liW 
 
 II
 
 OF 
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 SAN DIEGO
 
 SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 Seven hundred and fifty copies printed for England and 
 America. 
 
 No.

 
 SIR JOHN VANBRUGH 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 W. C. WARD 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 LAWRENCE & BULLEN 
 
 16 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. 
 1893
 
 London ; 
 
 Henderson 6 s Spalding, Limited, 
 Marylebone Lane, If.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 Page 
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 THE RELAPSE ; OR VIRTUE IN DANGER i 
 
 >Esop 151 
 
 THE PROVOK'D WIFE 269
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 
 WHAT authentic intelligence we possess of the birth and 
 parentage of Sir John Vanbrugh is derived mainly from three 
 sources : the first, an account furnished by himself, in 1714, 
 to the Earl of Suffolk and Bindon, Deputy Earl Marshal, on 
 the occasion of his claiming the right to bear the arms of his 
 family ; the second, the scanty information collected by his 
 colleague in the College of Arms, Peter Le Neve ;* the third, 
 certain parish registers in London and Chester. Of the last 
 two sources of information, unexplored by previous biographers 
 of the dramatist, I have made considerable use in the following 
 pages. The first, already familiar to students of Vanbrugh, 
 supplied Mark Noble with the particulars published in his 
 History of the College of Arms, London, 1804. 
 
 From Vanbrugh's own account it appears that he was of 
 Flemish extraction, and "that before the persecution of the 
 Flemish by the Duke of Alva, Governor of the Spanish Nether- 
 lands, his family lived near Ghent, in Flanders ; that Giles 
 Vanbrug, quitting his native country for the enjoyment of the 
 reformed religion, retired to England, and having been bred a 
 merchant, settled as such in London, in the parish of St. 
 
 *See Le Neve's Pedigrees of the Knights made by King Charles II., &c. 
 Harleian Society's Publications, 1873. Le Neve was created Norroy King 
 of Arms in 1704, in which year Vanbrugh was made Clarenceux. 
 
 b
 
 x INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Stephen, Walbrook, where he continued until his death in 1646, 
 and having purchased a vault in the church, was buried in it."* 
 
 The Vanbrugh family seems to have been both ancient and 
 honourable. " John Baptist Gramay in his Antiquitys of West 
 Flanders, in his discourse of the City of Ipres, Chapter 2d, says 
 that the praetorship of that town was possest by severall eminent 
 knights, amongst whom he names John Van Brugghe in the 
 year 1383.'^ Le Neve states explicitly what Noble implies, 
 that Giles Vanbrugh fled from Flanders during Alva's persecu- 
 tion ; that is, between 1567 and 1573. It is difficult to 
 reconcile this statement with the fact that a son was born to 
 him some sixty years later. We may suppose, on the one hand, 
 that he was carried into England when a mere infant ; or, on 
 the other, that the actual date of his emigration was much later 
 than that assigned. The latter conjecture seems to be 
 supported by Le Neve's assertion, that Giles Vanbrugh was 
 " made denison by King James ist by letters patent." 
 
 Whatever, then, may have been the date of his migration, 
 Giles Vanbrugh resided in the parish of St. Stephen, Walbrook, 
 and followed the occupation of a merchant. In 1628 he was 
 churchwarden of St. Stephen's : " Gillis Van Brugg Churt- 
 warden," he writes himself in the parish register. In September 
 of the same year was born his eldest son, William. A second 
 son was born in April, 1631, who was baptized by his father's 
 name, Giles, and who became the father of John Vanbrugh, the 
 dramatist. 
 
 * History of the College of Arms, p. 355. The family vault of the 
 Vanbrughs was under the north aisle of St. Stephen's : no vestige of it 
 now remains. Giles Vanbrugh was there buried, according to the entry in 
 the parish register, on the zist of June, 1646. 
 
 fLe Neve. 
 
 I have copied the following entries from the register of St. Stephen's : 
 " 1628. 25 September, was Baptized Willem the sonn of Gillis Van Brug 
 and Mary his wyffi" " Gyles the sonn of Gyles Vanbrugh marchaunt &
 
 INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 Of Giles Vanbrugh the elder I find no farther record. Giles 
 the younger married, not later than the winter of 1659-60, 
 Elizabeth, fifth and youngest daughter and co-heiress of Sir 
 Dudley Carleton. Dorothy Carleton, the second daughter of 
 Sir Dudley, was already the wife of William Vanbrugh, who 
 had, it appears, succeeded to his father's business in Walbrook.* 
 The name and arms of this William Vanbrugh are engraved in 
 the frontispiece to Thomas Fuller's Pisgah-Sight of Palestine 
 (1650), together with the names and arms of the other 
 Maecenases, whose " benevolent hands " had contributed to the 
 safe delivery of that work to the public. The inscription in 
 Fuller is " Gulielmo Van Brugs t Mercatori." The arms 
 " Gules, on a fess, Or, three barulets, vert, a Lyon issuant arg. 
 Crest, demy Lyon arg. issuant from a bridge composed of three 
 arches reversed Or"J were subsequently (in 1714) claimed 
 and borne by Sir John Vanbrugh as those of his family. 
 
 The family into which the sons of the Walbrook merchant 
 married was of some note in the diplomatic circle. Their 
 father-in-law was nephew to a more famous Sir Dudley 
 Carleton, who had filled with distinction, under Charles I., the 
 
 Margarett his wyfe was Baptyzed the 27th apryll 1631." The discrepancy 
 in the wife's name I cannot account for: possibly Giles Vanbrugh was 
 twice married. 
 
 * In Burke's Landed Gentry, Le Neve, and elsewhere, Dorothy Carleton 
 is mentioned as the wife of William Vanbrugh. On the other hand, the 
 register of St Stephen's contains two entries (of January i, 1657-8, and 
 July 6, 1659) recording the baptisms respectively of William and Dudley, 
 sons of "William Vanbrugg merchant and Mary his wife." The fourth 
 daughter of Sir Dudley Carleton was named Mary. The name of Dorothy 
 occurs in the Vanbrugh family, the brothers, William and Giles, each 
 having a daughter of that name. 
 
 t The name was very variously spelt. We find Van Brug, Vanbrug, 
 Vanbrugg, Vanbrugh, Vanburgh, Vanbrough, Vamburg, Vanbrook, 
 Vanbroge, &c. Sir John himself, in such autographs as I have seen, spelt 
 his name "Vanbrugh." 
 
 JLeNeve. 
 
 b 2
 
 xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 posts of Ambassador to Holland, and principal Secretary of 
 State. His faithful services, and advocacy of the King's cause 
 in Parliament, were rewarded by Charles with a peerage. In 
 May, 1626, Sir Dudley was created Baron Carleton of Imber- 
 court, near Esher, in Surrey; and in July, 1628, Viscount 
 Dorchester. But he did not live to assist his master in the 
 time of his greatest need. He died in February, 1632, and if 
 we may credit Cowley, among whose juvenile compositions may 
 be found an elegy on his death, 
 
 " The Muses lost a Patron by his Fate, 
 Vertue a Husband, and a Prop the State." 
 
 Dorchester left but a small estate, of the value of not more 
 than ,700 a year ; and the heir, a posthumous child, dying an 
 infant, the manor and residence of Imbercourt, which, together 
 with the title, had been bestowed upon the deceased statesman, 
 became the property of his nephew, the Sir Dudley Carleton 
 whose daughters, Dorothy and Elizabeth, were married to 
 William and Giles Vanbrugh. This Carleton, also, figured in 
 public life. He acted as substitute for his uncle during the 
 ambassador's absences from his post at the Hague, discharging 
 that trust with diligence and capacity.* He was knighted in 
 1626 ; was the King's Resident in Holland in 1630, as appears 
 by Dorchester's will ; and was appointed Clerk of the Council 
 in 1637. Thenceforward, history knows no more of Sir Dudley 
 Carleton, except that, in 1649, he conveyed the property of 
 Imbercourt to one Mr. Knipe.t 
 
 For some years after his marriage Giles Vanbrugh resided in 
 the parish of St. Nicholas Aeons, in the city of London. In 
 this parish was born, in the month of January, 1664, his son 
 
 * Kippis's Biographia Britannica. 
 Manning and Bray's History of Surrey, voL L, p. 459*.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 John, the future dramatist, and the subject of this memoir. 
 The following are the exact words of the entry, copied by 
 myself from the register of St. Nicholas Aeons : "John 
 Vanbrugh the sonn of Giles Vanbrugh and Elizabeth his 
 wife was Christned the 24 of January in the house by Mr. 
 John Meriton. 1663" i.e., 1664, N.s. "The house" is, of 
 course, Giles Vanbrugh's : two of John Vanbrugh's sisters, 
 Dorothy and Lucy, were similarly christened in their father's 
 house. Mr. John Meriton was the rector of St. Nicholas 
 Aeons.* 
 
 The youngest child of Giles Vanbrugh, whose name appears 
 in the register of St. Nicholas, is a daughter Elizabeth who 
 was born on the 7th of January, 1665, Between this date and 
 the autumn of 1667, when entries respecting the family begin to 
 appear in the register of Holy Trinity, Chester, there is a blank 
 which we are left to supply as well as we can, by inference. It 
 is tolerably certain, however, that in this interim Giles Van- 
 brugh was made the father of two more children. No 
 other period can well be assigned for the births of Anna Maria 
 and Carleton, to say nothing of the strong presumption afforded 
 by Mrs. Vanbrugh's extreme punctuality in these matters. 
 Meanwhile, from the absence of farther entries in the register 
 of St. Nicholas, we gather that Giles had quitted that parish ; 
 and it seems but a reasonable conjecture, that dread of the 
 plague had driven him, with his young family, altogether from 
 London in the spring of 1665. He ultimately settled in 
 
 *I am indebted to Mr. J. P. Earwaker, F.S.A., for the important 
 information that the records of the births of John Vanbrugh, and others 
 of the family, were to be found in the register of St. Nicholas Aeons. The 
 church of St. Nicholas Aeons no longer exists, not having been rebuilt 
 after its destruction by the fire of 1666. It stood on the west side of 
 Nicholas Lane, near Lombard Street, where the little churchyard yet 
 remains. The parish registers were transferred, after the fire, to the church 
 of St. Edmund, in Lombard Street.
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Chester, but it is not likely that he was resident there before 
 1667, or the birth of one of his children, which must have 
 occurred during that year, or, at the earliest, about the end of 
 1666, would have been recorded in a Chester register. 
 
 Giles Vanbrugh, then, settled in Chester in the year 1667, 
 and established himself in business as a sugar-baker in Weaver 
 Street. Here, there is no doubt, he passed the remainder of 
 his life, and here were born the rest of his numerous family.* 
 
 The following list of Giles Vanbrugh's children is compiled from the 
 registers of St. Nicholas Aeons, St. Stephen's, Walbrook, and Holy 
 Trinity, Chester. The two London registers I have myself examined : the 
 particulars from Chester were long since communicated to Notes and 
 Queries (Second Series, vol. i, pp. 116-7) by Mr. T. Hughes, of that city. 
 The years are given according to New Style. 
 
 i. Giles, born Oct. 6, 1660 : St. Nicholas. Buried at St. Stephen's, 
 Mar. 31, 1661. His Christian name is not given in the register of St. 
 Stephen's, where he is entered as "a yongue Childe of Mr. Giles Van 
 Bruggs" : the entry, moreover, appears under the year 1660, but the dates of 
 preceding and succeeding entries show that it belongs to 1661. 2. 
 Dorothy, born Feb. 14, 1662 : St. Nicholas. Buried at St. Stephen's, 
 where she is described only as "a young Child of Mr. Giles Vanbroge," 
 Sept 27, 1663. 3. Lucy, born Feb. n, 1663 : St. Nicholas. 4. John, 
 bapt. Jan. 24, 1664 : St. Nicholas. 5. Elizabeth, born Jan. 7, 1665 : St 
 Nicholas. Buried at Holy Trinity, Chester, Nov. 27, 1667. 6 and 7. 
 Carleton and Anna Maria, I have found no record of their births, and 
 cannot tell which was the elder ; but they come between Elizabeth and 
 Mary. Carleton was buried at Holy Trinity, Chester, Oct. 13, 1667. 
 Anna Maria is named in her father's will, and is mentioned by Le Neve as 
 the second daughter, Lucy being the first in his table. The remainder of 
 the list is from the Register of Holy Trinity, Chester. 8. Mary, born 
 Nov. 3, 1668. 9. Victoria, bapt. Jan. 25, 1670. 10. Elizabeth, bapt. 
 May 4, 1671. n. Robina, bapt. Sept. 22, 1672. 12. Carleton, bapt. 
 Sept. 18, 1673. 13. An infant son, buried Aug. 31, 1674. 14. Giles, 
 bapt Sept 3, 1675. 15. Catherina, bapt. Oct. 9, 1676. Buried Mar. 
 22, 1677. 16. Dudley, born Oct 21, 1677. 17. Kendrick, bapt. Nov. 
 21, 1678. 18. Charles, bapt Feb. 27, 1680. 19. Philip, bapt. Jan. 31, 
 1681. 
 
 The thirteen, whose burials are not recorded above, were living at the 
 date of Giles Vanbrugh's will, 1683.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xv 
 
 The story of his returning to London, and obtaining the appoint- 
 ment of " Comptroller of the Treasury Chamber " (whatever 
 that may mean), is without foundation, and may be dismissed 
 as a pure fiction. He is said to have acquired a competent 
 fortune, and it is beyond question that he was a highly respect- 
 able citizen, and a person of consideration in Chester. In 
 Blome's Britannia (1673) he figures in the list of " Nobility and 
 Gentry related unto Cheshire," as "Giles Vanbrough of 
 Chester, Gent." But here is an actual glimpse of him, not 
 uninteresting, in his habit as he lived. In June, 1687, the 
 famous dissenting minister, Matthew Henry, went to reside in 
 Chester ; which city, writes his biographer, " was then very 
 happy in several worthy Gentlemen that had their Habitations 
 there ; they were not altogether Strangers to Mr. Henry before 
 he came to live among them, but now they came to be his very 
 intimate Acquaintance ; some of these, as Alderman Main- 
 waring and Mr. Vanbrugh, Father to Sir John Vandrugh, were 
 in Communion with the Church of England, but they heard 
 Mr. Henry on the Week-day Lectures, and always treated him 
 with great and sincere Respect."* 
 
 We picture to ourselves Mr. Vanbrugh as a staid, serious 
 man, of a religious turn, and wonder whether John took after 
 his mother? In the summer of 1689 Giles Vanbrugh died, 
 and was buried in Holy Trinity Church, Chester, on the iQth 
 of July. His will, which is dated October 25, 1683, is preserved 
 in the Episcopal Registry at Chester. The following abstract of 
 it appeared in Notes and Queries^ : " Giles Vanbrugh, of the City 
 of Chester, by his will of this date, gave to his wife Elizabeth 
 the whole of his household furniture, &c., (plate excepted), and 
 what was due to her by marriage contract ; and directed the 
 whole of his real estate, &c., to be sold by his executor, and the 
 
 Tong's Life of Mr. Matthew Henry, pp. 98-99. London, 1716. 
 
 t Second Series, voL i., p. 117. Communicated by T. Hughes, Chester.
 
 xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 proceeds to be divided into fourteen parts, two of which he gave 
 to his eldest son John, one part to Lucy, one to Anna Maria, one 
 to Mary, one to Victoria, and one each to Elizabeth, Robina, 
 Carleton, Giles, Dudley, Kendrick, Charles, and Philip. 
 Appoints his wife sole executrix. Will proved by her, July 24, 
 1689." 
 
 The widow, Elizabeth Vanbrugh, lived to enjoy the successes 
 of her famous son. She died at Chargate, in the parish of Esher, 
 on the I3th of August, 1711, and was buried, on the I5th, in the 
 church at Thames Ditton.* The register of that church being, 
 unfortunately, defective about this date, I have been unable to 
 discover the entry of her burial. 
 
 Of John Vanbrugh's education we know nothing but that it 
 was " probably liberal." Mr. T. Hughes supposes him to have 
 been educated at the King's School, Chester, " then a seminary 
 of the highest repute " ; t which is likely enough, but lacks con- 
 firmation. At an early age at nineteen, one account has it 
 he was sent into France, where he continued several years. 
 During this period, it may be presumed, he laid the foundation 
 of that skill in architecture which he afterwards so eminently 
 displayed : at least, there is no subsequent period of his life to 
 which we can, with equal probability, ascribe his studies in that 
 art. It is in France that we get our first authentic glimpse of 
 Vanbrugh, in the enviable position of a prisoner in the Bastile. 
 The story has been pronounced a myth by D Israeli, J but it is 
 confirmed by the following passages from Narcissus Luttrell's 
 Diary : 
 
 " Thursday, i ith February [1691-2]. Last letters from France 
 say, three English gentlemen, Mr. Vanbrook, Mr. Goddard, and 
 
 * Noble, p. 355. 
 
 f Notes and Queries, Second Series, voL i., p. 117. 
 
 % Curiosities of Literature ; Secret History of the Building of Blenheim.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xvii 
 
 Mr. North, were clapt up in the Bastile, suspected to be spyes." 
 France and England were then at war, and reprisals ensued. 
 On Tuesday, 1 5th March, Luttrell writes : " French merchants 
 were the other day sent to the Tower, to be used as Mr. North 
 and Mr. Vanbroke are in the Bastile." 
 
 Vanbrugh remained some time in the Bastile, says Voltaire,* 
 without ever learning what had procured him this attention on 
 the part of the French ministry. But the gaiety and good 
 humour for which he was afterwards noted, and to which his 
 writings so strongly testify, did not desert him. He employed 
 this period of leisure in sketching the scenes of a comedy, which 
 he some years later completed, and brought upon the stage, 
 under the title of The Pro-voKd Wife. It is generally added 
 that his liberation was due to the good offices of certain French 
 gentlemen, who visited him in prison, and, being charmed with 
 his wit and talent, represented the affair to the King in a favour- 
 able light. 
 
 We know not whether it was before or after his confinement 
 in the Bastile that Vanbrugh entered the army as an ensign ; 
 it is likely, however, to have been before, as he was twenty-eight 
 years of age at the date of his arrest. His military adventures 
 have never been recorded, but he was long known about town 
 as " Captain Vanbrugh." I find in Luttrell another little story, of 
 which there is a bare possibility that our Vanbrugh may be the 
 hero. "Tuesday, 22nd November, 1692. Ostend letters say, 
 collonel Beveredge of the Scotts regiment being at dinner with 
 captain Vanbrook of the same, words arose and swords were 
 after drawn, and the collonel was killed, having given abusive 
 language to the captain first and shook him." 
 
 The " Mr. Vanbrugh," whom Evelyn mentions as secretary' 
 to the Greenwich Commission in 1695, appears not to have 
 been John Vanbrugh, but a certain William Vanbrugh, who 
 
 * Letters on the English People.
 
 xviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 died November 20, 1716 ; possibly the son of Giles Vanbrugh's 
 elder brother.* 
 
 II. 
 
 IN the year 1696 Vanbrugh commenced, under the most 
 favourable auspices, the career in which his genius fitted him 
 chiefly to excel, and in which he was destined to outstrip all his 
 contemporaries, Congreve alone excepted, the career of comic 
 dramatist. The fortunes of the theatre had been for some time 
 in a declining way. Ill-management, resulting in pecuniary 
 difficulties and disputes between the patentees and the actors, 
 had nullified the advantages which had been so confidently 
 anticipated from the union of the two companies at Drury 
 Lane in 1682 ; and when Betterton, the greatest actor of the 
 day, seceded from the Theatre Royal, he drew after him to his 
 new theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields most of the best performers 
 in the service of the patentees. Fortune, as well as merit, was 
 on the side of the malcontents. They opened, on the 3oth of 
 April, 1695, with the most successful new play which had been 
 produced for many years Congreve's Love for Love; and day 
 after day crowded audiences assembled at Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields to laugh and applaud, while at Drury Lane the 
 dispirited patentees were paying double salaries to 
 inexperienced actors from the profits of a half-filled house. 
 But this sudden flood of popular favour presently subsided. 
 The negligence consequent upon fancied security, aided by 
 internal jealousies, brought about a result which a little 
 prudence and forbearance might easily have obviated, and the 
 new management found itself before long obliged to follow the 
 example already set by the "provident patentees" of the 
 Theatre Royal, and to withhold the wages of the actors except 
 
 * Sec Notes and Queries, Fourth Series, vol. ix, p. 499.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xix 
 
 at such times as the financial condition of the house made it 
 convenient to pay them. 
 
 The fortunes of the Theatre Royal were now at low water, 
 and those of the rival company, though not yet so far reduced, 
 a little on the ebb, when the patentees resolved, on the 
 recommendation of Southern, to bring forward, in January, 1696, 
 a new play, the first production of a young actor of their house. 
 Colley Gibber, the young actor in question, was then rising in 
 his profession somewhat more slowly than, in his own estima- 
 tion, his merits warranted. The applause which had rewarded 
 his happy mimicry of Dogget's manner in Alderman Fondle- 
 wife,* some months before, had failed to convince the managing 
 patentee, Christopher Rich, and Gibber's fellow-actors at Drury 
 Lane, that he was fitted equally to shine in other characters of 
 importance. " There were few or no Parts, of the same kind, 
 to be had," he himself tells us. " If I sollicited for any thing of 
 a different Nature, I was answered, That was not in my Way. 
 And what zvasin my Way, it seems, was not,asyet,resolv > dupon."+ 
 
 Under these circumstances, what remained for an aspiring 
 young comedian but to write a part for himself? The play was 
 in due course completed, submitted to Southern's judgment, 
 and, on his recommendation, accepted by the patentees. Its 
 success was such as completely to vindicate Southern's discern- 
 ment Without one stroke of inspiration, LovJs Last Shift; or^ 
 The Fool in Fashion, displayed unquestionable talent : a well- 
 constructed and effective comedy, it deserved the favour with 
 which it was received. The plot turns upon the reclamation 
 of a dissolute husband by the wife from whom he has been 
 eight years parted. But the most diverting character in the 
 piece is that of Sir Novelty Fashion, an affected fop, whose soul 
 is everlastingly in pawn to his tailor ; and this part was imper- 
 
 * In Congreve's Old Bachelor. 
 
 + Gibber's Apology for his Life, chap. vi.
 
 xx INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sonated, with great applause, by the author himself. Nor was 
 the applause that of the general public alone. The Earl of 
 Dorset " Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride " pro- 
 nounced Love's Last Shift " the best first play that any author, 
 in his memory, had produced " ; but either Dorset's memory was 
 very defective, or the "judge of Nature," as Pope called him, 
 was not equally a judge of art ; for the Old Bachelor had been 
 produced but three years previously, and between Congreve's 
 genius and Gibber's ingenuity no comparison can be admitted. 
 Congreve himself, the wittiest of a witty school, showed more 
 penetration when he averred that the new play " had only in it 
 a great many things that were like wit, that in reality were not 
 wit." Yet even Congreve seems to have been indebted to Love's 
 Last Shift for the hint of the famous couplet which concludes 
 the third act of the Mourning Bride. There is surely a nearer 
 connection than that of mere casual coincidence between Mrs. 
 Flareit's " He shall find no Fiend in Hell can match the fury 
 of a disappointed Woman," and Zara's often quoted lines 
 
 " Heaven has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd, 
 Nor Hell a fury, like a Woman scorn' d." 
 
 But a greater honour yet was in store for Gibber. Among the 
 thousands who saw and approved Love's Last Shift was 
 Captain Vanbrugh. The gallant captain had long since, as we 
 have seen, made his private addresses to the Muse of Comedy, 
 and although his early attachment had for a time lain 
 dormant, it was ready to be revived now that he was at 
 leisure to indulge it. Gibber's play proved the breath which 
 re-kindled into flame the smouldering fire. Vanbrugh was 
 struck by the situation with which the piece closed. The 
 characters appeared to him capable of farther development. 
 He flung himself into the task with the ardour of a lover : the 
 short space of six weeks sufficed for its completion, and, in the 
 beginning of April, 1696, he presented to the management at
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxi 
 
 Drury Lane a sequel to Love's Last Shift^ under the title of 
 The Relapse ; or, Virtue in Danger. From Gibber's comedy 
 he had borrowed three characters, and the name of a fourth. 
 The characters were those of Loveless, the libertine husband, 
 his virtuous wife Amanda, and Sir Novelty Fashion, whom 
 Vanbrugh created a peer by the style of Lord Foppington ; the 
 name was that of Worthy, the "fine gentleman" of The Relapse^ 
 who is, however, in other respects, like the remaining dramatis 
 personcz, a new character. 
 
 The season being now too far advanced to afford time for 
 the preparation and production of the new play, The Relapse 
 was not acted until the succeeding winter.* Every measure 
 had been taken to ensure the success of the piece, and its 
 success was complete. There was scarce an actor of any 
 eminence at Mr. Rich's disposal who had not some part 
 in it. The three characters borrowed from Love's Last Shift 
 were represented by the actors who had played the correspond- 
 ing parts in Gibber's comedy. Jack Verbruggen, " that rough 
 Diamond, who shone more bright than all the artful, polish'd 
 Brilliants that ever sparkled on our Stage," t appeared in the part 
 of Loveless ; Mrs. Rogers in that of Amanda ; while Colley 
 Gibber, as Lord Foppington, drew from the crowded audiences 
 applause yet louder and more prolonged than that which had 
 formerly rewarded his exertions in the character of Sir Novelty. 
 
 * There is no doubt that The Relapse was first produced in December, 
 1696. Plays, at this period, were commonly published within about a 
 fortnight of their production, and so successful a piece as The Relapse would 
 certainly not be an exception to the rule. The first edition bears the date 
 of 1697 on the title-page, but it was actually issued before the end of 1696. 
 The following announcement of its publication appeared in the Post Boy of 
 December 26-29, 1696: "The Relapse : or, Vertue in Danger, being the 
 Sequel of the Fool in Fashion. A Comedy. Acted at the Theatre-Royal 
 in Drury-Lane. Printed for Sam. Briscoe at the corner of Charles Street, 
 Covent Garden. 1697. " 
 
 t Tony Aston's Brief Supplement to Gibber's Lives of the Actors and 
 Actresses, p. 16.
 
 xxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Berinthia was played by the most finished comic actress of the 
 day, the inimitable Mrs. Verbruggen ; and Powell, the leading 
 gentleman of the Drury Lane company, imparted, on the first 
 evening at least, more than necessary vigour to the part of 
 Worthy, having been " drinking his Mistress's Health in Nants 
 Brandy, from six in the Morning to the time he waddled on 
 upon the Stage."* 
 
 Two of the minor parts were filled by actors whose posthumous 
 fame has been greater than that of any of the above, except 
 Gibber. The few sentences allotted to the quack surgeon, 
 Sirringe, were, no doubt, made the most of by that witty scape- 
 grace, Joe Haines ; and, at the first performance, the part of 
 Lory, Young Fashion's servant, was taken by the already 
 renowned Irish comedian, Thomas Dogget. Dogget had held 
 a distinguished position among the mutineers who, under 
 Betterton's lead, had defied Manager Rich, and shaken from 
 their feet the dust of Drury Lane. At Lincoln's Inn Fields he 
 had gained fresh laurels by his creation of the part of Ben, 
 in Love for Love, but his pragmatical and dogged 
 disposition rendered it impossible for him to remain long 
 content in any situation. He quarrelled with Betterton upon 
 the management of the theatre, mutinied again, and returned 
 to the Theatre Royal, where, as we have said, he accepted the 
 part of Lory, in The Relapse. Still, however, he was not 
 suited. The part agreed "so ill with Dogget's dry and 
 closely natural Manner of acting, that upon the second Day he 
 desired it might be disposed of to another ; which the Author 
 complying with, gave it to Penkethman; who tho', in other 
 Lights, much his Inferior, yet this Part he seem'd better to 
 become." f Penkethman had acted a similar part that of 
 Loveless's man, Snap in Love's Last Shift. 
 
 * Preface to The Relapse. 
 t Gibber's Apology, chap. vii.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxiii 
 
 With characteristic generosity, Vanbrugh resigned to the 
 patentees his own rights in the performance of the successful 
 play.* Sir Thomas Skipwith, who owned a large share in the 
 theatrical patent, had known Vanbrugh in early days, " when 
 he was but an Ensign, and had a Heart above his Income ;"t 
 and had conferred a particular obligation upon him, which the 
 poet was now desirous to repay. The recent languishing 
 condition of the Drury Lane exchequer had, of course, reduced 
 the profits of the patentees, and, as Vanbrugh thought, a 
 successful new piece would at once bring prosperity to the 
 house, and raise the value of his friend's share. After all, Sir 
 Thomas does not appear to have benefited greatly by 
 Vanbrugh's generous endeavour to serve him. Utterly careless 
 of his own interest, he left the management of the theatre 
 entirely in the hands of his colleague, Rich ; than whom, if we 
 may believe Gibber, "no Creature ever seem'd more fond of 
 Power, that so little knew how to use it to his Profit and 
 Reputation." The result was, that about ten years later, Sir 
 Thomas, having, as he said, made nothing of it for years, fairly 
 made a present of his whole right in the patent to Colonel 
 Brett, whose exertions brought the stage, for a time, to a 
 more prosperous condition. 
 
 III. 
 
 The Relapse, like its author's later productions, belongs to that 
 school of comedy, called artificial, which was introduced into 
 the English theatre by Sir George Etherege, and which, after a 
 career of unexampled brilliancy, was slowly flogged to death by 
 that " awful cat-a-nine-tails to the Stage," + the Puritan inquisi- 
 
 * By the custom of the time, the poet was entitled to the profits of the 
 third and sixth nights' performances of a new play. 
 f Gibber's Apology. 
 % Vanbrugh's Prologue to The False Friend.
 
 xxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 tion of the times of William III. and Anne. Fostered by the 
 favour of a Court of which the manners and tastes were inevit- 
 ably influenced by the habits of a long exile, the Artificial 
 Comedy, or, as it is better denominated, the Comedy of 
 Manners, was naturally, in some of its features, an exotic. Its 
 dominant idea at least, as regards the works of its greatest 
 masters was Satire : its most indispensable attribute was Wit. 
 The traditions of the Shakespearean comedy, the comedy of 
 human life, as one might term it, were forgotten ; and it was now 
 held 
 
 ' ' 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."* 
 
 In these particulars we recognize the practice of the French 
 theatre, of which the influence is strongly attested by the fre- 
 quency with which, during the fifty years succeeding the 
 Restoration, English comic poets of all grades, from Dryden 
 down to Ravenscroft, translated, adapted, or borrowed from 
 the works of Moliere. Vanbrugh, indeed, has left us only two 
 finished plays which are not directly founded upon French 
 originals. In a less degree, the Spanish theatre, and especially 
 the comedies of Calderon, with their scenes of complicated 
 intrigue, may claim some share in the formation of the new 
 English school. 
 
 But with all these alien influences the Comedy of Manners 
 retained many characteristics of true British growth. 
 Essentially, it owed more to Ben Jonson and The Silent 
 Woman, than to all the dramatists of France and Spain united. 
 In fact, it may even be said, that wide as was the impression 
 made at this period by the French drama upon our own, it was 
 also, for the most part, superficial. Even where they copied 
 
 * Prologue to The Provok'd Wife.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxv 
 
 most directly, our playwrights generally managed to disguise 
 their appropriations in a garb of unmistakable homespun. 
 Moliere was faithfully followed in his wit and satire, Calderon in 
 his intrigue ; but the specifically national characteristics of 
 these authors, the classic refinement of the Frenchman and the 
 poetic dignity of the Spaniard, are commonly conspicuous by 
 their absence from the English adaptations of their works ; and 
 their place is but too often supplied by an extravagant and 
 peculiarly English grossness of language and sentiment. In 
 fine, if the body were French, not only the garb which clothed 
 it, but the spirit which animated it, for better or for, worse, was 
 usually altogether English. 
 
 Like most of his contemporaries and immediate predecessors, 
 Vanbrugh has not escaped the charge of licentiousness of 
 language and sentiment. It is a charge which has been, I 
 believe, frequently overstated against the post-Restoration poets 
 as a body ; though, of course, it cannot be denied that most of 
 them, and even the most eminent among them, condescended 
 at times to pander to the depraved taste of their audience, by 
 the employment of language and incidents past the possibility of 
 extenuation. But, on the other hand, it should be remembered, 
 that much of the apparent licentiousness of these plays had a 
 purpose expressly satirical, and was intended not to counten- 
 ance, but to expose, the vices of the age. The times permitted 
 plain speaking, and the poets availed themselves of the liberty, 
 sometimes with a bad, but frequently also with a good motive ; 
 in which case, I conceive, the charge of immorality belongs not 
 to the poet, but the society which he portrayed. This observation, 
 it may be remarked in passing, will be found particularly 
 applicable to one of the best abused of Restoration dramatists, 
 William Wycherley. 
 
 I cannot regard Vanbrugh as a great culprit in this respect. 
 In two of his comedies The Relapse and The Provotfd Wife 
 we may at once admit that there are occasional passages which 
 
 c
 
 xxvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 transgress the bounds of decorum, but it can hardly be contended 
 that, in either of these pieces, the poet proves himself a deliber- 
 ate advocate of immorality. The intrigue between Loveless and 
 Berinthia, for example, is painted in colours perhaps too glowing, 
 yet it is certain that the author's design was not to engage the 
 sympathy of the audience on behalf of the criminals, but rather 
 to enhance, by a lively contrast, their admiration for the pure- 
 minded, though cruelly tempted, Amanda. As to the remaining 
 plays of Vanbrugh, the criticism which can find anything in them 
 worthy of serious condemnation on the score of licentiousness, 
 must be captious indeed. 
 
 The chief defect of The Relapse lies in its construction. It 
 comprises two distinct plots, of almost equal importance, and 
 very slightly connected. But this, perhaps its only consider- 
 able blemish, appears a trifle beside the beauties which out- 
 weigh it a thousandfold. The characters are delineated with so 
 masterly a hand, the scenes are so happily contrived, the 
 dialogue is so brimful of wit, the action proceeds, from beginning 
 to end, with such unflagging animation, that the faults of the 
 piece are forgotten in generous admiration of the author's genius. 
 In the character of Lord Foppington, Vanbrugh has followed, to 
 some extent, the design of his predecessor; but to say only that 
 he has vastly improved upon Gibber, were to allow him far less 
 than his due of honour. Sir Novelty Fashion is an amusing 
 portrait of the beau of the period : Lord Foppington is one of 
 the most inimitably drawn characters within the entire range of 
 English comic drama. Vanbrugh has not merely remodelled 
 the figure, he has endowed it with life, and is entitled to the full 
 credit of the creation. The name of Lord Foppington recalls 
 that of Etherege's Man of Mode, Sir Fopling Flutter, but there 
 is no real resemblance between the two characters farther than 
 the inevitable likeness of one fop to another. The Man of Mode 
 is merely a " brisk blockhead," as Medley calls him in the play : 
 Lord Foppington is not so much a fool by nature, as a coxcomb
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxvii 
 
 by caprice ; and his conversation, though affected to the last 
 degree, displays occasional symptoms of wit and observation. 
 
 In quick succession to The Relapse followed the comedy of 
 AZsop, which was produced at Drury Lane in the month of 
 January, 1697,* with Colley Gibber in the title-role. It is a free 
 translation, with considerable additions and alterations, of a 
 French comedy by Boursault, entitled Les Fables cTEsope. Like 
 The Relapse, though in a different way, sEsop is somewhat 
 faulty in construction. If, as it is said in Tristram Shandy, 
 digressions are " the sunshine, the life, the soul of reading," the 
 play needs no farther recommendation ; for it consists largely 
 of digressions. The plot is of the simplest description, and is, 
 in fact, little more than a thread upon which the author has 
 strung together a series of independent episodes. Upon the 
 whole, it must be allowed that Vanbrugh's comedy is greatly 
 superior to Boursault's. In the more serious scenes, it is true, 
 the French poet displays more pathos and dignity than his 
 English adapter ; but in the comic episodes, which, after all, are 
 the most vital portions of the play, Vanbrugh far surpasses him. 
 The fables, moreover, which with Boursault are little more than 
 outlines, destitute of life and colour, are enriched by Vanbrugh 
 with strokes of wit and fancy which raise them to a respectable 
 rank among compositions of this kind. 
 
 The morality of ^Esop is unimpeachable, which probably 
 accounts for the comparative coolness of its reception by 
 English audiences of that day. It ran, however, for eight or 
 nine nights, and was revived, both at Drury Lane and Lincoln's 
 
 * The date of &sop is fixed by the following advertisement of its publica- 
 tion, from the London Gazette of January 18-21, 1697 : " ^Esop. A 
 Comedy. As it is acted at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. Printed for 
 Tho. Bennet at the Half Moon in St. Paul's Church-Yard. " The produc- 
 tion of sEsop probably preceded its publication by a very brief interval, 
 as the author remarks in the preface, "'tis now but the second day of 
 acting." 
 
 C 2
 
 xxviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Inn Fields, on several occasions during the author's lifetime.* 
 As in the case of The Relapse, the poet assigned to the patentees 
 his rights in the performance. 
 
 Having thus presented the Theatre Royal with two master- 
 pieces in order to oblige Sir Thomas Skipwith, Vanbrugh next 
 proceeded to gratify another of his friends, by conferring a 
 similar favour upon the company in Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 This friend was the Right Honourable Charles Montague, 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer, afterwards Earl of Halifax ; a 
 statesman of ability and repute, as well as a maker of mediocre 
 verses ; but best remembered as the great patron of poetry, 
 the Maecenas of the age, although, if we may believe Pope, 
 "rather a pretender to taste than really possessed of it."t 
 Montague was " a great Favourer of Bettertorfs Company, 
 Gibber tells us ; and, " having formerly, by way of Family- 
 Amusement, heard the Provo&d Wife read to him, in its looser 
 Sheets, engag'd Sir John Vanbrugh to revise it, and give it to 
 the Theatre in Lincolris-Inn Fields. This was a Request not 
 to be refus'd to so eminent a Patron of the Muses as the Lord 
 Hallifax, who was equally a Friend and Admirer of Sir John 
 
 * There is a passage in the prologue to The ProvoKd Wife which can be 
 interpreted only, I think, as an allusion to the partial failure of sEsop. 
 The success of The Relapse, so recent and so complete, had probably 
 encouraged the author to anticipate an equally pronounced triumph for his 
 second essay, and his expectations were, no doubt, in a measure disappointed. 
 Yet ssop appears to have been fairly successful. Gibber writes " I was 
 equally approv'd in &sop, as the Lord Foppington, allowing the Difference 
 to be no less than as Wisdom, in a Person deform" d, may be less enter- 
 taining to the general Taste, than Folly and Foppery, finely drest" 
 And in Gildon's Comparison between the Two Stages we read " Oroonoko, 
 &sop, and Relapse are Master-pieces, and subsisted Drury-lane House, 
 the first two or three years." 
 
 t Spence's Anecdotes, where a story is told of Lord Halifax which con- 
 firms Pope's judgment of him.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxix 
 
 himself."* Accordingly, The Provok'd Wife, begun, as we have 
 seen, in the Bastile, some years previously, was now completed, 
 handed over to Betterton, and produced by his company about 
 the end of April, or beginning of May, 1697.1 
 
 The cast was unexceptionable. Betterton himself " an 
 Actor, as Shakespear was an Author, both without 
 Competitors " took the part of Sir John Brute. Verbruggen, 
 who had recently migrated from the rival house, appeared as 
 Constant. Lady Brute was played by the famous Mrs. Barry ; 
 Belinda by the not less famous, and still more fascinating, Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle. With such actors, and such a comedy, success 
 followed as a matter of course. 
 
 The ProvoKd Wife is, upon the whole, superior in construc- 
 tion to either of its predecessors ; at least, the unity of action is 
 better preserved. Its moral tone, however, is looser, nor does it 
 contain a single character which even pretends to evoke, in the 
 smallest degree, the reader's sympathy. For all this, it is a true 
 masterpiece of wit and humour, and can hardly with justice be 
 pronounced, in general, an immoral play. There is nothing in 
 it of the earnestness of purpose which distinguishes the story of 
 Loveless and Amanda, yet where the author does occasionally 
 deviate into seriousness, the moral is good enough ; as, for 
 example, when Constant exclaims "Though Marriage be a 
 Lottery, yet there is one inestimable Lot, in which the only 
 Heaven on Earth is written" ; and Heartfree responds " To be 
 
 * Gibber's Apology, chap. vi. Montague was not Lord Halifax until 
 1700 he was created Baron Halifax in that year, and Earl in 1714. In 
 the latter year Vanbrugh was knighted. 
 
 t The publication of The Provok'd Wife is thus announced in the Post 
 Man of May 11-13, l6 97 : " This day is published The Provok'd Wife, a 
 Comedy, as it is Acted at the New Theatre in Little Lincolns Inn Fields, by 
 the Author of a new Comedy of the Relapse, or Virtue in Danger, and 
 .(Ezop. Printed for Rich. Wellington at the Lute in St. Paul's Church- 
 yard."
 
 xxx INTRODUCTION. 
 
 capable of loving one, doubtless is better than to possess a 
 Thousand." Briefly, The ProvoVd Wife is a gay, lively satire 
 upon the manners of a certain section of society, and is conducted 
 exactly on the principle laid down by the author himself in the 
 first four lines, already quoted, of the prologue. 
 
 IV. 
 
 WE are now approaching a turning point in the history of the 
 English stage. The witty licentiousness of the comic drama, 
 still flourishing in unabated luxuriance, was no longer so openly 
 in accord with popular sentiment as in the days when the rage 
 of revolt against Puritan intolerance led naturally into the 
 opposite excess. Indeed, it can hardly be maintained that at 
 any period since the Restoration the immorality of the drama 
 had really reflected the feeling of the nation at large. Even in 
 London, the play-going public formed but a small minority of 
 the population. The stage was chiefly upheld by the "quality" ; 
 the poets, as Dryden wrote, " must live by Courts, or starve " ; 
 and the history of the London theatres, from 1660 to the time at 
 which we have now arrived, is a record of continual struggles, 
 on the part of the managers, to maintain two houses, for the 
 entire metropolis, in a state of tolerable prosperity. 
 
