- 
 
 '&*?
 
 THE 
 
 SERIES 
 
 EDITED BY HAVELOCK ELLIS. 
 
 THE BEST PL A YS OF THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 

 
 In Half-Crown Monthly Volumes uniform with the present Work. 
 
 THE MERMAID SERIES. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Tfie following will be among the earlier Volumes of the Series: 
 
 MARLOWE. Edited by HAVELOCK ELLIS. With a General 
 
 Introduction by J. A. SYMOXDS. 
 
 MASSINGER. Edited by ARTHUR SYMONS. 
 MIDDLETON. With an Introduction by A. C. SWINBURNE. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER (2 vols.). Edited by J. ST. LOK 
 STRACHEY. 
 
 DEKKER. Edited by ERNEST RHYS. 
 
 CONGREVE. Edited by ALEXANDER C. EWALD. 
 
 WEBSTER & CYRIL TOURNEUR. Edited by J. A. SYMONDS. 
 
 SHIRLEY. Edited by EDMUND GOSSE. 
 
 OTWAY. Edited by the Hon. RODEN NOEL. 
 
 FORD. Edited by HAVELOCK ELLIS. 
 
 THOMAS HEYWOOD. Edited by J. A. SYMONDS. 
 
 ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM, and other Plays attributed to 
 SHAKESPEARE. Edited by ARTHUR SYMONS.
 
 WILLIAM CONGXEVX. 
 Trom, Ihf Picture by Sir Godfrey KneUer.
 
 THE BEST PL A YS OF THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE 
 
 EDITED BY ALEX. CHARLES EWALD, F.S.A. 
 
 AUTHOR OF " STORIES FROM THB STATE PAPERS," &c. 
 
 I lie and dream of your full Mermaid wine." Beaumont. 
 
 UNEXPURGATED EDITION 
 
 LONDON : 
 V1ZETELL Y&CO.,42, CA THERINE STREET, STRAND. 
 
 1887.
 
 " What things have we seen 
 
 Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 As if that every one from whence they came 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 Of his dull life." 
 
 Master Francis Beaumont to Ben jfonson. 
 
 ' Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern, 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? " 
 
 Keats. 
 
 LONDON : 
 J. S. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, PRINTERS, CITY ROAD.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PREFACE . 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE . 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR . 
 
 THE DOUBLE-DEALER 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE . 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 vii 
 xi 
 
 I 
 
 93 
 191 
 309 
 413
 
 N the history of English literature 
 there is no period when license 
 in thought and action is more 
 open and unrestrained than that 
 which immediately followed up- 
 on the Restoration of Charles II. 
 to the throne. It was inevitable that the intole- 
 rant severity of Puritanism, when the influences 
 that created it ceased to exist, should be suc- 
 ceeded by a reaction which erred in the other 
 extreme. When it was a sin to read plays, to 
 act plays, or after any fashion to patronise the 
 theatre, it became only a question of time and 
 opportunity for suppressed and irritated human 
 nature to give vent to its feelings with a free- 
 dom all the more uncontrolled from the injustice 
 that had so long repressed it. Had it not been 
 for the immoral bondage of Puritanism the 
 immoral emancipation of the Restoration would 
 never have been ushered in. 
 
 Action and re-action are influences as domi-
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 nant in the study of literature as they are in 
 politics. The more violent is the swing of the 
 pendulum to one side from any unnatural cause 
 which disturbs the centre of gravity, the greater 
 will be its sweep to the other, until equilibrium 
 is restored. The intrigues of the gallant, the 
 unblushing frailties of the women, the looseness 
 permitted to polite conversation, the systematic 
 vice upon which the plot of the story turns, all 
 of which is so scandalously apparent in the 
 works of the dramatists of the Restoration, are 
 but the logical result of cause and effect. Un- 
 justifiable rigour is always succeeded by un- 
 bridled laxity. The plays which immediately 
 followed upon the restitution of the rights of 
 the Stuarts are, as might be expected, among 
 the most licentious and unveiled in our dramatic 
 literature. Yet as soon as the baneful effects 
 of Puritan prohibitions ceased to excite the 
 national memory a healthier state of things be- 
 gan to prevail. With the removal of restrictions 
 upon honest enjoyment, with the restoration of 
 innocent pleasures, and with the banishment of 
 that gloom and cant which throughout the days 
 of the Commonwealth had so depressed and 
 embittered the spirit of the people, genius once 
 more drew its rays from a purer light and ceased 
 to be illumined by the iridescence of putre- 
 faction. 
 
 The muse of Congreve appeared during this 
 period of transition. His comedies are happily
 
 PREFACE. ix 
 
 lacking in the gross indecency of Etherege and 
 Wycherley, yet compared with those of his 
 successors in the earlier half of the eighteenth 
 century their lax and dissolute character is 
 plainly visible. Still they occupy, and deservedly 
 occupy, a prominent place on the shelves of 
 English literature, and their author rightly fills 
 his niche in the temple of fame. His wit, 
 apparent in every line of his dialogue, is brilliant 
 and trenchant in the extreme ; indeed he is the 
 most polished and mordant master of dialogue 
 in our language. Dialogue is so woven into the 
 texture of his plays that if we try to separate it 
 for the sake of better understanding the story, 
 the whole falls to pieces. Plot, probability, the 
 progress of events, the interest attached to the 
 motives and movements of individuals are all 
 secondary, sometimes even sacrificed, to the 
 setting of the conversation. In the construction 
 of plot Congreve is either careless or so elabo- 
 rate as to weary us with unnecessary details ; 
 but it is evident that, provided his characters 
 talk their very best, he is indifferent to the causes 
 which bring them into action. Hence it is that, 
 with the exception of Love for Love, his comedies 
 are better to read than to act. He is more the 
 dramatist of the library than of the stage. As 
 a painter of contemporary life and manners, 
 studied from the vantage point of fashion, he has 
 no equal. 
 
 The whole of Congreve' s plays are included
 
 x PREFACE. 
 
 in the present volume, and for the first time they 
 have been annotated. 
 
 Macaulay's brilliant account of Congreve's 
 career is well known ; it would, however, be 
 difficult to improve upon it, and, with some 
 additional notes, it has been used as an introduc- 
 tion to this edition. 
 
 The portrait of Congreve which forms the 
 frontispiece to the volume is from the well- 
 known picture by Sir Godfrey Kneller. 
 
 A. C. E.
 
 CONGl^EVE* 
 
 ILLIAM CONGREVE was born 
 in 1670, at Bardsey, in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Leeds. His father, 
 a younger son of a very ancient 
 Staffordshire family, had dis- 
 tinguished himself among the 
 cavaliers in the Civil War, was set down after the 
 Restoration for the Order of the Royal Oak, and 
 subsequently settled in Ireland, under the patron- 
 age of the Earl of Burlington. 
 
 Congreve passed his childhood and youth in 
 Ireland. He was sent to school at Kilkenny, and 
 thence went to the University of Dublin. His 
 learning does great honour to his instructors. 
 From his writings it appears not only that he was 
 well acquainted with Latin literature, but that his 
 knowledge of the Greek poets was such as was not, 
 in his time, common even in a college. 
 
 When he had completed his academical studies, 
 he was sent to London to study the law, and was 
 
 1 From Macaulay's Essay on The Comic Dramatists of the Re- 
 storation.
 
 xii WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 entered of the Middle Temple. He troubled 
 himself, however, very little about pleading or 
 conveyancing, and gave himself up to literature 
 and society. Two kinds of ambition early took 
 possession of his mind, and often pulled it in 
 opposite directions. He was conscious of great 
 fertility of thought and power of ingenious 
 combination. His lively conversation, his 
 polished manners, and his highly respectable 
 connections had obtained for him ready access 
 to the best company. He longed to be a great 
 writer ; he longed to be a man of fashion. 
 Either object was within his reach. But could 
 he secure both ? Was there not something 
 vulgar in letters something inconsistent with 
 the easy, apathetic graces of a man of the mode ? 
 Was it aristocratical to be confounded with 
 creatures who lived in the cocklofts of Grub 
 Street, to bargain with publishers, to hurry 
 printers' devils, to squabble with managers, to 
 be applauded or hissed by pit, boxes, and 
 galleries ? Could he forego the renown of being 
 the first wit of his age ? Could he attain that 
 renown without sullying, what he valued quite 
 as much, his character for gentility ? The 
 history of his life is the history of a conflict be- 
 tween these two impulses. In his youth, the 
 desire of literary fame had the mastery ; but soon 
 the meaner ambition overpowered the higher, 
 and obtained supreme dominion over his mind. 
 His first work, a novel of no great value, he
 
 WILLIA M CONGRE VE. xiii 
 
 published under the assumed name of Cleophil. 
 His second was The Old Bachelor, acted in 1693, 
 a play inferior indeed to his other comedies, but, 
 in its own line, inferior to them alone. The plot 
 is equally destitute of interest and of probability. 
 The characters are either not distinguishable, or 
 are distinguished only by peculiarities of the 
 most glaring kind. But the dialogue is re- 
 splendent with wit and eloquence which indeed 
 are so abundant that the fool comes in for an 
 ample share and yet preserves a certain collo- 
 quial air, a certain indescribable ease, of which 
 Wycherley had given no example and which 
 Sheridan in vain attempted to imitate. The 
 author, divided between pride and shame pride 
 at having written a good play and shame at 
 having done an ungentlemanlike thing pre- 
 tended that he had merely scribbled a few 
 scenes for his own amusement, 1 and affected to 
 yield unwillingly to the importunities of those 
 who pressed him to try his fortune on the stage. 
 The Old Bachelor was seen in manuscript by 
 Dryden, one of whose best qualities was a 
 hearty and generous admiration for the talents 
 of others. He declared that he had never seen 
 such a first play, and lent his services to bring 
 it into a form fit for representation. Nothing 
 was wanted to the success of the piece. It was 
 
 1 " There seems to be a strange affectation in authors of appear- 
 ing to have done everything by chance. The Old Bachelor was 
 written for amusement in the languor of convalescence. Yet it is 
 apparently composed with great elaborateness of dialogue and 
 incessant ambition of wit." Johnson's Lives of the Poets. ED.
 
 xiv WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 so cast as to bring into play all the comic talent, 
 and to exhibit on the boards in one view all the 
 beauty which Drury Lane Theatre, then the only 
 theatre in London, could assemble. The result 
 was a complete triumph ; and the author was 
 gratified with rewards more substantial than the 
 applauses of the pit. Montagu, then a lord of the 
 Treasury, immediately gave him a place, and, in a 
 short time, added the reversion of another place 
 of much greater value, which, however, did not 
 become vacant till many years had elapsed. 1 
 
 In 1694, Congreve brought out The Double- 
 Dealer^ a comedy in which all the powers which 
 had produced The Old Bachelor showed them- 
 selves matured by time and improved by exer- 
 cise. But the audience was shocked by the 
 characters of Maskwell and Lady Touchwood. 
 And, indeed, there is something strangely re- 
 volting in the way in which a group that seems 
 to belong to the house of Laius or of Pelops is 
 introduced into the midst of the Brisks, Froths, 
 Carelesses, and Plyants. The play was un- 
 favourably received. Yet if the praise of dis- 
 tinguished men could compensate an author for 
 the disapprobation of the multitude, Congreve 
 had no reason to repine. Dryden, in one of the 
 most ingenious, magnificent, and pathetic pieces 
 that he ever wrote, extolled the author of The 
 
 1 A commissioner for licensing hackney coaches ; a commissioner 
 for wine licences ; a place in the Pipe Office ; a post in the Custom 
 House ; secretary of Jamaica these were the appointments, held 
 at one time or another, by the fortunate poet. EL.
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. xv 
 
 Double-Dealer in terms which now appear ex- 
 travagantly hyperbolical. Till Congreve came 
 forth so ran this exquisite flattery the supe- 
 riority of the poets who preceded the civil wars 
 was acknowledged. 
 
 " Theirs was the giant race before the flood." 
 
 Since the return of the royal house, much art 
 and ability had been exerted, but the old masters 
 had been still unrivalled. 
 
 " Our builders were with want of genius curst, 
 The second temple was not like the first." 
 
 At length a writer had arisen who, just emerg- 
 ing from boyhood, had surpassed the authors of 
 The Knight of the Burning Pestle and of The 
 Silent Woman, 1 and who had only one rival left 
 to contend with. 
 
 " Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, 
 To Shakspeare gave as much, he could not give him more." 
 
 Some lines near the end of the poem are singu- 
 larly graceful and touching, and sank deep into 
 the heart of Congreve. 
 
 " Already am I worn with cares and age, 
 And just abandoning the ungrateful stage ; 
 But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn, 
 Whom I foresee to better fortune bom, 
 Be kind to my remains ; and, oh, defend 
 Against your judgment your departed friend. 
 Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, 
 But guard those laurels which descend to you." 
 
 The crowd, as usual, gradually came over to 
 the opinion of the men of note; and TheDouble- 
 
 1 The Knight of the Burning Pestle was written by Beaumont 
 and Fletcher ; the Silent Woman by Ben Jonson. ED.
 
 xvi WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 Dealer was before long quite as much admired, 
 though perhaps never so much liked, as The 
 Old Bachelor. 
 
 In 1695 appeared Love for Love, superior both 
 in wit and in scenic effect to either of the pre- 
 ceding plays. It was performed at a new theatre 
 which Betterton and some other actors, disgusted 
 by the treatment which they had received in 
 Drury Lane, had just opened in a tennis-court 
 near Lincoln's Inn. Scarcely any comedy 
 within the memory of the oldest man had been 
 equally successful. The actors were so elated 
 that they gave Congreve a share in their theatre, 
 and he promised in return to furnish them with 
 a play every year, if his health would permit. 
 Two years passed, however, before he produced 
 The Mourning Bride, a play which, paltry as it 
 is when compared, we do not say, with Lear or 
 Macbeth, but with the best dramas of Massinger 
 and Ford, stands very high among the tragedies 
 of the age in which it was written. To find 
 anything so good we must go twelve years back 
 to Venice Preserved, or six years forward to The 
 Fair Penitent. 1 The noble passage, which John- 
 son, both in writing and in conversation, extolled 
 above any other in the English drama, has 
 suffered greatly in the public estimation from the 
 extravagance of his praise. Had he contented 
 himself with saying that it was finer than any- 
 
 1 Venice Preserved was written by Thomas Otway ; The Fair 
 Penitent, by Nicholas Rowe. ED.
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. . xvii 
 
 thing in the tragedies of Dryden, Otway, Lee, 
 Rowe, Southern, Hughes, and Addison, than 
 anything, in short, that had been written for the 
 stage since the days of Charles I., he would not 
 have been in the wrong. 
 
 The success of The Mourning Bride was even 
 greater than that of Love for Love. Congreve 
 was now allowed to be the first tragic as well 
 as the first comic dramatist of his time : and 
 all this at twenty-seven. We believe that no 
 English writer except Lord Byron has, at so 
 early an age, stood so high in the estimation of 
 his contemporaries. 
 
 At this time took place an event which 
 deserves, in our opinion, a very different sort of 
 notice from that which has been bestowed on it 
 by Mr. Leigh Hunt. 1 The nation had now nearly 
 recovered from the demoralising effect of the 
 Puritan austerity. The gloomy follies of the 
 reign of the Saints were but faintly remembered. 
 The evils produced by profaneness and de- 
 bauchery were recent and glaring. The Court, 
 since the Revolution, had ceased to patronise 
 licentiousness. Mary was strictly pious, and the 
 vices of the cold, stern, and silent William were 
 not obtruded on the public eye. Discounte- 
 nanced by the government and falling in the 
 favour of the people, the profligacy of the Re- 
 storation still maintained its ground in some 
 parts of society. Its strongholds were the places 
 
 1 In his introductory notice to The Dramatic Works of Wycherley, 
 Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar.
 
 xviii WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 where men of wit and fashion congregated, 
 and, above all, the theatres. At this conjunc- 
 ture arose a great reformer, whom, widely as 
 we differ from him in many important points, 
 we can never mention without respect. 
 
 Jeremy Collier was a clergyman of the Church 
 of England, bred at Cambridge. His talents 
 and attainments were such as might have been 
 expected to raise him to the highest honours of 
 his profession. He had an extensive knowledge 
 of books, and yet he had mingled much with 
 polite society, and is said not to have wanted 
 either grace or vivacity in conversation. There 
 were few branches of literature to which he 
 had not paid some attention ; but ecclesiastical 
 antiquity was his favourite study. In religious 
 opinions, he belonged to that section of the 
 Church of England which lies furthest from 
 Geneva and nearest to Rome. His notions 
 touching Episcopal government, holy orders, the 
 efficacy of the sacraments, the authority of the 
 Fathers, the guilt of schism, the importance of 
 vestments, ceremonies, and solemn days, differed 
 little from those which are now held by Dr. 
 Pusey and Mr. Newman. Towards the close of 
 his life, indeed, Collier took some steps which 
 brought him still nearer to Popery mixed 
 water with the wine in the Eucharist, made the 
 sign f the cross in confirmation, employed oil 
 in the visitation of the sick, and offered up 
 prayers for the dead. His politics were of a
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. xix 
 
 piece with his divinity. He was a Tory of the 
 highest sort, such as in the cant of his age was 
 called a Tantivy. Not even the tyranny of 
 James, not even the persecution of the bishops 
 and the spoliation of the universities, could 
 shake his steady loyalty. While the Convention 
 was sitting, Collier wrote with vehemence in 
 defence of the fugitive king, and was in conse- 
 quence arrested. But his dauntless spirit was 
 not to be so tamed. He refused to take the 
 oaths, renounced all his preferments, and, in a 
 succession of pamphlets written with much vio- 
 lence and with some ability, attempted to excite 
 the nation against its new masters. In 1692, he 
 was again arrested on suspicion of having been 
 concerned in a treasonable plot. So unbending 
 were his principles that his friends could hardly 
 persuade him to let them bail him ; and he 
 afterwards expressed his remorse for having 
 been induced thus to acknowledge, by implica- 
 tion, the authority of an usurping government. 
 
 He was soon in trouble again. Sir John 
 Friend and Sir William Parkins were tried and 
 convicted of high treason for planning the 
 murder of King William. Collier administered 
 spiritual consolation to them, attended them to 
 Tyburn, and, just before the execution, laid his 
 hands on their heads, and, by the authority 
 which he derived from Christ, solemnly absolved 
 them. This scene gave indescribable scandal. 
 Tories joined with Whigs in blaming the con-
 
 xx WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 duct of the daring priest. There are some acts, 
 it was said, which fall under the definition of 
 treason, into which a good man may, in troubled 
 times, be led even by his virtues. It may be 
 necessary for the protection of society to punish 
 such a man. But even in punishing him we 
 consider him as legally rather than morally 
 guilty, and hope that his honest error, though 
 it cannot be pardoned here, will not be counted 
 to him for sin hereafter. But such was not the 
 case of Collier's penitents. They were con- 
 cerned in a plot for waylaying and butchering, 
 in an hour of security, one who, whether he 
 were or were not their king, was at all events 
 their fellow-creature. Whether the Jacobite 
 theory about the rights of governments and the 
 duties of subjects were or were not well founded, 
 assassination must always be considered as a 
 great crime. It is condemned even by the maxims 
 of worldly honour and morality. Much more must 
 it be an object of abhorrence to the pure Spouse 
 of Christ. The Church cannot surely, without 
 the saddest and most mournful forebodings, see 
 one of her children, who has been guilty of this 
 great wickedness, pass into eternity without any 
 sign of repentance. That these traitors had 
 given any sign of repentance was not alleged. It 
 might be that they had privately declared their 
 contrition ; and if so, the minister of religion 
 might be justified in privately assuring them of 
 the Divine forgiveness. But a public remission
 
 WILLIA M CONGRE VE. xxi 
 
 ought to have been preceded by a public atone- 
 ment. The regret of these men, if expressed at 
 all, had been expressed in secret. The hands 
 of Collier had been laid on them in the presence 
 of thousands. The inference which his enemies 
 drew from his conduct was that he did not con- 
 sider the conspiracy against the life of William 
 as sinful. But this inference he very vehemently 
 and, we doubt not, very sincerely, denied. 
 
 The storm raged. The bishops put forth a 
 solemn censure of the absolution. The Attorney- 
 General brought the matter before the Court of 
 King's Bench. Collier had now made up his 
 mind not to give bail for his appearance before 
 any court which derived its authority from the 
 usurper. He accordingly absconded and was 
 outlawed. He survived these events about thirty 
 years. The prosecution was not pressed, and 
 he was soon suffered to resume his literary pur- 
 suits in quiet. At a later period, many attempts 
 were made to shake his perverse integrity by 
 offers of wealth and dignity, but in vain. When 
 he died, towards the end of the reign of George I., 
 he was still under the ban of the law. 
 
 We shall not be suspected of regarding either 
 the politics or the theology of Collier with par- 
 tiality ; but we believe him to have been as 
 honest and courageous a man as ever lived. 
 We will go further, and say that, though pas- 
 sionate and often wrongheaded, he was a singu- 
 larly fair controversialist candid, generous, too
 
 Xxii WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 high-spirited to take mean advantages even in 
 the most exciting disputes, and pure from all 
 taint of personal malevolence. It must also be 
 admitted that his opinions on ecclesiastical and 
 political affairs, though in themselves absurd 
 and pernicious, eminently qualified him to be 
 the reformer of our lighter literature. The liber- 
 tinism of the press and of the stage was, as we 
 have said, the effect of a reaction against the 
 Puritan strictness. Profligacy was, like the oak- 
 leaf of the 2 Qth of May, the badge of a cavalier 
 and a high churchman. Decency was asso- 
 ciated with conventicles and calves' heads. 
 Grave prelates were too much disposed to wink 
 at the excesses of a body of zealous and able 
 allies who covered Roundheads and Presbyte- 
 rians with ridicule. If a Whig raised his voice 
 against the impiety and licentiousness of the 
 fashionable writers, his mouth was instantly 
 stopped by the retort, You are one of those who 
 groan at a light quotation from Scripture and 
 raise estates out of the plunder of the Church 
 who shudder at a double entendre and chop off 
 the heads of kings. A Baxter, a Burnet, even a 
 Tillotson, would have done little to purify our 
 literature. But when a man, fanatical in the 
 cause of episcopacy and actually under outlawry 
 for his attachment to hereditary right, came for- 
 ward as the champion of decency, the battle 
 was already half won. 
 
 In 1698, Collier published his Short View of the
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. xxiti 
 
 Profaneness and Immorality of the English Stage, 
 a book which threw the whole literary world 
 into commotion, but which is now much less 
 read than it deserves. The faults of the work, 
 indeed, are neither few nor small. The disser- 
 tations on the Greek and Latin drama do not at 
 all help the argument, and, whatever may have 
 been thought of them by the generation which 
 fancied that Christ Church had refuted Bentley, 1 
 are such as, in the present day, a scholar of very 
 humble pretensions may venture to pronounce 
 boyish, or, rather, babyish. The censures are 
 not sufficiently discriminating. The authors 
 whom Collier accused had been guilty of such 
 gross sins against decency that he was certain 
 to weaken instead of strengthening his case by 
 introducing into his charge against them any 
 matter about which there could be the smallest 
 dispute. He was, however, so injudicious as to 
 place among the outrageous offences which he 
 justly arraigned, some things which are really 
 quite innocent, and some slight instances of 
 levity which, though not strictly correct, could 
 easily be paralleled from the works of writers 
 who had rendered great services to morality and 
 religion. Thus he blames Congreve, the number 
 and gravity of whose real transgressions made 
 it quite unnecessary to tax him with any that 
 
 1 In the dispute as to the authenticity of the Letters of Pha/arts, 
 Christ Church in opposition to Bentley asserted that the episiles 
 were not forgeries. It will be remembered that Bentley obtaim<l 
 an easy triumph. Ep,
 
 xxiv WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 were not real, for using the words " martyr " 
 and " inspiration " in a light sense ; as if an 
 archbishop might not say that a speech was 
 inspired by claret, or that an alderman was a 
 martyr to the gout. Sometimes, again, Collier 
 does not sufficiently distinguish between the 
 dramatist and the persons of the drama. Thus 
 he blames Vanbrugh for putting into Lord Fop- 
 pington's mouth some contemptuous expression 
 respecting the Church service ; though it is ob- 
 vious that Vanbrugh could not better express 
 reverence than by making Lord Foppington ex- 
 press contempt. There is also throughout the 
 Short View too strong a display of professional 
 feeling. Collier is not content with claiming for 
 his order an immunity from indiscriminate scur- 
 rility ; he will not allow that, in any case, any 
 word or act of a divine can be a proper subject 
 for ridicule. Nor does he confine this benefit of 
 clergy to the ministers of the Established Church. 
 He extends the privilege to Catholic priests and, 
 what in him is more surprising, to Dissenting 
 preachers. This, however, is a mere trifle. 
 Imaums, Brahmins, priests of Jupiter, priests 
 of Baal are all held to be sacred. Dryden is 
 blamed for making the Mufti in Don Sebastian 
 talk nonsense. Lee is called to a severe account 
 for his incivility to Tiresias. But the most cu- 
 rious passage is that in which Collier resents 
 some uncivil reflections thrown by Cassandra, 
 in Cleomenes, on the calf Apis and his hiero-
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE, xxv 
 
 phants. The words " grass-eating, foddered 
 god," words which really are much in the style 
 of several passages in the Old Testament, give 
 as much offence to this Christian divine as they 
 could have given to the priests of Memphis. 
 
 But, when all deductions have been made, 
 great merit must be allowed to this work. There 
 is hardly any book of that time from which it 
 would be possible to select specimens of writing 
 so excellent and so various. To compare Collier 
 with Pascal would indeed be absurd. Yet we 
 hardly know where, except in The Provincial 
 Letter s, we can find mirth so harmoniously and 
 becomingly blended with solemnity as in the 
 Short View. In truth, all the modes of ridicule, 
 from broad fun to polished and antithetical sar- 
 casm, were at Collier's command. On the other 
 hand, he was complete master of the rhetoric of 
 honest indignation. We scarcely know any 
 volume which contains so many bursts of that 
 peculiar eloquence which comes from the heart 
 and goes to the heart. Indeed, the spirit of the 
 book is truly heroic. In order fairly to appre- 
 ciate it, we must remember the situation in 
 which the writer stood. He was under the 
 frown of power. His name was already a mark 
 for the invectives of one half of the writers of the 
 age when, in the cause of good taste, good sense, 
 and good morals, he gave battle to the other 
 half. Strong as his political prejudices were, he 
 seems on this occasion to have entirely laid them
 
 xxvi WILLIAM CONGREVE. \ 
 
 aside. He has forgotten that he is a Jacobite, 
 and remembers only that he is a citizen and a 
 Christian. Some of his sharpest censures are 
 directed against poetry which had been hailed 
 with delight by the Tory party, and had inflicted 
 a deep wound on the Whigs. It is really in- 
 spiriting to see how gallantly the solitary out- 
 law advances to attack enemies, formidable 
 separately, and, it might have been thought, irre- 
 sistible when combined distributes his swash- 
 ing blows right and left among Wycherley, 
 Congreve, and Vanbrugh treads the wretched 
 D'Urfey down in the dirt beneath his feet and 
 strikes with all his strength full at the towering 
 crest of Dryden. 
 
 The effect produced by the Short View was 
 immense. The nation was on the side of Collier. 
 But it could not be doubted that, in the great 
 host which he had defied, some champion would 
 be found to lift the gauntlet. The general belief 
 was that Dryden would take the field ; and all 
 wits anticipated a sharp contest between two 
 well-paired combatants. The great poet had 
 been singled out in the most marked manner. 
 It was well known that he was deeply hurt, that 
 much smaller provocations had formerly roused 
 him to violent resentment, and that there was 
 no literary weapon, offensive or defensive, of 
 which he was not master. But his conscience 
 smote him ; he stood abashed, like the fallen 
 archangel at the rebuke of Zephon-
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. xxvii 
 
 " And felt how awful goodness is, and saw 
 Virtue in her shape how lovely ; saw and pined 
 His loss." 
 
 At a later period he mentioned the Short View in 
 the preface to his Fables. He complained, with 
 some asperity, of the harshness with which he 
 had been treated, and urged some matters in 
 mitigation. But, on the whole, he frankly 
 acknowledged that he had been justly reproved. 
 " If," said he, " Mr. Collier be my enemy, let 
 him triumph. If he be my friend, as I have 
 given him no personal occasion to be otherwise, 
 he will be glad of my repentance." 
 
 It would have been wise in Congreve to follow 
 his master's example. He was precisely in that 
 situation in which it is madness to attempt a 
 vindication ; for his guilt was so clear that no 
 address or eloquence could obtain an acquittal. 
 On the other hand, there were in his case many 
 extenuating circumstances which, if he had 
 acknowledged his error and promised amend- 
 ment, would have procured his pardon. The 
 most rigid censor could not but make great 
 allowances for the faults into which so young a 
 man had been seduced by evil example, by the 
 luxuriance of a vigorous fancy, and by the ine- 
 briating effect of popular applause. The esteem, 
 as well as the admiration, of the public was still 
 within his reach. He might easily have effaced 
 all memory of his transgressions, and have 
 shared with Addison the glory of showing that
 
 xxviii WILLIA M CONGRE VE. 
 
 the most brilliant wit may be the ally of virtue. 
 But, in any case, prudence should have restrained 
 him from encountering Collier. The non-juror 
 was a man thoroughly fitted by nature, educa- 
 tion, and habit for polemical dispute. Con- 
 greve's mind, though one of no common fertility 
 and vigour, was of a different class. No man 
 understood so well the art of polishing epigrams 
 and repartees into the clearest effulgence, and 
 setting them neatly in easy and familiar dialogue. 
 In this sort of jewellery he attained to a mastery 
 unprecedented and inimitable. But he was alto- 
 gether rude in the art of controversy ; and he 
 had a cause to defend which scarcely any art 
 could have rendered victorious. 
 
 The event was such as might have been fore- 
 seen. Congreve's answer was a complete failure. 
 He was angry, obscure, and dull. Even the 
 Green Room and Will's Coffee House were com- 
 pelled to acknowledge that in wit, as well as in 
 argument, the parson had a decided advantage 
 over the poet. Not only was Congreve unable 
 to make any show of a case where he was in the 
 wrong; but he succeeded in putting himself 
 completely in the wrong where he was in the 
 right. Collier had taxed him with profaneness 
 for calling a clergyman Mr. Prig and for intro- 
 ducing a coachman named Jehu, in allusion to 
 the King of Israel who was known at a distance 
 by his furious driving. Had there been nothing 
 worse in The Old Bachelor and Double-Dealer ,
 
 iriLLIAM CONOR EVE. xxix 
 
 Congreve might pass for as pure a writer as 
 Cowper himself, who, in poems revised by so 
 austere a censor as John Newton, calls a fox- 
 hunting squire Nimrod and gives to a chaplain 
 the disrespectful name of Smug. Congreve 
 might with good effect have appealed to the 
 public whether it might not be fairly presumed 
 that, when such frivolous charges were made, 
 there were no very serious charges to make. 
 Instead of doing this, he pretended that he meant 
 no allusion to the Bible by the name of Jehu and 
 no reflection by the name of Prig. Strange, that 
 a man of such parts should, in order to defend 
 himself against imputations which nobody could 
 regard as important, tell untruths which it was 
 certain that nobody would believe. 
 
 One of the pleas which Congreve set up for 
 himself and his brethren was that, though they 
 might be guilty of a little levity here and there, 
 they were careful to inculcate a moral, packed 
 close into two or three lines, at the end of 
 every play. Had the fact been as he stated it, 
 the defence would be worth very little. For no 
 man acquainted with human nature could think 
 that a sententious couplet would undo all the 
 mischief that five profligate acts had done. But 
 it would have been wise in Congreve to have 
 looked again at his own comedies before he used 
 this argument. Collier did so ; and found that 
 the moral of The Old Bachelor the grave 
 apophthegm which is to be a set-off against all
 
 xxx WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 the libertinism of the piece is contained in the 
 following triplet : 
 
 "What rugged ways attend the neon of life! 
 Our sun declines, and with what anxious strife, 
 What pain, we tug that galling load a wife." 
 
 Love for Love, says Collier, " may have a 
 somewhat better farewell, but it would do a man 
 little service should he remember it to his dying 
 day : 
 
 " The miracle to-day is, that we find 
 A lover true, not that a woman's kind." 
 
 Collier's reply was severe and triumphant. One 
 of his repartees we will quote, not as a favour- 
 able specimen of his manner, but because it was 
 called forth by Congreve's characteristic affec- 
 tation. The poet spoke of The Old Bachelor as 
 a trifle to which he attached no value and which 
 had become public by a sort of accident. " I 
 wrote it," he said, " to amuse myself in a slow 
 recovery from a fit of sickness." " What his 
 disease was," replied Collier, " I am not to in- 
 quire : but it must be a very ill one to be worse 
 than the remedy." 
 
 All that Congreve gained by coming forward 
 on this occasion was that he completely deprived 
 himself of the excuse which he might with jus- 
 tice have pleaded for his early offences. " Why," 
 asked Collier, " should the man laugh at the 
 mischief of the boy and make the disorders of 
 his nonage his own by an after approbation ?" 
 
 Congreve was not Collier's only opponent.
 
 WILLIA M CONG RE VE. xxxi 
 
 Vanbrugh, Dennis, and Settle took the field. 
 And from a passage in a contemporary satire, 
 we are inclined to think that among the answers 
 to the Short View was one written, or supposed 
 to be written, by Wycherley. The victory re- 
 mained with Collier. A great and rapid reform 
 in all the departments of our lighter literature 
 was the effect of his labours. A new race of 
 wits and poets arose, who generally treated with 
 reverence the great ties which bind society to- 
 gether, and whose very indecencies were decent 
 when compared with those of the school which 
 flourished during the last forty years of the 
 seventeenth century. 
 
 This controversy probably prevented Con- 
 greve from fulfillitig the engagements into which 
 he had entered with the actors. It was not till 
 1700 that he produced The Way of the World, 
 the most deeply meditated and the most bril- 
 liantly written of all his works. It wants, per- 
 haps, the constant movement, the effervescence 
 of animal spirits, which we find in Love for Love. 
 But the hysterical rants of Lady Wishfort, the 
 meeting of Witwoud and his brother, the coun- 
 try knight's courtship and his subsequent revel, 
 and, above all, the chase and surrender of Mil- 
 lamant, are superior to anything that is to be 
 found in the whole range of English comedy 
 from the Civil War downwards. It is quite inex- 
 plicable to us that this play should have failed 
 on the stage. Yet so it was ; and the author,
 
 xxxii . WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 already sore with the wounds which Collier had 
 inflicted, was galled past endurance by this new 
 stroke. He resolved never again to expose 
 himself to the rudeness of a tasteless audience, 
 and took leave of the theatre for ever. 
 
 He lived twenty-eight years longer without 
 adding to the high literary reputation which he 
 had attained. He read much while he retained 
 his 'eyesight, and now and then wrote a short 
 essay or an idle tale in verse, but appears never 
 to have planned any considerable work. The 
 miscellaneous pieces which he published in 1710 
 are of little value and have long been forgotten. 
 The stock of fame which he had acquired by his 
 comedies was sufficient, assisted by the graces of 
 manner and conversation, to secure for him a 
 high place in the estimation of the world. During 
 the winter, he lived among the most distin- 
 guished and agreeable people in London. His 
 summers were passed at the splendid country- 
 seats of ministers and peers. Literary envy and 
 political faction, which in that age respected 
 nothing else, respected his repose. He professed 
 to be one of the party of which his patron Mon- 
 tagu, now Lord Halifax, was the head. But he 
 had civil words and small good offices for men 
 of every shade of opinion. And men of every 
 shade of opinion spoke well of him in return. 
 
 His means were for a long time scanty. The 
 place which he had in possession barely enabled 
 him to live with comfort, And, when the Tories
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. xxxiii 
 
 came into power, some thought that he would lose 
 even this moderate provision. But Harley, who 
 was by no means disposed to adopt the extermi- 
 nating policy of the October club, and who, with 
 all his faults of understanding and temper, had 
 a sincere kindness for men of genius, reassured 
 the anxious poet by quoting very gracefully and 
 happily the lines of Virgil : 
 
 " Non obtusa adeo gestamus pectora Poeni, 
 Nee tarn aversus equos Tyria Sol jungit ab urbe." l 
 
 The indulgence with which Congreve was 
 treated by the Tories was not purchased by any 
 concession on his part which could justly offend 
 the Whigs. It was his rare good fortune to 
 share the triumph of his friends without having 
 shared their proscription. When the House of 
 Hanover came to the throne, his fortunes began 
 to flourish. The reversion, to which he had been 
 
 1 We Carthaginians do not possess hearts that are so obdurate, 
 nor yokes the sun his steeds so far away from our Tyrian city. 
 sEneid, Book i. 
 
 " I saw Will Congreve attending at the Treasury, by order, with 
 his brethren, the Commissioners of the Wine Licences. I had often 
 mentioned him with kindness to my Lord Treasurer ; and Congreve 
 told me, that after they had answered to what they were sent for, 
 my Lord called him privately, and spoke to him with great kind- 
 ness, promising his protection, &c. The poor man said he had 
 been used so ill of late years, that he was quite astonished at my 
 Lord's goodness, &c., and desired me to tell my Lord so ; which I 
 did this evening and recommended him heartily. My Lord assured 
 me he esteemed him very much and would be always kind to him ; 
 that what he said was to make Congreve easy, because he knew 
 people talked as if his Lordship designed to turn everybody out, 
 and particularly Congreve ; which indeed was true, for the poor 
 man told me he apprehended it. As I left my Lord Treasurer, I 
 called on Congreve (knowing where he dined), and told him what 
 had passed between my Loid and me ; so I have made a worthy 
 man easy, and that is a good day's work." Swift's Journal to 
 Stella, June 9, &c., 1711. ED.
 
 WILLIA M CONGRE VE. 
 
 nominated twenty years before, fell in. lie was 
 made secretary to the island of Jamaica, and his 
 whole income amounted to 1,200 a year a 
 fortune which, for a single man, was in that age 
 not only easy but splendid. He continued, how- 
 ever, to practise the frugality which he had learned 
 when he could scarce spare, as Swift tells us, 
 a shilling to pay the chairman who carried him 
 to Lord Halifax's. Though he had nobody to 
 save for, he laid up at least as much as he spent. 
 
 The infirmities of age came early upon him. 
 His habits had been intemperate ; he suffered 
 much from gout ; and, when confined to his 
 chamber, he had no longer the solace of litera- 
 ture. Blindness, 1 the most cruel misfortune 
 that can befall the lonely student, made his 
 books useless to him. He was thrown on society 
 for all his amusement ; and, in society, his good 
 breeding and vivacity made him always welcome. 
 
 By the rising men of letters, he was considered 
 not as a rival, but as a classic. He had left their 
 arena ; he never measured his strength with 
 them; and he was always loud in applause of their 
 exertions. They could, therefore, entertain no 
 jealousy of him, and thought no more of detract- 
 ing fropi his fame than of carping at the great 
 
 1 "I was to-day to see Mr. Congreve, who is almost blind with 
 cataracts growing on his eyes ; and his case is that he must wait 
 two or three years until the cataracts are riper, and till he is quite 
 blind, and then he must have them couched ; and besides he is 
 never rid of the gout ; yet he looks young and fresh, and is as cheer- 
 ful as ever. He is younger by three years or more than I, and I 
 am twenty years younger than he." Swift's Journal to Stella, 
 Oct. 19, 1710. ED.
 
 / / 'ILLIA M CONORS VE. xxxv 
 
 men who had been lying a hundred years in 
 Poet's Corner. Even the inmates of Grub Street, 
 even the heroes of The Dtmciad, were for once 
 just to living merit. There can be no stronger 
 illustration of the estimation in which Congreve 
 was held than the fact that Pope's Iliad, a work 
 which appeared with more splendid auspices 
 than any other in our language, was dedicated 
 to him. There was not a Duke in the kingdom 
 who would not have been proud of such a com- 
 pliment. Dr. Johnson expresses great admira- 
 ion for the independence of spirit which Pope 
 showed on this occasion, and some surprise at 
 his choice. " He passed over peers and states- 
 men to inscribe his Iliad to Congreve, with a 
 magnanimity of which the praise had been com- 
 plete had his friend's virtue been equal to his wit. 
 Why he was chosen for so great an honour it is 
 not now possible to know." It is certainly im- 
 possible to know ; yet we think it is possible to 
 guess. The translation of The Iliad had been 
 zealously befriended by men of all political opin- 
 ions. The poet, who at an early age, had been 
 raised to affluence by the emulous liberality ot 
 Whigs and Tories, could not with propriety in- 
 scribe to a chief of either party a work which 
 had been munificently patronised by both. It 
 was necessary to find some person who was at 
 once eminent and neutral. It was therefore ne- 
 cessary to pass over peers and statesmen. Con- 
 greve had a high name in letters. He had a high 
 
 d
 
 xxxvi WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 name in aristocratic circles. He lived on terms 
 of civility with men of all parties. By a courtesy 
 paid to him, neither the ministers nor the leaders 
 of the opposition could be offended. 
 
 The singular affectation, which had from the 
 first been characteristic of Congreve, grew 
 stronger and stronger as he advanced in life. At 
 last it became disagreeable to him to hear his 
 own comedies praised. Voltaire, whose soul was 
 burned up by the raging desire for literary 
 renown, was half puzzled and half disgusted by 
 what he saw, during his visit to England, of this 
 extraordinary whim. Congreve disclaimed the 
 character of a poet declared that his plays were 
 trifles produced in an idle hour, and begged that 
 Voltaire would consider him merely as a gentle- 
 man. " If you had been merely a gentleman," said 
 Voltaire, " I should not have come to see you." l 
 
 Congreve was not a man of warm affections. 
 Domestic ties he had none ; and in the tempo- 
 rary connections which he formed with a succes- 
 sion of beauties from the green-room, his heart 
 does not appear to have been interested. Of all 
 his attachments, that to Mrs. Bracegirdle lasted 
 
 * " It was in Surrey Street, Strand (where he afterwards died), 
 that Voltaire visited him, in the decline of his life. The anecdote 
 relating to his saying that he wished ' to be visited on no other foot- 
 ing than as a gentleman who led a life of plainness and simplicity,' 
 is common to all writers on the subject of Congreve, and appears 
 in the English version of Voltaire's Letters concerning the English 
 .Nation, published in London, 1733, as also in Goldsmith's Memoir 
 of Voltaire. But it is worthy of remark, that it does not appear in 
 the text of the same letters in the edition of Voltaire's CEuvres Com- 
 pletes in the Pantheon Litteraire, vol. v. of his works (Paris, 1837)." 
 Thackeray's English Humourists. ED.
 
 WILLIA M CONG RE 1 '/'. x.x x vi \ 
 
 the longest and was the most celebrated. This 
 charming actress, who was, during many years, 
 the idol of all London, whose face caused the 
 fearful broil in which Mountfort fell, and for 
 which Lord Mohun was tried by the Peers, and 
 to whom the Earl of Scarsdale was said to have 
 made honourable addresses, had conducted her- 
 self, in very trying circumstances, with extra- 
 ordinary discretion. Congreve at length became 
 her confidential friend. They constantly rode 
 out together and dined together. Some people 
 said that she was his mistress, and others that 
 she would soon be his wife. He was at last 
 drawn away from her by the influence of a 
 wealthier and haughtier beauty. Henrietta, 
 daughter of the great Marlborough and wife of 
 the Earl of Godolphin, had, on her father's death, 
 succeeded to his dukedom and to the greater 
 part of his immense property. Her husband 
 was an insignificant man, of whom Lord Chester- 
 field said that he came to the House of Peers 
 only to sleep, and that he might as well sleep 
 on the right as on the left of the woolsack. Be- 
 tween the Duchess and Congreve sprang up a 
 most eccentric friendship. He had a seat every 
 day at her table, and assisted in the direction 
 of her concerts. That malignant old hag, the 
 Dowager Duchess Sarah, who had quarrelled 
 with her daughter as she had quarrelled with 
 everybody else, affected to suspect that there 
 was something wrong. But the world in gene-
 
 xxxviii WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 ral appears to have thought that a great lady 
 might, without any imputation on her character, 
 pay attention to a man of eminent genius who 
 was nearly sixty years old, who was still older 
 in appearance and in constitution, who was con- 
 fined to his chair by gout, and was unable to 
 read from blindness. 
 
 In the summer of 1728, Congreve was ordered 
 to try the Bath waters. During his excursion 
 he was overturned in his chariot and received 
 some severe internal injury, from which he never 
 recovered. He came back to London in a dan- 
 gerous state, complaining constantly of a pain 
 in his side, and continued to sink till, in the fol- 
 lowing January, he expired. 
 
 He left , 1 0,000, saved out of the emoluments 
 of his lucrative places. Johnson says that this 
 money ought to have gone to the Congreve 
 family, which was then in great distress. Doc- 
 tor Young and Mr. Leigh Hunt, two gentle- 
 men who seldom agree with each other, but 
 with whom, on this occasion, we are happy to 
 agree, think that it ought to have gone to Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle. Congreve bequeathed two hundred 
 pounds to Mrs. Bracegirdle and an equal sum to 
 a certain Mrs. Jellat ; but the bulk of his accu- 
 mulations went to the Duchess of Marlborough, 
 in whose immense wealth such a legacy was as 
 a drop in the bucket. It might have raised the 
 fallen fortunes of a Staffordshire squire ; it might 
 have enabled a retired actress to enjoy every
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. xxxix 
 
 comfort and, in her sense, every luxury but it 
 Avas hardly sufficient to defray the Duchess's 
 establishment for two months. 
 
 The great lady buried her friend with a pomp 
 seldom seen at the funeral of poets. The corpse 
 lay in state under the ancient roof of the Jeru- 
 salem Chamber, and was interred in West- 
 minster Abbey. The pall was borne by the 
 Duke of Bridgewater, Lord Cobham, the Earl of 
 Wilmington, who had been Speaker and was 
 afterwards First Lord of the Treasury, and other 
 men of high consideration. Her Grace laid out 
 her friend's bequest in a superb diamond neck- 
 lace, which she wore in honour of him, and, if 
 report is to be believed, showed her regard in 
 ways much more extraordinary. It is said that 
 she had a statue of him in ivory, which moved 
 by clockwork, and was placed daily at her table ; 
 that she had a wax doll made in imitation of 
 him, and that the feet of the doll were regularly 
 blistered and anointed by the doctors, as poor 
 Congreve's feet had been when he suffered from 
 the gout. A monument was erected to the 
 poet in Westminster Abbey, with an inscription 
 written by the Duchess, and Lord Gobham 
 honoured him with a cenotaph, which seems to 
 us, though that is a bold word, the ugliest and 
 most absurd of the buildings at Stowe. 1 
 
 1 The inscription runs thus : " Mr. William Congreve died 
 Jan. 19, 1728, aged fifty-six, and was buried near this place, to 
 whose most valuable memory this monument is set up, by Henrietta, 
 Duchess of Marlborough, as a mark how dearly she remembers the
 
 xl WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 We have said that Wycherley was a worse 
 Congreve. There was, indeed, a remarkable 
 analogy between the writings and lives of these 
 two men. Both were gentlemen liberally edu- 
 cated. Both led town lives, and knew human 
 nature only as it appears between Hyde Park 
 and the Tower. Both were men of wit. Neither 
 had much imagination. Both at an early age 
 produced lively and profligate comedies. Both 
 retired from the field while still in early man- 
 hood, and owed to their youthful achievements 
 in literature the consideration which they en- 
 joyed in later life. Both, after they had ceased 
 to write for the stage, published volumes of 
 miscellanies which did little credit either ta 
 their talents or to their morals. Both, during 
 their declining years, hung loose upon society ; 
 and both, in their last moments, made eccentric 
 and unjustifiable dispositions of their estates. 
 
 But in every point Congreve maintained his- 
 superiority to Wycherley. Wycherley had wit ; 
 but the wit of Congreve far outshines that of 
 every comic writer, except Sheridan, who has 
 arisen within the last two centuries. 1 Congreve 
 
 happiness and honour she enjoyed in the sincere friendship of so- 
 worthy and honest a man, whose virtue, candour, and wit, gained 
 him the love and esteem of the present age, and whose writings 
 will be the admiration of the future." ED. 
 
 1 "The style of Congreve," says Hazlitt, "is inimitable, nay 
 perfect. It is the highest model of comic dialogue. Every sen- 
 tence is replete with sense and satire, conveyed in the most polished 
 and pointed terms. Every page presents a shower of brilliant con- 
 ceits, is a tissue of epigrams in prose, is a new triumph of wit, a 
 new conquest over dulness. The fire of artful raillery is nowhere 
 else so well kept up. This style, which he was almost the first to-
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. xli 
 
 had not, in a large measure, the poetical faculty ; 
 but compared with Wycherley he might be called 
 ^. great poet. Wycherley had some knowledge 
 of books ; but Congreve was a man of real 
 learning. Congreve's offences against decorum, 
 though highly culpable, were not so gross as 
 those of Wycherley; nor did Congreve, like 
 Wycherley, exhibit to the world the deplorable 
 spectacle of a licentious dotage. Congreve died 
 in the enjoyment of high consideration ; Wych- 
 erley forgotten or despised. Congreve's will 
 was absurd and capricious ; but Wycherley's 
 last actions appear to have been prompted by 
 obdurate malignity. 
 
 introduce, and which he carried to the utmost pitch of classical 
 refinement, reminds one exactly of Collins's description of wit as 
 opposed to humour, 
 
 ' Whose jewels in his crisped hair, 
 Are placed each other's light to share.' 
 
 Sheridan will not bear a comparison with him in the regular anti- 
 thetical construction of his sentences and in the mechanical artifices 
 of his style, though so much later, and though style in general has 
 been so much studied, and in the mechanical part so much improved 
 since then. It bears every mark of being what he himself in the 
 dedication of one of his plays tells us that it was, a spirited copy 
 taken off and carefully revised from the most select society of his 
 time, exhibiting all the sprightliness, ease, and animation of familiar 
 conversation with the correctness and delicacy of the most finished 
 composition. His works are a singular treat to those who have 
 cultivated a taste for the niceties of English style ; there is a pecu- 
 liar flavour in the very words which is to be found in hardly any 
 other writer. To the mere reader his writings would be an irrepar- 
 able loss." ED.
 
 " I do not know how it is with others, but 1 feel the better 
 always for the perusal of one of Congreve's comedies. 
 I am the gayer at least for it ; and I could never connect 
 those sports of a witty fancy in any shape with any result 
 to be drawn from them to imitation in real life. They are a 
 world of themselves, almost as much as fairy-land. . . The 
 Fainalls and the Mirabells, the Dorimants and the Lady 
 Touchwoods, in their own sphere, do not offend my moral 
 sense ; in fact they do not appeal to it at all. They seem 
 engaged in their proper element. They break through no 
 laws, or conscientious restraints. They know of none. 
 They have got out of Christendom into the land what 
 shall I call it of cuckoldry the Utopia of gallantry, where 
 pleasure is duty, and the manners perfect freedom. It is 
 altogether a speculative scene of things, which has no. 
 reference whatever to the world that is. No good person 
 can be justly offended as a spectator, because no good 
 person suffers on the stage. Judged morally, every 
 character in these plays the few exceptions only are mis- 
 takes is alike essentially vain and worthless. . . . 
 
 " Translated into real life, the characters of his, and his 
 friend Wycherley's dramas, are profligates and strumpets, 
 the business of their brief existence, the undivided pursuit 
 of lawless gallantry. No other spring of action, or possible 
 motive of conduct, is recognised ; principles which, univer- 
 sally acted upon, must reduce this frame of things to a chaos_ 
 But we do them wrong in so translating them. No such 
 effects are produced in their world. When we are among' 
 them, we are amongst a chaotic people. We are not to 
 judge them by our usages. No reverend institutions are 
 insulted by their proceedings, for they have none among 
 them. No peace of families is violated, for no family ties 
 exist among them. No purity of the marriage bed is 
 stained, for none is supposed to have a being. No deep, 
 affections are disquieted, no holy wedlock bands are 
 snapped asunder, for affection's depth and wedded faith 
 are not of the growth of that soil. There is neither right 
 nor wrong, gratitude or its opposite, claim or duty, paternity 
 or sonship." On the Artificial Comedy of the lasf 
 Century, by CHARLES LAMB.
 
 THE OLV 
 
 Quern tulit ad scenam ventoso gloria cuiru, 
 Exanimat lentus spectator, sedulus inflat. 
 Sic leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarum 
 Subruit, aut reficit. HORAT. Lib. ii. Epist. LJ 
 
 1 Him, whom glory in her ;iiry car has brought upon the stage, the care- 
 less spectator dispirits, the attentive renders more diligent. So slight, so 
 small a matter it is which overturns or raises a mind covetous of praise. 
 
 Con.
 
 HE Old Bachelor, the first of Congreve's 
 plays, was produced in 1693, at the 
 Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, though the 
 date when it was written is not exactly 
 known. The plot, never a strong feature 
 in any of Congreve's comedies, is not 
 marked by striking originality or novelty 
 of combination. Still, if the piece is 
 stage-worn, the setting is bold and brilliant. The dialogue 
 coruscates with wit of the highest order, and in every scene 
 we are surprised by reflections and remarks so tersely and 
 humorously turned as to appear like a fresh revelation. 
 In common with all the comedies of Congreve, the language 
 here is polished till it admits of no further improvement ; 
 the satire bites and sparkles, whilst the foibles and fashions 
 of the hour and we have no keener exponent of the social 
 life of his day than this author impregnate the whole like 
 the aroma of a delicate yet penetrating wine. Of morality 
 there is less than none, for throughout the comedy vice is 
 always draped in the more attractive garb. 
 
 It is of this piece that Addison thus speaks in his Tatler, 
 No. 9 : "In the character which gives name to this play 
 there is excellently represented the reluctance of a battered 
 debauchee to come into the trammels of order and decency; 
 he neither languishes nor burns, but frets for love. The 
 gentlemen of more regular behaviour are drawn with much 
 spirit and wit, and the drama introduced by the dialogue of 
 the first scene with uncommon yet natural conversation. 
 The part of Fondlewife is a lively image of the unseason- 
 able fondness of age and impotence." 
 
 The Old Bachelor was acted as late as 1789. 
 The writer of the following commendatory verses was the 
 Captain Southerne who, in conjunction with Dryden, revised 
 the play so as to fit it for the stage.
 
 To Mr. CONGREVE, on The Old Bachelor. 
 
 "WHEN virtue in pursuit of fame appears, 
 
 And forward shoots the growth beyond the years, 
 
 We timely court the rising hero's cause, 
 
 And on his side the poet wisely draws ; 
 
 Bespeaking him hereafter by applause. 
 
 The days will come when we shall all receive 
 
 Returning interest from what now we give ; 
 
 Instructed and supported by that praise 
 
 And reputation which we strive to raise. 
 
 Nature so coy, so hardly to be wooed, 
 
 Flies like a mistress, but to be pursued. 
 
 O Congreve ! boldly follow on the chase ; 
 
 She looks behind, and wants thy strong embrace ; 
 
 She yields, she yields, surrenders all her charms, 
 
 Do you but force her gently to your arms : 
 
 Such nerves, such graces, in your lines appear, 
 
 As you were made to be her ravisher. 
 
 Dryden has long extended his command, 
 
 By right divine, quite through the Muses' land 
 
 Absolute lord ; and holding now from none, 
 
 But great Apollo, his undoubted crown ; 
 
 (That empire settled, and grown old in power) 
 
 Can wish for nothing but a successor : 
 
 Not to enlarge his limits, but maintain 
 
 Those provinces which he alone could gain. 
 
 His eldest Wycherley, in wise retreat, 
 
 Thought it not worth his quiet to be great. 
 
 Loose, wandering Etherege, in -wild pleasures tost 
 
 And foreign interest, to his hopes long lost : 
 
 Poor Lee and Otway dead ! Congreve appears, 
 
 The darling and last comfort of his years. 
 
 Mayst thou live long in thy great Master's smiles, 
 
 And growing under him, adorn these isles : 
 
 But when when part of him (be that but late) 
 
 His body yielding must submit to fate,' 
 
 Leaving his deathless works and thee behind, 
 
 (The natural successor of his mind,) 
 
 Then mayst thou finish what he has begun ; 
 
 Heir to his merit, be in fame his son. 
 
 What thou hast done shows all is in thy power ; 
 
 And to write better, only must write more. 
 
 'Tis something to be willing to commend ; 
 
 But my best praise is, that I am your friend. 
 
 THO. SOUTHERNS.
 
 To the Right Honourable 
 
 CHARLES LORD CLIFFORD, OF LANES- 
 BOROUGH, &C. 1 
 
 MY LORD, 
 
 T is with a great deal of pleasure that I lay 
 hold on this first occasion, which the 
 accidents of my life have given me, of 
 writing to your Lordship : for since, at 
 the same time, I write to all the world, it 
 will be a means of publishing (what I 
 would have everybody know) the respect 
 and duty which I owe and pay to you. I have so much 
 inclination to be yours, that I need no other engagement : 
 but the particular ties by which I am bound to your Lord- 
 ship and family, have put it out of my power to make you 
 any compliment ; since all offers of myself will amount to 
 no more than an honest acknowledgment, and only show a 
 willingness in me to be grateful. 
 
 I am very near wishing that it were not so much my 
 interest to be your Lordship's servant, that it might be more 
 my merit ; not that I would avoid being obliged to you, but 
 I would have my own choice to run me into the debt ; that 
 I might have it- to boast I had distinguished a man to whom 
 I would be glad to be obliged, even without the hopes of 
 having it in my power ever to make him a return. 
 
 It is impossible for me to come near your Lordship, in 
 any kind, and not to receive some favour; and while in 
 appearance I am only making an acknowledgment (with 
 the usual underhand dealing of the world), I am, at the 
 same time, insinuating my own interest. I cannot give 
 
 1 Eldest son of Rich. Boyle, Eail of Cork, afterwards created 
 Earl of Burlington. Lord Clifford was, however, himself a peer, 
 having been called up to the House of Lords by writ in the life- 
 time of his father.
 
 DEDICATION. 5 
 
 your Lordship your due, without tacking a bill of my own 
 privileges. It is true, if a man never committed a folly, he 
 would never stand in need of a protection : but then power 
 would have nothing to do, and good-nature no occasion to 
 show itself; and where those qualities are, it is pity they 
 should want for it, when done ; yet it reconciles the uses of 
 such authority and goodness to the necessities of our follies ; 
 and is a sort of poetical logic, which at this time I would 
 make use of, to argue your Lordship into a protection of 
 this play. It is the first offence I have committed in this 
 kind, or indeed in any kind of poetry, though not the first 
 made public ; and therefore, I hope, will the more easily be 
 pardoned : but had it been acted when it was first written, 
 more might have been said in its behalf; ignorance of the 
 town and stage would then have been excuses in a young 
 writer, which now almost four years' experience will scarce 
 allow of. Yet I must declare myself sensible of the good- 
 nature of the town in receiving this play so kindly, with all 
 its faults, which I must own were, for the most part, very 
 industriously covered by the care of the players ; for I think 
 scarce a character but received all the advantage it would 
 admit of from the justness of the action. 
 
 As for the critics, my Lord, I have nothing to say to or 
 against any of them of any kind ; from those who make 
 just exceptions, to those who find fault in the wrong place. 
 I will only make this general answer in behalf of my play 
 (an answer which Epictetus advises every man to make for 
 himself to his censurers), viz. " That if they who find some 
 faults in it were as intimate with it as I am, they would 
 find a great many more." This is a confession which I 
 needed not to have made ; but however I can draw this use 
 from it, to my own advantage, that I think there are no 
 faults in it bu. f what I do know ; which, as I take it, is the 
 first step to an amendment. 
 
 Thus I may live in hopes (some time or other) of making 
 the town amends ; but you, my Lord,. I never can, though 
 I am ever your Lordship's most obedient, and most humble 
 servant, 
 
 WILL. CONGREVE.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 INTENDED FOR The Old Bachelor WRITTEN BY THE 
 
 LORD FALKLAND. 
 
 MOST authors on the stage at first appear 
 
 Like widows' bridegrooms, full of doubt and fear : 
 
 They judge from the experience of the dame, 
 
 How hard a task it is to quench her flame : 
 
 And who falls short of furnishing a course, 
 
 Up to his brawny predecessor's force, 
 
 With utmost rage from her embraces thrown, 
 
 Remains convicted, as an empty drone. 
 
 Thus often, to his shame, a pert beginner 
 
 Proves, in the end, a miserable sinner. 
 
 As for our youngster, I am apt to doubt him, 
 With all the vigour of his youth about him, 
 But he, more sanguine, trusts in one-and-twenly, 
 And impudently hopes he shall content you ; 
 For though his Bachelor be worn and cold, 
 He thinks the young may club to help the old ; 
 And what alone can be achieved by neither, 
 Is often brought about by both together. 
 The briskest of you all have felt alarms, 
 Finding the fair one prostitute her charms, 
 With broken sighs, in her old fumbler's arms. 
 But for our spark, he swears he'll ne'er be jealous 
 Of any rivals, but young lusty fellows. 
 Faith, let him try his chance, and if the slave, 
 After his bragging, prove a washy knave, 
 May he be banished to some lonely den, 
 And never more have leave to dip his pen ; 
 But if he be the champion he pretends, 
 Both sexes sure will join to be his friends ; 
 For all agree, where all can have their ends. 
 And you must own him for a man of might, 
 If he holds out to please you the third night.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. KRACEGIRDLE. 1 
 
 How this vile world is changed ! in former days 
 
 Prologues were serious speeches before plays ; 
 
 Grave solemn things, as graces are to feasts, 
 
 Where poets begged a blessing from their guests. 
 
 But now, no more like suppliants we come ; 
 
 A Play makes war, and Prologue is the drum : 
 
 Armed with keen satire, and with pointed wit, 
 
 We threaten you who do for judges sit, 
 
 To save our plays, or else we'll damn your pit. 
 
 But for your comfort, it falls out to-day, 
 
 We've a young author, and his first-born play ; 
 
 So, standing only on his good behaviour, 
 
 He's very civil, and entreats your favour. 
 
 Not but the man has malice, would he show it, 
 
 But, on my conscience, he's a bashful poet ; 
 
 You think that strange no matter, he'll outgrow it. 
 
 Well, I'm his advocate by me he prays you, 
 
 (I don't know whether I shall speak to please you) 
 
 He prays O bless me ! what shall I do now ! 
 
 Hang me, if I know what he prays, or how ! 
 
 And 'twas the prettiest Prologue as he wrote it ! 
 
 Well, the deuce take me, if I ha'n't forgot it ! 
 
 Lord, for Heaven's sake excuse the Play, 
 Because, you know, if it be damned to-day, 
 
 1 shall be hanged for wanting what to say. 
 For my sake then but I'm in such confusion, 
 
 I cannot stay to hear your resolution. [Runs off. 
 
 1 The favourite aclress of the day (born 1674, died 1748). 
 ft Never," says Colley Gibber, " any woman was in such general 
 favour of her spectators, which (o the last scene of her dramatic life 
 she maintained by not being unguarded in her private characler." 
 Mrs. Bracegirclle was the favourife aclress of Congreve, and it is 
 said thai in the several lovers which he gave her in his plays, he 
 expressed his own passion for her.
 
 DRA MA TIS PERSONS. 
 
 HEARTWELL, a surly old Bachelor, pretending to slight 
 
 Women, secretly in love with SILVIA. 
 BELLMOUR, in love with BELINDA. 
 VAINLOVE, capricious in his love ; in love with ARA- 
 
 MINTA. 
 SHARPER. 
 
 SIR JOSEPH WITTOL. 
 CAPTAIN BLUFFE. 
 FONDLEWIFE, a Banker. 
 SETTER, a Pimp. 
 GAVOT, a Music-master. 
 PACE, Footman to ARAMINTA. 
 BARNABY, Servant to FONDLEWIFE. 
 A Boy. 
 
 ARAMINTA, in love with VAINLOVE. 
 
 BELINDA, her Cousin, an affected Lady, in love with 
 
 BELLMOUR. 
 
 L.ETITIA, Wife to FONDLEWIFE. 
 SILVIA, VAINLOVE'S forsaken Mistress. 
 LUCY, her Maid. 
 BETTY, Maid to ARAMINTA. 
 Dancers, and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE LONDON.
 
 THE OLV f BzACHELO\ 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Street. 
 
 BELLMOUR and VAINLOVE meeting. 
 
 , ELL. Vainlove, and abroad so early ! 
 good morrow. I thought a contem- 
 plative lover could no more have parted 
 with his bed in a morning, than he 
 could have slept in't. 
 
 Vain. Bellmour, good morrow. 
 Why, truth on't is, these early sallies 
 are not usual to me ; but business, as you see, sir {Show- 
 ing letters^ And business must be followed, or be lost. 
 
 Bell. Business ! and so must time, my friend, be 
 close pursued, or lost. Business is the rub of life, per- 
 verts our aim, casts off the bias, and leaves us wide and 
 short of the intended mark. 
 
 Vain. Pleasure, I guess, you mean. 
 Bell. Ay, what else has meaning ? 
 Vain. Oh, the wise will tell you 
 Bell. More than they believe or understand. 
 Vain. How, how, Ned, a wise man say more than he 
 understands ?
 
 io 2"HE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT I. 
 
 Bell. Ay, ay ; wisdom's nothing but a pretending to 
 know and believe more than we really do. You read of 
 but one wise man, and all that he knew was, that he 
 knew nothing. Come, come, leave business to idlers, 
 and wisdom to fools : they have need of 'em : wit, be 
 my faculty, and pleasure my occupation ; and let father 
 Time shake his glass. Let low and earthly souls grovel 
 'till they have worked themselves six foot deep into a 
 grave. Business is not my element I roll in a higher 
 orb, and dwell 
 
 Vain. In castles i'th 1 air of thy own building : that's 
 thy element, Ned. Well, as high a flyer as you are, I 
 have a lure may make you stoop. 1 [Flings a letter. 
 
 Bell. Ay, marry, sir, I have a hawk's eye at a woman's 
 hand. There's more elegancy in the false spelling of this 
 superscription \Takes up the letter] than in all Cicero. 
 Let me see How now! [Reads.] " Dear perfidious 
 Vainlove." 
 
 Vain. Hold ! hold ! 'slife, that's the wrong. 
 
 Bell. Nay, let's see the name Silvia ! How canst 
 thou be ungrateful to that creature ? She's extremely 
 pretty, and loves thee entirely. I have heard her breathe 
 such raptures about thee. 
 
 Vain. Ay, or anybody that she's about. 
 
 Bell. No, faith, Frank, you wrong her: she has been 
 just to you. 
 
 Vain. That's pleasant, by my troth, from thee, who 
 hast had her. 
 
 Bell. Never her affections. 'Tis true, by heaven ; 
 she owned it to my face ; and blushing like the virgin 
 morn when it disclosed the cheat, which that trusty 
 bawd of nature, Night, had hid, confessed her soul 
 was true to you ; though I by treachery had stolen the 
 bliss. 
 
 Vain. So was true as turtle in imagination, Ned, ha? 
 
 1 A term in falconry. The " lure " was an artificial decoy-bit d 
 used to call the young hawks home.
 
 SCENE I.] THE OLD BA CHEL OR. \ i 
 
 Preach this doctrine to husbands, and the married 
 women will adore thee. 
 
 Bell. Why, faith, I think it will do well enough, if the 
 husband be out of the way, for the wife to show her 
 fondness and impatience of his absence by choosing a 
 lover as like him as she can ; and what is unlike, she 
 may help out with her own fancy. 
 
 Vain. But is it not an abuse to the lover to be made 
 a blind of? 
 
 Bell. As you say, the abuse is to the lover, not the 
 husband : for 'tis an argument of her great zeal towards 
 him, that she will enjoy him in effigy. 
 
 Vain. It must be a very superstitious country, where 
 such zeal passes for true devotion. I doubt it will be 
 damned by all our protestant husbands for flat idolatry. 
 But if you can make Alderman Fondlewife of your per- 
 suasion, this letter will be needless. 
 
 Bell. What, the old banker with the handsome wife ? 
 
 Vain. Ay. 
 
 Bell. Let me see, Laetitia ! oh, 'tis a delicious morsel ! 
 Dear Frank, thou art the truest friend in the world. 
 
 Vain. Ay, am I not? to be continually starting of 
 hares for you to course. We were certainly cut out for 
 one another ; for my temper quits an amour, just where 
 thine takes it up. But read that, it is an appointment 
 for me this evening, when Fondlewife will be gone out 
 of town, to meet the master of a ship, about the return 
 of a venture which he's in danger of losing. Read, 
 read. 
 
 Bell. Hum, hum. [Reads.'} " Out of town this even- 
 ing, and talks of sending for Mr. Spintext to keep me 
 company ; but I'll take care he shall not be at home." 
 Good ! Spintext ! oh, the fanatic one-eyed parson ! 
 
 Vain. Ay. 
 
 Bell. Hum, hum. [Reads.] " That your conversation 
 will be much more agreeable, if you can counterfeit his 
 habit to blind the servants." Very good ! Then I must
 
 12 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT I. 
 
 be disguised ? With all my heart It adds a gusto to 
 an amour, gives it the greater resemblance of theft, and, 
 among us lewd mortals, the deeper the sin the sweeter. 
 Frank, I'm amazed at thy good-nature. 
 
 Vain. Faith, I hate love when 'tis forced upon a man, 
 as T do wine : and this business is none of my seeking. 
 I only happened to be once or twice where Laetitia was 
 the handsomest woman in company, so consequently 
 applied myself to her, and it seems she has taken me at 
 my word. Had you been there, or anybody, 't had been 
 the same. 
 
 Bell. I wish I may succeed as the same. 
 
 Vain. Never doubt it; for if the spirit of cuckoldom 
 be once raised up in a woman, the devil can't lay it, 'till 
 she has done 't. 
 
 Bell. Prithee, what sort of fellow is Fondlewife ? 
 
 Vain. A kind of mongrel zealot, sometimes very pre- 
 cise and peevish ; but I have seen him pleasant enough 
 in his way ; much addicted to jealousy, but more to fond- 
 ness : so that as he's often jealous without a cause, he's 
 as often satisfied without reason. 
 
 Bell. A very even temper, and fit for my purpose. I 
 must get your man Setter to provide my disguise. 
 
 Vain. Ay, you may take him for good-and-all if you 
 will, for you have made him fit for nobody else. 
 Well 
 
 Bell. You're going to visit in return of Silvia's letter 
 poor rogue ! Any hour of the day or night will serve her. 
 But do you know nothing of a new rival there ? 
 
 Vain. Yes, Heartwell, that surly, old, pretended woman- 
 hater, thinks her virtuous ; that's one reason why I fail 
 her : I would have her fret herself out of conceit with me, 
 that she may entertain some thoughts of him. I know 
 he visits her every day. 
 
 Bell. Yet rails on still, and thinks his love unknown to 
 us. A little time will swell him so, he must be forced to 
 give it birth ; and the discovery must needs be very plea-
 
 SCENEL] THE OLD BACHELOR. 13 
 
 sant from himself, to see what pains he will take, and how 
 he will strain to be delivered of a secret when he has 
 miscarried of it already. 
 
 Vain. Well, good morrow, let's dine together; I'll 
 meet at the old place. 
 
 Bell. With all my heart ; it lies convenient for us to 
 pay our afternoon services to our mistresses. I find I am 
 damnably in love, I'm so uneasy for not having seen 
 Belinda yesterday. 
 
 Vain. But I saw my Araminta, yet am as impatient. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sell. Why, what a cormorant in love am I ! who, not 
 contented with the slavery of honourable love in one 
 place, and the pleasure of enjoying some half a score 
 mistresses of my own acquiring, must yet take Vainlove's 
 business upon my hands, because it lay too heavy upon 
 his : so am not only forced to lie with other men's wives 
 for 'em, but must also undertake the harder task of oblig- 
 ing their mistresses. I must take up or I shall never 
 hold out ; flesh and blood cannot bear it always. 
 
 Enter SHARPER. 
 
 Sharp. I'm sorry to see this, Ned ; once a man comes 
 to his soliloquies I give him for gone. 
 
 Bell. Sharper, I'm glad to see thee. 
 
 Sharp. What, is Belinda cruel, that you are so thought- 
 ful? 
 
 Bell. No faith, not for that. But there's a business of 
 consequence fallen out to-day, that requires some consi- 
 deration. 
 
 .Sharp. Prithee, what mighty business of consequence 
 canst thou have ? 
 
 Bell. Why, you must know 'tis a piece of work toward 
 the finishing of an alderman ; it seems I must put the last 
 hand to it, and dub him cuckold, that he may be of 
 equal dignity with the rest of his brethren ; so I must 
 beg Belinda's pardon.
 
 14 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT I. 
 
 Sharp. Faith, e'en give her over for good-and-all ; you 
 can have no hopes of getting her for a mistress ; and she 
 is too proud, too inconstant, too affected and too witty 
 and too handsome for a wife. 
 
 Bell. But she can't have too much money. There's 
 twelve thousand pounds, Tom. 'Tis true she is exces- 
 sively foppish and affected; but in my conscience I be- 
 lieve the baggage loves me ; for she never speaks well of 
 me herself, nor suffers anybody else to rail at me. Then, 
 as I told you, there's twelve thousand pounds hum 
 Why, faith, upon second thoughts, she does not appear 
 to be so very affected neither. Give her her due, I think 
 the woman's a woman, and that's all. As such I am 
 sure I shall like her, for the devil take me if I don't love 
 all the sex. 
 
 Sharp. And here comes one who swears as heartily he 
 hates all the sex. 
 
 Enter HEARTWELL. 
 
 Bell. Who ? Heartwell ? ay, but he knows better 
 things. How now, George, where hast thou been snarl- 
 ing odious truths, and entertaining company like a phy- 
 sician, with discourse of their diseases and infirmities? 
 What fine lady hast thou been putting out of conceit with 
 herself, and persuading that the face she had been making 
 all the morning was none of her own ? for I know thou 
 art as unmannerly and as unwelcome to a woman as a 
 looking-glass after the small-pox. 
 
 Heart. I confess I have not been sneering fulsome 
 lies and nauseous flattery, fawning upon a little tawdry 
 whore that will fawn upon me again, and entertain any 
 puppy that comes, like a tumbler, with the same tricks 
 over and over. For such I guess may have been your 
 late employment. 
 
 Bell. Would thou hadst come a little sooner ! Vain- 
 love would have wrought thy conversion, and been a 
 champion for the cause.
 
 SCENE I.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 15 
 
 Heart. What, has he been here ? That's one of love's 
 April-fools, is always upon some errand that's to no pur- 
 pose, ever embarking in adventures, yet never comes to 
 harbour. 
 
 Sharp. That's because he always sets out in foul wea- 
 ther, loves to buffet with the winds, meet the tide, and 
 sail in the teeth of opposition. 
 
 Heart. What, has he not dropped anchor at Ara- 
 minta ? 
 
 Bell. Truth on't is, she fits his temper best, is a kind 
 of floating-island ; sometimes seems in reach, then vanishes, 
 and keeps him busied in the search. 
 
 Sharp. She had need have a good share of sense to 
 manage so capricious a lover. 
 
 Bell. Faith, I don't know; he's of a temper the most 
 easy to himself in the world : he takes as much always of 
 an amour as he cares for, and quits it when it grows stale 
 or unpleasant. 
 
 Sharp. An argument of very little passion, very good 
 understanding, and very ill-nature. 
 
 Heart. And proves that Vainlove plays the fool with 
 discretion. 
 
 Sharp. You, Bellmour, are bound in gratitude to 
 stickle for him ; you with pleasure reap that fruit which 
 he takes pains to sow ; he does the drudgery in the mine, 
 and you stamp your image on the gold. 
 
 Bell. He's of another opinion, and says I do the 
 drudgery in the mine. Well, we have each our share of 
 sport, and each that which he likes best ; 'tis his diver- 
 sion to set, 'tis mine to cover the partridge. 
 
 Heart. And it should be mine to let them go again. 
 
 Sharp. Not till you had mouthed a little, George. I 
 think that's all thou art fit for now. 
 
 Heart. Good Mr. Young-fellow, you're mistaken; as 
 able as yourself, and as nimble too, though I mayn't 
 have so much mercury in my limbs. Tis true, indeed, I 
 don't force appetite, but wait the natural call of my lust,
 
 1 6 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT i. 
 
 and think it time enough to be lewd, after I have had the 
 temptation. 
 
 Bell. Time enough ! ay too soon, I should rather have 
 expected, from a person of your gravity. 
 
 Heart. Yet it is oftentimes too late with some of you 
 young, termagant flashy sinners : you have all the guilt 
 of the intention, and none of the pleasure of the prac- 
 tice. 'Tis true you are so eager in pursuit of the tempta- 
 tion, that you save the devil the trouble of leading you 
 into it : nor is it out of discretion that you don't swallow 
 that very hook yourselves have baited, but you are cloyed 
 with the preparative, and what you mean for a whet, 
 turns the edge of your puny stomachs. Your love is like 
 your courage, which you show for the first year or two 
 upon all occasions ; till in a little time, being disabled or 
 disarmed, you abate of your vigour, and that daring 
 blade which was so often drawn is bound to the peace for 
 ever after. 
 
 Bell. Thou art an old fornicator of a singular good 
 principle indeed! and art for encouraging youth, that 
 they may be as wicked as thou art at thy years. 
 
 Heart. I am for having everybody be what they pre- 
 tend to be ; a whoremaster be a whoremaster, and not 
 like Vainlove, kiss a lapdog with passion, when it would 
 disgust him from the lady's own lips. 
 
 Bell. That only happens sometimes, where the dog 
 has the sweeter breath, for the more cleanly conveyance. 
 But, George, you must not quarrel with little gallantries 
 of this nature : women are often won by 'em. Who 
 would refuse to kiss a lapdog, if it were preliminary to 
 the lips of his lady ? 
 
 Sharp. Or omit playing with her fan and cooling her 
 if she were hot, when it might entitle him to the office of 
 warming her when she should be cold ? 
 
 Bell. What is it to read a play on a rainy day, though 
 you should now and then be interrupted in a witty scene, 
 and she perhaps preserve her laughter, 'till the jest were
 
 SCENE I.] THE OLD BA CHEL OR. 1 7 
 
 over ! even that may be borne with, considering the 
 reward in prospect. 
 
 Heart. I confess, you that are women's asses bear 
 greater burdens; are forced to undergo dressing, danc- 
 ing, singing, sighing, whining, rhyming, flattering, 
 lying, grinning, cringing, and the drudgery of loving to 
 boot. 
 
 Sell. brute ! the drudgery of loving ! 
 Heart. Ay, why to come to love through all these en- 
 cumbrances, is like coming to an estate overcharged with 
 debts; which, by the time you have paid, yields no 
 further profit than what the bare tillage and manuring 
 of the land will produce at the expense of your own 
 sweat. 
 
 Bell. Prithee, how dost thou love? 
 Sharp. He ! he hates the sex. 
 
 Heart. So I hate physic too yet I may love to take 
 it for my health. 
 
 Bell. Well come off, George, if at any time you should 
 be taken straying. 
 
 Sharp. He has need of such an excuse, considering 
 the present state of his body. 
 Heart. How d'ye mean? 
 
 Sharp. Why, if whoring be purging (as you call it), 
 then, I may say, marriage is entering into a course of 
 physic. 
 
 Bell. How, George, does the wind blow there ? 
 Heart. It will as soon blow north and by south. 
 Marry, quotha ! I hope, in Heaven, I have a greater 
 portion of grace, and I think I have baited too many of 
 those traps to be caught in one myself. 
 
 Bell. Who the devil would have thee ? unless 'twere an 
 oyster-woman, to propagate young fry for Billingsgate : 
 thy talent will never recommend thee to anything of 
 better quality. 
 
 Heart. My talent is chiefly that of speaking truth, 
 which I don't expect should ever recommend me to 
 
 Coo. C
 
 1 8 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT i. 
 
 people of quality. I thank heaven, I have very 
 honestly purchased the hatred of all the great families 
 in town. 
 
 Sharp. And you, in return of spleen, hate them. But 
 could you hope to be received into the alliance of a noble 
 family 
 
 Heart. No, I hope I shall never merit that affliction 
 to be punished with a wife of birth be a stag of the first 
 head, and bear my horns aloft, like one of the supporters 
 of my wife's coat. 'Sdeath, I would not be a cuckold to 
 e'er an illustrious whore in England ! 
 
 Bell. What, not to make your family, man ! and pro- 
 vide for your children ? 
 
 Sharp. For her children, you mean. 
 
 Heart. Ay, there you've nicked it there's the devil 
 upon devil. O the pride and joy of heart 'twould be to 
 me, to have my son and heir resemble such a duke ! to 
 have a fleering coxcomb scoff and cry, Mr., your son's 
 mighty like his Grace, has just his smile and air of s face. 
 Then replies another, Methinks he has more of the Mar- 
 quis of such a place about his nose and eyes, though he 
 has my Lord What-d'ye-call's mouth to a tittle. Then 
 I, to put it off as unconcerned, come chuck the infant 
 under the chin, force a smile, and cry, Ay, the boy takes 
 after his mother's relations : when the devil and she 
 knows, 'tis a little compound of the whole body of 
 nobility. 
 
 Bell and Sharp. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bell. Well, but, George, I have one question to ask 
 you 
 
 Heart. Pshaw ! I have prattled away my time, I hope 
 you are in no haste for an answer for I shan't stay 
 now. [Looking on his watch. 
 
 Bell. Nay, prithee, George 
 
 Heart. No : besides my business, I see a fool coming 
 this way. Adieu. [Exit. 
 
 Bell. What does he mean ? Oh, 'tis Sir Joseph Wittol
 
 SCENE I.] THE OLD BACHELOR. ig 
 
 with his friend ; but I see he has turned the corner, and 
 goes another way. 
 
 Sharp. What in the name of wonder is it ? 
 
 Bell. Why, a fool. 
 
 Sharp. Tis a tawdry outside. 
 
 Bell, And a very beggarly lining yet he may be worth 
 your acquaintance. A little of thy chemistry, Tom, may 
 extract gold from that dirt. 
 
 Sharp. Say you so ? faith, I'm as poor as a chemist, 
 and would be as industrious. But what was he that 
 followed him ? Is not he a dragon that watches those 
 golden pippins ? 
 
 Bell. Hang him, no, he a dragon ! if he be, 'tis a very 
 peaceful one ; I can ensure his anger dormant ; or should 
 he seem to rouse, 'tis but well lashing him, and he will 
 sleep like a top. 
 
 Sharp. Ay, is he of that kidney ? 
 
 Bell. Yet is adored by that bigot Sir Joseph Wittol, as 
 the image of valour : he calls him his back, and indeed 
 they are never asunder yet last night,! know not by 
 what mischance, the knight was alone, and had fallen 
 into the hands of some night-walkers, who I suppose 
 would have pillaged him; but I chanced to come by, 
 and rescued him: though I believe he was heartily 
 frightened, for as soon as ever he was loose he ran away, 
 without staying to see who had helped him. 
 
 Sharp. Is that bully of his in the army ? 
 
 Bell. No, but is a pretender, and wears the habit of a 
 soldier ; which now-a-days as often cloaks cowardice, as 
 a black gown does atheism. You must know, he has 
 been abroad went purely to run away from a campaign ; 
 enriched himself with the plunder of a few oaths and 
 here vents 'em against the general ; who slighting men of 
 merit, and preferring only those of interest, has made him 
 quit the service. 
 
 Sharp. Wherein, no doubt, he magnifies his own 
 performance.
 
 20 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT I. 
 
 Bell, Speaks miracles, is the drum to his own praise 
 the only implement of a soldier he resembles ; like that, 
 being full of blustering noise and emptiness. 
 
 Sharp. And like that, of no use but to be beaten. 
 
 Bell. Right ; but then the comparison breaks, for he 
 will take a drubbing with as little noise as a pulpit- 
 cushion. 
 
 Sharp. His name, and I have done ? 
 
 Bell. Why, that, to pass it current too, he has gilded 
 with a title : he is called Captain Bluffe. 
 
 Sharp. Well, I'll endeavour his acquaintance; you 
 steer another course, are bound 
 
 For Love's fair isle ; I for the golden coast : 
 May each succeed in what he wishes most ! 
 
 [JSxfttnf.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Street. 
 
 Enter SIR JOSEPH WITTOL, SHARPER following. 
 
 HARP. [Aside.} Sure that's he, and 
 alone. 
 
 Sir Jo. [Not perceiving SHARPER.] 
 
 Urn ay, this, this is the very 
 damned place ; the inhuman can- 
 nibals, the bloody-minded villains 
 would have butchered me last night : no doubt they 
 would have flayed me alive, have sold my skin, and 
 devoured, &c. 
 
 Sharp. How's this? 
 
 Sir Jo. An it hadn't been for a civil gentleman as 
 came by and frighted % em away but, egad, I durst not 
 stay to give him thanks. 
 
 Sharp. This must be Bellmour he means. Ha ! I 
 have a thought 
 
 Sir Jo. Zooks, would the captain would come ! the 
 very remembrance makes me quake; egad, I shall never 
 be reconciled to this place heartily. 
 
 Sharp. 'Tis but trying, and being where I am at worst. 
 Now luck ! [Aloud.} Cursed fortune ! this must be the 
 place, this damned unlucky place ! 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside.] Egad, and so it is. Why, here has 
 been more mischief done, I perceive. 
 
 Sharp. No, 'tis gone, 'tis lost, ten thousand devils on
 
 22 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT n. 
 
 that chance which drew me hither ! Ay, here, just here, 
 this spot to me is hell ; nothing to be found but the des- 
 pair of what I've lost. [Looking about as in search. 
 Sir Jo. Poor gentleman ! By the Lord Harry I'll 
 stay no longer, for I have found too 
 
 Sharp. Ha ! who's that has found? what have you 
 found ? restore it quickly, or by 
 
 Sir Jo. Not I, sir, not I, as I've a soul to be saved, I 
 have found nothing but what has been to my loss, as I 
 may say, and as you were saying, sir. 
 
 Sharp. O your servant, sir, you are safe then it seems ; 
 'tis an ill wind that blows nobody good. Well, you may 
 rejoice over my ill fortune, since it paid the price of your 
 ransom. 
 
 Sir Jo. I rejoice ! egad, not I, sir; I'm very sorry for 
 your loss, with all my heart, blood and guts, sir; and if you 
 did but know me, you'd ne'er say I were so ill-natured. 
 
 Sharp. Know you ! why, can you be so ungrateful to 
 forget me ? 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside.] O Lord, forget him ! -[Aloud.] No, 
 no, sir, I don't forget you because I never saw your 
 face before, egad ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sharp. How! [Angrily. 
 
 Sir Jo. Stay, stay, sir, let me recollect [Aside.] He's 
 
 a damned angry fellow I believe I had better remember 
 
 him, till I can get out of his sight ; but out o'sight, out 
 
 o'mind, egad. 
 
 Sharp. Methought the service I did you last night, sir, 
 in preserving you from those ruffians, might have taken 
 better root in your shallow memory. 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside.] Gads-daggers-belts-blades and scab- 
 bards, this is the very gentleman ! How shall I make 
 him a return suitable to the greatness of his merit? I 
 had a pretty thing to that purpose, if he ha'n't frightened 
 it out of my memory. [Aloud.] Hem, hem, sir, I most 
 submissively implore your pardon for my transgression of 
 ingratitude and omission ; having my entire dependence
 
 SCENE I.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 23 
 
 sir, upon the superfluity of your goodness, which, like an 
 inundation, will, I hope, totally immerge the recollection 
 of my error, and leave me floating in your sight upon the 
 full-blown bladders of repentance, by the help of which I 
 shall once more hope to swim into your favour. {Bows. 
 
 Sharp. So ! O, sir, I am easily pacified, the acknow- 
 ledgment of a gentleman 
 
 Sir Jo. Acknowledgment ! sir, I'm all over acknow- 
 ledgment, and will not stick to show it in the greatest 
 extremity, by night or by day, in sickness or in health, 
 winter or summer ; all seasons and occasions shall testify 
 the reality and gratitude of your super-abundant humble 
 servant, Sir Joseph Wittol, knight. Hem, hem. 
 
 Sharp. Sir Joseph Wittol"! 
 
 Sir Jo. The same, sir, of Wittol Hall, in comitatu 
 Bucks. 
 
 Sharp. Is it possible! then I am happy, to have 
 obliged the mirror of knighthood, and pink of courtesy in 
 the age. Let me embrace you. 
 
 Sir Jo. O Lord, sir ! 
 
 Sharp. My loss I esteem as a trifle repaid with 
 interest, since it has purchased me the friendship and 
 acquaintance of the person in the world whose character 
 I admire. 
 
 Sir Jo. You are only pleased to say so. But pray, if 
 I may be so bold, what is that loss you mention ? 
 
 Sharp. O, term it no longer so, sir. In the scuffle last 
 night, I only dropped a bill of a hundred pounds, which, 
 I confess, I came half despairing to recover, but thanks 
 to my better fortune 
 
 Sir Jo. You have found it, sir, then it seems; I pro- 
 fess I'm heartily glad. 
 
 Sharp. Sir, your humble servant I don't question but 
 you are ; that you have so cheap an opportunity of ex- 
 pressing your gratitude and generosity; since the paying 
 of so trivial a sum will wholly acquit you and doubly 
 engage me.
 
 24 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT n. 
 
 Sir Jo. [Astae.] What, a dickens, does he mean by a 
 trivial sum? [Aloud.~\ But ha'n't you found it, sir? 
 
 Sharp. No otherwise, I vow to gad, but in my hopes 
 in you, sir. 
 
 Sir Jo. Humph. , 
 
 Sharp. But that's sufficient 'twere injustice to doubt 
 the honour of Sir Joseph Wittol. 
 
 Sir Jo. O Lord, sir ! 
 
 Sharp. You are above (I'm sure) a thought so low, to 
 suffer me to lose what was ventured in your service ; nay 
 'twas, in a manner, paid down for your deliverance ; 'twas 
 so much lent you ; and you scorn, I'll say that for you 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, I'll say that for myself, (with your leave, 
 sir,) I do scorn a dirty thing ; but, egad, I'm a little out 
 of pocket at present. 
 
 Sharp. Pshaw! you can't want a hundred pounds. 
 Your word is sufficient anywhere ; 'tis but borrowing so 
 much dirt, you have large acres and can soon repay it. 
 Money is but dirt, Sir Joseph, mere dirt. 
 
 Sir Jo. But I profess 'tis a dirt I have washed my 
 hands of at present ; I have laid it all out upon my back. 
 
 Sharp. Are you so extravagant in clothes, Sir Joseph? 
 
 Sir Jo. Ha ! ha ! ha ! a very good jest I profess, ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! a very good jest, and I did not know that I had 
 said it, and that's a better jest than t'other. 'Tis a sign 
 you and I ha'n't been long acquainted ; you have lost a 
 good jest for want of knowing me. I only mean a friend 
 of mine whom I call my back ; he sticks as close to me, 
 and follows me through all dangers : he is indeed back, 
 breast, and head-piece as it were to me. Egad, he's a 
 brave fellow pauh ! I am quite another thing when I 
 am with him; I don't fear the devil (bless us !) almost, if 
 he be by. Ah, had he been with me last night 
 
 Sharp. If he had, sir, what then ? he could have done 
 no more, nor perhaps have suffered so much. Had he a 
 hundred pounds to lose ? ' [Angrily. 
 
 Sir Jo. O Lord, sir, by no means ! but I might have
 
 SCENE i.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 25 
 
 saved a hundred pounds I meant innocently, as I hope 
 to be saved, sir. A damned hot fellow ! Only, as I was 
 saying, I let him have all my ready money to redeem his 
 great sword from limbo. But, sir, I have a letter of 
 credit to Alderman Fondlewife, as far as two hundred 
 pounds, and this afternoon you shall see I am a person, 
 such a one as you would wish to have met with. 
 
 Sharp. [Aside.] That you are, I'll be sworn. [Ahud.] 
 Why that's great, and like yourself. 
 
 Enter Captain BLUFFE. " 
 
 Sir Jo. 0, here a'comes. Ah, my Hector of Troy, 
 welcome my bully, my back ! egad, my heart has gone a 
 pit-pat for thee. 
 
 Bluff e. How now, my young knight ! not for fear I 
 hope ; he that knows me must be a stranger to fear. 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, egad, I hate fear ever since I had like to 
 have died of a fright but 
 
 Bluff e. But ! look you here, boy, here's your antidote, 
 here's your Jesuit's powder for a shaking fit. 1 But who 
 hast thou got with thee ? is he of mettle ? 
 
 [Laying his hand on his sword. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, bully, a devilish smart fellow ; a' will fight 
 like a cock. 
 
 Bluff e. Say you so ? then I honour him. But has he 
 been abroad? for every cock will fight upon his own 
 dunghill. 
 
 Sir Jo. I don't know, but I'll present you. 
 
 Bluffe. I'll recommend myself. Sir, I honour you; I 
 understand you love fighting, I reverence a man that 
 love's fighting, sir, I kiss your hilts. 
 
 Sharp. Sir, your servant, but you are misinformed ; for 
 unless it be to serve my particular friend, as Sir Joseph 
 here, my country, or my religion, or in some very justi- 
 fiable cause, I'm not for it. 
 
 Bluffe. O Lord, I beg your pardon sir ! I find you are 
 
 1 The use of quinine in ague was introduced from Pern by the 
 Jesuits.
 
 26 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT II. 
 
 not of my palate, you can't relish a dish of fighting with- 
 out sweet sauce. Now I think 
 
 Fighting, for fighting sake's sufficient cause ; 
 Fighting, to me's religion and the laws. 
 
 Sir ffi. Ah, well said, my hero ! Was not that great, 
 sir? By the Lord Harry he says true, fighting is meat, 
 drink, and cloth to him. But, back, this gentleman is 
 one of the best friends I have in the world, and saved my 
 life last night, you know I told you. 
 
 Bluffe. Ay, then I honour him again. Sir, may I 
 crave your name ? 
 
 Sharp. Ay, sir, my name's Sharper. 
 
 Sir Jo. Pray, Mr. Sharper, embrace my back very 
 well. By the Lord Harry, Mr. Sharper, he's as brave a 
 fellow as Cannibal : are not you bully-back ? 
 
 Sharp. Hannibal, I believe you mean, Sir Joseph. 
 
 Bluffe. Undoubtedly he did, sir. Faith, Hannibal 
 was a very pretty fellow; but, Sir Joseph, comparisons 
 are odious ; Hannibal was a very pretty fellow in those 
 days, it must be granted ; but alas, sir, w.ere he alive now, 
 he would be nothing, nothing in the earth. 
 
 Sharp. How, sir ! I make a doubt if there be at this 
 day a greater general breathing. 
 
 Bhiffe. Oh, excuse me, sir ; have you served abroad, sir ? 
 
 Sharp. Not I really, sir. 
 
 Bluffe. Oh, I thought so. Why, then,, you can know 
 nothing, sir; I am afraid you scarce know the history of 
 the late war in Flanders, with all its particulars. 
 
 Sharp. Not I, sir, no more than public letters or 
 gazettes tell us. 
 
 Bluffe. Gazette ! why there again now why, sir, there 
 are not three words of truth the year round put into the 
 gazette I'll tell you a strange thing now as to that. 
 You must know, sir, I was resident in Flanders the last 
 campaign, 1 had a small post there, but no matter for that. 
 
 1 The year before the production of this play, Namur had fallen 
 into the hands of Lewis, and the French victories in the Nether-
 
 SCENE I.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 27 
 
 Perhaps, sir, there was scarce anything of moment done 
 but an humble servant of yours, that shall be nameless, 
 was an eye-witness of I won't say had the greatest share 
 in't; though I might say that too, since I name nobody, 
 you know. Well, Mr. Sharper, would you think it? in all 
 this time, as I hope for a truncheon, this rascally gazette- 
 writer never so much as once mentioned me not once, 
 by the wars ! took no more notice than as if Nol Bluffe 
 had not been in the land of the living ! 
 
 Sharp. Strange! 
 
 Sir Jo. Yet, by the Lord Harry, 'tis true, Mr. Sharper, 
 for I went every day to coffee-houses to read the gazette 
 myself. 
 
 Bluffe. Ay, ay, no matter. You see, Mr. Sharper, I 
 am content to retire live a private person Scipio and 
 others have done it. 
 
 Sharp. Impudent rogue ! \Aside. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, this damned modesty of yours egad, if he 
 would put in for't he might be made general himself yet. 
 
 Bluffe. O fy, no, Sir Joseph ! you know I hate this. 
 
 Sir Jo. Let me but tell Mr. Sharper a little, how you 
 eat fire once out of the mouth of a cannon. Egad he did ; 
 those impenetrable whiskers of his have confronted flames. 
 
 Bluffe. Death, what do you mean, Sir Joseph? 
 
 Sir Jo. Look you now, I tell you he's so modest he'll 
 own nothing. 
 
 Bluffe. Pish ! you have put me out, I have forgot what 
 I was about. Pray hold your tongue, and give me leave. 
 
 {Angrily. 
 
 Sir Jo. I am dumb. 
 
 Bluffe. This sword, I think, I was telling you of, Mr. 
 Sharper, this sword I'll maintain to be the best divine, 
 anatomist, lawyer, or casuist in Europe ; it shall decide a 
 controversy or split a cause. 
 
 lands were watched with grave interest by all Englishmen, who for 
 the first time in the history of their country for many centuries, were 
 personally engaged in a foreign campaign.
 
 28 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT il. 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, now I must speak ; it will split a hair, 
 by the Lord Harry, I have seen it. 
 
 Bluff e. Zounds, sir, it's a lie! you have not seen it, 
 nor shan't see it ; sir, I say you can't see ; what d'ye say 
 to that now? 
 
 Sir Jo. I am blind. 
 
 Bluffe. Death, had any other man interrupted me 
 
 Sis Jo. Good Mr. Sharper, speak to him, I dare not 
 look that way. 
 
 Sharp. Captain, Sir Joseph's penitent. 
 
 Bluffe. O I am calm, sir, calm as a discharged cul- 
 verin but 'twas indiscreet, when you know what will 
 provoke me. Nay, come, Sir Joseph, you know my 
 heat's soon over. 
 
 Sir Jo. Well, I am a fool sometimes but I'm sorry. 
 
 Bluffe. Enough. 
 
 Sir Jo. Come, we'll go take a glass to drown animo- 
 sities. Mr. Sharper, will you partake? 
 
 Sharp. I wait on you, sir ; nay, pray captain, you are 
 Sir Joseph's back. \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 ARAMINTA'S Apartment. 
 
 ARAMINTA, BELINDA, and BETTY discovered. 
 
 Belin. Ah, nay, dear prithee good, dear, sweet cousin, 
 no more. Oh gad, I swear you'd make one sick to hear 
 you ! 
 
 Aram. Bless me, what have I said to move you thus? 
 
 Belin. Oh, you have raved, talked idly, and all in com- 
 mendation of that filthy, awkward, two-legged creature, 
 man ! You don't know what you've said, your fever has 
 transported you.
 
 SCENE IT.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 29 
 
 Aram. If love be the fever which you mean, kind 
 heaven avert the cure ! Let me have oil to feed that 
 flame, and never let it be extinct, till I myself am ashes ! 
 
 Belin. There was a whine ! O gad, I hate your horrid 
 fancy ! This love is the devil, and sure to be in love is 
 to be possessed. 'Tis in the head, the heart, the blood, 
 the all over. gad, you are quite spoiled ! I shall 
 loathe the sight of mankind for your sake. 
 
 Aram. Fy, this is gross affectation ! A little of Bell- 
 mour's company would change the scene. 
 
 Belin. Filthy fellow ! I wonder, cousin 
 
 Aram. I wonder, cousin, you should imagine I don't 
 perceive you love him. 
 
 Belin. Oh, I love your hideous fancy ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 love a man ! 
 
 Aram. Love a man ! yes, you would not love a beast ? 
 
 Belin. Of all beasts not an ass which is so like your 
 Vainlove ! Lard, I have seen an ass look so chagrin, ha ! 
 ha! ha! (you must pardon me, I can't help laughing) 
 that an absolute lover would have concluded the poor 
 creature to have had darts, and flames, and altars, and 
 all that, in his breast. Araminta, come, I'll talk seriously 
 to you now ; could you but see with my eyes, the buf- 
 foonery of one scene of address, a lover, set out with all 
 his equipage and appurtenances ; gad ! sure you would 
 But you play the game, and consequently can't see the 
 miscarriages obvious to every stander by. 
 
 Aram. Yes, yes, I can see something near it, when you 
 and Bellmour meet. You don't know that you dreamed 
 of Bellmour last night, and called him aloud in your sleep. 
 
 Belin. Pish ! I can't help dreaming of the devil some- 
 times ; would you from thence infer I love him ? 
 
 Aram. But that's not all ; you caught me in your arms 
 when you named him, and pressed me to your bosom. 
 Sure, if I had not pinched you till you awaked, you had 
 stifled me with kisses. 
 
 Belin. barbarous aspersion !
 
 30 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT n. 
 
 Aram. No aspersion, cousin, we are alone. Nay I can 
 tell you more. 
 
 Belin. I deny it all. 
 
 Aram. What, before you hear it? 
 
 Belin. My denial is premeditated like your malice. 
 Lard, cousin, you talk oddly ! Whatever the matter is, 
 O my Sol, I'm afraid you'll follow evil courses. 
 
 Aram. Ha ! ha ! ha ! this is pleasant. 
 
 Belin. You may laugh, but 
 
 Aram. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Belin. You may think the malicious grin becomes you. 
 The devil take Bellmour ! why do you tell me of him ? 
 
 Aram. Oh, is it come out ! now you are angry, I am 
 sure you love him. I tell nobody else, cousin ; I have x 
 not betrayed you yet. 
 
 Belin. Prithee, tell it all the world ; it's false. 
 
 Aram. Come then, kiss and friends. 
 
 Belin. Pish! 
 
 Aram. Prithee, don't be so peevish. 
 
 Belin. Prithee, don't be so impertinent. Betty ! 
 
 Aarm. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Betty. Did you ladyship call, madam ? 
 
 Belin. Get my hoods and tippet, and bid the footman 
 call a chair. [Exit BETTY. 
 
 Aram. I hope you are not going out in dudgeon, 
 cousin ? 
 
 Enter PACE. 
 
 Pace. Madam, there are 
 
 Belin. Is there a chair? 
 
 Pace. No, madam, there are Mr. Bellmour and Mr. 
 Vainlove to wait upon your ladyship. 
 
 Aram. Are they below ? 
 
 Pace. No, madam, they sent before, to know if you 
 were at home. 
 
 Belin. The visit's to you, cousin ; I suppose I am at my 
 liberty.
 
 SCENE II.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 31 
 
 Aram. [ To PACE.] Be ready to show "em up. 
 
 \Exit PACE. 
 
 Re-enter BETTY with hoods and looking-glass. 
 
 Aram. I can't tell, cousin, I believe we are equally 
 concerned ; but if you continue your humour, it won't be 
 very entertaining. [Aside.] I know she'd fain be per- 
 suaded to stay. 
 
 Belin. I shall oblige you in leaving you to the full and 
 free enjoyment of that conversation you admire. Let me 
 see ; hold the glass. Lard, I look wretchedly to-day ! 
 
 Aram. Betty, why don't you help my cousin ? 
 
 [Putting on her hood. 
 
 Belin. Hold off your fists ! and see that he gets a chair 
 with a high roof, or a very low seat. Stay, come back 
 here, you Mrs. Fidget you are so ready to go to the 
 footmen. Here, take 'em all again, my mind's changed, 
 I won't go. [Exit BETTY with hoods. 
 
 Aram. \Aside^\ So, this I expected. \Aloud.} You 
 won't oblige me then, cousin, and let me have all the 
 company to myself ? 
 
 Belin. No ; upon deliberation, I have too much charity 
 to trust you to yourself. The devil watches all oppor- 
 tunities ; and, in this favourable disposition of your mind, 
 Heaven knows how far you may be tempted : I am tender 
 of your reputation. 
 
 Aram. I am obliged to you. But who's malicious now, 
 Belinda ? 
 
 Belin. Not I ; witness my heart, I stay out of pure 
 affection. 
 
 Aram. In my conscience, I believe you. 
 
 Enter VAINLOVE and BELLMOUR. 
 
 Bell. So, fortune be praised ! To find you both within, 
 ladies, is 
 
 Aram. No miracle, I hope. 
 
 Bell. Not o' your side, madam, I confess. But my
 
 32 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT II. 
 
 tyrant there and I are two buckets that can never come 
 together. 
 
 Belin. Nor are ever like. Yet we often meet and clash. 
 
 Bell. How, never like! marry, Hymen forbid! But 
 this it is to run so extravagantly in debt; I have laid 
 out such a world of love in your service, that you think 
 you can never be able to pay me all ; so shun me for the 
 same reason that you would a dun. 
 
 Belin. Ay, on my conscience, and the most impertinent 
 and troublesome of duns. A dun for money will be 
 quiet, when he sees his debtor has not wherewithal ; but 
 a dun for love is an eternal torment that never rests. 
 
 Bell, Till he has created love where there was none, 
 and then gets it for his pains. For importunity in love, 
 like importunity at court, first creates its own interest, 
 and then pursues it for the favour. 
 
 Aram. Favours that are got by impudence and impor- 
 tunity, are like discoveries from the rack, when the afflicted 
 person, for his ease, sometimes confesses secrets his heart 
 knows nothing of. 
 
 Vain. I should rather think favours, so gained, to be 
 due rewards to indefatigable devotion. For as Love is a 
 deity, he must be served by prayer. 
 
 Belin. gad, would you would all pray to Love then, 
 and let us alone ! 
 
 Vain. You are the temples of Love, and 'tis through 
 you our devotion must be conveyed. 
 
 Aram. Rather poor silly idols of your own making, 
 which, upon the least displeasure, you forsake, and set up 
 new. Every man, now, changes his mistress and his 
 religion as his humour varies or his interest. 
 
 Vain. O madam ! 
 
 Aram. Nay, come, I find we are growing serious, and 
 then we are in great danger of being dull. If my music- 
 master be not gone, I'll entertain you with a new song, 
 which comes pretty near my own opinion of love and 
 your sex. Who's there ? Is Mr. Gavot gone ? {Calls.
 
 SCENE II.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 33 
 
 Enter PACE. 
 
 Pace. Only to the next door, madam; I'll call him. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Bell. Why, you won't hear me with patience. 
 
 Aram. What's the matter, cousin ? 
 
 Bell. Nothing, madam, only 
 
 Belin. Prithee, hold thy tongue! Lard, he has so 
 pestered me with flames and stuff, I think I shan't endure 
 the sight of a fire this twelvemonth ! 
 
 Bell. Yet all can't melt that cruel frozen heart. 
 
 Belin. O gad, I hate your hideous fancy ! you said 
 that once before. If you must talk impertinently, for 
 Heaven's sake let it be with variety ; don't come always, 
 like the devil, wrapped in flames. I'll not hear a sentence 
 more, that begins with an " I burn " or an "I beseech 
 you, madam." 
 
 Bell. But tell me how you would be adored ; I am 
 very tractable. 
 
 Belin. Then know, I would be adored in silence. 
 
 Bell. Humph ! I thought so, that you might have all 
 the talk to yourself. You had better let me speak ; for if 
 my thoughts fly to any pitch, I shall make villainous 
 signs. 
 
 Belin. What will you get by that ? to make such signs 
 as I won't understand. 
 
 Bell. Ay, but if I am tongue-tied, I must have all my 
 actions free to quicken your apprehension and, egad, 
 let me tell you, my most prevailing argument is expressed 
 in dumb show. 
 
 Enter GAVOT. 
 
 Aram. I am glad, we shall have a song to divert the 
 discourse. \To GAVOT.] Pray oblige us with the last 
 new song. 
 
 GAVOT [.SV//^v.] Thus to a ripe consenting maid, 
 
 Poor, old, repenting Delia s.iid : 
 
 Con. I>
 
 34 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT n. 
 
 Would you long preserve your lover ? 
 
 Would you still his goddess reign ? 
 Never let him all discover, 
 
 Never let him much obtain. 
 
