 
 
 Aman. There let it grow for ever ! 
 
 Love. Well said, Amanda — let it be for ever — 
 Would Heaven grant that — 
 
 Aman. 'Twere all the heaven I'd ask. 
 
 But we are clad in black mortality, 
 And the dark curtain of eternal night 
 At last must drop between us. 
 
 Love. It must. 
 
 That mournful separation we must see, 
 A bitter pill it is to all ; but doubles its ungrateful 
 
 taste, 
 When lovers are to swallow it. 
 
 Aman. Perhaps that pain may only be my lot, 
 You possibly may be exempted from it. 
 Men find out softer ways to quench their fires. 
 
 Love. Can you then doubt my constancy, 
 Amanda ? 
 You'll find 'tis built upon a steady basis — 
 The rock of reason now supports my love, 
 On which it stands so fix'd, 
 The rudest hurricane of wild desire 
 Would, like the breath of a soft slumbering babe, 
 Pass by, and never shake it. 
 
 Aman. Yet still 'tis safer to avoid the storm ; 
 The strongest vessels, if they put to sea, 
 May possibly be lost. 
 Would I could keep you here in this calm port for 
 
 ever ! 
 Forgive the weakness of a woman, 
 I am uneasy at your going to stay so long in town ; 
 I know its false insinuating pleasures ; 
 I know the force of its delusions ; 
 I know the strength of its attacks ; 
 I know the weak defence of nature ; 
 I know you are a man — and I — a wife. 
 
 Love. You know then all that needs to give you 
 rest, 
 For wife's the strongest claim that you can urge. 
 When you would plead your title to my heart, 
 On this you may depend. Therefore be calm, 
 Banish your fears, for they 
 Are traitors to your peace : beware of them, 
 They are insinuating busy things 
 
 That gossip to and fro, 
 
 And do a world of mischief where they come. 
 
 But you shall soon be mistress of 'em all ; 
 
 I'll aid you with such arms for their destruction, 
 
 They never shall erect their heads again. 
 
 You know the business is indispensable, that obliges 
 
 me to go for London; and you have no reason, 
 
 that I know of, to believe that I'm glad of the 
 
 occasion. For my honest conscience is my witness, 
 
 I have found a due succession of such charms 
 
 In my retirement here with you, 
 
 I have never thrown one roving thought that way. 
 
 But since, against my will, I'm dragg'd once more 
 
 To that uneasy theatre of noise, 
 
 I am resolved to make such use on't, 
 
 As shall convince you 'tis an old cast mistress, 
 
 Who has been so lavish of her favours, 
 
 She's now grown bankrupt of her charms, 
 
 And has not one allurement left to move me. 
 
 Aman. Her bow, I do believe, is grown so weak 
 Her arrows (at this distance) cannot hurt you ; 
 But in approaching 'em, you give 'em strength. 
 The dart that has not far to fly, will put 
 The best of armour to a dangerous trial. 
 
 Love. That trial past, and you're at ease for ever ; 
 When you have seen the helmet proved, 
 You'll apprehend no more for him that wears it. 
 Therefore, to put a lasting period to your fears, 
 I am resolved, this once, to launch into temptation : 
 I'll give you an essay of all my virtues, 
 My former boon companions of the bottle 
 Shall fairly try what charms are left in wine : 
 I'll take my place amongst them, 
 They shall hem me in, 
 
 Sing praises to their god, and drink his glory : 
 Turn wild enthusiasts for his sake, 
 And beasts to do him honour : 
 Whilst I, a stubborn atheist, 
 Sullenly look on, 
 
 Without one reverend glass to his divinity. 
 That for my temperance, 
 Then for my constancy — 
 
 Aman. Ay, there take heed. 
 
 Love. Indeed the danger's small. 
 
 Aman. And yet my fears are great. 
 
 Love. Why are you so timorous ? 
 
 Aman. Because you are so bold. 
 
 Love. My courage should disperse your appre- 
 hension. 
 
 Aman. My apprehensions should alarm your 
 courage. 
 
 Love. Fy, fy, Amanda ! it is not kind thus to 
 distrust me. 
 
 Aman. And yet my fears are founded on my 
 love. 
 
 Love. Your love then is not founded as it ought ; 
 For if you can believe 'tis possible 
 I should again relapse to my past follies, 
 I must appear to you a thing 
 Of such an undigested composition, 
 That but to think of me with inclination, 
 Would be a weakness in your taste 
 Your virtue scarce could answer. 
 
 Aman. 'Twould be a weakness in my tongue ; 
 My prudence could not answer, 
 If I should press you farther with my fears ; 
 I'll therefore trouble you no longer with 'em. 
 
 Love. Nor shall they trouble you much longer, 
 A little time shall show you they were groundless : 
 This winter shall be the fiery trial of my virtue ; 
 
304 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 Which, when it once has pass'd, 
 
 You'll be convinced 'twas of no false allay, 
 
 There all your cares will end. 
 
 Aman. Pray Heaven they may. 
 
 [Exeunt, hand in hand. 
 
 SCENE II.— Whitehall. 
 Enter Tom Fashion, Lory, and Tug. 
 
 Fash. Come, pay the waterman, and take the 
 portmantle. 
 
 Lory. Faith, sir, I think the waterman had as 
 good take the portmantle, and pay himself. 
 
 Fash. Why, sure there's something left in't ! 
 
 Lory. But a solitary old waistcoat, upon my 
 honour, sir. 
 
 Fash. Why, what's become of the blue coat, 
 sirrah ? 
 
 Lory. Sir, 'twas eaten at Gravesend ; the reck- 
 oning came to thirty shillings, and your privy purse 
 was worth but two half-crowns. 
 
 Fash. Tis very well. 
 
 Tug. Pray, master, will you please to despatch 
 me ? 
 
 Fash. Ay, here a — canst thou change me a 
 guinea ? 
 
 Lory. [Aside.} Good! 
 
 ' Tug. Change a guinea, master ! Ha ! ha ! your 
 honour's pleased to compliment. 
 
 Fash. Egad, I don't know how I shall pay thee 
 then, for I have nothing but gold about me. 
 
 Lory. [Aside.] Hum, hum ! 
 
 Fash. What dost thou expect, friend ? 
 
 Tug. Why, master, so far against wind and tide 
 is richly worth half a piece. 
 
 Fash. Why, faith, I think thou art a good con- 
 scionable fellow. Egad, I begin to have so good 
 an opinion of thy honesty, I care not if I leave my 
 portmantle with thee, till I send thee thy money. 
 
 Tug. Ha ! God bless your honour ; I should be 
 as willing to trust you, master, but that you are, as 
 a man may say, a stranger to me, and these are 
 nimble times ; there are a great many sharpers stir- 
 ring. — [Taking up the portmantle.] Well, master, 
 when your worship sends the money, your port- 
 mantle shall be forthcoming ; my name's Tug, my 
 wife keeps a brandy-shop in Drab- Alley, at Wapping. 
 
 Fash. Very well ; I'll send for't to-morrow. 
 
 [Exit Tug. 
 
 Lory. So. — Now, sir, I hope you'll own your- 
 self a happy man, you have outlived all your cares. 
 
 Fash. How so, sir? 
 
 Lory. Why you have nothing left to take care of. 
 
 Fash. Yes, sirrah, I have myself and you to take 
 care of still. 
 
 Lory. Sir, if you could but prevail with some- 
 body else to do that for you, I fancy we might both 
 fare the better for't. 
 
 Fash. Why, if thou canst tell me where to apply 
 myself, I have at present so little money, and so 
 much humility about me, I don't know but I may 
 follow a fool's advice. 
 
 Lory. Why then, sir, your fool advises you to 
 lay aside all animosity, and apply to sir Novelty, 
 your elder brother. 
 
 Fash. Damn my elder brother ! 
 
 Lory. With all my heart ; but get him to redeem 
 your annuity however. 
 
 Fash. My annuity ! 'Sdeath, he's such a dog, 
 he would not give his powder-puff to redeem ray 
 soul. 
 
 Lory. Look you, sir, you must wheedle him, or 
 you must starve. 
 
 Fash. Look you, sir, I will neither wheedle him, 
 nor starve. 
 
 Lory. Why, what will you do then ? 
 
 Fash. I'll go into the army. 
 
 Lory. You can't take the oaths ; you are a 
 Jacobite. 
 
 Fash. Thou mayst as well say I can't take orders 
 because I'm an atheist. 
 
 Lory. Sir, I ask your pardon ; I find I did not 
 know the strength of your conscience so well as I 
 did the weakness of your purse. 
 
 Fash. Methinks, sir, a person of your experi- 
 ence should have known that the strength of the 
 conscience proceeds from the weakness of the 
 purse. 
 
 Lory. Sir, I am very glad to find you have a 
 conscience able to take care of us, let it proceed 
 from what it will ; but I desire you'll please to con- 
 sider, that the army alone will be but a scanty 
 maintenance for a person of your generosity (at 
 least as rents now are paid). I shall see you stand 
 in damnable need of some auxiliary guineas for 
 your menus plaisirs ; I will therefore turn fool 
 once more for your service, and advise you to go 
 directly to your brother. 
 
 Fash. Art thou then so impregnable a block- 
 head, to believe he'll help me with a farthing ? 
 
 Lory. Not if you treat him de haut en bas, as 
 you use to do. 
 
 Fash. Why, how wouldst have me treat him ? 
 
 Lory. Like a trout — tickle him. 
 
 Fash. I can't flatter. 
 
 Lory. Can you starve ? 
 
 Fash. Yes. 
 
 Lory. I can't. — Good-by t'ye, sir — [Going. 
 
 Fash. Stay ; thou wilt distract me ! What 
 wouldst thou have me say to him ? 
 
 Lory. Say nothing to him, apply yourself to his 
 favourites, speak to his periwig, his cravat, his 
 feather, his snuff box, and when you are well with 
 them, desire him to lend you a thousand pounds. 
 I'll engage you prosper. 
 
 Fash. 'Sdeath and furies ! why was that cox- 
 comb thrust into the world before me ? O Fortune ! 
 Fortune !— thou art a bitch by Gad ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 -A Ronm in Lord Foppington's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lord Foppington in his nightgown. 
 
 Lord Fop. Page ! 
 
 Enter Page. 
 
 Page. Sir ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir ! — Pray, sir, do me the favour to 
 teach your tongue the title the king has thought fit 
 to honour me with. 
 
 Page. I ask your lordship's pardon, my lord. 
 
 Lord Fop. O, you can pronounce the word then ? 
 1 thought it would have choked you.— D'ye hear ? 
 
 Page. My lord ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Ca-;i La Verole ; I would dress.— 
 [Exit Page.] — Well, 'tis an unspeakable pleasure 
 to be a man of quality, strike me dumb ! — My lord, 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE RELAPSE: OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 805 
 
 — your lordship ! My lord Foppingron ! — Ah ! c'est 
 quelque chose de beau, que le (Liable m'emporte ! — 
 Why the ladies were ready to puke at me whilst I 
 had nothing but sir Navelty to recommend me to 
 'em, — Sure, whilst I was but a knight, I was a very 
 nauseous fellow. — Well, 'tis ten thousand pawnd 
 well given, stap my vitals ! — 
 
 Enter La Verole. 
 
 La Ver. Me lord, de shoemaker, de tailor, de 
 hosier, de semstress, de barber, be all ready, if your 
 lordship please to dress. 
 
 Lord Fop. 'Tis well, admit 'em. 
 
 La Ver. Hey, messieurs, entrez. 
 
 Enter Tailor, Shoemaker, Mendlegs, Foretop, and 
 Mrs. Calico. 
 
 Lord Fop. So, gentlemen, I hope you have all 
 taken pains to show yourselves masters in your 
 professions. 
 
 Tailor. I think I may presume to say, sir — 
 
 La Ver. My lord— you clawn, you ! 
 
 Tailor. Why, is he made a lord ? — My lord, I 
 ask your lordship's pardon, my lord ; I hope, my 
 lord, your lordship will please to own I have 
 brought your lordship as accomplished a suit of 
 clothes as ever peer of England trod the stage in, 
 my lord. Will your lordship please to try 'em 
 now ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Ay ; but let my people dispose the 
 glasses so that I may see myself before and behind, 
 for I love to see myself all raund. 
 
 Whilst he puts on his clothes, Tom Fashion and Lory 
 enter and converse apart. 
 
 Fash. Heyday, what the devil have we here ? 
 Sure my gentleman's grown a favourite at court, he 
 has got so many people at his levee. 
 
 Lory. Sir, these people come in order to make 
 him a favourite at court ; they are to establish him 
 with the ladies. 
 
 Fash. Good God ! to what an ebb of taste are 
 women fallen, that it should be in the power of a 
 laced coat to recommend a gallant to 'em ! 
 
 Lory. Sir, tailors and periwig-makers are now 
 become the bawds of the nation ; 'tis they debauch 
 all the women. 
 
 Fash. Thou sayest true ; for there's that fop 
 now has not by nature wherewithal to move a 
 cook-maid, and by that time these fellows have 
 done with him, egad he shall melt down a coun- 
 tess ! — But now for my reception ; I'll engage it 
 shall be as cold a one as a courtier's to his friend, 
 who comes to put him in mind of his promise. 
 
 Lord Fop. [To his Tailor.] Death and eternal 
 tartures ! — Sir, I say the packet's too high by a foot. 
 
 Tailor. My lord, if it had been an inch lower, it 
 would not have held your lordship's pocket-hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 Lord Fop. Rat my pocket-handkerchief ! have 
 not I a page to carry it ? You may make him a 
 packet up to his chin a purpose for it ; but I will 
 not have mine come so near my face. 
 
 Tailor. 'Tis not for me to dispute your lord- 
 ship's fancy. 
 
 Fash. [ To Lory.] His lordship ! Lory, did 
 you observe that ? 
 
 Lory. Yes, sir ; I always thought- 'twould end 
 there. Now, I hope, you'll ha^ a little more 
 respect for him. 
 
 Fash. Respect ! — Damn him for a coxcomb ! 
 
 now has he ruined his estate to buy a title, that he 
 may be a fool of the first rate ; — but let's accost 
 him — [To Lord Foppistgton.] Brother. I'mvour 
 humble servant. 
 
 Lord Fop. O Lard, Tarn ! I did not expect you 
 in England. — Brother, I am glad to see you. — 
 [Turning to h is Tailor ] Look you, sir; I shall 
 never be reconciled to this nauseous packet ; there- 
 fore pray get me another suit, with all manner of 
 expedition, for this is my eternal aversion. — Mrs. 
 Calico, are not you of my mind ? 
 
 Mrs. Cal. O, directly, my lord ! it can never be 
 too low. 
 
 Lord Fop. You are passitively in the right on't, 
 for the packet becomes no part of the body but the 
 knee. [Exit Tailor. 
 
 Mrs. Cal. I hope your lordship is pleased with 
 your steenkirk. 
 
 Lord Fop. In love with it, stap my vitals ! — 
 Bring your bill, you shall be paid to-m arrow. 
 
 Mrs. Cal. I humbly thank your honour. [Exit. 
 
 Lord Fop. Hark thee, shoemaker ! these shoes 
 an't ugly, but they don't fit me. 
 
 Shoemaker. My lord, my thinks they fit you very 
 well. 
 
 Lord Fop. They hurt me just below the instep. 
 
 Shoe. [Feeling his foot.] My lord, they don't 
 hurt you there. 
 
 Lord Fop. I tell thee, they pinch me execrably. 
 
 Shoe. My lord, if they pinch you, I'll be bound 
 to be hanged, that's all. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, wilt thou undertake to persuaae 
 me I cannot feel ? 
 
 Shoe. Your lordship may please to feel what you 
 think fit ; but that shoe does not hurt you — I 
 think I understand my trade. 
 
 Lord Fop. Now by all that's great and powerful, 
 thou art an incomprehensible coxcomb ! but thou 
 makest good shoes, and so I'll bear with thee. 
 
 Shoe. My lord, I have worked for half the people 
 of quality in town these twenty years ; and 'twere 
 very hard I should not know when a shoe hurts, 
 and when it don't. 
 
 Lord Fop. Well, prithee be gone about thy 
 business. — [Exit Shoemaker.] Mr. Mendlegs, a 
 word with you : the calves of these stockings are 
 thickened a little too much. They make my legs 
 look like a chairman's — 
 
 Mend. My lord, my thinks they look mighty well. 
 
 Lord Fop. Ay, but you are not so good a judge 
 of those things as I am, I have studied 'em all my 
 life ; therefore pray let the next be the thickness 
 of a crawn-piece less. — [Aside.] If the town takes 
 notice my legs are fallen away, 'twill be attributed 
 to the violence of some new intrigue. — [Exit 
 Mendlegs.] Come, Mr. Foretop, let me see what 
 you have done, and then the fatigue of the morning 
 will be over. 
 
 Fore. My lord, I have done what I defy any 
 prince in Europe to outdo ; I have made you a 
 periwig so long, and so full of hair, it will serve 
 you for a hat and cloak in all weathers. 
 
 Lord Fop. Then thou hast made me thy friend 
 to eternity. Come, comb it out. 
 
 Fash. [Aside to Lory.] Well, Lory, what dost 
 think on't ? A very friendly reception from a 
 brother after three years' absence ! 
 
 1 ory. Why, sir, 'tis your own fault ; we seldom 
 care for those that don't love what we love : if 
 you would creep into his heart, you must enter 
 X 
 
80S 
 
 THE RELAPSE : OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 into his pleasures. — Here you have stood ever 
 since you came in, and have not commended any 
 one thing that belongs to him. 
 
 Fash. Nor never shall, while they belong to a 
 coxcomb. 
 
 Lory. Then, sir, you must be content to pick a 
 hungry bone. 
 
 Fash. No, sir, I'll crack it, and get to the 
 marrow before I have done. 
 
 Lord Fop. Gad's curse, Mr. Foretop ! you don't 
 intend to put this upon me for a full periwig ? 
 
 Fore. Not a full one, my lord ? I don't know 
 what your lordship may please to call a full 
 one, but I have crammed twenty ounces of hair 
 into it. 
 
 Lord Fop. What it may be by weight, sir, I 
 shall not dispute ; but by tale, there are not nine 
 hairs of a side. 
 
 Fore. O lord ! O lord ! lord ! Why, as Gad 
 shall judge me, your honour's side-face is reduced 
 to the tip of your nose ! 
 
 Lord Fop. My side-face may be in an eclipse 
 for aught I know ; but I'm sure my full-face is 
 like the full-moon. 
 
 Fore. Heaven bless my eye-sight — [Rubbing 
 his eyes.] Sure I look through the wrong end of 
 the perspective ; for by my faith, an't please your 
 honour, the broadest place I see in your face does 
 not seem to me to be two inches diameter. 
 
 Lord Fop. If it did it would just be two inches 
 too broad ; for a periwig to a man should be like 
 a mask to a woman, nothing should be seen but 
 his eyes. 
 
 Fore. My lord, I have done ; if you please to 
 have more hair in your wig, I'll put it in. 
 
 Lord Fop. Passitively, yes. 
 
 Fore. Shall I take it back now, my lord ? 
 
 Lord Fop. No : I'll wear it to-day, though it 
 show such a manstrous pair of cheeks, stap my 
 vitals, I shall be taken for a trumpeter ! 
 
 [Exit Foretop. 
 
 Fash. Now your people of business are gone, 
 brother, I hope I may obtain a quarter of an hour's 
 audience of you. 
 
 Lord Fop. Faith, Tarn, I must beg you'll ex- 
 cuse me at this time, for I must away to the House 
 of Lards immediately ; my lady Teaser's case is to 
 come on to-day, and I would not be absent for 
 the salvation of mankind. — Hey, page ! 
 
 Enter Page. 
 
 Is the coach at the door ? 
 
 Page. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Lord Fop. You'll excuse me, brother. [Going. 
 
 Fash. Shall you be back at dinner? 
 
 Lord Fop. As Gad shall jidge me, I can't tell ; 
 for 'tis passible I may dine with some of aur House 
 at Lacket's. 
 
 Fash. Shall I meet you there ? For I must needs 
 talk with you. 
 
 Lord Fop. That I'm afraid mayn't be so praper ; 
 far the lards I commonly eat with, are people of 
 a nice conversation ; and you know, Tam, your 
 education has been a little at large : but, if you'll 
 stay here, you'll find a family dinner. — [To Page.] 
 Hey, fellow ! What is there for dinner ? There's 
 beef : I suppose my brother will eat beef. — Dear 
 Tam, I'm glad to see thee in England, stap my 
 vitals ! [Exit with La Verole and Page. 
 
 .Fash. Hell and furies ! is this to be borne ? 
 
 Lory. Faith, sir, I could almost have given him 
 a knock o'th' pate myself. 
 
 Fash. 'Tis enough ; I will now show thee the 
 excess of my passion by being very calm. Come, 
 Lory, lay your loggerhead to mine, and in cool 
 blood let us contrive his destruction. 
 
 Lory. Here comes a head, sir, would contrive it 
 better than us both, if he would but join in the 
 confederacy. 
 
 Enter Coupler. 
 Fash. By this light, old Coupler alive still ! — 
 Why, how now, matchmaker, art thou here still to 
 plague the world with matrimony ? You old bawd, 
 how have you the impudence to be hobbling out of 
 your grave twenty years after you are rotten ! 
 
 Coup. When you begin to rot, sirrah, you'll go 
 off like a pippin ; one winter will send you to the 
 devil. What mischief brings you home again ? 
 Ha ! you young lascivious rogue you. Let me put 
 my hand into your bosom, sirrah. 
 
 Fash. Stand off, old Sodom ! 
 
 Coup. Nay, prithee now, don't be so coy. 
 
 Fash. Keep your hands to yourself, you old dog 
 you, or I'll wring your nose off. 
 
 Coup. Hast thou then been a year in Italy, and 
 brought home a fool at last ? By my conscience, 
 the young fellows of this age profit no more by 
 their going abroad than they do by their going to 
 church. Sirrah, sirrah, if you are not hanged 
 before you come to my years, — you'll know a cock 
 from a hen. But, come, I'm still a friend to thy 
 person, though I have a contempt of thy under- 
 standing ; and therefore I would willingly know 
 thy condition, that I may see whether thou standest 
 in need of my assistance : for widows swarm, my 
 boy, the town's infected with 'em. 
 
 Fash. I stand in need of anybody's assistance, 
 that will help me to cut my elder brother's throat, 
 without the risk of being hanged for him. 
 
 Coup. Egad, sirrah, I could help thee to do him 
 almost as good a turn, without the danger of being 
 burned in the hand for't. 
 
 Fash. Sayest thou so, old Satan ? Show me but 
 that, and my soul is thine. 
 
 Coup. Pox o'thy soul ! give me thy warm body, 
 sirrah ; I shall. have a substantial title to't when I 
 tell thee my project. 
 
 Fash. Out with it then, dear dad, and take 
 possession as soon as thou wilt. 
 
 Coup. Sayest thou so, my Hephestion ? Why, 
 then, thus lies the scene — But hold ; who's that ? 
 if we are heard we are undone. 
 
 Fash. What, have you forgot, Lory ? 
 
 Coup. Who, trusty Lory, is it thee ? 
 
 Lory. At your service, sir. 
 
 Coup. Give me thy hand, old boy. Egad, I did 
 not know thee again ; but I remember thy honesty 
 though I did not thy face ; I think thou hadst like 
 to have been hanged once or twice for thy master. 
 
 Lory. Sir, I was very near once having that 
 honour. 
 
 Coup. Well, live and hope; don't be discou- 
 raged; eat with him, and drink with him, and 
 do what he bids thee, and it may be thy reward at 
 last, as well as another's.— [To Tom Fashion.] 
 Well, sir, you must know I have done you the 
 kindness to' make up a match for your brother. 
 
 Fash. Sir, I am very much beholden to you truly ! 
 
 Coup. You may be, sirrah, before the wedding- 
 day yet. The lady is a great heiress; fifteen 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 307 
 
 hundred pound a year, and a great bag of money ; 
 the match is concluded, the writings are drawn, and 
 the pipkin's to be cracked in a fortnight. Now you 
 must know, stripling (with respect to your mother), 
 your brother's the son of a whore. 
 
 Fash. Good! 
 
 Coup. He has given me a bond of a thou- 
 sand pounds for helping him to this fortune, and 
 has promised me as much more in ready money 
 upon the day of marriage, which, I understand by 
 a friend, he ne'er designs to pay me. If therefore 
 you will be a generous young dog, and secure me 
 five thousand pounds, I'll be a covetous old rogue, 
 and help you to the lady. 
 
 Fash. Egad, if thou canst bring this about, I'll 
 have thy statue cast in brass. But don't you dote, 
 you old pander you, when you talk at this rate ? 
 
 Coup. That your youthful parts shall judge 
 of. This plump partridge, that I tell you of, lives 
 in the country, fifty miles off, with her honoured 
 parents, in a "lonely old house which nobody comes 
 near ; she never goes abroad, nor sees company at 
 home. To prevent all misfortunes, she has her 
 breeding within doors ; the parson of the parish 
 teaches her to play on the bass-viol, the clerk to 
 sing, her nurse to dress, and her father to dance. 
 In short, nobody can give you admittance there but 
 I ; nor can I do it any other way than by making 
 you pass for your brother. 
 
 Fash. And how the devil wilt thou do that ? 
 
 Coup. Without the devil's aid, I warrant thee. 
 Thy brother's face not one of the family ever 
 saw, the whole business has been managed by me, 
 and all the letters go through my hands. The 
 last that was writ to Sir Tunbelly Clumsey (for 
 that's the old gentleman's name), was to tell 
 him, his lordship would be down in a fortnight to 
 consummate. Now, you shall go away imme- 
 diately, pretend you writ that letter only to have 
 the romantic pleasure of surprising your mistress ; 
 fall desperately in love, as soon as you see her ; 
 make that your plea for marrying her immediately, 
 and, when the fatigue of the wedding-night's over, 
 you shall send me a swinging purse of gold, you 
 dog you. 
 
 Fash. Egad, old dad, I'll put my hand in thy 
 bosom now. 
 
 Coup. Ah, you young hot lusty thief, let me 
 muzzle you ! — [Kisses him.'] Sirrah, let me muz- 
 zle you. 
 
 Fash. {Aside.'] Psha, the old lecher ! 
 
 Coup. Well ; I'll warrant thou hast not a far- 
 
 thing of money in thy pocket now ; no, one may 
 see it in thy face. 
 
 Fash. Not a souse, by Jupiter! 
 
 Coup. Must I advance then ? — Well, sirrah, be 
 at my lodgings in half an hour, and I'll see what 
 may be done ; we'll sign, and seal, and eat a pul- 
 let, and when I have given thee some farther 
 instructions, thou shalt hoist sail and be gone. — 
 [Kisses him.] T'other buss, and so adieu. 
 
 Fash. Um ! psha ! 
 
 Coup. Ah, you young warm dog you, what a 
 delicious night will the bride have on't ! [Exit. 
 
 Fash. So, Lory ; Providence, thou seest at last, 
 takes care of men of merit : we are in a fair way 
 to be great people. 
 
 Lory. Ay, sir, if the devil don't step between the 
 cup and the lip, as he uses to do. 
 
 Fash. Why, faith, he has played me many a 
 damned trick to spoil my fortune, and egad I'm 
 almost afraid he's at work about it again now ; but 
 if I should tell thee how, thou'dst wonder at me. 
 
 Lory. Indeed, sir, I should not. 
 
 Fash. How dost know ? 
 
 Lory. Because, sir, I have wondered at you so 
 often, I can wonder at you no more. 
 
 Fash. No ! what wouldst thou say if a qualm of 
 conscience should spoil my design ? 
 
 Lory. I would eat my words, and wonder more 
 than ever. 
 
 Fash. Why, faith, Lory, though I am a young 
 rake-hell, and have played many a roguish trick ; 
 this is so full-grown a cheat, I find I must take 
 pains to come up to't, I have scruples — 
 
 Lory. They are strong symptoms of death ; if 
 you find they increase, pray, sir, make your will. 
 
 Fash. No, my conscience shan't starve me nei- 
 ther. But thus far I'll hearken to it ; before I 
 execute this project, I'll try my brother to the 
 bottom, I'll speak to him with the temper of a 
 philosopher ; my reasons (though they press him 
 home) shall yet be clothed with so much modesty, 
 not one of all the truths they urge shall be so naked 
 to offend his sight. If he has yet so much humanity 
 about him as to assist me (though with a moderate 
 aid), I'll drop my project at his feet, and show him 
 how I can do for him much more than what I ask 
 he'd do for me. This one conclusive trial of him 
 I resolve to make — 
 
 Succeed or no, still victory's my lot ; 
 
 If I subdue his heart, 'tis well ; if not, 
 
 I shall subdue my conscience to my plot. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Loveless's Town- 
 House. 
 
 Enter Loveless and Amanda. 
 
 Love. How do you like these lodgings, my dear ? 
 For my part, I am so well pleased with them, I 
 shall hardly remove whilst we stay in town, if you 
 are satisfied. 
 
 Aman. I am satisfied with everything that 
 pleases you, else I had not come to town at all. 
 
 Love. Oh ! a little of the noise and bustle of the 
 world sweetens the pleasures of retreat. We shall 
 
 find the charms of our retirement doubled, when 
 we return to it. 
 
 Aman. That pleasing prospect will be my chief- 
 est entertainment, whilst (much against my will) I 
 am obliged to stand surrounded with these empty 
 pleasures, which 'tis so much the fashion to be fond 
 of. 
 
 Love. I own most of them are indeed but empty; 
 nay, so empty, that one would wonder by what 
 magic power they act, when they induce us to be 
 vicious for their sakes. Yet some there are we 
 may speak kindlier of. There are delights (of 
 
 X 2 
 
308 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 which a private life is destitute) which may divert 
 an honest man, and be a harmless entertainment 
 to a virtuous woman. The conversation of the 
 town is one; and truly (with some small allowances), 
 the plays, I think, may be esteemed another. 
 
 Aman. The plays, I must confess, have some 
 small charms ; and would have more, would they 
 restrain that loose obscene encouragement to vice, 
 which shocks, if not the virtue of some women, at 
 least the modesty of all. 
 
 Love. But till that reformation can be made, 
 I would not leave the wholesome corn for some 
 intruding tares that grow amongst us. Doubtless 
 the moral of a well-wrought scene is of prevailing 
 force. — Last night there happened one that moved 
 me strangely. 
 
 Aman. Pray, what was that ? 
 Love. Why 'twas about — but 'tis not worth re- 
 peating. 
 
 Aman. Yes, pray let me know it. 
 Love. No ; I think 'tis as well let alone. 
 Aman. Nay, now you make me have a mind to 
 know. 
 
 Love. 'Twas a foolish thing. You'd perhaps 
 grow jealous should I tell it you, though without a 
 cause, Heaven knows. 
 
 Aman. I shall begin to think I have cause, if 
 you persist in making it a secret. 
 
 Love. I'll then convince you you have none, by 
 making it no longer so. Know then, I happened 
 in the play to find my very character, only with 
 the addition of a relapse ; which struck me so, I 
 put a sudden stop to a most harmless entertain- 
 ment, which till then diverted me between the acts. 
 'Twas to admire the workmanship of nature, in the 
 face of a young lady that sat some distance from 
 me, she was so exquisitely handsome ! — 
 Aman. So exquisitely handsome ! 
 Love. Why do you repeat my words, my dear ? 
 Aman. Because you seemed to speak them with 
 such pleasure, I thought I might oblige you with 
 their echo. 
 
 Love. Then you are alarmed, Amanda ? 
 Aman. It is my duty to be so, when you are in 
 danger. 
 
 Love. You are too quick in apprehending for 
 me ; all will be well when you have heard me out. 
 I do confess I gazed upon her, nay, eagerly I gazed 
 upon her. 
 
 Aman. Eagerly ! that's with desire. 
 Love. No, I desired her not : I viewed her 
 with a world of admiration, but not one glance 
 of love. 
 
 Aman. Take heed of trusting to such nice dis- 
 tinctions. 
 
 Love. I did take heed ; for observing in the play, 
 that he who seemed to represent me there was, by 
 an accident like this, unwarily surprised into a net, 
 in which he lay a poor entangled slave, and brought 
 a train of mischiefs on his head, I snatched my eyes 
 away ; they pleaded hard for leave to look again, 
 but I grew absolute, and they obeyed. 
 
 Aman. Were they the only things that were in- 
 quisitive ? Had I been in your place, my tongue, 
 I fancy, had been curious too ; I should have asked 
 her name, and where she lived (yet still without 
 design :) — Who was she, pray ? 
 Love. Indeed I cannot tell. 
 Aman. You will not teli. 
 Love. By all that's sacred then, I did not ask. 
 
 Aman. Nor do you know what company was 
 with her? 
 
 Love. I do not. 
 Aman. Then I am calm again. 
 Love. Why were you disturbed ? 
 Aman. Had I then no cause ? 
 Love. None, certainly. 
 Aman. I thought I had. 
 
 Love. But you thought wrong, Amanda : for 
 turn the case, and let it be your story ; should you 
 come home, and tell me you had seen a handsome 
 man, should I grow jealous because you had eyes ? 
 Aman. But should I tell you he were exquisitely 
 so ; that I had gazed on him with admiration ; that 
 I had looked with eager eyes upon him ; should 
 you not think 'twere possible I might go one step 
 further, and inquire his name ? 
 
 Love. [Aside.] She has reason on her side, I 
 have talked too much ; but I must turn it off an- 
 other way. — {Aloud.'] Will you then make no 
 difference, Amanda, between the language of our 
 sex and yours ? There is a modesty restrains your 
 tongues, which makes you speak by halves when you 
 commend; but roving flattery gives a loose to ours, 
 which makes us still speak double what we think. 
 You should not, therefore, in so strict a sense, take 
 what I said to her advantage. 
 
 Aman. Those flights of flattery, sir, are to our 
 faces only : when women once are out of hearing, 
 you are as modest in your commendations as we 
 are. But I shan't put you to the trouble of farther 
 excuses, if you please this business shall rest here. 
 Only give me leave to wish, both for your peace 
 and mine, that you may never meet this miracle of 
 beauty more. 
 
 Love. I am content. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 Ser. Madam, there's a young lady at the door 
 in a chair, desires to know whether your ladyship 
 sees company. I think her name is Berinthia. 
 
 Aman. O dear ! 'tis a relation I have not seen 
 this five years. Pray her to walk in. — {Exit Ser- 
 vant.] Here's another beauty for you. She was 
 young when I saw her last ; but I hear she's 
 grown extremely handsome. 
 
 Love. Don't you be jealous now ; for I shall 
 gaze upon her too. 
 
 Enter Beiunthia. 
 — Ha ! by Heavens the very woman ! {Aside. 
 
 Ber. [Saluting Amanda.] Dear Amanda, I did 
 not expect to meet with you in town. 
 
 Aman. Sweet cousin, I'm overjoyed to see you. 
 — Mr. Loveless, here's a relation and a friend of 
 mine, I desire you'll be better acquainted with. 
 
 Love. [Saluting Berinthia] If my wife never 
 desires a harder thing, madam, her request will be 
 easily granted. 
 
 Ber. I think, madam, I ought to wish you joy. 
 Aman. Joy ! Upon what ? 
 Ber. Upon your marriage : you were a widow 
 when I saw you last. 
 
 Love. You ought rather, madam, to wish me 
 joy upon that, since I am the only gainer. 
 
 Ber. If she has got so good a husband as the 
 world reports, she has gained enough to expect the 
 compliments of her friends upon it. 
 
 Love. If the world is so favourable to me, to 
 allow I deserve that title, I hope 'tis so just to my 
 wife to own I derive it from her. 
 
THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 309 
 
 Ber. Sir, it is so just to you both, to own you 
 are (and deserve to be) the happiest pair that 
 live in it. 
 
 Love. I'm afraid we shall lose that character, 
 madam, whenever you happen to change your 
 condition. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir, my lord Foppington presents his hum- 
 ble service to you, and desires to know how you 
 do. He but just now heard you were in town. 
 He's at the next door ; and if it be not inconve- 
 nient, he'll come and wait upon you. 
 
 Love. Lord Foppington ! — I know him not. 
 
 Ber. Not his dignity, perhaps, but you do his 
 person. 'Tis sir Novelty ; he has bought a barony, 
 in order to marry a great fortune. His patent has 
 not been passed above eight-and-forty hours, and 
 he has already sent how-do-ye's to all the town, 
 to make 'em acquainted with his title. 
 
 Love. Give my service to his lordship, and let 
 him know I am proud of the honour he intends 
 me. — [Exit Servant.] Sure this addition of qua- 
 lity must have so improved his coxcomb, he can't 
 but be very good company for a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Aman. Now it moves my pity more than my 
 mirth, to see a man whom nature has made no fool, 
 be so very industrious to pass for an ass. 
 
 Love. No, there you are wrong, Amanda ; you 
 should never bestow your pity upon those who 
 take pains for your contempt. Pity those whom 
 nature abuses, but never those who abuse nature. 
 
 Ber. Besides, the town would be robbed of one 
 of its chiefest diversions, if it should become a 
 crime to laugh at a fool. 
 
 Aman. I could never yet perceive the town 
 inclined to part with any of its diversions, for the 
 sake of their being crimes ; but I have seen it very 
 fond of some I think had little else to recom- 
 mend 'em. 
 
 Ber. I doubt, Amanda, you are grown its 
 enemy, you speak with so much warmth against it. 
 
 Aman. I must confess I am not much its friend. 
 
 Ber. Then give me leave to make you mine, by 
 not engaging in its quarrel. 
 
 Aman. You have many stronger claims than 
 that, Berinthia, whenever you think fit to plead 
 your title. 
 
 Love. You have done well to engage a second, 
 my dear ; for here comes one will be apt to call 
 you to an account for your country principles. 
 
 Enter Lord Foppington. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I am your most humble servant. 
 
 Liove. I wish you joy, my lord. 
 
 Lord Fop. O Lard, sir! — Madam, your lady- 
 ship's welcome to tawn. 
 
 Aman. I wish your lordship joy. 
 
 Lord Fop. O Heavens, madam — 
 
 Love. My lord, this young lady is a relation of 
 my wife's. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Saluting Berinthia.] The beau- 
 tifullest race of people upon earth, rat me ! Dear 
 Loveless, I am overjoyed to see you have brought 
 your family to tawn again ; I am, stap my vitals ! 
 [Aside.] For I design to lie with your wife. — 
 [To Amanda.] Far Gad's sake, madam, haw has 
 your ladyship been able to subsist thus long, under 
 the fatigue of a country life ? 
 
 Aman. My life has been very far from that, my 
 lord ; it has been a very quiet one. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, that's the fatigue I speak of, 
 madam. For 'tis impassible to be quiet without 
 thinking ; now thinking is to me the greatest 
 fatigue in the world. 
 
 Aman. Does not your lordship love reading then ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Oh, passionately, madam But I 
 
 never think of what I read. 
 
 Ber. Why, can your loraship read without 
 thinking ? 
 
 Lord Fop. O Lard ! — can your ladyship pray 
 without devotion, madam ? 
 
 Aman. Well, I must own I think books the best 
 entertainment in the world. 
 
 Lord Fop. I am so much of your ladyship's 
 mind, madam, that I have a private gallery, where 
 I walk sometimes, is furnished with nothing but 
 books and looking-glasses. Madam, I have gilded 
 'em, and ranged 'em, so prettily, before Gad, it is 
 the most entertaining thing in the world to walk 
 and look upon 'em. 
 
 Aman. Nay, I love a neat library too ; but 'tis, 
 I think, the inside of a book should recommend it 
 most to us. 
 
 LiOrd Fop. That, I must confess, I am not 
 altogether so fand of. Far to mind the inside of a 
 book, is to entertain one's self with the forced pro- 
 duct of another man's brain. Naw I think a man of 
 quality and breeding may be much better diverted 
 with the natural sprauts of his own. But to say the 
 truth, madam, let a man love reading never so well, 
 when once he comes to know this tawn, he finds so 
 many better ways of passing away the four-and- 
 twenty hours, that 'twere ten thousand pities he 
 should consume his time in that. Far example, 
 madam, my life ; my life, madam, is a perpetual 
 stream of pleasure, that glides through such a 
 variety of entertainments, I believe the wisest of 
 our ancestors never had the least conception of any 
 of 'em. I rise, madam, about ten a-clack. I don't 
 rise sooner, because 'tis the worst thing in the 
 world for the complexion ; nat that I pretend to be 
 a beau ; but a man must endeavour to look whole- 
 some, lest he make so nauseous a figure in the side- 
 bax, the ladies should be compelled to turn their 
 eyes upon the play. So at ten a-clack, I say, I 
 rise. Naw, if I find it a good day, I resalve to 
 take a turn in the Park, and see the fine women ; 
 so huddle on my clothes, and get dressed by one. 
 If it be nasty weather, I take a turn in the choco- 
 late-hause : where as you walk, madam, you have 
 the prettiest prospect in the world ; you have look- 
 ing-glasses all round you. — But I'm afraid I tire 
 the company. 
 
 Ber. Not at all. Pray go on. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why then, ladies, from thence I go 
 to dinner at Lacket's, where you are so nicely 
 and delicately served, that, stap my vitals ! they 
 shall compose you a dish no bigger than a saucer, 
 shall come to fifty shillings. Between eating my 
 dinner (and washing my mouth, ladies) I spend my 
 time, till I go to the play ; where, till nine a-clack, 
 I entertain myself with looking upon the company; 
 and usually dispose of one hour more in leading 
 them aut. So there's twelve of the four-and- 
 twenty pretty well over. The other twelve, madam, 
 are disposed of in two articles : in the first four I 
 toast myself drunk, and in t'other eight I sleep 
 myself sober again. Thus, ladies, you see my life 
 is an eternal raund O of delights. 
 
 Love. 'Tis a heavenly one, indeed. 
 
310 
 
 THE RELAPSE : OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 Aman. But I thought, my lord, you beaux spent 
 a great deal of your time in intrigues : you have 
 given us no account of 'em yet. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.] Soh ; she would inquire 
 into my amours — That's jealousy : — she begins to 
 be in love with me. — [ To Amanda] Why, madam, 
 as to time for my intrigues, I usually make detach- 
 ments of it from my other pleasures, according to 
 the exigency. Far your ladyship may please to 
 take notice, that those who intrigue with women of 
 quality, have rarely occasion for above half an hour 
 at a time : people of that rank being under those 
 decorums, they can seldom give you a langer view 
 than will just serve to shoot 'em flying. So that 
 the course of my other pleasures is not very much 
 interrupted by my amours. 
 
 Love. But your lordship is now become a pillar 
 of the state ; you must attend the weighty affairs 
 of the nation. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, — as to weighty affairs — I leave 
 them to weighty heads. I never intend mine shall 
 be a burden to my body. 
 
 Love. O but you'll find the house will expect 
 your attendance. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, you'll find the house will com- 
 pound for my appearance. 
 
 Love. But your friends will take it ill if you 
 don't attend their particular causes. 
 
 Lord Fop. Not, sir, if I come time enough to 
 give 'em my particular vote. 
 
 Ber. But pray, my lord, how do you dispose of 
 yourself on Sundays ? for that, methinks, should 
 hang wretchedly on your hands. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why faith, madam — Sunday — is a 
 vile day, I must confess. I intend to move for 
 leave to bring in a bill, that players may work upon 
 it, as well as the hackney coaches. Though this I 
 must say for the government, it leaves us the 
 churches to entertain us. — But then again, they 
 begin so abominable early, a man must rise by 
 candle-light to get dressed by the psalm. 
 
 Ber. Pray which church does your lordship most 
 oblige with your presence ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Oh, St. James's, madam : — there's 
 much the best company. 
 
 Aman. Is there good preaching too ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Why faith, madam — I can't tell. A 
 man must have very little to do there that can give 
 an account of the sermon. 
 
 Ber. You can give us an account of the ladies 
 at least. 
 
 Lord Fop. Or I deserve to be excommunicated. 
 — There is my lady Tattle, my lady Prate, my lady 
 Titter, my lady Leer, my lady Giggle, and my lady 
 Grin. These sit in the front of the boxes, and all 
 church-time are the prettiest company in the world, 
 stap my vitals ! — [To Amanda.] Mayn't we hope 
 for the honour to see your ladyship added to our 
 society, madam ? 
 
 Aman. Alas, my lord ! I am the worst company 
 in the world at church : I'm apt to mind the 
 prayers, or the sermon, or — 
 
 Lord Fop. One is indeed strangely apt at church 
 to mind what one should not do. But I hope, 
 madam, at one time or other, I shall have the 
 honour to lead your ladyship to your coach there. — 
 [Aside.] Methinks she seems strangely pleased 
 with everything I say to her. — 'Tis a vast pleasure 
 to receive encouragement from a woman before her 
 husband's face. — I have a good mind to pursue my 
 
 conquest, and speak the thing plainly to her at once, 
 Egad I'll do't, and that in so cavalier a manner, 
 she shall be surprised at it. — [Aloud.] Ladies, I'll 
 take my leave ; I'm afraid I begin to grow trouble- 
 some with the length of my visit. 
 
 Aman. Your lordship's too entertaining to grow 
 troublesome anywhere. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.] That now was as much as if 
 she had said — pray lie with me. I'll let her see I'm 
 quick of apprehension. — [To Amanda.] O Lard, 
 madam ! I had like to have forgot a secret, I must 
 needs tell your ladyship. — [To Loveless.] Ned, 
 you must not be so jealous now as to listen. 
 
 Love. Not I, my lord ; I'm too fashionable a 
 husband to pry into the secrets of my wife. 
 
 Lord Fop. [ To Amanda, squeezing her hand. ] 
 I am in love with you to desperation, strike me 
 speechless ! 
 
 Aman. [Giving him a box on the ear.] Then, 
 thus I return your passion. — An impudent fool ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Gads curse, madam, I'm a peer of the 
 realm ! 
 
 Love. Hey ; what the devil do you affront my 
 wife, sir ? Nay then — 
 
 [They draw and fight. The ladies run shrieking 
 for help. 
 
 Aman. Ah ! What has my folly done ! Help ! 
 murder ! help ! part 'em for Heaven's sake. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Falling back, and leaning upon his 
 sword.] Ah — quite through the body ! — stap my 
 vitals ! 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Love. [Running to him.] I hope I han't killed the 
 fool however. — Bear him up — Where's your wound? 
 
 Lord Fop. Just through the guts. 
 
 Love. Call a surgeon there. — Unbutton him 
 quickly. 
 
 Lord Fop. Ay, pray make haste. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Love. This mischief you may thank yourself for. 
 
 Lord Fop. I may so — love's the devil indeed, 
 Ned. 
 
 Re-enter Servant with Syringe. 
 
 Ser. Here's Mr. Syringe, sir, was just going by 
 the door. 
 
 Lord Fop. He's the welcomest man alive. 
 
 Syr. Stand by, stand ' by, stand by ! Pray, 
 gentlemen, stand by. Lord have mercy upon us ! 
 did you never see a man run through the body 
 before ? pray, stand by. 
 
 Lord Fop. Ah, Mr. Syringe — I'm a dead man ! 
 
 Syr. A dead man and I by ! — I should laugh to 
 see that, egad! 
 
 Love. Prithee don't stand prating, but look upon 
 his wound. 
 
 Syr. Why, what if I won't look upon his wound 
 this hour, sir ? 
 
 Love. Why then he'll bleed to death, sir. 
 
 Syr. Why, then I'll fetch him to life again, sir. 
 
 Love. 'Slife, he's run through the guts, I tell 
 thee. 
 
 Syr. Would he were run through the heart, I 
 should get the more credit by his cure. Now I 
 hope you are satisfied ? — Come, now let me come 
 at him ; now let me come at him. — [Viewing his 
 wound.] Oons, what a gash is here ! — Why, sir, a 
 man may drive a coach and six horses into your 
 body 
 
 Lord Fop. Ho ! 
 
 Syr. Why, what the devil, have you run the 
 
THE RELAPSE : OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 311 
 
 gentleman through with a scythe ? — [Aside.'] A 
 little prick between the skin and the ribs, that's all. 
 
 Love. Let me see his wound. 
 
 Syr. Then you shall dress it, sir ; for if anybody 
 looks upon it, I won't. 
 
 Love. Why, thou art the veriest coxcomb I ever 
 saw. 
 
 Syr. Sir, I am not master of my trade for 
 nothing. 
 
 Lord Fop. Surgeon ! 
 
 Syr. Well, sir. 
 
 Lord Fop. Is there any hopes ? 
 
 Syr. Hopes ! — I can't tell — What are you will- 
 ing to give for your cure ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Five hundred paunds with pleasure. 
 
 Syr. Why then perhaps there may be hopes. 
 But we must avoid further delay. — Here ; help the 
 gentleman into a chair, and carry him to my house 
 presently, that's the properest place — [Aside] to 
 bubble him out of his money. — [Aloud.] Come, a 
 chair, a chair quickly — there, in with him. 
 
 [They put Mm into a chair. 
 
 Lord Fop. Dear Loveless — adieu ! If I die — I 
 forgive thee ; and if I live — I hope thou wilt do as 
 much by me. I am very sorry you and I should 
 quarrel ; but I hope here's an end on't, for if you 
 are satisfied — I am. 
 
 Love. I shall hardly think it worth my prosecut- 
 ing any further, so you may be at rest, sir. 
 
 Lord Fop. Thou art a generous fellow, strike 
 me dumb ! — [Aside.] But thou hast an impertinent 
 wife, stap my vitals ! 
 
 Syr. So, carry him off ! carry him off ! we shall 
 have him prate himself into a fever by-and-by ; 
 carry him off. [Exit with Lord Foppington. 
 
 Aman. Now on my knees, my dear, let me ask 
 your pardon for my indiscretion, my own I never 
 shall obtain. 
 
 Love. Oh, there's no harm done : you served 
 him well. 
 
 Aman. He did indeed deserve it. But I trem- 
 ble to think how dear my indiscreet resentment 
 might have cost you. 
 
 Love. Oh, no matter, never trouble yourself 
 about that. 
 
 Ber. For Heaven's sake, what was't he did to 
 you ? 
 
 Aman. O nothing ; he only squeezed me kindly 
 by the hand, and frankly offered me a coxcomb's 
 heart. I know I was to blame to resent it as I did, 
 since nothing but a quarrel could ensue. But the 
 fool so surprised me with his insolence, I was not 
 mistress of my fingers. 
 
 Ber. Now, I dare swear, he thinks you had 'em 
 at great command, they obeyed you so readily. 
 
 Enter Worthy. 
 
 Wor. Save you, save you, good people : I'm 
 glad to find you all alive ; I met a wounded peer 
 carrying off. For Heaven's sake, what was the 
 matter. 
 
 Love. Oh, a trifle ! He would have lain with 
 my wife before my face, so she obliged him with a 
 box o'th' ear, and I run him through the body : 
 that was all. 
 
 Wor. Bagatelle on all sides. But, pray madam, 
 how long has this noble lord been a humble servant 
 of yours ? 
 
 Aman. This is the first I have heard on't. So, 
 I suppose, 'tis his quality more than his love has 
 
 brought him into this adventure. He thinks his 
 title an authentic passport to every woman's heart 
 below the degree of a peeress. 
 
 Wor. He's coxcomb enough to think anything. 
 But I would not have you brought into trouble for 
 him : I hope there's no danger of his life ? 
 
 Love. None at all. He's fallen into the hands 
 of a roguish surgeon, who I perceive designs to 
 frighten a little money out of him. But I saw his 
 wound, 'tis nothing ; he may go to the play to-night, 
 if he pleases. 
 
 Wor. I am glad you have corrected him with- 
 out farther mischief. And now, sir, if these ladies 
 have no farther service for you, you'll oblige me if 
 you can go to the place I spoke to you of t'other 
 day. 
 
 Love. With all my heart. — [Aside.] Though I 
 could wish, methinks, to stay and gaze a little 
 longer on that creature. Good gods, how beau- 
 tiful she is ! — But what have I to do with beauty ? 
 I have already had my portion, and must not covet 
 more. — [Aloud.] Come, sir, when you please. 
 
 Wor. Ladies, your servant. 
 
 Aman. Mr. Loveless, pray one word with you 
 before you go. 
 
 Love. [To Worthy.] I'll overtake you, sir. — 
 [Exit Worthy.] What would my dear ? 
 
 Aman. Only a woman's foolish question, — how 
 do you like my cousin here ? 
 
 Love. Jealous already, Amanda ? 
 
 Aman. Not at all, I ask you for another reason. 
 
 Love. [Aside.] Whate'er her reason be, I must 
 not tell her true. — [ To Amanda.] Wby, I confess 
 she's handsome. But you must not think I slight 
 your kinswoman, if I own to you, of all the women 
 who may claim that character, she is the last would 
 triumph in my heart. 
 
 Aman. I'm satisfied. 
 
 Love. Now tell me why you asked ? 
 
 Aman. At night I will. Adieu. 
 
 Love. I'm yours. [Kisses her and exit. 
 
 Aman. [Aside.] I'm glad to find he does not 
 like her ; for I have a great mind to persuade her 
 to come and live with me. — [Aloud.] Now, dear 
 Berinthia, let me inquire a little into your affairs : 
 for I do assure you I am enough your friend to 
 interest myself in everything that concerns you. 
 
 Ber. You formerly have given me such proofs 
 on't I should be very much to blame to doubt it ; 
 I am sorry I have no secrets to trust you with, that 
 I might convince you how entire a confidence I 
 durst repose in you. 
 
 Aman. Why, is it possible that one so young 
 and beautiful as you should live and have no 
 secrets. 
 
 Ber. What secrets do you mean ? 
 
 Aman. Lovers. 
 
 Ber. Oh, twenty ! but not one secret one amongst 
 'em. Lovers in this age have too much honour to 
 do anything underhand ; they do all aboveboard. 
 
 Aman. That now, methinks, would make me 
 hate a man. 
 
 Ber. But the women of the town are of another 
 mind : for by this means a lady may (with the 
 expense of a few coquette glances) lead twenty fools 
 about in a string for two or three years together. 
 Whereas, if she should allow 'em greater favours, 
 and oblige 'em to secrecy, she would not keep one 
 of 'em a fortnight. 
 
 Aman. There's something indeed in that to 
 
312 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 satisfy the vanity of a woman, but I can't compre- 
 hend how the men find their account in it. 
 
 Ber. Their entertainment, I must confess, is a 
 riddle to me. For there's very few of them ever 
 get farther than a bow and an ogle. I have half a 
 score for my share, who follow me all over the 
 town ; and at the play, the Park, and the church, 
 do (with their eyes) say the violentest things to 
 me. — But 1 never hear any more of 'em. 
 
 Aman. What can be the reason of that ? 
 
 Ber. One reason is, they don't know how to go 
 farther. They have had so little practice, they don't 
 understand the trade. But, besides their igno- 
 rance, you must know there is not one of my half 
 score lovers but what follows half a score mistresses. 
 Now, their affections being divided amongst so 
 many, are not strong enough for any one to make 
 'em pursue her to the purpose. Like a young 
 puppy in a warren, they have a flirt at all, and 
 catch none. 
 
 Aman. Yet they seem to have a torrent of love 
 to dispose of. 
 
 Ber. They have so. But 'tis like the river of a 
 modern philosopher, (whose works, though a 
 woman, I have read,) it sets out with a violent 
 stream, splits in a thousand branches, and is all 
 lost in the sands. 
 
 Aman. But do you think this river of love runs 
 all its course without doing any mischief? Do 
 you think it overflows nothing ? 
 
 Ber. O yes ; 'tis true, it never breaks into any- 
 body's ground that has the least fence about it ; 
 but it overflows all the commons that lie in its 
 way. And this is the utmost achievement of those 
 dreadful champions in the field of love — the beaux. 
 
 Aman. But prithee, Berinthia, instruct me a 
 little farther ; for I am so great a novice I'm 
 almost ashamed on't. My husband's leaving me 
 whilst I was young and fond threw me into that 
 depth of discontent, that ever since I have led so 
 private and recluse a life, my ignorance is scarce 
 conceivable. I therefore fain would be instructed. 
 Not (Heaven knows) that what you call intrigues 
 have any charms for me ; my love and principles 
 are too well fixed. The practic part of all unlaw- 
 ful love is — 
 
 Ber. Oh, 'tis abominable ! But for the specu- 
 lative ; that we must all confess is entertaining. 
 The conversation of all the virtuous women in the 
 town turns upon that and new clothes. 
 
 Aman. Pray be so just then to me to believe, 
 'tis with a world of innocency I would inquire, 
 whether you think those women we call women of 
 reputation, do really 'scape all other men, as they 
 do those shadows of 'em, the beaux. 
 
 Ber. O no, Amanda; there are a sort of men 
 make dreadful work amongst 'em : men that may 
 be called the beaux antipathy ; for they agree in 
 nothing but walking upon two legs. — These have 
 brains, the beau has none. These are in love with 
 their mistress, the beau with himself. They take 
 care of her reputation, he's industrious to destroy 
 it. They are decent, he's a fop. They are sound, 
 he's rotten. They are men, he's an ass. 
 
 Aman. If this be their character, 1 fancy we 
 had here e'en now a pattern of 'em both. 
 
 Ber. His lordship and Mr. Worthy ? 
 
 Aman. The same. 
 
 Ber. As for the lord, he's eminently so ; and 
 for the other, I can assure you, there's not a man 
 
 in town who has a better interest with the women, 
 that are worth having an interest with. But 'tis 
 all private: he's like a back-stair minister at 
 court, who, whilst the reputed favourites are 
 sauntering in the bedchamber, is ruling the roast 
 in the closet. 
 
 Aman. He answers then the opinion I had 
 ever of him. Heavens ! What a difference there 
 is between a man like him, and that vain nauseous 
 fop, sir Novelty. — [Taking her hand.~\ I must 
 acquaint you with a secret, cousin. 'Tis not that 
 fool alone has talked to me of love, Worthy has 
 been tampering too. 'Tis true, he has done it in 
 vain : not all his charms or art have power to 
 shake me. My love, my duty, and my virtue, are 
 such faithful guards, I need not fear my heart 
 should e'er betray me. But what I wonder at is 
 this : I find I did not start at his proposal, as when 
 it came from one whom I contemned. I therefore 
 mention this attempt, that I may learn from you 
 whence it proceeds ; that vice (which cannot 
 change its nature) should so far change at least its 
 shape, as that the self-same crime proposed from 
 one shall seem a monster gaping at your ruin ; 
 when from another it shall look so kind, as though 
 it were your friend, and never meant to harm you. 
 Whence, think you, can this difference proceed ? 
 For 'tis not love, Heaven knows. 
 
 Ber. O no ; I would not for the world believe 
 it were. But possibly, should there a dreadful 
 sentence pass upon you, to undergo the rage of 
 both their passions ; the pain you apprehend from 
 one might seem so trivial to the other, the danger 
 would not quite so much alarm you. 
 
 Aman. Fy, fy, Berinthia ! you would indeed 
 alarm me, could you incline me to a thought, that 
 all the merit of mankind combined could shake 
 that tender love I bear my husband. No, he sits 
 triumphant in my heart, and nothing can dethrone 
 him. 
 
 Ber. But should he abdicate again, do you 
 think you should preserve the vacant throne ten 
 tedious winters more in hopes of his return ? 
 
 Aman. Indeed I think I should. Though I 
 confess, after those obligations he has to me, 
 should he abandon me once more, my heart would 
 grow extremely urgent with me to root him thence, 
 and cast him out for ever. 
 
 Ber. Were I that thing they call a slighted wife, 
 somebody should run the risk of being that thing 
 they call — a husband. 
 
 Aman. O fy, Berinthia ! no revenge should 
 ever be taken against a husband. But to wrong 
 his bed is a vengeance, which of all vengeance — 
 
 Ber. Is the sweetest, ha ! ha ! ha ! Don't I 
 talk madly ? 
 
 Aman. Madly indeed. 
 
 Ber. Yet I'm very innocent. 
 
 Aman. That I dare swear you are. I know 
 how to make allowances for your humour : you 
 were always very entertaining company ; but I 
 find since marriage and widowhood have shown 
 you the world a little, you are very much improved. 
 
 Ber. [Aside.'] Alack a-day, there has gone 
 more than that to improve me, if she knew all ! 
 
 Aman. For Heaven's sake, Berinthia, tell me 
 what way I shall take to persuade you to come 
 and live with me ? 
 
 Ber. Why, one way in the world there is — and 
 but one. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE RELAPSE: OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 313 
 
 Aman. Pray which is that ? 
 
 Ber. It is to assure me — I shall be very wel- 
 come. 
 
 Aman. If that be all, you shall e'en lie here to- 
 night. 
 
 Ber. To-night ! 
 
 Aman. Yes, to-night. 
 
 Ber. Why, the people where I lodge will think 
 me mad. 
 
 Aman. Let 'em think what they please. 
 
 Ber . Say you so, Amanda ? Why then they 
 shall think what they please : for I'm a young 
 widow, and I care not what anybody thinks. Ah, 
 Amanda, it's a delicious thing to be a young widow ! 
 
 Aman. You'll hardly make me think so. 
 
 Ber. Phu ! because you are in love with your hus- 
 band : but that is rot every woman's case. 
 
 Aman. I hope 'twas yours at least. 
 
 Ber. Mine, say ye ? Now I have a great mind 
 to tell you a lie, but I should do it so awkwardly 
 you'd find me out. 
 
 Aman. Then e'en speak the truth. 
 
 Ber. Shall I ?— Then after all I did love him, 
 Amanda — as a nun does penance. 
 
 Aman. Why did not you refuse to marry him, 
 then 
 
 Ber. Because my mother wouldhave whipped me. 
 
 Aman. How did you live together ? 
 
 Ber. Like man and wife, asunder. — He loved 
 the country, I the town. He hawks and hounds, 
 I coaches and equipage. He eating and drinking, 
 I carding and playing. He the sound of a horn, I 
 the squeak of a fiddle. We were dull company at 
 table, worse a-bed. Whenever we met, we gave 
 one another the spleen ; and never agreed but once, 
 which was about lying alone. 
 
 Aman. But tell me one thing truly and sincerely. 
 
 Ber. What's that ? 
 
 Aman. Notwithstanding all these jars, did not 
 his death at last extremely trouble you ? 
 
 Ber. O yes. Not that my present pangs were 
 
 so very violent, but the after-pains were intolerable. 
 I was forced to wear a beastly widow's band a 
 twelvemonth for't. 
 
 Aman. Women, I find, have different inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 Ber. Women, I find, keep different company. 
 When your husband ran away from you, if you had 
 fallen into some of my acquaintance, 'twould have 
 saved you many a tear. But you go and live with 
 a grandmother, a bishop, and an old nurse ; which 
 was enough to make any woman break her heart 
 for her husband. Pray, Amanda, if ever you are a 
 widow again, keep yourself so, as I do. 
 
 Aman. Why ! do you then resolve you'll never 
 marry ? 
 
 Ber. O, no ; I resolve I will. 
 
 Aman. How so ? 
 
 Ber. That I never may. 
 
 Aman. You banter me. 
 
 Ber. Indeed I don't. But I consider I'm a 
 woman, and form my resolutions accordingly. 
 
 Aman. Well, my opinion is, form what resolu- 
 tion you will, matrimony will be the end on't. 
 
 Ber. Faith it \.on't. 
 
 Aman. How do you know? 
 
 Ber. I am sure on't. 
 
 Aman. Why, do you think 'tis impossible for 
 you to fall in love ? 
 
 Ber. No. 
 
 Aman. Nay, but to grow so passionately fond, 
 that nothing butthe man you love can give you rest. 
 
 Ber. Well, what then ? 
 
 Aman. Why then you'll marry him. 
 
 Ber. How do you know that % 
 
 Aman. Why, what can you do else ? 
 
 Ber. Nothing — but sit and cry. 
 
 Aman. Psha ! 
 
 Ber. Ah, poor Amanda ! you have led a country 
 life : but if you'll consult the widows of this town, 
 they'll tell you, you should never take a lease of a 
 house you can hire for a quarter's warning. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Lord Foppington's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lord Foppington and Servant. 
 
 Lord Fop. Hey, fellow, let the coach come to 
 the door. 
 
 Ser. Will your lordship venture so soon to expose 
 yourself to the weather ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I will venture as soon as I can, 
 to expose myself to the ladies ; though give me my 
 cloak, however ; for in that side-box, what between 
 the air that comes in at the door on one side, and 
 the intolerable warmth of the masks on t'other, 
 a man gets so many heats and colds, 'twould destroy 
 the canstitution of a harse. 
 
 Ser. [Putting on his cloak.] I wish your lord- 
 ship would please to keep house a little longer ; I'm 
 afraid your honour does not well consider your 
 wound. 
 
 Lord Fop. My wound !— I would not be in 
 eclipse another day, though I had as many wounds 
 in my guts as I have had in my heart. {Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter Tom Fashion. 
 
 Fash. Brother, your servant. How do you find 
 yourself to-day ? 
 
 Lord Fop. So well, that I have ardered my 
 coach to the door : so there's no great danger of 
 death this baut, Tarn. 
 
 Fash. I'm very glad of it. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.] That I believe's a lie. — 
 [Aloud.] Prithee, Tarn, tell me one thing : did not 
 your heart cut a caper up to your mauth, when you 
 heard I was run through the bady ? 
 
 Fash. Why do you think it should ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Because I remember mine did so, 
 when I heard my father was shat through the 
 head. 
 
 Fash. It then did very ill. 
 
 Lord Fop. Prithee, why so ? 
 
 Fash. Because he used you very well. 
 
 Lord Fop. Well ? — naw, strike me dumb ! he 
 starved me. He has let me want a thausand wo- 
 men for want of a thausand paund. 
 
 Fash. Then he hindered you from making a 
 
314 
 
 THE RELAPSE ■ OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 great many ill bargains, for I think no woman is 
 worth money that will take money. 
 
 Lord Fop. If I were a younger brother, I should 
 think so too. 
 
 Fash. Why, is it possible you can value a wo- 
 man that's to be bought ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Prithee, why not as well as a pad- 
 nag ? 
 
 Fash. Because a woman has a heart to dispose 
 of; a horse has none. 
 
 Lord Fop. Look you, Tarn, of all things that 
 belang to a woman, I have an aversion to her heart. 
 Far when once a woman has given you her heart — 
 you can never get rid of the rest of her bady. 
 
 Fash. This is strange doctrine. But pray in 
 your amours how is it with your own heart ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, my heart in my amours — is 
 like — my heart aut of my amours ; a la glace. My 
 bady, Tarn, is a watch ; and my heart is the pen- 
 dulum to it ; whilst the finger runs raund to 
 every hour in the circle, that still beats the same 
 time. 
 
 Fash. Then you are seldom much in love ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Never, stap my vitals ! 
 
 Fash. Why then did you make all this bustle 
 about Amanda ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Because she was a woman of an inso- 
 lent virtue, and I thought myself piqued in honour 
 to debauch her. 
 
 Fash. Very well. — [Aside.] Here's a rare fellow 
 for you, to have the spending of five thousand 
 pounds a year ! But now for my business with 
 him — [Aloud.'] Brother, though I know to talk 
 to you of business (especially of money) is a theme 
 not quite so entertaining to you as that of the 
 ladies ; my necessities are such, I hope you'll have 
 patience to hear me. 
 
 Lord Fop. The greatness of your necessities, 
 Tarn, is the worst argument in the world for your 
 being patiently heard. I do believe you are going 
 to make me a very good speech, but, strike me 
 dumb ! it has the worst beginning of any speech 
 I have heard this twelvemonth. 
 
 Fash. I'm very sorry you think so. 
 
 Lord Fop. I do believe thou art. But come, 
 let's know thy affair quickly ; far 'tis a new play, 
 and I shall be so rum.pled and squeezed with 
 pressing through the crawd, to get to my servant, 
 the women will think I have lain all night in my 
 clothes. 
 
 Fash. Why then (that I may not be the author 
 of so great a misfortune) my case in a word is this. 
 The necessary expenses of my travels have so 
 much exceeded the wretched income of my annuity, 
 that I have been forced to mortgage it for five 
 hundred pounds, which is spent ; so that unless 
 you are so kind to assist me in redeeming it, I 
 know no remedy but to take a purse. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, faith, Tarn — to give you my 
 sense of the thing, I do think taking a purse the 
 best remedy in the world : for if you sxicceed, you 
 are relieved that way ; if you are taken — you are 
 relieved t'other. 
 
 Fash. I'm glad to see you are in so pleasant a 
 humour, 1 hope I shall find the effects on't. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, do you then really think it a 
 reasonable thing I should give you five hundred 
 paunds ? 
 
 Fash. I do not ask it as a due. brother, I am 
 willing to receive it as a favour. 
 
 Lord Fop. Thau art willing to receive it any 
 haw, strike me speechless ! But these are damned 
 times to give money in, taxes are so great, repairs 
 so exorbitant, tenants such rogues, and periwigs 
 so dear, that the devil take me, I am reduced to 
 that extremity in my cash, I have been farced to 
 retrench in that one article of sweet pawder, till 
 I have braught it dawn to five guineas a manth. 
 Naw judge, Tarn, whether I can spare you five 
 hundred paunds. 
 
 Fash. If you can't I must starve, that's all. — 
 [Aside.] Damn him ! 
 
 Lord Fop. All I can say is, you should have 
 been a better husband. 
 
 Fash. Oons, if you can't live upon five thou- 
 sand a year, how do you think I should do't upon 
 two hundred ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Don't be in a passion, Tarn, far 
 passion is the most unbecoming thing in the 
 world — to the face. Look you, I don't love to 
 say anything to you to make you malancholy ; 
 but upon this occasion I must take leave to put 
 you in mind, that a running horse does require 
 more attendance than a coach-horse. Nature has 
 made some difference 'twixt you and I. 
 
 Fash. Yes, she has made you older. — [Aside.] 
 Pox take her ! 
 
 lord Fop. That is nat all, Tarn. 
 
 Fash. Why, what is there else ? 
 
 Lord Fop. [Looking first upon himself, then 
 upon his brother.] A.sk the ladies. 
 
 Fash. Why, thou essence-bottle ! thou musk 
 cat ! dost thou then think thou hast any advantage 
 over me, but what Fortune has given thee 1 
 
 Lord Fop. I do — stap my vitals ! 
 
 Fash. Now, by all that's great and powerful, 
 thou art the prince of coxcombs ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir — I am praud of being at the 
 head of so prevailing a party. 
 
 Fash. Will nothing then provoke thee ? Draw, 
 coward ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Look you, Tarn, you know I have 
 always taken you for a mighty dull fellow, and 
 here is one of the foolishest plats broke out that 
 I have seen a long time. Your paverty makes 
 your life so burdensome to you, you would pro- 
 voke me to a quarrel, in hopes either to slip 
 through my lungs into my estate, or to get your- 
 self run through the guts, to put an end to your 
 pain. But I will disappoint you in both your 
 designs ; far, with the temper of a philasapher, and 
 the discretion of a statesman — I will go to the play 
 with my sword in my scabbard. [Exit. 
 
 Fash. So ! Farewell, snuff-box ! and now, 
 conscience, I defy thee. — Lory ! 
 
 Enter Lory. 
 
 Lory. Sir ! 
 
 Fash. Here's rare news, Lory ; his lordship has 
 given me a pill has purged off all my scruples. 
 
 Lory. Then my heart's at ease again. For I 
 have been in a lamentable fright, sir, ever since 
 your conscience had the impudence to intrude into 
 your company. 
 
 Fash. Be at peace, it will come there no more : 
 my brother has given it a wring by the nose, and 
 I have kicked it down stairs. So run away to 
 the inn ; get the horses ready quickly, and 
 bring 'em to old Coupler's, without a moment's 
 delay. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 316 
 
 Lory. Then, sir, you are going straight about 
 the fortune ? 
 
 Fash. I am. Away ! fly, Lory ! 
 
 Lory. The happiest day I ever saw. I'm upon 
 the wing already. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Garden adjoining Loveless's 
 Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Loveless and Servant. 
 
 Love. Is my wife within ? 
 
 Ser. No, sir, she has been gone out this half 
 hour. 
 
 Love. 'Tis well, leave me. [Exit Servant.] 
 Sure fate has yet some business to be done, 
 Before Amanda's heart and mine must rest ; 
 Else, why amongst those legions of her sex, 
 Which throng the world, 
 Should she pick out for her companion 
 The only one on earth 
 
 Whom nature has endow'd for her undoing ? 
 Undoing, was't, I said ! — who shall undo her ? 
 Is not her empire fix'd ? am I not hers ? 
 Did she not rescue me, a grovelling slave, 
 When chain' d and bound by that black tyrant vice, 
 I labour'd in his vilest drudgery ? 
 Did she not ransom me, and set me free ? 
 Nay more : when by my follies sunk 
 To a poor tatter' d despicable beggar, 
 Did she not lift me up to envied fortune ! 
 Give me herself, and all that she possess'd ? 
 Without a thought of more return, 
 Than what a poor repenting heart might make her. 
 Han't she done this ? And if she has, 
 Am I not strongly bound to love her for it ? 
 To love her ! — why do I not love her then ? 
 By earth and heaven I do ! 
 Nay, I have demonstration that I do : 
 For I would sacrifice my life to serve her. 
 Yet hold — if laying down my life 
 Be demonstration of my love, 
 What is't I feel in favour of Berinthia ? 
 For should she be in danger, methinks I could 
 incline to risk it for her service too ; and yet I 
 do not love her. How then subsists my proof? — 
 Oh, I have found it out ! What I would do for 
 one, is demonstration of my love ; and if I'd do as 
 much for t'other : it there is demonstration of my 
 friendship — Ay — it must be so. I find I'm very 
 much her friend. Yet let me ask myself one puz- 
 zling question more : Whence springs this mighty 
 friendship all at once % For our acquaintance is of 
 later date. Now friendship's said to be a plant of 
 tedious growth, its root composed of tender fibres, 
 nice in their taste, cautious in spreading, 
 Check'd with the least corruption in the soil ; 
 Long ere it take, 
 
 And longer still ere it appear to do so : 
 Whilst mine is in a moment shot so high, 
 And fix'd so fast, 
 
 It seems beyond the power of storms to shake it. 
 I doubt it thrives too fast. [Musing. 
 
 Enter Berinthia. 
 
 Ah, she here ! — Nay, then take heed my heart, 
 for there are dangers towards. 
 
 Ber. What makes you look so thoughtful, sir ? 
 I hope you are not ill. 
 
 Love. I was debating, madam, whether I was 
 so or not ; and that was it which made me look 
 so thoughtful. 
 
 Ber. Is it then so hard a matter to decide ? I 
 thought all people had been acquainted with their 
 own bodies, though few people know their own 
 minds. 
 
 hove. What if the distemper, I suspect, be in 
 the mind ? 
 
 Ber. Why then I'll undertake to prescribe you 
 a cure. 
 
 Love. Alas ! you undertake you know not what. 
 
 Ber. So far at least then allow me to be a 
 physician. 
 
 Love. Nay, I'll allow you so yet further : for I 
 have reason to believe, should I put myself into 
 your hands, you would increase my distemper. 
 
 Ber. Perhaps I might have reasons from the 
 college not to be too quick in your cure ; but 'tis 
 possible I might find ways to give you often ease, 
 sir. 
 
 Love. Were I but sure of that, I'd quickly lay 
 my case before you. 
 
 Ber. Whether you are sure of it or no, what 
 risk do you run in trying ? 
 
 Love. Oh ! a very great one. 
 
 Ber. How ? 
 
 Love. You might betray my distemper to my 
 wife. 
 
 Ber. And so lose all my practice. 
 
 Love. Will you then keep my secret ? 
 
 Ber. I will, if it don't burst me. 
 
 Love. Swear. 
 
 Ber. I do. 
 
 Love. By what ? 
 
 Ber. By woman. 
 
 Love. That's swearing by my deity. Do it by 
 your own, or I shan't believe you. 
 
 Ber. By man then. 
 
 Love. I'm satisfied. Now hear my symptoms, 
 and give me your advice. The first were these : 
 When 'twas my chance to see you at the play, 
 A random glance you threw at first alarm 'd me, 
 I could not turn my eyes from whence the danger 
 
 came : 
 I gazed upon you fill you shot again, 
 And then my fears came on me. 
 My heart began to pant, my limbs to tremble, 
 My blood grew thin, my pulse beat quick, my eyes 
 Grew hot and dim, and all the frame of nature 
 Shook with apprehension. 
 'Tis true, some small recruits of resolution 
 My manhood brought to my assistance ; 
 And by their help I made a stand a while, 
 But found at last your arrows flew so thick, 
 They could not fail to pierce me ; so left the field, 
 And fled for shelter to Amanda's arms. 
 What think you of these symptoms, pray ? 
 
 Ber. Feverish every one of 'em. 
 But what relief pray did your wife afford you ? 
 
 Love. Why, instantly she let me blood ; 
 Which for the present much assuaged my fl'ame. 
 But when I saw you, out it burst again, 
 And raged with greater fury than before. 
 Nay, since you now appear, 'tis so increased, 
 That in a moment, if you do not help me, 
 I shall, whilst you look on, consume to ashes. 
 
 [TaRes hold of her hand. 
 
316 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 Ber. [Breaking from him.] O Lard, let me go ? 
 'Tis the plague, and we shall all be infected. 
 
 Love. [Catching her in his arms, and kissing 
 her.] Then we'll die together, my charming angel ! 
 
 Ber. O Ged — the devil's in you ! — Lord, let 
 me go, here's somebody coming. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir, my lady's come home, and desires to 
 speak with you : she's in her chamber. 
 
 Love. Tell her I'm coming. — [Exit Servant.] 
 But before I go, one glass of nectar more to drink 
 her health. 
 
 Ber. Stand off, or I shall hate you, by Heavens ! 
 
 Love. [Kissing her.] In matters of love, a wo- 
 man's oath is no more to be minded than a man's. 
 
 Ber. Um — 
 
 Enter "Worthy. 
 
 Wor. [Aside.] Ha ! what's here ? my old mis- 
 tress, and so close, i' faith ! I would not spoil her 
 sport for the universe. [Exit. 
 
 Ber. O Ged ! — Now do I pray to Heaven, — 
 [Exit Loveless running] with all my heart and 
 soul, that the devil in hell may take me, if ever — I 
 was better pleased in my life ! — This man has 
 bewitched me, that's certain. — [Sighing.] "Well, I 
 am condemned ; but, thanks to Heaven, I feel 
 myself each moment more and more prepared for 
 my execution. Nay, to that degree, I don't per- 
 ceive I have the least fear of dying. No, I find, 
 let the executioner be but a man, and there's 
 nothing will suffer with more resolution than a 
 woman. Well, I never had but one intrigue yet — 
 but I confess I long to have another. Pray Heaven 
 it end as the first did though, that we may both 
 grow weary at a time ; for 'tis a melancholy thing 
 for lovers to outlive one another. 
 
 Re-enter Worthy. 
 
 Wor. [Aside.] This discovery's a lucky one, I 
 hope to make a happy use on't. That gentlewo- 
 man there is no fool ; so I shall be able to make 
 her understand her interest. — [Aloud.] Your ser- 
 vant, madam ; I need not ask you how you do, you 
 have got so good a colour. 
 
 Ber. No better than I used to have, I suppose. 
 
 Wor. A little more blood in your cheeks. 
 
 Ber. The weather's hot. 
 
 Wor. If it were not, a woman may have a colour. 
 
 Ber. What do you mean by that ? 
 
 Wor. Nothing. 
 
 Ber. Why do you smile then r 
 
 Wor. Because the weather's hot. 
 
 Ber. You'll never leave roguing, I see that. 
 
 Wor. [Putting his finger to his nose.] You'll 
 never leave — I see that. 
 
 Ber. Well, I can't imagine what you drive at. 
 Pray tell me what you mean ? 
 
 Wor. Do you tell me ; it's the same thing. 
 
 Ber. I can't. 
 
 Wor. Guess ! 
 
 Ber. I shall guess wrong. 
 
 Wor. Indeed you won't. 
 
 Ber. Psha ! either tell, or let it alone. 
 
 Wor. Nay, rather than let it alone, I will tell. 
 But first I must put you in mind, that after what 
 has passed 'twixt you and I, very few things ought 
 to be secrets between us. 
 
 Ber. "Why, what secrets do we hide ? I know of 
 none. 
 
 Wor. Yes, there are two ; one I have hid from 
 you, and t'other you would hide from me. You 
 are fond of Loveless, which I have discovered ; and 
 I am fond of his wife — 
 
 Ber. Which I have discovered. 
 
 Wor. Very well, now I confess your discovery 
 to be true : what do you say to mine ? 
 
 Ber. Why, I confess — I would swear 'twere 
 false, if I thought you were fool enough to believe 
 me. 
 
 Wor. Now am I almost in love with you again. 
 Nay, I don't know but I might be quite so, had I 
 made one short campaign with Amanda. There- 
 fore, if you find 'twould tickle your vanity to bring 
 me down once more to your lure, e'en help me 
 quickly to despatch her business, that I may have 
 nothing else to do, but to apply myself to yours. 
 
 Ber. Do you then think, sir, I am old enough 
 to be a bawd ? 
 
 Wor. No, but I think you are wise enough to — 
 
 Ber. To do what ? 
 
 Wor. To hoodwink Amanda with a gallant, that 
 she mayn't see who is her husband's mistress. 
 
 Ber. [Aside.] He has reason : the hint's a good 
 one. 
 
 Wor. Well, madam, what think you on't ? 
 
 Ber. I think you are so much a deeper politician 
 in these affairs than I am, that I ought to have a 
 very great regard to your advice. 
 
 Wor. Then give me leave to put you in mind, 
 that the most easy, safe, and pleasant situation for 
 your own amour, is the house in which you now 
 are, provided you keep Amanda from any sort of 
 suspicion. That the way to do that, is to engage 
 her in an intrigue of her own, making yourself her 
 confidant. And the way to bring her to intrigue, 
 is to make her jealous of her husband in a wrong 
 place ; which the more you foment, the less you'll 
 be suspected. This is my scheme, in short ; which 
 if you follow as you should do, my dear Berinthia, 
 we may all four pass the winter very pleasantly. 
 
 Ber. Well, I could be glad to have nobody's sins 
 to answer for but my own. But where there is a 
 necessity— 
 
 Wor. Right : as you say, where there is a neces- 
 sity, a Christian is bound to help his neighbour. 
 So, good Berinthia, lose no time, but let us begin 
 the dance as fast as we can. 
 
 Ber. Not till the fiddles are in tune, pray sir. 
 Your lady's strings will be very apt to fly, I can 
 tell you that, if they are wound up too hastily. 
 But if you'll have patience to screw 'em to the pitch 
 by degrees, I don't doubt but she may endure to 
 be played upon. 
 
 Wor. Ay, and will make admirable music too, 
 or I'm mistaken. But have you had no private 
 closet discourse with her yet about males and 
 females, and so forth, which may give you hopes 
 in her constitution ? for I know her morals are the 
 devil against us. 
 
 Ber. I have had so much discourse with her, that 
 I believe, were she once cured of her fondness to 
 her husband, the fortress of her virtue would not 
 be so impregnable as she fancies. 
 
 Wor. What ! she runs, I'll warrant you, into 
 that common mistake of fond wives, who conclude 
 themselves virtuous, because they can refuse a man 
 they don't like, when they have got one they do. 
 
 Ber. True ; and therefore I think 'tis a presump- 
 tuous thing in a woman to assume the name of 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 sir 
 
 virtuous, till she has heartily hated her husband, 
 and been soundly in love with somebody else. 
 Whom, if she has withstood — then — much good 
 may it do her. 
 
 Wor. Well, so much for her virtue. Now, one 
 word of her inclinations, and every one to their 
 post. What opinion do you find she has of me ? 
 
 Ber. What you could wish ; she thinks you hand- 
 some and discreet. 
 
 Wor. Good ; that's thinking half-seas over. One 
 tide more brings us into port. 
 
 Ber. Perhaps it may, though still remember, 
 there's a difficult bar to pass. 
 
 Wor. I know there is, but I don't question I 
 shall get well over it, by the help of such a pilot. 
 
 Ber. You may depend upon your pilot, she'll do 
 the best she can ; so weigh anchor and begone as 
 soon as you please. 
 
 Wor. I'm under sail already. Adieu ! 
 
 Ber. Bon voyage! — [Exit Worthy.] So, here's 
 fine work ! What a business have I undertaken ! 
 I'm a very pretty gentlewoman truly ! But there 
 was no avoiding it : he'd have ruin'd me, if I had 
 refused him. Besides, faith, I begin to fancy there 
 may be as much pleasure in carrying on another 
 body's intrigue as one's own. This at least is 
 certain, it exercises almost all the entertaining 
 faculties of a woman : for there's employment for 
 hypocrisy, invention, deceit, flattery, mischief, and 
 lying. 
 
 Enter Amanda, her Maid following her. 
 
 Maid. If you please, madam, only to say, whe- 
 ther you'll have me buy 'em or not. 
 
 Aman. Yes, no, go fiddle ! I care not what you 
 do. Prithee leave me. 
 
 Maid. I have done. [Exit. 
 
 Ber. What in the name of Jove's the matter 
 with you ? 
 
 Aman. The matter, Berinthia ! I'm almost mad, 
 I'm plagued to death. 
 
 Ber. Who is it that plagues you ? 
 
 Aman. Who do you think should plague a wife, 
 but her husband ? 
 
 Ber. O ho, is it come to that ? We shall have 
 you wish yourself a widow by and by. 
 
 Aman. Would I were anything but what I am ! 
 A base ungrateful man, after what I have done for 
 him, to use me thus ! 
 
 Ber. What, he has been ogling now, I'll warrant 
 you ? 
 
 Aman. Yes, he has been ogling. 
 
 Ber. And so you are jealous ? is that all ? 
 
 Aman. That all ! is jealousy then nothing ? 
 
 Ber. It should be nothing, if I were in your case. 
 
 Aman. Why, what would you do ? 
 
 Ber. I'd cure myself. 
 
 Aman. How ? 
 
 Ber. Let blood in the fond vein : care as little 
 for my husband as he did for me. 
 
 Aman. That would not stop his course. 
 
 Ber. Nor nothing else, when the wind's in the 
 warm corner. Look you, Amanda, you may build 
 castles in the air, and fume, and fret, and grow 
 thin and lean, and pale and ugly, if you please. 
 But I tell you, no man worth having is true to his 
 wife, or can be true to his wife, or ever was, or 
 ever will be so. 
 
 Aman. Do you then really think he's false to me ? 
 for I did but suspect him. 
 
 Ber. Think so ! I know he's so. 
 
 Aman. Is it possible ? Pray tell me what you 
 know. 
 
 Ber. Don't press me then to name names, for 
 that I have sworn I won't do. 
 
 Aman. Well, I won't ; but let me know all you 
 can without perjury. 
 
 Ber. I'll let you know enough to prevent any 
 wise woman's dying of the pip ; and I hope you'll 
 pluck up your spirits, and show upon occasion you 
 can be as good a wife as the best of 'em. 
 
 Aman. Well, what a woman can do I'll endea- 
 vour. 
 
 Ber. Oh, a woman can do a great deal, if once she 
 sets her mind to it. Therefore pray don't stand 
 trifling any longer, and teasing yourself with this 
 and that, and your love and your virtue, and I 
 know not what : but resolve to hold up your head, 
 get a-tiptoe, and look over 'em all ; for to my cer- 
 tain knowledge your husband is a pickeering else- 
 where. 
 
 Aman. You are sure on't ? 
 
 Ber. Positively he fell in love at the play. 
 
 Aman. Right, the very same. Do you know 
 the ugly thing ? 
 
 Ber. Yes, I know her well enough ; but she's 
 no such ugly thing neither. 
 
 Aman. Is she very handsome ? 
 
 Ber. Truly I think so. 
 
 Aman. Hey ho ! 
 
 Ber. What do you sigh for now ? 
 
 Aman. Oh, my heart ! 
 
 Ber. [Aside.] Only the pangs of nature ; she's 
 in labour of her love ; Heaven send her a quick 
 delivery, I'm sure she has a good midwife. 
 
 Aman. I'm very ill, I must go to my chamber. 
 Dear Berinthia, don't leave me a moment. 
 
 Ber. No, don't fear. — [Aside.'] I'll see you 
 safe brought to bed, I'll warrant you. 
 
 [Exeunt, Amanda leaning upon Berinthia. 
 
 SCENE III Sir Tunbelly Clumsey's 
 
 Country-House. 
 
 Enter Tom Fashion and Lory. 
 
 Fash. So, here's our inheritance, Lory, if we 
 can but get into possession. But methinks the seat 
 of our family looks like Noah's ark, as if the chief 
 part on't were designed for the fowls of the air, 
 and the beasts of the field. 
 
 Lory. Pray, sir, don't let your head run upon 
 the orders of building here ; get but the heiress, 
 let the devil take the house. 
 
 Fash. Get but the house, let the devil take the 
 heiress, I say ; at least if she be as old Coupler 
 describes her. But come, we have no time to 
 squander. Knock at the door. — [Lory knocks 
 two or three times.] What the devil, have they 
 got no ears in this house ? Knock harder. 
 
 Lory. Egad, sir, this will prove some enchanted 
 castle ; we shall have the giant come out by and 
 by with his club, and beat our brains out. 
 
 [Knocks again. 
 
 Fash. Hush ; they come. 
 
 Servant. [ Within.] Who is there ? 
 
 Lory. Open the door and see. Is that your 
 country breeding ? 
 
 Ser. Ay, but two words to a bargain. — Turamus. 
 is the blunderbuss primed ? 
 
318 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 AOT II J. 
 
 Fash. Oons, give 'em good words, Lory ; we 
 shall be shot here a fortune-catching. 
 
 Lory. Egad, sir, I think y'are in the right on't. 
 — Ho ! Mr. What-d'ye-call um. 
 
 [Servant appears at the window with a blunderbuss. 
 
 Ser. Weall naw, what's yare business ? 
 
 Fash. Nothing, sir, but to wait upon sir Tun- 
 belly, with your leave. 
 
 Ser. To weat upon sir Tunbelly ! Why, you'll 
 find that's just as sir Tunbelly pleases. 
 
 Fash. But will you do me the favour, sir, to 
 know whether sir Tunbelly pleases or not ? 
 
 Ser. Why, look you, do you see, with good 
 words much may be done. — Ralph, go thy weas, 
 and ask sir Tunbelly if he pleases to be waited 
 upon. And dost hear? call to nurse that she 
 may lock up Miss Hoyden before the geat's open. 
 
 Fash. D'ye hear that, Lory ? 
 
 Lory. Ay, sir, I'm afraid we shall find a difficult 
 job on't. Pray Heaven that old rogue Coupler 
 han't sent us to fetch milk out of the gunroom. 
 
 Fash. I'll warrant thee all will go well. See, 
 the door opens. 
 
 Enter Sir Tunbelly, with his Servants armed with guns, 
 clubs, pitchforks, scythes, §c. 
 
 Lory. [Running behind his master."] O Lord ! 
 O Lord ! O Lord ! we are both dead men ! 
 
 Fash. Take heed, fool ! thy fear will ruin us. 
 
 Lory. My fear, sir ! 'sdeath, sir, I fear 
 nothing. — [Aside.] Would I were well up to the 
 chin in a horsepond ! 
 
 Sir Tun. Who is it here has any business with 
 me? 
 
 Fash. Sir, 'tis I, if your name be sir Tunbelly 
 Clumsey. 
 
 Sir Tun. Sir, my name is sir Tunbelly Clum- 
 sey, whether you have any business with me or 
 not. So you see I am not ashamed of my name 
 — nor my face — neither. 
 
 Fash. Sir, you have no cause, that I know of 
 
 Sir Tun. Sir, if you have no cause neither, I 
 desire to know who you are ; for till I know your 
 name, I shall not ask you to come into my house ; 
 and when I know your name — 'tis six to four I 
 don't ask you neither. 
 
 Fash. [Giving him a letter.] Sir, I hope you'll 
 find this letter an authentic passport. 
 
 Sir Tun. Cod's my life ! I ask your lordship's 
 pardon ten thousand times. — [ To a Servant. ] Here, 
 run in a-doors quickly. Get a Scotch-coal fire in 
 the great parlour ; set all the Turkey-work chairs 
 in their places ; get the great brass candlesticks 
 out, and be sure stick the sockets full of laurel, 
 run ! — [Exit Servant.] My lord, I ask your 
 lordship's pardon. — [ To other Servants.] And do 
 you hear, run away to nurse, bid her let Miss 
 Hoyden loose again, and if it was not shifting 
 day, let her put on a clean tucker, quick ! — [Ex- 
 eunt Servants confusedly.] I hope your honour 
 will excuse the disorder of my family ; we are not 
 used to receive men of your lordship's great quality 
 every day. Pray where are your coaches, and 
 servants, my lord ? 
 
 Fash. Sir, that I might give you and your fair 
 daughter a proof how impatient I am to be nearer 
 akin to you, I left my equipage to follow me, and 
 came away post with only one servant. 
 
 Sir Tun. Your lordship does me too much 
 honour. It was exposing your person to too much 
 
 fatigue and danger, I protest it was. But my 
 daughter shall endeavour to make you what amends 
 she can ; and though I say it that should not say 
 it — Hoyden has charms. 
 
 Fash. Sir, I am not a stranger to them, though 
 I am to her. Common fame has done her justice. 
 
 Sir Tun. My lord, I am common fame's very 
 grateful humble servant. My lord — my girl's 
 young, Hoyden is young, my lord; but this I must 
 say for her, what she wants in art, she has by 
 nature ; what she wants in experience, she has in 
 breeding ; and what's wanting in her age, is made 
 good in her constitution. So pray, my lord, walk 
 in : pray, my lord, walk in. 
 
 Fash. Sir, I wait upon you. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV.— A Room in the same. 
 Miss Hoyden discovered alone. 
 
 Hoyd. Sure never nobody was used as I am. I 
 know well enough what other girls do, for all they 
 think to make a fool of me. It's well I have a 
 husband a-coming, or, ecod, I'd marry the baker, 
 I would so ! Nobody can knock at the gate, but 
 presently I must be locked up ; and here's the 
 young greyhound bitch can run loose about the 
 house all the day long, she can ; 'tis very well. 
 
 Nurse. [Without.] Miss Hoyden ! miss! miss! 
 miss ! Miss Hoyden ! 
 
 Enter Nurse. 
 
 Hoyd. Well, what do you make such a noise for, 
 ha ? what do you din a body's ears for ? Can't 
 one be at quiet for you ? 
 
 Nurse. What do I din your ears for ! Here's 
 one come will din your ears for you. 
 
 Hoyd. What care I who's come ? I care not a 
 fig who comes, nor who goes, as long as I must be 
 locked up like the ale-cellar. 
 
 Nurse. That, miss, is for fear you should be 
 drunk before you are ripe. 
 
 Hoyd. Oh, don't you trouble your head about 
 that ; I'm as ripe as you, 'though not so mellow. 
 
 Nurse. Very well ; now have I a good mind to 
 lock you up again, and not let you see my lord to- 
 night. 
 
 Hoyd. My lord ! why, is my husband come ? 
 
 Nurse. Yes, marry is he, and a goodly person 
 too. 
 
 Hoyd. [Hugging Nurse.j O my dear nurse ! 
 forgive me this once, and I'll never misuse you 
 again ; no, if I do you shall give me three thumps 
 on the back, and a great pinch by the cheek. 
 
 Nurse. Ah, the poor thing, see how it melts ! 
 It's as full of good-nature as an egg's full of meat. 
 
 Hoyd. But, my dear nurse, don't lie now ; is 
 he come by your troth ? 
 
 Nurse. Yes, by my truly, is he. 
 
 Hoyd. O Lord ! I'll go put on my laced smock, 
 though I'm whipped till the blood run down my 
 heels for't. {Exit running. 
 
 Nurse. Eh — the Lord succour thee ! How 
 thou art delighted ! [Exit after her. 
 
THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 319 
 
 SCENE V Another Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Sir Tunbelly and Tom Fashion. Servant following 
 with wine. 
 
 Sir Tun. My lord, I'm proud of the honour to 
 see your lordship within my doors ; and I humbly 
 crave leave to bid you welcome in a cup of sack 
 wine. 
 
 Fash. Sir, to your daughter's health. [Drinks. 
 
 Sir Tun. Ah, poor girl, she'll be scared out of 
 her wits on her wedding-night ; for, honestly speak- 
 ing, she does not know a man from a woman but 
 by his beard and his breeches. 
 
 Fash. Sir, I don't doubt but she has a virtuous 
 education, which with the rest of her merit makes 
 me long to see her mine. I wish you would dis- 
 pense with the canonical hour, and let it be this 
 very night. 
 
 Sir Tun. Oh, not so soon neither ! that's shoot- 
 ing my girl before you bid her stand. No, give 
 her fair warning, we'll sign and seal to-night, if you 
 please ; and this day seven-night — let the jade look 
 to her quarters. 
 
 Fash. This day se'nnight ! — why ; what do 
 you take me for a ghost, sir ? 'Slife, sir, I'm made 
 of flesh and blood, and bones and sinews, and can 
 
 no more live a week without your daughter 
 
 [Aside] than I can live a month with her. 
 
 Sir Tun. Oh, I'll warrant you, my hero ; young 
 men are hot, I know, but they don't boil over at 
 that rate, neither. Besides, my wench's wedding- 
 gown is not come home yet. 
 
 Fash. Oh, no matter, sir, I'll take her in her 
 shift.— [Aside.] A pox of this old fellow! he'll 
 delay the business till my damned star finds me 
 out and discovers me. — [Aloud.] Pray, sir, let it 
 be done without ceremony, 'twill save money. 
 
 Sir Tun. Money ! — save money when Hoyden's 
 to be married ! Udswoons I'll give my wench a 
 wedding-dinner, though I go to grass with the king 
 of Assyria for't ; and such a dinner it shall be, as is 
 not to be cooked in the poaching of an egg. There- 
 fore, my noble lord, have a little patience, we'll go 
 and look over our deeds and settlements imme- 
 diately; and as for your bride, though you may be 
 sharp-set before she's quite ready, I'll engage for 
 my girl she stays your stomach at last. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Boom in Sir Tunbelly Clum- 
 sey's Country -House. 
 
 Enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 
 
 Nurse. Well, miss, how do you like your hus- 
 band that is to be ? 
 
 Hoyd. O Lord, nurse ! I'm so overjoyed I can 
 scarce contain myself. 
 
 Nurse. Oh, but you must have a care of being 
 too fond ; for men now-a-days hate a woman that 
 loves 'em. 
 
 Hoyd. Love him ! why do you think I love him, 
 nurse ? ecod I would not care if he were hanged, 
 so I were but once married to him ! — No — that 
 which pleases me, is to think what work I'll make 
 when I get to London ; for when I am a wife and 
 a lady both, nurse, ecod I'll flaunt it with the best 
 of 'em. 
 
 Nurse. Look, look, if his honour be not a-com- 
 ing again to you ! Now, if I were sure you would 
 behave yourself handsomely, and not disgrace me 
 that have brought you up, I'd leave you alone to- 
 gether. 
 
 Hoyd. That's my best nurse, do as you would 
 be done by ; trust us together this once, and if I 
 don't show my breeding from the head to the foot 
 of me, may I be twice married, and die a maid. 
 
 Nurse. Well this once I'll venture you ; but if 
 you disparage me — 
 
 Hoyd. Never fear, I'll show him my parts, I'll 
 warrant him. — [Exit Nurse.] These old women 
 are so wise when they get a poor girl in their 
 clutches ! but ere it be long, I shall know what's 
 what, as well as the best of 'em. 
 
 Enter Tom Fashion. 
 Fash. Your servant, madam ; I'm glad to find 
 you alone, for I have something of importance to 
 speak to you about. 
 
 Hoyd. Sir (my lord, I meant), you may speak to 
 me about what you please, I shall give you a civil 
 answer. 
 
 Fash. You give me so obliging a one, it encou- 
 rages me to tell you in few words what I think both 
 for your interest and mine. Your father, I sup- 
 pose you know, has resolved to make me happy in 
 being your husband, and I hope I may depend upon 
 your consent, to perform what he desires. 
 
 Hoyd. Sir, I never disobey my father in anything 
 but eating of green gooseberries. 
 
 Fash. So good a daughter must needs be an 
 admirable wife ; I am therefore impatient till you 
 are mine, and hope you will so far consider the 
 violence of my love, that you won't have the cruelty 
 to defer my happiness so long as your father 
 designs it. 
 
 Hoyd. Pray, my lord, how long is that ? 
 
 Fash. Madam, a thousand year — a whole week. 
 
 Hoyd. A week ! — why I shall be an old woman 
 by that time. 
 
 Fash. And I an old man, which you'll find a 
 greater misfortune than t'other. 
 
 Hoyd. Why I thought it was to be to-morrow 
 morning, as soon as I was up ; I'm sure nurse told 
 me so. 
 
 Fash. And it shall be to-morrow morning still, 
 if you'll consent. 
 
 Hoyd. If I'll consent ! Why I thought I was to 
 obey you as my husband. 
 
 Fash. That's when we are married ; till then, I 
 am to obey you. 
 
 Hoyd. Why then if we are to take it by turns, 
 it's the same thing ; I'll obey you now, and when 
 we are married, you shall obey me. 
 
 Fash. With all my heart ; but I doubt we must 
 get nurse on our side, or we shall hardly prevail 
 with the chaplain. 
 
 Hoyd. No more we shan't indeed, for he loves 
 
320 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 her better than he loves his pulpit, and would 
 always be a preaching to her by his good will. 
 
 Fash. Why then, my dear little bedfellow, if 
 you'll call her hither, we'll try to persuade her 
 presently. 
 
 Hoyd. O Lord, I can tell you a way how to per- 
 suade her to anything. 
 
 Fash. How's that ? 
 
 Hoyd. Why tell her she's a wholesome comely 
 woman — and give her half-a-crown. 
 
 Fash. Nay, if that will do she shall have half a 
 score of 'em. 
 
 Hoyd. O gemini ! for half that, she'd marry you 
 herself, I'll run and call her. [Exit. 
 
 Fash. So, matters go swimmingly. This is a 
 rare girl, i' faith ; I shall have a fine time on't with 
 her at London. I'm much mistaken if she don't 
 prove a March hare all the year round. What a 
 scampering chase will she make on't, when she 
 finds the whole kennel of beaux at her tail ! hey to 
 the park, and the play, and the church, and the 
 devil ; she'll show them sport, I'll warrant 'em. 
 But no matter, she brings an estate will afford me 
 a separate maintenance. 
 
 Re-enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 
 
 How do you do, good mistress nurse ? I desired 
 your young lady would give me leave to see you, 
 that I might thank you for your extraordinary care 
 and conduct in her education ; pray accept of this 
 small acknowledgment for it at present, and depend 
 upon my farther kindness, when I shall be that 
 happy thing her husband. 
 
 Nurse. [Aside.'] Gold by mackings ! — [Aloud.] 
 Your honour's goodness is too great ; alas ! all I 
 can boast of is, I gave her pure good milk, and so 
 your honour would have said, an you had seen how 
 the poor thing sucked it. — Eh, God's blessing on 
 the sweet face on't ! how it used to hang at this 
 poor teat, and suck and squeeze, and kick and 
 sprawl it would, till the belly on't was so full, it 
 would drop off like a leech. 
 
 Hoyd. [Aside to Nurse angrily.'] Pray one 
 word with you. Prithee nurse don't stand ripping 
 up old stories, to make one ashamed before one's 
 love. Do you think such a fine proper gentleman 
 as he cares for a fiddlecome tale of a draggle- 
 tailed girl ? If you have a mind to make him have 
 a good opinion of a woman, don't tell him what 
 one did then, tell him what one can do now. — [ To 
 Tom Fashion.] I hope your honour will excuse 
 my mismanners to whisper before you ; it was only 
 to give some orders about the family. 
 
 Fash. O everything, madam, is to give way to 
 business ! Besides, good housewifery is a very com- 
 mendable quality in a young lady. 
 
 Hoyd. Pray, sir, are the young ladies good house- 
 wives at London town ? Do they darn their own 
 linen ? 
 
 Fash. O no, they study how to spend money, 
 not to save it. 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, I don't know out that may be 
 better sport than t'other ; ha, nurse ? 
 
 Fash. Well, you shall have your choice when 
 you come there. 
 
 Hoyd. Shall I ! — then by my troth I'll get there 
 as fast as I can. — [To Nurse.] His honour desires 
 you'll be so kind as to let us be married to-morrow 
 
 Nurse. To-morrow, my dear madam ? 
 
 Fash. Yes, to-morrow, sweet nurse, privately ; 
 
 young folks, you know, are impatient, and sir 
 Tunbelly would make us stay a week for a wedding 
 dinner. Now all things being signed and sealed, 
 and agreed, I fancy there could be no great harm 
 in practising a scene or two of matrimony in private, 
 if it were only to give us the better assurance when 
 we come to play it in public. 
 
 Nurse. Nay, I must confess stolen pleasures are 
 sweet ; but if you should be married now, what 
 will you do when sir Tunbelly calls for you to be 
 wedded ? 
 
 Hoyd. Why then we'll be married again. 
 
 Nurse. What, twice, my child ? 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, I don't care how often I'm married, 
 not I. 
 
 Fash. Pray, nurse, don't you be against your 
 young lady's good, for by this means she'll have the 
 pleasure of two wedding-days. 
 
 Hoyd. [ To Nurse softly.] And of two wedding- 
 nights too, nurse. 
 
 Nurse, Well, I'm such a tender-hearted fool, I 
 find I can refuse nothing ; so you shall e'en follow 
 your own inventions. 
 
 Hoyd. Shall I !— [Aside.] O Lord, I could leap 
 over the moon ! 
 
 Fash. Dear nurse, this goodness of yours shan't 
 go unrewarded ; but now you must employ your 
 power with Mr. Bull the chaplain, that he may do 
 us his friendly office too, and then we shall all be 
 happy : do. you think you can prevail with him ? 
 
 Nurse. Prevail with him ! — or he shall never 
 prevail with me, I can tell him that. 
 
 Hoyd. My lord, she has had him upon the hip 
 this seven year. 
 
 Fash. I'm glad to hear it ; nowever to strengthen 
 your interest with him, you may let him know I 
 have several fat livings in my gift, and that the 
 first that falls shall be in your disposal. 
 
 Nurse. Nay, then I'll make him marry more 
 folks than one, I'll promise him. 
 
 Hoyd. Faith do, nurse, make him marry you 
 too, I'm sure he'll do't for a fat living : for he loves 
 eating more than he loves his Bible ; and I have 
 often heard him say, a fat living was the best meat 
 in the world. 
 
 Nurse. Ay, and I'll make him commend the 
 sauce too, or I'll bring his gown to a cassock, I 
 will so. 
 
 Fash. Well, nurse, whilst you go and settle 
 matters with him, then your lady and I will go and 
 take a walk in the garden. 
 
 Nurse. I'll do your honour's business in the 
 catching up of a garter. [Exit. 
 
 Fash. [Giving her his hand.] Come, madam, 
 dare you venture yourself along with me ? 
 
 Hoyd. O dear, yes, sir, I don't think you'll do 
 anything to me I need be afraid on. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Loveless's Lodgings. 
 Enter Amanda and Berinthia. 
 SONG. 
 I smile at Love and all its arts, 
 
 The charming Cynthia cried : 
 Take heed, for Love has piercing darts, 
 
 A wounded swain replied. 
 Once free and hlest as you are now, 
 
 I trifled with his charms, 
 I pointed at his little bow, 
 
 And sported with his arms : 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 321 
 
 Till urged too far, Revenge ! he cries, 
 
 A fatal shaft he drew, 
 It took its passage through your eyes, 
 
 And to my heart it flew. 
 To tear it thence I tried in vain, 
 
 To strive I quickly found 
 Was only to increase the pain, 
 
 And to enlarge the wound. 
 Ah ! much too well, I fear, you know 
 
 What pain I'm to endure, 
 Since what your eyes alone could do, 
 
 Your heart alone can cure. 
 And that (grant Heaven I may mistake !) 
 
 I doubt is doom'd to bear 
 A burden for another's sake, 
 
 Who ill rewards its care. 
 
 Avian. Well, now, Berinthia, I'm at leisure to 
 hear what 'twas you had to say to me. 
 
 JSer. What I had to say was only to echo the 
 sighs and groans of a dying lover. 
 
 A man. Phu ! will you never learn to talk in 
 earnest of anything ? 
 
 Ber. Why this shall be in earnest, if you please : 
 for my part, I only tell you matter of fact, you 
 may take it which way you like best ; but if you'll 
 follow the women of the town, you'll take it both 
 ways ; for when a man offers himself to one of 
 them, first she takes him in jest, and then she takes 
 him in earnest. 
 
 Aman. I'm sure there's so much jest and earnest 
 in what you say to me, I scarce know how to take 
 it ; but I think you have bewitched me, for I don't 
 find it possible to be angry with you, say what you 
 will. 
 
 Ber. I'm very glad to hear it, for I have no 
 mind to quarrel with you, for some reasons that 
 I'll brag of ; but quarrel or not, smile or frown, I 
 must tell you what I have suffered upon your 
 account. 
 
 Aman. Upon my account ! 
 
 Ber. Yes, upon yours ; I have been forced to 
 sit still and hear you commended for two hours 
 together, without one compliment to myself ; now 
 don't you think a woman had a blessed time of 
 that ? 
 
 Aman. Alas ! I should have been unconcerned 
 at it; I never knew where the pleasure lay of 
 being praised by the men. But pray who was this 
 that commended me so ? 
 
 Ber. One you have a mortal aversion to, Mr. 
 Worthy ; he used you like a text, he took you all 
 to pieces, but spoke so learnedly upon every point, 
 one might see the spirit of the church was in him. 
 If you are a woman, you'd have been in an ecstacy 
 to have heard how feelingly he handled your 
 hair, your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your 
 teeth, your tongue, your chin, your neck, and 
 so forth. Thus he preached for an hour, but when 
 he came to use an application, he observed that all 
 these without a gallant were nothing. — Now con- 
 sider of what has been said, and Heaven give you 
 grace to put it in practice. 
 
 Aman. Alas ! Berinthia, did I incline to a gal- 
 lant (which you know I do not,) do you think a 
 man so nice as he could have the least concern for 
 such a plain unpolished thing as I am ? it is 
 impossible ! 
 
 Ber. Now have you a great mind to put me 
 upon commending you. 
 
 Aman. Indeed that was not my design. 
 
 Ber. Nay, if it were, it's all one, for I won't do't, 
 
 I'll leave that to your looking-glass. But to show 
 you I have some good-nature left, I'll commend 
 him, and may be that may do as well. 
 
 Aman. You have a great mind to persuade me 
 I am in love with him. 
 
 Ber. I have a great mind to persuade you, you 
 don't know what you are in love with. 
 
 Aman. I am sure I am not in love with him, nor 
 never shall be, so let that pass. But you were 
 saying something you would commend him for. 
 
 Ber. Oh ! you'd be glad to hear a good character 
 of him, however. 
 
 Aman. Psha ! 
 
 Ber. Psha ! — Well 'tis a foolish undertaking for 
 women in these kind of matters to pretend to 
 deceive one another. — Have not I been bred a 
 woman as well as you ? 
 
 Aman. What then ! 
 
 Ber. Why then I understand my trade so well, 
 that whenever I am told of a man I like, I cry, 
 psha ! But that I may spare you the pains of 
 putting me a second time in mind to commend 
 him, I'll proceed, and give you this account of him : 
 That though 'tis possible he may have had women 
 with as good faces as your ladyship's, (no discredit 
 to it neither,) yet you must know your cautious 
 behaviour, with that reserve in your humour, has 
 given him his death's wound ; he mortally hates a 
 coquette. He says 'tis impossible to love where 
 we cannot esteem ; and that no woman can be 
 esteemed by a man who has sense, if she makes 
 herself cheap in the eye of a fool ; that pride to a 
 woman is as necessary as humility to a divine ; 
 and that far-fetched, and dear-bought, is meat for 
 gentlemen as well as for ladies ; — in short, that 
 every woman who has beauty may set a price upon 
 herself, and that by under-selling the market, they 
 ruin the trade. This is his doctrine, how do you 
 like it ? 
 
 Aman. So well, that since I never intend to have 
 a gallant for myself, if I were to recommend one to 
 a friend he should be the man. 
 
 Enter Worthy. 
 
 Bless me ! he's here, pray Heaven he did not hear 
 me. 
 
 Ber. If he did, it won't hurt your reputation ; 
 your thoughts are as safe in his heart as in your 
 own. 
 
 Wor. I venture in at an unseasonable time of 
 night, ladies ; I hope, if I am troublesome, you'll 
 use the same freedom in turning me out again. 
 
 Aman. I believe it can't be late, for Mr. Loveless 
 is not come home yet, and he usually keeps good 
 hours. 
 
 Wor. Madam, I'm afraid he'll transgress a little 
 to-night ; for he told me about half an hour ago he 
 was going to sup with some company he doubted 
 would keep him out till three or four o'clock in the 
 morning, and desired I would let my servant 
 acquaint you with it, that you might not expect 
 him : but my fellow's a blunder-head ; so lest he 
 should make some mistake, I thought it my duty 
 to deliver the message myself. 
 
 Aman. I'm very sorry he should give you that 
 trouble, sir : but — 
 
 Ber. But since he has, will you give me leave, 
 madam, to keep him to play at ombre with us ? 
 
 Aman. Cousin, you know you command my 
 house. 
 
 Y 
 
322 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 Wor. [To Berinthia.] And, madam, you 
 know you command me, though I am a very 
 wretched gamester. 
 
 Ber. Oh ! you play well enough to lose your 
 money, and that's all the ladies require ; so with- 
 out any more ceremony, let us go into the next 
 room and call for the cards. 
 
 Annan. With all my heart. 
 
 [Exit Worthy, leading Amanda. 
 
 Ber. Well, how this business will end Heaven 
 knows ; but she seems to me to be in as fair a way 
 — as a boy is to be a rogue, when he's put clerk to 
 an attorney. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. — Bekinthia's Apartment. 
 
 Enter Loveless cautiously in the dark. 
 Love. So, thus far all's well. I'm got into her 
 bedchamber, and I think nobody has perceived me 
 steal into the house ; my wife don't expect me 
 home till four o'clock ; so, if Berinthia comes to 
 bed by eleven, I shall have a chase of five hours. 
 Let me see, where shall I hide myself ? Under her 
 bed ? No ; we shall have her maid searching there 
 for something or other ; her closet's a better place, 
 and I have a master-key will open it. I'll e'en in 
 there, and attack her just when she comes to her 
 prayers, that's the most like to prove her critical 
 minute, for then the devil will be there to assist 
 me. [Retires into the closet, shutting the door after him. 
 
 Enter Berinthia, with a candle in her hand. 
 Ber. Well, sure I am the best-natured woman 
 in the world, I that love cards so well (there is but 
 one thing upon the earth I love better), have pre- 
 tended letters to write, to give my friends a tete-a- 
 tete : however, I'm innocent, for picquet is the 
 game I set 'em to : at her own peril be it, if she 
 ventures to play with him at any other. But now 
 what shall I do with myself ? I don't know how 
 in the world to pass my time ; would Loveless were 
 here to badiner a little ! Well, he's a charming 
 fellow ; I don't wonder his wife's so fond of him. 
 What if I should sit down and think of him till I 
 fall asleep, and dream of the Lord knows what ? 
 Oh, but then if I should dream we were married, I 
 should be frighted out of my wits ! — [Seeing a book.'] 
 What's this book ? I think I had best go read. O 
 splenetic ! it's a sermon. Well, I'll go into my 
 closet and read the Plotting Sisters. — [She opens 
 the closet, sees Loveless, and shrieks out.] O 
 Lord, a ghost ! a ghost ! a ghost ! a ghost ! 
 
 Re-enter Loveless, running to her. 
 Love. Peace, my dear, it's no ghost ; take it in 
 your arms, you'll find 'tis worth a hundred of 'em. 
 Ber. Run in again ; here's somebody coming. 
 [Loveless retires as before. 
 
 Enter Abigail. 
 
 Abig. O Lord, madam ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Ber. O Heavens ! I'm almost frighted out 
 of my wits ; I thought verily I had seen a ghost, 
 and 'twas nothing but the white curtain, with a 
 black hood pinned up against it : you may begone 
 again ; I am the fearfullest fool ! [Exit Abigail. 
 Re-enter Loveless. 
 
 Love. Is the coast clear ? 
 
 Ber. The coast clear ! I suppose you are clear, 
 you'd never play such a trick as this else. 
 
 Love. I am very well pleased with my trick thus 
 far, and shall be so till I have played it out, if it 
 ben't your fault. Where's my wife ? 
 
 Ber. At cards. 
 
 Love. With whom ? 
 
 Ber. With Worthy. 
 
 Love. Then we are safe enough. 
 
 Ber. You are so ! Some husbands would be 
 of another mind, if he were at cards with their 
 wives. 
 
 Love. And they'd be in the right on't, too : but 
 I dare trust mine. — Besides, I know he's in love 
 in another place, and he's not one of those who 
 court half-a-dozen at a time. 
 
 Ber. Nay, the truth on't is, you'd pity him if 
 you saw how uneasy he is at being engaged with 
 us ; but 'twas my malice, I fancied he was to meet 
 his mistress somewhere else, so did it to have the 
 pleasure of seeing him fret. 
 
 Love. What says Amanda to my staying abroad 
 so late ? 
 
 Ber. Why, she's as much out of humour as he ; 
 I believe they wish one another at the devil. 
 
 Love. Then I'm afraid they'll quarrel at play, 
 and soon throw up the cards. — [Offering to pull 
 her into the closet.'] Therefore, my dear, charming 
 angel, let us make good use of our time. 
 
 Ber. Heavens ! what do you mean ? 
 
 Love. Pray what do you think I mean ? 
 
 Ber. I don't know. 
 
 Love. I'll show you. 
 
 Ber. You may as well tell me. 
 
 Love. No, that would make you blush worse 
 than t'other. 
 
 Ber. Why, do you intend to make me blush ? 
 
 Love. Faith I can't tell that ; but if I do, it 
 shall be in the dark. [Pulling her. 
 
 Ber. O Heavens ! I would not be in the dark 
 with you for all the world ! 
 
 Love. I'll try that. [Puts out the candle. 
 
 Ber. O Lord ! are you mad ? What shall I do 
 for light ? 
 
 Love. You'll do as well without it. 
 
 Ber. Why, one can't find a chair to sit down. 
 
 Love. Come into the closet, madam, there's 
 moonshine upon the couch. 
 
 Ber. Nay, never pull, for I will not go. 
 
 Love. Then you must be carried. 
 
 [Takes her in his arms. 
 
 Ber. [ Very softly.] Help ! help ! I'm ravished ! 
 ruined ! undone ! O Lord, I shall never be able 
 to bear it ! [Exit Loveless, carrying Berinthia. 
 
 SCENE IV. — A Room in Sir Tunbelly 
 
 Clumsey's House. 
 Enter Miss Hoyden, Nurse, Tom Fashion, and Bull. 
 
 Fash. This quick despatch of yours, Mr. Bull, 
 I take so kindly, it shall give you a claim to my 
 favour as long as I live, I do assure you. 
 
 Hoyd. And to mine, too, I promise you. 
 
 Bull. I most humbly thank your honours ; and 
 I hope, since it has been my lot to join you in the 
 holy bands of wedlock, you will so well cultivate 
 the soil, which I have craved a blessing on, that 
 your children may swarm about you like bees about 
 a honeycomb. 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, with all my heart ; the more th.e 
 merrier, I say ; ha, nurse ! 
 
THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 328 
 
 Enter Lory ; he takes his master hastily aside. 
 Lory. One word with you, for Heaven's sake ! 
 
 Fash. What the devil's the matter ? 
 
 Lory. Sir, your fortune's ruined ; and I don't 
 think your life's worth a quarter of an hour's 
 purchase. Yonder's your brother arrived with two 
 coaches and six horses, twenty footmen and pages, 
 a coat worth four-score pound, and a periwig down 
 to his knees : so judge what will become of your 
 lady's heart. 
 
 Fash. Death and furies ! 'tis impossible ! 
 Lory. Fiends and spectres ! sir, 'tis true. 
 
 Fash. Is he in the house yet ? 
 
 Ijory. No, they are capitulating with him at the 
 gate. The porter tells him he's come to run away 
 with Miss Hoyden, and has cocked the blunderbuss 
 at him ; your brother swears Gad damme, they 
 are a parcel of clawns, and he has a good mind to 
 break off the match ; but they have given the word 
 for sir Tunbelly, so I doubt all will come out pre- 
 sently. Pray, sir, resolve what you'll do this 
 moment, for egad they'll maul you. 
 
 Fash. Stay a little.— [To Miss Hoyden.] My 
 dear, here's a troublesome business my man tells 
 me of, but don't be frightened, we shall be too hard 
 for the rogue. Here's an impudent fellow at the 
 gate (not knowing I was come hither incognito) has 
 taken my name upon him, in hopes to run away 
 with you. 
 
 Hoyd. O the brazen-faced varlet, it's well we 
 are married, or maybe we might never have been 
 so. 
 
 Fash. [Aside.] Egad, like enough ! — [Aloud.'] 
 Prithee, dear doctor, run to sir Tunbelly, and stop 
 him from going to the gate before I speak with 
 him. 
 
 Bull. I fly, my good lord. [Exit. 
 
 Nurse. An't please your honour, my lady and I 
 had best lock ourselves up till the danger be over. 
 
 Fash. Ay, by all means. 
 
 Hoyd. Not so fast, I won't be locked up any 
 more. I'm married. 
 
 Fash. Yes, pray my dear do, till we have seized 
 this rascal. 
 
 Hoyd. Nay, if you pray me, I'll do anything. 
 
 [Exeunt Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 
 
 Fash. Oh ! here's Sir Tunbelly coming. — Hark 
 you, sirrah, things are better than you imagine ; 
 the wedding's over. 
 
 Lory. The devil it is, sir ! 
 
 Fash. Not a word, all's safe : but sir Tunbelly 
 don't know it, nor must not yet ; so I am resolved 
 to brazen the business out, and have the pleasure 
 of turning the impostor upon his lordship, which I 
 believe may easily be done. 
 
 Enter Sir Tunbelly, Bull, and Servants, armed. 
 
 Fash. Did you ever hear, sir, of so impudent an 
 undertaking ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Never, by the mass ! But we'll tickle 
 him, I'll warrant him. 
 
 Fash. They tell me, sir, he has a great many 
 people with him disguised like servants. 
 
 Sir Tun. Ay, ay, rogues enough ; but I'll soon 
 raise the posse upon 'em. 
 
 Fash. Sir, if you'll take my advice, we'll go a 
 shorter way to work. I find whoever this spark is, 
 he knows nothing of my being privately here ; so if 
 you pretend to receive him civilly, he'll enter with- 
 out suspicion ; and as soon as he is within the gate, 
 
 we'll whip up the drawbridge upon his back, let fly 
 the blunderbuss to disperse his crew, and so com- 
 mit him to jail. 
 
 Sir Tun. 'Egad, your lordship is an ingenious 
 person, and a very great general ; but shall we kill 
 any of 'em or not ? 
 
 Fash. No, no ; fire over their heads only to fright 
 'em ; I'll warrant the regiment scours when the 
 colonel's a prisoner. 
 
 Sir Tun. Then come along, my boys, and let 
 your courage be great — for your danger is but small. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V, 
 
 -The Gate before Sir Tunbelly 
 Clumsey's House. 
 
 Enter Lord Fopptngton, with La Yerole and Servants. 
 
 Lord Fop. A pax of these bumkinly people ! will 
 they open the gate, or do they desire I should grow 
 at their moat-side like a willow ? — [ To the Porter.] 
 Hey, fellow — prithee do me the favour, in as few 
 words as thou canst find to express thyself, to tell 
 me whether thy master will admit me or not, that 
 I may turn about my coach, and be gone. 
 
 Porter. Here's my master himself now at hand, 
 he's of age, he'll give you his answer. 
 
 Enter Sir Tunbelly and Servants. 
 
 Sir Tun. My most noble lord, I crave your par- 
 don for making your honour wait so long ; but my 
 orders to my servants have been to admit nobody 
 without my knowledge, for fear of some attempts 
 upon my daughter, the times being full of plots 
 and roguery. 
 
 Lord Fop. Much caution, I must confess, is a 
 sign of great wisdom : but stap my vitals, I have 
 got a cold enough to destroy a porter ! — He, hem — 
 
 Sir Tun. I am very sorry for't, indeed, my lord ; 
 but if your lordship please to walk in, we'll help 
 you to some brown sugar-candy. My lord, I'll 
 show you the way. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I follow you with pleasure. 
 
 [Exit with Sir Tunbelly Clumsey. As La Verole and 
 the rest are about to follow him in, the Servants 
 within clap the door against them. 
 
 Servants. [ Within.'] Nay, hold you me, there sir. 
 
 Ija Ver. Jernie, qu'est-ce que veut dire 5a ? 
 
 Sir Tun. [Within.] Fire, porter. 
 
 Porter. [Fires.] Have among you, my masters. 
 
 La Ver. Ah, je suis mort ! — 
 
 [Runs off with the rest. 
 
 Porter. Not one soldier left by the mass ! 
 
 SCENE VI. — A Hall in the same. 
 
 Enter Sir Tunbelly Clumsey, Bull, Constable, Clerk, 
 and Servants, with Lord Foppington, disarmed. 
 
 Sir Tun. Come, bring him along, bring him 
 along ! 
 
 Lord Fop. What the pax do you mean, gentle- 
 men ! Is it fair-time, that you are all drunk before 
 dinner ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Drunk, sirrah ! — Here's an impudent 
 rogue for you ! — Drunk or sober, bully, I'm a jus- 
 tice of the peace, and know how to deal with 
 strollers. 
 
 Lord Fop. Strollers ! 
 
 Sir Tun. Ay, strollers. Come, give an account 
 Y 2 
 
324 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 of yourself ; what's your name, where do you live ? 
 do you pay scot and lot ? are you a Williamite, or a 
 Jacobite ? Come. 
 
 Lord Fop. And why dost thou ask me so many 
 impertinent questions ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Because I'll make you answer 'em 
 before I have done with you, you rascal, you ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Before Gad, all the answer I can 
 make thee to 'em, is, that thou art a very extraor* 
 dinary old fellow ; stap my vitals ! 
 
 Sir Tun. Nay, if you are for joking with deputy 
 lieutenants, we know how to deal with you. — [To 
 Clerk.] Here, draw a warrant for him immediately. 
 
 Lord Fop. A warrant ! — What the devil is't thou 
 wouldst be at, old gentleman ? 
 
 Sir Tun. I would be at you, sirrah, (if my hands 
 were not tied as a magistrate,) and with these two 
 double fists beat your teeth down your throat, you 
 dog you ! 
 
 Lord Fop. And why wouldst thou spoil my face 
 at that rate ? 
 
 Sir Tun. for your design to rob me of my 
 daughter, villain. 
 
 Lord Fop. Rab thee of thy daughter ! — Now I 
 do begin to believe I am a-bed and a-sleep, and 
 that all this is but a dream. — Tf it be, 'twill be an 
 agreeable surprise enough, to waken by and by ; 
 and instead of the impertinent company of a nasty 
 country justice, find myself perhaps in the arms of 
 a woman of quality — [ To Sir Tunbelly.] Pri- 
 thee, old father, wilt thou give me leave to ask thee 
 one question ? 
 
 Sir Tun. I can't tell whether I will or not, till 
 I know what it is. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, then it is, whether thou didst 
 not write to my Lord Foppington to come down 
 and marry thy daughter ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Yes, marry did I ; and my Lord Fop- 
 pington is come down, and shall marry my daughter 
 before she's a day older. 
 
 Lord Fop. Now give me thy hand, dear dad ; I 
 thought we should understand one another at last. 
 