 We have but to read the plays themselves to find convincing 
 proofs as to the class to which they were intended to appeal. 
 Beaux, it is true, were ridiculed and scoffed at with the utmost 
 freedom of language,* yet the hero of the piece was always a 
 man of fashion and of pleasure ; much the kind of man, in short, 
 which the beau himself would have been, if he had had but the 
 wit. Thus the beaux in the audience were under no necessity of 
 applying to themselves the satire which the poet lavished upon 
 
 * See, for example, the prologues and epilogue to The Relapse.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxxi 
 
 their kind : when Dorimant went as fine as Sir Fopling, what 
 was to hinder each admiring beau from taking Dorimant to 
 himself, and writing his fellow down the ass ? For the citizens, 
 on the other hand, there were no such opportunities of escape. 
 A " citizen,'' in the dialect of the playhouse, was but another 
 term for a cuckold ; nor was it to be supposed that the sober 
 citizens of London would themselves frequent, or allow their 
 wives and daughters to frequent, entertainments in which they 
 were invariably held up to contempt and derision. 
 
 But, as yet, no accumulated force of public reprobation had 
 been directed against the licence of the theatres. They had 
 been protected by the Stuart monarchs, uncensured by the 
 Church ; and the bulk of the nation was too loyal openly to con- 
 demn that which found favour in the eyes of its rulers. With 
 the Revolution the situation of affairs was altered. Decorum 
 prevailed at Court, and although the drama was as frankly 
 licentious as ever, the temper of the people was no longer so 
 tolerant Decency was not now synonymous with disloyalty : 
 a storm was brewing which, before long, was to overspread the 
 whole sky, and to sweep away, in indiscriminate ruin, all that 
 was reprehensible, and nearly all that was valuable, in the drama 
 of the day. 
 
 The first low mutterings of the thunder were audible when, in 
 1695, ^e " everlasting Blackmore " published his preface to 
 Prince Arthur. Three years later the tempest descended in 
 full fury. In March, 1698, Jeremy Collier, a non-juring clergy- 
 man, put forth his Short View of the Immorality and Profane- 
 ness of the English Stage a book written with some ingenuity > 
 considerable learning, and an abundance of bitterness and 
 pedantry. Its success was stupendous. Three editions 
 appeared within the year ; a fourth was issued in 1699 ; and 
 in its train pamphlet succeeded pamphlet, directed to the same 
 end, by writers who rivalled Collier in bitterness, however far 
 they fell short of him in ability. Public opinion was thoroughly
 
 xxxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 aroused, and strong on the side of the assailants. The attack 
 upon the playwrights was presently followed up by prosecutions 
 of the players. On the loth of May, 1698, Luttrell notes in his 
 Diary that " the justices of Middlesex have presented the play- 
 houses to be nurseries of debauchery and blasphemy." Two 
 days later he writes : " The justices did not only present the 
 playhouses, but also Mr. Congreve, for writing the Double 
 Dealer j Durfey for Don Quixot; and Tonson and Brisco, book- 
 sellers, for printing them : and that women frequenting the 
 playhouses in masks tended much to debauchery and immorality." 
 An Act of James I., against profane swearing, was put in force : 
 informers were stationed in the theatres to take notes of any 
 objectionable words which might be used upon the stage ; and 
 although Queen Anne's intervention at length put a stop to these 
 vexatious and absurd proceedings, it was not until several of the 
 players, including Betterton and Mrs. Bracegirdle, had been 
 convicted under the Act. 
 
 Threatened dramas, however, like threatened men, live long. 
 Even the great storm of the 2;th of November, 1703, did not 
 entirely empty the playhouses, although carefully "improved," 
 as a judgment, by the zealots. The anonymous author of a 
 pamphlet published two or three years later, under the edifying 
 title of Hell upon Earth; or the Language of the Playhouse, 
 makes the mournful admission that "the horrid Comedies of 
 Love for Love, The Provok'd Wife, and The Spanish Fryar, 
 are frequently acted in all places to which the Players come. 
 The more they have been expos'd by Mr. Collier and others, 
 the more they seem to be admir'd ! " But the victory, after all, 
 remained with the reformers, though less complete than the 
 more violent among them had desired. The chief defendants 
 themselves, Congreve and Vanbrugh (for Dryden's dramatic 
 career was already closed), became more guarded in their 
 writings after Collier's attack, and an era of decorum commenced 
 for the stage. Not decorum alone, however, was the result of
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxxiii 
 
 the popular outcry. By long association, wit and licence had 
 become, as it seemed, inseparable, and the younger school of 
 dramatists wrought uneasily in their newly imposed fetters. At 
 a later period, indeed, it was shown by Goldsmith and Sheridan, 
 that the most charming humour and the most brilliant wit could 
 consist in comedy with perfect purity of thought and language ; 
 but for the time the case seemed hopeless, and side by side with 
 decorum, dulness fixed her seat in the deserted temple of wit 
 and satire. 
 
 To return to the Short View. Collier opens his attack with 
 temper and moderation. His purpose is the reformation, not 
 the abolition, of the theatres. "The business of Plays," he 
 writes, " is to recommend Virtue, and discountenance Vice ; 
 To shew the Uncertainty of Humane Greatness, the suddain 
 Turns of Fate, and the Unhappy Conclusions of Violence and 
 Injustice : 'Tis to expose the Singularities of Pride and Fancy, 
 to make Folly and Falsehood contemptible, and to bring every 
 thing that is 111 under Infamy and Neglect. This Design," adds 
 Collier, " has been oddly pursued by the English Stage ! " 
 
 We will waive the exceptions which might easily be made 
 against Mr. Collier's view of the "business of plays." 'Tis 
 indubitable that part, at least, of his design was pursued, 
 however oddly, by some of the very poets whom he proceeds 
 to condemn with so much acrimony. Those who imagine they 
 perceive in the plays of Wycherley, Congreve, or Vanbrugh, 
 only scenes of debauchery rendered more dangerously seductive 
 by wit and fancy, are blind to their real purpose. These 
 authors were essentially satirists. Even that bete noire of the 
 Puritans, Wycherley's Country Wife, is in reality a powerful 
 and scathing satire upon those very vices of which it has been 
 popularly supposed a hot-bed. Indeed, Collier himself seems 
 to have been dimly conscious that in assailing Wycherley he 
 was upon dangerous ground. His references to the " Plain 
 Dealer " are few, and singularly temperate, and on more than
 
 xxxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 one occasion he pauses to conciliate the great dramatist by a 
 well-deserved compliment. Perhaps Collier may have felt the 
 force of that satire which is more unmistakable in the produc- 
 tions of this Hogarth of the drama than in those of most of his 
 contemporaries, but it is difficult to reconcile such a supposition 
 with his usual obtuseness in regard to irony. Because Vanbrugh 
 and Congreve fail to conduct their fops and libertines to the 
 gallows at the conclusion of the piece, he gravely charges them 
 with intending these creatures as models for the imitation of the 
 admiring spectators. 
 
 At the same time there is no denying that Collier's complaints 
 of the immodesty of the stage were, in general, only too well 
 founded. The audience at least, the noisier section of the 
 audience delighted in obscenity ; and even the greatest poets, 
 Dryden in particular, would sometimes sink to the level of those 
 whose humour was all-powerful to save or to condemn. Yet 
 there is need of discrimination. The plain language, permitted 
 by the manners of the age, is not necessarily a proof of 
 immorality. We may even go farther, and admit that in many 
 of the comical passages of these old plays " happy breathing- 
 places from the burthen of a perpetual moral questioning "* the 
 wit and humour go far to redeem the indecorum ; that it were 
 not amiss occasionally to lay aside our nineteenth-century 
 prudishness, and to own ourselves diverted by a brilliant repartee 
 or a ludicrous situation, though introduced with bolder licence 
 than the manners of our own strictly moral time allow. 
 
 Many instances, however, are to be found, which it is im- 
 possible to palliate. Such are the grossly indecent lines often to 
 be met with in the prologues and epilogues of seventeeth century 
 plays, when the poet, addressing his audience directly, stoops 
 thus to bid for the applause of the looser sort among them ; 
 while, to make matters worse, the offending passages were 
 
 * Charles Lamb.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxxv 
 
 frequently 'placed in the mouths of women. In reprobating 
 such practices as these Collier stood upon his strongest ground, 
 and was sure of the sympathy of all decent persons. Unfor- 
 tunately, his zeal could not rest here. The just censure which, 
 in his first chapter, he bestows upon that which was repre- 
 hensible in the poets of his day, is weakened by a tendency to 
 exaggeration and to the introduction of trivial or irrelevant 
 instances ; and these tendencies grow upon him as the work 
 progresses, until, before its close, he shows himself a mere 
 fanatic, devoid alike of judgment and of discrimination. He 
 cites the dramatists of past ages as evidence against his con- 
 temporaries, commending the morality of Terence and Plautus, 
 the modesty of Ben Jonson, and (oddly enough) of Beaumont 
 and Fletcher. Aristophanes and Shakespeare he puts 
 conveniently out of court ; for the former " discovers himself a 
 downright Atheist," while, "as for Shakespeare, he is too 
 guilty to make an Evidence." 
 
 So far, however, Collier has remained cool, if not always 
 discreet. But both discretion and coolness are flung to the 
 winds when he proceeds to deal with the profanity of the 
 dramatists, their " Cursing and Swearing," their abuse of 
 religion and the clergy. Every thoughtless ejaculation my 
 Lord Foppington's " Gad," or poor Miss Hoyden's " Icod ! " 
 good Mr. Collier resents as a deliberate insult to the majesty of 
 the Deity. " They swear in Solitude and cool Blood," he 
 exclaims, " under Thought and Deliberation, for Business and 
 for Exercise ! This is a terrible Circumstance ! " 
 
 When Amanda, smarting under the discovery of her 
 husband's repeated infidelity, very innocently cries 
 
 "What slippery Stuff are Men compos'd of! 
 Sure the Account of their Creation's false, 
 And 'twas the Woman's Rib that they were form'd of " 
 
 the irate clergyman declares that she " makes no Scruple to 
 charge the Bible with Untruths." Again, Sir John Brute's
 
 xxxvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 masquerading in the garb of a parson is an affront to the cloth 
 never to be forgiven. On this point, indeed, the reverend 
 controvertist, with a fine sense of what is due to his profession, 
 is particularly sore. He revives, in favour of the priesthood, the 
 old theory of divine right, and claims for every minister of 
 religion, not, indeed, exemption from the failings and follies of 
 humanity, but entire immunity from the satire and ridicule for 
 which, in the case of persons less sacred, such follies and failings 
 would be admitted a proper subject. In fact, the contemptible 
 figure which clergymen occasionally make upon the stage of 
 the seventeenth century, was not without abundant warrant. 
 " I by no means design this," writes Dennis, " as a reflection 
 upon the Church of England, who I am satisfy'd may more 
 justly boast of its Clergy, than any other Church whatsoever; 
 yet may I venture to affirm that there are some among them, 
 who can never be suppos'd to have been corrupted by Play- 
 houses, who yet turn up a Bottle oft'ner than they do an Hour- 
 glass, who box about a pair of Tables with more fervour than 
 they do their cushions, contemplate a pair of Dice more 
 frequently than the Fathers or Councils, and meditate and 
 depend upon Hazard, more than they do upon Providence." * 
 Against men of this stamp the satire of the stage was 
 surely not ill-directed, although Mr. Collier, confounding their 
 character with their cloth, prefers to regard them as 
 the ambassadors of Heaven. 
 
 But not content with throwing his protecting aegis over the 
 clergy, our Tory parson must needs extend its shelter to 
 persons of quality among the laity. The Plain Dealer's sturdy 
 assertion that " he would call a Rascal by no other Title, tho' 
 his Father had left him a Duke's," Mr. Collier quotes, under the 
 evident impression that a sentiment so abhorrent to good 
 manners carries its own condemnation. He reverts to this 
 
 * The Usefulness of the Stage, London, 1698, p. 26.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxxvii 
 
 subject later, in his Defence of the Short View, where he 
 maintains that "all Satire ought to have regard to Quality and 
 Condition," and that to expose a lord is to represent nobility 
 and folly as inseparable, forgetting, or, more probably, 
 disregarding, the fact that this argument would apply with 
 equal force to every condition of men. Congreve's stern rebuke 
 had evidently failed to penetrate his antagonist. "When 
 Vice," the poet wrote, " shall be allowed as an Indication of 
 Quality and good Breeding, then it may also pass for a piece of 
 good Breeding to compliment Vice in Quality : But till then, I 
 humbly conceive, that to expose and ridicule it will altogether 
 do as well." * 
 
 Collier criticizes plays as he would criticize sermons, and 
 makes no distinction of persons. If Lord Foppington speak 
 irreverently of the church, or my Lady Brute lightly of virtue, 
 this acute critic is as indignant as if the words had been placed 
 in the mouths of characters intended as models of serious excel- 
 lence ; although in the former instance it must be clear, as 
 Vanbrugh pointed out, " even to the meanest capacity," that 
 what his lordship says of his church-behaviour is designed for 
 the contempt, and not for the imitation of the audience ; while 
 as to Lady Brute's words " Virtue's an Ass, and a Gallant's 
 worth forty on't " 'tis equally obvious that it is " not Virtue she 
 exposes, but herself, when she says 'em : nor is it me he exposes," 
 adds the poet, " but himself, when he quotes 'em."t 
 
 I will oblige the reader with one more chosen flower from the 
 Reverend Mr. Collier's garland of amenities. After a few short 
 excerpts from The Relapse (Tom Fashion's " Providence, thou 
 seest at last, takes care of men of merit " Berinthia's " Mr. 
 Worthy used you like a text, he took you all to pieces " and 
 the same lady's " Heaven give you grace to put it in practice ! "), 
 
 * Amendments to Mr. Collier's False and Imperfect Citations, p. 21. 
 t A Short Vindication of The Relapse and The Provok'd Wife, p. 48.
 
 xxxviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of which the worst is spoken in thoughtless levity, perfectly 
 consistent with the character of the speaker, he bursts out : 
 " There are few of these last Quotations, but what are plain 
 Blasphemy, and within the Law. They look reeking as it were 
 from Pandcemonium, and almost smell of Fire and Brimstone. 
 This is an Eruption of Hell with a Witness ! I almost wonder 
 the Smoak of it has not darken'd the Sun, and turn'd the Air to 
 Plague and Poyson ! These are outrageous Provocations ; 
 enough to arm all Nature in Revenge ; to exhaust the Judg- 
 ments of Heaven, and sink the Island 'in the Sea !"* 
 
 Vanbrugh's recent and brilliant successes in the theatre, to 
 say nothing of his delightful witticism, in the preface to The 
 Relapse, upon the Saints " who make debauches in piety, as 
 Sinners do in wine," had given him a special claim upon the 
 attention of the reverend reformer. References to The Relapse 
 and The ProvoKd Wife are, accordingly, scattered thickly 
 throughout the Short View, and the former play is additionally 
 favoured by the devotion of a long section of the fifth chapter to 
 its examination. In this section Collier criticizes the construc- 
 tion as well as the morality of the play, with the evident 
 determination to see no good in either. He sets up for a 
 pedantic observance of the unities of time, place, and action, and, 
 of course, has no difficulty in proving Vanbrugh guilty of great 
 irregularities in respect to these. By his violation of the unity 
 of action, in founding his drama upon two nearly unconnected 
 plots, Vanbrugh had, indeed, laid himself fairly open to the 
 attack of critics to whom the laws of the French theatre were 
 as those of the Medes and Persians ; and Collier takes full 
 advantage of the opportunity thus afforded him to treat Tom 
 Fashion as the hero of the piece, and to ignore the more seri- 
 ous purpose of the poet in the story of Loveless and Amanda. 
 Candour and discernment are equally conspicuous in his con- 
 
 * Short View, p. 85.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxxix 
 
 elusion. The Relapse " appears a Heap of Irregularities. 
 There is neither Propriety in the Name, nor Contrivance in the 
 Plot, nor Decorum in the Characters. 'Tis a thorough Con- 
 tradiction to Nature, and impossible in Time and Place. Its 
 Shining Graces, as the Author calls them, are Blasphemy and 
 Baudy, together with a Mixture of Oaths and Cursing" 
 
 The extraordinary popularity of the Short View rendered it 
 impossible to pass it over in silence. Of the poets particularly 
 attacked by Collier, Dryden was, incomparably, the best fitted 
 to reply. But Dryden was an old man, who had ceased to 
 write for the stage, and was wiling to devote the few years that 
 might remain to him, to worthier work than that of engaging in 
 a controversy with an antagonist behind whom was ranked the 
 unreasoning fanaticism of a nation which, twenty years before, 
 had gone mad over the Popish Plot, and whose sovereign had, 
 but a few months previously, bestowed a handsome pension 
 upon the infamous Titus Gates.* In Dryden's subsequent 
 publications a few passing references to Collier may be found. 
 The poet admitted, to some extent, the justice of his charge of 
 immorality, and frankly avowed his penitence for his own 
 transgressions. At the same time, he deprecated the reckless 
 extravagance of much that Collier had advanced, and observed, 
 with perfect truth, that "if the zeal for God's house had not 
 eaten him up, it had at least devoured some part of his good 
 manners and civility."t 
 
 But if Dryden declined the contest, there was no lack of 
 younger authors ready to measure swords with the assailant. 
 The summer of 1698 witnessed the publication of replies to the 
 Short View by Vanbrugh, Congreve, Dennis, Wycherley, and 
 
 "Tuesday, 28 Dec. 1697. His majestic has given Dr. Gates i.oool. 
 to pay his debts, and 300!. per aim. during his life, in consideration of his 
 former sufferings. " Luttrell. 
 
 t Preface to the Fables.
 
 xl INTRODUCTION. 
 
 others of less note. In nearly all the replies, however, one 
 common fault is observable ; they partake too much of the 
 nature of special pleading, and fail to argue the question on 
 sufficiently broad grounds. Dennis's interesting little volume 
 on the Usefulness of the Stage is the one considerable excep- 
 tion to this rule. The parts taken in the controversy by 
 Congreve and Vanbrugh were scarcely commensurate with the 
 expectations warranted by their high reputation and exceptional 
 ability. They attempted little more than a bare reply to the 
 charges which Collier had preferred against themselves ; and 
 so far, they were both, in some measure, successful, although 
 Congreve, with strange indiscretion, seriously damaged his own 
 cause by the ill-temper and scurrility which he vented upon his 
 antagonist ; and even, on one or two occasions, by his eagerness 
 to prove too much, managed to place himself decidedly in the 
 wrong, where he had before been as decidedly in the right.* 
 
 On the 8th of June appeared A Short Vindication of the 
 Relapse and the Provotfd Wife from Immorality and Profane- 
 ness. By the Author. It is a pamphlet of seventy-nine pages, 
 anonymous, like all Vanbrugh's previous publications. The 
 tone is by no means apologetic. " What I have done," writes 
 the Author, " is in general a Discouragement to Vice and 
 Folly ; I am sure I intended it, and I hope I have performed 
 it." The words " in general " require a little emphasis, but, this 
 granted, I believe we shall find no very solid reason for 
 quarrelling with Vanbrugh's estimate of his performances. He 
 then proceeds to examine the particular passages quoted by 
 Collier from his works, and clearly shows that the latter's 
 objections are, for the most part, in their nature frivolous, or 
 based upon misapprehension. Collier's claim, on behalf of the 
 clergy, to temporal honours and distinction, is treated by Vanbrugh 
 
 * It is probably unnecessary to remind the reader that he will find an 
 admirable account of the entire controversy in Mr. Gosse's Life of Congreve.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xli 
 
 in a spirit certainly more in accordance with the teaching of 
 Christ than that which inspired the churchman to put it forth. 
 " He is of Opinion," the poet writes, " that Riches and Plenty, 
 Title, State and Dominion, give a Majesty to Precept, and cry 
 Place for it wherever it comes ; That Christ and his Apostles 
 took the thing by the wrong Handle ; and that the Pope and 
 his Cardinals have much refin'd upon 'em in the Policy of 
 Instruction." And he shrewdly adds, " I'm afraid those very 
 Instances Mr. Collier gives us of the Grandeur of the Clergy ) 
 are the things that have destroy'd both them and their 
 Flocks." 
 
 Upon another argument he writes : " I cou'd say a great deal 
 against the too exact observance of what's call'd the Rules of 
 the Stage, and the crowding a Comedy with a great deal of 
 Intricate Plot. I believe I cou'd shew, that the chief entertain- 
 ment, as well as the Moral, lies much more in the Characters 
 and the Dialogue, than in the Business and the Event." The 
 latter sentence contains the expression of a principle uniformly 
 pursued by writers of the school to which Vanbrugh belonged, 
 and entirely opposed to the usual practice of playwrights at 
 the present day. With especial reference to The Relapse, the 
 author observes : " Whether it be right to have two distinct 
 Designs in one Play ; I'll only say, I think when there are so, 
 if they are both entertaining, then 'tis right ; if they are not, 'tis 
 wrong." 
 
 Finally, Vanbrugh defends the general tendency of the 
 aspersed comedies. Of The Provo&d Wife he submits that that 
 is surely " a good End, which puts the Governor in mind, let 
 his Soldiers be ever so good, 'tis possible he may provoke 'em 
 to a Mutiny " ; while in The Relapse he declares his purpose 
 was to present "a natural Instance of the Frailty of Mankind, 
 without that necessary Guard of keeping out of Temptation." 
 He claims a useful moral in this, and is, not unreasonably, 
 indignant that Collier refuses to recognize it. He concludes 
 
 a
 
 xlii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 his Vindication with a touch of characteristic humour. In 
 commenting upon The Relapse, Collier had, rather unfortunately 
 ridiculed Worthy's sudden reformation in his scene with 
 Amanda. " He is refin'd into a Platonick Admirer," sneered 
 the divine, "and goes off as like a Town Spark as you would 
 wish. And so much for the Poet's fine Gentleman ! " 
 Vanbrugh turns upon him, not quite fairly it must be owned; 
 but the temptation was irresistible. " The World may see by 
 this what a Contempt the Doctor has for a Spark that can 
 make no better use of his Mistress than to admire her for her 
 Virtue. This methinks is something so very extraordinary in a 
 Clergyman, that I almost fancy when He and I are fast asleep in 
 our Graves, those who shall read what we both have produc'd, 
 will be apt to conclude there's a Mistake in the Tradition about 
 the Authors ; and that 'twas the Reforming Divine writ the 
 Play, and the Scandalous Poet the Remarks upon't." 
 
 There is a curious passage in the Vindication, in which 
 Vanbrugh makes mention of a gentleman who, he says, had 
 assisted him in writing The Relapse, and who had since " gone 
 away with the Czar, who has made him Poet Laureate of 
 Muscovy." I am unable to explain this assertion. It bears 
 the stamp of improbability upon its face, although what could 
 have induced the poet to invent such a story, if he did invent it, 
 is beyond conjecture. Peter the Great arrived in England in 
 the month of January, 1698, and remained here until late in the 
 following April. On his departure he was accompanied by a 
 number of Englishmen whom he had enlisted in his service 
 mathematicians, shipbuilders, and other artificers. But a Poet 
 Laureate ! and, apparently, an English Poet Laureate, for the 
 Muscovites ! Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galore ? 
 
 Collier did not improve his position by the Defence of the 
 Short View, which he published in November, 1698, as a 
 rejoinder to the replies of Congreve and Vanbrugh. He 
 scores a few points, it is true ; but much that he urges, is
 
 INTRODUCTION. xliii 
 
 merely feeble and frivolous. To Vanbrugh's remarks upon 
 the grandeur of the 'clergy, his opponent has no better 
 answer than that the Apostles possessed the power of 
 working miracles, and that, this power being withdrawn, 
 it was necessary to have recourse to worldly expedients 
 to supply its place. " Appearance," he naively observes, 
 " goes a great way in the Expediting of Affairs." With 
 Collier's Defence, the interest of the controversy, so far as 
 Vanbrugh is concerned, comes to an end. Unless we reckon 
 an ironical touch or two in the prologues to The False Friend 
 and The Confederacy, the poet was henceforth silent on the 
 subject. 
 
 He probably felt that he had said enough for his own vin- 
 dication ; and, indeed, an impartial judgment must needs 
 pronounce, that if he had not come wholly unscathed from the 
 encounter, his wounds were little more than skin-deep. But 
 from the fury of popular fanaticism, of which Collier had made 
 himself the mouthpiece, no impartial judgment was to be 
 expected. The fierce satire of Wycherley, the polished 
 sarcasm of Congreve, the broadly humorous raillery of 
 Vanbrugh, were, in the eyes of their infatuated opponents, 
 offences against public morality equally obnoxious with the bold 
 indecencies of the brilliant Mrs. Behn, or the deliberate 
 foulness of the low-minded Ravenscroft. A reform in the 
 the theatres was certainly needed, a reform in the audiences 
 yet more incontestably. But popular uprisings, of whatever 
 nature, are enemies to moderation. The tree needed pruning, 
 and the axe was laid to its roots. For some years the poets 
 maintained the unequal struggle. Their party was influential 
 and enthusiastic, and in the year following that of Collier's 
 attack, a new recruit to the theatre, George Farquhar, produced 
 a first play which promised a career of exceptional brilliancy. 
 But the death-blow had been struck, and if English comedy 
 was long a-dying, the end came none the less surely. A 
 
 di
 
 xliv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 generation passed away, and the walls which had so often 
 re-echoed the laughter and applause which greeted the master- 
 pieces of Wycherley and Congreve, of Vanbrugh and Farquhar, 
 now looked down on reformed audiences weeping for the 
 sentimental sorrows of the Conscious Lovers, or glutting their 
 political spite with the partisan scenes of The Nonjuror, 
 
 V. 
 
 VANBRUGH'S next contribution to the theatre, inconsiderable 
 on his own account, was made for ever memorable by its 
 connection with the last published words of Dryden. The 
 piece itself was an alteration by Vanbrugh of Fletcher's fine 
 comedy, The Pilgrim; the alterations, which can hardly be 
 said to improve the play, consisting in the reduction of Fletcher's 
 blank verse to prose, and a few trivial additions to the dialogue. 
 Thus transformed, The Pilgrim was produced at Drury Lane 
 on New Year's Day, the 2$th of March, 1700.* The third night 
 was assigned to Dryden's benefit, and the great poet contributed 
 to the performance a prologue and epilogue, a " Song of a 
 Scholar and his Mistress," introduced in the mad-house scene, 
 and a " Secular Masque," set to music and tacked to the end of 
 the comedy. Age and infirmity had not impaired Dryden's 
 literary powers, and the prologue and epilogue, which were both 
 spoken by Colley Gibber, are perhaps unsurpassed, in their 
 kind, for vigorous thought and trenchant satire. 
 
 * There is some uncertainty as to the exact date of this production, but 
 it was most probably as given above. The " Secular Masque," contributed 
 by Dryden, bears internal evidence of having been designed to celebrate 
 the beginning of a new century (the year 1700 being taken as the first of the 
 century.) As to the reference to Dryden as "the late great Poet of our 
 Age," which appears in the printed copy, there is no difficulty in supposing 
 that to have been inserted after the production of the play. Dryden died on the 
 ist of May, 1700, and The Pilgrim, in its new dress, was not published 
 until the following June.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xlv 
 
 The Pilgrim enjoyed a long run. Its success was largely 
 due to the impression made by a young and hitherto unknown 
 actress, who, in the character of Alinda, " charm'd the Play into 
 a Run of many succeeding Nights."* Anne Oldfield, who 
 subsequently became the most celebrated actress of her time, 
 had been discovered, about a year previously, by Farquhar, 
 who chanced to overhear her reading a comedy to herself, in a 
 room behind the bar of a tavern kept by a relative of hers. 
 Struck by the girl's beauty and intelligence, Farquhar " took 
 some Pains to acquaint Sir John Vanbrugh with the Jewel he 
 had found thus by Accident," and upon Vanbrugh's recommenda- 
 tion Mrs. Oldfield obtained an engagement at the Theatre Royal. 
 There, however, she remained about a twelvemonth " almost a 
 Mute, and unheeded,"t until Vanbrugh gave her, with the part 
 of Alinda, the opportunity, which was all she required, of 
 recommending herself to the public. She played this part on 
 the occasion of her benefit, July 6, 1700. 
 
 Early in 1702 a new comedy by Vanbrugh, entitled The 
 False Friend, was produced at Drury Lane.J The prologue 
 is an ironical appeal to the reformers of the stage, whose 
 good-will the poet hopes to gain by presenting them, on 
 this occasion, with a moral piece " so moral, we're afraid 
 'twill damn the Play ! " he slyly adds. This line, as it proved, 
 was prophetic, but there were other sufficient reasons for 
 the failure of The False Friend. Vanbrugh's genius was little 
 adapted to deal with subjects of so sombre a cast. The 
 
 * Chetwood's History of the Stage, 1749, p. 201. 
 
 + Gibber. 
 
 % It was produced about the end of January, or beginning of February, 
 1702. The following announcement of its publication appeared in the 
 Post Man of Feb. 7-10, 1702 : "This day is published The False Friend : 
 a Comedy, as it is Acted at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane. By his 
 Majesties Servants. Printed for Jacob Tonson, within Gray's Inn Gate, 
 next Gray's Inn Lane." A nearly similar announcement in the Flying Post 
 of the same date, reads "as 'twas acted," instead of " as it is acted."
 
 xlvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 plot, moreover, is ill contrived in several important respects. 
 Even the most powerful part of the play, the really fine 
 scene which concludes the third act, loses something of its 
 effectiveness by reason of the utter improbability of Don 
 Pedro's sudden re-appearance. In the catastrophe, the prin- 
 cipal character meets with a violent end, which, however 
 deserved, is hardly of the nature of comedy ; the lovers are 
 parted for ever, and Don Pedro is left in possession of a wife, 
 whose heart, as he well knows, is wholly occupied by his rival : 
 in fine, the piece is so far from justifying its title of comedy, that 
 Gildon (a friendly critic) actually suggested that it had been so 
 called by a mistake of the printer. The same critic takes 
 notice of a mishap which befell The False Friend on the fourth 
 night, when Gibber, who played Don John, was accidentally hurt, 
 and could not continue his part.* 
 
 We may here mention a rather trivial farce, called The 
 Country House, which Vanbrugh translated from d'Ancourt's 
 La Maison de Campagne. The first performance of this p-ece 
 recorded by Genest took place at Drury Lane on the i6th of 
 June, 1705, but it appears to have been produced earlier 
 Genest supposes, at some date between 1697 and 1703. 
 
 The year 1702 presents our author in a new character. 
 Of his architectural studies we know absolutely nothing, 
 unless we may accept Swift's account, who pretends that 
 Vanbrugh acquired the rudiments of the art by watching 
 children building houses of cards or clay.t But this 
 was probably ironical. However he came by his skill, in 
 1702 he stepped into sudden fame as the architect of Castle 
 
 * A Comparison between the two Stages, London, 1702, p. 178. This 
 lively and entertaining little dialogue upon plays and players is generally 
 attributed to Charles Gildon. 
 
 t Miscellaneous Poems : The History of Vanbrugh' s House. Written 
 in 1708.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xlvii 
 
 Howard, the Earl of Carlisle's seat in Yorkshire. I borrow 
 from Allan Cunningham the following description of the 
 building. 
 
 " The design is at once simple and grand. A lofty portico 
 with six columns, rising two stories, occupies the centre ; on 
 either side are long galleries, terminating in advancing wings 
 with pavilions ; while a cupola, rising to the height of a 
 hundred feet, and proportioned, in every respect, to the body of 
 the building, is seen far and wide. The whole is of the 
 Corinthian order, and though very lofty, there are no double 
 stories of columns, as in Whitehall. The interior is every way 
 worthy of the exterior. The hall, thirty-five feet square, and 
 sixty feet high, adorned with columns of the Corinthian and 
 Composite orders, is surmounted by a spacious dome. The 
 whole house is upon the same magnificent scale, and is filled 
 with statues and paintings. For picturesque splendour, we 
 know of no English mansion to compare with it nor is it more 
 splendid than solid. The number of roofs, cupolas, statues, 
 vases, and massy-clustered chimneys, give to the horizontal 
 profile of the structure a richness of effect, which is nowhere 
 surpassed in British art." * 
 
 * Lives of British Architects: VANBRUGH. The first volume of 
 Campbell's Vitruvius Britannicus, published in 1717, contains plans and 
 elevations of Castle Howard and Blenheim, executed from Vanbrugh's own 
 drawings. The author states that Castle Howard was built in 1714 ; 
 meaning, of course, that it was completed in that year. An obelisk in the 
 park at Castle Howard bears an inscription to the effect that the Earl of 
 Carlisle began those works in the year 1702 not 1712, as it has been 
 wrongly printed elsewhere. The date is confirmed by a manuscript book 
 in the possession of the present Earl, which I have been kindly permitted 
 to examine. This book, which is in the autograph of the third Earl of 
 Carlisle, contains an exact account of the expenditure upon Castle Howard, 
 made up half-yearly, from the commencement of the building until Lady- 
 day, 1713. The first entry in the book is as follows: "Disbursed upon 
 account of ye building from ye 3151 of March, 1701, til ye 2Qth of Sept., 
 1702, ^3032 : 15 : 6." The disbursements in the year 1701 were, no 
 doubt, for preliminary work, such as quarrying.
 
 xlviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 To the fame of this important undertaking were doubtless in 
 great measure due the reputation, honours, and employment 
 which now fell to the share of the successful architect. The 
 Earl of Carlisle, then deputy Earl-Marshal, testified his satis- 
 faction by procuring for Vanbrugh a place in the College of 
 Arms : on the 26th of June, 1703, he was appointed 
 " Carlisle Herald Extraordinary," * and on the 3oth of March 
 following, a warrant was passed for creating him Clarenceux 
 King of Arms, and the ceremony was performed at the College 
 by the Earl of Essex, substitute to the Earl of Carlisle, t It was 
 an odd appointment, for Vanbrugh not only knew nothing of 
 heraldry, but had openly ridiculed that grave science in his 
 comedy of ^Esop. But the indignant College protested in vain, 
 and the poet stuck to his post. We know not at what period 
 he received the appointment of Comptroller of her Majesty's 
 Works : it was possibly before the year 1702, for Le Neve styles 
 him " Comptroller of the Works, Surveyor of the Gardens to 
 King William, Queen Anne, and King George." % It is certain, 
 however, that he held this office when he undertook the 
 building of Blenheim, in the summer of 1705. 
 
 A list of some of the mansions erected by Vanbrugh during 
 these years may be found in Allan Cunningham's Life of the 
 poet-architect They were none of them, according to the 
 biographer, equal to his first essay. A small house, which he 
 built for himself at Whitehall, was immortalized by Swift in two 
 witty pieces of satirical verse, written in 1706 and 1708. In the 
 earlier of these pieces Swift recounts the building of the house, 
 which, it seems, Vanbrugh, like another Amphion, raised 
 entirely by the magical power of his poetry. 
 
 Noble's History of the College of Arms, p. 346. 
 
 t Ibid, p. 356. 
 
 ^.Pedigrees of the Knights, &c., p. 512. Harleian Soc. Pub. 1873.
 
 INTRODUCTION, xlix 
 
 " ' Great Jove ! ' he cry'd, ' the art restore 
 To build by verse as heretofore, 
 And make my Muse the architect ; 
 What palaces shall we erect ! 
 No longer shall forsaken Thames 
 Lament his old Whitehall in flames ; * 
 A pile shall from its ashes rise 
 Fit to invade or prop the skies. ' 
 Jove smil'd, and like a gentle god, 
 Consenting with the usual nod, 
 Told Van he knew his talent best, 
 And left the choice to his own breast : 
 So Van resolv'd to write a farce ; 
 But, well perceiving wit was scarce, 
 With cunning that defect supplies, 
 Takes a French play as lawful prize, 
 Steals thence his plot and every joke, 
 Not once suspecting Jove would smoke. 
 
 Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best 
 To turn the matter to a jest ; 
 Down from Olympus' top he slides, 
 Laughing as if he'd burst his sides. 
 ' Ay,' thought the god, ' are these your tricks ? 
 Why, then old plays deserve old bricks ; 
 And since you're sparing of your stuff, 
 Your building shall be small enough.' " 
 
 As the farce proceeds, the house rises in proportion, and 
 both are at length completed. 
 
 ' ' Now Poets from all quarters ran 
 To see the House of Brother Van ; 
 Look'd high and low, walk'd often round, 
 But no such House was to be found. 
 One asks the waterman hard by, 
 Where may the poet's palace lie ? 
 Another of the Thames inquires 
 If he has seen its gilded spires? 
 At length they in the rubbish spy 
 A thing resembling a goose-pie " 
 
 which turns out, upon closer investigation, to be the edifice in 
 question. 
 
 * Whitehall was destroyed by fire in January, 1698.
 
 1 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 This lively banter set all the world in a roar, except the 
 unfortunate butt, who was not allowed to forget it, had he been 
 ever so willing. In the Journal to Stella, Swift writes (Nov. 7, 
 1710) : "I dined to-day at Sir Richard Temple's with Congreve, 
 Vanbrugh, Lieutenant-General Farrington, &c. Vanbrugh, I 
 believe I told you, had a long quarrel with me about those 
 verses on his house ; but we were very civil and cold. Lady 
 Marlborough used to tease him with them, which had made him 
 angry, though he be a good-natured fellow." The year after 
 Vanbrugh's death, Swift publicly expressed his regret for having 
 satirized " a man of wit and of honour."* 
 
 After all, it was not a poet, but a doctor of divinity, who wrote 
 the most famous satire on Vanbrugh's architecture. Dr. Abel 
 Evans is now remembered only as a name in the Dunciad^ 
 where Pope, who seems to have been his friend, has placed him 
 in the company of Swift and Young; and as the author (or 
 reputed author) of the following ingenious lines : 
 
 " Under this stone, reader, survey 
 Dead Sir John Vanbrugh's house of clay : 
 Lie heavy on him, earth ! for he 
 Laid many heavy loads on thee ! " f 
 
 In the year 1704, Vanbrugh was a collaborator with Congreve 
 and Walsh in a translation of Moliere's come'die-ballet of 
 Monsieur de Pourceaugnac, which, under the title of Squire 
 Trelooby, was produced at Lincoln's Inn Fields with great 
 applause, on the 3Oth of March of that year. It does not 
 appear that this piece was ever published. Within a month, 
 however, of the performance, there was issued an anonymous 
 translation of Moliere's play, entitled Monsieur de Pourceaugnac, 
 
 * In the Preface to the Miscellanies, published by Swift and Pope, 1727. 
 
 t These lines may be found in Nichols's Select Collection of Poems, 
 1780, vol. iii, p. 161. The same volume contains some further specimens 
 of Dr. Evans's muse, including two or three short pieces on Vanbrugh, 
 not worth quoting.
 
 INTRODUCTION. li 
 
 or, Squire Trelooby. Acted at the Subscription Mustek at the 
 Theatre Royal in LincoMs-lnn- Fields, March 30, 1704. By 
 select Comedians from both Houses. The scene is changed from 
 Paris to London, and the advocate of Limoges becomes a 
 Cornish squire : in other respects the translation is pretty 
 faithful so faithful indeed, that one of the characters, of the 
 very English name of Wimble, who answers to Moliere's 
 Sbrigani, is made to describe himself as a Neapolitan ! With 
 this translation were printed, not only the prologue by Garth, 
 and the epilogue by Congreve, which were spoken at Lincoln's 
 Inn Fields, but the names of the actors who took part in the 
 performance. Nevertheless, it was put forth expressly as an 
 independent version, which the author " design'd for the 
 English Stage, had he not been prevented by a Translation of 
 the same Play, done by other Hands, and presented at the 
 New Play-house the 3oth of last Month." * "I was assured," 
 he writes further, " (after due Inquiry made) that their Transla- 
 tion was not likely to be printed, tho' there have been great 
 Demands made for it, by the whole Town, who have taken up 
 with wrong Conceptions cf it as it was acted ; some thinking it 
 was a Party-Play made on purpose to ridicule the whole 
 Body of West-Country Gentlemen, others averring that it was 
 wrote to expose some eminent Doctors of Physick in this 
 Town." This seems sufficiently explicit, and it is corroborated 
 by Congreve's positive declaration that the published Squire 
 Trelooby was "none of ours," alluding, of course, to himself 
 and his two collaborators, t At the same time it is remarkable, 
 as Mr. Gosse has pointed out, that the translations were both 
 entitled Squire Trelooby, and one does not see why Pour- 
 ceaugnac and Limoges should "suggest to two independent 
 minds Trelooby and Cornwall." J Mr. Gosse thinks it "not at 
 
 * Preface to Squire Trelooby. The preface is dated April the igth, 1704. 
 t Gosse's Life of Congreve, p. 148. 
 % Life of Congreve, p. 149.
 
 lii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 all certain that this Squire Trelooby of 1704 does not virtually 
 represent the play which the joint authors thought it wise to 
 disown." At all events, it is a rather poor translation of a play 
 which, in the original, is by no means one of its great author's 
 masterpieces ; nor is there anything in the piece, as it stands, 
 which very strongly recalls the style of either Vanbrugh or 
 Congreve, or which is worthy of the pen of either of those 
 accomplished dramatists. 
 