 Men will admire, adore, and die, 
 While wishing at your feet they lie : 
 But admitting their embraces 
 
 Wakes 'em from the golden dream; 
 Nothing's new besides our faces, 
 
 Every woman is the same. 
 
 Aram. So, how d'ye like the song, gentlemen ? 
 
 Bell. O, very well performed ; but I don't much admire 
 the words. 
 
 Aram. I expected it there's too much truth in 'em. 
 If Mr. Gavot will walk with us in the garden, we'll have 
 it once again. You may like it better at second hearing. 
 You'll bring my cousin? 
 
 Bell. Faith, madam, I dare not speak to her, but I'll 
 make signs. {Addresses BELINDA in dumb slww. 
 
 Belin. O foh ! your dumb rhetoric is more ridiculous 
 than your talking impertinence ; as an ape is a much 
 more troublesome animal than a parrot. 
 
 Aram. Ay, cousin, and 'tis a sign the creatures mimic 
 nature well ; for there are few men but do more silly 
 things than they say. 
 
 Bell. Well, I find my apishness has paid the ransom 
 for my speech, and set it at liberty, though I confess I 
 could be well enough pleased to drive on a love-bargain 
 in that silent manner: 'twould save a man a world of 
 lying and swearing at the year's end. Besides, I have 
 had a little experience, that brings to mind 
 
 When wit and reason both have failed to move, 
 Kind looks and actions (from success) do prove, 
 Even silence may be eloquent in love. {Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Street before SILVIA'S Lodging. 
 
 Enter SILVIA and LUCY. 
 
 ILV. Will he not come then ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, yes ; come ! I warrant 
 him, if you will go in and be ready to 
 receive him. 
 
 Silv. Why, did you not tell me? 
 who mean you ? 
 Lucy. Whom you should mean, Heartwell. 
 Silv. Senseless creature ! I meant my Vainlove. 
 Lucy. You may as soon hope to recover your own 
 maidenhead as his love. Therefore, e'en set your heart 
 at rest ; and in the name of opportunity mind your own 
 business. Strike Heartwell home, before the bait's worn 
 off the hook. Age will come. He nibbled fairly yester- 
 day, and no doubt will be eager enough to-day to swallow 
 the temptation. 
 
 Silv. Well, since there's no remedy Yet tell me, for I 
 would know, though to the anguish of my soul, how did 
 he refuse ? Tell me how did he receive my letter ? in 
 anger or in scorn ? 
 
 Lucy. Neither ; but what was ten times worse, with 
 damned senseless indifference. By this light, I could 
 have spit in his face ! Received it ! why he received it 
 as I would one of your lovers that should come empty- 
 handed; as a court lord does his mercer's bill, or a begging
 
 36 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT 111, 
 
 dedication he received it as if 't had been a letter from 
 his wife. 
 
 Silv. What, did he not read it? 
 
 Lucy. Hummed it over, gave you his respects, and 
 said he would take time to peruse it but then he was 
 in haste. 
 
 Silv. Respects, and peruse it! He's gone, and Ara- 
 minta has bewitched him from me ! O how the name of 
 rival fires my blood ! I could curse 'em both ; eternal 
 jealousy attend her love, and disappointment meet his ! 
 Oh that I could revenge the torment he has caused ! 
 Methinks I feel the woman strong within me, and ven- 
 geance kindles in the room of love. 
 
 Lucy. I have that in my head may make mischief. 
 
 Silv. How, dear Lucy? 
 
 Lucy. You know Araminta's dissembled coyness has 
 won, and keeps him hers 
 
 Silv. Could we persuade him that she loves another 
 
 Lucy. No, you're out ; could we persuade him that she 
 dotes on him, himself contrive a kind letter as from her, 
 'twould disgust his nicety, and take away his stomach. 
 
 Silv. Impossible, 'twill never take. 
 
 Lucy. Trouble not your head. Let me alone. I will 
 inform myself of what passed between 'em to-day, and 
 about it straight. Hold, I'm mistaken or that's Heart- 
 well who stands talking at the corner 'tis he. Go, get 
 you in, madam, receive him pleasantly, dress up your face 
 in innocence and smiles, and dissemble the very want of 
 dissimulation. You know what will take him. 
 
 Silv. 'Tis as hard to counterfeit love as it is to conceal 
 it ; but I'll do my weak endeavour, though I fear I have 
 no art. 
 
 Lucy. Hang art, madam 1 and trust to nature for dis- 
 sembling. 
 
 Man was by nature woman's cully made ; 
 We never are but by ourselves betrayed. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 SCENE II.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 37 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same. 
 
 Enter HEARTWELL, VAINLOVE and BELLMOUR 
 following. 
 
 Bell. Hist, hist, is not that Heartwell going to Silvia? 
 
 Vain. He's talking to himself, I think: prithee let's 
 try if we can hear him. 
 
 Heart. Why, whither in the devil's name am I a-going 
 now? Hum let me think is not this Silvia's house, 
 the cave of that enchantress, and which consequently I 
 ought to shun as I would infection ? To enter here, is to 
 put on the envenomed shirt, to run into the embraces of 
 a fever, and in some raving fit be led to plunge myself 
 into that more consuming fire, a woman's arms. Ha ! 
 well recollected, I will recover my reason, and 
 begone. 
 
 Bell. Now, Venus forbid ! 
 
 Vain. Hush ! 
 
 Heart. Well, why do you not move ? Feet, do your 
 office not one inch ; no, foregad, I'm caught ! There 
 stands my north, and thither my needle points. Now 
 could I curse myself, yet cannot repent. O thou delicious, 
 damned, dear, destructive woman ! 'Sdeath, how the 
 young fellows will hoot me ! I shall be the jest of the 
 town. Nay, in two days I expect to be chronicled in 
 ditty, and sung in woeful ballad, to the tune of " The 
 Superannuated Maiden's Comfort," or '' The Bachelor's 
 Fall ; " and upon the third I shall be hanged in effigy, 
 pasted up for the exemplary ornament of necessary- 
 houses and cobblers' stalls. Death, I can't think on't ! 
 I'll run into the danger to lose the apprehension. 
 
 {Enters SILVIA'S lodgings. 
 
 Bell. A very certain remedy, probatum est. Ha ! ha ! 
 ha! poor George, thou art i 1 th' right, thou hast sold 
 thyself to laughter ; the ill-natured town will find the jest
 
 38 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT m. 
 
 just where thou hast lost it. Ha ! ha ! how a' struggled, 
 like an old lawyer between two fees ! 
 
 Vain. Or a young wench, between pleasure and repu- 
 tation. 
 
 Bell. Or as you did to-day, when half afraid you 
 snatched a kiss from Araminta. 
 
 Vain. She has made a quarrel on't. 
 
 Bell. Pauh ! women are only angry at such offences, 
 to have the pleasure of forgiving 'em. 
 
 Vain. And I love to have the pleasure of making my 
 peace. I should not esteem a pardon if too easily 
 won. 
 
 Bell. Thou dost not know what thou wouldst be at ; 
 whether thou wouldst have her angry or pleased. Couldst 
 thou be content to marry Araminta ? 
 
 Vain. Could you be content to go to Heaven ? 
 
 Bell. Hum, not immediately, in my conscience not 
 heartily. I'd do a little more good in my generation 
 first, in order to deserve it. 
 
 Vain. Nor I to marry Araminta till I merit her. 
 
 Bell. But how the devil dost thou expect to get her if 
 she never yield ? 
 
 Vain. That's true ; but I would 
 
 Bell. Marry her without her consent ; thou'rt a riddle 
 beyond woman. 
 
 Enter SETTER. 
 
 Trusty Setter, what tidings? how goes the project? 
 
 Set. As all lewd projects do, sir, where the devil pre- 
 vents our endeavours with success. 
 
 Bell. A good hearing, Setter. 
 
 Vain. Well, I'll leave you with your engineer. \_Exit. 
 
 Bell. And hast thou provided necessaries ? 
 
 Set. All, all, sir ; the large sanctified hat, and the 
 little precise band, and a swinging long spiritual cloak, 
 to cover carnal knavery not forgetting the black patch, 
 which Tribulation Spintext wears, as I'm informed, upon
 
 SCENE II.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 39 
 
 one eye, as a penal mourning for the ogling offences of 
 his youth ; and some say, with that eye he first discovered 
 the frailty of his wife. 
 
 BelL Well, in this fanatic father's habit will I confess 
 Lsetitia. 
 
 Set. Rather prepare her for confession, sir, by helping 
 her to sin. 
 
 Bell. Be at your master's lodging in the evening, I 
 shall use the robes. \Exit. 
 
 Set. I shall, sir. I wonder to which of these two gen- 
 tlemen I do most properly appertain ? The one uses me 
 as his attendant, the other (being the better acquainted 
 with my parts) employs me as a pimp ; why that's much 
 the more honourable employment by all means. I 
 follow one as my master, t'other follows me as his con- 
 ductor. 
 
 Enter LUCY. 
 
 Lucy. \Aside^\ There's the hang-dog his man. I had 
 a power over him in the reign of my mistress ; but he is 
 too true a valet-de-chambre not to affect his master's 
 faults ; and consequently is revolted from his allegiance. 
 
 Set. \Not perceiving LUCY.] Undoubtedly 'tis impossi- 
 ble to be a pimp and not a man of parts. That is, with- 
 out being politic, diligent, secret, wary and so forth : 
 and to all this, valiant as Hercules that is, passively 
 valiant and actively obedient. Ah Setter, what a treasure 
 is here lost for want of being known ! 
 
 Lucy. \Aside^\ Here's some villainy a-foot, he's so 
 thoughtful ; maybe I may discover something in my mask. 
 \Alotid.\ Worthy sir, a word with you. 
 
 [Puts on her mask. 
 
 Set. Why, if I were known, I might come to be a 
 great man 
 
 Lucy. Not to interrupt your meditation 
 
 Set. And I should not be the first that has procured 
 his greatness by pimping.
 
 40 THE OLD BACHELOR.'- [ACTIII. 
 
 Lucy. Now poverty and the pox light upon thee, for a 
 contemplative pimp ! 
 
 Set. Ha ! what art, who thus maliciously hast awakened 
 me from my dream of glory ? Speak, thou vile dis- 
 turber 
 
 Lucy. Of thy most vile cogitations. Thou poor, con- 
 ceited wretch, how wert thou valuing thyself upon thy 
 master's employment ? For he's the head-pimp to Mr. 
 Bellmour. 
 
 Set. Good words, damsel, or I shall but how dost 
 thou know my master or me ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, I know both master and man to be 
 
 Set. To be men perhaps ; nay, faith, like enough : I 
 often march in the rear of my master, -and enter the 
 breaches which he has made. 
 
 Lucy. Ay, the breach of faith, which he has begun : 
 thou traitor to thy lawful princess ! 
 
 Set. Why, how now ! prithee, who art ? Lay by that 
 worldly face, and produce your natural vizor. 
 
 Lucy. No, sirrah, I'll keep it on to abuse thee, and 
 leave thee without hopes of revenge. 
 
 Set. Oh ! I begin to smoke ye : thou art some forsaken 
 Abigail we have dallied with heretofore, and art come to 
 tickle thy imagination with remembrance of iniquity past. 
 
 Lucy. No, thou pitiful flatterer of thy master's imper- 
 fections ! thou maukin, made up of the shreds and par- 
 ings of his superfluous fopperies ! 
 
 Set. Thou art thy mistress's foul self, composed of her 
 sullied iniquities and clothing. 
 
 Lucy. Hang thee, beggar's cur ! Thy master is but a 
 mumper in love ; lies canting at the gate, but never dares 
 presume to enter the house. 
 
 Set. Thou art the wicket to thy mistress's gate, to be 
 opened for all comers. In fine, thou art the high-road 
 to thy mistress. 
 
 Lucy. Beast ! filthy toad ! I can hold no longer : look 
 and tremble. [Urtmasks.
 
 SCENE II.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 41 
 
 > 
 
 Set. How, Mrs. Lucy ! 
 
 Lucy. I wonder thou hast the impudence to look me 
 in the face. 
 
 Set. Adsbud, who's in fault, mistress of mine? who 
 flung the first stone ? who undervalued my function ? 
 and who the devil could know you" by instinct ? 
 
 Lucy. You could know my office by instinct, and be 
 hanged ! which you have slandered most abominably. It 
 vexes me not what you said of my person ; but that my 
 innocent calling should be exposed and scandalised I 
 cannot bear it. [Pretends to cry. 
 
 Set. Nay, faith, Lucy, I'm sorry; I'll own myself to 
 blame, though we were both in fault as to our offices. 
 Come, I'll make you any reparation. 
 
 Lucy. Swear. 
 
 Set. I do swear to the utmost of my power. 
 
 Lucy. To be brief then: What is the reason your 
 master did not appear to-day according to the summons 
 I brought him ? 
 
 Set. To answer you as briefly : He has a cause to be 
 tried in another court. 
 
 Lucy. Come, tell me in plain terms, how forward he is 
 with Araminta. 
 
 Set. Too forward to be turned back ; though he's a 
 little in disgrace at present about a kiss which he forced. 
 You and I can kiss, Lucy, without all that. 
 
 Lucy. Stand off ! he's a precious jewel ! 
 
 Set. And therefore you'd have him to set in your lady's 
 locket. 
 
 Lucy. Where is he now ? 
 
 Set. He'll be in the Piazza 1 presently. 
 
 Lucy. Remember to-day's behaviour let me see you 
 with a penitent face. 
 
 1 The Piazza in Covent Garden, then a fashionable quarter of the 
 town and the centre of social life. Allusions to the Square, St. 
 Paul's Church, and the Piazza are of frequent occurrence in the 
 plays of this date.
 
 42 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT m. 
 
 Set. What, no token of amity, Lucy? you and I don't 
 use to part with dry lips. 
 
 Lucy. No, no, avaunt ! I'll not be slabbered and 
 kissed now I'm not i' th' humour. 
 
 Set. I'll not quit you so : I'll follow and put you into 
 the humour. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The Street. 
 
 Enter SIR JOSEPH WITTOL and BLUFFE. 
 
 Bluff e. And so out of your unwonted generosity 
 
 Sir Jo. And good-nature, back ; I am good-natured, 
 and I can't help it. 
 
 Bluff e. You have given him a note upon Fondlewife 
 for a hundred pounds. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, ay, poor fellow, he ventured fair for't. 
 
 Bluff e. You have disobliged me in it, for I have occa- 
 sion for the money, and if you would look me in the 
 face again and live, go, and force him to re-deliver you 
 the note. Go, and bring it me hither : I'll stay here for 
 you. 
 
 Sir Jo. You may stay 'till the day of judgment then : 
 by the Lord Harry, I know better things than to be run 
 through the guts for a hundred pounds. Why, I gave 
 that hundred pounds for being saved, and d'ye think, an 
 there were no danger, I'll be so ungrateful to take it from 
 the gentleman again? 
 
 Bluffe. Well, go to him from me. Tell him, I say 
 he must refund, or Bilbo's 1 the word, and slaughter will 
 ensue : if he refuse, tell him but whisper that tell 
 
 1 A Spanish sword, so named from Bilboa, the place of its 
 manufacture.
 
 SCENE III.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 43 
 
 him I'll pink his soul but whisper that softly to 
 him. 
 
 Sir Jo. So softly that he shall never hear on't, I 
 warrant you. Why, what a devil's the matter, bully, are 
 you mad ? or d'ye think I'm mad ? Egad, for my part, 
 I don't love to be the messenger of ill news : 'tis an un- 
 grateful office so tell him yourself. 
 
 Bluff e. By these hilts, I believe he frightened you into 
 this composition ! I believe you gave it him out of fear, 
 pure, paltry fear confess. 
 
 Sir Jo. No, no, hang't ; I was not afraid neither 
 though I confess he did in a manner snap me up yet I 
 can't say that it was altogether out of fear, but partly to 
 prevent mischief for he was a devilish choleric fellow : 
 and if my choler had been up too, egad, there would 
 have been mischief done, that's flat. And yet I believe 
 if you had been by, I would as soon have let him a' had a 
 hundred of my teeth. Adsheart, if he should come just 
 now when I'm angry, I'd tell him mum. 
 
 Enter BELLMOUR, and SHARPER. 
 
 Bell. Thou'rt a lucky rogue ; there's your benefactor ; 
 you ought to return him thanks now you have received 
 the favour. 
 
 Sharp. Sir Joseph, your note was accepted, and the 
 money paid at sight : I'm come to return my thanks. 
 
 Sir Jo. They won't be accepted so readily as the 
 bill, sir. 
 
 Bell. I doubt the knight repents, Tom. He looks 
 like the Knight of the Sorrowful Face. 
 
 Sharp. This is a double generosity : do me a kind- 
 ness, and refuse my thanks. But I hope you are not 
 offended that I offered 'em ? 
 
 Sir Jo. Maybe I am, sir, maybe I am not, sir, maybe 
 I am both, sir ; what then ? I hope. I may be offended, 
 without any offence to you, sir?
 
 44 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT HI. 
 
 Sharp. Heyday ! Captain, what's the matter? you can 
 tell. 
 
 Bluffe. Mr. Sharper, the matter is plain ; Sir Joseph 
 has found out your trick, and does not care to be put 
 upon, being a man of honour. 
 
 Sharp. Trick, sir? 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, trick, sir, and won't be put upon, sir, 
 being a man of honour, sir, and so, sir 
 
 Sharp. Harkee, Sir Joseph, a word with ye. In con- 
 sideration of some favours lately received, I would not 
 have you draw yourself into a premunire, by trusting to 
 that sign of a man there that potgun charged with 
 wind. 
 
 Sir Jo. Lord, O Lord, captain, come justify your- 
 self! I'll give him the lie if you'll stand to it. 
 
 Sharp. Nay, then, I'll be beforehand with you ; take 
 that, oaf. [ Cuffs him. 
 
 Sir Jo. Captain, will you see this ? won't you pink 
 his soul? 
 
 Bluffe. Hush ! 'tis not so convenient now I shall 
 find a time. 
 
 Sharp. What, do you mutter about a time, rascal ? 
 You were the incendiary ; there's to put you in mind of 
 your time a memorandum. \Kicks him. 
 
 Bluffe. Oh, this is your time, sir, you had best make 
 use on't. 
 
 Sharp. Egad, and so I will: there's again for you. 
 
 \Kicks him. 
 
 Bluffe. You are obliging, sir, but this is too public a 
 place to thank you in : but, in your ear, you are to be 
 seen again. 
 
 Sharp. Ay, thou inimitable coward, and to be felt : as 
 for example. \Kicks him. 
 
 Bell. Ha ! ha ! ha ! prithee come away ; 'tis scandal- 
 ous to kick this puppy, unless a man were cold, and had 
 no other way to get himself a heat. 
 
 \Exeunt BELLMOUR and SHARPER.
 
 SCENE III.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 45 
 
 Bluffe. Very well very fine but 'tis no matter. Is 
 not this fine, Sir Joseph ? 
 
 Sir Jo. Indifferent, egad, in my opinion very in- 
 different. I'd rather go plain all my life than wear such 
 finery. 
 
 Bluffe. Death and hell ! to be affronted thus ! I'll die 
 before I'll suffer it. {.Draws. 
 
 Sir Jo. \Aside.\ Lord, his anger was not raised be- 
 fore ! [Aloud.] Nay, dear captain, don't be in a passion 
 now he's gone. Pat up, put up, dear back, 'tis your Sir 
 Joseph begs ; come, let me kiss thee ; so, so, put up, put 
 up. 
 
 Bluffe. By Heaven, 'tis not to be put up ! 
 
 Sir Jo. What, bully ? 
 
 Bluffe. The affront. 
 
 Sir Jo. No, egad, no more 'tis, for that's put up 
 already: thy sword I mean. 
 
 Bluffe. Well, Sir Joseph, at your entreaty. \Puts up 
 his sword.\ But were not you, my friend, abused and 
 cuffed and kicked ? 
 
 Sir oj. Ay, ay, so were you too ; no matter, 'tis past. 
 
 Bluffe. By the immortal thunder of great guns, 'tis 
 false ! he sucks not vital air who dares affirm it to this 
 face. \Looks big. 
 
 Sir Jo. To that face I grant you, captain : no, no, I 
 grant you, not to that face ; by the Lord Harry, if you had 
 put on your fighting face before, you had done his 
 business; he durst as soon have kissed you, as kicked 
 you to your face ; but a man can no more help what's 
 done behind his back, than what's said. Come, we'll 
 think no more of what's past. 
 
 Bluffe. I'll call a council of war within to consider of 
 my revenge to come.
 
 46 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT III. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 SILVIA'S Apartment. 
 
 HEARTWELL and SILVIA : Also a Singer and Dancers. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 As Amoret and Thyrsis lay 
 Melting the hours in gentle play, 
 Joining faces, mingling kisses, 
 And exchanging harmless blisses ; 
 He trembling cried with eager haste : 
 " 0, let me feed, as well as taste ; 
 I die, if I'm not wholly blest ! " 
 
 After the song a Dance of Antics. 1 
 
 Silv. Indeed, it is very fine, I could look upon 'em all 
 day. 
 
 Heart. Well, has this prevailed for me, and will you 
 look upon me? 
 
 Silv. If you could sing and dance so, I should love to 
 look upon you too. 
 
 Heart. Why 'twas I sung and danced ; I gave music 
 to the voice, and life to their measures. Look you here, 
 Silvia, [Pulling out a purse and chinking it] here are songs 
 and dances, poetry and music. Hark ! how sweetly one 
 guinea rhymes to another, and how they dance to the 
 music of their own chink. This buys all the t'other, and 
 this thou shalt have ; this, and all that I am worth, for 
 the purchase of thy love. Say, is it mine then, ha ? 
 Speak, siren ! [Aside.] Oons, why do I look on her ? 
 Yet I must. \Aloud.~\ Speak, dear angel ! devil ! saint ! 
 witch ! do not rack me with suspense. 
 
 Silv. Nay, don't stare at me so ; you make me blush, 
 I cannot look. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.] O manhood ! where art thou ? 
 
 1 Dancers fantastically attired.
 
 SCENE iv.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 47 
 
 What am I come to ? a woman's toy, at these years ! 
 Death, a bearded baby for a girl to dandle ! O dotage, 
 dotage ! That ever that noble passion, lust, should ebb 
 to this degree ! No reflux of vigorous blood ; but milky 
 love supplies the empty channels, and prompts me to the 
 softness of a child a mere infant, and would suck. 
 \Aloud.~\ Can you love me, Silvia ? speak. 
 
 Silv. I dare not speak till I believe you, and indeed 
 I'm afraid to believe you yet. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.] Death, how her innocence torments 
 and pleases me ! \Aloud^\ Lying, child, is indeed the 
 art of love ; and men are generally masters in it : but 
 I'm so newly entered, you cannot distrust me of any 
 skill in the treacherous mystery. Now, by my soul, 
 I cannot lie, though it were to serve a friend or gain a 
 mistress. 
 
 Silv. Must you lie then, if you say you love me ? 
 
 Heart. No, no, dear ignorance! thou beauteous 
 changeling ! I tell thee I do love thee, and tell it 
 for a truth, a naked truth, which I am ashamed to dis- 
 cover. 
 
 Silv. But love, they say, is a tender thing, that will 
 smooth frowns, and make calm an angry, face ; will soften 
 a rugged temper, and make ill-humoured people good : 
 you look ready to fright one, and talk as if your passion 
 were not love, but anger. 
 
 Heart. 'Tis both, for I am angry with myself when I 
 am pleased with you. And a pox upon me for loving 
 thee so well ! yet I must on. 'Tis a bearded arrow, and 
 will more easily be thrust forward than drawn back. 
 
 Silv. Indeed if I were well assured you loved ; but 
 how can I be well assured ? 
 
 Heart. Take the symptoms, and ask all the tyrants of 
 thy sex, if their fools are not known by this party- 
 coloured livery. I am melancholic when thou art absent, 
 look like an ass when thou art present, wake for thee 
 when I should sleep ; and even dream of thee when I
 
 48 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT m. 
 
 am awake ; sigh much, drink little, eat less, court soli- 
 tude, am grown very entertaining to myself, and (as I am 
 informed) very troublesome to everybody else. If this be 
 not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable. Nay, 
 yet a more certain sign than all this, I give thee my 
 money. 
 
 Silv. Ay, but that is no sign ; for they say gentlemen 
 will give money to any naughty woman to come to bed 
 to them. O gemini ! I hope you don't mean so, for I 
 won't be a whore. 
 
 Heart. \_Aside.~\ The more is the pity. 
 
 Silv. Nay, if you would marry me, you should not 
 come to bed to me, you have such a beard, and would so 
 prickle one. But do you intend to marry me ? 
 
 Heart. \Aside^\ That a fool should ask such a malici- 
 ous question ! Death, I shall be drawn in before I know 
 where I am ! However, I find I am pretty sure of her 
 consent, if I am put to it. \Aloud.~\ Marry you ! no, no, 
 I'll love you. 
 
 Silv. Nay, but if you love me, you must marry me ; 
 what, don't I know my father loved my mother, and was 
 married to her ? 
 
 Heart. Ay, ay, in old days people married where they 
 loved ; but that fashion is changed, child. 
 
 Silv. Never tell me that, I know it is not changed by 
 myself; for I love you and would marry you. 
 
 Heart. I'll have my beard shaved, it shan't hurt thee, 
 and we'll go to bed 
 
 Silv. No, no, I'm not such a fool neither but I 
 can keep myself honest. Here, I won't keep any- 
 thing that's yours; I hate you now, [Throws the purse} 
 and I'll never see you again, 'cause you'd have me be 
 naught. [Going. 
 
 Heart. \_Aside. ~\ Damn her ! let her go, and a good 
 riddance; yet so much tenderness and beauty and 
 honesty together is a jewel. \Aloud^\ Stay, Silvia! 
 [Aside.~[ But then to marry why, every man plays the
 
 SCENE iv.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 49 
 
 fool once in his life ; but to marry is playing the fool all 
 one's life long. 
 
 Silv. What did you call me for ? 
 
 Heart. I'll give thee all I have; and thou shalt live 
 with me in everything so like my wife, the world shall 
 believe it ; nay, thou shalt think so thyself, only let me 
 not think so. 
 
 Silv. No, I'll die before I'll be your whore, as well as 
 I love you ! 
 
 Heart. \Aside. '.] A woman, and ignorant, may be 
 honest, when 'tis out of obstinacy and contradiction ; but, 
 'sdeath! it is but a may-be, and upon scurvy terms. 
 \Aloud '.] Well, farewell then ; if I can get out of sight, I 
 may get the better of myself. 
 
 Silv. Well, good bye. {Pretends to weep. 
 
 Heart. Ha ! nay come, we'll kiss at parting. \Aside^\ 
 By Heaven, her kiss is sweeter than liberty ! \Aloud^\ I 
 will marry thee; there thou hast done't. All my resolves 
 melted in that kiss one more. 
 
 Silv. But when ? 
 
 Heart. I'm impatient till it be done ; I will not give 
 myself liberty to think, lest I should cool. I will about 
 a licence straight ; in the evening expect me. One kiss 
 more to confirm me mad ; so. \Exit. 
 
 Silv. Ha ! ha ! ha ! an old fox trapped ! 
 
 Enter LUCY. 
 
 Bless me! you frighten me. I thought he had been 
 come again, and had heard me. 
 
 Lucy. Lord, madam, I met your lover in as much haste 
 as if he had been going for a midwife ! 
 
 Silv. He's going for a parson, girl, the forerunner of a 
 midwife, some nine months hence. Well, I find dis- 
 sembling to our sex is as natural as swimming to a negro ; 
 we may depend upon our skill to save us at a plunge, 
 though till then we never make the experiment. But how 
 hast thou succeeded ?
 
 THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 [ACT. in. 
 
 Lucy. As you would wish ; since there is no reclaiming 
 Vainlove. I have found out a pique she has taken at 
 him, and have framed a letter that makes her sue for 
 reconciliation first. I know that will do walk in and 
 I'll show it you. Come, madam, you're like to have a 
 happy time on't ; both your love and anger satisfied ! all 
 that can charm our sex conspire to please you. 
 That woman sure enjoys a blessed night, 
 Whom love and vengeance both at once delight. 
 
 \Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Street before FONDLEWIFE'S House. 
 
 Enter BELLMOUR in fanatic habit, 1 and SETTER. 
 
 ' ELL. 'Tis pretty near the hour. \Looking 
 on his watch^\ Well, and how, Setter, 
 ha ? does my hypocrisy fit me, ha ? 
 does it sit easy on me ? 
 
 Set. O most religiously well, sir. 
 Bell. I wonder why all our young 
 fellows should glory in an opinion of 
 atheism, when they may be so much more conveniently 
 lewd under the coverlet of religion. 
 
 Set. Sbud, sir, away quickly! there's Fondlewife just 
 turned the corner, and's coming this way. 
 
 Bell. Gads so, there he is, he must not see me. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Enter FONDLEWIFE and BARNABY. 
 
 Fond. I say I will tarry at home. 
 
 Bar. But, sir 
 
 Fond. Good lack I I profess the spirit of contradiction 
 hath possessed the lad I say I will tarry at home, 
 varlet ! 
 
 Bar. I have done, sir ; then farewell five hundred 
 pounds 1 
 
 Fond. Ha, how's that! Stay, stay, did you leave 
 word say you, with his wife ? with Comfort herself ? 
 1 Clerical dress of the Puritan.
 
 52 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT IV. 
 
 Bar. I did ; and Comfort will send Tribulation hither 
 as soon as ever he comes home. I could have brought 
 young Mr. Prig to have kept my mistress company in the 
 mean time ; but you say 
 
 Fond. How, how, say, varlet ? I say let him not come 
 near my doors ; I say he is a wanton young Levite, 1 and 
 pampereth himself up with dainties, that he may look 
 lovely in the eyes of women. Sincerely I am afraid he 
 hath already defiled the tabernacle of our sister Comfort ; 
 while her good husband is deluded by his godly appear- 
 ance. I say, that even lust doth sparkle in his eyes, and 
 glow upon his cheeks, and that I would as soon trust my 
 wife with a lord's high-fed chaplain. 
 
 Bar. Sir, the hour draws nigh, and nothing will be 
 done there till you come. 
 
 Fond. And nothing can be done here till I go, so that 
 I'll tarry, d'ye see. 
 
 Bar. And run the hazard to lose your affair, sir ? 
 
 Fond. Good lack, good lack! I protest 'tis a very 
 sufficient vexation, for a man to have a handsome wife. 
 
 Bar. Never, sir, but when the man is an insufficient 
 husband. 'Tis then, indeed, like the vanity of taking a 
 fine house, and yet be forced to let lodgings to help 
 pay the rent. 
 
 Fond. I profess a very apt comparison, varlet. Go 
 and bid my Cocky come out to me. I will give her some 
 instructions, I will reason with her, before I go. [Exit 
 BARNABY]. And, in the mean time, I will reason with 
 myself. Tell me, Isaac, why art thee jealous? why 
 art thee distrustful of the wife of thy bosom ? because 
 she is young and vigorous, and I am old and impotent. 
 
 1 The nickname then in vogue for a domestic chaplain. " A 
 young Levite such was the phrase then in use might be had for 
 his board, a small garret, and ten pounds a year, and might not 
 only perform his own professional functions, might not only be 
 always ready in fine weather for bowls and in rainy weather for 
 shovel board, but might also save the expense of a gardener or of 
 a groom." Macaulay, Hist, of England, chap. iii.
 
 SCENE:.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 53 
 
 Then, why didst thee marry, Isaac ? because she was 
 beautiful and tempting, and because I was obstinate and 
 doting ; so that my inclination was, and is still, greater 
 than my power. And will not that which tempted thee, 
 also tempt others, who will tempt her, Isaac ? I fear it 
 much. But does not thy wife love thee, nay, dote upon 
 thee ? yes Why then ! Ay, but to say truth, she's 
 fonder of me than she has reason to be ; and in the way of 
 trade, we still suspect the smoothest dealers of the deepest 
 designs and that she has some designs deeper than thou 
 canst reach, th'hast experimented, Isaac but, mum. 
 
 Enter L/ETITIA. 
 
 Lat. I hope my dearest jewel is not going to leave me, 
 are you, Nykin ? 
 
 Fond. Wife, have you thoroughly considered how de- 
 testable, how heinous, and how crying a sin, the sin of 
 adultery is ? have you weighed it, I say ? for it is a very 
 weighty sin ; and although it may lie heavy upon thee, 
 yet thy husband must also bear his part; for thy iniquity 
 will fall upon his head. 
 
 Lat. Bless me, what means my dear? 
 
 Fond. [Aside. .] I profess she has an alluring eye; I am 
 doubtful whether I shall trust her, even with Tribulation 
 himself. [Aloud.'} Speak, I say, have you considered 
 what it is to cuckold your husband ? 
 
 L<zt. \Aside^\ I'm amazed : sure he has discovered 
 nothing ! \Aloud^\ Who has wronged me to my dearest ? 
 I hope my jewel does not think that ever I had any such 
 thing in my head, or ever will have. 
 
 Fond. No, no, I tell you I shall have it in my 
 head. 
 
 Lat. [Aside '.] I know not what to think ; but I'm re- 
 solved to find the meaning of it.: [Aloud.} Unkind 
 dear ! was it for this you sent to call me ? is it not afflic- 
 tion enough that you are to leave me, but you must study 
 to increase it by unjust suspicions ? [ Crying.'] Well
 
 54 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT iv. 
 
 well you know my fondness, and you love to tyrannise. 
 Go on, cruel man ! do, triumph over my poor heart, while 
 it holds ; which cannot be long, with this usage of yours. 
 But that's what you want. Well, you will have your 
 ends soon you will you will. Yes, it will break to 
 oblige you. \Sighs. 
 
 Fond. \Aside.~\ Verily I fear I have carried the jest too 
 far. Nay, look you now if she does not weep ! 'Tis the 
 fondest fool ! \Aloud^\ Nay, Cocky, Cocky, nay, dear 
 Cocky, don't cry, I was but in jest, I was not i'feck. 
 
 Lcet. \Aside. ~\ Oh then all's safe. I was terribly 
 frighted. [^4/<w*/.] My affliction is always your jest, 
 barbarous man ! Oh that I should love to this degree ! 
 yet 
 
 Fond. Nay, Cocky 
 
 Lcet. No, no, you are weary of me, that's it; that's 
 all. You would get another wife, another fond fool, to 
 break her heart. Well, be as cruel as you can to me, I'll 
 pray for you ; and when I am dead with grief, may you 
 have one that will love you as well as I have done : I 
 shall be be contented to lie at peace in my cold grave 
 since it will please you. \Sighs. 
 
 Fond. \Aside, ,] Good lack ! good lack ! she would melt 
 a heart of oak. I profess I can hold no longer. \Aloud.~\ 
 Nay, dear Cocky I'feck you'll break my heart I'feck 
 you will. See, you have made me weep made poor 
 Nykin weep ! Nay, come kiss, buss poor Nykin and I 
 won't leave thee I'll lose all first. 
 
 Lat. \Aside^\ How, heaven forbid ! that will be carry- 
 ing the jest too far indeed. 
 
 Fond. Won't you kiss Nykin? 
 
 Lcet. Go, naughty Nykin, you don't love me. 
 
 Fond. Kiss, kiss, i'feck I do. 
 
 Lat. No, you don't. \She kisses him. 
 
 Fond. What, not love Cocky ! 
 
 Lat. No h. \Siglis. 
 
 Fond. I profess I do love thee better than five hundred
 
 SCENE II.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 55 
 
 pounds ; and so thou shalt say, for I'll leave it to stay 
 with thee. 
 
 Lat. No, you shan't neglect your business for me no 
 indeed you san't, Nykin. If you don't go, I'll think 
 you been dealous of me still. 
 
 Fond. He ! he ! he ! wilt thou, poor fool ? then I will 
 go, I won't be dealous. Poor Cocky, kiss Nykin, - kiss 
 Nykin ; ee! ee! ee! Here will be the good man anon, 
 to talk to Cocky, and teach her how a wife ought to be- 
 have herself. 
 
 Lcet. \Aside. ~\ I hope to have one that will show me 
 how a husband ought to behave himself. [Alotid.~\ I 
 shall be glad to learn to please my jewel. [Kisses him. 
 
 Fond. That's my good dear ! Come, kiss Nykin once 
 more, and then get you in so get you in get you in. 
 Bye! bye! 
 
 Lat. Bye, Nykin ! 
 
 Fond. Bye, Cocky ! 
 
 Lat. Bye, Nykin ! 
 
 Fond. Bye, Cocky ! bye ! bye ! [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Street. 
 
 Enter VAINLOVE and SHARPER. 
 
 Sharp. How, Araminta lost ! 
 
 Vain. To confirm what I have said, read this 
 
 [Gives a letter. 
 
 Sharp. Hum, hum. [.Reads} " And what then ap- 
 peared a fault, upon reflection seems only an effect of a 
 too powerful passion. I'm afraid I give too great a proof 
 of my own at this lime. I am in disorder for what I 
 have written. But something, I know not what, forced
 
 56 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT iv. 
 
 me. I only beg a favourable censure l of this and your 
 ARAMINTA." 
 
 Sharp. Lost! Pray Heaven thou hast not lost thy 
 wits ! Here, here, she's thy own, man, signed and sealed 
 too. To her, man ! a delicious melon, pure and con- 
 senting ripe, and only waits thy cutting up ! She has 
 been breeding love to thee all this while, and just now 
 she's delivered of it. 
 
 Vain. Tis an untimely fruit, and she has miscarried of 
 her love. 
 
 Sharp. Never leave this damned, ill-natured whimsy, 
 Frank ? Thou hast a sickly, peevish appetite ; only chew 
 love, and cannot digest it. 
 
 Vain. Yes, when I feed myself but I hate to be 
 crammed. By Heaven, there's not a woman will give a 
 man the pleasure of a chase ! my sport is always balked, 
 or cut short ! I stumble over the game I would pursue. 
 'Tis dull and unnatural to have a hare run full in the 
 hound's mouth, and would distaste the keenest hunter : 
 I would have overtaken, not have met, my game. 
 
 Sharp. However, I hope you don't mean to forsake it ; 
 that will be but a kind of mongrel cur's trick. Well, are 
 you for the Mall ? 
 
 Vain. No, she will be there this evening. Yes, I will 
 go too and she shall see her error in 
 
 Sharp. In her choice, egad ! But thou canst not be 
 so great a brute as to slight her? 
 
 Vain. I should disappoint her if I did not. By her 
 management I should think she expects it. 
 All naturally fly what does pursue : 
 'Tis fit men should be coy, when women woo. 
 1 Opinion.
 
 SCENE in.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 57 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Room in FONDLEWIFE'S House. 
 
 Enter Servant introducing BELLMOUR in a fanatic habit, 
 with a patch upon one eye, and a book in his hand.. 
 
 Serv. Here's a chair, sir, if you please to repose your- 
 self. My mistress is coming, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Bell. Secure in my disguise, I have outfaced suspicion, 
 and even dared discovery, this cloak my sanctity, and 
 trusty Scarron's novels my prayer-book. Methinks I am 
 the very picture of Montufar in "The Hypocrites" Oh, 
 she comes ! 
 
 Enter L^ETITIA. 
 
 Bell. " So breaks Aurora through the veil of night, 
 Thus fly the clouds, divided by her light, 
 And every eye receives a new-born sight." 
 
 \Throwing off his cloak, patch, 6-r. 
 
 Lat. "Thus strewed with blushes like" {Discovering 
 him, starts^ Ah ! Heaven defend me ! who's this ? 
 
 Bell. Your lover. 
 
 Lat. Vainlove's friend ! I know his face, and he has 
 betrayed me to him. [Aside. 
 
 Bell. You are surprised. Did you not expect a lover, 
 madam ? Those eyes shone kindly on my first appearance, 
 though now they are o'ercast. 
 
 Lcet. I may well be surprised at your person and impu- 
 dence; they are both new to me. You are not what 
 your first appearance promised ; the piety of your habit 
 was welcome, but not the hypocrisy. 
 
 Bell. Rather the hypocrisy was welcome, but not the 
 hypocrite. 
 
 Lest. Who are you, sir? you have mistaken the house 
 sure. 
 
 Bell. I have directions in my pocket, which agree 
 with everything but your unkindness. 
 
 [ Pulls out the letter.
 
 58 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT IV. 
 
 Ltzt. \Aside^\ My letter ! Base Vainlove ! Then 'tis 
 too late to dissemble. \Aloud^\ 'Tis plain then you have 
 mistaken the person. \Going. 
 
 Bell. \Aside.~\ If we part so I'm mistaken. \Aloud^\ 
 Hold, hold, madam ! I confess I have run into an error : 
 I beg your pardon a thousand times. What an eternal 
 blockhead am I ! Can you forgive me the disorder I 
 have put you into ? But it is a mistake which anybody 
 might have made. 
 
 Lat. \Aside^\ What can this mean ? 'Tis impossible 
 he should be mistaken after all this. A handsome fellow 
 if he had not surprised me : methinks now I look on him 
 again, I would not have him mistaken. \_Aloud^\ We 
 are all liable to mistakes, sir; if you own it to be so, 
 there needs no further apology. 
 
 Bell. Nay, 'faith, madam, 'tis a pleasant one, and 
 worth your hearing. Expecting a friend, last night, at 
 his lodgings, till 'twas late, my intimacy with him gave 
 me the freedom of his bed; he not coming home all 
 night, a letter was delivered to me by a servant in the 
 morning; upon the perusal I found the contents so 
 charming, that I could think of nothing all day but 
 putting 'em in practice till just now, (the first time 
 I ever looked upon the superscription,) I am the 
 most surprised in the world to find it directed to 
 Mr. Vainlove. Gad, madam, I ask you a million of 
 pardons, and will make you any satisfaction. 
 
 Lcet. [Aside. ~\ I am discovered ! and either Vain- 
 love is not guilty, or he has handsomely excused 
 him. 
 
 Bell. You appear concerned, madam. 
 
 Lcet. I hope you are a gentleman ; and since you are 
 privy to a weak woman's failing, won't turn it to the pre- 
 judice of her reputation. You look as if you had more 
 honour 
 
 Bell. And more love, or my face is a false witness, and 
 deserves to be pilloried. No, by Heaven I swear
 
 SCENE IV.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 59 
 
 Lcet. Nay, don't swear if you'd have me believe you ; 
 but promise 
 
 Bell. Well, I promise. A promise is so cold ! give 
 me leave to swear by those eyes, those killing eyes; by 
 those healing lips. Oh ! press the soft charm close to 
 mine and seal 'em up for ever. 
 
 Lai. Upon that condition. [He kisses her. 
 
 Bell. Eternity was in that moment ! One more upon 
 any condition. 
 
 Lai. Nay, now \Aside'^\ I never saw anything so 
 agreeably impudent ! \Aloud^\ Won't you censure me 
 for this, now? but 'tis to buy your silence. [Kisses him. ~\ 
 Oh, but what am I doing ! 
 
 Bell. Doing ! no tongue can express it not thy own ! 
 nor anything but thy lips ! I am faint with excess of 
 bliss : Oh, for love's sake, lead me any whither where I 
 may lie down! quickly, for I'm afraid I shall have a 
 fit. 
 
 Lat. Bless me ! what fit ? 
 Bell. Oh, a convulsion ! I feel the symptoms. 
 Lcet. Does it hold you long? I'm afraid to carry you 
 into my chamber. 
 
 Bell. Oh, no ! let me lie down upon the bed ; the fit 
 will be soon over. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 St James's Park. . 
 
 ARAMINTA and BELINDA meeting. 
 
 Belin. Lard, my dear, I am glad I have met you ! I 
 have been at the Exchange * since, and am so tired. 
 
 1 The Royal Exchange was at this time a favourite lounge ; the 
 galleries over its piazzas were filled with shops kept chiefly by 
 women, not always of the most reputable character.
 
 60 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT IV. 
 
 Aram. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 Belin. Oh, the most inhuman barbarous hackney- 
 coach ! I am jolted to a jelly ! Am I not horribly 
 toused ? [Pulls out a pocket-glass. 
 
 Aram. Your head's a little out of order. 
 
 Belin. A little ! O frightful ! what a furious phiz I 
 have ! O most rueful ! ha ! ha ! ha ! O gad, I hope 
 nobody will come this way, till I have put myself a little 
 in repair. Ah, my dear, I have seen such unhewn crea- 
 tures since ! ha ! ha ! ha ! I can't for my soul help 
 thinking that I look just like one of 'em. Good dear, 
 pin this, and I'll tell you. Very well so, thank you, my 
 dear. But as I was telling you pish ! this is the unto- 
 wardest lock ! So, as I was telling you how d'ye like 
 me now? hideous, ha? frightful still? or how? 
 
 Aram. No, no ; you're very well as can be. 
 
 Belin. And so but where did I leave off, my dear ? I 
 was telling you 
 
 Aram. You were about to tell me something, child 
 but you left off before you began. 
 
 Belin. Oh ; a most comical sight : a country squire, 
 with the equipage of a wife and two daughters, came to 
 Mrs. SnipwelPs shop while I was there. But, oh gad ! 
 two such unlicked cubs ! 
 
 Aram. I warrant, plump, cherry-cheeked country 
 girls. 
 
 Belin. Ay, o' my conscience, fat as barn-door fowl ; 
 but so bedecked, you would have taken 'em for Friesland 
 hens, with their feathers growing the wrong way. O, 
 such outlandish creatures ! Such tramontanae, and for- 
 eigners to the fashion, or anything in practice ! I had 
 not patience to behold I undertook the modelling of 
 one of their fronts, the more modern structure. 
 
 Aram. Bless me, cousin, why would you affront any- 
 body so ? They might be gentlewomen of a very good 
 family. 
 
 Belin. Of a very ancient one, I dare swear, by their
 
 SCENE iv.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 61 
 
 dress. Affront ! pshaw, how you're mistaken ! The poor 
 creature, I warrant, was as full of curtsies as if I had 
 been her godmother : the truth on't is, I did endeavour 
 to make her look like a Christian, and she was sensible 
 of it ; for she thanked me and gave me two apples, piping 
 hot, out of her under-petticoat pocket ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 And t'other did so stare and gape ! I fancied her 
 like the front of her father's hall; her eyes were the 
 two jut-windows, and her mouth the great door, most 
 hospitably kept open for the entertainment of travelling 
 flies. 
 
 Aram. So then, you have been diverted. What did 
 they buy ? 
 
 Belin. Why, the father bought a powder-horn, and an 
 almanac, and a comb-case; the mother, a great fruz- 
 tower, and a fat amber-necklace ; the daughters only tore 
 two pair of kid-leather gloves, with trying 'em on. Oh 
 gad ! here conies the fool that dined at my Lady Free- 
 love's t'other day. 
 
 Enter Sir JOSEPH WITTOL and BLUFFE. 
 
 Aram. May be he may not know us again. 
 
 Bdin. We'll put on our masks to secure his ignorance. 
 
 \TJiey put on tJieir masks. 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, gad, I'll pick up ! I'm resolved to make 
 a night on't. I'll go to Alderman Fondlewife by and by, 
 and get fifty pieces more from him. Adslidikins, bully, 
 we'll wallow in wine and women ! Why, this same 
 Madeira wine has made me as as light as a grasshopper. 
 Hist ! hist ! bully ; dost thou see those tearers ? 
 [5i'^f.] " Look you what here is Look you what here 
 is Toll loll dera toll loll." Egad, t'other glass of 
 Madeira, and I durst have attacked them in my own 
 proper person, without your help. 
 
 Bluffe. Come on then, knight. But d'ye know what 
 to say to 'em ? 
 
 Sir Jo. Say? pooh ! pox ! I've enough to say; never
 
 62 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT iv. 
 
 fear it that is, if I can but think on't : truth is, I have 
 but a treacherous memory. 
 
 Belin. O frightful ! cousin, what shall we do ? these 
 things come towards us. 
 
 Aram. No matter I see Vainlove coming this way ; 
 and, to confess my failing, I am willing to give him an 
 opportunity of making his peace with me ; and to rid me 
 of those coxcombs when I seem oppressed with 'em will 
 be a fair one. 
 
 Bluff e. Ladies, by these hilts you are well met. 
 
 Aram. We are afraid not. 
 
 Bluff e. What says my pretty little knapsack carrier? 
 
 [To BELINDA. 
 
 Belin. O monstrous filthy fellow ! Good slovenly 
 Captain Huffe, Bluffe, (what is your hideous name ?) be 
 gone : you stink of brandy and tobacco, most soldier-like. 
 Foh! ' [Spits. 
 
 Bluffe. [Aside.] Now am I slap dash down in the 
 mouth, and have not one word to say ! 
 
 Aram. [Aside.] I hope my fool has not confidence 
 enough to be troublesome. 
 
 Sir Jo. Hem ! Pray, madam, which way's the 
 wind ? 
 
 Aram. A pithy question! Have you sent your wits 
 for a venture, sir, that you inquire ? 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside .] Nay, now I'm in, I can prattle like a 
 magpie. 
 
 Enter SHARPER and VAINLOVE at some distance. 
 
 Belin. Dear Araminta, I'm tired. 
 
 Aram. [Apart to BELINDA.] 'Tis but pulling off our 
 masks, and obliging Vainlove to know us. I'll be rid of 
 my fool by fair means. [Aloud.] Well, Sir Joseph, you 
 shall see my face ; but be gone immediately. I see one 
 that will be jealous, to find me in discourse with you. Be 
 discreet no reply ; but away. [ Unmasks. 
 
 Sir Jo. [Asidel\ The great fortune, that dined at my
 
 SCENE IV.] THE OLD BACHELOR, 63 
 
 Lady Freelove's! Sir Joseph, thou art a made man. 
 Egad, I'm in love up to the ears. But I'll be discreet 
 and hushed. 
 
 Bluff e. Nay, by the world, I'll see your face. 
 
 Belin. You shall. [ Unmasks. 
 
 Sharp. [Advancing.] Ladies, your humble servant. 
 We were afraid you would not have given us leave to 
 know you. 
 
 Aram. We thought to have been private, but we find 
 fools have the same advantage over a face in a mask, that 
 a coward has while the sword is in the scabbard ; so were 
 forced to draw in our own defence. 
 
 Bluff e. [To Sir JOSEPH.] My blood rises at that 
 fellow; I can't stay where he is, and I must not draw hi 
 the Park. 
 
 Sir Jo. I wish I durst stay to let her know my 
 lodging. [Exeunt Sir JOSEPH and BLUFFE. 
 
 Sharp. There is in true beauty, as in courage, some- 
 what which narrow souls cannot dare to admire. And 
 see, the owls are fled, as at the break of day ! 
 
 Belin. Very courtly ! I believe Mr. Vainlove has not 
 rubbed his eyes since break of day neither : he looks as 
 if he durst not approach. Nay, come, cousin, be friends 
 with him. I swear he looks so very simply, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Well, a lover in the state of separation from his mis- 
 tress is like a body without a soul. Mr. Vainlove, 
 shall I be bound for your good behaviour for the 
 future ? 
 
 Vain. [Aside.] Now must I pretend ignorance equal 
 to hers, of what she knows as well as I. [A/oud.] Men 
 are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness 
 to forgive ; but, madam, I hope I shall prove of a temper 
 not to abuse mercy by committing new offences. 
 
 Aram. [Aside.] So cold. 
 
 Belin. I have broke the ice for you, Mr. Vainlove, and 
 so I leave you. Come, Mr. Sharper, you and I will take 
 a turn, and laugh at the vulgar; both the great vulgar
 
 64 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT IV. 
 
 and the small. Oh gad! I have a great passion for 
 Cowley 1 don't you admire him? 
 
 Sharp. Oh, madam, he was our English Horace ! 
 
 Belin. Ah, so fine ! so extremely fine ! so everything 
 in the world that I like. Oh Lord, walk this way ! I 
 see a couple, I'll give you their history. 
 
 \Exeunt BELINDA and SHARPER. 
 
 Vain. I find, madam, the formality of the law must be 
 observed, though the penalty of it be dispensed with ; 
 and an offender must plead to his arraignment, though 
 he has his pardon in his pocket. 
 
 Aram. I'm amazed ! This insolence exceeds t'other ; 
 whoever has encouraged you to this assurance, presuming 
 upon the easiness of my temper, has much deceived you, 
 and so you shall find. 
 
 Vain. \Aside '.] Heyday! which way now? here's a 
 fine doubling ! 
 
 Aram. Base man! was it not enough to affront me 
 with your saucy passion ! 
 
 Vain. You have given that passion a much kinder 
 epithet than saucy in another place. 
 
 Aram. Another place ! Some villainous design to 
 blast my honour. But though thou hadst all the 
 treachery and malice of thy sex, thou canst not lay a 
 blemish on my fame: no, I have not erred in one 
 favourable thought of mankind. How time might have 
 deceived me in you I know not ; my opinion was but 
 young, and your early baseness has prevented its growing 
 to a wrong belief. Unworthy and ungrateful ! begone, 
 and never see me more ! 
 
 Vain. Did I dream ! or do I dream ! shall I believe 
 
 : Abraham Cowley, poet (born 1618, died 1667), author of the 
 Pindaric Odes, &c. It was the fashion to talk about his works but 
 not to read them. Sings Pope : 
 
 " Who now reads Cowley ? If he pleases yet 
 His moral pleases, not his pointed wit : 
 Forgot his epic, nay, Pindaric art, 
 But still I love the language of his heart."
 
 SCENE v.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 65 
 
 my eyes or ears ! the vision is here still. Your passion, 
 madam, will admit of no farther reasoning ; but here's a 
 silent witness of your acquaintance. 
 
 [Takes out tJie letter, and offers it: she snatches it, 
 and throws it away. 
 
 Aram. There's poison in everything you touch! 
 blisters will follow 
 
 Vain. That tongue, which denies what the hands have 
 done. 
 
 Aram. Still mystically senseless and impudent. I find 
 I must leave the place. 
 
 Vain. No, madam, I'm gone. [Aside.] She knows 
 her name's to it, which she will be unwilling to expose to 
 the censure of the first finder. [Exit. 
 
 Aram. Woman's obstinacy made me blind to what 
 woman's curiosity now tempts me to see. 
 
 [Takes up the letter and exit. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Another part of the Park. 
 
 Enter BELINDA and SHARPER. 
 
 Belin. Nay, we have spared nobody, I swear. Mr. 
 Sharper, you're a pure man; where did you get this 
 excellent talent of railing ? 
 
 Sharp. Faith, madam, the talent was born with me : 
 I confess, I have taken care to improve it, to qualify me 
 for the society of ladies. 
 
 Belin. Nay, sure railing is the best qualification in a 
 woman's man. 
 
 Sharp. The second best, indeed, I think. 
 
 Enter PACE. 
 Belin. How now, Pace ? where's my cousin ? 
 
 Con, F
 
 66 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT iv. 
 
 Pace. She's not very well, madam, and has sent to 
 know if your ladyship would have the coach come again 
 for you ? 
 
 Belin. Lord, no, I'll go along with her. Come, Mr. 
 Sharper. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 A Chamber in FONDLEWIFE'S House. 
 
 Enter L/ETITIA and BELLMOUR ; BELLMOUR'S cloak, hat, 
 &><:., lying loose about the chamber. 
 
 Bell, Here's nobody, nor no noise ; 'twas nothing but 
 your fears. 
 
 Lai. I durst have sworn I had heard my monster's 
 voice. I swear I was heartily frightened. Feel how my 
 heart beats. 
 
 Bell. 'Tis an alarm to love. Come in again, and let us 
 
 Fond {Without. \ Cocky! Cocky! where are you, 
 Cocky? I'm come home. 
 
 Lat. Ah! there he is. Make haste, gather up your 
 things. 
 
 Fond. Cocky ! Cocky ! open the door. 
 
 Bell. Pox choke him! would his horns were in his 
 throat ! My patch, my patch. 
 
 {Looking about, and gathering up his things. 
 
 Lat. My jewel, art thou there? No matter for your 
 patch. You s'an't turn in, Nykin. Run into my 
 chamber, quickly, quickly. {Exit BELLMOUR.] You 
 s'an't turn in. 
 
 Fond. Nay, prithee, dear, i'feck I'm in haste. 
 
 Lett. Then I'll let you in. {Opens the door. 
 
 Enter FONDLEW.IFE and Sir JOSEPH WITTOL. 
 Fond\ Kiss, dear. I met the master of the ship by
 
 SCENE VI.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 67 
 
 the way and I must have my papers of accounts out of 
 your cabinet. 
 
 Lat. [Aside .] Oh, I'm undone ! 
 
 Sir Jo. Pray, first let me have fifty pounds, good 
 alderman, for I'm in haste. 
 
 Fond. A hundred has already been paid, by your order. 
 Fifty ? I have the sum ready in gold in my closet. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside.] Egad, it's a curious, fine, pretty rogue ; 
 I'll speak to her. \Aloud ^\ Pray, madam, what news 
 d'ye hear? 
 
 Lxt. Sir, I seldom stir abroad. 
 
 [ Walks about in disorder. 
 
 Sir Jo. I wonder at that, madam, for 'tis most curious 
 fine weather. 
 
 Lai. Methinks 't has been very ill weather. 
 
 Sir Jo. As you say, madam, 'tis pretty bad weather, 
 and has been so a great while. 
 
 Re-enter FONDLEWIFE. 
 
 Fond. Here are fifty pieces in this purse, Sir Joseph : 
 if you will tarry a moment till I fetch my papers, I'll wait 
 upon you down stairs. 
 
 Lat. [Aside.] Ruined, past redemption ! What shall 
 I do ? Ha ! this fool may be of use. [As FONDLEWIFE 
 is going into the chamber, she runs to Sir JOSEPH, almost 
 flushes him down, and cries out.] Stand off, rude ruffian ! 
 Help me, my dear O bless me ! why will you leave me 
 alone with such a satyr? 
 
 Fond. Bless us ! what's the matter? what's the matter? 
 
 Lat. Your back was no sooner turned, but like a lion, 
 he came open-mouthed upon me, and would have 
 ravished a kiss from me by main force. 
 
 Sir Jo. Oh Lord ! Oh terrible ! ha ! ha ! ha ! is your 
 wife mad, alderman ? 
 
 Lat. Oh! I'm sick with the fright; won't you take 
 him out of my sight ?
 
 68 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT iv. 
 
 Fond. Oh traitor ! I'm astonished, Oh bloody-minded 
 traitor ! 
 
 Sir Jo. Heyday! Traitor yourself by the Lord Harry, 
 I was in most danger of being ravished, if you go to 
 that. 
 
 Fond. Oh how the blasphemous wretch swears ! Out 
 of my house, thou son of the whore of Babylon ! offspring 
 of Bel and the Dragon ! Bless us ! ravish my wife ! my 
 Dinah! O Shechemite! begone, I say! 
 
 Sir Jo. Why, the devil's in the people, I think ! \Exit. 
 
 Lat. Oh ! won't you follow, and see him out of doors, 
 my dear? 
 
 Fond. I'll shut the door, to secure him from coming 
 back. Give me the key of your cabinet, Cocky. Ravish 
 my wife before my face ! I warrant he's a papist in his 
 heart, at least, if not a Frenchman. 
 
 Lat. \Aside^\ What can I do now! \_Aloud.~] Oh, my 
 dear ! I have been in such a fright, that I forgot to tell you 
 poor Mr. Spintext has a sad fit of the colic, and is forced 
 to lie down upon our bed. You'll disturb him ! I can 
 tread softlier. 
 
 Fond. Alack, poor man! no, no you don't know 
 the papers. I won't disturb him ; give me the key. 
 
 [She gives him tJie key, goes to the chamber door, and 
 speaks aloud. 
 
 Lat. Tis nobody but Mr. Fondlewife ; Mr. Spintext, 
 lie still on your stomach ; lying on your stomach will ease 
 you of the colic. 
 
 Fond. Ay, ay, lie still, lie still; don't let me disturb 
 you. [Exit. 
 
 Lat. Sure, when he does not see his face, he won't 
 discover him. Dear Fortune, help me but this once, and 
 I'll never run into thy debt again ! But this opportunity 
 is the devil. 
 
 Re-enter FONDLEWIFE. 
 
 Fond. Good lack ! good lack ! I profess, the poor man 
 is in great torment, he lies as flat dear, you should heat
 
 SCENE VI.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 69 
 
 a trencher or a napkin where's Deborah ? let her clap 
 some warm thing to his stomach, or chafe it with a warm 
 hand, rather than fail. What book's this ? 
 
 [Sees the book that BELLMOUR forgot. 
 
 Lfet. Mr. Spintext's prayer-book, dear. [Aside.] Pray 
 Heaven it be a prayer-book ! 
 
 Fond. Good man ! I warrant he dropped it on pur- 
 pose, that you might take it up and read some of the 
 pious ejaculations. [Taking up the book] O bless 
 me ! O monstrous ! A prayer-book ! Ay, this is the 
 devil's pater-noster : hold, let me see, "The Innocent 
 Adultery." 
 
 Lett. [Aside.] Misfortune, now all's ruined again. 
 
 Bell. \_Peeping] Damned chance ! if I had gone a- 
 whoring with "The Practice of Piety" in my pocket, I 
 had never been discovered. 
 
 Fond. Adultery, and innocent ! Lord ! here's doc- 
 trine ! ay, here's discipline ! 
 
 Lat. Dear husband, I'm amazed. Sure it is a good 
 book, and only tends to the speculation of sin. 
 
 Fond. Speculation ! no, no ; something went farther 
 than speculation when I was not to be let in. Where is 
 this apocryphal elder? I'll ferret him. [Exit. 
 
 Lcet. [Aside.] I'm so distracted, I can't think of a lie. 
 
 Re-enter FONDLEWIFE, haling out BELLMOUR. 
 
 Fond. Come out here, thou Ananias incarnate ! Who, 
 how now, who have we here? 
 
 Lcct. Ha ! [Shrieks, as tJwugh surprised. 
 
 Fond. Oh, thou salacious woman! am I then brutified? 
 Ay, I feel it here ; I sprout ! I bud ! I blossom ! I am 
 ripe-horn-mad ! But who, in the devil's name, are you ? 
 mercy on me for swearing ! But 
 
 Lat. Oh, goodness keep us! who's this? Who are 
 you ? what are you ? 
 
 Bell. So! 
 
 Lat. In the name of the -0 ! good, my dear, don't
 
 7 o THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT iv. 
 
 come near it, I'm afraid 'tis the devil; indeed it has 
 hoofs, dear. 
 
 Fond. Indeed, and I have horns, dear. The devil ! no, 
 I am afraidj 'tis the flesh, thou harlot! Dear, with the 
 pox ! Come, siren, speak, confess, who is this reverend, 
 brawny pastor? 
 
 Lcet. Indeed, and indeed now, my dear Nykin, I 
 never saw this wicked man before. 
 
 Fond. Oh, it is a man then, it seems ! 
 
 Lcet. Rather, sure, it is a wolf in the clothing of a sheep. 
 
 Fond. Thou art a devil in his proper clothing, woman's 
 flesh. What, you know nothing of him, but his fleece 
 .here ! You don't love mutton ! you Magdalen uncon- 
 verted ? 
 
 Bell. \Aside^\ Well, now I know my cue that is, very 
 honourably to excuse her, and very impudently accuse 
 myself. 
 
 Lcet. Why then, I wish I may never enter into the 
 heaven of your embraces again, my dear, if ever I saw 
 his face before. 
 
 Fond. O Lord! O strange! I am in admiration of 
 your impudence. Look at him a little better ; he is more 
 modest, I warrant you, than to deny it. Come, were you 
 two never face to face before ? Speak. 
 
 Bell. Since all artifice is vain, and I think myself 
 obliged to speak the truth in justice to your wife, no. 
 
 Fond. Humph. 
 
 Lcet. No indeed, dear. 
 
 Fond. Nay, I find you are both in a story ; that I must 
 confess. But, what not to be cured of the colic ? don't 
 you know your patient, Mrs. Quack? Oh, lie upon your 
 stomach ; lying upon your stomach will cure you of the 
 colic. Ah ! answer me, Jezebel ! 
 
 Lcet. Let the wicked man answer for himself : does he 
 think that I have nothing to do but excuse him? 'tis 
 enough, if I can clear my own innocence to my own 
 dear.
 
 SCENE vi.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 71 
 
 Bell. By my troth, and so 'tis; I have been a little too 
 backward, that's the truth on't. 
 
 Fond. Come, sir, who are you, in the first place ! and 
 what are you? 
 
 Bell. A whore-master. 
 
 Fond. Very concise. 
 
 Lcet. O beastly, impudent creature! 
 
 Fond. Well, sir, and what came you hither for ? 
 
 Bell. To lie with your wife. 
 
 Fond. Good again. A very civil person this, and I 
 believe speaks truth. 
 
 Lcet. Oh, insupportable impudence ! 
 
 Fond. Well, sir pray be covered and you have 
 heh ! you have finished the matter, heh ? and I am, as I 
 should be, a sort of a civil perquisite to a whore-master, 
 called a cuckold, heh? Is it not so? come, I'm inclining 
 to believe every word you say. 
 
 Bell. Why, faith, I must confess, so I designed you : 
 but you were a little unlucky in coming so soon, and 
 hindered the making of your own fortune. 
 
 Fond. Humph. Nay, if you mince the matter once, 
 and go back of your word, you are not the person I 
 took you for: come, come, go on boldly. What, don't 
 be ashamed of your profession ! Confess, confess, I shall 
 love thee the better for't I shall, i'feck ! What, dost 
 think I don't know how to behave myself in the employ- 
 ment of a cuckold, and have been three years apprentice 
 to matrimony? come, come, plain-dealing is a jewel. 
 
 Bell. Well, since I see thou art a good honest fellow, 
 I'll confess the whole matter to thee. 
 
 Fond. Oh, I am a very honest fellow ! you never lay 
 with an honester man's wife in your life. 
 
 Lat. \Aside ^\ How my heart aches ! All my comfort 
 lies in his impudence, and, Heaven be praised, he has a 
 considerable portion. 
 
 Bell. In short then, I was informed of the opportunity 
 of your absence by my spy (for faith, honest Isaac, I have
 
 72 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT iv. 
 
 a long time designed thee this favour) : I knew Spintext 
 was to come by your direction. But I laid a trap for 
 him, and procured his habit ; in which I passed upon 
 your servants, and was conducted hither. I pretended a 
 fit of the colic to excuse my lying down upon your bed ; 
 hoping that when she heard of it her good-nature would 
 bring her to administer remedies for my distemper. You 
 know what might have followed. But like an uncivil 
 person, you knocked at the door before your wife was 
 come to me. 
 
 Fond. Ha, this is apocryphal ! I may choose whether 
 I will believe it or no. 
 
 Bell. That you may, faith, and I hope you won't 
 believe a word on't ; but I can't help telling the truth, 
 for my life. 
 
 Fond. How ! would not you have me believe you, say 
 you? 
 
 Sell. No ; for then you must of consequence part with 
 your wife, and there will be some hopes of having her 
 upon the public ; then the encouragement of a separate 
 maintenance 
 
 Fond. No, no; for that matter, when she and I part, 
 she'll carry her separate maintenance about her. 
 
 Lat. Ah, cruel dear, how can you be so barbarous ? 
 You'll break my heart if you talk of parting. [ Cries. 
 
 Fond. Ah, dissembling vermin ! 
 
 Bell. How canst thou be so cruel, Isaac ? thou hast the 
 heart of a mountain-tiger. By the faith of a sincere sin- 
 ner, she's innocent for me. Go to him, madam, fling 
 your snowy arms about his stubborn neck; bathe his 
 relentless face in your salt trickling tears. 
 
 [S/ie goes and hangs u^on his neck, and kisses him ; 
 BELLMOUR kisses her hand behind FONDLEWIFE'S 
 back. 
 
 So, a few soft words, and a kiss, and the good man melts. 
 See how kind nature works, and boils over in him ! 
 
 Lat. Indeed, my dear, I was but just come down stairs
 
 SCENE vi.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 73 
 
 when you knocked at the door, and the maid told me 
 Mr. Spintext was ill of the colic upon our bed. And 
 won't you speak to me, cruel Nykin? indeed, I'll die if 
 you don't. 
 
 Fond. Ah, no, no, I cannot speak, my heart's so full ! 
 I have been a tender husband, a tender yoke-fellow ; you 
 know I have. But thou hast been a faithless Dalilah, 
 and the Philistines heh ! art thou not vile and unclean ? 
 heh ! speak ! [ Weeping. 
 
 Lat. No h. {Sighing. 
 
 Fond. Oh, that I could believe thee ! 
 
 Lat. Oh, my heart will break ! {Pretends to faint. 
 
 Fond. Heh ! how ! no, stay, stay, I will believe thee, I 
 will. Pray bend her forward, sir. 
 
 Lat. Oh ! oh ; where is my dear ? 
 
 Fond. Here, here, I do believe thee. I won't believe 
 my own eyes. 
 
 Bell. For my part, I am so charmed with the love of 
 your turtle to you, that I'll go and solicit matrimony with 
 all my might and main. 
 
 Fond. Well, well, sir; as long as I believe it, 'tis well 
 enough. No thanks to you, sir, for her virtue. But I'll 
 show you the way out of my house, if you please. Come, 
 my dear. Nay, I will believe thee, I do, i'feck. 
 
 Bell. See the great blessing of an easy faith ! opinion 
 cannot err : 
 
 No husband by his wife can be deceived ; 
 She still is virtuous, if she's so believed. 
 
 {Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Street. 
 
 BELLMOUR in a fanatic habit and SETTER meeting : 
 HE ART WELL and LUCY on one side.. 
 
 ELL. Setter ! well encountered. 
 
 Set. Joy of your return, sir. Have you 
 made a good voyage? or have you 
 brought your own lading back ? 
 
 Bell. No, I have brought nothing but 
 ballast back made a delicious voyage, 
 Setter ; and might have rode at anchor 
 in the port 'till this time, but the enemy surprised us. I 
 would unrig. 
 
 Set. I attend you, sir. 
 
 Bell. Ha! is not that Heartwell at Silvia's* door? Be 
 
 gone quickly, I'll follow you : I would not be known. 
 
 Pox take 'em ! they stand just in my way. \Exit SETTER. 
 
 Heart. I'm impatient till it be done. \To LUCY. 
 
 Lucy. That may be, without troubling yourself to go 
 
 ' again for your brother's chaplain. Don't you see that 
 
 stalking form of godliness ? [Pointing to BELLMOUR. 
 
 Heart. O ay, he's a fanatic. 
 
 Lucy. An executioner qualified to do your business : 
 he has been lawfully ordained. 
 
 Heart. I'll pay him well if you'll break the matter to 
 him.
 
 SCENE I.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 75 
 
 Lucy. I warrant you; do you go and prepare your 
 bride. {Exit HEARTWELL. 
 
 Bell. [Aside.] Humph, sits the wind there? What a 
 lucky rogue am I ! Oh, what sport will be here, if I can 
 persuade this wench to secrecy ! 
 
 Lucy. Sir, reverend sir. 
 
 Bell. Madam. \Discovers himself. 
 
 Lucy. Now, goodness have mercy upon me ! Mr. 
 Bellmour ? is it you ? 
 
 Bell. Even I : what dost think ? 
 
 Lucy. Think ! that I should not believe my eyes, and 
 that you are not what you seem to be. 
 
 Bell. True. But to convince thee who I am, thou 
 knowest my old token. \Kisses her. 
 
 Lucy. Nay, Mr. Bellmour : O Lard ! I believe you are 
 a parson in good earnest, you kiss so devoutly. 
 
 Bell. Well, your business with me, Lucy ? 
 
 Lucy. I had none, but through mistake. 
 
 Bell. Which mistake you must go through with, Lucy. 
 Come, I know the intrigue between Heartwell and 
 your mistress ; and you mistook me for Tribulation Spin- 
 text, to marry 'em ha ? are not matters in this posture ? 
 Confess; come, I'll be faithful, I will i'faith. What, 
 diffide 1 in me, Lucy ? 
 
 Lucy. Alas-a-day ; you and Mr. Vainlove between you, 
 have mined my poor mistress ; you have made a gap in 
 her reputation ; and can you blame her if she make it up 
 with a husband ? 
 
 Bell. Well, is it as I say? 
 
 Lucy. Well, it is then ; but you'll be secret ? 
 
 Bell. Phuh ! secret ! ay : and to be out of thy debt, 
 I'll trust thee with another secret. Your mistress must 
 not marry Heartwell, Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. How ! O Lord ! 
 
 Bell. Nay, don't be in a passion, Lucy; I'll provide 
 a fitter husband for her. Come, here's earnest of my 
 i Distrust.
 
 76 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT v. 
 
 good intentions for thee too; let this mollify. \Gives her 
 money. ~\ Look you, Heartwell is my friend; and though 
 he be blind, I must not see him fall into the snare, and 
 unwittingly marry a whore. 
 
 Lucy. Whore ! I'd have you to know my mistress 
 scorns 
 
 Bell. Nay, nay ; look you, Lucy, there are whores of 
 as good quality. But to the purpose, if you will give me 
 leave to acquaint you with it. Do you carry on the mis- 
 take of me: I'll marry em. Nay, don't pause ; if you 
 do, I'll spoil all. I have some private reasons for what I 
 do, which I'll tell you within, In the mean time, I pro- 
 mise, and rely upon me, to help your mistress to a hus- 
 band : nay, and thee too, Lucy. Here's my hand, I will, 
 with a fresh assurance. [Gives her more money. 
 
 Lucy. Ah, the devil is not so cunning ! you know my 
 easy nature. Well, for once I'll venture to serve you ; 
 but if you deceive me, the curse of all kind, tender- 
 hearted women light upon you ! 
 
 Bell. That's as much as to say, The pox take me ! 
 Well, lead on. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Same. 
 
 Enter VAINLOVE, SHARPER and SETTER. 
 
 Sharp. Just now, say you, gone in with Lucy ? 
 
 Set. I saw him, sir, and stood at the corner where you 
 found me, and overheard all they said : Mr. Bellmour is 
 to marry 'em. 
 
 Sharp. Ha ! ha ! 'twill be a pleasant cheat. I'll plague 
 Heartwell when I see him. Prithee, Frank, let's tease 
 him ; make him fret till he foam at the mouth, and dis- 
 gorge his matrimonial oath with interest. Come, thou'rt 
 musty.
 
 SCENE I.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 77 
 
 Set. [To SHARPER.] Sir, a word with you. 
 
 [ Whispers him. 
 
 Vain. Sharper swears she has forsworn the letter. I'm 
 sure he tells me truth ; but I am not sure she told him 
 truth. Yet she was unaffectedly concerned, he says, and 
 often blushed with anger and surprise : and so I remem- 
 ber in the Park. She had reason, if I wrong her. I 
 begin to doubt. 
 
 Sharp. Say'st thou so ? 
 
 Set. This afternoon, sir, about an hour before my 
 master received the letter. 
 
 Sharp. In my conscience, like enough. 
 
 Set. Ay, I know her, sir; at least, I'm sure I can fish 
 it out of her : she is the very sluice to her lady's secrets : 
 'tis but setting her mill a-going, and I can drain her of 
 'em all. 
 
 Sharp. Here, Frank, your blood-hound has made out 
 the fault : this letter, that so sticks in thy maw, is counter- 
 feit ; only a trick of Silvia in revenge, contrived by Lucy. 
 
 Vain. Ha ! it has a colour. But how do you know it, 
 sirrah ? 
 
 Set. I do suspect as much ; because why, sir. She 
 was pumping me about how your worship's affairs stood 
 towards Madam Araminta ; as when you had seen her 
 last ? when you were to see her next ? and where you 
 were to be found at that time ? and such like. 
 
 Vain. And where did you tell her? 
 
 Set. In the Piazza. 
 
 Vain. There I received the letter. It must be so. 
 And why did you not find me out, to tell me this before, sot ? 
 
 Set. Sir, I was pimping for Mr. Bellmour. 
 
 Sharp. You were well employed ; I think there is no 
 objection to the excuse. 
 
 Vain. Pox o' my saucy credulity ! If I have lost her, I 
 deserve it. But if confession and repentance be of force, 
 I'll win her, or weary her into a forgiveness. [Exit. 
 
 Sharp. Methinks I long to see Bellmour come forth.
 
 78 THE OLD BACHELOR, [ACT v. 
 
 Enter BELLMOUR. 
 
 Set. Talk of the devil see where he comes ! 
 
 Sharp. Hugging himself on his prosperous mischief. 
 No real fanatic can look better pleased after a successful 
 sermon of sedition. 
 
 Bell. Sharper ! fortify thy spleen : such a jest ! Speak 
 when thou art ready. 
 
 Sharp. Now, were I ill-natured, would I utterly disap- 
 point thy mirth : hear thee tell thy mighty jest with as 
 much gravity as a bishop hears venereal causes in the 
 spiritual court : not so much as wrinkle my face with one 
 smile; but let thee look simply, and laugh by thyself. 
 
 Bell. Pshaw ! no ; I have a better opinion of thy wit. 
 Gad, I defy thee 
 
 Sharp. Were it not loss of time, you should make the 
 experiment. But honest Setter, here, overheard you with 
 Lucy, and has told me all. 
 
 Bell. Nay, then, I thank thee for not putting me out of 
 countenance. But, to tell you something you don't know, 
 I got an opportunity (after I had married 'em) of disco- 
 vering the cheat to Silvia. She took it, at first, as an- 
 other woman would the like disappointment: but my 
 promise to make her amends quickly with another hus- 
 band somewhat pacified her. 
 
 Sharp. But how the devil do you think to acquit your- 
 self of your promise? Will you marry her yourself? 
 
 Bell. I have no such intentions at present. Prithee, 
 wilt thou think a little for me ? I am sure the ingenious 
 Mr. Setter will assist. 
 
 Set. O Lord, sir. 
 
 Bell. I'll leave him with you, and go shift my habit. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Enter Sir JOSEPH WITTOL and BLUFFE. 
 
 Sharp. Heh ! sure, Fortune has sent this fool hither on 
 purpose. Setter, stand close; seem not to observe 'em, 
 and hark ye [ Whispers.
 
 SCENE II.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 79 
 
 Bluff e. Feas him not ; I am prepared for him now ; 
 and he shall find he might have safer roused a sleeping 
 lion. 
 
 Sir Jo. Hush, hush ! don't you see him? 
 
 Bluff c. Show him to me: where is he? 
 
 Sir Jo. Nay, don't speak so loud I don't jest, as I 
 did a little while ago. Look yonder. Egad, if he should 
 hear the lion roar, he'd cudgel him into an ass, and his 
 primitive braying. Don't you remember the story in 
 yEsop's Fables, bully? Egad, there are good morals to 
 be picked out of /Esop's Fables, let me tell you that ; 
 and Reynard the Fox, too. 
 
 Bluff e. Damn your morals ! 
 
 Sir Jo. Prithee, don't speak so loud. 
 
 Bluff e. \In a low voice.] Damn your morals ! I must 
 revenge the affront done to my honour. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay; do, do, captain, if you think fitting; 
 you may dispose of your own flesh as you think fitting, 
 d'ye see. But, by the Lord Harry, I'll leave you. 
 
 [Stealing away upon his tiptoes. 
 
 Bluff e. Prodigious ! what, will you forsake your friend 
 in extremity ! You can't in honour refuse to carry him a 
 challenge. 
 
 {Almost whispering, and treading softly after him. 
 
 Sir Jo. Prithee, what do you see in my face that looks 
 as if I would carry a challenge ? Honour is your pro- 
 vince, captain : take it All the world know me to be a 
 knight, and a man of worship. 
 
 Set. \Apart to SHARPER.] I warrant you, sir, I'm in- 
 structed. 
 
 Sharp. \Aloud.} Impossible! Araminta take a liking 
 to a fool ! 
 
 Set. Her head runs on nothing else, nor she can talk 
 of nothing else. 
 
 Sharp. I know she commended him all the while we 
 were in the Park ; but I thought it had been only to 
 make Vainlove jealous:
 
 8o THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT v. 
 
 Sir Jo. How's this ? [Aside to BLUFFE.] Good bully, 
 hold your breath, and let's hearken. Egad, this must 
 be I. 
 
 Sharp. Death, it can't be ! an oaf, an idiot, a wittol ! 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside.] Ay, now it's out : 'tis I, my own in- 
 dividual person. 
 
 Sharp. A wretch, that has flown for shelter to the 
 lowest shrub of mankind, and seeks protection from a 
 blasted coward. 
 
 Sir Jo. [Aside.] That's you, bully back. 
 
 [BLUFFE frowns upon Sir JOSEPH. 
 
 Sharp. [To SETTER.] She has given Vainlove her pro- 
 mise to marry him before to-morrow morning has she 
 not? 
 
 Set. She has, sir ; and I have it in charge to attend 
 her all this evening, in order to conduct her to the place 
 appointed. 
 
 Sharp. Well, I'll go and inform your master; and do 
 you press her to make all the haste imaginable. [Exit. 
 
 Set. Were I a rogue now, what a noble prize could I 
 dispose of. A goodly pinnace, richly laden, and to 
 launch forth under my auspicious convoy. Twelve thou- 
 sand pounds and all her rigging ; besides what lies con- 
 cealed under hatches. Ha! all this committed to my 
 care ! A vaunt temptation ! Setter, show thyself a per- 
 son of worth ; be true to thy trust, and be reputed honest. 
 Reputed honest! Hum: is that all? ay: for to be 
 honest is nothing ; the reputation of it is all. Reputa- 
 tion ! what have such poor rogues as I to do with reputa- 
 tion ? 'tis above us ; and for men of quality, they are 
 above it ; so that reputation is e'en as foolish a thing as 
 honesty. And for my part, if I meet Sir Joseph with a 
 purse of gold in his hand, I'll dispose of mine to the best 
 advantage. 
 
 Sir Jo. {Coming forward.} Heh! heh! heh! here 'tis 
 for you, i'faith, Mr. Setter. Nay, I'll take you at your 
 word ! [ Chinking a purse.
 
 SCENE li.] TEE OLD BACHELOR, 81 
 
 Set. Sir Joseph and the captain too ! undone, undone ! 
 I'm undone, my master's undone, my lady's undone, and 
 all the business is undone ! 
 
 Sir Jo. No, no, never fear, man, the lady's business 
 shall be done. What ! Come, Mr. Setter, I have over- 
 heard all, and to speak is but loss of time ; but if there 
 be occasion, let these worthy gentlemen intercede for me. 
 
 [Gives him gold. 
 
 Set. O Lord, sir, what d'ye mean? corrupt my honesty ! 
 They have indeed very persuading faces ; but 
 
 Sir Jo. 'Tis too little. There's more, man: there, 
 take all. Now 
 
 Set. Well, Sir Joseph, you have such a winning way 
 with you 
 
 Sir Jo. And how, and how, good Setter, did the little 
 rogue look, when she talked of Sir Joseph ? Did not her 
 eyes twinkle, and her mouth water? did not she pull 
 up her little bubbies ? and egad, I'm so overjoyed ! 
 and stroke down her belly? and then step aside to 
 tie her garter, when she was thinking of her love ? heh, 
 Setter? 
 
 Set. Oh, yes, sir. 
 
 Sir Jo. \To Blujfe^\ How now, bully ? What, melan- 
 choly, because I'm in the lady's favour? No matter, I'll 
 make your peace I know they were a little smart upon 
 you. But I warrant, I'll bring you into the lady's good 
 graces. 
 
 Blujffe. Pshaw ! I have petitions to show from other 
 guess toys than she. Look here; these were sent me 
 this morning. There, read. \Shows letters^ That that's 
 a scrawl of quality. Here, here's from a countess too. 
 Hum no, hold that's from a knight's wife, she sent it 
 me by her husband. But here, both these are from per- 
 sons of great quality. 
 
 Sir Jo. They are either from persons of great quality, 
 or no quality at all, 'tis such a damned ugly hand. 
 
 [While Sir JOSEPH reads, BLUFFE whispers SETTFR. 
 
 Con. G
 
 82 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT V. 
 
 Set. Captain, I would do anything to serve you ; but 
 this is so difficult 
 
 Bluffe. Not at all ; don't I know him ? 
 
 Set. You'll remember the conditions? 
 
 Bluffe. I'll give it you under my hand. In the mean- 
 time, here's earnest. [Gives him money. ~\ Come, knight; 
 I'm capitulating with Mr. Setter for you. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ah, honest Setter; sirrah, I'll give thee any- 
 thing but a night's lodging. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Near SILVIA'S lodgings. 
 
 . Enter SHARPER tugging in HEARTWELL. 
 
 Sharp. Nay, prithee leave railing, and come along with 
 me; may be she mayn't be within. Tis but to yond' 
 corner house. 
 
 Heart. Whither ? whither ? which corner house ? 
 
 Sharp. Why, there : the two white posts. 
 
 Heart. And who would you visit there, say you? 
 \Aside^\ Oons, how my heart aches ! 
 
 Sharp. Pshaw, thou'rt so troublesome and inquisitive ! 
 Why I'll tell you, tis a young creature that Vainlove 
 debauched, and has forsaken. Did you never hear Bell- 
 mour chide him about Silvia? 
 
 Heart. [Aside.'] Death and hell and marriage! my 
 wife ! 
 
 Sharp. Why thou art as musty as a new married man, 
 that had found his wife knowing the first night. 
 
 Heart. [Aside. ,] Hell and the devil 1 does he know it ? 
 But hold if he should not, I were a fool to discover it. 
 I'll dissemble, and try him. [Aloud.] Ha! ha! ha! 
 why, Tom, is that such an occasion of melancholy? Is 
 it such an uncommon mischief?
 
 SCENE m.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 83 
 
 SJiarp. No, faith ; I believe not. Few women but 
 have their year of probation, before they are cloistered in 
 the narrow joys of wedlock. But, prithee come along 
 with me, or I'll go and have the lady to myself. B'w'y 
 George. [Going. 
 
 Heart. [Aside.'] O torture! how he racks and tears 
 me ! Death ! shall I own my shame, or wittingly let him 
 go and whore my wife ? no, that's insupportable. 
 [Aloud.} Oh, Sharper ! 
 
 Sharp. How now ? 
 
 Heart. Oh, I am married. 
 
 Sharp. [Aside.] Now hold spleen. [Aloud.] Married ! 
 
 Heart. Certainly, irrecoverably married. 
 
 Sharp. Heaven forbid, man ! how long ? 
 
 Heart. Oh, an age, an age ! I have been married these 
 two hours. 
 
 Sharp. My old bachelor married! that were a jest! 
 ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Heart. Death I d'ye mock me ! Hark ye, if either you 
 esteem my friendship or your own safety, come not near 
 that house that corner house that hot brothel : ask no 
 questions. [Exit. 
 
 Sharp. Mad, by this light ! 
 Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure ; 
 Married in haste, we may repent at leisure. 
 
 Enter SETTER. 
 
 Set. Some by experience find those words misplaced 
 
 At leisure married, they repent in haste. 
 As, I suppose, my master Heartwell. 
 
 Sharp. Here again, my Mercury ? 
 
 Set. Sublimate, if you please, sir : I think my achieve- 
 ments do deserve the epithet. Mercury was a pimp too ; 
 but though I blush to own it, at this time, I must con- 
 fess I am somewhat fallen from the dignity of my func- 
 tion, and do condescend to be scandalously employed in 
 the promotion of vulgar matrimony.
 
 84 THE OLD BACHELOR. JACt V. 
 
 Sharp. As how, dear dexterous pimp ? 
 
 Set. Why, to be brief, for I have weighty affairs 
 depending, our stratagem succeeded as you intended, 
 Biuffe turns arrant traitor : bribes me to make a private 
 conveyance of the lady to him, and put a sham settle- 
 ment upon Sir Joseph. 
 
 Sharp. O rogue ! well, but I hope 
 
 Set. No, no ; never fear me, sir. I privately informed 
 the knight of the treachery; who has agreed, seemingly 
 to be cheated, that the captain may be so in reality. 
 
 Sharp. Where's the bride ? 
 
 Set. Shifting clothes for the purpose at a friend's house 
 of mine. Here's company coming; if you'll walk this 
 way, sir, I'll tell you. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 The same. 
 
 Enter BELLMOUR, BELINDA, ARAMINTA, and VAINLOVE. 
 
 Vain. [To ARAMINTA.] Oh, 'twas frenzy all ! cannot 
 you forgive it? men in madness have a title to your 
 pity. 
 
 Aram. Which they forfeit, when they are restored to 
 their senses. 
 
 Vain. I am not presuming beyond a pardon. 
 
 Aram. You who could reproach me with one count- 
 erfeit, how insolent would a real pardon make you ! 
 but there's no need to forgive what is not worth my 
 anger. 
 
 Belin. \To BELLMOUR.] my conscience, I could 
 find in my heart to marry thee, purely to be rid of thee : 
 at least thou art so troublesome a lover, there's hopes 
 thou'lt make a more than ordinary quiet husband. 
 
 Bell. Say you so ? is that a maxim among you ?
 
 SCENE iv.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 85 
 
 Belin. Yes ; you fluttering men of the mode have made 
 marriage a mere French dish. 
 
 Bell, \Aside^\ I hope there's no French sauce. 
 
 Belin, You are so curious in the preparation, that is, 
 your courtship, one would think you meant a noble enter- 
 tainment; but when we come to feed, 'tis all froth, and 
 poor, but in show ; nay, often only remains which have 
 been I know not how many times warmed for other com- 
 pany, and at last served up cold to the wife. 
 
 Bell, That were a miserable wretch indeed, who could 
 not afford one warm dish for the wife of his bosom. But 
 you timorous virgins form a dreadful chimera of a hus- 
 band, as of a creature contrary to that soft, humble, 
 pliant, easy thing, a lover ; so guess at plagues in matri- 
 mony, in opposition to the pleasures of courtship. Alas ! 
 courtship to marriage, is but as the music in the play- 
 house till the curtain's drawn ; but that once up, then 
 opens the scene of pleasure. 
 
 Belin. Oh, foh ! no ; rather courtship to marriage, is as 
 a very witty prologue to a very dull play. 
 
 Enter SHARPER. 
 
 Sharp, Hist, Bellmour; if you'll bring the ladies, make 
 haste to Silvia's lodgings, before Heartwell has fretted 
 himself out of breath. 
 
 Bell. \To BELINDA.] You have an opportunity now, 
 madam, to revenge yourself upon Heartwell, for affront- 
 ing your squirrel. 
 
 Belin. O, the filthy rude beast ! 
 
 Aram. Tis a lasting quarrel ; I think he has never 
 been at our house since. 
 
 Bell. But give yourselves the trouble to walk to that 
 corner house, and I'll tell you by the way what may 
 divert and surprise you. \Exeiint.
 
 86 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT v. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Silvia's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter HE ART WELL and Boy. 
 
 Heart. Gone forth, say you, with her maid ! 
 
 Boy. There was a man too that fetched 'em out; 
 Setter I think they called him. {Exit. 
 
 Heart. So that precious pimp too. Damned, damned 
 strumpet ! could she not contain herself on her wedding 
 day ! not hold out till night. O cursed state ! how wide 
 _\ye err, when apprehensive of the load of life, 
 
 We hope to find 
 
 That help which Nature meant in womankind, 
 
 To man that supplemental self designed ; 
 
 But proves a burning caustic when applied ; 
 
 And Adam, sure, could with more ease abide 
 
 The bone when broken, than when made a bride. 
 
 Enter BELLMOUR, BELINDA, VAINLOVE, and ARAMINTA. 
 
 Bell. Now, George, what, rhyming ! I thought the 
 charms of verse were passed, when once the doleful 
 marriage-knell was rung. 
 
 Heart. Shame and confusion, I am exposed ! 
 
 [VAINLOVE and ARAMINTA talk apart. 
 
 Belin. Joy, joy, Mr. Bridegroom ! I give you joy, sir ! 
 
 Heart. 'Tis not in thy nature to give me joy : a woman 
 can as soon give immortality. 
 
 Belin. Ha ! ha ! ha ! gad, men grow such clowns 
 when they are married ! 
 
 Bell. That they are fit for no company but their wives. 
 
 Belin. Nor for them neither, in a little time. I swear, 
 at the month's end, you shall hardly find a married man 
 that will do a civil thing to his wife, or say a civil thing 
 to anybody else. How he looks already ! Tia ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Bell. Ha ! ha ! ha !
 
 SCENE v.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 87 
 
 Heart. Death, am I made your laughing-stock ? For 
 you, sir, I shall find a time ; but take off your wasp here, 
 or the clown may grow boisterous ; I have a fly-flap. 
 
 Belin. You have occasion for't, your wife has been 
 blown upon. 
 
 Bell That's home. 
 
 Heart. Not fiends or furies could have added to my 
 vexation, or anything but another woman ! you've racked 
 my patience ; begone, or by 
 
 Bell Hold, hold ; what the devil, thou wilt not draw 
 upon a woman ! 
 
 Vain. What's the matter? 
 
 Aram. Bless me! what have you done to him! 
 
 Belin. Only touched a galled beast till he winced. 
 
 Vain. Bellmour, give it over ; you vex him too much ; 
 'tis all serious to him. 
 
 Belin. Nay, I swear, I begin to pity him myself. 
 
 Heart. Damn your pity ! But let me be calm a little. 
 How have I deserved this of you ? any of ye ? Sir, have 
 I impaired the honour of your house, promised your sister 
 marriage, and whored her ? Wherein have I injured you ? 
 Did I bring a physician to your father when he lay ex- 
 piring, and endeavour to prolong his life, and you one- 
 and-twenty ? Madam, have I had an opportunity with 
 you and balked it ? did you ever offer me the favour 
 that I refused it? Or 
 
 Belin. Oh, foh! what does the filthy fellow mean? 
 lard, let me begone ! 
 
 Aram. Hang me, if I pity you ; you are right enough 
 served. 
 
 Bell This is a little scurrilous though. 
 
 Vain'. Nay, 'tis a sore of your own scratching. [7i> 
 HEARTWELL.] Well, George 
 
 Heart. You are the principal cause of all my present 
 ills. If Silvia had not been your mistress, my wife might 
 have been honest. 
 
 Vain. And if Silvia had not been your wife, my mis-
 
 88 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT v. 
 
 tress might have been just : there we are even. But 
 have a good heart, I heard of your misfortune, and come 
 to your relief. 
 
 Heart. When execution's over, you offer a reprieve. 
 
 Vain. What would you give? 
 
 Heart. Oh ! anything, everything, a leg or two, or an 
 arm ; nay, I would be divorced from my virility, to be 
 divorced from my wife. 
 
 Enter SHARPER. 
 
 Vain. Faith, that's a sure way but here's one can sell 
 your freedom better cheap. 
 
 Sharp. Vainlove, I have been a kind of godfather to 
 you, yonder ; I have promised and vowed some things in 
 your name, which I think you are bound to perform. 
 
 Vain. No signing to a blank, friend. 
 
 Sharp. No, I'll deal fairly with you: 'tis a full and 
 free discharge to Sir Joseph Wittol and Captain Bluffe, 
 for all injuries whatsoever, done unto you by them, until 
 the present date hereof. How say you ? 
 
 Vain. Agreed. 
 
 Sharp. Then let me beg these ladies to wear their 
 masks a moment. Come in, gentlemen and ladies. 
 
 Heart. What the devil's all this to me? 
 
 Vain. Patience. 
 
 Enter SIR JOSEPH WITTOL, BLUFFE, SILVIA, LUCY, 
 and SETTER. 
 
 Bluffe\ All injuries, whatsoever, Mr. Sharper. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ay, ay, whatsoever, captain, stick to that; 
 whatsoever. 
 
 Sharp. 'Tis done, these gentlemen are witnesses to the 
 general release. 
 
 Vain. Ay, ay, to this instant moment : I have passed 
 an act of oblivion. 
 
 Bluffe. Tis very generous, sir, since I needs must 
 own
 
 SCENE V.] THE OLD BACHELOR 89 
 
 Sir Jo. No, no, captain, you need not own, heh ! 
 heh ! heh ! 'tis I must own 
 
 Bluff e. That you are overreached too, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 only a -little art-military used only undermined, or so, as 
 shall appear by the fair Araminta, my wife's permission. 
 [Lucy unmasks.] Oh, the devil, cheated at last ! 
 
 Sir Jo. Only a little art-military trick, captain, only 
 countermined, or so. Mr. Vainlove, I suppose you know 
 whom I have got now ? But all's forgiven. 
 
 Vain. I know whom you have not got ; pray, ladies, 
 convince him. [ARAMINTA and BELINDA unmask. 
 
 Sir Jo. Ah ! O Lord, my heart aches ! Ah, Setter, a 
 rogue of all sides ! 
 
 Sharp. Sir Joseph, you had better have pre-engaged 
 this gentleman's pardon ; for though Vainlove be so 
 generous to forgive the loss of his mistress, I know not 
 how Heartwell may take the loss of his wife. 
 
 [SILVIA unmasks. 
 
 Heart. My wife ! by this light 'tis she, the very cock- 
 atrice ! Oh, Sharper, let me embrace thee ! But art 
 thou sure she is really married to him ? 
 
 Set. Really and lawfully married, I am witness. 
 
 Sharp. Bellmour will unriddle to you. 
 
 [HEARTWELL goes to BELLMOUR. 
 
 Sir Jo. [To SILVIA.] Pray, madam, who are you ? for 
 I find you and I are like to be better acquainted. 
 
 Silv. The worst of me is, that I am your wife. 
 
 Sharp. Come, Sir Joseph, your fortune is not so bad 
 as you fear: a fine lady, and a lady of very good 
 quality. 
 
 Sir Jo. Thanks to my knighthood, she's a lady. 
 
 Vain. That deserves a fool with a better title. Pray 
 use her as my relation, or you shall hear on't. 
 
 Bluff e. [To Luc v.] What! are you a woman of quality 
 too, spouse ? 
 
 Set. And my relation : pray let her be respected ac- 
 cordingly. Well, honest Lucy, fare thee well. I think
 
 QO THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACTV. 
 
 you and I have been playfellows off and on any time 
 this seven years. 
 
 Lucy. Hold your prating ! I'm thinking what vocation 
 I shall follow while my spouse is planting laurels in the 
 wars. 
 
 Bluffe. No more wars, spouse, no more wars ! while 
 I plant laurels for my head abroad, I may find the 
 branches sprout at home. 
 
 Heart. Bellmour, I approve thy mirth, and thank 
 thee ; and I cannot in gratitude (for I see which way 
 thou art going) see thee fall into the same snare out of 
 which thou hast delivered me. 
 
 Bell. I thank thee, George, for thy good intention ; 
 but there is a fatality in marriage for I find I'm 
 resolute. 
 
 Heart. Then good counsel will be thrown away upon 
 you. For my part, I have once escaped, and when I 
 wed again, may she be ugly as an old bawd. 
 
 Vain. Ill-natured as an old maid 
 
 Bell. Wanton as a young widow 
 
 Sharp. And jealous as a barren wife. 
 
 Heart. Agreed. 
 
 Bell. Well, 'midst of these dreadful denunciations, and 
 notwithstanding the warning and example before me, I 
 commit myself to lasting durance. 
 
 Bettn. Prisoner, make much of your fetters. 
 
 \Giving her hand. 
 
 Bell. Frank, will you keep us in countenance ? 
 
 Vain. May I presume to hope so great a blessing ? 
 
 Aram. We had better take the advantage of a little of 
 our friends' experience first. 
 
 Bell. \Aside^\ O' my conscience she dares not consent, 
 for fear he should recant. [^/0#</.] Well, we shall have 
 your company to church in the morning ; may be it may 
 get you an appetite to see us fall to before ye. Setter, 
 did not you tell me 
 
 Set. They're at the door, I'll call 'em in.
 
 SCENE v.] THE OLD BACHELOR. 91 
 
 Enter dancers : A Dance. 
 
 Bell. Now set we forward on a journey for life. Come 
 take your fellow-travellers. Old George, I'm sorry to 
 see thee still plod on alone. 
 
 Heart. With gaudy plumes and gingling bells made 
 
 proud, 
 
 The youthful beast sets forth, and neighs aloud. 
 A morning sun his tinselled harness gilds, 
 And the first stage a down-hill green-sward yields. 
 But oh 
 
 What rugged ways attend the noon of life ! 
 Our sun declines, and with what anxious strife, 
 What pain we tug that galling load, a wife ! 
 All coursers the first heat with vigour run ; 
 But 'tis with whip and spur the race is won. 
 
 \Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BV MRS. BARRY.' 
 
 As a rash girl, who will all hazards run, 
 
 And be enjoyed, though sure to be undone ; 
 
 Soon as her curiosity is over, 
 
 Would give the world she could her toy recover ; 
 
 So fares it with our poet, and I'm sent 
 
 To tell you he already does repent : 
 
 Would you were all so forward to keep Lent ! 
 
 Now the deed's done, the giddy thing has leisure 
 
 To think o' th' sting that's in the tail of pleasure. 
 
 1 Elizabeth Barry, a favourite actress of the day (born 1658, died 
 1713). It is said thnt when Mrs. Barry, Mis. Bracegirdle, Mrs. 
 Mountford, and Mrs. Bowman appeared together on the stage in 
 the last act of The Old Bachelor, the audience were so struck with a 
 group so beautiful, that they broke out into a fervour of applause.
 
 92 THE OLD BACHELOR. [ACT V. 
 
 Methinks I hear him in consideration : 
 
 "What will the world say? where's my reputation? 
 
 Now that's at stake "No, fool, 'tis out of fashion. 
 
 If loss of that should follow want of wit, 
 
 How many undone men were in the pit ! 
 
 Why, that's some comfort to an author's fears, 
 
 If he's an ass, he will be tried by's peers. 
 
 But hold I am exceeding my commission : 
 
 My business here was humbly to petition ; 
 
 But we're so used to rail on these occasions, 
 
 I could not help one trial of your patience : 
 
 For 'tis our way (you know) for fear o' th' worst, 
 
 To be beforehand still, and cry fool first. 
 
 How say you, sparks ? how do you stand affected ? 
 
 I swear, young Bays within is so dejected, 
 
 Twould grieve your hearts to see him ; shall I call him ? 
 
 But then you cruel critics would so maul him ! 
 
 Yet, may be you'll encourage a beginner; 
 
 But how? Just how the devil does a sinner. 
 
 Women and wits are used e'en much at one, 
 
 You gain your end, and damn 'em when you've done.
 
 THE 
 
 Inlerdum tamen, et vocem Comoedia tollit. -HoRAT. Ars Poet. 1 
 
 Syrus. Huic equidem consilio palmam do : hie me magnifice 
 
 effero, 
 
 Qui vim lantam in me, et poteslatem habeam tantse astutiae, 
 Vera dicendo ut eos ambos fallam. TERENT. Heauton. 2 
 
 1 Nevertheless, sometimes even comedy exalts her voice. 
 
 * To this plan I give the palm. Here I mightily extol myself as one who 
 has such strength, and the power of such great cunning, that I can deceive 
 them both by speaking the truth.
 
 HE comedy of The Double-Dealer made 
 its first appearance at the Theatre 
 Royal, Drury Lane, in 1694, and is, 
 artistically, far superior to its pre- 
 decessor, The Old Bachelor. The 
 characters play closer, and the plot is 
 less involved and better sustained. The 
 brilliant dialogue is seldom forced, and rises easily and spon- 
 taneously from the action of the story. Like all Congreve's 
 comedies, however, the progress of the play is occasionally 
 interrupted for the sake of introducing wit and sarcasm which 
 have little to do with the development of plot and character. 
 Conversation takes place which, though always brilliant and 
 amusing, has but the slightest connection with the solemn 
 stupidity of Lord Froth, the intrigue of Lady Froth, the 
 "niceties" of Lady Plyant, and the villainies of Maskwell. 
 The unity of the piece is sacrificed to the dominant claims 
 of dialogue. As is always apparent in the comedies of 
 Congreve, the love here is sensuality, and virtue only another 
 term for timorous or calculating vice. Nothing more plainly 
 shows the looseness of the times than the conversation 
 which is permitted to take place between Sir Paul Plyant 
 and his daughter. 
 
 Upon its first representation The Double-Dealer was not 
 a success, and it was not until Dryden taught the public 
 its merits that it became popular.
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 To my dear friend Mr. CONGREVE, on his Comedy called, 
 " The Double-Dealer." 
 
 WELL, then, the promised hour is come at last ; 
 
 The present age of wit obscures the past : 
 
 Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ, 
 
 Conquering with force of arms and dint of wit ; 
 
 Theirs was the giant race before the flood ; 
 
 And thus, when Charles returned, our empire stood. 
 
 Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manured, 
 
 With rules of husbandry the rankness cured : 
 
 Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude ; 
 
 And boisterous English wit with art endued. 
 
 Our age was cultivated thus at length ; 
 
 But what we gained in skill we lost in strength. 
 
 Our builders were with want of genius curst ; 
 
 The second temple was not like the first : 
 
 'Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length, 
 
 Our beauties equal, but excel our strength. 
 
 Firm Doric pillars found your solid base, 
 
 The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space ; 
 
 Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. 
 
 In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise ; 
 
 He moved the mind, but had not power to raise. 
 
 Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please ; 
 
 Yet doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease. 
 
 In differing talents both adorned their age ; 
 
 One for the study, t'other for the stage.
 
 96 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 But both to Congreve justly shall submit, 
 
 One matched in judgment, both o'ermatched in wit. 
 
 In him all beauties of this age we see, 
 
 Etherege his courtship, Southerne's purity ; 
 
 The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherley. 
 
 All this in blooming youth you have achieved ; 
 
 Nor are your foiled contemporaries grieved ; 
 
 So much the sweetness of your manners move, 
 
 We cannot envy you, because we love. 
 
 Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw 
 
 A beardless consul made against the law, 
 
 And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome ; 
 
 Though he with Hannibal was overcome. 
 
 Thus old Romano bowed to Raphael's fame ; 
 
 And scholar to the youth he taught became. 
 
 Oh ! that your brows my laurel had sustained, 
 Well had I been deposed if you had reigned ! 
 The father had descended for the son ; 
 For only you are lineal to the throne. 
 Thus when the state one Edward did depose, 
 A greater Edward in his room arose. 
 But now, not I, but poetry is curst ; 
 For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first. 
 But let 'em not mistake my patron's part, 
 Nor call his charity their own desert. 
 Yet I this prophesy : Thou shalt be seen, 
 (Though with some short parenthesis between,) 
 High on the throne of wit ; and seated there, 
 Not mine (that's little) but thy laurel wear. 
 Thy first attempt an early promise made, 
 That early promise this has more than paid ; 
 So bold, yet so judiciously you dare, 
 That your least praise is to be regular. 
 Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought, 
 But genius must be born, and never can be taught. 
 This is your portion, this your native store ; 
 Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, 
 To Shakspeare gave as much ; she could not give him more. 
 
 Maintain your post : that's all the fame you need ; 
 For 'tis impossible you should proceed.
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 Already I am worn with cares and age, 
 And just abandoning the ungrateful stage : 
 Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, 
 I live a rent-charge on his providence. 
 But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn, 
 Whom I foresee to better fortune born, 
 Be kind to my remains ; and, oh defend, 
 Against your judgment, your departed friend ! 
 Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, 
 But shade those laurels which descend to you : 
 And take for tribute what these lines express ; 
 You merit more, nor could my love do less. 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 97 
 
 Con.
 
 To the Right Honourable 
 CHARLES MONTAGUE, 
 
 One of the Lords of the Treasury}- 
 SIR, 
 
 HEARTILY wish that this play were as 
 perfect as T intended it; that it might 
 be more worthy your acceptance and 
 that my dedication of it to you might 
 be more becoming that honour and 
 esteem which I, with everybody who is 
 so fortunate as to know you, have for 
 you. It had your countenance when yet unknown ; and 
 now it is made public, it wants your protection. 
 
 I would not have anybody imagine that I think this play 
 without its faults, for I am conscious of several. I confess 
 I designed (whatever vanity or ambition occasioned that 
 design) to have written a true and regular comedy : but I 
 found it an undertaking which put me in mind of Sudet 
 multum,frustraque laboret ausus idem. And now, to make 
 amends for the vanity of such a design, I do confess both 
 the attempt and the imperfect performance. Yet I must 
 take the boldness to say, I have not miscarried in the 
 whole ; for the mechanical part of it is regular. That I 
 may say with as little vanity, as a builder may say he has 
 built a house according to the model laid down before him ; 
 or a gardener that he has set his flowers in a knot of such 
 or such a figure. I designed the moral first, and to that 
 moral I invented the fable, and do not know that I have 
 borrowed one hint of it anywhere. I made the plot as 
 strong as I could, because it was single ; and I made it 
 
 1 Afterwards Prime Minister and created Earl of Halifax not 
 to be confounded with George Savile, Marquess Halifax, the bril- 
 liant Trimmer.
 
 EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 99 
 
 single, because I would avoid confusion, and was resolved 
 to preserve the three unities of the drama. Sir, this dis- 
 course is very impertinent to you, whose judgment much 
 better can discern the faults, than I can excuse them ; and 
 whose good-nature, like that of a lover, will find out those 
 hidden beauties (if there are any such) which it would be 
 great immodesty for me to discover. I think I do not speak 
 improperly when I call you a lover of poetry ; for it is very 
 well known she has been a very kind mistress to you : she 
 has not denied you the last favour, and she has been fruit- 
 ful to you in a most beautiful issue. If I break off abruptly 
 here, I hope everybody will understand that it is to avoid 
 a commendation, which, as it is your due, would be most 
 easy for me to pay, and too troublesome for you to receive. 
 
 I have, since the acting of this play, hearkened after the 
 objections which have been made to it ; for I was conscious 
 where a true critic might have put me upon my defence. I 
 was prepared for the attack ; and am pretty confident I 
 could have vindicated some parts, and excused others ; and 
 where there were any plain miscarriages, I would most 
 ingenuously have confessed them. But I have not heard 
 anything said sufficient to provoke an answer. That which 
 looks most like an objection, does not relate in particular to 
 this play, but to all or most that ever have been written ; 
 and that is, soliloquy. Therefore I will answer it, not only 
 for my own sake, but to save others the trouble, to whom it 
 may hereafter be objected. 
 
 I grant, that for a man to talk to himself appears absurd 
 and unnatural ; and indeed it is so in most cases ; but the 
 circumstances which may attend the occasion make great 
 alteration. It oftentimes happens to a man to have designs 
 which require him to himself, and in their nature cannot 
 admit of a confidant. Such, for certain, is all villainy ; and 
 other less mischievous intentions may be very improper to 
 be communicated to a second person. In such a case, 
 therefore, the audience must observe, whether the person 
 upon the stage takes any notice of them at all, or no. For 
 if he supposes any one to be by when he talks to himself, it 
 is monstrous and ridiculous to the last degree. Nay, not 
 only in this case, but in any part of a play, if there is ex- 
 pressed any knowledge of an audience, it is insufferable. 
 But otherwise, when a man in soliloquy reasons with him-
 
 i oo EPISTLE D ED 1C A TOR Y. 
 
 self, and pro's and con's, and weighs all his designs, we 
 ought not to imagine that this man either talks to us or to 
 himself; he is only thinking, and thinking such matter as 
 were inexcusable folly in him to speak. But because we 
 are concealed spectators of the plot in agitation, and the 
 poet finds it necessary to let us know the whole mystery of 
 his contrivance, he is willing to inform us of this person's 
 thoughts ; and to that end is forced to make use of the 
 expedient of speech, no other better way being yet invented 
 for the communication of thought. 
 
 Another very wrong objection has been made by some, 
 who have not taken leisure to distinguish the characters. 
 The hero of the play, as they are pleased to call him, 
 (meaning Mellefont,) is a gull, and made a fool, and 
 cheated. Is every man a gull and a fool that is deceived ? 
 At that rate I am afraid the two classes of men will be re- 
 duced to one, and the knaves themselves be at a loss to 
 justify their title : but if an open-hearted honest man, who 
 has an entire confidence in one whom he takes to be his 
 friend, and whom he has obliged to be so ; and who (to 
 confirm him in his opinion) in all appearance, and upon 
 several trials has been so ; if this man be deceived by the 
 treachery of the other, must he of necessity commence fool 
 immediately, only because the other has proved a villain ? 
 Ay, but there was caution given to Mellefont in the first 
 Act by his friend Careless. Of what nature was that cau- 
 tion ? Only to give the audience some light into the cha- 
 racter of Maskwell, before his appearance ; and not to 
 convince Mellefont of his treachery ; for that was more than 
 Careless was then able to do ; he never knew Maskwell guilty 
 of any villainy ; he was only a sort of man which he did not 
 like. As for his suspecting his familiarity with my Lady 
 Touchwood, let them examine the answer that Mellefont 
 makes him, and compare it with the conduct of Maskwell's 
 character through the play. 
 
 I would beg them again to look into the character of 
 Maskwell, before they accuse Mellefont of weakness for 
 being deceived by him. For upon summing up the inquiry 
 into this objection, it may be found they have mistaken 
 cunning in one character, for folly in another. 
 
 But there is one thing at which I am more concerned 
 than all the false criticisms that are made upon me ; and
 
 EPISTLE DEDICA TOR F. 101 
 
 that is, some of the ladies are offended. I am heartily sorry 
 for it, for I declare I would rather disoblige all the critics 
 in the world, than one of the fair sex. They are concerned 
 that I have represented some women vicious and affected : 
 how can I help it ? It is the business of a comic poet to 
 paint the vices and follies of humankind ; and there are but 
 two sexes, male and female, men and women, which have a 
 title to humanity : and if I leave one half of them out, the 
 work will be imperfect. I should be very glad of an oppor- 
 tunity to make my compliment to those ladies who are 
 offended ; but they can no more expect it in a comedy, than 
 to be tickled by a surgeon when he is letting them blood. 
 They who are virtuous or discreet should not be offended ; 
 for such characters as these distinguish them, and make 
 their beauties more shining and observed : and they who 
 are of the other kind, may nevertheless pass for such, by 
 seeming not to be displeased, or touched with the satire of. 
 this comedy. Thus have they also wrongfully accused me 
 of doing them a prejudice, when I have in reality done 
 them a service. 
 
 You will pardon me, Sir, for the freedom I take of making 
 answers to other people, in an epistle which ought wholly 
 to be sacred to you : but since I intend the play to be so 
 too, I hope I may take the more liberty of justifying it, 
 where it is in the right. 
 
 I must now, Sir, declare to the world how kind you have 
 been to my endeavours ; for in regard of what was well 
 meant, you have excused what was ill performed. I beg 
 you would continue the same method in your acceptance of 
 this dedication. I know no other way of making a return 
 to that humanity you showed, in protecting an infant, but 
 by enrolling it in your service, now that it is of age and 
 come into the world. Therefore be pleased to accept of 
 this as an acknowledgment of the favour you have shown 
 me, and an earnest of the real service and gratitude of, Sir, 
 your most obliged, humble servant, 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 MOORS have this way (as story tells) to know 
 Whether their brats are truly got or no ; 
 Into the sea the new-born babe is thrown, 
 There, as instinct directs, to swim or drown. 
 A barbarous device to try if spouse 
 Has kept religiously her nuptial vows. 
 
 Such are the trials poets make of plays : 
 Only they trust to more inconstant seas ; 
 So does our author this his child commit 
 To the tempestuous mercy of the pit, 
 To know if it be truly born of wit. 
 
 Critics, avaunt ! for you are fish of prey, 
 And feed, like sharks, upon an infant play. 
 Be every monster of the deep away ; 
 Let's a fair trial have, and a clear sea. 
 
 Let Nature work, and do not damn too soon, 
 For life will struggle long ere it sink down ; 
 And will at least rise thrice before it drown. 
 Let us consider, had it been our fate, 
 Thus hardly to be proved legitimate ! 
 I will not say, we'd all in danger been, 
 Were each to suffer for his mother's sin ; 
 But, by my troth, I cannot avoid thinking 
 How nearly some good men might have 'scaped sinking.
 
 PROLOGUE. '103 
 
 But Heaven be praised this custom is confined 
 
 Alone to the offspring of the Muses' kind : 
 
 Our Christian cuckolds are more bent to pity ; 
 
 I know not one Moor husband in the city. 
 
 I' th' good man's arms the chopping bastard thrives ; 
 
 For he thinks all his own that is his wife's. 
 
 Whatever fate is for this play designed, 
 The poet's sure he shall some comfort find : 
 For if his muse has played him false, the worst 
 That can befal him, is to be divorced ; 
 You husbands judge, if that be to be cursed.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MASKWELL, a Villain ; pretended Friend to MELLE- 
 
 FONT, Gallant to LADY TOUCHWOOD, and in love 
 
 with CYNTHIA. 
 
 LORD TOUCHWOOD, Uncle to MELLEFONT. 
 MELLEFONT, promised to and in love with CYNTHIA. 
 CARELESS, his Friend. 
 LORD FROTH, a solemn Coxcomb. 
 BRISK, a pert Coxcomb. 
 SIR PAUL PLYANT, an uxorious, foolish, old Knight ; 
 
 brother of LADY TOUCHWOOD, and Father of 
 
 CYNTHIA. 
 SAYGRACE, Chaplain to LORD TOUCHWOOD. 
 
 LADY TOUCHWOOD, in love with MELLEFONT. 
 CYNTHIA, Daughter of SIR PAUL by a former Wife, 
 
 promised to MELLEFONT. 
 LADY FROTH, a great Coquette ; pretender to poetry, 
 
 wit, and learning. 
 LADY PLYANT, insolent to her Husband, and easy to 
 
 any pretender. 
 
 Boy, Footmen, and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE. A Gallery in Lord Touchwood's House, with 
 Chambers adjoining.
 
 THE c DOU c BLE- c bE^ALE\ 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Gallery in Lord TOUCHWOOD'S House. 
 
 Enter CARELESS, crossing the stage, with his hat, gloves, 
 and sword, in his hands ; as just risen from table; 
 
 him. 
 
 JJEL. Ned, Ned, whither so fast? what, 
 turned flincher? why, you won't leave 
 us? 
 
 Care. Where are the women ? I'm 
 weary of guzzling, and begin to think 
 them the better company. 
 Mel. Then thy reason staggers, and thou'rt almost 
 drunk. 
 
 Care. No, faith, but your fools grow noisy ; and if a 
 man must endure the noise of words without sense, I 
 think the women have more musical voices, and become 
 nonsense better. 
 
 Mel. Why, they are at the end of the gallery, retired to 
 their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom, 
 after dinner ; but I made a pretence to follow you, be- 
 cause I had something to say to you in private, and I am 
 not like to have many opportunities this evening.
 
 io6 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT I. 
 
 Care. And here's this coxcomb most critically come to 
 interrupt you. 
 
 Enter BRISK. 
 
 Brisk. Boys, boys, lads, where are you? What, do 
 you give ground ! mortgage for a bottle, ha ? Careless, 
 this is your trick; you're always spoiling company by 
 leaving it. 
 
 Care. And thou art always spoiling company by 
 coming into't. 
 
 Brisk. Pooh ! ha ! ha ! ha ! I know you envy me : 
 spite, proud spite, by the gods ! and burning envy. I'll 
 be judged by Mellefont here, who gives and takes raillery 
 better, you or I. Pshaw, man ! when I say you spoil 
 company by leaving it, I mean you leave nobody for the 
 company to laugh at. I think there I was with you, ha? 
 Mellefont. 
 
 Mel. O' my word, Brisk, that was a home-thrust: you 
 have silenced him. 
 
 Brisk. Oh, my dear Mellefont, let me perish, if thou 
 art not the soul of conversation, the very essence of wit, 
 and spirit of wine ! The deuce take me, if there were 
 three good things said, or one understood, since thy 
 amputation from the body of our society. He ! I think 
 that's pretty and metaphorical enough : egad I could not 
 have said it out of thy company: Careless, ha? 
 
 Care. Hum, ay, what is't? 
 
 Brisk. O; inon eoeur ! what is't? Nay gad I'll punish 
 you for want of apprehension : the deuce take me if I tell 
 you. 
 
 Mel. No, no, hang him, he has no taste. But, dear 
 Brisk, excuse me, I have a little business. 
 
 Care. Prithee get thee gone ; thou seest we are serious. 
 
 Mel. We'll come immediately, if you'll but go in, and 
 keep up good-humour and sense in the company : prithee 
 do, they'll fall asleep else. 
 
 Brisk. Egad, so they will ! Well I will, I will, gad, 
 you shall command me from the zenith to the nadir.
 
 SCENE i.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 107 
 
 But the deuce take me if I say a good thing till you come. 
 But prithee, dear rogue, make haste, prithee make haste, 
 I shall burst else. And yonder's your uncle, my Lord 
 Touchwood, swears he'll disinherit you, and Sir Paul 
 Plyant threatens to disclaim you for a son-in-law, and my 
 Lord Froth won't dance at your wedding to-morrow, nor, 
 the deuce take me, I won't write your epithalamium 
 and see what a condition you're like to be brought to. 
 
 MeL Well, I'll speak but three words, and follow you. 
 
 Brisk. Enough, enough. Careless, bring your appre- 
 hension along with you. [Exit. 
 
 Care. Pert coxcomb ! 
 
 Mel. Faith, 'tis a good-natured coxcomb, and has very 
 entertaining follies : you must be more humane to him ; at 
 this juncture, it will do me service. I'll tell you, I would 
 have mirth continued this day at any rate ; though 
 patience purchase folly, and attention be paid with noise : 
 there are times when sense may be unseasonable, as well 
 as truth. Prithee, do thou wear none to-day ; but allow 
 Brisk to have wit, that thou mayst seem a fool. 
 
 Care. Why, how now ! why this extravagant proposi- 
 tion? 
 
 Mel. 6, I would have no room for serious design, for 
 I am jealous of a plot. I would have noise and imperti- 
 nence keep my Lady Touchwood's head from working ; 
 for hell is not more busy than her brain, nor contains 
 more devils tjjp,n that imaginations. 
 
 Care. I thought your fear of her had been over. Is 
 not to-morrow appointed for your marriage with Cynthia ; 
 and her father, Sir Paul Plyant, come to settle the 
 writings this day, on purpose ? 
 
 Mel. True; but you shall judge whether I have not 
 reason to be alarmed. None besides you arid Maskwell 
 are acquainted with the secret of my Aunt Touchwood's 
 violent passion for me. Since my first refusal of her 
 addresses, she has endeavoured to do me all ill offices with 
 my uncle ; yet has managed 'em with that subtlety, that
 
 io8 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT I, 
 
 to him they have borne the face of kindness ; while her 
 malice, like a dark lantern, only shone upon me where it 
 was directed. Still it gave me less perplexity to prevent 
 the success of her displeasure, than to avoid the impor- 
 tunities of her love ; and of two evils, I thought myself 
 favoured in her aversion: but whether urged by her 
 despair, and the short prospect of the time she saw to 
 accomplish her designs ; whether the hopes of revenge, 
 or of her love, terminated in the view of this my marriage 
 with Cynthia, I know not ; but this morning she surprised 
 me in my bed. 
 
 Care. Was there ever such a fury ! 'tis well Nature has 
 not put it into her sex's power to ravish. Well, bless us ! 
 proceed. What followed ? 
 
 Mel. What at first amazed me : for I looked to have 
 seen her in all the transports of a slighted and revengeful 
 woman: but when I expected thunder from her voice, 
 and lightning in her eyes ; I saw her melted into tears 
 and hushed into a sigh. It was long before either of us 
 spoke; passion had tied her tongue, and amazement 
 mine. In short, the consequence was thus, she omitted 
 nothing that the most violent love could urge, or tender 
 words express ; which when she saw had no effect, but 
 still I pleaded honour and nearness of blood to my uncle, 
 then came the storm I feared at first : for starting from 
 my bed-side like a fury, she flew to my sword, and with 
 much ado I prevented her doing me or herself a mischief. 
 Having disarmed her, in a gust of passion she left me, 
 and in a resolution, confirmed by a thousand curses, not 
 to close her eyes till they had seen my ruin. 
 
 Care. Exquisite woman ! but what the devil, does she 
 think thou hast no more sense, than to get an heir upon 
 her body to disinherit thyself? for, as I take it, this 
 settlement upon you is with a proviso, that your uncle 
 have no children. 
 
 Mel. It is so. Well, the service you are to do me, 
 will be a pleasure to yourself; I must get you to engage
 
 SCENE I.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 109 
 
 my Lady Plyant all this evening, that my pious aunt may 
 not work her to her interest. And if you chance to 
 secure her to yourself, you may incline her to mine. She's 
 handsome, and knows it ; is very silly, and thinks she has 
 sense, and has an old fond husband. 
 
 Care. I confess, a very fair foundation for a lover to 
 build upon. 
 
 Mel. For my Lord Froth, he and his wife will be 
 sufficiently taken up with admiring one another, and 
 Brisk's gallantry, as they call it. I'll observe my uncle 
 myself: and Jack Maskwell has promised me to watch 
 my aunt narrowly, and give me notice upon any suspicion. 
 As for Sir Paul, my wife's father-in-law that is to be, my 
 dear Cynthia has such a share in his fatherly fondness, he 
 would scarce make her a moment uneasy, to have her 
 happy hereafter. 
 
 Care. So, you have manned your works: but I wish 
 you may not have the weakest guard where the enemy is 
 strongest. 
 
 Mel. Maskwell you mean; prithee, why should you 
 suspect him ? 
 
 Care. Faith, I cannot help it, you know I never liked 
 him ; I am a little superstitious in physiognomy. 
 
 Mel. He has obligations of gratitude to bind him to 
 me ; his dependence upon my uncle is through my 
 means. 
 
 Care. Upon your aunt you mean. 
 
 Mel. My aunt? 
 
 Care. I'm mistaken if there be not a familiarity be- 
 tween them you do not suspect, notwithstanding her pas- 
 sion for you. 
 
 Mel. Pooh, pooh, nothing in the world but his design 
 to do me service ; and he endeavours to be well in her 
 esteem, that he may be able to effect it. 
 
 Care. Well, I shall be glad to be mistaken ; but your 
 
 aunt's aversion in her revenge cannot be any way so 
 
 effectually shown as in bringing forth a child to disinherit
 
 i io THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT I. 
 
 you. She is handsome and cunning, and naturally 
 wanton : Maskwell is flesh and blood at best, and oppor- 
 tunities between them are frequent. His affection to you, 
 you have confessed, is grounded upon his interest ; that 
 you have transplanted; and should it take root in my 
 lady, I don't see what you can expect from the fruit. 
 
 Mel. I confess the consequence is visible, were your 
 suspicions just. But see, the company is broke up, let's 
 meet 'em. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 TJie Same. 
 
 Enter CARELESS, MELLEFONT, Lord TOUCHWOOD, Lord 
 FROTH, Sir PAUL PLYANT, and BRISK. 
 
 Lord Touch. Out upon't, nephew ! leave your father- 
 in-law and me to maintain our ground against young 
 people ! 
 
 Mel. I beg your lordship's pardon; we were just re- 
 turning. 
 
 Sir Paul. Were you, son ? gadsbud, much better as it 
 is. Good, strange! I swear I'm almost tipsy t'other 
 bottle would have been too powerful for me, as sure 
 as can be it would. We wanted your company; but 
 Mr. Brisk where is he ? I swear and vow he's a most 
 facetious person, and the best company. And, my 
 Lord Froth, your lordship is so merry a man, he ! he ! 
 he! 
 
 Lord Froth. O foy, Sir Paul ! what do you mean ? 
 Merry ! O barbarous ! I'd as lieve you called me 
 fool. 
 
 Sir Paul. Nay, I protest and vow now, 'tis true ; when 
 Mr. Brisk jokes, your lordship's laugh does so become, 
 you, he ! he ! he !
 
 SCENE II.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. in 
 
 Lord Froth. Ridiculous! Sir Paul, you're strangely 
 mistaken, I find champagne is powerful. I assure you, 
 Sir Paul, I laugh at nobody's jest but my own or a lady's ; 
 I assure you, Sir Paul. 
 
 Brisk. How? how, my lord? what, affront my wit! 
 let me perish, do I never say anything worthy to be 
 laughed at? 
 
 Lord Froth. O foy ! don't misapprehend me, I don't 
 say so, for I often smile at your conceptions. But there 
 is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality than to 
 laugh ; 'tis such a vulgar expression of the passion ! 
 everybody can laugh. Then, especially to laugh at the 
 jest of an inferior person, or when anybody else of the 
 same quality does not laugh with one ; ridiculous ! To 
 be pleased with what pleases the crowd ! Now when I 
 laugh, I always laugh alone. 
 
 Brisk. I suppose, that's because you laugh at your own 
 jests, egad, ha ! ha), ha! 
 
 Lord Froth. He ! he ! I swear, though, your raillery 
 provokes me to a smile. 
 
 Brisk. Ay, my lord, 'tis a sign I hit you in the teeth if 
 you show 'em. 
 
 Lord Froth. He! he! he! I swear that's so very 
 pretty, I can't forbear. 
 
 Care. I find a quibble bears more sway in your lord- 
 ship's face than a jest. 
 
 Lord Touch. Sir Paul, if you please we'll retire to the 
 ladies, and drink a dish of tea, to settle our heads. 
 
 Sir Paul. With all my heart. Mr. Brisk, you'll come 
 to us, or call me when you joke ; I'll be ready to laugh 
 incontinently. 
 
 [Exeunt Lord TOUCHWOOD and Sir PAUL PLYANT. 
 
 Mel. But does your lordship never see comedies ? 
 
 Lord Froth. O yes, sometimes ; but I never laugh. 
 
 Mel. No ! 
 
 Lord Froth. O no ; never laugh indeed, sir. 
 
 Care. No ! why, what d'ye go there for?
 
 i j 2 THE DO UBLE-DEA LER. [ACT I. 
 
 Lord Froth. To distinguish myself from the com- 
 monalty, and "mortify the poets: the fellows grow so 
 conceited when any of their foolish wit prevails upon the 
 side-boxes, I swear he ! he ! he ! I have often con- 
 strained my inclination to laugh, he ! he ! he ! to avoid 
 giving them encouragement. 
 
 Mel. You are cruel to yourself, my lord, as well as 
 malicious to them. 
 
 Lord Froth. I confess I did myself some violence at 
 first ; but now I think I have conquered it. 
 
 Brisk. Let me perish, my lord, but there is something 
 very particular in the humour. 'Tis true, it makes against 
 wit, and I'm sorry for some friends of mine that write, 
 but, egad, I love to be malicious. Nay, deuce take me, 
 there's wit in't too ; and wit must be foiled by wit ; cut a 
 diamond with a diamond ; no other way, egad ! 
 
 Lord Froth. Oh, I thought you would not be long before 
 you found out the wit. 
 
 Care. Wit ! in what ? where the devil's the wit in not 
 laughing when a man has a mind to't? 
 
 Brisk. O Lord, why, can't you find it out ? Why, there 
 'tis, in the not laughing ; don't you apprehend me ? 
 {Aside to FROTH.] My lord, Careless is a very honest 
 fellow, but hearkee, you understand me, somewhat 
 heavy, a little shallow, or so. \Aloud.~\ Why, I'll tell 
 you now. Suppose now you come up to me nay, prithee, 
 Careless, be instructed suppose, as I was saying, you 
 come up to me holding your sides, and laughing, as if 
 you would Well I look grave, and ask the cause of 
 this immoderate mirth you laugh on still, and are not 
 able to tell me. Still I look grave, not so much as 
 smile. 
 
 Care. Smile ! no ; what the devil should you smile at, 
 when you suppose I can't tell you ? 
 
 Brisk. Pshaw ! pshaw ! prithee, don't interrupt me. 
 But I tell you, you shall tell me at last but it shall be 
 a great while first.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE DOUBLE DEALER, 113 
 
 Care. Well, but prithee don't let it be a great while, 
 because I long to have'it over. 
 
 Brisk. Well, then, you tell me some good jest, or very 
 witty thing, laughing all the while as if you were ready to 
 die, and I hear it, and look thus. Would not you be 
 disappointed ? 
 
 Care. No ; for if it were a witty thing, i should not 
 expect you to understand it. 
 
 Lord Froth. O foy, Mr. Careless ! all the world allows 
 Mr. Brisk to have wit, my wife says he has a great deal. 
 I hope you think her a judge. 
 
 Brisk. Pooh, my lord, his voice goes for nothing ! I 
 can't tell how to make him apprehend. [To CARELESS.] 
 Take it t'other way : suppose I say a witty thing to 
 you? 
 
 Care. Then I shall be disappointed indeed. 
 
 Mel. Let him alone, Brisk, he is obstinately bent not 
 to be instructed, 
 
 Brisk. I'm sorry for him, the deuce take me ! 
 
 Mel. Shall we go to the ladies, my lord ? 
 
 Lord Froth, With all my heart, methinks we are a 
 solitude without 'em. 
 
 Mel. Or, what say you to another bottle of cham- 
 pagne ? 
 
 Lord Froth. O, for the universe, not a drop more I 
 beseech you ! Oh intemperate ! I have a flushing in my 
 face already. [Takes out a pocket-glass, and looks in it. 
 
 Brisk. Let me see, let me see, my lord ! I broke my 
 glass that was in the lid of my snuff-box. Hum ! deuce 
 take me, I have encouraged a pimple here too* 
 
 [Takes the glass, and looks. 
 
 Lord Froth. Then you must mortify him with a patch ; 
 my wife shall supply you. Come, gentlemen, allons, here 
 is company coming. [Exeunt. 
 
 Con.
 
 H4 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT i. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 An Apartment in LORD TOUCHWOOD'S House. 
 
 Enter LADY TOUCHWOOD and MASKWELL. 
 
 Lady Touch. I'll hear no more ! y'are false and un- 
 grateful. Come, I know you false. 
 
 Mask. I have been frail, I confess, madam, for your 
 ladyship's service. 
 
 Lady Touch. That I should trust a man whom I had 
 known betray his friend ! 
 
 Mask. What friend have I betrayed ? or to whom ? 
 
 Lady Touch. Your fond friend Mellefont, and to me ; 
 can you deny it ? 
 
 Mask. I do not. 
 
 Lady Touch. Have you not wronged my lord, who has 
 been a father to you in your wants, and given you being ? 
 Have you not wronged him in the highest manner, in his 
 bed? 
 
 Mask. With your ladyship's help, and for your service, 
 as I told you before. I can't deny that neither. Any- 
 thing more, madam? 
 
 Lady Touch. More ! audacious villain ! O, what's 
 more, is most my shame ! Have you not dishonoured 
 me? 
 
 Mask. No, that I deny ; for I never told in all my 
 life : so that accusation's answered ; on to the next. 
 
 Lady Touch. Death, do you dally with my passion ? 
 Insolent devil ! But have a care; provoke me not; for, 
 by the eternal fire, you shall not 'scape my vengeance ! 
 Calm villain ! How unconcerned he stands, confessing 
 treachery and ingratitude ! Is there a vice more black ! 
 O, I have excuses, thousands, for my faults ! fire in my 
 temper, passions in my soul, apt to every provocation ; 
 oppressed at once with love and with despair. But a 
 sedate, a thinking villain, whose black blood runs tem- 
 perately bad, what excuse can clear ?
 
 SCENE in.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 115 
 
 Mask. Would you be in temper, madam ? I would 
 not talk not to be heard. I have been \She walks about 
 disordered} a very great rogue for your sake, and you re- 
 proach me vuth it ; I am ready to be a rogue still to do 
 you service ; and you are flinging conscience and honour 
 in my face to rebate my inclinations. How am I to 
 behave myself ? You know I am your creature, my life 
 and fortune in your power ; to disoblige you brings me 
 certain ruin. Allow it, I would betray you, I would not 
 be a traitor to myself: I don't pretend to honesty, because 
 you know I am a rascal : but I would convince you from 
 the necessity of my being firm to you. 
 
 Lady Touch. Necessity, impudence ! Can no gratitude 
 incline you, no obligations touch you? Have not my 
 fortune and my person been subjected to your pleasure? 
 Were you not in the nature of a servant, and have not I 
 in effect made you lord of all, of me, and of my lord ? 
 Where is that humble love, the languishing, that adora- 
 tion, which once was paid me, and everlastingly en- 
 gaged ? 
 
 Mask. Fixed, rooted in my heart, whence nothing can 
 remove 'em, yet you 
 
 Lady Touch. Yet ! what yet ? 
 
 Mask. Nay, misconceive me not, madam, when I say 
 I have had a generous and a faithful passion, which you 
 had never favoured, but through revenge and policy. 
 
 Lady Touch. Ha! 
 
 Mask. Look you, madam, we are alone : pray contain 
 yourself, and hear me. You know you loved your nephew, 
 when I first sighed for you ; I quickly found it ; an argu- 
 ment that I loved ; for with that art you veiled your 
 passion, 'twas imperceptible to all but jealous eyes. This 
 discovery made me bold : I confess it; for by it I thought 
 you in my power. Your nephew's scorn of you added to 
 my hopes ; I watched the occasion, and took you, just 
 repulsed by him, warm at once with love and indignation ; 
 your disposition, my arguments, and happy opportunity,
 
 ii6 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT I. 
 
 accomplished my design I pressed the yielding minute, 
 and was blessed. How I have loved you since words 
 have not shown, then how should words express? 
 
 Lady Touch. Well, mollifying devil ! and have I not 
 met your love with forward fire? 
 
 Mask. Your zeal, I grant, was ardent, but misplaced ; 
 there was revenge in view : that woman's idol had defiled 
 the temple of the god, and love was made a mock- 
 worship. A son and heir would have edged young 
 Mellefont upon the brink of ruin, and left him none but 
 you to catch at for prevention. 
 
 Lady Touch. Again, provoke me ! Do you wind me 
 like a 'larum, only to rouse my own stilled soul for your 
 diversion ? Confusion ! 
 
 Mask. Nay, madam, I'm gone if you relapse. What 
 needs this ? I say nothing but what you yourself, in open 
 hours of love, have told me. Why should you deny it ? 
 nay, how can you ? Is not all this present heat owing to 
 the same fire ? Do you not love him still ? How have 
 I this day offended you, but in not breaking off his match 
 with Cynthia ? which ere to-morrow shall be done, had 
 you but patience 
 
 Lady Touch. How, what said you, Maskwell. Another 
 caprice to unwind my temper? 
 
 Mask. By Heaven, no ! I am your slave, the slave of 
 all your pleasures ; and will. not rest till I have given you 
 peace, would you suffer me. 
 
 Lady Touch. O, Maskwell, in vain I do disguise me 
 from thee ! thou knowest me, knowest the very inmost 
 windings and recesses of my soul. Oh Mellefont! I 
 burn. Married to-morrow! Despair strikes me. Yet 
 my soul knows I hate him too : let him but once be 
 mine, and next immediate ruin seize him. 
 
 Mask. Compose yourself; you shall possess and ruin 
 him too. Will that please you ? 
 
 Lady Touch. How, how ? thou dear, thou precious 
 villain, how?
 
 SCENE in.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 117 
 
 Mask. You have already been tampering with my Lady 
 Plyant? 
 
 Lady Touch. I have : she is ready for any impression I 
 think fit. 
 
 Mask. She must be thoroughly persuaded that Melle- 
 font loves her. 
 
 Lady Touch. She is so credulous that way naturally, 
 and likes him so well, that she will believe it faster than 
 I can persuade her. But I don't see what you can pro- 
 pose from such a trifling design ; for her first conversing 
 with Mellefont will convince her of the contrary. 
 
 Mask. I know it. I don't depend upon it. But it 
 will prepare something else ; and gain us leisure to lay a 
 stronger plot : if I gain a little time I shall not want con- 
 trivance. 
 
 One minute gives invention to destroy ; 
 What to rebuild, will a whole age employ. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Gallery in Lord TOUCHWOOD'S House. 
 
 Enter Lady FROTH and CYNTHIA. 
 
 |YN. Indeed, madam ! Is it possible your 
 ladyship could have been so much in 
 love? 
 
 Lady Froth. I could not sleep ; I 
 did not sleep one wink for three weeks 
 together. 
 
 Cyn. Prodigious ! I wonder want of sleep, and so 
 much love, and so much wit as your ladyship has, did 
 not turn your brain. 
 
 Lady Froth. O my dear Cynthia, you must not rally 
 your friend. But really, as you say, I wonder too ; but 
 then I had a way : for between you and I, I had whimsies 
 and vapours, but I gave them vent. 
 Cyn. How pray, madam ? 
 
 Lady Froth. O I writ, writ abundantly; do you never 
 write ? 
 
 Cyn. Write what ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Songs, elegies, satires, encomiums, pane- 
 gyrics, lampoons, plays, or heroic poems. 
 
 Cyn. O Lord, not I, madam ; I'm content to be a 
 courteous reader. 
 
 Lady Froth. O inconsistent ! in love, and not write ! 
 if my lord and I had been both of your temper, we had 
 never come together. O bless me! what a sad thing 
 would that have been, if my lord and I should never 
 have met !
 
 SCENE I.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 119 
 
 Cyn. Then neither my lord nor you would ever have 
 met with your match, on my conscience. 
 
 Lady Froth. O' my conscience, no. more we should ; 
 thou sayest right : for sure my Lord Froth is as fine a 
 gentleman and as much a man of quality ! Ah, nothing 
 at all of the common air ! I think I may say he wants 
 nothing but a blue ribbon and a star to make him shine, 
 the very phosphorus of our hemisphere. Do you under- 
 stand those two hard words ? if you don't, I'll explain 
 'em to you. 
 
 Cyn. Yes, yes, madam, I'm not so ignorant. [Aside. 
 At least I won't own it, to be troubled with your instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 Lady Froth. Nay, I beg your pardon ; but being de- 
 rived from the Greek, I thought you might have escaped 
 the etymology. But I'm the more amazed to find you a 
 woman of letters, and not write! bless me! how can 
 Mellefont believe you love him ? 
 
 Cyn. Why faith, madam, he that won't take my word, 
 shall never have it under my hand. 
 
 Lady Froth. I vow Mellefont's a pretty gentleman, 
 but methinks he wants a manner. 
 
 Cyn. A manner ! what's that, madam ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Some distinguishing quality, as for ex- 
 ample, the bel air or brillant of Mr. Brisk ; the solemnity, 
 yet complaisance of my lord, or something of his own 
 that should look a little je tie sais quoi; he is too much 
 a mediocrity, in my mind. 
 
 Cyn. He does not indeed affect either pertness or 
 formality, for which I like him. Here he comes. 
 
 Lady Froth. And my lord with him ; pray observe the 
 difference. 
 
 Enter Lord FROTH, MELLEFONT, and BRISK. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside.] Impertinent creature! I could almost 
 be angry with her now. 
 
 Lady Froth. My lord, I have been telling Cynthia how
 
 120 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT n. 
 
 much I have been in love with you, I swear I have ; I'm 
 not ashamed to own it now. Ah, it makes my heart leap ! 
 I vow, I sigh when I think on't ; my dear lord, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 do you remember, my lord ? 
 
 [Squeezes him by the hand, looks kindly on him, sighs, 
 and then laughs out. 
 
 Lord Froth. Pleasant creature ! perfectly well. Ah, 
 that look ! ay, there it is ! who could resist ? 'twas so my 
 heart was made a captive first, and ever since 't has been 
 in love with happy slavery. 
 
 Lady Froth. O that tongue ! that dear deceitful tongue ! 
 that charming softness in your mien and your expression ! 
 and then your bow ! Good my lord, bow as you did when 
 I gave you my picture : here, suppose this my picture. 
 [Gives him a pocket-glass.'] Pray mind, my lord ; ah, he 
 bows charmingly ! Nay, my lord, you shan't kiss it so . 
 much, I shall grow jealous, I vow now. 
 
 [He bows prof oundly low, then kisses the glass. 
 
 Lord Froth. I saw myself there, and kissed it for your 
 sake. 
 
 Lady Froth. Ah, gallantry to the last degree ! Mr. 
 Brisk, you're a judge; was ever anything so well bred 
 as my lord ? 
 
 Brisk. Never anything but your ladyship, let me 
 perish ! 
 
 Lady Froth. Oh, prettily turned again ! let me die, but 
 you have a great deal of wit ! Mr. Mellefont, don't you 
 think Mr. Brisk has a world of wit ? 
 
 Mel. O yes, madam ! 
 
 Brisk. O dear, madam ! 
 
 Lady Froth. An infinite deal? 
 
 Brisk. O Heavens, madam ! 
 
 Lady Froth. More wit than anybody? 
 
 Brisk. I'm everlastingly your humble servant, deuce 
 take me, madam. 
 
 Lord Froth. [To CYNTHIA.] Don't you think us a 
 happy couple ?
 
 SCENE 1.] THE DOUBLE-DEA LER. 1 2 1 
 
 Cyn. I vow my lord, I think you are the happiest 
 couple in the world ; for you're not only happy in one 
 another and when you are together, but happy in your- 
 selves, and by yourselves. 
 
 Lord Froth. I hope Mellefont will make a good hus- 
 band too. 
 
 Cyn. Tis my interest to believe he will, my lord. 
 
 Lord Froth. D'ye think he'll love you as well as I do 
 my wife ? I'm afraid not. 
 
 Cyn. I believe he'll love me better. 
 
 Lord Froth. Heavens ! that can never be ; but why do 
 you think so ? 
 
 Cyn. Because he has not so much reason to be fond 
 of himself. 
 
 Lord Froth. Oh, your humble servant for that, dear 
 madam. Well, Mellefont, you'll be a happy creature. 
 
 Mel. Ay, my lord, I shall have the same reason for my 
 happiness that your lordship has, I shall think myself 
 happy. 
 
 Lord Froth. Ah, that's all. 
 
 Brisk. \To Lady FROTH.] Your ladyship's in the right; 
 but, egad, I'm wholly turned into satire. I confess I 
 write but seldom, but when I do keen iambics, egad ! 
 But my lord was telling me, your ladyship has made an 
 essay toward an heroic poem. 
 
 Lady Froth. Did my lord tell you ? yes, I vow, and 
 the subject is my lord's love to me. And what do you 
 think I call it? I dare swear you won't guess "The 
 Syllabub;" ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Brisk. Because my lord's title's Froth, egad ; ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! deuce take me, very apropos and surprising, ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 Lady Froth. He ! ay, is not it ? And then I call my 
 lord Spumoso, and myself what d'ye think I call my- 
 self? 
 
 Brisk. Lactilla, maybe : 'gad I cannot tell. 
 
 Lady Froth. Biddy, that's all ; just my own name.
 
 122 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT n. 
 
 Brisk. Biddy ! egad, very pretty ! Deuce take me if 
 your ladyship has not the art of surprising the most 
 naturally in the world! ! hope you'll make me happy 
 in communicating the poem. 
 
 Lady Froth. O you must be my confidant, I must ask 
 your advice. 
 
 Brisk. I'm your humble servant, let me perish ! I 
 presume your ladyship has read Bossu ? 
 
 Lady Froth. O yes, and Rapin, and Dacier upon 
 Aristotle and Horace. My lord, you must not be jealous, 
 I'm communicating all to Mr. Brisk. 
 
 Lord Froth. No, no, I'll allow Mr. Brisk; have you 
 nothing about you to show him, my dear ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Yes, I believe I have. Mr. Brisk, come, 
 will you go into the next room, and there I'll show you 
 what I have. 
 
 Lord Froth. I'll walk a turn in the garden, and come 
 to you. \Exeunt Lord and Lady FROTH and BRISK. 
 
 Mel. You're thoughtful, Cynthia ? 
 
 Cyn. I'm thinking, though marriage makes man and 
 wife one flesh, it leaves them still two fools; and they 
 become more conspicuous by setting off one another. 
 
 Mel. That's only when two fools meet, and their 
 follies are opposed. 
 
 Cyn. Nay, I have known two wits meet, and by the 
 opposition of their wit render themselves as ridiculous as 
 fools. 'Tis an odd game we're going to play at ; what 
 think you of drawing stakes, and giving over in time ? 
 
 Mel. No, hang't, that's not endeavouring to win, be- 
 cause it's possible we may lose ; since we have shuffled 
 and cut, let's e'en turn up trump now. 
 
 Cyn. Then I find it's like cards : if either of us have a 
 good hand, it is an accident of fortune. 
 
 Mel. No, marriage is rather like a game at bowls; 
 Fortune indeed makes the match, and the two nearest, and 
 sometimes the two farthest, are together; but the game 
 depends entirely upon judgment.
 
 SCENE I.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 123 
 
 Cyn. Still it is a game, and consequently one of us 
 must be a loser. 
 
 Mel. Not at all ; only a friendly trial of skill, and the 
 winnings to be laid out in an entertainment. What's 
 here, the music? [Musicians cross the stage^ Oh, my 
 lord has promised the company a new song; we'll get 
 'em to give it us by the way. {To 1he Musicians.] Pray 
 let us have the favour of you, to practise the song before 
 the company hear it. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Cynthia frowns whene'er I woo her, 
 Yet she's vexed if I give over ; 
 Much she fears I should undo her, 
 But much more to lose her lover ; 
 Thus in doubting she refuses : 
 And not winning, thus she loses. 
 
 Prithee, Cynthia, look behind you, 
 Age and wrinkles will o'erlake you; 
 Then, too late, desire will find you, 
 When the power must forsake you : 
 Think, O think, o' th' sad condition, 
 To be past, yet wish fruition ! 
 
 Mel. You shall have my thanks below. 
 
 \To the Musicians, who go out. 
 
 Enter Sir PAUL PLYANT and Lady PLYANT. 
 
 Sir Paul. {Aside to Lady PLYANT.] Gadsbud ! I am 
 provoked into a fermentation, as my Lady Froth says ; 
 was ever the like read of in story ? 
 
 Lady Ply. {Aside to Sir PAUL.] Sir Paul, have patience; 
 let me alone to rattle him up. 
 
 Sir Paul. Pray your ladyship, give me leave to be 
 angry. I'll rattle him up, I warrant you, I'll firk him 
 with a certiorari ! 
 
 Lady Ply. You firk him ! I'll firk him myself; pray, 
 Sir Paul, hold you contented.
 
 124 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT il. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside to MELLEFONT.] Bless me, what makes 
 my father in such a passion ! I never saw him thus before. 
 
 Sir Paul. Hold yourself contented, my Lady Plyant : 
 I find passion coming upon me by inflation, and I cannot 
 submit as formerly, therefore give way. 
 
 Lady Ply. How now ! will you be pleased to retire, and 
 
 Sir Paul. No, marry, will I not be pleased ! I am 
 pleased to be angry, that's my pleasure at this time. 
 
 Mel. [Aside to CYNTHIA.] What can this mean ? 
 
 Lady Ply. Gad's my life, the man's distracted ! Why, 
 how now ! who are you ? what am I ? Slidikins, can't I 
 govern you ? what did I marry you for ? Am I not to 
 be absolute and uncontrollable ? Is it fit a woman of my 
 spirit and conduct should be contradicted in a matter of 
 this concern ? 
 
 Sir Paul. It concerns me, and only me; besides, I'm 
 not to be governed at all times. When I am in tran- 
 quillity, my Lady Plyant shall command Sir Paul ; but 
 when I am provoked to fury, I cannot incorporate with 
 patience and reason: as soon may tigers match with 
 tigers, lambs with lambs, and every creature couple with 
 its foe, as the poet says. 
 
 Lady Ply. He's hot-headed still ! Tis in vain to talk 
 to you ; but remember I have a curtain lecture for you, 
 you disobedient, headstrong brute ! 
 
 Sir Paul. No ; 'tis because I won't be headstrong, 
 because I won't be a brute, and have my head fortified, 
 that I am thus exasperated. But I will protect my honour, 
 and yonder is the violator of my fame. 
 
 Lady Ply. 'Tis my honour that is concerned ; and the 
 violation was intended to me. Your honour ! you have 
 none but what is in my keeping, and I can dispose of it 
 when I please ; therefore don't provoke me. 
 
 Sir Paul. [Aside.] Hum, gadsbud, she says true ! 
 
 \AloudI\ Well, my lady, march on, I will fight under 
 
 you, then ; I am convinced, as far as passion will permit. 
 
 [Lady PLYANT and Sir PAUL come up to MELLEFONT.
 
 SCENE i.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 125 
 
 Lady Ply. Inhuman and treacherous 
 
 Sir Paul. Thou serpent and first tempter of womankind ! 
 
 Cyn. Bless me, sir ! madam, what mean you ! 
 
 Sir Paul. Thy, Thy, come away, Thy ! touch him not. 
 Come hither, girl, go not near him; snakes are in his 
 peruke, and the crocodile of Nilus in his belly ; he will 
 eat thee up alive. 
 
 Lady Ply. Dishonourable, impudent creature ! 
 
 Mel. For Heaven's sake, madam, to whom do you 
 direct this language ? 
 
 Lady Ply. Have I behaved myself with all the decorum 
 and nicety befitting the person of Sir Paul's wife ? have 
 I preserved my honour as it were in a snow-house for 
 these three years past? have I been white and unsullied 
 even by Sir Paul himself? 
 
 Sir Paul. Nay, she has been an invincible wife, even 
 to me ; that's the truth on't. 
 
 Lady Ply. Have I, I say, preserved myself like a fair 
 sheet of paper, for you to make a blot upon ? 
 
 Sir Paul. And she shall make a simile with any woman 
 in England. 
 
 Mel. I am so amazed, I know not what to say. 
 
 Sir Paul. Do you think, my daughter, this pretty 
 creature gadsbud ; she's a wife for a cherubim ! do you 
 think her fit for nothing but to be a stalking-horse to 
 stand before you, while you take aim at my wife ? Gads- 
 bud, I was never angry before in my life, and I'll never 
 be appeased again ! 
 
 Mel. [Aside.] Hell and damnation ! this is my aunt ; 
 such malice can be engendered nowhere else. 
 
 Lady Ply. Sir Paul, take Cynthia from his sight ; leave 
 me to strike him with the remorse of his intended crime. 
 
 Cyn. Pray, sir, stay, hear him; I dare affirm he's 
 innocent. 
 
 Sir Paul. Innocent ! why hark'ye, come hither, Thy, 
 hark'ye, I had it from his aunt, my sister Touchwood. 
 Gadsbud, he does not care a farthing for anything of thee
 
 126 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT II. 
 
 but thy portion: why, he's in love with my wife; he 
 would have tantalised thee, and made a cuckold of thy 
 poor father ; and that would certainly have broken my 
 heart. I'm sure if ever I should have horns, they would 
 kill me ; they would never come kindly, I should die of 
 'em, like a child that was cutting his teeth ; I should, in- 
 deed, Thy; therefore come away; but Providence has 
 prevented all, therefore come away when I bid you. 
 
 Cyn. I must obey. [Exeunt Sir PAUL and CYNTHIA. 
 
 Lady Ply. O, such a thing ! the impiety of it startles 
 me ! To wrong so good, so fair a creature, and one that 
 loves you tenderly; 'tis a barbarity of barbarities, and 
 nothing could be guilty of it 
 
 Mel. But the greatest villain imagination can form. I 
 grant it; and next to the villainy of such a fact is the 
 villainy of aspersing me with the guilt. How? which way 
 was I to wrong her ? for yet I understand you not. 
 
 Lady Ply. Why, gad's my life, Cousin Mellefont, you 
 cannot be so peremptory as to deny it, when I tax you 
 with it to your face ! for, now Sir Paul's gone, you are 
 corum nobus. 
 
 Mel. By Heaven, I love her more than life, or 
 
 Lady Ply. Fiddle, faddle, don't tell me of this or that, 
 and everything in the world, but give me mathemacular 
 demonstration, answer me directly. But I have not 
 patience Oh, the impiety of it ! as I was saying, and the 
 unparalleled wickedness ! O merciful Father ! how could 
 you think to reverse nature so, to make the daughter 
 the means of procuring the mother? 
 
 Mel. The daughter to procure the mother ! 
 
 Lady Ply. Ay, for though I am not Cynthia's own 
 mother, I am her father's wife, and that's near enough to 
 make it incest. 
 
 Mel. [Aside.] Incest! O my precious aunt, and the 
 devil in conjunction ! 
 
 Lady Ply. O reflect upon the horror of that, and then 
 the guilt of deceiving everybody; marrying the daughter,
 
 SCENE i.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 127 
 
 only to make a cuckold of the father ; and then seducing 
 me, debauching my purity, and perverting me from the 
 road of virtue, in which I have trod thus long, and never 
 made one trip, not one faux pas ; O consider it, what 
 would you have to answer for, if you should provoke me 
 to frailty ? Alas ! humanity is feeble, Heaven knows ! 
 very feeble, and unable to support itself. 
 
 Mel. Where am I? is it day? and am I awake? 
 M'adam 
 
 Lady Ply. And nobody knows how circumstances may 
 happen together. To my thinking, now, I could resist 
 the strongest temptation. But yet I know, 'tis impossible 
 for me to know whether I could or not; there's no 
 certainty in the things of this life. 
 
 MeL Madam, pray give me leave to ask you one question. 
 
 Lady Ply. O lord, ask me the question ! I'll swear I'll 
 refuse it! I swear I'll deny it! therefore don't ask me: 
 nay, you shan't ask me; I swear I'll deny it. O gemini, 
 you have brought all the blood into my face ! I warrant 
 I am as red as a turkey-cock ; fy, Cousin Mellefont ! 
 
 MeL Nay, madam, hear me ; I mean 
 
 Lady Ply. Hear you ! no, no; I'll deny you first, and 
 hear you afterward. For one does not know how one's mind 
 may change upon hearing. Hearing is one of the senses, 
 and all the senses are fallible ; I won't trust my honour, 
 I assure you ; my honour is infallible and uncomeatable. 
 
 MeL For Heaven's sake, madam 
 
 Lady Ply. O name it no more ! Bless me, how can 
 you talk of Heaven ! and have so much wickedness in 
 your heart ? Maybe you don't think it a sin. They say 
 some of you gentlemen don't think it a sin. Maybe it is 
 no sin to them that don't think it so ; indeed, if I did 
 not think it a sin but still my honour, if it were no sin. 
 But then, to marry my daughter, for the conveniency of 
 frequent opportunities, I'll never consent to that; as sure 
 as can be, I'll break the match. 
 
 Mel. Death and amazement ! Madam, upon my knees
 
 128 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT n. 
 
 Lady Ply. Nay, nay, rise up ! come, you shall see my 
 good nature. I know love is powerful, and nobody can 
 help his passion : 'tis not your fault, nor I swear it is not 
 mine. How can I help it, if I have charms ? and how 
 can you help it if you are made a captive ? I swear it is 
 pity it should be a fault. But- my honour, well, but 
 your honour too but the sin ! well, but the necessity 
 O Lord, here's somebody coming, I dare not stay. Well, 
 you must consider of your crime ; and strive as much as 
 can be against it, strive, be sure but don't be melan- 
 cholic, don't despair. But neverthink that I'll grant you 
 anything ; O Lord, no. But be sure you lay aside all 
 thoughts of the marriage : for though I know you don't 
 love Cynthia, only as a blind to your passion for me, yet 
 it will make me jealous. O Lord, what did I say? 
 jealous ! no, no, I can't be jealous, for I must not love 
 you therefore don't hope, but don't despair neither. 
 O, they're coming ! I must fly. {Exit. 
 
 Mel. \After a pause '.] So then, spite of my care and 
 foresight, I am caught, caught in my security. Yet this 
 was but a shallow artifice, unworthy of my Machiavelian 
 aunt : there must be more behind, this is but the first 
 flash, the priming of her engine ; destruction follows 
 hard, if not most presently prevented. 
 
 Enter MASKWELL. 
 
 Mel. Maskwell, welcome ! thy presence is a view of 
 land, appearing to my shipwrecked hopes ; the witch has 
 raised the storm, and her ministers have done their work ; 
 you see the vessels are parted. 
 
 Mask. I know it ; I met Sir Paul towing away Cyn- 
 thia. Come, trouble not your head, I'll join you together 
 ere to-morrow morning, or drown between you in the 
 attempt. 
 
 Mel. There's comfort in a hand stretched out, to one 
 that's sinking, though ne'er so far off. 
 
 Mask. No sinking, nor no danger. Come, cheer up ;
 
 i.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 129 
 
 why, you don't know, that while I plead for you, your 
 aunt has given me a retaining fee? Nay, I am your 
 greatest enemy, and she does but journey-work under me. 
 
 Mel. Ha! how's this? 
 
 Mask. What d'ye think of my being employed in the 
 execution of all her plots? Ha! ha! ha! by Heaven it's 
 true ! I have undertaken to break the match, I have 
 undertaken to make your uncle disinherit you, to get you 
 turned out of doors ; and to ha ! ha ! ha ! I can't tell 
 you for laughing. Oh she has opened her heart to me, 
 I am to turn you a grazing, and to ha! ha! ha! 
 marry Cynthia myself; there's a plot for you ! 
 
 Mel. Ha ! Oh I see, I see, my rising sun ! light breaks 
 through clouds upon me, and I shall live in day ! O my 
 Maskwell ! how shall I thank or praise thee ? thou hast 
 outwitted woman. But tell me, how couldst thou thus 
 get into her confidence ? ha ! how ? But was it her con- 
 trivance to persuade my Lady Plyant to this extravagant 
 belief? 
 
 Mask. It was ; and, to tell you the truth, I encouraged 
 it for your diversion : though it made you a little uneasy 
 for the present, yet the reflection of it must needs be 
 entertaining. I warrant she was very violent at first. 
 
 Mel. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ay, a very fury ; but I was most 
 afraid of her violence at last. If you had not come as 
 you did, I don't know what she might have attempted. 
 
 Mask. Ha ! ha I ha ! I know her temper. Well, you 
 must know, then, that all my contrivances were but bub- 
 bles ; till at last I pretended to have been long secretly 
 in love with Cynthia ; that did my business ; that con- 
 vinced your aunt I might be trusted, since it was as much 
 my interest as hers to break the match : then, she thought 
 my jealousy might qualify me to assist her in her revenge ; 
 and, in short, in that belief, told me the secrets of her 
 heart. At length we made this agreement, if I accom- 
 plish her designs (as I told you before) she has engaged 
 to put Cynthia with all her fortune into my power. 
 
 Con. K.
 
 i 3 o THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT II. 
 
 Mel. She is most gracious in her favour ! Well, and 
 dear Jack, how hast thou contrived ? 
 
 Mcifk. I would not have you stay to hear it now ; for 
 I don't know but she may come this way ; I am to meet 
 her anon ; after that, I'll tell you the whole matter ; be 
 here in this gallery an hour hence, by that time I imagine 
 our consultation may be over. 
 
 Mel. I will ; till then success attend thee. [Exit. 
 
 Mask. Till then, success will attend me ; for when I 
 meet you, I meet the only obstacle to my fortune. Cyn- 
 thia, let thy beauty gild my crimes ; and whatsoever I 
 commit of treachery or deceit, shall be imputed to me as 
 a merit. Treachery! what treachery? love cancels all 
 the bonds of friendship, and sets men right upon their 
 first foundations. Duty to kings, piety to parents, grati- 
 tude to benefactors, and fidelity to friends, are different 
 and particular ties : but the name of rival cuts 'em all 
 asunder, and is a general acquittance. Rival is equal, 
 and love like death, a universal leveller of mankind. Ha ! 
 but is there not such a thing as honesty ? Yes, and who- 
 soeve.r has it about him bears an enemy in his breast : 
 for your honest man, as I take it, is that nice scrupulous 
 conscientious person, who will cheat nobody but himself: 
 such another coxcomb as your wise man, who is too hard 
 for all the world, and will be made a fool of by nobody but 
 himself: ha ! ha ! ha ! well, for wisdom and honesty, give 
 me cunning and hypocrisy ; oh, 'tis such a pleasure to angle 
 for fair-faced fools ! Then that hungry gudgeon credu- 
 lity will bite at anything. Why, let me see, I have the 
 same face, the same words and accents, when I speak 
 what I do think, and when I speak what I do not think 
 the very same and dear dissimulation is the only art 
 not to be known from nature. 
 
 Why will mankind be fools, and be deceived ? 
 
 And why are friends and lovers' oaths believed ? 
 
 When each who searches strictly his own mind, 
 
 May so much fraud and power of baseness find. [Exit.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Gallery in Lord TOUCHWOOD'S House. 
 
 Enter Lord TOUCHWOOD and Lady TOUCHWOOD. 
 
 ADY TOUCH. My lord, can you blame 
 my brother Plyant, if he refuse his 
 daughter upon this provocation ? the 
 contract's void by this unheard of im-' 
 piety. 
 
 Lord Touch. I don't believe it true ; 
 he has better principles Pho, 'tis nonsense ! Come, 
 come, I know my Lady Plyant has a large eye, and 
 would centre everything in her own circle. 'Tis not 
 the first time she has mistaken respect for love, and. 
 made Sir Paul jealous of the civility of an undesigning 
 person, the better to bespeak his security in her unfeigned 
 pleasures. 
 
 Lady Touch. You censure hardly, my lord ; my sister's 
 honour is very well known. 
 
 Lord Touch. Yes, I believe I know some that have 
 been familiarly acquainted with it. This is a little trick 
 wrought by some pitiful contriver, envious of my nephew's 
 merit. 
 
 Lady Touch. Nay, my lord, it may be so, and I hope 
 it will be found so : but that will require some time ; for 
 in such a case as this, demonstration is necessary. 
 
 Lord Touch. There should have been demonstration of 
 the contrary too, before it had been believed.
 
 132 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT in. 
 
 Lady Touch. So I suppose there was. 
 
 Lord Touch. How ? where ? when ? 
 
 Lady Touch. That I can't tell ; nay, I don't say there 
 was. I am willing to believe as favourably of my nephew 
 as I can. 
 
 Lord Touch. I don't know that. \Half aside. 
 
 Lady Touch. How? don't you believe that, say you, 
 my lord ? 
 
 Lord Touch. No, I don't say so. I confess I am 
 troubled to find you so cold in his defence. 
 
 Lady Touch. His defence ! bless me, would you have 
 me defend an ill thing ? 
 
 Lord Touch. You believe it then ? 
 
 Lady Touch. I don't know; I am very unwilling to 
 speak my thoughts in anything that may be to my cousin's 
 disadvantage ; besides, I find, my lord, you are prepared 
 to receive an ill impression from any opinion of mine 
 which is not consenting with your own ; but since I am 
 like to be suspected in the end, and 'tis a pain any longer 
 to dissemble, I own it to you ; in short, I do believe it, 
 nay, and can believe anything worse, if it were laid to his 
 charge. Don't ask me my reasons, my lord ; for they 
 are not fit to be told you. 
 
 Lord Touch. \Aside^\ I'm amazed, here must be some- 
 thing more than ordinary in this. \AloudI\ Not fit to be 
 told me, madam? you can have no interests wherein I 
 am not concerned, and consequently the same reasons 
 ought to be convincing to me which create your satis- 
 faction or disquiet. 
 
 Lady Touch. But those which cause my disquiet, I am 
 willing to have remote from your hearing. Good my 
 lord, don't press me. 
 
 Lord Touch. Don't oblige me to press you. 
 
 Lady Touch. Whatever it was, 'tis past ; and that is 
 better to be unknown which cannot be prevented ; there- 
 fore let me beg you to rest satisfied. 
 
 Lord Touch. When you have told me, I will.
 
 SCENE I.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 133 
 
 Lady Touch. You won't. 
 
 Lord Touch. By my life, my dear, I will. 
 
 Lady Touch. What if you can't ? 
 
 Lord Touch. How? then I must know, nay I will : no 
 more trifling. I charge you tell me ! by all our mutual 
 peace to come ! upon your duty ! 
 
 Lady Touch. Nay, my lord, you need say no more, to 
 make me lay my heart before you, but don't be thus 
 transported ; compose yourself ; it is not of concern to 
 make you lose one minute's temper. 'Tis not indeed, 
 my dear. Nay, by this kiss, you shan't be angry. O 
 Lord, I wish I had not told you anything! Indeed, my 
 lord, you have frighted me. Nay, look pleased, I'll tell 
 you. 
 
 Lord Touch. Well, well. 
 
 Lady Touch. Nay, but will you be calm ? indeed it's 
 nothing but 
 
 Lord Touch. But what ? 
 
 Lady Touch. But will you promise me not to be angry ? 
 nay, you must, not to be angry with Mellefont ? I 
 dare swear he's sorry ; and were it to do again, would not 
 
 Lord Touch. Sorry, for what ? death, you rack me with 
 delay ! 
 
 Lady Touch. Nay, no great matter, only well, I have 
 your promise pho, why nothing, only your nephew had 
 a mind to amuse himself sometimes with a little gallantry 
 towards me. Nay, I can't think he meant anything 
 seriously, but methought it looked oddly. 
 
 Lord Touch. Confusion and hell, what do I hear ! 
 
 Lady Touch. Or, maybe, he thought he was not enough 
 akin to me, upon your account, and had a mind to create 
 a nearer relation on his own ; a lover, you know, my 
 lord ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, but that's all Now, you have 
 it ; well, remember your promise, my lord, and don't take 
 any notice of it to him. 
 
 Lord Touch. No, no, no damnation ! 
 
 Lady Touch. Nay, I swear you must not ! A little
 
 134 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT ill. 
 
 harmless mirth only misplaced, that's all ; but if it were 
 more, 'tis over now, and all's well. For my part, I have 
 forgot it ; and so has he, I hope ; for I have not heard 
 anything from him these two days. 
 
 Lord Touch. These two days ! is it so fresh ? Unnatural 
 villain 1 Death, I'll have him stripped and turned naked 
 out of my doors this moment, and let him rot and perish, 
 incestuous brute ! 
 
 Lady Touch. O for Heaven's sake, my lord ! you'll 
 ruin me if you take such public notice of it, it will be a 
 town-talk : consider your own and my honour nay, I 
 told you, you would not be satisfied when you knew it. 
 
 Lord Touch. Before I've done I will be satisfied. Un- 
 grateful monster, how long 
 
 Lady Touch. Lord, I don't know ! I wish my lips had 
 grown together when I told you. Almost a twelvemonth. 
 Nay, I won't tell you any more, till you are yourself. 
 Pray, my lord, don't let the company see you in this dis- 
 order. Yet, I confess I can't blame you; for I think I 
 was never so surprised in my life. Who would have 
 thought my nephew could have so misconstrued my 
 kindness ? But will you go into your closet, and recover 
 your temper? I'll make an excuse of sudden business to 
 the company, and come to you. Pray, good dear my 
 lord, let me beg you do now: I'll come immediately, and 
 tell you all; will you, my lord? 
 
 Lord Touch. I will I am mute with wonder. 
 
 Lady Touch. Well, but go now, here's somebody 
 coming. 
 
 Lord Touch. Well, I go. You won't stay? for I would 
 hear more of this. \Exit, 
 
 Lady Touch. I follow instantly. So. 
 
 Enler MASKWELL. 
 
 Mask. This was a masterpiece, and did not need my 
 help ; though I stood ready for a cue to come in and 
 confirm all, had there been occasion.
 
 SCENE I.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 135 
 
 Lady Touch. Have you seen Mellefont ? 
 
 Mask. I have ; and am to meet him here about this 
 time. 
 
 Lady Touch. How does he bear his disappointment? 
 
 Mask. Secure in my assistance, he seemed not much 
 afflicted, but rather laughed at the shallow artifice, which 
 so little time must of necessity discover. Yet he is 
 apprehensive of some farther design of yours, and has 
 engaged me to watch you. I believe he will hardly be 
 able to prevent your plot, yet I would have you use 
 caution and expedition. 
 
 Lady Touch. Expedition indeed ; for all we do, must 
 be performed in the remaining part of this evening, and 
 before the company break up ; lest my lord should coo), 
 and have an opportunity to talk with him privately. My 
 lord must not see him again. 
 
 Mask. By no means ; therefore you must aggravate 
 my lord's displeasure to a degree that will admit of no 
 conference with him. What think you of mentioning 
 me ? 
 
 Lady Touch. How? 
 
 Mask. To my lord, as having been privy to Mellefont's 
 design upon you, but still using my utmost endeavours to 
 dissuade him, though my friendship and love to him has 
 made me conceal it ; yet you may say, I threatened the 
 next time he attempted anything of that kind, to discover 
 it to my lord. 
 
 Lady Touch. To what end is this ? 
 
 Mask. It will confirm my lord's opinion of my honour 
 and honesty, and create in him a new confidence in me, 
 which (should this design miscarry) will be necessary to 
 the forming another plot that I have in my head. 
 [Aside.] To cheat you as well as the rest. 
 
 Lady Touch. I'll do it I'll tell him you hindered him 
 once from forcing me. 
 
 Mask. Excellent ! your ladyship has a most improving 
 fancy. You had best go to my lord, keep him as long as
 
 136 THE DOUBLE-DEALER, [ACT in. 
 
 you can in his closet, and I doubt not but you will mould 
 him to what you please ; your guests are so engaged 
 in their own follies and intrigues, they'll miss neither of 
 you. 
 
 Lady Touch. When shall we meet? At eight this 
 evening in my chamber; there rejoice at our success, and 
 toy away an hour in mirth. 
 
 Mask. I will not fail. [Exit Lady TOUCHWOOD.] I 
 know what she means by toying away an hour well 
 enough. Pox ! I have lost all appetite to her ; yet she's 
 a fine woman, and I loved her once. But I don't know, 
 since I have been in great measure kept by her, the 
 case is altered ; what was my pleasure is become my 
 duty : and I have as little stomach to her now as if I 
 were her husband. Should she smoke my design upon 
 Cynthia, I were in a fine pickle. She has a damned 
 penetrating head, and knows how to interpret a coldness 
 the right way ; therefore I must dissemble ardour and 
 ecstacy, that's resolved : how easily and pleasantly is that 
 dissembled before fruition ! Pox on't ! that a man can't 
 drink without quenching his thirst. Ha ! yonder comes 
 Mellefont thoughtful. Let me think : meet her at eight 
 hum ha by Heaven, I have it if I can speak to my 
 lord before. Was it my brain or Providence ? No matter 
 which. I will deceive 'em all, and yet secure myself: 
 'twas a lucky thought ! Well, this double-dealing is a 
 jewel. Here he comes, now for me. 
 
 [Enter MELLEFONT. MASKWELL pretending not to 
 see him, walks by MM, and speaks, as it were to 
 himself. 
 
 Mask. Mercy on us ! what will 'the wickedness of this 
 world come to? 
 
 Mel. How now, Jack ? what, so full of contemplation 
 that you run over ! 
 
 Mask. I'm glad you're come, for I could not contain 
 myself any longer ; and was just going to give vent to a
 
 SCENE I.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 137 
 
 secret, which nobody but you ought to drink down. 
 Your aunt's just gone from hence. 
 
 Mel. And having trusted thee with the secrets of her 
 soul, thou art villainously bent to discover 'em all to me, ha! 
 
 Mask. I'm afraid my frailty leads that way. But I 
 don't know whether I can in honour discover 'em all. 
 
 Mel. All, all, man ; what ! you may in honour betray 
 her as far as she betrays herself. No tragical design upon 
 my person, I hope ? 
 
 Mask. No, but it's a comical design upon mine. 
 
 Mel. What dost thou mean ? 
 
 Mask. Listen and be dumb, we have been bargaining 
 about the rate of your ruin. 
 
 Mel. Like any two guardians to an orphan heiress. 
 Well. 
 
 Mask. And, whereas pleasure is generally paid with 
 mischief, what mischief I do is to be paid with pleasure. 
 
 Mel. So when you've swallowed the potion, you 
 sweeten your mouth with a plum. 
 
 Mask. You are merry, sir, but I shall probe your con- 
 stitution. In short, the price of your banishment is to be 
 paid with the person of 
 
 Mel. Of Cynthia, and her fortune. Why, you forget 
 you told me this before. 
 
 Mask. No, no. So far you are right; and I am, as an 
 earnest of that bargain, to have full and free possession 
 of the person of your aunt. 
 
 Mel. Ha ! Pho, you trifle ! 
 
 Mask. By this light, I'm serious ; all raillery apart I 
 knew 'twould stun you: this evening at eight she will 
 receive me in her bedchamber. 
 
 Mel. Hell and the devil ! is she abandoned of all 
 grace ? why, the woman is possessed ! 
 
 Mask. Well, will you go in my stead ? 
 
 Mel. By Heaven into a hot furnace sooner? 
 
 Mask. No, you would not. It would not be so con- 
 venient as I can order matters.
 
 138 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT ui. 
 
 Mel What d'ye mean ? 
 
 Mask. Mean ! not to disappoint the lady, I assure you. 
 \Aside^\ Ha ! ha ! ha ! how gravely he looks ! \Aloud^\ 
 Come, come, I won't perplex you. Tis the only thing 
 that Providence could have contrived to make me 
 capable of serving you, either to my inclination or your 
 own necessity. 
 
 Mel. How, how, for Heaven's sake, dear Maskwell? 
 
 Mask. Why thus : I'll go according to appointment; 
 you shall have notice at the critical minute to come and 
 surprise your aunt and me together; counterfeit a rage 
 against me, and I'll make my escape through the private 
 passage from her chamber, which I'll take care to leave 
 open : 'twill be hard if then you can't bring her to any 
 conditions. For this discovery will disarm her of all 
 defence, and leave her entirely at your mercy : nay, she 
 must ever after be in awe of you. 
 
 Mel. Let me adore thee, my better genius ! by Heaven 
 I think it is not in the power of fate to disappoint my 
 hopes ! My hopes ! my certainty ! 
 
 Mask. Well, I'll meet you here within a quarter of 
 eight, and give you notice. 
 
 Mel. Good fortune ever go along with thee ! \Eoceuut. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same. 
 
 MELLEFONT and CARELESS meeting. 
 
 Care. Mellefont, get out o' th' way, my Lady Plyant's 
 coming, and I shall never succeed while thou art in sight, 
 though she begins to tack about; but I made love a 
 great while to no purpose. 
 
 Mel. Why, what's the matter ? she's convinced that I 
 don't care for her.
 
 SCENE II.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 139 
 
 Care. I can't get an answer from her that does not 
 begin with her honour, or her virtue, her religion, or some 
 such cant. Then she has told me the whole history of 
 Sir Paul's nine years' courtship; how he has lain for 
 whole nights together upon the stairs before her chamber 
 door ; and that the first favour he received from her was 
 a piece of an old scarlet petticoat for a stomacher, which 
 since the day of his marriage he has, out of a piece 
 of gallantry, converted into a nightcap, and wears it 
 still with much solemnity on his anniversary wedding- 
 night. 
 
 Mel. That I have seen, with the ceremony thereunto 
 belonging : for on that night he creeps in at the bed's 
 feet, like a gulled bassa ' that has married a relation of the 
 Grand Signior, and that night he has his arms at liberty. 
 Did not she tell you at what a distance she keeps him ? 
 He has confessed to me that but at some certain times, 
 that is, I suppose, when she apprehends being with child, 
 he never has the privilege of using the familiarity of a hus- 
 band with a wife. He was once given to scrambling with 
 his hands and sprawling in his sleep ; and ever since she 
 has him swaddled up in blankets, and his hands and feet 
 swathed down, and so put to bed ; and there he lies with 
 a great beard, like a Russian bear upon a drift of snow. 
 You are very great with him, I wonder he never told you 
 his grievances : he will, I warrant you. 
 
 Care. Excessively foolish ! But that which gives me 
 most hopes of her is her telling me of the many tempta- 
 tions she has resisted. , 
 
 Mel. Nay, then you have her; for a woman's bragging 
 to a man that she has overcome temptations, is an argu- 
 ment that they were weakly offered, and a challenge to 
 him to engage her more irresistibly. 'Tis only an enhanc- 
 ing the price of the commodity by telling you how many 
 customers have underbid her. 
 
 Care. Nay, I don't despair : but still she has a grudg- 
 
 1 Pasha.
 
 140 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT m. 
 
 ing to you. I talked to her t'other night at my Lord 
 Froth's masquerade, when I'm satisfied she knew me, 
 and I had no reason to complain of my reception; but I 
 find women are not the same barefaced and in masks; 
 and a vizor disguises their inclinations as much as their 
 faces. 
 
 Mel. 'Tis a mistake, for women may most properly be 
 said to be unmasked when they wear vizors; for that 
 secures them from blushing, and being out of countenance; 
 and next to being in the dark, or alone, they are most 
 truly themselves in a vizor-mask. Here they come, I'll 
 leave you. Ply her close, and by-and-by clap a billet- 
 doux into her hand ; for a woman never thinks a man 
 truly in love with her till he has been fool enough to 
 think of her out of her sight, and to lose so much time as 
 to write to her. \_Exit, 
 
 Enter Sir PAUL and Lady PLYANT. 
 
 . Sir Paul. Shan't we disturb your meditation, Mr. 
 Careless ? you would be private ? 
 
 Care. You bring that along with you, Sir Paul, that 
 shall be always welcome to my privacy. 
 
 Sir Paul. O sweet sir, you load your humble servants, 
 both me and my wife, with continual favours. 
 
 Lady Ply. Sir Paul, what a phrase was there ! You 
 will be making answers, and taking that upon you which 
 ought to lie upon me ! That you should have so little 
 breeding to think Mr. Careless did not apply himself to 
 me! Pray what have you to entertain anybody's privacy? 
 I swear, and declare in the face of the world, I'm ready 
 to blush for your ignorance ! 
 
 Sir Paul. \Aside to Lady PLYANT.] I acquiesce, my 
 lady ; but don't snub so loud. 
 
 Lady Ply. Mr. Careless, if a person that is wholly 
 illiterate might be supposed to be capable of being 
 qualified to make a suitable return to those obligations 
 which you are pleased to confer upon one that is wholly
 
 it.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 141 
 
 incapable of being qualified in all those circumstances, 
 I'm sure I should rather attempt it than anything in the 
 world; [Curtsies.] for I'm sure there's nothing in the 
 world that I would rather. [ Curtsies.'] But I know Mr. 
 Careless is so great a critic and so fine a gentleman, that 
 it is impossible for me 
 
 Care. O Heavens, madam, you confound me ! 
 
 Sir Paul. Gadsbud, she's a fine person. 
 
 Lady Ply. O Lord, sir, pardon me, we women have 
 not those advantages. I know my own imperfections. 
 But at the same time you must give me leave to declare 
 in the face of the world, that nobody is more sensible of 
 favours and things ; for, with the reserve of my honour, 
 I assure you, Mr. Careless, I don't know anything in the 
 world I would refuse to a person so meritorious. You'll 
 pardon my want of expression. 
 
 Care. O, your ladyship is abounding in all excellence, 
 particularly that of phrase. 
 
 Lady Ply. You are so obliging, sir. 
 
 Care. Your ladyship is so charming. 
 
 Sir Paul. So, now, now ; now, my lady. 
 
 Lady Ply. So well bred. 
 
 Care. So surprising. 
 
 Lady Ply. So well dressed, so bonne mine, so eloquent, 
 so unaffected, so easy, so free, so particular, so agreeable 
 
 Sir Paul. Ay, so, so, there. 
 
 Care. O Lord, I beseech you, madam ! don't 
 
 Lady Ply. So gay, so graceful, so good teeth, so fine 
 shape, so fine limbs, so fine linen, and I don't doubt but 
 you have a very good skin, sir. 
 
 Care. For Heaven's sake, madam ! I'm quite out of 
 countenance. 
 
 Sir Paul. And my lady's quite out of breath : or else 
 you should hear Gadsbud, you may talk of my Lady 
 Froth! 
 
 Care. O, fy ! fy I not to be named of a day. My Lady 
 Froth is very well in her accomplishments; but it is
 
 i 4 2 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT HI. 
 
 when my Lady Plyant is not thought of ;--if that can 
 ever be. 
 
 Lady Ply. O you overcome me ! that is so excessive. 
 
 Sir Paul. Nay, I swear and vow, that was pretty. 
 
 Care. O, Sir Paul, you are the happiest man alive ! 
 Such a lady ! that is the envy of her own sex, and the 
 admiration of ours. 
 
 Sir Paul. Your humble servant. I am, I thank Heaven, 
 in a fine way of living, as I may say, peacefully and 
 happily, and I think need not envy any of my neighbours, 
 blessed be Providence ! Ay, truly, Mr. Careless, my lady 
 is a great blessing, a fine, discreet, well-spoken woman as 
 you shall see, if it becomes me to say so, and we live very 
 comfortably together; she is a little hasty sometimes, and 
 so am I ; but mine's soon over, and then I m so sorry. 
 O Mr. Careless, if it were not for one thing 
 
 Enter Boy with a letter, which he takes to Sir PAUL. 
 
 Lady Ply. \To Boy.] How often have you been told 
 of that, you jackanapes ! 
 
 Sir Paul. Gad so, gadsbud ! Tim, carry it to my 
 lady ; you should have carried it to my lady first. 
 
 Boy. 'Tis directed to your worship. 
 
 Sir Paul. Well, well, my lady reads all letters first. 
 Child, do so no more ; d'ye hear, Tim ! 
 
 Boy. No, an't please you. {Exit Boy. 
 
 Sir Paul. [To CARELESS.] A humour of my wife's; 
 you know women have little fancies. But, as I was tell- 
 ing you, Mr. Careless, if it were not for one thing, I 
 should think myself the happiest man in the world ; in- 
 deed that touches me near, very near. 
 
 Care. What can that be, Sir Paul ? 
 
 Sir Paul. Why, I have, I thank Heaven, a very plen- 
 tiful fortune, a good estate in the country, some houses 
 in town, and some money, a pretty tolerable personal 
 estate ; and it is a great grief to me, indeed it is, Mr. 
 Careless, that I have not a son to inherit this. 'Tis true,
 
 SCENE II.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 143 
 
 I have a daughter, and a fine dutiful child she is, though 
 I say it, blessed be Providence ! I may say ; for indeed, 
 Mr. Careless, I am mightily beholden to Providence : a 
 poor unworthy sinner. But if I had a son, ah, that's 
 my affliction, and my only affliction ! indeed I cannot 
 refrain tears when it comes into my mind. [Cries. 
 
 Care. Why, methinks, that might be easily remedied : 
 my lady is a fine, likely woman. 
 
 Sir Paul. Oh, a fine, likely woman as you shall see in 
 a summer's day! indeed she is, Mr. Careless, in all 
 respects. 
 
 Care. And I should not have taken you to have been 
 so old 
 
 Sir Paul Alas ! that's not it, Mr. Careless ; ah ! that's 
 not it; no, no, you shoot wide of the mark a mile; 
 indeed you do ; that's not it, Mr. Careless; no, no, that's 
 not it. 
 
 Care. No ! what can be the matter then ? 
 
 Sir Paul. You'll scarcely believe me, when I shall tell 
 you. My lady is so nice it's very strange, but it's true 
 too true she's so very nice, that I don't believe she would 
 touch a man for the world ; at least not above once a 
 year. I'm sure I have found it so ; and, alas ! what's 
 once a year to an old man, who would do good in his 
 generation? Indeed it's true, Mr. Careless, it breaks my 
 heart. I am her husband, as I may say ; though far 
 unworthy of that honour, yet I am her husband ; but, 
 alas-a-day ! I have no more familiarity with her person, 
 as to that matter, than with my own mother; no 
 indeed. 
 
 Care. Alas-a-day, this is a lamentable story ! my lady 
 must be told on't ; she must i'faith, Sir Paul ; 'tis an 
 injury to the world. 
 
 Sir Paul. Ay, would to Heaven you would, Mr. Care- 
 less ! you are mightily in her favour. 
 
 Care. I warrant you. What, we must have a son some 
 way or other I
 
 144 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT HI. 
 
 Sir Paul. Indeed, I should be mightily bound to you, 
 if you could bring it about, Mr. Careless. 
 
 Lady Ply. \_Coming forward^ Here, Sir Paul, it's from 
 your steward ; here's a return of six hundred pounds ; 
 you may take fifty of it for the next half year. 
 
 [Gives him the letter. 
 
 Enter Lord FROTH and CYNTHIA. 
 
 Sir Paul. How does my girl ? come hither to thy 
 father, poor lamb, thou'rt melancholic. 
 
 Lord Froth. Heaven, Sir Paul, you amaze me of all 
 things in the world ! You are never pleased but when 
 we are all upon the broad grin ; all laugh and no com- 
 pany; ah, then 'tis such a sight to see some teeth; Sure, 
 you're a great admirer of my Lady Whifler, Mr. Sneer, 
 and Sir Laurence Loud, and that gang. 
 
 Sir Paul. I vow and swear she's a very merry woman, 
 but I think she laughs a little too much. 
 
 Lord Froth. Merry ! O Lord, what a character that is 
 of a woman of quality ! You have been at my Lady 
 Whifler's upon her day, madam? 
 
 Cyn. Yes, my lord. \Aside^\ I must humour this 
 fool. 
 
 Lord Froth. Well, and how ? hee ! what is your sense 
 of the conversation ? 
 
 Cyn. O, most ridiculous ! a perpetual consort 1 of laugh- 
 ing without any harmony ; for sure, my lord, to laugh out 
 of time is as disagreeable as to sing out of time or out of 
 tune. 
 
 Lord Froth. Hee ! hee ! hee ! right. And then, my 
 Lady Whifler is so ready ; she always comes in three 
 bars too soon. And then, what do they laugh at ? for 
 you know laughing without a jest is as impertinent; hee ! 
 as, as 
 
 Cyn. As dancing without a fiddle. 
 
 Lord Froth. Just, i'faith ! that was at my tongue's 
 end. 
 
 1 Concert.
 
 SCENE in.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 145 
 
 Cyn. But that cannot be properly said of them, for I 
 think they are all in good-nature with the world, and only 
 laugh at one another ; and you must allow they have all 
 jests in their persons, though they have none in their 
 conversation. 
 
 Lord Froth. True, as I'm a person of honour. For 
 Heaven's sake let us sacrifice 'em to mirth a little. 
 Enter Boy, and whispers Sir PAUL. 
 
 Sir Paul. Gads so Wife ! wife ! my Lady Plyant ! I 
 have a word. 
 
 Lady Ply. I'm busy, Sir Paul, I wonder at your im- 
 pertinence ! 
 
 Care. \Aside to Sir PAUL.] Sir Paul, hark ye, I'm 
 reasoning the matter you know. {Aloud.~\ Madam, if 
 your ladyship please, we'll discourse of this in the next 
 room. 
 
 Sir Paul. O ho ! I wish you good success, I wish you 
 good success. Boy, tell my lady, when she has done I 
 would speak with her below, [Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 An Apartment in Lord TOUCHWOOD'S house. 
 
 Enter CYNTHIA, Lord FROTH, Lady FROTH, and BRISK. 
 
 Lady Froth. Then you think that episode between 
 Susan, the dairy-maid, and our coachman, is not amiss ; 
 you know I may suppose the dairy in town as well as in 
 the country. 
 
 Brisk. Incomparable, let me perish ! But then being 
 an heroic poem, had not you better call him a charioteer? 
 charioteer sounds great; besides, your ladyship's coach- 
 man having a red face, and you comparing him to the 
 sun; and you know the sun is called Heaven's 
 charioteer. 
 
 Con. T,
 
 146 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT in. 
 
 Lady Froth. Oh, infinitely better ! I am extremely 
 beholden to you for the hint ; stay, we'll read over those 
 half a score lines again. {Pulls out a paper.] Let me see 
 here, you know what goes before, the comparison, you 
 know. 
 
 [Reads.] For as the sun shines every day, 
 
 So, of our coachman I may say 
 Brisk. I'm afraid that simile won't do in wet weather ; 
 because you say the sun shines every day. 
 
 Lady Froth No, for the sun it won't, but it will do for 
 the coachman : for you know there's most occasion for 
 a coach in wet weather. 
 
 Brisk. Right, right, that saves all. 
 Lady Froth. Then, I don't say the sun shines all 
 the day, but that he peeps now and then ; yet he does 
 shine all the day too, you know, though we don't see 
 him.. 
 
 Brisk. Right, but the vulgar will never comprehend 
 that. 
 
 Lady Froth. Well, you shall hear. Let me see. 
 [Reads.] For as the sun shines every day, 
 So, of our coachman I may say, 
 He shows his drunken fiery face, 
 Just as the sun does, more or less. 
 Brisk. That's right, all's well, all's well ! " More or 
 less." . 
 
 Lady Froth. [Reads] And when at night his labour's 
 
 done, 
 
 Then too, like Heaven's charioteer the sun- 
 Ay, charioteer does better. 
 
 Into the dairy he descends, 
 And there his whipping and his driving ends; 
 There he's secure from danger of a bilk, 
 His fare is paid him, and he sets in milk. 
 For Susan, you know, is Thetis, and so 
 
 Brisk. Incomparably well and proper, egad! But I 
 have one exception to make: don't you think bilk (I
 
 SCENE in.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 147 
 
 know it's good rhyme), but don't you think "bilk " and 
 "fare " too like a hackney-coachman ? 
 
 Lady Froth. I swear and vow, I am afraid so. And 
 yet our Jehu was a hackney-coachman when my lord 
 took him. 
 
 Brisk. Was he? I'm answered, if Jehu was a hackney- 
 coachman. You may put that in the marginal notes 
 though, to prevent criticism. Only mark it with a small 
 asterism, and say, "Jehu was formerly a hackney-coach- 
 man." 
 
 Lady Froth. I will ; you'd oblige me extremely to 
 write notes to the whole poem. 
 
 Brisk. With all my heart and soul, and proud of the 
 vast honour, let me perish ! 
 
 Lord Froth. Hee ! hee ! hee ! my dear, have you 
 done ? won't you join with us ? we were laughing at my 
 Lady Whifler and Mr. Sneer. 
 
 Lady Froth. Ay, my dear. Were you ? O filthy Mr. 
 Sneer ! he's a nauseous figure, a most fulsamic fop, foh ! 
 He spent two days together in going about Covent- 
 Garden, to suit the lining of his coach with his com- 
 plexion. 
 
 Lord Froth. O silly ! yet his aunt is as fond of him, as 
 if she had brought the ape into the world herself. 
 
 Brisk. Who, my Lady Toothless ! O, she's a mortifying 
 spectacle; she's always chewing the cud like an old 
 ewe. 
 
 Cyn. Fy, Mr. Brisk ! eringos for her cough. 
 
 Lord Froth. I have seen her take 'em half chewed 
 out of her mouth, to laugh, and then put them in again 
 foh! 
 
 Lady Froth. Foh ! 
 
 Lord Froth. Then she's always ready to laugh when 
 Sneer offers to speak, and sits in expectation of his no 
 jest, with her gums bare, and her mouth open 
 
 Brisk. Like an oyster at low ebb, egad Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Cyn. [Aside.] Well, I find there are no fools so in-
 
 148 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT ill. 
 
 considerable in themselves, but they can render other 
 people contemptible by exposing their infirmities. 
 
 Lady Froth. Then that t'other great strapping lady I 
 can't hit of her name the old fat fool that paints so 
 exorbitantly. 
 
 Brisk. I know whom you mean but, deuce take me ! 
 I can't hit of her name neither. Paints, d'ye say ? why 
 slie lays it on with a trowel. Then she has a great beard 
 that bristles through it, and makes her look as if she were 
 plastered with lime and hair, let me perish ! 
 
 Lady Froth. Oh, you made a song upon her, Mr. 
 Brisk. 
 
 Brisk. He ! egad, so I did: my lord can sing it. 
 
 Cyn. O, good my lord, let's hear it. 
 
 Brisk. 'Tis not a song neither; it's a sort of an 
 epigram, or rather an epigrammatic sonnet; I don't know 
 what to call it, but it's satire. Sing it, my lord. 
 
 Lord FROTH \Sings I\ 
 
 Ancient Phillis has young graces, 
 'Tis a strange thing, but a true one : 
 
 Shall I tell you how ? 
 She herself makes her own faces, 
 
 And each morning wears a new one ; 
 Where's the wonder now ! 
 
 Brisk. Short, but there's salt in't; my way of writing, 
 egad ! 
 
 Enter FOOTMAN. 
 
 Lady Froth. How now? 
 
 Foot. Your ladyship's chair is come. 
 
 Lady Froth. Is nurse and the child in it ? 
 
 Foot. Yes, madam. [Exit. 
 
 Lady Froth. the dear creature ! let's go see it. 
 
 Lord Froth. I swear, my dear, you'll spoil that child, 
 with sending it to and again so often : this is the seventh 
 time the chair has gone for her to day. 
 
 -Lady Froth. O la ! I swear it's but the sixth and I
 
 SCENE in.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 149 
 
 ha'n't seen her these two hours. The poor dear creature ! 
 I swear, my lord, you don't love poor little Sappho. 
 Come, my dear Cynthia, Mr. Brisk, we'll go see Sappho, 
 though my lord won't. 
 
 Cyn. I'll wait upon your ladyship. 
 
 Brisk. Pray, madam, how old is Lady Sappho ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Three quarters; but I swear she has a 
 world of wit, and can sing a tune already. My lord, 
 won't you go? won't you ? what, not to see Saph ? pray, 
 my lord, come see little Saph. I knew you could not 
 stay. [Exeunt Lord and Lady FROTH and BRISK. 
 
 Cyn. 'Tis not so hard to counterfeit joy in the depth 
 of affliction, as to dissemble mirth in company of fools. 
 Why should I call 'em fools ? the world thinks better of 
 'em ; for these have quality and education, wit and fine 
 conversation, are received and admired by the world : if 
 not, they like and admire themselves. And why .is not 
 that true wisdom, for 'tis happiness? and for aught I 
 know, we have misapplied the name all this while, and 
 mistaken the thing ; since 
 
 If happiness in self-content is placed, 
 The wise are wretched, and fools only blessed. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Gallery in Lord TOUCHWOOD'S House. 
 
 Enter MELLEFONT and CYNTHIA. 
 
 YN. I heard him loud as I came by the 
 closet door, and my lady with him, but 
 she seemed to moderate his passion. 
 
 Mel. Ay, hell thank her, as gentle 
 breezes moderate a fire : but I shall 
 counterwork her spells, and ride the 
 witch in her own bridle. 
 
 Cyn. It's impossible; she'll cast beyond you still. I'll 
 lay my life it will never come to be a match. 
 Mel What? 
 
 Cyn. Between you and me. 
 Mel Why so? 
 
 Cyn. My mind gives me it won't because we are both 
 willing; we each of us strive to reach the goal, and hinder 
 one another in the race ; .1 swear it never does well when 
 the parties are so agreed. For when people walk hand 
 in hand, there's neither overtaking nor meeting : we hunt 
 in couples, where we both pursue the same game, but 
 forget one another; and 'tis because we are so near that 
 we don't think of coming together. 
 
 Mel Hum, 'gad I believe there's something in't; 
 marriage is the game that we hunt, and while we think 
 that we only have it in view, I don't see but we have it in 
 our power.
 
 SCENE I.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 151 
 
 Cyn. Within reach ; for example, give me your hand ; 
 you have looked through the wrong end of the perspec- 
 tive all this while ; for nothing has been between us but 
 our fears. 
 
 Mel. I don't know why we should not steal out of the 
 house this very moment, and marry one another, without 
 consideration, or the fear of repentance. Pox o' fortune, 
 portion, settlements, and jointures! 
 
 Cyn. Ay, ay, what have we to do with 'em? you 
 know we marry for love. 
 
 Mel. Love, love, downright, very villainous love. 
 
 Cyn. And he that can't live upon love deserves to die 
 in a ditch. Here, then, I give you my promise, in spite 
 of duty, any temptation of wealth, your inconstancy, or my 
 own inclination to change 
 
 Mel. To run most wilfully and unreasonably away with 
 me this moment, and be married. 
 
 Cyn. Hold ! never to marry anybody else. 
 
 Mel. That's but a kind of negative consent. Why, you 
 won't balk the frolic ? 
 
 Cyn. If you had not been so assured of your own con- 
 duct I would not ; but 'tis but reasonable that since I 
 consent to like a man without the vile consideration of 
 money, he should give me a very evident demonstration 
 of his wit ; therefore let me see you undermine my Lady 
 Touchwood, as you boasted, and force her to give her 
 consent, and then 
 
 Mel. I'lldo't. 
 
 Cyn. And I'll do't. 
 
 Mel. This very next ensuing hour of eight o'clock is 
 the last minute of her reign, unless the devil assist her in 
 propriA personA. 
 
 Cyn. Well, if the devil should assist her, and your plot 
 miscarry ? 
 
 Mel. Ay, what am I to trust to then ? 
 
 Cyn. Why, if you give me very clear demonstration 
 that it was the devil, I'll allow for irresistible odds. But
 
 152 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT IV, 
 
 if I find it to be only chance, or destiny, or unlucky stars, 
 or anything but the very devil, I am inexorable ; only 
 still I'll keep my word, and live a maid for your sake. 
 
 Mel. And you won't die one for your own; so still 
 there's hope. 
 
 Cyn. Here's my mother-in-law, and your friend Care- 
 less ; I would not have 'em see us together yet. 
 
 \They retire. 
 Enter CARELESS and Lady PLYANT. 
 
 Lady Ply. I swear, Mr. Careless, you are very alluring, 
 and say so many fine things, and nothing is so moving to 
 me as a fine thing. Well, I must do you this justice, and 
 declare in the face of the world, never anybody gained so 
 far upon me as yourself; with blushes I must own it, you 
 have shaken, as I may say, the very foundation of my 
 honour. Well, sure if I escape your importunities, I shall 
 value myself as long as I live, I swear. 
 
 Care. And despise me. \Sighing. 
 
 Lady Ply. The last of any man in the world, by my 
 purity! now you make me swear. O gratitude forbid, 
 that I should ever be wanting in a respectful acknow- 
 ledgment of an entire resignation of all my best wishes, 
 for the person and parts of so accomplished a person, 
 whose merit challenges much more, I'm sure, than my 
 illiterate phrases can description 
 
 Care. \In a whining tone.] Ah Heavens, madam, you 
 ruin me with kindness ! 
 
 Your charming tongue pursues the victory of your eyes, 
 
 While at your feet your poor adorer dies. 
 
 Lady Ply. Ah, very fine ! 
 
 Care. {Still whining.] Ah ! why are you so fair, so be- 
 witching fair? O let me grow to the ground here, and 
 feast upon that hand ! O let me press it to my heart, 
 my trembling heart ! the nimble movement shall instruct 
 your pulse, and teach it to alarm desire. [Aside.] Zoons ! 
 I'm almost at the end of my cant if she does not yield 
 quickly.
 
 SCENE i.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER, 153 
 
 Lady Ply, O that's so passionate and fine I cannot 
 hear it : I am not safe if I stay, and must leave you. 
 
 Care. And must you leave me ! rather let me languish 
 out a wretched life, and breathe my soul beneath your 
 feet ! \Aside ^\ I must say the same thing over again, 
 and can't help it. 
 
 Lady Ply. I swear I'm ready to languish too. my 
 honour ! whither is it going ? I protest you have given 
 me the palpitation of the heart. 
 
 Care. Can you be so cruel? 
 
 Lady Ply. O rise, I beseech you ! say no more till you 
 rise. Why did you kneel so long ? I swear I was so 
 transported I did not see it. Well, to show you how far 
 you have gained upon me, I assure you, if Sir Paul 
 should die, of all mankind there's none I'd sooner make 
 my second choice. 
 
 Care. O Heaven ! I can't outlive this night without 
 your favour ! I feel my spirits faint, a general dampness 
 overspreads my face, a cold deadly dew already vents 
 through all my pores, and will to-morrow wash me for 
 ever from your sight, and drown me in my tomb. 
 
 Lady Ply. O you have conquered, sweet, melting, 
 moving sir, you have conquered ! What heart of marble 
 can refrain to weep, and yield to such sad sayings ! 
 
 [ Cries. 
 
 Care. I thank Heaven they are the saddest that I ever 
 said. Oh I [Aside.] I shall never contain laughter. 
 
 Lady Ply. Oh, I yield myself all up to your uncon- 
 trollable embraces ! Say, thou dear, dying man, when, 
 where, and how ? Ah, there's Sir Paul ! 
 
 Care. 'Slife, yonder's Sir Paul ; but if he were not 
 come, I'm so transported I cannot speak. This note will 
 inform you. [Gives her a note. 
 
 \_Excnni.
 
 154 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT iv. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 An Apartment in Lord TOUCHWOOD'S House. 
 
 Enter Lady PLYANT, Sir PAUL, and CYNTHIA. 
 
 Sir Paul. Thou art my tender lambkin, and shalt do 
 what thou wilt. But endeavour to forget this Mellefont. 
 
 Cyn. I would obey you to my power, sir ; but if I 
 have not him, I have sworn never to marry. 
 
 Sir Paul. Never to marry ! Heavens forbid ! must I 
 neither have sons nor grandsons ? must the family of the 
 Plyants be utterly extinct for want of issue male ? Oh, 
 impiety ! But did you swear ? did that sweet creature 
 swear ! ha ! how durst you swear without my consent ; 
 ah, gadsbud, who am I ? 
 
 Cyn. Pray, don't be angry, sir : when I swore, I had 
 your consent, and therefore I swore. 
 
 Sir Paul. Why, then, the revoking my consent does 
 annul, or make of non-effect, your oath ; so you may un- 
 swear it again ; the law will allow it. 
 
 Cyn. Ay, but my conscience never will. 
 
 Sir Paid. Gadsbud, no matter for that, conscience and 
 law never go together, you must not expect that. 
 
 Lady Ply. Ay, but Sir Paul, I conceive if she has 
 sworn, d'ye mark me, if she has once sworn, it is most 
 unchristian, inhuman, and obscene, that she should break 
 it. \Aside.~\ I'll make up the match again, because Mr. 
 Careless said it would oblige him. 
 
 Sir Paul. Does your ladyship conceive so ? Why, I 
 was of that opinion once too. Nay, if your ladyship 
 conceive so, I'm of that opinion again ; but I can neither 
 find my lord nor my lady, to know what they intend. 
 
 Lady Ply. I'm satisfied that my Cousin Mellefont has 
 been much wronged. 
 
 Cyn. \Aside.] I'm amazed to find her of our side, for 
 I'm sure she loved him. 
 
 Lady Ply. I know my Lady Touchwood has no kind-
 
 SCENE ii.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 155 
 
 ness for him ; and besides I have been informed by Mr. 
 Careless, that Mellefont had never any more than a pro- 
 found respect. That he has owned himself to be my 
 admirer, 'tis true ; but he was never so presumptuous 
 to entertain any dishonourable notions of things ; 
 so that if this be made plain, I don't see how my 
 daughter can in conscience or honour, or anything in 
 the world 
 
 Sir Paul. Indeed if this be made plain, as my lady 
 your mother says, child 
 
 Lady Ply. Plain ! I was informed of it by Mr. Care- 
 less ; and I assure you, Mr. Careless is a person that 
 has a most extraordinary respect and honour for you, Sir 
 Paul. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside.] And for your ladyship too, I believe, or 
 else you had not changed sides so soon ; now I begin to 
 find it. 
 
 Sir Paul. I am much .obliged to Mr. Careless really, 
 he is a person that I have a great value for, not only for 
 that, but because he has a great veneration for your 
 ladyship. 
 
 Lady Ply. O las ! no indeed, Sir Paul ; 'tis upon your 
 account. 
 
 Sir Paul. No, I protest and vow, I have no title to his 
 esteem, but in having the honour to appertain in some 
 measure to your ladyship, that's all. 
 
 Lady Ply. O la now ! I swear and declare, it shan't be 
 so ; you're too modest, Sir Paul. 
 
 Sir Paul. It becomes me, when there is any compari- 
 son made between 
 
 Lady Ply. O fy, fy, Sir Paul ! you'll put me out of 
 countenance your very obedient and affectionate wife ; 
 . that's all, and highly honoured in that title. 
 
 Sir Paul. Gadsbud, I'm transported ! give me leave 
 to kiss your ladyship's hand. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside.] That my poor father should be so very 
 silly.
 
 156 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT IV. 
 
 Lady Ply. My lip, indeed, Sir Paul, I swear you shall. 
 [He kisses her and bows very low. 
 
 Sir Paul. I humbly thank your ladyship. [Aside.] I 
 don't know whether I fly on ground, or walk in air. 
 Gadsbud ! she was never thus before. Well, I must own 
 myself the most beholden to Mr. Careless. As sure as 
 can be this is all his doing something that he has said 
 well, 'tis a rare thing to have an ingenious friend. 
 [Aloud.] Well, your ladyship is of opinion that the match 
 may go forward ? 
 
 Lady Ply. By all means ; Mr. Careless has satisfied 
 me of the matter. 
 
 Sir Paul. Well, why then, lamb, you may keep your 
 oath, but have a care of making rash vows ; come hither 
 to me, and kiss papa. 
 
 Lady Ply. [Aside.] I swear and declare, I'm in such a 
 twitter to read Mr. Careless's letter, that I can't forbear 
 any longer. But though I may read all letters first by 
 prerogative, yet I'll be sure to be unsuspected this time. 
 [Aloud.} Sir Paul! 
 
 Sir Paul. Did your ladyship call ? 
 
 Lady Ply. Nay, not to interrupt you, my dear only 
 lend me your letter, which you had from your steward to- 
 day; I would look upon the account again, and maybe 
 increase your allowance. 
 
 Sir Paul. There it is, madam ; do you want a pen and 
 ink ? [JBows and gives the letter. 
 
 Lady Ply. No, no, nothing else, I thank you, Sir Paiil. 
 [Aside.} So, now I can read my own letter under cover 
 of his. 
 
 Sir Paul. [To CYNTHIA.] He ! and wilt thou bring a 
 grandson at nine month's end, he! a brave chopping 
 boy ? I'll settle a thousand pound a year upon the rogue, 
 as soon as ever he looks me in the face ; I will, gadsbud ! 
 I'm overjoyed to think I have any of my family that will 
 bring children into the world. For I would fain have 
 some resemblance of myself in my posterity, hey, Thy ?
 
 SCENE ii.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER, 157 
 
 Can't you contrive that affair, girl ? do, gadsbud, think 
 on thy old father, he ? make the young rogue as like as 
 you can. 
 
 Cyn. I'm glad to see you so merry, sir. 
 
 Sir Paul. Merry! gadsbud, I'm serious; I'll give thee 
 five hundred pounds for every inch of him that resembles 
 me ; ah this eye, this left eye ! a thousand pound for this 
 left eye. This has done execution in its time, girl ; why 
 thou hast my leer, hussy, just thy father's leer : let it be 
 transmitted to the young rogue by the help of imagina- 
 tion ; why 'tis the mark of our family, Thy ; our house is 
 distinguished by a languishing eye, as the house of Aus- 
 tria is by a thick lip. Ah ! when I was of your age, 
 hussy, I would have held fifty to one I could have drawn 
 my own picture. Gadsbud ! I could have done not so 
 much as you neither, but nay, don't blush 
 
 Cyn. I don't blush, sir, for I vow I don't understand 
 
 Sir Paul. Pshaw ! pshaw ! you fib, you baggage ; you 
 do understand, and you shall understand. Come, don't 
 be so nice ; gadsbud, don't learn after your mother-in-law 
 my lady here : many, Heaven forbid that you should 
 follow her example ! that would spoil all indeed. Bless 
 us, if you should take a vagary and make a rash resolu- 
 tion on your wedding night to die a maid, as she did, all 
 were ruined, all my hopes lost ! My heart would break, 
 and my estate would be left to the wide world, he? I 
 hope you are a better Christian than to think of living a 
 nun ; he ? Answer me. 
 
 Cyn. I'm all obedience, sir, to your commands. 
 
 Lady Ply. {Aside ^\ O dear Mr. Careless ! I swear he 
 writes charmingly, and he looks charmingly, and he has 
 charmed me, as much as I have charmed him ; and so 
 I'll tell him in the wardrobe when 'tis dark. O crimine ! 
 I hope Sir Paul has not seen both letters. {Puts the 
 wrong letter hastily up and gires him her own.\ Sir Paul, 
 here's your letter ; to-morrow morning I'll settle accounts 
 to your advantage.
 
 158 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT iv. 
 
 Enter BRISK. 
 
 Brisk. Sir Paul, gadsbud, you're an uncivil person, let 
 me tell you, and all that ; and I did not think it had been 
 in you. 
 
 Sir Paul. O la ! what's the matter now ? I hope you 
 are not angry, Mr. Brisk. 
 
 Brisk. Deuce take me, I believe you intend to marry 
 your daughter yourself ! you're always brooding over her 
 like an old hen, as if she were not well hatched, egad, he ? 
 
 Sir Paul. Good, strange ! Mr. Brisk is such a merry 
 facetious person, he ! he ! he ! No, no, I have done 
 with her, I have done with her now. 
 
 Brisk. The fiddlers have stayed this hour in the hall, 
 and my Lord Froth wants a partner, we can never begin 
 without her. 
 
 Sir Paul. Go, go, child, go, get you gone and dance 
 and be merry, I'll come and look at you by and by. 
 Where's my son Mellefont ? 
 
 Lady Ply. I'll send him to them, I know where he is. 
 
 Brisk. Sir Paul, will you send Careless into the hall if 
 you meet him? 
 
 Sir Paul. I will, I will ; I'll go and look for him on 
 purpose. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir PAUL and Lady PLYA-NT and CYNTHIA 
 
 Brisk. So, now they are all gone, and I have an oppor- 
 tunity to practise. Ah ! my dear Lady Froth ! she's a 
 most engaging creature, if she were not so fond of that 
 damned coxcombly lord of hers; and yet I am forced to 
 allow him wit too, to keep in with him. No matter, she's 
 a woman of parts, and egad parts will carry her. She 
 said she would follow me into the gallery. Now to make 
 my approaches. Hem, hem ! [jBows.] Ah, madam ! 
 Pox on't, why should I disparage my parts by think- 
 ing what to say ? None but dull rogues think ; witty men, 
 like rich fellows, are always ready for all expenses ; while 
 your blockheads, like poor needy scoundrels, are forced
 
 SCENE ii.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 159 
 
 to examine their stock, and forecast the charges of the 
 day. Here she comes, I'll seem not to see her, and try 
 to win her with a new airy invention of my own, hem ! 
 
 Enter Lady FROTH. 
 
 Brisk. [Walks about singing.'] "I'm sick with love," 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! " prithee come cure me." 
 
 " I'm sick with love," &c. 
 
 ye powers ! O my Lady Froth ! my Lady Froth ! my 
 Lady Froth ! Heigho ! Break heart ! Gods, I thank 
 you ! [Stands musing with his arms across. 
 
 Lady Froth. O Heavens, Mr. Brisk ! what's the 
 matter ? 
 
 Brisk. My Lady Froth ! your ladyship's most humble 
 servant. The matter, madam? nothing, madam, nothing 
 at all egad. I was fallen into the most agreeable amuse- 
 ment in the whole province of contemplation : that's 
 all. [Aside.} I'll seem to conceal my passion, and that 
 will look like respect. 
 
 Lady Froth. Bless me ! why did you call out upon me 
 so loud ? 
 
 Brisk.. O Lord, I, madam ? I beseech your ladyship 
 when ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Just now as I came in : bless me ! why, 
 don't you know it ? 
 
 Brisk. Not I, let me perish ! But did I ? Strange ! 
 
 1 confess your ladyship was in my thoughts ; and I was 
 in a sort of dream that did in a manner present a very 
 pleasing object to my imagination, but but did I 
 indeed ? To see how love and murder will out ! But 
 did I really name my Lady Froth ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Three times aloud, as I love letters ! 
 But did you talk of love ? O Parnassus ! who would 
 have thought Mr. Brisk could have been in love, ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! O Heavens, I thought you could have had no 
 mistress but the nine Muses. 
 
 Brisk. No more I have, egad, for I adore 'em all in
 
 160 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [A<Jx IV. 
 
 your ladyship.- Let me perish, I don't know whether to 
 be splenetic or airy upon't ; the deuce take me if I can 
 tell whether I 'am glad or sorry that your ladyship has 
 made the discovery. 
 
 Lady Froth, O be merry by all means.. Prince Volscius 
 in love ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Brisk, O barbarous, to turn me into ridicule ! Yet ? 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! the deuce take me, I can't help laughing 
 myself, ha ! ha ! ha ! yet by Heavens ! I have a violent 
 passion for your ladyship seriously. 
 
 Lady Froth. Seriously ? ha ! ha ! ha . 
 
 Brisk. Seriously, ha ! ha ! ha ! Gad, I have, for all I 
 laugh. 
 
 Lady Froth. Ha ! ha ! ha ! What d'ye think I laugh 
 at? ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Brisk. Me, egad, ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lady Froth. No, the deuce take me if I don't laugh at 
 myself; for hang me ! if I have not a violent passion for 
 Mr. Brisk, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Brisk. Seriously? 
 