 Sir Tun. This fellow's mad. — Here, bind him 
 hand and foot. [Servants bind him clown. 
 
 Lord Fop. Nay, prithee, knight, leave fooling ; 
 thy jest begins to grow dull. 
 
 Sir Tun. Bind him, I say, he's mad. — Bread 
 and water, a dark room and a whip may bring him 
 to his senses again. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.] Egad ! if I don't waken 
 quickly, by all I can see, this is like to prove one 
 of the most impertinent dreams that ever I 
 dreamt in my life. 
 
 Enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 
 
 Hoyd. [Going up to him.~\ Is this he that would 
 have run away with me ? Fo ! how he stinks of 
 sweets ! — Pray, father, let him be dragged through 
 the horse-pond. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.'] This must be my wife by 
 her natural inclination to her husband. 
 
 Hoyd. Pray, father, what do you intend to do 
 with him ? hang him ? 
 
 Sir Tun. That at least, child. 
 
 Nurse. Ay, and it's e'en too good for him too. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.] Madame la governante, I 
 presume. Hitherto this appears to me to be one 
 of the most extraordinary families that ever man 
 of quality matched into. 
 
 Sir Tun. What's become of my lord, daughter ? 
 
 Hoyd. He's just coming, sir. 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.] My lord ! what does he 
 mean by that now ? 
 
 Enter Tom Fashion and Lory. 
 
 [Aloud.] Stap my vitals, Tarn ! now the dream's 
 out. 
 
 Fash. Is this the fellow, sir, that designed to 
 trick me of your daughter ? 
 
 Sir Tun. This is he, my lord, how do you like 
 him ? Is not he a pretty fellow to get a fortune ? 
 
 Fash. I find by his dress he thought your daugh- 
 ter might be taken with a beau. 
 
 Hoyd. gemini ! Is this a beau ? let me see 
 him again. — Ha ! I find a beau's no such ugly 
 thing neither. 
 
 Fash. [Aside.] Egad, she'll be in love with him 
 presently; I'll e'en have him sent away to jail. — 
 [To Lord Foppington.] Sir, though your under- 
 taking shows you are a person of no extraordinary 
 modesty, I suppose you han't confidence enough 
 to expect much favour from me ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Strike me dumb, Tarn, thou art a 
 very impudent fellow ! 
 
 Nurse. Look, if the varlet has not the frontery 
 to call his lordship plain Thomas ! 
 
 Bull. The business is, he would feign himself 
 mad, to avoid going to jail. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.] That must be the chaplain 
 by his unfolding of mysteries. 
 
 Sir Tun. Come, is the warrant writ ? 
 
 Clerk. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sir Tun. Give me the pen, I'll sign it. — So, 
 now, constable, away with him. 
 
 Lord Fop. Hold one moment, pray, gentlemen. 
 — My Lord Foppington, shall I beg one word with 
 your lordship ? 
 
 Nurse. O ho, is't my lord with him now ? See 
 how afflictions will humble folks. 
 
 Hoyd. Pray, my lord, don't let him whisper too 
 close, lest he bite your ear off. 
 
 Lord Fop. I am not altogether so hungry as 
 your ladyship is pleased to imagine. — [Aside to 
 Tom Fashion.] Look you, Tarn, I am sensible 
 I have not been so kind to you as I ought, but I 
 hope you'll forget what's past, and accept of the 
 five thousand pounds I offer ; thou mayst live in 
 extreme splendour with it, stap my vitals ! 
 
 Fash. It's a much easier matter to prevent a 
 disease than to cure it ; a quarter of that sum 
 would have secured your mistress; twice as much 
 won't redeem her. [Leaving him. 
 
 Sir Tun. Well, what says he ? 
 
 Fash. Only the rascal offered me a bribe to let 
 him go. 
 
 Sir Tun. Ay, he shall go, with a pox to him ! — 
 Lead on, constable. 
 
 Lord Fop. One word more, and I have done. 
 
 Sir Tun. Before Gad ! thou art an impudent 
 fellow, to trouble the court at this rate after thou 
 art condemned ; but speak once for all. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, then, once for all ; I have at 
 last luckily called to mind that there is a gentle- 
 man of this country, who I believe cannot live far 
 from this place, if he were here, would satisfy you. 
 I am Navelty, baron of Foppington, with five 
 thousand pounds a year, and that fellow there a 
 rascal, not worth a groat. 
 
 Sir Tun. Very well ; now, who is this honest 
 gentleman you are so well acquainted with ? — ■ 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 325 
 
 [To Tom Fashion.] Come, sir, we shall hamper 
 him. 
 
 Lord Fop. 'Tis sir John Friendly. 
 
 Sir Tun. So; he lives within half a mile, and 
 came down into the country but last night ; this 
 bold-faced fellow thought he had been at Lon- 
 don still, and so quoted him ; now we shall display 
 him in his colours : I'll send for Sir John imme- 
 diately. — [To a Servant.] Here, fellow, away pre- 
 sently, and desire my neighbour he'll do me the 
 favour to step over, upon an extraordinary occa- 
 sion. — [Exit Servant.] And in the meanwhile you 
 had best secure this sharper in the gate-house. 
 
 Constable. An't please your worship, he may 
 chance to give us the slip thence. If I were 
 worthy to advise, I think the dog-kennel's a surer 
 place. 
 
 Sir Tun. With all my heart ; anywhere. 
 
 Lord Fop. Nay, for Heaven's sake, sir ! do me 
 the favour to put me in a clean room, that I mayn't 
 daub my clothes. 
 
 Sir Tun. O, when you have married my daugh- 
 ter, her estate will afford you new ones. — Away 
 with him ! 
 
 Lord Fop. A dirty country justice is a barbarous 
 magistrate, stap my vitals ! 
 
 [Exit Constable with Lord Foppington. 
 
 Fash. [Aside.] Egad, I must prevent this 
 knight's coming, or the house will grow soon too 
 hot to hold me. — [ To Sir Tunbelly.] Sir, I fancy 
 'tis not worth while to trouble sir John upon this 
 impertinent fellow's desire : I'll send and call the 
 messenger back. 
 
 Sir Tun. Nay, with all my heart ; for, to be 
 sure, he thought he was far enough off,' or the 
 rogue would never have named him. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir, I met sir John just lighting at the 
 gate ; he's come to wait upon you. 
 
 Sir Tun. Nay, then, it happens as one could 
 wish. 
 
 Fash. [Aside.'] The devil it does ! — Lory, you 
 see how things are, here will be a discovery pre- 
 sently, and we shall have our brains beat out; for 
 my brother will be sure to swear he don't know me: 
 therefore, run into the stable, take the two first 
 horses you can light on, I'll slip out at the back 
 door, and we'll away immediately. 
 
 Lory. What, and leave your lady, sir ? 
 
 Fash. There's no danger in that as long as I 
 have taken possession ; I shall know how to treat 
 with 'em well enough, if once I am out of their 
 reach. Away ! I'll steal after thee. 
 
 [Exit Lory ; his master follows him out at one door as 
 Sir John Friendly is entering at the other. 
 
 Enter Sir John Friendly. 
 
 Sir Tun. Sir John, you are the welcomest man 
 alive ; I had just sent a messenger to desire you'd 
 step over, upon a very extraordinary occasion. 
 We are all in arms here. 
 
 Sir John. How so ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Why, you must know, a finical sort of 
 a tawdry fellow here (I don't know who the devil 
 he is, not I) hearing, I suppose, that the match 
 was concluded between my Lord Foppington and 
 my girl Hoyden, comes impudently to the gate, 
 and with a whole pack of rogues in liveries, and 
 would have passed upon me for his lordship : but 
 what does I ? I comes up to him boldly at the 
 
 head of his guards, takes him by the throat, strikes 
 up his heels, binds him hand and foot, despatches 
 a warrant, and commits him prisoner to the dog- 
 kennel. 
 
 Sir John. So ; but how do you know but this 
 was my lord ? for I was told he set out from Lon- 
 don the day before me, with a very fine retinue, 
 and intended to come directly hither. 
 
 Sir Tun. Why, now to show you how many 
 lies people raise in that damned town, he came 
 two nights ago post, with only one servant, and is 
 now in the house with me. But you don't know 
 the cream of the jest yet ; this same rogue, (that 
 lies yonder neck and heels among the hounds,) 
 thinking you were out of the country, quotes you 
 for his acquaintance, and said if you were here, 
 you'd justify him to be Lord Foppington, and I 
 know not what. 
 
 Sir John. Pray will you let me see him? 
 
 Sir Tun. Ay, that you shall presently — [To a 
 Servant.] Here, fetch the prisoner. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 
 Sir John. I wish there ben't some mistake in 
 the business. — Where's my lord ? I know him very 
 well. 
 
 Sir Tun. He was here just now. — [To Bull.] 
 See for him, doctor, tell him Sir John is here to 
 wait upon him. [Exit Bull. 
 
 Sir John. I hope, sir Tunbelly, the young lady 
 is not married yet. 
 
 Sir Tun. No, things won't be ready this week. 
 But why do you say you hope she is not married ? 
 
 Sir John. Some foolish fancies only, perhaps 
 I'm mistaken. 
 
 Re-enter Bull. 
 
 Bull. Sir, his lordship is just rid out to take the 
 air. 
 
 Sir Tun. To take the air ! Is that his London 
 breeding, to go take the air when gentlemen come 
 to visit him ? 
 
 Sir John. 'Tis possible he might want it, he 
 might not be well, some sudden qualm perhaps. 
 
 Re-enter Constable, with Lord Foppington. 
 
 Lord Fop. Stap my vitals, I'll have satisfaction! 
 
 Sir John. [Running to him.] My dear lord 
 Foppington ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Dear Friendly, thou art come in the 
 critical minute, strike me dumb ! 
 
 Sir John. Why, I little thought to have found 
 you in fetters. 
 
 Lord Fop. Why truly the world must do me 
 the justice to confess, I do use to appear a little 
 more degage : but this old gentleman, not liking 
 the freedom of my air, has been pleased to skewer 
 down my arms like a rabbit. 
 
 Sir Tun. Is it then possible that this should be 
 the true Lord Foppington at last ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, what do you see in his face to 
 make you doubt of it ? Sir, without presuming to 
 have any extraordinary opinion of my figure, give 
 me leave to tell you, if you had seen as many lords 
 as I have done, you would not think it impossible 
 a person of a worse taille than mine might be a 
 modern man of quality. 
 
 Sir Tun. Unbind him, slaves. — My lord, I'm 
 struck dumb, I can only beg pardon by signs ; but 
 if a sacrifice will appease you, you shall have it. — 
 Here, pursue this Tartar, bring him back. — Away, 
 I say ! — A dog ! Oons, I'll cut off his ears a 
 
326 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 his tail, I'll draw out all his teeth, pull his skin 
 over his head — and — and what shall I do more ? 
 
 Sir John. He does indeed deserve to be made 
 an example of. 
 
 Lord Fop. He does deserve to be chartre, stap 
 my vitals ! 
 
 Sir Tun. May I then hope I have your honour's 
 pardon ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, we courtiers do nothing without 
 a bribe : that fair young lady might do miracles. 
 
 Sir Tun. Hoyden ! come hither, Hoyden. 
 
 Lord Fop. Hoyden is her name, sir ? 
 
 Sir Tun. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Lord Fop. The prettiest name for a song I ever 
 heard. 
 
 Sir Tun. My lord — here's my girl, she's yours, 
 she has a wholesome body, and a virtuous mind ; 
 she's a woman complete, both in flesh and in spirit ; 
 she has a bag of milled crowns, as scarce as they 
 are, and fifteen hundred a year stitched fast to her 
 tail. — So, go thy ways, Hoyden. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I do receive her like a gentleman. 
 
 Sir Tun. Then,I'm ahappyman. IblessHeaven, 
 and if your lordship will give me leave, I will, like a 
 good Christian at Christmas, be very drunk byway of 
 thanksgiving. Come, my noble peer, I believe din- 
 ner's ready ; if your honour pleases to follow me, I'll 
 lead you on to the attack of a venison-pasty. [Exit. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I wait upon you.— -Will your 
 ladyship do me the favour of your little finger, 
 madam ? 
 
 Hoyd. My lord, I'll follow you presently, I have 
 a little business with my nurse. 
 
 Lord Fop. Your ladyship's most humble ser- 
 vant. — Come, sir John ; the ladies have des affaires. 
 [Exit with Sir John Friendly. 
 
 Hoyd. So, nurse, we are finely brought to bed ! 
 what shall we do now ? 
 
 Nurse. Ah, dear miss, we are all undone ! Mr. 
 Bull, you were used to help a woman to a remedy. 
 
 [Crying. 
 
 Bull. A lack-a-day ! but it's past my skill now, 
 I can do nothing. 
 
 Nurse. Who would have thought that ever \ our 
 invention should have been drained so dry ? 
 
 Hoyd. Well, I have often thought old folks fools, 
 and now I'm sure they are so ; I have found a way 
 myself to secure us all. 
 
 Nurse. Dear lady, what's that ? 
 
 Hoyd. Why, if you two will be sure to hold your 
 tongues, and not say a word of what's past, I'll e'en 
 marry this lord too. 
 
 Nurse. What ! two husbands, my dear ? 
 
 Hoyd. Why you had three, good nurse, you may 
 hold your tongue. 
 
 Nurse. Ay, but not altogether, sweet child. 
 
 Hoyd. Psha ! if you had, you'd ne'er a thought 
 much on't. 
 
 Nurse. Oh, but 'tis a sin, sweeting ! 
 
 Bull. Nay, that's my business to speak to, 
 nurse. — I do confess, to take two husbands for the 
 satisfaction of the flesh, is to commit the sin of 
 exorbitancy ; but to do it for the peace of the 
 spirit, is no more than to be drunk by way of physic. 
 Besides, to prevent a parent's wrath, is to avoid 
 the sin of disobedience ; for when the parent 's 
 angry, the child is froward. So that upon the 
 whole matter, I do think, though miss should marry 
 again, she may be saved. 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, and I will marry again then ! and 
 so there is an end of the story. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — Tom Fashion's Lodgings. 
 Enter Coupler, Tom Fashion, and Lory. 
 
 Coup. Well, and so sir John coming in — 
 
 Fash. And so sir John coming in, I thought it 
 might be manners in me to go out, which I did, 
 and getting on horseback as fast as I could, rid 
 away as if the devil had been at the rear of me. 
 What has happened since, Heaven knows. 
 
 Coup. Egad, sirrah, I know as well as Heaven 
 
 Fash. What do you know ? 
 
 Coup. That you are a cuckold. 
 
 Fash. The devil I am ! By who ? 
 
 Coup. By your brother. 
 
 Fash. My brother ! which way ? 
 
 Coup. The old way ; he has lain with your wife. 
 
 Fash. Hell and furies ! what dost thou mean ? 
 
 Coup. I mean plainly ; I speak no parable. 
 
 Fash. Plainly ! thou dost not speak common 
 sense, I cannot understand one word thou sayest. 
 
 Coup. You will do soon, youngster. In short, 
 you left your wife a widow, and she married again. 
 
 Fash. It's a lie. 
 
 Coup. Ecod, if I were a young fellow, I'd break 
 your head, sirrah. 
 
 Fash. Dear dad, don't be angry, for I'm as mad 
 as Tom of Bedlam. 
 
 Coup. When I had fitted you with a wife, you 
 should have kept her. 
 
 Fash. But is it possible the young strumpet 
 could play me such a trick ? 
 
 Coup. A young strumpet, sir, can play twenty 
 tricks. 
 
 Fash. But prithee instruct me a little farther ; 
 whence comes thy intelligence ? 
 
 Coup. From your brother, in this letter ; there, 
 you may read it. 
 
 Fash. [Reads."] 
 
 Dear Coupler, — / have only time to tell thee 
 in three lines, or thereabouts, that here has been 
 the devil. That rascal Tarn, having stole the 
 letter thou hadst formerly writ for me to bring to 
 sir Tunbelly, formed a damnable design upon my 
 mistress, and was in a fair way of success when I 
 arrived. But after having suffered some indigni- 
 ties (in which I have all daubed my embroidered 
 coat) I put him to flight. I sent out a party of 
 horse after him, in hopes to have made him my 
 prisoner, which if I had done I would have quali- 
 fied him for the seraglio, stap my vitals ' 
 
 The danger I have thus narrowly escaped, has 
 made me fortify myself against further attempts, 
 by entering immediately into an association with 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 327 
 
 the young lady, by which we engage to stand by 
 one another as long as we both shall live. 
 
 In short, the papers are sealed, and the contract 
 is signed, so the business of the lawyer is acheve ; 
 but I defer the divine part of the thing till I arrive 
 at London, not being willing to consummate in 
 any other bed but my own. 
 
 Postscript, 
 'Tis possible I may be in the tawn as soon as 
 this letter, far I find the lady is so violently in 
 love with me, I have determined to make her 
 happy with all the despatch that is practicable, 
 without disardering my coach-harses. 
 
 So, here's rare work, i'faith ! 
 
 Lory. Egad, Miss Hoyden has laid about her 
 bravely ! 
 
 Coup. I think my country-girl has played her 
 part as well as if she had been born and bred in 
 St. James's parish. 
 
 Fash. That rogue the chaplain ! 
 
 Lory. And then that jade the nurse, sir ! 
 
 Fash. And then that drunken sot Lory, sir ! that 
 could not keep himself sober to be a witness to the 
 marriage. 
 
 Lory. Sir — with respect — I know very few 
 drunken sots that do keep themselves sober. 
 
 Fash. Hold your prating, sirrah, or I'll break 
 your head ! — Dear Coupler, what's to be done ? 
 
 Coup. Nothing's to be done till the bride and 
 bridegroom come to town. 
 
 Fash. Bride and bridegroom ! death and furies ! 
 I can't bear that thou shouldst call 'em so. 
 
 Coup, Why, what shall I call 'em, dog and cat ? 
 
 Fash. Not for the world, that sounds more like 
 man and wife than t'other. 
 
 Coup. Well, if you'll hear of 'em in no lan- 
 guage, we'll leave 'em for the nurse and the 
 chaplain. 
 
 Fash. The devil and the witch ! 
 
 Coup. When they come to town — 
 
 Lory. We shall have stormy weather. 
 
 Coup. Will you hold your tongues, gentlemen, 
 or not ? 
 
 Lory. Mum ! 
 
 Coup. I say when they come, we must find 
 what stuff they are made of, whether the church- 
 man be chiefly composed of the flesh, or the spirit ; 
 I presume the former. For as chaplains now go, 'tis 
 probable he eats three pound of beef to the reading 
 of one chapter. — This gives him carnal desires, he 
 wants money, preferment, wine, a whore ; therefore 
 we must invite him to supper, give him fat capons, 
 sack and sugar, a purse of gold, and a plump sister. 
 Let this be done, and I'll warrant thee, my boy, 
 he speaks truth like an oracle. 
 
 Fash. Thou are a profound statesman I allow it ; 
 but how shall we gain the nurse ? 
 
 Coup. Oh ! never fear the nurse, if once you have 
 got the priest ; for the devil always rides the hag. 
 Well, there's nothing more to be said of the matter 
 at this time, that I know of; so let us go and 
 inquire if there's any news of our people yet, 
 perhaps they may be come. But let me tell you 
 one thing by the way, sirrah, I doubt you have 
 been an idle fellow ; if thou hadst behaved thyself 
 as thou shouldst have done, the girl would never 
 have left thee. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Berinthia's Apartment. 
 Enter Abigail, crossing the stage, followed by Worth y. 
 
 Wor. Hem, Mrs. Abigail ! is your mistress to be 
 spoken with ? 
 
 Abig. By you, sir, I believe she may. 
 
 Wor. Why 'tis by me I would have her spoken 
 with. 
 
 Abig. I'll acquaint her, sir. \_~Exit. 
 
 Wor. One lift more I must persuade her to give 
 me, and then I'm mounted. Well, a young bawd, 
 and a handsome one for my money ; 'tis they do 
 the execution ; I'll never go to an old one, but 
 when I have occasion for a witch. Lewdness looks 
 heavenly to a woman, when an angel appears in 
 its cause ; but when a hag is advocate, she thinks 
 it comes from the devil. An old woman has 
 something so terrible in her looks, that whilst she 
 is persuading your mistress to forget she has a 
 soul, she stares hell and damnation full in her face. 
 
 Enter Bbrinthia. 
 
 Ber. Well, sir, what news bring you ? 
 
 Wor. No news, madam ; there's a woman going 
 to cuckold her husband. 
 
 Ber. Amanda ! 
 
 Wor. I hope so. 
 
 Ber. Speed her well ! 
 
 Wor. Ay, but there must be more than a God- 
 speed, or your charity won't be worth a farthing. 
 
 Ber. Why, han't I done enough already ? 
 
 Wor. Not quite. 
 
 Ber. What's the matter ? 
 
 Wor. The lady has a scruple still, which you 
 must remove. 
 
 Ber. What's that ? 
 
 Wor. Her virtue — she says. 
 
 Ber. And do you believe her ? 
 
 Wor. No, but I believe it's what she takes for 
 her virtue ; it's some relics of lawful love. She is 
 not yet fully satisfied her husband has got another 
 mistress ; which unless I can convince her of, I 
 have opened the trenches in vain ; for the breach 
 must be wider, before I dare storm the town. 
 
 Ber. And so I'm to be your engineer ? 
 
 Wor. I'm sure you know best how to manage 
 the battery. 
 
 Ber. What think you of springing a mine ? I have 
 a thought just now come into my head, how to 
 blow her up at once. 
 
 Wor. That would be a thought indeed. 
 
 Ber. Faith, I'll do't ; and thus the execution of 
 it shall be. We are all invited to my lord Fopping- 
 ton's to-night to supper ; he's come to town with 
 his bride, and maketh a ball, with an entertainment 
 of music. Now, you must know, my undoer here, 
 Loveless, says he must needs meet me about some 
 private business (I don't know what 'tis) before 
 we go to the company. To which end he has told 
 his wife one lie, and I have told her another. But 
 to make her amends, I'll go immediately, and tell 
 her a solemn truth. 
 
 Wor. What's that ? 
 
 Ber. Why, I'll tell her, that to my certain know- 
 ledge her husband has a rendezvous with bis 
 mistress this afternoon ; and that if she'll give me 
 her word, she will be satisfied with the discovery, 
 without making any violent inquiry after the woman, 
 I'll direct her to a place where she shall see 'em 
 
328 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 meet. Now, friend, this I fancy may help you to 
 a critical minute. For home she must go again to 
 dress. You (with your good breeding) come to 
 wait upon us to the ball, find her all alone, her 
 spirit inflamed against her husband for his treason, 
 and her flesh in a heat from some contemplations 
 upon the treachery, her blood on a fire, her con- 
 science in ice ; a lover to draw, and the devil to 
 drive. — Ah, poor Amanda ! 
 
 Wor. [Kneeling.'] Thou angel of light, let me 
 fall down and adore thee ! 
 
 Ber. Thou minister of darkness, get up again, 
 for I hate to see the devil at his devotions. 
 
 Wor. Well, my incomparable Berinthia, how 
 shall I requite you ! 
 
 Ber. Oh, ne'er trouble yourself about that : 
 virtue is its own reward. There's a pleasure in 
 doing good, which sufficiently pays itself. Adieu ! 
 
 Wor. Farewell, thou best of women ! 
 
 {Exeunt severally. 
 
 Enter Amanda meeting Berinthia. 
 
 Aman. Who was that went from you ? 
 
 Ber. A friend of yours. 
 
 Aman. What does he want ? 
 
 Ber. Something you might spare him, and be 
 ne'er the poorer. 
 
 Aman. I can spare him nothing but my friend- 
 ship ; my lovealready's all disposed of: though, I 
 confess, to one ungrateful to my bounty. 
 
 Ber. Why, there's the mystery ! You have been 
 so bountiful, you have cloyed him. Fond wives do 
 by their husbands, as barren wives do by their 
 lapdogs ; cram 'em with sweetmeats till they spoil 
 their stomachs. 
 
 Aman. Alas ! had you but seen how passionately 
 fond he has been since our last reconciliation, you 
 would have thought it were impossible he ever 
 should have breathed an hour without me. 
 
 Ber. Ay, but there you thought wrong again, 
 Amanda ; you should consider, that in matters of 
 love men's eyes are always bigger than their 
 bellies. They have violent appetites, 'tis true, 
 but they have soon dined. 
 
 Aman. Well ; there's nothing upon earth 
 astonishes me more than men's inconstancy. 
 
 Ber. Now there's nothing upon earth astonishes 
 me less, when I consider what they and we are 
 composed of: for nature has made them children, 
 and us babies. Now, Amanda, how we used our 
 babies you may remember. We were mad to 
 have them as soon as we saw them ; kissed them 
 to pieces as soon as we got them ; then pulled off 
 their clothes, saw them naked, and so threw them 
 away. 
 
 Aman. But do you think all men are of this 
 temper ? 
 
 Ber. All but one. 
 
 Aman. Who's that ? 
 
 Ber. Worthy. 
 
 Aman. Why, he's weary of his wife too, you see. 
 
 Ber. Ay, that's no proof. 
 
 Aman. What can be a greater ? 
 
 Ber. Being weary of his mistress. 
 
 Aman. Don't you think 'twere possible he 
 might give you that too ? 
 
 Ber. Perhaps he might, if he were my gallant ; 
 not if he were yours. 
 
 Aman. Why do you think he should be more 
 
 constant to me than be would to you ? I'm sure 
 I'm not so handsome. 
 
 Ber. Kissing goes by favour ; he likes you best. 
 
 Aman. Suppose he does : that's no demonstra- 
 tion he would be constant to me. 
 
 Ber. No, that I'll grant you : but there are 
 other reasons to expect it. For you must know 
 after all, Amanda, the inconstancy we commonly 
 see in men of brains, does not so much proceed 
 from the uncertainty of their temper, as from the 
 misfortunes of their love. A man sees perhaps a 
 hundred women he likes well enough for an 
 intrigue, and away ; but possibly, through the 
 whole course of his life, does not find above one 
 who is exactly what he could wish her : now her, 
 'tis a thousand to one, he never gets. Either she 
 is not to be had at all (though that seldom happens, 
 you'll say), or he wants those opportunities that 
 are necessary to gain her ; either she likes some- 
 body else much better than him, or uses him like 
 a dog, because he likes nobody so well as her. 
 Still something or other Fate claps in the way 
 between them and the women they are capable of 
 being fond of : and this makes them wander about 
 from mistress to mistress, like a pilgrim from town 
 to town, who every night must have a fresh lodg- 
 ing, and's in haste to be gone in the morning. 
 
 Aman. 'Tis possible there may be something in 
 what you say ; but what do you infer from it as 
 to the man we are talking of ? 
 
 Ber. Why, I infer, that you being the woman 
 in the world the most to his humour, 'tis not 
 likely he would quit you for one that is less. 
 
 Aman. That is not to be depended upon, for 
 you see Mr. Loveless does so. 
 
 Ber. What does Mr. Loveless do ? 
 
 Aman. Why, he runs after something for 
 variety I'm sure he does not like so well as he 
 does me. 
 
 Ber. That's more than you know, madam. 
 
 Aman. No, I'm sure on't. I am not very vain, 
 Berinthia, and yet I'll lay my life, if I could look 
 into his heart, he thinks I deserve to be preferred 
 to a thousand of her. 
 
 Ber. Don't be too positive in that neither ; a 
 million to one but she has the same opinion of 
 you. What would you give to see her ? 
 
 Aman. Hang her, dirty trull ! — Though I really 
 believe she's so ugly she'd cure me of my jealousy. 
 
 Ber. All the men of sense about town say she's 
 handsome. 
 
 Aman. They are as often out in those things as 
 any people. 
 
 Ber. Then I'll give you further proof — all the 
 women about town say she's a fool. Now I hope 
 you're convinced ? 
 
 Aman. Whate'er she be, I'm satisfied he does 
 not like her well enough to bestow anything more 
 than a little outward gallantry upon her. 
 
 Ber. Outward gallantry ! — [Aside.] I can't 
 bear this.— [Aloud.] Don't you think she's a 
 woman to be fobbed off so. Come, I'm too much 
 your friend to suffer you should be thus grossly 
 imposed upon by a man who does not deserve the 
 least part about you, unless he knew how to set a 
 greater value upon it. Therefore, in one word, to 
 my certain knowledge, he is to meet her now, 
 within a quarter of an hour, somewhere about that 
 Babylon of wickedness, Whitehall. And if you'll 
 give me your word, that you'll be content with 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 329 
 
 seeing her masked in his hand, without pulling her 
 headclothes off, I'll step immediately to the person 
 from whom I have my intelligence, and send you 
 word whereabouts you may stand to see 'em meet. 
 My Mend and I'll watch 'em from another place, 
 and dodge 'em to their private lodging; but don't 
 you offer to follow 'em, lest you do it awkwardly, 
 and spoil all. I'll come home to you again as 
 soon as I have earthed 'em, and give you an account 
 in what corner of the house the scene of their 
 lewdness lies. 
 
 Aman. If you can do this, Berinthia, he's a 
 villain. 
 
 Ber. I can't help that ; men will be so. 
 
 Aman. Well, I'll follow your directions, for I 
 shall never rest till I know the worst of this 
 matter. 
 
 Ber. Pray, go immediately and get yourself 
 ready then. Put on some of your woman's clothes, 
 a great scarf and a mask, and you shall presently 
 receive orders. — [Calls.] Here, who's there ? get 
 me a chair quickly. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. There are chairs at the door, madam. 
 
 Ber. 'Tis well; I'm coming. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Aman. But pray, Berinthia, before you go, tell 
 me how I may know this filthy thing, if she should 
 be so forward (as I suppose she will) to come to 
 the rendezvous first ; for methinks I would fain 
 view her a little. 
 
 Ber. Why, she's about my height ; and very 
 well shaped. 
 
 Aman. I thought she had been a little crooked ? 
 
 Ber. O no, she's as straight as I am. But we 
 lose time ; come away. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— Tom Fashion's Lodgings. 
 Enter Tom Fashion, meeting Lory. 
 
 Fash. Well, will the doctor come ? 
 
 Lory. Sir, I sent a porter to him as you ordered 
 me. He found him with a pipe of tobacco and a 
 great tankard of ale, which he said he would de- 
 spatch while I could tell three, and be here. 
 
 Fash. He does not suspect 'twas I that sent for 
 him ? 
 
 Lory. Not a jot, sir ; he divines as little for 
 himself as he does for other folks. 
 
 Fash. Will he bring nurse with him ? 
 
 Lory. Yes. 
 
 Fash. That's well ; where's Coupler ? 
 
 Lory. He's half way up the stairs taking breath ; 
 he must play his bellows a little, before he can get 
 to the top. 
 
 Enter Coupler. 
 
 Fash. Oh here he is.— Well, Old Phthisic, the 
 doctor's coming. 
 
 Coup. Would the pox had the doctor ! — I'm 
 quite out of wind — [To Lory.] Set me a chair, 
 sirrah. Ah! — [Sits down.] — [To Tom Fashion.] 
 Why the plague canst not thou lodge upon the 
 ground-floor ? 
 
 Fash. Because I love to lie as near heaven as I 
 can. 
 
 Coup. Prithee, let heaven alone ; ne'er affect 
 tending that way : thy centre's downwards. 
 
 Fash. That's impossible ! I have too much 
 ill luck in this world to be damned in the next. 
 
 Coup. Thou art out in thy logic. Thy major is 
 
 true, but thy minor is false ; for thou art the luck- 
 iest fellow in the universe. 
 
 Fash. Make out that. 
 
 Coup. I'lldo't: last night the devil ran away 
 with the parson of Fatgoose living. 
 
 Fash. If he had run away with the parish too, 
 what's that to me ? 
 
 Coup. I'll tell thee what it's to thee. — This 
 living is worth five hundred pounds a-year, and 
 the presentation of it is thine, if thou canst prove 
 thyself a lawful husband to Miss Hoyden. 
 
 Fash. Sayest thou so, my protector ? Then, 
 egad, I shall have a brace of evidences here pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Coup. The nurse and the doctor ? 
 
 Fash. The same. The devil himself won't have 
 interest enough to make 'em withstand it. 
 
 Coup. That we shall see presently. — Here they 
 come. 
 
 Enter Nurse and Bull ; they start back, seeing Tom 
 Fashion. 
 
 Nurse. Ah, goodness, Roger, we are betrayed ! 
 
 Fash. [Laying hold of them.] Nay, nay, ne'er 
 flinch for the matter, for I have you safe. — Come 
 to your trials immediately ; I have no time to give 
 you copies of your indictment. There sits your 
 judge. 
 
 Both. [Kneeling.] Pray, sir, have compassion 
 on us. 
 
 Nurse. I hope, sir, my years will move your 
 pity ; I am an aged woman. 
 
 Coup. That is a moving argument indeed. — 
 [To Bull.] Are not you a rogue of sanctity ? 
 
 Bull. Sir (with respect to my function), I do 
 wear a gown. I hope, sir, my character will be 
 considered ; I am Heaven's ambassador. 
 
 Coup. Did not you marry this vigorous young 
 fellow to a plump young buxom wench ? 
 
 Nurse. [Aside to Bull.] D-on't confess, Roger, 
 unless you are hard put to it indeed. 
 
 Coup. Come, out with't ! — Now is he chewing 
 the cud of his roguery, and grinding a lie between 
 his teeth. 
 
 Bull. Sir, I cannot positively say — I say, sir, 
 positively I cannot say — 
 
 Coup. Come, no equivocation, no Roman turns 
 upon us. Consider thou standest upon protestant 
 ground, which will slip from under thee like a 
 Tyburn cart ; for in this country we have always 
 ten hangmen for one Jesuit. 
 
 Bull. [To Tom Fashion.] Pray, sir, then will 
 you but permit me to speak one word in private 
 with nurse ? 
 
 Fash. Thou art always for doing something in 
 private with nurse. 
 
 Coup. But pray let his betters be served before 
 him for once : I would do something in private 
 with her myself. — Lory, take care of this reverend 
 gownman in the next room a little. — Retire, priest. 
 — [Exit Lory with Bull.] Now, virgin, I must 
 put the matter home to you a little : do you think 
 it might not be possible to make you speak truth ? 
 
 Nurse. Alas, sir ! I don't know what you mean 
 by truth. 
 
 Coup. Nay, 'tis possible thou mayest be a 
 stranger to it. 
 
 Fash. Come, nurse, you and I were bettei 
 friends when we saw one another last ; and I still 
 believe you are a very good woman in the bottom. 
 I did deceive you and your young lady, 'tis true, 
 
330 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 but I always designed to make a very good husband 
 to her, and to be a very good friend to you. And 
 'tis possible, in the end, she might have found her- 
 self happier, and you richer, than ever my brother 
 will make you. 
 
 Nurse. Brother ! why is your worship then his 
 lordship's brother ? 
 
 Fash. I am ; which you should have known, if 
 I durst have stayed to have told you ; but I was 
 forced to take horse a little in haste, you know. 
 
 Nurse. You were indeed, sir : poor young man, 
 how he was bound to scaure for't ! Now won't 
 your worship be angry, if I confess the truth to 
 you ? — When I found you were a cheat (with 
 respect be 'it spoken), I verily believed miss had 
 got some pitiful skip-jack varlet or other to her 
 husband, or I had ne'er let her think of marrying 
 again. 
 
 Coup. But where was your conscience all this 
 while, woman ? did not that stare you in the face 
 with huge saucer- eyes, and a great horn upon the 
 forehead ? Did not you think you should be 
 damned for such a sin ? — Ha ! 
 
 Fash. Well said, divinity ! press that home 
 upon her. 
 
 Nurse. Why, in good truly, sir, I had some 
 fearful thoughts on't, and could never be brought 
 to consent, till Mr. Bull said it was a peckadilla, 
 and he'd secure my soul for a tithe-pig. 
 
 Fash. There was a rogue for you ! 
 
 Coup. And he shall thrive accordingly ; he shall 
 have a good living. — Come, honest nurse, I see 
 you have butter in your compound ; you can melt. 
 Some compassion you can have of this handsome 
 young fellow. 
 
 Nurse. I have, indeed, sir. 
 
 Fash. Why, then I'll tell you what you shall do 
 for me. You know what a warm living here is 
 fallen ; and that it must be in the disposal of him 
 who has the disposal of miss. Now if you and the 
 doctor will agree to prove my marriage, I'll pre- 
 sent him to it, upon condition he makes you his 
 bride. 
 
 Nurse. Naw the blessing of the Lord follow 
 your good worship both by night and by day ! — 
 Let him be fetched in by the ears ; I'll soon bring 
 his nose to the grindstone. 
 
 Coup. [Aside.'] Well said, old white-leather ! 
 — [Aloud.] Hey, bring in the prisoner there ! 
 
 Re-enter Lory with Bull. 
 
 Coup. Come, advance, holy man. Here's your 
 duck does not think fit to retire with you into the 
 chancel at this time ; but she has a proposal to 
 make to you in the face of the congregation. — 
 Come, nurse, speak for yourself, you are of 
 age. 
 
 Nurse. Roger, are not you a wicked man, Roger, 
 to set your strength against a weak woman, and 
 persuade her it was no sin to conceal miss's nup- 
 tials ? My conscience flies in my face for it, thou 
 priest of Baal ! and I find by woful experience thy 
 absolution is not worth an old cassock ; therefore I 
 am resolved to confess the truth to the whole world, 
 though I die a beggar for it. But his worship over- 
 flows with his mercy and his bounty ; he is not only 
 pleased to forgive us our sins, but designs thou 
 sha't squat thee down in Fatgoose living ; and 
 which is more than all, has prevailed with me to 
 become the wife of thy bosom. 
 
 Fash. All this I intend for you, doctor. What 
 you are to do for me I need not tell ye. 
 
 Bull. Your worship's goodness is unspeakable. 
 Yet there is one thing seems a point of conscience ; 
 and conscience is a tender babe. If I should bind 
 myself, for the sake of this living, to marry nurse, 
 and maintain her afterwards, I doubt it might be 
 looked on as a kind of simony. 
 
 Coup. [Rising up.] If it were sacrilege, the 
 living's worth it : therefore no more words, good 
 doctor ; but with the parish — [Giving Nurse to 
 him] here — take the parsonage-house. 'Tis true, 
 'tis a little out of repair ; some dilapidations there 
 are to be made good ; the windows are broke, the 
 wainscot is warped, the ceilings are peeled, and the 
 walls are cracked ; but a little glazing, painting, 
 whitewash, and plaster, will make it last thy time. 
 
 Bull. Well, sir, if it must be so, I shan't con- 
 tend. What Providence orders, I submit to. 
 
 Nurse. And so do I, with all humility. 
 
 Coup. Why, that now was spoke like good 
 people. Come, my turtle-doves, let us go help this 
 poor pigeon to his wandering mate again ; and after 
 institution and induction, you shall all go a-cooing 
 together. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Loveless' s Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Amanda in a scarf, %c., as just returned, Tier Maid 
 following her. 
 
 Aman. Prithee what care I who has been here ? 
 
 Maid. Madam, 'twas my lady Bridle and my 
 Lady Tiptoe. 
 
 Aman. My lady Fiddle and my lady Faddle ! 
 What dost stand troubling me with the visits of a 
 parcel of impertinent women ! When they are well 
 seamed with the small-pox, they won't be so fond 
 of showing their faces. — There are more coquettes 
 about this town — 
 
 Maid. Madam, I suppose they only came to 
 return your ladyship's visit, according to the cus- 
 tom of the world. 
 
 Aman. Would the world were on fire, and you 
 in the middle on't ! Begone! leave me ! — [Exit 
 Maid.] At last I am convinced. My eyes are 
 testimonies of his falsehood. The base, ungrateful, 
 perjured villain ! — 
 
 Good gods ! what slippery stuff are men com- 
 posed of ! 
 Sure the account of their creation's false, 
 And 'twas the woman's rib that they were form'd of. 
 But why am I thus angry ? 
 This poor relapse should only move my scorn. 
 'Tis true, 
 
 The roving flights of his unfinish'd youth 
 Had strong excuses from the plea of nature ; 
 Reason had thrown the reins loose on his neck, 
 And slipp'd him to unlimited desire. 
 If therefore he went wrong, he had a claim 
 To my forgiveness, and I did him right. 
 But since the years of manhood rein him in, 
 And reason, well digested into thought, 
 Has pointed out the course he ought to run ; 
 If now he strays, 
 
 'Twould be as weak and mean in me to pardon, 
 As it has been in him to offend. But hold : 
 'Tis an ill cause indeed, where nothing's to be said 
 
 for't. 
 My beauty possibly is in the wane ; 
 
THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 331 
 
 Perhaps sixteen has greater charms for him : 
 Yes, there's the secret. But let him know, 
 My quiver's not entirely emptied yet, 
 I still have darts, and I can shoot 'em too ; 
 They're not so blunt, but they can enter still : 
 The want's not in my power, but in my will. 
 Virtue's his friend ; or, through another's heart, 
 I yet could find the way to make his smart. 
 
 [Going off, she meets Worthy. 
 Ha ! he here ! 
 Protect me, Heaven ! for this looks ominous. 
 
 Enter Worthy, 
 
 Wor. You seem disorder'd, madam, 
 I hope there's no misfortune happen' d to you ? 
 
 Annan. None that wall long disorder me, I hope. 
 
 Wor. Whate'er it be disturbs you, would to 
 'Twere in my power to bear the pain, [heaven ! 
 Till I were able to remove the cause. 
 
 Aman. I hope ere long it will remove itself. 
 At least, I have given it warning to be gone. 
 
 Wor. Would I durst ask, where 'tis the thorn 
 torments you ! 
 Forgive me, if I grow inquisitive ; 
 'Tis only with desire to give you ease. 
 
 Aman. Alas ! 'tis in a tender part. 
 It can't be drawn without a world of pain : 
 Yet out it must ; 
 For it begins to fester in my heart. 
 
 Wor. If 'tis the sting of unrequited love, 
 Remove it instantly : 
 I have a balm will quickly heal the wound. 
 
 Aman. You'll find the undertaking difficult : 
 The surgeon, who already has attempted it, 
 Has much tormented me. 
 
 Wor. I'll aid him with a gentler hand, 
 If you will give me leave. 
 
 Aman. How soft soe'er the hand may be, 
 There still is terror in the operation. 
 
 Wor. Some few preparatives would make it easy. 
 Could I persuade you to apply 'em. 
 Make home reflections, madam , on your slighted love : 
 Weigh well the strength and beauty of your charms : 
 Rouse up that spirit women ought to bear, 
 And slight your god, if he neglects his angel. 
 With arms of ice receive his cold embraces, 
 And keep your fire for those who come in flames. 
 Behold a burning lover at your feet, 
 His fever raging in his veins ! 
 See how he trembles, how he pants ! 
 See how he glows, how he consumes ! 
 Extend the arms of mercy to his aid ; 
 His zeal may give him title to your pity, 
 Although his merit cannot claim your love. 
 
 Aman. Of all my feeble sex, sure I must be the 
 weakest, 
 Should I again presume to think on love. [Sighing. 
 Alas ! my heart has been too roughly treated. 
 
 Wor. 'Twill find the greater bliss in softer usage. 
 
 Aman. But where's that usage to be found ? 
 
 Wor. 'Tis here, 
 
 Within this faithful breast ; which if you doubt, 
 I'll rip it up before your eyes ; 
 Lay all its secrets open to your view ; 
 And then, you'll see 'twas sound. 
 
 Aman. With just such words, 
 
 Honest as these, the worst of men deceived me. 
 
 Wor. He therefore merits all revenge can do ; 
 His fault is such, 
 The extent and stretch of vengeance cannot reach it. 
 
 Oh 1 make me but your instrument of justice ; 
 You'll find me execute it with such zeal, 
 As shall convince you I abhor the crime. 
 
 Aman. The rigour of an executioner, 
 Has more the face of cruelty than justice : 
 And he who puts the cord about the wretch's neck, 
 Is seldom known to exceed him in his morals. 
 
 Wor. What proof then can I give you of my 
 
 Aman. There is on earth but one. [truth ? 
 
 Wor. And is that in my power ? 
 
 Aman. It is : 
 
 And one that would so thoroughly convince me, 
 I should be apt to rate your heart so high, 
 I possibly might purchase't with a part of mine. 
 
 Wor. Then heaven thou art my friend, and I 
 am blest ; 
 For if 'tis in my power, my will I'm sure 
 Will reach it. No matter what the terms 
 May be, when such a recompense is offer' d. 
 Oh ! tell me quickly what this proof must be ! 
 What is it will convince you of my love ? 
 
 Aman. I shall believe you love me as you ought, 
 If from this moment you forbear to ask 
 Whatever is unfit for me to grant. — 
 You pause upon it, sir. — I doubt, on such hard 
 
 terms, 
 A woman's heart is scarcely worth the having. 
 
 Wor. A heart, like yours, on any terms is 
 worth it ; 
 'Twas not on that I paused. But I was thinking 
 [Drawing nearer to her. 
 Whether some things there may not be, 
 Which women cannot grant without a blush, 
 And yet which men may take without offence. 
 
 [Taking her hand. 
 Your hand, I fancy, may be of the number : 
 Oh, pardon me ! if I commit a rape 
 
 [Kissing it eagerly. 
 Upon't ; and thus devour it with my kisses. 
 
 Aman. O heavens ! let me go. 
 
 Wor. Never, whilst I have strength to hold you 
 here. [Forcing her to sit down on a couch. 
 My life, my soul,my goddess — Oh, forgive me I 
 
 Aman. O whither am I going ? Help, heaven, 
 or I am lost. 
 
 Wor. Stand neuter, gods, this once, I do invoke 
 you. 
 
 Aman. Then, save me, virtue, and the glory's 
 
 Wor. Nay, never strive. [thine. 
 
 Aman. I will and conquer too. 
 
 My forces rally bravely to my aid. 
 
 [Breaking from him. 
 And thus I gain the day. 
 
 Wor. Then mine as bravely double their attack ; 
 [Seizing her again. 
 And thus I wrest it from you. Nay, struggle not ; 
 For all's in vain : or death or victory ; 
 I am determined. 
 
 Aman. And so am I : 
 
 [Rushing from him. 
 Now keep your distance, or we part for ever. 
 
 Wor. [Offering again.] For Heaven's sake ! — 
 
 Aman. [Going.] Nay then, farewell ! 
 
 Wor. Oh stay ! and see the magic force of love. 
 [Kneeling, and holding by her clothes. 
 Behold this raging lion at your feet, 
 Struck dead with fear, and tame as charms can 
 
 make him. 
 What must I do to be forgiven by you ? 
 
 Aman. Repent, and never more offend. 
 
332 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Wor. Repentance for past crimes is just and easy; 
 But sin no more's a task too hard for mortals. 
 
 Aman. Yet those who hope for heaven, 
 Must use their best endeavours to perform it. 
 Wor. Endeavours we may use, but flesh and 
 
 blood are got 
 In t'other scale ; and they are ponderous things. 
 Aman. Whate'er they are, there is a weight in 
 
 resolution 
 Sufficient for their balance. The soul, I do confess, 
 Is usually so careless of its charge, 
 So soft, and so indulgent to desire, 
 It leaves the reins in the wild hand of nature, 
 Who like a Phaeton, drives the fiery chariot, 
 And sets the world on flame. 
 Yet still the sovereignty is in the mind, 
 Whene'er it pleases to exert its force. 
 Perhaps you may not think it worth your while, 
 To take such mighty pains for my esteem ; 
 But that I leave to you. 
 You see the price I set upon my heart ; 
 Perhaps 'tis dear : but, spite of all your art, 
 You'll find on cheaper terms we ne'er shall part. 
 
 {Exit. 
 Wor. Sure there's divinity about her ! 
 And sh'as dispensed some portion on't to me. 
 For what but now was the wild flame of love, 
 Or (to dissect that specious term) the vile, 
 The gross desires of flesh and blood, 
 Is in a moment turn'd to adoration. 
 The coarser appetite of nature's gone, and 'tis, 
 Methinks, the food of angels I require. 
 How long this influence may last, Heaven knows ; 
 But in this moment of my purity, 
 I could on her own terms accept her heart. 
 Yes, lovely woman ! I can accept it. 
 For now 'tis doubly worth my care. 
 Your charms are much increased, since thus 
 
 adorn'd. 
 When truth's extorted from us, then we own 
 The robe of virtue is a graceful habit. 
 Could women but our secret counsels scan, 
 Could they but reach the deep reserves of man, 
 They'd wear it on, that that of love might last ; 
 For when they thro.w off one, we soon the other 
 Their sympathy is such — [cast. 
 
 The fate of one, the other scarce can fly ; 
 They live together, and together die. {Exit 
 
 SCENE V. — A Room in Lord Foppington's 
 
 House. 
 
 Enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 
 
 Hoyd. But is it sure and certain, say you, he's 
 my lord's own brother ? 
 
 Nurse. As sure as he's your lawful husband. 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, if I had known that in time, I 
 don't know but I might have kept him : for, 
 between you and I, nurse, he'd have made a hus- 
 band worth two of this I have. But which do you 
 think you should fancy most, nurse ? 
 
 Nurse. Why, truly, in my poor fancy, madam, 
 your first husband is the prettier gentleman. 
 
 Hoyd. I don't like my lord's shapes, nurse. 
 
 Nurse. Why, in good truly, as a body may say, 
 he is but a slam. 
 
 Hoyd. What do you think now he puts me in 
 mind of? Don't you remember a long, loose, 
 shambling sort of a horse my father call'd Washy ? 
 
 Nurse. As like as two twin-brothers ! 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, I have thought so a hundred 
 times : faith, I'm tired of him. 
 
 Nurse. Indeed, madam, I think you had e'en 
 as good stand to your first bargain. 
 
 Hoyd. Oh but, nurse, we han't considered the 
 main thing yet. If I leave my lord, I must leave 
 my lady too ; and when I rattle about the streets 
 in my coach, they'll only say, There goes mistress 
 — mistress — mistress what ? What's this man's 
 name I have married, nurse ? 
 
 Nurse. 'Squire Fashion. 
 
 Hoyd. 'Squire Fashion is it ? — Well, 'Squire, 
 that's better than nothing. Do you think one 
 could not get him made a knight, nurse ? 
 
 Nurse. I don't know but one might, madam, 
 when the king's in a good humour. 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, that would do rarely. For then 
 he'd be as good a man as my father, you know. 
 
 Nurse. By'r Lady, and that's as good as the 
 best of 'em. 
 
 Hoyd. So 'tis, faith ; for then I shall be my 
 lady, and your ladyship at every word, that's all I 
 have to care for. Ha, nurse, but hark you me, 
 one thing more, and then 1 have done. I'm afraid, 
 if I change my husband again, I shan't have so 
 much money to throw about, nurse. 
 
 Nurse. Oh, enough's as good as a feast. Be- 
 sides, madam, one don't know but as much may 
 fall to your share with the younger brother as with 
 the elder. For though these lords have a power of 
 wealth indeed, yet, as I have heard say, they give 
 it all to their sluts and their trulls ; who joggle it 
 about in their coaches, with a murrain to 'em! 
 whilst poor madam sits sighing, and wishing, and 
 knotting, and crying, and has not a spare half- 
 crown to buy her a Practice of Piety. 
 
 Hoyd. Oh, but for that don't deceive yourself, 
 nurse. For this I must say for my lord, and a — 
 {Snapping her fingers] for him ; he's as free as 
 an open house at Christmas. For this very morn- 
 ing he told me I should have two hundred a year 
 to buy pins. Now, nurse, if he gives me two 
 hundred a year to buy pins, what do you think 
 he'll give me to buy fine petticoats ? 
 
 Nurse. Ah, my dearest, he deceives thee faully, 
 and he's no better than 'a rogue for his pains ! 
 These Londoners have got a gibberidge with 'em 
 would confound a gipsy. That which they call 
 pin-money is to buy their wives everything in the 
 varsal world, down to their very shoe-ties. Nay, I 
 have heard folks say, that some ladies, if they will 
 have gallants, as they call 'em, are forced to find 
 them out of their pin-money too. 
 
 Hoyd. Has he served me so, say ye ! — Then I'll 
 be his wife no longer, that's fixed. Look, here he 
 comes, with all the fine folks at's heels. Ecod, 
 nurse, these London ladies will laugh till they 
 crack again, to see me slip my collar, and run 
 away from my husband. But, d'ye hear ? Pray, 
 take care of one thing : when the business comes 
 to break out, be sure you get between me and my 
 father, for you know his tricks ; he'll knock me 
 down. 
 
 Nurse. I'll mind him, ne'er fear, madam. 
 Enter Lord Foppwgton, Loveless, Worthy, Amanda, 
 and Berinthia. 
 
 Lord Fop. Ladies and gentlemen, you are all 
 welcome. — Loveless, that's my wife ; prithee do me 
 the favour to salute her ; and dost hear, — [Aside 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 333 
 
 to him'] if thau hast a mind to try thy fartune, to 
 be revenged of me, I won't take it ill, stap my 
 vitals ! 
 
 Love. You need not fear, sir; I'm too fond of 
 
 my own wife to have the least inclination to yours. 
 
 [All salute Miss Hoyden. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.'] I'd give a thousand paund 
 he would make love to her, that he may see 
 she has sense enough to prefer me to him, though 
 his own wife has not. — [Viewing him.] He's a 
 very beastly fellow, in my opinion. 
 
 Hoyd. [Aside.] What a power of fine men there 
 are in this London '. He that kissed me first is a 
 goodly gentleman, 1 promise you. Sure those 
 wives have a rare time on't that live here always, 
 
 Entw Sir Tunbelly Clumsey, with Musicians, Dancers, 
 
 Sir Tun. Come, come in, good people, come 
 in ! Come tune your fiddles, tune your fiddles ! 
 — [To the hautboys.] Bagpipes, make ready there. 
 Come, strike up. [Sings. 
 
 For this is Hoyden's wedding-day, 
 And therefore we keep holiday, 
 And come to be merry. 
 Ha ! there's my wench, I'faith. Touch and take, 
 I'll warrant her ; she'll breed like a tame rabbit. 
 
 Hoyd. [Aside.] Ecod, I think my father's gotten 
 drunk before supper. 
 
 Sir Tun. [To Loveless and Worthy.] Gen- 
 tlemen, you are welcome. — [Saluting Amanda 
 and Berinthia.] Ladies, by your leave. — 
 [Aside.] Ha ! they bill like turtles. Udsookers, 
 they set my old blood a-fire ; I shall cuckold 
 somebody before morning. 
 
 Lord Fop. [To Sir Tunbelly.] Sir, you being 
 master of the entertainment, will you desire the 
 company to sit? 
 
 Sir Tun. Oons, sir, I'm the happiest man on 
 this side the Ganges ! 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.] This is a mighty unac- 
 countable old fellow. — [To Sir Tunbelly.] I 
 said, sir, it would be convenient to ask the com- 
 pany to sit. 
 
 Sir Tun. Sit !— with all my heart. — Come, take 
 your places, ladies ; take your places, gentlemen. 
 — Come sit down, sit down ; a pox of ceremony ! 
 take your places. 
 
 \They sit, and the masque begins. 
 
 Enter Cvpw and Hymen, with a Chorus of Dancers. 
 
 Cup. Thou bane to my empire, thou spring of 
 contest, 
 Thou source of all discord, thou period to rest, 
 Instruct me, what wretches in bondage can see, 
 That the aim of their life is still pointed to thee. 
 
 Hym. Instruct me, thou little, impertinent god, 
 From whence all thy subjects have taken the mode 
 To grow fond of a change, to whatever it be, 
 And I'll tell thee why those would be bound who 
 are free. 
 
 For change, we're for change, to whatever it be, 
 We are neither contented with freedom nor thee. 
 Constancy's an empty sound, 
 Heaven, and earth, and all go round, 
 All the works of Nature move, 
 All the joys of life and love 
 Are in variety. 
 
 Cup. Were love the reward of a pains -taking 
 life, 
 Had a husband the art to be fond of his wife, 
 Were virtue so plenty, a wife could afford, 
 These very hard times, to be true to her lord, 
 Some specious account might be given of those 
 Who are tied by the tail, to be led by the nose. 
 
 But since 'tis the fate of a man and his wife, 
 
 To consume all their days in contention and strife ; 
 
 Since, whatever the bounty of Heaven may create 
 
 her, 
 He's morally sure he shall heartily hate her, 
 I think 'twere much wiser to ramble at large, 
 And the volleys of love on the herd to discharge. 
 
 Hym. Some colour of reason thy counsel might 
 
 bear, 
 Could a man have no more than his wife to his 
 
 share : 
 Or were I a monarch so cruelly just, 
 To oblige a poor wife to be true to her trust ; 
 But I have not pretended, for many years past, 
 By marrying of people, to make 'em grow chaste. 
 
 I therefore advise thee to let me go on, 
 
 Thou'lt find I'm the strength and support of thy 
 
 throne ; 
 For hadst thou but eyes, thou wouldst quickly 
 perceive it, 
 How smoothly the dart 
 Slips into the heart 
 Of a woman that's wed ; 
 Whilst the shivering maid 
 Stands trembling, and wishing, but dare not receive 
 it. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 For change, we're for change, to whatever it be, 
 We are neither contented with freedom nor thee. 
 Constancy's an empty sound, 
 Heaven, and earth, and all go round, 
 All the works of Nature move, 
 And the joys of life and love 
 Are in variety. 
 
 \_End of the masque* 
 
 Sir Tun. So ; very fine, very fine, i'faith ! this 
 is something like a wedding. Now, if supper were 
 but ready I'd say a short grace ; and if I had such 
 a bedfellow as Hoyden to-night — I'd say as short 
 prayers. 
 
 Enter Tom Fashion, Coupler, and Bull. 
 How now! — what have we got here? a ghost! 
 Nay, it must be so, for his flesh and blood could 
 never have dared to appear before me. — [ To Tom 
 Fashion.] Ah, rogue ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Stap my vitals, Tarn again ! 
 
 Sir Tun. My lord, will you cut his throat ? or 
 shall I ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Leave him to me, sir, if you please. 
 — Prithee, Tarn, be so ingenuous now as to tell 
 me what thy business is here ? 
 
 Fash. 'Tis with your bi'ide. 
 
 Lord Fop. Thau art the impudentest fellow that 
 Nature has yet spawned into the warld, strike me 
 speechless ! 
 
 Fash. Why, you know my modesty would have 
 starved me ; I sent it a-begging to you, and you 
 would not give it a groat. 
 
 Lord Fop. And dost thau expect by an excess 
 of assurance to extart a maintenance fram me ? 
 
334 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Fash. [ Taking Miss Hoyden by the hand.] I 
 do intend to extort your mistress from you, and that 
 I hope will prove one. 
 
 Lord Fop. lever thaught Newgate or Bedlam 
 would be his fartune, and nawhis fate's decided. — 
 Prithee, Loveless, dost know of ever a mad-doctor 
 hard by ? 
 
 Fash. There's one at your elbow will cure you 
 presently. — [To Bull.] Prithee, doctor, take him 
 in hand quickly. 
 
 Lord Fop. Shall I beg the favour of you, sir, to 
 pull your fingers out of my wife's hand ? 
 
 Fash. His wife ! Look you there ; now I hope 
 you are all satisfied he's mad. 
 
 Lord Fop. Naw, it is not passible far me to 
 penetrate what species of fally it is thou art driving 
 at! 
 
 Sir Tun. Here, here, here, let me beat out his 
 brains, and that will decide all. 
 
 Lord Fop. No, pray, sir, hold, we'll destray him 
 presently according to law. 
 
 Fash. [To Bull.] Nay, then advance, doctor : 
 come, you are a man of conscience, answer boldly 
 to the questions I shall ask. Did not you marry 
 me to this young lady before ever that gentleman 
 there saw her face ? 
 
 Bull. Since the truth must out, I did. 
 
 Fash. Nurse, sweet nurse, were not you a wit- 
 ness to it ? 
 
 Nurse. Since my conscience bids me speak — I 
 was. 
 
 Fash. [To Miss Hoyden.] Madam, am not I 
 your lawful husband ? 
 
 Hoyd. Truly I can't tell, but you married me 
 first. 
 
 Fash. Now I hope you are all satisfied ? 
 
 Sir Tun. [Offering to strike him, is held by 
 Loveless and Worthy.] Oons and thunder, you 
 lie! 
 
 Lord Fop. Pray, sir, be calm, the battle is in 
 disarder, but requires more canduct than courage 
 to rally our forces. — Pray, dactar, one word with 
 you. — [Aside to Bull.] Look you, sir, though I 
 will not presume to calculate your notions of 
 damnation fram the description you give us of hell, 
 yet since there is at least a passibility you may have 
 a pitchfark thrust in your backside, methinks it 
 should not be worth your while to risk your saul in 
 the next warld for the sake of a beggarly yaunger 
 brather, who is nat able to make your bady happy 
 in this. 
 
 Bull. Alas ! my lord, I have no worldly ends ; 
 I speak the truth, Heaven knows. 
 
 Lord Fop. Nay, prithee, never engage Heaven 
 in the matter, for by all I can see 'tis like to prove 
 a business for the devil. 
 
 Fash. Come, pray sir, all above-board, no cor- 
 rupting of evidences. If you please, this young 
 lady is my lawful wife, and I'll justify it in all the 
 courts of England ; so your lordship (who always 
 had a passion for variety) may go seek a new mis- 
 tress if you think fit. 
 
 Lord Fop. I am struck dumb with his impu- 
 dence, and cannot passitively tell whether ever I 
 shall speak again or nat. 
 
 Sir Tun. Then let me come and examine the 
 business a little, I'll jerk the truth out of 'em pre- 
 sently. Here, give me my dog-whip. 
 
 Fash. Look you, old gentleman, 'tis in vain to 
 make a noise ; if you grow mutinous, I have some 
 
 friends within call have swords by their sides above 
 four foot long; therefore be calm, hear the evidence 
 patiently, and when the jury have given their ver- 
 dict, pass sentence according to law. Here's 
 honest Coupler shall be foreman, and ask as many 
 questions as he pleases. 
 
 Coup. All I have to ask is, whether nurse per- 
 sists in her evidence ? The parson, I dare swear, 
 will never flinch from his. 
 
 Nurse. [To Sir Tunbelly, kneeling.] I hope 
 in heaven your worship will pardon me : I have 
 served you long and faithfully, but in this thing I 
 was overreached ; your worship, however, was 
 deceived as well as I, and if the wedding-dinner 
 had been ready, you had put madam to bed with 
 him with your own hands. 
 
 Sir Tun. But how durst you do this, without 
 acquainting of me ? 
 
 Nurse. Alas ! if your worship had seen how the 
 poor thing begged, and prayed, and clung, and 
 twined about me, like ivy to an old wall, you 
 would say, I who had suckled it, and swaddled it, 
 and nursed it both wet and dry, must have had a 
 heart of adamant to refuse it. 
 
 Sir Tun. Very well ! 
 
 Fash. Foreman, I expect your verdict. 
 
 Coup. Ladies and gentlemen, what's your 
 opinions ? 
 
 All. A clear case ! a clear case ! 
 
 Coup. Then, my young folks, I wish you joy. 
 
 Sir Tun. [To Tom Fashion.] Come hither, 
 stripling ; if it be true then, that thou hast married 
 my daughter, prithee tell me who thou art ? 
 
 Fash. Sir, the best of my condition is, I am 
 your son-in-law ; and the worst of it is, I am bro- 
 ther to that noble peer there. 
 
 Sir Tun. Art thou brother to that noble peer ! — 
 Why, then, that noble peer, and thee, and thy wife, 
 and the nurse, and the priest — may all go and be 
 damned together ! [Exit. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.] Now, for my part, I think 
 the wisest thing a man can do with an aching heart 
 is to put on a serene countenance ; for a philo- 
 sophical air is the most becoming thing in the world 
 to the face of a person of quality. I will therefore 
 bear my disgrace like a great man, and let the 
 people see I am above an affront. — [Aloud.] Dear 
 Tarn, since things are thus fallen aut, prithee give 
 me leave to wish thee jay; I do it de bon cceur, 
 strike me dumb ! You have married a woman 
 beautiful in her person, charming in her airs, pru- 
 dent in her canduct, canstant in her inclinations, 
 and of a nice marality, split my windpipe ! 
 
 Fash. Your lardship may keep up your spirits 
 with your grimace if you please, I shall support 
 mine with this lady, and two thousand pound 
 a-year. — [Taking Miss Hoyden's hand.] Come, 
 madam : — 
 
 We once again, you see, are man and wife, 
 And now, perhaps, the bargain's struck for life. 
 If I mistake, and we should part again, 
 At least you see you may have choice of men : 
 Nay, should the war at length such havoc make, 
 That lovers should grow scarce, yet for your sake, 
 Kind Heaven always will preserve a beau : 
 
 [Pointing to Lord Foppington. 
 You'll find his lordship ready to come to. 
 
 Lord Fop. Her ladyship shall stap my vitals if 
 I do. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
THE RELAPSE; OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 335 
 
 SPOKEN BY LORD FOPP1NGTON. 
 
 Gentlemen and Ladies, 
 These people have regaled you here to-day 
 (In my opinion) with a saucy play ; 
 In which the author does presume to show, 
 That coxcomb, ab origine — was beau. 
 Truly I think the thing of so much weight, 
 That if some sharp chastisement ben't his fate, 
 Gad's curse ! it may in time destroy the state. 
 I hold no one its friend, I must confess, 
 Who would discauntenance you men of dress. 
 Far, give me leave to abserve,good clothes are things 
 Have ever been of great support to kings ; 
 All treasons come from slovens, it is nat 
 Within the reach of gentle beaux to plat ; 
 They have no gall, no spleen, no teeth, no stings, 
 Of all Gad's creatures, the most harmless things. 
 Through all recard, no prince was ever slain, 
 By one who had a feather in his brain. 
 
 They're men of too refined an education, 
 
 To squabble with a court — for a vile dirty nation. 
 
 I'm very pasitive you never saw 
 
 A through republican a finish'd beau. 
 
 Nor, truly, shall you very often see 
 
 A Jacobite much better dress'd than he ; 
 
 In shart, through all the courts that I have been in, 
 
 Your men of mischief — still are in faul linen. 
 
 Did ever one yet dance the Tyburn jig, 
 
 With a free air, or a well-pawder'd wig? 
 
 Did ever highwaymen yet bid you stand, 
 
 With a sweet bawdy snufFbax in his hand ? 
 
 Ar do you ever find they ask your purse 
 
 As men of breeding do ? — Ladies, Gad's curse ! 
 
 This author is a dag, and 'tis not fit 
 
 You should allow him even one grain of wit : 
 
 To which, that his pretence may ne'er be named, 
 
 My humble motion is — he may be damn'd. 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sir John Brute. 
 
 Constant, ) gentlemen of the Town. 
 Heartfree, j 
 Sir John Brute. 
 
 Lord Rake, \ Companions to I 
 
 Colonel Bully, j 
 
 Treble, a Singing-Master. 
 
 Rasor, Valet-de-Chambre to Sir John Brute. 
 
 Lovewell, Page to Lady Brute. 
 
 Joe, a Porter. 
 
 Justice of the Peace. 
 
 Page to Lord Rake. 
 
 Lady Brute, Wife o/Sir John Brute. 
 
 Belinda, her Niece. 
 
 Lady Fancyful. 
 
 Mademoiselle, Fille-de-Chambre to Lady Fancyful. 
 
 Cornet, 
 
 Pipe, 
 
 Maids to Lady Fancyful. 
 
 Tailor, Constable, Watchmen, Footmen, &c. 
 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 Since 'tis the intent and business of the stage, 
 
 To copy out the follies of the age ; 
 
 To hold to every man a faithful glass, 
 
 And show him of what species he's an ass : 
 
 I hope the next that teaches in the school, 
 
 Will show our author he's a scribbling fool. 
 
 And, that the satire may be sure to bite, 
 
 Kind Heaven inspire some venom'd priest to write! 
 
 And grant some ugly lady may indite ! 
 
 For I would have him lash'd, by heavens I would ! 
 
 Till his presumption swam away in blood. 
 
 Three plays at once proclaims a face of brass, 
 
 No matter what they are; that's not the case ; 
 
 To write three plays, e'en that's to be an ass. 
 
 But what I least forgive, he knows it too, 
 
 For to his cost he lately has known you. 
 
 Experience shows, to many a writer's smart, 
 You hold a court where mercy ne'er had part ; 
 So much of the old serpent's sting you have, 
 You love to damn, as Heaven delights to save. 
 In foreign parts, let a bold volunteer, 
 For public good, upon the stage appear, 
 He meets ten thousand smiles to dissipate his fear. 
 All tickle on the adventuring young beginner, 
 And only scourge the incorrigible sinner ; 
 They touch indeed his faults, but with a hand 
 So gentle, that his merit still may stand : 
 Kindly they buoy the follies of his pen, 
 That he may shun 'em when he writes again. 
 But 'tis not so in this good-natured town ; 
 All's one, an ox, a poet, or a crown ; 
 Old England's play was always knocking down. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Room in Sir John Brute's 
 
 House. 
 
 Enter Sir John Brute. 
 
 Sir John. What cloying meat is love — when 
 matrimony's the sauce to it ! Two years' marriage 
 has debauched my five senses. Everything I see, 
 everything I hear, everything I feel, everything I 
 smell, and everything I taste — methinks has wife 
 in't. No boy was ever so weary of his tutor, no 
 girl of her bib, no nun of doing penance, nor old 
 
 maid of being chaste, as I am of being married. 
 Sure, there's a secret curse entailed upon the very 
 name of wife. My lady is a young lady, a fine 
 lady, a witty lady, a virtuous lady — and yet I hate 
 her. There is but one thing I loathe on earth beyond 
 her : that's fighting. Would my courage come up 
 but to a fourth part of my ill-nature, I'd stand buff 
 to her relations, and thrust her out of doors. But 
 marriage has sunk me down to such an ebb of 
 resolution, I dare not draw my sword, though even 
 to get rid of my wife. But here she comes. 
 
SCENE 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 387 
 
 Enfe*" Lady Brute. 
 
 Lady Brute. Do you dine at home to-day, sir 
 John ? 
 
 Sir John. W T hy, do you expect I should tell you 
 what I don't know myself? 
 
 Lady Brute. I thought there was no harm in 
 asking you. 
 
 Sir John. If thinking wrong were an excuse for 
 impertinence, women might be justified in most 
 things they say or do. 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm sorry I've said anything to 
 displease you. 
 
 Sir John. Sorrow for things past is of as little 
 importance to me, as my dining at home or abroad 
 ought to be to you. 
 
 Lady Brute. My inquiry was only that I might 
 have provided what you liked. 
 
 Sir John. Six to four you had been in the 
 wrong there again ; for what I liked yesterday I 
 don't like to-day, and what I like to-day, 'tis odds 
 I mayn't like to-morrow. 
 
 Lady Brute. But if I had asked you what you 
 liked ? 
 
 Sir John. Why, then, there would be more 
 asking about it than the thing is worth. 
 
 Lady Brute. I wish I did but know how I might 
 please you. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, but that sort of knowledge is not 
 a wife's talent. 
 
 Lady Brute. Whate'er my talent is, I'm sure 
 my will has ever been to make you easy. 
 
 Sir John. If women were to have their wills 
 the world would be finely governed. 
 
 Lady Brute. What reason have I given you to 
 use me as you do of late ? It once was otherwise. 
 You married me for love. 
 
 Sir John. And you me for money. So, you 
 have your reward, and I have mine. 
 
 Lady Brute. What is it that disturbs you ? 
 
 Sir John. A parson. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, what has he done to you ? 
 
 Sir John. He has married me. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Brute. The devil's in the fellow, I think ! 
 — I was told before I married him that thus 'twould 
 be : but I thought I had charms enough to govern 
 him ; and that where there was an estate, a woman 
 must needs be happy ; so, my vanity has deceived 
 me, and my ambition has made me uneasy. But 
 there's some comfort still; if one would be revenged 
 of him, these are good times; a woman may have 
 a gallant, and a separate maintenance too. — The 
 surly puppy ! — Yet, he's a fool for't ; for hitherto 
 he has been no monster : but who knows how far 
 he may provoke me ? I never loved him, yet I 
 have been ever true to him ; and that in spite of 
 all the attacks of art and nature upon a poor weak 
 woman's heart, in favour of a tempting lover. 
 Methinks so noble a defence as I have made should 
 be rewarded with a better usage. — Or who can tell 
 — perhaps a good part of what I suffer from my 
 husband, may be a judgment upon me for my cru- 
 elty to my lover — Lord, with what pleasure could I 
 indulge that thought, were there but a possibility 
 of finding arguments to make it good ! — And how 
 do I know but there may ? — Let me see. — What 
 opposes ? — My matrimonial vow. — Why, what did 
 I vow ? I think I promised to be true to my hus- 
 band. Well ; and he promised to be kind to me. 
 But he han't kept his word. — Why, then, I am 
 
 absolved from mine. — Ay, that seems clear to me. 
 The argument's good between the king and the 
 people, why not between the husband and the 
 wife ? Oh, but that condition was not expressed. — 
 No matter, 'twas understood. Well, by all I see, 
 if I argue the matter a little longer with myself, I 
 shan't find so many bugbears in the way as I 
 thought I should. Lord, what fine notions of 
 virtue do we women take up upon the credit of 
 old foolish philosophers ! Virtue's its own reward, 
 virtue's this, virtue's that— virtue's an ass, and a 
 gallant's worth forty on't. 
 
 Enter Belinda, 
 
 Lady Brute. Good morrow, dear cousin ! 
 
 Bel. Good-morrow, madam ; you look pleased 
 this morning. 
 
 Lady Brute. I am so. 
 
 Bel. With what, pray ? 
 
 Lady Brute. With my husband. 
 
 Bel. Drown husbands ! for yours is a provoking 
 fellow. As he went out just now, I prayed him to 
 tell me what time of day 'twas ; and he asked me 
 if I took him for the church-clock, that was obliged 
 to tell all the parish. 
 
 Lady Brute. He has been saying some good 
 obliging things to me too. In short, Belinda, he 
 has used me so barbarously of late, that I could 
 almost resolve to play the downright wife — and 
 cuckold him. 
 
 Bel. That would be downright, indeed. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, after all, there's more to be 
 said for't than you'd imagine, child. I know, accord- 
 ing to the strict statute law of religion, I should do 
 wrong ; but, if there were a Court of Chancery in 
 heaven, I'm sure I should cast him. 
 
 Bel. If there were a House of Lords you might. 
 
 Lady Brute. In either I should infallibly carry 
 my cause. Why, he's the first aggressor, not I. 
 
 Bel. Ay, but you know, we must return good 
 for evil. 
 
 Lady Brute. That may be a mistake in the 
 translation. — Prithee, be of my opinion, Belinda ; 
 for I'm positive I'm in the right ; and if you'll 
 keep up the prerogative of a woman, you'll like- 
 wise be positive you are in the right, whenever you 
 do anything you have a mind to. But I shall play 
 the fool and jest on, till I make you begin to think 
 I'm in earnest. 
 
 Bel. 1 shan't take the liberty, madam, to think 
 of anything that you desire to keep a secret from 
 me. 
 
 Lady Brute. Alas, my dear ! I have no secrets. 
 My heart could never yet confine my tongue. 
 
 Bel. Your eyes, you mean ; for I'm sure I have 
 seen them gadding, when your tongue has been 
 locked up safe enough. 
 
 Lady Brute. My eyes gadding ! prithee after 
 who, child ? 
 
 Bel. Why, after one that thinks you hate him 
 as much as I know you love him. 
 
 Lady Brute. Constant, you mean ? 
 
 Bel. I do so. 
 
 Lady Brute. Lord, what should put such a 
 thing into your head ? 
 
 Bel. That which puts things into most people's 
 heads — observation . 
 
 Lady Brute. Why what have you observed, in 
 the name of wonder ? 
 
 Bel. I have observed you blush when you meet 
 Z 
 
338 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 him, force yourself away from him, and then be 
 out of humour with everything about you. In a 
 word, never was poor creature so spurred on by 
 desire, and so reined in with fear I 
 
 Lady Brute. How strong is fancy ! 
 
 Bel. How weak is woman ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Prithee, niece, have abetter opinion 
 of your aunt's inclination. 
 
 Bel. Dear aunt, have a better opinion of your 
 niece's understanding. 
 
 Lady Brute. You'll make me angry. 
 
 Bel. You'll make me laugh. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then you are resolved to persist ? 
 
 Bel. Positively. 
 
 Lady Brute. And all I can say — 
 
 Bel. Will signify nothing. 
 
 Lady Brute. Though I should swear 'twere 
 false — 
 
 Bel. I should think it true. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then let us both forgive — [Kiss- 
 ing her] for we have both offended : I in making 
 a secret, you in discovering it. 
 
 Bel. Good-nature may do much : but you have 
 more reason to forgive one, than I have to pardon 
 t'other. 
 
 Lady Brute. 'Tis true, Belinda, you have given 
 me so many proofs of your friendship, that my 
 reserve has been indeed a crime. But that you 
 may more easily forgive me, remember, child, that 
 when our nature prompts us to a thing our honour 
 and religion have forbid us, we would (were't pos- 
 sible) conceal, even from the soul itself, the know- 
 ledge of the body's weakness. 
 
 Bel. Well, I hope, to make your friend amends, 
 you'll hide nothing from her for the future, though 
 the body should still grow weaker and weaker. 
 
 Lady Brute. No, from this moment I have no 
 more reserve ; and for a proof of my repentance, 
 I own, Belinda, I'm in danger. Merit and wit 
 assault me from without ; nature and love solicit 
 me within ; my husband's barbarous usage piques 
 me to revenge ; and Satan, catching at the fair 
 occasion, throws in my way that vengeance which, 
 of all vengeance, pleases women best. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis well Constant don't know the weak- 
 ness of the fortification ; for, o' my conscience, 
 he'd soon come on to the assault ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Ay, and I'm afraid carry the town 
 too. But whatever you may have observed, I have 
 dissembled so well as to keep him ignorant. So you 
 see I'm no coquette, Belinda : and if you'll follow 
 my advice, youll never be one neither. 'Tis true, 
 coquetry is one of the main ingredients in the 
 natural composition of a woman ; and I, as well as 
 others, could be well enough pleased to see a 
 crowd of young fellows ogling, and glancing, and 
 watching all occasions to do forty foolish officious 
 things. Nay, should some of 'em push on, even 
 to hanging or drowning, why, faith, if I should let 
 pure woman alone, I should e'en be but too well 
 pleased with't. 
 
 Bel. I'll swear 'twould tickle me strangely. 
 
 Lady Brute. But after all, 'tis a vicious prac- 
 tice in us to give the least encouragement but 
 where we design to come to a conclusion. For 
 'tis an unreasonable thing to engage a man in a 
 disease which we beforehand resolve we never will 
 apply a cure to. 
 
 Bvl. 'Tis true ; but then a woman must aban- 
 don one of the supreme blessings of her life. For 
 
 I am fully convinced, no man has half that pleasure 
 in possessing a mistress as a woman has in jilting a 
 gallant. 
 
 Lady Brute. The happiest woman then on earth 
 must be our neighbour. 
 
 Bel. O the impertinent composition ! She has 
 vanity and affectation enough to make her a ridi- 
 culous original, in spite of all that art and nature 
 ever furnished to any of her sex before her. 
 
 Lady Brute. She concludes all men her cap- 
 tives ; and whatever course they take, it serves to 
 confirm her in that opinion. 
 
 Bel. If they shun her, she thinks 'tis modesty, 
 and takes it for a proof of their passion. 
 
 Lady Brute. And if they are rude to her, 'tis 
 conduct, and done to prevent town-talk. 
 
 Bel. When her folly makes 'em laugh, she 
 thinks they are pleased with her wit. 
 
 Lady Brute. And when her impertinence makes 
 'em dull, concludes they are jealous of her favours. 
 
 Bel. All their actions and their words she takes 
 for granted aim at her. 
 
 Lady Brute. And pities all other women because 
 she thinks they envy her. 
 
 Bel. Pray, out of pity to ourselves, let us find a 
 better subject, for I'm weary of this. Do you think 
 your husband inclined to jealousy ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Oh, no ; he does not love me well 
 enough for that. Lord, how wrong men's maxims 
 are ! They are seldom jealous of their wives, un- 
 less they are very fond of 'em ; whereas they ought 
 to consider the women's inclinations, for there 
 depends their fate. Well, men may talk ; but they 
 are not so wise as we, that's certain. 
 
 Bel. At least in our affairs. 
 
 Lady Brute. Nay, I believe we should outdo 
 'em in the business of the state too ; for methinks 
 they do and undo, and make but bad work on't. 
 
 Bel. Why then don't we get into the intrigues 
 of government as well as they ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Because we have intrigues of our 
 own that make us more sport, child. And so let's 
 in, and consider of 'em. {.Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Lady Fajstcyful's Dressing- Room. 
 
 Enter Lady Fancyful, Mademoiselle, and Cornet. 
 
 Lady Fan. How do I look this morning ? 
 
 Cor. Your ladyship looks very ill, truly. 
 
 Lady Fan. Lard, how ill-natured thou art, Cor- 
 net, to tell me so, though the thing should be true! 
 Don't you know that I have humility enough to be 
 but too easily out of conceit with myself. Hold the 
 glass ; I dare swear that will have more manners 
 than you have. — Mademoiselle, let me have your 
 opinion too. 
 
 Mad. My opinion pe, matam, dat your ladyship 
 never look so well in your life. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, the French are the prettiest 
 obliging people ; they say the most acceptable, 
 well-mannered things, and never flatter. 
 
 Mad. Your ladyship say great justice inteed. 
 
 Lady Fan. Nay, everything's just in my house 
 but Cornet. — The very looking-glass gives her the 
 dementi. — But I'm almost afraid it flatters me, it 
 makes me look so very engaging. 
 
 [Looking affectedly in the glass. 
 
 Mad. Inteed, matam, your face pe handsomer 
 den all de looking-glass in tee world, croyez-moi ! 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 339 
 
 Lady Fan. But is it possible my eyes can be so 
 languishing, and so very full of fire ? 
 
 Mad. Mataui, if de glass was burning-glass, I 
 believe your eyes set de fire in de house. 
 
 Lady Fan. You may take that night-gown, 
 
 Mademoiselle Get out of the room, Cornet ! I 
 
 can't endure you. — {Exit Cornet.] This wench, 
 methinks, does look so unsufferably ugly. 
 
 Mad. Every ting look ugly, matam, dat stand 
 by your latiship. 
 
 Lady Fan. No really, Mademoiselle, methinks 
 you look mighty pretty. 
 
 Mad. Ah, matam, de moon have no eclat, ven 
 de sun appear. 
 
 Lady Fan. O pretty expression ! Have you 
 ever been in love, Mademoiselle ? 
 
 Mad. Oui, matam. [Sighing. 
 
 Lady Fan. And were you beloved again ? 
 Mad. No, matam. [Sighing. 
 
 Lady Fan. O ye gods ! what an unfortunate 
 creature should I be in such a case ! But nature 
 has made me nice for my own defence : I'm nice, 
 strangely nice, Mademoiselle. I believe were the 
 merit of whole mankind bestowed upon one single 
 person, I should still think the fellow wanted some- 
 thing to make it worth my while to take notice of 
 him. And yet I could love ; nay fondly love, were 
 it possible to have a thing made on purpose for 
 me : for I'm not cruel, Mademoiselle ; I'm only 
 nice. 
 
 Mad. Ah, matam, I wish I was fine gentleman 
 for your sake. I do all de ting in de world to get 
 leetel way into your heart. I make song, I make 
 verse, I give you de serenade, I give great many 
 present to Mademoiselle ; I no eat, I no sleep, I 
 be lean, I be mad, I hang myself, I drown myself. 
 Ah ma chere dame, que je vous aimerais ! 
 
 [Embracing her. 
 Lady Fan. "Well, the French have strange 
 obliging ways with 'em ; you may take those two 
 pair of gloves, Mademoiselle. 
 
 Mad. Me humbly tanke my sweet lady. 
 
 Re-enter Cornet. 
 Cor. Madam, here's a letter for your ladyship 
 by the penny-post. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Fan. Some new conquest, I'll warrant 
 you. For without vanity, I looked extremely clear 
 last night, when I went to the Park. — O agreeable ! 
 Here's a new song made of me : and ready set too. 
 O thou welcome thing ! — {Kissing it.] Call 
 Pipe hither, she shall sing it instantly. 
 Enter Pipe. 
 Here, sing me this new song, Pipe. 
 Pipe sings. 
 Fly, fly, you happy shepherds, fly ! 
 
 Avoid Philira's charms ; 
 The rigour of her heart denies 
 
 The heaven that's in her arms. 
 Ne'er hope to gaze, and then retire, 
 
 Nor yielding, to he blest : 
 Nature, who form'd her eyes of fire, 
 
 Of ice composed her breast. 
 Yet, lovely maid, this once believe 
 
 A slave whose zeal you move ; 
 The gods, alas, your youth deceive, 
 
 Their heaven consists in love. 
 In spite of all the thanks you owe, 
 
 You may reproach 'em this, 
 That where they did their form bestow, 
 
 They have denied their bliss. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well there may be faults, Made- 
 moiselle, but the design is so very obliging, 'twould 
 be a matchless ingratitude in me to discover 'em. 
 
 Mad. Ma foi, matam, I tink de gentleman's 
 song tell you de trute : if you never love, you 
 never be happy. — Ah, que j'aime 1' amour moi ! 
 
 Re-enter Cornet, with another letter. 
 
 Cor. Madam, here's another letter for your 
 ladyship. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Fan. 'Tis thus I am importuned every 
 morning, Mademoiselle. Pray how do the French 
 ladies when they are thus accablees ? 
 
 Mad. Matam, dey never complain. Au con- 
 traire, when one Frense laty have got hundred 
 lover — den she do all she can — to get hundred more. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, strike me dead, I think they 
 have le gout bon ! For 'tis an unutterable plea- 
 sure to be adored by all the men, and envied by all 
 the women. — Yet I'll swear I'm concerned at the 
 torture I give 'em. Lard, why was I formed to 
 make the whole creation uneasy ! But let me 
 read my letter. — {Reads.'] If you have a mind to 
 hear of your faults, instead of being praised for 
 your virtues, take the pains to walk in the Green- 
 walk in St. James's with your woman an hour 
 hence. You'll there meet one who hates you for 
 some things, as he could love you for others, and 
 therefore is willing to endeavour your reforma- 
 tion. If you come to the place I mention, you'll 
 know who I am ; if you don't, you never shall: so 
 take your choice. — This is strangely familiar, 
 Mademoiselle ; now have I a provoking fancy to 
 know who this impudent fellow is. 
 
 Mad. Den take your scarf and your mask, and 
 go to de rendezvous. De Frense laty do justement 
 comme ca. 
 
 Lady Fan. Rendezvous ! What, rendezvous 
 with a man, Mademoiselle ! 
 
 Mad. Eh, pourquoi non ? 
 
 Lady Fan. What, and a man perhaps I never 
 saw in my life. 
 
 Mad. Tant mieux : e'est done quelque chose de 
 nouveau. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why, how do I know what designs 
 he may have ? He may intend to ravish me for 
 aught I know. 
 
 Mad. Ravish ! — bagatelle. I would fain see one 
 impudent rogue ravish Mademoiselle ; oui, je le 
 voudrais. 
 
 Lady Fan. Oh, but my reputation, Made- 
 moiselle, my reputation ; ah, ma chere reputation ! 
 
 Mad. Matam, quand on l'a une fois perdue, on 
 n'en est plus embarrassee. 
 
 Lady Fan. Fi Mademoiselle, fi ! Reputation 
 is a jewel. 
 
 Mad. Qui coute bien-chere, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why sure you would not sacrifice 
 your honour to your pleasure ? 
 
 Mad. Je suis philosophe. 
 
 Lardy Fan. Bless me, how you talk ! Why, 
 what if honour be a burden, Mademoiselle, must it 
 not be borne ? 
 
 Mad. Chacun a sa facon. Quand quelquechose 
 m'incommode moi, je m'en defais, vite. 
 
 Lady Fan. Get you gone, you little naughty 
 Frenchwoman you ! I vow and swear I must turn 
 you out of doors, if you talk thus. 
 
 Mad. Turn me out of doors ! — turn yourself 
 out of doors, and go see what de gentleman have to 
 
 Z2 
 
340 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 say to you. — Tenez. — Voila [Giving her her things 
 hastily] votre echarpe, voila votre coiffe, voila 
 votre masque, voila tout. — [Calling within.'] He, 
 Mercure, coquin ! call one chair for matam, and 
 one oder for me: va-t'en vite. — [Turning to her 
 lady, and helping her on hastily with her things.'] 
 Allons, matam ; dep£chez-vous done. Mon Dieu, 
 quelles scrupules ! 
 
 Lady Fan. Well for once, Mademoiselle, I'll 
 follow your advice, out of the intemperate desire I 
 have to know who this ill-bred fellow is. But 
 I have too much delicatesse to make a practice 
 on't. 
 
 Mad. Belle chose vraiment que la delicatesse, 
 lorsqu'il s'agit de se divertir ! — Ah, ca — Vous 
 voila equipee ; partons.— He bien ! — qu'avez vous 
 done ? 
 
 Lady Fan. J'ai peur. 
 
 Mad. Je n'en ai point moi. 
 
 Lady Fan. I dare not go. 
 
 Mad. Demeurez done. 
 
 Lady Fan. Je suis poltronne. 
 
 Mad. Tant pis pour vous. 
 
 Lady Fan. Curiosity's a wicked devil. 
 
 Mad. C'est une charmante sainte. 
 
 Lady Fan. It ruined our first parents. 
 
 Mad. Elle a bien diverti leurs enfans. 
 
 Lady Fa,n. L'honneur est contre. 
 
 Mad. Le plaisir est pour. 
 
 Lady Fan. Must I then go ? 
 
 Mad. Must you go ! — must you eat, must you 
 drink, must you sleep, must you live ? De nature 
 bid you do one, de nature bid you do toder. — Vous 
 me ferez enrager ! 
 
 Lady Fan. But when reason corrects nature, 
 Mademoiselle ? 
 
 Mad. Elle est done bien insolente, c'est sa soeur 
 atnee. 
 
 Lady Fan. Do you then prefer your nature to 
 your reason, Mademoiselle ? 
 
 Mad. Oui da. 
 
 Lady Fan. Pourquoi ? 
 
 Mad. Because my nature make me merry, my 
 reason make me mad. 
 
 Lady Fan. Ah la mechante Francaise ! 
 
 Mad. Ah la belle Anglaise ! 
 
 [Exit, forcing off Lady Fancyful. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE l.—St. James's Park. 
 
 Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, I vow, Mademoiselle, I'm 
 strangely impatient to know who this confident 
 fellow is. 
 
 Enter Heartfree. 
 
 Look, there's Heartfree. But sure it can't be him ; 
 he's a professed woman-hater. Yet who knows 
 what my wicked eyes may have done ! 
 
 Mad. II nous approche, madame. 
 
 Lady Fan. Yes, 'tis he : now will he be most 
 intolerably cavalier, though he should be in love 
 with me. 
 
 Heart. Madam, I'm your humble servant; I 
 perceive you have more humility and good-nature 
 than I thought you had. 
 
 Lady Fan. What you attribute to humility and 
 good-nature, sir, may perhaps be only due to curio- 
 sity. I had a mind to know who 'twas had ill 
 manners enough to write that letter. 
 
 [Throwing him his Letter. 
 
 Heart. Well, and now I hope you are satisfied. 
 
 Lady Fan. I am so, sir ; good b'w'y t'ye. 
 
 Heart. Nay, hold there ; though you have done 
 your business, I han't done mine : by your lady- 
 ship's leave, we must have one moment's prattle 
 together. Have you a mind to be the prettiest 
 woman about town, or not ? How she stares upon 
 me ! What ! this passes for an impertinent ques- 
 tion with you now, because you think you are so 
 already. 
 
 Lady Fan. Pray, sir, let me ask you a question 
 in my turn : by what right do you pretend to 
 examine me ? 
 
 Heart. By the same right that the strong govern 
 the weak, because I have you in my power ; for 
 you cannot get so quickly to your coach but I shall 
 
 have time enough to make you hear everything I 
 have to say to you. 
 
 Lady Fan. These are strange liberties you take, 
 Mr. Heartfree ! 
 
 Heart. They are so, madam, but there's no help 
 for it ; for know that I have a design upon you. 
 
 Lady Fan. Upon me, sir ! 
 
 Heart. Yes ; and one that will turn to your 
 glory, and my comfort, if you will but be a little 
 wiser than you use to be. 
 
 Lady Fan. Very well, sir. 
 
 Heart. Let me see — your vanity, madam, I take 
 to be about some eight degrees higher than any 
 woman's in the town, let t'other be who she will ; 
 and my indifference is naturally about the same 
 pitch. Now could you find the way to turn this 
 indifference into fire and flames, methinks your 
 vanity ought to be satisfied ; and this, perhaps, you 
 might bring about upon pretty reasonable terms. 
 
 Lady Fan. And pray at what rate would this 
 indifference be bought off, if one should have so 
 depraved an appetite to desire it ? 
 
 Heart. Why, madam, to drive a quaker's bar- 
 gain, and make but one word with you, if I do part 
 with it — you must lay me down — your affectation. 
 
 Lady Fan. My affectation, sir ! 
 
 Heart. Why, I ask you nothing but what you 
 may very well spare. 
 
 Lady Fan. You grow rude, sir ! — Come, Made- 
 moiselle, 'tis high time to be gone. 
 
 Mad. Allons, allons, allons ! 
 
 Heart. [Stopping them.] Nay, you may as well 
 stand still ; for hear me you shall, walk which way 
 you please. 
 
 Lady Fan. What mean you, sir ? 
 
 Heart. I mean to tell you, that you are the most 
 ungrateful woman upon earth. 
 
 Lady Fan. Ungrateful ! To who ? 
 
 Heart. To nature. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 341 
 
 Lady Fan. Why, what has nature done for me ? 
 
 Heart. What you have undone by art. It made 
 you handsome ; it gave you beauty to a miracle, a 
 shape without a fault, wit enough to make 'em 
 relish, and so turned you loose to your own discre- 
 tion ; which has made such work with you, that 
 you are become the pity of our sex, and the jest of 
 your own. There is not a feature in your face, 
 but you have found the way to teach it some affected 
 convulsion ; your feet, your hands, your very fin- 
 gers' ends, are directed never to move without some 
 ridiculous air or other ; and your language is a 
 suitable trumpet, to draw people's eyes upon the 
 raree-show. 
 
 Mad. [Aside.'] Est-ce qu'on fait l'amour en 
 Angleterre comme ca ? 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside.] Now could I cry for mad- 
 ness, but that I know he'd laugh at me for it. 
 
 Heart. Now do you hate me for telling you the 
 truth, but that's because you don't believe it is so; 
 for were you once convinced of that, you'd reform 
 for your own sake. But 'tis as hard to persuade 
 a woman to quit anything that makes her ridicu- 
 lous, as 'tis to prevail with a poet to see a fault in 
 his own play. 
 
 Lady Fan. Every circumstance of nice breeding 
 must needs appear ridiculous to one who has so 
 natural an antipathy to good manners. 
 
 Heart. But suppose I could find the means to 
 convince you, that the whole world is of my opi- 
 nion, and that those who flatter and commend you, 
 do it to no other intent, but to make you persevere 
 in your folly, that they may continue in their 
 mirth. 
 
 Lady Fan. Sir, though you and all that world 
 you talk of, should be so impertinently officious as 
 to think to persuade me I don't know how to 
 behave myself, I should still have charity enough 
 for my own understanding, to believe myself in the 
 right, and all you in the wrong. 
 
 Mad. Le voila mort ! 
 
 [Exeunt Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 
 
 Heart. [Gazing after her.] There, her single 
 clapper has published the sense of the whole sex. 
 Well, this once 1 have endeavoured to wash the 
 blackamoor white ; but henceforward I'll sooner 
 undertake to teach sincerity to a courtier, gene- 
 rosity to a usurer, honesty to a lawyer, nay, humi- 
 lity to a divine, than discretion to a woman I see 
 has once set her heart upon playing the fool. 
 
 Enter Constant. 
 
 Morrow, Constant. 
 
 Const. Good morrow, Jack : what are you doing 
 here this morning ? 
 
 Heart. Doing ! guess, if thou canst. — Why I 
 have been endeavouring to persuade my lady Fan- 
 cyful that she's the foolishest woman about town. 
 
 Const. A pretty endeavour truly ! 
 
 Heart. I have told her in as plain English as I 
 could speak, both what the town says of her, and 
 what I think of her. In short, I have used her as 
 an absolute king would do Magna Charta. 
 
 Const. And how does she take it ? 
 
 Heart. As children do pills ; bite 'em, but can't 
 swallow 'em. 
 
 Const. But, prithee, what has put it into your 
 head, of all mankind, to turn reformer ? 
 
 Heart. Why, one thing was, the morning hung 
 upon my hands, I did not know what to do with 
 
 myself ; and another was, that as little as I care 
 for women, I could not see with patience one that 
 Heaven had taken such wondrous pains about, be 
 so very industrious to make herself the jack-pud- 
 ding of the creation. 
 
 Const. Well, now could I almost wish to see my 
 cruel mistress make the self-same use of what 
 Heaven has done for her, that so T might be cured 
 of a disease that makes me so very uneasy ; for 
 love, love is the devil, Heartfree. 
 
 Heart. And why do you let the devil govern 
 you ? 
 
 Const. Because I have more flesh and blood 
 than grace and self-denial. My dear, dear mis- 
 tress ! — 'Sdeath ! that so genteel a woman should 
 be a saint when religion's out of fashion ! 
 
 Heart. Nay, she's much in the wrong truly ; 
 but who knows how far time and good example 
 may prevail ? 
 
 Const. Oh ! they have played their parts in vain 
 already. 'Tis now two years since that damned 
 fellow her husband invited me to his wedding : and 
 there was the first time I saw that charming 
 woman, whom I have loved ever since, more than 
 e'er a martyr did his soul ; but she is cold, my 
 friend, still cold as the northern star. 
 
 Heart. So are all women by nature, which 
 makes 'em so willing to be warmed. 
 
 Const. Oh, don't profane the sex ! Prithee 
 think 'em all angels for her sake, for she's vir- 
 tuous even to a fault. 
 
 Heart. A lover's head is a good accountable 
 thing truly ! He adores his mistress for being vir- 
 tuous, and yet is very angry with her because she 
 won't be lewd. 
 
 Const. Well, the only relief I expect in my 
 misery is to see thee some day or other as deeply 
 engaged as myself, which will force me to be merry 
 in the midst of all my misfortunes. 
 
 Heart. That day will never come, be assured, 
 Ned. Not but that I can pass a night with a 
 woman, and for the time, perhaps, make myself as 
 good sport as you can do. Nay, I can court 
 a woman too, call her nymph, angel, goddess, what 
 you please : but here's the difference 'twixt you 
 and I ; I persuade a woman she's an angel, and 
 she persuades you she's one. Prithee let me tell 
 you how I avoid falling in love ; that which serves 
 me for prevention, may chance to serve you for a 
 cure. 
 
 Const. Well, use the ladies moderately then, and 
 I'll hear you. 
 
 Heart. That using 'em moderately undoes us 
 all ; but I'll use 'em justly, and that you ought 
 to be satisfied with. I always consider a. woman, 
 not as the tailor, the shoemaker, the tire-woman, 
 the sempstress, and (which is more than all that) 
 the poet makes her ; but I consider her as pure 
 nature has contrived her, and that more strictly 
 than I should have done our old grandmother Eve, 
 had I seen her naked in the garden ; for I consider 
 her turned inside out. Her heart, well- examined, 
 I find there pride, vanity, covetousness, indiscre- 
 tion, but above all things malice ; plots eternally 
 a-forging to destroy one another's reputations, and 
 as honestly to charge the levity of men's tongues 
 with the scandal ; hourly debates how to make 
 poor gentlemen in love with 'em, with no other 
 intent but to use 'em like dogs when they have 
 done ; a constant desire of doing more mischief, 
 
342 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 and an everlasting war waged against truth and 
 good-nature. 
 
 Const. Very well, sir ; an admirable composi- 
 tion truly ! 
 
 Heart. Then for her outside, I consider it 
 merely as an outside ; she has a thin tiffany 
 covering, over just such stuff as you and I are 
 made on. As for her motion, her mien, her airs, 
 and all those tricks, I know they affect you 
 mightily. If you should see your mistress at a 
 coronation dragging her peacock's train, with all 
 her state and insolence about her, 'twould strike 
 you with all the awful thoughts that heaven itself 
 could pretend to from you ; whereas I turn the 
 whole matter into a jest, and suppose her strutting 
 in the self-same stately manner, with nothing on but 
 her stays, and her under scanty quilted petticoat. 
 
 Const. Hold thy profane tongue ! for I'll hear 
 no more. 
 
 Heart. What ! you'll love on then ? 
 Const. Yes, to eternity. 
 Heart. Yet you have no hopes at all. 
 Const. None. 
 
 Heart. Nay, the resolution may be discreet 
 enough ; perhaps you have found out some new 
 philosophy, that love's like virtue, its own reward. 
 So you and your mistress will be as well content at 
 a distance, as others that have less learning are in 
 coming together. 
 
 Const. No ; but if she should prove kind at last, 
 my dear Heartfree. [Embracing him. 
 
 Heart. Nay, prithee, don't take me for your 
 mistress, for lovers are very troublesome. 
 
 Const. Well, who knows what time may do ! 
 Heart. And just now he was sure time could do 
 nothing. 
 
 Const. Yet not one kind glance in two years, is 
 somewhat strange. 
 
 Heart. Not strange at all ; she don't like you, 
 that's all the business. 
 
 Const. Prithee, don't distract me. 
 Heart. Nay, you are a good handsome young 
 fellow, she might use you better. Come, will you 
 go see her ? Perhaps she may have changed her 
 mind ; there's some hopes as long as she's a 
 woman. 
 
 Const. Oh, 'tis in vain to visit her ! Sometimes 
 to get a sight of her I visit that beast her husband ; 
 but she certainly finds some pretence to quit the 
 room as soon as I enter. 
 
 Heart. It's much she don't tell him you have 
 made love to her too, for that's another good- 
 natured thing usual amongst women, in which they 
 have several ends. Sometimes 'tis to recommend 
 their virtue, that they may be lewd with the 
 greater security. Sometimes 'tis to make their 
 husbands fight, in hopes they may be killed when 
 their affairs require it should be so : but most com- 
 monly 'tis to engage two men in a quarrel, that 
 they may have the credit of being fought for ; and 
 if the lover's killed in the business, they cry, Poor 
 fellow, he had ill luck ! — and so they go to 
 cards. 
 
 Const. Thy injuries to women are not to be for- 
 given. Look to't, if ever thou dost fall into their 
 hands — 
 
 Heart. They can't use me worse then they do 
 you, that speak well of 'em. — O ho ! here comes 
 the knight. 
 
 Enter Sir John Brute. 
 Your humble servant, sir John. 
 Sir John. Servant, sir. 
 Heart. How does all your family ? 
 Sir John. Pox o' my family ! 
 Const. How does your lady ? i han't seen her 
 abroad a good while. 
 
 Sir John. Do ! I don't know how she does, not 
 I ; she was well enough yesterday : I han't been at 
 home to-night. 
 
 Const. What, were you out of town ? 
 Sir John. Out of town ! no, I was drinking. 
 Const. You are a true Englishman ; don't know 
 your own happiness. If I were married to such a 
 woman, I would not be from her a night for all the 
 wine in France. 
 
 Sir John. Not from her ! Oons ; what a time 
 should a man have of that ! 
 
 Heart. Why, there's no division, I hope. 
 Sir John. No ; but there's a conjunction, and 
 that's worse ; a pox of the parson ! — Why the 
 plague don't you two marry ? I fancy I look like 
 the devil to you. 
 
 Heart. Why, you don't think you have horns, 
 do you ? 
 
 Sir John. No, I believe my wife's religion will 
 keep her honest. 
 
 Heart. And what will make her keep her religion? 
 Sir John. Persecution ; and therefore she shall 
 have it. 
 
 Heart. Have a care, knight ; women are tender 
 things. 
 
 Sir John. And yet, methinks, 'tis a hard matter 
 to break their hearts. 
 
 Const. Fy ! f y ! you have one of the best wives 
 in the world, and yet you seem the most uneasy 
 husband. 
 
 Sir John. Best wives ! — the woman's well 
 enough, she has no vice that I know of, but she's 
 a wife, and — damn a wife ! If I were married to a 
 hogshead of claret, matrimony would make me 
 hate it. 
 
 Heart. Why did you marry, then? you were 
 old enough to know your own mind. 
 
 Sir John. Why did I marry ! I married be- 
 cause I had a mind to lie with her, and she would 
 not let me. 
 
 Heart. Why did not you ravish her ? 
 Sir John. Yes ! and so have hedged myself into 
 forty quarrels with her relations, besides buying 
 my pardon. But more than all that, you must 
 know, I was afraid of being damned in those days ; 
 for I kept sneaking cowardly company, fellows that 
 went to church, said grace to their meat, and had 
 not the least tincture of quality about 'em. 
 
 Heart. But I think you have got into a better 
 gang now. 
 
 Sir John. Zoons, sir, my lord Rake and I are 
 hand and glove, I believe we may get our bones 
 broke together to-night ; have you a mind to share 
 a frolic ? 
 
 Const. Not I, truly ; my talent lies to softer 
 exercises. 
 
 Sir John. What, a down-bed and a strumpet ? 
 A pox of venery ! I say. Will you come and drink 
 with me this afternoon ? 
 
 Const. 1 can't drink to-day, but we'll come and 
 sit an hour with you if you will. 
 
 Sir John. Phu ! pox, sit an hour ! Why can't 
 you drink ? 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 343 
 
 Const. Because I'm to see my mistress. 
 
 Sir John. Who's that ? 
 
 Const. Why, do you use to tell ? 
 
 Sir John. Yes. 
 
 Const. So won't I. 
 
 Sir John. Why ? 
 
 Const. Because 'tis a secret. 
 
 Sir John. Would my wife knew it, 'twould be 
 no secret long. 
 
 Const. Why, do you think she can't keep a 
 secret ? 
 
 Sir John. No more than she can keep Lent. 
 
 Heart. Prithee, tell it her to try, Constant. 
 
 Sir John. No, prithee, don't, that I mayn't be 
 plagued with it. 
 
 Const. I'll hold you a guinea you don't make 
 her tell it you. 
 
 Sir John. I'll hold you a guinea I do. 
 
 Const. Which way ? 
 
 Sir John. Why, I'll beg her not to tell it me. 
 
 Heart. Nay, if anything does it, that will. 
 
 Const. But do you think, six' — 
 
 Sir John. Oons, sir, I think a woman and a 
 secret are the two impertinentest themes in the 
 universe ! Therefore, pray let's hear no more of 
 my wife nor your mistress. Damn 'em both with 
 all my heart, and everything else that daggles a 
 petticoat, except four generous whores, with Betty 
 Sands at the head of 'em, who are drunk with my 
 lord Rake and I ten times in a fortnight. {Exit. 
 
 Const. Here's a dainty fellow for you ! and the 
 veriest coward too. But his usage of his wife 
 makes me ready to stab the villain. 
 
 Heart. Lovers are short-sighted : all their senses 
 run into that of feeling. This proceeding of his is 
 the only thing on earth can make your fortune. If 
 anything can prevail with her to accept of a gallant, 
 'tis his ill usage of her ; for women will do more 
 for revenge than they'll do for the gospel. Prithee 
 take heart, I have great hopes for you ; and since 
 I can't bring you quite off of her, I'll endeavour to 
 bring you quite on ; for a whining lover is the 
 damn'dest companion upon earth. 
 
 Const. My dear friend, flatter me a little more 
 with these hopes ; for whilst they prevail, I have 
 heaven within me, and could melt with joy. 
 
 Heart. Pray, no melting yet : let things go far- 
 ther first. This afternoon perhaps we shall make 
 some advance. In the meanwhile, let's go dine at 
 Locket's, and let hope get you a stomach. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 ■A Room in Lady Fancy ful's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle!. 
 
 Lady Fan. Did you ever see anything so im 
 portune, Mademoiselle ? 
 
 Mad. Inteed, matam, to say de trute, he wanted 
 leetel good-breeding. 
 
 Lady Fan. Good-breeding ! he wants to be 
 caned, Mademoiselle : an insolent fellow ! And 
 yet let me expose my weakness, 'tis the only man 
 on earth I could resolve to dispense my favours on, 
 were he but a fine gentleman. Well, did men but 
 know how deep an impression a fine gentleman 
 makes in a lady's heart, they would reduce all their 
 studies to that of good-breeding alone. 
 
 Enter Cornet. 
 
 Cor. Madam, here's Mr. Treble. He has brought 
 home the verses your ladyship made, and gave him 
 to set. 
 
 Lady Fan. O let him come in by all means 
 
 [Exit Cornet.] — Now, Mademoiselle, am I going 
 to be unspeakably happy. 
 
 Enter Treble and Pipe. 
 
 So, Mr. Treble, you have set my little dialogue ? 
 
 Treb. Yes, madam, and I hope your ladyship 
 will be pleased with it. 
 
 Lady Fan. Oh, no doubt on't ; for really, Mr. 
 Treble, you set all things to a wonder. But your 
 music is in particular heavenly when you have my 
 words to clothe in't. 
 
 Treb. Your words themselves, madam, have so 
 much music in 'em, they inspire me. 
 
 Lady Fan. Nay, now you make me blush, Mr. 
 Treble ; but pray let's hear what you have done. 
 
 Treb. You shall, madam. 
 
 Treble and Pipe sing. 
 
 Treb. 
 
 Ah ! lovely nymph, the world's on fire ; 
 Veil, veil those cruel eyes ! 
 Pipe. The world may then in flames expire, 
 And boast that so it dies. 
 
 Treb. But when all mortals are destroy'd, 
 Who then shall sing your praise ? 
 
 Pipe. Those who are fit to be employ'd : 
 The gods shall altars raise. 
 
 Treb. How does your ladyship like it, madam ? 
 
 Lady Fan. Rapture, rapture, Mr. Treble, I'm 
 all rapture ! O wit and art, what power you have, 
 when joined ! I must needs tell you the birth of 
 this little dialogue, Mr. Treble. Its father was a 
 dream, and its mother was the moon. I dreamt 
 that by an unanimous vote I was chosen queen of 
 that pale world : and that the first time I appeared 
 upon my throne — all my subjects fell in love with 
 me. Just then I waked, and seeing pen, ink, and 
 paper lie idle upon the table, I slid into my morn- 
 ing-gown, and writ this impromptu. 
 
 Treb. So I guess the dialogue, madam, is sup- 
 posed to be between your majesty, and your first 
 minister of state. 
 
 Lady Fan. Just. He as minister advises me to 
 trouble my head about the welfare of my subjects ; 
 which I as sovereign find a very impertinent pro- 
 posal. But is the town so dull, Mr. Treble, it 
 affords us never another new song ? 
 
 Treb. Madam, I have one in my pocket, came 
 out but yesterday, if your ladyship pleases to let 
 Mrs. Pipe sing it. 
 
 Lady Fan. By all means. — Here, Pipe, make 
 what music you can of this song here. 
 
 Pipe sings. 
 
 Not an angel dwells above 
 Half so fair as her I love, 
 
 Heaven knows how she'll receive me : 
 If she smiles, I'm blest indeed ; 
 If she frowns, I'm quickly freed ; 
 
 Heaven knows she ne'er can grieve me. 
 
 None can love her more than I, 
 Yet she ne'er shall make me die. 
 
 If my flame can never warm her , 
 Lasting beauty I'll adore, 
 I shall never love her more, 
 
 Cruelty will so deform her. 
 
344 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Lady Fan. Very well. — This is Heartfree's 
 poetry, without question. 
 
 Treb. Won't your ladyship please to sing your- 
 self this morning ? 
 
 Lady Fan. O Lord, Mr. Treble, my cold is still 
 so barbarous to refuse me that pleasure. He, — he, 
 —hem. [Coughs. 
 
 Treb. I'm very sorry for it, madam. Methinks 
 all mankind should turn physicians for the cure 
 on't. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why truly, to give mankind their 
 due, there's few that know me, but have offered 
 their remedy. 
 
 Treb. They have reason, madam : for I know 
 nobody sings so near a cherubim as your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Fan. What I do, I owe chiefly to your 
 skill and care, Mr. Treble. People do flatter me, in- 
 deed, that I have a voice, and aje-ne-sais-quoi in the 
 conduct of it, that will make music of anything. 
 And truly I begin to believe so, since what happened 
 t'other night. Would you think it, Mr. Treble ? 
 walking pretty late in the Park (for I often walk 
 late in the Park, Mr. Treble) a whim took me to 
 sing Chevy-Chase, and would you believe it ? next 
 morning I had three copies of verses and six bil- 
 lets-doux at my levee upon it. 
 
 Treb. And without all dispute you deserved as 
 many more, madam. Are there any further com- 
 mands for your ladyship's humble servant ? 
 
 Lady Fan. Nothing more at this time, Mr. 
 Treble. But I shall expect you here every morn- 
 ing for this month, to sing my little matter there 
 to me. I'll reward you for your pains. 
 
 Treb. O Lord, madam ! — 
 
 Lady Fan. Good morrow, sweet Mr. Treble. 
 
 Treb. Your ladyship's most obedient servant. 
 
 [Exit with Pipe. 
 Re-enter Cornet. 
 
 Cor. Will your ladyship please to dine yet ? 
 
 Lady Fan. Yes, let 'em serve. — [Exit Cornet.] 
 
 Sure this Heartfree has bewitched me, Mademoi- 
 selle. You can't imagine how oddly he mixed 
 himself in my thoughts during my rapture e'en 
 now. I vow 'tis a thousand pities he is not more 
 polished : don't you think so ? 
 
 Mad. Matam, I tink it so great pity, dat if I 
 was in your ladyship place, I take him home in my 
 house, I lock him up in my closet, and I never let 
 him go till I teach him everyting dat fine laty 
 expect from fine gentleman. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why truly I believe I should soon 
 subdue his brutality ; for without doubt he has a 
 strange penchant to grow fond of me, in spite of 
 his aversion to the sex, else he would ne'er have 
 taken so much pains about me. Lord, how proud 
 would some poor creatures be of such a conquest ! 
 But I, alas, I don't know how to receive as a favour, 
 what I take to be so infinitely my due. But what 
 shall I do to new-mould him, Mademoiselle ? for 
 till then he's my utter aversion. 
 
 Mad. Matam, you must laugh at him in all de 
 place dat you meet him, and turn into de ridicule 
 all he say and all he do. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why truly, satire has ever been of 
 wondrous use to reform ill-manners. Besides, 'tis my 
 particular talent to ridicule folks. I can be severe, 
 strangely severe, when I will, Mademoiselle. — 
 Give me the pen and ink — I find myself whimsi- 
 cal — I'll write to him. — Or I'll let it alone, and be 
 severe upon him that way. — [Sits down to write, 
 rises up again.] Yet active severity is better than 
 passive. — [Sits down.] 'Tis as good let it alone 
 too ; for every lash I give him perhaps he'll take 
 for a favour — [Rises.] Yet 'tis a thousand pities 
 so much satire should be lost. — [Site.] But if it 
 should have a wrong effect upon him, 'twould dis- 
 tract me. — [Rises.] Well, I must write though, 
 after all. — [Site.] Or I'll let it alone, which is the 
 same thing — [Rises. 
 
 Mad. [Aside.] La voila determinee. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Room in Sir John Brute's House. 
 
 Sir John Brute, Lady Brute, and Belinda, discovered 
 
 rising from table ; Servant waiting. 
 
 Sir John. [To Servant.] Here, take away the 
 things ; I expect company. But first bring me a 
 pipe ; I'll smoke. 
 [Servant gives Sir John a pipe, removes the things, and 
 exit. 
 
 Lady Brute. Lord, sir John, I wonder you 
 won't ieave that nasty custom ! 
 
 Sir John. Prithee don't be impertinent. 
 
 Bel. [Aside to Lady Brute.] I wonder who 
 those are he expects this afternoon ? 
 
 Lady Brute. I'd give the world to know. Per- 
 haps 'tis Constant, he comes here sometimes ; if it 
 does prove him, I'm resolved I'll share the visit. 
 
 Bel. We'll send for our work and sit here. 
 
 Lady Brute. He'll choke us with his tobacco. 
 
 Bel. Nothing will choke us when we are doing 
 what we have a mind to. — Lovewell ! [Calls. 
 
 Enter Lovewell. 
 
 Love. Madam ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Here; bring my cousin's work 
 and mine hither. 
 
 [Exit Lovewell, re-enters with their work, and then 
 retires. 
 
 Sir John. Whu ! Pox ! can't you work some- 
 where else ? 
 
 Lady Brute. We shall be careful not to disturb 
 you, sir. 
 
 Bel. Your pipe will make you too thoughtful, 
 uncle, if you were left alone ; our prittle -prattle 
 will cure your spleen. 
 
 Sir John. Will it so, Mrs. Pert ? Now I be- 
 lieve it will so increase it, — [Sitting and smoking] 
 I shall take my own house for a paper mill. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Aside to Belinda.] Don't let's 
 mind him ; let him say what he will. 
 
 Sir John. A woman's tongue a cure for the 
 spleen — oons ! — [Aside.] If a man had got the 
 headache, they'd be for applying the same remedy. 
 
 Lady Brute. You have done a great deal, Be- 
 linda, since yesterday. 
 
 Bel. Yes, I have worked very hard : how do 
 you like it ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Oh, 'tis the prettiest fringe in the 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 345 
 
 world ! Well, cousin, you have the happiest fancy: 
 prithee advise me about altering my crimson pet- 
 ticoat. 
 
 Sir John. A pox o' youi petticoat ! Here's 
 such a prating, a man can't digest his own thoughts 
 for you. 
 
 Lady Brute. Don't answer him. — Well, what 
 do you advise me ? 
 
 Bel. Why really I would not alter it at all. 
 Methinks 'tis very pretty as it is. 
 
 Lady Brute. Ay, that's true : but you know 
 one grows weary of the prettiest things in the 
 world, when one has had 'em long. 
 
 Sir John. Yes, I have taught her that. 
 
 Bel. Shall we provoke him a little ? 
 
 Lady Brute. With all my heart. — Belinda, 
 don't you long to be married ? 
 
 Bel. Why, there are some things in it I could 
 like well enough. 
 
 Lady Brute. What do you think you should 
 dislike ? 
 
 Bel. My husband, a hundred to one else. 
 
 Lady Brute. O ye wicked wretch ! sure you 
 don't speak as you think. 
 
 Bel. Yes, I do: especially if he smoked tobacco. 
 [Sir John looks earnestly at them. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, that many times takes off 
 worse smells. 
 
 Bel. Then he must smell very ill indeed. 
 
 Lady Brute. So some men will, to keep their 
 wives from coming near 'em. 
 
 Bel. Then those wives should cuckold 'em at a 
 
 distance. 
 
 £Sir John rises in a fury, throws Ms pipe at them, and 
 
 drives them out. As they go off Lady Brute runs 
 
 against Constant. 
 
 Enter Constant and Heartfree, a Servant following. 
 
 Sir John. Oons, get you gone up stairs, you 
 confederating strumpets you, or I'll cuckold you 
 with a vengeance ! 
 
 Lady Brute. O Lord, he'll beat us, he'll beat 
 us ! — Dear, dear Mr. Constant, save us ! 
 
 [Exit with Belinda. 
 
 Sir John. I'll cuckold you, with a pox ! 
 
 Const. Heavens, sir John ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Sir John. Sure, if woman had been ready 
 created, the devil, instead of being kicked down 
 into hell, had been married. 
 
 H eart. Why, what new plague have youfound now? 
 
 Sir John. Why these two gentlewomen did but 
 hear me say, I expected you here this afternoon ; 
 upon which they presently resolved to take up the 
 room, o' purpose to plague me and my friends. 
 
 Const. Was that all? Why we should have 
 been glad of their company. 
 
 Sir John. Then I should have been weary of 
 yours : for I can't relish both together. They 
 found fault with my smoking tobacco too ; and 
 said, men stunk. But I have a good mind— to say 
 something. 
 
 Const. No, nothing against the ladies, pray. 
 
 Sir John. Split the ladies ! Come, will you sit 
 down? — [To Servant] Give us some wine, fel- 
 low. — You won't smoke ? 
 
 Const. No, nor drink neither at this time, I must 
 ask your pardon. 
 
 Sir John. What, this mistress of yours runs in 
 your head ; I'll warrant it's some such squeamish 
 minx as my wife, that's grown so dainty of late 
 she finds fault even with a dirty shirt. 
 
 Heart. That a woman may do, and not be very 
 dainty neither. 
 
 Sir John. Pox o' the women ! let's drink. 
 Come, you shall take one glass, though I send 
 for a box of lozenges to sweeten your mouth 
 after it. 
 
 Const. Nay, if one glass will satisfy you, I'll 
 drink it, without putting you to that expense. 
 
 Sir John. Why that's honest.- — [ To Servant, who 
 fills the glasses and exit.] Fill some wine, sirrah 1 
 — So, here's to you, gentlemen ! — A wife's the 
 devil. To your being both married ? [They drink. 
 
 Heart. O your most humble servant, sir. 
 
 Sir John. Well, how do you like my wine ? 
 
 Const. 'Tis very good indeed. 
 
 Heart. 'Tis admirable. 
 
 Sir John. Then give us t'other glass. 
 
 Const. No, pray excuse us now. We'll come 
 another time, and then we won't spare it. 
 
 Sir John. This one glass, and no more. Come, 
 it shall be your mistress's health : and that's a 
 great compliment from me, I assure you. 
 
 Const. And 'tis a very obliging one to me : so 
 give us the glasses. 
 
 Sir John. So : let her live ! 
 
 [They drink .- Sir John coughs in the glass. 
 
 Heart. And be kind. 
 
 Const. What's the matter ? does it go the wrong 
 way ? 
 
 Sir John. If I had love enough to be jealous, 
 I shoxdd take this for an ill omen : for I never 
 drank my wife's health in my life, but 1 puked in 
 the glass. 
 
 Const. Oh she's too virtuous to make a reason- 
 able man jealous. 
 
 Sir John. Pox of her virtue ! If I could but 
 catch her adulterating, I might be divorced from 
 her by law. 
 
 Heart. And so pay her a yearly pension, to be a 
 distinguished cuckold. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir, there's my lord Rake, colonel Bully, 
 and some other gentlemen, at the Blue-posts, desire 
 your company. [Exit. 
 
 Sir John. Cod's so, we are to consult about 
 playing the devil to-night. 
 
 Heart. Well, we won't hinder business. 
 
 Sir John. Methinks I don't know how to leave 
 you though ; but for once I must make bold. Or 
 look you, maybe the conference mayn't last long : 
 so if you'll wait here half an hour, or an hour ; if 
 I don't come then— why then — I won't come at all. 
 
 Heart. [Aside to Constant.] A good modest 
 proposition truly ! 
 
 Const. But let's accept on't however. Who 
 knows what may happen ! 
 
 Heart. Well, sir, to show you how fond we are 
 of your company, we'll expect your return as long 
 as we can. 
 
 Sir John. Nay, maybe I mayn't stay at all : but 
 business, you know, must be done. So your ser- 
 vant — or, hark you, if you have a mind to take a 
 frisk with us, I have an interest with my lord, I 
 can easily introduce you. 
 
 Const. We are much beholden to you : but for 
 my part, I'm engaged another way. 
 
 Sir John. What, to your mistress, I'll warrant! 
 Prithee leave your nasty punk to entertain herself 
 with her own lewd thoughts, and make one with us 
 to-night. 
 
346 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Const. Sir, 'tis business that is to employ me. 
 
 Heart. And me ; and business must be done, 
 you know. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, women's business, though the 
 world were consumed for't. {.Exit. 
 
 Const. Farewell, beast ! — And now, my dear 
 friend, would my mistress be but as complaisant as 
 some men's wives, who think it a piece of good- 
 breeding to receive the visits of their husband's 
 friends in his absence ! 
 
 Heart. Why for your sake I could forgive her, 
 though she should be so complaisant to receive 
 something else in his absence. But what way 
 shall we invent to see her ? 
 
 Const. O ne'er hope it : invention will prove as 
 vain as wishes. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Brute and Belinda. 
 
 Heart. [Aside to Constant.] What do you 
 think now, friend ? 
 
 Const. I think I shall swoon. 
 
 Heart. I'll speak first then, whilst you fetch 
 breath. 
 
 Lady Brute. We think ourselves obliged, gentle- 
 men, to come and return you thanks for your 
 knight-errantry. We were just upon being devour- 
 ed by the fiery dragon. 
 
 Bel. Did not his fumes almost knock you down, 
 gentlemen ? 
 
 Heart. Truly, ladies, we did undergo some hard- 
 ships ; and should have done more, if some greater 
 heroes than ourselves hard by had not diverted 
 him. 
 
 Const. Though I'm glad of the service you are 
 pleased to say we have done you, yet I'm sorry we 
 could do it no other way than by making our- 
 selves privy to what you would perhaps have kept 
 a secret. 
 
 Lady Brute. For sir John's part, I suppose he 
 designed it no secret, since he made so much noise : 
 and, for myself, truly I am not much concerned, 
 since 'tis fallen only into this gentleman's hands 
 and yours, who, I have many reasons to believe, 
 will neither interpret nor report anything to my 
 disadvantage. 
 
 Const. Your good opinion, madam, was what I 
 feared I never could have merited. 
 
 Lady Brute. Your fears were vain then, sir ; for 
 I am just to everybody. 
 
 Heart. Prithee, Constant, what is't you do to 
 get the ladies' good opinions, for I'm a novice at it ? 
 
 Bel. Sir, will you give me leave to instruct you ? 
 
 Heart. Yes, that I will, with all my soul, madam. 
 
 Bel. Why then you must never be slovenly, 
 never be out of humour ; fare well, and cry roast- 
 meat ; smoke tobacco, nor drink but when you are 
 a-dry. 
 
 Heart. That's hard. 
 
 Const. Nay, if you take his bottle from him, you 
 break his heart, madam. 
 
 Bel. Why, is it possible the gentleman can love 
 drinking ? 
 
 Heart. Only by way of antidote. 
 
 Bel. Against what, pray ? 
 
 Heart. Against love, madam. 
 
 Lady Brute. Are you afraid of being in love, sir ? 
 
 Heart. I should, if there were any danger of it. 
 
 Lady Brute. Pray, why so ? 
 
 Heart. Because I always had an aversion to 
 being used like a dog. 
 
 Bel. Why, truly, men in love are seldom used 
 better. 
 
 Lady Brute. But was you never in love, sir ? 
 
 Heart. No, I thank Heaven, madam. 
 
 Bel. Pray where got you your learning, then ? 
 
 Heart. From other people's expense. 
 
 Bel. That's being a spunger, sir, which is scarce 
 honest. If you'd buy some experience with your 
 own money, as 'twould be fairlier got, so 'twould 
 stick longer by you. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Madam, here's my lady Fancyful, to wait 
 upon your ladyship. {Exit. 
 
 Lady Brute. Shield me, kind Heaven ' What 
 an inundation of impertinence is here coming upon 
 us ! 
 
 Enter Lady Fancyitul, who runs first to Lady Brute, 
 then to Belinda, kissing them. 
 
 Lady Fan. My dear lady Brute ! and sweet 
 Belinda ! methinks 'tis an age since I saw you. 
 
 Lady Brute. Yet 'tis but three days ; sure you 
 have passed your time very ill, it seems so long to 
 you. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why really, to confess the truth to 
 you, I am so everlastingly fatigued with the ad- 
 dresses of unfortunate gentlemen, that were it not 
 for the extravagancy of the example, I should e'en 
 tear out these wicked eyes with my own fingers, to 
 make both myself and mankind easy. — What think 
 you on't, Mr. Heartfree, for I take you to be my 
 faithful adviser ? 
 