 We have not quite done with Squire Trelooby. In 1734 a 
 translation of Monsieur de Pourceaugnac was published under 
 the title of The Cornish Squire. This piece directly claims to 
 be the production of Vanbrugh. The title-page bears the 
 words : " Done from the French by the late Sir John 
 Vanbrugh " ; and the editor, J. Ralph, in his preface declares 
 "that, tho' Sir John Vanbrugh was by many reputed the sole 
 Author of it, yet it was currently reported at the Time of its 
 Representation, that he wrote it in conjunction with Mr. Walsh 
 and Mr. Congreve : Each of them being suppos'd to have done 
 an Act a piece." Ralph admits his inability to explain " how 
 the Publication of this Piece came to be delay'd so long, or the 
 Piece itself to be so little known." Indeed, his account of it is 
 altogether unsatisfactory. The book had disappeared in some 
 mysterious way from the play-house, after the run was over, 
 and an imperfect copy had been sent to Ralph by a gentleman 
 who had had it several years in his library : Ralph, having 
 himself supplied the omissions and altered certain passages, 
 caused the play to be published and brought upon the stage. 
 A comparison of the two versions puts it beyond doubt that 
 The Cornish Squire of 1734 is simply the anonymous Squire 
 Trelooby of 1704, revised, altered, as to the dialogue, in many 
 trivial instances, and with the very needless addition of some 
 three or four pages of new matter at the end of the last 
 act.
 
 INTRODUCTION. liii 
 
 To Vanbrugh hitherto fortune had been prodigal of her 
 favours : he was soon to taste the uses of adversity in the fruit 
 of his own rash enterprise. Betterton's star was no longer in 
 the ascendant, and the popular applause which had once been 
 almost a monopoly of the players in Lincoln's Inn Fields, was 
 now lavished on the younger actors of the Theatre Royal. "To 
 this Decline of the Old Company," says Gibber, " many 
 accidents might contribute " : in the meantime, the smallness 
 and inconvenience of their theatre was an obvious disadvantage, 
 which it were perhaps possible to remedy. " To recover them, 
 therefore, to their due Estimation, a new Project was form'd, of 
 building them a stately Theatre, in the Hay-Market* by Sir 
 John Vanbrugh, for which he raised a Subscription of thirty 
 Persons of Quality, at one Hundred Pounds each, in Considera- 
 tion whereof every Subscriber, for his own Life, was to be 
 admitted to whatever Entertainments should be publickly 
 perform'd there, without farther Payment for his Entrance. Of 
 this Theatre I saw the first Stone laid, on which was inscrib'd, 
 The little Whig, in Honour to a Ladyt of extraordinary 
 Beauty, then the celebrated Toast, and Pride of that Party." 
 
 The building being completed, Betterton and his co-partners 
 at Lincoln's Inn Fields dissolved their own agreement, and 
 engaged themselves to act at the Hay market, under the 
 direction of Vanbrugh and Congreve. On the 9th of April 
 1705, the new theatre was opened with a translated Italian 
 opera, entitled The Triumph of Love. It was an inauspicious 
 beginning, for the Triumph of Love proved anything but a 
 triumph on the stage, being "perform'd but three Days 
 and those not crowded." No new piece of importance was 
 produced during the remainder of the season, which closed at 
 
 * On the site of the present opera-house. 
 
 t Marlborough's daughter, the Countess of Sunderland. 
 
 J Gibber's Apology, ch. ix.
 
 liv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the end of June, when Congreve, whose single contribution to 
 the company had been an epilogue spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle 
 on the opening night, resigned his connection with the theatre, 
 and Vanbrugh was left sole proprietor. 
 
 But if Congreve had disappointed the players' hopes, 
 Vanbrugh worked with a will to bring success to the house, 
 and before the year expired, two new plays by his hand were 
 produced at the Haymarket. The first of these to appear was 
 The Confederacy, translated from d'Ancourt's comedy, Les 
 Bourgeoises a la Mode. This delightful comedy is not only 
 by far the happiest of Vanbrugh's translations from the French, 
 but ranks indisputably among the most brilliant of his 
 performances. It is a pure comedy of manners, alive with wit 
 and instinct with satire. The subject was entirely suited to 
 Vanbrugh's taste, and, although he has followed closely the 
 general plan of the original, there is not a scene in the play 
 which he has left unimproved, and the improvements are 
 uniformly conceived in his most felicitous vein. 
 
 The Confederacy was produced on the 3Oth of October, 
 1705, with an excellent cast, including Mrs. Barry and Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle, Dogget, and a young actor of great promise and 
 future celebrity, Barton Booth. Betterton, however, took no 
 part in the performance, perhaps from infirmity ; for the great 
 actor, though still without a rival in his profession, was now 
 seventy years of age, and a martyr to the gout. Had the 
 success of the piece been proportioned to its deserts, Vanbrugh 
 would have added one more to the list of his theatrical 
 triumphs ; but, although it ran for tn nights, it was played 
 under circumstances which precluded the possibility of 
 enthusiasm on the part of the audience. The fact was, 
 Vanbrugh, in building his theatre, had indulged his architec- 
 tuial tastes to the serious detriment of his prospects as a manager. 
 His lofty columns, his gilded cornices, and spacious dome, 
 made, doubtless, a very splendid appearance, but the acoustic
 
 INTRODUCTION. lv 
 
 requirements of the house had been totally neglected. Scarcely 
 one word in ten which were spoken on the stage, could be 
 heard distinctly by the audience : the voices of the actors 
 " sounded like the Gabbling of so many People, in the lofty 
 Aisles in a Cathedral." * 
 
 This was not the only drawback. The theatre was situated 
 at an inconvenient distance from the town, for as yet the Hay- 
 market was surrounded by green meadows, from whence, as 
 Gibber facetiously observes, the actors " could draw little or no 
 Sustenance, unless it were that of a Milk-Diet." And lastly, 
 by the death of some of the actors, and the advanced 
 age of others, the effective strength of the company had been 
 gradually declining during the ten years which had elapsed 
 since they achieved their independence of the patentees of 
 Drury Lane. 
 
 Such were the disadvantages against which Vanbrugh 
 struggled for some months to make head. On the 27th of 
 December, 1705, he produced his translation of Moliere's 
 Ddpit Amoureux, under the ominous title of The Mistake, with 
 Betterton in the part of Don Alvarez. This ran for nine nights. 
 On the 1 9th of January was revived one of his most popular 
 plays, The ProvoKd Wife, with a new masquerade scene for 
 Sir John Brute, who was now made to swagger in female attire, 
 by way, it would seem, of a sop to the reformers, who were less 
 sensitive to the exposure of a drunken woman than to that of a 
 drunken parson. The ProvoKd Wife was withdrawn after 
 three performances only. A few days later (January 28) Squire 
 Trelooby was revived. But the old successes were not repeated ; 
 for, in Gibber's words, " what few could plainly hear, it was not 
 likely a great many could applaud." 
 
 This unfortunate speculation appears to have proved a heavy 
 drain upon Vanbrugh's resources. As long afterwards as July, 
 
 Cibber.
 
 Ivi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 
 
 1708, Maynwaring wrote with reference to Vanbrugh, in a 
 letter to the Duchess of Maryborough, " I am sorry for 
 him, because I believe he is unhappy through his own 
 folly, and I can see no reasonable way to help him. What I 
 mean by his folly, is his building the playhouse, which certainly 
 cost him a great deal more than was subscribed ; and his 
 troubles arise from the workmen that built it, and the trades- 
 men that furnished the cloaths, &c., for the actors."* In the 
 autumn of 1706, about a year after Congreve's retirement, 
 Vanbrugh also withdrew from the management of the theatre, 
 handing over house, actors, and licence, to Mr. Owen Swiney, 
 who undertook to pay him a rental of ^5 for every acting day, 
 the whole not to exceed ,700 in the year. Swiney was a kind 
 of unofficial agent and right-hand man of Rich, the patentee of 
 Drury Lane, with whose consent he reinforced the company at 
 the Haymarket with all the best actors of the Theatre Royal ; 
 Mr. Rich, at this time, depending chiefly upon singers and 
 dancers for the delectation of his supporters. Under the new 
 management the Haymarket Theatre was re-opened on the 
 1 5th of October, 1706, with improved prospects. Despite the 
 unfitness of the building, the strengthened company drew larger 
 audiences, and the actors " were all paid their full Sallaries, a 
 Blessing they had not felt, in some Years, in either House 
 before." t 
 
 To finish at once with Vanbrugh's theatrical record, it may be 
 added that on the 22nd of March, 1707, there was produced at 
 the Haymarket a translation of Moliere's Cocu Imaginaire, 
 entitled The Cuckold in Conceit ', which Gibber attributes to our 
 poet. It was never printed, and Vanbrugh's claim to the author- 
 ship is considered doubtful by Genest ; but, if Gibber's statement 
 
 * Private Correspondence of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough : Vol. i. , 
 . 140. 
 f Gibber.
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ivii 
 
 be correct, The Cuckold in Conceit was the last of his completed 
 plays. 
 
 In the summer of 1706 Vanbrugh was charged with the 
 execution of an important duty in his capacity of herald. Lord 
 Halifax was dispatched to Hanover in the spring of that year, 
 to convey the Naturalization and Regency Acts to the Princess 
 Sophia, and the order of the Garter to her grandson, the Electoral 
 Prince, afterwards George II. The young prince was invested 
 with the order at Hanover, on the I3th of June, by Halifax and 
 Vanbrugh ; the latter acting as substitute for Garter, Sir Henry 
 St. George, whom extreme old age prevented from fulfilling the 
 duties of his office.* 
 
 VI. 
 
 ALLUSION has been already made to the palace of Blenheim, 
 which Vanbrugh erected for the Duke of Marlborough. It is 
 time to give a particular account of this great work, the most 
 considerable and the most famous of his performances as an 
 architect. 
 
 When, in December, 1704, at the close of the campaign 
 immortalized by the victory of Blenheim, the Duke of Marl- 
 borough returned to England, he was received by the people 
 with enthusiasm, and with unbounded favourby the Queen. Early 
 in the following year the House of Commons " presented an 
 address, soliciting her majesty to consider of proper means for 
 perpetuating the memory of the great services performed by the 
 Duke of Marlborough." On the I7th of February the Queen 
 
 * Beltz's Memorials of the Order of the Garter, 1841, p. cxxiii. In the 
 same work may be found an account of a more memorable ceremony, in 
 which Vanbrugh took part, on the occasion of the degradation of the gallant 
 Duke of Ormond, who had been attainted for high treason. The ceremony 
 was performed at Windsor, on the isth of July, 1716, "after morning 
 prayers," Clarenceux King of Arms (Sir John Vanbrugh) exercising the 
 office of Garter, which was then vacant, pending the dispute between the 
 two claimants, Vanbrugh and Anstis. See later, p. Ixvii., note. 
 
 e
 
 Iviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " informed the House, that in conformity with their application, 
 she purposed to convey to the Duke and his heirs the interest 
 of the Crown in the manor and honour of Woodstock, with the 
 hundred of Wootton, and requested supplies for clearing off the 
 incumbrances on that domain. A bill for the purpose was 
 immediately introduced ; passed both houses without opposition ; 
 
 and received the royal sanction on the i4th of March 
 
 Not satisfied that the nation alone should testify its gratitude, 
 the Queen accompanied the grant with an order to the board of 
 works to erect, at the royal expense, a splendid palace, which, 
 in memory of the victory, was to be called the Castle of Blen- 
 heim."* 
 
 A design was accordingly prepared by John Vanbrugh, 
 Comptroller of her Majesty's Works, and, being approved, the 
 building was presently commenced. Vanbrugh's position in the 
 undertaking was made perfectly clear by a warrant, empower- 
 ing him to act on behalf of the Duke, and signed by the Lord 
 High Treasurer, Godolphin.t It is true, at the date of this 
 warrant, the Duke was prosecuting the war on the Continent ; 
 but it is absurd to pretend (as it was afterwards pretended) that 
 Godolphin, his intimate friend, placed in Vanbrugh's hands an 
 instrument of such importance, grounded so unequivocally upon 
 
 * Coxe's Memoirs of John, Duke of Marlborough : vol i. , pp. 363-4. 
 
 f This document is so important to a right understanding of the case, 
 that I quote it in full, as it is printed in Vanbrugh's Justification, a paper 
 
 which I shall hereafter have occasion to refer. 
 
 "To all to whom these Presents shall come, The Right Honourable 
 Sidney, Lord Godolphin, Lord High Treasurer of England, sendeth greet- 
 ing. Whereas his Grace, John, Duke of Marlborough, hath resolv'd to 
 erect a large Fabrick, for a Mansion House, at Woodstock, in the County of 
 Oxon. Know ye, that I the said Sidney, Lord Godolphin, At the request and 
 desire of the said Duke of Marlborough, have constituted and appointed, and 
 do hereby, for and on the behalf of the said Duke, constitute and 
 appoint John Vanbrugh, Esq ; to be Surveyor of all the Works and 
 Buildings so intended to be erected or made at Woodstock aforesaid ; And 
 do hereby Authorize and Impower him, the said John Vanbrugh, to make
 
 INTRODUCTION. lix 
 
 the Duke's authority, without his knowledge or consent. And 
 further, although the Crown was indeed responsible to the Duke 
 for the outlay upon Blenheim, yet if the warrant have any meaning 
 at all, it certainly implies that the Duke himself was responsible to 
 Vanbrugh for his own expenses and the charges ofhis workmen. 
 
 The great work was begun with festivities and rejoicings. A 
 contemporary journal supplies the following interesting account 
 of the opening ceremony. "Woodstock, June iQth [1705]. 
 Yesterday being Monday, about six o'clock in the evening, was 
 laid the first stone of the Duke of Marlborough's House, by Mr. 
 Vanbrugge, and then seven gentlemen gave it a stroke with a 
 hammer, and threw down each of them a guinea ; Sir Thomas 
 Wheate was the first, Dr. Bouchell the second, Mr. Vanbrugge 
 the third ; I know not the rest. There were several sorts of 
 musick ; three morris dances ; one of young fellows, one of 
 maidens, and one of old beldames. There were about a 
 hundred buckets, bowls, and pans, filled with wine, punch, 
 cakes, and ale. From my lord's house all went to the Town- 
 hall, where plenty of sack, claret, cakes, &c., were prepared for 
 the gentry and better sort ; and under the Cross eight barrels of 
 ale, with abundance of cakes, were placed for the common people. 
 The stone laid by Mr. Vanbrugge was eight square, finely 
 
 and sign Contracts with any Persons for Materials, And also with any 
 Artificers or Workmen to be employ'd about the said Buildings, in such 
 manner as he shall judge proper for carrying on the said Work, in the best 
 and most advantageous manner that may be, And likewise to employ such 
 day Labourers and Carryages from time to time, as he shall find necessary 
 for the said Service, and to do all other matters and things, as may be any 
 ways conducive to the effectual Performance of what is directed by the said 
 Duke of Marlborough in relation to the said Works, And I do hereby authorize 
 and require the said John Vanbrugh to lay before me from time to time (in 
 the absence of the said Duke) an Account of his proceedings herein, together 
 with what he shall think necessary to be observ'd, or wherein any further 
 Instructions may be wanting. To the end the same may be given accord- 
 ingly. Dated June the gth, 1705. 
 
 " (Signed) GODOLPHIN." 
 e 2
 
 Ix INTRODUCTION. 
 
 polished, about eighteen inches over, and upon it were these 
 words inlayed in pewter In memory of the battel of Blenheim, 
 June 8, 1705, Anna Regina." * 
 
 For some years supplies, which were charged upon the civil list, 
 came in with regularity, and the work steadily proceeded. But 
 the wind was changing, that had fanned the fortunes of the great 
 Duke : intrigues of Court and State threatened him on all sides ; 
 with the Queen's favour the payments from the Treasury also 
 diminished; and when, in 1710, the Whig ministry, including 
 his friend Godolphin, was thrown out of office, a considerable 
 amount of arrears was already due to the workmen and the 
 unfortunate architect. Nor were difficulties such as these the 
 only hardships with which Vanbrugh had to contend. Almost 
 from the commencement of the building, he had been, from time 
 to time, engaged in disputes with the Duchess, who was ever 
 on the watch to restrain what she regarded as Vanbrugh's 
 extravagance in the matter of expenditure. The colossal 
 splendour of the design involved an outlay proportionately 
 colossal. The original estimate of the cost had proved 
 inadequate, and by the month of October, 1710, not less than 
 ,200,000 had already been received from the Treasury, while 
 the work was yet far from completion. 
 
 Vanbrugh's relations with the Duchess had been further 
 strained by a circumstance which befell in the year 1709. Her 
 Grace had resolved upon levelling the ancient manor-house 
 of Woodstock, which Vanbrugh was anxious to preserve, 
 equally on account of its picturesqueness and its interesting 
 historical associations. His remonstrances, however, were of 
 no avail, and only induced the Duchess to surmise that he 
 entertained the project of fitting up the old house for his own 
 
 Quoted in Mrs. Thomson's Memoirs of Sarah, Duchess of Marl- 
 borough, vol. ii. , p. 443, note. June 8 is doubtless a misprint for June 18, 
 the date of the ceremony.
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ixi 
 
 residence. This imputation he, of course, denied, in terms 
 which show him to have been stung to the quick : " I am much 
 discouraged," he wrote to Godolphin, "to find I can be 
 suspected of so poor a contrivance." But the charms with 
 which antiquity and association had invested the old manor- 
 house in the eyes of the poet and artist, appealed in vain to the 
 sternly practical mind of the Duchess. She remained inflexible, 
 and the act of Vandalism was accomplished. 
 
 In the autumn of 1710 a fresh blow, severe as unexpected, 
 fell upon Vanbrugh from the same quarter. The story is best 
 told in his own words, in a letter to the Duke of Marlborough, 
 dated "Oxford, Oct. 3, 1710." 
 
 " By last post I gave your Grace an account from Blenheim, 
 in what condition the building was, how near a close of this 
 year's work, and how happy it was that after being carried up 
 in so very dry a season, it was like to be covered before any wet 
 fell upon it to soak the walls. My intention was to stay there 
 till I saw it effectually done ; the great arch of the bridge like- 
 wise compleated and safe covered, and the centers struck from 
 under it. But this morning Joynes and Bobart* told me they 
 had reed, a letter from the Duchess of Marlborough to put a 
 stop at once to all sorts of work till your Grace came over, not 
 suffering one man to be employed a day longer. I told them 
 there was nothing more now to do in effect but just what was 
 necessary towards covering and securing the work, which would 
 be done in a week or ten days, and that there was so absolute a 
 necessity for it, that to leave off without it would expose the 
 whole summer's work to unspeakable mischiefs : that there was 
 likewise another reason not to discharge all the people thus at 
 one stroke together, which was, that though the principal work- 
 men that work by the great, such as masons, carpenters, &c., 
 
 * Joynes and Bobart were joint ' ' comptrollers " of the works at Blenheim, 
 Vanbrugh being "surveyor."
 
 Ixii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 would perhaps have regard to the promises made them that 
 they should lose nothing, and so not be disorderly ; yet the 
 labourers, carters, and other country people, who used to be 
 regularly paid, but were now in arrear, finding themselves 
 disbanded in so surprising a manner without a farthing, would 
 certainly conclude their money lost, and finding themselves 
 distressed by what they owed to the people where they lodged, 
 &c., and numbers of them having their familys and homes at 
 great distances in other countys, 'twas very much to be feared 
 such a general meeting might happen, that the building might 
 feel the effects of it ; which I told them I the more apprehended, 
 knowing there were people not far off who would be glad to put 
 'em upon it ; and that they themselves, as well as I, had for 
 some days past observed 'em grown very insolent, and in 
 appearance kept from meeting only by the assurances we gave 
 them from one day to another that money was coming. But all 
 I had to say was cut short by Mr. Joynes's shewing me a post- 
 script my Lady Duchess had added to her letter, forbidding any 
 regard to whatever I might say or do. 
 
 "Your Grace wont blame me if, ashamed to continue there 
 any longer on such a foot, as well as seeing it was not in my 
 power to do your Grace any farther service, I immediately came 
 away."* 
 
 It is not to be doubted that the ill-temper consequent upon her 
 disgrace with the Queen had some share in occasioning this 
 sudden outbreak on the part of the Duchess. But it is equally 
 certain that she was alarmed at the ever-increasing cost of the 
 building, and apprehensive (not without reason, as matters were 
 going at Court,) of the failure of supplies from the Treasury. 
 Vanbrugh, it may well be supposed, had been throughout more 
 intent upon giving full play to his architectural genius, than 
 
 * Quoted in Mrs. Thomson's Memoirs of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough : 
 vol. ii. , appendix.
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ixiii 
 
 upon reducing expenses to a minimum ; but we have no reason 
 to discredit his own express declaration, that he did nothing 
 without the Duke's approval. The breach, though violent, 
 proved not irreparable. A fresh instalment was presently 
 obtained from the Treasury, and, on the strength of this, 
 Vanbrugh induced his men to resume work in the following 
 spring. But a more serious calamity was in store. On the last 
 day of 1711, the hero of Blenheim was dismissed from all his 
 appointments : in the summer of 1712, the building, intended to 
 commemorate his great victory, was abandoned by the Queen's 
 command. 
 
 With the new reign, new hopes sprang into life. King George 
 landed at Greenwich on the i8th of September, 1714, and the 
 next day Vanbrugh was knighted at Greenwich House, being 
 introduced to his majesty by the Duke of Marlborough.* On 
 the loth of January 7 following, he was re-appointed Comptroller of 
 his majesty's Works, from which office he had been dismissed 
 by the late Queen ; t and (to finish at once with these Court 
 appointments) on the I7th of August, 1716, he was made 
 Surveyor of the Works at Greenwich Hospital. In pursuance 
 of an act of Parliament, providing that the arrears of the debt 
 incurred at Blenheim, before the discontinuance of the works in 
 1712, should be "liquidated out of the sum of ^500,000, which 
 had previously been granted for the payment of the debts on 
 the civil list, and the arrears of the revenues belonging to her 
 late majesty,"* a commission was appointed to investigate the 
 
 Le Neve's Pedigrees of the Knights, &c., p. 511. 
 
 f A letter from Vanbrugh to the Mayor of Woodstock, dated January 
 25, 1713, and copied from the Post Boy of March 24, 1713, may be found in 
 the Gentleman's Magazine of May, 1804. This letter, in which he refers, 
 with generous indignation, to the persecution suffered by the Duke of 
 Marlborough, appears to have been, at least in part, the cause of his 
 dismissal from the place of Comptroller of the Works. 
 
 J Coxe's Memoirs of John, Duke of Marlborough : vol. til, p. 636.
 
 Ixiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 claims, and the creditors received, in January, 1715, about 
 . 1 6,000 in all, being one third part of the sum actually due. 
 This was the last grant made by the Treasury for the work at 
 Blenheim. 
 
 The vast undertaking was now resumed, under altered con- 
 ditions, of which we possess a relation in Vanbrugh's own words. 
 He writes : " As soon as the Duke of Maryborough arrived in 
 England,* I received his commands to attend him at Blenheim, 
 where he was pleased to tell me, that when the government took 
 care to discharge him from the claim of the workmen for the 
 debt in the Queen's time, he intended to finish the building at 
 his own expense. And, accordingly, from that time forwards, 
 he was pleased to give me his orders as occasion required, in 
 things preparatory to it ; till, at last, the affair of the debt being 
 adjusted with the Treasury and owned to be the Queen's, he 
 gave me directions to set people actually to work, after having 
 considered an estimate he ordered me to prepare of the charge, 
 to finish the house, offices, bridges, and out-walls of courts and 
 
 gardens, which amounted to fifty-four thousand pounds 
 
 I made no step without the Duke's knowledge while he was 
 well ; and I made none without the Duchess's after he fell ill ; 
 and was so far, I thought, from being in her ill opinion, that 
 even the last time I waited on her and my Lord Duke at 
 Blenheim, she showed no sort of dissatisfaction on anything I 
 had done."t 
 
 Vanbrugh had little reason to complain of the Duchess's want 
 of interest in the work : " she was pleas'd," he writes, subse- 
 quently, " to value no trouble she gave herself (or other people) 
 in what related to that building." During the two years preced- 
 ing the Duke's illness (a paralytic stroke, in May, 1716) she had 
 
 * August i, 1714, the day of Queen Anne's death. 
 
 f From a paper written by Vanbrugh, and printed in Mrs. Thomson's 
 Memoirs of the Duchess of Marldorough : vol. ii., appendix.
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ixv 
 
 been on terms of civility, at least, with Vanbrugh, who was 
 employed, on her behalf, in conducting the negociations which 
 eventually led to the marriage of her grand-daughter, Lady 
 Harriet Godolphin, with the Duke of Newcastle. This favour- 
 able turn had been due, possibly, to the Duke's influence. At 
 all events, his malady had not long removed him from active 
 life, before she threw off, now finally, the mask of friendship. 
 Suddenly, and without, apparently, the smallest provocation, she 
 discarded Vanbrugh's services in the affair of the marriage, 
 entrusting the conduct of that business to a new agent, one Mr. 
 Walters. Upon this indignity Vanbrugh sent her a respectful 
 remonstrance, to which he had not yet received an answer, 
 when he learned that to insult she was preparing to add injury, 
 and that of the most grievous nature, in consigning to another 
 person the completion of Blenheim. Irritated now beyond 
 endurance, he wrote to the Duchess a curt and angry letter, 
 commenting in strong terms upon her behaviour to him, and assur- 
 ing her that he " would never trouble her more, unless the Duke 
 of Marlborough recovered so far as to shelter him from such 
 intolerable treatment." This letter, which is dated " Whitehall, 
 Nov. 8, 1716," may be taken as marking the termination of 
 Vanbrugh's services at Blenheim, though not of the annoyances 
 to which those services had subjected him. 
 
 We have already seen that the final payment from the 
 Treasury left two thirds of the old arrears still undischarged. 
 The creditors applied, from time to time, to the Duke for a 
 settlement, but to no purpose. At length, in Easter term, 1718, 
 a suit was instituted by two of the contractors, in the Court of 
 Exchequer, against John, Duke of Marlborough, and Sir John 
 Vanbrugh, for the sum of ,7314 : 16 : 4, due to them for stone 
 supplied and for masons' work, together with the interest on 
 that amount since the year 1710. The Duchess (for, owing to 
 the Duke's infirmity, Vanbrugh regarded her as the real 
 defendant) endeavoured, with a nice sense of honour, to turn
 
 ixvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 upon the architect the entire burden of the debt ; and Godolphin's 
 warrant, produced by him, was disallowed by the Duke, or by 
 those who acted on his behalf. Godolphin was no longer living, 
 but it is satisfactory to find that the warrant was upheld by the 
 Court. A decree was pronounced, absolving Vanbrugh, and 
 rendering the Duke of Marlborough solely responsible for the 
 debt ; and this judgment was confirmed, on appeal, by the 
 House of Lords. Vanbrugh writes, about this time, to his 
 friend Tonson, the publisher : " I have the misfortune of losing, 
 for I now see little hopes of ever getting it, near two thousand 
 pounds, due to me for many years' service, plague, and trouble 
 at Blenheim, which that wicked woman of Marlborough is so 
 far from paying me, that, the Duke being sued by some of the 
 workmen for work done there, she has tried to turn the due to 
 them upon me, for which, I think, she ought to be hanged." 
 
 Foiled in her attempt upon the architect's purse, the angry 
 Duchess now directed her attack against his reputation. She 
 privately circulated an anonymous statement, entitled The Case 
 of the Duke of Marlborough and Sir John Vanbrugh, by which 
 it was endeavoured to discredit his evidence, and to malign his 
 character. In the meantime, Vanbrugh had written, and was 
 about printing, a Justification of what he deposed in the 
 Duchess of MarlborougKs late Tryal, when the Case was put 
 into his hands. To his Justification he accordingly appended 
 a reply to the Case, which, he observes, contained " so much 
 decent Language, fair stating of Facts, and right sound 
 Reasoning from them, that one would almost swear it had been 
 writ by a woman." He recapitulates the circumstances of the 
 dispute, and prints letters from the Duchess to himself, 
 proving that the Duke had given assurances that the payments 
 should be continued. The Case concluded with a bitter taunt : 
 " And if, at last, the Charge run into by Order of the Crown, 
 must lie upon him [the Duke] ; yet the Infamy of it must lie 
 upon another, who was perhaps the only Architect in the World
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ixvii 
 
 capable of building such a House, and the only Friend in the 
 World capable of contriving to lay the Debt upon one to whom 
 he was so highly oblig'd." Upon this Vanbrugh retorts by 
 enumerating his obligations to the Duke. His recompense for 
 twelve years' service has been many professions of obligation 
 and of resolution to reward him " the Misfortune of being 
 turn'd out of his Place of Comptroller of the Works, and losing 
 that of Garter * by offending the Queen, on the Duke's 
 account " not one Court favour obtained for him by the Duke, 
 " or any allowance or Present from his Grace ever made him 
 (except a Trifle, I believe he would not have him name)." " He 
 has been left," he continues, " to work upon his own Bottom, at 
 the tedious Treasury, for a Recompense for his Services ; where 
 through a tiresome Application of many Years, he has to this 
 Hour prevail'd for very little more than his necessary 
 Expenses, and instead of any Reward from the Duke, finds his 
 Authority for acting in his Service disclaim'd, and himself 
 thrown among the Workmen to be torn to pieces, for what his 
 Grace possesses and enjoys, in the midst of an immense 
 Fortune. These," he concludes, "these, and no other, are the 
 Friendships and the Obligations laid by the Duke of 
 Marlborough upon his Faithful and Zealous Servant, John 
 Vanbrugh." 
 
 The next step was an application on the part of the Duke to 
 
 Queen Anne gave a reversionary grant of the office of Garter, principal 
 King of Arms, to John Anstis, on the 2nd of April, 1714. Garter, at that 
 date, was Sir Henry St. George, who died in August of the following year, 
 aged ninety. Anstis thereupon claimed the appointment, but, being in 
 prison on suspicion of Jacobitism, his claim was disregarded, and the 
 appointment was given to Vanbrugh, Oct. 26, 1715. Anstis, having 
 established his innocence, contested Vanbrugh's right, and the controversy 
 lasted until the aoth of April, 1718, when it was decided in favour of 
 Anstis, who was created Garter. (See Noble.) Vanbrugh continued to 
 hold the place of Clarenceux until Feb 9, 1726, when he disposed of it to 
 Knox Ward, Esq. , for the sum of 2,000.
 
 Ixviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the Court of Chancery, "to compel the several creditors to 
 submit to an examination of their claims."* A speedy settle- 
 ment was now hardly to be hoped for. On the i6th of June, 
 1722, the Duke was acquitted of further responsibility by 
 death ; but still the suit dragged its slow length along. He 
 left .50,000 to be expended by the Duchess, at the rate of 
 ; 1 0,000 a year for five years, in completing the building. 
 Writing again to Tonson, Vanbrugh states particulars of the 
 Duke's enormous wealth ; " and yet this man could neither pay 
 his workmen their bills, nor his architect his salary. He has 
 given his widow may a Scotch ensign get her ! ten thousand 
 pounds a year to spoil Blenheim in her own way, and twelve 
 thousand a year to keep herself clean and go to law." 
 
 Under the management of the Duchess the work was again 
 resumed, and the building was finished within the stipulated 
 period, and for half the allotted sum.f Her vindictiveness 
 towards the architect did not hinder her from following his 
 design, at the same time that, not content with denying him his 
 due, she jealously excluded him from the scene of his long and 
 thankless labour. A petty piece of insolent malice worthily 
 capped the climax of indignities to which he had been subjected. 
 He visited Woodstock in the company of his wife and the 
 Countess of Carlisle, with some ladies of her family. " We 
 staid," he writes, " two nights in Woodstock, but there was an 
 order to the servants, under her Grace's own hand, not to let 
 me enter Blenheim ; and, lest that should not mortify me 
 enough, she having somehow learned that my wife was of the 
 
 * Coxe; vol. iii., p. 637. 
 
 t Archdeacon Coxe estimates roughly, that Blenheim cost the nation 
 ,240,000, and the Duke and Duchess 60,000. The representatives of 
 the Duke were finally made responsible for the arrears, " but we have not 
 the means of tracing the progress of the investigation, or^ascertaining the 
 exact sums with which his estate was finally charged" (Coxe, voL iii., p. 
 638).
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ixix 
 
 company, sent an express the night before we came there, with 
 orders that if she came with the Castle Howard ladies, the 
 servants should not suffer her to see either house, gardens, or 
 even to enter the park ; so she was forced to sit all day long, 
 and keep me company at the inn." 
 
 A settlement was ultimately made in Vanbrugh's favour. In 
 1725 he writes, with more emphasis than elegance : " I have 
 been forced into Chancery by that B. B. B. the Duchess of 
 Marlborough, where she has got an injunction upon me by her 
 friend the late good Chancellor [the Earl of Macclesfield], who 
 declared that I was never employed by the Duke, and therefore 
 had no demand upon his estate for my services at Blenheim. 
 Since my hands were thus tied up from trying by law to 
 recover my arrear, I have prevailed with Sir Robert Walpole to 
 help me in a scheme which I proposed to him, by which I got 
 my money in spite of the hussey's teeth. My carrying this 
 point enrages her much, and the more because it is of 
 considerable weight in my small fortune, which she has 
 heartily endeavoured so to destroy as to throw me into an 
 English Bastile, there to finish my days as I began them in a 
 French one." * The nature of the scheme referred to we have 
 no means of ascertaining, but it is some small satisfaction to 
 find that, even at the eleventh hour, Vanbrugh was relieved 
 from this miserable aggravation of greater hardships of 
 disappointed hopes and the memory of services embittered by 
 insult and ingratitude. 
 
 It is no part of our present plan to enter upon an investiga- 
 tion of the merits or defects of Vanbrugh's architectural works. 
 They have been frequently censured, but frequently, also, 
 applauded : no worse a judge than Sir Joshua Reynolds has 
 spoken in terms of warm commendation of the design and 
 
 * Alluding to his imprisonment in the Bastile when a young man.
 
 Ixx INTRODUCTION. 
 
 picturesque effect of Blenheim.* I shall conclude this section 
 with the ensuing apt remarks upon some of the principal 
 features of that famous building. "It appears to me that at 
 Blenheim Vanbrugh conceived and executed a very bold and 
 difficult design ; that of uniting in one building the beauty and 
 magnificence of Grecian architecture, the picturesqueness of the 
 Gothic, and the massive grandeur of a castle ; and that in 
 spite of the many faults with which he is very justly reproached, 
 he has formed, in a style truly his own, a well-combined whole, 
 a mansion worthy of a great prince and warrior. His first point 
 seems to have been massiveness, as the foundation of grandeur. 
 Then, to prevent that mass from being a lump, he has made 
 various bold projections of various heights, which from different 
 points serve as foregrounds to the main building. And lastly, 
 having probably been struck with the variety of outline against 
 the sky in many Gothic and other ancient buildings, he has 
 raised, on the top of that part where the slanting roof begins in 
 many houses of the Italian style, a number of decorations of 
 various characters. These, if not new in themselves, have at 
 least been applied and combined by him in a new and 
 peculiar manner ; and the union of them gives a surprising 
 splendour and magnificence, as well as variety, to the summit 
 of that princely edifice." t 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE last years of Vanbrugh's life were devoted mainly to 
 architectural employments, and the performance of his official 
 duties as Comptroller of the Works. For himself he built two 
 or three houses, besides the " goose-pie " house at Whitehall. 
 
 * In his thirteenth Discourse to the students of the Royal Academy. 
 + Sir Uvedale Price : Essays on the Picturesque, 1798 : An Essay on 
 Architecture and Buildings as connected with Scenery.
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ixxi 
 
 " His country residence," says Noble, '' was Vanbrugh-Fields at 
 Greenwich, where he built two seats, one called the Bastile, 
 standing on Maize, or Maze Hill, on the east side of the Park. 
 Lady Vanbrug, his relict, sold it to Lord Trelawny, who made it 
 his residence : the name was taken from the French prison of 
 which it was a model. His other house, built in the same kind 
 of style, is called the Mince-pie house, now [1804] possessed and 
 occupied by Edward Vanbrugh, Esq."* 
 
 Moreover, on a piece of ground which he purchased at Esher, 
 in Surrey, he erected a low brick house. This property, how- 
 ever, he sold to Thomas Pelham, Earl of Clare (created Duke of 
 Newcastle in 1718), who added largely to the estate, and raised 
 thereon a mansion, which he called, from his title, Claremont.t 
 
 Vanbrugh's correspondence with the Duke of Newcastle, 
 which is preserved in the British Museum, shows him to have 
 been frequently employed by that nobleman : building at 
 Claremont, altering Nottingham Castle for his Grace's residence, 
 or otherwise engaged in his service. Occasionally we find him at 
 Castle Howard, on a visit to his old friend and patron, the Earl 
 of Carlisle. From Castle Howard is dated, the 25th of 
 December, 1718, the letter which contains the first hint of his 
 approaching marriage. 
 
 " Your Grace's Letter to meet you at Nottingham to-morrow," 
 he writes, " I found here yesterday. And had been three days 
 getting from thence to York, through such difficulty as the Stage 
 Coach cou'd not pass, which I left overset and quite disabled 
 upon the way. There has now fallen a Snow up to one's neck, to 
 mend it, wch may possibly fix me here as long as it did at the 
 Bath this time two years : wch was no less than five Weeks. 
 In short, 'tis so bloody Cold, I have almost a mind to marry to 
 keep myself warm, And if I do, I'm sure it will be a Wiser 
 
 * History of the College of Arms, p. 356. 
 
 t Manning and Bray's History of Surrey, voL iL, p. 742.
 
 Ixxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 thing than your Grace has done, if you have been at Notting- 
 ham."* 
 
 The last sentence needs a few words of explanation. Vanbrugh 
 had been anxious that the Duke should not visit Nottingham 
 until the alterations at the castle had been carried out, lest, by 
 seeing it in its unfinished condition, and, especially, under the 
 gloom of a winter aspect, he should conceive some disgust at 
 the place. The Duke paid his visit, nevertheless, as we learn 
 by a subsequent letter, but without the ill consequences 
 apprehended by the architect. 
 
 I have already mentioned Vanbrugh's wife. This lady was 
 Henrietta Maria, eldest child of Lieutenant-colonel James 
 Yarburgh, of Snaith Hall, near York. The family was of some 
 consideration. Henrietta's grandfather, Sir Thomas Yarburgh, 
 of Snaith Hall, was Member of Parliament for Pontefract in 1685 
 and 1688. His eldest son, James, who was born in 1664, wasgodson 
 to the Duke of York, and one of the royal pages. He entered the 
 army, where he rose to the rank of lieutenant-colonel of horse, 
 and aide-de-camp to the Duke of Marlborough. This James 
 married, on the 3ist of October, 1692, Ann, daughter and 
 co-heir of Thomas Hesketh of Heslington : their first child, 
 Henrietta Maria, was baptized, on the I3th of October of the 
 following year, at the church of St. Lawrence, in York.t 
 
 Vanbrugh appears to have been acquainted with the 
 Yarburgh family for some years before his marriage. A 
 letter written from York, about November, 1713, by that 
 very lively young woman, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 
 contains an amusing picture of his love-making. 
 
 * British Museum. Add. MSS. 33,064. 
 
 t These details respecting the Yarburgh family are taken from C. B. 
 Robinson's History of the Priory and Peculiar ef Snaith : London and 
 York, 1861.
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ixxiii 
 
 " I can't forbear entertaining you with our York lovers. 
 (Strange monsters, you'll think, love being as much forced up 
 here as melons.) In the first form of these creatures is even 
 Mr. Vanbrugh. Heaven, no doubt, compassionating our 
 dulness, has inspired him with a passion that makes us all 
 ready to die with laughing : 'tis credibly reported that he is 
 endeavouring at the honourable state of matrimony, and vows 
 to lead a sinful life no more. Whether pure holiness inspires 
 his mind, or dotage turns his brain, is hard to find. 'Tis 
 certainhe keeps Mondays and Thursdays market (assembly-day) 
 constant ; and for those that don't regard worldly muck, 
 there's extraordinary good choice indeed. I believe last 
 Monday there were two hundred pieces of woman's flesh (fat 
 and lean) : but you know Van's taste was always odd : his 
 inclination to ruins* has given him a fancy for Mrs. 
 Yarborough : he sighs and ogles that it would do your 
 heart good to see him ; and she is not a little pleased, in so 
 small a proportion of men amongst such a number of women, 
 a whole man should fall to her share. My dear, adieu. My 
 service to Mr. Congreve." t 
 
 The marriage took place at the church of St. Lawrence, 
 York, on the I4th of January, 1719. J The honeymoon was of 
 brief duration, for within a week of the marriage we find 
 Vanbrugh back at Nottingham on the Duke of Newcastle's 
 business. In a letter to the Duke, dated " Nottingham, 
 January the 24th," after recounting what order he has taken 
 with regard to the fitting up of the castle, he continues, in the 
 
 The reader must put his own construction upon this expression. 
 At the date of this letter, Henrietta Yarburgh was twenty years of age. 
 
 t Letters and Works of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, voL i, pp. 83-4. 
 Bohn's edition, 1887. 
 
 J Robinson's History of Snaith, p. 77.
 
 Ixxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 strain of exaggerated compliment which was then a matter of 
 course in addressing persons of quality : 
 
 " I have no care now left, but to see the Duchess of 
 Newcastle* as well pleas'd with it as your Grace is. I hope 
 she won't have the less expectation from my judgment in 
 chusing a Seat, from my having chosen a Wife, whose 
 principal merit in my Eye, has been some small distant Shadow 
 of those valuable Qualifications in her, your Grace has formerly 
 with so much pleasure heard me talk of. The honour she 
 likewise has, of being pretty nearly related to the Duchess, 
 gives me the more hopes I may not have been mistaken. If I 
 am, 'tis better however to make a Blunder towards the end of 
 one's Life, than at the beginning of it. But I hope all will be 
 well ; it can't at least be worse than most of my neighbours, 
 which every modest man ought to be content with : And so 
 I'm easy." f 
 
 An amusing reference to Tonson, the publisher, occurs in a 
 postscript : " Jacob will be fright'ned out of his Witts and his 
 Religion too, when he hears I'm gone at last. If he is 
 still in France, he'll certainly give himself to God, for fear he 
 shou'd now be ravish'd by a Gentlewoman. I was the last 
 man left between him and Ruin." 
 