 Lady Froth. Seriously, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Brisk. That's well enough ; let me perish, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 O miraculous ! what a happy discovery ; ah, my dear 
 charming Lady Froth ! 
 
 Lady Froth, O my adored Mr. Brisk ! [They embrace. 
 
 Enter Lord FROTH. 
 
 Lord Froth, The company are all ready. \Aside^\ 
 How now ! 
 
 Brisk. [Aside to Lady FROTH.] Zoons, madam, there's 
 my lord ! 
 
 Lady Froth. [Aside to BRISK.] Take no notice but 
 observe me [Aloud.] Now cast off, and meet me at the 
 lower end of the room, and then join hands again ; I 
 could teach my lord this dance purely, but I vow, Mr. 
 Brisk, I can't tell how to come so near any other man. 
 [They pretend to practice part of a country dance.\
 
 SCENE Ii.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 161 
 
 Oh, here's my lord, now you shall see me do it with 
 him. 
 
 Lord Froth. \Aside?\ Oh, I see there's no harm yet : 
 but I don't like this familiarity. 
 
 Lady Froth. Shall you and I do our close dance, to 
 show Mr. Brisk ? 
 
 Lord Froth. No, my dear, do it with him. 
 
 Lady Froth. I'll do it with him, my lord, when you are 
 out of the way. 
 
 Brisk. \Aside^\ . That's good, egad, that's good ! deuce 
 take me, I can hardly hold laughing in his face ! 
 
 Lord Froth. Any other time, my dear, or we'll dance 
 it below. 
 
 Lady Froth. With all my heart. 
 
 Brisk. Come, my lord, I'll wait on you \_Aside to Lady 
 FROTH] My charming witty angel ! 
 
 Lady Froth. [Aside to BRISK.] We shall have whisper- 
 ing time enough, you know, since we are partners. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The Gallery of Lord TOUCHWOOD'S house. 
 
 Lady PLYANT and CARELESS meeting 
 
 Lady Ply. O Mr. Careless ! Mr. Careless ! I'm ruined ! 
 I'm undone ! 
 
 Care. What's the matter, madam ? 
 
 Lady Ply. O the unluckiest accident ! I'm afraid I 
 shan't live to tell it you. 
 
 Care. Heaven forbid ! what is it ? 
 
 Lady Ply. I'm in such a fright ! the strangest quandaiy 
 and premunire ! I'm all over in a universal agitation, I 
 dare swear every circumstance of me trembles. O your 
 letter, your letter ! by an unfortunate mistake, I have 
 given Sir Paul your letter instead of his own. 
 
 Con. \i
 
 1 62 . THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT IV. 
 
 Care. That was unlucky. 
 
 Lady Ply. O yonder he comes reading of it ! for 
 Heaven's sake step in here and advise me quickly before 
 he sees ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Sir PAUL with a letter. 
 
 Sir Paul. O Providence ! what a conspiracy have I 
 discovered ! But let me see to make an end on't. - 
 Hum [Reads.] "After supper in the wardrobe by the 
 gallery, if Sir Paul should surprise us, I have a commis- 
 mission from him to treat with you about the very matter 
 of fact." Matter of fact ! very pretty ; it seems then I 
 am conducing to my own cuckoldom ; why this is the 
 very traitorous position of taking up arms by my autho- 
 rity, against my person. Well, let me see [Reads.] " Till 
 then I languish in expectation of my adored charmer. 
 Dying NED CARELESS." Gadsbud, would that were 
 matter of fact too ! Die and be damned ! for a Judas 
 Maccabeus, and Iscariot both ! O friendship ! what art 
 thou but a name ! Henceforward let no man make a 
 friend that would not be a cuckold ! for whomsever he 
 receives into his bosom, will find the way to his bed, and 
 there return his caresses with interest to his wife. Have 
 I for this been pinioned night after night for three years 
 past ? have I been swathed in blankets till I have been 
 even deprived of motion ? have I approached the mar- 
 riage-bed with reverence as to a sacred shrine, and 
 denied myself the enjoyment of lawful domestic pleasures 
 to preserve its purity, and must I now find it polluted by 
 foreign iniquity ? O my Lady Plyant, you were chaste 
 as ice, but you are melted now, and false as water ! 
 But Providence has been constant to me in discovering 
 this conspiracy ; still I am beholden to Providence ; if it 
 were not for Providence, sure, poor Sir Paul, thy heart 
 would break. 
 
 Re-enter Lady PLYANT. 
 Lady Ply. So, sir, I see you have read the letter,
 
 SCENE in.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 163 
 
 Well now, Sir Paul, what do you think of your friend 
 Careless ? has he been treacherous, or did you give his 
 insolence a licence to make trial of your wife's suspected 
 virtue? D'ye see here? \Snatches the letter as in anger. ~\ 
 Look, read it ? Gads my life, if I thought it were so, I 
 would this moment renounce all communication with 
 you ! Ungrateful monster! he? is it so? ay, I see it, a 
 plot upon my honour ; your guilty cheeks confess it. Oh 
 where shall wronged virtue fly for reparation ! I'll be 
 divorced this instant ! 
 
 Sir Paul. Gadsbud ! what shall I say ? this is the 
 strangest surprise ! Why I don't know anything at all, 
 nor I don't know whether there be anything at all in the 
 world or no. 
 
 Lady Ply. I thought I should try you, false man ! I 
 that never dissembled in my life, yet to make trial of you, 
 pretended to like that monster of iniquity, Careless, and 
 found out that contrivance to let you see this letter; 
 which now I find was of your own inditing; I do, 
 heathen, I do ! See my face no more, I'll be divorced 
 presently ! 
 
 Sir Paul. O strange, what will become of me ! I'm 
 so amazed and so overjoyed, so afraid, and so sorry. 
 But did you give me this letter on purpose, he? did you? 
 
 Lady Ply. Did I ! do you doubt me, Turk, Saracen ? 
 I have a cousin that's a proctor in the Commons, I'll go 
 to him instantly. 
 
 Sir Paul. Hold ! stay ! I beseech your ladyship ! I'm 
 so overjoyed, stay, I'll confess all. 
 
 Lady Ply. What will you confess, Jew? 
 
 Sir Paul. Why now, as I hope to be saved, I had no 
 hand in this letter. Nay hear me, I beseech your lady- 
 ship : the devil take me now if he did not go beyond my 
 commission. If I desired him to do any more than 
 speak a good word only just for me ; gadsbud, only for 
 poor Sir Paul, I'm an Anabaptist, or a Jew, or what you 
 please to call me.
 
 1 64 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT iv. 
 
 Lady Ply. Why, is not here matter of fact ? 
 
 Sir Paul. Ay, but by your own virtue and continency, 
 that matter of fact is all his own doing. I confess I had 
 a great desire to have some honours conferred upon me, 
 which lie all in your ladyship's breast, and he being a 
 well-spoken man, I desired him to intercede for me. 
 
 Lady Ply. Did you so, presumption! Oh, he comes ! 
 the Tarquin comes ! I cannot bear his sight. \Exit. 
 
 Re-enter CARELESS. 
 
 Care. Sir Paul, I'm glad I'm met with you : 'gad, I 
 have said all I could, but can't prevail. Then my 
 friendship to you has carried me a little farther in this 
 matter 
 
 Sir Paul. Indeed ! Well, sir. [Aside.] I'll dissemble 
 with him a little. 
 
 Care. Why, faith, I have in my time known honest 
 gentlemen abused by a pretended coyness in their wives, 
 and I had a mind to try my lady's virtue : and when I 
 could not prevail for you, 'gad I pretended to be in love 
 myself. But all in vain; she would not hear a word 
 upon that subject; then I writ a letter to her; I don't 
 know what effects that will have, but I'll be sure to tell 
 you when I do; though, by this light, I believe her 
 virtue is impregnable. 
 
 Sir Paul. O Providence ! Providence ! what disco- 
 veries are here made ; why this is better and more mira- 
 culous than the rest. 
 
 Care. W T hat do you mean? 
 
 Sir Paul. I can't tell you, I'm so overjoyed; come 
 along with me to my lady, I can't contain myself; come, 
 my dear friend. 
 
 Care. [Aside.] So, so, so, this difficulty's over. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 SCENK iv.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 165 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 The same. 
 
 J'. 'ntcr MELLEFONT and MASKWELL from different doors. 
 
 Mel. Maskwell ! I have been looking for you 'tis 
 within a quarter of eight. 
 
 Mask. My lady has just gone into my lord's closet ; 
 you had best steal into her chamber before she comes, 
 and lie concealed there, otherwise she may lock the door 
 when we are together, and you not easily get in to sur- 
 prise us. 
 
 Mel. He ! you say true. 
 
 Mask. You had best make haste; for after she has 
 made some apology to the company for her 7 own and my 
 lord's absence all this while, she'll retire to her chamber 
 instantly. 
 
 Mel. I go this moment. Now Fortune, I defy thee ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mask. I confess you may be allowed to be secure in 
 your own opinion; the appearance is veiy fair, but I 
 have an after game to play that shall turn the tables ; and 
 here comes the man that I must manage. 
 
 Enter Lord TOUCHWOOD. 
 
 L-jrd Touch. Maskwell, you are the man I wished to 
 meet. 
 
 .Mask. I am happy to be in the way of your lordship's 
 commands. 
 
 Lord Touch. I have always found you prudent and 
 careful in anything that has concerned me or my 
 family. 
 
 Mask. I were a villain else ! I am bound by duty and 
 gratitude, and my own inclination, to be ever your lord- 
 ship's servant. 
 
 Lord Touch. Enough you are my friend ; I know it. 
 Yet there has been a thing in your knowledge which
 
 1 66 THE D O UBLE-DEA LER. [ACT iv. 
 
 has concerned me nearly, that you have concealed from 
 me. 
 
 Mask. My lord ! 
 
 Lord Touch. Nay, I excuse your friendship to my un- 
 natural nephew thus far ; but I know you have been 
 privy to his impious designs upon my wife. This evening 
 she has told me all ; her good-nature concealed it as 
 long as was possible; but he perseveres so in villainy 
 that she has told me even you were weary of dissuading 
 him, though you have once actually hindered him from 
 forcing her. 
 
 Mask, I am sorry, my lord, I can't make you an answer; 
 this is an occasion in which I would willingly be silent. 
 
 Lord Touch. I know you would excuse him ; and I 
 know as well that you can't. 
 
 Mask. Indeed I was in hopes 't had been a youthful 
 heat that might have soon boiled over ; but 
 
 Lord Touch. Say on. 
 
 Mask. I have nothing more to say, my lord but to 
 express my concern ; for I think his frenzy increases 
 daily. 
 
 Lord Touch. How ! give me but proof of it, ocular 
 proof, that I may justify my dealing with him to the 
 world, and share my fortunes. 
 
 Mask. O my lord ! consider that is hard ; besides, time 
 may work upon him : then, for me to do it ! I have pro- 
 fessed an everlasting friendship to him. 
 
 Lord Touch. He is your friend, and what am I ? 
 
 Mask. 1 am answered. 
 
 Lord Touch. Fear not his displeasure ; I will put you 
 out of his and Fortune's power; and for that thou art 
 scrupulously honest, I will secure thy fidelity to him, and 
 give my honour never to own ajiy discovery that you 
 shall make me. Can you give me a demonstrative proof? 
 speak. 
 
 Mask. I wish I could not ! To be plain, my lord, I 
 intended this evening to have tried all arguments to dis-
 
 SCENK v.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 167 
 
 suade him from a design which I suspect ; and if I had 
 not succeeded, to have informed your lordship of what 
 I knew. 
 
 Lord Touch. I thank you. What is the villain's pur- 
 pose? 
 
 Mask. He has owned nothing to me of late, and what 
 I mean now is only a bare suspicion of my own. If your 
 lordship will meet me a quarter of an hour hence there, 
 in that lobby by my lady's bed-chamber, I shall be able 
 to tell you more. 
 
 Lord Touch. I will. 
 
 Mask. My duty to your lordship makes me do a severe 
 piece of justice. 
 
 Lord Touch. I will be secret, and reward your honesty 
 beyond your hopes. \Excunf. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Lady TOUCHWOOD'S Chamber. 
 
 Enter MELLEFONT. 
 
 Mel. Pray Heaven my aunt keep touch with her assigna- 
 tion ! Oh that her .lord were but sweating behind this 
 hanging, with the expectation of what I shall see ! Hist ! 
 she comes. Little does she think what a mine is just 
 ready to spring under her feet. But to my post. 
 
 [ Conceals himself behind the hangings. 
 
 Enter Lady TOUCHWOOD. 
 
 Lady Touch. 'Tis eight o'clock : methinks I should 
 have found him here. Who does not prevent 1 the hour of 
 love outstays the time ; for to be dully punctual, is too 
 slow. [To MASKWELL entering.'] I was accusing you of 
 neglect. 
 
 Mask. I confess you do reproach me when I see you 
 
 1 Anticipate.
 
 1 68 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT iv. 
 
 here before me ; but 'tis fit I should be still behind-hand, 
 still to be more and more indebted to your goodness. 
 
 Lady Touch. You can excuse a fault too well, not to 
 have been to blame. A ready answer shows you were 
 prepared. 
 
 Mask. Guilt is ever at a loss, and confusion waits upon 
 it ; when innocence and bold truth are always ready for 
 expression 
 
 Lady Touch. Not in love ; words are the weak support 
 of cold indifference ; love has no language to be heard. 
 
 Mask. Excess of joy has made me stupid ! Thus may 
 my lips be ever closed. [Kisses her. ~\ And thus Oh, 
 who would not lose his speech, upon condition to have 
 joys above it? 
 
 Lady Touch. Hold, let me lock the door first. 
 
 [Goes to the door. 
 
 Mask. [Aside.} That I believed ; 'twas well I left the 
 private passage open. 
 
 Lady Touch. So, that's safe. 
 
 Mask. And so may all your pleasures be, and secret as 
 this kiss. 
 
 Mel. [Leaping out.} And may all treachery be thus 
 discovered. 
 
 Lady Touch. Ah ! [Shrieks. 
 
 Mel. Villain ! [Offers to draw. 
 
 Mask. Nay, then, there's but one way. [Runs out. 
 
 Mel. Say you so, were you provided for an escape ? 
 Hold, madam, you have no more holes to your burrow, 
 I'll stand between you and this sallyport. 
 
 Lady Touch. Thunder strike thee dead for this deceit ! 
 immediate lightning blast thee, me, and the whole world ! 
 Oh ! I could rack myself, play the vulture to my own 
 heart, and gnaw it piecemeal, for not bcding to me this 
 misfortune ! 
 
 Mel. Be patient. 
 
 Lady Touch. Be damned ! 
 
 Mel, Consider I have you on the hook ; you will
 
 ECENEV.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 169 
 
 but flounder yourself a-weary, and be nevertheless my 
 prisoner. 
 
 Lady Touch. I'll hold my breath and die, but I'll be free. 
 
 Mel. O madam, have a care of dying unprepared. I 
 doubt you have some unrepented sins that may hang 
 heavy, and retard your flight. 
 
 Lady Touch. Oh, what shall I do? say? whither shall 
 I turn ? Has hell no remedy? 
 
 Mel. None, hell has served you even as Heaven has 
 done, left you to yourself. You're in a kind of Erasmus' 
 paradise ; yet, if you please, you may make it a purgatory ; 
 and with a little penance and my absolution, all this may 
 turn to good account. 
 
 Lady Touch. [Aside.] Hold in, my passion ! and fall, 
 fall a little, thou swelling heart ! let me have some inter- 
 mission of this rage, and one minute's coolness to dis- 
 semble. [S/ie weeps. 
 
 Mel. You have been to blame I like those tears, and 
 hope they are of the purest kind penitential tears. 
 
 Lady Touch. O the scene was shifted quick before me ! 
 I had not time to think I was surprised to see a mon- 
 ster in the glass, and now I find 'tis myself. Can you 
 have mercy to forgive the faults I have imagined, but 
 never put in practice? O consider, consider how fatal 
 you have been to me ! you have already killed the quiet 
 of this life. The love of you was the first wandering 
 fire that e'er misled my steps, and while I had only 
 that in view, I was betrayed into unthought-of ways 
 of ruin. 
 
 Mel. May I believe this true ? 
 
 Lady Touch. O be not cruelly incredulous ! How can 
 you doubt these streaming eyes ? Keep the severest eye 
 o'er all my future conduct ; and if I once relapse, let me 
 not hope forgiveness, 'twill ever be in your power to ruin 
 me. My lord shall sign to your desires ; I will myself 
 create your happiness, and Cynthia shall be this night 
 your bride. Do but conceal my failings, and forgive.
 
 i;o 1HE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT iv. 
 
 Mel. Upon such terms, I will be ever yours in every 
 honest way. 
 
 MASK.WELL softly introduces Lord TOUCHWOOD. 
 
 Mask. [To Lord TOUCHWOOD.] I have kept my word, 
 he's here, but I must not be seen. [Exit. 
 
 Lord Touch. [Aside.'] Hell and ?mazement ! she's in 
 tears. 
 
 Lady Touch. [Kneeling.'] Eternal blessings thank you ! 
 [Aside.'] Ha ! my lord listening ! O Fortune has o'er- 
 paid me all, all ! all's my own ! 
 
 Mel. Nay, I beseech you rise. 
 
 Lady Touch. Never, never ! I'll grow to the ground, be 
 buried quick beneath it, ere I'll be consenting to so 
 damned a sin as incest ! unnatural incest ! 
 
 Mel. Ha! 
 
 Lady Touch. O cruel man ! will you not let me go ? 
 I'll forgive all that's past O Heaven you will not 
 ravish me ! 
 
 Mel. Damnation ! 
 
 Lord Touch. Monster ! dog ! your life shall answer 
 this [Draws, and runs at MELLEFONT, is held by Lady 
 TOUCHWOOD. 
 
 Lady Touch. O Heavens, my lord ! Hold, hold, for 
 Heaven's sake ! 
 
 Mel. Confusion, my uncle ! O the damned sorceress ! 
 [Aside.} 
 
 Lady Touch. Moderate your rage, good my lord ! he's 
 mad, alas, he's mad ! Indeed he is, my lord, and knows 
 not what he does. See, how wild he looks ! 
 
 Mel. By Heaven 'twere senseless not to be mad, and 
 see such witchcraft ! 
 
 Lady Touch. My lord, you hear him, he talks idly. 
 
 Lord Touch. Hence from my sight, thou living infamy 
 to my name ! when next I see that face I'll write villain 
 in't with my sword's point. 
 
 Mel. Now, by my soul, I will not go till I have made
 
 SCENE v.] THE DOUBLE DEALER. 171 
 
 known my wrongs ! nay, till I have made known yours, 
 which (if possible) are greater though she has all the 
 host of hell her servants. 
 
 Lady Touch. Alas, he raves ! talks very poetry ! For 
 Heaven's sake, away, my lord ! he'll either tempt you to 
 extravagance, or commit some himself. 
 
 Mel. Death and furies ! will you not hear me ? Why 
 by Heaven she laughs, grins, points to your back ! she 
 forks out cuckoldom with her fingers, and you're running 
 horn-mad after your fortune ! 
 
 [As Lady TOUCHWOOD retires she turns back and 
 
 smiles at him, 
 
 Lord Touch, I fear he's mad indeed : let's send Mask- 
 well to him. 
 
 Mel. Send him to her. 
 
 Lady Touch. Come, come, good my lord, my heart 
 aches so, I shall faint if I stay. 
 
 \Exeunt Lord and Lady TOUCHWOOD. 
 Mel. O I could curse my stars ! fate and chance ! all 
 causes and accidents of fortune in this life ! But to what 
 purpose ? Yet 'sdeath ! for a man to have the fruit of 
 all his industry grow full and ripe, ready to drop into his 
 mouth, and just when he holds out his hand to gather it, 
 to have a sudden whirlwind come, tear up tree and all, 
 and bear away the very root and foundation of his 
 hopes ; what temper can contain ? They talk of sending 
 Maskwell to me ; I never had more need of him. But 
 what can he do ? Imagination cannot form a fairer and 
 more plausible design than this of his which has mis- 
 carried. O my precious aunt! I shall never thrive with- 
 out I deal with the devil, or another woman. 
 
 Women, like flames, have a destroying power, 
 Ne'er to be quenched till they themselves devour. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Gallery in Lord TOUCHWOOD'S House. 
 
 Enter Lady TOUCHWOOD and MASKWELL. 
 
 ADY TOUCH. Was't not lucky? 
 
 Mask. Lucky! Fortune is your own, 
 and 'tis her interest so to be. By 
 Heaven, I believe you can control her 
 power ! and she fears it ; though 
 chance brought my lord, 'twas your 
 own art that turned it to advantage. 
 Lady Touch. 'Tis true, it might have been my ruin 
 But yond_;-'s my lord, I believe, he's coming to find you. 
 I'll not be seen. \_Exit. 
 
 Mask. So ; I durst not own my introducing my lord, 
 though it succeeded well for her, for she would have 
 suspected a design which I should have been puzzled to 
 excuse. My lord is thoughtful I'll be so too, yet he 
 shall know my thoughts ; or think he does. 
 
 Enter Lord ToucHwood. 
 
 What have I done? 
 
 Lord ToucJi. \Asidc.\ Talking to himself! 
 
 Mask. Twas honest and shall I be rewarded for it ! 
 No, 'twas honest, therefore I shan't. Nay, rather there- 
 fore I ought not ; for it rewards itself. 
 
 Lord Touch. \Aside^\ Unequalled virtue ! 
 
 Mask, But should it be known! then I have lost a
 
 SCENE l.] THE DOUBLE DEALE&. 173 
 
 friend. He was an ill-man, and I have gained ; for half 
 myself I lent him, and that I have recalled; so I have 
 served myself, and what is yet better, I have served a 
 worthy lord, to whom I owe myself. 
 
 Ljrd Touch. \Aside ^\ Excellent man ! 
 
 Mask. Yet I am wretched. O there is a secret burns 
 within this breast, which should it once blaze forth, would 
 ruin all, consume my honest character, and brand me 
 with the name of villain ! 
 
 Lord Touch. [Aside.] Ha ! 
 
 Mask. Why do I love! Yet Heaven and my waking 
 conscience are my witnesses, I never gave one working 
 thought a vent, which might discover that I loved, nor 
 ever must ; no, let it prey upon my heart ; for I would 
 rather die, than seem once, barely seem dishonest. O, 
 should it once be known I love fair Cynthia, all this that 
 I have done would look like rival's malice, false friend- 
 ship to my lord, and base self-interest. Let me perish 
 first, and from this hour avoid all sight and speech, and, 
 if I can, all thought of that pernicious beauty. Ha ! but 
 what is my distraction doing ! I am wildly talking to 
 myself, and some ill chance might have directed malicious 
 ears this way. \Seems to start, seeing Lord TOUCHWOOD. 
 
 Lord Touch. Start not let guilty and dishonest souls 
 start at the revelation of their thoughts, but be thou 
 fixed as is thy virtue. 
 
 Mask. I am confounded, and beg your lordship's 
 pardon for those free discourses which I have had with 
 myself. 
 
 Lord Touch. Come, I beg your pardon that I over- 
 heard you, and yet it shall not need. Honest Maskwell ! 
 thy and my good genius led me hither : mine, in that I 
 have discovered so much manly virtue; thine, in that 
 thou shalt have due reward of all thy worth. Give me 
 thy hand my nephew is the alone remaining branch of 
 all our ancient family; him I thus blow away, and con- 
 stitute thee in his room to be my heir.
 
 174 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT V. 
 
 Mask. Now, Heaven forbid 
 
 Lord Touch. No more I have resolved. The writ- 
 ings are ready drawn, and wanted nothing but to be 
 signed, and have his name inserted : yours will fill the 
 blank as well. I will have no reply. Let me com- 
 mand this time ; for 'tis the last in which I will assume 
 authority hereafter you shall rule where I have 
 power. 
 
 Mask. I humbly would petition 
 
 Lord Touch. Is't for yourself? [MASKWELL pauses \ 
 I'll hear of nought for anybody else. 
 
 Mask. Then, witness Heaven for me, this wealth and 
 honour was not of my seeking, nor would I build my 
 fortune on another's ruin : I had but one desire 
 
 Lord Touch. Thou shalt enjoy it. If all I'm worth in 
 wealth or interest can purchase Cynthia, she is thine. 
 I'm sure Sir Paul's consent will follow fortune ; I'll quickly 
 show him which way that is going. 
 
 Mask. You oppress me with bounty ; my gratitude is 
 weak, and shrinks beneath the weight, and cannot rise to 
 thank you. What, enjoy my love ! Forgive the trans- 
 ports of a blessing so unexpected, so unhoped for, so 
 unthought of! 
 
 Lord Touch. I will confirm it, and rejoice with thee. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mask. This is prosperous indeed! Why, let him find 
 me out a villain, settled in possession of a fair estate, and 
 all fruition of my love, I'll bear the railings of a losing 
 gamester. But should he find me out before ! 'tis danger- 
 ous to delay. Let me think should my lord proceed to 
 treat openly of my marriage with Cynthia, all must be 
 discovered, and Mellefont can be no longer blinded. It 
 must not be; nay, should my lady know it ay, then 
 were fine work indeed ! Her fury would spare nothing, 
 though she involved herself in ruin. No, it must be by 
 stratagem I must deceive Mellefont once more, and get 
 my lord to consent to my private management. He
 
 SCENE IL] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 175 
 
 comes opportunely. Now will I, in my old way, discover 
 the whole and real truth of the matter to him, that he 
 may not suspect one word on't. 
 
 No mask like open truth to cover lies, 
 As to go naked is the best disguise. 
 
 Enter MELLEFONT. 
 
 Mel. O Maskwell, what hopes ? I am confounded in 
 a maze of thoughts, each leading into one another, and 
 all ending in perplexity. My uncle will not see nor 
 hear me. 
 
 Mask. No matter, sir, don't trouble your head, all's in 
 my power. 
 
 Mel. How ? for Heaven's sake ? 
 
 Mask. Little do you think that your aunt has kept her 
 word! How the devil she wrought my lord into this 
 dotage, I know not ; but he's gone to Sir Paul about my 
 marriage with Cynthia, and has appointed me his heir. 
 
 Mel. The devil he has ! What's to be done ? 
 
 Mask. I have it ! it must be by stratagem ; for it's in 
 vain to make application to him. I think I have that 
 in my head that cannot fail. Where's Cynthia ? 
 
 Mel. In the garden. 
 
 Mask. Let us go and consult her : my life for yours, I 
 cheat my lord ! \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 An Apartment in Lord TOUCHWOOD'S house. 
 
 Enter Lord TOUCHWOOD and Lady TOUCHWOOD. 
 
 Lady Touch. Maskwell your heir, and marry Cynthia ! 
 Lord Touch. I cannot do too much for so much merit. 
 Lady Touch. But this is a thing of too great moment
 
 176 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT V. 
 
 to be so suddenly resolved. Why Cynthia ? why must he 
 be married ? Is there not reward enough in raising his 
 low fortune, but he must mix his blood with mine, and 
 wed my niece? How know you that my brother will 
 consent, or she? nay, he himself perhaps may have 
 affections othenvise. 
 
 Lord Touch. No, I am convinced he loves her. 
 
 Lady Touch. Maskwell love Cynthia ! impossible. 
 
 Lord Totich. I tell you he confessed it to me. 
 
 Lady Touch. \^AsideJ\ Confusion ! how's this ! 
 
 Lord Touch. His humility long stifled his passion ; and 
 his love of Mellefont would have made him still conceal it. 
 But by encouragement, I wrung the secret from him ; and 
 know he's no way to be rewarded but in her. I'll defer 
 my farther proceedings in it till you have considered it ; 
 but remember how we are both indebted to him. \Exit. 
 
 Lady Touch. Both indebted to him ! Yes, we are both 
 indebted to him, if you knew all. Villain! Oh, I am 
 wild with this surprise of" treachery ! It is impossible, it 
 cannot be ! He love Cynthia ! What, have I been 
 bawd to his designs, his property only, a baiting place ! 
 Now I see what made him false to Mellefont. Shame 
 and distraction ! I cannot bear it. Oh ! what woman 
 can bear to be a property? To be kindled to a flame, 
 only to light him to another's arms ! Oh, that I were fire 
 indeed, that I might burn the vile traitor ! What shall I 
 do? how shall I think? I cannot think. All my 
 designs are lost, my love unsated, my revenge unfinished, 
 and fresh cause of fury from unthought-of plagues. 
 
 Enter Sir PAUL. 
 
 Sir Paul. Madam ! sister ! my lady sister ! did you see 
 my lady, my wife ! 
 
 Lady Touch. \Aside^\ Oh, torture ! 
 
 Sir Paul. Gadsbud, I can't find her high nor low; 
 where can she be, think you ? 
 
 Lady Touch. Where she's serving you, as all your sex
 
 SCENE ii.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 177 
 
 ought to be served; making you a beast. Don't you 
 know that you're a fool, brother ? 
 
 Sir Paul. A fool! he! he! he! you're merry. No 
 no, not I, I know no such matter. 
 
 Lady Touch. Why, then, you don't know half your 
 happiness. 
 
 Sir Paul. That's a jest with all my heart, faith and 
 troth ! But hark ye, my lord told me something of a 
 revolution of things ; I don't know what to make on't. 
 Gadsbud, I must consult my wife. He talks of disinherit- 
 ing his nephew, and I don't know what. Look you, 
 sister, I must know what my girl has to trust to ; or not a 
 syllable of a wedding, gadsbud to show you that I am 
 not a fool. 
 
 Lady Touch. Hear me ; consent to the breaking off this 
 marriage, and the promoting any other, without consult- 
 ing me, and I'll renounce all blood, all relation and con- 
 cern with you for ever; nay, I'll be your enemy, and 
 pursue you to destruction ; I'll tear your eyes out, and 
 tread you under my feet. 
 
 Sir Paul. Why, what's the matter now ? Good Lord, 
 what's all this for? Pooh, here's a joke, indeed ! Why, 
 where's my wife ? 
 
 Lady Touch. With Careless, in the close arbour; he 
 may want you by this time, as much as you want her. 
 
 Sir Paul. O, if she be with Mr. Careless, 'tis well 
 enough. 
 
 Lady Touch. Fool ! sot ! insensible ox ! But re- 
 member what I said to you, or you had better eat your 
 own horns by this light you had. 
 
 Sir Paul. You're a passionate woman, gadsbud ! But 
 to say truth, all our family are choleric ; I am the only 
 peaceable person amongst 'em. \_Excunt. 
 
 Coo,
 
 i;8 THE DOUBLE-DEALER, [ACT V. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The Gallery in Lord TOUCHWOOD'S house. 
 
 Elite/- MELLEFONT, MASKWELL, and CYNTHIA. 
 
 Mel. I know no other way but this he has proposed ; 
 if you have love enough to run the venture. 
 
 Cyn. I don't know whether I have love enough but 
 I find I have obstinacy enough to pursue whatever I 
 have once resolved; and a true female courage to op- 
 pose anything that resists my will, though 'twere reason 
 itself. 
 
 Mask. That's right. Well, I'll secure the writings, and 
 run the hazard along with you. 
 
 Cyn. But how can" the coach and six horses be got 
 ready without suspicion ? 
 
 Mask. Leave it to my care ; that shall be so far from 
 being suspected, that it shall be got ready by my lord's 
 own order. 
 
 Mel. How? 
 
 Mask. Why, I intend to tell my lord the whole matter 
 of our contrivance, that's my way. 
 
 Mel. I don't understand you. 
 
 Mask. Why. I'll tell my lord I laid this plot with you 
 On purpose to betray you ; and that which put me upon 
 it was the finding it impossible to gain the lady any other 
 way, but in the hopes of her marrying you. 
 
 Mel So 
 
 Mask. So, why so, while you're busied in making 
 yourself ready, I'll wheedle her into the coach: and 
 instead of you, borrow my lord's chaplain, and so run 
 away with her myself. 
 
 Mel. 0, I conceive you; you'll tell him so? 
 
 Mask. Tell him so ! ay ; why, you don't think I mean 
 to do so? 
 
 Mel. No, no ; ha ! ha ! I dare swear thou wilt not. 
 
 Mask. Therefore, for our farther security, I would have
 
 SCENE in.] TflE DOUBLE-DEALER. 179 
 
 you disguised like a parson, that if my lord should have 
 curiosity to peep, he may not discover you in the 
 coach, but think the cheat is carried on as he would 
 have it. 
 
 Mel. Excellent Maskwell; thou wert certainly meant 
 for a statesman, or a Jesuit but that thou are too honest 
 for one, and too pious for the other. 
 
 Mask. Well, get yourself ready, and meet me in half 
 an hour, yonder in my lady's dressing-room ; go by the 
 back stairs, and so we may slip down without being 
 observed. I'll send the chaplain to you with his robes; 
 I have made him my own, and ordered him to meet us 
 to-morrow morning at St. Alban's; there we will sum up 
 this account, to all our satisfactions. 
 
 Mel. Should I begin to thank or praise thee, I should 
 waste the little time we have. [Exit. 
 
 Mask. Madam, you will be ready? 
 
 Cyn. I will be punctual to the minute. [Going. 
 
 Mask. Stay, I have a doubt. Upon second thoughts 
 we had better meet in the chaplain's chamber here, the 
 corner chamber at this end of the gallery; there is a back 
 way into it, so that you need not come through this door 
 and a pair of private stairs leading down to the stables. 
 It will be more convenient. 
 
 Cyn. I am guided by you, but Mellefont will mis- 
 take. 
 
 Mask. No, no, I'll after him immediately, and tell 
 him. 
 
 Cyn. I will not fail. [Exit, 
 
 Mask. Why, qui vult decipi deripiatur. 'Tis no fault 
 of mine : I have told 'em, in plain terms, how easy 'tis 
 for me to cheat 'em ; and, if they will not hear the ser- 
 pent's hiss, they must be stung into experience, and 
 fufure caution. Now to prepare my lord to consent to 
 this. But first I must instruct my little Levite ; there is 
 no plot, public or private, that can expect to prosper 
 without one of them has a finger in't: he promised
 
 i8o THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT V. 
 
 me to be within at this hour. Mr. Saygrace ! Mr. Say- 
 grace 1 
 
 \Goes to the chamber door, and knocks. 
 
 Saygrace. [Looking out.~\ Sweet sir, I will but pen the 
 last line of an acrostic, and be with you in the twinkling 
 of an ejaculation, in the pronouncing of an amen, or 
 before you can 
 
 Mask. Nay, good Mr. Saygrace, do not prolong the 
 time, by describing to me the shortness of your stay; 
 rather, if you please, defer the finishing of your wit, and 
 let us talk about our business : it shall be tithes in your 
 way. [Enter Saygrace. 
 
 Say. You shall prevail ; I would break off in the 
 middle of a sermon to do you a pleasure. 
 
 Mask. You could not do me a greater, except the 
 business in hand. Have you provided a habit for Melle- 
 font? 
 
 Say. I have ; they are ready in my chamber, together 
 with a clean- starched band and cuffs. 
 
 Mask. Good, let them be carried to him. Have you 
 stitched the gown sleeve, that he may be puzzled, and 
 waste time in putting it on ? 
 
 Say. I have; the gown will not be indued without 
 perplexity. 
 
 Mask. Meet me in half an hour here in your own 
 chamber. When Cynthia conies let there be no light, 
 and do not speak, that she may not distinguish you 
 from Mellefont. I'll urge haste to excuse your silence. 
 
 Say. You have no more commands? 
 
 . Mask. None ; your text is short. 
 
 Say. But pithy, and I will handle it with discretion. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mask. It will be the first you have so served. \Exit.
 
 SCENE iv.] THE. DOUBLE-DEALER. 181 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 The Same. 
 
 Enter Lord TOUCHWOOD and MASKWELL. 
 
 Lord Touch. Sure I was born to be controlled by those 
 I should command : my very slaves will shortly give me 
 rules how I shall govern them. 
 
 Mask. I am concerned to see your lordship discom- 
 posed. 
 
 Lord Touch. Have you seen my wife lately, or dis- 
 obliged her? 
 
 Mask. No, my lord. [Aside.] What can this mean ? 
 
 Lord Touch. Then Mellefont has urged somebody to 
 incense her. Something she has heard of you which 
 carries her beyond the bounds of patience. 
 
 Mask. [Aside.] This I feared. [Aloud.} Did not 
 your lordship tell her of the honours you designed me ? 
 
 Lord Touch. Yes. 
 
 Mask. 'Tis that ; you know my lady has a high spirit, 
 she thinks I am unworthy. 
 
 Lord Touch. Unworthy ! 'tis an ignorant pride in her 
 to think so : honesty to me is true nobility. However, 
 'tis my will it shall be so, and that should be convincing 
 to her as much as reason. By Heaven, I'll not be wife- 
 ridden ! were it possible, it should be done this night. 
 
 Mask. [Aside.] By heaven he meets my wishes! 
 [A /oitd.] Few things are impossible to willing minds. 
 
 Lord Touch. Instruct me how this may be done, you 
 shall see 1 want no inclination. 
 
 Mask. I had laid a small design for to-morrow (as 
 love will be inventing) which I thought to communicate 
 to your lordship ; but it may be as well done to-night. 
 
 Lord Touch. Here's company. Come this way, and 
 tell me. \Thcy retire. 
 
 Enter CARELESS and CYNTHIA. 
 Care. Is not that he now gone out with my lord ?
 
 1 82 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT v. 
 
 Cyn. Yes. 
 
 Care. By Heaven, there's treachery ! The confusion 
 that I saw your father in, my Lady Touchwood's passion, 
 with what imperfectly I overheard between my lord and 
 her, confirm me in my fears. Where's Mellefont ? 
 
 Cyn. Here he comes. 
 
 Enter MELLEFONT. 
 
 Cyn. (to Mellefont}. Did Maskwell tell you anything 
 of the chaplain's chamber ? 
 
 Mel. No ; my dear, will you get ready ? the things 
 are all in my chamber ; I want nothing but the habit. 
 
 Care. You are betrayed, and Maskwell is the villain I 
 always thought him. 
 
 Cyn. When you were gone, he said his mind was 
 changed, and bid me meet him in the chaplain's room, 
 pretending immediately to follow you, and give you 
 notice. 
 
 Mel. How! 
 
 Care. There's Saygrace tripping by with a bundle 
 under his arm. He cannot be ignorant that Maskwell 
 means to use his chamber ; let's follow and examine him. 
 
 Mel. 'Tis loss of time I cannot think him false. 
 
 {Exeunt CARELESS and MELLEFONT. 
 
 Re-enter Lord TOUCHWOOD. 
 
 Cyn. \Aside^\ My lord musing ! 
 
 Lord Touch. [Not perceiving CYNTHIA.] He has a 
 quick invention, if this were suddenly designed : yet he 
 says he had prepared my chaplain already. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside.] How's this ! now I fear indeed. 
 
 Lord Touch. Cynthia here ! Alone, fair cousin, and 
 melancholy ? 
 
 Cyn. Your lordship was thoughtful. 
 
 Lord Touch. My thoughts were on serious business, 
 not worth your hearing. 
 
 Cyn. Mine were on treachery concerning you, and 
 may be worth your hearing.
 
 SCENE iv.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 183 
 
 Lord Touch. Treachery concerning me ! pray be plain. 
 Hark ! what noise ! 
 
 Mask. [ Jf /////>/.] Will you not hear me? 
 
 Lady Touch. [JUt/ii/i.] No, monster! traitor! ro. 
 
 Cyn. \Aside^\ My lady and Maskwell ! this may be 
 lucky. \Aloua '.] My lord, let me entreat you to stand 
 behind this screen, and listen ; perhaps this chance may 
 give you proof of what you ne'er could have believed 
 from my suspicions. \They retire behind a screen. 
 
 Enter Lady TOUCHWOOD with a dagger, and MASKWELL. 
 
 Lady Touch. You want but leisure to invent fresh 
 falsehood, and soothe me to a fond belief of all your 
 fictions ; but I will stab the lie that's forming in your 
 heart, and save a sin, in pity to your soul. 
 
 Mask. Strike then ! since you will have it so. 
 
 Lady Touch. Ha ! A steady villain to the last ! 
 
 Mask. Come, why do you dally with me thus ? 
 
 Lady Touch. Thy stubborn temper shocks me, and 
 you knew it would. This is cunning all, and not 
 courage ; no, I know thee well : but thou shalt miss thy 
 aim. 
 
 Mask. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lady Touch. Ha ! do you mock my rage ? then this 
 shall punish your fond, rash contempt ! [Goes to strike.] 
 Again smile ! and such a smile as speaks in ambi- 
 guity ! Ten thousand meanings lurk in each corner of 
 that various face. O ! that they were written in thy 
 heart ! that I, with this, might lay thee open to my 
 sight ! But then 'twill be too late to know. Thou hast, 
 thou hast found the only way to turn my rage ; too well 
 thou knowest my jealous soul could never bear uncer- 
 tainty. Speak then, and tell me. Yet are you silent ? 
 Oh, I am bewildered in all passions ! but thus my anger 
 melts. [ Weeps^\ Here, take this poniard, for my very 
 spirits faint, and I want strength to hold it ; thou hast 
 disarmed my soul. [Gives the dagger.
 
 1 84 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT v. 
 
 Lord Touch, \Aside .] Amazement shakes me where 
 will this end ? 
 
 Mask. So, 'tis well let your wild fury have a vent ; 
 and when you have temper, tell me. 
 
 Lady Touch. Now, now, now I am calm, and can hear 
 you. 
 
 Mask. [Aside.] Thanks, my invention ; and now I have 
 it for you. [Aloud.} First tell me what urged you to this 
 violence ? for your passion broke in such imperfect terms, 
 that yet I am to learn the cause. 
 
 Lady Touch. My lord himself surprised me with the 
 news you were to marry Cynthia : that you had owned 
 your love to him, and his indulgence would assist you to 
 attain your ends. 
 
 Cyn. [Aside to Lord TOUCHWOOD.] How, my lord ! 
 
 Lord Touch. [Aside to CYNTHIA.] Pray forbear all 
 resentments for a while, and let us hear the rest. 
 
 Mask, I grant you in appearance all is true ; I seemed 
 consenting to my lord ; nay, transported with the blessing. 
 But could you think that I, who had been happy in 
 your loved embraces, could e'er be fond of an inferior 
 slavery. 
 
 Lord Touch. [Aside.} Ha ! O poison to my ears ! what 
 do I hear ! 
 
 Cyn. [Aside.} Nay, good my lord, forbear resentment, 
 let us hear it out. 
 
 Lord Touch. [Aside.} Yes, I will contain, though I 
 could burst. 
 
 Mask. I that had wantoned in the rich circle of your 
 world of love, could I be confined within the puny pro- 
 vince of a girl ! No yet though I dote on each last 
 favour more than all the rest ; though I would give a limb 
 for every look you cheaply throw away on any other object 
 of your love ; yet so far I prize your pleasures o'er my 
 own, that all this seeming plot that I have laid has been 
 to gratify your taste, and cheat the world, to prove a 
 faithful rogue to you,
 
 SCENE iv.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 185 
 
 Lady Touch. If this were true ! but how can it be ? 
 
 Mask. I have so contrived that Mellefont will presently, 
 in the chaplain's habit, wait for Cynthia in your dressing- 
 room : but I have put the change upon her that she may 
 be otherwhere employed. Do you procure her night- 
 gown, and, with your hoods tied over your face, meet him 
 in her stead ; you may go privately by the back stairs, 
 and, unpereeived, there you may propose to reinstate him 
 in his uncle's favour, if he'll comply with your desires ; his 
 case is desperate, and I believe he'll yield to any condi- 
 tions. If not, here take this ; you may employ it better 
 than in the heart of one who is nothing when not yours. 
 
 [Gives the dagger. 
 
 Lady Touch. Thou canst deceive everybody, nay, 
 thou hast deceived me ; but 'tis as I would wish. Trusty 
 villain ! I could worship thee ! 
 
 Mask. No more. There wants but a few minutes of 
 the time ; and Mellefont's love will carry him there before 
 his hour. 
 
 Lady Touch. I go, I fly, incomparable Maskwell. \Exit. 
 
 Mask. So, this was a pinch indeed ; my invention was 
 upon the rack, and made discovery of her last plot : I 
 hope Cynthia and my chaplain will be ready, I'll prepare 
 for the expedition. \Exit. 
 
 CYNTHIA and Lord TOUCHWOOD coming forward. 
 
 Cyn. Now, my lord. 
 
 Lord Touch. Astonishment binds up my rage ! Villainy 
 upon villainy ! Heavens, what a long track of dark deceit 
 has this discovered ! I am confounded when I look back, 
 and want a clue to guide me through the various mazes 
 of unheard-of treachery. My wife ! damnation ! my hell ! 
 
 Cyn. My lord, have patience, and be sensible how 
 great our happiness is that this discovery was not made 
 too late. 
 
 Lord Touch. I thank you, yet it may be still too late, 
 if we don't presently prevent the execution of their plots.
 
 1 86 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT v. 
 
 Ha, I'll do't. Where's Mellefont, my poor injured 
 nephew ? How shall I make him ample satisfaction ? 
 
 Cyn. I dare answer for him. 
 
 Lord Touch. I do him fresh wrong to question his for- 
 giveness ; for I know him to be all goodness. Yet my 
 wife ! damn her ! She'll think to meet him in that dress- 
 ing-room ; was't not so ? and Maskwell will expect you 
 in the chaplain's chamber. For once, I'll add my plot 
 too. Let us haste to find out, and inform my nephew ; 
 and do you quickly as you can bring all the company 
 into this gallery. I'll expose the strumpet and the villain. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 A Room in Lord TOUCHWOOD'S house. 
 
 Lord FROTH and Sir PAUL. 
 
 Lord Froth. By Heavens, I have slept an age ! Sir 
 Paul, what o'clock is't ? Past eight, on my conscience ! 
 my lady's is the most inviting couch ; and a slumber 
 there is the prettiest amusement ! But where's all the 
 company ? 
 
 Sir Paul. The company, gadsbud, I don't know, my 
 lord, but here's the strangest revolution, all turned topsy- 
 turvy ; as I hope for Providence. 
 
 Lord Froth. O Heavens, what's the matter? where's 
 my wife ? 
 
 Sir Paul. All turned topsy-turvy, as sure as a gun. 
 
 Lord Froth. How do you mean ? my wife ! 
 
 Sir Paul. The strangest posture of affairs ! 
 
 Lord Froth. What, my wife ? 
 
 Sir Paul. No, no, I mean the family. Youx lady's 
 affairs may be in a very good posture ; I saw her go into 
 the garden with Mr. Brisk. 
 
 Lord Froth. How ? where ? when ? what to do ?
 
 SCENE v.] THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 187 
 
 Sir Paul. I suppose they have been laying their heads 
 together. 
 
 Lord Froth. How? 
 
 Sir Paul. Nay, only about poetry, I suppose, my lord ; 
 making couplets. 
 
 Lord Froth. Couplets ! 
 
 Sir Paul. 0,. here they come. 
 
 Enter Lady FROTH and BRISK. 
 
 Brisk. My lord, your humble servant : Sir Paul, yours. 
 The finest night ! 
 
 Lady Froth. My dear, Mr. Brisk and I have been star- 
 gazing, I don't know how long. 
 
 Sir Paul. Does it not tire your ladyship ; are not you 
 weary with looking up ? 
 
 Lady Froth. Oh, no, I love it violently. My dear, 
 you're melancholy. 
 
 Lord Froth. No, my dear; I'm but jus.t awake. 
 
 Lady Froth. Snuff some of my spirit of hartshorn. 
 
 Lord Froth. I've some of my own, thank you, my dear. 
 
 Lady Froth. Well, I swear, Mr. Brisk, you understood 
 astronomy like an old Egyptian. 
 
 Brisk. Not comparably to your ladyship ; you are the 
 very Cynthia of the skies, and queen of stars. 
 
 Lady Froth. That's because I have no light but what's 
 by reflection from you, who are the sun. 
 
 Brisk. Madam, you have eclipsed me quite, let me 
 perish ! I can't answer that. 
 
 Lady Froth. No matter. Harkee, shall you and I 
 make an almanac together ? 
 
 Brisk. With all my soul. Your ladyship has made me 
 the man in't already, I'm so full of the wounds which you 
 have given. 
 
 Lady Froth. O finely taken ! I swear now you are even 
 with me. O Parnassus ! you have an infinite deal of wit. 
 
 Sir Paul. So he has, gadsbud, and so has your lady- 
 ship.
 
 i'38 THE DOUBLE-DEALER. [ACT v. 
 
 Enter Lady PLYANT, CARELESS, and CYNTHIA. 
 
 Lady Ply. You tell me most surprising things ; bless 
 me, who would ever trust a man ! O my heart aches for 
 fear they should be all deceitful alike. 
 
 Care. You need not fear, madam, you have charms to 
 fix inconstancy itself. 
 
 Lady Ply. O dear, you make me blush ! 
 
 Lord Froth. Come, my dear, shall we take leave of my 
 lord and lady ? 
 
 Cyn. They'll wait upon your lordship presently. 
 
 Lady Froth. Mr. Brisk, my coach shall set you down. 
 \A great shriek from the corner of the stage. 
 
 All. What's the matter ? 
 
 Lady TOUCHWOOD runs in affrighted, Lord TOUCHWOQD 
 after her, disguised in a parson's habit. 
 
 Lady Touch. 0, I'm betrayed ! Save me ! help me ! 
 
 Lord Touch, Now, what evasion, strumpet ? 
 
 Lady Touch. Stand off ! let me go. 
 
 Lord Touch. Go, and thy own infamy pursue thee 
 [Exit Lady TOUCHWOOD.] You stare as you were all 
 amazed. I don't wonder at it but too soon you'll know 
 mine, and that woman's shame. 
 
 ^Enter MELLEFONT disguised in a parson's habit, and 
 fulling in MASKWELL, followed by Servants. 
 
 Md. Nay, by Heaven, you shall be seen ! Careless, 
 your hand. [To MASKWELL.") Do you hold down your 
 head ? Yes, I am your chaplain ; look in the face of your 
 injured friend, thou wonder of all falsehood ! 
 
 Lord Touch. Are you silent, monster ? 
 
 Mel. Good Heavens ! how I believed and loved this 
 man ! Take him hence, for he's a disease to my sight. 
 
 Lord Touch. Secure that manifold villain. 
 
 [Servants seize him. 
 
 Care. Miracle of ingratitude ! 
 
 Brisk. This is all very surprising, let me perish !
 
 SCENE v.] THE 'DOUBLE-DEALER. 189 
 
 Lady Froth. You know I told you Saturn looked a little 
 more angry than usual. 
 
 Lord Touch. We'll think of punishment at leisure, but 
 let me hasten to do justice, in rewarding virtue and 
 wronged innocence. Nephew, I hope I have your par- 
 don, and Cynthia's. 
 
 Mel. We are your lordship's creatures. 
 Lord Touch. And "be each other's comfort. Let me 
 join your hands. Unwearied nights and wishing days 
 attend you both ; mutual love, lasting health, and circling 
 joys, tread round each happy year of your long lives. 
 Let secret villainy from hence be warned ; 
 Howe'er in private mischiefs are conceived, 
 Torture and shame attend their open birth ; 
 Like vipers in the womb, base treachery lies, 
 Still gnawing that whence first it did arise ; 
 No sooner born, but the vile parent dies. 
 
 \Exeunt onmes. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. MOUNTFORD. 
 
 COULD poets but foresee how plays would take, 
 Then they could tell what epilogues to make ; 
 Whether to thank or blame their audience most : 
 But that late knowledge does much hazard cost : 
 'Till dice are thrown, there's nothing won nor lost. 
 So, till the thief has stolen, he cannot know 
 Whether he shall escape the law or no. 
 
 1 A favourite actress. Her maiden name was Peicival, and she 
 married Mountford the actor, one of the handsomest men of his 
 day, who was killed by Lord Mohun for protecting Mrs. Bi ace- 
 girdle. She afterwards married Jack Verbrugen, who acted parts 
 in several of Congreve's plays, including that of Careless in The 
 Double-Dealer. Mrs. Mountford is described as being ," a fine, 
 fair woman, plump, full-featured, her face of a fine smooth oval." 
 She died in 1 730.
 
 igo THE DOUBLE-DEALER. 
 
 But poet's run much greater hazards far, 
 
 Than they who stand their trials at the bar, 
 
 The law provides a curb for its own fury, 
 
 And suffers judges to direct the jury : 
 
 But in this court, what difference does appear ! 
 
 For every one's both judge and jury here ; 
 
 Nay, and what's worse, an executioner. 
 
 All have a right and title to some part, 
 
 Each choosing that in which he has most art. 
 
 The dreadful men of learning all confound, 
 
 Unless the fable's good, and moral sound. 
 
 The vizor-masks that are in pit and gallery, 
 
 Approve or damn the repartee and raillery. 
 
 The lady critics, who are better read, 
 
 Inquire if characters are nicely bred ; 
 
 If the soft things are penned and spoke with grace : 
 
 They judge of action, too, and time, and place ; 
 
 In which we do not doubt but they're discerning, 
 
 For that's a kind of assignation learning. 
 
 Beaux judge of dress ; the witlings judge of songs ; 
 
 The cuckoldom, of ancient right, to cits belongs. 
 
 Poor poets thus the favour are denied 
 
 Even to make exceptions, when they're tried. 
 
 'Tis hard that they must every one admit ; 
 
 Methinks I see some faces in the pit 
 
 Which must of consequence be foes to wit. 
 
 You who can judge, to sentence may proceed ; 
 
 But though he cannot write, let him be freed 
 
 At least from their contempt who cannot read.
 
 LOVE FO\ LOVE. 
 
 Kudus agris, nudus nummis paternis, 
 
 Insanire parat certa ratione modoque." 
 HORAT. lib. ii. Sat. 3.' 
 
 A madman, stripped of your paternal estate, stripped of your money, 
 t 
 
 He will make no more of it, than if he should set about raving by right 
 reason and rule.
 
 OVE FOR LOVE was brought out in the 
 year 1695, at the new theatre in Portugal 
 Row, Lincoln's Inn Fields, and is the 
 most diverting of all Congreve's come- 
 dies. The characters are less artficial 
 and less inspired by unpleasant motives 
 than usual. "There are no revolting 
 scoundrels ; and the lovers really have some love." The plot 
 is ingenious without being perplexing, and full of stage 
 effect ; while the dialogue, instead of acting merely as a 
 vehicle for wit, is suited to the development of the story and 
 the condition of the speakers. The demure cunning with 
 which Miss Prue learns her lessons in love, and her eager- 
 ness to put them into practice, are in the finest spirit of 
 comedy. This character is the forerunner of those artful 
 damsels who have so long held the stage, whose conduct 
 and proceedings are at thorough variance with the apparent 
 modesty of their demeanour and the severity of their do- 
 mestic training. The portrait of the querulous astrologer, 
 though now out of date and consequently lacking in interest, 
 was in Congreve's day true to life. " The character of 
 Foresight," says Dr. Johnson, "was then common. Dry- 
 den calculated nativities ; both Cromwell and King William 
 had their lucky days ; and Shaftesbury himself, though he 
 had no religion, was said to regard prediction." 
 
 The success of this play was so complete that Congreve 
 was asked to write one every year for the new house. 
 
 Con.
 
 To the Right Honourable 
 CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET AND MIDDLESEX, 
 
 Lord Chamberlain of His Majesty's household, and Knight 
 of the most noble Order of the Garter, &c. 
 
 MY LORD, 
 
 YOUNG poet is liable to the same vanity 
 and indiscretion with a young lover ; 
 and the great man who smiles uppn one, 
 and the fine woman who looks kindly 
 upon t'other, are both of them in danger 
 of having the favour published with the 
 first opportunity. 
 
 But there may be a different motive, 
 which will a little distinguish the offenders. For though 
 one should have a vanity in ruining another's reputation, 
 yet the other may only have an ambition to advance his 
 own. And I beg leave, my Lord, that I may plead the 
 latter, both as the cause and excuse of this dedication. 
 
 Whoever is king, is also the father of his country ; and 
 as nobody can dispute your Lordship's monarchy in poetry : 
 so all that are concerned ought to acknowledge your uni- 
 versal patronage ; and it is only presuming on the privilege 
 of a loyal subject, that I have ventured to make this my 
 address of thanks to your Lordship ; which, at the same 
 time, includes a prayer for your protection. 
 
 I am not ignorant of the common form of poetical dedica- 
 tions, which are generally made up of panegyrics, where 
 the authors endeavour to distinguish their patrons by the 
 shining characters they give them above other men. But 
 that, my Lord, is not my business at this time, nor is your 
 Lordship now to be distinguished. I am contented with
 
 DEDICATION. 195 
 
 the honour I do myself in this epistle, without the vanity of 
 attempting to add to or explain your Lordship's character. 
 
 I confess it is not without some struggling that I behave 
 myself in this case as I ought ; for it is very hard to be 
 pleased with a subject, and yet forbear it. But I choose 
 rather to follow Pliny's precept, than his example, when in 
 his panegyric to the Emperor Trajan he says " Nee minus 
 considerabo quid aures ejus pati possint, quam quid virtu- 
 tibus debeatur." 
 
 I hope I may be excused the pedantry of a quotation, 
 when it is so justly applied. Here are some lines in the 
 print (and which your Lordship read before this play was 
 acted) that were omitted on the stage, and particularly one 
 whole scene in the third Act, which not only helps the 
 design forward with less precipitation, but also heightens 
 the ridiculous character of Foresight, which indeed seems 
 to be maimed without it. But I found myself in great dan- 
 ger of a long play, and was glad to help it where I could. 
 Though notwithstanding my care, and the kind reception it 
 had from the town, 1 could hardly wish it yet shorter ; but 
 the number of different characters represented in it would 
 have been too much crowded in less room. 
 
 This reflection on prolixity (a fault for which scarce any 
 one beauty will atone) warns me not to be tedious now, and 
 detain your Lordship any longer with the trifles of, my Lord, 
 your Lordship's most obedient, and most humble servant, 
 
 WILL. CONGREVE.
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN, AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW HOUSE, 
 BY MR. BETTERTON. 1 
 
 THE husbandman in vain renews his toil, 
 
 To cultivate each year a hungry soil ; 
 
 And fondly hopes for rich and generous fruit, 
 
 When what should feed the tree devours the root ; 
 
 The unladen boughs, he sees, bode certain dearth, 
 
 Unless transplanted to more kindly earth. 
 
 So, the poor husbands of the stage, who found 
 
 Their labours lost upon ungrateful ground, 
 
 This last and only remedy have proved, 
 
 And hope new fruit from ancient stocks removed. 
 
 Well may they hope, when you so kindly aid, 
 
 Well plant a soil which you so rich have made. 
 
 As Nature gave the world to man's first age, 
 
 So from your bounty we receive this stage ; 
 
 The freedom man was born to you've restored. 
 
 And to our world such plenty you afford, 
 
 It seems like Eden, fruitful of its own accord. 
 
 But since in Paradise frail flesh gave way, 
 
 And when but two were made, both went astray ; 
 
 Forbear your wonder and the fault forgive, 
 
 If in our larger family we grieve 
 
 One falling Adam, and one tempted Eve. 
 
 We who remain would gratefully repay 
 
 What our endeavours can, and bring, this day, 
 
 1 The most celebrated actor of the day the "phoenix of the 
 stage " (bom 1635, died 1710.) Accoiding to Pepys, he was " the 
 best actor in the world." The new house was Lincoln's Inn Fields 
 Theatre, built on the site of a tennis court, by Congreve, Betterton,- 
 Mrs. Barry, and Mrs. Braceg'rdle, and opened April 30, 1695, w i tr > 
 this comedy. Betterton appears to have acted the principal part 
 in all of Congreve's plays on their first representation.
 
 PROLOGUE. 197 
 
 The first-fruit offering of a virgin play. 
 
 We hope there's something that may please each taste, 
 
 And though of homely fare we make the feast, 
 
 Yet you will find variety at least. 
 
 There's humour, which for cheerful friends we got, 
 
 And for the thinking party there's a plot. 
 
 We've something, too, to gratify ill-nature, 
 
 (If there be any here) and that is satire ; 
 
 Though satire scarce dares grin, 'tis grown so mild, 
 
 Or only shows its teeth as if it smiled. 
 
 As asses thistles, poets mumble wit, 
 
 And dare not bite, for fear of being bit. 
 
 They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools, 
 
 And are afraid to use their own edge-tools. 
 
 Since The Plain Dealer's scenes of manly rage, 
 
 Not one has dared to lash this crying age. 
 
 This time the poet owns the bold essay, 
 
 Yet hopes there's no ill-manners in his play : 
 
 And he declares by me, he has designed 
 
 Affront to none, but frankly speaks his mind. 
 
 And should the ensuing scenes not chance to hit, 
 
 He offers but this one excuse, 'twas writ 
 
 Before your late encouragement of wit.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONAL. 
 
 SIR SAMPSON LEGEND, Father of VALENTINE and 
 
 BEN. 
 VALENTINE, fallen under his Father's displeasure by 
 
 his expensive way of living, in love with ANGELICA. 
 SCANDAL, his Friend, a free speaker. 
 TATTLE, a half-witted Beau, vain of his amours, yet 
 
 valuing himself for secrecy. 
 BEN, SIR SAMPSON'S younger Son, half home-bred, 
 
 and half sea-bred, designed to marry Miss PRUE. 
 FORESIGHT, an illiterate old fellow, peevish and posi- 
 
 tive, superstitious, and pretending to understand 
 
 Astrology, Palmistry.Physiognomy, Omens, Dreams, 
 
 &c., Uncle to ANGELICA. 
 JEREMY, Servant to VALENTINE. 
 TRAPLAND, a Scrivener. 
 BUCKRAM, a Lawyer. 
 SNAP, a Bailiff. 
 
 ANGELICA, Niece to FORESIGHT, of a considerable 
 
 Fortune in her own hands. 
 MRS. FORESIGHT, second Wife of FORESIGHT. 
 MRS. FRAIL, Sister to MRS. FORESIGHT, a Woman of 
 
 the Town. 
 Miss PRUE, Daughter of FORESIGHT by a former Wife, 
 
 a silly awkward country Girl. 
 Nurse to Miss PRUE. 
 JENNY, Maid to ANGELICA. 
 
 Stewards, Sailors, and Servants. 
 SCENE LONDON.
 
 LOVE FO\ LOVE. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 VALENTINE'S Lodging. 
 
 VALENTINE discovered reading, JEREMY waiting: several 
 books upon the table. 
 
 AL. Jeremy ! 
 Jer. Sir? 
 
 Val, Here, take away; I'll walk a 
 turn, and digest what I have read. 
 
 Jer. [Aside.~\ You'll grow devilish 
 fat upon this paper diet. \Takes away the books. 
 
 Val. And d'ye hear, you go to breakfast. There's a 
 page doubled down in Epictetus that is a feast for an 
 emperor. 
 
 Jer. Was Epictetus a real cook, or did he only write 
 receipts ? 
 
 Val. Read, read, sirrah ! and refine your appetite ; 
 learn to live upon instruction ; feast your mind, and 
 mortify your flesh ; read, and take your nourishment in 
 at your eyes ; shut up your mouth, and chew the cud of 
 understanding ; so Epictetus advises. 
 Jer. Lord ! I have heard much of him, when I waited
 
 200 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT I. 
 
 upon a gentleman at Cambridge. Pray what was that 
 Epictetus ? 
 
 VaL A very rich man not worth a groat. 
 Jer. Humph, and so he has made a very fine feast 
 where there is nothing to be eaten ? 
 
 VaL Yes. 
 
 Jer. Sir, you're a gentleman, and probably understand 
 this fine feeding ; but if you please, I had rather be at 
 board-wages. Does your Epictetus, or your Seneca here, 
 or any of these poor rich rogues, teach you how to pay 
 your debts without money ? Will they shut up the mouths 
 of your creditors ? Will Plato be bail for you ? or Dio- 
 genes, because he understands confinement, and lived in 
 a tub, go to prison for you ? 'Slife, sir, what do you 
 mean ? to mew yourself up here with three or four musty 
 books, in commendation of starving and poverty ? 
 
 Val. Why, sirrah, I have no money, you know it ; and 
 therefore resolve to rail at all that have ; and in that I but 
 follow the examples of the wisest and wittiest men in all 
 ages ; these poets and philosophers whom you naturally 
 hate, for just such another reason, because they abound 
 in sense, and you are a fool. 
 
 Jer. Ay, sir, I am a fool, I know it ; and yet, Heaven 
 help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit ; but I was always 
 a fool when I told you what your expenses would bring 
 you to ; your coaches and your liveries, your treats and 
 your balls ; your being in love with a lady that did not 
 care a farthing for you in your prosperity ; and keeping 
 company with wits that cared for nothing but your pro- 
 sperity, and now, when you are poor, hate you as much 
 as they do one another. 
 
 VaL Well, and now I am poor I have an opportunity 
 to be revenged on 'em all ; I'll pursue Angelica with more 
 love than ever, and appear more notoriously her admirer 
 in this restraint, than when I openly rivalled the rich fops 
 that made court to her ; so shall my poverty be a morti- 
 fication to her pride, and perhaps make her compassionate
 
 SCENE I.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 201 
 
 the love, which has principally reduced me to this lowness 
 of fortune. And for the wits, I'm sure I am in a condi- 
 tion to be even with them. 
 
 Jer. Nay, your position is pretty even with theirs, that's 
 the truth on't. 
 
 Val. I'll take some of their trade out of their hands. 
 
 Jer. Now Heaven, of mercy, continue the tax upon 
 paper ! you don't mean to write ? 
 Val. Yes, I do ; I'll write a play. 
 
 Jer. Hem ! Sir, if you please to give me a small certi- 
 ficate of three lines ; only to certify those whom it may 
 concern, that the bearer hereof, Jeremy Fetch by name, 
 has for the space of seven years, truly and faithfully 
 served Valentine Legend, Esq. ; and that he is not now 
 turned away for any misdemeanour, but does voluntarily 
 dismiss his master from any future authority over him. 
 Val. No, sirrah, you shall live with me still. 
 
 Jer. Sir, it's impossible : I may die with you, starve 
 with you, or be damned with your works ; but to live, 
 even three days, the life of a play, I no more expect it, 
 than to be canonised for a Muse after my decease. 
 
 Val. You are witty, you rogue ! I shall want your 
 help ; I'll have you learn to make couplets, to tag the 
 ends of acts ; d'ye hear, get the maids to crambo in an 
 evening, and learn the knack of rhyming : you may arrive 
 at the height of a song sent by an unknown hand, or a 
 chocolate-house lampoon. 
 
 Jer. But, sir, is this the way to recover your father's 
 favour? why, Sir Sampson will be irreconcilable. If your 
 younger brother should come from sea, he'd never look 
 upon you again. You're undone, sir, you're ruined, you 
 won't have a friend left in the world if you turn poet. 
 Ah, pox confound that Will's Coffee-house ! ' it has ruined 
 more young men than the Royal Oak lottery ; nothing 
 
 1 Will's Coffee-house was situated at No. I, Bow Street, at the 
 corner of Russell Street, and was called after its proprietor William 
 Urwin. It was frequented at this date by gamblers as well as wits.
 
 202 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT I. 
 
 thrives that belongs to't. The man of the house would 
 have been an alderman by this time with half the trade, 
 if he had set up in the city. For my part, I never sit at 
 the door that I don't get double the stomach that I do at 
 a horse-race : the air upon Banstead downs is nothing 
 to it for a whetter. Yet I never see it, but the spirit of 
 famine appears to me, sometimes like a decayed porter, 
 worn out with pimping, and carrying billets-doux and 
 songs ; not like other porters for hire, but for the jest's 
 sake : now like a thin chairman, melted down to half his 
 proportion with carrying a poet upon tick, to visit some 
 great fortune, and his fare to be paid him, like the wages 
 of sin, either at the day of marriage, or the day of 
 death. 
 
 Val. Very well, sir ; can you proceed ? 
 Jer. Sometimes like a bilked bookseller, with a meagre 
 terrified countenance, that looks as if he had written for 
 himself, or were resolved to turn author, and bring the 
 rest of his brethren into the same condition : and lastly, 
 in the form of a worn-out punk, 1 with verses in her hand, 
 which her vanity had preferred to settlements, without a 
 whole tatter to her tail, but as ragged as one of the 
 Muses ; or as if she were carrying her linen to the paper- 
 mill, to be converted into folio books of warning to all 
 young maids, not to. prefer poetry to good sense, or lying 
 in the arms of a needy wit, before the embraces of a 
 wealthy fool. 
 
 Enter SCANDAL. 
 
 Scan. What, Jeremy holding forth ? 
 
 Val, The rogue has (with all the wit he could muster 
 up) been declaiming against wit. 
 
 Scan. Ay ? why then I'm afraid Jeremy has wit : for 
 wherever it is, it's always contriving its own ruin. 
 
 Jer. Why, so I have been telling my master, sir ; Mr. 
 Scandal, for Heaven's sake, sir, try if you can dissuade 
 him from turning poet. 
 
 1 Prostitute.
 
 sc ENE I .] L O VE FOR L O VE. 203 
 
 Scan. Poet ! he shall turn soldier first, and rather de- 
 pend upon the outside of his head, than the lining. Why, 
 what the devil ! has not your poverty made you enemies 
 enough ? must you needs show your wit to get more ? 
 
 Jer. Ay, more indeed ; for who cares for anybody that 
 has more wit than himself? 
 
 Scan. Jeremy speaks like an oracle. Don't you see 
 how worthless great men, and dull rich rogues, avoid a 
 witty man of small fortune ? Why, he looks like a writ 
 of inquiry into their titles and estates ; and seems com- 
 missioned by Heaven to seize the better half. 
 
 Val. Therefore I would rail in my writings, and be 
 revenged. 
 
 Scan. Rail ? at whom ? the whole world ? Impotent 
 and vain ! who would die a martyr to sense in a country 
 where the religion is folly ? you may stand at bay for a 
 while ; but when the full cry is against you, you shan't 
 have fair play for your life. If you can't be fairly run 
 down by the hounds, you will be treacherously shot by 
 the huntsmen. No, turn pimp, flatterer, quack, lawyer, 
 parson, be chaplain to an atheist, or stallion to an old 
 woman, anything but poet ; a modern poet is worse, more 
 servile, timorous and fawning, than any I have named : 
 without you could retrieve the ancient honours of the 
 name, recall the stage of Athens, and be allowed the force 
 of open, honest satire. 
 
 Val. You are as inveterate against our poets as if your 
 character had been lately exposed upon the stage. Nay, 
 I am not violently bent upon the trade. \Knocking at 
 the door I\ Jeremy, see who's there. [Exit JEREMY.] But 
 tell me what you would have me do ? What does the 
 world say of me, and my forced confinement ? 
 
 Scan. The world behaves itself as it uses to do on such 
 occasions; some pity you and condemn your father; 
 others excuse him and blame you ; only the ladies are 
 merciful, and wish you well ; since love and pleasurable 
 expense have been your greatest faults.
 
 204 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT I. 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY. 
 
 Val. How now ? 
 
 Jer. Nothing new, sir ; I have despatched some half- 
 a-dozen duns with as much dexterity as a hungry judge 
 does causes at dinner time. 
 
 Val, What answer have you given 'em ? 
 
 Scan. Patience, I suppose ? the old receipt. 
 Jer. No, faith, sir; I have put 'em off so long with 
 patience and forbearance, and other fair words, that I 
 was forced now to tell 'em in plain downright English 
 
 Val. What? 
 Jer. That they should be paid. 
 
 Val. When? 
 Jer. To-morrow. 
 
 Val. And how the devil do you mean to keep your 
 word? 
 
 Jer. Keep it ! not at all ; it has been so very much 
 stretched that I reckon it will break of course by to- 
 morrow, and nobody be surprised at the matter. \Knock- 
 ing.~\ Again ! Sir, if you don't like my negotiation, will 
 you be pleased to answer these yourself? 
 
 Val. See who they are. [Exit JEREMY. 
 
 Val. By this, Scandal, you may see what it is to be 
 great ; secretaries of state, presidents of the council, and 
 generals of an army, lead just such a life as I do ; have 
 just such crowds of visitants in a morning, all soliciting 
 of past promises ; which are but a civiler sort of duns, 
 that lay claim to voluntary debts. 
 
 Scan. And you, like a true great man, having engaged 
 their attendance, and promised more than ever you in- 
 tend to perform, are more perplexed to find evasions 
 than you would be to invent the honest means of keep- 
 ing your word, and gratifying your creditors. 
 
 Val. Scandal, learn to spare your friends, and do not 
 provoke your enemies : this liberty of your tongue will 
 one day bring a confinement on your body, my friend.
 
 SCENE I.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 205 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY. 
 
 Jer. O sir, there's Trapland the scrivener, with two 
 suspicious fellows like lawful pads, that would knock a 
 man down with pocket-tipstaves; and there's your 
 father's steward, and the nurse with one of your children 
 from Twitnam. 
 
 Val. Pox on her ! could she find no other time to 
 fling my sins in my face ? Here, give her this [Gives 
 money~\, and bid her trouble me no more ; a thoughtless, 
 two-handed whore ! she knows my condition well enough, 
 and might have overlaid the child a fortnight ago, if she 
 had had any forecast in her. 
 
 Scan. What, is it bouncing Margery with my godson ? 
 
 'Jer. Yes, sir. 
 
 Scan. My blessing to the boy, with this token of my 
 love. [Gives money.] And, d'ye hear, bid Margery put 
 more flocks in her bed, shift twice a-week, and not work 
 so hard, that she may not smell so vigorously. I shall 
 take the air shortly. 
 
 Val. Scandal, don't spoil my boy's milk. [To 
 JEREMY.] Bid Trapland come in. [Exit JEREMY.] If 
 I can give that Cerberus a sop, I shall be at rest for one 
 day. 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY with TRAPLAND. 
 
 Val. O Mr. Trapland, my old friend, welcome ! 
 Jeremy, a chair quickly ; a bottle of sack and a toast ; 
 fly a chair first. 
 
 Trap. A good morning to you, Mr. Valentine, and to 
 you, Mr. Scandal. 
 
 Scan. The morning's a very good morning, if you 
 don't spoil it. 
 
 Val. Come sit you down, you know his way. 
 
 Trap. [Sits.] There is a debt, Mr. Valentine, of fifteen 
 hundred pounds of pretty long standing 
 
 Val. I cannot talk about business with a thirsty 
 palate. [To JEREMY.] Sirrah, the sack.
 
 206 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT i. 
 
 Trap. And I desire to know what course' you have 
 taken for the payment ? 
 
 Val. Faith and troth, I am heartily glad to see you : 
 my service to you. [Drinks.] Fill, fill, to honest Mr. 
 Trapland, fuller. 
 
 Trap. Hold, sweetheart ; this is not to our business. 
 My service to you, Mr. Scandal. [Drinks.] I have for- 
 borne as long 
 
 Val. T'other glass, and then we'll talk. Fill. Jeremy. 
 
 Trap. No more, in truth. I have forborne, I say 
 
 Val. [To JEREMY.] Sirrah, fill when I bid you. [To 
 TRAPLAND.] And how does your handsome daughter? 
 Come, a good husband to her. [Drinks. 
 
 Trap. Thank you. I have been out of this money 
 
 Val. Drink first. Scandal, why do you not drink ? 
 
 [They drink. 
 
 Trap. And in short, I can be put off no longer. 
 
 Val. I was much obliged to you for your supply : it 
 did me signal service in my necessity. But you delight 
 in doing good. Scandal, drink to me my friend Trap- 
 land's health. An honester man lives not, nor one more 
 ready to serve his friend in distress, though I say it to 
 his face. Come, fill each man his glass. 
 
 Scan. What, I know Trapland has been a whore- 
 master, and loves a wench still. You never knew a 
 whoremaster that was not an honest fellow. 
 
 Trap. Fy, Mr. Scandal ! you never knew 
 
 Scan. What, don't I know ? I know the buxom black 
 widow in the Poultry eight hundred pounds a-year, 
 jointure, and twenty thousand pounds in money. Aha, 
 old Trap ! 
 
 Val. Say you so, i'faith? come, we'll remember the 
 widow : I know whereabouts you are ; come, to the 
 widow 
 
 Trap. No more, indeed. 
 
 Val. What, the widow's health. [To JEREMY.] Give 
 it him. Off with it. [They drink] A lovely girl, i'faith,
 
 SCENE I.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 207 
 
 black sparkling eyes, soft pouting ruby lips ; better seal- 
 ing there than a bond for a million, ha ! 
 
 Trap. No, no, there's no such thing, we'd better mind 
 our business; you're a wag. 
 
 Val. No, faith, we'll mind the widow's business, fill 
 again. Pretty round heaving breasts, a Barbary shape, 
 and a jut with her bum would stir an anchorite, and the 
 prettiest foot ! Oh, if a man could but fasten his eyes to 
 her feet, as they steal in and out, and play at bo-peep 
 under her petticoats ! ah, Mr. Trapland ? 
 
 Trap. Verily, give me a glass you're a wag and 
 here's to the widow. [Drinks. 
 
 Scan. [Aside to VALENTINE.] He begins to chuckle ; 
 ply him close, or he'll relapse into a dun. 
 
 [Exit JEREMY. 
 Enter SNAP. 
 
 Snap. By your leave, gentlemen. Mr. Trapland, if we 
 must do our office, tell us: we have half-a-dozen gen- 
 tlemen to arrest in Pall Mall and Covent Garden ; and 
 if we don't make haste, the chairmen will be abroad, and 
 block up the chocolate-houses, 1 and then our labour's 
 lost. 
 
 Trap. Udso, that's true. Mr. Valentine, I love mirth, 
 but business must be done ; are you ready to 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY. 
 
 Jer. Sir, your father's steward says he comes to make 
 proposals concerning your debts. 
 
 Val. Bid him come in. Mr. Trapland, send away 
 your officer; you shall have an answer presently. 
 
 Trap. Mr. Snap, stay within call. [Exit SNAP. 
 
 Enter Steward, who whispers VALENTINE. 
 Scan. Here's a dog now, a traitor in his wine; [To 
 
 1 The chief chocolate-houses were White's, St. James's Street ; 
 the Cocoa Tree, Pall Mall ; and the Spread Eagle, Covent Garden.
 
 208 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT I. 
 
 TRAPLAND] sirrah, refund the sack. Jeremy, fetch him 
 some warm water, or I'll rip up his stomach, and go the 
 shortest way to his conscience. 
 
 Trap. Mr. Scandal, you are uncivil ; I did not value 
 your sack ; but you cannot expect it again, when I have 
 drunk it. 
 
 Scan. And how do you expect to have your money 
 again, when a gentleman has spent it ? 
 
 Val. [To Steward.] You need say no more, I under- 
 stand the conditions, they are very hard, but my neces- 
 sity is very pressing ; I agree to 'em. Take Mr. Trap- 
 land with you, and let him draw the writing. Mr. 
 Trapland, you know this man, he shall satisfy you. 
 
 Trap. I am loth to be thus pressing, but my neces- 
 sity 
 
 Val. No apology, good Mr. Scrivener, you shall be 
 paid. 
 
 Trap. I hope you forgive me, my business requires 
 \Exeunt TRAPLAND, Steward, and JEREMY. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Same. 
 
 VALENTINE and SCANDAL seated. 
 
 Scan. He begs pardon like a hangman at an execu- 
 tion. 
 
 Val. But I have got a reprieve. 
 
 Scan. I am surprised ; what, does your father relent ? 
 
 Val. No ; he has sent me the hardest conditions in the 
 world. You have heard of a booby brother of mine that 
 was sent to sea three years ago? this brother my father 
 hears is landed ; whereupon he very affectionately sends 
 me word, if I will make a deed of conveyance of my right
 
 SCENE ii.] L O VE FOR L O VE. 209 
 
 to his estate after his death to my younger brother, he 
 will immediately furnish me with four thousand pounds 
 to pay my debts, and make my fortune. This was once 
 proposed before, and I refused it ; but the present impa- 
 tience of my creditors for their money, and my own 
 impatience of confinement, and absence from Angelica, 
 force me to consent. 
 
 Scan. A very desperate demonstration of your love to 
 Angelica; and I think she has never given you any assur- 
 ance of hers. 
 
 Val. You know her temper ; she never gave me any 
 great reason either for hope or despair. 
 
 Scan. Women of her airy temper, as they seldom think 
 before they act, so they rarely give us any light to guess 
 at what they mean ; but you have little reason to believe 
 that a woman of this age, who has had an indifference 
 for you in your prosperity, will fall in love with your ill- 
 fortune ; besides, Angelica has a great fortune of her own ; 
 and great fortunes either expect another great fortune, 
 or a fool. 
 
 Enter JEREMY. 
 
 Jer. More misfortunes, sir. 
 
 Val. What, another dun ? 
 
 Jer. No, sir, but Mr. Tattle is come to wait upon 
 you. 
 
 Val. Well, I can't help it ; you must bring him up ; 
 he knows I don't go abroad. [Exit JEREMY. 
 
 Scan. Pox on him ! I'll be gone. 
 
 Val. No, prithee stay : Tattle and you should never 
 be asunder; you are light and shadow, and show one 
 another ; he is perfectly thy reverse both in humour and 
 understanding ; and, as you set up for defamation, he is 
 a mender of reputations. 
 
 Scan. A mender of reputations ! ay, just as he is a 
 keeper of secrets, another virtue that he sets up for in 
 the same manner. For the rogue will speak aloud in the 
 posture of a whisper ; and deny a woman's name, while 
 
 Con. P
 
 210 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT r. 
 
 he gives you the marks of her person : he will forswear 
 receiving a letter from her, and at the same time show 
 you her hand in the superscription ; and yet perhaps he 
 has counterfeited the hand too, and sworn to a truth ; 
 but he hopes not to be believed ; and refuses the reputa- 
 tion of a lady's favour, as a doctor says No to a bishopric, 
 only that it may be granted him. In short, he is a public 
 professor of secrecy, and makes proclamation that he 
 holds private intelligence. He's here. 
 
 Enter TATTLE. 
 
 Tat. Valentine, good morrow ; Scandal, I am yours, 
 that is, when you speak well of me. 
 
 Scan. That is, when I am yours ; for while I am my 
 own, or anybody's else, that will never happen. 
 
 Tat. How inhuman ! 
 
 Val. Why, Tattle, you need not be much concerned 
 at anything that he says : for to converse with Scandal, 
 is to play at Losing Loadum : you must lose a good 
 name to him, before you can win it for yourself. 
 
 Tat. But how barbarous that is, and how unfortunate 
 for him, that the world should think the better of any 
 person for his calumniation ! I thank heaven, it has 
 always been a part of my character to handle the reputa- 
 tion of others very tenderly indeed. 
 
 Scan. Ay, such rotten reputations as you have to deal 
 with, are to be handled tenderly indeed. 
 
 Tat. Nay, but why rotten ; why should you say rotten, 
 when you know not the persons of whom you speak ? 
 how cruel that is ! 
 
 Scan. Not know 'em ? why, thou never hadst to do 
 with anybody that did not stink to all the town. 
 
 Tat. Ha ! ha ! ha ! nay, now you make a jest of it 
 indeed ; for there is nothing more known, than that 
 nobody knows anything of that nature of me. As I hope 
 to be saved, Valentine, I never exposed a woman since I 
 knew what woman was.
 
 SCENE II.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 211 
 
 Vvil. And yet you have conversed with several. 
 
 Tat. To be free with you, I have ; I don't care if I 
 own that; nay more (I'm going to say a bold word 
 now), I never could meddle with a woman that had to 
 do with anybody else. 
 
 Scan. How ! 
 
 Val. Nay, faith, I'm apt to believe him. Except her 
 husband, Tattle. 
 
 Tat. Oh, that 
 
 Scan. What think you of that noble commoner Mrs. 
 Drab? 
 
 Tat. Pooh, I know Madam Drab has made her brags 
 in three or four places, that I said this and that, and writ 
 to her, and did I know not what ; but upon my reputa- 
 tion she did me wrong. Well, well, that was malice : but 
 I know the bottom of it. She was bribed to that by one 
 we all know ; a man too only to bring me into dis- 
 grace with a certain woman of quality 
 
 Scan. Whom we all know. 
 
 Tat. No matter for that. Yes, yes, everybody knows 
 no doubt on't, everybody knows my secret. But I 
 soon satisfied the lady of my innocence ; for I told her 
 Madam, says I, there are some persons who make it 
 their business to tell stories, and say this and that of one 
 and t'other, and everything in the world ; and, say I, if 
 your grace 
 
 Scan. Grace ! 
 
 Tat. O Lord ! what have I said ? my unlucky tongue ! 
 
 Val. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Scan. Why, Tattle, thou hast more impudence than one 
 can in reason expect : I shall have an esteem for thee. 
 Well, and, ha ! ha ! ha ! well, go on : and what did you 
 say to her grace ? 
 
 Val. I confess this is something extraordinary. 
 
 Tat. Not a word, as I hope to be saved ; an arrant 
 lapsus lingua. Come, let's talk of something else. 
 
 Val. Well, but how did you acquit yourself ?
 
 2i2 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT I. 
 
 Tat. Pooh ! pooh ! nothing at all, I only rallied with 
 you a woman of ordinary rank was a little jealous of 
 me, and I told her something or other, faith I know 
 not what. Come, let's talk of something else. 
 
 [Hums a song. 
 
 Scan. Hang him, let him alone, he has a mind we 
 should inquire. 
 
 Tat. Valentine, I supped last night with your mistress, 
 and her uncle old Foresight ; I think your father lies at 
 Foresight's. 
 
 Val. Yes. 
 
 Tat. Upon my soul, Angelica's a fine woman. And 
 so is Mrs. Foresight, and her sister Mrs. Frail. 
 
 Scan. Yes, Mrs. Frail is a very fine woman ; we all 
 know her. 
 
 Tat. Oh, that is not fair ! 
 
 Scan. What ? 
 
 Tat. To tell. 
 
 Scan. To tell what ? why, what do you know of Mrs, 
 Frail ? 
 
 Tat. Who, I ? upon honour I don't know whether she 
 be man or woman ; but, by the smoothness of her chin, 
 and roundness of her hips. 
 
 Scan. No ! 
 
 Tat. No. 
 
 Scan. She says otherwise. 
 
 Tat. Impossible ! 
 
 Scan. Yes, faith. Ask Valentine else. 
 
 Tat. Why then, as I hope to be saved, I believe a 
 woman only obliges a man to secrecy, that she may have 
 the pleasure of telling herself. 
 
 Scan. No doubt on't. Well, but has she done you 
 wrong, or no ? you have had her ? ha ? 
 
 Tat. Though I have more honour than to tell first, I 
 have more manners than to contradict what a lady has, 
 declared. 
 
 Scan. Well, you own it ?
 
 SCENE II.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 213 
 
 Tat. I am strangely surprised ! Yes, yes, I can't deny't, 
 if she taxes me with it. 
 
 Scan. She'll be here by-and-by, she sees Valentine 
 every morning. 
 
 Tat. How? 
 
 Val. She does me the favour, I mean, of a visit some- 
 times. I did not think she had granted more to any- 
 body. 
 
 Scan. Nor I, faith ; but Tattle does not use to belie a 
 lady ; it is contrary to his character. How one may be 
 deceived in a woman, Valentine ! 
 
 Tat. Nay, what do you mean, gentlemen ? 
 
 Scan. I'm resolved I'll ask her. 
 
 Tat. O barbarous ! why, did you not tell me 
 
 Scan. No, you told us. 
 
 Tat. And bid me ask Valentine ? 
 
 Val. What did I say? I hope you won't bring me 
 to confess an answer, when you never asked me the 
 question ? 
 
 Tat. But, gentlemen, this is the most inhuman pro- 
 ceeding 
 
 Val. Nay, if you have known Scandal thus long, and 
 cannot avoid such a palpable decoy as this was, the 
 ladies have a fine time whose reputations are in your 
 keeping. 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY. 
 
 Jer. Sir, Mrs. Frail has sent to know if you are 
 stirring. 
 
 Val. Show her up when she comes. \Exit JEREMY. 
 
 Tat. I'll be gone. 
 
 Val. You'll meet her. 
 
 Tat. Is there not a back way ? 
 
 Val. If there were, you have more discretion than to 
 give Scandal such an advantage; why, your running 
 away will prove all that he can tell her. 
 
 Tat. Scandal, you will not be so ungenerous ? Oh, I 
 shall lose my reputation of secrecy for ever! I shall
 
 214 LOVE FOR LOVE. - [ACT I. 
 
 never be received but upon public days ; and my visits 
 will never be admitted beyond a drawing-room : I shall 
 never see a bedchamber again, never be locked in a 
 closet, nor run behind a screen, or under a table ; never 
 be distinguished among the waiting-women by the name 
 of trusty Mr. Tattle more. You will not be so cruel. 
 
 Val. Scandal, have pity on him; he'll yield to any 
 conditions. 
 
 Tat. Any, any terms. 
 
 Scan. Come, then, sacrifice half-a-dozen women of 
 good reputation to me presently. Come, where are you 
 familiar ? and see that they are women of quality too, 
 the first quality. 
 
 Tat. 'Tis very hard. Won't a baronet's lady pass ? 
 
 Scan. No, nothing under a right honourable. 
 
 Tat. O inhuman ! you don't expect their names ? 
 
 Scan. No, their titles shall serve. 
 
 Tat. Alas ! that's the same thing : pray spare me their 
 titles ; I'll describe their persons. 
 
 Scan. Well, begin then : but take notice, if you are so 
 ill a painter, that I cannot know the person by your 
 picture of her, you must be condemned, like other bad 
 painters, to write the name at the bottom. 
 
 Tat. Well, first then 
 
 Enter Mrs. FRAIL. 
 
 Tat. O unfortunate ! she's come already ; will you 
 have patience till another time ; I'll double the number. 
 
 Scan. Well, on that condition. Take heed you don't 
 fail me. 
 
 Mrs. FraiL I shall get a fine reputation by coming 
 to see fellows in a morning. Scandal, you devil, are you 
 here too ? Oh, Mr. Tattle, everything is safe with you, 
 we know. 
 
 Scan. Tattle! 
 
 Tat. Mum. O madam, you do me too much honour. 
 
 Val. Well, lady galloper, how does Angelica ?
 
 SCENE ii.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 215 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Angelica ? manners ! 
 
 Val. What, you wjll allow an absent lover 
 
 Mrs. Frail. No, I'll allow a lover present with his 
 mistress to be particular; but otherwise I think his 
 passion ought to give place to his manners. 
 
 Val. But what if he has more passion than manners ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Then let him marry and reform. 
 
 Val. Marriage indeed may qualify the fury of his 
 passion, but it very rarely mends a man's manners. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. You are the most mistaken in the world ; 
 there is no creature perfectly civil but a husband. For 
 in a little time he grows only rude to his wife, and that 
 is the highest good breeding, for it begets his civility to 
 other people. Well, I'll tell you news; but I suppose 
 you hear your brother Benjamin is landed. And my 
 brother Foresight's daughter is come out of the country 
 I assure you there's a match talked of by the old 
 people. Well, if he be but as great a sea-beast as she 
 is a land monster, we shall have a most amphibious 
 breed. The progeny will be all otters ; he has been bred 
 at sea, and she has never been out of the country. 
 
 Val. Pox take 'em ! their conjunction bodes me no 
 good, I'm sure. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Now you talk of conjunction, my brother 
 Foresight has cast both their nativities, and prognosticates 
 an admiral and an eminent justice of the peace to be the 
 issue male of their two bodies. 'Tis the most superstitious 
 old fool ! he would have persuaded me, that this was an 
 unlucky day, and would not let me come abroad ; but I 
 invented a dream, and sent him to Artemidorus for 
 interpretation, and so stole out to see you. Well, and 
 what will you give me now ? come, I must have some- 
 thing. 
 
 Val. Step into the next room and I'll give you some- 
 thing. 
 
 Scan. Ay, we'll all give you something. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Well, what will you all give me ?
 
 216 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT I. 
 
 Val. Mine's a secret. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. I thought you would give me something 
 that would be a trouble to you to keep. 
 
 Val. And Scandal shall give you a good name. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. That's more than he has for himself. 
 And what will you give me, Mr. Tattle ? 
 
 2 'at. I ? my soul, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Pooh, no, I thank you, I have enough to 
 do to take care of my own. Well ; but I'll come and 
 see you one of these mornings : I hear you have a great 
 many pictures. 
 
 Tat. I have a pretty good collection at your service, 
 some originals. 
 
 Scan. Hang him, he has nothing but the Seasons and 
 the Twelve Caesars, paltry copies ; and the Five Senses, 
 as ill represented as they are in himself; and he himself 
 is the only original you will see there. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Ay, but I hear he has a closet of beauties. 
 
 Scan. Yes, all that have done him favours, if you will 
 believe him. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Ay, let me see those, Mr. Tattle. 
 
 Tat. Oh, madam, those are sacred to love and contem- 
 plation. No man but the painter and myself was ever 
 blest with the sight. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Well, but a woman 
 
 Tat. Nor woman, 'till she consented to have her 
 picture there too; for then she's obliged to keep the 
 secret. 
 
 Scan. No, no ; come to me if you'd see pictures. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. You ? 
 
 Scan. Yes, faith, I can show you your own picture, 
 and most of your acquaintance to the life, and as like as 
 at Kneller's. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. O lying creature ! Valentine, does not 
 he lie ? I can't believe a word he says. 
 
 Val. No, indeed, he speaks truth now ; for as Tattle 
 has pictures of all that have granted him favours, he has
 
 SCENE ii.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 217 
 
 the pictures of all that have refused him; if satires, 
 descriptions, characters, and lampoons are pictures. 
 
 Scan. Yes, mine are most in black and white ; and yet 
 there are some set out in their true colours, both men and 
 women. I can show you pride, folly, affectation, wanton- 
 ness, inconstancy, covetousness, dissimulation, malice, 
 and ignorance, all in one piece. Then I can show you 
 lying, foppery, vanity, cowardice, bragging, lechery, im- 
 potence, and ugliness in another piece ; and yet one of 
 these is a celebrated beauty, and t'other a professed beau. 
 I have paintings too, some pleasant enough. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Come, let's hear 'em. 
 
 Scan. Why, I have a beau in a bagnio, cupping for a 
 complexion, and sweating for a shape. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. So. 
 
 Scan. Then I have a lady burning brandy in a cellar 
 with a hackney coachman. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. O devil ! Well, but that story is not true. 
 
 Scan. I have some hieroglyphics too ; I have a lawyer 
 with a hundred hands, two heads, and but one face ; a 
 divine with two faces, and one head ; and I have a soldier 
 with his brains in his belly, and his heart where his head 
 should be. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. And no head ? 
 
 Scan. No head. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Pooh, this is all invention. Have you 
 ne'er a poet ? 
 
 Scan. Yes, I have a poet weighing words, and selling 
 praise for praise, and a critic picking his pocket. I have 
 another large piece too, representing a school ; where there 
 are huge-proportioned critics, with long wigs, laced coats, 
 Steenkirk cravats, 1 and terrible faces; with catcalls in 
 
 1 The fashionable neckcloth of the chy, so called from the battle 
 of that name, which was fought August 3, 1692, when the English 
 under William III. were defeated. It was arranged with graceful 
 carelesnes?, pretending to imitate the haste with which the French 
 generals rushed into battle, they not having had time to tie their 
 neckcloths.
 
 2 1 8 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT I. 
 
 their hands, and horn-books about their necks. I have 
 many more of this kind, very well painted as you shall 
 see. 
 
 Mrs, Frail. Well, I'll come, if it be but to disprove 
 you. 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY. 
 
 Jer. Sir, here's the steward again from your father. 
 
 Vol. I'll come to him. Will you give me leave ? I'll 
 wait on you again presently. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. No, I'll be gone. Come, who squires me 
 to the Exchange ? * I must call my sister Foresight 
 there. 
 
 Scan. I will : I have a mind to your sister. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Civil ! 
 
 Tat. I will, because I have a tendre for your ladyship. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. That's somewhat the better reason, to my 
 opinion. 
 
 Scan. Well, if Tattle entertains you, I have the better 
 opportunity to engage your sister. 
 
 VaL Tell Angelica, I am about making hard condi- 
 tions to come abroad, and be at liberty to see her. 
 
 Scan. I'll give an account of you and your proceedings. 
 If indiscretion be a sign of love, you are the most a lover 
 of anybody that I know : you fancy that parting with your 
 estate will help you to your mistress. In my mind he is 
 a thoughtless adventurer, 
 
 Who hopes to purchase wealth by selling land, 
 
 Or win a mistress with a losing hand. \Exeunt. 
 
 See note ante, p. 59.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in FORESIGHT'S House. 
 
 FORESIGHT and Servant. 
 
 ORE. Heyday ! what are all the women of 
 my family abroad ? Is not my wife come 
 home, nor my sister, nor my daughter? 
 Ser. No, sir. 
 
 Fore. Mercy on us, what can be the 
 meaning of it ? Sure the moon is in all her fortitudes. 
 Is my niece Angelica at home? 
 Ser. Yes, sir. 
 
 Fore. I believe you lie, sir. 
 Ser. Sir? 
 
 Fore. I say you lie, sir. It is impossible that anything 
 should be as I would have it ; for I was born, sir, when 
 the Crab was ascending, and all my affairs go backward. 
 Ser. I can't tell, indeed, sir. 
 
 Fore. No, I know you can't, sir; but I can tell, sir, 
 and foretell, sir. 
 
 Enter Nurse. 
 
 Fore. Nurse, where's your young mistress? 
 
 Nurse. Wee'st heart, I know not, they're none of 'em 
 come home yet. Poor child ! I warrant she's fond o' 
 seeing the town; marry, pray heaven, they ha' given her 
 any dinner. Good lack-a-day, ha ! ha ! ha ! Oh strange ! 
 I'll vow and swear now, ha ! ha ! ha ! marry, and did 
 you ever see the like ?
 
 220 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT II. 
 
 Fore. Why, how now, what's the matter ? 
 
 Nurse. Pray Heaven send your worship good luck ! 
 marry and amen with all my heart ; for you have put on 
 one stocking with the wrong side outward. 
 
 Fore. Ha, how? faith and troth I'm glad of it! And 
 so I have ; that may be good luck in troth, in troth it 
 may, very good luck ; nay, I have had some omens : I 
 got out of bed backwards too this morning, without pre- 
 meditation ; pretty good that too ; but then I stumbled 
 coming down stairs, and met a weasel ; bad omens those : 
 some bad, some good, our lives are chequered : mirth 
 and sorrow, want and plenty, night and day, make up 
 our time. But in troth I am pleased at my stocking; 
 very well pleased at my stocking. Oh, here's my niece ! 
 Sirrah, go tell Sir Sampson Legend I'll wait on him if 
 he's at leisure ; 'tis now three o'clock, a very good hour 
 for business. Mercury governs this hour. \Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter ANGELICA. 
 
 Ang. Is it not a good hour for pleasure too, uncle? 
 pray lend me your coach, mine's out of order. 
 
 Fore. What, would you be gadding too? sure all 
 females are mad to-day. It is of evil portent, and bodes 
 mischief to the master of a family. I remember an old 
 prophecy written by Messahalah the Arabian, and thus 
 translated by a reverend Buckinghamshire bard. 
 
 " When housewives all the house forsake, 
 And leave goodman to brew and bake, 
 Withouten guile then be it said, 
 That house doth stond upon its head ; 
 And when the head is set in ground, 
 Ne mar'l if it be fruitful found." 
 
 Fruitful, the head fruitful ; that bodes horns ; the fruit 
 of the head is horns. Dear niece, stay at home ; for by 
 the head of the house is meant the husband ; the prophecy 
 needs no explanation.
 
 SCENE i.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 221 
 
 Aug. Well, but I can neither make you a cuckold, 
 uncle, by going abroad ; nor secure you from being one, 
 by staying at home. 
 
 Fore. Yes, yes ; while there's one woman left, the pro- 
 phecy is not in full force. 
 
 Aug. But my inclinations are in force ; I have a mind 
 to go abroad ; and if you won't lend me your coach, I'll 
 take a hackney, or a chair, and leave you to erect a 
 scheme, and find who's in conjunction with your wife. 
 Why don't you keep her at home, if you're jealous of her 
 when she's abroad ? You know my aunt is a little retro- 
 grade (as you call it) in her nature. Uncle, I'm afraid 
 you are not lord of the ascendant, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Fore. Well, jill-flirt, you are very pert and always 
 ridiculing that celestial science. 
 
 Ang. Nay, uncle, don't be angry ; if you are, I'll rip 
 up all your false prophecies, ridiculous dreams, and idle 
 divinations : I'll swear you are a nuisance to the neigh- 
 bourhood. What a bustle did you keep against the last 
 invisible eclipse, laying in provision, as 'twere for a siege I 
 What a world of fire and candle, matches and tinder- 
 boxes did you purchase ! One would have thought we 
 were ever after to live underground, or at least making a 
 voyage to Greenland, to inhabit there all the dark 
 season. 
 
 Fore. Why, you malapert slut ! 
 
 Ang. Will you lend me your coach, or I'll go on ? 
 Nay, I'll declare how you prophesied popery was coming, 
 only because the butler had mislaid some of the apostle 
 spoons, and thought they were lost. Away went religion 
 and spoonmeat together. Indeed, uncle, I'll indict you 
 for a wizard. 
 
 Fore. How, hussy ! was there ever such a provoking 
 minx ! 
 
 Nurse. O merciful Father, how she talks ! 
 
 Ang. Yes, I can make oath of your unlawful midnight 
 practices ; you and the old nurse there
 
 222 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT n, 
 
 Nurse. Marry, Heaven defend ! I at midnight prac- 
 tices ! O Lord, what's here to do ! I in unlawful doings 
 with my master's worship ! Why, did you ever hear the 
 like now ? Sir, did ever I do anything of your midnight 
 concerns but warm your bed, and tuck you up, and set 
 the candle and your tobacco-box and your urinal by you, 
 and now and then rub the soles of your feet ? Lord, 
 I? 
 
 Ang. Yes, I saw you together, through the keyhole of 
 the closet, one night, like Saul and the witch of Endor, 
 turning the sieve and shears, and pricking your thumbs 
 to write poor innocent servants' names in blood, about a 
 little nutmeg-grater, which she had forgot in the caudle- 
 cup. Nay, I know something worse, if I would speak 
 of it. 
 
 Fore. I defy you, hussy ! but I'll remember this, I'll be 
 revenged on you, cockatrice ; I'll hamper you. You have 
 your fortune in your own hands, but I'll find a way to 
 make your lover, your prodigal spendthrift gallant, Valen- 
 tine, pay for all, I will. 
 
 Ang. Will you ? I care not but all shall out then. 
 Look to't, nurse ; I can bring witness that you have a 
 great unnatural teat under your left arm, and he another ; 
 and that you suckle a young devil in the shape of a tabby- 
 cat, by turns, I can. 
 
 Nurse. A teat ! a teat ! I an unnatural teat ! O the 
 false, slanderous thing feel, feel here, if I have anything 
 but like another Christian. [ Crying. 
 
 Fore. I will have patience, since it is the will of the 
 stars I should be thus tormented. This is the effect of 
 the malicious conjunctions and oppositions in the third 
 house of my nativity ; there the curse of kindred was fore- 
 told. But I will have my doors locked up I'll punish 
 you, not a man shall enter my house. 
 
 Ang. Do, uncle, lock 'em up quickly before my aunt 
 comes home ; you'll have a letter for alimony to-morrow 
 morning, but let me begone first, and then let no man-
 
 SCENE I.] L O VE FOR LOVE. 2 23 
 
 kind come near the house, but converse with spirits 
 and the celestial signs, the Bull, and the Ram, and the 
 Goat. Bless me ! there are a great many horned beasts 
 among the Twelve Signs, uncle; but cuckolds go to 
 Heaven. 
 
 Fore. But there's but one virgin among the twelve 
 signs, spitfire, but one virgin. 
 
 Ang. Nor there had not been that one, if she had had 
 to do with anything but astrologers, uncle. That makes 
 my aunt go abroad. 
 
 Fore. How? how? is that the reason? Come, you 
 know something : tell me and I'll forgive you ; do, good 
 niece. Come, you shall have my coach and horses ; 
 faith and troth you shall. Does my wife complain ? come, 
 I know women tell one another. She is young and san- 
 guine, has a wanton hazel eye, and was born under 
 Gemini, which may incline her to society ; she has a mole 
 upon her lip, with a moist palm, and an open liberality 
 on the mount of Venus. 
 
 Ang. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Fore. Do you laugh? Well, gentlewoman, I'll but 
 come, be a good girl, don't perplex your poor uncle, tell 
 me ; won't you speak ? Odd, I'll 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir Sampson is coming down to wait upon 
 you. 
 
 Ang. Good b'w'ye, uncle. Call me a chair. [Exit 
 Servant.] I'll find out my aunt, and tell her she must 
 not come home. [Exit. 
 
 Fore. I'm so perplexed and vexed, I am not fit to 
 receive him; I shall scarce recover myself before the hour 
 be past. Go, nurse, tell Sir Sampson I'm ready to wait 
 on him. 
 
 Nurse. Yes, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Fore. Well why, if I was born to be a cuckold there's 
 no more to be said he's here already.
 
 224 LOVE FOR LOVE, [ACT u. 
 
 Enter Sir SAMPSON with a paper. 
 
 Sir Samp. Nor no more to be done, old boy ; that's 
 plain. Here 'tis, I have it in my hand, old Ptolomee; 
 I'll make the ungracious prodigal know who begat him ; 
 I will, old Nostrodamus. What, I warrant my son 
 thought nothing belonged to a father but forgiveness and 
 affection; no authority, no correction, no arbitrary 
 power ; nothing to be done, but for him to offend, and 
 me to pardon. I warrant you, if he danced till dooms- 
 day, he thought I was to pay the piper. Well, but here 
 it is under black and white, signatum, sigillattun, and 
 deliberatum ; that as soon as my son Benjamin is arrived, 
 he is to make over to him his right of inheritance. 
 Where's my daughter that is to be ha ! old Merlin ! 
 body o' me, I'm so glad I'm revenged on this undutiful 
 rogue. 
 
 Fore. Odso, let me see ; let me see the paper. Ay, 
 faith and troth, here 'tis, if it will but hold. I wish 
 things were done, and the conveyance made. When 
 was this signed, what hour? Odso, you should have 
 consulted me for the time. Well, but we'll make haste. 
 
 Sir Samp. Haste, ay, ay ; haste enough, my son Ben 
 will be in town to-night, I have ordered my lawyer to 
 draw up writings of settlement and jointure : all shall 
 be done to-night. No matter for the time: prithee, 
 Brother Foresight, leave superstition. Pox o' th' time ! 
 there's no time but the time present, there's no more to 
 be said of what's past, and all that is to come will hap- 
 pen. If the sun shine by day, and the stars by night, 
 why, we shall know one another's faces without the help 
 of a candle, and that's all the stars are good for. 
 
 Fore. How, how, Sir Sampson ? that all ? Give me 
 leave to contradict you, and tell you, you are ignorant. 
 
 Sir Samp. I tell you I am wise ; and sapiens dominabi- 
 tur astris ; there's Latin for you to prove it, and an argu- 
 ment to confound your ephemeris. Ignorant ! I tell you,
 
 SCENE i.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 225 
 
 I have travelled, old Fircu, and know the globe. I have 
 seen the antipodes, where the sun rises at midnight, and 
 sets at noonday. 
 
 Fore. But I tell you, I have travelled, and travelled in 
 the celestial spheres, know the signs and the planets, and 
 their houses. Can judge of motions direct and retro- 
 grade, of sextiles, quadrates, trines and oppositions, fiery 
 trigons and aquatical trigons. Know whether life shall 
 be long or short, happy or unhappy, whether diseases are 
 curable or incurable. If journeys shall be prosperous, 
 undertakings successful; or goods stolen recovered, I 
 know 
 
 Sir Samp. I know the length of the Emperor of China's 
 foot ; have kissed the Great Mogul's slipper, and rid a 
 hunting upon an elephant with the Cham of Tartary. 
 Body o' me, I have made a cuckold of a king, and the 
 present majesty of Bantam is the issue of these loins. 
 