 Heart. Why truly, madam, I think every pro- 
 ject that is for the good of mankind ought to be 
 encouraged. 
 
 Lady Fan. Then I have your consent, sir — 
 
 Heart. To do whatever you please, madam. 
 
 Lady Fan. You had a much more limited com- 
 plaisance this morning, sir. — Would you believe it, 
 ladies ? the gentleman has been so exceeding gene- 
 rous, to tell me of above fifty faults in less time 
 than it was well possible for me to commit two 
 of 'em. 
 
 Const. Why truly, madam, my friend there is apt 
 to be something familiar with the ladies. 
 
 Lady Fan. He is, indeed, sir ; but he's won- 
 drous charitable with it. He has had the goodness 
 to design a reformation, even down to my fingers'- 
 ends. — 'Twas thus, I think, sir, you'd have had 'em 
 stand 1 — [Opening her fingers in an awkward man- 
 ner.~\ My eyes too he did not like. — How was't 
 you would have directed 'em ? — Thus, I think. — 
 [Staring at him.'] Then there was something amiss 
 in my gait too ! I don't know well how 'twas, but, 
 as I take it, he would have had me walk like him. 
 — Pray, sir, do me the favour to take a turn or two 
 about the room, that the company may see you. — 
 He's sullen, ladies, and won't. But, to make short, 
 and give you as true an idea as I can of the matter, 
 1 think 'twas much about this figure in general he 
 would have moulded me to : but I was an obstinate 
 woman, and could not resolve to make myself mis- 
 tress of his heart by growing as awkward as his 
 fancy. 
 
 {She walks awkwardly about, staring ana looking 
 ungainly ; then changes on a sudden to the 
 extremity of her usual affectation. 
 
 Heart. Just thus women do, when they think 
 we are in love with 'em, or when they are so with us. 
 
 {Here Constant and Lady Brute talk together apart. 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 347 
 
 Lady Fan. 'Twould, however, be less vanity for 
 me to conclude the former than you the latter, sir. 
 
 Heart. Madam, all I shall presume to conclude 
 is, that if I were in love, you'd find the means to 
 make me soon weary on't. 
 
 Lady Fan. Not by over-fondness, upon my word, 
 sir. — But pray let's stop here ; for you are so much 
 governed by instinct, I know you'll grow brutish at 
 last. 
 
 Bel. [Aside.] Now I'm sure she's fond of him ; 
 I'll try to make her jealous. — [Aloud.] Well, for 
 my part, I should be glad to find somebody would 
 be so free with me, that I might know my faults, 
 and mend 'em. 
 
 Lady Fan. Then pray let me recommend this 
 gentleman to you : I have known him some time, 
 and will be surety for him, that upon a very limited 
 encouragement on your side, you shall find an 
 extended impudence on his. 
 
 Heart. I thank you, madam, for your recom- 
 mendation : but hating idleness, I'm unwilling to 
 enter into a place where I believe there would be 
 nothing to do. I was fond of serving your lady- 
 ship, because I knew you'd find me constant em- 
 ployment. 
 
 Lady Fan. I told you he'd be rude, Belinda ! 
 
 Bel. Oh, a little bluntness is a sign of honesty, 
 which makes me always ready to pardon it. — So, 
 sir, if you have no other exceptions to my service, 
 but the fear of being idle in 't, you may venture 
 to list yourself: I shall find you work, I warrant 
 you. 
 
 Heart. Upon those terms I engage, madam ; 
 and this (with your leave) I take for earnest. 
 
 [Offering to kiss her hand. 
 
 Bel. Hold there, sir ! I'm none of your earnest- 
 givers : but if I'm well served, I give good wages, 
 and pay punctually. 
 
 [Heartfree and Belinda talk familiarly apart. 
 
 I^ady Fan. [Aside.] I don't like this jesting 
 between 'em. — Methinks the fool begins to look as 
 if he were in earnest ; — but then he must be a fool 
 indeed !— Lard, what a difference there is between 
 me and her ! — [Looking at Belinda scornfully.] 
 — How I should despise such a thing, if I were a 
 man ! — What a nose she has ! what a chin ! what 
 a neck ! — Then, her eyes ! — and the worst kissing 
 lips in the universe ! — No, no, he can never like 
 her, that's positive.— Yet I can't suffer 'em toge- 
 ther any longer. — [Aloud.] — Mr. Heartfree, do 
 you know that you and I must have no quarrel for 
 all this ? — I can't forbear being a little severe now 
 and then : but women, you know, may be allowed 
 anything. 
 
 Heart. Up to a certain age, madam. 
 
 Lady Fan. Which I'm not yet past, I hope. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.] Nor never will, I dare swear. 
 
 Lady Fan. [To Lady Brute.] Come, madam, 
 will your ladyship be witness to our reconciliation ? 
 
 Lady Brute. You agree then at last. 
 
 Heart. [Slightingly.] We forgive. 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside.] That was a cold, ill-natured 
 reply. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then there's no challenges sent 
 between you ? 
 
 Heart. Not from me, I promise! — [Aside to 
 Constant.] But that's more than I'll do for her, 
 for I know she can as well be damned as forbear 
 writing to me. 
 
 Const. That I believe. But I think we had best 
 
 be going, lest she should suspect something, and 
 be malicious. 
 
 Heart. With all my heart. 
 
 Const. Ladies, we are your humble servants. I 
 see sir John is quite engaged, 'twould be in vain to 
 expect him. — Come, Heartfree. 
 
 Heart. Ladies, your servant. — [To Belinda.] 
 I hope, madam, you won't forget our bargain ; 
 I'm to say what 1 please to you. 
 
 Bel. Liberty of speech entire, sir. 
 
 [Exeunt Heartfree and Constant. 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside.] Very pretty truly ! — But 
 how the blockhead went out ! languishing at her ; 
 and not a look toward me ! — Well, churchmen may 
 talk, but miracles are not ceased. For 'tis more 
 than natural, such a rude fellow as he, and such a 
 little impertinent as she, should be capable of mak- 
 ing a woman of my sphere uneasy. But I can bear 
 her sight no longer. — Methinks she's grown ten 
 times uglier than Cornet. I must go home, and study 
 revenge. — [To Lady Brute.] Madam, your hum- 
 ble servant ; I must take my leave. 
 
 Lady Brute. What, going already, madam ? 
 
 Lady Fan. I must beg you'll excuse me this 
 once ; for really I have eighteen visits to return 
 this afternoon. So you see I am importuned by 
 the women as well as the men. 
 
 Bel. [Aside.] And she's quits with 'em both. 
 
 Lady Fan. [Going.] Nay, you shan't go one 
 step out of the room. 
 
 Lady Brute. Indeed I'll wait upon you down. 
 
 Lady Fan. No, sweet lady Brute, you know I 
 swoon at ceremony. 
 
 Lady Brute. Pray, give me leave. 
 
 Lady Fan. You know I won't. 
 
 Lady Brute. Indeed I must. 
 
 Lady Fan. Indeed you shan't. 
 
 Lady Brute. Indeed I will. 
 
 Lady Fan. Indeed you shan't. 
 
 Lady Brute. Indeed I will, 
 
 Lady Fan. Indeed you shan't. Indeed, indeed, 
 indeed you shan't. 
 
 [Exit running, Lady Brute and Belinda following. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Brute. 
 
 Lady Brute. This impertinent woman has put 
 me out of humour for a fortnight. — What an agree- 
 able moment has her foolish visit interrupted ! — 
 Lord, how like a torrent love flows into the heart, 
 when once the sluice of desire is opened ! Good 
 gods ! what a pleasure there is in doing what we 
 should not do ! 
 
 Re-enter Constant. 
 
 Ha ! here again ? 
 
 Const. Though the renewing my visit may seem 
 a little irregular, I hope I shall obtain your pardon 
 for it, madam, when you know I only left the room, 
 lest the lady who was here should have been as 
 malicious in her remarks, as she's foolish in her 
 conduct. 
 
 Lady Brute. He who has discretion enough to 
 be tender of a woman's reputation, carries a virtue 
 about him may atone for a great many faults. 
 
 Const. If it has a title to atone for any, its pre- 
 tensions must needs be strongest, where the crime 
 is love. I therefore hope I shall be forgiven the 
 attempt I have made upon your heart, since my 
 enterprise has been a secret to all the world but 
 yourself. 
 
 Lady Brute. Secrecy indeed in sins of this kind 
 
348 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 is an argument of weight to lessen the punishment; 
 but nothing's a plea for a pardon entire, without a 
 sincere repentance. 
 
 Const. If sincerity in repentance consists in sor- 
 row for offending, no cloister ever inclosed so true 
 a penitent as I should be. But I hope it cannot 
 be reckoned an offence to love, where 'tis a duty to 
 adore. 
 
 Lady Brute. 'Tis an offence, a great one, where 
 it would rob a woman of all she ought to be adored 
 for, her virtue. 
 
 Const. Virtue ! — Virtue, alas, is no more like 
 the thing that's called so, than 'tis like vice itself. 
 Virtue consists in goodness, honour, gratitude, 
 sincerity, and pity ; and not in peevish, snarling, 
 strait-laced chastity. True virtue, wheresoe'er it 
 moves, still carries an intrinsic worth about it, and 
 is in every place, and in each sex, of equal value. 
 So is not continence, you see : that phantom of 
 honour, which men in every age have so contemned, 
 they have thrown it amongst the women to scrab- 
 ble for. 
 
 Lady Brute. If it be a thing of so very little 
 value, why do you so earnestly recommend it to 
 your wives and daughters ? 
 
 Const. We recommend it to our wives, madam, 
 because we would keep 'em to ourselves ; and to 
 our daughters, because we would dispose of 'em to 
 others. 
 
 Lady Brute. 'Tis then of some importance, it 
 seems, since you can't dispose of 'em without it. 
 
 Const. That importance, madam, lies in the 
 humour of the country, not in the nature of the 
 thing. 
 
 Lady Brute. How do you prove that, sir ? 
 
 Const. From the wisdom of a neighbouring 
 nation in a contrary practice. In monarchies 
 things go by whimsy, but commonwealths weigh 
 all things in the scale of reason. 
 
 Lady Brute. I hope we are not so very light a 
 people, to bring up fashions without some ground. 
 
 Const. Pray what does your ladyship think of a 
 powdered coat for deep mourning ? 
 
 Lady Brute. I think, sir, your sophistry has all 
 the effect that you can reasonably expect it should 
 have ; it puzzles, but don't convince. 
 
 Const. I'm sorry for it. 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm sorry to hear you say so. 
 
 Const. Pray why ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Because if you expected more from 
 it, you have a worse opinion of my understanding 
 than I desire you should have. 
 
 Const. [Aside.] I comprehend her : she would 
 have me set a value upon her chastity, that I may 
 think myself the more obliged to her when she 
 -nakes me a present of it. — [Aloud.] I beg you 
 will believe I did but rally, madam ; I know you 
 judge too well of right and wrong to be deceived 
 by arguments like those. I hope you'll have so 
 favourable an opinion of my understanding too, to 
 believe the thing called virtue has worth enough 
 with me to pass for an eternal obligation where'er 
 'tis sacrificed. 
 
 Lady Brute. It is, I think, so great a one, as 
 nothing can repay. 
 
 Const. Yes ; the making the man you love your 
 everlasting debtor. 
 
 Lady Brute. When debtors once have borrowed 
 all we have to lend, they are very apt to grow shy 
 of their creditors' company 
 
 Const. That, madam, is only when they are 
 forced to borrow of usurers, and not of a generous 
 friend. Let us choose our creditors, and we are 
 seldom so ungrateful to shun 'em. 
 
 Lady Brute. What think you of sir John, sir ? 
 I was his free choice. 
 
 Const. I think he's married, madam. 
 
 Lady Brute. Does marriage then exclude men 
 from your rule of constancy ? 
 
 Const. It does. Constancy's a brave, free, 
 haughty, generous agent, that cannot buckle to the 
 chains of wedlock. There's a poor sordid slavery 
 in marriage, that turns the flowing tide of honour, 
 and sinks us to the lowest ebb of infamy. 'Tis a 
 corrupted soil ; ill-nature, avarice, sloth, cowardice, 
 and dirt, are all its product. 
 
 Lady Brute. Have you no exceptions to this 
 general rule, as well as to t'other ? 
 
 Const. Yes ; I would (after all) be an exception 
 to it myself, if you were free in power and will to 
 make me so. 
 
 Lady Brute. Compliments are well placed, 
 where 'tis impossible to lay hold on 'em. 
 
 Const. I would to heaven 'twere possible foi 
 you to lay hold on mine, that you might see it is 
 no compliment at all. But since you are already 
 disposed of beyond redemption, to one who does 
 not know the value of the jewel you have put into 
 his hands, I hope you would not think him greatly 
 wronged, though it should sometimes be looked 
 on by a friend, who knows how to esteem it as he 
 ought. 
 
 Lady Brute. If looking on't alone would serve 
 his turn, the wrong perhaps might not be very 
 great. 
 
 Const. Why, what if he should wear it now and 
 then a day, so he gave good security to bring it 
 home again at night ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Small security I fancy might serve 
 for that. One might venture to take his word. 
 
 Const. Then where's the injury to the owner ? 
 
 Lady Brute. 'Tis injury to him if he think it 
 one. For if happiness be seated in the mind, 
 unhappiness must be so too. 
 
 Const. Here I close with you, madam, and draw 
 my conclusive argument from your own position : 
 if the injury lie in the fancy, there needs nothing 
 but secrecy to prevent the wrong. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Going.] A surer way to prevent 
 it, is to hear no more arguments in its behalf. 
 
 Const. {Following her.] But, madam — 
 
 Lady Brute. But, sir, 'tis my turn to be discreet 
 now, and not suffer too long a visit. 
 
 Const. [Catching her hand.] By heaven you 
 shall not stir ! till you give me hopes that I shall 
 see you again at some more convenient time and 
 place. 
 
 Lady Brute. I give you just hopes enough — 
 [Breaking from him] to get loose from you : and 
 that's all I can afford you at this time. 
 
 [Exit, running. 
 
 Const. Now by all that's great and good, she's 
 a charming woman ! In what ecstacy of joy she 
 has left me ! For she gave me hope ; did she not 
 say she gave me hope ? — Hope ! ay ; what hope ! 
 — enough to make me let her go ! — Why that's 
 enough in conscience. Or, no matter how 'twas 
 spoke ; hope was the word ; it came from her, and 
 it was said to me. 
 
scene hi. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 349 
 
 Re-enter Heartfree. 
 Ha, Heartfree I Thou hast done me noble service 
 in prattling to the young gentlewoman without 
 there ; come to my arms, thou venerable bawd, and 
 let me squeeze thee — [Embracing him eagerly] 
 as a new pair of stays does a fat country girl, 
 when she's carried to court to stand for a maid of 
 honour. 
 
 Heart. Why, what the devil's all this rapture 
 for? 
 
 Const. Rapture ! there's ground for rapture, 
 man; there's hopes, my Heartfree ; hopes, my 
 friend ! 
 
 Heart. Hopes ! of what ? 
 
 Const. Why, hopes that my lady and I together 
 (for 'tis more than one body's work) should make 
 sir John a cuckold. 
 
 Heart. Prithee, what did she say to thee ? 
 
 Const. Say ! what did she not say ? She said 
 that — says she — she said — zoons, I don't know 
 what she said : but she looked as if she said every- 
 thing I'd have her ; and so if thou'lt go to the 
 tavern, I'll treat thee with anything that gold can 
 buy : I'll give all my silver amongst the drawers, 
 make a bonfire before the door, say the plenipos 
 have signed the peace, and the Bank of England's 
 grown honest. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II The Blue Posts. 
 
 Lord Rake, Sir John Brute, Colonel Bully and others 
 discovered at a table, drinking. Page waiting. 
 
 All. Huzza ! 
 
 Rake. Come, boys, charge again. — So. — Con- 
 fusion to all order ! Here's liberty of conscience ! 
 
 All. Huzza ! 
 
 Rake. I'll sing you a song I made this morning 
 to this purpose. 
 
 Sir John. 'Tis wicked, I hope. 
 
 Bully. Don't my lord tell you he made it ? 
 
 Sir John. Well then, let's ha't. 
 
 Lord Rake sings. 
 
 What a pother of late 
 
 Have they kept in the state 
 About setting our consciences free .' 
 
 A bottle has more 
 
 Dispensations in store, 
 Than the king and the state can decree. 
 
 When my head's full of wine, 
 
 I o'erflow with design, 
 And know no penal laws that can curb me : 
 
 Whate'er I devise, 
 
 Seems good in my eyes, 
 And religion ne'er dares to disturb me. 
 
 No saucy remorse 
 Intrudes in my course, 
 Nor impertinent notions of evil, 
 So there's claret in store, 
 In peace I've my whore, 
 And in peace I jog on to the devil. 
 
 All. So there's claret in store, 
 In peace I've my whore, 
 
 Rake. And in peace I jog on to the devil. 
 
 Well, how do you like it, gentlemen ? 
 
 All. O, admirable ! 
 
 Sir John. I would not give a fig for a song that 
 is not full of sin and impudence. 
 
 Rake. Then my muse is to your taste. — But 
 
 drink away ; the night steals upon us ; we shall 
 want time to be lewd in. — Hey, page, sally out, 
 sirrah, and see what's doing in the camp ; we'll 
 beat up their quarters presently. 
 
 Page. I'll bring your lordship an exact account. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Rake. Now let the spirit of clary go round 1 
 Fill me a brimmer. Here's to our forlorn hope ! 
 — Courage, knight; victory attends you. 
 
 Sir John. And laurels shall crown me ; drink 
 away, and be damned. 
 
 Rake. Again, boys ; t'other glass, and damn 
 morality. 
 
 Sir John. [Drunk.] Ay — damn morality ! — 
 and damn the watch ! — and let the constable be 
 married ! 
 
 All. Huzza ! 
 
 Re-enter Page. 
 
 Rake. How are the streets inhabited, sirrah ? 
 
 Page. My lord, it's Sunday night, they are full 
 of drunken citizens. 
 
 Rake. Along then, boys, we shall have a feast. 
 
 Bully. Along, noble knight. 
 
 Sir John. Ay — along, Bully ; and he that says 
 sir John Brute is not as drunk and as religious as 
 the drunkenest citizen of them all — is a liar, and 
 the son of a whore. 
 
 Bully. Why, that was bravely spoke, and like a 
 free-born Englishman. 
 
 Sir John. What's that to you, sir, whether I am 
 an Englishman or a. Frenchman ? 
 
 Bully. Zoons, you are not angry, sir ? 
 
 Sir John. Zoons, I am angry, sir ! — for if I'm a 
 free-born Englishman, what have you to do, even 
 to talk of my privileges ? 
 
 Rake. Why, prithee, knight, don't quarrel here, 
 leave private animosities to be decided by daylight ; 
 let the night be employed against the public enemy* 
 
 Sir John. My lord, I respect you because you 
 are a man of quality : but I'll make that fellow 
 know, I am within a hair's-breadth as absolute by 
 my privileges, as the king of France is by his pre- 
 rogative. He by his prerogative takes money where 
 it is not his due ; I by my privilege refuse paying 
 it where I owe it. Liberty and property, and Old 
 England, huzza ! 
 
 All. Huzza ! 
 
 {Exit Sir John, reeling, the rest following him. 
 
 SCENE III.— Lady Brute's Bedchamber. 
 Enter Lady Brute and Belinda. 
 
 Lady Brute. Sure, it's late, Belinda ; I begin to 
 be sleepy. 
 
 Bel. Yes, 'tis near twelve. Will you go to bed? 
 
 Lady Brute. To bed, my dear ! and by that 
 time I am fallen into a sweet sleep (or perhaps a 
 sweet dream, which is better and better) sir John 
 will come home roaring drunk, and be overjoyed 
 he finds me in a condition to be disturbed. 
 
 Bel. Oh, you need not fear him, he's in for all 
 night. The servants say he is gone to drink with 
 my lord Rake. 
 
 Lady Brute. Nay, 'tis not very likely, indeed, 
 such suitable company should part presently. 
 What hogs men turn, Belinda, when they grow 
 weary of women ! 
 
 Bel. And what owls they are whilst they are 
 fond of 'em ! 
 
350 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Lady Brute. But that we may forgive well 
 enough, because they are so upon our accounts. 
 
 Bel. We ought to do so indeed, but 'tis a hard 
 matter. For when a man is really in love he looks 
 so insufferably silly, that though a woman liked 
 him well enough before, she has then much ado to 
 endure the sight of him. And this I take to be the 
 reason why lovers are so generally ill used. 
 
 Lady Brute. Well, I own now, I'm well enough 
 pleased to see a man look like an ass for me. 
 
 Bel. Ay, I'm pleased he should look like an ass 
 too— that is, I am pleased with myself for making 
 him look so. 
 
 Lady Brute. Nay, truly, I think if he'd find 
 some other way to express his passion, 'twould be 
 more to his advantage. 
 
 Bel. Yes ; for then a woman might like his pas- 
 sion, and him too. 
 
 Lady Brute. Yet, Belinda, after all, a woman's 
 life would be but a dull business, if 'twere not for 
 men ; and men that can look like asses too. We 
 should never blame fate for the shortness of our 
 days ; our time would hang wretchedly upon our 
 hands. 
 
 Bel. Why, truly, they do help us off with a good 
 share on't. For were there no men in the world, 
 o'my conscience, I should be no longer a-dressing 
 than I'm a-saying my prayers ; nay, though it 
 were Sunday : for you know one may go to church 
 without stays on. 
 
 Lady Brute. But don't you think emulation 
 might do something? For every woman you see 
 desires to be finer than her neighbour. 
 
 Bel. That's only that the men may like her 
 better than her neighbour. No ; if there were no 
 men, adieu fine petticoats, we should be weary of 
 wearing 'em. 
 
 Lady Brute. And adieu plays, we should be 
 weary of seeing 'em. 
 
 Bel. Adieu Hyde-Park, the dust would choke us. 
 
 Lady Brute. Adieu St. James's, walking would 
 tire us. 
 
 Bel. Adieu London, the smoke would stifle us. 
 
 Lady Brute. And adieu going to church, for 
 religion would ne'er prevail with us. 
 
 Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bel. Our confession is so very hearty, sure we 
 merit absolution. 
 
 Lady Brute. Not unless we go through with't, 
 and confess all. So, prithee, for the ease of our 
 consciences, let's hide nothing. 
 
 Bel. Agreed. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, then, I confess that I love 
 to sit in the fore-front of a box ; for, if one sits 
 behind, there's two acts gone perhaps before one's 
 found out. And when I am there, if I perceive 
 the men whispering and looking upon me, you 
 must know I cannot for my life forbear thinking 
 they talk to my advantage. And that sets a thou- 
 sand little tickling vanities on foot — 
 
 Bel. Just my case for all the world ; but go on. 
 
 Lady Brute. I watch with impatience for the 
 next jest in the play, that I may laugh and show 
 my white teeth. If the poet has been dull, and 
 the jest be long a-coming, I pretend to whisper 
 one to my friend, and from thence fall into a little 
 small discourse, in which I take occasion to show 
 my face in all humours, brisk, pleased, serious, 
 melancholy, languishing. — Not that what we say to 
 one another causes any of these alterations ; but — 
 
 Bel. Don't trouble yourself to explain ; for, if 
 I'm not mistaken, you and I have had some of 
 these necessary dialogues before now, with the 
 same intention. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, I'll swear, Belinda, some 
 people do give strange agreeable airs to their faces 
 in speaking. Tell me true — did you never practise 
 in the glass ? 
 
 Bel. Why, did you ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Yes, faith, many a time. 
 
 Bel. And I too, I own it ; both how to speak 
 myself, and how to look when others speak. But 
 my glass and I could never yet agree what face I 
 should make when they come blurt out with a 
 nasty thing in a play. For all the men presently 
 look upon the women, that's certain; so, laugh we 
 must not, though our stays burst for't, because 
 that's telling truth, and owning we understand the 
 jest : and to look serious is so dull, when the whole 
 house is a-laughing. 
 
 Lady Brute. Besides, that looking serious does 
 really betray our knowledge in the matter as much 
 as laughing with the company would do : for, if 
 we did not understand the thing, we should natu- 
 rally do like other people. 
 
 Bel. For my part, I always take that occasion 
 to blow my nose. 
 
 Lady Brute. You must blow your nose half off 
 then at some plays. 
 
 Bel. Why don't some reformer or other beat the 
 poet for't? 
 
 Lady Brute. Because he is not so sure of our 
 private approbation as of our public thanks. Well, 
 sure, there is not upon earth so impertinent a 
 thing as women's modesty. 
 
 Bel. Yes ; men's fantasque, that obliges us to 
 it. If we quit our modesty, they say we lose our 
 charms; and yet they know that very modesty is 
 affectation, and rail at our hypocrisy. 
 
 Lady Brute. Thus one would think 'twere a 
 hard matter to please 'em, niece : yet our kind 
 mother nature has given us something that makes 
 amends for all. Let our weakness be what it will, 
 mankind will still be weaker ; and whilst there is a 
 world 'tis woman that will govern it. But, prithee, 
 one word of poor Constant before we go to bed, 
 if it be but to furnish matter for dreams. —I dare 
 swear he's talking of me now, or thinking of me at 
 least, though it be in the middle of his prayers. 
 
 Bel. So he ought, I think ; for you were pleased 
 to make him a good round advance to-day, 
 madam. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, I have e'en plagued him 
 enough to satisfy any reasonable woman. He has 
 besieged me these two years to no purpose. 
 
 Bel. And if he besieged you two years more, he'd 
 be well enough paid, so he had the plundering of 
 you at last. 
 
 Lady Brute. That may be : but I'm afraid the 
 town won't be able to hold out much longer : for, 
 to confess the truth to you, Belinda, the garrison 
 begins to grow mutinous. 
 
 Bel. Then the sooner you capitulate the better. 
 
 Lady Brute. Yet, methinks, I would fain stay 
 a little longer to see you fixed too, that we might 
 start together, and see who could love longest. 
 What think you, if Heartfree should have a month's 
 mind to you ? 
 
 Bel. Why, faith, I could almost be in love with 
 him for despising that foolish, affected lady Fancy- 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 351 
 
 ful; but I'm afraid he's too cold ever to warm 
 himself by my fire. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then he deserves to be froze to 
 death. Would I were a man for your sake, dear 
 rogue. [Kissing her. 
 
 Bel. You'd wish yourself a woman again for 
 your own, or the men are mistaken. But if I could 
 make a conquest of this son of Bacchus, and rival 
 his bottle, what should I do with him ? He has 
 no fortune, I can't marry him ; and sure you would 
 not have me commit fornication. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, if you did, child, 'twould be 
 but a good friendly part ; if 'twere only to keep me 
 in countenance whilst I commit — you know what. 
 
 Bel. Well, if I can't resolve to serve you that 
 way, I may perhaps some other as much to your 
 satisfaction. But pray, how shall we contrive to 
 see these blades again quickly ? 
 
 Lady Brute. We must e'en have recourse to the 
 old way ; make 'em an appointment 'twixt jest and 
 earnest, 'twill look like a frolic, and that you 
 know 's a very good thing to save a woman's 
 blushes. 
 
 Bel. You advise well ; but where shall it 
 be? 
 
 Lady Brute. In Spring-Garden. But they shan't 
 know their women till their women pull off their 
 masks ; for a surprise is the most agreeable thing 
 in the world : and I find myself in a very good 
 humour, ready to do 'em any good turn I can 
 think on. 
 
 Bel. Then pray write 'em the necessary billet 
 without further delay, 
 
 Lady Brute. Let's go into your chamber, then, 
 and whilst you say your prayers, I'll do it, child. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I.—Covent-Garden*. 
 
 Enter Lord Rake, Sir John Brute, Colonel Bully, and 
 others, with drawn swords. 
 
 Rake. Is the dog dead ? 
 
 Bully. No, damn him ! I heard him wheeze. 
 
 Rake. How the witch his wife howled ! 
 
 Bully. Ay, she'll alarm the watch presently. 
 
 Rake. Appear, knight, then ; come, you have a 
 good cause to fight for, there's a man murdered. 
 
 Sir John. Is there ! then let his ghost be satis- 
 fied, for I'll sacrifice a constable to it presently, 
 and burn his body upon his wooden chair. 
 
 Enter a Tailor, with a bundle under his arm. 
 
 Bully. How now ! what have we got here ? a 
 thief! 
 
 Tailor. No, an't please you, I'm no thief. 
 
 Rake. That we'll see presently.— Here, let the 
 general examine him. 
 
 Sir John.. Ay, ay, let me examine him, and I'll 
 lay a hundred pound I find him guilty in spite of 
 his teeth — for he looks — like a — sneaking rascal. — 
 Come, sirrah, without equivocation or mental re- 
 servation, tell me of what opinion you are, and 
 what calling ; for by them — I shall guess at your 
 morals. 
 
 Tail. An't please you, I'm a dissenting jour- 
 neyman tailor. 
 
 Sir John. Then, sirrah, you love lying by your 
 religion, and theft by your trade ; and so that your 
 punishment may be suitable to your crimes — I'll 
 have you first gagged — and then hanged. 
 
 Tail. Pray, good worthy gentlemen, don't 
 abuse me ; indeed I'm an honest man, and a good 
 workman, though I say it that should not say it. 
 
 Sir John. No words, sirrah, but attend your fate. 
 
 Rake. Let me see what's in that bundle. 
 
 Tail. An't please you, it 's the doctor of the 
 parish's gown. 
 
 Rake. The doctor's gown !— Hark you, knight, 
 you won't stick at abusing the clergy, will you ? 
 
 Sir John. No, I'm drunk, and I'll abuse any- 
 thing — but my wife ; and her I name — with reve- 
 rence. 
 
 * See page 364. 
 
 Rake. Then you shall wear this gown whilst 
 you charge the watch ; that though the blows fall 
 upon you, the scandal may light upon the church. 
 
 Sir John. A generous design — by all the gods ! 
 — give it me. [Takes the gown, and puts it on. 
 
 Tail. O dear gentlemen, I shall be quite 
 undone, if you take the gown. 
 
 Sir John. Retire, sirrah : and since you carry 
 off your skin — go home, and be happy. 
 
 Tail [Pausing.] I think I had e'en as good 
 follow the gentleman's friendly advice ; for if I 
 dispute any longer, who knows but the whim may 
 take him to case me ? These courtiers are fuller 
 of tricks than they are of money ; they'll sooner 
 cut a man's throat than pay his bill. [Exit. 
 
 Sir John. So, how do you like my shapes now ? 
 
 Rake. This will do to a miracle ; he looks like 
 a bishop going to the holy war. — But to your arms, 
 gentlemen, the enemy appears. 
 
 Enter Constable and Watchmen. 
 
 Watchman. Stand ! Who goes there ? Come 
 before the constable. 
 
 Sir John. The constable's a rascal — and you 
 are the son of a whore ! 
 
 Watch. A good civil answer for a parson, 
 truly ! 
 
 Constable. Methinks, sir, a man of your coat 
 might set a better example. 
 
 Sir John. Sirrah, I'll make you know — there 
 
 are men of my coat can set as bad examples — as 
 
 you can do, you dog you ! 
 
 [Sir John strikes the Constable. They knock him down, 
 
 disarm him, and seize him. Lord Rake and the rest 
 
 run away. 
 
 Con. So, we have secured the parson, however. 
 
 Sir John. Blood, and blood — and blood ! 
 
 Watch. Lord have mercy upon us ! how the 
 wicked wretch raves of blood. I'll warrant he has 
 been murdering somebody to-night. 
 
 Sir John. Sirrah, there's nothing got by murder 
 but a halter. My talent lies towards drunkenness 
 and simony. 
 
 Watch. Why, that now was spoke like a man 
 of parts, neighbours, it's pity he should be so 
 disguised, 
 
362 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Sir John. You lie ! — I'm not disguised, for I 
 am drunk barefaced. 
 
 Watch. Look you there again ! — This is a 
 mad parson, Mr. Constable ; I'll lay a pot of ale 
 upon's head, he's a good preacher. 
 
 Con. Come, sir, out of respect to your call- 
 ing, I shan't put you into the round-house ; 
 but we must secure you in our drawing-room till 
 morning, that you may do no mischief. So, come 
 along. 
 
 Sir John. You may put me where you will, 
 sirrah, now you have overcome me. — But if I can't 
 do mischief, I'll think of mischief — in spite of your 
 teeth, you dog you. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Heartfree's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Heartfree. 
 
 Heart. What the plague ails me ? — Love ? No, 
 I thank you for that, my heart's rock still. — Yet 
 'tis Belinda that disturbs me ; that's positive. — 
 Well, what of all that ? Must I love her for being 
 troublesome ? at that rate I might love all the 
 women I meet, egad. But hold ! — though I don't 
 love her for disturbing me, yet she may disturb 
 me because I love her. — Ay, that may be, faith. I 
 have dreamed of her, that's certain.— Well, so I 
 have of my mother ; therefore, what's that to the 
 purpose ? Ay, but Belinda runs in my mind 
 waking. — And so does many a damned thing that 
 I don't care a farthing for. — Methinks, though, I 
 would fain be talking to her, and yet I have no 
 business. — Well, am I the first man that has had 
 a mind to do an impertinent thing ? 
 
 Enter Constant. 
 
 Const. How now, Heartfree ! what makes you 
 up and dressed so soon ? I thought none but 
 lovers quarreled with their beds ; I expected to 
 have found you snoring, as I used to do. 
 
 Heart. Why, faith, friend, 'tis the care I have of 
 your affairs that makes me so thoughtful ; I have 
 been studying all night how to bring your matter 
 about with Belinda. 
 
 Const. With Belinda! 
 
 Heart. With my lady, I mean : — and faith I 
 have mighty hopes on't. Sure you must be very 
 well satisfied with her behaviour to you yesterday ? 
 
 Const. So well, that nothing but a lover's fears 
 can make me doubt of success. But what can this 
 sudden change proceed from ? 
 
 Heart. Why, you saw her husband beat her, 
 did you not ? 
 
 Const. That's true : a husband is scarce to be 
 borne upon any terms, much less when he fights 
 with his wife. Methinks she should e'en have 
 cuckolded him upon the very spot, to show that 
 after the battle she was master of the field. 
 
 Heart. A council of war of women would infal- 
 libly have advised her to't. But, I confess, so 
 agreeable a woman as Belinda deserves a better usage. 
 
 Const. Belinda again ! 
 
 Heart,. My lady, I mean. — What a pox makes me 
 blunder so to-day? — {Aside.'] A plague of this 
 treacherous tongue ! 
 
 Const. Prithee look upon me seriously, Heart- 
 free. — Now answer me directly. Is it my lady or 
 Belinda employs your careful thoughts thus ? 
 
 Heart. My lady, or Belinda ! 
 
 Const. In love ! by this light, in love ! 
 
 Heart. In love ! 
 
 Const. Nay, ne'er deny it ; for thou'lt do it so 
 awkwardly, 'twill but make the jest sit heavier 
 about thee. My dear friend, I give thee much joy. 
 
 Heart. Why, prithee, you won't persuade me to 
 it, will you ? 
 
 Const. That she's mistress of your tongue, that's 
 plain ; and I know you are so honest a fellow, your 
 tongue and heart always go together. But how — 
 but how the devil, — pha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
 
 Heart. Heyday ! why sure you don't believe it 
 in earnest ? 
 
 Const. Yes I do, because I see you deny it in jest. 
 
 Heart. Nay, but look you, Ned — a — deny in jest 
 — a — gadzooks, you know I say — a — when a man 
 denies a thing in jest — a — 
 
 Const. Pha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Heart. Nay, then we shall have it. What, 
 because a man stumbles at a word ! Did you never 
 make a blunder ? 
 
 Const. Yes, for I am in love, I own it. 
 
 Heart. Then so am I. Now laugh till thy soul's 
 glutted with mirth — [Embracing him.'] But, dear 
 Constant, don't tell the town on't. 
 
 Const. Nay then, 'twere almost pity to laugh 
 at thee, after so honest a confession. But tell us 
 a little, Jack, by what new-invented arms has this 
 mighty stroke been given ? 
 
 Heart. E'en by that unaccountable weapon, 
 called Je-ne-sais-quoi : for everything that can come 
 within the verge of beauty I have seen it with 
 indifference. 
 
 Const. So in few words then ; the Je-ne-sais-quoi 
 has been too hard for the quilted petticoat. 
 
 Heart. Egad, I think the Je-ne-sais-quoi is in 
 the quilted petticoat ; at least 'tis certain I ne'er 
 think on't without — a — a Je-ne-sais-quoi in every 
 part about me. 
 
 Const. Well, but have all your remedies lost 
 their virtue ? have you turned her inside out yet ? 
 
 Heart. I dare not so much as think on't. 
 
 Const. But don't the two years' fatigue I have 
 had discourage you ? 
 
 Heart. Yes : I dread what I foresee, yet cannot 
 quit the enterprise. Like some soldiers, whose 
 courage dwells more in their honour than their 
 nature. On they go, though the body trembles at 
 what the soul makes it undertake. 
 
 Const. Nay, if you expect your mistress will use 
 you, as your profanations against her sex deserve, 
 you tremble justly. But how do you intend to 
 proceed, friend ? 
 
 Heart. Thou knowest I'm but a novice ; be 
 friendly and advise me. 
 
 Const. Why, look you, then ; I'd have you — 
 serenade and a — write a song — go to church — look 
 like a fool — be very officious — ogle — write — and 
 lead out : and who knows, but in a year or two's 
 time, you may be — called a troublesome puppy, 
 and sent about your business ? 
 
 Heart. That's hard. 
 
 Const. Yet thus it oft falls out with lovers, sir. 
 
 Heart. Pox on me for making one of the number. 
 
 Const. Have a care : say no saucy things ; 'twill 
 but augment your crime ; and if your mistress hears 
 on't, increase your punishment. 
 
 Heart. Prithee, say something then to encourage 
 me: you know I helped you in your distress. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 353 
 
 Const. Why, then, to encourage you to perse- 
 verance, though you may be throughly ill used for 
 your offences ; I'll put you in mind, that even the 
 coyest ladies of 'em all are made up of desires, as 
 well as we ; and though they do hold out a long 
 time, they will capitulate at last. For that thun- 
 dering engineer, Nature, does make such havoc in 
 the town, they must surrender at long-run, or 
 perish in their own flames. 
 
 Enter a Footman. 
 
 Foot. Sir, there's a porter without with a letter ; 
 he desires to give it into your own hands. 
 ' Const. Call him in. [Exit Footman. 
 
 Enter Joe. 
 
 Const. What, Joe ! is it thee ? 
 
 Joe. An't please you, sir, I was ordered to deli- 
 ver this into your own hands, by two well-shaped 
 ladies, at the New Exchange. I was at your 
 honour's lodgings, and your servants sent me 
 hither. 
 
 Const. 'Tis well. Are you to carry any answer ? 
 
 Joe. No, my noble master. They gave me my 
 orders, and whip, they were gone, like a maiden- 
 head at fifteen. 
 
 Const. Very well ; there. [Gives him money. 
 
 Joe. God bless your honour. [Exit. 
 
 Const. Now let's see what honest trusty Joe has 
 brought us. — [Reads.] If you and your play- 
 fellow can spare time from your business arid 
 devotions, don't fail to be at Spring-Garden about 
 eight in the evening. You'll find nothing there 
 but women, so you need bring no other arms than 
 what you usually carry about you. — So, play- 
 fellow : here's something to stay your stomach till 
 your mistress's dish is ready for you. 
 
 Heart. Some of our old battered acquaintance. 
 I won't go, not I. 
 
 Const. Nay, that you can't avoid : there's honour 
 in the case ; 'tis a challenge, and I want a second. 
 
 Heart. I doubt I shall be but a very useless one 
 to you ; for I'm so disheartened by this wound 
 Belinda has given me, I don't think I shall have 
 courage enough to draw my sword. 
 
 Const. Oh, if that be all, come along ; I'll war- 
 rant you find sword enough for such enemies as we 
 have to deal withal. 
 
 SCENE III *.— The Street before the Justice's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Constable and Watchmen, with Sir John Brute. 
 
 Con. Come along, sir ; I thought to have let you 
 slip this morning, because you were a minister : 
 but you are as drunk and abusive as ever. We'll 
 see what the justice of the peace will say to you. 
 
 Sir John. And you shall see what I'll say to the 
 justice of the peace, sirrah. [They knock at the door. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Con. Pray acquaint his worship we have got an 
 unruly parson here. We are unwilling to expose 
 him, but don't know what to do with him. 
 
 Serv. I'll acquaint my master. [Exit, 
 
 * See page 364. 
 
 -constable — what damned jus- 
 1 warrant 
 
 Sir John. You- 
 tice is this ? 
 
 Con. One that will take care of you, 
 you. 
 
 Enter Justice. 
 
 Just. Well, Mr. Constable, what's the disorder 
 here ? 
 
 Con. An't please your worship — 
 
 Sir John. Let me speak, and be damned ! — I'm 
 a divine, and can unfold mysteries better than you 
 can do. 
 
 Just. Sadness, sadness! a minister so overtaken! 
 Pray, sir, give the constable leave to speak, and I'll 
 hear you very patiently ; I assure you, sir, I will. 
 
 Sir John. Sir — you are a very civil magistrate : 
 your most humble servant. 
 
 Con. An't please your worship then, he has 
 attempted to beat the watch to-night, and swore — 
 
 Sir John. You lie ! 
 
 Just. Hold, pray sir, a little. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. 
 
 Con. Indeed, sir, he came at us without any pro- 
 vocation, called us whores and rogues, and laid us 
 on with a great quarter-staff. He was in my lord 
 Rake's company : they have been playing the devil 
 to-night. 
 
 Just. Hem — hem — pray, sir — may you be chap- 
 lain to my lord ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir — I presume— I may if I will. 
 
 Just. My meaning, sir, is — are you so ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir — you mean very well. 
 
 Just. He — hem — hem — under favour, sir, pray 
 answer me directly. 
 
 Sir John. Under favour, sir — do you use to 
 answer directly when you are drunk ? 
 
 Just. Good lack, good lack ! here's nothing to be 
 got from him. — Pray, sir, may I crave your name ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir — my name 's — [He hiccups.] — 
 Hiccup, sir. 
 
 Just. Hiccup ! Doctor Hiccup ! I have known a 
 great many country parsons of that name, especially 
 down in the Pens. — Pray where do you live, sir ? 
 
 Sir John. Here and there, sir. 
 
 Just. Why, what a strange man is this ! — Where 
 do you preach, sir ? have you any cure ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir — I have — a very good cure — for 
 a clap, at your service. 
 
 Just. Lord have mercy upon us ! 
 
 Sir John. [Aside.] This fellow does ask so many 
 impertinent questions, I believe, egad, 'tis the jus- 
 tice's wife in the justice's clothes. 
 
 Just. Mr. Constable, I vow and protest I don't 
 know what to do with him. 
 
 Con. Truly he has been but a troublesome guest 
 to us all night. 
 
 Just. I think I had e'en best let him go about 
 his business, for I'm unwilling to expose him. 
 
 Con. E'en what your worship thinks fit. 
 
 Sir John. Sir — not to interrupt Mr. Constable, 
 I have a small favour to ask. 
 
 Just. Sir, I open both my ears to you. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. I 
 have a little urgent business calls upon me ; and 
 therefore I desire the favour of you to bring matters 
 to a conclusion. 
 
 Just. Sir, if I were sure that business were not 
 to commit more disorders, I would release you. 
 
 Sir John. None — by my priesthood. 
 
 Just. Then, Mr. Constable, you may discharge 
 him. 
 
 A A 
 
Qoi 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. If 
 you please to accept of a bottle — 
 
 Just. I thank you kindly, sir ; but I never drink 
 in a morning. Good bye to ye, sir, good bye to ye. 
 
 Sir John. Good bye t'ye, good sir. — [Exit 
 Justice.] So — now, Mr. Constable, shall you and 
 I go pick up a whore together ? 
 
 Con. No, thank you, sir ; my wife's enough to 
 satisfy any reasonable man. 
 
 Sir John. [Aside.] He ! he ! he ! he ! he ! — 
 the fool is married then. — [Aloud.] Well, you 
 won't go ? 
 
 Con. Not I, truly. 
 
 Sir John. Then I'll go by myself ; and you and 
 your wife may be damned ! {Exit. 
 
 Con. [Gazing after him.] Why, God-a-mercy, 
 parson ! {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV.— Spring-Garden. 
 
 Constant and Heartfree cross the stage. As they go off, 
 Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle enter masked, and 
 dogging them. 
 
 Const. So : I think we are about the time ap- 
 pointed. Let us walk up this way. 
 
 {Exit with Heartfree. 
 
 Lady Fan. Good ! Thus far I have dogged 'em 
 without being discovered. 'Tis infallibly some 
 intrigue that brings them to Spring-Garden. How 
 my poor heart is torn and racked with fear and 
 jealousy ! Yet let it be anything but that flirt 
 Belinda, and I'll try to bear it. But if it prove 
 her, all that's woman in me shall be employed to 
 destroy her. 
 
 {Exit with Mademoiselle. 
 
 Re-enter Constant and Heartfree. Lady Fancyful 
 and Mademoiselle still following at a distance. 
 
 Const. I see no females yet that have anything 
 to say to us. I'm afraid we are bantered. 
 
 Heart. I wish we were ; for I'm in no humour 
 to make either them or myself merry. 
 
 Const. Nay, I'm sure you'll make them merry 
 enough if I tell 'em why you are dull. But prithee, 
 why so heavy and sad before you begin to be ill 
 used ? 
 
 Heart. For the same reason, perhaps, that you 
 are so brisk and well pleased ; because both pains 
 and pleasures are generally more considerable in 
 prospect than when they come to pass. 
 
 Enter Lady Brute and Belinda, masked, and poorly 
 dressed. 
 
 Const. How now, who are these ? Not our 
 game, I hope. 
 
 Heart. If they are, we are e'en well enough 
 served to come a hunting here, when we had so 
 much better game in chase elsewhere. 
 
 Lady Fan. [To Mademoiselle.] So, those 
 are their ladies without doubt. But I'm afraid 
 that doily stuff is not worn for want of better 
 clothes. They are the very shape and size of Be- 
 linda and her aunt. 
 
 Mad. So day be inteed, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. We'll slip into this close arbour, 
 where we may hear all they say. 
 
 {Exeunt Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 
 
 Lady Brute. What, are you afraid of us, gentle- 
 men ? 
 
 Heart. Why truly, I think we may, if appear- 
 ance don't lie. 
 
 Bel. Do you always find women what they ap- 
 pear to be, sir ? 
 
 Heart. No, forsooth ; but I seldom find 'em 
 better than they appear to be. 
 
 Bel. Then the outside's best, you think ? 
 
 Heart. 'Tis the honestest. 
 
 Const. Have a care, Heartfree ; you are relapsing 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, does the gentleman use to 
 rail at women ? 
 
 Const. He has done formerly. 
 
 Bel. I suppose he had very good cause for't. — 
 They did not use you so well as you thought you 
 deserved, sir. 
 
 Lady Brute. They made themselves merry at 
 your expense, sir. 
 
 Bel. Laughed when you sighed. 
 
 Lady Brute. Slept while you were waking. 
 
 Bel. Had your porter beat. 
 
 Lady Brute. And threw your billets-doux in the 
 fire. 
 
 Heart. Heyday ! I shall do more than rail pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Bel. Why, you won't beat us, will you ? 
 
 Heart. I don't know but I may. 
 
 Const. What the devil's coming here ? Sir John 
 in a gown ? — and drunk i'faith. 
 
 Enter Sir John Brute. 
 
 Sir John. What, a pox! — here's Constant, 
 Heartfree — and two whores egad ! — O you covetous 
 rogues ! what, have you never a spare punk for 
 your friend ? — But I'll share with you. 
 
 {He seizes both the ladies. 
 
 Heart. Why, what the plague have you been 
 doing, knight ? 
 
 Sir John. Why, I have been beating the watch, 
 and scandalising the clergy. 
 
 Heart. A very good account, truly ! 
 
 Sir John. And what do you think I'll do next ? 
 
 Const. Nay, that no man can guess. 
 
 Sir John. Why, if you'll let me sup with you, 
 I'll treat both your strumpets. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Aside] O Lord, we are undone ! 
 
 Heart. No, we can't sup together, because we 
 have some affairs elsewhere. But if you'll accept 
 of these two ladies, we'll be so complaisant to 
 you, to resign our right in 'em. 
 
 Bel. [Aside,] Lord, what shall we do? 
 
 Sir John. Let me see, their clothes are such 
 damned clothes, they won't pawn for the reckoning. 
 
 Heart. Sir John, your servant. Rapture attend 
 you. 
 
 Const. Adieu, ladies ! make much of the gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, sure you won't leave us in 
 the hands of a drunken fellow to abuse us ! 
 
 Sir John. Who do you call a drunken fellow, 
 you slut you ? I'm a man of quality ; the king has 
 made me a knight. 
 
 Heart. Ay, ay, you are in good hands. Adieu 
 adieu ! {Runs off. 
 
 Lady Brute. The devil's hands ! — Let me go, 
 or I'll — For Heaven's sake protect us ! 
 
 {She breaks from him, runs to Constant, twitching off 
 her mask, and clapping it on again. 
 
 Sir John. I'll devil you, you jade you ! I'll 
 demolish your ugly face ! 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 355 
 
 Const. Hold a little, knight, she swoons. 
 Sir John I'll swoon her ! 
 Const. Hey, Heartfree ! 
 
 Re-enter Heartfree. Belinda runs to him, and shows 
 her face. 
 
 Heart. O Heavens ! My dear creature, stand 
 there a little. 
 
 Const. [Aside to Heartfree.] Pull him off, 
 I Jack. 
 
 Heart. Hold, mighty man ; look you, sir, we 
 did but jest with you. These are ladies of our 
 acquaintance, that we had a mind to frighten a 
 little, but now you must leave us. 
 
 Sir John. Oons, I won't leave you, not I ! 
 
 Heart. Nay, but you must though ; and there- 
 fore make no words on't. 
 
 Sir John. Then you are a couple of damned 
 uncivil fellows : and I hope your punks will give 
 you sauce to your mutton ! [Exit. 
 
 Lady Brute. Oh, I shall never come to myself 
 again, I'm so frightened. 
 
 Const. 'Twas a narrow 'scape indeed. 
 
 Bel. Women must needs have frolics, you see, 
 whatever they cost 'em. 
 
 Heart. This might have proved a dear one 
 though. 
 
 Lady Brute. You are the more obliged to us, 
 for the risk we run upon your accounts. 
 
 Const. And I hope you'll acknowledge some- 
 thing due to our knight-errantry, ladies. This is 
 a second time we have delivered you. 
 
 Lady Brute. 'Tis true ; and since we see fate 
 has designed you for our guardians, 'twill make us 
 the more willing to trust ourselves in your hands. 
 But you must not have the worse opinion of us 
 for our innocent frolic. 
 
 Heart. Ladies, you may command our opinions 
 in everything that is to your advantage. 
 
 Bel. Then, sir, I command you to be of opinion, 
 that women are sometimes better than they appear 
 to be. [Lady Brute and Constant talk apart. 
 
 Heart. Madam, you have made a convert of 
 me in every tbing. I'm grown a fool : I could 
 be fond of a woman. 
 
 Bel. I thank you, sir, in the name of the whole 
 sex. 
 
 Heart. Which sex nothing but yourself could 
 ever have atoned for. 
 
 Bel. Now has my vanity a devilish itch to know 
 in what my merit consists. 
 
 Heart. In your humility, madam, that keeps 
 you ignorant it consists at all. 
 
 Bel. One other compliment with that serious 
 face, and I hate you for ever after. 
 
 Heart. Some women love to be abused : is that 
 it you would be at ? 
 
 Bel. No, not that neither ; but I'd have men 
 talk plainly what's fit for women to hear ; without 
 putting 'em either to a real or an affected blush. 
 
 Heart. Why then, in as plain terms as I can 
 find to express myself, I could love you even to — 
 matrimony itself, a-most, egad. 
 
 Bel. Just as sir John did her ladyship there. 
 What think you ? Don't you berieve one month's 
 time might bring you down to the same indiffer- 
 ence, only clad in a little better manners, perhaps ? 
 Well, you men are unaccountable things, mad till 
 you have your mistresses, and then stark mad till 
 you are rid of 'em again. Tell me, honestly, is 
 
 not your patience put to a much severer trial after 
 possession than before ? 
 
 Heart. With a great many, I must confess, it is, 
 to our eternal scandal ; but I — dear creature, do 
 but try me. 
 
 Bel. That's the surest way, indeed, to know, 
 but not the safest. — [To Lady Brute.] Madam, 
 are not you for taking a turn in the Great Walk ? 
 It's almost dark, nobody will know us. 
 
 Lady Brute. Really I find myself something 
 idle, Belinda ; besides I dote upon this little odd 
 private corner. But don't let my lazy fancy con- 
 fine you. 
 
 Const. [Aside.] So, she would be left alone 
 with me ; that's well. 
 
 Bel. Well, we'll take our turn, and come to you 
 again. — [To Heartfree.] Come, sir, shall we 
 go pry into the secrets of the garden ? Who knows 
 what discoveries we may make ? 
 
 Heart. Madam, I'm at your service. 
 
 Co?ist. [Aside to Heartfree.] Don't make too 
 much haste back ; for, d'ye hear — I may be busy. 
 
 Heart. Enough. [Exit with Belinda. 
 
 Lady Brute. Sure you think me scandalously 
 free, Mr. Constant. I'm afraid I shall lose your 
 good opinion of me. 
 
 Const. My good opinion, madam, is like your 
 cruelty, never to be removed. 
 
 Lady Brute. But if I should remove my cruelty, 
 then there's an end of your good opinion. 
 
 Const. There is not so strict an alliance between 
 'em neither. 'Tis certain I should love you then 
 better (if that be possible) than I do now ; and 
 where I love I always esteem. 
 
 Lady Brute. Indeed, I doubt you much. Why, 
 suppose you had a wife, and she should entertain 
 a gallant ? 
 
 Const. If I gave her just cause, how could I 
 justly condemn her ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Ah, but you'd differ widely about 
 just causes. 
 
 Const. But blows can bear no dispute. 
 
 Lady Brute. Nor ill manners much, truly. 
 
 Const. Then no woman upon earth has so just a 
 cause as you have. 
 
 Lady Brute. Oh, but a faithful wife is a beauti- 
 ful character. 
 
 Const. To a deserving husband I confess it is. 
 
 Lady Brute. But can his faults release my 
 duty ? 
 
 Const. In equity, without doubt. And where 
 laws dispense with equity, equity should dispense 
 with laws. 
 
 Lady Brute. Pray let's leave this dispute ; for 
 you men* have as much witchcraft in your argu- 
 ments as women have in their eyes. 
 
 Const. But whilst you attack me with your 
 charms, 'tis but reasonable I assault you with mine. 
 
 Lady Brute. The case is not the same. What 
 mischief we do we can't help, and therefore are to 
 be forgiven. 
 
 Const. Beauty soon obtains pardon for the 
 pain that it gives, when it applies the balm of 
 compassion to the wound : but a fine face and a 
 hard heart is almost as bad as an ugly face and a 
 soft one ; both very troublesome to many a poor 
 gentleman. 
 
 Lady Brute. Yes, and to many a poor gentle 
 woman too, I can assure you. But pray, which of 
 'em is it that most afflicts you ? 
 AA 2 
 
356 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Const. Your glass and conscience will inform 
 you, madam. But for Heaven's sake ! (for now I 
 must be serious) if pity or if gratitude can move 
 you : — [Taking her hand] if constancy and truth 
 have power to tempt you : if love, if adoration can 
 affect you, give me at least some hopes that time 
 may do what you perhaps mean never to perform ; 
 'twill ease my sufferings, though not quench my 
 flame. 
 
 Lady Brute. Your sufferings eased, your flame 
 would soon abate : and that I would preserve, not 
 quench it, sir. 
 
 Const. Would you preserve it, nourish it with 
 favours ; for that's the food it naturally requires. 
 
 Lady Brute. Yet on that natural food 'twould 
 surfeit soon, should I resolve to grant all you 
 would ask. 
 
 Const. And in refusing all you starve it. For- 
 give me, therefore, since my hunger rages, if I at 
 last grow wild, and in my frenzy force at least this 
 from you. — [Kissing her hand.] Or if you'd have 
 my flame soar higher still, then grant me this, and 
 this, and this — [Kissing first her hand, then her 
 neck'], — and thousands more. — [Aside.] For now's 
 the time, she melts into compassion. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Aside.] Poor coward virtue, how 
 it shuns the battle. — [Aloud.] O Heavens I let 
 me go. 
 
 Const. Ay, go, ay : where shall we go, my 
 charming angel ?— Into this private arbour. — Nay, 
 let's lose no time — moments are precious. 
 
 Lady Brute. And lovers wild. Pray let us stop 
 here ; at least for this time. 
 
 Const. Tis impossible. He that has power 
 over you can have none over himself. 
 
 [As he is forcing her into the arbour, Lady Fancyful 
 and Mademoiselle rush out upon them, and 
 run over the stage. 
 
 Lady Brute. Ah, I'm lost ! 
 
 Lady Fan. Fi ! fi ! fi ! fi ! fi ! 
 
 Mad. Fi ! fi ! fi ! fi ! fi 1 
 
 [Exit with Lady Fancyful. 
 
 Const. Death and furies ! who are these ? 
 
 Lady Brute. O Heavens ! I'm out of my wits : 
 if they knew me, I am ruined. 
 
 Const. Don't be frightened ! ten thousand to 
 one they are strangers to you. 
 
 Lady Brute. Whatever they are, I won't stay 
 here a moment longer. 
 
 Const. Whither will you go ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Home, as if the devil were in me. 
 — Lord ! where's this Belinda now ? 
 
 Re-enter Belinda and Heartfree. 
 
 Oh ! it's well you are come : I'm so frightened, 
 my hair stands on end. Let's begone, for Heaven's 
 sake ! 
 
 Bel. Lord ! what's the matter l 
 
 Lady Brute. The devil's the matter, we are 
 discovered. Here's a couple of women have done 
 the most impertinent thing ! — Away ! away ! away ! 
 away ! away ! 
 
 [Exit running, the others following. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, Mademoiselle, 'tis a prodi- 
 gious thing how women can suffer filthy fellows to 
 grow so familiar with 'em. 
 
 Mad. Ah, matam, il n'y a rien de si naturel. 
 
 Lady Fan. Fi ! fi ! fi ! But oh my heart ! O 
 jealousy ! O torture ! I'm upon the rack. What 
 shall I do ? My lover's lost, I ne'er shall see him 
 mine. — [Pausing.] But I may be revenged, and 
 that's the same thing. Ah, sweet revenge ! Thou 
 welcome thought, thou healing balsam to my 
 wounded soul, be but propitious on this one occa- 
 sion, 111 place my heaven in thee for all my life 
 to come. 
 
 To woman how indulgent nature's kind ! 
 
 No blast of fortune long disturbs her mind 
 
 Compliance to her fate supports her still ; 
 
 If love won't make her happy — mischief will. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 ■A Room in Lady Fancyful's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, Mademoiselle ; did you dog 
 the filthy things ? 
 
 Mad. O que oui, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. And where are they ? 
 
 Mad. Au logis. 
 
 Lady Fan. What, men and all ? 
 
 Mad. Tous ensemble. 
 
 Lady Fan. O confidence ! what, carry their 
 fellows to their own house ? 
 
 Mad. C'est que le mari n'y est pas. 
 
 Lady Fan. No, so I believe, truly. But he shall 
 be there, and quickly too, if I can find him out. 
 Well, 'tis a prodigious thing, to see when men and 
 women get together, how they fortify one another 
 in their impudence. But if that drunken fool, her 
 husband, be to be found in e'er a tavern in town, 
 I'll send him amongst 'em. I'll spoil their sport ! 
 
 Mad. En verite, matam, ce seroit dommage. 
 
 Lady Fan. 'Tis in vain to oppose it, Mademoi- 
 selle ; therefore never go about it. For I am the 
 steadiest creature in the world — when I have deter- 
 mined to do mischief. So, come along. [Exeunt: 
 
 SCENE II.- 
 
 ■A Room in Sir John Brute's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Constant, Heartfree, Lady Brute, Belinda, and 
 Love well. 
 
 Lady Brute. But are you sure you don't mistake, 
 Lovewell ? 
 
 Love. Madam, I saw 'em all go into the tavern 
 together, and my master was so drunk he could 
 scarce stand. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then, gentlemen, I believe we may 
 venture to let you stay, and play at cards with us 
 an hour or two : for they'll scarce part till morning 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 357 
 
 Bel. I think 'tis a pity they should ever part. 
 
 Const. The company that's here, madam. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then, sir, the company that's here 
 must remember to part itself in time. 
 
 Const. Madam, we don't intend to forfeit your 
 future favours by indiscreet usage of this. The 
 moment you give us the signal, we shan't fail to 
 make our retreat. 
 
 Lady Brute. Upon those conditions then let us 
 sit down to cards. 
 
 Re-enter Lov-ewel-l. 
 
 Love. O Lord, madam ! here's my master just 
 staggering in upon you ; he has been quarrelsome 
 yonder, and they have kicked him out of the com- 
 pany. 
 
 Lady Brute. Into the closet, gentlemen, for 
 
 Heaven's sake ! I'll wheedle him to bed, if possible. 
 
 [Constant and Heartfree run into the closet. 
 
 Enter Sir John Brute, all dirt and bloody. 
 
 Lady Brute. Ah — ah — he's all over blood ! 
 
 Sir John. What the plague does the woman — 
 squall for ? Did you never see a man in pickle 
 before ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Lord, where have you been ? 
 
 Sir John. I have been at — cuffs. 
 
 Lady Brute. I fear that is not all. I hope you 
 are not wounded. 
 
 Sir John. Sound as a roach, wife. 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm mighty glad to hear it. 
 
 Sir John. You know — I think you lie. 
 
 Lady Brute. I know you do me wrong to think 
 so. For Heaven's my witness I had rather see my 
 own blood trickle down than yours. 
 
 Sir John. Then will I be crucified. 
 
 Lady Brute. 'Tis a hard fate I should not be 
 believed. 
 
 Sir John. 'Tis a damned atheistical age, wife. 
 
 Lady Brute. I am sure I have given you a thou- 
 sand tender proofs how great my care is of you. 
 Nay, spite of all your cruel thoughts, I'll still per- 
 sist, and at this moment, if I can, persuade you to 
 lie down, and sleep a little. 
 
 Sir John. Why — do you think I am drunk — 
 you slut, you ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Heaven forbid I should : but I'm 
 afraid you are feverish. Pray let me feel your 
 pulse. 
 
 Sir John. Stand off, and be damned ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, I see your distemper in your 
 very eyes. You are all on fire. Pray go to bed ; 
 let me entreat you. 
 
 Sir John. Come kiss me, then. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Kissing him.} There: now go.— 
 [J side.] He stinks like poison. 
 
 Sir John. I see it goes damnably against your 
 stomach — and therefore — kiss me again. 
 
 Lady Brute. Nay, now you fool me. 
 
 Sir John. Do't, I say. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Aside.] Ah, Lord have mercy 
 upon me ! — [Kisses him.] Well ; there : now will 
 you go ? 
 
 Sir John. Now, wife, you shall see my grati- 
 tude. You give me two kisses — I'll give you — 
 two hundred . [Kisses and tumbles her. 
 
 Lady Brute. O Lord ! Pray sir John be quiet. 
 Heavens, what a pickle am I in ! 
 
 Bel. [Aside.] If I were in her pickle, I'd call 
 my gallant out of the closet, and he should cudgel 
 him soundly. 
 
 Sir John. So, now you being as dirty and as 
 nasty as myself, we may go pig together. But first 
 I must have a cup of your cold-tea, wife. 
 
 [Going to the closet. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Aside.] Oh, I'm ruined! — 
 [Aloud.] There's none there, my dear. 
 
 Sir John. I'll warrant you I'll find some, my 
 dear. 
 
 Lady Brute* You can't open the door, the lock's 
 spoiled ; I have been turning and turning the key 
 this half-hour to no purpose. I'll send for the 
 smith to-morrow. 
 
 Sir John. There's ne'er a smith in Europe can 
 open a door with more expedition than I can do.— 
 As for example ! — Pou. — [He bursts open the door 
 with his foot.] How now ! What the devil have 
 we got here ? — Constant ! — Heartfree ! — and two 
 whores again, egad ! — This is the worst cold-tea — 
 that ever I met with in my life. — 
 
 Re-enter Constant and Heartfree. 
 
 Lady Brute. [Aside.] O Lord what will become 
 of us ? 
 
 Sir John. Gentlemen — I am your very humble 
 servant — I give you many thanks — I see you take 
 care of my family — I shall do all I can to return 
 the obligation. 
 
 Const. Sir, how oddly soever this business may 
 appear to you, you would have no cause to be 
 uneasy if you knew the truth of all things ; your 
 lady is the most virtuous woman in the world, and 
 nothing has passed but an innocent frolic. 
 
 Heart. Nothing else, upon my honour, sir. 
 
 Sir John. You are both very civil gentlemen — 
 and my wife, there, is a very civil gentlewoman ; 
 therefore I don't doubt but many civil things have 
 passed between you. Your very humble servant ! 
 
 Lady Brute. [Aside to Constant.] Pray be 
 gone : he's so drunk he can't hurt us to-night, and 
 to-morrow morning you shall hear from us. 
 
 Const. [Aside to Lady Brute.] I'll obey you, 
 madam. — [Aloud.] Sir, when you are cool, you'll 
 understand reason better. So then I shall take 
 the pains to inform you. If not — I wear a sword, 
 sir, and so good-bye to you ! — Come along, Heart- 
 free. [Exeunt Constant and Heartfree. 
 
 Sir John. Wear a sword, sir ! — And what of ail 
 that, sir ? — He comes to my house ; eats my meat ; 
 lies with my wife ; dishonours my family ; gets a 
 bastard to inherit my estate — and when I ask a 
 civil account of all this — Sir, says he, I wear a 
 sword. — Wear a sword, sir ! Yes, sir, says he, I 
 wear a sword. — It may be a good answer at cross- 
 purposes ; but 'tis a damned one to a man in my 
 whimsical circumstances — Sir, says he, I wear a 
 sword! — [To Lady Brute.] And what do you 
 wear now ? ha ! tell me. — [Sitting down in a 
 great-chair.] What ! you are modest, and can't. — 
 Why then I'll tell you, you slut you ! You wear — 
 an impudent lewd face — a damned designing heart 
 — and a tail — and a tail full of — 
 
 [He falls fast asleep snoring. 
 
 Lady Brute. So ; thanks to kind Heaven, he's 
 fast for some hours. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis well he is so, that we may have time to 
 lay our story handsomely ; for we must lie like the 
 devil to bring ourselves off. 
 
 Lady Brute. What shall we say, Belinda ? 
 
 Bel. [Musing.] I'll tell you : it must all light 
 upon Heartfree and I. We'll say he has courted 
 
858 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 me some time, but for reasons unknown to us has 
 ever been very earnest the thing might be kept 
 from sir John. That therefore hearing him upon 
 the stairs he run into the closet, though against our 
 will, and Constant with him, to prevent jealousy. 
 And to give this a good impudent face of truth, 
 (that I may deliver you from the trouble you are 
 in), I'll e'en (if he pleases) marry him. 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm beholden to you, cousin ; but 
 that would be carrying the jest a little too far for 
 your own sake. You know he's a younger brother, 
 and has nothing. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis true : but I like him, and have fortune 
 enough to keep above extremity. I can't say I 
 would live with him in a cell, upon love and bread 
 and butter : but I had rather have the man I love, 
 and a middle state of life, than that gentleman in 
 the chair there, and twice your ladyship's splen- 
 dour. 
 
 Lady Brute. In truth, niece, you are in the right 
 on't : for I am very uneasy with my ambition. But 
 perhaps, had I married as you'll do, I might have 
 been as ill used. 
 
 Bel. Some risk, I do confess, there always is : 
 but if a man has the least spark, either of honour 
 or good-nature, he can never use a woman ill, that 
 loves him, and makes his fortune both. Yet I 
 must own to you, some little struggling I still have 
 with this teasing ambition of ours. For pride, you 
 know, is as natural to a woman, as 'tis to a saint. 
 I can't help being fond of this rogue ; and yet it 
 goes to my heart to think I must never whisk to 
 Hyde-park with above a pair of horses ; have no 
 coronet upon my coach, nor a page to carry up my 
 train. But above all — that business of place. — 
 Well ; taking place is a noble prerogative. 
 
 Lady Brute. Especially after a quarrel. 
 
 Bel. Or of a rival. But pray say no more on't 
 for fear I change my mind. For o' my conscience, 
 were't not for your affair in the balance, I should 
 go near to pick up some odious man of quality yet, 
 and only take poor Heartfree for a gallant. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then him you must have, however 
 things go ? 
 
 Bel. Yes. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why we may pretend what we 
 will, but 'tis a hard matter to live without the man 
 we love. 
 
 Bel. Especially when we are married to the man 
 we hate. Pray tell me : do the men of the town 
 ever believe us virtuous when they see us do so ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Oh, no : nor indeed hardly, let us 
 do what we will. They most of 'em think, there 
 is no such thing as virtue, considered in the strictest 
 notions of it : and therefore when you hear 'em say, 
 such a one is a woman of reputation, they only mean 
 she's a woman of discretion. For they consider we 
 have no more religion than they have, nor so much 
 morality ; and between you and I, Belinda, I'm 
 afraid the want of inclination seldom protects any 
 of us. 
 
 Bel. But what think you of the fear of being 
 found out ? 
 
 Lady Brute. I think that never kept any woman 
 virtuous long. We are not such cowards neither. 
 No : let us once pass fifteen, and we have too good 
 an opinion of our own cunning to believe the 
 world can penetrate into what we would keep a 
 secret. And so in short we cannot reasonably 
 blame the men for judging of us by themselves. 
 
 Bel. But sure we are not so wicked as they are 
 after all ? 
 
 Lady Brute. We are as wicked, child, but our 
 vice lies another way. Men have more courage 
 than we, so they commit more bold impudent sins. 
 They quarrel, fight, swear, drink, blaspheme, and 
 the like ; whereas we, being cowards, only back- 
 bite, tell lies, cheat at cards, and so forth. But 
 'tis late : let's end our discourse for to-night, and 
 out of an excess of charity take a small care of 
 that nasty drunken thing there. — Do but look at 
 him, Belinda. 
 
 Bel. Ah — 'tis a savoury dish ! 
 
 Lady Brute. As savoury as 'tis I'm cloyed 
 with't. Prithee call the buttler to take it away. 
 
 Bel. Call the butler ! — call the scavenger ! — [To 
 a Servant within.] Who's there ? Call Rasor ! 
 Let him take away his master, scour him clean with 
 a little soap and sand, and so put him to bed. 
 
 Lady Brute. Come, Belinda, I'll e'en lie with 
 you to-night ; and in the morning we'll send for 
 our gentlemen to set this matter even. 
 
 Bel. With all my heart. 
 
 Lady Brute. Good night, my dear ! 
 
 [Making a low curtsy to Sir John. 
 
 Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Easor. 
 
 Ras. My lady there's a wag — my master there's 
 a cuckold. Marriage is a slippery thing : — women 
 have depraved appetites: — my lady's a wag. I have 
 heard all ; I have seen all ; I understand all ; and 
 I'll tell all ; for my little Frenchwoman loves news 
 dearly. This story'll gain her heart, or nothing 
 will. — [To his Master.] Come, sir, your head's 
 too full of fumes at present to make room for 
 your jealousy; but I reckon we shall have rare 
 work with you when your pate's empty. Come to 
 your kennel, you cuckoldly drunken sot you ! 
 
 [Carries him out upon his back. 
 
 SCENE III. — A Room in Lady Fancyful's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 
 
 Lady Fan. But why did not you tell me before, 
 Mademoiselle, that Rasor and you were fond ? 
 
 Mad. De modesty hinder me, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why, truly, modesty does often 
 hinder us from doing things we have an extravagant 
 mind to. But does he love you well enough yet 
 to do anything you bid him ? Do you think to 
 oblige you he would speak scandal ? 
 
 Mad. Matam, to oblige your ladyship, he shall 
 speak blasphemy. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why then, Mademoiselle, I'll tell 
 you what you shall do. You shall engage him to 
 tell his master all that passed at Spring-garden : 
 I have a mind he should know what a wife and a 
 niece he has got. 
 
 Mad. II le fera, matam. 
 
 Enter a Footman, m;7*o speaks to Mademoiselle apart. 
 
 Foot. Mademoiselle, yonder's Mr. Rasor desires 
 to speak with you. 
 
 Mad. Tell him I come presently. — [Exit Foot- 
 man. ] Rasor be dare, matam. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 359 
 
 Lady Fan. That's fortunate. Well, I'll leave 
 you together. And if you find him stubborn, 
 Mademoiselle — hark you — don't refuse him a few 
 little reasonable liberties, to put him into humour. 
 
 Mad. Laissez-moi faire. [Exit Lady Fancyful. 
 
 Rasor peeps in ; and seeing Lady Fancyful gone, runs to 
 Mademoiselle, takes her about the neck, and kisses her. 
 
 Mad. How now, confidence ! 
 
 Ras. How now, modesty ! 
 
 Mad. Who make you so familiar, sirrah ? 
 
 Ras. My impudence, hussy. 
 
 Mad. Stand off, rogue-face. 
 
 Ras. Ah — Mademoiselle — great news at our 
 house. 
 
 Mad. Why what be de matter ? 
 
 Mas. The matter ! — why, uptails all's the matter. 
 
 Mad. Tu te moques de moi. 
 
 Ras. Now do you long to know the particulars 
 — the time when — the place where — the manner 
 how. But I won't tell you a word more. 
 
 Mad. Nay, den dou kill me, Rasor. 
 
 Ras. Come, kiss me, then. 
 
 [Clapping his hands behind him. 
 
 Mad. Nay, pridee tell me. 
 
 Ras. Good bye to ye ! [Going. 
 
 Mad. Hold, hold ! I will kiss dee. [Kissing him. 
 
 Ras. So, that's civil. Why now, my pretty 
 pall ; my goldfinch ; my little waterwagtail — you 
 must know that — Come, kiss me again. 
 
 Mad. I won't kiss dee no more. 
 
 Ras. Good b'wy to ye ! 
 
 Mad. Doucement. Dare : es tu content ? 
 
 [Kissing him. 
 
 Ras. So : now I'll tell thee all. Why the 
 news is, that Cuckoldom in folio, is newly printed ; 
 and Matrimony in quarto is just going into the 
 press. Will you buy any books, Mademoiselle ? 
 
 Mad. Tu paries comme un libraire, de devil no 
 understand dee. 
 
 Ras. Why then, that I may make myself intel- 
 ligible to a waiting-woman, I'll speak like a valet- 
 de-chambre. My lady has cuckolded my master. 
 
 Mad. Bon ! 
 
 Ras. Which we take very ill from her hands, 
 I can tell her that. We can't yet prove matter of 
 fact upon her. 
 
 Mad. N'importe. 
 
 Ras. But we can prove that matter of fact had 
 like to have been upon her. 
 
 Mad. Oui da ! 
 
 Ras. For we have such bloody circumstances. 
 
 Mad. Sans doute. 
 
 Ras. That any man of parts may draw tickling 
 conclusions from 'em. 
 
 Mad. Fort bien. 
 
 Ras. We have found a couple of tight well-built 
 gerftlemen stuffed into her ladyship's closet. 
 
 Mad. Le diable ! 
 
 Ras. And I, in my particular person, have 
 discovered a most damnable plot, how to persuade 
 my poor master, that all this hide and seek, this 
 will-in-the-wisp, has no other meaning than a 
 Christian marriage for sweet Mrs. Belinda. 
 
 Mad. Un mariage ! — Ah les drolesses ! 
 
 Ras. Don't you interrupt me, hussy. 'Tis 
 agreed, I say, and my innocent lady, to wriggle 
 herself out at the back-door of the business, turns 
 marriage-bawd to her niece, and resolves to deliver 
 up her fair body, to be tumbled and mumbled, bv 
 
 that young liquorish whipster Heartfree. Now 
 are you satisfied ? 
 
 Mad. No. 
 
 Ras. Right woman ; always gaping for more. 
 
 Mad. Dis be all den dat dou know ? 
 
 Ras. All ! ay, and a great deal too, I think. 
 
 Mad. Dou be fool, dou know noting. Ecoute, 
 mon pauvre Rasor. Dou see des two eyes ? — 
 Des two eyes have see de devil. 
 
 Ras. The woman's mad ! 
 
 Mad. In Spring-garden, dat rogue Constant 
 meet dy lady. 
 
 Ras. Bon ! 
 
 Mad. I'll tell dee no more. 
 
 Ras. Nay, prithee, my swan. 
 
 Mad. Come, kiss me den. 
 [Clapping her hands behind her as he had done before. 
 
 Ras. I won't kiss you, not I. 
 
 Mad. Adieu ! 
 
 Ras. Hold ! — [Gives her a hearty kiss.] Now 
 proceed. 
 
 Mad. Ah, ca ! — I hide myself in one cunning 
 place, where I hear all, and see all. First dy drunken 
 master come mal a-propos ; but de sot no know his 
 own dear wife, so he leave her to her sport. — Den 
 de game begin. De lover say soft ting : de lady 
 look upon de ground. — [As she speaks, Rasor 
 still acts the man, and she the woman.'] He take 
 her by de hand : she turn her head on oder way. 
 Den he squeeze very hard : den she pull — very 
 softly. Den he take her in his arm : den she give 
 him leetel pat. Den he kiss her tetons : den she 
 say — Pish ! nay, fi ! Den he tremble : den she — 
 sigh. Den he pull her into de arbour : den she 
 pinch him. 
 
 Ras. Ay, but not so hard, you baggage you ! 
 
 Mad. Den he grow bold : she grow weak. He 
 tro her down, il tombe dessus, le diable assiste, il 
 emporte tout. — [Rasor. struggles with her, as if he 
 would throw her down.'] Stand off, sirrah. 
 
 Ras. You have set me a fire, you jade you ! 
 
 Mad. Den go to de river and quench dyself. 
 
 Ras. What an unnatural harlot 'tis ! 
 
 Mad. Rasor ! [Looking languishing on him. 
 
 Ras. Mademoiselle ! 
 
 Mad. Dou no love me ? 
 
 Ras. Not love thee ! — more than a Frenchman 
 does soup. 
 
 Mad. Den dou will refuse noting dat I bid dee ? 
 
 Ras. Don't bid me be damned then. 
 
 Mad. No, only tell dy master all I have tell dee 
 of dy laty. 
 
 Ras. Why, you little malicious strumpet, you ; 
 should you like to be served so ? 
 
 Mad. You dispute den ? — Adieu ! 
 
 Ras. Hold ! — But why wilt thou make me be 
 such a rogue, my dear ? 
 
 Mad. Voila, un vrai Anglais ! il est amoureux, 
 et cependant il veut raisonner. Va-t'en au diable ! 
 
 Ras. Hold once more ! In hopes thou'lt give me 
 up thy body, I resign thee up my soul. 
 
 Mad. Bon ! ecoute done — If dou fail me — I 
 never see dee more. — If dou obey me — je m'aban- 
 donne a, toi. 
 
 [Takes him about the neck and gives Mm a smacking 
 kiss, and exit. 
 
 Ras. [Licking his lips.'] Not be a rogue ? — 
 Amor vincit omnia ! [Exit. 
 
360 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE IV. — Another Room in the same. 
 Enter Lady Fancyful and Mademoiselle. 
 
 Lady Fan. Marry, say ye ? will the two things 
 marry ? 
 
 Mad. On le va faire, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. Look you, Mademoiselle, in short, 
 I can't bear it. — No ; I find I can't. — If once I 
 see 'em a-bed together, I shall have ten thousand 
 thoughts in my head will make me run distracted. 
 Therefore run and call Rasor back immediately, 
 for something must be done to stop this impertinent 
 wedding. If I can defer it but four-and-twenty 
 hours, I'll make such work about town, with that 
 little pert slut's reputation, he shall as soon marry 
 a witch. 
 
 Mad. [Aside.} La voila bien intentionnee. 
 
 [Exeunt* 
 
 SCENE V. — Constant's Lodgings. 
 Enter Constant and Heartfree. 
 
 Const. But what dost think will come of this 
 business ? 
 
 Heart. 'Tis easier to think what will not come 
 on't. 
 
 Const. What's that ? 
 
 Heart. A challenge. I know the knight too well 
 for that : his dear body will always prevail upon 
 his noble soul to be quiet. 
 
 Const. But though he dare not challenge me, 
 perhaps he may venture to challenge his wife. 
 
 Heart. Not if you whisper him in the ear, you 
 won't have him do't, and there's no other way left 
 that I see. For as drunk as he was, he'll remem- 
 ber you and I were where we should not be ; and 
 I don't think him quite blockhead enough yet to 
 be persuaded we were got into his wife's closet 
 only to peep in her prayer-book. 
 
 Enter Servant with a letter. 
 
 Serv. Sir, here's a letter ; a porter brought it. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Const. O ho ! here's instructions for us. — 
 [Reads.! The accident that has happened has 
 touched our invention to the quick. We would 
 fain come off without your help, but find that's 
 impossible. In a word, the whole business must 
 be thrown upon a matrimonial intrigue between 
 your friend and mine. But if the parties are 
 not fond enough to go quite through with the 
 matter, 'tis sufficient for our turn they own the 
 design. We' 11 find pretences enough to break the 
 match. Adieu ! — Well, woman for invention ! 
 How long would my blockhead have been a pro- 
 ducing this ! — Hey, Heartfree ! What musing, 
 man ! prithee be cheerful. What sayest thou, 
 friend, to this matrimonial remedy? 
 
 Heart. Why I say it's worse than the disease. 
 
 Const. Here's a fellow for you ! There's beauty 
 and money on her side, and love up to the ears on 
 his ; and yet— 
 
 Heart. And yet, I think, I may reasonably be 
 allowed to boggle at marrying the niece, in the very 
 moment that you are debauching the aunt. 
 
 Const. Why truly there may be something in 
 that. But have not you a good opinion enough of 
 your own parts to believe you could keep a wife to 
 yourself? 
 
 Heart. I should have, if I had a good opinion 
 enough of hers, to believe she could do as much by 
 me. For to do 'em right, after all, the wife seldom 
 rambles till the husband shows her the way. 
 
 Const. 'Tis true ; a man of real worth scarce 
 ever is a cuckold but by his own fault. Women 
 are not naturally lewd, there must be something to 
 urge 'em to it. They'll cuckold a churl, out of 
 revenge ; a fool, because they despise him ; a beast, 
 because they loathe him. But when they make 
 bold with a man they once had a well-grounded 
 value for, 'tis because they first see themselves 
 neglected by him. 
 
 Heart. Nay, were I well assured that I should 
 never grow sir John, I ne'er should fear Belinda'd 
 play my lady. But our weakness, thou knowest, 
 my friend, consists in that very change we so im- 
 pudently throw upon (indeed) a steadier and more 
 generous sex. 
 
 Const. Why, faith, we are a little impudent in 
 that matter, that's the truth on't. But this is 
 wonderful, to see you grown so warm an advocate 
 for those (but t'other day) you took so much pains 
 to abuse ! 
 
 Heart. All revolutions run into extremes ; the 
 bigot makes the boldest atheist ; and the coyest 
 saint, the most extravagant strumpet. But prithee 
 advise me in this good and evil, this life and death, 
 this blessing and cursing, that is set before me. 
 Shall I marry — or die a maid ? 
 
 Const. Why faith, Heartfree, matrimony is like 
 an army going to engage. Love's the forlorn hope, 
 which is soon cut off ; the marriage-knot is the main 
 body, which may stand buff a long long time ; and 
 repentance is the rear- guard, which rarely gives 
 ground as long as the main battle has a being. 
 
 Heart. Conclusion then ; you advise me to whore 
 on as you do ? 
 
 Const. That's not concluded yet. For though 
 marriage be a lottery, in which there are a won- 
 drous many blanks ; yet there is one inestimable 
 lot, in which the only heaven on earth is written. 
 Would your kind fate but guide your hand to that, 
 though I were wrapped in all that luxury itself 
 could clothe me with, I still should envy you. 
 
 Heart. And justly, too : for to be capable of 
 loving one, doubtless is , better tnan to possess a 
 thousand. But how far that capacity's in me, alas ! 
 I know not. 
 
 Const. But you would know ? 
 
 Heart. I would so. 
 
 Const. Matrimony will inform you. Come, one 
 flight of resolution carries you to the land of expe- 
 rience ; where, in a very moderate time, you'll 
 know the capacity of your soul and your body both, 
 or I'm mistaken. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE VI.— A Room in Sir John Brute's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lady Brute and Belinda. 
 
 Bel. Well, madam, what answer have you from 
 'em ? 
 
 Lady Brute. That they'll be here this moment. 
 I fancy 'twill end in a wedding : I'm sure he's a 
 fool if it don't. Ten thousand pound, and such a 
 lass as you are, is no contemptible offer to a 
 younger brother. But are not you under strange 
 agitations ? Prithee how does your pulse beat ? 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 361 
 
 Bel. High and low, I have much ado to be 
 valiant : sure it must feel very strange to go to bed 
 to a man ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Um — it does feel a little odd at 
 first, but it will soon grow easy to you. 
 
 Enter Constant and Heartfree. 
 
 How 
 
 Lady Brute. Good-morrow, gentlemen 
 have you slept after your adventure ? 
 
 Heart. Some careful thoughts, ladies, on your 
 accounts have kept us waking. 
 
 Bel. And some careful thoughts on your own, I 
 believe, have hindered you from sleeping. Pray 
 how does this matrimonial project relish with you ? 
 
 Heart. Why faith e'en as storming towns does 
 with soldiers, where the hopes of delicious plunder 
 banishes the fear of being knocked on the head. 
 
 Bel. Is it then possible after all that you dare 
 think of downright lawful wedlock ? 
 
 Heart. Madam, you have made me so foolhardy 
 I dare do anything. 
 
 Bel. Then, sir, I challenge you ; and matri- 
 mony's the spot where I expect you. 
 
 Heart. 'Tis enough ; I'll not fail. — [Aside.] 
 So, now, I am in for Hobbes's voyage ; a great 
 leap in the dark. 
 
 Lady Brute. Well, gentlemen, this matter being 
 concluded then, have you got your lessons ready ? 
 For sir John is grown such an atheist of late he'll 
 believe nothing upon easy terms. 
 
 Const. We'll find ways to extend his faith, 
 madam. But pray how do you find him this 
 morning ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Most lamentably morose, chewing 
 the cud after last night's discovery ; of which how- 
 ever he had but a confused notion e'en now. But 
 I'm afraid the valet-de-chambre has told him all, 
 for they are very busy together at this moment. 
 When I told him of Belinda's marriage, I had no 
 other answer but a grunt : from which you may 
 draw what conclusions you think fit. — But to your i 
 notes, gentlemen, he's here. 
 
 Enter Sir John Brute and Rasor. 
 
 Const. Good-morrow, sir. 
 
 Heart. Good-morrow, sir John. I'm very sorry 
 my indiscretion should cause so much disorder in 
 your family. 
 
 Sir John. Disorders generally come from indis- 
 cretions, sir ; 'tis no strange thing at all. 
 
 Lady Brute. I hope, my dear, you are satisfied 
 there was no wrong intended you. 
 
 Sir John. None, my dove. 
 
 Bel. If not, I hope my consent to marry Mr. 
 Heartfree will convince you. For as little as I 
 know of amours, sir, I can assure you, one intrigue 
 is enough to bring four people together, without 
 further mischief. 
 
 Sir John. And I know, too, that intrigues tend 
 to procreation of more kinds than one. One 
 intrigue will beget another as soon as beget a son 
 or a daughter. 
 
 Const. I am very sorry, sir, to see you still seem 
 unsatisfied with a lady whose more than common 
 virtue, I am sure, were she my wife, should meet 
 a better usage. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, if her conduct has put a trick 
 upon her virtue, her virtue's the bubble, but her 
 husband's the loser. 
 
 Const, Sir, you have received a sufficient answer 
 
 already to justify both her conduct and mine. 
 You'll pardon me for meddling in your family- 
 affairs ; but I perceive I am the man you are jea- 
 lous of, and therefore it concerns me. 
 
 Sir John. Would it did not concern me, and 
 then I should not care who it concerned. 
 
 Const. Well, sir, if truth and reason won't con- 
 tent you, I know but one way more, which, if you 
 think fit, you may take. 
 
 Sir John. Lord, sir, you are very hasty. If 1 
 had been found at prayers in your wife's closet, I 
 should have allowed you twice as much time to 
 come to yourself in. 
 
 Const. Nay, sir, if time be all you want, we 
 have no quarrel. 
 
 Heart. [Aside to Constant.] I told you how 
 the sword would work upon him. [Sir John muses. 
 
 Const. [Aside to Heartfree.] Let him muse ; 
 however, I'll lay fifty pound our foreman brings us 
 in, Not Guilty. 
 
 Sir John. [Aside.] 'Tis well— 'tis very well. — 
 In spite of that young jade's matrimonial intrigue, 
 I am a downright stinking cuckold. — Here they 
 are— Boo!— [Putting his hand to his forehead.] 
 Methinks I could butt with a bull. What the 
 plague did I marry her for ? I knew she did not 
 like me ; if she had, she would have lain with me ; 
 for I would have done so because I liked her : 
 but that's past, and I have her. And now, what 
 shall I do with her ? — If I put my horns in my 
 pocket, she'll grow insolent. — If I don't, that goat 
 there, that stallion, is ready to whip me through 
 the guts — The debate, then, is reduced to this ; 
 shall I die a hero ? or live a rascal ? — Why, wiser 
 men than I have long since concluded, that a living 
 dog is better than a dead lion. — [Aloud.] Gentle- 
 men, now my wine and my passion are governable, 
 I must own, I have never observed anything in my 
 wife's course of life to back me in my jealousy of 
 her : but jealousy's a mark of love ; so she need 
 not trouble her head about it, as long as I make 
 no more words on't. 
 
 Enter Lady Fancyful disguised ; she addresses Belinda 
 apart. 
 
 Const. I'm glad to see your reason rule at last. 
 Give me your hand : I hope you'll look upon me 
 as you are wont. 
 
 Sir John. Your humble servant. — [Aside.] A 
 wheedling son of a whore ! 
 
 Heart. And that I may be sure you are friends 
 with me too, pray give me your consent to wed 
 your niece. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, you have it with all my heart : 
 damn me if you han't ! — [Aside.] 'Tis time to get 
 rid of her : — a young pert pimp ! she'll make an 
 incomparable bawd in a little time. 
 
 Enter a Servant, who gives Heartfree a letter. 
 
 Bel. Heartfree your husband, say you ? 'tis 
 impossible. 
 
 Lady Fan. Would to kind Heaven it were : but 
 'tis too true ; and in the world there lives not such 
 a wretch. I'm young ; and either I have been 
 flattered by my friends, as well as glass, or nature 
 has been kind and generous to me. I had a for- 
 tune too was greater far than he could ever hope 
 for ; but with my heart I am robbed of all the rest. 
 I'm slighted and I'm beggared both at once ; I 
 have scarce a bare subsistence from the villain, 
 
362 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 yet dare complain to none ; for he has sworn, if 
 e'er 'tis known I am his wife, he'll murder me. 
 
 [Pretends to weep. 
 
 Bel. The traitor ! 
 
 Lady Fan. I accidentally was told he courted 
 you ; charity soon prevailed upon me to prevent 
 your misery; and as you see, I'm still so generous 
 even to him, as not to suffer he should do a thing 
 for which the law might take away his life. 
 
 [Pretends to weep. 
 
 Bel. Poor creature ! how I pity her ! 
 
 [They continue talking aside. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.'] Death and damnation ! — Let 
 
 me read it again [Reads.] Though I have a 
 
 particular reason not to let you know who I am 
 till I see you ; yet you'll easily believe His a faith- 
 ful, friend that gives you this advice — / have lain 
 with Belinda. — Good ! — I have a child by her.— 
 Better and better ! — which is now at nurse ; — 
 Heaven be praised ! — and I think the foundation 
 laid for another. — Ha ! — Old Truepenny ! — No 
 rack could have tortured this story from me, but 
 friendship has done it. I heard of your design to 
 marry her, and could not see you abused. Make 
 use of my advice, but keep my secret till I ask you 
 for't again. Adieu. [Exit Lady Fancyful. 
 
 Const. [To Belinda.] Come, madam, shall we 
 send for the parson ? I doubt here's no business 
 for the lawyer. Younger brothers have nothing to 
 settle but their hearts, and that I believe my friend 
 here has already done very faithfully. 
 
 Bel. [Scornfully.] Are you sure, sir, there are 
 no old mortgages upon it ? 
 
 Heart. [Coldly.] If you think there are, madam, 
 it mayn't be amiss to defer the marriage till you 
 are sure they are paid off. 
 
 Bel. [Aside.] How the galled horse kicks ! — 
 [ To Heartfree,] We'll defer it as long as you 
 please, sir. 
 
 Heart. The more time we take to consider on't, 
 madam, the less apt we shall be to commit over- 
 sights ; therefore, if you please, we'll put it off for 
 just nine months. 
 
 Bel. Guilty consciences make men cowards ; I 
 don't wonder you want time to resolve. 
 
 Heart. And they make women desperate ; I 
 don't wonder you were so quickly determined. 
 
 Bel. What does the fellow mean ? 
 
 Heart. What does the lady mean ? 
 
 Sir John. Zoons ! what do you both mean ? 
 
 [Heartfree and Belinda toalk chafing about. 
 
 Has. [Aside.] Here's so much sport going to 
 be spoiled, it makes me ready to weep again. A 
 pox o' this impertinent Lady Fancyful and her plots, 
 and her Frenchwoman, too ! she's a whimsical, ill- 
 natured bitch ; and when I have got my bones 
 broke in her service, 'tis ten to one but my recom- 
 pense is a clap ; I hear 'em tittering without still. 
 Ecod, I'll e'en go lug 'em both in by the ears, 
 and discover the plot, to secure my pardon. [Exit 
 
 Const. Prithee, explain, Hear-tfree. 
 
 Heart. A fair deliverance, thank my stars and 
 my friend. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis well it went no farther ; a base fellow ! 
 
 Lady Brute. What can be the meaning of 
 all this ? 
 
 Bel. What's his meaning 1 don't know ; but 
 mine is, that if T had married him — I had had no 
 husband. 
 
 Heart. And what's her meaning I don't know ; 
 
 but mine is, that if I had married her — I had had 
 wife enough. 
 
 Sir John. Your people of wit have got such 
 cramp ways of expressing themselves, they sel- 
 dom comprehend one another. Pox take you 
 both ! will you speak that you may be understood ? 
 Re-enter Rasor, in sackcloth, pulling in Lady Fancyful 
 and Mademoiselle, both masked. 
 
 Ras. If they won't, here comes an interpreter. 
 
 Lady Brute. Heavens ! what have we here ? 
 
 Ras. A villain — but a repenting villain. Stuff 
 which saints in all ages have been made of. 
 
 All. Rasor ! 
 
 Lady Brute. What means this sudden meta- 
 morphose ? 
 
 Ras. Nothing, without my pardon. 
 
 Lady Brute. What pardon do you want ? 
 
 Ras. Imprimis, your ladyship's ; for a damnable 
 lie made upon your spotless virtue, and set to the 
 tune of Spring-Garden. — [To Sir John.] Next, at 
 my generous master's feet I bend, for interrupting 
 his more noble thoughts with phantoms of disgrace- 
 ful cuckoldom. — [To Constant.] Thirdly, I to 
 this gentleman apply for making him the hero of 
 my romance. — [To Heartfree.] Fourthly, your 
 pardon, noble sir, I ask, for clandestinely marrying 
 you, without either bidding of banns, bishop's 
 licence, friends' consent — or your own knowledge. 
 [To Belinda.] And lastly, to my good young 
 lady's clemency I come, for pretending the corn 
 was sowed in the ground, before ever the plough 
 had been in the field. 
 
 Sir John. [Aside.] So that after all, 'tis a moot 
 point, whether I am a cuckold or not. 
 
 Bel. Well, sir, upon condition you confess all, 
 I'll pardon you myself, and try to obtain as much 
 from the rest of the company. But I must know 
 then who 'tis has put you upon all this mischief ? 
 
 Ras. Satan and his equipage ; woman tempted 
 me, lust weakened me — and so the devil overcame 
 me ; as fell Adam, so fell I. 
 
 Bel. Then pray, Mr. Adam, will you make us 
 acquainted with your Eve ? 
 
 Ras. [ To Mademoiselle.] Unmask, for the 
 honour of France. 
 
 All. Mademoiselle ! 
 
 Mad. Me ask ten tousand pardon of all de good 
 company. 
 
 Sir John. Why this mystery thickens, instead 
 of clearing up. — [To Rasor.] You son of a whore 
 you, put us out of our pain. 
 
 Ras. One moment brings sunshine. — [Pointing 
 to Mademoiselle.] 'Tis true this is the woman 
 that tempted me ; but this is the serpent that 
 tempted the woman ; and if my prayers might be 
 heard, her punishment for so doing should be like 
 the serpent's of old. — [Pulls ojfLadyFANCYFUL's 
 mask.] She should lie upon her face all the days of 
 her life. 
 
 All. Lady Fancyful ! 
 
 Bel. Impertinent ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Ridiculous ! 
 
 All. Ha ! ha ! ha I ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bel. I hope your ladyship will give me leave to 
 wish you joy, since you have owned your mar- 
 riage yourself. — [To Heartfree.] I vow 'twas 
 strangely wicked in you to think of another wife, 
 when you had one already so charming as her 
 ladyship. 
 
 All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 363 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside.] Confusion seize 'em, as it 
 seizes me ! 
 
 Mad. [Aside.] CJuele diable etouffe ce maraud 
 de Rasor ! 
 
 Bel. Your ladyship seems disordered ; a breed- 
 ing qualm, perhaps. — Mr. Heartfree, your bottle 
 of Hungary water to your lady. — Why, madam, 
 he stands as unconcerned as if he were your hus- 
 band in earnest. 
 
 Lady Fan. Your mirth's as nauseous as your- 
 self, Belinda. You think you triumph over a rival 
 now : helas ! ma pauvre fille. Where'er I'm rival 
 there's no cause for mirth. No, my poor wretch, 
 'tis from another principle I have acted. I knew 
 that thing there would make so perverse a husband, 
 and you so impertinent a wife, that lest your 
 mutual plagues should make you both run mad, I 
 charitably would have broke the match. He ! he ! 
 he ! he ! he ! 
 
 {Exit laughing affectedly, Mademoiselle following her. 
 
 Mad. He ! he ! he 1 he ! he ! 
 
 All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sir John. [Aside.] Why now this woman will 
 be married to somebody too. 
 
 Bel. Poor creature ! what a passion she's in ! 
 but I forgive her. 
 
 Heart. Since you have so much goodness for her, 
 I hope you will pardon my offence too, madam. 
 
 Bel. There will be no great difficulty in that, 
 since I am guilty of an equal fault. 
 
 Heart. Then pardons being passed on all sides, 
 pray let's to church to conclude the day's work. 
 
 Const. But before you go, let me treat you, 
 pray, with a song a new-married lady made within 
 this week ; it may be of use to you both. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When yielding first to Damon's flame, 
 
 I sunk into his arms ; 
 He swore he'd ever be the same, 
 
 Then rifled all my charms. 
 But fond of what he had long desired, 
 
 Too greedy of his prey, 
 My shepherd's flame, alas ! expired 
 
 Before the verge of day. 
 
 My innocence in lovers' wars, 
 
 Reproach 'd his quick defeat ; 
 Confused, ashamed, and bathed in tears, 
 
 I mourn'd his cold retreat. 
 At length, Ah shepherdess ! cried he, 
 
 Would you my fire renew, 
 Alas ! you must retreat like me, 
 
 I'm lost if you pursue ! 
 
 Heart. So, madam ; now had the parson but 
 done his business — 
 
 Bel. You'd be half weary of your bargain. 
 
 Heart. No, sure, I might dispense with one 
 night's lodging. 
 
 Bel. I'm ready to try, sir. 
 
 Heart. Then let's to church : 
 And if it be our chance to disagree — 
 
 Bel. Take heed— the surly husband's fate you 
 see. {Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 (by another hand) 
 spoken by lady brute and belinda, 
 
 Lady Brute. No Epilogue ! 
 
 Bel. I swear I know of none. 
 
 Lady Brute. Lord ! How shall we excuse it to 
 
 the town ? 
 Bel. Why, we must e'en say something of our 
 
 own. 
 Lady Brute. Our own ! Ay, that must needs 
 
 be precious stuff. 
 Bel. I'll lay my life, they'll like it well enough. 
 Come, faith, begin — 
 
 Lady Brute. Excuse me : after you. 
 
 Bel. Nay, pardon me for that, I know my cue. 
 Lady Brute. Oh, for the world, I would not have 
 
 precedence. 
 Bel. O Lord ! 
 Lady Brute. I swear — 
 Bel. O fy ! 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm all obedience. 
 
 First, then, know all, before our doom is fix'd, 
 The third day is for us — 
 
 Bel. Nay, and the sixth. 
 
 Lady Brute. We speak not from the poet now, 
 nor is it 
 His cause — (I want a rhyme) 
 
 Bel. That we solicit. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then sure you cannot have the 
 hearts to be severe, 
 And damn us — ■ 
 
 Bel. Damn us! Let 'em if they dare. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, if they should, what punish- 
 ment remains? 
 Bel. Eternal exile from behind our scenes. 
 Lady Brute. But if they're kind, that sentence 
 we'll recal, 
 We can be grateful — 
 
 Bel. And have wherewithal. 
 
 Lady Brute. But at grand treaties hope not to 
 be trusted, 
 Before preliminaries are adjusted. 
 
 Bel. You know the time, and we appoint this 
 place ! 
 Where, if you please, we'll meet and sign the peace. 
 
364 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 Upon the revival of this Play, in 1725, Sir John Vanhrugh thought proper to substitute the two 
 follovnng Scenes, in lieu of those printed in pages 351, 353. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — Covent-Garden. 
 
 Enter Lord Rake, Sir John Brute, Colonel Bully, and 
 
 others, with drawn swords. 
 
 Rake. Is the dog dead ? 
 
 Bully. No, damn him ! I heard him wheeze. 
 
 Rake. How the witch his wife howled ! 
 
 Bully. Ay, she'll alarm the watch presently. 
 
 Rake. Appear, knight, then. Come, you have 
 a good cause to fight for, there's a man murdered. 
 
 Sir John. Is there ? Then let his ghost be satis- 
 fied ; for I'll sacrifice a constable to it presently, 
 and burn his body upon his wooden chair. 
 
 Enter a Tailor, with a bundle under his arm. 
 
 Bully. How now ! what have we got here ? a 
 thief? 
 
 Tailor. No, an't please you, I'm no thief. 
 
 Rake. That we'll see presently. Here — let the 
 general examine him. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, ay, let me examine him, and I'll 
 lay a hundred pound I find him guilty in spite of 
 his teeth — for he looks — like a — sneaking rascal. 
 Come, sirrah, without equivocation or mental re- 
 servation, tell me of what opinion you are, and 
 what calling ; for by them — I shall guess at your 
 morals. 
 
 Tail. An't please you, I'm a dissenting journey- 
 man woman's tailor. 
 
 Sir John. Then, sirrah, you love lying by your 
 religion, and theft by your trade ; and so that your 
 punishment may be suitable to your crimes — I'll 
 have you first gagged — and then hanged. 
 
 Tail. Pray, good worthy gentlemen, don't abuse 
 me ; indeed I'm an honest man, and a good work- 
 man, though I say it that should not say it. 
 
 Sir John. No words, sirrah, but attend your 
 fate. 
 
 Rake. Let me see what's in that bundle. 
 
 Tail. An't please you, it's my lady's short 
 cloak and sack. 
 
 Sir John. What lady, you reptile, you ? 
 
 Tail. My lady Brute, an't please your honour. 
 
 Sir John. My lady Brute 1 my wife ! the robe 
 of my wife ! with reverence let me approach it. 
 The dear angel is always taking care of me in 
 danger, and has sent me this suit of armour to 
 protect me in this day of battle. On they go ! 
 
 All. O brave knight ! 
 
 Rake. Live Don Quixote the second. 
 
 Sir John. Sancho, my squire, help me on with 
 my armour. 
 
 Tail. O dear gentlemen ! I shall be quite undone 
 if you take the sack. 
 
 Sir John. Retire, sirrah ! and since you carry 
 off your skin, go home and be happy. 
 
 Tail. [Aside.} I think I'd e'en as good follow 
 the gentleman's advice ; for if I dispute any longer, 
 
 who knows but the whim may take 'em to case 
 me. — These courtiers are fuller of tricks than they 
 are of money ; they'll sooner break a man's bones 
 than pay his bills. [Exit. 
 
 Sir John. So ! how do you like my shapes now ? 
 
 Rake. To a miracle ! he looks like a queen of 
 the Amazons. — But to your arms ! Gentlemen ! 
 The enemy's upon their march — here's the watch — 
 
 Sir John. 'Oons ! if it were Alexander the 
 Great, at the head of his army, I would drive him 
 into a horse-pond. 
 
 All. Huzza ! O brave knight ! 
 
 Enter Watchmen. 
 
 Sir John. See ! here he comes, with all his 
 Greeks about him. — Follow me, boys. 
 
 Watchman. Heyday ! who have we got here. 
 Stand ! 
 
 Sir John. Mayhap not. 
 
 Watch. What are you all doing here in the 
 streets at this time o' night ? And who are you , 
 madam, that seem to be at the head of this noble 
 crew ? 
 
 Sir John. Sirrah, I am Bonduca, queen of 
 the Welchmen, and with a leek as long as my 
 pedigree, I will destroy your Roman legion in an 
 instant.— Britons, strike home ! 
 
 [They fight off. Watchmen return with Sir John. 
 
 Watch. So, we have got the queen, however ! 
 We'll make her pay well for her ransom. — Come, 
 madam, will your majesty please to walk before the 
 constable ? 
 
 Sir John. The constable's a rascal ! and you are 
 a son of a whore ! 
 
 Watch. A most noble reply, truly ! If this be 
 her royal style, I'll warrant her maids of honour 
 prattle prettily. But we'll teach you some of our 
 court dialect before we part with you, princess. — 
 Away with her to the Round-house. 
 
 Sir John. Hands off, you ruffians ! My honour's 
 dearer to me than my life ; I hope you won't be 
 uncivil. 
 
 Watch. Away with her ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— The Street before the Justice's 
 
 House. 
 Enter Constable and Watchmen, ivith Sir John Brute. 
 Constable. Come, forsooth, come along, if you 
 please. I once in compassion thought to have 
 seen you safe home this morning, but you have 
 been so rampant and abusive all night, I shall see 
 what the justice of peace will say to you. 
 
 Sir John. And you shall see what I'll say to the 
 justice of peace. [Watchman knocks at the dour. 
 
THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 365 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Con. Is Mr. Justice at home ? 
 
 Serv. Yes. 
 
 Con. Pray acquaint his worship we have got an 
 unruly woman here, and desire to know what he'll 
 please to have done with her. 
 
 Serv. I'll acquaint my master. [Exit. 
 
 Sir John. Hark you, constable, what cuckoldly 
 justice is this ? 
 
 Con. One that knows how to deal with such 
 romps as you are, I'll warrant you. 
 Enter Justice. 
 
 Just. Well, Mr. Constable, what is the matter 
 there ? 
 
 Con. An't please your worship, this here comical 
 sort of a gentlewoman has committed great out- 
 rages to-night. She has been frolicking with my 
 lord Rake and his gang ; they attacked the watch, 
 and I hear there has been a man killed : I believe 
 'tis they have done it. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, there may have been murder for 
 aught I know ; and 'tis a great mercy there has 
 not been a rape too — that fellow would have 
 ravished me. 
 
 2 Watch. Ravish ! ravish ! O lud ! O lud ! 
 lud! Ravish her! why, please your worship, I 
 heard Mr. Constable say he believed she was little 
 better than a maphrodrite. 
 
 Just. Why, truly, she does seem a little mascu- 
 line about the mouth. 
 
 2 Watch. Yes, and about the hands too, an't 
 please your worship. I did but offer in mere 
 civility to help her up the steps into our apart- 
 ment, and with her gripen fist — ay, just so, sir. 
 
 [Sir John knocks him down. 
 
 Sir John. I felled him to the ground like an ox. 
 
 Just. Out upon this boisterous woman ! Out 
 upon her ! 
 
 Sir John. Mr. Justice, he would have been un- 
 civil ! It was in defence of my honour, and I 
 demand satisfaction. 
 
 2 Watch. I hope your worship will satisfy her 
 honour in Bridewell ; that fist of hers will make an 
 admirable hemp-beater. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I hope you will protect me against 
 that libidinous rascal ; I am a woman of quality 
 and virtue too, for all I am in an undress this 
 morning. 
 
 Just. Why, she has really the air of a sort of 
 a woman a little something out of the common. — 
 Madam, if you expect I should be favourable to 
 you, I desire I may know who you are. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I am anybody, at your service. 
 
 Just. Lady, I desire to know your name. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, my name's Mary. 
 
 Just. Ay, but jour surname, madam ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir, my surname's the very same with 
 my husband's. 
 
 Just. A strange woman this ! — Who is your 
 husband, pray ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir John. 
 
 Just. Sir John who ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir John Brute. 
 
 Just. Is it possible, madam, you can be my lady 
 Brute ? 
 
 Sir John. That happy woman, sir, am I ; only 
 a little in my merriment to-night. 
 
 Just. I am concerned for sir John. 
 
 Sir John. Truly so am I. 
 
 Just. I have heard he's an honest gentleman. 
 
 Sir John. As ever drank. 
 
 Just. Good lack ! Indeed, lady, I'm sorry he 
 has such a wife. 
 
 Sir John. I am sorry he has any wife at all. 
 
 Just. And so, perhaps, may he. — I doubt you 
 have not given him a very good taste of matrimony. 
 
 Sir John. Taste, sir ! Sir, I have scorned to 
 stint him to a taste, I have given him a full meal 
 of it. ' 
 
 Just, Indeed I believe so ! But pray, fair 
 lady, may he have given you any occasion for this 
 extraordinary conduct ? — does he not use you well ? 
 
 Sir John. A little upon the rough sometimes. 
 
 Just. Ay, any man may be out of humour now 
 and then. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I love peace and quiet, and when 
 a woman don't find that at home, she's apt some- 
 times to comfort herself with a few innocent 
 diversions abroad. 
 
 Just. I doubt he uses you but too well. Pray 
 how does he as to that weighty thing, money ? 
 Does he allow you what is proper of that ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I have generally enough to pay 
 the reckoning, if this son of a whore of a drawer 
 would but bring his bill. 
 
 Just. A strange woman this ! — Does he spend 
 a reasonable portion of his time at home, to the 
 comfort of his wife and children ? 
 
 Sir John. He never gave his wife cause to 
 repine at his being abroad in his life. 
 
 Just. Pray, madam, how may he be in the 
 grand matrimonial point ? — is he true to your bed ? 
 
 Sir John. [Aside.] Chaste ! oons ! This fellow 
 asks so many impertinent questions ! egad I 
 believe it is the justice's wife, in the justice's 
 clothes. 
 
 Just. 'Tis a great pity he should have been thus 
 disposed of. — Pray, madam, (and then I've done,) 
 what may be your ladyship's common method of 
 life ? If I may presume so far. 
 
 Sir John. Why, sir, much that of a woman of 
 quality. 
 
 Just. Pray how may you generally pass your 
 time, madam? your morning for example. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, like a woman of quality. — I wake 
 about two o'clock in the afternoon — I stretch— 
 and make a sign for my chocolate. — When I have 
 drank three cups — I slide down again upon my 
 back, with my arms over my head, while my two 
 maids put on my stockings. — Then, hanging upon 
 their shoulders, I am trailed to my great chair, 
 where I sit — and yawn — for my breakfast. — If it 
 don't come presently, I lie down upon my couch to 
 say my prayers, while my maid reads me the play- 
 bills. 
 
 Just. Very well, madam. 
 
 Sir John. When the tea is brought in, I drink 
 twelve regular dishes, with eight slices of bread 
 and butter. — And half an hour after, I send to the 
 cook to know if the dinner is almost ready. 
 
 Just. So, madam ■ 
 
 Sir John. By that time my head is half dressed, 
 I hear my husband swearing himself into a state 
 of perdition that the meat's all cold upon the 
 table, to amend which, I come down in an hour 
 more, and have it sent back to the kitchen, to be 
 all dressed over again. 
 
 Just. Poor man ! 
 
 Sir John. When I have dined, and my idle 
 servants are presumptuously set down at their ease. 
 
360 
 
 THE PROVOKED WIFE. 
 
 to do so too, I call for my coach, to go visit fifty 
 dear friends, of whom I hope I shall never find 
 one at home while I shall live. 
 
 Just. So, there's the morning and afternoon 
 pretty well disposed of! — Pray, madam, how do 
 you pass your evenings ? 
 
 Sir John. Like a woman of spirit, sir, a great 
 spirit. Give me a box and dice. — Seven's the 
 main ! Oons ! Sir, I set you a hundred pound ! — 
 Why, do you think women are married now a days, 
 to sit at home and mend napkins ? Sir, we have 
 nobler ways of passing time. 
 
 Just. Mercy upon us, Mr. Constable, what 
 will this age come to ? 
 
 Con. What will it come to, indeed, if such 
 women as these are not set in the stocks ? 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I have a little urgent business 
 calls upon me ; and therefore I desire the favour 
 of you to bring matters to a conclusion. 
 
 Just. Madam, if I were sure that business were 
 not to commit more disorders, I would release 
 you. 
 
 Sir John. None — by my virtue. 
 
 Just. Then, Mr. Constable, you may discharge 
 her. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, your very humble servant. If 
 you please to accept of a bottle — 
 
 Just. I thank you kindly, madam ; but I never 
 drink in a morning. Good-by-t'ye, madam, good- 
 by-t'ye. 
 
 Sir John. Good-by-t'ye, good sir. — [Exit Jus- 
 tice.] So ! — Now, Mr. Constable, shall you and I 
 go pick up a whore together ? 
 
 Con. No, thank you, madam ; my wife's enough 
 to satisfy any reasonable man. 
 
 Sir John. [Aside.'] He ! he ! he ! he ! he ! — 
 the fool is married then. — [Aloud.] Well, you 
 won't go ? 
 
 Con. Not I, truly. 
 
 Sir John. Then I'll go by myself ; and you and 
 your wife may be damned. [Exit. 
 
 Con. [Gazing after him.'] Why God-a-mercy, 
 lady ! '^Exeunt. 
 
M S O P. 
 
 & fflonwlrp* 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 To speak for a play if it can't speak for itself is vain ; and if it can, 'tis needless. For one of these reasons (I can't 
 yet tell which, for 'tis now but the second day of acting) I resolve to say nothing for iEsop, though I know he'd be glad 
 of help ; for let the best happen that can, his journey's up hill, with a dead English weight at the tail of him. 
 
 At Paris indeed he scrambled up something faster (for 'twas up hill there too) than I'm afraid he will do here : the 
 French having more mercury in their heads, and less beef and pudding in their bellies. Our solidity may set hard, 
 what their folly makes easy : for fools I own they are, you know we have found them so in the conduct of the war ; 
 I wish we may do so in the management of the peace : but that's neither iEsop's business nor mine. 
 
 This play, gentlemen (or one not much unlike it) , was writ in French about six years since by one Monsieur Boursault ; 
 'twas played at Paris by the French comedians, and this was its fate : — The first day it appeared, 'twas routed ; — people 
 seldom being fond of what they don't understand, their own sweet persons excepted. The second (by the help of some 
 bold knight-errants) it rallied ; the third it advanced ; the fourth it gave a vigorous attack ; and the fifth put all the 
 feathers in town to the scamper, pursuing 'em on to the fourteenth, and then they cried out quarter. 
 
 'Tis not reasonable to expect iEsop should gain so great a victory here, since 'tis possible by fooling with his sword 
 I may have turned the edge on't. For I confess in the translation I have not at all stuck to the original. Nay, I have 
 gone farther : I have wholly added the fifth Act, and crowded a country gentleman into the fourth, for which I ask 
 Monsieur Boursault's pardon with all my heart, but doubt I never shall obtain it for bringing him into such company. 
 Though after all, had I been so complaisant to have waited on his play word for word, 'tis possible even that might not 
 have ensured the success of it : for though it swam in France, it might have sunk in England. Their country abounds 
 in cork, ours in lead. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 iEsop. 
 
 Learchus, Governor of Cyzicus 
 
 Oronces, in love with Euphronia. 
 
 Euphronia, Daughter to Learchus, in love with 
 
 Oronces. 
 Doris, her Nurse. 
 
 A Priest, Musicians, Dancers, Servants, &c. 
 
 People who come to iEsop, upon several occasions, 
 independent one of another. 
 
 Humphry, } two Countr V Tradesmen. 
 
 Roger, a Country Bumpkin. 
 
 Quaint, a Herald, 
 
 Fruitful, an Innkeeper. 
 
 Mrs. Fruitful, his Wife. 
 
 Sir Polidorus Hogstye, a Country Gentleman. 
 
 Hortensia, an affected learned Lady. 
 
 Aminta, a lewd Mother. 
 
 Mrs. Forgewill, a Scrivener's Widow. 
 
 SCENE,— Cyzicus. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Gallants ! we never yet produced a play 
 With greater fears than this we act to-day ; 
 Barren of all the graces of the stage, 
 Barren of all that entertains this age. 
 No hero, no romance, no plot, no show, 
 No rape, no bawdy, no intrigue, no beau : 
 There's nothing in't with which we use to please ye; 
 With downright dull instruction we're to tease ye: 
 The stage turns pulpit, and the world 's so fickle," 
 The playhouse in a whim turns conventicle. 
 But preaching here must prove a hungry trade, 
 The patentees will find so, I 'm afraid : 
 
 For though with heavenly zeal you all abound, 
 As by your lives and morals may be found ; 
 Though every female here o'erfiows with grace, 
 And chaste Diana's written in her face ; 
 Though maids renounce the sweets of fornication, 
 And one lewd wife's not left in all the nation ; 
 Though men grow true, and the foul fiend defy ; 
 Though tradesmen cheat no more, nor lawyers lie ; 
 Though not one spot be found on Levi's tribe, 
 Nor one soft courtier that will touch a bribe ; 
 Yet in the midst of such religious days, 
 Sermons have never borne the price of plays. 
 
368 
 
 iESOP. 
 
 ACT 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's House. 
 Enter Learchus, Euphronia, and Doris. 
 
 Lear. At length I am blessed with the sight of 
 the world's wonder, the delight of mankind, the 
 incomparable iEsop. — You had time to observe 
 him last night, daughter, as he sat at supper with 
 me. Tell me how you like him, child ; is he not a 
 charming person ? 
 
 Euph. Charming ! 
 
 Lear. What sayest thou to him, Doris ? Thou 
 art a good judge, a wench of a nice palate. 
 
 Dor. You would not have me natter, sir ? 
 
 Lear. No, speak thy thoughts boldly. 
 
 Dor. Boldly, you say ? 
 
 Lear. Boldly, I say. 
 
 Dor. Why then, sir, my opinion of the gentle- 
 man is, that he's uglier than an old beau. 
 
 Lear. How! Impudence. 
 
 Dor. Nay, if you are angry, sir, second thoughts 
 are best ; he's as proper as a pikeman, holds up 
 his head like a dancing-master, has the shape of a 
 barb, the face of an angel, the voice of a cherubim, 
 the smell of a civet-cat — 
 
 Lear. In short, thou art fool enough not to be 
 pleased with him. 
 
 Dor. Excuse me for that, sir ; I have wit enough 
 to make myself merry with him. 
 
 Lear. If his body's deformed, his soul is beau- 
 tiful : would to kind Heaven, as he is, my daughter 
 could but find the means to please him ! 
 
 Euph. To what end, dear father ? 
 
 Lear. That he might be your husband, dear 
 daughter. 
 
 Euph. My husband ! Shield me, kind Heaven ! 
 
 Dor. Psha ! he has a mind to make us laugh, 
 that's all. 
 
 Lear. iEsop, then, is not worth her care, in thy 
 opinion ? 
 
 Dor. Why truly, sir, I'm always for making 
 suitable matches, and don't much approve of breed- 
 ing monsters. I would have nothing marry a baboon 
 but what has been got by a monkey. 
 
 Lear. How darest thou liken so incomparable a 
 man to so contemptible a beast ? 
 
 Dor. Ah, the inconstancy of this world ! Out 
 of sight, out of mind. Your little monkey is scarce 
 cold in his grave, and you have already forgot what 
 you used so much to admire. Do but call him to 
 remembrance, sir, in his red coat, new gloves, little 
 hat, and clean linen ; then discharge your con- 
 science, utter the truth from your heart, and tell 
 us whether he was not the prettier gentleman of 
 the two. — By my virginity, sir, (though that's but 
 a slippery oath you'll say,) had they made love to 
 me together, iEsop should have worn the willow. 
 
 Lear. Since nothing but an animal will please 
 thee, 'tis pity my monkey had not that virginity 
 thou hast sworn by. But I, whom wisdom charms, 
 even in the homeliest dress, can never think the 
 much deserving iEsop unworthy of my daughter. 
 
 Dor. Now, in the name of wonder, what is't you 
 so admire in him ? 
 
 Lear. Hark, and thou shalt know ; but you, 
 Euphronia, be you more especially attentive. 
 
 'Tis true, he's plain ; but that, my girl's, a trifle. 
 All manly beauty's seated in the soul ; 
 And that of iEsop, envy's self must own 
 Outshines whate'er the world has yet produced. 
 Crcesus, the prosperous favourite of Heaven ; 
 Croesus, the happiest potentate on earth; 
 Whose treasure (though immense) is the least part 
 Of what he holds from Providence's care, 
 Leans on his shoulder as his grand support ; 
 Admires his wisdom, dotes upon his truth, 
 And makes him pilot to imperial sway. 
 But in this elevated post of power, 
 What's his employ ? where does he point his 
 
 thoughts ? 
 To live in splendour, luxury, and ease, 
 Do endless mischiefs, by neglecting good, 
 And build his family on others' ruins ? 
 No: 
 
 He serves the prince, and serves the people too ; 
 Is useful to the rich, and helps the poor ; 
 There's nothing stands neglected, but himself. 
 With constant pain, and yet with constant joy, 
 From place to place throughout the realm he goes, 
 With useful lessons, form'd to every rank : 
 The people learn obedience from his tongue, 
 The magistrate is guided in command, 
 The prince is minded of a father's care ; 
 The subject's taught the duty of a child. 
 And as 'tis dangerous to be bold with truth, 
 He often calls for fable to his aid, 
 Where under abject names of beasts and birds, 
 Virtue shines out, and vice is clothed in shame : 
 And thus by inoffensive wisdom's force, 
 He conquers folly wheresoe'er he moves ! 
 This is his portrait. 
 
 Dor. A very good picture of a very ill face ! 
 
 Lear. Well, daughter ; what, not a word? Is it 
 possible anything that I am father of can be un- 
 touched with so much merit ? 
 
 Euph. My duty may make all things possible. 
 But iEsop is so ugly, sir. , 
 
 Lear. His soul has so much beauty in't, your 
 reason ought to blind your eyes. Besides, my in- 
 terest is concerned ; his power alarms me. I know 
 throughout the kingdom he's the scourge of evil 
 magistrates ; turns out governors when they turn 
 tyrants ; breaks officers for false musters ; excludes 
 judges from giving sentence when they have been 
 absent during the trial ; hangs lawyers when they 
 take fees on both sides ; forbids physicians to take 
 money of those they don't cure. 'Tis true, my 
 innocence ought to banish my fears : but my 
 government, child, is too delicious a morsel not to 
 set many a frail mouth a-watering. Who knows 
 what accusations envy may produce ? But all 
 would be secure, if thou couldst touch the heart of 
 iEsop. Let me blow up thy ambition, girl ; the 
 fire of that will make thy eyes sparkle at him. — 
 [Euphronia sighs.] What's that sigh for now? 
 Ha ! — A young husband, by my conscience ! Ah, 
 daughter, hadst thou a young husband, he'd make 
 thee sigh indeed. I'll tell thee what he's composed 
 of. He has a wig full of pulvilio, a pocket full of 
 dice, a heart full of treason, a mouth full of lies, a 
 belly full of drink, a carcass full of plasters, a tail 
 
jESOP. 
 
 full of pox, and a head full of— -nothing. There's 
 his picture ; wear it at thy heart if thou canst. 
 But here comes one of greater worth. 
 Enter JEsop. 
 
 Lear. Good morning to my nohle lord ! your 
 excellency — 
 
 JEsop. Softly, good governor : 
 I'm a poor wanderer from place to place ; 
 Too weak to train the weight of grandeur with me. 
 The name of excellency's not for me. 
 
 Lear. My noble lord, 'tis due to your employ ; 
 Your predecessors all — 
 
 JEsop. My predecessors all deserved it, sir, 
 They were great men in wisdom, birth, and service ; 
 Whilst I, a poor, unknown, decrepit wretch, 
 Mounted aloft for Fortune's pastime, 
 Expect each moment to conclude the farce, 
 By sinking to the mud from whence I sprung. 
 
 Lear. Great Croesus' gratitude will still support 
 His coffers all are open to your will, [you ; 
 
 Your future fortune's wholly in your power. 
 
 JEsop. But 'tis a power that I shall ne'er employ. 
 
 Lear. Why so, my lord ? 
 
 JEsop. I'll tell you, sir. 
 
 A hungry goat, who had not eat 
 
 Some nights and days — (for want of meat) 
 
 Was kindly brought at last. 
 
 By Providence's care, 
 
 To better cheer, 
 
 After a more than penitential fast. 
 
 He found a barn well stored with grain, 
 
 To enter in required some pain ; 
 
 But a delicious bait 
 
 Makes the way easy, though the pass is strait. 
 
 Our guest observing various meats, 
 
 He puts on a good modish face, 
 
 He takes his place, 
 
 He ne'er says grace, 
 
 But where he likes, he there falls to and eats. 
 
 At length with jaded teeth and jaws, 
 
 He made a pause, 
 
 And finding still some room, 
 
 Fell to as he had done before, 
 
 For time to come laid in his store ; 
 
 And when his guts could hold no more, 
 
 He thought of going home. 
 
 But here he met the glutton's curse ; 
 
 He found his belly grown so great, 
 
 'Twas vain to think of a retreat, 
 
 Till he had render'd all he'ad eat, 
 
 And well he fared no worse. 
 To the application, governor. 
 
 Lear. 'Tis easy to be made, my lord. 
 
 JEsop. I'm glad on't. Truth can never be too 
 clear. [Seeing Euphronia. 
 
 Is this young damsel your fair daughter, sir ? 
 
 Lear. 'Tis my daughter, my good lord. Fair 
 too, if she appears such in the eyes of the unerring 
 yEsop. 
 
 JEsop. I never saw so beautiful a creature. 
 
 IGoing up to salute her. 
 
 Lear. [Aside. - ] Now's the time ; kiss, soft girl, 
 and fire him. 
 
 JEsop. How partial's nature 'twixt her form and 
 mine ! [Gazing at her. 
 
 Lear. [Aside.] Look, look, look, how he gazes 
 at her ! — Cupid's hard at work, I see that already. 
 Slap ; there he hits him ! — If the wench would but 
 do her part. — But see, see, how the perverse young 
 
 baggage stands biting her thumbs, and won't give 
 him one kind glance ! — Ah the sullen jade ! Had it 
 been a handsome strong dog of five-and-twenty, 
 she'd a fallen a coquetting on't, with every inch 
 about her. But maybe it's I that spoil sport, I'll 
 make a pretence to leave 'em together, — [Aloud.] 
 Will your lordship please to drink any coffee this 
 morning ? 
 