 In spite of the great disparity of age between husband and 
 wife, the marriage appears to have been a happy one. Three 
 children were born to them,! of whom two, however, lived not 
 to be baptized. I find in one of Vanbrugh's letters to the Duke 
 of Newcastle, a brief reference to his first-born child. In 1719, 
 building was still going on at Claremont under his direction, 
 and he mentions, in a letter of August the 6th, his intention of 
 
 * The Duchess was Lady Harriet Godolphin, whose marriage Vanbrugh 
 had been instrumental in promoting. See ante, p. Ixv. 
 t Add. MSS., 33,064. 
 J Le Neve, p. 512.
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ixxv 
 
 taking his wife down to Claremont for two or three days. But 
 on the eleventh of August he writes : " I have been two days at 
 Claremount, but not en Famille, a Bit of a Girle popping into 
 the world three months before its time." 
 
 Besides this girl, and a son named Charles, Le Neve mentions 
 a second son, who died without baptism. Of Charles Vanbrugh, 
 the poet's son and heir, all that is told is, that he joined the 
 army as an ensign in the second regiment of footguards, served 
 in Flanders, and got his death-wound in the battle of Fontenoy, 
 April the 3oth, 1745.* The British Museum possesses an 
 autograph letter of his, addressed to the Duke of Newcastle, 
 and dated, " From the Head Quarters at Avelgem, Oct. 3, 1744, 
 JV.S."^ The young man was about purchasing a lieutenancy, 
 when an older ensign, the brother of Lord Cathcart, made offers 
 for the same appointment, and, by his superior interest, seemed 
 likely to carry it Young Vanbrugh thereupon writes to the 
 Duke to solicit his support in the matter. In the same volume 
 is preserved a letter of Lady Vanbrugh's to the Duke, dated 
 Greenwich, September the 3oth, on the same business. How 
 the matter ended, we know not, but the letters, at least, are a 
 proof that the Duke's kindness was continued to the widow and 
 son of his friend. 
 
 Sir John Vanbrugh died, of quinsy, it is said, at his house at 
 Whitehall, on the 26th of March, 1726, and was buried in the 
 family vault beneath the church of St. Stephen. By his will, 
 which is dated August the 3oth, 1725, he left small legacies to 
 his unmarried sisters, Mary, Victoria, and Robina ; to his 
 brothers, Charles and Philip ; his nieces, Elizabeth and 
 Robina Vanbrugh ; a married sister, and her daughter. To his 
 
 * Noble's words are, "a battle fought near Tournay, in 1745." The 
 " Captain Charles Vanbrugh," whose burial at St Stephen's was registered 
 on the gth of November, 1740, was possibly Sir John Vanbrugh's brother. 
 
 t Add. MSS. 32,703.
 
 Ixxvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 son Charles he bequeathed all his houses at Greenwich, together 
 with the lease of the ground on which they stood, the tenement 
 and vaults under and adjoining the Opera House in the Hay- 
 market, and one thousand pounds in money. This bequest was 
 to take effect upon Charles Vanbrugh's coming of age : in the 
 meantime, the income accruing from the property was to be 
 applied to the boy's education, at the discretion of his mother, 
 who was appointed sole executrix. There is one codicil to the 
 will, dated August the 3ist, 1725. By this codicil, Charles 
 Vanbrugh was empowered, on attaining the age of fifteen, to 
 bequeath by will the sum of one thousand pounds ; but in 
 the event of his death before coming of age, the property 
 bequeathed him was to go to his mother, with the exception of 
 the house at Greenwich then occupied by Sir John Vanbrugh's 
 brother Philip, and the two " white towers " adjoining it. The 
 house, in this event, was to become the property of Philip, while 
 the two towers passed to the testator's sisters, Victoria and 
 Robina. 
 
 From the fact that no provision is made by the will for Lady 
 Vanbrugh, it must be inferred that an independency had already 
 been secured to her by the marriage-settlements. Her own will, 
 which is dated June the I5th, 1769, shows her to have been in 
 very comfortable circumstances ; and the house at Whitehall, 
 which is not mentioned in Sir John Vanbrugh's will, formed 
 part of the property bequeathed by her. She died, in the 
 eighty-third year of her age, on the a6th of April, 1776, and was 
 interred in the vault which, half a century before, had received 
 the remains of her distinguished husband.* 
 
 * 1 copy here the exact words of the entries, in the register of St 
 Stephen's, Walbrook, which record the burial of Sir John Vanbrugh and 
 his wife. "March 31 [1726] was buried Sr. John Vanbrough in ye North 
 Isle." "May 3d. [1776] Was Buried Dame Henrietta Maria Vanbrugh 
 in the Vanbrugh's Familey Vault in the North He. brought from Whitehall 
 aged 84 years."
 
 INTRODUCTION. Ixxvii 
 
 Of Vanbrugh's character, all that we are able to gather from 
 stray remarks, and the hints furnished by his own writings, gives 
 us an agreeable impression. That he was generous and good- 
 natured is beyond dispute, nor does he seem to have had 
 an enemy, except the Duchess of Marlborough. He was a 
 Whig in politics, and a member of the famous Kit-cat club : 
 " Garth, Vanbrugh, and Congreve, were the three most honest- 
 hearted, real good men of the poetical members of the Kit-cat 
 club," said Pope.* As to his wit in conversation, nothing can 
 be more striking than the testimony of Gibber, who declares 
 that the most entertaining scenes of his plays " seem'd to be 
 no more than his common Conversation committed to Paper." 
 
 He left an unfinished comedy A Journey to London which, 
 had it been completed by the hand which began it, would 
 certainly have ranked high among his masterpieces. Besides 
 the works already mentioned, he published but one piece the 
 following short copy of verses, which originally appeared in the 
 Fifth Part of Miscellany Poems, published by Tonson in 1704. 
 
 To a LADY more Cruel than Fair. By Mr. VANBROOK. 
 
 Why d'ye with such Disdain refuse 
 
 An humble Lover's Plea ? 
 Since Heav'n denies you Pow'r to chuse, 
 
 You ought to value me. 
 
 Ungrateful Mistress of a Heart, 
 
 Which I so freely gave ; 
 Tho' weak your Bow, tho' blunt your Dart, 
 
 I soon resign'd your Slave. 
 
 Nor was I weary of your Reign, 
 
 Till you a Tyrant grew, 
 And seem'd regardless of my Pain, 
 
 As Nature seem'd of you. 
 
 * Spence's Ancedotes.
 
 Ixxviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 When thousands with unerring Eyes 
 Your Beauty would decry, 
 
 What Graces did my Love devise, 
 To give their Truths the Lie ? 
 
 To ev'ry Grove I told your Charms, 
 In you my Heav'n I plac'd, 
 
 Proposing Pleasures in your Arms, 
 Which none but I cou'd taste. 
 
 For me t' admire, at such a rate, 
 So damn'd a Face, will prove 
 
 You have as little Cause to hate, 
 As I had Cause to Love.
 
 NOTE. 
 
 THE text of Vanbrugh's plays has remained substantially 
 unaltered throughout the editions. Such variations as occur 
 are, almost without exception, either differences of punctuation, 
 often due to mere carelessness, or verbal changes of the slight- 
 est importance. In such cases, I have usually relied upon the 
 text of the first editions, amending the punctuation where 
 necessary, and correcting occasional misprints. I have partly 
 followed Leigh Hunt in supplying, here and there, the omissions 
 of the original text in regard to the headings of scenes, and, in 
 a few instances, the indications of exits or entrances. The 
 names of the actors who took part in the first performance of 
 each play, are here given, facing the dramatis persons, as in 
 the original editions.
 
 THE RELAPSE.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO "THE RELAPSE." 
 
 The Relapse, the first in order of performance of 
 Vanbrugh's comedies, was written in the spring of 1696, as 
 a sequel to Colley Gibber's play of Love's Last Shift ; or, 
 The Fool in Fashion. It was produced at the Theatre 
 Royal, Drury Lane, in December, 1696, and published the 
 same month, with the date 1697 on the title-page. Yet 
 it was entered at Stationers' Hall by Richard Wellington, 
 the bookseller, on the 2ist of September, 1697.* The 
 first edition is in 4to, and has the following title-page : 
 " The Relapse ; or, Virtue in Danger: Being the Sequel 
 of The Fool in Fashion, a Comedy. Acted at the Theatre- 
 Royal in Drury-lane ; Printed for Samuel Briscoe at the 
 corner of Charles- street in Russel-streei Covent-garden. 
 1697." 
 
 The circumstances connected with the production of 
 this play have already been recounted in the general 
 introduction : a few details may be added concerning the 
 relation between Vanbrugh's comedy and Love's Last Shift. 
 
 Gibber's Loveless is a dissolute scamp, who deserts his 
 
 * Wellington's name appears on the title-page of The Relapse, in the 4to 
 edition of 1698 : " London, Printed for S. B. and Sold by R. Wellington, 
 at the Lute, in St. Paul's Church-yard, 1698." The Relapse is the 
 only play of Vanbrugh's which I find entered at Stationers' Hall. 
 
 The British Museum does not possess copies of the first editions of 
 The Relapse, &sop, and The Mistake. For the loan of these plays, as 
 well as for many other kindnesses, I am indebted to Mr. Edmund Gosse. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 Introduction. 
 
 innocent wife, and wanders for eight years in pursuit of 
 pleasure ; returning at last, penniless, to receive her for- 
 giveness, and to enjoy the treasure of her unshaken con- 
 stancy. The play ends conventionally, with Amanda's 
 happiness, and the supposed reformation of the prodigal ; 
 but, in point of fact, a character such as Loveless would be 
 incapable of true reformation, and, in depicting his relapse, 
 Vanbrugh has given but a natural sequel to the fable of his 
 predecessor. 
 
 In both comedies the capital part is that of the fop. 
 In Gibber's, Sir Novelty Fashion is described as " One that 
 Heaven intended for a man ; but the whole business of his 
 Life is, to make the World believe he is of another species. 
 A Thing that affects mightily to ridicule himself, only to give 
 others a kind of Necessity of praising him." 
 
 The following fragment is extracted from one of the best 
 scenes of The Fool in Fashion, that the reader may, with 
 entire justice to Gibber, compare the character of Sir Novelty 
 with that of Lord Foppington. The persons introduced are 
 Narcissa, Hillaria, and Sir Novelty. It should be premised 
 that Worthy is suitor to Hillaria, to whom Sir Novelty 
 makes love at the beginning of the scene. He now turns 
 to her sister. 
 
 Sir Nov. Pray, Madam, how do I look to-day? 
 What, cursedly ? I'll warrant ; with a more hellish Com- 
 plexion than a stale Actress in a Morning. I don't know, 
 Madam, 'tis true the Town does talk of me, indeed ; 
 but the Dev'l take me, in my mind, I am a very ugly 
 Fellow ! 
 
 Nar. Now you are too severe, Sir Novelty !
 
 Introduction. 5 
 
 Sir Nov. Not I, burn me : For Heaven's sake deal 
 freely with me, Madam ; and if you can, tell me one 
 tolerable thing about me ! 
 
 HiL (Aside.} 'Twould pose me, I'm sure. 
 
 Nar. Oh ! Sir Novelty, this is unanswerable ; 'tis hard 
 to know the brightest part of a diamond. 
 
 Sir Nov. You'll make me blush, stop my Vitals, 
 Madam. (Aside.} I 'gad, I always said she was a Woman 
 of Sense. Strike me dumb, I am in Love with her ! I'll 
 try her farther. But, Madam, is it possible I may vie with 
 Mr. Worthy ? Not that he is any Rival of mine, Madam ; 
 for, I can assure you, my Inclinations lie where, perhaps, 
 your Ladyship little thinks. 
 
 Hil. (Aside} So ! now I am rid of him. 
 
 Sir Nov. But pray tell me, Madam ; for I really love a 
 severe Critick : I am sure you must believe he has a more 
 happy Genius in Dress : For my part, I am but a Sloven. 
 
 Nar. He a Genius ! insufferable ! Why, he dresses 
 worse than a Captain of the Militia ! . . . . He's a mere 
 Valet de Chambre to all Fashion ; and never is in any, till 
 his betters have left them off. 
 
 Sir Nov. Nay, Ged, now I must laugh ; for the DevT 
 take me, if I did not meet him, not above a Fortnight ago, 
 in a Coat with Buttons no bigger than Nutmegs. 
 
 Hil. There, I must confess, you out-do him, Sir 
 Novelty. 
 
 Sir Nov. Oh, dear Madam, why mine are not above 
 three Inches diameter ! .
 
 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 pleased 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 com- 
 pliment me with) blasphemy and bawdy. 
 
 For my part, I cannot find 'em 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 j 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
 
 8 Preface. 
 
 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 any- 
 thing 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 charity : they make debauches in piety, as sinners do in 
 wine; and are as quarrelsome in their religion, as other 
 people are in 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 story 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 lied, 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 'em 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
 
 Preface. 9 
 
 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 I 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. 
 
 * Powell, who acted the part of Worthy.
 
 IO 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Sir Novelty Fashion, newly created Lord Foppington Mr. Gibber. 
 
 Young Fashion, his Brother Mrs. Kent.* 
 
 Loveless, Husband to Amanda Mr. Verbruggm. 
 
 Worthy, a Gentleman of the Town Mr. Powell. 
 
 Sir Tunbelly Clumsey, a Country Gentleman Mr. Bullock. 
 
 Sir John Friendly, his Neighbour Mr. Mills. 
 
 Coupler, a Match-maker Mr. Johnson. 
 
 Bull, Chaplain to Sir Tunbelly Mr. Simson. 
 
 Syringe, a Surgeon... ... ... ... ... ... ... Mr. Haynes. 
 
 Lory, Servant to young Fashion Mr. Do%get. 
 
 Shoemaker, Tailor, Periwig-maker, &c. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Amanda, Wife to Loveless Mrs. Rogers. 
 
 Berinthia, her Cousin, a young Widow ... ... Mrs. Verbruggen. 
 
 Miss Hoyden, a great Fortune, Daughter to Sir Tunbelly ... Mrs. Cross. 
 Nurse, her Governante Mrs. Powell. 
 
 [SCENE. Sometimes in London, sometimes in the Country.] 
 
 * "Mrs. Kent " is the reading of the earliest editions those of 1697, 1698, and 
 1708 : her name also stands to the part of young Fashion in the_ Drury-lane play-bill 
 for October 26, 1708, as Genest informs us. In some later editions of The Relapse 
 the name is altered to " Mr. Kent," but there is no doubt that the original reading is 
 the correct one. An actress performing the part of a young man was by no means 
 so rare a spectacle at this time that we need hesitate to accept it. Of Mrs. 
 Mountfort by her second marriage, Mrs. Verbruggen, the Berinthia of The 
 Relapse Gibber writes : " People were so fond of seeing her a Man, that when the 
 part of Bays, in the Rehearsal, had, for some time, lain dormant, she was desired to 
 take it up, which I have seen her act with all the true, coxcombly Spirit, and 
 Humour, that the Sufficiency of the Character required." Mrs. Kent, though not a 
 leading lady, habitually played good parts : Mr. Kent, for there -was such an actor, 
 appeared in such characters as " one of the Ruffians in King Lear," and was not at 
 all likely to be entrusted with such a part as that of young Fashion. See Genest, 
 II., p. 408.
 
 II 
 
 FIRST PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MISS CROSS.* 
 
 LADIES, this Play in too much haste was writ, 
 
 To be o'ercharg'd with either plot or wit ; 
 
 'Twos got, conceiv'd, 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. 10 
 
 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, 20 
 
 * The actress who performed the part of Miss Hoyden. The " Miss " 
 prefixed to her name, instead of the customary " Mrs.," implies that 
 she was a very young girl. Her first appearance, recorded by Genest, 
 was in the part of Altesidora, in Durfey's Don Quixote, Part III., early 
 in 1696.
 
 12 
 
 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 Caesar 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 y' 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 30 
 
 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. 10 
 
 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, t' approach by tedious form ; 
 They're for dispatch, 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 20 
 
 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.
 
 14 
 
 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, 30 
 
 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 you ladies to admire. 
 
 They'll show you twenty thousand airs and graces, 
 
 They'll entertain you with their soft grimaces, 
 
 Their snuff-box, awkward bows, and ugly faces. 
 
 In short, they're after all so much your friends, 
 
 That lest the Play should fail the author's ends, 40 
 
 They have resolv'd 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. 
 
 * To comb their wigs in public was a common practice of gentlemen 
 in the seventeenth century. We find occasional allusions to this odd 
 custom in the dramatists of the time. Thus in The Parson's Wedding, 
 by Thomas Killegrew (Act I, Scene 3) : " Enter Jack Constant, Will 
 Sad, Jolly, and a Footman : they comb their heads and talk." And 
 in the prologue to the second part of Dryden's Conquest of Granada : 
 
 " But, as when Vizard-Mask appears in Pit, 
 Straight ev'ry Man, who thinks himself a Wit, 
 Perks up ; and, managing his Comb with Grace, 
 With his white Wigg sets off his Nut-brown Face."
 
 THE RELAPSE; 
 
 OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in LOVELESS'S Country House. 
 Enter LOVELESS reading. 
 
 Love. How true is that philosophy, which says 
 Our heaven is seated in our minds ! 
 Through all the roving pleasures of my youth, 
 (Where nights and days seem'd all consum'd 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, 10 
 
 My thoughts unbent from all the cares of life, 
 Content with fortune, 
 
 Eas'd from the grating duties of dependence, 
 From envy free, ambition under foot, 
 The raging flame of wild destructive lust 
 Reduc'd to a warm pleasing fire of lawful love,
 
 1 6 The RELAPSE; [Acn. 
 
 My life glides on, and all is well within. 
 
 Enter AMANDA. 
 
 How does the happy cause of my content, 
 
 [Meeting her kindly. 
 My dear Amanda ? 
 
 You find me musing on my happy state, 20 
 
 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 women form'd like you. 30 
 
 Perhaps, when time shall be no more, 
 When the aspiring soul shall take its flight, 
 And drop this pond'rous lump of clay behind it, 
 It may have appetites we know not of, 
 And pleasures as refin'd 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 40 
 Would Heaven grant that 
 
 Aman. 'Twere all the heaven I'd ask. 
 
 But we are clad in black mortality,
 
 SCENE I.] QR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. I / 
 
 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. 50 
 
 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. 60 
 
 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. 70 
 
 When you would plead your title to my heart, 
 On this you may depend. Therefore be calm, 
 
 c
 
 1 8 The RELAPSE ; [ACT i. 
 
 Banish your fears, for they 
 
 Are traitors to your peace : beware of 'em, 
 
 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. 80 
 
 You know the business is indispensable, that obliges me to 
 
 go for London ; and you have no reason, that I know of, 
 
 to believe 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 resolv'd to make such use on't, 90 
 
 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 y'are at ease for ever ; 100 
 When you have seen the helmet prov'd, 
 You'll apprehend no more for him that wears it. 
 Therefore to put a lasting period to your fears,
 
 SCENE I.] QR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 1 9 
 
 I am resolv'd, 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 'em, 
 
 They shall hem me in, 
 
 Sing praises to their god, and drink his glory : no 
 
 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 disperseyourapprehensions. 120 
 
 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, 130 
 
 Your virtue scarce could answer. 
 
 c 2
 
 2o The RELAPSE; CACTI. 
 
 Atnan. '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 ; 
 Which, when it once has pass'd, 
 
 You'll be convinc'd 'twas of no false allay, 140 
 
 There all your cares will end. 
 
 Aman. Pray Heaven they may. 
 
 [JSxeunt, hand in hand. 
 
 SCENE II. Whitehall. 
 Enter Young FASHION, LORY, and Waterman. 
 
 Fash. Come, pay the waterman, and take the port- 
 mantle. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Lorj. But a solitary old waistcoat, upon honour, sir. 
 
 Fash. Why, what's become of the blue coat, sirrah ? 
 
 Lory. Sir, 'twas eaten at Gravesend ; the reckoning 
 came to thirty shillings, and your privy purse was worth but 
 two half-crowns. 10 
 
 Fash. 'Tis very well. 
 
 Wat. Pray, master, will you please to dispatch me ? 
 
 Fash. Ay, here, a canst thou change me a guinea ? 
 
 Lory. [Aside.] Good !
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 21 
 
 Wat. 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 ? 20 
 
 Wat. Why, master, so far against wind and tide is 
 richly worth half a piece.* 
 
 Fash. Why, faith, I think thou art a good conscionable 
 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. 
 
 Wat. 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 stirring. [Taking up the portmantle J\ 
 Well, master, when your worship sends the money, your 
 portmantle 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. 34 
 
 [Exit Waterman. 
 
 Lory. So. Now, sir, I hope you'll own yourself 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 somebody else 
 
 to do that for you, I fancy we might both fare the better for't. 
 
 " Piece. A coin worth twenty-two shillings." Wright.
 
 22 The RELAPSE; CACTI. 
 
 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. 50 
 
 Fash. My annuity ! 'Sdeath, he's such a dog, he would 
 not give his powder-puff to redeem my 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 may'st as well say I can't take orders 
 because I'm an atheist. 61 
 
 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 experience 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 consider, 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
 
 SCENE III.] QR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 2 3 
 
 plaisirs ; I will therefore turn fool once more for your 
 service, and advise you to go directly to your brother. 75 
 
 fash. Art thou then so impregnable a blockhead, 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 ? 87 
 
 Lory. Say nothing to him, apply yourself to his favour- 
 ites, 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 coxcomb thrust 
 into the world before me? O Fortune! Fortune ! thou art 
 a bitch, by Gad. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. A Dressing-room. 
 Enter Lord FOPPINGTON in his nightgown. 
 
 Lord Fop. Page ! 
 
 Enter Page. 
 Page. Sir !
 
 24 The RELAPSE ; [ACT i. 
 
 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? I 
 thought it would have choked you. D'ye hear ? 
 
 Page. My lord ! 8 
 
 Lord Fop. Call La Vdrole: I would dress. [Exit 
 Page.] Well, 'tis an unspeakable pleasure to be a 
 man of quality, strike me dumb ! My lord. Your lordship ! 
 My lord Foppington ! Ah ! test quelque chose de beau, que 
 le diable nfemporte ! 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 VROLE. 
 
 La Ver. Me Lord, de shoemaker, de tailor, de hosier, 
 de sempstress, de barber, be all ready, if your lordship please 
 to be dress. 20 
 
 Lord Fop. 'Tis well, admit 'em. 
 
 La Ver. Hey, messieurs, entrez. 
 
 Enter Tailor, &c. 
 
 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 accom- 
 plished a suit of clothes as ever peer of England trod the
 
 SCENE III.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 25 
 
 stage in, my lord. Will your lordship please to try 'em 
 now? 32 
 
 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, enter Young FASHION 
 and LORY. 
 
 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 fa- 
 vourite at court; they are to establish him with the ladies. 40 
 
 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 countess ! 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. 5 1 
 
 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-handkerchief. 
 
 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.
 
 26 The RELAPSE; 
 
 Tailor. 'Tis not for me to dispute your lordship's fancy. 
 
 Fash. [To LORY.] His lordship ! Lory, did you 
 observe that? 61 
 
 Lory. Yes, sir; I always thought 'twould end there. 
 Now, I hope, you'll have 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 FOPPING- 
 TON.] Brother, I'm your humble servant. 
 
 Lord Fop. O Lard, Tarn ! I did not expect you in 
 England. Brother, I am glad to see you. [Turning to his 
 Tailor.] Look you, sir ; I shall never be reconciled to this 
 nauseous packet ; therefore pray get me another suit with 
 all manner of expedition, for this is my eternal aversion. 
 Mrs. Calico, are not you of my mind? 73 
 
 Sempstress. O, directly, my lord ! it can never be too low. 
 
 Lord Fop. You are pasitively in the right on't, for the 
 packet becomes no part of the body but the knee. 
 
 [Exit Tailor. 
 
 Semps. 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-marrow. 80 
 
 Semps. 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. 
 
 * Cravat. The word " steenkirk " was brought from Paris, where it 
 had come into fashion as a name for cravats, and other small articles of 
 apparel, during the excitement which followed the battle of Steenkirk, 
 where William III. was defeated by the French, July 24, 1692.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 27 
 
 Lord Fop. They hurt me just below the instep. 
 
 Shoe. \Feeling hisfootJ] 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. 90 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, wilt thou undertake to persuade 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. 101 
 
 Lord Fop. Well, prithee be gone about thy business. 
 
 \Exit Shoemaker. 
 
 [To the Hosier.] 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 these 
 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. [in 
 
 * This little dispute with the shoemaker appears to have been suggested 
 by Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, Act II., Scene VIII.
 
 28 The RELAPSE ; [ACT i. 
 
 [To the Periwig-maker.] Come, Mr. Foretop, let me seewhat 
 you have done, and then the fatigue of the marning 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 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 ! 122 
 
 Lory. Why, sir, it's 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 into his pleasures. Here have you 
 stood ever since you came in, and have not commended 
 any one thing that belongs to him. 
 
 Fash. Nor never shall, whilst they belong to a coxcomb. 
 
 Lory. Then, sir, you must be content to pick a hungry 
 bone. 130 
 
 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 ! O lord ! Why, as Gad shall 
 judge me, your honour's side-face is reduced to the tip of 
 your nose ! 142
 
 SCENE III.] QR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 2Q 
 
 Lord Fop. My side- face may be in eclipse for 
 aught I know; but I'm sure my full-face is like the full- 
 moon. 
 
 Fore. Heavens bless my eye-sight [ J ff#<W;z < r 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. 150 
 
 Lord Fop. If it did, it would be just 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. Pasitively, 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. 160 
 
 Fash. Now your people of business are gone, brother, I 
 hope I may obtain a quarter of an hour's audience of you. 
 
 Lerd Fop. Faith, Tarn, I must beg you'll excuse me at 
 this time, for I must away to the House of Lards immedi- 
 ately ; 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. 170 
 
 Fash. Shall you be back at dinner ?
 
 30 The RELAPSE ; ACTI. 
 
 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 conversa- 
 tion ; and you know, Tarn, 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 
 Tarn, I'm glad to see thee in England, stap my vitals ! 183 
 
 \Exit with his equipage. 
 
 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. 190 
 
 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 ? 
 
 * Locket's : a fashionable ordinary near Charing Cross, on the 
 site of Drummond's Bank.
 
 SCENE II1.1 OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 3! 
 
 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 in your 
 bosom, sirrah. 202 
 
 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 understanding; and 
 therefore I would willingly know thy condition, that I 
 may see whether thou stand'st in need of my assistance : 
 for widows swarm, my boy, the town's infected with 
 'em. 217 
 
 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
 
 32 The RELAPSE; [ACTI. 
 
 Fash. Out with it then, dear dad, and take possession 
 as soon as thou wilt. 230 
 
 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. 240 
 
 Lory. Sir, I was very near once having that honour. 
 
 Coup. Well, live and hope ; don't be discouraged ; 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 Young FASHION.] Well, sir, you must know I have 
 done you the kindness to make up a match for your brother. 
 
 Fash. I am very much beholding to you, truly. 
 
 Coup. You may be, sirrah, before the wedding-day yet. 
 The lady is a great heiress ; fifteen 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 fort- 
 night. Now you must know, stripling (with respect to your 
 mother), your brother's the son of a whore. 253 
 
 Fash. Good ! 
 
 Coup. He has given me a bond of a thousand 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
 
 SCENE III.] QR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 33 
 
 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 ? 264 
 
 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 upon 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 ? 275 
 
 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 consum- 
 mate. Now, you shall go away immediately, 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 immedi- 
 ately, 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. 290
 
 34 The RELAPSE; CACTI. 
 
 Coup. Ah, you young hot lusty thief, let me muzzle you ! 
 [Kissing.} Sirrah, let me muzzle you. 
 
 Fash. [Aside.} Psha, the old lecher ! 
 
 Coup. Well ; I'll warrant thou hast not a farthing 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 pullet, and when I have 
 given thee some farther instructions, thou shalt hoist sail 
 and be gone. [Kissing.] T'other buss, and so adieu. 
 
 Fash. Um ! psha! 312 
 
 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? 325 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 35 
 
 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 337 
 
 Fash. No, my conscience shan't starve me neither. 
 But thus far I will 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 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. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 The RELAPSE ; [ACT n. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. London. A Room in LOVELESS'S Lodgings. 
 Enter LOVELESS and AMANDA. 
 
 Love. How do you like these lodgings, my dear ? For my 
 part, I am so well pleased with 'em, 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 chiefest enter- 
 tainment, 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. 1 2 
 
 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 
 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.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 37 
 
 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.* 26 
 
 Love. But till that reformation can be made, I would not 
 leave the wholesome corn for some intruding tares that grow 
 amongst it. 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 ? 
 
 I&ve. Why 'twas about but 'tis not worth repeating. 
 
 Aman. Yes, pray let me know it. 
 
 Love. No ; I think 'tis as well let alone. 35 
 
 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 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 
 entertainment, which till then diverted me between the acts. 
 'Twas to admire the workmanship of nature, in the face of a 
 
 * The " reforming Divine," one would think, might have felt at 
 home here, but he probably suspected the "scandalous Poet" of 
 laughing in his sleeve when he wrote this passage. I see no reason 
 to doubt that Vanbrugh intended it as an expression of his own opinion 
 on the matter.
 
 38 The RELAPSE; 
 
 young lady that sat some distance from me, she was so 
 exquisitely handsome ! 
 
 Aman. So exquisitely handsome ! 50 
 
 Love. Why do you repeat my words, my dear ? 
 
 Aman. Because you seemed to speak 'em 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. 61 
 
 Aman. Take heed of trusting to such nice distinctions. 
 
 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 inquisitive ? 
 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 tell. 
 
 Love. By all that's sacred then, I did not ask. 75 
 
 Aman. Nor do you know what company was with her ? 
 
 Love. I do not. 
 
 Aman. Then I am calm again.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 39 
 
 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 ? 86 
 
 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 farther, and inquire his 
 name? 
 
 Love. [Aside.] She has reason on her side : I have 
 talked too much ; but I must turn it off another 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, there- 
 fore, in so strict a sense, take what I said to her 
 advantage. 101 
 
 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.
 
 4O The RELAPSE ; [ACT n. 
 
 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. 112 
 
 Aman. O dear ! 'tis a relation I have not seen these 
 five years. Pray her to walk in. [Exit Servant.] 
 Here's another beauty for you. She was young when 
 I saw her last ; but I hear she's grown extremely hand- 
 some. 
 
 Love. Don't you be jealous now ; for I shall gaze upon 
 her too. 
 
 Enter BERINTHIA. 
 
 [Aside.'} Ha ! by Heavens the very woman ! 120 
 
 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? 130 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE i.] OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 41 
 
 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. 140 
 
 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 humble 
 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 inconvenient, he'll come and wait upon 
 you. 
 
 Love. Lord Foppington ! I know him not 150 
 
 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 
 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 quality must have so improved his 
 coxcomb, he can't but be very good company for a quarter 
 of an hour. 161 
 
 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
 
 4 2 The RELAPSE ; [ACT n. 
 
 contempt. Pity those whom nature abuses, but never those 
 who abuse nature. 
 
 Ber. Besides, the town would be robbed of one of its 
 chief diversions, if it should become a crime to laugh at 
 a fool. 171 
 
 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 recommend '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. 180 
 
 Aman. You have many stronger claims than that, 
 Berimhia, 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. 
 
 Love. I wish you joy, my lord. 
 
 Lord Fop. O Lard, sir! Madam, your ladyship's 
 welcome to tawn. 
 
 Aman. I wish your lordship joy. 190 
 
 Lord Fop. O Heavens, madam 
 
 Love. My lord, this young lady is a relation of my 
 wife's. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Saluting BERINTHIA.] The beautifullest 
 race of people upon earth, rat me ! Dear Loveless, I'm
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 43 
 
 overjoyed to see you have brought your family to tawn 
 again ; I am, stap my vitals ! [Aside.] Far 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 ? 200 
 
 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 impossible to be quiet, without thinking : now think- 
 ing 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 lordship read without thinking ? 
 
 Lord Fop. O Lard ! can your ladyship pray without 
 devotion, madam ? 211 
 
 Aman. Well, I must own I think books the best enter- 
 tainment in the world. 
 
 Lord Fop. I am so much of your ladyship's mind, 
 madam, that I have a private gallery, where I walk some- 
 times ; it 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. 221 
 
 Lord Fop. That, I must confess, I am nat altogether so 
 fand of. Far to mind the inside of a book, is to enter- 
 tain one's self with the forced product 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.
 
 44 The RELAPSE ; [ACT n. 
 
 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 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 wholesome, 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 'tis 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 
 chocolate-house : where, as you walk, madam, you have the 
 prettiest prospect in the world : you have looking-glasses all 
 raund you. But I'm afraid I tire the company. 
 
 Ber. Not at all. Pray go on. 247 
 
 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 'em aut 
 
 * The hour for beginning the play was at this time five o'clock.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 45 
 
 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. 260 
 
 Love. 'Tis a heavenly one indeed. 
 
 Aman. But I thought, my lord, you beaux spent a 
 great deal of your time in intrigues : you have given us no 
 account of them 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 detachments 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. 279 
 
 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 compound for 
 my appearance.
 
 46 The RELAPSE ; 
 
 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. 290 
 
 Ber. But pray, my lord, how do you dispose of your- 
 self on Sundays ? for that, methinks, is a day should hang 
 wretchedly upon 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. 300 
 
 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 ? 310 
 
 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 ?
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 47 
 
 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 320 
 
 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 troublesome with the length of 
 my visit 
 
 Aman. Your lordship's too entertaining to grow trouble- 
 some anywhere. 334 
 
 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 lady- 
 ship. [To LOVELESS.] Ned, you must not be so jealous 
 now as to listen. 
 
 Love. Not I, my lord ; I am 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 o the ear.~] Then thus I 
 return your passion. An impudent fool ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Gad's curse, madam, I'm a peer of the 
 realm !
 
 48 The RELAPSE ; [ACT n. 
 
 Love. Hey ; what the devil do you affront my wife, 
 
 sir? Nay then 350 
 
 {They draw and fight. The women 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. 360 
 
 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. 370 
 
 Syr. Why, what if I won't look upon his wound this 
 hour, sir?
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 49 
 
 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're 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! 381 
 
 Syr. Why, what the devil, have you run the 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 ! 390 
 
 Syr. Well, sir. 
 
 Lord Fop. Is there any hopes ? 
 
 Syr. Hopes ? I can't tell. What are you willing to 
 give for your cure ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Five hundred paunds with pleasure. 
 
 Syr. Why, then perhaps there may be hopes. But we 
 must avoid farther 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 him into a chair. 401 
 
 Lord Fop. Dear Loveless adieu! If I die I forgive 
 thee ; and if I live I hope thou'lt do as much by me. . I'm 
 
 E
 
 5O The RELAPSE; 
 
 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 prosecuting any 
 farther, 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 I 410 
 
 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 tremble to 
 think how dear my indiscreet resentment might have cost 
 you. 
 
 Love. Oh, no matter, never trouble yourself about that. 420 
 
 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. 
 
 War. 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? 431
 
 SCENE I.] QR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 5 I 
 
 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. 
 
 War. 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 sup- 
 pose '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 ? 443 
 
 Love. None at all. He's fallen into the hands of a 
 roguish surgeon ; 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 without 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 beautiful 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. 460 
 
 Love. [To WORTHY.] I'll overtake you, sir. [Exit 
 WORTHY.] W hat would my dear ? 
 
 2
 
 5 2 The RELAPSE ; [ACT n. 
 
 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.] Why, 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. 471 
 
 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. 481 
 
 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 above board. 492 
 
 Aman. That now, methinks, would make me hate a man.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 53 
 
 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 J 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 satisfy the 
 vanity of a woman, but I can't comprehend how the men 
 find their account in it. 502 
 
 Ber. Their entertainment, I must confess, is a riddle to 
 me. For there's very few of 'em 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 I 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 ignorance, 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. 519 
 
 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
 
 54 The RELAPSE ; 
 
 course without doing any mischief ? Do you think it over- 
 flows nothing ? 
 
 Ber. O yes ; 'tis true, it never breaks into anybody'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. 531 
 
 Aman. But prithee, Berinthia, instruct me a little farther; 
 for I'm so great a novice I am 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 unlawful love is 540 
 
 Ber. Oh, 'tis abominable ! But for the speculative ; 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 so really 'scape all 
 other men, as they do those shadows of 'em, the 
 beaux 549 
 
 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
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 55 
 
 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, I fancy we had here e'en 
 now a pattern of 'em both. 
 
 Ber. His lordship and Mr Worthy? 560 
 
 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't 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 his 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. 586
 
 56 The RELAPSE ; EACTII. 
 
 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. 
 
 Avian. 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 ? 599 
 
 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, some- 
 body should run the risk of being that thing they call a 
 husband. 
 
 A man. O fy, Berinthia ! no revenge should ever be 
 taken against a husband. But to wrong his bed is a 
 vengeance, which of all vengeance 609 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 57 
 
 Ber. [Aside.~\ Alack a-day, there has gone more than 
 that to improve me, if she knew all ! 619 
 
 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. 
 
 Aman. Pray which is that ? 
 
 Ber. It is, to assure me I shall be very welcome. 
 
 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. 629 
 
 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. Puh ! because you are in love with your husband : 
 but that is not 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. 640 
 
 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 would have 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
 
 58 The RELAPSE ; [ACTII. 
 
 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? 655 
 
 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 inclinations. 
 
 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. 670 
 
 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 resolution you 
 will, matrimony will be the end on't. 
 
 Ber. Faith it won't. 
 
 Aman. How do you know ?
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 59 
 
 Ber. I'm sure on't. 680 
 
 A man. Why, do you think 'tis impossible for you to fall 
 in love ? 
 
 Ber. No. 
 
 Aman. Nay, but to grow so passionately fond, that 
 nothing but the 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.
 
 60 The RELAPSE ; [ACT in. 
 
 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 your- 
 self 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 lordship would 
 please to keep house a little longer; I'm afraid your 
 honour does not well consider your wound. 12 
 
 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. 
 
 * Soon after the Restoration, masks were commonly worn at the 
 theatre by ladies of reputation (See Pepys, June 12, 1663), but the 
 custom appears to have been quickly abandoned to women of the town. 
 In Dryden's prologues and epilogues, for example, the term " vizard- 
 mask " is always synonymous with prostitute.
 
 SCENE I.] QR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 6 1 
 
 Enter Young FASHION. 
 
 Fash. Brother, your servant. How do you find your- 
 self 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. 20 
 
 Fash. I'm very glad of it. 
 
 Lord Fop. [Aside.} That I believe's a lie. [Aloud.} 
 Prithee, Tam, tell me one thing : did nat 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 ? 30 
 
 Fash. Because he used you very well. 
 
 Lord Fop. Well ? naw, strike me dumb ! he starved 
 me. He has let me want a thausand women for want of a 
 thausand paund. 
 
 Fash. Then he hindered you from making a 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 woman that's 
 to be bought ? 41 
 
 Lord Fop. Prithee, why not as well as a padnag ? 
 
 Fash. Because a woman has a heart to dispose of; a 
 horse has none.
 
 62 The RELAPSE ; [ACT in. 
 
 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 ? 50 
 
 Lord Fop. Why, my heart in my amours is like my 
 heart aut of my amours ; d la glace. My bady, Tarn, is a 
 watch ; and my heart is the pendulum 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 insolent 
 virtue, and I thought myself piqued in honour to debauch 
 her. 62 
 
 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. 75
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 63 
 
 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 
 rumpled 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 go 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 
 the world : for if you succeed, 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, 
 I hope I shall find the effects on't. 93 
 
 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 
 forced 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. 106
 
 64 The RELAPSE ; [ACT m. 
 
 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 thousand 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 
 melancholy ; 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. 119 
 
 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 I\ Ask 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 ? 
 
 Lord Fop. I do stap my vitals ! 
 
 Fash. Now, by all that's great and powerful, thou art 
 the prince of coxcombs ! 130 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE II.] QR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 65 
 
 Your paverty makes your life so burdensome to you, you 
 would provoke me to a quarrel, in hopes either to slip 
 through my lungs into my estate, or to get yourself 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 ! 145 
 
 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. 156 
 
 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 several ways. 
 
 SCENE II. A Garden. 
 Enter LOVELESS and Servant. 
 
 Love. Is my wife within ? 
 
 Scr. No, sir, she has been gone out this half hour. 
 
 F
 
 66 The RELAPSE ; [ACT in. 
 
 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 ? 10 
 
 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, 20 
 
 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, 30 
 
 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
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 67 
 
 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 puzzling 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. 
 
 Ha, she here ! Nay, then take heed, my heart, for there are 
 dangers towards. 48 
 
 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. 
 
 Love. 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. 59 
 
 Ber. So far at least then allow me to be a physician. 
 
 Love. Nay, I'll allow you so yet farther: for I have 
 
 F 2
 
 68 The RELAPSE ; [ACT m. 
 
 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 ? 70 
 
 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. 80 
 
 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 alann'd me, 
 I could not turn my eyes from whence the danger came : 
 I gaz'd upon you till you shot again, 
 
 And then my fears came on me. 90 
 
 My heart began to pant, my limbs to tremble, 
 My blood grew thin, my pulse beat quick, my eyes
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 69 
 
 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. 100 
 
 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 assuag'd my flame. 
 But when I saw you, out it burst again, 
 And rag'd with greater fury than before. 
 Nay, since you now appear, 'tis so increas'd, 
 That in a moment, if you do not help me, 
 I shall, whilst you look on, consume to ashes. no 
 
 [Taking hold of her hand. 
 
 Ber. \Breakingfrom himl\ 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.
 
 70 The RELAPSE ; [ACT m. 
 
 Ber. Stand off, or I shall hate you, by Heavens ! 120 
 Love. [Kissing her.'} In matters of love, a woman's oath 
 is no more to be minded than a man's. 
 Ber. Urn 
 
 Enter WORTHY. 
 