 Fore. I know when travellers lie or speak truth, when 
 they don't know it themselves. 
 
 Sir Samp. I have known an astrologer made a cuckold 
 in the twinkling of a star; and seen a conjurer that could 
 not keep the devil out of his wife's circle. 
 
 Fore. \Aside^\ What, does he twit me with my wife too ? 
 I must be better informed of this. \Aloud^\ Do you 
 mean my wife, Sir Sampson ? Though you made a cuck- 
 old of the King of Bantam, yet by the body of the sun 
 
 Sir Samp. By the horns of the moon, you would say, 
 brother Capricorn. 
 
 Fore. Capricorn in your teeth, thou modern Mande- 
 ville ! Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee, 
 thou liar of the first magnitude ! Take back your paper 
 of inheritance ; send your son to sea again. I'll wed my 
 daughter to an Egyptian mummy, ere she shall incorpo- 
 rate with a contemner of sciences, and a defamer of virtue. 
 
 Sir Samp. [Aside.] Body o'me, I have gone too far ; 
 I must not provoke honest Albumazar. 1 \Aloud^\ An 
 
 1 A Pers'an astrologer who has given hi? name (o a play. 
 
 Con. Q
 
 226 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT II. 
 
 Egyptian mummy is an illustrious creature, my trusty 
 hieroglyphic; and may have significations of futurity 
 about him ; odsbud, I would my son were an Egyptian 
 mummy for thy sake. What, thou art not angry for a 
 jest, my good Haly? I reverence the sun, moon, and 
 stars with all my heart. What, I'll make thee a present 
 of a mummy : now I think on't, body o'me, I have a 
 shoulder of an Egyptian king, that I purloined from one 
 of the pyramids, powdered with hieroglyphics ; thou shalt 
 have it brought home to thy house, and make an enter- 
 tainment for all the philomaths, and students in physic 
 and astrology, in and about London. 
 
 Fore. But what do you know of my wife, Sir Samp- 
 son? 
 
 Sir Samp. Thy wife is a constellation of virtues; she's 
 the moon, and thou art the man in the moon : nay, she 
 is more illustrious than the moon ; for she has her chas- 
 tity without her inconstancy ; 'sbud, I was but in jest. 
 
 Enter JEREMY. 
 
 Sir Samp. How now, who sent for you ? ha ! what 
 would you have ? [JEREMY whispers to SIR SAMPSON. 
 
 Fore. Nay, if you were but in jest Who's that fellow ? 
 I don't like his physiognomy. 
 
 Sir Samp. \To JEREMY.] My son, sir; what son, sir? 
 my son Benjamin, hoh ? 
 
 Jer. No, sir; Mr. Valentine, my master. 'Tis the 
 first time he has been abroad since his confinement, and 
 he comes to pay his duty to you. 
 
 Sir Samp. Well, sir. 
 
 Enter VALENTINE. 
 Jer. He is here, sir. 
 Val. Your blessing, sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. You've had it already, sir. I think I sent 
 it you to-day in a bill of four thousand pounds. A great 
 deal of money, Brother Foresight.
 
 SCENE i.] LOVE FOR L O VE. 227 
 
 Fore. Ay, indeed, Sir Sampson, a great deal of money 
 for a young man ; I wonder what he can do wilh it. 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o'me, so do I. Hark ye, Valentine, 
 if there be too much, refund the superfluity, dost hear, 
 boy? 
 
 Val. Superfluity, sir ! it will scarce pay my debts. I 
 hope you will have more indulgence, than to oblige me 
 to those hard conditions which my necessity signed to. 
 
 Sir Samp. Sir, how, I beseech you, what were you 
 pleased to intimate concerning indulgence ? 
 
 Val. Why, sir, that you would not go to the extremity 
 of the conditions, but release me at least from some part. 
 
 Sir Samp. Oh, sir, I understand you that's all, ha ? 
 
 Val. Yes, sir, all that I presume to ask ; but what 
 you, out of fatherly fondness, will be pleased to add shall 
 be doubly welcome. 
 
 Sir Samp. No doubt of it, sweet sir, but your filial 
 piety and my fatherly fondness would fit like two tallies. 
 Here's a rogue, Brother Foresight, makes a bargain 
 under hand and seal in the morning, and would be re- 
 leased from it in the afternoon ; here's a rogue, dog, 
 here's conscience and honesty ; this is your wit now, this 
 is the morality of your wits ! You are a wit, and have 
 been a beau, and may be a why, sirrah, is it not here 
 under hand and seal ? can you deny it ? 
 
 Val Sir, I don't deny it. 
 
 Sir Samp. Sirrah, you'll be hanged ; I shall live to see 
 you go up Holborn Hill. 1 Has he not a rogue's face ? 
 Speak, brother, you understand physiognomy, a hang- 
 ing look to me ; of all my boys the most unlike me ; he 
 has a damned Tyburn-face, without the benefit o' the 
 clergy. 
 
 Fore. Hum truly I don't care to discourage a young 
 man. He has a violent death in his face ; but I hope 
 no danger of hanging. 
 
 1 Meaning on the way to Tyburn.
 
 228 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT II. 
 
 Val. Sir, is this usage for your son ? for that old 
 weather-headed fool, I know how to laugh at him ; but 
 you, sir 
 
 Sir Samp. You, sir ; and you, sir ; why, who are you, 
 sir ? 
 
 Val. Your son, sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. That's more than I know, sir, and I believe 
 not. 
 
 Val. Faith, I hope not. 
 
 Sir Samp. What, would you have your mother a 
 whore ! Did you ever hear the like ! did you ever hear 
 the like ! Body o'me 
 
 Val. I would have an excuse for your barbarity and 
 unnatural usage. 
 
 Sir Samp. Excuse ! impudence ! Why, sirrah, mayn't 
 I do what I please ? are not you my slave ? did not I 
 beget you ? and might not I have chosen whether I would 
 have begot you or no ? 'Oons ! who are you ? whence 
 came you ? what brought you into the world ? how came 
 you here, sir ? here, to stand here, upon those two legs, 
 and look erect with that audacious face, hah ? answer me 
 that ? Did you come a volunteer into the world ? or did 
 I, with the lawful authority of a parent, press you to the 
 service ? 
 
 Val. I know no more why I came than you do why 
 you called me. But here I am, and if you don't mean 
 to provide for me, I desire you would leave me as you 
 found me. 
 
 Sir Samp. With all my heart : come, uncase, strip, and 
 go naked out of the world as you came into't. 
 
 Val. My clothes are soon put off; but you must also 
 divest me of reason, thought, passions, inclinations, affec- 
 tions, appetites, senses, and the huge train of attendants 
 that you begot along with me. 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o'me, what a many-headed monster 
 have I propagated ! 
 
 Val. I am of myself a plain, easy, simple creature, and
 
 SCENE I.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 229 
 
 to be kept at small expense ; but the retinue that you 
 gave me are craving and invincible ; they are so many 
 devils that you have raised, and will have employment. 
 
 Sir Samp. 'Oons, what had I to do to get children ! 
 can't a private man be born without all these followers ? 
 Why, nothing under an emperor should be born with 
 appetites. Why, at this rate, a fellow that has but a 
 groat in his pocket, may have a stomach capable of a 
 ten-shilling ordinary. 
 
 Jer. Nay, that's as clear as the sun ; I'll make oath of 
 it before any justice in Middlesex. 
 
 Sir Samp. Here's a cormorant too. 'S'heart, this fel- 
 low was not born with you ? I did not beget him, did I ? 
 
 Jer. By the provision that's made for me, you might 
 have begot me too : nay, and to tell your worship 
 another truth, I believe you did, for I find I was born 
 with those same whoreson appetites too that my master 
 speaks of. 
 
 Sir Samp. Why, look you there now I'll maintain it, 
 that by the rule of right reason, this fellow ought to have 
 been born without a palate. 'S'heart, what should he 
 do with a distinguishing taste? I warrant now he'd 
 rather eat a pheasant than a piece of poor John 1 : and smell 
 now why, I warrant he can smell, and loves perfumes 
 above a stink. Why, there's it ; and music don't you 
 love music, scoundrel ? 
 
 Jer. Yes, I have a reasonable good ear, sir, as to jigs 
 and country dances, and the like ; I don't much matter 
 your solos or sonatas ; they give me the spleen. 
 
 Sir Samp. The spleen, ha ! ha ! ha ! a pox confound 
 you! solos or sonatas? 'Oons, whose son are you? 
 how were you engendered, muckworm ? 
 
 Jer. I am by my father the son of a chairman ; my 
 mother sold oysters in winter and cucumbers in summer ; 
 and I came up-stairs into the world ; for I was born in a 
 cellar. 
 
 1 An inferior kind of dried hake.
 
 230 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT n. 
 
 Fore. By your looks, you should go up-stairs out of 
 the world too, friend. 
 
 Sir Samp. And if this rogue were anatomised now, 
 and dissected, he has his vessels of digestion and concoc- 
 tion, and so forth, large enough for the inside of a car- 
 dinal, this son of a cucumber! These things are unac- 
 countable and unreasonable. Body o'me, why was not 
 I a bear ? that my cubs might have lived upon sucking 
 their paws. Nature has been provident only to bears 
 and spiders; the one has its nutriment in his own 
 hands, and t'other spins his habitation out of his own 
 entrails. 
 
 Val. Fortune was provident enough to supply all the 
 necessities of my nature, if I had my right of inherit- 
 ance. 
 
 Sir Samp. Again ! 'Oons, han't you four thousand 
 pounds if I had it again, I would not give thee a groat. 
 What, wouldst thou have me turn pelican, and feed 
 thee out of my own vitals ? 'S'heart, live by yopr wits, 
 you were always fond of the wits : now let's see if 
 you have wit enough to keep yourself. Your brother 
 will be in town to-night or to-morrow morning, and then 
 look you, perform covenants, and so your friend and 
 servant. Come, Brother Foresight. 
 
 \Exeunt SIR SAMPSON and FORESIGHT. 
 Jer. I told you what your visit would come to. 
 
 Val. Tis as much as I expected. I did not come to 
 see him : I came to Angelica ; but since she was gone 
 abroad it was easily turned another way; and at least 
 looked well on my side. What's here ? Mrs. Foresight 
 and Mrs. Frail ; they are earnest. I'll avoid 'em. Come 
 this way, and go and inquire when Angelica will return. 
 
 \Exeunt.
 
 SCENE ii.] L O VE FOR L O VE. 23 1 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Room in FORESIGHT'S Iwuse. 
 
 Mrs. FORESIGHT and Mrs. FRAIL. 
 
 Mrs. Frail What have you to do to watch me ! 'slife, 
 I'll do what I please. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. You will ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Yes, marry will I. A great piece of busi- 
 ness to go to Covent-Garden square in a hackney-coach, 
 and take a turn with one's friend ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Nay, two or three turns, I'll take my oath. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Well, what if I took twenty ? I warrant 
 if you had been there, it had been only innocent recrea- 
 tion. Lord, where's the comfort of this life, if we can't 
 have the happiness of conversing where we like ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. But can't you converse at home ? I own 
 it, I think there is no happiness like conversing with an 
 agreeable man ; I don't quarrel at that, nor I don't think 
 but your conversation was very innocent ; but the place 
 is public, and to be seen with a man in a hackney-coach 
 is scandalous: what if anybody else should have seen 
 you alight, as I did ? How can anybody be happy, while 
 they're in perpetual fear of being seen and censured ? 
 Besides, it would not only reflect upon you, sister, but 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Pooh, here's a clutter ! Why should it 
 reflect upon you ? I don't doubt but you have thought 
 yourself happy in a hackney-coach before now. If I had 
 gone to Knightsbridge, or to Chelsea, or to Spring Gar- 
 dens, or Barn Elms, with a man alone something might 
 have been said. 1 
 
 1 Spring Garden, a favourite haunt of pleasure between St. 
 James's Park and Charing Cross, with butts and bowling-green. 
 After the Restoration the entertainments were removed to the Spring 
 Garden at Lambeth, subsequently called Vauxhall. We know 
 that Mr. Spectator visited Spring Garden, and how he regretted he 
 found there more strumpets than nightingales. Knightsbridge was
 
 23 2 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT H. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Why, was I ever in any of those places? 
 what do you mean, sister ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Was I ? what do you mean ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. You have been at a worse place. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. I at a worse place, and with a man ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. I suppose you would not go alone to the 
 World's- End. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. The world's-end ! what, do you mean to 
 banter me ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Poor innocent ! you don't know that there's 
 a place called the World's-End? I'll swear you can 
 keep your countenance purely, you'd make an admirable 
 player. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. I'll swear you have a great deal of confi- 
 dence, and in my mind too much for the stage. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Very well, that will appear who has most ; 
 you never were at the World's-End ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. No. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. You deny it positively to my face ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Your face ! what's your face ? [yours. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. No matter for that, it's as good a face as 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Not by a dozen years' wearing. But I do 
 deny it positively to your face then. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. I'll allow you now to find fault with my 
 face ; for I'll swear your impudence has put me out of 
 countenance : but look you here now where did you 
 lose this gold bodkin ? O sister, sister ! 
 
 Mrs. Frail. My bodkin ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Nay, 'tis yours, look at it. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Well, if you go to that, where did you find 
 this bodkin ? O sister, sister ! sister every way. 
 
 then a retired and notorious district, where were two somewhat 
 disreputable taverns, the Swan and the World's End, with gardens 
 attached. Chelsea was also at that date a place of resort much 
 patronised by cockneys ; it was noted for its bun-house. Swift 
 writes to Stella about the " r-r-r-r-rare Chelsea buns." Barn Elms 
 had once a fashionable promenade in which Evelyn loved to 
 swagger, but at this time it was more famous for the duels that 
 were fought there.
 
 SCENE II.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 233 
 
 Mrs. Fore. [Aside.] O devil on't, that I could not dis- 
 cover her without betraying myself ! 
 
 Mrs. Frail. I have heard gentlemen say, sister, that 
 one should take great care, when one makes a thrust in 
 fencing, not to lie open one's self. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. It's very true, sister ; well, since all's out, 
 and as you say, since we are both wounded, let us do 
 what is often done in duels, take care of one another, 
 and grow better friends than before. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. With all my heart : ours are but slight 
 flesh wounds, and if we keep 'em from air, not at all dan- 
 gerous : well, give me your hand in token of sisterly 
 secrecy and affection. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Here 'tis with all my heart. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Well, as an earnest of friendship and con- 
 fidence, I'll acquaint you with a design that I have. To 
 tell truth, and speak openly one to another, I'm afraid 
 the world have observed us more than we have observed 
 one another. You have a rich husband, and are provided 
 for ; I am at a loss, and have no great stock either of 
 fortune or reputation ; and therefore must look sharply 
 about me. Sir Sampson has a son that is expected to- 
 night ; and by the account I have heard of his education, 
 can be no conjuror ; the estate you know is to be made 
 over to him : now if I could wheedle him, sister, ha ? 
 you understand me ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. I do ; and will help you to the utmost of 
 my power. And I can tell you one thing that falls out 
 luckily enough ; my awkward daughter-in-law, who you 
 know is designed to be his wife, is grown fond of Mr. 
 Tattle ; now if we can improve that, and make her have 
 an aversion for the booby, it may go a great way towards 
 his liking you. Here they come together; and let us 
 contrive some way or other to leave 'em together. 
 
 Enter TATTLE and Miss PRUE. 
 Prue. Mother, mother, mother, look you here !
 
 234 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACTII. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Fy, fy, miss ! how you bawl. Besides, I 
 have told you, you must not call me mother. 
 
 Prne. What must I call you then? are you not my 
 father's wife ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Madam ; you must say madam. By my 
 soul, I shall fancy myself old indeed, to have this great 
 girl call me mother ! Well, but, miss, what are you so 
 overjoyed at ? 
 
 Prue. Look you here, madam, then, what Mr. Tattle 
 has given me. Look you here, cousin, here's a snuff-box ; 
 nay, there's snuff in't ; here, will you have any ? Oh 
 good ! how sweet it is. Mr. Tattle is all over sweet, his 
 peruke is sweet, and his gloves are sweet, and his hand- 
 kerchief is sweet, pure sweet, sweeter than roses. Smell 
 him, mother, madam, I mean. He gave me this ring 
 for a kiss. 
 
 Tat. O fy, miss ! you must not kiss and tell. 
 
 Prue. Yes ; I may tell my mother. And he says he'll 
 give me something to make me smell so. [To TATTLE.] 
 Oh pray lend me your handkerchief. Smell, cousin ; he 
 says, he'll give me something that will make my smocks 
 smell this way. Is not it pure ? It's better than lavender, 
 mun I'm resolved I won't let nurse put any more laven- 
 der among my smocks ha, cousin ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Fy, miss ! amongst your linen, you must 
 say; you must never say smock. 
 
 Prue. Why, it is not bawdy, is it, cousin ? 
 
 Tat. Oh, madam, you are too severe upon miss ; you 
 must not find fault with her pretty simplicity, it becomes 
 her strangely. Pretty miss, don't let 'em persuade you 
 out of your innocency. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Oh, demn you, toad ! I wish you don't 
 persuade her out of her innocency. 
 
 Tat. Who I, madam ? Oh Lord, how can your lady- 
 ship have such a thought sure you don't know me ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Ah, devil ! sly devil ! He's as close, sister, 
 as a confessor. He thinks we don't observe him.
 
 SCENE ii.] LOVE FOR L O VE. . 235 
 
 Mrs. Fore. A cunning cur ! how soon he could find 
 out a fresh harmless creature ! and left us, sister, presently. 
 
 Tat. Upon reputation 
 
 Mrs. Fore. They're all so, sister, these men : they love 
 to have the spoiling of a young thing, they are as fond of 
 it, as of being first in the fashion, or of seeing a new play 
 the first day. I warrant it would break Mr. Tattle's 
 heart, to think that anybody else should be beforehand 
 with him. 
 
 Tat. Oh Lord, I swear I would not for the world 
 
 Mrs. Frail. O hang you ! who'll believe you ? You'd 
 be hanged before you'd confess we know you she's 
 very pretty ! Lord, what pure red and white ! she looks 
 so wholesome ; ne'er stir, I don't know, but I fancy, if 
 I were a man 
 
 Prue. How you love to jeer one, cousin ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Hark ye, sister. By my soul the girl is 
 spoiled already d'ye think she'll ever endure a great 
 lubberly tarpaulin ! gad, I warrant you, she won't let 
 him come near her, after Mr. Tattle. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. O' my soul, I'm afraid not eh ! filthy 
 creature, that smells of all pitch and tar. \To TATTLE.] 
 Devil take you, you confounded toad ! why did you see 
 her before she was married ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Nay, why did we let him ? My husband 
 will hang us ; he'll think we brought 'em acquainted. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Come, faith, let us begone. If my brother 
 Foresight should find us with them, he'd think so, sure 
 enough. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. So he would but then leaving 'em together 
 is as bad. And he's such a sly devil, he'll never miss an 
 opportunity. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. I don't care ; I won't be seen in't. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Well, if you should, Mr. Tattle, you'll have 
 a world to answer for ; remember I wash my hands of 
 it. I'm thoroughly innocent. 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. FORESIGHT and Mrs. FRAIL.
 
 236 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT n. 
 
 Prue. What makes 'em go away, Mr. Tattle ? what do 
 they mean, do you know ? 
 
 Tat. Yes, my dear, I think I can guess ; but hang 
 me if I know the reason of it. 
 
 Prue. Come, must not we go too ? 
 
 Tat. No, no, they don't mean that. 
 
 Prue. No ! what then ? what shall you and I do 
 together ? 
 
 Tat. I must make love to you, pretty miss ; will you 
 let me make love to you ? 
 
 Prue. Yes, if you please. 
 
 Tat. \Aside^\ Frank, egad, at least. What a pox does 
 Mrs. Foresight mean by this civility ? Is it to make a 
 fool of me ? or does she leave us together out of good 
 morality, and do as she would be done by ? Gad, I'll 
 understand it so. 
 
 Prue. Well; and how will you make love to me? 
 come, I long to have you begin. Must I make love too ? 
 you must tell me how. 
 
 Tat. You must let me speak, miss, you must not 
 speak first; I must ask you questions, and you must 
 answer. 
 
 Prue. What, is it like the catechism? come then, 
 ask me. 
 
 Tat. D'ye think you can love me ? 
 
 Prue. Yes. 
 
 Tat. Pooh ! pox ! you must not say yes already I 
 shan't care a farthing for you then in a twinkling. 
 
 Prue. What must I say then ? 
 
 Tat. Why, you must say no, or you believe not, or you 
 can't tell. 
 
 Prue. Why, must I tell a lie then ? 
 
 Tat. Yes, if you'd be well-bred ; all, well-bred persons 
 lie. Besides, you are a woman, you must never speak 
 what you think : your words must contradict your 
 thoughts ; but your actions may contradict your words. 
 So, when I ask you, if you can love me, you must say
 
 SCENE ii.] L O VE FOR L O VE. 237 
 
 no, but you must love me too. If I tell you you are hand- 
 some, you must deny it, and say I flatter you. But you 
 must think yourself more charming than I speak you : 
 and like me, for the beauty which I say you have, as much 
 as if I had it myself. If I ask you to kiss me, you must 
 be angry, but you must not refuse me. If I ask you for 
 more, you must be more angry, but more complying ; 
 and as soon as ever I make you say you'll cry out, you 
 must be sure to hold your tongue. 
 
 Prue. O Lord, I swear this is pure ! I like it better 
 than our old-fashioned country way of speaking one's 
 mind ; and must not you lie too ? 
 
 Tat. Hum! Yes; but you must believe I speak 
 truth. 
 
 Prue. O Gemini ! well, I always had a great mind 
 to tell lies: but they frighted me, and said it was a 
 sin. 
 
 Tat. Well, my pretty creature ; will you make me happy 
 by giving me a kiss ? 
 
 Prue. No, indeed ; I'm angry at you. 
 
 [Runs and kisses him. 
 
 Tat. Hold, hold, that's pretty well ; but you should 
 not have given it me, but have suffered me to have 
 taken it. 
 
 Prue. Well, we'll do't again. 
 
 Tat. With all my heart. Now then, my little angel ! 
 
 [Kisses her. 
 
 Prue. Pish! 
 
 Tat. That's right again, my charmer ! 
 
 [Kisses her again. 
 
 Prue. O fy ! nay, now I can't abide you. 
 
 Tat. Admirable ! that was as well as if you had been 
 born and bred in Covent Garden. And won't you show 
 me, pretty miss, where your bed-chamber is ? 
 
 Prue. No, indeed, won't I ; but I'll run there and hide 
 myself from you behind the curtains. 
 
 Tat. I'll follow you.
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 [ACT II. 
 
 Prue. Ah, but I'll hold the door with both hands, and 
 be angry ; and you shall push me down before you 
 come in. 
 
 Tat. No, I'll come in first, and push you down after- 
 wards. 
 
 Prue. Will you ? then I'll be more angry, and more 
 complying. 
 
 Tat. Then I'll make you cry out. 
 
 Prue. Oh, but you shan't ; for I'll hold my tongue. 
 
 Tat. Oh, my dear apt scholar ! 
 
 Prue. Well, now I'll run, and make more haste than 
 you. 
 
 Tat. You shall not fly so fast as I'll pursue. \Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Gallery adjoining PRUE'S Bedchamber. 
 Enter Nurse. 
 
 URSE. Miss! miss! Miss Prue ! mercy 
 on me, marry and amen ! Why, what's 
 become of the child ? why miss ? Miss 
 Foresight ! Sure, she has locked her- 
 self up in her chamber, and gone to 
 sleep, or to prayers. Miss ! miss ! I hear her ; come 
 to your father, child ; open the door open the door, 
 miss ! I hear you cry " Hush ! " O Lord who's there ? 
 \Peeps through tJie keyhole^ What's here to do ? 
 O the father ! a man with her ! Why, miss, I say ! 
 God's my life, here's fine doings towards ! O Lord, 
 we're all undone ! you young harlotry ! [Knocks.} 
 Od's my life ! won't you open the door ? I'll come in 
 the back way. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 PRUE'S Bedchamber. 
 
 TATTLE and Miss PRUE. 
 
 Prue. Lord, she's coming ! and she'll 'tell my 
 father ; what shall I do now !
 
 2 4 o LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT m. 
 
 Tat. Pox take her! if she had stayed two minutes 
 longer, I should have wished for her coming. 
 
 Prne. Oh dear, what shall I say ? tell me Mr. Tattle, 
 tell me a lie. 
 
 Tat. There's no occasion for a lie ; I could never tell 
 a lie to no purpose ; but since we have done nothing, 
 we must say nothing, I think. I hear her ; I'll leave you 
 together, and come off as you can. 
 
 {Thrusts her back, and shuts the door. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Room in FORESIGHT'S House. 
 
 TATTLE, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, and ANGELICA. 
 
 Ang. You can't accuse me of inconstancy ; I never told 
 you that I loved you. 
 
 Val. But I can accuse you of uncertainty, for not 
 telling me whether you did or not. 
 
 Ang. You mistake indifference for uncertainty ; I never 
 had concern enough to ask myself the question. 
 
 Scan. Nor good-nature enough to answer him that did 
 ask you ; I'll say that for you, madam. 
 
 Ang. What, are you setting up fgr good-nature ? 
 
 Scan. Only for the affectation of it, as the women do 
 for ill-nature. 
 
 Ang. Persuade your friend that it is all affectation. 
 
 Scan. I shall receive no benefit from the opinion ; for 
 I know no effectual difference between continued affecta- 
 tion and reality. 
 
 Tat. [Coming up.~\ Scandal, are you in private dis- 
 course ? anything of secrecy ? [Aside to SCANDAL. 
 
 Scan. Yes, but I dare trust you ! we were talking of 
 Angelica's love for Valentine ; you won't speak of it ?
 
 SCENE Hi.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 241 
 
 Tat. No, no, not a syllable ; I know that's a secret, 
 for it's whispered everywhere. 
 
 Scan. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Ang. What is, Mr. Tattle ? I heard you say something 
 was whispered everywhere. 
 
 Scan. Your love of Valentine. 
 
 Ang. How ! 
 
 Tat. No, madam, his love for your ladyship. Gad 
 take me, I beg your pardon ; for I never heard a word 
 of your ladyship's passion till this instant. 
 
 Ang. My passion ! and who told you of my passion, 
 pray, sir? 
 
 Scan. [Aside to TATTLE.] Why, is the devil in you? 
 did not I tell it you for a secret ? 
 
 Tat. \Aside to SCANDAL.] Gad so, but I thought she 
 might have been trusted with her own affairs. 
 
 Scan. Is that your discretion ? trust a woman with her- 
 self? 
 
 Tat. You say true, I beg your pardon ; I'll bring all off. 
 [Aloud.] It was impossible, madam, for me to imagine, 
 that a person of your ladyship's wit and gallantry could 
 have so long received the passionate addresses of the 
 accomplished Valentine, and yet remain insensible ; 
 therefore you will pardon me, if, from a just weight of his 
 merit, with your ladyship's good judgment, I formed the 
 balance of a reciprocal affection. 
 
 Val. O the devil ! what damned costive poet has given 
 thee this lesson of fustian to get by rote ? 
 
 Ang. I dare sware you wrong him, it is his own ; and 
 Mr. Tattle only judges of the success of others from the 
 effects of his own merit. For certainly Mr. Tattle was 
 never denied anything in his life. 
 
 Tat. O Lord ! yes, indeed, madam, several times. 
 
 Ang. I swear I don't think 'tis possible. 
 
 Tat. Yes, I vow and swear I have : Lord, madam, I'm 
 the most unfortunate man in the world, and the most 
 cruelly used by the ladies. 
 
 Con. R
 
 242 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT nj. 
 
 Aug. Nay, now you are ungrateful. 
 
 Tat. No, I hope not : 'tis as much ingratitude to own 
 some favours as to conceal others. 
 
 Val. There, now it's out. 
 
 Ang. I don't understand you now : I thought you had 
 never asked anything but what a lady might modestly 
 grant, and you confess. 
 
 Scan. So, faith, your business is done here ; now you 
 may go brag somewhere else. 
 
 Tat. Brag ! heavens ! why, did I name any- 
 body ? 
 
 Ang. No, I suppose that is not in your power: but 
 you would if you could, no doubt on't. 
 
 Tat. Not in my power, madam ! what, does your lady- 
 ship mean that I have no woman's reputation in my 
 power ? 
 
 Scan. [Aside to TATTLE.] 'Oons, why, you won't own 
 it, will you ? 
 
 Tat. Faith, madam, you're in the right: no more I 
 have, as I hope to be saved ; I never had it in my power 
 to say anything to a lady's prejudice in my life. For, as 
 I was telling you, madam, I have been the most unsuc- 
 cessful creature living, in things of that nature ; and never 
 had the good fortune to be trusted once with a lady's 
 secret, not once. 
 
 Ang. No ! 
 
 Val. Not once, I dare answer for him. 
 
 Scan. And I'll answer for him ; for I'm sure if he had, 
 he would have told me. I find, madam, you don't know 
 Mr. Tattle. 
 
 Tat. No, indeed, madam, you don't know me at all, 
 I find. For sure my intimate friends would have 
 known 
 
 Ang. Then it seems you would have told, if you had 
 been trusted. 
 
 Tat. O pox, Scandal ! that was too far put. Never 
 have told particulars, madam. Perhaps I might have
 
 SCENE in.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 243 
 
 talked as of a third person, or have introduced an amour 
 of my own, in conversation, by way of novel ; but never 
 have explained particulars. 
 
 Ang. But whence comes the reputation of Mr. Tattle's 
 secrecy, if he was never trusted ? 
 
 Scan. Why thence it arises : the thing is proverbially 
 spoken ; but may be applied to him. As if we should 
 say in general terms, " He only is secret who never was 
 trusted;" a satirical proverb upon our sex. There's 
 another upon yours, as "She is chaste who was never 
 asked the question." That's all. 
 
 Val. A couple of very civil proverbs truly : 'tis hard to 
 tell whether the lady or Mr. Tattle be the more obliged 
 to you. For you found her virtue upon the backwardness 
 of the men, and his secrecy upon the mistrust of the 
 women. 
 
 Tat. Gad, it's very true, madam, I think we are obliged 
 to acquit ourselves ; and for my part but your ladyship 
 is to speak first. 
 
 Ang. Am I ? well, I freely confess I have resisted a 
 great deal of temptation. 
 
 Tat. And, egad, I have given some temptation that has 
 not been resisted. 
 
 Val. Good! 
 
 Ang. I cite Valentine here, to declare to the court how 
 fruitless he has found his endeavours, and to confess all 
 his solicitations and my denials. 
 
 Val. I am ready to plead not guilty for you, and guilty 
 for myself. 
 
 Scan. So, why this is fair, here's demonstration with a 
 witness ! 
 
 Tat. Well, my witnesses are not present. But I con- 
 fess I have had favours from persons but as the favours 
 are numberless, so the persons are nameless. 
 
 Scan. Pooh, this proves nothing. 
 
 Tat. No? I can show letters, lockets, pictures, and 
 rings ; and if there be occasion for witnesses, I can summon
 
 244 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT in. 
 
 the maids at the chocolate-houses, all the porters at Pali- 
 Mall and Covent-Garden, the door-keepers at the play- 
 house, the drawers at Locket's, Pontac's, the Rummer, 
 Spring - Garden ; l my own landlady, and valet-de- 
 chambre ; all who shall make oath, that I receive more 
 letters than the Secretary's Office ; and that I have more 
 vizor-masks to inquire for me than ever went to see the 
 Hermaphrodite, or the Naked Prince. And it is notorious, 
 that in a country church, once, an inquiry being made 
 who I was, it was answered, I was the famous Tattle, who 
 had ruined so many women. 
 
 Val. It was there, I suppose, you got the nick-name of 
 the Great Turk. 
 
 Tat. True, I was called Turk-Tattle all over the parish. 
 The next Sunday all the old women kept their daughters 
 at home, and the parson had not half his congregation. 
 He would have brought me into the spiritual court, but I 
 was revenged upon him, for he had a handsome daughter, 
 whom I initiated into the science. But I repented it 
 afterwards, for it was talked of in town ; and a lady of 
 quality, that shall be nameless, in a raging fit of jealousy, 
 came down in her coach and six horses, and exposed her- 
 self upon my account; gad, I was sorry for it with all 
 my heart. You know whom I mean you know where 
 we raffled 
 
 Scan. Mum, Tattle. 
 
 Val. 'Sdeath, are not you ashamed ? 
 
 Ang. O barbarous ! I never heard so insolent a piece 
 of vanity. Fy, Mr. Tattle ! I'll swear I could not have 
 believed it. Is this your secrecy ? 
 
 Tat. Gad so, the heat of my story carried me beyond 
 my discretion, as the heat of the lady's passion hurried 
 her beyond her reputation. But I hope you don't know 
 
 1 Noted taverns. Pontac's was a celebrated French eating-house 
 in Abchurch Lane ; Locket's a famous ordinary at Charing Cros, 
 so called from Adam Locket the landlord ; the Rummer Tavern 
 was between Whitehall and Charing Cross. It was kept by Sam. 
 Prior, the uncle of Matthew Prior the poet.
 
 SCENE in.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 245 
 
 whom I mean ; for there were a great many ladies raffled. 
 Pox on't ! now could I bite off my tongue. 
 
 Scan. No, don't; for then you'll tell us no more. 
 Come, I'll recommend a song to you upon the hint of 
 my two proverbs, and I see one in the next room that 
 will sing it. [Exit. 
 
 Tat. For Heaven's sake if you do guess, say nothing ; 
 gad, I'm very unfortunate. 
 
 Re-enter SCANDAL with one to sing. 
 Scan. Pray sing the first song in the last new play. 
 SONG. 
 
 A nymph and a swain to Apollo once prayed, 
 
 The swain had been jilted, the nymph been- betrayed : 
 
 Their intent was to try if his oracle knew 
 
 E'er a nymph that was chaste, or a swain that was true. 
 
 Apollo was mute, and had like t'have been posed, 
 But sagely at length he this secret disclosed : 
 " He alone won't betray in whom none will confide : 
 And the nymph may be chaste that has never been tried." 
 
 [Exit Singer. 
 
 Enter Sir SAMPSON, Mrs. FRAIL, Miss PRUE, and Servant. 
 
 Sir Samp. Is Ben come ? odso, my son Ben come ? 
 odd I'm glad on't : where is he ? I long to see him. 
 Now, Mrs. Frail, you shall see my son Ben. Body o' me, 
 he's the hopes of my family. I han't seen him these three 
 years. I warrant he's grown. Call him in, bid him 
 make haste. [Exit Servant.] I'm ready to cry for joy. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Now, Miss, you shall see your husband. 
 
 Prue. [Aside to Mrs. FRAIL.] Pish, he shall be none of 
 my husband. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. [Aside to PRUE.] Hush : well he shan't, 
 leave that to me. I'll beckon Mr. Tattle to us. 
 
 Ang. Won't you stay and see your brother? 
 
 Val. We are the twin-stars, and cannot shine in one
 
 246 LOVE FOR L VE. [ACT ill. 
 
 sphere ; when he rises I must set. Besides, if I should 
 stay, I don't know but my father in good-nature may 
 press me to the immediate signing the deed of conveyance 
 of my estate ; and I'll defer it as long as I can. Well, 
 you'll come to a resolution ? 
 
 Ang. I can't. Resolution must come to me, or I shall 
 never have one. 
 
 Scan. Come, Valentine, I'll go with you; I've some- 
 thing in my head to communicate to you. 
 
 \Exeunt VALENTINE and SCANDAL. 
 
 Sir Samp. What, is my son Valentine gone ? what, is 
 he sneaked off,, and would not see his brother ? There's 
 an unnatural whelp ! there's an ill-natured dog ! What, 
 were you here too, madam, and could not keep him? 
 could neither -love, nor duty, nor natural affection, oblige 
 him ? Odsbud, madam, have no more to say to him ; he 
 is not worth your consideration. The rogue has not a 
 drachm of generous love about him : all interest, all 
 interest; he's an undone scoundrel, and courts your 
 estate : body o' me, he does not care a doit for your 
 person. 
 
 Ang. I'm pretty even with him, Sir Sampson; for il 
 ever I could have liked anything in him, it should have 
 been his estate, too : but since that's gone, the bait's 
 off, and the naked hook appears. 
 
 Sir Samp. Odsbud, well spoken ; and you are a wiser 
 woman than I thought you were : for most young 
 women now-a-days are to be tempted with a naked 
 hook. 
 
 Ang. If I marry, Sir Sampson, I'm for a good estate 
 with any man, and for any man with a good estate : 
 therefore if I were obliged to make a choice, I declare I'd 
 rather have you than your son. 
 
 Sir Samp. Faith and troth, you're a wise woman, and 
 I'm glad to hear you say so ; I was afraid you were in 
 love with the reprobate ; odd, I was sorry for you with all 
 my heart : hang him, mongrel ; cast him off ; you shall
 
 SCENE in.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 247 
 
 see the rogue show himself, and make love to some 
 desponding Cadua of four-score for sustenance. Odd, I 
 love to see a young spendthrift forced to cling to an old 
 woman for support, like ivy round a dead oak : faith I 
 do ; I love to see 'em hug and cotton together, like down 
 upon a thistle. 
 
 Enter BEN and Servant. 
 
 Ben. Where's father ? 
 
 Serv. There, sir, his back's toward you. 
 
 Sir Samp. My son Ben ! bless thee, my dear boy ; 
 body o' me, thou art heartily welcome. 
 
 'Ben. Thank you, father, and I'm glad to see you. 
 
 Sir Samp. Odsbud, and I am glad to see thee ; 
 kiss me, boy, kiss me again and again, dear Ben. 
 
 [Kisses him. 
 
 Ben. So, so, enough, father. Mess, 1 I'd rather kiss 
 these gentlewomen. 
 
 Sir Samp. And so thou shalt. Mrs. Angelica, my son 
 Ben. 
 
 Ben. Forsooth, if you please. [Salutes her.'] Nay, 
 mistress, I'm not for dropping anchor here ; about ship 
 i'faith. [.Kisses Mrs. FRAIL.] Nay, and you, too, my 
 little cock-boat so. [.Kisses Miss PRUE. 
 
 Tat. Sir, you're welcome ashore. 
 
 Ben. Thank you, thank you, friend. 
 
 Sir Samp. Thou hast been many a weary league, Ben, 
 since I saw thee. 
 
 Ben. Ey, ey, been ! been far enough, an that be all. 
 Well, father, and how do all at home ? how does brother 
 Dick, and brother Val ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Dick ! body o' me, Dick has been dead 
 these two years ! I writ you word when you were at 
 Leghorn. 
 
 Ben. Mess, that's true; marry, I had forgot. Dick's 
 dead, as -you say. Well, and how? I have many ques- 
 
 1 A survival of the old oath, By the mass !
 
 248 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT in. 
 
 tions to ask you. Well, you ben't married again, father, 
 be you ? 
 
 Sir Samp. No, I intend you shall marry, Ben ; I would 
 not marry for thy sake. 
 
 Ben. Nay, what does that signify? An you marry 
 again why, then, I'll go to sea again, so there's one for 
 t'other, an that be all. Pray don't let me be your 
 hindrance; e'en marry a' God's name, an the wind sit 
 that way. As for my part, mayhap I have no mind to 
 marry. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. That would be a pity, such a handsome 
 young gentleman. 
 
 Ben. Handsome ! he ! he ! he ! nay, forsooth, an you 
 be for joking, I'll joke with you ; for I love my jest, an 
 the ship were sinking, as we say'n at sea. But I'll tell 
 you why I don't much stand toward matrimony. I love 
 to roam about from port to port, and from land to land : 
 I could never abide to be port-bound, as we call it ; now, 
 a man that is married has, as it were, d'ye see, his feet in 
 the bilboes, and mayhap mayn't get 'em out again when 
 he would. 
 
 Sir Samp. Ben's a wag. 
 
 Ben. A man that is married, d'ye see, is no more 
 like another man than a galley-slave is like one of 
 us free sailors ; he is chained to an oar all his life ; 
 and mayhap forced to tug a leaky vessel into the 
 bargain. 
 
 Sir Samp. A very wag ! Ben's a very wag ! only a little 
 rough, he want's a little polishing. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Not at all ; I like his humour mightily, it's 
 plain and honest ; I should like such a humour in a hus- 
 band extremely. 
 
 Ben. Say'n you so, forsooth ? Marry, and I should 
 like such a handsome gentlewoman for a bedfellow hugely ; 
 how say you, mistress, would you like going to sea? 
 Mess, you're a tight vessel ! and well rigged, an you were 
 but as well manned.
 
 SCENE in.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 249 
 
 Mrs. FraiL I should not doubt that, if you were master 
 of me. 
 
 Ben. But I'll tell you one thing, an you come to sea in 
 a high wind, or that lady you mayn't carry so much sail 
 o' your head. Top and top-gallant, by the mess. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. No, why so ? 
 
 Ben. Why, an you do, you may run the risk to be 
 overset, and then you'll carry your keels above water, he ! 
 he! he! 
 
 Ang. I swear, Mr. Benjamin is the veriest wag in 
 nature ; an absolute sea-wit. 
 
 Sir Samp. Nay, Ben has parts, but, as I told you 
 before, they want a little polishing : you must not take 
 anything ill, madam. 
 
 Ben. No, I hope the gentlewoman is not angry ; I 
 mean all in good part ; for if I give a jest I'll take a jest : 
 and so, forsooth, you may be as free with me. 
 
 Ang. I thank you, sir, I am not at all offended. 
 But methinks, Sir Sampson, you should leave him alone 
 with his mistress. Mr. Tattle, we must not hinder 
 lovers. 
 
 Tat. [Aside to Miss PRUE.] Well, miss, I have your 
 promise. 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o' me, madam, you say true. Look 
 you, Ben, this is your mistress. Come, miss, you must 
 not be shamefaced ; we'll leave you together. 
 
 Prue. I can't abide to be left alone, mayn't my cousin 
 stay with me ? 
 
 Sir Samp. No, no. Come, let's away. 
 
 Ben. Look you, father, mayhap the young woman 
 mayn't take a liking to me. 
 
 Sir Samp. I warrant thee, boy ; come, come, we'll 
 begone; I'll venture that. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir SAMPSON, ANGELICA, TATTLE, and 
 Mrs. FRAIL. 
 
 Ben. Come, mistress, will you please to sit down ? for 
 an you stand astern a that'n, we shall never grapple
 
 250 LOVE FOR L VE. [ACT in. 
 
 together. Come, I'll haul a chair; there, an you please 
 to sit I'll sit by you. 
 
 Prue. You need not sit so near one; if you have 
 anything to say I can hear you farther off, I an't 
 deaf. 
 
 Ben. Why, that's true, as you say; nor I an't dumb; 
 I can be heard as far as another'; I'll heave off to please 
 you. \Sits far ilier off^\ An we were a league asunder, 
 I'd undertake to hold discourse with you, an 'twere not a 
 main high wind indeed, and full in my teeth. Look you, 
 forsooth, I am, as it were, bound for the land of matri- 
 mony; 'tis a voyage, d'ye see, that was none of my 
 seeking, I was commanded by father, and if you like 
 of it mayhap I may steer into your harbour. How say 
 you, mistress? The short of the thing is, that if you like 
 me, and I like you, we may chance to swing in a ham- 
 mock together. 
 
 Prue. I don't know what to say to you, nor I don't 
 care to speak with you at all. 
 
 Ben. No? I'm sorry for that. But pray, why are you 
 so scornful? 
 
 Prue. As long as one must not speak one's mind, one 
 had better not speak at all, I think, and truly I won't tell 
 a lie for the matter. 
 
 Ben. Nay, you say true in that, 'tis but a folly to lie : 
 for to speak one thing, and to think just the contrary 
 way, is, as it were, to look one way and row another. 
 Now, for my part, d'ye see, I'm for carrying things above 
 board, I'm not for keeping anything under hatches, so 
 that if you ben't as willing as I, say so a' God's name, 
 there's no harm done. Mayhap you may be shamefaced ? 
 some maidens, tho'f they love a man well enough, yet 
 they don't care to tell'n so to's face : if that's the case, 
 why silence gives consent. 
 
 Prue. But I'm sure it is not so, for I'll speak sooner 
 than you should believe that; and I'll speak truth, though 
 one should always tell a lie to a man; ^and I don't care,
 
 SCENE in.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 251 
 
 let my father do what he will; I'm too big to be whipped 
 so I'll tell you plainly I don't like you, nor love you at 
 all, nor never will, that's more : so, there's your answer 
 for you; and don't trouble me no more, you ugly 
 thing ! 
 
 Ben. Look you, young woman, you may learn to give 
 good words however. I spoke you fair, d'ye see, and 
 civil. As for your love or your liking, I don't value it 
 of a rope's end ; and mayhap I like you as little as you 
 do me. What I said was in obedience to father; gad, I 
 fear a whipping no more than you do. But I tell you 
 one thing, if you should give such language at sea you'd 
 have a cat o' nine-tails laid across your shoulders. Flesh ! 
 who are you? You heard t'other handsome young 
 woman speak civilly to me, of her own accord : whatever 
 you think of yourself, gad, I don't think you are any 
 more to compare to her than a can of small beer to a 
 bowl of punch. 
 
 Prue, Well, and there's a handsome gentleman, and a 
 fine gentleman, and a sweet gentleman, that was here, 
 that loves me, and I love him ; and if he sees you speak 
 to me any more he'll thrash your jacket for you, he will, 
 you great sea-calf ! 
 
 Ben. What, do you mean that fair-weather spark that 
 was here just now ? will he thrash my jacket ? let'n 
 let'n. But an he comes near me, mayhap I may giv'n a 
 salt eel for's supper, for all that. What does father mean 
 to leave me alone as soon as I come home, with such a 
 dirty dowdy? Sea-calf! I an't calf enough to lick your 
 chalked face, you cheese-curd you ! Marry thee ! 'oons, 
 I'll marry a Lapland witch as soon, and live upon selling 
 contrary winds and wrecked vessels. 
 
 Prue. I won't be called names, nor I won't be abused 
 thus, so I won't. If I were a man [ Cries], you durst not 
 talk at this rate ; no, you durst not, you stinking tar- 
 barrel !
 
 252 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT in. 
 
 Enter Mrs. FORESIGHT and Mrs. FRAIL. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. \Aside to Mrs. FRAIL.] They have quar- 
 relled just as we could wish. 
 
 Ben. Tar-barrel ? let your sweetheart there call me so 
 if he'll take your part, your Tom Essence, and I'll say 
 something to him ; gad, I'll lace his musk doublet for 
 him ! I'll make him stink ! he shall smell more like a 
 weasel than a civet cat afore I ha' done with 'en. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Bless me, what's the matter, miss ? What, 
 does she cry? Mr. Benjamin, what have you done 
 to her ? 
 
 Ben. Let her cry : the more she cries, the less she'll 
 she has been gathering foul weather in her mouth, and 
 now it rains out at her eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Come, miss, come along with me, and tell 
 me, poor child. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Lord, what shall we do ? there's my brother 
 Foresight and Sir Sampson coming. Sister, do you take 
 miss down into the parlour, and I'll carry Mr. Benjamin 
 into my chamber, for they must not know that they are 
 fallen out. Come, sir, will you venture yourself with me ? 
 
 \Looking kindly on him. 
 
 Ben. Venture, mess, and that I will, though 'twere to 
 sea in a storm. \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 The same. 
 
 Enter Sir SAMPSON and FORESIGHT. 
 
 Sir Samp. I left 'em together here ; what, are they 
 gone ? Ben's a brisk boy ; he has got her into a corner ; 
 father's own son, faith, he'll touzle her, and mouzle her ; 
 the rogue's sharp set, coming from sea ; if he should not
 
 SCENE iv.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 253 
 
 stay for saying grace, old Foresight, but fall to without 
 the help of a parson, ha ? Odd, if he should, I could not 
 be angry with him ; 'twould be but like me, a chip of the 
 old block. Ha ! thou'rt melancholic, old prognostication ; 
 as melancholic as if thou hadst spilt the salt, or pared thy 
 nails on a Sunday. Come, cheer up, look about thee : 
 look up, old star-gazer. \Aside^\ Now is he poring 
 upon the ground for a crooked pin, or an old horse-nail, 
 with the head towards him. 
 
 Fore. Sir Sampson, we'll have the wedding to-morrow 
 morning. 
 
 Sir Samp. With all my heart. 
 
 Fore. At ten o'clock, punctually at ten. 
 
 Sir Samp. To a minute, to a second ; thou shall set 
 thy watch, and the bridegroom shall observe its motions ; 
 they shall be married to a minute ; go to bed to a minute 
 and when the alarm strikes, they shall keep time like the 
 figures of St. Dunstan's clock, and consummatum est shall 
 ring all over the parish. 
 
 Enter SCANDAL. 
 
 Scan. Sir Sampson, sad news ! 
 
 Fore. Bless us ! 
 
 Sir Samp. Why, what's the matter ? 
 
 Scan. Can't you guess at what ought to afflict you and 
 him, and all of us more than anything else? 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o' me, I don't know any universal 
 grievance but a new tax, or the loss of the Canary fleet. 
 Unless popery should be landed in the west, or the French 
 fleet were at anchor at Blackwall. 
 
 Scan. No ! undoubtedly Mr. Foresight knew all this, 
 and might have prevented it. 
 
 Fore. 'Tis no earthquake ! 
 
 Scan. No, not yet ; nor whirlwind. But we don't know 
 what it may come to. But it has had a consequence 
 already that touches us all. 
 
 Sir Samp. Why, body o' me, out with't.
 
 254 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT in . 
 
 Scan. Something has appeared to your son Valentine. 
 He's gone to bed upon't, and very ill. He speaks 
 little, yet says he has a world to say. Asks for his father 
 and the wise Foresight ; talks of Raymond Lully, and the 
 ghost of Lilly. He has secrets to impart I suppose to 
 you two. I can get nothing out of him but sighs. He 
 desires he may see you in the morning, but would not be 
 disturbed to-night, because he has some business to do in 
 a dream. 
 
 Sir Samp. Hoity, toity, what have I to do with his 
 dreams or his divinations ? Body o' me, this is a trick to 
 defer signing the conveyance. I warrant the devil will 
 tell him in a dream, that he must not part with his estate ; 
 but I'll bring him a parson, to tell him that the devil's a 
 liar ; or, if that won't do, I'll bring a lawyer that shall 
 outlie the devil. And so I'll try whether my blackguard 
 or his shall get the better of the day. \Exit. 
 
 Scan. Alas, Mr. Foresight ! I'm afraid all is not right. 
 You are a wise man, and a conscientious man ; a searcher 
 into obscurity and futurity ; and if you commit an error, 
 it is with a great deal of consideration and discretion and 
 caution. 
 
 Fore. Ah, good Mr. Scandal 
 
 Scan. Nay, nay, 'tis manifest ; I do not flatter you. 
 But Sir Sampson is hasty, very hasty ; I'm afraid he is 
 not scrupulous enough, Mr. Foresight. He has been 
 wicked, and Heaven grant he may mean well in his affair 
 with you. But my mind gives me, these things cannot be 
 wholly insignificant. You are wise, and should not be 
 over-reached, methinks you should not. 
 
 Fore. Alas, Mr. Scandal ! Humanum est errare. 
 
 Scan. You say true, man will err ; mere man will err 
 but you are something more. There have been wise men ; 
 but they were such as you ; men who consulted the stars, 
 and were observers of omens. Solomon was wise, but 
 how? by his judgment in astrology : so says Pineda in 
 his third book and eighth chapter.
 
 SCENE iv.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 255 
 
 Fore. You are learned, Mr. Scandal ! 
 
 Scan. A trifler but a lover of art. And the wise men 
 of the East owed their instruction to a star, which is 
 rightly observed by Gregory the Great in favour of astro- 
 logy ! And Albertus Magnus makes it the most valuable 
 science : because (says he) it teaches us to consider the 
 causation of causes, in the causes of things. 
 
 Fore. I protest I honour you, Mr. Scandal : I did not 
 think you had been read in these matters. Few young 
 men are inclined 
 
 Scan. I thank my stars that have inclined me. But I 
 fear this marriage, and making over this estate, this trans- 
 ferring of a rightful inheritance, will bring judgments 
 upon us. I prophesy it, and I would not have the fate 
 of Cassandra, not to be believed. Valentine is disturbed, 
 what can be the cause of that? and Sir Sampson is hur- 
 ried on by an unusual violence. I fear he does not act 
 wholly from himself; methinks he does not look as he 
 used to do. 
 
 Fore. He was always of an impetuous nature. But as 
 to this marriage, I have consulted the stars, and all 
 appearances are prosperous. 
 
 Scan. Come, come, Mr. Foresight, let not the prospect 
 of worldly lucre carry you beyond your judgment, nor 
 against your conscience : you are not satisfied that you 
 act justly. 
 
 Fore. How ? 
 
 Scan. You are not satisfied, I say. I am loath to 
 discourage you but it is palpable that you are not satis- 
 fied. 
 
 Fore. How does it appear, Mr. Scandal ? I think I 
 am very well satisfied. 
 
 Scan. Either you suffer yourself to deceive yourself; 
 or you do not know yourself. 
 
 Port. Pray explain yourself. 
 
 Scan. Do you sleep well o' nights ? 
 
 Fore. Very well.
 
 256 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT in. 
 
 Scan. Are you certain ? you do not look so. 
 
 fore. I am in health, I think. 
 
 Scan. So was Valentine this morning; and looked 
 just so. 
 
 Fore. How ! am I altered any way ? I don't per- 
 ceive it. 
 
 Scan. That may be, but your beard is longer than it 
 was two hours ago. 
 
 Fore. Indeed ! bless me ! 
 
 Enter Mrs. FORESIGHT. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Husband, will you go to bed? it's ten 
 o'clock. Mr. Scandal, your servant. 
 
 Scan. \Aside^\ Pox on her! she has interrupted my 
 design: but I must work her into the project. \Aloud.\ 
 You keep early hours, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Mr. Foresight is punctual, we sit up after 
 him. 
 
 Fore. My dear, pray lend me your glass, your little 
 looking-glass. 
 
 Scan. Pray, lend it him, madam I'll tell you the rea- 
 son. [She gives him the glass: SCANDAL and she talk 
 aside^\ My passion for you is grown so violent, that I 
 am no longer master of myself. I was interrupted in the 
 morning, when you had charity enough to give me your 
 attention, and I had hopes of finding another oppor- 
 tunity of explaining myself to you; but was disappointed 
 all this day ; and the uneasiness that has attended me ever 
 since, brings me now hither at this unseasonable hour. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Was there ever such impudence ! to make 
 love to me before my husband's face ! I'll swear I'll tell 
 him. 
 
 Scan. Do; I'll die a martyr, rather than disclaim my 
 passion. But come a little farther this way, and I'll tell 
 you what project I had to get him out of the way, that 
 I might have an opportunity of waiting upon you. 
 
 Fore. [Looking in the glass, ,] I do not see any revolu-
 
 SCENE iv.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 257 
 
 tion here ; methinks I look with a serene and benign 
 aspect pale, a little pale but the roses of these cheeks 
 have been gathered many years. Ha ! I do not like that 
 sudden flushing; gone already! hem, hem, hem! faint- 
 ish. My heart is pretty good; yet it beats; and my 
 pulses, ha ! I have none mercy on me ! hum yes, 
 here they are gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, gallop, 
 gallop, hey ! whither will they hurry me ? Now they're 
 gone again and now I'm faint again ; and pale again, 
 and, hem ; and my, hem ! breath, hem ! grows short ; 
 hem ! hem ! he, he, hem ! 
 
 Scan. [Aside to Mrs. FORESIGHT.] It takes ; pursue it, 
 in the name of love and pleasure ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. How do you do, Mr. Foresight ? 
 
 Fore. Hum, not so well as I thought I was. Lend me 
 your hand. 
 
 Scan. Look you there now your lady says your sleep 
 has been unquiet of late. 
 
 Fore. Very likely. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. O mighty restless ; but I was afraid to tell 
 him so. He has been subject to talking and starting. 
 
 Scan. And did not use to be so ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Never, never, till within these three nights; 
 I cannot say that he has once broken my rest since we 
 have been married. 
 
 Fore. I will go to bed. 
 
 Scan. Do so, Mr. Foresight, and say your prayers. 
 He looks better than he did. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Nurse, nurse ! [ Calls. 
 
 Fore. Do you think so, Mr. Scandal? 
 
 Scan. Yes, yes ; I hope this will be gone by morning, 
 taking it in time. 
 
 Fore. I hope so. 
 
 Enter Nurse. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Nurse, your master is not well ; put him 
 to bed. 
 
 Con. 8
 
 258 L O VE FOR L O VE. [ACT III. 
 
 Scan. I hope you will be able to see Valentine in the 
 morning. You had best take a little diacodian and cow- 
 slip water, and lie upon your back, may be you may 
 dream. 
 
 Fore. I thank you, Mr. Scandal, I will. Nurse, let 
 me have a watch-light, and lay The Crumbs of Comfort by 
 me. 
 
 Nurse. Yes, sir. 
 
 Fore. And hem, hem ! I am very faint. 
 
 Scan. No, no ; you look much better. 
 
 Fore. Do I ? [To Nurse.] And, d'ye hear, bring 
 me, let me see within a quarter of twelve hem he, 
 hem ! just upon the turning of the tide, bring me the 
 urinal. And I hope neither the lord of my ascendant, 
 nor the moon, will be combust; and then I may do 
 well. 
 
 Scan. I hope so. Leave that to me; I will erect a 
 scheme ; and I hope I shall find both Sol and Venus in 
 the sixth house. 
 
 Fore. I thank you, Mr. Scandal ; indeed that would 
 be a great comfort to me. Hem, hem ; good night. 
 
 \Exit with Nurse. 
 
 Scan. Good night, good Mr. Foresight ; and I hope 
 Mars arid Venus will be in conjunction, while your wife 
 and I are together. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Well, and what use do you hope to make 
 of this project ? you don't think that you are ever like to 
 succeed in your design upon me? 
 
 Scan. Yes, faith, I do ; I have a better opinion both 
 of you and myself than to despair. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Did you ever hear such a toad ? Hark ye, 
 devil ! do you think any woman honest ? 
 
 Scan. Yes, several very honest ; they'll cheat a little at 
 cards, sometimes ; but that's nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Pshaw ! but virtuous, I mean. 
 
 Scan. Yes, faith ; I believe some women are virtuous 
 too ; but 'tis as I believe some men are valiant, through
 
 SCENE iv.] LOVE FOR L VE. 259 
 
 fear. For why should a man court danger, or a woman 
 shun pleasure ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. monstrous ! what are conscience and 
 honour? 
 
 Scan. Why, honour is a public enemy ; and conscience 
 a domestic thief; and he that would secure his pleasure, 
 must pay a tribute to one, and go halves with t'other. As 
 for honour, that you have secured ; for you have pur- 
 chased a perpetual opportunity for pleasure. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. An opportunity for pleasure? 
 
 Scan. Ay, your husband ; a husband is an opportunity 
 for pleasure ; so you have taken care of honour, and 'tis 
 the least I can do to take care of conscience. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. And so you think we are free for one 
 another. 
 
 Scan. Yes, faith, I think so; I love to speak my 
 mind. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Why, then I'll speak my mind. Now, as 
 to this affair between you and me. Here you make love 
 to me ; why, I'll confess, it does not displease me. Your 
 person is well enough, and your understanding is not 
 amiss. 
 
 Scan. I have no great opinion of myself; but I think 
 I'm neither deformed nor a fool. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. But you have a villainous character; you 
 are a libertine in speech as well as practice. 
 
 Scan. Come, I know what you would say ; you think 
 it more dangerous to be seen in conversation with me, 
 than to allow some other men the last favour. You 
 mistake ; the liberty I take in talking is purely affected, 
 for the service of your sex. He that first cries out, Stop 
 thief! is often he that has stolen the treasure. I am a 
 juggler, that act by confederacy ; and, if you please, we'll 
 put a trick upon the world. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Ay; but you are such a universal juggler, 
 that I'm afraid you have a great many confederates. 
 
 Scan. Faith, I'm sound.
 
 26o LOVE FOR L VE. [ACT in. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. O, fy ! I'll swear you're impudent. 
 
 Scan. I'll swear you're handsome. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Pish ! you'd tell me so, though you did 
 not think so. 
 
 Scan. And you'd think so, though I should not tell 
 you so. And now I think we know one another pretty 
 well. 
 
 Mi s. Fjre. O Lord, who's here ? 
 
 Enter Mrs. FRAIL and BEN. 
 
 Ben. Mess, I love to speak my mind ; father has 
 nothing to do with me. Nay, I can't say that neither ; 
 he has something to do with me. But what does that 
 signify? if so be, that I be'n't minded to be steered 
 by him, 'tis as tho'f he should strive against wind and 
 tide. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Ay, but, my dear, we must keep it secret 
 till the estate be settled ; for you know marrying without 
 an estate is like sailing in a ship without ballast. 
 
 Ben. He ! he ! he ! why, that's true ; just so for all the 
 world it is indeed, as like as two cable-ropes. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. And though I have a good portion, you 
 know one would not venture all in one bottom. 
 
 Ben. Why, that's- true again ; for mayhap one bottom 
 may spring a leak. You have hit it indeed, mess, you've 
 nicked the channel. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Well, but if you should forsake me after 
 all, you'd break my heart. 
 
 Ben. Break your heart ! I'd rather the Marygold should 
 break her cable in a storm, as well as I love her. Flesh, 
 you don't think I'm false-hearted like a landman ! A 
 sailor will be honest, tho'f mayhap he has never a penny 
 of money in his pocket. Mayhap I may not have so fair 
 a face as a citizen or a courtier ; but for all that, I've 
 as good blood in my veins, and a heart as sound as a 
 biscuit. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. And will you love me always ?
 
 SCENE IV.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 261 
 
 Ben. Nay, an I love once, I'll stick like pitch ; I'll tell 
 you that. Come, I'll sing you a song for a sailor. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Hold, there's my sister; I'll call her to 
 hear it. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Well, I won't go to bed to my husband to- 
 night; because I'll retire to my own chamber, and think 
 of what you have said. 
 
 Scan. Well ; you'll give me leave to wait upon you to 
 your chamber door, and leave you my last instructions ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Hold, here's my sister coming towards us. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. If it won't interrupt you, I'll entertain you 
 with a song. 
 
 JBen. The song was made upon one of our ship's crew's 
 wife ; our boatswain made the song ; mayhap you may 
 know her, sir. Before she was married, she was lied 
 buxom Joan of Deptford. 
 
 Scan. I have heard of her. 
 
 BEN sings. 
 
 A soldier and a sailor, 
 
 A tinker and a tailor, 
 
 Had once a doubtful strife, sir, 
 
 To make a maid a wife, sir, 
 
 Whose name was buxom Joan. 
 For now the time was ended, 
 When she no more intended 
 To lick her lips at men, sir, 
 And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir, 
 
 And lie o" nights alone. 
 
 The soldier swore like thunder, 
 He loved her more than plunder ; 
 And showed her many a scar, sir, 
 That he had brought from far, sir, 
 
 With fighting for her sake. 
 The tailor thought to please her, 
 With offering her his measure.
 
 262 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT m. 
 
 The tinker too with mettle, 
 Said he could mend her kettle. 
 And stop up every leak. 
 
 But while these three were prating, 
 The sailor slily waiting, 
 Thought if it came about, sir, 
 That they should all fall out, sir, 
 
 He then might play his part. 
 And just e'en as he meant, sir, 
 To loggerheads they went, sir, 
 And then he let fly at her 
 A shot 'twixt wind and water, 
 
 That won this fair maid's heart. 
 
 If some of our crew that came to see me are not gone, 
 you shall see that we sailors can dance sometimes as well 
 as other folks. [ Whistksl\ I warrant that brings 'em, 
 an they be within hearing. 
 
 Enter Sailors. 
 
 Oh, here they be ! and fiddles along with 'em. Come, 
 my lads, let's have a round, and I'll make one. 
 
 [They dance. 
 
 Ben. We're merry folks, we sailors, we han't much to 
 care for. Thus we live at sea; eat biscuit, and drink 
 flip; put on a clean shirt once a quarter come home 
 and lie with our landladies once a year, get rid of a little 
 money ; and then put off with the next fair wind. How 
 d'ye like us ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. you are the happiest, merriest men 
 alive ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. We're beholden to Mr. Benjamin for this 
 entertainment. I believe it's late. 
 
 Ben. Why, forsooth, an you think so, you had best go 
 to bed. . For my part, I mean to toss a can, and remem- 
 ber my sweetheart, afore I turn in ; mayhap I may dream 
 of her.
 
 SCENE IV.] 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 263 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Mr. Scandal, you had best go to bed and 
 dream too. 
 
 Scan. Why faith, I have a good lively imagination; 
 and can dream as much to the purpose as another, if I 
 set about it ; but dreaming is the poor retreat of a lazy, 
 hopeless, and imperfect lover; 'tis the last glimpse of 
 love to worn-out sinners, and the faint dawning of a 
 bliss to wishing girls and growing boys. 
 
 There's nought but willing, waking love that can 
 Make blest the ripened maid and finished man. 
 
 \Excunt.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 An Ante-room at VALENTINE'S Lodging. 
 
 SCANDAL and JEREMY. 
 
 CAN. Well, is your master ready? does 
 he look madly, and talk madly? 
 
 Jer. Yes, sir ; you need make no 
 great doubt of that; he that was so near 
 turning poet yesterday morning, can't 
 be much to seek in playing the madman to-day. 
 
 Scan. Would he have Angelica acquainted with the 
 reason of his design ? 
 
 Jer. No, sir, not yet ; he has a mind to try, whether 
 his playing the madman won't make her play the fool, 
 and fall in love with him ; or at least own that she has 
 loved him all this while and concealed it. 
 
 Scan. I saw her take coach just now with her maid ; 
 and think I heard her bid the coachman drive hither. 
 
 Jer. Like enough, sir, for I told her maid this morn- 
 ing my master was run stark mad only for love of her 
 mistress. I hear a coach stop ; if it should be she, sir, 
 I believe he would not see her, till he hears how she 
 takes it. 
 
 Scan. Well, I'll try her : 'tis she, here she comes. 
 
 Enter ANGELICA and JENNY. 
 Ang. Mr. Scandal, I suppose you don't think it a
 
 SCENE I.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 265 
 
 novelty to see a woman visit a man at his own lodgings 
 in a morning ? 
 
 Scan. Not upon a kind occasion, maclcm. But when 
 a lady comes tyrannically to insult a ruined lover, and 
 make manifest the cruel triumphs of her beauty, the 
 barbarity of it something surprises me. 
 
 Aug. I don't like raillery from a serious face. Pray 
 tell me what is the matter? 
 
 Jer. No strange matter, madam; my master's mad, 
 that's all.: I suppose your ladyship has thought him so a 
 great while. 
 
 Ang. How d'ye mean, mad? 
 
 Jer. Why, faith, madam, he's mad for want of his 
 wits, just as he was poor for want of money ; his head is 
 e'en as light as his pockets ; and anybody that has a 
 mind to a bad bargain, can't do better than to beg him 
 for his estate. 
 
 Ang. If you speak truth, your endeavouring at wit is 
 very unseasonable. 
 
 Scan. \Aside^\ She's concerned, and loves him. 
 
 Ang. Mr. Scandal, you cannot think me guilty of so 
 much inhumanity, as not to be concerned for a man I 
 must own myself obliged to ; pray tell me the truth. 
 
 Scan. Faith, madam, I wish telling a lie would mend 
 the matter. But this is no new effect of an unsuccessful 
 passion. 
 
 Ang. [Aside.] I know not what to think. Yet I 
 should be vexed to have a trick put upon me. \Aloud^\ 
 May I not see him ? 
 
 Scan. I'm afraid the physician is not willing you 
 should see him yet. Jeremy, go in and inquire. 
 
 \Exit JEREMY. 
 
 Ang. \Aside^\ Ha! I saw him wink and smile I 
 fancy 'tis a trick I'll try. [Aloud.~\ I would disguise to 
 all the world a failing which I must own to you. I fear 
 my happiness depends upon the recovery of Valentine. 
 Therefore I conjure you, as you are his friend, and as
 
 266 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT iv. 
 
 you have compassion upon one fearful of affliction, to tell 
 me what I am to hope for. I cannot speak but you 
 may tell me, for you know what I would ask. 
 
 Scan. [Aside.] So, this is pretty plain. [Aloud.] Be 
 not too much concerned, madam, I hope his condition is 
 not desperate : an acknowledgment of love from you, per- 
 haps, may work a cure; as the fear of your aversion 
 occasioned his distemper. 
 
 Ang. [Aside] Say you so? nay, then I'm convinced; 
 and if I don't play trick for trick, may I never taste the 
 pleasure of revenge ! [Aloud] Acknowledgment of love ! 
 I find you have mistaken my compassion, and think me 
 guilty of a weakness I'm a stranger to. But I have too 
 much sincerity to deceive you, and too much charity to 
 suffer him to be deluded with vain hopes. Good-nature 
 and humanity oblige me to be concerned for him ; but to 
 love is neither in my power nor inclination ; and if he 
 can't be cured without I suck the poison from his wounds, 
 I'm afraid he won't recover his senses till I lose mine. 
 
 Scan. [Aside] Hey, brave woman, i'faith ! [Aloud.] 
 Won't you see him then, if he desire it? 
 
 Ang. What signify a madman's desires? besides, 'twould 
 make me uneasy. If I don't see him, perhaps my con- 
 cern for him may lessen. If I forget him, 'tis no more 
 than he has done by himself; and now the surprise is 
 over, methinks I am not half so sorry as I was. 
 
 Scan. So, faith, good nature works apace; you were 
 confessing just now an obligation to his love. 
 
 Ang. But I have considered that passions are unreason- 
 able and involuntary ; if he loves, he can't help it ; and 
 if I don't love, I can't help it; no more than he can help 
 his being a man, or I my being a woman ; or no more 
 than I can help my want of inclination to stay longer 
 here. Come, Jenny. 
 
 [Exeunt ANGELICA and JENNY. 
 
 Scan. Humph ! An admirable composition, faith, this 
 same womankind !
 
 SCENE I.] LOVE FOR L O VE. 267 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY. 
 
 Jcr, What, is she gone, sir ? 
 
 Scan. Gone ? why she was never here ; nor anywhere 
 else; nor I don't know her if I see her ; nor you neither. 
 
 Jer. Good lack ! what's the matter now? are anymore 
 of us to be mad? Why, sir, my master longs to see her; 
 and is almost mad in good earnest with the joyful news 
 of her being here. 
 
 Scan. We are all under a mistake. Ask no questions, 
 for I can't resolve you ; but I'll inform your master. In 
 the mean time, if our project succeed no better with his 
 father than it does with his mistress, he may descend 
 from his exaltation of madness into the road of common 
 sense, and be content only to be made a fool with other 
 reasonable people. I hear Sir Sampson. You know 
 your cue; I'll to your master. \Exit. 
 
 Enter Sir SAMPSON and BUCKRAM. 
 
 Sir Samp. D'ye see, Mr. Buckram, here's the paper 
 signed with his own hand. 
 
 Buck. Good, sir. And the conveyance is ready drawn 
 in this box, if he be ready to sign and seal. 
 
 Sir Samp. Ready, body o' me, he must be ready ! his 
 sham-sickness shan't excuse him. 0, here's his scoundrel. 
 Sirrah, where's your master ? 
 
 Jer. Ah, sir, he's quite gone. 
 
 Sir Samp. Gone ! what, he is not dead ? 
 
 Jer. No, sir, not dead. 
 
 Sir Samp. What, is he gone out of town ? run away, 
 ha ! he has tricked me ? speak, varlet. 
 
 Jer. No, no, sir, he's safe enough, sir, an he were but 
 as sound, poor gentleman. He is, indeed, here, sir, and 
 not here, sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. Heyday, rascal, do you banter me ? sirrah, 
 d'ye banter me? Speak, sirrah, where is he? for I will 
 find him,
 
 268 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Jer. Would you could, sir! for he has lost himself. 
 Indeed, sir, I have almost broke my heart about him I 
 can't refrain tears when I think of him, sir: I'm as 
 melancholy for him as a passing-bell, sir ; or a horse in a 
 pound. 
 
 Sir Samp. A pox confound your similitudes, sir ! 
 Speak to be understood, and tell me in plain terms 
 what the matter is with him, or I'll crack your fool's 
 skull. 
 
 Jer. Ah, you've hit it, sir ! that's the matter with him, 
 sir; his skull's cracked, poor gentleman ! he's stark mad, 
 sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. Mad ! 
 
 Buck. What, is he non compos ? 
 
 Jer. Quite hon compos, sir. 
 
 Buck. Why, then all's obliterated, Sir Sampson ; if he 
 be non compos mentis, his act and deed will be of no effect, 
 it is not good in law. 
 
 Sir Samp. 'Oons, I won't believe it ! let me see him, 
 sir. Mad ! I'll make him find his senses. 
 
 Jer. Mr. Scandal is with him, sir ; I'll knock at the 
 door. [Goes to the Scene, which opens. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Another Room at Valentine's Lodgings. 
 
 Sir SAMPSON, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY, and 
 BUCKRAM. VALENTINE upon a couch, disorderly dressed. 
 
 Sir Samp. How now ! what's here to do ? 
 
 Vol. [Starting.} Ha ! who's that ? 
 Scan. For Heaven's sake softly, sir, and gently ! don't 
 provoke him. 
 
 Val. Answer me, who is that, and that ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Gadsobs, does he not know me ? Is he
 
 SCENE II.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 269 
 
 mischievous? I'll speak gently. Val, Val, dost thou 
 not know me, boy? not know thy own father, Val? I 
 am thy own father, and this is honest Brief Buckram the 
 lawyer. 
 
 Val. It may be so I did not know you the world is 
 full. There are people that we do know and people that 
 we do not know ; and yet the sun shines upon all alike. 
 There are fathers that have many children ; and there 
 are children that have many fathers. 'Tis strange ! but I 
 am Truth, and come to give the world the lie. 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o' me, I know not what to say to 
 him ! 
 
 Val. Why does that lawyer wear black ? does he 
 carry his conscience withoutside? Lawyer, what art 
 thou ? dost thou know me ? 
 
 Buck. O Lord ! what must I say ? Yes, sir. 
 Val. Thou liest, for I am Truth. 'Tis hard I cannot 
 get a livelihood amongst you. I have been sworn out of 
 Westminster-hall the first day of every term let me see 
 no matter how long but I'll tell you one thing ; it's a 
 question that would puzzle an arithmetician, if you should 
 ask him, whether the Bible saves more souls in West- 
 minster-Abbey or damns more in Westminster-Hall ; for 
 my part, I am Truth, and can't tell ; I have very few 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Sir Samp. Body o' me, he talks sensibly in his mad- 
 ness ! has he no intervals? 
 
 Jer. Very short, sir. 
 
 Buck. Sir, I can do you no service while he's in this 
 condition ; here's your paper, sir he may do me a mis- 
 chief if I stay the conveyance is ready, sir, if he recover 
 his senses. [Exit BUCKRAM. 
 
 Sir Samp. Hold, hold, hold, don't you go yet. 
 
 Scan. You'd better let him go, sir; and send for him 
 if there be occasion ; for I fancy his presence provokes 
 him more. 
 
 Val. Is the lawyer gone ? 'tis well ; then we may
 
 270 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT iv. 
 
 drink about without going together by the ears heigh- 
 ho ! What o'clock is 't ? My father here ! your blessing, 
 sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. He recovers. Bless thee, Val, how dost 
 thou do, boy ? 
 
 Val. Thank you, sir, pretty well I have been a little 
 out of order won't you please to sit, sir? 
 
 Sir Samp. Ay, boy. Come, thou shalt sit down by 
 me. 
 
 Val. Sir, 'tis my duty to wait 
 
 Sir Samp. No, no, come, come, sit thee down, honest 
 Val; how dost thou do? let me feel thy pulse. Oh, 
 pretty well now, Val; body o' me, I was sorry to see 
 thee indisposed ! but I'm glad thou art better, honest 
 Val. 
 
 Val. I thank you, sir. 
 
 Scan. Miracle ! the monster grows loving, [Aside. 
 
 Sir Samp. Let me feel thy hand again, Val ; it does 
 not shake I believe thou canst write, Val; ha, boy, 
 thou canst write thy name, Val ? Jeremy, step and over- 
 take Mr. Buckram, bid him make haste back with the 
 conveyance ! quick ! quick ! 
 
 [ Whispers to JEREMY, who goes out. 
 
 Scan. [Aside.] That ever I should suspect such a 
 heathen of any remorse ! 
 
 Sir Samp. Dost thou know this paper, Val ? I know 
 thou'rt honest, and wilt perform articles. 
 
 [Shows him the paper, but holds it out of his reach. 
 
 1 Val. Pray, let me see it, sir. You hold it so far off, 
 that I can't tell whether I know it or no. 
 
 Sir Samp. See it, boy ? ay, ay, why thou dost see it 
 'tis thy own hand, Vally. Why, let me see, I can read it 
 as plain as can be ; look you here [Reads.] " The con- 
 ditions of this obligation " look you, as plain as can be, 
 so it begins and then at the bottom " As witness my 
 hand, Valentine Legend," in great letters ; why, 'tis as 
 plain as the nose in one's face ; what, are my eyes better
 
 SCENE II.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 271 
 
 than thine ? I believe I can read it farther off yet let 
 me see. \Strctches out his arm as far as he can. 
 
 Val. Will you please to let me hold it, sir ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Let thee hold it, sayest thou ? ay, with all 
 my heart. What matter is it who holds it ? what need any- 
 body hold it ? : I'll put it in my pocket, Val, and then 
 nobody need hold it. [Puts the paper in his pocket.] 
 There, Val, it's safe enough, boy but thou shalt have it 
 as soon as thou hast set thy hand to another paper, little 
 Val. 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY and BUCKRAM. 
 
 Val. What, is my bad genius here again ! Oh, no, it 
 is the lawyer with his itching palm ; and he's come to be 
 scratched my nails are not long enough let me have a 
 pair of red-hot tongs, quickly ! quickly ! and you shall 
 see me act St. Dunstan, and lead the devil by the nose. 
 
 Buck. O Lord, let me be gone ! I'll not venture myself 
 with a madman. \Exit. 
 
 Val. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you need not run so fast, honesty 
 will not overtake you. Ha ! ha ! ha ! the rogue found 
 me out to be in forma pauperis presently. 
 
 Sir Samp. Oons ! what a vexation is here ! I know not 
 to do or say, or which way to go. 
 
 Val. Who's that, that's out of his way ! I am Truth, 
 and can set him right. Hark ye, friend, the straight road 
 is the worst way you can go : he that follows his nose 
 always, will very often be led into a stink, Probatum est. 
 But what are you for, religion or politics ? There's a 
 couple of topics for you, no more like one another than 
 oil and vinegar ; and yet those two beaten together by a 
 state-cook, make sauce for the whole nation. 
 
 Sir Samp. What the devil had I to do, ever to beget 
 sons ? why did I ever marry ? 
 
 Val. Because thou wert a monster, old boy ; the two 
 greatest monsters in the world are a man and a woman ; 
 what's thy opinion ?
 
 272 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Sir Samp. Why, my opinion is that those two monsters 
 joined together, make a yet greater, that's a man and his 
 wife. 
 
 Val. Aha, old truepenny ! sayest thou so ? thou hast 
 nicked it. But, it's wonderful strange, Jeremy. 
 Jer. What is, sir? 
 
 Val. That grey hairs should cover a green head, and 
 I make a fool of my father. What's here ! Erra Pater, 
 or a bearded Sibyl? If Prophecy comes, Truth must 
 give place. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 An Ante-room at Valentine's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Sir SAMPSON, SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, Mrs. FORE- 
 SIGHT, and Mrs. FRAIL. 
 
 Fore. What says he ? what, did he prophesy ? Ha, 
 Sir Sampson, bless us ! how are we ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Are we ! a pox o' your prognostication 
 why, we are fools as we used to be. Oons, that you 
 could not foresee that the moon would predominate, and 
 my son be mad ! Where's your oppositions, your trines, 
 and your quadrates? What did your Cardan and your 
 Ptolemy tell you? your Messahalah and your Longo- 
 montanus, your harmony of chiromancy with astrology? 
 Ah ! pox on't, that I that .know the world, and men and 
 manners, that don't believe a syllable in the sky and 
 stars, and suns, and almanacs, and trash, should be 
 directed by a dreamer, an omen-hunter, and defer busi- 
 ness in expectation of a lucky hour ! when, body o' me, 
 there never was a lucky hour after the first opportunity. 
 
 [Exit Sir SAMPSON. 
 
 Fore. Ah, Sir Sampson, Heaven help your head ! This
 
 SCENE in.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 273 
 
 is none of your lucky hour ! Nemo omnibus horis sapit. 
 What, is he gone, and in contempt of science ? Ill stars 
 and unconvertible ignorance attend him ! 
 
 Scan. You must excuse his passion, Mr. Foresight, 
 for he has been heartily vexed. His son is non compos 
 mentis, and thereby incapable of making any conveyance 
 in law; so that all his measures are..disappointed. 
 Fore. Ha ! say you so ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. [Aside to Mrs. FORESIGHT.] What, has 
 my sea-lover lost his anchor of hope then ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Oh, sister, what will you do with him ? 
 Mrs. Frail. Do with him ! send him to sea again in 
 the next foul weather. He's used to an inconstant 
 element, and won't be surprised to see the tide 
 turned. 
 
 Fore. Wherein was I mistaken, not to foresee this? 
 
 [ Considers. 
 
 Scan. [Aside to Mrs. FORESIGHT.] Madam, you and I 
 can tell him something else that he did not foresee, and 
 more particularly relating to his own fortune. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. [Aside to SCANDAL.] What do you mean ? 
 I don't understand you. 
 
 Scan. Hush, softly the pleasures of last night, my 
 dear ! too considerable to be forgot so soon. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Last night! and what would your impu- 
 dence infer from last night ! last night was like the night 
 before, I think. 
 
 Scan. 'Sdeath, do you make no difference between me 
 and your husband ? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Not much ; he's superstitious, and you 
 are mad, in my opinion. 
 
 Scan. You make me mad. You are not serious; 
 pray, recollect yourself. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. O yes, now I remember, you were very 
 impertinent and impudent, and would have come to bed 
 to me. 
 
 Scan. And did not ? 
 
 Con. T
 
 274 L O rE FOR L O VE. [ACT IV. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Did not ! with what face can you ask the 
 question ? 
 
 Scan. [Aside.] This I have heard of before, but never 
 believed. I have been told she had that admirable 
 quality of forgetting to a man's face in the morning that 
 she had lain with him all night, and denying that she 
 had done favours with more impudence than she could 
 grant 'em. Madam, I'm your humble servant, and 
 honour you. [Aloud.'] You look pretty well, Mr. Fore- 
 sight. How did you rest last night ? 
 
 Fore. Truly, Mr. Scandal, I was so taken up with 
 broken dreams and distracted visions, that I remember 
 little. 
 
 Scan. 'Twas a very forgetting night. But would you 
 not talk with Valentine, perhaps you may understand 
 him? I'm apt to believe there is something mysterious 
 in his discourses, and sometimes rather think him inspired 
 than mad. 
 
 Fore. You speak with singular good judgment, Mr. 
 Scandal, truly. I am inclining to your Turkish opinion 
 in this matter, and do reverence a man whom the vulgar 
 think mad. Let us go to him. 
 
 [Exeunt FORESIGHT and SCANDAL. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Sister, do you stay with them ; I'll find 
 out my lover, and give him his discharge, and come to 
 you. O' my conscience here he conies, 
 
 [Exit Mrs. FORESIGHT. 
 
 Enter BEN. 
 
 Ben. All mad, I think. Flesh, I believe all the calen- 
 tures of the sea are come ashore, for my part 1 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Mr. Benjamin in choler ! 
 
 Ben. No, I'm pleased well enough now I have found 
 you. Mess, I have had such a hurricane upon your ac- 
 count yonder ! 
 
 Mrs. Frail. My account! pray what's the matter? 
 
 Ben. Why, father came and found me squabbling with
 
 SCENE in.] L VE FOR L O VE. 275 
 
 yon chitty-faced thing as he would have me marry, so 
 he asked what was the matter. He asked in a surly sort 
 of a way. It seems brother Val is gone mad, and so that 
 put'n into a passion : but what did I know that, what's 
 that to me ? So he asked in a surly sort of manner, 
 and gad I answered 'en as surlily ; what tho'f he be my 
 father ? I an't bound prentice to 'en : so faith I told'n 
 in plain terms, if I were minded to marry I'd marry to 
 please myself, not him : and for the young woman that 
 he provided for me, I thought it more fitting for her to 
 learn her sampler and make dirt-pies, than to look after 
 a husband ; for my part I was none of her man. I had 
 another voyage to make, let him take it as he will. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. So then, you intend to go to sea again? 
 
 Ben. Nay, nay, my mind run upon you, but I would 
 not tell him so much. So he said he'd make my heart 
 ache j and if so be that he could get a woman to his 
 mind, he'd marry himself. Gad, says I, an you play the 
 fool and marry at these years, there's more danger of 
 your head's aching than my heart. He was woundy 
 angry when I gav'n that wipe. He hadn't a word to say, 
 and so I left'n and the green girl together ; mayhap the 
 bee may bite, and he'll marry her himself ; with all my 
 heart. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. And were you this undutiful and graceless 
 wretch to your father ? 
 
 Ben. Then why was he graceless first? -If I am un- 
 dutiful and graceless, why did he beget me so ? I did 
 not get myself. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. O impiety ! how have I been mistaken ! 
 what an inhuman merciless creature have I set my heart 
 upon ! 0, I am happy to have discovered the shelves 
 and quicksands that lurk beneath that faithless smiling 
 face! 
 
 Ben. Hey toss? what's the matter now? why, you ben't 
 angry, be you ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. O see me no more 1 for thou wert born
 
 276 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT IV. 
 
 amongst rocks, suckled by whales, cradled in a tempest, 
 and whistled to by winds ; and thou art come forth with 
 fins and scales, and three rows of teeth, a most outrage- 
 ous fish of prey. 
 
 Ben. O Lord, Lord, she's mad ! poor young woman ; 
 love has turned her senses, her brain is quite overset ! 
 Well-a-day, how shall I do to set her to rights ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. No, no, I am not mad, monster, I am 
 wise enough to find you out. Hadst thou the impudence 
 to aspire at being a husband with that stubborn and dis- 
 obedient temper? You that know not how to submit to 
 a father, presume to have a sufficient stock of duty to 
 undergo a wife? I should have been finely fobbed indeed, 
 very finely fobbed. 
 
 Ben. Hark ye, forsooth if so be that you are in your 
 right senses, d'ye see; for aught as I perceive I'm like to 
 be finely fobbed, if I have got anger here upon your 
 account, and you are tacked about already. What d'ye 
 mean, after all your fair speeches and stroking my cheeks, 
 and kissing, and hugging, what, would you sheer off so ? 
 would you, and leave me aground? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. No, I'll leave you adrift, and go which 
 way you will. 
 
 Ben. What, are you false-hearted, then? 
 Mrs. Frail. Only the wind's changed. 
 Ben. More shame for you : the wind's changed ! It's 
 an ill wind blows nobody good, mayhap I have a good 
 riddance on you, if these be your tricks. What did you 
 mean all this while, to make a fool of me ? 
 Mrs. Frail. Any fool but a husband. 
 Ben. Husband ! gad, I would not be your husband, if 
 you would have me, now I know your mind, tho'f you 
 had your weight in gold and jewels, and tho'f I loved 
 you never so well. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Why, canst thou love, porpoise? 
 Ben. No matter what I can do ; don't call names, I 
 don't love you so well as to bear that, whatever I did.
 
 SCENE ill.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 277 
 
 I'm glad you show yourself, mistress. Let them marry 
 you, as don't know you : gad, I know you too well, by 
 sad experience ; I believe he that marries you will go to 
 sea in a hen-pecked frigate I believe that, young wo- 
 man and mayhap may come to an anchor at Cuckold's- 
 point ; so there's a dash for you, take it as you will, 
 mayhap you may holla after me when I won't come to. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Ha ! ha ! ha ! no doubt on't ; 
 [Sings.] My true love is gone to sea 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. FORESIGHT. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. sister, had you come a minute sooner, 
 you would have seen the resolution of a lover. Honest 
 Tar and I are parted, and with the same indifference 
 that we met. O' my life I am half vexed at the insensi- 
 bility of a brute that I despised. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. What, then, he bore it most heroically? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Most tyrannically, for you see he has 
 got the start of me ; and I the poor forsaken maid am 
 left complaining on the shore. But I'll tell you a hint 
 that he has given me ; Sir Sampson is enraged, and talks 
 desperately of committing matrimony himself; if he has 
 a mind to throw himself away, he can't do it more effec- 
 tually than upon me, if we could bring it about. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Oh, hang him, old fox ! he's too cunning ; 
 besides he hates both you and me. But I have a project 
 in my head for you, and I have gone a good way towards 
 it. I have almost made a bargain with Jeremy, Valen- 
 tine's man, to sell his master to us. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Sell him ! how? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Valentine raves upon Angelica, and took 
 me for her, and Jeremy says will take anybody for her 
 that he imposes on him. Now I have promised him 
 mountains, if in one of his mad fits he will bring you to 
 him in her stead, and get you married together, and put 
 to bed together ; and after consummation, girl, there's no
 
 278 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT iv. 
 
 revoking. And if he should recover his senses, he'll be 
 glad at least to make you a good settlement. Here they 
 come : stand aside a little, and tell me how you like the 
 design. 
 
 Enter VALENTINE, SCANDAL, FORESIGHT, and JEREMY. 
 
 Scan. [To JEREMY.] And have you given your master 
 a hint of their plot upon him ? 
 
 Jer. Yes, sir ; he says he'll favour it,- and mistake her 
 for Angelica. 
 
 Scan. It may make us sport. 
 
 Fore. Mercy on us ! 
 
 Val. Hush ! interrupt me not: I'll whisper prediction 
 to thee, and thou shalt prophesy. I am Truth, and can 
 teach thy tongue a new trick : I have told thee what's 
 past now I'll tell what's to come. Dost thou know 
 what will happen to-morrow? answer me not for I will 
 tell thee. To-morrow, knaves will thrive through craft, 
 and fools through fortune, and honesty will go as it did, 
 frost-nipped in a summer suit. Ask me questions con- 
 cerning to-morrow. 
 
 Scan. Ask him, Mr. Foresight. 
 
 Fore. Pray, what will be done at court? 
 
 Val. Scandal will tell you : I am Truth, I never come 
 there. 
 
 Fore. In the city? 
 
 Val. Oh, prayers will be said in empty churches, at 
 the usual hours. Yet you will see such zealous faces 
 behind the counters, as if religion were to be sold in 
 every shop. Oh, things will go methodically, in the city; 
 the clocks will strike twelve at noon, and the horned 
 herd buzz in the Exchange at two. Husbands and wives 
 will drive distinct trades, and care and pleasure separately 
 occupy the family. Coffee-houses will be full of smoke 
 and stratagem. And the cropt prentice, that sweeps his 
 master's shop in the morning, may, ten to one, dirty his 
 sheets before night. But there are two things that you
 
 SCENE in.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 279 
 
 will see very strange; which are wanton wives with their 
 legs at liberty, and tame cuckolds with chains about their 
 necks. But hold, I must examine you before I go fur- 
 ther; you look suspiciously. Are you a husband? 
 
 Fore. I am married. 
 
 Val. Poor creature! is your wife of Covent-garden 
 parish ? 
 
 Fore. No ; St. Martin's-in-the-fields. 
 
 Val. Alas, poor man ! his eyes are sunk, and his hands 
 shrivelled ; his legs dwindled, and his back bowed ; pray, 
 pray, for a metamorphosis. Change thy shape, and 
 shake off age; get thee Medea's kettle, and be boiled 
 anew; come forth with labouring callous hands, a chine 
 of steel, and Atlas shoulders. Let Taliacotius trim the 
 calves of twenty chairmen, and make thee pedestals to 
 stand erect upon, and look matrimony in the face. Ha ! 
 ha! ha! that a man should have a stomach to a wedding 
 supper, when the pigeons ought rather to be laid to his 
 feet, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Fore. His frenzy is very high now, Mr. Scandal. 
 
 Scan. I believe it is a spring-tide. 
 
 Fore. Very likely, truly ; you understand these matters ; 
 Mr. Scandal, I shall be very glad to confer with you 
 about these things which he has uttered his sayings are 
 very mysterious and hieroglyphical. 
 
 Val. Oh, why would Angelica be absent from my eyes 
 so long ? 
 
 Jer. She's here, sir. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Now, sister. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. O Lord, what must I say ? 
 
 Scan. Humour him, madam, by all means. 
 Val. Where is she? oh, I see her; she comes like 
 riches, health, and liberty at once, to a despairing, starv- 
 ing, and abandoned wretch. Oh welcome, welcome. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. How d'ye, sir? can I serve you ? 
 Val. Hark ye I have a secret to tell you Endymion 
 and the moon shall meet us upon Mount Latmos, and
 
 280 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT iv. 
 
 we'll be married in the dead of night but say not a 
 word. Hymen shall put his torch into a dark lantern, 
 that it may be secret; and Juno shall give her peacock 
 poppy-water, that he may fold his ogling tail, and Argus's 
 hundred eyes be shut, ha! Nobody shall know but 
 Jeremy. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. No, no, we'll keep it secret, it shall be 
 done presently. 
 
 Val. The sooner the better. Jeremy, come hither 
 closer that none may overhear us Jeremy, I* can tell 
 you news; Angelica is turned nun, and I am turning 
 friar, and yet we'll marry one another in spite of the 
 pope. Get me a cowl and beads, that I may play my 
 part ; for she'll meet me two hours hence in black and 
 white, and a long veil to cover the project, and we won't 
 see one another's faces, till we have done something to 
 be ashamed of, and then we'll blush once for all. 
 
 Enter TATTLE and ANGELICA. 
 
 Jer. I'll take care, and 
 
 Val. Whisper. 
 
 Ang. Nay, Mr. Tattle, if you make love to me, you 
 spoil my design, for I intend to make you my confi- 
 dant. 
 
 Tat. But, madam, to throw away your person, such a 
 person, and such a fortune, on a madman ? 
 
 Ang. I never loved him till he was mad ; but don't 
 tell anybody so. 
 
 Scan. \Aside ^\ How's this! Tattle making love to 
 Angelica? 
 
 Tat. Tell, madam ! alas, you don't know me I have 
 much ado to tell your ladyship how long I have been in 
 love with you ; but encouraged by the impossibility of 
 Valentine's making any more addresses to you, I have 
 ventured to declare the very inmost passion of my heart. 
 Oh, madam, look upon us both ; there you see the ruins 
 of a poor decayed creature, here a complete and lively
 
 SCENE in.] LOVE FOR^ L O VE. 28 1 
 
 figure, with youth and health, and all his five senses in 
 perfection, madam ; and to all this, the most passionate 
 lover 
 
 Ang. O fy, for shame ! hold your tongue ; a passionate 
 lover and five senses in perfection ! when you are as mad 
 as Valentine, I'll believe you love me, and the maddest 
 shall take me. 
 
 Val. It is enough. Ha, who's here? 
 
 Mrs, Frail, [Aside to JEREMY.] O Lord, her coming 
 will spoil all ! 
 
 Jer, \Aside to Mrs. FRAIL.] No, no, madam, he won't 
 know her ; if he should, I can persuade him. 
 
 Val. Scandal, who are these ? foreigners ? If they 
 are, I'll tell you what I think. [ Whispers.] Get away all 
 the company but Angelica, that I may discover my design 
 to her. 
 
 Scan. [ W/iisj>ersJ\ I will ; I have discovered something 
 of Tattle that is of a piece with Mrs. Frail. He courts 
 Angelica ; if we could contrive to couple 'em together ; 
 hark ye. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. He won't know you, cousin, he knows 
 nobody. 
 
 Fore. But he knows more than anybody. Oh, niece, 
 he knows things past and to come, and all the profound 
 secrets of time. 
 
 Tat, Look you, Mr. Foresight, it is not my way to 
 make many words of matters, and so I shan't say much ; 
 but, in short, d'ye see, I will hold you a hundred pounds 
 now, that I know more secrets than he. 
 
 Fore. How ! I cannot read that knowledge in your 
 face, Mr. Tattle. Pray, what do you know ? 
 
 Tat. Why, d'ye think I'll tell you, sir? Read it in 
 my face ! no, sir, 'tis written in my heart ; and safer 
 there, sir, than letters writ in juice of lemon ; for no fire 
 can fetch it out. I am no blab, sir. 
 
 Val. \Aside to SCANDAL.] Acquaint Jeremy with it, he 
 may easily bring it about. [Aloud.] They are welcome,
 
 282 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT iv. 
 
 and I'll tell 'em so myself. What, do you look strange 
 upon me ? then I must be plain. [ Coming iip to theml\ 
 I am Truth, and hate an old acquaintance with a new 
 face. [SCANDAL goes aside with JEREMY. 
 
 Tat, Do you know me, Valentine ? 
 
 VaL You ? who are you ? no, I hope not. 
 
 Tat. I am Jack Tattle, your friend. 
 
 Val. My friend ? what to do ? I am no married man, 
 and thou canst not lie with my wife ; I am very poor, 
 and thou canst not borrow money of me ; then what 
 employment have I for a friend ? 
 
 Tat, Ha ! a good open speaker, and not to be trusted 
 with a secret. 
 
 Ang. Do you know me, Valentine ? 
 
 Val. Oh, very well. 
 
 Ang, Who am I ? 
 
 Val, You're a woman, one to whom Heaven gave 
 beauty, when it grafted roses on a briar. You are the 
 reflection of Heaven in a pond, and he that leaps at you 
 is sunk. You are all white, a sheet of lovely, spotless 
 paper, when you first are born ; but you are to be scrawled 
 and blotted by every goose's quill. I know you ; for I 
 loved a woman, and loved her so long, that I found out 
 a strange thing ; I found out what a woman was good 
 for. 
 
 Tat. Ay, prithee, what's that? 
 
 Val. Why, to keep a secret. 
 
 Tat. O Lord ! 
 
 Val. O, exceeding good to keep a secret : for though 
 she should tell, yet she is not to be believed. 
 
 Tat, Ha ! good again, faith. 
 
 Val, I would have music. Sing me the song that I 
 like, 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I tell thee, Charmion, could I time retrieve, 
 And could again begin to love and live, 
 To you I should my earliest offering give ;
 
 SCENE in.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 283 
 
 I know, my eyes would lead my heart to you, 
 And I should all my vows and oaths renew ; 
 But, to be plain, I never would be true. 
 
 For by our weak and weary truth I find, 
 Love hates to centre in a point assigned ; 
 But runs with joy the circle of the mind : 
 
 Then never let us chain what should be free, 
 
 But for relief of either sex agree : 
 
 Since women love to change, and so do we. 
 
 Val. No more, for I am melancholy. [ Walks musing. 
 Jer. \Aside to SCANDAL.] I'll do't, sir. 
 
 Scan. Mr. Foresight, we had best leave him. He may 
 grow outrageous, and do mischief. 
 
 Fore. I will be directed by you. 
 
 Jer. [Aside to Mrs. FRAIL.] You'll meet, madam? 
 I'll take care everything shall be ready. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Thou shalt do what thou wilt ; in short, I 
 will deny thee nothing. 
 
 Tat. [To ANGELICA.] Madam, shall I wait upon you? 
 
 Aug. No, I'll stay with him ; Mr. Scandal will protect 
 me. Aunt, Mr. Tattle desires you would give him leave 
 to wait on you. 
 
 Tat. [Aside.] Pox on't ! there's no coming off, now 
 she has said that. [Aloud.] Madam, will you do me the 
 honour? 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Mr. Tattle might have used less ceremony. 
 [Exeunt FORESIGHT, Mrs. FRAIL, Mrs. 
 FORESIGHT, and TATTLE. 
 
 Scan. Jeremy, follow Tattle. [Exit JEREMY. 
 
 Ang. Mr. Scandal, I only stay till my maid comes, 
 and because I had a mind to be rid of Mr. Tattle. 
 
 Scan. Madam, I am very glad that I overheard a 
 better reason, which you gave to Mr. Tattle ; for his 
 impertinence forced you to acknowledge a kindness for 
 Valentine which you denied to all his sufferings and my
 
 284 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT iv. 
 
 solicitations. So I'll leave him to make use of the dis- 
 covery, and your ladyship to the free confession of your 
 inclinations. 
 
 Ang. Oh Heavens ! you won't leave me alone with a 
 madman ? 
 
 Scan. No, madam, I only leave a madman to his 
 remedy. \Exit SCANDAL. 
 
 Val. Madam, you need not be very much afraid, for I 
 fancy I begin to come to myself. 
 
 Ang. \Aside^\ Ay, but if I don't fit you, I'll be 
 hanged. 
 
 Val. You see what disguises love makes us put on : 
 gods have been in counterfeited shapes for the same 
 reason ; and the divine part of me, my mind, has worn 
 this mask of madness, and this motley livery, only as the 
 slave of love, and menial creature of your beauty. 
 
 Ang. Mercy on me, how he talks ! poor Valentine ! 
 
 Val. Nay, faith, now let us understand one another, 
 hypocrisy apart. The comedy draws toward an end, 
 and let us think of leaving acting, and be ourselves ; and 
 since you have loved me, you must own, I have at length 
 deserved you should confess it. 
 
 Ang. \Sig)is^\ I would I had loved you ! for Heaven 
 knows I pity you ; and could I have foreseen the bad 
 effects, I would have striven ; but that's too late. 
 
 \Sighs. 
 
 Val. What bad effects ? what's too late ? My seem- 
 ing madness has deceived my father, and procured me 
 time to think of means to reconcile me to him, and pre- 
 serve the right of my inheritance to his estate ; which 
 otherwise by articles I must this morning have resigned : 
 and this I had informed you of to-day, but you were 
 gone, before I knew you had been here. 
 
 Ang. How ! I thought your love of me had caused 
 this transport in your soul; which it seems you only 
 counterfeited, for mercenary ends and sordid interest ! 
 
 Val. Nay, now you do me wrong ; for if any interest
 
 SCENE in.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 285 
 
 was considered it was yours ; since I thought I wanted 
 more than love to make me worthy of you. 
 
 Ang. Then you thought me mercenary. But how am 
 I deluded by this interval of sense, to reason with a 
 madman ! 
 
 Val, Oh, 'tis barbarous to misunderstand me longer. 
 
 Enter JEREMY. 
 
 Ang. Oh, here's a reasonable creature sure he will 
 not have the impudence to persevere. Come, Jeremy, 
 acknowledge your trick, and confess your master's mad- 
 ness counterfeit. 
 
 Jer. Counterfeit, madam ! I'll maintain him to be as 
 absolutely and substantially mad as any freeholder in 
 Bethlehem ; nay, he's as mad as any projector, fanatic, 
 chemist, lover, or poet in Europe. 
 
 Val. Sirrah, you lie ! I am not mad. 
 
 Ang. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you see he denies it. 
 Jer. O Lord, madam, did you ever know any madman 
 mad enough to own it ? 
 
 Val. Sot, can't you comprehend ? 
 
 Ang. Why, he talked very sensible just now. 
 Jer. Yes, madam, he has intervals ; but you see he 
 begins to look wild again now. 
 
 Val. Why, you thick-skulled rascal, I tell you the farce 
 is done, and I will be mad no longer. \Beats him. 
 
 Ang. Ha! ha! ha! is he mad or no, Jeremy? 
 Jer. Partly I think for he does not know his own 
 mind two hours. I'm sure I left him just now in the 
 humour to be mad ; and I think I have not found him 
 very quiet at this present ! [.Knocking at the door^\ Who's 
 there? 
 
 Val. Go see, you sot. \Exit JEREMY.] I'm very 
 glad that I can move your mirth, though not your com- 
 passion. 
 
 Ang. I did not think you had apprehension enough to 
 be exceptious : but madmen show themselves most, by
 
 286 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT iv. 
 
 over-pretending to a sound understanding ; as drunken 
 men do by over-acting sobriety. I was half-inclining to 
 believe you, till I accidentally touched upon your tender 
 part; but now you have restored me to my former 
 opinion and compassion. 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY. 
 
 Jer. Sir, your father has sent to know if you are any 
 better yet. Will you please to be mad, sir, or how ? 
 
 Val. Stupidity ! you know the penalty of all I'm worth 
 must pay for the confession of my senses; I'm mad, and 
 will be mad to everybody but this lady. 
 
 Jer. So ; Just the very backside of truth. But lying 
 is a figure in speech, that interlards the greatest part of 
 my conversation. Madam, your ladyship's woman. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Enter JENNY. 
 
 Ang. Well, have you been there ? Come hither. 
 Jen. [Aside to ANGELICA.] Yes, madam, Sir Sampson 
 will wait upon you presently. 
 
 Val. You are not leaving me in this uncertainty? 
 
 Ang. Would anything but a madman complain of un- 
 certainty? Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of 
 life. Security is an insipid thing, and the overtaking and 
 possessing of a wish, discovers the folly of the chase. 
 Never let us know one another better : for the pleasure 
 of a masquerade is done, when we come to show our 
 faces ; but I'll tell you two things before I leave you ; I 
 am not the fool you take me for ; and you are mad, and 
 don't know it. [Exeunt ANGELICA and JENNY. 
 
 Val. From a riddle you can expect nothing but a 
 riddle. There's my instruction, and the moral of my 
 lesson. 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY. 
 
 Jer. What, is the lady gone again, sir ? I hope you 
 understood one another before she went ? 
 
 Val. Understood ! she is harder to be understood than
 
 SCENE 111.] 
 
 LOVE FOR LOVE. 
 
 287 
 
 a piece of Egyptian antiquity, or an Irish manuscript ; 
 you may pore till you spoil your eyes, and not improve 
 your knowledge. 
 
 Jer. I have heard 'em say, sir, they read hard Hebrew 
 books backwards; may be you begin to read at the 
 wrong end. 
 
 Veil. They say so of a witch's prayer : and dreams and 
 Dutch almanacs are to be understood by contraries. But 
 there's regularity and method in that ; she is a medal 
 without a reverse or inscription, for indifference has both 
 sides alike. Yet while' she does not seem to hate me, 
 I will pursue her, and know her if it be possible, in spite 
 of the opinion of my satirical friend, Scandal, who says, 
 That women are like tricks by sleight of hand, 
 Which, to admire, we should not understand. 
 
 \xeuitt.
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in FORESIGHT'S House. 
 
 Enter ANGELICA and JENNY. 
 
 NG. Where is Sir Sampson ? did you not 
 tell me he would be here before me? 
 
 Jen. He's at the great glass in the 
 dining-room, madam, setting his cravat 
 and wig. 
 
 Ang. How ! I'm glad on't. If he has a mind I 
 should like him, it's a sign he likes me; and that's more 
 than half my design. 
 Jen. I hear him, madam. 
 
 Ang. Leave me; and d'ye hear, if Valentine should 
 come or send, I am not to be spoken with. 
 
 \Exit JENNY. 
 Enter Sir SAMPSON. 
 
 Sir Samp. I have not been honoured with the com- 
 mands of a fair lady, a great while : odd, madam, you 
 have revived me ! not since I was five-and-thirty. 
 
 Ang. Why, you have no great reason to complain, Sir 
 Sampson, that is not long ago. 
 
 Sir Samp. Zooks, but it is, madam, a very great while 
 to a man that admires a fine woman as much as I do. 
 
 Ang. You're an absolute courtier, Sir Sampson.
 
 SCENE I.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 289 
 
 Sir Samp. Not at all, madam ; odsbud you wrong 
 me ; I am not so old neither to be a bare courtier, only 
 a man of words : odd, I have warm blood about me yet, 
 and can serve a lady any way. Come, come, let me tell 
 you, you women think a man old too soon, faith and 
 troth, you do ! Come, don't despise fifty; odd, fifty, in 
 a hale constitution, is no such contemptible age. 
 