 Msop. With all my heart, governor. 
 
 Lear. Your lordship will give me leave to go 
 and order it myself ; for unless I am by, 'tis never 
 perfect. 
 
 JEsop. Provided you leave me this fair maid in 
 hostage for your return, I consent. 
 
 Lear. My good lord does my daughter too much 
 honour. — [Aside.] Ah, that the wench would but 
 do her part ! — [Aside to Euphronia.] Hark you, 
 hussy ! You can give yourself airs sometimes, you 
 know you can. Do you remember what work you 
 made with yourself at church t'other day ? Play 
 your tricks over again once more for my pleasure, 
 and let me have a good account of this statesman, 
 or, d'ye hear ? — you shall die a maid ; go chew 
 upon that ; go. [Exit. 
 
 Msop. Here I am left, fair damsel, too much 
 exposed to your charms, not to fall your victim. 
 
 Euph. Your fall will then be due to your own 
 weakness, sir ; for Heaven's my witness, I neither 
 endeavour nor wish to wound you. 
 
 Msop. I understand you, lady ; your heart's 
 already disposed of, 'tis seldom otherwise at your 
 age. 
 
 Euph. My heart disposed of ! 
 
 Dor. Nay, never mince the matter, madam. 
 The gentleman looks like a civil gentleman, e'en 
 confess the truth to him. He has a good interest 
 with your father, and no doubt will employ it to 
 break the heathenish match he proposes to you. — - 
 [To JEsof.] Yes, sir, my young lady has been in 
 love these two years, and that with as pretty a 
 fellow as ever entered a virgin's heart ; tall, 
 straight, young, vigorous, good clothes, long peri- 
 wig, clean linen ; in brief, he has everything that's 
 necessary to set a young lady a-longing, and to stay 
 it when he has done. But her father, whose ambi- 
 tion makes him turn fool in his old age, comes 
 with a back stroke upon us, and spoils all our 
 sport. Would you believe it, sir ! he has proposed 
 to her to-day the most confounded ugly fellow. 
 Look, if the very thoughts of him don't set the 
 poor thing a-crying ? And you, sir, have so much 
 power with the old gentleman, that one word from 
 you would set us all right again. If he will have 
 her a wife, in the name of Venus let him provide 
 her a handsome husband, and not throw her into 
 the paws of a thing that nature in a merry humour 
 has made half man, half monkey. 
 
 JEsop. Pray what's this monster's name, lady ? 
 
 Euph. No matter for his name, sir ; my father 
 will know who you mean at first word. 
 
 JEsop. But you should not always choose by the 
 outside alone ; believe me, fair damsel, a fine peri- 
 wig keeps many a fool's head from the weather. 
 Have a care of your young gallant. 
 
 Dor. There's no danger, I have examined him ; 
 his inside's as good as his out ; I say he has wit, 
 and I think I know. 
 
 Euph. Nay, she says true ; he's even a miracle 
 of wit and beauty : did you but see him, you'd be 
 yourself my rival. 
 
 B B 
 
370 
 
 ^SOP. 
 
 JEsop. Then you are resolved against the monster. 
 
 Dor. Fy, sir, fy ! I wonder you'll put her in 
 mind of that foul frightful thing. We shall have 
 her dream of nothing all night but bats and owls, 
 and toads and hedgehogs, and then we shall have 
 such a squeaking and squalling with her, the whole 
 house will be in an uproar : therefore, pray sir, 
 name him no more, but use your interest with her 
 father that she may never hear of him again. 
 
 JEsop. But if I should be so generous to save 
 you from the old gallant, what shall I say for your 
 young one ? 
 
 Euph. Oh, sir, you may venture to enlarge upon 
 his perfections ; you need not fear saying too much 
 in his praise. 
 
 Dor. And pray, sir, be as copious upon the 
 defects of t'other ; you need not fear outrunning 
 the text there neither, say the worst you can. 
 
 Euph. You may say the first is the most graceful 
 man that Asia ever brought forth. 
 
 Dor. And you may say the latter is the most 
 deformed monster that copulation ever produced. 
 
 Euph. Tell him that Oronces (for that 's his 
 dear name) has all the virtues that compose a 
 perfect hero. 
 
 Dor. And tell him that Pigmy has all the vices 
 that go to equip an attorney. 
 
 Euph. That to one I could be true to the last 
 moment of my life. 
 
 Dor. That for t'other she'd cuckold him the 
 very day of her marriage. — This, sir, in few words, 
 is the theme you are desired to preach upon. 
 
 JEsop. I never yet had one that furnished me 
 more matter. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. My lord, there's a lady below desires to 
 speak with your honour. 
 
 JEsop. What lady? 
 
 Ser. It's my lady — my lady — [7*0 Doris.] The 
 lady there, the wise lady, the great scholar, that no- 
 body can understand. 
 
 Dor. O ho, is it she ? pray let's withdraw, and 
 oblige her, madam ; she's ready to swoon at the 
 insipid sight of one of her own sex. 
 
 Euph. You'll excuse us, sir, we leave you to 
 wiser company. [Exeunt Euphronia and Doris. 
 
 Enter Hortensia. 
 
 Hort. The D£esse who from Atropos's breast 
 preserves 
 The names of heroes and their actions, 
 Proclaims your fame throughout this mighty orb, 
 And— 
 
 JEsop. [Aside.'] Shield me, my stars ! what have 
 you sent me here ? — [Aloud.] For pity's sake, good 
 lady, be more humane : my capacity is too heavy to 
 mount to your style : if you would have me know 
 what you mean, please to come down to my under- 
 standing. 
 
 Hort. I've something in my nature soars too 
 high 
 For vulgar flight, I own ; 
 But JEsop's sphere must needs be within call ; 
 ^Esop and I may sure converse together. 
 I know he's modest, but I likewise know 
 His intellects are categorical. 
 
 JEsop. Now, by my faith, lady, I don't know 
 what intellect is ; and methinks categorical sounds 
 as if you called me names. Pray speak that you 
 
 may be understood ; language was designed for it, 
 indeed it was. 
 
 Hort. Of vulgar things, in vulgar phrase we talk ; 
 But when of iEsop we must speak, 
 The theme's too lofty for an humble style : 
 iEsop is sure no common character. 
 
 JEsop. No, truly, I am something particular. 
 Yet, if I am not mistaken, what I have extraor- 
 dinai-y about me, may be described in very homely 
 language. Here was a young gentlewoman but 
 just now pencilled me out to a hair, I thought ; and 
 yet, I vow to Gad, the learned' st word I heard her 
 make use of, was monster. 
 
 Hort. That was a woman, sir, a very woman ; 
 Her cogitations all were on the outward man : 
 But I strike deeper, 'tis the mind I view. 
 The soul's the worthy object of my care ; 
 The soul, that sample of divinity, 
 That glorious ray of heavenly light. The soul, 
 That awful throne of thought, that sacred seat 
 Of contemplation. The soul, that noble source 
 Of wisdom, that fountain of comfort, that spring 
 
 of joy, 
 That happy token of eternal life : 
 The soul, that 
 
 JEsop. Pray, lady, are you married ? 
 
 Hort. Why that question, sir ? 
 
 Msop. Only that I might wait upon your bus- 
 band to wish him joy. 
 
 Hort. When people of my composition would 
 marry, they first find something of their own 
 species to join with ; I never could resolve to take 
 a thing of common fabric to my bed, lest when his 
 brutish inclinations prompt him, he should make 
 me mother to a form like his own. 
 
 JEsop. Methinks a lady so extremely nice, should 
 be much at a loss who to converse with. 
 
 Hort. Sir I keep my chamber, and converse with 
 myself; 'tis better being alone, than to misally 
 one's conversation. Men are scandalous, and 
 women are insipid : discourse without figure makes 
 me sick at my soul : Oh the charms of a metaphor ! 
 What harmony there is in words of erudition ! 
 The music of them is inimaginable. 
 
 JEsop. Will you hear a fable, lady ? 
 
 Hort. Willingly, sir ; the apologue pleases me 
 when the application of it is just. 
 
 JEsop. It is, I'll answer for it. 
 
 Once on a time, a nightingale 
 
 To changes prone ; 
 Unconstant, fickle, whimsical, 
 
 (A female one) 
 Who sung like others of her kind, 
 Hearing a well-taught linnet's airs, 
 Had other matters in her mind, 
 To imitate him she prepares. 
 Her fancy straight was on the wing : 
 
 " I fly," quoth she, 
 
 " As well as he ; 
 I don't know why 
 I should not try 
 As well as he to sing." 
 From that day forth she changed her note, 
 She spoil'd her voice, she strain'd her throat 
 She did, as learned women do, 
 
 Till every thing 
 
 That heard her sing, 
 Would run away from her — as I from you. 
 
 [Exit, running- 
 
^:sop. 
 
 Hart. How grossly does this poor world suffer 
 itself to be imposed upon ! — JSsop, a man of sense ! 
 — Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Alas, poor wretch ! I 
 should not have known him but by his deformity, 
 his soul's as nauseous to my understanding, as his 
 odious body to my sense of feeling. Well, 
 
 'Moogst all the wits that are allow'd to shine, 
 Methinks there's nothing yet approaches mine : 
 Sure I was sent the homely age to adorn ; 
 What star, I know not, ruled when I was born, 
 But everything besides myself's my scorn. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's House. 
 Enter Euphronia and Dokis. 
 
 Dor. What in the name of Jove's the matter 
 with you ? Speak, for Heaven's sake ! 
 
 Euph. Oh ! what shall I do ? Doris, I'm undone. 
 
 Dor. What, ravished ? 
 
 Euph. No, ten times worse ! ten times worse ! 
 Unlane me, or I shall swoon. 
 
 Dor. Unlace you i why you are not thereabouts, 
 I hope? 
 
 Euph. No, no ; worse still ; worse than all that. 
 
 Dor. Nay, then it's bad indeed.— [Doris un- 
 laces her.'] There, how d'ye do now ? 
 
 Euph. So ; it's going over. 
 
 Dor. Courage, pluck up your spirits ! Well, now 
 what's the matter ! 
 
 Euph. The matter ! thou sha't hear. Know 
 that — that cheat — yEsop — 
 
 Dor. Like enough ; speak ! What has he done ? 
 that ugly ill-boding Cyclops. 
 
 Euph. Why, instead of keeping his promise, 
 and speaking for Oronces, he has not said one 
 word but what has been for himself. And by my 
 father's order, before to-morrow noon he's to 
 marry me. 
 
 Dor. He marry you ! 
 
 Euph. Am I in the wrong to be in this despair ? 
 Tell me, Doris, if I am to blame ? 
 
 Dor. To blame ! no, by my troth. That ugly, 
 old, treacherous piece of vermin ! that melancholy 
 mixture of impotence and desire ! does his mouth 
 stand to a young partridge ! ah, the old goat ! 
 And your father ! — he downright dotes at last then. 
 
 Euph. Ah, Doris ; what a husband does he give 
 me ! and what a lover does he rob me of ! Thou 
 knowest 'em both ; think of Oronces, and think of 
 iEsop. 
 
 Dor. [Spitting.] A foul monster ! And yet, 
 now I think on't, I'm almost as angry at t'other 
 too. Methinks he makes but a slow voyage on't 
 for a man in love : 'tis now above two months 
 since he went to Lesbos, to pack up the old bones 
 of his dead father ; sure he might have made a 
 little more haste. 
 
 Enter Oronces. 
 
 Euph. Oh ! my heart ; what do I see ? 
 
 Dor. Talk of the devil, and he's at your elbow. 
 
 Oron. My dear soul ! 
 
 [Euphronia runs and leaps about his neck. 
 
 Euph. Why would you stay so long from me ? 
 
 Oron. 'Twas not my fault indeed ; the winds — 
 
 Dor. The winds ! Will the winds blow you your 
 mistress again ? We have had winds too, and 
 waves into the bargain, storms and tempests, sea 
 monsters, and the devil and all. She struggled as 
 long as she could, but a woman can do no more 
 
 than she can do ; when her breath was gone, down 
 she sunk. 
 
 Oron. What's the meaning of all this ? 
 
 Dor. Meaning ! There's meaning and mumping 
 too : your mistress is married, that's all. 
 
 Oron. Death and furies ! 
 
 Euph. [ Clinging about him.] Don't you frighten 
 him too much, neither, Doris. — No, my dear, I'm 
 not yet executed, though I'm condemned. 
 
 Oron. Condemned ! to what ? Speak ! quick ! 
 
 Dor. To be married. 
 
 Oron. Married ! When ? how ? where ? to what ? 
 to whom ? 
 
 Dor. JEsop ! vEsop ! yEsop ! JEsop ! iEsop ! 
 
 Oron. Fiends and spectres ! What ! that piece 
 of deformity ! that monster ! that crump ! 
 
 Dor. The same, sir, the same. — I find he knows 
 him. — You might have come home sooner. 
 
 Oron. Dear Euphronia, ease me from my pain. 
 Swear that you neither have nor will consent. 
 I know this comes from your ambitious father ; 
 But you're too generous, too true to leave me : 
 Millions of kingdoms ne'er would shake my faith, 
 And I believe your constancy as firm. 
 
 Euph. You do me justice, you shall find you do : 
 For racks and tortures, crowns and sceptres join'd, 
 Shall neither fright me from my truth, nor tempt 
 Me to be false. On this you may depend. 
 
 Dor. Would to the Lord you would find some 
 other place to make your fine speeches in ! Don't 
 you know that our dear friend yEsop's coming to 
 receive his visits here ? In this great downy chair 
 your pretty little husband-elect is to sit and hear 
 all the complaints of the town: one of wisdom's 
 chief recompenses being to be constantly troubled 
 with the business of fools. — Pray, madam, will you 
 take the gentleman by the hand, and lead him into 
 your chamber ; and when you are there, don't lie 
 whining, and crying, and sighing, and wishing — 
 [J side.] If he had not been more modest than 
 j wise, he might have set such a mark upon the 
 ' goods before now, that ne'er a merchant of 'em all 
 | would have bought 'em out of his hands. But 
 young fellows are always in the wrong : either so 
 impudent they are nauseous, or so modest they 
 are useless.— [Aloud.] Go, pray get you gone 
 together. 
 
 Euph. But if my father catch us, we are ruined. 
 
 Dor. By my conscience, this love will make us 
 all turn fools ! Before your father can open the 
 door, can't he slip down the back-stairs ? I'm sure 
 he may, if you don't hold him ; but that's the old 
 trade. Ah — well, get you gone, however. — Hark ! 
 I hear the old baboon cough ; away ! — [Exeunt 
 Oronces and Euphronia running.] Here he 
 comes, with his ugly beak before him ! Ah — a 
 luscious bedfellow, by my troth ! 
 BB2 
 
372 
 
 JESOP. 
 
 Enter Learchus and JEsop. 
 
 Lear. Well, Doris, what news from my daugh- 
 ter ? Is she prudent ? 
 
 Dor. Yes, very prudent. 
 
 Lear. What says she ? what does she do ? 
 
 Dor. Do ? what should she do ? Tears her 
 cornet ; bites her thumbs ; throws her fan in the 
 fire ; thinks it's dark night at noon-day ; dreams 
 of monsters and hobgoblins ; raves in her sleep of 
 forced marriage and cuckoldom ; cries Avaunt 
 Deformity ! then wakens of a sudden, with fifty argu- 
 ments at her fingers' ends, to prove the lawfulness 
 of rebellion in a child, when a parent turns tyrant. 
 
 Lear. Very fine ! but all this shan't serve her 
 turn. — I have said the word, and will be obeyed. — 
 My lord does her honour. 
 
 Dor. [Aside.'] Yes, and that's all he can do to 
 her. — [To Learchus.] But I can't blame the 
 gentleman, after all ; he loves my mistress because 
 she's handsome, and she hates him because he's 
 ugly. I never saw two people more in the right 
 in my life. — [To iEsop.] You'll pardon me, sir, 
 I'm somewhat free. 
 
 Msop. Why, a ceremony would but take up 
 time. — But, governor, methinks I have an admir- 
 able advocate about your daughter. 
 
 Lear. Out of the room, Impudence ! begone, I 
 say ! 
 
 Dor. So I will ; but you'll be as much in the 
 wrong when 1 am gone as when I am here : and 
 your conscience, I hope, will talk as pertly to 
 you as I can do. 
 
 Msop. If she treats me thus before my face, I 
 may conclude I'm finely handled behind my back. 
 
 Dor. I say the truth here, and I can say no 
 worse anywhere. {Exit. 
 
 Lear. I hope your lordship won't be concerned 
 at what this prattling wench bleats out ; my daugh- 
 ter will be governed, she's bred up to obedience. 
 There may be some small difficulty in weaning her 
 from her young lover ; but 'twon't be the first time 
 she has been weaned from a breast, my lord. 
 
 Msop. Does she love him fondly, sir ? 
 
 Lear. Foolishly, my lord. 
 
 Msop. And he her ? 
 
 Lear. The same. 
 
 Msop. Is he young ? 
 
 Lear. Yes, and vigorous. 
 
 Msop. Rich? 
 
 Lear. So, so. 
 
 Msop. Well-born ? 
 
 Lear. He has good blood in his veins. 
 
 Msop. Has he wit ? 
 
 Lear. He had, before he was in love. 
 
 Msop. And handsome with all this ? 
 
 Lear. Or else we should not have half so much 
 trouble with him. 
 
 Msop. Why do you then make her quit him for 
 me ? All the world knows I am neither young, 
 noble, nor rich ; and as for my beauty — look you, 
 governor, I'm honest. But when children cry, 
 they tell 'em iEsop's a-coming. Pray, sir, what 
 is it makes you so earnest to force your daughter ? 
 
 Lear. Am I then to count for nothing the 
 favour you are in at court ? Father-in-law to the 
 great iEsop ! What may I not aspire to ? My 
 foolish daughter, perhaps, mayn't be so well pleased 
 with't, but we wise parents usually weigh our chil- 
 dren's happiness in the scale of our own inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 Msop. Well, governor, let it be your care, then, 
 to make her consent. 
 
 Lear. This moment, my lord, I reduce her either 
 to obedience, or to dust and ashes. [Exit. 
 
 Msop. Adieu ! — [Calls to a Servant.] Now let 
 in the people who come for audience. 
 
 [Seats himself in his chair, reading papers. 
 
 Enter Hobson and Humphry. 
 
 Hob. There he is, neighbour, do but look at 
 him. 
 
 Hum. Ay, one may know him, he's well marked. 
 But, dost hear me ? what title must we give him ? 
 for if we fail in that point, d'ye see me, we shall 
 never get our business done. Courtiers love titles 
 almost as well as they do money, and that's a bold 
 word now. 
 
 Hob. Why, I think we had best call him his 
 Grandeur. 
 
 Hum. That will do ; thou hast hit on't. Hold 
 still, let me speak. — May it please your grandeur — 
 
 Msop. There I interrupt you, friend ; I have a 
 weak body that will ne'er be able to bear that title. 
 
 Hum. D'ye hear that, neighbour ? what shall 
 we call him now ? 
 
 Hob. Why, call him, — call him — his Excellency; 
 try what that will do. 
 
 Hum. May it please your excellency — 
 
 Msop. Excellency's a long word ; it takes up 
 too much time in business. Tell me what you'd 
 have in few words. 
 
 Hum. Neighbour, this man will never give ten 
 thousand pounds to be made a lord. But what 
 shall I say to him now ? He puts me quite out of 
 my play. 
 
 Hob. Why e'en talk to him as we do to one 
 another. 
 
 Hum. Shall I ? why so I will then. — Hem ! 
 Neighbour ; we want a new governor, neighbour. 
 
 Msop. A new governor, friend I 
 
 Hum. Ay, friend. 
 
 Msop. Why, what's the matter with your old one ? 
 
 Hum. What's the matter ? Why he grows 
 rich ; that's the matter : and he that's rich, can't 
 be innocent ; that's all. 
 
 Msop. Does he use any of you harshiy ? or 
 punish you without a fault ? 
 
 Hum. No, but he grows as rich as a miser, his 
 purse is so crammed, it's ready to burst again. 
 
 Msop. When 'tis full 'twill hold no more. A 
 new governor will have an empty one. 
 
 Hum. 'Fore Gad, neighbour, the little gentle- 
 man's in the right on't ! 
 
 Hob. Why truly I don't know but he may. For 
 now it comes in my head. It cost me more money 
 to fat my hog, than to keep him fat when he was so. 
 Prithee, tell him we'll e'en keep our old governor. 
 
 Hum. I'll do't. — Why, look you, sir, d'ye see 
 me ? having seriously considered of the matter, my 
 neighbour Hobson, and I here, we are content to 
 jog on a little longer with him we have : but if you'd 
 do us another courtesy, you might. 
 
 Msop. What's that, friend ? 
 
 Hum. Why that's this : our king Croesus is a 
 very good prince, as a man may say : — but — a — 
 but— taxes are high, an't please you; and — a — 
 poor men want money, d'ye see me. It's very 
 hard, as we think, that the poor should work to 
 maintain the rich. If there were no taxes, we 
 should do pretty well. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 JESOP. 
 
 37-3 
 
 Hob. Taxes indeed are very burdensome. 
 Msop. I'll tell you a story, countrymen. 
 
 Once on a time, the hands and feet, 
 As mutineers, grew mighty great ; 
 They met, caball'd, and talk'd of treason, 
 They swore by Jove they knew no reason 
 The belly should have all the meat ; 
 It was a damn'd notorious cheat, 
 They did the work, and — death and hell, they'd 
 eat ! 
 
 The belly, who adored good cheer, 
 
 Had like to have died away for fear : 
 
 Quoth he, " Good folks, you little know 
 
 What 'tis you are about to do ; 
 
 If I am starved, what will become of you ?" 
 
 " We neither know nor care," cried they ; 
 
 " But this we will be bold to say, 
 
 We'll see you damn'd 
 
 Before we'll work, 
 
 And you receive the pay." 
 
 With that the hands to pocket went, 
 Full wristband deep, 
 The legs and feet fell fast asleep : 
 Their liberty they had redeem'd, 
 And all except the belly seem'd 
 Extremely well content. 
 
 But mark what follow'd ; 'twas not long 
 
 Before the right became the wrong, 
 
 The mutineers were grown so weak, 
 
 They found 'twas more than time to squeak : 
 
 They call for work, but 'twas too late. 
 
 The stomach (like an aged maid, 
 
 Shrunk up for want of human aid,) 
 
 The common debt of nature paid, 
 
 And with its destiny entrain'd their fate. 
 
 What think you of this story, friends, ha ? 
 Come, yon look like wise men ; I'm sure you 
 understand what's for your good. In giving part 
 of what you have, you secure all the rest. If the 
 king had no money, there could be no army ; and 
 if there were no army, your enemies would be 
 amongst you. One day's pillage would be worse 
 than twenty years' taxes. What say you? is it 
 not so ? 
 
 Hum. By my troth, I think he's in the right 
 on't again ! Who'd think that little humpback 
 of his should have so much brains in't, neighbour ? 
 
 JEsop. Well, honest men, is there anything else 
 that I can serve you in ? 
 
 Hob. D'ye hear that, Humphry ? — Why that 
 was civil now. But courtiers seldom want good- 
 breeding ; let's give the devil his due. — Why, to 
 tell you the truth, honest gentleman, we had a whole 
 budget full of grievances to complain of. But I 
 think — a — ha, neighbour ? — we had e'en as good 
 let 'em alone. 
 
 Hum. Why good feath I think so too, for by all 
 I can see, we are like to make no great hond on't. 
 Besides, between thee and me, I begin to daubt, 
 whether aur grievances do us such a plaguy deal of 
 mischief as we fancy. 
 
 Hob. Or put case they did, Humphry ; I'se 
 afraid he that goes to a courtier, in hope to get 
 fairly rid of 'em, may be said (in aur country 
 dialect) to take the wrong sow by the ear. — But 
 here's neighbour Roger, he's a wit, let's leave him 
 to him, [Exeunt Hobson and Humphry. 
 
 Enter Roger ; he looks seriously upon Msop, and then 
 bursts out a-laughing. 
 
 Rog. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Did ever mon 
 behold the like ? ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Msop. Hast thou any business with me, friend ? 
 
 Rog. Yes, by my troth, have I ; but if Roger 
 were to be hanged up for't, look you now, he could 
 not hold laughing. What I have in my mind, out 
 it comes : but bar that ; I'se an honest lad as well 
 as another. 
 
 Msop. My time's dearer to me than yours, 
 friend. Have you anything to say to me ? 
 
 Rog. Gadswookers, do people use to ask for folks 
 when they have nothing to say to 'em ? I'se tell 
 you my business. 
 
 Msop. Let's hear it. 
 
 Rog. I have, as you see, a little wit. 
 
 Msop. True. 
 
 Rog. I live in a village hard by, and I'se the 
 best man in it, though I say it that should not say 
 it. I have good drink in my cellar, and good corn 
 in my barn ; I have cows and oxen, hogs and sheep, 
 cocks and hens, and geese and turkeys : but the 
 truth will out, and so out let it. I'se e'en tired of 
 being called plain Roger. I has a leathern purse, 
 and in that purse there's many a fair half-crown, 
 with the king's sweet face upon it, God bless him ; 
 and with this money I have a mind to bind myself 
 prentice to a courtier. It's a good trade, as 
 I have heard say ; there's money stirring : let a 
 lad be but diligent, and do what he's bid, he shall 
 be let into the secret, and share part of the profits. 
 I have not lived to these years for nothing :. those 
 that will swim must go into deep water. I'se get 
 our wife Joan to be the queen's chambermaid ; and 
 then — crack says me I ! and forget all my acquaint- 
 ance. But to come to the business. You who 
 are the king's great favourite, I desire you'll be 
 pleased to sell me some of your friendship, that I 
 may get a court-place. Come, you shall choose 
 me one yourself ; you look like a shrewd man ; by 
 the mass you do ! 
 
 Msop. I choose thee a place ! 
 
 Rog. Yes : I would willingly have it such a sort 
 of a place as would cost little, and bring in a 
 great deal ; in a word, much profit, and nothing 
 to do. 
 
 Msop. But you must name what post you think 
 would suit your humour. 
 
 Rog. Why I'se pratty indifferent as to that : 
 secretary of state, or butler ; twenty shillings more, 
 twenty shillings less, is not the thing I stand upon. 
 I'se no hagler, gadswookers ; and he that says I 
 am — 'zbud he lies ! There's my humour now. 
 
 Msop. But hark you, friend, you say you are 
 well as you are ; why then do you desire to change ? 
 
 Rog. Why what a question now is there for a 
 man of your parts ? I'm well, d'ye see me ; and 
 what of all that ? I desire to be better. There's 
 an answer for you. — [Aside.] Let Roger alone 
 with him. 
 
 Msop. Very well : this is reasoning ; and I love 
 a man should reason with me. But let us inquire 
 a little whether your reasons are good or not. You 
 say at home you want for nothing. 
 
 Rog. Nothing, 'fore George. 
 
 Msop. You have good drink ? 
 
 Rog. 'Zbud the best i'th' parish ! [Sings. 
 
 And dawne it merrily goes, my lad, 
 And dawne it merrily goes ! 
 
374 
 
 JESOP. 
 
 JEsop. You eat heartily ? 
 
 Rog. I have a noble stomach. 
 
 JEsop. You sleep well? 
 
 Rog. Just as I drink, till I can sleep no longer. 
 
 JEsop. You have some honest neighbours ? 
 
 Rog. Honest ! 'Zbud we are all so, the tawne 
 raund, we live like breether ; when one can sarve 
 another, he does it with all his heart and guts ; 
 when we have anything that's good, we eat it 
 together, holidays and Sundays we play at nine- 
 pins, tumble upon the grass with wholesome young 
 maids, laugh till we split, daunce till we are weary, 
 eat till we burst, drink till we are sleepy, then swap 
 into bed, and snore till we rise to breakfast. 
 
 JEsop. And all this thou wouldst leave to go to 
 court ! I'll tell thee what once happened. 
 A mouse, who long had lived at court, 
 (Yet ne'er the better christian for't) 
 Walking one day to see some country sport, 
 He met a homebred village-mouse. 
 Who with an awkward speech and bow, 
 That favoured much of cart and plough, 
 Made a shift, I know not how, 
 To invite him to his house. 
 Quoth he, " My lord, I doubt you'll find 
 Our country fare of homely kind ; 
 But by my troth, you're welcome to't, 
 Y'ave that, and bread, and cheese to boot :'' 
 And so they sat and dined. 
 
 Rog. Very well. 
 
 JEsop. The courtier could have eat at least 
 As much as any household priest, 
 But thought himself obliged in feeding 
 To show the difference of town-breeding ; 
 He pick'd and cull'd, and turn'd the meat, 
 He champ 'd and chew'd and could not eat : 
 No toothless woman at fourscore, 
 Was ever seen to mumble more. 
 He made a thousand ugly faces, 
 Which (as sometimes in ladies' cases) 
 Were all design' d for airs and graces. 
 
 Rog. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 JEsop. At last he from the table rose, 
 He pick'd his teeth, and blow'd his nose, 
 And with an easy negligence, 
 As though he lately came from France. 
 He made a careless sliding bow : 
 " 'Fore Gad," quoth he. " I don't know how 
 I shall return your friendly treat ; 
 But if you'll take a bit of meat 
 In town with me, 
 You there shall see 
 How we poor courtiers eat." 
 
 Rog. Tit for tat ; that was friendly. 
 
 JEsop. There needed no more invitation 
 To e'er a country squire i'tlv nation : 
 Exactly to the time he came, 
 Punctual as woman when she meets 
 A man between a pair of sheets, 
 As good a stomach, and as little shame. 
 
 Rog. Ho ! ho ! ho ! ho ! ho ! 
 
 JEsop. To say the truth he found good cheer, 
 With wine, instead of ale and beer : 
 But just as they sat down to eat, 
 Comes bouncing in a hungry cat. 
 
 Rog. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 
 
 JEsop. The nimble courtier skipp'd from table, 
 The squire leap'd too, as he was able : 
 It can't be said that they were beat. 
 It was no more than a retreat ; 
 Which, when an army, not to fight 
 j By day-light, runs away by night, 
 Was ever judged a great and glorious feat. 
 
 Rog. Ever ! ever ! ever ! 
 
 JEsop. The cat retired, our guests return, 
 The danger past becomes their scorn, 
 They fall to eating as before ; — 
 The butler rumbles at the door. 
 
 Rog. Good Lord ! 
 
 JEsop. To boot and saddle again they sound. 
 
 Rog. Ta ra ! tan tan ta ra ! ra ra tan ta ra ! 
 
 JEsop. They frown, as they would stand their 
 ground, 
 But (like some of our friends) they found 
 'Twas safer much to scour. 
 
 Rog. Tantive ! Tantive ! Tantive ! &c. 
 
 JEsop. At length the squire, who hated arras, 
 Was so perplex'd with these alarms, 
 He rose up in a kind of heat : 
 " Udzwooks !" quoth he, with all your meat, 
 I will maintain a dish of pease, 
 A radish, and a slice of cheese, 
 With a good dessert of ease, 
 Is much a better treat. 
 However, 
 
 Since every man should have his due, 
 I own, sir, I'm obliged to you 
 For your intentions at your board ; 
 But pox upon your courtly crew !" 
 
 Rog. Amen ! I pray the Lord. Ha ! ha i ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! Now the de'el cuckold me if this story be 
 not worth a sermon. — Give me your hond, sir. — 
 If it had na' been for your friendly advice, I was 
 going to be fool enough to be secretary of state. 
 
 JEsop. Well, go thy ways home, and be wiser 
 for the future. 
 
 Rog. And so I will : for that same mause, your 
 friend, was a witty person, gadsbudlikins ! and so 
 our wife Joan shall know : for between you and I, 
 'tis she has put me upon going to court. Sir, she 
 has been so praud, so saucy, so rampant, ever since 
 I brought her home a laced pinner, and a pink- 
 cclour pair of shoe-strings, from Tickledawne Fair, 
 the parson o'th' parish can't rule her ; and that 
 you'll say's much. But so much for that. Naw 
 I thank you for your good caunsel, honest little 
 gentleman ; and to show you that I'se not un- 
 grateful — give me your hand once more. — If you'll 
 take the pains but to walk dawne to our towne — 
 a word in your ear — I'se send you so drunk whome 
 again, you shall remember friendly Roger as long 
 as you have breath in your body. [Exit. 
 
 JEsop. Farewell ! what I both envy and despise : 
 Thy happiness and ignorance provoke me. 
 How noble were the thing calFd knowledge, 
 Did it but lead us to a bliss like thine ! 
 But there's a secret curse in wisdom's train, 
 Which on its pleasures stamps perpetual pain, 
 And makes the wise man loser by his gain. 
 
 [Exit 
 
SCENE 1. 
 
 iESOP, 
 
 375 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's House. 
 
 JEsop. 
 
 Enter iEsor 
 Who waits there ? 
 
 Enter Servanc. 
 If there be anybody that has business with me, let 
 'em in. 
 
 Serv. Yes, sir. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Enter Quaint, who stands at a distance, making a great 
 many fawning bows. 
 
 JEsop. Well, friend, who are you ? 
 
 Quaint. My name's Quaint, sir, the profoundest 
 of all your honour's humble servants, 
 
 JEsop. And what may your business be with 
 me, sir ? 
 
 Quaint. My business, sir, with every man, is 
 first of all to do him service. 
 
 JEsop. And your next is, I suppose, to be paid 
 for't twice as much as 'tis worth. 
 
 Quaint. Your honour's most obedient, humble 
 servant. 
 
 JEsop. Well, sir, but upon what account am I 
 going to be obliged to you ? 
 
 Quaint. Sir, I'm a genealogist. 
 
 JEsop. A genealogist ! 
 
 Quaint. At your service, sir. 
 
 JEsop. So, sir. 
 
 Quaint. Sir, I am informed from common fame, 
 as well as from some little private familiar intelli- 
 gence, that your wisdom is entering into treaty 
 with the primum mobile of good and evil, a fine 
 lady. I have travelled, sir ; I have read, sir ; I 
 have considered, sir ; and I find, sir, that the 
 nature of a fine lady is to be — a fine lady, sir ; a 
 fine lady's a fine lady, sir, all the world over ; she 
 loves a fine house, fine furniture, fine coaches, fine 
 liveries, fine petticoats, fine smocks ; and if she 
 stops there — she's a fine lady indeed, sir. But to 
 come to my point, It being the Lydian custom, 
 that the fair bride should be presented on her wed- 
 ding-day with something that may signify the merit 
 and the worth of her dread lord and master, I 
 thought the noble iEsop's pedigree might be the 
 welcomest gift that he could offer. If his honour 
 be of the same opinion — I'll speak a bold word ; 
 there's ne'er a herald in all Asia shall put better 
 blood in his veins, than — sir, your humble servant, 
 Jacob Quaint. 
 
 JEsop. Dost thou then know my father, friend? 
 for I protest to thee I am a stranger to him. 
 
 Quaint. Your father, sir, ha! ha ! I know every 
 man's father, sir, and every man's grandfather, 
 and every man's great-grandfather. Why, sir, 
 I'm a herald by nature ; my mother was a Welch- 
 woman. 
 
 JEsop. A Welchwoman ! Prithee of what coun- 
 try's that? 
 
 Quaint. That, sir, is a country in the world's 
 backside, where every man is born a gentleman, 
 and a genealogist. Sir, I could tell my mother's 
 pedigree before I could speak plain ; which, to 
 show you the depth of my art, and the strength of 
 my memory, I'll trundle you down in an instant. 
 
 — Noah had three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japhet, 
 Shem — 
 
 JEsop. Hold, I conjure thee, in the name of all 
 thy ancestors ! 
 
 Quaint. Sir, I could take it higher but I begin 
 at Noah for brevity's sake. 
 
 JEsop. No more on't, I entreat thee. 
 
 Quaint. Your honour's impatient, perhaps, to 
 hear your own descent. A word to the wise is 
 enough. Hem, hem : Solomon, the wise king of 
 Judea — 
 
 JEsop. Hold once more ! 
 
 Quaint. Ha ! ha ! your honour's modest, but — 
 Solomon, the wise king of Judea — 
 
 JEsop. Was my ancestor, was he not ? 
 
 Quaint. He was, my lord, which no one sure 
 can doubt, who observes how much of prince there 
 hangs about you. 
 
 JEsop. What ! is't in my mien ? 
 
 Quaint. You have something — wondrous noble 
 in your air. 
 
 JEsop. Personable too ; view me well. 
 
 Quaint. N — not tall ; but majestic. 
 
 JEsop. My shape. 
 
 Quaint. A world of symmetry in it. 
 
 JEsop. The lump upon my back. 
 
 Quaint. N — not regular ; but agreeable. 
 
 JEsop. Now by my honesty thou art a villain, 
 herald. But flattery's a thrust I never fail to parry. 
 'Tis a pass thou shouldst reserve for young fencers; 
 with feints like those they're to be hit : I do not 
 doubt but thou hast found it so ; hast not ? 
 
 Quaint. I must confess, sir, I have sometimes 
 made 'em bleed by't. But I hope your honour 
 will please to excuse me, since, to speak the truth, 
 I get my bread by't, and maintain my wife and 
 children : and industry, you know, sir, is a com- 
 mendable thing. Besides, sir, I have debated the 
 business a little with my conscience ; for I'm like 
 the rest of my neighbours, I'd willingly get money, 
 and be saved too, if the thing may be done upon 
 any reasonable terms : and so, sir, I say, to quiet 
 my conscience, I have found out at last that flat- 
 tery is a duty. 
 
 JEsop. A duty ! 
 
 Quaint. Ay, sir, a duty : for the duty of all men 
 is to make one another pass their time as pleasantly 
 as they can. Now, sir, here's a young lord, who 
 has a great deal of land, a great deal of title, a 
 great deal of meat, a greal deal of noise, a great 
 many servants, and a great many diseases. I find 
 him very dull, very restless, tired with ease, cloyed 
 with plenty, a burden to himself, and a plague to 
 his family. I begin to flatter : be springs off of the 
 couch ; turns himself round in the glass ; finds all 
 I say true ; cuts a caper a yard high ; his biood 
 trickles round in his veins ; his heart's as light as 
 his heels ; and before I leave him — his purse is as 
 empty as his head. So we both are content ; for 
 we part much happier than we met. 
 
 JEsop. Admirable rogue ! what dost thou think 
 of murder 
 And of rape ? Are not they duties too ? 
 Wer't not for such vile fawning things as thou art, 
 
(376 
 
 JESOP. 
 
 Young nobles would not long be what they are : 
 They'd grow ashamed of luxury and ease, 
 And rouse up the old spirit of their fathers ; 
 Leave the pursuit of a poor frighten' d hare, 
 And make their foes to tremble in her stead ; 
 Furnish their heads with sciences and arts, 
 And fill their hearts with honour, truth, and 
 
 friendship ; 
 Be generous to some, and just to all ; 
 Drive home their creditors with bags of gold, 
 Instead of chasing 'em with swords and staves ; 
 Be faithful to their king and country both, 
 And stab the offerer of a bribe from either ; 
 Blush even at a wandering thought of vice, 
 And boldly own they durst be friends to virtue ; 
 Tremble at nothing but the frowns of Heaven, 
 And be no more ashamed of him that made 'em. 
 
 Quaint. {Aside.'] If I stand to hear this crump 
 preach a little longer, I shall be fool enough per- 
 haps to be bubbled out of my livelihood, and so 
 lose a bird in the hand for two in the bush. — 
 [Aloud.] Sir, since I have not been able to bring 
 you to a good opinion of yourself, 'tis very probable 
 I shall scarce prevail with you to have one of me. 
 But if you please to do me the favour to forget me, 
 I shall ever acknowledge myself — sir, your most 
 obedient, faithful, humble servant. {.Going. 
 
 Mso.p. Hold ; if I let thee go, and give thee 
 nothing, thou'lt be apt to grumble at me ; and 
 therefore — Who waits there ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Quaint. [Aside.] I don't like his looks, by Gad ! 
 
 Msop. I'll present thee with a token of my love. 
 
 Quaint. A — another time, sir, will do as well. 
 
 Msop. No ; T love to be out of debt, though 'tis 
 being out of the fashion. — [To Servant.] So, d'ye 
 year? give this honest gentleman half a score good 
 strokes on the back with a cudgel. 
 
 Quaint. By no means in the world, sir. 
 
 Msop. Indeed, sir, you shall take 'em. 
 
 Quaint. Sir, I don't merit half your bounty. 
 
 Msop. O 'tis but a trifle ! 
 
 Quaint. Your generosity makes me blush. 
 
 {Looking about to make his escape. 
 
 Msop. That's your modesty, sir. 
 
 Quaint. Sir, you are pleased to compliment. 
 But a — twenty pedigrees for a clear coast ! 
 
 {Running off, the Servant after him. 
 
 Msop. Wait upon him down stairs, fellow. — 
 I'd do't myself, were I but nimble enough ; but he 
 makes haste to avoid ceremony. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir, here's a lady in great haste desires to 
 speak with you. 
 
 Msop. Let her come in. {Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter Aminta, weeping. 
 
 Amin. O sir, if you don't help me, I'm undone! 
 
 Msop. What, what's the matter, lady ? 
 
 Amin. My daughter, sir, my daughter's run 
 away with a filthy fellow. 
 
 JEsop. A slippery trick indeed ! 
 
 Amin. For Heaven's sake, sir, send immedi- 
 ately to pursue 'em, and seize 'em. But 'tis in 
 vain, 'twill be too late, 'twill be too late ! I'll 
 warrant this very moment they are got together 
 in a room with a couch in't. All's gone, all's 
 
 gone ! though 'twere made of gold 'tis lost. Oh, 
 my honour ! my honour 1 A forward girl she was 
 always ; I saw it in her eyes the very day of her 
 birth. 
 
 Msop. That indeed was early ; but how do you 
 know she's gone with a fellow ? 
 
 Amin. I have e'en her own insolent handwriting 
 for't, sir ; take but the pains to read what a letter 
 she has left me. 
 
 Msop. [Reads.] I love, and am beloved, and 
 that's the reason I run away. — Short, but signi- 
 ficant ! — I'm sure there's nobody knows better 
 than your ladyship what allowances are to be made 
 to flesh and blood ; I therefore hope this from your 
 justice, that what you have done three times your- 
 self, you'll pardon once in your daughter. — The 
 dickens ! 
 
 Amin. Now, sir, what do you think of the 
 business ? 
 
 Msop. Why truly, lady, I think it one of the 
 most natural businesses I have met with a great 
 while. I'll tell you a story. 
 
 A crab-fish once her daughter told, 
 
 (In terms that savour'd much of scold) 
 
 She could not bear to see her go, 
 
 Sidle, sidle, to and fro ; 
 
 " The devil's in the wench!" quoth she, 
 
 " When so much money has been paid, 
 
 To polish you like me ; 
 
 It makes me almost mad to see 
 
 Y'are still so awkward, an ungainly jade." 
 
 Her daughter smiled, and look'd askew 
 
 She answer'd (for to give her her due) 
 
 Pertly, as most folks' daughters do : 
 
 u Madam, your ladyship," quoth she, 
 
 " Is pleased to blame in me 
 
 What, on inquiry, you may find, 
 
 Admits a passable excuse, 
 
 From a proverb much in use, 
 
 That ' cat will after kind.' " 
 
 Amin. Sir, I took you to be a man better bred, 
 than to liken a lady to a crab-fish. 
 
 Msop. What I want in good-breeding, lady, I 
 have in truth and honesty : as what you have 
 wanted in virtue, you have had in a good face. 
 
 Amin. Have had, sir ! 'what I have had, I have 
 still ; and shall have a great while, I hope. I'm 
 no grandmother, sir. 
 
 Msop. But in a fair way for't, madam. 
 
 Amin. Thanks to my daughter's forwardness 
 then, not my years. I'd have you to know, sir, I 
 have never a wrinkle in my face. A young pert 
 slut ! who'd think she should know so much at 
 her age ? 
 
 Msop. Good masters make quick scholars, 
 lady ; she has learned her exercise from you. 
 
 Amin. But where's the remedy, sir ? 
 
 Msop. In trying if a good example will reclaim 
 her, as an ill one has debauched her. Live private, 
 and avoid scandal. 
 
 Amin. Never speak it ; I can no more retire, 
 than I can go to church twice of a Sunday. 
 
 Msop. What ! your youthful blood boils in your 
 veins, I'll warrant. 
 
 Amin. I have warmth enough to endure the air, 
 old gentleman. I need not shut myself up in a 
 house these twenty years. 
 
 Msop. [Aside.] She takes a long lease of 
 lewdness : she'll be an admirable tenant to lust. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 JESOP. 
 
 37^ 
 
 Amin. [ Walking hastily to and fro.~\ People 
 think when a woman is turned forty, she's old 
 enough to turn out of the world : but I say, when 
 a woman is turned forty, she's old enough to have 
 more wit. The most can be said is, her face is 
 the worse for wearing : I'll answer for all the 
 rest of her fabric. The men would be to be 
 pitied, by my troth would they, if we should quit 
 the stage, and leave 'em nothing but a parcel of 
 young pert sluts, that neither know how to speak 
 sense, nor keep themselves clean. But don't let 
 'em fear, we a'nt going yet. — [iEsop stares upon 
 her, and as she turns from, him runs off the 
 stage. ] How now ! What, left alone ! An un- 
 mannerly piece of deformity ! Methinks he might 
 have had sense enough to have made love to me. 
 But I have found men strangely dull for these last 
 ten or twelve years. Sure they'll mend in time, 
 or the world won't be worth living in. 
 For let philosophers say all they can, 
 The source of woman's joys is placed in man. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II.— The same. 
 
 Enter Learchus and Euphronia, Doris following at a 
 distance. 
 
 Lear. [ To Euphronia.] I must tell you, mis- 
 tress, I'm too mild with you ; parents should never 
 entreat their children, nor will I hereafter. There- 
 fore, in a word, let Oronces be loved, let iEsop be 
 hated ; let one be a peacock, let t'other be a bat. 
 I'm father, you are daughter ; I command, and 
 you shall obey. 
 
 Euph. I never yet did otherwise ; nor shall I 
 now, sir ; but pray let reason guide you. 
 
 Lear. So it does. But 'tis my own, not yours, 
 hussy. 
 
 Dor. Ah ! — Well, I'll say no more ; but were I 
 in her place, by the mass I'd have a tug for't ! 
 
 L>ear. Demon, born to distract me ! Whence 
 art thou, in the name of fire and brimstone ? Have 
 not I satisfied thee ? have not I paid thee what's 
 thy due ? and have not I turned thee out of doors, 
 with orders never more to stride my threshold, 
 ha ? Answer, abominable spirit ! what is't that 
 makes thee haunt me ? 
 
 Dor. A foolish passion, to do you good in spite 
 of your teeth : pox on me for my zeal ! I say. 
 
 Lear. And pox on thee, and thy zeal too ! I say. 
 
 Dor. Now if it were not for her sake more than 
 for yours, I'd leave all to your own management, 
 to be revenged of you. But rather than I'll see 
 that sweet thing sacrificed — I'll play the devil in 
 your house. 
 
 Lear. Patience, I summon thee to my aid ! 
 
 Dor. Passion, I defy thee ! to the last drop of 
 my blood I'll maintain my ground. What have you 
 to charge me with ? speak. I love your child 
 better than you do, and you can't bear that, ha ? 
 is't not so ? Nay, it's well y'are ashamed on't ; 
 there's some sign of grace still. Look you, sir, in 
 few words, you'll make me mad ; and 'twere 
 enough to make anybody mad (who has brains 
 enough to be so) to see so much virtue ship- 
 wrecked at the very port. The world never saw 
 a virgin better qualified ; so witty, so discreet, so 
 modest, so chaste ; in a word, I brought her up 
 myself, and 'twould be the death of me to see so 
 
 virtuous a maid become a lewd wife ; which is the 
 usual effect of parents' pride and covetousness. 
 
 Lear. How, strumpet ! would anything be 
 able to debauch my daughter ? 
 
 Dor. Your daughter ! yes your daughter, and 
 myself into the bargain : a woman's but a woman; 
 and I'll lay a hundred pound on nature's side. 
 Come, sir, few words despatch business. Let 
 who will be the wife of JEsop, she's a fool, or he's 
 a cuckold. But you'll never have a true notion 
 of this matter till you suppose yourself in your 
 daughter's place. As thus : — You are a pretty, 
 soft, warm, wishing young lady: I'm a straight, 
 proper, handsome, vigorous, young fellow. You 
 have a peevish, positive, covetous, old father, and 
 he forces you to marry a little, lean, crooked, dry, 
 sapless husband. This husband's gone abroad, 
 you are left at home. I make you a visit ; find 
 you all alone ; the servant pulls to the door ; the 
 devil comes in at the window. I begin to wheedle, 
 you begin to melt ; you like my person, and there- 
 fore believe all I say ; so first I make you an 
 atheist, and then I make you a whore. Thus the 
 world goes, sir. 
 
 Lear. Pernicious pestilence ! Has thy eternal 
 tongue run down its larum yet ? 
 
 Dor. Yes. 
 
 Lear. Then get out of my house, abomination ! 
 
 Dor. I'll not stir a foot. 
 
 Lear. Who waits there ? Bring me my great 
 stick. 
 
 Dor. Bring you a stick ! bring you a head-piece ; 
 that you'd call for, if you knew your own wants. 
 
 Lear. Death and furies, the devil, and so forth ; 
 I shall run distracted ! 
 
 Euph. Pray, sir, don't be so angry at her. I'm 
 sure she means well, though she may have an odd 
 way of expressing herself. 
 
 Lear. What, you like her meaning ? who doubts 
 it, offspring of Venus ! But I'll make you stay 
 your stomach with meat of my choosing, you 
 liquorish young baggage you ! In a word, JEsop' s 
 the man ; and to-morrow he shall be your lord 
 and master. But since he can't be satisfied unless 
 he has your heart, as well as all the rest of your 
 trumpery, let me see you receive him in such a 
 manner that he may think himself your choice a, 
 well as mine ; 'twill make him esteem your judg- 
 ment : for we usually guess at other people's 
 understandings, by their approving our actions, 
 and liking our faces. See here the great man 
 comes ! — [To Doris.] Follow me, Insolence ! and 
 leave 'em to express their passion to each other. — 
 [To Euphronia.] Remember my last word to 
 you is, obey. 
 
 Dor. [Aside to Euphronia.] And remembet 
 my last advice to you is, rebel. 
 
 [Exit Learchus. Doris following him. 
 
 Euph. Alas ! I'm good-natured ; the last 
 thing that's said to me usually leaves the deepest 
 impression. 
 
 Enter JEsop ; they stand some time without speaking. 
 
 JEsop. They say, that lovers, for want of words, 
 have eyes to speak with, I'm afraid you do not 
 understand the language of mine, since yours I 
 find will make no answer to 'em. But I must 
 tell you, lady, 
 
 There is a numerous train of youthful virgins, 
 That are endow'd with wealth and beauty too, 
 
378 
 
 jESOP. 
 
 Who yet have thought it worth their pains and care 
 To point their darts at iEsop's homely breast ; 
 Whilst you so much contemn what they pursue, 
 That a young senseless fop's preferr'd before me. 
 
 Euph. Did you but know that fop you dare to 
 term so, 
 His very looks would fright you into nothing. 
 
 JEsop. A very bauble ! 
 
 Euph. How ! 
 
 JEsop. A butterfly ! 
 
 Euph. I can't bear it ! 
 
 JEsop. A parroquet can prattle and look gaudy. 
 
 Euph. It may be so ; but let me paint him and 
 you in your proper colours, I'll do it exactly, and 
 you shall judge which I ought to choose. 
 
 JEsop. No, hold ! I'm naturally not over-curious; 
 besides, 'tis pride makes people have their pictures 
 drawn. 
 
 Euph. Upon my word, sir, you may have yours 
 taken a hundred times before anybody will believe 
 'tis done upon that account. 
 
 JEsop. [Aside.'] Howsevere she is upon me ! — 
 [Aloud.~] You are resolved then to persist, and be 
 fond of your feather ; sigh for a periwig, and die 
 for a cravat-string ? 
 
 Euph. Methinks, sir, you might treat with more 
 What I've thought fit to own I value ; [respect 
 Your affronts to him are doubly such to me. 
 If you continue your provoking language, 
 You must expect my tongue will sally too ; 
 And if you are as wise as some would make you, 
 You can't but know I should have theme enough. 
 
 JEsop. But is it possible you can love so much 
 as you pretend ? 
 
 Euph. Why, do you question it ? 
 
 JEsop. Because nobody loves so much as they 
 pretend. But hark you, young lady ! marriage is 
 to last a long, long time ; 
 And where one couple bless the sacred knot, 
 A train of wretches curse the institution. 
 You're in an age where hearts are young and tender, 
 A pleasing object gets admittance soon. 
 But since to marriage 
 
 There is annex'd this dreadful word, For Ever, 
 The following example ought to move you. 
 
 A peacock once of splendid show, 
 
 Gay, gaudy, foppish, vain — a beau, 
 
 Attack'd a fond young pheasant's heart 
 
 With such success, 
 
 He pleased her, though he made her smart ; 
 
 He pierced her with so much address, 
 
 She smiled the moment that he fix'd his dart. 
 
 A cuckoo in a neighbouring tree, 
 
 Rich, honest, ugly, old — like me, 
 
 Loved her as he loved his life : 
 
 No pamper'd priest e'er studied more 
 
 To make a virtuous nun a whore, 
 
 Than he to get her for his wife. 
 
 But all his offers still were vain, 
 
 His limbs were weak, his face was plain ; 
 
 Beauty, youth, and vigour weigh'd 
 
 With the warm desiring maid : 
 
 No bird, she cried, would serve her turn, 
 But what could quench as well as burn, 
 She'd have a young gallant ; so one she had. 
 But ere a month was come and gone, 
 The bride began to change her tone, 
 She found a young gallant was an inconstant one. 
 She wander' d to a neighbouring grove, 
 Where after musing long on love, 
 She told her confidant, she found 
 When for one's life one must be bound, 
 (Though youth indeed was a delicious bait,) 
 An aged husband, rich, though plain, 
 Would give a slavish wife less pain ; 
 And what was more, was sooner slain, 
 Which was a thing of weight. 
 Behold, young lady, here, the cuckoo of the fable : 
 I am deform'd, 'tis true, yet I have found 
 The means to make a figure amongst men, 
 That well has recompensed the wrongs of Nature. 
 My rival's beauty promises you much ; 
 Perhaps my homely form might yield you more ; 
 At least consider on't, 'tis worth your thought. 
 Euph. I must confess my fortune would be 
 greater ; 
 But what's a fortune to a heart like mine ? 
 'Tis true, I'm but a young philosopher, 
 Yet in that little space my glass has run, 
 I've spent some time in search of happiness : 
 The fond pursuit I soon observed of riches, 
 Inclined me to inquire into their worth ; 
 I found their value was not in themselves, 
 But in their power to grant what we could ask. 
 I then proceeded to my own desires, 
 To know what state of life would suit with them : 
 I found 'em moderate in their demands, 
 They neither ask'd for title, state, or power ; 
 They slighted the aspiring post of envy : 
 'Tis true, they trembled at the name contempt ; 
 A general esteem was all they wish'd : 
 And that I did not doubt might be obtain'd, 
 If furnish' d but with virtue and good-nature ; 
 My fortune proved sufficient to afford me 
 Conveniences of life, and independence. 
 This, sir, was the result of my inquiry ; 
 And by this scheme of happiness I build, 
 When I prefer the man I ,love to you. 
 
 JEsop. How wise, how witty, and how cleanly, 
 
 young women grow, as soon as ever they are in lo* e ! 
 
 Euph. How foppish, how impertinent, and how 
 
 nauseous are old men, when they pretend to be so 
 
 too! 
 
 JEsop. How pert is youth ! 
 Euph. How dull is age ! 
 JEsop. Why so sharp, young lady ? 
 Euph. Why so blunt, old gentleman ? 
 JEsop. 'Tis enough ; I'll to your father, I know 
 how to deal with him, though I don't know how to 
 deal with you. Before to-morrow noon, damsel, 
 wife shall be written on your brow. \_Exit. 
 
 Euph. Then before to-morrow night, statesman, 
 husband shall be stamped upon your forehead. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 iESOP. 
 
 379 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE 1..—A Room hi Learchtts's House. 
 Enter Oronces and Doris. 
 
 Dor. Patience, I beseech you. 
 
 Oron. Patience ! What, and see that lovely 
 creature thrown into the arms of that pedantic 
 monster : 'sdeath, I'd rather see the world reduced 
 to atoms, mankind turned into crawfish, and myself 
 an old woman ! 
 
 Dor. So you think an old woman a very unfor- 
 tunate thing, I find ; but you are mistaken, sir ; 
 she may plague other folks, but she's as entertain- 
 ing to herself as any one part of the creation. 
 
 Oron. [Walking to andfro.~\ She's the devil ! 
 — and I'm one of the damned, I think ! But I'll 
 make somebody howl for't, I will so'. 
 
 Dor. You'll e'en do as all the young fellows in 
 the town do, spoil your own sport : ah ! — had 
 young men's shoulders but old courtiers' headsupon 
 'em, what a delicious time would they have on't ! 
 For shame be wise ; for your mistress' sake at 
 least use some caution. 
 
 Oron. For her sake I'll respect, even like a 
 deity, her father. He shall strike me, he shall 
 tread upon me, and find me humbler even than 
 a crawling worm, for I'll not turn again ; but for 
 TEsop, that unfinished lump, that chaos of humanity, 
 I'll use him, — nay, expect it, for I'll do't — the first 
 moment that I see him, I'll — 
 
 Dor. Not challenge him, I hope. — 'Twould be a 
 pretty sight truly, to see TEsop drawn up in 
 battalia : fy, for shame ! be wise once in your life ; 
 think of gaining time, by putting off the marriage 
 for a day or two, and not of waging war with 
 Pigmy. Yonder's the old gentleman walking 
 by himself in the gallery ; go and wheedle him, you 
 know his weak side ; he's good-natured in the bot- 
 tom. Stir up his old fatherly bowels a little, I'll 
 warrant you'll move him at last : go, get you gone, 
 and play your part discreetly. 
 
 Oron. Well, I'll try ; but if words won't do 
 with one, blows shall with t'other ; by heavens 
 they shall. \_Exit. 
 
 Dor. Nay, I reckon we shall have rare work on't 
 by and by. Shield us, kind Heaven ! what things 
 are men in love ! Now they are stocks and stones ; 
 then they are fire and quicksilver ; first whining 
 and crying, then swearing and damning ; this mo- 
 ment they are in love, and next moment they are 
 out of love. Ah ! could we but live without 'em — 
 but it's in vain to think on't. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II — The same. 
 
 Enter ^Esop at one side of the stage, Mrs. Forgewjll at 
 the other. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Sir, I'm your most devoted servant. 
 What I say is no compliment, I do assure you, 
 
 JEsop. Madam, as far as you are really mine, 
 I believe I may venture to assure you I am yours. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. I suppose, sir, ycu know that I'm 
 a widow. 
 
 Alsop. Madam, I don't so much as know you 
 are a woman. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. O surprising ! why, I thought the 
 whole town had known it. Sir, I have been a 
 widow this twelvemonth. 
 
 Alsop. If a body may guess at your heart by 
 your petticoat, lady, you don't design to be so a 
 twelvemonth more. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. O bless me ! not a twelvemonth ! 
 why, my husband has left me four squalling brats. 
 Besides, sir, I'm undone. 
 
 Msop. You seem as cheerful an undone lady as 
 I have met with. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Alas, sir, I have too great a spirit 
 ever to let afflictions spoil my face. Sir, I'll tell 
 you my condition ; and that will lead me to my 
 business with you. Sir, my husband was a scrive- 
 ner. 
 
 JEsop. The deuse he was ! I thought he had 
 been a count at least. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Sir, 'tis not the first time I have 
 been taken for a countess ; my mother used to say, 
 as 1 lay in my cradle, I had the air of a woman of 
 quality ; and, truly, I have always lived like such. 
 My husband, indeed, had something sneaking in 
 him, (as most husbands have, you know, sir,) but 
 from the moment I set foot in his house, bless me, 
 what a change was there ! His pewter was turned 
 into silver, his goloshoes into a glass coach, and his 
 little travelling mare into a pair of Flanders horses. 
 Instead of a greasy cookmaid, to wait at table, I 
 had four tall footmen in clean linen ; all things 
 beeame new and fashionable, and nothing looked 
 awkward in my family. My furniture was the 
 wonler of my neighbourhood, and my clothes the 
 admiration of the whole town ; I had a necklace 
 that was envied by the queen, and a pair of pend- 
 ants that set a duchess a-crying. In a word, I 
 saw nothing I liked but I bought it ; and my hus- 
 band, good man, durst ne'er refuse paying for't. 
 Thus I lived, and I flourished, till he sickened and 
 died ; but, ere he was cold in his grave, his credi- 
 tors plundered my house. But what pity it was 
 to see fellows with dirty shoes come into my best 
 rooms, and touch my hangings with their filthy 
 fingers ! You won't blame me, sir, if, with all my 
 courage, I weep at this sensible part of my misfor- 
 tune. 
 
 Msop. A very sad story truly ! 
 
 Mrs. Forge. But now, sir, to my business. 
 Having been informed this morning that the king 
 has appointed a great sum of money for the mar- 
 riage of young women who have lived well and are 
 fallen to decay, I am come to acquaint you I have 
 two strapping daughters just fit for the matter, 
 and to desire you'll help 'em to portions out of 
 the king's bounty; that they mayn't whine and 
 pine, and be eaten up with the green-sickness, as 
 half the young women in the town are, or would 
 be, if there were not more helps for a disease than 
 one. This, sir, is my business. 
 
 Msop. And this, madam, is my answer : — 
 A crawling toad, all speckled o'er, 
 Vain, gaudy, painted, patch'd — a whore, 
 
380 
 
 JESOP. 
 
 Seeing a well-fed ox hard by, 
 
 Regards him with an envious eye, 
 
 And (as the poets tell) 
 
 " Ye gods, I cannot bear't ! " quoth she, 
 
 " I'll burst, or be as big as he ! " 
 
 And so began to swell. 
 
 Her friends and kindred round her came, 
 
 They show'd her she was much to blame, 
 
 The thing was out of reach. 
 
 She told 'em they were busy folk, 
 
 And when her husband would have spoke, 
 
 She bid him kiss her br — h. 
 
 With that they all e'en gave her o'er, 
 
 And she persisted as before, 
 
 Till, with a deal of strife, 
 
 She s welFd at last so much her spleen, 
 
 She burst like one that we have seen, 
 
 Who was a scrivener's wife. 
 
 This, widow, I take to be your case, and that of a 
 great many others ; for this is an age where most 
 people get falls by clambering too high, to reach 
 at what they should not do. The shoemaker's 
 wife reduces her husband to a cobbler, by endea- 
 vouring to be as spruce as the tailor's ; the tailor's 
 brings hers to a botcher, by going as fine as the 
 mercer's ; the mercer's lowers hers to a foreman, 
 by perking up to the merchant's ; the merchant's 
 wears hers to a broker, by strutting up to quality ; 
 and quality bring theirs to nothing, by striving to 
 outdo one another. If women were humbler, men 
 would be honester. Pride brings want, want makes 
 rogues, rogues come to be hanged, and the devil 
 alone's the gainer. Go your ways home, woman ; 
 and, as your husband maintained you by his 
 pen, maintain yourself by your needle ; put your 
 great girls to service, employment will keep 'em 
 honest ; much work, and plain diet, will cure the 
 green-sickness as well as a husband. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Why, you pitiful pigmy, preach- 
 ing, canting, pickthank ! you little, sorry, crooked, 
 dry, withered eunuch ! do you know that — 
 
 JEsop. I know that I'm so deformed you han't 
 wit enough to describe me ; but I have this good 
 quality, that a foolish woman can never make me 
 angry. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Can't she so ! I'll try that, I will. 
 
 [She falls upon him, holds his hands, and boxes his ears. 
 
 JEsop. Help ! help ! help ! 
 
 Enter Servants. She runs off, they after her. 
 Nay, e'en let her go — let her go — don't bring her 
 back again. I'm for making a bridge of gold for 
 my enemy to retreat upon. — I'm quite out of breath. 
 — A terrible woman, I protest 1 
 
 Enter Sir Polidorus Hogstye drunk, in a hunting dress, 
 with a Huntsman, Groom, Falconer, and other Servants; 
 one leading a couple of hounds, another greyhounds, a 
 third a spaniel, a fourth a gun upon his shoulder, the 
 Falconer a hawk upon his fist, fyc. 
 
 Sir Pol. Haux '. Haux ! Haux ! Haux ! Haux ! 
 Joular, there, boy ! Joular ! Joular! Tinker ! Ped- 
 lar ! Miss ! Miss ! Miss ! Miss I Miss ! — Blood 
 and oons ! — Oh, there he is ; that must be he, I 
 have seen his picture. — [Heeling upon JEsop.] 
 Sir — if your name's iEsop — I'm your humble 
 (Servant. 
 
 JEsop. Sir, my name is iEsop, at your service. 
 
 Sir Pol. Why, then, sir — compliments being 
 passed on both sides, with your leave — we'll pro- 
 
 ceed to business. — Sir, I'm by profession — a gen- 
 tleman of — three thousand pounds a — year, sir. I 
 keep a good pack of hounds, and a good stable of 
 horses. — [To his Groom.] How many horses have 
 I, sirrah ? — Sir, this is my groom. 
 
 [Presenting him to JEsop. 
 
 Groom. Your worship has six coach-horses (cut 
 and long-tail,) two runners, half-a-dozen hunters, 
 four breeding mares, and two blind stallions, 
 besides pads, routs, and dog-horses. 
 
 Sir Pol. Look you there, sir, I scorn to tell a 
 lie. He that questions my honour — he's a son of 
 a whore. But to business. — Having heard, sir, 
 that you were come to this town, I have taken the 
 pains to come hither too, though I had a great 
 deal of business upon my hands, for I have ap- 
 pointed three justices of the peace to hunt with 
 'em this morning — and be drunk with 'em in the 
 afternoon. But the main chance must be looked 
 to — and that's this — I desire, sir, you'll tell the 
 king from me — I don't like these taxes — in one 
 word as well as in twenty — I don't like these taxes. 
 
 JEsop. Pray, sir, how high may you be taxed ? 
 
 Sir Pol. How high may I be taxed, sir ! — Why, 
 I may be taxed, sir, — four shillings in the pound, 
 sir ; one-half I pay in money — and t'other half I 
 pay in perjury, sir — Hey, Joular ! Joular ! Joular ! 
 naux ! haux ! haux ! haux ! haux ! whoo ! hoo ! — 
 Here's the best hound-bitch in Europe. Zoons is 
 she. And I had rather kiss her than kiss my wife 
 — rot me if I had not. But, sir, I don't like these 
 taxes. 
 
 JEsop. Why, how would you have the war 
 carried on ? 
 
 Sir Pol. War carried on, sir ! — Why, I had 
 rather have no war carried on at all, sir, than pay 
 taxes. I don't desire to be ruined, sir. 
 
 JEsop. Why you say you have three thousand 
 pounds a-year. 
 
 Sir Pol. And so I have, sir — Lettacre ! — Sir, 
 this is my steward. — How much land have I, Lett- 
 acre ? 
 
 Lettacre. Your worship has three thausand 
 paxinds a-year, as good lond as any's in the caunty ; 
 and two thausand paunds worth of wood to cut 
 dawne at your worship's pleasure, and put the 
 money in your pocket. 
 
 Sir Pol. Look you there, sir, wnat have you to 
 say to that * 
 
 JEsop. I have to say, sir, that you may pay your 
 taxes in money, instead of perjury, and still have 
 a better revenue than I'm afraid you deserve. 
 What service do you do your king, sir ? 
 
 Sir Pol. None at all, sir : I'm above it. 
 
 JEsop. What service may you do your country, 
 pray ? 
 
 Sir Pol. I'm justice of the peace— and captain of 
 the militia. 
 
 JEsop. Of what use are you to your kindred ? 
 
 Sir Pol. I'm the head of the family, and have 
 all the estate. 
 
 JEsop. What good do you do your neighbours? 
 
 Sir Pol. I give 'em their bellies full of beef every 
 time they come to see me ; and make 'em so drunk, 
 they spew it up again before they go away. 
 
 JEsop. How do you use your tenants ? 
 
 Sir Pol. Why, I screw up their rents till they 
 break and run away ; and if I catch 'em again, I 
 let 'em rot in a jail. 
 
 JEsop. How do you treat your wife ? 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 ffiSOY. 
 
 381 
 
 Sir Pol. I treat her all day with ill-nature and to- 
 bacco, and all night with snoring and a dirty shirt. 
 
 Msop. How do you breed your children ? 
 
 Sir Pol. I breed my eldest son — a fool ; my 
 youngest breed themselves, and my daughters — 
 have no breeding at all. 
 
 JEsop. 'Tis very well, sir : I shall be sure to 
 speak to the king of you ; or if you think fit to 
 remonstrate to him, by way of petition or address, 
 how reasonable it may be to let men of your impor- 
 tance go scot-free, in the time of a necessary war, 
 I'll deliver it in council, and speak to it as I ought. 
 
 Sir Pol. Why, sir, I don't disapprove your 
 advice ; but my clerk is not here, and I can't spell 
 well. 
 
 JEsop. You may get it writ at your leisure, and 
 send it me. But because you are not much used 
 to draw up addresses perhaps, I'll tell you in gene- 
 ral what kind of one this ought to be. 
 
 May it please your Majesty — You'll excuse me 
 if I don't know your name and title. 
 
 Sir Pol. Sir Polidorus Hogstye, of Beast-Hall, 
 in Swine-county. 
 
 JEsop. Very well. 
 
 May it please your Majesty : 
 
 Polidorus Hogstye, of Beast-Hall, 
 in Swine -county, most humbly represents, that he 
 hates to pay taxes, the dreadful consequences of 
 'em being inevitably these, that he must retrench 
 two dishes in ten, where not above six of 'em are 
 designed for gluttony. 
 
 Four bottles out of twenty ; where not above 
 fifteen of 'em are for drunkenness. 
 
 Six horses out of thirty ; of which not above 
 twe7ity are kept for state. 
 
 And four servants out of a score; where one 
 half do nothing but make work for t'other. 
 
 To this deplorable condition must your important 
 subject be reduced, or forced to cut down his timber, 
 which he would willingly preserve against an ill 
 run at dice. 
 
 And as to the necessity of the war for the secu- 
 rity of the kingdom, he neither knows nor cares 
 whether it be necessary or not. 
 
 He concludes with his prayers for your majesty' s 
 life, upon condition you will protect him and his 
 fox-hounds at Beast-Hall without e'er a penny of 
 money. 
 This, sir, I suppose, is much what you would be at. 
 
 Sir Pol. Exactly, sir ; I'll be sure to have one 
 drawn up to the selfsame purpose ; and next fox- 
 hunting I'll engage half the company shall set their 
 hands to't. Sir, I am your — most devoted ser- 
 vant ; and if you please to let me see you at Beast- 
 Hall, here's my huntsman, Houndsfoot, will show 
 you a fox shall lead you through so many hedges 
 and briars, you shall have no more clothes on your 
 back in half an hour's time — than you had — in the 
 womb of your mother. — Haux ! haux ! haux ! &c. 
 [Exit shouting, followed by his attendants. 
 
 Msop. O tempora ! O mores ! 
 
 Enter Mr. Fruitful and Mrs. Fruitful. 
 
 Mr. Fruit. Heavens preserve the noble iEsop, 
 grant him long life and happy days ! 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. And send him a fruitful wife, with 
 a hopeful issue I 
 
 Msop. And what is it I'm to do for you, good 
 people, to make you amends for all these friendly 
 wishes ? 
 
 Mr. Fruit. Sir, here's myself and my wife — 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Sir, here's I and my husband — [To 
 Mr. Fruitful.] Let me speak in my turn, good- 
 man Forward. — [To iEsop.] Sir, here's I and my 
 husband, I say, think we have as good pretensions 
 to the king's favour as ever a lord in the land. 
 
 Msop. If you have no better than some lords in 
 the land. I hope you won't expect much for your 
 service. 
 
 Mr. Fruit. An't please you, you shall be judge 
 yourself. 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. That's as he gives sentence, Mr. 
 Littlewit ; who gave you power to come to a refer- 
 ence ? If he does not do us right, the king him- 
 self shall ; what's to be done here ! — [To iEsop.] 
 Sir, I'm forced to correct my husband a little ; poor 
 man, he is not used to court-business ; but to give 
 him his due, he's ready enough at some things. 
 Sir, I have had twenty fine children by him ; fifteen 
 of 'em are alive, and alive like to be ; five tall 
 daughters are wedded and bedded, and ten proper 
 sons serve their king and their country. 
 
 Msop. A goodly company, upon my word ! 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Would all men take as much pains 
 for the peopling the kingdom, we might tuck up 
 our aprons, and cry a fig for our enemies ! but we 
 have such a parcel of drones amongst us. — Hold 
 up your head, husband. — He's a little out of coun- 
 tenance, sir, because I chid him ; but the man's a 
 very good man at the bottom. But to come to my 
 business, sir ; I hope his majesty will think it rea- 
 sonable to allow me something for the service I 
 have done him ; 'tis pity but labour should be 
 encouraged, especially when what one has done, 
 one has done't with a good-will. 
 
 Msop. What profession are you of, good people? 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. My husband's an innkeeper, sir ; 
 he bears the name, but I govern the house. 
 
 Msop. And what posts are your sons in, in the 
 service ? 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Sir, there are four monks. 
 
 Mr. Fruit. Three attorneys. 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Two scriveners. 
 
 Mr. Fruit. And an exciseman. 
 
 Msop. The deuse o' the service ! why, I thought 
 they had been all in the army. 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Not one, sir. 
 
 Msop. No, so it seems, by my troth ! Ten sons 
 that serve their country, quotha ! monks, attor- 
 neys, scriveners, and excisemen, serve their country 
 with a vengeance. You deserve to be rewarded, 
 truly ; you deserve to be hanged, you wicked people 
 you ! Get you gone out of my sight : I never was 
 so angry in my life. [Exit. 
 
 Mr. Fruit. So ; who's in the right now, you or 
 I ? I told you what would come on't ; you must 
 be always a-breeding, and breeding, and the king 
 would take care of 'em, and the queen would take 
 care of 'em : and always some pretence or other 
 there was. But now we have got a great kennel of 
 whelps, and the devil will take care of 'em, for 
 aught I see. For your sons are all rogues, and 
 your daughters are all whores ; you know they are. 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. What, you are a grudging of your 
 pains now, you lazy, sluggish, phlegmatic drone ! 
 You have a mind to die of a lethargy, have you ? 
 but I'll raise your spirits for you, I will so. Get 
 you gone home, go ; go home, you idle sot, you. 
 I'll raise your spirits for you ! 
 
 [Exit, pushing Mr. Fruitful before her. 
 
382 
 
 MSOl> 
 
 Re-enter JEsop. 
 
 Msop. Monks, attorneys, scriveners, and excise- 
 men ! 
 
 Enter Oronces. 
 
 Oron. O here he is. — Sir, I have been searching 
 for you, to say two words to you. 
 
 JEsop. And now you have found me, sir, what 
 are they ? 
 
 Oron. They are, sir — that my name's Oronces : 
 you comprehend me. 
 
 JEsop, I comprehend your name. 
 
 Oron. And not my business ? 
 
 JEsop. Not I, by my troth. 
 
 Oron. Then I shall endeavour to teach you, 
 Monsieur iEsop. 
 
 JEsop. And I to learn it, Monsieur Oronces. 
 
 Oron. Know, sir — that I admire Euphronia. 
 
 JEsop. Know, sir — that you are in the right I 
 on't. 
 
 Oron. But I pretend, sir, that nobody else shall 
 admire her. 
 
 JEsop. Then I pretend, sir, she won't admire 
 you. 
 
 Oron. Why, so, sir ? 
 
 JEsop. Because, sir — 
 
 Oron. What, sir ? 
 
 JEsop. She's a woman, sir. 
 
 Oron. What then, sir ? 
 
 JEsop. Why then, sir, she desires to be admired 
 by every man she meets. 
 
 Oron. Sir, you are too familiar. 
 
 JEsop. Sir, you are too haughty ; I must soften 
 that harsh tone of yours : It don't become you, sir ; 
 it makes a gentleman appear a porter, sir : and 
 that you may know the use of good language, I'll 
 tell you what once happened. 
 Once on a time — 
 
 Oron I'll have none of your old wives' fables, 
 sir, I have no time to lose ; therefore, in a word — 
 
 u32sop. In a word, be mild : for nothing else 
 will do you service. Good manners and soft 
 words have brought many a difficult thing to pass. 
 Therefore hear me patiently. 
 
 A cook one day, who had been drinking, 
 
 (Only as many times, you know, 
 
 You spruce, young, witty beaux will do, 
 
 To avoid the dreadful pain of thinking,) 
 
 Had orders sent him to behead 
 
 A goose, like any chaplain fed. 
 
 He took such pains to set his knife right, 
 
 'T had done one good to have lost one's life by't. 
 
 But many men have many minds, 
 
 There's various tastes in various kinds ; 
 
 A swan (who by mistake he seized) 
 
 With wretched life was better pleased : 
 
 For as he went to give the blow, 
 
 In tuneful notes she let him know, 
 
 She neither was a goose, nor wish'd 
 
 To make her exit so. 
 
 The cook (who thought of nought but blood, 
 
 Except it were the grease, 
 
 For that you know's his fees) 
 
 To hear her sing, in great amazement stood. 
 
 " Cods-fish !" quoth he, " 'twas well you spoke, 
 
 For I was just upon the stroke : 
 
 Your feathers have so much of goose, 
 
 A drunken cook could do no less 
 
 Than think you one : that you'll confess : 
 
 But y'have a voice so soft, so sweet, 
 That rather than you shall be eat, 
 The house shall starve for want of meat : ' ' 
 And so he turned her loose. 
 Now, sir, what say you ? Will you be the swan or 
 the goose ? 
 
 Oron. The choice can't sure be difficult to make ; 
 I hope you will excuse my youthful heat, 
 Young men and lovers have a claim to pardon : 
 But since the faults of age have no such plea, 
 I hope you'll be more cautious of offending. 
 The flame that warms Euphronia's heart and mine 
 Has long, alas ! been kindled in our breasts : 
 Even years are past since our two souls were wed, 
 'Twould be adultery but to wish to part 'em. 
 And would a lump of clay alone content you, 
 A mistress cold and senseless in your arms, 
 Without the least remains or signs of life, 
 Except her sighs, to mourn her absent lover ? 
 Whilst you should press her in your eager arms, 
 With fond desire and ecstacy of love, 
 Would it not pierce you to the very soul, 
 To see her tears run trickling down her cheeks, 
 And know their fountain meant 'em all to me ? 
 Could you bear this ? 
 
 Yet thus the gods revenge themselves on those 
 Who stop the happy course of mutual love. 
 If you must be unfortunate one way, 
 Choose that where justice may support your grief, 
 And shun the weighty curse of injured lovers. 
 
 JEsop. Why, this is pleading like a swan indeed ! 
 Were anything at stake but my Euphronia — 
 Oron. Your Euphronia, sir ! — 
 JEsop. The goose — take heed- 
 
 Were anything, I say, at stake but her, 
 Your plea would be too strong to be refused. 
 But our debate's about a lady, sir, 
 That's young, that's beautiful, that's made for love. 
 — So am not I, you'll say ? But you're mistaken ; 
 
 sir ; 
 I'm made to love, though not to be beloved. 
 I have a heart like yours ; I've folly too : 
 I've every instrument of love like others. 
 
 Oron. But, sir, you have not been so long a 
 lover ; 
 Your passion's young and tender, 
 'Tis easy for you to become its master ; 
 Whilst I should strive in vain : mine's old and 
 fix'd. 
 JEsop. The older 'tis, the easier to be govern'd. 
 Were mine of as long a standing, 'twere possible I 
 might get the better on't. Old passions are like 
 old men ; weak, and soon jostled into the kennel. 
 Oron. Yet age sometimes is strong, even to the 
 
 verge of life. 
 JEsop. Ay, but there our comparison don't hold. 
 Oron. You are too merry to be much in love. 
 JEsop. And you too sad to be so long. 
 Oron. My grief may end my days, so quench 
 my flame, 
 But nothing else can e'er extinguish it. 
 
 JEsop. Don't be discouraged, sir ; I have seen 
 many a man outlive his passion twenty years. 
 
 Oron. But I have sworn to die Euphronia's 
 slave. 
 
 JEsop. A decayed face always absolves a lover's 
 oath. 
 
 Or on. Lovers whose oaths are made to faces then : 
 But 'tis Euphronia's soul that I adore, 
 Which never can decay. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 msov. 
 
 383 
 
 JEsop. I would fain see a young fellow in love 
 with a soul of threescore. 
 
 Oron. Quit but Euphroniato me, and you shall ; 
 At least if Heaven's bounty will afford us 
 But years enough to prove my constancy, 
 And this is all I ask the gods and you. {Exit. 
 
 JEsop. A good pretence however to beg long life. 
 How grossly do the inclinations of the flesh impose 
 
 upon the simplicity of the spirit ! Had this young 
 fellow but studied anatomy, he'd have found the 
 source of his passion lay far from his mistress's 
 soul. Alas ! alas ! had women no more charms 
 in their bodies than what they have in their minds, 
 we should see more wise men in the world, much 
 fewer lovers and poets, {Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Learchus's House. 
 Enter Euphronta and Doris. 
 
 Euph. Heavens, what is't you make me do, 
 Doris ? Apply myself to the man I loathe ; beg 
 favours from him I hate ; seek a reprieve from 
 him I abhor ; 'tis low, 'tis mean, 'tis base in me. 
 
 Dor. Why, you hate the devil as much as you 
 do iEsop, (or within a small matter,) and should 
 you think it a scandal to pray him to let you alone 
 a day or two, if he were going to run away with 
 you ; ha ? 
 
 Euph. I don't know what I think, nor what I 
 say, nor what I do : but sure thou'rt not my 
 friend thus to advise me. 
 
 Dor. I advise ! I advise nothing ; e'en follow 
 your own way ; marry him, and make much of 
 him. I have a mind to see some of his breed ; 
 if you like it, I like it. He shan't breed out of 
 me only ; that's all I have to take care of. 
 
 Euph. Prithee don't distract me. 
 
 Dor. Why, to-morrow's the day, fixed and firm, 
 you know it. Much meat, little order, great many 
 relations, few friends, horse-play, noise, and bawdy 
 stories, all's ready for a complete wedding. 
 
 Euph. Oh ! what shall I do ? 
 
 Dor. Nay, I know this makes you tremble ; and 
 yet your tender conscience scruples to drop one 
 hypocritical curtsy, and say, pray, Mr. iEsop, be 
 so kind to defer it a few days longer. 
 
 Euph. Thou knowest I cannot dissemble. 
 
 Dor. I know you can dissemble well enough 
 when you should not do't. Do you remember 
 how you used to plague your poor Oronces ; make 
 him believe you loathed him, when you could have 
 kissed the ground he went on ; affront him in all 
 public places ; ridicule him in all company ; 
 abuse him wherever you went : and when you had 
 reduced him within ambs-ace of hanging or drown- 
 ing then come home with tears in your eyes, and cry, 
 Now, Doris, let's go lock ourselves up, and talk of 
 my dear Oronces.— Is not this true ? 
 
 Euph. Yes, yes, yes. But, prithee, have some 
 compassion of me. Come, I'll do anything thou 
 biddest me. — What shall I say to this monster ? tell 
 me, and I'll obey thee. 
 
 Dor. Nay, then there's some hopes of you. — 
 Why you must tell him — 'Tis natural to you to 
 dislike folks at first sight : that since you have 
 considered him better, you find your aversion 
 abated : that though perhaps it may be a hard 
 matter for you ever to think him a beau, you don't 
 despair in time of finding out his je-ne-sais-quoi. 
 And that on t'other side ; though you have 
 hitherto thought (as most young women do) that 
 nothing could remove your first affection, yet you 
 
 have very great hopes in the natural inconstancy of 
 your sex. Tell him, 'tis not impossible, a change 
 may happen, provided he gives you time : but 
 that if he goes to force you, there's another piece 
 of nature peculiar to woman, which may chance to 
 spoil all, and that's contradiction. Ring that 
 argument well in his ears : he's a philosopher, he 
 knows it has weight in't. In short, wheedle, 
 whine, flatter, lie, weep, spare nothing; it's a 
 moist age, women have tears enough ; and when 
 you have melted him down, and gained more time, 
 we'll employ it in closet-debates how to cheat him 
 to the end of the chapter. 
 
 Euph. But you don't consider, Doris, that by 
 this means I engage myself to him ; and can't 
 afterwards with honour retreat. 
 
 Dor. Madam, I know the world. — Honour's a 
 jest, when jilting's useful. Besides, he that 
 would have you break your oath with Oronces, 
 can never have the impudence to blame you for 
 cracking your word with himself. But who knows 
 what may happen between the cup and the lip ? 
 Let either of the old gentlemen die, and we ride 
 triumphant. Would I could but see the states- 
 man sick a little, I'd recommend a doctor to him, 
 a cousin of mine, a man of conscience, a wise 
 physician ; tip but the wink, he understands you. 
 
 Euph. Thou wicked wench, wouldst poison 
 him ? 
 
 Dor. I don't know what I would do. I think, I 
 study, I invent, and somehow I will get rid of him. 
 I do more for you, I'm sure, than you and your 
 knight-errant do together for yourselves. 
 
 Euph. Alas ! both he and I do all we can ; thou 
 knowest we do. 
 
 Dor. Nay, I know y'are willing enough to get 
 together ; but y'are a couple of helpless things, 
 Heaven knows. 
 
 Euph. Our stars, thou seest, are bent to oppo- 
 sition. 
 
 Dor. Stars ! — I'd fain see the stars hinder me 
 from running away with a man I liked. 
 
 Euph. Ay, but thou knowest, should I disoblige 
 my father, he'd give my portion to my younger 
 sister. 
 
 Dor. Ay, there the shoe pinches, there's the 
 love of the age ! Ah ! — to what an ebb of passion 
 are lovers sunk in these days ! Give me a woman 
 that runs away with a man when his whole estate's 
 packed up in his snapsack : that tucks up her 
 coats to her knees ; and. through thick and through 
 thin, from quarters to camp, trudges heartily on, 
 with a child at her back, another in her arms, and 
 a brace in her belly : there's flame with a witness, 
 where this is the effects on't. But we must have 
 love in a featherbed : forsooth, a coach and six 
 
384 
 
 msov. 
 
 horses, clean linen, and a caudle ! Fy, for shame ! 
 — ho, here comes our man ! Now show yourself 
 a woman, if you are one. 
 
 Enter iEsop. 
 
 JEsop. I'm told, fair virgin, you desire to speak 
 with me. Lovers are apt to flatter themselves ; I 
 take your message for a favour. I hope 'twas 
 meant so. 
 
 Euph. Favours from women are so cheap of 
 late, men may expect 'em truly without vanity. 
 
 JEsop. If the women are so liberal, I think the 
 men are generous too on their side. Tis a well- 
 bred age, thank Heaven : and a deal of civility 
 there passes between the two sexes. — What service 
 is't that I can do you, lady ? 
 
 Euph. Sir, I have a small favour to entreat you. 
 
 JEsop. What is't ? I don't believe I shall refuse 
 you. 
 
 Euph. What if you should promise me you 
 won't ? 
 
 JEsop. Why then I should make a divorce be- 
 tween my good-breeding and my sense, which 
 ought to be as sacred a knot as that of wedlock. 
 
 Euph. Dare you not trust then, sir, the thing 
 you love ? 
 
 JEsop. Not when the thing I love don't love me : 
 never ! 
 
 Dor. Trust is sometimes the way to be beloved. 
 
 JEsop. Ay, but 'tis oftener the way to be cheated. 
 
 Euph. Fray promise me you'll grant my suit. 
 
 Dor. 'Tis a reasonable one, I give you my word 
 for't. 
 
 JEsop. If it be so, I do promise to grant it. 
 
 Dor. That's still leaving yourself judge. 
 
 JEsop. Why, who's more concerned in the trial ? 
 
 Dor. But nobody ought to be judge in their own 
 cause. 
 
 JEsop. Yet he that is so, is sure to have no 
 wrong done him. 
 
 Dor. But if he does wrong to others, that's 
 worse. 
 
 JEsop. Worse for them, but not for him. 
 
 Dor. True politician, by my troht ! 
 
 JEsop. Men must be so when they have to do 
 with sharpers. 
 
 Euph, If I should tell you then there were a 
 possibility I might be brought to love you, you'd 
 scarce believe me. 
 
 JEsop. I should hope as a lover, and suspect as 
 a statesman. 
 
 Dor. [Aside.'] Love and wisdom ! There's the 
 passion of the age again. 
 
 Euph. You have lived long, sir, and observed 
 much : did you never see Time produce strange 
 ehanges ? 
 
 JEsop. Amongst women, I must confess I have. 
 
 Euph. Why, I'm a woman, sir. 
 
 JEsop. Why, truly, that gives me some hopes. 
 
 Euph. I'll increase 'em, sir ; I have already been 
 in love two years. 
 
 Dor. And time, you know, wears all things to 
 tatters. 
 
 JEsop. Well observed. 
 
 Euph. What if you should allow me some to try 
 what I can do ? 
 
 JEsop. Why, truly, I would have patience a day 
 or two, if there were as much probability of my 
 being your new gallant, as perhaps there may be 
 of changing your old one. 
 
 Dor. She shall give you fair play for't, sir ; 
 opportunity and leave to prattle, and that's what 
 carries most women in our days. Nay, she shall 
 do more for you. You shall play with her fan ; 
 squeeze her little finger ; buckle her shoe ; read a 
 romance to her in the arbour ; and saunter in the 
 woods on a moonshiny night. If this don't melt 
 her, she's no woman, or you no man. 
 
 JEsop. I'm not a man to melt a woman that way : 
 I know myself, and know what they require. 
 'Tis through a woman's eye you pierce her heart. 
 And I've no darts can make their entrance there. 
 
 Dor. You are a great statesman, sir ; but I find 
 you know little of our matters. A woman's heart 
 is to be entered forty ways. Every sense she has 
 about her keeps a door to it. With a smock-face, 
 and a feather, you get in at her eyes. With power- 
 ful nonsense, in soft words, you creep in at her 
 ears. An essenced peruke, and a sweet handker- 
 chief, lets you in at her nose. With a treat, and 
 a boxfull of sweetmeats, you slip in at her mouth : 
 and if you would enter by her sense of feeling, 'tis 
 as beaten a road as the rest. What think you 
 now, sir ? There are more ways to the woods than 
 one, you see. 
 
 JEsop. Why, you're an admirable pilot- ; I don't 
 doubt but you have steered many a ship safe to 
 harbour. But I'm an old stubborn seaman ; I 
 must sail by my own compass still. 
 
 Euph. And, by your obstinacy, lose your vessel. 
 
 JEsop. No : I'm just entering into port ; we'll 
 be married to-morrow. . 
 
 Euph. For Heaven's sake, defer it some days 
 longer ! I cannot love you yet, indeed I cannot. 
 
 JEsop. Nor never will, I dare swear. 
 
 Euph. Why then will you marry me ? 
 
 JEsop. Because 1 love you. 
 
 Euph. If you loved me, you would never make 
 me miserable. 
 
 JEsop. Not if I loved you for your sake ; but I 
 love you for my own. 
 
 Dor. [Aside.] There's an old rogue for you. 
 
 Euph. [ Weeping.] Is there no way left ! must 
 I be wretched ? 
 
 JEsop. 'Tis but resolving to be pleased. You 
 can't imagine the strength of resolution. I have 
 seen a woman resolve to be in the wrong all the 
 days of her life ; and by the help of her resolution 
 she has kept her word to a tittle. 
 
 Euph. Methinks the subject we're upon should 
 be of weight enough to make you serious. 
 
 JEsop. Right. To-morrow morning, pray be 
 ready ; you'll find me so : I'm serious. Now I hope 
 you are pleased. [Turning away from her. 
 
 Euph. Break heart ! for if thou holdest, I'm 
 miserable. [Going offiveeping, and leaning upon Doris. 
 
 Dor. [To iEsop.] Now may the extravagance 
 of a lewd wife, with the insolence of a virtuous one, 
 join hand in hand to bring thy grey hairs to the 
 grave. [Exeunt Euphronia and Doris. 
 
 Msop. My old friend wishes me well to the last, 
 I see. 
 
 Enter Learchus hastily , followed by Oronces. 
 
 Oron. Pray hear me, sir. 
 
 Lear. 'Tis in vain : I'm resolved, I tell you. — 
 Most noble iEsop, since you are pleased to accept 
 of my poor offspring for your consort, be so charit- 
 able to my old age, to deliver me from the imper- 
 tinence of youth, by making her your wife this 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 ^:sop. 
 
 885 
 
 instant ; for there's a plot against my life ; they 
 have resolved to tease me to death to-night, that 
 they may break the match to-morrow morning. 
 Marry her this instant, I entreat you. 
 
 JEsop. This instant, say you ! 
 
 Lear. This instant ; this very instant. 
 
 JEsop. 'Tis enough ; get all things ready ; I'll 
 be with you in a moment. [Exit. 
 
 Lear. Now, what say you, Mr. Flamefire ? I 
 shall have the whiphand of you presently. 
 
 Oron. Defer it but till to-morrow, sir. 
 
 Lear. That you may run away with her to-night ; 
 ha ? — Sir, your most obedient, humble servant. — 
 Hey, who waits there ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Call my daughter to me : quick. — [Exit Servant.] 
 I'll give her her despatches presently. 
 
 Re-enter Euphronja. 
 
 Euph. D'ye call, sir? 
 
 Lear. Yes I do, minx. Go shift yourself, and 
 put on your best clothes. You are to be married. 
 
 Euph. Married, sir ! 
 
 Lear. Yes, married, madam ; and that this 
 instant too. 
 
 Euph. Dear sir ! 
 
 Lear. Not a word : obedience and a clean smock; 
 despatch! - [Ej?^ Euphronia weeping.'] Sir, your 
 most obedient humble servant. [Going. 
 
 Oron. Yet hear what I've to say. 
 
 Lear. And what have you to say, sir ? 
 
 Oron. Alas ! I know not what I have to say ! 
 
 Lear. Very like so. — That's a sure sign he's in 
 love now. 
 
 Oron. Have you no bowels ? 
 
 Lear. Ha ! ha ! bowels in a parent ; here's a 
 young fellow for you ! — Hark thee, stripling ; 
 being in a very merry humour, I don't care if I 
 discover some paternal secrets to thee. Know 
 then, that how humoursome, how whimsical soever 
 we may appear, there's one fixed principle that 
 runs through almost the whole race of us ; and 
 that's to please ourselves. Why dost think I got 
 my daughter? Why, there was something in't 
 that pleased me. Why dost think I marry my 
 daughter ? Why to please myself still. And what 
 is't that pleases me ? Why, my interest ; what 
 dost think it should be ? If JEsop's my son-in- 
 law, he'll make me a lord : if thou art my son-in- 
 law, thou'lt make me a grandfather. Now I having 
 more mind to be a lord than a grandfather, give 
 my daughter to him, and not to thee. 
 
 Oron. Then shall her happiness weigh nothing 
 with you? 
 
 Lear. Not this. If it did, I'd give her to thee, 
 and not to him. 
 
 Oron. Do you think forced marriage the way to 
 keep women virtuous ? 
 
 Lear. No ; nor I don't care whether women are 
 virtuous or not. 
 
 Oron. You know your daughter loves me. 
 
 Lear. I do so. 
 
 Oron. What if the children that JEsop may 
 happen to father should chance to be begot by me ? 
 
 Lear. Why, then JEsop would be the cuckold, not I. 
 
 Or on. Is that all your care ? 
 
 Lear. Yes : I speak as a father. 
 
 Oron. What think you of your child's concern 
 in t'other world "" 
 
 Lear. Why, I think it my child's concern, not 
 mine. I speak as a father. 
 
 Oron. Do you remember you once gave me 
 your consent to wed your daughter ? 
 
 Lear. I did. 
 
 Oron. Why did you so ? 
 
 Lear. Because you were the best match that 
 offered at that time. I did like a father. 
 
 Oron. Why then, sir, I'll do like a lover. I'll 
 make you keep your word, or cut your throat. 
 
 Lear. Who waits there, ha ? 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Seize me that bully there. Carry him to prison, 
 and keep him safe. [They seize him. 
 
 Oron. Why, you won't use me thus ? 
 Lear. Yes, but I will though. — Away with him ! 
 — Sir, your most humble servant : I wish you a 
 good night's rest ; and as far as a merry dream 
 goes, my daughter's at your service. 
 Oron. Death and furies ! 
 
 [Exeunt Servants ivith Oronces. 
 Lear. [Singing.] 
 
 Dol, de tol dol, dol dol, de tol dol : 
 Lilly Burleighre's lodged in a bough. 
 
 Enter a Troop of Musicians, Dancers, Sfc. 
 
 Lear. How now ! what have we got here ? 
 
 Mus. Sir, we are a troop of trifling fellows, 
 fiddlers and dancers, come to celebrate the wedding 
 of your fair daughter, if your honour pleases to 
 give us leave. 
 
 Lear. With all my heart : but who do you take 
 me for, sir ; ha ? 
 
 Mus. I take your honour for our noble governor 
 of Cyzicus. 
 
 Lear. Governor of Cyzicus ! Governor of a 
 cheese-cake ! I'm father-in-law to the great JEsop, 
 sirrah. — [All bow to him.] — {Aside.] I shall be a 
 great man. — {Aloud.] Come, tune your fiddles : 
 shake your legs ; get all things ready. My son-in- 
 law will be here presently.— I shall be a great man. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 1 Mus. A great marriage, brother : what dost 
 think will be the end on't ? 
 
 2 Mus. Why, I believe we shall see three turns 
 upon't. This old fellow here will turn fool ; his 
 daughter will turn strumpet ; and his son-in-law 
 will turn 'em both out of doors. But that's 
 nothing to thee nor me, as long as we are paid for 
 our fiddling. So tune away, gentlemen. 
 
 1 Mus. D'ye hear, trumpets, when the bride 
 appears, salute her with a melancholy waft. 'Twill 
 suit her humour ; for I guess she mayn't be over- 
 well pleased. 
 
 Re-enter Learchus with several Gentlemen, and a Prieat. 
 Lear. Gentlemen and friends, y'are all welcome. 
 I have sent to as many of you as our short time 
 would give me leave, to desire you would be wit- 
 nesses of the honour the great JEsop designs our- 
 self and family Hey ; who attends there ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Go let my daughter know I wait for her. — \_Exil 
 Servant] 'Tis a vast honour that is done me, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Gent. It is indeed, my lord. 
 
 Lear. [Aside.] Look you there ; if they don't 
 call me mv lord already — 1 shall be a great man. 
 
 c c 
 
336 
 
 JEWY 
 
 Re-enter Euphronia weeping, and leaning upon Doris, 
 both in deep mourning. 
 Lear. How now ! what's here ? all in deep 
 mourning ! — Here's a provoking baggage for you. 
 IThe trumpets sound a melancholy air till Msop appears; 
 and then the violins and hautboys strike up a Lanca- 
 shire hornpipe. 
 
 Re-enter Msop in a gay foppish dress, long peruke, %c., a 
 gaudy equipage of Pages and Footmen, all enter in an 
 airy brisk manner. 
 
 JEsop. [In an affected tone to Euphronia.] 
 Gad take my soul, mame, I hope I shall please you 
 now ! — Gentlemen all, I'm your humble servant. 
 I'm going to be a very happy man, you see. — [To 
 Euphronia.] When the heat of the ceremony's 
 over, if your ladyship pleases, mame, I'll wait upon 
 you to take the air in the Park. — Hey, page ; let 
 there be a coach and six horses ready instantly. — 
 [Observing her dress.} I vow to Gad, mame, I 
 was so taken up with my good fortune, I did not 
 observe the extreme fancy of your ladyship's 
 wedding-clothes ! — Infinitely pretty, as I hope to 
 be saved ! a world of variety, and not at all gaudy ! 
 — [To Learchus.] My dear father-in-law, em- 
 brace me. 
 
 Lear. Your lordship does me too much honour- 
 — [Aside.'} I shall be a great man. 
 
 JEsop. Come, gentlemen, are all things ready ? 
 Where's the priest ? 
 
 Priest. Here, my noble lord. 
 
 JEsop. Most reverend, will you please to say 
 grace that I may fall to, for I'm very hungry, and 
 here's very good meat. — But where's my rival all 
 this while ? The least we can do, is to invite him 
 to the wedding. 
 
 Lear. My lord, he's in prison. 
 
 JEsop. In prison ! how so ! 
 
 Lear. He would have murdered me. 
 
 JEsop. A bloody fellow ! But let's see him how- 
 ever. Send for him quickly. Ha, governor, that 
 handsome daughter of yours, I will so mumble 
 her ! — 
 
 Lear. I shall be a great man. 
 
 Re-enter Oronces, pinioned and guarded. 
 
 JEsop. O ho, here's my rival ! Then we have 
 all we want. — Advance, sir, if you please. I ciesire 
 you'll do me the favour to be a witness to my mar- 
 riage, lest one of these days you should take a 
 fancy to dispute my wife with me. 
 
 Oron. Do you then send for me to insult me ? 
 'Tis base in you. 
 
 JEsop. I have no time now to throw away upon 
 points of generosity ; I have hotter work upon my 
 hands. — Come, priest, advance. 
 
 Lear. Pray hold him fast there ; he has the devil 
 and all of mischief in's eye. 
 
 JEsop. [To Euphronia.] Will your ladyship 
 
 please, mame, to give me your fair hand. — Heyday ! 
 
 [She refuses her hand. 
 
 Lear. I'll give it you, my noble lord, if she 
 won't. — [Aside.} A stubborn, self-willed, stiff- 
 necked strumpet ! 
 
 [Learchus holds out her hand to iEsop, who takes it ,• 
 Oronoes stands on iEsop's left hand, and the Priest 
 before them. 
 
 JEsop. Let my rival stand next me : of all men 
 I'd have him be satisfied. 
 
 Oron. Barbarous inhuman monster ! 
 
 Msop. Now, priest, do thy office. 
 
 [Flourish with the trumpets, i 
 
 Priest Since the eternal laws of fate decree, 
 That he thy husband, she thy wife, should be, 
 May heaven take you to its care, 
 May Jupiter look kindly down, 
 Place on your heads contentment's crown ; 
 And may his godhead never frown 
 Upon this happy pair. 
 
 [Flourish again of trumpets. As the Priest pro- 
 nounces the last line, Msop joins Oronces and 
 Euphronia's hands. 
 
 Oron. O happy change ! Blessings on blessings 
 wait on the generous iEsop. 
 
 JEsop. Happy, thrice happy may you ever be, 
 And if you think there's something due to me, 
 Pay it in mutual love and constancy. 
 
 Euph. [ ToiEsop.] You'll pardon me, most gene- 
 If in the present transports of my soul, [rous man, 
 Which you yourself have by your bounty caused, 
 My willing tongue is tied from uttering 
 The thoughts that flow from a most grateful heart, 
 
 JEsop. For what I've done I merit little thanks, 
 Since what I've done, my duty bound me to. 
 I would your father had acquitted his : 
 But he who's such a tyrant o'er his children 
 To sacrifice their peace to his ambition, 
 Is fit to govern nothing but himself. 
 And therefore, sir, at my return to court 
 
 \_To Learchus. 
 I shall take care this city may be sway'd 
 By more humanity than dwells in you. 
 
 Lear. [Aside.} I shall be a great man. 
 
 Euph. [To tEsop.] Had I not reason, from 
 your constant goodness, 
 To judge your bounty, sir, is infinite, 
 I should not dare to sue for farther favours : 
 But pardon me, if imitating Heaven and you, 
 I easily forgive my aged father, 
 And beg that iEsop would forgive him too. 
 
 [Kneeling to him. 
 
 Msop. The injury he would have done to you 
 Was great indeed : 
 
 But 'twas a blessing he design'd for me. 
 If therefore you can pardon him, I may. 
 Your injured daughter, sir, has on her knees 
 
 \_To Learchus. 
 Entreated for her cruel barbarous father ; 
 And by her goodness has obtained her suit. 
 If in the remnant of your days you can find out 
 some way to recompense her, do it, that men and 
 gods may pardon you, as she and I have done. — 
 But let me see, I have one quarrel still to make up. 
 Where's my old friend Doris ? 
 
 Dor. She's here, sir, at your service ; and as 
 much your friend as ever : true to her principles, 
 and firm to her mistress. But she has a much better 
 opinion of you now than she had half an hour ago. 
 
 Msop. She has reason : for my soul appeared 
 then as deformed as my body. But I hope now 
 one may so far mediate for t'other, that provided 
 I don't make love, the women won't quarrel with 
 me ; for they are worse enemies even than they are 
 
 friends Come, gentlemen, I'll humour my dress 
 
 a little longer, and share with you in the diversions 
 
 these boon companions have prepared us. Let's 
 
 take our places, and see how they can divert us. 
 
 [vEsop leads Euphronia to her place. All being seated, 
 
 there follows a short concert of hautboys, trumpets, 
 
 SfC. After which a dance between an Old Man and a 
 
 Young Woman, who shuns him still as he comes near 
 
 her. At last he stops, and begins this dialogue, which 
 
 they sing together. 
 
iESQF. 
 
 387 
 
 Old Man. Why so cold, and why so coy ? 
 What I want in youth and fire, 
 I have in love and in desire : 
 To my arms, my love, my joy ! 
 Why so cold, and why so coy ? 
 
 Woman. 'Tis sympathy perhaps with you ; 
 You are cold, and I'm so too. 
 
 Old Man. My years alone have froze my blood ; 
 Youthful heat in female charms, 
 Glowing in my aged arms, 
 Would melt it down once more into a flood. 
 
 Woman. Women, alas, like flints, ne'er burn 
 To make a virgin know [alone ; 
 
 There's fire within the stone, 
 Some manly steel must boldly strike the blow. 
 
 Old Man. Assist me only with your charms, 
 You'll find I'm man, and still am bold ; 
 You'll find I still can strike, though old : 
 I only want your aid to raise my arm. 
 
 Enter a Youth, ivlio seizes on the Young Woman. 
 
 Youth. Who talks of charms, who talks of aid ? 
 I bring an arm 
 That wants no charm, 
 To rouse the fire that's in a flinty maid. 
 Retire, old age ! — 
 
 Woman. Winter, begone ! 
 
 Behold, the youthful Spring comes gaily on. 
 Here, here's a torch to light a virgin's fire ! 
 To my arms, my love, my joy ! 
 When women have what they desire, 
 They're neither cold nor coy. 
 [She takes him in her arms. The song and dance ended, 
 Msop takes Euphronja and Oronces by the hands, 
 lending them forwards. 
 
 JEsop. By this time, my young eager couple, 'tis 
 probable you would be glad to be alone ; perhaps 
 you'll have a mind to go to bed even without your 
 supper ; for brides and bridegrooms eat little on 
 their wedding-night. But since if matrimony were 
 worn as it ought to be, it would perhaps sit easier 
 about us than usually it does, I'll give you one 
 word of counsel, and so I shall release you. When 
 one is out of humour, let the other be dumb. Let 
 your diversions be such as both may have a share 
 in 'em. Never let familiarity exclude respect. Be 
 clean in your clothes, but nicely so in your persons. 
 Eat at one table, lie in one room, but sleep in two 
 beds : I'll tell the ladies why. — 
 
 [Turning to the boxes. 
 
 In the sprightly month of May, 
 
 When males and females sport and play, 
 
 And kiss and toy away the day ; 
 
 An eager sparrow and his mate 
 
 Chirping on a tree were sate, 
 
 Full of love — and full of prate. 
 
 They talk'd of nothing but their fires, 
 
 Of raging heats and strong desires, 
 
 Of eternal constancy ; 
 
 How true and faithful they would De, 
 
 Of this and that, and endless joys, 
 
 And a thousand more such toys : 
 
 The only thing they apprehended, 
 
 Was that their lives would be so short, 
 
 They could not finish half their sport 
 
 Before their days were ended. 
 
 But as from bough to bough they rove, 
 
 They chanced at last 
 
 In furious haste, 
 On a twig with birdlime spread, 
 (Want of a more downy bed) 
 To act a scene of love. 
 Fatal it proved to both their fires. 
 For though at length they broke away, 
 And balk'd the schoolboy of his prey, 
 Which made him weep the livelong day, 
 The bridegroom in the hasty strife, 
 Was stuck so fast to his dear wife, 
 That though he used his utmost art, 
 He quickly found it was in vain, 
 To put himself to further pain, 
 They never more must part. 
 A gloomy shade o'ercast his brow ; 
 He found himself — I know not how : 
 He look'd — as husbands often do. 
 Where'er he moved he felt her still, 
 She kiss'd him oft against his will : 
 Abroad, at home, at bed and board, 
 With favours she o'erwhelm'd her lord. 
 Oft he turn'd his head away, 
 And seldom had a word to say. 
 Which absolutely spoil'd her play, 
 For she was better stored. 
 Howe'er at length her stock was spent, 
 (For female fires sometimes may be 
 Subject to mortality ;) 
 
 So back to back they sit and sullenly repent. 
 But the mute scene was quickly ended, 
 The lady, for her share, pretended 
 The want of love lay at his door ; 
 For her part she had still in store 
 Enough for him and twenty more, 
 Which could not be contented. 
 He answer'd her in homely words, 
 (For sparrows are but ill-bred birds,) 
 That he already had enjoy'd 
 So much, that truly he was cloy'd. 
 Which so provoked her spleen, 
 That after some good hearty prayers, 
 A jostle, and some spiteful tears, 
 They fell together by the ears, 
 And ne'er were fond again. [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 CC2 
 
M S O P 
 
 PART II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Enter several Players, male and female. They salute 
 .<Esop. 
 
 JEsop. Well, good people, who are all you ? 
 
 All. Sir, we are players. 
 
 JEsop. Players ! what players ? 
 
 Play. Why, sir, we are stage-players, that's 
 our calling : though we play upon other things 
 too ; some of us play upon the fiddle ; some play 
 upon the flute ; we play upon one another ; we 
 play upon the town ; and we play upon the pa- 
 tentees. 
 
 Osop. Patentees ! prithee, what are they ? 
 
 Play. Why, they are, sir — sir, they are — cod, 
 I don't know what they are ! — fish or flesh — mas- 
 ters or servants : — sometimes one— sometimes 
 t'other, I think — just as we are in the mood. 
 
 JEsop. Why, I thought they had a lawful autho- 
 rity over you. 
 
 Play. Lawful authority, sir L — sir, we are free- 
 born Englishmen, we care not for law nor authority 
 neither, when we are out of humour. 
 
 JEsop. But I think they pretended at least to an 
 authority over you ; pray upon what foundation 
 was it built ? 
 
 Play. Upon a rotten one — if you'll believe us. 
 Sir, I'll tell you what the projectors did : they 
 embarked twenty thousand pound upon a leaky 
 vessel. — She was built at Whitehall ; I think they 
 called her — the Patent — ay, the Patent : her keel 
 was made of a broad seal — and the king gave them 
 a white staff for their mainmast. She was a pretty 
 tight frigate to look upon, indeed : they spared 
 nothing to set her off ; they gilded her, and painted 
 her, and rigged, and gunned her ; and so sent her 
 a-privateering. But the first storm that blew, 
 down went the mast ! ashore went the ship ! — 
 Crack ! says the keel : — Mercy ! cried the pilot ; but 
 the wind was so high, his prayers could not be 
 heard — so they split upon a rock — that lay hid 
 under a petticoat. 
 
 JEsop. A very sad story, this : but what became 
 of the ship's company ? 
 
 Play. Why, sir, your humble servants here, who 
 were the officers, and the best of the sailors — (little 
 Ben amongst the rest) seized on a small bark that 
 lay to our hand, and away we put to sea again. To 
 say the truth, we were better manned than rigged, 
 and ammunition was plaguy scarce amongst us. 
 However, a-cruising we went, and some petty small 
 prizes we have made ; but the blessing of heaven 
 not being among us — or how the devil 'tis, I can't 
 tell ; but we are not rich. 
 
 JEsop. Well, but what became of the rest of the 
 crew? 
 
 Play. Why, sir, as for the scoundrels, they, poor 
 dogs, stuck by the wreck. The captain gave 
 them bread and cheese, and good words. He told 
 them if they would patch her up, and venture 
 t'other cruise, he'd prefer 'em all ; so to work they 
 went, and to sea they got her. 
 
 JEsop. I hope he kept his word with 'em. 
 
 Play. That he did ; he made the boatswain's 
 mate lieutenant ; he made the cook doctor ; he was 
 | forced to be purser, and pilot, and gunner himself; 
 and the swabber took orders to be chaplain. 
 
 JEsop. But with such unskilful officers, I'm 
 afraid, they'll hardly keep above water long. 
 
 Play. Why, truly, sir, we care not how soon 
 they are under : but cursed folks thrive, I think. 
 I know nothing else that makes 'em swim. I'm 
 sure, by the rules of navigation, they ought to have 
 overset long since ; for they carry a great deal of 
 sail, and have very little ballast. 
 
 JEsop. I'm afraid you ruin one another. I fancy 
 if you were all in a ship together again, you'd have 
 less work and more profit. 
 
 Play. Ah, sir — we are resolved we'll never sail 
 under captain Patentee again. 
 
 JEsop. Prithee, why so ? 
 
 Play. Sir, he has used us like dogs. 
 
 Worn. And bitches too, sir. 
 
 JEsop. I'm sorry to hear that ; pray how was't 
 he treated you ? 
 
 Play. Sir, 'tis impossible to tell ; he used us 
 like the English at Amboyna. 
 
 j:Esop. But I would know some particulars ; tell 
 me what 'twas he did to you. 
 
 Play. What he did, sir ! — why, he did in the 
 first place, sir — in the first place, sir, he did — ecod, 
 I don't know what he did. — Can you tell, wife ? 
 
 Worn. Yes, marry can I ; and a burning shame 
 it was too. 
 
 Play. Oh, I remember now, sir, he would not 
 give us plums enough in our pudding. 
 
 JEsop. That indeed was very hard ; but did he 
 give you as many as he promised you ? 
 
 Play. Yes, and more ; but what of all that? we 
 had not as many as we had a mind to. 
 
 1 Worn. Sir, my husband tells. you truth. 
 
 JEsop. I believe he may. But what other 
 wrongs did he do you ? 
 
 1 Worn. Why, sir, he did not treat me with 
 respect ; 'twas not one day in three he would so 
 much as bid me good-morrow. 
 
 2 Worn. Sir, he invited me to dinner, and never 
 drank my health. 
 
SCKNE 1. 
 
 JESOP. 
 
 389 
 
 1 Worn. Then he cocked his hat at Mrs. 
 Pert. 
 
 2 Worn. Yes, and told Mrs. Slippery he had as 
 good a face as she had. 
 
 JEsop. Why, these were insufferable abuses ! 
 
 2 Play. Then, sir, I did but come to him one 
 day, and tell him I wanted fifty pound, and what do 
 you think he did by me, sir — sir, he turned round 
 upon his heel like a top — 
 
 1 Play. But that was nothing to the affront he 
 put upon me, sir. I came to him, and in very civil 
 words, as I thought, desired him to double my 
 pay : sir, would you believe it ? he had the bar- 
 barity to ask me if I intended to double my work ; 
 and because I told him no, sir — he did use me — 
 good Lord, how he did use me ! 
 
 JEsop. Prithee how ? 
 
 1 Play. Why, he walked off, and answered me 
 never a word. 
 
 JEsop. How had you patience ? 
 
 1 Play. Sir, I had not patience. I sent him a 
 challenge ; and what do you think his answer was ? 
 — he sent me word I was a scoundrel son of a 
 whore, and he would only fight me by proxy ! 
 
 JEsop. Very fine ! 
 
 1 Play. At this rate, sir, were we poor dogs 
 used — till one frosty morning down he comes 
 amongst us — and very roundly tells us — that for 
 the future, no purchase no pay. They that would 
 not work should not eat. — Sir, we at first asked 
 him coolly and civilly, Why ? His answer was, 
 because the town wanted diversion, and he wanted 
 money. — Our reply to this, sir, was very short ; 
 but I think to the purpose. 
 
 JEsop. What was it ? 
 
 1 Play. It was, sir, that so we wallowed in 
 plenty and ease — the town and he might be damned ! 
 This, sir, is the true history of separation — and we 
 hope you'll stand our friend. 
 
 JEsop. I'll tell you what, sirs — 
 
 I once a pack of beagles knew 
 
 That much resembled — I know who ; 
 
 With a good huntsman at their tail, 
 
 In full command, 
 
 With whip in hand, 
 
 They'd run apace 
 
 The cheerful chace, 
 
 And of their game were seldom known to fail. 
 
 But, being at length their chance to find 
 
 A huntsman of a gentler kind, 
 
 They soon perceived the rein was slack, 
 
 The word went quickly through the pack — 
 
 They one and all cried " Liberty ! 
 
 This happy moment we are free, 
 
 We'll range the woods, 
 
 Like nymphs and gods, 
 
 And spend our mouths in praise of mutiny." 
 
 With that old Jowler trots away, 
 
 And Bowman singles out his prey ; 
 
 Thunder bellow'd through the wood, 
 
 And swore he'd burst his guts with blood. 
 
 Venus tripp'd it o'er the plain, 
 
 With boundless hopes of boundless gain. 
 
 Juno, she slipp'd down the hedge, 
 
 But left her sacred word for pledge ; 
 
 That all she pick'd up by-the-by 
 
 Should to the public treasury. 
 
 And well they might rely upon her ; 
 
 For Juno was a bitch of honour. 
 
 In short they all had hopes to see 
 
 A heavenly crop of mutiny, 
 
 And so to reaping fell : 
 
 But in a little time they found, 
 
 It was the devil had till'd the ground, 
 
 And brought the seed from hell. 
 
 The pack divided, nothing throve : 
 
 Discord seized the throne of love. 
 
 Want and misery all endure. 
 
 All take pains, and all grow poor. 
 
 When they had toil'd the livelong day, 
 
 And came at night to view their prey, 
 
 Oft, alas ! so ill they sped, 
 
 That half went supperless to bed. 
 
 At length, they all in council sate, 
 
 Where at a very fair debate, 
 
 It was agreed at last, 
 
 That slavery with ease and plenty, 
 
 When hounds were something turn'd of twenty 
 
 Was much a better fate, 
 
 Than 'twas to work and fast. 
 
 1 Play. Well, sir — and what did they do then ? 
 
 JEsop. Why, they all went home to their kennel 
 again. If you think they did wisely, you'll do well 
 to follow their example. [Exit. 
 
 1 Play. Well, beagles, what think you of the 
 little gentleman's advice ? 
 
 2 Worn. I think he's a little ugly philosopher, 
 and talks like a fool. 
 
 1 Play. Ah, why, there's it now ! If he had 
 been a tall, handsome blockhead, he had talked 
 like a wise man. 
 
 2 Worn. Why, do you think, Mr. Jowler, that 
 we'll ever join again ? 
 
 1 Play. I do think, sweet Mrs. Juno, that if we 
 do not join again, you must be a little freer of your 
 carcass than you are, or you must bring down your 
 pride to a serge petticoat. 
 
 1 Worn. And do you think, sir, after the affronts 
 I have received, the patent and I can ever be 
 friends ? 
 
 1 Play. I do think, madam, that if my interest 
 had not been more affronted than your face, the 
 patent and you had never been foes. 
 
 1 Worn. And so, sir, then you have serious 
 thoughts of a reconciliation ? 
 
 1 Play. Madam, I do believe I may. 
 
 1 Worn. Why then, sir, give me leave to tell 
 you, that — make it my interest, and I'll have seri- 
 ous thoughts on't too. 
 
 2 Worn. Nay, if you are thereabouts, I desire to 
 come into the treaty. 
 
 3 Play. And I. 
 
 4 Play. And I. 
 
 2 Play. And I. No separate peace ; none of 
 your Turin play, I beseech you. 
 
 1 Play. Why then, since you are all so chris- 
 tianly disposed, I think we had best adjourn im- 
 mediately to our council-chamber ; choose some 
 potent prince for mediator and guarantee ; fix 
 upon the place of treaty, despatch our plenipos, 
 and whip up the peace like an oyster. For under 
 the rose, my confederates, here is such a damned 
 discount upon our bills, I'm afraid, if we stand it 
 out another campaign, we must live upon slender 
 subsistence. Exeunt. 
 
390 
 
 iESOP. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter a Country Gentleman, who walks to and fro, 
 looking angrily upon ^Esop. 
 
 JEsop. Have you any business with me, sir ? 
 
 Gent. I can't tell whether I have or not. 
 
 JEsop. You seem disturbed, sir. 
 
 Gent. I'm always so at the sight of a courtier. 
 
 JEsop. Pray what may it be that gives you so 
 great an antipathy to 'em ? 
 
 Gent. My profession. 
 
 JEsop. What's that ? 
 
 Gent. Honesty. 
 
 JEsop. 'Tis an honest profession. I hope, sir, 
 for the general good of mankind, you are in some 
 public employment. 
 
 Gent. So I am, sir ; no thanks to the court. 
 
 JEsop. You are then, I suppose, employed by — 
 
 Gent. My country. 
 
 JEsop. Who have made you — 
 
 Gent. A senator. 
 
 JEsop. Sir, I reverence you. \_Bowing, 
 
 Gent. Sir, you may reverence as low as you 
 please ; but I shall spare none of you. Sir, I am 
 entrusted by my country with above ten thousand 
 of their grievances, and in order to redress 'em, 
 my design is to hang ten thousand courtiers. 
 
 JEsop. Why, 'tis making short work, I must 
 confess. But are you sure, sir, that would do't ? 
 
 Gent. Sure ! — ay, sure. 
 
 JEsop. How do you know ? 
 
 Gent. Why, the whole country says so, and I at 
 the head of 'em. Now let me see who dares say 
 the contrary. 
 
 JEsop. Not I, truly. But, sir, if you won't take 
 it ill, I'll ask. you a question or two. 
 
 Gent. Sir, I shall take ill what I please ; and if 
 you, or e'er a courtier of you all, pretend the con- 
 trary, I say it's a breach of privilege. Now put 
 your question, if you think fit. 
 
 JEsop. Why then, sir, with all due regard to 
 your character, and your privilege too, I would be 
 glad to know what you chiefly complain of ? 
 
 Gent, Why, sir, I do chiefly complain, that we 
 have — a great many ships, and very little trade ; a 
 great many tenants, and very little money ; a great 
 many soldiers, and very little fighting ; a great many 
 gazettes, and little good news ; a great many states- 
 men, and very little wisdom ; a great many parsons, 
 and not an ounce of religion. 
 
 JEsop. Why truly, sir, I do confess these are 
 grievances very well worth your redressing. I per- 
 ceive you are truly sensible of our diseases, but I'm 
 afraid you are a little out in the cure. 
 
 Gent. Sir, I perceive you take me for a country 
 physician : but you shall find, sir, that a country 
 doctor is able to deal with a court quack; and to 
 show you that I do understand something of the 
 state of the body politic, I will tell you, sir, that I 
 have heard a wise man say, the court is the sto- 
 mach of the nation, in which, if the business be not 
 thoroughly digested, the whole carcass will be in 
 disorder. Now, sir, I do find by the latitude of 
 the members, and the vapours that fly into the 
 head, that this same stomach is full of indigestions, 
 which must be removed. And therefore, sir, I am 
 come post to town with my head full of crocus 
 metallorum, and design to give the court a vomit. 
 
 JEsop. Sir, the physic you mention, though 
 necessary sometimes, is of too violent a nature to 
 
 be used without a great deal of caution. I'm afraid 
 you are a little too rash in your prescriptions. Is 
 it not possible you may be mistaken in the cause 
 of the distemper ? 
 
 Gent. Sir, I do not think it possible I should 
 be mistaken in anything. 
 
 JEsop. Have you been long a senator ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 JEsop. Have you been much about town ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 JEsop. Have you conversed much with men of 
 business ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 JEsop. Have you made any serious inquiry into 
 the present disorders of the nation ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 JEsop. Have you ever heard what the men now 
 employed in business have to say for themselves ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 JEsop. How then do you know they deserve to 
 be punished for the present disorders in your affairs? 
 
 Gent. I'll tell you how I know. 
 
 JEsop. I would be glad to hear. 
 
 Gent. Why, I know by this — I know it, I say, 
 by this — that I'm sure on't. — And to give you 
 demonstration that I'm sure on't, there's not one 
 man in a good post in the nation — but I'd give my 
 vote to hang him. Now I hope you are convinced. 
 
 JEsop. As for example : the first minister of 
 state, why would you hang him ? 
 
 Gent. Because he gives bad counsel. 
 
 JEsop. How do you know ? 
 
 Gent. Why they say so. 
 
 JEsop. And who would you put in his room ? 
 
 Gent. One that would give better. 
 
 JEsop. Who's that ? 
 
 Gent. Myself. 
 
 JEsop. The secretary of state, why would you 
 hang him ? 
 
 Gent. Because he has not good intelligence. 
 
 JEsop. How do you know ? 
 
 Gent. I have heard so. 
 
 JEsop. And who would you put in his place ? 
 
 Gent. My father. 
 
 JEsop. The treasurer, why would you hang him ? 
 
 Gent. Because he does not understand his busi- 
 
 ness. 
 
 JEsop. 
 
 Gent. 
 
 JEsop. 
 
 Gent. 
 
 JEsop 
 
 Gent. 
 
 JEsop. 
 
 Gent. 
 
 JEsop 
 stead ? 
 
 Gent. 
 
 JEsop 
 
 Gent. 
 paign. 
 
 JEsop. And how do you know 'twas in his power ? 
 
 Gent. Why I don't care a souse whether it was 
 in his power or not. But I have a son at home, a 
 brave chopping lad ; he's been captain in the mi- 
 litia these twelve months, and I'd be glad to see 
 him in his place. What do ye stare for, sir ? lia ! 
 Egad I tell you he'd scour all to the devil. He's 
 none of your fencers, none of your sa-sa men. 
 Numphs is downright, that's his play. You may 
 
 How do you know ? 
 
 I dreamt so. 
 
 And who would you have succeed him ? 
 
 My uncle. 
 
 , The admiral, why would you hang him ? 
 Because he has not destroyed the enemies. 
 
 How do you know he could do it ? 
 
 Why, I believe so. 
 . And who would you have command in his 
 
 My brother. 
 
 And the general, why would you hang him ? 
 
 Because he took ne'er a town last cam- 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 JESOP. 
 
 391 
 
 see his courage in his face : he has a pair of cheeks 
 like two bladders, a nose as flat as your hand, and 
 a forehead like a bull. 
 
 JEsop. In short, sir, I find if you and your family 
 were provided for, things would soon grow better 
 than they do. 
 
 Gent. And so they would, sir. Clap me at 
 the head of the state, and Numphs at the head of 
 the army ; he with his club-musket, and I with 
 my club-headpiece, we'd soon put an end to your 
 business. 
 
 JEsop. I believe you would indeed. And there- 
 fore since I happen to be acquainted with your 
 extraordinary abilities, I am resolved to give the 
 king an account of you, and employ my interest 
 with him, that you and your son may have the 
 posts you desire. 
 
 Gent. Will you, by the Lord ? — Give me your 
 fist, sir — the only honest courtier that ever I met 
 with in my life. 
 
 JEsop. But, sir, when I have done you this 
 mighty piece of service, I shall have a small request 
 to beg of you, which I hope you won't refuse me. 
 