 Wor. [Aside.'] Ha ! what's here ? my old mistress, 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 perceive 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 resolu- 
 tion 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. 140 
 
 Re-enter WORTHY. 
 
 Wor. [Aside.~] This discovery's a lucky one, I hope to 
 make a happy use on't. That gentlewoman there is no 
 fool ; so I shall be able to make her understand her 
 interest. [Aloud.] Your servant, madam ; I need not ask 
 you how you do, you have got so good a colour.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. J I 
 
 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 ? 150 
 
 Wor. Nothing. 
 
 Ber. Why do you smile then ? 
 
 Wor. Because the weather's hot. 
 
 Ber. You'll never leave roguing, I see that. 
 
 Wor. [Putting his finger to his noseJ\ 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. 160 
 
 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. 174 
 
 Wor. Very well, now I confess your discovery to be 
 true : what do you say to mine ?
 
 72 The RELAPSE; [ACT in. 
 
 Ber. Why, I confess I would swear 'twere false, if I 
 thought you were fool enough to believe me. 
 
 Wor. Now I am 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. Therefore, if you find 'twould 
 tickle your vanity to bring me down once more to your 
 lure, e'en help me quickly to dispatch her business, that 
 I may have nothing else to do, but to apply myself to 
 yours. 185 
 
 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. 196 
 
 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. 207
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 73 
 
 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 necessity, a Chris- 
 tian 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 their 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. 222 
 
 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 impreg- 
 nable 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 presumptuous 
 thing in a woman to assume the name of 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. 235 
 
 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 ?
 
 74 The RELAPSE ; [ACT m. 
 
 Ber. What you could wish ; she thinks you handsome 
 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 ! 250 
 
 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 ruined 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 Woman following her. 
 
 Worn. If you please, madam, only to say, whether you'll 
 have me buy 'em or not. 261 
 
 Aman. Yes, no, go fiddle ! I care not what you do. 
 Prithee leave me. 
 
 Worn. 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.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 75 
 
 Ber. Who is it that plagues you ? 
 
 Aman. Who do you think should plague a wife, but her 
 husband ? 270 
 
 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, 111 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. 280 
 
 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. 292 
 
 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.
 
 76 The RELAPSE; [ACT-HI. 
 
 Aman. Well, I won't ; but let me know all you can 
 without perjury. 300 
 
 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 endeavour. . 
 
 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 certain knowledge your husband is a pickeering* else- 
 where. 312 
 
 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 not such 
 an 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 ! 323 
 
 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. 
 
 * To pickeer is "to rob or pillage; from the Italian. Not much in 
 use. " Nares.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 77 
 
 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 Young 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. T 2 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Str. Ay, but two words to a bargain. Tummas, is the 
 blunderbuss primed ?
 
 78 The RELAPSE ; [ACT in. 
 
 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. 25 
 
 [Servant appears at the window with a blunderbuss. 
 
 Ser. Weall, naw what's yare business ? 
 
 Fash. Nothing, sir, but to wait upon sir Tunbelly, 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. 37 
 
 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, drc. 
 
 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 !
 
 SCENE III.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 79 
 
 Sir Tun. Who is it here has any business with me ? 49 
 
 Fash. Sir, 'tis I, if your name be sir Tunbelly 
 Clumsey. 
 
 Sir Tun. Sir, my name is sir Tunbelly Clumsey, 
 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. 6 1 
 
 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. [71? 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! 
 [Exeunt 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? 77 
 
 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
 
 8o The RELAPSE; [ACTIII. 
 
 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. 88 
 
 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 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 
 day long, she can ; 'tis very well. 
 
 Nurse. [ Without, opening the door.'} Miss Hoyden ! 
 miss ! miss ! miss ! Miss Hoyden ! 9
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 8 1 
 
 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 drank 
 before you are ripe. 
 
 Hoyd. Oh, don't you trouble your head about that ; I'm 
 as ripe as you, though not so mellow. 20 
 
 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.] 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. 30 
 
 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 fort. 
 
 {.Exit running. 
 
 Nurse. Eh the Lord succour thee ! How thou art 
 delighted ! [Exit after her 
 
 G
 
 82 The RELAPSE; [ACT in. 
 
 SCENE V. Another Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Sir TUNBELLY and Young FASHION. A Servant 
 with wine. 
 
 Sir Tun. My lord, I am 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 speaking, 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 educa- 
 tion, which with the rest of her merit makes me long to see 
 her mine. I wish you would dispense with the canonical 
 hour, and let it be this very night. 12 
 
 Sir Tun. Oh, not so soon neither ! that's shooting my 
 girl before you bid her stand. No, give her fair warn- 
 ing, 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 \_AsideI\ 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. 24 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE V.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 83 
 
 [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. Therefore, my noble lord, have a 
 little patience, we'll go and look over our deeds and settle- 
 ments immediately ; and as for your bride, though you may 
 be sharp-set before she's quite ready, 111 engage for my girl 
 she stays your stomach at last. [Exeunt. 
 
 G 1
 
 84 The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in Sir TUNBELLY CLUMSEY'S 
 Country- House. 
 
 Enter Miss HOYDEN and Nurse. 
 
 Nurse. Well, miss, how do you like your husband 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. 1 2 
 
 Nurse. Look, look, if his honour be not coming 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 together. 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE I.] , OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 85 
 
 Nurse. Well, this once I'll venture you ; but if you dis- 
 parage me 22 
 
 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 Young 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 rne so obliging a one, it encourages me 
 to tell you in few words what I think both for your interest 
 and mine. Your father, I suppose 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. 36 
 
 Hoyd. Sir, I never disobey my father in anything but 
 eating of green gooseberries. 
 
 Fash. So good a daughter must needs make 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. 49
 
 86 The RELAPSE; 
 
 Hoyd. Why, I thought 'twas 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, lam 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. 60 
 
 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 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 persuade 
 her to anything. 70 
 
 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 her- 
 self. I'll run and call her. \Exit. 
 
 Fash. So, matters go swimmingly. This is a rare girl, 
 T 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
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 87 
 
 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 'em sport, I'll warrant 'em. But no matter, she 
 brings an estate will afford me a separate maintenance. 85 
 
 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 makings ! [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 leach. 99 
 
 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 is 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 Young 
 FASHION.] I hope your honour will excuse my mis- 
 manners to whisper before you ; it was only to give some 
 orders about the family. 109
 
 88 The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 Fash. O everything, madam, is to give way to business ! 
 Besides, good housewifery is a very commendable quality 
 in a young lady. 
 
 Hoyd. Pray, sir, are the young ladies good housewives 
 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 but that may be better sport 
 than t'other ; ha, nurse ? 
 
 Fash. Well, you shall have your choice when you come 
 there. 120 
 
 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. 131 
 
 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 wed ? 
 
 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. 140
 
 SCENE I.] QR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 89 
 
 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 ? 152 
 
 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; however, 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. 162 
 
 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 take a walk in the 
 garden.
 
 9O The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 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 alone 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. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 I. 
 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 blest as you are now, 
 
 I trifled with his charms, 
 I pointed at his little bow, 
 
 And sported with his arms : 
 Till urg'd too far, Revenge ! he cries, 
 
 A fatal shaft he drew, 
 It took its passage through your eyes, 
 
 And to my heart it flew. 
 
 II. 
 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.
 
 SCENE II.] QR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. QI 
 
 Aman. Well, now, Berinthia, I'm at leisure to hear 
 what 'twas you had to say to me. 
 
 Ber. What I had to say was only to echo the sighs and 
 groans of a dying lover. 
 
 Aman. 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. 12 
 
 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 more reasons than 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 ? 25 
 
 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
 
 92 The RELAPSE ; [A CT IV. 
 
 spirit of the church was in him. If you are a woman, you'd 
 have been in an ecstasy 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 consider of what has been said, and Heaven 
 give you grace to put it in practice. 39 
 
 Aman. Alas ! Berinthia, did I incline to a gallant (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. 50 
 
 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 ! 60 
 
 Ber. Psha ! Well, 'tis a foolish undertaking for women 
 in these kind of matters to pretend to deceive one
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 93 
 
 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 impos- 
 sible 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. 85 
 
 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'm troublesome, you'll use the same 
 freedom in. turning me out again.
 
 94 The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 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 blunderhead ; so lest he 
 should make some mistake, I thought it my duty to deliver 
 the message myself. 101 
 
 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. 
 
 Wor. \To BERINTHIA.] And, madam, you know you 
 command me, though I'm a very wretched gamester. 
 
 Ber. Oh ! you play well enough to lose your money, and 
 that's all the ladies require ; so without any more ceremony, 
 let us go into the next room and call for the cards. 
 
 Aman. 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. BERINTHIA'S Chamber. 
 Enter LOVELESS cautiously in the dark. 
 
 Love. So, thus far all's well. I'm got into her bed- 
 chamber, and I think nobody has perceived me steal into
 
 OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 95 
 
 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 likely to prove her 
 critical minute, for then the devil will be there to 
 assist me. 12 
 
 [He opens the closet, goes in, and shuts 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 
 earth I love better), have pretended 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 
 frightened out of my wits ! [Seeing a book.'] What's this 
 book ? I think I had best go read. O splenetic 1 it's 
 a sermon. Well, I'll go into my closet, and read the 
 Plotting Sisters. [She of ens the closet, sees LOVELESS, and 
 shrieks out.'] O Lord, a ghost ! a ghost ! a ghost ! a 
 ghost ! 30
 
 96 The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 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 Maid. 
 
 Maid. 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 Maid. 
 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. 41 
 
 Love. I'm 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. Are you so ? Some husbands would be of another 
 mind, if he were at cards with their wives. 50 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 97 
 
 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. 61 
 
 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 a 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. 70 
 
 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 candles. 
 
 Ber. O Lord ! are you mad ? What shall I do for 
 light? 80 
 
 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.
 
 98 The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 Love. Then you must be carried. 
 
 [Takes her in his arms. 
 
 Ber. [ Very softly I\ 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, Young FASHION, and BULL. 
 
 Fash. This quick dispatch 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. 9 
 
 Hoyd. Ecod, with all my heart ; the more the merrier, I 
 say ; ha, nurse ? 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 99 
 
 Fash. Death and furies ! 'tis impossible ! 20 
 
 Lory. Fiends and spectres ! sir, 'tis true. 
 
 Fash. Is he in the house yet ? 
 
 Lory. 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 presently. Pray, sir, resolve what you'll do this 
 moment, for egad they'll maul you. 30 
 
 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 a 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. 41 
 
 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 
 
 H 2
 
 ioo The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 Fash. Oh ! here's sir Tunbelly coming. Hark you, 
 sirrah, things are better than you imagine ; the wedding's 
 over. 5 2 
 
 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 ? 60 
 
 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 without 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 commit him to jail. 73 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE V.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. IOI 
 
 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 FOPPINGTON, with LA VEROLE and Servants. 
 
 Lord Fop. A pax of these bumpkinly 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. 9 
 
 Enter Sir TUNBELLY and his Servants. 
 
 Sir Tun. My most noble lord, I crave your pardon 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 attempt 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 fort, 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. 21
 
 IO2 The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 Lord Fop. Sir, I follow you with pleasure. 
 
 {Exit with Sir TUNBELLY CLUMSEY. As Lord 
 FOPPINGTON'S Servants go to follow him in, 
 they clap the door against LA VEROLE. 
 
 Servants, [ Within.} Nay, hold you me there, sir. 
 
 La V'er. Jernie die, qrfest-ce que veut dire fa ? 
 
 Sir Tun. [ Within.} Fire, porter. 
 
 Porter. [Fires.} Have among ye, my masters. 
 
 La Ver. Ah, je suis mart ! 
 
 [The Servants all run off. 
 
 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, gentlemen ! 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 justice of the peace, 
 and know how to deal with strollers. 
 
 Lord Fop. Strollers ! 
 
 Sir Tun. Ay, strollers. Come, give an account of 
 yourself; what's your name, where do you live ? do you 
 pay scot and lot ? are you a Williamite, or a Jacobite ? 
 Come. 1 1 
 
 Lord Fop. And why dost thou ask me so many imperti- 
 nent questions ?
 
 SCENE VI.] OK, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 1 03 
 
 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 extraordinary old fellow, 
 stap my vitals ! 
 
 Sir Tun. Nay, if you are for joking with deputy lieuten- 
 ants, we'st know how to deal with you. \To Clerk.] Here, 
 draw a warrant for him immediately. 21 
 
 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. 3 1 
 
 Lord Fop. Rab thee of thy daughter ! Now do I begin 
 to believe I am a-bed and asleep, and that all this is but a 
 dream. If 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.] Prithee, 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. 40 
 
 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 Foppington
 
 IO4 The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 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. \They bind him down. 
 
 Lord Fop. Nay, prithee, knight, leave fooling ; thy jest 
 begins to grow dull. 52 
 
 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 imperti- 
 nent 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. 63 
 
 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. \AsideJ\ Madame la gouvernante, I presume. 
 Hitherto this appears to me to be one of the most 
 extraordinary families that ever man of quality matched 
 into. 71 
 
 Sir Tun. What's become of my lord, daughter ? 
 
 Hoyd. He's just coming, sir. 

 
 SCENE VI.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 1 05 
 
 Lord Fop. \AsideI\ My lord ! what does he mean by 
 that now ? 
 
 Enter Young FASHION and LORY. 
 
 [Seeing him.] 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 ? 80 
 
 Fash. I find by his dress he thought your daughter 
 might be taken with a beau. 
 
 Hoyd. O gemini ! Is this a beau ? let me see him 
 again. Ha ! I find a beau's not such an 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 undertaking shows you are 
 a person of no extraordinary modesty, I suppose you han't 
 confidence enough to expect much favour from me ? 90 
 
 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. 100 
 
 Sir Tun. Give me the pen, 111 sign it. So now, 
 constable, away with him.
 
 io6 The RELAPSE ; 
 
 [ACT IV. 
 
 Lord Fop. Hold one moment, pray, gentlemen. My 
 lord Foppington, shall I beg one word with your lordship ? 
 
 Nurse. O ho, it's 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 lady- 
 ship is pleased to imagine. {Aside to Young FASHION.] 
 Look you, Tam, I am sensible I have not been so kind to 
 you as I ought, but I hope you'll forget what's passed, and 
 accept of the five thousand pounds I offer ; thou mayst 
 live in extreme splendour with it, stap my vitals ! 114 
 
 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. 125 
 
 Lord Fop. Why then, once for all; I have at last 
 luckily called to mind that there is a gentleman 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
 
 SCENE VI.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. IQJ 
 
 you are so well acquainted with ? {To Young FASHION.] 
 Come, sir, we shall hamper him. 
 
 Lord Fop. "Pis sir John Friendly. 135 
 
 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 London still, and so quoted 
 him ; now we shall display him in his colours : I'll send for 
 sir John immediately. [To a Servant.] Here, fellow, away 
 presently, and desire my neighbour he'll do me the favour 
 tostep over, upon an extraordinary occasion. \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. 147 
 
 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 daughter, her 
 estate will afford you new ones. Away with him ! 
 
 Lord Fop. A dirty country justice is a barbarous magis- 
 trate, 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. 159 
 
 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.
 
 
 1 08 The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 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 presently, 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. 171 
 
 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. 
 
 \Exil LORY ; his master follows him out at 
 
 one door, as Sir JOHN FRIENDLY enters 
 
 at father. 
 
 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? 179 
 
 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, 
 1 suppose, that the match was concluded between my lord 
 Foppington and my girl Hoyden, comes impudently to the 
 gate, 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,
 
 SCENE VI.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. IO9 
 
 dispatches a warrant, and commits him prisoner to the 
 dog-kennel. 189 
 
 Sir John. So ; but how do you know but this was my 
 lord ? for I was told he set out from London 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. 191 
 
 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. 200 
 
 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.
 
 no TJu RELAPSE; 
 
 [ACT IV. 
 
 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 ! 210 
 
 Sir John. [Running to him.'] My dear lord Fop- 
 pi ngton ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Dear Friendly, thou art come in the critical 
 minute, strike me dumb ! 
 
 Sir John. Why, I little thought I should 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. 220 
 
 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 and his tail, I'll draw out all his teeth, pull his skin 
 over his head and and what shall I do more ? 234
 
 SCENE VI.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. Ill 
 
 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. 245 
 
 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 a happy man, I bless Heaven, and 
 if your lordship will give me leave, I will, like a good 
 Christian at Christmas, be very drunk by way of thanksgiving. 
 Come, my noble peer, I believe dinner'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? 261 
 
 Hoyd. My lord, I'll follow you presently, I have a little 
 business with my nurse. 
 
 * I.e., mis en chartre, sent to jail.
 
 1 1 2 The RELAPSE ; [ACT iv. 
 
 Lord Fop. Your ladyship's most humble servant. 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. Alack-a-day ! but it's past my skill now, I can do 
 nothing. 271 
 
 Nurse. Who would have thought that ever your 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. 280 
 
 Nurse. What ! two husbands, my dear ? 
 
 Hoyd. Why, you have 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,
 
 SCENE VI.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 113 
 
 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's an end of the story. {Exeunt.
 
 H4 The RELAPSE; 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. London. COUPLER'S Lodgings. 
 Enter COUPLER, Young 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 horse- 
 back 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? 10 
 
 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. 20 
 
 Coup. Ecod, if I were a young fellow, I'd break your 
 head, sirrah.
 
 SCENE I.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 1 1 5 
 
 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 ? 31 
 
 Coup. From your brother, in this letter ; there, you may 
 read it. 
 
 Fash. [Reads.'} 
 
 DEAR COUPLER, [Pulling off his hat.'] 1 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 damn- 
 able design upon my mistress, and was in a fair way of 
 success when I arrived. But after having suffered some 
 indignities (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 qualified him for the seraglio, stap my 
 vitals ! 44 
 
 The danger I have thus narrowly 'scaped has made me 
 fortify myself against farther attempts, by entering immed- 
 iately into an association with 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 
 
 I 2
 
 1 1 6 The RELAPSE ; [ACT v. 
 
 part of the thing till I arrive at London, not being willing 
 to consummate in any other bed but my own. 
 
 Postscript. 
 
 'Tt's passible I may be in 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 dispatch that is 
 practicable, without disardering my coach-harses. 
 
 So, here's rare work, i'faith ! 59 
 
 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? 70 
 
 Coup. Nothing's to be done till the bride and bride- 
 groom 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 language, we'll 
 leave 'em for the nurse and the chaplain. 
 
 Fash. The devil and the witch ! 80 
 
 Coup. When they come to town
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 117 
 
 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 churchman be chiefly com- 
 posed 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 ; there- 
 fore 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 111 warrant thee, my boy, he speaks truth 
 like an oracle. 94 
 
 Fash. Thou art 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 her Maid, passing the stage, followed by WORTHY. 
 
 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.
 
 1 1 8 The RELAPSE ; [ACT v. 
 
 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. 1 5 
 
 Enter BERINTHIA. 
 
 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. 25 
 
 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
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. Up 
 
 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. 36 
 
 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 Foppington's to-night to 
 supper ; he's come to town with his bride, and makes 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. 52 
 
 Wor. What's that ? 
 
 Ber. Why, I'll tell her, that to my certain knowledge 
 her husband has a rendezvous with his mistress this after- 
 noon ; and that if she'll give me her word she'll 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 
 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
 
 1 20 The RELAPSE ; [ACT v. 
 
 conscience in ice ; a lover to draw, and the devil to drive. 
 Ah, poor Amanda ! 66 
 
 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 suffi- 
 ciently pays itself. Adieu ! 75 
 
 Wor. Farewell, thou best of women ! 
 
 \_Exeunt several ways. 
 
 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 friendship ; my 
 love already's all disposed of: though, I confess, to one 
 ungrateful to my bounty. 84 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 1 2 1 
 
 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. 96 
 
 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 'em as soon as we saw 'em ; kissed 'em 
 to pieces as soon as we got 'em ; then pulled off their 
 clothes, saw 'em naked, and so threw 'em away. 105 
 
 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 wear)' 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 ? 115 
 
 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 he 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 demonstration he 
 would be constant to me. 123
 
 1 2 2 The RELAPSE ; [ACT v. 
 
 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 somebody 
 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 woman 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 lodging, and's 
 in haste to be gone in the morning. 142 
 
 Aman. Tis possible there may be something in what 
 you say ; but what do you infer from it as to the man we 
 were 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. 150 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE II.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 123 
 
 Aman. No, I'm sure on't. I'm not very vain, 
 Berinthia, and yet I'd 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? 161 
 
 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 farther 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. 171 
 
 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 seeing her masked in his hand, without pull- 
 ing 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 friend 
 and I'll watch 'em from another place, and dodge 'em to
 
 1 24 The RELAPSE ; [ACT v. 
 
 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. 190 
 
 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. 204 
 
 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. Young FASHION'S Lodgings. 
 Enter Young FASHION, meeting LORY. 
 
 Fash. Well, will the doctor come ? 
 
 Lory. Sir, I sent a porter to him as you ordered me.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 125 
 
 He found him with a pipe of tobacco and a great tankard of 
 ale, which he said he would dispatch 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. 10 
 
 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 Young FASHION.] Why the plague canst 
 not thou lodge upon the ground-floor ? 20 
 
 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 luckiest fellow in the 
 universe. 
 
 Fash. Make out that. 
 
 Coup. I'll do't : last night the devil ran away with the 
 parson of Fatgoose living. 3 1
 
 1 26 The RELAPSE ; [ACT v. 
 
 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 presently. 
 
 Coup. The nurse and the doctor ? 40 
 
 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 Young 
 FASHION. 
 
 Nurse. Ah, goodness, Roger, we are betrayed ! 
 
 Fash. [Laying hold on 'em.] 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. 51 
 
 Coup. That is a moving argument indeed. 
 
 Bull. I hope, sir, my character will be considered ; I 
 am Heaven's ambassador. 
 
 Coup. Are not you a rogue of sanctity ? 
 
 Bull. Sir (with respect to my function), I do wear a 
 gown. 
 
 Coup. Did not you marry this vigorous young fellow to a 
 plump young buxom wench ?
 
 SCEVE in.] OR, VIRTUE IN DANGER. 127 
 
 Nurse. \Aside to BULL.] Don't confess, Roger, unless 
 you are hard put to it indeed. 61 
 
 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, posi- 
 tively I cannot say 
 
 Coup. Come, no equivocations, 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 Young FASHION.] Pray, sir, then will you but 
 permit me to speak one word in private with nurse. 7 1 
 
 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. 8 1 
 
 Coup. Nay, 'tis possible thou mayest be a stranger to it. 
 
 Fash. Come, nurse, you and I were better 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, 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 herself 
 happier, and you richer, than ever my brother will make 
 you. 90
 
 128 The RELAPSE ; 
 
 [ACT V. 
 
 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 scour 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. 101 
 
 Coup. But where was your conscience all this while, 
 woman? Did not that stare in your 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. ITO 
 
 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 
 
 * The name of skip- jack was properly applied to "youths who ride 
 horses up and down for the sight of purchasers. " NARES.
 
 SCENE III.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 1 29 
 
 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 present him to it, upon condition he makes you his 
 bride. 122 
 
 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. 132 
 
 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 nuptials ? 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. 143 
 
 Fash. All this I intend for you, doctor. What you are to 
 do for me I need not tell you. 
 
 Bull. Your worship's goodness is unspeakable. Yet 
 there is one thing seems a point of conscience ; and 
 
 K
 
 1 30 The RELAPSE ; [ACT v. 
 
 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. 151 
 
 Coup. [.Rising upJ\ 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 parson- 
 age-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, white- 
 wash, and plaster, will make it last thy time. 
 
 Bull. Well, sir, if it must be so, I shan't contend. What 
 Providence orders, I submit to. 161 
 
 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 induc- 
 tion, you shall all go a-cooing together. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. LOVELESS'S Lodgings. 
 
 Enter AMANDA in a scarf, &, as just returned, her Woman 
 following her. 
 
 Aman. Prithee what care I who has been here ? 
 
 Worn. Madam, 'twas my lady Bridle and my lady 
 Tiptoe. 
 
 Aman. My lady Fiddle and my lady Fad die ! What 
 dost stand troubling me with the visits of a parcel of 
 impertinent women ? When they are well seamed with the
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 13! 
 
 small-pox, they won't be so fond of showing their faces. 
 There are more coquettes about this town 
 
 Worn. Madam, I suppose they only came to return your 
 ladyship's visit, according to the custom of the world. 10 
 
 Aman. Would the world were on fire, and you in the 
 middle on't ! Begone ! leave me ! {Exit Woman.] At 
 last I am convinced. My eyes are testimonies of his false- 
 hood. The base, ungrateful, perjured villain ! 
 Good gods ! what slippery stuff are men compos'd 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, 20 
 
 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, 30 
 
 Twould be as weak and mean in me to pardon, 
 As it has been in him t' offend. But hold : 
 'Tis an ill cause indeed, where nothing's to be said fort. 
 
 * The old editions read " excuse." I have followed Leigh Hunt, 
 whose substitution of the plural for the singular saves the metre, with- 
 out altering the sense. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 The RELAPSE; 
 
 My beauty possibly is in the wane ; 
 
 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. 40 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Aman. None that will long disorder me, I hope. 
 
 Wor. Whate'er it be disturbs you, I would to Heaven 
 'Twere in my power to bear the pain, 
 Till I were able to remove the cause. 50 
 
 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, 6
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 133 
 
 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. 
 
 War. 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, 70 
 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 ! 80 
 
 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, 90
 
 1 34 The RELAPSE ; [ACT v. 
 
 I'll rip it up before your eyes ; 
 
 Lay all its secrets open to your view ; 
 
 And then, you'll see 'twas sound. 
 
 Atnan. With just such honest words 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 ! make me but your instrument of justice ; 
 You'll find me execute it with such zeal, 100 
 
 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 truth ? 
 
 Aman. There is on earth but one. 
 
 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, no 
 
 I possibly might purchase'! 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. 120
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 135 
 
 You pause upon it, sir. I doubt, on such hard terms, 
 A woman's heart is scarcely worth the having. 
 
 War. A heart, like yours, on any terms is worth it ; 
 Twas not on that I paus'd. 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. 130 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Aman. Oh 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 thine. 
 Wor. Nay, never strive. 
 
 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 ; 140 
 
 [Seizing her again. 
 
 * " Upon it," in the early editions, in which much of this scene is 
 printed as prose. Nevertheless, it is written in metre, and I have 
 ventured, in this instance, to follow Leigh Hunt in printing the whole 
 scene uniformly as verse.
 
 136 The RELAPSE; [A CT V. 
 
 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? 150 
 
 Aman. Repent, and never more offend. 
 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 resolu- 
 tion 
 
 Sufficient for their balance. The soul, I do confess, 
 Is usually so careless of its charge, 160 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE IV.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 137 
 
 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 ; 1 70 
 
 Perhaps 'tis dear : but, spite of all your art, 
 
 You'll find on cheaper terms we ne'er shall part.* 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Wi>r. Sure there's divinity about her ! 
 And sh'as dispens'd 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 turned to adoration. 
 The coarser appetite of nature's gone, and 'tis, 
 Methinks, the food of angels I require. 1 80 
 
 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 increas'd, 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, 190 
 
 They'd wear it on, that that of love might last ; 
 For when they throw off one, we soon the other cast. 
 Their sympathy is such 
 The fate of one, the other scarce can fly ; 
 They live together, and together die. \Exit. 
 
 * Bargain ; agree.
 
 138 The RELAPSE; [ACT v. 
 
 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 husband 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. 10 
 
 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 called 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. 20 
 
 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
 
 SCENE V.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 139 
 
 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. 31 
 
 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, and that's all I have to care for. 
 Ha, nurse, but hark you me ; one thing more, and then I 
 have done. I'm afraid, if I change my husband again, I 
 shan't have so much money to throw about, nurse. 39 
 
 Nurse. Oh, enough's as good as a feast. Besides, 
 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.* 48 
 
 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 morning 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 ? 
 
 * A manual of devotion.
 
 140 The RELAPSE; [A CT V. 
 
 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 every- 
 thing 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. 63 
 
 Hoyd. Has he served me so, say ye ? Then I'll be his 
 wife no longer, so that's fixed. Look, here he comes, with all 
 the fine folk 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. 72 
 
 Enter Lord FOPPINGTON, 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 to hint] 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
 
 SCENE V.] OR, ViRTUE IN DANGER. 
 
 has not. [Viewing him.'] He's a very beastly fellow, in 
 my opinion. 84 
 
 Hoyd. [Aside.] What a power of fine men there are in 
 this London ! He that kissed me first is a goodly gentle- 
 man, I promise you. Sure those wives have a rare time on't 
 that live here always. 
 
 Enter Sir TUNBELLY CLUMSEY, with Musicians, 
 Dancers, Grc. 
 
 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. 96 
 
 Hoyd. [Aside.] Ecod, I think my father's gotten drunk 
 before supper. 
 
 Sir Tun. [To LOVELESS and WORTHY.] Gentlemen, 
 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 unaccountable 
 old fellow. [To Sir TUNBELLY.] I said, sir, it would be con- 
 venient to ask the company to sit. no
 
 142 The RELAPSE; [ACT v. 
 
 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. 
 
 Dialogtie between CUPID and HYMEN. 
 
 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, 120 
 
 And I'll tell thee why those would be bound who are free. 
 
 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. 
 
 Cup. Were love the reward of a painstaking life, 
 Had a husband the art to be fond of his wife, 130 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE V] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 143 
 
 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. 140 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Forhadst thou but eyes, thou wouldst quickly perceive it, 
 
 How smoothly the dart 1 50 
 
 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 160 
 
 Are in variety. 
 
 {End of the masque.
 
 144 The RELAPSE ; [ACT v. 
 
 Sir Tun. So ; very fine, very fine, i'faith ! this is some- 
 thing 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 Young 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 Young FASHION.] Ah, 
 rogue ! 
 
 Lord Fop. Stap my vitals, Tam again ? 170 
 
 Sir Tun. My lord, will you cut his throat ? or shall I ? 
 
 Lord Fop. Leave him to me, sir, if you please. Prithee, 
 Tam, be so ingenuous now as to tell me what thy business is 
 here? 
 
 Fash. 'Tis with your bride. 
 
 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. 1 80 
 
 Lord Fop. And dost thau expect by an excess of 
 assurance to extart a maintenance fram me ? 
 
 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. I ever thaught Newgate or Bedlam would be 
 his fartune, and naw his 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. 190
 
 SCENE V.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 145 
 
 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 is it nat passible far me to penetrate 
 what species of fally it is thau 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 pre- 
 sently accarding to law. 200 
 
 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 witness 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. 210 
 
 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, dactor, 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 
 
 L
 
 1 46 The RELAPSE ; [ACT v. 
 
 sake of a beggarly yaunger brather, who is nat able to make 
 your bady happy in this. 222 
 
 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 corrupting 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 lord- 
 ship (who always had a passion for variety) may go seek a 
 new mistress if you think fit. 232 
 
 Lord Fop. I am struck dumb with his impudence, and 
 cannot pasitively 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 presently. 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 ; there- 
 fore be calm, hear the evidence patiently, and when the jury 
 have given their verdict, pass sentence according to law. 
 Here's honest Coupler shall be foreman, and ask as many 
 questions as he pleases. 245 
 
 Coup. All I have to ask is, whether nurse persists in her 
 evidence ? The parson, I dare swear, will never flinch from 
 his. 
 
 Nurse. [To Sir TUNBELLY, kneeling.'] I hope in Heaven 
 y our worship will pardon me : I have served you long and 
 faithfully, but in this thing I was overreached ; your wor-
 
 SCENE V.] OR, VlRTUE IN DANGER. 147 
 
 ship, however, was deceived as well as I, and if the wedding- 
 dinner had been ready, you had put madam to bed to 
 him with your own hands. 
 
 Sir Tun. But how durst you do this, without acquainting 
 of me? 256 
 
 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 Young FASHION.] Come hither, stripling ; 
 if it be true then, that thou hast married my daughter, 
 prithee tell me who thou art ? 269 
 
 Fash. Sir, the best of my condition is, I am your son-in- 
 law ; and the worst of it is, I am brother 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 philosophical 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
 
 148 The RELAPSE; [A CT V. 
 
 thee jay ; I do it de bon axur, strike me dumb ! You have 
 married a woman beautiful in her person, charming in 
 her airs, prudent in her canduct, canstant in her inclinations, 
 and of a nice marality, split my windpipe ! 286 
 
 Fash. Your lordship 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 
 handJ] 
 
 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.
 
 149 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY LORD FOPPINGTON. 
 
 Gentlemen and Ladies, 
 THESE people have regal'd you here to-day 
 (In ray 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 your men of dress. 10 
 
 Far, give me leave t' 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 refin'd an education, 
 To squabble with a court for a vile dirty nation. 20 
 
 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.
 
 150 
 
 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 highwayman yet bid you stand, 
 
 With a sweet bawdy snuff-baxt in his hand ? 30 
 
 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 ev'n one grain of wit : 
 
 To which, that his pretence may ne'er be nam'd, 
 
 My humble motion is, he may be damn'd. 
 
 * I.e., ascend the gallows. 
 
 f I.e., a snuff-box with a bawdy picture on the lid.
 
 /ESOP.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO "^ESOP." 
 
 was produced at Drury Lane about the middle of 
 January, 1697, and published anonymously, in 4to, the same 
 month. 
 
 The title-page of the first edition reads as follows : <dZsop, 
 a Comedy. As it is acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury- 
 lane. London, Printed for Thomas Bennet at the Half- 
 Moon in St. Paul's Church- Yard, 1697. 
 
 ALsop is a very free translation, with frequent and 
 important variations, of a French comedy called Les Fables 
 d'ltsope, by Boursault, a dramatist of some celebrity, who 
 was born in 1638, and died in 1701.* The French play, 
 which is in five acts, and in verse, was first performed at 
 Paris in the year 1690. 
 
 In this, as in his other translations, Vanbrugh has 
 consulted at once the bent of his own genius and the taste 
 of his audience, in forsaking the characteristic sentiment of 
 French serious comedy, and treating the whole subject in a 
 livelier, but at the same time coarser, vein. He naturally 
 appears at his best in the purely comic scenes : in the 
 
 * Boursault " est un de ces auteurs dramatiques qui, au dix-septieme 
 siecle, eurent de la vogue a defaut de gloire, et dont quelques 
 productions sont encore estimees aujourd'hui." Noiwelle Biographie 
 Generale.
 
 1 54 Introduction. 
 
 conversations of ^Esop with the neighbours, and especially 
 in the fables, he has vastly improved upon Boursault, who 
 is comparatively heavy in scenes of this description. On 
 the other hand, the story of Euphrosine and Agenor 
 (Vanbrugh's Euphronia and Oronces) is told by Boursault 
 in language simpler and more touching than that of the 
 English poet, who, in discarding the sentimentality, has lost 
 something of the humanity of the original play. A single 
 sentence will aptly illustrate the difference in sentiment 
 between the French and English authors. When Agenor is 
 told that his mistress is married, instead of raving like 
 Oronces (Act II.) he exclaims : 
 
 ' ' Ah madame, 
 Avez-vous pu trahir une si belle flame ? " 
 
 The scene between ^Esop and the country gentleman, 
 Polidorus Hogstye, in the fourth act, belongs to Vanbrugh 
 alone. He has, however, omitted one of the prettiest 
 scenes in Boursault's comedy the last of the third act, 
 between ^Esop and two children ; of which the sentiment 
 was, I suppose, too innocent to be tolerated by an English 
 audience of that time. 
 
 Vanbrugh claims the fifth act as his own : it is nearly so, 
 the beginning of it alone presenting some resemblance to 
 the French. With Boursault, it is true, ^Esop unites the 
 lovers at last, but the details of the French piece differ 
 entirely from those of the English. The French ^Esop 
 recites the fable of the man with two wives, who pulled out 
 all his hair between them. This story so powerfully affects 
 Learque, that he at once accepts Agenor as his son-in-law, 
 and all ends happily. Goldsmith narrates an incident in 
 the life of Beau Nash, from which he supposes Vanbrugh to
 
 Introduction. 155 
 
 have borrowed the catastrophe of jfcsop. Nash, in the 
 early part of his life, under circumstances similar to those 
 in the play, resigned the mistress of his affections to a 
 favoured rival ; generously settling a fortune upon the lady, 
 and inducing her reluctant father to give his consent to the 
 match. It is possible that Vanbrugh was acquainted with 
 this story, which, however, does not bear a much closer 
 resemblance to the catastrophe of his play than to that of 
 Boursault's. 
 
 The second part of sEsop, a fragment, which, of course, 
 was never put upon the stage, is the original production of 
 Vanbrugh, and was published, for the first time, with the 
 second edition of the play, 410, 1697. The first scene, it 
 will be noticed, contains a highly coloured representation of 
 the quarrel between the patentee of Drury Lane and his 
 actors.
 
 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 JEsop, 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 'em so in the conduct of the war : I 
 wish we may do so in the management of the peace ;* but 
 that's neither yEsop'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 : 
 
 * This was written in January, 1697. In the following September 
 the war between the King of France and the Allies was concluded, 
 after long negotiations, by the Peace of Ryswick, on terms disadvan- 
 tageous to France. By this treaty Louis XIV. agreed to withdraw his 
 support from the Stuarts, and recognized William III. as King of 
 England.
 
 Preface. 1 5 7 
 
 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 ^Esop 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.
 
 158 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Mr. Gibber. 
 
 Learchus, Governor of Cyzicus ... ... ... Mr. Dogget. 
 
 Oronces, in love with Euphronia ... ... ... Mr. Harland. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Euphronia, Daughter to Learchus, 
 
 in love with Oronces ... ... ... ... Mrs. Temple. 
 
 Doris, her Nurse ... ... ... ... ... Mrs. Verbruggen. 
 
 People who come to sEsop, upon several occasions, independent 
 one of another. 
 
 Two Country Tradesmen . . ( Mr ' ****"*""! * and 
 
 \_ Mr. Smeton. 
 
 Roger, a Country Bumpkin ... ... ... ... Mr. Haynes. \ 
 
 Quaint, a Herald ... ... ... ;.. ... Mr. Pinkethman. 
 
 Fruit/til, t an Innkeeper ... ... ... ... Mr. Smeton. 
 
 A Country Gentleman ... ... ... ... Mr. Pinkethman. 
 
 A Priest, Musicians, &c. 
 
 Hortemia, an affected Learned Lady ... ... Mrs. Kent. 
 
 Aminta, a Lewd Mother ... ... ... ... Mrs. Willis. 
 
 Forgewill, a Scrivener's Widow ... ... ... Mrs. Finch. 
 
 Fruitful, % Wife to the Innkeeper ... ... ... Mrs. Powell. 
 
 [SCENE. CYZICUS : in Learchus s House.] 
 
 * Pinkethman, or Penkethman, was one of the young actors of the Theatre Royal, 
 who began to grow into esteem after the secession of Betterton and the leading 
 members of the company, in 1695. Gibber tells us that he " had certainly, from 
 Nature, a great deal of comic Power about him ; but his Judgment was by no means 
 equal to it ; for he would make frequent Deviations into the Whimsies of an 
 Harlequin" " He seems to have been a vast favourite with the Gallery " (Genest), 
 and retired from the stage about 1723. 
 
 t The part of Roger, in jEsop, was one which, in the judgment of Anthony Aston, 
 no one ever played like Joe Haynes. According to the same authority, Haynes was 
 more remarkable for the pranks he played, and for his prologues and epilogues, than 
 for his acting. The title of " Count Haynes," by which he was known, he bestowed 
 upon himself during his travels in France, and ran heavily into debt on the strength 
 of it. His pranks are recorded in an amusing little book, entitled the Lift of the 
 late famous Comedian, Jo. Hayns, London, 1701. 
 
 t The first edition has " Breedwell," instead of " Fruitful," as the name of the 
 innkeeper and his wife, in the list of Dramatis Persona. In the play itself, however, 
 the name " Fruitful " is given, as here.
 
 159 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 GALLANTS ! we never yet produc'd 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. 10 
 
 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'erflows 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; 20 
 
 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.
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE. 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 
 ^Esop. 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 flatter, sir ? 
 
 Lear. No, speak thy thoughts boldly. i o 
 
 Dor. Boldly, you say ? 
 
 Lear. Boldly, I say. 
 
 Dor. Why then, sir, my opinion of the gentleman 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
 
 ACT I.] ^SOP. 1 6 1 
 
 dancing-master, has the shape of a barb, the face of an 
 angel, the voice of a cherubin, the smell of a civet-cat 
 
 Lear. In short, thou art fool enough not to be pleased 
 with him. 21 
 
 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 beautiful: 
 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. ^Esop, then, is not worth her care, in thy 
 opinion ? 32 
 
 Dor. Why truly, sir, I'm always for making suitable 
 matches, and don't much approve of breeding 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 conscience, 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, ^Esop should 
 have worn the willow. 48 
 
 II
 
 162 /Esop. 
 
 [Acr I. 
 
 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 ^Esop 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 ^Esop, envy's self must own, 60 
 
 Outshines whate'er the world has yet produc'd. 
 Croesus, 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? 70 
 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,
 
 ACT I.] ^SOP. 163 
 
 With useful lessons, form'd to every rank : 80 
 
 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 cloth'd in shame : 
 
 And thus by inoffensive wisdom's force 
 
 He conquers folly, wheresoe'er he moves. 90 
 
 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 untouched with so much 
 merit? 
 
 Euph. My duty may make all things possible : but 
 ;sop is so ugly, sir. 97 
 
 Lear. His soul has so much beauty in't, your reason 
 ought to blind your eyes. Besides, my interest 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 JEsop. Let me 
 
 M 2
 
 164 ysop. [ACT i. 
 
 blow up thy ambition, girl ; the fire of that will make thy 
 eyes sparkle at him. [She 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 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. 120 
 
 Enter ^Esop. 
 