 Ang. Fifty a contemptible age ! not at all, a very- 
 fashionable age, I think. I assure you, I know very con- 
 siderable beaux that set a good face upon fifty : fifty ! 
 I have seen fifty in a side-box, by candle-light, out- 
 blossom five-and-twenty. 
 
 Sir Samp. Outsides, outsides ; a pize take 'em, mere 
 outsides ! hang your side-box beaux ! no, I'm none of 
 those, none of your forced trees, that pretend to blossom 
 in the fall, and bud when they should bring forth fruit ; 
 I am of a long-lived race, and inherit vigour : none of 
 my ancestors married till fifty ; yet they begot sons and 
 daughters till fourscore ; I am of your patriarchs, I, a 
 branch of one of your antediluvian families, fellows that 
 the flood could not wash away. Well, madam, what are 
 your commands? has any young rogue affronted you, 
 and shall I cut his throat ? or 
 
 Ang. No, Sir Sampson, I have no quarrel upon my 
 hands I have more occasion for your conduct than your 
 courage at this time. To tell you the truth, I'm weary 
 of living single, and want a husband. 
 
 Sir Samp. Odsbud, and 'tis pity you should ! [Aside.] 
 Odd, would she would like me, then I should hamper 
 my young rogues : odd, would she would ; faith and 
 troth she's devilish handsome ! \Aloud^\ Madam, you 
 deserve a good husband, and 'twere pity you should be 
 thrown away upon any of these young idle rogues about 
 the town. Odd, there's ne'er a young fellow worth hang- 
 ing ! that is a very young fellow. Pize on 'em ! they 
 never think beforehand of anything ; and if they com- 
 mit matrimony, 'lisas they commit murder; out of a frolic, 
 
 Con. U
 
 290 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT v. 
 
 and are ready to hang themselves, or to be hanged by 
 the law, the next morning : odso, have a care, madam. 
 
 Ang. Therefore I ask your advice, Sir Sampson: I 
 have fortune enough to make any man easy that I can 
 like ; if there were such a thing as a young agreeable 
 man with a reasonable stock of good-nature and sense. 
 For I would neither have an absolute wit nor a fool. 
 
 Sir Samp. Odd, you are hard to please, madam ; to 
 find a young fellow that is neither a wit in his own eye, 
 nor a fool in the eye of the world, is a very hard task. 
 But, faith and troth, you speak very discreetly; for I 
 hate both a wit and a fool. 
 
 Ang. She that marries a fool, Sir Sampson, forfeits the 
 reputation of her honesty or understanding: and she 
 that marries a very witty man is a slave to the severity 
 and insolent conduct of her husband. I should like a 
 man of wit for a lover, because I would have such a one 
 in my power ; but I would no more be his wife than his 
 enemy. For his malice is not a more terrible conse- 
 quence of his aversion than his jealousy is of his love. 
 
 Sir Samp. None of old Foresight's Sibyls ever uttered 
 such a truth. Odsbud, you have won my heart ! I hate 
 a wit ; I had a son that was spoiled among 'em ; a good 
 hopeful lad, till he learned to be a wit and might have 
 risen in the state. But a pox on't ! his wit run him out 
 of his money, and now his poverty has run him out of 
 his wits. 
 
 Ang. Sir Sampson, as your friend, I must tell you, 
 you are very much abused in that matter : he's no more 
 mad than you are. 
 
 Sir Samp. How, madam ! would I could prove it ! 
 
 Ang. I can tell you how that may be done. But it is 
 a thing that would make me appear to be too much con- 
 cerned in your affairs. 
 
 Sir Samp. \Aside. ~\ Odsbud, I believe she likes me I 
 \Aloud.] Ah, madam, all my affairs are scarce worthy 
 to be laid at your feet; and I wish, madam, they were in
 
 SCENE I.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 291 
 
 a better posture, that I might make a more becoming offer 
 to a lady of your incomparable beauty and merit. If I 
 had Peru in one hand, and Mexico in t'other, and the 
 eastern empire under my feet, it would make me only a 
 more glorious victim to be offered at the shrine of your 
 beauty. 
 
 Ang. Bless me, Sir Sampson, what's the matter ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Odd, madam, I love you ! and if you 
 would take my advice in a husband 
 
 Ang. Hold, hold, Sir Sampson. I asked your advice 
 for a husband, and you are giving me your consent. I 
 was indeed thinking to propose something like it in jest, 
 to satisfy you about Valentine : for if a match were seem- 
 ingly carried on between you and me, it would oblige 
 him to throw off his disguise of madness, in apprehension 
 of losing me: for you know he has long pretended a 
 passion for me. 
 
 Sir Samp. Gadzooks, a most ingenious contrivance ! 
 if we were to go through with it. But why must the 
 match only be seemingly carried on ? Odd, let it be a 
 real contract. 
 
 Ang. O fy, Sir Sampson ! what would the world 
 say? 
 
 Sir Samp. Say! they would say you were a wise 
 woman and I a happy man. Odd, madam, I'll love 
 you as long as I live, and leave you a good jointure 
 when I die. 
 
 Ang. Ay; but that is not in your power, Sir Samp- 
 son ; for when Valentine confesses himself in his senses, 
 he must make over his inheritance to his younger 
 brother. 
 
 Sir Samp. Odd, you're cunning, a wary baggage! 
 faith and troth, I like you the better. But, I warrant you, 
 I have a proviso in the obligation in favour of myself. 
 Body o' me, I have a trick to turn the settlement upon 
 issue male of our two bodies begotten. Odsbud, let us 
 find children, and I'll find an estate.
 
 292 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT v. 
 
 Ang. Will you ? well do you find the estate, and leave 
 the other to me. 
 
 Sir Samp. O rogue ! but I'll trust you. And will you 
 consent ! is it a match then ? 
 
 Ang. Let me consult my lawyer concerning this obli- 
 gation ; and if I find what you propose practicable, I'll 
 give you my answer. 
 
 Sir Samp. With all my heart : come in with me, and 
 I'll lend you the bond. You shall consult your lawyer, 
 and I'll consult a parson. Odzooks I'm a young man : 
 odzooks, I'm a young man, and I'll make it appear. 
 Odd, you're devilish handsome : faith and troth, you're 
 very handsome ; and I'm very young, and very lusty. 
 Odsbud, hussy, you know how to choose, and so do 
 I ; odd, I think we are very well met. Give me your hand, 
 odd, let me kiss it ; 'tis as warm and as soft as what? 
 Odd, as t'other hand ; give me t'other hand, and I'll 
 mumble 'em and kiss 'em till they, melt in my mouth. 
 
 Ang. Hold, Sir Sampson : you're profuse of your 
 vigour before your time : you'll spend your estate before 
 you come to it. 
 
 Sir Samp. No, no, only give you a rent-roll of my 
 possessions, ha! baggage! I warrant you for little 
 Sampson: odd, Sampson's a very good name for an 
 able fellow: your Sampsons were strong dogs from the 
 beginning. 
 
 Ang. Have a care, and don't overact your part. If 
 you remember, Sampson, the strongest of the name, 
 pulled an old house over his head at last. 
 
 Sir Samp. Say you so, hussy? Come, let's go then; 
 odd, I long to be pulling too, come away. Odso, here's 
 somebody coming. {Exeunt.
 
 SCENE II.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 293 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The same. 
 
 Enter TATTLE and JEREMY. 
 
 Tat. Is not that she, gone out just now? 
 
 Jer. Ay, sir, she's just going to the place of appoint- 
 ment. Ah, sir, if you are not very faithful and close in 
 this business, you'll certainly be the death of a person 
 that has a most extraordinary passion for your honour's 
 service. 
 
 Tat. Ay, who's that ? 
 
 Jer. Even my unworthy self, sir. Sir, I have had an 
 appetite to be fed with your commands a great while ; 
 and now, sir, my former master having much troubled 
 the fountain of his understanding, it is a very plausible 
 occasion for me to quench my thirst at the spring of your 
 bounty. I thought I could not recommend myself better 
 to you, sir, than by the delivery of a great beauty and 
 fortune into your arms, whom I have heard you sigh for. 
 
 Tat. I'll make thy fortune ; say no more. Thou art a 
 pretty fellow, and canst carry a message to a lady, in a 
 pretty soft kind of phrase, and with a good persuading 
 accent. 
 
 Jer. Sir, I have the seeds of rhetoric and oratory in 
 my head ; I have been at Cambridge. 
 
 Tat. Ay ! 'tis well enough for a servant to be bred at 
 a university : but the education is a little too pedantic for 
 a gentleman. I hope you are secret in your nature, 
 private, close, ha? 
 
 Jer. O sir, for that, sir, 'tis my chief talent: I'm as 
 secret as the head of Nilus. 
 
 Tat. Ay ! who is he, though ? a privy counsellor? 
 
 Jer. \AsideI\ O ignorance ! \Aloud.] A cunning 
 Egyptian, sir, that with his arms would overrun the 
 country : yet nobody could ever find out his head- 
 quarters.
 
 294 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT V. 
 
 Tat. Close dog ! a good whoremaster, I warrant him. 
 The time draws nigh, Jeremy. Angelica will be veiled 
 like a nun ; and I must be hooded like a friar ; ha, 
 Jeremy? 
 
 Jer. Ay, sir, hooded like a hawk, to seize at first sight 
 upon the quarry. It is the whim of my master's madness 
 to be so dressed ; and she is so in love with him, she'll 
 comply with anything to please him. Poor lady, I'm 
 sure she'll have reason to pray for me, when she finds 
 what a happy exchange she has made, between a madman 
 and so accomplished a gentleman. 
 
 Tat. Ay, faith, so she will, Jeremy ; you're a good 
 friend to her, poor creature. I swear I do it hardly so 
 much in consideration of myself as compassion to her. 
 
 Jer. 'Tis an act of charity, sir, to save a fine woman 
 with thirty thousand pounds, from throwing herself away. 
 
 Tat. So 'tis, faith. I might have saved several others 
 in my time; but egad, I could never find in my heart to 
 marry anybody before. 
 
 Jer. Well, sir, I'll go and tell her my master is coming; 
 and meet you in half a quarter of an hour, with your dis- 
 guise, at your own lodgings. You must talk a little 
 madly, she won't distinguish the tone of your voice. 
 
 Tat. No, no, let me alone for a counterfeit; I'll be 
 ready for you. [Exit JEREMY. 
 
 Enter Miss PRUE. 
 
 Prue. O Mr. Tattle, are you here ! I'm glad I have 
 found you ; I have been looking up and down for you 
 like anything, 'till I am as tired as anything in the world. 
 
 Tat. [Aside.] O pox, how shall I get rid of this foolish 
 girl! 
 
 Prue. O I have pure news, I can tell you, pure news. 
 I must not marry the seaman now my father says so. 
 Why won't you be my husband ? you say you love me, 
 and you won't be my husband. And I know you may be 
 my husband now if you please. 
 
 Tat. O fy, miss ! who told you so, child ?
 
 SCENE ii.] LOVE FOR LOVE. -295 
 
 Prue. Why, my father. I told him that you loved me. 
 
 Tat. O fy, miss ! why did you do so ? and who told 
 you so, child. 
 
 Prue. Who ! why you did ; did not you ? 
 
 Tat. O pox ! that was yesterday, miss, that was a great 
 while ago, child. I have been asleep since ; slept a whole 
 night, and did not so much as dream of the matter. 
 
 Prue. Pshaw ! O but I dreamt that it was so though. 
 
 Tat. Ay, but your father will tell you that dreams come 
 by contraries, child. O fy ! what, we must not love one 
 another now pshaw, that would be a foolish thing 
 indeed ! Fy ! fy ! you're a woman now, and must think 
 of a new man every morning, and forget him every night. 
 No, no, to marry is to be a child again, and play with 
 the same rattle always ; O fy ! marrying is a paw thing. 
 
 Prue. Well, but don't you love me as well as you did 
 last night then ? 
 
 Tat. No, no, child, you would no', have me. 
 
 Prue. No ! yes, but I would though. 
 
 Tat. Pshaw ! but I tell you, you would not You for- 
 get you're a woman, and don't know your own mind. 
 
 Prue. But here's my father, and he knows my mind. 
 
 Enter FORESIGHT. 
 
 Fore. O, Mr. Tattle, your servant, you are a close 
 man; but methinks your love to my daughter was a 
 secret I might have been trusted with ; or had you 
 a mind to try if I could discover it by my art ? Hum, 
 ha ! I think there is something in your physiognomy that 
 has a resemblance of her ; and the girl is like me. 
 
 Tat. And so you would infer, that you and I are alike ? 
 \Aside^\ What does the old prig mean? I'll banter 
 him, and laugh at him, and leave him. [Aloud.'] I fancy 
 you have a wrong notion of faces. 
 
 Fore. How? what? a wrong notion ! how so? 
 
 Tat. In the way of art : I have some taking features, 
 not obvious to vulgar eyes; that are indications of a
 
 296 LOVE FOR LOVE, [ACT v. 
 
 sudden turn of good fortune in the lottery of wives ; and 
 promise a great beauty and great fortune reserved alone 
 for me, by a private intrigue of destiny, kept secret from 
 the piercing eye of perspicuity; from all astrologers and 
 the stars themselves. 
 
 Fore. How ? I will make it appear that what you say 
 is impossible. 
 
 Tat. Sir, I beg your pardon, I'm in haste 
 
 Fore. For what ? 
 
 Tat. To be married, sir, married. 
 
 Fore. Ay, but pray take me along with you, 1 sir 
 
 Tat. No, sir : 'tis to be done privately. I never make 
 confidants. 
 
 Fore. Well, but my consent, I mean. You won't 
 marry my daughter without my consent. 
 
 Tat. Who, I, sir? I'm an absolute stranger to you 
 and your daughter, sir. 
 
 Fore. Heyday ! what time of the moon is this ? 
 
 Tat. Very true, sir, and desire to continue so. I have 
 no more love for your daughter than I have likeness of 
 you ; and I have a secret in my heart, which you would 
 be glad to know, and shan't know; and yet you shall 
 know it too, and be sorry for it afterwards. I'd have you 
 to know, sir, that I am as knowing as the stars, and as 
 secret as the night. And I'm going to be married just 
 now, yet did not know of it half an hour ago ; and the 
 lady stays for me, and does not know of it yet. There's 
 a mystery for you ! I know you love to untie difficulties 
 or if you can't solve this, stay here a quarter of an 
 hour, and I'll come and explain it to you. {Exit. 
 
 Prue. O father, why will you let him go ? won't you 
 make him to be my husband ? 
 
 Fore. Mercy on us ! what do these lunacies portend ? 
 Alas ! he's mad, child, stark wild. 
 
 Prue. What, and must not I have e'er a husband then ? 
 What, must I go to bed to nurse again, and be a child as 
 1 i.e. Let me understand vou.
 
 SCENE II.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 29; 
 
 long as she's an old woman ? Indeed but I won't ; for 
 now my mind is set upon a man, I will have a man some 
 way or other. Oh ! methinks I'm sick when I think of a 
 man ; and if I can't have one I would go to sleep all my 
 life : for when I'm awake it makes me wish and long, 
 and I don't know for what : and I'd rather be always 
 asleep, than sick with thinking. 
 
 fore. O fearful ! I think the girl's influenced too. 
 Hussy, you shall have a rod. 
 
 Prue. A fiddle of a rod ! I'll have a husband : and if 
 you won't get me one I'll get one for myself. I'll marry 
 our Robin the butler ; he says he loves me, and he's a 
 handsome man, and shall be my husband : I warrant 
 he'll be my husband, and thank me too, for he told 
 me so. 
 
 Enter SCANDAL, Mrs. FORESIGHT, and Nurse. 
 
 Fore. Did he so ? I'll dispatch him for it presently ; 
 rogue ! Oh, nurse, come hither. 
 
 Nurse. What is your worship's pleasure ? 
 
 Fore. Here take your young mistress, and lock her up 
 presently, till farther orders from me. Not a word, hussy. 
 Do what I bid you ; no reply ; away ! And bid Robin 
 make ready to give an account of his plate and linen, 
 d'ye hear : begone when I bid you. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. What is the matter, husband ? 
 
 Fore. 'Tis not convenient to tell you now. Mr. 
 Scandal, heaven keep us all in our senses ! I fear there 
 is a contagious frenzy abroad. How does Valentine? 
 
 Scan. O, I hope he will do well again : I have a mes- 
 sage from him to your niece Angelica. 
 
 Fore. I think she has not returned since she went 
 abroad with Sir Sampson. Nurse, why are you not gone? 
 
 [Exit Nurse. 
 Enter BEN. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Here's Mr. Benjamin ; he can tell us if his 
 father be come home.
 
 2gS LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT v. 
 
 Ben. Who, father ? ay, he's come home with a ven- 
 geance. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Why, what's the matter ? 
 
 Ben. Matter ! why, he's mad. 
 
 Fore, Mercy on us ! I was afraid of this. 
 
 Ben, And there's the handsome young woman, she, as 
 they say, brother Val went mad for, she's mad too, I 
 think. 
 
 Fore. O my poor niece, my poor niece, is she gone 
 too ? Well, I shall run mad next. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Well, but how mad ? how d'ye mean ? 
 
 Ben. Nay, I'll give you leave to guess : I'll undertake 
 to make a voyage to Antegoa no, hold, I mayn't say so 
 neither but I'll sail as far as Leghorn, and back again, 
 before you shall guess at the matter, and do nothing else ; 
 mess, you may take in all the points of the compass and 
 not hit right. 
 
 Mrs. Fore, Your experiment will take up a little too 
 much time. 
 
 Ben. Why then I'll tell you: there's a new wedding 
 upon the stocks, and they two are a-going to be married 
 to-night. 
 
 Scan, Who ? 
 
 Ben. My father, and the young woman. I can't hit 
 of her name. 
 
 Scan. Angelica? 
 
 Ben. Ay, the same. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Sir Sampson and Angelica : impossible ! 
 
 Ben, That may be but I'm sure it is as I tell you. 
 
 Scan, 'Sdeath, it's a jest ! I can't believe it. 
 
 Ben. Look you, friend, it's nothing to me whether you 
 believe it or no. What I say is true, d'ye see ; they are 
 married, or just going to be married, I know not which. 
 
 Fore, Well, but they are not mad, that is not lunatic ? 
 
 Ben, I don't know what you may call madness ; but 
 she's mad for a husband, and he's horn mad, I think, or 
 they'd ne'er make a match together. Here they come.
 
 SCENE ii.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 299 
 
 Enter Sir SAMPSON, ANGELICA, and BUCKRAM. 
 
 Sir Samp. Where is this old soothsayer ? this uncle of 
 mine elect ? Aha ! old Foresight, Uncle Foresight, wish 
 me joy, Uncle Foresight, double joy, both as uncle and 
 astrologer ; here's a conjunction that was not foretold in 
 all your Ephemeris. The brightest star in the blue firma- 
 ment is shot from above in a jelly of love, and so forth ; 
 and I'm lord of the ascendant. Odd, you're an old 
 fellow, Foresight, uncle I mean ; a very old fellow, Uncle 
 Foresight ; and yet you shall live to dance at my wed- 
 ding, faith and troth you shall. Odd, we'll have the 
 music of the spheres for thee, old Lilly, that -we will, and 
 thou shalt lead up a dance in via lactea ! 
 
 Fore. I'm thunderstruck ! You are not married to my 
 niece ? 
 
 Sir Samp. Not absolutely married, uncle ; but very 
 near it, within a kiss of the matter, as you see. 
 
 \Kisses ANGELICA. 
 
 Ang. 'Tis very true, indeed, uncle; I hope you'll be 
 my father, and give me. 
 
 Sir Samp. That he shall, or I'll burn his globes. Body 
 o' me, he shall be thy father, I'll make him thy father, 
 and thou shalt make me a father, and I'll make thee a 
 mother, and we'll beget sons and daughters enough to 
 put the weekly bills out of countenance. 
 
 Scan. Death and hell ! where's Valentine? \Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. This is so surprising 
 
 Sir Samp. How ! what does my aunt say ? Surprising, 
 aunt ! not at all, for a young couple to make a match 
 in winter : not at all. It's a plot to undermine cold 
 weather, and destroy that usurper of a bed called a 
 warming-pan. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. I'm glad to hear you have so much fire in 
 you, Sir Sampson. 
 
 Ben. Mess, I fear his fire's little better than tinder: 
 mayhap it will only serve to light up a match for some-
 
 300 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT v. 
 
 body else. The young woman's a handsome young 
 woman, I can't deny it ; but, father, if I might be your 
 pilot in this case, you should not marry her. It's just 
 the same thing, as if so be you should sail so far as the 
 Straits without provision. 
 
 Sir Samp. Who gave you authority to speak, sirrah ? 
 To your element, fish ! be mute, fish, and to sea ! rule 
 your helm, sirrah, don't direct me. 
 
 Ben. Well, well, take you care of your own helm, or 
 you mayn't keep your new vessel steady. 
 
 Sir Samp. Why, you impudent tarpaulin ! sirrah, do 
 you bring your forecastle jests upon your father? but I 
 shall be even with you, I won't give you a groat. Mr. 
 Buckram, is the conveyance so worded that nothing can 
 possibly descend to this scoundrel ? I would not so much 
 as have him have the prospect of an estate; though 
 there were no way to come to it but by the north-east 
 passage. 
 
 Buck. Sir, it is drawn according to your directions, 
 there is not the least cranny of the law unstopped. 
 
 Ben. Lawyer, I believe there's many a cranny and leak 
 unstopped in your conscience. If so be that one had a 
 pump to your bosom, I believe we should discover a foul 
 hold. They say a witch will sail in a sieve, but I believe 
 the devil would not venture aboard o' your conscience. 
 And that's for you. 
 
 Sir Samp. Hold your tongue, sirrah! How now? 
 who's here ? 
 
 Enter TATTLE and Mrs. FRAIL. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. sister, the most unlucky accident ! 
 
 Mrs. Fore. What's the matter ? 
 
 Tat. Oh, the two most unfortunate poor creatures in 
 the world we are ! 
 
 Fore. Bless us ! how so ? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Ah, Mr. Tattle and I, poor Mr. Tattle 
 and I are I can't speak it out.
 
 SCENE II.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 301 
 
 Tat. Nor I but poor Mrs. Frail and I are 
 
 Mrs. Frail. Married. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. Married ! How ? 
 
 Tat. Suddenly before we knew where we were that 
 villain Jeremy, by the help of disguises, tricked us into 
 one another. 
 
 Fore. Why, you told me just now, you went hence in 
 haste to be married. 
 
 Ang. But I believe Mr. Tattle meant the favour to me : 
 I thank him. 
 
 Tat. I did, as I hope to be saved, madam ; my inten- 
 tions were good. But this is the most cruel thing, to 
 marry one does not know how, nor why, nor wherefore. 
 The devil take me if ever I was so much concerned at 
 anything in my life ! 
 
 Ang. 'Tis very unhappy, if you don't care for one 
 another. 
 
 Tat. The least in the world; that is,, for my part; I 
 speak for myself. Gad, I never had the least thought of 
 serious kindness : I never liked anybody less in my life. 
 Poor woman ! gad, I'm sorry for her, too ; for I have no 
 reason to hate her neither ; but I believe I shall lead her 
 a damned sort of life. 
 
 Mrs. Fore. \Aside to Mrs. FRAIL.] He's better than no 
 husband at all though he's a coxcomb. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. \Aside to Mrs. FORESIGHT.] Ay, ay, it's 
 well it's no worse. [Aloud.] Nay, for my part I always 
 despised Mr. Tattle of all things ; nothing but his being 
 my husband could have made me like him less. 
 
 Tat. Look you there, I thought as much ! Pox on't, 
 I wish we could keep it secret ! why, I don't believe any 
 of this company would speak of it. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. But, my dear, that's impossible ; the 
 parson and that rogue J eremy will publish it. 
 
 Tat. Ay, my dear, so they will, as you say. 
 
 Ang. O you'll agree very well in a little time ; custom 
 will make it easy to you.
 
 302 LOVE FOR L O VE. [ACT v. 
 
 Tat. Easy ! pox on't ! I don't believe I shall sleep 
 to-night. 
 
 Sir Samp. Sleep, quotha ! no ; why you would not 
 sleep o' your wedding night ! I'm an older fellow than 
 you, and don't mean to sleep. 
 
 Ben. Why, there's another match now, as tho'f a couple 
 of privateers were looking for a prize, and should fall foul 
 of one another. I'm sorry for the young man with all 
 my heart. Look you, friend, if I may advise you, when 
 she's going, for that you must expect, I have experience 
 of her, when she's going, let her go. For no matrimony 
 is tough enough to hold her, and if she can't drag her 
 anchor along with her, she'll break her cable, I can tell 
 you that. Who's here ? the madman ? 
 
 Enter VALENTINE, SCANDAL, and JEREMY. 
 
 Val. No; here's the fool; and, if occasion be, I'll 
 give it under my hand. 
 
 Sir Samp. How now ! 
 
 Val. Sir, I'm come to acknowledge my errors, and ask 
 your pardon. 
 
 Sir Samp. What, have you found your senses at last 
 then? in good time, sir. 
 
 Val. You were abused, sir, I never was distracted. 
 
 Fore. How, not mad ! Mr. Scandal ? 
 
 Scan. No, really, sir ; I'm his witness, it was all coun- 
 terfeit. 
 
 Val. I thought -I had reasons. But it was a poor con- 
 trivance ; the effect has shown it such. 
 
 Sir Samp. Contrivance ! what, to cheat me ? to cheat 
 your father ? sirrah, could you hope to prosper ? 
 
 Val. Indeed, I thought, sir, when the father endea- 
 voured to undo the son, it was a reasonable return of 
 nature. 
 
 Sir Samp. Very good, sir ! Mr. Buckram, are you 
 ready? [To VALENTINE.] Come, sir, will you sign and 
 seal?
 
 SCENE II.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 303 
 
 Veil. If you please, sir; but first I would ask this lady 
 one question. 
 
 Sir Samp. Sir, you must ask me leave first. That 
 lady ! no, sir ; you shall ask that lady no questions, till 
 you have asked her blessing, sir ; that lady is to be my 
 wife. 
 
 Val. I have heard as much, sir ; but I would have it 
 from her own mouth. 
 
 Sir Samp. That's as much as to say, I lie, sir, and you 
 don't believe what I say. 
 
 Val. Pardon me, sir. But I reflect that I very lately 
 counterfeited madness ; I don't know but the frolic may 
 go round. 
 
 Sir Samp. Come, chuck, satisfy him, answer him. 
 Come, come, Mr. Buckram, the pen and ink. 
 
 Buck. Here it is, sir, with the deed ; all is ready. 
 
 [VALENTINE goes to ANGELICA. 
 
 Ang. 'Tis true, you have a great while pretended love 
 to me ; nay, what if you were sincere ; still you must 
 pardon me, if I think my own inclinations have a better 
 right to dispose of my person, than yours. 
 
 Sir Samp. Are you answered now, sir ? 
 
 Val. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sir Samp. Where's your plot, sir ; and your contriv- 
 ance now, sir ? Will you sign, sir ? come, will you sign 
 and seal ? 
 
 Val. With all my heart, sir. 
 
 Scan. 'Sdeath, you are not mad indeed, to ruin your- 
 self? 
 
 Val. I have been disappointed of my only hope ; and 
 he that loses hope may part with anything. I never 
 valued fortune, but as it was subservient to my pleasure ; 
 and my only pleasure was to please this lady ; I have 
 made many vain attempts, and find at last that nothing 
 but my ruin can effect it ; which, for that reason I will 
 sign to. Give me the paper. 
 
 Ang. \Aside^\ Generous Valentine !
 
 304 LOVE FOR LOVE. [ACT V. 
 
 Buck. Here is the deed, sir. 
 
 Val. But where is the bond, by which I am obliged to 
 sign this ? 
 
 Buck. Sir Sampson, you have it. 
 
 Ang. No, I have it ; and I'll use it, as I would every- 
 thing that is an enemy to Valentine. [Tears the paper. 
 
 Sir Samp. How now ! 
 
 Val. Ha! 
 
 Ang. \To VALENTINE.] Had I the world to give you, 
 it could not make me worthy of so generous and faithful 
 a passion ; here's my hand, my heart was always yours, 
 and struggled very hard to make this utmost trial of your 
 virtue. 
 
 Val. Between pleasure and amazement, I am lost. 
 But on my knees I take the blessing. 
 
 Sir Samp. Oons, what is the meaning of this ? 
 
 Ben. Mess, here's the wind changed again ! Father, 
 you and I may make a voyage together now. 
 
 Ang. Well, Sir Sampson, since I have played you a 
 trick, I'll advise you how you may avoid such another. 
 Learn to be a good father, or you'll never get a second 
 wife. I always loved your son, and hated your unforgiv- 
 ing nature. I was resolved to try him to the utmost ; I 
 have tried you too, and know you both. You have not 
 more faults than he has virtues ; and 'tis hardly more 
 pleasure to me, that I can make him and myself happy, 
 than that I can punish you. 
 
 Val. If my happiness could receive addition, this kind 
 surprise would make it double. 
 
 Sir Samp. Oons, you're a crocodile ! 
 
 Fore. Really, Sir Sampson, this is a sudden eclipse. 
 
 Sir Samp. You're an illiterate old fool, and I'm an- 
 other ! [Exit. 
 
 Tat. If the gentleman is in disorder for want of a wife, 
 I can spare him mine. [To JEREMY.] Oh, are you there, 
 sir? I'm indebted to you for my happiness. 
 
 Jer. Sir, I ask you ten thousand pardons; 'twas an
 
 SCENE 11.] LOVE FOR LOVE. 305 
 
 arrant mistake. You see, sir, my master was never mad, 
 or anything like it : then how could it be otherwise ? 
 
 Val. Tattle, I thank you, you would have interposed 
 between me and Heaven ; but Providence laid purgatory 
 in your way : you have but justice. 
 
 Scan. I hear the fiddles that Sir Sampson provided for 
 his own wedding ; methinks 'tis pity they should not be 
 employed when the match is so much mended. Valen- 
 tine, though it be morning, we may have a dance. 
 
 Val. Anything, my friend, everything that looks like 
 joy and transport. 
 
 Scan. Call 'em, Jeremy. {Exit JEREMY. 
 
 Ang. I have done dissembling now, Valentine ; and if 
 that coldness which I have always worn before you, 
 should turn to an extreme fondness, you must not sus- 
 pect it. 
 
 Val. I'll prevent that suspicion : for I intend to dote 
 to that immoderate degree, that your fondness shall 
 never distinguish itself enough to be taken notice of. If 
 ever you seem to love too much, it must be only when I 
 can't love enough. 
 
 Ang. Have a care of promises ; you know you are apt 
 to run more in debt than you are able to pay. 
 
 Val. Therefore I yield my body as your prisoner, and 
 make your best on't. 
 
 Re-enter JEREMY. 
 
 Jer> The music stays for you. [A dance. 
 
 Scan. Well, madam, you have done exemplary justice, 
 in punishing an inhuman father, and rewarding a faithful 
 lover: but there is a third good work, which I, in par- 
 ticular, must thank you for ; I was an infidel to your sex, 
 and you have converted me, For now I am convinced 
 that all women are not like Fortune, blind in bestowing 
 favours, either on those who do not merit, or who do not 
 want 'em. 
 
 Ang. 'Tis an unreasonable accusation, that you lay 
 
 Con. X
 
 306 EPILOGUE. 
 
 upon our sex : you tax us with injustice, only to cover 
 your own want of merit. You would all have the reward 
 of love ; but few have the constancy to stay till -it be- 
 comes your due. Men are generally hypocrites and 
 infidels, they pretend to worship, but have neither zeal 
 nor faith : how few, like Valentine, would persevere even 
 to martyrdom, and sacrifice their interest to their con- 
 stancy ! In admiring me you misplace the novelty : 
 
 The miracle to-day is, that we find 
 
 A lover true : not that a woman's kind. 
 
 \Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW HOUSE BY MRS. 
 BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 SURE Providence at first designed this place 
 
 To be the player's refuge in distress ; 
 
 For still in every storm they all run hither, 
 
 As to a shed that shields 'em from the weather. 
 
 But thinking of this change which last befel us, 
 
 It's like what I have heard our poets tell us : 
 
 For when behind our scenes their suits are pleading, 
 
 To help their love sometimes they show their reading ; 
 
 And wanting ready cash to pay for hearts, 
 
 They top their learning on us and their parts. 
 
 Once of philosophers they told us stories, 
 
 Whom, as I think, they called Py Pythagories ; 
 
 I'm sure 'tis some such Latin name they give 'em, 
 
 And we, who know no better, must believe 'em. 
 
 Now to these men (say they) such souls were given, 
 
 That after death ne'er went to hell nor heaven,
 
 EPILOGUE. 307 
 
 But lived, I know not how, in beasts ; and then, 
 When many years were passed, in men again. 
 Methinks, we players resemble such a soul ; 
 That does from bodies, we from houses stroll. 
 Thus Aristotle's soul, of old that was, 
 May now be damned to animate an ass ; 
 Or in this very house, for aught we know, 
 Is doing painful penance in some beau : 
 And thus, our audience, which did once resort 
 To shining theatres to see our sport, 
 Now find us tossed into a tennis-court. 
 These walls but t'other day were filled with noise 
 Of roaring gamesters, and your damn-me boys ; 
 Then bounding balls and rackets they encompast, 
 And now they're filled with jests, and flights, and bom- 
 bast ! 
 
 I vow, I don't much like this transmigration, 
 Strolling from place to place by circulation; 
 Grant, Heaven, we don't return to our first station ! 
 I know not what these think, but, for my part, 
 I can't reflect without an aching heart, 
 How we should end in our original, a cart. 
 But we can't fear, since you're so good to save us 
 That you have only set us up, to leave us. 
 Thus from the past, we hope for future grace, 
 
 I beg it 
 
 And some here know I have a begging face. 
 Then pray continue this your kind behaviour, 
 For a clear stage won't do, without your favour.
 
 THE WcAY OF THE WOT(LV. 
 
 Audire est opera pretium, procedere recte 
 
 Qui moechis non vultis. HORAT. Lib. i. Sat. 2. 
 
 Metuat, doti deprensa. Ibid. 1 
 
 i 1 " Ye that do not wish well to the proceedings of adulterers, it is worth 
 your while to hear how they are hampered on all sides."
 
 N the opinion of the critics The Way of 
 the World is the most finished of all Con- 
 greve's comedies. It is full of movement 
 and of those little touches which give 
 an insight into the manners of the day. 
 " Though not the most amusing," writes 
 Leigh Hunt, "it is assuredly the most 
 complete, piquant, and observant of all the works of Con- 
 greve ; full as an egg of some kind of wit or sense in almost 
 every sentence, and a rich treat for the lover of this sort of 
 writing sitting in his easy chair. Millamant pushes the 
 confident playfulness of a coquette to the verge of what is 
 pleasing ; but her animal spirits and good nature secure 
 her. You feel that her airs will give way by-and-by to a 
 genuine tenderness ; and meanwhile some of them are ex- 
 quisite in their affected superiority to circumstances." 
 
 Mr. George Meredith commends the play for the re- 
 markable brilliancy of the writing and the figure of Milla- 
 mant. "Where Congreve excels all his English rivals," 
 he remarks, "is in his literary force and a succinctness of 
 style peculiar to him. He hits the mean of a fine style 
 and a natural in dialogue. He is at once precise and 
 voluble. If you have ever thought upon style you will 
 acknowledge' it to be a signal accomplishment. In this 
 he is a classic, and worthy of treading a measure with 
 Moliere. Sheridan imitated but was far from surpassing 
 him. The flow of boudoir Billingsgate in Lady Wishfort 
 is unmatched for the vigour and pointedness of the tongue. 
 It spins along with a final ring, like the voice of nature in 
 a fury, and is, indeed, racy eloquence of the elevated fish- 
 wife. Millamant is an admirable, almost a lovable heroine. 
 It is a piece of genius in a writer to make a woman's man- 
 ner of speech portray her. You feel sensible of her presence 
 in every line of her speaking. An air of bewitching whim- 
 sicality hovers over the graces of this comic heroine, like 
 the lively conversational play of a beautiful mouth." 
 
 The Way of the World was produced in 1 700, but its 
 reception was so indifferent that the author, in disgust, 
 vowed that he would never again write for the stage a 
 promise which he rigidly kept.
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 To Mr. CONGREVE, occasioned by his Comedy called 1 ' The 
 Way of the World." 
 
 WHEN pleasure's falling to the low delight, 
 In the vain joys of the uncertain sight ; 
 No sense of wit when rude spectators know, 
 But in distorted gesture, farce and show ; 
 How could, great author, your aspiring mind 
 Dare to write only to the few refined ? 
 Yet though that nice ambition you pursue, 
 "Tis not in Congreve's power to please but few. 
 Implicitly devoted to his fame, 
 Well-dressed barbarians know his awful name. 
 Though senseless they're of mirth, but when they 
 
 laugh, 
 As they feel wine, but when, till drunk, they quaff. 
 
 On you from fate a lavish portion fell 
 In every way of writing to excel. 
 Your muse applause to Arabella brings, 
 In notes as sweet as Arabella sings. 
 Whene'er you draw an undissembled woe, 
 With sweet distress your rural numbers flow : 
 Pastora's the complaint of every swain, 
 Pastora still the echo of the plain ! 
 Or if your muse describe, with warming force, 
 The wounded Frenchman falling from his horse ; 
 And her own William glorious in the strife, 
 Bestowing on the prostrate foe his life : 
 You the great act as generously rehearse, 
 And all the English fury's in your verse.
 
 312 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 By your selected scenes and handsome choice, 
 
 Ennobled Comedy exalts her voice ; 
 
 You check unjust esteem and fond desire, 
 
 And teach to scorn what else we should admire : 
 
 The just impression taught by you we bear, 
 
 The player acts the world, the world the player ; 
 
 Whom still that world unjustly disesteems, 
 
 Though he alone professes what he seems. 
 
 But when your muse assumes her tragic part, 
 
 She conquers and she reigns in every heart : 
 
 To mourn with her men cheat their private woe, 
 
 And generous pity's all the grief they know. 
 
 The widow, who, impatient of delay, 
 
 From the town joys must mask it to the play, 
 
 Joins with your Mourning Bride's resistless moan, 
 
 And weeps a loss she slighted when her own : 
 
 You give us torment, and you give us ease, 
 
 And vary our afflictions as you please. 
 
 Is not a heart so kind as yours in pain, 
 
 To load your friends with cares you only feign ; 
 
 Your friends in grief, composed yourself, to leave ? 
 
 But 'tis the only way you'll e'er deceive. 
 
 Then still, great sir, your moving power employ, 
 
 To lull our sorrow, and correct our joy. 
 
 RICHARD STEELE.
 
 To the Right Honourable 
 RALPH, EARL OF MONTAGUE, &c. 
 
 MY LORD, 
 
 HETHER the world will arraign me of 
 vanity or not, that I have presumed to 
 dedicate this comedy to your Lordship, I 
 am yet in doubt ; though, it may be, it is 
 some degree of vanity even to doubt of it. 
 One who has at any time had the honour 
 of your Lordship's conversation, cannot be supposed to 
 think very meanly of that which he would prefer to your 
 perusal ; yet it were to incur the imputation of too much 
 sufficiency, to pretend to such a merit as might abide the 
 test of your Lordship's censure. 
 
 Whatever value may be wanting to this play while yet it 
 is mine, will be sufficiently made up to it when it is once 
 become your Lordship's ; and it is my security that I can- 
 not have overrated it more by my dedication, than your Lord- 
 ship will dignify it by your patronage. 
 
 That it succeeded on the stage, was almost beyond my 
 expectation ; for but little of it was prepared for that gene- 
 ral taste which seems now to be predominant in the palates 
 of our audience. 
 
 Those characters which are meant to be ridiculed in most 
 of our comedies, are of fools so gross, that, in my humble 
 opinion, they should rather disturb than divert the well- 
 natured and reflecting part of an audience ; they are 
 rather objects of charity than contempt ; and instead of 
 moving our mirth, they ought very often to excite our com* 
 passion. 
 
 This reflection moved me to design some characters which 
 should appear ridiculous, not so much through a natural 
 folly (which is incorrigible, and therefore not proper for the 
 stage) as through an affected wit ; a wit, which at the same 
 time that it is affected, is also false, As there is some diffi-
 
 314 DEDICATION. 
 
 culty in the formation of a character of this nature, so there 
 is some hazard which attends the progress of its success 
 upon the stage ; for many come to a play so overcharged 
 with criticism, that they very often let fly their censure, 
 when through their rashness they have mistaken their aim. 
 This I had occasion lately to observe ; for this play had 
 been acted two or three days, before some of these hasty 
 judges could find the leisure to distinguish betwixt the cha- 
 racter of a Witwoud and a Truewit. 
 
 I must beg your Lordship's pardon for this digression 
 from the true course of this epistle ; but that it may not 
 seem altogether impertinent, I beg that I may plead the 
 occasion of it, in part of that excuse of which I stand in 
 need, for recommending this comedy to your protection. It 
 is only by the countenance of your Lordship, and the few 
 so qualified, that such who wrote with care and pains can 
 hope to be distinguished ; for the prostituted name of poet 
 promiscuously levels all that bear it. 
 
 Terence, the most correct writer in the world, had a Scipio 
 and a Laelius, if not to assist him, at least to support him 
 in his reputation ; and notwithstanding his extraordinary 
 merit, it may be their countenance was not more than 
 necessary. 
 
 The purity of his style, the delicacy of his turns, and the 
 justness of his characters, were all of them beauties which 
 the greater part of his audience were incapable of tasting ; 
 some of the coarsest strokes of Plautus, so severely censured 
 by Horace, were more likely to affect the multitude ; such 
 who come with expectation to laugh at the last act of a play, 
 and are better entertained with two or three unseasonable 
 jests, than with the artful solution of the fable. 
 
 As Terence excelled in his performances, so had he great 
 advantages to encourage his undertakings ; for he built 
 most on the foundations of Menander ; his plots were gene- 
 rally modelled, and his characters ready drawn to his hand. 
 He copied Menander, and Menander had no less light in 
 the formation of his characters, from the observations of 
 Theophrastus, of whom he was a disciple ; and Theo- 
 phrastus, it is known, was not only the disciple, but the im- 
 mediate successor of Aristotle, the first and greatest judge 
 of poetry. These were great models to design by ; and the 
 further advantage which Terence possessed, towards giving
 
 DEDICATION. 315 
 
 his plays the due ornaments of purity of style and justness 
 of manners, was not less considerable, from the freedom of 
 conversation which was permitted him with Laelius and 
 Scipio, two of the greatest and most polite men of his age. 
 And indeed the privilege of such a conversation is the only 
 certain means of attaining to the perfection of dialogue. 
 
 If it has happened in any part of this comedy, that I have 
 gained a turn of style or expression more correct, or at 
 least, more corrigible, than in those which I have formerly 
 written, I must, with equal pride and gratitude, ascribe it 
 to honour of your Lordship's admitting me into your con- 
 versation, and that of a society where everybody else was so 
 well worthy of you, in your retirement last summer from the 
 town ; for it was immediately after that this comedy was 
 written. If I have failed in my performance, it is only to 
 be regretted, where there were so many, not inferior either 
 to a Scipio or a Laelius, that there should be one wanting 
 equal in capacity to a Terence. 
 
 If I am not mistaken, poetry is almost the only art which 
 has not yet laid claim to your Lordship's patronage. Ar- 
 chitecture and painting, to the great honour of our country, 
 have flourished under your influence and protection. In 
 the mean time, poetry, the eldest sister of all arts, and 
 parent of most, seems to have resigned her birthright, by 
 having neglected to pay her duty to your Lordship, and by 
 permitting others of a later extraction, to prepossess that 
 place in your esteem to which none can pretend a better 
 title. Poetry, in its nature, is sacred to the good and great ; 
 the relation between them is reciprocal, and they are ever 
 propitious to it. It is the privilege of poetry to address to 
 them, and it is their prerogative alone to give it protection. 
 
 This received maxim is a general apology for all writers 
 who consecrate their labours to great men ; but I could 
 wish at this time, that this address were exempted from the 
 common pretence of all dedications ; and that I can distin- 
 guish your Lordship even among the most deserving, so 
 this offering might become remarkable by some particular 
 instance of respect, which should assure your Lordship, 
 that I am, with all due sense of your extreme worthiness 
 and humanity, my Lord, your Lordship's most obedient, 
 and most obliged humble servant, 
 
 WILL. CONGREVE.
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON. 
 
 OF those few fools who with ill stars are curst, 
 Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the worst : 
 For they're a sort of fools which Fortune makes, 
 And after she has made 'em fools, forsakes. 
 With Nature's oafs 'tis quite a different case, 
 For Fortune favours all her idiot-race. 
 In her own nest the cuckoo-eggs we find, 
 O'er which she broods to hatch the changeling-kind. 
 No portion for her own she has to spare, 
 So much she dotes on her adopted care. 
 
 Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in, 
 Suffered at first some trifling stakes to win ; 
 But what unequal hazards do they run ! 
 Each time they write they venture all they've won : 
 The squire that's buttered still, is sure to be undone. 
 This author heretofore has found your favour ; 
 But pleads no merit from his past behaviour. 
 To build on that might prove a vain presumption, 
 Should grants, to poets made, admit resumption : 
 And in Parnassus he must lose his seat, 
 If that be found a forfeited estate. 
 
 He owns with toil he wrought the following scenes ; 
 But, if they're naught, ne'er spare him for his pains ; 
 Damn him the more ; have no commiseration. 
 For dulness on mature deliberation,
 
 P&OZOGV& 
 
 He swears he'll not resent one hissed-off scene, 
 Nor, like those peevish wits, his play maintain, 
 Who, to assert their sense, your taste arraign. 
 Some plot we think he has, and some new thought ; 
 Some humour too, no farce ; but that's a fault. 
 Satire, he thinks, you ought not to expect ; 
 For so reformed a town who dares correct ? 
 To please, this time, has been his sole pretence, 
 He'll not instruct, lest it should give offence. 
 Should he by chance a knave or fool expose, 
 That hurts none here, sure here are none of those : 
 In short, our play shall (with your leave to show it) 
 Give you one instance of a passive poet, 
 Who to your judgments yields all resignation ; 
 So save or damn, after your own discretion. 
 
 3*7
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 FAINALL, in love with MRS. MARWOOD. 
 MIRABELL, in love with MRS. MILLAMANT. 
 
 WlTWOUD, ) . 
 
 PETULANT Followers of MRS. MILLAMANT. 
 SIR WILFULL WITWOUD, half Brother to WITWOUD, 
 
 and Nephew to LADY WISHFORT. 
 WAITWELL, Servant to MIRABELL. 
 
 LADY WISHFORT, Enemy to MIRABELL, for having 
 falsely pretended love to her. 
 
 MRS. MILLAMANT, a fine Lady, Niece to LADY WISH- 
 FORT, and loves MIRABELL. 
 
 MRS. MARWOOD, Friend to MR. FAINALL, and likes 
 MIRABELL. 
 
 MRS. FAINALL, Daughter to LADY WISHFORT, and 
 Wife to FAINALL, formerly Friend to MIRABELL. 
 
 FOIBLE, Woman to LADY WISHFORT. 
 
 MINCING, Woman to MRS. MILLAMANT. 
 
 BETTY, Waiting-maid at a Chocolate-house. 
 
 PEG, Maid to LADY WISHFORT. 
 
 Coachmen, Dancers, Footmen, and Attendants. 
 SCENE LONDON.
 
 THE WzAY OF THE WOT^LV. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Chocolate House. 
 
 MIRABELL and FAINALL, rising from cards, BETTY 
 waiting. 
 
 IR. You are a fortunate man, Mr. Fain- 
 all ! 
 
 Fain. Have we done ? 
 Mir. What you please : I'll play on 
 to entertain you. 
 
 Fain. No, I'll give you your re- 
 venge another time, when you are not so indifferent; 
 you are thinking of something else now, and play too 
 negligently ; the coldness of a losing gamester lessens the 
 pleasure of the winner. I'd no more play with a man 
 that slighted his ill fortune than I'd make love to a 
 woman who undervalued the loss of her reputation. 
 
 Mir. You have a taste extremely delicate, and are for 
 refining on your pleasures. 
 
 Fain. Prithee, why so reserved ? Something has put 
 you out of humour. 
 
 Mir. Not at all : I happen to be grave to-day, and 
 you are gay ; that's all.
 
 320 THE VTA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT 1. 
 
 Fain. Confess, Millamant and you quarrelled last 
 night after I left you ; my fair cousin has some humours 
 that would tempt the patience of a Stoic. What, some 
 coxcomb came in, and was well received by her, while 
 you were by ? 
 
 Mir. Witwoud and Petulant ; and what was worse, 
 her aunt, your wife's mother, my evil genius : or to sum 
 up all in her own name, my old Lady Wishfort 
 came in. 
 
 Fain. O there it is then ! She has a lasting passion 
 for you, and with reason. What, then my wife was 
 there ? 
 
 Mir. Yes, and Mrs. Marwood, and three or four more, 
 whom I never saw before. Seeing me, they all put on 
 their grave faces, whispered one another ; then com- 
 plained aloud of the vapours, and after fell into a pro- 
 found silence. 
 
 Fain. They had a mind to be rid of you. 
 
 Mir. For which reason I resolved not to stir. At last 
 the good old lady broke through her painful taciturnity 
 with an invective against long visits. I would not have 
 understood her, but Millamant joining in the argument, 
 \ rose, and, with a constrained smile, told her, I thought 
 nothing was so easy as to know when a visit began to be 
 troublesome. She reddened, and I withdrew, without 
 expecting her reply. 
 
 Fain. You were to blame to resent what she spoke 
 only in compliance with her aunt. 
 
 Mir. She is more mistress of herself than to be under 
 the necessity of such a resignation. 
 
 Fain. What ! though half her fortune depends upon 
 her marrying with my lady's approbation ? 
 
 Mir. I was then in such a humour, that I should have 
 been better pleased if she had been less discreet. 
 
 Fain. Now, I remember, I wonder not they were 
 weary of you ; last night was one of their cabal nights ; 
 they have 'em three times a-week, and meet by turns at
 
 SCENE i.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 321 
 
 one another's apartments, where they come together like 
 the coroner's inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputa- 
 tions of the week. You and I are excluded ; and it was 
 once proposed that all the male sex should be excepted ; 
 but somebody moved that, to avoid scandal, there might 
 be one man of the community ; upon which motion Wit- 
 woud and Petulant were enrolled members. 
 
 Mir. And who may have been the foundress of this 
 sect ? My Lady Wishfort, I warrant, who publishes her 
 detestation of mankind ; and full of the vigour of fifty- 
 five, declares for a friend and ratafia ; and let posterity 
 shift for itself, she'll breed no more. 
 
 Fain. The discovery of your sham addresses to her, to 
 conceal your love to her niece, has provoked this separa- 
 tion ; had you dissembled better, things might have con- 
 tinued in the state of nature. 
 
 Mir. I did as much as man could, with any reasoHable 
 conscience ; I proceeded to the very last act of flattery 
 with her, and was guilty of a song in her commendation. 
 Nay, I got a friend to put her into a lampoon, and com- 
 pliment her with the imputation of an affair with a young 
 fellow, which I carried so far, that I told her the mali- 
 cious town took notice that she was grown fat of a sud- 
 den ; and when she lay in of a dropsy, persuaded her 
 she was reported to be in labour. The devil's in't, if an 
 old woman is to be flattered further, unless a man should 
 endeavour downright personally to debauch her; and 
 that my virtue forbade me. But for the discovery of this 
 amour I am indebted to your friend, or your wife's 
 friend, Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Fain. What should provoke her to be your enemy, 
 unless she has made you advances which you have 
 slighted ? Women do not easily forgive omissions of 
 that nature. 
 
 Mir. She was always civil to me till of late. I con- 
 fess I am not one of those coxcombs who are apt to 
 interpret a woman's good manners to her prejudice, and 
 
 Con. v
 
 322 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT i. 
 
 think that she who does not refuse 'em everything, can 
 refuse 'em nothing. 
 
 Fain. You are a gallant man, Mirabell ; and though 
 you may have cruelty enough not to satisfy a lady's long- 
 ing, you have too much generosity not to be tender of 
 her honour. Yet you speak with an indifference which 
 seems to be affected, and confesses you are conscious of 
 a negligence. 
 
 Mir. You pursue the argument with a distrust that 
 seems to be unaffected, and confesses you are conscious 
 of a concern for which the lady is more indebted to you 
 than is your wife. 
 
 Fain. Fy, fy, friend ! if you grow censorious I must 
 leave you. I'll look upon the gamesters in the next 
 room. 
 
 Mir. Who are they? 
 
 Fain. Petulant and Witwoud. [To BETTY.] Bring me 
 some chocolate. \Exit. 
 
 Mir. Betty, what says your clock ? 
 
 Bet. Turned of the last canonical hour, sir. {Exit. 
 
 Mir. How pertinently the jade answers me! {Look- 
 ing on his watch.] Ha! almost one o'clock! 0, y'are 
 come ! 
 
 Enter Footman. 
 
 Well, is the grand affair over? You have been some- 
 thing tedious. 
 
 Foot. Sir, there's such coupling at Pancras, that they 
 stand behind one another, as 'twere in a country dance. 
 Ours was the last couple to lead up ; and no hopes ap- 
 pearing of despatch ; besides, the parson growing hoarse, 
 we were afraid his lungs would have failed before it came 
 to our turn ; so we drove round to Duke's-place ; and 
 there they were rivetted in a trice. 
 
 Mir. So, so, you are sure they are married. 
 
 Foot. Married and bedded, sir; I am witness. 
 
 Mir. Have you the certificate ? 
 
 Foot. Here it is, sir.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 323 
 
 Mir. Has the tailor brought Waitwell's clothes home, 
 and the new liveries ? 
 
 Foot. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mir. That's well. Do you go home again, d'ye hear, 
 and adjourn the consummation till further orders. Bid 
 Waitwell shake his ears, and Dame Partlet rustle up her 
 feathers, and meet me at one o'clock by Rosamond's 
 Pond, 1 that I may see her before she returns to her lady ; 
 and as you tender your ears be secret. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same. 
 
 MIRABELL, FAINALL, and BETTY. 
 
 Fain. Joy of your success, Mirabell; you look pleased. 
 
 Mir. Ay ; I have been engaged in a matter of some 
 sort of mirth, which is not yet ripe for discovery. I am 
 glad this is not a cabal night. I wonder, Fainall, that 
 you who are married, and of consequence should be dis- 
 creet, will suffer your wife to be of such a party. 
 
 Fain. Faith, I am not jealous. Besides, most who are 
 engaged are women and relations ; and for the men, they 
 are of a kind too contemptible to give scandal. 
 
 Mir. I am of another opinion. The greater the cox- 
 comb, always the more the scandal : for a woman, who 
 is not a fool, can have but one reason for associating 
 with a man who is one. 
 
 Fain. Are you jealous as often as you see Witwoud 
 entertained by Millamant ? 
 
 Mir. Of her understanding I am, if not of her person. 
 
 Fain. You do her wrong ; for, to give her her due, she 
 has wit. 
 
 1 Rosamond's Pond was a sheet of water in the south-west 
 corner of St. James's Park, " long consecrated to disastrous love 
 and elegiac poetry." ' It was filled up in 17/0.
 
 324 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT i. 
 
 Mir. She has beauty enough to make any man think 
 so ; and complaisance enough not to contradict him who 
 shall tell her so. 
 
 Fain. For a passionate lover, methinks you are a man 
 somewhat too discerning in the failings of your mistress. 
 
 Mir. And for a discerning man, somewhat too pas- 
 sionate a lover ; for I like her with all her faults ; nay, 
 like her for her faults. Her follies are so natural, or so 
 artful, that they become her; and those affectations 
 which in another woman would be odious, serve but to 
 make her more agreeable. I'll tell thee, Fainall, she 
 once used me with that insolence, that in revenge I took 
 her to pieces ; sifted her, and separated her failings ; I 
 studied 'em, and got 'em by rote. The catalogue was so 
 large, that I was not without hopes one day or other to 
 hate her heartily : to which end I so used myself to think 
 of 'em, that at length, contrary to my design and expecta- 
 tion, they gave me every hour less and less disturbance ; 
 till in a few days it became habitual to me to remember 
 'em without being displeased. They are now grown as 
 familiar to me as my own frailties ; and in all probability, 
 in a little time longer, I shall like 'em as well. 
 
 Fain. Marry her, marry her ! be half as well acquainted 
 with her charms, as you are with her defects, and my life 
 on't, you are your own man again. 
 
 Mir. Say you so ? 
 
 Fain. Ay, ay, I have experience : I have a wife, and 
 so forth. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Mes. Is one Squire Witwoud here ? 
 
 Bet. Yes, what's your business? 
 
 Mes. I have a letter for him, from his brother Sir Wil- 
 full, which I am charged to deliver into his own hands. 
 
 Bet. He's in the next room, friend that way. 
 
 \Exit Messenger. 
 
 Mir. What, is the chief of that noble family in town, 
 Sir Wilfull Witwoud?
 
 SCENE II.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 325 
 
 Fain. He is expected to-day. Do you know him? 
 
 Mir. I have seen him. He promises to be an extra- 
 ordinary person ; I think you have the honour to be 
 related to him. 
 
 Fain. Yes ; he is half brother to this Witwoud by a 
 former wife, who was sister to my Lady Wishfort, my 
 wife's mother. If you marry Millamant, you must call 
 cousins too. 
 
 Mir. I had rather be his relation than his acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Fain. He comes to town in order to equip himself for 
 travel. 
 
 Mir. For travel ! why, the man that I mean is above 
 forty. 
 
 Fain. No matter for that ; 'tis for the honour of Eng- 
 land, that all Europe should know we have blockheads 
 of all ages. 
 
 Mir. I wonder there is not an act of parliament to 
 save the credit of the nation, and prohibit the exporta- 
 tion of fools. 
 
 Fain. By no means ; 'tis better as 'tis. 'Tis better to 
 trade with a little loss, than to be quite eaten up with 
 being overstocked. 
 
 Mir. Pray, are the follies of this knight-errant, and 
 those of the squire his brother, anything related ? 
 
 Fain. Not at all ; Witwoud grows by the knight, like 
 a medlar grafted on a crab. One will melt in your mouth, 
 and t'other set your teeth on edge ; one is all pulp, and 
 the other all core. 
 
 Mir. So one will be rotten before he be ripe, and the 
 other will be rotten without ever being ripe at all. 
 
 Fain. Sir Wilfull is an odd mixture of bashfulness and 
 obstinacy. But when he's drunk he's as loving as the 
 monster in the Tempest, and much after the same man- 
 ner. To give t'other his due, he has something of good- 
 nature, and does not always want wit. 
 
 Mir. Not always : but as often as his memory fails
 
 326 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT i. 
 
 him, and his common-place of comparisons. He is a 
 fool with a good memory, and some few scraps of other 
 folks' wit. He is one whose conversation can never be 
 approved, yet it is now and then to be endured. He has 
 indeed one good quality, he is not exceptious ; for he so 
 passionately affects the reputation of understanding rail- 
 lery, that he will construe an affront into a jest ; and call 
 downright rudeness and ill language, satire and fire. 
 
 Fain. If you have a mind to finish his picture, you 
 have an opportunity to do it at full length. Behold the 
 original ! 
 
 Enter WITWOUD. 
 
 Wit. Afford me your compassion, my dears ! pity me, 
 Fainall ! Mirabell, pity me ! 
 
 Mir. I do from my soul. 
 
 Fain. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 Wit. No letters for me, Betty? 
 
 Bet. Did not a messenger bring you one but now, 
 sir? 
 
 Wit. Ay, but no other ? 
 
 Bet. No, sir. 
 
 Wit. That's hard, that's very hard. A messenger ! a 
 mule, a beast of burden ! he has brought me a letter 
 from the fool my brother, as heavy as a panegyric in a 
 funeral sermon, or a copy of commendatory verses from 
 one poet to another : and what's worse, 'tis as sure a fore- 
 runner of the author, as an epistle dedicatory. 
 
 Mir. A fool, and your brother, Witwoud ! 
 
 Wit. Ay, ay, my half brother. My half brother he is, 
 no nearer upon honour. 
 
 Mir. Then 'tis possible he may be but half a fool. 
 
 Wit. Good, good, Mirabell, k drole ! good, good ; 
 hang him, don't let's talk of him. Fainall, how does 
 your lady ? Gad, I say anything in the world to get this 
 fellow out of my head. I beg pardon that I should ask 
 a man of pleasure, and the town, a question at once so
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 327 
 
 foreign and domestic. But I talk like an old maid at a 
 marriage ; I don't know what I say : but she's the best 
 woman in the world. 
 
 Fain. 'Tis well you don't know what you say, or else 
 your commendation would go near to make me either 
 vain or jealous. 
 
 Wit. No man in town lives well with a wife but Fain- 
 all. Your judgment, Mirabell. 
 
 Mir. You had better step and ask his wife, if you 
 would be credibly informed. 
 
 Wit. Mirabell? 
 
 Mir. Ay. 
 
 Wit. My dear, I ask ten thousand pardons ; gad, I 
 have forgot what I was going to say to you ! 
 
 Mir. I thank you heartily, heartily. 
 
 Wit. No, but prithee excuse me : my memory is such 
 a memory. 
 
 Mir. Have a care of such apologies, Witwoud ; for I 
 never knew a fool but he affected to complain, either of 
 the spleen or his memory. 
 
 Fain. What have you done with Petulant ? 
 
 Wit. He's reckoning his money my money it was. 
 I have no luck to-day. 
 
 Fain. You may allow him to win of you at play : for 
 you are sure to be too hard for him at repartee ; since 
 you monopolise the wit that is between you, the fortune 
 must be his of course. 
 
 Mir. I don't find that Petulant confesses the superi- 
 ority of wit to be your talent, Witwoud. 
 
 Wit. Come, come, you are malicious now, and would 
 breed debates. Petulant's my friend, and a very honest 
 fellow, and a very pretty fellow, and has a smattering 
 faith and troth, a pretty deal of an odd sort of a small 
 wit : nay, I'll do him justice. I'm his friend, I won't 
 wrong him neither. And if he had any judgment in the 
 world, he would not be altogether contemptible. Come, 
 come, don't detract from the merits of my friend.
 
 328 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT I. 
 
 Fain, You don't take your friend to be over-nicely 
 bred? 
 
 Wit. No, no, hang him, the rogue has no manners at 
 all, that I must own : no more breeding than a bum- 
 bailiff, that I grant you : : 'tis pity, faith ; the fellow has 
 fire and life. 
 
 Mir. What, courage? 
 
 Wit. Hum, faith I don't know as to that, I can't say 
 as to that Yes, faith, in a controversy, he'll contradict 
 anybody. 
 
 Mir. Though 'twere a man whom he feared, or a 
 woman whom he loved. 
 
 Wit. Well, well, he does not always think before he 
 speaks ; we have all our failings : you are too hard 
 upon him, you are, faith. Let me excuse him I can 
 defend most of his faults, except one or two : one he has, 
 that's the truth on't ; if he were my brother, I could not 
 acquit him : that, indeed, I could wish were other- 
 wise. 
 
 Mir. Ay, marry, what's that, Witwoud ? 
 
 Wit. O pardon me ! expose the infirmities of my 
 friend ! No, my dear, excuse me there. 
 
 Fain. What, I warrant he's unsincere, or 'tis some 
 such trifle. 
 
 Wit. No, no ; what if he be ? 'tis no matter for that, 
 his wit will excuse that : a wit should no more be sincere, 
 than a woman constant ; one argues a decay of parts, as 
 t'other of beauty. 
 
 Mir. Maybe you think him too positive ? 
 
 Wit. No, no, his being positive is an incentive to argu- 
 ment, and keeps up conversation. 
 
 Fain. Too illiterate ? 
 
 Wit. That ! that's his happiness : his want of learn- 
 ing gives him the more opportunities to show his natural 
 parts. 
 
 Mir. He wants words ? 
 
 Wit. Ay : but I like him for that now ; for his want
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 329 
 
 of words gives me the pleasure very often to explain his 
 meaning. 
 
 Fain. He's impudent ? 
 
 Wit. No, that's not it. 
 
 Mir. Vain ? 
 
 Wit. No. 
 
 Mir. What ! he speaks unseasonable truths sometimes, 
 because he has not wit enough to invent an evasion ? 
 
 Wit. Truths ! ha ! ha ! ha ! no, no ; since you will 
 have it, I mean, he never speaks truth at all, that's all. 
 He will lie like a chambermaid, or a woman of quality's 
 porter. Now that is a fault. 
 
 Enter Coachman. 
 
 Coach. Is Master Petulant here, mistress ? 
 
 Bet. Yes. 
 
 Coach. Three gentlewomen in a coach would speak 
 with him. 
 
 Fain. O brave Petulant ! three ! 
 
 Bet. I'll tell him. 
 
 Coach. You must bring two dishes of chocolate and a 
 glass of cinnamon-water. 1 
 
 {Exeunt BETTY and Coachman. 
 
 Wit. That should be for two fasting strumpets, and a 
 bawd troubled with the wind. Now you may know what 
 the three are. 
 
 Mir. You are very free with your friend's acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Wit. Ay, ay, friendship without freedom is as dull as 
 love without enjoyment, or wine without toasting. But 
 to tell you a secret, these are trulls whom he allows 
 coach-hire, and something more, by the week, to call on 
 him once a-day at public places. 
 
 Mir. How! 
 
 Wit. You shall see he won't go to 'em, because there's 
 
 1 A mixture of sugar, spirit, powdered cinnamon, and hot water. 
 A favourite drink of Dean Swift, who was a martyr to dyspepsia.
 
 330 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. [ACT I. 
 
 no more company here to take notice of him. Why 
 this is nothing to what he used to do : before he found 
 out this way, I have known him call for himself. 
 Fain. Call for himself ! what dost thou mean ? 
 
 Wit. Mean ! why he would slip you out of this choco- 
 late-house, just when you had been talking to him as 
 soon as your back was turned whip he was gone ! 
 then trip to his lodging, clap on a hood and scarf, and a 
 mask, slap into a hackney-coach, and drive hither to the 
 door again in a trice, where he would send in for him- 
 self ; that I mean, call for himself, wait for himself; nay, 
 and what's more, not finding himself, sometimes leave a 
 letter for himself. 
 
 Mir. I confess this is something extraordinary. I 
 believe he waits for himself now, he is so long a-coming : 
 Oh ! I ask his pardon. 
 
 Enter PETULANT and BETTY. 
 
 Bet. Sir, the coach stays. 
 
 Pet. Well, well ; I come. 'Sbud, a man had as good 
 be a professed midwife, as a professed whoremaster, at this 
 rate ! to be knocked up and raised at all hours, and in all 
 places. Pox on 'em, I won't come ! D'ye hear, tell 'em 
 I won't come : let 'em snivel and cry their hearts out. 
 
 Fain. You are very cruel, Petulant. 
 
 Pet. All's one, let it pass : I have a humour to be 
 cruel. 
 
 Mir. I hope they are not persons of condition that 
 you use at this rate. 
 
 Pet. Condition ! condition's a dried fig, if I am not in 
 humour ! By this hand, if they were your a a your 
 what d'ye-call-'ems themselves, they must wait or rub off, 
 if I want appetite. 
 
 Mir. What d'ye-call-'ems ! what are they, Witwoud ? 
 Wit. Empresses, my dear : by your what-d'ye-call- 
 'ems he means sultana queens. 
 
 Pet. Ay, Roxolanas.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 331 
 
 Mir. Cry you mercy ! 
 
 Fain. Witwoud says they are 
 
 Pet. What does he say th'are ? 
 
 Wit. I ? fine ladies, I say. 
 
 Pet. Pass on, Witwoud. Hark'ee, by this light his 
 relations : two co-heiresses his cousins, and an old aunt, 
 who loves caterwauling better than a conventicle. 
 
 Wit. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I had a mind to see how the 
 rogue would come off. Ha ! ha ! ha ! gad, I can't be 
 angry with him, if he had said they were my mother and 
 my sisters. 
 
 Mir. No! 
 
 Wit. No; the rogue's wit and readiness of invention 
 charm me. Dear Petulant. 
 
 Bet. They are gone, sir, in great anger. 
 
 Pet. Enough, let 'em trundle. Anger helps com- 
 plexion, saves paint. 
 
 Fain. This continence is all dissembled ; this is in 
 order to have something to brag of the next time he 
 makes court to Millamant, and swear he has abandoned 
 the whole sex for her sake. 
 
 Mir. Have you not left off your impudent pretensions 
 there yet? I shall cut your throat some time or other, 
 Petulant, about that business. 
 
 Pet. Ay, ay, let that pass there are other throats to 
 be cut. 
 
 Mir. Meaning mine, sir? 
 
 Pet. Not I I mean nobody I know nothing : but 
 there are uncles and nephews in the world and they 
 may be rivals what then ! all's one for that. 
 
 Mir. How f hark'ee, Petulant, come hither : explain, 
 or I shall call your interpreter. 
 
 Pet. Explain ! I know nothing. Why, you have an 
 uncle, have you not, lately come to town, and lodges by 
 my Lady Wishfort's ? 
 
 Mir. True. 
 
 Pet. Why, that's enough you and he are not friends ;
 
 332 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT I. 
 
 and if he should marry and have a child, you may be 
 disinherited, ha ? 
 
 Mir. Where hast thou stumbled upon all this truth ? 
 
 Pet. All's one for that ; why then say I know some- 
 thing. 
 
 Mir. Come, thou art an honest fellow, Petulant, and 
 shalt make love to my mistress, thou sha't, faith. What 
 hast thou heard of my uncle ? 
 
 Pet. I ? nothing I. If throats are to be cut, let swords 
 clash ! snug's the word, I shrug and am silent. 
 
 Mir. Oh, raillery, raillery ! Come, I know thou art 
 in the women's secrets. What, you're a cabalist ; I know 
 you stayed at Millamant's last night, after I went. Was 
 there any mention made of my uncle or me ? tell me. 
 If thou hadst but good-nature equal to thy wit, Petulant, 
 Tony Witwoud, who is now thy competitor in fame, 
 would show as dim by thee as a dead whiting's eye by a 
 pearl or orient ; he would no more be seen by thee, than 
 Mercury is by the sun. Come, I'm sure thou wo't tell me. 
 
 Pet. If I do, will you grant me common sense then 
 for the future ? 
 
 Mir. Faith, I'll do what I can for thee, and I'll pray 
 that Heaven may grant it thee in the meantime. 
 
 Pet. Well, hark'ee. 
 
 [MIRABELL and PETULANT talk apart. 
 
 Fain. Petulant and you both will find Mirabell as 
 warm a rival as a lover. 
 
 Wit. Pshaw ! pshaw ! that she laughs at Petulant is 
 plain. And for my part, but that it is almost a fashion to 
 admire her, I should hark'ee to tell you a secret, but 
 let it go no further between friends, I shall never break 
 my heart for her. 
 
 Fain. How! 
 
 Wit. She's handsome ; but she's a sort of an uncertain 
 woman. 
 
 Fain. I thought you had died for her. 
 Wit. Umh no
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 333 
 
 Fain. She has wit. 
 
 Wit. 'Tis what she will hardly allow anybody else : 
 now, demme, I should hate that, if she were as hand- 
 some as Cleopatra. Mirabell is not so sure of her as he 
 thinks for. 
 
 Fain. Why do you think so ? 
 
 Wit. We stayed pretty late there last night, and heard 
 something of an uncle to Mirabell, who is lately come 
 to town and is between him and the best part of his 
 estate. Mirabell and he are at some distance, as my 
 Lady Wishfort has been told ; and you know she hates 
 Mirabell worse than a quaker hates a parrot, or than a 
 fishmonger hates a hard frost. Whether this uncle has 
 seen Mrs. Millamant or not, I cannot say, but there were 
 items of such a treaty being in embryo ; and if it should 
 come to life, poor Mirabell would be in some sort unfor- 
 tunately fobbed, i'faith. 
 
 Fain. 'Tis impossible Millamant should hearken to it. 
 
 Wit. Faith, my dear, I can't tell ; she's a woman, and 
 a kind of humourist. 
 
 Mir. And this is the sum of what you could collect 
 last night ? 
 
 Pet. The quintessence. Maybe Witwoud knows more, 
 he staid longer : besides, they never mind him ; they 
 say anything before him. 
 
 Mir. I thought you had been the greatest favourite. 
 
 Pet. Ay, tete-a-tete, but not in public, because I make 
 remarks. 
 
 Mir. You do? 
 
 Pet. Ay, ay; pox, I'm malicious, man! Now he's 
 soft you know ; they are not in awe of him the fellow's 
 well-bred; he's what you call a what-d'ye-call-'em, a 
 fine gentleman ; but he's silly withal. 
 
 Mir. I thank you, I know as much as my curiosity 
 requires. Fainall, are you for the Mall? ' 
 
 > The Mall was the fashionable lounge where smoking was mt 
 allowed.
 
 334 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT I. 
 
 Fain. Ay, I'll take a turn before dinner. 
 
 Wit. Ay, we'll all walk in the Park ; the ladies talked 
 of being there. 
 
 Mir. I thought you were obliged to watch for your 
 brother Sir Wilfull's arrival. 
 
 Wit. No, no ; he comes to his aunt's, my lady Wish- 
 fort. Pox on him ! I shall be troubled with him too ; 
 what shall I do with the fool ? 
 
 Pet. Beg him for his estate, that I may beg you after- 
 wards : and so have but one trouble with you both. 
 
 Wit. O rare Petulant ! thou art as quick as fire in a 
 frosty morning ; thou shalt to the Mall with us, and we'll 
 be very severe. 
 
 Pet. Enough, I'm in a humour to be severe. 
 
 Mir. Are you ? pray then walk by yourselves : let not 
 us be accessory to your putting the ladies out of coun- 
 tenance with your senseless ribaldry, which you roar out 
 aloud as often as they pass by you ; and when you have 
 made a handsome woman blush, then you think you have 
 been severe. 
 
 Pet. What, what ! then let 'em either show their inno- 
 cence by not understanding what they hear, or else show 
 their discretion by not hearing what they would not be 
 thought to understand. 
 
 Mir. But hast not thou then sense enough to know 
 that thou oughtest to be most ashamed thyself, when 
 thou hast put another out of countenance ? 
 
 Pet. Not I, by this hand !-^-I always take blushing 
 either for a sign of guilt, or ill-breeding. 
 
 Mir. I confess you ought to think so. You are in the 
 right, that you may plead the error of your judgment in 
 defence of your practice. 
 
 Where modesty's ill-manners, 'tis but fit 
 That impudence and malice pass for wit. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 St. James's Park. 
 
 Mrs. FAINALL and Mrs. MAR WOOD. 
 
 RS. FAIN. Ay, ay, dear Manvood, if we 
 will be happy, we must find the means 
 in ourselves, and among ourselves. 
 Men are ever in extremes ; either doat- 
 ing or averse. While they are lovers, 
 if they have fire and sense, their jea- 
 lousies are insupportable ; and when they cease to love 
 (we ought to think at least) they loath; they look upon 
 us with horror and distaste ; they meet us like the ghosts 
 of what we were, and as such, fly from us. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. True, 'tis an unhappy circumstance of life, 
 that love should ever die before us ; and that the man so 
 often should outlive the lover. But say what you will, 
 'tis better to be left, than never to have been loved. To 
 pass our youth in dull indifference, to refuse the sweets 
 of life because they once must leave us, is as preposterous 
 as to wish to have been born old, because we one day 
 must be old. For my part, my youth may wear and 
 waste, but it shall never rust in my possession. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Then it seems you dissemble an aver- 
 sion to mankind, only in compliance to my mother's hu- 
 mour? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Certainly. To be free ; I have no taste 
 of those insipid dry discourses, with which our sex of 
 force must entertain themselves, apart from men. We
 
 336 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT n. 
 
 may affect endearments to each other, profess eternal 
 friendships, and seem to doat like lovers ; but 'tis not in 
 our natures long to persevere. Love will resume his 
 empire in our breasts ; and every heart, or soon or late, 
 receive and re-admit him as its lawful tyrant. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Bless me, how have I been deceived ! 
 why you profess a libertine. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You see my friendship by my freedom. 
 Come, be as sincere, acknowledge that your sentiments 
 agree with mine. 
 Mrs. Fain. Never ! 
 Mrs. Mar. You hate mankind ? 
 Mrs. Fain. Heartily, inveterately. 
 Mrs. Mar. Your husband ? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Most transcendently ; ay, though I say it, 
 meritoriously. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Give me your hand upon it. 
 Mrs. Fain. There. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I join with you; what I have said has 
 been to try you. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Is it possible ? dost thou hate those vipers, 
 men? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I have done hating 'em, and am now come 
 to despise 'em ; the next thing I have to do, is eternally 
 to forget 'em. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. There spoke the spirit of an Amazon, a 
 Penthesilea ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. And yet I am thinking sometimes to carry 
 my aversion further. 
 Mrs. Fain. How? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Faith, by marrying ; if I could but find 
 one that loved me very well, and would be thoroughly 
 sensible of ill usage, I think I should do myself the 
 violence of undergoing the ceremony. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You would not make him a cuckold ? 
 Mrs. Mar. No ; but I'd make him believe I did, and 
 that's as bad.
 
 SCENE l.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 337 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Why, had not you as good do it ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Oh ! if he should ever discover it, he 
 would then know the worst, and be out of his pain ; but 
 I would have him ever to continue upon the rack of fear 
 and jealousy. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ingenious mischief ! would thou wert mar- 
 ried to Mirabell. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Would I were ! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You change colour. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Because I hate him. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So do I ; but I can hear him named. But 
 what reason have you to hate him in particular ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I never loved him ; he is, and always was, 
 insufferably proud. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. By the reason you give for your aversion, 
 one would think it dissembled ; for you have laid a fault 
 to his charge, of which his enemies must acquit him. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Oh then, it seems, you are one of his 
 favourable enemies I Methinks you look a little pale, 
 and now you flush again. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Do I ? I think I am a little sick o' the sudden. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. What ails you ? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. My husband. Don't you see him ? He 
 turned short upon me unawares, and has almost over- 
 come me. 
 
 Enter FAINALL and MIRABELL. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Ha! ha! ha! he comes opportunely for you. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. For you, for he has brought Mirabell with 
 him. 
 
 Fain. My dear 1 
 
 Mrs. Fain. My soul ! 
 
 Fain. You don't look well to-day, child. 
 ' Mrs. Fain. D'ye think so ? 
 
 Mir. He is the only man that does, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. The only man that would tell me SO at 
 least; and the only man from whom I could hear it 
 without mortification. 
 
 Con. j
 
 338 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT II. 
 
 Fain. O my dear, I am satisfied of your tenderness ; I 
 know you cannot resent anything from me ; especially 
 what is an effect of my concern. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Mr. Mirabell, my mother interrupted you 
 in a pleasant relation last night ; I would fain hear it 
 out. 
 
 Mir. The persons concerned in that affair have yet a 
 tolerable reputation. I am afraid Mr. Fainall will be 
 censorious. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. He has a humour more prevailing than his 
 curiosity, and will willingly dispense with the hearing of 
 one scandalous story, to avoid giving an occasion to make 
 another by being seen to walk with his wife. This way, 
 Mr. Mirabell, and I dare promise you will oblige us both. 
 \Exeunt Mrs. FAINALL and MIRABELL. 
 
 Fain. Excellent creature ! Well, sure if I should live 
 to be rid of my wife, I should be a miserable man. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Ay ! 
 
 Fain. For having only that one hope, the accomplish- 
 ment of it, of consequence, must put an end to all my 
 hopes ; and what a wretch is he who must survive his 
 hopes ! Nothing remains when that day comes, but to 
 sit down and weep like Alexander, when he wanted other 
 worlds to conquer. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Will you not follow 'em ? 
 
 Fain. Faith, I think not. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Pray let us ; I have a reason. 
 
 Fain. You are not jealous ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Of whom? 
 
 Fain. Of Mirabell. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. If I am, is it inconsistent with my love td 
 you that I am tender of your honour ? 
 
 Fain. You would intimate, then, as if there were. a 
 fellow-feeling between my wife and him. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I think she does not hate him to that 
 degree she would be thought. 
 
 Fain. But he, I fear, is too insensible,
 
 SCENE I.] TffJS WA Y OF THE WORLD. 339 
 
 Mrs. Mar. It may be you are deceived. 
 
 Fain. It may be so. I do now begin to appre- 
 hend it. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. What? 
 
 Fain. That I have been deceived, madam, and you 
 are false. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. That I am false ! what mean you ? 
 
 Fain. To let you know I see through all your little 
 arts. Come, you both love him ; and both have equally 
 dissembled your aversion. Your mutual jealousies of 
 one another have made you clash till you have both 
 struck fire. I have seen the warm confession reddening 
 on your cheeks, and sparkling from your eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You do me wrong. 
 
 Fain. I do not. 'Twas for my ease to oversee and 
 wilfully neglect the gross advances made him by my 
 wife ; that by permitting her to be engaged, I might 
 continue unsuspected in my pleasures; and take you 
 oftener to my arms in full security. But could you think, 
 because the nodding husband would not wake, that e'er 
 the watchful lover slept ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. And wherewithal can you reproach me ? 
 
 Fain. With infidelity, with loving another, with love of 
 Mirabell. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. 'Tis false ! I challenge you to show an 
 instance that can confirm your groundless accusation. I 
 hate him. 
 
 Fain. And wherefore do you hate him ? he is insen- 
 sible, and your resentment follows his neglect. An in- 
 stance 1 the injuries you have done him are a proof : 
 your interposing in his love. What cause had you to 
 make discoveries of his pretended passion ? to undeceive 
 the credulous aunt, and be the officious obstacle of his 
 match with Millamant? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. My obligations to my lady urged me; I 
 had professed a friendship to her ; and could not see her 
 easy nature so abused by that dissembler.
 
 340 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT 11, 
 
 Fain. What, was it conscience then? Professed a 
 friendship ! O the pious friendships of the female sex ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. More tender, more sincere, and more en* 
 during, than all the vain and empty vows of men, whether 
 professing love to us, or mutual faith to one another. 
 
 Fain. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you are my wife's friend too. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Shame and ingratitude ! do you reproach 
 me ? you, you upbraid me ? Have I been false to her, 
 through strict fidelity to you, and sacrificed my friendship 
 to keep my love inviolate ? And have you the baseness 
 to charge me with the guilt, unmindful of the merit ? To 
 you it should be meritorious, that I have been vicious : 
 and do you reflect that guilt upon me, which should lie 
 buried in your bosom ? 
 
 Fain. You misinterpret my reproof. I meant but to 
 remind you of the slight account you once could make of 
 strictest ties, when set in competition with your love 
 to me. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. 'Tis false, you urged it with deliberate 
 malice ! 'twas spoken in scorn, and I never will forgive it. 
 
 Fain. Your guilt, not your resentment, begets your 
 rage. If yet you loved, you could forgive a jealousy : 
 but you are stung to find you are discovered. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. It shall be all discovered. You too shall 
 be discovered ; be sure you shall. I can but be exposed. 
 If I do it myself I shall prevent your baseness. 
 
 Fain. Why, what will you do ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Disclose it to your wife ; own what has 
 passed between us. 
 
 Fain. Frenzy ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. By all my wrongs I'll do't ! I'll publish 
 to the world the injuries you have done me, both in my 
 fame and fortune ! With both I trusted you, you bank- 
 rupt in honour, as indigent of wealth. 
 
 Fain. Your fame I have preserved : your fortune has 
 been bestowed as the prodigality of your love would 
 have it, in pleasures which we both have shared. Yet,
 
 SCENE I.] THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 341 
 
 had not you been false, I had ere this repaid it 'tis true 
 had you permitted Mirabell with Millamant to have 
 stolen their marriage, my lady had been incensed beyond 
 all means of reconcilement : Millamant had forfeited the 
 moiety of her fortune ; which then would have descended 
 to my wife ; and wherefore did I marry, but to make 
 lawful prize of a rich widow's wealth, and squander it on 
 love and you ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Deceit and frivolous pretence ! 
 
 Fain. Death, am I not married ? What's pretence ? 
 Am I not imprisoned, fettered ? Have I not a wife ? nay 
 a wife that was a widow, a young widow, a handsome 
 widow ; and would be again a widow, but that I have a 
 heart of proof, and something of a constitution to bustle 
 through the ways of wedlock and this world ! Will you 
 yet be reconciled to truth and me ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Impossible. Truth and you are inconsis- 
 tent : I hate you, and shall for ever. 
 
 Fain. For loving you ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I loathe the name of love after such 
 usage ; and next to the guilt with which you would 
 asperse me, I scorn you most. Farewell ! 
 
 Fain. Nay, we must not part thus. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Let me go. 
 
 Fain. Come, I'm sorry. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I care not let me go break my hands, 
 do I'd leave 'em to get loose. 
 
 Fain. I would not hurt you for the world. Have I 
 no other hold to keep you here ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Well, I have deserved it all. 
 
 Fain. You know I love you. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Poor dissembling ! O that well, it is not 
 yet 
 
 Fain. What ? what is it not ? what is it not yet ? It 
 is not yet too late 
 
 Mrs. Mar. No, it is not yet too late ; I have that 
 comfort,
 
 342 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT n. 
 
 Fain. It is, to love another. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. But not to loathe, detest, abhor mankind, 
 myself, and the whole treacherous world. 
 
 Fain. Nay, this is extravagance. Come, I ask your 
 pardon no tears I was to blame, I could not love you 
 and be easy in my doubts. Pray forbear I believe you ; 
 I'm convinced I've done you wrong ; and any way, 
 every way will make amends. I'll hate my wife yet 
 more, damn her ! I'll part with her, rob her of all she's 
 worth, and we'll retire somewhere, anywhere, to another 
 world. I'll marry thee be pacified. 'Sdeath, they come, 
 hide your face, your tears ; you have a mask, wear it a 
 moment. 1 This way, this way be persuaded. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The same. 
 
 MIRABELL and Mrs. FAINALL. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. They are here yet. 
 
 Mir. They are turning into the other walk. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. While I only hated my husband, I could 
 bear to see him ; but since I have despised him, he's too 
 offensive. 
 
 Mir. O you should hate with prudence. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Yes, for I have loved with indiscretion. 
 
 Mir. You should have just so much disgust for your 
 husband, as may be sufficient to make you relish your 
 lover. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You have been the cause that I have 
 loved without bounds, and would you set limits to that 
 
 1 Masks at this dale were generally worn ; they were the sub- 
 stitute of the modern veil. A few years later they became associated 
 with disreputable women, and passed out of fashion, giving place 
 to coloured hoods.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 343 
 
 aversion of which you have been the occasion ? why did 
 you make me marry this man ? 
 
 Mir. Why do we daily commit disagreeable and dan- 
 gerous actions? to save that idol, reputation. If the 
 familiarities of our loves had produced that consequence 
 of which you were apprehensive, where could you have 
 fixed a father's name with credit, but on a husband ? I 
 knew Fainall to be a man lavish of his morals, an 
 interested and professing friend, a false and a designing 
 lover ; yet one whose wit and outward fair behaviour have 
 gained a reputation with the town enough to make that 
 woman stand excused who has suffered herself to be won 
 by his addresses. A better man ought not to have been 
 sacrificed to the occasion ; a worse had not answered to 
 the purpose. When you are weary of him you know 
 your remedy. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I ought to stand in some degree of credit 
 with you, Mirabell. 
 
 Mir. In justice to you, I have made you privy to my 
 whole design, and put it in your power to ruin or advance 
 my fortune. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Whom have you instructed to represent 
 your pretended uncle ? 
 
 Mir. Waitwell, my servant. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. He is an humble servant to Foible my 
 mother's woman, and may win her to your interest. 
 
 Mir. Care is taken for that she is won and worn by 
 this time. They were married this morning. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Who? 
 
 Mir. Waitwell and Foible. I would not tempt my 
 servant to betray me by trusting him too far. If your 
 mother, in hopes to ruin me, should consent to marry my 
 pretended uncle, he might, like Mosca in the Fox, 1 stand 
 upon terms ; so I made him sure beforehand. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So if my poor mother is caught in a con- 
 tract, you will discover the imposture betimes ; and release 
 1 i.e. Ben Jonson's comedy, Volpone.
 
 344 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT n. 
 
 her by producing a certificate of her gallant's former 
 marriage ? 
 
 Mir. Yes, upon condition that she consent to my 
 marriage with her niece, and surrender the moiety of her 
 fortune in her possession. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. She talked last night of endeavouring at a 
 match between Millamant and your uncle. 
 
 Mir. That was by Foible's direction, and my instruc- 
 tion, that she might seem to carry it more privately. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Well, I have an opinion of your success; 
 for I believe my lady will do anything to get a husband ; 
 and when she has this, which you have provided for her, 
 I suppose she will submit to anything to get rid of him. 
 
 Mir. Yes, I think the good lady would marry any- 
 thing that resembled a man, though 'twere no more than 
 what a butler could pinch out of a napkin. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Female frailty ! we must all come to it, if 
 we live to be old, and feel the craving of a false appetite 
 when the true is decayed. 
 
 Mir. An old woman's appetite is depraved like that of 
 a girl 'tis the green sickness of a second childhood; 
 and, like the faint offer of a latter spring, serves but to 
 usher in the fall, and withers in an affected bloom. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Here's your mistress: 
 
 Enter Mrs. MILLAMANT, WITWOUD, and MINCING. 
 
 Mir. Here she comes, i'faith, full sail, with her fan 
 spread and her streamers out, and a shoal of fools for 
 tenders ; ha, no, I cry her mercy ! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I see but one poor empty sculler; and he 
 tows her woman after him. 
 
 Mir. [To Mrs. MILLAMANT.] You seem to be unat- 
 tended, madam you used to have the beau monde throng 
 after you; and a flock of gay fine perukes hovering round 
 you. 
 
 Wit. Like moths about a candle. I had like to have 
 lost my comparison for want of breath.
 
 SCENE II.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 345 
 
 Mrs. Mil. O I have denied myself airs to-day, I have 
 walked as fast through the crowd. 
 
 Wit. As a favourite just disgraced; and with as few 
 followers. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your simili- 
 tudes ; for I'm as sick of 'em 
 
 Wit. As a physician of a good air. I cannot help it, 
 madam, though 'tis against myself. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Yet, again ! Mincing, stand between me and 
 his wit. 
 
 Wit. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great 
 fire. I confess I do blaze to-day, I am too bright. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. But, dear Millamant, why were you so 
 long? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Long ! Lord, have I not made violent haste ; 
 I have asked every living thing I met for you ; I have 
 inquired after you, as after a new fashion. 
 
 Wit. Madam, truce with your similitudes. No, you 
 met her husband, and did not ask him for her. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. By your leave, Witwoud, that were like 
 inquiring after an old fashion, to ask a husband for his 
 wife. 
 
 Wit. Hum, a hit ! a hit ! a palpable hit ! I con- 
 ess it. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You were dressed before I came abroad. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, that's true. Obut then I had Mincing, 
 what had I ? why was I so long ? 
 
 Min. O mem, your la'ship stayed to peruse a packet of 
 letters. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. O ay, letters I had letters I am persecuted 
 with letters I hate letters Nobody knows how to write 
 letters, and yet one has 'em, one does not know why. 
 They serve one to pin up one's hair. 
 
 Wit. Is that the way ? Pray, madam, do you pin up 
 your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep 
 copies. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Only with those in verse, Mr. W/tvvoud, I
 
 346 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT n. 
 
 never pin up my hair with prose. I think I tried once, 
 Mincing. 
 
 Min. O mem, I shall never forget it. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the 
 morning. 
 
 Min. Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I'll vow, mem : 
 and all to no purpose. But when your la'ship pins it up 
 with poetry, it sits so pleasant the next day as anything, 
 and is so pure and so crips. 
 
 Wit. Indeed, so crips ? 
 
 Min. You're such a critic, Mr. Witwoud. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Mirabell, did you take exceptions last night ? 
 O ay, and went away. Now I think on't I'm angry no, 
 now I think on't I'm pleased for I believe I gave you 
 some pain. 
 
 Mir. Does that please you ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Infinitely ; I love to give pain. 
 
 Mir. You would affect a cruelty which is not in your 
 nature ; your true vanity is in the power of pleasing. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Oh I ask you pardon for that one's cruelty 
 is one's power ; and when one parts with one's cruelty, 
 one parts with one's power ; and when one has parted 
 with that, I fancy one's old and ugly. 
 
 Mir. Ay, ay, suffer your cruelty to ruin the object of 
 your power, to destroy your lover and then how vain, 
 how lost a thing you'll be ! Nay, 'tis true : you are no 
 longer handsome when you've lost your lover ; your 
 beauty dies upon the instant; for beauty is the lover's 
 gift; 'tis he bestows your charms your glass is all a 
 cheat. The ugly and the old, whom the looking-glass 
 mortifies, yet after commendation can be flattered by it, 
 and discover beauties in it ; for that reflects our praises, 
 rather than your face. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. O the vanity of these men ! Fainall, d'ye 
 hear him ? If they did not commend us, we were not 
 handsome ! Now you must know they could not com- 
 mend one, if one was not handsome. Beauty the lover's
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 347 
 
 gift ! Lord, what is a lover, that it can give ? Why, one 
 makes lovers as fast as one pleases, and they live as long 
 as one pleases, and they die as soon as one pleases ; and 
 then, if one pleases, one makes more. 
 
 Wit. Very pretty. Why, you make no more of making 
 of lovers, madam, than of making so many card- 
 matches. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. One no more owes one's beauty to a lover, 
 than one's wit to an echo. They can but reflect what we 
 look and say; vain empty things if we are silent or 
 unseen, and want a being. 
 
 Mir. Yet to those two vain empty things you owe the 
 two greatest pleasures of your life. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. How so ? 
 
 Mir. To your lover you owe the pleasure of hearing 
 yourselves praised ; and to an echo the pleasure of hearing 
 yourselves talk. 
 
 Wit. But I know a lady that loves talking so incessantly, 
 she won't give an echo fair play ; she has that everlasting 
 rotation of tongue, that an echo must wait till she dies, 
 before it can catch her last words. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. O fiction ! Fainall, let us leave these 
 men. 
 
 Mir. Draw off Witwoud. \A side to Mrs. FAINALL. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Immediately. I have a word or two for 
 Mr. Witwoud. {Exeunt Mrs. FAINALL and WITWOUD. 
 
 Mir. I would beg a little private audience too. You 
 had the tyranny to deny me last night ; though you knew 
 I came to impart a secret to you that concerned my 
 love. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. You saw I was engaged. 
 
 Mir. Unkind ! You had the leisure to entertain a 
 herd of fools ; things who visit you from their excessive 
 idleness ; bestowing on your easiness that time which 
 is the incumbrance of their lives. How can you find 
 delight in such society? It is impossible they should 
 admire you, they are not capable ; or if they were, it
 
 348 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT n. 
 
 should be to you as a mortification ; for sure to please a 
 fool is some degree of folly. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. I please myself : besides, sometimes to 
 converse with fools is for my health. 
 
 Mir. Your health ! is there a worse disease than the 
 conversation of fools ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Yes, the vapours ; fools are physic for it, 
 next to assafoetida. 
 
 Mir. You are not in a course of fools ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Mirabell, if you persist in this offensive 
 freedom, you'll displease me. I think I must resolve, 
 after all, not to have you : we shan't agree. 
 
 Mir. Not in our physic, it may be. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. And yet our distemper, in all likelihood, will 
 be the same ; for we shall be sick of one another. I 
 shan't endure to be reprimanded nor instructed : 'tis so 
 dull to act always by advice, and so tedious to be told of 
 one's faults I can't bear it. Well, I won't have you, 
 Mirabell I'm resolved I think you may go. Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! what would you give, that you could help loving 
 me? 
 
 Mir. I would give something that you did not know I 
 could not help it. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Come, don't look grave then. Well, what 
 do you say to me ? 
 
 Mir. I say that a man may as soon make a friend by 
 his wit, or a fortune by his honesty, as win a woman by 
 plain-dealing and sincerity. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Sententious Mirabell ! Prithee, don't look 
 with that violent and inflexible wise face, like Solomon 
 at the dividing of the child in an old tapestry hanging. 
 
 Mir. You are merry, madam, but I would persuade 
 you for a moment to be serious. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. What, with that face ? no, if you keep your 
 countenance, 'tis impossible I should hold mine. Well, 
 after all, there is something very moving in a love-sick 
 face. Ha ! ha ' ha ! well, I won't laugh, don't be
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 349 
 
 peevish Heigho ! now I'll be melancholy, as melancholy 
 as a watch-light. Well, Mirabell, if ever you will win me 
 woo me now. Nay, if you are so tedious, fare you well ; 
 I see they are walking away. 
 
 Mir. Can you not find in the variety of your disposition 
 one moment 
 
 Mrs. Mil. To hear you tell me Foible's married, and 
 your plot like to speed ; no. 
 
 Mir. But how came you to know it ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Without the help of the devil, you can't 
 imagine; unless she should tell me herself. Which of 
 the two it may have been I will leave you to consider ; 
 and when you have done thinking of that, think of me. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mir. I have something more. Gone ! Think of you ? 
 to think of a whirlwind, though't were in a whirlwind, 
 were a case of more steady contemplation ; a very tran- 
 quillity of mind and mansion. A fellow that lives in a 
 windmill, has not a more whimsical dwelling than the 
 heart of a man that is lodged in a woman. There is no 
 point of the compass to which they cannot turn, and 
 by which they are not turned ; and by one as well as 
 another ; for motion, not method, is their occupation. To 
 know this, and yet continue to be in love, is to be made 
 wise from the dictates of reason, and yet persevere to play 
 the fool by the force of instinct. Oh, here come my 
 pair of turtles 1 What, billing so sweetly ! is not Valen- 
 tine's day over with you yet ? 
 
 [Enter WAITWELL and FOIBLE.] 
 
 Sirrah, Waitwell, why sure you think you were married 
 for your own recreation, and not for my conveniency. 
 
 Wait. Your pardon, sir. With submission, we have 
 indeed been solacing in lawful delights ; but still with an 
 eye to business, sir. I have instructed her as well as I 
 could. If she can take your directions as readily as my 
 instructions, sir, your affairs are in a prosperous way.
 
 350 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD, [ACT il. 
 
 Mir. Give you joy, Mrs. Foible. 
 
 foib. O las, sir, I'm so ashamed ! I'm afraid my lady 
 has been in a thousand inquietudes for me. But I pro- 
 test, sir, I made as much haste as I could. 
 
 Wait. That she did indeed, sir. It was my fault that 
 she did not make more. 
 
 Mir. That I believe. 
 
 foib. But I told my lady as you instructed me, sir, 
 that I had a prospect of seeing Sir Rowland your uncle ; 
 and that I would put her ladyship's picture in my pocket 
 to show him ; which I'll be sure to say has made him 
 so enamoured of her beauty, that he burns with 
 impatience to lie at her ladyship's feet, and worship the 
 original. 
 
 Mir. Excellent Foible ! matrimony has made you 
 eloquent in love. 
 
 Wait. I think she has profited, sir, I think so. 
 
 foib. You have seen Madam Millamant, sir ? 
 
 Mir. Yes. 
 
 foib. I told her, sir, because I did not know that you 
 might find an opportunity ; she had so much company 
 last night. 
 
 Mir. Your diligence will merit more in the mean 
 time [Gives money. 
 
 foib. O dear sir, your humble servant ! 
 
 Wait. Spouse. 
 
 Mir. Stand off, sir, not a penny ! >Go on and prosper, 
 Foible: the lease shall be made good, and the farm 
 stocked, if we succeed. 
 
 foib. I don't question your generosity, sir: and you 
 need not doubt of success. If you have no more com- 
 mands, sir, I'll be gone; I'm sure my lady is at her 
 toilet, and can't dress till I come. dear, I'm sure that 
 {Looking out\ was Mrs. Marwood that went by in a mask ! 
 If she has seen me with you I'm sure she'll tell my lady. 
 I'll make haste home and prevent her. Your servant, 
 sir. B'w'y, Waitwell, [Exit.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 
 
 351 
 
 Wait. Sir Rowland, if you please. The jade's so -pert 
 upon her preferment she forgets herself. 
 
 Mir. Come, sir, will you endeavour to forget yourself, 
 and transform into Sir Rowland ? 
 
 Wait. Why, sir, it will be impossible I should remem- 
 ber myself. Married, knighted, and attended all in one 
 day ! 'tis enough to make any man forget himself. The 
 difficulty will be how to recover my acquaintance and 
 familiarity with my former self, and fall from my trans- 
 formation to a reformation into Waitwell. Nay, I shan't 
 be quite the same Waitwell neither ; for now, I remember 
 me, I'm married, and can't be my own man again. 
 Ay there's my grief; that's the sad change of life, 
 To lose my title, and yet keep my wife. [Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in Lady WISHFORT'S House. 
 
 Lady WISHFORT at her toilet, PEG waiting. 
 
 ADY WISH. Merciful! no news of 
 Foible yet ? 
 
 Peg. No, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. I have no more pa- 
 tience. If I have not fretted myself 
 till I am pale again, there's no veracity 
 in me ! Fetch me the red the red, do you hear, sweet- 
 heart ? An arrant ash-colour, as I am a person ! Look 
 you how this wench stirs ! Why dost thou not fetch me 
 a little red ? didst thou not hear me, Mopus ? 
 
 Peg. The red ratafia does your ladyship mean, or the 
 cherry-brandy ? 
 
 Lady Wish. Ratafia, fool ! no, fool. Not the ratafia, 
 fool grant me patience ! I mean the Spanish paper, 1 
 idiot complexion, darling. Paint, paint, paint, dost thou 
 understand that, changeling, dangling thy hands like 
 bobbins before thee ? Why dost thou not stir, puppet ? 
 thou wooden thing upon wires ! 
 
 Peg. Lord, madam, your ladyship is so impatient ! I 
 cannot come at the paint, madam; Mrs. Foible has 
 locked it up, and carried the key with her. 
 
 Lady Wish. A pox take you both ! fetch me the 
 cherry-brandy then. [Exit PEG.] I'm as pale and as 
 faint, I look like Mrs. Qualmsick, the curate's wife, that's 
 
 1 Spanish wool and Spanish paper were favourite cosmetics of 
 the day.
 
 SCENE I.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 353 
 
 always breeding. Wendi, come, come, wench, what art 
 thou doing ? sipping, tasting ? Save thee, dost thou not 
 know the bottle ? 
 
 Re-enter PEG with a bottle and china cup. 
 
 Peg. Madam, I was looking for a cup. 
 
 JLady Wish. A cup, save thee ! and what a cup hast 
 thou brought ! Dost thou take me for a fairy, to drink 
 out of an acorn ? Why didst thou not bring thy thimble ? 
 Hast thou ne'er a brass thimble clinking in thy pocket 
 with a bit of nutmeg ? I warrant thee. Come, fill, fill ! 
 So again. [Knocking at the door?\ See who that is. 
 Set down the bottle first here, here, under the table. 
 What, wouldst thou go with the bottle in thy hand, like 
 a tapster ? As I am a person, this wench has lived in an 
 inn upon the road, before she came to me, like Maritornes 
 the Asturian in Don Quixote ! No Foible yet ? 
 
 Peg. No, madam ; Mrs. Marwood. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, Marwood ; let her come in. Come 
 in, good Marwood. 
 
 Enter Mrs. MARWOOD. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I'm surprised to find your ladyship in dis- 
 habille at this time of day. 
 
 Lady Wish. Foible's a lost thing; has been abroad 
 since morning, and never heard of since. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I saw her but now, as I came masked 
 through the park, in conference with Mirabell. 
 
 Lady Wish. With Mirabell ! You call my blood into 
 my face, with mentioning that traitor. She durst not 
 have the confidence ! I sent her to negotiate an affair, 
 in which, if I'm detected, I'm undone. If that wheedling 
 villain has wrought upon Foible to detect me, I'm ruined. 
 O my dear friend, I'm a wretch of wretches if I'm 
 detected. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. O madam, you cannot suspect Mrs. 
 Foible's integrity ! 
 
 Con. A A
 
 354 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT m. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, he carries poison in his tongue that 
 would corrupt integrity itself ! If she has given him an 
 opportunity, she has as good as put her integrity into his 
 hands. Ah, dear Marvvood, what's integrity to an oppor- 
 tunity? Hark ! I hear her ! dear friend, retire into my 
 closet, that I may examine her with more freedom. 
 You'll pardon me, dear friend ; I can make bold with 
 you. There are books over the chimney. Quarles and 
 Prynne, and " The Short View of the Stage," with Bunyan's 
 works, to entertain you. [To PEG.] Go, you thing, 
 and send her in. [Exeunt Mrs. MARWOOD and PEG. 
 
 Enter FOIBLE. 
 
 Lady Wish. O Foible, where hast thou been? what 
 hast thou been doing ? 
 
 Foib. Madam, I have seen the party. 
 
 Lady Wish. But what hast thou done ? 
 
 Foib. Nay, 'tis your ladyship has done, and are to do ; 
 I have only promised. But a man so enamoured so 
 transported ! Well, here it is, all that is left; all that is 
 not kissed away. Well, if worshipping of pictures be a 
 sin poor Sir Rowland, I say. 
 
 Lady Wish. The miniature has been counted like; 
 but hast thou not betrayed me, Foible ? hast thou not 
 detected me to that faithless Mirabell? What hadst thou 
 to do with him in the Park? Answer me, has he got 
 nothing out of thee ? 
 
 Foib. \Aside^\ So the devil has been beforehand with 
 me. What shall I say? [Alottd.~\ Alas, madam, could 
 I help it, if I met that confident thing ? was I in fault ? 
 If you had heard how he used me, and all upon your 
 ladyship's account, I'm sure you would not suspect my 
 fidelity. Nay, if that had been the worst, I could have 
 borne ; but he had a fling at your ladyship too ; and then 
 I could not hold ; but i'faith I gave him his own. 
 
 Lady Wish. Me ? what did the filthy fellow say ? 
 
 Foib. O madam ! 'tis a shame to say what he said
 
 SCENE I.] THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 355 
 
 with his taunts and his fleers, tossing up his nose. Humph ! 
 (says he) what, you are a hatching some plot (says he), 
 you are so early abroad, or catering (says he), ferreting 
 for some disbanded officer, I warrant. Half-pay is but 
 thin subsistence (says he) ; well, what pension does your 
 lady propose ? Let me see (says he), what, she must 
 come down pretty deep now, she's superannuated (says 
 he) and 
 
 Lady Wish. Odds my life, I'll have him, I'll have him 
 murdered ! I'll have him poisoned ! Where does he 
 eat? I'll marry a drawer to have him poisoned in his 
 wine. I'll send for Robin from Locket's immediately. 
 
 Foib. Poison him ! poisoning's too good for him. 
 Starve him, madam, starve him ; marry Sir Rowland, and 
 get him disinherited. Oh you would bless yourself to 
 hear what he said ! 
 
 Lady Wish. A villain ! superannuated ! 
 
 Foib. Humph (says he), I hear you are laying designs 
 against me too (says he), and Mrs. Millamant is to marry 
 my uncle (he does not suspect a word of your ladyship) ; 
 but (says he) I'll fit you for that. I warrant you (says 
 he) I'll hamper you for that (says he) ; you and your old 
 frippery too (says he) ; I'll handle you 
 
 Lady Wish. Audacious villain ! handle me ; would he 
 durst ! Frippery ! old frippery ! was there ever such a 
 foul-mouthed fellow ? I'll be married to-morrow, I'll be 
 contracted to-night. 
 
 Foib. The sooner the better, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. Will Sir Rowland be here, sayest thou ? 
 when, Foible ? 
 
 Foib. Incontinently, madam. No new saerifFs wife 
 expects the return of her husband after knighthood 
 with that impatience in which Sir Rowland burns for the 
 dear hour of kissing your ladyship's hand after dinner. 
 
 Lady Wish. Frippery! superannuated frippery! I'll 
 frippery the villain ; I'll reduce him to frippery and rags ! 
 a tatterdemalion ! I hope to see him hung with tatters,
 
 356 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. [ACT m. 
 
 like a Long-lane pent-house l or a gibbet thief. A slander- 
 mouthed railer ! I warrant the spendthrift prodigal's in 
 debt as much as the million lottery, or the whole court 
 upon a birthday. I'll spoil his credit with his tailor. Yes, 
 he shall have my niece with her fortune, he shall. 
 