 Gent. What's that ? 
 
 JEsop. Why 'tis in behalf of the two officers 
 who are to be displaced to make room for you and 
 your son. 
 
 Gent. The secretary and the general ? 
 
 JEsop. The same. 'Tis pity they should be 
 quite out of business ; I must therefore desire 
 you'll let me recommend one of 'em to you for 
 your bailiff, and t'other for your huntsman. 
 
 Gent. My bailiff and my huntsman ! — Sir, that's 
 not to be granted. 
 
 JEsop. Pray, why? 
 
 Gent. Why '. — because one would ruin my land, 
 and t'other would spoil my fox-hounds. 
 
 JEsop. Why do you think so ? 
 
 Gent. Why do I think so ! — These courtiers 
 will ask the strangest questions ! — Why, sir, do 
 you think that men bred up to the state and the 
 army, can understand the business of ploughing 
 and hunting ? 
 
 JEsop. I did not know but they might. 
 
 Gent. How could you think so ? 
 
 JEsop. Because I see men bred up to ploughing 
 and hunting, understand the business of the state 
 and the army. 
 
 Gent. I'm shot— I ha'nt one word to say for 
 myself — I never was so caught in my life. 
 
 JEsop. I perceive, sir, by your looks what I 
 have said has made some impression upon you ; 
 and would perhaps do more if you would give it 
 leave. — {Taking his hand.} Come, sir, though I 
 am a stranger to you, I can be your friend ; my 
 favour at court does not hinder me from being a 
 lover of my country. 'Tis my nature as well as 
 principles to be pleased with the prosperity of 
 mankind. I wish all things happy, and my study 
 is to make them so. The distempers of the 
 government (which I own are great) have em- 
 ployed the stretch of my understanding, and 
 the deepest of my thoughts, to penetrate the 
 cause, and to find out the remedy. But, alas ! all 
 the product of my study is this: — that I find there 
 is too near a resemblance between the diseases of 
 the state and those of the body, for the most 
 expert minister to become a greater master in one 
 than the college is in t'other : and how far their 
 skill extends you may see by this lump upon rny 
 
 back. Allowances in all professions there must be, 
 since 'tis weak man that is the weak professor. 
 Believe me, senator, for I have seen the proof 
 on't ; the longest beard amongst us is a fool. 
 Could you but stand behind the curtain, and there 
 observe the secret springs of state, you'd see in all 
 the good or evil that attends it, ten ounces of 
 chance for one grain either of wisdom or roguery. 
 You'd see, perhaps, a venerable statesman 
 Sit fast asleep in a great downy chair ; 
 Whilst in that soft vacation of his thought, 
 Blind chance (or what at least we blindly call so) 
 Shall so dispose a thousand secret wheels, 
 That when he wakes he needs but write his name. 
 To publish to the world some bless'd event, 
 For which his statue shall be raised in brass. 
 Perhaps a moment thence you shall behold him 
 Torturing his brain ; his thoughts all stretch'd upon 
 The rack for public service : the livelong night, 
 When all the world's at rest, 
 Consumed in care, and watching for their safety, 
 When by a whirlwind in his fate, 
 In spite of him some mischief shall befal 'em, 
 For which a furious sentence straight shall pass, 
 And they shall vote him to the scaffold. 
 Even thus uncertain are rewards and punishments ; 
 And even thus little do the people know 
 When 'tis the statesman merits one or t'other. 
 
 Gent. Now I do believe I am beginning to be 
 a wise man ; for I never till now perceived I was a 
 fool. But do you then really believe, sir, our men 
 in business do the best they can ? 
 
 JEsop. Many of 'em do : some perhaps do not. 
 But this you may depend upon ; he that is out of 
 business is the worst judge in the world of him that 
 is in : first, because he seldom knows anything of 
 the matter : and, secondly, because he always 
 desires to get his place. 
 
 Gent. And so, sir you turn the tables upon the 
 plantiff, and lay the fool and knave at his door. 
 
 JEsop. If I do him wrong, I'm sorry for't. 
 Let him examine himself, he'll find whether I do 
 or not. {Exit. 
 
 Gent. Examine ! — I think I have had enough 
 of that already. There's nothing left, that I know 
 of, but to give sentence : and truly I think there's 
 no great difficulty in that. A very pretty fellow I 
 am indeed ! Here am I come bellowing and roar- 
 ing two hundred miles post to find myself an ass ; 
 when with one quarter of an hour's consideration I 
 might have made the self-same discovery, without 
 going over my threshold. Well ! if ever they sen d 
 me on their errand to reform the state again, I'll 
 be damned. But this I'll do : I'll go home and 
 reform my family if I can : them I'm sure I know. 
 There's my father's a peevish old coxcomb : there's 
 my uncle's a drunken old sot : there's my bro- 
 ther's a cowardly bully : son Numphs is a lubberly 
 whelp : I've a great ramping daughter, that stares 
 like a heifer ; and a wife's that's a slatternly sow. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Enter a young, gay, airy Beau, who stands smiling 
 
 contemptibly upon iEsop. 
 
 JEsop. Well, sir, what are you ? 
 Beau. A fool. 
 
 JEsop. That's impossible ; — for if thou wer't 
 thou'dst think thyself a wise man. 
 
392 
 
 MSOP. 
 
 Beau. So I do. — This is my own opinion — the 
 t'other' s my neighbours'. [Walking airily about. 
 
 Msop. {Gazing after him.} Have you any 
 business with me, sir ? 
 
 Beau. Sir, I have business with nobody ; plea- 
 sure's my study. 
 
 Msop. [Aside.] An odd fellow this ! — [Aloud.] 
 Pray, sir, who are you ? 
 
 Beau. I can't tell. 
 
 Msop. Do you know who I am ? 
 
 Beau. No, sir : I'm a favourite at court, and I 
 neither know myself nor anybody else. 
 
 Msop. Are you in any employment ? 
 
 Beau. Yes. 
 
 JEsop. Whatis't? 
 
 Beau. I don't know the name on't. 
 
 Msop. You know the business on't, I hope ? 
 
 Beau. That I do — the business of it is — to — 
 put in a deputy, and receive the money. 
 
 Msop. Pray what may be your name ? 
 
 Beau. Empty. 
 
 Msop. Where do you live : 
 
 Beau. In the side-box. 
 
 JEsop. What do you do there ? 
 
 Beau. I ogle the ladies. 
 
 JEsop. To what purpose ? 
 
 Beau. To no purpose. 
 
 JEsop. Why then do you do it ? 
 
 Beau. Because they like it, and I like it. 
 
 JEsop. Wherein consists the pleasure ? 
 ' Beau. In playing the fool. 
 
 JEsop. Pray sir, what age are you? 
 
 Beau. Five-and-twenty, my body ; my head's 
 about fifteen. 
 
 JEsop. Is your father living ? 
 
 Beau. Dead, thank God. 
 
 JEsop. Has he been long so ? 
 
 Beau. Positively yes. 
 
 JEsop. Where were you brought up ? 
 
 Beau. At school. 
 
 JEsop. What school ? 
 
 Beau. The school of Venus. 
 
 Msop. Were you ever at the university ? 
 
 Beau. Yes. 
 
 Msop. What study did you follow there ? 
 
 Beau. My bedmaker. 
 
 Msop. How long did you stay ? 
 
 Beau. Till I had lost my maidenhead. 
 
 JEsop. Why did you come away ? 
 
 Beau. Because I was expelled. 
 
 Msop. Where did you go then ? 
 
 Beau. To court. 
 
 Msop. Who took care of your education there ? 
 
 Beau. A whore and a dancing-master. 
 
 Msop. What did you gain by them ? 
 
 Beau. A minuet and the pox. 
 
 Msop. Have you an estate ? 
 
 Beau. I had. 
 
 Msop. What's become on't ? 
 
 Beau. Spent. 
 
 Msop. In what ? 
 
 Beau. In a twelvemonth. 
 
 Msop. But how ? 
 
 Beau. Why, in dressing, drinking, whoring, 
 claps, dice, and scriveners. What do you think 
 of me now, old gentleman ? 
 
 .JEsop. Pray what do you think of yourself? 
 
 Beau. I don't think at all : I know how to be- 
 stow my time better. 
 
 Msop. Are you married ? 
 
 Beau. No — have you ever a daughter to bestow 
 upon me ? 
 
 Msop. She would be well bestowed ! 
 
 Beau. Why, I'm a strong young dog, you old 
 put, you : she may be worse coupled. 
 
 Msop. Have you then a mind to a wife, sir ? 
 
 Beau. Yaw, min Heer. 
 
 Msop. What would you do with her ? 
 
 Beau. Why, I'd take care of her affairs, rid 
 her of all her troubles, her maidenhead, and her 
 portion. 
 
 Msop. And pray what sort of wife would you be 
 willing to throw yourself away upon ? 
 
 Beau. Why, upon one that has youth, beauty, 
 quality, virtue, wit, and money. 
 
 Msop. And how may you be qualified your- 
 self, to back you in your pretensions to such a 
 one ? 
 
 Beau. Why, I am qualified with — a periwig— a 
 snuffbox— a feather— a — smooth face — a fool's head 
 — and a patch. 
 
 Msop. But one question more : what settle- 
 ments can you make ? 
 
 Beau. Settlements ! — why, if she be a very great 
 heiress indeed, I believe I may settle — myself upon 
 her for life, and my pox upon her children for 
 ever. 
 
 Msop. 'Tis enough ; you may expect I'll serve 
 you, if it lies in my way. But I would not have 
 you rely too much upon your success, because 
 people sometimes are mistaken ; as for example — 
 
 An ape there was of nimble parts „ 
 
 A great intruder into hearts, 
 
 As brisk, and gay, and full of air, 
 
 As you, or I, or any here ; 
 
 Rich in his dress, of splendid show, 
 
 And with a head like any beau : 
 
 Eternal mirth was in his face ; 
 
 Where'er he went, 
 
 He was content, 
 
 So Fortune had but kindly sent 
 
 Some ladies — and a looking-glass. 
 
 Encouragement they always gave him, 
 
 Encouragement to play the fool ; 
 
 For soon they found it was a tool, 
 
 Would hardly be sb much in love, 
 
 But that the mumbling of a glove, 
 
 Or tearing of a fan, would save him. 
 
 These bounties he accepts as proof 
 Of feats done by his wit and youth . 
 He gives their freedom gone for ever, 
 Concludes each female heart undone, 
 Except that very happy one, 
 To which he'd please to do the favour. 
 In short, so smooth his matters went, 
 He guess'd, where'er his thoughts were bent. 
 The lady he must carry. 
 So put on a fine new cravat, 
 He comb'd his wig, he cock'd his hat, 
 And gave it out he'd marry. 
 But here, alas ! he found to's cost, 
 He had reckon'd long without his host : 
 For wheresoe'er he made the attack, 
 Poor pug with shame was beaten back. 
 
 The first fair she he had in chace. 
 Was a young cat, extremely rich, 
 Her mother was a noted witch; 
 So had the daughter proved but civil, 
 He had been related to the devil. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 ^ESOP. 
 
 393 
 
 But when he came 
 To urge his flame, 
 She scratch'd him o'er the face. 
 
 With that he went among the bitches, 
 Such as had beauty, wit, and riches, 
 And swore Miss Maulken, to her cost, 
 Should quickly see what she had lost : 
 But the poor unlucky swain 
 Miss'd his shepherdess again ; 
 His fate was to miscarry. 
 It was his destiny to find, 
 That cats and dogs are of a mind, 
 When monkeys come to marry. 
 
 Beau. 'Tis very well ; — 'tis very well, old spark ; 
 I say 'tis very well. Because I han't a pair of plod 
 shoes and a dirty shirt, you think a woman won't 
 venture upon me for a husband. Why now to 
 show you, old father, how little you philosophers 
 know of the ladies — I'll tell you an adventure of a 
 friend of mine. 
 
 A band, a bob-wig, and a feather, 
 Attack'd a lady's heart together ; 
 The band in a most learned plea, 
 Made up of deep philosophy, 
 Told her, if she would please to wed 
 A reverend beard, and take instead 
 Of vigorous youth, 
 Old solemn truth, 
 
 With books and morals into bed, 
 How happy she would be. 
 
 The Bob he talk'd of management, 
 What wondrous blessings heaven sent 
 On care, and pains, and industry ; 
 And truly he must be so free, 
 To own he thought your airy beaux, 
 With powder'd wigs and dancing shoes, 
 Were good for nothing (mend his soul !) 
 But prate, and talk, and play the fool. 
 
 He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth, 
 And that to be the dearest wife 
 Of one who labour'd all his life, 
 To make a mine of gold his own, 
 And not spend sixpence when he'd done, 
 Was heaven upon earth. 
 
 When these two blades had done, d'ye see, 
 The feather (as it might be me) 
 Steps out, sir, from behind the screen, 
 With such an air, and such a mien, 
 Look you, old gentleman, in short, 
 He quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport. 
 
 It proved such sunshine weather, 
 That you must know, at the first beck 
 The lady leap'd about his neck, 
 And off they went together. 
 
 There's a tale for your tale, old dad, and so — 
 serviteur ! [Exit. 
 
THE FALSE FRIEND, 
 
 a ffiomrtig* 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Don FELrx de Cabrera, a Gentleman of Valencia. 
 
 Don Pedro Osorio, "} 
 
 Don Guzman de Torrellas, \Lovers o/Leonora. 
 
 Don John de Alvarada, J 
 
 Lopez, Servant to Don John. 
 
 Galindo, Servant to Don Guzman. 
 
 Leonora, Daughter to Don Felix. 
 Isabella, her Friend, and Sister to Gvzmau. 
 Jacinta, Maid to Leonora. 
 
 SCENE,— Valencia. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY CAPT. GRIFFIN. 
 
 You dread reformers of an impious age, 
 You awful cat-a-nine tails to the stage, 
 This once be just, and in our cause engage. 
 To gain your favour, we your rules obey, 
 And treat you with a moral piece to-day ; 
 So moral, we're afraid 'twill damn the play. 
 
 For though ye have long been leagued (as people 
 
 tell) 
 To reduce the power exorbitant of hell ; 
 No troops you send, to abate it in this field, 
 But leave us still exposed, to starve or yield. 
 Your scouts indeed sometimes come stealing in, 
 To observe this formidable camp of sin, 
 And whisper, if we'll piously declare, 
 What aids you then will send to help us through 
 
 the war. 
 To this we answer, We're a feeble state, 
 And cannot well afford to love or hate, 
 So should not meddle much in your debate. 
 But since your cause is good, thus far we'll 
 
 go, 
 When Portugal declares, we'll do so too. 
 Our cases, as we think, are much alike, 
 And on the same conditions we should strike ; 
 Send to their aid a hundred men-of-war, 
 To ours a hundred squadrons of the fair ; 
 
 Rig out your wives and daughters all around, 
 (I mean who are fit for service, tight and sound) 
 And for a proof our meaning is sincere, 
 See but the ships are good, and if you fear 
 A want of equipage, we'll man them here. 
 
 These are the terms, on which you may engage 
 The poet's fire, to batter from the stage. 
 Useful ally ! whose friendship lets you in 
 Upon the weak and naked side of sin ; 
 Against your old attack, the foe's prepared, 
 Well fortified, and always on his guard ; 
 The sacred shot you send are flung in vain ; 
 By impious hands, with insolent disdain, 
 They're gather'd up, and fired at you again. 
 Through baffled toils, and unsuccessful cares, 
 In slaughter, blood, and wounds, and pious snares, 
 Ye have made a Flanders war these fifteen hundred 
 
 years. 
 Change then your scheme, if you'd your foe annoy, 
 And the infernal Bajazet destroy : 
 Our aid accept, 
 
 We have gentler stratagems which may succeed ; 
 We'll tickle 'em, where you would make 'em bleed: 
 In sounds less harsh we'll teach 'em to obey ; 
 In softer strains the evil spirit lay, 
 And steal their immorality away. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — Don John's Lodgings. 
 Enter Don John beating Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Hold, sir, hold ; there's enough in all con- 
 science ; I'm reasonable, I ask no more ; I'm 
 content. 
 
 Don John. Then there's double content, you 
 dog, and a brace of contents more into the bargain. 
 Now is't well ? [Striking again and again. 
 
 Lop. O mighty well, sir, you'll never mend it ; 
 pray leave it as 'tis. 
 
 Don John. Look you, you jackanapes, if ever I 
 hear an offer at your impertinent advice again — 
 
 Lop. And why, sir, will you stifle the most 
 useful of my qualifications ? 
 
 Don John. Either, sirrah, I pass for a very great 
 blockhead with you, or you are pleased to reckon 
 much upon my patience. 
 
SCENE 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 395 
 
 Lop. Your patience, sir, indeed is great ; I feel 
 at this time forty proofs on't upon my shoulders. 
 But really, sir, I would advise you to — 
 
 Don John. Again ! I can bear thee no longer. 
 Here, pen and ink, I'll give thee thy discharge. 
 Did I take you for a valet, or a privy-counsellor, 
 sir? 
 
 Lop. 'Tis confessed, sir, you took me but for 
 humble employment ; but my intention was agree- 
 ably to surprise you with some superior gifts of 
 nature, to your faithful slave. I profess, my noble 
 master, a most perfect knowledge of men and man- 
 ners. Yours, gracious sir, (with all respect I 
 speak it) are not irreprehensible. And I'm afraid 
 in time, sir, I am indeed, they'll wriggle you into 
 some ill-favoured affair, whence with all my under- 
 standing I shall be puzzled to bring you off. 
 
 Don John. Very well, sir. 
 
 Lop. And therefore, sir, it is, that I (poor Lopez 
 as I am) sometimes take leave to moralise.. 
 
 Don John. Go, go, moralise in the market-place; 
 I'm quite worn out. Once more, march. 
 
 Lop. Is the sentence definitive ? 
 
 Don John. Positive. 
 
 Lop. Then pray let us come to account, and see 
 what wages are due. 
 
 Don John. Wages ! Refund what you have had, 
 you rascal you, for the plague you have given me. 
 
 Lop. Nay, if I must lose my money, then let 
 me claim another right ; losers have leave to speak. 
 Therefore advance, my tongue, and say thy plea- 
 sure ; tell this master of mine, he should die with 
 shame at the life he leads : so much unworthy of a 
 man of honour. Tell him — 
 
 Don John. I'll hear no more. 
 
 Lop. You shall indeed, sir. 
 
 Don John. Here, take thy money and begone. 
 
 Lop. Counters all ; adieu you glistering spangles 
 of the world ! farewell ye tempters of the great ; 
 not me ! Tell him — 
 
 Don John. Stay. 
 
 Lop. Go on. — Tell him he's worse among the 
 women than a ferret among the rabbits ; at one and 
 all, from the princess to the tripe-woman ; hand- 
 some, ugly, old women and children, all go down. 
 
 Don John. Very well. 
 
 Lop. It is indeed, sir, and so are the stories you 
 tell them to bring them to your matters. The 
 handsome, she's all divinity to be sure ; the ugly, 
 she's so agreeable, were it not for her virtue, she'd 
 be overrun with lovers ; the light airy flipfiap, she 
 kills him with her motions ; the dull heavy-tailed 
 maukin melts him down with her modesty ; the 
 scragged lean pale face has a shape for destruction ; 
 the fat overgrown sow has an air of importance ; 
 the tall awkward trapes with her majesty wounds ; 
 the little short trundle-tail shoots a je-ne-sais-quoi: 
 in a word, they have all something for him — and 
 he has something for 'em all. 
 
 Don John. And thus, you fool, by a general 
 attack, I keep my heart my own ; lie with them 
 that like me, and care not sixpence for them that 
 don't. 
 
 Lop. "Well said, well said, a very pretty amuse- 
 ment truly ! But pray, sir, by your leave (cere- 
 mony aside) since you are pleased to clear up into 
 conversation, what mighty matters do you expect 
 from boarding a woman you know is already heart 
 and soul engaged to another ? 
 
 Don John. Why I expect her heart and soul 
 
 should disengage in a week. If you live a little 
 longer with me, sirrah, you'll know how to instruct 
 your next master to the purpose : and therefore 
 that I may charitably equip you for a new service, 
 now I'm turning you out of my own, I'll let you 
 know, that when a woman loves a man best, she's 
 in the most hopeful way of betraying him ; for 
 love, like fortune, turns upon a wheel, and is very 
 much given to rising and falling. 
 
 Lop. Like enough. But as much upon the 
 weathercock as the ladies are, there are some the 
 wind must blow hard to fetch them about. When 
 such a sturdy hussy falls in your honour's way, 
 what account may things turn to then, an't please 
 ye ? 
 
 Don John. They turn to a bottle, you puppy. 
 
 Lop. I find they'll always turn to something ; 
 but when you pursue a poor woman only to make 
 her lover jealous, what pleasure can you take in 
 that ? 
 
 Don John. That pleasure. 
 
 Lop. Look you there again ! 
 
 Don John. Why, sirrah, d'you think there's no 
 pleasure in spoiling their sport, when 1 can't make 
 my own ? 
 
 Lop. Oh ! to a good-natured man, be sure there 
 must ; but suppose, instead of fending and proving 
 with his mistress, he should come to — a — parrying 
 and thrusting with you ; what becomes of your 
 joy then, my noble master ? 
 
 Don John. Why do you think I'm afraid to 
 fight, you rascal ? 
 
 Lop. I thought we were talking of what we loved, 
 not what we feared, sir. 
 
 Don John. Sir, I love everything that leads to 
 what I love most. 
 
 Lop. I know, sir, you have often fought upon 
 these occasions. 
 
 Don John. Therefore that has been no stop to 
 my pleasures. 
 
 Lop. But you have never been killed once, sir ; 
 and when that happens, you will for ever lose the 
 pleasure of — 
 
 Don John. [Striking him.] Breaking your 
 head, you rascal, which will afflict me heartily. 
 — [Knocking at the door.] See who knocks so 
 hard. 
 
 Lop. Somebody that thinks I can hear no better 
 than you think I can feel. 
 
 Enter Don Guzman. 
 
 Don Guz. Don John de Alvarada, is he here ? 
 
 Lop. There's the man. — {Aside.] Show me 
 such another if you can find him. 
 
 Don Guz. Don John, I desire to speak with you 
 alone. 
 
 Don John. You may speak before this fellow, 
 sir ; he's trusty. 
 
 Don Guz. 'Tis an affair of honour, sir. 
 
 Don John. Withdraw, Lopez. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] Behind the door I will, and no 
 farther. This fellow looks as if he came to save 
 me a broken head. {Retires. 
 
 Don Guz. I call myself Don Guzman de Tor- 
 rellas, you know what blood I spring from ; I am 
 a cadet, and by consequence not rich ; but I am 
 esteemed by men of honour : I have been forward 
 to expose myself in battles abroad, and I have met 
 with applause in our feasts at home. 
 
 Lop. So much by way of introduction. [Aside. 
 
396 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Don John. I understand your merit, sir, and 
 should be glad to do as much by your business. 
 
 Don Guz. Give attention, and you'll be in- 
 structed. I love Leonora, and from my youth have 
 done so. Long she rejected my sighs, and despised 
 my tears, but my constancy at last has vanquished. 
 I have found the way to her heart, and nothing is 
 wanting to complete my joy but the consent of 
 her father, whom I cannot yet convince that the 
 wants in my fortune are recompensed by the merits 
 of my person. 
 
 Lop. He's a very dull fellow indeed. [Aside. 
 
 Don Guz. In the meanwhile the object of my 
 vows is a sharer in my grief, and the only cordial 
 we have is the pleasure of a secret conversation, 
 through a small breach I have made in a thin par- 
 tition that divides our lodgings. I trust you, Don 
 John, with this important secret ; friend or enemy, 
 you are noble, therefore keep it, I charge your 
 honour with it. 
 
 Lop. You could not put it in better hands. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Don Guz. But more, my passion for this lady is 
 not hid ; all Valencia is acquainted with my wishes, 
 and approves my choice. You alone, John de 
 Alvarada, seeming ignorant of my vows, dare 
 traverse my amour. 
 
 Don John. Go on. 
 
 Lop. These words import war ; lie close, Lopez. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Don Guz. You are the Argus of our street, and 
 the spy of Leonora ; whether Diana, by her bor- 
 rowed light, supplies the absence of the Astrea of 
 day, or that the shades of night cover the earth 
 with impenetrable darkness ; you still attend till 
 Aurora's return, under the balcony of that adorable 
 beauty. 
 
 Don John. So. 
 
 Don Guz. Wherever she moves, you still follow 
 as her shadow, at church, at plays ; be her business 
 with heaven or earth, your importunity is such, 
 you'll share it. 
 
 Lop. He is a forward fellow, that's the truth on't. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Don Guz. But what's still farther, you take the 
 liberty to copy me ; my words, my actions, every 
 motion is no sooner mine, but yours. In short, 
 you ape me, Don; and to that point, I once de- 
 signed to stab myself, and try if you would follow 
 me in that too. 
 
 Lop. No, there the monkey would have left you. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Don Guz. But to conclude. 
 
 Don John. 'Tis time. 
 
 Don Guz. My patience, Don, is now no more ; 
 and I pronounce, that if henceforth I find you 
 under Leonora's window, who never wished, fond 
 man, to see you there, I by the ways of honour 
 shall fix you in another station. I leave you to 
 consider on't. Farewell- [Exit. 
 
 Don John. Hold, sir, we had e'en as good do 
 this honourable deed now. 
 
 Re-enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. No, pray, sir, let him go, and may be you 
 mayn't have occasion to do it at all. 
 
 Don John. I thought at first the coxcomb came 
 upon another subject, which would have embar- 
 rassed me much more. 
 
 Lop. Now this was a subject would have em- 
 barrassed me enough in all conscience. 
 
 Don John. I was afraid he came to forbid me 
 seeing his sister Isabella, with whom I'm upon 
 very good terms. 
 
 Lop. Why now that's a hard case, when you 
 have got a man's sister, you can't leave him his 
 mistress. 
 
 Don John. No, changeling, I hate him enough, 
 to love every woman that belongs to him : and the 
 fool has so provoked me by his threatening, that I 
 believe I shall have a stroke at his mother before I 
 think myself even with him. 
 
 Lop. A most admirable way to make up accounts 
 truly ! 
 
 Don John. A son of a whore ! 'sdeath, I did 
 not care sixpence for the slut before, but now I'll 
 have her maidenhead in a week, for fear the rogue 
 should marry her in ten days. 
 
 Lop. Mum ; here's her father : I'll warrant 
 this old spark comes to correct our way of living 
 too. 
 
 Enter Don Fjsux. 
 
 Don Fel. Don John 
 
 Don John. Don Felix, do I see you in my poor 
 dwelling ? Pray, to what lucky accident do I owe 
 this honour ? 
 
 Don Fel. That I may speak to you without 
 constraint, pray send away your servant. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] What the pox have I done to 
 them, they are all so uneasy at my company I 
 
 Don John. Give us chairs, and leave the room. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.'] If this old fellow comes to 
 quarrel with us too, he'll at least do us less harm. 
 
 Don Fel. Won't you retire, friend ? 
 
 [Looking behind. 
 
 Don John. Begone, sirrah ! 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] Pox take ye, you old prig you ! 
 But I shall be even with you ! [Hides himself, 
 
 Don Fel. You know me, sir ? 
 
 Don John. I do, sir. 
 
 Don Fel. That I call myself— 
 
 Don John. Don Felix. 
 
 Don Fel. That I am of the house of — 
 
 Don John. Cabrera, one of the first of Valencia. 
 
 Don Fel. That my estate is — 
 
 Don John. Great. 
 
 Don Fel. You know ^ that I have some repu- 
 tation in the world. 
 
 Don John. I know your reputation equals vour 
 birth. 
 
 Don Fel. And you are not ignorant, that heaven 
 for the consolation of my grey hairs has given me 
 an only daughter, who is not deformed. 
 
 Don John. Beauteous as light. 
 
 Don Fel. Well shaped, witty, and endowed 
 with — 
 
 Don John. All the good qualities of mind and 
 body. 
 
 Don Fel. Since you are satisfied with all this, 
 hearken, I pray, with attention, to the business 
 that brings me hither. 
 
 Don John. I shall. 
 
 Don Fel. We all know, Don John, some by their 
 own experience, some by that of others, how nice 
 a gentleman's honour is, and how easily tarnished ; 
 an eclaircissement managed with prudence, often 
 prevents misfortunes that perhaps might be upon 
 the point of attending us. I have thought it my 
 duty to acquaint you, that I have seen your designs 
 upon my daughter. You pass nights entire under 
 her window, as if you were searching an oppor- 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 397 
 
 tunity to get into my house ; there is nobody in 
 the town but has taken notice of your proceedings ; 
 you give the public a subject for disadvantageous 
 discourse ; and though in reality Leonora's virtue 
 receives no prejudice by it, her reputation daily 
 runs some risk. My years have taught me to judge 
 right of things : and yet I have not been able to 
 decide what your end can be ; you can't regard 
 my daughter on a foot of gallantry, you know her 
 virtue and my birth too well ; and for a wife you 
 seem to have no thought, since you have yet made 
 no demand to me : what then is your intention ? 
 You have heard perhaps, I have hearkened to a 
 gentleman of Toledo, a man of merit. I own I 
 have, and I expect him daily here ; but, Don John, 
 if 'tis that which hinders you from declaring in 
 form, I'll ease you of a great deal of trouble, which 
 the customs of the world impose upon these occa- 
 sions, and in a word, I'll break with him, and give 
 you Leonora. 
 
 Lop. [^side.] Good. 
 
 Don Fel. You don't answer me ! what is't that 
 troubles you ? 
 
 Don John. That I have been such a sot, old 
 gentleman, to hear you with so much patience. 
 
 [Rising. 
 
 Don Fel. How, Don ! I'm more astonished at 
 your answer than I was with your silence. 
 
 Don John. Astonished ! why han't you talked 
 to me of marriage ? He asks me to marry, and 
 wonders what I complain of ! 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis well — 'tis well, Don John, the 
 outrage is violent ! You insult me in your own 
 house. But know, sir — [Rising. 
 
 Don John. But know, sir, there needs no quarrel, 
 if you please, sir ; I like your daughter very well ; 
 but for marrying her — serviteur. 
 
 Don Fel. Don Guzman de Torrellas has not less 
 merit than you, Don. 
 
 Don John. Agreed ; what then ? 
 
 Don Fel. And yet I have refused him my 
 daughter. 
 
 Don John. Why then you have used him better 
 than you have done me, which I take very unkindly. 
 
 Don Fel. I have used you, sir — 
 
 Don John. Used me, sir ! you have used me 
 very ill, to come into my own house to seduce 
 me. 
 
 Don Fel. What extravagance ! 
 
 Don John. What persecution ! 
 
 Don Fel. Am I then to have no other answer ? 
 
 Don John. Methinks you have enough in all 
 conscience. 
 
 Don Fel. Promise me at least you'll cease to 
 love my daughter. 
 
 Don John. I won't affront your family so far 
 neither. 
 
 Lop. Egad my master shines to-day. [Aside. 
 
 Don Fel. Know, Don, that I can bear no more. 
 
 Lop. If he could, I think there's no more to lay 
 upon him. [Aside. 
 
 Don Fel. If I find you continue to importune 
 Leonora, I shall find a way to- satisfy my offended 
 honour, and punish your presumption. 
 
 Don John. You shall do what you please to me 
 provided you don't marry me. 
 
 Don Fel. Know, Alvarada, there are ways to 
 revenge such outrageous affronts as these. 
 
 Don John. I won't marry. 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis enough. [Exit. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.'] So ; the old fellow's gone at last, 
 and has carried great content along with him. 
 Don John. Lopez. 
 
 Re-enter Lopez. 
 Lop. Sir — 
 
 Don John. What dost think ? he would have 
 married me ! 
 
 Lop. Yes, he had found his man. But you have 
 been even with him. 
 
 Don John. What, thou hast heard us then ? 
 Lop. Or I were no valet. But pray what does 
 your honour intend to do now ? Will you con- 
 tinue the siege of a place, where 'tis probable they 
 will daily augment the fortifications, when there 
 are so many open towns you may march into 
 without the trouble of opening the trenches ? 
 
 Don John. I am going, Lopez, to double my 
 attacks : I'll beat up her quarters six times a-night, 
 I am now downright in love ; the difficulties pique 
 me to the attempt, and I'll conquer or I'll die. 
 
 Lop. Why to confess the truth, sir, I find you 
 much upon my taste in this matter ; difficulties 
 are the rocambole of love, I never valued an easy 
 conquest in my life. To rouse my fire, the lady 
 must cry out (as softly as ever she can) Have a 
 care my dear, my mother has seen us ; my brothers 
 suspect me ; my husband may surprise us : oh, 
 dear heart, have a care, I pray ! Then I play the 
 devil : but when I come to a fair-one, where I may 
 hang up my cloak upon a peg, get into my gown 
 and slippers — 
 
 Don John. Impudent rogue ! [Aside. 
 
 Lop. See her stretched upon the couch in great 
 security, with — My dear, come kiss me, we have 
 nothing to fear ; I droop, I yawn, I sleep. 
 
 Don John. Well, sir, whatever you do with your 
 fair-one, I am going to be very busy with mine ; I 
 was e'en almost weary of her, but Guzman and this 
 old fellow have revived my dying fire ; and so 
 have at her. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis all mighty well, sir, mighty well, sir, 
 as can be in the world. But if you would have the 
 goodness to consider en passant, or so, a little 
 now and then, about swords and daggers, and 
 rivals and old fellows, and pistols and great guns, 
 and such-like baubles, only now and then at 
 leisure, sir, not to interrupt things of more con- 
 sequence. 
 
 Don John. Thou art a cowardly rascal, I have 
 often considered that. 
 
 Lop. Ay, that's true, sir, and yet a blunderbuss 
 is presently discharged out of a garret window. 
 
 Don John. Come, no more words ; but follow 
 me. — How now ! what impertinence have we here 
 now to stop me ? 
 
 Enter Don Pedro. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis Don Pedro, or I'm a dog. 
 
 Don John. Impossible ! Don Pedro returned ! 
 
 Don Ped. 'Tis I, my dearest friend ; I'm come 
 to forget all the miseries of a long absence, in one 
 happy embrace. [They embrace. 
 
 Don John. I'm overjoyed to see you. 
 
 Don Ped. Mine's not to be expressed. — What, 
 friend Lopez here still ! how dost do, Lopez ? 
 What, dost not know me ? 
 
 Lop. As well as my father's seal, sir, when he 
 sends me a bill of exchange. 
 
 Don Ped. Just as he was, I find galliard still. 
 
398 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Lop. I find it very unwholesome to be other- 
 wise, sir. 
 
 Don John. You have then quitted the service 
 in Flanders, I suppose. 
 
 Don Ped. I have so, friend ; I have left the 
 ensigns of Mars, and am listing myself in a softer 
 militia. 
 
 Don John. Explain, pray. 
 
 Don Ped. Why, when your father's death obliged 
 you to leave Brussels, and return hither to the 
 plentiful fortune he left you, I stayed in Flanders, 
 very triste for your loss, and passed three years in 
 the trade of war. About two months since, my 
 father writ to me from Toledo, that he was going 
 to marry me very advantageously at Valencia. He 
 sent me the picture of the lady, and I was so well 
 pleased with it, that I immediately got my cong£, 
 and embarked at Dunkirk ; I had a quick passage 
 to the Groyne, from whence, by the way of Madrid, 
 I am come hither with all the speed I could. I 
 have, you must know, been two days in town, but 
 I have lain incognito, that I might inform myself 
 of the lady's conduct I'm to marry ; and I have 
 discovered that she's served by two cavaliers of 
 birth and merit. But though they have both given 
 many proofs of a most violent passion, I have 
 found for the quiet of my honour that this virtuous 
 lady, out of modesty or prudence, has shown a 
 perfect indifference to them and their gallantries ; 
 her fortune is considerable, her birth is high, her 
 manners irreproachable, and her beauty so great, 
 that nothing but my love can equal it. 
 
 Don John. I have hearkened to you, Don Pedro, 
 with a great deal of attention, and Heaven's my 
 witness I have a mighty joy in seeing you ; but 
 the devil fetch me, it makes my heart bleed to hear 
 you are going to be married. 
 
 Don Ped. Say no more of that, I desire you, we 
 have always been friends, and I earnestly beg we 
 ever may be so ; but I am not come to ask counsel 
 about my marriage, my party is taken, and my 
 inquiries have so much heightened my desire, that 
 nothing can henceforth abate it. I must therefore 
 expect from you., dear friend, that you won't oppose 
 it, but that you'll aid me in hastening the moment 
 of my happiness. 
 
 Don John. Since 'tis so impossible for you to 
 resolve for your own good, I must submit to what 
 you'll have me. But are not we to know the name 
 of this piece of rarity, that is to do you this good 
 turn ? 
 
 Don Ped. You'll know it presently ; for I'm 
 going to carry you to her house. 
 
 Don John. You shall tell me at least who are 
 her two gallants. 
 
 Don Ped. One, they could not tell me his name ; 
 t'other is — But before we talk any more of these 
 affairs, can you let me dispose of Lopez till the 
 return of a servant I sent three days ago to — 
 
 Don John. Carry news of you to papa, I sup- 
 pose. 
 
 Don Ped. You are right ; the good man is 
 thirty leagues off, and I have not seen him this 
 six years. 
 
 Don John. Lopez, do you wait upon Don 
 Pedro. 
 
 Lop. With all my heart — [Aside.] It's at least 
 a suspension of boxes o' th' ear, and kicks o' the 
 backside. 
 
 Don Ped. Then, honest Lopez, with your mas- 
 ter's leave, go to the new inn, the King of France 
 on horseback, and see if my servant's returned ; I'll 
 be there immediately, to charge thee with a com- 
 mission of more importance. 
 
 Lop. I shall perform your orders, sir, both to 
 your satisfaction and my own reputation. [Exit. 
 
 Don John. Very quaint. — Well, old acquaint- 
 ance, we are going to be married then ? 'Tis re- 
 solved : ha ! 
 
 Don Ped. So says my star. 
 
 Don John. The foolishest star that has said any- 
 thing a great while. 
 
 Don Ped. Still the same, I see ! or, more than 
 ever, resolved to love nothing. 
 
 Don John. Love nothing ! why, I'm in love at 
 this very time. 
 
 Don Ped. With what ? 
 
 Don John. A woman. 
 
 Don Ped. Impossible! 
 
 Don John. True. 
 
 Don Ped. And how came you in love with 
 her? 
 
 Don John. Why I was ordered not to be in love 
 with her. 
 
 Don Ped. Then there's more humour than love 
 in't. 
 
 Don John. There shall be what you please in't : 
 but I shan't quit the gentlewoman till I have con- 
 vinced her there's something in't. 
 
 Don Ped. Mayn't I know her name? 
 
 Don John. When you have let me into your 
 conjugal affection. 
 
 Don Ped. Pray stay here but till I have sent 
 Lopez to my father-in-law : I'll come back and 
 carry you with me in a moment. 
 
 Don John. I'll expect you. 
 
 Don Ped. Adieu, dear friend ; may I in earnest 
 see you quickly in love. 
 
 Don John. May I, without a jest, see you quickly 
 a widower. — [Exit Don Pedro.] He comes, he 
 savs, to marry a woman of quality that has two 
 lovers. — If it should be Leonora ? — But why she ? 
 There are many, I hope, in that condition in 
 Valencia. — I'm a little embarrassed about it, how- 
 ever. — 
 
 Friendship, take heed ; if woman interfere, 
 Be sure the hour of thy destruction's nea;. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
SCENE 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 S99 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — Leonora's Apartment. 
 Enter Leonora, Isabella, and Jacinta. 
 
 Leo. Dear Isabella, come in. How I am plagued 
 with this troublesome wretch ! — Jacinta, have you 
 shut the outward gates ? 
 
 Jac. I have, madam. 
 
 Leo. Shut the window too ; we shall have him 
 get in there by and by. 
 
 I sab. What's this you are in such apprehensions 
 of, pray ? 
 
 Leo. Nothing worth naming. 
 
 Isab. You dissemble : something of love in the 
 case, I'll warrant you. 
 
 Leo. The reverse on't ; 'tis aversion. My imper- 
 tinent star has furnished me with a lover for my 
 guard, who is never from my window ; he perse- 
 cutes me to distraction ; I affront him fifty times 
 a-day, which he receives with a bow down to the 
 ground : in short, all I can do is doing nothing at 
 all : he still persists in loving me, as much as I 
 hate him. 
 
 Isab. Have a care he don't get the better on't, 
 for all that ; for when a man loves a woman well 
 enough to persevere, 'tis odds but she at last loves 
 him well enough to make him give it over. But I 
 think I had as good take off my scarf; for since 
 my brother Don Guzman knows I'm with you, he 
 won't quarrel at my return for the length of my 
 visit. 
 
 Leo. If he should, I should quarrel with him, 
 which few things else would make me do. But 
 methinks, Isabella, you are a little melancholy. 
 
 Isab. And you " little thoughtful. 
 
 Leo. Pray tell me your affliction. 
 
 Isab. Pray don't conceal yours. 
 
 Leo. Why truly, my heart is not at ease. 
 
 Isab. Mine, I fear, never will. 
 
 Leo. My father's marrying me against my incli- 
 nation. 
 
 Isab. My brother is hindering me from marrying 
 with mine. 
 
 Leo. You know I love your brother, Don Guz- 
 man. 
 
 Isab. And you shall know, I'm uneasy for Don 
 John de Alvarada. 
 
 Leo. Don John ! 
 
 Isab. The same. 
 
 Leo. Have you any reason to hope for a return ? 
 
 Isab. I think so. 
 
 Leo. I'm afraid, my dear, you abuse yourself. 
 
 Isab. Why? 
 
 Leo. Because he is already in love with — 
 
 Isab. Who? 
 
 Leo. Me. 
 
 Isab. I would not have you too positive in that, 
 madam, for I am very sure that — 
 
 Leo. Madam, I am very sure that he's the trou- 
 blesome guest I just now complained of: and you 
 may believe — 
 
 Isab. Madam, I can never believe he's trouble- 
 some to anybody. 
 
 Leo. O dear madam ! But I'm sure I'm forced 
 to keep my windows shut till I'm almost dead with 
 heat, and that I think is troublesome. 
 
 Isab. This mistake is easily set right, Leonora. 
 Our houses join, and when he looks at my window, 
 you fancy 'tis at yours. 
 
 Leo. But when he attacks my door, madam, and 
 almost breaks it down, I don't know how in the 
 world to fancy 'tis yours. 
 
 Isab. A man may do that to disguise his real 
 inclination. 
 
 Leo. Nay, if you please, believe he's dying for 
 you. I wish he were ; then I should be troubled 
 no more with him. — Be sure, Jacinta, you don't 
 open a window to-night. 
 
 Isab. Not while I'm here at least ; for if he 
 knows that, he may chance to press in. 
 
 Leo. Look you, Isabella, 'tis entirely alike to 
 me who he's fond of ; but I'm so much your friend, 
 I can't endure to see you deceived. 
 
 Isab. And since I have the same kindness for 
 you, Leonora, know in short, that my brother is so 
 alarmed at his passion for me, that he has forbid 
 him the street. 
 
 Leo. Bless my soul ! and don't you plainly see 
 by that he's jealous of him upon my account? 
 
 Isab. [Smiling.] He's jealous of his honour, 
 madam, lest he should debauch his sister. 
 
 Leo. I say, he's jealous of his love, lest he should 
 corrupt his mistress. 
 
 Isab. But why all this heat ? If you love- my 
 brother, why are you concerned Don John should 
 love me ? 
 
 Leo. I'm not concerned ; I have no designs upon 
 him, I care not who he loves. 
 
 Isab. Why then are you angry ? 
 
 Leo. Why do you say he does not care for me ? 
 
 Isab. Well, to content you then, I know nothing 
 certain but that I love him. 
 
 Leo. And to content you, I know nothing so 
 certain, as that I neither love him, nor never can 
 love him. And so I hope we are friends again. 
 
 Isab. Kiss me then, and let us never be other- 
 wise. 
 
 Leo. Agreed. — [They kiss.] And now my dear, 
 as my misfortune's nearest, I am first to be pitied. 
 I am the most wretched woman living. My father 
 every moment expects a gentleman from Flanders, 
 to whom he has resolved to marry me. But neither 
 duty, nor prudence, nor danger, nor resolution, nor 
 all I can summon to my aid, can drive your brother 
 from my heart ; but there he's fixed to ruin me. 
 
 Jac. Madam, here's Don Guzman at the cham- 
 ber-door ; he begs so passionately to come in, sure 
 you can't refuse him. 
 
 Leo. Heavens ! but does he consider to what he 
 exposes me ? 
 
 Jac. Madam, he considers nothing; if he did, 
 I'd say he were an impudent fellow to pretend to 
 be in love with you. 
 
 Leo. Shall I venture, Isabella ? 
 
 Isab. You know best. 
 
 Enter Don Guzman. 
 
 Jac. Marry, methinks he knows best of us all, 
 for here he comes. 
 
 Don iiuz. Forgive me, lovely Leonora ; 'tis the 
 last time perhaps that I may beg your pity. My 
 
400 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 rival is not far ; excess of modesty is now our ruin. 
 Break through it, for this moment you have left, 
 and own to your old father how you love. He 
 once did so himself ; our scene of son-ow may per- 
 haps recal some small remembrance of his tender 
 years, and melt him into mercy. 
 
 Leo. Alas ! Don Guzman ! 
 
 Jac. O heavens ! madam — > 
 
 Leo. What's the matter? 
 
 Jac. Y'are undone, here's your father. 
 
 I sab. What an unlucky accident ! 
 
 Jjeo. Has he seen Don Guzman ? 
 
 Jac. Nay, the dense knows. 
 
 Isab. Where shall he hide himself ? 
 
 Jac. In the moon, if he can get thither. 
 
 Enter Don Felix, 
 
 Don Guz. I must e'en stand it now. 
 
 Don Fel. Good news, my daughter, good news ; 
 I come to acquaint you, that — How now ? what's 
 the meaning of this ? Don Guzman in my daughter's 
 chamber ! 
 
 Don Guz. I see your surprise, sir, but you need 
 not be disturbed ; 'twas some sudden business with 
 my sister brought me here.' 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis enough, sir : I'm glad to find 
 you here ; you shall be a witness that I know how 
 to preserve the honour of my family. 
 
 Don Guz. What mean you, sir? 
 
 Don Fel. To marry Leonora this moment. 
 
 Don Guz. How say you ? 
 
 Don Fel. I say you shall have nothing left to 
 ask of me. 
 
 Don Guz. Is't possible ? O Heavens ! what joy 
 I feel, 
 
 Don Fel. Leonora, prepare your hand and heart. 
 
 Leo. They both are ready, sir; and in giving 
 me the man I love, you charge me with a debt of 
 gratitude can never be repaid. 
 
 Don Guz. [Kneeling.] Upon my knees, I thank 
 the best of men, for blessing me with all that's 
 blest in woman. 
 
 Isab. How well that kind, that gentle look be- 
 comes him ! 
 
 Jac. Now methinks he looks like an old rogue ; 
 I don't like his looks. [Aside. 
 
 Enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. To all whom it may concern, greeting. 
 Don Pedro Osorio acknowledging himself most 
 unworthy of the honour intended him, in the per- 
 son of the fair Leonora, addresses himself (by me 
 his small ambassador) to the generosity of Don 
 Felix, for leave to walk in and take possession. 
 
 Don Fel. I had already given order for his 
 entrance. 
 
 Don Guz. What is't I hear ! 
 
 Leo. Support me ! 
 
 Isab. She faints. 
 
 Don Guz. Look, tyrant, here, and if thou canst 
 be cruel ! [Holding her. 
 
 Don Fel. Bring in Don Pedro. [Exit Lopez. 
 
 Don Guz. Barbarian ! 
 
 Jac. Look up, madam, for heaven's sake ! since 
 you must marry the fellow, e'en make the most 
 on't. 
 
 Leo. Oh! 
 
 Enter Don Pedro and Don John. 
 
 Jac. So — how d'ye do now ? Come, cheer up. 
 See, here he comes. — By my troth, and a pretty 
 
 turned fellow. — [Aside.} He'll set all to rights by 
 to-morrow morning, I'll answer for him. 
 
 Don Fel. Don Pedro, you are welcome; let me 
 embrace you. 
 
 Don Ped. In what terms, sir, shall I express 
 what I owe you for the honour you do me ? and 
 with what prospect of return can I receive this 
 inestimable present ? — Your picture, madam, made 
 what impression art could stamp, but nature has 
 done more. What wounds your sex can give, or 
 ours receive, I feel. 
 
 Don Fel. Come son, (for I'm in haste to call 
 you so) — but what's this I see ? Alvarada here ! 
 Whence, sir, this insolence ; to come within my 
 doors after you know what has passed? Who 
 brought you here ? 
 
 Don Ped. 'Twas I, sir. 
 
 Don Fel. But do you know that he— 
 
 Don Ped. Sir, he's the best of my friends. 
 
 Don Fel. But do you know, I say, that he 
 would — 
 
 Don Ped. Hinder this marriage, 'tis true. 
 
 Don Fel. Yes, because he designed — 
 
 Don Ped. I know his design, sir ; 'tis to hinder 
 all his friends from marrying. Pray forgive him. 
 
 Don Fel. Then to prevent for ever his designs 
 here, come hither, Leonora, and give Don Pedro 
 your hand. 
 
 Don John. Keep down, my kindling jealousy : 
 I've something tortures me I never felt till now. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Don Ped. [To Leonora.] Why this backward- 
 ness, madam ? Where a father chooses, a daughter 
 may with modesty approve. Pray give me your 
 hand. 
 
 Don Guz. I cannot see it. [Turning from them. 
 
 Don Fel. [Aside to Leonora.] Are you dis- 
 tracted ? Will you let him know your folly ? Give 
 him your hand, for shame ! 
 
 Leo. Oh ! Don Guzman, I am yours. 
 
 [Sighing, and giving her hand carelessly. 
 
 Don Guz. Madam ! [Turning. 
 
 Don Fel. What a fatal slip ! [Aside. 
 
 Leo. 'Twas not to you T spoke, sir. 
 
 Don Ped. But him it was she named, and thought 
 on too, I fear. I'm much alarmed. [Aside. 
 
 Don Fel. [ To Leonora. ] Repair what you have 
 done, and look more cheerful on him. 
 
 Leo. Repair what you have done, and kill me. 
 
 Don Fel. Fool ! 
 
 Leo. Tyrant ! 
 
 Jac. A very humdrum marriage this. [Aside. 
 
 Don Guz. Pray, sister, let's retire ; for I can 
 bear this sight no longer. 
 
 Isab. My dear, farewell ! I pity you indeed. 
 
 Leo. I am indeed an object of your pity. 
 
 [Exeunt Don Guzman and Isabella. 
 
 Don Fel. Come daughter, come my son, let's 
 to the church and tie this happy knot. 
 
 Don Ped. I'll wait upon you, sir. 
 
 [Exit Don Feltx, leading Leonora, J acinta following. 
 
 Don John. I love her, and I love her still. 
 Fate, do thy worst, I'll on. [Aside. 
 
 Don Ped. To name another man, in giving me 
 her hand ! [Aside. 
 
 Don John. How am I racked and torn with 
 jealousy ! [Aside. 
 
 Don Ped. 'Tis doubtless so, Don Guzman has 
 her heart. [Aside, 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] The bridegroom's thought- 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 401 
 
 ful. The lady's trip has furnished him with some 
 matrimonial reflections. They'll agree with him at 
 this time, perhaps, better than my company. I'll 
 leave him. — [Aloud.] Don Pedro, adieu ! we shall 
 meet again at night. 
 
 Don Ped. Pray stay ; I have need of a friend's 
 counsel. . • 
 
 Don John. What, already ? 
 
 Don Ped. Already. 
 
 Don John. That's to say, you have already 
 enough of matrimony. 
 
 Don Ped. I scarce know what I have, nor am 
 I sure of what I am. 
 
 Re-enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. [ To Don Pedro.] An't please your honour, 
 yonder's your man Bertrand just arrived ; his horse 
 and he so tired of one another, that they both came 
 down upon the pavement at the stable-door. 
 
 Don Ped. [To Don John.] He brings news 
 from my father. 
 
 Lop. I believe he does, and hasty news too ; but 
 if you stay till he brings it hither, I believe it will 
 come but slowly. But here's his packet ; I suppose 
 that will do as well as his company. [Gives a letter. 
 
 Don Ped. [Reads to himself.] My dear friend, 
 here's ill news. 
 
 Don John. What's the matter ? 
 
 Don Ped. My poor old father's dying. 
 
 Don John. I'm mighty sorry for't ; 'tis a weighty 
 stroke I must confess ; the burden of his estate will 
 almost bear you down. But we must submit to 
 Heaven's good will. 
 
 Don Ped. You talk, Alvarada, like a perfect 
 stranger to that tenderness methinks every son 
 should feel for a good father. For my part, I've 
 received such repeated proofs of an uncommon 
 affection from mine, that the loss of a mistress 
 could scarce touch me nearer. You'll believe me, 
 when you see me leave Leonora a virgin till I have 
 seen the good old man. 
 
 Don John. That will be a proof indeed ; Hea- 
 ven's blessing must needs fall upon so dutiful a 
 son ; but I don't know how its judgments may deal 
 with so indifferent a lover. 
 
 Don Ped. Oh, I shall have time enough to 
 repair this seeming small neglect. But before I 
 go, pray a word or two with you alone. — Lopez, 
 wait without. — [Exit Lopez.] You see, my dear- 
 est friend, I am engaged with Leonora — perhaps I 
 have done wrong ; but 'tis gone too far to talk or 
 think of a retreat ; I shall go directly from this 
 place to the altar, and there seal the eternal con- 
 tract. That done, I'll take post to see my father, 
 if I can, before he dies. 
 
 I leave then here a young and beauteous bride ; 
 But that which touches every string of thought, 
 I fear, I leave her wishing I were Guzman. 
 If it be so, no doubt he knows it well ; 
 And he that knows he's loved by Leonora, 
 Can let no fair occasion pass to gain her : 
 My absence is his friend, but you are mine, 
 And so the danger's balanced. Into your hands, 
 My dear, my faithful Alvarada — [Embracing him} 
 I put my honour, I put my life ; 
 For both depend on Leonora's truth. 
 Observe her lover, and — neglect not her. 
 You are wise, you are active, you are brave and true. 
 You have all the qualities that man should have 
 For such a trust ; and I by consequence 
 
 Have all the assurance man can have ; 
 You'll, as you ought, discharge it. 
 
 Don John. A very hopeful business you would 
 
 have me undertake — keep a woman honest ! 
 
 Udsdeath ! I'd as soon undertake to keep Porto - 
 carero honest. Look you, we are friends, intimate 
 friends ; — you must not be angry if I talk freely. 
 Women are naturally bent to mischief, and their 
 actions run in one continued torrent till they die. 
 But the less a torrent's checked, the less mischief 
 it does ; let it alone, perhaps, 'twill only kiss the 
 banks and pass ; but stop it, 'tis insatiable. 
 
 Don Ped. I would not stop it ; but could 
 I gently turn its course where it might run, 
 And vent itself with innocence, I would. 
 Leonora of herself is virtuous ; 
 Her birth, religion, modesty, and sense, 
 Will guide her wishes where they ought to point. — 
 But yet let guards be what they will, 
 That place is safest that is ne'er attack'd. 
 
 Don John. As far as I can serve you, in hinder- 
 ing Guzman's approaches, you may command me. 
 
 Don Ped. That's all I ask. 
 
 Don John. Then all you ask is granted. 
 
 Don Ped, I am at ease ; farewell ! 
 
 Don John. Heaven bring you safe to us again ! 
 — [Exit Don Pedro.] Yes, I shall observe her, 
 doubt it not. I wish nobody may observe me ; for 
 I find I'm no more master of myself. Don Guz- 
 man's passion for her adds to mine ; but when I 
 think on what Don Pedro'll reap, I'm fire and 
 flame ! Something must be done ; what, let love 
 direct, for I have nothing else to guide me. 
 
 Re-enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] Don Pedro is mounting for his 
 journey, and leaves a young, warm, liquorish hussy, 
 with a watery mouth, behind him. — Hum ! if she 
 falls handsomely in my master's way, let her look 
 to her 'st — there he is. Doing what ? — think- 
 ing ? That's new ; and if any good comes on't, 
 that will be newer still. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] How i abuse the trust a 
 friend reposes in me ? and while he thinks me 
 waking for his peace, employ the stretch of thought 
 to make him wretched ? 
 
 Lop. Not to interrupt your pious meditations, sir, 
 
 pray have you seen Seen what, fool ? Why he 
 
 can't see thee. Egad, I believe the little blind bas- 
 tard has whipped him through the heart in earnest. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] Pedro would never have 
 done this by me. How do I know that? Why, he 
 swore he was my friend. Well, and I swore I was 
 his. Why then, if 1 find I can break my oath, why 
 should not I conclude he would do as much by his ? 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] His countenance begins to clear 
 up : I suppose things may be drawing to a con- 
 clusion. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] Ay, 'tis just so ; and I 
 don't believe he would have debated the matter 
 half so long as I have done : egad, I think I have 
 put myself to a great expense of morality about it. 
 I'm sure, at least, my stock's out : but I have 
 a fund of love, I hope, may last a little longer. 
 — [Observing Lopez.] Oh, are you there, sir? 
 
 Lop. I think so, sir.— I won't be positive in 
 anything. 
 
 Don John. Follow me ; I have some business 
 to employ you in you'll like. [Exit. 
 
 Lon. I won't be positive in that neither. I guess 
 D D 
 
402 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 what you are going about ; — there's roguery a-foot ! 
 This is at Leonora, who I know hates him : nothing 
 under a rape will do't. He'll be hanged ; and then 
 what becomes of thee, my little Lopez ? Why, the 
 honour to a — dingle dangle by him ; which he'll have 
 the good-nature to be mighty sorry for. But I may 
 
 chance to be beforehand with him : if we are not 
 taken in the fact, they'll perhaps do him the honour 
 to set a reward upon his head. Which if they do, 
 Don, I shall go near to follow your moral example, 
 secure my pardon, make my fortune, and hang you 
 up for the good of your country. [Exit 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Room in Don Felix's House. 
 Enter Don Felix, Don Pedro, Leonora, and Jacinta. 
 
 Don Fel. How, son ! obliged to leave us imme- 
 diately, say you ? 
 
 Don Ped. My ill fortune, sir, will have it so. 
 
 Leo. [Aside.] What can this be ! 
 
 Don Fel. Pray what's the matter ? You surprise 
 me. 
 
 Don Ped. This letter, sir, will inform you. 
 
 Don Fel. [Reads.] My dear son, Bertrand 
 has brought me the welcome news of your return, 
 and has given me your letter ; which has in some 
 sort revived my spirits in the extremity I am. 
 I daily expect my exit from this world. ' Tis noiv 
 six years since I have seen you ; I should be glad 
 to do it once again before I die. If you will give 
 me that satisfaction, you must be speedy. Heaven 
 preserve you I — 'Tis enough. The occasion I'm 
 sorry for, but since the ties of blood and gratitude 
 oblige you, far be it from me to hinder you. Fare- 
 well, my. sou ! may you have a happy journey, and 
 if it be Heaven's will, may the sight of so good a 
 son revive so kind a father ! I leave you to bid 
 your wife adieu. {Exit. 
 
 Don Ped. I must leave you, my lovely bride ; 
 With bitter pangs of separation. [but 'tis 
 
 Had I your heart to cheer me on my way, 
 I might, with such a cordial, run my course : 
 But that support you want the power to give me. 
 
 Leo. Who tells you so ? 
 
 Don Ped. My eyes and ears, and all the pains I bear. 
 
 Leo. When eyes and ears are much indulged, 
 Like favourite servants, they are apt to abuse 
 The too much trust their master places in 'em. 
 
 Don Ped. If I am abused, 
 Assist me with some fair interpretation 
 Of all that present trouble and disquiet, 
 Which is not in my power to overlook, 
 Nor yours to hide. 
 
 Leo. You might, methinks, have spared 
 
 My modesty ; and, without forcing me 
 To name your absence, have laid my trouble there. 
 
 Don Ped. No, no, my fair deluder, that's a veil 
 Too thin to cover what's so hard to hide ; 
 My presence, not my absence, is the cause. 
 Your cold reception at my first approach, 
 Prepared me for the stroke ; and 'twas not long 
 Before your mouth confirm'd my doom : Don Guz- 
 man, I am yours ! 
 
 Leo. Is't, then, impossible the mouth should 
 utter one name for another ? 
 
 Don Ped. Not at all, when it follows the dic- 
 tates of the heart. 
 
 Leo. Were it even so, what wrong is from that 
 heart received, where duty and where virtue are its 
 rulers ? 
 
 Don Ped. Where they preside our honour may 
 be safe, yet our minds be on the rack. 
 
 Leo. This discourse will scarce produce a 
 remedy ; we'll end it therefore if you please, and 
 leave the rest to time. Besides, the occasion of 
 your journey presses you. 
 
 Don Ped. The occasion of my delay presses 
 you, I fear, much more ; you count the tedious 
 minutes I am with you, and are reduced to mind 
 me of my duty to free yourself from my sight. 
 
 Leo. You urge this thing too far, and do me 
 wrong. The sentiments I have for you are much 
 more favourable than your jealousy suffers 'em to 
 appear. But if my heart has seemed to lean an- 
 other way, before you had a title to it, you ought 
 not to conclude I shall suffer it to do so long. 
 
 Don Ped. I know you have virtue, gratitude, 
 and truth ; 
 And therefore 'tis I love you to my ruin. 
 Could I believe you false, contempt would soon 
 Release me from my chains, which yet I can't 
 But wish to wear for ever ; therefore, 
 Indulge at le'ast your pity to your slave, 
 'Tis the soft path in which we tread to love. 
 I leave behind a tortured heart to move you : — 
 Weigh well its pains, think on its passion too, 
 Remember all its torments spring from you ; 
 And if you cannot love, at least be true. [Exit. 
 
 Jac. Now, by my troth, madam, I am ready to 
 cry. He's a pretty fellow, and deserves better luck. 
 
 Leo. I own he does : and his behaviour would 
 engage anything that were unengaged. But, alas! 
 I want his pity more than he does mine. 
 
 Jac. You do ! Ndw, I'm of another mind. 
 The moment he sees your picture he's in love with 
 you ; the moment he's in love with you, he embarks ; 
 and, like lightning, in a moment more he's here : 
 where you are pleased to receive him with a Don 
 Guzman, I am yours ! Ah, poor man ! 
 
 Leo. I own, Jacinta, he's unfortunate, but still 
 I say my fate is harder yet. The irresistible pas- 
 sion I have for Guzman renders Don Pedro, with 
 all his merit, odious to me ; yet I must in his 
 favour make eternal war against the strength of 
 inclination and the man I love. 
 
 Jac. [Aside.] Um — If I were in her case, I 
 could find an expedient for all this matter. But 
 she makes such a bustle with her virtue, I dare not 
 propose it to her. 
 
 Leo. Besides, Don Pedro possesses what he 
 loves, but I must never think on poor Don Guz- 
 man more. [Weeping. 
 
 Jac. Poor Don Guzman, indeed ! We han't 
 said a word of the pickle he's in yet. Hark ! 
 ' somebody knocks — at the old rendezvous. It's he, 
 [ on my conscience. 
 
 Leo. Let's be gone; I must think of him no more. 
 
THE FALSE FHIEND. 
 
 403 
 
 Jac. Yes, let's be gone ; but let's know whether 
 'tis he or not first. 
 
 Leo. No, Jacinta ; I must not speak with him 
 any more. — \_Sighing.~\ I'm married to another. 
 
 Jac. Married to another ! well, married to an- 
 other ; why, if one were married to twenty others, 
 one may give a civil gentleman an answer. 
 
 Leo. Alas ! whatwouldst thou have me say to him ? 
 
 Jac. Say to him ! why, one may find twenty 
 things to say to a man. Say, that 'tis true you are 
 married to another, and that a — 'twould be a sin to 
 think of anybody but your husband, and that a — 
 you are of a timorous nature, and afraid of being 
 damned ; and that a — you wouid not have him die 
 neither ; that a — folks are mortal, and things 
 sometimes come strangely about, and a widow's a 
 widow, and — 
 
 Leo. Peace, Levity ! — [Sighing.'} But see who 
 'tis knocks. 
 
 Jac. Who's there ? 
 
 Isab. [Behind the scenes.'] 'Tis I, Isabella. 
 
 Leo. Isabella ! What do you want, my dear ? 
 
 Isab. Your succour, for Heaven's sake, Leonora. 
 My brother will destroy himself. 
 
 Leo. Alas ! it is not in my power to save him. 
 
 Isab. Permit him but to speak to you, that pos- 
 sibly may do. 
 
 Leo. Why have not I the force to refuse him ? 
 
 Don Guz. [Behind the scenes.] Is it you, I 
 hear, my poor lost mistress ? Am I so happy 
 once more to meet you where I so often have been 
 blest? 
 
 Jac. Courage, madam, say a little something to 
 him. 
 
 Don Guz. Not one kind word to a distracted 
 lover ? 
 No pity for a wretch you have made so miserable ? 
 
 Leo. The only way to end that misery 
 Is to forget we ever thought of happiness. 
 
 Don Guz. And is that in your power ? Ah, 
 You never loved like me ! [Leonora, 
 
 Leo. How I have loved, to Heaven I appeal ! 
 But Heaven does now permit that love no more. 
 
 Don Guz. Why does it then permit us life and 
 Are we deceived in its omnipotence ? [thought ? 
 Is it reduced 
 To find its pleasures in its creatures' pain ? 
 
 Leo. In what, or where, the joys of heaven 
 consist, 
 Lies deeper than a woman's line can fathom ; 
 But this we know, 
 
 A wife must in her husband seek for hers, 
 And therefore I must think of you no more. 
 Farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Don Guz. Yet hear me, cruel Leonora. 
 
 Jac. It must be another time then, for she's 
 whipped off now. All the comfort I can give you 
 is, that I see she durst not trust herself any longer 
 in your company. But hush, I hear a noise, get 
 you gone, we shall be catched. 
 
 Leo. [Within.] Jacinta! 
 
 Jac. I come, I come, madam. [Exit 
 
 SCENE W.—A Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. If I mistake not, there are a brace of 
 
 lovers intend to take some pains about madam, in 
 
 her husband's absence. Poor Don Pedro ! Well, 
 
 methinks a man's in a very merry mood that marries 
 a handsome wife. When I dispose of my person, 
 it shall be to an ugly one : they take it so kindly, 
 and are so full of acknowledgment ; watch you, 
 wait upon you, nurse you, humour you, are so 
 fond, and so chaste. Or if the hussy has pre- 
 sumption enough to think of being otherwise, away 
 with her into the mountains fifty leagues off ; no- 
 body opposes. If she's mutinous, give her dis- 
 cipline ; everybody approves on't. Hang her ! 
 says one, he's kinder than she deserves ; Damn 
 her ! says another, why does not he starve her I 
 But if she's handsome, Ah the brute ! cries one — 
 Ah the Turk ! cries 'tother : Why don't she cuckold 
 him ? says this fellow ; Why does not she poison 
 him ? says that ; and away comes a packet of 
 epistles to advise her to't. Ah, poor Don Pedro ! 
 But enough. 'Tis now night, all's hush and still : 
 everybody's a-bed, and what am I to do ? Why, 
 as other trusty domestics, sit up to let the thief in. 
 But I suppose he won't be here yet ; with the help 
 of a small nap beforehand, I shall be in a better 
 condition to perform the duty of a sentinel when I 
 go to my post. This corner will just fit me. Come, 
 Lopez, lie thee down, short prayers, and to sleep. 
 
 [He lies down. 
 
 Enter Jacinta, with a candle in her hand. 
 
 Jac. So, I have put my poor lady to bed with no- 
 thing but sobs, tears, sighs, wishes, and a poor pillow 
 to mumble, instead of a bridegroom, poor heart ! I 
 pity her ; but everybody has their afflictions, and 
 by the beads of my grandmother, I have mine. 
 Tell me, kind gentlemen, if I have not something 
 to excite you ? Methinks I have a roguish eye, 
 I'm sure I have a mettled heart. I'm soft, and 
 warm, and sound, may it please ye. Whence comes 
 it then, this rascal Lopez, who now has been two 
 hours in the family, has not yet thought it worth 
 his while to make one motion towards me ? Not 
 that the blockhead's charms have moved me, but 
 I'm angry mine han't been able to move him. I 
 doubt I must begin with the lubber ; my reputa- 
 tion's at stake upon't, and I must rouse the drone 
 somehow. 
 
 Lop. [Rubbing his eyes, and coming on.] What 
 a damned condition is that of a valet ! No sooner 
 do I, in comfortable slumber, close my eyes, but 
 methinks my master's upon me, with fifty slaps o' 
 th' back, for making him wait in the street. I have 
 his orders to let him in here to-night, and so I had 
 e'en— who's that ?— Jacinta !— Yes. A caterwaul- 
 ing ! — like enough. 
 
 Jac. The fellow's there ; I had best not lose 
 the occasion. [Aside. 
 
 Lop. The slut's handsome ; I begin to kindle. 
 But if my master should be at the door — why there 
 let him be till the matter's over. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. Shall I advance ? [Aside. 
 
 Lop. Shall I venture ? [Aside. 
 
 Jac. How severe a look he has ! [Aside. 
 
 Lop. She seems very reserved. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. If he should put the negative upon me. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Lop. She seems a woman of great discretion ; I 
 tremble. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. Hang it, I must venture. [Aside. 
 
 Lop. Faint heart never won fair lady. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. Lopez ? 
 
 Lop. Jacinta ! 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Jac. O dear heart ! is't you ? 
 
 Lop. Charming Jacinta ! fear me not. 
 
 Jac. [Aside.] O ho ! he begins to talk soft — then 
 let us take upon us again. 
 
 Lop. Cruel Jacinta, whose mouth (small as it is) 
 has made but one morsel of my heart. 
 
 Jac. [Aside.] It's well he prevents me. I was 
 going to leap about the rascal's neck. 
 
 Lop. Barbare Jacinta, cast your eyes 
 On your poor Lopez, ere he dies. 
 
 Jac. [Aside.] Poetry too ! Nay then I have 
 done his business. 
 
 Lop. Feel how I burn with hot desire, 
 Ah ! pity me, and quench my fire ; 
 Deaf, my fair tyrant, deaf to my woes, 
 Nay then, barbarian, in it goes. [Drawing a knife. 
 
 Jac. Why how now, Jack-sauce ? why how now, 
 Presumption ? What encouragement have I given 
 you, Jack-a-lent, to attack me with your tenders ? 
 I could tear your eyes out, sirrah, for thinking T 
 am such a one. What indecency have you seen in 
 my behaviour, impudence, that you should think 
 me for your beastly turn, you goat you ? 
 
 Lop. Patience, my much offended goddess, 'tis 
 honourably I would share your bed. 
 
 Jac. Peace, I say — Mr. Liquorish. I, for whom 
 the most successful cavaliers employ their sighs in 
 vain, shall I look down upon a crawling worm ? 
 Pha ! — see that crop-ear there, that vermin, that 
 wants to eat at a table would set his master's mouth 
 a watering ! 
 
 Lop. May I presume to make an humble meal 
 upon what savoury remnants he may leave ? 
 
 Jac. No. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis hard ! 'tis wondrous hard ! 
 
 Jac. Leave me. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis pitiful, 'tis wondrous pitiful ! 
 
 Jac. Begone ! I say 
 
 Thus ladies 'tis, perhaps, sometimes with you ; 
 With scorn you fly the thing which you pursue. 
 
 [Aside. — Exit, 
 
 Lop. 'Tis very well, Mrs. Flipflap, 'tis very well ; 
 but do you hear — Tawdry, you are not so alluring 
 as you think you are — Comb-brush, nor I so much 
 in love ! — your maidenhead may chance to grow 
 mouldy with your airs ; — the pox be your bedfellow! 
 there's that for you. — Come, let's think no more 
 on't, sailors must meet with storms ; my master's 
 going to sea too. He may chance to fare no better 
 with the lady than I have done with her Abigail : 
 there may be foul weather there too. I reckon at 
 present he may be lying by under a mizen at the 
 street-door, I think it rains too for his comfort. 
 What if I should leave him there an hour or two 
 in fresco, and try to work off the amour that way? 
 No ; people will be physicked their own way. But 
 perhaps I might save his life by't — yes, and have 
 my bones broke for being so officious ; therefore, if 
 you are at the door, Don John, walk in and take 
 your fortune. [Opens the door. 
 
 Enter Don John. 
 
 Don John. Hist ! hist ! 
 Lop. Hist ! hist ! 
 Don John. Lopez ! 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] The devil !— [Aloud.] Tread 
 softly. 
 
 Don John. Are they all asleep ? 
 
 Lop. Dead. 
 
 Don John. Enough ; shut the door. 
 
 Lop. 'Tis done. 
 
 Don John. Now begone. 
 
 Lop. What ! shut the door first, and then be- 
 gone ? Now, methinks, I might as well have gone 
 first, and then shut the door. 
 
 Don John. I bid you begone, you dog you ! do 
 you find the way. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] Stark mad, and always so when 
 a woman's in chase. — [Aloud.] But, sir, will you 
 keep your chief minister out of the secrets of your 
 state ? Pray let me know what this night's work 
 is to be. 
 
 Don John, No questions, but march. 
 
 Lop. Very well. — [Goes to the door, and returns.] 
 But, sir, shall I stay for you in the street ? 
 
 Don John. No, nor stir out of the house. 
 
 Lop. So. Well, sir, I'll do just as you have 
 ordered me ; I'll be gone, and I'll stay ; and I'll 
 march, and I won't stir, and — just as you say, sir. 
 
 Don John. I see you are afraid, you rascal you. 
 
 Lop. Passably. 
 
 Don John. Well, be it so ; but you shan't leave 
 the house, sir ; therefore begone to your hogstye, 
 and wait further orders. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] But first I'll know how you 
 intend to dispose of yourself. 
 
 [Conceals himself behind the door. 
 
 Don John. All's hush and still ; and I am at the 
 point of being a happy — villain. That though 
 comes uninvited : — then like an uninvited guest 
 let it be treated : begone, intruder ! Leonora's 
 charms turn vice to virtue, treason into truth ; 
 nature, who has made her the supreme object of 
 our desires, must needs have designed her the 
 regulator of our morals. Whatever points at her, is 
 pointed right. We are all her due, mankind's the 
 dower which heaven has settled on her ; and he's the 
 villain that would rob her of her tribute. I there- 
 fore, as in duty bound, will in, and pay her mine. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] There he goes, i'faith ; he 
 seemed as if he had a qualm just now ; but he 
 never goes without a dram of conscience-water 
 about him, to set matters right again. 
 
 Don John. This is her door, 'tis locked ; but I 
 have a smith about me will make her staple fly. 
 
 [Pulls out some irons, and forces the lock. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] Hark! hark! if he is not equip- 
 ped for a housebreaker too. Very well, he has 
 provided two strings to his bow ; if he 'scapes the 
 rape, he may be hanged upon the burglary. 
 
 Don John. There, 'tis done. So. — No watch- 
 light burning ? — [Peeping into her chamber.] All 
 in darkness ? so much the better, 'twill save a 
 great deal of blushing on both sides. Methinks I 
 feel myself mighty modest, I tremble too ; that's 
 not proper at this time. Be firm, my courage, I 
 have business for thee. — So — how am I now ? — 
 pretty well. Then by your leave, Don Pedro, I 
 must supply your neglect. You should not have 
 married till you were ready for consummation ; a 
 maidenhead ought no more to lie upon a hand- 
 some bride, than an impeachment upon an inno- 
 cent minister. [Exit into the chamber. 
 
 Lop. [Coming forwards.] Well done, well 
 done ; Gad a-marcy, my little Judas ! Unfortunate 
 Don Pedro ! thou hast left thy purse in the hands 
 of a robber ; and while thou art galloping to pay the 
 last duty to thy father, he's at least upon the trot 
 to pay the first to thy wife. Ah, the traitor ! 
 What a capilotade of damnation will there be 
 
THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 405 
 
 cooked up for hini ! But softly : let's lay our ear 
 to the door, and pick some curiosities. — I hear no 
 noise.— rThere's no light ; we shall have him blun- 
 der where he should not do, by and by. — Commit 
 a rape upon her tea table perhaps, break all her 
 china, and then she'll be sure to hang him. But 
 hark !— now I hear — nothing ; she does not say a 
 word ; she sleeps curiously. — How if she should 
 take it all for a dream now ? or her virtue should be 
 fallen into an apoplex ? — Where the pox will all 
 this end ? 
 
 Leo. [ Within.] Jacinta ! Beatrix ! Fernandes ! 
 Murder ! murder ! help ! help ! help ! 
 
 Lop. Now the play begins ; it opens finely, 
 
 fjeo. [Within.'] Father! Alphonso ! Save 
 me ! O save me ! 
 
 Leo. Comedy or tragedy for a ducat ! for fear of 
 the latter, decamp Lopez. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. — Leonora's Bedchamber. 
 
 Leonora discovered in a gown, holding Don John by the 
 sleeve. 
 
 Leo. Whoever you are, villain, you shan't escape 
 me ; and though your efforts have been in vain, 
 you shan't fail to receive the recompense of your 
 attempt. — Help, ho, help there ! help ! 
 
 [Don John breaks from her, but can't find the door* 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] 'Sdeath, I shall be un- 
 done ! where is this damned door ? 
 
 Leo. He'll get away : a light there, quickly ! 
 
 Enter Don Guzman with his sword drawn. 
 
 Don Guz. Where are you, fair angel ? I come 
 to lose my life in your defence. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] That's Guzman's voice; 
 the devil has sent him. But we are still in the 
 dark ; I have one tour yet, impudence be my 
 aid. — [Aloud.] Lights there, ho ! Where is the 
 villain that durst attempt the virtuous Leonora ? 
 
 Don Guz, His life shall make her satisfaction. 
 
 Don John. Or mine shall fall in his pursuit. 
 
 Don Guz. 'Tis by my hands that she shall see 
 him die. 
 
 Don John. My sword shall lay him bleeding at 
 her feet. 
 
 Leo. [Aside.] What can this mean ? But here's 
 lights at last, thank the just bounteous heaven. 
 
 Don John. Enter with the light there ; but 
 secure the door, kst the traitor 'scape my ven- 
 geance. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro with a light, he finds Leonora between 
 them ,■ both their swords dravm. 
 
 Leo. O Heavens ! what is't I see ? 
 
 Don John. Don Pedro here ! 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] What monstrous scene is 
 this ! 
 
 Don Guz. [Aside.] What accident has brought 
 him here ? 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] Now I am intrigued 
 indeed. [Don Pedro steps back, and shuts the door. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] This mystery must unfold 
 before we part. What torments has my fate pro- 
 vided me ? Is this the comfort I'm to reap, to 
 dry my tears for my poor father's death ? — 
 [Aloud.] A*h, Leonora! 
 
 Leo. [Aside.] Alas ! where will this end! 
 
 [Falling into a chair. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] Naked! and thus attended 
 at the dead of night ! — my soul is froze at what I 
 see. Confusion sits in all their faces, and in large 
 characters I read the ruin of my honour and 
 my love. — [Aloud.] Speak, statues, if you yet 
 have power to speak, why at this time of night you 
 are found with Leonora ? — None speak ! — Don 
 John, it is from you I ought to know. 
 
 Don John. My silence may inform you. 
 
 Don Ped. Your silence does inform me of my 
 shame, but I must have some information more ; 
 explain the whole. 
 
 Don John. I shall. You remember, Don Pedro — ■ 
 
 Don Ped. Be quick. 
 
 Don John. You remember you charged me 
 before you went — 
 
 Don Ped. I remember well, go on. 
 
 Don John. With the care of your honour. 
 
 Don Ped. I did : despatch. 
 
 Don John. Very well ; you see Don Guzman in 
 this apartment, you see your wife naked, and you 
 see me, my sword in my hand ; that's all. 
 
 Don Ped. [Drawing upon Don Guzman.] 'Tis 
 here then I am to revenge my wrongs. 
 
 Don Guz. Hold! 
 
 Don Ped. Villain, defend thyself ! 
 
 Leo. O Heaven ! 
 
 Don Guz. Yet hear me. 
 
 Don Ped. What canst thou say ? 
 
 Don Guz. The truth, as holy Heaven itself is 
 truth. I heard the shrieks and cries of Leonora ; 
 what the occasion was I knew not, but she repeated 
 'em with so much vehemence, I found, whatever 
 her distress might be, her succour must be sudden ; 
 so leaped the wall that parts our houses, and flew 
 to her assistance. Don John can, if he please, 
 inform you more. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] Mankind's a villain, and 
 this may be true ; 
 Yet 'tis too monstrous for a quick conception. 
 I should be cautious how I wrong Don John. 
 Sure 'tis not right to balance. 
 I yet have but their words against their words ; 
 I know Don John for my friend, and Guzman 
 for my rival. What can be clearer ? Yet hold : 
 if Leonora's innocent, she may untangle all. — 
 [Aloud.] Madam, I should be glad to know (if I 
 have so much interest left) which way your evi- 
 dence will point my sword ? 
 
 Leo. My lord, I'm in the same perplexity with 
 you. All I can say is this, one of 'em came to 
 force me, t'other to save me : but the night con- 
 founding the villany of the guilty with the gene- 
 rosity of the innocent, I still am ignorant to which 
 I owe my gratitude or my resentment. 
 
 Don Guz. But, madam, did you not hear me 
 cry I came to help you ? 
 
 Leo. I own it. 
 
 Don John. And did you not hear me threaten 
 to destroy the author of your fears ? 
 
 Leo. I can't deny it. 
 
 Don Guz. What can there be more to clear me ? 
 
 Don John. Or me ? 
 
 Don Ped. Yet one's a villain still. — [Aside.] 
 My confusion but increases : yet why confused ? 
 It is, it must be Guzman. But how came Don 
 John here ? Right. Guzman has said how he 
 came to her aid, but Alvaiada could not enter but 
 by treason. — [Aloud.] Then perish — 
 
 Don Guz. Who? 
 
406 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Don John. Who ? 
 
 Don Ped. Just gods ! instruct me who. 
 
 [Knocking at the door. 
 
 Don Fel. [ Within.} Let me in, open the door ! 
 
 Leo. 'Tis my father. 
 
 Don Ped. No matter, keep the door fast. — 
 [Aside.] I'll have this matter go no further, till I 
 can reach the depth on't. — [Aloud.'] Don Guzman, 
 leave the house ; I must suspend my vengeance for 
 a time. 
 
 Don Guz. I obey you ; but I'll lose my life, or 
 show my innocence. [Exit. 
 
 Don Fel. [ Within.] Open the door ; why am I 
 kept out ? 
 
 Don Ped. Don John, follow me by this back 
 way. — And you, Leonora, retire. [Exit Leonora. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] If Don Guzman's throat 
 were cut, would not this bustle end ? — Yes. — Why, 
 then, if his throat be not cut, may this bustle end 
 me. [Exeunt 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Don Guzman's House. 
 Enter Don Guzman and Galtndo. 
 
 Don Guz. [Musing.] Galindo ! 
 
 Gal. Sir! 
 
 Don Guz. Try if you can see Jacinta ; let her 
 privately know I would fain speak with her. 
 
 Gal. It shall be done, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Don Guz. Sure villany and impudence were 
 never on the stretch before ! This traitor has 
 racked 'em till they crack. To what a plunge 
 the villain's tour has brought me ! Pedro's resent- 
 ment must at last be pointed here. But that's a 
 trifle ; had he not ruined me with Leonora, I easily 
 had passed him by the rest. — What's to be done? 
 Which way shall I convince her of my innocence ? 
 The blood of him who has dared declare me guilty, 
 may satisfy my vengeance, but not aid my love. 
 No, I'm lost with her for ever — 
 
 Enter Jacinta. 
 Speak, is't not so, Jacinta ? Am I not ruin'd with 
 the virtuous Leonora ? 
 
 Jac. One of you, I suppose, is. 
 
 Don Guz. Which dost thou think ? 
 
 Jac. Why, he that came to spoil all ; who should 
 it be? 
 
 Don Guz. Prithee be serious with me if thou 
 canst for one small moment, and advise me which 
 way I shall take to convince her of my innocence, 
 that it was I that came to do her service ? 
 
 Jac. Why you both came to do her service, did 
 not you ? 
 
 Don Guz. Still trifling? 
 
 Jac. No, by my troth, not 1 ! 
 
 Don Guz. Then turn thy thoughts to ease me 
 in my torment, and be my faithful witness to her, 
 That Heaven and Hell and all their wrath I impre- 
 cate, if ever once I knew one fleeting thought, that 
 durst propose to me so impious an attempt. No, 
 Jacinta, I love her well ; but love with that humi- 
 lity, whatever misery I feel, 
 My torture ne'er shall urge me on to seize, 
 More than her bounty gives me leave to take. 
 
 Jac. And the murrain take such a lover and his 
 humility both, say I. Why sure, sir, you are not 
 in earnest in this story, are you ? 
 
 Don Guz. Why dost thou question it ? 
 
 Jac. Because I really and seriously thought you 
 innocent. 
 
 Don Guz. Innocent ! what dost thou mean ? 
 
 Jac. Mean ! why what should I mean ? I mean 
 that I concluded you loved my lady to that degree j 
 you could not live without her : and that the I 
 
 thought of her being given up to another made 
 your passion flame out like mount Etna. That 
 upon this your love got the bridle in his teeth, and 
 ran away with you into her chamber, where that 
 impertinent spy upon her and you, Don John, 
 followed, and prevented farther proofs of your 
 affection. 
 
 Don Guz. Why sure — 
 
 Jac. Why sure, thus I thought it was, and thus 
 she thinks it is. If you have a mind in the depth 
 of your discretion to convince her of your innocence 
 — may your innocence be your reward. I'm sure 
 were I in her place, you should never have any 
 other from me. 
 
 Don Guz. Was there then no merit in flying to 
 her assistance when I heard her cries ? 
 
 Jac. As much as the constable and the watch 
 might have pretended to — something to drink. 
 
 Don Guz. This is all raillery ; 'tis impossible 
 she can be pleased with such an attempt. 
 
 Jac. 'Tis impossible she can be pleased with 
 being reduced to make the attempt upon you. 
 
 Don Guz. But was this a proper way to save 
 her blushes ? 
 
 Jac. 'Twas in the dark, that's one way. 
 
 Don Guz. But it must look like downright 
 violation. 
 
 Jac. If it did not feel like it, what did that sig- 
 nify ? Come, sir, waggery apart, you know I'm 
 your servant, I have given you proofs on't. There- 
 fore don't distrust me now if I tell you, this quar- 
 rel may be made up with the wife, though perhaps 
 not with the husband. In short, she thinks you 
 were first in her chamber, and has not the worse 
 opinion of you for it ; she makes allowance for your 
 sufferings, and has still love enough for you, not 
 to be displeased with the utmost proofs you can 
 give, that you have still a warm remain for her. 
 
 Don Guz. If this be true, and that she thought 
 'twas me, why did she cry out to expose me ? 
 
 Jac. Because at that time she did not think 'twas 
 you. Will that content you ? And now she does 
 think 'twas you, your business is to let her think 
 so on ; for in a word, I can see she's concerned at 
 the danger she has brought you into, and I believe 
 would be heartily glad to see you well out on't. 
 
 Don Guz. 'Tis impossible she can forgive me. 
 
 Jac. Oons ! — Now Heaven forgive me, for I 
 had a great oath upon the very tip of my tongue ; 
 you'd make one mad with your impossibles, and 
 your innocence, and your humilities. 'Sdeath, sir, 
 d'you think a woman makes no distinction between 
 the assaults of a man she likes and one she don't ? 
 My lady hates Don John, and if she thought 'twas 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 407 
 
 he had done this job, she'd hang him for't in her 
 own garters ; she likes you, and if you should do 
 such another, you might still die in your bed like 
 a bishop for her. 
 
 Don Guz. Well, I'll dispute no farther. I put 
 myself into thy hands. What am I to do next ? 
 
 Jac. Why, do as she bids you ; be in the way 
 at the old rendezvous, she'll take the first occasion 
 she can to speak to you ; and when you meet, do 
 as I bid you, and instead of your innocent and 
 humble, be guilty and resolute. Your mistress is 
 now married, sir, consider that. She has changed 
 her situation, and so must you your battery. At- 
 tack a maid gently, a wife warmly, and be as rug- 
 ged with a widow as you can. Good bye t'ye, sir. 
 
 f Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. — Leonora's Apartment. 
 Enter Don Pedro. 
 
 Don Ped. In what distraction have I pass'd this 
 night ! 
 Sure I shall never close my eyes again. 
 No rack can equal what I feel. 
 Wounded in both my honour and my love ; 
 They have pierced me in two tender parts. 
 Yet could I take my just revenge, 
 It would in some degree assuage my smart. 
 Oh, guide me Heaven to that cordial drop ! — 
 Hold ! a glance of light I think begins to — yes — 
 right. When yesterday I brought Don John hither, 
 was not Don Felix much disturbed ? — He was. And 
 why ? — That may be worth inquiring. But some- 
 thing more occurs. At my arrival in this city, 
 Was I not told two cavaliers were warm 
 In the pursuit of Leonora ? 
 
 One I remember well they named ; 'twas Guzman : 
 The other I am yet a stranger to. 
 I fear I shall not be so long — 'Tis Alvarada ; 
 O the traitor ! — yet I may wrong him much. I 
 have Guzman's own confession that he passed the 
 wall to come to Leonora. — Oh, but 'twas to her 
 assistance. — 
 
 And so it might, and he a villain still. 
 There are assistances of various sorts. — 
 What were her wants ? That's dark. — Butwhat- 
 They were, he came to her assistance. [soe'er 
 
 Death be his portion for his ready service ! 
 
 Enter Don Felix. 
 
 Don Fel. You avoid me, Don Pedro ; 'tis not 
 well. Am I not your father, have you not reason 
 to believe I am your friend ? 
 
 Don Ped. I have. 
 
 Don Pel. Why do you not then treat me like a 
 father and a friend ? The mystery you make to me 
 of last night's disturbance I take unkindly from 
 you. Come tell me your grief, that if I can I may 
 assuage it. 
 
 Don Ped. Nothing but vengeance can give me 
 ease. 
 
 Don Fel. If I desire to know your wrongs, 'tis 
 to assist you in revenging them. 
 
 Don Ped. Know then, that last night in this 
 apartment I found Don Guzman and Don John. 
 
 Don Pel. Guzman and Alvarada ! 
 
 Don Ped. Yes ; and Leonora almost naked be- 
 tween them, crying out for aid. 
 
 Don Pel. Were they both guilty ? 
 
 Don Ped, One was come to force her, t'other 
 to rescue her. 
 
 Don FeL WTiich was the criminal ? 
 
 Don Ped. Of that I yet am ignorant. They 
 accuse each other. 
 
 Don Fel. Can't your wife determine it ? 
 
 Don Ped. The darkness of the night put it out 
 of her power. 
 
 Don Fel. But I perhaps may bring some light 
 I have part in the affront : [to aid you. 
 
 And though my arm's too old and weak to serve 
 
 you, 
 My counsel may be useful to your vengeance. 
 Know then, that Don Guzman has a long time 
 pursued m.y daughter ; and I as resolutely refused 
 his suit : which however has not hindered him 
 from searching all occasions to see and speak to 
 her. Don John, on his side — 
 
 Don Ped. Don John's my friend, and I am 
 confident — 
 
 Don Fel. That confidence destroys you. Hear 
 ! my charge, and be yourself his judge. He too has 
 been a pressing suitor to my daughter. 
 
 Don Ped. Impossible ! 
 
 Don Fel. To me myself, he has owned his love 
 to her. 
 
 Don Ped. Good gods ! Yet still this leaves the 
 mystery where it was ; this charge is equal. 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis true ; but yonder's one (if you 
 can make her speak) I have reason to believe can 
 tell us more. — Ho, Jacinta ! 
 
 Enter Jacinta. 
 
 Jac. Do you call me, sir ? 
 
 Don Fel. Yes ; Don Pedro would speak with 
 you. — [Aside to Don Pedro.] I'll leave you with 
 her ; press her both by threats and promises, and 
 if you find your wife in fault, old as I am, her 
 father too, I'll raise my arm to plunge this dagger 
 in her breast ; and by that fermete" convince the 
 world, my honour's dearer to me than my child. 
 
 {Exit, 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] Heaven grant me power to 
 stifle my rage, till 'tis time to let my vengeance 
 fly ! — Jacinta, come near : I have some business 
 with you. . 
 
 Jac. [Aside.'] His business with me at this 
 time can be good for nothing, I doubt. — [Aloud.] 
 What commands have you, sir, for me ? for I'm 
 not very well. 
 
 Don Ped. What's your disorder ? 
 
 Jac. A little sort of a something towards an ague, 
 I think. 
 
 Don Ped. You don't seem so ill but you may 
 tell me — 
 
 Jac. Oh, I can tell you nothing, sir, I assure you. 
 
 Don Ped. You answer me before you hear my 
 question. That looks as if you knew — 
 
 Jac. I know that what you are going to ask 
 me, is a secret I'm out at. 
 
 Don Ped. [Offering her a purse.] Then this 
 shall let thee into it. 
 
 Jac. I know nothing of the matter. 
 
 Don Ped. Come, tell me all, and take thy 
 reward. 
 
 Jac. I know nothing of the matter, I say. 
 
 Don Ped. [Drawing his sword.] Speak ; or 
 by all the flame and fire of hell eternal — 
 
 Jac. O Lard ! O Lard ! O Lard ! 
 
 Don Ped. Speak, or th'art dead. 
 
408 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Jac. But if I do speak, shan't I be dead for all 
 that? 
 
 Don Ped. Speak, and thou art safe. 
 
 Jac. Well— O Lard !— I'm so frighted !— But 
 if I must speak then — O dear heart ! — give me the 
 purse. 
 
 Don Ped, There. 
 
 Jac. Why truly, between a purse in one's hand — 
 and — a sword in one's guts, I think there's little 
 room left for debate. 
 
 Don Ped. Come, begin, I'm impatient. 
 
 Jac. Begin ! let me see ; where shall I begin ? 
 at Don Guzman, I think. 
 
 Don Ped. What of him ? 
 
 Jac. Why he has been in love with my lady 
 these six years. 
 
 Don Ped. I know it, but how has she received 
 him ? 
 
 Jac. Received him ! Why — as young maids use 
 to receive handsome fellows ; at first ill, afterwards 
 better. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] Furies ! — [Aloud.] Did 
 they ever meet ? 
 
 Jac A little. 
 
 Don Ped. By day or night ? 
 
 Jac. Both. 
 
 Don Ped. Distraction ! Where was their ren- 
 dezvous ? 
 
 Jac. Where they could not do one another 
 much good. 
 
 Don Ped. As how ? 
 
 Jac. As through a hole in a wall. 
 
 Don Ped. The strumpet banters me. — Be 
 serious, Insolence, or I shall spoil your gaiety ; 
 I'm not disposed to mirth. 
 
 Jac. Why I am serious, if you like my story 
 the better for't. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] How miserable a wretch 
 am I ! 
 
 Jac. I tell you there's a wall parts their two 
 houses, and in that wall there's a hole. How the 
 wall came by the hole, I can't tell ; mayhap by 
 chance, mayhap by no chance ; but there 'tis, and 
 there they use to prattle. 
 
 Don Ped. And this is truth ? 
 
 Jac. I can't bate you a word on't, sir. 
 
 Don Ped. When did they meet there last ? 
 
 Jac. Yesterday ; I suppose 'twas only to bid 
 one another adieu. 
 
 Don Ped. Ah, Jacinta, thou hast pierced my 
 soul ! 
 
 Jac. [Aside.] And yet I han't told you half I 
 could tell you, my don. 
 
 Don Ped. Where is this place you speak of ? 
 
 Jac. There 'tis, if you are curious. 
 
 Don Ped. When they would speak with one 
 another, what's the call ? 
 
 Jac. Tinkle, tinkle. 
 
 Don Ped. A bell ? 
 
 Jac. It is. 
 
 Don Ped. Ring ! 
 
 Jac. What do you mean, sir ? 
 Don Ped. [Hastily.] Ring ! 
 Jac. 'Tis done. [She makes the signal. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] I'll make use of her to 
 examine him. — [Aloud.] Does he come ? 
 Jac. Not yet. 
 Don Ped. Pull again. 
 
 Jac. You must give him time, sir ; my lady 
 always does so. 
 
 Don Ped. I hear something. 
 
 Jac. 'Tis he. 
 
 Don Guz. [ Within.] Who's there ? 
 
 Don Ped. [Softly.] Say you are Leonora. 
 
 [Dumb shoiv of her unwillingness, and his threatening. 
 
 Jac. [Softly.] 'Tis Leonora. 
 
 Don Guz. What are your commands, madam ? 
 Is it possible so unfortunate a wretch as I can be 
 capable of serving you ? 
 
 [Don Pedro whispers Jacinta, who seems backward to 
 speak. 
 
 Jac. I come to ask you, how you could so far 
 forget that infinite regard you have professed, to 
 make an attempt so dangerous both to yourself and 
 me ; and which, with all the esteem and love I have 
 ever borne you, you scarce could hope I ever should 
 forgive you. 
 
 Don Guz. Alas, my hopes and fears were 
 vanish'd too. 
 My counsel was my love and my despair. 
 If they advised me wrong, of them complain, 
 For it was you who made 'em my directors. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] The villain owns the fact. 
 It seems he thinks 
 He has not much to fear from her resentment. 
 Oh, torture ! 
 
 Enter Leonora. 
 
 Jac. [Aside.] So, she's here ; that's as I ex- 
 pected : now we are blown up. 
 
 Leo. [Aside, not seeing them.] If I don't mis- 
 take, I heard Don Guzman's call. I can't refuse 
 to answer it ; forgive me, gods, and let my woman's 
 weakness plead my cause. — How ! my husband 
 here ! Nay then — 
 
 Don Ped. You seem disordered, madam ; pray 
 what may be the cause ? 
 
 Leo. [Confused.] I don't know really ; I'm not 
 — I don't know that — 
 
 Don Ped. You did not know that I was here, I 
 guess. 
 
 Leo. Yes I did, and — came to speak with you. 
 
 Don Ped. I'm not at present in a talking 
 humour, 
 But if your tongue is set to conversation, 
 There's one behind the wall will entertain you. 
 
 Don Guz. But is it possible, fair Leonora, that 
 you can pardon my attempt ? 
 
 Don Ped. [To Leonora.] You hear him, ma- 
 dam ; he dares own it to you. 
 
 Leo. [Aside.] Jacinta winks ; I guess what 
 scene they have been acting here. My part is now 
 to play. — [To Don Pedro.] I see, sir, he dares 
 own it : nor is he the first lover has presumed be- 
 yond the countenance he ever has received. Pray 
 draw near, and hear what he has more to say : it 
 is my interest you should know the depth of all has 
 ever passed between us. — 
 I fain would know, Don Guzman, whether 
 In the whole conduct of my life, you've known 
 One step that could encourage you to hope 
 I ever could be yours, 
 But on the terms of honour which you sought me ? 
 
 Don Guz. Not one. 
 
 Leo. Why then should you believe I could 
 Forgive the taking that by force which you 
 Already were convinced 
 I valued more the keeping than my life ? 
 
 Don Guz. Had my love been as temperate as 
 I with your reason had perhaps debated, [yours, 
 
THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 409 
 
 But not in reason, but in flames, I flew 
 To Leonora. 
 
 Leo. If strong temptation be allow'd a plea, 
 Vice, in the worst of shapes, has much to urge. 
 No, 
 
 Could anything have shaken me in virtue, 
 It must have been the strength of "it in you. 
 Had you shone bright enough to dazzle me, 
 I blindly might have miss'd the path I meant 
 To tread : but now you have clear' d my sight for 
 
 ever. 
 If therefore from this moment more you dare 
 To let me know one thought of love, 
 Though in the humblest style, expect to be 
 A sacrifice to him you attempt to wrong. 
 Farewell ! [.She retires from him. 
 
 Don Guz. Oh, stay and hear me ! I have 
 wronged myself, I'm innocent ; by all that's sacred, 
 just, and good, I'm innocent ! 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside."] What does he mean ? 
 
 Don Guz. I have owned a fact I am not guilty 
 of ; Jacinta can inform you, she knows I never — 
 
 Jac. I know ! the man's mad. Pray be gone, 
 sir, my lady will hear no more. — I'll shut him out, 
 madam, shan't I ? 
 
 Leo. I have no farther business with him. 
 
 [Jacinta shuts up the hole. 
 Enter Isabella hastily. 
 
 Isah. O Heavens, Leonora, where are you ? — 
 Don Pedro, you can assist me better. 
 
 Leo. What's the matter ? 
 
 Don Ped. What is it, madam, I can serve you in ? 
 
 Lsab. In what the peace of my whole life con- 
 sists, the safety of my brother. Don John's servant 
 has this moment left me a letter for him, which I 
 have opened, knowing there is an animosity of 
 some time between 'em. 
 
 Don Ped. Well, madam ! 
 
 Isab. O dear, it is a challenge, and what to do 
 I know not ! If I show it my brother, he'll imme- 
 diately fly to the place appointed : and if I don't, 
 he'll be accused of cowardice. One way I risk his 
 life, t'other 1 ruin his honour. 
 
 Don Ped. What would you have me do, madam ? 
 
 Isah. I'll tell you, sir : I only beg you'll go to 
 the place where Don John expects him ; tell him I 
 have intercepted his letter, and make him promise 
 you he'll send no more. By this generous chari y 
 you may hinder two men (whose piques are on a 
 frivolous occasion) from murdering one another r 
 and by this good office you'll repay the small debt 
 you owe my brother for flying last night to Leonora ? s 
 succour ; and doubly pay the obligation you have 
 to me upon the same occasion. 
 
 Don Ped. What obligation, madam ? I am 
 ignorant ; pray inform me. 
 
 Isah. 'Twas I, sir, that first heard Leonora's 
 cries, and raised my brother to her aid. Pray let 
 me receive the same assistance from your prudence 
 which you have had from my care and my brother's 
 generosity. But pray lose no time. Don John 
 is perhaps already on the spot, and not meeting my 
 brother, may send a second message, which may 
 be fatal, 
 
 Don Ped. Madam, be at rest ; you shall be 
 satisfied, I'll go this moment. I'll only ask you 
 first whether you are sure you heard my wife call 
 out for succour, before your brother passed the 
 waU? 
 
 Isah. I did ; why do you ask that question ? 
 
 Don Ped. I have a reason, you may be sure. — 
 [Aside."} Just Heaven, I adore thee ! the truth at 
 last shines clear, and by that villain Alvarada I'm 
 betrayed. But enough, I'll make use of this occa- 
 sion for my vengeance. — [To Isabella.] Where, 
 madam, is it Don John is waiting ? 
 
 Isah. But here, in a small field behind the 
 garden. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] His blood shall do me reason 
 for his treachery. 
 
 Isah. Will you go there directly ? 
 
 Don Ped. I will. Be satisfied. [Exit. 
 
 Leo. You weep, Isabella. 
 
 Isah. You see my trouble for a brother, for 
 whom I would die, and a lover for whom I would 
 live. They both are authors of my grief. 
 
 Leo. They both are instruments of my mis- 
 fortune. r Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Field adjoining Don Felix's 
 Garden. 
 Enter Lopez. 
 Lop. O ho, my good signor Don John, you are 
 mistaken in your man ! I am your humble valet,. 
 'tis true, and I am to obey you : but when you 
 have got the devil in your body, and are upon your 
 rantipole adventures, you shall Quixote it by your- 
 self for Lopez. Yonder he is, waiting for poor 
 Guzman, with a sword of a fathom and a half, a 
 dagger for close engagement ; and (if I don't mis- 
 take) a pocket pistol for extraordinary occasions. 
 I think I am not in the wrong to keep a little out 
 of the way. These matters will end in a court of 
 justice, or I'm wrong in my foresight. Now that 
 being a place where I am pretty well known, and 
 not overmuch reputed, I believe 'tis best, neither 
 to come in for prisoner nor evidence. But hold ; 
 yonder comes another Toledo. Don Guzman I 
 presume ; but I presume wrong ; 'tis — who is't ? 
 
 Don Pedro, by all the powers ! What the pox does 
 he here, or what the pox do I here ? I'm sure as 
 matters stand, I ought to fly him like a creditor ; 
 but he sees me, 'tis too late to slip him. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro. 
 
 Don Ped. How now, Lopez, where are you 
 going ? 
 
 Lop. I'm going, sir, I — I'm going — if you please 
 I'm going about my business. 
 
 Don Ped. From whence do you come ? 
 
 Lop. Only, only, sir, from — taking the air a 
 little, I'm mightily muddled with a whur — round 
 about in my head for this day or two ; I'm going 
 home to be let blood, as fast as I can, sir. 
 
 Don Ped. Hold, sir, I'll let you blood here. — 
 [Aside.} This rascal may have borne some part in 
 this late adventure : He's a coward, I'll try to 
 frighten it out of him. — [Aloud. ] You traitor you, 
 y'are dead ! 
 
 [Seizes Lopez by the collar, and draws his poniard. 
 
410 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Lop. Mercy, Don Pedro ! [Kneeling. 
 
 Don Ped. Are you not a villain ? 
 
 Lop. Yes, if you please. 
 
 Don Ped. Is there so great a one upon earth ? 
 
 Lop. With respect to my master ; no. 
 
 Don Ped. Prepare then to die. 
 
 Lop. Give me but time, and I will. But noble 
 Don Pedro, just Don Pedro, generous Don Pedro, 
 what is it I have done ? 
 
 Don Ped. What if thou darest deny, I'll plunge 
 this dagger deep into thy throat, and drive the 
 falsehood to thy heart again. Therefore take heed, 
 and on thy life declare ; didst thou not this last 
 night open my doors to let Don Guzman in ? 
 
 Lop. Don Guzman ! 
 
 Don Ped. Don Guzman ? Yes, Don Guzman, 
 traitor, him ! 
 
 Lop. Now may the sky crush me, if I let in Don 
 Guzman. 
 
 Don Ped. Who did you let in then ? It wan't 
 your master sure ! if it was him, you did your duty, 
 I have no more to say. 
 
 Lop. Why then if I let in anybody else, I'm a 
 son of a whore. [Rising. 
 
 Don Ped. Did he order you beforehand, or did 
 you do't upon his knocking ? 
 
 Lop. Why he ; I'll tell you, sir, he — pray put up 
 that brilliant ; it sparkles so in my eyes, it almost 
 blinds me. — [Don Pedro sheathes his poniard.] 
 Thank you, sir. — Why, sir, I'll tell you just how 
 the matter was, but I hope you won't consider me 
 as a party ? 
 
 Don Ped. Go on, thou art safe. 
 
 Lop. Why then, sir, (when for our sins,) you 
 had left us, says my master to me, Lopez, says he, 
 go and stay at old Don Felix's house, till Don 
 Pedro returns, they'll pass thee for his servant, and 
 think he has ordered thee to stay there. And then 
 says he, dost hear, open me the door by Leonora's 
 apartment to-night, for I have a little business, 
 says he, to do there. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.] Perfidious wretch ! 
 
 Lop. Indeed, I was at first a little wresty, and 
 stood off ; being suspicious (for I knew the man) 
 that there might be some ill intentions. But he 
 knew me too, takes me upon the weak side, whips 
 out a long sword, and by the same means makes 
 me do the thing as you have made me discover it. 
 — [Aside.] There's neither liberty nor property in 
 this land, since the blood of the Bourbons came 
 amongst us. 
 
 Don Ped. Then you let him in, as he bid you ? 
 
 Lop. I did : if I had not, I had never lived to 
 tell you the story. Yes, I let him in. 
 
 Don Ped. And what followed ? 
 
 Lop. Why he followed. 
 
 Don Ped. What ? 
 
 Lop. His inclinations. 
 
 Don Ped. Which way ? 
 
 Lop. The old way ; to a woman. 
 
 Don Ped. Confound him ' 
 
 Lop. In short, he got to madam's chamber, and 
 before he had been there long, (though you know, 
 sir, a little time goes a great way in some matters) I 
 heard such a clutter of small shot, murder ! murder ! 
 murder ! rape ! fire ! help ! and so forth. — But hold, 
 here he comes himself, and can give you a more 
 circumstantial account of the skirmish. [Exit. 
 
 Don Ped. 1 thank thee, Heaven, at last, for hav- 
 ing pointed me to the victim I am to sacrifice. 
 
 Enter Don John. 
 Villain, defend thyself ! [Dratving. 
 
 Don John. What do you mean ? 
 
 Don Ped. To punish a traitor. 
 
 Don John. Where is he ? 
 
 Don Ped. In the heart of a sworn friend. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] I saw Lopez go from him ; 
 without doubt he has told him all. — [Aloud.] Of 
 what am I suspected ? 
 
 Don Ped. Of betraying the greatest trust that 
 man could place in man. 
 
 Don John. And by whom am I accused. 
 
 Don Ped. By me. Have at thy traitor's heart. 
 
 Don John. Hold ! and be not quite a madman ! 
 Pedro, you know me well. You know I am not 
 backward upon these occasions, nor shall I refuse 
 you any satisfaction you'll demand ; but first, I 
 will be heard, and tell you, that for a man of sense, 
 you are pleased to make very odd conclusions. 
 
 Don Ped. Why, what is't possible thou canst 
 invent to clear thyself ? 
 
 Don John. To clear myself! Of what? I'm to 
 be thanked for what I have done, and not re- 
 proached. I find I have been an ass, and pushed 
 my friendship to that point, you find not virtue in 
 yourself enough to conceive it in another. But 
 henceforward I shall be a better husband on't. 
 
 Don Ped. I should be loath to find ingratitude 
 could e'er be justly charged upon me : but after 
 what your servant has confessed — 
 
 Don John. My servant ! right, my servant ! the 
 very thing I guessed. Fy, fy, Don Pedro ! is't 
 from a servant's mouth a friend condemns a friend ? 
 or can servants always judge at what their masters' 
 outward actions point ? But some allowances I 
 should make for the wild agitations you must needs 
 be in. I'm therefore calm, and thus far pass all by. 
 
 Don Ped. If you are innocent, Heaven be my 
 aid, that I may find you so. But still — 
 
 Don John. But still you wrong me, if you still 
 suspect. Hear then, in short, my part of this 
 adventure. In order to acquit myself of the charge 
 you laid upon me in your absence, I went last 
 night, just as 'twas dark, to view the several 
 approaches to the house where you had left your 
 wife ; and I observed not ifar from one of the back 
 doors two persons in close eager conference. I was 
 disguised, so ventured to pass near 'em, and by a 
 word or two I heard, I found 'twas Guzman talk- 
 ing to Jacinta. My concern for your honour 
 made me at first resolve to call him to an immediate 
 account. But then reflecting that I might possi- 
 bly o'erhear some part of their discourse, and by 
 that judge of Leonora's thoughts, I reined my 
 passion in ; and by the help of an advancing but- 
 tress, which kept me from their sight, I learned the 
 black conspiracy. Don Guzman said, he had 
 great complaint to make ; and since his honourable 
 love had been so ill returned, he could with ease 
 forgive himself, if by some rougher means he 
 should procure what prayers, and tears, and sighs 
 had urged in vain. 
 
 Don Ped. Go on. 
 
 Don John. His kind assistant closed smoothly 
 with him, and informed him with what ease that 
 very night she'd introduce him to her chamber. 
 At last they parted, with this agreement, that at 
 some overture in a wall, he should expect her to 
 inform him when Leonora was in bed, and all the 
 coast was clear. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 411 
 
 Don Ped. Despatch the rest. — [Aside.] Is't 
 possible after all he should be innocent ! 
 
 Don John. I must confess the resolution taken 
 made me tremble for you. How to prevent it now 
 and for ever was my next care. I immediately 
 ordered Lopez to go lie at Don Felix's and to open 
 me the door when all the family were in bed. He 
 did as I directed him. I entered, and in the dark 
 found my way to Leonora's apartment ; I found 
 the door open, at which I was surprised. I thought 
 I heard some stirring in her chamber, and in an 
 instant heard her cry to aid. At this I drew, and 
 rushed into the room ; which Guzman alarmed at, 
 cried out to her assistance. His ready impudence, 
 I must confess, at first quite struck me speechless ; 
 but in a moment I regained my tongue, and loud 
 proclaimed the traitor. 
 
 Don Ped. Is't possible ! 
 
 Don John. Yet more : your arrival hindering 
 me at that time from taking vengeance for your 
 wrong, I at this instant expect him here, to punish 
 him (with heaven's righteous aid) for daring to 
 attempt my ruin with the man, whose friendship I 
 prefer to all the blessings Heaven and earth dis- 
 pense. And now, Don Pedro, I have told you 
 this, if still you have a mind to take my life, I shall 
 defend it with the self-same warmth I intended to 
 expose it in your service. [Draws. 
 
 Don Ped. [Aside.'] If I did not know he was 
 in love with Leonora, I could be easily surprised 
 with what he has told me. But — but yet 'tis cer- 
 tain he has destroyed the proofs against him ; and 
 if I only hold him guilty as a lover, why must Don 
 Guzman pass for innocent ? Good Gods, I am 
 again returning to my doubts ! 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] I have at last reduced him 
 to a balance, 
 But one lie more toss'd in will turn the scale. — 
 [Aloud.] One obligation more, my friend, you 
 
 owe me ; 
 I thought to have let it pass, but it shall out. 
 Know then, 
 
 t loved, like you, the beauteous Leonora ; 
 But from the moment I observed how deep 
 Her dart had pierced you, 
 I tore my passion from my bleeding heart, 
 And sacrificed my happiness to yours. 
 Now I've no more to plead ; if still you think 
 Your vengeance is my due, come pay it me. 
 
 Don Ped. Rather ten thousand poniards strike 
 O Alvarada ! [me dead. 
 
 Can you forgive a wild distracted friend ? 
 Gods ! whither was my jealous frenzy leading me ? 
 Can you forget this barbarous injury ? 
 
 Don John. I can : no more. But for the 
 future, think me what I am, a faithful and a zealous 
 friend. Retire, and leave me here. In a few 
 moments I hope to bring you farther proofs on't. 
 Guzman I instantly expect ; leave me to do you 
 justice on him. 
 
 Don Ped. That must not be. My revenge can 
 ne'er be satisfied by any other hand but this. 
 
 Don John. Then let that do't. You'll in a 
 moment have an opportunity. 
 
 Don Ped. You mistake, he won't be here. 
 
 Don John. How so ? 
 
 Don Ped. He has not had your challenge. His 
 sister intercepted it, and desired I'd come to pre- 
 vent the quarrel. 
 
 Don John. What then is to be done ? 
 
 Don Ped. I'll go and find him out immediately. 
 
 Don John. Very well: or hold — [Aside.] I 
 must hinder 'em from talking, gossiping may dis- 
 cover me. — [Aloud.] Yes : let's go and find 
 him : or, let me see — ay — 'twill do better. 
 
 Don Ped. What ? 
 
 Don John. Why — that the punishment should 
 suit the crime. 
 
 Don Ped. Explain. 
 
 Don John. Attack him by his own laws of war. 
 — 'Twas in the night he would have had your 
 honour, and in the night you ought to have his 
 life. 
 
 Don Ped. His treason cannot take the guilt from 
 mine. 
 
 Don John. There is no guilt in fair retaliation. 
 When 'tis a point of honour founds the quarrel, 
 the laws of swordmen must be kept, 'tis true : but 
 if a thief glides in to seize my treasure, methinks 
 I may return the favour on my dagger's point, as 
 well as with my sword of ceremony six times as 
 long. 
 
 Don Ped. Yet still the nobler method I would 
 choose ; it better satisfies the vengeance of a man 
 of honour. 
 
 Don John. I own it, were you sure you should 
 succeed : but the events of combats are uncertain. 
 Your enemy may 'scape you : you perhaps may 
 only wound him ; you may be parted. Believe 
 me, Pedro, the injury's too great for a punctilio 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Don Ped. Well, guide me as you please, so you 
 direct me quickly to my vengeance. What do you 
 propose ? 
 
 Don John. That which is easy, as 'tis just to 
 execute. The wall he passed, to attempt your 
 wife, let us get over to prevent his doing so any 
 more. 'Twill let us in to a private apartment by 
 his garden, where every evening in his amorous 
 solitudes he spends some time alone, and where I 
 guess his late fair scheme was drawn. The deed 
 done, we can retreat the way we entered ; let me 
 be your pilot, 'tis now e'en dark, and the most 
 proper time. 
 
 Don Ped. Lead on ; I'll follow you. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] How many villanies I'm 
 forced to act, to keep one secret ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Don Guzman's Apartment. 
 Don Guzman discovered sitting. 
 
 Don Guz. With what rigour does this unfaithful 
 woman treat me ! Is't possible it can be she, who 
 appeared to love me with so much tenderness ? 
 How little stress is to be laid upon a woman's 
 heart? Sure they're not worth those anxious 
 cares they give. — [Rising.] Then burst my chains, 
 and give me room to search for nobler pleasures. 
 I feel my heart begin to mutiny for liberty ; there 
 is a spirit in it yet, will struggle hard for freedom : 
 but solitude's the worst of seconds. — Ho, Sancho I 
 Galindo ! who waits there ? Bring some lights. 
 Where are you ? 
 
 Enter Galindo, rubbing his eyes, and drunk. 
 
 Gal. I can't well tell. Do you want me, sir ? 
 
 Don Guz. Yes, sir, I want you. Why am I 
 left in the dark ? what were you doing ? 
 
 Gal. Doing, sir ! I was doing — what one does 
 when one sleeps, sir. 
 
412 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Don Guz. Have you no light without ? 
 
 Gal. {Yawning.] Light ! — No, sir, — I have no 
 light. I am used to hardship. I can sleep in the 
 dark. 
 
 Don Guz. You have been drinking, you rascal, 
 you are drunk ! 
 
 Gal. I have been drinking, sir, 'tis true, but I 
 am not drunk. Every man that is drunk, has been 
 drinking ; confessed. But every man that has 
 been drinking, is not drunk. Confess that too. 
 
 Don Guz. Who is't has put you in this condi- 
 tion, you sot ? 
 
 Gal. A very honest fellow : Madam Leonora's 
 coachman, nobody else. I have been making a 
 little debauch with Madam Leonora's coachman ; 
 yes. 
 
 Don Guz. How came you to drink with him, 
 beast ? 
 
 Gal. Only par complaisance, sir. The coach- 
 man was to be drunk upon madam's wedding ; and 
 I being a friend, was desired to take part. 
 
 Don Guz. And so, you villain, you can make 
 yourself merry with what renders me miserable ! 
 
 Gal. No, sir, no ; 'twas the coachman was merry : 
 I drank with tears in my eyes. The remembrance 
 of your misfortunes, made me so sad, so sad, that 
 every cup I swallowed, was like a cup of poison to 
 me. 
 
 Don Guz. Without doubt. 
 
 Gal. Yes ; and to mortify myself upon melan- 
 choly matters, I believe I took down fifty. Yes. 
 
 Don Guz. Go fetch some lights, you drunken 
 sot, you ! 
 
 Gal. I will if I can find the door, that is to say. 
 —The devil's in the door ! I think 'tis grown too 
 little for me. — {Feeling for the door, and running 
 against it.] Shrunk this wet weather, I presume. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Don Guz. Absence, the old remedy for love, 
 must e'en be mine ; to stay and brave the danger 
 were presumption : Farewell, Valencia, then ! and 
 farewell, Leonora ! And if thou canst, my heart, 
 redeem thy liberty ; secure it by a farewell eternal 
 to her sex. 
 
 Re-enter Galindo, ivith a candle. 
 
 Gal. Here's light, sir. — [He falls and puts it 
 out.] So ! 
 
 Don Guz. Well done ! You sottish rascal, 
 come no more in my sight. 
 
 [Exit into an adjoining chamber. 
 
 Gal. These boards are so uneven ! — You shall 
 see now I shall neither find the candle — nor the 
 candlestick ; it shan't be for want of searching 
 however. — [Rising, and feeling about for the can- 
 dle.] O ho, have I got you! Enough, I'll look for 
 your companion to-morrow. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro and Don John. 
 
 Don Ped. Where are we now ? 
 
 Don John. We are in the apartment I told you 
 of— softly — I hear something stir. — Ten to one but 
 'tis he. 
 
 Gal. Don't I hear somewhat ? — No. — When one 
 has wine in one's head, one has such a bustle in 
 one's ears. 
 
 Don Ped. [ To Don John.] Who is that talking 
 to himself? 
 
 Don John. 'Tis his servant, I know his voice, 
 keep still. 
 
 Gal. Well ; since my master has banished me 
 his sight, I'll redeem by my obedience what I have 
 lost by my debauch. I'll go sleep twelve hours in 
 some melancholy hole where the devil shan't find 
 me. Yes. [Exit. 
 
 Don John. He's gone ; but hush, I hear some- 
 body coming. 
 
 Don Guz. Ho, there ! will nobody bring light ? 
 [Behind the scene. 
 
 Don Ped. 'Tis Guzman. 
 
 Don John. 'Tis so, prepare. 
 
 Don Ped. Shall I own my weakness ? I feel an 
 inward check ; I wish this could be done some 
 other way. 
 
 Don John. Distraction all ! is this a time to 
 balance ? Think on the injury he would have done 
 you, 'twill fortify your arm, and guide your dagger 
 to his heart. 
 
 Don Ped. Enough, I'll hesitate no more ; be 
 satisfied, hark ! he's coming. 
 
 Re-enter Don Guzman, he crosses the stage. 
 
 Don Guz. I think these rogues are resolved to 
 leave me in the dark all night. [Exit. 
 
 Don John. Now's your time ; follow him, and 
 strike home. 
 
 Don Ped. To his heart, if my dagger will reach 
 it. [Exit. 
 
 Don John. [Aside.] If one be killed, I'm satis- 
 fied ; 'tis no great matter which. 
 Re-enter Don Guzman, Don Pedro following him, with 
 his dagger ready to strike. 
 
 Don Guz. My chamber-door's locked, and I 
 think I hear somebody tread. — Who's there ? — 
 Nobody answers. But still I hear something stir. 
 Holo there ! Sancho, are you all drunk ? Some 
 lights here quickly. 
 
 [Passes by the corner where Don John stands, and goes 
 off the stage ; Don Pedro folloioing him. 
 
 Don Ped. {Aside.] I think I'm near him now. 
 — Traitor, take that ! my wife has sent it thee. 
 
 [Stabs Don John. 
 
 Don John. Ah, I'm dead ! 
 
 Don Ped. Then thou hast thy due. 
 
 Don John. I have indeed, 'tis I that have be- 
 trayed thee. 
 
 Don Ped. And 'tis I that am revenged on thee 
 for doing it. 
 
 Don John. I would have forced thy wife. 
 
 Don Ped. Die then with the regret to have failed 
 in thy attempt. 
 
 Don John. Farewell, if thou canst forgive me — 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 Don Ped. I have done the deed : there's nothing 
 
 left, but to make our escape. Don John, where 
 
 are you? let's be gone, I hear the servants coming. 
 
 [Knocking at the door. 
 
 Lop. [ Without.] Open there quickly, open the 
 door ! 
 
 Don Ped. That's Lopez, we shall be discovered. 
 But 'tis no great matter, the crime will justify the 
 execution. But where's Don John ? — Don John, 
 where are you ? 
 
 [Knocking at the door. 
 
 Lop. [ Without.] Open the door there, quickly ! 
 — Madam, I saw 'em both pass the wall, the devil's 
 in't if any good comes on't. 
 
 Leo. [Without.] I am frightened out of my 
 senses 1 — Ho, Isabella ! 
 
 Don Ped. 'Tis Leonora. — She's welcome. — 
 With her own eyes let her see her Guzman dead. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 413 
 
 Enter Don Guzman, Leonora, Isabella, Jacinta, and 
 Lopez, with lights. 
 
 Don Ped. Ha ! what is't I see ? Guzman 
 alive ? Then who art thou ? [Looking on Don John. 
 
 Don Guz. Guzman alive! Yes, Pedro, Guz- 
 man is alive. 
 
 Don Ped. Then Heaven is just, and there's a 
 traitor dead. 
 
 Isab. [Weeping.] Alas, Don John ! 
 
 Lop. [Looking upon Don John.] Buenas 
 noches ! 
 
 Don Guz. What has produced this bloody- 
 scene ? 
 
 Don Ped. 'Tis I have been the actor in't ; my 
 poniard, Guzman, I intended in your heart. I 
 
 thought your crime deserved it : but I did you 
 wrong, and my hand in searching the innocent, has 
 by heaven's justice been directed to the guilty. 
 Don John, with his last breath, confessed himself 
 the offender. Thus my revenge is satisfied, and 
 you are cleared. 
 
 Don Guz. Good Heaven, how equitable are thy 
 judgments ! 
 
 Don Ped. [To Leonora.] Come, madam, my 
 honour now is satisfied, and if you please my love 
 may be so too. 
 
 Leo. If it is not, 
 
 You to yourself alone shall own your smart, 
 
 For where I've given my hand, I'll give my 
 heart. [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. OLDF1ELD. 
 
 What say you, sirs, d'ye think my lady'll 'scape ? 
 'Tis devilish hard to stand a favourite's rape. 
 Should Guzman, like Don John, break in upon 
 
 her, 
 For all her virtue, heaven have mercy on her ! 
 Her strength, I doubt, 's in his irresolution, 
 There's wondrous charms in vigorous execution. 
 Indeed you men are fools, you won't believe 
 What dreadful things we women can forgive : 
 I know but one we never do pass by, 
 And that you plague us with eternally ; 
 
 When in your courtly fears to disoblige, 
 
 You won't attack the town which you besiege : 
 
 Your guns are light, and planted out of reach : 
 
 D'ye think with billets-doux to make a breach ? 
 
 'Tis small-shot all, and not a stone will fly : 
 
 Walls fall by cannon, and by firing nigh : 
 
 In sluggish dull blockades you keep the field, 
 
 And starve us ere we can with honour yield. 
 
 In short— 
 
 We can't receive those terms you gently tender, 
 
 But storm, and we can answer our surrender. 
 
THE CONFEDERACY 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MONEYTRAP, } tW0 TiCh MOmy ScrivenerS - 
 
 Dick Amlet, a Gamester, Son to Mrs. Amlet. 
 Brass, his Companion, passes for his Valet-de- 
 
 Chambre. 
 Clip, a Goldsmith. 
 Jessamin, Footboy to Clarissa. 
 A Constable. 
 CLARrssA, Wife to Gripe, an expensive luxurious 
 
 Woman, a great Admirer of Quality. 
 
 Araminta, Wife to Moneytrap, very intimate 
 
 with Clarissa, of the same Humour. 
 Corinna, Daughter to Gripe by a former Wife, 
 
 a good Fortune, young, and kept very close 
 
 by her Father. 
 Flippanta, Maid to Clarissa. 
 Mrs. Amlet, a Seller of all Sorts of private Affairs 
 
 to the Ladies. 
 Mrs. Cloggit, her Neighbour. 
 
 SCENE, — London. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY A SHABBY POET. 
 