 Lear. Good morning to my noble lord ! your 
 excellency 
 
 &sop. 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 
 
 dLsop. 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. 132 
 
 Lear. Great Croesus' gratitude will still support you ; 
 his coffers all are open to your will, your future fortune's 
 wholly in your power. 
 
 sEsop. But 'tis a power that I shall ne'er employ. 
 
 Lear. Why so, my lord ? 
 
 * Sweet-scented powder.
 
 ACT I.] /ESOP. 165 
 
 I'll tell you, sir. 
 
 A hungry goat, who had not eat 
 
 Some nights and days (for want of meat) 140 
 
 Was kindly brought at last, 
 
 By Providence's care, 
 
 To better cheer, 
 
 After a more than penitential fast. 
 
 He found a barn well stor'd with grain ; 
 
 To enter in requir'd 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, 150 
 
 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. 160 
 
 But here he met the glutton's curse ; 
 He found his belly grown so great, 
 ' Twas vain to think of a retreat, 
 Till hehadrender'd all he'd eat, 
 And well he far'd no worse. 
 
 To the application, governor.
 
 1 66 ^Esop. [ACT i. 
 
 Lear. 'Tis easy to be made, my lord. 
 
 sEsop. 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 ^Esop. 171 
 
 &sop. \Going up to salute her.~\ I never saw so beauti- 
 ful a creature. 
 
 Lear. \Aside^\ Now's the time ; kiss, soft girl, and fire 
 him. 
 
 &sop. \Gazing at her.~\ How partial's nature 'twixt her 
 form and mine ! 
 
 Lear. \AsideI\ 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 have 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? 187 
 
 ALsop. 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. 
 
 jsop. 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, going ojj\\ Ah, that the wench would but 
 do her part ! \Turning back to EUPHRONIA, aside^\ Hark 
 you, hussy ! You can give yourself airs sometimes, you
 
 ACT I.] ALSOP. 167 
 
 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. 
 
 JEsop. Here I am left, fair damsel, too much exposed 
 to your charms not to fall your victim. 203 
 
 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. 
 
 ALsop. I understand you, lady; your heart's already 
 disposed of, 'tis seldom otherwise at your age. 
 
 Euph. My heart disposed of! 209 
 
 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 ^Esop.] 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 periwig, 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 ambition 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
 
 1 68 
 
 [Acr I. 
 
 handsome husband, and not throw her into the paws of a 
 thing that nature in a merry humour has made half man, 
 half monkey. 230 
 
 sEsop. 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 periwig 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. 240 
 
 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. 
 
 sEsop. 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. 250 
 
 sEsop. 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.
 
 AcrL] ^ISOP. 169 
 
 Euph. You may say the first is .the most graceful man 
 that Asia ever brought forth. 260 
 
 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. 271 
 
 ^sop. 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. 
 
 &sop. What lady ? 
 
 Ser. It's my lady my lady. [To DORIS.] The lady 
 there, the wise lady, the great scholar, that nobody 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. 282 
 
 Euph. You'll excuse us, sir, we leave you to wiser 
 company. [Exeunt EUPHRONIA and DORIS. 
 
 Enter HORTENSIA. 
 Hort. The De"esse who from Atropos's breast preserves
 
 I7O ysOP. [ACT I. 
 
 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 human : 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 understanding. 292 
 
 Hort. I've something in my nature soars too high 
 For vulgar flight, I own ; 
 But ^Esop's sphere must needs be within call ; 
 ^isop and I may sure converse together. 
 I know he's modest, but I likewise know 
 His intellects are categorical. 
 
 &sop. 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. 303 
 
 Hort. Of vulgar things, in vulgar phrase we talk ; 
 But when of ^Esop we must speak, 
 The theme's too lofty for an humble style : 
 JEsop is sure no common character. 
 
 ALsop. No, truly ; I am something particular. Yet, if 
 I am not mistaken, what I have extraordinary 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. 313 
 
 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.
 
 ACT i.] ysop. r 7 1 
 
 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 : 323 
 
 The soul, that 
 
 dLsop. Pray, lady, are you married ? 
 
 Hort. Why that question, sir ? 
 
 ALsop. Only that I might wait upon your husband 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. 334 
 
 sEsop. 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 'em is 
 inimaginable. 
 
 ^sop. Will you hear a fable, lady ? 344 
 
 Hort. Willingly, sir ; the apologue pleases me when the 
 application of it is just. 
 
 It is, I'll answer fort.
 
 I 72 ^SOP. [ACT I. 
 
 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. 355 
 
 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 chang'd her note, 
 She spoil'd her voice, she strain'd her throat ; 
 She did, as learned women do, 
 
 Till everything 365 
 
 That heard her sing, 
 Would run away from her as I from you. 
 
 [Exit, running. 
 
 Hort. How grossly does this poor world suffer itself to be 
 imposed upon ! ^Esop, 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 understand- 
 ing, as his odious body to my sense of feeling. Well ; 
 'Mongst all the wits that are allow'd to shine, 
 Methinks there's nothing yet approaches mine : 
 Sure I was sent the homely age t'adorn; 375 
 
 What star, I know not, rul'd when I was born ; 
 But everything besides myselfs my scorn. [Exit.
 
 ACT II.] SOP. 173 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE. A Room in LEARCHUS'S House. 
 Enter EUPHRONIA and DORIS. 
 
 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 ! Unlace 
 me, or I shall swoon. 
 
 Dor. Unlace you ! why, you are not thereabouts, I 
 hope. 
 
 Euph. No, no ; worse still ; worse than all that. 
 
 Dor. Nay, then it's bad indeed. [DORIS unlaces her.'} 
 There, how d'ye do now ? 1 1 
 
 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 ^Esop 
 
 Dor. Like enough ; speak ! What has he done ? that 
 ugly ill-boding Cyclops. 
 
 Euph. Why, instead of keeping his promise, and speak- 
 ing 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. 22
 
 i;4 ^Esop. [ACT ii. 
 
 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 ? 30 
 
 Euph. Ah, Doris; what a husband does he give me! 
 and what a lover does he rob me of ! Thou know'st 'em 
 both ; think of Oronces, and think of ^Esop. 
 
 Dor. [Spiffing.] 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 ? 40 
 
 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 an' 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. 50
 
 ACT ii.] ^Esop. 1 75 
 
 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 ? 6 1 
 
 Dor. ^Esop ! ^Esop ! ^Esop ! ^Esop ! ^Esop ! 
 
 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 : 70 
 
 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 joined, shall 
 neither fright me from my truth, nor tempt me to be false. 
 On this you may depend. 76 
 
 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 ^Esop'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 in the town: one of
 
 I 76 ^SOP. [ACT II. 
 
 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. [Aside.] If he had not been more 
 modest than 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. 92 
 
 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 ! 101 
 
 Enter LEARCHUS and yEsop. 
 
 Lear. Well, Doris, what news from my daughter ? 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 
 
 * A woman's cap : from the French cornette, ' ' sorle de coiffure de 
 femme en dhhabilU. " Littre".
 
 ACT II.] ^ESOP. 177 
 
 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 
 arguments at her fingers' ends, to prove the lawfulness of 
 rebellion in a child, when a parent turns tyrant. 112 
 
 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 ^Eso?.] You'll pardon me, sir, 
 I'm somewhat free. 121 
 
 ^sop. Why, a ceremony would but take up time. But, 
 governor, methinks I have an admirable 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 I'm gone as when I'm here : and your conscience, I 
 hope, will talk as pertly to you as I can do. 
 
 ^Esop. If she treats me thus before my face, I may con- 
 clude I'm finely handled behind my back. 130 
 Dor. I say the truth here ; and I can say no worse any- 
 where. {Exit. 
 Lear. I hope your lordship won't be concerned at what 
 this prattling wench bleats out ; my daughter 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. 
 
 N
 
 1 78 yEsop. [ACT ii. 
 
 Does she love him fondly, sir ? 
 
 Lear. Foolishly, my lord. 140 
 
 sEsop. And he her ? 
 
 Lear. The same. 
 
 ^Esop. Is he young ? 
 
 Lear. Yes, and vigorous. 
 
 ^Esop. Rich ? 
 
 Lear. So, so. 
 
 ^Esop. Well-born ? 
 
 Lear. He has good blood in his veins. 
 
 ALsop. Has he wit ? 
 
 Lear. He had, before he was in love. 150 
 
 sEsop. And handsome with all this ? 
 
 Lear. Or else we should not have half so much trouble 
 with him. 
 
 ALsop. 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, ^Esop's a-coming. 
 Pray, sir, what is it makes you so earnest to force your 
 daughter? 159 
 
 Lear. Am I then to count for nothing the favour you 
 are in at court? Father-in-law to the great ^Esop, 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 children's happiness in the scale of our 
 own inclinations. 
 
 ^Esop. 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.
 
 ACT ii.] yEsop. 179 
 
 ALsop. Adieu ! [Calls to a Servant.] Now let in the 
 
 people who come for audience. 171 
 
 [^Esop sits in his chair, reading of papers. 
 
 Enter two ordinary Tradesmen. 
 
 ist Tra. There he is, neighbour, do but look at him. 
 
 2nd Tra. 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. 
 
 ist Tra. Why, I think we had best call him his 
 Grandeur. 
 
 2nd Tra. That will do ; thou hast hit on't. Hold still, 
 let me speak. May it please your grandeur 181 
 
 Aisop. There I interrupt you, friend ; I have a weak 
 body that will ne'er be able to bear that title. 
 
 2nd Tra. D'ye hear that, neighbour ? what shall we 
 call him now ? 
 
 ist Tra. Why, call him, call him his Excellency ; 
 try what that will do. 
 
 2nd Tra. May it please your excellency 
 
 &sop. Excellency's a long word ; it takes up too much 
 time in business. Tell me what you'd have in few words. 
 
 2nd Tra. 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. 193 
 
 ist Tra. Why, e'en talk to him as we do to one 
 another. 
 
 2nd Tra. Shall I? why, so I will then. Hem! 
 Neighbour ; we want a new governor, neighbour. 
 
 N 2
 
 180 
 
 [ACT II. 
 
 ALsop. A new governor, friend ? 
 
 2nd Tra. Ay, friend. 
 
 ^Esop. Why, what's the matter with your old one ? 200 
 
 znd Tra. What's the matter ? Why, he grows rich ; 
 that's the matter : and he that's rich can't be innocent ; 
 that's all. 
 
 &sop. Does he use any of you harshly ? or punish you 
 without a fault? 
 
 2nd Tra. No, but he grows as rich as a miser ; his purse 
 is so crammed, it's ready to burst again. 
 
 &sop. When 'tis full 'twill hold no more. A new 
 governor will have an empty one. 
 
 2nd Tra. 'Fore Gad, neighbour, the little gentleman's 
 in the right on't ! 211 
 
 ist Tra. 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. 
 
 2nd Tra. 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. 220 
 
 &sop. What's that, friend ? 
 
 2nd Tra. Why, that's this : our king Crcesus 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. 
 
 ist Tra. Taxes indeed are very burthensome.
 
 ACT II.] ALSOP. l8l 
 
 I'll tell you a story, countrymen. 
 
 Once on a time, the hands and feet, 230 
 
 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 ador'd good cheer, 
 
 Had like t' have died away for fear : 
 
 Quoth he, " Good folks, you little know 
 
 What 'tis you are about to do ; 240 
 
 If I am starv'd, 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, 250 
 
 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, 
 
 * /.&, intimate; familiar.
 
 1 82 ^Esop. [ACT ii. 
 
 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, 260 
 
 And with its destiny entrain'd their fate. 
 
 What think you of this story, friends, ha? Come, you 
 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't not so ? 
 
 2nd Tra. 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? 271 
 
 &sop. Well, honest men, is there anything else that I 
 can serve you in ? 
 
 isf Tra. 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 com- 
 plain of. But I think a ha, neighbour? we had e'en 
 as good let 'em alone. 279 
 
 2nd Tra. 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 griev- 
 ances do us such a plaguy deal of mischief as we fancy. 
 
 ist Tra. Or put case they did, Humphry ; I'se afraid he 
 that goes to a courtier, in hope to get fairly rid of 'em, may
 
 ACT II.] ^ESOP. I 83 
 
 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. 
 
 Enter ROGER, a country bumpkin ; looks seriously upon 
 ; then bursts out a-laughing. 
 
 Rog. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Did ever mon behold the 
 like ? ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 290 
 
 sEsop. 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. 
 
 SEsop. 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. 300 
 
 &sop. Let's hear it. 
 
 Rog. I have, as you see, a little wit. 
 
 ALsop. 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
 
 184 ^Esop. [ACT ii. 
 
 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 acquaintance. 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 ! 
 
 sEsop. I choose thee a place ! 324 
 
 Rog. Yes : I would willingly have it such a sort of a 
 pleace as would cost little, and bring in a great deal ; in a 
 . word, much profit, and nothing to do. 
 
 jfcsop. 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 haggler, gadswookers ; 
 and he that says I am 'zbud he lies ! There's my humour 
 now. 334 
 
 Alsop. 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. 
 
 ^sop. 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. 344
 
 ACT II.] ysOP. 185 
 
 Rog. Nothing, 'for George. 
 
 ALsop. You have good drink ? 
 
 Rog. 'Zbud the best i'th' parish ! [Singing. 
 
 And dawn it merrily goes, my lad, 
 And dawn it merrily goes I 
 
 ^Esop. You eat heartily ? 
 
 Rog. I have a noble stomach. 
 
 ALsop. You sleep well? 
 
 Rog. Just as I drink, till I can sleep no longer. 
 
 sEsop. You have some honest neighbours ? 354 
 
 Rog. Honest ! 'Zbud we are all so, the tawn 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. 
 
 ALsop. And all this thou wouldst leave to go to court ! 
 I'll tell thee what once happened. 364 
 
 A mouse, who long had liv'd at court, 
 
 (Yet ne'er the better Christian for't) 
 
 Walking one day to see some country sport, 
 
 He met a home-bred village-mouse, 
 
 Who with an awkward speech and bow, 
 
 That savour'd much of cart and plough, 
 
 Made a shift, I know not how, 
 
 T invite him to his house. 
 
 Quoth he, " My lord, I doubt you'll find 
 
 Our country fare of homely kind, 374
 
 1 86 V^SOP. [ACT n. 
 
 But by my troth, you're welcome to't, 
 Y'ave that, and bread, and cheese to boot : " 
 And so they sat and din'd. 
 
 Rog. Very well. 
 
 ^Esop. The courtier could have eat, at least, 
 As much as any household priest, 
 But thought himself oblig'd 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 : 384 
 
 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! 
 
 ALsop. 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, 394 
 
 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. 
 
 sEsop. There needed no more invitation 
 To e'er a country squire i'th' nation : 404 
 
 Exactly to the time he came,
 
 ACT ii.] ysor. 187 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ssop. 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. OLord! O Lord ! O Lord ! 414 
 
 sEsop. 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 
 By day-light, runs away by night, 
 Was ever judg'd a great and glorious feat. 
 
 Rog. Ever ! ever ! ever ! 
 
 ALsop. The cat retir'd, our guests return, 
 The danger past becomes their scorn, 424 
 
 They fall to eating as before ; 
 The butler rumbles at the door. 
 
 Rog. Good Lord ! 
 
 ^Esop. To boot and saddle again they sound. 
 
 Rog. Ta ra ! tan tan ta ra ! ra ra tan ta ra ! 
 
 ^sop. 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. 
 
 ALsop. At length the squire, who hated arms, 434 
 
 Was so perplex'd with these alarms, 
 He rose up in a kind of heat :
 
 1 88 
 
 [Acr II 
 
 " 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 oblig'd to you 444 
 
 For your intentions at your board ; 
 
 But pox upon your courtly crew ! " 
 Rog. Amen ! I pray the Lord. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha 1 Now the de'il 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. 
 
 &sop. Well, go thy ways home, and be wiser for the 
 future. 453 
 
 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-colour 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 Fse not ungrateful give me your hond 
 once more if you'll take the pains but to walk dawn to 
 our town a word in your ear I'st send you so drunk 
 whome again, you shall remember friendly Roger as long as 
 you have breath in your body. [Exit. 467
 
 ACT II.] ^ESOP. 189 
 
 Farewell ! what I both envy and despise : 
 Thy happiness and ignorance provoke me. 
 How noble were the thing call'd 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. 
 
 * The first edition reads : " And makes the wise man lose, by what 
 he gains."
 
 190 /bsop. [ACT in. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE. A Room in LEARCHUS'S House. 
 Enter ^Esop. 
 
 Who waits there ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 If there be anybody that has business with me, let 'em in. 
 Serv. Yes, sir. [Exit. 
 
 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. 
 
 sEsop. And what may your business be with me, sir ? 
 
 Quaint. My business, sir, with every man, is first of all 
 to do him service. 
 
 ^Esop. And your next is, I suppose, to be paid for't twice 
 as much as 'tis worth. 1 1 
 
 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. 
 
 ^Esop. A genealogist ! 
 
 Quaint. At your service, sir. 
 
 ALsop. So, sir. 18
 
 ACT in.] yEsop. 191 
 
 Quaint, Sir, I am informed from common fame, as well 
 as from some little private familiar intelligence, that your 
 wisdom is entering into treaty with iheflrimum 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 
 wedding-day with something that may signify the merit and 
 the worth of her dread lord and master, I thought the noble 
 ^Esop'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. 36 
 
 ^sop. 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 Welshwoman. 
 
 &sop. A Welshwoman ! Prithee of what country's 
 that ? 44 
 
 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.
 
 1 92 ysOP. [ACT III. 
 
 Noah had three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japhet ; Shem 
 
 ^Zsop. 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. 54 
 
 ssop. 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 
 
 sEsop. Hold once more ! 
 
 Quaint. Ha ! ha ! your honour's modest, but Solomon, 
 the wise king of Judea 
 
 &sop. 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. 64 
 
 jsop. What ! is't in my mien ? 
 
 Quaint. You have something wondrous noble in your 
 air. 
 
 ^sop. Personable too ? View me well. 
 
 Quaint. N not tall ; but majestic. 
 
 ^sop. My shape ? 
 
 Quaint. A world of symmetry in it. 
 
 sfEsop. The lump upon my back ? 
 
 Quaint. N not regular ; but agreeable. 73 
 
 &sop. 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
 
 ACT III.] 
 
 ./Esop. 193 
 
 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 commendable 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 flattery is a duty. 88 
 
 ^Esop. 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 great 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 : he springs off of the couch ; turns himself 
 round in the glass ; finds all I say true ; cuts a caper a yard 
 high ; his blood 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. 102 
 
 sEsop. 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, 
 Young nobles would not long be what they are : 
 They'd grow asham'd 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 ; no 
 
 Furnish their heads with sciences and arts,
 
 194 sop. [ACT in. 
 
 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, 120 
 
 And be no more asham'd of Him that made 'em. 
 
 Quaint. [Aside.] If I stand to hear this crump preach a 
 little longer, I shall be fool enough perhaps 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. 130 
 
 &sop. 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 ! 
 
 ^Esop. I'll present thee with a token of my love. 
 
 Quaint. A another time, sir, will do as well. 
 
 dEsop. No ; I love to be out of debt, though 'tis being 
 out of the fashion. [To Servant] So, d'ye hear? give 
 this honest gentleman half a score good strokes on the back 
 with a cudgel. 140
 
 ACT III.] SOP. 195 
 
 Quaint. By no means in the world, sir. 
 
 &sop. Indeed, sir, you shall take 'em. 
 
 Quaint. Sir, I don't merit half your bounty. 
 
 sEsop. O 'tis but a trifle ! 
 
 Quaint. Your generosity makes me blush. 
 
 [Looking about to make his escape. 
 
 sEsop. 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. 
 
 dlsop. Wait upon him downstairs, fellow. I'd do't 
 myself, were I but nimble enough ; but he makes haste to 
 avoid ceremony. 151 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir, here's a lady in great haste, desires to speak 
 with you. 
 
 sEsop. Let her come in. [JExit Servant. 
 
 Enter AMINTA, weeping. 
 
 Amin. O sir, if you don't help me, I'm undone ! 
 
 dEsop. What, what's the matter, lady ? 
 
 Amin. My daughter, sir, my daughter's run away with a 
 filthy fellow. 
 
 ^Esop. A slippery trick indeed ! 
 
 Amin. For Heaven's sake, sir, send immediately to 
 pursue 'em, and seize 'em. But 'tis in vain, 'twill be too 
 late, 'twill be too late ! I'll warrant at 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 ! A forward girl she was always ; I saw 
 it in her eyes the very day of her birth. 166 
 
 O 2
 
 196 fiLsop. [ACT in. 
 
 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. 
 
 ssop. [Reads.~\ I love, and am beloved, and thafs the 
 reason I run away. Short, but significant ! I'm sure therms 
 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 yourself, you'll 
 pardon once in your daughter. The dickens ! 177 
 
 Amin. Now, sir, what do you think of the business ? 
 
 ALsop. 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." 190 
 
 Her daughter smil'd, and look'd askew, 
 She answer'd (for to give her her due) 
 Pertly, as most folks' daughters do : 
 " Madam, your ladyship," quoth she, 
 " Is pleas'd to blame in me 
 What, on inquiry, you may find,
 
 ACT III.] ./ESOP. 197 
 
 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. 201 
 
 &sop. 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. 
 
 --Esop. 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 ? 211 
 
 ^sop. Good masters make quick scholars, lady ; she has 
 learned her exercise from you. 
 
 Amin. But where's the remedy, sir ? 
 
 sEsop. 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. 
 
 ^Ssop. What ! your youthful blood boils in your veins, 
 I'll warrant. 221 
 
 Amin. I have warmth enough to endure the air, old 
 gentleman. I need not shut myself up in a house these 
 twenty years. 
 
 &sop. [Aside.] She takes a long lease of lewdness : 
 she'll be an admirable tenant to lust.
 
 198 ^Esop. [ACT in. 
 
 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 an't going yet. [^Esop stares upon her, and 
 as she turns from him runs off the stage.~\ How now ! 
 What, left alone ! An unmannerly 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. 242 
 
 For let philosophers say all they can, 
 
 The source of woman's joys is plac'd in man. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter LEARCHUS and EUPHRONIA, DORIS following at a 
 distance. 
 
 Lear. \To EUPHRONIA.] I must tell you, mistress, I'm 
 too mild with you ; parents should never entreat their 
 children, nor will I hereafter. Therefore, in a word, let 
 Oronces be loved, let ^Esop 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. 250 
 
 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.
 
 ACT III.] SOP. 199 
 
 Dor. Ah ! Well, I'll say no more ; but were I in her 
 place, by the mass, I'd have a tug for't ! 
 
 Lear. 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 ? 261 
 
 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 ! 269 
 
 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 shipwrecked 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. 282 
 
 Lear. How, strumpet ! would anything be able to 
 debauch my daughter ?
 
 2OO /tLSOP. [ACT III. 
 
 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 
 dispatch 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 therefore believe all I say ; so first I 
 make you an atheist, and then I make you a whore. Thus 
 the world goes, sir. 301 
 
 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 ! 311 
 
 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, off-
 
 ACT III.] /tLSOP. 2O I 
 
 spring of Venus ! But I'll make you stay your stomach with 
 meat of my choosing, you liquorish young baggage you ! 
 In a word, ^Esop'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 as well as mine ; 'twill make him 
 esteem your judgment : 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. 328 
 
 Dor, \Aside to EUPHRONIA.] And remember 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 /Esop; they stand some time without speaking. 
 
 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 endowed with wealth and beauty 
 too, who yet have thought it worth their pains and care to 
 point their darts at ^Esop's homely breast ; whilst you so 
 much contemn what they pursue, that a young senseless fop's 
 preferred before me. 341 
 
 Euph. Did you but know that fop you dare to term so, 
 his very looks would fright you into nothing.
 
 202 /fc,SOP. [ACT III. 
 
 ALsop. A very bauble ! 
 
 Euph. How ! 
 
 jEsop. A butterfly ! 
 
 Euph. I can't bear it ! 
 
 sEsop. 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. 351 
 
 SEsop. 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. 
 
 sEsop. [Aside.'] How severe 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 respect 
 what I've thought fit to own I value ; 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. 365 
 
 sEsop. But is it possible you can love so much as you 
 pretend ? 
 
 Euph. Why do you question it ? 
 
 ^Esop. 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 are in an age where 
 hearts are young and tender, a pleasing object gets admit- 
 tance soon. But since to marriage there's annexed this
 
 ACT III.] SOP. 2O3 
 
 dreadful word, For Ever, the following example ought to 
 move you : 376 
 
 A peacock once of splendid show, 
 
 Gay, gaudy, foppish, vain a beau, 
 
 Attack'd a fond young pheasant's heart 
 
 With such success, 
 
 He pleas'd her, though he made her smart ; 
 
 He pierc'd her with so much address, 
 
 She smil'd the moment that he fix'd his dart. 
 
 A cuckoo in a neighbouring tree, 
 Rich, honest, ugly, old like me, 
 Lov'd her as he lov'd 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, 390 
 
 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, 400 
 
 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,)
 
 2O4 /tLSOP. [ACT III. 
 
 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. 408 
 
 Behold, young lady, here, the cuckoo of the fable. I am 
 deformed, '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 observ'd of riches, 420 
 
 Inclin'd 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 ; 430 
 
 And that I did not doubt might be obtain'd, 
 If, furnish'd but with virtue and good-nature, 
 My fortune prov'd sufficient to afford me 
 Conveniences of life, and independence.
 
 ACT in.] yEsop. 205 
 
 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. 
 
 ^Esop. How wise, how witty, and how cleanly, young 
 women grow, as soon as ever they are in love ! 
 
 Euph. How foppish, how impertinent, and how nauseous 
 are old men, when they pretend to be so too ! 441 
 
 jtEsop. How pert is youth ! 
 
 Euph. How dull is age ! 
 
 <dZsop. Why so sharp, young lady ? 
 
 Euph. Why so blunt, old gentleman ? 
 
 ssop. 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.
 
 206 yEsop. [ACT iv. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE. A Room in LEARCHUS'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 unfortunate 
 thing, I find; but you are mistaken, sir; she may plague 
 other folks, but she's as entertaining to herself as any one 
 part of the creation. 
 
 Oron. [ Walking to and fro '.] She's the devil ! and I'm 
 one of the damned, I think ! But I'll make somebody howl 
 for't, I will so. 12 
 
 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' heads upon '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 ^Esop, that unfinished lump, that chaos
 
 ACT IV.] /h. SOP. 207 
 
 of humanity, I'll use him, nay, expect it, for I'll do't the 
 first moment that I see him, I'll 23 
 
 Dor. Not challenge him, I hope. T would be a pretty 
 sight truly, to see ^Esop drawn up in battalia : fie, 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 walk- 
 ing by himself in the gallery; go and wheedle him, you 
 know his weak side ; he's good-natured in the bottom. 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 dis- 
 creetly. 33 
 
 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 moment 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. 42 
 
 Enter ^SOP at one side of the stage, Mrs. FORGEWILL at 
 father. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Sir, I am 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, you know that I'm a widow ? 
 
 jEsop. Madam, I don't so much as know you are a 
 woman.
 
 2O8 yEsOP [ACT IV. 
 
 Mrs. Forge. O surprising ! why, I thought the whole 
 town had known it. Sir, I have been a widow this twelve- 
 month. 52 
 
 jEsop. 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. 
 
 jEsop. 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 scrivener. 
 
 sEsop. The deuce he was ! I thought he had been a 
 count at least. 66 
 
 Mrs. Forge. Sir, 'tis not the first time I have been taken 
 for a countess ; my mother used to say, as I 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 became new and 
 fashionable, and nothing looked awkward in my family. 
 My furniture was the wonder of my neighbourhood, and my 
 clothes the admiration of the whole town ; I had a necklace
 
 ACT IV.] ^SOP. 2O9 
 
 that was envied by the queen, and a pair of pendants that 
 set a duchess a-crying. In a word, I saw nothing I liked 
 but I bought it ; and my husband, 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 
 creditors 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 misfortune. 90 
 
 ^Esop. 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 marriage 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. 101 
 
 And this, madam, is my answer : 
 
 A crawling toad, all speckled o'er, 
 Vain, gaudy, painted, patch'd a whore, 
 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.
 
 2IO /hSOP. [ACT iv. 
 
 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 swell'd at last so much her spleen, 120 
 
 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 endeavouring 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 your- 
 self 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. 139 
 Mrs. Forge. Why, you pitiful pigmy, preaching, canting,
 
 ACT IV.] ^SOP. 211 
 
 pickthank ! you little, sorry, crooked, dry, withered eunuch ! 
 do you know that 
 
 sEsop. I know that I am 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. 
 &sop. 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 ! 151 
 
 Enter a Country Gentleman 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, &c.* 
 
 Gent. Haux ! Haux ! Haux ! Haux ! Haux ! Joular, 
 there, boy ! Joular ! Joular ! Tinker ! Pedlar ! Miss ! Miss ! 
 Miss ! Miss ! Miss ! Blood and oons ! Oh, there he is ; 
 that must be he, I have seen his picture. [Reeling up to 
 ysop.] Sir if your name's ^Esop I'm your humble 
 servant. 
 
 ^sop. Sir, my name is ^Esop, at your service. 
 
 Gent. Why then, sir compliments being passed on 
 
 * The following scene belongs to Vanbrugh alone. 
 
 P 2
 
 212 ^SOP. [ACT IV. 
 
 both sides, with your leave we'll proceed to business. 
 Sir, I am by profession a gentleman 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. 1 64 
 
 [Presenting him to ^Esop. 
 
 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. 
 
 Gent. 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 had 
 appointed 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. 
 
 ^Esop. Pray, sir, how high may you be taxed? 180 
 
 Gent. 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 ! haux ! 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. 
 
 ^Esop. Why, how would you have the war carried on ? 
 Gent. War carried on, sir? Why, I had rather have no
 
 ACT IV.] &SOP. 213 
 
 war carried on at all, sir, than pay taxes. I don't desire to 
 be ruined, sir. 191 
 
 &sop. Why, you say you have three thousand pounds 
 a year. 
 
 Gent. And so I have, sir. Lettacre ! Sir, this is my 
 steward. How much land have I, Lettacre ? 
 
 Lettacre. Your worship has three thausand paunds 
 a year, as good lond as any's i' th' caunty ; and two thausand 
 paunds worth of wood to cut dawn at your worship's 
 pleasure, and put the money in your pocket. 
 
 Gent. Look you there, sir, what have you to say to 
 that? 201 
 
 sEsop. 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? 
 
 Gent. None at all, sir : I'm above it. 
 
 ALsop. What service may you do your country, pray ? 
 
 Gent. I'm justice of the peace and captain of the 
 militia. 
 
 ^Esop. Of what use are you to your kindred ? 210 
 
 Gent. I'm the head of the family, and have all the 
 estate. 
 
 ssop. What good do you do your neighbours ? 
 
 Gent. 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. 
 
 ALsop. How do you use your tenants ? 
 
 Gent. 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. 220
 
 214 ALsop. [ACT iv i 
 
 How do you treat your wife ? 
 
 Gent. I treat her all day with ill-nature and tobacco, 
 and all night with snoring and a dirty shirt. 
 
 j&sop. How do you breed your children ? 
 
 Gent. I breed my eldest son a fool ; my youngest 
 breed themselves ; and my daughters have no breeding at 
 all. 
 
 &sop. '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 importance go scot-free, in the time of a 
 necessary war, I'll deliver it in council, and speak to it as I 
 ought. 233 
 
 Gent. Why, sir, I don't disapprove your advice ; but my 
 clerk is not here, and I can't spell well. 
 
 &sop. You may get it writ at your leisure, and send it to 
 me. But because you are not much used to draw up 
 addresses perhaps, I'll tell you in general 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. 
 
 Gent. Sir, Polidorus Hogstye, of Beast-Hall, in Swine- 
 county. 243 
 
 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 :
 
 ACT IV.] SOP. 215 
 
 Four bottles out of twenty ; where not above fifteen of 'em 
 are for drunkenness : 252 
 
 Six horses out of thirty ; of which ^not above twenty are 
 kept for state : 
 
 And four servants out of a score ; where one half do nothing 
 but make work for father. 
 
 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 security of the 
 kingdom, he neither knows nor cares whether it be necessary 
 or not. 262 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Gent. 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 servant ; 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. 275 
 
 \Exit shouting, followed by his attendants. 
 ALsop. O tempora ! O mores !
 
 216 ./Esop. [ACT iv. 
 
 Enter Mr. FRUITFUL and his wife. 
 
 Mr. Fruit. Heavens preserve the noble JEsop; grant 
 him long life and happy days ! 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. And send him a fruitful wife, with a hope- 
 ful issue ! 
 
 <ssop. And what is it I'm to do for you, good people, to 
 make you amends for all these friendly wishes ? 282 
 
 Mr. Fruit. Sir, here's myself and my wife 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Sir, here's I and my husband [To her 
 husband^\ Let me speak in my turn, goodman Forward. 
 [To ^Esop.] 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. 
 
 j&sop. 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 your- 
 self. 292 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. That's as he gives sentence, Mr. Littlewit ; 
 who gave you power to come to a reference ? If he does not 
 do us right, the king himself shall ; what's to be done here ! 
 [To JEsop.] 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. 302 
 
 dEsop. 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
 
 ACT IV.] JESOP. 2 1 7 
 
 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 countenance, 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 reasonable 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. 313 
 
 dEsop. What profession are you of, good people ? 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. My husband's an innkeeper, sir ; he bears 
 the name, but I govern the house. 
 
 ALsop. 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. 
 
 ALsop. The deuce o' the service ! why, I thought they 
 had been all in the army. 323 
 
 Mrs. Fruit. Not one, sir. 
 
 ssop. No, so it seems, by my troth ! Ten sons that 
 serve their country, quotha ! monks, attorneys, 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
 
 2 1 8 ^SOP. [ACT IV. 
 
 'em, for aught I see. For your sons are all rogues, and 
 your daughters are all whores ; you know they are. 338 
 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 him before her. 
 
 Re-enter ^Esop. 
 
 ALsop. Monks, attorneys, scriveners, and excisemen ! 
 Enter ORONCES. 
 
 Oron. O here he is. Sir, I have been searching you, to 
 say two words to you. 
 
 ALsop. And now you have found me, sir, what are they ? 
 
 Oron. They are, sir that my name's Oronces : you 
 comprehend me. 
 
 ALsop. I comprehend your name. 350 
 
 Oron. And not my business ? 
 
 ALsop. Not I, by my troth. 
 
 Oron. Then I shall endeavour to teach it you, Monsieur 
 ^Esop. 
 
 ALsop. And I to learn it, Monsieur Oronces. 
 
 Oron. Know, sir that I admire Euphronia. 
 
 ALsop. Know, sir that you are in the right on't. 
 
 Oron. But I pretend, sir, that nobody else shall admire 
 her. 
 
 * In this capital scene Vanbrugh has greatly improved upon his 
 original. In the French play, one Furet, a bailiff, comes to ^Esop, to 
 boast of his large family and demand the king's bounty ; but there is no 
 Madame Furet.
 
 ACT IV.] ^ESOP. 219 
 
 Then I pretend, sir, she won't admire you. 360 
 
 Or on. Why so, sir ? 
 
 jEsop. Because, sir 
 
 Oron. What, sir ? 
 
 ^Esop. 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 373 
 
 Oron. I'll have none of your old wives' fables, sir, I have 
 no time to lose ; therefore, in a word 
 
 sEsop. 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, 
 
 T' avoid the dreadful pain of thinking,) 
 
 Had orders sent him to behead 
 
 A goose, like any chaplain fed. 385 
 
 He took such pains to set his knife right, 
 
 Thad done one good t'have lost one's life by't. 
 
 But many men have many minds, 
 
 There's various tastes in various kinds ;
 
 220 /fc.SOP. [ACT IV. 
 
 A swan (who by mistake he seiz'd) 
 
 With wretched life was better pleas'd : 
 
 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. 395 
 
 The cook (who thought of naught 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, 405 
 
 That rather than you shall be eat, 
 The house shall starve for want of meat : " 
 And so he turn'd 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. 415 
 
 The flame that warms Euphronia's heart and mine 
 Has long, alas ! been kindled in our breasts : 
 Even years are pass'd since our two souls were wed, 
 'Twould be adultery but to wish to part 'em.
 
 ACT IV.] ySQP. 221 
 
 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 ecstasy of love, 425 
 
 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 injur'd lovers. 
 
 sEsofi. Why, this is pleading like a swan indeed ! 435 
 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 refus'd. 
 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 belov'd. 
 I have a heart like yours ; I've folly too : 445 
 
 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.
 
 222 /ISSOP, [ACT IV. 
 
 ^Esop. The older 'tis, the easier to be governed. 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 channel. 454 
 
 Oron. Yet age sometimes is strong, even to the verge of life. 
 
 ^Esop. Ay, but there our comparison don't hold. 
 
 Oron. You are too merry to be much in love. 
 
 sEsop. 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. 
 
 Alsop. 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. 
 
 sEsop. A decayed face always absolves a lover's oath. 
 
 Oron. Lovers whose oaths are made to faces then ! 
 But 'tis Euphronia's soul that I adore, 
 Which never can decay. 467 
 
 sEsop. I would fain see a young fellow in love with a 
 soul of threescore. 
 
 Oron. Quit but Euphronia to 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. 
 
 ^Esop. A good pretence, however, to beg a 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.] ^ISOP. 223 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE. A Room in LEARCHUS'S House. 
 Enter EUPHRONIA 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 ^Esop 
 (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 a-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. ii 
 
 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. 20 
 
 Euph. Oh ! what shall I do ?
 
 224 -^SOP. [ACT V. 
 
 Dor. Nay, I know this makes you tremble; and yet 
 your tender conscience scruples to drop one hypocritical 
 curtsy, and say, Pray, Mr. ^Esop, be so kind to defer it a few 
 days longer. 
 
 Euph. Thou know'st 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 drowning, 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 ? 36 
 
 Euph. Yes, yes, yes. But, prithee, have some compas- 
 sion on 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 \i\sje-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,
 
 ACT V.J SOP. 225 
 
 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. 59 
 
 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 statesman 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. 7 1 
 
 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 
 know'st we do. 
 
 Dor. Nay, I know y'are willing enough to get together ; 
 but y'are a couple of helpless things, Heaven knows. 80 
 
 Euph. Our stars, thou seest, are bent to opposition. 
 
 Dor. Stars ! I'd fain see the stars hinder me from run- 
 ning away with a man I liked. 
 
 Q
 
 226 ^SOP. [ACT V. 
 
 Euph. Ay, but thou know'st, 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 : for- 
 sooth, a coach and six horses, clean linen, and a caudle ! 
 Fie, for shame ! O ho, here comes our man ! Now show 
 yourself a woman, if you are one. 97 
 
 Enter ^Esop. 
 
 ^Esop. 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. 
 
 ALsop. 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. 107 
 
 JEsop. What is't ? I don't believe I shall refuse you. 
 
 Euph. What if you should promise me you won't ? 
 
 <dsop. Why then I should make a divorce between my 
 good-breeding and my sense, which ought to be as sacred 
 a knot as that of wedlock.
 
 ACT v.j ALsop. 227 
 
 Euph. Dare you not trust then, sir, the thing you love ? 
 
 ^Esop. Not when the thing I love don't love me : 
 never ! 
 
 Dor. Trust is sometimes the way to be beloved. 
 
 ALsop. Ay, but 'tis oftener the way to be cheated. 
 
 Euph. Pray 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. 120 
 
 Dor. That's still leaving yourself judge. 
 
 ALsop. Why, who's more concerned in the trial ? 
 
 Dor. But nobody ought to be judge in their own cause 
 
 &sop. Yet he that is so, is sure to have no wrong done 
 him. 
 
 Dor. But if he does wrong to others, that's worse. 
 
 ^Esop. Worse for them, but not for him. 
 
 Dor. True politician, by my troth ! 
 
 <sEsop. Men must be so, when they have to do with 
 sharpers. 130 
 
 Euph. If I should tell you then, there were a possibility I 
 might be brought to love you, you'd scarce believe me ? 
 
 sEsop. I should hope as a lover, and suspect as a states- 
 man. 
 
 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 changes ? 
 
 sEsop. Amongst women, I must confess I have. 
 
 Euph. Why, I'm a woman, sir. 140 
 
 jEsop. Why, truly, that gives me some hopes. 
 
 Euph. I'll increase 'em, sir ; I have already been in love 
 two years. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 
 
 [ACT V. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 sEsop. 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 your changing your old 
 one. 151 
 
 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. 
 
 ssop. 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. , 162 
 
 Dor. You are a great statesman, sir ; but I find you 
 know little of our matters. A woman's heart's 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 powerful nonsense, in soft words, you creep in 
 at her ears. An essenced peruke, and a sweet handkerchief, 
 lets you in at her nose. With a treat, and a boxful 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 wood than one, you see. 173 
 
 Why, y'are an admirable pilot : I don't doubt but
 
 ACT V.] JESOP. 229 
 
 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. 
 
 sEsop. 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. 182 
 
 s-Esop. Nor never will, I dare swear. 
 
 Euph. Why then will you marry me ? 
 
 sEsop. Because I love you. 
 
 Euph. If you loved me, you would never make me 
 miserable. 
 
 Alsop. 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? 192 
 
 ^Esop. '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. 
 
 ALsop. Right. To-morrow morning pray be ready, 
 you'll find me so : I'm serious. Now I hope you are 
 pleased. 201 
 
 \Turning away from her. 
 
 Euph. Break heart ! for if thou hold'st, I'm miserable. 
 \Going off weeping, and leaning upon DORIS. 
 
 Dor. \To ^SOP.] Now may the extravagance of a lewd
 
 23O ^SOP. [ACT V. 
 
 wife, with the insolence of a virtuous one, join hand in hand 
 to bring thy grey hairs to the grave. 
 
 [Exeunt EUPHRONIA and DORIS. 
 ssop. 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 thee. Most 
 noble ^sop, since you are pleased to accept of my poor 
 offspring for your consort, be so charitable to my old age, 
 to deliver me from the impertinence of youth, by making 
 her your wife this 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. 215 
 
 ALsop. This instant, say you ? 
 