 Foib. He ! I hope to see him lodge in Ludgate 2 first, 
 and angle into Blackfriars for brass farthings with an old 
 mitten. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, dear Foible; thank thee for that, dear 
 Foible. He has put me out of all patience. I shall 
 never recompose my features to receive Sir Rowland with 
 any economy of face. This wretch has fretted me that I 
 am absolutely decayed. Look, Foible. 
 
 Foib. Your ladyship has frowned a little too rashly, 
 indeed, madam. There are some cracks discernible in 
 the white varnish. 
 
 Lady Wish. Let me see the glass. Cracks, sayest 
 thou ? why, I am errantly flayed- I look like an old 
 peeled wall. Thou must repair me, Foible, before Sir 
 Rowland comes, or I shall never keep up to my picture. 
 
 Foib. I warrant you, madam, a little art once made 
 your picture like you ; and now a little of the same art 
 must make you like your picture. Your picture must sit 
 for you, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. But art thou sure Sir Rowland will not 
 fail to come ? or will he not fail when he does come ? 
 Will he be importunate, Foible, and push ? For if he 
 should not be importunate, I shall never break decorums : 
 I shall die with confusion, if I am forced to advance. 
 Oh no, I can never advance ! I shall swoon if he 
 should expect advances. No, I hope Sir Rowland is 
 better bred than to put a lady to the necessity of break- 
 ing her forms. I won't be too coy, neither. I won't 
 
 1 Long Lane, in West Smithfield, noted for the sale of old 
 clothes and second-hand furniture. 
 
 2 Ludgate was a debtors' prison, " purely for insolvent citizens of 
 London, beneficed clergy, and attorneys at law." It was more 
 comfortable and of a higher class than the Fleet.
 
 SCENE i.] THE WA OF THE WORLD. 357 
 
 give him despair but a little disdain is not amiss ; a 
 little scorn is alluring. 
 
 Foib. A little scorn becomes your ladyship. 
 
 Lady IVish. Yes, but tenderness becomes me best a 
 sort of dyingness you see that picture has a sort of a 
 ha, Foible ! a swimmingness in the eye yes, I'll look so 
 my niece affects it; but she wants features. Is Sir 
 Rowland handsome ? Let my toilet be removed I'll 
 dress above. I'll receive Sir Rowland here. Is he 
 handsome ? Don't answer me. I won't know : I'll be 
 surprised, I'll be taken by surprise. 
 
 F.oib. By storm, madam, Sir Rowland's a brisk man. 
 
 Lady IVish. Is he ! O then he'll importune, if he's a 
 brisk man. I shall save decorums if Sir Rowland impor- 
 tunes. I have a mortal terror at the apprehension of 
 offending against decorums. O, I'm glad he's a brisk 
 man. Let my things be removed, good Foible. \Exit. 
 
 Enter Mrs. FAINALL. 
 
 Mrs. F-ain. O Foible, I have been in a fright, lest I 
 should come too late ! That devil Marwood saw you in 
 the Park with Mirabell, and I'm afraid will discover it to 
 my lady. 
 
 Foib. Discover what, madam ! 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Nay, nay, put not on that strange face, I 
 am privy to the whole design, and know that Waitwell, 
 to whom thou wert this morning married, is to personate 
 Mirabell's uncle, and as such, winning my lady, to in- 
 volve her in those difficulties from which Mirabell only 
 must release her, by his making his conditions to have 
 my cousin and her fortune left to her own disposal. 
 
 Foib. O dear madam, I beg your pardon. It was not 
 my confidence in your ladyship that was deficient ; but I 
 thought the former good correspondence between your 
 ladyship and Mr. Mirabell might have hindered his com- 
 municating this secret. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Dear Foible, forget that.
 
 358 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT in. 
 
 Foib. O dear madam, Mr. Mirabell is such a sweet, 
 winning gentleman but your ladyship is the pattern of 
 generosity. Sweet lady, to be so good ! Mr. Mirabell 
 cannot choose but be grateful. I find your ladyship has 
 his heart still. Now, madam, I can safely tell your lady- 
 ship our success; Mrs. Marwood had told my lady; but 
 I warrant I managed myself; I turned it all for the 
 better. I told my lady that Mr. Mirabell railed at her; 
 I laid horrid things to his charge, I'll vow; and my lady 
 is so incensed that she'll be contracted to Sir Rowland 
 to-night, she says ; I warrant I worked her up, that he 
 may have her for asking for, as they say of a Welsh 
 maidenhead. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. O rare Foible ! 
 
 Foib. Madam, I beg your ladyship to acquaint Mr. 
 Mirabell of his success. I would be seen as little as 
 possible to speak to him : besides, I believe Madam 
 Marwood watches me. She has a month's mind ; but I 
 know Mr. Mirabell can't abide her. John ! [Catts.] 
 remove my lady's toilet. Madam, your servant : my lady 
 is so impatient, I fear she'll come for me if I stay. 
 
 Mrs. fain. I'll go with you up the back-stairs, lest I 
 should meet her. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Lady WISHFORT'S Closet. 
 
 Mrs. MARWOOD. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Indeed, Mrs. Engine, is it thus with you ? 
 are you become a go-between of this importance ? yes, I 
 shall watch you. Why this wench is the passe-partout, a 
 very master-key to everybody's strong-box. My friend 
 Fainall, have you carried it so swimmingly ? I thought 
 there was something in it ; but it seems 'tis over with
 
 SCENE n.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 359 
 
 you. Your loathing is not from a want of appetite, then, 
 but from a surfeit. Else you could never be so cool to 
 fall from a principal to be an assistant ; to procure for 
 him ! a pattern of generosity that, I confess. Well, Mr. 
 Fainall, you have met with your match. O man, man ! 
 woman, woman ! the devil's an ass : if I were a painter, 
 I would draw him like an idiot, a driveller with a bib 
 and bells : man should have his head and horns, and 
 woman the rest of him. Poor simple fiend ! " Madam 
 Manvood has a month's mind, but he can't abide her." 
 'Twere better for him you had not been his confessor 
 in that affair, without you could have kept his counsel 
 closer. I shall not prove another pattern of generosity : 
 he has not obliged me to that with those excesses of 
 himself! and now I'll have none of him. Here comes 
 the good lady, panting ripe ; with a heart full of hope, 
 and a head full of care, like any chemist upon the day of 
 projection. 
 
 Enter Lady WISHFORT. 
 
 Lady Wish. O dear, Marwood, what shall I say for 
 this rude forgetfulness ? but my dear friend is all good- 
 ness. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. No apologies, dear madam, I have been 
 very well entertained. 
 
 Lady Wish. As I'm a person, I am in a very chaos to 
 think I should so forget myself: but I have such an 
 olio of affairs, really I know not what to do. Foible ! 
 [Catts.] I expect my nephew, Sir Wilfull, every moment 
 too. Why, Foible ! He means to travel for improve- 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Methinks Sir Wilfull should rather think of 
 marrying than travelling at his years. I hear he is turned 
 of forty. 
 
 Lady Wish. he's in less danger of being spoiled by 
 his travels I am against my nephew's marrying too 
 young. It will be time enough when he comes back, 
 and has acquired discretion to choose for himself.
 
 360 THE WA Y OF THE IVORLD. [ACT in. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Methinks Mrs. Millamant and he would 
 make a very fit match. He may travel afterwards. Tis 
 a thing very usual with young gentlemen. 
 
 Lady Wish. I promise you I have thought on't and 
 since 'tis your judgment, I'll think on't again. I assure 
 you I will ; I value your judgment extremely. On my 
 word, I'll propose it. 
 
 Enter FOIBLE. 
 
 Lady Wish. Come, come, Foible I had forgot my 
 nephew will be here before dinner : I must make haste. 
 
 Foib. Mr. Witwoud and Mr. Petulant are come to 
 dine with your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Wish. O dear, I can't appear till I'm dressed. 
 Dear Marwood, shall I be free with you again, and beg 
 you to entertain 'em ? I'll make all imaginable haste. 
 Dear friend, excuse me. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Room in Lady WISHFORT'S House. 
 
 Mrs. MARWOOD, Mrs. MILLAMANT, and MINCING. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Sure never anything was so unbred as that 
 odious man ! Marwood, your servant. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You have a colour ; what's the matter? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. That horrid fellow, Petulant, has provoked 
 me into a flame: I have broken my fan. Mincing, lend 
 me yours ; is not all the powder out of my hair ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. No. What has he done ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Nay, he has done nothing ; he has only 
 talked nay, he has said nothing neither; but he has 
 contradicted everything that has been said. For my 
 part, I thought Witwoud and he would have quarrelled. 
 
 Min. I vow, mem, I thought once they would have fit.
 
 SCENE in.] THE WA Y Of THE WORLD. 361 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Well, 'tis a lamentable thing, I swear, that 
 one has not the liberty of choosing one's acquaintance as 
 one does one's clothes. 
 
 Mrs.. Mar. If we had that liberty, we should be as 
 weary of one set of acquaintance, though never so good, 
 as we are of one suit though never so fine. A fool and a 
 doily stuff would now and then find days of grace, and 
 be worn for variety. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. I could consent to wear 'em, if they would 
 wear alike ; but fools never wear out they are such drap 
 de Berri things ! without one could give 'em to one's 
 chambermaid after a day or two. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Twere better so indeed. Or what think 
 you of the playhouse ? A fine gay glossy fool should be 
 given there, like a new masking habit, after the masquer- 
 ade is over, and we have done with the disguise. For a 
 fool's visit is always a disguise ; and never admitted by a 
 woman of wit, but to blind her affair with a lover of 
 sense. If you would but appear barefaced now, and own 
 Mirabell, you might as easily put off Petulant and Wit- 
 woud as your hood and scarf. And indeed, 'tis time, for 
 the town has found it ; the secret is grown too big for the 
 pretence. 'Tis like Mrs. Primly's great belly; she may 
 lace it down before, but it burnishes on her hips. Indeed, 
 Millamant, you can no more conceal it, than my Lady 
 Strammel can her face ; that goodly face, which in defi- 
 ance of her Rhenish wine tea, will not be comprehended 
 in a mask. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. I'll take my death, Marwood, you are more 
 censorious than a decayed beauty, or a discarded toast. 
 Mincing, tell the men they may come up. My aunt is not 
 dressing here ; their folly is less provoking than your 
 malice. {Exit MINCING.] The town has found it ! 
 what has it found ? That Mirabell loves me is no more 
 a secret, than it is a secret that you discovered it to my 
 aunt, or than the reason why you discovered it is a 
 secret.
 
 362 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT in. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You are nettled. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. You're mistaken. Ridiculous ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Indeed, my dear, you'll tear another fan, if 
 you don't mitigate those violent airs. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. O silly ! ha ! ha ! ha ! I could laugh im- 
 moderately. Poor Mirabell ! his constancy to me has 
 quite destroyed his complaisance for all the world beside. 
 I swear, I never enjoined it him to be so coy If I had 
 the vanity to think he would obey me, I would command 
 him to show more gallantry 'tis hardly well-bred to be 
 so particular on one hand, and so insensible on the 
 other. But I despair to prevail, and so let him follow 
 his own way. Ha ! ha ! ha ! pardon me, dear creature, 
 I must laugh, ha ! ha ! ha ! though I grant you 'tis a 
 little barbarous, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. What pity 'tis so much fine raillery, and 
 delivered with so significant gesture, should be so un- 
 happily directed to miscarry ! 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ha ! dear creature, I ask your pardon I 
 swear I did not mind you. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Mr. Mirabell and you both may think it a 
 thing impossible, when I shall tell him by telling you 
 
 Mrs. Mil. O dear, what ? for it is the same thing if I 
 hear it ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. That I detest him, hate him, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. O madam, why so do I and yet the crea- 
 ture loves me, ha ! ha ! ha ! how can one forbear laugh- 
 ing to think of it. I am a sibyl if I am not amazed to 
 think what he can see in me. I'll take my death, I think 
 you are handsomer and within a year or two as young 
 if you could but stay for me, I should overtake you 
 but that cannot be. Well, that thought makes me melan- 
 cholic. Now, I'll be sad. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Your merry note may be changed sooner 
 than you think. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. D'ye say so? Then I'm resolved I'll have 
 a song to keep up my spirits.
 
 SCENE in.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 363 
 
 Re-enter MINCING. 
 
 Min. The gentlemen stay but to comb, madam, and 
 will wait on you. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Desire Mrs. that is in the next room to 
 sing the song I would have learned yesterday. You shall 
 hear it, madam not that there's any great matter in it 
 but 'tis agreeable to my humour. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Love's but the frailty of the mind, 
 When 'tis not with ambition joined ; 
 A sickly flame, which, if not fed, expires, 
 And feeding, wastes in self- consuming fires. 
 
 Tis not to wound a wanton boy 
 Or amorous youth, that gives the joy; 
 But 'tis the glory to have pierced a swain, 
 For whom inferior beauties sighed in vain. 
 
 Then I alone the conquest prize, 
 
 When I insult a rival's eyes : 
 If there's delight in love, 'tis when I see 
 That heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me. 
 
 Enter PETULANT and WITWOUD. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Is your animosity composed, gentlemen ? 
 
 Wit. Raillery, raillery, madam ; we have no animosity 
 we hit off a little wit now and then, but no animosity. 
 The falling-out of wits is like fhe falling-out of lovers : 
 we agree in the main, like treble and bass. Ha, Petulant ? 
 
 Pet. Ay, in the main but when I have a humour to 
 contradict 
 
 Wit. Ay, when he has a humour to contradict, then I 
 contradict too. What, I know my cue. Then we con- 
 tradict one another like two battledores; for contradic- 
 tions beget one another like Jews. 
 
 Pet. If he says black's black if I have a humour to
 
 364 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. [ACT in. 
 
 say 'tis blue let that pass all's one for that. If I have 
 a humour to prove it, it must be granted. 
 
 Wit. Not positively must but it may it may. 
 Pet. Yes, it positively must, upon proof positive. 
 Wit. Ay, upon proof positive it must ; but upon proof 
 presumptive it only may. That's a logical distinction 
 now, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I perceive your debates are of importance, 
 and very learnedly handled. 
 
 Pet. Importance is one thing, and learning's another ; 
 but a debate's a debate, that I assert. 
 
 Wit. Petulant's an enemy to learning ; he relies alto- 
 gether on his parts. 
 
 Pet. No, I'm no enemy to learning ; it hurts not me. 
 Mrs. Mar. That's a sign indeed it's no enemy to 
 you. 
 
 Pet. No, no, it's no enemy to anybody but them that 
 have it. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Well, an illiterate man's my aversion: I 
 wonder at the impudence of any illiterate man to offer to 
 make love. 
 
 Wit. That I confess I wonder at too. 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah ! to marry an ignorant that can hardly 
 read or write ! 
 
 Pet. Why should a man be any further from being 
 married, though he can't read, than he is from being 
 hanged ? The ordinary's paid for setting the psalm, and 
 the parish-priest for reading the ceremony. And for the 
 rest which is to follow in both cases, a man may do it 
 without book so all's one for that. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. D'ye hear the creature? Lord, here's com- 
 pany, I'll be gone. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Sir WILFULL WITWOUD in a riding dress, followed 
 by Footman. 
 
 Wit. In the name of Bartlemew and his fair, what have 
 we here?
 
 SCENE in.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 365 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Tis your brother, I fancy. Don't you 
 know him? 
 
 Wit. Not I. Yes, I think it is he I've almost forgot 
 him ; I have not seen him since the Revolution. 
 
 Foot. [To Sir WILFULL.] Sir, my lady's dressing. 
 Here's company; if you please to walk in, in the mean 
 time. 
 
 Sir Wil. Dressing ! what, it's but morning here, I 
 warrant, with you in London ; we should count it towards 
 afternoon in our parts, down in Shropshire. Why then, 
 belike, my aunt han't dined yet, ha, friend ? 
 
 Foot. Your aunt, sir ? 
 
 Sir Wil. My aunt, sir ! yes, my aunt, sir, and your lady, 
 sir; your lady is my aunt, sir. Why, what dost thou not 
 know me, friend ? why then send somebody hither that 
 does. How long hast thou lived with thy lady, fellow, ha? 
 
 Foot. A week, sir; longer than anybody in the house, 
 except my lady's woman. 
 
 Sir Wil. Why then belike thou dost not know thy 
 lady, if thou seest her, ha, friend ? 
 
 Foot. Why, truly, sir, I cannot safely swear to her face 
 in a morning, before she is dressed. 'Tis like I may give 
 a shrewd guess at her by this time. 
 
 Sir Wil. Well, prithee try what thou canst do ; if thou 
 canst not guess, inquire her out, dost hear, fellow? and 
 tell her, her nephew, Sir Wilfull Witwoud, is in the house. 
 
 Foot. I shall, sir. 
 
 Sir Wil. Hold ye, hear me, friend ; a word with you 
 in your ear ; prithee who are these gallants ? 
 
 Foot. Really, sir, I can't tell ; here come so many here, 
 'tis hard to know 'em all. \Exit. 
 
 Sir Wil. Oons, this fellow knows less than a starling ; 
 I don't think a* knows his own name. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Mr. Witwoud, your brother is not behind- 
 hand in forgetfulness I fancy he has forgot you too. 
 
 Wit. I hope so the devil take him that remembers 
 first, I say.
 
 366 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT in. 
 
 Sir Wil. Save you, gentlemen and lady ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. For shame, Mr. Witwoud ; why don't you 
 speak to him? And you, sir. 
 
 Wit. Petulant, speak. 
 
 Pet. And you, sir. 
 
 Sir Wil. No offence, I hope. 
 
 . [Salutes Mrs. MARWOOD. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. No sure, sir. 
 
 Wit. This is a vile dog, I see that already. No offence ! 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! To him ; to him, Petulant, smoke 
 him. 
 
 Pet. It seems as if you had come a journey, sir; hem, 
 hem. [Surveying him round. 
 
 Sir Wil. Very likely, sir, that it may seem so, 
 
 Pet. No offence, I hope, sir. 
 
 Wit. Smoke the boots, the boots ; Petulant, the boots : 
 ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Sir Wil. May be not, sir; thereafter, as 'tis meant, sir. 
 
 Pet. Sir, I presume upon the information of your 
 boots. 
 
 Sir Wil. Why, 'tis like you may, sir: if you are not 
 satisfied with the information of my boots, sir, if you will 
 step to the stable, you may inquire further of my horse, sir. 
 
 Pet. Your horse, sir ! your horse is an ass, sir ! 
 
 Sir Wil. Do you speak by way of offence, sir ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. The gentleman's merry, that's all sir. 
 [Aside :] S'life, we shall have a quarrel betwixt an horse 
 and an ass before they find one another out. [Aloud.] 
 You must not take anything amiss from your friends, sir. 
 You are among your friends here, though it may be you 
 don't know it. If I am not mistaken, you are Sir Wilfull 
 Witwoud. 
 
 Sir Wil. Right, lady ; I am Sir Wilfull Witwoud, so I 
 write myself ; no offence to anybody, I hope ; and nephew 
 to the Lady Wishfort of this mansion. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Don't you know this gentleman, sir ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Hum ! what, sure 'tis not yea by'r Lady, but
 
 SCENE in.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 367 
 
 'tis s'heart, I know not whether 'tis or no yea, but 'tis, 
 by the Wrekin.- Brother Anthony ! what Tony, i'faith ! 
 what, dost thou not know me ? By'r Lady, nor I thee, 
 thou art so becravated, and so beperiwigged. S'heart, 
 why dost not speak ? art thou overjoyed ? 
 
 Wit. Odso, brother, is it you ? your servant, brother. 
 Sir Wil. Your servant ! why yours, sir. Your servant 
 again s'heart, and your friend and servant to that and 
 a and a flap-dragon for your service, sir ! and a hare's 
 foot and a hare's scut for your service, sir ! an you be so 
 cold and so courtly. 
 
 Wit. No offence, I hope, brother. 
 Sir Wil. S'heart, sir, but there is, and much offence ! 
 A pox, is this your inns o' court breeding, not to know 
 your friends and your relations, your elders and your 
 betters? 
 
 Wit. Why, brother Wilfull of Salop, you may be as 
 short as a Shrewsbury-cake, if you please. But I tell you 
 'tis not modish to know relations in town : you think 
 you're in the country, where great lubberly brothers slab- 
 ber and kiss one another when they meet, like a call of 
 serjeants 'tis not the fashion here ; 'tis not indeed, dear 
 brother. 
 
 Sir Wil. The fashion's a fool ; and you're a fop, dear 
 brother. S'heart, I've suspected this by'r Lady, I con- 
 jectured you were a fop, since you began to change the 
 style of your letters, and write on a scrap of paper gilt 
 round the edges, no bigger than a subpoena. I might 
 expect this when you left off, " Honoured brother;" and 
 " hoping you are in good health," and so forth to begin 
 with a "Rat me, knight, I'm so sick of a last night's 
 debauch " 'ods heart, and then tell a familiar tale of a 
 cock and a bull, and a whore and a bottle, and so con- 
 clude. You could write news before you were out of 
 your time, when you lived with honest Pimple Nose the 
 attorney of Furnival's Inn =you could entreat to be 
 remembered then to your friends round the Wrekin.
 
 368 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT HI. 
 
 We could have gazettes, then, and Dawks's Letter, and 
 the Weekly Bill, till of late days. 1 
 
 Pet. S'life, Witwoud, were you ever an attorney's 
 clerk ? of the family of the Furnival ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Wit. Ay, ay, but that was but for a while : not long, 
 not long. Pshaw ! I was not in my own power then ; 
 an orphan, and this fellow was my guardian; ay, ay, I 
 was glad to consent to that, man, to come to London : 
 he had the disposal of me then. If I had not agreed to 
 that, I might have been bound 'prentice to a felt-maker 
 in Shrewsbury ; this fellow would have bound me to a 
 maker of fells. 
 
 Sir Wil. S 'heart, and better than to be bound to a 
 maker of fops ; where, I suppose, you have served your 
 time ; and now you may set up for yourself. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You intend to travel, sir, as I'm informed. 
 
 Sir Wil. Belike I may, madam. I may chance to sail 
 upon the salt seas, if my mind hold. 
 
 Pet. And the wind serve. 
 
 Sir Wil. Serve or not serve, I shan't ask licence of 
 you, sir ; nor the weathercock your companion : I direct 
 my discourse to the lady, sir. 'Tis like my aunt may 
 have told you, madam yes, I have settled my concerns, 
 I may say now, and am minded to see foreign parts. If 
 an how that the peace holds, whereby that is, taxes abate. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I thought you had designed for France at 
 all adventures. 
 
 Sir Wil. I can't tell that ; 'tis like I may, and 'tis like 
 I may not. I am somewhat dainty in making a resolution 
 because when I make it I keep it. I don't stand shill 
 I, shall I, then; if I say't, I'll do't ; but I have thoughts 
 to tarry a small matter in town, to learn somewhat of 
 your lingo first, before I cross the seas. I'd gladly have 
 a spice of your French as they say, whereby to hold dis- 
 course in foreign countries. 
 
 1 Newspapers of the time. Dawks's News Letter was printed in 
 written characters to look as much like a letter as possible.
 
 SCENE in.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 369 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Here's an academy in town for that use. 
 
 Sir Wil. There is ? Tis like there may. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. No doubt you will return very much im- 
 proved. 
 
 Wit. Yes, refined, like a Dutch skipper from a whale- 
 fishing. 
 
 Enter Lady WISHFORT and FAINALL. 
 
 Lady Wish. Nephew, you are welcome. 
 
 Sir Wil. Aunt, your servant. 
 
 Fain. Sir Wilfull, your most faithful servant. 
 
 Sir Wtl. Cousin Fainall, give me your hand. 
 
 Lady Wish. Cousin Witwoud, your servant; Mr. Petu- 
 lant, your servant nephew, you are welcome again. Will 
 you drink anything after your journey, nephew; before 
 you eat? dinner's almost ready. 
 
 Sir Wil. I'm very well, I thank you, aunt however, I 
 thank you for your courteous offer. S'heart I was afraid 
 you would have been in the fashion too, and have remem- 
 bered to have forgot your relations. Here's your cousin 
 Tony, belike, I mayn't call him brother for fear of offence. 
 
 Lady Wish. O, he's a railleur, nephew my cousin's a 
 wit : and your great wits always rally their best friends to 
 choose. When you have been abroad, nephew, you'll 
 understand raillery better. 
 
 [FAINALL and Mrs. MARWOOD talk apart. 
 
 Sir Wil. Why then let him hold his tongue in the 
 mean time ; and rail when that day comes. 
 
 Enter MINCING. 
 
 Min. Mem, I am come to acquaint your la'ship that 
 dinner is impatient. 
 
 Sir Wil. Impatient ! why then belike it won't stay till 
 I pull off my boots. Sweetheart, can you help me to a 
 pair of slippers ? My man's with his horses, I warrant. 
 
 Lady Wish. Fy, fy, nephew ! you would not pull off 
 your boots here ? Go down into the hall dinner shall 
 
 Con. B B
 
 3;o THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT ill. 
 
 stay for you. My nephew's a little unbred, you'll pardon 
 him, madam. Gentlemen, will you walk ? Marwood 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I'll follow you, madam before Sir Wilfull 
 is ready. \Exeunt all but Mrs. MARWOOD and FAINALL. 
 
 Fain. Why then, Foible's a bawd, an arrant, rank, 
 match-making bawd : and I, it seems, am a husband, a 
 rank husband ; and my wife a very arrant, rank wife all 
 in the way of the world. 'Sdeath, to be a cuckold by 
 anticipation, a cuckold in embryo ! sure I was born with 
 budding antlers, like a young satyr, or a citizen's child. 
 'Sdeath ! to be out-witted to be out-jilted out-matri- 
 mony'd ! If I had kept my speed like a stag, 'twere some- 
 what, but to crawl after, with my horns, like a snail, 
 and be outstripped by my wife 'tis scurvy wedlock. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Then shake it off; you have often wished for 
 an opportunity to part and now you have it. But first 
 prevent their plot the half of Millamant's fortune is too 
 considerable to be parted with, to a foe, to Mirabell. 
 
 Fain. Damn him ! that had been mine had you not 
 made that fond discovery that had been forfeited, had 
 they been married. My wife had added lustre to my 
 horns by that increase of fortune; I could have worn 'em 
 tipped with gold, though my forehead had been furnished 
 like a deputy-lieutenant's hall. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. They may prove a cap of maintenance to you 
 still, if you can away with your wife. And she's no worse 
 than when you had her I dare swear she had given up 
 her game before she was married. 
 
 Fain. Hum ! that may be. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. You married her to keep you; and if you can 
 ontrive to have her keep you better than you expected, 
 why should you not keep her longer than you intended. 
 
 Fain. The means, the means. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Discover to my lady your wife's conduct ', 
 threaten to part with her ! my lady loves her, and will 
 come to any composition to save her reputation. Take 
 the opportunity of breaking it, just upon the discovery
 
 SCENE in.] THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 371 
 
 of this imposture. My lady will be enraged beyond 
 bounds, and sacrifice niece, and fortune, and all, at that 
 conjuncture. And let me alone to keep her warm ; if she 
 should flag in her part, I will not fail to prompt her. 
 
 Fain. Faith, this has an appearance. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I'm sorry I hinted to my lady to endeavour 
 a match between Millamant and Sir Wilfull : that may be 
 an obstacle. 
 
 Fain. Oh, for that matter, leave me to manage him : 
 I'll disable him for that ; he will drink like a Dane; after 
 dinner, I'll set his hand in. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Well, how do you stand affected towards 
 your lady? 
 
 Fain. Why, faith, I'm thinking of it. Let me see I 
 am married already, so that's over : my wife has played 
 the jade with me well, that's over too : I never loved 
 her, or if I had, why that would have been over too by 
 this time : jealous of her I cannot be, for I am certain ; 
 so there's an end of jealousy : weary of her I am, and 
 shall be no, there's no end of that no, no, that were 
 too much to hope. Thus far concerning my repose ; now 
 for my reputation. As to my own, I married not for it, 
 so that's out of the question ; and as to my part in my 
 wife's why, she had parted with her's before; so bring- 
 ing none to me, she can take none from me ; 'tis against 
 all rule of play, that I should lose to one who has not 
 wherewithal to stake. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Besides, you forget, marriage is honourable. 
 
 Fain. Hum, faith, and that's well thought on ; mar- 
 riage is honourable as you say; and if so, wherefore 
 should cuckoldom be a discredit, being derived from so 
 honourable a root? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Nay, I know not ; if the root be honour- 
 able, why not the branches ? 
 
 Fain. So, so, why this point's clear well, how do we 
 proceed ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I will contrive a letter which shall be delivered
 
 372 THE WA Y OF TttE WORLD. [ACT lit, 
 
 to my lady at the time when that rascal who is to act Sir 
 Rowland is with her. It shall come as from an unknown 
 hand for the less I appear to know of the truth, the 
 better I can play the incendiary. Besides, I would not 
 have Foible provoked if I could help it because you 
 know she knows some passages nay, I expect all will 
 come out but let the mine be sprung first, and then I 
 care not if I am discovered. 
 
 Fain, If the worst come to the worst I'll turn my 
 wife to grass I have already a deed of settlement of the 
 best part of her estate; which I wheedled out of her; 
 and that you shall partake at least. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I hope you are convinced that I hate 
 Mirabell now; you'll be no more jealous? 
 
 Fain. Jealous! no by this kiss let husbands be 
 jealous ; but let the lover still believe ; or if he doubt, 
 let it be only to endear his pleasure, and prepare the joy 
 that follows, when he proves his mistress true. But let 
 husbands' doubts convert to endless jealousy ; or if they 
 have belief, let it corrupt to superstition and blind cre- 
 dulity. I am single, and will herd no more with 'em. 
 True, I wear the badge, but I'll disown the order. And 
 since I take my leave of 'em, I care not if I leave 'em a 
 common motto to their common crest : 
 
 All husbands must or pain or shame endure ; 
 The wise too jealous are, fools too secure. 
 
 \Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in Lady WISHFORT'S House, 
 
 Lady WISHFORT and FOIBLE. 
 
 ADY WISH. Is Sir Rowland com- 
 ing, sayest thou, Foible? and are things 
 in order? 
 
 Foib. Yes, madam, I have put wax 
 lights in the sconces, and placed the 
 footmen in a row in the hall, in their 
 best liveries, with the coachman and 
 postillion to fill up the equipage. 
 
 Lady Wish. Have you pulvilled the coachman and 
 postillion, that they may not stink of the stable when Sir 
 Rowland comes by. 
 Foib. Yes, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. And are the dancers and the music ready, 
 that he may be entertained in all points with corre- 
 spondence to his passion? 
 Foib. All is ready, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. And well and how do I look, Foible? 
 Foib. Most killing well, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, and how shall I receive him? in 
 what figure shall I give his heart the first impression ? 
 there is a great deal in the first impression. Shall I sit? 
 no, I won't sit I'll walk ay, I'll walk from the door 
 upon his entrance; and then turn full upon him no, 
 tha.t will be too sudden, I'll lie ay, I'll lie down I'll
 
 374 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT iv. 
 
 receive him in my little dressing-room, there's a couch 
 yes, yes, I'll give the first impression on a couch. I 
 won't lie neither, but loll and lean upon one elbow : with 
 one foot a little dangling off, jogging in a thoughtful way 
 yes and then as soon as he appears, start, ay, start 
 and be surprised, and rise to meet him in a pretty disorder 
 yes O, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a 
 couch, in some confusion : it shows the foot to advan- 
 tage, and furnishes with blushes, and recomposing airs 
 beyond comparison. Hark ! there's a coach. 
 
 Foib. 'Tis he, madam. 
 
 Lady Wish. O dear ! Has my nephew made his ad- 
 dresses to Millamant ? I ordered him. 
 
 Foib. Sir Wilfull is set in to drinking, madam, in the 
 parlour. 
 
 Lady Wish. Odds my life, I'll send him to her. Call 
 her down, Foible; bring her hither. I'll send him as I 
 go when they are together, then come to me, Foible, 
 that I may not be too long alone with Sir Rowland. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Mrs. MILLAMANT and Mrs. FAINALL. 
 
 Foib. Madam, I stayed here, to tell your ladyship that 
 Mr. Mirabell has waited this half hour for an opportunity 
 to talk with you : though my lady's orders were to leave 
 you and Sir Wilfull together. Shall I tell Mr. Mirabell 
 that you are at leisure ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. No, what would the dear man have? I 
 am thoughtful, and would amuse myself bid him come 
 another time. 
 
 " There never yet was woman made 
 Nor shall but to be cursed." 
 
 [Repeating, and walking about. 
 That's hard. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. You are very fond of Sir John Suckling J 
 to-day, Millamant, and the poets. 
 
 1 Sir John Suckling, poet (born 1609, died 1641).
 
 SCENE i.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 375 
 
 Mrs. Mil. He? Ay, and filthy verses so I am. 
 
 Foib. Sir Wilfull is coming, madam. Shall I send 
 Mr. Mirabell away. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, if you please, Foible, send him away 
 or send him hither just as you will, dear Foible. I 
 think I'll see him shall I ? ay, let the wretch come. 
 
 [Exit FOIBLE. 
 " Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train." 
 
 [Repeating. 
 
 Dear Fainall, entertain Sir Wilfull thou hast philosophy 
 to undergo a fool, thou art married and hast patience I 
 would confer with my own thoughts. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I am obliged to you, that you would make 
 me your proxy in this affair ; but I have business of my 
 own. 
 
 Enter Sir WILFULL. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. O Sir Wilfull, you are come at the 
 critical instant. There's your mistress up to the ears in 
 love and contemplation ; pursue your point now or 
 never. 
 
 Sir Wil. Yes ; my aunt will have it so I would gladly 
 have been encouraged with a bottle or two, because I'm 
 somewhat wary at first before I am acquainted. [This 
 while MILLAMANT walks about repeating to herself.] But 
 I hope, after a time, I shall break my mind that is, 
 upon further acquaintance so for the present, cousin, 
 I'll take my leave if so be you'll be so kind to make my 
 excuse, I'll return to my company 
 
 Mrs. Fain. O fy, Sir Wilfull ! what, you must not be 
 daunted. 
 
 Sir Wil. Daunted ! no, that's not it, it is not so much 
 for that for if so be that I set on't, I'll do't. But only 
 for the present, 'tis sufficient till further acquaintance, 
 that's all your servant. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Nay, I'll swear you shall never lose so 
 favourable an opportunity, if I can help it. I'll leave 
 you together, and lock the door. [Exit.
 
 376 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT iv. 
 
 Sir Wil. Nay, nay, cousin I have forgot my gloves 
 what d'ye do? S'heart, a'has locked the door indeed, 
 I think nay, Cousin Fainall, open the door pshaw, 
 what a vixen trick is this ? Nay, now a'has seen me 
 too. Cousin, I made bold to pass through as it were 
 I think this door's enchanted ! 
 
 Mrs. Mil. \Repeating.} 
 
 " I prithee spare me, gentle boy, 
 
 Press me no more for that slight toy." 
 Sir Wil. Anan ? Cousin, your servant. 
 Mrs. Mil. \Repeating^\ 
 
 " That foolish trifle of a heart." 
 Sir Wilfull ! 
 
 Sir Wil. Yes your servant. No offence, I hope, 
 cousin. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. [Repeating.] 
 
 " I swear it will not do its part, 
 Though thou dost thine, employest thy power and 
 
 art." 
 Natural, easy Suckling ! 
 
 Sir Wil. Anan ? Suckling ! no such suckling neither, 
 cousin, nor stripling: I thank Heaven, I'm no minor. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah, rustic, ruder than Gothic ! 
 
 Sir Wil. Well, well, I shall understand your lingo one 
 of these days , cousin ; in the meanwhile I must answer in 
 plain English. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Have you any business with me, Sir Wil- 
 full? 
 
 Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin yes I make bold to 
 see, to come and know if that how you were disposed to 
 fetch a walk this evening, if so be that I might not be 
 troublesome, I would have sought a walk with you. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. A walk ! what then ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Nay, nothing only for the walk's sake, 
 that's all. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. I nauseate walking; 'tis a country diver-
 
 SCENE I.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 377 
 
 sion ; I loathe the country, and everything that relates 
 to it. 
 
 Sir Wil. Indeed ! ha ! look ye, look ye, you do ? Nay, 
 'tis like you may here are choice of pastimes here in 
 town, as plays and the like ; that must be confessed 
 indeed. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah Tetourdi ! I hate the town too. 
 
 Sir Wil. Dear heart, that's much ha ! that you should 
 hate 'em both ! ha ! 'tis like you may ; there are some 
 can't relish the town, and others can't away with the 
 country 'tis like you may be one of those, cousin. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ha ! ha ! ha ! yes, 'tis like I may. You 
 have nothing further to say to me ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Not at present, cousin. 'Tis like when I 
 have an opportunity to be more private I may break my 
 mind in some measure I conjecture you partly guess 
 however, that's as time shall try but spare to speak and 
 spare to speed, as they say. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. If it is of no great importance, Sir Wilfull, 
 you will oblige me to leave me ; I have just now a little 
 business 
 
 Sir Wil. Enough, enough, cousin : yes, yes, all a case 
 when you're disposed : now's as well as another time ; 
 and another time as well as now. All's one for that 
 yes, yes, if your concerns call you, there's no haste ; it 
 will keep cold, as they say. Cousin, your servant I 
 think this door's locked. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. You may go this way, sir. 
 
 Sir Wil. Your servant ; then with your leave I'll re- 
 turn to my company. [xit, 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, ay ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 " Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy." 
 
 Enter MIRABELL. 
 
 Mir. " Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy." 
 Do you lock yourself up from me, to make my search 
 more curious ? or is this pretty artifice contrived to signify
 
 378 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT iv. 
 
 that here the chase must end, and my pursuits be crowned ? 
 For you can fly no further. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Vanity ! no I'll fly, and be followed to 
 the last moment Though I am upon the very verge of 
 matrimony, I expect you should solicit me as much as if 
 I were wavering at the grate of a monastery, with one 
 foot over the threshold. I'll be solicited to the very last, 
 nay, and afterwards. 
 
 Mir. What, after the last ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Oh, I should think I was poor and had 
 nothing to bestow, if I were reduced to an inglorious 
 ease, and freed from the agreeable fatigues of solicita- 
 tion. 
 
 Mir. But do not you know, that when favours are 
 conferred upon instant and tedious solicitation, that they 
 diminish in their value, and that both the giver loses the 
 grace, and the receiver lessens his pleasure ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. It may be in things of common application ; 
 but never sure in love. Oh, I hate a lover that can dare 
 to think he draws a moment's air, independent of the 
 bounty of his mistress. There is not so impudent a thing 
 in nature, as the saucy look of an assured man, confident 
 of success. The pedantic arrogance of a very husband 
 has not so pragmatical an air. Ah! I'll never marry, 
 unless I am first made sure of my will and pleasure. 
 
 Mir. Would you have 'em both before marriage? or 
 will you be contented with the first now, and stay for the 
 other till after grace ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah ! don't be impertinent. My dear liberty, 
 shall I leave thee ? my faithful solitude, my darling con- 
 templation, must I bid you then adieu ? Ay-h adieu 
 my morning thoughts, agreeable wakings, indolent slum- 
 bers, all ye douceurs, ye sommeils du matin, adieu ? I 
 can't do't, 'tis more than impossible positively, Mirabel!, 
 I'll lie abed in a morning as long as I please. 
 
 Mir. Then I'll get up in a morning as early as I 
 please.
 
 SCENE I.] THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 379 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah ! idle creature, get up when you will 
 and d'ye hear, I won't he called names after I'm married ; 
 positively I won't be called names. 
 
 Mir. Names! 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, as wife, spouse, my dear, joy, jewel, 
 love, sweetheart, and the rest of that nauseous cant, in 
 which men and their wives are so fulsomely familiar I 
 shall never bear that good Mirabell, don't let us be 
 familiar or fond, nor kiss before folks, like my Lady 
 Fadler and Sir Francis : nor go to Hyde-park together 
 the first Sunday in a new chariot, to provoke eyes and 
 whispers, and then never to be seen there together again ; 
 as if we were proud of one another the first week, and 
 ashamed of one another ever after. Let us never visit 
 together, nor go to a play together; but let us be very 
 strange and well-bred : let us be as strange as if we had 
 been married a great while ; and as well bred as if we 
 were not married at all. 
 
 Mir. Have you any more conditions to offer ? Hitherto 
 your demands are pretty reasonable. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Trifles ! As liberty to pay and receive visits 
 to and from whom I please ; to write and receive letters, 
 without interrogatories or wry faces on your part ; to wear 
 what I please ; and choose conversation with regard only 
 to my own taste ; to have no obligation upon me to con- 
 verse with wits that I don't like, because they are your 
 acquaintance : or to be intimate with fools, because they 
 may be your relations. Come to dinner when I please ; 
 dine in my dressing-room when I'm out of humour, with- 
 out giving a reason. To have my closet inviolate ; to be 
 sole empress of my tea-table, which you must never pre- 
 sume to approach without first asking leave. And lastly, 
 wherever I am, you shall always knock at the door before 
 you come in. These articles subscribed, if I continue to 
 endure you a little longer, I may by degrees dwindle into 
 a wife. 
 
 Mir. Your bill of fare is something advanced in this
 
 380 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT iv. 
 
 latter account. Well, have I liberty to offer conditions 
 that when you are dwindled into a wife, I may not be 
 beyond measure enlarged into a husband ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. You have free leave ; propose your utmost, 
 speak and spare not. 
 
 Mir. I thank you. Imprimis then, I covenant, that 
 your acquaintance be general ; that you admit no sworn 
 confidant, or intimate of your own sex ; no she friend to 
 screen her affairs under your countenance, and tempt you 
 to make trial of a mutual secrecy. No decoy duck to 
 wheedle you a fop-scrambling to the play in a mask 
 then bring you home in a pretended fright, when you 
 think you shall be found out and rail at me for missing 
 the play, and disappointing the frolic which you had to 
 pick me up, and prove my constancy. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Detestable imprimis ! I go to the play in a 
 mask! 
 
 Mir. Item, I article, that you continue to like your 
 own face, as long as I shall : and while it passes current 
 with me, that you endeavour not to new-coin it. To 
 which end, together with all vizards for the day, I prohibit 
 all masks for the night, made of oiled-skins, and I know 
 not what hogs' bones, hares' gall, pig-water, and the 
 marrow of a roasted cat. In short, I forbid all commerce 
 with the gentlewoman in what d'ye call it court. Item, I 
 shut my doors against all bawds with baskets, and penny- 
 worths of muslin, china, fans, atlasses, etc. Item, when 
 you shall be breeding 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ah ! name it not. 
 
 Mir. Which may be presumed with a blessing on our 
 endeavours. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Odious endeavours ! 
 
 Mir. I denounce against all strait lacing, squeezing for 
 a shape, till you mould my boy's head like a sugar-loaf, 
 and instead of a man child, make me father to a crooked 
 billet. Lastly, to the dominion of the tea-table I submit 
 but with proviso, that you exceed not in your province \
 
 SCEME I.] THE WA y OF THE WORLD. 381 
 
 but restrain yourself to native and simple tea-table drinks, 
 as tea, chocolate, and coffee : as likewise to genuine and 
 authorised tea-table talk such as mending of fashions, 
 spoiling reputations, railing at absent friends, and so forth 
 but that on no account you encroach upon the men's 
 prerogative, and presume to drink healths, or toast 
 fellows; for prevention of which I banish all foreign 
 forces, all auxiliaries to the tea-table, as orange-brandy, 
 all aniseed, cinnamon, citron, and Barbadoes waters, 1 
 together with ratafia, and the most noble spirit of clary 
 but for cowslip wine, poppy water, and all dormitives, 
 those I allow. These provisos admitted, in other things 
 I may prove a tractable and complying husband. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. O horrid provisos ! filthy strong-waters ! 
 I toast fellows ! odious men ! I hate your odious pro- 
 visos. 
 
 Mir. Then we are agreed ! shall I kiss your hand upon 
 the contract ? And here comes one to be a witness to the 
 sealing of the deed. 
 
 Enter Mrs. FAINALL. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Fainall, what shall I do ? shall I have him ? 
 I think I must have him. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ay, ay, take him, take him, what should 
 you do? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Well then I'll take my death I'm in a 
 horrid fright Fainall, I shall never say it well I think 
 I'll endure you. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Fy ! fy ! have him, have him, and tell 
 him so in plain terms : for I am sure you have a mind to 
 him. 
 , Mrs. Mil. Are you ? I think I have and the horrid 
 
 1 With these beverages there was always a mixture of alcohol. 
 The poets and satirists were very severe upon the " tasting " of fine 
 ladies. " As soon as she rises she must have a salutary dram to 
 keep her stomach from the colic ; a whet before she eats to procure 
 appetite ; after eating a plentiful dose for correction ; and to be 
 sure a bottle of brandy under her bedside for (ear of fainting in the 
 night."
 
 382 THE A WA Y OF THE WORLD [ACT IV. 
 
 man looks as if he thought so too well, you ridiculous 
 thing you, I'll have you I won't be kissed, nor I won't 
 be thanked here kiss my hand though. So, hold your 
 tongue now, don't say a word. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Mirabell, there's a necessity for your obe- 
 dience; you have neither time to .talk nor stay. My 
 mother is coming ; and in my conscience if she should 
 see you, would fall into fits, and maybe not recover time 
 enough to return to Sir Rowland, who, as Foible tells me, 
 is in a fair way to succeed. Therefore spare your 
 ecstacies for another occasion, and slip down the back- 
 stairs, where Foible waits to consult you. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Ay, go, go. In the meantime I suppose 
 you have said something to please me. 
 
 Mir. I am all obedience. \Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Yonder Sir Wilfull's drunk, and so noisy 
 that my mother has been forced to leave Sir Rowland to 
 appease him ; but he answers her only with singing 
 and drinking -what they may have done by this time I 
 know not; but Petulant and he were upon quarelling as 
 I came by. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Well, if Mirabell should not make a good 
 husband, I am a lost thing, for I find I love him 
 violently. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So it seems ; for you mind not what's said 
 to you. If you doubt him, you had best take up with 
 SirWilfull. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. How can you name that superannuated 
 lubber? foh ! 
 
 Enter WITWOUD. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. So, is the fray made up, that you have 
 left 'em? 
 
 Wit. Left 'em ? I could stay no longer I have 
 laughed like ten christnings I am tipsy with laughing 
 if I had stayed any longer I should have burst, I 
 must have been let out and pieced in the sides like an
 
 SCENE I.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 383 
 
 unsized camlet. Yes, yes, the fray is composed; my 
 lady came in like a noli prosequi, and stopped the pro- 
 ceedings. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. What was the dispute ? 
 
 Wit. That's the jest; there was no dispute. They 
 could neither of 'em speak for rage, and so fell a sput- 
 tering at one another like two roasting apples. 
 
 Enter PETULANT, drunk. 
 
 Wit. Now, Petulant, ail's over, all's well. Gad, my 
 head begins to whim it about why dost thou not speak? 
 thou art both as drunk and as mute as a fish. 
 
 Pet. Look you, Mrs. Millamant if you can love me, 
 dear nymph say it and that's the conclusion pass on, 
 or pass off that's all. 
 
 Wit. Thou hast uttered volumes, folios, in less than 
 decimo sexto, my dear Lacedemonian. Sirrah, Petulant, 
 thou art an epitomiser of words. 
 
 Pet. Witwoud you are an annihilator of sense. 
 
 Wit. Thou art a retailer of phrases ; and dost deal in 
 remnants of remnants, like a maker of pincushions thou 
 art iii truth (metaphorically speaking) a speaker of short- 
 hand. 
 
 Pet. Thou art (without a figure) just one half of an 
 ass, and Baldwin yonder, thy half-brother, is the rest. 
 A Gemini of asses split would make just four of you. 
 
 Wit. Thou dost bite, my dear mustard-seed ; kiss me 
 for that. 
 
 Pet. Stand offl I'll kiss no more males I have 
 kissed your twin yonder in a humour of reconciliation, 
 till he \Hiccups\ rises upon my stomach like a radish. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Eh I filthy creature ! what was the quarrel ? 
 
 Pet. There was no quarrel there might have been a 
 quarrel. 
 
 Wit. If there had been words enow between 'em to 
 have expressed provocation, they had gone together by 
 the ears like a pair of castanets,
 
 384 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT IV. 
 
 Pet. You were the quarrel. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Me ! 
 
 Pet. If I have a humour to quarrel, I can make 
 less matters conclude premises. If you are not hand- 
 some, what then, if I have a humour to prove it ? If I 
 shall have my reward, say so ; if not, fight for your face 
 the next time yourself I'll go sleep. 
 
 Wit. Do, wrap thyself up like a wood-louse, and 
 dream revenge and hear me, if thou canst learn to 
 write by to-morrow morning, pen me a challenge. I'll 
 carry it for thee. 
 
 Pet. Carry your mistress's monkey a spider ! Go flea 
 dogs, and read romances! I'll go to bed to my maid. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. He's horridly drunk. How came you all 
 in this pickle ? 
 
 Wit. A plot 1 a plot 1 to get rid of the night your 
 husband's advice ; but he sneaked off. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Dining-room in Lady WISHFORT'S House. 
 
 Sir WILFULL drunk, Lady WISHFORT, WITWOUD, Mrs. 
 MILLAMANT, and Mrs. FAINALL. 
 
 Lady Wish. Out upon't, out upon't ! At years of dis- 
 cretion, and comport yourself at this rantipole rate ! 
 
 Sir Wil. No offence, aunt. 
 
 Lady Wish. Offence! as I'm a person, I'm ashamed 
 of you foh ! how you stink of wine ! D'ye think my 
 niece will ever endure such a Borachio ! you're an abso- 
 lute Borachio. 1 
 
 Sir Wil. Borachio? 
 
 1 A receptacle for wine, fo:med of some animal's skin. A cant 
 term for a drunkard.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 385 
 
 Lady Wish. At a time when you should commence an 
 amour, and put your best foot foremost 
 
 Sir Wit. S'heart, an you grutch me your liquor, make a 
 bill give me more drink, and take my purse [Sings. 
 
 " Prithee fill me the glass, 
 
 Till it laugh in my face, 
 With ale that is potent and mellow ; 
 
 He that whines for a lass, 
 
 Is an ignorant ass, 
 For a bumper has not its fellow." 
 
 But if you would have me marry my cousin -say the 
 word, and I'll do't Wilfull will do't, that's the word 
 Wilfull will do't, that's my crest my motto I have 
 forgot. 
 
 Lady Wish. My nephew's a little overtaken, cousin 
 but 'tis with drinking your health. 0' my word you are 
 obliged to him. 
 
 Sir Wil. In vino veritas, aunt. If I drunk your health 
 to-day, cousin I am a Borachio. But if you have a 
 mind to be married, say the word, and send for the piper ; 
 Wilfull will do't. If not, dust it away, and let's have 
 t'other round. Tony ! Odds heart, where's Tony ! 
 Tony's an honest fellow; but he spits after a bumper, 
 and that's a fault. [Sings. 
 
 " We'll drink, and we'll never ha' done, boys, 
 Put the glass then around with the sun, boys, 
 
 Let Apollo's example invite us ; 
 For he's drunk every night, 
 And that makes him so bright, 
 
 That he's able next morning to light us." 
 
 The sun's a good pimple, an honest soaker ; he has a 
 cellar at your Antipodes. If I travel, aunt, I touch at 
 your Antipodes. Your Antipodes are a good, rascally 
 
 Con. C C
 
 386 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT iv. 
 
 sort of topsy-turvy fellows: if I had a bumper, I'd stand 
 upon my head and drink a health to 'em. A match or 
 no match, cousin with the hard name? Aunt, Wilfull 
 will do't. If she has her maidenhead, let her look to't ; 
 if she has not, let her keep her own counsel in the mean- 
 time, and cry out at the nine months' end. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Your pardon, madam, I can stay no longer 
 Sir Wilfull grows very powerful. Eh ! how he smells ! 
 I shall be overcome, if I stay. Come, cousin. 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. MILLAMANT and Mrs. FAINALL. 
 Lady Wish. Smells! he would poison a tallow-chan- 
 dler and his family ! Beastly creature, I know not what 
 to do with him ! Travel, quotha ! ay, travel, travel, get 
 thee gone, get thee gone, get thee but far enough, to the 
 Saracens, or the Tartars, or the Turks ! for thou art 
 not fit to live in a Christian commonwealth, thou beastly 
 Pagan ! 
 
 Sir Wil. Turks, no ; no Turks, aunt : your Turks are 
 infidels, and believe not in the grape. Your Mahometan, 
 your Mussulman, is a dry stinkard no offence, aunt. 
 My map says that your Turk is not so honest a man as 
 your Christian. I cannot find by the map that your 
 Mufti is orthodox whereby it is a plain case, that ortho- 
 dox is a hard word, aunt, and \Hiccups\ Greek for 
 claret. [Sings. 
 
 " To drink is a Christian diversion, 
 Unknown to the Turk or the Persian : 
 Let Mahometan fools 
 Live by heathenish rules, 
 And be damned over tea-cups and coffee. 
 But let British lads sing, 
 Crown a health to the king, 
 And a fig for your sultan and sophy ! " 
 
 Ah Tony ! 
 
 Enter FOIBLE, who whispers to Lady WISHFORT. 
 Lady. Wish. [Aside to FOIBLE.] Sir Rowland impatient?
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 387 
 
 Good lack ! what shall I do with this beastly tumbril ? 
 [Aloud. ~\ Go lie down and sleep, you sot ! or, as I'm a 
 person, I'll have you bastinadoed with broomsticks. Call 
 up the wenches. 
 
 Sir Wil. Ahey ! wenches, where are the wenches ? 
 
 Lady Wish. Dear Cousin Witwoud, get him away, and 
 you will bind me to you inviolably. I have an affair of 
 moment that invades me with some precipitation you 
 will oblige me to all futurity. 
 
 Wit. Come, knight. Pox on him, I don't know 
 what to say to him. Will you go to a cock-match ? 
 
 Sir Wil. With a wench, Tony ! Is she a shakebag, 
 sirrah ? Let me bite your cheek for that. 
 
 Wit. Horrible ! he has a breath like a bag-pipe ! 
 Ay, ay ; come, will you march, my Salopian ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Lead on, little Tony I'll follow thee, my 
 Anthony, my Tantony, sirrah, thou shalt be my Tantony, 
 and I'll be thy pig. [Sings. 
 
 " And a fig for your sultan and sophy." 
 
 [Exeunt Sir WILFULL and WITWOUD. 
 Lady Wish. This will never do. It will never make a 
 match at least before he has been abroad. 
 
 Enter WAITWELL, disguised as Sir ROWLAND. 
 
 Lady Wish. Dear Sir Rowland, I am confounded with 
 confusion at the retrospection of my own rudeness ! I 
 have more pardons to ask than the pope distributes in 
 the year of jubilee. But I hope, where there is likely to 
 be so near an alliance, we may unbend the severity of 
 decorums, and dispense with a little ceremony. 
 
 Wait. My impatience, madam, is the effect of my 
 transport; and till I have the possession of your adorable 
 person, I am tantalised on the rack ; and do but hang, 
 madam, on the tenter of expectation. 
 
 Lady Wish. You have excess of gallantry, Sir Row- 
 land, and press things to a conclusion with a most pre-
 
 3 88 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT IV. 
 
 vailing vehemence. But a day or two for decency of 
 marriage 
 
 Wait. For decency of funeral, madam ! The delay 
 will break my heart or, if that should fail, I shall be 
 poisoned. My nephew will get an inkling of my designs, 
 and poison me and I would willingly starve him before 
 I die I would gladly go out of the world with that satis- 
 faction. That would be some comfort to me, if I could 
 but live so long as to be revenged on that unnatural 
 viper ! 
 
 Lady Wish. Is he so unnatural, say you ? Truly I 
 would contribute much both to the saving of your life, 
 and the accomplishment of your revenge. Not that I 
 respect myself, though he has been a perfidious wretch 
 to me. 
 
 Wait. Perfidious to you ! 
 
 > Lady Wish. O Sir Rowland, the hours that he has 
 died away at my feet, the tears that he has shed, the 
 oaths that he has sworn, the palpitations that he has felt, 
 the trances and the tremblings, the ardours and the 
 ecstacies, the kneelings and the risings, the heart-heav- 
 ings and the hand-gripings, the pangs and the pathetic 
 regards of his protesting eyes ! Oh, no memory can 
 register ! 
 
 Wait. What, my rival ! is the rebel my rival ? a' dies. 
 
 Lady Wish. No, don't kill him at once, Sir Rowland, 
 starve him gradually, inch by inch. 
 
 Wait. I'll do't. In three weeks he shall be barefoot ; 
 in a month out at knees with begging an alms. He 
 shall starve upward and upward, till he has nothing living 
 but his head, and then go out in a stink like a candle's 
 end upon a save-all. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, Sir Rowland, you have the way 
 you are no novice in the labyrinth of love you have the 
 clue. But as I am a person, Sir Rowland, you must not 
 attribute my yielding to any sinister appetite, or indiges- 
 tion of widowhood ; nor impute my complacency to any
 
 SCENE il.] THE WA OF TH WORLD. 384 
 
 lethargy of continence I hope you do not think me 
 prone to any iteration of nuptials 
 
 Wait. Far be it from me 
 
 Lady Wish. If you do, I protest I must recede or 
 think that I have made a prostitution of decorums ; but 
 in the vehemence of compassion, and to save the life of a 
 person of so much importance 
 
 Wait. I esteem it so. 
 
 Lady Wish. Or else you wrong my condescension. 
 
 Wait. I do not, I do not ! 
 
 Lady Wish. Indeed you do. 
 
 Wait. I do not, fair shrine of virtue ! 
 
 Lady Wish. If you think the least scruple of carnality 
 was an ingredient 
 
 Wait. Dear madam, no. You are all camphor and 
 frankincense, all chastity and odour. 
 
 Lady Wish. Or that 
 
 Enter FOIBLE. 
 
 Foib. Madam, the dancers are ready ; and there's 
 one with a letter, who must deliver it into your own 
 hands. 
 
 Lady Wish. Sir Rowland, will you give me leave ? 
 Think favourably, judge candidly, and conclude you 
 have found a person who would suffer racks in honour's 
 cause, dear Sir Rowland, and will wait on you inces- 
 santly. [Exit. 
 
 Wait. Fy, fy ! What a slavery have I undergone ! 
 Spouse, hast thou any cordial ; I want spirits. 
 
 Foib. What a washy rogue art thou, to pant thus for 
 a quarter of an hour's lying and swearing to a fine 
 lady! 
 
 Wait. Oh, she is the antidote to desire ! Spouse, thou 
 wilt fare the worse for't I shall have no appetite to 
 iteration of nuptials this eight-and-forty hours. By this 
 hand I'd rather be a chairman in the dog-days than act 
 Sir Rowland till this time to-morrow !
 
 390 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT iv. 
 
 Re-enter Lady WISHFORT, with a letter. 
 
 Lady Wish. Call in the dancers. Sir Rowland, we'll 
 sit, if you please, and see the entertainment. [A Dance.~\ 
 Now, with your permission, Sir Rowland, I will peruse 
 my letter. I would open it in your presence, because I 
 would not make you uneasy. If it should make you un- 
 easy, I would burn it. Speak, if it does but you may 
 see the superscription is like a woman's hand. 
 
 Foib. [Aside to WAIT WELL.] By Heaven ! Mrs. 
 Marwood's, I know it. My heart aches get it from 
 her. 
 
 Wait. A woman's hand ! no, madam, that's no woman's 
 hand, I see that already. That's somebody whose throat 
 must be cut. 
 
 Lady Wish. Nay, Sir Rowland, since you give me a 
 proof of your passion by your jealousy, I promise you 
 I'll make a return, by a frank communication. You shall 
 see it we'll open it together look you here. \JReads.] 
 " Madam, though unknown to you " Look you there, 
 'tis from nobody that I know " I have that honour for 
 your character, that I think myself obliged to let you 
 know you are abused. He who pretends to be Sir Row- 
 land, is a cheat and a rascal." Oh Heavens ! what's 
 this? 
 
 Foib. [Aside.] Unfortunate ! all's ruined ! 
 Wait. How, how, let me see, let me see ! 
 " A rascal, and disguised and suborned for that impos- 
 ture," O villany! O villany! a by the contrivance 
 of" 
 
 Lady Wish. I shall faint, I shall die, oh ! 
 
 Foib. \Aside to WAITWELL.] Say 'tis your nephew's 
 hand quickly, his plot, swear it, swear it ! 
 
 Wait. Here's a villain ! madam, don't you perceive it, 
 don't you see it ? 
 
 Lady Wish. Too well, too well ! I have seen too 
 much.
 
 SCENE II.] THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 391 
 
 Wait. I told you at first I knew the hand. A woman's 
 hand ! The rascal writes a sort of a large hand ; your 
 Roman hand I saw there was a throat to be cut pre- 
 sently. If he were my son, as he is my nephew, I'd 
 pistol him ! 
 
 JFoib. O treachery ! But are you sure, Sir Rowland, 
 it is his writing ? 
 
 Wait. Sure ! am I here ? do I live ? do I love this 
 pearl of India ? I have twenty letters in my pocket 
 from him in the same character. 
 
 Lady Wish. How ! 
 
 Foib. what luck it is, Sir Rowland, that you were 
 present at this juncture! This was the business that 
 brought Mr. Mirabell disguised to Madam Millamant 
 this afternoon. I thought something was contriving, 
 when he stole by me and would have hid his face. 
 
 Lady Wish. How, how ! I heard the villain was in 
 the house indeed ; and now I remember, my niece went 
 away abruptly, when Sir Wilfull was . to have made his 
 addresses. 
 
 Foib. Then, then, madam, Mr. Mirabell waited for 
 her in her chamber ! but I would not tell your ladyship 
 to discompose you when you were to receive Sir Row- 
 land. 
 
 Wait. Enough, his date is short. 
 
 Foib. No, good Sir Rowland, don't incur the law 
 
 Wait. Law ! I care not for law. I can but die, and 
 'tis in a good cause. My lady shall be satisfied of my 
 truth and innocence, though it cost me my life. 
 
 Lady Wish. No, dear Sir Rowland, don't fight ; if you 
 should be killed I must never show my face ; or hanged: 
 O, consider my reputation, Sir Rowland ! No, you 
 shan't fight I'll go in and examine my niece; I'll make 
 her confess. I conjure you, Sir Rowland, by all your 
 love, not to fight. 
 
 Wait. I am charmed, madam, I obey. But some 
 proof you must let me give you ; I'll go for a black box,
 
 392 THE WA Y OP THE WORLD. [ACT IV. 
 
 which contains the writings of my whole estate, and deli- 
 ver them into your hands. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, dear Sir Rowland, that will be some 
 comfort, bring the black box. 
 
 Wait. And may I presume to bring a contract to be 
 signed this night ? may I hope so far ? 
 
 Lady Wish. Bring what you will ; but come alive, 
 pray come alive. Oh, this is a happy discovery ! 
 
 Wait. Dead or alive I'll come and married we will be 
 in spite of treachery ; ay, and get an heir that shall defeat 
 the last remaining glimpse of hope in my abandoned 
 nephew. Come, my buxom widow : 
 
 Ere long you shall substantial proofs receive, 
 That I'm an errant knight 
 
 Foib. \Aside '.] Or errant knave. 
 
 \Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in Lady WISHFORT'S House. 
 
 Lady WISHFORT and FOIBLE. 
 
 ADY WISH. Out of my house, out of 
 my house, thou viper! thou serpent, 
 that I have fostered ! thou bosom trai- 
 tress, that I raised from nothing ! 
 Begone ! begone ! begone ! go ! go ! 
 That I took from washing of old 
 gauze and weaving of dead hair, with a bleak blue nose 
 over a chafing-dish of starved embers, and dining behind 
 a traverse rag, in a shop no bigger than a birdcage ! 
 Go, go ! starve again, do, do ! 
 
 Foib. Dear madam, I'll beg pardon on my knees. 
 Lady Wish. Away ! out ! out ! Go, set up for your- 
 self again ! Do, drive a trade, do, with your three- 
 pennyworth of small ware, flaunting upon a packthread, 
 under a brandy-seller's bulk, or against a dead wall by a 
 ballad-monger ! Go, hang out an old Frisoneer gorget, 1 
 with a yard of yellow colberteen 2 again. Do ; an old 
 gnawed mask, two rows of pins, and a child's fiddle ; a 
 glass necklace with the beads broken, and a quilted 
 nightcap with one ear. Go, go, drive a trade ! These 
 were your commodities, you treacherous trull ! this was 
 the merchandise you dealt in when I took you into my 
 house, placed you next myself, and made you governante 
 
 1 A kerchief worn by women over their bosoms. 
 
 2 A kind of lace.
 
 394 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT v. 
 
 of my whole family ! You have forgot this, have you, 
 now you have feathered your nest ? 
 
 Foib. No, no, dear madam. Do but hear me, have 
 but a moment's patience, I'll confess all. Mr. Mirabell 
 seduced me ; I am not the first that he has wheedled 
 with his dissembling tongue ; your ladyship's own wis- 
 dom has been deluded by him ; then how should I, a 
 poor ignorant, defend myself ? O madam, if you knew 
 but what he promised me, and how he assured me your 
 ladyship should come to no damage ! Or else the wealth 
 of the Indies should not have bribed me to conspire 
 against so good, so sweet, so kind a lady as you have 
 been to me. 
 
 Lady Wish. No damage ! What, to betray me, and 
 marry me to a cast-servingman ! to make me a recep- 
 tacle, an hospital for a decayed pimp ! No damage ! 
 O thou frontless impudence, more than a big-bellied 
 actress ! 
 
 Foib. Pray, do but hear me, madam ; he could not 
 marry your ladyship, madam. No, indeed, his marriage 
 was to have been void in law, for he was married to me 
 first, to secure your ladyship. He could not have bedded 
 your ladyship; for if he had consummated with your 
 ladyship, he must have run the risk of the law, and been 
 put upon his clergy. Yes, indeed, I inquired of the law 
 in that case before I would meddle or make. 
 
 Lady Wish. - What then, I have been your property> 
 have I ? I have been convenient to you, it seems ! 
 While you were catering for Mirabell, I have been broker 
 for you ! What, have you made a passive bawd of me ? 
 This exceeds all precedent ; I am brought to fine uses, 
 to become a botcher of second-hand marriages between 
 Abigails and Andrews ! I'll couple you ! Yes, I'll 
 baste you together, you and your Philander ! I'll Duke's- 
 place you, as I am a person ! Your turtle is in custody 
 already: you shall coo in the same cage, if there be a 
 constable or warrant in the parish. \Exit.
 
 SCENE I.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 395 
 
 Foil. Oh that ever I was born ! Oh that I was ever 
 married ! A bride ! ay, I shall be a Bridewell-bride. 1 
 Oh! 
 
 Enter Mrs. FAINALL. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Poor Foible, what's the matter ? 
 
 Foib. O madam, my lady's gone for a constable. I 
 shall be had to a justice, and put to Bridewell to beat 
 hemp. Poor Waitwell's gone to prison already. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Have a good heart, Foible ; Mirabell's 
 gone to give security for him. This is all Marwood's 
 and my husband's doing. 
 
 Foib. Yes, yes ; I know it, madam : she was in my 
 lady's closet, and overheard all that you said to me 
 before dinner. She sent the letter to my lady ; and that 
 missing eifect, Mr. Fainall laid this plot to arrest Wait- 
 well, when he pretended to go for the papers ; and in 
 the meantime Mrs. Marwood declared all to my lady. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Was there no mention made of me in the 
 letter? My mother does not suspect my being in the 
 confederacy ? I fancy Marwood has not told her, though 
 she has told my husband. 
 
 Foib. Yes, madam ; but my lady did not see that 
 part ; we stifled the letter before she read so far, Has 
 that mischievous devil told Mr. Fainall of your ladyship 
 then? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Ay, all's out my affair with Mirabell 
 everything discovered. This is the last day of our living 
 together, that's my comfort. 
 
 Foib. Indeed, madam ; and so 'tis a comfort if you 
 knew all ; he has been even with your ladyship, which 
 I could have told you long enough since, but I love to 
 keep peace and quietness by my goodwill. I had rather 
 bring friends together, than set 'em at distance : but Mrs. 
 Marwood and he are nearer related than ever their 
 parents thought for. 
 
 1 Bridewell, situated between Fleet Ditch and Bride Lane, was a 
 Ho use of Correction for the loose and disorderly.
 
 396 THE WA V OP THE WORLD. [ACT V. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Sayest thou so, Foible ? canst thou prove 
 this? 
 
 Foib. I can take my oath of it, madam ; so can Mrs. 
 Mincing. We have had many a fair word from Madam 
 Marwood, to conceal something that passed in our 
 chamber one evening when you were at Hyde-park ; and 
 we were thought to have gone a-walking, but we went 
 up unawares; though we were sworn to secrecy too. 
 Madam Marwood took a book and swore us upon it, but 
 it was but a book of poems. So long as it was not a 
 bible- oath, we may break it with a safe conscience. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. This discovery is the most opportune thing 
 I could wish. Now, Mincing ! 
 
 Enter MINCING. 
 
 Min. My lady would speak with Mrs. Foible, mem. Mr. 
 Mirabell is with her ; he has set your spouse at liberty, 
 Mrs. Foible, and would have you hide yourself in my 
 lady's closet till my old lady's anger is abated. Oh, my 
 old lady is in a perilous passion at something Mr. Fainall 
 has said ; he swears, and my old lady cries. There's a 
 fearful hurricane, I vow. He says, mem, how that he'll 
 have my lady's fortune made over to him, or he'll be 
 divorced. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Does your lady or Mirabell know that ? 
 
 Min. Yes, mem ; they have sent me to see if Sir Wil- 
 full be sober, and to bring him to them. My lady is 
 resolved to have him, I think, rather than lose such a 
 vast sum as six thousand pounds. O come, Mrs. Foible, 
 I hear my old lady. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Foible, you must tell Mincing that she 
 must prepare to vouch when I call her. 
 
 Foib. Yes, yes, madam. 
 
 Mm. O yes, mem, I'll vouch anything for your lady- 
 ship's service, be what it will.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 397 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Another Room in Lady WISHFORT'S House. 
 
 Mrs. FAINALL, Lady WISHFORT, and Mrs. MARWOOD. 
 
 Lady Wish. O my dear friend, how can I enumerate 
 the benefits that I have received from your goodness ! 
 To you I owe the timely discovery of the false vows of 
 Mirabell ; to you I owe the detection of the impostor Sir 
 Rowland. And now you are become an intercessor with 
 my son-in-law, to save the honour of my house, and com- 
 pound for the frailties of my daughter. Well, friend, you 
 are enough to reconcile me to the bad world, or else I 
 would retire to deserts and solitudes, and feed harmless 
 sheep by groves and purling streams. Dear Marwood, 
 let us leave the world, and retire by ourselves and be 
 shepherdesses. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Let us first despatch the affair in hand, 
 madam. We shall have leisure to think of retirement 
 afterwards. Here is one who is concerned in the treaty. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh daughter, daughter ! is it possible thou 
 shouldst be my child, bone of my bone, and flesh of my 
 flesh, and, as I may say, another me, and yet transgress 
 the most minute particle of severe virtue? Is it possible 
 you should lean aside to iniquity, who have been cast in 
 the direct mould of virtue? I have not only been a 
 mould but a pattern for you, and a model for you, after 
 you were brought into the world. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I don't understand your ladyship. 
 
 Lady Wish. Not understand ! Why, have you not 
 been naught ? have you not been sophisticated ? Not 
 understand ! here I am ruined to compound for your 
 caprices and your cuckoldoms. I must pawn my 
 plate and my jewels, and ruin my niece, and all little 
 enough 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I am wronged and abused, and so are you. 
 'Tis a false accusation, as false as hell, as false as your
 
 398 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT v. 
 
 friend there, ay, or your friend's friend, my false hus- 
 band. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. My friend, Mrs. Fainall ! your husband 
 my friend ! what do you mean ? 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I know what I mean, madam, and so do 
 you ; and so shall the world at a time convenient. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. I am sorry to see you so passionate, 
 madam. More temper would look more like innocence. 
 But I have done. I am sorry my zeal to serve your lady- 
 ship and family should admit of misconstruction, or make 
 me liable to affronts. You will pardon me, madam, if I 
 meddle no more with an affair in which I am not person- 
 ally concerned. 
 
 Lady Wish. O dear friend, I am so ashamed that you 
 should meet with such returns ! [To Mrs. FAINALL.] 
 You ought to ask pardon on your knees, ungrateful crea- 
 ture ! she deserves more from you than all your life can 
 accomplish. [To Mrs. MAR WOOD.] Oh, don't leave me 
 destitute in this perplexity ! no, stick to me, my good 
 genius. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I tell you, madam, you are abused. Stick 
 to you ! ay, like a leech, to suck your best blood she'll 
 drop off when she's full. Madam, you shan't pawn a 
 bodkin, nor part with a brass counter, in composition for 
 me. I defy 'em all. Let 'em prove their aspersions ; 
 I know my own innocence, and dare stand a trial. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Lady Wish. Why, if she should be innocent, if she 
 should be wronged after all, ha ? I don't know what to 
 think ; and I promise you her education has been unex- 
 ceptionable I may say it; for I chiefly made it my own 
 care to initiate her very infancy in the rudiments of 
 virtue, and to impress upon her tender years a young 
 odium and aversion to the very sight of men : ay, friend, 
 she would ha' shrieked if she had but seen a man, till she 
 was in her teens. As I am a person 'tis true ; she was 
 never suffered to play with a male child, though but in
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 399 
 
 coats ; nay, her very babies were of the feminine gender. 
 Oh, she never looked a man in the face but her own 
 father, or the chaplain, and him we made a shift to put 
 upon her for a woman, by the help of his long garments, 
 and his sleek face, till she was going in her fifteen. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. 'Twas much she should be deceived so 
 long. 
 
 Lady Wish. I warrant you, or she would never have 
 borne to have been catechised by him ; and have heard his 
 long lectures against singing and dancing, and such de- 
 baucheries; and going to filthy plays, and profane music- 
 meetings, where the lewd trebles squeak nothing but 
 bawdy, and the basses roar blasphemy. Oh, she would 
 have swooned at the sight or name of an obscene play- 
 book ! and can I think, after all this, that my daughter 
 can be naught ? What, a whore ? and thought it excom- 
 munication to set her foot within the door of a play- 
 house ! O dear friend, I can't believe it, no, no ! as she 
 says, let him prove it, let him prove it. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Prove it, madam! What, and have your 
 name prostituted in a public court ! yours and your 
 daughter's reputation worried at the bar by a pack of 
 bawling lawyers ! To be ushered in with an O yes of scan- 
 dal ; and have your case opened by an old fumbling 
 lecher in a quoif like a man-midwife; to bring your 
 daughter's infamy to light ; to be a theme for legal 
 punsters and quibblers by the statute ; and become a jest 
 against a rule of court, where there is no precedent for a 
 jest in any record not even in doomsday-book ; to dis- 
 compose the gravity of the bench, and provoke naughty 
 interrogatories in more naughty law Latin ; while the 
 good judge, tickled with the proceeding, simpers under a 
 grey beard, and fidgets off and on his cushion as if he 
 had swallowed cantharides, or sat upon cow-itch ! 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, 'tis very hard ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. And then to have my young revellers of 
 the Temple take notes, like 'prentices at a conventicle ;
 
 400 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. [ACT v. 
 
 and after talk it over again in commons, or before drawers 
 in an eating-house. 
 
 Lady Wish. Worse and worse ! 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Nay, this is nothing ; if it would end here 
 'twere well. But it must, after this, be consigned by the 
 short-hand writers to the public press ; and from thence 
 be transferred to the hands, nay into the throats and 
 lungs of hawkers, with voices more licentious than the 
 loud flounder-man's : and this you must hear till you 
 are stunned ; nay, you must hear nothing else for some 
 days. 
 
 Lady Wish. Oh, 'tis insupportable ! No, no, dear 
 friend, make it up, make it up ; ay, ay, I'll compound. 
 I'll give up all, myself and my all, my niece and her all 
 anything, everything for composition. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Nay, madam, I advise nothing, I only lay 
 before you, as a friend, the inconveniences which perhaps 
 you have overseen. Here comes Mr. Fainall ; if he will 
 be satisfied to huddle up all in silence, I shall be glad. 
 You must think I would rather congratulate than condole 
 with you. 
 
 Enter FAINALL. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, ay, I do not doubt it, dear Marwood ; 
 no, no, I do not doubt it. 
 
 Fain. Well, madam ; I have suffered myself to be over- 
 come by the importunity of this lady your friend ; and 
 am content you shall enjoy your own proper estate dur- 
 ing life, on condition you oblige yourself never to marry, 
 under such penalty as I think convenient. 
 
 Lady Wish. Never to marry ! 
 
 Fain. No more Sir Rowlands ; the next imposture 
 may not be so timely detected. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. That condition, I dare answer, my lady 
 will consent to without difficulty ; she has already but 
 too much experienced the perfidiousness of men. Be- 
 sides, madam, when we retire to our pastoral solitude we 
 shall bid adieu to all other thoughts.
 
 SCENE II.] -THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 401 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, that's true ; but in case of necessity, 
 as of health, or some such emergency 
 
 Fain. Oh, if you are prescribed marriage, you shall be 
 considered ; I will only reserve to myself the power to 
 choose for you. If your physic be wholesome, it matters 
 not who is your apothecary. Next, my wife shall settle 
 on me the remainder of her fortune, not made over 
 already ; and for her maintenance depend entirely on my 
 discretion. 
 
 Lady Wish. This is most inhumanly savage ; exceed- 
 ing the barbarity of a Muscovite husband. 
 
 Fain. I learned it from his Czarish majesty's 1 retinue, 
 in a winter evening's conference over brandy and pepper, 
 amongst other secrets of matrimony and policy, as they 
 are at present practised in the northern hemisphere. But 
 this must be agreed unto, and that positively. Lastly, I 
 will be endowed, in right of my wife, with that six thou- 
 sand pounds, which is the moiety of Mrs. Millamant's 
 fortune in your possession ; and which she has forfeited 
 (as will appear by the last will and testament of your 
 deceased husband, Sir Jonathan Wishfort) by her dis- 
 obedience in contracting herself against your consent or 
 knowledge ; and by refusing the offered match with Sir 
 Wilfull Witwoud, which you, like a careful aunt, had pro- 
 vided for her. 
 
 Lady Wish. My nephew was non compos, and could 
 not make his addresses. 
 
 Fain. I come to make demands I'll hear no objections. 
 
 Lady Wish. You will grant me time to consider ? 
 
 Fain. Yes, while the instrument is drawing, to which 
 you must set your hand till more sufficient deeds can be 
 perfected : which I will take care shall be done with all 
 possible speed. In the meantime I'll go for the said 
 instrument, and till my return you may balance this 
 matter in your own discretion. \_Exit. 
 
 1 Peter the First paid a visit to England in 1697, three years 
 prior to the production of this play. 
 
 Con. D D
 
 402 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. [ACT v. 
 
 Lady Wish. This insolence is beyond all precedent, all 
 parallel ; must I be subject to this merciless villain ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Tis severe indeed, madam, that you should 
 smart for your daughter's wantonness. 
 
 Lady Wish. 'Twas against my consent that she mar- 
 ried this barbarian, but she would have him, though her 
 year was not out. Ah ! her first husband, my son Lan- 
 guish, would not have carried it thus. Well, that was 
 my choice, this is hers : she is matched now with a wit- 
 ness. I shall be mad ! Dear friend, is there no comfort 
 for me? must I live to be confiscated at this rebel- 
 rate? Here come two more of my Egyptian plagues 
 too. 
 
 Enter Mrs. MILLAMANT, and Sir WILFULL WITWOUD. 
 
 Sir Wil. Aunt, your servant. 
 
 Lady Wish. Out, caterpillar, call not me aunt! I 
 know thee not ! 
 
 Sir Wil. I confess I have been a little in disguise, as 
 they say. S'heart ! and I'm sorry for't. What would 
 you have ? I hope I have committed no offence, aunt 
 and if I did I am willing to make satisfaction ; and what 
 can a man say fairer? If I have broke anything I'll pay 
 for't, an it cost a pound. And so let that content for 
 what's past, and make no more words. For what's to 
 come, to pleasure you I'm willing to marry my cousin. 
 So pray let's all be friends, she and I are agreed upon the 
 matter before a witness. 
 
 Lady Wish. How's this, dear niece ? have I any com- 
 fort ? can this be true ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. I am content to be a sacrifice to your re- 
 pose, madam ; and to convince you that I had no hand 
 in the plot, as you were misinformed, I have laid my 
 commands on Mirabell to come in person, and be a wit- 
 ness that I give my hand to this flower of knighthood : 
 and for the contract that passed between Mirabell and 
 me, I have obliged him to make a resignation of it in
 
 SCENE ii.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 403 
 
 your ladyship's presence ; he is without, and waits your 
 leave for admittance. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, I'll swear I am something revived 
 at this testimony of your obedience ; but I cannot admit 
 that traitor. I fear I cannot fortify myself to support his 
 appearance. He is as terrible to me as a gorgon ; if I see 
 him I fear I shall turn to stone, and petrify incessantly. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. If you disoblige him, he may resent your 
 refusal, and insist upon the contract still. Then 'tis the 
 last time he will be offensive to you. 
 
 Lady Wish. Are you sure it will be the last time ? If 
 I were sure of that shall I never see him again ? 
 
 Mrs. Mil. SirWilfull, you and he are to travel together, 
 are you not ? 
 
 Sir Wil. S'heart, the gentleman's a civil gentleman, 
 aunt, let him come in ; why, we are sworn brothers and 
 fellow-travellers. We are to be Pylades and Orestes, he 
 and I. He is to be my interpreter in foreign parts. He 
 has been over-seas once already ; and with proviso that I 
 marry my cousin, will cross 'em once again, only to bear 
 me company. S'heart, I'll call him in, an I set on't 
 once, he shall come in ; and see who'll hinder him. 
 
 [Goes to the door and hems. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. This is precious fooling, if it would pass ; 
 but I'll know the bottom of it. 
 
 Lady Wish. O dear Marwood, you are not going. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Not far, madam ; I'll return immediately. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Enter MIRABELL. 
 
 Sir Wil. Look up, man, I'll stand by you ; 'sbud an 
 she do frown, she can't kill you; besides harkee, she 
 dare not frown desperately, because her face is none of 
 her own. S'heart, an she should, her forehead would 
 wrinkle like the coat of a cream-cheese; but mum for that, 
 fellow-traveller. 
 
 Mir. If a deep sense of the many injuries I have offerer! 
 to so good a lady, with a sincere remorse, and a hearty
 
 404 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT v. 
 
 contrition, can but obtain the least glance of compassion, 
 I am too happy. Ah, madam, there was a time ! but 
 let it be forgotten I confess I have deservedly forfeited 
 the high place I once held of sighing at your feet. Nay, 
 kill me not, by turning from me in disdain. I come not 
 to plead for favour ; nay, not for pardon ; I am a sup- 
 pliant only for pity I am going where I never shall 
 behold you more 
 
 Sir Wil. How, fellow-traveller ! you shall go by your- 
 self then. 
 
 Mir. Let me be pitied first, and afterwards forgotten. 
 I ask no more. 
 
 Sir Wil. By'r lady, a very reasonable request, and will 
 cost you nothing, aunt ! Come, come, forgive and for- 
 get, aunt ; why you must, an you are a Christian. 
 
 Mir. Consider, madam, in reality, you could not receive 
 much prejudice ; it was an innocent device ; though I 
 confess it had a face of guiltiness, it was at most an 
 artifice which love contrived ; and errors which love 
 produces have ever been accounted venial. At least 
 think it is punishment enough, that I have lost what in 
 my heart I hold most dear, that to your cruel indignation 
 I have offered up this beauty, and with her my peace and 
 quiet ; nay, all my hopes of future comfort. 
 
 Sir Wil. An he does not move me, would I may never 
 be o' the quorum ! an it were not as good a deed as to 
 drink, to give her to him again, I would I might never 
 take shipping ! Aunt, if you don't forgive quickly, I shall 
 melt, I can tell you that. My contract went no farther 
 than a little mouth-glue, and that's hardly dry; one 
 doleful sigh more from my fellow-traveller, and 'tis dis- 
 solved. 
 
 La'dy Wish. Well, nephew, upon your account Ah, 
 he has a false insinuating tongue ! Well, sir, I will stifle 
 my just resentment at my nephew's request. I will en- 
 deavour what I can to forget, but on proviso that you 
 resign the contract with my niece immediately.
 
 SCENE m.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 405 
 
 Mir. It is in writing, and with papers of concern ; but 
 I have sent my servant for it, and will deliver it to you, 
 with all acknowledgments for your transcendent good- 
 ness. 
 
 Lady Wish. [Aside.] Oh, he has witchcraft in his 
 eyes and tongue ! When I did not see him, I could have 
 bribed a villain to his assassination ; but his appearance 
 rakes the embers which have so long lain smothered in 
 my breast. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 TJie same. 
 
 Lady WISHFORT, Mrs. MILLAMANT, Sir WILFULL, 
 MIRABELL, FAINALL, and Mrs. MARWOOD. 
 
 Fain. Your date of deliberation, madam, is expired. 
 Here is the instrument ; are you prepared to sign ? 
 
 Lady Wish. If I were prepared, I am not impowered. 
 My niece exerts a lawful claim, having matched herself 
 by my direction to Sir Wilfull. 
 
 Fain. That sham is too gross to pass on me though 
 'tis imposed on you, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Sir, I have given my consent. 
 
 Mir. And, sir, I have resigned my pretensions. 
 
 Sir Wil. And, sir, I assert my right ; and will maintain 
 it in defiance of you, sir, and of your instrument. S'heart, 
 an you talk of an instrument, sir, I have an old fox by 
 my thigh that shall hack your instrument of ram vellum 
 to shreds, sir ! it shall not be sufficient for a mittimus or 
 a tailor's measure. Therefore withdraw your instrument, 
 sir, or by'r lady, I shall draw mine. 
 
 Lady Wish. Hold, nephew, hold ! 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Good Sir Wilfull, respite your valour. 
 
 Fain. Indeed ! Are you provided of your guard, with
 
 4o6 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT V. 
 
 your single beef-eater there? but I'm prepared for you, 
 and insist upon my first proposal. You shall submit 
 your own estate to my management, and absolutely make 
 over my wife's to my sole use, as pursuant to the purport 
 and tenor of this other covenant. I suppose, madam, 
 your consent is not requisite in this case ; nor, Mr. Mira- 
 bell, your resignation ; nor, Sir Wilfull, your right. You 
 may draw your fox if you please, sir, and make a bear- 
 garden flourish somewhere else ; for here it will not avail. 
 This, my Lady Wishfort, must be subscribed, or your 
 darling daughter's turned adrift, like a leaky hulk, to sink 
 or swim, as she and the current of this lewd town can 
 agree. 
 
 Lady Wish. Is there no means, no remedy to stop my 
 ruin ? Ungrateful wretch ! dost thou not owe thy being, 
 thy subsistence, to my daughter's fortune ? 
 
 Fain. I'll answer you when I have the rest of it in my 
 possession. 
 
 Mir. But that you would not accept of a remedy from 
 my hands I own I have not deserved you should owe 
 any obligation to me ; or else perhaps I could advise 
 
 Lady Wish. O what ? what ? to save me and my child 
 from ruin, from want, I'll forgive all that's past; nay, 
 I'll consent to anything to come, to be delivered from 
 this tyranny. 
 
 Mir. Ay, madam ; but that is too late, my reward is 
 intercepted. You have disposed of her who only could 
 have made me a compensation for all my services; but 
 be it as it may, I am resolved I'll serve you! you shall 
 not be wronged in this savage manner. 
 
 Lady Wish. How ! dear Mr. Mirabell, can you be so 
 generous at last ! But it is not possible. Harkee, I'll 
 break my nephew's match ; you shall have my niece yet, 
 and all her fortune, if you can but save me from this 
 imminent danger. 
 
 Mir. Will you? I'll take you at your word. I ask no 
 more. I must have leave for two criminals to appear.
 
 SCENE in.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. ' 407 
 
 Lady IVish. Ay, ay, anybody, anybody ! 
 Mir. Foible is one, and a penitent. 
 
 Enter Mrs. FAINALL, FOIBLE, and MINCING. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. O my shame! [MIRABELL and Lady 
 WISHFORT go to Mrs. FAINALL and FOIBLE.] These 
 corrupt things are brought hither to expose me. 
 
 [To FAINALL. 
 
 Fain. If it must all come out, why let 'em know it ; 
 'tis but the way of the world. That shall not urge me to 
 relinquish or abate one tittle of my terms ; no, I will in- 
 sist the more. 
 
 Foib. Yes, indeed, madam, I'll take my Bible oath 
 of it. 
 
 Mm. And so will I, mem. 
 
 Lady Wish. O Marwood, Marwood, art thou false? 
 my friend deceive me ! hast thou been a wicked accom- 
 plice with that profligate man ? 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Have you so much ingratitude and injustice 
 to give credit against your friend, to the aspersions of two 
 such mercenary trulls. 
 
 Mm. Mercenary, mem ? I scorn your words. 'Tis true 
 we found you and Mr. Fainall in the blue garret; by the 
 same token, you swore us to secrecy upon Messalina's 
 poems. Mercenary ! No, if we would have been merce- 
 nary, we should have held our tongues; you would have 
 bribed us sufficiently. 
 
 Fain. Go, you are an insignificant thing ! Well, what 
 are you the better for this ; is this Mr. Mirabell's expe- 
 dient? I'll be put off no longer. You thing, that was a 
 wife, shall smart for this ! I will not leave thee where- 
 withall to hide thy shame ; your body shall be naked as 
 your reputation. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. I despise you, and defy your malice! 
 you have aspersed me wrongfully I have proved your 
 falsehood go you and your treacherous I will not 
 name it, but starve together perish !
 
 408 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT V. 
 
 Fain. Not while you are worth a groat, indeed, my dear. 
 Madam, I'll be fooled no longer. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ah, Mr. Mirabell, this is small comfort, 
 the detection of this affair. 
 
 Mir. Oh, in good time your leave for the other 
 offender and penitent to appear, madam. 
 
 Enter WAITWELL with a box of writings. 
 
 Lady Wish. O Sir Rowland ! Well, rascal ! 
 
 Wait. What your ladyship pleases. I have brought 
 the black box at last, madam. 
 
 Mir. Give it me. Madam, you remember your pro- 
 mise. 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, dear sir. 
 
 Mir. Where are the gentlemen ? 
 
 Wait. At hand, sir, rubbing their eyes just risen from 
 sleep. 
 
 Fain. 'Sdeath, what's this to me? I'll not wait your 
 private concerns. 
 
 Enter PETULANT and WITWOUD. 
 
 Pet. How now? What's the matter? whose hand's 
 out? 
 
 Wit. Heyday ! what, are you all got together, like 
 players at the end of the last act ? 
 
 Mir. You may remember, gentlemen, I once requested 
 your hands as witnesses to a certain parchment. 
 
 Wit. Ay, I do, my hand I remember Petulant set his 
 mark. 
 
 Mir. You wrong him, his name is fairly written, as 
 shall appear. You do not remember, gentlemen, any- 
 thing of what that parchment contains ? 
 
 [ Undoing the box. 
 
 Wit. No. 
 
 Pet. Not I ; I writ, I read nothing. 
 
 Mir. Very well, now you shall know. Madam, your 
 promise.
 
 SCENE III.] THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 409 
 
 Lady Wish. Ay, ay, sir, upon my honour. 
 Mir. Mr. Fainall, it is now time that you should know, 
 that your lady, while she was at her own disposal, and 
 before you had by your insinuations wheedled her out of 
 a pretended settlement of the greatest part of her fortune 
 Fain. Sir ! pretended ! 
 
 Mir. Yes, sir. I say that this lady while a widow, 
 having it seems received some cautions respecting your 
 inconstancy and tyranny of temper, which from her own 
 partial opinion and fondness of you she could never have 
 suspected she did, I say, by the wholesome advice of 
 friends, and of sages learned in the laws of this land, 
 deliver this same as her act and deed to me in trust, and 
 to the uses within mentioned. You may read if you 
 please \Holding out the parchment} though perhaps what 
 is written on the back may serve your occasions. 
 
 Fain. Very likely, sir. What's here? Damnation! 
 [Reads.'} " A deed of conveyance of the whole estate real 
 of Arabella Languish, widow, in trust to Edward Mira- 
 bell." Confusion ! 
 
 Mir. Even so, sir; 'tis the Way of the World, sir, of 
 the widows of the world. I suppose this deed may bear 
 an elder date than what you have obtained from your lady. 
 Fain. Perfidious fiend ! then thus I'll be revenged. 
 
 \Offers to run at Mrs. FAINALL. 
 
 Sir Wil. Hold, sir ! now you may make your bear- 
 garden flourish somewhere else, sir. 
 
 Fain. Mirabell, you shall hear of this, sir, be sure you 
 shall. Let me pass, oaf ! [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Madam, you seem to stifle your resent- 
 ment ; you had better give it vent. 
 
 Mrs. Mar. Yes, it shall have vent -and to your con- 
 fusion ; or I'll perish in the attempt. [Exit. 
 Lady Wish. O daughter, daughter ! 'tis plain thou hast 
 inherited thy mother's prudence. 
 
 Mrs. Fain. Thank Mr. Mirabell, a cautious friend, to 
 whose advice all is owing.
 
 410 THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. [ACT v. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, Mr. Mirabell, you have kept your 
 promise and 1 must perform mine. First, I pardon, for 
 your sake, Sir Rowland there, and Foible ; the next 
 thing is to break the matter to my nephew and how to 
 do that 
 
 Mir. For that, madam, give yourself no trouble ; let 
 me have your consent. Sir Wilfull is my friend ; he has 
 had compassion upon lovers, and generously engaged a 
 volunteer in this action, for our service ; and now designs 
 to prosecute his travels. 
 
 Sir Wil. S'heart, aunt, I have no mind to marry. My 
 cousin's a fine lady, and the gentleman loves her,-and she 
 loves him, and they deserve one another ; my resolution 
 is to see foreign parts I have set on't and when I'm 
 set on't I must do't. And if these two gentlemen would 
 travel too, I think they may be spared. 
 
 Pet. For my part, I say little I think things are best 
 off or on. 
 
 Wit. I 'gad, I understand nothing of the matter ; I'm 
 in a maze yet, like a dog in a dancing-school. 
 
 Lady Wish. Well, sir, take her, and with her all the 
 joy I can give you. 
 
 Mrs. Mil. Why does not the man take me ? would you 
 have me give myself to you over again ? 
 
 Mir. Ay, and over and over again ; \Kisses lier hand.} 
 I would have you as often as possibly I can. Well, 
 Heaven grant I love you not too well, that's all my fear. 
 
 Sir Wil. S'heart, you'll have time enough to toy after 
 you're married; or if you will toy now, let us have a 
 dance in the mean time, that we who are not lovers may 
 have some other employment besides looking on. 
 
 Mir. With all my heart, dear Sir Wilfull. What shall 
 we do for music ? 
 
 Foib. O sir, some that were provided for Sir Rowland's 
 entertainment are yet within call. [A Dance. 
 
 Lady Wish. As I am a person, I can hold out no 
 longer ; I have wasted my spirits so to-day already, that
 
 SCENE in.] THE WAY OF THE WORLD, 411 
 
 I am ready to sink under the fatigue ; and I cannot but 
 have some fears upon me yet, that my son Fainall will 
 pursue some desperate course. 
 
 Mir. Madam, disquiet not yourself on that account ; to 
 my knowledge his circumstances are such he must of 
 force comply. For my part, I will contribute all that in 
 me lies to a reunion ; in the mean time, madam, \To 
 Mrs. FAINALL.] let me before these witnesses restore to 
 you this deed of trust ; it may be a means, well-managed, 
 to make you live easily together. 
 
 From hence let those be warned, who mean to wed ; 
 Lest mutual falsehood stain the bridal bed ; 
 For each deceiver to his cost may find, 
 That marriage-frauds too oft are paid in kind. 
 
 {Exeunt omnes. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 AFTER our Epilogue this crowd dismisses, 
 
 I'm thinking how this play'll be pulled to pieces. 
 
 But pray consider, ere you doom its fall, 
 
 How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all. 
 
 There are some critics so with spleen diseased, 
 
 They scarcely come inclining to be pleased : 
 
 And sure he must have more than mortal skill, 
 
 Who pleases any one against his will. 
 
 Then all bad poets we are sure are foes, 
 
 And how their number's swelled, the town well knows ; 
 
 In shoals I've marked 'em judging in the pit; 
 
 Though they're, on no pretence, for judgment fit, 
 
 But that they have been damned for want of wit. 
 
 Since when, they by their own offences taught, 
 
 Set up for spies on plays, and finding fault.
 
 412 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. f ACT V. 
 
 Others there are whose malice we'd prevent ; 
 
 Such who watch plays with scurrilous intent 
 
 To mark out who by characters are meant. 
 
 And though no perfect likeness they can trace, 
 
 Yet each pretends to know the copied face. 
 
 These with false glosses feed their own ill nature, 
 
 And turn to libel what was meant a satire.' 
 
 May such malicious fops this fortune find, 
 
 To think themselves alone the fools designed : 
 
 If any are so arrogantly vain, 
 
 To think they singly can support a scene. 
 
 And furnish fool enough to entertain. 
 
 For well the learned and the judicious know 
 
 That satire scorns to stoop so meanly low, 
 
 As any one abstracted fop to show. 
 
 For, as when painters form a matchless face, 
 
 They from each fair one catch some different grace ; 
 
 And shining features in one portrait blend, 
 
 To which no single beauty must pretend ; 
 
 So poets oft do in one piece expose 
 
 Whole belles-assemblees of coquettes and beaux.
 
 THE 
 
 Neque enim lex sequior ulla, 
 
 Quam necis artifices arte perire sua. OVID, de Arte Amandi. 1 
 
 1 For there is no law more just than for the plotters of murder to perish by 
 their own designs.
 
 HE Mourning Bride is the only 
 tragedy that issued from the pen of 
 Congreve, and he cannot be congra- 
 tulated upon his effort. The author 
 is essentially a painter of contem- 
 porary life and manners, and when 
 he treads upon the classic ground 
 of historical drama his grace and 
 lightness of step desert him. Instead of the wit and 
 epigram of his comedies we have here dialogue which 
 is turgid and bombastic, a plot not uninteresting, but 
 lacking in probability, and love scenes too artificial to 
 be infused with real passion, and which consequently fail 
 to move us. It is one of those plays which reads better than 
 it acts. In this play several couplets, which have since 
 become proverbial, are to be met with. It was produced in 
 1697, and at once became a favourite, though it has long 
 since been banished from the stage. ;
 
 To Her Royal Highness, 
 THE PRINCESS.* 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 HAT high station which by your birth you 
 hold above the people, exacts from every 
 one, as a duty, whatever honours they 
 are capable of paying to your Royal 
 Highness : but that more exalted place 
 to which your virtues have raised you 
 above the rest of princes, makes the 
 tribute of our admiration and praise 
 rather a choice more immediately preventing that duty. T 
 The public gratitude is ever founded on a public benefit ; 
 and what is universally blessed, is always a universal 
 blessing. Thus from yourself we derive the offerings which 
 we bring ; and that incense which arises to your name, only 
 returns to its original, and but naturally requites the parent 
 of its being. 
 
 From hence it is that this poem, constituted on a moral 
 whose end is to recommend and to encourage virtue, of 
 consequence has recourse to your Royal Highness's 
 patronage ; aspiring to cast itself beneath your feet, and 
 declining approbation, till you shall condescend to own it, 
 and vouchsafe to shine upon it as on a creature of your 
 influence. 
 
 It is from the example of princes that virtue becomes a 
 fashion in the people ; for even they who are averse to in- 
 struction will yet be fond of imitation. 
 
 But there are multitudes who never can have means nor 
 opportunities of so near an access, as to partake of the 
 benefit of such examples. And to these Tragedy, which 
 distinguishes itself from the vulgar poetry by the dignity of 
 
 1 Afterwards Queen Anne.
 
 416 DEDICATION, 
 
 its characters, may be of use and information. For they 
 who are at that distance from original greatness as to be 
 deprived of the happiness of contemplating the perfections 
 and real excellences of your Royal Highness's person in 
 your court, may yet behold some small sketches and imag- 
 ings of the virtues of your mind, abstracted and represented 
 on the theatre. 
 
 Thus poets are instructed, and instruct ; not alone by 
 precepts which persuade, but also by examples which illus- 
 trate. Thus is delight interwoven with instruction ; when 
 not only virtue is prescribed, but also represented. 
 
 But if we are delighted with the liveliness of a feigned 
 representation of great and good persons and their actions, 
 how must we be charmed with beholding the persons them- 
 selves ! If one or two excelling qualities, barely touched in 
 the single action and small compass of a play, can warm 
 an audience, with a concern and regard even for the seem- 
 ing success and prosperity of the actor : with what zeal 
 must the hearts of all be filled for the continued and in- 
 creasing happiness of those who are the true and living 
 instances of elevated and persisting virtue ! Even the 
 vicious themselves must have a secret veneration for those 
 peculiar graces and endowments which are daily so emi- 
 nently conspicuous in your Royal Highness ; and, though 
 repining, feel a pleasure which, in spite of envy, they per- 
 force approve. 
 
 If in this piece, humbly offered to your Royal Highness, 
 there shall appear the resemblance of any of those many 
 excellences which you so promiscuously possess, to be 
 drawn so as to merit your least approbation, it has the end 
 and accomplishment of its design. And however imperfect 
 it may be in the whole, through the inexperience or inca- 
 pacity of the author, yet, if there is so much as to convince 
 your Royal Highness, that a play may be with industry so 
 disposed (in spite of the licentious practice of the modern 
 theatre) as to become sometimes an innocent, and not un- 
 profitable entertainment ; it will abundantly gratify the 
 ambition, and recompense the endeavours of your Royal 
 Highness's most obedient, and most humbly devoted 
 servant, 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. KETTERTON. 
 
 THE time has been when plays were not so plenty, 
 And a less number new would well content ye. 
 New plays did then like almanacs appear ; 
 And one was thought sufficient for a year : 
 Though they are more like almanacs of late ; 
 For in one year, I think, they're out of date. 
 Nor were they without reason joined together ; 
 For just as one prognosticates the weather, 
 How plentiful the crop, or scarce the grain, 
 What peals of thunder, and what showers of rain ; 
 So t'other can foretell, by certain rules, 
 What crops of coxcombs, or what floods of fools. 
 In such like prophecies were poets skilled, 
 Which now they find in their own tribe fulfilled : 
 The dearth of wit they did so long presage, 
 Is fallen on us, and almost starves the stage. 
 Were you not grieved as often as you saw 
 Poor actors thrash such empty sheafs of straw ? 
 Toiling and labouring at their lungs' expense, 
 To start a jest, or force a little sense. 
 Hard fate for us ! still harder in the event ; 
 Our authors sin, but we alone repent. 
 Still they proceed, and, at our charge, write worse. 
 'Twere some amends if they could reimburse : 
 But there's the devil, though their cause is lost, 
 There's no recovering damages or cost. 
 
 Good wits, forgive this liberty we take, 
 Since custom gives the losers leave to speak. 
 But if provoked, your dreadful wrath remains, 
 Take your revenge upon the coming scenes : 
 For that damned poet's spared who damns a brother 
 As one thief 'scapes that executes another. 
 Thus far alone does to the wits relate ; 
 But from the rest we hope a better fate. 
 To please and move has been our poet's theme, 
 Art may direct, but nature is his aim ; 
 And nature missed, in vain he boasts his art, 
 For only nature can affect the heart. 
 Then freely judge the scenes that shall ensue ; 
 But as with freedom, judge with candour too. 
 He would not lose through prejudice his cause, 
 Nor would obtain precariously applause ; 
 Impartial censure he requests from all, 
 Prepared by just decrees to stand or fall. 
 
 Con. E jj
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MANUEL, the King of Granada. 
 
 GONSALEZ, his Favourite. 
 
 GARCIA, Son to GONSALEZ. 
 
 PEREZ, Captain of the Guards. 
 
 ALONZO, an Officer, creature to GONSALEZ. 
 
 OSMYN, a noble Prisoner. 
 
 HELI, a Prisoner, his Friend. 
 
 SELIM, a Eunuch. 
 
 ALMERIA, the Princess of Granada. 
 
 ZARA, a captive Queen. 
 
 LEONORA, chief Attendant on the Princess. 
 
 ALMERIA'S Women, Eunuchs and Mutes attending 
 ZARA, Guards, Prisoners, and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE GRANADA. "
 
 THE 
 
 "STRIVE. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room of State in the Palace. 
 
 The curtain rising slowly to soft music, discovers ALMERIA 
 in mourning, LEONORA waiting in mourning. After the 
 music, ALMERIA rises from fier chair and comes for- 
 ward. 
 
 LM. Music has charms to soothe a savage 
 breast, 
 
 To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. 
 
 I've read that things inanimate have 
 moved, [formed, 
 
 And, as with living souls, have been in- 
 By magic numbers and persuasive sound. 
 What then am I ? Am I more senseless grown 
 Than trees or flint ? O force of constant woe ! 
 'Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs. 
 Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace ; last night 
 The silent tomb received the good old king ; 
 He and his sorrows now are safely lodged 
 Within its cold but hospitable bosom. 
 Why am not I at peace ?
 
 420 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT I. 
 
 Leon. Dear madam, cease, 
 
 Or moderate your griefs ; there is no cause 
 
 Aim. No cause ! peace, peace ; there is eternal cause, 
 And misery eternal will succeed. 
 Thou canst not tell thou hast indeed no cause. 
 
 Leon. Believe me, madam, I lament Anselmo, 
 And always did compassionate his fortune : 
 Have often wept to see how cruelly 
 Your father kept in chains his fellow-king : 
 And oft at night when all have been retired, 
 Have stolen from bed, and to his prison crept ; 
 Where, while his jailor slept, I through the grate 
 Have softly whispered, and inquired his health ; 
 Sent in my sighs and prayers for his deliverance ; 
 For sighs and prayers were all that I could offer. 
 
 Aim. Indeed thou hast a soft and gentle nature, 
 That thus couldst melt to see a stranger's wrongs. 
 O Leonora, hadst thou known Anselmo, 
 How would thy heart have bled to see his sufferings. 
 Thou hadst no cause, but general compassion. 
 
 Leon. Love of my royal mistress gave me cause, 
 My love of you begot my grief for him ; 
 For I had heard that when the chance of war 
 Had blessed Anselmo's arms with victory, 
 And the rich spoil of all the field, and you, 
 The glory of the whole, were made the prey 
 Of his success ; that then, in spite of hate, 
 Revenge, and that hereditary feud 
 Between Valentia's and Granada's kings, 
 He did endear himself to your affection, 
 By all the worthy and indulgent ways 
 His most industrious goodness could invent ; 
 Proposing by a match between Alphonso 
 His son, the brave Valentia prince, and you, 
 To end the long dissension, and unite 
 The jarring crowns. 
 
 Aim. Alphonso ! O Alphonso !
 
 SCENE i.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 421 
 
 Thou too art quiet long hast been at peace 
 Both, both father and son are now no more. 
 Then why am I ? O when shall I have rest ? 
 Why do I live to say you are no more ? 
 Why are all these things thus ? Is it of force ? 
 Is there necessity I must be miserable ? 
 Is it of moment to the peace of Heaven 
 That I should be afflicted thus ? If not, 
 Why is it thus contrived ? Why are things laid 
 By some unseen hand so, as of sure consequence, 
 They must to me bring curses, grief of heart, 
 The last distress of life, and sure despair ? 
 
 Leon. Alas, you search too far, and think too deeply ! 
 
 Aim. Why was I carried to Anselmo's court ? 
 Or there, why was I used so tenderly ? 
 Why not ill-treated like an enemy ? 
 For so my father would have used his child. 
 
 Alphonso ! Alphonso ! 
 