 Ye gods ! what crime had my poor father done, 
 That you should make a poet of his son ? 
 Or is't for some great services of his, 
 Y'are pleased to compliment his boy — with this ? 
 IShowing his crown of laurel. 
 The honour, I must needs confess, is great, 
 If, with his crown, you'd tell him where to eat. 
 'Tis well. — But I have more complaints — look here ! 
 \_Showing his ragged coat. 
 Hark ye : — D'ye think this suit good winter wear ? 
 In a cold morning, whu — at a lord's gate, 
 How you have let the porter let me wait ! 
 You'll say, perhaps, you knew I'd get no harm, 
 You'd given me fire enough to keep me warm. 
 Ah!— 
 
 A world of blessings to that fire we owe ; 
 Without it I'd ne'er made this princely show. 
 I have a brother too, now in my sight, 
 
 [_Looking behind the scenes. 
 A busy man amongst us here to-night : 
 
 Your fire has made him play a thousand pranks, 
 For which, no doubt, you've had his daily thanks ; 
 He has thank'd you, first, for all his decent plays, 
 Where he so nick'd it, when he writ for praise. 
 Next for his meddling with some folks in black, 
 And bringing — souse ! — a priest upon his back ; 
 For building houses here to oblige the peers, 
 And fetching all their house about his ears ; 
 For a new play, he'as now thought fit to write, 
 To soothe the town — which they — will damn to- 
 night. 
 These benefits are such', no man can doubt 
 But he'll go on, and set your fancy out, 
 Till for reward of all his noble deeds, 
 At last like other sprightly folks he speeds : 
 Has this great recompense fix'd on his brow 
 At famed Parnassus ; has your leave to bow 
 And walk about the streets — equipp'd — as I am 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — Covent Garden. 
 Enter Mrs. Amlet and Mrs. Cloggit, meeting. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Good-morrow, neighbour ; good- 
 morrow, neighbour Cloggit ! How does all at your 
 house this morning ? 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Thank you kindly, Mrs. Amlet, 
 thank you kindly ; how do you do, I pray ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. At the old rate, neighbour, poor and 
 honest ; these are har* times, good lack ! 
 
 Mrs. Clog. If they are hard with you, what are 
 they with us ? You have a good trade going, all the 
 great folks in town help you off with your mer- 
 chandise. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Yes, they do help us off with 'em 
 indeed ; they buy all. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. And pay — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. For some. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Well, 'tis a thousand pities, Mrs. 
 Amlet, they are not as ready at one as they are at 
 
3CBNE II. 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 415 
 
 t'other: for, not to wrong 'em, they give very good 
 rates. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Oh, for that, let us do 'em justice, 
 neighbour ; they never make two words upon the 
 price, all they haggle about is the day of pay- 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. There's all the dispute, as you say. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. But that's a wicked one. For my 
 part, neighbour, I'm just tired off my legs with 
 trotting after 'em ; besides, it eats out all our profit. 
 Would you believe it, Mrs. Cloggit, I have worn out 
 four pair of pattens with following my old lady 
 Youthful, for one set of false teeth, and but three 
 pots of paint. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Look you there now ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. If they would but once let me get 
 enough by 'em, to keep a coach to carry me a- 
 dunning after 'em, there would be some conscience 
 in it. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Ay, that were something. But now 
 you talk of conscience, Mrs. Amlet, how do you 
 speed amongst your city customers ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. My city customers ! now by my 
 truth, neighbour, between the city and the court 
 (with reverence be it spoken) there's not a — to 
 choose. My ladies in the city, in times past, were 
 as full of gold as they were of religion, and as 
 punctual in their payments as they were in their 
 prayers ; but since they have set their minds upon 
 quality, adieu one, adieu t'other, their money and 
 their consciences are gone, Heaven knows where. 
 There is not a goldsmith's wife to be found in 
 town, but's as hard-hearted as an ancient judge, 
 and as poor as a towering duchess. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. But what the murrain have they to 
 do with quality ! why don't their husbands make 
 'em mind their shops ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Their husbands ! their husbands, 
 sayest thou, woman ? Alack ! alack ! they mind 
 their husbands, neighbour, no more than they do a 
 sermon. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Good lack a-day, that women born 
 of sober parents, should be prone to follow ill 
 examples ! But now we talk of quality, when did 
 you hear of your son Richard, Mrs. Amlet ? My 
 daughter Flipp says she met him t'other day in a 
 laced coat, with three fine ladies, his footman at 
 his heels, and as gay as a bridegroom. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ? Ah the rogue ! 
 Well, neighbour, all's well that ends well ; but 
 Dick will be hanged. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. That were pity. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Pity indeed ; for he's a hopeful 
 young man to look on ; but he leads a life — Well 
 — where he has it, Heaven knows ; but they say, 
 he pays his club with the best of 'em. I have seen 
 him but once these three months, neighbour, and 
 then the varlet wanted money ; but I bid him 
 march, and march he did to some purpose ; for in 
 less than an hour back comes my gentleman into 
 the house, walks to and fro in the room, with his 
 wig over his shoulder, his hat on one side, whist- 
 ling a minuet, and tossing a purse of gold from one 
 hand to t'other, with no more respect (Heaven 
 bless us !) than if it had been an orange. Sirrah, 
 says I, where have you got that ? He answers me 
 never a word, but sets his arms akimbo, cocks his 
 saucy hat in my face, turns about upon his ungra- 
 cious heel, as much as to say kiss — and I've never 
 set eye on him since. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. Look you there now ; to see what 
 the youth of this age are come to ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. See what they will come to, neigh- 
 bour. Heaven shield, I say ; but Dick's upon the 
 gallop. Well, I must bid you good-morrow ; I'm 
 going where I doubt I shall meet but a sorry wel- 
 come. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. To get in some old debt, I'll war- 
 rant you ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Neither better nor worse. 
 
 Mrs. Clog. From a lady of quality ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. No, she's but a scrivener's wife ; 
 but she lives as well and pays as ill as the state- 
 liest countess of 'em all. {Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II.— The Street before Gripe's House. 
 Enter Brass. 
 
 Brass. Well, surely through the world's wide 
 extent, there never appeared so impudent a fellow 
 as my school-fellow Dick. — Pass himself upon the 
 town for a gentleman, drop into all the best com- 
 pany with an easy air, as if his natural element 
 were in the sphere of quality ; when the rogue had 
 a kettle-drum to his father, who was hanged for 
 robbing a church, and has a pedlar to his mother, 
 — who carries her shop under her arm ! — But here 
 he comes. 
 
 Enter Dick Amlkt. 
 
 Dick. Well, Brass, what news ? Hast thou 
 given my letter to Flippanta ? 
 
 Brass. I'm but just come : I han't knocked at 
 the door yet. But I have a damned piece of news 
 for you. 
 
 Dick. As how ? 
 
 Brass. We must quit this country. 
 
 Dick. We'll be hanged first. 
 
 Brass. So you will if you stay. 
 
 Dick. Why, what's the matter ? 
 
 Brass. There's a storm a coming. 
 
 Dick. From whence ? 
 
 Brass. From the worst point in the compass, 
 the law. 
 
 Dick. The law ! why what have I to do with the 
 law ? 
 
 Brass. Nothing ; and therefore it has something 
 to do with you. 
 
 Dick. Explain. 
 
 Brass. You know you cheated a young fellow at 
 picquet t'other day of the money he had to raise 
 his company. 
 
 Dick. Well, what then ? 
 
 Brass. Why, he's sorry he lost it. 
 
 Dick. Who doubts that ? 
 
 Brass. Ay, but that is not all, he's such a fool 
 to think of complaining on't. 
 
 Dick. Then I must be so wise to stop his mouth. 
 
 Brass. How? 
 
 Dick. Give him a little back ; if that won't do, 
 strangle him. 
 
 Brass. You are very quick in your methods. 
 
 Dick. Men must be so that will despatch busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Brass. Hark you, colonel, your father died in's 
 bed? 
 
 Dick. He might have done, if he had not been a 
 fool. 
 
416 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Brass. Why, he robbed a church. 
 
 Dick. Ay, but he forgot to make sure of the 
 sexton. 
 
 Brass. Are not you a great rogue ? 
 
 Dick. Or I should wear worse clothes. 
 
 Brass. Hark you, I would advise you to change 
 your life. 
 
 Dick. And turn ballad-singer ? 
 
 Brass. Not so neither. 
 
 Dick. What then. 
 
 Brass. Why, if you can get this young wench, 
 reform, and live honest. 
 
 Dick. That's the way to be starved. 
 
 Brass. No, she has money enough to buy you a 
 good place, and pay me into the bargain for help- 
 ing her to so good a match. You have but this 
 throw left to save you, for you are not ignorant, 
 youngster, that your morals begin to be pretty 
 well known about town ; have a care your noble 
 birth and your honourable relations are not dis- 
 covered too ; there needs but that to have you 
 tossed in a blanket, for the entertainment of the 
 first company of ladies you intrude into ; and then, 
 like a dutiful son, you may daggle about with your 
 mother, and sell paint : she's old and weak, and 
 wants somebody to carry her goods after her. How 
 like a dog will you look, with a pair of plod shoes, 
 your hair cropped up to your ears, and a bandbox 
 under your arm ! 
 
 Dick. Why faith, Brass, I think thou art in the 
 right on't ; I must fix my affairs quickly, or ma- 
 dam Fortune will be playing some of her bitch- 
 tricks with me : therefore I'D tell thee what we'll 
 do ; we'll pursue this old rogue's daughter heartily ; 
 we'll cheat his family to purpose, and they shall 
 atone for the rest of mankind. 
 
 Brass. Have at her then ! I'll about your busi- 
 ness presently. 
 
 Dick. One kiss— and success attend thee. [Exit. 
 
 Brass. A great rogue ! — Well, I say nothing : 
 but when I have got the thing into a good posture, 
 he shall sign and seal, or I'll have him tumbled out 
 of the house like a cheese. — Now for Flippanta. 
 
 [Knocks at Gripe's door. 
 
 Enter Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. Who's that ? Brass ! 
 
 Brass. Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. What want you, rogue's face ? 
 
 Brass. Is your mistress dressed ? 
 
 Flip. What, already ! Is the fellow drunk ? 
 
 Brass. Why, with respect to her looking-glass, 
 it's almost two. 
 
 Flip. What then, fool ? 
 
 Brass. Why then it's time for the mistress of 
 the house to come down, and look after her 
 family. 
 
 Flip. Prithee don't be an owl. Those that go 
 to bed at night may rise in the morning ! we 
 that go to bed in the morning rise in the after- 
 noon. 
 
 Brass. When does she make her visits then ? 
 
 Flip. By candle-light ; it helps off a muddy 
 complexion ; we women hate inquisitive sunshine. 
 But do you know that my lady is going to turn 
 good housewife ? 
 
 Brass. What, is she going to die ? 
 
 Flip. Die ! 
 
 Brass. Why, that's the only way to save money 
 for her family. 
 
 Flip. No ; but she has thought of a project to 
 save chair-hire. 
 
 Brass. As how ? 
 
 Flip. Why all the company she used to keep 
 abroad, she now intends shall meet at her own 
 house. Your master has advised her to set up a 
 basset-table. 
 
 Brass. Nay, if he advised her to 't, it's right ; 
 but has she acquainted her husband with it yet ? 
 
 Flip. What to do? when the company meet, 
 he'll see 'em. 
 
 Brass. Nay, that's true, as you say ; he'll know 
 it soon enough. 
 
 Flip. Well, I must be gone ; have you any busi- 
 ness with my lady ? 
 
 Brass. Yes ; as ambassador from Araminta, I 
 have a letter for her. 
 
 Flip. Give it me. 
 
 Brass. Hold ! — and as first minister of state to 
 the colonel, I have an affair to communicate to 
 thee. 
 
 Flip. What is't ?— quick ! 
 
 Brass. Why — he's in love. 
 
 Flip. With what ? 
 
 Brass. A woman — and her money together. 
 
 Flip. Who is she ? 
 
 Brass. Corinna. 
 
 Flip. What would he be at ? 
 
 Brass. At her, if she's at leisure. 
 
 Flip. Which way ? 
 
 Brass. Honourably. He has ordered me to 
 demand her of thee in marriage. 
 
 Flip. Of me ! 
 
 Brass. Why, when a man of quality has a mind 
 to a city fortune, wouldst have him apply to her 
 father and mother ? 
 
 Flip. No. 
 
 Brass. No ; so I think. Men of our end of the 
 town are better bred than to use ceremony. With 
 a long periwig we strike the lady ; with a you- 
 know-what we soften the maid ; and when the 
 parson has done his job, we open the affair to the 
 family. Will you slip this letter into her Prayer- 
 Book, my little queen ? it's a very passionate one. 
 It's sealed with a heart and a dagger ; you may see 
 by that what he intends to do with himself. 
 
 Flip. Are there any verses in it ? if not, I won't 
 touch it. 
 
 Brass. Not one word in prose ; it's dated in 
 rhyme. [Flippanta takes the letter. 
 
 Flip. Well, but have you brought nothing else ? 
 
 Brass. Gad forgive me, I'm the forgetfullest 
 dog ! — I have a letter for you too ; — here, 'tis in a 
 purse, but it's in prose ; you won't touch it. 
 
 Flip. Yes, hang it, it is not good to be too 
 dainty. 
 
 Brass. How useful a virtue is humility ! — Well, 
 child, we shall have an answer to-morrow, shan't 
 we? 
 
 Flip. I can't promise you that ; for our young 
 gentlewoman is not so often in my way as she 
 would be. Her father (who is a citizen from the 
 foot to the forehead of him) lets her seldom con- 
 verse with her mother-in-law and me, for fear she 
 should learn the airs of a woman of quality. But 
 I'll take the first occasion. — See, there's my lady ; 
 go in and deliver your letter to her. [Exeunt. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 417 
 
 SCENE ITI.— A Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Clarissa, followed by Flippanta and 
 
 Clar. No messages this morning from anybody, 
 Flippanta ? Lard, how dull that is ! Oh, there's 
 Brass ! — I did not see thee, Brass. What news 
 dost thou bring ? 
 
 Brass. Only a letter from Araminta, madam. 
 
 Clar. Give it me. — Open it for me, Flippanta, 
 I am so lazy to-day. [Sitting down. 
 
 Brass. [Aside to Flippanta.] Be sure now 
 you deliver my master's as carefully as I do this. 
 
 Flip. Don't trouble thyself, I'm no novice. 
 
 Clar. [ To Brass.] "Tis well ; there needs no 
 answer, since she'll be here so soon. 
 
 Brass. Your ladyship has no farther commands 
 then ? 
 
 Clar. Not at this time, honest Brass. — {Exit 
 Brass.] Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. Madam. 
 
 Clar. My husband's in love. 
 
 Flip. In love ! 
 
 Clar. With Araminta. 
 
 Flip. Impossible ! 
 
 Clar. This letter from her is to give me an 
 account of it. 
 
 Flip. Methinks you are not very much alarmed. 
 
 Clar. No ; thou knowest I'm not much tor- 
 tured with jealousy. 
 
 Flip. Nay, you are much in the right on't, 
 madam, for jealousy's a city passion ; 'tis a thing 
 unknown amongst people of quality. 
 
 Clar. Fy ! a woman must indeed be of a mecha- 
 nic mould who is either troubled or pleased with 
 anything her husband can do to her. Prithee 
 mention him no more ; 'tis the dullest theme. 
 
 Flip. 'Tis splenetic indeed. But when once 
 you open your basset-table, I hope that will put 
 him out of your head. 
 
 Clar. Alas, Flippanta ! I begin to grow weary 
 even of the thoughts of that too. 
 
 Flip. How so ? 
 
 Clar. Why, I have thought on't a day and a 
 night already ; and four-and-twenty hours, thou 
 knowest, is enough to make one weary of any- 
 thing. 
 
 Flip. Now, by my conscience, you have more 
 woman in you than all your sex together : you 
 never know what you would have. 
 
 Clar. Thou mistakest the thing quite. I al- 
 ways know what I lack, but I am never pleased 
 with what I have. The want of a thing is per- 
 plexing enough, but the possession of it is intoler- 
 able. 
 
 Flip. Well, I don't know what you are made 
 of, but other women would think themselves blest 
 in your case ; handsome, witty, loved by every- 
 body, and of so happy a composure to care a fig 
 for nobody. You have no one passion but that of 
 your pleasures ; and you have in me a servant 
 devoted to all your desires, let 'em be as extrava- 
 gant as they will. Yet all this is nothing ; you can 
 still be out of humour. 
 
 Clar. Alas ! I have but too much cause. 
 
 Flip. Why, what have you to complain of ? 
 
 Clar. Alas ! I have more subjects for spleen 
 than one. Is it not a most horrible thing that I 
 should be but a scrivener's wife ? Come, don't 
 flatter me ; don't you think nature designed me 
 for something plus elevee 9 
 
 Flip. Nay, that's certain ; but on t'other side, 
 methinks, you ought to be in some measure con- 
 tent, since you live like a woman of quality, though 
 you are none. 
 
 Clar. O fy ! the very quintessence of it is 
 wanting. 
 
 Flip. What's that ? 
 
 Clar. Why, I dare abuse nobody : I'm afraid to 
 affront people, though I don't like their faces ; or 
 to ruin their reputations, though they pique me to 
 it by taking ever sq much pains to preserve 'em : I 
 dare not raise a lie of a man, though he neglects to 
 make love to me ; nor report a woman to be a fool, 
 though she's handsomer than I am. In short, I 
 dare not so much as bid my footman kick the 
 people out of doors, though they come to ask me 
 for what I owe 'em. 
 
 Flip. All this is very hard indeed. 
 
 Clar. Ah, Flippanta, the perquisites of quality 
 are of an unspeakable value ! 
 
 Flip. They are of some use, I must confess ; 
 but we must not expect to have everything. You 
 have wit and beauty, and a fool to your husband : 
 come, come, madam, that's a good portion for 
 one. 
 
 Clar. Alas ! what signifies beauty and wit, when 
 one dares neither jilt the men nor abuse the women? 
 'Tis a sad thing, Flippanta, when wit's confined ; 
 'tis worse than the rising of the lights. I have 
 been sometimes almost choked with scandal, and 
 durst not cough it up for want of being a countess. 
 
 Flip. Poor lady ! 
 
 Clar. Oh ! liberty is a fine thing, Flippanta ; 
 it's a great help in conversation to have leave to say 
 what one will. I have seen a woman of quality, 
 who has not had one grain of wit, entertain a whole 
 company the most agreeably in the world, only 
 with her malice. But 'tis in vain to repine ; I 
 can't mend my condition till my husband dies ; so 
 I'll say no more on't, but think of making the most 
 of the state I am in. 
 
 Flip. That's your best way, madam ; and in order 
 to it, pray consider how you'll get some ready 
 money to set your basset-table a-going ; for that's 
 necessary. 
 
 Clar. Thou sayest true ; but what trick I shall 
 play my husband to get some I don't know : for 
 my pretence of losing my diamond necklace has 
 put the man into such a passion, I'm afraid he 
 won't hear reason. 
 
 Flip. No matter ; he begins to think 'tis lost in 
 earnest : so I fancy you may venture to sell it, and 
 raise money that way. 
 
 Clar. That can't be, for he has left odious notes 
 with all the goldsmiths in town. 
 
 Flip. Well, we must pawn it then. 
 
 Clar. I'm quite tired with dealing with those 
 pawnbrokers. 
 
 Flip. [Aside.] I'm afraid you'll continue the 
 trade a great while, for all that. 
 
 Enter Jessamin. 
 
 Jes. Madam, there's the woman below that sells 
 paint and patches, iron-bodice, false teeth, and all 
 sorts of things to the ladies ; I can't think of her 
 name. [Exit. 
 
 Flip. 'Tis Mrs. Amlet ; she wants money. 
 
 Clar. Well, I han't enough for myself, it's an 
 unreasonable thing she shoul'd think I have any for 
 her. 
 
 E E 
 
418 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Flip. She's a troublesome jade. 
 
 Clar. So are all people that come a-dunning. 
 
 Flip. What will you do with her ? 
 
 Clar, I have just now thought on't. She's very- 
 rich, that woman is, Flippanta ; I'll borrow some 
 money of her. 
 
 Flip. Borrow ! sure you jest, madam. 
 
 Clar. No, I'm in earnest ; I give thee commis- 
 sion to do it for me. 
 
 Flip. Me ! 
 
 Clar. Why dost thou stare, and look so ungainly ? 
 don't I speak to be understood ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, I understand you well enough ; but 
 Mrs. Amlet— 
 
 Clar. But Mrs. Amlet must lend me some mo- 
 ney ; where shall I have any to pay her else ? 
 " Flip. That's true ; I never thought of that truly. 
 But here she is. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Clar. How d'you do ? how d'you do, Mrs. Am- 
 let ; I han't seen you these thousand years, and 
 yet I believe I'm down in your books. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Oh, madam, I don't come for that, 
 alack ! 
 
 Flip. Good-morrow, Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Mrs, Ami. Good-morrow, Mrs. Flippanta. 
 
 Clar. How much am I indebted to you, Mrs. 
 Amlet ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Nay, if your ladyship desires to see 
 your bill, I believe I may have it about me. — There, 
 madam, if it ben't too much fatigue to you to look 
 it over. 
 
 Clar. Let me see it, for I hate to be in debt — 
 [Aside] — where I am obliged to pay. — [Reads.] 
 Imprimis, For bolstering out the Countess of 
 Crump's left hip — Oh, fy ! this does not belong to 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I beg your ladyship's pardon. I 
 mistook, indeed ; 'tis a countess's bill I have writ 
 out to little purpose. I furnished her two years 
 ago with three pair of hips, and am not paid for 
 'em yet. — But some are better customers than 
 some. — There's your ladyship's bill, madam. 
 
 Clar. [Reads.] For the idea of a new-invented 
 commode. — Ay, this may be mine, but 'tis of a pre- 
 posterous length. Do you think I can waste time 
 to read every article, Mrs. Amlet ? I'd as lief read 
 a sermon. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Alack-a-day, there's no need of 
 fatiguing yourself at that rate ; cast an eye only, 
 if your honour pleases, upon the sum total. 
 
 Clar. Total ; fifty-six pound — and odd things. 
 
 Flip. But six-and-fifty pound ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Nay, another body would have made 
 it twice as much ; but there's a blessing goes along 
 with a moderate profit. 
 
 Clar. Flippanta, go to my cashier, let him give 
 you six-and-fifty pound. Make haste : don't you 
 near me ? six-and-fifty pound. Is it so difficult to 
 be comprehended ? 
 
 Flip. No, madam, I — I comprehend six-and- 
 fifty pound, but — 
 
 Clar. But go and fetch it then. 
 
 Flip. [Aside.] What she means I don't know ; 
 but I shall, I suppose, before I bring her the money. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Clar. [Setting her hair in a pocket-glass.] The 
 trade you follow gives you a great deal of trouble, 
 Mrs. Amlet ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Alack-a-day, a world of pain, ma- 
 dam, and yet there's small profit, as your honour 
 sees by your bill. 
 
 Clar. Poor woman ! Sometimes you have great 
 losses, Mrs. Amlet ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I have two thousand pounds owing 
 me, of which I shall never get ten shillings. 
 
 Clar. Poor woman ! You have a great charge of 
 children, Mrs. Amlet ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Only one wicked rogue, madam, 
 who, I think, will break my heart. 
 
 Clar. Poor woman ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. He'll be hanged, madam — that will 
 be the end of him. Where he gets it, Heaven 
 knows ; but he's always shaking his heels with the 
 ladies, and his elbows with the lords. He's as 
 fine as a prince, and as gim as the best of them ; 
 but the ungracious rogue tells ail he comes 
 near that his mother is dead, and I am but his 
 nurse. 
 
 Clar. Poor woman ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Alas, madam, he's like the rest of 
 the world ; everybody's for appearing to be more 
 than they are, and that ruins all. 
 
 Clar. Well, Mrs. Amlet, you'll excuse me, I have 
 a little business, Flippanta will bring you your 
 money presently. Adieu, Mrs. Amlet ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I return your honour many thanks. 
 — [Exit Clarissa.] Ah, there's my good lady, 
 not so much as read her bill. If the rest were like 
 her, I should soon have money enough to go as 
 fine as Dick himself. 
 
 Enter Dick Amlet. 
 
 Dick. Sure Flippanta must have given my letter 
 by this time ; I long to know how it has been 
 received. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Misericorde ! what do I see ! 
 
 Dick. [Aside.] Fiends and hags — the witch my 
 mother ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Nay, 'tis he ; ah, my poor Dick, 
 what art thou doing here ? 
 
 Dick. [Aside.] What a misfortune ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Good Lard ! how thou art bravely 
 decked. But it's all one, I am thy mother still ; 
 and though thou art a wicked child, nature will 
 speak, I love thee still, ah, Dick ! my poor Dick ! 
 
 [Embracing him. 
 
 Dick. Blood and thunder ! will you ruin me ? 
 
 [Breaking from her. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah, the blasphemous rogue, how he 
 swears ! 
 
 Dick. You destroy all my hopes. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Will your mother's kiss destroy you, 
 varlet ? Thou art an ungracious bird ; kneel down, 
 and ask me blessing, sirrah. 
 
 Dick. Death and furies ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah, he's a proper young man ; see 
 what a shape he has ! ah, poor child ! 
 
 [Running to embrace him, he still avoiding her. 
 
 Dick. Oons, keep off ! the woman's mad. If 
 anybody comes, my fortune's lost. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What fortune, ha ? speak, graceless ! 
 Ah Dick, thou'lt be hanged, Dick ! 
 
 Dick. Good dear mother now, don't call me 
 Dick here. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Not call thee Dick ! is it not thy 
 name ? What shall I call thee ? Mr. Amlet ? ha ! 
 Art not thou a presumptuous rascal ? Hark you, 
 sirrah, I hear of your tricks ; you disown me for 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 419 
 
 your mother, and say I am but your nurse. Is not 
 this true ? 
 
 Dick. No, I love you; I respect you; — [ Taking 
 her hand.] I am all duty. But if you discover me 
 here, you ruin the fairest prospect that man ever 
 had. 
 
 Mrs. Aral. What prospect ? ha ! Come, this 
 is a lie now. 
 
 Dick. No, my honoured parent ; what I say is 
 true, I'm about a great fortune. I'll bring you 
 home a daughter-in-law", in a coach and six horses, 
 if you'll but be quiet : I can't tell you more now. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ! 
 
 Dick. 'Tis true, by Jupiter ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami, My dear lad ! — 
 
 Dick. For heaven's sake ! — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. But tell me, Dick — 
 
 Dick. I'll follow you home in a moment, and 
 tell you all. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What a shape is there ! 
 
 Dick. Pray mother go. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I must receive some money here 
 first, which shall go for thy wedding-dinner. 
 
 Dick. Here's somebody coming. — [Aside.] 
 'Sdeath, she'll betray me ! 
 
 [He makes signs to his mother. 
 
 Re-enter Fltppanta. 
 
 Dick. Good-morrow, dear Flippanta : how do 
 all the ladies within ? 
 
 Flip. At your service, colonel ; as far at least 
 as my interest goes. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Colonel ! — Law you now, how Dick's 
 respected! r _ Aside. 
 
 Dick. Waiting for thee, Flippanta, I was making 
 acquaintance with this old gentlewoman here. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. The pretty lad ! he's as impudent 
 as a page. [Aside. 
 
 Dick. Who is this good woman, Flippanta ? 
 
 Flip. Agin of all trades ; an old daggling cheat, 
 that hobbles about from house to house to bubble 
 the ladies of their money. I have a small business 
 of yours in my pocket, colonel. 
 
 Dick. An answer to my letter ? 
 
 Flip. So quick indeed ! No, it's your letter 
 itself. 
 
 Dick. Hast thou not given it then yet ? 
 
 Flip. I han't had an opportunity ; but 'twon't 
 be long first. Won't you go in and see my lady ? 
 
 Dick. Yes, I'll go make her a short visit. But, 
 dear Flippanta, don't forget : my life and fortune 
 are in your hands. 
 
 Flip. Ne'er fear, I'll take care of 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. How he traps 'em ! let Dick alone. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Dick. [ To Mrs. Amlet.] Your servant, good 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Your honour's most devoted. — 
 [Exit Dick Amlet.] A pretty, civil, well-bred 
 gentleman this, Mrs. Flippanta. Pray whom may 
 he be ? 
 
 Flip. A man of great note ; Colonel Shapely. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ! I have heard much 
 of him indeed, but never saw him before. One 
 may see quality in every limb of him : he's a fine 
 man truly. 
 
 Flip. I think you are in love with him, Mrs. 
 Amlet. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Alas, those days are done with^ne, 
 but if I were as fair as I was once, and had as 
 much money as some folks, Colonel Shapely 
 should not catch cold for want of a bedfellow. I 
 love your men of rank, they have something in 
 their air does so distinguish 'em from the rascality. 
 
 Flip. People of quality are fine things indeed, 
 Mrs. Amlet, if they had but a little more money ; 
 but for want of that, they are forced to do things 
 their great souls are ashamed of. For example — 
 here's my lady — she owes you but six-and-fifty 
 pounds — 
 
 Mrs. Ami, Well ! 
 
 Flip. Well, and she has it not by her to pay you. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. How can that be ? 
 
 Flip. I don't know ; her cash-keeper's out of 
 humour, he says he has no money. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What a presumptuous piece of ver- 
 min is a cash-keeper ! Tell his lady he has no 
 money ! — Now, Mrs. Flippanta, you may see his 
 bags are full, by his being so saucy. 
 
 Flip. If they are, there's no help for't ; he'll 
 do what he pleases, till he comes to make up his 
 yearly accounts. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. But madam plays sometimes, so 
 when she has good fortune, she may pay me out 
 of her winnings. 
 
 Flip. Oh, ne'er think of that, Mrs. Amlet ; if 
 she had won a thousand pounds, she'd rather die in 
 a jail than pay off a farthing with it. Play-money, 
 Mrs. Amlet, amongst people of quality, is a sacred 
 thing, and not to be profaned. The deuse ! — 'tis 
 consecrated to their pleasures, 'twould be sacrilege 
 to pay their debts with it. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Why what shall we do then ? for I 
 han't one penny to buy bread. 
 
 Flip. I'll tell you — it just now comes in my 
 head : I know my lady has a little occasion for 
 money at this time ; so— if you lend her — a hun- 
 dred pound — do you see, then she may pay you 
 your six-and-fifty out of it. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Sure, Mrs. Flippanta, you think to 
 make a fool of me ! 
 
 Flip. No, the devil fetch me if I do. — You shall 
 have a diamond necklace in pawn. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. O ho, a pawn ! That's another case. 
 And when must she have this money ? 
 
 Flip. In a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Say no more. Bring the necklace to 
 my house, it shall be ready for you. 
 
 Flip. I'll be with you in a moment, 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Adieu, Mrs. Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. Adieu, Mrs. Amlet. — [ Exit Mrs. Amlet.] 
 So — this ready money will make us all happy. 
 This spring will set our basset going, and that's a 
 wheel will turn twenty others. My lady's young 
 and handsome ; she'll have a dozen intrigues upon 
 her hands before she has been twice at her prayers. 
 So much the better ; the more the grist, the richer 
 the miller. Sure never wench got into so hopeful 
 a place ! Here's a fortune to be sold, a mistress 
 to be debauched, and a master to be ruined. If I 
 don't feather my nest, and get a good husband, I 
 deserve to die, both a maid and a beggar. [Exit. 
 
 EE2 
 
420 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Gripe's House. 
 Enter Clarissa and Dick Amlet. 
 
 Clar. What in the name of dulness is the mat- 
 ter with you, colonel ? You are as studious as a 
 cracked chemist. 
 
 Dick. My head, madam, is full of your husband. 
 
 Clar. The worst furniture for a head in the uni- 
 verse. 
 
 Dick. I am thinking of his passion for your 
 friend Araminta. 
 
 Clar. Passion ! —dear colonel, give it a less 
 violent name. 
 
 Enter Brass. 
 
 Dick. Well, sir, what want you ? 
 
 Brass. [Aside to Dick Amlet.] The affair I 
 told you of goes ill. — There's an action out. 
 
 Dick. The devil there is ! 
 
 Clar. What news brings Brass ? 
 
 Dick. Before Gad I'can't tell, madam ; the dog 
 will never speak out. — [To Brass.] My lord 
 what d'ye call him waits for me at my lodging : is 
 not that it ? 
 
 Brass. Yes, sir. 
 
 Dick. Madam, I ask your pardon. 
 
 Clar. Your servant, sir [Exeunt Dick Am- 
 let and Brass.] Jessamin ! [She sits doivn. 
 
 Enter Jesasmin. 
 
 Jes. Madam ! 
 
 Clar. Where's Corinna ? Call her to me, if her 
 father han't locked her up ; I want her company. 
 
 Jes. Madam, her guitar-master is with her. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Clar. Psha ! she's taken up with her impertinent 
 guitar man. Flippanta stays an age with that old 
 fool Mrs. Amlet. And Araminta, before she can 
 come abroad, is so long a- placing her coquette- 
 patch, that I must be a year without company. 
 How insupportable is a moment's uneasiness to a 
 woman of spirit and pleasure ! 
 
 Enter Flippanta. 
 
 Oh, art thou come at last ? Prithee, Flippanta, 
 learn to move a little quicker, thou know est how 
 impatient I am. 
 
 Flip. Yes, when you expect money. If you had 
 sent me to buy a prayer-book, you'd have thought 
 I had flown. 
 
 Clar. Well, hast thou brought me any, after all ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, I have brought some. There — 
 [Giving her a purse. ,] The old hag has struck off 
 her bill, the rest is in that purse. 
 
 Clar. 'Tis well ; but take care, Flippanta, my 
 husband don't suspect anything of this ; 'twould 
 vex him, and I don't love to make him uneasy : so 
 I would spare him these little sort of troubles, by 
 keeping 'em from his knowledge. 
 
 Flip. See the tenderness she has for him ! and 
 yet he's always complaining of you. 
 
 Clar. 'Tis the nature of 'em, Flippanta ; a 
 husband is a growling animal. 
 
 Flip. How exactly you define 'em ! 
 
 Clar. I know 'em, Flippanta ; though I con- 
 fess my poor wretch diverts me sometimes with his 
 ill humours. I wish he would quarrel with me to- 
 day a little, to pass away the time, for I find 
 myself in a violent spleen. 
 
 Flip. Why, if you please to drop yourself in his 
 way, six to four but he scolds one rubbers with 
 you. 
 
 Clar. Ay, but thou knowest he's as uncertain as 
 the wind, and if instead of quarrelling with me, he 
 should chance to be fond, he'd make me as sick as a 
 dog. 
 
 Flip. If he's kind, you must provoke him ; if 
 he kisses you, spit in his face. 
 
 Clar. Alas ! when men are in the kissing fit, 
 (like lapdogs,) they take that for a favour. 
 
 Flip. Nay, then I don't know what you'll do 
 with him. 
 
 Clar. I'll e'en do nothing at all with him — 
 Flippanta. [Yawning. 
 
 Flip. Madam ! 
 
 Clar. My hoods and scarf, and a coach to the 
 door. 
 
 Flip. Why, whither are you going ? 
 
 Clar. I can't tell yet, but I would go spend some 
 money, since I have it. 
 
 Flip. Why, you want nothing that I know of. 
 
 Clar. How awkward an objection now is that ! 
 as if a woman of education bought things because 
 she wanted 'em. Quality always distinguishes 
 itself, and therefore as the mechanic people buy 
 things, because they have occasion for 'em, you 
 see women of rank always buy things, because they 
 have not occasion for 'em. Now there, Flip- 
 panta, you see the difference between a woman that 
 has breeding, and one that has none. O ho, here's 
 Araminta come at last. 
 
 Enter\ Araminta. 
 
 Lard, what a tedious while you have let me expect 
 you ! I was afraid you were not well ; how d'ye 
 do to-day ? 
 
 Aram As well as a woman can do, that has not 
 slept all night. 
 
 Flip. Methinks, madam, you are pretty well 
 awake, however. 
 
 Aram. Oh, 'tis not a little thing will make a 
 woman of my vigour look drowsy. 
 
 Clar. But prithee what was't disturbed you ? 
 
 Aram. Not your husband, don't trouble your- 
 self ; at least, I am not in love with him yet. 
 
 Clar. Well remembered, I had quite forgot that 
 matter. I wish you much joy, you have made a 
 noble conquest indeed. 
 
 Aram. But now I have subdued the country, 
 pray is it worth my keeping? You know the 
 ground, you have tried it. 
 
 Clar. A barren soil, Heaven can tell. 
 
 Aram. Yet if it were well cultivated, it would 
 produce something to my knowledge. Do you know 
 it is in my power to ruin this poor thing of yours ? 
 His whole estate is at my service. 
 
 Flip. Cods-fish ! strike him, madam, and let my 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 421 
 
 lady go your halves. There's no sin in plundering 
 a husband, so his wife has share of the booty. 
 
 Aram. Whenever she gives me her orders, I 
 shall be very ready to obey 'em. 
 
 Clar. Why, as odd a thing as such a project 
 may seem, Araminta, I believe I shall have a little 
 serious discourse with you about it. But, prithee, 
 tell me how you have passed the night ? for I am 
 sure your mind has been roving upon some pretty 
 thing or other. 
 
 Aram. Why, I have been studying all the ways 
 my brain could produce to plague my husband. 
 
 Clar. No wonder indeed you look so fresh this 
 morning, after the satisfaction of such pleasing 
 ideas all night. 
 
 Aram. Why, can a woman do less than study 
 mischief, when she has tumbled and tossed herself 
 into a burning fever for want of sleep, and sees a 
 fellow lie snoring by her, stock-still, in a fine 
 breathing sweat ? 
 
 Clar. Now see the difference of women's tem- 
 pers ! If my dear would make but one nap of his 
 whole life, and only waken to make his will, I 
 should be the happiest wife in the universe. But 
 we'll discourse more of these matters as we go, 
 for I must take a tour among the shops. 
 
 Aram. I have a coach waits at the door, we'll 
 talk of 'em as we rattle along. 
 
 Clar. The best place in nature ; for you know 
 
 a hackney-coach is a natural enemy to a husband. 
 
 [Exeunt Clarissa and Araminta. 
 
 Flip. What a pretty little pair of amiable per- 
 sons are there gone to hold a council of war toge- 
 ther ! Poor birds ! What would they do with their 
 time, if the plaguing their husbands did not help 
 'em to employment ! Well, if idleness be the 
 root of all evil, then matrimony's good for some- 
 thing, for it sets many a poor woman to work. 
 But here comes Miss. I hope I shall help her into 
 the holy state too ere long. And when she's once 
 there, if she don't play her part as well as the best 
 of 'em, I'm mistaken. Han't I lost the letter I'm 
 to give her ? — No, here 'tis ; so, now we shall see 
 how pure nature will work with her, for art she 
 knows none yet. 
 
 Enter Corinna. 
 
 Cor. What does my mother-in-law want with 
 me, Flippanta ? They tell me she was asking for 
 me. 
 
 Flip. She's just gone out, so I suppose 'twas no 
 great business. 
 
 Cor. Then I'll go into my chamber again. 
 
 Flip. Nay, hold a little if you please. I have 
 some business with you myself of more concern 
 than what she had to say to you. 
 
 Cor. Make haste then, for you know my father 
 won't let me keep you company ; he says you'll 
 spoil me. 
 
 Flip. I spoil you ! He's an unworthy man to 
 give you such ill impressions of a woman of my 
 honour. 
 
 Cor. Nay, never take it to heart, Flippanta, for 
 I don't believe a word he says. But he does so 
 plague me with his continual scolding, I'm almost 
 weary of my life. 
 
 Flip. Why, what is't he finds fault with ? 
 
 Cor. Nay, I don't know, for I never mind him ; 
 when he has babbled for two hours together, me- 
 thinks I have heard a mill going, that's all. It 
 
 does not at all change my opinion, Flippanta, it 
 only makes my head ache. 
 
 Flip. Nay, if you can bear it so, you are not to 
 be pitied so much as I thought. 
 
 Cor. Not pitied ! Why is it not a miserable 
 thing for such a young creature as I am should be 
 kept in perpetual solitude, with no other company 
 but a parcel of old fumbling masters, to teach me 
 geography, arithmetic, philosophy, and a thousand 
 useless things? Fine entertainment, "indeed, for a 
 young maid at sixteen ? Methinks one's time 
 might be better employed. 
 
 Flip. Those things will improve your wit. 
 
 Cor. Fiddle, faddle ! han't I wit enough already ? 
 My mother-in-law has learned none of this trum- 
 pery, and is not she as happy as the day is long ? 
 
 Flip. Then you envy her I find ? 
 
 Cor. And well I may. Does she not do what 
 she has a mind to, in spite of her husband's teeth ? 
 
 Flip. [Aside.] Look you there now ! If she 
 has not already conceived that as the supreme 
 blessing of life ! 
 
 Cor. I'll tell you what, Flippanta ; if my mother- 
 in-law would but stand by me a little, and encou- 
 rage me, and let me keep her company, I'd rebel 
 against my father to-morrow, and throw all my 
 books in the fire. Why, he can't touch a groat 
 of my portion ; do you know that, Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. [Aside.] So — I shall spoil her ! Pray 
 Heaven the girl don't debauch me ! 
 
 Cor. Look you : in short, he may think what he 
 pleases, he may think himself wise ; but thoughts 
 are free, and I may think in my turn. I'm but a 
 girl, 'tis true, and a fool too, if you'll believe him ; 
 but let him know, a foolish girl may make a wise 
 man's heart ache ; so he had as good be quiet. — 
 Now it's out. 
 
 Flip. Very well, I love to see a young woman 
 have spirit, it's a sign she'll come to something. 
 
 Cor. Ah, Flippanta ! if you would but encourage 
 me, you'd find me quite another thing. I'm a 
 devilish girl in the bottom ; I wish you'd but let 
 me make one amongst you. 
 
 Flip. That never can be till you are married. 
 Come, examine your strength a little. Do you 
 think you durst venture upon a husband ? 
 
 Cor. A husband ! Why, a — if yoti would but 
 encourage me. Come, Flippanta, be a true friend 
 now. I'll give you advice when I have got a little 
 more experience. Do you in your very conscience 
 and soul think I am old enough to be married ? 
 
 Flip. Old enough ! why, you are sixteen, are 
 you not ? 
 
 Cor. Sixteen ! I am sixteen, two months, and 
 odd days, woman. I keep an exact account. 
 
 Flip. The deuse you are ! 
 
 Cor. Why, do you then truly and sincerely think 
 I am old enough ? 
 
 Flip. I do upon my faith, child. 
 
 Cor. Why, then, to deal as fairly with you, 
 Flippanta, as you do with me, I have thought so 
 any time these three years. 
 
 Flip. Now I find you have more wit than ever 
 I thought you had ; and to show you what an 
 opinion I have of your discretion, I'll show you a 
 thing I thought to have thrown in the fire. 
 
 Cor. What is it, for Jupiter's sake ? 
 
 Flip. Something will make your heart chuck 
 within you. 
 
 Cor. My dear Flippanta ! 
 
422 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Flip. What do you think it is ? 
 
 Cor. I don't know, nor I don't care, but I'm 
 mad to have it. 
 
 Flip. It's a four-cornered thing. 
 
 Cor. What, like a cardinal's cap ? 
 
 Flip. No, 'tis worth a whole conclave of 'em. 
 How do you like it ? [Showing the letter. 
 
 Cor. O Lard, a letter ! Is there ever a token in it? 
 
 Flip. Yes, and a precious one too. There's a 
 handsome young gentleman's heart. 
 
 Cor. A handsome young gentleman's heart ! — 
 [Aside.] Nay, then, it's time to look grave. 
 
 Flip. There. 
 
 Cor. I shan't touch it. 
 
 Flip. What's the matter now ? 
 
 Cor. I shan't receive it. 
 
 Flip. Sure you jest. 
 
 Cor. You'll find I don't. I understand myself 
 better than to take letters when I don't know who 
 they are from. 
 
 Flip. I'm afraid I commended your wit too soon. 
 
 Cor. 'Tis all one, I shan't touch it, unless I 
 know who it comes from. 
 
 Flip. Heyday ! open it and you'll see. 
 
 Cor. Indeed I shall not. 
 
 Flip. WehV-then I must return it where I had it. 
 
 Cor. That won't serve your turn, madam. My 
 father must have an account of this. 
 
 Flip. Sure you are not in earnest ? 
 
 Cor. You'll find I am. 
 
 Flip. So, here's fine work ! This 'tis to deal 
 with girls before they come to know the distinc- 
 tion of sexes ! 
 
 Cor. Confess who you had it from, and perhaps, 
 for this once, I mayn't tell my father. 
 
 Flip, Why then since it must out, 'twas the 
 colonel. But why are you so scrupulous, madam ? 
 
 Cor. Because if it had come from anybody else 
 — I would not have given a farthing for it. 
 
 [Twitching it eagerly out of her hand. 
 
 Flip. Ah, my dear little rogue ! — [Kissing her.] 
 You frightened me out of my wits. 
 
 Cor. Let • me read it ! let me read it ! let me 
 read it ! let me read it ! I say. — Urn, um, um. — 
 Cupid's, — um, um, um, — darts, — um, um, um, — 
 beauty, — um, — charms, — um, um, xim, — angel, — 
 um, — goddess, — um. — [Kissing the letter.~] um, 
 um, um, — truest lover, — um, um, — eternal con- 
 stancy, — um, um, um, — cruel, — um, um, um, — 
 racks, — um, um, — tortures, — um, xxm,— fifty dag- 
 gers, — um, um, — bleeding heart, — um, um, — 
 dead man. — Very well, a mighty civil letter I pro- 
 mise you ; not one smutty word in it : I'll go lock 
 it up in my comb-box. 
 
 Flip. Well — but what does he say to you ? 
 
 Cor. Not a word of news, Flippanta; 'tis all 
 about business. 
 
 Flip. Does he not tell you he's in love with you ? 
 
 Cor. Ay, but he told me that before. 
 
 Flip. How so ? he never spoke to you. 
 
 Cor. He sent me word by his eyes. 
 
 Flip. Did he so ? mighty well ! I thought you 
 had been to learn that language. 
 
 Cor. Oh, but you thought wrong, Flippanta. 
 What, because I don't go a-visiting, and see the 
 world, you think I know nothing ! But you 
 should consider, Flippanta, that the more one's 
 alone the more one thinks ; and 'tis thinking that 
 improves a girl, I'll have you to know, when I was 
 younger than I am now, by more than I'll boast 
 
 of, I thought of things would have made you stare 
 again. 
 
 Flip. Well, since you are so well versed in your 
 business, I suppose I need not inform you, that if 
 you don't write your gallant an answer — he'll die. 
 
 Cor. Nay, now, Flippanta, I confess you tell 
 me something I did not know before. Do you 
 speak in serious sadness ? are men given to die if 
 their mistresses are sour to 'em ? 
 
 Flip. Um — I can't say they all die. — No, I 
 can't say they all do ; but truly, I believe it would 
 go very hard with the colonel. 
 
 Cor. Lard, I would not have my hands in blood 
 for thousands ; and therefore, Flippanta — if you'll 
 encourage me — 
 
 Flip. O by all means an answer. 
 
 Cor. Well, since you say it then, I'll e'en in 
 and do it, though I protest to you (lest you should 
 think me too forward now) he's the only man that 
 wears a beard I'd ink my fingers for. — [Aside.] 
 Maybe if I marry him, in a year or two's time I 
 mayn't be so nice. [Exit. 
 
 Flip. Now Heaven give him joy ; he's like to 
 have a rare wife o' thee ! But where there's money, 
 a man has a plaster to his sore. They have a bles- 
 sed time on't, who marry for love. See ! — here 
 comes an example — Araminta's dread lord. 
 
 Enter Moneytrap. 
 
 Mon. Ah, Flippanta ! How do you do, good 
 Flippanta ? how do you do ? 
 
 Flip. Thank you, sir, well, at your service. 
 
 Mon. And how does the good family, your mas- 
 ter, and your fair mistress ? Are they at home ? 
 
 Flip. Neither of 'em ; my master has been 
 gone out these two hours, and my lady is just gone 
 with your wife. 
 
 Mon. Well, I won't say I have lost my labour, 
 however, as long as I have met with you Flip- 
 panta. For I have wished a great while for an 
 opportunity to talk with you a little. You won't 
 take it amiss, if I should ask you a few questions ? 
 
 Flip. Provided you leave me to my liberty in 
 my answers. — [Aside.] What's this cotquean 
 going to pry into now ! 
 
 Mon. Prithee, good, Flippanta, how do your 
 master and mistress live together ? 
 
 Flip. Live ! why — like man and wife ; generally 
 out of humour, quarrel often, seldom agree, com- 
 plain of one another ; and perhaps have both rea- 
 son. In short, 'tis much as 'tis at your house. 
 
 Mon. Good lack ! But whose side are you 
 generally of ? 
 
 Flip. Oh, the right side always, my lady's. And 
 if you'll have me give you my opinion of these mat- 
 ters, sir, 1 do not think a husband can ever be in 
 the right. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. Little peaking, creeping, sneaking, stingy, 
 covetous, cowardly, dirty, cuckoldly things. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. Fit for nothing but tailors and dry-nurses. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. A dog in a manger, snarling and biting, to 
 starve gentlemen with good stomachs. 
 
 Mon. Ha! 
 
 Flip. A sentry upon pleasure, set to be a plague 
 upon lovers, and damn poor women before their 
 time. 
 
 Mon. A husband is indeed — 
 
SCENE 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 423 
 
 Flip. Sir, I say, he is nothing. — A beetle with- 
 out wings, a windmill without sails, a ship in a calm. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. A bag without money— an empty bottle — 
 dead small beer. 
 
 Mon. Ha '. 
 
 Flip. A quack without drugs. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. A lawyer without knavery. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! 
 
 Flip. A courtier without flattery. 
 
 Mon. Ha! 
 
 Flip. A king without an army — or a people with 
 one. Have I drawn him, sir? 
 
 Mon. Why truly, Flippanta, I can't deny but 
 there are some general lines of resemblance. But 
 you know there may be exceptions. 
 
 Flip. Hark you, sir, shall I deal plainly with 
 you ? Had I got a husband, I would put him in 
 mind that he was married as well as I. [Sings. 
 
 For were I the thing calVd a wife, 
 And my fool grew too fond of his power, 
 He should look like an ass all his life, 
 For a prank that Fd play in an hour. 
 
 Tol lol, la ra, tol tol, 8[C. 
 
 Do you observe that, sir ? 
 
 Mon. I do : and think you would be in the 
 right on't. But, prithee, why dost not give this 
 advice to thy mistress ? 
 
 Flip. For fear it should go round to your wife, 
 sir, for you know they are playfellows. 
 
 Mon. Oh, there's no danger of my wife ; she 
 knows I'm none of those husbands. 
 
 Flip. Are you sure she knows that, sir ? 
 
 Mon. I'm sure she ought to know it, Flippanta, 
 for really I have but four faults in the world. 
 
 Flip. And, pray, what may they be ? 
 
 Mon. Why, I'm a little slovenly, I shift but 
 once a week. 
 
 Flip. Fough! 
 
 Mon. I am sometimes out of humour. 
 
 Flip. Provoking ! 
 
 Mon. I don't give her so much money as she'd 
 have. 
 
 Flip. Insolent ! 
 
 Mon. And a — perhaps I mayn't be quite so 
 young as I was. 
 
 Flip. The devil ! 
 
 Mon. Oh, but then consider how 'tis on her 
 side, Flippanta. She ruins me with washing, is 
 always out of humour, ever wanting money, and 
 will never be older. 
 
 Flip. That last article, I must confess, is a little 
 hard xipon you. 
 
 Mon. Ah, Flippanta ! didst thou but know the 
 daily provocations T have, thou'dst be the first to 
 excuse my faults. But now I think on't — thou 
 art none of my friend, thou dost not love me at 
 all ; no, not at all. 
 
 Flip. And whither is this little reproach going to 
 lead us now ? 
 
 Mon. You have power over your fair mistress, 
 Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. Sir ! 
 
 Mon. But what then ? you hate me. 
 
 Flip. I understand you not. 
 
 Mon. There's not a moment's trouble her 
 naughty husband gives her but I feel it too. 
 
 Flip. I don't know what you mean. 
 
 Mon. If she did but know what part I take in 
 her sufferings — 
 
 Flip. Mighty obscure ! 
 
 Mon. Well, I'll say no more : but — 
 
 Flip. All Hebrew ! 
 
 Mon. If thou wouldst but tell her on't. 
 
 Flip. Still darker and darker ! 
 
 Mon. I should not be ungrateful. 
 
 Flip. Ah, now I begin to understand you. 
 
 Mon. Flippanta — there's my purse. 
 
 Flip. Say no more ; now you explain, indeed — 
 you are in love ? 
 
 Mon. Bitterly — and I do swear by all the gods — 
 
 Flip. Hold ! — spare 'em for another time, you 
 stand in no need of 'em now. A usurer that 
 parts with his purse, gives sufficient proof of his 
 sincerity. 
 
 Mon. I hate my wife, Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. That we'll take upon your bare word. 
 
 Mon. She's the devil, Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. You like your neighbour's better ? 
 
 Mon. Oh ! — an angel ! 
 
 Flip. What pity it is the law don't allow truck- 
 ing ! 
 
 Mon. If it did, Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. But since it don't, sir — keep the reins 
 upon your passion : don't let your flame rage too 
 high, lest my lady should be cruel, and it should 
 dry you up to a mummy. 
 
 Mon. 'Tis impossible she can be so barbarous 
 to let me die, Alas, Flippanta ! a very small 
 matter would save my life. 
 
 Flip. Then y'are dead — for we women never 
 grant anything to a man who will be satisfied with 
 a little. 
 
 Mon. Dear Flippanta, that was only my mo- 
 desty ; but since you'll have it out — I am a very 
 dragon : and so your lady'll find — if ever she 
 thinks fit to be — Now I hope you'll stand my 
 friend. 
 
 Flip. Well, sir, as far as my credit goes, it shall 
 be employed in your service. 
 
 Mon. My best Flippanta ! — Tell her — I'm all 
 hers — tell her — my body's hers — tell her — my 
 soul's hers — and tell her — my estate's hers. Lard 
 have mercy upon me, how I'm in love ! 
 
 Flip. Poor man ! what a sweat he's in ! But 
 hark — I hear my master ; for heaven's sake com- 
 pose yourself a little, you are in such a fit, o'my 
 conscience he'll smell you out. 
 
 Mon. Ah dear ! I'm in such an emotion, I dare 
 not be seen ; put me in this closet for a moment. 
 
 Flip, Closet, man ! it's too little, your love 
 would stifle you. Go air yourself in the garden a 
 little, you have need on't i'faith.— [She puts him 
 out.] A rare adventure, by my troth ! This will 
 be curious news to the wives. Fortune has now 
 put their husbands into their hands, and I think 
 they are too sharp to neglect its favours. 
 
 Enter Gripe. 
 
 Gripe. Oh, here's the right hand ; the rest of 
 the body can't be far off. — Where's my wife, hus- 
 wife ? 
 
 Flip. An admirable question ! — Why, she's gone 
 abroad, sir. 
 
 Gripe. Abroad, abroad, abroad already ! Why, 
 she uses to be stewing in her bed three hours after 
 this time, as late as 'tis. What makes her gadding 
 so soon ? 
 
424 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Flip. Business, I suppose. 
 
 Gripe. Business ! she has a pretty head for bu- 
 siness truly. O ho, let her change her way of 
 living, or I'll make her change a light heart for a 
 heavy one. 
 
 Flip. And why would you have her change her 
 way of living, sir % You see it agrees with her. 
 She never looked better in her life. 
 
 Gripe. Don't tell me of her looks, I have done 
 with her looks long since. But I'll make her 
 change her life, or — 
 
 Flip. Indeed, sir, you won't. 
 
 Gripe. Why, what shall hinder me, Insolence ? 
 
 Flip. That which hinders most husbands — con- 
 tradiction. 
 
 Gripe. Suppose I resolve I won't be contra- 
 dicted ? 
 
 Flip. Suppose she resolves you shall ? 
 
 Gripe. A wife's resolution is not good by law. 
 
 Flip. Nor a husband's by custom. 
 
 Gripe. I tell thee, I will not bear it. 
 
 Flip. I tell you, sir, you will bear it. 
 
 Gripe. Oons ! I have borne it three years already. 
 
 Flip. By that you see 'tis but giving your mind 
 to it. 
 
 Gripe. My mind to it ! Death and the devil ! 
 My mind to it ! 
 
 Flip. Look ye, sir, you may swear and damn, 
 and call the furies to assist you ; but till you apply 
 the remedy to the right place, you'll never cure the 
 disease. You fancy you have got an extravagant 
 wife, is't not so ? 
 
 Gripe. Prithee change me that word fancy, and 
 it is so. 
 
 Flip. Why there's it. Men are strangely trou- 
 bled with the vapours of late. You'll wonder now, 
 if I tell you, you have the most reasonable wife in 
 town : and that all the disorders you think you see 
 in her, are only here, here, here, in your own head. 
 [Thumping Ms forehead. 
 
 Gripe. She is then, in thy opinion, a reasonable 
 woman ? 
 
 Flip. By my faith I think so. 
 
 Gripe. I shall run mad ! — Name me an extrava- 
 gance in the world she is not guilty of. 
 
 Flip. Name me an extravagance in the world she 
 is guilty of. 
 
 Gripe. Come then : does not she put the whole 
 house in disorder ? 
 
 Flip. Not that I know of, for she never comes 
 into it but to sleep. 
 
 Gripe, 'Tis very well : does she employ any one 
 moment of her life in the government of her fa- 
 mily ? 
 
 Flip. She is so submissive a wife she leaves it 
 entirely to you. 
 
 Gripe. Admirable ! Does she not spend more 
 money in coach-hire, and chair-hire, than would 
 maintain six children ? 
 
 Flip. She's too nice of your credit to be seen 
 daggling in the streets. 
 
 Gripe. Good ! Do I set eye on her sometimes in 
 a week together ? 
 
 Flip. That, sir, is because you are never stirring 
 at the same time ; you keep odd hours ; you are 
 always going to bed when she's rising, and rising 
 just when she's coming to bed. 
 
 Gripe. Yes truly, night into day, and day into 
 night, bawdy-house play, that's her trade ! But 
 these are trifles : has she not lost her diamond 
 necklace ? Answer me to that, Trapes. 
 
 Flip. Yes ; and has sent as many tears after it 
 as if it had been her husband. 
 
 Gripe. Ah ! — the pox take her 1 but enough. 
 'Tis resolved, and I will put a stop to the course of 
 her life, or I will put a stop to the course of her 
 blood, and so she shall know the first time I meet 
 with her. — [Aside."] Which though we are man and 
 wife, and lie under one roof, 'tis very possible may 
 not be this fortnight. [.Exit. 
 
 Flip. Nay, thou hast a blessed time on't, that 
 must be confessed. What a miserable devil is a 
 husband ! Insupportable to himself, and a plague to 
 everything about them. Their wives do by them 
 as children do by dogs, tease and provoke 'em, till 
 they make 'em so cursed, they snarl and bite at 
 everything that comes in their reach. This wretch 
 here is grown perverse to that degree, he's for his 
 wife's keeping home, and making hell of his house, 
 so he may be the devil in it, to torment her. How 
 niggardly soever he is, of all things he possesses, he 
 is willing to purchase her misery, at the expense of 
 his own peace. But he'd as good be still, for he'll 
 miss of his aim. If I know her (which I think I 
 do) she'll set his blood ,in such a ferment, it shall 
 bubble out at every pore of him ; whilst hers is so 
 quiet in her veins, her pulse shall go like a pen- 
 dulum. [Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Mrs. Amlet's House. 
 
 Enter Dick Amlet. 
 
 Dick. Where's this old woman ? — A-hey ! What 
 the devil, nobody at home ! Ha ! her strong-box ! 
 and the key in't ! 'tis so. Now Fortune be my 
 friend. What the deuse ! — not a penny of money 
 in cash ! — nor a chequer note ! — nor a bank bill ! 
 — [Searches the strong box.] Nor a crooked stick ! 
 nor a — mum! — here's something. — A diamond 
 necklace, by all the gods ! — Oons, the old woman ! 
 —Zest ! 
 
 [Claps the necklace in his pocket, then runs and asks 
 her blessing. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Amlet. 
 Pray mother, pray to, &c. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Is it possible ! — Dick upon his hum- 
 ble knee ! Ah my dear child ! — May Heaven be 
 good unto thee. 
 
 Dick. I'm come, my dear mother, to pay my 
 duty to you, and to ask your consent to — ■ 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What a shape is there ! 
 
 Dick. To ask your consent, I say, to marry a 
 great fortune ; for what is riches in this world 
 without a blessing ? and how can there be a bless- 
 ing without respect and duty to parents ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What a nose he has ! 
 
 Dick. And therefore it being the duty of every 
 
scene ii. 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 425 
 
 good child not to dispose of himself in marriage, 
 without the — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Now the Lord love thee ! — [Kissing 
 him.'] for thou art a goodly young man. Well, 
 Dick, — and how goes it with the lady ? Are her 
 eyes open to thy charms ? does she see what's for 
 her own good ? is she sensible of the blessings thou 
 hast in store for her ? ha ! is all sure ? hast thou 
 broke a piece of money with her ? Speak, bird, 
 do : don't be modest and hide thy love from thy 
 mother, for I'm an indulgent parent. 
 
 Dick. Nothing under heaven can prevent my 
 good fortune but its being discovered I am your 
 son — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Then thou art still ashamed of thy 
 natural mother — graceless ! why, I'm no whore, 
 sirrah. 
 
 Dick. I know you are not. — A whore ! bless us 
 all! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. No ; my reputation's as good as the 
 best of 'em ; and though I'm old, I'm chaste, you 
 rascal you ! 
 
 Dick. Lord, that is not the thing we talk of, 
 mother ; but — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I think, as the world goes, they may 
 be proud of marrying their daughter into a vartuous 
 family. 
 
 Dick. Oons ! Vartue is not the case — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Where she may have a good example 
 before her eyes. 
 
 Dick. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. I'm a woman that don't so much as 
 encourage an incontinent look towards me. 
 
 Dick. I tell you, 'sdeath, I tell you — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. If a man should make an uncivil 
 motion to me, I'd spit in his lascivious face : and 
 all this you may tell 'em, sirrah. 
 
 Dick. Death and furies 1 the woman's out of 
 her — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Don't you swear, you rascal you, 
 don't you swear ; we shall have thee damned at 
 last, and then I shall be disgraced. 
 
 Dick. Why then in cool blood hear me speak to 
 you. I tell you it's a city fortune I'm about, she 
 cares not a fig for your vartue, she'll hear of nothing 
 but quality. She has quarrelled with one of her 
 friends for having a better complexion, and is re- 
 solved she'll marry, to take place of her. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What a cherry-lip is there ! 
 
 Dick. Therefore, good dear mother now, have a 
 care and don't discover me ; for if you do, all's lost. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Dear, dear, how thy fair bride will 
 be delighted ! Go, get thee gone, go ! Go fetch 
 her home ! go fetch her home ! I'll give her a 
 sack -posset, and a pillow of down she shall lay her 
 head upon. Go, fetch her home, I say ! 
 
 Dick. Take care then of the main chance, my 
 dear mother ; remember if you discover me — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Go, fetch her home, I say ! 
 
 Dick. You promise me then — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. March ! 
 
 Dick. But swear to me — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Begone, sirrah ! 
 
 Dick. Well, I'll rely upon you. — But one kiss 
 before I go. [Kisses her heartily, and runs off. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Now the Lord love thee ; for thou art 
 a comfortable young man ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Gripe's House. 
 Enter Cortnna and Flippanta. 
 
 Cor. But hark you, Flippanta, if you don't think 
 he loves me dearly, don't give him my letter after 
 all. 
 
 Flip. Let me alone. 
 
 Cor. When he has read it, let him give it you 
 again. 
 
 Flip. Don't trouble yourself. 
 
 Cor. And not a word of the pudding to my 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 Flip. Enough. 
 
 Cor. When we come to love one another to the 
 purpose, she shall know all. 
 
 Flip. Ay, then 'twill be time. 
 
 Cor. But remember 'tis you make me do all this 
 now, so if any mischief comes on't, 'tis you must 
 answer for't. 
 
 Flip. I'll be your security. 
 
 Cor. I'm young, and know nothing of the mat- 
 ter ; but you have experience, so it's your business 
 to conduct me safe. 
 
 Flip. Poor innocence ! 
 
 Cor. But tell me in serious sadness, Flippanta, 
 does he love me with the very soul of him ? 
 
 Flip. I have told you so a hundred times, and 
 yet you are not satisfied. 
 
 Cor. But, methinks, I'd fain have him tell me 
 so himself. 
 
 Flip. Have patience, and it shall be done. 
 
 Cor. Why, patience is a virtue ; that we must 
 all confess. — But, I fancy, the sooner it's done the 
 better, Flippanta. 
 
 Enter Jessamin. 
 
 Jes. Madam, yonder's your geography-master 
 waiting for you. [Exit. 
 
 Cor. Ah, how I am tired with these old fumbling 
 fellows, Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. Well, don't let 'em break your heart, you 
 shall be rid of 'em all ere long. 
 
 Cor. Nay, 'tis not the study I'm so weary of, 
 Flippanta, 'tis the odious thing that teaches me. 
 Were the colonel my master, I fancy I could take 
 pleasure in learning everything he could show 
 me. 
 
 Flip. And he can show you a great deal, I can 
 tell you that. But get you gone in, here's some- 
 body coming, we must not be seen together. 
 
 Cor. I will, I will, I will ! — Oh, the dear colonel ! 
 
 [Exit, running. 
 Enter Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Flip. O ho, it's Mrs. Amlet. — What brings you 
 so soon to us again, Mrs. Amlet ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah, my dear Mrs. Flippanta, I'm in 
 a furious fright ! 
 
 Flip. Why, what's come to you ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah, mercy on us all ! — Madam's 
 diamond necklace — 
 
 Flip. What of that ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Are you sure you left it at my house ? 
 
 Flip. Sure I left it ! a very pretty question 
 truly ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Nay, don't be angry ; say nothing 
 to madam of it, I beseech you. It will be found 
 again, if it be Heaven's good will. At least 'tis I 
 must bear the loss on't. 'Tis my rogue of a son 
 has laid his birdlime fingers on't. 
 
426 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Flip. Your son, Mrs. Amlet ! Do you breed 
 youi children up to such tricks as these then ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. What shall I say to you, Mrs. Flip- 
 panta ? Can I help it ? He has been a rogue from 
 his cradle, Dick has. But he has his deserts too. 
 And now it comes in my head, mayhap he may 
 have no ill design in this neither. 
 
 Flip. No ill design, woman ! He's a pretty 
 fellow if he can steal a diamond necklace with a 
 good one. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. You don't know him, Mrs. Flip- 
 panta, so well as I that bore him. Dick's a rogue, 
 'tis true, but — mum ! — 
 
 Flip. What does the woman mean ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Hark you, Mrs. Flippanta, is not 
 here a young gentlewoman in your house that wants 
 a husband ? 
 
 Flip. Why do you ask ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. By way of conversation only, it does 
 not concern me ; but when she marries, I may 
 chance to dance at the wedding. Remember I tell 
 you so ; I who am but Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Flip. You dance at her wedding ! you ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Yes I, I ; but don't trouble madam 
 about her necklace, perhaps it mayn't go out of the 
 family. Adieu, Mrs. Flippanta. {Exit. 
 
 Flip. What — what — what doesthe woman mean? 
 Mad S What a capilotade of a story's here ? The 
 necklace lost ; and her son Dick ; and a fortune to 
 marry ; and she shall dance at the wedding ; and — 
 she does not intend, I hope, to propose a match 
 between her son Dick and Corinna ? By my con- 
 science I believe she does. An old beldam ! 
 
 Enter Brass. 
 
 Brass. Well, hussy, how stand our affairs ? Has 
 miss writ us an answer yet ? my master's very 
 impatient yonder. 
 
 Flip. And why the deuse does not he come him- 
 self ? What does he send such idle fellows as thee 
 of his errands ? Here I had her alone just now. 
 — He won't have such an opportunity again this 
 month, I can tell him that. 
 
 Brass. So much the worse for him ; 'tis his 
 business. — But now, my dear, let thee and I talk 
 a little of our own : I grow most damnably in love 
 with thee ; dost hear that ? 
 
 Flip. Phu ! thou art always timing things wrong; 
 my head is full at present of more important things 
 than love. 
 
 Brass. Then it's full of important things indeed : 
 dost want a privy-counsellor ? 
 
 Flip. I want an assistant. 
 
 Brass. To do what ? 
 
 Flip. Mischief. 
 
 Brass. I'm thy man — touch. 
 
 Flip. But before I venture to let thee into my 
 project, prithee tell me whether thou findest a 
 natural disposition to ruin a husband to oblige his 
 wife ? 
 
 Brass. Is she handsome ? 
 
 Flip. Yes. 
 
 Brass. Why then my disposition's at her service. 
 
 Flip. She's beholden to thee. 
 
 Brass. Not she alone neither, therefore don't 
 let her grow vain upon't ; for I have three or four 
 affairs of that kind going at this time. 
 
 Flip. Well, go carry this epistle from Miss to 
 thy master ; and when thou comest back I'll tell 
 thee thy business. 
 
 Brass. I'll know it before I go, if you please. 
 
 Flip. Thy master waits for an answer. 
 
 Brass. I'd rather he should wait than I. 
 
 Flip. Why then, in short, Araminta's husband 
 is in love with my lady. 
 
 Brass. Very well, child, we have a Rowland for 
 her Oliver : thy lady's husband is in love with 
 Araminta. 
 
 Flip. Who told you that, sirrah ? 
 
 Brass. 'Tis a negotiation I am charged with, 
 pert. Did not I tell thee I did business for half 
 the town ? I have managed Master Gripe's little 
 affairs for him these ten years, you slut you. 
 
 Flip. Hark thee, Brass, the game's in our 
 hands, if we can but play the cards. 
 
 Brass. Pique and repique, you jade you, if the 
 wives will fall into a good intelligence. 
 
 Flip. Let them alone ; I'll answer for 'em 
 they don't slip the occasion. — See here they come. 
 They little think what a piece of good news we have 
 for 'em. 
 
 Enter Clarissa and Araminta. 
 
 Clar. Jessamin ! 
 
 Enter Jessamin. 
 
 Here, boy, carry up these things into my dressing- 
 room, and break as many of them by the way as 
 you can, be sure. — [Exit Jessamin.] Oh, art 
 thou there, Brass ! what news ? 
 
 Brass. Madam, I only called in as I was going 
 by. — But some little propositions Mrs. Flippanta 
 has been starting, have kept me here to offer your 
 ladyship my humble service. 
 
 Clar. What propositions ? 
 
 Brass. She'll acquaint you, madam. 
 
 Aram. Is there anything new, Flippanta ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, and pretty too. 
 
 Clar. That follows of course ; but let's have it 
 quick. 
 
 Flip. Why, madam, you have made a conquest. 
 
 Clar. Hussy ! — But of who ? quick ! 
 
 Flip. Of Mr. Moneytrap, that's all. 
 
 Aram. My husband ! 
 
 Flip. Yes, your husband, madam. You thought 
 fit to corrupt ours, so now we are even with you. 
 
 Aram. Sure thou art in jest, Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. Serious as my devotions. 
 
 Brass. And the cross intrigue, ladies, is what 
 our brains have been at work about. 
 
 Aram. [To Clarissa.] My dear ! 
 
 Clar. My life! 
 
 Aram. My angel ! 
 
 Clar. My soul ! [Hugging one another. 
 
 Aram. The stars have done this, 
 
 Clar. The pretty little twinklers. 
 
 Flip. And what will you do for them now ? 
 
 Clar. What grateful creatures ought ; show 'em 
 we don't despise their favours. 
 
 Aram. But is not this a wager between these 
 two blockheads ? 
 
 Clar. I would not give a shilling to go the win- 
 ner's halves. 
 
 Aram. Then 'tis the most fortunate thing that 
 ever could have happened. 
 
 Clar. All your last night's ideas, Araminta, were 
 trifles to it. 
 
 Aram. Brass (my dear) will be useful to us. 
 
 Brass. At your service, madam. 
 
 Clar. Flippanta will be necessary, my life. 
 
 Flip. She waits your commands, madam. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 427 
 
 Aram. For my part then, I recommend my 
 husband to thee, Flippanta, and make it my earnest 
 request thou won't leave him one half-crown. 
 
 Flip. I'll do all I can to obey you, madam. 
 
 Brass. [ To Clarissa.] If your ladyship would 
 give me the same kind orders for yours. 
 
 Clar. Oh — if thou sparest him, Brass, I'm thy 
 enemy till I die. 
 
 Brass. 'Tis enough, madam, I'll be sure to give 
 you a reasonable account of him. But how do you 
 intend we shall proceed, ladies ? Must we storm 
 the purse at once, or break ground in form, and 
 carry it by little and little ? 
 
 Clar. Storm, dear Brass, storm ! Ever whilst 
 you live, storm ! 
 
 Aram. Oh, by all means ! — Must it not be so, 
 Flippanta ? 
 
 Flip. In four-and-twenty hours, two hundred 
 pounds a-piece, that's my sentence. 
 
 Brass. Very well. — But, ladies, you'll give me 
 leave to put you in mind of some little expense in 
 favours, 'twill be necessary you are at, to these 
 honest gentlemen. 
 
 Aram. Favours, Brass ! 
 
 Brass. Urn — a — some small matters, madam, I 
 doubt must be. 
 
 Clar. Now that's a vile article, Araminta ; for 
 that thing your husband is so like mine — 
 
 Flip. Phu, there's a scruple, indeed ! Pray, 
 madam, don't be so squeamish ; though the meat 
 be a little flat, we'll find you savoury sauce to it. 
 
 Clar. This wench is so mad. 
 
 Flip. Why, what in the name of Lucifer is it 
 you have to do that's so terrible ? 
 
 Brass. A civil look only. 
 
 Aram. There's no great harm in that. 
 
 Flip. An obliging word. 
 
 Clar. That one may afford 'em. 
 
 Brass. A little smile a propos. 
 
 Aram. That's but giving one's self an air. 
 
 Flip. Receive a little letter, perhaps. 
 
 Clar. Women of quality do that from fifty odious 
 fellows. 
 
 Brass. Suffer (maybe) a squeeze by the hand. 
 
 Aram. One's so used to that one does not feel 
 it. 
 
 Flip. Or if a kiss would do't ? 
 
 Clar. I'd die first ! 
 
 Brass. Indeed, ladies, I doubt 'twill be neces- 
 sary to — 
 
 Clar. Get their wretched money, without paying 
 so dear for it. 
 
 Flip. Well, just as you please for that, my 
 ladies. But I suppose you'll play upon the square 
 with your favours, and not pique yourselves upon 
 being one more grateful than another? 
 
 Brass. And state a fair account of receipts and 
 disbursements ? 
 
 Aram. That I think should be indeed. 
 
 Clar. With all my heart, and Brass shall be our 
 bookkeeper. So get thee to work, man, as fast as 
 thou canst ; but not a word of all this to thy 
 master. 
 
 Brass. I'll observe my orders, madam. [Exit. 
 
 Clar. I'll have the pleasure of telling him 
 myself ; he'll be violently delighted with it. 'Tis 
 the best man in the world, Araminta ; he'll bring 
 us rare company to-morrow, all sorts of gamesters; 
 and thou shalt see my husband will be such a beast 
 to be out of humour at it. 
 
 Aram. The monster ! — But hush, here's my 
 dear approaching : prithee let's leave him to Flip- 
 panta. 
 
 Flip. Ay, pray do, I'll hring you a good account 
 of him, I'll warrant you. 
 
 Clar. Despatch then, for the basset-table's in 
 haste. [Exit with Araminta. 
 
 Flip. So, now have at him ; here he comes. 
 We'll try if we can pillage the usurer, as he does 
 other folks. 
 
 Enter Moneytrap. 
 
 Mori. Well, my pretty Flippanta, is thy mistress 
 come home ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mon. And where is she, prithee ? 
 
 Flip. Gone abroad, sir. 
 
 Mon. How dost mean ? 
 
 Flip. I mean right, sir ; my lady '11 come home 
 and go abroad ten times in an hour, when she's 
 either in very good humour, or very bad. 
 
 Mon. Good lack ! But I'll warrant, in general, 
 'tis her naughty husband that makes her house 
 uneasy to her. But hast thou said a little some- 
 thing to her, chicken, for an expiring lover ? ha ! 
 
 Flip. Said ! — yes, I have said ; much good may 
 it do me ! 
 
 Mon. Well, and how ? 
 
 Flip. And how ! — And how do you think you 
 would have me do't ? And you have such a way 
 with you, one can refuse you nothing. But I have 
 brought myself into a fine business by it. 
 
 Mon. Good lack ! — But I hope, Flippanta — 
 
 Flip. Yes, your hopes will do much, when I am 
 turned out of doors. 
 
 Mon. Was she then terrible angry ? 
 
 Flip. Oh ! had you seen how she flew, when she 
 saw where I was pointing ; for you must know I 
 went round the bush, and round the bush, before I 
 came to the matter. 
 
 Mon. Nay, 'tis a ticklish point, that must be 
 owned. 
 
 Flip. On my word is it — I mean where a lady's 
 truly virtuous ; for that's our case, you must know. 
 
 Mon. A very dangerous case indeed. 
 
 Flip. But I can tell you one thing — she has an 
 inclination to you. 
 
 Mon. Is it possible ! 
 
 Flip. Yes, and I told her so at last. 
 
 Mon. Well, and what did she answer thee ? 
 
 Flip. Slap — and bid me bring it you for a token. 
 [Giving him a slap on the face. 
 
 Mon. [Aside.] And you have lost none on't by 
 the way, with a pox t'ye ! 
 
 Flip. Now this, I think, looks the best in the 
 world. 
 
 Mon. Yea, but really it feels a little oddly. 
 
 Flip. Why, you must know, ladies have different 
 ways of expressing their kindness, according to the 
 humour they are in. If she had been in a good 
 one, it had been a kiss ; but as long as she sent 
 you something, your affairs go well. 
 
 Mon. Why, truly, I am a little ignorant in the 
 mysterious paths of love, so I must be guided by 
 thee. But, prithee, take her in a good humour 
 next token she sends me. 
 
 Flip. Ah — good humour ! 
 
 Mon. What's the matter ? 
 
 Flip. Poor lady ! 
 
 Mon. Ha! 
 
 Flip. If I durst tell you all — 
 
428 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Mon. What then ? 
 
 Flip. You would not expect to see her in one a 
 good while. 
 
 Mon. Why, I pray ? 
 
 Flip. I must own I did take an unseasonable 
 time to talk of love- matters to her. 
 
 Mon. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 Flip. Nothing. 
 
 Mon. Nay, prithee tell me. 
 
 Flip. I dare not. 
 
 Mon. You must indeed. 
 
 Flip. Why, when women are in difficulties, how 
 can they think of pleasure ? 
 
 Mon. Why, what difficulties can she be in ? 
 
 Flip. Nay, I do but guess after all ; for she has 
 that grandeur of soul, she'd die before she'd tell, 
 
 Mon. But what dost thou suspect ? 
 
 Flip. Why, what should one suspect, where a 
 husband loves nothing but getting of money, and a 
 wife nothing but spending on't ? 
 
 Mon. So she wants that same then ? 
 
 Flip. I say no such thing, I know nothing of 
 the matter ; pray make no wrong interpretation of 
 what I say, my lady wants nothing that I know of. 
 ' Tis true — she has had ill luck at cards of late ; I 
 believe she has not won once this month : but what 
 of that ? 
 
 Mon. Ha! 
 
 Flip. 'Tis true, I know her spirit's that she'd 
 see her husband hanged before she'd ask him for 
 a farthing. 
 
 Mon. Ha! 
 
 Flip. And then I know him again, he'd see her 
 drowned before he'd give her a farthing ; but that's 
 a help to your affair, you know. 
 
 Mon. 'Tis so indeed. 
 
 Flip. Ah — well, I'll say nothing ; but if she 
 had none of these things to fret her — 
 
 Mon. Why really, Flippanta — 
 
 Flip. I know what you are going to say now ; 
 you are going to offer your service, but 'twon't do ; 
 you have a mind to play the gallant now, but it 
 must not be, you want to be showing your liberality, 
 but 'twon't be allowed ; you'll be pressing me to 
 offer it, and she'll be in a rage. We shall have 
 the devil to do. 
 
 Mon. You mistake me, Flippanta ; I was only 
 going to say — 
 
 Flip. Ay, I know what you were going to say 
 well enough ; but I tell you it will never do so. 
 If one could find out some way now — ay — let me 
 see — 
 
 Mon. Indeed I hope — 
 
 Flip. Pray be quiet — no — but I'm thinking — 
 hum — she'll smoke that though — let us consider. 
 — If one could find a way to — 'Tis the nicest point 
 in the world to bring about, she'll never touch it, 
 if she knows from whence it comes. 
 
 Mon. Shall I try if I can reason her husband 
 out of twenty pounds, to make her easy the rest 
 of her life ? 
 
 Flip. Twenty pounds, man ! — why you shall 
 see her set that upon a card. Oh, she has a great 
 soul ! — Besides, if her husband should oblige her, 
 it might, in time, take off her aversion to him, and 
 by consequence, her inclination to you. No, no, 
 it must never come that way. 
 
 Mon. What shall we do then :' 
 
 Flip. Hold still— I have it. I'll tell you what 
 you shall do. 
 
 Mon. Ay. 
 
 Flip. You shall make her — a restitution — of 
 two hundred pounds. 
 
 Mon. Ha ! — a restitution ! 
 
 Flip. Yes, yes, 'tis the luckiest thought in the 
 world ; madam often plays, you know, and folks 
 who do so meet now and then with sharpers. Now 
 you shall be a sharper, 
 
 Mon. A sharper ! 
 
 Flip. Ay, ay, a sharper, and having cheated her 
 of two hundred pounds, shall be troubled in mind, 
 and send it her back again. You comprehend me . 
 
 Mon. Yes I — I comprehend, but a — won't she 
 suspect if it be so much ? 
 
 Flip. No, no, the more the better. 
 
 Mon. Two hundred pound ! 
 
 Flip. Yes, two hundred pound. — Or let me see 
 — so even a sum may look a little suspicious, — ay 
 — let it be two hundred and thirty ; that odd 
 thirty will make it look so natural the devil won't 
 find it out. 
 
 Mon. Ha! 
 
 Flip. Pounds, too, look I don't know how ; 
 guineas I fancy were better : — ay, guineas, it shall 
 be guineas. You are of that mind, are you not ? 
 
 Mon. Urn — a guinea, you know, Flippanta, is — 
 
 Flip. A thousand times genteeler ; you are 
 certainly in the right on't ; it shall be as you say, 
 two hundred and thirty guineas. 
 
 Mon. Ho— well, if it must be guineas, let s see, 
 two hundred guineas. 
 
 Flip. And thirty ; two hundred and thirty : if 
 you mistake the sum, you spoil all. So go put 
 'em in a purse, while it's fresh in your head, and 
 send 'em to me with a penitential letter, desiring 
 I'll do you the favour to restore 'em to her. 
 
 Mon. Two hundred and thirty pounds in a bag ! 
 
 Flip. Guineas, I say, guineas ! 
 
 Mon. Ay, guineas, that's true. But, Flippanta, 
 if she don't know they come from me, then I give 
 my money for nothing, you know. 
 
 Flip. Phu ! leave that to me ; I'll manage the 
 stock for you, I'll make it produce something, I'll 
 warrant you. 
 
 Mon. Well, Flippanta, 'tis a great sum indeed , 
 but I'll go try what I can do for her. You say, 
 two hundred guineas in a purse ? 
 
 Flip. And thirty, if the man's in his senses ! 
 
 Mon. And thirty, 'tis true, I always forget that 
 thirty. [Exit. 
 
 Flip. So, get thee gone ; thou art a rare fellow, 
 i'faith. — Brass ! — it's thee, is't not ? 
 
 Re-enter Brass. 
 
 Brass. It is, huswife. How go matters ? I 
 stayed till thy gentleman was gone. Hast done 
 anything towards our common purse ? 
 
 Flip. I think I have ; he's going to make us a 
 restitution of two or three hundred pounds. 
 
 Brass. A restitution ! — good ! 
 
 Flip. A new way, sirrah, to make a lady take a 
 present without putting her to the blush. 
 
 Brass. 'Tis very well, mighty well, indeed. 
 Prithee, where's thy master ? let me try if I can 
 persuade him to be troubled in mind too. 
 
 Flip. Not so hasty ; he's gone into his closet 
 to prepare himself for a quarrel. I have advised him 
 to be with his wife. 
 
 Brass. What to do ? 
 
 Flip. Why, to make her stay at home, now she 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 429 
 
 has resolved to do it beforehand. You roust 
 know, sirrah, we intend to make a merit of our 
 basset-table, and get a good pretence for the merry 
 companions we intend to fill his house with. 
 
 Brass. Very nicely spun, truly ; thy husband 
 will be a happy man. 
 
 Flip. Hold your tongue, you fool vou ! See 
 here comes your master. 
 
 Brass. He's welcome. 
 
 Enter Dick Amlet. 
 
 Dick. My dear Flippanta, how many thanks 
 have I to pay thee ! 
 
 Flip. Do you like her style ? 
 
 Dick. The kindest little rogue ! there's nothing 
 but she gives me leave to hope. I am the happiest 
 man the world has in its care. 
 
 Flip. Not so happy as you think for neither, 
 perhaps ; you have a rival, sir, I can tell you that. 
 
 Dick. A rival ! 
 
 Flip. Yes, and a dangerous one too. 
 
 Dick, Who, in the name of terror ? 
 
 Flip. A devilish fellow ; one Mr. Amlet. 
 
 Dick. Amlet ! I know no such man. 
 
 Flip. You know the man's mother though ; you 
 met her here, and are in her favour, I can tell you. 
 If he worst you in your mistress, you shall e'en 
 marry her, and disinherit him. 
 
 Dick. If I have no other rival but Mr. Amlet, 
 I believe I shan't be much disturbed in my amour. 
 But can't I see Corinna ? 
 
 Flip. I don't know, she has always some of her 
 masters with her : but I'll go see if she can spare 
 you a moment, and bring you word. [Exit. 
 
 Dick. I wish my old hobbling mother han't 
 been blabbing something here she should not do. 
 
 Brass. Fear nothing, all's safe on that side yet. 
 But how speaks young mistress's epistle ? soft and 
 tender ? 
 
 Dick. As pen can write. 
 
 Brass. So you think all goes well there ? 
 
 Dick. As my heart can wish. 
 
 Brass. You are sure on't ? 
 
 Dick. Sure on't. 
 
 Brass. Why then, ceremony aside, — [Putting 
 on his hat.} you and I must have a little talk, 
 Mr. Amlet. 
 
 Dick. Ah, Brass, what art thou going to do ? 
 j Wou't ruin me ? 
 
 Brass. Look you, Dick, few words ; you are in 
 | a smooth way of making your fortune ; I hope all 
 will roll on. But how do you intend matters shall 
 pass 'twixt you and me in this business ? 
 
 Dick. Death and furies ! what a time dost take 
 to talk on't ! 
 
 Brass. Good words, or I betray you ; they have 
 already heard of one Mr. Amlet in the house. 
 
 Dick. Here's a son of a whore ! [Aside. 
 
 Brass. In short, look smooth, and be a good 
 prince. I am your valet, 'tis true ; your footman 
 sometimes, which I'm enraged at ; but you have 
 always had the ascendant, I confess. When we 
 were schoolfellows, you made me carry your books, 
 make your exercise, own your rogueries, and some- 
 times take a whipping for you. When we were 
 fellow-prentices, though I was your senior, you 
 made me open the shop, clean my master's shoes, 
 cut last at dinner, and eat all the crust. In our 
 sins too, I must own you still kept me under ; you 
 soared up to adultery with our mistress, while I was 
 
 at humble fornication with the maid. Nay, in our 
 punishments you still made good your post ; for 
 when once upon a time I was sentenced but to be 
 whipped, I cannot deny but you were condemned 
 to be hanged. So that in all times, I must confess, 
 your inclinations have been greater and nobler 
 than mine : however, I cannot consent that you 
 should at once fix fortune for life, and I dwell in 
 my humilities for the rest of my days. 
 
 Dick. Hark thee, Brass, if I do not most nobly 
 by thee, I'm a dog. 
 
 Brass. And when ? 
 
 Dick. As soon as ever I am married. 
 
 Brass. Ah, the pox take thee ! 
 
 Dick. Then you mistrust me ? 
 
 Brass. I do, by my faith ! Look you, sir, some 
 folks we mistrust, because we don't know 'em ; 
 others we mistrust, because we do know 'em : 
 and for one of these reasons I desire there may be 
 a bargain beforehand. If not — [Raising his voice.] 
 look ye, Dick Amlet — ■ 
 
 Dick. Soft, my dear friend and companion. — 
 [Aside.] The dog will ruin me ! — [Aloud.] Say, 
 what is't will content thee ? 
 
 Brass. O ho ! 
 
 Dick. But how canst thou be such a barbarian ? 
 
 Brass. I learned it at Algiers. 
 
 Dick. Come, make thy Turkish demand then. 
 
 Brass. You know you gave me a bank-bill this 
 morning to receive for you. 
 
 Dick. I did so, of fifty pounds ; 'tis thine. So, 
 now thou art satisfied, all's fixed. 
 
 Brass. It is not, indeed. There's a diamond 
 necklace you robbed your mother of e'en now. 
 
 Dick. Ah, you Jew ! 
 
 Brass. No words. 
 
 Dick. My dear Brass ! 
 
 Brass. I insist. 
 
 Dick. My old friend ! 
 
 .Brass. Dick Amlet — [Raising his voice] I insist. 
 
 Dick. Ah, the cormorant ! — Well, 'tis thine : 
 but thou'lt never thrive with 't. 
 
 Brass. When I find it begins to do me mischief, 
 I'll give it you again. But I must have a wedding" 
 suit. 
 
 Dick. Well. 
 
 Brass. Some good lace. 
 
 Dick. Thou shalt. 
 
 Brass. A stock of linen. 
 
 Dick. Enough. 
 
 Brass. Not yet ; a silver sword. 
 
 Dick. Well, thou shalt have that too. Now 
 thou hast everything. 
 
 Brass. God forgive me ! I forgot a ring of 
 remembrance : I would not forget all these favours 
 for the world. A sparkling diamond will be always 
 playing in my eye, and put me in mind of 'em. 
 
 Dick. [Aside.] This unconscionable rogue !• — 
 [Aloud.] Well, I'll bespeak one for thee. 
 
 Brass. Brillant ? 
 
 Dick. It shall. But if the thing don't succeed 
 after all ?— 
 
 Brass. I'm a man of honour, and restore : and 
 so the treaty being finished, I strike my flag of 
 defiance, and fall into my respects again. 
 
 [Taking off his hat. 
 Re-enter Flifpanta. 
 
 Flip. I have made you wait a little, but I could 
 not help it ; her master is but just gone. He has 
 been showing her Prince Eugene's March into Italy. 
 
430 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Dick. Prithee, let me come to her, I'll show her 
 a part of the world he has never shown her yet. 
 
 Flip. So I told her, you must know; and she 
 said, she could like to travel in good company : so, 
 if you'll slip up those back-stairs, you shall try if 
 you can agree upon the journey. 
 
 Dick. My dear Flippauta ! 
 
 Flip. None of your dear acknowledgments, I 
 beseech you, but up stairs as hard as you can 
 drive. 
 
 Dick. I'm gone. [Exit. 
 
 Flip. And do you follow him, Jack-a-dandy, 
 and see he is not surprised. 
 
 Brass. I thought that was your post, Mrs. 
 Useful. But if you'll come and keep me in 
 
 humour, I don't care if I share the duty with 
 you. 
 
 Flip. No words, sirrah, but follow him ; I have 
 somewhat else to do. 
 
 Brass. The jade's so absolute, there's no con- 
 testing with her. One kiss though, to keep the 
 sentinel warm. — [Gives her a long kiss.~\ So. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Flip. [Wiping her mouth.'] A nasty rogue. 
 But let me see, what have I to do now ? This resti- 
 tution will be here quickly, I suppose ; in the 
 mean time I'll go know if my lady's ready for the 
 quarrel yet. Master, yonder, is so full on't, he's 
 ready to burst ; but we'll give him vent by-and-by 
 with a witness. [Exit. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Gripe's House. 
 
 Enter Corinna, Dick Amlet, and Brass. 
 
 Brass. Don't fear, I'll give timely notice. 
 
 [Goes to the door. 
 
 Dick. Come, you must consent, you shall eon- 
 sent. How can you leave me thus upon the rack ? 
 a man who loves you to that excess that I do. 
 
 Cor. Nay, that you love me, sir, that I am satis- 
 fied in, for you have sworn you do : and I am so 
 pleased with it, I'd fain have you do so as long as 
 you live, so we must never marry. 
 
 Dick. Not marry, my dear ! why, what's our 
 love good for if we don't marry ? 
 
 Cor. Ah ! — I'm afraid 'twill be good for little if 
 we do. 
 
 Dick. Why do you think so ? 
 
 Cor. Because I hear my father and mother, and 
 my uncle and aunt, and Araminta and her husband, 
 and twenty other married folks, say so from morn- 
 ing to night. 
 
 Dick. Oh, that's because they are bad husbands 
 and bad wives ; but, in our case, there will be a 
 good husband and a good wife, and so we shall 
 love for ever. 
 
 Cor. Why, there may be something in that 
 truly ; and I'm always willing to hear reason, as a 
 reasonable young woman ought to do. But are 
 you sure, sir, though we are very good now, we 
 shall be so when we come to be better acquainted? 
 
 Dick. I can answer for myself, at least. 
 
 Cor. I wish you could answer for me too. You 
 see I am a plain-dealer, sir, I hope you don't like 
 me the worse for it. 
 
 Dick. Oh, by no means ! 'Tis a sign of admir- 
 able morals ; and I hope, since you practise it 
 yourself, you'll approve of it in your lover. In 
 one word, therefore, (for 'tis in vain to mince the 
 matter,) my resolution's fixed, and the world can't 
 stagger me, I marry — or I die. 
 
 Cor. Indeed, sir, I have much ado to believe 
 you ; the disease of love is seldom so violent. 
 
 Dick. Madam, I have two diseases to end my 
 miseries ; if the first don't do't, the latter shall ; — 
 [Drawing his sword'] one's in my heart, t'other's 
 in my scabbard. 
 
 Cor. Not for a diadem ! — [Catching hold of 
 him.] Ah, put it up ! put it up ! 
 
 Dick. How absolute is your command ! — [Drop- 
 ping his sword.] A word, you see, disarms me. 
 
 Cor. [Aside.] What a power I have over him ! 
 The wondrous deeds of love ! — [Aloud.] Pray, sir, 
 let me have no more of these rash doings though ; 
 perhaps I mayn't be always in the saving humour. 
 — [Aside.] I'm sure if I had let him stick himself, 
 I should have been envied by all the great ladies 
 in the town. 
 
 Dick. Well, madam, have I then your promise ? 
 You'll make me the happiest of mankind ? 
 
 Cor. I don't know what to say to you ; but I 
 believe I had as good promise, for I find I shall 
 certainly do't. 
 
 Dick. Then let us seal the contract thus. 
 
 [Kisses her. 
 
 Cor. [Aside.] Um — he has almost taken away 
 my breath : he kisses purely ! 
 
 Dick. Hark ! — somebody comes. 
 
 Brass. [Peeping in.] Gare there ! the enemy ! 
 — No, hold ! y'are safe, 'tis Flippanta. 
 
 Enter Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. Come, have you agreed the matter? If 
 not, you must end it another time, for your father's 
 in motion, so, pray kiss and part. 
 
 Cor. That's sweet and sour [They kiss.] 
 
 Adieu t'ye, sir ! [Exeunt Dick Amlet and Corinna. 
 
 Enter Clarissa. 
 
 Clar. Have you told him I'm at home, Flip- 
 panta ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, madam. 
 
 Clar. And that I'll see him ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, that too. But here's news for you ! 
 I have just now received the restitution. 
 
 Clar. That's killing pleasure ; and how much 
 has he restored me ? 
 
 Flip. Two hundred and thirty. 
 
 Clar. Wretched rogue ! But retreat; your 
 master's coming to quarrel. 
 
 Flip. I'll be within call, if things run high. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Enter Gripe. 
 
 Gripe. O ho ! — are you there i'faith ? Madam, 
 your humble servant, I'm very glad to see you at 
 home, I thought I should never have had that 
 honour again. 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 431 
 
 Clar. Good-morrow, my dear, how d'ye do? 
 Flippanta says you are out of humour, and that 
 you have a mind to quarrel with me. Is it true ? 
 ha ! — I have a terrible pain in my head, I give you 
 notice on't befoi-ehand. 
 
 Gripe. And how the pox should it be otherwise ? 
 It's a wonder you are not dead — [Aside] as a' 
 would you were ! — [Aloud] with the life you lead. 
 Are you not ashamed ? and do you not blush to — 
 
 Clar. My dear child, you crack my brain ; 
 soften the harshness of your voice. Say what thou 
 wou't, but let it be in an agreeable tone. 
 
 Gripe. Tone, madam ! don't tell me of a tone — 
 
 Clar. Oh, — if you will quarrel, do it with tem- 
 perance ; let it be all in cool blood, even and 
 smooth, as if you were not moved with what you 
 said ; and then I'll hear you as if I were not moved 
 with it neither. 
 
 Gripe. Had ever man such need of patience ! 
 Madam, madam, T must tell you, madam — 
 
 Clar. Another key, or I walk off. 
 
 Gripe. Don't provoke me. 
 
 Clar. Shall you be long, my dear, in your 
 remonstrances ? 
 
 Gripe. Yes, madam, and very long. 
 
 Clar. If you would quarrel in abregee, I should 
 have a world of obligation to you. 
 
 Gripe. What I have to say, forsooth, is not to 
 be expressed in abregee, my complaints are too 
 numerous. 
 
 Clar. Complaints ! of what, my dear ? Have I 
 ever given you subject of complaint, my life ? 
 
 Gripe. O pox ! my dear and my life ! I desire 
 none of your tendres. 
 
 Clar. How ! find fault with my kindness, and 
 my expressions of affection and respect ? The 
 world will guess by this what the rest of your com- 
 plaints may be. I must tell you I'm scandalised 
 at your procedure. 
 
 Gripe. I must tell you I'm running mad with 
 yours. 
 
 Clar. Ah ! how insupportable are the humours 
 of some husbands, so full of fancies, and so ungo- 
 vernable ! What have you in the world to disturb 
 you? 
 
 Gripe. What have I to disturb me ! I have 
 you, death and the devil ! 
 
 Clar. Ay, merciful Heaven ! how he swears ! 
 "You should never accustom yourself to such words 
 as these ; indeed, my dear, you should not ; your 
 mouth's always full of 'em. 
 
 Gripe. Blood and thunder ! madam— 
 
 Clar. Ah, he'll fetch the house down ! Do you 
 know you make me tremble for you ? — Flippanta ! 
 who's there ? Flippanta ! 
 
 Gripe. Here's a provoking devil for you ! 
 
 Re-enter Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. What in the name of Jove's the matter ? 
 you'll raise the neighbourhood. 
 
 Clar. Why, here's your master in a most violent 
 fuss, and no mortal soul can tell for what. 
 
 Gripe. Not tell for what ! 
 
 Clar. No, my life. — I have begged him to tell 
 me his griefs, Flippanta ; and then he swears, good 
 Lord, how he does swear ! 
 
 Gripe. Ah you wicked jade ! ah you wicked 
 jade ! 
 
 Clar. Do you hear him, Flippanta ! do you hear 
 him ! 
 
 Flip. Pray, sir, let's know a little what puts you 
 in all this fury ? 
 
 Clar. Prithee stand near me, Flippanta, there's 
 an odd froth about his mouth, looks as if his poor 
 head were going wrong, I'm afraid he'll bite. 
 
 Gripe. The wicked woman, Flippanta, the 
 wicked woman ! 
 
 Clar. Can anybody wonder I shun my own 
 house, when he treats me at this rate in it ? 
 
 Gripe. At this rate ! Why in the devil's name — 
 
 Clar. Do you hear him again ? 
 
 Flip. Come, a little moderation, sir, and try 
 what that will produce. 
 
 Gripe. Hang her, 'tis all a pretence to justify 
 her going abroad. 
 
 Clar. A pretence ! a pretence ! Do you hear 
 how black a charge he loads me with ? Charges 
 me with a pretence ! Is this the return for all my 
 downright open actions ? You know, my dear, 
 I scorn pretences : whene'er I go abroad, it is 
 without pretence. 
 
 Gripe. Give me patience ! 
 
 Flip. You have a great deal, sir. 
 
 Clar. And yet he's never content, Flippanta. 
 
 Gripe. What shall I do ! 
 
 Clar. What a reasonable man would do ; own 
 yourself in the wrong, and be quiet. Here's Flip- 
 panta has understanding, and I have moderation ; 
 I'm willing to make her judge of our differences. 
 
 Flip. You do me a great deal of honour, ma- 
 dam : but I tell you beforehand, I shall be a little 
 on master's side. 
 
 Gripe. Right, Flippanta has sense. Come, let 
 her decide. — Have I not reason to be in a passion ? 
 tell me that. 
 
 Clar. You must tell her for what, my life. 
 
 Gripe. Why, for the trade you drive, my soul. 
 
 Flip. Look you, sir, pray take things right. I 
 know madam does fret you a little now and then, 
 that's true ; but in the fund she is the softest, 
 sweetest, gentlest lady breathing. Let her but live 
 entirely to her own fancy, and she'll never say a 
 word to you from morning to night. 
 
 Gripe. Oons ! let her but stay at home, and she 
 shall do what she will : in reason, that is. 
 
 Flip. D'ye hear that, madam ? Nay, now I 
 must be on master's side ; you see how he loves 
 you, he desires only your company. Pray give him 
 that satisfaction, or I must pronounce against you. 
 
 Clar. Well, I agree. Thou knowest I don't 
 love to grieve him : let him be always in good hu- 
 mour, and I'll be always at home. 
 
 Flip. Look you there, sir, what would you have 
 more ? 
 
 Gripe. Well, let her keep her word, and I'll 
 have done quarrelling. 
 
 Clar. I must not, however, so far lose the merit 
 of my consent, as to let you think I'm weary of 
 going abroad, my dear. What I do, is purely to 
 oblige you ; which, that I may be able to perform 
 without a relapse, I'll invent what ways I can to 
 make my prison supportable to me. 
 
 Flip. Her prison ! pretty bird ! her prison ? 
 don't that word melt you, sir ? 
 
 Gripe. I must confess I did not expect to find 
 her so reasonable. 
 
 Flip. Oh, sir, soon or late wives come into good 
 humour. Husbands must only have a little pa- 
 tience to wait for it. 
 
 Clar. The innocent little diversions, dear, that I 
 
432 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 shall content myself with, will be chiefly play and 
 company. 
 
 Gripe. Oh, I'll find you employment, your time 
 shan't lie upon your hands ; though if you, 
 have a mind now for such a companion as a — let 
 me see — Araminta for example, why I shan't be 
 against her being with you from morning till night. 
 
 Clar. You can't oblige me more, 'tis the best 
 woman in the world. 
 
 Gripe. Is not she ? 
 
 Flip. Ah, the old satyr ! [Aside. 
 
 Gripe. Then we'll have, besides her, maybe 
 sometimes — her husband ; and we shall see my 
 niece that writes verses, and my sister Fidget ; with 
 her husband's brother that's always merry ; and his 
 little cousin, that's to marry the fat curate ; and 
 my uncle the apothecary, with his wife and all his 
 children. Oh, we shall divert ourselves rarely ! 
 
 Flip. Good ! [Aside. 
 
 Clar. Oh, for that, my dear child, I must be 
 plain with you, I'll see none of 'em but Araminta, 
 who has the manners of the court ; for I'll con- 
 verse with none but women of quality. 
 
 Gripe. Ay, ay, they shall all have one quality or 
 other. 
 
 Clar. Then, my dear, to make our home plea- 
 sant, we'll have consorts of music sometimes. 
 
 Gripe. Music in my house ! 
 
 Clar. Yes, my child, we must have music, or the 
 house will be so dull I shall get the spleen, and be 
 going abroad again. 
 
 Flip. Nay, she has so much complaisance for 
 you, sir, you can't dispute such things with her. 
 
 Gripe. Ay, but if I have music — 
 
 Clar. Ay, but sir, I must have music — 
 
 Flip. Not every day, madam don't mean. 
 
 Clar. No, bless me, no ; but three consorts a 
 week : three days more we'll play after dinner, at 
 ombre, picquet, basset, and so forth, and close the 
 evening with a handsome supper and a ball. 
 
 Gripe. A ball ! 
 
 Clar. Then, my love, you know there is but one 
 day more upon our hands, and that shall be the 
 day of conversation, we'll read verses, talk of 
 books, invent modes, tell lies, scandalise our friends, 
 be pert upon religion ; and in short, employ every 
 moment of it in some pretty witty exercise or other. 
 
 Flip. What order you see 'tis she proposes to 
 live in ! a most wonderful regularity ! 
 
 Gripe. Regularity with a pox ! [Aside. 
 
 Clar. And as this kind of life, so soft, so smooth, 
 so agreeable, must needs invite a vast deal of 
 company to partake of it, 'twill be necessary to 
 have the decency of a porter at our door, you 
 know. 
 
 Gripe. A porter ! — a scrivener have a porter, 
 madam ! 
 
 Clar. Positively, a porter. 
 
 Gripe. Why, no scrivener since Adam ever had 
 a porter, woman ! 
 
 Clar. You will therefore be renowned in story, 
 for having the first, my life. 
 
 Gripe. Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. [Aside to Gripe.] Hang it, sir, never 
 dispute a trifle ; if you vex her, perhaps she'll 
 insist upon a Swiss. 
 
 Gripe. But, madam — 
 
 Clar. But, sir, a porter, positively a porter ; 
 without that the treaty's null, and I go abroad 
 this moment. 
 
 Flip. Come, sir, never lose so advantageous a 
 peace for a pitiful porter. 
 
 Gripe. Why, I shall be hooted at, the boys 
 will throw stones at my porter. Besides, where 
 shall I have money for all this expense ? 
 
 Clar. My dear, who asks you for any ? Don't 
 be in a fright, chicken. 
 
 Gripe. Don't be in a fright, madam ! But 
 where, I say — 
 
 Flip. Madam plays, sir, think on that ; women 
 that play have inexhaustible mines, and wives who 
 receive least money from their husbands, are many 
 times those who spend the most. 
 
 Clar. So, my dear, let what Flippanta says 
 content you. Go, my life, trouble yourself with 
 nothing, but let me do just as I please, and all will 
 be well. I'm going into my closet, to consider of 
 some more things to enable me to give you the 
 pleasure of my company at home, without making 
 it too great a misery to a yielding wife. [Exit. 
 
 Flip. Mirror of goodness ! Pattern to all wives ! 
 Well sure, sir, you are the happiest of all hus- 
 bands ! 
 
 Gripe. Yes — and a miserable dog for all that 
 too, perhaps. 
 
 Flip. Why what can you ask more than this 
 matchless complaisance ? 
 
 Gripe. I don't know what I can ask, and yet 
 I'm not satisfied with what I have neither, the 
 devil mixes in it all, I think ; complaisant or per 
 verse, it feels just as't did. 
 
 Flip. Why, then, your uneasiness is only a dis- 
 ease, sir; perhaps a little bleeding and purging 
 would relieve you. 
 
 Clar. [Calling within.'] Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. Madam calls. — I come, madam. — Come, 
 be merry, be merry, sir, you have cause, take my 
 word for't. — [Aside.] Poor devil ! [Exit. 
 
 Gripe. I don't know that, I don't know that : 
 but this I do know, that an honest man, who has 
 married a jade, whether she's pleased to spend 
 her time at home or abroad, had better have lived 
 a bachelor. 
 
 Re-enter Brass. 
 
 Brass. Oh, sir, I'm, mighty glad I have found 
 you. 
 
 Gripe. Why, what's the matter, prithee ? 
 
 Brass. Can nobody hear us ? 
 
 Gripe. No, no, speak quickly. 
 
 Brass. You han't seen Araminta since the last 
 letter I carried her from you ? 
 
 Gripe. Not I, I go prudently; I don't press 
 things like your young firebrand lovers. 
 
 Brass. But seriously, sir, are you very much in 
 love with her ? 
 
 Gripe. As mortal man has been. 
 
 Brass. I'm sorry for't. 
 
 Gripe. Why so, dear Brass ? 
 
 Brass. If you were never to see her more now ? 
 Suppose such a thing, d'you think 'twould break 
 your heart ? 
 
 Gripe. Oh ! 
 
 Brass. Nay, now I see you love her ; would 
 you did not ! 
 
 Gripe. My dear friend ! 
 
 Brass. I'm in your interest deep ; you see it. 
 
 Gripe. I do : but speak, what miserable story 
 hast thou for me ? 
 
 Brass. I had rather the devil had, phu ! — flown 
 
SCENE T. 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 433 
 
 away with you quick, than to see you so much in 
 love, as I perceive you are, since — 
 
 Gripe. Since what ? — ho ! 
 
 Brass. Araminta, sir — 
 
 Gripe. Dead ? 
 
 Brass. No. 
 
 Gripe. How then ? 
 
 Brass. Worse. 
 
 Gripe. Out with't- 
 
 Brass. Broke. 
 
 Gripe. Broke ! 
 
 Brass. She is, poor lady, in the most unfortu- 
 nate situation of affairs. But I have said too 
 much. 
 
 Gripe. No, no, 'tis very sad, but let's hear it. 
 
 Brass. Sir, she charged me, on my life, never to 
 mention it to you, of all men living. 
 
 Gripe. Why, who shouldst thou tell it to, but 
 to the best of her friends ? 
 
 Brass. Ay, why there's it now, it's going just 
 as I fancied. Now will I be hanged if you are not 
 enough in love to be engaging in this matter. But I 
 must tell you, sir, that as much concern as I have for 
 that most excellent, beautiful, agreeable, distressed, 
 unfortunate lady, I'm too much your friend and 
 servant, ever to let it be said, 'twas the means of 
 your being ruined for a woman — by letting you 
 know she esteemed you more than any other man 
 upon earth. 
 
 Gripe. Ruined ! what dost thou mean ? 
 
 Brass. Mean ! why I mean that women always 
 ruin those that love 'em, that's the rule. 
 
 Gripe. The rule ! 
 
 Brass. Yes, the rule ; why, would you have 'em 
 ruin those that don't ? How shall they bring that 
 about ? 
 
 Gripe. But is there a necessity then they should 
 ruin somebody ? 
 
 Brass. Yes, marry is there ; how would you 
 have 'em support their expense else ? Why, sir, 
 you can't conceive now — you can't conceive what 
 Araminta' s privy-purse requires : only her privy- 
 purse, sir ! Why, what do you imagine now she 
 gave me for the last letter I carried her from you ? 
 "lis true, 'twas from a man she liked, else, perhaps, 
 I had had my bones broke. But what do you 
 think she gave me ? 
 
 Gripe. Why, mayhap — a shilling. 
 
 Brass. A guinea, sir, a guinea ! You see by 
 that how fond she was on't, by the by. But then, 
 sir, her coach-hire, her chair-hire, her pin-money, 
 her play-money, her china, and her charity — 
 would consume peers. A great soul, a very great 
 soul ! but what's the end of all this ? 
 
 Gripe. Ha ! 
 
 Brass. Why, I'll tell you what the end is— a 
 nunnery. 
 
 Gripe. A nunnery ! 
 
 Brass. A nunnery. — In short, she is at last 
 reduced to that extremity, and attacked with such 
 a battalion of duns, that rather than tell her hus- 
 band (who you know is such a dog, he'd let her go 
 if she did) she has e'en determined to turn papist, 
 and bid the world adieu for life. 
 
 Gripe. O terrible ! a papist ! 
 
 Brass. Yes, when a handsome woman has 
 brought herself into difficulties, the devil can't help 
 her out of — to a nunnery, that's another rule, sir. 
 
 Gripe. But, but, but, prithee Brass, but — 
 
 Brass. But all the buts in the world, sir, won't 
 
 stop her ; she's a woman of a noble resolution. 
 So, sir, your humble servant ; I pity her, I pity 
 you, turtle and mate ; but the fates will have it 
 so, all's packed up, and I am now going to call her 
 a coach, for she resolves to slip off without saying 
 a word ; and the next visit she receives from her 
 friends will be through a melancholy grate, with a 
 veil instead of a top-knot. [Going. 
 
 Gripe. It must not be, by the powers it must 
 not ! she was made for the world, and the world 
 was made for her. 
 
 Brass. And yet you see, sir, how small a share 
 she has on't. 
 
 Gripe. Poor woman ! is there no way to save 
 her? 
 
 Brass. Save her ! no ; how can she be saved ? 
 Why she owes above five hundred pound. 
 
 Gripe. Oh ! 
 
 Brass. Five hundred pound, sir ; she's like to be 
 saved indeed ! — Not but that I know them in this 
 town would give me one of the five if I would per- 
 suade her to accept of t'other four : but she has 
 forbid me mentioning it to any soul living ; and I 
 have disobeyed her only to yoti ; and so — I'll go 
 and call a coach. 
 
 Gripe. Hold ! — Dost think, my poor Brass, one 
 might not order it so as to compound those debts 
 for — for— twelve pence in the pound? 
 
 Brass. Sir, d'ye hear ? I have already tried 'em 
 with ten shillings, and not a rogue will prick up 
 his ear at it. Though after all, for three hun- 
 dred pounds all in glittering gold, I could set their 
 chaps a-watering. But where' s that to be had with 
 honour ? there's the thing, sir. — I'll go and call a 
 coach. 
 
 Gripe. Hold, once more : I have a note in my 
 closet of two hundred, ay — and fifty, I'll go and 
 give it her myself. 
 
 Brass. You will ; very genteel truly ! Go, slap 
 dash, and offer a woman of her scruples money bolt 
 in her face ! Why, you might as well offer her a 
 scorpion, and she'd as soon touch it. 
 
 Gripe. Shall I carry it to her creditors then, and 
 treat with them ? 
 
 Brass. Ay, that's a rare thought. 
 
 Gripe. Is not it, Brass ? 
 
 Brass. Only one little inconvenience by the way. 
 
 Gripe. As how ? 
 
 Brass. That they are your wife's creditors as 
 well as hers ; and perhaps it might not be altoge- 
 ther so well to see you clearing the debts of your 
 neighbour's wife, and leaving those of your own 
 unpaid. 
 
 Gripe. Why that's true now. 
 
 Brass. I'm wise you see, sir. 
 
 Gripe. Thou art ; and I'm but a young lover. 
 But what shall we do then ? 
 
 Brass. Why I'm thinking, that if you give me 
 the note, do you see, and that I promise to give 
 you an account of it — 
 
 Gripe. Ay, but look you, Brass — 
 
 Brass. But look you ! — Why what, d'ye think 
 I'm a pickpocket? D'ye think I intend to run 
 away with your note ? your paltry note ! 
 
 Gripe. I don't say so — I say only that' in case — 
 
 Brass. Case, sir ! there's no case but the case I 
 have put you ; and since you heap cases upon cases, 
 where there is but three hundred rascally pounds 
 in the case — I'll go and call a coach. 
 
 Gripe. Prithee don't be so testy :, come, no more 
 F F 
 
434 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 words, follow me to my closet, and I'll give thee 
 the money. 
 
 Brass. A terrible effort you make indeed ; you 
 are so much in love, your wits are all upon the 
 wing, just a-going; and for three hundred pounds 
 you put a stop to their flight. Sir, your wits are 
 worth that, or your wits are worth nothing. Come 
 away. 
 
 Gripe. Well say no more, thou shalt be satisfied. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 Re-enter Dick Amlet. 
 Dick. S't!— Brass! S't!— 
 
 Re-enter Brass. 
 
 Brass. Well, sir ! 
 
 Dick. 'Tis not well, sir, 'tis very ill, sir ; we 
 shall be all blown up. 
 
 Brass. What, with pride and plenty ? 
 
 Dick. No, sir, with an officious slut that will 
 spoil all. In short, Flippanta has been telling her 
 mistress and Araminta of my passion for the young 
 gentlewoman ; and truly to oblige me (supposed no 
 ill match by the by) they are resolved to propose 
 it immediately to her father. 
 
 Brass. That's the devil ! We shall come to 
 papers and parchments, jointures and settlements, 
 relations meet on both sides ; that's the devil ! 
 
 Dick. I intended this very day to propose to 
 Flippanta the carrying her off: and I'm sure the 
 young housewife would have tucked up her coats, 
 and have marched. 
 
 Brass. Ay, with the body and the soul of her. 
 
 Dick. Why, then, what damned luck is this ? 
 
 Brass. 'Tis your damned luck, not mine. I have 
 always seen it in your ugly phiz, in spite of your 
 powdered periwig. — Pox take ye ! — he'll be hanged 
 at last. — Why don't you try to get her off yet ? 
 
 Dick. I have no money, you dog ; you know you 
 have stripped me of every penny. 
 
 Brass. Come, damn it, I'll venture one cargo 
 more upon your rotten bottom : but if ever I see 
 one glance of your hempen fortune again, I'm off 
 of your partnership for ever. — I shall never thrive 
 with him. 
 
 Dick. An impudent rogue ! but he's in posses- 
 sion of my estate, so I must bear with him. [Aside. 
 
 Brass. Well, come, I'll raise a hundred pounds 
 fory our use, upon my wife's jewels here. — [Pulling 
 out the necklace.'] Her necklace shall pawn for't. 
 
 Dick. Remember, though, that if things fail, I'm 
 to have the necklace again ; you know you agreed 
 to that. 
 
 Brass. Yes, and if I make it good, you'll be the 
 better for't ; if not, I shall : so you see where the 
 cause will pinch. 
 
 Dick. Why, you barbarous dog, you won't offer 
 to— 
 
 Brass. No words now ; about your business, 
 march ! Go stay for me at the next tavern : I'll go 
 to Flippanta, and try what I can do for you. 
 
 Dick. Well, I'll go, but don't think to — O pox, 
 sir ! — [Exit. 
 
 Brass. Will you be gone ? A pretty title you'd 
 have to sue me upon truly, if I should have a mind 
 to stand upon the defensive, as perhaps I may. I 
 have done the rascal service enough to lull my con- 
 science upon't I'm sure : but 'tis time enough for 
 that. Let me see — first I'll go to Flippanta, and 
 put a stop to this family way of match-making, then 
 sell our necklace for what ready money 'twill pro- 
 duce ; and by this time to-morrow I hope we shall 
 be in possession of — t'other jewel here ; a precious 
 jewel, as she's set in gold : I believe for the stone 
 itself we may part with't again to a friend — for a 
 tester. [Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Gripe's House. 
 
 Enter Brass and Flippanta. 
 
 Brass. Well, you agree I'm in the right, don't 
 you ? 
 
 Flip. I don't know ; if your master has the 
 estate he talks of, why not do't all above-board ? 
 Well, though I am not much of his mind, I'm much 
 in his interest, and will therefore endeavour to 
 serve him in his own way. 
 
 Brass. That's kindly said, my child, and I 
 believe I shall reward thee one of these days, with 
 as pretty a fellow to thy husband for't as — 
 
 Flip. Hold your prating Jackadandy, and leave 
 me to my business. 
 
 Brass. I obey — adieu ! [Kisses her, and exit. 
 
 Flip. Rascal ! 
 
 Enter Corinna. 
 
 Cor. Ah, Flippanta, I'm ready to sink down ! 
 my legs tremble under me, my dear Flippy ! 
 
 Flip. And what's the affair ? 
 
 Cor. My father's there within with my mother 
 and Araminta ; I never saw him in so good a 
 humour im my life. 
 
 Flip. And is that it that frightens you so ? 
 
 Cor. Ah, Flippanta, they are just going to speak 
 to him about my marrying the colonel. 
 
 Flip. Are they so ! so much the worse : they're 
 too hasty. 
 
 Cor. O no, not a bit ; I slipped out on purpose, 
 you must know, to give 'em an opportunity ; 
 would 'twere done already ! 
 
 Flip. I tell you no ; get you m again imme- 
 diately, and prevent it. 
 
 Cor. My dear, dear, I am not able ; I never was 
 in such a way before. 
 
 Flip. Never in a way to be married before, ha ? 
 is not that it ? 
 
 Cor. Ah, Lord, if I'm thus before I come to't, 
 Flippanta, what shall I be upon the very spot ? Do 
 but feel with what a thumpaty thump it goes. 
 
 [Putting her hand to her heart. 
 
 Flip. Nay, it does make a filthy bustle, that's 
 the truth on't, child. But I believe I shall make 
 it leap another way when I tell you I'm cruelly 
 afraid your father won't consent after all. 
 
 Cor. Why, he won't be the death o'me, will he ? 
 
 Flip. I don't know, old folks are cruel ; but we'll 
 have a trick for him. Brass and I have been con- 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 435 
 
 suiting upon the matter, and agreed upon a surer 
 way of doing it in spite of his teeth. 
 
 Cor. Ay, marry, sir, that were something. 
 
 Flip. But then he must not know a word of any- 
 thing towards it, 
 
 Cor. No, no. 
 
 Flip. So, get you in immediately. 
 
 Cor. One, two, three, and away ! {Running off. 
 
 Flip. And prevent your mother's speaking on't. 
 
 Cor. But is t'other way sure, Flippanta ? 
 
 Flip. Fear nothing, 'twill only depend upon you. 
 
 Cor. Nay then — O ho ! ho ! ho ! how pure that 
 is ! {Exit. 
 
 Flip. Poor child ! we may do what we will with 
 her, as far as marrying her goes : when that's 
 over, 'tis possible she mayn't prove altogether so 
 tractable. But who's here ? my sharper, I think : 
 yes. 
 
 Enter Moneytrap. 
 
 Mon. Well, my best friend, how go matters ? 
 Has the restitution been received, ha? Was she 
 pleased with it ? 
 
 Flip. Yes, truly ; that is, she was pleased to see 
 there was so honest a man in this immoral age. 
 
 Mon. Well, but a — does she know that 'twas I 
 that — 
 
 Flip. Why, you must know I begun to give her 
 a little sort of a hint, and — and so — why, and so 
 she begun to put on a sort of a severe, haughty, 
 reserved, angry, forgiving air. But soft ; here she 
 comes. You'll see how you stand with her pre- 
 sently : but don't be afraid. Courage ! 
 
 Mon. He, hem ! 
 
 Enter Clarissa. 
 
 'Tis no small piece of good fortune, madam, to find 
 you at home : I have often endeavoured it in vain. 
 
 Clar. 'Twas then unknown to me, for if I could 
 often receive the visits of so good a friend at home, 
 I should be more reasonably blamed for being so 
 much abroad. 
 
 Mon. Madam, you make me — 
 
 Clar. You are the man of the world whose com- 
 pany I think is most to be desired. I don't com- 
 pliment you when I tell you so, I assure you. 
 
 Mon. Alas, madam; your poor humble servant — 
 
 Clar. My poor humble servant however (with 
 all the esteem I have for him) stands suspected 
 with me for a vile trick I doubt he has played me, 
 which if I could prove upon him I'm afraid I 
 should punish him very severely. 
 
 Mon. I hope, madam, you'll believe I am not 
 capable of — 
 
 Clar. Look you, look you, you are capable of 
 whatever you please, you have a great deal of wit, 
 and know how to give a nice and gallant turn to 
 everything ; but if you will have me continue your 
 friend, you must leave me in some uncertainty in 
 this matter. 
 
 Mon. Madam, I do then protest to you — 
 
 Clar. Come, protest nothing about it, I am but 
 too penetrating, as you may perceive ; but we 
 sometimes shut our eyes rather than break with 
 our friends ; for a thorough knowledge of the truth 
 of this business, would make me very seriously 
 angry. 
 
 Mon. 'Tis very certain, madam, that — 
 
 Clar. Come, say no more on't, I beseech you, 
 for I'm in a good deal of heat while I but think 
 on't ; if you'll walk in, I'll follow you presently. 
 
 Mon. Your goodness, madam, is — 
 
 Flip. [Aside to Moneytrap.] War horse ! No 
 fine speeches, you'll spoil all. 
 
 Mon. Thou art a most incomparable person. 
 
 Flip. Nay, it goes rarely ; but get you in, and 
 I'll say a little something to my lady for you 
 while she's warm. 
 
 Mon. But s't, Flippanta, how long dost think 
 she may hold out ? 
 
 Flip. Phu ! not a twelvemonth. 
 
 Mon. Boo ! 
 
 Flip. Away, I say ! [Pushing him out. 
 
 Clar. Is he gone ? What a wretch it is ! he 
 never was quite such a beast before. 
 
 Flip. Poor mortal, his money's finely laid out 
 truly ! 
 
 Clar. I suppose there may have been much such 
 another scene within between Araminta and my 
 dear. But I left him so insupportably brisk 'tis 
 impossible he can have parted with any money. 
 I'm afraid Brass has not succeeded as thou hast 
 done, Flippanta. 
 
 Flip. By my faith but he has, and better too ; 
 he presents his humble duty to Araminta, and has 
 sent her — this. [Showing the note, 
 
 Clar. A bill from my love for two hundred and 
 fifty pounds ! The monster ! he would not part 
 with ten to save his lawful wife from everlasting 
 torment. 
 
 Flip. Never complain of his avarice, madam, as 
 long as you have his money. 
 
 Clar. But is not he a beast, Flippanta ? me- 
 thinks the restitution looked better by half. 
 
 Flip. Madam, the man's beast enough, that's 
 certain ; but which way will you go to receive his 
 beastly money, for I must not appear with his 
 note ? 
 
 Clar. That's true ; why send for Mrs. Amlet ; 
 that's a mighty useful woman that Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Flip. Marry is she ; we should have been basely 
 puzzled how to dispose of the necklace without 
 her, 'twould have been dangerous offering it to sale. 
 
 Clar. It would so, for I know your master has 
 been laying out for't amongst the goldsmiths. But 
 I stay here too long, I must in and coquette it a 
 little more to my lover, Araminta will get ground 
 on me else. 
 
 Flip. And I'll go send for Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. — Another Room in the same. 
 
 Araminta, Corinna, Gripe, and Moneytrap, are dis- 
 covered at a tea-table, very gay and laughing. 
 
 All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mon. Mighty well, O mighty well indeed ! 
 
 Enter Clarissa. 
 
 Clar. Save you, save you, good folks ! you are all 
 in rare humour methinks. 
 
 Gripe. Why, what should we be otherwise for, 
 madam ? 
 
 Clar. Nay, I don't know, not I, my dear ; but 
 I han't had the happiness of seeing you so since 
 our honeymoon was over, I think. 
 
 Gripe. Why to tell you the truth my dear, 'tis 
 
 the joy of seeing you at home [Kisses her,] 
 
 You see what charms you have when you are 
 pleased to make use of 'em. 
 F F2 
 
436 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 Aram. Very gallant truly. 
 
 Clar. Nay, and what's more, you must know, 
 he's never to be otherwise henceforwards ; we have 
 come to an agreement about it. 
 
 Mon. Why, here's my love and I have been upon 
 just such another treaty too. 
 
 Aram. Well, sure there's some very peaceful 
 star rules at present. Pray Heaven continue its 
 reign. 
 
 Mon. Pray do you continue its reign, you 
 ladies ; for 'tis all in your power. 
 
 {Leering at Clarissa. 
 
 Gripe. My neighbour Moneytrap says true, at 
 least I'll confess frankly [Ogling Araminta] 'tis 
 in one lady's power to make me the best-humoured 
 man on earth. 
 
 Mon. And I'll answer for another that has the 
 same over me. {.Ogling Clarissa. 
 
 Clar. 'Tis mighty fine, gentlemen ! mighty civil 
 husbands, indeed ! 
 
 Gripe. Nay, what I say's true, and so true, that 
 all quarrels being now at an end, I am willing, if 
 you please, to dispense with all that fine company 
 we talked of to-day, be content with the friendly 
 conversation of our two good neighbours here, and 
 spend all my toying hours alone with my sweet 
 wife. 
 
 Mon. Why, truly, I think now, if these good 
 women pleased, we might make up the prettiest 
 little neighbourly company between our two fami- 
 lies, and set a defiance to all the impertinent people 
 in the world. 
 