 Lear. This instant ; this very instant. 
 
 ALsop. '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 whip-hand 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? Call my daughter to me: quick. I'll give her 
 
 her dispatches presently. 226 
 
 Enter EUPHRONIA. 
 
 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 !
 
 AcrV. SOP. 231 
 
 Lear. Yes, married, madam ; and that this instant too. 
 
 Euph. Dear sir ! 
 
 Lear. Not a word : obedience and a clean smock. 
 Dispatch ! {Exit EUPHRONIA weeping.} [LEARCHUS going 
 off, turns to ORONCES.] Sir, your most obedient humble 
 servant. 236 
 
 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 humorsome, 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 ^Esop'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. 256 
 
 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 ?
 
 232 
 
 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 ALsop may happen to 
 father, should chance to be begot by me ? 
 
 Lear. Why, then ^Esop would be the cuckold, not I. 
 
 Oron. Is that all you care ? 
 
 Lear. Yes : I speak as a father. 270 
 
 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. 280 
 
 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. 290
 
 AerV.] SOP. 233 
 
 Oron. Death and furies ! 
 
 \Exennt Servants with ORONCES. 
 Lear. [Singing.] 
 
 Do/, de tol dot, dol dol, de tol dol: 
 Lilly BurleighrJs lodged in a bough* 
 
 Enter a Troop of Musicians, Dancers, &>c. 
 
 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. 301 
 
 Lear. Governor of Cyzicus ! Governor of a cheese-cake ! 
 I'm father-in-law to the great ^Esop, sirrah. [All bow to 
 him.'] \_Aside.~] I shall be a great man. [Aloud.] Come, 
 tune your fiddles : shake your legs ; get all things ready. 
 
 * The famous ballad of Lilliburlero, attributed, on rather weak 
 grounds, to Lord Wharton, is said to have played no inconsiderable 
 part in the Revolution of 1688. " A foolish ballad was made at that 
 time, treating the Papists, and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous 
 manner, which had a burden said to be Irish words, ' Lero, lero, 
 liliburlero,' that made an impression on the army (King William's) that 
 cannot be imagined by those that saw it not. The whole army, and 
 at last the people, both in city and country, were singing it perpetually. 
 And perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an effect." Burnet, 
 quoted in Percy's Reliqites, where the ballad may be read. Percy's 
 version, however, contains not the lines sung by Learchus : possibly 
 different versions were extant. The old tune of Lilliburlero will always 
 be remembered for the sake of my Uncle Toby.
 
 234 ^Esop. [ACT v. 
 
 My son-in-law will be here presently. I shall be a great 
 man. [Exit. 
 
 ist Mus. A great marriage, brother. What dost think 
 will be the end on't ? 309 
 
 2nd 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. 
 
 \st 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. 319 
 
 Enter LEARCHUS with several Friends, and a Priest. 
 
 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 witnesses of the honour 
 the great JEsop designs ourself and family. Hey ; who 
 attends there ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Go, let my daughter know I wait for her. {Exit 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 
 my lord already. I shall be a great man. 329 
 
 Re-enter EUPHRONIA weeping, and leaning upon DORIS, 
 both in deep mourning.
 
 ACT V.] ^SOP, 235 
 
 Lear. How now ! what's here ? all in deep mourning ! 
 Here's a provoking baggage for you ! 
 
 {The trumpets sound a melancholy air till ^LSOP 
 appears ; and then the violins and hautboys 
 strike up a Lancashire hornpipe. 
 
 Enter .^Esop in a gay foppish dress, long peruke, &c., a gaudy 
 equipage of Pages and Footmen, all enter in an airy, 
 brisk manner. 
 
 {In an affected tone to EUPHRONIA.] Gad take 
 my soul, mame, I hope I shall please you now ! Gentle- 
 men 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, embrace 
 me. 344 
 
 Lear. Your lordship does me too much honour. 
 {Aside.'} I shall be a great man. 
 
 ALsop. Come, gentlemen, are all things ready ? Where's 
 the priest ? 
 
 Priest. Here, my noble lord. 
 
 ALsop. 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. 353
 
 236 
 
 Lear. My lord, he's in prison. 
 
 &sop. In prison ! how so ? 
 
 Lear. He would have murdered me. 
 
 &sop. A bloody fellow ! But let's see him, however. 
 Send for him quickly. Ha, governor that handsome 
 daughter of yours, I will so mumble her ! 
 
 Lear. I shall be a great man. 360 
 
 Enter ORONCES, pinioned and guarded. 
 
 &sop. O ho, here's my rival ! Then we have all we want. 
 Advance, sir, if you please. I desire you'll do me the 
 favour to be a witness to my marriage, 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. 
 
 ALsop. I have no time now to throw away upon points of 
 generosity ; I have hotter work upon my hands. Come, 
 priest, advance. 370 
 
 Lear. Pray hold him fast there ; he has the devil and 
 all of mischief in's eye. 
 
 ssop. {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 ^Esop, who 
 takes it; ORONCES stands on ^Esop's left 
 hand, and the Priest before 'em. 
 
 jEsop. Let my rival stand next me : of all men I'd have 
 him be satisfied.
 
 ACT V.] /ESOP. 237 
 
 Oron. Barbarous inhuman monster ! 
 
 dEsop. Now, priest, do thy office. 380 
 
 [Flourish with the trumpets. 
 
 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, .^Esop joins ORONCES and 
 EUPHRONIA'S hands. 
 
 Oron. O happy change ! Blessings on blessings wait on 
 the generous ^Esop. 
 
 ^Esop. Happy, thrice happy may you ever be. 390 
 
 And if you think there's something due to me, 
 Pay it in mutual love and constancy. 
 
 Euph. \To ^SOP.] You'll pardon me, most generous 
 
 man, 
 
 If in the present transports of my soul, 
 Which you yourself have by your bounty caus'd, 
 My willing tongue is tied from uttering 
 The thoughts that flow from a most grateful heart. 
 
 &sop. 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 : 400 
 
 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.
 
 238 ^ESOP. [Ac-TV. 
 
 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 yEsop.] Had I not reason, from your constant 
 
 goodness, 
 
 To judge your bounty, sir, is infinite, 
 
 I should not dare to sue for farther favours. 410 
 
 But pardon me, if imitating Heaven and you, 
 I easily forgive my aged father, 
 And beg that ysop would forgive him too. 
 
 \Kneeling to him. 
 
 ALsop. The injury he would have done to you, was great 
 indeed : but 'twas a blessing he designed for me ; if 
 therefore you can pardon him, I may. [To LEARCHUS.] 
 Your injured daughter, sir, has on her knees 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 ? 423 
 
 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. 
 
 ^Esop. 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 diver-
 
 ACT V.I /t,SOP. 239 
 
 sions these boon companions have prepared us. Let's take 
 
 our places, and see how they can divert us. 435 
 
 [^Esop leads the Bride to her place. All being 
 
 seated, there's a short concert of hautboys, 
 
 trumpets, (5rv. 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. 
 
 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, 445 
 
 Would melt it down once more into a flood. 
 
 Woman. 
 
 Women, alas, like flints, ne'er burn alone ; 
 To make a virgin know
 
 240 yEsop. [ACT v. 
 
 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, who seizes on the Young Woman. 
 
 Youth. 
 
 Who talks of charms, who talks of aid ? 455 
 
 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. 465 
 
 \Slie takes him in her arms. The song and dance 
 
 ended, ^Esop takes EUPHRONIA and ORONCES 
 
 by the hands, leading them forwards. 
 
 sEsop. 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
 
 ACT V.) SOP. 241 
 
 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. 475 
 
 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 : 
 111 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. 485 
 
 They talk'd of nothing but their fires, 
 
 Of raging heats, and strong desires, 
 
 Of eternal constancy ; 
 
 How true and faithful they would be ; 
 
 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. 495 
 
 But as from bough to bough they rove, 
 
 They chanc'd at last, 
 
 In furious haste,
 
 242 ALSOP. [ACT V. 
 
 On a twig with birdlime spread, 
 
 (Want of a more downy bed) 
 
 To act a scene of love. 
 
 Fatal it prov'd 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, 505 
 
 The bridegroom, in the hasty strife, 
 
 Was stuck so fast to his dear wife, 
 
 That though he us'd his utmost art, 
 
 He quickly found it was in vain, 
 
 To put himself to farther 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 mov'd, he felt her still, 515 
 
 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 stor'd. 
 
 Howe'er, at length her stock was spent, 
 
 (For female fires sometimes may be 
 
 Subject to mortality ;) 525 
 
 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 ;
 
 ACT V.] SOP. 243 
 
 For her part, she had still in store 
 
 Enough for him, and twenty more, 
 
 Which could not be contended. 
 
 He answer'd her in homely words, 
 
 (For sparrows are but ill-bred birds,) 
 
 That he already had enjoy 'd 535 
 
 So much, that truly he was cloy'd. 
 
 Which so provok'd 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. 
 
 R 2
 
 244 ^Esop. [PART ii. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 Enter Players. 
 
 sEsop. Well, good people, who are all you ? 
 
 AIL Sir, we are players. 
 
 ^sop. 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 
 patentees.* 
 
 *The whole of this scene relates to the quarrel between the 
 patentees of the Theatre Royal and the actors, already referred to 
 (see ante, p. 155). Charles II. issued letters patent to Thomas 
 Killigrew and Sir William Davenant separately, granting to these 
 gentlemen, their heirs, &c., the monopoly of theatrical representations 
 in London. In 1682, Killigrew and Davenant being dead, and the 
 affairs of both theatres in a very languishing condition, the patents were 
 united, and the companies amalgamated : they remained as one com- 
 pany at Drury Lane until 1695, when the disgust between the leading 
 actors and the managing patentee, Rich, who had purchased a share in 
 the patent some years previously, resulted in the withdrawal of the 
 better part of the company from the Theatre Royal, and their 
 establishment, by royal licence, as a separate company, under 
 Betterton's management, in a new theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 This disagreement between the patentees and the actors was due to more
 
 SCENE I.] SOP. 245 
 
 ssop. Patentees ! prithee, what are they ? 9 
 
 Play. Why, they are, sir sir, they are ecod, I don't 
 know what they are ! fish or flesh masters or servants 
 sometimes one sometimes t'other, I think just as we are 
 in the mood. 
 
 sEsop. Why, I thought they had a lawful authority over 
 you. 
 
 Play. Lawful authority, sir ! sir, we are freeborn 
 Englishmen, we care not for law nor authority neither, when 
 we are out of humour. 
 
 sEsop. But I think they pretended at least to an 
 authority over you ; pray upon what foundation was it 
 built ? 21 
 
 Play. Upon a rotten one if you'll believe us. Sir, I'll 
 tell you what these 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 
 
 than one cause ; but what brought matters to a head was the attempt of 
 the patentees to balance the falling-off in the receipts of the theatre by 
 reducing the salaries of the principal actors. " To bring this about 
 with a better Grace," writes Gibber, "they, under Pretence of bringing 
 younger Actors forwards, order'd several otBetterton's and Mrs. Barry's 
 chief Parts to be given to young Poivel and Mrs. Braeegirdle" But 
 the scheme did not succeed. Although " the giddy head of Powel " 
 was not averse to competition with Betterton, Mrs. Bracegirdle, more 
 wisely, declined to attempt any of Mrs. Barry's parts ; while Mrs. 
 Barry showed her resentment of such treatment by actively co-operating 
 with Betterton in opposition to the patentees. To this incident, as I 
 take it, Vanbrugh alludes in the words " a rock that lay hid under a 
 petticoat," in the above scene. It must be noted that Vanbrugh writes 
 here as a strong partisan of the patentees, who had produced two of his 
 plays, and one of whom (Sir Thomas Skipwith) was his particular 
 friend. His account of the affair is a mere caricature.
 
 246 yESOP. [PART II. 
 
 Patent : her keel was made of a broad seal and the king 
 gave 'em 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. 
 
 ALsop. A very sad story, this : but what became of the 
 ship's company ? 36 
 
 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. 45 
 
 dSsop. 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 
 
 * " Little Ben " is, of course, Betterton, the leader of the seceding 
 actors.
 
 SCENE I.] ^SOP. 247 
 
 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.* 56 
 
 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. 
 
 ALsop. 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. 66 
 
 Play. Ah, sir we are resolved we'll never sail under 
 captain Patentee again. 
 
 ALsop. Prithee, why so? 
 
 Play. Sir, he has used us like dogs. 
 
 Worn. And bitches too, sir. 
 
 ^Esop. 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.f 75 
 
 * After the secession of Betterton and his party, the patentees found 
 themselves obliged, in order to make sure of a company, to increase 
 the salaries of those actors who remained, "/ira^/and Verbruggen, 
 who had then but forty Shillings a Week, were now raised each of them 
 to four Pounds, and others in Proportion." Gibber. 
 
 \ Amboyna is one of the Molucca, or Spice Islands. In the i6th 
 century it belonged to the Portuguese, from whom it was taken by the 
 Dutch about the beginning of the 1 7th century. The English East 
 India Company, the rival of the Dutch merchants in the spice trade, 
 some years later formed a settlement and established a factory on the
 
 248 ^ESOP. [PART II. 
 
 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. 
 
 sEsop. That indeed was very hard ; but did he give you 
 as many as he promised you ? 86 
 
 Play. Yes, and more ; but what of all that ? we had not 
 as many as we had a mind to. 
 
 isf Worn. Sir, my husband tells you truth. 
 
 ^Esop. I believe he may. But what other wrongs did 
 he do you ? 
 
 ist 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. 
 
 znd Worn. Sir, he invited me to dinner, and never 
 drank my health. 96 
 
 island ; and the jealousy thus excited gave rise to continual dis- 
 turbances. In 1619 a treat}' was signed in London, by which matters 
 were supposed to be accommodated between the Company and the 
 Dutch. But the contention still went on, and at length, in February, 
 1623, Captain Towerson and nine other Englishmen, with nine Japanese 
 and a Portuguese sailor, were seized on the island, upon a charge of 
 conspiring to expel the Dutch ; condemned, tortured (it is said), and 
 executed. No satisfaction was obtained for this outrage, until, in 1654, 
 Cromwell obliged the States of Holland to pay a considerable sum to 
 the representatives of the murdered Englishmen. The " massacre of 
 Amboyna " forms the subject of a very poor tragedy by Dryden.
 
 SCENE I.] 
 
 ALsov. 249 
 
 ist Worn. Then he cocked his hat at Mrs. Pert. 
 
 znd Worn. Yes, and told Mrs. Slippery he had as good 
 a face as she had. 
 
 ^Esop. Why, these were insufferable abuses ! 
 
 2nd 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 
 
 ist 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 barbarity 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 ! 109 
 
 jEsop. Prithee how ? 
 
 \st Play. Why, he walked off, and answered me never a 
 word. 
 
 ALsop. How had you patience ? 
 
 ist 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! 118 
 
 ist 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. 
 
 sEsop. What was it ?
 
 250 /ESOP. [PART II. 
 
 ist 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. 
 I'll tell you what, sirs 131 
 
 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 140 
 
 A huntsman of a gentler kind, 
 
 They soon perceiv'd 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 ; 150 
 
 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
 
 SCBNE I.] 
 
 Should to the public treasury. 
 
 And well they might rely upon her ; 
 
 For Juno was a bitch of honour. 160 
 
 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 seiz'd the throne of love. 
 
 Want and misery all endure, 
 
 All take pains, and all grow poor. 170 
 
 When they had toil'd the livelong day, 
 
 And came at night to view their prey, 
 
 Oft, alas ! so ill they'd 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, 180 
 
 Than 'twas to work and fast. 
 
 ist Play. Well, sir and what did they do then ? 
 
 sEsop. Why, they all went home to their kennel again. 
 If you think they did wisely, you'll do well to follow their 
 example. [Exit. 
 
 ist Play. Well, beagles, what think you of the little 
 gentleman's advice ?
 
 252 ,/ESOP. [PART II. 
 
 znd Wont. I think he's a little ugly philosopher, and talks 
 like a fool. 189 
 
 \stPlay. Ah, why, there's it now! If he had been a 
 tall, handsome blockhead, he had talked like a wise man. 
 
 2nd Worn. Why, do you think, Mr. Jowler, that we'll 
 ever join again ? 
 
 isf 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. 
 
 isf Worn. And do you think, sir, after the affronts I have 
 received, the patent and I can ever be friends ? 
 
 ist 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. 201 
 
 ist Worn. And so, sir, then you have serious thoughts 
 of a reconciliation ? 
 
 i st Play. Madam, I do believe I may. 
 
 ist Worn. Why then, sir, give me leave to tell you, that 
 make it my interest, and I'll have serious thoughts on't too. 
 
 2nd Worn. Nay, if you are thereabouts, I desire to come 
 into the treaty. 
 
 yd Play. And I. 
 
 ^th Play. And I. 210 
 
 2nd Play. And I. No separate peace; none of your 
 Turin play,* I beseech you. 
 
 *In 1696, Victor Amadeus II., Duke of Savoy, one of the allied 
 powers at war with France, was induced by the threats and promises of 
 Louis XIV. to break his engagements, and to conclude a separate peace 
 with France. The treaty of peace was signed first, privately, at 
 Loretto, and afterwards, publicly, at Turin, August 29, 1696.
 
 SCENB II.] SQP. 253 
 
 ist Play. Why then, since you are all so christianly 
 disposed, I think we had best adjourn immediately to our 
 council-chamber ; choose some potent prince for mediator 
 and guarantee ; fix upon the place of treaty, dispatch 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 cam- 
 paign, we must live upon slender subsistence. * {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter a Country Gentleman, who walks to and fro, 
 looking angrily upon 
 
 <d5,sop. 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. 
 
 SEsop. Pray what may it be that gives you so great an 
 antipathy to 'em ? 
 
 Gent. My profession. 
 
 JEsop. What's that ? 
 
 Gent. Honesty. 9 
 
 ssop. 'Tis an honest profession. I hope, sir, for the 
 general good of mankind, you are in some public employment. 
 
 The re-union of the theatrical companies, here suggested, was, at 
 the time, only a devout imagination of Vanbrugh's. It came to pass, 
 however, at a later date (1708), when the Haymarket Theatre was 
 given over to opera, and the actors from thence rejoined the company at 
 Drury Lane.
 
 254 sbsop. [PART ii. 
 
 Gent. So I am, sir ; no thanks to the court. 
 
 sEsop. You are then, I suppose, employed by 
 
 Gent. My country. 
 
 sEsop. Who have made you 
 
 Gent. A senator. 
 
 sEsop. 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. 22 
 
 sEsop. Why, 'tis making short work, I must confess. 
 But are you sure, sir, that would do't ? 
 
 Gent. Sure ! ay, sure. 
 
 Alsop. 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. 30 
 
 Gent. Sir, I shall take ill what I please ; and if you, or 
 e'er a courtier of you all, pretend the contrary, I say it's a 
 breach of privilege. Now put your question, if you think fit. 
 
 ^Esop. 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 statesmen, and very little wisdom ; a 
 great many parsons, and not an ounce of religion. 42
 
 SCENE II.] ./ESOP. 255 
 
 sEsop. Why truly, sir, I do confess these are grievances 
 very well worth your redressing. I perceive 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 stomach 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 
 metaUorum, and design to give the court a vomit. 58 
 
 &sop. 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 mis- 
 taken in anything. 
 
 ^Esop. Pray, sir, have you been long a senator ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 JEsop. Have you been much about town ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 69 
 
 sEsop. Have you conversed much with men of business ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 ALsop. Have you made any serious inquiry into the 
 present disorders of the nation ?
 
 256 /ESOP. [PART II. 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 jEsop. Have you ever heard what the men now employed 
 in business have to say for themselves ? 
 
 Gent. No, sir. 
 
 sEsop. 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. 80 
 
 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 ? 90 
 
 Gent. Why, they say so. 
 
 sEsop. And who would you put in his room ? 
 
 Gent. One that would give better. 
 
 JEsop. Who's that ? 
 
 Gent. Myself. 
 
 SEsop. 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. 100 
 
 jEsop. And who would you put in his place ? 
 
 Gent. My father. 
 
 ^Esop. The treasurer, why would you hang him ? 
 
 Gent. Because he does not understand his business.
 
 SCENE II.] SOP. 257 
 
 ^Esop. How do you know ? 
 
 Gent. I dreamt so. 
 
 sEsop. And who would you have succeed him ? 
 
 Gent. My uncle. 
 
 sEsop. The admiral, why would you hang him ? 
 
 Gent. Because he has not destroyed the enemies. no 
 
 jEsop. How do you know he could do it ? 
 
 Gent. Why, I believe so. 
 
 sEsop. And who would you have command in his stead ? 
 
 Gent. My brother. 
 
 sEsop. And the general, why would you hang him ? 
 
 Gent. Because he took ne'er a town last campaign. 
 
 sEsop. And how do you know 'twas in his power? 
 
 Gent. Why, I don't care a souse whether it was in's 
 power or not. But I have a son at home, a brave chopping 
 lad ; he has been captain in the militia this twelve months, 
 and I'd be glad to see him in his place. What do you stare 
 for, sir ; ha? 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 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. 126 
 
 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. 
 
 sEsop. I believe you would indeed. And therefore 
 since I happen to be acquainted with your extraordinary 
 abilities, I am resolved to give the king an account of you, 
 
 s
 
 258 ./ESOP. [PART II. 
 
 and employ my interest with him, that you and your son 
 may have the posts you desire. 137 
 
 Gent. Will you, by the Lord? Give me your fist, 
 sir the only honest courtier that ever I met with in my life. 
 
 &sop. 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 ? 
 
 sEsop. 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 ? 146 
 
 ^Esop. 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. 
 
 ALsop. Pray, why? 
 
 Gent. Why ? because one would ruin my land, and 
 t'other would spoil my fox-hounds. 155 
 
 SEsop. 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 ? 
 
 ^.sop. I did not know but they might. 
 
 Gent. How could you think so ? 
 
 ^Esop. Because I see men bred up to ploughing and 
 hunting, understand the business of the state and the army. 
 
 Gent. I'm shot I han't one word to say for myself 
 I never was so caught in my life. 166
 
 SCENE II.] ^SOP. 259 
 
 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 'em so. The dis- 
 tempers of the government (which I own are great) have 
 employed 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 my 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. 190 
 
 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 wak es, he needs but write his name, 
 To publish to the world some bless'd event, 
 
 s 2
 
 26O ^SOP. [PART II. 
 
 For which his statue shall be rais'd in brass. 
 
 Perhaps a moment thence you shall behold him 
 
 Torturing his brain ; his thoughts all stretch'd upon 200 
 
 The rack for public service : the livelong night, 
 
 When all the world's at rest, 
 
 Consum'd in care, and watching for their safety, 
 
 When by a whirlwind in his fate, 
 
 In spite of him some mischief shall befall '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. 210 
 
 Gent. Now do I 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? 
 
 sEsop. 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 plaintiff, 
 and lay the fool and knave at his door. 221 
 
 dELsop. 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 roaring, two hundred miles post, to find myself
 
 SCENE III.] ^ESOP. 26 1 
 
 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 send me on their 
 errand to reform the state again, I'll be damned. But this 
 I'll do : 111 go home and reform my family if I can : them 
 I'm sure I know. There's my father's a peevish old cox- 
 comb : there's my uncle's a drunken old sot : there's my 
 brother's a cowardly bully : son Numphs is a lubberly 
 whelp : I've a great ramping daughter, that stares like a 
 heifer ; and a wife that's a slatternly sow. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Entet a young, gay, airy Beau, who stands smiling 
 contemptibly upon 
 
 jEsop. Well, sir, what are you ? 
 
 Beau. A fool. 
 
 jEsop. That's impossible; for if thou wert, thou'dst 
 think thyself a wise man. 
 
 Beau. So I do. This is my own opinion the Mother's 
 my neighbours'. [ Walking airily about. 
 
 ALsop. [Gazing after him.'} Have you any business with 
 me, sir ? 
 
 Beau. Sir, I have business with nobody ; pleasure's my 
 study. 10 
 
 sEsop. [Aside.'} An odd fellow this ! [Aloud.'] Pray, 
 sir, who are you ? 
 
 Beau. I can't tell. 
 
 jEsop. Do you know who I am ?
 
 262 
 
 [PART II. 
 
 Beau. 
 ^Esop. 
 Beau. 
 
 Beau. No, sir : I'm a favourite at court, and I neither 
 know myself nor anybody else. 
 
 jEsop. Are you in any employment ? 
 Beau. Yes. 
 ^Esop. What is it ? 
 
 Beau. I don't know the name on't. 20 
 
 ^Esop. 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. 
 
 jEsop. Pray what may be your name ? 
 
 Empty. 
 
 Where do you live? 
 
 In the side-box. 
 
 What do you do there ? 
 
 I ogle the ladies. 
 
 To what purpose ? 30 
 
 To no purpose. 
 
 Why then do you do it ? 
 
 Because they like it, and I like it. 
 
 Wherein consists the pleasure ? 
 
 In playing the fool. 
 
 Pray, sir, what age are you ? 
 Five-and-twenty, my body; my head's about fifteen. 
 
 Is your father living ? 
 
 Dead, thank God. 
 
 Has he been long so ? 40 
 
 Positively yes. 
 
 Where were you brought up ? 
 
 At school. 
 
 What school ? 
 Beau. The school of Venus. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 ALsop. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 jEsop. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 ALsop. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 jEsop. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 ALsop. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 jEsop. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 ALsop. 
 
 Beau.
 
 SCENE III.] 
 
 26 
 
 Beau. 
 ^Esop. 
 Beau. 
 
 Beau. 
 jEsop. 
 Beau. 
 ^Esop. 
 Beau. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 Beau. 
 sEsop. 
 Beau. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 Beau. 
 
 scriveners 
 ^Esop. 
 Beau. 
 
 Were you ever at the university ? 
 Yes. 
 
 What study did you follow there ? 
 My bedmaker. 
 
 How long did you stay ? 50 
 
 Till I had lost my maidenhead. 
 Why did you come away ? 
 Because I was expelled. 
 Where did you go then? 
 To court. 
 
 Who took care of your education there ? 
 A whore and a dancing-master. 
 What did you gain by them ? 
 A minuet and the pox. 
 
 Have you an estate ? 60 
 
 I had. 
 
 What's become on't ? 
 Spent. 
 In what ? 
 In a twelvemonth. 
 But how ? 
 
 Why, in dressing, drinking, whoring, claps, dice, and 
 . What do you think of me now, old gentleman ? 
 Pray what do you think of yourself? 
 I don't think at all : I know how to bestow my 
 
 time better. 71 
 
 sEsop. Are you married? 
 
 Beau. No have you ever a daughter to bestow upon me ? 
 
 sEsop. She would be well bestowed ! 
 
 Beau. Why, I'm a strong young dog, you old put, you : 
 she may be worse coupled.
 
 264 -^ESOP. [PART II. 
 
 Have you then a mind to a wife, sir ? 
 
 Beau. Yaw, myn Heer. 
 
 dLsop. 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. 81 
 
 ^Esop. 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. 
 
 sEsop. And how may you be qualified yourself, to back 
 you in your pretensions to such a one ? 
 
 Beau. Why, I am qualified with a periwig a snuff-box 
 a feather a smooth face a fool's head and a patch. 
 
 sEsop. But one question more : what settlements can 
 you make? 91 
 
 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. 
 
 ^Esop. 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, 100 
 
 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,
 
 SCENE III.] ALSOP. 265 
 
 He was content, 
 
 So Fortune had but kindly sent 
 
 Some ladies and a looking-glass. 
 
 Encouragement they always gave him, no 
 
 Encouragement to play the fool ; 
 
 For soon they found it was a tool, 
 
 Would hardly be so 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, 120 
 
 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 th' attack, 130 
 
 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,
 
 266 ^SOP. [PART II. 
 
 He had been related to the devil. 
 
 But when he came 
 
 To urge his flame, 
 
 She scratch'd him o'er the face. 
 
 With that he went among the bitches, 140 
 
 Such as had beauty, wit, and riches, 
 
 And swore Miss Maulkin, 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. 149 
 
 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 160 
 
 A reverend beard, and take, instead 
 
 Of vigorous youth, 
 
 Old solemn truth, 
 
 With books and morals, into bed, 
 
 How happy she would be.
 
 SCENE III.] ^ESOP. 267 
 
 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, 170 
 
 With powdered 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, 180 
 
 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 stateman's sport. 
 
 It prov'd 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 PROVOK'D WIFE.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO "THE PROVOK'D WIFE." 
 
 The ProvoKd Wife was produced by Betterton's company, 
 at the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, about the end of 
 April, or beginning of May, 1697; and published in 4to, 
 without the author's name, on the nth of May of the 
 same year. The title-page of the original edition reads 
 as follows : " The ProvoKd Wife : a Comedy, As it is Acted 
 at the New Theatre in Little Lincolns- Inn- Fields, By the 
 Author of a new Comedy calVd the Relapse, or Virtue in 
 Danger. London. Printed by J. O. for R. Wellington, at 
 the Lute in St. PauFs Church Yard, and Sam. Briscoe in 
 Covent- Garden 1697." 
 
 Genest, and other writers, following Gibber, have supposed 
 that this play was produced before ^Esop. The true dates, 
 however, are established by the advertisements of the two 
 plays, which I have already quoted from the London Gazette 
 and the Post Man. Further confirmation (were it needed) of 
 the priority of jEsop is supplied by the prologue to The Pro- 
 voKd Wife, wherein mention is made of three plays by the 
 author, The ProvoKd Wife being, of course, the latest. The 
 prologue contains a line which reads like a prognostic of 
 Collier's onslaught : "Kind Heaven ! inspire some venom'd 
 priest to write." From the epilogue, " by another hand," we 
 learn that Vanbrugh made over to the company his right, 
 as author, to the profits of the third and sixth nights' per- 
 formances.
 
 272 Introduction. 
 
 The scenes which were afterwards substituted for those, in 
 the fourth act, in which Sir John Brute appeared disguised 
 as a parson, were written by Vanbrugh, according to Gibber, 
 for a revival of the play in 1725 ; but according to Genest, 
 for the performances at the Haymarket theatre in January, 
 1706. They appear to have been printed, for the first time, 
 in a i2mo edition of the play, published at Dublin in 1743 ; 
 where they are given, not in the form of an appendix, but 
 in the place of the original scenes, which are omitted. In 
 the title-page of this edition it is expressly asserted that the 
 new scene (strictly, scenes) was " never before printed " ; nor 
 is it contained in any earlier edition of the play which I 
 have seen. The full text of the title-page is as follows : 
 " The ProvoKd Wife: a Comedy. In which is inserted, an 
 Original Scene, never before printed. Written by Sir John 
 Vanbrugh. Dublin : Printed by S. Powell, for George Risk, 
 at Shakespear 1 s-Head in Darnels-street, near the Horse-guard, 
 MDCCXLIIL" 
 
 In the present volume, the additional scenes are printed 
 as an appendix to the play.
 
 273 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Constant Mr. Verbruggen. 
 
 Heartfree ... ... ... ... ... ... ... Mr. Hudson. 
 
 Sit John Brute ... ... ... ... Mr. Betterton. 
 
 Treble, a Singing Master ... ... ... ... Mr. Bowman. 
 
 Rasor, Valet de Chambre to Sir John Brute Mr. Bowen. 
 
 Justice of the Peace Mr. Bright. 
 
 Lord Rake, ) Companions to Sir y^ K Brute . 
 Colonel Bully, ' 
 Constable and Watch. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Lady Brute ... ... ... ... Mrs. Barry* 
 
 Belinda, her Niece ... ... ... ... Mrs. Bracegirdle. f 
 
 Lady Fancyful ... ... ... ... Mrs. Bowman.% 
 
 Mademoiselle ... ... ... ... ... ... Mrs. Willis. 
 
 Cornet and Pipe, Servants to Lady Fancyful. 
 Lovewell, Woman to Lady Brute. 
 
 [SCENE. LONDON.] 
 
 * Elizabeth Barry was but fifteen years old when she first appeared on the stage, 
 in 1673. From an unpromising beginning she made such advance, that before 
 the end of the century she was " in possession of almost all the chief parts in 
 tragedy." She "created" Otway's Monimia and Belvidera, Southern's Isabella, 
 Congreve's Zara, &c. Gibber speaks of her dignified presence, her majestic mien, her 
 full clear voice, and her unrivalled power of exciting pity in the audience. She died 
 Nov. 7, 1713, and was buried in Acton Churchyard. 
 
 t Anne Bracegirdle also made an early appearance on the stage, playing the page's 
 part in Otway's Orphan at the age of six years. Her friendship with Congreve, in 
 whose plays she was always the leading actress, is well known. She was " the Cara, 
 
 the Darling of the Theatre It was even a Fashion among the Gay and 
 
 Young, to have a Taste or Ttndre for Mrs. Bracegirdle " (Gibber). She seems to 
 have been as modest and well-conducted as she was charming, for Gildon's 
 malicious attacks upon her reputation may be safely disregarded. She retired from 
 he stage about 1707, and died Sept., 1748. 
 
 J Mrs. Bowman was the daughter of an intimate friend of Betterton's, who dying 
 in poverty, Betterton took the girl under his protection, and brought her up. She 
 became an actress of considerable repute, and married John Bowman, the singer and 
 actor, whose name also appears above.
 
 274 
 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 ! 10 
 
 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. 20 
 
 In foreign parts, let a bold volunteer, 
 
 For public good, upon the stage appear, 
 
 He meets ten thousand smiles to dissipate his fear. 
 
 * An allusion, as I take it, to the partial failure
 
 275 
 
 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-natur'd town ; 30 
 
 All's one, an ox, a poet, or a crown ; 
 
 Old England's play was always knocking down. 
 
 T 2
 
 THE PROVOK'D WIFE. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in Sir JOHN BRUTE'S House. 
 jEnterSir 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 on earth I 
 loathe 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 16
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 277 
 
 Enter Lady BRUTE. 
 
 Lady Brute. Do you dine at home to-day, sir John ? 
 
 Sir John. Why, 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. 26 
 
 Sir John. Sorrow for things past is of as little impor- 
 tance 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. 37 
 
 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. 45
 
 278 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT i. 
 
 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? 53 
 
 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 cruelty 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 husband.
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 2 79 
 
 Well ; and he promised to be kind to me. But he han't 
 kept his word. Why, then, I'm 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. 88 
 
 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. 98 
 
 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, according to the strict
 
 280 The PROVOK'D WIFE, [ACT i. 
 
 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 is the first aggressor, not I. no 
 
 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 likewise 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. I shan't take the liberty, madam, to think of any- 
 thing that you desire to keep a secret from me. 1 20 
 
 Lady Brute. Alas, my dear! I have no secrets. My 
 heart could never yet confine my tongue. 
 
 Bel. Your eyes, you mean ; for I am 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. 
 
 Bell. I do so. 130 
 
 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?
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 28 1 
 
 Bel. I have observed you blush when you meet 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 ! 
 
 Lady Brute. How strong is fancy ! 141 
 
 Bel. How weak is woman ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Prithee, niece, have a better opinion of 
 your aunt's inclinations. 
 
 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. 150 
 
 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 [Kissing her\ for 
 we have both offended : I in making a secret, you in dis- 
 covering it. 
 
 Bel. Good-nature may do much : but you have more 
 reason to forgive one, than I have to pardon t'other. 159 
 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 
 possible) conceal, even from the soul itself, the knowledge 
 of the body's weakness. 
 
 Bel. Well, I hope, to make your friend amends, you'll
 
 282 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT i. 
 
 hide nothing from her for the future, though the body should 
 still grow weaker and weaker. 169 
 
 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 ven- 
 geance, pleases women best. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis well Constant don't know the weakness of the 
 fortifications ; for, o' my conscience, he'd soon come on to 
 the assault ! 179 
 
 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, you'll 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. 191 
 
 Bel. I'll swear 'twould tickle me strangely. 
 
 Lady Brute. But after all, 'tis a vicious practice 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. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis true ; but then a woman must abandon one of
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 283 
 
 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. 201 
 
 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 ridiculous 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 captives ; and 
 
 whatever course they take, it serves to confirm her in that 
 
 opinion. 210 
 
 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. 220 
 
 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 am 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, unless they are very fond of 
 'em ; whereas they ought to consider the women's inclina-
 
 284 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT i. 
 
 tions, for there depends their fate. Well, men may talk ; 
 but they are not so wise as we, that's certain. 231 
 
 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 govern- 
 ment 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. A 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, Cornet, 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. 10 
 
 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.
 
 L] The PROVOK'D WIFE. 285 
 
 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 tJie glass. 
 
 Mad. Inteed, matam, your face pe handsomer den all de 
 looking-glass in tee world, croyez-moi ! 20 
 
 Lady Fan. But is it possible my eyes can be so languish- 
 ing and so very full of fire ? 
 
 Mad. Matam, 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. 30 
 
 Lady Fan. No really, Mademoiselle, methinks you look 
 mighty pretty. 
 
 Mad. Ah, matam, de moon have no e"clat, 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. 39 
 
 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 
 something to make it worth my while to take notice of him.
 
 286 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT i. 
 
 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. 48 
 
 Mad. Ah, matam, I wish I was fine gentleman for your 
 sake. I do all de ting in de world to get leetle 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. 58 
 
 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 if.] Call Pipe hither, she shall sing it instantly. 
 
 Enter PIPE. 
 Here, sing me this new song, Pipe. 66 
 
 SONG. 
 i. 
 
 Fly, fly, you happy shepherds, fly ! 
 
 Avoid Philira's charms ; 
 The rigour of her heart denies 
 
 The heaven that's in her arms.
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 287 
 
 Ne'er hope to gaze, and then retire, 
 
 Nor yielding, to be blest : 
 Nature, who form'd her eyes of fire, 
 
 Of ice compos'd her breast. 
 
 Yet, lovely maid, this once believe 75 
 
 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 PIPE. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, there may be faults, Mademoiselle, 
 but the design is so very obliging, 'twould be a matchless 
 ingratitude in me to discover 'em. 85 
 
 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 accable'es ? 
 
 Mad. Matam, dey never complain. Au contraire, when 
 one Frense laty have got hundred lover den she do all she 
 can to get hundred more. 95 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, strike me dead, I think they have le 
 
 * The early editions read, " Enter Servant with another letter."
 
 288 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT i. 
 
 gout bon ! For 'tis an unutterable pleasure 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. [JteadsJ] 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 reformation. 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. no 
 
 Mad. Den take your scarf and your mask, and go to de 
 rendezvous. De Frense laty do justement comme ga. 
 
 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 : c'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. 121 
 
 Mad. Ravish ! bagatelle. I would fain see one 
 impudent rogue ravish Mademoiselle ; oui, je le voudrais. 
 
 Lady Fan. Oh, but my reputation, Mademoiselle, my 
 reputation ; ah, ma chere reputation ! 
 
 Mad. Matam, quand on 1'a une fois perdue, on n'en est 
 plus embarrassed.
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 289 
 
 Lady Fan. Fi, Mademoiselle, fi ! Reputation is a jewel. 
 
 Mad. Qui coute bien cher, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why, sure you would not sacrifice your 
 honour to your pleasure ? 131 
 
 Mad. Je suis philosophe. 
 
 Lady Fan. Bless me, how you talk ! Why, what if 
 honour be a burden, Mademoiselle, must it not be borne? 
 
 Mad. Chacun a sa fa9on. Quand quelque chose 
 m'incommode moi, je m'en defais, vite. 
 
 Lady Fan. Get you gone, you little naughty French- 
 woman 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 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.] Aliens, matam; 
 depechez-vous done. Mon Dieu, quels scru pules ! 147 
 
 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 ddlicatesse 
 to make a practice on't. 
 
 Mad. Belle chose vraiment que la de"licatesse, lorsqu'il 
 s'agit de se divertir ! Ah, c,a Vous voila e"quipe*e ; 
 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. 
 
 u
 
 290 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT i. 
 
 Lady Fan. Je suis poltronne. 
 
 Mad. Tant pis pour vous. 160 
 
 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 Fan. L'honneur est centre. 
 
 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, Made- 
 moiselle? 172 
 
 Mad. Elle est done bien insolente, c'est sa soeur aine"e. 
 
 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 mechanic Franchise ! 
 
 Mad. Ah la belle Anglaise ! 
 
 [Exit, forcing her Lady off.
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 29! 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 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. ii 
 
 Lady Fan. What you attribute to humility and good- 
 nature, sir, may perhaps be only due to curiosity. 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 ladyship's leave, we 
 must have one moment's prattle together. Have you a 
 
 u 2
 
 292 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT n. 
 
 mind to be the prettiest woman about town, or not ? How 
 she stares upon me ! What ! this passes for an impertinent 
 question with you now, because you think you are so 
 already. 24 
 
 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. 34 
 
 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. 45 
 
 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 bargain, and 
 make but one word with you, if I do part with it you must 
 lay me down your affectation.
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 2 93 
 
 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, Mademoiselle, 
 'tis high time to be gone. 56 
 
 Mad. Aliens, aliens, aliens ! 
 
 Heart. {Stopping 'em.] 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. 
 
 Lady Fan. Why, what has nature done for me ? 65 
 
 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 discretion ; which has made such work with 
 you, that you are become the pity of our sex, and the jest ot 
 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 fingers' 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. 76 
 
 Mad. [Aside.] Est-ce qu'on fait 1'amour en Angleterre 
 comme ga ? 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside.'] Now could I cry for madness, 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
 
 294 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT n. 
 
 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 ridiculous, as 'tis to prevail with a poet to see a 
 fault in his own play. 86 
 
 Lady Fan. Every circumstance of nice breeding must 
 needs appear ridiculous to one who has so natural an anti- 
 pathy to good manners. 
 
 Heart. But suppose I could find the means to convince 
 you, that the whole world is of my opinion, 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 ! 100 
 
 [Exeunt Lady FANCYFUL and MADEMOISELLE. 
 