 Devouring seas have washed thee from my sight, 
 
 No time shall raze thee from my memory ; 
 
 No, I will live to be thy monument ; 
 
 The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb : 
 
 But in my heart thou art interred ; there, there, 
 
 Thy dear resemblance is for ever fixed ; 
 
 My love, my lord, my husband still, though lost. 
 
 Leon. Husband I O Heavens ! 
 
 Aim. Alas ! what have I said ? 
 
 My grief has hurried me beyond all thought : 
 
 1 would have kept that secret ; though I know 
 Thy love and faith to me deserve all confidence. 
 But 'tis the wretch's comfort still to have 
 Some small reserve of near and inward woe, 
 Some unsuspected hoard of darling grief, 
 
 Which they unseen may wail, and weep and mourn, 
 And, glutton -like, alone devour. 
 
 Leon. Indeed 
 
 I knew not this.
 
 422 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT I. 
 
 Aim. no, thou know'st not half, 
 
 Know'st nothing of my sorrows. If thou didst 
 If I should tell thee, wouldst thou pity me ? 
 Tell me ; I know thou wouldst, thou art compas- 
 sionate. 
 
 Leon. Witness these tears ! 
 
 Aim. I thank thee, Leonora, 
 
 Indeed I do, for pitying thy sad mistress ; 
 For 'tis, alas ! the poor prerogative 
 Of greatness, to be wretched and unpitied. 
 But I did promise I would tell thee what ? 
 My miseries ? thou dost already know 'em ; 
 And when I told thee thou didst nothing know, 
 It was because thou didst not know Alphonso : 
 For to have known my loss, thou must have known 
 His worth, his truth, and tenderness of love. 
 
 Leon. The memory of that brave prince stands 
 
 fair 
 
 In all report 
 
 And I have heard imperfectly his loss ! 
 But fearful to renew your troubles past, 
 I never did presume to ask the story. 
 
 Aim. If for my swelling heart I can, I'll tell thee. 
 I was a welcome captive in Valentia, 
 Even on the day when Manuel my father 
 Led on his conquering troops, high as the gates 
 Of King Anselmo's palace ; which in rage, 
 And heat of war, and dire revenge, he fired. 
 The good king flying to avoid the flames, 
 Started amidst his foes, and made captivity 
 His fatal refuge. Would that I had fallen 
 Amid those flames ! but 'twas not so decreed. 
 Alphonso, who foresaw my father's cruelty, 
 Had borne the queen and me on board a ship 
 Ready to sail ; and when this news was brought, 
 We put to sea ; but being betrayed by some 
 Who knew our flight, we closely were pursued,
 
 SCENE I.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 423 
 
 And almost taken ; when a sudden storm 
 Drove us, and those that followed, on the coast 
 Of Afric ; there our vessel struck the shore, 
 And bulging 'gainst a rock was lashed in pieces ! 
 But Heaven spared me for yet much more affliction ! 
 Conducting them who followed us to shun 
 The shoal, and save me floating on the waves, 
 While the good queen and my Alphonso perished. 
 
 Leon. Alas ! were you then wedded to Alphonso ? 
 
 Aim. That day, that fatal day our hands were 
 
 joined. 
 
 For when my lord beheld the ship pursuing, 
 And saw her rate so far exceeding ours ; 
 He came to me, and begged me by my love, 
 I would consent the priest should make us one ; 
 That whether death or victory ensued, 
 I might be his beyond the power of fate : 
 The queen too did assist his suit I granted ; 
 And in one day, was wedded and a widow. 
 
 Leon. Indeed 'twas mournful. 
 
 Aim. 'Twas as I have told thee, 
 
 For which I mourn, and will for ever mourn ; 
 Nor will I change these black and dismal robes, 
 Or ever dry these swollen and watery eyes ; 
 Or ever taste content, or peace of heart, 
 While I have life, and thought of my Alphonso. 
 
 Leon. Look down, good Heaven, with pity on her 
 
 sorrows, 
 And grant that time may bring her some relief. 
 
 Aim. O no, time gives increase to my afflictions. 
 The circling hours, that gather all the woes, 
 Which are diffused through the revolving year, 
 Come, heavy-laden with the oppressing weight, 
 To me ; with me, successively, they leave 
 The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares, 
 And all the damps of grief, that did retard their 
 flight;
 
 424 TH& MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT I. 
 
 They shake their downy wings, and scatter all 
 The dire collected dews on my poor head ; 
 Then fly with joy and swiftness from me. 
 
 Leon. Hark ! 
 
 The distant shouts proclaim your father's triumph. 
 
 \Shouts at a distance. 
 
 cease, for Heaven's sake, assuage a little 
 This torrent of your grief ; for much I fear 
 'Twill urge his wrath to see you drowned in tears, 
 When joy appears in every other face. 
 
 Aim. And joy he brings to every other heart, 
 But double, double weight of woe to mine ; 
 For with him Garcia comes Garcia, to whom 
 
 1 must be sacrificed, and all the vows 
 
 I gave my dear Alphonso basely broken. 
 No, it shall never be ; for I will die ; 
 First, die ten thousand deaths ! Look down, look down, 
 
 \Kneels. 
 
 Alphonso, hear the sacred vow I make ; 
 One moment cease to gaze on perfect bliss, 
 And bend thy glorious eyes to earth and me ; 
 And thou, Anselmo, if yet thou art arrived, 
 Through all impediments of purging fire, 
 To that bright Heaven, where my Alphonso reigns, 
 Behold thou also, and attend my vow. 
 If ever I do yield, or give consent, 
 By any action, word, or thought, to wed 
 Another lord, may then just Heaven shower down 
 Unheard-of curses on me, greater far 
 (If such there be in angry Heaven's vengeance) 
 Than any I have yet endured. And now [.Rising. 
 
 My heart has some relief ; having so well 
 Discharged this debt, incumbent on my love. 
 Yet one thing more I would engage from thee. 
 
 Leon. My heart, my life, and will, are only yours. 
 
 Aim. I thank thee. 'Tis but this ; anon, when all 
 Are wrapped and busied in the general joy,
 
 SCENE I.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 425 
 
 Thou wilt withdraw, and privately with me 
 Steal forth, to visit good Anselmo's tomb. 
 
 Leon. Alas ! I fear some fatal resolution. 
 
 Aim. No, on my life, my faith, I mean no ill, 
 Nor violence. I feel myself more light, 
 And more at large, since I have made this vow. 
 Perhaps I would repeat it there more solemnly. 
 'Tis that, or some such melancholy thought, 
 Upon my word, no more. 
 
 Leon. I will attend you. 
 
 Enter ALONZO. 
 
 Alon. The Lord Gonsalez comes to tell your high- 
 ness 
 The king is just arrived. 
 
 Aim. Conduct him in. [Exit ALONZO. 
 
 That's his pretence; his errand is, I know, 
 To fill my ears with Garcia's valiant deeds, 
 And gild and magnify his son's exploits. 
 But I am armed with ice around my heart, 
 Not to be warmed with words, or idle eloquence. 
 
 Enter GONSALEZ. 
 
 Gon. Be every day of your long life like this ! 
 The sun, bright conquest, and your brighter eyes, 
 Have all conspired to blaze promiscuous light, 
 And bless this day with most unequalled lustre. 
 Your royal father, my victorious lord, 
 Loaden with spoils, and ever-living laurel, 
 Is entering now in martial pomp the palace. 
 Five hundred mules precede his solemn march, 
 Which groan beneath the weight of Moorish wealth. 
 Chariots of war, adorned with glittering gems 
 Succeed ; and next, a hundred neighing steeds, 
 White as the fleecy rain on Alpine hills, 
 That bound and foam, and champ the golden bit, 
 As they disdained the victory they grace.
 
 426 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT I 
 
 Prisoners of war in shining fetters follow : 
 
 And captains, of the noblest blood of Afric, 
 
 Sweat by his chariot wheel, and lick and grind, 
 
 With gnashing teeth, the dust his triumphs raise. 
 
 The swarming populace spread every wall, 
 
 And cling, as if with claws they did enforce 
 
 Their hold through clifted stones, stretching and 
 
 staring, 
 
 As if they were all eyes, and every limb 
 Would feed its faculty of admiration : 
 While you alone retire, and shun this sight; 
 This sight, which is indeed not seen (though twice 
 The multitude should gaze) in absence of your eyes. 
 
 Aim. My lord, my eyes ungratefully behold 
 The gilded trophies of exterior honours. 
 Nor will my ears be charmed with sounding words, 
 Or pompous phrase ; the pageantry of souls. 
 But that my father is returned in safety, 
 I bend to Heaven with thanks. 
 
 Gon. Excellent princess ! 
 
 But 'tis a task unfit for my weak age, 
 With dying words, to offer at your praise. 
 Garcia, my son, your beauty's lowest slave, 
 Has better done, in proving with his sword 
 The force and influence of your matchless charms. 
 
 Aim. I doubt not of the worth of Garcia's deeds, 
 Which had been brave, though I had ne'er been 
 born. 
 
 Leon. Madam, the king ! {Flourish. 
 
 Aim. My women ! I would meet him, 
 
 [Attendants to ALMERIA enter in mourning.
 
 SCENE II.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 427 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The same. 
 
 SympJwny of warlike music. Enter MANUEL, attended by 
 GARCIA and several Officers. Files of Prisoners in 
 chains, and Guards, wJw are ranged in order round the 
 stage. ALMERIA, attended by LEONORA, advances to 
 meet MANUEL, and kneels ; afterwards GONSALEZ kneels, 
 and kisses MANUEL'S hand, while GARCIA does the same 
 to ALMERIA. 
 
 Man. Almeria, rise ! My best Gonsalez, rise ! 
 What, tears ! my good old friend ! 
 
 Gon. But tears of joy. 
 
 Believe me, sir, to see you thus has filled 
 My eyes with more delight than they can hold. 
 
 Man. By Heaven, thou lovest me, and I'm pleased 
 
 thou dost ! 
 
 Take it for thanks, old man, that I rejoice 
 To see thee weep on this occasion. Some 
 Here are, who seem to mourn at our success ! 
 Why is't, Almeria, that you meet our eyes, 
 Upon this solemn day, in these sad weeds? 
 In opposition to my brightness, you 
 And yours are all like daughters of affliction, 
 
 Aim. Forgive me, sir, if I in this offend. 
 The year, which I have vowed to pay to Heaven 
 In mourning and strict life for my deliverance 
 From wreck and death, wants yet to be expired. 
 
 Man. Your zeal to Heaven is great, so is your 
 
 debt: 
 
 Yet something too is due to me, who gave 
 That life which Heaven preserved. A day bestowed 
 In filial duty, had atoned and given 
 A dispensation to your vow No more. 
 'Twas weak and wilful and a woman's error. 
 Yet upon thought, it doubly wounds my sight,
 
 428 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT I. 
 
 To see that sable worn upon the day 
 Succeeding that, in which our deadliest foe, 
 Hated Anselmo, was interred. By Heaven, 
 It looks as thou didst mourn for him ! just so, 
 Thy senseless vow appeared to bear its date, 
 Not from that hour wherein thou wert preserved, 
 But that wherein the cursed Alphonso perished. 
 Ha ! what ! thou dost not weep to think of that ? 
 
 Gon. Have patience, royal sir ; the princess weeps 
 To have offended you. If fate decreed 
 One pointed hour should be Alphonso's loss, 
 And her deliverance ; is she to blame ? 
 
 Man. I tell thee she's to blame not to have feasted 
 When my first foe was laid in earth, such enmity, 
 Such detestation, bears my blood to his ; 
 My daughter should have revelled at his death, 
 She should have made these palace walls to shake, 
 And all this high and ample roof to ring 
 With her rejoicings. What, to mourn, and weep ; 
 Then, then to weep, and pray, and grieve ! By Heaven, 
 There's not a slave, a shackled slave of mine, 
 But should have smiled that hour, through all his care, 
 And shook his chains in transport and rude harmony ! 
 
 Gon. What she has done was in excess of goodness ; 
 Betrayed by too much piety, to seem 
 As if she had offended. Sure, no more. 
 
 Man. To seem is to commit, at this conjuncture. 
 I wo' not have a seeming sorrow seen 
 To-day. Retire, divest yourself with speed 
 Of that offensive black ; on me be all 
 The violation of your vow : for you, 
 It shall be your excuse, that I command it. 
 
 Gar. \Kneeling^ Your pardon, sir, if I presume so 
 
 far, 
 As to remind you of your gracious promise. 
 
 Man. Rise, Garcia I forgot. Yet stay, Almeria. 
 
 Aim. My boding heart! What is your pleasure, sir?
 
 SCENE II.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 429 
 
 Man. Draw near, and give your hand; and, Garcia, 
 
 yours : 
 
 Receive this lord, as one whom I have found 
 Worthy to be your husband, and my son. 
 
 Gar. Thus let me kneel to take O not to take 
 But to devote and yield myself for ever 
 The slave and creature of my royal mistress ! 
 
 Gon. O let me prostrate pay my worthless thanks 
 
 Man. No more; my promise long since passed, thy 
 
 services, 
 
 And Garcia's well-tried valour, all oblige me. 
 This day we triumph ; but to-morrow's sun, 
 Garcia, shall shine to grace thy nuptials. 
 
 Aim. Oh! [Faints. 
 
 Gar. She faints ! help to support her. 
 
 Gon. She recovers. 
 
 Man. A fit of bridal fear ; how is't, Almeria ? 
 
 Aim. A sudden chillness seizes on my spirits. 
 Your leave, sir, to retire. 
 
 Man. Garcia, conduct her. 
 
 [GARCIA leads ALMERIA to tJie door and returns. 
 This idle vow hangs on her woman's fears. 
 I'll have a priest shall preach her from her faith, 
 And make it sin not to renounce that vow 
 Which I'd have broken. 
 
 Enter ALONZO. 
 
 Now, what would Alonzo ? 
 
 Alon. Your beauteous captive, Zara, is arrived, 
 And with a train as if she still were wife 
 To Abucacim, and the Moor had conquered. 
 
 Man. It is our will she should be so attended. 
 Bear hence these prisoners. Garcia, which is he, 
 Of whose mute valour you relate such wonders ? 
 
 [Prisoners led off. 
 
 Gar. Osmyn, who led the Moorish horse ; but he, 
 Great sir, at her request, attends on Zara.
 
 430 2 HE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT i. 
 
 Man. He is your prisoner ; as you please dispose 
 him. 
 
 Gar. I would oblige him, but he shuns my kindness \ 
 And with a haughty mien, and stern civility, 
 Dumbly declines all offers : if he speak, 
 "Pis scarce above a word ; as he were born 
 Alone to do, and did disdain to talk ; 
 At least, to talk where he must not command. 
 
 Man. Such sullenness, and in a man so brave, 
 Must have some other cause than his captivity. 
 Did Zara, then, request he might attend her? 
 
 Gar. My lord, she did. 
 
 Man. That, joined with his behaviour, 
 
 Begets a doubt. I'd have 'em watched; perhaps 
 Her chains hang heavier on him than his own. 
 
 Enter ZARA and OSMYN bound, conducted by PEREZ and a 
 Guard, and attended by SELIM and several Mutes and 
 Eunuchs in a train. 
 
 What welcome and what honours, beauteous Zara, 
 A king and conqueror can give, are yours. 
 A conqueror indeed, where you are won ; 
 Who with such lustre strike admiring eyes, 
 That had our pomp been with your presence graced, 
 The expecting crowd had been deceived ; and seen 
 Their monarch enter not triumphant, but 
 In pleasing triumph led ; your beauty's slave. 
 Zara. If I on any terms could condescend, 
 To like captivity, or think those honours 
 Which conquerors in courtesy bestow, 
 Of equal value with unborrowed rule, 
 And native right to arbitrary sway ; 
 I might be pleased, when I behold this train 
 With usual homage wait. But when I feel 
 These bonds, I look with loathing on myself ; 
 And scorn vile slavery, though doubly hid 
 Beneath mock-praises, and dissembled state.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 431 
 
 Man. Those bonds! 'twas my command you should 
 
 be free. 
 How durst you, Perez, disobey? 
 
 Per. Great sir, 
 
 Your order was, she should not wait your triumph ; 
 But at some distance follow, thus attended. 
 
 Man. Tis false ! 'twas more ; I bid she should be 
 
 free : 
 
 If not in words, I bid it by my eyes. 
 Her eyes did more than bid. Free her and hers 
 With speed yet stay my hands alone can make 
 Fit restitution here. Thus I release you, 
 And by releasing you, enslave myself. 
 
 Zara. Such favours so conferred, though when un- 
 sought, 
 
 Deserve acknowledgment from noble minds. 
 Such thanks, as one hating to be obliged, 
 Yet hating more ingratitude, can pay, 
 I offer. 
 
 Man. Born to excel, and to command ! 
 As by transcendent beauty to attract 
 All eyes, so by pre-eminence of soul 
 To rule all hearts. 
 Garcia, what's he, who with contracted brow 
 
 [.Beholding OSMYN as they unbind him. 
 And sullen port, glooms downward with his eyes ; 
 At once regardless of his chains, or liberty? 
 
 Gar. That, sir, is he of whom I spoke ; that's Osmyn. 
 
 Man. He answers well the character you gave him. 
 Whence comes it, valiant Osmyn, that a man 
 So great in arms, as thou art said to be, 
 So hardly can endure captivity, 
 The common chance of war ? 
 
 Osm. Because captivity 
 
 Has robbed me of a dear and just revenge. 
 
 Man. I understand not that. 
 
 Osm. I would rrot have you.
 
 432 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT I. 
 
 Zara. That gallant Moor in battle lost a friend, 
 Whom more than life he loved ; and the regret 
 Of not revenging on his foes that loss 
 Has caused this melancholy and despair. 
 
 Man. She does excuse him ; 'tis as I suspected. 
 
 [To GONSALEZ. 
 
 Gon. That friend may be herself; seem not to heed 
 His arrogant reply : she looks concerned. 
 
 Man. I'll have inquiry made; perhaps his friend 
 Yet lives, and is a prisoner. His name? 
 
 Zara. Heli. 
 
 Man. Garcia, that search shall be your care : 
 It shall be mine to pay devotion here : 
 At this fair shrine to lay my laurels down, 
 And raise Love's altar on the spoils of war. 
 Conquest and triumph, now, are mine no more : 
 Nor will I victory in camps adore : 
 For, lingering there, in long suspense she stands, 
 Shifting the prize in unresolving hands : 
 Unused to wait, I broke through her delay, 
 Fixed her by force, and snatched the doubtful day. 
 Now late I find that war is but her sport ; 
 In love the goddess keeps her awful court : 
 Fickle in fields, unsteadily she flies, 
 But rules with settled sway in Zara's eyes. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 Tlie Aisle of a Temple. 
 
 Enter GARCIA, HELI, and PEREZ. 
 
 AR. This way, we're told, Osmyn was seen 
 
 to walk ; 
 Choosing this lonely mansion of the 
 
 dead, 
 To mourn, brave Heli, thy mistaken 
 
 fate. 
 
 Heli. Let Heaven with thunder to the centre strike me, 
 If to arise in very deed from death, 
 And to revisit with my long-closed eyes 
 This living light, could to my soul or sense, 
 Afford a thought, or show a glimpse of joy, 
 In least proportion to the vast delight 
 I feel to hear of Osmyn's name ; to hear 
 That Osmyn lives, and I again shall see him ! 
 
 Gar. I've heard, with admiration, of your friendship. 
 Per. Yonder, my lord, behold the noble Moor. 
 Heli. Where? where? 
 
 Gar. I saw him not, nor any like him. 
 
 Per. I saw him, when I spoke, thwarting my view, 
 And striding with distempered haste ; his eyes 
 Seemed flame, and flashed upon me with a glance ; 
 Then forward shot their fires, which he pursued, 
 As to some object frightful, yet not feared. 
 
 Gar. Let's haste to follow him, and know the cause. 
 
 Con. F F
 
 434 1HE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT II. 
 
 Heli. My lord, let me entreat you to forbear : 
 Leave me alone to find, and cure the cause. 
 I know his melancholy, and such starts 
 Are usual to his temper. It might raise him 
 To act some violence upon himself, 
 So to be caught in an unguarded hour, 
 And when his soul gives all her passions way 
 Secure and loose in friendly solitude. 
 I know his noble heart would burst with shame, 
 To be surprised by strangers in its frailty. 
 
 Gar. Go, generous Heli, and relieve your friend. 
 Far be it from me, officiously to pry 
 Or press upon the privacies of others. [Exit HELI. 
 
 Gar. Perez, the king expects from our return 
 To have his jealousy confirmed or cleared, 
 Of that appearing love which Zara bears 
 To Osmyn ; but some other opportunity 
 Must make that plain. 
 
 Per. To me 'twas long since plain, 
 
 And every look from him and her confirms it. 
 
 Gar. If so, unhappiness attends their love, 
 And I could pity 'em. I hear some coming. 
 The friends perhaps are met ; let us avoid 'em. 
 
 \They retire. 
 Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA. 
 
 Aim. It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed. 
 
 Leon. It bore the accent of a human voice. 
 
 Aim. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind 
 Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle. 
 We'll listen. 
 
 Leon. Hark ! 
 
 Aim. No, all is hushed, and still as death. 'Tis 
 
 dreadful ! 
 
 How reverend is the face of this tall pile, 
 Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, 
 To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof, 
 By its own weight made steadfast and immoveable,
 
 SCENE n.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 435 
 
 Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe 
 And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs 
 And monumental caves of death look cold, 
 And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. 
 Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; 
 Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear 
 Thy voice my own affrights me with its echoes. 1 
 
 Leon. Let us return ; the horrors of this place, 
 And silence, will increase your melancholy. 
 
 Aim. It may my fears, but cannot add to that. 
 No, I will on ; show me Anselmo's tomb, 
 Lead me o'er bones and skulls and mouldering earth 
 Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them. 
 Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corse 
 Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride 
 Of Garcia's more detested bed : that thought 
 Exerts my spirits ; and my present fears 
 Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me. 
 Lead me, for I am bolder grown : lead on 
 Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again 
 To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul. 
 
 Leon. I go : but Heaven can tell with what regret. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Vaults of the Temple. 
 
 The Scene opening discovers a place of tombs. One 
 monument fronting the view greater than the rest. 
 
 Enter HELL 
 Heli. I wander through this maze of monuments, 
 
 1 It was of this passage that Dr. Johnson said that if he were 
 " required to select from the whole mass of English poetry the most 
 poetical paragraph, he knows not what he could prefer to this 
 exclamation."
 
 436 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT II. 
 
 Yet cannot find him. Hark ! sure 'tis the voice 
 Of one complaining. There it sounds: I'll follow it. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA. 
 
 Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb 
 The poor remains of good Anselmo rest ; 
 Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms ! 
 What do I see ? O Heaven ! either my eyes 
 Are false, or still the marble door remains 
 Unclosed : the iron gates that lead to death 
 Beneath, are still wide-stretched upon their hinge, 
 And staring on us with unfolded leaves. 
 
 Aim. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me ; 
 And that dumb mouth, significant in show, 
 Invites me to the bed where I alone 
 Shall rest ; shows me the grave, where nature, weary 
 And long oppressed with woes and bending cares, 
 May lay the burden down, and sink in slumbers 
 Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold 
 Me in his leaden arms, and press me close 
 To his cold clayey breast ; my father then 
 Will cease his tyranny ; and Garcia too 
 Will fly my pale deformity with loathing. 
 My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount, 
 And range the starry orbs, and milky ways, 
 Of that refulgent world, where I shall swim 
 In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss 
 To my Alphonso's soul. O joy too great ! 
 O ecstacy of thought ! Help me, Anselmo ; 
 Help me, Alphonso : take me, reach thy hand ; 
 To thee, to thee I call, to thee, Alphonso : 
 O Alphonso ! 
 
 OSMYN ascends from the tomb. 
 
 Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was 
 
 Alphonso ? 
 Aim. Angels, and all the host of Heaven, support me !
 
 SCENE II.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 437 
 
 Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, from the 
 And growing to his father's shroud, roots up [grave, 
 
 Alphonso ? 
 
 Aim. Mercy ! providence ! O speak ! 
 
 Speak to it quickly, quickly ! speak to me, 
 Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide me, 
 Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light, 
 And from my eyes ! 
 
 Osm. Amazement and illusion ! 
 
 Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers ; 
 
 [ Coming forward. 
 
 That motionless I may be still deceived. 
 Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve 
 That tender, lovely form of painted air, 
 So like Almeria. Ha ! it sinks, it falls ; 
 I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade. 
 Tis life ! 'tis warm ! 'tis she! 'tis she herself ! 
 Nor dead nor shade, but breathing and alive ! 
 It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife ! 
 
 Enter HELL 
 
 Leon. Alas, she stirs not yet, nor lifts her eyes. 
 He too is fainting. Help me, help me, stranger, 
 Whoe'er thou art, and lend thy hand to raise 
 These bodies. 
 
 Heli. Ha ! 'tis he ! and with Almeria ! 
 
 miracle of happiness ! O joy 
 Unhoped for ! does Almeria live ! 
 
 Osm. Where is she? 
 
 Let me behold and touch her, and be sure 
 'Tis she ; show me her face, and let me feel 
 Her lips with mine. 'Tis she, I'm not deceived; 
 
 1 taste her breath, I warmed her and am warmed. 
 Look up, Almeria, bless me with thy eyes ; 
 Look on thy love, thy lover, and thy husband. 
 
 Aim. I've sworn I'll not wed Garcia ; why d'ye force 
 Js this a father ? [me ?
 
 438 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT ir. 
 
 Osm. Look on thy Alphonso. 
 
 Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia : 
 Nor am I what I seem, but thy Alphonso. 
 Wilt thou not know me ? Hast thou then forgot me ? 
 Hast thou thy eyes, yet canst not see Alphonso ? 
 Am I so altered, or art thou so changed, 
 That seeing my disguise, thou seest not me ? 
 
 Aim. It is, it is Alphonso ! 'tis his face, 
 His voice ! I know him now, I know him all. 
 O take me to thy arms, and bear me hence, 
 Back to the bottom of the boundless deep, 
 To seas beneath, where thou so long hast dwelt. 
 
 how hast thou returned ? how hast thou charmed 
 The wildness of the waves and rocks to this? 
 That thus relenting, they have given thee back 
 
 To earth, to light and life, to love and me. 
 
 Osm. Oh I'll not ask, nor answer how, or why 
 We both have backward trod the paths of fate, 
 To meet again in life; to know I have thee, 
 Is knowing more than any circumstance 
 Or means by which I have thee. 
 To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips, 
 And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much joy, 
 
 1 have not leisure to reflect, or know, 
 Or trifle time in thinking. 
 
 Aim. Stay a while 
 
 Let me look on thee, yet a little more. 
 
 Osm. What wouldst thou? thou dost put me from 
 thee. 
 
 Aim. Yes. 
 
 Osm. And why? what dost thou mean? why dost thou 
 gaze so? 
 
 Aim. . I know not ; 'tis to see thy face, I think 
 It is too much ! too much to bear and live ! 
 To see him thus again is such profusion 
 Of joy, of bliss I cannot bear I must 
 Be mad I cannot be transported thus.
 
 SCENE XL] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 439 
 
 Osm. Thou excellence, thou joy, thou heaven of love ! 
 Aim. Where hast thou been ? and how art thou alive ? 
 How is all this ? All-powerful Heaven, what are we ! 
 
 my strained heart ! let me again behold thee, 
 For I weep to see thee. Art thou not paler ? 
 Much, much ; how thou art changed ! 
 
 ?(;/;. Not in my love. 
 
 Aim. No, no, thy griefs, I know, have done this to 
 
 thee. 
 
 Thou hast wept much, Alphonso ; and, I fear, 
 Too much, too tenderly lamented me. 
 
 Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly. 
 No more, my life ; talk not of tears or grief ; 
 Affliction is no more, now thou art found. 
 Why dost thou weep, and hold thee from my arms ; 
 My arms which ache to fold thee fast, and grow 
 To thee with twining ? Come, come to my heart. 
 
 Aim. I will, for I should never look enough. 
 They would have married me ; but I had sworn 
 To Heaven and thee, and sooner would have died. 
 
 Osm. Perfection of all faithfulness and love ! 
 
 Aim. Indeed I would. Nay, I would tell thee all, 
 If I could speak ; how I have mourned and prayed ; 
 For I have prayed to thee as to a saint : 
 And thou hast heard my prayer ; for thou art come 
 To my distress, to my despair, which Heaven 
 Could only by restoring thee have cured. 
 
 Osm. Grant me but life, good Heaven, but length of 
 
 days, 
 
 To pay some part, some little of this debt, 
 . This countless sum of tenderness -and love, 
 For which I stand engaged in this all-excellence : 
 Then bear me in a whirlwind to my fate, 
 Snatch me from life, and cut me short unwarned ; 
 Then, then 'twill be enough ! I shall be old, 
 
 1 shall have lived beyond all eras then 
 
 Of yet unmeasured lime; when I have, made
 
 440 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT n. 
 
 This exquisite, this most amazing goodness, 
 Some recompense of love and matchless truth. 
 
 Aim. 'Tis more than recompense to see thy face; 
 If Heaven is greater joy, it is no happiness, 
 For 'tis not to be borne. What shall I say? 
 I have a thousand things to know, and ask, 
 And speak. That thou art here, beyond all hope, 
 All thought ; that all at once thou art before me, 
 And with such suddenness hast hit my sight, 
 Is such surprise, such mystery, such ecstacy ; 
 It hurries all my soul, and stuns my sense. 
 Sure from thy father's tomb thou didst arise. 
 
 Osm. I did ; and thou, my love, didst call me ; thou. 
 
 Aim. True; but how earnest thou there; wert thou 
 alone ? 
 
 Osm. I was, and lying on my father's lead, 
 When broken echoes of a distant voice 
 Disturbed the sacred silence of the vault, 
 In murmurs round my head. I rose and listened, 
 And thought I heard thy spirit call Alphonso ; 
 I thought I saw thee too ; but oh, I thought not 
 That I indeed should be so blest to see thee ! 
 
 Aim. But still, how earnest thou hither? how thus? 
 
 Ha ! 
 
 What's he, who like thyself is started here 
 Ere seen? 
 
 Osm. Where ? ha ! what do I see ? Antonio ! 
 I'm fortunate indeed ! my friend too, safe ! 
 
 ffeli. Most happily, in finding you thus blessed. 
 
 Aim. More miracles ! Antonio too escaped ! 
 
 Osm. And twice escaped, both from the rage of seas 
 And war : for in the fight I saw him fall. 
 
 Heli. But fell unhurt, a prisoner as yourself, 
 And as yourself made free ; hither I came 
 Impatiently to seek you, where I knew 
 Your grief would lead you, to lament Anselmo. 
 
 Osm. There are no wonders, or else all is wonder.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 441 
 
 Heli. I saw you on the ground, and raised you up : 
 When with astonishment I saw Almeria. 
 
 Osm. I saw her too, and therefore saw not thee. 
 
 Aim. Nor I ; nor could I, for my eyes were yours. 
 
 Osm. What means the bounty of all-gracious Heaven, 
 That persevering still, with open hand, 
 It scatters good, as in a waste of mercy ! 
 Where will this end ! but Heaven is infinite 
 In all, and can continue to bestow, 
 When scanty number shall be spent in telling. 
 
 Leon. Or I'm deceived, or I beheld the glimpse 
 Of two in shining habits cross the aisle ; 
 Who by their pointing seem to mark this place. 
 
 Aim. Sure I have dreamt, if we must part so soon. 
 
 Osm. I wish, at least, our parting were a dream, 
 Or we could sleep till we again were met. 
 
 Heli. Zara with Selim, sir ; I saw and know 'em ; 
 You must be quick, for love will lend her wings. 
 
 Aim. What love ? who is she ? why are you alarmed ? 
 
 Osm. She's the reverse of thee ; she's my unhappiness. 
 Harbour no thought that may disturb thy peace ; 
 But gently take thyself away, lest she 
 Should come, and see the straining of my eyes 
 To follow thee. I'll think how we may meet 
 To part no more. My friend will tell thee all ; 
 How I escaped, how I am here, and thus ; 
 How I'm not called Alphonso, now, but Osmyn ; 
 And he Heli. All, all he will unfold, 
 Ere next we meet. 
 
 Aim. Sure we shall meet again 
 
 Osm. We shall : we part not but to meet again. 
 Gladness and warmth of ever-kindling love 
 Dwell with thee, and revive thy heart in absence. 
 
 {Exeunt.
 
 442 THE MOURNING BRIDE, [ACT n. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The Same. 
 
 Osm. Yet I behold her yet and now no more. 
 Turn your lights inward, eyes, and view my thought, 
 So shall you still behold her 'twill not be. 
 O impotence of sight ! mechanic sense, 
 Which to exterior objects owest thy faculty, 
 Not seeing of election, but necessity. 
 Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors, 
 Successively reflect succeeding images ; 
 Not what they would, but must ; a star, or toad : 
 Just as the hand of chance administers. 
 Not so the mind, whose undetermined view 
 Revolves, and to the present adds the past : 
 Essaying further to futurity ; 
 But that in vain. I have Almeria here 
 At once, as I before have seen her often. 
 
 Enter ZARA and SELIM. 
 
 Zara. See where he stands, folded and fixed to earth, 
 Stiffening in thought a statue among statues ! 
 Why, cruel Osmyn, dost thou fly me thus ? 
 Is it well done? Is this then the return 
 For fame, for honour, and for empire lost ? 
 But what is loss of honour, fame and empire ! 
 Is this the recompense reserved for love ; 
 Why dost thou leave my eyes, and fly my arms, 
 To find this place of horror and obscurity ? 
 Am I more loathsome to thee than the grave, 
 That thou dost seek to shield thee there, and shun 
 My love ? But to the grave I'll follow thee. 
 He looks not, minds not, hears not. Barbarous man, 
 Am I neglected thus ? am I despised ? 
 Not heard ? ungrateful Osmyn ! 
 
 Osm. Ha, 'tis Zara ! 
 
 Zara. Yes, traitor ! Zara, lost, abandoned Zara,
 
 SCENE in.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 443 
 
 Is a regardless suppliant, now, to Osmyn. 
 
 The slave, the wretch that she redeemed from death, 
 
 Disdains to listens now, or look on Zara. 
 
 Osrti. Far be the guilt of such reproaches from me ; 
 Lost in myself, and blinded by my thoughts, 
 I saw you not, till now. 
 
 Zara. Now then you see me 
 
 But with such dumb and thankless eyes you look, 
 Better I was unseen, than seen thus coldly. 
 
 Osm. What would you from a wretch who came to 
 
 mourn, 
 
 And only for his sorrows chose this solitude ? 
 Look round ; joy is not here, nor cheerfulness. 
 You have pursued misfortune to its dwelling, 
 Yet look for gaiety and gladness there. 
 
 Zara. Inhuman ! why, why dost thou rack me thus? 
 And with perverseness from the purpose answer? 
 What is't to me, this house of misery ? 
 What joy do I require ? If thou dost mourn, 
 I come to mourn with thee ; to share thy griefs, 
 And give thee, for 'em, in exchange my love. 
 
 Osm. O that's the greatest grief! I am so poor, 
 I have not wherewithal to give again. 
 
 Zara. Thou hast a heart, though 'tis a savage one ; 
 Give it me as it is ; I ask no more 
 For all I've done, and all I have endured ; 
 For saving thee, when I beheld thee first, 
 Driven by the tide upon my country's coast, 
 Pale and expiring, drenched in briny waves, 
 Thou and thy friend, till my compassion found thee ; 
 Compassion ! scarce will't own that name, so soon, 
 So quickly was it love ; for thou wert godlike 
 Even then. Kneeling on earth, I loosed my hair ; 
 And with it dried thy wat'ry cheeks ; then chafed 
 Thy temples, till reviving blood arose, 
 And like the morn vermilioned o'er thy face. 
 O Heaven ! how did my heart rejoice and ache
 
 444 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT n. 
 
 When I beheld the daybreak of thy eyes, 
 And felt the balm of thy respiring lips ! 
 
 Osm. O call not to my mind what you have done ; 
 It sets a debt of that account before me, 
 Which shows me poor, and bankrupt even in hopes. 
 
 Zara. The faithful Selim and my women know 
 The dangers which I tempted to conceal you. 
 You know how I abused the credulous king ; 
 What arts I used to make you pass on him, 
 When he received you as the Prince of Fez ; 
 And as my kinsman, honoured and advanced you. 
 Oh, why do I relate what I have done ? 
 What did I not? Was't not for you this war 
 Commenced ? not knowing who you were, nor why 
 You hated Manuel, I urged my husband 
 To this invasion ; where he late was lost, 
 Where all is lost, and I am made a slave. 
 Look on me now, from empire fallen to slavery ; 
 Think on my sufferings first, then look on me ; 
 Think on the cause of all, then view thyself: 
 Reflect on Osmyn, and then look on Zara, 
 The fallen, the lost, and now the captive Zara, 
 And now abandoned say, what then is Osmyn ? 
 
 Osm. A fatal wretch a huge stupendous ruin, 
 That tumbling on its prop, crushed all beneath, 
 And bore contiguous palaces to earth. 
 
 Zara. Yet thus, thus fallen, thus levelled with the 
 
 vilest, 
 
 If I have gained thy love, 'tis glorious ruin ; 
 Ruin ! 'tis still to reign, and to be more 
 A queen ; for what are riches, empire, power, 
 But larger means to gratify the will ? 
 The steps on which we tread, to rise, and reach 
 Our wish ; and that obtained, down with the scaffolding 
 Of sceptres, crowns, and thrones ! they've served their 
 
 end, 
 And are, like lumber, to be left and scorned.
 
 SCENE in.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 445 
 
 Osm. Why was I made the instrument to throw 
 In bonds the frame of this exalted mind ? 
 
 Zara. We may be free ; the conqueror is mine ; 
 In chains unseen I hold him by the heart, 
 And can unwind or strain him as I please. 
 Give me thy love, I'll give thee liberty. 
 
 Osm. In vain you offer, and in vain require 
 What neither can bestow : set free yourself, 
 And leave a slave the wretch that would be so. 
 
 Zara. Thou canst not mean so poorly as thou talk'st. 
 
 Osm. Alas ! you know me not. 
 
 Zara. Not who thou art : 
 
 But what this last ingratitude declares, 
 This grovelling baseness Thou say'st true, I know 
 Thee not, fox what thou art yet wants a name : 
 But something so unworthy, and so vile, 
 That to have loved thee makes me yet more lost, 
 Than all the malice of my other fate. 
 Traitor ! monster ! cold and perfidious slave ! 
 A slave, not daring to be free ! nor dares 
 To love above him, for 'tis dangerous : 
 'Tis that I know ; for thou dost look, with eyes 
 Sparkling desire, and trembling to possess. 
 I know my charms have reached thy very soul, 
 And thrilled thee through with darted fires ; but thou 
 Dost fear so much, thou darest not wish. The king ! 
 There, there's the dreadful sound, the king's thy rival ! 
 
 Sel. Madam, the king is here, and entering now. 
 
 Zara. As I could wish : by Heaven I'll be revenged ! 
 
 Enter MANUEL, PEREZ, and Attendants. 
 
 Man. Why does the fairest of her kind withdraw 
 Her shining from the day, to gild this scene 
 Of death and night ? Ha ! what disorder's this ? 
 Somewhat I heard of king and rival mentioned. 
 What's he that dares be rival to the king? 
 Or lift his eyes to like, where I adore ?
 
 446 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT II. 
 
 Zara. There, he ; your prisoner, and that was my slave. 
 
 Man. \Aside^\ How? Better than my hopes ! does she 
 accuse him? 
 
 Zara. Am I become so low by my captivity, 
 And do your arms so lessen what they conquer, 
 That Zara must be made the sport of slaves ? 
 And shall the wretch, whom yester sun beheld 
 Waiting my nod, the creature of my power, 
 Presume to-day to plead audacious love, 
 And build bold hopes on my dejected fate? 
 
 Man. Better for him to tempt the rage of Heaven, 
 And wrench the bolt red-hissing from the hand 
 Of him that thunders, than but think that insolence. 
 'Tis daring for a god. Hence, to the wheel 
 With that Ixion, who aspires to hold 
 Divinity embraced ! to whips and prisons 
 Drag him with speed, and rid me of his face. 
 
 [Guards seize OSMYN. 
 
 Zara. Compassion led me to bemoan his state, 
 Whose former faith had merited much more ; 
 And through my hopes in you, I undertook 
 He should be set at large ; thence sprung his insolence, 
 And what was charity he construed love. 
 
 Man. Enough ; his punishment be what you please. 
 But let me lead you from this place of sorrow, 
 To one, where young delights attend ; and joys 
 Yet new, unborn, and blooming in the bud, 
 Which wait to be full-blown at your approach, 
 And spread like roses to the morning sun : 
 Where every hour shall roll in circling joys, 
 And love shall wing the tedious-wasting day : 
 Life without love is load ; and time stands still : 
 What we refuse to him, to death we give; 
 And then, then only, when we love, we live. 
 
 [Exeunt,
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Inside of a Prison, 
 
 OSMYN in chains, alone, with a paper. 
 
 SM. But now and I was closed within 
 the tomb 
 
 That holds my father's ashes ; and but 
 now, 
 
 Where he was prisoner, I am too 
 
 imprisoned. 
 
 Sure 'tis the hand of heaven that leads me thus, 
 And for some purpose points out these remembrances. 
 In a dark corner of my cell I found 
 This paper, what it is this light will show. 
 [Heads.] " If my Alphonso "ha ! 
 " If my Alphonso live, restore him, Heaven ; 
 Give me more weight, crush my declining years 
 With bolts, with chains, imprisonment, and want ; 
 But bless my son, visit not him for me." 
 It is his hand ; this was his prayer yet more : 
 [Reads.] " Let every hair, which sorrow by the roots 
 Tears from my hoary and devoted head, 
 Be doubled in thy mercies to my son : 
 Not for myself, but him, hear me, all gracious 
 'Tis wanting what should follow Heaven should follow, 
 But 'tis torn off Why should that word alone 
 Be torn from his petition ? 'Twas to Heaven, 
 But Heaven was deaf, Heaven heard him not ; but thus,
 
 448 TffJS MOURNING jBS2). [ACT ill. 
 
 Thus as the name of Heaven from this is torn, 
 
 So did it tear the ears of mercy from 
 
 His voice, shutting the gates of prayer against him. 
 
 If piety be thus debarred access 
 
 On high, and of good men the very best 
 
 Is singled out to bleed, and bear the scourge, 
 
 What is reward ? or what is punishment ? 
 
 But who shall dare to tax eternal justice ? 
 
 Yet I may think I may, I must ; for thought 
 
 Precedes the will to think, and error lives 
 
 Ere reason can be born. Reason, the power 
 
 To guess at right and wrong, the twinkling lamp 
 
 Of wandering life, that winks and wakes by turns, 
 
 Fooling the follower, betwixt shade and shining. 
 
 What noise ! Who's there ? \Enler HELI. 
 
 My friend ! how earnest thou hither ? 
 
 HeL The time's too precious to be spent in telling ; 
 The captain, influenced by Almeria's power, 
 Gave order to the guards for my admittance. 
 
 Osm. How does Almeria ? But I know she is 
 As I am. Tell me, may I hope to see her ? 
 
 Hett. You may : anon, at midnight, when the king 
 Is gone to rest, and Garcia is retired, 
 (Who takes the privilege to visit late, 
 Presuming on a bridegroom's right,) she'll come. 
 
 Osm. She'll come ! 'tis what I wish, yet what I fear. 
 She'll come ; but whither, and to whom ? O Heaven ! 
 To a vile prison, and a captived wretch ; 
 To one, whom had she never known, she had 
 Been happy. Why, why was that heavenly creature 
 Abandoned o'er to love what Heaven forsakes ? 
 Why does she follow, with unwearied steps, 
 One who has tired misfortune with pursuing : 
 One, driven about the world like blasted leaves 
 And chaff, the sport of adverse winds ; till late 
 At length, imprisoned in some cleft of rock, 
 Or earth, it rests, and rots to silent dust.
 
 SCENE I.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 449 
 
 Heli. Have hopes, and hear the voice of better fate. 
 I've learned there are disorders ripe for mutiny 
 Among the troops, who thought to share the plunder, 
 Which Manuel to his own use and avarice 
 Converts. This news has reached Valentia's frontiers ; 
 Where many of your subjects, long oppressed 
 With tyranny and grievous impositions, 
 Are risen in arms, and call for chiefs to head 
 And lead 'em to regain their rights and liberty. 
 
 Osm. By Heaven thou'st roused me from my lethargy ! 
 The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs, 
 And the loud cries of my dead father's blood ; 
 Deaf to revenge nay, which refused to hear 
 The piercing sighs and murmurs of my love 
 Yet unenjoyed ; what not Almeria could 
 Revive, or raise, my people's voice has wakened. 
 
 my Antonio, I am all on fire, 
 
 My soul is up in arms, ready to charge 
 
 And bear amidst the foe, with conquering troops. 
 
 1 hear 'em call to lead 'em on to liberty, 
 To victory ; their shouts and clamours rend 
 
 My ears, and reach the Heavens : Where is the king ? 
 
 Where is Alphonso ? Ha ! Where, where indeed ! 
 
 Oh I could tear and burst the strings of life, 
 
 To break these chains ! Off, off ye stains of royalty ! 
 
 Off, slavery ! O curse ! that I alone 
 
 Can beat and flutter in my cage, when I 
 
 Would soar and stoop at victory beneath. 
 
 Heli. Our posture of affairs, and scanty time, 
 My lord, require you should compose yourself, 
 And think on what we may reduce to practice. 
 Zara, the cause of your restraint, may be 
 The means of liberty restored. That gained, 
 Occasion will not fail to point out ways 
 For your escape. Meantime, I've thought already 
 With speed and safety to convey myself 
 Where not far off some malcontents hold council 
 
 Con. P G
 
 450 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT in. 
 
 Nightly ; who hate this tyrant ; some, who love 
 
 Anselmo's memory, and will, for certain, 
 
 When they shall know you live, assist your cause. 
 
 Osm. My friend and counsellor, as thou think'st fit, 
 So do. I will with my patience wait my fortune. 
 
 Heli. When Zara comes, abate of your aversion. 
 
 Osm. I hate her not, nor can dissemble love : 
 But as I may, I'll do. I have a paper 
 Which I would show thee, friend, but that the sight 
 Would hold thee here, and clog thy expedition. 
 Within I found it, by my father's hand 
 'Twas writ ; a prayer for me, wherein appears 
 Paternal love prevailing o'er his sorrows ; 
 Such sanctity, such tenderness so mixed 
 With grief as would draw tears from inhumanity. 
 
 Heli. The care of Providence sure left it there, 
 To arm your mind with hope. Such piety 
 Was never heard in vain : Heaven has in store 
 For you those blessings it withheld from him. 
 In that assurance live ; which time, I hope, 
 And our next meeting will confirm. 
 
 Osm. Farewell, 
 
 My friend ; the good thou dost deserve attend thee. 
 
 \Exit HELI. 
 
 I have been to blame, and questioned with impiety 
 The care of Heaven. Not so my father bore 
 More anxious grief. This should have better taught 
 
 me; 
 
 This lesson, in some hour of inspiration, 
 By him set down ; when his pure thoughts were borne, 
 Like fumes of sacred incense, o'er the clouds, 
 And wafted thence on angels' wings through ways 
 Of light, to the bright source of all. For there 
 He in the book of prescience saw this day ; 
 And waking, to the world, and mortal sense, 
 Left this example of his resignation, 
 This his last legacy to me, which, here,
 
 SCENE i.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 451 
 
 I'll treasure as more worth than diadems, 
 Or all extended rule of regal power. 
 
 Enter ZARA veiled. 
 
 What brightness breaks upon me thus through shades, 
 And promises a day to this dark dwelling ? 
 Is it my love ? 
 
 Zara. O that my heart had taught 
 
 Thy tongue that saying. \Lifting rip her veil. 
 
 Osm. Zara ! \Aside^\ I am betrayed 
 
 By my surprise. 
 
 Zara. What, does my face displease thee ? 
 
 That having seen it, thou dost turn thy eyes 
 Away, as from deformity and horror. 
 If so, this sable curtain shall again 
 Be drawn, and I will stand before thee seeing, 
 And unseen. "Is it my love?" ask again 
 That question, speak again in that soft voice, 
 And look again with wishes in thy eyes. 
 
 no, thou canst not, for thou seest me now, 
 As she whose savage breast has been the cause 
 
 Of these thy wrongs ; as she whose barbarous rage 
 Has loaden thee with chains and galling irons : 
 Well dost thou scorn me, and upbraid my falseness ; 
 Could one who loved, thus torture whom she loved ? 
 No, no, it must be hatred, dire revenge, 
 And detestation, that could use thee thus. 
 So thou dost think ; then do but tell me so ; 
 Tell me, and thou shalt see how I'll revenge 
 Thee on this false one, how I'll stab and tear 
 This heart of flint till it shall bleed ; and thou 
 Shalt weep for mine, forgetting thy own miseries. 
 Osm. You wrong me, beauteous Zara, to believe 
 
 1 bear my fortunes with so low a mind, 
 As still to meditate revenge on all 
 
 Whom chance, or fate, working by secret causes, 
 Has made perforce subservient to that end
 
 452 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT m. 
 
 The heavenly powers allot me ; no, not you, 
 But destiny and inauspicious stars 
 Have cast me down to this low being : or, 
 Granting you had, from you I have deserved it. 
 
 Zara. Canst thou forgive me then ? wilt thou believe 
 So kindly of my fault, to call it madness ? 
 O, give that madness yet a milder name, 
 And call it passion ; then, be still more kind, 
 And call that passion love. 
 
 Osm. Give it a name, 
 
 Or being as you please, such I will think it. 
 
 Zara. O thou dost wound me more with this thy 
 
 goodness, 
 
 Than e'er thou couldst with bitterest reproaches ! 
 Thy anger could not pierce thus to my heart. 
 
 Osm. Yet I could wish 
 
 Zara. Haste me to know it : what ? 
 
 Osm. That at this time I had not been this thing. 
 
 Zara. What thing ? 
 
 Osm. This slave. 
 
 Zara. O Heaven ! my fears interpret 
 
 This thy silence : somewhat of high concern, 
 Long fashioning within thy labouring mind, 
 And now just ripe for birth, my rage has ruined. 
 Have I done this ? Tell me, am I so cursed ? 
 
 Osm. Time may have still one fated hour to come, 
 Which, winged with liberty, might overtake 
 Occasion past. 
 
 Zara. Swift as occasion, I 
 
 Myself will fly ; and earlier than the morn 
 Wake thee to freedom. Now 'tis late ; and yet 
 Some news few minutes past arrived which seemed 
 To shake the temper of the king. Who knows 
 What racking cares disease a monarch's bed ? 
 Or love, that late at night still lights his lamp, 
 And strikes his rays through dusk, and folded lids, 
 Forbidding rest, may stretch his eyes awake,
 
 SCENE I.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 453 
 
 And force their balls abroad at this dead hour. 
 I'll try. 
 
 Osm. I have not merited this grace ; 
 Nor, should my secret purpose take effect, 
 Can I repay, as you require such benefits. 
 
 Zara. Thou canst not owe me more, nor have I more 
 To give, than I've already lost. But now, 
 So does the form of our engagements rest, 
 Thou hast the wrong, till I redeem thee hence ; 
 That done, I leave thy justice to return 
 My love. Adieu. [JSxif. 
 
 Osm. This woman has a soul 
 
 Of godlike mould, intrepid and commanding, 
 And challenges, in spite of me, my best 
 Esteem ; to this she's fair, few more can boast 
 Of personal charms, or with less vanity 
 Might hope to captivate the hearts of kings. 
 But she has passions which outstrip the wind, 
 And tear her virtues up, as tempests root 
 The sea. I fear when she shall know the truth, 
 Some swift and dire event of her blind rage 
 Will make all fatal. But behold she comes 
 For whom I fear, to shield me from my fears, 
 The cause and comfort of my boding heart. 
 
 Enter ALMERIA. 
 
 My life, my health, my liberty, my all ! 
 How shall I welcome thee to this sad place? 
 How speak to thee the words of joy and transport ? 
 How run into thy arms, withheld by fetters; 
 Or take thee into mine, while I'm thus manacled 
 And pinioned like a thief or murderer ? 
 Shall I not hurt and bruise thy tender body, 
 And stain thy bosom with the rust of these 
 Rude irons ? Must I meet thee thus, Almeria ? 
 
 Aim. Thus, thus ; we parted, thus to meet again. 
 Thou told'st me thou wouldst think how we might meet
 
 454 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT ill. 
 
 To part no more. Now we will part no more ; 
 For these thy chains, or death, shall join us ever. 
 
 Osm. Hard means to ratify that word ! O cruelty ! 
 That ever I should think beholding thee 
 A torture ! Yet, such is the bleeding anguish 
 Of my heart, to see thy sufferings. O Heaven ! 
 That I could almost turn my eyes away, 
 Or wish thee from my sight. 
 
 Aim. O, say not so ! 
 
 Though 'tis because thou lovest me. Do not say, 
 On any terms, that thou dost wish me from thee. 
 No, no, 'tis better thus, that we together 
 Feed on each other's heart, devour our woes 
 With mutual appetite ; and mingling in 
 One cup the common stream of both our eyes, 
 Drink bitter draughts, with never- slaking thirst. 
 Thus better, than for any cause to part. 
 What dost thou think ? Look not so tenderly 
 Upon me, speak, and take me in thy arms, - 
 Thou canst not ! thy poor arms are bound, and strive 
 In vain with the remorseless chains which gnaw 
 And eat into thy flesh, festering thy limbs 
 With rankling rust. 
 
 Osm. Oh! Oh! 
 
 Aim. Give me that sigh. 
 
 Why dost thou heave and stifle in thy griefs ? 
 Thy heart will burst, thy eyes look red and start ; 
 Give thy soul way, and tell me thy dark thought. 
 
 Osm. For this world's rule I would not wound thy 
 
 breast 
 With such a dagger as then stuck my heart. 
 
 Aim. Why ? why ? to know it cannot wound me more, 
 Than knowing thou hast felt it. Tell it me. 
 Thou givest me pain with too much tenderness. 
 
 Osm. And thy excessive love distracts my sense ! 
 O wouldst thou be less killing, soft or kind, 
 Grief could not double thus his darts against me.
 
 SCENE i.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 455 
 
 Aim. Thou dost me wrong, and grief too robs my 
 
 heart, 
 
 If there he shoot not every other shaft ; 
 Thy second self should feel each other wound, 
 And woe should be in equal portions dealt. 
 I am thy wife 
 
 Osm. O thou hast searched too deep ! 
 
 There, there I bleed ! there pull the cruel cords, 
 That strain my cracking nerves ; engines and wheels, 
 That piece-meal grind, are beds of down and balm 
 To that soul-racking thought. 
 
 Aim. Then I am cursed 
 
 Indeed, if that be so ; if I'm thy torment, 
 Kill me, then kill me ; dash me with thy chains, 
 Tread on me ! What ! am I the bosom-snake, 
 That sucks thy warm life-blood, and gnaws thy heart ? 
 that thy words had force to break those bonds, 
 As they have strength to tear this heart in sunder ! 
 So shouldst thou be at large from all oppression. 
 Am I, am I of all thy woes the worst ? 
 
 Osm. My all of bliss, my everlasting life, 
 Soul of my soul, and end of all my wishes, 
 Why dost thou thus unman me with thy words, 
 And melt me down to mingle with thy weepings ? 
 Why dost thou ask? why dost thou talk thus piercingly? 
 Thy sorrows have disturbed thy peace of mind, 
 And thou dost speak of miseries impossible. 
 
 Aim. Didst thou not say that racks and wheels were 
 
 balm, 
 And beds of ease, to thinking me thy wife ? 
 
 Osm. No, no ; nor should the subtlest pains that hell, 
 Or hell-born malice can invent, extort 
 A wish or thought from me, to have thee other. 
 But thou wilt know what harrows up my heart : 
 Thou art my wife nay, thou art yet my bride ! 
 The sacred union of connubial love 
 Yet unaccomplished ; his mysterious rites
 
 456 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT in. 
 
 Delayed ; nor has our hymeneal torch 
 
 Yet lighted up his last most grateful sacrifice ; 
 
 But dashed with rain from eyes, and swaled with sighs, 
 
 Burns dim, and glimmers with expiring light. 
 
 Is this dark cell a temple for that god? 
 
 Or this vile earth an altar for such offerings ? 
 
 This den for slaves, this dungeon damped with woes; 
 
 Is this our marriage-bed? Are these our joys? 
 
 Is this to call thee mine ? Oh, hold my heart ! 
 
 To call thee mine ? Yes ; thus, even thus to call 
 
 Thee mine, were comfort, joy, extremest ecstacy. 
 
 But O, thou art not mine, not even in misery ! 
 
 And 'tis denied to me to be so blessed, 
 
 As to be wretched with thee. 
 
 Aim. No ; not that 
 
 The extremest malice of our fate can hinder : 
 That still is left us, and on that we'll feed, 
 As on the leavings of calamity. 
 There we will feast, and smile on past distress, 
 And hug, in scorn of it, our mutual ruin. 
 
 Osm. O thou dost talk, my love, as one resolved 
 Because not knowing danger. But look forward ; 
 Think on to-morrow, when thou shalt be torn 
 From these weak, struggling, unextended arms ; 
 Think how my heart will heave, and eyes will strain, 
 To grasp and reach what is denied my hands ; 
 Think how the blood will start, and tears will gush 
 To follow thee, my separating soul ! 
 Think how I am when thou shalt wed with Garcia ! 
 Then will I smear these walls with blood, disfigure 
 And dash my face, and rive my clotted hair, 
 Break on the flinty floor my throbbing breast, 
 And grovel with gashed hands to scratch a grave, 
 Stripping my nails, to tear this pavement up, 
 And bury me alive. 
 
 Aim. Heart-breaking horror ! 
 
 Osm. Then Garcia shall lie panting on thy bosom,
 
 SCENE li.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 457 
 
 Luxurious revelling amidst thy charms ; 
 And thou perforce must yield, and aid his transport. 
 Hell ! hell ! have I not cause to rage and rave ? 
 What are all racks, and wheels, and whips to this? 
 Are they not soothing softness, sinking ease, 
 And wafting air to this ! O my Almeria ! 
 What do the damned endure, but to despair, 
 But knowing Heaven, to know it lost for ever? 
 
 Aim. O, I am struck ; thy words are bolts of ice, 
 Which shot into my breast, now melt and chill me. 
 I chatter, shake, and faint, with thrilling fears. 
 No, hold me not O let us not support, 
 But sink each other, deeper yet, down, down, 
 Where levelled low, no more we'll lift our eyes, 
 But prone, and dumb, rot the firm face of earth 
 With rivers of incessant scalding rain. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The same. 
 
 OSMYN and ALMERIA discovered. Enter ZARA, PEREZ, 
 and SELIM. 
 
 Zara. Somewhat of weight to me requires his freedom. 
 Dare you dispute the king's command ? Behold 
 The royal signet. 
 
 Per. I obey ; yet beg 
 
 Your majesty one moment to defer 
 Your entering till the princess is returned 
 From visiting the noble prisoner. 
 
 Zara. Ha I 
 
 What say'st thou ? 
 
 Osm. We are lost ! undone ! discovered ! 
 
 Retire, my life, with speed. Alas, we're seen ! 
 Speak of compassion, let her hear you speak
 
 458 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT HI. 
 
 Of interceding for me with the king ! 
 
 Say somewhat quickly to conceal our loves, 
 
 If possible 
 
 Aim. I cannot speak. 
 
 Osm. Let me 
 
 Conduct you forth, as not perceiving her, 
 But till she's gone, then bless me thus again. 
 
 Zara. Trembling and weeping as he leads her forth ! 
 Confusion in his face, and grief in hers ! 
 Tis plain I've been abused Death and destruction ! 
 How shall I search into this mystery? 
 The bluest blast of pestilential air 
 Strike, damp, deaden her charms, and kill his eyes ! 
 Perdition catch 'em both, and ruin part 'em ! 
 
 Osm. [Aloud to ALMERIA as she goes out.~\ This charity 
 
 to one unknown, and thus 
 Distressed, Heaven will repay ; all thanks are poor. 
 
 [Exit ALMERIA. 
 
 Zara. \Aside^\ Damned, damned dissembler ! yet I 
 
 will be calm, 
 
 Choke in my rage, and know the utmost depth 
 Of this deceiver. You seem much surprised. 
 
 Osm. At your return so soon and unexpected ! 
 
 Zara. And so unwished, unwanted too it seems. 
 Confusion ! yet I will contain myself. 
 You're grown a favourite since last we parted ; 
 Perhaps I'm saucy and intruding 
 
 Osm. Madam ! 
 
 Zara. I did not know the princess' favourite ; 
 Your pardon, sir mistake me not ; you think 
 I'm angry; you're deceived. I came to set 
 You free : but shall return much better pleased, 
 To find you have an interest superior. 
 
 Osm. You do not come to mock my miseries ? 
 
 Zara. I do. 
 
 Osm. I could at this time spare your mirth. 
 
 Zara. I know thou couldst: but I'm not often pleased,
 
 SCENE it.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 459 
 
 And will indulge it now. What miseries? 
 Who would not be thus happily confined, 
 To be the care of weeping majesty? 
 To have contending queens, at dead of night, 
 Forsake their down, to wake with wat'ry eyes, 
 And watch like tapers o'er your hours of rest? 
 O curse ! I cannot hold 
 
 Osm. Come, 'tis too much. 
 
 Zara. Villain ! 
 
 Osm. How, madam ! 
 
 Zara. Thou shalt die. 
 
 Osm. I thank you. 
 
 Zara. Thou liest ! for now I know for whom thou'dst 
 live. 
 
 Osm. Then you may know for whom I'd die. 
 
 Zara. Hell ! hell ! 
 
 Yet I'll be calm Dark and unknown betrayer ! 
 But now the dawn begins, and the slow hand 
 Of Fate is stretched to draw the veil, and leave 
 Thee bare, the naked mark of public view. 
 
 Osm. You may be still deceived, 'tis in my power 
 
 Zara. Who waits there? \To the Guard.] As you'll 
 
 answer it, look this slave 
 Attempt no means to make himself away. 
 I've been deceived. The public safety now 
 Requires he should be more confined, and none, 
 No, not the princess, suffered or to see 
 Or speak with him: I'll quit you to the king. 
 Vile and ingrate ! too late thou shalt repent 
 The base injustice thou hast done my love : 
 Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past distress, 
 
 And all those ills which thou so long hast mourned ; 
 
 Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned, 
 
 Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorned. \Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room of State in the Palace. 
 
 Enter ZARA and SELIM. 
 
 ARA. Thou hast already racked me with 
 
 thy stay, 
 Therefore require me not to ask thee 
 
 twice ; 
 
 Reply at once to all. What is con- 
 cluded ? 
 
 Set. Your accusation highly has incensed 
 The king, and were alone enough to urge 
 The fate of Osmyn ; but to that, fresh news 
 Is since arrived of more revolted troops. 
 'Tis certain Heli too is fled, and with him 
 (Which breeds amazement and distraction) some 
 Who bore high offices of weight and trust, 
 Both in the state and army. This confirms 
 The king, in full belief of all you told him, 
 Concerning Osmyn and his correspondence 
 With them who first began the mutiny. 
 Wherefore a warrant for his death is signed, 
 And order given for public execution. 
 
 Zara. Ha ! haste thee ! fly ! prevent his fate and 
 
 mine ; 
 
 Find out the king, tell him I have of weight 
 More than his crown to impart ere Osmyn die. 
 
 Sel. It needs not, for the king will straight be here ;
 
 SCENE i.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 461 
 
 And as to your revenge, not his own interest, 
 Pretend to sacrifice the life of Osmyn. 
 
 Zara. What shall I say ? Invent, contrive, advise, 
 Somewhat to blind the king, and save his life 
 In whom I live. Spite of my rage and pride, 
 I am a woman, and a lover still. 
 O, 'tis more grief but to suppose his death, 
 Than still to meet the rigour of his scorn. 
 From my despair my anger had its source ; 
 When he is dead I must despair for ever. 
 For ever ! that's despair it was distrust 
 Before ; distrust will ever be in love, 
 And anger in distrust, both short-lived pains. 
 But in despair, and ever-during death, 
 No term, no bound, but infinite of woe. 
 O torment, but to think ! what then to bear ! 
 Not to be borne. Devise the means to shun it, 
 Quick, or by Heaven this dagger drinks thy blood ! 
 
 Sel. My life is yours, nor wish I to preserve it, 
 But to serve you. I have already thought. 
 
 Zara. Forgive my rage ; I know thy love and truth. 
 But say, what's to be done ? or when, or how, 
 Shall I prevent, or stop the approaching danger ? 
 
 Sel. You must still seem more resolute and fixed 
 On Osmyn's death ; too quick a change of mercy 
 Might breed suspicion of the cause. Advise 
 That execution may be done in private. 
 
 Zara. On what pretence ? 
 
 Sel. Your own request's enough. 
 
 However, for a colour, tell him, you 
 Have cause to fear his guards may be corrupted, 
 And some of them bought off to Osmyn's interest, 
 Who, at the place of execution, will 
 Attempt to force his way for an escape. 
 The state of things will countenance all suspicions. 
 Then offer to the king to have him strangled 
 In secret by your mutes, and get an order,
 
 462 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT iv. 
 
 That none but mutes may have admittance to him. 
 
 I can no more, the king is here. Obtain 
 
 This grant and I'll acquaint you with the rest. 
 
 Enter MANUEL, GONSALEZ, PEREZ, and Guards. 
 
 Man. Bear to the dungeon those rebellious slaves, 
 The ignoble curs, that yelp to fill the cry, 
 And spend their mouths in barking tyranny. 
 But for their leaders, Sancho and Ramirez, 
 Let 'em be led away to present death. 
 Perez, see it performed. 
 
 Gon. Might I presume, 
 
 Their execution better were deferred, 
 Till Osmyn die. Meantime we may learn more 
 Of this conspiracy. 
 
 Man. Then be it so. 
 
 Stay, soldier ; they shall suffer with the Moor. 
 Are none returned of those who followed Heli ? 
 
 Gon. None, sir. Some papers have been since dis- 
 covered 
 
 In Roderigo's house, who fled with him, 
 Which seem to intimate, as if Alphonso 
 Were still alive, and arming in Valentia : 
 Which wears indeed this colour of a truth, 
 They who are fled have that way bent their course. 
 Of the same nature divers notes have been 
 Dispersed to amuse the people ; whereupon 
 Some ready of belief have raised this rumour; 
 That being saved upon the coast of Afric, 
 He there disclosed himself to Albucacim, 
 And by a secret compact made with him, 
 Opened and urged the way to this invasion ; 
 While he himself, returning to Valentia 
 In private, undertook to raise this tumult. 
 
 Zara. {Aside to SELIM.] Ha! hear'st thou that? Is 
 
 Osmyn then Alphonso ? 
 O Heaven ! a thousand things occur at once
 
 SCEHE I.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 463 
 
 To my remembrance now, that make it plain. 
 O certain death for hi*", as sore despair 
 Forme, if it be known! if not, what hope 
 Havel? Yet 'twere the lowest baseness, now 
 To yield him up. No, I will still conceal him, 
 And 117 the force of yet more obligations. 
 
 Got, Tis not impossible. Yet, it may be 
 That some impostor has usurped his name. 
 Your beauteous captive Zaia can inform, 
 If such a one, so 'scaping, was received 
 At any time, in Albocacim's court 
 
 Man. Pardon, fair excellence, this long neglect : 
 An unfcn mm, unwelcome hour of business, 
 Has thrust between us and our while of love : 
 But wearing now apace with ebbing sand, - 
 Will quickly waste, and give again the day. 
 
 Zara, You're too secure; the danger is more immi- 
 
 Than your Ugh courage suffers you to see ; 
 While Osmyn fives, you are not safe. 
 
 MOM. His doom 
 
 Is passed ; if yon revoke it not, he dies. 
 
 Zara. Tis welL By what I heard upon your entrance, 
 I find I can unfold what yet concerns 
 Yon more. One who did call himself Alphonso 
 Was cast upon my coast, as is reported, 
 And oft had private conference with the king ; 
 To what effect I knew not then : but he, 
 Alphonso, secretly departed, just 
 About the t* our arms embarked for Spain. 
 What I know more is, that a triple league 
 Of stiiclat fiaoKMap was professed between 
 Alphonso, Hefi, and die traitor Osmyn. 
 
 Ifia Public report is ratified in this. 
 
 Zara, And Osmyn's death required of strong neces- 
 
 Mm. Give order straight that all the prisoners die.
 
 464 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Zara. Forbear a moment ; somewhat more I have 
 Worthy your private ear, and this your minister. 
 
 Man. Let all except Gonsalez leave the room. 
 
 {Exeunt PEREZ and Guards. 
 
 Zara. I am your captive, and you've used me nobly; 
 And in return of that, though otherwise 
 Your enemy, I have discovered Osmyn 
 His private practice and conspiracy 
 Against your state : and fully to discharge 
 Myself of what I've undertaken, now 
 I think it fit to tell you, that your guards 
 Are tainted : some among 'em have resolved 
 To rescue Osmyn at the place of death. 
 
 Man. Is treason then so near us as our guards ! 
 
 Zara. Most certain ; though my knowledge is not yet 
 So ripe, to point at the particular men. 
 
 Man. What's to be done ? 
 
 Zara. That too I will advise. 
 
 I have remaining in my train some mutes, 
 A present once from the sultana queen, 
 In the grand signior's court. These from their infancy 
 Are practised in the trade of death ; and shall 
 (As there the custom is) in private strangle Osmyn. 
 
 Gon. My lord, the queen advises well. 
 
 Man. What offering or what recompense remains 
 In me, that can be worthy so great services ? 
 To cast beneath your feet the crown you've saved, 
 Though on the head that wears it, were too little. 
 
 Zara. Of that hereafter ; but, meantime, 'tis fit 
 You give strict charge, that none may be admitted 
 To see the prisoner, but such mutes as I 
 Shall send. 
 
 Man. Who waits there? 
 
 Re-enter PEREZ. 
 
 On your life take heed, 
 That only Zara's mutes, or such who bring 
 Her warrant, have admittance to the Moor.
 
 SCENE I.] TH MOURtflfrG BRIDE. 465 
 
 Zara. They and no other, not the princess* self. 
 
 Per. Your majesty shall be obeyed. 
 
 Man. Retire. 
 
 [Exit PEREZ. 
 
 Gon. [Aside :] That interdiction so particular, 
 Pronounced with vehemence against the princess, 
 Should have more meaning than appears barefaced : 
 The king is blinded by his love, and heeds 
 It not. \To ZARA.] Your majesty sure might have 
 
 spared 
 
 That last restraint ; you hardly can suspect 
 The princess is confederate with the Moor. 
 
 Zara. I've heard her charity did once extend 
 So far, to visit him, at his request. 
 
 Gon. Ha ! 
 
 Man. How ? she visit Osmyn ! What, my 
 
 daughter ? 
 
 Sel. \Aside to ZARA.] Madam, take heed ; or you 
 have ruined all. 
 
 Zara. And after did solicit you on his 
 Behalf. 
 
 Man. Never. You have been misinformed. 
 
 Zara. Indeed ? Then 'twas a whisper spread by some, 
 Who wished it so ; a common art in courts. 
 I will retire, and instantly prepare 
 Instruction for my ministers of death. 
 
 \Exeunt ZARA and SELIM. 
 
 Gon. \Aside^\ There's somewhat yet of mystery in this ; 
 Her words and actions are obscure and double, 
 Sometimes concur, and sometimes disagree ; 
 I like it not. 
 
 Man. What dost thou think, Gonsalez ; 
 
 Are we not much indebted to this fair one ? 
 
 Gon. I am a little slow of credit, sir, 
 In the sincerity of women's actions. 
 Methinks this lady's hatred to the Moor 
 Disquiets her too much ; which makes it seem 
 
 Con. H H
 
 466 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT IV. 
 
 As if she'd rather that she did not hate him. 
 I wish her mutes are meant to be employed 
 As she pretends I doubt it now Your guards 
 Corrupted ! how ? by whom ? who told her so ? 
 I'th' evening Osmyn was to die ; at midnight 
 She begged the royal signet to release him ; 
 I'th' morning he must die again ; ere noon 
 Her mutes alone must strangle him, or he'll 
 Escape. This put together suits not well. 
 
 Man. Yet, that there's truth in what she has dis- 
 covered, 
 
 Is manifest from every circumstance. 
 This tumult, and the lords who fled with Heli, 
 Are confirmation : that Alphonso lives, 
 Agrees expressly too with her report. 
 
 Gon. I grant it, sir ; and doubt not, but in rage 
 Of jealousy, she has discovered what 
 She now repents. It may be I'm deceived. 
 But why that needless caution of the princess ? 
 What if she had seen Osmyn ? though 'twere strange. 
 But if she had, what was't to her ? unless 
 She feared her stronger charms might cause the Moor's 
 Affection to revolt. 
 
 Man. I thank thee, friend. 
 
 There's reason in thy doubt, and I am warned. 
 But think'st thou that my daughter saw this Moor ? 
 
 Gon. If Osmyn be, as Zara has related, 
 Alphonso's friend ; 'tis not impossible, 
 But she might wish on his account to see him. 
 
 Man. Say'st thou? by Heaven thou hast roused a 
 
 thought, 
 
 That like a sudden earthquake shakes my frame : 
 Confusion ! then my daughter's an accomplice, 
 And plots in private with this hellish Moor. 
 
 Gon. That were too hard a thought but see she comes : 
 'Twere not amiss to question her a little, 
 And try, howe'er, if I've divined aright.
 
 SCENE i.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 467 
 
 If what I fear be true, she'll be concerned 
 For Osmyn's death, as he's Alphonso's friend. 
 Urge that, to try if she'll solicit for him. 
 
 Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA. 
 
 Man. Your coming has prevented me, Almeria; 
 I had determined to have sent for you. 
 Let your attendant be dismissed ; I have 
 To talk with you. [Exit LEONORA.] Come near ; why 
 
 dost thou shake ? 
 
 What mean those swollen and red-flecked eyes, that look 
 As they had wept in blood, and worn the night 
 In waking anguish ? Why this, on the day 
 Which was designed to celebrate thy nuptials ; 
 But that the beams of light are to be stained 
 With reeking gore, from traitors on the rack ? 
 Wherefore I have deferred the marriage rites ; 
 Nor shall the guilty horrors of this day 
 Profane that jubilee. 
 
 Aim. All days to me 
 
 Henceforth are equal ; this the day of death, 
 To-morrow, and the next, and each that follows, 
 With undistinguished roll, and but prolong 
 One hated line of more extended woe. 
 
 Man. Whence is thy grief? give me to know the 
 
 cause, 
 
 And look thou answer me with truth ; for know, 
 I am not unacquainted with thy falsehood. 
 Why art thou mute ? base and degenerate maid ! 
 
 Gon. Dear madam, speak, or you'll incense the king. 
 
 Aim. What is't to speak? or wherefore should I 
 
 speak ? 
 What mean these tears, but grief unutterable ! 
 
 Man. They are the dumb confessions of thy mind, 
 They mean thy guilt ; and say thou wert confederate 
 With damned conspirators to take my life. 
 O impious parricide I now canst thou speak ?
 
 468 T& MOURtflfrG BRIDE. [ACT IV. 
 
 Aim. O earth, behold, I kneel upon thy bosom ! 
 And bend my flowing eyes, to stream upon 
 Thy face, imploring thee that thou wilt yield ; 
 Open thy bowels of compassion, take 
 Into thy womb the last and most forlorn 
 Of all thy race. Hear me, thou common parent ! 
 I have no parent else be thou a mother, 
 And step between me and the curse of him 
 Who was who was, but is no more a father, 
 But brands my innocence with horrid crimes ; 
 And for the tender names of child and daughter, 
 Now calls me murderer and parricide. 
 
 Man. Rise, I command thee rise and if thou wouldst 
 Acquit thyself of those detested names, 
 Swear thou hast never seen that foreign dog, 
 Now doomed to die, that most accursed Osmyn. 
 
 Aim. Never, but as with innocence I might, 
 And free of all bad purposes. So Heaven's 
 My witness. 
 
 Man. Vile equivocating wretch ! 
 
 With innocence ! O patience ! hear ! she owns it ! 
 Confesses it ! by Heaven I'll have him racked ! 
 Torn, mangled, flayed, impaled ! all pains and tortures 
 That wit of man and dire revenge can think, 
 Shall he accumulated under-bear. 
 
 Aim. Oh, I am lost ! there fate begins to wound. 
 
 Man. Hear me, then; if thou canst, reply: know, 
 
 traitress, 
 
 I'm not to learn that cursed Alphonso lives ; 
 Nor am I ignorant what Osmyn is. 
 
 Aim. Then all is ended, and we both must die. 
 Since thou'rt revealed, alone thou shalt not die. 
 And yet alone would I have died, Heaven knows, 
 Repeated deaths, rather than have revealed thee. 
 Yes, all my father's wounding wrath, though each 
 Reproach cuts deeper than the keenest sword, 
 And cleaves my heart ; I would have borne it all,
 
 SCENE I.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 469 
 
 Nay, all the pains that are prepared for thee : 
 To the remorseless rack I would have given 
 This weak and tender flesh, to have been bruised 
 And torn, rather than have revealed thy being. 
 
 Man. Hell, hell ! do I hear this, and yet endure ! 
 What, darest thou to my face avow thy guilt ? 
 Hence, ere I curse ! fly my just rage with speed ; 
 Lest I forget us both, and spurn thee from me. 
 
 Aim. And yet a father ! think I am your child. 
 Turn not your eyes away \Kneds^\ look on me kneel- 
 ing; 
 
 Now curse me if you can, now spurn me off. 
 Did ever father curse his kneeling child ? 
 Never : for always blessings crown that posture. 
 Nature inclines, and half-way meets that duty, 
 Stooping to raise from earth' the filial reverence ; 
 For bended knees returning folding arms, 
 With prayers, and blessings, and paternal love. 
 hear me then, thus crawling on the earth 
 
 Man. Be thou advised, and let me go, while yet 
 The light impression thou hast made remains. 
 
 .Aim. No, never will I rise, nor loose this hold, 
 Till you are moved, and grant that he may live. 
 
 Man. Ha ! who may live ? take heed, no more of 
 
 that; 
 
 For on my soul he dies, though thou and I, 
 And all should follow to partake his doom. 
 Away, off, let me go. Call her attendants. 
 
 [LEONORA re-enters with Attendants. 
 
 Aim. Drag me ! harrow the earth with my bare bosom ! 
 I'll not let go till you have spared my husband. 
 
 Man. Ha ! what say'st thou ? husband ! husband ! 
 
 damnation ! 
 What husband ? which ? who ? 
 
 Aim. He, he is my husband. 
 
 Man. Poison and daggers ! who ? 
 
 Aim, Oh ! [Faints.
 
 470 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Gon. Help, support her. 
 
 Aim. Let me go, let me fall, sink deep I'll dig, 
 I'll dig a grave, and tear up death ; I will ; 
 I'll scrape till I collect his rotten bones, 
 And clothe their nakedness with my own flesh : 
 Yes, I will strip off life, and we will change : 
 I will be death ; then though you kill my husband, 
 He shall be mine, still and for ever mine. 
 
 Man. What husband ? who ? whom dost thou mean ? 
 
 Gon. She raves ! 
 
 Aim. that I did ! Osmyn, he is my husband. 
 
 Man. Osmyn ? 
 
 Aim. Not Osmyn, but Alphonso is my dear 
 And wedded husband. Heaven, and air, and seas, 
 Ye winds and waves, I call ye all to witness ! 
 
 Man. Wilder than winds or waves thyself dost rave. 
 Should I hear more, I too should catch thy madness. 
 Yet somewhat she must mean of dire import, 
 Which I'll not hear, till I am more at peace. 
 Watch her returning sense, and bring me word ; 
 And look that she attempt not on her life. [xtt. 
 
 Aim. O stay, yet stay ! hear me, I am not mad. 
 I would to Heaven I were ! He's gone. 
 
 Gon. Have comfort. 
 
 Aim. Cursed be that tongue that bids me be of com- 
 fort ! 
 
 Cursed my own tongue, that could not move his pity ! 
 Cursed these weak hands, that could not hold him 
 
 here! 
 For he has gone to doom Alphonso's death. 
 
 Gon. Your too excessive grief works on your fancy, 
 And deludes your sense. Alphonso, if living, 
 Is far from hence, beyond your father's power. 
 
 Aim. Hence, thou detested, ill-timed flatterer ! 
 Source of my woes ! thou and thy race be cursed ! 
 But doubly thou, who could alone have policy 
 And fraud, to find the fatal secret out,
 
 SCENE i.) THE MOURNING BRIDE. 471 
 
 And know that Osmyn was Alphonso ! 
 
 Gon. Ha ! 
 
 Aim. Why dost thou start ? what dost thou see or 
 
 hear? 
 
 Was it the doleful bell, tolling for death ? 
 Or dying groans from my Alphonso's breast ? 
 See, see, look yonder ! where a grizzled, pale, 
 And ghastly head glares by, all smeared with blood, 
 Gasping as it would speak ; and after, see ! 
 Behold a damp, dead hand has dropped a dagger ; 
 I'll catch it Hark ! a voice cries murder ! ah ! 
 My father's voice ! hollow it sounds, and calls 
 Me from the tomb I'll follow it ; for there 
 I shall again behold my dear Alphonso. 
 
 \Exeunt ALMERIA, LEONORA, and Attendants. 
 
 Gon. She's greatly grieved ; nor am I less surprised. 
 Osmyn, Alphonso ! no ; she over-rates 
 My policy : I ne'er suspected it : 
 Nor now had known it, but from her mistake. 
 Her husband too ! ha ! where is Garcia then ? 
 And where the crown that should descend on him, 
 To grace the line of my posterity ? 
 Hold, let me think if I should tell the king 
 Things come to this extremity ; his daughter 
 Wedded already what if he should yield ? 
 Knowing no remedy for what is past ; 
 And urged by nature pleading for his child, 
 With which he seems to be already shaken. 
 And though I know he hates beyond the grave 
 Anselmo's race ; yet if that if concludes me. 
 To doubt, when I may be assured, is folly. 
 But how prevent the captive queen, who means 
 To set him free ? Ay, now 'tis plain ; O well 
 Invented tale ! He was Alphonso's friend. 
 This subtle woman will amuse the king 
 If I delay. 'Twill do or better so. 
 One to my wish.
 
 472 THE MOURNING BRIDE, [ACT iv, 
 
 Enter ALONZO. 
 
 Alonzo, thou art welcome. 
 
 Alon. The king expects your lordship. 
 
 Gon. 'Tis no matter. 
 
 I'm not i' the way at present, good Alonzo. 
 
 Alon. If t please your lordship, I'll return, and say 
 I have not seen you. 
 
 Gon. Do, my best Alonzo. 
 
 Yet stay, I would but go ; anon will serve 
 Yet I have that requires thy speedy help. 
 I think thou wouldst not stop to do me service. 
 
 Alon. I am your creature. 
 
 Gon. Say thou art my friend. 
 
 I've seen thy sword do noble execution. 
 
 Alon. All that it can your lordship shall command. 
 
 Gon. 'Thanks ! and I take thee at thy word ; thou'st 
 
 seen 
 
 Among the followers of the captive queen, 
 Dumb men, who make their meaning known by signs? 
 
 Alon. I have, my lord. 
 
 Gon. Couldst thou procure with speed 
 
 And privacy, the wearing garb of one 
 Of those, though purchased by his death, I'd give 
 Thee such reward as should exceed thy wish. 
 
 Alon. Conclude it done. Where shall I wait your 
 lordship ? 
 
 Gon. At my apartment. Use thy utmost diligence ; 
 And say I've not been seen haste, good Alonzo. 
 
 [Exit ALONZO, 
 
 So, this can hardly fail. Alphonso slain, 
 The greatest obstacle is then removed. 
 
 Almeria widowed, yet again may wed ; 
 
 And I yet fix the crown on Garcia's head. [xit,
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room of State in the Palace. 
 
 Enter MANUEL, PEREZ, and ALONZO. 
 
 AN. Not to be found ? in an ill hour he's 
 
 absent. 
 None, say you, none? what, not the 
 
 favourite eunuch ? 
 
 Nor she herself, nor any of her mutes, 
 Have yet required admittance ? 
 Per. None, my lord. 
 
 Man. Is Osmyn so disposed as I commanded ? 
 Per. Fast bound in double chains, and at full length, 
 He lies supine on earth ; with as much ease 
 She might remove the centre of this earth, 
 As loose the rivets of his bonds. 
 Man. Tis well. 
 
 [A Mute appears, and seeing the King retires. 
 Ha ! stop, and seize that mute ; Alonzo, follow him. 
 Entering he met my eyes, and started back, 
 Frighted, and fumbling one hand in his bosom, 
 As to conceal the importance of his errand. 
 
 [ALONZO follows him, and returns -with a paper. 
 Alon, bloody proof of obstinate fidelity ! 
 Man. What dost thou mean ? 
 
 Alon. Soon as I seized the man, 
 
 He snatched from out his bosom this and strove 
 With rash and greedy haste, at once to cram 
 The morsel down his throat. I catched his arm, 
 And hardly wrenched his hand to wring it from him j gfj
 
 474 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT v. 
 
 Which done, he drew his poniard from his side, 
 And on the instant plunged it in his breast. 
 
 Man. Remove the body thence ere Zara see it. 
 
 Alon. \Aside^\ I'll be so bold to borrow his attire ; 
 'Twill quit me of my promise to Gonzalez. 
 
 \_Exit ALONZO, bearing off the dead Mute. 
 
 Per. [Aside.] Whate'er it is, the king's complexion 
 turns. 
 
 Man. [Having read the letter.} How's this ? my mortal 
 
 foe beneath my roof? 
 
 O give me patience, all ye powers ! no, rather 
 Give me new rage, implacable revenge, 
 And trebled fury. Ha ! who's there ? 
 
 Per. My lord ! 
 
 Man. Hence, slave ! how darest thou 'bide, to watch 
 Into how poor a thing a king descends ? [and pry 
 
 How like thyself, when passion treads him down ! 
 Ha ! stir not, on thy life ! for thou wert fixed 
 And planted here to see me gorge this bait, 
 And lash against the hook. By Heaven, you're all 
 Rank traitors ! thou art with the rest combined ; 
 Thou knew'st that Osmyn was Alphonso, knew'st 
 My daughter privately with him conferred ; 
 And wert the spy and pander to their meeting. 
 
 Per. By all that's holy, I'm amazed 
 . Man. Thou liest. 
 
 Thou art accomplice too with Zara : here 
 Where she sets down [Reading] "Still will I set thee 
 That somewhere is repeated " I have power [free " 
 O'er them that are thy guards." Mark that, thou traitor ! 
 
 Per. It was your majesty's command, I should 
 Obey her order 
 
 Man. [Reading. ~\ "And still will I set 
 Thee free, Alphonso." Hell ! cursed, cursed Alphonso ! 
 False and perfidious Zara ! Strumpet daughter ! 
 Away, begone, thou feeble boy, fond love ! 
 AH nature, softness, pity and compassion !
 
 SCENE i.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 475 
 
 This hour I throw ye off, and entertain 
 
 Fell hate within my breast, revenge and gall. 
 
 By Heaven, I'll meet, and counterwork this treachery ! 
 
 Hark thee, villain, traitor answer me, slave ! j 
 
 Per. My service has not merited those titles. 
 
 Man. Barest thou reply ? take that thy service ? 
 thine ! [Strikes him. 
 
 What's thy whole life, thy soul, thy all, to my 
 One moment's ease ? Hear my command ; and look 
 That thou obey, or horror on thy head. 
 Drench me thy dagger in Alphonso's heart : 
 Why dost thou start ? Resolve, or 
 
 Per. Sir, I will. 
 
 Man. 'Tis well that when she comes to set him free, 
 His teeth may grin, and mock at her remorse. 
 
 [PEREZ going. 
 
 Stay thee I've farther thought I'll add to this, 
 And give her eyes yet greater disappointment : 
 When thou hast ended him, bring me his robe ; 
 And let the cell where she'll expect to see him 
 Be darkened so as to amuse the sight. 
 I'll be conducted thither mark me well 
 There with his turbant, and his robe arrayed, 
 And laid along as he now lies supine, 
 I shall convict her to her face of falsehood. 
 When for Alphonso's she shall take my hand, 
 And breathe her sighs upon my lips for his, 
 Sudden I'll start, and dash her with her guilt. 
 But see she comes; I'll shun the encounter; thou, 
 Follow me, and give heed to my direction. \Exeunt, 
 
 Enter ZARA and SELIM. 
 
 Zara. The mute not yet returned ! ha, 'twas the king ! 
 The king that parted hence ! frowning he went ; 
 His eyes like meteors rolled, then darted down 
 Their red and angry beams ; as if his sight 
 Would, like the raging dog-star, scorch the earth,
 
 476 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACTV. 
 
 And kindle ruin in its course. Dost think 
 He saw me ? 
 
 Sel. Yes : but then, as if he thought 
 
 His eyes had erred, he hastily recalled 
 The imperfect look, and sternly turned away. 
 
 Zara. Shun me when seen ! I fear thou hast undone me. 
 Thy shallow artifice begets suspicion, 
 And like a cobweb veil, but thinly shades 
 The face of thy design ; alone disguising 
 What should have ne'er been seen ; imperfect mischief ! 
 Thou, like the adder, venomous and deaf, 
 Hast stung the traveller ; and after hear'st 
 Not his pursuing voice ; even where thou think'st 
 To hide, the rustling leaves and bended grass 
 Confess, and point the path which thou hast crept. 
 
 fate of fools ! officious in contriving ; 
 In executing puzzled, lame and lost. 
 
 Sel. Avert it, Heaven, that you should ever suffer 
 For my defect ! or that the means which I 
 Devised to serve should ruin your design ! 
 Prescience is Heaven's alone, not given to man, 
 If I have fail'd in what, as being man, 
 
 1 needs must fail ; impute not as a crime 
 My nature's want, but punish nature in me : 
 I plead not for a pardon, and to live, 
 
 But to be punished and forgiven. Here, strike ! 
 I bare my breast to meet your just revenge. 
 
 Zara. I have not leisure now to take so poor 
 A forfeit as thy life : somewhat of high 
 And more important fate requires my thought, 
 When I've concluded on myself, if I 
 Think fit, I'll leave thee my command to die, 
 Regard me well ; and dare not to reply 
 To what I give in charge; for I'm resolved. 
 Give order that the two remaining mutes 
 Attend me instantly, with each a bowl 
 Of such ingredients mixed, as will with speed
 
 li.] TH MOtJRNltfG &RI>. 47? 
 
 Benumb the living faculties, and give 
 
 Most easy and inevitable death, 
 
 Yes, Osmyn, yes ; be Osmyn or Alphonso, 
 
 I'll give thee freedom, if thou darest be free : 
 
 Such liberty as I embrace myself, 
 
 Thou shalt partake. Since fates no more afford, 
 
 I can but die with thee to keep my word. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Inside of the Prison, 
 
 Enter GONZALES alone, disguised like a Mute, with a 
 dagger. 
 
 Gon. Nor sentinel, nor guard ! the doors unbarred ! 
 And all as still as at the noon of night ! 
 Sure death already has been busy here. 
 There lies my way, that door too is unlocked. \Looks in. 
 Ha ! sure he sleeps all's dark within, save what 
 A lamp, that feebly lifts a sickly flame, 
 By fits reveals. His face seems turned, to favour 
 The attempt. I'll steal, and do it unperceived. 
 What noise ! Somebody coming ? 'st, Alonzo ? 
 Nobody ? Sure he'll wait without I would 
 "Twere done I'll crawl, and sting him to the heart : 
 Then cast my skin, and leave it there to answer it. 
 
 [Goes in. 
 Enter GARCIA and ALONZO. 
 
 Gar. Where ? where Alonzo ? where's my father ? 
 The king ! Confusion ! all is on the rout ! [where 
 
 All's lost, all ruined by surprise and treachery. 
 Where, where is he ? why dost thou thus mislead me ? 
 
 Alon. My lord, he entered but a moment since, 
 And could not pass me unperceived. What ho ! 
 My lord, my lord 1 what, ho ! my Lord Gonzalez I
 
 478 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT V. 
 
 Re-enter GONZALEZ, bloody. 
 
 Gon. Perdition choke your clamours ! whence this 
 Garcia ! [rudeness ? 
 
 Gar. Perdition, slavery and death, 
 Are entering now our doors. Where is the king ? 
 What means this blood? and why this face of horror? 
 
 Gon. No matter give me first to know the cause 
 Of these your rash and ill-timed exclamations. 
 
 Gar. The eastern gate is to the foe betrayed, 
 Who but for heaps of slain that choke the passage 
 Had entered long ere now, and borne down all 
 Before 'em, to the palace walls. Unless 
 The king in person animate our men, 
 Granada's lost : and to confirm this fear, 
 The traitor Perez, and the captive Moor, 
 Are 'through a postern fled, and join the foe. 
 
 Gon. Would all were false as that; for whom you call 
 The Moor, is dead. That Osmyn was Alphonso ; 
 In whose heart's blood this poniard yet is warm. 
 
 Gar. Impossible, for Osmyn was, while flying, 
 Pronounced aloud by Perez for Alphonso. 
 
 Gon. Enter that chamber, and convince your eyes, 
 How much report has wronged your easy faith. 
 
 [GARCIA goes in. 
 
 Alon. My lord, for certain truth, Perez is fled ; 
 And has declared the cause of his revolt, 
 Was to revenge a blow the king had given him. 
 
 Re-enter GARCIA. 
 
 Gar. Ruin and horror ! heart-wounding sight ! 
 
 Gon. What says my son ? what ruin ? ha, what horror ? 
 
 Gar. Blasted my eyes, and speechless be my tongue ! 
 Rather than or to sector to relate 
 This deed. O dire mistake ! O fatal blow ! 
 The king 
 
 Gon. Alon. The king ! 
 
 Gar. Dead, weltering, drowned in blood.
 
 SCENE ii.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 479 
 
 See, see, attired like Osmyn, where he lies ! {They look in. 
 
 O whence, or how, or wherefore was this done ? 
 
 But what imports the manner, or the cause ? 
 
 Nothing remains to do, or to require. 
 
 But that we all should turn our swords against 
 
 Ourselves, and expiate with our own his blood. 
 
 Gon. O wretch ! O cursed, and rash, deluded fool ! 
 On me, on me, turn your avenging sword ! 
 I, who have spilt my royal master's blood, 
 Should make atonement by a death as horrid ; 
 And fall beneath the hand of my own son. 
 
 Gar. Ha ! what? atone this murder with a greater? 
 The horror of that thought has damped my rage. 
 The earth already groans to bear this deed ; 
 Oppress her not, nor think to stain her face 
 With more unnatural blood. Murder my father ! 
 Better with this to rip up my own bowels, 
 And bathe it to the hilt, in far less damnable 
 Self-murder. 
 
 Gon. O my son ! from the blind dotage 
 
 Of a father's fondness these ills arose ; 
 For thee I've been ambitious, base, and bloody : 
 For thee I've plunged into this sea of sin ; 
 Stemming the tide with only one weak hand, 
 While t'other bore the crown, (to wreath thy brow,) 
 Whose weight has sunk me ere I reached the shore. 
 
 Gar. Fatal ambition ! Hark ! the foe is entered. 
 
 [A shout. 
 
 The shrillness of that shout speaks 'em at hand. 
 We have no time to search into the cause 
 Of this surprising and most fatal error. 
 What's to be done ? the king's death known, will strike 
 The few remaining soldiers with despair, 
 And make 'em yield to mercy of the conqueror. 
 
 Alon. My lord, I've thought how to conceal the body; 
 Require me not to tell the means till done, 
 Lest you forbid what then you may approve. 
 
 {Goes in. More shouting.
 
 480 T& MoU&NtNS E&lDE. [ACT V. 
 
 Gon. They shout again ! Whate'er he means to do, 
 'Twere fit the soldiers were amused with hopes ; 
 And in the meantime fed with expectation 
 To see the king in person at their head. 
 
 Gar. Were it a truth, I fear 'tis now too late, 
 But I'll omit no care, nor haste ; to try 
 Or to repel their force, or bravely die. \_Exit. 
 
 Re-enter ALONZO. 
 
 Gon. What hast thou done, Alonzo ? 
 
 Alon. Such a deed 
 
 As but an hour ago I'd not have done, 
 Though for the crown of universal empire. 
 But what are kings reduced to common clay ? 
 Or who can wound the dead ? I've from the body 
 Severed the head, and in an obscure corner 
 Disposed it, muffled in the mute's attire, 
 Leaving to view of them that enter next, 
 Alone the undistinguished trunk : 
 Which may be still mistaken by the guards 
 For Osmyn, if in seeking for the king 
 They chance to find it. 
 
 Gon. 'Twas an act of horror ; 
 
 And of a piece with this day's dire misdeeds. 
 But 'tis no time to ponder or repent. 
 Haste thee, Alonzo, haste thee hence with speed, 
 To aid my son. I'll follow with the last 
 Reserve to re-enforce his arms : at least, 
 I shall make good, and shelter his retreat. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The same. 
 Enter ZARA, followed by SELIM, and two Mutes bearing 
 
 bowls. 
 
 Zara. Silence and solitude are everywhere ! 
 Through all the gloomy ways and iron doors
 
 SCENE ill.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 481 
 
 That hither lead, nor human face nor voice 
 
 Is seen or heard. A dreadful din was wont 
 
 To grate the sense, when entered here ; from groans 
 
 And howls of slaves condemned, from clink of chains, 
 
 And crash of rusty bars and creeking hinges : 
 
 And ever and anon the sight was dashed 
 
 With frightful faces, and the meagre looks 
 
 Of grim and ghastly executioners. 
 
 Yet more this stillness terrifies my soul, 
 
 Than did that scene of complicated horrors. 
 
 It may be, that the cause of this my errand 
 
 And purpose, being changed from life to death, 
 
 Has also wrought this chilling change of temper. 
 
 Or does my heart bode more ? what can it more 
 
 Than death ? [Alphonso 
 
 [To SELIM.] Let 'em set down the bowls, and warn 
 
 That I am here so. \Th Mutes go in.] You return and 
 
 The king ; tell him, what he required I've done, [find 
 
 And wait his coming to approve the deed. [Exit SELIM. 
 
 The Mutes return, and look affrighted. 
 Zara. What have you seen ? Ha ! wherefore stare 
 
 you thus 
 
 With haggard eyes ? why are your arms a-cross ? 
 Your heavy and desponding heads hung down ? 
 Why is't you more than speak in these sad signs ? 
 Give me more ample knowledge of this mourning. 
 
 \They go to the Scene, which opening, s)ie perceives ttie body. 
 Ha ! prostrate ! bloody ! headless ! O I'm lost ! 
 
 Osmyn ! O Alphonso ! Cruel fate ! 
 Cruel, cruel, O more than killing object 1 
 
 1 came prepared to die, 'and see thee die 
 Nay, came prepared myself to give thee death 
 But cannot bear to find thee thus, my Osmyn 
 O this accursed, this base, this treacherous king ! 
 
 Re-enter SELIM. 
 
 Sfl. I've sought in vain, for nowhere can the king 
 Be found. 
 
 Con. I i
 
 482 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT v. 
 
 Zara. Get thee to hell, and seek him there ! 
 
 \Stabs him^ 
 
 His hellish rage had wanted means to act, 
 But for thy fatal and pernicious counsel. 
 
 Sel. You thought it better then but I'm rewarded : 
 The mute you sent by some mischance was seen, 
 And forced to yield your letter with his life : 
 I found the dead and bloody body stripped 
 My tongue falters, and my voice fails I sink 
 Drink not the poison for Alphonso is [Dies^ 
 
 Zara. As thou art now and I shall quickly be. 
 'Tis not that he is dead ; for 'twas decreed 
 We both should die. Nor is't that I survive ; 
 I have a certain remedy for that. 
 But oh, he died unknowing in my heart ! 
 He knew I loved, but knew not to what height : 
 Nor that I meant to fall before his eyes, 
 A martyr and a victim to my vows : 
 Insensible of this last proof he's gone. 
 Yet fate alone can rob his mortal part 
 Of sense; his soul still sees, and knows each pur- 
 pose, 
 
 And fixed event of my persisting faith. 
 Then, wherefore do I pause ? give me the bowl. 
 
 \A Mute kneels and gives one of the bowls. 
 Hover a moment, yet, thou gentle spirit, 
 Soul of my love, and I will wait thy flight ! 
 This to our mutual bliss when joined above. \D "rinks. 
 
 friendly draught, already in my heart ! 
 Cold, cold ! my veins are icicles and frost. 
 I'll creep into his bosom, lay me there ; 
 Cover us close or I shall chill his breast, 
 
 And fright him from my arms See, see, he slides 
 Still further from me ! look, he hides his face ! 
 
 1 cannot feel it quite beyond my reach 
 
 O now he's gone, and all is dark [Dies. 
 
 [The Mutes kneel and mourn over her.
 
 SCENE in.] THE MOURNING BRIDE. 483 
 
 Enter ALMERIA ami LEONORA. 
 
 Aim. O let me seek him in this horrid cell ; 
 For in the tomb, or prison, I alone 
 Must hope to find him. 
 
 Leon. Heavens ! what dismal scene 
 
 Of death is this ? The eunuch Selim slain ! 
 
 Aim. Show me, for I am come in search of death ; 
 But want a guide ; for tears have dimmed my sight. 
 
 Leon. Alas, a little farther, and behold 
 .Zara all pale and dead ! two frightful men, 
 Who seem the murderers, kneel weeping by, 
 Feeling remorse too late for what they've done. 
 But O forbear lift up your eyes no more ; 
 But haste away, fly from this fatal place ! 
 Where miseries are multiplied ; return, 
 Return ! and not look on ; for there's a dagger 
 Ready to stab the sight, and make your eyes 
 Rain blood. 
 
 Aim. Oh I foreknow, foresee that object. 
 
 Is it at last then so ? is he then dead ? 
 What, dead at last ! quite, quite, for ever dead 1 
 There, there I see him ! there he lies, the blood 
 Yet bubbling from his wounds O more than savage ! 
 Had they or hearts or eyes, that did this deed ! 
 Could eyes endure to guide such cruel hands ? 
 Are not my eyes guilty alike with theirs, 
 That thus can gaze, and yet not turn to stone ? 
 I do not weep ! The springs of tears are dried 
 And of a sudden I am calm, as if 
 
 All things, were well : and yet my husband's murdered 1 
 Yes, yes, I know to mourn ! I'll sluice this heart, 
 The source of woe, and let the torrent loose. 
 Those men have left to weep ! they look on me ! 
 I hope they murder all on whom they look. 
 Behold me well ; your bloody hands have erred, 
 And wrongfully have slain these innocents ;
 
 484 THE MOURXIXG BRIDE. [ACT v. 
 
 I am the sacrifice designed to bleed ; 
 
 And come prepared to yield my throat they shake 
 
 Their heads, in sign of grief and innocence ! 
 
 [ The Mutes point to the bowl on the ground. 
 And point what mean they? Ha ! a cup. O well 
 I understand what medicine has been here. 
 O noble thirst ! yet greedy to drink all 
 Oh for another draught of death. What mean they ? 
 
 [T/ie Mutes point to the other ctip^ 
 Ha ! point again ? 'tis there, and full, I hope. 
 Thanks to the liberal hand that filled thee thus ; 
 I'll drink my glad acknowledgment 
 
 Leon. O hold. 
 
 For mercy's sake ! upon my knee I beg 
 
 Aim. With thee the kneeling world should beg in vain. 
 Seest thou not there ? behold who prostrate lies, 
 And pleads against thee ? who shall then prevail ? 
 Yet I will take a cold and parting leave, 
 From his pale lips ; I'll kiss him, ere I drink, 
 Lest the rank juice should blister on my mouth, 
 And stain the colour of my last adieu. 
 Horror ! a headless trunk ! nor lips nor face, 
 
 [ Coming nearer the body, starts and lets fall the cup. 
 But spouting veins, and mangled flesh ! Oh, oh ! 
 
 Enter ALPHONSO, HELI, PEREZ, with GARCIA prisoner^ 
 Guards and Attendants. 
 
 Alph. Away, stand off ! where is she ? let me fly, 
 Save her from death, and snatch her to my heart. 
 
 Aim. Oh! 
 
 Alph. Forbear ; my arms alone shall hold her up, 
 Warm her to life, and wake her into gladness. 
 O let me talk to thy reviving sense, 
 The words of joy and peace ! warm thy cold beauties, 
 With the new-flushing ardour of my cheek ! 
 Into thy lips pour the soft trickling balm 
 Of cordial sighs ! and re-inspire thy bosom 
 With the breath of love ! Shine, aAvake, Almeria !
 
 SCENE in.]' THE MOURNING BRIDE. 485^ 
 
 Give a new birth to thy long-shaded eyes, 
 
 Then double on the day reflected light ! [intend >- 
 
 Aim. Where am I ? Heaven ! what does this dream 
 
 Alph. O mayst thou never dream of less delight, 
 Nor ever wake to less substantial joys ! 
 
 Aim. Given me again from death ! O all ye powers 
 Confirm this miracle ! Can I believe 
 My sight, against my sight ? and shall I trust 
 That sense, which in one instant shows him dead 
 And living ? Yes, I will ; I've been abused 
 With apparitions and affrighting phantoms : 
 This is my lord, my life, my only husband : 
 I have him now, and we no more will part. 
 My father too shall have compassion 
 
 Alph. O my heart's comfort ! 'tis not given to this 
 Frail life, to be entirely blessed. Even now, 
 In this extremest joy my soul can taste, 
 Yet am I dashed to think that thou must weep ; 
 Thy father fell, where he designed my death. 
 Gonsalez and Alonzo, both of wounds 
 Expiring, have with their last breath confessed 
 The just decrees of Heaven, which on themselves 
 Has turned their own most bloody purposes. 
 Nay, I must grant, 'tis fit you should be thus 
 
 [ALMERIA weeps^. 
 
 Let 'em remove the body from her sight, 
 Ill-fated Zara ! Ha! a cup? Alas! 
 Thy error then is plain ; but I were flint 
 Not to o'erflow in tribute to thy memory. 
 O Garcia ! 
 
 Whose virtue has renounced thy father's crimes ; 
 Seest thou, how just the hand of Heaven has been ? 
 Let us, who through our innocence survive, 
 Still in the paths of honour persevere, 
 And not from past or present ills despair : 
 For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds ; 
 And though a late a sure reward succeeds. 
 
 [.\rt//// omncs.
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. [ACT v. 
 
 ~y\> 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE. 
 
 THE tragedy thus done, I am, you know, 
 
 No more a princess, but in statu quo: 
 
 And now as unconcerned this mourning wear, 
 
 As if indeed a widow or an heir. 
 
 I've leisure now to mark your several faces, 
 
 And know each critic by his sour grimaces. 
 
 To poison plays, I see some where they sit, 
 
 Scattered, like ratsbane, up and down the pit ; 
 
 While others watch like parish-searchers, hired 
 
 To tell of what disease the play expired. 
 
 Oh with what joy they run to spread the news 
 
 Of a damned poet, and departed muse ! 
 
 But if he 'scape, with what regret they're seized ! 
 
 And how they're disappointed when they're pleased ! 
 
 Critics to plays for the same end resort, 
 
 That surgeons wait on trials in a court ; 
 
 For innocence condemned they've no respect, 
 
 Provided they've a body to dissect. 
 
 As Sussex-men that dwell upon the shore, 
 
 Look out when storms arise, and billows roar 
 
 Devoutly praying, with uplifted hands, 
 
 That some well-laden ship may strike the sands ; 
 
 To whose rich cargo they may make pretence, 
 
 And fatten on the spoils of Providence : 
 
 So critics throng to see a new play split, 
 
 And thrive and prosper on the wrecks of wit. 
 
 Small hope our poet from these prospects draws ; 
 
 And therefore to the fair commends his cause. 
 
 Your tender hearts to mercy are inclined, 
 
 With whom, he hopes, this play will favour find, 
 
 Which was an offering to the sex designed.