 Clar. The rascals ! {Aside. 
 
 Aram. Indeed I doubt you'd soon grow weary, 
 if we grew fond. 
 
 Gripe. Never, never, for our wives have wit, 
 neighbour, and that never palls. 
 
 Clar. And our husbands have generosity, Ara- 
 minta, and that seldom palls. 
 
 Gripe. So, that's a wipe for me now, because I 
 did not give her a new-year's-gift last time ; but be 
 good, and I'll think of some tea-cups for you, next 
 year. 
 
 Mon. And perhaps I mayn't forget a fan, or as 
 good a thing — hum, hussy. 
 
 Clar. Well, upon these encouragements, Ara- 
 minta, we'll try how good we can be. 
 
 Gripe. [Aside.] Well, this goes most rarely ! 
 Poor Moneytrap, ne little thinks what makes his 
 wife so easy in his company. 
 
 Mon. [Aside.] I can but pity poor neighbour 
 Gripe. Lard, Lard, what a fool does his wife and 
 I make of him ! 
 
 Clar. [Aside to Araminta.] Are not these 
 two wretched rogues, Araminta ? 
 
 Aram. [Aside to Clarissa.] They are indeed. 
 
 Enter Jessamin. 
 
 Jes. Sir, here's Mr. Clip, the goldsmith, desires 
 to speak with you. 
 
 Gripe. Cods so, perhaps some news of your 
 necklace, my dear. 
 
 Clar. That would be news indeed. 
 
 Gripe. Let him come in. {Exit Jessamin. 
 
 Enter Mr. Clip. 
 
 Gripe. Mr. Clip, your servant; I'm glad to see 
 you : how do you do ? 
 
 Clip. At your service, sir, very well. — Your ser- 
 vant, madam Gripe. 
 
 Clar. Horrid fellow ! {Aside. 
 
 Gripe. Well, Mr. Clip, no news yet of my wife's 
 necklace ? 
 
 Clip. If you please to let me speak with 
 you in the next room, I have something to say 
 to you. 
 
 Gripe. Ay, with all my heart. Shut the door 
 after us. — [ They come forward, and the scene shuts 
 behind them.] Well, any news? 
 
 Clip. Look you, sir, here's a necklace brought 
 me to sell, at least very like that you described to 
 me. 
 
 Gripe. Let's see't. — Victoria! the very same. 
 Ah, my dear Mr. Clip ! [Kisses him.] But who 
 brought it you ? you should have seized him. 
 
 Clip. 'Twas a young fellow that I know : I can't 
 tell whether he may be guilty, though it's like 
 enough. But he has only left it me now, to show 
 a brother of our trade, and will call upon me again 
 presently. 
 
 Gripe. Wheedle him hither, dear Mr. Clip. 
 Here's my neighbour Moneytrap in the house ; 
 he's a justice, and will commit him presently. 
 
 Clip. 'Tis enough. 
 
 Enter Brass. 
 
 Gripe. O, my friend Brass ! 
 
 Brass. Hold, sir, I think that's a gentleman I'm 
 looking for. — Mr. Clip, oh, your servant ! What, 
 are you acquainted here ? I have just been at your 
 shop. 
 
 Clip. I only stepped here to show Mr. Gripe the 
 necklace you left. 
 
 Brass. [To Gripe.] Why, sir, do you under- 
 stand jewels ? I thought you had dealt only in 
 gold. But I smoke the matter, hark you — a word in 
 your ear — you are going to play the gallant again, 
 and make a purchase on't for Araminta ; ha, ha ? 
 
 Gripe. Where had you the necklace ? 
 
 Brass. Look you, don't trouble yourself about 
 that ; it's in commission with me, and I can help 
 you to a pennyworth on't. 
 
 Gripe. A pennyworth on't, villain ? 
 
 {Strikes at him. 
 
 Brass. Villain ! ahey, ahey ! Is't you or me, 
 Mr. Clip, he's pleased' to compliment? 
 
 Clip. What do you think on't, sir ? 
 
 Brass. Think on't ! now the devil fetch me if 1 
 know what to think on't. 
 
 Gripe. You'll sell a pennyworth, rogue ! of a 
 thing you have stolen from me. 
 
 Brass. Stolen ! pray, sir — what wine have you 
 drank to-day? It has a very merry effect upon 
 you. 
 
 Gripe. You villain ! either give me an account 
 how you stole it, or — 
 
 Brass. O ho, sir, if you please, don't carry 
 your jest too far ; I don't understand hard words, 
 I give you warning on't. If you han't a mind to 
 buy the necklace, you may let it alone ; I know how 
 to dispose on't. What a pox ! — 
 
 Gripe. Oh, you shan't have that trouble, sir. — 
 Dear Mr. Clip, you may leave the necklace here. 
 I'll call at your shop, and thank you for your care. 
 
 Clip. Sir, your humble servant. [Going. 
 
 Brass. O ho, Mr. Clip, if you please sir, this 
 won't do ! — [Stopping him.] I don't understand 
 raillery in such matters. 
 
 Clip. I leave it with Mr. Gripe do you and he 
 dispute it. i^xit. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 437 
 
 Brass. Ay, but 'tis from you, by your leave, sir, 
 that I expect it. {Going after him. 
 
 Gripe. You expect, you rogue, to make your 
 escape, do you ? But I have other accounts besides 
 this to make up with you. To be sure the dog 
 has cheated me of two hundred and fifty pound. 
 Come, villain, give me an account of — 
 
 Brass. Account of ! — sir, give me an account of 
 my necklace, or I'll make such a noise in your 
 house I'll raise the devil in't. 
 
 Gripe. Well said, Courage ! 
 
 Brass. Blood and thunder, give it me, or — 
 
 Gripe. Come, hush, be wise, and I'll make no 
 noise of this affair. 
 
 Brass. You'll make no noise ! but I'll make a 
 noise, and a damned noise too. Oh, don't think 
 to— 
 
 Gripe. I tell thee I will not hang thee. . 
 
 Brass. But I tell you I will hang you, if you 
 don't give me my necklace. I will, rot me ! 
 
 Gripe. Speak softly, be wise ; how came it thine? 
 who gave it thee ? 
 
 Brass. A gentleman, a friend of mine. 
 
 Gripe. What's his name ? 
 
 Brass. His name ! — I'm in such a passion I 
 have forgot it. 
 
 Gripe. Ah, brazen rogue — thou hast stole it 
 from my wife ! 'tis the same she lost six weeks 
 ago. 
 
 Brass. This has not been in England a month. 
 
 Gripe. You are a son of a whore. 
 
 Brass. Give me my necklace. 
 
 Gripe. Give me my two hundred and fifty pound 
 note. 
 
 B?-ass. Yet I offer peace : one word without pas- 
 sion. The case stands thus, either I'm out of my 
 wits, or you are out of yours : now 'tis plain I am 
 not out of my wits, ergo — 
 
 Gripe. My bill, hang-dog, or I'll strangle thee ! 
 
 [They struggle. 
 
 Brass. Murder ! murder ! 
 
 Enter Clarissa, Araminta, Corinna, Flippanta, 
 Moneytrap, and Jessamin. 
 
 Flip. What's the matter ? what's the matter 
 here ? 
 
 Gripe. I'll matter him ! 
 
 Clar. Who makes thee cry out thus, poor 
 Brass ? 
 
 Brass. Why, your husband, madam, he's in his 
 altitudes here. 
 
 Gripe. Robber ! 
 
 Brass. Here, he has cheated me of a diamond 
 necklace. 
 
 Cor. Who, papa ? ah, dear me ! 
 
 Clar. Prithee what's the meaning of this great 
 emotion, my dear ? 
 
 Gripe. The meaning is that — I'm quite out of 
 breath — this son of a whore has got your necklace, 
 that's all. 
 
 Clar. My necklace ! 
 
 Gripe. That birdlime there — stole it. 
 
 Clar. Impossible ! 
 
 Brass. Madam, you see master's a little — 
 touched, that's all. Twenty ounces of blood let 
 loose would set all right again. 
 
 Gripe. Here, call a constable presently. — [Exit 
 Jessamin.] Neighbour Moneytrap, you'll com- 
 mit him ? 
 
 Brass. D'ye hear ? d'ye hear ? See how wild 
 
 he looks : how his eyes roll in his head I tie him 
 down, or he'll do some mischief or other. 
 
 Gripe. Let me come at him. 
 
 Clar. Hold ! — prithee, my dear, reduce things 
 to a little temperance, and let us coolly into the 
 secret of this disagreeable rupture. 
 
 Gripe. Well then, without passion. Why, you 
 must know (but I'll have him hanged,) you must 
 know that he came to Mr. Clip, to Mr. Clip the 
 dog did ! —with a necklace to sell ; so Mr. Clip 
 having notice before that (can you deny this, 
 sirrah ?) that you had lost yours, brings it to me. 
 Look at it here, do you know it again? — Ah, you 
 traitor ! [To Brass. 
 
 Brass. He makes me mad ! Here's an appear- 
 ance of something now to the company, and yet 
 nothing in't in the bottom. 
 
 Enter Constable. 
 
 Clar. Flippanta ! — 
 
 [Aside to Flippanta, showing the necklace. 
 
 Flip, 'Tis it, faith ; here's some mystery in this, 
 we must look about us. 
 
 Clar. The safest way is point blank to disown 
 the necklace. 
 
 Flip. Right, stick to that. 
 
 Gripe. Well, madam, do you know your old 
 acquaintance, ha ? 
 
 Clar. Why, truly, my dear, though (as you 
 may all imagine) I should be very glad to 
 recover so valuable a thing as my necklace, yet 
 I must be just to all the world, this necklace is 
 not mine. 
 
 Brass. Huzza ! — Here, constable, do your duty. 
 — Mr. Justice, I demand my necklace, and satis- 
 faction of him. 
 
 Gripe. I'll die before I part with it, I'll keep it, 
 and have him hanged. 
 
 Clar. But be a little calm, my dear, do, my 
 bird, and then thou'lt be able to judge rightly of 
 things. 
 
 Gripe. O good lack ! O good lack ! 
 
 Clar. No, but don't give way to fury and inter- 
 est both, either of 'em are passions strong enough 
 to lead a wise man out of the way. The necklace 
 not being really mine, give it the man again, and 
 come drink a dish of tea. 
 
 Brass. Ay, madam says right. 
 
 Gripe. Oons, if you with your addle head 
 don't know your own jewels, I with my solid 
 one do : and if I part with it, may famine be 
 my portion ! 
 
 Clar. But don't swear and curse thyself at this 
 fearful rate : don't, my dove. Be temperate in your 
 words, and just in all your actions, 'twill bring a 
 blessing upon you and your family. 
 
 Gripe. Bring thunder and lightning upon me 
 and my family, if I part with my necklace ! 
 
 Clar. Why you'll have the lightning burn your 
 house about your ears, my dear, if you go on in 
 these practices. 
 
 Mon. A most excellent woman this ! [Aside. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Gripe. I'll keep my necklace. 
 
 Brass. Will you so ? then here comes one has a 
 title to it, if I han't. — [Aside.'] Let Dick bring 
 himself off with her as he can. — [Aloud.] Mrs. 
 Amlet, you are come in a very good time ; you lost 
 
438 
 
 THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 a necklace t'other day, and who do you think has 
 got it ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Marry that know I not, I wish I 
 did. 
 
 Brass. Why then here's Mr. Gripe has it, and 
 swears 'tis his wife's. 
 
 Gripe. And so I do, sirrah !— Look here, mis- 
 tress, do you pretend this is yours ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Not for the round world I would 
 not say it ; I only kept it, to do madam a small 
 courtesy, that's all. 
 
 Clar. Ah, Flippanta, all will out now ! 
 
 [Aside to Flippanta. 
 
 Gripe. Courtesy ! what courtesy ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. A little money only that madam had 
 present need of, please to pay me that, and I 
 demand no more. 
 
 Brass. So here's fresh game ; I have started a 
 new hare, I find. [Aside. 
 
 Gripe. How, forsooth, is this true ? 
 
 [To Clarissa. 
 
 Clar. You are in a humour at present, love, to 
 believe anything, so I won't take the pains to con- 
 tradict it. 
 
 Brass. This damned necklace will spoil all our 
 affairs, this is Dick's luck again. [Aside. 
 
 Gripe. Are you not ashamed of these ways ? 
 Do you see how you are exposed before your best 
 friends here ? don't you blush at it ? 
 
 Clar. I do blush, my dear, but 'tis for you, 
 that here it should appear to the world, you 
 keep me so bare of money, I'm forced to pawn 
 my jewels. 
 
 Gripe. Impudent housewife ! 
 
 [Raising his hand to strike her. 
 
 Clar. Softly, chicken ; you might have pre- 
 vented all this by giving me the two hundred 
 and fifty pound you sent to Araminta e'en 
 now. 
 
 Brass. You see, sir, I delivered your note. 
 How I have been abused to-day ! 
 
 Gripe. I'm betrayed ! — Jades on both sides, I 
 see that ! [Aside. 
 
 Mori. But, madam, madam, is this true I hear? 
 Have you taken a present of two hundred and 
 fifty pound ? Pray what were you to return for 
 these pounds, madam, ha ? 
 
 Aram. Nothing, my dear ; I only took 'em to 
 reimburse you of about the same sum you sent to 
 Clarissa. 
 
 Mori. Hum, hum, hum ! 
 
 Gripe. How, gentlewoman, did you receive 
 money from him ? 
 
 Clar. Oh, my dear, 'twas only in jest ; I knew 
 you'd give it again to his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. But amongst all this tintamar, I 
 don't hear a word of my hundred pounds. Is it 
 madam will pay me, or master ? 
 
 Gripe. I pay ! the devil shall pay ! 
 
 Clar. Look you, my dear, malice apart, pay 
 Mrs. Amlet her money, and I'll forgive you the 
 wrong you intended my bed with Araminta. Am 
 not I a good wife now ? 
 
 Gripe. I burst with rage, and will get rid 
 of this noose, though I tuck myself up in 
 another. 
 
 Mon. Nay, pray, e'en tuck me up with you. 
 
 [Exeunt Moneytrap and Gripe. 
 
 Clcr. and Aram. Bye, dearies S 
 
 Enter Dick Amlet. 
 
 Cor. Look, look, Flippanta, here's the colonel 
 come at last ! 
 
 Dick. Ladies, I ask your pardon, I have stayed 
 so long, but — 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah, rogue's face, have I got thee, 
 old Good-for-nought ? Sirrah, sirrah, do you 
 think to amuse me with your marriages, and your 
 great fortunes ? Thou hast played me a rare prank, 
 by my conscience ! Why, you ungracious rascal, 
 what do you think will be the end of all this ? Now 
 Heaven forgive me, but I have a great mind to hang 
 thee for't. 
 
 Cor. She talks to him very familiarly, Flippanta ! 
 
 Flip. So methinks, by my faith ! 
 
 Brass. Now the rogue's star is making an end 
 of him. ^Aside. 
 
 Dick. What shall I do with her ? [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Do but look at him, my dames : he 
 has the countenance of a cherubim, but he's a 
 rogue in his heart. 
 
 Clar. What is the meaning of all this, Mrs. 
 Amlet ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. The meaning, good lack ! Why 
 this all-to-be-powdered rascal here is my son, an't 
 please you. — Ha, Graceless ! Now I'll make you 
 own your mother, vermin ! 
 
 Clar. What, the colonel your son ? 
 
 Mrs. Ami. 'Tis Dick, madam, that rogue Dick 
 I have so often told you of, with tears trickling 
 down my old cheeks. 
 
 Aram. The woman's mad, it can never be. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Speak, rogue, am I not thy mother, 
 ha ? Did I not bring thee forth ? say then. 
 
 Dick. What will you have me say ? you had a 
 mind to ruin me, and you have done't ; would you 
 do any more . 
 
 Clar. Then, sir, you are son to good Mrs. 
 Amlet ? 
 
 Aram. And have had the assurance to put upon 
 us all this while ! 
 
 Flip. And the confidence to think of marrying 
 Corinna ? 
 
 Brass. And the impudence to hire me for your 
 servant, who am as well born as yourself ? 
 
 Clar. Indeed I think he should be corrected. 
 
 Aram. Indeed I think he deserves to be cud- 
 gelled. 
 
 Flip. Indeed I think he might be pumped. 
 
 Brass. Indeed I think he will be hanged. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Good lack a-day ! Good lack 
 a-day ! there's no need to be so smart upon him 
 neither : if he is not a gentleman, he's a gentle- 
 man's fellow. — Come hither, Dick, they shan't run 
 thee down neither ; cock up thy hat, Dick, and 
 tell 'em, though Mrs. Amlet is thy mother, she can 
 make thee amends with ten thousand good pounds 
 to buy thee some lands, and build thee a house in 
 the midst on't. 
 
 All. How! 
 
 Clar. Ten thousand pounds, Mrs. Amlet ! 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Yes forsooth, though I should lose 
 the hundred you pawned your necklace for.— Tell 
 'em of that, Dick. 
 
 Cor. Look you, Flippanta, I can hold no longer, 
 and I hate to see the young man abused. — And so, 
 sir, if you please, I'm your friend and servant, and 
 what's mine is yours ; and when our estates are put 
 together, I don't doubt but we shall do as well as 
 the best of 'em. 
 
THE CONFEDERACY. 
 
 439 
 
 Dick. Sayest thou so, my little queen ? Why 
 then if dear mother will give us her blessing, the 
 parson shall give us a tack. We'll get her a score 
 of grandchildren, and a merry house we'll make 
 her. [They kneel to Mrs. Amlet. 
 
 Mrs. Ami. Ah — ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! the pretty 
 pair, the pretty pair ! Rise my chickens, rise, 
 rise and face the proudest of 'em. And if madam 
 does not deign to give her consent, a fig for her, 
 Dick ! — Why, how now ? 
 
 Clar. Pray, Mrs. Amlet, don't be in a passion, 
 the girl is my husband's girl, and if you can have 
 
 his consent, upon my word you shall have mine, 
 for anything belongs to him. 
 
 Flip. Then all's peace again, but we have been 
 more lucky than wise. 
 
 Aram. And I suppose for us, Clarissa, we are 
 to go on with our dears, as we used to do. 
 
 Clar. Just in the same tract, for this late treaty 
 of agreement with 'em was so unnatural you see it 
 could not hold. But 'tis just as well with us as 
 if it had. Well, 'tis a strange fate, good folks ! 
 But while you live, everything gets well out of a 
 broil but a husband. [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BARRY. 
 
 I've heard wise men in politics lay down 
 What feats by little England might be done, 
 Were all agreed, and all would act as one. 
 Ye wives a useful hint from this might take, 
 The heavy, old, despotic kingdom shake, 
 And make your matrimonial monsieurs quake. 
 Our heads are feeble, and we're cramp'd by laws ; 
 Our hands are weak, and not too strong our cause : 
 Yet would those heads and hands, such as they are, 
 In firm confederacy resolve on war, 
 You'd find your tyrants — what I've found my dear. 
 What only two united can produce 
 You've seen to-night, a sample for your use : 
 Single, we found we nothing could obtain ; 
 We join our force — and we subdued our men. 
 Believe me (my dear sex) they are not brave J 
 Try each your man ; you'll quickly find your slave. 
 
 I know they'll make campaigns, risk blood and life ; 
 But this is a more terrifying strife ; 
 They'll stand a shot, who'll tremble at a wife. 
 Beat then your drums, and your shrill trumpets 
 
 sound, 
 Let all your visits of your feats resound, 
 And deeds of war in cups of tea go round : 
 The stars are with you, fate is in your hand, 
 In twelve months' time you've vanquish'd half the 
 
 land ; 
 Be wise, and keep 'em under good command. 
 This year will to your glory long be known, 
 And deathless ballads hand your triumphs down ; 
 Your late achievements ever will remain, 
 For though you cannot boast of many slain, 
 Your prisoners show you've made a brave cam- 
 paign. 
 
THE MISTAKE 
 
 & ©omrtrp. 
 
 Don Alvarez, Father to Leonora. 
 Don Feltx, Father to Don Lorenzo. 
 Don Carlos, in love with Leonora. 
 Don Lorenzo, in love with Leonora. 
 Metaphrastus, Tutor to Camillo. 
 Sancho, Servant to Don Carlos. 
 Lopez, Servant to Don Lorenzo. 
 
 SCENE 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Toledo, a Bravo. 
 
 Leonora, Daughter to Don Alvarez. 
 Camillo, supposed Son to Don Alvarez. 
 Isabella, her Friend. 
 Jacinta, Servant to Leonora. 
 
 -A Town in Spain. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 (WRITTEN BY MR. STEELE) SPOKEN BY MR. BOOTH. 
 
 Our author's wit and raillery to-night 
 Perhaps might please, but that your stage-delight 
 No more is in your minds, but ears and sight. 
 With audiences composed of belles and beaux, 
 The first dramatic rule is, have good clothes. 
 To charm the gay spectator's gentle breast, 
 In lace and feather tragedy's express'd, 
 And heroes die unpitied, if ill dress'd. 
 
 The other style you full as well advance ; 
 If 'tis a comedy, you ask — Who dance ? 
 For oh ! what dire convulsions have of late 
 Torn and distracted each dramatic state, 
 On this great question, which house first should 
 
 sell 
 The new French steps, imported by Ruel ? 
 Desbarques can't rise so high, we must agree, 
 They've half a foot in height more wit than we. 
 But though the genius of our learned age 
 Thinks fit to dance and sing quite off the stage. 
 True action, comic mirth, and tragic rage ; 
 Yet as your taste now stands, our author draws 
 
 Some hopes of your indulgence and applause. 
 For that great end this edifice he made, 
 Where humble swain at lady's feet is laid ; 
 Where the pleased nymph her conquer'd lover 
 
 spies, 
 Then to glass pillars turns her conscious eyes, 
 And points anew each charm, for which he dies. 
 
 The Muse, before nor terrible nor great, 
 Enjoys by him this awful gilded seat : 
 By him theatric angels mount more high, 
 And mimic thunders shake a broader sky. 
 
 Thus all must own, our author has done more, 
 For your delight than ever bard before. 
 His thoughts are still to iraise your pleasures fill'd 
 To write, translate, to blazon, or to build. 
 Then take him in the lump, nor nicely pry 
 Into small faults, that 'scape a busy eye ; 
 But kindly, sirs, consider, he to-day 
 Finds you the house, the actors, and the play : 
 So, though we stage -mechanic rules omit, 
 You must allow it in a wholesale wit. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Street. 
 Enter Don Carlos and Sancho. 
 
 Don Car. I tell thee, I am not satisfied ; I'm 
 in love enough to be suspicious of everybody. 
 
 San. And yet methinks, sir, you should leave 
 me out. 
 
 Don Car. It may be so, I can't tell ; but I'm 
 not at ease. If they don't make a knave, at least 
 they'll make a fool of thee. 
 
 San. I don't believe a word on't. But good 
 faith, master, your love makes somewhat of you ; 
 1 don't know what 'tis, but methinks when you 
 suspect me, you don't seem a man of half those 
 parts I used to take you for. Look in my face, 
 'tis round and comely, not one hollow line of a 
 villain in it. Men of my fabric don't use to be 
 suspected for knaves ; and when you take us for 
 fools, we never take you for wise men. For my 
 part, in this present case, I take myself to be 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 441 
 
 mighty deep. A stander-by, sir, sees more than 
 a gamester. You are pleased to be jealous of your 
 poor mistress without a cause. She uses you but 
 too well, in my humble opinion. She sees you, and 
 talks with you, till I am quite tired on't sometimes ; 
 and your rival, that you are so scared about, 
 forces a visit upon her about once in a fortnight. 
 
 Don Car. Alas ! thou art ignorant in these 
 affairs : he that's the civilest received is often the 
 least cared for. Women appear warm to one, to 
 hide a flame for another. Lorenzo, in short, 
 appears too composed of late to be a rejected 
 lover ; and the indifference he shows upon the 
 favours I seem to receive from her, poisons the 
 pleasure I else should taste in 'em, and keeps me 
 on a perpetual rack. No ! I would fain see 
 some of his jealous transports ; have him fire at 
 the sight o' me, contradict me whenever I speak, 
 affront me wherever he meets me, challenge me, 
 fight me — 
 
 San. Run you through the guts. 
 
 Don Car. But he's too calm, his heart's too 
 much at ease, to leave me mine at rest. 
 
 San. But, sir, you forget that there are two 
 ways for our hearts to get at ease : when our mis- 
 tresses come to be very fond of us, or we, not to 
 care a fig for them. Now suppose, upon the 
 rebukes you know he has had, it should chance to 
 be the latter. 
 
 Don Car. Again thy ignorance appears. Alas ! 
 a lover who has broke his chain will shun the 
 tyrant that enslaved him. Indifference never is 
 his lot ; he loves or hates for ever ; and if his mis- 
 tress prove another's prize, he cannot calmly see 
 her in his arms. 
 
 San. For my part, master, I'm not so great a 
 philosopher as you be, nor (thank my stars) so 
 bitter a lover, but what I see — that I generally 
 believe ; and when Jacinta tells me she loves me 
 dearly, I have good thoughts enough of my person 
 never to doubt the truth on't. See, here the bag- 
 gage comes. 
 
 Enter Jacinta with a letter. 
 Hist, Jacinta, my dear ! 
 
 Jac. Who's that ? Blunderbuss ! Where's your 
 master ? 
 
 San. Hard by. [Pointing to Don Carlos. 
 
 Jac. O, sir ! I'm glad I have found you at last ; 
 I believe I have travelled five miles after you, and 
 could neither find you at home, nor in the walks, 
 nor at church, nor at the opera, nor — 
 
 San. Nor anywhere else, where he was not to 
 be found. If you had looked for him where he 
 was, 'twas ten to one but you had met with him. 
 
 Jac. I had, Jack-a-dandy ! 
 
 Don Car. But, prithee, what's the matter? 
 who sent you after me ? 
 
 Jac. One who's never well but when she sees 
 you, I think ; 'twas my lady. 
 
 Don Car. Dear Jacinta, I fain would flatter 
 myself, but am not able ; the blessing's too great 
 to be my lot. Yet 'tis not well to trifle with me : 
 how short soe'er I am in other merit, the tender- 
 ness I have for Leonora claims something from her 
 generosity. I should not be deluded. 
 
 Jac. And why do you think you are ? methinks 
 she's pretty well above-board with you. What 
 must be done more to satisfy you ? 
 
 San. Why, Lorenzo must hang himself, and 
 then we are content. 
 
 Jac. How ! Lorenzo ! 
 
 San. If less will do, he'll tell you. 
 
 Jac Why, you are not mad, sir, are you ? 
 Jealous of him 1 Pray which way may this have 
 got into your head ? I took you for a man of sense 
 before. — [To Sancho.] Is this your doings, Log ? 
 
 San. No, forsooth, Pert! I'm not much given 
 to suspicion, as you can tell, Mrs. Forward : if I 
 were, I might find more cause, I guess, than your 
 mistress has given our master here. But I have so 
 many pretty thoughts of my own person, house- 
 wife, more than I have of yours, that I stand in 
 dread of no man. 
 
 Jac. That's the way to prosper ; however, so far 
 I'll confess the truth to thee ; at least, if that don't 
 do, nothing else will. Men are mighty simple in 
 love-matters, sir. When you suspect a woman's 
 falling off, you fall a-plaguing her to bring her on 
 again, attack her with reason, and a sour face. 
 Udslife, sir ! attack her with a fiddle, double your 
 good-humour ; give her a ball — powder your peri- 
 wig at her — let her cheat you at cards a little — and 
 I'll warrant all's right again. But to come upon 
 a poor woman with the gloomy face of jealousy, 
 before she gives the least occasion for't, is to set a 
 complaisant rival in too favourable a light. Sir, 
 sir I I must tell you, I have seen those have owed 
 their success to nothing else. 
 
 Don Car. Say no more, I have been to blame ; 
 but there shall be no more on't. 
 
 Jac. I should punish you but justly, however, 
 for what's past, if I carried back what I have 
 brought you ; but I'm good-natured, so here 'tis ; 
 open it, and see how wrong you timed your jea- 
 lousy ! 
 
 Don Car. [Reads.] If you love me with that 
 tenderness you have made me long believe you do, 
 this letter will be welcome ; 'tis to tell yoti, you 
 have leave to plead a daughter's weakness to a 
 father's indulgence : and if you prevail with him 
 to lay his commands upon me, you shall be as 
 happy as my obedience to 'em can make you. 
 
 Leonora. 
 Then I shall be what man was never yet. — [Kiss- 
 ing the letter. 1 Ten thousand blessings on thee for 
 thy news ! — I could adore thee as a deity ! 
 
 [Embracing Jacinta. 
 
 San. True flesh and blood, every inch of her, 
 for all that. 
 
 Don Car. [Reads again.] And if you prevail 
 with him to lay his commands upon me, you shall 
 be as happy as my obedience to 'em can make you. 
 — O happy, happy Carlos ! — But what shall I say 
 to thee for this welcome message ? Alas ! I want 
 words. — But let this speak for me, and this, and 
 this, and — [Giving her his ring, watch, and purse. 
 
 San. Hold, sir ; pray leave a little something for 
 
 our board-wages. — [To Jacinta.] You can't 
 
 carry 'em all, I believe : shall I ease thee of this ? 
 
 [Offering to take the purse. 
 
 Jac. No ; but you may carry — that, sirrah. 
 
 [Giving him a box on the ear. 
 
 San. The jade's grown purse-proud already. 
 
 Don Car. Well, dear Jacinta, say something to 
 your charming mistress, that I am not able to say 
 myself : but above all, excuse my late unpardon- 
 able folly, and offer her my life to expiate my 
 crime. 
 
 Jac. The best plea for pardon will be never to 
 repeat the fault. 
 
442 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 ACT 1. 
 
 Don Car. If that will do, 'tis sealed for ever. 
 
 Jnc. Enough. But I must begone ; success 
 attend you with the old gentleman. Good-bye t'ye, 
 sir. 
 
 Don Car. Eternal blessings follow thee ! 
 
 [Exit Jacinta. 
 
 San. I think she has taken 'em all with her ; 
 the jade has got her apron full. 
 
 Don Car. Is not that Lorenzo coming this way ? 
 
 San. Yes, 'tis he ; for my part now I pity the 
 poor gentleman. 
 
 Enter Don Lorenzo. 
 
 Don Car. I'll let him see at last I can be cheer- 
 ful too. — Your servant, Don Lorenzo ; how do you 
 do this morning ? 
 
 Don Lor. I thank you, Don Carlos, perfectly 
 well, both in body and in mind. 
 
 Don Car. What ! cured of your love then ? 
 
 Don Lor. No, nor I hope I never shall. May 
 I ask you how 'tis with yours ? 
 
 Don Car. Increasing every hour ; we are very 
 constant both. 
 
 Don Lor. I find so much delight in being so I 
 hope I never shall be otherwise. 
 
 Don Car. Those joys I am well acquainted with, 
 but should lose 'em soon were I to meet a 
 cool reception. 
 
 Don Lor. That's every generous lover's case, 
 no doubt ; an angel could not fire my heart but 
 with an equal flame. 
 
 Don Car. And yet you said you still loved Leo- 
 nora. 
 
 Don Lor. And yet I said I loved her. 
 
 Don Car. Does she then return you — 
 
 Don Lor. Everything my passion can require. 
 
 Don Car. Its wants are small, I find. 
 
 Don Lor. Extended as the heavens. 
 
 Don Car. I pity you. 
 
 Don Lor. He must be a deity that does so. 
 
 Don Car. Yet I'm a mortal, and once more can 
 pity you. 
 Alas ! Lorenzo, 
 
 'Tis a poor cordial to an aching heart, 
 To have the tongue alone announce it happy : 
 Besides 'tis mean, you should be more a man. 
 
 Don Lor. I find I have made you an unhappy one, 
 So can forgive the boilings of your spleen. 
 
 Don Car. This seeming calmness might have 
 the effect your vanity proposes by it, had I not a 
 testimony of her love would (should I show it) sink 
 you to the centre. 
 
 Don Lor. Yet still I'm calm as ever. 
 
 Don Car. Nay, then have at your peace. Read 
 that, and end the farce. [Gives him Leonora's letter. 
 
 Don Lor. [After reading.'] I have read it. 
 
 Don Car. And know the hand ? 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis Leonora's ; I have often seen it. 
 
 Don Car. I hope you then at last are satisfied. 
 
 Don Lor. [Smiling.~]lam. Good morrow, Carlos ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 San. Sure he's mad, master. 
 
 Don Car. Mad ! sayest thou ? 
 
 San. And yet, by'r Lady, that was a sort of a 
 dry sober smile at going off. 
 
 Don Car. A very sober one ! Had he show me 
 such a letter, I had put on another countenance. 
 
 San. Ay, o' my conscience had you. 
 
 Don Car. Here's mystery in this — I like it not. 
 
 San. I see his man and confidant there, Lopez. 
 
 Shall I draw him on a Scotch pair of boots, mas- 
 ter, and make him tell all? 
 
 Don Car. Some questions I must ask him ; call 
 him hither. 
 
 San. Hem, Lopez, hem ! 
 
 Enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Who calls ? 
 
 San. I and my master. 
 
 Lop. I can't stay. 
 
 San. You can indeed, sir. [Laying hold on him. 
 
 Don Car. Whither in such haste, honest Lopez ? 
 What ! upon some love- errand ? 
 
 Lop. Sir, your servant ; I ask your pardon, but 
 I was going — 
 
 Don Car. I guess where ; but you need not be 
 shy of me any more, thy master and I are no 
 longer rivals ; I have yielded up the cause ; the 
 lady will have it so, so I submit. 
 
 Lop. Is it possible, sir ? Shall I then live to 
 see my master and you friends again ? 
 
 San. Yes ; and what',s better, thou and I shall 
 be friends too. There will be no more fear of 
 Christian bloodshed, I give thee up, Jacinta ; she's 
 a slippery housewife, so master and I are going to 
 match ourselves elsewhere. 
 
 Lop. But is it possible, sir, your honour should 
 be in earnest ? I'm afraid you are pleased to be 
 merry with your poor humble servant. 
 
 Don Car. I'm not at present much disposed to 
 mirth, my indifference in this matter is not so 
 thoroughly formed ; but my reason has so far 
 mastered my passion, to show me 'tis in vain to 
 pursue a woman whose heart already is another's. 
 'Tis what I have so plainly seen of late, I have 
 roused my resolution to my aid, and broke my 
 chains for ever. 
 
 Lop. Well, sir, to be plain with you, this is the 
 joyfullest news I have heard this long time ; for I 
 always knew you to be a mighty honest gentleman, 
 and good faith it often went to the heart o' me to 
 see you so abused. Dear, dear, have I often said 
 to myself (when they have had a private meeting 
 just after you have been gone) — 
 
 Don Car. Ha ! i 
 
 San. Hold, master, don't kill him yet. 
 
 [Aside to Don Carlos. 
 
 Lop. I say 1 have said to myself, what wicked | 
 things are women, and what pity it is they should 
 be suffered in a Christian country ! what a shame 
 they should be allowed to play will-in-the-wisp with 
 men of honour, and lead them through thorns and 
 briars, and rocks, and rugged ways, till their 
 hearts are torn in pieces, like an old coat in a fox- 
 chase ! I say, I have said to myself— 
 
 Don Car. Thou hast said enough to thyself, but 
 say a little more to me. Where were these secret 
 meetings thou talkest of ? 
 
 Lop. In sundry places, and by divers ways ; 
 sometimes in the cellar, sometimes in the garret, 
 sometimes in the court, sometimes in the gutter ; 
 but the place where the kiss of kisses was given 
 was — 
 
 Don Car. In hell ! 
 
 Lop. Sir ! 
 
 Don Car. Speak, fury, wh"t dost thou mean by 
 the kiss of kisses ? 
 
 Lop. The kiss of peace, sir ; the kiss of union ; 
 the kiss of consummation. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 443 
 
 Don Car. Thou liest, villain ! • 
 
 Lop. I don't know but I may, sir. — [Aside.'] j 
 What the devil's the matter now ! j 
 
 Don Car. There's not one word of truth in all i 
 thy cursed tongue has uttered. 
 
 Lop. No, sir, I — I — believe there is not. 
 
 Don Car. Why then didst thou say it, wretch ? 
 
 Lop. Oh— only in jest, sir. 
 
 Don Car. I am not in a jesting condition. 
 
 Lop. Nor I— at present, sir. 
 
 Don Car. Speak then the truth, as thou wouldst 
 do it at the hour of death. 
 
 Lop. Yes, at the gallows, and be turned off as 
 soon as I've done. [Aside. 
 
 Don Car. What's that you murmur ? 
 
 Lop. Nothing but a short prayer. 
 
 Don Car. [Aside.] I am distracted, and fright 
 the wretch from telling me what I am upon the 
 rack to know. — [ Aloud.} Forgive me, Lopez, I 
 am to blame to speak thus harshly to thee. Let 
 this obtain thy pardon.— [Gives him money.] Thou 
 seest I am disturbed. 
 
 Lop. Yes, sir, I see I have been led into a snare ; 
 I have said too much. 
 
 Don Car. And yet thoii must say more ; nothing 
 can lessen my torment but a farther knowledge of 
 what causes my misery. Speak then ! have I any- 
 thing to hope ? 
 
 Lop. Nothing ; but that you may be a happier 
 bachelor than my master may probably be a mar- 
 ried man. 
 
 Don Car. Married, sayest thou ? 
 
 Lop. I did, sir, and I believe he'll say so too in 
 a twelvemonth. 
 
 Don Car. O torment ! — But give me more on't : 
 when, how, to who, where ? 
 
 Lop. Yesterday, to Leonora, by the parson in 
 the pantry. 
 
 Don Car. Look to't, if this be false, thy life 
 shall pay the torment thou hast given me. Begone ! 
 
 Lop. With the body and the soul o'me. [Exit. 
 
 San. Base news, master. 
 
 Don Car. Now my insulting rival's smile speaks 
 out : O cursed, cursed woman ! 
 Re-enter Jacinta. 
 
 Jac. I'm come in haste to tell you, sir, that as 
 soon as the moon's up, my lady '11 give you a meet- 
 ing in the close -walk by the back-door of the 
 garden ; she thinks she has something to propose 
 to you will certainly get her father's consent to 
 marry you. 
 
 Don Car. Past sufferance ! 
 This aggravation is not to be borne. 
 Go, thank her — with my curses. Fly ! — 
 And let 'em blast her, while their venom's strong, 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Jac. Won't thou explain ? What's this storm for ? 
 
 San. And darest thou ask me questions, smooth- 
 faced iniquity, crocodile of Nile, siren of the rocks ! 
 Go, carry back the too gentle answer thou hast 
 received ; only let me add with the poet : — 
 We are no fools, trollop, my master, nor me ; 
 And thy mistress may go — to the devil with thee. 
 
 \ExiU 
 
 Jac. Am I awake ! — I fancy not ; a very idle 
 dream this. Well : I'll go talk in my sleep to" my 
 lady about it ; and when I awake, we'll try what 
 interpretation we can make on't. [Exit. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — An open court near the House of 
 Don Alvarez. 
 
 Enter Camillo and Isabella. 
 
 Isab. How can you doubt my secrecy ? have 
 you not proofs of it ? 
 
 Cam. Nay, I am determined to trust you ; but 
 are we safe here ? can nobody overhear us ? 
 
 Isab. Safer much than in a room. Nobody can 
 come within hearing before we see 'em. 
 
 Cam. And yet how hard 'tis for me to break 
 silence ! 
 
 Isab. Your secret sure must be of great import- 
 ance. 
 
 Cam. You may be sure it is, when I confess 
 'tis with regret I own it e'en to you ; and, were it 
 possible, you should not know it. 
 
 Isab. 'Tis frankly owned indeed ; but 'tis not 
 kind, perhaps not prudent, after what you know I 
 already am acquainted with. Have I not been 
 bred up with you ? and am I ignorant of a secret 
 which, were it known — 
 
 Cam. Would be my ruin ; I confess it would. 
 I own you know why both my birth and sex are thus 
 disguised ; you know how I was taken from my 
 cradle to secure the estate which had else been lost 
 by young Camillo's death ; but which is now safe in 
 my supposed father's hands, by my passing for his 
 son ; and 'tis because you know all this, I have 
 resolved to open farther wonders to you. But, 
 
 before I say any more, you must resolve one doubt 5 
 which often gives me great disturbance ; whether 
 Don Alvarez ever was himself privy to the mys- 
 tery which has disguised my sex, and made me 
 pass for his son ? 
 
 Isab. What you ask me is a thing has often 
 perplexed my thoughts as well as yours, nor could 
 my mother ever resolve the doubt. You know 
 when that young child Camillo died, in whom was 
 wrapped up so much expectation, from the great 
 estate his uncle's will (even before he came into 
 the world) had left him ; his mother made a secret 
 of his death to her husband Alvarez, and readily 
 fell in with a proposal made her to take you (who 
 then were just Camillo's age) and bring you up in 
 his room. You have heard how you were then at 
 nurse with my mother, and how your own was 
 privy and consenting to the plot ; but Don Alvarez 
 was never let into it by 'em. 
 
 Cam. Don't you then think it probable his wife 
 might after tell him ? 
 
 Isab. 'Twas ever thought nothing but a death- 
 bed repentance could draw it from her to any one ; 
 and that was prevented by the suddenness of her 
 exit to t'other world, which did not give her even 
 time to call Heaven's mercy on her. And yet, 
 now I have said all this, I own the correspondence 
 and friendship I observe he holds with your reai 
 mother gives me some suspicion, and the presents 
 he often makes her (which people seldom do for 
 
444 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 nothing) confirm it. But, since this is all I can 
 say to you on that point, pray let us come to the 
 secret, which you have made me impatient to hear. 
 
 Cam. Know, then, that though Cupid is blind, 
 he is not to be deceived : I can hide my sex from 
 the world, but not from him ; his dart has found 
 the way through the manly garb I wear, to pierce 
 a virgin's tender heart. — I love — 
 
 Isab. How ! 
 
 Cam. Nay, ben't surprised at that, I have other 
 wonders for you. 
 
 Isab. Quick, let me hear 'em. 
 
 Cam. I love Lorenzo. 
 
 Isab. Lorenzo ! Most nicely hit ! The very 
 man from whom your imposture keeps this vast 
 estate ; and who, on the first knowledge of your 
 being a woman, would enter into possession of it. 
 This is indeed a wonder. 
 
 Cam. Then, wonder farther still, I am his wife. 
 
 Isab. Ha ! his wife ! 
 
 Isab. His wife, Isabella ; and yet thou hast not 
 all my wonders, I am his wife without his know- 
 ledge : he does not even know I am a woman. 
 
 Isab. Madam, your humble servant ; if you 
 please to go on, I won't interrupt you, indeed I 
 won't. 
 
 Cam. Then hear how these strange things have 
 passed : Lorenzo, bound unregarded in my sister's 
 chains, seemed in my eyes a conquest worth her 
 care. Nor could I see him treated with contempt 
 without growing warm in his interest : I blamed 
 Leonora for not being touched with his merit ; I 
 blamed her so long, till I grew touched with it 
 myself : and the reasons I urged to vanquish her 
 heart insensibly made a conquest of my own. 
 'Twas thus, my friend, I fell. What was next to 
 be done my passion pointed out ; my heart I felt 
 was warmed to a noble enterprise, I gave it way, 
 and boldly on it led me. Leonora's name and 
 voice, in the dark shades of night, I borrowed, to 
 engage the object of my wishes. I met him, Isa- 
 bella, and so deceived him ; he cannot blame me 
 sure, for much I blessed him. But to finish this 
 strange story : in short, I owned I long had loved ; 
 out, finding my father most averse to my desires, 
 I at last had forced myself to this secret corre- 
 spondence ; 
 I urged the mischiefs would attend the knowledge 
 
 on't, 
 I urged 'em so, he thought 'em full of weight, 
 So yielded to observe what rules I gave him. 
 They were, to pass the day with cold indifference, 
 To avoid even sign or looks of intimacy, 
 But gather for the still, the secret night, 
 A flood of love 
 
 To recompense the losses of the day. 
 I will not trouble you with lovers' cares, 
 Nor what contrivances we form'd to bring 
 This toying to a solid bliss. 
 
 Know only, when three nights we thus had pass'd, 
 The fourth 
 
 It was agreed should make us one for ever ; 
 Each kept their promise, and last night has join'd 
 us. 
 
 Isab. Indeed your talents pass my poor extent ; 
 You serious ladies are well form'd for business. 
 What wretched work a poor coquette had made 
 
 on't! 
 But still there's that remains will try your skill ; 
 You have your man, but — 
 
 Cam. Lovers think no farther. 
 
 The object of that passion possesses all desire. 
 However, I have opened to you my wondrous situa 
 tion, if you can advise me in my difficulties to 
 come, you will. But see — my husband ! 
 
 Enter Don Lorenzo. 
 
 Don Lor. You look as if you were busy ; pray 
 tell me if I interrupt you ; I'll retire. 
 
 Cam. No, no, you have a right to interrupt us, 
 since you were the subject of our discourse. 
 
 Don Lor. Was I ? 
 
 Cam. You were ; nay, I'll tell you how you 
 entertained us too. 
 
 Don Lor. Perhaps I had as good avoid hearing 
 that. 
 
 Cam. You need not fear, it was not to your dis- 
 advantage ; I was commending you, and saying, if 
 I had been a woman, I had been in danger ; nay I 
 think I said I should infallibly have been in love 
 with you. 
 
 Don Lor. While such an if is in the way, you 
 run no great risk in declaring ; but you'd be finely 
 catched now, should some wonderful transforma- 
 tion give me a claim to your heart. 
 
 Cam. Not sorry for't at all, for I ne'er expect 
 to find a mistress please me half so well as you 
 would do, if I were yours. 
 
 Don Lor. Since you are so well inclined to me 
 in your wishes, sir, I suppose (as the fates have 
 ordained it) you would have some pleasure in help- 
 ing me to a mistress, since you can't be mine your- 
 self. 
 
 Cam. Indeed I should not. 
 
 Don Lor. Then my obligation is but small to 
 you. 
 
 Cam. Why, would you have a woman, that is in 
 love with you herself, employ her interest to help 
 you to another ? 
 
 Don Lor. No, but you being no woman might. 
 
 Cam. Sir, 'tis as a woman I say what I do, and 
 I suppose myself a woman when I design all these 
 favours to you. Therefore, out of that supposition, 
 I have no other good intentions to you than you 
 may expect from any one that says, he's — sir, your 
 humble servant. 
 
 Don Lor. So, unless Heaven is pleased to work 
 a miracle, and from a sturdy young fellow make 
 you a kind-hearted young lady, I'm to get little by 
 your good opinion of me. 
 
 Cam. Yes, there is one means yet left (on this 
 side a miracle) that would perhaps engage me, if 
 with an honest oath you could declare, were I 
 woman, I might dispute your heart, even with the 
 first of my pretending sex. 
 
 Don Lor. Then solemnly and honestly I swear, 
 that had you been a woman, and I the master of 
 the world, I think I should have laid it at your feet. 
 
 Cam. Then honestly and solemnly I swear, 
 henceforwards all your interest shall be mine. 
 
 Don Lor. I have a secret to impart to you will 
 quickly try your friendship. 
 
 Cam. I have a secret to unfold to you will put 
 you even to a fiery trial. 
 
 Don Lor. What do you mean, Camillo ? 
 
 Cam. I mean that I love where I never durst 
 yet own it, yet where 'tis in your power to make 
 me the happiest of — 
 
 Don Lor. Explain, Camillo ; and be assured, 
 if your happiness is in my power, 'tis in your own. 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 445 
 
 Cam. Alas ! you promise me you know not what. 
 
 Don Lor. I promise nothing but what I will 
 perform ; name the person. 
 
 Cam. 'Tis one who's very near to you. 
 
 Don Lor. If 'tis my sister, why all this pain in 
 bringing forth the secret ? 
 
 Cam. Alas ! it is your — 
 
 Don Lor. Speak ! 
 
 Cam. I cannot yet ; farewell ! 
 
 Don Lor. Hold ! pray speak it now. 
 
 Cam. I must not : but when you tell me your 
 secret, you shall know mine. 
 
 Don Lor. Mine is not in my power, without the 
 consent of another. 
 
 Cam. Get that consent, and then we'll try who 
 best will keep their oaths. 
 
 Don Lor. I am content. 
 
 Cam, And I. Adieu! 
 
 Don Lor. Farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Leonora and Jacinta, 
 
 Leo. 'Tis enough : I will revenge myself this 
 way, if it does but torment him. I shall be con- 
 tent to find no other pleasure in it — Brother, you'll 
 wonder at my change ; after all my ill usage of 
 Lorenzo, I am determined to be his wife. 
 
 Cam. How, sister! so sudden a turn? This 
 inequality of temper indeed is not commendable. 
 
 Leo. Your change, brother, is much more justly 
 surprising ; you hitherto have pleaded for him 
 strongly ; accused me of blindness, cruelty, and 
 pride ; and now I yield to your reasons, and resolve 
 in his favour, you blame my compliance, and appear 
 against his interest. 
 
 Cam. I quit his service for what's dearer to me, 
 yours. I have learned from sure intelligence, the 
 attack he made on you was but a feint, and that 
 his heart is in another's chain : I would not there- 
 fore see you so exposed, to offer up yourself to one 
 who must refuse you. 
 
 Leo. If that be all, leave me my honour to take 
 care of; I am no stranger to his wishes ; he won't 
 refuse me, brother, nor I hope will you, to tell him 
 of my resolution : if you do, this moment with my 
 own tongue (through all a virgin's blushes) I'll own 
 to him I am determined in his favour. — You pause 
 as if you'd let the task lie on me. 
 
 Cam. Neither on you, nor me ; I have a reason 
 you are yet a stranger to. 
 Know then there is a virgin young and tender, 
 Whose peace and happiness so much are mine, 
 I cannot see her miserable ; 
 She loves him with that torrent of desire, 
 That were the world resign'd her in his stead, 
 She'd still be wretched. 
 I will not pique you to a female strife, 
 By saying you have not charms to tear him from 
 
 her; 
 But I would move you to a female softness, 
 By telling you her death would wait your conquest. 
 What I have more to plead is as a brother, 
 I hope that gives me some small interest in you ; 
 Whate'er it is, you see how I'd employ it. 
 
 Leo. You ne'er could put it to a harder service. 
 I beg a little time to think : pray leave me to myself 
 a while. 
 
 Cam. I shall ; I only ask that you would think, 
 And then you won't refuse me. 
 
 [Exeunt Camillo and Isabella. 
 
 Jac. Indeed, madam, I'm of your brother's mind 5 
 
 though for another cause ; but sure 'tis worth 
 thinking twice on for your own sake. You are too 
 violent. 
 
 Leo. A slighted woman knows no bounds. Ven- 
 geance is all the cordial she can have, so snatches 
 at the nearest. Ungrateful wretch ! to use me 
 with such insolence. 
 
 Jac. You see me as much enraged at it as you 
 are yourself, yet my brain is roving after the cause, 
 for something there must be ; never letter was 
 received by man with more passion and transport ; 
 I was almost as charming a goddess as yourself, 
 only for bringing it. Yet when in a moment after 
 I come with a message worth a dozen on't, never 
 was witch so handled ; something must have passed 
 between one and t'other, that's sure. 
 
 Leo. Nothing could pass worth my inquiring 
 after, since nothing could happen that can excuse 
 his usage of me ; he had a letter under my hand 
 which owned him master of my heart ; and till I 
 contradicted it with my mouth he ought not to 
 doubt the truth on't. 
 
 Jac. Nay, I confess, madam, I han't a word to 
 say for him, I'm afraid he's but a rogue at bottom, 
 as well as my Shameless that attends him ; we are 
 bit, by my troth, and haply well enough served, 
 for listening to the glib tongues of the rascals. 
 But be comforted, madam ; they'll fall into the 
 hands of some foul sluts or other, before they die, 
 that will set our account even with 'em. 
 
 Leo. Well, let him laugh ; let him glory in 
 what he has done : he shall see I have a spirit can 
 use him as I ought. 
 
 Jac. And let one thing be your comfort by the 
 way, madam, that in spite of all your dear affec- 
 tions to him, you have had the grace to keep him 
 at arm's end. You han't thanked me for't ; but 
 good faith 'twas well I did not stir out of the 
 chamber that fond night. For there are times the 
 stoutest of us are in danger, the rascals wheedle so. 
 
 Leo. In short my very soul is fired with his 
 treatment : and if ever that perfidious monster 
 should relent, though he should crawl like a poor 
 worm beneath my feet, nay, plunge a dagger in his 
 heart, to bleed for pardon ; I charge thee strictly, 
 charge thee on thy life, thou do not urge a look to 
 melt me toward him, but strongly buoy me up 
 in brave resentment ; and if thou seest (which 
 Heavens avert !) a glance of weakness in me, rouse 
 to my memory the vile wrongs I've borne, and 
 blazon them with skill in all their glaring colours. 
 
 Jac. Madam, never doubt me ; I'm charged to 
 the mouth with fury, and if ever I meet that fat 
 traitor of mine, such a volley will I pour about his 
 ears ! — Now Heaven prevent all hasty vows ; but 
 in the humour I am, methinks I'd carry my maiden- 
 head to my cold grave with me, before I'd let it 
 simper at the rascal. But soft ! here comes your 
 father. 
 
 Enter Don Alvarez. 
 
 Don Alv. Leonora, I'd have you retire a little, 
 and send your brother's tutor to me, Metaphrastus. 
 — {Exeunt Leonora and Jacinta.] I'll try if I 
 can discover, by his tutor, what 'tis that seems so 
 much to work his brain of late ; for something 
 more than common there plainly does appear, yet 
 nothing sure that can disturb his soul, like what 
 I have to torture mine on his account. Sure 
 nothing in this world is worth a troubled mind ! 
 What racks has avarice stretched me on ! I wanted 
 
446 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 nothing : kind Heaven had given me a plenteous lot, 
 and seated me in great abundance. Why then 
 approve I of this imposture ? What have I gained 
 by it ? Wealth and misery. I have bartered 
 peaceful days for restless nights ; a wretched bar- 
 gain ! and he that merchandises thus must be 
 undone at last. 
 
 Enter Metaphrastus. 
 
 Metaph. Mandatum tuum euro diligenter. 
 
 Don Alv. Master, I had a mind to ask you — 
 
 Metaph. The title, master, comes from magis 
 and ter, which is as much as to say, thrice worthy. 
 
 Don Alv. I never heard so much before, but it 
 may be true for aught I know. But, master — 
 
 Metaph. Go on. 
 
 Don Alv. Why so I will if you'll let me, but 
 don't interrupt me then. 
 
 Metaph. Enough, proceed. 
 
 Don Alv. Why then, master, for the third time, 
 my son Camillo gives me much uneasiness of late ; 
 you know I love him, and have many careful thoughts 
 about him. 
 
 Metaph. 'Tis true. Filio non potest prceferri, 
 nisi filius. 
 
 Don Alv. Master, when one has business to talk 
 on, these scholastic expressions are not of use ; I 
 believe you a great Latinist ; possibly you may 
 understand Greek ; those who recommended you 
 to me, said so, and I am willing it should be true : 
 but the thing I want to discourse you about at 
 present, does not properly give you an occasion to 
 display your learning. Besides, to tell you truth, 
 'twill at all times be lost upon me ; my father was 
 a wise man, but he taught me nothing beyond com- 
 mon sense ; I know but one tongue in the world, 
 which luckily being understood by you as well as 
 me, I fancy whatever thoughts we have to com- 
 municate to one another, may reasonably be con- 
 veyed in that, without having recourse to the 
 language of Julius Caesar. 
 
 Metaph. You are wrong, but may proceed. 
 
 Don Alv. I thank you. What is the matter I 
 do not know ; but though it is of the utmost con- 
 sequence to me to marry my son, what match 
 soever I propose to him, he still finds some pretence 
 or other to decline it. 
 
 Metaph. He is, perhaps, of the humour of a 
 brother of Marcus Tullius, who — 
 
 Don Alv. Dear master, leave the Greeks and 
 the Latins, and the Scotch and the Welsh, and let 
 me go on in my business ; what have those people 
 to do with my son's marriage ? 
 
 Metaph. Again you are wrong ; but go on. 
 Don Alv. I say then, that I have strong appre- 
 hensions, from his refusing all my proposals, that 
 he may have some secret inclination of his own ; 
 and to confirm me in this fear, I yesterday observed 
 him (without his knowing it) in a corner of the 
 grove where nobody comes — 
 
 Metaph. A place out of the way, you would say ; 
 a place of retreat. 
 
 Don Alv. Why, the corner of the grove, where 
 nobody comes, is a place of retreat, is it not ? 
 Metaph. In Latin, secessus. 
 Don Alv. Ha i 
 
 Metaph. As Virgil has it, Est in secessu locus. 
 Don Alv. How could Virgil have it, when I tell 
 you no soul was there but he and I ? 
 
 Metaph. Virgil is a famous author ; I quote his 
 saying as a phrase more proper to the occasion than 
 
 that you use, and not as one who was in the wood 
 with you. 
 
 Don Alv. And I tell you, I hope to be as famous 
 as any Virgil of 'em all, when I have been dead as 
 long, and have no need of a better phrase than my 
 own to tell you my meaning. 
 
 Metaph. You ought however to make choice of 
 the words most used by the best authors. Tu 
 vivendo bonos, as they say, scribendo sequare 
 peritos. 
 
 Don Alv. Again ! 
 
 Metaph. 'Tis Quintilian's own precept. 
 
 Don Alv. Oons ! 
 
 Metaph. And he has something very learned 
 upon it, that may be of service to you to hear. 
 
 Don Alv. You son of a whore, will you hear me 
 speak ? 
 
 Metaph. What may be the occasion of this un- 
 manly passion ? What is it you would have with me? 
 
 Don Alv. What you might have known an hour 
 ago, if you had pleased. 
 
 Metaph. You would then have me hold my peace 
 —I shall. 
 
 Don Alv. You will do very well. 
 
 Metaph. You see I do ; well, go on. 
 
 Don Alv. Why then, to begin once again, I say 
 my son Camillo — 
 
 Metaph. Proceed ; I shan't interrupt you. 
 
 Don Alv. I say, my son Camillo — 
 
 Metaph. What is it you say of your son Camillo ? 
 
 Don Alv. That he has got a dog of a tutor, 
 whose brains I'll beat out if he won't hear me 
 
 Metaph. That dog is a philosopher, contemns 
 passion, and yet will hear you. 
 
 Don Alv. I don't believe a word on't, but I'll 
 try once again. I have a mind to know from you, 
 whether you have observed anything in my son — 
 
 Metaph. Nothing that is like his father. Go on. 
 
 Don Alv. Have a care ! 
 
 Metaph. I do not interrupt you ; but you are 
 long in coming to a conclusion. 
 
 Don Alv. Why, thou hast not let me begin yet ! 
 
 Metaph. And yet it is high time to have made an 
 end. 
 
 Don Alv, Dost thou 1 know thy danger ? I have 
 not — thus much patience left. 
 
 [Showing the end of his finger. 
 
 Metaph. Mine is already consumed. I do not 
 use to be thus treated ; my profession is to teach, 
 and not to hear, yet I have hearkened like a school- 
 boy, and am not heard, although a master. 
 
 Don Alv. Get out of the room ! 
 
 Metaph. I will not. If the mouth of a wise 
 man be shut, he is, as it were, a fool ; for who shall 
 know his understanding? Therefore a certain 
 philosopher said well, Speak, that thou mayest be 
 known ; great talkers, without knowledge, are as 
 the winds that whistle ; but they who have learning 
 should speak aloud. If this be not permitted, we 
 may expect to see the whole order of nature o'er- 
 thrown ; hens devour foxes, and lambs destroy 
 wolves, nurses suck children, and children give 
 suck ; generals mend stockings, and chambermaids 
 take towns ; we may expect, I say — 
 
 Don Alv. That, and that, and that, and — 
 
 [Strikes him and kicks him. 
 
 Metaph. O tempora ! O mores ! 
 [Exit, Don Alvarez following him with a bell at his ear. 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 447 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I The Street before the House of Don 
 
 Alvarez. 
 
 Enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Sometimes Fortune seconds a bold design, 
 and when folly has brought us into a trap, impu- 
 dence brings us out on't. I have been caught by 
 this hot-headed lover here, and have told like a 
 puppy what I shall be beaten for like a dog. Come ! 
 courage, my dear Lopez ; fire will fetch out fire. 
 Thou hast told one body thy master's secret, e'en 
 tell it to half-a-dozen more, and try how that will 
 thrive ; go tell it to the two old Dons, the lovers' 
 fathers. The thing's done, and can't be retrieved ; 
 perhaps they'll lay their two ancient heads together, 
 club a pennyworth of wisdom a-piece, and with 
 great penetration at last find out that 'tis best to 
 submit where 'tis not in their power to do other- 
 wise. This being resolved, there's no time to be 
 l os t. [Knocks at Don Alvarez's door. 
 
 Don Alv. [Within.'] Who knocks ? 
 
 Lop. Lopez. 
 
 Don Alv. [Looking out.} What dost want? 
 
 Lop. To bid you good-morrow, sir. 
 
 Doti Alv. Well, good-morrow to thee again. 
 
 [Retires. 
 
 Lop. What a — I think he does not care for my 
 company. [Knocks again. 
 
 Don Alv. I Within."] Who knocks ? 
 
 Lop. Lopez. 
 
 Don Alv. [Looking out.] What wouldst have ? 
 
 Lop. My old master, sir, gives his service to you, 
 and desires to know how you do. 
 
 Don Alv. How I do ! why, well ; how should I 
 do ? Service to him again. [Retires. 
 
 Lop. Sir ! 
 
 Don Alv. [Returning.] What the deuse wouldst 
 thou have with me, with thy good-morrows and thy 
 services ? 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] This man does not understand 
 good breeding, I find. — [Aloud.] Why, sir, my 
 master has some very earnest business with you. 
 
 Don Alv. Business ! about what ? What busi- 
 ness can he have with me ? 
 
 Lop. I don't know, truly ; but 'tis some very 
 important matter. He has just now (as I hear) 
 discovered some great secret, which he must needs 
 talk with you about. 
 
 Don Alv. Ha ! a secret, sayest thou? 
 
 Lop. Yes ; and bid me bring him word if you 
 were at home, he'd be with you presently. Sir, 
 your humble servant. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Don Alvarez, from the house. 
 
 Don Alv. A secret ; and must speak with me 
 about it ! Heavens, how I tremble ! What can 
 this message mean ? I have very little acquaint- 
 . ance with him, what business can he have with me ? 
 An important secret 'twas, he said, and that he had 
 just discovered it. Alas ! I have in the world but 
 one, if it be that — I'm lost ; an eternal blot must 
 fix upon me. How unfortunate am I, that I have 
 not followed the honest counsels of my heart, which 
 have often urged me to set my conscience at ease, 
 by rendering to him the estate that is his due, and 
 
 which by a foul imposture I keep from him ! But 
 'tis now too late ; my villany is out, and I shall 
 not only be forced with shame to restore him what 
 is his, but shall be perhaps condemned to make him 
 reparation with my own. O terrible view ! 
 
 Enter Don Felix, 
 
 Don Fel. [Aside.] My son to go and marry her 
 without her father's knowledge ! This can never 
 end well. I don't know what to do, he'll conclude 
 I was privy to it, and his power and interest are so 
 great at court he may with ease contrive my ruin • 
 I tremble at his sending to speak with me. — Mercy 
 on me, there he is ! 
 
 Don Alv. [Aside.] Ah ! shield me, kind Hea- 
 ven ! there's Don Felix come. How I am struck 
 with the sight of him ! Oh, the torment of a guilty 
 mind ! 
 
 Don Fel. What shall I say to soften him ? [Aside. 
 
 Don Alv. How shall I look him in the face ? 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis impossible he can forgive it. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Don Alv. To be sure he'll expose me to the 
 whole world. [Aside. 
 
 Don Fel. I see his countenance change. [Aside. 
 
 Don Alv. With what contempt he looks upon 
 me ! [Aside. 
 
 Don Fel. I see, Don Alvarez, by the disorder 
 of your face you are but too well informed of what 
 brings me here. 
 
 Don Alv. 'Tis true. 
 
 Don Fel. The news may well surprise you, 'tis 
 what I have been far from apprehending. 
 
 Don Alv. Wrong, very wrong, indeed. 
 
 Don Fel. The action is certainly to the last 
 point to be condemned, and I think nobody should 
 pretend to excuse the guilty. 
 
 Don Alv. They are not to be excused, though 
 Heaven may have mercy. 
 
 Don Fel. That's what I hope you will consider. 
 
 Don Alv. We should act as Christians. 
 
 Don Fel. Most certainly. 
 
 Don Alv. Let mercy then prevail. 
 
 Don Fel. It is indeed of heavenly birth. 
 
 Don Alv. Generous Don Felix ! 
 
 Don Fel. Too indulgent Alvarez ! 
 
 Don Alv. I thank you on my knee. 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis I ought to have been there first. 
 
 [They kneel. 
 
 Don Alv. Is it then possible we are friends ? 
 
 Don Fel. Embrace me to confirm it. 
 
 [They embrace. 
 
 Don Alv. Thou best of men ! 
 
 Don Fel. Unlooked-for bounty ! 
 
 Don Alv. [Rising.] Did you know the torment 
 this unhappy action has given me — 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis impossible it could do otherwise ; 
 nor has my trouble been less. 
 
 Don Alv. But let my misfortune be kept secret. 
 
 Don Fel. Most willingly ; my advantage is suf- 
 ficient by it, without the vanity of making it public 
 to the world. 
 
 Don Alv. [Aside.] Incomparable goodness ! 
 That I should thus have wronged a man so worthy 
 — [Aloud.] My honour then is safe ? 
 
448 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 Don Fel. For ever, even for ever let it be a secret, 
 I am content. 
 
 Don A In, [Aside.] Noble gentleman ! — [Aloud.] 
 As to what advantages ought to accrue to you by 
 it, it shall be all to your entire satisfaction. 
 
 DonFel. [Aside.] Wonderful bounty! — [Aloud.] 
 As to that, Don Alvarez, I leave it entirely to you, 
 and shall be content with whatever you think 
 reasonable. 
 
 Don Alv. I thank you, from my soul I must, 
 you know I must — [Aside.] This must be an 
 angel, not a man. 
 
 Don Fel. The thanks lie on my side, Alvarez, 
 for this unexpected generosity ; but may all faults 
 be forgot, and Heaven ever prosper you ! 
 
 Don Alv. The same prayer I, with a double 
 fervour, offer up for you. 
 
 Don Fel. Let us then once more embrace, and 
 be forgiveness sealed for ever. 
 
 Don Alv. Agreed ; thou best of men, agreed. 
 
 [They embrace. 
 
 Don Fel. This thing then being thus happily 
 terminated, let me own to you, Don Alvarez, I 
 was in extreme apprehensions of your utmost 
 resentment on this occasion ; for I could not 
 doubt but you had formed more happy views in 
 the disposal of so fair a daughter as Leonora, than 
 my poor son's inferior fortune e'er can answer : 
 but since they are joined, and that — 
 
 Don Alv. Ha ! 
 
 Don Fel. Nay, 'tis very likely to discourse of it 
 may not be very pleasing to you, though your Chris- 
 tianity and natural goodness have prevailed on you 
 so generously to forgive it. But to do justice to 
 Leonora, and screen her from your too harsh 
 opinion in this unlucky action, 'twas that cunning 
 wicked creature that attends her, who by unusual 
 arts wrought her to this breach of duty, for her 
 own inclinations were disposed to all the modesty 
 and resignation a father could ask from a daughter ; 
 my son I can't excuse, but since your bounty does 
 so, I hope you'll quite forget the fault of the less- 
 guilty Leonora. 
 
 Don Alv. [Aside.] What a mistake have I lain 
 under here ! and from a groundless apprehension 
 of one misfortune, find myself in the certainty of 
 another. 
 
 Don Fel. He looks disturbed ; what can this 
 mean ? [Aside. 
 
 Don Alv. [Aside.] My daughter married to his 
 son ! — Confusion ! But I find myself in such unruly 
 agitation, something wrong may happen if I con- 
 tinue with him ; I'll therefore leave him. 
 
 Don Fel. You seem thoughtful, sir ; I hope 
 there's no — 
 
 Don Alv. A sudden disorder I am seized with ; 
 you'll pardon me, I must retire. [Exit. 
 
 Don Fel. I don't like this : — he went oddly off. 
 — I doubt he finds this bounty difficult to go 
 through with. His natural resentment is making 
 an attack upon his acquired generosity : pray 
 Heaven it ben't too strong for't. The misfortune 
 is a great one, and can't but touch him nearly. 
 It was not natural to be so calm ; I wish it don't 
 yet drive him to my ruin. But here comes this 
 young hot-brained coxcomb, who with his midnight 
 amours has been the cause of all this mischief to 
 me. 
 
 Enter Don Lorenzo. 
 
 So, sir, are you come to receive my thanks for 
 your noble exploit ? You think you have done 
 bravely now, ungracious offspring, to bring per- 
 petual troubles on me ! Must there never pass a 
 day, but I must drink some bitter potion or other 
 of your preparation for me ? 
 
 Don Lor. I am amazed, sir ; pray what have I 
 done to deserve your anger ? 
 
 Don Fel. Nothing, no manner of thing in the 
 woi-ld ; nor never do. I am an old testy fellow, 
 and am always scolding, and finding fault for 
 nothing ; complaining that I have got a coxcomb 
 of a son that makes me weary of my life, fancying 
 he perverts the order of nature, turning day into 
 night, and night into day ; getting whims in my 
 brain, that he consumes his life in idleness, unless 
 he rouses now and then to do some noble stroke 
 of mischief ; and having an impertinent dream at 
 this time, that he has been making the fortune of 
 the family, by an underhand marriage with the 
 daughter of a man who will crush us all to powder 
 for it. Ah — ungracious wretch, to bring an old 
 man into all this trouble ! The pain thou gavest 
 thy mother to bring thee into the world, and the 
 plague thou hast given me to keep thee here, 
 make the getting thee (though 'twas in our honey- 
 moon) a bitter remembrance to us both. [Exit. 
 
 Don Lor. So, all's out ! — Here's a noble storm 
 arising, and I'm at sea in a cock-boat ! But which 
 way could this business reach him ? by this traitor 
 Lopez — it must be so ; it could be no other way ; 
 for only he, and the priest that married us, know 
 of it. The villain will never confess though : I 
 must try a little address with him, and conceal my 
 anger. — Oh ! here he comes. 
 
 Re-enter Lopez. 
 
 Lopez ! 
 
 Lop. Do you call, sir ? 
 
 Don Lor. I find all's discovered to my father ; 
 the secret's out ; he knows my marriage. 
 
 Lop. He knows your marriage ! — How the pest 
 should that happen ? Sir, 'tis impossible ! — that's 
 all. 
 
 Don Lor. I tell thee 'tis true ; he knows every 
 particular of it. 
 
 Lop. He does ! — Why then, sir, all I can say 
 is, that Satan and he are better acquainted than 
 the devil and a good Christian ought to be. 
 
 Don Lor. Which way he has discovered it I 
 can't tell, nor am I much concerned to know, 
 since, beyond all my expectations, I find him per- 
 fectly easy at it, and ready to excuse my fault with 
 better reasons than I can find to do it myself. 
 
 Lop. Say you so ? — I'm very glad to hear that ; 
 then all's safe. [Aside. 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis unexpected good fortune ; but it 
 could never proceed purely from his own temper ; 
 there must have been pains taken with him to bring 
 him to this calm. I'm sure I owe much to the 
 bounty of some friend or other ; I wish I knew 
 where my obligation lay, that I might acknowledge 
 it as I ought. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] Are you thereabouts, i'faith? 
 Then sharp's the word ; egad I'll own the thing, 
 and receive his bounty for't. — [Aloud.] Why, sir 
 — not that I pretend to make a merit o' the matter, 
 for, alas ! I am but your poor hireling, and there- 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 449 
 
 fore bound in duty to render you all the service 1 
 can ; — but — 'tis I have done't. 
 
 Don Lor. What hast thou done ? 
 
 Lop. What no man else could have done — the 
 job, sir ; told him the secret, and then talked him 
 into a liking on't. 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis impossible ; thou dost not tell me 
 true. 
 
 Lop. Sir, I scorn to reap anything from another 
 man's labours ; but if this poor piece of service car- 
 ries any merit with it, you now know where to 
 reward it. 
 
 Don Lor. Thou art not serious ? 
 
 Lop. I am, or may hunger be my messmate ! 
 
 Don Lor. And may famine be mine, if I don't 
 reward thee for't as thou deservest ! — Dead ! 
 
 [Making a pass at him. 
 
 Lop. Have a care there ! — [Leaping on one 
 side.'] What do you mean, sir? I bar all sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Don Lor. Traitor ! is this the fruit of the trust 
 I placed in thee, villain ! 
 
 [Making another thrust at him. 
 
 Lop. Take heed, sir ! you'll do one a mischief 
 before y'are aware. 
 
 Don Lor, What recompense canst thou make 
 me, wretch, for this piece of treachery ? Thy 
 sordid blood can't expiate the thousandth ! — But 
 I'll have it, however. [Thrusts again. 
 
 Lop. Look you there again ! Pray, sir, be 
 quiet ; is the devil in you ? 'Tis bad jesting with 
 edged tools. Egad, that last push was within an 
 inch o'me ! I don't know what you make all this 
 bustle about ; but I'm sure I've done all for the 
 best, and I believe 'twill prove for the best too at 
 last, if you'll have but a little patience. But if 
 
 gentlemen will be in their airs in a moment 
 
 Why, what the deuse — I'm sure I have been as 
 eloquent as Cicero in your behalf! and I don't 
 doubt, to good purpose too, if you'll give things 
 time to work. But nothing but foul language, and 
 naked swords about the house ! — Sa, sa ! run you 
 through, you dog ! Why nobody can do business 
 at this rate. 
 
 Don Lor. And suppose your project fail, and 
 I'm ruined by't, sir ! 
 
 Lop. Why, 'twill be time enough to kill me then, 
 sir ; won't it ? What should you do it for now ? 
 Besides, I an't ready, I'm not prepared ; I might 
 be undone by't. 
 
 Don Lor. But what will Leonora say to her 
 marriage being known, wretch ? 
 
 Lop. Why maybe she'll draw — her sword too. 
 — [Showing his tongue.] But all shall be well 
 with you both, if you will but let me alone. 
 
 Don Lor. Peace ! here's her father. 
 
 Lop. That's well : we shall see how things go 
 presently. 
 
 Re-enter Don Alvarez. 
 
 DonAlv. [Aside.] The more I recover from the dis- 
 order this discourse has put me in, the more strange 
 the whole adventure appears to me. Leonora main- 
 tains there is not a word of truth in what I have 
 heard ; that she knows nothing of marriage : and, 
 indeed, she tells me this with such a naked air of 
 sincerity, that, for my part, I believe her. What 
 then must be their project ? Some villanous inten- 
 tion, to be sure ; though which way I yet am 
 ignorant. — But here's the bridegroom ; I'll accost 
 him. — [Aloud.] I am told, sir, you take upon you 
 
 to scandalise my daughter, and tell idle tales of 
 what can never happen. 
 
 Lop. Now methinks, sir, if you treated your 
 son-in-law with a little more civility, things might 
 go just as well in the main. 
 
 Don Alv. What means this insolent fellow by 
 my son-in-law ! I suppose 'tis you, villain, are the 
 author of this impudent story. 
 
 Lop. You seem angry, sir ; — perhaps without 
 cause. 
 
 Don Alv. Cause, traitor ! Is a cause wanting, 
 where a daughter's defamed, and a noble family 
 scandalised ? 
 
 Lop. There he is, let him answer you. 
 
 Don Alv. I should be glad he'd answer me : 
 why, if he had any desires to my daughter, he did 
 not make his approaches like a man of honour. 
 
 Lop. Yes ; and so have had the doors bolted 
 against him, like a house-breaker. [Aside. 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, to justify my proceeding, I have 
 little to say ; but to excuse it, I have much, if any 
 allowance may be made to a passion which, in your 
 youth, you have yourself been swayed by. I love 
 your daughter to that excess — 
 
 Don Alv. You would undo her for a night's 
 lodging. 
 
 Don Lor. Undo her, sir ! 
 
 Don Alv. Yes, that's the word. You knew it 
 was against her interest to marry you, therefore 
 you endeavoured to win her to't in private ; you 
 knew her friends would make a better bargain for 
 her, therefore you kept your designs from their 
 knowledge, and yet you love her to that excess — 
 
 Don Lor. I'd readily lay down my life to serve 
 her. 
 
 Don Alv. Could you readily lay down fifty thou- 
 sand pistoles to serve her, your excessive love would 
 come with better credentials : an offer of life is very 
 proper for the attack of a counterscarp, but a thou- 
 sand ducats will sooner carry a lady's heart. You 
 are a young man, but will learn this when you are 
 older. 
 
 Lop. But since things have succeeded better 
 this once, sir, and that my master will prove a most 
 incomparable good husband (for that he'll do, I'll 
 answer for him), and that 'tis too late to recal 
 what's already done, sir — 
 
 Don Alv. What's done, villain ? 
 
 Lop. Sir, I mean — that since my master and 
 my lady are married, and — 
 
 Don Alv. Thou liest ! they are not married. 
 
 Lop. Sir, I say — that since they are married, 
 aud that they love each other so passing dearly — 
 indeed, I fancy — that — 
 
 Don Alv. Why, this impudence is beyond all 
 bearing ! Sir, do you put your rascal upon this ? 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, I am in a wood ! I don't know 
 what it is you mean. 
 
 Don Alv. And I am in a plain, sir, and think 
 I may be understood. Do you pretend you are 
 married to my daughter ? 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, 'tis my happiness on one side, as 
 it is my misfortune on another. 
 
 Don Alv. And you do think this idle project can 
 succeed ? You do believe your affirming you are 
 married to her will induce both her and me to 
 consent it shall be so ? 
 
 Lop. Sir, I see you make my master almost out 
 of his wits to hear you talk so : but I, who am but 
 a stander-by now, as I was at the wedding, have 
 G G 
 
450 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 mine about me, and desire to know, whether you 
 think this project can succeed ? Do you believe 
 your affirming they are not married, will induce 
 both him and I to give up the lady ? One short 
 question to bring this matter to an issue, — why do 
 you think they are not married ? 
 
 Don Alv. Because she utterly renounces it. 
 
 Lop. And so she will her religion, if you attack 
 it with that dreadful face. D'ye hear, sir? the 
 poor lady is in love heartily, and I wish all poor 
 ladies that are so, would dispose of themselves so 
 well as she has done ; but you scare her out of her 
 senses. Bring her here into the room, speak gently 
 to her, tell her you know the thing is done, that 
 you have it from a man of honour, — me : that 
 maybe you wish it had been otherwise, but are a 
 Christian, and profess mercy, and therefore have 
 resolved to pardon her. Say this, and I shall 
 appear a man of reputation, and have satisfaction 
 made me. 
 
 Don Alv. Or an impudent rogue, and have all 
 your bones broke. 
 
 Lop. Content! 
 
 Don Alv. Agreed ! — Leonora ! — Who's there ? 
 call Leonora. 
 
 Lop. All will go rarely, sir ; we shall have shot 
 the gulf in a moment. [.Aside to Lorenzo. 
 
 Enter Leonora. 
 
 Don Alv. Come hither, Leonora. 
 
 Lop. So, now we shall see. 
 
 Don Alv. I called you to answer for youself ; 
 here's a strong claim upon you ; if there be any 
 thing in the pretended title, conceal it no farther, 
 it must be known at last, it may as well be so now. 
 Nothing is so uneasy as uncertainty, I would there- 
 fore be gladly freed from it. If you have done 
 what I am told you have, 'tis a great fault indeed ; 
 but as I fear 'twill carry much of its punishment 
 along with it, I shall rather reduce my resentment 
 into mourning your misfortune, than suffer it to 
 add to your affliction ; therefore speak the truth. 
 
 Lop. Well, this is fair play ; now I speak, sir. — 
 You see, fair lady, the goodness of a tender father, 
 nothing need therefore hinder you from owning a 
 most loving husband. We had like to have been all 
 together by the ears about this business, and pails 
 of blood were ready to run about the house : but 
 thank Heaven, the sun shines out again, and one 
 word from your sweet mouth makes fair weather 
 for ever. My master has been forced to own your 
 marriage, he begs you'll do so too. 
 
 Leo. What does this impudent rascal mean ? 
 
 Lop. Ha ! — madam ! 
 
 Leo. [To Don Lorenzo] Sir, I should be very 
 glad to know what can have been the occasion of 
 this wild report ; sure you cannot be yourself a 
 party in it ! 
 
 Lop. He, he — 
 
 Don Lor. Forgive me, dear Leonora, I know you 
 had strong reasons for the secret being longer kept ; 
 but 'tis not my fault, our marriage is disclosed. 
 
 Leo. Our marriage, sir ! — 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis known, my dear, though much 
 against my will ; but since it is so, 'twould be in 
 vain for us to deny it longer. 
 
 Leo. Then, sir, I am your wife ? I fell in love 
 with you, and married you without my father's 
 knowledge ? 
 
 Don Lor. I dare not be so vain to think 'twas 
 
 love ; I humbly am content to owe the blessing to 
 your generosity ; 
 
 You saw the pains I suffer'd for your sake, 
 And in compassion eased 'em. 
 
 Leo. I did, sir ! 
 
 Sure this exceeds all human impudence! 
 
 Lop. Truly, I think it does. She'd make an in- 
 comparable actress. [Aside. 
 
 Don Lor. I begin to be surprised, madam, at 
 your carrying this thing so far ; you see there's no 
 occasion for it ; and for the discovery, I have already 
 told you 'twas not my fault. 
 
 Lop. My master's ! no, 'twas I did it. Why, 
 what a bustle's here ! I knew things would go 
 well, and so they do, if folks would let 'em. But 
 if ladies will be in their merriments, when gentle- 
 men are upon serious business, why what a deuse 
 can one say to 'em ! 
 
 Leo. I see this fellow is to be an evidence in 
 your plot. Where you hope to drive, it is hard to 
 guess ; for if anything can exceed its impudence, 
 it is its folly. A noble stratagem indeed to win a 
 lady by ! I could be diverted with it, but that I 
 see a face of villany requires a rougher treatment : 
 I could almost, methinks, forget my sex, and be 
 my own avenger. 
 
 Don Lor. Madam, I am surprised beyond all — 
 
 Lop. Pray, sir, let me come to her ; you are so 
 surprised you'll make nothing on't : she wants a 
 little snubbing. — Look you, madam, I have seen 
 many a pleasant humour amongst ladies, but you 
 outcut 'em all. Here's contradiction with a ven- 
 geance ! You han't been married eight-and-forty 
 hours, and you are slap — at your husband's beard 
 already. Why, do you consider who he is ? — who 
 this gentleman is ? — and what he can do — by law ? 
 Why, he can lock you up — knock you down — tie 
 you neck and heels — 
 
 Don Lor. Forbear, you insolent villain, you ! 
 
 [Offering to strike him. 
 
 Leo. That — for what's past however. 
 
 [Giving him a box on the ear. 
 
 Lop. I think — she gave me a box o' th' ear ; 
 ha ! — [Exit Leonora.] Sir, will you suffer your 
 old servants to be used thus by new comers ? It's 
 a shame, a mere shame. 1 Sir, will you take a poor 
 dog's advice for once ? She denies she's married 
 to you : take her at her word ; you have seen some 
 of her humours, — let her go. 
 
 Don Alv. Well, gentlemen, thus far you see I 
 have heard all with patience ; have you content ? 
 or how much farther do you design to go with this 
 business ? 
 
 Lop. Why truly, sir, I think we are near at a stand. 
 
 Don Alv. 'Tis time, you villain you ! 
 
 Lop. Why and I am a villain now, if every word 
 I've spoke be not as true as — as the Gazette : and 
 your daughter's no better than a — a — a whimsical 
 young woman, for making disputes among gentle- 
 men. And if everybody had their deserts, she'd 
 have a good — I won't speak it out to inflame 
 reckonings ; but let her go, master. 
 
 Don Alv. Sir, I don't think it well to spend any 
 more words with your impudent and villanous ser- 
 vant here. 
 
 Lop. Thank you, sir : but I'd let her go. 
 
 Don Alv. Nor have I more to say to you than 
 this, that you must not think so daring an affront 
 to my family can go long unresented. Farewell ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 461 
 
 Don Lor. Well, sir, what have you to say for 
 yourself now ? 
 
 Lop. Why, sir, I have only to say, that I am a 
 very unfortunate — middle-aged man ; and that I 
 believe all the stars upon heaven and earth have 
 been concerned in my destiny. Children now un- 
 born will hereafter sing my downfal in mournful 
 lines, and notes of doleful tune : I am at present 
 troubled in mind, despair around me, signified in 
 appearing gibbets, with a great bundle of dog-whips 
 by way of preparation. 
 
 I therefore will go seek some mountain high, 
 If high enough some mountain may be found, 
 With distant valley, dreadfully profound, 
 And from the horrid cliff — look calmly all around. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Don Lor. No, sirrah : I'll see your wretched 
 end myself. Die here, villain ! IDrawing his sword. 
 
 Lop. I can't, sir, if anybody looks upon me. 
 
 Don Lor. Away, you trifling wretch ! but think 
 not to escape, for thou shalt have thy recompense. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Lop. Why, what a mischievous jade is this, to 
 make such an uproar in a family the first day of 
 her marriage ! Why, my master won't so much as 
 get a honeymoon out of her ! Egad, I'd let her go. 
 If she be thus in her soft and tender youth, she'll 
 be rare company at threescore. Well, he may do 
 as he pleases ; but were she my dear, I'd let her go 
 — such afoot at her tail, I'd make the truth bounce 
 out at her mouth like a pellet out of a pot-gun. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I A Street. 
 
 Enter Camillo and Isabella. 
 
 Isab. 'Tis an unlucky accident indeed i 
 
 Cam. Ah, Isabella, fate has now determined my 
 undoing ! This thing can ne'er end here ; Leonora 
 and Lorenzo must soon come to some explanation ; 
 the dispute is too monstrous to pass over without 
 further inquiry, which must discover all, and what 
 will be the consequence I tremble at. For whether 
 Don Alvarez knows of the imposture, or whether 
 he is deceived with the rest of the world, when once 
 it breaks out, and that the consequence is the loss 
 of that great wealth he now enjoys by it, what must 
 become of me ? All paternal affections then must 
 cease, and regarding me as an unhappy instrument 
 in the trouble which will then o'erload him, he will 
 return me to my humble birth, and then I'm lost 
 for ever. For what, alas ! will the deceived Lo- 
 renzo say ? A wife, with neither fortune, birth, 
 nor beauty, instead of one most plenteously en- 
 dowed with all. O Heavens ! what a sea of misery 
 I have before me ! 
 
 Lsab. Indeed you reason right, but these reflec- 
 tions are ilUtimed ; why did you not employ them 
 sooner ? 
 
 Cam. Because I loved. 
 
 Isab. And don't you do so now ? 
 
 Cam. I do, and therefore 'tis I make these cruel 
 just reflections. 
 
 Isab. So that love, I find, can do anything. 
 
 Cam. Indeed it can. Its powers are wondrous 
 great, its pains no tongue can tell, its bliss no 
 heart conceive, crowns cannot recompense its tor- 
 ments, heaven scarce supplies its joys. My stake 
 is of this value. Oh, counsel me how I shall 
 save it ! 
 
 Isab. Alas ! that counsel's much beyond my 
 wisdom's force, I see no way to help you. 
 
 Cam. And yet 'tis sure there's one. 
 
 Isab. What? 
 
 Cam. Death. 
 
 Isab. There possibly may be another ; I have a 
 thought this moment — perhaps there's nothing in 
 it ; yet a small passage comes to my remembrance, 
 that I regarded little when it happened — I'll go and 
 search for one may be of service. But hold ; I see 
 
 Don Carlos. He'll but disturb us now, let us avoid 
 him. {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Don Carlos and Sancho. 
 
 Don Car. Repulsed again ! this is not to be 
 borne. What though this villain's story be a false- 
 hood, was I to blame to hearken to it ? This usage 
 cannot be supported : how was it she treated 
 thee? 
 
 San. Never was ambassador worse received. 
 Madam, my master asks ten thousand pardons, and 
 humbly begs one moment's interview : — Begone, 
 you rascal you ! Madam, what answer shall I give 
 my master? — Tell him he's a villain. Indeed, fair 
 lady, I think this is hasty treatment. — Here, my 
 footmen ! toss me this fellow out at the window ; 
 — and away she went to her devotions. 
 
 Don Car. Did you see Jacinta ? 
 
 San. Yes ; she saluted me with half-a-score 
 rogues and rascals too. I think our destinies are 
 much alike, sir : and, o' my conscience, a couple of 
 scurvy jades we are hampered with. 
 
 Don Car. Ungrateful woman ! to receive with 
 such contempt so quick a return of a heart so 
 justly alarmed. 
 
 San. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Don Car. What, no allowance to be made to 
 the first transports of a lover's fury, when roused 
 by so dreadful an appearance ! As just as my sus- 
 picions were, have I long suffered 'em to arraign 
 her ? 
 
 San. No. 
 
 Don Car. Have I waited for oaths or impreca- 
 tions to clear her ? 
 
 San. No. 
 
 Don Car. Nay, even now is not the whole world 
 still in suspense about her ? whilst I alone conclude 
 her innocent. 
 
 San. 'Tis very true. 
 
 Don Car. She might, methinks, through this 
 profound respect, 
 Observe a flame another would have cherish' d ; 
 She might support me against groundless fears, 
 And save me from a rival's tyranny ; 
 She might release me from these cruel racks, 
 And would, no doubt, if she could love as I do. 
 
 San. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 GG2 
 
452 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 Don Car. But since she don't, what do I whining 
 here ? 
 Curse on the base humilities of love ! 
 
 San. Right. 
 
 Don Car. Let children kiss the rod that flays 'em, 
 Let dogs lie down, and lick the shoe that spurns 'em. 
 
 San. Ay. 
 
 Don Car. I am a man by nature meant for 
 power; 
 The sceptre's given us to wield, and we 
 Betray our trust whenever 
 We meanly lay it at a woman's feet. 
 
 San. True, we are men, boo ! — Come, master, 
 let us both be in a passion ; here's my sceptre. — 
 [Showing a cudgel.] Subject Jacinta, look about 
 you. Sir, was you ever in Muscovy ? the women 
 tbere love the men dearly ; why ? because — [shaking 
 his stick] there's your love-powder for you. Ah, 
 sir, were we but wise and stout, what work should 
 we make with them ! But this humble love-making 
 spoils 'em all. A rare way indeed to bring mat- 
 ters about with 'em ! We are persuading 'em all 
 day they are angels and goddesses, in order to use 
 'em at night like human creatures ; we are like 
 to succeed truly ! 
 
 Don Car. For my part, I never yet could bear 
 a slight from anything, nor will I now. There's 
 but one way, however, to resent it from a woman ; 
 and that's to drive her bravely from your heart, 
 and place a worthier in her vacant throne. 
 
 San. Now, with submission to my betters, I 
 have another way, sir ; I'll drive my tyrant from 
 my heart, and place myself in her throne. Yes ; 
 I will be lord of my own tenement, and keep my 
 household in order. Would you would do so too, 
 master ! For, look you, I have been servitor in a 
 college at Salamanca, and read philosophy with 
 the doctors ; where I found that a woman, in all 
 times, has been observed to be an animal hard to 
 understand, and much inclined to mischief. Now, 
 as an animal is always an animal, and a captain 
 always a captain, so a woman is always a woman : 
 whence it is that a certain Greek says, her head is 
 like a bank of sand ; or, as another, a solid rock ; 
 or, according to a third, a dark lantern. Pray, 
 sir, observe, for this is close reasoning ; and so as 
 the head is the head of the body ; and that the 
 body without a head, is like a head without a tail ; 
 and that where there is neither head nor tail, 'tis 
 a very strange body : so I say a woman is by com- 
 parison, do you see, (for nothing explains things 
 like comparisons,) I say by comparison, as Aris- 
 totle has often said before me, one may compare 
 her to the raging sea. For as the sea, when the 
 wind rises, knits its brows like an angry bull, and 
 that waves mount upon rocks, and rocks mount 
 upon waves ; that porpoises leap like trouts, and 
 whales skip about like gudgeons ; that ships roll 
 like beer-barrels, and mariners pray like saints ; 
 
 just so, I say, a woman A woman, I say, just so, 
 
 when her reason is shipwrecked upon her passion, 
 and the hulk of her understanding lies thumping 
 against the rock of her fury ; then it is, I say, that 
 by certain immotions, which — um — cause, as one 
 may suppose, a sort of convulsive — yes — hurri- 
 canious — um — like — in short, a woman is like the 
 devil. 
 
 Don Car. Admirably reasoned indeed, Sancho ! 
 
 San. Pretty well, I thank Heaven. — But here 
 come the crocodiles to weep us into mercy. 
 
 Enter Leonora and Jacinta. 
 Master, let us show ourselves men, and leave their 
 briny tears to wash their dirty faces. 
 
 Don Car. It is not in the power of charms to 
 move me. 
 
 San. Nor me, I hope ; and yet I fear those eyes 
 Will look out sharp to snatch up such a prize. 
 
 [Pointing to Jacinta. 
 
 Jac. He's coming to us, madam, to beg pardon ; 
 but sure you'll never grant it him ! 
 
 Leo. If I do, may Heaven never grant me mine. 
 
 Jac. That's brave. 
 
 Don Car. You look, madam, upon me as if you 
 thought I came to trouble you with my usual 
 importunities ; I'll ease you of that pain, by telling 
 you, my business now is calmly to assure you, but 
 I assure it you with heaven and hell for seconds ; 
 for may the joys of one fly from me, whilst the 
 pains of t'other overtake me, if all your charms 
 displayed e'er shake my resolution ; I'll never see 
 you more. 
 
 San. Bon ! 
 
 Leo. You are a man of that nice honour, sir, I 
 know you'll keep your word : I expected this 
 assurance from you, and came this way only to 
 thank you for't. 
 
 Jac. Very well ! 
 
 Don Car. You did, imperious dame, you did ! 
 How base is woman's pride ! How wretched are 
 the ingredients it is formed of ! If you saw cause 
 for just disdain, why did you not at first repulse 
 me ? Why lead a slave in chains, that could not 
 grace your triumphs ? If I am thus to be con- 
 temned, think on the favours you have done the 
 wretch, and hide your face for ever. 
 
 San. Well argued. 
 
 Leo. I own you have hit the only fault the world 
 can charge me with : the favours I have done to 
 you I am indeed ashamed of; but, since women 
 have their frailties, you'll allow me mine. 
 
 Don Car. 'Tis well, extremely well, madam. 
 I'm happy, however, you at last speak frankly. I 
 thank you for it ; from my soul I thank you : but 
 don't expect me grovelling at your feet again ; 
 don't, for if I do — 
 
 Leo. You will be treated as you deserve ; trod 
 upon. 
 
 Don Car. Give me patience ! — But I don't want 
 it ; I am calm. Madam, farewell ; be happy if you 
 can ; by Heavens I wish you so, but never spread 
 your net for me again ; for if you do — 
 
 Leo. You'll be running into it. 
 
 Don Car. Rather run headlong into fire and 
 Rather be torn with pincers bit from bit ; [flames ; 
 Rather be broil'd like martyrs upon gridirons ! — 
 But I am wrong ; this sounds like passion, and 
 Heaven can tell I am not angry. Madam, I think 
 we have no farther business together ; your most 
 humble servant. 
 
 Leo. Farewell t'ye, sir. 
 
 Don Car. [To Sancho.] Come along. — [Goes 
 to the scene and returns.] Yet once more before I 
 go (lest you should doubt my resolution) may I 
 starve, perish, rot, be blasted, dead, damned, or 
 any other thing that men or gods can think on, if 
 on any occasion whatever, civil or military, pleasure 
 or business, love or hate, or any other accident of 
 life, I, from this moment, change one word or look 
 with you. [As he goes off, Sancho claps him on the back. 
 
 Leo. Content ! — Come away, Jacinta. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 453 
 
 Re-enter Don Carlos. 
 Don Car. Yet one word, madam, if you please. 
 I have a little thing here belongs to you, a foolish 
 bauble I once was fond of. — [ Twitching her pic- 
 ture from his breast.'] Will you accept a trifle 
 from your servant ? 
 
 Leo. Willingly, sir. I have a bauble too I think 
 you have some claim to ; you'll wear it for my sake. 
 [Breaks a bracelet from Tier arm, and gives it Mm. 
 Don Car. Most thankfully. This too I should 
 restore you, it once was yours. — [Giving her a 
 table-book.] By your favour, madam — there is a 
 line or two in it I think you did me once the 
 honour to write with your own fair hand. Here 
 it is. [Reads. 
 
 You love me, Carlos, and would know 
 The secret movements of my heart, 
 Whether I give you mine or no, 
 With yours, meihinks, I'd never, never part. 
 Thus you have encouraged me, and thus you have 
 deceived me. 
 San. Very true. 
 
 Leo. [Pulling out a table-book.] I have some 
 faithful lines too ; I think I can produce 'em. 
 
 [Reads. 
 How long soe'er, to sigh in vain, 
 
 My destiny may prove, 
 My fate {in spite of your disdain) 
 Will let me glory in your chain, 
 And give me leave eternally to love. 
 There, sir, take your poetry again. — [Throwing it 
 at his feet.] Tis not much the worse for my wear- 
 ing ; 'twill serve again upon a fresh occasion. 
 Jac. Well done ! 
 
 Don Car. I believe I can return the present, 
 
 madam, with — a pocketfull of your prose. — There ! 
 
 [Throiving a handful of letters at her feet. 
 
 Leo. Jacinta, give me his letters. — There, sir, 
 
 not to be behindhand with you. 
 
 [Takes a handful of his letters out of a box, and throws 
 
 them in his face. 
 Jac. And there ! and there ! and there, sir ! 
 
 [Jacinta throws the rest at him. 
 
 San. 'Cods my life, we want ammunition ! but 
 
 for a shift — there ! and there ! you saucy slut you ! 
 
 [Sancho pulls a pack of dirty cards out of his pocket, 
 
 and throws them at her; then they close ; he pulls off 
 
 her headclothes, and she his wig, and then part, she 
 
 running to her mistress, he to his master. 
 
 Jac. I think, madam, we have clearly the better 
 
 on't. 
 
 Leo. For a proof, I resolve to keep the field. 
 Jac. Have a care he don't rally and beat you 
 yet though : pray walk off. 
 Leo. Fear nothing. 
 
 San. How the armies stand and gaze at one 
 another after the battle ! What think you, sir, of 
 showing yourself a great general, by making an 
 honourable retreat? 
 
 Don Car. I scorn it ! — O Leonora ! Leonora ! 
 a heart like mine should not be treated thus ! 
 
 Leo. Carlos ! Carlos ! I have not deserved this 
 usage ! 
 
 Don Car. Barbarous Leonora ! but 'tis useless 
 to reproach you ; she that is capable of what you 
 have done, is formed too cruel ever to repent of* it. 
 Go on then, tyrant ; make your bliss complete ; 
 torment me still, for still, alas ! I love enough to 
 be tormented. 
 
 Leo. Ah Carlos ! little do you know the tender 
 
 movements of that thing you name ; the heart 
 where love presides, admits no thought against the 
 honour of its ruler. 
 
 Don Car. 'Tis not to call that honour into doubt, 
 If, conscious of our own unworthiness, 
 We interpret every frown to our destruction. 
 
 Leo. When jealousy proceeds from such humble 
 apprehensions, it shows itself with more respect 
 than yours has done. 
 
 Don Car. And where a heart is guiltless, it 
 easily forgives a greater crime. 
 
 Leo. Forgiveness is not now in our debate ; if 
 both have been in fault, 'tis fit that both should 
 suffer for it ; our separation will do justice on us. 
 
 Don Car. But since we are ourselves the judges 
 of our crimes, what if we should inflict a gentler 
 punishment ? 
 
 Leo. 'Twould but encourage us to sin again. 
 
 Don Car. And if it should — 
 
 Leo. 'Twould give a fresh occasion for the pleas- 
 ing exercise of mercy. 
 
 Don Car. Right ; and so 
 We act the part of earth and heaven together, 
 Of men and gods, and taste of both their pleasures. 
 
 Leo. The banquet's too inviting to refuse it. 
 
 Don Car. Then let's fall on, and feed upon'tfor 
 ever. 
 [Carries her off, embracing her, and kissing her hand. 
 
 Leo. Ah woman ! foolish, foolish woman ! 
 
 San. Very foolish indeed. 
 
 Jac. But don't expect I'll follow her example. 
 
 San. You would, Mopsy, if I'd let you. 
 
 Jac. I'd sooner tear my eyes out ; ah — that she 
 had a little of my spirit in her ! 
 
 San. I believe I shall find thou hast a great deal 
 of her flesh, my charmer ; but 'twon't do ; I am 
 all rock, hard rock, very marble. 
 
 Jac. A very pumice stone, you rascal you, if one 
 would try thee ! But to prevent thy humilities, 
 and show thee all submission, would be vain ; to 
 convince thee thou hast nothing but misery and 
 despair before thee, here — take back thy paltry thim- 
 ble, and be in my debt, for the shirts I have made 
 thee with it. 
 
 San. Nay, if y'are at that sport, mistress, I be- 
 lieve I shall lose nothing by the balance of the 
 presents. There, take thy tobacco-stopper, and 
 stop thy — 
 
 Jac. Here — take thy satin pincushion, with thy 
 curious half hundred of pins in't, thou madest such 
 a vapouring about yesterday. Tell 'em carefully, 
 there's not one wanting. 
 
 San. There's thy ivory-hafted knife again, whet 
 it well ; 'tis so blunt 'twill cut nothing but love. 
 
 Jac. And there's thy pretty pocket scissars thou 
 hast honoured me with, they'll cut off a leg or an 
 arm. Heaven bless 'em ! 
 
 San. Here's the enchanted handkerchief you 
 were pleased to endear with your precious blood, 
 when the violence of your love at dinner t'other 
 day made you cut your fingers. — There. 
 
 [Blows his nose in it and gives it her. 
 
 Jac. The rascal so provokes me, I won't even 
 keep his paltry garters from him. D' you see 
 these ? You pitiful beggarly scoundrel you ! — 
 There, take 'em, there. 
 
 [She takes her garters off, and flaps them about his face. 
 
 San. I have but one thing more of thine. — 
 [Showing his cudgel.] I own 'tis the top of all 
 thy presents, and might be useful to me ; but that 
 
454 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 ACT V* 
 
 thou mayest have nothing to upbraid me with, 
 e'en take it again with the rest of em, 
 
 {Lifting it up to strike her, she leaps about his neck. 
 
 Jac. Ah cruel Sancho ! — Now beat me, Sancho, 
 do, 
 
 San. Rather, like Indian beggars, beat my pre- 
 cious self. [Throws away his stick, and embraces her. 
 Rather let infants' blood about the streets, 
 Rather let all the wine about the cellar. 
 
 Rather let — Oh Jacinta — thou hast o'ercome. 
 How foolish are the great resolves of man ! 
 Resolves, which we neither would keep, nor can. 
 When those bright eyes in kindness please to shine, 
 Their goodness I must needs return with mine : 
 Bless my Jacinta in her Sancho' s arms — 
 
 Jac. And I my Sancho with Jacinta's charms. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Street. 
 Enter Lopez. 
 
 Lop. As soon as it is night, says my master to 
 me, though it cost me my life, I'll enter Leonora's 
 lodgings ; therefore make haste, Lopez, prepare 
 everything necessary, three pair of pocket-pistols, 
 two wide-mouthed blunderbusses, some six ells of 
 sword-blade, and a couple of dark lanterns. When 
 my master said this to me ; Sir, said I to my mas- 
 ter, (that is, I would have said it if I had not been 
 in such a fright I could say nothing, however I'll 
 say it to him now, and shall probably have a quiet 
 hearing,) look you, sir, by dint of reason I intend 
 to confound you. You are resolved, you say, to 
 get into Leonora's lodgings though the devil stand 
 in the doorway ? — Yes, Lopez, that's my resolu- 
 tion. — Very well ; and what do you intend to do 
 when you are there?— Why, what an injured man 
 should do ; make her sensible of — Make her 
 sensible of a pudding ! don't you see she's a jade ? 
 She'll raise the house about your ears, arm the 
 whole family, set the great dog at you. — Were 
 there legions of devils to repulse me, in such a 
 cause I could disperse them all.— Why then you 
 have no occasion for help, sir, you may leave me 
 at home to lay the cloth. — No ; thou art my ancient 
 friend, my fellow traveller, and to reward thy 
 faithful services this night thou shalt partake my 
 danger and my glory. — Sir, I have got glory enough 
 under you already, to content any reasonable 
 servant for his life. — Thy modesty makes me will- 
 ing to double my bounty ; this night may bring 
 eternal honour to thee and thy family. — Eternal 
 honour, sir, is too much in conscience for a serving- 
 man ; besides, ambition has been many a great 
 soul's undoing. — I doubt thou art afraid, my Lopez ; 
 thou shalt be armed with back, with breast, and 
 head-piece. — They will encumber me in my re- 
 treat. — Retreat, my hero ! thou never shalt retreat. — 
 Then by my troth I'll never go, sir. — But here he 
 comes. 
 
 Enter Don Lorenzo. 
 
 Don Lor. Will it never be night ! sure 'tis the 
 longest day the sun e'er travelled. 
 
 Lop. Would 'twere as long as those in Green- 
 land, sir, that you might spin out your life t'other 
 half year. 1 don't like these nightly projects ; a 
 man can't see what he does. We shall have some 
 scurvy mistake or other happen; a brace of bullets 
 blunder through your head in the dark perhaps, 
 and spoil all your intrigue. 
 
 Don Lor. Away, you trembling wretch, away ! 
 
 Lop. Nay, sir, what I say is purely for your 
 safety ; for as to myself — uds-death, I no more 
 value the losing a quart of blood than I do drink- 
 ing a quart of wine. Besides, my veins are too 
 full, my physician advised me but yesterday to let 
 go twenty ounces for my health. So you see, sir, 
 there's nothing of that in the case. 
 
 Don Lor. Then let me hear no other objections; 
 for till I see Leonora I must lie upon the rack. I 
 cannot bear her resentment, and will pacify her 
 this night, or not live to see to-morrow. 
 
 Lop. Well, sir, since you are so determined, I 
 shan't be impertinent with any farther advice ; but 
 I think you have laid your design to — [Coughs'] (I 
 have got such a cold to-day !) to get in privately, 
 have you not ? 
 
 Don Lor. Yes ; and have taken care to be in- 
 troduced as far as her chamber- door with all 
 secrecy. 
 
 Lop. [Coughing.'] This unlucky cough ! I had 
 rather have had a fever at another time. Sir, I 
 should be sorry to do you more harm than good 
 upon this occasion : if this cough should come 
 upon me in the midst of the action [coughs'] and 
 give the alarm to the family, I should not forgive 
 myself as long as I lived. 
 
 Don Lor. I have greater ventures than that to 
 take my chance for, and can't dispense with your 
 attendance, sir. 
 
 Lop. This 'tis to be a good servant, and make 
 one's self necessary ! 
 
 Enter Toledo. 
 
 Tol. Sir, — I am glad I have found you. I am 
 a man of honour, you know, and do always profess 
 losing my life upon a handsome occasion. Sir, I 
 come to offer you my service. I am informed from 
 unquestionable hands that Don Carlos is enraged 
 against you to a dangerous degree ; and that old 
 Alvarez has given positive directions to break the 
 legs and arms of your servant Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Look you there now, I thought what 
 'twould come to ! What do they meddle with me 
 for ? what have I to do in my master's amours ? 
 The old Don's got out of his senses, I think; have 
 I married his daughter ? 
 
 Don Lor. Fear nothing, we'll take care o' thee.— 
 Sir, I thank you for the favour of your intelligence, 
 'tis nothing however but what I expected, and am 
 provided for. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 455 
 
 Tol. Sir, I would advise you to provide yourself 
 with good friends, I desire the honour to keep 
 your back hand myself. 
 
 - Lop. 'Tis very kind indeed. Pray, sir, have 
 you ne'er a servant with you could hold a racket 
 for me too ? 
 
 Tol. I have two friends fit to head two armies ; 
 and yet — a word in your ear, they shan't cost you 
 above a ducat a piece. 
 
 Lop. Take 'em by all means, sir, you were never 
 offered a better pennyworth in your life. 
 
 Tol. Ah, sir ! — little Diego — you have heard of 
 him ; he'd have been worth a legion upon this 
 occasion. You know, I suppose, how they have 
 served him. — They have hanged him, but he made 
 a noble execution ; they clapped the rack and the 
 priest to him at once, but could neither get a word 
 of confession nor a groan of repentance ; he died 
 mighty well truly. 
 
 Don Lor. Such a man is indeed much to be re- 
 gretted : as for the rest of your escort, captain, I 
 thank you for 'em, but shall not use 'em. 
 
 Tol. I'm sorry for't, sir, because I think you go 
 in very great danger ; I'm much afraid your rival 
 won't give you fair play. 
 
 Lop. If he does I'll be hanged ! he's a damned 
 passionate fellow, and cares not what mischief he 
 does. 
 
 Don Lor. I shall give him a very good oppor- 
 tunity ; for I'll have no other guards about me but 
 you, sir. So come along. 
 
 Lop. Why, sir, this is the sin of presumption ; 
 setting heaven at defiance, making jack-pudding of 
 a blunderbuss. 
 
 Don Lor. No more, but follow. — Hold ! turn this 
 way ; I see Camillo there. I would avoid him, 
 till I see what part he takes in this odd affair of 
 his sister's. For I would not have the quarrel 
 fixed with him, if it be possible to avoid it. [Exit. 
 
 Lop. Sir ! — Captain Toledo ! one word if you 
 please, sir. I'm mighty sorry to see my master 
 won't accept of your friendly offer. Look ye, I'm 
 not very rich ; but as far as the expense of a dollar 
 went, if you'd be so kind to take a little care of 
 me, it should be at your service. 
 
 Tol. Let me see ; — a dollar you say ? but sup- 
 pose I'm wounded ? 
 
 Lop. Why you shall be put to no extraordinary 
 charge upon that : I have been prentice to a barber, 
 and will be your surgeon myself. 
 
 Tol. 'Tis too cheap in conscience ; but my land- 
 estate is so ill paid this war time — 
 
 Lop. That a little industry may be commend- 
 able ; so say no more, that matter's fixed. [Exeunt. 
 Enter Camillo. 
 
 Cam. How miserable a perplexity have I brought 
 myself into ! Yet why do I complain ? since, 
 With all the dreadful torture I endure, 
 I can't repent of one wild step I've made. 
 O love ! what tempests canst thou raise, what 
 Canst thou assuage ! [storms 
 
 To all thy cruelties I am resign'd. Long years 
 Through seas of torment I'm content to roll, 
 So thou wilt guide me to the happy port 
 Of my Lorenzo s arms, 
 And bless me there with one calm day at last. 
 
 Enter Isabella. 
 What news, dear Isabella ? Methinks there's 
 something cheerful in your looks may give a trem- 
 
 bling lover hopes. If you have comfort for me, 
 speak, for I indeed have need of it. 
 
 Isab. Were your wants yet still greater than they 
 are, I bring a plentiful supply. 
 
 Cam. O Heavens ! is't possible ! 
 
 Isab. New mysteries are out, and if you can find 
 charms to wean Lorenzo from your sister, no other 
 obstacle is in your way to all you wish. 
 
 Cam. Kind messenger from Heaven, speak on. 
 
 Isab. Know then, that you are daughter to 
 Alvarez. 
 
 Cam. How ! daughter to Alvarez ! 
 
 Isab. You are : the truth this moment's come 
 to light ; and till this moment he, although your 
 father, was a stranger to it ; nay, did not even 
 know you were a woman. In short, the great 
 estate, which has occasioned these uncommon 
 accidents, was left but on condition of a son ; great 
 hopes of one there was, when you destroyed 'em, 
 and to your parents came a most unwelcome guest. 
 To repair the disappointment, you were exchanged 
 for that young Camillo, who few months after died. 
 Your father then was absent, but your mother 
 quick in contrivance, bold in execution, during that 
 infant's sickness, had resolved his death should not 
 deprive her family of those advantages his life had 
 given it ; so ordered things with such dexterity, 
 that once again there passed a change between you. 
 Of this (for reasons yet unknown to me) she made 
 a secret to her husband, and took such wise pre- 
 cautions, that till this hour 'twas so to all the 
 world, except the person from whom I now have 
 heard it. 
 
 Cam. This news indeed affords a view of no 
 unhappy termination ; yet there are difficulties still 
 may be of fatal hindrance. 
 
 Isab. None, except that one I just now named 
 to you ; for to remove the rest, know I have already 
 unfolded all both to Alvarez and Don Felix. 
 
 Cam. And how have they received it ? 
 
 Isab. To your wishes both. As for Lorenzo, he 
 is yet a stranger to all has passed, and the two old 
 fathers desire he may some moments longer con- 
 tinue so. They have agreed to be a little merry 
 with the heats he is in, and engage you in a family- 
 quarrel with him. 
 
 Cam. I doubt, Isabella, I shall act that part but 
 faintly. 
 
 Isab. No matter, you'll make amends for it in 
 the scene of reconciliation. 
 
 Cam. Pray Heaven it be my lot to act it with 
 him. 
 
 Isab. Here comes Don Felix to wish you joy. 
 
 Enter Don FfiLrx. 
 
 Don Fel. Come near, my daughter, and with 
 extended arms of great affection let me receive thee. 
 — [Kisses her.} Thou art a dainty wench, goodfaith 
 thou art, and 'tis a mettled action thou hast done ; 
 if Lorenzo don't like thee the better for't, cods my 
 life, he's a pitiful fellow, and I shan't believe the 
 bonny old man had the getting of him. 
 
 Cam. I'm so encouraged by your forgiveness, 
 sir, methinks I have some flattering hopes of 
 his. 
 
 Don Fel. Of his ! egad and he had best ; I 
 believe he'll meet with his match if he don't. What 
 dost think of trying his courage a little, by way of 
 a joke or so ? 
 
 Isab. I was just telling her your design, sir. 
 
450 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Don Fel. Why I'm in a mighty witty way upon 
 this whimsical occasion ; but I see him coming. 
 You must not appear yet ; go your way in to the 
 rest of the people there, and I'll inform him what 
 a squabble he has worked himself into here. 
 
 [Exeunt Camillo and Isabella. 
 
 Re-enter Don Lorenzo and Lopez. 
 
 Lop. Pray, sir, don't be so obstinate now, don't 
 affront Heaven at this rate. I had a vision last 
 night about this business on purpose to forewarn 
 you ; I dreamt of goose-eggs, a blunt knife, and 
 the snuff of a candle ; I'm sure there's mischief 
 towards. 
 
 Don Lor. You cowardly rascal, hold your 
 tongue. 
 
 Don Fel. Lorenzo, come hither, my boy, I was 
 just going to send for thee. The honour of our 
 ancient family lies in thy hands ; there is a combat 
 preparing, thou must fight, my son. 
 
 Lop. Look you there now, did not I tell you ? 
 Oh, dreams are wondrous things ! I never knew 
 that snuff of a candle fail yet. 
 
 Don Lor. Sir, I do not doubt but Carlos seeks 
 my life, I hope he'll do it fairly. 
 
 Lop. Fairly, do you hear, fairly ! give me leave 
 to tell you, sir, folks are not fit to be trusted with 
 lives that don't know how to look better after 'em. 
 — Sir, you gave it him, I hope you'll make him take 
 a little more care on't. 
 
 Don Fel. My care shall be to make him do as a 
 man of honour ought to do. 
 
 Lop. What, will you let him fight then ? let 
 your own flesh and blood fight ? 
 
 Don Fel. In a good cause, as this is. 
 
 Lop. O rnonstrum, horrendum ! Now I have 
 that humanity about me, that if a man but talks to 
 me of fighting, I shiver at the name on't. 
 
 Don Lor. What you do on this occasion, sir, is 
 worthy of you : and had I been wanting to you, in 
 my due regards before, this noble action would 
 have stamped that impression, which a grateful son 
 ought to have for so generous a father. 
 
 Lop. [Aside.] Very generous truly ! gives him 
 leave to be run through the guts, for his posterity 
 to brag on a hundred years hence. 
 
 Don Lor. I think, sir, as things now stand, it 
 won't be right for me to wait for Carlos's call ; I'll 
 if you please prevent him. 
 
 Lop. Ay, pray sir, do prevent him by all means ; 
 'tis better made up, as you say, a thousand times. 
 
 Don Fel. Hold your tongue, you impertinent 
 jack-a-napes ! I will have him fight, and fight like 
 a fury too ; if he don't he'll be worsted, I can tell 
 him that — For know, son, your antagonist is not 
 the person you name, it is an enemy of twice his 
 force. 
 
 Lop. O dear ! O dear ! O dear ! and will nobody 
 keep 'em asunder ? 
 
 Don Lor. Nobody shall keep us asunder, if once 
 I know the man I have to deal with. 
 
 Don Fel. Thy man then is — Camillo. 
 
 Don Lor. Camillo ! 
 
 Don Fel. 'Tis he ; he'll suffer nobody to decide 
 this quarrel but himself. 
 
 Lop. Then there are no seconds, sir ? 
 
 Don Fel. None. 
 
 Lop. He's a brave man. 
 
 Don Fel. No, he says nobody's blood shall be 
 
 spilled on this occasion, but theirs who have a title 
 to it. 
 
 Lop. I believe he'll scarce have a lawsuit upon 
 the claim. 
 
 Don Fel. In short, he accuses thee of a shameful 
 falsehood, in pretending his sister Leonora was thy 
 wife ; and has upon it prevailed with his father, as 
 thou hast done with thine, to let the debate be 
 ended by the sword 'twixt him and thee. 
 
 Lop. And pray, sir, with submission, one short 
 question if you please ; what may the gentle 
 Leonora say of this business ? 
 
 Don Fel. She approves of the combat, and 
 marries Carlos. 
 
 Lop. Why, God a-mercy ! 
 
 Don Lor. Is it possible ? sure she's a devil, not 
 a woman. 
 
 Lop. Ecod, sir, a devil and a woman both, I 
 think. 
 
 Don Fel. Well, thou sha't have satisfaction of 
 some of 'em. — Here they all come. 
 
 Enter Don Alvarez, Don Carlos, Leonora, .Tacinta, 
 and Sancho. 
 
 Don Alv. Well, Don Felix, have you prepared 
 your son ? for mine, he's ready to engage. 
 
 Don Lor. And. so is his. My wrongs prepare 
 me for a thousand combats. My hand has hitherto 
 been held by the regard I've had to everything of 
 kin to Leonora ; but since the monstrous part she 
 acts has driven her from my heart, I call for repa- 
 ration from her family. 
 
 Don Alv. You'll have it, sir ; Camillo will attend 
 you instantly. 
 
 Lop. O lack ! O lack ! will nobody do a little 
 something to prevent bloodshed ? — [To Leonora.] 
 Why, madam, have you no pity, no bowels ? Stand 
 and see one of your husbands stotered before your 
 face ? 'Tis an arrant shame. 
 
 Leo. If widowhood be my fate, I must bear it 
 as I can. 
 
 Lop., Why, did you ever hear the like ? 
 
 Don Lor. Talk to her no more. Her monstrous 
 impudence is no otherwise to be replied to than by 
 a dagger in her brother's heart. 
 
 Leo. Yonder he's coming to receive it. But 
 have a care, brave sir, he does not place it in 
 another's. 
 
 Don Lor. It is not in his power. He has a rotten 
 cause upon his sword, I'm sorry he is engaged in't; 
 but since he is he must take his fate. — [To Don 
 Carlos.] For you, my bravo, expect me in your 
 turn. / 
 
 Don Car. You'll find Camillo, sir, will set your 
 hand out. 
 
 Don Lor. A beardless boy I You might have 
 matched me better, sir ; but prudence is a virtue. 
 
 Don Fel. Nay, son, I would not have thee 
 despise thy adversary neither ; thou'lt find Camillo 
 will put thee hardly to't. 
 
 Don Lor. I wish we were come to the trial. Why 
 does he not appear ? 
 
 Jac. Now do I hate to hear people brag thus. 
 Sir, with my lady's leave, I'll hold a ducat he 
 disarms you. {They laugh. 
 
 Don Lor. Why, what ! — I think I'm sported 
 with. Take heed, I warn you all ; I am not to be 
 trifled with. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 457 
 
 Re-enter Camillo and Isabella. 
 
 Leo. You shan't, sir ; here's one will be in 
 earnest with you. 
 
 Don Lor. He's welcome : though I had rather 
 have drawn my sword against another. — I'm sorry, 
 Camillo, we should meet on such bad terms as 
 these ; yet more sorry your sister should be the 
 wicked cause on't : but since nothing will serve her 
 but the blood either of a husband or brother, she 
 shall be glutted with't. Draw ! 
 
 Lop. Ah Lard ! ah Lard ! ah Lard ! 
 
 Don Lor. And yet, before I take this instrument 
 of death into my fatal hand, hear me, Camillo ; hear, 
 Alvarez ; all ! 
 
 I imprecate the utmost powers of Heaven 
 To shower upon my head the deadliest of its wrath ; 
 I ask that all hell's torments may unite 
 To round my soul with one eternal anguish, 
 If wicked Leonora ben't my wife. 
 
 All. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 
 
 Leo. Why then, may all those curses pass him by, 
 And wrap me in their everlasting pains, 
 If ever once I had a fleeting thought 
 Of making him my husband. 
 
 Lop. O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 
 
 Leo. Nay more ; to strike him dumb at once, 
 and show what men with honest looks can practise, 
 know he's married to another. 
 
 Don Alv. <§• Don Fel. How 1 
 
 Leo. The truth of this is known to some here. 
 
 Jac. Nay, 'tis certainly so. 
 
 Isab. 'Tis to a friend of mine. 
 
 Don Car. I know the person. 
 
 Don Lor. 'Tis false ! and thou art a villain for 
 thy testimony. 
 
 Cam. Then let me speak ; what they aver is 
 true, and I myself was, in disguise, a witness of its 
 doing. 
 
 Don Lor. Death and confusion ! he a villain too ! 
 —Have at thy heart. LHe draws. 
 
 Lop. Ah !— I can't bear the sight on't. 
 
 Cam. Put up that furious thing, there's no 
 business for't. 
 
 Don Lor. There's business for a dagger, strip- 
 ling; 'tis that should be thy recompense. 
 
 Cam. Why then to show thee naked to the 
 world, and close thy mouth for ever — I am myself 
 thy wife — 
 
 Don Lor. What does the dog mean ? 
 
 Cam. To fall upon the earth and sue for mercy. 
 {Kneels and lets her periwig fall off. 
 
 Don Lor. A woman ! — 
 
 Lop. Ecod, and a pretty one too ; you wags you ! 
 
 Don Lor. I'm all amazement ! — Rise, Camillo, 
 (if I am still to call you by that name,) and let me 
 hear the wonders you have for me. 
 
 Isab. That part her modesty will ask from 
 me. 
 I'm to inform you then, that this disguise 
 Hides other mysteries besides a woman ; 
 A large and fair estate was cover'd by't, 
 Which with the lady now will be resign' d you. 
 'Tis true, in justice it was yours before ; 
 But 'tis the god of love has done you right. 
 To him you owe this strange discovery ; 
 Through him you are to know the true Camillo's 
 dead, and that this fair adventurer is daughter to 
 Alvarez. 
 
 Don Lor. Incredible ! But go on ; let me hear 
 more. 
 
 Don Fel. She'll tell thee the rest herself the 
 next dark night she meets thee in the garden. 
 
 Don Lor. Ha ! — Was it Camillo then, that I — 
 
 Isab. It was Camillo who there made you happy : 
 and who has virtue, beauty, wit, and love — enough 
 to make you so while life shall last you. 
 
 Don Lor. The proof she gives me of her love 
 deserves a large acknowledgment indeed. Forgive 
 me, therefore, Leonora, if what I owe this goodness 
 and these charms, I with my utmost care, my life, 
 my soul, endeavour to repay. 
 
 Cam. Is it then possible you can forgive me ? 
 
 Don Lor. Indeed I can ; few crimes have such 
 a claim 
 To mercy. But join with me then, dear Camillo, 
 (For still I know you by no other name,) 
 Join with me to obtain your father's pardon.. 
 Yours, Leonora, too, I must implore ; 
 And yours, my friend, for now we may be such. 
 
 [To Carlos, 
 Of all I ask forgiveness ; and since there is 
 So fair a cause of all my wild mistakes, 
 I hope I by her interest shall obtain it. 
 
 Don Alv. You have a claim to mine, Lorenzo, 
 I wish I had so strong a one to yours ; but if by 
 future services, (though I lay down my life amongst 
 'em) I may blot out of your remembrance a fault 
 (I cannot name), I then shall leave the world in 
 peace. 
 
 Don Lor. In peace then, sir, enjoy it ; for from 
 this very hour, whate'er is past with me is gone 
 for ever. Your daughter is too fair a mediatrix to 
 be refused his pardon, to whom she owes the 
 charms she pleads with for it. 
 
 From this good day, then let all discord cease ; 
 Let those to come be harmony and peace ; 
 Henceforth let all our different interests join, 
 Let fathers, lovers, friends, let all combine, 
 To make eaeh other's days as bless'd as she will 
 mine. {Exeunt omnes. 
 
458 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 (WRITTEN BY MR. MOTTEUX) SPOKEN BY ISABELLA. 
 
 I'm thinking, now good husbands are so few, 
 To get one like my friend, what I must do. 
 Camillo ventured hard ; yet at the worst, 
 She stole love's honeymoon, and tried her lover 
 
 first. 
 Many poor damsels, if they dared to tell, 
 Have done as much, but have not 'scaped so well. 
 'Tis well the scene's in Spain ; thus in the dark, 
 I should be loath to trust a London spark. 
 Some accident might, for a private reason, 
 Silence a female, all this acting season. 
 Hard fate of woman ! Any one would vex, 
 To think what odds you men have of our sex. 
 Restraint and customs share our inclination, 
 You men can try, and run o'er half the nation. 
 We dare not, even to avoid reproach, 
 When you're at White's, peep out of hackney- 
 coach ; 
 Nor with a friend at night, our fame regarding, 
 With glass drawn up, drive about Co vent-garden. 
 
 If poor town-ladies steal in here, you rail. 
 Though like chaste nuns, their modest looks they 
 With this decorum they can hardly gain [veil ; 
 To be thought virtuous, even in Drury-lane, 
 Though this you'll not allow, yet sure you may 
 A plot to snap you, in an honest way. 
 In love-affairs, one scarce would spare a brother : 
 All cheat ; and married folks may keep a pother, 
 But look as if they cheated one another. 
 You may pretend, our sex dissembles most, 
 But of your truth none have much cause to boast : 
 You promise bravely; but for all your storming, 
 We find you're not so valiant at performing. 
 Then sure Camillo's conduct you'll approve : 
 Would you not do as much for one you love ? 
 Wedlock's but a blind bargain at the best, 
 You venture more, sometimes, to be not half so 
 
 blest. 
 All, soon or late, that dangerous venture make, 
 And some of you may make a worse mistake. 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE 
 
 a Jtae. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Monsieur Barnard, a ci-devant Laioyer turned 
 
 Country-Gentleman. 
 Monsieur Griffard, Brother to Monsieur 
 
 Barnard. 
 Erastus, in love with Mariamne. 
 Dorant, Son to Monsieur Barnard. 
 Monsieur le Marquis. 
 Baron de Messy. 
 