 Heart. [Gazing after herJ] There her single clapper 
 has published the sense of the whole sex. Well, this once I 
 have endeavoured to wash the blackamoor white ; but 
 henceforward I'll sooner undertake to teach sincerity to a 
 courtier, generosity to an usurer, honesty to a lawyer, nay, 
 humility 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? no
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 295 
 
 Heart, Doing ! guess, if thou canst. Why, I have been 
 endeavouring to persuade my lady Fancyful 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. 121 
 
 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- 
 pudding of the creation. 1 29 
 
 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 I 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 mistress ! '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 ? 140 
 
 Const. Oh ! they have played their parts in vain already.
 
 296 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT n. 
 
 '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's 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 virtuous even to a fault. 150 
 
 Heart. A lover's head is a good accountable thing truly ! 
 He adores his mistress for being virtuous, 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 mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 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, god- 
 dess, 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. 166 
 
 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
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOK/D WlFE. 297 
 
 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, 
 indiscretion, 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, and an everlasting war waged against truth and 
 good-nature. 185 
 
 Const. Very well, sir ; an admirable composition 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. 197 
 
 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.
 
 298 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT n. 
 
 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. 208 
 
 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 some- 
 what strange. 
 
 Heart. Not strange at all ; she don't like you, that's all 
 the business. 
 
 Const. Prithee, don't distract me. 220 
 
 Heart. Nay, you are a good handsome young fellow, she 
 might use you better. Come, will you go see her ? Per- 
 haps 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. Some- 
 times '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 commonly 'tis to engage
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 
 
 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. 237 
 
 Const. Thy injuries to women are not to be forgiven. 
 Look to't, if ever thou dost fall into their hands 
 
 Heart. They can't use me worse than 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 ? 250 
 
 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 o' the parson ! Why the plague don't you 
 two marry ? I fancy I look like the devil to you. 260 
 
 Heart. Why, you don't think you have horns, do you ? 
 
 Sir John. No, I believe my wife's religion will keep her 
 honest.
 
 300 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT n. 
 
 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. Fie ! fie ! 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. 274 
 
 Heart. Why did you marry, then ? you were old enough 
 to know your own mind. 
 
 Sir John. Why did I marry ! I married because I had 
 a mind to lie with her, and she would not let me. 
 
 Heart. Why did you not 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 com- 
 pany, 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 are got into a better gang 
 now. 287 
 
 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 ?
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOK/D WlFE. 30! 
 
 Const. I 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 ? 
 
 Const. Because I'm to see my mistress. 
 
 Sir John. Who's that ? 
 
 Const. Why, do you use to tell ? 300 
 
 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. 309 
 
 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, sir 318 
 
 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.
 
 3O2 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT n. 
 
 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. 328 
 
 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 farther 
 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 FANCYFUL'S House. 
 Enter Lady FANCYFUL and MADEMOISELLE. 
 
 Lady Fan. Did you ever see anything so importune, 
 Mademoiselle ? 
 
 Mad. Inteed, matam, to say de trute, he want 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
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 303 
 
 dispense my favours on, were he but a fine gentlemen. 
 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. 1 1 
 
 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 unspeak- 
 ably 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. 24 
 
 Lady Fan. Nay, now you make me blush, Mr. Treble ; 
 but pray let's hear what you have done. 
 
 Treb. You shall, madam. 
 
 A SONG to be sung between a Man and a Woman. 
 
 M. Ah ! lovely nymph, the world's on fire : 
 
 Veil, veil those cruel eyes ! 
 W. The world may then in flames expire, 
 
 And boast that so it dies. 
 
 M. But when all mortals are destroy'd, 
 
 Who then shall sing your praise ? 
 W. Those who are fit to be em ploy 'd : 
 
 The gods shall altars raise. 35
 
 304 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT n. 
 
 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 morning-gown, 
 and writ this impromptu. 46 
 
 Treb, So I guess the dialogue, madam, is supposed 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 proposal. 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. 56 
 
 Lady Fan. By all means. Here, Pipe, make what 
 music you can of this song, here. 
 
 SONG. 
 i. 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOK/D WlFE. 305 
 
 II. 
 
 None can love her more than I, 65 
 
 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. 
 
 Lady Fan. Very well. This is Heartfree's poetry, 
 without question. 
 
 Treb. Won't your ladyship please to sing yourself 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 man- 
 kind should turn physicians for the cure on't. 78 
 
 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 cherubin as your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Fan. What I do, I owe chiefly to your skill and 
 care, Mr. Treble. People do flatter me, indeed, that I have 
 a voice, and a je-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 billets-doux at my levee upon it. 
 
 Treb. And without all dispute you deserved as many 
 more, madam. Are there any farther commands for your 
 ladyship's humble servant ? 94 
 
 x
 
 306 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT n. 
 
 Lady Fan. Nothing more at this time, Mr. Treble. But 
 I shall expect you here every morning 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. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Will your ladyship please to dine yet ? 
 
 Lady Fan. Yes, let 'em serve. [Exit Servant.] Sure 
 this Heartfree has bewitched me, Mademoiselle. 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? 106 
 
 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 every- 
 ting 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. 119 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 307 
 
 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 whimsical I'll write to him. [Sitting down to write] 
 Or I'll let it alone, and be severe upon him that way. 
 [Rising up again.] Yet active severity is better than passive. 
 [Sitting down.~\ "Pis as good let alone too ; for every 
 lash I give him perhaps he'll take for a favour. [Rising.] 
 Yet 'tis a thousand pities so much satire should be lost. 
 [Sitting] But if it should have a wrong effect upon him, 
 'twould distract me. [Rising] Well, I must write though, 
 after all. [Sitting] Or I'll let it alone, which is the same 
 thing [Rising. 
 
 Mad. [Aside] La voila de'termine'e. [Exeunt. 
 
 X 2
 
 308 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT in. 
 
 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 leave 
 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. Perhaps 'tis 
 Constant ; he comes here sometimes ; if it does prove him, 
 I'm resolved I'll share the visit. 10 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 3OQ 
 
 Sir John. Whu ! Pox ! can't you work somewhere 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. 22 
 
 Sir John. Will it so, Mrs. Pert ? Now I believe 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, Belinda, 
 since yesterday. 32 
 
 Bel. Yes, I have worked very hard; how do you like 
 it? 
 
 Lady Brute. Oh, 'tis the prettiest fringe in the world ! 
 Well, cousin, you have the happiest fancy : prithee advise 
 me about altering my crimson petticoat. 
 
 Sir John. A pox o' your 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. 43 
 
 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 ?
 
 3io The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT in. 
 
 Lady Brute. With all my heart. Belinda, don't you 
 long to be married ? 
 
 Bel. Why, there are some things in't I could like well 
 enough* 
 
 Lady Brute. What do you think you should dislike ? 
 
 Bel. My husband, a hundred to one else. 54 
 
 Lady Brute. O ye wicked wretch ! sure you don't speak 
 as you think. 
 
 Bel. Yes, I do : especially if he smoked tobacco. 
 
 \He looks earnestly at 'em. 
 
 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. 64 
 
 \He rises in a fury, throws his pipe at 'em, and 
 
 drives 'em out. As they run off, CONSTANT 
 
 and HEARTFREE enter. Lady BRUTE runs 
 
 against CONSTANT. 
 
 Sir John. Oons, get you gone up stairs, you con- 
 federating 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. 74
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 3 I I 
 
 Heart. Why, what new plague have you found 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. 85 
 
 Const. No, nothing against the ladies, pray. 
 
 Sir John. Split the ladies ! Come, will you sit down ? 
 [To a Servant.] Give us some wine, fellow. 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. 95 
 
 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. Fill some wine, sirrah ! 
 So, here's to you, gentlemen ! A wife's the devil. To 
 your being both married ! \They drink.
 
 3i2 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT m. 
 
 Heart. O your most humble servant, sir. 106 
 
 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. 117 
 
 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 should 
 take this for an ill omen : for I never drank my wife's health 
 in my life, but I puked in the glass. 
 
 Const. Oh, she's too virtuous to make a reasonable man 
 jealous. 126 
 
 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 dis- 
 tinguished cuckold. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir, there's my lord Rake, colonel Bully, and some 
 other gentlemen, at the Blue-posts, desire your company. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 313 
 
 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. 140 
 
 Heart. [Aside to CONSTANT.] A good modest proposi- 
 tion 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 servant 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. 150 
 
 Const. We are much beholding 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. 
 
 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 ! 163
 
 314 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT m. 
 
 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, gentlemen, to 
 come and return you thanks for your knight-errantry. We 
 were just upon being devoured by the fiery dragon. 175 
 
 Bel. Did not his fumes almost knock you down, gentle- 
 men? 
 
 Heart. Truly, ladies, we did undergo some hardships ; 
 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 ourselves 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. 190 
 
 Const. Your good opinion, madam, was what I feared 
 I never could have merited.
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 3 I 5 
 
 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. 201 
 
 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 drink- 
 ing? 
 
 Heart. Only by way of antidote. 
 
 Bel. Against what, pray ? 
 
 Heart. Against love, madam. 
 
 Lady Brute. Are you afraid of being in love, sir? 210 
 
 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. 223
 
 3 1 6 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT m. 
 
 Enter Footman. 
 
 Foot. 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 FANCYFUL, who runs first to Lady BRUTE, 
 then to BELINDA, kissing 'em. 
 
 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 addresses of 
 unfortunate gentlemen, that were it not for the extrava- 
 gancy of the example, I should e'en tear out these wicked 
 eyes with my own fingers, to make both myself and man- 
 kind easy. What think you on't, Mr. Heartfree, for I take 
 you to be my faithful adviser ? 238 
 
 Heart. Why truly, madam, I think every project 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 complaisance 
 this morning, sir. Would you believe it, ladies ? the gentle- 
 man has been so exceeding generous, 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. 249 
 
 Lady Fan. He is, indeed, sir; but he's wondrous charitable
 
 i.] The PROVOK'D WIFE. 317 
 
 with it. He has had the goodness to design a reforma- 
 tion, even down to my fingers'-ends. 'Twas thus, I think, 
 sir, you'd have had 'em stand ? [Opening her fingers in an 
 awkward manner.] 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, I 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 mistress of his 
 heart by growing as awkward as his fancy. 265 
 
 [She walks awkwardly about, staring and 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. 
 
 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 275 
 
 Bel. [AsideJ] Now I'm sure she's fond of him ; I'll try 
 to make her jealous. [Aloud.] Well, for my part, I should
 
 3 1 8 Tlie PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT m. 
 
 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 recommendation : 
 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 ladyship, because I knew you'd find me constant 
 employment. 288 
 
 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. 299 
 
 [HEARTFREE and BELINDA seem to continue talking 
 
 familiarly^ 
 
 Lady 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
 
 SCKNB i.] The PROVOK'D WIFE. 3 1 9 
 
 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 together 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. 312 
 
 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? 321 
 
 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. [Exit. 
 
 Heart. Ladies, your servant. [To BELINDA.] I hope, 
 madam, you won't forget our bargain ; I'm to say what I 
 please to you. 333 
 
 Bel. Liberty of speech entire, sir. [Exit HEARTFREE. 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside.] Very pretty truly ! But how the 
 blockhead went out ! languishing at her ; and not a look
 
 320 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT in. 
 
 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 cap- 
 able of making 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 humble servant ; I must 
 take my leave. 344 
 
 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. 354 
 
 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. They follow. 
 
 Re-enter Lady BRUTE. 
 
 Lady Brute. This impertinent woman has put me out of 
 humour for a fortnight. What an agreeable moment has
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 32! 
 
 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 ! 369 
 
 Re-enter CONSTANT. 
 
 Ha ! here again ? 
 
 Const. Though the renewing ray 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. 378 
 
 Const. If it has a title to atone for any, its pretensions 
 must needs be strongest where the crime is love. I there- 
 fore 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 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 sorrow for 
 offending, no cloister ever enclosed 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. 390 
 
 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 
 
 Y
 
 322 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT HI. 
 
 goodness, honour, gratitude, sincerity, and pity ; and not in 
 peevish, snarling, strait-laced chastity. True virtue, where- 
 soe'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 scrabble for. 401 
 
 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 ? 412 
 
 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? 425
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 323 
 
 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 makes me a present of it. [Atoud.] 
 I beg you will believe I did but rally, madam ; I know you 
 judge too well of right and wrong to be deceived by argu- 
 ments 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. 437 
 
 Lady Brute. It is, I think, so great a one, as nothing 
 can repay. 
 
 Const. Yes; the making the man you love^our ever- 
 lasting 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. 448 
 
 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 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT in. 
 
 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 ? 461 
 
 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 for 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. 472 
 
 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. 483 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 325 
 
 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. 495 
 
 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 is a 
 charming woman ! In what ecstasy 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. 
 
 Re-enter HEARTFREE. 
 
 Ha, Heartfree ! 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. 511 
 
 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
 
 326 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACTIII. 
 
 '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 everything 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. Confusion 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. 9 
 
 * By May, 1697, when The ProvoKd Wife was first produced, 
 negotiations for a general peace had been some months in progress. 
 The peace was concluded, at Ryswick, in the following September.
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 327 
 
 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 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. 21 
 
 III. 
 
 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, &c. 
 Rake {repeals'}. 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. 33 
 
 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.
 
 328 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT m. 
 
 Page. I'll bring your lordship an exact account. [Exit. 
 
 Rake. Now let the spirit of clary go round ! 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. 43 
 
 Rake. Again, boys ; t'other glass, and damn morality. 
 
 Sir John. \DrunkI\ 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 drunk- 
 enest 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. 57 
 
 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. 66
 
 SCENE III.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 329 
 
 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 hairVbreadth as absolute by my privileges, as the king of 
 France is by his prerogative. He by his prerogative takes 
 money where it is not his due ; 1 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. A 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's 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 ! 13 
 
 Bel. And what owls they are whilst they are fond of 
 'em! 
 
 Lady Brute. But that we may forgive well enough, 
 because they are so upon our accounts.
 
 33Q The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT m. 
 
 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. 25 
 
 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 for his advan- 
 tage. 
 
 Bel. Yes ; for then a woman might like his passion, 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. 37 
 
 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 petti- 
 coats, we should be weary of wearing 'em. 48
 
 SCENE III.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 33! 
 
 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. 58 
 
 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 thousand little 
 tickling vanities on foot 69 
 
 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 78 
 
 Bel. Don't trouble yourself to explain ; for, if I'm not
 
 33 2 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT in. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Bd. Why, did you ? 
 
 Lady Brute. Yes, faith, many a time. 86 
 
 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. 95 
 
 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 naturally 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 
 fort ? 105 
 
 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
 
 SCENE III.] Tke PROVOKED WlFE. 333 
 
 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. 121 
 
 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. 133 
 
 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 Fancyful ; but I'm afraid 
 he's too cold ever to warm himself by my fire.
 
 334 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT in. 
 
 Lady Brute. Then he deserves to be froze to death. 
 Would I were a man for your sake, dear rogue. 143 
 
 [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 counten- 
 ance 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. 158 
 
 Bel. You advise well ; but where shall it be ? 
 
 Lady Brute. In Spring-Garden.* But they shan't know 
 
 *The New Spring-Garden, afterwards famous by the name of 
 Vauxhall. It was opened about 1661, and remained a place of popular 
 resort and entertainment for nearly two centuries, being closed in 1859. 
 The old Spring-Garden, at the north-east corner of St. James's Park, 
 was mostly built over at the date of The ProvoKd Wife. Pepys records 
 a visit to New Spring-Garden, May 28, 1667 : " I by water to Fox- 
 hall, and there walked in Spring-Garden. A great deal of company, 
 and the weather and garden pleasant : and it is very pleasant and cheap 
 going thither, for a man may go to spend what he will, or nothing, all 
 as one. But to hear the nightingale and other birds, and here fiddles 
 and there a harp, and here a Jew's trump, and here laughing, and there 
 fine people walking, is mighty divertising. "
 
 SCENE ill.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 335 
 
 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 
 farther delay. 
 
 Lady Brute. Let's go into your chamber, then, and 
 whilst you say your prayers, I'll do it, child. {Exeunt.
 
 336 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT iv. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE \-Covent-Garden. 
 
 Enter Lord RAKE, Sir JOHN BRUTE, Colonel BULLY, and 
 others^ with swords drawn. 
 
 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 satisfied, for 
 I'll sacrifice a constable to it presently, and burn his body 
 upon his wooden chair. 9 
 
 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 reservation, tell me of what opinion 
 you are, and what calling ; for by them I shall guess at 
 your morals. 19
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 337 
 
 Tail. An't please you, I'm a dissenting journeyman 
 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. 30 
 
 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 anything but 
 my wife ; and her I name with reverence. 
 
 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. 43 
 
 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. 
 
 z
 
 338 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Sir John. So, how d'ye 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. 54 
 
 Enter Constable and Watch. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Con. 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 ! 64 
 
 [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. 
 
 Sir John. You lie ! I'm not disguised, for I am drunk 
 barefaced. 75 
 
 Watch. Look you there again ! This is a mad parson,
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 339 
 
 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 calling, 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. A Bedchamber. 
 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 im- 
 pertinent thing ? 14 
 
 Z 2
 
 34 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Enter CONSTANT. 
 
 Const. How now, Heartfree ! what makes you up and 
 dressed so soon ? I thought none but lovers quarrelled 
 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? 25 
 
 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. 35 
 
 Heart. A council of war of women would infallibly 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, Heartfree.
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOK ? D WlFE. 34! 
 
 Now answer me directly. Is it my lady or Belinda employs 
 your careful thoughts thus ? 45 
 
 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! 57 
 
 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 himJ] But, dear Constant 
 don't tell the town on't. 70 
 
 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 bv that unaccountable weapon, called
 
 342 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT iv. 
 
 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. 81 
 
 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 under- 
 take. 91 
 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 trouble- 
 some puppy, and sent about your business ? 101 
 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
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOK/D WlFE. 343 
 
 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. 109 
 
 Const. Why, then, to encourage you to perseverance, 
 that you may be thoroughly 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 thundering 
 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 Porter. 
 
 Const. What, Joe ! is it thee? 120 
 
 Porter. An't please you, sir, I was ordered to deliver 
 
 this into your 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 ? 
 
 * A long, oblong building on the south side of the Strand, nearly 
 opposite Bedford Street : part of the site is now occupied by Coutts's 
 Bank. The New Exchange was opened in 1609, and became a 
 favourite resort of the beaux and ladies after the Restoration. " It was 
 erected partly on the plan of the Royal Exchange, with vaults beneath, 
 over which was an open, paved arcade ; and above were walks of shops 
 occupied by perfumers and publishers, milliners and sempstresses." 
 Timbs" Curiosities of London. It was pulled down in 1737.
 
 344 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Porter. No, my noble master. They gave me my orders, 
 and whip, they were gone, like a maidenhead at fifteen. 
 
 Const. Very well; there. [Gives him money. 
 
 Porter. God bless your honour. [Exit. 
 
 Const. Now let's see what honest trusty Joe has brought 
 us. \Reads.~\ If you and your playfellow can spare time 
 from your business and 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, playfellow : 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. 138 
 
 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 warrant 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 Watch, 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 as 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.
 
 SCENE III.] T/J6 PROVOKED WlFE. 345 
 
 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. 9 
 
 Serf, I'll acquaint my master. [Exit. 
 
 Sir John. You constable what damned justice is this? 
 
 Con. One that will take care of you, I warrant 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. 19 
 
 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 provocation 
 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. 30 
 
 Just. Hem hem pray, sir may you be chaplain to my 
 lord? 
 
 Sir John. Sir I presume I may if I will. 
 
 fust. My meaning, sir, is are you so ?
 
 346 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT iv. 
 
 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? 41 
 
 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 
 Fens. 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. 50 
 
 Just. Lord have mercy upon us ! 
 
 Sir John. [Asidel\ This fellow does ask so many 
 impertinent questions, I believe, egad, 'tis the justice'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. 60 
 
 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
 
 SCENE IV.] The PROVOK/D WlFE. 347 
 
 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. 70 
 
 Just. Then, Mr. Constable, you may discharge him. 
 
 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. 80 
 
 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, 
 enter Lady FANCYFUL and MADEMOISELLE masked, and 
 dogging 'em. 
 
 Const. So: I think we are about the time appointed. 
 Let us walk up this way. [Exit with HEARTFREE.
 
 34$ The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT iv. 
 
 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. 1 1 
 
 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. 20 
 
 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 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 Belinda and her aunt.
 
 SCENE IV.] The PROVOK/D WlFE. 349 
 
 Mad. So day be inteed, matam. 
 
 Lady Fan. We'll slip into this close arbour, where we 
 
 may hear all they say. 31 
 
 {Exeunt Lady FANCYFUL and MADEMOISELLE. 
 
 Lady Brute. What, are you afraid of us, gentlemen ? 
 
 Heart. Why truly, I think we may, if appearance don't 
 lie. 
 
 Bel. Do you always find women what they appear 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. 40 
 
 Const. Have a care, Heartfree; you are relapsing 
 again. 
 
 Lady Brute. Why, does the gentleman use to rail at 
 women ? 
 
 Const. He has done formerly. 
 
 Bel. I suppose he had very good cause fort. 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. 50 
 
 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 presently. 
 
 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.
 
 35O The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT iv. 
 
 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 women. 
 
 Heart. Why, what the plague have you been doing, 
 knight ? 64 
 
 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. 76 
 
 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 gentleman. 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE IV.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 351 
 
 Lady Brute. The devil's hands ! Let me go, or I'll 
 
 For Heaven's sake protect us ! 88 
 
 [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 ! 
 
 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, 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. 100 
 
 Sir John. Oons, I won't leave you, not I ! 
 
 Heart. Nay, but you must though ; and therefore 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. in 
 
 Heart. This might have proved a dear one though.
 
 35 2 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Lady Brute. You are the more obliged to us, for the 
 risk we run upon your accounts. 
 
 Const. And I hope you'll acknowledge something 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. 121 
 
 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 
 everything. 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. 131 
 
 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. 142
 
 SCENE IV.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 353 
 
 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 believe one month's time might 
 bring you down to the same indifference, 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 ? 153 
 
 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 confine you. 
 
 Const. [Aside.] So, she would be left alone with me ; 
 that's well. 164 
 
 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. 
 
 Const. [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 freej Mr. 
 
 A A
 
 354 The PROVOK'D WIFE. 
 
 Constant. I'm afraid I shall lose your good opinion 
 of me. 175 
 
 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 ? 185 
 
 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 beautiful 
 character. 195 
 
 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 arguments as women have 
 in their eyes. 
 
 Const. But whilst you attack me with your charms, 'tis 
 but reasonable I assault you with mine. 204
 
 SCENE IV.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 355 
 
 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 gentlewoman 
 too, I can assure you. But pray, which of 'em is it that 
 most afflicts you ? 214 
 
 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. 224 
 
 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 that you would ask. 
 
 Const. And in refusing all you starve it. Forgive 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. 235 
 
 A A 2
 
 35 6 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Lady Brute. \AsideI\ Poor coward virtue, how it shuns 
 the battle. [Aloud.] O Heavens ! 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. 244 
 
 [As he is forcing her into the arbour. Lady FANCY- 
 
 FUL and MADEMOISELLE bolt 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 ! 
 
 Const. Death and furies ! who are these ? 
 
 Lady Brute. O Heavens ! I'm out of my wits : if they 
 knew me, I'm 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. 254 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Lady Brute. The devil's the matter, we are discovered.
 
 SCENE IV.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 357 
 
 Here's a couple of women have done the most impertinent 
 
 thing ! Away ! away ! away ! away ! away ! 263 
 
 [Exit running, the others following. 
 
 Re-enter Lady FANCYFUL and MADEMOISELLE. 
 
 Lady Fan. Well, Mademoiselle, 'tis a prodigious 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 occasion, I'll 
 place my heaven in thee for all my life to come. 274 
 
 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.
 
 35 8 The PROVOK'D WIFE. CACTV. 
 
 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. 10 
 
 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 ve'rite', matam, ce serait dommage. 
 
 Lady Fan. Tis in vain to oppose it, Mademoiselle ; 
 therefore never go about it. For I am the steadiest 
 creature in the world when I have determined to do 
 mischief. So, come along. \Exeunt.
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 359 
 
 SCENE II. A Room in Sir JOHN BRUTE'S House. 
 
 Enter CONSTANT, HEARTFREE, Lady BRUTE, BELINDA, 
 and LOVEWELL. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 1 1 
 
 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 LOVEWELL. 
 
 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 company. 
 
 Lady Brute. Into the closet, gentlemen, for Heaven's 
 
 sake ! I'll wheedle him to bed, if possible. 2 1 
 
 [CONSTANT and HEARTFREE run into the closet. 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN BRUTE, all dirt and bloody. 
 Lady Brute. Ah ah he's all over blood !
 
 360 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [A CT V. 
 
 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. 30 
 
 Sir John. You know I think you lie. 
 
 Lady Brute. I know you do me wrong to think so, then. 
 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 thousand 
 tender proofs how great my care is of you. Nay, spite of all 
 your cruel thoughts, I'll still persist, and at this moment, if 
 I can, persuade you to lie down, and sleep a little. 41 
 
 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 himl\ There : now go. \Aside.~\ 
 He stinks like poison. 5 1 
 
 Sir John. I see it goes damnably against your stomach 
 and therefore kiss me again.
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 361 
 
 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 gratitude. You 
 give me two kisses I'll give you two hundred. 
 
 [Kisses and tumbles Jier. 
 
 Lady Brute. O Lord ! Pray, sir John, be quiet. Heavens, 
 what a pickle am I in ! 6 1 
 
 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. 72 
 
 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
 
 362 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACTV. 
 
 I give you many thanks I see yoti take care of my family 
 I shall do all I can to return the obligation. 83 
 
 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. 96 
 
 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, Heartfree. [Exeunt CONSTANT and HEARTFREE. 
 
 Sir John. Wear a sword, sir ! And what of all 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
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 363 
 
 wear an impudent lewd face a damned designing heart 
 and a tail and a tail full of 114 
 
 [.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 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. 129 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm beholding 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 
 splendour. 
 
 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. 141 
 
 Bel. Some risk, I do confess, there always is : but if a
 
 364 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT v. 
 
 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. 153 
 
 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 ? 1 65 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE II.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 365 
 
 Bel. But what think you of the fear of being found 
 out? 175 
 
 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 backbite, 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. 190 
 
 Bel. Ah 'tis a savoury dish ! 
 
 Lady Brute. As savoury as 'tis, I'm cloyed with't. 
 Prithee call the butler to take it away. 
 
 Bel. Call the butler ! call the scavenger ! [To a Servant 
 withinl\ 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, 111 e'en lie with you to- 
 night ; and in the morning we'll send for our gentlemen to 
 set this matter even. 200 
 
 Bel. With all my heart. 
 
 Lady Brute. Good night, my dear ! 
 
 {Making a low curtsey to Sir JOHN. 
 
 Both. Ha! ha! ha! [Exeunt.
 
 366 The PROVOK'D WIFE. 
 
 Enter RASOR. 
 
 Ras. My lady there's a wag my master there's a cuckold. 
 Marriage is a slippery thing : women have depraved appe- 
 tites : my lady's a wag. I have heard all ; I have seen all; 
 I understand all; and I'll tell all; for my little French- 
 woman 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, Made- 
 moiselle, 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. 9 
 
 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.
 
 SCENE III.] Tfo PROVOK'D WlFE. 367 
 
 Mad. II le fera, matam. 
 
 Enter a Footman, who speaks to MADEMOISELLE apart. 
 
 Foot. Mademoiselle, yonder's Mr. Rasor desires to speak 
 with you. 
 
 Mad. Tell him I come presently. \Exit Footman.] 
 Rasor be dare, matam. 1 8 
 
 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 ? 30 
 
 Ras. 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.
 
 368 T/ie PROVOK'D WIFE, [A CT V. 
 
 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. 43 
 
 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 under- 
 stand dee. 52 
 
 Ras. Why then, that I may make myself intelligible 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 ! 62 
 
 Ras. For we have such bloody circumstances 
 
 Mad. Sans doute. 
 
 Ras. That any man of parts may draw tickling conclu- 
 sions from 'em. 
 
 Mad. Fort bien. 
 
 Ras. We have found a couple of tight well-built gentle- 
 men stuffed into her ladyship's closet.
 
 SCENE III.] The PROVOK/D WlFE. 369 
 
 Mad. Le diable ! 70 
 
 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 manage ! 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 by that young liquorish whipster Heartfree. Now 
 are you satisfied ? 8 1 
 
 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. 91 
 
 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, 93 ! I hide myself in one cunning place, 
 
 B B
 
 37 The PROVOK'D WIFE. 
 
 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. no 
 
 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 afire, you jade you ! 
 
 Mad. Den go to de river and quench dyself. 
 
 Ras. What an unnatural harlot 'tis. 
 
 Mad. Rasor ! {Looking languishingly on him. 
 
 Ras. Mademoiselle ! 
 
 Mad. Dounoloveme? 120 
 
 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 !
 
 SCENE III.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 37! 
 
 Ras. Hold ! But why wilt them make me be such a 
 rogue, my dear? 131 
 
 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 
 de more. If dou obey me je m'abandonne a toi. 
 
 [She takes him about the neck and gives him a 
 smacking kiss, and exit. 
 
 Ras. [Licking his HpsJ] Not be a rogue? Amorvincit 
 omnia I [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lady FANCYFUL and MADEMOISELLE. 
 
 Lady Fan. Marry, say ye ? will the two things marry ? 
 
 Mad. On le va faire, matam. 141 
 
 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. 
 
 BB 2
 
 372 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACTV. 
 
 SCENE IV. 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 remember 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. 14 
 
 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'll find pretences enough to break the match. 
 
 Adieu ! Well, woman for invention ! How long would
 
 SCENE IV.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 373 
 
 my blockhead have been a producing this ! Hey, Heart- 
 free ! What, musing, man ! prithee be cheerful. What 
 sayest thou, friend, to this matrimonial remedy? 27 
 
 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. 41 
 
 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 impudently throw upon (indeed) a 
 steadier and more generous sex. 53 
 
 Const. Why, faith, we are a little impudent in that 
 matter, that's the truth on't. But this is wonderful, to see
 
 374 The PROVOK'D WIFE. 
 
 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? 62 
 
 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 ? 70 
 
 Const. That's not concluded yet. For though marriage 
 be a lottery, in which there are a wondrous 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 than to possess a thousand. But how far 
 that capacity's in me, alas ! I know not. 
 
 Const. But you would know ? 80 
 
 Heart. I would so. 
 
 Const. Matrimony will inform you. Come, one flight of 
 resolution carries you to the land of experience ; where, in a 
 very moderate time, you'll know the capacity of your soul 
 and your body both, or I'm mistaken. {Exeunt.
 
 SCENE V.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 375 
 
 SCENE V. 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? 
 
 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. 1 1 
 
 Enter CONSTANT and HEARTFREE. 
 
 Lady Brute. Good-morrow, gentlemen ! How have you 
 slept after your adventure ? 
 
 Heart. Some careful thoughts, ladies, on your accounts 
 have keep 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 ? 23 
 
 Heart. Madam, you have made me so foolhardy I dare 
 do anything.
 
 376 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [A CT V. 
 
 Bel. Then, sir, I challenge you ; and matrimony'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 con- 
 cluded then, have you got your lessons ready? For sir 
 John is grown such an atheist of late he'll believe nothing 
 upon easy terms. 33 
 
 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, however, he had but a 
 confused notion e'en now. But I'm afraid his 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 notes, 
 gentlemen, he's here. 43 
 
 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 indiscretions, 
 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
 
 SCENE V.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 3/7 
 
 can assure you, one intrigue is enough to bring four people 
 together, without further mischief. 55 
 
 Sir John. And I know, too, that intrigues tend to pro- 
 creation 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 un- 
 satisfied 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. 64 
 
 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 jealous 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 content you, 
 I know but one way more, which, if you think fit, you may 
 take. 73 
 
 Sir John. Lord, sir, you are very hasty. If I 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 ; how- 
 ever, I'll lay fifty pound our foreman brings us in, Not 
 Guilty. 83 
 
 Sir John. \AsideI\ 'Tis well 'tis very well. In spite
 
 378 The PROVOK'D WIFE. 
 
 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.'] Gentlemen, 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. 104 
 
 Sir John. Your humble servant. [AsideJ] 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. 112
 
 SCENE V.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 379 
 
 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 fortune 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, 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! 124 
 
 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 J\ Though I have a particular reason not 
 to let you know who I am till I see you ; yet you'll easily 
 believe 'tis a faithful friend that gives you this advice / have 
 lain with Belinda. Good ! / 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
 
 380 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT v. 
 
 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 faith- 
 fully. 146 
 
 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 oversights ; 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. 158 
 
 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 walk chafing about. 
 
 Ras. \Aside?[ Here's so much sport going to be 
 spoiled, it makes me ready to weep again. A pox o' this 
 impertinent Lady Fancyml and her plots, and her French- 
 woman, too ! she's a whimsical, ill-natured bitch ; and when 
 I have got my bones broke in her service, 'tis ten to one
 
 SCENE V.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 381 
 
 but my recompense 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, Heartfree. 172 
 
 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 I don't know ; but mine is, 
 that if I 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 seldom comprehend one 
 another. Pox take you both ! will you speak that you may 
 be understood ? 184 
 
 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 metamorphose ? 
 
 Ras. Nothing, without my pardon. 
 
 Lady Brute. What pardon do you want? 192 
 
 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
 
 382 The PROVOK'D WIFE, [ACT v. 
 
 master's feet I bend, for interrupting his more noble 
 thoughts with phantoms of disgraceful 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. 205 
 
 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 ? 216 
 
 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 clear- 
 ing up. [To RASOR.] You son of a whore you, put us out 
 of our pain. 
 
 Ras. One moment brings sunshine. '[Pointing to MA- 
 DEMOISELLE.] Tis true this is the woman that tempted me ;
 
 SCENE V.] The PROVOK*D WlFE. 383 
 
 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 off Lady FANCYFUL'S 
 mask] She should lie upon her face all the days of her life. 
 
 All. Lady Fancy ful ! 231 
 
 Bel. Impertinent ! 
 
 Lady Brute. Ridiculous ! 
 
 All. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Bel. I hope your ladyship will give me leave to wish 
 you joy, since you have owned your marriage 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! 240 
 
 Lady Fan. [Aside J\ Confusion seize 'em, as it seizes me ! 
 
 Mad. [Aside.'] Que le diable etouffe ce maraud de Rasor ! 
 
 Bel. Your ladyship seems disordered : a breeding qualm, 
 perhaps, Mr. Heartfree : your bottle of Hungary water* to 
 your lady. Why, madam, he stands as unconcerned as if 
 he were your husband in earnest. 
 
 Lady Fan. Your mirth's as nauseous as yourself, 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 ! 254 
 
 [Exit laughing affectedly, MADEMOISELLE following her. 
 * A medicinal water distilled from rosemary.
 
 384 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACT v. 
 
 Mad. He ! he ! he ! 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. 264 
 
 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. 
 Eut fond of what he'd long desir'd, 
 
 Too greedy of his prey, 
 My shepherd's flame, alas ! expir'd 
 
 Before the verge of day. 
 
 n. 
 
 My innocence in lovers' wars 278 
 
 Reproach'd his quick defeat ; 
 Confus'd, asham'd, and bath'd 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 !
 
 SCENE V.] The PROVOK/D WlFE. 385 
 
 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. 290 
 
 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 otnnes. 
 
 c c
 
 386 The PROVOK'D WIFE. 
 
 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 fie ! 
 
 Lady Brute. I'm all obedience. 
 
 First, then, know all, before our doom is fix'd, 10 
 
 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.
 
 TJte PROVOK'D WIFE. 387 
 
 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 punishment 
 
 remains ? 
 
 Bel. Eternal exile from behind our scenes. 
 Lady Brute. But if they're kind, that sentence we'll 
 
 recall, 
 We can be grateful 
 
 Bel. And have wherewithal. 
 
 Lady Brute. But at grand treaties hope not to be 
 trusted, 20 
 
 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. 
 
 cc 2
 
 388 The PROVOK'D WIFE. 
 
 Additional Scenes, written by Vanbrugh, and 
 substituted at a later date for the first and third 
 Scenes of Act IV * 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE \.-Covent-Garden. 
 
 Enter Lord RAKE, Sir JOHN BRUTE, Colonel BULLY, and 
 others, with swords drawn. 
 
 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 satisfied ; 
 for I'll sacrifice a constable to it presently, and burn his 
 body upon his wooden chair. 9 
 
 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. 
 
 * Genest is certainly in the right, and Gibber was mistaken, as to the 
 year in which the following scenes were first put upon the stage. The 
 Daily Courant announces performances of The Provotfd Wife, " with 
 alterations," at the Hay market Theatre, on the 19th, 2ist, and 22nd of 
 January, 1706. The 2Oth was Sunday.
 
 SCENE I.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 389 
 
 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 reservation, tell me of what opinion 
 you are, and what calling ; for by them I shall guess at 
 your morals. 19 
 
 Tail. An't please you, I'm a dissenting journeyman 
 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. 30 
 
 Tail. An't please you, it's my lady's short cloak and 
 wrapping gown. 
 
 Sir John. What lady, you reptile you ? 
 
 Tail. My lady Brute, your honour. 
 
 Sir John. My lady Brute ! 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 ! 40 
 
 Sir John. Sancho, my squire, help me on with my 
 armour.
 
 39 The PROVOK'D WIFE. ACTIV. 
 
 Tail. O dear gentlemen ! I shall be quiteundone if 
 you take the gown. 
 
 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 bill. \Exit. 
 
 Sir John. So ! how do you like my shapes now? 52 
 
 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 Watch. 
 
 Sir John. See ! here he comes, with all his Greeks 
 about him. Follow me, boys. 
 
 Watchman. Heyday 1 who have we got here ? Stand ! 
 
 Sir John. Mayhap not. 62 
 
 Watch. What are you all doing here in the street at 
 this time of 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 Welsh- 
 men, and with a leek as long as my pedigree, I will destroy 
 your Roman legion in an instant. Britons, strike home ! 
 
 [Fights. 
 
 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? 71
 
 SCENE III.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 39 1 
 
 Sir John. The constable's a rascal ! and you are a son of 
 a whore ! 
 
 Watch. A most princely reply, truly ! If this be her 
 royal style, I'll warrant her maids of honour prattle prettily. 
 But we'll teach you a little 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. 80 
 
 Watch. Away with her ! 
 
 Sir John. O my honour ! my honour ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. The Street before the Justice's House. 
 Enter Constable and Watch, with 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 door. 
 
 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. 1 2
 
 392 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACTIV. 
 
 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's the matter here ? 
 Con. An't please your worship, this here comical sort of 
 a gentlewoman has committed great outrages to-night. She 
 has been frolicking with my lord Rake and his gang : they 
 attacked the watch, and I hear there has been a gentleman 
 killed : I believe 'tis they have done it. 23 
 
 Sir John. There may have been murder for aught I 
 know ; and 'tis a great mercy there has not been a rape too 
 for this fellow would have ravished me. 
 
 Watch. Ravish ! I ravish ! O lud ! O lud ! O lud ! 
 I ravish her ! why, please your honour, I heard Mr. 
 Constable say he believed she was little better than a 
 mophrodite. 
 
 Just. Why, truly, she does seem to be a little masculine 
 about the mouth. 32 
 
 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 apartment, 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 uncivil ! 
 It was in defence of my honour, and I demand satisfaction.
 
 SCENE III.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 393 
 
 Watch. I hope your worship will satisfy her honour in 
 Bridewell ; that fist of hers will make an admirable hemp- 
 beater. 44 
 
 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 a sort of an undress this morning. 
 
 Just. Why, she really has the air of a sort of a woman a 
 little somethingish 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 your surname, madam ? 55 
 
 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. Why, sir John. 
 
 Just. Sir John who ? 
 
 Sir John. Why, 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. 65 
 
 Just. I'm 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 am sorry he should 
 have such a wife. 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I am sorry he has any wife at all.
 
 394 The PROVOK'D WIFE. CACTIV. 
 
 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. 76 
 
 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 sometimes 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's proper of that? 88 
 
 Sir John. Sir, I have generally enough to pay the 
 reckoning, if this son of a whore the drawer would bring his 
 bill. 
 
 Just. A strange woman this ! Does he spend a reason- 
 able portion of his time at home, to the comfort of his wife 
 and children ? 
 
 Sir John. 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 ? 98 
 
 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
 
 SCENE III.] The PROVOKED WlFE. 395 
 
 of. Pray, madam, (and then I have done,) what may be 
 your ladyship's common method of life ? If I may presume 
 so far. 
 
 Sir John. Why, sir, much like that of a woman of 
 quality. 
 
 Just. Pray, how may you generally pass your time, 
 madam ? your morning, for example. 109 
 
 Sir John. Sir, like a woman of quality. I wake about 
 two o'clock in the afternoon I stretch and then make a 
 sign for my chocolate. When I have drunk three cups 
 I slide down again upon my back, with my arms over my 
 head, while 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. 119 
 
 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. 
 
 fust. So, madam ! 
 
 Sir John. By that time my head's half dressed, I hear 
 my husband swearing himself into a state of perdition, that 
 the meat's all cold upon the table, to mend 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 ! . 130 
 
 Sir John. When I have dined, and my idle servants are 
 presumptuously set down at their ease, to do so too, I call
 
 396 The PROVOK'D WIFE. [ACTIV. 
 
 for my coach, go to visit fifty dear friends, of whom I hope 
 I never shall 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 pounds ! 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. 142 
 
 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. 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. 152 
 
 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-bye, madam, good-by-t'ye. 
 
 Sir John. Good-by-t'ye, good sir. [Exit Justice.] 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. 162
 
 SCENE III.] Tfo PROVOKED WlFE. 397 
 
 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. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HENDERSON & SPALDING, LIMITED, GENERAL PRINTERS, 
 3 & 5, MARVLEBONE LANE, W.

 
 n E3 2NA_ _:3=A=-' -1". _ '