 Janno, Cousin to Monsieur Barnard. 
 Colin, Servant to Monsieur Barnard. 
 Charly, a little Boy, Cousin to Mariamne. 
 
 Servant to Erastus. 
 
 Monsieur la Garantiere, \ 
 
 Monsieur la Rose, \Friends to Dorant. 
 
 Monsieur Trofignac, J 
 
 A Soldier, Cook, other Servants, &c. 
 
 Madame Barnard, Wife to Monsieur Barnard. 
 Mariamne, Daughter to Monsieur Barnard ly 
 
 a former marriage. 
 Mawkin, Sister to Janno. 
 Lisetta, Maid to Mariamne. 
 
 SCENE, — Normandy in France. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 ■A Room in Monsieur Barnard's 
 Country -House. 
 
 Enter Erastus and his Servant, Lisetta following. 
 
 Lis. Once more I tell ye, sir, if you have any 
 consideration in the world for her, you must begone 
 this minute. 
 
 Erast. My dear Lisetta, let me but speak to her, 
 let me but see her only. 
 
 Lis. You may do what you will ; but not here, 
 whilst you are in our house. I do believe she's as 
 impatient to see you as you can be to see her ; 
 but— 
 
 Erast. But why won't you give us that satisfac- 
 tion then ? 
 
 Lis. Because I know the consequence ; for when 
 you once get together, the devil himself is not able 
 to part ye ; you will stay so long till you are sur- 
 prised, and what will become of us then ? 
 
 Serv. Why, then we shall be thrown out at the 
 window, I suppose. 
 
 Lis. No, but I shall be turned out of doors. 
 
 Erast. How unfortunate am I ! these doors are 
 open to all the world, and only shut to me. 
 
 Lis. Because you come for a wife, and at our 
 house we do not care for people that come for 
 wives. 
 
 Serv. What would you have us come for, child ? 
 
 Lis. Anything but wives ; because they cannot 
 be put off without portions. 
 
 Serv. Portions ! No, no, never talk of portions ; 
 my master nor I neither don't want portions ; and 
 
 if he'd follow my advice, a regiment of fathers 
 should not guard her. 
 
 Lis. What say you ? 
 
 Serv. Why, if you'll contrive that my master 
 may run away with your mistress, I don't much 
 care, faith, if I run away with you. 
 
 Lis. Don't you so, rogue's face ! But I hope 
 to be better provided for. 
 
 Erast. Hold your tongues. — But where is Ma- 
 riamne's brother ? He is my bosom friend, and 
 would be willing to serve me. 
 
 Lis. I told you before that he has been abroad 
 a-hunting, and we han't seen him these three days; 
 he seldom lies at home, to avoid his father's ill 
 humour ; so that it is not your mistress only that 
 our old covetous cuff teases :— there's nobody in 
 the family but feels the effects of his ill humour : 
 ■ — by his good will he would not suffer a creature 
 to come within his doors, or eat at his table ; — 'and 
 if there be but a rabbit extraordinary for dinner, he 
 thinks himself ruined for ever. 
 
 Erast. Then I find you pass your time comfort- 
 ably in this family. 
 
 Lis. Not so bad as you imagine neither, perhaps; 
 for, thank Heaven, we have a mistress that's as 
 bountiful as he is stingy, one that will let him say 
 what he will, and yet does what she will. But 
 hark, here's somebody coming ; it is certainly he. 
 
 Erast. Can't you hide us somewhere ? 
 
 Lis. Here, here, get you in here as fast as you 
 can. 
 
 Serv. Thrust me in too. [Puts them into the closet. 
 
460 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Enter Mariamne. 
 
 Lis. Oh, is it you ? 
 
 Mar. So, Lisetta, where have you been ? I've 
 been looking for ye all over the house. Who are 
 those people in the garden with my mother-in-law ? 
 I believe my father won't be very well pleased to 
 see 'em there. 
 
 Lis. And here's somebody else not far off, that 
 I believe your father won't be very well pleased 
 with neither. — Come, sir, sir ! [Calls. 
 
 Re-enter Erastus and Servant. 
 
 Mar. O heavens ! 
 
 Lis. Come, lovers, I can allow you but a short 
 bout on't this time ; you must do your work with 
 a jirk — one whisper, two sighs, and a kiss ; make 
 haste, I say, and I'll stand sentry for ye in the 
 meantime. [Exit. 
 
 Mar. Do you know what you expose me to, 
 Erastus ? What do you mean ? 
 
 Erast. To die, madam, since you receive me with 
 so little pleasure. 
 
 Mar. Consider what would become of me, if my 
 father should see you here. 
 
 Erast. What would you have me do ? 
 
 Mar. Expect with patience some happy turn of 
 affairs. My mother-in-law is kind and indulgent 
 to a miracle ; and her favour, if well managed, may 
 turn to our advantage ; and could I prevail upon 
 myself to declare my passion to her, I don't doubt 
 but she'd join in our interest. 
 
 Erast. Well, since we've nothing to fear from 
 her, and your brother, you know, is my intimate 
 friend, you may therefore conceal me somewhere 
 about the house for a few days. I'll creep into 
 any hole. 
 
 Serv. Ay, but who must have the care of bring- 
 ing us victuals ? [Aside. 
 
 Erast. Thrust us into the cellar, or up into the 
 garret : I don't care where it is, so that it be but 
 under the same roof with you. 
 
 Serv. But I don't say so, for that jade Lisetta 
 will have the feeding of us, and I know what kind 
 of diet she keeps. — I believe we shan't be like the 
 fox in the fable, our bellies won't be so full but 
 we shall be able to creep out at the same hole we 
 got in at. [Aside. 
 
 Erast. Must I then begone ? must I return to 
 Paris ? 
 
 Re-enter Lisetta. 
 
 Lis. Yes, that you must, and immediately too, 
 for here's my master coming in upon ye. 
 
 Erast. What shall I do ? 
 
 Lis. Begone this minute. 
 
 Mar. Stay in the village till you hear from me, 
 none of our family know that you are in it. 
 
 Erast. Shall I see you sometimes ? 
 
 Mar. I han't time to answer you now. 
 
 Lis. Make haste, I say ; are you bewitched ? 
 
 Erast. Will you write to me ? 
 
 Mar. I will if I can. 
 
 Lis. Begone, I say ; is the devil in you ? — 
 [ Thrusts Erastus and Servant out.] Come this 
 way, your father's just stepping in upon us. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Enter Monsieur Barnard beating Colin. 
 
 Mon. Bam. Rogue ! rascal ! did not I com- 
 mand you? Did not I give you my orders, sirrah? 
 
 Col. Why, you gave me orders to let nobody in ; 
 and madam, her gives me orders to let everybody 
 
 in — why, the devil himself can't please you boath, 
 I think. 
 
 Mon. Barn. But, sirrah, you must obey my or- 
 ders, not hers. 
 
 Col. Why, the gentlefolks asked for her, they 
 did not ask for you — what do you make such a 
 noise about ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. For that reason, sirrah, you should 
 not have let 'em in. 
 
 Col. Hold, sir, I'd rather see you angry than 
 her, that's true ; for when you're angry you have 
 only the devil in ye, but when madam's in a passion 
 she has the devil and his dam both in her belly. 
 
 Mon. Barn. You must mind what I say to you, 
 sirrah, and obey my orders. 
 
 Col. Ay, ay, measter— but let's not quarrel with 
 one another — you're always in such a plaguy 
 humour. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What are these people that are just 
 come ? 
 
 Col. Nay, that know not I — but as fine volk 
 they are as ever eye beheld, Heaven bless 'em ! 
 
 Mon. Barn. Did you hear their names ? 
 
 Col. Noa, noa, but in a coach they keam all 
 besmeared with gould, with six breave horses, the 
 like on 'em ne'er did I set eyes on. — 'Twould do a 
 man's heart good to look on sike fine beast, measter. 
 
 Mon. Barn. How many persons are there ? 
 
 Col. Vour — two as fine men as ever woman 
 bore, and two as dainty deames as a man would 
 desire to lay his lips to. 
 
 Mon. Barn. And all this crew sets up at my 
 house. 
 
 Col. Noa, noa, measter, the coachman is gone 
 into the village to set up his coach at some inn, 
 for I told him our coach-house was vull of vaggots, 
 but he'll bring back the six horses, for I told him 
 we had a rare good steable. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Did you so, rascal ? did you so ? 
 
 [Beats him. 
 
 Col. Doant, doant, sir, it would do you good to 
 see sike cattle, i'faith they look as if they had ne'er 
 kept Lent. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Then they shall learn religion at my 
 house. — Sirrah, do you take care they sup without 
 oats to-night. — What will become of me ! Since 
 I have bought this damned country-house, I spend 
 more in a summer than would maintain me seven 
 year. 
 
 Col. Why, if you do spend money, han't you 
 good things for it ? Come they not to see you the 
 whole country raund ? Mind how you're beloved, 
 measter. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Pox take such love! — 
 
 Re-enter Lisetta. 
 
 How now,what do you want ? 
 
 Lis. Sir, there's some company in the garden 
 with my mistress, who desire to see you. 
 
 Mon. Barn. The devil take 'em, what business 
 have they here? But who are they ? 
 
 Lis. Why, sir, there's the fat abbot that always 
 sits so long at dinner, and drinks his two bottles 
 by way of whet. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I wish his church was in his belly, 
 that his guts might be half full before he came. — 
 And who else ? 
 
 Lis. Then there's the young marquis that won 
 all my lady's money at cards. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Pox take him too ! 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 461 
 
 Lis. Then there's the merry lady that's always 
 in a good humour. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Very well. 
 
 Lis. Then there's she that threw down all my 
 lady's china t'other day, and laughed at it for a jest. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Which I paid above fifty pounds 
 for in earnest. — Very well, and pray how did 
 madam receive all this fine company? — With a 
 hearty welcome, and a curtsy with her bum down 
 to the ground, ha ? 
 
 Lis. No indeed, sir, she was very angry with 'em. 
 
 Mon. Barn. How, angry with 'em, say you ? 
 
 Lis. Yes indeed, sir, for she expected they 
 would have staid here a fortnight, but it seems 
 things happen so unluckily that they can't stay 
 here above ten days. [Exit. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Ten days ! how ! what ! four 
 persons with a coach and six, and a kennel of 
 hungry hounds in liveries, to live upon me ten days ! 
 
 Enter Soldier. 
 So, what do you want? 
 
 Sol. Sir, I come from your nephew, captain 
 Hungry. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Well, what does he want ? 
 Sol. He gives his service to you, sir, and sends 
 you word that he'll come and dine with you to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Dine with me ! no, no, friend, tell 
 him I don't dine at all to-morrow, it is my fast- 
 day, my wife died on't. 
 
 Sol. And he has sent you here a pheasant and a 
 couple of partridges. 
 
 Mon. Barn. How's that, a pheasant and part- 
 ridges, say you ! — Let's see — very fine birds, 
 truly. — Let me consider — to-morrow is not my 
 fast-day, I mistook ; tell my nephew he shall be 
 welcome. — [To Colin.] And d'ye hear? do you 
 take these fowl and hang them up in a cool place 
 — and take this soldier in, and make him drink — 
 make him drink, d'ye see — a cup, — ay, a cup of 
 small beer — d'ye hear ? 
 
 Col. Yes, sir. — Come along ; our small beer is 
 
 reare good. [Exit. 
 
 Sol. But, sir, he bade me tell you that he'll 
 
 bring two or three of his brother officers along with 
 
 bim. 
 
 Mon. Barn. How's that ! officers with him — 
 here, come back— take the fowls again; I don't 
 dine to-morrow, and so tell him. — [Gives him the 
 basket.'] Go, go! [Thrusting him out. 
 
 Sol. Sir, sir, that won't hinder them from com- 
 ing, for they retired a little distance off the camp, 
 and because your house is near 'em, sir, they 
 resolve to come. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Go, begone, sirrah ! — [Thrusts him 
 out.'] There's a rogue now, that sends me three 
 lean carrion birds, and brings half-a-dozen varlets 
 to eat them ! 
 
 Enter Monsieur Griffard. 
 Mon. Griff. Brother, what is the meaning of 
 these doings ? If you don't order your affairs bet- 
 ter, you'll have your fowls taken out of your very 
 yard, and carried away before your face. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Can I help it, brother ? But what's 
 the matter now ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. There's a parcel of fellows have 
 been hunting about your grounds all this morning, 
 broke down your hedges, and are now coming into 
 your house. — Don't you hear them ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. No, no, I don't hear them : who 
 are they ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. Three or four rake-helly officers, 
 with your nephew at the head of 'em. 
 
 Mon. Barn. O the rogue ! he might well send 
 me fowls. — But is it not a vexatious thing, that I 
 must stand still and see myself plundered at this 
 rate, and have a carrion of a wife who thinks I 
 ought to thank all these rogues that come to de- 
 vour me ! But can't you advise me what's to be 
 done in this case ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. I wish I could, for it goes to my 
 heart to see you thus treated by a crew of vermin, 
 who think they do you a great deal of honour in 
 ruining of you. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Can there be no way found to re- 
 dress this ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. If I were you, I'd leave this house 
 quite, and go to town. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What, and leave my wife behind 
 me ? ay that would be mending the matter 
 indeed ! 
 
 Mon. Griff. Why don't you sell it then ? 
 
 M on. Barn. Because nobody will buy it ; it has 
 got as bad a name as if the plague were in't ; it 
 has been sold over and over, and every family that 
 has lived in it has been ruined. 
 
 Mon. Griff. Then send away all your beds and 
 furniture, except what is absolutely necessary for 
 your own family ; you'll save something by that, 
 for then your guests can't stay with you all night, 
 however. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I've tried that already, and it sig- 
 nified nothing : — for they all got drunk and lay in 
 the barn, and next morning laughed it off for afrolic. 
 
 Mon. Griff. Then there is but one remedy left 
 that I can think off. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What's that ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. You must e'en do what's done 
 when a town's on fire, blow up your house that the 
 mischief may run no further. — But who is this 
 gentleman ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. I never saw him in my life before, 
 but for all that, I'll hold fifty pound he comes to 
 dine with me. 
 
 Enter the Marquis. 
 
 Marq. My dear M. Barnard, I'm your most 
 humble servant. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I don't doubt it, sir. 
 
 Marq. What is the meaning of this, M. Bar- 
 nard ? You look as coldly upon me as if I were a 
 stranger. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Why truly, sir, I'm very apt to do 
 so by persons I never saw in my life before. 
 
 Marq. You must know, M . Barnard, I'm come 
 on purpose to drink a bottle with you. 
 
 Mon. Bam. That may be, sir ; but it happens 
 that at this time I'm not at all dry. 
 
 Marq. I left the ladies at cards waiting for sup- 
 per ; for my part, I never play ; so I came to see 
 my dear M. Barnard ; and I'll assure you, I under- 
 took this journey only to have the honour of your 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Mon. Barn. You might have spared yourself 
 that trouble, sir. 
 
 Marq. Don't you know, M. Barnard, that this 
 house of yours is a little paradise ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Then rot me, if it bq, sir ! 
 
 Marq. For my part, I think a pretty retreat in 
 
462 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 the country is one of the greatest comforts in life ; 
 I suppose you never want good company, M. 
 Barnard ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. No, sir, I never want company ; 
 for you must know I love very much to be alone. 
 
 Marq. Good wine you must keep above all things, 
 without good wine and good cheer I would not give 
 a fig for the country. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Really, sir, my wine is the worst 
 you ever drank in your life, and you'll find my 
 cheer but very indifferent. 
 
 Marq. No matter, no matter, M. Barnard : 
 I've heard much of your hospitality, there's a 
 plentiful table in your looks — and your wife is 
 certainly one of the best women in the world. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Rot me if she be, sir ! 
 
 Re-enter Colin. 
 
 Col. Sir, sir, yonder's the baron de Messy has 
 lost his hawk in our garden ; he says it is perched 
 upon one of the trees ; may we let him have'n 
 again, sir? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Go tell him, that — 
 
 Col. Nay, you may tell him yourself, for here 
 he comes. 
 
 Enter Baron De Messy. 
 
 Baron. Sir, I'm your most humble servant, and 
 ask you a thousand pardons that I should live so 
 long in your neighbourhood, and come upon such an 
 occasion as this to pay you my first respects. 
 
 Mon. Barn. It is very well, sir ; but I think 
 people may be very good neighbours without visit- 
 ing one another. 
 
 Baron. Pray how do you like our country ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Not at all, I am quite tired on't. 
 
 Marq. Is it not the baron ! it is certainly he. 
 
 Baron. How ; my dear marquis ! let me em- 
 brace you. 
 
 Marq. My dear baron, let me kiss you. 
 
 [They run and embrace. 
 
 Baron. We have not seen one another since we 
 were schoolfellows before. 
 
 Marq. The happiest rencontre ! 
 
 Mon. Griff. These gentlemen seem to be very 
 well acquainted. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Yes, but I know neither one nor 
 t'other of them, 
 
 Marq. Baron, let me present to you one of the 
 best-natured men in the world — M. Barnard here, 
 the flower of hospitality ! — I congratulate you upon 
 having so good a neighbour. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Sir ! 
 
 Baron. It is an advantage I am proud of. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Sir ! 
 
 Marq. Come, gentlemen, you must be very in- 
 timate ; let me have the honour of bringing you 
 better acquainted. 
 
 Mon. Bam. Sir ! 
 
 Baron. Dear Marquis, I shall take it as a 
 favour if you'll do me that honour. 
 
 Barn. Sir ! 
 
 Marq, With all my heart. — Come, baron, now 
 you are here we can make up the most agreeable 
 company in the world. — Faith you shall stay and 
 pass a few days with us. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Methinks now, this son of a whore 
 does the honours of my house to a miracle. [Aside. 
 
 Baron. I don't know what to say, but I should 
 be very glad you'd excuse me. 
 
 Marq. Faith, I can't. 
 
 Baron. Dear marquis ! 
 Marq. Egad, I won't. 
 
 Baron. Well, since it must be so — but here 
 comes the lady of the family. 
 
 Enter Madame Barnard. 
 
 Marq. Madam, let me present you to the flower 
 of France. 
 
 Baron. Madam, I shall think myself the happiest 
 person in the world in your ladyship's acquaint- 
 ance ; and the little estate I have in this country I 
 esteem more than all the rest, because it lies so 
 near your ladyship. 
 
 Mad. Barn. Sir, your most humble servant. 
 
 Marq. Madam, the baron de Messy is the best- 
 humoured man in the world. I've prevailed with 
 him to give us his company a few days. 
 
 Mad. Barn. I'm sure you could not oblige M. 
 Barnard or me more. 
 
 Mon. Barn. That's a damned lie, I'm sure. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Baron. I'm sorry, madam, I can't accept of the 
 honour — for it falls out so unluckily, that I've 
 some ladies at my house that I can't possibly leave. 
 
 Marq. No matter, no matter, baron ; you have 
 ladies at your house, we have ladies at our house — 
 let's join companies. — Come, let's send for them 
 immediately ; the more the merrier. 
 
 Mon. Barn. An admirable expedient, truly ! 
 
 Baron. Well, since it must be so, I'll go for 
 them myself. 
 
 Marq. Make haste, dear baron, for we shall be 
 impatient for your return. 
 
 Baron. Madam, your most humble servant. — 
 But I won't take my leave of you — I shall be back 
 again immediately. — Monsieur Barnard, I'm your 
 most humble servant ; since you will have it so, 
 I'll return as soon as possible. 
 
 [Exeunt Baron de Messy and Marquis. 
 
 Mon. Bam. I have it so ! 'sbud, sir, you may 
 stay as long as you please ; I'm in no haste for ye. 
 Madam, you are the cause that I am not master of 
 my own house. 
 
 Mad. Barn. Will you never learn to be reason- 
 able, husband ? 
 
 Re-enter the Marquis. 
 
 Marq. The baron is the best-humoured man in 
 the world, only a little too ceremonious, that's all. 
 — I love to be free and generous ; since I came to 
 Paris I've reformed half the court. 
 
 Mad. Barn. You are of the most agreeable 
 humour in the world, marquis. 
 
 Marq. Always merry. — But what have you done 
 with the ladies ? 
 
 Mad. Barn. I left them at cards. 
 
 Marq. Well, I'll wait upon 'em. But, madam, 
 let me desire you not to put yourself to any extra- 
 ordinary expense upon our accounts. — You must 
 consider we have more than one day to live 
 together. 
 
 Mad. Barn. You are pleased to be merry, mar- 
 quis. 
 
 Marq. Treat us without ceremony. Good wine 
 and poultry you have of your own ; wild-fowl and 
 fish are brought to your door : — you need not send 
 abroad for anything but a piece of butcher's meat, 
 or so Let us have no extraordinaries. [Exit. 
 
 Mon. Barn. If I had the feeding of you, a 
 thunderbolt should be your supper. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 463 
 
 Mad. Barn. Husband, will you never change 
 your humour ? If you go on at this rate, it will be 
 impossible to live with ye. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Very true ; for in a little time I 
 shall have nothing to live upon. 
 
 Mad. Barn. Do you know what a ridiculous 
 figure you make ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. You'll make a great deal worse, 
 when you han't money enough to pay for the wash- 
 ing of your shifts. 
 
 Mad. Barn. It seems you married me only to 
 dishonour me ; how horrible this is ! 
 
 Mon. Barn. I tell ye, youll ruin me. Do you 
 know how much money you spend in a year ? 
 
 Mad. Barn. Not I truly, I don't understand 
 arithmetic. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Arithmetic, O Lud ! O Lud! Is 
 it so hard to comprehend, that he who receives but 
 sixpence and spends a shilling, must be ruined in 
 the end ? 
 
 Mad. Barn. I never troubled my head with 
 accounts, nor never will ; but if you did but know 
 what ridiculous things the world says of ye — 
 
 Mon. Barn. Rot the world !— 'Twill say worse 
 of me when I am in a jail. 
 
 Mad. Barn. A very Christian -like saying, truly ! 
 
 Mon. Barn. Don't tell me of Christian !— Ads- 
 bud, I'll turn Jew, and nobody shall eat at my table 
 that is not circumcised. 
 
 Re-enter Lisetta. 
 
 Lis. Madam, there's the duchess of Twangdillo 
 just fell down near our door, her coach was over- 
 turned. 
 
 Mad. Barn. I hope her grace has received no 
 hurt? 
 
 Lis. No, madam, but her coach is broke. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Then there's a smith in town may 
 mend it. 
 
 Lis. They say 'twill require two or three days to 
 fit it up again. 
 
 Mad. Barn. I'm glad on't with all my heart, 
 for then I shall enjoy the -pleasure of her grace's 
 good company. — I'll wait upon her. 
 
 Mon. Barn, Very fine doings this ! 
 
 \_Exeunt severally. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I.— The same. 
 
 Enter Monsieur Barnard. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Heaven be now my comfort, for 
 my house is hell : — [Starts.] Who's there, what 
 do you want ? who are you ? 
 
 Enter Servant with a portmanteau. 
 
 Serv. Sir, here's your cousin Janno and cou- 
 sin Mawkin come from Paris. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What a plague do they want ? 
 
 Enter Janno, leading in Mawkin. 
 
 Jan. Come, sister, come along. — Oh, here's cou- 
 sin Barnard. — Cousin Barnard, your servant. — 
 Here's my sister Mawkin and 1 are come to see 
 you. 
 
 Mawk. Ay, cousin, here's brother Janno and I 
 are come from Paris to see you. Pray how does 
 cousin Mariamne do ? 
 
 Jan. My sister and I waunt well at Paris ; so 
 my father sent us here for two or three weeks to 
 take a little country air. 
 
 Mon. Barn. You could not come to a worse 
 place ; for this is the worst air in the whole 
 country. 
 
 Mawk. Nay, I'm sure, my father says it is the 
 best. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Your father's a fool ; I tell ye, 
 'tis the worst. 
 
 Jan. Nay, cousin, I fancy you're mistaken 
 now ; for I begin to find my stomach come to me 
 already ; in a fortnight's time you shall see how I'll 
 lay about me. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I don't at all doubt it. 
 
 Mawk. Father would have sent sister Flip and 
 little brother Humphrey, but the calash would not 
 holds us all, and so they don't come till to-morrow 
 with mother. 
 
 Jan. Come, sister, let's put up our things in 
 our chamber ; and after you have washed my face, 
 
 and put me on a clean neckcloth, we'll go in and 
 see how our cousins do. 
 
 Mawk. Ay, come along, we'll go and see cousin 
 Mariamne. 
 
 Jan. Cousin, we shan't give you much trouble, 
 one bed will serve us ; for sister Mawkin and 1 
 always lie together. 
 
 Mawk. But, cousin ; mother prays you that 
 you'd order a little cock-broth for brother Janno 
 and I, to be got ready as soon as may be. 
 
 Jan. Ay, a propos, cousin Barnard, that's true ; 
 my mother desires that we may have some cock- 
 broth to drink two or three times a-day between 
 meals, for my sister and I are sick folks. 
 
 Mawk. And some young chickens too, the 
 doctor said, would bring us to our stomachs very 
 soon. 
 
 Jan. You fib now, sister, it waunt young chick- 
 ens, so it waunt, it was plump partridges sure, the 
 doctor said so. 
 
 Mawk. Ay, so it was, brother. — Come, let's go 
 in, and see our cousins. 
 
 Jan. Ay, come along, sister. — Cousin Barnard, 
 don't forget the cock-broth. 
 
 [Exeunt Janno and Mawkin, Servant following. 
 
 Mon. Bam. What the devil does all this mean ! 
 Mother, and sister Flip, and little brother Hum- 
 phrey, and chickens, and partridges, and cock- 
 broth, and fire from hell to dress 'em all. 
 Enter Colin. 
 
 Col. O measter ! O measter ! — you'll not chide 
 to-day, as you are usen to do ; no, marry will you 
 not ; see now what it is to be wiser than one's 
 measter ! 
 
 Mon. Bam. What would this fool have ? 
 
 Col. Why, thanks, and money to-boot, an folk 
 were grateful. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What's the matter ? 
 
 Col. Why, the matter is, if you have good store 
 of company in your house, you have good store of 
 meat to put in their bellies. 
 
464 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Mon. Barn. How so ? how so ? 
 
 Col. Why, a large and steately stag, with a pair 
 of horns on his head, Heaven bless you, your wor- 
 ship might be seen to wear 'em, comes towards our 
 geat a puffing and blawing like a cow in hard 
 labour. — Now, says I to myself, says I, if my 
 measter refuse to let this fine youth come in, why, 
 then, he's a fool d'ye see. — So I opens him the 
 geat, pulls off my hat with both my honds, and 
 said, You're welcome, kind sir, to our house. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Well, well ! 
 
 Col. Well, well, ay, and so it is well, as you shall 
 straightway find. — So in he trots, and makes 
 directly towards our barn, and goes bounce, bounce, 
 against the door, as boldly as if he had been meas- 
 ter on't :— he turns'en about and thawcks'n down 
 in the stra, as who would say, Here will I lay me 
 till to-morrow morning. — But he had no fool to 
 deal with : for to the kitchen goes I, and takes me 
 down a musket, and, with a breace of balls, I hits'n 
 such a slap in the feace, that he ne'er spoke a word 
 more to me. — Have I done well or no, measter ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Yes, you have done very well for 
 once. 
 
 Col. But this was not all, for a parcel of dogs came 
 yelping after their companion, as I suppose ; so I 
 goes to the back -yard door, and, as many as came 
 by, shu ! says I, and drove 'em into the gearden ; 
 so there they are as safe as in a pawnd — ha ! ha ! — 
 But I can't but think what a power of pasties we 
 shall have at our house, ha ! ha ! [Exit. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I see Providence takes some care 
 of me : this could never have happened in a better 
 time. 
 
 Enter Cook. 
 
 Cook. Sir, sir, in the name of wonder, what do 
 you mean ? is it by your orders that all those dogs 
 were let into the garden ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. How ! 
 
 Cook. I believe there's forty or fifty dogs tearing 
 up the lettuce and cabbage by the root ; I believe 
 before they have done, they'll rout up the whole 
 garden. 
 
 Mon. Barn. This is that rogue's doings. 
 
 Cook. This was not all, sir, for three or four of 
 'em came into the kitchen, and tore half the meat 
 off the spit that was for your worship's supper. 
 
 Mon. Barn. The very dogs plague me ! 
 
 Cook. And then there's a crew of hungry foot- 
 men who devoured what the dogs left, so that 
 there's not a bit left for your worship's supper ; 
 not a scrap, not one morsel, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Sure I shall hit on some way to 
 get rid of this crew. 
 
 Re-enter Colin. 
 
 Col. Sir, sir, here's the devil to do without yon- 
 der ! A parcel of fellows swear they'll have our 
 venison, and 'sblead I swear they shall have none 
 on't ; so stand to your arms, measter. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Ay, you've done finely, rogue, 
 rascal, have you not ? [Beating him. 
 
 Col. 'Sblead, I say they shan't have our venison ! 
 I'll die before I'll part with it. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Monsieur Griffard. 
 
 Mon. Griff. Brother, there's some gentlemen 
 within ask for you. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What gentlemen ? who are they ? 
 Mon. Griff. The gentlemen that have been 
 
 hunting all this morning, they're now gone up to 
 your wife's chamber. 
 
 Mon. Barn. The devil go with 'em ! 
 
 Mon. Griff. There's but one way to get rid of 
 this plague, and that is, as I told you before, to 
 set your house on fire. 
 
 Mon. Barn. That's doing myself an injury, not 
 them. 
 
 Mon. Griff. There's dogs, horses, masters, and 
 servants, all intend to stay here till to-morrow 
 morning, that they may be near the woods to hunt 
 the earlier : — besides (I overheard them) they're in 
 a kind of plot against you. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What did they say ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. You'll be angry if I should tell ye. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Can I be more angry than I am ? 
 
 Mon. Griff. They said, then, that it was the 
 greatest pleasure in the world to ruin an old lawyer 
 in the country, who had got an estate by ruining 
 honest people in town. 
 
 Mon. Barn. There's rogues for ye ! 
 
 Mon. Griff. I'm mistaken if they don't play 
 you some trick or other. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Hold, let me consider. 
 
 Mon. Griff. What are you doing ? 
 
 Mon, Barn. I'm conceiving, I shall bring forth 
 presently. — Oh, I have it! it comes from hence, 
 wit was its father, and invention its mother ; if I 
 had thought on't sooner, I should have been happy. 
 
 Mon. Griff. What is it ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Come, come along, I say ; you 
 must help me to put it in execution. 
 
 Enter Ljsetta. 
 
 Lis. Sir, my mistress desires you to walk up ; 
 she is not able, by herself, to pay the civilities due 
 to so much good company. 
 
 Mon. Bam. O the carrion ! What, does she 
 play her jests upon me too? — but, mum, he laughs 
 best that laughs last. 
 
 Lis. What shall I tell her, sir, will you come ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Yes, yes, tell her I'll come, with a 
 pox to her ! [Exit with Monsieur Griffard. 
 
 Lis. Nay, I don't wonder he should be angry : 
 — they do try his patience, that's the truth on't. 
 
 Enter Martamnb. 
 
 What, madam, have you left your mother and the 
 company ? 
 
 Mar. So much tittle tattle makes my head ache ; 
 I don't wonder my father should not love the 
 country, for besides the expense he's at, he never 
 enjoys a minute's quiet. 
 
 Lis. But let's talk of your own affairs : — have 
 you writ to your lover ? 
 
 Mar. No, for I have not had time since I saw 
 him. 
 
 Lis. Now you have time then, about it imme- 
 diately, for he's a sort of a desperate spark, and a 
 body does not know what he may do if he should 
 not hear from you. Besides you promised him, and 
 you must behave yourself like a woman of honour, 
 and keep your word. 
 
 Mar. I'll about it this minute. 
 Enter Charly. 
 
 Char. Cousin, cousin, cousin, where are you 
 going ? Come back, I have something to say to 
 you. 
 
 Lis. What does this troublesome boy want ? 
 
 Char. What's that to you what I want ? Per- 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 m 
 
 haps I have something to say to her that will make 
 her laugh. — Why sure ! what need you care ? 
 
 Mar. Don't snub my cousin Charly. — Well, 
 what is't ? 
 
 Char. Who do you think I met as I was coming 
 here, but that handsome gentleman I've seen at 
 church ogle you like any devil ? 
 
 Mar. Hush, softly, cousin. 
 
 Lis. Not a word of that for your life. 
 
 Char. Oh, I know, I should not speak on't before 
 folks ; you know I made signs to you above, that I 
 wanted to speak to you in private, didn't I, cousin ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, yes, I saw you. 
 
 Char. You see I can keep a secret. — I am no 
 girl, mun. — I believe I could tell ye fifty, and fifty 
 to that, of my sister Cicely. — Oh, she's the devil 
 of a girl ! — but she gives me money and sugar- 
 plums — and those that are kind to me fare the 
 better for it, you see, cousin. 
 
 Mar. I always said my cousin Charly was a 
 good-natured boy. 
 
 Lis. Well, and did he know you ? 
 
 Char. Yes, T think he did know me — for he 
 took me in his arms, and did so hug me and kiss 
 me ! — Between you and I, cousin, I believe he is 
 one of the best friends I have in the world. 
 
 Mar. Well, but what did he say to you ? 
 
 Char. Why, he asked me where I was going ; I 
 told him I was coming to see you ; You're a lying 
 young rogue, says he, I'm sure you dare not go see 
 your cousin : — for you must know my sister was 
 with me, and it seems he took her for a crack, and 
 I being a forward boy, he fancied I was going to 
 make love to her under a hedge, ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mar. So ! 
 
 Char. So he offered to lay me a louis-d'or that 
 I was not coming to you ; so, Done ! says I — Done ! 
 says he, — and so 'twas a bet, you know. 
 
 Mar. Certainly. 
 
 Char. So my sister's honour being concerned, 
 and having a mind to win his louis-d'or, d'ye see 
 — I bid him follow me, that he might see whether 
 I came in or no. — But he said he'd wait for me at 
 the little garden gate that opens into the fields, and 
 if I would come through the house and meet him 
 there, he should know by that whether I had been 
 in or no. 
 
 Mar. Very well. 
 
 Char. So I went there, opened the gate, and let 
 him in — 
 
 Mar. What then ? 
 
 Char. Why, then he paid me the louis-d'or, 
 that's all. 
 
 Mar. Why, that was honestly done. 
 
 Char. And then he talked to me of you, and said 
 you had the charmingest bubbies, and every time 
 he named 'em, Ha ! says he, as if he had been 
 sipping hot tea. 
 
 Mar. But was this all ? 
 
 Char. No, for he had a mind, you must know, to 
 win his louis-d'or back again ; so he laid me another 
 that I dare not come back and tell you that he was 
 there ; so, cousin, I hope you won't let me lose, for 
 if you don't go to him and tell him that I've won, 
 he won't pay me. 
 
 Mar, What, would you have me go and speak 
 to a man ? 
 
 Char. Not for any harm, but to win your poor 
 cousin a louis-d'or. I'm sure you will — for you're 
 a modest young woman, and may go without danger. 
 
 — Well, cousin, I'll swear you look very handsome 
 to-day, and have the prettiest bubbies there ; do let 
 me feel 'em, I'll swear you must. 
 
 Mar. What does the young rogue mean ? I 
 swear I'll have you whipped. 
 
 [Exeunt Charly and Mariamne. 
 
 Re-enter Colin. 
 
 Col. Ha ! ha ! ha ! our old gentleman's a wag, 
 i'faith, he'll be even with 'em for all this, ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Lis. What's the matter ? what does the fool 
 laugh at ? 
 
 Col. We an't in our house now, Lisetta., we're 
 in an inn : ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lis. How in an inn ? 
 
 Col. Yes, in an inn ; my measter has gotten an 
 old rusty sword and hung it up at our geat, and 
 writ underneath with a piece of charcoal with his 
 own fair hand, At the Sword Royal ; Entertain- 
 ment for Man and Horse ; ha! ha ! — 
 
 Lis. What whim is this ? 
 
 Col. Thou and I live at the Sword Royal, ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lis. I'll go tell my mistress of her father's extra- 
 vagance. {.Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Monsieur Barnard and Monsieur Griffard. 
 Mon. Bam. Ha ! ha ! yes I think this will do. 
 — Sirrah, Colin, you may now let in all the world ; 
 the more the better. 
 
 Col. Yes, sir. — Odsflesh ! we shall break all the 
 inns in the country : — for we have a breave hand- 
 some landlady, and a curious young lass to her 
 daughter. — Oh, here comes my young measter. — 
 We'll make him chamberlain — ha ! ha ! 
 
 Enter Dorant. 
 
 Mon. Barn. What's the matter, son ? How 
 comes it that you are all alone ? You used to do 
 me the favour to bring some of your friends along 
 with ye. 
 
 Dor. Sir, there are some of 'em coming ; I only 
 rid before to beg you to give 'em a favourable 
 reception. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Ay, why not ? It is both for your 
 honour and mine ; you shall be master. 
 
 Dor. Sir, we have now an opportunity of making 
 all the gentlemen in the country our friends. 
 
 Mon. Barn. I'm glad on't with all my heart ; 
 pray how so ? 
 
 Dor. There's an old quarrel to be made up 
 between two families, and all the company are to 
 meet at our house. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Ay, with all my heart ; but pray 
 what is the quarrel ? 
 
 Dor. O, sir, a very ancient quarrel ; it happened 
 between their great grandfathers about a duck. 
 
 Mon. Barn. A quarrel of consequence truly ! 
 
 Dor. And 'twill be a great honour to us if this 
 should be accommodated at our house. 
 
 Mon. Bam. Without doubt. 
 
 Dor. Dear sir, you astonish me with this good- 
 ness ; how shall I express this obligation ? I was 
 afraid, sir, you would not like it. 
 
 Mon. Bam. Why so ? 
 
 Dor. I thought, sir, you did not care for the 
 expense. 
 
 Mon. Bam. O Lord, I am the most altered man 
 in the world from what 1 was, I'm quite another 
 thing, mun ! But how many are there of 'em ? 
 
 Dor. Not above nine or ten of a side, sir. 
 HH 
 
466 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 Mori. Barn. Oh, we shall dispose of them easily 
 enough. 
 
 Dor. Some of 'em will be here presently ; the 
 rest I don't expect till to-morrow morning. 
 
 Mon. Bam. I hope they're good companions, 
 jolly fellows, that love to eat and drink well ? 
 
 Dor. The merriest, best-natured creatures in 
 the world, sir. 
 
 Mon. Bam. I'm very glad on't, for 'tis such 
 men I want. — Come, brother, you and I will go 
 and prepare for their reception. 
 
 [Exit with Monsieur Griffard. 
 
 Dor. Bless me, what an alteration is here ! 
 How my father's temper is changed within these 
 two or three days ! Do you know the meaning 
 of it? 
 
 Col. Why the meaning on't is, ha ! ha ! 
 
 Dor. Can you tell me the cause of this sudden 
 change, I say ? 
 
 Col. Why the cause on't is, ha 1 ha ! — 
 
 Dor. What do you laugh at, sirrah ? do you 
 know ? 
 
 Col. Ha ! — Because the old gentleman's a droll, 
 that's all. 
 
 Dor. Sirrah, if I take the cudgel — 
 
 Col. Nay, sir, don't be angry for a little harm- 
 less mirth. — But here are your friends. 
 
 Enter Messieurs La Garantiere, La Rose, and 
 Trofignac. 
 
 Dor. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Pasty 
 Hall. — See that these gentlemen's horses are taken 
 care of. [Exit Colin. 
 
 La Gar. A very fine dwelling this. 
 
 Dor. Yes, the house is tolerable. 
 
 La Rose. And a very fine lordship belongs 
 to it. 
 
 Dor. The land is good. 
 
 Trqf. This house ought to have been mine ; for 
 my grandfather sold it to his father, from whom 
 your father purchased it. 
 
 Dor. Yes, the house has gone through a great 
 many hands. 
 
 La Gar. A sign there has always been good 
 housekeeping in it. 
 
 Dor. And I hope there ever will. 
 
 Re-enter Monsieur Barnard and Monsieur Griffard, 
 dressed like Drawers. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Gentlemen, do you call ? will you 
 please to see a room, gentlemen ? — Somebody take 
 off the gentlemen's boots there. 
 
 Dor. Father ! uncle ! what is the meaning of 
 this ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. Here, show a room. — Or will you 
 please to walk into the kitchen first, gentlemen, 
 and see what you like for dinner. 
 
 La Gar. Make no preparation, sir ; your own 
 dinner is sufficient. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Very well, I understand ye. Let's 
 see, how many are there of ye ?— [Counting them.'] 
 One, two, three, four : well, gentlemen, 'tis but 
 half-a-crown a-piece for yourselves, and sixpence 
 a head for your servants ; your dinner shall be 
 ready in half an hour. Here, show the gentlemen 
 into the Apollo. 
 
 La Rose. What, sir, does your father keep an 
 inn ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. The Sword Royal, at your service, 
 
 Dor. But, father, let me speak to you ; would 
 you disgrace me ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. My wine is very good, gentlemen, 
 but, to be very plain with ye, it is dear. 
 
 Dor. Oh, I shall run distracted ! 
 
 Mon. Barn. You seem not to like my house, 
 gentlemen ; you may try all the inns in the county, 
 and not be better entertained ; but I own my bills 
 run high. 
 
 Dor. Gentlemen, let me beg the favour of 
 ye. 
 
 La Gar. Ay, my young squire of the Sword 
 Royal, you shall receive some favours from us ! 
 
 Dor. Dear Monsieur La Garantiere ! 
 
 La Gar. Here, my horse there ! 
 
 Dor. Monsieur La Rose 1 
 
 La Rose. Damn ye, ye prig I 
 
 Dor. Monsieur Trofignac ! 
 
 Trof. Go to the devil ! 
 
 {Exeunt Messieurs La Garantiere, La Rose, and 
 Trofignac. 
 
 Dor. Oh, I'm disgraced for ever ! 
 
 Mon. Barn. Now, son, this will teach you how 
 to live. 
 
 Dor. Your son ! I deny the kindred ; I'm the 
 son of a whore, and I'll burn your house about 
 your ears, you old rogue you ! [Exit. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Ha ! ha ! — 
 
 Mon. Griff. The young gentleman's in a passion. 
 
 Mon. Barn. They're all gone for all that, and 
 the Sword-Royal's the best general in Christendom. 
 
 Enter Erastus's Servant talking with Lisetta. 
 
 Lis. What, that tall gentleman I saw in the 
 garden with ye ? 
 
 Serv. The same, he's my master's uncle, and 
 ranger of the king's forests. He intends to leave 
 my master all he has. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Don't I know this scoundrel ? 
 What, is his master here ! — What do you do here, 
 rascal ? 
 
 Serv. I was asking which must be my master's 
 chamber. 
 
 Mon. Bam. Where is your master ? 
 
 Serv. Above stairs with your wife and daughter ; 
 and I want to know where he's to lie, that I may 
 put up his things. 
 
 Mon. Barn. Do you so, rascal ? 
 
 Serv. A very handsome inn this. — Here, drawer, 
 fetch me a pint of wine. 
 
 Mon. Bam. Take that, rascal ; do you banter 
 US ? [Kicks Mm out. 
 
 Enter Madame Barnard. 
 
 Mad. Bam. What is the meaning of this, hus- 
 band ? Are not you ashamed to turn your house 
 into an inn ? — and is this a dress for my spouse, 
 and a man of your character ? 
 
 Mon. Barn. I'd rather wear this dress than be 
 ruined. 
 
 Mad. Barn. You're nearer being so than you 
 imagine ; for there are some persons within who 
 have it in their power to punish you for your ridi- 
 culous folly. 
 
 Enter Erastus, leading in Mariamne. 
 
 Mon. Barn. How, sir, what means this ? who 
 sent you here ? 
 
 Erast. It was the luckiest star in your firma- 
 ment that sent me here. 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 467 
 
 Mon. Bam. Then I doubt, at my birth, the 
 planets were but in a scurvy disposition. 
 
 Erast. Killing one of the king's stags, that run 
 hither for refuge, is enough to overturn a fortune 
 much better established than yours. — However, sir, 
 if you will consent to give me your daughter, for 
 her sake I vvill bear you harmless. 
 
 Mon. Barn. No, sir ; no man shall have my 
 daughter, that won't take my house too. 
 
 Erast. Sir, I will take your house ; pay you the 
 full value of it, and you shall remain as much master 
 of it as ever. 
 
 Mon. Barn. No, sir, that won't do neither ; you 
 must be master yourself, and from this minute 
 
 begin to do the honours of it in your own per- 
 son. 
 
 Erast. Sir, I readily consent. 
 Mon. Bam. Upon that condition, and in order 
 to get rid of my house, here, take my daughter. — 
 And now, sir, if you think you've a hard bargain, 
 I don't care if I toss you in my wife, to make you 
 amends. 
 
 Well, then since all things thus are fairly sped, 
 My son in anger, and my daughter wed ; 
 My house disposed of, the sole cause of strife, 
 I now may hope to lead a happy life, 
 If I can part with my engaging wife. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes 
 
 H H2 
 
A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 [UNFINISHED.] 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sin Francis Hhadpiecb, a Country Gentleman. 
 
 Lord Loverule. 
 
 Sir Charles. 
 
 Uncle Richard, Uncle to Sir Francis Head- 
 piece. 
 
 Squire Humphry, Son to Sir Francis Head- 
 piece. 
 
 Colonel Courtly. 
 
 Captain Toupee. 
 
 John Moody, ■> _ , ,, _ _ „ 
 
 George I Servants to Sm Francis Head- 
 
 Tom, ' J PIECE - 
 
 James, Servant to Uncle Richard. 
 
 Moneybag, Steward to Lord Loverule. 
 
 Shorty ard, a Mercer. 
 
 Lady Headpiece, Wife to Sir Francis Hkad- 
 
 PIECE. 
 
 Miss Betty, her Daughter. 
 
 Lady Arabella, Wife to Lord Loverule. 
 
 Clarinda, a young unmarried Lady, 
 
 Mrs. Motherly, one that lets Lodgings. 
 
 Martilla, her Niece. 
 
 Mrs. Handy, Maid to Lady Headpiece. 
 
 Doll Tripe, Cookmaid to her Ladyship. 
 
 Deborah, Maid to Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 Trusty, Maid to Lady Arabella. 
 
 SCENE,— London. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room in Uncle Richard's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Uncle Richard. 
 
 line. Rich. What prudent cares does this deep 
 foreseeing nation take for the support of its wor- 
 shipful families ! In order to which, and that they 
 may not fail to be always significant and useful in 
 their country, it is a settled foundation-point that 
 every child that is born shall be a beggar, except 
 one ; and that he — shall be a fool. My grandfather 
 was bred a fool, as the country report ; my father 
 was a fool, as my mother used to say ; my brother 
 was a fool, to my own knowledge, though a great 
 justice of the peace ; and he has left a son that 
 will make his son a fool, or I am mistaken. The 
 lad is now fourteen years old, and but just out of 
 his Psalter. As to his honoured father, my much- 
 esteemed nephew — here I have him. — [Takes out a 
 letter.] In this profound epistle (which I have 
 just now received) there is the top and bottom of 
 him. Forty years and two is the age of him ; in 
 which it is computed, by his butler, his own person 
 has drank two-and-thirty tun of ale. The rest of 
 his time has been employed in persecuting all the 
 poor four-legged creatures round that would but 
 run away fast enough from him, to give him the 
 high-mettled pleasure of running after them. In 
 this noble employ he has broke his right arm, his 
 
 left leg, and both his collar-bones. Once he broke 
 his neck, but that did him no harm ; a nimble 
 hedge-leaper, a brother of the stirrup, that was by, 
 whipped off his horse and mended it. His estate 
 being left him with two jointures and three weighty 
 mortgages upon it, he, to make all easy, and pay 
 his brother's and sister's portions, married a pro- 
 fuse young housewife for love, with never a penny 
 of money. Having done all this, like his brave 
 ancestors, for the support of the family, he now 
 finds children and interest-money make such a 
 bawling about his ears, that he has taken the 
 friendly advice of his neighbour, the good lord 
 Courtlove, to run his estate two thousand pounds 
 more in debt, that he may retrieve his affairs by 
 being a parliament-man, and bringing his wife to 
 London to play off a hundred pounds at dice with 
 ladies of quality before breakfast. But let me read 
 this wiseacre's letter once over again. — [Reads.] 
 Most honoured uncle, I do not doubt but you have 
 much rejoiced at my success in my election. It has 
 cost me some money, I own ; but what of all that ! 
 I am a parliament -man, and that will set all to 
 rights. I have lived in the country all my days, 
 "'tis true ; but what then ! I have made speeches at 
 the sessions, and in the vestry too, and can else- 
 where, perhaps, as well as some others that do ; 
 and I have a noble friend hard by, who has let me 
 into some small knowledge of what's what at West- 
 
A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 409 
 
 minster. Arid so, that I may be always at hand 
 to serve my counfr.y, I have consulted with my wife 
 about taking a house at London, and bringing her 
 and my family up to town ; which, her opinion is, 
 will be the rightest thing in the world. — My wife's 
 opinion about bringing her to London ! — 111 read 
 no more of thee — beast ! 
 
 [Strikes the letter down with his stick. 
 
 Enter James hastily. 
 
 James. Sir, sir ! do you hear the news ? They 
 are all a-coming. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Ay, sirrah, I hear it, with a pox to it ! 
 
 James. Sir, here's John Moody arrived already ; 
 he's stumping about the streets in his dirty boots, 
 and asking every man he meets, if they can tell 
 where he may have a good lodging for a parlia- 
 ment-man, till he can hire such a house as becomes 
 him. He tells them his lady and all the family are 
 coming too ; and that they are so nobly attended 
 they care not a fig for anybody. Sir, they have 
 added two cart-horses to the four old geldings, 
 because my lady will have it said she came to town 
 in nercoach-and-six; and — ha! ha! — heavy George 
 the ploughman rides postilion ! 
 
 Unc. Rich. Very well ; the journey begins as it 
 should do. — James ! 
 
 James. Sir ! 
 
 Unc. Rich. Dost know whether they bring all 
 the children with them ? 
 
 James. Only Squire Humphry and Miss Betty, 
 sir ; the other six are put to board at half-a-crown 
 a week a head, with Joan Growse at Smoke-dung- 
 hill-farm. 
 
 Unc. Rich. The Lord have mercy upon all 
 good folks ! what work will these people make ! 
 Dost know when they'll be here ? 
 
 James. John says, sir, they'd have been here last 
 night, but that the old wheezy-belly horse tired, 
 and the two fore-wheels came crash down at once 
 in Waggonrut-lane. Sir, they were cruelly loaden, 
 as I understand ; my lady herself, he says, laid on 
 four mail-trunks, besides the great deal-box, which 
 fat Tom sate upon behind. 
 
 Unc. Rich. So ! 
 
 James. Then within the coach there was Sir 
 Francis, my lady, the great fat lapdog, Squire 
 Humphry, Miss Betty, my lady's maid, Mrs. 
 Handy, and Doll Tripe the cook ; but she puked 
 with sitting backward, so they mounted her into 
 the coach-box. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Very well. 
 
 James. Then, sir, for fear of a famine before they 
 should get to the baiting-place, there was such 
 baskets of plum-cake, Dutch-gingerbread, Che- 
 shire-cheese, Naples biscuits, maccaroons, neats'- 
 tongues, and cold boiled beef; — and in case of 
 sickness, such bottles of usquebaugh, black-cherry 
 brandy, cinnamon-water, sack, tent, and strong- 
 beer, as made the old coach crack again. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Well said ! 
 
 James. And for defence of this good cheer and 
 my lady's little pearl necklace, there was the family 
 basket-hilt sword, the great Turkish cimiter, the 
 old blunderbuss, a good bag of bullets, and a great 
 horn of gunpowder. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Admirable ! 
 
 James. Then for bandboxes, they were so be- 
 piled up — to sir Francis's nose, that he could 
 only peep out at a chance hole with one eye, as if 
 
 he were viewing the country through a perspective- 
 glass. — But, sir, if you please, I'll go look after 
 John Moody a little, for fear of accidents ; for he 
 never was in London before, you know, but one 
 week, and then he was kidnapped into a house of 
 ill repute, where he exchanged all his money and 
 
 clothes for a um ! So I'll go look after him, 
 
 sir. \_Exit. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Nay, I don't doubt but this wise 
 expedition will be attended with more adventures 
 than one. This noble head and supporter of his 
 family will, as an honest country gentleman, get 
 credit enough amongst the tradesmen, to run so far 
 in debt in one session, as will make him just fit for 
 a jail when he's dropped at the next election. He 
 will make speeches in the house, to show the 
 government of what importance he can be to them, 
 by which they will see he can be of no importance 
 at all ; and he will find, in time, that he stands 
 valued at (if he votes right) being sometimes — 
 invited to dinner ! Then his wife (who has ten 
 times more of a jade about her than she yet knows 
 of) will so improve in this rich soil, she will, in one 
 month, learn every vice the finest lady in the town 
 can teach her. She will be extremely courteous to 
 the fops who make love to her in jest, and she will 
 be extremely grateful to those who do it in earnest. 
 She will visit all ladies that will let her into their 
 houses, and she will run in debt to all the shop- 
 keepers that will let her into their books. In short, 
 before her husband has got five pound by a speech 
 at Westminster, she will have lost five hundred at 
 cards and dice in the parish of St. James's. — Wife 
 
 and family to London with a pox 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Mrs. Mgtherly's 
 House. 
 
 Enter James, and John Moody. 
 
 James. Dear John Moody, I am so glad to see 
 you in London once more. 
 
 John. And I you, dear Mr. James. Give me a 
 kiss. — Why that's friendly. 
 
 James. I wish they had been so, John, that you 
 met with when you were here before. 
 
 John. Ah — murrain upon all rogues and whores ! 
 I say. But I am grown so cunning now, the deel 
 himself can't handle me. I have made a notable 
 bargain for these lodgings here, we are to pay but 
 five pounds a-week, and have all the house to our- 
 selves. 
 
 James. Where are the people that belong to it 
 to be then ? 
 
 John. Oh ! there's only the gentlewoman, her 
 two maids, and a cousin, a very pretty, civil young 
 woman truly, and the maids are the merriest 
 grigs— 
 
 James. Have a care, John. 
 
 John. Oh, fear nothing ; we did so play toge- 
 ther last night. 
 
 James. Hush ! here comes my master. 
 
 Enter Uncle Richard. 
 
 Unc. Rich. What ! John has taken these lodg- 
 ings, has he ? 
 
 James. Yes, sir, he has taken 'em. [Exit. 
 
 Unc. Rich. O John ! how dost do, honest John ? 
 I I am glad to see thee with all my heart. 
 
470 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 John. I humbly thank your worship. I'm staut 
 still, and a faithful awd servant to th' family. 
 Heaven prosper aw that belong to't. 
 
 Unc. Rich. What, they are all upon the road ? 
 
 John. As mony as the awd coach would hauld, 
 sir : the Lord send 'em well to tawn. 
 
 Unc. Rich. And well out on't again, John, ha ! 
 
 John. Ah, sir 1 you are a wise man, so am I : 
 home's home, I say. I wish we get any good 
 here. I's sure we ha' got little upo' the road. 
 Some mischief or other aw the day long. Slap ! 
 goes one thing, crack ! goes another ; my lady 
 cries out for driving fast ; the awd cattle are for 
 going slow ; Roger whips, they stand still and 
 kick ; nothing but a sort of a contradiction aw the 
 journey long. My lady would gladly have been 
 here last night, sir, though there were no lodgings 
 got ; but her ladyship said, she did naw care for 
 that, she : d lie in the inn where the horses stood, as 
 long as it w.as in London. 
 
 Unc. Rich. These ladies, these ladies, John ! — 
 
 John. Ah, sir, I have seen a little of 'em, 
 though not so much as my betters. Your worship 
 is naw married yet ? 
 
 Unc. Rich. No, John, no ; I am an old bache- 
 lor still. 
 
 John. Heavens bless you, and preserve you, sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. I think you have lost your good 
 woman, John ? 
 
 John. No, sir, that have I not ; Bridget sticks 
 to me still, sir. She was for coming to London 
 top, but, no, says I, there maybe mischief enough 
 done without you. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Why that was bravely spoken, John, 
 and like a man. 
 
 John. Sir, were my measter but hafe the mon 
 that I am, gadswookers — though he'll speak stautly 
 too sometimes, but then he canno hawd it ; no, he 
 canno hawd it. 
 
 Enter Deborah. 
 
 Deb. Mr. Moody, Mr. Moody, here's the coach 
 come. 
 
 John. Already ! no sure. 
 
 Deb. Yes, yes, it's at the door, they are getting 
 out ; my mistress is run to receive 'em. 
 
 John. And so will I, as in duty bound. 
 
 [Exit with Deborah. 
 
 Unc. Rich. And I will stay here, not being in 
 duty bound to do the honours of this house. 
 
 Enter Sir Francis Headpiece, Lady Headpiece, 
 'Squire Humphry, Miss Betty, Mrs. Handy, John 
 Moody, and Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 Lady Head. Do you hear, Moody, let all the 
 things be first laid down here, and then carried 
 where they'll be used. 
 
 John. They shall, an't please your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Head. What, my Uncle Richard here to 
 receive us ! This is kind indeed : sir, I am extremely 
 glad to see you. 
 
 Unc. Rich. [Salutes her.~\ Niece, your servant. 
 — [Aside. ] I am extremely sorry to see you in the 
 worst place I know in the world for a good woman 
 to grow better in. — [Aloud.} Nephew, I am your 
 servant too ; but I don't know how to bid you 
 welcome. 
 
 Sir Fran. I am sorry for that, sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Nay, 'tis for your own sake : I'm 
 not concerned. 
 
 Sir Fran. I hope, uncle, I shall give you such 
 
 weighty reasons for what I have done, as shall 
 convince you I am a prudent man. 
 
 Unc. Rich. That wilt thou never convince me 
 of, whilst thou shalt live. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Fran. Here, Humphry, come up to your 
 uncle. — Sir, this is your godson. 
 
 Squire Hum. Honoured uncle and godfather, I 
 crave leave to ask your blessing. [Kneels. 
 
 Unc. Rich. [Aside.'] Thou art a numskull I see 
 already. — [Puts his hand on his head.] There, 
 thou hast it. And if it will do thee any good, may 
 it be to make thee, at least, as wise a man as thy 
 father. 
 
 Lady Head. Miss Betty, don't you see your 
 Uncle ? 
 
 Unc. Rich. And for thee, my dear, mayst thou 
 be, at least, as good a woman as thy mother. 
 
 Miss Bet. I wish I may ever be so handsome, 
 sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Ha ! Miss Pert ! now that's a 
 thought that seems to have been hatched in the 
 girl on this side Highgate. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Fran. Her tongue is a little nimble, sir. 
 
 Lady Head. That's only from her country edu- 
 cation, sir Francis, she has been kept there too 
 long ; I therefore brought her to London, sir, to 
 learn more reserve and modesty. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Oh, the best place in the world for it ! 
 Every woman she meets will teach her something of 
 it. There's the good gentlewoman of the house 
 looks like a knowing person, even she perhaps will 
 be so good to read her a lesson, now and then, 
 upon that subject — [Aside.] An arrant bawd, or 
 I have no skill in physiognomy ! 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Alas, sir, miss won't stand long in 
 need of my poor instructions ; if she does, they'll 
 be always at her service. 
 
 Lady Head. Very obliging indeed, Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 Sir Fran. Very kind and civil truly ; I believe 
 we are got into a mighty good house here. 
 
 Unc. Rich. [Aside.] For good business very 
 probable. — [Aloud.] Well, niece, your servant for 
 to-night ; you have a great deal of affairs upon your 
 hands here, so I won't hinder you. 
 
 Lady Head. I believe, sir, I shan't have much 
 less every day, while I, stay in this town, of one 
 sort or other. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Why, 'tis a town of much action 
 indeed. 
 
 Miss Bet. And my mother did not come to it 
 to be idle, sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Nor you neither, I dare say, young 
 mistress. 
 
 Miss Bet. I hope not, sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Um ! miss Mettle. — [Going, Sir 
 Francis following him.] Where are you going, 
 nephew ? 
 
 Sir Fran. Only to attend you to the door, sir. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Phu ! no ceremony with me ; you'll 
 find I shall use none with you or your family. 
 
 Sir Fran. I must do as you command me, sir. 
 [Exit Uncle Richard. 
 
 Miss Bet. This uncle Richard, papa, seems but 
 a crusty sort of an old fellow. 
 
 Sir Fran. He is a little odd, child ; but you 
 must be very civil to him, for he has a great deal of 
 money, and nobody knows who he may give it to. 
 
 Lady Head. Phu, a fig for his money ! you have 
 so many projects of late about money, since you 
 are a parliament-man, we must make ourselves 
 
SGENE II. 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 471 
 
 slaves to his testy humours, seven years perhaps, 
 in hopes to be his heirs ; and then he'll be just old 
 enough to marry his maid. — But pray let us take 
 care of our things here : are they all brought in yet ? 
 
 Mrs. Hand. Almost, my lady ; there are only 
 some of the bandboxes behind, and a few odd 
 things. 
 
 Lady Head. Let 'em be fetched in presently. 
 
 Mrs. Hand. They are here. — Come, bring the 
 things in. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 Is there all yet ? 
 
 Serv. All but the great basket of apples, and the 
 goose-pye. 
 
 Enter Doll Tripe. 
 
 Doll. Ah, my lady ! we're aw undone ; the 
 goose-pye's gwon. 
 
 All. Gone? 
 
 Sir Fran. The goose-pye gone ? how ? 
 
 Doll. Why, sir, I had got it fast under my arm 
 to bring it in, but being almost dark, up comes two 
 of these thin starved London rogues, one gives me 
 a great kick o' the — here ; [Laying her hand upon 
 her backside.} while t'other hungry varlet twitched 
 the dear pye out of my hands, and away they run 
 dawn street like two greyhounds. I cried out fire! 
 but heavy George and fat Tom are after 'em with 
 a vengeance ; they'll sauce their jackets for 'em, 
 I'll warrant 'em. 
 
 Enter George with a bloody face, and Tom. 
 So, have you catched 'em ? 
 
 George. Catched em ! the gallows catch 'em for 
 me ! I had naw run hafe the length of our beam, 
 before somewhat fetched me such a wherry across 
 the shins, that dawn came I flop o' my feace all 
 along in the channel, and thought I should ne'er 
 ha' gotten up again ; but Tom has skaward after 
 them, and cried murder as he'd been stuck. 
 
 Tom. Yes, and straight upo' that, swap comes 
 somewhat across my forehead, with such a force, 
 that dawn came I like an ox. 
 
 Squire Hum. So, the poor pye's quite gone then ! 
 
 Tom. Gone, young measter ! yeaten I believe 
 by this time. These I suppose are what they call 
 sharpers in this country. 
 
 Squire Hum. It was a rare good pye. 
 
 Doll. As e'er these hands put pepper to. 
 
 Lady Head. Pray Mrs. Motherly, do they make 
 a practice of these things often here ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Madam, they'll twitch a rump of 
 beef out of a boiling copper ; and for a silver tan- 
 kard, they make no more conscience of that, tr „u 
 if it were a Tunbridge sugar-box. 
 
 Sir Fran. I wish the coach and horses, George, 
 were safe got to the inn. Do you and Roger take 
 special care that nobody runs away with them, as 
 you go thither. 
 
 George. I believe, sir, our cattle woant yeasily be 
 run away with to-night ; but weest take best care 
 we con of them, poor sauls ! {Exit. 
 
 Sir Fran. Do so, pray now. 
 
 Squire Hum. Feather, I had rather they had 
 run away with heavy George than the goose-pye, 
 a slice of it before supper to night would have been 
 pure. 
 
 Lady Head. This boy is always thinking of his 
 belly. 
 
 Sir Fran. But, my dear, you may allow him to 
 be a little hungry after a journey. 
 
 Lady Head. Pray, good sir Francis, he has been 
 constantly eating in the coach, and out of the 
 coach, above seven hours this day. I wish my 
 poor girl could eat a quarter as much. 
 
 Miss Bet. Mama, I could eat a good deal more 
 than I do, but then I should grow fat mayhap, like 
 him, and spoil my shape. 
 
 Lady Head. Mrs. Motherly, will you be so kind 
 to tell them where they shall carry the things ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Madam, Til do the best I can : I 
 doubt our closets will scarce hold 'em all, but we 
 have garrets and cellars, which, with the help of 
 hiring a store-room, I hope may do. — [ To Tom.] 
 Sir, will you be so good to help my maids a little 
 in carrying away the things? 
 
 Tom. With all my heart, forsooth, if I con but 
 see my way ; but these whoresons have awmost 
 knocked my eyen awt. {They carry off the things. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Will your ladyship please to refresh 
 yourself with a dish of tea, after your fatigue ? I 
 think I have pretty good. 
 
 Lady Head. If you please, Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 {Exit Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 Squire Hum. Would not a good tankard of 
 strong beer, nutmeg, and sugar, do better, feather, 
 with a toast and some cheese ? 
 
 Sir Fran. I think it would, son. — Here, John 
 Moody, get us a tankard of good hearty stuff 
 presently. 
 
 John. Sir, here's Norfolk-nog to be had at next 
 door. 
 
 Squire Hum. That's best of all, feather ; but 
 make haste with it, John. {Exit John Moody. 
 
 Lady Head. Well, I wonder, Sir Francis, you 
 will encourage that lad to swill his guts thus with 
 such beastly, lubberly liquor : if it were bur- 
 gundy, or champagne, something might be said 
 for't ; they'd perhaps give him some wit and 
 spirit ; but such heavy, muddy stuff as this will 
 make him quite stupid. 
 
 Sir Fran. Why you know, my dear, I have 
 drank good ale and strong beer these thirty years, 
 andbyyour permission I don't know that I want wit. 
 
 Miss Bet. But you might have had more, papa, 
 if you had been governed by my mother. 
 
 Re-enter John Moody, with a tankard, $c. 
 
 Sir Fran. Daughter, he that is governed by his 
 wife, has no wit at all. 
 
 Miss Bet. Then I hope I shall marry a fool, 
 father, for I shall love to govern dearly. 
 
 Sir Fran. Here, Humphry, here's to thee. — 
 [Drinks.] You are too pert, child, it don't do 
 well in a young woman. 
 
 Lady Head. Pray, sir Francis, don't snub her, 
 she has a fine growing spirit, and if you check her 
 so, you'll make her as dull as her brother there. 
 
 Squire Hum. Indeed, mother, I think my sister 
 is too forward. [After drinking a long draught. 
 
 Miss Bet. You, you think I'm too forward ! 
 what have you to' do to think, brother Heavy ? 
 you are too fat to think of anything but your belly. 
 
 Lady Head. Well said, miss ; he's none of your 
 master, though he's your elder brother. 
 
 Re-enter George. 
 
 George. Sir, I have no good opinion of this 
 tawne, it's made up of mischief, I think. 
 
 Sir Fran. Why, waht's the matter now ? 
 
 George, l'se tell your worship ; before we were 
 gotten to the street end, a great luggerheaded cart, 
 
472 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 with wheels as thick as a good brick wall, laid hawld 
 of the coach, and has pood it aw to bits. An this be 
 London, wa'd we were all weel i'th' country again. 
 
 Miss Bet. What have you to do, sir, to wish us 
 all in the country again, lubber ? I hope we shan't 
 go in the country again these seven years, mama, 
 let twenty coaches be pulled to pieces. 
 
 Sir Fran. Hold your tongue, Betty. — [To 
 George.] Was Roger in no fault in this ? 
 
 George. No, sir, nor I neither. Are not you 
 ashamed, says Roger to the carter, to do such an 
 unkind thing to strangers ? No, says he, you bump- 
 kin. — Sir, he did the thing on very purpose, and so 
 the folks said that stood by ; but they said your 
 worship need na be concerned, for you might have 
 a lawsuit with him when you pleased, that would 
 not cost you above a hundred pounds, and mayhap 
 you might get the better of him. 
 
 Sir Fran. I'll try what I can do with him, egad, 
 I'll make such — 
 
 Squire Hum. Feather, have him before the par- 
 liament. 
 
 Sir Fran. And so I will : I'll make him know 
 who I am. Where does he live ? 
 
 George. I believe in London, sir. 
 
 Sir Fran. What's the villain's name ? 
 
 George. I think I heard somebody call him Dick. 
 
 Sir Fran. Where did he go ? 
 
 George. Sir, he went home. 
 
 Sir Fran. Where's that ? 
 
 George. By my troth I do naw knaw. I heard 
 him say he had nothing more to do with us to- 
 night, and so he'd go home and smoke a pipe. 
 
 Lady Head. Come, sir Francis, don't put your- 
 self in a heat, accidents will happen to people in 
 travelling abroad to see the world. Eat your 
 supper heartily, go to bed, sleep quietly, and to- 
 morrow see if you can buy a handsome second- 
 hand coach for present use, bespeak a new one, 
 and then all's easy. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. — Another Room in the same. 
 Enter Colonel Courtly. 
 
 Col Who's that, Deborah ? 
 
 Enter Deborah. 
 
 Deb. At your service, sir. 
 
 Col. What, do you keep open house here ? I 
 found the street door as wide as it could gape. 
 
 Deb. Sir, we are all in a bustle, we have lodgers 
 come in to-night, the house full. 
 
 Col. Where's your mistress ? 
 
 Deb. Prodigious busy with her company ; but 
 I'll tell Mrs. Martilla you are here, I believe she'll 
 come to you. 
 
 Col. That will do as well. — [Exit Deborah. ] 
 Poor Martilla ! she's a very good girl, and I have 
 loved her a great while. I think six months 
 it is, since, like a merciless highwayman, I made 
 her deliver all she had about her ; she begged 
 hard, poor thing, I'd leave her one small bauble. 
 Had I let her keep it, I believe she had still kept 
 me. Could women but refuse their ravenous 
 lovers that one dear destructive moment, how 
 long might they reign over them ! — But for a bane 
 to both their joys and ours, when they have indulged 
 us with such favours as to make us adore them, they 
 are not able to refuse us that one which puts an 
 end to our devotion. 
 
 Enter Martilla. 
 Martilla, how dost thou do, my child ? 
 
 Mar. As well as a losing gamester can. 
 
 Col. Why, what have you lost ? 
 
 Mar. I have lost you. 
 
 Col. How came you to lose me ? 
 
 Mar. By losing myself. 
 
 Col. We can be friends still. 
 
 Mar. Dull ones. 
 
 Col. Useful ones perhaps. Shall I help thee to 
 a good husband ? 
 
 Mar. Not if I were rich enough to live without one. 
 
 Col. I'm sorry I am not rich enough to make 
 thee so ; but we won't talk of melancholy things. 
 Who are these folks your aunt has got in her house? 
 
 Mar. One sir Francis Headpiece and his lady, 
 with a son and daughter. 
 
 Col. Headpiece ! cotso, I know 'em a little. I 
 met with 'em at a race in the country two years 
 since ; a sort of blockhead, is not he ? 
 
 Mar. So they say. 
 
 Col. His wife seemed a mettled gentlewoman, if 
 she had had but a fair field to range in. 
 
 Mar. That she won't want now, for they stay 
 in town the whole winter. 
 
 Col. Oh, that will do to show all her parts in. 
 Enter Mrs. Motherly. 
 How do you do, my old acquaintance ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. At your service you know always, 
 colonel. 
 
 Col. I hear you have got good company in the 
 house. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. I hope it will prove so ; he's a par- 
 liament man only, colonel, you know there's some 
 danger in that. 
 
 Col. Oh, never fear, he'll pay his landlady, 
 though he don't pay his butcher. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. His wife's a clever woman. 
 
 Col. So she is. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. How do you know ? 
 
 Col. I have seen her in the country, and 1 begin 
 to think I'll visit her in town. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. You begin to look like a rogue. 
 
 Col. What, your wicked fancies are stirring 
 already ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Yours afe, or I'm mistaken. But 
 — I'll have none of your pranks played upon her. 
 
 Col. Why she's no girl, she can defend herself. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. But what if she won't ? 
 
 Col. Why, then, she can blame neither you nor me. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. You'll never be quiet till you get 
 my windows broke ; but I must go and attend my 
 lodgers, so good night. 
 
 Col. Do so, and give my service to my lady, 
 and tell her, if she'll give me leave, I'll do myself 
 the honour to-morrow to come and tender my 
 services to her, as long as she stays in town. — 
 [Aside.] If it ben't too long. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. I'll tell her what a devil you are, 
 and advise her to have a care of you. 
 
 Col. Do, that will make her every time she sees 
 me think of what I'd be at. — [Exit Mrs. Mother- 
 ly.] Dear Martilla, good night, I know you won't 
 be my hindrance ; I'll do you as good a turn some 
 time or other. Well, I am so glad, you don't love 
 me too much. 
 
 Mar. When that's our fate, as too, too oft we 
 prove, 
 How bitterly we pay the past delights of love! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 473 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE L- 
 
 ■A Room in Lord Lovertjle's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lord Loverule and Lady Arabella. 
 Lady Ara. Well, look you, my lord, I can bear 
 it no longer ; nothing still but about my faults, my 
 faults ! an agreeable subject truly ! 
 
 Lord Love. But, madam, if you won't bear of 
 your faults, how is it likely you should ever mend 
 'em? 
 
 Lady Ara. Why, I don't intend to mend 'em. 
 I can't mend 'em, I have told you so a hundred 
 times ; you know I have tried to do it, over and 
 over, and it hurts me so I can't bear it. Why, 
 don't you know, my lord, that whenever (just to 
 please you only) I have gone about to wean myself 
 from a fault (one of my faults I mean that I love 
 dearly), han't it put me so out of humour you 
 could scarce endure the house with me ? 
 
 Lord Love. Look you, my dear, it is very true, 
 that in weaning one's self from— 
 
 Lady Ara. Weaning ! why, ay, don't you see, 
 that even in weaning poor children from the nurse 
 it's almost the death of 'em? and don't you see 
 your true religious people, when they go about to 
 wean themselves, and have solemn days of fasting 
 and praying, on purpose to help them, does it not j 
 so disorder them, there's no coming near 'em; are 
 they not as cross as the devil ? and then they don't 
 do the business neither ; for next day their faults 
 are just where they were the day before. 
 
 Lord Love. But, madam, can you think it a rea- 
 sonable thing to be abroad till two o'clock in the 
 morning, when you know I go to bed at eleven ? 
 
 Lady Ara. And can you think it a wise thing 
 (to talk your own way now) to go to bed at 
 eleven, when you know I am likely to disturb you 
 by coming there at three ? 
 
 Lord Love. Well, the manner of women's living 
 of late is insupportable, and some way or other — 
 
 Lady Ara. It's to be mended, I suppose. — Pray, 
 my lord, one word of fair argument. You com- 
 plain of my late hours ; I of your early ones ; so 
 far we are even, you'll allow. But which gives us 
 the best figure in the eye of the polite world ? My 
 two o'clock speaks life, activity, spirit, and vigour ; 
 your eleven has a dull, drowsy, stupid, good-for- 
 nothing sound with it. It savours much of a me- 
 chanic, who must get to bed betimes that he may 
 rise early to open his shop, faugh ! 
 
 Lord Love. I thought to go to bed early and 
 rise so, was ever esteemed a right practice for all 
 people. 
 
 Lady Ara. Beasts do it. 
 
 Lord Love. Fy, fy, madam, fy! But 'tis not 
 your ill hours alone disturb me ; but the ill com- 
 pany who occasion those ill hours. 
 
 Lady Ara. And pray what ill company may 
 those be ? 
 
 Lord Love. Why, women that lose their money, 
 and men that win it : especially when 'tis to be 
 paid out of their husband's estate ; or if that fail, 
 and the creditor be a little pressing, the lady will 
 perhaps be obliged to try if the gentleman, instead 
 of gold, will accept of a trinket. 
 
 Lady Ara. My lord, you grow scurrilous, and 
 you'll make me hate you. I'll have you to know 
 I keep company with the politest people in the 
 town, and the assemblies I frequent are full of such. 
 
 Lord Love. So are the churches now and then. 
 
 Lady Ara. My friends frequent them often, as 
 well as the assemblies. 
 
 Lord Love. They would do it oftener, if a groom 
 of the chamber there were allowed to furnish cards 
 and dice to the company. 
 
 Lady Ara. You'd make a woman mad ! 
 
 Lord Love. You'd make a man a fool. 
 
 Lady Ara. If Heaven has made you otherwise, 
 that won't be in my power. 
 
 Lord Love. I'll try if I can prevent your making 
 me a beggar at least. 
 
 Lady Ara. A beggar ! Croesus ! I'm out of 
 patience ! — I won't come home till four to-morrow 
 morning. 
 
 Lord Love. I'll order the doors to be locked at 
 twelve. 
 
 Lady Ara. Then I won't come home till to- 
 morrow night. 
 
 Lord Love. Then you shall never come home 
 again, madam. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Ara. There he has knocked me down. 
 My father upon our marriage said, wives were 
 come to that pass, he did not think it fit they 
 should be trusted with pin-money, and so would 
 not let this man settle one penny upon his poor 
 wife, to serve her at a dead lift for separate main- 
 tenance. 
 
 Enter Clarenda. 
 
 Clar. Good-morrow, madam; how do you do 
 to-day ? you seem to be in a little fluster. 
 
 Lady Ara. My lord has been in one, and as I 
 am the most complaisant poor creature in the 
 world, I put myself into one too, purely to be 
 suitable company to him. 
 
 Clar. You are prodigious good ; but surely it 
 must be mighty agreeable when a man and his wife 
 can give themselves the same turn of conversation. 
 
 Lady Ara. Oh, the prettiest thing in the world ! 
 
 Clar. But yet, though I believe there's no life 
 so happy as a married one, in the main ; yet I 
 fancy, where two people are so very much together, 
 they must often be in want of something to talk 
 upon. 
 
 Lady Ara. Clarinda, you are the most mistaken 
 in the world ; married people have things to talk 
 of, child, that never enter into the imagination of 
 others. Why now, here's my lord and I, we han't 
 been married above two short years, you know, and 
 we have already eight or ten things constantly in 
 bank, that whenever we want company, we can 
 talk of any one of them for two hours together, 
 and the subject never the flatter. It will be as 
 fresh next day, if we have occasion for it, as it was 
 the first day it entertained us. 
 
 Clar. Why that must be wonderful pretty. 
 
 Lady Ara. Oh, there's no life like it ! This 
 very day now, for example, my lord and I, after a 
 pretty cheerful tete-a-ttte dinner, sat down by the 
 fireside, in an idle, indolent, picktooth way for a 
 while, as if we had not thought of one another's 
 
474 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 being in the room. At last (stretching himself, 
 and yawning twice), my dear, says he, you came 
 home very late last night. 'Twas but two in the 
 morning, says I. I was in bed (yawning) by 
 eleven, says he. So you are every night, says I. 
 Well, says he, I am amazed how you can sit up 
 so late. How can you be amazed, says I, at a 
 thing that happens so often ? Upon which we 
 entered into conversation. And though this is a 
 point has entertained us above fifty times already, 
 we always find so many pretty new things to say 
 upon't, that I believe in my soul it will last as long 
 as we live. 
 
 Clar. But in such sort of family dialogues 
 (though extremely well for passing of time) don't 
 there now and then enter some little witty sort of 
 bitterness ? 
 
 Lady Ara. O yes ; which don't do amiss at all, 
 a little something that's sharp, moderates the 
 extreme sweetness of matrimonial society, which 
 would else perhaps be cloying. Though to tell 
 you the truth, Clarinda, I think we squeezed a 
 little too much lemon into it this bout ; for it j 
 grew so sour at last, that I think I almost told him 
 he was a fool ; and he talked something oddly of 
 turning me out of doors. 
 
 Clar. Oh, but have a care of that ! 
 
 Lady Ara. Why, to be serious, Clarinda, what 
 would you have a woman do in my case ? There 
 is no one thing he can do in this world to please 
 me — except giving me money ; and that he is 
 growing weary of ; and I at the same time (partly 
 by nature, and partly perhaps by keeping the best 
 company) do with my soul love almost everything 
 that he hates. I dote upon assemblies, adore 
 masquerades, my heart bounds at a ball ; I love 
 play to distraction, cards enchant me, and dice — 
 put me out of my little wits. — Dear, dear hazard, 
 what music there is in the rattle of the dice, com- 
 pared to a sleepy opera ! Do you ever play at 
 hazard, Clarinda ? 
 
 Clar. Never; I don't think it sits well upon 
 women ; it's very masculine, and has too much of a 
 rake ; you see how it makes the men swear and 
 curse. Sure it must incline the women to do the 
 same too, if they durst give way to it. 
 
 Lady Ara. So it does ; but hitherto, for a little 
 decency, we keep it in ; and when, in spite of our 
 teeth, an oath gets into our mouths, we swallow it. 
 
 Clar. That's enough to burst you ; but in time 
 perhaps you'll let 'em fly as they do. 
 
 Lady Ara. Why 'tis probable we may, for the 
 pleasure of all polite women's lives now, you know, 
 is founded upon entire liberty to do what they will. 
 But shall I tell you what happened t'other night ? 
 Having lost all my money but ten melancholy 
 guineas, and throwing out for them, what do you 
 think slipped from me? 
 
 Clar. An oath ? 
 
 Lady Ara. Gud soons ! 
 
 Clar. O Lord ! O Lord ! did not it frighten 
 you out of your wits ? 
 
 Lady Ara. Clarinda, I thought a gun had gone 
 off. — But I forget, you are a prude, and design to 
 live soberly. 
 
 Clar. Why 'tis true ; both my nature and 
 education do in a good degree incline me that way. 
 
 Lady Ara. Wellj surely to be sober is to be 
 terribly dull. You will marry, won't you ? 
 
 Clar. I can't tell but I may. 
 
 Lady Ara. And you'll live in town ? 
 
 Clar. Half the year I should like it very well. 
 
 Lady Ara. And you would live in London half 
 a year, to be sober in it ? 
 
 Clar. Yes. 
 
 Lady Ara. Why can't you as well go and be 
 sober in the country ? 
 
 Clar. So I would the t'other half year. 
 
 Lady Ara. And pray what pretty scheme of life 
 would you form now, for your summer and winter 
 sober entertainments ? 
 
 Clar. A scheme that, I think, might very well 
 content us. 
 
 Lady Ara. Let's hear it. 
 
 Clar. I could in summer pass my time very 
 agreeably, in riding soberly, in walking soberly, in 
 sitting under a tree soberly, in gardening soberly, 
 in reading soberly, in hearing a little music soberly, 
 in conversing with some agreeable friends soberly, 
 in working soberly, in managing my family and 
 children (if I had any) soberly, and possibly by 
 these means I might induce my husband to be 
 as sober as myself. 
 
 Lady Ara. Well, Clarinda, thou art a most 
 contemptible creature. But let's have the sober 
 town scheme too, for I'm charmed with the coun- 
 try one. 
 
 Clar. You shall, and I'll try to stick to my 
 sobriety there too. 
 
 Lady Ara. If you do, you'll make me sick of 
 you. But let's hear it however. 
 
 Clar. I would entertain myself in observing the 
 new fashions soberly, I would please myself in new 
 clothes soberly, I would divert myself with agree- 
 able friends at home and abroad soberly, I would 
 play at quadrille soberly, I would go to court 
 soberly, I would go to some plays soberly, I would 
 go to operas soberly, and I think I could go once, 
 or, if I liked my company, twice to a masquerade 
 soberly. 
 
 Lady Ara. If it had not been for that last piece 
 of sobriety, I was going to call for some surfeit- 
 water. 
 
 Clar. Why don't you think, that with the fur- 
 ther aid of breakfasting, dining, supping, and 
 sleeping (not to say a word of devotion), the four- 
 and-twenty hours might roll over in a tolerable 
 manner ? 
 
 Lady Ara. How I detest that word, tolerable ! 
 And so will a country relation of ours, that's newly 
 come to town, or I'm mistaken. 
 
 Clar. Who is that ? 
 
 Lady Ara. Even my dear lady Headpiece. 
 
 Clar. Is she come ? 
 
 Lady Ara. Yes, her sort of a tolerable husband 
 has gotten to be chosen parliament-man at some 
 simple town or other, upon which she has persuaded 
 him to bring her and her folks up to London. 
 
 Clar. That's good ; I think she was never here 
 before. 
 
 Lady Ara. Not since she was nine years old ; 
 but she has had an outrageous mind to it ever since 
 she was married. 
 
 Clar. Then she'll make the most of it, I suppose, 
 now she is come, 
 
 Lady Ara. Depend upon that. 
 
 Clar. We must go and visit her. 
 
 Lady Ara. By all means ; and may be you'll 
 have a mind to offer her your tolerable scheme for 
 her London diversion this winter ; if you do, 
 
SCENE 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 475 
 
 mistress, I'll show her mine too, and you shall see 
 she'll so despise you and adore me, that if I do 
 but chirrup to her, she'll hop after me like a tame 
 sparrow, the town round. But there's your 
 admirer I see coming in, I'll oblige him, and leave 
 you to receive part of his visit, while I step up to 
 write a letter. Besides, to tell you the truth, I 
 don't like him half so well as I used to do ; he 
 falls off of late from being the company he was, in 
 our way. In short, I think he's growing to be a 
 little like my lord. {.Exit. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles. 
 
 Sir Char. Madam, your servant; they told me 
 lady Arabella was here. 
 
 Clar. She's only stepped up to write a letter ; 
 she'll come down presently. 
 
 Sir Char. Why, does she write letters ? I 
 thought she had never time for't : pray how may 
 she have disposed of the rest of the day ? 
 
 Clar. A good deal as usual ; she has visits to 
 make till six ; she's then engaged to the play ; 
 from that till court-time she's to be at cards at 
 Mrs. Idle's ; after the drawing-room she takes a 
 short supper with lady Hazard, and from thence 
 they go together to the assembly. 
 
 Sir Char. And are you to do all this with her ? 
 
 Clar. The visits and the play, no more. 
 
 Sir Char. And how can you forbear all the rest ? 
 
 Clar. Tis easy to forbear what we are not very 
 fond of. 
 
 Sir Char. I han't found it so. I have passed 
 much of my life in this hurry of the ladies, yet was 
 never so pleased as when I was at quiet without 
 'em. 
 
 Clar. What then induced you to be with 'em ? 
 
 Sir Char. Idleness and the fashion. 
 
 Clar. No mistresses in the case ? 
 
 Sir Char. To speak honestly, yes. When one 
 is in a toyshop, there was no forbearing the bau- 
 bles; so I was perpetually engaging with some 
 coquette or other, whom I could love perhaps just 
 enough to put it into her power to plague me. 
 
 Clar. "Which power I suppose she sometimes 
 made use of. 
 
 Sir Char. The amours of a coquette, madam, 
 generally mean nothing farther ; I look upon them 
 and prudes to be nuisances much alike, though they 
 seem very different : the first are always disturbing 
 the men, and the latter always abusing the women. 
 
 Clar. And all I think is to establish the cha- 
 racter of being virtuous. 
 
 Sir Char. That is, being chaste they mean, for 
 they know no other virtue ; therefore indulge them- 
 selves in everything else that's vicious ; they (against 
 nature) keep their chastity only because they find 
 more pleasure in doing mischief with it than they 
 should have in parting with it. But, madam, if 
 both these characters are so odious, how highly to 
 be valued is that woman who can attain all they 
 aim at without the aid of the folly or vice of 
 either ! 
 
 Re-enter Lady Arabella. 
 
 Lady Ara- Your servant, sir. I won't ask your 
 pardon for leaving you alone a little with a lady 
 that I know shares so much of your good opinion. 
 
 Sir Char. I wish, madam, she could think my 
 good opinion of value enough to afford me a small 
 part in hers. 
 
 Lady Ara. I believe, sir, every woman, who 
 
 knows she has a place in a fine gentleman's good 
 opinion, will be glad to give him one in hers if she 
 can. But however you two may stand in one 
 another's, you must take another time if you desire 
 to talk farther about it, or we shan't have enough 
 to make our visits in ; and so your servant, sir. — 
 Come, Clarinda. 
 
 Sir Char. I'll stay and make my lord a visit, if 
 you will give me leave. 
 
 Lady Ara. You have my leave, sir, though you 
 were a lady. [Exit with Clarinda. 
 
 Re-enter Lord Loverule . 
 
 Lord Ljove. Sir Charles, your servant ; — what, 
 have the ladies left you ? 
 
 Sir Char. Yes ; and the ladies in general I hope 
 will leave me too. 
 
 Lord Love. Why so ? 
 
 Sir Char. That I mayn't be put to the ill-man- 
 ners of leaving them first. 
 
 Lord Love. Do you then already find your gal- 
 lantry inclining to an ebb ? 
 
 Sir Char. 'Tis not that I am yet old enough to 
 justify myself in an idle retreat, but I have got, I 
 think, a sort of surfeit on me that lessens much the 
 force of female charms. 
 
 Lord Love. Have you then been so glutted with 
 their favours ? 
 
 Sir Char. Not with their favours, but with their 
 service ; it is unmerciful. I once thought myself 
 a tolerable time-killer ; I drank, I played, I in- 
 trigued, and yet I had hours enow for reasonable 
 uses ; but he that will list himself a lady's man of 
 metal now, she'll work him so at cards and dice, 
 she won't afford him time enough to play with her 
 at anything else, though she herself should have a 
 tolerable good mind to it. 
 
 Lord Love. And so the disorderly lives they lead 
 make you incline to a reform of your own. 
 
 Sir Char. 'Tis true ; for bad examples (if they 
 are but bad enough) give us as useful reflections as 
 good ones do. 
 
 Lord Love. 'Tis pity anything that's bad should 
 come from women. 
 
 Sir Char. 'Tis so indeed ; and there was a happy 
 time when both you and I thought there never 
 could. 
 
 Lord Love. Our early first conceptions of them, 
 I well remember, were, that they never could be 
 vicious, nor never could be old. 
 
 Sir Char. We thought so then ; the beauteous 
 form we saw them cast in, seemed designed a 
 habitation for no vice, nor no decay ; all I had 
 conceived of angels I conceived of them ; true, 
 tender, gentle, modest, generous, constant, I thought 
 was writ in every feature ; and in my devotions, 
 Heaven, how did I adore thee, that blessings like 
 them should be the portion of such poor inferior 
 creatures as I took myself and all men else (com- 
 pared with them) to be !— But where's that adora- 
 tion now ? 
 
 Lord Love. 'Tis with such fond young fools as 
 you and I were then. 
 
 Sir Char. And with such it ever will be. 
 
 Lord Love. Ever. The pleasure is so great in 
 believing women to be what we wish them, that 
 nothing but a long and sharp experience can ever 
 make us think them otherwise. That experience, 
 friend, both you and I have had ; but yours has 
 been at other men's expense ; mine — at my own. 
 
470 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 Sir Char. Perhaps you'd wonder should you 
 find me disposed to run the risk of that experience 
 too. 
 
 Lord Love. I should indeed. 
 
 Sir Char. And yet 'tis possible I may ; know, 
 at least, I still have so much of my early folly left, 
 to think there's yet one woman fit to make a wife 
 of. How far such a one can answer the charms of 
 a mistress, married men are silent in, so pass — for 
 that, I'd take my chance ; but could she make a 
 home easy to her partner, by letting him find there 
 a cheerful companion, an agreeable intimate, a 
 useful assistant, a faithful friend, and (in its time 
 perhaps) a tender mother, such change of life, 
 from what I lead, seems not unwise to think of. 
 
 Lord Love. Not unwise to purchase, if to be 
 had for millions ; but — 
 
 Sir Char. But what ? 
 
 Lord Love. If the reverse of this should chance 
 to be the bitter disappointment, what would the 
 life be then ? 
 
 Sir Char. A damned one. 
 
 Lord Love. And what relief ? 
 
 Sir Char. A short one ; leave it, and return to 
 that you left, if you can't find a better. 
 
 Lord Love. [Aside.] He says right. — That's 
 the remedy, and a just one. — For if I sell my li- 
 
 berty for gold, and I am foully paid in brass, shall 
 I be held to keep the bargain ? 
 
 Sir Char. What are you thinking of ? 
 
 Lord Love. Of what you have said. 
 
 Sir Char. And was it well said ? 
 
 Lord Love. I begin to think it might. 
 
 Sir Char. Think on, 'twill give you ease. — The 
 man who has courage enough to part with a wife, 
 need not much dread the having one ; and he that 
 has not ought to tremble at being a husband. — 
 But perhaps I have said too much ; you'll pardon, 
 however, the freedom of an old friend, because 
 you know I am so ; so your servant. 
 
 Lord Love. Charles, farewell ! I can take no- 
 thing as ill meant that comes from you. — [Exit Sir 
 Charles.] Nor ought my wife to think I mean 
 amiss to her, if I convince her I'll endure no 
 longer that she should thus expose herself and me. 
 No doubt 'twill grieve her sorely. Physic's a 
 loathsome thing till we find it gives us health, and 
 then we are thankful to those who made us take it. 
 Perhaps she may do so by me ; if she does 'tis well; 
 if not, and she resolves to make the house ring 
 with reprisals, I believe (though the misfortune's 
 great) he'll make a better figure in the world who 
 keeps an ill wife out of doors than he that keeps 
 her within. [Exit. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 SCENE I. — A Room mMrs. Motherly's House. 
 Enter Lady Headpiece and Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 Lady Head. So, you are acquainted with Lady 
 Arabella, I find. 
 
 Mrs, Moth. Oh, madam, I have had the hon- 
 our to know her ladyship almost from a child, and 
 a charming woman she has made. 
 
 Lady Head. I like her prodigiously ; I had 
 some acquaintance with her in the country two 
 years ago ; but she's quite another woman here. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Ah, madam, two years keeping 
 company with the polite people of the town will 
 do wonders in the improvement of a lady, so she 
 has it but about her. 
 
 Lady Head. Now 'tis my misfortune, Mrs. 
 Motherly, to come late to school. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Oh ! don't be discouraged at that, 
 madam, the quickness of your ladyship's parts will 
 easily recover your loss of a little time. 
 
 Lady Head. Oh, you flatter me ! But I'll en- 
 deavour, by industry and application, to make it 
 up ; such parts as I have shall not lie idle. My 
 lady Arabella has been so good to offer me already 
 her introduction to those assemblies where a woman 
 may soonest learn to make herself valuable to 
 everybody. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. [Aside.] But her husband. — 
 [Aloud.] Her ladyship, madam, can indeed, better 
 than anybody, introduce you where everything 
 that accomplishes a fine lady is practised to the 
 last perfection. Madam, she herself is at the very 
 tip top of it — 'tis pity, poor lady, she should meet 
 with any discouragements. 
 
 Lady Head. Discouragements ! from whence 
 pray ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. From home sometimes — my lord 
 a — 
 
 Lady Head. What does he do ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. But one should not talk of people 
 of quality's family concerns. 
 
 Lady Head. Oh, no matter, Mrs. Motherly, as 
 long as it goes no farther. My lord, you were 
 saying — 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Wiry, my lord, madam, is a little 
 humoursome, they say. 
 
 Lady Head. Humoursome ! 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Yes, they,say he's humoursome. 
 
 Lady Head. As how, pray ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Wiry, if my poor lady perhaps does 
 but stay out at night maybe four or five hours 
 after he's in bed, he'll be cross. 
 
 Lady Head. What, for such a thing as that ? 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Yes, he'll be cross ; and then, if 
 she happens, it may be, to be unfortunate at play, 
 and lose a great deal of money, more than she has 
 to pay, then madam — he'll snub. 
 
 Lady Head. Out upon him, snub such a woman 
 as she is ? I can tell you, Mrs. Motherly, I that 
 am but a country lady, should sir Francis take 
 upon him to snub me, in London, he'd raise a 
 spirit would make his hair stand an end. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Really, madam, that's the only way 
 to deal with 'em. 
 
 Enter Miss Betty. 
 
 And here comes pretty Miss Betty, that I be- 
 lieve will never be made a fool of when she's 
 married. 
 
 Miss Bet. No, by my troth won't I. What, 
 are you talking of my being married, mother ? 
 
 Lady Head. No, miss ; Mrs. Motherly was only 
 
A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 477 
 
 saying what a good wife you would make when you 
 were so. 
 
 Miss Bet. The sooner it's tried, mother, the 
 sooner it will be known. — Lord, here's the colonel, 
 madam. 
 
 Enter Colonel Courtly. 
 
 Lady Head. Colonel, your servant. 
 
 Miss Bet. Your servant, colonel. 
 
 Col. Ladies, your most obedient. — I hope, ma- 
 dam, the town air continues to agree with you ? 
 
 Lady Head. Mighty well, sir. 
 
 Miss Bet. Ob, prodigious well, sir. We have 
 bought a new coach, and an ocean of new clothes, 
 and we are to go to the play to-night, and to-mor- 
 row we go to the opera, and next night we go to 
 the assembly, and then the next night after, we — 
 
 Lady Head. Softly, miss. — Do you go to the 
 play to-night, colonel ? 
 
 Col. I did not design it, madam ; but now I find 
 there is to be such good company, I'll do myself 
 the honour (if you'll give me leave, ladies) to come 
 and lead you to your coach. 
 
 Lady Head. It's extremely obliging. 
 
 Miss Bet. It is, indeed, mighty well-bred. — 
 Lord, colonel, what a difference there is between 
 your way and our country companions ! One of 
 them would have said, What, you are aw gooing to 
 the playhouse, then ? Yes, says we, won't you 
 come and lead us out ? No, by good feggings, says 
 he, ye ma' e'en ta' care o' yoursels, y' are awd 
 enough ; and so he'd ha' gone to get drunk at the 
 tavern against we came home to supper. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Ha ! ha ! ha ! well, sure madam, 
 your ladyship is the happiest mother in the world 
 to have such a charming companion to your 
 daughter. 
 
 Col. The prettiest creature upon earth ! 
 
 Miss Bet. D'ye hear that, mother ? Well, he's 
 a fine gentleman really, and I think a man of ad- 
 mirable sense. 
 
 Lady Head. Softly, miss, he'll hear you. 
 
 Miss Bet. If he does, madam, he'll think I say 
 true, and he'll like me never the worse for that, I 
 hope. — Where's your niece Martilla, Mrs. Mo- 
 therly ? — Mama, won't you carry Martilla to the 
 play with us ? 
 
 Lady Head. With all my heart, child. 
 
 Col. She's a very pretty civil sort of woman, 
 madam, and miss will be very happy in having 
 such a companion in the house with her. 
 
 Miss Bet. So I shall indeed, sir, and I love her 
 dearly already, we are growing very great together. 
 
 Lady Head. But what's become of your brother, 
 child ? I han't seen him these two hours, where 
 is he ? 
 
 Miss Bet. Indeed, mother, I don't know where 
 he is ; I saw him asleep about half an hour ago by 
 the kitchen fire. 
 
 Col. Must not he go to the play too ? 
 
 Lady Head. Yes, I think he should go, though 
 he'll be weary on't before it's half done. 
 
 Miss Bet. Weary ! yes, and then he'll sit, and 
 yawn, and stretch like a greyhound by the fireside, 
 till he does some nasty thing or other, that they'll 
 turn him out of the house, so it's better to leave 
 him at home. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Oh, that were pity, miss. .Plays 
 will enliven him. — See, here he comes, and my 
 niece with him. 
 
 Enter Squire Humphry and Martilla. 
 
 Col. Your servant, sir ; you come in good time, 
 the ladies are all going to the play, and wanted 
 you to help gallant them. 
 
 Squire Hum. And so 'twill be nine o'clock be- 
 fore one shall get ony supper ! 
 
 Miss Bet. Supper ! why your dinner is not out 
 of your mouth yet, at least 'tis all about the brims 
 of it. — See how greasy his chaps is, mother. 
 
 Lady Head. Nay, if he han't a mind to go, he 
 need not. — You may stay here till your father 
 comes home from the parliament house, and then 
 you may eat a broiled bone together. 
 
 Miss Bet. Yes, and drink a tankard of strong 
 beer together, and then he may tell you ail he has 
 been doing in the parliament house, and you may 
 tell him all you have been thinking of when you 
 were asleep in the kitchen ; and then if you'll put 
 it all down in writing, when we come from the play, 
 I'll read it to the company. 
 
 Squire Hum. Sister I don't like your joking, 
 and you are not a well-behaved young woman ; and 
 although my mother encourages you, my thoughts 
 are, you are not too big to be whipped. 
 
 Miss Bet. How, sirrah ? 
 
 Squire Hum. There's a civil young gentlewoman 
 stands there is worth a hundred of you. And I 
 believe she'll be married before you. 
 
 Miss Bet. Cots my life, I have a good mind to 
 pull your eyes out ! 
 
 Lady Head. Hold, miss, hold, don't be in such 
 a passion neither. 
 
 Miss Bet. Mama, it is not that I am angry at 
 anything he says to commend Martilla, for I wish 
 she were to be married to-morrow, that I might 
 have a dance at her wedding ; but what need he 
 abuse me for ? — \_Aside.~] I wish the lout had 
 mettle enough to be in love with her, she'd make 
 pure sport with him. — I Aloud.} Does your heavi- 
 ness find any inclinations moving towards the lady 
 you admire ? — Speak ! are you in love with her ? 
 
 Squire Hum. I am in love with nobody ; and if 
 anybody be in love with me, mayhap they had as 
 good be quiet. 
 
 Miss Bet. Hold your tongue, I'm quite sick of 
 you. — Come, Martilla, you are to go to the play 
 with us. 
 
 Mart. Am I, miss ? I am ready to wait upon 
 you. 
 
 Lady Head. I believe it's time we should be 
 going, colonel, is not it ? 
 
 Col. Yes, madam, I believe it is. 
 
 Lady Head. Come then ; who is there ? 
 
 Enter Tom. 
 Is the coach at the door ? 
 
 Tom. It has been there this hafe haur, so please 
 your ladyship. 
 
 Miss Bet. And are all the people in the street 
 gazing at it, Tom ? 
 
 Tom. That are they, madam ; and Roger has 
 drank so much of his own beverage, that he's e'en 
 as it were gotten a little drunk. 
 
 Lady Head. Not so drunk, I hope, but that he 
 can drive us ? 
 
 Tom. Yes, yes, madam, he drives best when he's 
 a little upish. When Roger's head turns, raund go 
 the wheels, i'faith. 
 
 Miss Bet. Never fear, mama, as long as it's 
 to the playhouse there's no danger. 
 
478 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 Lady Head. Well, daughter, since you are so 
 courageous, it shan't be said I make any difficulty; 
 and if the colonel is so gallant to have a mind to 
 share our danger, we have room for him, if he 
 pleases. 
 
 Col. Madam, you do me a great deal of honour, 
 and I'm sure you give me a great deal of pleasure. 
 Miss Bet. Come, dear mama, away we go. 
 [Exeunt Lady Headpiece, Miss Betty, Colonel Courtly, 
 
 and Tom. 
 Squire Hum. [ To Martilla.] I did not think 
 you would have gone. 
 
 Mart. Oh, I love a play dearly. [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. I wonder, squire, that you would 
 not go to the play with 'em. 
 
 Squire Hum. What needed Martilla have gone ? 
 they were enow without her. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. Oh, she was glad to go to divert 
 herself ; and, besides, my lady desired her to go 
 with them. 
 
 Squire Hum. And so I'm left alone ! 
 Mrs. Moth. Why, should you have cared for 
 her company ? 
 
 Squire Hum. Rather than none. 
 Mrs. Moth. [Aside.] On my conscience he's 
 ready to cry ; this is matter to think of ; but here 
 comes sir Francis. 
 
 Enter Sir Francis. 
 How do you do, sir ? I'm afraid these late parlia- 
 ment hours won't agree with you. 
 
 Sir Fran. Indeed, I like them not, Mrs. Mo- 
 therly ; if they would dine at twelve o'clock as we 
 do in the country, a man might be able to drink a 
 reasonable bottle between that and supper-time. 
 
 Mrs. Moth. That would be much better indeed, 
 sir Francis. 
 
 Sir Fran. But then when we consider that what 
 we undergo is in being busy for the good of our 
 country. — Oh, the good of our country is above all 
 things ! What a noble and glorious thing it is, 
 Mrs. Motherly, that England can boast of five 
 hundred zealous gentlemen, all in one room, all of 
 one mind, upon a fair occasion, to go all together by 
 the ears for the good of their country ! — Humphry, 
 perhaps you'll be a senator in time, as your father is 
 now ; when you are, remember your country ; spare 
 nothing for the good of your country ; and when 
 you come home at the end of the sessions, you will 
 find yourself so adored, that your country will come 
 and dine with you every day in the week. — Oh, 
 here's my uncle Richard. 
 
 Enter Uncle Richard. 
 Mrs. Moth. I think, sir, I had best get you a 
 mouthful of something to stay your stomach till 
 supper. 
 
 Sir Fran. With all my heart, for Fm almost 
 
 famished. [Exit Mrs. Motherly. 
 
 Squire Hum. And so shall I before my mother 
 
 comes from the playhouse, so I'll go get a buttered 
 
 toast. [Exit. 
 
 Sir Fran. Uncle, I hope you are well. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Nephew, if I had been sick 1 would 
 
 not have come abroad ; I suppose you are well, for 
 
 I sent this morning and was informed you went 
 
 out early ; was it to make your court to some of 
 
 the great men ? 
 
 Sir Fran. Yes, uncle, I was advised to lose no 
 timej so I went to one great man whom I had never 
 seen before. 
 
 Unc. Rich. And who had you got to introduce 
 you ? 
 
 Sir Fran. Nobody. I remembered I had heard 
 a wise man say, My son, be bold ; so 1 introduced 
 myself. 
 
 Unc. Rich. As how, I pray ? 
 Sir Fran. Why thus, uncle ; Please your lord- 
 ship, says I, I am sir Francis Headpiece, of Head- 
 piece-hall, and member of parliament for the 
 ancient borough of Gobble-guinea. Sir, your hum- 
 ble servant, says my lord, though I have not the 
 honour to know your person, I have heard you are 
 a very honest gentleman, and I am very glad your 
 borough has made choice of so worthy a represen- 
 tative ; have you any service to command me ? 
 Those last words, uncle, gave me great encourage- 
 ment ; and though I know you have not any very 
 great opinion of my parts, I believe you won't say 
 I missed it now. 
 
 Unc. Rich. I hope I shall have no cause. 
 
 Sir Fran. My lord, says I, I did not design to 
 say anything to your lordship to-day about busi- 
 ness ; but since your lordship is so kind and free, 
 as to bid me speak if I have any service to com- 
 mand you, I will. 
 
 Unc. Rich. So ! 
 
 Sir Fran. I have, says I, my lord, a good estate, 
 but it's a little aut at elbows, and as I desire to 
 serve my king as well as my country, I shall be 
 very willing to accept of a place at court. 
 
 Unc. Rich. This was bold indeed. 
 
 Sir Fran. Ecod, I shot him flying, uncle ; 
 another man would have been a month before he 
 durst have opened his mauth about a place. But 
 you shall hear. Sir Francis, says my lord, what 
 sort of a place may you have turned your thoughts 
 upon ? My lord, says I, beggars must not be 
 choosers ; but some place about a thousand a-year, 
 I believe, might do pretty weel to begin with. Sir 
 Francis, says he, I shall be glad to serve you iu 
 anything I can ; and in saying these words he gave 
 me a squeeze by the hand, as much as to say, I'll 
 do your business. And so he turned to a lord that 
 was there, who looked as if he came for a place 
 too. 
 
 Unc. Rich. And so your fortune's made t 
 
 Sir Fran. Don't you think so, uncle ? 
 
 Unc. Rich. Yes, for just so mine was made — 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 Sir Fran. Why, I never knew you had a place, 
 uncle ! 
 
 Unc. Rich. Nor I neither, upon my faith, ne- 
 phew. But you have been down at the house since 
 you made your court, have not you ? 
 
 Sir Fran. O yes ; I would not neglect the house 
 for ever so much. 
 
 Unc. Rich. And what may they have done there 
 to-day, I pray ? 
 
 Sir Fran. Why truly, uncle, I cannot well tell 
 what they did. But I'll tell you what I did : I 
 happened to make a little sort of a mistake. 
 
 Unc. Rich. How was that ? 
 
 Sir Fran. Why you must know, uncle, they 
 were all got into a sort of a hodge-podge argument 
 for the good of the nation, which I did not well 
 understand. However, I was convinced, and so 
 resolved to vote aright, according to my conscience; 
 but they made such a puzzling business on't, when 
 they put the question, as they call it, that, I believe, 
 I cried ay when I should have cried no ; for a sort 
 
SCENE 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 479 
 
 of a Jacobite that sate next me, took me by the 
 hand, and said, — Sir, you are a man of honour, and 
 a true Englishman, and I should be glad to be bet- 
 ter acquainted with you ; and so he pulled me along 
 with the crowd into the lobby with him, when, I 
 believe, I should have staid where I was. 
 
 Uric. Rich. And so, if you had not quite made 
 your fortune before, you have clenched it now. — 
 [Aside ] Ah, thou head of the Headpieces ! — 
 [Aloud.] How now, what's the matter here ? 
 
 Re-enter Lady Headpiece, Miss Betty, Colonel Courtly, 
 Squire Humphry, and Martilla, in disorder, some 
 dirty, some lame, some bloody. 
 
 Sir Fran. Mercy on us ! they are all killed. 
 
 Miss Bet. Not for a thousand pounds ; but we 
 have been all down in the dirt together. 
 
 Lady Head. We have had a sad piece of work 
 on't, sir Francis ; overturned in the channel as we 
 were going to the playhouse. 
 
 Miss Bet. Over and over, papa ; had it been 
 coming from the playhouse I should not have cared 
 a farthing. 
 
 Sir Fran. But, child, you are hurt, your face is 
 all bloody. 
 
 Miss Bet. O sir, my new gown is all dirty. 
 
 Lady Head. The new coach is all spoiled. 
 
 Miss Bet. The glasses are all to bits. 
 
 Lady Head. Roger has put out his arm. 
 
 Miss Bet. Would he had put out his neck for 
 making us lose the play ! 
 
 Squire Hum. Poor Martilla has scratched her 
 little finger. 
 
 Lady Head. And here's the poor colonel, no- 
 body asks what he has done. — I hope, sir, you have 
 got no harm ? 
 
 Col. Only a little wounded with some pins I 
 met with about your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Head. I am sorry anything about me 
 should do you harm. 
 
 Col. If it does, madam, you have that about you, 
 if you please, will be my cure. I hope your lady- 
 ship feels nothing amiss ? 
 
 Lady Head. Nothing at all, though we did roll 
 about together strangely. 
 
 Col. We did indeed. I'm sure we rolled so, 
 that my poor hands were got once — I don't know 
 where they were got. — But her ladyship I see will 
 pass by slips. r L Aside. 
 
 Sir Fran. It would have been pity the colonel 
 should have received any damage in his services to 
 the ladies ; he is the most complaisant man to 'em, 
 uncle ; always ready when they have occasion for 
 him. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Then I believe, nephew, they'll never 
 let him want business. 
 
 Sir Fran. Oh, but they should not ride the free 
 horse to death neither. — Come, colonel, you'll stay 
 and drink a bottle, and eat a little supper with us, 
 after your misfortune ? 
 
 Col. Sir, since I have been prevented from at- 
 tending the ladies to the play, I shall be very proud 
 to obey their commands here at home. 
 
 Sir Fran. A prodigious civil gentleman, uncle ; 
 and yet as bold as Alexander upon occasion. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Upon a lady's occasion. 
 
 Sir Fran. Ha, ha, you are a wag, uncle" ! but I 
 believe he'd storm anything. 
 
 Unc. Rich. Then I believe your citadel may be 
 in danger. [Aside. 
 
 Sir Fran. Uncle, won't you break your rule for 
 once, and sup from home ? 
 
 Unc. Rich. The company will excuse me, ne- 
 phew ; they'll be freer without me ; so good night 
 to them and you. 
 
 Lady Head. Good night to you, sir, since you 
 won't stay — Come, colonel. 
 
 Unc. Rich. [Aside.] Methinks this facetious 
 colonel is got upon a pretty, familiar, easy foot 
 already with the family of the Headpieces — hum. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sir Fran. Come, my lady, let's all in, and pass 
 the evening cheerfully. And d'ye hear, wife — a 
 word in your ear — I have got a promise of a place 
 in court, of a thousand a-year, he, hem ! [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — Lady Arabella's Dressing-room. 
 
 Enter Lady Arabella, as just up, walking pensively to 
 her toilet, followed by Trusty. 
 
 Lady Ara. Well, sure never woman had such 
 luck ! — these devilish dice ! — Sit up all night ; 
 lose all one's money, and then — how like a hag I 
 look ! — [Sits at her toilet, turning her purse 
 inside out.] Not a guinea — worth less by a hun- 
 dred pounds than I was at one a clock this morn- 
 ing — and then — I was worth nothing — what is to 
 be done, Trusty ? 
 
 Trus. I wish I were wise enough to tell you, 
 madam : but if there comes in any good company 
 to breakfast with your ladyship, perhaps you may 
 have a run of better fortune. 
 
 Lady Ara. But I han't a guinea to try my for- 
 tune, — Let me see — who was that impertinent man, 
 that was so saucy last week about money, that I 
 
 was forced to promise, once more, he should have 
 what I owed him this morning ? 
 
 Trus. Oh, I remember, madam ; it was your 
 old mercer Shortyard, that you turned off a year 
 ago, because he would trust you no longer. 
 
 Lady Ara. That's true ; and I think I bid the 
 steward keep thirty guineas out of some money he 
 was paying me, to stop his odious mouth. 
 
 Trus. Your ladyship did so. 
 
 Lady Ara. Prithee, Trusty, run and see whe- 
 ther the wretch has got the money yet ; if not, tell 
 the steward I have occasion for it myself; run 
 quickly. [Trusty runs to the door. 
 
 Trus. Ah, madam, he's just a-paying it away 
 now, in the hall. 
 
 Lady Ara. Stop him! quick, quick, dear Trusty. 
 
 Trus. Hem, hem, Mr, Moneybag, a word with 
 you quickly. 
 
 Mon. [ Within.] I'll come presently. 
 
480 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Trus. Presently won't do, you must come this 
 moment. 
 
 Mon. I'm but just paying a little money. 
 
 Trus. Cods my life, paying money ! is the man 
 distracted ? Come here, I tell you, to my lady 
 this moment, quick. 
 
 Enter Moneybag to the door, with a purse in his hand. 
 My lady says, you must not pay the money to-day, 
 there's a mistake in the account, which she must 
 examine ; and she's afraid too there was a false 
 guinea or two left in the purse, which might dis- 
 grace her. — [ Ttvitches the purse from him.'] But 
 she's too busy to look for 'em just now, so you 
 must bid Mr. What-d'ye-call-'em come another 
 time. — [Exit Moneybag.] There they are, 
 madam. — [Gives Lady Arabella the money.] 
 The poor things were so near gone they made me 
 tremble. I fancy your ladyship will give me one 
 of those false guineas for good luck. — [Takes a 
 guinea] Thank you, madam. 
 
 Lady Ara. Why, I did not bid you take it. 
 
 Trus. No, but your ladyship looked as if you 
 were just going to bid me, so I took it to save your 
 ladyship the trouble of speaking. 
 
 Lady Ara. Well, for once — but hark — I think 
 I hear the man making a noise yonder. 
 
 Trus. Nay, I don't expect he'll go out of the 
 house quietly. I'll listen. 
 
 Lady Ara. Do. [Trusty goes to the door. 
 
 Trus. He's in a bitter passion with poor Money- 
 bag ; I believe he'll beat him. — Lord, how he 
 swears ! 
 
 Lady Ara. And a sober citizen too ! that's a 
 shame. 
 
 Trus. He says he will speak with you, madam, 
 though the devil held your door. — Lord ! he's 
 coming hither full drive, but I'll lock him out. 
 
 Lady Ara. No matter, let him come : I'll 
 reason with him. 
 
 Trus. But he's a saucy fellow for all that. 
 
 Enter Shortyard. 
 What would you have, sir ? 
 
 Short. I would have my due, mistress. 
 
 Trus. That would be — to be well cudgelled, 
 master, for coming so familiarly where you should 
 not come. 
 
 Lady Ara. Do you think you do well, sir, to 
 intrude into my dressing-room ? 
 
 Short. Madam, I sold my goods to you in your 
 dressing-room, I don't know why I mayn't ask 
 for my money there. 
 
 Lady Ara. You are very short, sir. 
 
 Short. Your ladyship won't complain of my 
 patience being so ? 
 
 Lady Ara. I complain of nothing that ought 
 not to be complained of ; but I hate ill manners. 
 
 Short. So do I, madam — but this is the seven- 
 teenth time I have been ordered to come, with 
 good manners, for my money, to no purpose. 
 
 Lady Ara. Your money, man ! is that the 
 matter ? Why it has lain in the steward's hands 
 this week for you. 
 
 Short. Madam, you yourself appointed me to 
 come this very morning for it. 
 
 Lady Ara. But why did you come so late then ? 
 
 Short. So late ! I came soon enough, I thought. 
 
 Lady Ara. That thinking wrong makes us 
 liable to a world of disappointments ; if you had 
 
 thought of coming one minute sooner, you had 
 had your money. 
 
 Short. Gad bless me, madam ; I had the money 
 as I thought, I'm sure it was telling out, and I was 
 writing a receipt for't. 
 
 Trus. Why, there you thought wrong again, 
 master. 
 
 Lady Ara. Yes, for you should never think of 
 writing a receipt till the money is in your pocket. 
 
 Short. Why, I did think 'twas in my pocket. 
 
 Trus. Look you, thinking again ! Indeed, Mr. 
 Shortyard, you make so many blunders, 'tis impos- 
 sible but you must suffer by it, in your way of 
 trade. I'm sorry for you, and you'll be undone. 
 
 Short. And well I may, when I sell my goods to 
 people that won't pay me for 'em, till the interest 
 of my money eats out all my profit : I sold them 
 so cheap, because I thought I should be paid the 
 next day. 
 
 Trus. Why, there again ! there's another of 
 your thoughts. Paid the next day ! and you han't 
 been paid this twelvemonth, you see. 
 
 Short. Oons, I han't been paid at all, mistress. 
 
 Lady Ara. Well, tradesmen are strange, unrea- 
 sonable creatures, refuse to sell people any more 
 things, and then quarrel with 'em because they 
 don't pay for those they have had already. Now, 
 what can you say to that, Mr. Shortyard ? 
 
 Short. Say! why — 'sdeath, madam, I don't know 
 what you talk of, I don't understand your argu- 
 ment. 
 
 Lady Ara. Why, what do you understand, man ? 
 
 Short. Why, I understand that I have had above 
 a hundred pounds due to me a year ago ; that I 
 came by appointment just now to receive it ; that 
 it proved at last to be but thirty instead of a hun- 
 dred and ten ; and that, while the steward was 
 telling even that out, and I was writing the receipt, 
 comes Mrs. Pop here, and the money was gone. 
 But I'll be bantered no longer if there's law in 
 England. Say no more, Shortyard. [Exit. 
 
 Trus. What a passion the poor devil's in ! 
 
 Lady Ara. Why, truly, one can't deny but he has 
 some present cause for a little ill-humour ; but when 
 one has things of so much greater consequence on 
 foot, one can't trouble oneself about making such 
 creatures easy ; so call for breakfast, Trusty, and 
 set the hazard-table ready ; if there comes no com- 
 pany I'll play a little by myself. 
 
 Enter Lord Loverule. 
 
 Lord Love. Pray what offence, madam, have 
 you given to a man I met with just now as I came 
 in? 
 
 Lady Ara. People who are apt to take offence 
 do it for small matters, you know. 
 
 Lord Love. I shall be glad to find this so ; but 
 he says that you have owed him above a hundred 
 pounds this twelvemonth ; that he has been here 
 forty times by appointment for it, to no purpose ; 
 and that coming here this morning upon positive 
 assurance from yourself, he was tricked out of the 
 money while he was writing a receipt for it, and 
 sent away without a farthing. 
 
 Lady Ara. Lord, how these shopkeepers will 
 lie! 
 
 Lord Love. What then is the business ? For 
 some ground the man must have to be in such a 
 passion. 
 
 Lady Ara. I believe you'll rather wonder to see 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 481 
 
 me so calm, when I tell you he had the insolence to 
 intrude into my very dressing-room here, with a 
 story without a head or tail. — You know, Trusty, 
 we could not understand one word he said, but 
 when he swore — good Lord ! how the wretch did 
 swear ! 
 
 Trus. I never heard the like, for my part. 
 
 Lord Love. And all this for nothing ? 
 
 Lady Ara. So it proved, my lord, for he got 
 nothing by it. 
 
 Lord Love. His swearing I suppose was for his 
 money, madam. Who can blame him ? 
 
 Lady Ara. If he swore for money he should be 
 put in the pillory. 
 
 Lord Love. Madam, I won't be bantered, nor 
 sued by this man for your extravagances. Do you 
 owe him the money or not ? 
 
 Lady Ara. He says I do, but such fellows will 
 say anything. 
 
 Lord Love. [Aside."] Provoking ! — [Aloud.] 
 Did not I desire an account from you, of all 
 your debts, but six months since, and give you 
 money to clear them ? 
 
 Lady Ara. My lord, you can't imagine how 
 accounts make my head ache. 
 
 Lord Love. That won't do. The steward gave 
 you two hundred pounds besides but last week ; 
 where's that ? 
 
 Lady Ara. Gone. 
 
 Lord Love. Gone ! where ? 
 
 Lady Ara. Half the town over I believe by this 
 time. 
 
 Lord Love. Madam, madam, this can be endured 
 no longer ! and before a month passes expect to find 
 me — 
 
 Lady Ara. Hist, my lord, here's company. 
 
 Enter Captain Toupee. 
 
 Captain Toupee, your servant ; what, nobody with 
 you ? do you come quite alone ? 
 
 Capt. 'Slife, I thought to find company enough 
 here — My lord, your servant. — What a dense, you 
 look as if you had been up all night. I'm sure I 
 was in bed but three hours; I would you'd give me 
 some coffee. 
 
 Lady Ara. Some coffee there, tea too, and cho- 
 colate. [Exit Trusty. 
 
 Capt. [Singing a minuet and dancing.} Well, 
 what a strange fellow am I to be thus brisk, after 
 losing all my money last night ! — But upon my soul 
 you look sadly. 
 
 Lady Ara. No matter for that, if you'll let me 
 win a little of your money this morning. 
 
 Capt. What, with that face ? Go, go wash it, 
 go wash it, and put on some handsome things ; you 
 looked a good likely woman last night ; I would not 
 much have cared if you had run five hundred 
 pounds in my debt ; but if I play with you this 
 morning, egad I'd advise you to win, for I 
 won't take your personal security at present for a 
 guinea. 
 
 Lord Love. [Aside.} To what a nauseous free- 
 dom do women of quality of late admit these 
 trifling fops ? and there's a morning exercise will 
 give 'em claim to greater freedoms still. — [Points 
 to the hazard-table.'] Some course must be taken. 
 
 [Exit 
 
 Capt. What, is my lord gone ? He looked me- 
 th ought as if he did not delight much in my com- 
 pany. Well, peace and plenty attend him for your 
 
 ladyship's sake, and those — who have now and then 
 the honour to win a hundred pounds of you. 
 
 [Goes to the table singing and throws. 
 
 Lady Ara. [Twitching the box from him.] 
 What, do you intend to win all the money upon the 
 table? — Seven's the main — set me a million, 
 Toupee. 
 
 Capt. I set you two, my queen — six to seven ! 
 
 Lady Ara. Six. — The world's my own. 
 
 Both. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lady Ara. Oh, that my lord had but spirit enough 
 about him to let me play for a thousand pounds 
 a night — but here comes country company. 
 
 Enter Lady Headpiece, Miss Betty, Mrs. Motherly, 
 and Colonel Courtly. 
 
 Your servant, madam, good morrow to you. 
 
 Lady Head. And to you, madam, we are come 
 to breakfast with you. Lord, are you got to those 
 pretty things already ! [Points to the dice. 
 
 Lady Ara. You see we are not such idle folks in 
 town as you country ladies take us to be ; we are 
 no sooner out of our beds, but we are at our work. 
 
 Miss Bet. Will dear lady Arabella give us leave, 
 mother, to do a stitch or two with her ? 
 
 [Takes the box and throws. 
 
 Capt. The pretty lively thing ! 
 
 Lady Ara. With all her heart ; what says your 
 mama? 
 
 Lady Head. She says, she don't love to sit with 
 her hands before her, when other people's are em- 
 ployed. 
 
 Capt. And this is the prettiest little sociable 
 work, men and women can all do together at it. 
 
 Lady Head. Colonel, you are one with us, are 
 you not ? 
 
 Lady Ara. O, I'll answer for him, he'll be out 
 at nothing. 
 
 Capt. In a facetious way ; he is the politest per- 
 son ; he will lose his money to the ladies so civilly, 
 and will win theirs with so much good breeding : 
 and he will be so modest to 'em before company, 
 and so impudent to 'em in a dark corner. Ha ! 
 colonel ! 
 
 Lady Head. So I found him, I'm sure, last 
 night. — Mercy on me, an ounce of virtue less than 
 I had, and sir Francis had been undone. 
 
 Capt. Colonel, I smoke you. 
 
 Col. And a fine character you give the ladies of 
 me, to help me. 
 
 Capt. I give 'em just the character of you they 
 like, modest and brave. — Come ladies, to business ; 
 look to your money, every woman her hand upon 
 her purse. 
 
 Miss Bet. Here's mine, captain. 
 
 Capt. Oh, the little soft velvet one ! — and it's as 
 full. — Come, lady Blowze, rattle your dice and away 
 with 'em. 
 
 Lady Ara, Six — at all — five to six — five — eight 
 — at all again — nine to eight — nine. 
 
 Enter Sir Francis, and stands gazing at them. 
 Seven's the main — at all for ever ! [Throws out. 
 Miss Bet. Now, mama, let's see what you can do. 
 [Lady Headpiece takes the box. 
 Lady Head. Well, I'll warrant you, daughter. 
 Miss Bet. If you do, I'll follow a good example. 
 Lady Head. Eight's the main — don't spare me, 
 gentlemen, 1 fear you not — have at you all — seven 
 to eight — seven. 
 
482 
 
 A JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Capt. Eight, lady, eight. — Five pounds if you 
 please. 
 
 Lady Ara. Three, kinswoman. 
 
 Col. Two, madam. 
 
 Miss Bet. And one for miss, mama. — And now 
 let's see what I can do. — [Aside.} If I should win 
 enough this morning to buy me another new gown 
 — O bless me ! there they go ! — Seven ! — Come 
 captain, set me boldly, I want to be at a hand- 
 ful. 
 
 Capt. There's two for you, miss. 
 
 Miss Bet. I'll at 'em, though I die for't. 
 
 Sir Fran. Ah my poor child, take care ! 
 
 [Runs to stop the throw. 
 
 Miss Bet. There. 
 
 Capt. Out — twenty pounds, young lady. 
 
 Sir Fran. False dice, sir. 
 
 Capt. False dice, sir ! I scorn your words. — 
 Twenty pounds, madam. 
 
 Miss Bet. Undone ! undone ! 
 
 Sir Fran. She shan't pay you a farthing, sir ; I 
 won't have miss cheated. 
 
 Capt. Cheated, sir ! 
 
 Lady Head. What do you mean, sir Francis, to 
 disturb the company, and abuse the gentleman 
 thus ? 
 
 Sir Fran. I mean to be in a passion. 
 
 Lady Head. And why will you be in a passion, 
 sir Francis ? 
 
 Sir Fran. Because I came here to breakfast 
 with my lady there, before I went down to the 
 House, expecting to find my family set round a civil 
 table with her, upon some plumcake, hot rolls, and 
 a cup of strong beer ; instead of which, I find 
 these good women staying their stomachs with a 
 box and dice, and that man there, with the strange 
 periwig, making a good hearty meal upon my wife 
 and daughter — 
 
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